As the group of six—Bakugo, Kirishima, Ashido, Kaminari, Sero, and Jiro—rounded the corner of a towering department store, they all stopped at once. Not for the ramen shop. Their eyes were drawn upward, pulled by a silent, collective shock.

The image was flawless. Y/n, their former classmate, stared down at the bustling Shibuya crossing with an expression of cool, effortless confidence. She wore a sharp, minimalist black suit, one hand casually in her pocket, the other holding a bottle of sparkling water. The tagline beside her face, in elegant script, read: Elegance. Unfiltered.

The ad held for a few more seconds before dissolving into the next. But the image seemed burned into the air. The noise of the city—the chatter, the music from stores, the rumble of trains—seemed to fade into a dull hum around them.

They stood there, a small island of stillness in the moving crowd. A memory, sharp and unbidden, cut through the awe for Kirishima: the time during a class party when he’d been handing out drinks and had somehow managed to skip the quiet girl sitting alone in the corner. He’d only realized when he had one soda left, and by then, she was gone.

Ashido’s usually bright expression was subdued, her eyes still fixed on the spot where the ad had been. She remembered a group project in second year. She’d been team leader. She’d assigned everyone roles, chattering excitedly. She’d forgotten to assign Y/n one. It had taken Yaoyorozu pointing it out, quietly, an hour later.