The loft was bathed in soft morning light, the kind that made everything feel a little gentler. Dust motes floated lazily in the golden beams streaming through the massive windows, and the air carried the comforting scent of fresh coffee and something sweet baking in the oven. Purple Spot had been the first to notice Toga stirring. The little purple plush dog had spent the entire night curled protectively against her side, one paw draped over her arm like a living security blanket. Now he was wide awake, tail thumping against the blanket, baseball cap tilted at a jaunty angle, and he immediately began his morning ritual: licking her nose, cheeks, and chin with quick, enthusiastic swipes.
Toga giggled—still half-asleep, voice raspy from disuse. "Spot… stop… it tickles!"
The plush dog barked once—bright, happy—and nuzzled under her chin, tail wagging so hard the couch vibrated slightly. Toga's hands came up instinctively, fingers sinking into the soft fur. She scratched behind his ears, and Purple Spot let out the most contented sigh imaginable, melting into her lap like he'd always belonged there.
From the kitchenette, Nemuri's voice floated over, warm and teasing.
"Morning, sleepyhead! Breakfast in ten. And yes—there's extra in yours. Don't worry, it's the good stuff."
Toga sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. Purple Spot slid into her lap properly, looking up at her with those big white circles and tiny black pupils, tail still going like a metronome on overdrive.
Yamcha was already in the living room area, wearing loose training clothes—black pants with red stripes down the sides, a fitted black tank top that showed the lean muscle he'd built over years of fighting. He was stretching, rolling his shoulders, when he noticed Toga watching.
"Morning," he said with a small smile. "Sleep okay?"
Toga nodded shyly. "Purple Spot kept me warm. He… didn't leave my side all night."
Yamcha chuckled. "Yeah. He's good at that. Once he decides someone's his, he doesn't let go."
He walked over and sat on the arm of the couch opposite her. "If you're up for it… thought we could try a couple basic moves. Nothing intense. Just Wolf Fang Fist fundamentals and an afterimage trick I used to use. Slow. No pressure. If you're not ready, we wait."
Toga's eyes lit up. "I want to. Teach me."
Yamcha stood and offered his hand. Toga took it—hesitant at first, then firmer. Purple Spot hopped down and trotted beside them as they cleared space in the middle of the room, pushing cushions and the low table aside.
"First: Wolf Fang Fist basics," Yamcha said. "It's not about wild swinging. It's precision. Flow. Watch."
He moved slowly, deliberately. Left hand forward like a guard, right fist chambered at his hip. Then a quick shift—left claw strike, right straight punch, pivot on the ball of his foot, elbow strike, spinning backfist, ending with a double palm thrust. The movements were smooth, almost dance-like, but deadly if sped up.
"Your turn. Copy me. Slow."
Toga mimicked—awkward at first, arms too stiff, balance off. But she focused. Purple Spot sat beside her, head tilted, watching intently. When she stumbled on the pivot, the plush dog yipped and gently bumped her leg with his nose, as if to say "try again".
Toga laughed. "Okay, okay! Spot's my coach now?"
Yamcha grinned. "He's the best one. Try the pivot again. Bend your knees a little more. Good. Now faster."
Second attempt: better. Third: almost fluid.
"Now the afterimage," Yamcha said. "It's not real cloning—just speed and misdirection. Focus on exploding forward. Leave an image behind for a split second. Like this."
He blurred—suddenly there were two Yamchas. One standing still, one already three steps ahead. The illusion faded in a blink.
Toga's mouth fell open. "How?!"
"Practice. And intent. You're fast when you want to be. Use that."
Toga tried. First attempt: a blur, but no image. Second: faint outline. Third: a perfect double for half a second—then she tripped over her own feet.
Purple Spot barked encouragement and jumped up, paws on her shoulders, licking her face as she laughed on the floor.
"Okay, Spot wins," Toga gasped. "I'm done for now."
Yamcha offered his hand and pulled her up. "Good start. You're a natural. We'll do more tomorrow. No rush."
From the kitchen, Nemuri called out, voice bright and teasing.
"Breakfast's ready! Come and get it before it gets cold! Palacsinta with all the fixings—and extras for our growing girl."
Toga's head snapped up at the word "palacsinta". Her stomach growled audibly. Purple Spot barked and bolted toward the kitchen, tail like a propeller. Toga followed—half-running, half-skipping—bare feet slapping the floor. Yamcha watched with a soft smile, then trailed after them.
The kitchen table was already set: stacks of thin, golden palacsinta, bowls of Nutella, sliced strawberries, bananas, powdered sugar, whipped cream, and a small pitcher of pinkish "juice" that Toga immediately recognized. Nemuri had carefully mixed blood from the donation pack into her portion—subtle, nourishing, just enough to keep her quirk stable and her energy high.
Toga slid into a chair, eyes wide. Purple Spot hopped up beside her, paws on the table edge, staring at the food with hopeful eyes.
