Igor's breathing became restricted, the uneven gasps smoothing into steady, even breaths, each inhale deeper than before.
Though his body remained tense, as if still caught halfway between resistance and surrender, a fragile peace settled over him, wrapping him in stillness that was both calming and unsettling.
Gene let out a sigh of relief. She hadn't taken a breath in a while. The feeling of dread was lifted from her body; it was as if the weight of the world was taken off her shoulders. She had bought them the most important present of all, time.
They felt alleviated, but that was only temporary. Anxiety reared its ugly head, as to say this was only the very beginning of their troubles.
They still had to care for Igor's much-wounded body and stabilize his mental state, if they even still could. They didn't know who he would be when he woke up.
After Igor hit the ground, the group rushed in, cautious but quick, like approaching something sacred and broken. Leo was the first to kneel beside him, already reaching to check for a pulse.
"He's breathing," he said, voice low but steady. "Pulse is slow... but strong." Relief flickered across his face for a heartbeat, and then the urgency returned.
Gene moved to Igor's side and carefully turned him onto his back. He was just dead weight now, but they moved him as gently as they could, like handling something that might be ruined if they weren't careful.
His face was flushed, sweat-matted red hair clinging to his brow, and his lips were dry and slightly parted as he breathed through whatever nightmares the sedative hadn't stolen yet.
Maisie knelt beside him, wiping sweat, grime, and streaks of dried blood from his face with the corner of her sleeve. Her hands were shaking.
She didn't care. "It's okay," she murmured to no one in particular. "We've got you now." She brushed his hair back, fingers trembling as they moved across his bruised temple.
Leo hovered uncertainly beside them, eyes dropping to the blood and sweat-soaked purple shirt sticking to Igor's chest.
It was one of the standard Lennox servant uniforms, purple, stiff-collared, always a little too formal for what they were asked to do. The red-and-black striped tie, still looped around his neck, was knotted awkwardly, like someone else had dressed him and he hadn't bothered to fix it.
"We're gonna have to get this off," Leo said, already reaching for the buttons, though he winced as he did. "This is... from when he started here, isn't it?"
Maisie nodded slowly, her mouth dry. "Yeah. I remember. They made him wear it right after he was... sold to us."
Leo hesitated, then started unfastening the shirt, trying not to think too hard about what he was uncovering. The fabric peeled away reluctantly, clinging to bruises, dried blood, and sweat-slick skin. The tie was the last thing to go. Leo tugged it loose in one quick motion, not looking at anyone.
The act felt heavier than it should've, like stripping away the last piece of a life none of them had ever really understood.
Without the clothes, the damage was worse than they'd realized.
Cuts, scrapes, bruises layered like someone had tried to erase him from the outside in. Gene got to work in silence, her hands steady but her face tight as she dabbed antiseptic across the worst of the injuries. "Hold him steady," she said.
Then they saw his neck and his arms.
Angry flesh wrapped around his throat like a brand, where the collar had once been. The skin was rubbed raw in some places, pink and scabbed in others. The damage hadn't come from gentle removal. It looked torn off.
"That thing wasn't meant to come off," Leo murmured, voice low. "Not without hurting him."
Maisie's jaw tightened, but she didn't say anything. She just kept wiping at the dried blood with careful, shaking fingers.
When they shifted him to clean his sides, they saw his back.
Silence fell like a stone.
Jagged wounds slashed across his shoulder blades, deep, brutal tears where restraints had once been embedded to bind his wings. The skin had split wide open, some gashes red and weeping, others healing unevenly. It looked like he'd torn the bindings out himself.
Gene went pale. "He did this to escape," she whispered. "He ripped them out."
Maisie blinked hard, swallowing back something sharp. "He wanted to be free," she said quietly. "Even if it nearly killed him."
As they cleaned and dressed the worst of it, more of him came into view. Without the collar or his usual layers, Igor's tattoos stood out stark against his skin, charred flame patterns rising on his arms and shoulders, curling at his neck. They looked like intricate, almost artistic designs, like something meant to tell a story or mark a rite of passage.
They worked in silence after that, soft and hurried. They knew the injuries were more than physical. Every cut, every bruise, every scorch mark told them something had tried to unmake him. And still, he was here.
He was down. But no one said safe.
They moved quietly, every step careful and deliberate as they lifted Igor's heavy form between them. His body felt almost weightless in the haze of sedation, limp but still frighteningly fragile. The winding tunnels swallowed their footsteps, the soft echoes bouncing off damp stone walls, filling the silence with a tense rhythm.
Flashlights swept through the darkness, shadows stretching and twisting like ghosts. Each flicker seemed to breathe suspicion; was something watching? Waiting? The group exchanged nervous glances, their faces tight with worry.
Maisie's grip tightened on Igor's arm, as if holding him close could anchor him to whatever thread of reality still clung beneath his fractured mind. The ribbon she had given him, forgotten now, was a silent, fragile promise between them.
Occasional soft murmurs broke the quiet: encouragement, reminders, half-formed plans, but mostly it was the sound of careful breathing and measured footsteps.
In Maisie's quarters, the harshness of the tunnels gave way to a small sanctuary. Warm water filled the basin, steam curling softly in the cool air. They lowered Igor gently into the bath, careful to ease away the grime and dried blood that clung stubbornly to his skin.
His breathing was shallow, uneven, each twitch and flicker of muscle sending a jolt of worry through the group. Maisie sat close, her fingers brushing gently over his damp hair, willing him to find rest.
The bath soothed some of the tightness in his muscles, but not the deeper tension locked beneath his skin. They watched the fever burn faintly under his pale flesh, silent alarms ringing in their minds. Maisie made him drink a 'quick' antibiotic liquid, a cure-all, that was sure to get rid of the fever.
When the bath ended, they laid him on the bed, soft linens cradling his body, but not enough to shield the susceptibility beneath.
The conversation was quiet but weighted. Should they leave him free to move, risk the unknown that lurked in his fractured mind? Or restrain him gently, to keep him secure, and them unassailable?
They chose caution.
Soft restraints were applied, wrists and ankles loosely bound with cloth, not chains, meant not as punishment but as protection.
They stepped back, eyes lingering on the still form.
Uncertain.
Waiting.
Would he wake as the friend they knew, or something else entirely?
The room was really quiet. Igor lay still on the bed, his chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths. The soft rustle of blankets and the faint drip of a leaking faucet were the only sounds filling the space.
Maisie sat close by, fingers twitching with nervous energy, eyes fixed on his pale face as if willing him to stir. She barely blinked, afraid that any sudden movement might ruin the moment.
Leo leaned against the wall, arms crossed but tense, glancing at Igor with a mixture of hope and dread. "How long before he wakes?" he muttered.
Gene stood near the door, silent and watchful, her expression unreadable. "Could be hours. Could be days," she said quietly. "Whatever's left of him in there is still fighting."
Minutes stretched like hours as they waited, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on all of them.
Every twitch of Igor's fingers, every shallow breath, was a reminder that the battle wasn't over. That beneath the sedation and injuries, something restless still churned.
They sat, waiting. Waiting for a friend, or a stranger, to return.