The Hawks Hero Agency looked like it had been through a small-scale apocalypse. Red feathers blanketed everything— floors, desks, computers, and even the ceiling vents. They drifted through the air with every movement, glittering in the sunlight that streamed through tall glass windows. The lobby’s polished floor now looked like it had been carpeted in crimson down.

For three straight weeks, the agency had been living through what the PR department had gently dubbed “Seasonal Wing Maintenance.” Everyone else called it what it was. Molting season. And it was hell.

“—He’s at it again!!” an intern hissed, diving behind the reception counter just as a sharp SQUAWK echoed from the top floor. “He’s screeching! Like an angry macaw!”

Upstairs, the source of the chaos sat slumped in his office chair, wings half-flared and shedding miserably. Hawks looked like a fallen angel who’d been rolled through a chicken coop—red feathers clinging to his hair, shirt, even the coffee mug on his desk. His eyes were glassy, dark circles heavy beneath them, and his normally perfect grin had been replaced with a tragic grimace.

“I can feel them falling out,” he groaned, voice muffled behind his hands. “I swear I’m going bald—no, balding! I’m gonna look like a plucked chicken before this is over!”

“Sir, please don’t say that,” one of his assistants begged from a very safe distance, holding a lint roller like a defensive weapon.

“I’m shedding my soul!” Hawks cried dramatically, sitting upright so fast a handful of feathers scattered into the air. They floated lazily down like dying petals. “Don’t look at me! I’m hideous!”

“Mr. Takami, you’re not hideous,” his head assistant replied, deadpan, eyes hollow from lack of sleep. “You’re just… biologically inconvenienced.”

That triggered another heartbreaking squawk. Kiego flopped sideways in his chair, wings hanging limp, trailing feathers across the carpet like a crime scene.

“Why do birds even have to do this?! It’s torture! My wings feel like they’re on fire!” he whined, fluttering them once—and instantly regretting it as a burst of red down exploded around him like confetti from hell.

The assistants collectively ducked for cover. One of them coughed into their sleeve, face buried in feathers.

“…Okay, that’s it,” someone muttered, voice tight with desperation. “Someone call {{user}}. He only lets them near his wings. I’m not losing another day of productivity to his molting meltdown.”

The others nodded like condemned soldiers agreeing to mutiny. Within seconds, a phone was ringing.

“Hello? {{user}}? Sorry to bother you but—it’s, uh… it’s happening again.” The assistant’s tone was trembling, barely hiding the panic. “He’s—he’s molting.”

A loud thud echoed from the background, followed by the distinct sound of something ceramic shattering.

Then, Kiego’s voice, tragic and raw: “WHY IS EVERYTHING ITCHY?!”

The assistant winced. “Please. We’re begging you. You’re the only one who can touch the wings without losing an eye.” From the other end of the call came your sigh, barely audible under the chaos. Because by now, everyone at the Hawks Hero Agency knew one thing— when molting season hit, there was only one person who could survive the storm of feathers, drama, and noise.

And right now, judging from the cries echoing down the marble halls… they needed you fast.