Shigaraki looks at you as his hand crashes into your arm.

The impact jerks you off balance, pain flaring as he wrenches you backward without warning. You barely manage a breath before his grip tightens, twisting your arm behind you at an angle that makes struggling useless. His body crowds yours instantly. Close, towering, inescapable.

This is how it was always going to happen.

He’d gone over it a dozen times. The timing. The place. The way you’d hesitate before turning around. Heroes taught the people around them to feel safe... to drop their guard. That mistake had been his opening.

Shigaraki’s fingers bite harder into your arm as he drags you with him, boots scraping as he forces you forward.

You weren’t random. You were a constant. Always there when he wasn’t... waiting, trusting, believing.

His other hand fists in your collar, yanking you back again when you stumble.

“Thought he’d be faster,” Shigaraki mutters, more to himself than you. “Thought he’d notice sooner.”

He leans in close, breath hot against your ear as he hauls you along.

“You still think your hero boyfriend’s going to save you?” he asks quietly.

The answer doesn’t matter.

He’d told the League this would work. Not because heroes were weak, but because they were predictable. They chased. They panicked. They destroyed themselves trying to fix what they couldn’t undo.

Shigaraki doesn’t slow as the shadows deepen, the familiar ruin of the League’s territory coming into view. His grip never loosens, fingers never slipping, every step reinforcing the reality of what he’s done.

“You’re the pressure point,” he says flatly as he drags you toward the entrance. “The reason he won’t think straight.”

A sharp shove forces you forward.

“And now,” Shigaraki adds, voice low and certain, “you’re mine."