chapter 2

A breath—shallow, labored—parts Ryuu’s lips as his eyelids tremble open, heavy as stone. Darkness meets him, thick and unmoving, with only faint orange flickers licking at the walls. The glow dances like ghosts casting long shadows across the room’s quiet bones, twisting and curling as if whispering secrets to the silence. Somewhere behind him, the low crackle of fire murmurs, warming the chill, but he cannot move—his limbs weigh like sandbags, and a throbbing pulse cages every inch of his body.

Soreness coils around him like a serpent. Every nerve is raw, especially in his wings, which hang useless and shattered against the bed. A dull, icy burn radiates through them—unrelenting, sharp—like dragging broken glass across open skin. They are still there… that, at least, is a mercy. But each attempt to shift them is like waking a nest of hornets in his back, each sting more vicious than the last.

His senses begin to whisper. The scent of cologne, sharp and foreign, clings to the fabric on his skin—a shirt too large for him, too soft to be his. It’s clean and warm, contrasting the sticky bandages wrapped around his torso like the delicate gauze binding a corpse before burial. His stomach is bound tight, ribcage throbbing beneath layers of pain and cloth. His legs, though dull with discomfort, move if he wills it—but every twitch is met with stubborn resistance.

“K-Kaito…” The name slips from his lips like a prayer—quiet, broken, and aching with desperation. He knows, perhaps more than anyone, that Kaito has reason to hate him. He earned it. Yet, the name falls from his mouth out of instinct, not reason. It is something he has always done when on the edge—when feverish or broken, when blood soaked his mouth or his wings hung limp.

But there is only silence in response.

Thick, hollow silence.

It stretches endlessly, folding around him like a second blanket. If Kaito is near, he is hiding behind it. Or perhaps he simply chooses not to answer. But then another thought sinks its teeth into Ryuu’s fogged mind—why is he in Kaito’s bedroom at all?

It would make more sense if he were dead.

Instead, he is tucked in a warm bed, wrapped in clean linens, with a fire breathing gentle warmth into the air. Treated—not imprisoned. Cared for—not condemned. And yet, this comfort unsettles him more than any torture chamber could. It reeks of a trap, of false hope. Like a songbird placed in a golden cage, dangled just outside an open window—freedom so close, it burns to look at.

With a wince, Ryuu forces his body to turn toward the fire. It takes time—too much time—but he manages to shift. The fire greets him with soft, glowing tendrils behind the iron grate. New logs hiss and spark, their embers glowing like tiny dying stars. The cage itself is old, scorched in places, its metal blackened by smoke and time. He remembers the day it was added—his paranoia, his past—how even a gentle flame could rattle him.

Yet somehow, now, it soothes him.

Until a sound shatters the quiet.

Click. The door handle creaks, turning slowly, and Ryuu’s heart skips. He tries to lift his head to see—tries to react—but pain explodes through his skull like a rifle shot, sharp and blinding. His neck gives out, dropping his head back onto the pillow, trembling. But he doesn’t cry out. He won’t. His pride anchors him in the sea of agony.

Then a voice slithers through the air, smooth as satin.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

That voice. That voice he knows like a blade knows a sheath.

Kaito leans lazily against the doorway, his black hair tousled in effortless disarray, a single piercing glinting from one ear. His shirt is dark and half-unbuttoned, whether from haste or swagger, and his hands rest inside frayed, fingerless gloves. His posture is casual, but his presence is sharp—every movement calculated, every breath heavy with unspoken warning.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, those ocean-blue eyes flicking briefly to the fire. He leans into the wall, arms crossed like a man trying not to care.

Ryuu inhales, steadying the tremble in his voice. “I’m okay,” he lies, the words quiet, laced with a defiant bitterness. The pain burns, threatens to drown him, but he refuses to show it. He’s a traitor, yes, but not a coward. Not yet.

Kaito’s smile fades. “Right, little dragon,” he says flatly, “in that case, mind standing up so I can take you for a bath?”

There’s no amusement in his voice. No humor. Only something darker—something cloaked in indifference.

“I… I will.” The reply is meek, almost childlike, but Ryuu swallows the fear. He pushes himself upward, pain lighting up his spine like a field of fire. He claws forward, limbs trembling. No whimper escapes. No scream. But his body betrays him—the pain in his back crashes through him like a tidal wave breaking against stone.

Kaito watches.

But then his gaze sharpens—he notices it. Blood. Thin, red rivulets snake down Ryuu’s back, blooming into the cloth like ink in water. In one silent stride, Kaito crosses the room and, without a word, lifts Ryuu into his arms.

The world spins.

Ryuu stiffens instinctively, his head resting against Kaito’s shoulder, arms trembling in his lap, legs curled around the man’s waist. It’s not unfamiliar, this hold—oddly reminiscent of childhood piggyback rides. But this… this is different. Intimate in a way that burns hotter than the fire. And his wings—gods, his wings—are folded behind him, limp and twitching with every step.

“What are you doing?” he whispers, stronger now, though his voice shakes.

Kaito does not answer.

He simply walks.

And with every step, panic gnaws deeper into Ryuu’s chest.

Because he doesn’t know where they’re going.

And worse…

He realizes, with horror, that beneath the borrowed shirt, he’s wearing nothing else.

Half-dressed, broken, and cradled in the arms of someone who might love him—or might want him dead.

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