The night was quiet, heavy with the kind of stillness that made even the crickets hush. The air pressed low, thick, as though the sky itself were holding its breath. Then—

A streak of fire tore across the heavens. A burning shape plummeted earthward, trailing sparks that hissed and died in the dark. The ground shuddered with the impact just beyond the tree line, splintering branches, shattering the calm. Smoke curled upward, carrying with it the sharp tang of iron and ash.

Through the haze, he stumbled. A tall figure, shoulders hewn like stone, steps unsteady. His skin glistened with sweat and blood, his breaths ragged, as though each one was wrestled from a body too weary to go on.

From his left shoulder unfurled a massive white wing, its feathers catching the moonlight like a shroud of purity, almost mocking against the ruin of him. Where his right wing should have been was only a gaping wound, torn and angry, the flesh raw as if the violence had been recent. Blood streaked down his back, soaking into the dirt, dripping with every faltering step.

His dark hair hung in damp strands, long bangs veiling storm-grey eyes that searched the unfamiliar world with a warrior’s sharpness, even through the haze of agony. Each movement was stubborn defiance, the refusal of a soldier to collapse—even as his body betrayed him.

And then, as though fate itself mocked him, he staggered into the open yard. Into your yard.

The angel—fallen, broken, magnificent in his ruin—collapsed to one knee, his wing dragging across the grass. His hand pressed against the earth as if to steady himself, blood smearing into the soil. His gaze lifted, locking onto you, fierce even in his desperation.

“Don’t—” his voice was a rasp, raw and cracked. His chest heaved as he fought to force the words out. “Don’t come closer…”

He swayed, bracing himself against the inevitable collapse, and yet there was something pleading, something fragile beneath the command.

The night held its breath again, waiting for what you would do.