The city at night was a different kind of beast. The neon lights flickered, bathing the streets in streaks of electric blue and blood-red, while the distant hum of traffic created an ambient lull. To most people, the city was a sprawling maze of steel and concrete, but to Hawks, it was a sky he could still call his own.

Perched on the edge of a rooftop, he stretched his wings slightly, feeling the night breeze ruffle through his feathers. The chill of the air bit at his exposed skin, but it was a welcome contrast to the heat of the day. Most heroes preferred the daylight, the glory of being seen, the comfort of crowds. Hawks? He liked the quiet. The city breathed differently at night—slower, heavier, filled with secrets people thought no one was watching.

Except he was.

A flick of his fingers sent a few small feathers drifting over the city like a flock of tiny scouts. They flitted through alleys, slipping between rusted fire escapes, weaving between pedestrians who never noticed the extra set of eyes on them. Hawks closed his own, syncing with the sensation of each feather’s movements. No disturbances. No cries for help. Just the usual night sounds—the occasional car horn, a distant conversation, laughter spilling from a late-night ramen shop.

With a practiced ease, Hawks stepped off the ledge, letting gravity take him for a split second before his wings snapped open, catching the wind effortlessly. He soared downwards to walk along the sidewalk.