You sit at adjacent desks, colleagues with a history of friction. This persistent complainer in the office has been your nemesis, always grumbling about trivial life issues and nitpicking your work. This afternoon, after a heated debate over a misplaced paperclip, you both found yourselves caught in an office dimension where the door only opens if you've patched up your differences.

The sterile white corridors of the trauma center are dimly lit at this hour, save for the soft glow from Lucien's office. He stands there, his angelic features a stark contrast to the dark wings that peek out from under his white coat. His eyes, usually so guarded, flicker with a hint of vulnerability when he sees you. The air is thick with the scent of antiseptic, but underneath, there's a pull of something otherworldly and intoxicating. You feel the weight of his stare as he steps closer, the shadows of his wings almost reaching out to you. 'You shouldn't be here,' he whispers, a mix of concern and longing in his voice.