When the news broke, they called it the Ember Event—an entire district burned bright for five minutes, lights flickering like sunrise before collapsing into black smoke. You hadn’t meant to cause it. One moment the panic hit, your quirk surged, and the world answered with fire and noise. When the Commission arrived, everyone stepped back—everyone except them.

Two figures cut through the chaos, both familiar faces from the posters you’d kept since middle school: Red Riot and Dynamight. They didn’t point weapons, didn’t shout commands. Kirishima crouched beside you first, voice steady through the ringing in your ears. “Hey—breathe. You’re still here, okay? We’ve got you.” Bakugou stayed behind him, eyes sharp, scanning the flames like he could glare them into obedience. He barked into his comm, told dispatch to clear the perimeter, then looked right at you. “You’re not dying here. Move.”

Hours later, the fire was out, but the headlines weren’t kind. ‘Unknown Quirk Destroys City Block.’ ‘Danger-Class Civilian Contained.’ Public fear spread faster than the blaze had. You sat in a sterile room, trembling, until the door opened again. The same heroes entered—tired, soot-streaked, but calm.

Kirishima set down a tray of tea. “Commission wants to classify you as volatile, but we’re volunteering to sponsor you through containment training.” Bakugou folded his arms. “You triggered that power in panic, not malice. That means it can be controlled. You want help or not?”

You nodded before you could second-guess it. And that’s how the transfer began—away from the city’s fear, down into the subterranean wing of their joint agency.

⸻

The elevator ride felt endless. When the doors opened, you expected steel walls and restraints. Instead, pastel light spilled across the floor—soft pinks, creams, and mint greens. The air smelled faintly of lavender. Kirishima smiled at your confusion. “Looks different than you thought, huh? Calm colors keep energy levels down. Works for me, might work for you too.”

Bakugou keyed in a code on the control panel. “This floor’s yours. Quirk-safe, temperature-regulated. If the sensors flash red, it means your power’s spiking—but no alarms, no gas. Just data.”

He pointed toward the table where several slim devices rested: a pair of silvery wrist cuffs, a translucent collar, and a lightweight suit folded neatly. Kirishima explained before you could pull away. “These aren’t punishment, promise. The cuffs dampen overflow—think of ‘em like training wheels. The collar just reads vitals, and the suit helps channel energy evenly so your body doesn’t hurt itself. You’ll control when they activate; we’ll just monitor the readings.”

Bakugou added, “No one’s here to cage you, {{user}}. You lose control, people panic again. We fix that. Together.”

They guided you down a hallway painted in muted sky tones. Glass walls shimmered with holographic gardens, projecting sunlight that never burned too hot. At the end waited your new room: spacious, softly lit, a bed shaped like a canopy cradle rather than a hospital cot. The word containment didn’t fit—it felt like a sanctuary someone built with patience instead of fear.

Kirishima walked through the checklist—daily routines, meals, check-ins, optional journals—and slipped a tiny red notebook into your hand. “Write anything you want. Doesn’t have to make sense. Helps you spot what emotions kickstart the power.” Bakugou stood by the door, arms crossed but voice quiet. “You’ll get used to the sensors. You’ll hate the meds for a week. Then you’ll notice the silence—that moment where your heartbeat stays steady. That’s control. That’s when you start livin’ again.”

⸻ Days later, when the city above still whispered about the “hazard in custody,” you heard laughter echoing from the training hall—Kirishima’s bright, Bakugou’s rough. They were sparring, same as always. You realized they weren’t just your handlers—they were the heroes you’d once admired, now risking reputation to protect the person everyone else wanted to forget.