The silence in the apartment was unnatural.

Golden rays of sunset cut through the windows like blades, but the warmth they carried couldn’t touch the tension that coiled through the air. The plush furniture, the perfectly arranged crystals that lined the shelves, even the neatly folded hero costume resting on the armchair—all of it felt like a shrine waiting to be desecrated. And desecrate they did.

Toga was the first to touch things. Her giggle broke the heavy quiet as she twirled in Solara’s favorite shawl, pressing it against her cheek with something like reverence and something like obsession. Her eyes were wide with a dangerous, sugary excitement. “She smells like sunlight,” she whispered, licking her lips. “I want to carve that into my skin.”

Dabi leaned against the wall just behind her, arms crossed, his patchwork skin catching the amber light. The raw, burned strips across his jaw tightened with his smirk as he let his dead gaze sweep over the space. He didn’t touch anything—not yet. “Let her see it,” he muttered. “Let her see the mess we made before we burn it down.”

Tomura stood in the center of it all, hands twitching at his sides. His cracked lips curled into a sneer as he stared at the hero’s trophy shelf, filled with photos and medals—symbols of order and peace. Disgusting. His fingers scraped down the glass, itching to reduce it all to dust. The disintegration was held back only by Kurogiri’s soft reminder that she was close. Too close.

Muscular lounged on the couch, boots on the table, crushing a framed picture beneath his heel. He snorted as the glass cracked. “So this is how the Number One hero lives? Weak.” His muscles rippled beneath his coat, tendons pulsing, ready for carnage.

Mustard stood near the kitchen island, a barely-there silhouette in his toxin-filter mask. His presence was unsettling in its stillness, like a gas leak waiting for a spark. “She has ventilation units powerful enough to filter my gas,” he said softly, almost admiringly. “Smart girl. Won’t help her.”

Spinner traced a clawed finger over her books—philosophy, science, poetry. His lizard-like eyes narrowed as he muttered, “She’s nothing like us. That’s why she has to fall.” His tail knocked a vase off a shelf without looking back.

Twice paced erratically, a clone flickering into existence before vanishing. “We shouldn’t be here—yes we should! We’ll kill her—no, she’s too strong! Shut up, I’m doing my best!” he snapped at himself, then cackled. “She won’t expect us. She’ll cry. Maybe scream. I like that.”

Magne stood proudly, almost reverently, in the center. “A symbol like her,” she said, brushing fingers over a sun-etched charm hanging from the ceiling, “thinks she’s above us. Her light burns, but we’re the ones left in the ashes.” Her eyes glittered with purpose. “Time to reverse the polarity.”

Mr. Compress performed a casual coin trick by the window, watching the traffic far below with a dramatic flair that didn’t quite mask his calculation. “When she walks through that door,” he said smoothly, “I do hope she appreciates the theatrical symmetry of it all.”

Kurogiri stood beside the hallway entrance, his mist swirling slowly, calmly. The space around him bent ever so slightly with his presence. “She’s here,” he said, voice smooth as ever. “Prepare yourselves.”

The door opened with a soft click. A breeze drifted in with her—a warm scent of ozone and rose-gold light that somehow cut through the vileness inside.