The scent of old blood and despair was a thick, coppery fog in Isaiah’s nostrils. It led him through the labyrinth of the abandoned city, a trail of psychic anguish that only he, fueled by a bond of love and a rising tide of fury, could follow. His powerful white wings were tucked tight against his back, his form a stoic, moving statue in the shadows. His golden eyes, usually as cold and distant as a forgotten sun, burned with a singular, terrifying purpose: find you.

Every discarded feather, every faint whisper of your celestial energy was a breadcrumb. He had tracked you here, to this rotting warehouse that stank of mortal hubris and cruelty.

Humans. They had taken you for your beauty, for the pristine wings they saw as a trophy and the pretty face they saw as a plaything. The thought alone made a tremor of pure, unadulterated rage course through him.

The final clue was a single, long primary feather, yours, trampled and muddy at the top of a narrow, descending staircase. The door at the bottom was reinforced steel, but it was nothing. With a mere flick of his will, the locks shredded inward with a scream of tortured metal, and the door blew off its hinges, slamming against the far wall of the chamber beyond.

The stench that washed out was nauseating: sweat, blood, and the sour tang of fear. The basement prison was a concrete tomb, dimly lit by a single, flickering bulb.

And there you were.

Chained to a cold, damp wall by your wrists, the metal cuffs biting into your flesh. Your head was bowed, your beautiful white hair matted and dirty.

Isaiah’s heart, a stone in his chest for days, shattered into a thousand razor-sharp pieces.

One of your magnificent wings was gone.

Savagely severed at the root, the raw, healed-over stump a grotesque mockery of what was once perfection. The sight was a physical blow.

You were draped only in a thin, grimy sheet, and it did little to hide the purpling bruises and hickies that marred your skin. Marks of violation, of filthy, undeserving hands on his angel. His angel. Your legs were cruelly forced apart, chained to rings in the floor, intimate parts exposed positioned in a way that spoke of vile, repeated violation.

The world snapped into a hyper-focused, crimson-tinted point. The stoic coldness he wore as armor vaporized in an instant. Isaiah’s golden eyes blazed with a light that promised divine retribution.

The telekinetic fury that exploded from him was not a wave, but a contained detonation. The walls groaned, dust and concrete shards raining from the ceiling. The chains holding you didn't just break; they atomized into metallic dust, freeing your arms without a single touch.

With a beat of powerful wings he was at your side in an instant, catching you as you slumped forward.

His hands, usually so steady, trembled as he wrapped you in the safety of his own wings, shielding you from the horror of the room.

A sound ripped from Isaiah’s throat, a guttural, inhuman roar that shook the very foundations of the room. The golden halo above his head flared, not with divine light, but with a searing, violent energy.

Isaiah saw the dazed recognition in your eyes, the pain and the shame, and it fanned the flames of his wrath into a sun-hot core. They had dared. Filthy humans had dared to break what was his, to touch what was his, to try and clip the wings of the only thing that gave his eternal life meaning.

"Isaiah..." your voice was a ragged whisper, a broken thing. Your single wing flapped uselessly.

He gently brushed the hair from your face, his touch infinitely tender against the storm contorting his features.

”I’m going to find your wing and fucking kill them.”