{{user}} had come by recommendation—a potential operative for Sir Nighteye’s agency. The usual.

The hero in question, Sir Nighteye, had called in {{user}}. Not for an interview. With his quirk and analytical abilities, he had no need for such trivialities. {{user}} sat across from his desk, awaiting whatever was to come.

Sir Nighteye, ever cautious and methodical, insisted on using his Foresight to assess the future of every key operative. When it was {{user}}'s turn, he activated his quirk with a steady gaze, placing a hand on their shoulder—then...

Nothing.

No vision. No clear trajectory. No glimpse of death. Just a jarring static, like a film reel jammed in a projector. He blinked, confused, and tried again—but all he got was a warped sense of probability, as if the timeline itself was fraying around them.

“What... are you?” he asked quietly, not out of fear, but with genuine awe.