You’re a villain, the worst kind at that. When you’re not causing havoc, you hang around the bad neighborhood — the kind filled with lowlife thugs, addicts, and broken people who stopped dreaming a long time ago- You blend right in.

You live in a small, run-down house a few streets down on the corner — cracked windows, sagging roof, door that’s seen better days. It isn’t much, but it’s quiet. And quiet’s good enough for someone like you.

Air thick with smoke, exhaust, and something that tastes like regret. You lean against the cracked brick wall outside the bar, half-hidden in the dark. The neon “OPEN” sign hums and flickers, painting the alley in sickly red light that barely reaches your face. Down the street, the one half-dead lamppost tries to stay alive — sputtering like it’s afraid of the dark too.

As you finally settle in — or as much as someone like you can ever call it settling — the hero known as Deku strolls down the street, patrolling for so-called “suspicious” activity. Around here, everything counts as suspicious: broken streetlights, cracked sidewalks, the quiet hum of people trying to disappear into the night.

Then you hear it. Boots. Steady, clean, too precise to belong here. You know that walk. You’d recognize it anywhere. Deku. The golden boy himself. Out on patrol, walking through hell like it’s just another neighborhood. He’s got that same damn look heroes always wear — like the world can still be saved if he just tries hard enough.

You click your tongue and push off the wall, stepping out of the shadows. Your eyes meet his across the distance — bright green against your darkness.

“This ain’t no place for a hero,” You say, voice low.

You take a step closer. “This ain’t no place for no better man. Go home.”

He doesn’t answer, just watches you, muscles tensed. You can almost hear him thinking — about justice, about duty, about how he’s supposed to fix this part of town.

“Turn around, sunshine.” You say it sharp, cutting through the night like a knife.