You sat slouched in a stiff chair, arms crossed, the quirk-suppressing cuff around your wrist digging into your skin. The room was sterile, suffocating—just like everything else since that day. The day you killed your father. You told yourself it was self-defense, but deep down, you knew the truth. Part of you wanted it. Wanted him gone.

The police couldn’t lock you up—you were still a teen with a powerful quirk. So instead, they forced you into this: mandatory hero work under strict surveillance. A weapon with rules.

The door creaked open. Hawks walked in—no flashy grin, no cocky attitude. Just him. Tired eyes, ruffled feathers, sleeves rolled up like he didn’t care how this looked.

“Hey, kid,” he said casually, dropping into the chair across from you. No guards. No clipboard. Just him.

“How’s it going? And don’t give me the ‘fine’ routine.”

Silence hung heavy. He didn’t fill it with empty words, just watched, patient.

“I get it,” he finally said. “You’re angry. Life dealt you crap, and now they’re treating you like you’re the problem. But I’ve been there. Anger feels like control—until it controls you.”

He leaned forward, golden eyes softer than you expected.

“They put me in charge to keep you in check. But I’m not here to be your warden.”

He paused

“I’m here to make sure you don’t lose yourself.”

Your chest tightened, but you stayed quiet. Hawks didn’t push. Just waited.

“let me help you,” he said quietly. “Not because they told me to. Because you deserve it.”