Nothing Left to Manage

Day 1

Morning · The Grand Dynasty Ballroom

The Grand Dynasty Ballroom — morning light splitting through crystal chandeliers in pale gold columns

The signet ring hits the table with a sound that isn't loud — it just lands in the right silence. Bakugo's tirade drains out of the air like heat leaving a room; even he registers what the gesture is before his mouth catches up. Dabi, leaning against the far pillar with his trench coat hanging open and both hands in his pockets, goes very still — the kind of still that belongs to someone who recognizes the ring. He looks at it the way a man looks at a letter he already knows the contents of.

Dabi: "So the Aegis heir really did show up and put the seal on the table first. I'm almost impressed — last time I saw that ring, it was being handed back."

Katsuki Bakugo: "Tch. Somebody's got history."

"It...was a while ago. We should start." She tucks some of her hair behind her ear as she waits to see who moves first.

The hair-tuck lands softer than her words — a small, human gesture in a room that has been holding its breath since the ring hit the table. A while ago does exactly what she meant it to: it closes the door without slamming it, and the room registers that she is the one setting the pace. Dabi's jaw shifts almost imperceptibly, the kind of micro-adjustment that belongs to a man recalibrating. He pulls one hand from his pocket and tilts his chin just slightly, a lazy, amused angle, the scorched trench coat settling around him like smoke finding its shape. He crosses maybe two steps off the pillar — not toward her, exactly; more like choosing a different wall to lean on, one with a better angle. Bakugo, done watching the Dabi exchange sort itself, cuts forward instead, his polished combat boots loud and deliberate on the parquet floor, crimson lapels catching the chandelier light as he stops at the nearest chair and simply does not sit down.

Dabi: "A while ago. Sure. That's one way to put a funeral."

Katsuki Bakugo: "Nobody else moving? Fine. You want to start — then start. What's your first order of business, heiress?"

"Introductions is traditional. I thought we would start there. It sounds like you want to go first?" There's no challenge, no guile in it, not right now. Just an offer, an opening.

The offer lands clean — no sharp edge, no hidden hook, just Megi opening the door and stepping back from it. Bakugo's jaw works once, like he's tasting the word traditional and finding it adequate. He pulls the chair out from the table in a single motion — not for her, just for himself — drops into it with the controlled ease of a man who doesn't need ceremony to take up space, and plants both forearms flat on the lacquered wood. The crimson lapels settle against his chest as he looks at her directly, the way a person looks at someone they've already decided to take seriously but won't say so yet. Behind him, Kirishima's broad shoulders drop half an inch — not relief exactly, more like the quiet satisfaction of someone watching a first round go clean. And somewhere at the far edge of the room, nearly behind a crest banner, Todoroki has gone very still — not watching Bakugo, not watching the table — watching Megi's hands.

Katsuki Bakugo: "Fine. Katsuki Bakugo. No house title, no pedigree recitation — that's not how I introduce myself. You want traditional, you can get it from someone else. What you're getting from me is straight."

Eijiro Kirishima: "And I'm Kirishima Eijiro — manly as advertised, your Grace."

"Katsuki Bakugo and Eijiro Kirishima. It's nice to meet you. I guess in that case, it's just...Megi, Megi Dullahan."

The name lands plain — no title, no lineage suffix, just Megi — and Bakugo's eyes sharpen in a way that is not quite displeasure and not quite admiration, but something in the intersection of both. He leans forward an inch, the lacquered table between them catching the chandelier light, and his next breath comes out measured in a way that suggests he is working at it. Kirishima's expression does something warm and complicated — his chin lifts in a small, recognizing nod, the brass cuff-chain at his wrist catching the morning light as his arms settle at ease, and for just a moment his eyes hold hers with the weight of someone who is very deliberately choosing not to say something that would change the temperature of the room. At the far banner, Todoroki has not moved — but his gaze has finally traveled from her hands up to her face, and it stays there.

Katsuki Bakugo: "Just Megi. You're the bloodline heir of the Dullahan Aegis dynasty and you just introduced yourself like you're someone's college roommate — why?"

Eijiro Kirishima: "It's a real honor, Dullahan-san. We'll make sure you don't regret having us in the room."

