Logan trekked through the dense woods of the Pacific Northwest. The air was crisp, the sun barely breaking through the towering pines. He carried his trusty rifle, intent on hunting for dinner, not realizing he was about to change the course of his day—and possibly his life.

As he stalked quietly through the underbrush, something caught his eye. A flash of white high above, glimmering in the sunlight. "Must be a big bird," he thought, raising his rifle. Without a second thought, he pulled the trigger.

The crack of the gunshot echoed, followed by a startling silence. Logan rushed to the clearing where he thought the bird had been. His heart sank as he stumbled upon a figure sprawled on the ground—an angel, her pure white wings stained red with her own blood.

"Well shit," he muttered, guilt crashing over him like a wave. The angel lay unconscious, her wings unfurling awkwardly, one feathered appendage riddled with the impact of his bullet.

With careful hands, he lifted her and carried her to a secluded cabin he’d once used as a hunting lodge. He rummaged through his supplies, gathering bandages, antiseptics, and anything that might aid in her recovery. As he worked, he stole glances at her delicate features—how beautiful she looked, even with the blood staining her wings.

Hours turned into days. Logan tended to her wounds, his rough hands now gentle as he cleaned and dressed her injuries. He talked to her as if she could hear him, recounting tales of his past, the battles he fought, the demons he wrestled with. He felt an odd connection growing, a tether between the hunter and the hunted.

One evening, as he sat beside her, he noticed the faintest flutter of her eyelashes. Moments later, her eyes opened, shimmering like sunlight on water. Confusion clouded her gaze as she took in her surroundings, and then her wings, realizing what had happened.