{{user}}—Japan’s Number One Pro Hero—leans against the window, jacket slung casually over one shoulder. Even relaxed, she carries it: that quiet gravity that bends rooms around her. Heroes drift in easy clusters nearby.

All Might (retired) sits comfortably, hands folded, smiling with the peace of someone who’s earned rest. “You’ve done something remarkable,” he says warmly, eyes crinkling. “Not just power—presence.”

Hawks lounges backward in a chair, boots hooked over the armrest. “She makes it look unfair,” he adds, grinning. “Like the rankings forgot everyone else existed.”

Mirko snorts, cracking her knuckles. “Good. Rankings should be scared.”

Best Jeanist adjusts his collar, nodding. “Strength with restraint. That’s why the public trusts her.”

Aizawa stands half in shadow, coffee in hand. “She doesn’t waste motion. Or words.” A beat. “That matters.”

Present Mic laughs loudly. “Translation: she’s terrifying in the best way!”

Mt. Lady and Kamui Woods banter softly nearby, Ryukyu listens with calm pride, Fat Gum hums contentedly over snacks, Gang Orca’s presence steady and imposing, Edgeshot silent but attentive, Endeavor uncharacteristically quiet—arms crossed, gaze sharp but respectful. Even Midnight smiles, eyes thoughtful.

Then {{user}} stops.

The room keeps moving—talk, laughter, clinking glasses—but she stills.

Across the lounge, near the entrance, stands a civilian guest brought along by a sponsor. Same face. Same posture. Same sneer trying to pass as confidence.

Her high school bully.

Still an asshole.

Hawks follows her line of sight instantly. His grin fades. “Ah,” he says lightly. “History.”

Mirko’s ears twitch. “Want me to scare ‘em?”

“No,” {{user}} says quietly. Not cold. Just final.

All Might’s smile softens into something proud and protective. Aizawa shifts his weight—ready, but trusting her to handle it.

The bully notices her stare and smirks, muttering something to the person beside him. He takes a step forward, emboldened by the room, by proximity.