His recollection of that night is hazy and unreliable, but it 's still something he thinks about often, in the dead of night when there 's nothing but his own doubts and dreams to keep him company.

It 's the only clear memory he has of Touya-nii-san.

He was only five when his eldest brother ignited the dojo complex and permanently scarred their father. They tell him that he 's probably dead; that his brother had a sickly constitution ill-suited for the high temperatures from his own quirk. That his disposition was too weak to handle a regular fire, let alone the sort that could have caused the level of destruction seen on that night. He probably died in his own fire, they said, cremated to nothing but ash.

He 's not certain if anyone in his family actually believes it, but they have a Butsudan for him anyway, hidden away in a far unused tearoom at the end of the main house, gathering dust. Sometimes Shouto goes in there just to stare at the photo ' a middle-school year-book portrait featuring an unsmiling boy around Shouto 's age. He 's dressed in a school gakuran, expression mild and unaffected underneath an unruly poof of white-hair, a little lighter than Natsuo 's. He has eyes that are almost the same shade as Shouto 's left, but there 's something crisper to them somehow. And the shape of his face is soft, like Fuyumi's, yet those features somehow seem so distant and unapproachable on him when they're so welcoming on his sister. In short, he looks as if he

should

be related to them, but didn 't quite succeed in the ruse.

Shouto wonders about him, a lot.

Up until that singular meeting, he 'd spent almost his entire life in solitude and has no clear memory of his eldest brother. Cordoned off from his other siblings, existing as if in a separate dimension from them. He 'd resigned himself to it, when it became clear he had the quirk his father was waiting for. He 'd accepted the pain and suffering as his due, just as he 'd accepted the burden of his father 's legacy as something inevitable. Then everything he 'd thought as truth in his life had blown up in his face, just like the dojo.

Why did he do that? Save Shouto? Threaten their father to change his ways upon penalty of death?

People think he was unconscious for the whole event, and Shouto doesn 't disillusion them. He can barely wrap his head around what happened years later, let alone think about talking about the experience.

He 'd heard every word Touya said, and he never forgets them.

It makes him question the world around him almost as much as it does his father. Endeavor is different after that. Even more withdrawn and aloof. After he returns from the hospital with a scar dragging from his chin to his neck, he doesn 't approach Shouto again. He sees as little of his father as the rest of his (remaining) siblings. He still has trainers who work with him to master his quirks, but the goal is now to stop himself from accidentally harming himself or others, not to get stronger.

It makes him wonder what he should do.

He 'd been told he was going to be a Hero since he could talk. That he 'd be the one to surpass All Might and be the strongest. The words felt like prophecy when his quirk came, and the training started. He didn 't have to think about what he wanted out of life, because it had already been decided for him. But Touya had wiped his fate clean, and now Shouto wasn 't so sure. Touya had dragged their father through the fires of retribution, leaving him a scarred, husk of a man in the aftermath. He changed the course of Shouto's life. Had he not intervened, perhaps it would have been Shouto who'd ended that day scarred and burned. But Shouto had gone through childhood unblemished by the hands of his parents and their expectations, his life unburdened of the wretched legacy his older brother had been forced to bear. It was his choice now.

Did he still want to be a Hero?

The thing is, Shouto can 't find it in him to deny the words Touya had spit at their father that night.

When he looked at the world around him,

really

looked, he could see the rot Touya spoke of. The discrimination built directly into their society, the culture that reveres strengths and powerful quirks, and dismisses the weak as worthless and the quirkless as worse than trash. He could see how much of the Hero Industry was the farthest thing from Heroic, how rankings and the lumbering beast of systemized industry could distort the essence of what heroism even really is. Because that 's what it was, at the end of the day. An industry. So commercialized and economized it was squeezed of all its aspirations.

But that didn 't mean real heroes didn 't exist. People acted with kindness every day, even if they never received recognition for their actions. Heroes really did save people, help people, stop terrible things from happening.

Maybe he could be the one to change things. Be the person to remind everyone what it really means to be a hero, beyond the costumes and the flashiness and the rankings and the media.

Maybe Touya would even be proud of him, if he could manage it.

//

Naomasa looks up, bleary eyed, to see he 's the only one remaining in the office and the hour has careened past late and extended well into early morning. At this point, there 's really no reason to even attempt to get home. He may as well splash some water on his face and fix another carafe of coffee and power through.

The very thought makes him want to slump into his paperwork and avoid the entire world. Being a reasonable and responsible adult who turns paperwork in promptly and never misses a compliance audit is the

worst.

How did he end up here? No one ever told him how much of being a police detective was administrative filing and document routing.

In some respects, dealing with the permit and licensing office circus is a far sight better than the case he 's currently trying to slog through ' which says a lot, because getting anything through that department usually involves tears and donut bribes. But even those stingy and untimely jerks are better than dealing with the unknown man that 's skyrocketing to the top of Japan 's Most Wanted.

The internal task team calls him 'Dabi ', because the cremated (?) remains are all that 's ever left of his victims if he chooses to end their lives.

He 's been at large for years and they 're still none the wiser as to how he does it. Some think it must be fire based, others gravity based, and others still some combination therein; some hellish and unholy marriage of the two. Naomasa doesn't know where he falls in that great debate, waged endlessly among the team. All he knows are the facts. That level of destructive entropy alone is enough to land him a spot in the S-rankings, and his ability to elude the police is a whole other kettle of fish. Either he has a secondary teleporting quirk, is working with someone who does, or somehow teleporting is an extension of his entropy. Naomasa 's puzzled over it for years and he still hasn 't figured out the answer.

