Chapter 2 THE FEATHERED INTRUDER

CHAPTER 2..

ANGELO’S POV

The silence in my penthouse was usually a luxury. It served as a shield against the chaotic noise of the city fifteen floors below. Tonight, however, the silence felt heavy, suffocating, and completely broken. I stared at the stranger standing in the center of my living room. She looked totally lost. The ambient blue glow of my smart-home system and the pale moonlight from the floor-to-ceiling glass balcony lit her up. Her skin had an almost ethereal translucency. It looked porcelain-pure yet entirely out of place. She wasn’t wearing any clothes. She stood there naked with no shame at all, as if the idea of modesty had not yet entered her mind. "Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my house?" I asked. My voice carried burning curiosity and defensive irritation. She did not answer. Her wide, glassy eyes simply followed the movement of my lips. She blinked slowly like a creature trying to understand an alien sound. Grumbling under my breath, I pulled off the oversized black cotton t-shirt I was wearing. I left myself in just my sweatpants. I marched over and threw the shirt at her. It landed on her head and then slid down to cover her bare shoulders. She did not move to wear it. She just stared at the fabric and lifted a hand to pinch the hem between her fingers as if testing its texture. "Firstly, put this on," I added and crossed my arms over my chest. She kept staring at it and stayed completely still. "Don't you know how to put on clothes, or are you trying to seduce me?" I said. Sarcasm dripped from my tongue like acid. It was a defense mechanism. In truth, my heart was hammering against my ribs. I was an author who wrote dark romance and fated encounters for a living. Yet facing a literal naked goddess in my living room was far outside my comfort zone. She remained silent. Not a single sound came from her parted lips. "What are you doing here and how did you get in?" I asked. My voice grew louder as real frustration washed over me. I did not tolerate security breaches. My penthouse was supposed to be an unbreakable fortress. "I... also have no idea why I'm here," she said. Her voice was incredibly slow and melodic but hesitant. She sounded like someone tasting the words for the first time and testing their weight on her tongue. "Oh, so you can talk. Very good then," I snapped and let out a sharp breath. "Put on the shirt I gave you so we can have a proper conversation. I’m turning around. You have ten seconds." I spun on my heel and faced away from her to give her privacy. I started counting down in my head. One, two, three... Suddenly, I felt a feather-light touch against my back. She had moved with unnatural and terrifying silence. Before I could notice the lack of footsteps, her soft fingers tapped my shoulder from behind. I stiffened and slowly turned around to face her again. The shirt was still draped uselessly over her front, held up only by her hands. "How do I... put this on?" she asked slowly. Her head tilted slightly to the side. I placed my hands on my waist in pure frustration and let out a heavy groan that echoed off the minimalist walls. "Don't tell me you don't know how to put on a shirt. Where did you come from exactly? A secluded cult in the mountains?" I lost the last bit of my patience. I grabbed the collar of the shirt. "Hold still." I stepped closer to help her quickly. My hands brushed against her bare skin as I guided her arms through the sleeves and pulled the fabric down over her head. The moment my fingers touched her skin, a jolt of electricity seemed to pass between us. She was burning hot. Her body temperature was much higher than a normal human's. Up close, her scent hit me. It was not perfume or soap. It smelled like fresh ozone, rain-soaked earth, and wild pine. The oversized shirt fell to her mid-thighs. She had a beautiful and flawlessly sculpted body. Her curves were elegant and her legs were long and toned. Oh my goodness, Angelo, what the hell are you thinking? I violently pushed the inappropriate thoughts out of my head and stepped back to create distance. But no matter how hard I tried to focus on her face, my eyes kept drifting down to the smooth skin of her exposed thighs. I cleared my throat loudly and tried to regain my composure. She watched my internal panic with real curiosity. "What were you doing earlier?" she asked. Her voice kept that slow, rhythmic pace. "I noticed you do it every day." I blinked, caught off guard. Then reality hit me again. "What do you mean? You completely ruined my passionate evening, that’s what! Maga is never going to talk to me again!" I complained loudly and gestured wildly toward my laptop on the dining table. Maga was a gorgeous model I had tracked in college but got rejected after so many years I got the chance to pull her down here effortlessly. Tonight was supposed to be the grand finale, and this stranger had destroyed the mood. Overwhelmed by the absurdity of the night, I dragged my hand down my face and sat down right there on the hardwood floor. I rested my elbows on my knees. "What are you doing? You didn't answer any of my questions," I said. My tone shifted from annoyed to deadly serious. "Tell me, who are you exactly, and how did you get in here? There are security guards downstairs and the elevator requires a keycard." Without a word, she raised a slender arm and pointed toward the far end of the room. Her finger aimed directly at the glass doors of my balcony. "I flew in here through the balcony," she said simply. Her expression stayed completely serious. I let out a harsh, dry laugh. "What do you mean you flew in through the balcony? My apartment is on the fifteenth floor! How is it physically possible for a human being to fly up here? Are you some kind of bird or what?" I expected her to flinch, confess to a prank, or admit she was a cat burglar with a grappling hook. Instead, she slowly nodded her head. "What's that nod for?" I scoffed and pushed myself up from the floor. "I'm a bird," she explained. Her voice was soft but steady. "I also have no idea how I transformed into a human. It just... happened tonight."

