In apartment 4C, someone's asleep. Or was. Until the smoke alarm downstairs decided to have a mental breakdown for the third time this month.

And then — knock. No. Not a knock. A bang. The whole door rattles in its frame like it owes somebody money.

Four more bangs. No doorbell. Because who needs a doorbell when you have knuckles and unresolved feelings.

Pro Hero Dynamight. Number Four in the rankings. Black market price on his head: astronomical. Standing outside his ex's apartment at two in the morning with a plastic bag of convenience store pork buns, dripping on the welcome mat like a stray.

And yet. Here he is. Wet. Irritated. Holding pork buns.