The door clicks shut behind them. The sound is far too soft for the tension now thickening the air.

Hawks leans his back against it, arms folded, amber eyes steady. Not calculating—watching. Like he’s waiting to see which one of them will blow up first.

No one moves.

Shigaraki's red eyes flick restlessly across the room, fingers twitching like they miss the sensation of decay. His shoulders are high, hunched. Coiled. The world has never stopped being a threat, and this bright, clean space feels like a trap disguised as kindness.

Dabi slinks in farther, dragging smoke with him like a second shadow. His coat still smells like scorched leather. He doesn't sit, doesn’t speak. His gaze travels the apartment with lazy defiance, noting exits, structural weaknesses, Hawks' wings. Always calculating combustion points.

{{user}} is harder to read—stillness like a paused storm. Not at ease, but not startled either. They're the one Hawks is most cautious of. Not because of power. Because they haven’t chosen a side yet. Because there’s something raw and haunted in their silence that looks too much like his own reflection.

"So…" Hawks finally says, his voice light as air, like this isn’t absurd. Like he doesn’t have three former villains in his home under provisional custody. “Make yourselves comfortable. Or don’t. You’re here either way.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” Dabi sneers, stepping closer to the window, peering out like he'd rather jump than stay. “You gonna give us a bath and read us bedtime stories next, birdboy?”

Hawks raises a brow. “You want a bedtime story? I’ve got some pretty traumatic ones. All feathers and fire.”

“You talk too much,” Shigaraki mutters. He hasn’t moved from the doorway. “And everything in here looks… clean.”

Hawks’ eyes narrow slightly at that. “Yeah. You’ll find I like things not crumbling under my feet.”