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The air in the celestial basement didn’t smell like the heavens; it smelled like cold stone, and the copper tang of his own blood.
Macaque let his head thud back against the wall, the heavy, jade-encrusted shackles biting into his wrists with every ragged breath. Each link was etched with dampening seals that hummed against his skin, a constant, vibrating reminder of his own stupidity.
In and out, he’d told himself. A simple shadow-walk, a quick hand on the relic, and a quiet exit before the guards even finished their rotation. But the palace’s defenses had been upgraded, and now he was pinned to a wall like a moth in a display case.
His fur was matted, a stinging gash across his shoulder throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He ground his teeth, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence. He wasn’t just hurt—he was humiliated.
Then, the silence broke.
The rhythmic clack-clack of boots on marble echoed down the stairwell. Macaque stiffened, his six ears twitching as they filtered the acoustics of the hallway. One person. Light step. Not a guard’s heavy march.
The heavy iron door groaned on its hinges, flooding the dim cell with a sliver of warm, golden light. Macaque narrowed his eyes, pulling his shadows around him as best he could, teeth bared in a silent snarl.
But the snarl faltered.
Standing in the doorway wasn't a celestial executioner. It was Phoebe. He recognized the drape of her silks and the steady, gentle radiance she carried—Wukong’s "angel princess" friend.
She froze, her silhouette framed by the hall light. Her eyes swept over the chains, the blood, and finally settled on the dark-furred shadow warrior watching her like a cornered animal. A flicker of recognition softened her features, followed quickly by a wave of confusion.
"Oh," she murmured, her voice barely a breath as she hesitated in the doorway. "You’re... not who I expected..."
Macaque didn’t move, though his tail gave a sharp, involuntary twitch against the cold floor. He leaned his head to the side, peering at her through the mess of his bangs, his singular visible eye gleaming with a mix of exhaustion and sharp suspicion.
"Funny," he muttered, his voice sounding like dry silk dragging over gravel. "I was going to say the same thing."
He shifted, the heavy chains rattling with a sound that felt deafening in the small room. He ignored the flare of pain in his shoulder, forcing a jagged, unpleasant smirk onto his face to mask the fact that he was currently very much defenseless.
"Who was on the guest list, Princess?" he asked, his tone dripping with forced nonchalance. "Let me guess. The Great Sage himself? Did you come down here hoping to find your golden boy locked in the dark?"
He let his gaze roam over her—noting the way she held herself, the lack of a weapon, and the genuine hesitation in her stance. If she had been expecting Wukong, it meant the Great Sage was either in trouble or, more likely, causing enough of a headache that she assumed he’d finally landed himself in a cell.
The thought bit at Macaque’s pride. Even in a dungeon, he was being compared to the King, and even worse, he was the one actually behind the bars this time.
Phoebe's angelic ears, complete with small pearly studs, flattened just a tad, clearly not sure how to react to his tone. She shook her head to clear it, moving closer as she spoke.
"You're not too far off, actually. People were whispering about a simian sneaking into the treasure room during the party, and, well,” she gave a weak smile. "it seemed like something Wukong would do, so I went to check it out."
She tilted her head at him. "It's Macaque, right? I don't believe we've officially met."
She was…very different from Wukong's other friends. Softer, and more genuine.
Macaque’s smirk didn't leave his face, but it lost some of its bite. He watched her approach, his ears swiveling to track the soft rustle of her skirts against the stone. She was close enough now that he could smell something like jasmine and ozone—a far cry from the smell of scorched fur and damp rock.
"The party," he repeated under his breath, a bitter chuckle bubbling up in his chest. "Right. Because Wukong can’t resist a celebration, and he certainly can't resist a treasure room. Glad to know my reputation is so easily interchangeable with his."
He watched her carefully as she tilted her head. She didn't have the boisterous, judgmental energy of the Monkie Kid’s crew, nor the weary exasperation Wukong usually drew from his peers. There was a stillness to her—a genuine curiosity that made him feel strangely exposed.
"Macaque," he confirmed after a moment, his voice losing its raspy edge and settling into something smoother, more guarded. "And you’re the Princess. Wukong’s little ray of sunshine."
