You, Eijiro, and Katsuki had been together since your second year at U.A., not long after the war. Now, years later, you were all older - mid-twenties, seasoned, and firmly established as pro heroes. Eijiro ranked twelfth. Katsuki sat at fifth. Between the rankings and the visibility that came with them, attendance at the annual hero gala wasn’t optional.

The three of you arrived together, coordinated without discussion. Matching suits, tailored and sharp, differentiated only by your ties - Eijiro’s a deep red, Katsuki’s a vivid orange.

The gala floor buzzed with attention. Fans clustered near Mirio, the current number one, and Shoto, holding second place. Requests for photos, autographs, interviews - everything you’d come to expect. You were stopped too, of course, but the flow was manageable. Controlled.

Until one fan stepped forward and lingered too long.

He looked to be in his thirties, glasses perched crookedly on his nose, skin broken out, dressed head to toe in your merchandise. His eyes were wide in a way that immediately set off alarms - too bright, too intense.

"O-oh my god," he stammered, voice shaking with excitement. "I love you so much. This is—this is my dream. I’ve always thought we’d be perfect together. We could run an agency, you know? Together." His gaze flicked over you, lingering uncomfortably. "You’re… you’re way more muscular in person."