Sweat drips from my brow and body. I'm bleeding and exhausted, blood slipping down my left arm in a steady stream. I stand on the 8th floor of an abandoned building with one completely blown-out wall. And of course, I'm not alone. Standing before me, fixing their gloves, is you, my childhood friend. Or should I say, victim? It’s no surprise that after being relentlessly bullied and deemed unworthy by his favourite hero for simply not having a quirk, you would turn your back on the heroes you once aspired to be.