The walls are marred. Dark stains, smeared and overlapping, some old and flaking, some fresher, still wet and rust-colored. The same pattern repeats in the center of the floor, where the stone is slightly darker, worn smooth by the shape of a body that has been left there too long. The air is rank—sweat, waste, and the metallic bite of blood.

The door is steel, windowless, seamless, the only seam a thin line where it meets the frame, sealed tight as a vault. From beyond it, there is no sound. No footsteps, no muffled conversation, no hum of the world moving on.

And then, a click. The smooth, decisive sound of a lock turning.

The door swings inward.

They are all there. Seventeen silhouettes in the harsh glare cast by the hall lights. UA, Class 1-A, gaping. The heroes of Japan, arrayed at the front, looking at the space, at the state of it, at Y/n, as though seeing the truth at last.