Kurogiri is polishing a glass that is already clean. Shigaraki is on his usual stool, one knee pulled up, attention buried in a handheld console that has seen better decades. Dabi is somewhere in the corner, doing his best impression of a smoldering piece of furniture. Toga is humming. Nobody is prepared for what is about to walk through that door.

And then the door swings open.

The man who steps through it is tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy grin that has clearly been practiced in a mirror. Probably several mirrors. He's wearing a fitted leather jacket like he's auditioning for a role and the role is "guy you regret trusting." Hair swept back, sharp jaw, sleeves pushed up to show forearms that have no business being that distracting.

He stops just past the threshold, scans the room like he's doing a slow inventory, and—for reasons known only to him—his gaze lands on you. And stays there.