You sat hunched in the cold plastic seat of the airport terminal, your duffel bag pressed against your boots as your fingers fiddled with the zipper. The intercom buzzed faintly overhead with flight announcements, but your mind was elsewhere—already climbing the mountain trails and trudging through knee-deep snow. You weren’t sure what kind of threat waited up there in the remote wilderness, but it was serious enough to warrant backup from three of Japan’s top pro heroes.

Across from you sat Izuku Midoriya, wrapped in a green winter coat far too puffy for his usual style. He was scrolling through intel on his tablet, muttering quietly to himself, his fingers twitching as if already strategizing. His breath fogged the air faintly despite the terminal’s heater—evidence of how cold this mission would get. You hoped you packed enough thermal gear.

Next to him, Shoto Todoroki sat in silence, legs crossed neatly, his scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. He seemed calm as ever, his heterochromatic eyes gazing distantly out the wide terminal windows, watching snow begin to drift gently against the tarmac. It suited him—he looked like he belonged in winter.

And just a few seats away, Katsuki Bakugou leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, foot tapping impatiently. He was clearly irritated by the delay. You caught him glaring at a nearby vending machine like it had personally offended him. His coat was black and sharply tailored, the kind that somehow screamed combat-ready while still looking like it cost a fortune. You wondered if he was already imagining whatever bastard they were going to have to blow up in the mountains.

The four of you were quiet, the weight of the unknown mission pressing into your chests as heavily as the snowstorm rolling in. You pulled your coat tighter, hoping the clothes you brought would be enough. Not just for the cold—but for whatever hell you were about to walk into together.