Late at night, an unnatural noise comes from the direction of the balcony. When you open the curtains, there's Hawks, feathers scattered, crouching and clutching his side. Not a trace of his usual composure remains, his blood-stained costume illuminated by the streetlights.

He looks up and gives a weak grin, but a cold sweat is forming on his forehead. The depth of the wound is clearly no trivial matter.