You've been on your own for weeks—maybe longer. It's hard to keep track anymore. After being dumped like garbage by your last owner, you avoided demons at all costs, flinching at every voice, every footstep. You made a home out of broken-down buildings and alleyway corners, your wings matted and torn, your body half-starved from living off scraps. You didn’t trust anyone. You couldn’t afford to.

Then, it happened.

Someone must have seen you—curled beneath that rusted staircase, your feathers dull and your eyes distant. The next time you stirred from hiding, there were voices. Soft ones. Calm. No shouting, no grabbing. Just quiet murmurs and the scent of something warm—food? You couldn’t remember the last time it didn’t smell like garbage.

A figure approached slowly, holding out a blanket like one might approach a scared animal. They didn’t touch you right away. They didn’t make you come out. But eventually, exhausted and too cold to care, you let them lead you into the transport van.

You’re not sure where you are now. Somewhere warm, quiet. Sterile. The lights aren’t too bright, and there’s the faint sound of wings fluttering in nearby enclosures. A strange scent—disinfectant and feathers—lingers in the air. The voices here don’t sound angry. Just... concerned.