He 's the sort of frightening elusive figure that harkens back to the golden age of villainy, when All for One was still at the height of his power and no one in the criminal underworld even dared to speak of him in anything but hushed rumors about an Emperor of Darkness. Naomasa would be half-pressed to consider this Dabi character to be All for One himself, if it wasn 't for the single eye-witness report they have of his physical characteristics.

The report describes him as a kid, no older than a teenager. White hair and blackout sunglasses.

A kid,

Naomasa thinks, that ever-present sinking feeling in his gut that he gets whenever he ponders too hard on Dabi returning tenfold.

The idea that a

kid

could be capable of murder and destruction on this scale '

It 's just as he 's debating whether it 's even worth it to go through the effort of filling out an overtime request that someone interrupts his witching hour musings ' the sole eye-witness of his case, in fact.

'Eraserhead-san, ' Naomasa greets, surprised. 'Can I help you? '

Eraserhead is an underground hero with nocturnal hours, so his presence at the station at this hour isn 't entirely unheard of, but it 's still unusual to see him come in directly.

It never means anything good, when he comes in person.

'I met him again, ' Eraserhead reveals, skipping the preamble entirely. That 's what Naomasa likes best about him though ' always straight and to the point.

Naomasa doesn 't need to guess as to who he 's referring to.

'Dabi, ' he says, grimly.

Eraserhead nods.

'What happened? '

//

At first glance, the character in question is so bizarre and yet unremarkable it's far too easy overlook him.

The strikingly youthful appearance of a handsome teen; the only really notable thing about him was how easily he could pass for the lead singer of some trendy boy band or a model on a magazine cover. He had the look of a popular teenage heart throb, the sort that got love letters all year round and played on the school baseball team; the smile, the windswept ice-white hair, even the stylish sunglasses he was wearing in the middle of the night.

Aizawa watched in disbelief from his vantage point in the rafters of the warehouse as the kid strolled straight into a rapidly escalating situation. A drug handoff fraught with tension between two of the most ruthless gangs in the country that was quickly going to come to blows ' or worse ' if things kept up like this.

He was actually about to radio in for backup when the mysterious villain slammed open the heavily deadbolted doors with a kick.

'Oof, you smell that? ' He whistled low. 'Nothing like the stench of toxic masculinity in the middle of the night to really get your blood pumping, huh? '

Udagawa, the lieutenant of the gang from Mustafu and a man with a rap sheet longer than Aizawa 's arm, immediately rose to the bait. 'What the fuck did ya just say, ya little punk?! '

His counterpart, the notorious second captain of the infamous Toman group of Tokyo, Mitsuya, only turns a considering look at the newcomer. 'Dabi, ' he says, lowering his gun slightly. 'Why are you here? '

Udagawa doesn't react, but everyone else in the room grows several degrees paler. The gang members around them shift nervously in their positions; everyone else in the abandoned warehouse is evidently very well aware of Dabi. Not that this surprises Aizawa ' even the petty street thugs know who Dabi is; just as they know not to fuck with him if they value their lives.

'Micchan! ' Dabi grins widely. 'So it was Toman who got caught up in all this, huh? Gotta say, I was really hoping that wasn 't the case. '

The ruthless and cold-blooded Mitsuya doesn 't even twitch at the childish nickname. 'We took the deal to transport these in good faith; even if it ended up this way, we don 't go back on our word. '

'Words to live by, I guess. ' Dabi shrugs.

'We 're not interested in getting caught up in the Trigger street wars, ' Mitsuya says, stoic. 'But a deal 's a deal. '

'You fucking liar! ' Udagawa spits. 'A quarter of the shipment is

missing,

ya lousy fucks. Where the fuck else did it go? '

The members of Toman take offense to this, voices of discontent rising in the crowd. Mitsuya silences them with a raised hand. Notably, his hand is still settled on the trigger of his gun, safety off, even if he isn 't actively aiming it at Udagawa.

'I told you, we got attacked by members from Rokuhara, ' Mitsuya shoots back. Then his eyes narrow.

'Why

they knew our transport route and schedule, is a totally different subject. '

'Just what are you implying, ya dirty dog fucker?! '

'Hey now, no need to start calling people names, ' Dabi chides in a casual tone, but even that light warning is enough to have the entirety of Toman taking a step back. 'We 're all adults ' or well,

you

are all adults here, haha ' we can settle this in a mature manner, right? '

'Of course, ' Mitsuya agrees without missing a beat. He even lowers his gun entirely, a show of submission Aizawa would have never considered possible for the notorious gang member. 'I 'm assuming you 're not here for a couple cases of Trigger, though. '

'Definitely not! ' Dabi agrees, smiling. 'I had a couple questions for pinhead here, actually, and was, uh,

helpfully

pointed in this direction. '

Aizawa takes this to mean whatever lookouts the Braman gang had posted up were long dead, possibly along with everyone still back at their headquarters.

This implication is utterly lost on Udagawa, who starts flushing the color of puce at Dabi 's offhand remark. The spikes protruding out of his scalp turn an alarming shade of purple ' poisonous projectiles, Aizawa recalls, and adjusts his goggles just in case he needs to use his quirk.

'What the fuck ya just call me?! '

'I heard you cut a deal just last week involving a shipment of kids out of Yokohama. ' Dabi ignores his posturing entirely.

