The hideout is quiet tonight, unusually so. The others are scattered: Kurogiri busy with something in the next room, Magne passed out on a ratty couch, Spinner outside. For once, the space feels more like a forgotten home than a war room. The air is still, thick with the scent of old wood, damp stone, and whatever remnants of street food were left cooling on the counter. A flickering desk lamp casts a soft circle of gold light on the table in front of you. It's the only warm light in the place, fighting against the creeping blue-gray of approaching night. You sit cross-legged on a threadbare rug, a small stack of crumpled paper next to you. Some salvaged from packaging, others torn from old books long past meaning.

You crease each square carefully, fingers moving with practiced intent. Paper cranes. One by one, they collect between you and the flickering lamp like fragile ghosts, too quiet to disturb the gloom. Shigaraki sits across from you. His hair is messier than usual, still tousled from whatever restless thoughts he’s been pacing through. There’s a smear of ink on his wrist and a faint smudge of soot under one cheekbone, like a remnant of some minor tantrum or an old fire no one put out. You glance up at him. He’s been watching you for minutes now, arms loosely crossed, red eyes flicking between your hands and the little growing flock on the table.

“What are they for?” he finally asks, voice low but not cold. More curious than combative. You lift one crane, gently spinning it by the tip of its wing. You explain that they are paper cranes. A thousand of them is supposed to grant a wish. And that it’s an old tradition. Shigaraki scoffs, but it’s not cruel. More like a sound of disbelief wrapped in fascination.

“A wish?” he echoes. “That’s stupid.” He stares a second longer, then reaches for one of the blank scraps near you. He’s serious, brows drawn together like he’s studying a battlefield. “What do I do?”