The message appeared on every feed at once.Not a video this time — only text, white on black:
"A city that rests on chairs forgets how to stand."
Overturn's threat had felt like theater before.This one sounded like logistics.
By sunrise, ten Chairlines across Musutafu reported thefts: chargers gone, chairs overturned, kettles missing. Two had been splashed with paint. One burned briefly before a passerby smothered it with a coat.No casualties — yet.Plenty of panic.
Nezu convened the faculty before dawn. The room looked like exhaustion had been invited as a guest. "He's testing reflexes," Nezu said. "Not to destroy, but to measure what we rebuild first."
Aizawa rubbed his eyes. "He wants spectacle. We answer with boredom."
Renya stared at the map glowing on the table. "Not boredom," he said. "Consistency. People panic when a pattern breaks; we'll make repair part of the pattern."
"How?" Midnight asked.
"Chairlines reopen at noon," Renya said. "Same spots, same signs. We clean in public. No police tape, no guilt. Everyone sees that interruption is only an interval."
"Won't that make you a target?" Aizawa asked.
"Good," Renya said. "Targets attract crowds. Crowds learn."
Nezu's whiskers twitched. "Approved. But no hero costumes, no emblems. Today we're citizens who happen to know first aid."
By eleven, the news cycle had already declared it The Day of Fractures. Drones hovered over intersections waiting for violence to photograph. They found people setting out chairs instead.
Hoshi organized her squad like a conductor."Kai, water station. Mina, signage. Uraraka, kettle patrol. Bakugo, shadow detail."
Bakugo frowned. "Shadow what?"
"You stand nearby and look dangerous," she said. "It calms certain demographics."
He snorted but obeyed.
Renya and Aizawa moved among volunteers—teachers, students, a handful of shopkeepers who'd closed early. One of them, an old florist, arrived with buckets of marigolds. "They don't scare easy," she said, setting them on each table.
At noon, they started pouring tea.
Across town, Overturn watched the live feeds from a basement that smelled of rain and self-pity.He had no explosives.He didn't need them.He had followers.
A dozen masked figures sat around him — not disciples, just bored adrenaline addicts who liked the promise of purpose.He gestured at the screens. "They think they can drown me with kindness."
One girl laughed. "So we drown them back?"
He shook his head. "We film the moment they hesitate."
He pulled up the feed from Central Crossing — the largest Chairline, the one Renya had claimed for himself. "There," he said. "That's where patience breaks."
Central Crossing shimmered with humidity.Traffic crawled; tempers didn't.
A young man stumbled through the line, shoulder-checking chairs, muttering, "You think this fixes anything?"A volunteer tried to soothe him.He shoved her arm away — too hard, not cruel, just human.
Renya was there before security could be. He stepped between them, no hands raised.
"Hey," he said. "You're allowed to be angry. Sit down anyway."
The man blinked. "You— you're that guy."
"Yes," Renya said. "And I still want you to have tea."
The man stared at the chair, then at the cameras, then at the chair again. "It's a trick," he said.
Renya shrugged. "Only if you expect reward."
The man sat. Slowly. The city breathed.
Somewhere, Overturn slammed his keyboard hard enough to kill the stream.
By evening, the map of Chairlines glowed steady again. No more fires. No more slogans. Just chairs, occupied and unremarkable.
Imai sent a report: "Containment achieved without arrests. Civilians calm. Commission silent."Kurobane appended: "Silence = approval."
Renya leaned against a pillar, exhausted.Aizawa handed him a thermos. "Congratulations. You won the most boring riot in history."
"Best kind," Renya said.
He looked around. The chairs glinted like punctuation marks in a sentence finally learned.