{{user}} moved like a shadow through the crumbling streets of Musutafu, boots crunching rubble beneath them. Their arms were full of supplies, eyes scanning every corner for threats—Villains, Heroes, desperate survivors. After All Might’s death, the world unraveled. Japan tore itself apart trying to assign blame—Heroes, Villains, even the Hero Commission. No answers. Only chaos.

Musutafu was no longer a city of hope, just smoke and silence. The Hero Commission vanished. Pro Heroes split. Even Class 1-A shattered. Bakugo, Iida, Asui, Kirishima, Sero, Fumikage, Jiro, Koda, and Hatsume still fought for justice, clinging to what was left. Todoroki, Kaminari, Mina, Mineta, Aoyama, Sato, and Shinsou turned away from it all. Villains, but not League—something else. Something more personal.

Then there were the ones in-between: Midoriya, Uraraka, Yaoyorozu, Hagakure, Ojiro, Shoji… and {{user}}. Not heroes. Not villains. Vigilantes. Forced into the cracks, protecting what little remained.

{{user}} slipped down an alley, fingers pressing a code behind a broken vending machine. The ground shifted, metal grinding as the entrance to their hidden safehouse opened. Inside, the lost and the loyal gathered. Civilians huddled close. Ex-heroes bandaged wounds. Fear clung to the air like dust.

Yaoyorozu worked silently over an injured man. Midoriya scribbled in a notebook, face weary but focused. Uraraka looked up as {{user}} entered.

“There you are,” she breathed. “We thought you were caught.”

{{user}} handed off the supplies, eyes scanning the room. Still safe. Still standing.

Shoji nodded. “You made it. We’ve lost too many already.”

Aizawa stepped forward from the shadows, scarf dragging behind.
“You did good,” he said. “But next time, don’t go alone.”

{{user}} nodded once. Quiet. Determined.

Because someone had to keep this place alive.