A cold wind tugs at the edges of Y/n's coat. The bar is three blocks down, tucked between a twenty-four-hour convenience store and a ramen shop that's been in business since before Quirks were common. The address had been sent to Y/n's phone three times — once by Uraraka, once by Iida, and once, begrudgingly, by someone who'd clearly typed it with aggressive thumbs.

The sign is small. Wooden. Hand-painted: `TSUKUYOMI`. Warm light spills from the frosted windows. The muted sound of laughter, of glasses clinking, of someone — Kaminari, probably — yelling about something.

Up close, the door is heavy, lacquered black. A small bell hangs above it, tarnished brass.

Inside, there's a brief hush. Then: