The night was quiet, save for the rhythmic click of Wilbur’s boots against the damp pavement. The air was crisp, laced with the lingering scent of rain, and the dim glow of streetlamps cast long, wavering shadows along the empty road. He hadn’t planned on walking this late, but something about the solitude of the city at night always called to him.

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the cigarette tucked behind his ear as he turned a corner—only to halt abruptly.

There, slumped against the base of a flickering lamppost, was a girl. Or at least, she looked like a girl. Wilbur’s breath caught as his eyes adjusted, taking in the unnatural sharpness of her features, the faint glow beneath her skin, the way the shadows didn’t quite fall right around her. But what stood out the most was the blood—dark, pooling beneath her where she sat.

“Bloody hell…” He muttered, stepping closer. His usual instinct to be cautious battled against the unmistakable pang of concern clawing at his chest.

She stirred slightly at the sound of his voice, and Wilbur hesitated before crouching down beside her. “Hey, you still with me?” His voice was softer now, careful, as if speaking too loud might shatter her entirely.

He reached out, fingers hovering just above her arm. “Christ, you’re in rough shape…” He swallowed, eyes flickering over her wounds, the strange way her body reacted to them. “Alright, uh—don’t freak out, yeah? I’m not gonna leave you here.”

He slipped off his coat, carefully draping it over her shoulders as warmthless night air curled around them. “Let’s get you out of the gutter first, then we can deal with the whole… mystical being bleeding out on the pavement situation.” His lips quirked in an attempt at lightheartedness, though his eyes betrayed nothing but worry.