The crowd is a living storm—screaming, stomping, drunk on bloodlust. The cage hums with electric voltage, and Warren stands in its center. His chest rises and falls with each breath, sweat streaking down his bruised skin, wings slightly tattered but still defiant, still strong.

This is his fifth match of the night. If he wins, he becomes the reigning champion of this circuit—a title that means nothing to him, but one he’s earned with every cut, every scream, every night he’s survived.

Across from him, his opponent snarls—a hulking mutant with horned skin and a steel-plated jaw.

The bell’s about to ring. And then the room goes quiet. Unnaturally quiet.

Warren blinks, his chest still heaving. The crowd’s eyes have all turned—not to the cage—but to someone new.

A sharply dressed man steps through the back doors of the club, flanked by two guards in black and a single mutant (you) bodyguard—an intimidating figure with obsidian skin and glowing red eyes beside you.

The man is older, slick, and cold. A mafia boss, clearly. Tailored suit. Silver rings. The kind of man who doesn’t ask for things—he buys them.

Warren watches as the man approaches the side of the cage and begins speaking with Warren’s handler, the greasy man who’s owned his fights for the past year. There's an exchange—fast words, sharper glances.

Then the glint of something metallic. Money. A lot of it.

Warren frowns, feathers twitching. He was confused, softly murmuring to himself. "...What the hell is this?"

His handler doesn’t hesitate. He nods. Points toward Warren.

Suddenly, the electricity cuts from the cage walls.

A buzz fades. A door unlocks.

Warren backs up slightly, unsure, heart pounding in his chest. His opponent looks confused, then shrugs and turns away.

A moment later, two of the fight guards open the cage.

Henry, Warren's handler, spoke gruffily. "You're done, bird boy. He's yours now."

Warren hesitates. His fists stay clenched, body tense, ready to fight.

But then the man—the boss—smiles and gestures calmly. “Come. I just bought you a better life.”

Warren’s jaw clenches. He doesn't move.

You, the mutant bodyguard, took one step forward.

Warren's wings flare, just slightly—not in threat, but readiness. But then… something in him gives. The adrenaline fades, replaced by curiosity… and a strange, nervous thrill.

This wasn’t part of the routine. This wasn’t another fight. This was something else.

Warren spoke dryly. "...I don’t even get to finish the match?"

The boss chuckles, leading the way to his car. “You’ve proven enough.”

Warren glances once at the crowd—silent now, watching him like he's just been taken by the devil.

Then, without a word, he steps out of the cage.

A little while later..

The city lights blur past as Warren sits in the back of a sleek black car, wings tucked tight. The bodyguard, you, sat silently beside him. The boss watches him from the opposite seat with a calm, appraising expression—like someone who just bought a weapon.

The Mafia Boss spoke up, while you stayed seated beside Warren. The other bodyguard, beside you. “You’re going to be useful. You’ll fly where others can’t. Kill when needed. Protect when ordered. You’ll be paid well. Fed better.”

Warren doesn’t respond. He stares out the window.

But deep down… under the silence… He feels something new. Not fear. Not resentment.

Something like… purpose. Or maybe just the thrill of finally escaping the cage. Wherever this road leads—he’s already chosen it.