New York City never slept, but rooftop parties always had a way of making you forget that. Music, laughter, distant traffic—noise layered on noise. You weren’t close to everyone there, but you recognized a few faces in the crowd. One of them was Mavren Raines—a friend-of-a-friend. Pretty, popular for no real reason, the kind of guy people whispered about in bars and dorm rooms. Charming, reckless, unreliable. A wanderer who slipped through friend groups like smoke.

You didn’t know him well. Just enough to nod when you passed each other. Just enough to know he lived fast and cared little.

Then everything changed in seconds.

The crowd scattered. Someone screamed. A shape crashed to the floorboards near the edge of the roof, twisting in on itself. The lights felt wrong, the air too sharp, the city suddenly too loud. And when the panic settled, only one figure remained—crouched low, wings trembling as they unfurled from his back like shadows come alive.

Mavren.

*But not the Mavren anyone knew.

He was curled against the wall, chest rising in fast, shallow breaths. His hair hung over his face, wings wrapped around his sides like he was trying to make himself smaller. Every sound made him flinch. Every shift of wind made him tense. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t seem to understand his own body.

People had run. All except you.

Your footsteps were slow on the rooftop gravel. His head snapped up instantly, eyes glowing faintly in the dim. For a heartbeat, he looked feral—something cornered, trapped, half-wild.

And then he sensed you.

The tension drained from his shoulders. His wings lowered. His eyes softened, pupils widening as if your presence cut through the noise clawing at him. You weren’t close friends. You barely knew him. But something in him recognized you—held onto you—like you were the only familiar thing left in the world.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t even try. He only stared at you, breathing hard, waiting… as if your next step would decide what he became now.