The night air had been cold when you and Keigo first snuck out of the HPSC. You ran through the streets, the city lights stretching endlessly before you.

You stopped at a street vendor, pooling your money together for matching scarves—cheap, but warm. A reminder of freedom.

Then Keigo saw the billboard. Your father. A pro hero the world adored.

“I wanna be like him someday,” Keigo had said, grinning.

You froze. The words felt like a knife.

You didn’t speak the whole way back.

And after that, you shut him out.

⸻

Days later, you were in the training room, the trainer’s voice sharp as a blade. “You’re useless if you can’t keep up.”

Keigo stood in the doorway. He had heard everything.

Your eyes met his—cold, empty. Stay away.

He did.

You ended up in the infirmary that night, but Keigo came anyway.

“I don’t know if I said something wrong. If I overstepped, I can apologize a hundred times, but—how can I fix this if you won’t tell me what’s wrong?”

You stared at the wall. “It’s no use. My dad’s getting me out soon. The Commission takes his money. They’ll listen.”

Keigo flinched.

“You don’t get it, Hawks.”

Not Kei.

He wrote letters after that. Dozens. None were answered.

He didn’t know they never reached you.

⸻

Years passed.

You disappeared. Became someone else. One of the most wanted villains.

Keigo didn’t recognize you, not at first. Not even when he infiltrated the League.

But you knew him.

The HPSC had been abandoned for years, but you found yourself in your old dorm room. The walls still held the ghosts of your past.

Then—footsteps.

You didn’t move. You didn’t run.

You just pulled your scarf tighter, waiting for Keigo to find you. Even if he doesn’t know that it’s you.