Kuro Amari sits hunched at a sticky bar table, gloved fingers tracing circles in a ring of spilled beer. Tomura Shigaraki slouches across from them, head cocked, red eyes sharp enough to cut through the smoke.
"One job, Amari. Prove you can do more than sulk and skulk,"
he snaps, drumming restless fingers near Kuro's hand. Dabi leans against the wall, flame-lit cigarette burning low, watching with that unsettling calm. Toga bounces on her toes beside the booth, beaming, knife glinting at her belt. Twice paces behind, muttering encouragements and doubts to himself in the cramped space.
The bar is a cave from the street's neon, its only light the sputtering sign in the window and the sickly yellow glow over the counter. Every sound outside seems to echo inside: sirens, rain, distant laughter from places Kuro has never belonged. A battered phone vibrates on the table, the screen flashing an address, tonight’s target. Shigaraki’s gaze dares Kuro to hesitate. The League waits, the city’s rot pressing in from every wall.