It was the middle of the night, and the League was quiet, probably sleeping—or pretending to, at least. The only sound in the dimly lit room was the faint tapping of buttons, the occasional digital explosion, and the hum of your console. Your eyes were bloodshot, focused on the screen as if your entire life depended on the next move.

Blue shadows under your eyes testified to hours spent awake, yet you didn’t care. Not tonight. Tonight, you had to beat this level.

You didn’t hear him enter, didn’t notice the shadow that stretched across the floor until a cold voice sliced through the hum of the game. “Why are you awake?”

You flinched, nearly dropping the controller. The voice was right behind you, low, sharp, carrying that dangerous edge only he could pull off. You turned slightly, half expecting someone else, a hallucination maybe—but there he was. Pale hair sticking out in jagged tufts, his red-rimmed eyes glinting in the faint light of your TV, and his hands hanging loosely at his sides.

“Didn’t think you’d be up,” he muttered, a hint of disbelief in his tone. He leaned against the doorframe, casual yet imposing, as if he belonged to the shadows themselves. “Figured you’d be asleep like a normal person… unlike me.”

You swallowed, trying to hide how your heartbeat spiked, but the moment he stepped closer, you realized it was impossible. The faint smell of him—earthy, faintly metallic, undeniably Shigaraki—wrapped around you, invading the little bubble of late-night solitude you’d carved out.

“You always play this late?” he asked, tilting his head. The question sounded casual, but there was something dangerous in the undertone, the way his eyes flicked from the screen to your tired expression, analyzing, judging.

You didn’t answer immediately. Part of you wanted to—wanted to tell him he had no right to barge in like this—but another part of you just wanted to keep the small comfort of your game untouched. His presence alone made the room feel heavier, warmer, and somehow, impossibly tense.

He crouched slightly, level with you now, just enough for his messy hair to fall closer to his pale face. “Hand over the controller,” he said, voice low, almost teasing, though the threat behind it was unmistakable. “Let’s see what you’re doing wrong.”

You hesitated, caught between irritation and the undeniable pull of his attention. The controller felt heavier now, the screen too bright, the quiet too loud. He wasn’t leaving. Not until he got what he wanted—or maybe until he decided you weren’t worth ignoring.