"Because you both offered to introduce yourselves straight. so I thought I should do the same." She bites the inside of her cheek, before inclining her head in a nod to Kirishima, "I don't think I could, Kirishima-san."

The answer lands clean and simple — because you did — and Bakugo sits back half an inch, the lacquered table between them catching a band of morning chandelier light across his forearms. It is not a retreat; it is a recalibration, the kind a man does when someone has said the exact thing he expected least. The smirk arrives a beat later, sharp and slow at the corner of his mouth, like it had to earn its place there. Behind him, Kirishima's brass cuff-chain catches a glint of light as he ducks his chin — the warm, practiced warmth flickering into something more private, amused, and a touch deliberate — and when he glances at her sidelong, there is a crook in his grin that has absolutely nothing to do with ceremony. The -san did not go unregistered.

Katsuki Bakugo: "Couldn't what, exactly? Say it out loud, Dullahan. The room can take it."

Eijiro Kirishima: "She's already keeping score, Bakugo — Kirishima-san, she said. Very formal. Very manly of her, actually."

She blushes a little at the compliment, looking down at the table with a tiny smile before fixing her face, looking up to meet Bakugo's eyes, "Regret having you here. I don't think I could do that, Bakugo-san." After a moment, she adds, "That is the same for everyone. I'm honored by everyone who came for me."

The blush lands before she can stop it, a warm tide across her cheekbones that she looks down to hide — and the table's lacquered surface gives her absolutely nothing to work with, so she gives up and lifts her eyes instead, meeting Bakugo's straight on. The -san on his name does exactly what she meant it to: marks a line, draws the room's attention to it, and then her follow-up — everyone, I'm honored by everyone — tries to distribute the warmth evenly, the way you'd pour from a single pitcher into eighteen cups. It's good politics. Bakugo's smirk goes flat. Not cold — something more specific than cold, the expression of a man who just watched someone defuse an honest moment with a press release, and found it personally offensive. Behind him, Kirishima's broad grin breaks open fully, unguarded and warm, and he ducks his chin toward her in an approving nod that lands with the ease of someone who isn't trying to impress anyone right now. At the far edge of the room, half-obscured by a lineage banner, Hitoshi Shinso has gone still against the wall with his arms folded — not watching the table, watching the room watching her, the quiet math of someone keeping a tally no one asked him to keep.

Katsuki Bakugo: "Everyone. Right. Very diplomatic, Dullahan — now say what you actually think of me, not the whole crowd."

Eijiro Kirishima: "Hey, I'll take it. Honored beats terrified, and you haven't run yet — that's honestly a better start than I expected."

"Well, I...I don't know you well enough to have an opinion, to be honest."

The honesty lands without armor — I don't know you well enough — and Bakugo goes very still, the kind of still that is not defeat but recognition. His forearms are still flat on the lacquered table, the morning chandelier light cutting across the onyx tuxedo and those crimson lapels, and for one full breath he just looks at her — not pressing, not prying, recalibrating the shape of her. The admission is the most real thing she has said since she sat down, and something behind his eyes registers it before his mouth decides what to do with it. Kirishima's grin softens at the edges into something warmer and quieter, the brass cuff-chains at his wrist going still as he shifts his weight off one foot — a small ease, a man who has just been handed a problem he actually knows how to solve. At the far wall, Shinso has not moved from his post beneath the lineage banner, arms still folded, but his chin has dropped a fraction — the minor recalibration of someone who marked down an unexpected answer and is deciding what it means.

Katsuki Bakugo: "Fair. So tell me what it'd take — what do you actually need to see before you'd have one?"

Eijiro Kirishima: "Or — no pressure — we could just talk. No lineage recitation, no formal agenda. Just people figuring out if they like each other."

"I'd have to take the time to get to know you, Bakugo-san. But I have to extend that chance to everyone else as well."

