Day one.
John Markus sat frozen in his chair, spoon in hand, but didn't bother lifting it to his mouth. His eyes were fixed on the corner under the bed, where Little Fire's ragged-cloth nest lay silent.
The little chicken that used to bounce around the room now curled into a tight ball. The flame on its head flickered weakly, like an old bulb about to burn out. Its breaths were faint, its spirit gone.
He tapped the spoon against the bowl, the dry clink echoing in the quiet room. "If you don't eat, how can you train?" John Markus's voice trembled.
No response. Just that small back burrowed deeper into the nest.
Day two.
John Markus tried putting out more food: toasted rice, a piece of cake, even a chunk of fried chicken it once used to peck at like crazy. But everything was left untouched, cooling on the floor.
He sighed, leaning against the wall. In his head, he could still hear the chirping from before, the room once alive with wingbeats, training, squabbles over food. Now, only the ceiling fan's creak and the heavy, broken rhythm of its breathing remained.
Day three.
The flame on Little Fire's head dimmed almost completely. Its body trembled from hunger, yet it still refused to touch the food. Watching it, John Markus felt knives slicing through his chest.
He sat close by the nest, his voice hoarse. "It wasn't your fault… it was mine."
Little Fire stirred faintly, but didn't lift its head.
John Markus clenched his fists. Regret gnawed deeper and deeper. A passing thought, a careless remark, had become an unhealable wound in its heart.
…
Time crawled. Three days turned into seven, then two weeks.
In that long silence, John Markus began to notice small changes. The flame on its head no longer trembled in despair but slowly steadied, brighter day by day. The old feathers, sparse and ragged, fell off each night, exposing smooth skin beneath.
By the tenth day, he saw fresh red down sprouting. Just a few strands at first, then more, spreading across its body with each passing day.
By the twelfth, the flame atop its head glowed steady red-gold, no longer sputtering on and off. Whenever Little Fire shifted in its nest, the fire cast a gentle glow on the walls, like a nightlight keeping watch.
John Markus observed quietly, torn between worry and hope.
…
On the morning of the fifteenth day, he nearly dropped his cup of water.
Little Fire stepped out of the nest.
Its whole body was draped in a new coat of feathers, blazing red like fire, their sheen lighting up the entire room. The glossy plumage shimmered gold-orange where the light touched.
Its eyes had lost that soft, round innocence they once carried. Now they were sharp, focused, the irises burning a deep red as if lit from within, the black rims around them pulling you into their depth. And around those fiery eyes, long, curved lashes had grown, delicate yet striking, framing its gaze in a way that gave off an aura far beyond an ordinary bird's. The combination was startling fierce, regal, and dignified, as if a trace of ancient bloodline nobility had finally surfaced.
The flame crowning its head was no longer weak but steady, bright red and gold, blazing strong, the eternal emblem of Phoenix blood.
John Markus stood frozen.
"You… you really molted." His voice rasped, filled with awe and relief.
Little Fire blinked, then bolted straight for the mirror.
John Markus didn't stop it, only watched.
It stood tall before the glass, chest puffed, wings spread wide. The flap of its feathers echoed sharp, its head-flame flickering in the reflection, turning the small room into a radiant hall.
"Chirp!"
For the first time in days, its clear cry rang out. Through their link, John Markus felt its joy, pride, and… overflowing vanity.
It turned sideways, slowly running its gaze over the new feathers gleaming along its wing, then twisted back the other way, craning its neck to check from another angle. It tilted its head up, then down, then stretched one leg like it was trying to strike a dramatic pose. Every few seconds it gave a strong flap, just to watch the firelight ripple across its reflection, and then hopped in a small circle, testing how the feathers shifted with the movement. Finally, it froze, chest puffed high, wings spread in a wide arc, chin lifted with such flair it looked less like a bird and more like a performer basking under the spotlight of a grand stage.
"Chirp chirp!" The rapid calls brimmed with delight.
John Markus laughed, this time freely. "You're staring at yourself even more than I do."
Little Fire spun toward him, eyes sparkling, sending the thought across the bond: See? I look good, right?
He chuckled softly, nodding. "Yeah. Beautiful… so beautiful it's hard to believe."
It chirped in pure satisfaction, twirled again, even raised a claw to fuss with the feathers on its chest. The confidence radiating off it was almost over the top.
John Markus crossed his arms, leaning against the wall, smiling helplessly at the sight. But inside, a heavy weight had finally lifted. Its wounded heart had healed, replaced by liveliness, maybe even a touch of vanity.
The room filled with wingbeats, cheerful cries, and firelight dancing bright across the walls. The gloom of the past days was gone without a trace.
John Markus let out a long breath, murmuring, "At last… you're back."