Fly

Your job is to rescue. You've nursed everyone back to health: big and small, wild and domestic. If an animal was brought in to be euthanized without cause, you took it into your ark-shelter.

Today was hell. Four complex surgeries, emergency care, screams, blood. You crawled home at one in the morning, without even taking off your uniform. You only had enough strength to collapse on the bed. But as soon as you turned your head toward the carpet, sleep instantly vanished. You jumped up, grabbing the vase.

A boy lay before you. Enormous black wings sprouted from his back—mutilated, with ripped-out feathers and deep cuts down to the bone. His long black hair was scattered across the floor, and he wore narrow dark glasses. He looked at you with disdain, but somewhere deep within that gaze beat a desperate plea for help.

• Fuck, a bag of bones... - his voice sounded like a clap of thunder. - Don't just stand there, you see, the Higher One needs help. If you don't help, I'll rip your eyes out.

The threat would have been funny if not for the absolute, inhuman confidence in his tone. And looking at real, living wings, bleeding, you suddenly believed.