Nothing overtly changes in his relaxed posture, nor in his expression, and yet the room seems to simultaneously cool and heat up at the same time. Aizawa feels like there 's ice in his lungs, yet sweat crawls up the back of his neck. The tension in the room stretches as taught as a wire.

'Quirk trafficking, ' Dabi adds. 'Ring a bell? '

'What the fuck 's it to ya, ya little shrimp? ' Udagawa spits back, waving his gun in Dabi 's direction.

Even his own subordinates seem to read the room better than him. 'Oi, oi, Kenta, come on '

'Tell me who financed you. '

It 's not a question.

Udagawa shrieks in laughter. 'A little pipsqueak like you thinks you can talk to me that way? Brats like you need to be

put in your place. '

Aizawa flinches at the sharp

crack

of a bullet leaving the chamber, followed by three more. He wrenches his head towards the young teen, expecting a macabre scene of blood and screaming.

Instead, the bullets seem to be hovering in mid-air a few centimeters away from the boy, caught in an invisible grip. The boy doesn 't look particularly bothered as he reaches a hand out of his pocket and idly pokes a hovering bullet. They all clatter to the floor.

'I 'm not going to say it again, ' Dabi says, expression placid and yet entirely deadly.

'Fuck you! ' Udagawa shouts.

He releases all the spikes in his head, a plume of toxic missiles shooting towards the boy. One moment, the projectiles are aimed directly at his head. In the next, Udagawa is nothing but a smear across the ground.

The Braman crew shout in alarm and scramble away from the blackened mark that was once their lieutenant. Aizawa studies the scene in disbelief. He hadn 't even seen Dabi

move.

Not even a twitch. There was no sound, no ricochet of energy, no recoil. No blood splatter. Nothing to confirm a quirk was even used. Nothing but the aftermath of what was once a human being. And Udagawa ' there was nothing left of him but a stain on the concrete. His clothes, his rings, even his gun ' just gone.

Dabi shoves his hand back into his pocket. 'So. Financier. Let 's talk. '

The remaining members of Braman cave like a house of cards. They 're quick to disappear once it becomes clear Dabi isn 't interested in anything other than a couple answers. The Toman members do a better job of hiding their fear, but not by much. Only Mitsuya seems even remotely composed, and even then Aizawa notices he does an admirable job of avoiding even looking in the direction of where Udagawa once stood. Still, he treats Dabi with respect, and in return Dabi does the same. The Toman members part with their negotiated price and their pride and all their members still intact, which is far more than Braman can say.

Dabi stands in the center of the now emptied warehouse, unmoving, even long after the roar of the motorcycles disappears into the night. Aizawa feels more sweat trickle down his back, breathing shallow and silent as he watches the boy warily. He 'd been here

hours

before Dabi even showed up, there 's no way he could possibly '

Dabi cracks his neck, then stretches his arms over his head. With his face tilted up towards the ceiling, he grins.

'So, did you have any real plan to get out of here, or were you just gonna sit through the blood bath and hope you didn 't get hit with a stray bullet? '

Aizawa startles, shocked the kid could see him when everyone else didn 't. Then he curses his own arrogance; he 's been an Underground Hero long enough to hear all sorts of rumors about the mysterious and dangerous individual known only as Dabi, he should have known better than to underestimate him just because of his young appearance.

He composes himself quickly after that, leaning over the support beam to make sure he has direct line of sight on Dabi before activating his quirk. Dabi doesn 't so much as flinch.

'I 'm gonna be honest, I had plenty of plans and none of them involved running into you. '

Dabi laughs.

'Is that so? I 've been told I derail plans pretty often! ' Like this, with that wide roguish grin and cheerful tone, he seems just like any other high schooler.

'You definitely derailed theirs, ' Aizawa agrees, cautiously.

He has no idea how to play this. Frankly, his only goal out of this terrifying turn of events should be to make it out of here alive, but he can 't get over the reveal of Dabi 's actual appearance. He 'd been so certain Dabi would be a man at least five years his senior ' in fact, the current profile had him pinned at mid twenties to mid forties.

'And I can 't say I 'm mad about it, ' Dabi agrees. He cracks his knuckles. 'So, are you a rival gang, a vigilante trying to clean the streets of drugs, a narc, or a hero? '

Aizawa hesitates.

Well, fuck.

'I feel like my best bet is to

not

answer that question, but I 'm legally obligated to say underground hero. '

As always whenever he flies into a blind panic, Aizawa defaults to his standard mode of operation; blithely sarcastic.

'Ehh, no way! ' He can 't really tell behind the impenetrably dark glasses, but he thinks Dabi is blinking in surprise. 'I didn 't even know that was a thing! What 's the difference between an underground hero and a regular hero? '

'... Well, we try to stay 'underground ', so to speak, ' Aizawa finds himself answering, deadpan. 'Off the radar, if you will. '

'Oh! ' Dabi laughs. 'Fair enough. '

He shoves his hands back into his pockets. 'Well, I guess that means you can do something about all these leftover drugs, huh? '

'I 'm aware of the proper channels, yes. '

'Nice! Well, it 's your problem now, Mr. Underground Hero. See ya! '

And with a sloppy salute, he disappears on the spot.

//

It 's been years since that incident, and while Aizawa hasn 't seen Dabi since then he sure as hell hears a lot about him.

