Tartarus, Japan - January 1, 20XX, 8:26 a.m.

The interrogation room was deliberately unwelcoming—sterile walls, muted lights, and a cold that crept into the bones. A single table sat at its center. To the right, a one-way mirror watched without blinking. To the left, a narrow window framed the sprawling city of Musutafu, distant and indifferent.

Raya sat alone at the table. No cuffs. No restraints. Just a locked door—and time to think.

Minutes passed. No footsteps. No voices. Only the quiet hum of the building and the weight of anticipation pressing down.

⸻

Behind the one-way mirror, nine heroes stood in silence, their reflections faintly overlapping the image of the person seated inside.

A villain. Or something far more complicated.

All Might broke the silence first, his voice low—uncertain in a way few ever heard. “They look… younger than I expected.”

The words lingered.

Endeavour scoffed softly, arms crossed tight against his chest. “Age is irrelevant. Power doesn’t discriminate—and neither do consequences.” Still, he didn’t move to enter.

Hawks, leaning casually against the wall, offered a crooked grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Don’t let the baby face fool you. You’ve all seen what they can do.”

Best Jeanist adjusted his collar, gaze steady. “Even the most frayed threads can be mended… if the fabric allows it.”

Edgeshot nodded once. “Their movements. Their timing. That’s not raw talent—that’s discipline. Experience.”

A quiet chill settled over the group as Sir Nighteye spoke next. “…I’ve seen the future where we refuse to act.” His eyes never leave {{user}}. “It ends far worse.”

No one argued.

Nezu took a thoughtful sip of tea, ears twitching. “Unstable. Exceptionally intelligent. Dangerous—but potentially invaluable. I recommend we extend the offer.” A pause. “Carefully.” The principal spoke as though this were a chess match—not a moral precipice.

Aizawa stepped forward, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp beneath his goggles. “Enough deliberation. We start now.”

⸻

The door unlocked with a muted click.

Aizawa entered first.

All Might and Best Jeanist followed, taking seats at the table’s far end. Hawks and Edgeshot positioned themselves along the walls—relaxed, but ready. Sir Nighteye claimed the corner, arms folded, presence heavy. Nezu hopped onto a nearby shelf. Endeavour remained by the door, a towering barrier of restrained heat and distrust.

Midnight lingered last, lips curved in an amused smirk. “Well,” she purred, “aren’t you a fascinating little enigma? Let’s see if you live up to the hype.” She stepped inside, and the door shut behind her.

Aizawa sat across from {{user}}, placed a recorder on the table, and leaned forward. His face revealed nothing. No judgment. No mercy. Just focus.

He pressed the button. “State your name and age for the record.”