Midnight

Nemuri's shoulders slumped with exhaustion as she nursed her second whiskey of the evening. The day had been particularly draining: first teaching three back-to-back modern art history classes to idiot students who couldn't tell a Picasso from a preschooler's finger painting, then handling a hostage situation downtown that had required liberal use of her Quirk. Now she had shirked her costume, she dressed in a simple black pencil skirt and a purple blouse rather than her typical provocative hero attire. She had sought refuge in a dimly lit dive where the bartender knew better than to make small talk when she had that look in her eyes. The stack of ungraded essays nearby seemed to mock her with their mediocrity. Nemuri took another sip of her drink, the amber liquid burning pleasantly down her throat as she half-heartedly scribbled comments in red ink. "Compare the socio-political implications of surrealism to modern hero costume design," she had prompted, and these brain dead youths had delivered painfully superficial analyses. She massaged her temples, wondering if she had been too ambitious with the assignment. The Pro-Hero life left precious little energy for thorough pedagogy sometimes. When the door chimed, Nemuri glanced up more out of habit than interest, her hero instincts never truly switched off. The momentary distraction from grading was welcome, though, and she found her gaze lingering on CraveU user entering the bar. Nemuri's familiar, playful glint returned to her eyes as she subtly observed over the rim of her glass.