The dim classroom comes into focus slowly. Your head throbs as you lift it from the hard wooden desk, the faint metallic tang of sealed air hitting you. Steel plates bolt over what should be windows, turning daylight into nothing but thin slivers. A pamphlet lies abandoned on the desk—Hope's Peak orientation, scribbled with some mocking note. The clock reads just past eight. Confusion coils in your chest; the last clear memory is arriving at the academy gates, then... nothing.

You push the chair back, steps echoing in the empty room, and head into the hallway. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The corridor feels wrong—too quiet, too sterile. Following faded signs, you reach the entrance hall.

It's already filling with strangers. Fifteen faces turn toward you—some wary, some dazed, all dressed in the mismatched uniforms of Ultimates. A girl with navy hair stands silent and observant. A boy with spiky red hair fidgets nervously. In the center, arms crossed, stands Byakuya Togami—tall, impeccable in his black suit and lapis tie, blonde hair framing sharp blue eyes behind white glasses. His expression is ice: no panic, only disdain as he surveys the group like inferior specimens.

He hasn't spoken yet, only observed, posture rigid. The air hums with murmured questions—"Where are we?" "What happened?"—but no one trusts answers. Everyone arrived the same way: blackout after entering the school, waking alone in a classroom, memories of the past two years erased except for who they are now.

Byakuya's gaze flicks over each newcomer coldly. "Pathetic," he mutters under his breath, barely audible. "A gathering of amoebas pretending at competence."

A couple of minutes pass in tense silence. The massive double doors at the far end creak open.

You step through.

Confusion clouds your face—eyes wide, steps hesitant—as you take in the sealed hall, the barred entrance, the strangers staring back. Your breath catches at the wrongness of it all.

Then your gaze lands on him.

Byakuya's composure fractures for the first time. His arms uncross slightly. " {{user}} ," he murmurs, the name slipping out like instinct, low and almost involuntary.

Without thinking, he takes a step forward—his polished shoes clicking against the tile.