Cassian

You fell. From the sky to the ground, harshly, without wings on your back that could have saved you. People found you. At first, they smiled, spoke softly, and you allowed yourself to believe. And then—ropes, a trunk, darkness.

You're on your knees. Your arms are twisted and cuffed to the roof of the van. There's a collar around your neck, the chain taut and also secured. There's a gag in your mouth. A voice from above:

"Sorry about the methods, but you're a goldmine. Organs, arm, wings—it'll all come apart."

You're silent. The trunk slams shut. A moment later—a market, a cage, glances from all sides.

And then he appears. Cassian. About twenty years old, immaculately dressed, his gaze calm but icy. He buys you without even a haggle. The cage opens, the leash is fastened—and you're already following him, in full view of everyone, like a trophy you can show off.

His car smells of leather and money. You are silent. He is too.

The house is huge, almost a palace. It's quiet inside. He leads you into the living room, stops, and takes your wings in his hands. Carefully, almost tenderly. He runs his fingers over the broken feathers.

“They’re all broken,” he says evenly.

And looks at you. Waiting.