The training grounds of UA had too much movement. Explosions, shouts, the screech of metal on concrete as class 1-A drilled under Aizawa's watchful eye, Bakugou Katsuki stood apart, his shoulders rigid, his breath steady but shallow. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, the familiar weight of his gauntlets doing little to ground him.
He was off.
His reflexes were slower, his explosions weaker, his usual razor-sharp focus dulled by something none of them could see. Midoriya noticed it first, 'of course he had' but Bakugou had brushed it off with a typical snarl that he breathed out. Then he had done the same to Kirishima.
But nothing was the same.
"Alright, wrap it up," Aizawa called out, his voice cutting through the noise. "Good work. Bakugou..."
The student in question didn't wait for the rest. He turned on his heel, ignoring the way his vision tunneled, the way his pulse thundered in his ears. He didn't need their eyes on him, he didn't like it. It was like they were tracing the scars that were still taking their time to fade from his body.
Scars they couldn't even see.
He just needed to breathe.
But Kirishima, ever the idiot, didn't get the memo.
"Hey man," Kirishima jogged up behind him, grinning, his usual unshakable optimism shining through. "You were killing it out there! that last move was..."
His hand landed on Bakugou's shoulder.
A touch.
Fingers gripping his jaw, forcing his head up. A giggle in his ear. The sting of a blade carving into his skin...
Bakugou moved.
His body reacted before his mind could catch up, instinct, terror, rage and his palm was already sparking, the heat building up in an instant.
"DON'T..."
The explosion tore from his hand before he could stop it.
Kirishima's eyes widened.
Then the blast hit him square in the chest.
The force was brutal, no warning, no restraint, just pure, unfiltered panic. Kirishima was flung backward like a ragdoll, his hardened skin cracking under the impact as he crashed into the far wall. The concrete cratered around him, dust and debris exploded outward.
Silence.
For one heartbeat, two, no one moved.
Then...
"KIRISHIMA!"
Uraraka's scream shattered the stillness. The class surged forward, but Bakugou didn't. He stood frozen, his arm still outstretched, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His fingers trembled.
'What the fuck did I just do?'
Kirishima groaned, coughing as he pushed himself up, his hardening flickering like a dying light. Blood trickled from his nose, his ribs already brushing beneath his torn uniform.
"Shit... Kirishima, are you okay?" Kaminari skidded to his side, hands fluttering uselessly.
Kirishima waved him off, wincing. "I'm fine. Just... gimme a sec."
But his voice was strained.
Bakugou's stomach twisted.
He wasn't fine. He just put it on, he put on a brave face like he always did. That wasn't supposed to happen. He hadn't had a mess up with his quirk in so long. He can't even remember the last time.
Bakugou didn't realize it but his breathing was becoming ragged. His head was hurting. All of it was his fault.
Aizawa was suddenly in front of him, his capture tape coiled tight, his expression unreadable. "Bakugou."
There was no answer. His throat was too tight.
"Look at me."
He couldn't.
Because if he did, Aizawa would see it, the way his hands were shaking, the way his chest heaved like he'd just run a marathon. The way his vision blurred at the edges, panic still clawing at his ribs.
Weak. Weak. Weak.
"Bakugou," Aizawa's voice was lower and more gentle. "Breathe."
But he couldn't.
Not when the phantom weight of fingers still lingered on his skin. Not when the scent of blood, his blood, flooded his senses. Not when Kirishima was hurt, because of him.
He took a step back.
Then another.
And then... He turned and ran.
The shouts of his classmates followed him, but he didn't stop. Again, he couldn't.
Because the truth was harder than any explosion, any fight, any villains blade.
He wasn't okay.
***
The morning light filtered weakly through the curtains as Junpei Kisaragi stirred beneath his blankets. For several long moments, he simply lay there, listening to the familiar sounds of his mother moving about in the kitchen downstairs, the clatter of dishes, the hiss of the rice cooker, the occasional hum of a half-remembered tune. The scent of miso soup and grilled fish crept up the stairs.
