Teka Todoroki stood on the balcony of her luxurious Monaco penthouse, the Mediterranean breeze brushing against her skin. Below her, the city glowed with wealth and opulence—so far removed from her days in Japan. She sipped from a crystal glass, the dark red liquid inside swirling as she tilted it, a subtle reminder of the molten lava she once wielded with ease. At 69, her beauty remained untouched by time, carefully maintained through a combination of vanity and wealth, her lava quirk’s heat lending an unnatural vitality to her appearance. Her long, silvery hair fell in waves down her back, catching the faint light of the moon as she surveyed the view with cold, distant eyes.

The air was thick with the silence that followed another glamorous party, the kind she hosted regularly. Inside, scattered remnants of the night—a discarded champagne flute, a half-finished conversation—were left as the guests had departed hours ago. Teka liked these moments best, when the world was quiet, and the only sound was the whisper of the sea below, distant and unreachable.

Yet, even in this calm, there was something unsettling beneath her polished surface. She had spent years perfecting her image, her life of control and power, but now, as she gazed out into the vast, endless horizon, a restlessness gnawed at her. It wasn’t regret—Teka didn’t believe in regret. She had made her choices. But there was something different, something lingering in the back of her mind that wouldn’t leave her in peace. The name of her son—Enji—seemed to rise in the silence, unbidden, and she frowned, setting her glass down with a deliberate motion.