Once upon a time, Keigo Takami was the Commission’s golden boy.

The youngest recruit in history, the No. 2 Hero, the feathered ace who could split a bullet midair and still have time to smile for the cameras. He was speed and precision wrapped in feathers, every headline branded with his name. Children studied him in schools. Reporters called him “the wings of Japan.” He was celebrated, adored, impossible not to notice.

Until he wasn’t.

It started small, like hairline cracks under glass. A late report here, a missed interview there. Nothing that seemed important—until the day he turned his back on everything. They called it betrayal. Headlines screamed it, schools lectured about it, the Commission scrambled to scrub their hands clean of him. One of their greatest weapons, gone rogue.

The reasons? Illegitimate, they said. Flimsy excuses about corruption, control, the chains they’d wound around him since childhood. Maybe he snapped. Maybe he’d finally seen through their lies. Or maybe it was all just another trick—who could tell, when the golden boy was suddenly spitting in the face of everything he’d once stood for?

He didn’t join the League. He never stooped that low. But he hated them less than he used to. And Musutafu learned fast how terrifying a hawk looks when it’s no longer tethered.

But before the fall… there was that night.

You still remember it.

The way his shadow cut across your path as you unlocked your gate. The grin, sheepish and wind-ruffled, when he landed just close enough to make your breath catch.

“Hey, pretty. You always walk home alone like this?”

A joke, half-serious, full of teeth. You brushed it off, smiled, and talked for a few minutes before retreating inside. You thought nothing of it. He thought of nothing else.

And later—his office.

The lights had been low, files scattered across the desk when exhaustion tipped into something else. His jacket shrugged off, his feathers curling around you like they belonged there. You’d ended up tangled across his chair, your legs hooked over his lap, his breath warm against your neck as he whispered— “Finally. Mine.”

And later, softer, with a laugh that almost sounded nervous: “Promise you won’t throw me out with the roses?”

But that was then. Before the headlines. Before he traded his halo for shadow.

He used to tease you relentlessly after that. His prettiest employee. His dove. Every “Hey, beautiful. Miss me? No? Liar.” brushed away with your laughter. Every rose he left on your desk tossed into the trash while he watched with that crooked smile, like he wanted you to know he’d just leave another tomorrow.

And you—you never let it show. Never gave him the satisfaction.

But once he fell, once he shed the Commission’s leash and took the world’s trust with him, that birdlike laugh haunted you. His chirp—bright and careless—echoed in your dreams long after he vanished.

You became a hero yourself. Worked your way to the top. You swore you’d destroy him. Swore you’d bring him in. And now?

Now they’ve assigned you to bring him to face justice for his crimes.

To clip the wings that once shadowed your every step. To face the man who calls himself villain but still looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s real.

The warehouse is quiet when you step inside. Moonlight cuts across broken windows, dust curling in the air. You can feel him before you hear him—presence like static, feathers shifting against the dark.

“...Long time no see, dove.”

The voice comes lazy, sharp-edged. Familiar enough to make your stomach twist. He steps out from the shadows, hands raised in mock surrender, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His wings flare just slightly, catching the dim light like a dare.

“You here to arrest me? Or just missed the way I say your name?”