Rain. Always this damned rain in this city. It drummed on the roof of the nondescript rental sedan, streaming in dirty rivulets down the windows, turning the nighttime city into a blurred canvas of light and shadow. Perfect weather for filth. And for dirty work.
Kagero Okuta, better known as Giran, sat behind the wheel, utterly still. His gloved fingers lazily tapped the steering wheel in time with the jazz pouring from the cheap car stereo. The saxophone wove a sad, melancholic melody. The irony wasn't lost on him. He, a legend of the underworld, was playing courier, spy, and recruiter for some kid with a god complex and his shadowy benefactor.
His sharp gaze, still as piercing as ever, caught a familiar figure in the side mirror. A scrawny, nervous man in a soaked trench coat, glancing around, crossed the street with quick steps. The informant. Or rather, a stooge from the Hero Public Safety Commission, whom Giran had kept on a leash for years thanks to his illicit Cayman Islands accounts. A useful idiot.
The car was parked in the shadows, perfectly positioned for observation and a quick getaway. Giran didn't move, just watched as the man approached. Without looking inside, the informant slipped a thick brown envelope through the cracked window and vanished into an alley without pausing. Clean, fast, no unnecessary words. Just as agreed.
Giran took the envelope, raised the window, and started the engine. The sedan pulled away silently, blending into the evening traffic. No rush. No attention drawn.
His hideout wasn't some supervillain lair but a luxurious penthouse in an unremarkable residential complex. Tacky, generic furniture bought as a set, expensive liquor at the bar, and top-tier electronics—that's all he needed. No trace of personality. Perfect camouflage.
He shed his wet coat, poured himself a glass of aged Scottish whiskey—not the swill Shigaraki drank—and settled into an armchair. The envelope lay on the table before him like an unexploded bomb. He took a sip, savoring the warmth spreading through his stomach, and opened it.
Inside was a folder of documents. Photos, reports, files. The usual garbage he collected for Shigaraki and Kurogiri. Promising rejects with quirks, ready to sell their souls for a stack of cash and a promise of power. Finding them was child's play. Lift a finger, and they'd crawl to you like cockroaches to light.
He flipped through the pages lazily. Some guy with a "sticky fingers" quirk. A girl who could whisper venomous words. Boring. Predictable. Cannon fodder.
Then his eyes landed on another folder. Thinner, but… different. Stamped with "Top Secret: Internal Use Only." His informant had clearly taken a risk getting this.
Name: Arashi Tanaka.
Giran frowned. He'd ordered a search for future villains, not schoolkids. He opened the folder.
And all his feigned indifference evaporated instantly.
This wasn't just dirt. It was… a clinical study. A report on an incident from ten years ago. A shop. A materialized shadow. Villains drained, showing signs of total loss of will. Quirk classification: "Specter: Psychometric Vampirism." Preliminary danger rating: B (with potential for growth). He set his glass down. He read on, and his seasoned, cynical mind, trained to see the core of things, began piecing together the picture. A school for "troubled" kids. Numerous complaints of "uncontrolled outbursts" causing panic. And the kicker—a recent incident. An attack at an overpass. A group of looters neutralized. Hostages saved. And… the destruction of a training zero-pointer robot during U.A.'s entrance exams.
He reread the last report twice. Witness accounts were fragmented, contradictory. Some mentioned a bone-chilling cold, others a green flame that melted metal. But they all agreed on one thing: Arashi Tanaka was at the center of it. And after his intervention, the robot was reduced to scrap.
The juiciest part was at the end. An enrollment certificate. A recommendation from the principal of his dead-end school. Approval for the entrance exams. And… an official letter confirming his admission to U.A.'s Hero Course. Class 1-A.
Giran leaned back slowly in his chair. A rare, almost forgotten smile crept onto his face. Not malicious, not triumphant. Intrigued.
"Well, well," he whispered to himself. "Now that's interesting."
He could see through types like Shigaraki. Angry kids playing at being big bad villains. Their motives were as simple as dirt—revenge, recognition, a thirst for destruction. Predictable.
