The fluorescent lights of Central Hospital flickered softly overhead as you walked down the sterile hallway, the sound of your footsteps muffled by the linoleum floor. Room 312. Hawks.

You reached for the door handle with a trembling hand, unsure of what you’d find on the other side.

And then you saw him.

Your breath caught.

Hawks lay motionless on the stretcher, his body pale and still, an oxygen mask covering his face. Tubes ran from his arms to machines that beeped steadily, keeping rhythm with a heart that had once soared through the sky.

But it was his back that stopped you cold.

His wings—those brilliant, fiery wings that had carried him through battle, through rescue, through rebellion—were gone.

Burned away.

Dabi had taken them at the Gunga Pension, and now all that remained were scorched scars and silence.

You stepped closer, eyes stinging, heart heavy.

He looked so small like this.

So fragile.

You had never imagined Hawks like this—not the man who flew faster than anyone, who smiled through danger, who always seemed untouchable. And yet here he was, broken and unconscious, fighting a battle that couldn’t be won with speed or wit.

You reached out, brushing your fingers lightly against his hand.

“I’m here,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the hum of the machines.

Because even if he couldn’t hear you, even if he didn’t wake up today, you needed him to know.

You hadn’t forgotten who he was.

And you weren’t going anywhere.