The scent of stale beer and something vaguely metallic was the first thing to register. The second was a deep, rhythmic thumping against her ear. Ryuko groaned, the sound a dry, rattling thing in her own skull. Every thought was a rusty gear grinding against its housing. She was lying on something warm. Something alive. The thumping was a heartbeat.
She cracked open an eye, the dim light of the room feeling like a laser. She was sprawled across a man’s chest. A very specific, brown-haired man she’d been talking to last night. Koichi. The Crawler, though she certainly hadn't known that then. The memory was a blur of laughter, clinking glasses, and Burnin’s booming voice challenging the scruffy guy with the sharp teeth—Rapt, was it?—to an arm-wrestling match.
As if sensing her wakefulness, Koichi stirred beneath her. He shifted, his own groan echoing her internal misery. His eyes fluttered open, bleary and unfocused, before locking onto her. Confusion, then dawning horror, then a desperate attempt at politeness warred on his face.
"Uh… Good… morning?" he croaked.
Ryuko pushed herself up, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain crashing behind her eyes. "Don't talk so loud," she mumbled, her voice rough.
That’s when they both noticed the third presence.
A small weight settled between them, wriggling its way into the narrow space. A little girl, no older than four, with a wild mane of white hair and curious red eyes, was climbing onto the mattress. A single, small horn protruded from her forehead. She looked at them with a serene, unblinking gaze, then, with a quiet sigh of contentment, snuggled herself firmly between their torsos.
If Ryuko had to describe her, the phrase that surfaced from the depths of her hungover mind was one her father had used long ago, looking at her newborn brother: *a crinkled tissue*. She had that same shaggy, slightly fragile, yet utterly dishevled look.
Koichi stared, his brain seemingly buffering. "What… what the hell happened last night?" he whispered, the question meant for the universe as much as for her.
His eyes then scanned the room, and the buffering symbol in his mind turned into a full-blown system error. They were in *his* apartment. His one-room studio that was now littered with empty takeout containers, a discarded stiletto heel that definitely belonged to Uwabami, and a propped-up traffic cone. And then he saw it. He looked up.
Taped to the ceiling, secured by what looked like an entire roll of industrial-grade duct tape, was a gaunt, skeletal man with blond hair, sleeping soundly in a crisp, albeit now wrinkled, business suit. He was so tall his limbs dangled comically, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Ryuko followed his gaze. Her professional hero instinct screamed *hostile suspension!* but the throbbing in her head and the cozy presence of the little girl muted it to a dull *baffled observation.*
The man on the ceiling—Toshinori Yagi, though they didn't know him—chose that moment to wake up. He blinked, his sunken blue eyes taking in the inverted world: the two young adults in bed, the strange child, the unfamiliar ceiling. His expression shifted from peaceful sleep to profound, universe-weary confusion. He tried to move an arm, but the tape held fast.
"Um," he said, his voice a reedy, embarrassed squeak. "A little assistance?"
The little girl between Koichi and Ryuko looked up at the talking man on the ceiling, then at Koichi’s stunned face, and finally at Ryuko’s pained one. She reached out a tiny hand and patted Ryuko’s cheek.
"Don't worry," the little girl said, her voice soft as a whisper. "The loud bunny lady said everything is fiiiine."
Koichi looked from the girl, to the stranger taped to his ceiling, to the Dragoon Hero in his bed. He let his head fall back onto the pillow with a soft thud.
"What the *hell* happened last night?" he asked again, this time with the utter, soul-deep resignation of a man who knew he was never going to get a straight answer.
The situation descended into a flurry of clumsy, hungover activity.
"Right. Right, okay. Let's get you down," Koichi said, scrambling out of bed. He wobbled for a moment, the room tilting, before steadying himself against a wall. He dragged his rickety desk chair under the suspended man. The tape was a nightmare, wrapped around the man's torso and limbs with a chaotic, almost artistic fervor.
Ryuko, meanwhile, gently scooped the little girl into her arms. The child was light as a feather and immediately nestled her head against Ryuko's shoulder, her red eyes blinking slowly. Ryuko's hero training kicked in, assessing the girl for any signs of injury or distress, finding only a serene, if confused, exhaustion.
After several minutes of careful peeling and muttered apologies from Koichi, the tall man finally came free, landing on the chair with a grace that seemed at odds with his emaciated frame.
"Thank you, young man," the man said, rubbing his sore arms. "My name is Toshinori Yagi. I... I must apologize for this intrusion."
"Koichi Haimawari," Koichi replied, still utterly bewildered. "And this is Ryuko Tatsuma. Do you... have any idea how you ended up on my ceiling, Mr. Yagi?"
Toshinori's brow furrowed in deep concentration, his skeletal face a mask of genuine confusion. "The last thing I clearly remember... I was having a quiet drink with my friend, Detective Tsukauchi. There was a commotion... I think a fight broke out near the bar entrance? Something about... a lizard? And a very loud woman laughing. After that, it's all... fuzzy. I have a vague memory of someone insisting I was 'perfect for the job' and then... a great deal of tape."
Ryuko, patting the now-dozing girl's back, shook her head. "That doesn't narrow it down much. My friends are... energetic." Her own memories were a shattered mosaic: Rumi arm-wrestling, Ayame flirting outrageously with Soga. Moyuru, and Moe doing shots with Rapt. And Koichi... she remembered talking to him. He was quiet, but his eyes were kind. He'd listened.
