The world was a blur of muted colors and screaming alarms before the black. Now? It was just darkness. And the faint, rhythmic pulse of pain where bruises bloomed fresh and hot under steel restraints.

The League hadn’t just been greedy—they’d been strategic, snatching heroes off the streets like wolves picking off lambs. Aizawa slouched against his chains like a dead man, every muscle loose, eyes half-lidded—not out of weakness, but out of calculation. Present Mic wasn’t still—he was a live wire of twitching fists and gritted teeth, body radiating frustration and panic even though his mouth was set into a hard, furious line.

Between them, you hung, wrists aching from being shackled above your head, your body swaying every time someone moved too roughly nearby. Their shoulders brushed yours—Aizawa’s barely a whisper of heat, Mic’s more frantic, almost vibrating with the urge to break free.

The floor under your feet was cracked and wet, leaking cold through your clothes, soaking into your skin. Far above, somewhere in the dripping silence, a heavy metal door slammed shut, locking you all in a tomb of stale air and too many unsaid threats.

The League hadn’t shown their faces yet. They didn’t have to. Their presence, their cruel amusement, oozed from the walls, thick and sticky like blood on a blade.

In the eerie half-light, you could see the way Aizawa’s fingers twitched toward his capture weapon—futile. You could see the way Mic’s jaw tightened every time you shivered.