The alley in front of the shopping district was soaked in the stale scent of overflowing dumpsters and the metallic tang of stagnant water collecting in shallow dips of cracked concrete.
grime clinging to the bricks like a second skin, The distant roar of chaos, explosions, panicked voices, hero shouts, bled into the narrow passage like an unwelcome draft.
From the thickest patch of shadow stepped a man whose presence seemed violently incompatible with the filth around him.
He walked with careful, measured precision, each step placed as if he were navigating a contaminated laboratory floor. wearing a dark jacket, lined with a collar of purple fur, Crisp white gloves sheathed his hands, and the gold-tipped magenta plague mask he wore reflected the orange-red fire light with precise cruelty.
Behind him, emerged a man like a boulder breaking through the surface of the earth. Massive, broad-shouldered, wrapped in tattered belts and a loose tunic that struggled to contain his size, he cut an imposing silhouette.
His gloves were thick, metal-plated, meant for breaking bone. they gleamed faintly in the dim light. Though he wore a mask similar in style to the man in front of him, the energy emanating from him could not have been more opposite.
Rappa inhaled sharply, excitement crackling in his posture.
"Boss! C'mon, the action's right there! Why not snatch a hero, or a cop, shake some answers outta them? Better yet, let me fight that thing! That sludge thing's built like a perfect punching bag. I could break him in two. Or what about the blond kid? His explosions? Pure power! boss, Let me hit something! You feel me?!"
Chisaki did not turn.
He froze mid-step before a small puddle where oily water rippled from the distant shockwaves. With a slight recoil of his body, he adjusted his path by a few centimeters, avoiding even the possibility of a splash.
When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, polite, and chilled to perfection.
"Rappa," he said, "if you continue shouting such pointless suggestions, I will remove the parts of you responsible for producing that noise. I assure you, the procedure will be done in the slowest way possible so you can feel it clearly."
The air stilled.
Rappa's entire frame stiffened. He pressed both metal-plated hands over the front of his mask, the clang echoing down the alley. He nodded frantically, words dying before they reached his throat.
Chisaki resumed walking, though his gaze drifted over the alley with visible displeasure. He did not touch the walls. He did not brush against the air more than necessary.
His thoughts simmered beneath the mask.
'Every surface is saturated with disease. The air itself feels unfiltered…'
"We did not travel all the way to this city," he said, brushing a speck of unseen dust from his glove, "to involve ourselves in crude brawls. Nor will we be abducting cops in broad daylight. Kidnapping attracts attention, and attention is the last thing i want in this phase."
He paused, listening to the distant booms as if evaluating them like lab data.
"The explosions initially suggested the possibility of uncontrolled quirk discharge. I hoped it might lead us to the source of the earlier quirk failures." His voice lowered further, almost disappointed. "Instead, it is merely another primitive spectacle. villain and hero flailing in public. Inefficient, Unsanitary, Entirely without purpose."
Another explosion echoed across the street. Dust shimmered through the air like ash.
Chisaki stepped backward, distancing himself from the drifting particles.
"There is no further reason to remain," he said. "We are leaving."
He turned smoothly, the fur on his collar brushing against the alley's darkness without ever touching its grime. His posture remained immaculate as he retreated into the deeper shadows. Rappa, still vibrating with unspent adrenaline, followed with a frustrated rumble but offered no complaint.
A few heartbeats passed.
The alley emptied into silence.
Then, just as the dust settled, a glint of red caught the light.
A single feather, small enough to be mistaken for stray debris, lifted from the ground with a whisper-soft shiver. It rose slowly at first, as though waking, then shot upward with violent precision, slicing through the night air.
It climbed above the buildings, hovered briefly in the smoky skyline, then veered sharply, like a crimson arrow, to a particular rooftop overlooking the district.
There, beside a metal water tank, a lone figure crouched in shadow, a mass of red plumage faintly on his back.
The feather halted behind him.
Then, with a subtle thwump, it embedded itself into the cluster of scarlet feathers.
The movement was so clean, so exact, that the air barely reacted.
The feather settled against its brethren.
Its task was finished.