Frustrated, she pulled out her phone, wincing at the bright screen. Dozens of missed calls and messages from her sidekicks and the Hero Public Safety Commission. Ignoring them for a moment, she opened a news feed.
Her blood ran cold, cutting through the hangover like a knife.
"Koichi," she said, her voice low and urgent. "Look at this."
She turned the screen towards him. The headline was in massive, bold font: **SHEI HASAIKAI DECIMATED IN SHOCKING OVERNIGHT RAID!**
The article scrolled on, detailing how the notorious yakuza group, long suspected of developing illegal Quirk-destroying weapons, had their main compound utterly demolished in a surprise, unsanctioned attack. The perpetrators were believed to be a rogue team of top heroes: Miruko, Uwabami, Ingenium, and Ryukyu. Eyewitnesses also reported seeing a figure resembling the legendary All Might, and—the article noted with particular intrigue—multiple sources credited the Naruhata vigilante known as The Crawler with playing a "major, disruptive role."
A grainy, dark photo accompanied the article. It showed a silhouetted figure with a familiar blue-ish glow around his feet, zipping past a crumbling wall.
Koichi stared at the photo of himself. He stared at the headline. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. The quiet, unassuming man who just wanted to help people in his own small way had apparently, according to national news, helped take down a major criminal empire while blackout drunk.
Toshinori, peering over Koichi's shoulder, read the article. His sunken eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated shock. All Might? *He* was supposedly there? In his current state? It was impossible. And yet... the evidence of their collective amnesia was sleeping in Ryuko's arms and had recently been taped to the ceiling.
The three adults stood in Koichi's trashed apartment, the only sound the soft breathing of the sleeping child. The weight of the impossible news story settled over them, heavy and surreal.
Toshinori Yagi, the Symbol of Peace, finally broke the silence, voicing the one question that bound them all together. He ran a hand down his gaunt face, a gesture of utter disbelief.
"What the hell," he whispered, his voice trembling with awe and confusion, "*happened* last night?"
The stale air of the apartment was suffocating under the weight of the news article. They had to find someone, anyone, who could piece this together.
"Let's go," Ryuko said, her voice firm despite the pounding in her head. She adjusted the sleeping Eri in her arms. "We can't stay here."
The trio—a dragon hero in a rumpled dress, a bewildered vigilante, and a skeletal man who may or may not have been All Might—stumbled out of Koichi's apartment and into the hallway leading to the rooftop access. Koichi figured the fresh air might help clear their heads.
Pushing the heavy metal door open, the morning sun assaulted their sensitive eyes. And there, sprawled across the gravel-covered roof like a discarded action figure, was Rapt Tokage.
He was snoring loudly, one arm dangling over the side of a large air conditioning unit. His clothes were dusty, and a small, empty vial that smelled faintly of high-proof alcohol was rolling near his feet.
"Rapt!" Koichi hissed, shaking his friend's shoulder. "Rapt, wake up!"
Rapt grumbled, swatting at the air. "Five more minutes, lizard-breath... I'll beat ya this time..." he mumbled.
"It's Koichi! What happened last night?"
Rapt's eyes snapped open. He blinked, taking in the bizarre sight: a worried Koichi, a very serious-looking Ryuko Tatsuma holding a strange child, and a gaunt, blond stranger who looked like he'd been through a paper shredder.
"Koichi? The hell?" Rapt sat up, groaning and clutching his head. "Ugh. Feel like I got run over by a truck full of speakers."
"We need to know what you remember," Ryuko cut in, her tone leaving no room for argument. "About the yakuza. About her." She nodded down at Eri.
Rapt's brow furrowed as he dug through the foggy archives of his memory. "The yakuza... right. The Shie Hassaikai. Burnin' was pissed about something... something about 'quirk-erasing bullets'. Said it was an insult to heroes." He pointed a shaky finger at Eri. "The little girl. Her name's Eri. The bastards were using her... her blood or somethin'... to make those weird quirk things."
His gaze then drifted to Toshinori, and a slow, dawning recognition spread across his face. "And you... you're the guy who went all... *puff*!" Rapt gestured wildly, expanding his arms outwards. "You know, all big and muscular! You're All Might!"
Koichi and Ryuko stared at Toshinori, their jaws slack. The skeletal man flushed, coughing weakly into his fist, a small trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. "I... I assure you, young man, you must be mistaken..."
But the conviction in Rapt's hungover eyes was undeniable. The pieces were starting to fall into place, creating a picture that was both incredible and terrifying.
They moved to ground level, the morning city noise feeling unnaturally loud. Koichi, grasping for any familiar landmark, suggested the nearby park. It was a short, quiet walk, each of them lost in their own thoughts.
The park was serene. And occupied.
Draped precariously over the thick branch of a large oak tree, like a discarded scarf, was Moe Kamiji. Her signature flame-like hair was extinguished and drooping. A few feet away, slumped on a park bench with his head tilted back and snoring softly, was Moyuru Tochi.
It took several minutes of persistent shaking and calling their names to rouse them. Moe nearly fell out of the tree, while Moyuru simply groaned, his stony skin looking particularly gray.
"Ugh... my everything hurts," Moe mumbled, rubbing her temples. "The last thing I remember is... Rumi challenging someone to a race. And winning. I think."
Moyuru just grunted in agreement, looking too miserable to form words.
