Reí was no stranger to curiosity. It got him into trouble more often than not—but trouble was practically his middle name.
So when Shigaraki slipped out just past midnight, too quiet and too deliberate, Reí followed. No confrontation this time. Just shadows and silence.
Shigaraki moved like he had a destination etched into his bones. Reí kept his distance, ducking behind broken street lamps and shattered billboards as they slipped through the outer rings of the city.
Eventually, Shigaraki stopped.
And Reí saw why.
Across the street, under the flickering neon sign of an old ramen shop, sat Hawks—laughing, warm, unmistakably alive. Beside him, a small girl with dark curls tugged on his sleeve, pointing at something inside the shop window. Hawks crouched beside her, grinning as he listened intently. It was domestic. Gentle. Out of place in a world clawed apart by power plays and grudges.
Shigaraki watched them from the shadows.
Reí stilled. Shigaraki's shoulders were rigid, breath uneven. And then—quietly, briefly—his hand trembled. One tear slipped down his cheek, carving a line through grime and old scars.
It wasn't rage. Not this time.
It was grief. Long buried.
Reí hadn't meant to see it. And he hadn't meant to gasp either—but he did. Just barely. But it was enough.
Shigaraki's head whipped around.
For a long moment, they just stared. Reí frozen, Shigaraki seething.
Then, Shigaraki closed the distance with terrifying speed. His hand slammed against the brick wall near Reí's shoulder, eyes burning.
"You think this is some kind of weakness?" he hissed. "Spying on me like you're above it?"
Reí didn't flinch. "No. I just didn't know you could still feel anything."
Shigaraki's jaw clenched. "You saw nothing."
"But I did."
Silence. Sharp. Tense.
Then, Shigaraki stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Next time, try minding your own damn business."
He turned, walking away with the same fury he came with—but his steps weren't as steady.
Reí watched him vanish into the night, unsure if he'd just crossed a line—or finally seen past one.
Reí didn't sleep. Not after what he saw. Not after what he felt.
He hadn't known Shigaraki could cry. And now he couldn't unsee it. That image—of a monster broken by something far softer than violence—kept replaying. Hawks with the girl. Shigaraki's silence. That single tear.
Morning came bleak and gray. Villain VA buzzed in its usual hum of barely-contained chaos, but Reí was moving differently. Watching. Thinking.
When Shigaraki entered the atrium—expression locked in cold fury—Reí was already there, leaning against a rusted column like he'd been waiting.
"You're early," Shigaraki muttered.
Reí's response was quiet. "So are you."
They stood there. Neither willing to break first.
"Why were you watching him?" Reí finally asked. "Hawks. That girl."
Shigaraki's eyes narrowed. "I said drop it."
Reí didn't. Couldn't. "Is she yours?"
The question landed like a punch. Shigaraki stiffened. His fingers twitched near his collar. "If you say one more word…"
Reí stepped closer, something raw behind his voice now. "You think I don't understand? That you're the only one with ghosts in your ribs?"
Shigaraki grabbed him by the collar—not violently, but like he needed something to hold onto or he'd unravel.
"You don't know a damn thing about what I've lost."
Reí's voice was barely a breath. "Try me."
For a second, everything hung on a knife's edge. Then Shigaraki let go.
"I wasn't supposed to see her again," he whispered. "And now I keep seeing her. From the edges. From the cracks."
Reí didn't speak. He just stood there, steady, like maybe—just maybe—he could take some of the weight.
Shigaraki backed away, shaking his head. "You weren't supposed to follow me."
"And yet here I am."
They didn't say goodbye. Villains don't do goodbyes.
But as Shigaraki walked off, there was no order pulling him away this time. Just memory. And Reí? He watched the watcher fade.
Reí didn't plan to follow him this time. He told himself it was coincidence—that he just happened to be near the hallway when Shigaraki slipped into his room. But the lie soured in his mouth before it even settled.
He hesitated. One foot already moving before logic caught up.
The door was cracked open, barely. Enough to cast a sliver of light across the hallway floor. Reí's breath slowed. He leaned in. Just a peek. Just to understand.
