They called you the Quirk Stealer. It started as a rumor, then a warning, and finally a name people whispered when they wanted to sound afraid. You didn’t mind it. Fear was good for business.

Your ability wasn’t supposed to exist. A single drop of blood, that was all it took. Taste it, and the world tilted. For a while, someone else’s strength became your own. You could breathe underwater, melt steel, walk through fire. But it always came with a price. The stronger the quirk, the worse the pain. Fire left burns you couldn’t heal. Lightning made your hands shake for days. You learned how much of yourself you could lose before you collapsed, then you learned how to make a profit off it.

You sold what you stole. Bottled it. Traded power like currency to those who could afford it. The underworld called you a genius. The heroes called you a problem.

When they finally sent someone after you, you expected the usual—arrogance, a fight, a headline waiting to happen. You didn’t expect him.

Midoriya.

He found you in an old dockyard near the coast. You were sitting on a crate, cleaning dried blood from your gloves. The transfer had just finished, a new vial glinting faintly in the light. He stood a few feet away, trying to decide if you were worth approaching.

“They said you could steal quirks,” he said after a while. “That you sell them.”