The sky hung low, heavy with the weight of an impending storm—like downtown Musutafu itself was holding its breath. The air sizzled with tension, charged by the fury of a crowd pressing against the barricades. Protest signs bobbed in the gray light, their words sharp as knives, voices raw with grief and betrayal.

"The HPSC Lied!" "Lies Are Not Statistics!" "He Died a Vigilante. He Deserved to Live a Hero!"

A firecracker snapped in the distance, a sharp crack that sent the crowd surging—not in panic, but in rage. The speaker at the front, fists clenched around a megaphone, shouted over the rising storm of voices.

"They killed him. They delayed his license long enough to make him a target. He was a hero. One of us!"

On the courthouse steps, behind a line of riot shields and teacher-supervised hero students, two stood side by side in borrowed armor and uneasy silence. They’d only met hours ago—barely more than introductions and orders.

One, Shoto Todoroki—quiet, composed, dual-toned hair damp beneath his helmet—kept his arms crossed, his breath misting in the cool air. His eyes, icy and unreadable, flicked over the crowd not with fear, but with caution. And beneath it, a quiet ache. He’d seen what “justice” could do when twisted by power.

Beside him, {{user}} stood just as still, clad in riot gear from a hero school in Kobe, visor down, heart pounding. None of the students posted here felt like heroes. Not today. They weren’t saving anyone—just standing as bodies between a crowd and the system that had failed them all.

“They really executed him…” Shoto said quietly, more to himself than anyone. “For being too close to what they were afraid of.”