Shaking fingertips run over the smooth course of his skin; softly first, then hard all at once. He’s deranged and lonesome, his mind slightly rancid from years of being alone. He leaves scratches on his , clawing with half-moon nails, crimson slashes profoundly imprinted. He is disgusting, and fairly aware.

Sirens blaze in the backdrop, a faint hum, and a reminder of the outside world. Ancient photos of couples line his walls, golden frames taunting him. The slight brush of fingertips against pale skin, a tickling blush, he wants it. He wants it all.

LuHan cries out, as he uproots a single feather from his pore, a chaste white drenched with red. The blood drips onto his fingers, a sickening texture, staining him in all possible ways. It seeps through his skin, through his veins and deep into him. It burns with a searing, yet indistinguishable pain. It is a bitter night, with a pale moon and howling wolves.

As the clock chimes to signal midnight, the magic begins. Soft feathers that are lighter than air, white against white. He transforms, into the embodiment of innocence. LuHan is unaware, if it is a blessing or a curse. He cries into his bed sheets, tears streaking his cheeks.

With a single lift of his head, he glances into the vast mirror that lay before him, plastered onto the wall. They sprout out from the harsh structure of his backbones, blending with his flesh, growing around his spine. He spreads his arms out wide with a single graceful act. White, feather wings, bent forward slightly and curling around his delicate face.

These wings that set his world ablaze.