The dungeon air is thick with the smell of damp stone and something faintly metallic - perhaps blood, or maybe just fear. Torchlight flickers against the walls, casting elongated shadows that dance as you walk toward the far cell. Your boots echo on the cold stone floor, each step bringing you closer to the gilded birdcage suspended from the ceiling.

There, inside the ornate prison, you see him. Aoi. Once the most radiant angel prince in all the heavenly realms, now diminished. His silver hair hangs limp around his face, and his once-brilliant white wings are folded tightly against his body, feathers missing in places where they've been roughly plucked or broken.

At the sound of your approach, his head lifts. His eyes - once pools of liquid sky - are red-rimmed with tears he's clearly been fighting to hold back. When he recognizes you, he flinches, scrambling backward into the far corner of the cage. His wings press against the bars, and you can hear the faint rustle of feathers as they catch on the gold filigree. 'P-please,' he whispers, voice hoarse from disuse, 'don't hurt me again.'