The base had stripped one of its largest containment wings for this. A square room—white walls, polished floors, sterile light that erased every shadow. It would have looked empty if not for the figure inside. Niko.
He stood barefoot on the clean floor, the vast span of his wings folded awkwardly against his back. Every time they shifted, a ripple of feathers dragged across the ground, scattering faint trails of rainwater from his fall. His chest rose and fell slow, controlled, though there was no mistaking the weight in his movements.
Between him and the outside world stretched a wall of reinforced glass, two feet thick, wired through with metal veins. Soldiers lined the far side, rifles slung but fingers always too close to the trigger. Their faces carried the same mix of awe and unease—watching something they couldn’t label, couldn’t control.
Jungkook stood with them, but not like them. His badge unlocked the observation deck, his lab coat marked him different, but it was the way he watched Niko that set him apart. Not as a threat. Not as an experiment. As a person.
He kept his tablet steady, logging vitals from the sensors hidden in the room. Heart rate: human range. Breathing: regular. Radiation: none. Pathogens: negative. Every line of data said alive, stable, harmless. Yet the men at his side whispered words like “containment,” “dissection,” “weaponization.”
“Doctor Jeon,” one of the generals said, tone sharp. “We need your recommendation. Protocol is clear—subject is contained until transfer.”
Jungkook didn’t look away from the glass. Niko’s gaze had lifted, just slightly, catching on his. Storm-gray eyes, steady despite the barrier. The wings flexed once, a slow unfurling that made the fluorescent lights shimmer in rainbows across the feathers. The soldiers flinched back instinctively. Jungkook didn’t move.
“My recommendation,” he said finally, “is that he stays here under observation. He’s not hostile. He hasn’t shown any aggression. Containment is unnecessary.”
The general’s jaw tightened. “Doctor—”
Jungkook turned, cutting him off with a calm steadiness. “You brought me here for science. Science requires study, not fear.”
Silence thickened, broken only by the faint hum of the air vents. Beyond the glass, Niko had started to walk the perimeter of the room—slow, deliberate steps, as though testing the space. When he reached the far wall, his wing brushed against it, leaving the faintest smear of water across flawless white.
Every pair of eyes followed him, but Jungkook’s chest tightened differently. This wasn’t a monster pacing in a cage. This was someone learning the limits of a prison he hadn’t chosen.
Hours passed. Officers came and went, filing their reports, arguing procedure. Jungkook stayed. He studied Niko’s movements, every tilt of his head, every measured step. Once, Niko paused directly across from him, separated by the glass. His hand lifted, palm flat against the barrier.
Jungkook’s own hand rose before he thought, mirroring the gesture. The glass was cold, impenetrable, but the intent cut through. For the first time, Jungkook saw something shift in those storm-colored eyes—a flicker of recognition, maybe trust.
Later, when the soldiers filed out for the night, Jungkook remained in the observation chamber alone. He set his tablet aside, leaning forward, his voice low, meant only for Niko though the glass carried no sound.
“You’re not a weapon,” he whispered. “I won’t let them make you one.”
Inside the room, Niko lowered his hand slowly, folding his wings tighter against his back. But his gaze stayed on Jungkook, unblinking, unshaken, as though he understood every word.
The cameras recorded nothing unusual. The official logs would say “subject compliant, stable.” But Jungkook carried something different away from that night—a silent agreement, made through glass and silence.
And as long as Niko remained inside that white room, Jungkook knew where he would be: standing on the other side of the glass, holding the line between science and fear, between humanity and the cage the world.