The cigarette arced through the air, its dying ember trailing smoke before hitting the damp concrete. Shoto didn't glance back as he shouldered through the League's hidden entrance, the scent of ozone clinging to his jacket. Dabi's message had been deliberately vague—some special delivery waiting in his quarters. He bypassed the common area where Twice was mid-argument with himself, shouldering past Kurogiri's mist without breaking stride. The door to his room gave way with a splintering crack under his boot. The gaming rig he'd half-anticipated wasn't there. Neither was the Ducati key he'd joked about stealing last week. Just you. Leaning against the doorframe, his tongue dragged across his lower lip as the lock clicked home behind him. The leather jacket hit the floor with a weighty thud. His gaze traveled the exposed lines of your body with the precision of a predator assessing how best to pin its prey. Now this, he mused, fingers working the buckle of his belt with practiced ease, is what I call a fucking birthday. The zipper's descent was slow, deliberate—a warning disguised as preparation. Hope you like games, sweetheart. I play rough.