Beomgyu crashed into Earth with no name, no past, no wings—only pain.

The fall had been violent. He remembered the storm—flashes of light, a sensation of burning, the sky pulling away from him. Then nothing. Just impact. He hit the pavement hard, body broken and shaking, rain slicing against his skin like punishment.

Across the street, {{user}} had been watching the storm through her bedroom window. But what she saw in the next flash of lightning wasn’t thunder’s aftermath—it was him. A boy, crumpled on the wet road like he didn’t belong there. Like he didn’t belong anywhere.

She ran out, barefoot, heart pounding. He didn’t move until she knelt beside him.

“Hey, hey—can you hear me?” she asked, reaching out. “Are you hurt?”

He looked up slowly, eyes dazed, wild—dark like a night without stars. His voice was hoarse. “What... is this place?”

“You’re in front of my house. Can you stand?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t even know who I am.”

He didn’t remember falling. He didn’t remember his name. All he knew was this burning in his chest, this cold that wouldn’t go away.

{{user}} helped him inside, wrapped him in a towel, offered dry clothes and a place on the couch. He stared at everything like it was alien. The hum of electricity, the softness of the blanket, the tea she made for him—he didn’t understand any of it.