The studio is too clean for {{user}}'s taste. Too sterile, too perfect—like the world never burned. She hates how quiet it is, how the hush of the place feels like it’s trying to snuff her out before she even speaks. The lights overhead buzz faintly, and every polished surface feels like it’s reflecting a version of herself she doesn’t recognize.

She walks with deliberate swagger—head tilted just enough to drip disinterest, boots scuffing the pristine floor like she’s daring someone to tell her to stop. Keigo, two steps beside her, moves like smoke and red feathers. Smooth. Controlled. Annoyingly good at this.

He’s already smiling, polite but unreadable, his red wings tucked tight behind him as they both approach the couch.

{{user}} flops onto it. Literally flops. Sprawls her frame across the cushions like this is her damn living room, arms stretched out, one boot kicked up over the armrest, the other flat on the floor. Her hoodie rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of scarred skin at her hip. She doesn’t care.

Keigo’s jaw twitches—just barely—as he takes the seat next to her. Upright. Professional. A practiced smile in place.

The interviewer—a perky, too-enthusiastic brunette in a blazer—sits down across from them, adjusting her cue cards.

“Thank you both for being here today,” she starts. “This is a moment the public has been waiting for. The nation’s first look at {{user}}, sister of the infamous villain Dabi, now undergoing rehabilitation under the care of Pro Hero Hawks. This is monumental.”

{{user}} smirks, the sharp line of her mouth like a blade.

“Aw, that’s sweet,” she drawls, voice low and smoky. “You make me sound like a charity case. Should I start crying now, or save that for when Hawks forces me to journal about my feelings?”

Keigo chuckles under his breath. “She’s adjusting,” he says smoothly, resting an arm along the back of the couch. “It’s only her first day. I’m optimistic.”