Another day.
Junpei stretched beneath his covers, his fingers curling into the worn fabric of his blanket. He knew he should het up, knew his mother would call for him soon if he didn't, but there was something about these quiet morning moments that made him reluctant to face the day. Outside his window, the neighborhood was slowly coming to life, the distant chatter of early risers, the rumble of the first commuter of trains, the occasional bark of a dog. All perfectly ordinary. All perfectly mundane.
With a sigh, he finally pushed back the covers and sat up, rubbing at his eyes. His reflection in the dresser mirror caught his attention, messy black curls sticking up at odd angles, the faint shadows beneath his eyes from another night of restless sleep. He ran a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to tame it, knowing from experience it would refuse to cooperate no matter what he did.
Downstairs, the television murmured quietly in the living room. His father's voice, tinged with disapproval, carried up the stairwell. "Another attack in the shopping district last night. Three heroes responded but the villains still got away. At this rate..."
Junpei paused halfway through buttoning his shirt, listening.
"All Might stopped that bank robbery in under two minutes yesterday," his father continued, the newspaper rustling as he turned the page. "Why can't the others manage even half that efficiency?"
The words settled heavily in Junpei's stomach as he finished dressing. He could picture the scene perfectly, his father sitting in his usual armchair, coffee cooling on the side table, the morning news playing quietly in the background. It was the same every morning. The same complaints. The same comparisons.
The kitchen was warm and bright when he entered, steam rising from the pot on the stove. His mother turned from the counter, her smile warm but tired. "Good morning, Junpei. You're up late today."
"Couldn't get any sleep." he muttered, sliding into his usual seat at the table. The wood was smooth beneath his fingers, worn from years of use.
His mother set a bowl of rice in front of him, followed by miso soup and a small plate of grilled fish. "You barely ate dinner last night either," she observed, her brow furrowing slightly. "Are you feeling alright?"
Junpei picked up his chopsticks, stirring the soup absently. "Fine. Just not hungry."
The lie came easily. He'd gotten good at them lately, small deceptions that kept his parents from worrying. Kept them from asking too many questions.
His father's voice carried in from the living room. "All Might's appearing at the charity event in Roppongi tonight. I want to see more hero faces in the public, then maybe villains wouldn't be so..."
Junpei tuned out the rest, focusing instead on forcing down a few bites of rice. The grains stuck in his throat, tasteless and dry.
"Junpei," his mother began, but he was already pushing back from the table.
"I should go. Don't want to be late."
The walk to school was quiet. The streets were emptier than usual, people moving with purposeful strides rather than their usual leisurely pace. Junpei kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, his shoulders hunched slightly against the morning chill.
A newsstand caught his eye as he passed, the morning edition's headline screaming about another failed hero operation that lead to nothing. The shopkeeper's television played footage of All Might's latest triumph, the Symbol of Peace standing tall amidst the wreckage of a thwarted villain attack, his signature smile as bright as ever.
Junpei's steps slowed as he watched.
That was the difference, wasn't it? All Might never failed. All Might never hesitated. All Might was everything a hero should be, strong, confident, unbeatable.
The rest...
A group of younger students rushed past him, their laughter loud and carefree. One of them, a boy with spiky orange hair, bumped hard into Junpei's shoulder without breaking stride.
"Sorry!" The boy called over his shoulder, already several paces ahead.
Junpei stumbled slightly, catching himself against a lamppost. He watched as the group disappeared around the corner, their voices fading into the morning noise.
No, the boy hadn't been sorry at all. Why would he be? People only apologized when they thought it mattered. When they thought you mattered.
The school gates came into view, the familiar wrought of iron archway looming over the stream of students pouring onto campus. Junpei adjusted his bag strap and joined the flow, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease.
The bulletin board near the entrance was crowded as always, students jostling to check exam results or club announcements. Junpei waited at the periphery until the crowd thinned before stepping forward.
