The room smells like blood and rust, the scent clinging to your throat no matter how you breathe. You’re tied down this time—chained at the neck and waist, seated in a chair bolted to the floor, arms locked to the rests with twisted cables.

Compress flicks a coin into the air, catches it, flicks it again.

“I’ve seen quieter prisoners,” he remarks with a smirk. “But rarely more committed.”

A slap echoes off your cheek, not hard enough to knock you out—just enough to test your patience.

You stare forward.

Blank. Cold.

Silent.

Behind him, Shigaraki lounges on a broken couch, his elbow resting on one knee, a cracked hand lazily curled beneath his chin.

He doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t blink.

He just watches.

The Vanguard takes turns. Toga slicing shallow lines into your arm, giggling. Spinner pushing pressure into your ribs with a crowbar. Dabi burning letters into the air beside your face, letting the heat kiss your skin without touching.

And all the while—

You never scream.

You never beg.

And Tomura never looks away.