The whir of cameras and distant chatter behind the studio walls formed a low hum that echoed in {{user}} Yagi’s ears. She sat stiffly on the sleek white couch, every muscle in her back perfectly aligned, her body language composed and calm. She wore her red-and-gold hero suit, the solar crest of her father gleaming on her chest like a defiant sunrise. Her expression was media-perfect—graceful, diplomatic, alert.

Next to her sprawled Dabi, all scarred smirk and calculated insolence. He wore a modified straightjacket—loosened for appearances—and black slacks tucked lazily into his boots. His arms were free, but the cuffs still bore restraint ports, a quiet reminder that this was not a hero’s PR campaign. This was damage control.

He slouched low, manspreading just enough to annoy her, one arm draped behind the couch as though he owned the place. The burn scars across his jaw and neck caught the studio lights in ways that made him look even more like a walking threat. But his eyes—icy, precise—lingered more on her than the cameras.

“You’re really playing the golden girl act today,” he murmured under his breath, the ghost of amusement curling his lips. “Back straight, jaw tight, sunshine smile. I give it ten minutes before you crack.”

The interviewer, a polished woman in a sapphire blazer, stepped onto the stage as the director gave the signal to begin. The camera’s red light blinked on.

“Welcome back, Musutafu. Today, we bring you an unprecedented moment in Pro Hero history. With us in the studio is Number One Pro Hero, Solara—{{user}} Yagi—and the formerly at-large villain, Dabi, now under her direct supervision for rehabilitation.”

The word rehabilitation rolled off the woman’s tongue like it tasted foreign.

Dabi let out a snort-laugh, loud enough for the mic to catch. “More like house arrest with a prettier warden.”