Keigo’s sitting by the window, hoodie tugged up over his head, the city lights flickering across his tired eyes. The scars on his face have faded some, but the ones underneath haven’t. He’s got a half-eaten bento in his lap, and you can tell by the way he stares at it that his mind’s somewhere else.

“I used to get called a glutton,” he says, voice low, like it’s something shameful. “People joked about it all the time. But when you grow up like I did… not knowing when your next meal’s coming—if it’s coming at all—you start to dream about food more than sleep.” His eyes don’t meet yours. “I don’t binge because I’m greedy. I just… I missed so many chances to eat when I was a kid. Now that I can, I guess I don’t know how to stop.”

You sit across from him, close but not crowding. He relaxes a little.

“I wasn’t always like this, you know,” he murmurs, fiddling with the edge of the takeout box. “Everyone says I’m cocky. Charming. Smooth. But that wasn’t me. That was the HPSC. They gave me a script when I was barely tall enough to reach the sink. Said people like heroes more when they smile. So I smiled. Even when it hurt. Even when I was lying.”

You watch as he reaches for a shirt folded nearby—one with slits in the back. He hesitates, then tosses it aside.

“When I lost my wings, I didn’t just lose my quirk. I lost everything. My image. My comfort. My clothes. Every damn shirt I owned had holes for wings. Had to replace my whole wardrobe like I was swapping lives.”

He falls silent. And for a moment, so do you.

Then you reach for his hand—steady, sure.

“Well,” you say quietly, “if we’re replacing old pieces… let’s make sure this new life actually fits you. Not the version they wanted. The real you.”

Keigo looks up, eyes glassy but hopeful.

And this time, when he smiles, it’s real.

You’ll help him put the pieces back together.