A Sin For White Wings

Chapter 2 (ep. 4)

Helping him stand was like trying to lift a mountain made of ice. He didn't have the warmth of a human body, but he had a strange, heavy density that made my muscles ache instantly. He didn't speak. He just leaned into me, his head hanging low, his dark hair shielding his face from the harsh, flickering lights of the hospital hallway.

The drive to my apartment was the longest ten minutes of my life.

The city was waking up. The first light of the sun was hitting the white limestone buildings, turning the city into a blinding, pale gold. Beside me, the man shivered. He pressed himself as far into the corner of the passenger seat as he could, away from the window, away from the light. He looked small. He looked like something that had been broken a long time ago and was finally falling apart.

When we reached my apartment, he couldn't walk anymore. I had to half-drag him through the door, my heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs.

I sat him down on the floor of my small living room, his back against the couch. The room felt too bright, too modern for someone like him. I grabbed my medical kit, my hands shaking so hard I could barely unzip the bag.

"I have to check the wound," I said. My voice sounded thin, like it belonged to a stranger.

He didn't move. He just stared at the rug, his breathing shallow and silent. I knelt in front of him and pulled back the fabric of the scrubs.

The wound was ugly. It wasn't red or swollen. The edges were a bruised, sickly purple, and the "blood" inside wasn't moving. It was stagnant, shimmering like spilt oil. Right in the centre, a jagged shard of silver was embedded deep in the muscle. It looked like it was burning him from the inside out.

"I have to take it out," I whispered.

I reached for the forceps, but before I could touch him, he finally looked at me. His eyes were wide, the pupils so dilated they swallowed the colour of his irises.

"Don't," he whispered. It wasn't a threat. it was a plea.

"If you take it out... the hunger will come back. And I am too weak to fight it this time."

I looked at the silver, then back at his pale, sweating face. I was a doctor. I couldn't leave a foreign object in a body, even a body that shouldn't exist.

"I'm not letting you rot on my floor," I said.

I didn't give him a chance to argue.

I gripped the silver shard with the metal forceps. The moment the two metals touched, a small puff of steam—or maybe it was smoke—rose from his skin.

I pulled.

As soon as the shard hit the floor, his body convulsed. It wasn't a human seizure; it was like watching a wire snap under too much tension. He slammed back against my sofa, his fingers clawing deep into the fabric, tearing through the upholstery like it was paper.

"Get away," he choked out.

The wound in his side began to close, but not the way a human’s does. The edges of the skin crawled toward each other, stitching itself together with a wet, frantic sound. But it was exhausting him. I could see the cost of the magic written on his face—his skin went from pale to translucent, showing the faint, violet veins beneath.

"You're shaking," I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling as I reached for a gauze pad. "You're losing—"

"I’m not losing anything!" He lunged forward, his movement so fast it was just a blur of shadow.

Before I could blink, his hand was wrapped around my throat.

He didn't squeeze, but the coldness of his palm felt like a shackle. I froze, my heart hammering so hard against my ribs that I was sure he could feel it through the air. His eyes were no longer pink; they were a feverish, burning violet, the pupils blown wide with a hunger that felt like a physical heat.

"I told you," he hissed, his face inches from mine. I could smell the ozone on his skin, but there was no breath—no warm air hitting my face.

My medical bag sat forgotten on the floor. I was a doctor, but looking into those eyes, I realized I was just a vessel of warm blood.

"Then do it," I whispered.

It wasn't bravery. It was a gamble. I looked him straight in those terrifying eyes, my own pulse jumping under his cold thumb. "If you’re going to kill me after I just dragged your lifeless body across the city, then do it. But don't expect me to be afraid of you."

He flinched. The grip on my throat loosened, his fingers trembling. He looked down at my neck, then back at my face, a look of pure, agonizing conflict crossing his features. He wasn't just a predator; he was a man who hated being one.

A low, guttural growl started deep in his chest—a sound that didn't belong in a living room. His face contorted, not with hunger, but with a sudden, violent rage at his own weakness. He hated that I was looking at him. He hated that he was trembling.

"Stop looking at me like that!" he roared.

He lunged, not to feed, but to push me away—to get my warmth and my pity out of his sight. But his movements were clumsy, fueled by the erratic surge of a starving nervous system. As he swung his arm to shove me back, his fingers elongated, the nails sharpening into jagged, obsidian points.

I didn't have time to scream.

The tips of his claws caught me across the shoulder and upper arm. It wasn't a deep kill-strike, but it was enough. The fabric of my white coat shredded like tissue paper. I fell back against the kitchen counter, the sharp sting of the cuts blooming into a searing heat.

The room went deathly silent.

I looked down. Three thin, red lines were weeping through the remains of my sleeve. The smell of fresh, hot blood hit the air instantly—thick, metallic, and sweet.