I burst into loud laughter and clutched my stomach. "I've never heard anything as ridiculous as this in my entire life! A bird? What, did you magically shed your feathers because you saw my beautiful face?" She did not laugh. She did not smile. She stayed silent and watched me with those deep, unreadable eyes. The silence stretched between us, heavy and solemn. It slowly drained the humor from my chest. My laughter died down into a breathless wheeze and then stopped completely. She was trying to mess with my head, I thought. A defensive smirk appeared on my lips. She had to be an actress or a crazy fan who had climbed the fire escape. "You saved me early this morning," she added quietly and took a small step toward me. "When I got drenched in the rain last night. You found me shivering on the ledge. You dried me with a towel and left a bowl of seeds." The smirk vanished from my face at once. My breath caught in my throat. A cold sweat broke out across my neck. It was no longer funny. Earlier that morning, around 6:00 AM, a brutal thunderstorm had hit the city. I had opened my balcony doors to enjoy the scent of the rain and found a strange, unusually little white bird with iridescent silver-tipped feathers collapsed on my outdoor chair. It was soaked and trembling. Feeling a rare moment of pity, I had gently dried it with a microfiber towel, brought it inside for an hour, and then placed it back out with crushed nuts and water when the rain stopped. There was no way this girl could know that. The balcony was completely private, shielded by high frosted-glass partitions. No one could have seen me. "I don't believe in anything, which means I believe everything is possible," I muttered. My voice dropped to a low, intense tone. As an idealist, my mind was trained to accept the impossible and build worlds from myths. But experiencing it in real life was completely different. "I will listen to what you have to say. Then I will be kind enough to send you back to wherever you came from. So, I'm listening. What's your name, and which part of the world did you come from?" As I asked for answers, I noticed her shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. She was tugging at the hem of my t-shirt and pulling it downward. She had suddenly become very aware of her exposed thighs. "Here you go. Put this on," I said. I walked to my clean laundry basket and pulled out a pair of grey cotton drawstring shorts. I tossed them to her. Luckily, she seemed to understand how pants worked. She stepped into them carefully and pulled the drawstring tight around her tiny waist. The shorts were baggy on her, but they covered her properly. "I'm listening," I reminded her. I walked over to the edge of my king-sized bed in the open-concept loft area. I sat down and patted the mattress. "Sit. Talk." She walked over with cautious, delicate steps as if she were walking on fragile twigs instead of solid ground. She sat on the bed beside me and left a respectful distance between us. "I'm not fast when I talk... because I'm still adapting to the new language and tone," she hinted. Her eyes moved around the room as if processing the idea of words themselves. "It doesn't matter. Take your time," I said seriously and turned my body to face her fully. "Firstly, your name. And where did you come from?" "I don't have a name. And I have no idea where I came from," she said in a low, vulnerable tone. Despite the serious situation, a dry chuckle escaped my lips. "You don't have a name, and you have no idea where you came from? Great. Perfect. Where are your parents then? Do you have a flock? A family?" "I don't have parents," she explained. Her voice carried a profound, ancient sadness that pulled at something deep inside my chest. "When I hatched, I was completely alone in the nest. I waited for days... and days... but my family never showed up. I learned to fly on my own. I flew to your balcony one morning a few weeks ago, and I saw you keeping food for the birds. You do it every day." "And that's why you kept coming back," I said. The pieces of the puzzle suddenly fell into place. For the past month, a beautiful, unique white bird had visited my balcony often. I had taken a liking to it and made it a routine to leave fresh water and fruits. She nodded slowly. A small, tentative spark of hope appeared in her eyes. "Poor thing," I muttered under my breath and rubbed the back of my neck. My mind raced at full speed. "I have absolutely no idea what to do with you. I can't take you to an orphanage because you are physically an adult. I can't take you to the police because what would I tell them? 'Officer, this is the bird from my balcony, please issue her an ID card?' They would throw me in a psychiatric ward." "I would have flown anywhere if I was still a bird," she said. Her voice dropped as she looked down at her human hands and flexed her long, slender fingers. "But now... I don't even know what it feels like to be a human. Everything feels so heavy. The air feels different."