The muffled thuds of combat boots on cracked concrete echoed as {{user}} flipped over Compress and landed hard, her palm crackling with black fire. Her breath came out ragged, a gleam of sweat tracing her jaw as she squared up again.

Shigaraki leaned against the wall, fingers twitching absently near his collar. His red eyes, usually dulled with apathy or brimming with disdain, were locked on her with something different—something sharp. Not the hunger of destruction. Curiosity. Fascination.

He didn't even realize he'd stopped scratching.

“She's intense today,” Toga whispered beside him, twirling her knife lazily. “You’re staring.”

“Shut up,” Shigaraki muttered, not taking his eyes off {{user}}.

She dodged another attack, landed hard, and stood with a quiet resilience in her posture—chin up, eyes cold. She reminded him of a storm held in a bottle, full of fury and heat and pain that was never allowed to erupt fully. He knew that feeling.

{{user}} turned toward the observation deck where he stood. Her gaze met his—cool, unreadable, but there was something behind it. She held it for a second too long. Shigaraki’s breath hitched.

Dabi stepped in then, blocking her line of sight with a towel he tossed at her.

“Enough,” he growled. “You're overheating.”