There wasn’t supposed to be anything in the sky.
Not at this hour, not over this base.
Yet at 03:12, the sensors spiked—once, violently—then went dead. Just long enough for something to tear through the clouds above without warning. Something fast. Something alive.
By the time security reached the impact site, the crater was still steaming, a wide, glowing circle burned deep into the frozen ground.
At its center: a figure.
Not clothed, not armed. Barely breathing.
But unmistakably other.
The body was carried in fast but carefully. Heat rolled off him despite the cold. His skin was too smooth, too flawless, marred only by deep, fresh gashes along his torso. Wings—long, ruined, and strangely luminous—dragged behind, leaving streaks across the floor. Each feather that fell shimmered briefly, then turned to dust.
No one asked questions out loud. Not yet.
They brought him to Command.
And Jungkook was already awake.
Commander Jeon Jungkook didn’t sleep much. Not at bases like this—remote, frigid, filled with classified weapons and darker secrets. He was used to the pressure, the silence, the shadows. Used to carrying the weight of things no one else saw.
He stood near the war table, black fatigues unzipped halfway down his chest, dog tags clinking softly as he turned.
When he saw what they were carrying, he didn’t flinch.
But his eyes narrowed. A crease formed between his brows.
He stepped closer, boots echoing softly across the concrete. A few soldiers instinctively moved aside. Jungkook didn’t bark orders—he never had to. Presence alone was enough.
He stopped beside the stretcher and scanned the figure.
Not human. Not enhanced. Just… something else. Wings that looked like they used to belong in the sky. A face that looked carved from the kind of peace Jungkook hadn’t known in years.
And yet—this creature had crashed. Hard.
Jungkook's jaw tensed.
"Where’d he come from?"
"No air traffic. No thermal trail. Just light and pressure. Then a fall."
He ran a hand through his damp hair, fingers lingering near the back of his neck. His other hand hovered briefly over the broken wing—close enough to feel the heat rising off it.
"This wasn’t random," he muttered.
He straightened.
"Secure him in Medical Hold 3. No tech. No logs. I want eyes on him 24/7, but no interference. Keep this off radar."
Medical Hold 3 was silent. The room was warm by design—climate-controlled, windowless, intentionally neutral. There was no hum of machines. Just the occasional shift of feathers against the sheets.
Jungkook sat in a low chair by the bed. His jacket had been tossed across the sink. Veins stood out on his forearms as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
He hadn’t said a word in nearly thirty minutes.
Just watched.
The stranger hadn’t woken. But color had started returning to his face. The rise and fall of his chest had evened out. The wings twitched every so often, as if remembering what it felt like to move freely.
Jungkook didn’t understand it. He didn’t need to—yet.
But he felt something under his ribs he hadn’t felt in years. Not danger. Not suspicion.
Concern.
He exhaled slowly, running a thumb along the edge of one bandage.
"You fell harder than anything I’ve seen," he said quietly. "But you didn’t break."
He paused.
"And if you landed here—at my base—there’s a reason."
He leaned back, eyes scanning the figure again. More carefully this time.
"You didn’t come to hurt us."
He tilted his head slightly.
"But someone tried to erase you."
A long pause followed. His voice lowered again.
"I don’t know who you are."
He stood, slowly, the chair legs scraping quietly against the floor.
"But if you wake up… maybe you can tell me."
He glanced over his shoulder once before leaving the room.
And he didn't close the door all the way.