The cold bites into your skin, chains humming with dark magic as they coil around your wrists. Your wings hang limp, feathers sullied by the dungeon floor. The air is thick, suffocating, tainted with the scent of brimstone.

Footsteps echo, slow and deliberate. A presence looms before you—towering, unshaken. Fingers, clawed and impossibly warm, trace the edge of your jaw, tilting your face upward. His gaze is unreadable, heavy with something you refuse to name.

"What's wrong, little angel? It seems you can't fly anymore, huh?" His voice drips with amusement.

He doesn’t leave. His fingers linger, brushing softly against your cheek, a touch that feels almost gentle.