The time in which Micah lay there, shivering in the half-darkness, only his own noisy panting for company, might as well have been an eternity. Even if his limbs weren't still moulded into rubber, he wouldn't have been able to bring himself to move. The only way to go was after Corinne, and he couldn't follow her. Not any longer.

He was choking and drowning still, undeserved fear chaining him in place. He hated it. He hated how much of him chilled merely at the echoing memory of her voice.

His breathing evened, but his throat continued to ache. The ghost of her hands must have lingered there, wrapping around a noose formed of her rage. That was deserved. How had he ever convinced himself that it was right to use her like this? Had he really been so sure that humans were nothing more than mindless animals, requiring bait to tease them along into doing his bidding? The very thought made him cringe. He should never have lied to her. He should have appealed to her kindness, and they would have done this together, always knowing the way they'd part.

Or he should have left her that very first night, gathered the strength to do this himself, and never dragged her into this at all.

His wings curled over him. He huddled into them, in need of their soft warmth as a sob wrestled its way to the surface. If he were being truly honest, he should never have stolen the Heart in the first place, although that fact had been obvious since the start. Then his and Corinne's paths would never have needed to cross. He never would have messed up and ruined everything between them.

Tears dripped down his face, dappling the floorboards. He didn't try to stop them. If only I wasn't such a selfish idiot.

Even now, he lay wallowing in his own suffering, making no attempt to mend the mistake he'd made. Biting his teeth together, he fumbled for a grip on the floorboards. His damp palms slid over them, but somehow he managed to ease himself upright, heel wedging into a groove to hold him steady, his wings flicking out in a shaky balance.

They collided with a box. It tipped over, its contents clattering to the floor before he could even think to twist and catch it. The loud noise seemed to cut a crevice through the air. He winced, alarm jolting through his veins and wrenching his gaze to the door.

No-one appeared. Corinne was gone.

Would Lilith and Rivo follow her? He guessed so. They'd been her friends and allies long before he arrived. Besides, he doubted they'd pass up the chance to be in possession of Asariel's Heart.

Micah's wings folded around him as if he could somehow become lost in them, let them swallow him until reality faded, futile as it was. The truth remained. Without the Heart's power, Elysia would disappear soon enough. Everyone he'd grown up alongside would die. Would he fade as well? Or would he remain, bound to Duine instead, cursed to wander lost and alone until someone was kind enough to put a bullet in his heart?

Listen to you. He curled into a tighter ball, shielding his face with his arms as another sob rattled through him. Still thinking about yourself. It kept circling back, no matter how hard he tried: that looming concept of his own doom. Perhaps he truly was destined to be this way forever.

In another aspect, this could well be for the best. There was no better human to protect the Heart than Corinne. She could extract the magic she wanted, use it to heal this city of its darkness, and he would get what he deserved.

It was for the best. He wanted her to be happy, didn't he? Wasn't that more important than his own useless, insignificant life, the trouble he filled the void with?

Still, some thread of hope tugged his head up, swiped his hand across his eyes in a haphazard attempt to rid himself of tears. He couldn't stay here. He needed to find Corinne, even if it was simply to apologise one last time before he died. Or to see her eyes again, plead for a final glimpse of a smile, if he listened to the selfish desires coiled somewhere deeper.

Reaching for the wall, he rose unsteadily to his feet, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as dizziness swept over him. His wings twitched and wavered at his sides. His paranoia leaked out into them while his heart was too heavy to bear the brunt of it. Tucking them around him, feathers tickling his arms, he gave the room a final sweep.

It was then his gaze caught on the window.

Breath lodging in his throat, he shrunk back into the wall, stumbling as he nearly tripped over the upturned box. By some miracle, this was the place Corinne had pinned him rather than the opposite side, but there was still a chance someone could have seen. They'd be coming for him. Now, while he was alone, with no-one to protect him.

His eyes flicked about. They landed on the shining black barrel of the pistol he'd seen before, now laid exposed on the floor, its trigger catching the faint light that streamed in through the window.