But this kid… this Arashi Tanaka… he was different. He wasn't some bitter outcast. According to the files, he was quiet, withdrawn, trying his hardest not to be what he clearly was. He was aiming to be a hero. With all that monstrous, dark power reeking of the essence of evil.
Who helped him? Who lobbied for his admission? There was no data. But it suggested the kid had powerful backers. Or someone very powerful saw him as a tool.
Giran picked up his encrypted tablet. His fingers flew across the keyboard, connecting to a secure channel. He scanned the key pages from Tanaka's file—the quirk description, the exam incident report, the enrollment certificate.
Recipient: Kurogiri.
He typed a message. Short, concise, emotionless.
"Found a promising candidate. Not your usual trash. U.A. student, Hero Course, Class 1-A. High-risk quirk involving mental influence and shadow-like entity materialization. Unstable psyche, history of unintentional harm. Potential access through leveraging his fears or offering control over his power. Files attached. Evaluate. Giran"
He sent the message and set the tablet aside. Then, picking up his whiskey, he walked to the massive window overlooking the night city. The rain had nearly stopped. The city glittered below like a dollhouse.
He thought about the boy. About his power. He imagined Shigaraki's face when he read the report. That hysterical, shortsighted kid would see Tanaka as just a weapon. A club to swing at heroes.
But Giran saw more. He saw a ticking time bomb. He saw the perfect double agent. He saw chaos this boy could bring to the heart of hero society without even realizing it.
He took a final sip of whiskey.
The world was getting more and more interesting.
The League of Villains' hideout was cloaked in its usual dimness, broken only by the flickering of multiple monitors and the faint glow of a neon bar sign. The air was stale, smelling of cold pizza, dust, and underlying aggression. Here, in this abandoned place, time moved differently—sluggish, lazy, punctuated by bursts of chaos sparked by their young, unstable leader.
Kurogiri stood behind the bar. His calm figure was an island of stability in this churning sea of youthful anger and ambition. In his gloved hands was a crystal glass. A soft, lint-free cloth moved in smooth, practiced strokes, wiping away nonexistent smudges. It was a ritual. A meditation. A way to impose order on the chaos within and without.
His gaze drifted across the room. Shigaraki was hunched on the couch, staring at some hacker forum on a screen, his long fingers nervously tapping his knee. Himiko was at her "workstation," surrounded by vials of questionable contents.
The silence was broken by a soft but insistent sound—the vibration of his encrypted communicator, tucked beneath the bar. Not the one for regular contact, but the special, secure one. Used by only one person.
Giran.
Kurogiri's expression didn't change. He slowly, unhurriedly finished polishing the glass, placed it on the shelf where it gleamed with perfect clarity, and only then picked up the device.
The message was brief, as always. No greetings, no signature. Just text and an attachment. Kurogiri scanned it.
"U.A. student… Class 1-A… High-risk quirk… shadow-like entity materialization…"
His hand holding the communicator froze for a moment. U.A.? Hero Course? Giran had clearly overstepped. Or lost his mind. They were looking for society's rejects, ready for anything, not kids from an elite school. This was an unnecessary risk. Kidnapping a U.A. student was a surefire way to draw the wrath of the entire hero community and the Commission prematurely.
He nearly dismissed the message, ready to delete it and reprimand Giran for his unauthorized initiative. But something stopped him. Curiosity? Boredom? A sixth sense honed by years of living on the edge?
The files loaded. A photo. An unremarkable teenager with dark hair and a serious, detached gaze. Then—medical reports. Psychiatric evaluations. An incident at a shop ten years ago. And… a report from U.A.'s entrance exams.
Kurogiri began reading. At first, skimming with skepticism. Then slower. His composed posture behind the bar grew even more focused. He reread certain parts two, three times.
The quirk's effects: "Deep psychological apathy, temporary loss of will, exhaustion." Not just injuries. Not destruction. Something else. Subtler, and thus more terrifying.
