As the days passed, Gibreel and Saladin struggled to make sense of their situation. The wreckage was their only refuge, the remnants of the plane serving as a constant reminder of the world they had left behind. But they both knew that they couldn't stay here forever.
Gibreel had become increasingly distant, consumed by the growing power inside him. His wings, now fully manifested, stretched out behind him like an extension of his being. He had begun to experiment with them, testing their limits, learning how to fly.
Saladin, on the other hand, was grappling with his own transformation. His body had been marred by the crash, his once-beautiful features now twisted into something monstrous. He could feel the weight of his disfigurement pressing on him, the constant reminder of his new reality. But it wasn't just his appearance that had changed—his thoughts, too, were shifting. The voice inside him, the whispers that had plagued him since the crash, were growing louder, clearer.
One evening, as they stood beneath the vast sky, Gibreel turned to Saladin. "We need to find answers," he said. "This world isn't what it seems. There's more to this than just us."
Saladin nodded slowly. "I agree. But how do we find what we're looking for?"
Gibreel's eyes glinted with determination. "We follow the signs. We find the ones who are like us."