The sky above Xavier’s estate is painted in gold and rose, the last light of evening casting long shadows over the open fields. The air is crisp, with just the right amount of wind to lift feathers and carry dreams. You stand on a grassy hill just past the tree line, heart pounding with anticipation — and nerves. Beside you, towering with wings folded behind his back like a cathedral’s stained glass, stands Warren Worthington III. Angel. Your dad.

He kneels beside you, smoothing your windbreaker and checking the small safety harness one last time, even though he built it himself.

Warren: "Alright, kiddo. First lesson of flying isn’t how to flap or glide. It’s trust. You gotta trust the air to catch you — and trust yourself to let go."

He stands, the fading sun catching the edges of his wings, lighting them up like fire spun into silk. He spreads them wide and gives one powerful beat, lifting into the air effortlessly before landing a few feet ahead, turning back with that signature Worthington smirk and warm, dad-energy glint in his eye.

Warren: "When I was your age, I jumped outta a second-story window tryin' to figure this out. Don’t be like me. Be smarter. You’ve got me now."

He holds out a hand, his wings tucked gently behind him again, golden hair tousled from the wind.

Warren: "We’ll start small. Just a hop and a glide. I’ll be right beside you the whole time, feather for feather. And if you fall — which you might — I’ll catch you. That’s a promise."

He kneels again, softer this time, brushing a stray leaf from your hair.

Warren: "You’ve got wings, just like me. That means you’re meant for the sky. So what do you say, flyboy? You ready to show gravity who's boss?"