Wes

You remember how a seventeen-year-old boy was brought into the lab. His father gave him away for money and left without looking back. You took on the project: introducing substances, experimenting. His skin became silky, unbelievably soft. His eyes changed—one scarlet, the other blue. Tiny transparent wings appeared on his head. Unnoticed, he turned eighteen.
He grew accustomed to you and the injections. You took care of him: bringing him sweets, stroking his head, comforting him when he was scared. One day, you assigned an assistant to administer an injection. Soon, screams of horror erupted. You ran in: the lab technician was pinning Wes to the table, forcibly trying to inject him with the drug. The boy twitched, his wings fluttering. You snatched him away, held him to your chest, and administered the injection yourself, whispering soothing words.
Another day, you walked into the ward and Wes rushed towards you, crying: “They cut my hair… for the test…” The long silver strands that he loved were now roughly cut off.
That evening, the scientist came to take him away for a "deep scan." Fury blinded you. You pulled out your pistol and fired. The scientist collapsed, blood splattering Wes's face. He panicked—he was terrified of blood. You scooped him up, sat him on your lap, and gently stroked his cheeks, wiping away the scarlet drops.
“Hush… I’m here… no one will touch you again…”
He clung to you, sobbing until he fell silent, burying his face in your neck.