Sir Nighteye did not call a meeting.
He summoned one.
The room was sealed, soundproofed, stripped of press access and junior staff. Only high-ranking heroes stood around the table—veterans with scars, instincts sharpened by decades of crisis. The kind of people who didn't laugh easily anymore.
Nighteye stood at the head, posture rigid, cane planted firmly against the floor.
"I will be direct," he said. "Two years from now, a single individual becomes the gravitational center of escalating conflict."
No slides. No theatrics. Just his voice.
He activated his quirk.
The heroes stiffened as fragments of the future bled into their perception—blurred silhouettes, collapsing lines, a presence that made even imagined air feel dense. They didn't see faces. They didn't see blood.
They felt pressure.
One hero clenched their fists. Another took an involuntary step back.
"This entity," Nighteye continued evenly, "grows stronger through engagement. Every confrontation amplifies its influence. Attempts to suppress it only accelerate the outcome."
A murmur spread. Words like threat, singularity, disaster-class surfaced almost immediately.
Nighteye anticipated all of it.
"You are already making the mistake," he said sharply. "This future does not begin with villainy. It begins with attention."
Silence followed.
"I don't know the individual's name," he admitted. "I don't know their intent. But I know this—if the world decides they are a monster, then the world will create one."
No one argued.
That scared him more than disagreement ever could.
Across the city, far from sealed rooms and prophetic dread, the future sat in a classroom with peeling paint and flickering lights.
Shinwa didn't feel special.
He sat by the window, half-listening to the teacher, half-watching dust drift through the afternoon sun. His uniform was plain. His grades were average. His Quirk registration still read Undetermined, a quiet mark of embarrassment he pretended not to notice.
Around him, classmates whispered about internships, hero rankings, flashy abilities.
Shinwa felt… heavy.
Not physically. Something else. Like the air pressed closer when people looked at him too long. Like conversations stalled when he spoke, even when he said nothing important.
He had learned to keep his head down.
The sound came without warning.
A low, almost inaudible thrum, like distant thunder trapped behind his ribs.
Shinwa stiffened.
His vision narrowed. The room didn't spin—but it deepened, shadows stretching just a fraction longer than they should have. A sudden hush fell over the class, not because anyone had commanded it, but because something instinctual told them to stop moving.
A student dropped a pen.
No one bent to pick it up.
Shinwa's heartbeat slowed.
Each thud felt measured. Intentional.
"What's… wrong with the air?" someone whispered.
Shinwa stood.
The floor creaked beneath his feet, louder than it should have been. Every eye turned toward him, and with that attention came a pressure that snapped into place like a lock turning.
He felt it then.
Not power.
Recognition.
Something invisible settled over his shoulders—not pain, not heat, but weight. A presence that expanded outward, subtle yet undeniable. The closer people were, the harder it was for them to breathe normally.
Fear flickered across faces.
Awe followed it just as quickly.
Shinwa raised his hands instinctively, palms open, trying to speak—but his voice caught. The room felt too small. Too fragile.
Cracks spidered along the window glass.
Not from force.
From strain.
Teachers rushed in. Alarms blared. Someone screamed his name.
And somewhere, deep in Shinwa's mind, something ancient and formless noticed.
The weight receded as suddenly as it had arrived. Desks rattled back into place. Air rushed in, lungs remembering how to work.
Shinwa staggered, catching himself on the edge of his desk.
His classmates stared at him like they didn't know what he was anymore.
Far away, Sir Nighteye paused mid-step.
A pressure he had only felt in visions brushed the edge of reality.
He looked up sharply.
"…It's begun," he said.
And for the first time since seeing the future—
—he wasn't sure whether he was too early…
…or already too late.