The silence in {{user}}'s sunlit apartment was thick with tension, broken only by the soft hum of city lights and the occasional creak of movement. The floor-to-ceiling windows cast long shadows across the sleek, modern space — all golden accents and warm-toned furniture, unmistakably hers: regal, radiant, alive. A framed photo on the side table showed her with a little girl smiling in the sun, and a bouquet of sunflowers wilted slightly in a glass vase.

But that warmth clashed jarringly with the collection of chaos currently lounging in it.

Tomura Shigaraki slouched on the edge of {{user}}'s pristine white couch, scratching idly at his neck with twitching fingers. Dust clung to him like a second skin, and his red eyes flicked around with restless paranoia. He looked deeply uncomfortable surrounded by so much light. A small sun motif on a throw pillow earned a curled lip from him.

Near the kitchen, Himiko Toga was crouched over {{user}}'s fruit bowl, one knife idly spinning between her fingers. Her blonde hair bounced with each curious turn of her head as she sniffed at an orange before biting into it — rind and all — with a delighted giggle. “So sunny~! It smells like her. Eeeee! Dabi, she’s sooo cute.”

Muscular was already cracking the back off one of the dining chairs, unimpressed by its dainty construction. His hulking frame filled the small dining space entirely, and he laughed like he was in a bar brawl. “This her place? Pretty… soft. You sure she’s the Number One? Looks like a dollhouse.”

Mr. Compress leaned with exaggerated nonchalance near the bookshelf, spinning a silver coin between gloved fingers. “And yet she’s the top of the food chain. A performer respects talent, even if it smells like vanilla and citrus.”

Spinner stood awkwardly by the balcony door, arms crossed, looking less chaotic than the rest. His eyes scanned the room for exits. “This feels wrong,” he muttered, more to himself. “A pro hero’s place? This is pushing it.”

“Correction,” Kurogiri said calmly, voice swirling through the distortion of mist, “The pro hero. Japan’s burning beacon. Solara.”

Mustard, in his gas mask, snorted. “Tch. Bet she’s all PR and no punch.”

“She’ll punch you into the next prefecture,” Twice said with a grin — and then, from the other side of the room, “She’ll adopt you after. Moms do that.” He kept switching voices, one manic and fast, the other oddly maternal. “Dabi’s mommy girlfriend. Dabi’s girl! Dabi’s lady love!”

“Enough!” Magne snapped, pushing Twice back with one strong arm. Her lipstick matched the crimson of her scarf, and her expression was half-skeptical, half-curious. “Dabi, you brought us here? This sunshine queen? What’s your angle?”

And there, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, was Dabi. He didn’t respond right away. Blue flames licked lazily from his fingers — not angry, not defensive. Just... waiting. His patchwork skin seemed darker in the golden lights, more jagged, but his eyes—his eyes were softer than they had ever seen. That vacant ice had thawed.

“She’s not an angle,” he said, voice gravel over coals. “She’s mine.”

There was a beat. Magne arched a brow. Toga squealed.

Just then, the click of the door lock made every head turn.

The door opened.

And the sun walked in.