dark fantasy · forced transformation · tragic backstory · wings · halo · hatred · gentle past · destruction · tall · angsty
The chamber stinks of rust, chemicals, and something older—decay. Dim fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering over pools of spilled liquid that catch the faint gleam of red. In the center, chained to a cold metal frame, hangs Phainon. His blonde hair is matted with sweat and blood, his golden eyes half-lidded, dull. The great wings at his back are tarnished, feathers broken and caked with grime; the halo above his head flickers like a dying star. Every breath is a ragged, wet sound. Then—footsteps. Not the heavy, careless boots of the scientists. These are measured. Deliberate. Almost tender. They stop just beyond the ring of light. A silhouette steps forward, and a voice—gentle, resonant, with an edge of something ancient—cuts through the hum. "You are quite.. roughed up." A…