His eccentric and outlandish nature are legendary in the underworld, as is his propensity for extreme violence at the drop of a hat. Aizawa wouldn 't ever call him nice, but he 's hardly one for bloodshed and homicide without reason. And he doesn 't follow any of the set rules of the criminal hierarchy.

He seems to do what he wants, whenever he wants, with no particular agenda. He 's notorious for always working alone ' he has no concerns waltzing up to a criminal gang hundreds strong and cowing them all into submission. And from the glimpse Aizawa saw of his powers, he think that 's rather unsurprising. Anyone else would just hold him back, and villain groups no matter their numbers are right to fear him. The entire underworld is scared of him. Aizawa 's seen yakuza bosses that are tough as nails clam up in fear when Naomasa tries to get them to talk about the white-haired villain.

He garners a frightening reputation that has even spotlight heroes like All Might sitting up to attention. But by that same turn, he 's infamous but damningly elusive. Impossible to pin down. It 's been years and they still haven 't even found his paper trail; assuming he has one. The lack of a structured group makes things difficult. It 's much harder to track a single villain who works alone, than a group that needs financing, housing and support items.

His quirk leaves no trace of evidence on how it works or its limitations, and Aizawa is still the sole eye-witness (willing to cooperate with the police, at any rate) who 's ever seen him use it and live to tell the tale. From what few criminals are willing to talk, they 've learned whatever it is is basically an instant death, and appears to be entirely telekinetic. If it has a cool down time, no one can confirm it, and if there 's a limit to how many times it can be used in a given period, that 's also entirely up to speculation. If it has a range limit, they haven 't found it yet, but from what they can piece together of crime scenes after the fact, it seems to need at least some kind of line of sight. But Dabi has also been reported to wear a blindfold, lending confusion as to what, exactly, constitutes as 'sight ' for him.

In short, just being in his presence is considered a signed death warrant.

Which makes it all the more unfortunate that Aizawa just happens to accidentally stumble into it.

It 's the middle of his shift but he 's spent the entirety of it chasing a villain with a speed quirk across the rooftops, and he 's dead tired. His eyes are burning from dryness and a criminal lack of sleep, and he just ran out of eye drops. He also forgot to eat dinner and when he tried to grab a quick bite on his route he ended up having to stop a bike thief, so really, he was just a bundle of misfortune currently.

This is of course when he stumbles into one of the most dangerous villains of the decade ' literally.

How can this e-boy possibly be one of Mustafu 's most wanted?

Aizawa cannot help but think, positively despairing, as he gets his first close-up look with the infamous villain.

He 's grown quite a bit since Aizawa last saw him. Shot up like a weed, actually, all gangly and awkward limbs and unruly hair. He doesn 't look like he 's ever been introduced to a comb in his life. He also looks like a pop punk store projectile vomited all over him. His ears are lined with so many shiny cuffs and studs he has to imagine without the metal accouterments they look like swiss cheese. He 's got at least three different chokers spaced down his long neck, and what looks like glitter on his cheeks and in the mess he calls hair. Also, Aizawa is fairly certain he 's wearing eyeliner. And seems to be suffering under a regrettable affliction for tight black clothing with superfluous studs and zippers.

He bumps right into him, zippers and black leather and clinking jewelry and all, and even steadies him by the elbow when he almost flails back in his own shock.

Aizawa is fairly certain his life flashes before his eyes, as he feels the pressure of a hand against his jacket. It's been years, and the last time they'd met he'd been clear across the room from him, but Aizawa only needs a single glance to remember him, remember the pressure of his very presence.

But he isn 't immediately splintered out of existence in that moment, so all he can do is stare in growing despair.

'Are you looking for the back of the venue? ' Dabi asks, not unkindly.

Aizawa just stares blankly into his eyes, vaguely annoyed to see in the interim of years since he 's last seen the criminal they 've somehow ended up at the same height. He 's not wearing a blindfold or his sunglasses, and he can see his eyes to be a kaleidoscope of every shade of blue in existence. If he wasn 't so certain his quirk was something with telekinetic psychic powers, he would have assumed it to be some kind of optic-hypnosis quirk just from how long he accidentally spends puzzling over the mesmerizing sight of them.

He gestures with the hand not currently lingering at Aizawa 's elbow, laden with an enormous takeout bag. 'It 's the next street over, behind the tattoo parlor. But I 'm not sure if any of the pizza is going to be left at this rate, there weren't many leftovers this time. '

He pauses. 'I think there 's a soup kitchen not too far from here. By the metro station, I think? '

'Uh ' ' Aizawa just continues to stare, wondering if he 's been transported to some wicked dimension or if he 's really just so sleep deprived he hallucinated this whole thing.

Then Dabi looks at him '

really

looks at him.

'Oh, ' Dabi says. 'You 're not homeless. '

'... No, ' Aizawa says, because he has no idea what the fuck else to say to that.

It 's true his friends ' namely Hizashi and Kayama, who are the only two people in his life he can even count as friends ' tell him he looks like a homeless person basically everyday, especially when he drags his sleeping bag out, but he hears it so often he just tunes it out. Well, it 's not like he 's not

aware

of how he looks '

But no villain has ever point blank mistaken him for a hobo to his face.

Dabi seems to take stock of him then ' his support-item grade goggles, his capture scarf.

'You 're an underground hero, right? We 've met once before. '

Fuck, I should have updated my life insurance policy.

Aizawa thinks. But how was he supposed to know tonight would be the night he comes face to face with the one villain who 's likely too dangerous for anyone but All Might to catch alive?

