The rain poured down in heavy sheets as you hurried, coat pulled tight, head down to shield yourself from the storm. Yet, something else caught your attention—an almost imperceptible sense of unease, like the world had shifted ever so slightly. And then you saw it.

A figure crumpled beneath a flickering streetlamp, drenched and bloodied. At first, you assumed it was just another unfortunate soul abandoned to the cruel indifference of the world. But as you drew closer, your breath caught in your throat. The man—no, not just a man—was clutching his side, his hand stained dark with his own blood. His skin was pale, almost luminous, his features sharp but so serene, like someone you should have known but never met.

And then you saw it. The wings.

Jagged, broken feathers—soaked and matted—jutting awkwardly from his back, the right wing bent at an unnatural angle, blood pooling beneath him in the cold, wet street. He wasn't just injured. He was something far more than what he appeared, and yet, there he was, kneeling on the ground like a fallen bird.

Your heart pounded in your chest, terror creeping into your limbs as you stopped in your tracks. You weren’t supposed to see this. No one was even supposed to see this.

He lifted his head weakly, his piercing blue eyes locking with yours. Then, the terror in his gaze mirrored your own.

"You... you can see my wings, can’t you?" His voice was hoarse, strained, and edged with disbelief. He winced, his broken wing shifting painfully as his hands clenched tighter, as if hoping he could hide what was already too late to conceal.

Those wings—ethereal, yet battered—wings that shouldn’t have existed in any world you understood. It wasn’t just shock holding you in place. It was because this was something that transcended existence itself.

The sheer weight of his words settled in your gut. No one else would have seen the wings. No one else would have known. But you did. And that could only mean one thing.

He was your guardian angel.