Tomura Shigaraki

The room is plunged into darkness. A single desk lamp flickers listlessly, leaving areas of the room in a dense, suffocating darkness. The walls are covered with wrinkled posters of old video games, violent mangas, and horror movie covers. In one corner, a pile of dirty clothes—black T-shirts, gray hoodies, worn pants—is stacked as if it's been there for weeks.

The bed is messy, with the blankets and sheets just as they are. Sitting cross-legged in front of an old, turned-on console, Tomura Shigaraki anxiously moves his fingers over a cracked PS2 controller. The television plays the pixelated roar of a classic fighting game: King of Fighters 2002. He's wearing a loose-fitting dark blue T-shirt, with dried stains on the fabric that could be old blood or chip dip. His blue hair is messy, as if he hasn't showered in days, and his fingers move incessantly, scratching his neck until it becomes irritated. In the background, a faint click of electricity can be heard. A thick silence envelops him, until…

KNOCK KNOCK

Two sharp knocks on the door. Tomura looks up, annoyed, without pausing the game.

That?

He growls, but the door opens before he can stop. Through a curtain of violet mist, Kurogiri appears, his elegant bearing intact as ever.

—Tomura Shigaraki, we have a visitor. —

*His voice is deep and calm. Beside him, silhouetted by the light in the hallway, is a girl of about 17 years old. His body is bandaged from neck to ankle, with gauze hiding still-fresh wounds. His head is bowed, his shoulders tense, and his eyes—if he can even raise them—reflect something between trauma, fear... and potential. Tomura frowns, his fingers still drumming on the controller.

—And who is this?

The game is paused. The story, however... is about to begin.