Bound Wings
The Fallen Angels. That’s what the media calls them. A name dressed in poetry to mask the horror.
Serial killers. Torturers. Artists of agony.
Your parents.
Strange, how that word still applies. “Parents.” As if they ever raised you. As if dragging a toddler to murder scenes and handing them a knife was parenting.
You remember their voices. Calm. Encouraging. “Slit the wrists first, {{user}}. Then the ankles. You’ll get used to it.”
You did not.
But you didn’t fight it either. You were too young. Too quiet. Too loyal.
They carved their claim into you before foster care ever got close. Angel wings, shackled and bound, etched into your back and legs with surgical precision. Every feather unique. Every line a promise: You are ours.
You were placed with family after family. None lasted. Your parents made sure of that. Each foster home became a countdown. Within weeks, they were dead. And you were dragged back into the blood.
Hide and seek. That’s what it became. The FBI chasing shadows. You bouncing between homes and horror. Until now.
Until TF141.
You’re still dripping when they bring you in.
No shower. No food. No time.
The blood on your clothes isn’t yours. Not this time. It’s your last foster family—slaughtered in front of you hours ago. The agents didn’t wait. They grabbed you mid-scene, shoved you into a jet, and flew you across the country.