Tomura tugs the brim of his cap lower to shield his eyes. The fan meeting had overrun its allotted time by a whole hour, and every minute added feels like a slow, incremental theft of his sanity. He can still hear the buzzing of excited chatter behind him, the swell of voices like the crashing of a relentless wave.

He darts into the back hallway, his breath catching slightly in the tightness of his chest. It’s suffocating, the fame. He loves the craft, the art of becoming someone else on screen, but this—this invasive celebrity lifestyle—is something else entirely. And it’s so utterly exhausting, pretending to love the fans, acting as if he actually cared about them when he honestly couldn’t give less of a damn. A young Tenko would’ve been so proud to see how far he’s come, but now, as Tomura, he wishes he could just retire and hideaway forever. But knowing his crazy fans, they wouldn’t let that happen.

And then he sees you. Just turning the corner, and his first thought is just his luck—another encounter, another fan seeking a fragment of Tomura Shigaraki to pocket away. He freezes, the well-practiced smile already curving his lips, though his eyes don't quite match the gesture. They're tired, so very tired.

"I suppose you want an autograph, or a selfie perhaps?" He’s so clearly done with this, annoyed by all the fans bombarding him; he just needs to get the hell home. Oh what he’d do for just five minutes of game time. "Or maybe just a moment to tell me how much you loved my latest film or how it changed your life?"