HPSC Headquarters. Tokyo. Government District.
The building was in chaos.
Every screen on every floor was tuned to the live broadcast from U.A. The Nomu attack had been playing on a loop for the past ten minutes, and the people working inside the Hero Public Safety Commission were watching every second of it.
The lower floors were already mobilising. Communication officers were on their phones, coordinating with local law enforcement, directing police units toward U.A., establishing perimeters, managing the flow of information to the media. The tactical division had activated their rapid response protocols — unmarked vehicles being loaded with equipment in the underground garage, field agents suiting up in the armoury, helicopter pilots running pre-flight checks on the rooftop helipad.
The HPSC didn't just respond to crises, they managed them, and above all... they shaped them. They decided what the public saw, what the heroes did, and what happened to the people who didn't fit neatly into the narrative they had spent decades constructing.
And right now, the narrative was going a way they did not want.
On the thirty-second floor, in a private office that overlooked the Tokyo skyline, Madam President stood behind her desk.
She wasn't sitting. She hadn't sat down since the first Nomu hit the stadium floor. She stood with her hands flat on the desk surface, leaning forward, watching the broadcast on the wall-mounted screen.
The screen showed the fire barrier in the jungle. The transparent wall of red flame, fifty metres in diameter, twenty metres high. Inside it, two figures — one massive, one small, both moving, fighting, burning.
Akira Shuzenji was fighting Muscular. Alone. Inside a cage of his own fire.
And the entire country was watching.
Madam President's eyes moved from the screen to the phone on her desk. She picked it up and dialled a number.
"Tsukauchi."
Detective Naomasa Tsukauchi's voice came through the line, slightly breathless. He was already in his car — she could hear the engine running, the faint wail of distant sirens through his window. He had been monitoring the situation from the police precinct and was heading toward U.A. on his own initiative.
"Detective," Madam President said. "I need you at the stadium. Now."
"I'm already en route," Tsukauchi replied. "The police have established an outer perimeter. Emergency services are on site. The pro heroes seem to have the Nomu situation under control, but there are still-"
"I'm not calling about the Nomus."
Silence on the other end. Tsukauchi's grip on the steering wheel tightened. He knew that tone. He had heard it before — in the private meetings, in the classified briefings, in the conversations that happened behind closed doors that the public would never know about.
"Then what is this about?" he asked, though some part of him already knew.
"Akira Shuzenji is currently engaged in solo combat with a villain inside a self-created fire barrier, away from any pro hero supervision, and things might get a bit extreme, considering their history."
She paused, letting the implications settle.
"This might be the perfect moment to bring him in."
Tsukauchi was quiet for a long moment. The car hummed beneath him. The sirens grew louder as he approached U.A.
"Bring him in," he repeated. "You mean arrest him?"
"I mean, secure him. The boy just attacked a villain on live television without authorization from any pro hero, and I am 90% sure he will go for the kill."
"He's fighting the villain who murdered three people in front of him years ago," Tsukauchi said. "A villain who attacked a stadium full of civilians. A villain that the pro heroes haven't been able to contain. He's doing their job."
"He's doing what he wants," Madam President corrected. "Without oversight. Without control. Without anyone telling him where the line is. That is exactly the problem, Detective. That is why he needs to be brought under the Commission's authority before he becomes something we can't manage."
Tsukauchi stared at the road ahead. The U.A. campus was visible now — the stadium's lights, the smoke rising from the arena, the distant glow of red fire from the jungle beyond.
"And if he refuses?" Tsukauchi asked.
"That's why I'm sending you," Madam President said. "You have a rapport with the boy's family. You've interviewed him before. You're the friendly face, Detective. Use it."
Tsukauchi said nothing for a moment. Then: "Understood."
He hung up.
Madam President set the phone down and looked at the screen. The detective was reliable. Competent. And most importantly, conflicted — a man caught between his duty to the institution and his personal sense of right and wrong. Conflicted men were useful. They followed orders because the alternative was uncertainty, and uncertainty was something Detective Tsukauchi couldn't afford.
But she also knew his limits. She knew that Tsukauchi had walked out of this building after their last meeting with doubt in his eyes. She knew that he had questioned her methods, her motives, her treatment of the Shuzenji case. He was loyal, but he was not blind.
Which was why she wasn't relying on him alone.
She turned to the room behind her.
Her office was large, but right now it felt small. Six people stood before her desk — senior officers of the HPSC's operational division. Two women and four men, all in dark suits, all standing at attention, all waiting for orders.
