The night air wrapped around me like a chill, whispering promises of disaster I was too stubborn to believe. Perched on the roof of a dingy warehouse, I had the perfect vantage point. Kirishima—Red Riot—was down below, laughing and chatting with a couple of guys who looked like they'd lose in a fight against a stiff breeze.

I checked the time. He'd been here for 45 minutes. Long enough to confirm the deal was going down but not so long that anyone would expect an ambush. Timing was everything, and I was good at timing.

The plan was simple: wait for the right moment, drop down, and handle it. No muss, no fuss, no witnesses. My usual flair for the dramatic would have to sit this one out. Unfortunately, the universe had other ideas.

My first mistake? Trusting the structural integrity of a roof that looked older than dirt. As I shifted my weight to get into position, the metal beneath me groaned—a low, ominous sound that sent a chill down my spine.

"Don't you dare," I hissed at the roof. "We're on the same team here."

It wasn't.

The roof gave way with a screech loud enough to wake the dead, and gravity yanked me down before I could even process what was happening. I flailed like a cat dropped into water, my arms and legs catching absolutely nothing useful on the way down.

The landing was less "graceful assassin" and more "human pancake." I hit the ground with a bone-rattling thud, the breath punched out of me like I owed it money.

For a second, everything was still. Silent.

And then: "What the hell was that?!"

Oh no.

Through the haze of pain and embarrassment, I looked up. Kirishima was staring at me, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Behind him, the two scrawny guys looked ready to bolt, their hands halfway to the guns tucked into their belts. And beyond them? A third group of people I hadn't accounted for—sharply dressed and heavily armed, the kind of people who screamed "organized crime" even louder than Bakugo did.

Awesome. Just what I needed: a whole audience for my humiliation.

I scrambled to my feet, wincing as my knees protested. "Uh... hi?"

Kirishima blinked, his shock melting into something suspiciously close to amusement. "Do I know you?"

"Not yet," I said, dusting myself off. "But I have a feeling this is going to be a very memorable first impression."

The armed group was less amused. Their leader, a tall guy with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward. His hand rested casually on the hilt of a very large knife. "Who's this? One of yours?"

"Not mine," Kirishima said, crossing his arms. "Pretty sure I'd remember someone this clumsy."

Ouch. 

Rude.

"Clumsy?" I said, holding up a hand. "Excuse me, I prefer the term 'unlucky.' Big difference."

Scarface wasn't buying it. He nodded to one of his men, who immediately raised a gun and pointed it at me. My pulse spiked, but I kept my face blank. Rule number one: never show fear.

"Wait!" Kirishima stepped between me and the gunman, holding up his hands. "Let's not shoot first and ask questions later, okay? This guy doesn't look like much of a threat."

Double ouch.

I should've been insulted. Instead, I was grateful. Whatever Kirishima's reasons, he'd just bought me a few extra seconds to think. Not that thinking was going to help much. I was surrounded, outnumbered, and very much outgunned.

Plan? There was no plan. I'd dropped in like an idiot, and now I was reaping the consequences.

Scarface didn't look convinced. "If he's not a threat, why is he here?"

"Wrong place, wrong time?" I offered, flashing a grin that was more teeth than charm.

The lie was obvious, but I didn't care. I just needed to keep them talking long enough to figure out how to get out of this mess.

"You expect us to believe that?" Scarface said, stepping closer.

"No," I admitted. "But it was worth a shot."

The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. My brain scrambled for options, but there weren't many. Fighting my way out was a suicide mission. Running wasn't much better. And surrender? Not happening.

Kirishima sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, maybe we should just let him go. He's not part of this, and we've got more important things to deal with."

Scarface's eyes narrowed. "You're awfully quick to defend him. Something you're not telling us?"

Kirishima bristled. "No. I just don't see the point in wasting time on—"

And that's when the universe decided to kick me while I was down.

The sound of a gunshot shattered the night, and everyone froze. For a split second, I thought they'd shot at me. But no—one of Scarface's guys had fired into the air, his hand shaking as he shouted something I didn't catch.

Panic rippled through the group. Shouts overlapped, guns were drawn, and the whole situation spiraled into chaos faster than I could blink.

I ducked as another shot rang out, my instincts screaming at me to move. The fight wasn't directed at me—yet—but it was only a matter of time before someone decided I was the easiest target in the room.

Kirishima's voice cut through the chaos. "Everyone, calm down!"

No one listened.

And me? I did the only thing I could do: hit the ground and prayed to every god I didn't believe in that I'd make it out alive.

The chaos lasted for what felt like hours but was probably less than a minute. When the dust finally settled, the warehouse was eerily quiet.

Scarface and his men were gone, leaving behind only the stench of gunpowder and the distant echo of retreating footsteps. Kirishima stood in the middle of the mess, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

I pushed myself to my feet, every muscle in my body protesting. "So," I said, forcing a grin. "That went well."

Kirishima didn't laugh.

For a moment, we just stared at each other. Neither of us spoke, the silence stretching longer and heavier with every passing second.

Finally, Kirishima broke the silence. "You're coming with me."