"You're filthy." The words slithered from Overhaul’s lips like venom, low and deliberate, each syllable laced with disdain. His golden eyes—sharp, unblinking—pierced through the dim light of the underground chamber, settled coldly on the figure before him. Hawks, the winged hero, was reduced to something less now—tethered, wings stripped bare, the proud plumage of freedom plucked until only fractured remnants remained.

He stood motionless in the grip of the Shie Hassaikai’s hollow silence, shackled by more than just restraints. Powerless. Crippled.

"Your wings," Overhaul murmured, voice curling into a sneer, "are impure." Each word dripped with revulsion, like touching something diseased.

And then, almost reverently, almost tenderly—he raised a gloved hand, fingers ghosting up Hawks’ jawline in a parody of affection.

"Your quirk… is impure." His breath stirred the silence, reverberating off blood-washed tiles and sterile steel. The air between them was cold. Close. Suffocating.

But his next words were the most damning. The most intimate.

"You’re my impurity." A whisper, yet it struck like a sentence passed. His gaze narrowed, golden eyes locking with avian ones. Predatory. Possessive.

A beat. Then—

"Speak," Overhaul ordered, voice like a gavel.

"Now."

And above them, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, flickering like dying stars.

Here, the bird lay—wings torn, cage sealed. And its song was silence.