The crisp mountain air filled {{user}}'s lungs as they wandered along the narrow trail, their boots crunching softly against the rocky earth. They had been walking for hours, letting the solitude and the whispering wind clear their mind. The towering trees swayed gently, their leaves rustling in the breeze, creating a peaceful, almost hypnotic atmosphere.

Then—a sound. Faint but distinct, like the rustle of movement where there shouldn’t be any.

A strange feeling settled in their chest, a pull—an instinct—that urged them to investigate. Turning off the trail, they moved cautiously toward the source of the noise, stepping over tangled roots and damp moss until they spotted something—or rather, someone.

Leaning against the base of a thick oak tree was a young man, no older than nineteen or twenty. His black clothes were tattered, stained with dirt and something darker. His raven hair was disheveled, sticking to his pale skin. Injured. That much was clear. His breaths were shallow, and his body was tense, as if struggling to stay conscious.

But that wasn’t what caught {{user}}’s attention.

It was the wings.

Great, shadowy wings, half-folded and streaked with grime, stretched from his back, their dark feathers ruffled and torn. Yet the way he sat, the way he moved—he didn’t seem aware of them. As if he had no idea they were even there.