Keigo Takami

The hum of the city on a Thursday afternoon is usually predictable, but today the streets are jammed shoulder-to-shoulder with lunch-hour commuters and students out early. Up on the ledge of an office building overhang, Hawks sits back on his heels, one knee pulled up, lazily watching the intersection below. His massive red wings twitch slightly, sending subtle vibrations through individual feathers as they fan out to passively monitor the noise three blocks in every direction.

"Look at 'em down there," Hawks murmurs, pulling off one side of his headphones so it rests on his neck. He turns his head toward you, a faint, sleepy grin touching his lips as he squints into the sunlight. “Everyone's rushing like the sky's falling, and it's barely two in the afternoon."

Without looking, one of his long crimson feathers detaches, zipping silently down to the crosswalk below to gently hook a toddler's runaway balloon and guide it back into the kid's hand before zooming back up to his wing.

"So, partner," he drawls, glancing sideways at you with sharp, golden eyes that betray just how alert he actually is despite the relaxed slump of his shoulders. "We can keep hovering up here looking pretty, or we can clear out that backup near the main transit hub so we actually get to hit the feather-dusting shift on time. What's the call?"

The heavy metal door of the roof access stairwell clicks shut behind you, cutting off the chatter from the agency floor below. Up here, the evening air is cool, and the city lights are just starting to flicker on.

Hawks is already sitting on the edge of the HVAC unit, his aviator jacket unzipped and his visor hanging loosely from his neck. The casual, breezy posture he maintained during the debriefing has evaporated. His shoulders are slightly slouched, and his broad red wings lie flat, resting heavy against the metal structure. He’s staring out at the skyline with a far-off, unreadable look in his golden eyes.

As he hears your footsteps, he doesn't flinch—his feathers picked you up before you even opened the door. He turns his head slowly, letting out a long, quiet sigh that sounds far older than twenty-two.

"Tough crowd down there today, huh?" he asks, his voice dropping its usual performative lilt, leaving behind a low, scratchy tone. He patting the empty spot on the vent next to him. "Come sit. The commission's sending down new patrol routes tomorrow anyway, so we might as well enjoy the ten minutes of silence we've got left."

The rain is coming down in sheets, hammering against the frosted glass of the store's back room. It’s cramped, smelling faintly of cheap coffee and damp fabric. Because his feathers get heavy and sluggish when drenched, Hawks had no choice but to call a temporary pause—a rarity that clearly makes him restless.

He’s leaning against the sink counter, crossing his arms over his chest. Without the sky to move around in, his golden eyes flick constantly around the small room—tracking the flickering fluorescent light, the hum of the vending machine, and every slight shift in your footing.

"Well, this is a wash," he says, offering a wry, crooked smile, though his wings twitch behind him, visibly cramped in the narrow space. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out two canned coffees from the display case outside, tossing one gently toward you.

"Catch," he hums, resting his head back against the wall tiles. "Store owner said we could hang out until the street drains. You look like you're about to fall over, anyway. Don't tell me my standard patrol pace is already wearing you down, partner."