Ryuko did a quick headcount. "We're missing Soga, Ayame, and Rumi."
Moyuru, without opening his eyes, fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Find My Phone," he slurred. "Soga never turns his off. Thinks he's too cool to lose it." He squinted at the screen, the bright map making him wince. After a moment, his stony eyebrows rose in surprise.
"It's... all the way across town. At the Uwabami Hero Agency."
A beat of silence passed over the group.
Rapt, now slightly more coherent, voiced the question on everyone's mind. His face was a perfect mixture of confusion and concern for his friend.
"The hell," he asked, utterly baffled, "is Soga doing at a *hero agency*?"
The train ride to Uwabami's agency was a silent, surreal journey. Eri remained a peaceful, sleeping weight, first in Ryuko's arms and then, when Ryuko's arms grew tired, transferred to Koichi. He held her with a surprising gentleness, his hangover-pale face softened by a look of quiet concern. Toshinori spent the trip hunched over his phone, texting Tsukauchi in a frantic, cryptic exchange.
*Toshinori: Tsukauchi. Are you alright? My memory is… compromised. There are reports of a raid. A child. I am with… unexpected company.*
*Tsukauchi: Toshinori! Thank god. I woke up in a holding cell with a note that said ‘You’re welcome.’ The Shie Hassaikai compound is a crater. The Commission is having a meltdown. Where are you?*
*Toshinori: It is a long story. There is a child named Eri. She is safe.*
Arriving at the sleek, modern agency, they were waved through by a bemused sidekick who clearly recognized Ryuko and Moe and knew better than to question why they were leading a bedraggled parade of civilians, a skeletal man, and a sleeping child into the boss's private penthouse elevator.
The penthouse was opulent and quiet. Ryuko carefully handed Eri back to Koichi. "Moe, with me. Let's find Ayame. She'll know where Rumi is."
The two women moved down the hall towards the master bedroom, their footsteps muffled by plush carpet. Ryuko pushed the door open gently. "Ayame? Are you in—"
The words died in her throat.
The scene before them was one of profound, post-carnal chaos. Silk sheets were tangled in a heap on the floor. Ayame Hebiko, the Snake Heroine, was sprawled gloriously and utterly naked across the massive bed, her long hair a silken waterfall over the pillows. And curled against her, equally unclothed and sleeping with a look of smug contentment even in his unconscious state, was Soga Kugisaki.
The state of the room—the discarded clothes, the general aroma of sweat and expensive perfume, the visible bite mark on Soga's shoulder—left very little to the imagination about the night's vigorous conclusion.
Moe let out a low whistle. "Well, damn."
Ryuko simply pinched the bridge of her nose, her headache returning with a vengeance. "I really, really hope she's on birth control," she muttered.
Twenty minutes later, the living room of the penthouse had become the world's most confusing and hungover debriefing room.
Ayame, wrapped in a silk robe, was sipping a glass of water with a wry, unrepentant smile. Soga, now wearing a pair of Ayame's spare sweatpants that were comically short on him, looked simultaneously mortified and fiercely proud. Toshinori had discovered a passed-out Tensei Iida in the kitchen, still in most of his Ingenium armor, his helmet serving as an improvised pillow against the marble countertops. He was now upright on the sofa, holding an ice pack to his head and looking profoundly confused.
Eri was the centerpiece, still sleeping soundly on a large, plush loveseat, a blanket tucked around her by a surprisingly maternal-looking Moe.
"Okay," Ryuko began, her voice cutting through the groggy silence. "Let's pool our information. From what we've pieced together, last night, after we all got drunk, we apparently decided to take down the Shie Hassaikai yakuza."
Tensei jolted. "We *what*?!"
Rapt nodded. "Yeah. They were makin' bullets that destroy quirks. Usin' the little girl."
All eyes turned to Eri. Ayame's playful smirk vanished, replaced by a sharp, protective glare. Soga's expression hardened.
"Koichi and I," Ryuko continued, gesturing to the brown-haired man who was trying to look very small in an armchair, "woke up together in his apartment. We found Eri there. And Mr. Yagi," she nodded to Toshinori, "was taped to the ceiling."
Tensei looked at the gaunt man. "And… Rapt claims you're All Might?"
Toshinori gave a weak, bloody-cough-into-a-handkerchief. "It… seems my secret was not entirely kept last night."
"We found Rapt on a roof, Moe in a tree, and Moyuru on a park bench," Koichi added softly.
"And we," Ayame purred, leaning against Soga, "evidently decided to… celebrate our victory in a more private manner." Soga grunted, a blush creeping up his neck, but he didn't pull away.
The room fell into a stunned silence. The fragments of the story were there: a booze-fueled, unsanctioned raid, a rescued child, a series of bizarre morning-after locations, and one very unexpected romantic liaison. They had the "what." But the "how"—the specific, insane sequence of events that led a group of pro-heroes, a vigilante, and a bunch of civilians to topple a criminal empire—remained a complete and total mystery.
They all sat there, heroes and civilians alike, united by a shared hangover and a single, burning, unanswerable question.
The arrival of Detective Naomasa Tsukauchi was like a splash of cold water on the already surreal scene. He looked as tired as they felt, his trench coat rumpled and his expression one of profound professional exhaustion.
