Stain

I've had enough.

They keep circling him—questions, pressure, that quiet insistence that they're owed something. They don't even realize how close they are to pushing him too far.

So I stand.

Slow.

Silent.

And walk up behind them.

Hawks is closest.

Of course he is.

Always inserting himself, always watching.

I lift my hand and tap his shoulder.

Light.

Polite.

A warning.

He doesn't even turn.

"Wrong guy," he says casually, eyes still on Izuku Midoriya. "Busy."

I stare at the back of his head.

...unfortunate.

I tap him again.

Same spot.

Same pressure.

He exhales, clearly annoyed now.

"Still wrong guy," he mutters. "Give me a minute."

He still doesn't look.

Still doesn't see.

Third time.

I don't tap.

I step closer.

Close enough to feel his movement, his breathing, the slight shift of his wings.

Then—

The blade rests against his neck.

Cold.

Precise.

Not cutting.

Not yet.

Just—

There.

"...you're not busy anymore," I say quietly.

Everything stops.

Instantly.

Hizashi Yamada freezes mid-breath.

Shota Aizawa's posture shifts—subtle, controlled, ready.

And Hawks?

He finally goes still.

Completely.

Slowly—

Very slowly—

He turns his head just enough to see me.

Recognition hits immediately.

Sharp.

Clear.

"...well," he mutters. "That's new."

"Hero," I greet.

The room changes.

Not loud.

Not explosive.

Just—

Tension.

Real tension.

Because now they see me.

Not a shadow.

Not a customer.

Not background noise.

But me.

And more importantly—

They understand.

I don't move the blade.

Don't press further.

Just enough to remind him.

To remind all of them.

"You're pressing him," I say.

Calm.

Controlled.

Deadly in a way they understand.

Hawks doesn't flinch.

Doesn't panic.

But I can feel it—

That awareness.

That calculation.

"You usually introduce yourself like this?" he asks lightly.

"Only when ignored."

"...fair."

I shift the blade just a fraction.

Not enough to cut.

Enough to make the point clearer.

"This is not your ground."

Aizawa's voice cuts in, low and steady.

"You're threatening a pro hero."

"I'm correcting behavior."

"That's not how this works."

"It is here."

Silence.

Heavy.

Measured.

Because they don't know what to do with this.

They can't escalate—not without risking him.

They can't ignore me—not anymore.

And all the while—

He's behind the counter.

Safe.

For now.

"...you treated his wound," Aizawa says.

Observant.

Always.

"Yes."

"You're helping him."

"Yes."

"Why."

I don't hesitate.

"Because he is not yours to break."

That lands.

Harder than anything else.

I finally pull the blade back.

Not far.

Just enough.

A warning given.

A line drawn.

But I stay close.

Still between them and him.

Izuku

...wow.

Okay.

That escalated.

I stared at the scene for a solid second—Hawks with a sword at his neck, Shota Aizawa looking like he was two seconds from intervening, Hizashi Yamada buffering like his brain just blue-screened—

Yeah.

No.

Absolutely not.

Clap.

Sharp.

Loud.

Once.

"Alright," I said flatly. "That's enough."

Every head turned.

Good.

Because apparently I had to be the only reasonable person in the room. Again.

I leaned against the counter, unimpressed, arms crossing like this wasn't a near-incident in my café.

"You're all doing too much," I added.

Hawks blinked.

"...I have a sword at my neck."

"And?" I shot back. "I got shot today. I didn't die. We're all having experiences."

Mic choked.

"I—what—that's your takeaway?!"

"Yes."

"THAT'S NOT—"

I held up a hand.

"Stop."

He stopped.

Bless.

I glanced at the blade still hovering very unnecessarily near Hawks' throat and sighed.

"...and you," I said, looking at Stain.

Calm.

Unbothered.

Like this was a normal Tuesday.

"Put the toothpick away."

Silence.

Hawks made a noise.

"...toothpick?"

"Yes," I repeated. "Your dramatic little kitchen utensil. Put it away."

Stain didn't move immediately.

Of course he didn't.

So I tilted my head slightly, voice dropping just enough to mean something.

"Or you'll face consequences."

That did it.

Not the threat.

Not the words.

The tone.

Because he knew.

He knew I wasn't joking.

The blade disappeared.

Clean.

Smooth.

Like it had never been there.

Good.

"Thank you," I said, just as flat as before.

Then I looked back at the others.

"...seriously," I continued. "What is wrong with all of you?"

Hawks rubbed the back of his neck, stepping away slightly now that he wasn't one wrong breath away from a very bad day.

"...you're asking us that?"

"Yes."

"You have a known serial killer casually backing you up."

"He's a regular."

"That's not better."

"It is for me."

Aizawa exhaled slowly, tension still there but controlled again.

"...you let him treat your wound."

"Yes."

"You trust him."

"Yes."

"Why."

I shrugged.

"He makes clean cuts."

Mic made a strangled noise.

"That is the worst possible reason—"

"It's an effective one."

Hawks stared at me like he was trying to decide if I was serious.

I was.

Obviously.

"...this isn't normal," he said.

"There it is again," I replied. "That word."

"Because it's true."

"It's relative."

"It's not."

"It is for me."

Silence.

Again.

Because yeah—

That was kind of my thing.

I pushed off the counter slightly, gesturing vaguely around.

"My café. My rules," I said. "No fighting. No threatening. No hero-villain nonsense."

I looked at each of them in turn.

Slow.

Deliberate.

"That includes you," I added.

Hawks raised his hands slightly.

"Hey, I didn't start—"

"I don't care."

"...rude."

"Accurate."

Mic looked between all of us like he'd accidentally walked into a completely different reality.

"...is this—does this happen often?" he asked.

"Yes."

"No," Hawks said at the same time.

I ignored him.

Aizawa was still watching me.

Of course he was.

Analyzing.

Always analyzing.

"...you're controlling the situation," he said quietly.

"I'm managing it."

"With a known criminal."

"With a customer."

"That's not the same."

"It is here."

That again.

That line.

And I wasn't moving it.

I gestured back toward the table.

"Sit. Drink your coffee," I said. "Or leave."

Simple.

Clear.

Final.

Because if they stayed?

They followed my rules.

If they didn't?

They could get out.

Either way—

I was done entertaining whatever this was.

"...and no more dramatic entrances," I added, glancing briefly at Stain. "You're scaring the newbies."

Mic pointed at himself.

"I feel attacked."

"You should."