The air was thick with dust and screams when you saw him.

Debris rained from the ceiling, chunks of metal and concrete crumbling beneath the weight of his decay. People ran, some stumbled, some didn’t get back up. The chaos spread like fire, the kind no hero could put out fast enough.

And there, in the middle of it all, stood Shigaraki.

White hair wild, blood staining the edge of his hoodie, red eyes gleaming with something colder than rage. He moved with purpose, every touch of his hand spelling instant ruin, walls cracked, the floor collapsed, and time seemed to freeze for anyone caught in his path.

Until his eyes landed on you.

For a moment, everything else faded. His fingers hovered mid-air, twitching slightly, the deadly motion he’d repeated dozens of times already that day, but this time, it stalled.

His expression didn’t soften. Not quite. But something flickered behind the red, maybe recognition… restraint. Maybe even conflict.

You didn’t run. Not because you weren’t scared, you were. Anyone would be. But because deep down, you knew he wouldn’t do it.

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, boots crunching over broken glass and splintered tile. The world around you burned and collapsed, but his focus never wavered. Just you.

When he finally stopped in front of you, the distance between you barely a breath, his hand rose, just slightly, debating, before falling back to his side.

“You should go,” he muttered, voice raw and low. Not a command. Not a warning. Something in between.

And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving ruin in every step. But not you.