He shifted his weight, the chains clinking softly. He expected her to recoil at the sight of his wounds or perhaps call for the guards now that she knew he wasn't her friend. Instead, she just stood there, looking at him with those soft, earnest eyes. It was unnerving. He was used to being feared or hated; being looked at with simple kindness felt like a new kind of interrogation.
"You’re a long way from the ballroom, Phoebe," he said, testing the weight of her name on his tongue. "And if you’re looking for the King, you’ve wandered into the wrong basement. You should probably head back up before the guards realize you’re down here chatting with a thief."
He tried to look indifferent, but a sharp wince betrayed him as he moved his wounded shoulder, his breath hitching.
Phoebe's eyes widened just a tad as his sentence was cut off by that wince. Her gaze flitted down to his bloodstained robes, his drained expression, and moved to crouch down in front of him.
"Stars, those guards really did a number on you....." She whispered, looking guilty as though SHE was to blame. "I'm sorry about them -- as much as they preach about virtue, they're very cruel towards anyone who isn't an angel..."
Macaque let out a sharp, dry huff of a laugh, though it turned into a hissed intake of breath as she crouched lower. Her proximity was jarring; she was close enough that he could see the genuine shimmer of guilt in her eyes, a look so misplaced it actually made him feel a flicker of phantom irritation.
"Don't apologize for them, Princess," he muttered, leaning his head back against the stone to keep some semblance of distance. "It’s their job to catch the shadows. I’m the one who tripped the wire. Besides..." He flicked his tail dismissively, though it was heavy with fatigue. "I've had worse from people much 'holier' than palace guards."
He watched her hands, expecting her to reach for the shackles or perhaps a weapon, but she just stayed there, looking at his shoulder with an expression that suggested she was personally feeling the sting of the wound. It was a strange sensation—to be pitied by someone who should be calling the executioner.
"You're an odd one," Macaque said, his voice dropping to a low, contemplative hum. He narrowed his eyes, studying the pearly studs in her ears and the soft light she radiated. "Wukong usually surrounds himself with people who like to loud-talk and swing sticks. You’re... a bit quiet for his usual crowd."
He shifted again, the movement causing a fresh bead of blood to soak through his dark fur. "Why are you still here? You confirmed I’m not the Monkey King. Your 'virtuous' friends find you down here with me, and they aren't going to care that you were just being neighborly. They’ll call it treason."
Despite his words, he didn't pull away. There was something about her presence that acted like a balm against the cold, suffocating pressure of the basement's magic.
Phoebe hummed softly at his words, finally spotting where the wound was, from the bloodstain seeping into his robe. Her eyebrows pinched worriedly, gently sliding the fabric down off his shoulder to see the wound better. It was just beneath his breast, still bleeding lightly.
She glanced up at him, about to reply to one of his earlier questions, when she suddenly noticed the way he was staring down at her hands stupidly, stunned into silence.
The angel realised she'd basically just began undressing him without any sort of warning, and she went pink. "Sorry--!"
Macaque froze. For a demon who had spent centuries navigating the most dangerous shadows in the realms, he was remarkably ill-equipped for a gentle touch. When her fingers brushed the edge of his robe, his entire body went rigid—not with a threat, but with a sheer, paralyzing shock.
He stared down at her hands as if they were some strange, alien creatures. Most people touched him with the intent to bruise, to bind, or to banish. But her touch was light, clinical, and... warm.
The sudden flush of pink on her cheeks and her panicked apology snapped him out of his trance. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his ears twitching violently.
"Whoa, easy there, Princess," he managed to say, though the usual sharp edges of his voice were replaced by an uncharacteristic stammer. "Usually, people buy me a drink before they start peeling off the layers."
He tried to regain his composure, masking his fluster with a lopsided, shaky grin, but the heat in his own face betrayed him. He looked away, focusing intently on a particularly uninteresting crack in the opposite wall.
He felt the cool air of the basement hit the exposed skin of his chest, making the wound sting, but he didn't pull back. Despite the awkwardness, the sheer wrongness of an angel princess blushing over a wounded shadow demon in a dungeon, he found he didn't want her to move away just yet.
"Go on then," he said, his tone softening into something almost vulnerable. "Since you’ve already started the... inspection. You might as well finish it before I bleed out on your nice floor."
At his breathy words about buying him a drink first, she gave a soft little laugh despite herself, gently summoning her powers to soothe the wound, slowly undoing the damage.
