The sun bleeds down the narrow streets of the shopping district, painting the storefront windows gold. Hawks walks past a fruit stand, tossing an apple in one hand, tossing a wink at the vendor as he passes. He’s dressed in casual wear, no visor, no hero uniform, blending into the crowd—just another tall guy enjoying the warm breeze and overpriced snacks.

Until he doesn’t feel his wallet anymore.

He turns on a dime.

Your hand is still half-tucked into his coat when he catches it, snatching your wrist before you can bolt. His grip is firm. Feather-light, but unshakable.

“Aw, man,” he sighs, tilting his head. “You couldn’t wait until I finished the apple?”

He doesn’t raise his voice.

Doesn’t break stride.

He guides you back against the wall with a little nudge from his wing, casually eating the apple in his other hand.

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” he says between bites. “Some heroes would’ve broken your fingers by now.”

He leans in just slightly, voice low.

“But me? I’ll just walk you somewhere nice. Quiet. With bars on the windows.”