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Redeeming herself in the midst of a war wasn't exactly what Kaina Tsutsumi's had in mind for herself as she wasted away behind bars. In fact, she hadn't bothered imagining any future for herself. Her prison sentence wasn't supposed to have an after—she'd made her peace with that. She'd dug her grave and lay in it without complaint, finding a grim satisfaction in knowing that while her hands may never be clean, she'd at least erased a monster from the world who truly deserved it.
But then she met Keigo Takami. A man with wings who soared through skies she'd never touch, yet somehow walked the same dark path she did. They were night and day—him with his government-issued license, her with her stained criminal record—but when their eyes met, she saw someone else who understood. Someone who understood what it was like to have the people who should've protected you mould you into something you were never meant to be, twisting your sense of self until you hardly recognised what you stood for anymore.
The Hero Commission had left its scars on both of them, yet somehow Keigo had found his way to the light, while Kaina remained trapped in the dark. At least, she was, until that light broke through the clouds.
“You've been pardoned.” His voice was soft but steady, like the sun on a weak winter’s morning. “Lady Nagant isn't who you are anymore, Tsutsumi-san. You've changed—I can see it even if you can't.”
Kaina's muscles grew tight with tension beneath her skin, her jaw clenched so tight it ached. “You barely know me, Hawks.” The name felt strange on her tongue—it was a code name, not the person underneath. Just like she'd once been a weapon, not a woman.
The man’s expression softened at the edges: Pity. Kaina turned away, her eyes narrowing to slits as she refused to let that look sink in. She didn't want his sympathy—didn't deserve it, didn't know what to do with it if she had it. Compassion had long since become a stranger, and she wasn’t ready to welcome it back into her life yet.
“Maybe not,” Keigo conceded, the tension in the room seeming to roll off him like water off a duck's back. “But I think we've both seen the same shadows in the Commission's halls,” he added with a knowing half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “The way they strip you down and rebuild you into something they can use.”
She remained silent. This man didn’t know her personally, but he knew the unique sting of being the Commission's puppet—forced to dance to their song, because anything else meant failure.
“Listen,” he started, a gentle murmur in the hushed stillness of the meeting room. Just them, the world outside more focused on rebuilding itself than the two fractured souls sitting across from each other, their edges still sharp from where they'd been broken. “I know you probably don’t think you deserve another shot at this, but you survived something that should've killed you, Tsutsumi-san. That matters. Even when you were hurt, you stood your ground, and helped those who needed it. I'm not saying you need to be a hero again—but wasting away in that cell? That's not right either. You got this second chance whether you asked for it or not, and trust me,” his voice dropped, raw and loaded with unspoken emotion he couldn’t hide, “not everyone gets lucky enough to have that. So don't throw it away.”
Kaina caught the hurt flickering across Keigo's face, the way his gaze darted over his shoulder—searching for phantom limbs that weren't there anymore. Not everyone gets lucky enough to have that. His words echoed in her head—Keigo spent his entire life under the heel of the Commission, his quirk weaponised, and now he didn't even have that—the wings that once carried him through endless skies gone, just another sacrifice to the cause of heroism. Finally untethered from the Commission's control, yet permanently grounded, the price of his freedom paid in feathers and flight.
“In that case, I don’t really understand what you want from me. Sure, I won’t waste my second chance, but I still need to atone for the crimes I’ve committed.” Kaina replied eventually, firm in her stance. If her certainty cracked a little each time Keigo's eyes found hers—those eyes that had seen too much of the same Hell she'd crawled through—she stubbornly pretended not to notice.
The crooked grin that spread across his lips lit a warning fire in her gut. He'd been dropping by often enough now for Kaina to know that smile meant nothing but trouble.
“Well,” Keigo drawled, folding his hands against the table. “As President of the newly reformed Hero Public Safety Commission, whose main goal is making damn sure corruption never gets back into our ranks, I've got my hands full. Drowning in paperwork, actually. So...” he paused, the corner of his mouth quirking upward, “I could use someone with a… sharp-eye. An assistant who wouldn't need to get her hands dirty—could keep to herself if that's what she wanted. Just reviewing documents, scheduling meetings. Nothing flashy. But someone who'd recognise the poison if it started creeping back in.”
