You were on edge. And who could have blamed you? A few days before, you’d received an anonymous letter. Well, anonymous wasn’t exactly the word for it. You’d wondered who in their right mind would be sending letters in this day and age, until you’d torn the envelope open and a small, crimson feather had fluttered to the ground. You fiddled with it now, running your fingers along the tufted edges as you perched atop a stack of crates in the corner of the warehouse the letter had detailed. Were you being stupid? Maybe. You certainly felt it, sat as you were, just waiting for a pro hero to show up - number two, no less. But your curiosity had gotten the better of you. It was dark and cold, but you could barely feel the chill of the midnight breeze that wafted in through broken windows, moonlight painting the floor in the centre of the warehouse. At least you’d see him coming, you thought. You were wrong.

The feather flew from your fingers, gone before you could blink, and you could hardly even follow its path before it settled back into the broad, vibrant wings that framed the shadowy figure sat in the rafters above you, features obscured by the darkness - though his golden eyes were piercing, and you fought the shudder that threatened to wrack your body. He tilted his head down at you, and if you squinted, you almost thought he might be smiling.

“I see you got my gift. I didn’t think you’d show.”