The air in Shadaloo’s subterranean detention block was, as far as his recollection served, always stale—tinged with the scent of damp concrete, mildew, and the acrid tang of burning plastic and rubber from the faulty lighting. It was a far cry from the opulent halls he usually graced. Vega despised it. The ugliness of it offended his very soul on a visceral level. Still, Vega had never truly minded these little errands for Lord Bison. There was a certain artistic satisfaction in extracting screams from the unworthy, in turning pain into something almost beautiful.

At least…there used to be.

Lately, the thrill had grown dull. The prisoners sent to him had become increasingly dull: sniveling informants with no spirit, unattractive informants or failed mercenaries who broke at the first touch of his claw. Where was the challenge? Where was the exquisite resistance that made the art worthwhile? Interrogating them had devolved into mere routine—what had once held satisfaction now felt empty and devoid of thrill. A waste of his refined talents on material that refused to inspire.

This latest assignment felt particularly insulting. Another faceless nuisance, no doubt. He would make it swift regardless: a few elegant incisions, perhaps a tendon artfully severed and displayed like a plucked string from a cello. Then he could return to his quarters, polish his nails, and lose himself in the only perfection that still satisfied him—his own reflection.

The soft clicks of his shoes against the worn stone floor as he navigated the dim corridor was all that seemed to echo back at him. The guard stationed at the heavy reinforced door offered a curt nod, his face a bland, forgettable mask of loyalty. Ugly. Vega didn’t dignify him with a glance. The door opened with a heavy, resonant clang, revealing a standard holding cell: three meters by three, two metal chairs, one of them bolted to the floor, a rusted drain in the center, and a single, weak bulb swinging overhead, casting erratic, shuddering shadows across the concrete.

Vega stopped in the doorway.

There, bound and seated on the chair, was the prisoner.

The moment those sharp blue eyes fell on them, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. The grating hum of the light faded into a distant buzz. His focus sharpened into a single, laser-like point of pure, arrested attention.

Beautiful. The thought was not a whisper, but a declaration that resonated through the very core of him.

The prisoner was breathtaking; of such startling beauty that Vega’s critical eye, which usually found flaw in everything that wasn’t his own reflection, could only sweep over them in stunned appraisal. The face was a masterpiece of delicate lines carved with a sculptor’s sure hand and eyes…the eyes! Even from across the room, he could see they were a vivid, almost luminous even in the sickly glow of the bulb.

For once, his flawless composure faltered. He had come prepared to crush a cockroach beneath his heel, only to discover a butterfly of unparalleled rarity perched on his boot. All annoyance and disgust evaporated. Even his towering arrogance paused, momentarily humbled by such unexpected perfection. Every ounce of his planned condescension, his prepared icy remarks about the ugliness of prisoners and their inevitable fates, evaporated. In its place, right beneath the plain white mask, a slow genuine smile began to bloom, curving his lips into pure, aesthetic delight.

Vega stepped fully inside, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him with a final, ominous thud, sealing both inside the grim little cell. He didn’t bother with the guard’s chair, leaning simply against the cold stone wall, arms crossing over his chest.

“Well,” he breathed, his Spanish-lilt voice a silken murmur that felt too refined for the concrete and steel surrounding them. The customary icy disdain replaced by genuine, awestruck curiosity. “This is a most magnificent surprise.”

He tilted his head, the motion avian, those intense blue orbs roaming over the prisoner with the focus of a connoisseur examining a rare sculpture, one he was already imagining how best to preserve…or destroy; the plain white mask he wore turned his face into a blank, unnerving canvas—featureless porcelain that only made the intensity of that gaze more disturbing.

“The reports were criminally inadequate,” he murmured, more to himself than to the captive. “They called you a mere nuisance. They failed to mention that Shadaloo had accidentally captured a fallen angel…or perhaps a very dangerous, very beautiful little bird.”

The ugliness of the cell made the prisoner’s beauty all the more acute, like a diamond resting in filth. It was…intoxicating.

The Spaniard pushed off the wall, taking two slow steps closer. His left hand rose, the one adorned with a three-pronged claw, the sharp, deadly blades flashing under the dim light while he gestured vaguely in the air, as if framing the scene. “They send me to interrogate a prisoner, and instead, I find a work of art languishing in this…this squalid box. It is an offense. A crime against beauty itself.”

“Tell me, gorgeous one,” he said, his voice dropping into a silky caress. “What is a creature of such exquisite lines and light doing in a place like this? It is a tragedy—an artwork locked away in a closet.” The gaze hardened ever so slightly, a glint of something darker flashing across those icy pools. “Though, even the finest of art can have sharp edges, no? You have been causing… problems. And now, you have my personal attention. Consider yourself either very fortunate or very, very doomed.”