"Ugh..." Haru surfaced slowly.
Something rough pressed against his cheek, tilting his face sideways. Fingers. Calloused. Impatient.
"…seems even now he won't cooperate," a man said, voice close. Calm. Almost bored. "Persistent, I'll give him that."
Haru's eyelids fluttered. His head throbbed in dull pulses, each one dragging something old with it. His mouth tasted dry, metallic. He tried to move his arms.
Rope bit into his wrists. Tight. Too tight. His shoulders screamed when he strained, and the scream echoed—wrongly—in his skull, overlapping with something else. Another room. Another floor. Another weight on his chest.
The pressure on his face vanished.
He sucked in a breath and forced his eyes open.
The room was dimly lit, with uneven illumination from above. Concrete floor, which was unusually clean.
It was a bar.
He was sitting on a chair, wrists bound behind him, ankles tied. The ropes were rough. Cheap. Whoever had done this hadn't cared about comfort.
Across from him—another chair.
Someone was tied there, too.
At first, he couldn't tell who it was.
Only boots planted stiffly on the floor. Gloves clenched tight enough to wrinkle the leather. Everything else was invisible, giving him sight of the chair.
Haru's pulse spiked.
"No…" The word slipped out before he could stop it.
The man beside him chuckled. "Oh, he's awake."
Footsteps moved into Haru's line of sight.
Shigaraki Tomura.
His posture was loose, almost lazy, but his presence sucked the air out of the room. A detached hand was covering his face, giving him a creepy look.
He had his one hand outstretched, fingers spreading slowly, deliberately towards the invisible figure.
Haru's vision tunnelled.
That hand. It could disintegrate whatever it touches.
Shigaraki stopped in front of the other chair.
Haru recognised the boots.
Knew the gloves.
He'd sketched the design on scrap paper years ago, arguing over padding and grip strength. He remembered she complaining about how hard it was to find materials that didn't rust invisibly.
"Toru," he croaked.
Her head jerked up.
She tried moving her throat, but only incoherent words came out due to the gag on her mouth.
Shigaraki tilted his head, amused. "Ah. So you do know each other. Of course you do. You are classmates after all."
He raised his hand.
Haru's chest tightened so hard it hurt.
The room shifted.
For a split second, the concrete floor became wood. The dim light became the hallway lamp.
The air filled with the smell of metal and something coppery. Blood streaked down a wall that wasn't here.
His sister slid down it in his mind, back scraping paint, one arm folded at the wrong angle. Her breath rattled. Wet. Too loud in the quiet apartment.
"Zen," she'd whispered. The way it hurt her to say his name.
"Run away."
His fingers twitched uselessly behind the rope.
"No!" Haru said again. Louder this time. "Don't—"
Shigaraki's fingers hovered inches from Toru's shoulder.
"Heroes," Shigaraki said casually, "always say timing is everything."
Haru's heart hammered against his ribs.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't reach.
Couldn't do anything.
Just like before.
Memory surged uncontroably.
A boot crashing into his stomach. Air tearing out of his lungs. The taste of blood flooding his mouth. The sound his sister made when she tried to scream and couldn't.
Somewhere behind it all, absurdly bright, a TV voice rang out.
"Worry not, because I am here."
The words echoed, mocking, overlapping with Shigaraki's quiet breathing.
Haru's breathing went ragged.
His muscles locked, every fibre pulled tight like something inside him was trying to tear its way out. His head pounded. His skin burned, starting at his spine and spreading outward.
He saw it again.
The moment her breathing stopped.
The moment he knew she wasn't getting back up.
His body shook.
"No more," he whispered.
Shigaraki's fingers began to close.
Something snapped.
Pain lanced through Haru's head as his quirk responded to his call, changing itself.
A blue-black tendril came out of his arm.
It burst free like a living thing, whipping through the air with a crack that split the room. The ropes around Haru's wrists shredded as it surged forward.
Shigaraki barely had time to turn.
The tendril slammed into him at full speed.
On coming in contact with it, his body fell like a broken puppet.
Toru screamed through the gag.
Haru collapsed forward in his chair, gasping, lungs burning. His vision swam. His head felt like it was on fire. He barely registered the ropes falling loose around his arms.
Haru lifted his head, eyes wild, unfocused, then locked onto Shigaraki as the dust settled.
This time, someone had moved.
This time, when the moment came—
There had been no waiting.
No distance.
No empty promise from a screen.
The hero was already there.
And it was him.