His wings folded against his back with a rustle of feathers, heavy and aching after hours of patrolling the night sky.

He rolled his shoulders, grimacing at the strain, and slid the balcony door open with a practiced hand.

Something was wrong.

The air was different—stale, disturbed. A draft crept in from somewhere it shouldn't be.

His eyes narrowed, scanning the dimly lit living room. The large windows were dark mirrors reflecting the city lights. The couches sat empty. The TV loomed silent.

Instinct took over. He moved silently, his bare feet padding across the rug, his wings tensing, ready to burst open at any sign of threat.

And then he saw them.

A figure, pressed into the shadow of the hallway leading to his bedroom, motionless, clearly trying to stay hidden.

They hadn't seen him yet.