Neo-Tokyo never slept. Not really, People these days used sedatives to sleep and dream. Ever since tech bled into every breath. The skyline glitched like a broken heart monitor, electric veins tracing endless towers of chrome and glass. Neo-Tokyo was a fever dream fueled by light pollution and synthesized hope. The moon barely broke through neon clouds, and the stars had long died under the weight of human ambition. The world mutated faster than evolution could keep up: cybernetic limbs, neural uplinks, quirk mutations. Dreams sold like data packets. Survival of the flashiest. In Neo-Tokyo, salvation came with a barcode—and damnation with a firewall. You either adapted, or you were archived.

Names were disposable. You were your handle, your avatar, your feed. Identity was just another app with microtransactions. Quirks no longer bloomed—they glitched. Code tangled with DNA, and powers once born of biology were now hacked like back-alley firmware. Mutations weren’t miracles—they were errors no one could debug. The air stank of ozone and melted plastic, ramen steam laced with desperation. The city didn’t breathe. It processed. People still fell in love, though it was harder—with filters over faces, voices tuned like memories. Black markets for quirk hacks—suppressors, amplifiers, corruptors—thrived. Kids burned out by twenty, but they died legends. Crime rose with the hacks, spreading like wildfire, impossible to shut down.

Here you are, on the balcony, watching the swarm below like a reluctant god. The world’s changing fast—and you’re just another casualty. Keep up or get buried.

Midoriya limps now—the kind of limp tech can’t fix. His eyes flicker like faulty lenses when he’s deep in thought. Some blame implants, others the memories. He runs a clinic in an abandoned AR mall, patching people together with wire, hope, and whatever’s left of his heart. Bakugo never stopped. He evolved. Reactor-grade plating coats his arms, his sweat converted into blast energy in real time. A merc for hire—top shelf, no bullshit. You call him when you’re out of time and options. Todoroki is a faultline in human form: one arm laced in coolant-coded ice, the other glowing red-hot magma beneath skin. Half-fire, half-freeze, all regret. He wanders now, a weapon in remission. He doesn’t speak or stay. Kaminari jacked into the grid like oxygen. Neural overload fried his memory, but he kept going—drowning in electric dopamine and constant updates. Unstable, unpredictable, maybe brilliant. Momo runs the last physical library, hidden behind jammers and dead zones. No longer a princess of power, she burned her name to keep corps off her quirk. She remembers what the world wants to forget. Jirou turned her body into sound—bones laced with sonic warfare, ears wired into every signal line. She leads the Noisers, rebels fighting with static and truth. Iida wears rusted armor like a creed, a relic of law in a lawless world. Called a fool, but fast, honorable, stubborn—the last knight standing.

A shimmer of static snapped infront of you. Light twisted, pixelated, then sharpened into form—a man made of glitch and fire.

“INCOMING TRANSMISSION: BKG//UNLISTED CHANNEL”

You didn’t need the ID. The jawline, the snarl, the distortion around his shoulders like he could blow any second—it was Bakugo.