Aizawa sighs heavily. 'So, you going to kill me? '

Dabi blinks. 'Why, did you do something? '

'Sure, ' Aizawa shrugs. 'I exist. That 's normally enough of an excuse for an attempt at manslaughter by most villains. '

'I have to imagine you 're also usually actively trying to

apprehend

said villains, though, ' Dabi returns.

'That 's true enough, ' he says, because it is.

'So why aren 't you trying to apprehend me? '

'Because it would be a waste of effort, ' Aizawa answers, frankly. 'It 's entirely possible your quirk is faster than mine, in which case, even being in your line of sight right now is an instant death for me. '

Dabi blinks again. 'You figured that out just by seeing it once? '

He shrugs again. 'It 's not really a hard observation to make. '

Dabi makes a noncommittal noise. He doesn 't seem too interested in hearing what the police have got on him, to be honest. Actually, he 's rummaging through the bag looped around his arm.

'Huh. Well, I gotta run. But here, take one of these. You look like you 're gonna fall over. '

Aizawa stares at the plastic wrapped bun pressed into his hands. It 's shaped like a nyan cat.

'Um, ' Aizawa says, but when he looks up Dabi 's gone.

//

'... And that 's it? ' Naomasa asks, looking just as despairing as Aizawa.

He tosses the nyan cat red bean pastry onto the desk between them. 'Here, for evidence. '

Naomasa gives it a suffering look. Aizawa can relate. But he 's also still pretty hungry, so he 's a little peeved he can't just eat it.

'And you 're

sure

it was the same guy? '

'He recognized me and everything, ' Aizawa answers as he scratches the back of his head. 'I don 't see how it could be anyone else. '

Naomasa looks down at his notes with an expression that says he's been seized by a nostalgic urge to fatalistically fling himself out the window.

'The first time we 've got a solid sighting of him in years ' and it 's

this. '

Naomasa groans.

Aizawa just nods along in silent solidarity. It 's both monumental and yet absolutely useless. So what that Dabi looks like he enjoys spending his weekends drowning in a Hot Topic sales bin? That 's not really helpful at all in pinning down an identity or a regular location of residence. He 's suspected to now be in his late teenage years or early twenties; there are plenty of heavy black eye-liner lined youths out there living up their most edgy lives with gothic panache in a manner identical to his.

And yet, it wasn 't an entire loss.

From the single encounter alone Aizawa can confirm a great deal about him. He 's in relatively good health, a little on the skinnier side but that seems to be more from adolescent growing pains than a lack of a reliable food source; he has no scars or injuries to speak of, from what Aizawa could see ' which considering he was only wearing a fitted sleeveless shirt, was quite a lot ' and no identifiable tattoos on his arms or face. The piercings were certainly notable, and will be useful information going forward. And from his remarks he 's pretty familiar with that area of Mustafu, which could perhaps infer he frequents it with some regularity.

And perhaps most importantly of all; Aizawa could likely recognize him on sight now.

Even if they still haven 't managed to get any notable CCTV footage of him ' and likely weren 't from this encounter either, considering the part of town it was in ' Aizawa could at least sit with a sketch artist and flesh out a better profile of his physical appearance. And he 'd seen his full face, too. No black medical mask or sunglasses to obscure his features. He 's as obnoxiously good-looking a kid as Aizawa remembered him to be.

Because that 's still what he is. A

kid.

Hell, Aizawa has

taught

people around Dabi 's age. He can 't be all that much older than his third years.

What is he doing out there? Is he seriously, truly, alone? It 's said he categorically refuses to work with anyone, preferring to handle everything on his own. Is that arrogance, or loneliness? Does he have a safe place to return to every night? Does he get enough to eat? Is he being manipulated by someone they haven 't managed to get on the radar yet ' someone like Naomasa 's 'Emperor of Darkness ' boogeyman? How did he end up in this situation? He had to have been no older than sixteen at their first encounter; Aizawa can 't imagine a kid at that age just up and deciding to commit to a life of crime and villainy.

And for all that he's known as an infamous villain in the underworld, he's clearly not anything like the usual ruthlessly cruel criminals that regularly make the most wanted list. He seemed genuine in his kindness when he'd reached out to Aizawa, a kind of compassion for the homeless and the destitute even the most charitable of law abiding citizens didn't always have. More to the point, he should have killed Aizawa on the spot and tied up his loose ends. Instead he'd let Aizawa go and even tried to feed him like he was a stray cat or something.

There 's more to him '

so much more.

It's not much to go off of yet, but it's something.

//

A white-haired young man somewhere in the throes of the best years of his youth drags a weary hand over his face and squints into the morning sunlight, irritated at being (alive) awake at this hour. He lies draped across a velvet sofa, the remains of last night 's room service scattering various desserts across every nearby service, groaning as his phone continues to ring somewhere out of his reach. He rolls over, stuffs a nearby macaron into his mouth as a consolation prize for existing, and slaps around for the phone vibrating against the floor.

'Good morning, Dabi-san, ' a far too composed voice greets as he swipes to answer, immediately setting his teeth on edge. Morning people are disgusting.

'Whatever you want, the answer is no. '

To his annoyance, Giran just laughs. 'I know I 've caught you at an inconvenient hour, but time is of the essence I 'm afraid. '

'And I just told you, I don 't care, ' Gojo replies, blandly. He drags himself upright, slumping down into the couch immediately and throwing his feet up on the coffee table.

