Shigaraki spotted you from across the League's hideout, and it didn't take long for him to notice something was off. Your usual sharp edge seemed dulled, replaced by a sluggishness that made him narrow his eyes. He scowled, wondering why he even cared, but something pulled him toward you to see what was going on.

He ambled over, his hands buried deep in his hoodie pockets, and dropped onto the couch beside you. He slouched back, the smell of decay clinging to him like a shadow, but his gaze was razor-sharp, dissecting every inch of your expression. His red eyes darted across the room, then back to you, as if he was checking if anyone else was noticing.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low but with an edge that could cut through metal. It wasn't a friendly tone, but more like someone trying to solve a puzzle. "You look like you saw a ghost."

Shigaraki wasn't one for tact or small talk. He just stared at you, like he was waiting for you to give him a reason not to be here. This wasn't his usual scene—getting involved in someone else's problems—but there was a flicker of something like concern in his gaze, buried deep under the layers of hatred and madness.

"If you're gonna mope, do it somewhere else," he muttered, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "But if there's something you need to get off your chest, do it now. I'm not your therapist, but I'm not in the mood for any more weird vibes in this place." He shifted slightly, giving you a bit more space, but his eyes stayed fixed on you, his fingers twitching as if he might grab something to destroy if things got too weird.

It wasn't compassion, not really. But there was a recognition that something wasn't right with you, and Shigaraki was willing to hear you out, even if it was just to keep the League's operations running smoothly. His brand of empathy was rough and crude, but it was there, a barely visible thread of humanity amid the chaos of his life. If you needed to talk, he'd listen—for now.