The last time you saw Keigo Takami, he was fifteen and clinging to your sleeve.

There was panic in his eyes when the HPSC agent called his name. He didn’t know what was happening—just that it was happening fast.

“They said it’s just training,” he whispered. “It’s only for a while.”

You nodded, holding back every instinct to scream. “You’ll come back, right?”

He didn’t answer.

They took him anyway.

You stood in the hallway long after he was gone, staring at the spot where his feathers had fallen on the floor.

⸻

Years passed. You never saw him again. Not in person, at least.

On screens? Everywhere.

HAWKS, Pro Hero. National icon. Worn-out grin. Voice full of charm. Wings too heavy for someone that young.

You stopped trying to match the boy you knew with the man the world praised.

Because they weren’t the same. Couldn’t be.

⸻

Then it happened.

You were walking out of a corner store late at night, half-asleep, your hoodie pulled up, a plastic bag of snacks swinging in one hand.

And he was just—there.

Across the street.

Same hair. Same posture. Same familiar pull in your chest like your body remembered him before your mind did.

He was standing under the glow of a dim streetlamp. No hero costume. Just a jacket and jeans. Head down. Hands in his pockets. Alone.

You stopped.

And maybe—maybe he felt it too.

Because he looked up.

And his eyes met yours.

Your stomach dropped.

He froze.

Neither of you moved.

No crowd. No cameras. No mission.

Just a city too big and a moment too small.

You stared at each other across the crosswalk. A few feet. Six years. And every word you never got to say.

His lips parted—like he might say your name.

And the light changed.