"Toshinori," he said with a nod, before his eyes swept over the assembled group. His gaze lingered on the sleeping Eri, and a flicker of relief passed over his face. "I see you found her. Good." He then took in the rest: the pro heroes in various states of disarray, the civilians, the stolen sweatpants, the general aura of collective regret. He sighed, long and deep.
"Alright. Let's start from the top, as I understand it," Tsukauchi began, pulling out a notepad he knew would be useless. "Sir Nighteye called you, Toshinori. He was... agitated. He let slip critical information about the Shie Hassaikai, a little girl named Eri, and the Quirk-destroying bullets. You," he pointed at Toshinori, "and you," his finger moved to Koichi, "who apparently overheard, relayed this to the entire group at the bar. A group which, I must add, included several highly impulsive pro heroes and at least one individual with a known vigilante streak."
He paused, letting the sheer improbability of it all sink in. "What happened next was, by all accounts, a torrent of chaos. The raid occurred. It was unsanctioned, unplanned, and somehow, miraculously, successful. Eri was secured, the bullet production line was destroyed, and the primary yakuza members are in custody. But after the dust settled... your group vanished. My last clear memory is of Miruko suggesting a 'victory tour'."
He looked around the room. "My quirk is Lie Detector. I know none of you are lying about your amnesia. So, we need clues. Check your personal items. Phones, wallets, anything. There must be something."
The suggestion sparked a flurry of activity. Phones were pulled out, passcodes fumbled with, groans emitted as bright screens assaulted hungover eyes.
And then the evidence began to surface.
A chorus of "Oh my god," and "No way," and "Delete that!" filled the room.
Rapt found a video of a furious Rumi Usagiyama, ears flat against her head, squaring off against a city light pole. "He said my aunt was a has-been!" she slurred at the camera, before launching a devastating kick that bent the metal pole. The camera shook with Moe's laughter.
Moyuru, with a faint smile, scrolled through photos of him and Rapt dominating a carnival midway, surrounded by a mountain of stuffed animals. "I remember the ring toss," he mumbled. "Vaguely."
But the most heartwarming find was a dedicated video, taken by Ayame, of Eri. The little girl, no longer just a "crinkled tissue" but a beacon of bewildered joy, was clutching a massive candy apple. Her red eyes were wide as she took tentative licks, then a big, sticky bite. A giggle, so pure and light it seemed to cut through the collective hangover, escaped her. It was the sound of a child experiencing simple happiness for perhaps the first time. It was a sight that made the entire insane venture feel worth it.
The mischief escalated. A picture flashed up of Moe and Soga, grinning like maniacs as they carried a heavy park bench, later seen perched precariously on the roof of a sedan.
Another showed a stoic Tensei chugging a beer while, completely unnoticed in the background, Ayame and Soga were engaged in a passionate, clothes-disheveling makeout session.
Another photo showed Eri, sitting standing legs splayed in the center of a protective circle formed by Ryuko, Rapt, and Ayame, happily devouring a massive bowl of ramen with her bare hands, noodles and broth splattering everywhere. She had a look of fierce, primal satisfaction.
Then, the bombshells started dropping.
A video, shaky and loud, showed Rumi, wielding a stack of papers like a proclamation. "And by the power vested in me by... me!" she slurred, "I now pronounce you... less boring!" The camera panned to a dazed-looking Ryuko and a completely bewildered Koichi, nodding along. Rumi then snatched their phones, made them provide some drunken digital signature, and proudly announced she was emailing it all to "Ayame's fancy-pants lawyer!" In the background, Ayame was collapsed on a sofa, weeping with laughter, gasping, "She's married! She's finally married! To a civilian! Her life is going to be so normal now!"
Ryuko's face drained of all color. Koichi looked like he'd been hit by a tranquilizer dart.
Before anyone could process this, Toshinori found a video on his own phone. He played it, and his own voice, booming and drunkenly sentimental, filled the room. "AND THIS YOUNG MAN!" the video showed a wobbly, muscular All Might with his arm slung around a terrified-looking Koichi. "THE CRAWLER! HE'S GOT THE SPIRIT! HE'S MY NEW SIDEKICK! THE SYMBOL OF PEACE AND... AND THE SYMBOL OF... THE… UH… people… YEAH! SYMBOL OF THE PEOPLE, HES REALLY FAST AND NICE!" In the background, Rumi was inexplicably attempting to fry an egg on Moe's flaming hair, while Moyuru watched, impassively holding a bottle of cooking oil.
The final image was a quiet, bizarre tragedy, like a crappy renaissance painting. A thirdperson picture of Koichi, tears streaming down his face, sitting in a bathroom that was filled to the brim with loaves of bread. On the floor in front of him, a happy Eri was munching on a slice straight off the tiles.
Silence descended once more, heavier and more confused than ever. They had a marriage certificate, a sidekick promotion, a liberated child, a destroyed yakuza clan, and a bathroom full of bread.
Tsukauchi finally broke the quiet, voicing the one gaping hole in their reconstruction. "This explains... a great deal. But it doesn't explain one thing."
He looked around the penthouse, at the assembled, shell-shocked group.
"Where," he asked, "is Miruko?"
The revelation of the shared cloud storage felt like finding a map in a labyrinth. Moe, her brow furrowed in concentration, navigated her phone with clumsy fingers. "Yeah, yeah, we set it up last night. Said we'd need a 'collective alibi' or something."
She found the most recent video file and hit play.
