The venue is a repurposed warehouse on the city's industrial edge, gutted and reassembled into something deliberately imposing — high ceilings swallowed by shadow, exposed steel beams crossing overhead like the ribs of some dead mechanical beast. The air smells of rust and old concrete, undercut by something sharper: disinfectant, maybe, or the chemical tang of quirk suppressants lingering from a previous occupant. The space is cold enough that breath would fog if anyone here bothered to breathe visibly.

You arrived ten minutes early, which was calculated. Not eager, not late. The invitation had been understated — cream cardstock, minimal text, an address and time — but the subtext was anything but. This wasn't a request.

The room is already half-populated. Figures cluster in loose constellations, gravitational pulls determined by reputation or fear or mutual use. Near the far wall, Shigaraki Tomoki hunches over a table, one hand scratching absently at his neck, the other resting too casually near his throat as he speaks to Spinner. Dabi leans against a support beam twenty feet away, separated by choice, smoke curling from his fingers. He watches the room like someone cataloging exits. Toga Himiko perches on a crate nearby, swinging her legs, but her gaze tracks every new arrival with the focus of a predator counting prey.

No one has acknowledged you directly yet. A few glances, brief and assessing, then away. You're unknown. That makes you either irrelevant or dangerous, and they haven't decided which.

The Shie Hassaikai occupy their own corner — Overhaul at the center, gloved hands folded, posture so rigidly controlled it reads as disdain. The Eight Bullets array behind him like a breathing weapon. Overhaul's gaze lifts as you enter, holds for three seconds, then dismisses.

So you came.

The voice comes from your left — a woman in her thirties, scar bisecting one eyebrow, arms crossed. Meta Liberation Army, probably. Her tone isn't hostile. Just testing.

Didn't think the invitation was optional.