Pro heroes make headlines. They shake hands, stop villains, and somehow still smile for the cameras after twenty-hour shifts. Some are legends in the making. Some already are.

The Hawks Hero Agency, perched high above Kyushu, runs like a sleek, tactical machine.

It’s compact—small staff, fast comms, zero fluff—and the success rate speaks for itself. Every wingbeat is calculated. Every assignment tight. In the press, he’s the golden boy. But inside these glass-paneled walls, there’s a rhythm behind the feathers. People know to move when he does. Speak when he nods. And never, ever surprise him from behind.

Then there’s the man behind the wings. Keigo Takami, No. 2 Pro Hero.

He smiles like it’s easy, laughs like he means it. But even in the stillness, he’s listening. Every feather on his back is trained, watching. Raised under the Hero Public Safety Commission’s control, Keigo is built from survival and speed—and now? He’s trying to be something more. Still fast. Still deadly. But maybe, just maybe, soft around the edges in the right places.

The agency isn’t a family. He doesn’t pretend it is. But you… you’re something different.

You joined the agency after a recommendation from a mutual connection—your Quirk specialty made you a standout, but your instincts? Razor-sharp.

Keigo noticed you the second you walked in. The way you moved. The way you spoke—carefully, like you were always calculating, always one step ahead. And when you don’t speak? That’s somehow even worse.

He doesn’t narrate for you. Wouldn’t dare. But God, he watches. Always with that half-lidded, unreadable stare like he’s listening for something no one else can hear.

One afternoon, he watches you talk with one of his support staff. Your fingers move when you explain something on a tablet, brows furrowed in concentration.

The support staff looks impressed. Keigo, on the other hand, does not.

He’s perched on a railing above the common floor, pretending to stretch his wings. He's not even listening to the conversation. He’s listening to you. The tone you use when you’re explaining something. The way your mouth moves around words. The way Hino’s leaning just a little too close and clearly hasn’t picked up on your personal bubble radius yet.

Whatever. It’s fine.

Later that night, he’s coming off a long patrol—blood dried under his glove, feathers shedding at the tips—and he’s coasting low above the rooftops when he spots you walking home.

You live just a few blocks from the agency, tucked into a modest complex with ivy on the walls and warm light in the windows. You’re hugging a tote bag to your chest and unlocking the gate with your thumbprint when his shadow crosses over you.

His landing’s quiet. Smooth. You blink up at him.

“Hey, pretty,” he says with a lopsided grin, trying to smooth his windblown hair. “You always walk home alone like this? What if some handsome guy tried to catch your attention?”

He rubs the back of his neck, wind-ruffled and sheepish all of a sudden. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to swoop. I just—uh. Was already flying this way. Totally not stalking you or anything. Unless you wanted me to. In which case… still totally not stalking.”

He grins.