Vega Base — Sub-Level 3 — The Cold Room
The lights here were different.
Not warm. Not soft.
White. Surgical. The kind that flattened shadows and made every expression harder to hide.
Six chairs. Six scientists. One table of brushed steel.
They had been sitting for thirteen minutes.
No one had told them why.
Dr. Hayashi — oldest, grey at the temples, hands folded too carefully — kept his eyes on the door.
Dr. Sato — younger, fingers tapping once every few seconds before he caught himself — had tried twice to open his folder and stopped both times.
Across from him, Dr. Mori stared at the water glass in front of her like it might be a test. She hadn't touched it.
Dr. Fujita sat with his back very straight, jaw tight, the posture of a man who had sat in uncomfortable rooms before and survived them by not moving.
Dr. Abe — small, quiet, the kind of person who became invisible in group settings — was watching Stain.
He had been watching Stain for the full thirteen minutes.
Stain had not moved once. Not shifted weight. Not blinked more than necessary. Just stood in the corner with his arms crossed and his blade at his hip, as if he had been placed there and forgotten.
The sixth scientist — Dr. Reyes, foreign-trained, the only one who had been brought in from outside the country — hadn't looked at anyone. She was studying the walls. The ventilation. The exits.
There were none she could reach.
Kurogiri drifted near the door, mist curling faintly at floor level.
Dr. Hayashi broke first.
Dr. Hayashi: "How much longer?"
No answer.
Dr. Hayashi: "We were told this was a meeting. Not—"
The door opened.
Ren walked in without hurrying.
He still had a bruise along his jaw — pale yellow-green, three days old. Hospital-discharge paperwork was probably still warm somewhere. His jacket was pressed. His expression was easy.
He sat at the head of the table, looked at each of them once — brief, unhurried, complete — and said:
Ren: "Thank you for waiting."
Dr. Hayashi: "You're the one they call Ren."
Ren: "Yes."
Dr. Hayashi: "You're a student."
Ren: "I was."
Dr. Hayashi: "You look like you belong in a hospital bed."
Ren: "I did. Three hours ago."
He set a folder on the table. Didn't open it yet.
Ren: "And yet."
He smiled.
Not warmly.
The kind of smile that meant: I know exactly where I am and exactly why, and none of that is accidental.
Dr. Sato cleared his throat. "We weren't exactly given a choice about coming here."
Ren: "No."
Dr. Sato: "That's—"
Ren: "True. I know."
He opened the folder now. Pulled out a single sheet. Placed it in front of Dr. Sato.
It was a research proposal.
Dr. Sato's research proposal. The one he had submitted to the Hero Commission fourteen months ago. The one that had come back stamped DECLINED — NOT ALIGNED WITH COMMISSION PRIORITIES.
Dr. Sato stared at it.
Ren: "Your work on quirk-factor isolation in neural pathways. Declined. Not because the methodology was flawed — your methodology was the best submission that quarter — but because the conclusions made certain people uncomfortable."
He pulled another sheet. Placed it in front of Dr. Hayashi.
Ren: "Cellular regression. Your team's results were buried eighteen months ago. Not shelved for further review. Buried. Because the Commission didn't know how to explain data that complicated their public narrative on quirk evolution."
Dr. Hayashi's expression didn't change.
But his hands, folded on the table, tightened.
Ren continued down the table.
Ren: "Dr. Mori. Your application for independent research funding — denied. The reviewer's internal note said 'conclusions may undermine public confidence in hero infrastructure.' You were never shown that note."
Dr. Mori went very still.
Ren: "Dr. Fujita. Your paper on long-term quirk overuse and neurological degradation — accepted for publication, then quietly retracted forty-eight hours before print. The journal cited 'editorial concerns.' The editor had received a phone call that morning."
Fujita's jaw shifted.
Ren: "Dr. Abe."
The small, quiet man looked up.
Ren: "Yours was the only case where they didn't bother with paperwork. They simply stopped returning your calls."
Dr. Abe said nothing.
His eyes moved — just briefly — back to Stain.
Stain had still not moved.
Ren looked at Dr. Reyes last.
Ren: "You came from outside the country specifically because your own government's research body wouldn't fund this kind of work either. You thought maybe here would be different."
A pause.
Ren: "It wasn't."
Dr. Reyes met his gaze steadily. She was the hardest to read of all of them.
Dr. Reyes: "And you think you're different."
Ren: "No," he said. "I think your work is different. I'm just the one willing to let it exist."
Silence.
Then Dr. Hayashi spoke — measured, careful.
Dr. Hayashi: "What do you want from us?"
Ren: "Project Genos. I want it completed."
He nodded toward Kurogiri, who placed a sealed case at the center of the table.
Ren: "Samples from the Shie Hassaikai secondary lab. Overhaul's unpublished data. The Commission's recovery teams haven't reached that section yet — they will, eventually, but not soon."
Dr. Hayashi stared at the case.
Dr. Hayashi: "...That's Chisaki's work."
Ren: "His process was inexcusable. His data is not."
Dr. Mori (quietly): "You want us to continue what he started."
