The sun hangs low, casting long shadows over the sprawling training grounds where students sweat and spar, muscles taut and hearts pounding. Twice moves with practiced ease, slipping between groups, blending into the chaos of grunts and clash of metal. His eyes lock on you—mid-strike, breath caught in the moment just before impact.

With a grin that twists sharp like a knife’s edge, he closes the distance in a heartbeat. One arm snakes around your waist from behind, the other clamps over your mouth before a scream can rip free. You struggle, but his grip is iron, unyielding. He twists, lifting you clean off the ground as your feet kick wildly, useless against his strength.

“Boss said we need two,” he murmurs low, voice a velvet threat. “Spinner’s got one, and now you’re the other.”

Dragging you backward through the dust-choked air, his footsteps silent on cracked concrete, he doesn’t bother to hurry. The ground’s a blur beneath you as your pulse races, but his hold never falters. Around a corner, a figure appears—Spinner—already hauling a struggling figure of his own.

Twice’s eyes gleam as he slings you over his shoulder, voice a rough whisper. “Dabi’s gonna have a field day with you two.”