The footage was chaotic and poorly framed, clearly filmed by someone who was barely upright. The primary focus was a determined Eri, her small hands scooping up fistfuls of damp earth from a decorative planter, trying to shove them into her mouth. A very drunk Ayame, her robe now covered in dirt, was gently but ineffectually trying to dissuade her. "No, sweetie, that's not... that's for the flowers. We eat the candy, remember? The yummy candy?"
But the audio was the real puzzle. Beneath Ayame's slurred coaxing and Eri's happy grunts, there was a heated argument happening just off-camera.
"—HER FAMILY! A LINE WAS CROSSED, ONE I SHO-!" It was Toshinori's voice, strained and furious, but with the reedy quality of his weakened form.
The response was a low, rumbling growl, the words indecipherable beneath the ambient city noise and the focus on Eri's dirt-eating endeavors.
Then, a loud, sharp ***BANG!*** that made everyone in the penthouse flinch. It wasn't a gunshot; it was heavier, more kenetic. Like a watermelon having a tungsten cube thrown at it. This was followed by a wave of ragged, triumphant cheering from multiple voices.
The camera, still fixed on Eri's successful dirt acquisition, panned slightly as the person filming stumbled. For a split second, the edge of a street sign was visible at the corner of the frame.
"Pause it!" Tsukauchi barked.
Moe froze the video. They all leaned in. The sign was green and white, slightly rusted. They could just make out the letters: "K... O... J... I... M... A"
"Kojima Street," Tsukauchi said immediately, his detective's knowledge of the city grid kicking in. "It's an industrial area. Mostly warehouses and closed-down factories. Not far from here."
The mood shifted instantly. The absurdity was now tinged with a sharp, cold dread. An argument, a loud bang, cheering, and now a missing, supremely volatile hero.
The group moved with a new, grim purpose. Leaving Eri in the care of a very confused but compliant Tensei and Ayame's staff, the rest of them—Tsukauchi, Toshinori, Ryuko, Koichi, Moe, Rapt, Moyuru, and Soga—piled into Tsukauchi's unmarked van and sped towards Kojima Street.
The area was as described: desolate, lined with chain-link fences and graffitied, corrugated metal walls. They drove slowly, eyes scanning every shadowy alcove and alley.
It was Koichi who saw it first. "There!"
Dangling from the lowest rung of a rusty fire escape on a derelict textile warehouse was a familiar figure. Rumi Usagiyama, the Rabbit Hero, Miruko, was hanging upside down by one knee, her other leg dangling freely. Her white leotard was smudged with grime and what looked like oil, and one of her gauntlets was missing. She was snoring softly, swinging gently in the morning breeze like a bizarre pendulum.
But it was what was on the ground directly beneath her that stole the breath from their lungs.
A man lay sprawled on the cracked asphalt. He was large, dressed in a sharp, now-ruined, black suit. His head was unrecogniseable, nothing but gore. He wasn't moving. There was visible blood caked everywhere, the utter stillness, the pallor of his skin—it was unmistakable.
The group stood frozen at the mouth of the alley, the van's engine ticking as it cooled. The cheerful videos of carnival games and candy apples felt like they were from a different lifetime. The hangover was gone, replaced by a chilling, sobering reality.
Ryuko was the first to find her voice, a horrified whisper that cut through the silence.
The silence in the grimy alley was absolute, broken only by the creak of the fire escape and Rumi’s soft, sleepy mumbles. Tsukauchi, his face a mask of professional detachment, knelt beside the body. He checked for a pulse at the neck, knowing he wouldn't find one. His hands moved methodically, checking the man's pockets, looking for identification.
Then he saw them. Small, perfectly round holes drilled through the center of each of the corpse's palms. A calling card he’d only ever seen in classified files and heard about in Toshinori’s most haunted stories. His blood turned to ice in his veins. His eyes traveled back up to the man’s face, the distinctive scarring, the powerful build even in death.
He looked up, his gaze locking with Toshinori’s. The color had drained from Toshinori’s face, his sunken eyes wide with a storm of disbelief, horror, and a dawning, impossible realization.
“Toshinori…” Tsukauchi’s voice was barely a whisper, but it echoed in the dead air. “It’s him.”
Toshinori took a staggering step back, his hand flying to the old wound on his side. “No… It can’t be. I felt… I was sure…” The Symbol of Peace, the man who had spent his entire adult life hunting this demon, was faced with the incontrovertible proof that his greatest enemy had survived their final battle, only to be killed in a back alley by a hungover vigilante.
“Who is it?” Ryuko demanded, her voice tight. “Who is this man?”
Before Tsukauchi could answer, a groggy voice came from above. “Will you guys keep it down? My head’s pounding enough as it is.”
Rumi had woken up. She was blinking slowly, still dangling upside down, her view of the world inverted. She looked at the crowd gathered below her, then at the body directly beneath her.
“Oh. Right. That guy.” She unhooked her leg with a gymnast’s grace, dropping to the ground and landing in a crouch before standing up and stretching. “Look, if you’ve got questions, ask Koichi.” She jerked a thumb towards the brown-haired man. “He’s the one who turned that bald bastard into a pancake.”
Every single eye swiveled to Koichi. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming train. His mind was a screaming void. *He* did this? He killed a man?
“Koichi…?” Ryuko said, her voice a mixture of concern and sharp alarm.
