Late March. The city breathed quiet, cool and damp, with enough wind to keep most away from the alleys that connected one block to another.
A worn sleeping bag lay slumped against a rust-streaked wall behind an abandoned ramen stall, one of many corpses in this part of the city. In it, someone shifted—barely. A matted hood, goggles drawn low, a tired rise and fall of breath. The sort of thing you ignored unless you were looking to get stabbed or robbed.
But this one wasn't asleep.
Aizawa Shouta's eyes were half-lidded beneath his visor, watching the intersection.
Just past 1:30 a.m.
Two silhouettes drifted by.
The first was hard to miss. A mutant-type—well over two meters tall, scaled from temple to elbow, tail wrapped tight beneath a trench coat that barely fit him. His gait was heavy.
The Reptile
The second one, however, moved differently—smooth steps, hands tucked in the pockets of a long gray coat, chewing gum like he owned the night.
The Gambler.
Another hero might have laughed at their naming sense but personally, he couldn't care less what two future prisoners called themselves.
Aizawa waited ten seconds after they passed, then moved.
The sleeping bag folded in on itself as he slipped out, movements economical. He didn't look both ways. He already knew the street was clear. His scarf unwound soundlessly as he took to the shadows, slipping into their wake without a whisper.
They didn't talk. They didn't smoke. They didn't check their phones. Despite it being night, it was clear as day they had a job to do.
Aizawa followed without closing the gap. Fifty meters. Enough to keep the angle clean. Too far for peripheral vision, close enough to dispatch them at will.
Tailing was easy, if you didn't treat it like tailing. Most people got caught because they acted like they were following someone. Aizawa just moved like he belonged. Like this street was routine. A shift in posture here. A yawn. A stretch of the shoulder near a bus stop. Every turn accounted for by motion. Never a full stop. Never a silhouette left hanging too long in a lit frame.
He watched The Gambler especially. Subtle look-backs at signs, mailboxes, things that didn't matter. The guy was paranoid, and for good reason. But did he feel he was being watched, or was this just his personality?
The Reptile didn't speak nor did he did adjust his stride. Aizawa filed it away. The hierarchy was confirmed. The short one was the brain.
Their movements showed discipline, but not instinct. Their pacing was too uniform. Their turns too mechanical. Every left corner came with a glance first—always the same sequence.
Wherever they were going, they were doing it the first time.
But were they planning a hit tonight? He couldn't know yet, but he'd have to keep his eyes peeled.
In the last month, this duo racked up three casino robberies, a break-in at a regional data center, and one intercepted warehouse shipment. They managed to escape pursuit each time.
The circumstances were suspicious too.
Mechanical systems failed at just the right moment—doors locking behind guards, security shutters misfiring, surveillance cameras freezing mid-frame. No signs of hacking. No trace of internal compromise. No fatalities either, but still far too clean for fresh-faced villains.
Whatever this Gambler's quirk was, it had bought them clean exits. And it was the reason Eraser Head himself was out here tonight instead of someone else.
Emitters were powerless against him.
The two made their way through the poorer neighborhoods of outer Musutafu, where camera coverage got thinner and streetlamps got rare. The buildings here were low, long, flat-topped—former warehouses turned into subsidized apartments. Trash gathered along gutters. A stray dog padded across the road and didn't look back.
They passed two cracked vending machines at the edge of a dead block, stepped over a sagging chain, and circled behind a long, squat warehouse.
It wasn't abandoned.
The concrete walkway had been patched recently, and the building's outer wall had been washed down—no soot, no scuffs, no graffiti. No shattered glass. No broken hinges. A new sign hung over the bay door, and the lacquer hadn't even faded.
Someone was taking care of this place. Someone was paying the bills.
At the side entrance, the short one entered a code. The shutter rolled up without resistance. A wide spill of warm light reached across the lot—too steady for motion sensors. Too warm for LED. These were interior halogens, powered from a grid that wasn't cutting corners.