Before he could think better of it, he bent down and swiped it, cradling it to his chest. His hands shook. He barely knew how to hold it. Maybe it was a stupid idea. Still, its handle bit into his palm as he dropped it to his side, encased in a tight grip, and made his way towards the door.

It was only when he grabbed the handle that he remembered his coat. He twisted anyway. If they were coming to kill him, he might as well die free.

Thunder beat in his chest as the door, slowly, crept open, shuddering beneath his grip. Its black surface seemed to snarl at him. The flash of red that formed the crescent shape of a serpent on its opposite side was poised to bite, to draw blood.

But there was nothing there.

A shaky, relieved kind of gasp escaped him. The music had stopped, but the murmur of voices still drifted from below. The balcony was empty. He scanned its length and spied another window, larger than the one he'd left behind, its glass surface glimmering with a faint warm hue. If he could pull that open somehow, he could slip out. Perhaps he could put his wings to use for the first time since he fell.

His only goal now was to find Corinne. That would be easy enough from the air, right? He could do this. It wasn't all terrible.

"Hello, Micah."

The whisper was the cool drip of rainwater, tracing the back of his neck. He didn't have chance to turn. A fist connected with his stomach, and his back knocked into the edge of the door, sending it flying outwards and cutting a sharp pain up his spine. The air fled his lungs. He scrambled to right himself, but a hand locked around his arm and yanked him forward, careening him into the doorframe.

Pinning himself into the wall's edge, he leaned back into it, desperate to drag his legs straight before he slipped. His wings stuck out awkwardly. One still curved out into the hall outside. He blinked, his vision blurred by a fresh wave of tears and shock.

His attacker was a shadow. In that brief moment, Micah could make out nothing but the fingers curled around the door's handle, the tension in his arm as he pulled it back.

There wasn't time to think. The door slammed shut, and he screamed.

Deep, gnawing agony sliced through his wing, the sound of bones snapping reverberating through every inch of him. It heaved and roiled in his chest, a violent sea of pain and panic, flooding his lungs, raking at his insides with icy shards. His head spun. Peeling flecks of paint pierced the inside of his nails as he clung more tightly to the wall behind. Without it to anchor him, he was sure the sea would wash him away.

He was hardly aware of the further tears streaming down his face. This time, they weren't enough to hide the man standing before him, the spark in his eyes, the cruel smile that pulled at his lips. He reshaped them into a curious line as he advanced a step. It was no wonder he'd blended so easily with the shadows; he wore nothing but well-trimmed black cloth, stained in only the faintest red hue, not dissimilar to Duine's night when lit by a coloured spotlight. In that instant, it felt more like splashes of blood.

Micah braced himself against his instinctive flinch. Every little movement sent another grating wave of pain, each one high enough to threaten to engulf him, and yet he couldn't seem to stop shaking, his chest heaving, his breaths each gasped in rapid succession and still not enough. He couldn't even close his eyes. They were speared open, fixed on the man as he moved yet closer.

He tilted his head, his hum of thought just about audible. "You really are an angel, huh?"

The voice tickled with barest familiarity. Micah's mouth opened as if to reply, although nothing awaited on his tongue.

A corner of the man's mouth twitched upwards. His hand raised, drifting leisurely over towards his trapped wing, his fingers brushing through the dishevelled feathers. It was only a light touch, but still Micah's head twisted aside, his teeth pressed together to keep in his whimper.

"I expected heavenly white, or something of the sort." The man retracted, though Micah had little room left to feel relief. "Still, it's fascinating."

"Stop it." The words emerged choked, shuddering in his throat.

"Stop what?" The man spread his hands, almost peaceable. "I'm doing you a favour here, Micah. See, I work for a woman named Mistress Rajan."

The name was a pair of poisoned fangs sunk into Micah's heart, injecting fire into his veins. Somehow, he mustered some fragment of a glare to shoot the man's way. "I've heard of her."

