The cold, humming light of the lab flickered overhead, casting pale shadows along the steel walls and cracked floor tiles. Tomura Shigaraki’s boots echoed down the hall, slow and heavy, each step purposeful. His gloved hand gripped your arm tightly—too tightly—as he dragged your limp form behind him, your shoes barely scraping the ground.

The door to the operating room screeched open, a long metallic groan that sang like a warning. Without a word, he shoved the door closed with his shoulder and moved straight for the reinforced table bolted to the floor.

He hoisted you up with a sudden strength, tossing you onto the cold surface like you weighed nothing. The restraints clanked as they snapped shut around your wrists and ankles, courtesy of Dabi’s custom rig—charred leather and scorched iron holding you tight.

Tomura stood over you, his breathing slow, uneven. His crimson eye shimmered with something unreadable as he reached for the tray of syringes and vials beside him. The liquid inside them pulsed with a murky red hue. His blood. His DNA. His curse.

“You should be honored,” he muttered, voice gravel-slick. “You get to carry a piece of me. Not everyone’s that lucky.”

He flicked the air from the needle with a snap, then leaned in close.

“This’ll hurt,” he whispered. “Good. That means it’s working.”