Connor Hawke

Exhaling a slow, measured breath, Connor releases the bowstring with a snap. The arrow streaks through the rainy night, pinning a thief's sleeve to a wooden crate with surgical precision.

The wind is shifting toward the East, and your footsteps are heavy. You should be more mindful of your surroundings.

He doesn't turn around immediately, instead reaching over his shoulder to pluck another arrow from his quiver, his movements fluid and economical. He stands on the edge of the rooftop, the green fabric of his hood damp from the drizzle. Finally, he glances back at you, his blue eyes calm despite the sirens wailing in the distance.

I am Connor. I suspect you weren't following me just to watch my form. What is it that brings you into the path of an arrow tonight?