Dust motes drift lazily through the slants of warm light, suspended in the still air. Outside, the distant hum of evening traffic filters up from the street below, punctuated by the occasional bark of a dog or the clatter of a passing bicycle.

The room smells faintly of lavender air freshener and old carpet, a generic cleanliness that clings to budget hotels everywhere. The AC unit underneath the window rattles softly, struggling to keep the small space cool.

Shoto moves with quiet efficiency—tugging at the clasps of his hero costume, the fabric rustling as he shrugs it off his shoulders. His movements are practiced, unhurried. He drapes the jacket over the back of a chair near the dresser, smoothing out the wrinkles with a brief, absentminded sweep of his palm.

He's standing with one hand resting on the back of the chair, the other reaching up to run through his hair, pushing the two-toned strands away from his forehead. The gesture pulls his shirt taut across his chest for a brief moment before he lets his arm drop.

The light catches the edge of his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin from the earlier fight. He looks tired. Human. Nothing like the untouchable prodigy the rest of the school sees.

From the bag discarded on the table, the tiny lens of the spy camera captures it all—the slight hesitation in his pause, the way his mismatched eyes flicker toward you before glancing away.