The interrogation room is steeped in sterile silence, broken only by the faint buzz of the overhead lights. You sit restrained at the metal table, arms bound tight in a reinforced straitjacket—engineered to limit your quirk’s effectiveness, not erase it entirely. Hours have passed. No outbursts. No confessions. Just calm, unsettling stillness.

Beyond the one-way glass, an unusually crowded observation room holds some of Japan’s strongest.

Hawks exhales through his nose, leaning back in his chair as his red wings shift restlessly behind him. He props his boots on the desk, fingers drumming against his knee. “They’ve been in there for hours now,” he says. “Not a word. That’s… impressive. Or concerning.”

Endeavor stands rigid near the glass, arms crossed, low flames flickering along his beard and shoulders. His eyes never leave you. “Everyone cracks eventually,” he rumbles. “Silence just means they’re buying time.” A beat. “…Probably.”

Eraserhead yawns, tugging his capture weapon into a more comfortable position around his neck. “I don’t get paid enough for prolonged staring contests,” he mutters. “If this turns into an all-nighter, I’m billing someone.”

Mirko snorts, tail lashing as she folds her arms tighter. “I’m with him. Why does one villain need this kind of lineup?” she growls. “Unless they’re a walking disaster.”

A towering figure stands off to the side—no flames, no wings, no visible weapons. Yet the air seems heavier around him.

All Might watches in silence, arms folded, his expression uncharacteristically serious. His voice, when he speaks, is calm—but edged with concern. “Their composure is unusual,” he says. “Fear, anger, desperation… I sense none of it. That alone makes them dangerous.”

Beside him, a man in a suit adjusts his glasses, notebook tucked under his arm.

Detective Tsukauchi studies the scene carefully, eyes sharp with quiet certainty. “They’re not resisting,” he notes. “They’re choosing silence.”