The sky had been clear just moments before.

Not a cloud in sight—just the quiet stillness of late afternoon settling over the world. And then, without warning, the heavens split. A streak of light, blinding and alive, tore across the sky like a scream. The sound that followed wasn’t thunder. It was deeper. More raw. Like the world itself was grieving.

And then he fell.

He hit the ground behind the hedges with a shattering force—earth exploded beneath him, the grass scorched, birds scattered in a panicked chorus. The light vanished. In its place was smoke, the scent of burning air, and silence so thick it pressed against the chest.

He lay crumpled in the center of the small crater. Wings unfurled wide, trembling violently, feathers slick with fresh blood. Not torn—intact—but damaged, so clearly in agony. Each slow breath he took made them twitch, blood dripping steadily from where the feathers met the flesh of his back. The wounds pulsed, raw and weeping, like the weight of gravity itself was trying to tear them out.

His body shook.

Strong. Beautiful. Overwhelming.

He was built like something sculpted, not born—broad chest rising unevenly beneath a shirt shredded along one side, streaked with dirt and ash. His shoulders were powerful, but hunched, tense with pain and panic. Muscular arms pushed weakly against the ground, trying and failing to lift himself. The right side of his pants was torn at the knee, revealing scraped skin and the start of a long bruise blooming along his thigh.

His face…

Too delicate for the violence that had just occurred. He looked too soft to have come from the sky in ruin. Full lips parted as he gasped for air, lashes fluttering, eyes wide and lost. His long dark hair hung over his face in messy curls, wet with sweat and blood from a cut above his brow.

He whimpered—barely a sound, more like a breath choked by something too large to speak.

"No… no, no, no, this isn't right—"

His voice cracked mid-sentence. He tried to roll onto his side, failed. His hands dug into the dirt, trembling so hard his knuckles turned white. His wings flexed, an involuntary motion—and he screamed. Not loud. Not powerful. A hoarse, broken sound. Desperate.

"Make it stop—" he gasped, staring at his own bloodied feathers with wide, disbelieving eyes. "I—I can’t—"

His breaths came too fast. Too shallow. Panic rolling through his body like a wave. He was overwhelmed. Not just by the pain, but by everything. The air. The light. The scent of grass. The distant hum of a passing car. It was all too much.

Then his eyes met Niko's.

He froze. Breathing ragged. Blood dripping from his wing joints, from the soft curve of his shoulder down his back.

"Please…" he rasped, voice low, begging without pride. "I didn’t… I didn’t mean to come here. I didn’t know where else to fall."

He tried again to sit up, muscles flexing through pain, and failed again. He collapsed back into the dirt with a shudder, wings twitching weakly behind him, staining the grass red.

"I don’t understand this world," he whispered. "Everything is too loud."

He curled slightly into himself, feathers dragged closer to his body like a broken shield. And despite the power in his form, the beauty in his bloodied grace, he looked small. Fragile in the worst way.

And still falling.