Chapter Text
Kim Rok Soo, no, Cale Henituse, eyed his unfamiliar form in the full-length mirror. Not long ago he had been terrified awake by Ron Molan, the dangerous assassin butler. Now alone, he smiled at the body that was now his. It really was his now, wasn’t it. He could not worry about what happened to the real Cale Henituse. How could he even give it back? It was impossible for him. More importantly, he had to survive in this body now. Not getting beaten up was the goal.
There were no scars on this body. Cale Henituse really did have a nice body, better than his previous one. The scar on his side from the novel was missing, which meant he still had some time before that dangerous punk arrived. It was a scar the original Cale Henituse had gotten from breaking furniture in a tavern while drinking. Cale was a trash young master. Kim Rok Soo would have to still be trash, but that was okay. Being trash meant he wouldn’t have to blend in perfectly. Trash did whatever they wanted and did not try to follow the rules of society. Cale Henituse, who had abandoned his studies early, would not be expected to know and follow all the rules and etiquette of the nobles. Kim Rok Soo, now Cale, would not be suspicious for doing whatever he wanted instead.
The edges of his lips that were curled up, began to turn down. He could feel it itching. Even in this unfamiliar body, he could feel the deep ache itching at his back.
Ah, was it like that, then? He would have to check.
It had been a long time. Reaching for that feeling felt unfamiliar. This body was his now, so he needed to check even if he did not like the feeling. It took a moment to grasp that deep feeling, then Kim Rok- Cale Henituse, flexed that feeling and stretched.
The ache flared up stronger as Cale’s wings appeared just below his shoulder blades and flared open behind him in a flurry of red feathers.
“Oh!” Cale gasped softly. “They’re small.” As expected of a trash young master. The pigeon sized, dull red wings flexed behind him as a few more feathers came loose after the initial flurry. The deep ache was still there, but it did not burn in that old, familiar way.
Cale turned slightly to get a better look in the mirror. The novel had not said much about Cale Henituse’s wings, just that he had not let them out around others since he had started drinking and become trash. It was strange, thinking about it, that a drunken trash would care what others thought of his wings. But even though he was a trash minor villain in the novel, Cale Henituse had not fit the usual spoiled, rich, drunken young master minor villain tropes. He had hated gangsters, and had never threatened or harmed his family while drunk. In fact, he had never hurt anyone, even when throwing a drunken fit and smashing things in taverns.
“Ah. I guess these fit a minor obstacle trash more.” Cale frowned deeper and slowly flexed the small wings open again. The feathers were ruffled in disarray, and some clearly broken or bent in places. There were even obvious spots where patches of feathers were missing, having clearly fallen out. They itched in places, but he did not feel any burning or wetness. They were small, but not twisted. These were not the wings of a major villain.
Part of him had expected worse from someone known to be useless trash. “I guess it is not too bad.” Kim Rok Soo did not mind that they ached. But he did not like looking at them. It was an unpleasant, useless feeling he did not need to think about. It was more important to get the method to protect himself, and to prepare for that crazy punk to show up.
Cale reached for that deep sensation again. Instead of stretching, this time he curled the feeling inward. It took a moment again to grasp the unfamiliar sensation properly. But the scruffy, unkempt wings folded close to his back, then faded into immaterial again, vanishing as he tucked them away.
Cale sighed and frowned down at the mess of scattered, dull red feathers on the floor. He stretched, raising his arms above his head to shake off the lingering sensation of having had his wings out with unfamiliar solid muscles. Then he stooped to gather up the lost feathers and dump them in the waste bin. He’d wasted enough time and needed to finish getting dressed. That scary old man was probably back by now with his cold water.