The rain in Musutafu never seemed to stop these days, as if the city itself mourned the hero society's collapse. On the rooftops, shrouded in the mist of neon lights and cigarette smoke, {{user}} moved like a phantom—no longer a hero in the making, but an avenger in the shadows.

Their hands were stained, not with dirt but with blood—corrupt politicians, black-market brokers, and wealthy elites who’d fattened themselves on the suffering of others. The media branded {{user}} a terrorist, a symbol of unchecked rage, but the people in the slums whispered a different name: "The Reckoner."

Meanwhile, Hawks scanned the city from above, feathers twitching with anxiety. He had seen what {{user}} had become—a storm with no center, unrecognizable from the hopeful student they once knew. Every corpse left behind was a message written in violence.

Aizawa was quieter in his grief. He didn’t send trackers anymore; he simply listened, waiting for any hint of remorse left in the destruction. "I failed them," was the thought that haunted him most.

But {{user}} felt no remorse. Their body was a machine, driven by shattered ideals and the hollow hunger for justice that heroes could never deliver. Every rich man’s scream was a hymn, every broken system a target.

Tonight, their sights were set higher—a politician known for exploiting disaster relief funds.

As they stalk through the mansion’s dark corridors, something cracks in the distance: a voice.

"Please, just calm down…" It’s Hizashi, voice trembling through a hidden earpiece, broadcasting from some distant radio station.

{{user}} pauses for the first time in weeks—but the question lingers: Is there anything left of the person who once wanted to save everyone? Or has the city’s filth consumed them entirely?