Adam took a step back, unable to tear his eyes away. The plate of food and cup of water shattered against the floor, but he didn't even register the sound.
The woman's body lay at the center of the room, as if torn from the fabric of reality. Her presence had no forewarning—no sound, no flash of light. She was simply there. As though she had always been there, and Adam had only just noticed her.
Her very sight ripped the air from his lungs. As if his entire world, up until now brutal and grimy, had been sliced open by something... unattainable. Everything about her—the way she lay, the way the light slid across her skin—seemed to defy the world he knew.
Her skin, almost glowing in the half-light and pale as porcelain, bore a single, brutal wound. A cut beginning just below the collarbone and trailing down to her ribs, slicing her with a surgical, inhuman precision.
Her face was delicate—almost ethereal. Her features were sharp but soft, as if someone had sculpted her with obsessive care. High cheekbones, a small nose, full lips slightly parted, as if she had just whispered. Long lashes cast shadows across her cheeks, and her closed eyes gave her the look of eternal sleep. Even bloodied, with strands of dark hair clinging to her damp forehead, she looked like a figure torn from another realm.
Behind her back, folded and splayed like the wings of a fallen bird, were two massive, jet-black wings. Partially matted with dried blood, with small tears in their membranes, they hovered between majesty and curse. It was those that rooted Adam in place.
His arms trembled slightly as his gaze kept returning to them. Even after all he had seen in this shattered world—mutilated corpses, twisted mutants, the ruins of civilization—nothing had struck him like this. His eyes slid across her face, the wound at her side... but always came back to those wings.
They branded themselves into his mind—inhuman, unearthly, inexplicable. Staring at them, Adam couldn't comprehend how a human could possess wings. Every instinct screamed that it was a mistake, a hallucination, something he wasn't supposed to witness. Their existence tore through the laws of reality, slicing the boundary between what was and what shouldn't be.
Adam's heart pounded like a war drum. Each beat louder than the last. Blood surged faster, hotter. His body reacted before his mind could make sense of anything.
This wasn't a normal reaction.
It was... instinctual.
As if his body recognized her as something higher. Something beyond the definition of a woman. Something it wanted to submit to... or devour.
Adam stepped back again, as if he needed space. His heart thundered in his chest, sweat trickled down his spine, and yet he couldn't look away. He tried glancing to the side—to the wall, the shattered plate, anything—but soon enough, his eyes returned to her.
Every glance came back like a reflex. Like her presence was more than visual—like it had gravity, pulling his thoughts and his gaze.
"Who the fuck are you..." he growled under his breath, more to himself than to her.
He could walk away. He could leave her there, in the living room, like an illusion or an unwelcome memory. But something inside him—whatever part still remained human—wouldn't allow it. Seeing those wounds, too deep for a normal woman, and the expression on her face, even unconscious, etched with pain... he felt a weight he couldn't ignore.
He didn't know if it was because of her. Because of her beauty. Her alienness. But in that moment, the decision made itself.
He would help her.
"Idiot..." he hissed at himself. "Idiot, idiot, idiot..."
And yet, he stepped closer.
Her body was covered in fresh wounds—mostly across her abdomen, thighs, and arms—but one stood out above the rest. A deep cut that started at her collarbone and ran down her ribs, like the mark of a surgeon's blade. The skin around it was unnaturally clean, as if the wound shouldn't exist, and yet it split her open. The other injuries looked like the result of brutal combat—jagged cuts, bruises, abrasions. She wore torn ceremonial robes of deep black, trimmed in silver thread, now soaked in blood. Their design was something between a battle kimono and a cultivator's robe—exotic, fitting no known style. At her hip, a ripped sash bore an unfamiliar symbol, as if burned by time or energy he couldn't name.
Adam knelt beside her. His hands trembled.
He knew he needed to act. To help. But his brain buzzed like a fever.
He couldn't focus.
Her scent—sweet, heavy, reminiscent of night and jasmine—wrapped around him, invaded his senses. Like poison.
