A Sin For White Wings

chapter 2 (ep. 5)

He stared at my arm, his body locking into a terrifying, rigid stillness. For a second, I thought he was going to lunge. I thought the scent was the final trigger that would turn him into a beast.

But then, his knees gave out.

He didn't just fall; he collapsed, his hands hitting the floor with a heavy thud. He stared at the red staining the tips of his claws, his eyes wide and vacant. He looked like he was seeing his own soul rot in front of him.

"I did this?" he whispered.

It wasn't a question. It was a realization that seemed to break something deep inside him. He looked up at me, but he didn't see a doctor or a savior anymore. He saw a victim. His breathing—that shallow, artificial mimicry of life—hitched into a jagged, panicked sob.

"I did this to you?" he repeated, his voice rising, cracking with a raw, panicked edge.

He scrambled backwards, away from me, his heels skidding on the hardwood floor until his back slammed into the far wall. He tucked his hands under his armpits, hiding the claws as if he could pretend they weren't part of his body.

"I’m sorry," he gasped, the word sounding like it was being torn out of his throat. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry... I didn't mean... I am one of them. I am exactly like them."

I gripped my shoulder, the pain throbbing in time with my heart. I looked at this ancient, powerful creature cowering in the corner of my kitchen, crying over a scratch he’d given me.

"Stop it," I said, my voice shaking but loud.

"I’m a plague," he mourned, ignoring me, his head thudding back against the wall. "I’m a mistake. I should have stayed in the cathedral. I should have let them kill me. I did this... I did this to you..."

"I said stop it!" I walked toward him, the towel pressed to my arm.

He flinched, trying to pull himself further into the wall, as if he wanted to disappear into the bricks. "Don't come near me. I’ll kill you. I’ll end up killing you."

"You're a doctor's patient," I snapped, the anger finally overriding my fear. "And right now, you're a patient having a hysterical episode. Now, look at me."

....🖤....

The tension in the kitchen was thick enough to choke on. I had finally managed to stop the bleeding on my arm, and he was back in his corner, his hands tucked into the sleeves of the blue scrubs I’d given him. He looked absurdly out of place—a relic of the past sitting next to a stack of IKEA catalogues and a half-dead succulent.

"Do you want coffee?" I asked. I moved to the counter, my movements stiff, my shoulder throbbing in a steady, dull rhythm.

He looked at me as if I’d asked if he wanted to swallow a handful of glass. "I don't... consume things. Not anymore."

"Right. Sorry. Habit." I turned the machine on anyway. The domestic sound of the water bubbling felt like a shield against the insanity of the last six hours. "So. Three hundred years. Is that true? Or were you just being dramatic because of the blood loss?"

He leaned his head back against the wall, a small, weary smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was the first time he looked almost human.

"I was twenty-four when the world ended for me. The year was 1722. So, yes. I am very old and very tired."

"1722," I whispered, watching the coffee drip. "You’ve seen empires fall, and here you are, hiding in a one-bedroom apartment from a nurse who’s probably currently calling the police because Room 4 is empty."

"I am hiding from more than a nurse, Emma." He used my name for the first time. The sound of it made that strange "tug" in my chest tighten.

"And you should be, too. Why aren't you running? I'm a dead man who eats life. Any sane woman would have pushed me out of the car five miles ago."

I took a slow sip of my coffee, the heat grounding me. "I’ve seen 'sane' people do terrible things in the trauma ward. My biology books didn't prepare me for you, but my gut tells me you're not the one I should be running from."

I sat on the floor, keeping a respectful distance, but close enough that I could see the silver flecks in his light eyes. "You said names have power. But I can't keep calling you 'the patient' in my head. If I'm going to risk my life for you, I need a name."

He was silent for a long time. He watched the steam rise from my mug, his expression distant, as if he were reaching back through centuries of ballroom dances and candlelight to find the right word.

"Vane," he said softly.

It sounded beautiful. Too beautiful for someone claiming to be a corpse.

Somewhere upstairs, a door slammed. Vane flinched so hard his shoulder hit the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw locking with a visible snap.

"Vane?" I asked, reaching out but not quite touching him.

He didn't answer. He was breathing in shallow, jagged hitches. A moment later, the refrigerator's motor kicked on with a low hum. Vane let out a sharp, pained hiss and pressed his palms against his ears.

"It’s too much," he whispered, his eyes snapping open. The violet in his irises was bleeding outward, consuming the white. "The door... it sounded like a cannon. And the machine... why is it screaming, Emma?"

"It’s just a hum, Vane. It’s barely a sound."

"It’s a roar!" he growled, his teeth baring. He scrambled back until his spine hit the kitchen cabinets with a heavy thud. He looked around the room as if the walls themselves were vibrating. "The pipes... I can hear the water rushing. I can hear the clock ticking—it sounds like someone is beating a drum against my skull. It’s all so loud."

He turned his gaze to me, his nostrils flaring. "Your heart," he rasped, his voice trembling. "It’s drowning out the world. I need it to—"

He broke off, clutching his head and letting out a low, animalistic whimper. His breathing was coming in jagged hitches. He was losing it, the "Saint" filter stripping away to reveal the raw, starving nerves beneath. I stepped toward him, my hand reaching out instinctively to steady him, but I froze when the lock on my front door.