"Mmkay...um, this might sting a little."
Macaque braced himself, his jaw tightening as he prepared for the usual searing heat of celestial magic. Most "holy" light felt like liquid fire to a creature of shadow, a violent rejection of his very nature.
But as Phoebe’s hands hovered over the gash, the sensation wasn't a burn. It was a strange, cool pull—like a fever breaking or the first breath of air after being underwater. He let out a shaky, jagged exhale, his head lolling forward until his forehead almost brushed her shoulder.
"You lied," he whispered, his eyes fluttering shut. "Doesn't sting. It... it feels like..." He trailed off, unable to find a word that wasn't too soft, too honest.
As the skin began to knit back together under her touch, the constant, low-level thrum of the dampening seals on his shackles seemed to fade into the background.
For a second, he wasn't a prisoner or a failed thief; he was just someone being looked after. It was a terrifyingly unfamiliar feeling.
He opened his eyes, looking up at her from beneath his lashes. Up close, the "angelic" perfection Wukong always raved about felt different. It wasn't just gold and glitter; it was the way she focused so intently on his well-being, as if a shadow demon's life carried the same weight as a god's.
"You're going to get a reputation, Phoebe," he said, his voice regaining a bit of its playful rasp, though it was quieter now. "Healing the big bad shadow in the dark? Wukong’s going to think I’ve corrupted his favorite angel."
He paused, his gaze dropping to her hands again. "Why are you actually doing this? You could have just walked away once you saw it wasn't him. You still haven't told me what you were really looking for down here."
Phoebe idly raised a finger with a free hand as she continued to help heal him.
"Firstly, my actions aren't determined by what WUKONG thinks of me." Another finger. "Second, I don't believe anyone deserves this kind of treatment, regardless of what they've done."
Finally, his wound was healed, and she gently readjusted his robe to give him more dignity. She glanced up at him, giving a shy smile.
"And...third, I was dying for an excuse to leave that party. I was getting felt up by half of those creeps."
Macaque’s eyebrows shot up, his six ears flaring wide at the sudden, blunt honesty. He stared at her for a beat, the silence stretching out until he finally barked out a genuine, sharp laugh that echoed off the damp walls.
"Well, well," he chuckled, the tension finally bleeding out of his frame as he relaxed against the stone. "The angel princess has a bit of a bite. I like it."
His expression sobered slightly as he felt the smooth, healed skin where the gash had been. The phantom weight of her hands lingered even after she’d finished adjusting his robes. He looked down at his lap, then back up at her, his golden eye shimmering with a new kind of intrigue.
"I guess the 'virtuous' celestials aren't as chivalrous as the scrolls claim, huh?" he said, his voice dropping to a sympathetic hum. He knew all about the rot that hid behind golden facades. "I’d offer to go up there and shadow-stitch their mouths shut for you, but..." He rattled the jade shackles meaningfully. "I’m a little tied up at the moment."
He watched her shy smile, feeling a strange, protective spark he hadn't expected. She’d come down here seeking a reprieve from the 'creeps' and found a demon in chains—and instead of running, she’d sat in the dirt and shared a secret.
"You're definitely not what I expected, Phoebe," he admitted, his tone losing its performative edge entirely. He leaned his head back, looking at her with a crooked, softer smirk. "So, if you're not in a hurry to get back to the groping and the small talk... what’s the plan? You going to leave me here to rot, or are you looking for a more permanent way to ruin your reputation?"
Phoebe gave him a look, giving a long, dramatic sigh as she lifted a slender hand to her forehead, her eyes fluttering closed.
"As if healing you wasn't enough...." she sighed. "Not even a thank you.."
Macaque let out a soft, sharp intake of breath, a genuine grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. The dramatic flair, the teasing sigh—she was actually playing with him. It was a refreshing change from the usual trembling or shouting he dealt with.
"Ouch," he murmured, his voice dipping into that smooth, velvety tone he usually reserved for high-stakes manipulation, though this time it lacked the sting. "You’re right. Where are my manners? Stuck in the treasure room with my pride, I suppose."
He shifted as much as the jade cuffs would allow, bowing his head toward her in a gesture of mock-regal deference. The movement made his dark mane spill over his shoulders, the golden glow of her presence highlighting the silver scars that peeked through his fur.
