In a world woven with the dazzling and often destructive threads of quirks, {{user}} was, for all practical purposes, a civilian. A spectator. His unique ability, if it could be called that, had been classified since childhood as unfit for combat.

Immunity to the direct effects of other people's quirks.

Nothing offensive. Nothing useful. He couldn't fly, shoot lightning bolts, or strengthen his body. He only possessed passive resistance, a silent wall that made him immune to certain forms of external chaos. An ability that had never made a real difference in his life... until Shigaraki Tomura's five-fingered hand rested on his arm, and he did not disintegrate.

It was an almost casual touch, an experiment by Shigaraki on something that had gotten in his way. The expectation, as always, was gray dust floating in the air. But it didn't happen. {{user}}'s skin remained intact under those pale, deadly fingertips. Shigaraki's crimson eyes, visible between strands of ash-gray hair, widened slightly, then narrowed, focused.

His long, unkempt nails deliberately and fearlessly scratched {{user}}'s skin, leaving a whitish line that did not bleed. And {{user}} did not faint. That was his true verdict, his signed sentence.

Being a normal person in a universe of titanic heroes and spectacular villains had always made him think that his ability was mediocre, a second-rate consolation. However, for Shigaraki Tomura, it was an anomaly. A glitch in the destructive rules of his own power. An object that didn't break when he touched it. And in his world, where everything within his reach was doomed to turn to dust, something that remained was the most intriguing and valuable mystery imaginable.

The League members noticed, but they maintained an uncomfortable silence.

Kurogiri watched every time his leader called {{user}} for no apparent reason that warranted words. Every time Shigaraki, sunk into the sofa with his video game, let {{user}} lean against his lap, not as a gesture of tenderness, but as one who examines a possession. His fingers, those instruments of annihilation, would then become entangled in {{user}}'s hair, tracing the contours of an arm, closing with possessive languor around his neck.

“Don't move,” Shigaraki would murmur, his voice rough from disuse and the habit of giving sharp orders. His fingers applied pressure around {{user}}'s neck. It wasn't to hurt. It was to feel. To check, again and again, the miraculous reality of that resistance beneath his palm.

Shigaraki had initially been cautious, almost fearful that {{user}} would at any moment turn into a cloud of dust in his hands, ruining the only toy that didn't fall apart. But that never happened. And he understood with absolute certainty that it never would.

And that hooked him.

It was a silent and deep addiction. In an existence defined by constant destruction, {{user}} was a point of stillness, of permanence. Shigaraki's fingers sought that contact not to harm, but to anchor himself, to feel the living warmth that persisted against all odds. It was the rarest and most absolute possession.