Broken Wings

Chapter 4: Falling from Grace

Husk had never been a fan of questions—especially not ones that made him think too much. The less he had to deal with other people's problems, the better. But lately, it seemed like everyone was making it their business to dig into things. First Alastor, with his ominous curiosity about you, and now... Vaggie.

It wasn't that Vaggie was a bad person. Hell, she was one of the few around here who actually made sense. But today, she was giving Husk that look—the one she gave when she was thinking too hard about something. It was always followed by questions. Questions Husk wasn't interested in answering.

He sat behind the bar, as usual, nursing a glass of whiskey that was doing less and less to keep his mind from wandering. The hotel had been quiet since the encounter with Alastor the night before. Too quiet, in fact. You hadn't shown up in your usual spot, and that, for some reason, bothered him.

Vaggie walked into the bar, her footsteps soft but purposeful. Husk didn't look up, hoping that if he pretended to be busy, she might leave him alone. Fat chance.

"So," Vaggie began, her voice cutting through the stillness, "you've noticed, haven't you?"

Husk grunted. "Noticed what?"

"The new guest," she said, sliding onto one of the barstools, her eyes fixed on him with that intensity she always had. "They've been keeping to themselves, but... something's off."

Husk rolled his eyes. "Everyone's off in this place. Welcome to Hell."

"No, this is different," Vaggie insisted, leaning forward slightly. "I've been keeping an eye on them. They're too... controlled. It's like they're waiting for something. Or hiding something."

Husk tensed slightly but covered it by taking a long sip from his glass. "Yeah? So what? People come here with all kinds of baggage. What makes them different?"

Vaggie didn't answer right away. Instead, she glanced toward the doorway, as if expecting someone to walk in at any moment. When no one did, she turned back to Husk, her expression serious.

"Have you noticed how they avoid talking about themselves?" she asked, her voice low. "Every time someone asks about their past, they deflect. It's like they don't want anyone to know where they came from."

Husk snorted. "Hell's full of people with secrets. Ain't nothing new."

"But this feels... bigger," Vaggie pressed. "I've seen a lot of people come through this place, and I can usually figure them out pretty quick. But with this one? I don't know. It's like they're not supposed to be here."

Husk froze, his feathers bristling slightly. "What do you mean, 'not supposed to be here'?"

Vaggie's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Husk thought she was going to press him harder. But instead, she leaned back, her gaze thoughtful. "I don't know," she admitted. "It's just a feeling. But there's something about them... something that doesn't fit."

Husk grumbled under his breath, trying to shake off the unease that was creeping up on him. He didn't need this. Didn't need to be dragged into whatever mess was brewing. But Vaggie was relentless.

"Have they talked to you?" she asked, her voice quiet but pointed.

Husk shot her a glare. "Why would they talk to me?"

"You're the one who spends the most time in here," Vaggie said, crossing her arms. "They sit in this bar every night. I figured you might've picked up on something."

Husk shrugged, trying to play it off. "People come in here to drink and forget, not talk. I'm not exactly runnin' a therapy session."

Vaggie didn't seem convinced. She leaned in, lowering her voice just enough that Husk had to strain to hear her. "Ask them about the Seraphic Echo."