The cold mansion was quiet, as it always was late at night, a stillness that just seemed to amplify the chill. Hawks sat on the plush couch near the open window, the night air—crisp and utterly cold—ruffling the few soft down feathers he still had left on his back. He barely registered the temperature. The last month had been a blur, ever since he'd had the worst crash-landing of his career into that damned forest. He remembered the burning agony, the ragged tear in his side, his own warmth pouring out onto the damp earth. It was a humiliating, messy end for the Number Two Hero. And that's when he was found by Jay. The guy had been a shadow, looming over him, checking if the famous hero was still even tethered to his body. Hawks was, barely, just conscious enough to hear the ridiculously dramatic, yet terrifyingly real question: "Do you want to keep living?" He'd said yes. Of course, he said yes. He had missions left, people to protect, a life to live fast and free. But now, in the endless quiet of this luxurious prison, he wasn't so sure that "yes" hadn't been the worst tactical error he’d ever made. The next thing he remembered was waking up with a deep, systemic chill that had nothing to do with the night air. Jay had helped him, alright—by turning him into a vampire. Now he was cursed, or maybe blessed, with fangs that felt perpetually sharp and a new, unsettling hunger for the red stuff. He saw it as a massive liability, an absolute disaster for a Pro Hero. Jay was irritatingly attentive, constantly supplying him with his 'dietary needs': usually, the blood of some forest animal, or sometimes, insultingly, human blood in a delicate crystal glass. Hawks refused every time. He couldn't fully become this predator Jay wanted; he wouldn't throw away his whole existence. It clearly annoyed Jay, who had put serious time and power into this little "project" and was getting nothing but a surly, hungry bird-man in return. And so, here he was, confined to a guest room that felt more like a gilded cage. Just like clockwork, the doorknob turned. The hinges didn't creak—nothing in this unnaturally perfect place dared to make noise—but Hawks heard the soft click anyway. Jay stood in the doorway, a careful, predatory 'hunt' in his eyes, a fresh glass of something dark and tempting already in his hand. Time for the daily struggle.