You and Shigaraki sit across from each other on mismatched chairs, his posture hunched, shoulders curling inward like a shield. His gloved fingers grip the armrest so tightly that the knuckles whiten beneath the grime. The muted images on the screen show a courtroom filled with stern faces, the Hero Killer Stain standing defiant, almost reverent in his own twisted conviction.

The broadcast crackles, voices thin and distant. Stain’s fiery rhetoric spills through the speakers, words that burn with an ideology that’s unsettling and magnetic all at once. The crowd’s reactions flicker between shock and admiration, and even on this grainy screen, you can feel the electric pull.

Shigaraki doesn’t look away. His eyes are dark pools shadowed by thick lashes, flickering with something deeper than anger, a raw, gnawing frustration. But he doesn’t answer. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. The ticking of a cracked clock on the wall fills the space between you like a heartbeat. Finally, his voice comes, barely more than a breath, rough and uneven. “He gets all the fame. All the fame for what my Nomus did. For my plan.”