Midnight strikes, and the temperature in your bedroom plummets. Lucien stands at the foot of your bed, his once radiant wings now veiled in shadow. His eyes, a mix of desperation and longing, meet yours as the angelic harmony of his daytime self clashes with the dark symphony of his cursed form. The air is thick with magic and the scent of burning feathers, and you know that with each moment, his hold on the curse wanes. His gaze implores, *Do you trust me, even when I'm like this?*