**Musutafu, Industrial District Outskirts – January 20, 2026, 19:45**
The Commission's message had come in cold and clinical: a solo probation mission. No backup, no sponsor oversight. "Prove you can handle it alone," it read. Yamcha—Wolf Fang—stared at the holographic briefing on his wrist device. A quirk-theft ring operating out of an abandoned warehouse. Low-level villains with a ringleader who could siphon and redistribute quirks temporarily. Intel suggested they'd hit a civilian convoy earlier, stealing powers from passersby to bolster their ranks.
"Piece of cake," Yamcha muttered to himself, but his gut twisted. Alone. The word echoed like a bad memory.
He leaped across rooftops, the city's neon glow fading behind him into the dim industrial haze. The warehouse loomed ahead—rusted metal, broken windows, faint sounds of muffled shouts inside. He dropped silently to the ground, aura humming low.
As he crept closer, the first guard spotted him—a burly man with glowing fists, quirk stolen from some poor soul. The villain charged, energy crackling.
Yamcha dodged, countering with a quick Wolf Fang Fist jab. The man crumpled.
But the fight triggered alarms. Doors burst open. Ten more villains poured out—eyes wild, quirks mismatched: one shot flames from his mouth, another stretched limbs like rubber. The ringleader, a gaunt figure in a hooded cloak, laughed from the shadows.
"Fresh meat! Let's see what you've got, hero boy!"
Yamcha blurred into action. A Spirit Ball curved through the air, exploding against a fire-spitter's chest. He weaved between stretched arms, landing a spinning kick that sent the attacker flying. But as he fought, the pressure built—not just from the enemies, but from inside.
A flashback hit like a gut punch.
*Vegeta's sneer. "Pathetic weakling. You're nothing but a joke in this tournament." Yamcha on the ground, ribs cracked, pride shattered. Always second best, always the one who fell first.*
He shook it off, aura flaring red. Another villain lunged with super speed—stolen quirk. Yamcha matched it, parrying blows in a whirlwind of punches.
But more came. The ringleader extended a hand, siphoning a bystander's quirk mid-fight—a civilian tied up inside, visible through a shattered window. The leader laughed, now enhanced with strength.
"You're fast, but you're alone!" he taunted.
Alone.
Another flash.
*The Saibaman. That grinning, green abomination. Yamcha charging confidently—"I got this!"—only to be grabbed, exploded. Pain. Darkness. Death. Waking up in the afterlife, a failure again. Goku stepping in, always the savior.*
Yamcha growled, eyes narrowing. "Not this time."
The villains swarmed—flames, stretches, blasts. He dodged a fireball, but a rubber limb wrapped around his ankle, pulling him off-balance. A stolen ice quirk froze the ground beneath him. He slipped, heart pounding.
*Goku's shadow. Always there, towering. "Hey Yamcha, you did your best!" But best wasn't enough. Never enough. Goku won worlds. Yamcha won scraps.*
Rage surged. His aura exploded—red shifting to golden-orange, the air howling like a storm of wolves.
"Ultimate Wolf Fang Barrage!"
He became untouchable. Invisible claws tore through the crowd—metal limbs shredded, flames extinguished mid-air. A double palm thrust launched three villains into a wall. The ringleader charged, quirk-siphoned strength making him a tank. Yamcha met him head-on, a flurry of enhanced strikes cracking bones, aura burning bright.
The leader crumpled, quirk-drain reversing as he lost consciousness. The stolen powers faded, villains groaning on the ground.
Yamcha stood panting, golden aura dimming. The warehouse was silent except for the whimpers of freed civilians. He'd done it. Alone.
But as he untied the hostages, a sharp pain hit—not physical. The flashbacks lingered, a weight on his chest.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Too soon.
Then, a whip cracked from the shadows.
Midnight—Nemuri—dropped from a rooftop, her quirk fragrance already dispersing the last stragglers into slumber.
"You weren't supposed to be here," Yamcha said, voice rough.
She smirked, but her eyes were worried. "Commission said solo, but I'm your sponsor. I monitor from afar… until I don't."
She glanced at the wreckage, the defeated ring. "You handled it. Brilliantly."
He nodded, but his shoulders sagged. "Yeah. But it… brought stuff back."
They stepped away from the scene as police arrived, Nemuri flashing her badge to handle the cleanup. She led him to a quiet rooftop nearby, the city sprawl below them a glittering distraction.
"Talk to me," she said softly, sitting close, her hand on his arm.
Yamcha stared at the horizon. "It's stupid. Old ghosts."
"Not stupid." She squeezed. "You fought like a demon out there. But I saw your face. Like you were battling more than them."
He sighed, leaning back against the ledge.
"In my… old life, I was always the underdog. There was this guy—Vegeta. Arrogant bastard. Always looked down on me, called me weak. And he was right, sometimes. I died once. Blown up by a creature I underestimated. Saibaman. Felt like nothing—gone in a flash."
Nemuri's eyes widened, but she didn't interrupt.
"And Goku… he was the hero. The one who saved everyone. I lived in his shadow. Tried to keep up, but always fell short. Tournaments, battles for the world… I was the comic relief. The guy who got knocked out first."
His voice cracked slightly. "Here, in this world… I thought I could start over. Be the leader. But alone in that fight, it all came back. What if I'm still that guy? What if I fail you?"
Nemuri turned his face to hers, fingers gentle on his cheek.
"You're not that guy. You broke All Might's record. You saved those people tonight. And you saved me, remember? You're strong, Yamcha. Wolf Fang. But strength isn't about being alone. It's about letting people in."
She leaned closer, her breath warm against his skin.
"I'm here. Not because you need saving, but because I want to be. Your past doesn't define you. Not with me."
He searched her eyes, the vulnerability raw.
"Then… stay. Help me build something new. A pack. A team. So I'm never alone again."
She smiled, soft and fierce.
"Always."
Their lips met again—not tentative like before, but deep, urgent. Her arms wrapped around him, his hands in her hair. The kiss tasted like release, like promise. When they pulled apart, foreheads touching, Yamcha whispered:
"Thank you. For seeing me."
Nemuri traced his scar.
"And for fighting beside you."
Below, the city moved on. But up here, in the shadows of the past, two souls found light in each other.
The probation continued. But Yamcha wasn't alone anymore.