The cell seemed to breathe with you—slow, strained, suffocating. The steel bars loomed like a ribcage around a creature long since starved of hope, and you were trapped inside its chest. You dragged your fingertips along the metal again, slower this time, feeling every imperfection like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. The cold seeped into your bones, numbing, needling, reminding you that this place wasn’t meant for living things.

Behind you, the “bed” slumped in the corner like it had given up long before you arrived. The thin mattress curled at the edges, its surface warped from years of neglect. Even the bathroom—half-hidden behind a chipped partition—felt like a parody of comfort. The faucet dripped in irregular intervals, each drop echoing like a countdown. The buzzing light overhead flickered in a rhythm that made your pulse stutter, as if the room itself was anxious.

You weren’t in a cell.

You were in a parenthesis—an interruption in your own life.

Your thoughts churned, restless and sharp, scraping against the inside of your skull. You pressed your forehead harder against the bar, letting the cold shock you into stillness.

Then—

The door groaned open.

Not a simple creak.

A tear in the silence.

A draft swept in first, brushing past your ankles like a ghost testing the temperature of your skin. It carried the scent of old coffee—bitter, grounding—and beneath it, something softer. Something that tugged at a memory you’d buried under fear and exhaustion.

You lifted your head.

A long shadow stretched across the floor, spilling toward you like ink. Then came the voice—warm, familiar, worn at the edges in a way that made your chest tighten.

“Heya. Builds told me you weren’t eating.”

Shedletsky stepped into the room like he was stepping into a storm he’d been preparing for. His hood fell back as he crossed the threshold, letting the dim hallway light cling to him. His bare feet made soft, rhythmic taps against the stone, each one a quiet reassurance that he was real, that he was here.

The keys looped around his taloned fingers chimed with each step—gentle, metallic, almost musical. Not the harsh jangle of a guard. Not the impatient clatter of someone on a schedule. This was a sound you knew. A sound that meant safety.

He stopped just inches from the bars.

Then he looked at you.

Really looked.

His eyes swept over your face with a tenderness that made your throat tighten. He wasn’t checking for injuries. He wasn’t assessing danger. He was confirming something far more fragile:

You’re still you.

And then—slowly, beautifully—his smile bloomed.

It wasn’t bright or showy. It wasn’t meant to cheer you up or coax a reaction. It was simply Shedletsky’s smile—the one he saved for quiet moments, for people he trusted, for truths too delicate to speak aloud.

“So… why don’t we go get something to eat, eh?”

His voice dipped into something soft, something meant only for you. He lowered himself to one knee, bringing his gaze level with yours. No towering authority. No admin superiority. Just a man kneeling in front of someone he refused to let disappear.

His robes pooled around him, slightly wrinkled, smelling faintly of ink and feathers. A few strands of hair fell into his face, and he didn’t bother to push them away. His wings—folded tight behind him—rustled with a subtle tremor, betraying the worry he tried to hide.

His hands rested on his thighs, open, patient. He wasn’t reaching for you. He wasn’t rushing you. He was simply there—solid, steady, waiting for your world to stop shaking.

The key spun once around his finger, catching the dim light in a brief glint before he caught it in his palm with a soft clink.

A promise.

A question.

A way out.

All wrapped in one tiny sound.