The words land with the particular precision of someone who has been thinking about fairness for a long time and means it — but Bakugo catches the shape of them before the sentence is fully out, the way a person catches a feint mid-swing. His forearms come off the table. Not dramatically — just a small, deliberate pull back, the crimson lapels settling as he straightens in the chair, and the look on his face does something specific: not hurt, not angry, but the focused, slightly narrowed expression of a man who has just been categorized and found it unacceptable. The morning chandelier light cuts across his jaw as he holds the silence one beat longer than is comfortable. Behind him, Kirishima shifts his weight to his other foot — the brass cuff-chains at his wrist catching a wink of gold — and his mouth finds a crooked, warm half-grin aimed at her, broad shoulders easy, entirely unbothered by the same words that sent his counterpart retreating half an inch. At the far edge of the room, nearly out of frame, Dabi tips his chin down toward his chest and exhales something that is either a laugh or a breath — a private thing, there and gone, that belongs to a man watching a room move exactly the way he expected it to.

Katsuki Bakugo: "Everyone else. So I'm everyone else now. That's real cute, Dullahan."

Eijiro Kirishima: "Hey — fair's fair. I'll take that deal. Earn my time the same as anyone, as long as the time's real when it comes."

"No, no, of course not! I just...the requirement is that I give everyone a chance. But, Kirishima-san is right. It has to be earned. And I'm not the only one who makes that decision, I'm sorry."

The apology lands with the particular weight of something genuinely meant, and the room does what rooms do when a person says I'm sorry without armor — it goes quiet enough to hear the chandelier crystals shift in the morning air current. Bakugo's jaw works once, that specific clench-and-release that means he heard something he wasn't expecting, and the crimson lapels of his jacket settle as he exhales through his nose — not anger, not relief, something that hasn't decided yet. He plants one forearm back on the lacquered table, deliberate, a flag being replanted in territory he has no intention of ceding, and the dare that follows is not loud; it doesn't need to be. Kirishima steps forward from his half-step — not in front of Bakugo, alongside him — his brass cuff-chains catching the morning chandelier light as he sets a hand flat on the back of the chair nearest her, an easy claim on the air between them, and what he says lands as the counter to everything Bakugo just threw down: earned, not demanded. Across the room near the crest banner, Tokoyami has gone very still in his obsidian cape — not watching her, watching the table, the ring, the apology she just left in the air — and something in the angled set of his beak suggests the morning's first moves are cataloguing themselves inside him like verses of a text he will read again later. At the far edge, Dabi pushes off the pillar with one shoulder and strolls two slow steps toward the table's end — not close, not threatening, just changing his angle — and he says what he says the way a person drops a lit match into a dry room to see which wall catches first.

Katsuki Bakugo: "Then watch me. That's all I'm asking — just watch, and when everyone else has had their chance and come up short, you tell me I was wrong."

Eijiro Kirishima: "That's the only honest way to do it, Dullahan-san. For what it's worth — earning it sounds right to me too."

Dabi: "Sweet that she apologizes, though. Very polished. Very... managed. The strings are showing, little heiress."

Hitoshi Shinso: "Genuine question — underneath all of this, what do you actually want? Not what the mandate requires. You."

She hesitates, looking toward Dabi just for a moment before looking at Shinso, "I want...what everyone wants, I suppose. Someone to love that will satisfy the mandate as well."

The admission falls into the ballroom like a stone into still water — someone to love that will satisfy the mandate as well — and the honesty of it, unpolished and plainly human, does something to the room's temperature that all her careful diplomacy this morning could not. Shinso holds her gaze for a beat longer than is comfortable, the way a person does when they've just been handed something they weren't expecting and are deciding whether it was a trap or a gift. At the far end of the table, Dabi's phone vibrates once against his palm where he's been palming it loose at his side — a flicker of amber eyes down at the screen, one second flat, then back up to her face — and the corner of his mouth curves into something that is not quite a smile, not quite contempt, and is entirely private; a man reminding himself of the precise terms of a promise he is currently testing. Kirishima takes the half-step he's been holding in reserve since her apology landed, brass cuff-chains catching a column of chandelier light as he moves, and what he says next is not loud — it drops, deliberate, the register of a man speaking for himself and not for the room.

Hitoshi Shinso: "So the mandate and the feeling — you're hoping they land on the same person. That's not naive. It's just... harder than everyone here is pretending it isn't."

