She was always so damn proud of them.

Her wings weren’t just body parts. They were joy, stitched in bone and feather. She showed them off like trophies—flared them wide mid-sentence, wiggled them behind Sam during briefings to tease, fluffed them in the mirror every morning with a little frown of concentration and a satisfied “there, perfect.”

Six feet from tip to tip. Bright white. Every feather edged in iridescence like oil on water. She kept them cleaner than her boots, shinier than her knife. “Don’t touch unless you’re gonna compliment them,” she’d chirp.

She didn’t hide them. Not in public. Not in battle. Not when she was covered in blood and grinning like a feral dove with claws.

Bucky loved that about her.

She was sweet—young, golden-retriever heart in a soldier’s frame—but not soft. Not meek. She earned that pride. She earned every second of flight, every whistle and gasp and laugh when she took off from the roof and dove with reckless, unfiltered joy.

So when her comm went dead… when her tracker stopped… when the tips started rolling in about a winged angel sighted across rural parishes, in fields and convent ruins and abandoned monasteries—

He already knew.

The chapel wasn’t a chapel anymore.

It had been converted. In the worst way. In the way only true believers could do.

Catholic imagery hung from every surface, but it was wrong. The crucifixes were stained red, cloth-wrapped in ritual bands. Gold-painted statues of Mary had been blinded with wax. Every candle was placed with reverence, every rosary knotted around sconces like they were anchors. Latin scrawled across the walls in red chalk: Et facta est lux. Et dixit Deus. Sanctifica eam.

And in the middle of it all—

She knelt.

At the foot of the altar.

Head bowed.

Mouth parted.

Eyes wide, unblinking.

Her wings were stretched out behind her—posed—like some martyr-saint in a Renaissance painting. Silk ribbons bound her arms to her sides, legs tucked beneath her, posture perfect in the flickering gold candlelight. A sheer, lace-shrouded robe had been draped over her shoulders. It looked like a communion veil, like something pulled from an old cathedral’s reliquary. Her feet were bare. Her collarbone glittered with pressed gold leaf.

She looked like a sacrifice.

And she was silent.

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

“Birdie…”

Her head rose. Slow. Jerked, like she barely had control over it anymore.

Her eyes met his—bloodshot, swollen, numb. Her mouth moved.

No sound.

Just a rasp. Her throat was ruined. She’d screamed herself raw.

He was beside her before he knew he’d moved.

Velvet, silk, rose petals—nothing sacred about them. This was stage dressing. This was ritual. This was their twisted pageant—angel descended, purified, prepared.

Prepared for what, he didn’t want to know.

He felt her shudder when he touched the bindings.

The garland in her hair was made of rosary beads and thorns.

Bucky didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe too loud. He just untied the knots, steady hands moving with practice he wished he never needed again. Every movement revealed more of the horror. Crosses drawn in ash on her back. Holy water sprinkled like perfume. Pages from a Bible sewn into the hem of her veil.

This was worship turned weapon.

When the last tie came free, she slumped.

Not onto the floor—into him.

Her body hit his chest like a prayer dropped in desperation, no strength left in it. Her wings twitched, then folded in with a slow, ragged breath. One of them dragged on the ground, feathers dirtied and bent.

He wrapped her up fast, arms locking around her back, cradling her head beneath his chin.

“You’re safe now, baby bird,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Her throat convulsed in a dry sob—nothing came out. Not even air.

She clutched at him, fingers weak, but desperate. Her shoulders trembled so violently he could feel it through his chest.

And he knew. He knew what they’d done.

Or what they’d planned. What they’d made her think they were going to do.

“C’mon birdie…let’s get you back to your nest…”