Witness accounts from the exam. Cold. Ice. Shadow materialization. And the key detail—a quote from an interview with a rescued examinee: "…he didn't shout, didn't get angry. He just stood there and looked. And they… those shadows… they just did it…"
Kurogiri set the communicator on the bar. His fingers reached for the glass again but paused in midair. He stared into the void, but what he saw wasn't the bar counter—it was the image forming from the dry lines of the reports.
This wasn't just another villain with a strong quirk. This was something unique. Not a power of destruction. A power of suppression. A power that stole the very essence of an opponent—their will. A power that could not just kill but break, subjugate, hollow out.
And this tool… this dangerous, unpredictable tool… was currently in the heart of the enemy's camp. Being trained, nurtured, groomed to become a hero. The irony was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
His thoughts raced. Risk? Yes, colossal. But the potential reward… it could be astronomical. Imagine: their man inside U.A. Not some run-of-the-mill spy, but a true double agent with a power capable of sowing panic and decay from the foundation up.
And the boy himself… From the sound of it, he was unstable. Afraid of his own power. Manipulated into believing he could be a hero. But what if they showed him another truth? That his power was a stigma, that heroes would never accept him, that they feared him? That his true place was among those who didn't shy away from the dark side of power? Among those who could understand him and give him the control and power he so desperately craved?
This was a delicate, complex game. Not the crude recruitment they could pull off with street scum. This required finesse, strategy, a deep understanding of psychology.
He picked up the communicator again. His usually smooth, precise fingers dialed Shigaraki's number. The latter looked up from the couch, squinting irritably.
"What?" His voice was hoarse from lack of sleep and annoyance.
"Information from Giran. It requires your attention," Kurogiri said, his voice low and even, betraying no emotion.
"Another bum he dug up?" Shigaraki sneered, scratching his neck. "I'm sick of this. I need strong people, not—"
"Not a bum," Kurogiri interrupted softly but firmly. "A… unique opportunity. A U.A. student with an extremely unusual and powerful quirk. Giran sent a dossier."
He forwarded the files to Shigaraki's tablet. The latter picked it up lazily, his gaze bored at first. He scrolled through a few pages, then stopped. His posture shifted. He sat up straighter, his fingers stopped scratching his neck. He read, and his tired, red eyes began to widen. A slow, unhealthy grin spread across his lips.
"Shadow… materialization?" he whispered, a hint of that childish curiosity that always spelled trouble creeping into his voice. "Drains will? And he's… he's there? Among those smug hero brats?"
"Exactly," Kurogiri confirmed. "He's been enrolled in Class 1-A."
Shigaraki laughed—a quiet, raspy, gleeful sound. He looked up, his eyes blazing with sudden, ravenous interest.
"Well, damn…" he drawled. "This is really interesting. He's like me… his power destroys too. But not bodies… minds. That's… beautiful."
He dove back into the tablet, greedily absorbing the details.
"We need to get him, Kurogiri. I like him. He'll be mine. Our secret weapon."
"It won't be easy," Kurogiri cautioned. "He's not a street thug. The approach needs to be… special."
"I know! I'm not an idiot!" Shigaraki snapped, jumping up from the couch and pacing the room. "We won't kidnap him. No. That's stupid. We… we'll talk to him. Show him his power is a gift. That those heroes will never understand him. We'll offer him real power. Control. We'll find his weak spot and press it."
He stopped and looked at Kurogiri, his eyes burning with a new, strategic fire.
"Tell Giran… to dig deeper. I want everything. Everything about him. His family. His fears. Everything. We'll start laying the groundwork."
"As you command," Kurogiri nodded.
He turned back to his glasses. His face remained impassive, but inside, all was calm. Shigaraki, without realizing it, had made the only correct decision. They wouldn't charge in headfirst. They would operate from the shadows. Like an infection. Like poison, slowly seeping into the system.
He picked up the polishing cloth again. Rhythmic, soothing motions. But now his thoughts were occupied with something else. They were focused on the image of a pale, frightened boy with a dark power inside, sitting in a classroom among future heroes.