Dabi: "Beautifully put, little heiress. Very diplomatic. Very — what's the word — managed."

Eijiro Kirishima: "For what it's worth — I think wanting both isn't a contradiction. It just means you won't settle. And you shouldn't have to."

"Thank you, Kirishima-san. And yes, that's why I'm still here. Did...did you want to sit and we can continue the introductions?"

Kirishima doesn't make her ask twice. The chair scrapes back from the table in one easy, unhurried motion — brass cuff-chains catching a column of morning chandelier light as he settles into it, broad-shouldered and loose, the crimson jacket a warm blaze against all the formal navy and charcoal surrounding him — and there's nothing performative about it, just a man who said he'd show up and did. The easy naturalness of it after the last half hour of careful maneuvering is startling enough that something in Megi's chest loosens a half-inch. At the far end of the table, Dabi tips his head to the side and exhales through his nose — slow, theatrical — the phone still loose at his hip as he lets his gaze drag across the room with the particular quality of a man who finds the whole tableau faintly beneath him and wants everyone to know it. Bakugo hasn't moved from his chair, one forearm still flat on the lacquered surface, but his jaw works once at the pivot — the specific expression of someone who had a conversation in his hands and watched it be handed to someone else — and then he looks deliberately at the ceiling, jaw set, saying nothing, which is its own kind of statement. Across the room, Todoroki's eyes shift — not to Kirishima, not to Bakugo — just back to Megi's face, patient and steady as the morning light that hasn't moved in an hour.

Eijiro Kirishima: "Introductions, then. No lineage recitation — just names and something real. I'll go first if that helps."

Dabi: "Ah, yes. The tea party portion of the morning. Very civilized, little heiress. Very... managed."

Katsuki Bakugo: "Bold move, Dullahan. Walk past the conversation and sit down with the easy one instead."

🎬 Let the room settle — see who moves next

Kirishima takes the quiet she offers him and doesn't rush to fill it — just settles into the chair with the ease of someone who has never needed to perform comfort, broad shoulders dropping half an inch as the brass cuff-chains still against his sleeve. He sets his forearms on the table in a way that mirrors nothing, claims nothing, only occupies the air beside her with the particular steadiness of a man who has decided that patience is a form of respect. Bakugo across the lacquered surface does the opposite of relaxing: arms fold over the onyx jacket, crimson lapels catching the chandelier light as the fold goes tight, and the look he trains on the space between her and Kirishima is not quite a glare — it is the hyper-focused stillness of a man watching a game he has not been asked to play and finding that significantly more insulting than a direct challenge. At the far end of the room, Ojiro stands near a lineage banner with his hands loose at the seams of his cream haori, eyes tracking the table's arrangement with the quiet arithmetic of a man who witnessed something — the hair-tuck, the invitation, the chair — and is recalibrating what kind of morning this is going to be, without offering any of that assessment to the room. Then, from the tall double-doors at the ballroom's east end, Present Mic sweeps in with the specific energy of someone who has been waiting for exactly thirty seconds longer than he intended, gold-rimmed audio collar catching the morning light — and the forward momentum of the whole morning shifts on its axis.

Eijiro Kirishima: "No agenda. Just — whenever you're ready, we start where you want to start."

Katsuki Bakugo: "Real smooth, Kirishima. Very natural. Almost like you practiced that."

Present Mic: "Alright, gorgeous people — before this morning gets TOO comfortable, the estate's got a little something brewing and I need everyone in the east courtyard in ten. Something you're all going to want to see firsthand."

She stills — just that, just holds her ground at the table's edge, loose linen and that particular quality of patience that reads, to the room, as either confidence or a dare. The chandelier light hasn't shifted. The morning holds its breath. Kirishima is the first to move: not toward her, just a slow lean of his forearm on the table, brass cuff-chains settling quiet, the way a person makes themselves a landmark rather than a destination — you know where to find him, and he isn't going anywhere. Bakugo, across the table, has not taken his eyes off her face, and the dare that comes is not loud, not theatrical; it arrives like a diagnosis. Then the east doors shift, a breath of cooler corridor air cutting through the ballroom's gilded warmth — and from the periphery, where the trench coat has been an unmoving shadow for the better part of this morning, Dabi peels off the last column and moves into the light, not toward her but along the room's edge, a slow gravitational drift that arrives at the crest banners just as Todoroki, midnight navy haori immaculate, turns his head a single deliberate degree toward the sound of that particular footfall — and something that has been held under the surface of this whole polished morning cracks, hairline-thin, entirely audible to anyone paying attention.

