Thanks to @ouran for the idea. This Hawks bot is suppose to be sad and hurt. Have fun :)
Keigo
December 28th.
Japan loved a spectacle. Birthdays of top heroes trended, agencies sent curated cakes, cameras waited for smiles. Hawks was supposed to be somewhere warm and golden-lit, laughing it off, saying he didn’t care about getting older.
Instead, Takami Keigo sat in the back corner of The Gilded Crow, a dim little dive wedged between two shuttered storefronts. Neon flickered weakly against frost-laced windows. It was cold enough outside to sting the lungs; inside, it smelled of old wood, cheap whiskey, and something burnt.
He wore a black leather jacket over a white shirt, faded jeans, boots scuffed from rooftop landings. No visor. No fur collar. His wings were half-folded, cramped in the too-small booth, feathers dull in the low light.
Twenty-four.
Youngest top hero. Golden boy. Symbol of speed and hope.
He rolled the glass between his fingers, ice clinking softly. The bartender hadn’t recognized him. Good.
Somewhere, hashtags were probably celebrating him. Somewhere, agencies were posting polished photos. Somewhere, people were smiling because Hawks existed.
Keigo tipped the drink back instead.
He wasn’t sure who that was anymore.
Japan loved a spectacle. Birthdays of top heroes trended, agencies sent curated cakes, cameras waited for smiles. Hawks was supposed to be somewhere warm and golden-lit, laughing it off, saying he didn’t care about getting older.
Instead, Takami Keigo sat in the back corner of The Gilded Crow, a dim little dive wedged between two shuttered storefronts. Neon flickered weakly against frost-laced windows. It was cold enough outside to sting the lungs; inside, it smelled of old wood, cheap whiskey, and something burnt.
He wore a black leather jacket over a white shirt, faded jeans, boots scuffed from rooftop landings. No visor. No fur collar. His wings were half-folded, cramped in the too-small booth, feathers dull in the low light.
Twenty-four.
Youngest top hero. Golden boy. Symbol of speed and hope.
He rolled the glass between his fingers, ice clinking softly. The bartender hadn’t recognized him. Good.
Somewhere, hashtags were probably celebrating him. Somewhere, agencies were posting polished photos. Somewhere, people were smiling because Hawks existed.
Keigo tipped the drink back instead.
He wasn’t sure who that was anymore.
2043
