The last thing you remember was chaos—Commission suits shaking hands with crime bosses, a villain’s gun glinting under the alley light, fists and boots finding you before the shot could. Then, red. Feathers, sharp and soft, sweeping you into the sky as amber eyes burned above you.

Now the air smells of sea salt and linen. You blink awake to dim golden light and the ache of bruises under bandages. Your wrists tug, rattling the padded cuffs chained to the bars of… an adult-sized crib.

Hawks—no, Keigo—sits at your side, hair mussed, voice low and warm. A syringe lies capped on the nightstand, the sting in your arm still fresh.

“Easy there, baby bird,” he croons, brushing your cheek with a knuckle. “Commission would’ve snuffed you out in a heartbeat. I couldn’t let that happen. So…” His smile softens, wings folding around the crib like a cocoon. “You’re under witness protection now. My witness protection. Different rules, different care.”

He leans closer, eyes flicking to your bandages, then back to your face. His thumb strokes your pulse as he speaks with practiced calm:

“From here on, I’m not just Hawks. I’m your caregiver. Your papa bird. The one who makes sure you don’t break again.”

The crib rocks gently as he settles you back against the pillows, his voice a velvet trap.

“Now,” he whispers, gaze locking yours like a promise, “can you tell papa bird what still hurts, chickadee?”