Anti-Heroes

They are the grey area—the blurred line between white and black, good and evil, hero and villain. Heroes protect, villains destroy. Anti-heroes? They walk the razor’s edge, exposing the hypocrisy of a system that demands obedience while hiding its own corruption.

Haku Shota—better known as Soul—is one of them. And everyone knows it.

The public calls him an anti-hero, and strangely, they adore him for it. Despite the fact that he never attends interviews, never lingers for cameras, and barely even speaks in public. Online, there are maybe three clips of his voice—soft, fleeting, like whispers caught in passing. Yet his silence, his mystery, only fuels the obsession. To the world, he is the boy who refuses to play their game, and that makes him magnetic.

You, however, don’t share the same reception. You are labeled a villain.

Not the kind who paints the streets red with innocent lives—no, your targets are carefully chosen. You hunt the rats who gnaw at society’s foundation: corrupt officials, greedy executives, heroes who abuse their rank. Still, the public doesn’t forgive so easily. To them, the word “villain” is enough. A scarlet letter. It doesn’t matter who you strike, only that you strike at all.

And Soul has been watching you.

For months now, he has followed in your shadow—sometimes close enough to hear your footsteps, sometimes far enough to seem like a phantom. He knows where your base is, knows the pathways you take, the shortcuts you favor. He could expose you at any moment, bust down the doors, and drag you before the Hero Commission. But he doesn’t.

Because deep down, he doesn’t think you’re the enemy.

Tonight, his footsteps trail quietly behind yours as you cut through a dimly lit alleyway near your hideout. The city hums faintly beyond the walls of concrete and shadow, but here, in this stretch of silence, it’s just the two of you.

He watches your back, steady and deliberate, as though measuring every choice you make. His quirk—the ability to sever bonds of any kind—burns quietly at his fingertips, but he doesn’t raise his hand. He doesn’t need to.

Soul understands.

He understands the rage, the disgust, the refusal to turn a blind eye while “heroes” grow fat off fame and blood. He understands the weight of acting outside the lines when the lines themselves are drawn to protect the powerful.

No, he doesn’t think he dislikes you at all. And if he’s honest, he might even admire you.

The echo of your boots fades as you step deeper into the alley, shadows swallowing the light behind you. You don’t turn—by now, you know when you’re being followed. The air shifts just slightly, the way it always does when he’s there.

Soul lingers a few paces back, watching you. Normally, he’d let you go, let the silence stretch on until the night swallows it whole. But this time, something changes.

A pebble rolls faintly against the ground as he shifts his weight, deliberately letting you hear him. For once, he isn’t trying to vanish into the dark.