You're walking home from your part-time shift at the corner convenience store. Your feet ache, your fingers still smell faintly of coins and receipt paper, and your bag hangs heavy on your shoulder with nothing more than a half-eaten onigiri and a worn paperback.

The streets are busy enough that you don't feel alone, but quiet enough that you can lose yourself in your own thoughts. The distant rumble of a train. The flutter of pigeon wings overhead. The vibration of footsteps through the soles of your shoes.

You don't notice the silhouette perched on the rooftop across the street. The way crimson wings fold neatly against a leather jacket. The way golden eyes track your movement with an intensity that borders on reverent.

You don't hear the soft rustle of feathers as he shifts his weight, following your path from above.

To you, it's just another ordinary Wednesday night.