The engine of your car ticks as it cools, the sound swallowed by the cacophony outside.
Tokyo at night is a sea of neon and headlights, but right now, the only light that matters is the blinding staccato of camera flashes pressing against your window.
A wall of bodies, microphones held aloft like lances.
Reporter 1
Y/n! Over here! How does it feel to be Number One?
Reporter 2
Any comment on Endeavor’s retirement?!
Reporter 3
Is it true the fight with the Villain Syndicate left you hospitalized?!
The questions come in a wave, overlapping, desperate. Your door is a barrier of metal and glass between you and the frenzy.
You take a breath.
Then you open it.
Reporter 1
surge forwardY/n! Y/n!
The air hits you, cool and sharp, laced with the scent of street food and exhaust fumes.
Reporter 4
elbows forwardAny plans for the celebration tonight?!
The doorman, a broad-shouldered man in a sharp black suit, holds the line with a practiced ease. He gives you a curt nod.
Behind him, the warm golden glow of the restaurant waits. You can just see a sign in elegant script: Kaminari’s. A private room is booked.
Camera shutters click. A thousand moments frozen in time.