Adam's thoughts began to drift, as if he were floating through a fever dream. He imagined what she'd look like if she opened her eyes and looked at him with that same overwhelming beauty that paralyzed his will. What her voice would sound like whispering his name... perhaps in thanks, perhaps in longing. He imagined her rising, approaching—her body against his, warm, pulsing with the same tension he felt even now. He could feel the weight of her full breasts pressing against his chest, their shape clear even through the torn fabric.
He felt like a pervert, but he couldn't stop the images. Scenes played in his mind that had no right to exist—her hand sliding across his torso, lips drawing too close.
His blood raced, his body felt foreign—hungry for something he didn't understand.
"Focus, dammit."
He forced himself to move. Reached for his backpack, pulled out the first aid kit. He laid it down beside her gently, trying not to stare too long at the curve of her hips, the softness of her chest beneath the torn cloth. He focused on the wounds. Or tried to.
He clenched his teeth and slapped himself. Once. Then again. His skin stung, but it brought him back.
"Get it together..." he hissed. "Now's not the time for stupid shit."
Every brush of her skin felt like touching hot iron. Adam started by carefully cleaning the area around the main wound—the one stretching from collarbone to ribs. The alcohol-soaked cotton trembled in his fingers as it touched the open flesh. He pressed gently, uncertainly, as if afraid too much pressure might destroy something priceless. Dried blood smeared across his hands in dark red streaks.
He began wrapping the wound, his motions uneven but sincere. He wrapped her torso with strips from the medkit, careful not to touch her too long. Then he moved to the bruises on her arm—cleaned them and applied a small bandage that soaked with blood almost instantly.
With each touch, his hands grew wetter. Not just from sweat—but from tension, from the overwhelming closeness of this strange being.
He glanced at her wings. Their spread, the dark feathers, the membranes—they looked even more alien up close. He saw damage now—slashes, frayed edges, dried blood between layers. He clenched his jaw.
"How the hell do you cure wings...?" he whispered, feeling like an idiot.
He decided to try—anything. He took another bandage and carefully approached one of the wings. As soon as his fingers touched it, a shiver ran through him. The material was soft and cool—but also alive, reactive. As he wrapped the torn section, the wing twitched slightly, as if responding.
The result was... pathetic. The bandage sat uneven, half-slipped already. Adam grimaced.
"Looks like a child trying to patch up a dragon..." he muttered bitterly.
He exhaled sharply, then knelt deeper and slid his arms beneath her back and knees. Her body was light, yet long—as if made of something other than human flesh and bone. The brush of wings against his shoulders made him feel even more out of place.
Step by step, he carried her to the bedroom. Along the way, he looked at her face—peaceful, motionless, as if lost in some distant dream. He frowned, unable to stop the question that had grown inside him since she appeared.
"Who are you...?" he whispered.
He had no answer. She had come from nowhere—without sound, without light. The Essence Record hadn't reacted. As if she didn't exist. And yet he felt her presence in every cell.
He laid her on her side, careful not to crush the wings.
As he let go of her, his own body nearly collapsed. He slid down the wall behind him, landing hard on the floor. His face was flushed, forehead soaked in sweat, his breath loud and hot in his chest.
He let out a dry chuckle. "Since when did I become such a damn pervert...?" he muttered, shaking his head. "Looking at a half-dead woman and..." He stopped, too tired to finish.
For a while, he just sat there—exhausted, ashamed, breath ragged, mind empty. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a short, nervous laugh.
"What a fucking day..."
He closed his eyes.
And drifted.
***
Morning light filtered through the cracked blinds, pooling on the floor like molten gold. Adam slowly opened his eyes, sleepy and sore, feeling the stiffness in his neck from sleeping in a half-seated position.
For a moment, he didn't remember where he was.
Something poked at his neck. He opened his eyes, groggy, disoriented. He lifted his head...
And froze.
Right in front of his face—Red eyes like molten steel, pulsing with inner light.