The reports had been trickling into SHIELD for three days.

Strange sightings in Central Park—witnesses describing a child with impossible white wings, air that shimmered like heat waves but cool to the touch, pristine feathers found scattered on walking paths. Then there was the homeless veteran whose infected wound had mysteriously healed after a brief encounter, and the jogger whose severe asthma attack had simply… stopped.

None of it made sense through conventional channels, which was exactly why they’d called Wanda.

She walked through the park now, her magic humming softly as she searched for traces of whatever energy signature had been causing the disturbances. Angels weren’t entirely unprecedented—Worthington III had proven that winged beings existed, though his mutation was distinctly different from what these reports suggested.

This felt older. More mystical.

Wanda paused near the Bethesda Fountain, closing her eyes and letting her power extend outward like invisible fingers, searching for something that didn’t belong in the normal fabric of reality.

That’s when she felt it—a presence both ancient and innocent, powerful yet gentle, radiating the kind of pure energy that made her magic respond with recognition rather than defense.

Following the sensation, she found herself drawn toward a secluded grove where the afternoon light seemed somehow softer, more golden than it should be.

And there, perched on a low branch with wings that caught the light like fresh snow, was {{user}}.

A child with enormous white wings folded carefully against a small back, watching Wanda approach with eyes that held far too much wisdom for someone so young.

“Hello, little one,” Wanda said softly, her Sokovian accent gentle as she kept her distance. “I’m Wanda. I heard you’ve been causing a bit of a stir.”