Tsukauchi stood up, his expression grim. “This man,” he announced to the group, his voice heavy with the weight of the revelation, “is—*was*—All For One.”
The name meant nothing to Rapt, Soga, or Moyuru. But to the heroes, it was like a thunderclap. Moe’s jaw dropped. Ryuko’s breath hitched. All For One. The Symbol of Evil. The source of All Might’s injury, the shadowy emperor of the underworld. A myth made flesh, now lying dead on the asphalt.
Toshinori finally found his voice, a raw, broken thing. “He survived… all this time… and now…” He looked at Koichi, a young man who just wanted to help people in his own small, unassuming way. The man who had done what he, the Symbol of Peace, could not. Not out of years of training and epic battles, but out of a drunk, desperate, and likely wildly accidental act of violence.
The Symbol of Evil was dead. And it was all because of one profoundly strange, drunken night out.
The information was relayed in hushed, stunned tones to the others. The reality of it was too colossal to process. They had set out to save one little girl and had, as a bizarre side effect, decapitated the entire organized underworld.
It was then that the professional instincts of the heroes present, mixed with the shock and a protective fear for Koichi, kicked in. Killing was a line heroes did not cross. The law was the law.
“Koichi Haimawari,” Ryuko said, her voice firm, the voice of the Dragoon Hero, not the confused woman who had woken up next to him hours before. She stepped forward, Moe flanking her. “By the authority granted to us as Pro Heroes, you are to be taken into custody for questioning regarding this man’s death.”
Koichi stared, utterly bewildered. The woman he might be married to, the heroes he’d just helped save a child with, were now apprehending him. For killing the devil himself. Because he’d gotten drunk.
He didn’t resist as Ryuko gently but firmly took his arm. He just kept staring at the body of All For One, the man whose name he didn't even know an hour ago, the man whose death had just sent his already impossibly weird morning spiraling into a whole new dimension of surreal, life-altering consequences.
The four days since "The Night" had passed in a surreal, pressurized blur. The world, for the most part, remained blissfully ignorant. The official story was a tightly controlled leak: a major, multi-agency operation had simultaneously dismantled the Shie Hassaikai and neutralized the long-dormant threat of All For One in a coordinated strike. The public celebrated, none the wiser to the drunken, chaotic truth.
But for the women in Ryuko’s spacious, sunlit apartment, the truth was a heavy weight.
Eri, a bright spot of innocence amidst the turmoil, was carefully stacking blocks on the living room rug, her little horn glinting in the light. She had attached herself to Ryuko with the quiet desperation of a rescued animal, and Ryuko found an unexpected comfort in the child’s presence.
“He still took a life,” Ryuko said, her voice low as she watched Eri. She was curled on her sofa, a cup of warm non-alcholholic apple cider cooling in her hands. “The law is clear. The commission is… conflicted, to say the least. They want to bury the truth, but they can’t just ignore a civilian killing a man, even *that* man.”
Moe, lounging in an armchair, shrugged. “The guy was a plague. Koichi just… administered the cure. A messy, drunk cure, but a cure nonetheless. Rapt says the guys are shook up about it. Think it’s unfair.”
“Damn right it’s unfair,” Rumi grunted, her feet propped up on Ryuko’s coffee table. She was uncharacteristically subdued. “The bald bastard got what was coming to him. And Soga? That guy’s got spirit. I like him.” She smirked, a flash of her old self. “Your boy’s not so bad either, Ryuko. A little soft, but he’s got serious guts.”
Ryuko flushed, the memory of the marriage certificate surfacing like a ghost. “He’s not ‘my boy.’ That… document is a drunken mistake. It’ll be annulled.” The words felt hollow even as she said them.
“Uh-huh,” Ayame purred from the window, where she was sipping a mimosa, looking far too composed for the conversation. “A mistake who saved a little girl and, apparently, the world. You sure know how to pick ‘em, darling.”
The conversation lulled, the instability of their lives pressing in on them. All because of a night out to celebrate Rumi’s Top 10 ranking. It felt like a lifetime ago.
It was in this heavy silence that Ryuko remembered the other, more immediate consequence of that night. She looked pointedly at Ayame.
“Ayame,” she began, her tone shifting to one of practical concern. “I meant to ask. That night… with Soga. Are you… on birth control?”
Ayame’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. She took a slow, deliberate sip of her drink. “Well,” she said, a slow, wry smile spreading across her lips. “Now that you mention it… no. No, I am not.”
The revelation landed with a soft, significant thud. Moe’s eyes went wide. Rumi let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. “Well, shit.”
“I should probably go get a test,” Ayame mused, seemingly unbothered by the potential life-altering event. “And… I should probably call Soga.” The slight hesitation in her voice was the only sign that the unflappable Snake Heroine was, in fact, slightly flapped.
The four women sat in the quiet living room, the only sound the soft clatter of Eri’s blocks. One of them was potentially married to a vigilante jailed in Tartarus. Another might be pregnant by a man she’d known for less than 24 hours. They had a rescued child who was the key to a destroyed criminal empire. And they were all complicit in the death of the most evil man alive, a death that was currently being treated as a crime.
Their lives had been upended, twisted, and irrevocably changed. Nothing was certain. Everything was unstable.
And all because they went out for drinks.
Two days later, the dust had not so much settled as it had congealed into a new, strange reality.
