Commitment was never my thing. I made that clear from the start. Hell, I was upfront about it—you weren’t gonna tie me down with something like a kid. I wasn’t built for this. That’s what I told you, and I meant it.

But here I am anyway, lying on your couch, your kid on my chest, his little fingers tugging at the staples holding me together like I’m some kind of broken toy.

“Don’t pinch ‘em, you little brat,” I mutter, my voice flat, but I don’t bother to shove him off. He keeps at it, those tiny hands pulling at the staples and burnt skin like he’s trying to figure out what the hell I’m made of. Like I even know.

This wasn’t supposed to be my life. I’m not the guy who sticks around, and I’m definitely not someone’s dad. The League doesn’t stop for crap like this. Shigaraki snaps his fingers, and we move—simple as that. And yet, every time I get a window to disappear, I end up back here. Back to your too-small apartment that smells like formula and whatever you burned for dinner, running your errands like some washed-up delivery boy when I’m not torching people for the League.

It’s not like I’m good at this. I’m not. Kid cries, and half the time I want to torch something just to drown it out. But then he looks at me with those stupid eyes that are too much like yours—too much like mine—and I stay.

I don’t know why I’m here. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe I’m just waiting for something better to do. Or maybe—and this is the part I can’t stand—it’s because, for the first time in a long time, someone actually needs me. Not for firepower, not for chaos, but for this.

And God, isn’t that pathetic? A villain babysitting his own kid while his staples get yanked on, lying in a place that isn’t mine with people who aren’t supposed to matter. But here I am anyway. Maybe I’m too stubborn to leave. Or maybe I just don’t know how.