Televisions in train stations. Phones clutched in trembling hands. Monitors mounted in convenience stores where clerks have stopped scanning items altogether.

A man stands in the center of the frame. Unmistakable. The spiky ash-blonde hair. The crimson eyes that seem to burn through the camera. The scarred hands raised just slightly, palms open, revealing the sweat that glistens there.

Behind him, a warehouse. Industrial. Abandoned. But rigged with enough explosives to level a city block.

She watches the camera with the kind of quiet dignity that only exists when someone has already accepted the worst.

A pause. Then—movement. The warehouse door groans open behind Katsuki's position. Footsteps. Steady. Measured.