The pink plus sign on the pregnancy test was definitive. Ayame Hebiko, the glamorous Snake Hero, was pregnant. The news was delivered to Soga with a surprising lack of drama. He’d simply grunted, nodded, and said, "Alright. We'll figure it out." There was a rough, pragmatic understanding between them. It was far from a fairy tale, but it was a foundation.
Ryuko, meanwhile, found herself staring at a new piece of plastic that had arrived in her mail. Her hero license was safe, but this was her civilian ID. The name stared back at her: *Ryuko Haimawari*. The paperwork for the annulment was sitting in a folder on her desk, unsigned. Every time she went to pick up the pen, she thought of a bewildered, kind-eyed man in a trashed apartment, gently holding a sleeping child. She thought of him crying in a bathroom full of bread. She thought of him in a Tartarus cell. The pen remained untouched.
In a move that felt more right and certain than anything else in her life, she had formally begun the adoption process for Eri. The little girl, her "crinkled tissue," was blossoming in the stability of a real home. Soon, Eri would legally be her daughter. The thought filled Ryuko with a fierce, protective warmth that dwarfed any dragon’s fire.
Detective Tsukauchi’s visit yesterday had been all business. He was compiling statements, building the impossible legal case around an even more impossible event. "The Commission is in a knot," he'd confided, looking weary. "They want to give him a medal and throw away the key in the same breath."
The most daunting hurdle, however, had been the parental one. In a feat of coordination that was either brilliant or masochistic, Ryuko and Ayame had arranged to meet their respective parents at the same neutral location—a quiet, upscale tea garden—and at the same time. Safety in numbers, and more importantly, a tiny, powerful deterrent.
Eri, dressed in a pretty yellow sundress, was the star of the show. She sat between Ryuko and Ayame, carefully coloring on a placemat, her single horn occasionally bumping the table.
The initial atmosphere had been frosty enough to preserve food. Ryuko's father, a stern man with the same gold eyes as his daughter, had barely managed a civil greeting. Ayame's mother, a woman whose elegance made her daughter look slovenly, had simply raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow in silent, profound disappointment.
The litany of revelations began, delivered in careful, measured tones.
"Mother, Father... I've started the process to adopt a daughter. This is Eri."
"I may have gotten... temporarily married. To a vigilante. Who is currently in Tartarus."
"Ayame is pregnant. The father is a man she met that same night."
The air grew thick with unspoken outrage and concern. But every time a voice began to rise, every time a hand gestured too sharply, Eri would look up. Her big, red eyes would widen just a fraction, her small body would still. And the angry parent would stop, forced to swallow their fury, not wanting to frighten the fragile-looking child who was now, inexplicably, at the center of their daughters' chaotic lives.
Eri, completely unaware of the tension she was quelling, became the silent mediator. She offered a crayon to Ryuko's scowling father. She patted Ayame's mother's hand with a sticky one. The adults, disarmed and constrained by her presence, were forced to move from outright anger to bewildered, frustrated acceptance.
By the end of the tense afternoon, no one was happy, but a catastrophe had been averted. The parents left, concerned and deeply confused, but no longer on the warpath.
As they watched their parents depart, Ayame let out a long, slow breath. "Well, that was horrific." She looked down at Eri, who was now peacefully asleep in Ryuko's lap. "But she's a handy little shield, isn't she?"
Ryuko smiled, brushing a strand of white hair from Eri's forehead. Her daughter. In her heart, it was already true. She looked at her new ID on the table. *Ryuko Haimawari*. She thought of the man in Tartarus. The instability was terrifying, but amidst the chaos, a few things were becoming beautifully, undeniably clear.
The day of the trial was a media circus, but not for the reasons anyone expected. The charge of murder against a vigilante was serious, but it was the silent, gaunt figure of Toshinori Yagi, sitting ramrod straight in the public gallery, that had every camera in the nation fixed on the courtroom. All Might had never attended a trial before. His presence was a statement louder than any opening argument.
The proceedings began as expected. The prosecutor, a man who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, laid out the charges: Murder in the first degree, multiple counts of vigilantism, public quirk use, unlawful entry… the list was long.
But the atmosphere began to shift when the judge, a wizened old man with spectacles perched on the end of his nose, started reading the details of the case aloud. He read slowly, his brow furrowing deeper with every line.
"…the accused, while in a state of severe inebriation, participated in the successful and non-lethal takedown of the Shie Hassaikai yakuza syndicate, directly resulting in the rescue of a child who was being exploited for her Quirk…" He adjusted his glasses. "Records indicate he was, for all intents and purposes, operating alongside licensed Pro Heroes Miruko, Ryukyu, and others, albeit without formal supervision…"
He paused, looking over a classified document handed to him by Tsukauchi. His eyes widened almost comically. He read it once, then twice.
"And it is further stated… that the accused is directly responsible for the…" he cleared his throat, disbelief coloring his tone, "...the death of the individual known as All For One."
A ripple of confusion went through the room. The name was known only to a select few in the public, but the way the judge said it—with a mixture of awe and sheer incredulity—sent a wave of whispers through the gallery.
The judge looked up from his papers, his gaze sweeping over the prosecutor, the defense, and finally landing on Koichi, who sat in the defendant's chair looking small and utterly terrified.
The judge leaned forward, his voice dropping from a formal boom to a genuinely perplexed murmur that was picked up by every microphone. "Mr. Haimawari… why are you even in my court right now?"
