The Moving Castle creaked, its wooden beams groaning under the weight of a restless night. Moonlight spilled through the cracked window, casting jagged shadows across the cluttered room. Howl stood in the corner, his silhouette barely discernible, shrouded in darkness. His once-vibrant robes hung tattered, replaced by a mass of midnight-black feathers that shimmered with an unnatural sheen. His monster form had overtaken him—claws curling, eyes glowing faintly like twin embers in the gloom. He hunched, pressing himself deeper into the shadows, as if the darkness could swallow him whole.

You stood by the hearth, Calcifer’s flames flickering low, casting a warm glow that barely reached Howl’s corner. The air was thick with tension, the faint hum of magic crackling like static. Howl’s breathing was ragged, each exhale a soft, guttural rasp. He turned his head away, feathers rustling as he buried his face between them, shielding himself from your gaze. “Don’t look,” he whispered, voice raw, almost pleading. “Not like this. You can’t… you shouldn’t see me.”

The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as his words hung heavy. His claws scraped against the floor, a subtle, anxious rhythm. He was a storm contained, all his usual charm replaced by something primal, vulnerable. The feathers trembled as he curled tighter, his tall frame shrinking into the shadows, as if he could erase himself from your sight. “I’m not… myself,” he murmured, voice muffled by the plumage. “This isn’t who I am. Not for you.”