Musutafu was changing.
Not in any way the public would notice. Not in headlines or press releases or glitzy hero expos. But in the way the alleys grew quieter. In how certain buildings—ones with known histories—suddenly closed without explanation. In the way whispers in the underworld came with fear now, not swagger.
Because the smoke had a name.
And Ashend was no rumor anymore.
Downtown, 2:34 A.M.
The air was thick with soot and cold fog, and the night stank of diesel and rotting plastic. Rain fell in slow, greasy curtains as Takuma crouched behind a ventilation unit atop a strip club roof, scanning the alley below through the grime-slicked lenses of a stolen pair of NV goggles.
He heard the girl's voice first.
"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, voice barely audible over the bass thumping from inside the club. A man grabbed her by the wrist, dragging her toward the side door with the practiced casualness of someone who'd done this before—and gotten away with it.
Two others stood near the dumpster, keeping watch. One was smoking. One had blood on his sleeve.
Takuma's jaw tightened.
He felt it—that old pressure in his chest, the one that always came before he moved. Like the world had gone still, just for him.
He lowered his hand to the rooftop beneath him.
It was metal.
The connection surged.
Like lightning trickling up his arm, feeding into the cracks of his bones, the rooftop's energy flowed into him. His veins pulsed with dull, electric warmth, glowing faintly beneath the skin. He could feel the edges of the building now. The railing. The supports. The air vents.
He stood, and the metal responded like a coiled muscle under his feet.
He didn't leap.
He fell.
Like a meteor of vengeance, he hit the ground with a clang of twisted sheet metal and wind. Before the girl could even scream, the attacker was flung backward by a slab of steel that ripped from the alley wall, catching him across the ribs with a sickening crack.
The girl stumbled away. Takuma didn't follow her.
The two others ran for the club door—but the piping beneath their feet surged upward, forming a tangled cage of warped rebar that trapped them like rats. They screamed. No one heard them over the music.
Ashend stepped into the dim light.
Three criminals. All caught.
But it wasn't over yet.
He walked toward the man he'd struck down first, now groaning and bleeding against the brick.
"You have five seconds," he said, voice like dry gravel. "Who paid you off?"
The man spat blood and said nothing.
Takuma knelt beside him, letting the tip of his finger trail across the wet pavement.
The street still reeked of oil and cigarette ash. With a thought, the moisture around his hands turned to a fine black mist, drifting lazily into the air like smoke off a funeral pyre.
"Three seconds."
Still no answer.
Takuma's hand twitched.
The smoke thickened, pressing into the man's mouth and nose. His eyes widened in panic. The smoke didn't burn—but it stole the air, crept into his lungs like liquid guilt.
"Okay, okay!" the man gasped. "Kiyomoto! Some yakuza rat named Kiyomoto. I swear—he just said to grab her and wait for a van!"
Takuma pulled the smoke back. Let the man breathe. Let him choke on it.
The girl was long gone now. He hadn't even looked at her. He couldn't.
Wouldn't.
Not anymore.
Later — Rooftop, West District
Takuma sat with his back against an HVAC vent, still breathing hard. The glow in his arms had faded, and with it, the cold ache in his bones was returning. The energy he'd drawn from the rooftop was nearly gone now—like milk gone sour. Once drained, the material became inert to him, like hollowed-out wood.
He reached into his coat and pulled out his notebook. It was cracked, its pages stained with soot and rainwater. He flipped to a page marked with red ink:
Kiyomoto - High Priority. Yakuza. Trafficking. Quirk Mod Deals. Former Hero Licensing Official.
He circled the name again. Then underlined it.
It wasn't just the small-timers anymore. The rot went deeper. Bureaucrats. Ex-heroes. The ones behind the curtain.
No wonder nothing ever changes.
Takuma clenched the pen until it snapped in half.
Elsewhere — U.A. Staff Room
"All right," Aizawa said, arms crossed as holograms of Ashend's latest activities flickered across the screen behind him. "He's escalating. That's three known criminals disabled in two days. One required emergency spinal surgery."
"He left a kid untouched two weeks ago," Hizashi added, flipping through his file. "She was being used as a distraction. He froze when she got in the way."
"Still hasn't killed anyone since the first month," Tsukauchi murmured. "But he's getting more brutal. That last one nearly drowned in smoke."
"Are we sure we want this in Class 1-A?" Midnight asked, frowning. "He's a vigilante with a traumatic trigger and an unstable power source."
"I want him where I can see him," Aizawa replied flatly. "If he keeps going, someone's going to kill him. Or he's going to become what he hates."
Silence fell over the table.
"Let's prepare a net," Aizawa said. "When he slips... we catch him."