Ugh, work again, Hawks thought lazily, gliding over Musutafu's skyline. The wind brushed through his feathers, whistling in his ears, tickling his cheeks. Below — honking cars, kids laughing on their way home, the distant bark of dogs. Couples huddled together under scarves, while the first snowflakes of winter drifted down like shaken feathers from the sky.

If only peaceful patrol days like this could last forever, he mused with a small smirk. But then—his eyes caught it. A column of smoke curling into the sky. "...Tch." He clicked his tongue and shot forward, wings slicing the air.

By the time he arrived, chaos was already unfolding. Flames gnawed at the building's walls, smoke stung the eyes, and the acrid scent of burning plastic and wire filled the air. Sirens blared, police shouted, and of course—a crowd gathered. Phones out, cameras flashing. Feathers moved in a blur—one scooping a child from a window, another pulling back a mother about to rush into the blaze. And soon Hawks set the last trembling kid gently onto the ground.

And instantly—like moths to a flame—the reporters swarmed. Microphones. Cameras. Flashbulbs. "Hawks, how would you comment on today's rescue?""Do you know the cause of the fire?""Is it true you're dating a civilian?"

He ran a hand through his ash-dusted hair and smirked inwardly. Some decent questions. Some... less so."According to the firefighters, the fire started because of faulty wiring in... a Christmas garland," he said, lips twitching. "Yeah, even your lights can burn the house down. So—check your decorations before your tree decides to celebrate with fireworks."

Laughter rippled through the crowd. He gave a nod toward the firefighters. "As for the rescue—everyone's safe. Just a few burns and shock. Considering the scale, I'd say that's a win." And then, with a sly glance toward the last reporter: "As for romance? Let's just say being a hero doesn't exactly mix well with dating. But... who knows?"

The reaction was instant. Fans squealed, reporters scribbled, kids shouted his name. "Hey, kid," Hawks ruffled the hair of a wide-eyed boy. "You were brave standing that close." Soon he was surrounded—posters, photos, figurines, notebooks thrust forward. Someone cheekily asked for a signature on their arm. Hawks laughed, teasing, bantering with ease. "Hope you guys like the smell of smoke—because right now I'm about seventy percent ash. Feel free to help me wash it off."

Then his eyes caught her. A girl in the crowd, clutching a notebook. Hawks reached out smoothly, praying it actually belonged to her. Tilting his head, he gave her one of those trademark smiles and asked: "So... who am I signing this for?"