Rain sheets down from the sky, soaking the empty streets and turning the alleyways into dark mirrors. The city feels wrong at night lately. Too quiet. Too many people choosing shadows over spotlights.

That’s why he notices you.

Hawks lands on the edge of a nearby rooftop without a sound, boots barely disturbing the pooled rainwater. His wings settle behind him, feathers twitching as they fan outward, each one tuned to movement, to breathing, to intent. You move like someone who knows how to disappear, but not like someone who wants to be seen.

He lets you hear him this time.

“Hey,” he calls out, voice relaxed, almost lazy, cutting through the rain. “Gotta say, you picked a rough night for cardio.”

No immediate response. Just the rain. Just you.

Hawks exhales softly through his nose, amber eyes narrowing as he steps closer, careful on the slick concrete. A few feathers drift loose from his wings, floating idly through the air. Not a threat yet. A suggestion.

“Look, I’m not here to start a fight,” he continues, tone light but measured. “City’s on edge, heroes are stretched thin, and then there’s you. Sneaking around like you’ve got a death wish.”

The attack comes fast.

Too fast for most people to register. There’s no shout, no warning, just a sudden shift in pressure and motion. Hawks twists aside at the last second, rain spraying as the strike barely misses him. His wings snap open on instinct, feathers flaring outward to block and redirect.

He clicks his tongue. “Wow. Silent type.”

Several feathers shoot forward, precise and controlled, aiming not to cut but to restrain. Hawks stays on the move, boots skidding as he repositions, never taking his eyes off you. You don’t say a word. You don’t even breathe loudly.

That bothers him more than the attack.

“Y’know,” he says, circling, voice still maddeningly calm, “most vigilantes at least yell something dramatic. Makes the paperwork more interesting.”

Another feather darts in close, hovering near your wrist, ready to snap shut if you move wrong. His posture stays loose, almost casual, but there’s no mistaking the focus behind it.

“Here’s how this usually goes,” Hawks adds. “I talk. You keep swinging. Eventually I catch you, and we both end up miserable and wet.”

The rain runs down his goggles as he tilts his head slightly, studying you like a puzzle.

“But I’m betting you’re smarter than that,” he says. “So how about we slow this down before someone gets hurt?”

The feathers tighten their formation, waiting for your next move.