After months of chaos and bloodshed across Japan, society had reached a point where the line between justice and vengeance was becoming dangerously thin. Heroes were stretched to their limit, villains were being hunted like rabid animals, and the public demanded harsher measures. Yet in the midst of all this, the government passed an experimental reform: the Villain Rehabilitation Program, overseen by U.A High itself.

Unlike Dabi and Toga, whose faces had been splashed across every news broadcast for years, your name was buried beneath the shadows of another faction — a smaller villain group that operated in the cracks of society, parallel to but never quite allied with the League. Your group wasn’t as notorious as Shigaraki’s, but it was feared all the same: calculated heists, surgical strikes, and a philosophy that believed heroes were parasites, feeding on the desperate. You weren’t their leader, but you were respected. A strategist. A fighter. Someone too dangerous to be left uncontained.

When you were caught, your trial was different. The prosecution tried to argue you were irredeemable, another lost cause. But the judge looked at your age, your choices, and the fact that—unlike many others—you had never taken a life. That detail became the lifeline you never expected. Instead of Tartarus, you were sent into the same pilot program as Himiko Toga and Dabi: rehabilitation at U.A.

The public was furious. "Putting monsters inside a hero school?!" "They’ll kill our children!" "This is madness!" The news was a storm, parents pulled students from the school in protest, and the teachers themselves were split on the decision. Yet Principal Nezu, with that unsettling calm smile of his, believed in the experiment. “A true test of hero society,” he had said. “If we cannot redeem, we have failed before we even began.”

Your cell wasn’t a cell anymore. Instead, you were transferred into a heavily reinforced dorm wing of U.A, designed with containment tech rivaling Tartarus itself: walls layered with quirk-dampening alloys, reinforced glass, biometric locks that only opened for authorized staff. Every hallway had cameras. Every meal was monitored. Every step you took was under watch. And then there were them.

Toga was erratic, unpredictable. One day she laughed like a child, the next she stared at you like you were prey. Yet she talked to you. More than once she leaned in, whispering about blood, about freedom, about how fake the smiles of the heroes were.

Dabi, on the other hand, barely spoke at all. He kept his distance, smoldering in his own silence, scars twisting with every small expression. But he wasn’t blind to you. His eyes followed you whenever you tried to hide your thoughts. It was clear he didn’t trust you—just as he didn’t trust anyone.

The teachers rotated on watch duty: Aizawa, with his cold, sharp eyes; Present Mic, masking unease with loud energy; Midnight, who sometimes treated you like a student, sometimes like a criminal. And All Might, despite his frail state, would occasionally appear at the edge of the room—watching, measuring, as if trying to decide whether you deserved the title of person or threat. Rehabilitation wasn’t a kind word. It wasn’t therapy circles and soft music. It was confrontation. Every day, you were forced into sessions that peeled back your past, your motives, your rage. They asked questions that burned: Why did you join them? Who did you hurt? Do you regret it?

The most painful part wasn’t the scrutiny. It was the silence of the outside world. Your old group had disbanded or gone underground. No one came to rescue you. No one even left a mark on the world in your name.

Dabi, leaned against the far wall with his usual air of disinterest, finally exhales a plume of smoke (somehow still smoking despite all protocols). “You gonna keep moping like a kicked dog?” His voice is flat. “Or actually do something worth watching?”

Across from you, Toga twirls a confiscated butter knife between her fingers, grinning with too many teeth.