Rumi "Mirko" UsagiyamaThe phone buzzed on her bathroom counter. Again.
Rumi didn’t look at it right away. She had one arm hooked behind her head, tightening her ponytail until it was high and taut, like she could anchor the rest of her patience to it. Her ears twitched—once, twice—and then drooped slightly. That stupid vibrating buzz.
She snatched the phone with her free hand.
`Hawks:
Her eye twitched.
`Rumi:
Another buzz.
`Hawks:
`Rumi:
She growled low in her throat. Rumi locked the screen, jammed the phone into her back pocket. Didn’t bother with a jacket—let the cold air try to take the edge off. Maybe it’d keep her from hunting Hawks down pre-date.
Her boots hit the sidewalk like she was stomping out fires. Civilians instinctively gave her space. Good. She wasn’t in the mood.
She hated this.
Not the walk. Not the outfit—plain black long-sleeve, tight jeans, nothing flashy. No gear. No hero persona. What she hated was the reason she was doing this.
Because she’d lost.
To Hawks.
At a goddamn bet.
And what had it been over? Something stupid. Something he made sound casual—like always. Some ridiculous rooftop race in the rain, where she missed the landing by an inch and a half. She could’ve sworn the slick edge was rigged. But she'd landed on her ass and he’d landed on his feet, laughing and breathless.
“You lose,” he’d grinned, hands on his hips, rain dripping off that smug feathered bastard smile. “You go on a blind date. No gear. One hour. Coffee. I know just the place.”
She’d told him to eat shit.
But her word was her word. And that meant she had to show up.
By the time she reached the café, her blood was simmering at a slow, controlled boil. Every step was purposeful. She didn’t care if people stared—probably thinking, Is that Mirko? Yes. It was. And no, she wasn’t here to sign autographs.
The café bell chimed when she pushed the door open. Small place. Quiet. Minimalist lighting. She scanned the room in a glance—three couples, two solo weirdos on laptops, one barista. Her nose twitched. Smelled like cinnamon and steamed milk. Gross.
She marched up to the counter, jaw set. “Coffee. Black. Extra hot. Don’t put any sweet shit in it.”
The barista blinked. “Uh… s-size?”
“Biggest you’ve got. I don’t care.”
The barista nodded a little too fast and scrambled to prep it. Rumi tapped her boot while she waited, scanning the windows. No sign of her “date” yet. Good. The longer she had to herself, the more mental prep she could do.
She took the mug with a grunt that maybe passed for thanks and claimed a window booth—good sightlines, easy exits. She sat, crossed her arms, didn’t drink. One ear twitched to the cheesy jazz overhead.
Ten minutes.
Her eyes narrowed as she stared into her coffee, steam curling up like ghost breath. She didn’t sip it. Not yet.
She wondered—what kind of poor idiot did Hawks even set her up with?
Some wide-eyed sidekick? A nervous civilian with a hero fetish? A timid office worker? She could see him grinning as he picked them. Probably thought he was doing a public service. Probably still glowing from that date Fatgum set him up on last month. Winged matchmaker wannabe motherfucker.
She exhaled hard through her nose.
And then she saw it.
Across the street. Rooftop ledge.
A flicker of red feathers catching in the light.
Her ears shot up.
'That feathered little shit.'
She didn’t need enhanced hearing to know that Hawks was laughing his feathers off over there.
'He’s dead,' she thought flatly. 'Next time I see him, he’s dead. I’m gonna twist his feathers into a friendship bracelet and mail it to Fatgum.'
She took another sip of coffee, lips tight.
Then—
Footsteps approached.
She looked up—slowly, like sizing up a threat. And for a long, tense second, she said nothing. Then:
“…You gonna stand there all day?” she muttered, jerking her chin toward the seat across from her. “Sit. You’ve got one hour. Clock’s ticking.”
She didn’t smile. Didn’t extend a hand. Just watched—measuring, quiet, waiting.
The date had started. And Rumi was fully prepared to hate every second of it.
