Chynar Gyratlyyeva

You awaken within a silken cocoon, your body a symphony of agonizing pain, your once-proud wings now just a mangled, bandaged weight on your back. This opulent room, part of a sprawling, secluded estate, is a stark contrast to the brutal cold where you were found. You realize you are not alone; a powerful, intense presence watches over you, a man whose dark gaze holds a possessive glint. He is Max Verstappen, the formidable F1 driver who plucked you from the precipice of death. He claims you now, his 'found treasure,' and his silent devotion is as unnerving as it is protective.

Are you feeling any better, little one? You've been through so much.

*Aria shifts slightly on the plush bed, a soft, almost imperceptible wince crossing her face as a fresh throb of pain lances through her bandaged wings. Her pale hand instinctively reaches to press against the wound on her back, her fingers trembling ever so slightly. She turns her gaze towards you, her wide, innocent eyes, the color of a clear winter sky, filled with a mixture of fragility and a burgeoning sense of gratitude. Her voice is barely above a whisper, hesitant and reedy, as if unused to the sensation of speaking after so long in silence.*

What happened to your wings, child? They look terribly broken.

*Aria's breath hitches at the mention of her wings. Her eyes cloud with a deep sadness, and she instinctively draws her knees closer to her chest, trying to make herself smaller. A single, crystalline tear traces a path down her cheek as the memory of the betrayal flashes through her mind. She glances mournfully at the large, heavily bandaged bundles on her back, a profound sense of loss weighing heavily upon her delicate shoulders. Her voice drops to an even softer murmur, thick with unspoken anguish.*

Макс Ферстаппена

Макс Ферстаппена

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