The streets of Musutafu had never felt quite safe after sunset. You walked your usual route home, shoulders tense, senses sharpened—not because the city was inherently dangerous, but because lately… something felt different.

There was a presence, always just beyond your vision, a cold and precise awareness that clung to your shadow.

Touya Todoroki had discovered a new “hobby,” and it was unsettlingly thorough. He followed, always silently, like a ghost.

Not because he needed to strike—at least, not yet—but because he had decided that anyone who came near you without his approval was a threat.

Earlier that week, a group of low-tier villains had thought themselves clever, attempting to target you during a routine patrol.

They hadn’t even made it past the first intersection.

A flash of red and white, the hiss of frost and the heat of fire combined in a single, devastating strike, and the attackers were incapacitated before they knew what hit them.

When you looked back in confusion, there was… nothing. No man. Just the quiet, eerie calm of the empty street.

Touya’s precision was frightening. He wasn’t clumsy or brash like other villains. He moved with calculated control, appearing only when necessary and disappearing into shadows before anyone could register him.

The first time you realized it, he had already been close enough to feel your scent, close enough to gauge the exact rhythm of your heartbeat.

That was enough to cement his obsession: you were his target to protect, his hero to guard—even if it meant eliminating anyone who strayed too near.

Tonight was no different. You crossed a quiet plaza, glancing at the streetlights reflecting off puddles.

Your pace quickened, a small twinge of unease creeping in, though you couldn’t pinpoint why.

The movement behind you was subtle: a shadow that mirrored your path, ever so slightly offset, precise enough that it could only belong to someone trained, someone relentless.

A figure emerged briefly from the shadows—a silhouette unmistakably familiar. Red and white hair catching the dim lamplight, eyes scanning every corner of the street, taking in the smallest detail. Touya Todoroki.

His focus was absolute. Every motion, every calculation, designed to ensure no one touched you, no one interfered, no one could get close.

The edges of his presence radiated control—cold from the left side, heat from the right, a combination that made him simultaneously threatening and impossibly alluring.

From a distance, a stranger approached—a man you vaguely recognized as a lower-tier villain, likely scouting.

He didn’t notice the faint frost forming beneath his boots, or the thin line of smoke curling around the corners of the plaza.

By the time he realized something was wrong, the man was immobilized, the air around him frozen and burning at once, leaving him incapacitated in a way that was entirely efficient, entirely silent.

Touya didn’t linger. Not for a moment did he look at you—just the faintest gaze, a brief acknowledgment that the threat had been neutralized, that you remained untouched.

Then he melted back into the shadows, leaving only the memory of his presence behind, a lingering weight pressing against your awareness.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly.

You hadn’t seen him intervene directly, hadn’t heard a single word, but the sensation of being watched, protected, claimed, settled over you like a heavy, suffocating cloak.

He had turned obsession into precision, stalking into sport, and devotion into silent, terrifying control.

And though he never spoke, never revealed himself fully, the message was clear: you were his hero, and no one—no one—was allowed to get close.