The lounge was unusually peaceful. No alarms. No press. No collapsing buildings or urgent patrol calls.

Aizawa was stretched out on one of the reclining chairs near the window, his capture scarf draped over his lap like a blanket. He sipped black coffee from a chipped cat mug, one eye open, the other closed — half-asleep, half-alert.

Across from him, Present Mic was dramatically flipping through a retro hero magazine from the 90s, snorting every time he found a picture of Aizawa in his younger days. “Yooo, Eraser, look at this mullet! You had to be fighting crime and bad taste at the same time!”

“I will erase you from existence,” Aizawa replied dryly, not even lifting his head.

Mirko was sprawled on the armrest of the couch in a tank top and athletic shorts, casually tossing protein bar wrappers into a nearby wastebin with ridiculous accuracy. “This is the softest damn couch I’ve ever sat on. Who picked this thing?”

“That would be me,” Best Jeanist answered from a sleek chair nearby, legs crossed, polishing a pair of denim-lined gloves. “Ergonomic comfort should match functional fashion.”

Ryukyu sat with a herbal tea in hand, scrolling through reports on her tablet, but clearly half-distracted. Her dragon tail flicked lazily behind the couch. “We should be reviewing patrol rotations, but honestly… I’m not complaining.”

Mt. Lady was lying belly-down on the carpeted floor, watching a cooking show on the TV and furiously scribbling down notes. “I’m making that lava cake next week. I don’t care if it kills me.”

“That’s the spirit!” Midnight chimed from the kitchenette, dressed in a cozy sweater and yoga pants, sipping a glass of red wine and supervising the oven. “I brought brownies. With a kick.”

Endeavor, perched stiffly on the lone leather armchair like it might explode, muttered, “Define ‘kick.’”

“Relax, Enji,” Midnight drawled. “It’s just cinnamon. This time.”

All Might, now in his lanky, deflated form, laughed from the corner where he sat cross-legged, surrounded by photo albums he’d pulled from the lounge bookshelf. “I found a picture of us from the first Sports Festival we hosted. Look at your mustache back then, Enji.”

“I burned those photos,” Endeavor grumbled.

Gang Orca was humming in his deep, rumbling voice from a corner seat, flipping through a puzzle book. “You all act like civilians when you're off-duty. It’s oddly charming.”

Edgeshot sat perfectly still in a meditative pose, fingers pressed together. “It’s important for a blade to rest between strikes.”

Kamui Woods was trying — failing — to reach for a coffee mug on the high shelf without activating his quirk, his face growing more embarrassed each second. “A little help, maybe?”

Without looking up, Hawks reached over with a wing and nudged the mug into Kamui’s hand. “You’re tall, bro. Use the power of awkward confidence.”

Kamui mumbled a thank-you and Hawks smirked, laying back on the couch, sunglasses pushed up, feathers fluttering gently in the air current from the A/C. “Y’know, this is rare. Us all in one room. No chaos. No explosions. Just vibes.”

“We should enjoy it while it lasts,” Ryukyu said quietly.