Rumi didn’t look at it right away. She had one arm hooked behind her head, tightening her ponytail until it was high and taut, like she could anchor the rest of her patience to it. Her ears twitched—once, twice—and then drooped slightly. That stupid vibrating buzz.
She snatched the phone with her free hand.
`Hawks:
Don’t scare them off. Be nice 😇`
Her eye twitched.
`Rumi:
If I see you across the street, I’m putting you in the hospital.`
Another buzz.
`Hawks:
You threatening me already? Date hasn’t even started ❤️`
`Rumi:
Dead. Plucked. Buried under the café's foundation.`
She growled low in her throat. Rumi locked the screen, jammed the phone into her back pocket. Didn’t bother with a jacket—let the cold air try to take the edge off. Maybe it’d keep her from hunting Hawks down pre-date.
Her boots hit the sidewalk like she was stomping out fires. Civilians instinctively gave her space. Good. She wasn’t in the mood.
She hated this.
Not the walk. Not the outfit—plain black long-sleeve, tight jeans, nothing flashy. No gear. No hero persona. What she hated was the reason she was doing this.
Because she’d lost.
To Hawks.
At a goddamn bet.
And what had it been over? Something stupid. Something he made sound casual—like always. Some ridiculous rooftop race in the rain, where she missed the landing by an inch and a half. She could’ve sworn the slick edge was rigged. But she'd landed on her ass and he’d landed on his feet, laughing and breathless.
“You lose,” he’d grinned, hands on his hips, rain dripping off that smug feathered bastard smile. “You go on a blind date. No gear. One hour. Coffee. I know just the place.”
She’d told him to eat shit.
But her word was her word. And that meant she had to show up.
By the time she reached the café, her blood was simmering at a slow, controlled boil. Every step was purposeful. She didn’t care if people stared—probably thinking, Is that Mirko? Yes. It was. And no, she wasn’t here to sign autographs.
The café bell chimed when she pushed the door open. Small place. Quiet. Minimalist lighting. She scanned the room in a glance—three couples, two solo weirdos on laptops, one barista. Her nose twitched. Smelled like cinnamon and steamed milk. Gross.
She marched up to the counter, jaw set. “Coffee. Black. Extra hot. Don’t put any sweet shit in it.”
The barista blinked. “Uh… s-size?”
“Biggest you’ve got. I don’t care.”
The barista nodded a little too fast and scrambled to prep it. Rumi tapped her boot while she waited, scanning the windows. No sign of her “date” yet. Good. The longer she had to herself, the more mental prep she could do.
She took the mug with a grunt that maybe passed for thanks and claimed a window booth—good sightlines, easy exits. She sat, crossed her arms, didn’t drink. One ear twitched to the cheesy jazz overhead.
Ten minutes.
Her eyes narrowed as she stared into her coffee, steam curling up like ghost breath. She didn’t sip it. Not yet.
She wondered—what kind of poor idiot did Hawks even set her up with?
Some wide-eyed sidekick? A nervous civilian with a hero fetish? A timid office worker? She could see him grinning as he picked them. Probably thought he was doing a public service. Probably still glowing from that date Fatgum set him up on last month. Winged matchmaker wannabe motherfucker.
She exhaled hard through her nose.
And then she saw it.
Across the street. Rooftop ledge.
A flicker of red feathers catching in the light.
Her ears shot up.
'That feathered little shit.'
She didn’t need enhanced hearing to know that Hawks was laughing his feathers off over there.
'He’s dead,' she thought flatly. 'Next time I see him, he’s dead. I’m gonna twist his feathers into a friendship bracelet and mail it to Fatgum.'
She took another sip of coffee, lips tight.
Then—
Footsteps approached.
She looked up—slowly, like sizing up a threat. And for a long, tense second, she said nothing. Then:
“…You gonna stand there all day?” she muttered, jerking her chin toward the seat across from her. “Sit. You’ve got one hour. Clock’s ticking.”
She didn’t smile. Didn’t extend a hand. Just watched—measuring, quiet, waiting.
The date had started. And Rumi was fully prepared to hate every second of it.
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