Eijiro KirishimaThe HPSC building wasn’t somewhere Kirishima visited often. He’d actually dressed up. Not in his hero costume—no, the summons had been specific: civilian attire, punctual arrival, no media. So he’d traded the gauntlets and grit for something a little more put-together. A charcoal blazer over a crimson button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbows to keep his arms from feeling too caged in. His hair, as always, was perfectly spiked in under a minute. He’d even added a little blue pocket square, because Mina said it made him look “respectably bold.” Right now, he just hoped it made him look calm.
He wasn’t.
The receptionist got a smile. The security guard got a smile. Even the goddamn potted fern in the lobby probably got a smile. Kirishima had a theory: if you grinned hard enough, people stopped checking to see if it reached your eyes.
The elevator ride was silent, filled only with the mechanical whirring of bureaucracy. No one smiled. Not even the aide who met him at the top floor with a clipboard and an expression like they’d rather be anywhere else. “Right this way, Red Riot.”
“Sure thing,” he said, flashing his brightest smile. “Hope I’m not in trouble or anything.”
They didn’t answer.
The meeting room was windowless and cold, lit by overhead panels that made even the water look clinical. A long table. A pitcher sweating condensation. One man in a suit darker than a villain’s conscience.
Kirishima sat. Back straight. Shoulders square. Hands laced together so they wouldn’t drum. The scar above his right eye itched. He ignored it.
For a second, the words didn’t land.
Kirishima blinked. His smile twitched—confused, reflexive—like his body hadn’t caught up to the fact that this wasn’t a joke. “Sorry, what was that?”
The man repeated it. Same tone. Same rhythm. Like he was announcing train delays.
And something in Eijiro’s chest froze.
Not the good kind of hardening—the kind that came with control, with purpose. This was petrification. His lungs locked up. His ribs ached. The folder on the table might as well have been a detonator.
This wasn’t a mission. Wasn’t a fight.
This was the government handing him a spouse.
And damn it, this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen—no slow-motion airport chases, no dramatic confessions in the rain. Just a government-issued folder and a signature line where his heart should be.
The man went on. Flat. Unapologetic. “As part of your agreement, you and your assigned spouse will be expected to attempt conception within the designated timeframe. Fertility compliance will be monitored.”
Kirishima didn’t move. He wasn’t sure he could.
His jaw tightened. Just a little. Just enough that someone who knew him well might notice.
Attempt conception.
Designated timeframe.
Monitored.
They were talking about it like scheduling a dentist appointment. Like intimacy could be logged and filed and evaluated like mission reports.
The silence that followed was long enough for the sweat on the back of his neck to start trailing down his spine. The folder on the table sat there like a weight, thick with decision and design. For a split second, his throat went dry.
Then Eijiro smiled.
Big. Bright. Manly. The kind of smile that earned him endorsements and trust. The kind of smile that said I’m fine. I’m still the guy you expect me to be.
“Oh. Okay. I mean—uh, wow. That’s… a lot.” He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck like he’d just been caught off guard by a surprise party instead of state-sanctioned matrimony. “Didn’t think I’d be one of the lucky ones, y’know? But hey—if this is how I can help people, then I’ll do my best. That’s what being a hero’s all about, right?”
The official didn’t answer. Just nodded once and slid the folder across the table.
Eijiro stared at it. Didn’t touch it. The folder stared back. Official seal. Thick paper. His future in twelve-point font.
His smile didn’t falter. But inside, the questions were piling up like rubble after a building collapse. 'Why me? Do I get a say? Is this permanent?' His palms were slick with sweat. He gripped his knee beneath the table just to feel something solid. He didn’t know who they’d chosen. Didn’t know if they’d volunteered. Didn’t know how he was supposed to be good enough for this without hurting someone in the process.
The door opened behind him with a soft click.
He turned to look. Stood automatically, posture perfect, shoulders square. His heart was hammering now—manly, steady—but too fast. Too loud.
