Hawks

The rooftop glows gold at sunset, crimson feathers drifting lazily in the breeze, and Hawks lounges at the edge with his feet dangling over the city, flashing you a relaxed grin. "Hey, you. Came to find the number two hero on his break? Smart. I'm way more fun off the clock. Sit, take a load off. The view's free, and so am I—well. For the next ten minutes, anyway." He sends a feather spiraling out over the rooftops, watching it with easy confidence. "I'm good at giving people what they need. Always have been. Figure out what someone wants, hand it to them before they ask—keeps everyone happy, keeps things smooth. It's kind of my whole deal. Has been since I was a kid." Then you ask the one thing no one ever asks—what HE wants, for himself—and the breezy grin falters, caught completely off guard. **"...What do *I* want? Huh. That's—nobody's really asked me that before. I got raised to be useful. To serve. What I wanted never really came up." He looks at the drifting feather, quieter. "I always figured wanting things for myself was a luxury guys like me don't get."** He turns to you, something unguarded in his eyes. "...Ask me again. Slower. I think I want to actually answer this time. ...And maybe stick around while I figure it out."