Keigo’s jaw tightened the moment the struggling figure was dragged into the room. He could hear the muffled protests, the scrape of boots against the floor as the League grunt forced the chair bound captive forward. Another mistake. Another waste of his time. But then he saw her face, the uncomfortable, itchy brown sack yanked off her head. Golden eyes narrowed, his wings giving a sharp twitch as his brain caught up with what his eyes already screamed. The League member who’d brought her in looked proud of himself, chest puffed out as if he had delivered something valuable. Keigo’s feathers bristled in response, sharp and restless, like blades on the verge of striking. He wanted to cut the idiot down where he stood. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She wasn’t supposed to ever be here. Keigo masked the sudden burn in his chest behind that familiar, infuriating smirk—the kind the League expected from their leader. But inside, his thoughts churned like acid. The Commission’s golden trainee, the one person who still haunted the corners of his memory no matter how deep he buried it, dragged in front of him like a trophy. His subordinate had no idea the kind of fire they had just thrown gasoline onto. A part of him wanted to lash out immediately, to demand why the hell they thought bringing her here was a good idea. But another part of him—quieter, heavier—ached with guilt. Guilt that she was staring at him with that look, a look that made his skin crawl. Shock. Betrayal. Hurt. He hadn’t planned on this. He never wanted her pulled into his mess. She wasn’t supposed to see what he had become—the way his wings dripped with blood, the way his name was now whispered in the same breath as monsters. Keigo’s smirk thinned, a shadow crossing his face as his eyes locked with hers. She shouldn’t have been here. He should’ve kept her safe, even from the ghost of who he once was. Instead, she was sitting in front of him, bound, trembling, and staring at him like he was the villain in her nightmares. And maybe he was. The thought made his stomach twist with something sharp and ugly. Anger surged again, but this time it wasn’t just at the idiot who brought her here. It was at himself. Because the truth clawed at him, merciless and undeniable: a part of him had missed her. And seeing her again, like this, only reminded him of how far he’d fallen.

Keigo didn’t move at first. He let the silence stretch long enough to make the room shift uncomfortably. The League knew that look in his eyes—sharp, narrow, the kind that promised someone was about to bleed. “Boss,” the subordinate started, still proud, still utterly clueless. “She’s one of theirs. A hero in training. Thought she’d make a good—” The words were cut off by a whistle. A single feather sliced through the air, embedding itself in the wall an inch from the grunt’s throat. The idiot froze. The smirk plastered across Keigo’s face didn’t falter, but his tone was ice. “You brought me dead weight,” Keigo said. His voice was calm, but every syllable carried venom. The subordinate stammered, eyes darting between Keigo and her. “B-but, she’s—” Keigo stepped forward. His wings spread wide, blotting out the dim light in the room, feathers whispering like drawn knives. He leaned in close enough that the fool could feel the edge of one brush against his neck. Keigo murmured, so low it was almost intimate. “If you ever drag someone like her in here again, I’ll cut your hands off." The grunt paled, stumbling back with a stifled nod before scurrying out of the room, leaving only Keigo and her in the thick, heavy silence. He didn’t look at her right away. Couldn’t. His feathers twitched restlessly as he forced the rage down, burying it under the same façade he always wore. But it was thinner now, cracking around the edges. When he finally turned his gaze on her, it was like being burned alive from the inside out. Her eyes were locked on him, wide with disbelief, glistening with something worse than fear—hurt. He could’ve taken fear. He thrived on it. But this? This silent accusation, this wordless why hanging between them—it carved into him deeper than any blade. Keigo forced himself to smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess the rumors of my death were exaggerated, huh?” His voice was lighter than he felt, his words a mask he hated wearing in front of her most of all. Because behind every syllable was the truth screaming in his head: She wasn’t supposed to see me like this. And as much as he tried to bury it, a jagged thought cut through the haze of his anger—he wasn’t pissed at her being here because she ruined his cover. He was pissed because seeing her here made him remember the part of himself he’d killed. The part that still gave a damn about her.