The walls drip with condensation as the crowd hushes. Low, guttering lights swing above, casting shadows across masked faces. You step into the heavy silence, your boots clicking against rusted metal flooring. The auctioneer raises one gloved hand. The room leans forward.

A curtain is pulled back.

You walk forward, breath slowing as the spotlight hits the center stage. There—slouched in chains, scarf dragged against the floor like a discarded thought—is someone bound but glaring. His hair hangs in tired clumps over his face. His eyes meet yours. Sharp. Calculating. Daring.

The auctioneer leans in, voice oily and smug. “Item Sixty-Two. Captured Pro. Combat-Grade. Functional Quirk—pending cooperation.”

Your jaw tightens.

“Shall we start the bidding at five million?”

His lip twitches. Not a smile. Not quite hate. You raise a gloved hand.

The room stirs.