Then the shutter dropped behind them with a solid clunk, sealing the space again.
Aizawa didn't like this.
Storage facilities didn't keep their lights on at two in the morning.
From the rooftop across the street, he took out his compact binoculars and scanned the building. The windows were too reflective to see through, and the security shutters blocked most of the angles.
Aizawa stepped back from the edge and dropped down into the alley behind the neighboring building. He landed in a crouch, controlled and quiet. His shoes barely whispered against the concrete.
He moved along the perimeter until he found a rusted service ladder that led to a delivery platform on the second floor. He climbed quickly, keeping low, his center of gravity tight.
At the top, he found a ventilation hatch—aluminum, bolted hastily, secured by a single weak weld. He drew a short tool from his belt, popped the seam, and slipped through the narrow opening.
Inside, the chamber was vast and quiet. The second floor overlooked a wide, open space below. There were no storage racks, no crates, and no signs of recent deliveries. The floor was bare, polished concrete, and lit from above by fully functional halogen panels like he suspected.
But he only offered these things a cursory glance, because at the center of it all, someone had constructed a pit filled with sand.
The surface was carefully raked, the edges precise. It wasn't the result of random scuffing or use—it had been prepared.
Around the pit, six tiers of concrete bleachers rose in a ring, like an underground arena built inside a warehouse.
Aizawa crouched beside a steel beam and adjusted his angle to see more clearly. From here, he had a clean view into the pit.
Three figures stood in the center.
The Reptile. The Gambler. And someone new.
The third figure looked young—late teens at most. He had a strong frame and short black hair. A domino mask hid the upper half of his face. He held no weapon and took no fighting stance. He simply stood, facing the other two.
He wasn't tense. He wasn't watching for a signal. He already knew why he was there.
Aizawa didn't reach for his scarf. Not yet.
He had seen set-ups like this before. From his experience, either a meeting or a trade would follow. And if he was lucky, information would start pouring.
The kid's voice carried from the center of the warehouse. It was clear, confident, and young.
"Thank you, gentlemen, for meeting me tonight. You may address me as Sasuke Uchiha."
Behind the support beam, Aizawa narrowed his eyes.
That name didn't mean anything to him. Might even been fake. A shapechanger, maybe. Or just a teenager who liked the sound of his own drama. He'd seen teen vigilantes before—but this would be his first villain.
The Reptile gave a low grunt. Dismissive.
The Gambler gave a dry shrug. "We don't care, boyo. Give us the money."
"Of course,"
He tossed a briefcase underhand. It hit the sand with a soft thud and burst open. Stacks of yen spilled out in uniform bricks—clean, crisp notes.
"Ten million yen," the boy added. "Feel free to count them."
The Gambler crouched, brushed his hand through the pile, then snapped the case shut. "Nah, we're good." His tone had eased. "Sorry for being rude. It's just—your offer's a little too good to be true, y'know? We heard the rumors, sure, but still…"
"I understand the sentiment."
"Yeah, I don't think you do, to be honest," The Gambler replied, flashing a grin. "No offense, of course."
The Reptile nodded in agreement.
Aizawa frowned. The exchange was polite, almost casual, but something was off. The atmosphere hadn't relaxed. The kid wasn't buying time, wasn't nervous. His tone held no fear.
The boy gave a short laugh. "No offense taken. I'm sure we are all busy people here, but would you like me to explain the rules before we begin?"
"Please do. We got the gist from an acquaintance," said The Gambler, waving lazily. "But he might've skipped a few details."
Aizawa shifted slightly. He checked for exits, blind corners, gaps in sightlines.
What kind of job needed ten million upfront? A hit? Arson? Some kind of heist? Or was this kid recruiting muscle?
The boy nodded once. "There's only one rule that matters. Everything else is secondary."
His voice stayed even. Almost cheerful.
"For the money you've received, for the next two hours—or however long you're able—you must do your very best to kill me."
Aizawa blinked once.
What the hell?