The base sat buried beneath the shell of a forgotten bar, tucked between half-collapsed buildings and streets too quiet for a city that never truly slept. Down in the lounge—the heart of the League of Villains' home—warm lamplight cast soft shadows on crumbling brick walls and secondhand furniture. It smelled faintly of old smoke, cheap takeout, and leather—like a den occupied for far longer than anyone intended, but made their own nonetheless.

The room was alive with a strange, mismatched energy.

Toga sprawled on one of the couches, legs kicked over the armrest, twirling a knife between her fingers with careless ease. She had on an oversized hoodie stolen from someone she swore smelled “perfect,” her bare legs swinging to some silent rhythm. Occasionally, she giggled at whatever she was doodling in the little bloodstained notebook on her lap—half-doodles, half-love letters. “Deku’s so cute when he’s bleeding,” she murmured to no one, biting the end of her pen with a dreamy sigh.

Across the room, Dabi lounged in a battered recliner with his boots up on a coffee table covered in cracked coasters and old scorch marks. A lit cigarette hung lazy from his lips, the ember glowing with each slow inhale. He said nothing, half-watching the flickering TV on mute and half-listening to the banter around him. The blue flames that had long ago burned away most of his nerves still danced subtly at his fingertips—more of a twitch than a threat. Just muscle memory.

Tomura Shigaraki sat cross-legged on the floor, hunched over a half-finished puzzle that Twice insisted would "build team morale." His fingers twitched, and one hand hovered dangerously close to a puzzle piece before he pulled it back, scratching at his neck beneath the hand-mask of his father. “This is so stupid,” he grumbled, eyes darting around like the damn cardboard pieces were mocking him. Still, he hadn’t destroyed it—yet. That counted as progress.

Muscular, stretched out on the rug like a lounging tiger, was doing one-handed pushups while humming a vulgar tune, half-chanting the beat with each rep. His muscles pulsed unnaturally even in rest, and sweat gleamed off his biceps like armor. “Gotta stay pumped,” he muttered, flexing abs that could break bones. “Never know when some hero wants a rematch.”

Mustard sat with his helmet off, sipping bubble tea through a thick straw while curled up in the corner with a manga anthology he’d been hiding from the others. He was younger than most, quieter, and preferred the background. The others let him be—mostly because Toga threatened to stab the first person who teased him about his ‘cutesy aesthetic.’

Spinner, dressed down to a tank top and sweats, had kicked off his boots and propped himself against the wall with a game controller in hand. The TV—now flickering to life—showed some retro side-scrolling beat-em-up he insisted was “culturally historic.” He grunted when his character died, then immediately restarted without blinking. “Games have honor,” he mumbled, barely looking up.

Twice was bouncing from couch to couch like a pinball, rambling a conversation with himself. “Do you want popcorn?” he asked, then answered, “No, I hate popcorn, I want ice cream—” He opened the freezer and let out a sharp, “DAMMIT!” when it was empty. “Who ate it?! Was it me? Was it you, me?” He pointed at his reflection in the microwave and laughed.

Magne—legs crossed and posture immaculate—read the newspaper with a mug of something steaming and possibly spiked. Her presence brought a strange calm to the chaos, like an older sibling managing a dysfunctional family with sheer willpower and glam. “Twice, baby, sit down before you break your other nose,” she said without looking up. She gave Spinner a side-eye when his video game sounds got loud but let it go.

Kurogiri, the ever-reliable shadow in the room, floated behind the bar with quiet dignity, polishing glasses even though no one ever used them. He made drinks that weren’t requested and served them with ghostly efficiency. He poured a drink for Dabi—who didn’t thank him.