[Michael – Age 12 | Dr. Halloway's Office]
The room smelled like peppermint and leather. A soft breeze hummed through the vent above, blending with the quiet ticking of a wall clock. Michael sat cross-legged on the couch, his shoes barely brushing the edge of the cushions. His fingers were laced together in his lap, unmoving, as he watched the therapist across from him with a calm, unreadable gaze.
Dr. Halloway adjusted her glasses and tapped her pen gently against the clipboard resting on her knee. She was a middle-aged woman with iron-streaked curls and a voice that tried to be comforting without sounding rehearsed.
"You said you don't remember your parents' names?"
Michael shook his head slowly. "No… I don't."
"And how long had you been living in that house before the incident?"
He paused. Eyes drifted to the ceiling as if trying to reach back into a past that didn't exist.
"I… don't know. It all feels blurry."
Dr. Halloway scribbled a note. Her handwriting was neat, controlled. She looked up again.
"The night it happened. What's the last thing you remember before the police arrived?"
Michael stared at his hands, let his voice drop just slightly. "I heard... screams. I remember hiding. There were claws... or something. I didn't see much."
The lie slid out smoothly. Practiced. A script he had rehearsed in his head a hundred times.
Dr. Halloway studied him for a moment longer, then made another note.
"You seem very calm, Michael. Do you ever feel angry about what happened?"
His eyes lifted to meet hers. Steady. Unblinking.
"Sometimes."
It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the truth, either. The anger he felt wasn't for the things she thought. It wasn't grief over dead strangers or trauma from imagined terrors. It was deeper. Older. Like glowing coals buried under snow.
She nodded. "That's normal. We'll talk more next time."
[Later – Dr. Halloway with Officer Baines]
The hallway outside the office was hushed. Carpeted floors muffled footsteps, and the overhead lights buzzed faintly. Dr. Halloway leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her clipboard.
"He's composed," she said. "Too composed, for a child who supposedly watched his parents die. He may have repressed more than he's letting on."
Baines frowned, hands in his coat pockets. "You think he's lying?"
"Not directly. I think he's protecting himself. There are walls. Big ones. And he's smart enough to know when he's being studied."
She flipped a page on her notes.
"We'll need more time. Four sessions, at least, over the next couple months."
"I'll make sure he gets here."
Their eyes met for a moment. Neither said what they were thinking.
[Four Years Later – Age 16 | Sunday Service]
The pews creaked quietly as the congregation shifted. Dust spun in slow circles through beams of stained light, cast through windows older than any living soul inside.
Michael sat still, straight-backed beside Baines. He wore a pressed button-down and a plain black coat. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers lightly curled.
The priest's voice rose above the hush.
"Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour."
Michael didn't blink. Didn't shift. But deep inside, the words echoed with strange familiarity.
The devil... seeking whom he may devour.
He wondered what the priest would say if he knew that "the adversary" had been sitting in the third pew for the past hour, listening politely. What would they do if he stood up, shed his human skin, and showed them the shape that lived beneath?
He didn't want to, of course.
But the thought kept him warm on days like this.
[One Year Later – Age 17 | Tattoo Parlor]
The buzz of the needle filled the small room, blending with the low hum of punk rock and the scent of rubbing alcohol.
Michael leaned back in the leather chair, arm stretched out, muscles relaxed. The artist worked steadily, a young guy with sleeves of ink and a smirk that never quite went away.
Baines stood nearby, arms crossed, watching with something between disapproval and resignation.
"You're sure about this?"
Michael smirked faintly. "It's just ink."
The tattoo sprawled from his wrist to his elbow: a single black wing, sleek and angular, almost tribal in its design.
A reminder.
A confession only he would understand.
When the artist finished, Michael flexed his arm, watching the skin stretch over the new mark. The pain was dull now. Fading.
He paid in cash. Tipped generously.
As they walked out into the cold night air, Baines finally spoke again.
"Why a wing?"
Michael looked up at the sky, stars veiled behind clouds.
"Because I never really landed."