July 16, 7:45 AM. Musutafu.

The dawn sun spilled slowly across the city like liquid honey over glass. Its first rays—still timid and hesitant—clung to the sharp edges of skyscrapers, scattering into thousands of reflections across mirrored facades. The air was crisp and cool, as if specially crafted for this fleeting moment between night and day, when the city holds its breath before the bustle of another morning.

Somewhere below, the early birds were just beginning to appear on the sidewalks—sleep-deprived students, office workers clutching paper coffee cups, street vendors arranging their wares. The scent of fresh pastries from bakeries mingled with the bitter aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the faint metallic tang of urban air.

And high above it all, in the realm of morning light and thin air, he soared.

Keigo Takami, known to the world as Hawks, flew with barely a flap of his wings, letting warm updrafts carry him. His scarlet feathers, backlit by the sun, burned like molten gold. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, absorbing this moment—the silence, the peace, the weightlessness.

"Everyone's alive. Everyone's safe," he whispered, the corners of his lips twitching in an almost imperceptible smile.

This was why he'd become a hero.

But the city never truly sleeps.

His sharp eyes, trained to catch the slightest movement, suddenly locked onto something—a girl on a residential balcony. Ordinary, unremarkable, save for the strange detachment in her gaze. She smoked, leaning against the railing, her eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the horizon.

Cigarette smoke curled in intricate rings, blending with the morning air.

Then he heard it.

A quiet, almost imperceptible creak of metal.

The railing beneath her elbow shuddered.

A second—and it was already bending under her weight.

Another moment—and with a terrible shriek of tearing metal, it gave way.

Her eyes, blank just a second before, suddenly flooded with realization. The understanding that there was no ground beneath her feet. Only air. And the earth rushing up to meet her.

Her fingers clawed desperately at empty space, grasping for what was no longer there.

Hawks was already diving.

His wings, idly catching air currents just moments ago, now worked like perfectly tuned machinery. Every feather, every muscle, every nerve—all focused on a single goal.

To save.

The city blurred around him. Blood roared in his ears, pounding against his temples.

"Don't be late. Not again."

The thought flashed through his mind, sharp as a blade, before he fully concentrated on calculating the trajectory.

Speed. Angle. Distance.

Everything mattered.

Every millisecond.

Every centimeter.

And when his hands were just about to touch her, when he could already feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her clothes, one final thought flashed through his mind:

"Made it."