'I was hoping I could convince you otherwise. '

'No chance, ' Gojo deadpans.

'I have tiramisu. '

He pauses.

'Now? '

'If you 'll open the door, ' Giran returns.

Gojo debates it seriously.

He doesn 't give a flying fuck about the underworld, in the same way he couldn 't care less about the heroes. But there are a lot of things he 'd do for tiramisu from the city 's finest bakery, and agreeing to at least hear Giran out is hardly at the top of that list.

'Fine, whatever. ' He sighs, getting to his feet and walking to unlock the door, uncaring that he 's still only wearing the hotel 's luxuriously plush bathrobe.

Giran looks perfectly presentable for this ungodly hour of the morning, which only serves to annoy Gojo further. He makes no pretense of propriety, waving the older man in and flopping back onto the couch.

Giran sprawls out on an armchair across from him, giving a cursory glance around the room. It looks a fucking mess, and Gojo doesn 't have it in him to care right now. Whatever, it 's a hotel room, they 'll bill him for the damages. It 's not as if he doesn 't have the money. He runs a hand through his hair, grimacing when it comes back with a matte of sticky glitter. He hadn 't showered after the show last night, which was truly regrettable. Local underground indie punk rock band No Scrubs is a step up musicality wise from his middle-school goth ensemble Band Aides, but he sometimes misses airing out all his teenage angst in a screechy voice with no care for finesse or subtlety.

Even if his questionable villainous activities mean he can never bask in the global adoration and superstardom he deserves, it 's pretty damn cathartic to have an entire crowd of jaded young adults smushed into a basement screeching their undying devotion to him for a couple hours a month. Even if their brat of a drummer constantly has him dressing in outfits that are less of a fashion statement and more of a death wish.

Gojo helps himself to a generous serving of cake right out of the box, as he waits for Giran to get to whatever point he came for.

Giran observes him wordlessly for a long moment, before sighing deeply.

'I have a client who wants to meet you. '

'Nope. '

Giran leans his elbows over his knees, looking like he 's already resigned himself to losing this fight but giving it his best anyhow.

'They 're ' not the sort to cross. '

'Still no. '

'He doesn 't want anything. Just a chat. It 's not everyday a guy like

this

goes out of his way to meet someone. '

Gojo reaches for a half empty bottle of pocari sweat on the end table, downing it a couple of long gups. 'Don 't care. ' He gasps, as he comes up for air.

Giran closes his eyes. 'Dabi, ' he says.

'Gojo, ' he counters, wrinkling his nose.

The broker sighs heavily. 'It 's best practice to use your villain name, you know. '

'I know, ' Gojo agrees. 'My villain name is Gojo. '

'It 's better to use a villain name that isn 't your

actual

name. '

'Yeah. Gojo. '

Gojo Satoru doesn 't exist in this world, after all. What are they gonna do, look him up in the public records? There 's nothing there. And the only paper trail they ever

could

have has him listed as legally dead, thanks dad.

Giran looks like he 's finally realized discretion is the better part of valor, especially when dealing with Gojo, and just leans back in his seat with a defeated look. 'I really wish you 'd reconsider this. This is an opportunity most villains would know not to pass up. '

'I 'm hardly

most villains,

now am I? ' Gojo disregards, with a careless grin.

'It 's not even a one-on-one, ' Giran continues, ignoring that on principle, 'there will be others there. A select group, real exclusive. '

'Look, just tell 'em no hard feelings, I 'm just not interested. Not a team player, ya know? ' Gojo flaps an uncaring hand. 'Call it whatever you want. Teenage angst. Youthful arrogance. Daddy issues. A crippling fear of commitment. Whatever. '

Giran scrubs a hand across his brow, looking surprisingly weary for the usually wily broker. 'This could be good for you, you know. '

'In what way? ' Gojo snorts.

'I just think ' ' Giran gestures to the room around them. A lavishly appointed penthouse suite at one of the nicest hotels in the city. Empty of any and all personal affectations, any evidence of a man that exists outside of the planes of his own dynasty. 'Look, kid, I say it all the time, but you 've really got it all. There 's so '

so much '

you could do. The world is your fucking oyster. You could have it all. And you could have people to support you in that. '

Gojo 's lazy expression closes off. His hooded eyes narrow from a sleepy gaze into a strip of unapproachable turquoise, the long plush line of his grinning mouth smoothing out into an unyielding frown.

'I 'm not interested, ' he says, and this time, his tone is closed off enough for Giran not to press his luck.

'I get it, I get it. ' Giran holds his hands up in surrender. 'I 'll pass on the message, as gently as I can. '

He pauses at the doorway. 'It 's tomorrow at twenty-two hundred, backroom at Sin and Gin ' if you change your mind. Please think about it,

Gojo.

Not everyone gets a chance to meet the Emperor himself. '

He leaves with the same expediency he arrived in, which Gojo can appreciate, even if he 's not really in the mood to feel charitable. He tosses the fork back into the cake box, annoyed he is no longer even in the mood to savor the taste of one of his favorite cakes from one of his favorite bakeries right now.

Giran means well, he knows, in whatever way a sleazy backroom dealer

can

mean well. He sees a kid with the world at his fingertips drifting through life unattached and dispossessed of telluric aspirations and human connections. He sees a child who doesn 't seem to know what to do with himself. He sees

potential.

