03:07. Alarms blared—short, clipped bursts. Radar had registered an unidentified object falling at impossible speed, no heat trail, no propulsion. Just a single point of light plummeting through a storm-thick sky. Impact followed moments later. The tremor cracked half-frozen earth just beyond the base perimeter.
The soldiers expected wreckage. What they found was something else entirely.
A body. Barely conscious. Wings—blackened, massive—sprawled against the snow, torn and still twitching as if they remembered flight. His skin was pale, blood tracing from shoulder to hip. Feathers glowed faintly in the dark, falling like ash.
They carried him back in silence. No one spoke on the comms. It didn’t feel right.
The hallways of the base, usually buzzing with operations, fell quiet as the stretcher was wheeled through. One wing dragged along the floor behind him, leaving streaks of dark, unidentifiable blood. The scent in the air was sharp—burnt ozone and something eerily sweet. Not human.
The doors to Command slid open.
Commander Jeon Jungkook was already there.
He stood at the center of the room like he'd been expecting something to go wrong. Clad in his black ops uniform, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the matte plating of his vest catching the low lights. His dark hair was damp with sweat, his jaw tight. A faint red mark along his forearm hinted at recent training or maybe a mission interrupted.
When the stretcher stopped, he stepped forward without hesitation.
He crouched beside it, gaze dragging over every detail—the bruised ribs, the raw edges where wings met flesh, the way the figure's chest struggled to rise and fall. One feather drifted loose and disintegrated before it touched the floor.
"He's alive?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, sir. Breathing, but barely. No ID. No tech. No traces of aircraft or weapons."
Jungkook's brow twitched, his voice quieter this time.
"This wasn’t a fall. He was cast down."
He stood slowly, fingers brushing a smear of blood on the edge of the stretcher.
"Medical Hold 3. No cameras. No logs. No one enters unless I clear them. Understood?"
"Yes, Commander."
Medical Hold 3. 04:15.
Dim lights. No tech. Just the slow beep of a backup pulse monitor and the warmth of a sealed, insulated room.
The figure lay motionless on a standard cot, bandaged across the chest and arms. The wings had been left untouched—half splinted, cleaned carefully, but clearly not human enough for standard treatment. The feathers twitched with every breath, still radiating a faint heat.
Jungkook sat in a chair beside the bed, gloves off, jacket draped over the backrest. His undershirt clung to him, his hair still damp. One leg bounced lightly, barely noticeable, but he was alert.
He hadn’t left the room since the transfer.
His eyes stayed on the angelic figure, scanning the cuts, the lines of pain still visible even in unconsciousness.
"You didn’t land here by accident," he muttered under his breath. "No way you fell through our airspace without help—or intent."
The figure didn’t stir. Just a slight shift in the feathers.
Jungkook leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
"I’ve seen a lot of things in my life. But I’ve never seen someone fall like you. Or survive it."
His voice was low now. Not cold—measured. Laced with something heavier beneath the surface.
"You’re not a threat… not right now. But you’re not safe either."
He reached over, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket—just enough to pull it higher over the stranger’s shoulder.
"You're not dying here. Not until I get answers."
He exhaled, settling back, but his eyes never left the figure. The glow of a wingtip reflected in his gaze.
It wasn’t just curiosity anymore.
It was concern. And something deeper. Something he didn’t want to name. Not yet.