These weren't analysts or paper-pushers. These were the Commission's field operatives.
They had no public profiles. No hero names. No fan pages. They existed in the space between the law and the shadows, and they were very, very good at their jobs.
Madam President looked at each of them in turn.
"Code Red," she said.
The words landed like a hammer.
Code Red was not a common designation. In the HPSC's operational lexicon, it represented the highest level of domestic threat response — reserved for situations involving uncontrolled quirk users, rogue heroes, or individuals whose power level exceeded the Commission's ability to manage through conventional means.
It had been used three times in the last decade. Once for a villain who could manipulate gravity across a city block. Once for a hero who went rogue after losing his family.
Now it was being used for a fifteen-year-old boy.
"I want a full tactical team at U.A. within twenty minutes," Madam President continued, pacing behind her desk. "Two squads. One positioned at the stadium perimeter, one in the jungle approach corridor. Suppression equipment. Quirk-dampening restraints. The normal way."
She stopped pacing and looked at the senior officer nearest to her — a tall woman with cropped black hair and a scar across her left eyebrow.
"Lieutenant Sato," Madam President said. "You're leading the operation. Your objective is simple: the moment the fight between Shuzenji and Muscular ends — regardless of the outcome — you move in. If he wins, you detain him while he's exhausted. If he loses, you extract him and claim medical custody. Either way, he comes into Commission custody tonight."
Lieutenant Sato nodded. "Rules of engagement?"
"Non-lethal. Quirk dampeners first, physical restraints second. He'll be drained after fighting Muscular, but do not underestimate him. Treat him as a Category A threat."
"And his family?" another officer asked. "The Shuzenji woman has significant financial and political connections. If we detain her son without-"
"I'm aware of Honoka Shuzenji's resources," Madam President interrupted. "I'm also aware that she just assaulted the Number Two Hero on camera. That gives us leverage. We can use the assault charge as a pressure point if she tries to interfere."
She looked at the team.
"Are there any other questions?"
Silence.
"Then move. Every second counts."
The six operatives turned and walked out of the office in formation, their footsteps synchronised, their movements efficient. The door closed behind them with a soft click.
Madam President stood alone in her office. She looked at the screen one more time.
She picked up a second phone. A private line. She dialled.
"This is the President," she said. "I need media coordination on the U.A. incident. I want the narrative shaped by morning. Akira Shuzenji acted without authorisation. He endangered civilians with his fire barrier. He escalated a situation that the pro heroes had under control. That's the story. Make sure every major outlet has it by midnight."
She listened to the response.
"I don't care what the crowd thinks. Crowds are emotional. Policy is not. Get it done."
She hung up.
In the underground garage of HPSC Headquarters, engines roared. Six black vehicles pulled out of their bays in sequence. They rolled up the ramp, through the security gate, and onto the streets of Tokyo.
In the lead vehicle, Lieutenant Sato checked her equipment. Quirk-dampening cuffs. Sedation darts. Communication equipment synced to the Commission's encrypted channel. A tactical vest loaded with suppression grenades designed to neutralise fire-based quirks.
She had read the file on Akira Shuzenji. All of it. The USJ incident. The Kamikochi incident. The training records that Nezu had tried to classify. The Sports Festival performance today.
She had also read the psychological evaluation that the Commission's analysts had compiled from public footage.
Subject displays high emotional volatility when confronted with threats to loved ones. Prone to escalation. Willingness to use lethal force against villains suggests underdeveloped restraint mechanisms. Recommend immediate intervention before behavioural patterns solidify.
She closed the file and looked out the window. The U.A. campus grew larger on the horizon.
Category A threat, she thought. Fifteen years old.
She had been doing this job for twelve years. She had detained rogue heroes, captured dangerous villains, and managed crises that would have broken lesser operatives.
But something about this one felt different.
She pushed the feeling aside and checked her equipment one more time.
The convoy accelerated.
***
On the roof of the HPSC building, a figure watched the six vehicles pull away from the building.
He had been there the entire time. Through the Madam President's phone calls, through the Code Red declaration, through the operatives suiting up in the armoury. He had watched it all from above, sitting on the edge of the rooftop with his legs dangling over the side, silent as a shadow.
He watched the convoy turn a corner and disappear.
"Time to move," he said.
His voice was quiet, calm, carrying an accent that didn't belong to Japan.
In a blink, he was gone.
The rooftop was empty, as if no one had ever been there.
The shadows settled back into place, and the chaos continued.
++++
Sorry travelling....
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