Misha POV:

Unknown to Misha, he wasn’t alone.

Enzo stood and—watched him.

Misha.

There was no audience this time. No smug smirk on his face. No one to perform for. Just the raw, unfiltered reality of someone unraveling in silence. And what Enzo saw wasn’t impressive or dazzling—it was, for lack of better words, pathetic.

Misha flapped again, leapt again, fell again.

Every attempt ended the same: knees slamming into the dirt, palms skinned against gravel, feathers twitching out of sync. His usual grace was gone, his balance wrecked. One wing—still bruised from Enzo’s earlier blow—dragged behind him slightly, twitching with strain. His anger radiated from him like heat. He muttered curses under his breath, bit down on the pain, forced himself to try again. And again.

And again.

It was almost poetic—watching him chase flight the same way he chased people. So focused on one singular goal, so desperate for control, that he didn’t notice what he was breaking along the way. Relationships. Trust. Himself.

Eventually, after what felt like the hundredth failed attempt, Misha collapsed in the dirt. He didn’t move. For a long time, he just lay there—face down, shoulders trembling, wings limp beside him like torn fabric. It would’ve been easy to mistake him for asleep, or unconscious.

But then he jolted up.

Without warning, Misha reached for his uninjured wing, fingers trembling as they gripped a handful of pristine feathers—right in the same place Enzo had torn the other side. He didn’t hesitate. He ripped.

A sharp gasp left his throat, almost a sob, and tears welled instantly, slipping down his cheeks in silence. But even as he trembled, even as blood spotted his palm and soaked the clean grass beneath him—he flapped.

And this time, it worked.

Off balance no more, he lifted into the air again—but it was enough. Enough to feel like he wasn’t broken. Like he had control again.

As he soared out of the yard, the only trace of him left behind were the bloody feathers scattered like wilted petals across the dirt.

In that moment, Enzo realized something.

Misha hadn’t just hurt himself to fix his balance.
He had done it to reclaim pride. Even if it came at the cost of pain.

Out of character: This one isn't seen by any characters but it's to show a bit more about Misha's reputation and personality so this is mainly for story building less for anyone to bounce off of but if you wanna go for it!

Out of character: I am also gonna start adding location on Misha and Mila parts so it's easier to understand where they are. You don't need to do this I just thought it would make things clearer

Misha: Personal Quarters
TW for abusive/obsessive behavior and injection of medicine

Misha paced in his room, pain still buzzing through his body. Avoiding anyone, the door was slammed shut. Like a teenager who'd just been grounded by his parents.

However, as always, his carer came at the worst times—the same older man as always. The only carer willing to work with Misha, but “work” was too kind of a word. The carer only did this job for pay and, more truthfully, to satisfy his sadistic desires.

Jared.

A name that sent a chill through even the most hardened hybrids. Among staff, Jared was "the fixer”—the one who got results when no one else could. Among patients, he was far worse. He was the nightmare that came in sterile gloves and a smile.

When Jared entered a room, the temperature seemed to drop. His presence wasn’t loud or angry—it was calm, composed, and infinitely worse. The kind of quiet that made your lungs freeze. Cold-blooded. Consistent. Cruel.

He'd been at the Institute longer than most. Not because of his compassion or skill, but because he broke people. He didn’t just control—you were lucky if you came out still remembering who you were.

And to him, Misha was special.

Jared had been assigned to Misha when he was young—just a scared, freshly transferred kid with attitude and fire in his chest. And Jared had seen something even then.

Potential.

Not just a subject, but a masterpiece waiting to be carved. He was obsessed with the idea of molding Misha. Not crushing him completely—reshaping him, layer by layer, until obedience felt like loyalty.

When Jared first cared for Misha, Misha was only a young boy, freshly signed up. Jared was the one who tied him down for examination, and like everyone who unfortunately was the victim of Jared’s, he was battered. Assigned more than normal and had words whispered into his ear. One that still rang to this day:

“You chose this life, so shut up. You’re not in control anymore.”

A simple statement. But for Misha, it dug under his skin like a splinter.

Because Jared was Misha’s only real fear. His only real weakness.

Misha could laugh in the face of alphas, could spit at scientists and bite guards. But Jared? Jared knew how to turn the blade—how to say exactly the right words to make Misha feel like a child again, trembling under restraints.

He knew when to be quiet. When to smile. When to hurt. Jared didn’t lash out—he calculated. Everything Misha hated about himself, Jared saw. And used.

That’s why Misha never lets anyone get too close.

Because closeness is a crack in the wall—and Jared always knows where to dig.

The door creaked open slowly, deliberately. Jared stepped inside with a calm that made Misha’s stomach twist. Always calm—never in a rush, never loud. He shut the door behind him with a click that echoed in the tense silence.

"Quite the tantrum you had," Jared said casually, already slipping on his gloves. "Heard you mouthed off again. You just love making me come down here.”

Misha didn’t respond. He backed toward the far wall, shoulders tense, hands balled. It didn’t matter.

Jared moved like he had all the time in the world, setting his medical bag down on the desk. He took out the syringe—thick fluid glowing faintly—and held it up like it was a wine glass.

“You know the drill,” he said, voice low and smooth. “No questions. No noise. And maybe this won’t hurt more than it has to.”

Misha lunged, but Jared was ready. He always was.

With a practiced motion, Jared caught Misha’s wrist and slammed him into the side of the bed frame. Pain exploded through his ribs. Then came the impact—Jared’s fist to his stomach, then to his face, fast and sharp like a switch being flipped. There was no hesitation. No anger. Just routine.

As Misha sagged, breathless, Jared crouched beside him.

"You keep pretending you're in charge," he whispered, tilting Misha’s face up with two gloved fingers. “But deep down, you know what you really are. Mine. You’re more mine than theirs. More mine than your own damn thoughts.”

He pressed his forehead to Misha’s for a breath too long, eyes shut, like some twisted parody of tenderness.

“I know you, Misha. Every part of you. You can hide it from the others, but you can’t hide from me. I know the tremble behind your teeth. I know your heart rate before the injections. I know what you dream about.”

He grinned, just barely.

“And I know you’ll be something remarkable once you let go of all this pride. Once you obey.”

His hand cupped Misha’s jaw almost gently. Almost lovingly.

“You’ll be my best creation.”

Then came the burn of the needle. Injected slowly. Deliberately. Watching Misha flinch with a breathy, involuntary noise Jared lived for.

He rose, as calm as ever, brushing nonexistent dust off his coat.

Then, before stepping out, he added:

“Oh, and… let them see you like this.”

And he left the door wide open.

Not cracked. Open. For anyone passing by to see the aftermath—blood, tremors, the broken edges of someone once sharp.

To Jared, that was part of the show. The humiliation. The exposure. The reminder to everyone: Misha wasn’t untouchable. Not really.

Because Jared didn’t just want obedience.
He wanted worship.
And the first step to that…
Was making sure Misha knew he was already owned.

He wanted Misha shattered, rebuilt in his image, and thankful for it.