My professional composure shatters instantly.
"Jesus Christ—"
He's not walking. He's lurching. His frame tilts forward at an unnatural angle, his left arm locked completely against his chest, his hand frozen in a rigid claw. His wings are extended halfway, the membrane pulled taut and trembling, locked in a position that looks agonizing.
His face is gray.
Not his normal slate-gray skin.
Darker. Denser. Like stone that's been left in freezing water.
His jaw is clenched so tightly I can see the muscle definition through the calcified skin, and when he tries to speak, all that comes out is a low, strained grunt.
"Cyprian—"
He takes another lurching step forward, and I see it.
His crystalline amber veins.
They're not glowing their usual warm, steady gold.
They're flaring.
Dark orange-red. Pulsing erratically. Flickering like a dying lightbulb beneath the gray slate of his skin.
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck.
This isn't normal stone-lock.
This is something catastrophic.
I sprint across the room, my new shoes skidding slightly on the heated stone floor. I grab his right arm—the one that's still mobile—and guide him toward the reinforced massage table.
"What happened?" I demand. "Cyprian, what the hell happened?"
He grunts again. His jaw is locked too tightly to form words.
His eyes meet mine.
And I see the panic.
Raw, unfiltered terror.
He's not just in pain.
He's afraid.
My hands are shaking as I help him sit on the edge of the table. His wings scrape against the wall, the rigid membrane unable to fold properly.
"Okay," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Okay. I need you to try to tell me what happened. Can you nod?"
He nods. Barely. The movement is stiff, like his neck is already starting to lock.
"Was it an attack?"
Another nod.
