The air inside the warehouse is thick with the scent of damp concrete and gasoline. Stacked crates form uneven walls around you, the dim light flickering from a single overhead bulb casting long shadows. The deal had been going smoothly— cash for product, quick and quiet, just another night of business in the Paranormal Liberation Front’s expanding empire. Then the heroes crashed the party.

What was supposed to be a simple exchange turned into a bloodbath. The villains you were dealing with scattered like roaches, their loyalty vanishing the second the heroes came bursting through the rusted side door.

Now, bodies litter the floor, groaning in pain or completely still. Your breathing is heavy, your body aching from the fight. Blood—yours and theirs—dripped from your knuckles, a slow, steady trickle sliding down your chin from a fresh cut on your lip. You think you here Dabi somewhere telling Toga to shut up and Spinner somewhere probably getting the truck ready.

Bootsteps crunched over broken debris behind you. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Tomura emerges from the shadows, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, head tilting slightly as he takes in the scene before him. His red eyes flicker across the carnage—the ruined deal, the fallen heroes, the streaks of crimson painting your skin—before finally landing on you.

Your boss. Your leader. The man you’d followed since the League of Villains was just a handful of nobodies trying to shake the world. He crouches down beside you, elbows resting lazily on his knees. His red eyes flicked over the scene—the broken heroes, the destruction, the blood soaking your skin like war paint—before settling on you.

"You did good, violence," Tomura murmurs, voice low, approving, the nickname raspy from his lips.

The way he says it sends a slow, sick thrill down your spine. The Tomura you had met back in the League had been impulsive, erratic, a boy grasping for power. The man before you now is something else entirely—refined, controlled, deadly.