The air inside the Pride chamber was thick — not just with cigarette smoke and perfume, but with expectation.
Every whisper stopped the moment Izuku spoke. The masked faces around the black stone table tilted toward him, their attention sharp as blades. In this room, words were currency, and silence could buy your death.
Izuku leaned back slightly, the faint creak of his chair the only sound that dared to move. The lion mask he wore caught the low light of the crimson chandelier above — fractured shards of gold glinting off the metallic mane.
> "My name," he said evenly, "is Leo."
The name rolled off his tongue like a well-rehearsed line. It wasn't bravado — it was calculation. Everything about him, from the calm rhythm of his voice to the way he crossed his hands, was a measured performance. He needed them to see confidence, not arrogance. Control, not fear.
The woman across from him — her mask shaped like a porcelain fox — tapped a manicured finger on the rune-etched table.
> "Leo," she repeated softly, testing it like a blade's edge. "New face. New name. Let's hear something worth our time."
Her tone was smooth, but her presence was dangerous. Pride's members were not ordinary criminals. They were intellectual predators — manipulators, brokers, analysts. To impress them meant survival. To bore them meant disappearance.
Izuku exhaled slowly and began.
> "My piece of information concerns U.A. High School — specifically, something being developed by Principal Nezu."
That got their attention. Even the ones pretending not to listen shifted subtly. The U.A. name carried power; it was the symbol of order, the pillar of everything the underworld existed to undermine.
> "Two weeks ago," Izuku continued, "a restricted transport left I-Island Labs. The manifest listed it as 'non-weaponized mobility equipment,' destination U.A.'s support division."
"However," he said, leaning forward slightly, voice dropping lower, "I cross-checked the cargo's weight and fuel documentation. The numbers don't match any existing exosuit or civilian prototype. This shipment was heavier — considerably heavier — and required a reinforced carrier and heat-sealed casing."
Someone let out a small sound of surprise. Izuku continued, unfazed.
> "I also found a secondary manifest — encrypted, but partial. It mentions the name Project: Atlas."
The word hung in the air like smoke.
> "If the data I pieced together is right," he said, tone quiet but deliberate, "Nezu's developing a piece of support equipment capable of amplifying a Quirk's output to rival even top heroes. In theory, anyone who wears it could fight on equal footing with an S-Class Pro."
That sentence made the room breathe again — sharp gasps, quiet murmurs, then rapid, hushed conversation. The name "Atlas" echoed from table to table.
> "That's insane," one voice muttered.
"If that's true… the balance would collapse."
"Who would Nezu give it to? A student? The government?"
The table's runes pulsed green — truth.
Izuku sat still, hands folded neatly, letting the chaos swirl around him.
He hadn't even confirmed all of it yet. Half his theory came from broken clues — supply chain leaks, code fragments, hidden budget shifts. But he didn't need confirmation. Perception was enough.
In Pride, truth was not what was real, but what people believed to be real.
The fox-masked woman leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. Her voice was soft, but her words sharp.
> "You're clever, Leo. Clever and reckless. Do you realize what you've just said?"
> "That depends," Izuku replied, "on who's listening."
A low laugh rippled around the table. A few of the older members nodded approvingly. A masked man with a serpent motif tilted his head.
> "If this Project: Atlas exists," he said, "it'll make half the heroes in Japan obsolete. The Commission would never allow that."
> "Which means," Izuku said, "either they're already funding it — or Nezu's keeping it off their radar."
The runes flickered again, hesitating between red and green before settling on an ambiguous amber. Pride's tables were enchanted to detect lies, but withholding truth? That was something else. The color meant uncertainty — and that made the information even more valuable.
The serpent chuckled, his distorted voice like a low hiss.
> "And what do you want for this little revelation, cub?"
Izuku paused, then spoke simply.
> "Nothing. Consider it my introduction."
That drew genuine surprise. No one gave anything in Pride for free. The woman in the fox mask smiled faintly behind her porcelain face.
> "You're either a fool," she said, "or someone with a very long game."
> "A fool acts without thought," Izuku replied, his voice calm. "A planner acts without revealing thought."
Her smile deepened. "Then welcome to Pride, little lion."
---
The meeting continued, with information traded like playing cards — black-market shipments, hero patrol movements, political scandals. Izuku listened carefully to every voice, memorizing their tones, their tells, their patterns of speech.
He noticed the man with the serpent mask always hesitated before speaking, as if choosing words through layers of deceit.
The woman with the fox mask, on the other hand, spoke only after others — not to lead, but to control direction.
The rest were noise. He stored their details away — tone, height, the way their fingers moved — all pieces of a puzzle he would one day need.
When it finally ended, the members dispersed silently. Masks vanished into smoke, footsteps faded down different hallways. Izuku stayed seated for a moment, listening to the sound of the city bleeding through the walls — the distant wail of sirens, the whisper of the wind through rusted vents.
Then he stood, adjusted his tie, and left.
---
The back corridors of Pride were narrow and cold. Pipes lined the ceiling, dripping condensation that fell in slow, rhythmic drops. The walls were covered in peeling posters — advertisements for long-dead products, washed-out heroes smiling beside slogans that meant nothing anymore.
As Izuku walked, his mind replayed the conversation.
Project: Atlas.
A device that could give anyone the power of a top hero.
If such technology existed — and he believed it did — it would rewrite the entire concept of hero society. Quirks would no longer determine destiny. Power could be bought, worn, manufactured.
For someone like Izuku, born powerless and scorned for it, the idea burned in his mind like divine irony.
Anyone could be powerful.
Even me.
But then he shook the thought away. Wanting power was easy. Controlling it — shaping it to serve your design — that was where most failed.
He turned down another corridor, emerging into the open night. The alley outside was drenched in rainlight, puddles glowing with reflections of neon signs above. He removed his lion mask and held it at his side. His breath came out in faint white clouds.