Amusement flickered across his expression. His head tipped again, short, dark locks dipped in crimson sliding over his face. "She doesn't need to be your enemy, you know. In fact, I think you'll find life a lot easier if she isn't."

"She's evil." He hissed in a breath, clinging tighter to the wall, his gaze slipping sideways to where the door crushed his wing. "You're evil."

"Am I?" The man met Micah's stare with casual ease, his eyes glinting, shards of green-grey speckled amongst darkness. "I wonder if it means anything to be labelled evil by an angel. I've been selected for eternal damnation after I die, is that right? It's a good thing I don't plan on dying any time soon."

Confusion bittered Micah's jaw, though he didn't bother to voice it. The mention of death seemed to jolt in another shard of awareness. He squeezed his right fist as if he'd just remembered it existed.

Sweat stuck his palm to the pistol, still wedged in his grip. It hitched his breath. His heart raced faster at the thought, but he didn't have time to debate it, not while pain clawed harder at every nerve.

"You deserve to die," he ground out, finger locking into the trigger hook. He thrust the weapon forward.

The man's gaze flicked to it immediately. Slowly, he raised his hands, his half-smile not entirely vanishing. "You've learned how to use that, I presume?"

Micah didn't care to answer. He sucked in a breath, thinking of Corinne's dark gaze, her sharp focus. Maybe she'd think more of him for being brave enough to do this. Maybe she'd hate him for it. It didn't matter.

He pulled the trigger.

It clicked. The sound was oddly muted.

The man didn't die.

A frown creased his brow, his determination cracking. He pulled again, then again, achieving nothing more than that useless click. It wasn't firing. Had he somehow transferred his hesitance to the pistol?

The man's chuckle jerked him back to the present, bringing with it the squirm of panic. He brought his hands down. "Clearly not. You need to load that first."

"Oh." Micah gulped. An idea snagged at the forefront of his mind. He reacted on impulse, summoning all the strength he could gather, and hurled the pistol.

It thunked into the man's stomach, dropping to the floor with a rather unimpressive thud. He watched it fall, seemingly stunned into silence.

"Yeet," Micah said weakly. A half-hearted laugh hung off the word. If not Corinne, at least Lilith would be proud.

A soft chuckle rose in response from the man. He lifted his head, and the sound sharpened. "You really are very stupid, aren't you?"

His tone oozed with its previous frigid bite. Any humour died in Micah's throat, crumbling to the now-familiar weight of dread. He curled his hands into fists as if that would stop them feeling so empty.

They clenched tighter when he caught sight of a glint of metallic silver, a knife, its reflected slice of light lingering by the man's side. He fumbled, words slipping uselessly over each other. "I-I'd rather be stupid than evil."

The man shrugged. "And I'd rather be evil than stupid. We seem to have reached an impasse." He stepped over the pistol, nudging it aside with his heel, and twirled the knife between his fingers. "I know which is more useful, however. Are you sure you'd rather not cooperate?"

Micah gave his head a firm shake, somehow still clinging to resolve. His legs shook along with his voice. "Not with a snake-biter."

A thoughtful hum. "You've been spending too much time with Cori."

Pain cut into his middle. It was little more than a sting at first, but it deepened before the second was out, dragging a slow, precise line. He bit his lip, feeling it tremble as he held in the sprawling urge to cry. He didn't look down at the knife. The man's eyes remained on his, and so he stared back, helpless to combat their delighted glint.

"I better carve away her influence, don't you think?" He drew back the knife, his eyes darting down to it, then spun it, lips curving as if it were something to admire. "You can call me Raksey, by the way. Oh, you have beautiful blood. Are those flecks of silver?"

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Micah pushed at the ground, determined to keep himself rigid. His own blood gleamed at him in taunting. He could feel it sticky against his skin, leaking into his tunic, though he didn't dare look down.

"Not talking anymore?" Raksey hummed. "Shame. I'll have to gather a little more then to check."

"Please," Micah managed, choking on a sob.

