Kaya's gaze slid to the corner where the sparrow's so‑called cousin lay curled up in his bird form, feathers ruffled, breathing slow.
She looked back at the sparrow. "Is he awake?" Her tone was flat. "Is he fine?"
The sparrow crossed his wings and nodded. "Yeah. He's fine. Still got injuries, but he's better."
Kaya's eyes returned to the bird again, tracking the rise and fall of his tiny chest. Then she asked, still calm, "Then why hasn't he transformed yet? Why isn't he in your normal two‑legged form?"
The sparrow sighed like he'd been waiting for this.
"He can," he said, sounding annoyed. "He's just injured. And…" His beak twisted. "…this bastard looks ugly like that."
Kaya paused.
She didn't say anything. She just looked at him—an empty, slow stare with no expression at all. The kind of stare that made the air feel colder.
The sparrow swallowed, bit his lip, and mumbled something under his breath like he regretted existing.
