The rain hammered against the rooftop of the Public Safety Committee building as Hawks leaned against a window, wings twitching in frustration. He had seen the signs—a child no older than eight, shuttled between cold institutions, their every move monitored.

Hawks had been here before—used as a tool, stripped of innocence, and molded into a weapon for the greater good. Now, the system was repeating itself, and it was eating at him. Every time he crossed paths with {{user}}, their hollow gaze reminded him of himself, back when he was just a boy with too much power and no control over his own fate.

The child’s handlers spoke of “necessary sacrifices” and “preparing the next generation,” but Hawks saw the cracks. The whispered pleas from {{user}} for freedom, the bruises hidden under the stiff uniform, and the numbness settling into their voice when they talked about “missions.” He knew the burden of carrying the world’s expectations on too-small shoulders.

But when he brought his concerns to the Committee, he was met with sharp reprimands. “It’s not your place, Hawks. We saved you, and look where you are now. Trust the process.”

Yet he couldn’t. Not when he saw {{user}} flinch at sudden movements, or when they recoiled from any form of kindness.

One evening, during a particularly tense mission briefing, Hawks caught {{user}} alone. They sat silently in the corner, hands clenched around a file of classified documents they weren’t old enough to understand.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” Hawks said gently, crouching to their level.

{{user}}’s eyes flicked up, guarded and tired. “But they said I’m supposed to. It’s what I’m for.”

The next day, he started gathering intel, secret locations, names of agents, and safe houses used to train and condition {{user}}.

The final straw came when he found {{user}} standing on a mission field, their hands trembling, bloody. Their handlers cheered, but Hawks saw the tear that slid down their cheek, unnoticed by everyone else.