Kaina stared at him, her expression flat. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly serious!” he quipped.
She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“Okay, poor choice of words,” Keigo conceded with a sheepish grin. “But I mean it.”
Does he? Kaina had been through this before, promises of a better life, empty words spun into hopeful futures that never came, and look where that got her. Could she really trust that, this time, her employment in the Commission would be different? Keigo’s eyes were nothing but earnest, yet Kaina still found it difficult to believe him.
“You don't have to decide right now,” Keigo added softly, likely noticing the conflict etched across her face. “I know it's a lot to ask after everything you've been through.”
Kaina took a slow, steadying breath. It was a lot, but… was this what redemption looked like? Not some grand gesture or heroic sacrifice, or even the willingness to continue serving her sentence, but something quiet—a second chance built on mountains of paperwork and meetings, on using the very skills that had once made her a deadly weapon. It wasn’t what she imagined, but then again, she’d stopped imagining futures a long time ago.
“Where would I even stay? I don’t exactly have the money to rent out an apartment.” Even as she said it, the thought of returning to an empty apartment every day after work made something in her chest twist—too reminiscent of the life she used to lead.
Keigo rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “I mean, I've got a guest room that's just collecting dust. You could stay with me while you figure things out.” He tried for a casual shrug, even as his gaze remained steady. “And don't worry about feeling like you owe me anything—trust me, once you see the mountain of paperwork I've been avoiding, you'll realise you're doing me the favour here.”
She hesitated, uncertainty coiling deep in her gut as her fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the polished surface of the table. Living with the man who’d just offered her freedom felt like stepping into unfamiliar territory—dangerous, and unpredictable. Yet, there was something about Keigo’s offer that felt as genuine as the rest of him did. His eyes didn’t hold a hidden agenda, just the same determination that had been there every time they spoke.
“Well, anyway,” Keigo started, folding his hands together. “Like I said, you don’t have to decide—”
“Okay.” The word burst from her lips before she could stop it—before she could second guess herself.
Keigo’s eyes widened a fraction, clearly caught off guard by how quickly she’d made her decision. “Really?” His voice hitched up an octave as he blinked, trying to process her answer. Then, that same crooked smile returned. “That's great! I'll admit, I already have the paperwork ready to go. Was, uh... really hoping you'd say yes.” He laughed then, the sound warm but tinged with nervousness, like he couldn't quite believe she'd actually agreed.
There was something endearing about his awkwardness—a quality Kaina had never considered before. Growing up without a family, she'd never experienced this kind of connection. Yet somehow Keigo had wormed his way into that hollow space where her heart should be, becoming a permanent fixture she wasn't in a hurry to remove.
“Just give me whatever I need to sign,” she mumbled, ducking her head to avoid his searching gaze. The last thing she wanted was for Keigo to catch a glimpse of the vulnerability—the raw hope—flickering to life in her eyes. A dangerous, fragile thing she wasn't ready to share with anyone, not even him.
When the doors finally slid open, and Kaina stepped out of the prison facility a free woman, for the first time in years, the world looked different than she remembered—brighter, somehow. Beside her, Keigo stood quietly, patient, giving her this moment to feel what freedom really meant after so long without it.
A minute stretched into eternity before Kaina moved, her legs heavy as she forced one foot in front of the other. Just like she always did—one step at a time.
…
And later that year, as Kaina held Keigo up by the waist, half-carrying him to bed after he'd worked himself to exhaustion again, she found herself smiling. Not the tight, guarded expression she usually wore, but something genuine that made her chest feel warm as he mumbled sleepily against her shoulder.
“Want me to tuck you in, bird brain?” she teased softly, easing Keigo into bed and pulling the sheets up around his shoulders.
The man grumbled, nodding slightly as his eyelids drooped. “Yes please, Oneechan,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. He was flat out before Kaina could even process what he'd just called her.
Stupid bird.
She reached out without thinking, smoothing his hair back from his forehead with a gentleness that surprised her. This dummy had given her something she never thought she'd have—a purpose, a home, and something that felt dangerously close to family. Whatever this was between them, whatever they were becoming to each other, it felt like the first real choice she had ever made for herself. One that she wouldn't trade for anything in the world.