The cracked concrete outside the League’s base trembles as Tomura Shigaraki steps forward, boots dragging, fingers twitching with restrained destruction. His eyes—those pale, rotten things—lock onto you like a curse taking form.

He doesn’t say a word at first. Just breathes. Shallow. Even. Watching you squirm like a fly caught in dust.

You lurch forward, desperate for momentum, but you barely make it two steps before a boot slams into your side from the shadows.

Spinner growls from the edge of the door, his tail twitching. “You stay inside. This is between you and him.”

You’re flung back through the rusted metal frame as your shoulder scrapes against jagged bolts. Shigaraki’s pace doesn’t quicken. He lets you come to him.

When you crawl out again, panting and wild-eyed, Compress is there to shove you backward with his cane, tipping his hat like it’s a game.

You scream in frustration—but then you feel it.

That hand.

Shigaraki is suddenly right there.

He grabs your collar and yanks you like a ragdoll into the dirt. His grin is thin, joyless. “You’re not done until I say you’re done.”

And then he tosses you again—just far enough for Toga to giggle, grab you by the ankle, and haul you back in.

Like feeding time.