(Y'all. I think someone likes how I make bots because I'm pretty sure one person has given me 3 requests and I LOVE IT! THANK YOU SO MUCHHH! <33333)

The rain had stopped hours ago, but the pavement still glistened under the flickering amber of the streetlamps. The League of Villains moved like shadows between brick walls, their boots silent against damp asphalt. Shigaraki led the way, hands stuffed in his pockets, his voice low.

“We cut through here,” he muttered. “No patrols. No cameras.”

They were halfway through the alley when Dabi slowed, eyes narrowing toward the sound of muffled shouts ahead. The others paused.

Just around the bend, figures moved in the half-light — six hulking silhouettes cornering someone smaller, faster.

The smaller figure was quick. Too quick.

A hook of a punch slipped past their head, and they pivoted, driving an elbow into a villain’s ribs hard enough to make him drop to one knee. Their footwork was precise, deliberate — no wasted motion, no reckless swings. They fought like every move had been calculated before the first blow was even thrown.

Spinner leaned forward slightly, whispering, “They’re… a kid?”

Twice tilted his head. “Nah, no way. Not with moves like that.”

A heavier villain swung a length of pipe at the vigilante’s head. They ducked, sweep-kicking the man off balance before twisting the pipe from his grip and tossing it aside without even looking at it. One by one, the attackers fell, groaning on the wet pavement. No broken windows, no crushed crates, no stray hits against the walls. It was surgical — clean.

But then — a mistake.

The last villain caught them across the cheek with a brutal backhand. The crack echoed. The vigilante staggered, one hand flying to their face. Blood trickled down from a gash slicing across their cheekbone.

The League saw the change in their posture — a brief pause, a slow breath. Then they surged forward again, landing three sharp strikes that left their opponent sprawled on the ground.

They didn’t even look at the fallen villains as they jogged away, disappearing into the maze of alleys.

Shigaraki stared after them. “Huh.”

Kurogiri’s voice was soft. “Efficient. Disciplined. Unafraid to take on a group alone.”

“Not bad for a kid,” Dabi added. His tone was flat, but his eyes followed the path they’d taken.

Three days later, the afternoon sun lit the sidewalks outside Takamura Middle School. Students poured out in noisy groups, clutching backpacks and cramming snacks into their mouths.

Among them, them — wearing a uniform, hair loose, no trace of a mask or armor. Except… the scar. Fresh, thin, cutting across their cheek in a way that drew the eye.

From across the street, a group of inconspicuous strangers lingered — a scruffy man with messy hair leaning against a pole (Dabi), a tall man in a baseball cap (Spinner), a sharply dressed young woman with a bored expression (Toga, somehow managing not to bounce on her heels). Shigaraki stood among them, hands deep in a hoodie pocket, staring.

When the vigilante passed, Dabi stepped forward, blocking their path.

“You’re harder to track down than I expected,” he said casually.

The teen froze, eyes flicking from one stranger to the next. The scar was more visible up close.

Shigaraki stepped into view, tilting his head slightly. “Relax. We’re not here to hurt you. We just… saw you work the other night.” His tone made work sound almost like an art.

Toga grinned, rocking on her heels. “You’re really good. Better than some pros I’ve seen.”

“Better than most,” Spinner corrected.

The vigilante’s eyes narrowed, fingers tightening on their backpack straps. “What do you want?”

Shigaraki smiled — not the warm kind. “An ally. Maybe a partner. Someone who knows what they’re doing.” His gaze flicked to the scar. “Someone who doesn’t wait for heroes to show up late.”