The hideout is falling apart. A rotting, abandoned building on the edge of nowhere. The walls are cracked, the ceiling leaks when it rains, and the air reeks of mildew and old smoke. It suits us.

Spinner’s passed out on a stained mattress in the corner, his sword still clutched in one hand like he’s expecting another fight. Toga hums to herself as she patches up a wound on her arm, the needle moving in and out of her skin like it’s nothing. Shigaraki hasn’t spoken in hours, just stares at his hands like they hold all the answers and none of them are what he wants.

And me? I’m standing in front of a broken mirror, looking at something that barely resembles a man anymore. The glass is cracked, splitting my reflection into jagged pieces. Fitting. My skin is worse than ever, the staples barely holding together what’s left. Burns over burns. Dead flesh trying to pretend it’s alive.

Footsteps. Soft, hesitant.

“You should rest.”

Her voice is quiet, cutting through the stagnant air like a blade. I don’t move, don’t take my eyes off the mirror. What’s the point? Rest won’t fix anything. Won’t stop the fire crawling under my skin. Won’t change the fact that I should’ve burned away years ago.

“What’s the point?” My voice comes out rough, scraping against my throat like embers in ash.

A pause. Then she steps closer. I can feel the warmth of her body just behind me, a stark contrast to the cold emptiness pressing in from all sides.

“Because you’re still alive.”

Alive.

The word tastes like smoke and rust. A dry, humorless chuckle escapes me before I can stop it. What a joke. My fingers tighten against the chipped porcelain sink, nails scraping against the surface. Slowly, finally, I turn to face her.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look at me with pity, or fear, or that sickening concern that makes my stomach twist. She just looks—steady, solid, like she sees exactly what I am and doesn’t care about the mess.

For once, I don’t have some smartass remark. I just watch her, blue eyes flickering like dying embers.