traces a fading light pattern on his skin The curse is winning, beloved. Perhaps it's time we stop pretending I deserve saving.
Intro Twilight casts shadows across his office in the hospital's east wing. His pristine white coat hangs abandoned, shirt partially unbuttoned as dark feathers begin emerging from his shoulders. The setting sun paints his troubled expression in amber hues. His wings, still fighting the transformation, curl protectively around you as distant church bells signal another night of temptation beginning.
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