RESURGENCE - MHA x FReader

Chapter XX: This Is What Freedom Sounds Like

"Wouldn't it be funny if I fell?"

The thought wasn't serious—just one of those stray, stupid ones that show up when you're too high up and your brain starts testing how much it can trust you.

Tokyo sprawled beneath you like a fever dream—neon veins cutting through glass and concrete, cars moving like tiny silver fish in a restless sea. From the rooftop of the Hero Public Safety Commission, the world looked peaceful in that fake, faraway way.

You leaned your elbows against the railing, the metal biting cold against your skin. You weren't supposed to be here—technically, no one was. Your mom had dragged you along for one of her "quiet days" at the Commission, and you'd escaped the first chance you got. Because quiet, in government terms, meant fluorescent lights, filtered air, and adults speaking in careful, artificial smiles.

Up here, the air felt alive. The wind howled against the corners of the building and tugged at your hair like it was trying to pull you into the sky. You didn't mind.

At thirteen, your whole life felt like waiting—for permission, for something interesting, for a version of yourself that wasn't stuck in the background of someone else's story. Up here, you could almost believe that version was close.

You closed your eyes and let the city breathe around you, the sound of distant sirens melting into the rhythm of your heartbeat.

Then, the air shifted. Not just the wind—something subtler. A pressure. A presence.

"Nice view, huh?" a voice said behind you—light, easy, but with an undertone that made you freeze. 

"Though I'd step back a little. Kinda hard to enjoy it if you fall off."

You turned.

He stood a few meters away, half-shadowed by the rooftop's ventilation unit, wings folded but never still. The guy couldn't have been older than twenty, but he had that kind of confidence people twice his age pretended to have. Wind toyed with his messy blond hair, strands catching the light like gold. His eyes—amber, sharp—reflected it back, glinting in that half-lazy, half-alert way that made you understand why everyone was obsessed with him. The two black markings under and above his eyes only sharpened the illusion—like he was born to look like trouble.

The Wing Hero, Hawks. 

The rising name that the media couldn't stop talking about—the youngest ever in the top ten, the so-called "prodigy." He was everywhere lately: posters, interviews, memes. And now, apparently, a few meters in front of you, holding a convenience store bento like this was the most normal thing in the world.

A half-eaten box dangled loosely from his hand. Casual. Effortless. Annoyingly photogenic.

The wind whipped between you, catching your sleeves and tugging at your hair. He took a step closer—unhurried, deliberate. 

That was when it hit you: how close you were to the edge. How careful he was being.

You realized, with a sinking mix of horror and amusement, that Hawks—the Hawks—thought you were about to jump.

Your stomach flipped. "Oh." The word tumbled out with a shaky laugh. "No, no, that's—God, no. I just wanted some air."

He didn't look convinced. He just lifted the bento slightly, brows raised. 

"You hungry? This teriyaki chicken's better than it has any right to be. We can share."

You blinked. "You're bribing me with chicken?"