He sees someone ripe for molding. So much power and potential, with no visible ambitions or interests and no one to tie them down.

Unfortunately for Giran, Gojo is hardly some listless child in need of a guiding hand. He 's lived an entire lifetime chained by his own ambitions and responsibilities, shackled by the bonds he 'd made. He's not interested in someone poking their nose into his life and trying to control it. In fact, just the mere thought makes him surlish and feeling like he wants ' to fight someone. Except fighting people just because he's pissed off is a bit of an unreasonable form of anger management, even for Gojo.

He decides instead to compromise by causing problems for people he doesn't like on purpose.

//

Tsukauchi Makoto, stage name Mako-chan, their ever fashionable bassist, gives Gojo a sour look when he drags himself into the studio. About half an hour late from their intended start time.

'You 're lucky you 're so good-looking, otherwise you 'd really have nothing going for you, ' she says, giving him a long once over.

Gojo pouts. 'What about my personality? '

'You 're a garbage can masquerading as a human being and you know it. ' She snorts. 'And the only thing worse than your taste in clothes is your taste in men. '

Gojo is affronted.

'My taste in clothes is

great. '

He has nothing to say on the latter. It 's a little late to argue that point, especially to Makoto, who 's seen him go home after shows with a truly bewildering range of wildly-dressed hooligans.

'You look like satan 's beekeeper. '

'Yeah? Well maybe I

am ' '

Gojo pauses. 'What the hell is that supposed to mean? '

'Now that Satoru-kun is here, can we please just get started? ' Their guitarist, a tall and well built woman who goes by Ken-chan on stage, interrupts.

Makoto and Gojo stare each other down.

'I 'm ready when you are, ' Gojo challenges, swiping a water bottle off the counter where he tosses his bag.

'Bold words from someone who 's twenty minutes

late. '

'I got held up by a weasel in a hawaiian print shirt. '

'That 's not even an excuse, that 's just a description. ' Makoto rolls her eyes.

'Are we gonna get on with this or not? I 've got things to do later, ' Ken-chan, real name Kenji, cuts in irritably, from where she 's leaning across the low sofa with her guitar in hand.

Makoto looks a bit chagrined as she tosses a glossy lock of dark hair over her shoulder, clearing her throat. 'Right, right. Well, for the next setlist, I was thinking we should start with

Nobody Puts Baby in a Corner,

and then transition directly into

In One Ear,

and end with

I 'm Not Okay. '

She looks around the room for approval. In the meanwhile, Gojo covers his involuntary snickering by pretending to choke on a gulp of water. He 'll never get over the fact that he can get away with outright plagiarizing the best of his own middle school angst playlist and having everyone think he 's some kind of musical genius, and not just a kid who spent way too much time staring at the ceiling of his bedroom with his headphones on daydreaming with an edgy, careless willingness to commit arsonry. He 's not sure if people have just forgotten about a bunch of alt emo bands from a hundred years ago, or if they never actually even existed in this world at all, and at this point he 's just learned to use the ignorance for his own gains.

And if the iconic on-stage outfit that has started a goth-hooker revival amongst the edgy youths of Mustafu is in fact an elaborate Gerard Way cosplay, no one but him will ever know.

He drags a hand over his mouth to wipe his grin away, glancing up to see everyone else staring at him.

'What are you looking at me for? ' He blinks. 'Seems like you 've got the whole setlist figured out already. '

Makoto clicks her tongue. 'Yes but they 're

your

songs, what do you think? '

Gojo cracks his neck. 'Hmm. Maybe save

I 'm Not Okay

for the encore. Switch in

Jesus of Suburbia? '

Makoto and Kenji exchange looks, before shrugging. 'Sounds good. '

'Cool, ' he replies, and hauls his guitar case over his shoulders and starts opening it up. 'I think just one run through should be fine, right? '

When he looks up as he 's adjusting his guitar strap, the other three are staring at him.

'What? '

'Nothing, ' Makoto says, too quickly.

Kenji scratches the back of her neck. 'Well it 's just ' we play a pretty good gig, y 'know. '

Gojo blinks. 'Yeah. I know. '

They 've got a pretty good thing going. Especially considering it all just more of less fell into his lap.

He met Makoto getting plastered at a disco lounge when the woman had just come back from a stint in America and ended up at the bar next to him, complaining loudly about the lack of creative agency in Japanese pop music. Gojo, who had already spent at least one youth headbanging his way into deafness and rejecting the trappings of mainstream music, had plenty to say. When he mentioned he 'd been in a punk band in middle school, they 'd decided to get wasted together and maybe form their own band. They 'd met Kenji at a questionable dive bar 's open mic night when she 'd shredded a solo and then turned around and tried to bash some lech across the face with her guitar.

Their final member had slinked up to them silently after the three of them tried a (horrendous) open mic together, and didn 't say a single word but offered out her drumsticks. She speaks about once every blue moon, but at some point they 'd managed to get out that her name was Yui, and she 's the

actual

musical genius of the band. Gojo can bungle his way through whatever he remembers from his favorite rock songs and she can have all the instrumentals down to perfection. They also collectively guess that she's somewhere around the ages of thirteen to sixteen, but have never managed to get a straight answer out of her.

Gojo is the frontman, of course, and he 'd set the tone for anonymity that all the band members ended up embracing zealously.

