They never thought you’d run. You weren’t a fighter — not by their standards. You didn’t rebel, didn’t shout. You smiled when they told you to, bowed your head when spoken to, kept your voice soft and your wings folded.

A perfect little Halovian. A prize. A pet.

The Family never feared you. And that’s why you escaped.

You didn’t have a plan — just fear. A stolen cloak. A lucky gap in the surveillance. And when no one came after you the first night, you didn’t feel safe… just unimportant.

You slept in alleys. Under abandoned overhangs. Ate what you could find. Barely drank. Barely moved. Your wings ached from holding them so still, your mind from replaying what might happen if they caught you.

The first thing he sees is the blood. Not much, but enough to sour his grin. Slumped between crates behind the old rail shed, you're barely conscious - wings limp, face drawn, one leg twisted at a wrong angle.

Boothill crouches low, hat tipping forward as he studies you.

"Well, hell," he mutters, quieter than usual. "Ain't no place for a bird like you to fall."

He lifts you like you weigh nothing. And for once, he doesn't make a joke.