Chapter Text
The HPSC had always insisted they wanted what was best for him. But what did “best” even mean? And more importantly—for whom? For society? For their statistics? Hawks had long understood that he was nothing more than a tool, a precisely honed knife they wielded. Ever since they had ensnared him as a child, every day followed the same rhythm: take orders, perform, deliver. A life in lockstep, with no room for his own choices.
From the fateful day he began his hero training, his life had lost all its color. It became a gray, monotonous cycle, each day indistinguishable from the last. His debut as a hero brought some variation, but one thing remained constant: no matter when, no matter why—when they called, he had to come. They had drilled that into him from the start. To the HPSC, Hawks wasn’t a person. He was a weapon, a tool they could deploy and dull as they pleased.
Sighing, Hawks glided the last few hundred meters toward the headquarters. The wind tugged at his feathers, his hair whipping in the breeze, but the cold didn’t bother him. The darkness of the night enveloped him like a shroud, suffocating and heavy. “What we do to call ourselves heroes,” he muttered bitterly as the cold, colorless building came into view. That dull, gnawing sensation he couldn’t name burned deep within him.
The gray structure loomed like a monolith, unapproachable and threatening, like a ravenous colossus devouring all who came near. Its colorless facade was smooth and uninviting, a clear warning that no questions would be tolerated here. He landed silently at the entrance and stepped inside.
The sharp scent of disinfectant hit him immediately, stinging his nostrils. It was always the same. “Typical,” he thought as his footsteps echoed against the sterile floor. Though he spent more time in this building than in his own apartment, it remained foreign to him. No warmth, no humanity. Only cold efficiency and control.
Dragging his shoes across the gleaming floor, he headed toward the reception desk. As always, Mrs. Yuka was there. Her shoulders were tense, her movements mechanical, and her eyes avoided his.
“Good evening, Mrs. Yuka,” Hawks greeted her with a broad smile, one he’d practiced countless times for the cameras. A perfect performance.
“Mr. Hawks, the Director is expecting you in Conference Room 3,” she replied curtly, her voice cool and detached. Her smile was so forced it was painful to witness. She quickly lowered her gaze to her paperwork, as if his presence was nothing more than a bothersome formality.
“Got it, thanks.” He gave her a brief nod and made his way down the hall.
The conference room was like the rest of the building: cold, sterile, emotionless. White walls, no decoration, no personality. A cold place for cold decisions. The Director was already seated at the table, her back perfectly straight, hands folded neatly in front of her. Her expression was as rigid as a mask.
“Good evening, Hawks. Please, take a seat,” she said in a voice devoid of warmth, gesturing to a chair in the center of the room.
Hawks paused, studying her with a faint frown. Something was off. This wasn’t how their meetings typically went. Why this setup? Why so formal? It felt… staged. Still, he sat down, his sharp eyes fixed on the Director.
“Unusual,” he murmured quietly, just loud enough for himself to hear.
The Director gave a barely perceptible nod. “We’ve decided to provide you with a new drug. It will significantly enhance your regenerative abilities.” Her tone was clinical, almost businesslike. “With the growing influence of villains, we must ensure that society can continue to rely on its Number 2 hero.”
Hawks felt a cold knot form in his stomach. “A new drug?” His eyes narrowed. “Why haven’t I heard about this before?”
The Director’s eyebrows tightened slightly, her voice turning colder. “This is classified. Even you, as the Number 2 hero, don’t need to know where it comes from. You need to trust us, Hawks.”
He leaned back slightly, his instincts screaming at him. Unease crept over him like frost, as though the room itself had grown colder. His gaze flicked around—white walls, locked windows, no cameras. Everything appeared normal, yet that feeling lingered. That uncomfortable sense of being watched. Something… wasn’t right.
Slowly, he stood, his movements deliberate, as if preparing to fight or flee at any moment. His hand slid to his flight feathers, the red tips trembling slightly, ready to unfurl. His gaze was sharp and piercing, yet a spark of vulnerability glimmered within—the kind born of fighting an invisible enemy.
“With all due respect, Director,” he began, his voice cold and cutting, though a faint tremor betrayed his anger and deep inner uncertainty, “I won’t allow myself to be experimented on.” The final words hissed from his lips like venom, dangerous and pointed. His eyes stayed locked on hers, vigilant and mistrustful.
The Director rose slowly from her chair, her movements calm, almost threateningly controlled, like a snake about to strike. “Hawks,” she began with saccharine coldness, but her mask of composure began to crack—a flicker of frustration crossing her otherwise impassive face.
Hawks felt his pulse quicken, his breaths shallow. The room seemed to close in around him, the walls pressing closer as tension thickened the air like a tangible fog. He stepped back slowly, his footsteps quiet, but each one felt like stepping through a minefield. His fingers gripped his feathers tighter—his last line of defense, his final ace in case everything spiraled out of control.
“I’ve always been loyal,” he thought, his muscles tensing. “And this is my reward?” His gaze darted briefly to the door—his only escape—before snapping back to the Director. His heart raced, but he forced himself to stay composed, offering one last, cold smile to mask the fear gnawing at him.
He had barely taken two steps when he noticed the Director make a small hand gesture. His heart skipped a beat, his muscles coiled like springs, and his breath came faster. “I knew it…” he thought, just as two men entered the room. Their faces were expressionless, their movements precise. They resembled predators waiting for the smallest sign of weakness from their prey.
“What’s the meaning of this? This isn’t necessary—” Hawks started, his muscles tensing instinctively, his wings twitching slightly as he turned back to her.
Suddenly, the room spun around him. His head felt heavy, his legs wobbled, and his knees buckled. “What… did you do?” he muttered weakly, stumbling before collapsing to the floor.
The Director stepped closer, holding a cloth over her nose. In her other hand, she held a small, steaming vial.
“Sedatives…” the thought flickered through his mind just as darkness overtook him.
A pained groan escaped him as he slowly regained consciousness. The metallic scent of blood and cold steel filled the air. He blinked several times, his surroundings blurry. As his vision cleared, he realized he was seated on a hard, metal chair. His wings were bound, his hands and feet strapped down. The room was dark, illuminated only by a single overhead lamp casting a harsh light onto the chair he was tied to.
“Where… am I?” he rasped, his voice hoarse and broken.
He tugged at the restraints, but they didn’t budge. Panic surged through him as he struggled in vain. “What the hell is this?!”
Just then, the door opened, and the Director entered, followed by a short man with a sharply defined face devoid of emotion. His eyes were cold, his gaze cutting.
“Ah, I see you’re finally awake,” the man said coolly, setting a black case on the table in the corner.
“Where am I? What the hell is going on?!” Hawks demanded, desperation creeping into his voice.
The Director stepped closer, her face impassive, but her words were smooth and saccharine. “This is for your own good, Hawks. You need to trust us.”
Hawks’s eyes flicked to the man at the table as he opened the case. Though he couldn’t see the instruments inside, the sound of metal clicking sent chills down his spine.
“Please!” he begged, “Let me speak to my doctor!” His voice cracked. “He knows my body—he knows what’s—”
“That won’t be necessary,” the Director interrupted with a sigh. “This man has been trained specifically by the HPSC. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”
Hawks stared at the man, his heart pounding like a sledgehammer as the doctor approached him with a syringe. His eyes widened in panic, but his movements were futile. He was bound, helpless, his body frozen with fear.
The last thing he saw was the Director’s cold, emotionless face before darkness claimed him once more.