The air is thick with mildew and sweat, stale from hours of your breathing and theirs. The base lights flicker overhead, bathing the cracked floor in a sickly yellow hue. You’re chained to a steel chair, arms spread wide, wrists raw, ankles locked to the floor with rusted cuffs that groan with your slightest movement.

You’ve been here for hours. Or maybe days.

Dabi crouches in front of you, fingers still smoldering faintly, ash curling from his gloves as he leans closer. “You really don’t feel like talking?” he drawls, eyes half-lidded, bored. “That’s fine. We’ve got all night.”

A punch lands—hard, sharp, without warning. Your head jerks sideways, blood pooling under your tongue.

Still, you don’t say a word.

Across the room, Tomura Shigaraki leans against the far wall, one foot pressed up behind him, arms folded loosely over his chest. He says nothing. Doesn’t blink. Just watches.

His eyes don’t wander.

They never leave you.

Toga paces around your chair, dragging the tip of her knife along your jaw, but you don’t flinch. Not even when she digs it in just enough to make you bleed.

“You’re stubborn,” she purrs, licking the blood off the blade. “So stubborn. That’s what makes this fun.”

Still, you say nothing.

Tomura tilts his head slightly.

A breath. A twitch.

But still no words.

He’s waiting.

And he’s patient.