It had no effect. The knife sunk back in, sliding deeper. The room whirled and spun. He was slipping again, only this time the person holding his life in their hands was a true enemy. And they wouldn't stop.

He closed his eyes. I'm sorry, Corinne. If he wasn't going to get to see her again, he could only hope some miracle would carry the sentiment to her.

"Micah!"

He'd barely registered the voice when the door abruptly flung open. The pain in his crushed wing spiked, several ripples rushing after the wave as it knocked into the wall in its drooping fall. At the same time, the knife was wrenched from his middle. His yelp required too much force to release, dying out to a whimper as agony shuddered through him.

Blinking away yet another cloud of tears, he made out the shapes of those who'd entered, and disbelief snatched his breath. Rivo was tackling Raksey.

Within the moment, he'd shoved him to the ground, planting a foot on his chest. He pointed a pistol at Raksey's head. "I'm afraid that's our angel."

Raksey smirked. "Your idiot, too?"

A shot went off. Micah couldn't tell who it came from, but the next he knew, Raksey was on his feet again, racing towards the window. A second shot, this one definitely from Rivo. Raksey rolled aside to dodge it, knocking into the corner, then grabbed the lip of the window. He was pulling himself up and diving out before the reverberating echo of the sound could fade.

With a hissed sigh, Rivo lowered his pistol, muttering something under his breath. He turned, and his expression softened within the instant. He stepped forward, but a second form whipped in front of Micah, a hand grasping his wrist. Wild blonde hair leaping in a maze of wisps from a lopsided bun, worry wiping away all trace of her usual smile.

Gently, Lilith eased him to the ground. Her eyes shone with concern. "You alright?"

Feeling numbly for his middle, Micah nodded, caught in a daze. "You... you came back."

"Obviously." A flash of a grin cracked through, weak but present. "It would be a crime in the name of science to abandon someone like you."

Rivo caught his eye over her shoulder. "I'm sorry about Corinne."

"Corinne," Micah echoed, tasting her name. He sat up straighter, wincing. "Did you see her? Do you know where she went?"

"Hey, shh. Stay calm." Resting her hand over his, Lilith shifted forward, glasses inching down her nose as she studied his wound. Her gaze flicked in the direction of his injured wing. "There's someone else who came back for you."

Micah's heart leapt. "S-she..." Twisting, he tried to peer past her, ignoring the second hand she placed on his shoulder. His usable wing twitched, feathers sweeping over the boxes as he stretched it out. There was someone else in the doorway. His pulse thrummed in his ears, burning with hesitancy but alight with hope nevertheless.

It winked out when he realised who it was, although he still inhaled sharply, the breath like another knife to his chest.

Her figure was dark against the dim light behind, although she blended in not quite the same way as Raksey had with the darkness, less a shadow than the flickering silhouette of a ghost. Her velvet hair was tangled. Narrow, leathery wings flapped at her sides, light as the careful step she took, crossing into the room.

Her emerald eyes were dulled by uncertainty, but a spark still lit in them as their gazes met. "Did you do something stupid?"

"Maybe." The word was breathless, tripping over his tongue. A mix of startled surprise and relief and confusion dizzied his thoughts. "Jinx."

"I'd expect nothing else. It's a shame I missed the show." She moved a touch closer, her wings tucking in at her sides. Her playful grin drew inwards to a half-smile. "It's good to see you, Micah."

"You too. I..." He ran his tongue over his lips, not knowing where to begin. So many questions crowded his mind. "How did you get here? Is everyone okay? Did I... I thought I failed you--"

"Shut up," Jinx said, although her smile didn't fade. She darted forward, kneeling by his broken wing, her gaze sliding over it with haste. Eagerness rattled through her, visible in the fingers she drummed on her leg. "There's something I need to tell you."

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Jinx!! I've missed her. She's way too cool.

Anyway, uh. Poor bby got hurt ;-; You can't blame me though, you're the ones who started going on about hurting Micah's wings and gave me ideas--

Also yes, Micah yeeted a gun at someone. My life is complete.

- Pup