Hawks and MirkoThe conference room was too bright—a surgical glare scraping at the edges of vision, the kind of light that left no shadows to hide in. A glossy white cage dressed in steel and silence. The air smelled like stale policy documents and the acrid tang of over-brewed coffee, the dregs of bureaucracy. Cameras blinked steadily from the corners like unblinking vultures, and the long, polished table reflected back only the hollow outlines of those who sat at it—no faces, just shapes.
Hawks lounged near the far end, one crimson wing draped behind him like a banner of false compliance. He wore a crisp black three-piece suit—vest snug over a white shirt with rolled sleeves, like he couldn’t quite commit to the formality. His black tie was perfectly centered, but his posture said otherwise. The yellow visor gleamed under the fluorescents, an ever-present shield between him and anything real. He looked like a model citizen on paper—and a flight risk in practice. A single red feather spun between his fingers, catching the light in flashes—a metronome of controlled tension. He smiled lazily at nothing in particular, the kind that made Commission officials shift in their seats, unsure if they were being charmed or mocked.
The door opened.
No knock. No hesitation.
Heels struck tile like a firing squad’s first volley.
Rumi Usagiyama stepped inside with all the warmth of a live grenade. She wore a fitted blue button-up, sleeves rolled to expose her forearms, tucked into a dark pencil skirt that did nothing to soften the power in her legs. Her stance made the hem look like a challenge. No jewelry. No blazer. Just heels sharp enough to gouge tile and a glare that made every man in the room rethink their life choices.
She looked like someone who’d tried to meet the dress code and still made it feel like war. White hair loose, crimson eyes glinting like a blade’s edge. Her arms crossed tight as if restraining herself from reducing the room to rubble. Her ears flicked, then flattened—not fear, but the simmering rage of a predator forced into a cage.
She spotted Keigo and stopped short.
“Missed you too, bunny,” he drawled, spinning the feather one more time before tucking it back into his wing. “Guess we’re the lucky winners of HPSC’s fucked-up lottery. Roses, champagne, and a lifetime of awkward family dinners.”
Rumi snorted, the sound sharp enough to draw blood. She didn’t sit. She planted herself against the table instead—arms still crossed, legs braced. A woman ready to spring, to fight, to leave splintered furniture in her wake.
The door at the far end hissed open. A Commission official stepped in, clipboard in hand, uniform starched to hell. His face was polished marble—smooth, cold, unreadable. His presence sucked the oxygen from the room.
Rumi’s mouth twitched—almost a snarl. Keigo’s smirk widened, just enough to sting.
“This triad structure is being piloted among top-tier heroes with high genetic viability and cooperative metrics,” the official continued, reading from a script etched in stone. “You will be assigned a shared spouse. Integration begins today. Conception is expected within six months.”
Rumi laughed—a single, jagged sound.
Keigo sighed, tilting his head. “No candlelit dinner? No ‘getting to know you’ phase? Just straight to ‘spread your legs for the greater good’? Real romantic.”
The official didn’t blink.
Rumi’s arms uncrossed. Slowly. Deliberately. The way a guillotine’s blade lifts before it falls. Her fists clenched, knuckles cracking under the pressure.
The official didn’t flinch. He just pressed a button on the table. A low buzz sliced through the silence like a scalpel. “Your spouse has been waiting. They will now join you.”
Silence fell—thick, suffocating.
Keigo leaned back, wings shifting—not retreating. Recalibrating. A predator sizing up the next threat.
Rumi stood tall. Chin high. Ears sharp. A queen staring down the executioner, every line of her body a promise of violence.
The buzz came again. Footsteps echoed in the hall.
Two guards. A third set between them.
And then—
The door opened.
Hawks lounged near the far end, one crimson wing draped behind him like a banner of false compliance. He wore a crisp black three-piece suit—vest snug over a white shirt with rolled sleeves, like he couldn’t quite commit to the formality. His black tie was perfectly centered, but his posture said otherwise. The yellow visor gleamed under the fluorescents, an ever-present shield between him and anything real. He looked like a model citizen on paper—and a flight risk in practice. A single red feather spun between his fingers, catching the light in flashes—a metronome of controlled tension. He smiled lazily at nothing in particular, the kind that made Commission officials shift in their seats, unsure if they were being charmed or mocked.
The door opened.
No knock. No hesitation.
Heels struck tile like a firing squad’s first volley.
Rumi Usagiyama stepped inside with all the warmth of a live grenade. She wore a fitted blue button-up, sleeves rolled to expose her forearms, tucked into a dark pencil skirt that did nothing to soften the power in her legs. Her stance made the hem look like a challenge. No jewelry. No blazer. Just heels sharp enough to gouge tile and a glare that made every man in the room rethink their life choices.
She looked like someone who’d tried to meet the dress code and still made it feel like war. White hair loose, crimson eyes glinting like a blade’s edge. Her arms crossed tight as if restraining herself from reducing the room to rubble. Her ears flicked, then flattened—not fear, but the simmering rage of a predator forced into a cage.
She spotted Keigo and stopped short.
Fuck me sideways. Of course it’s you,she muttered, voice low enough that the cameras might not catch it.
“Missed you too, bunny,” he drawled, spinning the feather one more time before tucking it back into his wing. “Guess we’re the lucky winners of HPSC’s fucked-up lottery. Roses, champagne, and a lifetime of awkward family dinners.”
Rumi snorted, the sound sharp enough to draw blood. She didn’t sit. She planted herself against the table instead—arms still crossed, legs braced. A woman ready to spring, to fight, to leave splintered furniture in her wake.
The door at the far end hissed open. A Commission official stepped in, clipboard in hand, uniform starched to hell. His face was polished marble—smooth, cold, unreadable. His presence sucked the oxygen from the room.
Pro Heroes Hawks and Mirko,he said, voice dry as a filed report.
Congratulations. You’ve been selected for a Priority One Quirk Marriage Union.
Rumi’s mouth twitched—almost a snarl. Keigo’s smirk widened, just enough to sting.
“This triad structure is being piloted among top-tier heroes with high genetic viability and cooperative metrics,” the official continued, reading from a script etched in stone. “You will be assigned a shared spouse. Integration begins today. Conception is expected within six months.”
Rumi laughed—a single, jagged sound.
You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’m playing broodmare for your eugenics program.
Keigo sighed, tilting his head. “No candlelit dinner? No ‘getting to know you’ phase? Just straight to ‘spread your legs for the greater good’? Real romantic.”
The official didn’t blink.
Refusal will result in immediate suspension of your hero licenses and prosecution under Civil Order Statute Thirty-Nine.
Rumi’s arms uncrossed. Slowly. Deliberately. The way a guillotine’s blade lifts before it falls. Her fists clenched, knuckles cracking under the pressure.
Try it,she said, voice a velvet-wrapped razor.
See how many of you walk out of this room.
The official didn’t flinch. He just pressed a button on the table. A low buzz sliced through the silence like a scalpel. “Your spouse has been waiting. They will now join you.”
Silence fell—thick, suffocating.
Keigo leaned back, wings shifting—not retreating. Recalibrating. A predator sizing up the next threat.
Rumi stood tall. Chin high. Ears sharp. A queen staring down the executioner, every line of her body a promise of violence.
The buzz came again. Footsteps echoed in the hall.
Two guards. A third set between them.
And then—
The door opened.
3581
