5 p.m. – JFK International Airport.
Captain George Stacy of the NYPD's 19th Precinct was pacing furiously near the arrivals gate, his face dark as thunder.
His precious little cabbage… the daughter he had raised with such care… had finally been targeted by a wild boar.
And not just any boar.
A wild boar.
But that wasn't even the worst of it.
The real problem was that from the look of things, his little cabbage hadn't been dragged away—she had willingly gone to find that wild boar herself.
George couldn't understand it.
All he knew was that he wanted to put a bullet through the beast the moment he saw him.
The plane from Hagerstown, Maryland, had landed, and passengers began filing out.
George took a deep breath, steeling himself.
Then he froze.
There she was—his daughter Gwen—walking out hand in hand with… him. That boy. That damn wild boar.
His face turned black on the spot.
Other people waiting nearby could almost feel the killing intent radiating off him. They instinctively stepped aside, giving the police captain space as though he were a storm waiting to break.
Gwen noticed first. Her heart jumped, and she quickly let go of Hawk's hand with a nervous whisper. "Crap—it's Dad."
Hawk's eyes also lifted, meeting George Stacy's across the gate.
Their gazes locked.
Hawk could see the suspicion, the judgment, and the protective rage in the man's eyes.
And truthfully—he understood.
If he were in George's position, and his daughter had vanished only to come home holding a stranger's hand… he'd have been even angrier. He might have broken the guy's legs outright.
And now, he realized, in this story, he was the boar.
Well. So be it.
Hawk's steps were steady as he approached, Gwen already rushing to her father's side, tugging at his arm to calm him. Hawk stopped in front of the police captain, meeting his glare with calm, and extended his hand.
"Mr. Stacy. I'm Hawk. I'm sorry for worrying you."
George didn't answer. He didn't even take the hand. He just glanced at Hawk once, then turned to Gwen.
"Let's go. Your mother's waiting at home."
"Dad—"
"It's fine, Gwen."
Hawk withdrew his hand, expression unchanged. "Go on with Mr. Stacy," he said softly.
He wouldn't blame the man. If George wanted to hit him, he wouldn't fight back. That was the father's right.
Because in this story, Hawk knew his role. He was the wild boar who had stolen the cabbage.
So he simply smiled at Gwen, said his farewell, and walked away on his own—leaving her no reason to struggle between them.
…
An hour later, Hawk was back at his apartment near Queensboro Bridge.
Switching on the lights, he expected to find dust after twenty days away. But no—the place was clean, almost tidy. Even the shorts he had left hanging out the window had been folded neatly on the sofa.
On top of them lay an envelope.
He picked it up.
Inside was a letter—Connors's handwriting. A recommendation letter to New York University.
Hawk blinked. "This… is heavy."
It was no small gift. In the West, a recommendation letter wasn't just paper—it was a token of trust, a social favor. Many would kill for one.
If he'd received this before awakening his cosmos, he would have been overjoyed. Now, though, his perspective had shifted. University was no longer his whole future. His path stretched beyond it.
Still—Connors had gone out of his way for him. That deserved thanks.
He flipped the envelope—Gwen had written Connors's number on the back.
Plugging in his dead phone to charge, he waited until the screen lit, then dialed.
"Curt Connors speaking—"
"Dr. Connors, it's me. Hawk."
He apologized for being gone so long and only now finding the letter. Connors laughed warmly on the other end.
"Yes, I've been in good spirits. One of the test mice… it's given me real hope of success."
"…I see. Then let me congratulate you in advance, Doctor."
"Thank you. All right, Hawk, I need to get back to work."
"Of course. Take care."
The line clicked off.
Hawk set the phone down and glanced at the photo frame on his nightstand. It had been moved slightly. Frowning, he adjusted it back, angled so that if he rolled to the side in bed, there was a seventy percent chance it would be the first thing he saw upon waking.
Satisfied, he smiled faintly.
Then he leaned back, waiting, mind already turning to what would come next.
...
(End of Chapter)
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