Ren: "I want you to finish what he couldn't. Clean. Stable. Consensual."
Dr. Fujita: "The difference being?"
Ren: "The person receiving the enhancement chooses it. No coercion. No overwrite of existing biology. A baseline augmentation — functional, durable — available to someone with no quirk factor."
Dr. Sato: "You're describing biotech that doesn't exist yet."
Ren: "I'm describing biotech that almost exists. You're the reason it almost does."
Dr. Sato looked down at his rejected proposal still sitting in front of him.
Dr. Abe (very quietly): "...Why does it matter? The quirkless population."
Everyone looked at him — he rarely spoke first.
He didn't look embarrassed by the attention.
Dr. Abe: "Statistically, the quirkless demographic is shrinking every generation. Within three to four generations, natural quirklessness may effectively disappear. So why build infrastructure for a population that is—"
Ren: "Disappearing?"
Dr. Abe nodded.
Ren was quiet for a moment.
Ren: "Because the issue was never about the quirkless population specifically."
He leaned forward slightly.
Ren: "It's about what it means when strength becomes purely a matter of birth. When the gap between those who were born with something and those who weren't becomes permanent. Accepted. Normal."
No one spoke.
Ren: "Overhaul tried to erase quirks entirely. I'm not interested in that. I'm interested in the opposite — making sure the floor is high enough that no one has to be lucky just to stand on it."
Dr. Reyes was still watching him.
Dr. Reyes: "That's a very idealistic framing for someone who runs a criminal organization."
Ren: "Yes."
Dr. Reyes: "It doesn't concern you? The contradiction?"
Ren: "I find contradictions useful. They mean you're holding two real things at once instead of one comfortable lie."
She studied him for another moment.
Then looked at the sealed case.
Dr. Reyes: "...What's the timeline?"
Dr. Hayashi: "And if we refuse?"
Last attempt. Everyone at the table knew it.
Ren looked at him.
Ren: "You won't."
Dr. Hayashi: "How certain are you of that."
Ren: "Certain enough to have this conversation instead of a different one."
Dr. Hayashi held his gaze.
Then — slowly, with the particular exhaustion of a man who has been angry for a long time and is finally setting it down —
He reached out.
And opened the sealed case.
The data inside caught the white light.
Around the table, one by one, the others leaned in.
In the corner, Stain unfolded his arms.
He walked to the table — not to threaten, not to loom — and stopped beside Ren's chair. Looked at the open case. At the scientists bent over it.
Then, to Ren, quietly enough that only he could hear:
Stain: "They'll do it."
Ren: "I know."
Stain: "Not because you convinced them."
Ren glanced up at him.
Stain's expression was unreadable — but his eyes were sharp, attentive, the eyes of someone who had just watched something and filed it away.
Stain: "Because they already wanted to."
He stepped back to his corner.
Ren said nothing.
But something in his posture shifted — just slightly — like a man who had been corrected and found the correction accurate.
Hallway — After
Akira was leaning against the wall outside, arms crossed.
She fell into step beside him without a word.
They walked in silence through Sub-Level 3, the cold white lights giving way to amber as they climbed.
Akira: "How'd it go?"
Ren: "Dr. Hayashi opened the case."
Akira: "That's a yes?"
Ren: "That's a yes."
Akira: "And Dr. Reyes? She's the variable. The outside hire, no institutional loyalty—"
Ren: "She asked about the timeline."
Akira paused half a step.
Akira: "...That's better than a yes."
Ren: "I know."
She studied his face as they walked.
Akira: "You look tired."
Ren: "I'm fine."
Akira: "You look tired and you're saying you're fine, which means you're worse than tired."
He didn't argue.
Akira: "Rest. The project isn't going anywhere tonight."
Ren: "One more thing."
Akira: "Ren—"
Ren: "Ten minutes."
She stopped. He stopped.
She looked at him — that particular look that meant I know you won't listen but here we are.
Then she exhaled.
Akira: "Ten minutes. I'm timing you."
Vega Base — Ren's Office
The desk was exactly as he'd left it.
He sat down. Pulled out a blank sheet. Wrote four words at the top.
PROJECT GENOS — PHASE ONE
Below it, the framework took shape — not the science, but the structure around it. Contingencies. Timelines. What to do when the Commission came asking. What to do if the data went sideways. Who to move and when.
He worked without stopping.
At the bottom of the page, he paused.
Wrote one line smaller than the rest.
Long-term: a generation that does not need to be born lucky to be strong.
He looked at it.
Set down the pen.
Outside the office, the base had settled into its quiet rhythm — Toga's voice drifting down from somewhere above, Riptide's unhurried reply, Kurogiri's footsteps measured and even.
Ren leaned back.
Stared at the ceiling.
Stain was right, he thought. They already wanted to.
Which means I didn't persuade them.
I just gave them somewhere to go.
He filed that away.
Then closed his eyes.
Not to plan.
Just to stop.
The sheet of paper sat on the desk, that last line facing up toward the light.
Outside, the city kept moving.
Completely unaware.