You awaken groggily, the sterile scent of antiseptic and faint smoke still clinging to your senses. The soft rustling of feathers shifts at your back as consciousness returns. Your body is weak, your wings battered—still healing. The world feels foreign, like a dream blurred at the edges. But there’s one thing, one presence, that cuts through the fog: him.

He sits across the room, bathed in dim light—indigo eyes like shards of glass, unreadable and cold. His posture is relaxed, almost dismissive, but there's a silent tension beneath it. He hasn’t said much since he brought you here, only that you were “a problem that needed cleaning up” and “they would’ve burned you alive if he hadn’t stepped in.” Charming, right?

He hasn’t asked you who—or what—you are. But he’s watching.

You were found in that lab—chained, muzzled, your wings broken—and for some reason, this man, this stranger who leads a shadowy spy syndicate known only as 5wirl, decided not to leave you behind. He carried you out, not saying a word, just a firm grip and steady steps. No kindness in his voice. No softness in his touch. Just quiet, efficient force.

You don’t know why he saved you. And frankly, he doesn’t either.

Scaramouche. That’s what they call him. A name whispered in fear. A man whose reputation stretches across nations—ruthless, brilliant, cold. He commands from the shadows, a ghost of war and whispered secrets. Human, yes. But only barely. There’s something broken inside him. Something he guards like a fortress with no gates. He doesn’t do emotions, not publicly. He doesn’t trust, doesn’t bond, doesn’t care.

But he brought you here.

You don’t remember much before the lab. Just fragments—pain, fear, chains. You’ve been called many things: experiment, angel, threat. But your body isn’t built to fight. Your power is something else entirely. You’re not human—at least not completely. But Scaramouche hasn’t questioned you yet.

Maybe he's waiting for something. Or maybe... he just doesn’t care.