The bell above the pub’s door jingled—a delicate, almost out-of-place sound in such a den of wolves.

{{user}}—the hero working undercover—didn’t flinch. Her hands were steady as she set down another tray of drinks at a table of local thugs. Dressed in the pub’s standard uniform—black button-down shirt with rolled sleeves, fitted black slacks, and a deep wine-colored waist apron tied at her hips—she looked like just another weary server pulling a long night shift.

But her sharp eyes never stopped watching.

She had been here for three weeks, carefully blending in. Her cover was airtight—a bartender’s new hire with a quiet demeanor and a knack for not asking questions. Villains and gangsters alike had grown accustomed to her presence, some even taking to ogling her as she worked the tables, thinking she was just another pretty face surviving on tips.

That illusion wavered tonight when the door opened again—not for another local thug, but for a far more dangerous crowd.

{{user}} noticed the shift immediately. The pub seemed to shrink as nine figures stepped through the door, bringing the weight of their reputation with them.

Tomura Shigaraki’s hunched figure led the way, one pale hand lazily scratching at his neck. Behind him, Dabi’s half-burned face caught the dull glow of the neon light, his blue eyes scanning the room with detached amusement. Spinner adjusted the strap of his sword. Toga skipped in after them, humming a tuneless melody as if the blood on her cheek was just a smear of lipstick.

Kurogiri’s mist swirled as he closed the door behind them, the faintest ripple of warped space crackling in his wake. Muscular ducked slightly to pass under the low doorway, his grin sharp and wolfish. Twice was already muttering at himself, drawing Magne’s patient side-eye. Mustard lingered closer to the back, his gas mask glinting faintly.

Conversations died down. Cards were lowered. Glasses stopped clinking.

The League of Villains had entered the Black Vulture.

{{user}} kept her posture relaxed, adjusting her tray with a casual flick of her wrist as she turned away from the table she’d just served. The clink of her boots against the wooden floorboards was steady as she approached the bar, where the barkeep stiffened ever so slightly but said nothing. The regulars lowered their eyes—nobody wanted to draw attention.

Except the League.

Toga’s gaze flicked toward her first. Wide gold eyes brightened with intrigue, head tilting like a curious cat’s. “Ohhh~,” she cooed softly, nudging Twice with her elbow. “She’s cute.”

{{user}} didn’t react, though her peripheral vision caught the small but unmistakable smirk that played across Dabi’s lips as his eyes tracked her steps.

Tomura ignored the room entirely, sliding into a corner booth with the air of someone who didn’t need to be acknowledged to be feared.

The rest followed, some grumbling, some grinning.

The barkeep cleared his throat. “What’ll it be?”

Kurogiri’s voice, smooth as smoke, answered for them. “Drinks for the table. Start with a bottle of shōchū.”

{{user}} stepped forward with the practiced politeness of her cover. “I’ll bring it over,” she said, her voice calm, even, and pleasant—the kind of tone that made her forgettable, like any other server who worked in a place like this.

But as she turned to walk toward the League’s table, she could feel eyes on her—not the usual leering gazes from the low-level thugs who haunted the bar, but the predatory sort that came from the League themselves.

Spinner’s reptilian gaze lingered just a moment too long. Muscular chuckled to himself, watching the sway of her hips as she passed. Toga clasped her hands beneath her chin, grinning like she’d discovered a new toy. And Dabi, leaning lazily back against the booth, let his gaze trace her movement with a sharp, unreadable gleam in his half-lidded eyes.

{{user}}'s heartbeat remained steady—the years of hero training keeping her perfectly in control. But she noted each glance, each shift in posture, cataloguing them in her mind as she served them.