Chapter 17: Into the Hollow

The underground hideout was nothing like Kirishima had imagined.

After leaving the train yard, Stray led him deep into the underbelly of Musutafu, far past where the heroes' patrols ever reached. The streets grew darker, narrower, littered with old newspapers and forgotten remnants of lives that had long since moved on. The air smelled stale, thick with something industrial and unclean. Kirishima had expected questions, suspicion—some kind of barrier between him and whatever lay ahead.

Instead, he was met with a rusted metal door wedged between two abandoned buildings, half-covered in graffiti. Stray knocked twice, paused, then knocked three more times. A moment later, the door groaned open.

Kirishima tensed as he stepped inside.

The first thing that hit him was the air—dense with the scent of metal, sweat, and something electric, like the charge before a storm. The walls were lined with exposed pipes, old subway signs rusted and forgotten, remnants of a station long since abandoned. Maps, filled with red markings and frantic scrawls, were tacked to the walls alongside old wanted posters—some of villains, some of pro heroes. Supplies were stacked in crates, some of them bearing the faded logos of hero agencies. Stolen, maybe. Or just scavenged.

And then there were the people.

At least a dozen of them, scattered throughout the space. Some were sharpening weapons, others tending to wounds, a few seated around a table murmuring in low voices. Many wore masks, their faces hidden behind tattered scarves or hoods. These weren't criminals looking for a quick score. They were soldiers preparing for war.

"Welcome to The Hollow," Stray said, flashing him a sharp grin.

A scoff came from the side. "You really brought a UA kid?"

Kirishima turned toward the voice. A girl leaned against one of the metal support beams, arms crossed, dark hair falling over sharp eyes. Her arms were lined with scars—old ones, the kind that told stories no one ever asked about.

Stray shrugged, still grinning. "Figured he might be useful. He's got fight in him."

The girl snorted, her gaze raking over Kirishima like she was sizing him up for a fight. "You Red Riot?"

Kirishima hesitated. That was his hero name. His identity.

"…Kirishima," he said instead.

The girl's smirk widened. "So you don't know what you are, either."

Kirishima's stomach twisted, but he said nothing.

Stray clapped a hand on his shoulder, guiding him further inside. "You wanted to figure things out? This is the place."

The deeper they went, the more The Hollow revealed itself. Beyond the main room was a network of tunnels—some leading to hidden escape routes, others converted into training spaces, filled with battered punching bags and makeshift dummies. One tunnel led to an old subway platform, now repurposed into an armory. Weapons—both crude and sophisticated—lined the walls: batons, reinforced knuckles, modified tasers, even a few prototype gadgets that looked like they came straight out of a hero's lab.

"Why are they here?" Kirishima asked, voice quieter now.

Stray exhaled. "Because the system doesn't work for people like us."

Kirishima frowned. "That's what villains say."

Stray's grin faded. "Villains want chaos. We want justice. The kind heroes aren't willing to give."

Kirishima didn't respond.

Because deep down, he wasn't sure he disagreed.

And that scared him.

Stray led him into a back room, where a massive table sat at the center, a map of Musutafu spread across it. Red pins littered the surface—marking something. Crime scenes? Targets? Places where the law had failed? Blueprints lined the walls, worn-out notebooks stacked haphazardly, filled with scribbled strategies. The faint hum of a generator buzzed in the background.

Stray leaned against the table. "You know why heroes fail?"

Kirishima didn't answer. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

Stray smirked anyway. "Because they play by the rules." He gestured at the map. "See, the people we deal with? The ones who slip through the cracks? They don't care about rules. They don't care about consequences."

Kirishima's fingers curled against the edge of the table.

Stray watched him closely. "You wanna know why I brought you here?"

Kirishima exhaled. "Because you think I belong here."

Stray tilted his head, considering. "Maybe. But mostly? I think you're tired of pretending."

Kirishima stiffened.

Stray leaned in slightly, voice lowering. "That fight with your friend? That wasn't the first time you've felt like that, was it?"

Kirishima's breath caught. He didn't answer.

Because he didn't have to.

Stray smirked, pushing away from the table. "Stick around, Kirishima. See how it feels to stop hesitating."

He turned, walking toward the door. Kirishima hesitated, staring at the map, at the red pins, at the choices laid out before him.

Then, slowly, he followed.