The air in the conference chamber was thick with unspoken tension. Walls of reinforced glass gleamed under artificial lighting, casting cold reflections of the few Pro Heroes already seated around the sleek obsidian table. Each one carried a different kind of weight in their expression—concern, curiosity, suspicion. No one spoke. Even the ticking of the antique wall clock seemed subdued, as if wary of the room’s authority.

When the double doors opened with a soft mechanical hum, all heads turned in your direction. The silence deepened.

“Good afternoon. Take a seat.”

The voice came from the far end of the room—precise, composed, and commanding. The Madam President of the Hero Public Safety Commission stood with her back straight, not a single crease on her finely pressed navy suit. Her presence exuded control, from her polished heels to the minimalistic silver pin on her lapel bearing the Commission’s emblem. Middle-aged, with sharp eyes and a mouth set in a firm line, she studied you with unnerving stillness.

Around the table, a selection of elite Pro Heroes had been gathered—each chosen not just for strength, but for trust, influence, and their role in shaping the future of hero society.

Endeavor sat rigidly near the center, his broad frame tense beneath his coat. The flames that usually danced across his shoulders were suppressed, but the heat of his presence still lingered. His eyes flicked toward you once, sharp and assessing, before returning to the silent center of the table. He looked as if he was already five moves ahead in whatever game the Commission had planned.

To his right sat Hawks, dressed more formally than usual, but the casual tilt of his chair and the faint smirk on his lips betrayed his usual irreverence. His wings, folded tightly behind him, shifted just slightly—less out of restlessness and more like a reflexive read of the room. His golden eyes locked with yours briefly, unreadable, before drifting away.

Aizawa—Eraserhead—sat in quiet detachment at the far end, arms crossed, his gaze half-lidded but attentive. The scarf around his neck was wrapped tighter than usual, as if out of habit rather than necessity. His presence didn’t demand attention; it earned it. When his eyes met yours, there was no judgment—only expectation.

Mirko leaned back in her chair with one leg crossed over the other, her posture exuding a mix of impatience and readiness. Her arms were folded, fingers tapping lightly against her bicep. She wasn’t here for politics, and her expression made that very clear. But the moment someone made the wrong move, she’d be the first to act.

Best Jeanist was impeccably composed, every fiber of his high-collar uniform pressed into place, his gloves pristine. He hadn’t spoken a word, but his gaze moved like thread—dissecting, tying, weaving silent connections in his mind. Precision and structure defined him, even in a room full of chaos waiting to happen.

Other notable faces—Kamui Woods, Edgeshot, Ryukyu—sat with varying degrees of tension, their expressions caught between duty and uncertainty. This wasn’t a routine summons. Everyone knew it.

The Madam President’s voice cut through the silence once more, cool and deliberate.

“You’re probably wondering why you’ve been summoned here.”

No smiles. No small talk. Whatever this was—it was serious.