Eijiro Kirishima: "Hey — you doing alright? This room's got a lot of weather in it this morning."

Katsuki Bakugo: "Stop watching the room, Dullahan. Look at me. What do you actually want — not from the mandate, not from the dynasty. From you."

Dabi: "Careful, little half-and-half — your composure's showing a crack. Very unbecoming of a Todoroki heir."

"I'll be all right, Kirishima-san, thank you. As I said, Bakugo-san; I just want someone to love who also fulfills the mandate." Her eyes briefly meet Todoroki's. Then, she looks at the table, picking up her ring and putting it back in, before tucking another stray lock of her hair behind her ear. "If Yamada-san says we should head to the courtyard, we should probably go."

The ring slides back onto her finger with a quiet finality that the whole room hears — not the sound of metal on skin, but the statement of it, a woman reclaiming her own pace. Megi's eyes find Todoroki's for the span of a single breath, something old and unspoken passing between them in the specific key of people who made promises before the world had opinions about it, and he receives it the way he receives everything: still, complete, without theater. Bakugo's fist on the lacquered table uncurls by one finger — not softening, re-calibrating — the particular adjustment of a man who has just been handed the same answer twice and is deciding whether that makes him more interested or less. At the far banner wall, Dabi watches the ring go back on with the expression of a man reading a sentence he already knows the ending to, something private and unwelcome moving behind his amber eyes before he cuts it off at the jaw. Kirishima is already on his feet by the time she speaks the last word of the courtyard suggestion, brass cuff-chains catching the morning light as he rises — not rushing, just present, the warm solid fact of him at her side before anyone else has taken a step.

Katsuki Bakugo: "Love and mandate. Same answer, twice. Fine. The courtyard, then — let's see who's worth watching when there's no table to hide behind."

Shoto Todoroki: "The courtyard makes sense. We should go."

Eijiro Kirishima: "I'll walk with you, Dullahan-san. Unless someone's got an objection — and they're welcome to say so out loud."

Present Mic: "That's what I LIKE to hear — people who know when to move! East courtyard, everybody, let's GO — the morning's just getting started and trust me, you do not want to miss what's out there!"

💬 "Lead the way, Kirishima-san."

Kirishima doesn't hesitate — just offers his arm at the elbow with the ease of a man who has done this before and is not performing it, the brass cuff-chains catching a last column of chandelier light as the east corridor air rolls in cool and clean from the open doors. His forearm is solid under the white linen sleeve when she takes it, and the two of them move first, the room peeling into motion around them the way rooms do when the central point of gravity shifts. Bakugo is on his feet and already a step behind, not beside her, not in front — the specific position of someone who refused to be left and refused to follow and found no third option. And then, from the banner wall, comes the thing that the whole morning has been holding its breath for: Dabi turns away from the east corridor entirely and angles toward Todoroki — a half-step, nothing more, but deliberate enough that every person still moving toward the doors feels it like a change in air pressure — and Todoroki stops walking, one hand quiet at his side, midnight navy haori perfectly still, and the six feet between them collapses to four without either of them visibly choosing it.

Eijiro Kirishima: "My pleasure. Try to keep up, everyone — the morning's not going to wait on ceremony."

Present Mic: "And there she goes — leading from the front as advertised! Someone get this woman a theme song, because THAT is an entrance, people!"

Dabi: "Half-and-half. We should talk. Before the courtyard turns this into theater."

Shoto Todoroki: "There's nothing to discuss here, Dabi."

She tightens her fingers just a little on Kirishima’s arm, just to keep steady before she looks briefly back at the others, back at Dabi and Shoto. She gives Dabi a meaningful, pleading look, before she looks back toward Shoto, "I don't mind if you need to step away to speak, Todoroki-san. We can wait."