Still smiling, Eijiro took a breath and faced the future.
“Hey there,” he said, voice warm despite the ice in his gut. “I guess we’re in this together.”
He wasn’t.
The receptionist got a smile. The security guard got a smile. Even the goddamn potted fern in the lobby probably got a smile. Kirishima had a theory: if you grinned hard enough, people stopped checking to see if it reached your eyes.
The elevator ride was silent, filled only with the mechanical whirring of bureaucracy. No one smiled. Not even the aide who met him at the top floor with a clipboard and an expression like they’d rather be anywhere else. “Right this way, Red Riot.”
“Sure thing,” he said, flashing his brightest smile. “Hope I’m not in trouble or anything.”
They didn’t answer.
The meeting room was windowless and cold, lit by overhead panels that made even the water look clinical. A long table. A pitcher sweating condensation. One man in a suit darker than a villain’s conscience.
Kirishima sat. Back straight. Shoulders square. Hands laced together so they wouldn’t drum. The scar above his right eye itched. He ignored it.
Thank you for your continued service,the suit said, like he was reading off a cereal box.
You’ve been selected for the Quirk Marriage Initiative.
For a second, the words didn’t land.
Kirishima blinked. His smile twitched—confused, reflexive—like his body hadn’t caught up to the fact that this wasn’t a joke. “Sorry, what was that?”
The man repeated it. Same tone. Same rhythm. Like he was announcing train delays.
And something in Eijiro’s chest froze.
Not the good kind of hardening—the kind that came with control, with purpose. This was petrification. His lungs locked up. His ribs ached. The folder on the table might as well have been a detonator.
This wasn’t a mission. Wasn’t a fight.
This was the government handing him a spouse.
And damn it, this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen—no slow-motion airport chases, no dramatic confessions in the rain. Just a government-issued folder and a signature line where his heart should be.
The man went on. Flat. Unapologetic. “As part of your agreement, you and your assigned spouse will be expected to attempt conception within the designated timeframe. Fertility compliance will be monitored.”
Kirishima didn’t move. He wasn’t sure he could.
His jaw tightened. Just a little. Just enough that someone who knew him well might notice.
Attempt conception.
Designated timeframe.
Monitored.
They were talking about it like scheduling a dentist appointment. Like intimacy could be logged and filed and evaluated like mission reports.
The silence that followed was long enough for the sweat on the back of his neck to start trailing down his spine. The folder on the table sat there like a weight, thick with decision and design. For a split second, his throat went dry.
Then Eijiro smiled.
Big. Bright. Manly. The kind of smile that earned him endorsements and trust. The kind of smile that said I’m fine. I’m still the guy you expect me to be.
“Oh. Okay. I mean—uh, wow. That’s… a lot.” He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck like he’d just been caught off guard by a surprise party instead of state-sanctioned matrimony. “Didn’t think I’d be one of the lucky ones, y’know? But hey—if this is how I can help people, then I’ll do my best. That’s what being a hero’s all about, right?”
The official didn’t answer. Just nodded once and slid the folder across the table.
Eijiro stared at it. Didn’t touch it. The folder stared back. Official seal. Thick paper. His future in twelve-point font.
His smile didn’t falter. But inside, the questions were piling up like rubble after a building collapse. 'Why me? Do I get a say? Is this permanent?' His palms were slick with sweat. He gripped his knee beneath the table just to feel something solid. He didn’t know who they’d chosen. Didn’t know if they’d volunteered. Didn’t know how he was supposed to be good enough for this without hurting someone in the process.
The door opened behind him with a soft click.
He turned to look. Stood automatically, posture perfect, shoulders square. His heart was hammering now—manly, steady—but too fast. Too loud.
Still smiling, Eijiro took a breath and faced the future.
“Hey there,” he said, voice warm despite the ice in his gut. “I guess we’re in this together.”
2595
