**Musutafu, Central Shopping District – February 8, 2026, 15:20**
The afternoon sun hung low, casting long shadows across the crowded shopping district. Families pushed strollers, teenagers laughed over ice cream, office workers hurried home with bags. A perfect Saturday—until it wasn't.
Yamcha felt the shift first: the air grew hotter, sharper. Missori's antennae stiffened. Nemuri's hand drifted to her whip handle.
Blue-white flames erupted in the middle of the square. A parked scooter melted into slag. Screams ripped through the air.
A tall, scarred teenager stepped forward—seventeen, black hair falling over cold turquoise eyes, staples holding burned skin together. Young Dabi.
"Heard you three shot a monster into the sun," he drawled, flames licking his palms. "Cute. Let's see if you can handle real fire."
Behind him, three low-level thugs fanned out—stolen quirks glowing in their hands. And at Dabi's side, a girl no older than fifteen: blonde buns, wide fanged grin, school uniform stained with old blood. Himiko Toga.
The crowd panicked, running in every direction.
Yamcha stepped forward, aura flickering red to gold-orange.
"Missori—portal traps on the flanks. Nemuri—fragrance cloud, drop the civilians gently, keep them out of the crossfire. I'll take point on the fire kid. We end this fast."
Nemuri exhaled a wide, controlled mist that rolled outward like fog. People slowed, then slumped peacefully to the ground—sleeping, safe.
Missori's antennae glowed. Two small Keikai Gates snapped open behind the thugs. Yamcha blurred.
Ultimate Wolf Fang Barrage.
He struck the first thug mid-step—rapid claw strikes crumpling ribs, sending him crashing into a storefront. The second thug raised a stolen force-field quirk—Yamcha's Spirit Ball curved around it, exploding against the back of his skull. The third vanished into Missori's portal, reappearing unconscious on a distant rooftop.
Dabi laughed—low, bitter.
"Not bad. But you're still slow."
Blue flames roared outward in a crescent wave.
Yamcha dodged, aura flaring brighter. He countered with a focused Spirit Ball—curving through the fire, striking Dabi's shoulder. The teen staggered, clothes smoldering, but didn't fall.
Then a soft bark cut through the chaos.
Purple Spot—trotting happily behind Nemuri's shopping bags all day—now stood between the heroes and Toga. Baseball cap tilted, tail wagging, plush fur glowing faintly in the sunlight.
Toga giggled, eyes wide.
"Aww! A cute toy puppy! Can I keep you? I'll take good care of you… with my knife!"
She lunged—blade flashing.
Purple Spot dodged—surprisingly nimble for a stuffed animal. He didn't bite. Didn't claw. He simply tackled her—soft plush paws pushing her shoulders down, tail thumping happily against her chest.
Toga slashed—knife bouncing harmlessly off plush fur like it was rubber. She kicked—Purple Spot rolled, came back, and licked her cheek.
Warm. Soft. Affectionate.
Toga froze.
No one had ever touched her like that. Not without fear. Not without disgust.
Purple Spot licked her again—gentle, reassuring.
Her knife slipped from her fingers.
She went limp, exhausted from the fight and the sudden, overwhelming wave of kindness.
Purple Spot curled up on her chest, nuzzling her chin, tail still wagging.
Dabi snarled, flames surging higher.
"You're all—"
Yamcha cut him off with a palm strike that sent him skidding back across pavement.
Kamehameha energy gathered in cupped hands—blue-white light swirling, roaring like a contained storm.
But before he could unleash it, Dabi threw a smoke bomb.
Thick black cloud exploded, swallowing the square.
When it cleared—Dabi was gone.
Toga lay on the ground, Purple Spot protectively draped over her, licking her cheek again and again.
Nemuri knelt beside them, gently checking her pulse.
"She's malnourished. Look at her arms—too thin. She's been starving herself for who knows how long."
Missori scanned her with a handheld device.
"Elevated stress hormones. Low blood sugar. Dehydration. Emotional signature… overwhelming sadness. Loneliness. And… something softer now. Hope."
Yamcha crouched, watching Purple Spot nuzzle the girl.
"Your little buddy just disarmed her without throwing a single real punch."
Nemuri brushed hair from Toga's face.
"She fought for them. But she didn't want to hurt us. Not really. She just… didn't know any other way."
Missori's antennae glowed warmly.
"She feels safe. For the first time."
Yamcha exhaled.
"Then she comes with us. Until we figure out what to do. No one gets left behind."
Purple Spot barked once—soft, triumphant.
The three heroes lifted the unconscious girl and walked away from the square, Purple Spot trotting happily beside them.
The League had struck.
But something else had begun.
**The Loft – Evening**
They laid Toga on the couch. Missori hooked up an IV drip—improvised from medical supplies, nutrient solution carefully calibrated. Nemuri covered her with a soft purple blanket. Purple Spot curled up beside her head, watching protectively, tail thumping gently.
Yamcha stood by the window, arms crossed, staring at the city lights.
"We just beat their first real move. But this…" He nodded toward Toga. "This is complicated."
Nemuri leaned against him, hand on his back.
"She's a kid. A broken one. Like we all were once."
Missori tilted her head, antennae swaying.
"Emotional signature stabilizing. She feels… safe. And curious. About Purple Spot."
Purple Spot licked Toga's cheek again—gentle, reassuring.
The girl stirred slightly, murmuring in her sleep.
Yamcha looked at his team—his midnight queen, his alien star, his purple plush guardian, and now this lost girl who had been taught to see herself as a monster.
"Then we show her she's not," he said quietly. "We give her a chance. Like the Pack gave all of us."
Nemuri squeezed his hand.
"Together."
Missori smiled softly.
"Unity levels: optimal."
Purple Spot barked happily—once, loud and proud.
The loft was quiet.
But it felt fuller than ever.
And outside, in the shadows, the League watched.
They weren't done.
Neither was the Pack.