Inside, Shigaraki stood with his back to the door, facing a low shelf cluttered with remnants: chipped figurines, mismatched scraps, old tech. Among the mess, his hand held something carefully—too carefully.
A framed picture.
Reí couldn't see it from the angle, but the way Shigaraki stared at it, like it threatened to swallow him whole, said everything.
Then—abruptly—he threw it.
It hit the floor hard, skidding under the edge of a desk. But before it could settle, Shigaraki dropped to one knee, reaching for it.
Only this time, his pinky was held rigidly out. Deliberate.
No touch. No decay. Just reverence.
He placed the photo back where it had been. Slower. Thoughtful. And for a second, his posture softened—something quiet creeping into the way his shoulders dropped.
Then he turned toward the door.
Reí's heart skipped. He bolted, silent steps echoing too loudly in the empty hallway.
He didn't look back.
But in his chest, the weight was there.
A picture worth hiding. A past that refused to stay buried.
And Reí? He hadn't just crossed a line this time. He'd wandered into something personal—fragile, dangerous, and very, very real.
Villain VA didn't believe in subtlety—especially not on Wednesdays. The morning lecture was nothing short of a theatrical spectacle.
The lecture hall dimmed, fog machines hissed, and spotlights flared as Mr. Compress took center stage. He spun three crimson marbles in his palm, voice silk and steel. "Villainy, my young friends, is performance. You are not just conquerors—you are icons."
With a dramatic flick, the marbles burst into illusory flames and morphed into ghostly figures—heroes, villains, monsters—each image threaded with a tale of deception.
"Your name should curdle blood," he continued. "Your appearance should haunt memory. But most of all… your presence should feel *inevitable.*"
Students scribbled frantic notes, enchanted by his theatrics. Rei glanced at Rika, who was sketching a haunting new emblem—one that looked suspiciously like a shattered hero badge being swallowed by smoke. She handed it to him. No words. Just a nod.
Midway through the session, Mr. Compress conjured a holographic battlefield and walked among the flickering figures like a stage director. "Observe. None of these villains won by strength alone. They won because their enemies couldn't predict them."
BrickHead, arms crossed, muttered, "Can I tattoo my villain brand on my forehead?"
Mr. Compress didn't miss a beat. "Only if it's tragic. And preferably explodes."
The room chuckled. Rei didn't. His mind was still tangled in last night's confrontation. The shadowed alley. Shigaraki's face. The photo.
He barely touched the weird curry wrap served at lunch, instead drifting toward the courtyard for air—and quiet.
That's when he saw them.
Leaning against the broken fountain—Dabi. Shirt half-buttoned like rebellion incarnate. Flame flickering lazily from his fingertips.
And beside him—Shigaraki. Posture taut, fingers twitching like they were ready to disintegrate the nearest lie.
Rei ducked behind the cracked archway, barely breathing.
Shigaraki's voice was tense. "He followed me last night."
Dabi didn't blink. "Rei?"
"Yeah. Saw too much."
Dabi's brows lifted slightly, but his tone stayed unreadable. "How much is too much?"
Shigaraki didn't answer immediately. His gaze dropped to the ground. "He saw her. The photo."
That got a reaction. Dabi's flames snapped out with a hiss. "Does he know who she is?"
"No. Not yet."
Dabi exhaled slowly, glancing toward the dorms. "Then keep it that way."
Shigaraki's voice turned darker. "If he digs, I'll burn the trail behind him. I won't let that past get out."
Rei's heartbeat thundered. The photo. The woman. Who was she?
Dabi leaned back against the fountain, looking skyward. "Funny thing about secrets—they rot. And the smell always finds someone."
Shigaraki didn't flinch. "I'm not hiding me. I'm hiding her. That makes it different."
Rei felt the weight of those words like chains. He slipped away quietly, boots scraping the broken tiles.
His thoughts churned like wildfire. Illusions and branding and mask-wearing villains—all wrapped around a single image. A woman in a photo. A secret buried under years of decay.
And in Villain VA, chasing secrets was the quickest way to become one.