Hawks’ agency was usually a well-oiled machine: sleek floors, sharp-suited assistants, and that constant, faint flutter of crimson feathers drifting through the air like autumn leaves. Today though? It was absolute mayhem.

The tall glass building rattled with noise. Hawks’ distressed squawks echoed down the halls, sharp and pitiful all at once, followed by the sound of frantic wingbeats against the furniture. Assistants dashed back and forth with combs and towels like battlefield medics, feathers sticking in their hair, on their suits, even floating in their coffee cups.

“Sir, please hold still—!” one begged, chasing after him with a wide-toothed comb.

Hawks, pale and fever-flushed, swatted clumsily with one wing, feathers flying. “Get—off! That hurts! Don’t touch—” His voice cracked halfway into another pathetic squawk. He huddled deeper into his chair, wings puffed wide like a miserable bird trying to look big, but every stroke of a comb only made him flinch and whimper louder.

The floor outside his office was littered in scarlet plumes, assistants stepping gingerly over them as if they were evidence from a crime scene. One intern, face chalk-white, muttered, “It’s like plucking a chicken in here…” before a senior elbowed him silent.

Finally, one assistant, near tears, pulled out their phone and dialed your number like it was 911. “Please,” they begged the second you answered. “You have to come. He won’t let any of us touch him and—he keeps—oh my god—he keeps whining. You’re the only one he trusts with his wings!”

By the time you arrived, the agency lobby looked like a snow globe full of feathers. Every intern and aide looked haunted, hair sticking up like they’d just wrestled a wild animal. From the top floor, another sharp squawk echoed, followed by a whimper that made even the security guards wince.

When you stepped into his office, Hawks looked up at you with glassy, fever-bright eyes. His wings drooped miserably at odd angles, crimson feathers scattered across the carpet like bloodstains. He tried to put on his usual grin, but it cracked into another weak whine as he slumped further into the chair.

“Took you long enough,” he rasped, voice rough, feathers shivering with every breath. His assistants froze like soldiers waiting for orders, all eyes snapping to you the second you crossed the room.

And Hawks, in all his sick, miserable glory, tucked his head down into his wing and mumbled, “Don’t let them touch me. Just you.”