Nemuri laughed. "Spot, you already ate. Down."
The plush dog huffed dramatically but slid to the floor, resting his head on Toga's knee instead.
Toga took her first bite—palacsinta with Nutella and strawberries—and moaned happily. "This is… heaven."
Yamcha sat across from her, already eating his own plain one with just butter. "Told you Nemuri's cooking is dangerous. Once you taste it, you're stuck here forever."
Toga froze mid-chew, then looked up at them—eyes shiny.
"Maybe… I wouldn't mind that."
Nemuri reached over and squeezed her hand. "Then don't. Stay as long as you want. This is home now."
Toga smiled—real, bright, unguarded. Purple Spot barked approval and licked her knee.
Outside the window, hidden in the shadow of a nearby rooftop, Dabi watched.
He hadn't planned to come this close. He'd only wanted to see if she was alive. If she was okay.
But there she was—sitting at a kitchen table, laughing, eating, a purple stuffed dog in her lap, surrounded by people who looked at her like she mattered.
No chains. No orders. No fear.
Dabi's flames flickered weakly in his palm, then died.
He felt something loosen in his chest—something that had been knotted tight since she disappeared.
She looked… happy.
He exhaled shakily, rain dripping from his hood.
Then he turned and walked away—quiet, unseen.
**Evening – 21:00**
Toga was already asleep by nine. She'd curled up on the couch again, Purple Spot draped protectively across her stomach, snoring in perfect sync with her soft breaths. The little plush dog had refused to leave her side all day—following her everywhere, nuzzling her hand when she looked sad, barking happily when she smiled.
Yamcha watched from the doorway, arms crossed, a small smile on his face.
"She's going to be okay," he said quietly.
Nemuri stepped up behind him, arms slipping around his waist.
"Yeah. She is."
She kissed the back of his neck. "You ready for tonight?"
Yamcha turned in her arms, eyes darkening. "More than ready."
At ten o'clock sharp, they slipped out—Nemuri in a sleek black dress that hugged every curve, Yamcha in dark slacks and a fitted button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. They left Missori in charge of the loft (and Toga), though the alien girl was already deep in a project at her workbench.
The restaurant was upscale—dim lights, soft jazz, private booths, waiters who didn't blink at Nemuri's hero status. They ordered wine. Then more wine. Nemuri flirted shamelessly—leaning close, fingers brushing his wrist, whispering things that made Yamcha's ears burn and his pulse race. He flirted back—lower voice, teasing smiles, the occasional bold touch under the table that made her laugh breathlessly.
By eleven-thirty they were both pleasantly drunk—giggling at nothing, stealing kisses between sips, the world narrowed to just the two of them.
At midnight they stumbled out of the taxi at Nemuri's apartment building—her hands already tugging at his shirt before the elevator doors closed.
She pushed him against the wall as soon as they were inside her door—lips on his, hungry, needy. Yamcha groaned, hands sliding under her dress, lifting her so her legs wrapped around his waist. Clothes fell in a trail from the hallway to the bedroom.
Nemuri shoved him onto the mattress, straddling him, hair spilling over her shoulders like dark silk. "You've been teasing me all night, Wolf," she purred, nails dragging down his chest. "Now you're mine."
Yamcha grinned up at her—drunk, happy, completely hers.
"Then take me, Midnight."
**Meanwhile – Back at the Loft – 22:00**
Missori worked alone in the corner, workbench lit by soft green light. She'd started at ten—quietly, methodically.
First: Yamcha's new Wolf Fang costume. Black tactical fabric with red fang motifs across the chest and shoulders, reinforced joints for speed, lightweight armor plating that didn't restrict movement. Subtle gold threading for style—elegant, deadly.
Next: Nemuri's upgraded Midnight suit. Still provocative, but now with darker purple accents that matched Yamcha's red. Better mobility, hidden compartments for fragrance vials, reinforced whip holster. Sexier, but more functional—perfect synergy with the Pack.
Then her own: Keikai Star. Sleek black-cyan bodysuit, gold accents on the belt and shoulder straps, antennae ports reinforced with tech weave. Portal emitters embedded in the gauntlets—subtle, deadly.
For Purple Spot: a tiny black hoodie with a hood that could cover his baseball cap, and sleek black sunglasses that perched adorably on his nose.
For Toga: a whole collection. Soft black leggings with purple stripes, a cropped hoodie with fang embroidery, fingerless gloves, a choker with a small blood-drop charm, and a skirt with hidden pockets for "essentials." Trendy. Cute. Deadly if she wanted it to be.
Missori smiled to herself as she folded everything neatly.
"Pack uniforms," she murmured. "For when we're ready."
She placed Toga's pile on the chair beside the couch—where the girl slept peacefully, Purple Spot snoring on her chest.
The loft was quiet.
Safe.
And growing.