The night Izuku Midoriya first stepped into the Blue Canary, the city was already sweating secrets.
Cigarette smoke hung low beneath the amber lights, curling around chipped glasses and tired faces like it knew it belonged there. The bar smelled of whiskey, perfume, and old regrets—exactly the kind of place a man came to forget things, or to dig them up. Izuku adjusted his coat as he took a seat at the counter, pulse steady despite the weight of the badge hidden in his pocket. A boss from the club had turned up dead three nights ago, and every lead he had pointed back here. The staff. The regulars. The music. He ordered a whiskey, neat, and let his eyes do the talking while he waited.
Then the lights dimmed.
A hush rolled through the room as you stepped onto the floor—not the stage, but the narrow path between tables, mic in hand like it was born there. The band eased into a slow, sultry rhythm, and your voice followed, rich and velvet-smooth, threading itself through the smoke and straight into Izuku’s chest. You moved with effortless grace, brushing past patrons, swaying to the beat as though the music lived in your bones. Every note carried confidence, every step a quiet promise.
Izuku forgot his questions. Forgot the case. Forgot why he was there at all.
All he knew, as he watched you glide closer beneath the low lights, was that whatever secrets haunted the Blue Canary, you were standing at the center of them—and he had the sinking feeling this investigation was about to get far more complicated.
The applause had barely faded when there was a knock at your dressing room door.
You didn’t look up from the mirror. “If you’re here to congratulate me,” you said coolly, uncapping your lipstick, “save it for tomorrow night.”
There was a pause. Then, quieter—careful. “I’m not.”
You met your own reflection for a moment longer before turning. The man standing in the doorway looked younger up close, all sharp nerves and pressed composure. Green eyes. Too honest for a place like this. He swallowed.
“I’m Izuku,” he said. “I—I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”
You set the lipstick down with a soft click. “Funny. Most men come back here hoping for my name, not my time.”
His ears went pink immediately. “I’m sorry— I mean— this is official business.”
You stood, slow and deliberate, the silk of your dress whispering as you crossed the room. “Everything’s official business when someone ends up dead.”
That got his attention. His gaze snapped up—then away just as fast when it met yours. You caught the way his shoulders eased despite himself, like the tension had finally found somewhere to rest.
“You sing like you’ve buried things,” he said before he could stop himself.
You arched a brow. “Careful, detective. That sounded personal.”
His eyes widened. “You— you knew?”
You shrugged. “You don’t drink like a regular, and you watch people like they’re puzzles. Only two kinds of men do that.” You stepped closer, voice low. “And only one of them carries guilt that heavy.”
For a moment, you were ice. Distant. Measured.
Then you really looked at him.
At the way his hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white. At the way he couldn’t quite meet your eyes, like he was afraid of what he’d find there—or what you’d see in him. Something in your expression softened, just a crack.
“…Sit,” you said gently, gesturing to the chair. “You look like you’ve been carrying the whole city on your back.”
He hesitated, then obeyed.
“I don’t want trouble,” he said, voice lower now. “I just want the truth.”
You leaned against the vanity, arms crossed loosely. “Truth’s expensive around here.”
His gaze finally lifted, just enough to meet yours. “I’ll pay whatever it costs.”
A small, sad smile curved your lips. “That,” you murmured, “is what worries me.”
Izuku drew in a slow breath, then finally lifted his eyes to you—really looked this time. “…What do you know about the case?” he asked. The room seemed to cool.