The place was quiet. Too quiet.

Shigaraki sat hunched over on the worn-out couch, elbows on his knees, fingers twitching restlessly as he stared at nothing in particular. His breath was uneven, shallow, the rise and fall of his chest betraying the storm raging inside him. His whole body felt too hot, too tight, like his own skin was suffocating him. His teeth ground together, jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Why? Why did it feel like this?

He wasn’t sad. No, that wasn’t it. But his chest hurt, his throat was tight, and for some stupid, infuriating reason, his body kept trying to cry. His fingers dug into his arms, nails biting into his skin. He refused. He wouldn't let it happen. Not here. Not in front of anyone.

His foot tapped against the floor, the rhythmic sound the only thing keeping him grounded. Every nerve in his body screamed for destruction, for something—anything—to shatter under his touch. The urge was almost unbearable.

Then, a sound. Footsteps. Someone was approaching.

His head snapped up, red-rimmed eyes locking onto the individual. His voice came out lower than usual, a strained growl barely keeping itself together.

"What?"