**Musutafu, Hero Public Safety Commission Headquarters**
The Hero Public Safety Commission building rose like a cold monument of glass and steel in the bustling center of Musutafu. Every floor screamed order, control, and endless rules. Yamcha pushed through the heavy revolving doors, feeling the weight of bureaucracy already pressing on his shoulders. He had faced Saibamen, Vegeta, even death itself, but nothing prepared him for this: forms, stamps, and people in suits who looked at him like he was a walking liability.
Nemuri walked beside him, her confidence radiating like heat from a summer sidewalk. Her heels echoed sharply on the polished marble, long coat swaying dramatically behind her. She had insisted he borrow a simple black button-up shirt and dark pants from her agency's spare wardrobe—"You can't walk in there looking like a desert drifter who just fought a sandstorm," she had teased while helping him button the shirt, fingers lingering a little too long on his chest.
Yamcha glanced at her sideways, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
"Nervous yet, wolf boy?" she asked, voice low and playful.
"Me? Nah. Just not thrilled about paperwork. Last time I dealt with forms it was for a tournament entry. Ended with me getting exploded by a green, plant-like freak."
Nemuri let out a throaty laugh that drew a few curious glances from passing staff.
"You really have to tell me the full story someday. I'm dying to know how you survived that."
They reached the reception desk. A middle-aged woman in a severe gray suit looked up, her expression instantly suspicious.
"Name and purpose of visit?"
"Yamcha. Here for quirk registration and provisional hero license. Sponsored by Midnight."
The receptionist typed rapidly, then frowned at the screen.
"No last name?"
"Just Yamcha."
"No prior hero academy records?"
"None."
"Quirk name and type?"
"Wolf Fang Hurricane. Emitter-transformation hybrid. High-speed melee, energy projectiles, aura enhancement."
The woman's eyes narrowed further.
"This is highly irregular. No documented history. No school. No previous incidents. You realize we can't just hand out licenses to unknowns?"
Nemuri leaned forward gracefully, placing one manicured hand on the counter.
"He's with me, darling. Rank 23 hero, personal sponsorship. I've seen him in action. Last night he single-handedly neutralized over eighty armed villains while I was… temporarily indisposed. That's more than enough character reference."
The receptionist hesitated, then sighed the sigh of someone who hated exceptions but knew better than to argue with a top pro.
"Conference Room 7-B. Evaluator Tanaka will see you shortly."
They were ushered into a sterile white room with a long table, two uncomfortable chairs, and a large one-way mirror that Yamcha immediately noticed. He dropped into one seat, stretching his legs out casually. Nemuri took the one right beside him—close enough that their thighs brushed under the table every time one of them shifted.
She leaned in, whispering hot against his ear.
"Relax. They'll ask stupid questions, you'll answer with that charming rogue smile, and I'll handle the rest."
Yamcha turned his head slightly, their faces inches apart.
"You always this close when you're 'helping' someone?"
"Only when they're worth it," she murmured, her fingers lightly tracing a circle on his knee under the table.
The door opened before he could reply.
Mr. Tanaka entered—mid-forties, neat suit, clipboard clutched like a shield. He sat opposite them, eyes flicking between Yamcha and the file.
"Mr. Yamcha. Your quirk profile is… concerning. High destructive potential. No origin documentation. No training records. We classify such cases as High-Risk Provisional at best. Explain how your quirk manifested."
Yamcha met his gaze steadily.
"Childhood. Always been there. Grew with me. I've had a lot of… real-world practice."
"Real-world practice?" Tanaka echoed dryly. "Such as?"
"Fighting people who wanted to kill me. Protecting those who couldn't protect themselves. The usual hero stuff, just without the paperwork."
Tanaka scribbled something. "Previous hero work?"
"Unofficial. Off the books."
"Civilian casualties?"
"None. I don't miss."
"Property damage?"
Yamcha smirked. "Only what was already broken by the bad guys."
Nemuri's hand squeezed his thigh reassuringly under the table—then stayed there, warm and distracting.
Tanaka flipped through pages. "Your quirk parameters match several Class-A threat categories: uncontrolled velocity, directed energy strikes, aura-based intimidation effect. Without verifiable history, we cannot grant full clearance."
Nemuri spoke up, voice smooth as silk.
"Mr. Tanaka, with respect, I personally witnessed him dismantle a gang of eighty-plus villains in under three minutes. Controlled, efficient, zero collateral. If that's not proof of mastery, I don't know what is."
Tanaka looked at her for a long moment, then back at Yamcha.
"You vouch for him completely, Midnight?"
"Completely," she said, smiling sweetly. "And if it helps, I'm more than willing to supervise his probation personally. Every patrol. Every training. Every little red-aura moment."
Tanaka cleared his throat, ears turning faintly pink.
"Very well. Provisional License granted—three-month probation. You will log every quirk usage. Assigned supervised patrols. Mandatory practical evaluation in one week. Any violation, and the license is revoked permanently."
He slid a tablet across the table.
"Sign here. And here. Sponsor's signature too, Midnight."
Nemuri took the stylus, signed with a flourish, then passed it to Yamcha. As he leaned over to sign, she whispered:
"See? Easy. Now you're officially on the books… and officially mine to watch."
Yamcha signed, then leaned back, catching her eye.
"Careful what you wish for. Once I'm licensed, I might start enjoying the attention."
She bit her lip, eyes sparkling.
"I'm counting on it."
Tanaka stood abruptly.
"Your license card will be issued in ten minutes. Congratulations—or condolences. You're now part of the system."
As the door closed behind him, the room fell silent except for the soft hum of the air conditioning.
Nemuri turned fully toward Yamcha, sliding her chair even closer until their knees touched.
"Now," she purred, pulling the tablet back toward them, "there's one more section. Sponsor's personal notes. Very… private."
She opened a blank field.
"Tell me," she said softly, her free hand resting high on his thigh again, "how would you describe your quirk to someone who wants to experience it up close?"
Yamcha's voice dropped low.
"Fast. Deadly precise. And when it's just the two of us… very, very hands-on."
Nemuri typed slowly, deliberately, every key press accompanied by a teasing squeeze.
"Perfect," she murmured. "Submitted."
She closed the tablet and turned to him fully, lips curved in that dangerous, inviting smile.
"Probation starts tomorrow night. First patrol. With me. Think you can handle being under my supervision?"
Yamcha caught her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed her knuckles slowly.
"Nemuri… I was born to run with the night. And I never run from a challenge."
She laughed softly, leaning in until their foreheads touched.
"Then let's make this probation unforgettable."
They stood together as the receptionist knocked, holding out the freshly printed provisional license card.
Yamcha took it, feeling the weight of a new beginning.
Outside, the January sun shone cold and bright.
Inside his pocket, the card burned like a promise.
And beside him, Nemuri slipped her arm through his, pulling him close.
"Ready to be a hero, wolf?"
"More than ever," he answered.
And just like that, the shadows of his past started to fade—replaced by neon lights, paperwork, and a woman who looked at him like he was the most dangerous, most desirable thing she'd ever seen.