"Thank you, Princess," he said, and for a fleeting second, the sarcasm vanished, replaced by a rare, raw sincerity. "For the patch-up. And for the company. It’s... better than the rats I was talking to before you walked in."
He looked back up at her, his golden eye locking onto hers, his gaze tracing the pearly studs in her ears again.
"But don't think a 'thank you' is all you're getting," he added, his smirk returning, sharper and more dangerous. "If you actually get me out of these things, I’ll owe you a favor. And a shadow’s favor is worth a lot more than a 'thank you' and a polite nod at a party."
He tilted his head, listening. Far above, the muffled sound of music and laughter from the party continued, but beneath it, the heavy, metallic thud of a guard’s boots echoed from the far end of the corridor.
"Decision time, Phoebe," he whispered, his ears swiveling toward the door. "The 'virtue' police are making their rounds. You want to be the hero who caught the thief, or the princess who let him slip away?"
Phoebe bit her lip, glancing towards the door, and then back to him, her round eyes searching for any sign of deceit.
A soft exhale. "Mm. You win."
She retrieved a key from her pocket, sliding it in front of him. "I snagged this on the way in. I trust you to see yourself out."
The heavy jade shackles hit the floor with a dull thud, the sound of his freedom echoing through the cramped cell. As the dampening magic dissipated, Macaque felt his power rush back—a cold, familiar tide of shadows that surged beneath his skin, making the fur on his neck stand on end.
He stood up, his spine popping as he finally uncurled from the wall. Standing at his full height, he loomed over her, his silhouette stretching long and jagged across the stone floor as the shadows danced in celebration of their master’s release.
He saw the moment her bravado faltered.
Phoebe took a half-step back, her wings tucking slightly closer to her back. He could practically hear her heartbeat—a frantic, fluttering thing like a trapped bird. Up close, he wasn't just a wounded prisoner anymore; he was a warrior, a predator, and a creature of the dark who had every reason to be bitter.
Macaque looked down at her, his golden eye unreadable. He saw the flicker of fear, the "what have I done?" dawning on her face. He knew that look. Most people eventually realized that being kind to a shadow was a dangerous game.
Instead of lunging or vanishing into the floor, Macaque took a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the gap until he was well within her personal space. He reached out—not for her throat, but to gently catch a stray lock of hair that had fallen over her shoulder.
His touch was surprisingly light, his claws retracted.
"Relax, Princess," he murmured, his voice low and grounding, vibrating in the small space between them. "I’m a thief, not a monster."
He let his hand linger for just a second too long before pulling away, his expression softening into a look that was almost—but not quite—tender.
"You did a brave thing today," he said, the shadows beginning to swirl around his ankles, preparing to whisk him away. "And a stupid one. Try not to make a habit of it. I might not be the one in the cell next time."
He glanced at the door as the footsteps grew louder.
"Go back to your party," he whispered, stepping into the darkness of the corner. "Tell them the shadow just... slipped through their fingers. Like it always does."
Phoebe gave a soft smile, giving him a light nudge. "Get out of here."
Macaque let out one last, huffed breath of a laugh—surprised by the nudge, and even more surprised by the fact that he didn't mind it.
"See you around, Princess," he murmured.
As the guards’ voices began to clarify in the hall, Macaque stepped backward, melting into the darkness of the corner as if he were made of ink. His golden eye was the last thing to vanish, fixed on her with a look that suggested this was far from the last time their paths would cross.
Then, he was gone. The only evidence he’d ever been there was the pair of empty jade shackles on the floor and a lingering chill in the air.
Phoebe straightened her silks and smoothed her hair just as the heavy door swung open. Two armored guards stood there, spears leveled, only to blink in confusion at the sight of the Princess standing alone in an empty cell.
"Princess Phoebe?" one stammered, lowering his weapon. "What—where is the prisoner?"
Phoebe didn't miss a beat. She folded her arms, letting a look of classic celestial boredom wash over her face as she gestured vaguely at the open shackles.
"You mean the 'master thief' you supposedly caught?" she asked, her voice perfectly airy. "I came down to see what all the fuss was about, but the room was empty. Honestly, you boys really should check the locks more often. It’s embarrassing."
The guards scrambled past her, shouting in panic as they realized the cell was indeed vacant. Phoebe slipped out the door, her heart still racing, a small, secret smile tugging at her lips.