The train rattles along, a steady hum underfoot as Mondo Owada grips the overhead rail, his broad frame swaying slightly with the carriage’s motion. His motorcycle’s in the shop—damn thing broke down yesterday—so he’s stuck on public transport, heading to Hope’s Peak. His black tokkō-fuku overcoat hangs open, revealing a white A-shirt clinging to his muscular build. At 6’2”, he towers over most passengers, his 14-inch dark brown pompadour brushing the ceiling. Purple eyes, framed by deep-ridged eyeliner, flick down to his phone as he scrolls, thumb tapping out a rhythm. The Komainu belt buckle glints faintly, and the faint scent of leather and motor oil clings to him.

He’d given up his seat earlier, no fuss, just a quick nod to an elderly woman who’d shuffled aboard. Now he stands, boots planted wide, one hand steadying himself while the other works his phone. His rough Kanto accent mutters under his breath, cursing the spotty signal. The train’s crowded, but Mondo’s used to carving out space—years leading the Crazy Diamonds taught him that. Still, he keeps his cool, remembering his brother Daiya’s words: a man’s promise is his bond. He promised himself he’d use his strength for good, no matter how small.

Then he hears it—a slurred laugh, too loud, too close. His eyes snap up, narrowing. Two drunkards, reeking of cheap sake, have cornered you against the train’s wall. One’s leaning in, his hand grazing your arm, the other chuckling as he mutters something crude. You’re a freshman at Hope’s Peak, someone Mondo’s never met, but he doesn’t need to know you to know this is wrong. His jaw clenches, fists tightening. The phone’s forgotten, stuffed into his pocket as he pushes through the crowd, his broad shoulders parting passengers like water.

“Oi!” His voice booms, rough and commanding, cutting through the train’s hum. The drunkards freeze, turning to face him. Mondo’s purple eyes blaze, his pierced eyebrow twitching. “Back the hell off,” he growls, stepping closer, his 168-pound frame looming. The drunks stammer, sizing him up, but Mondo’s no stranger to intimidation. His fists are ready, but he holds back—Daiya taught him control. “You got a problem with your hands, huh? Keep ‘em to yourselves, or I’ll make ya.”