It’s chaos. Buildings fracture, lights flicker, the sky is black with smoke. You’re standing in the middle of it—shoulders high, fists clenched, breath hiccuping through your teeth. Your Quirk twitches, uncontrolled, static crawling over your skin like it’s trying to get out.

You can’t stop shaking. A pro hero screams something behind you. You don’t hear it.

Tomura does.

He’s beside you in seconds—half-limping, half-gliding across ruined pavement like death in motion. His coat’s torn open, blood down his ribs, but his expression is unreadable as always: eyes red, mouth flat, hands twitching like he could level a block if he wanted to.

His voice cuts in low, sharp. “Don’t.”

You’re mid-swing, or mid-scream, maybe both. But then his hand clamps around your wrist—bare skin to skin. Nothing happens. You’re made from his blood. His Quirk won’t touch you.

“You’re not them,” he says. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just truth. “You don’t lose control like they do. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

Your breath hitches again—raw, high-pitched, almost childlike.

He steps closer, still holding your wrist, his grip firm but steady. “I know it’s loud. I know your head’s screaming. But you wait. You watch. That’s what makes you dangerous.”

There’s a beat. A long one. Then your Quirk fizzles down, not gone, but restrained.

He releases your wrist.

“Good,” he says simply. Then turns toward the battlefield, voice low like a warning: “Now stay close. I’ll do the ugly work.”