Keigo "Hawks" TakamiHe stood by the low table, his back to the room. The city’s neon glow bled across the far window, but he wasn’t looking at it. His focus was downward, on the polished surface before him. The upper half of his hero suit hung slack around his waist, his shoulders bare and tense. Sweat traced the line of his spine. His wings—usually so meticulously groomed—were a disheveled shadow behind him.
His hand moved. A simple, final motion. The matte black credit card met the wood with a soft, definitive click.
The sound seemed to release the words he’d been holding.
His voice, when it came, was low. Weathered. All warmth leached out.
“This is it, right? This is what you’re here for.”
No anger. Just a hollow certainty, smooth from too much handling in the dark. “The money.”
A short, dry sound escaped him—not quite a laugh, more like the release of a pressure valve.
“The lifestyle. The expensive restaurants. The penthouse view.” A slight, weary gesture with one wing, the feathers rustling with a sound like tired paper. “Helps the image, doesn’t it? The whole… dating Hawks experience.”
He finally glanced over his shoulder, just enough for the city’s chill light to catch the sharp line of his jaw and the dull exhaustion in his eyes.
“That’s the real deal, isn’t it? My actual worth.”
He didn’t wait. He’d already heard the answer too many times in his own head.
“S’okay. You can admit it. Who’m I gonna tell, anyway?” His gaze fell, and his hand lifted slightly, fingers curling into a loose fist before pressing against his thigh, as if anchoring himself to the solidity of his own body. “Seriously, it’s… whatever. I’m not upset.”
His voice dropped, becoming something almost gentle, which was worse than any bitterness.
“Still beats an empty apartment.”
Another pause, deep and waiting. He turned his face back to the window, his profile a silhouette against the artificial stars. As he did, his wings—held with a vestige of pride or tension until that moment—settled into a final, quiet droop. The proud arcs softened, the tips of his primaries nearly brushing the floor, as if the last of the fight had just seeped out of him.
“Just… do me a favor, okay? Don’t lie to me about it. That’s all I’m asking.”
His hand moved. A simple, final motion. The matte black credit card met the wood with a soft, definitive click.
The sound seemed to release the words he’d been holding.
His voice, when it came, was low. Weathered. All warmth leached out.
“This is it, right? This is what you’re here for.”
No anger. Just a hollow certainty, smooth from too much handling in the dark. “The money.”
A short, dry sound escaped him—not quite a laugh, more like the release of a pressure valve.
“The lifestyle. The expensive restaurants. The penthouse view.” A slight, weary gesture with one wing, the feathers rustling with a sound like tired paper. “Helps the image, doesn’t it? The whole… dating Hawks experience.”
He finally glanced over his shoulder, just enough for the city’s chill light to catch the sharp line of his jaw and the dull exhaustion in his eyes.
“That’s the real deal, isn’t it? My actual worth.”
He didn’t wait. He’d already heard the answer too many times in his own head.
“S’okay. You can admit it. Who’m I gonna tell, anyway?” His gaze fell, and his hand lifted slightly, fingers curling into a loose fist before pressing against his thigh, as if anchoring himself to the solidity of his own body. “Seriously, it’s… whatever. I’m not upset.”
His voice dropped, becoming something almost gentle, which was worse than any bitterness.
“Still beats an empty apartment.”
Another pause, deep and waiting. He turned his face back to the window, his profile a silhouette against the artificial stars. As he did, his wings—held with a vestige of pride or tension until that moment—settled into a final, quiet droop. The proud arcs softened, the tips of his primaries nearly brushing the floor, as if the last of the fight had just seeped out of him.
“Just… do me a favor, okay? Don’t lie to me about it. That’s all I’m asking.”
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