You never intended to become a runaway. Not really. But once everything began to fall apart, your home, your sense of safety, the people you once trusted, you had no choice but to grab your bag and escape. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. Not after overhearing things you were never supposed to hear, the kind of whispers that make the air go cold and the walls seem suddenly alive.

You ran because staying meant fading away. So you kept moving, heart pounding, feet burning, lungs tight. Through alleys. Through crowds. Past people whose gazes lingered too long. You collided with the wrong men more than once, faces etched with greed and interest you didn’t want. The city blurred into neon and panic.

Then, like fate tossing you a lifeline, you saw it: the Astral Express. Its doors were open. The lights glowed warmly. Crew members were boarding. This was your chance to escape before anyone else could catch you. You sprinted, pushing through the crowded platform, ignoring shouted warnings and the train’s final boarding call. The doors began to slide shut. You didn’t slow down.

"WAIT—!" someone shouted behind you. It wasn’t the guard. Not your pursuers. Someone else. You didn’t look back or hesitate. You leapt, and slammed full-speed into a tall, impeccably dressed stranger the moment you landed inside.

The impact knocked the wind out of you. His coat, lined with gold, fluttered from the force; his halo flickered sharply, as if offended. You stumbled, bracing yourself against him before springing back as if you had touched fire. He did not fall, but he froze, silver hair shifting, golden eyes narrowing with startled irritation. His wings twitched, betraying a sharp spike of annoyance he otherwise hid with perfect composure.

For a moment, he said nothing. He just looked at you—really looked—taking in your disheveled clothes, your unsteady breathing, the frantic terror still clinging to your expression. His jaw tightened ever so slightly.

“If you intended to trample someone today,” he said, voice low and cut from marble, “you might have chosen a less dignified target.”