He doesn 't know their family names, and he doesn 't care either. He doesn 't know what they all do for a living beyond what he can infer, doesn 't know their ages or where they live, and never presses for answers. In return they don 't ask any questions of him either. They all get along pretty terribly, with clashing personalities and all, but they make damn good music together and have been for a few years now. Their gigs are sporadic, as everyone 's schedules are pretty all over the place, but they 've made a name as one of the top underground bands in the city. Gojo usually likes to stick to the smaller and lesser known venues for anonymity 's sake, though. They use stage names and regularly dress up in full and outlandish cosplays for shows, but it 's still easier to just keep it as underground as possible.

It 's fun, and he likes to pretend it 's enough of a creative outlet to forgo conventional therapy, and it 's not particularly difficult or time-consuming (for him, anyway, he 's aware most people just can 't up and decide to play an instrument professionally), and the commitment is pretty low.

It 's not like he has any real aspirations for it as a profession or anything. He 's still out here living his best life, trying to do that whole 'find himself thing ', like he's a post-divorcee in a midlife existential crisis moving out to Boulder Colorado to commune with his inner spirit animal.

'Well, what do you think about potentially doing more with it? '

This draws him up short.

'What do you mean by, 'more with it '? ' Gojo squints at them, skeptical.

'I 'm not saying let 's all give up our day jobs or anything, ' Makoto hastens to explain. 'But it 's just ' I 'm basically our manager you know, everyone always calls

me

if they want us for a show ' and we 've gotten really popular. We have a cult following of fans, and a solid social media following, not that you ever check social media, and we can do a lot with this. '

Gojo 's first and immediate reaction is to reject the idea of it.

But then he gives it some more thought. Does he have any

real

reason not to? Sure, he 's like a super villain and everything, but it 's not as if that was a conscious decision on his part. He was just doing whatever he wanted, making money and occasionally breaking crime rings with murderous intent, and got slapped with the label.

'Did you have something in mind? ' He decides its at least worth a thought.

Makoto shifts. 'Well ' how about an album? '

'Huh? '

'We 've never actually released any music, we just play it live, ' she points out. 'We could actually

record

some of the songs, maybe list them on a streaming service? '

He considers it.

Sitting in a studio for hours on end trying to record the songs they 've got sounds like a hassle, but it 's also a great opportunity to add in some of the

Panic! at the Disco

songs he wants to try out.

If his singular achievement in this life is gifting this world the genius of Brendon Urie he 'll consider it a life well lived.

He shrugs. 'Sure, let 's do it. '

//

They finish up their practice session with plenty of time to spare, despite Gojo slinking in almost half an hour late. In his defense, dealing with Giran always gives him a headache that requires at least two hours of lounging on a horizontal surface with a damp towel over his head like a fairweather victorian maiden. And anyway, the practice really isn 't for

him.

He 's the sort of person who can be automatically good at anything with very little effort involved, which usually results in him not being bothered to ever try out much of anything. He 'd originally started the whole band schtick because it was the most rebellious teenage activity he could think of at the time, and the most likely to annoy his father, but now he 's actually grateful that he did.

Honestly he doesn't know why he didn 't do it earlier, because he actually really enjoys it. Strutting across a stage in front of a crowd of adoring fans singing his name is actually pretty on brand for Gojo Satoru, in hindsight.

'Eh, Makoto-san? ' He blinks up from his phone as he realizes he 's not alone as he walks out of the studio. 'You don 't usually go this way, do you? '

Usually they all go their separate ways afterwards; whether that 's because of logistics or paranoia is up to debate. Either way it 's a surprise to find Makoto walking in step with him as he heads for the nearest metro station.

'No, my place is in the opposite direction, ' Makoto replies, which is more than he 'd ever known before this conversation. 'But I 'm meeting up with my brother for dinner once his shift is over, and his work is this way. '

That too is news to him.

'I didn 't know you had a brother. '

Makoto laughs. 'Yeah, well, we don 't really talk much about ourselves, do we? '

He looks away briefly, wondering if he should feel guilty about that.

'I don 't really care either way, ' Makoto adds, judging his reaction. 'Privacy is hard to come by these days. But I don 't mind if you know. I do have a brother ' just the one. He 's a detective with the Mustafu police department. '

And that 's, well ' 'I see. That 's pretty cool. He must have some crazy hours though. '

'He used to, for sure! He 'd come home at all hours of the night back when we still roomed together. But recently he 's been switched over to a new case that 's giving him some predictable hours, at least. '

He usually only takes this route to stop at one of his favorite bubble tea parlors, and then finds a secluded alleyway to teleport back to wherever he 's calling home for the night. But today he finds himself hopping the metro and pretending like he has somewhere to be, just chatting with Makoto. They often fight like unruly siblings, but that 's only because they both enjoy heckling other people. It 's been ages since they 've just hung out and bantered like this, which is totally his fault. After Kenji and Yui joined, they 've been less two young adults muddling through life with an inadvisable amount of partying and alcohol and more an actual music act with gigs and everything. He can 't even remember the last time they 'd hung out outside of rehearsals.

He bids Makoto farewell as she hops off at her stop, promising that they 'll get drinks like regular functioning and social members of society one of these days.

Then he looks up a one Detective Tsukauchi on his phone.

//

There 's no CCTV footage or eye-witnesses, but Naomasa is dead certain he knows who the culprit of this particular break in.

There 's a nyan cat bun on his desk with a sticky note attached:

Villain meeting at Sin & Gin tomorrow night, 10pm. Invite only. Don 't get caught or it 's your funeral!

(^?^)