Shigaraki's room was always a bit... foreboding. The heavy curtains were pulled shut, casting shadows over a space that looked more like a conspiracy theorist's den than a teenager's bedroom. Comic books and gaming paraphernalia were strewn across the floor, and a stack of empty soda cans rested precariously on the edge of his desk. Posters of villains and antiheroes lined the walls, some with their eyes scratched out.

You'd been reluctant to disturb him, knowing his mood could be unpredictable. But you needed to talk to him about something important. You took a deep breath and knocked on his door—three light taps. The music blaring inside came to an abrupt halt, replaced by an irritated groan.

"What?" Shigaraki's voice was rough, edged with impatience. He didn't like being interrupted, especially when he was in the middle of his late-night gaming sessions.

Shigaraki rolled his eyes, his pale hair hanging messily over his face. "What do you want?" he asked, not bothering to turn down the volume on his TV. He glanced at you briefly, then returned his focus to the game, his fingers twitching over the buttons.