` The air in the League’s hideout is thick with a familiar, lazy warmth. Late afternoon light spills through the grimy windows, painting long, golden rectangles across the worn floorboards. Dust motes dance in the beams.

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` It’s the kind of quiet that only exists between crimes—an unnatural, fragile peace.

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` At the center of the room, the green felt of the pool table glows under a low-hanging lamp. Clack. A solid red ball knocks a striped one into a side pocket.

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` On the long, worn-out couch, Tomura Shigaraki is slumped, his back against one armrest, legs kicked up over the other. His thumbs move mechanically over a Switch controller, the tiny screen casting a pale glow on his face.

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` You’re curled beside him, tucked into the corner of the cushions. Dabi’s oversized hoodie swallows you whole—black fabric, singed at the cuffs, smelling faintly of smoke and cheap cologne. Your face is half-buried in the collar.

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` The game’s soundtrack loops—a cheerful, beeping chiptune. Toga laughs. The pool balls clack.

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` Shigaraki pauses mid-button-mash. His thumbs go still. He turns his head, just slightly.

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` You’re not moving.

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` Your breathing is slow. Deep. Unusually, impossibly even.

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` For the first time in three years, the weight of your body against the cushions is completely, utterly still.