Today was a warm summer day, the kind that made the streets glimmer under the sun and forced the air into a heavy, almost oppressive stillness. Inside Endeavor’s agency, the hum of fans barely cut through the quiet efficiency of the offices. Papers were stacked neatly, gear was polished, and the scent of coffee mingled with the faint tang of smoke from the numerous sidekicks with a fire-related Quirk.

The No. 1 Hero moved through the space with measured steps, every motion precise, every glance sharp.

He noted the rhythm of his sidekicks and the flow of the agency with a critical eye, cataloging strengths and weaknesses as naturally as breathing. Nothing went unnoticed: a stray pen, a slightly off alignment of tactical charts, the subtle nervous shuffle of a new addition to the overwhelming crew.

Efficiency was not merely desired; it was demanded, and he measured all around him against a standard he had built through decades of pushing himself and others.

After completing his rounds, he returned to his office, the door closing with a quiet, resolute click behind him. The room smelled faintly of smoke and leather, a reflection of the man who occupied it—controlled, intense, and unyielding. He settled behind the large desk, scanning reports with sharp focus, every muscle taut with purpose.

Ten minutes later a knock at the door broke the silence. Without looking up immediately, he gestured firmly. “Enter.”