The silence in the room was absolute. Across Japan, millions watched, frozen.
"You… you rid the world of humanity's greatest threat," the judge continued, his voice rising with baffled emphasis. "A threat that has eluded the entire hero community for generations. You killed All For One. Why did you even get arrested?" He sounded almost plaintive. "Please, for the sake of my sanity, tell me you were at least arrested on the grounds of vigilantism."
In that moment, the Hero Public Safety Commission's carefully constructed lie shattered. It wasn't a coordinated strike. It was a drunken crusade. And the Symbol of Evil hadn't fallen in a epic, final battle, but in a grimy back alley, his brains blown out by a random, street-level vigilante who was just trying to keep up.
The judge turned to his secretary, holding a hurried, whispered conversation. He turned back, a look of profound frustration on his face. He was being told by higher powers that a punishment, however token, had to be levied.
He sighed, the sound echoing in the silent chamber. He straightened his robes, his expression turning stern, but a faint glimmer of mischief was in his eyes.
"Very well. The court, in recognition of the… *highly unusual*… circumstances, waves all charges," he declared, pausing for effect, "*except* for one. The charge of public Quirk use without a license."
He picked up his gavel. "The standard punishment for this offense is a fine. The court sentences you to a fine of… two hundred yen."
The sound of the gavel hitting the block was like a gunshot.
It was over. Two hundred yen. The price of a cheap cup of vending machine coffee. It wasn't a punishment; it was a punchline. It was the judge giving the middle finger to a bureaucracy that wanted to punish a man for saving the world on a technicality.
Pandemonium erupted in the courtroom. Koichi just sat there, stunned, as his lawyer patted him on the back. In the gallery, Toshinori Yagi let out a breath he felt he'd been holding for decades, a small, genuine smile touching his lips.
Koichi Haimawari was a free man. Not just free from prison, but free from the shadow of the law. He had, in the most bizarre way imaginable, been given a universal pardon for saving the world on a drunken bender.
The celebration the next day was a raucous, joyful, and strictly teetotal affair. Soga, Rapt, and Moyuru had taken Koichi to the best ramen shop in the city, the bill covered by a still-smirking Ayame. There were no toasts with alcohol, only with fancy sodas and mineral water.
"You," Rapt said, slinging an arm around Koichi's shoulders, "are never, *ever* allowed to drink again. You hear me? One night out and you become a married man who gets arrested by his new wife for killing the devil. We are never letting you live this down."
"Never," Soga agreed, a rare, genuine grin on his face. "You're a legend, man. A completely batshit legend."
Koichi took the good-natured ribbing with a blush and a shaky laugh. It was overwhelming, but the relief of being free, of being with his friends without the specter of Tartarus hanging over him, was a palpable, warm feeling in his chest.
Later, as the sun began to set, a sleek car pulled up outside the ramen shop. The window rolled down to reveal Ryuko Tatsuma—Ryuko *Haimawari*—in the driver's seat. "Get in," she said, her tone softer than it had been in days.
The guys gave him a series of exaggerated winks and thumbs-up as he slid into the passenger seat. The drive to her penthouse was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. It was the silence of two people who had too much to say and no idea where to start.
When the elevator doors opened into her home, a small, white-haired missile shot towards them.
"Koichi!" Eri cried, wrapping her arms tightly around his legs. She looked up at him, her red eyes shining. "You're back!"
He knelt down, his heart swelling until he thought it might burst. "Yeah, Eri. I'm back." He picked her up, and she nestled her head against his shoulder, trustingly.
They ordered takeout. They put Eri to bed in her new room, filled with the stuffed animals won from the carnival. And then, finally, they were alone in the living room, the city lights twinkling beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Koichi," Ryuko began, steeling herself. "About the marriage..."
"I understand," he said quickly, wanting to make it easier for her. "It was a crazy night. You don't have to explain. I'm sure you've already filed the annulment papers. It's okay."
Ryuko looked at him, her golden eyes steady. "I didn't."
Koichi blinked. "You... didn't?"
"I didn't," she repeated, her voice firm. "The papers are still on my desk. Unsigned."
The air left Koichi's lungs. He stared at her, trying to process the meaning behind her words. She hadn't undone it. Through all the chaos, the arrest, the trial, she had kept it.
"Why?" he finally managed to ask.
"Because," she said, looking down at her hands before meeting his gaze again, "when I thought about it, it didn't feel like a mistake. It felt... like the one clear thing to come out of that whole mess. You're a good man, Koichi. A kind one. You were gentle with Eri when you had every reason to be terrified. You faced down the worst evil imaginable because you thought you had to. My life has always been about being a hero. Maybe... maybe it's time it was about more than that."
She gestured around the penthouse, towards the room where Eri slept. "This could be a home. For all of us."
Koichi didn't have grand words. He wasn't a hero of epic speeches. He simply crossed the room, took her hand, and said, "I'd like that. Very much."
That night, they didn't talk about vigilantism or yakuza or Symbol of Evil. They simply curled up together on the large sofa, a blanket thrown over them. Ryuko rested her head on Koichi's shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her. In the space between them, Eri slept soundly, her quiet breaths a peaceful rhythm.
For the first time since that fateful night out, surrounded by the warmth of his family, Koichi Haimawari felt a profound and steady peace. The chaos was over. The future, for the first time, felt beautifully, wonderfully simple.
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