**Musutafu, downtown district – Late evening**
The neon lights of the city painted the rain-slicked streets in electric blues and violent pinks. Sirens wailed in the distance, but closer, in the narrow alley behind the old entertainment district, the only sounds were grunts, thuds, and the occasional sharp crack of a whip.
Nemuri Kayama—better known as Midnight—stood in the center of a widening circle of unconscious bodies. Her breathing was heavy, her signature hero costume torn at the shoulder, long purple hair plastered to her face from the drizzle. Her quirk, Somnambulist, had already claimed its toll tonight: eighty low-to-mid-tier villains lay sprawled around her, snoring deeply under the influence of her sleep-inducing fragrance. But the night was far from over.
The remaining eighty members of the gang—calling themselves the "Night Reapers"—had learned from the first wave. Masks, gas filters, even makeshift fans to blow her scent away. They were smarter now. And angrier.
"Give it up, Midnight," snarled the leader, a tall man with spiked metal gauntlets. "You're running on fumes. One more whiff and you'll drop before we do."
Nemuri wiped blood from her lip, whip coiled loosely in her hand. She was exhausted—her quirk overuse had left her dizzy, her vision swimming. But she still managed a defiant, sultry smirk.
"Boys… you really think you can handle me when I'm tired?"
They charged.
She cracked her whip, taking down three in one sweep, but the numbers were overwhelming. A metal gauntlet grazed her side, tearing fabric and skin. She staggered. Another villain grabbed her wrist, twisting. The whip fell.
This was bad.
Then—
A low, almost playful wolf howl cut through the rain.
The gang froze.
From the shadowed rooftop above, a figure dropped—silent, graceful, landing in a perfect crouch between Midnight and the mob. Black hair, red aura flickering like embers around him, eyes sharp and calm.
Yamcha.
He didn't say a word at first. Just straightened up slowly, cracking his neck.
"Eighty left?" he muttered, glancing at the sleeping piles and then at the furious crowd. "That's almost insulting."
The leader laughed, harsh and mocking.
"Who the hell are you, pretty boy? Another wannabe hero?"
Yamcha smiled—that old desert-bandit grin, equal parts danger and charm.
"Me? Just a guy who hates seeing a beautiful woman get jumped by a bunch of cowards."
Nemuri blinked through the haze of fatigue. She didn't recognize him. No hero license visible, no flashy costume—just worn jeans, a black jacket, and an aura that felt… primal.
The gang didn't wait for more talk.
They rushed him.
And Yamcha moved.
It wasn't flashy like All Might. It wasn't explosive like Bakugo. It was fast. Surgical. Beautiful.
Wolf Fang Fist.
He flowed like water between them—dodging, weaving, countering. A quick sidestep, then a spinning back kick that sent two villains crashing into a dumpster. A claw-like strike across three throats in one motion, dropping them instantly. A sudden burst forward, red energy trailing like comet tails, and a double palm thrust that launched the gauntlet guy ten meters backward into a wall.
The gang panicked.
"Get him!"
More came.
Yamcha didn't slow.
He blurred. One moment standing still—the next, a whirlwind of fists, elbows, knees. Every strike precise, every movement economical. He didn't waste energy; he danced through them.
A villain swung a pipe. Yamcha caught it mid-swing, twisted, and used the momentum to slam the man face-first into the ground. Another tried to shoot him with a quirk that fired concussive blasts—Yamcha formed a small, glowing Spirit Ball in his palm, curved it around the attacker's back, and detonated it point-blank.
The alley became chaos.
And in the center of it all, Midnight watched, wide-eyed.
She had seen power before. She had fought beside the best. But this… this was something else. Raw martial skill mixed with a quirk that felt almost alive, almost feral. And the way he moved—confident, almost playful, like he was enjoying himself.
One by one, the Night Reapers fell.
The last ten tried to run.
Yamcha didn't chase.
He simply raised one hand, aura flaring brighter for a heartbeat.
"Ultimate Wolf Fang… Barrage."
The air itself howled.
A storm of invisible claw strikes ripped through the fleeing group. They didn't even have time to scream. They dropped like marionettes with cut strings.
Silence.
Only the patter of rain and distant sirens.
Yamcha exhaled, aura fading. He turned.
Nemuri was still on one knee, whip in hand, staring at him like she'd seen a ghost.
He walked over slowly, offering a hand.
"You okay, gorgeous?"
She blinked. Then laughed—hoarse, tired, but genuine.
"You… just took down eighty men in under two minutes."
"Eighty-two, technically," he corrected with a small grin. "But who's counting?"
She took his hand. He pulled her up gently. She was taller than him in her heels, but right now she felt smaller, fragile from the strain.
"Who are you?" she asked, voice softer now.
"Yamcha," he said simply. No title. No hero name. Just… Yamcha.
She studied his face—scar, wild hair, that cocky-yet-kind smile.
"You're not registered, are you?"
"Not yet."
A beat of silence.
Then she leaned in closer, just enough that he could smell the faint trace of her fragrance still lingering on her skin.
"Well, Yamcha…" she murmured, voice low and teasing despite her exhaustion, "…you just saved my ass. That usually earns a man at least a drink."
He raised an eyebrow.
"I'm more of a tea guy."
She smirked, eyes sparkling even through the fatigue.
"Then you're in luck. I know a place that does killer jasmine tea… and even better whiskey."
She looped her arm through his as they started walking out of the alley, stepping over unconscious bodies like it was nothing.
Behind them, the first police sirens grew louder.
Yamcha glanced sideways at her.
"So… Midnight, right?"
"Nemuri," she corrected softly. "When I'm off the clock."
He smiled wider.
"Nemuri. I like it."
And just like that, in the rain-soaked streets of Musutafu, under flickering neon, something began.