The city was coming apart at the seams. Concrete split open, dust choking the air. Sirens bled through the noise, fading in and out like dying heartbeats.

Another day in paradise.

Shigaraki walked through the wreckage like it was nothing—hands shoved in his pockets, hoodie singed, flakes of ash caught in his hair. His eyes were half-lidded, red and tired, but never unfocused.

He dragged his thumb across his fingers. The asphalt beneath him cracked and began to crumble.

“Heroes, civilians… doesn’t matter,” he rasped, more to himself than anyone else. “They all scream the same when it ends.”

Someone shouted his name in the distance—orders, panic. He ignored it. The League could finish without him. He was just waiting for something that didn’t bore him.

Then his gaze caught on you.

You weren’t running. You weren’t fighting either. Just watching him, frozen in the middle of the chaos.

That was new.

He stopped walking. Tilted his head a little. His fingers twitched once—then stilled.

“…What’s your deal?” he asked, voice low, scratchy. Not mocking—just tired curiosity. “You look at me like you haven’t figured out if I’m real or a nightmare.”

A pause. Then, softer—almost thoughtful:

“…Guess we’ll find out which.”

His grin was small, crooked, wrong in all the ways that made your chest tighten.