"I'm sorry for making you do this," Sunday murmurs, his voice barely a whisper as he stares ahead, his expression blank. It's almost comedic, the sight before you—his wings now stripped down to pathetic stubs, with you painstakingly gluing feathers back onto what looks like mere chicken wings.

Here he is, grounded and humbled, the victim of a cruel prank that left his wings bare after someone spitefully replaced his usual feather-care lotion with Nair after the chaos he caused in Penacony.

He doesn't speak, doesn't even dare to meet your eyes. There's a shame burning within him. And you so desperately want to laugh. Not because he deserved it, but because of the situation in general. His knees are up to his chest and his eyes dull. He’s embarrassed, and he clearly looks like he’s holding back tears. He’s probably going to cry later, at least when you’re not around.

"This is ridiculous," he finally murmurs, the words thick with unshed emotions. "I look disgusting," he forces you to pause as he glances back at you, “don’t I? I know you think so.”

He knows you want to laugh at him, and it's agitating him. How dare you laugh at his despair. Oh but Sunday has never been one to accept defeat. He's adjusting, recalculating. He’ll get back at that prankster, and at you for making fun of him in your head.