Class 3-B Midterm Rankings
His eyes found his name immediately. In the spot it always had been.
2. Kisaragi Junpei
Right below, as always.
1. Takeda Hiroshi
Junpei's fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. Second again. Always second. Close enough to see the top but never quite reaching it.
He pulled out his crumpled timetable, scanning the day's classes without really seeing them. Math, literature, hero ethics, the same as every other Tuesday.
A sharp impact against his shoulder sent his papers fluttering to the ground.
"Watch where you're standing."
Junpei looked up to see Takeda Hiroshi walking away, not even bothering to glance back. The other students parted around him instinctively, like he was royalty and they were mere subjects.
Junpei crouched to gather his scattered papers, his movements still stiff. The bell would ring soon. He should hurry.
But for some reason, he found himself staring at the spot where Takeda had disappeared into the crowd, his hands clenched tight around the crumpled timetable.
The shoe lockers were crowded when he arrived, students chatting and laughing as they changed into their indoor shoes. Junpei found his usual spot near the end of the row, his movements automatic.
Then he saw her.
Miyu Sato stood a few lockers down, her long brown hair tied up in its usual neat ponytail. She was laughing at something her friend had said, the sound was bright and clear.
Junpei's chest ached.
He'd liked her since first year. Had practiced his confession in front of the mirror dozens of times. Had finally worked up the courage to tell her last month, his heart pounding so loud he was sure everyone could hear it.
Only to learn she'd started dating Takeda the week before.
Of course.
Junpei shoved his outdoor shoes into the locker with more force than necessary, the metal door clanging shut. Second in class. Second choice for Miyu. Always a runner up, but never the winner.
At least he had a cool quirk.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Junpei frowned as he pulled it out. An unknown number. And the message was simple: When did you first awaken your quirk?
He stared at the screen. No greeting. No context. Just that single, odd question.
A humourless laugh escaped him.
Seven years old. Late by most standards. Most kids manifested their quirks at four or five, but Junpei? He'd had to wait. Had to watch as his classmates discovered their amazing abilities while he remained quirkless.
Different.
Lesser.
And next in line. Again.
His phone buzzed again.
Would you like to play a game?
Junpei's thumb hovered over the screen. A game? what kind of game? His finger twitched toward the notification, curiosity warring with caution.
He tapped it.
And his eyes blinked black.
---
Darkness peeled away from Junpei's vision like layers of rotting film. His senses returned one by one, first the metallic tang of blood and mildew flooding his nostrils, then the bone-deep chill of concrete beneath his knees, finally the muffled cacophony of panicked voices echoing in a vast, hollow space. His head throbbed where the back of his skull had connected with the floor, a dull ache pulsing in time with his rabbit-like heartbeat.
When his eyes finally focused, the first thing he saw was the mist.
It loomed over him, a living void given humanoid shape, tendrils of black vapor curling like smoke from a funeral pyre. Within its depths, two pinpricks of sulfur-yellow light fixed on him with unnatural awareness. Junpei's breath caught as the thing's gaze seemed to pierce through his skull, rifling through his memories like pages in a book.
His fingers twitched instinctively toward the shadows pooling around his knees, but before he could even think of activating his quirk...!
"I wouldn't"
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, a hundred whispers layered into one. The mist-creature's eyes narrowed infinitesimally, and suddenly Junpei's shadow stung, as if he had dipped his hand into liquid nitrogen. He jerked back with a gasp, cradling his numb fingers against his chest.
A dry chuckle rasped through the darkness to his left.
Junpei turned his head slowly, and felt his stomach drop into his shoes.
Tomura Shigaraki lounged atop a makeshift podium of rusted shipping containers, one leg dangling over the edge like a child on a playground structure. The disembodied hand clamped over his face did nothing to hide the manic gleam in his bloodshot eyes as he surveyed the crowd.
Beneath the decayed leather of his gloves, his fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against his thigh, the restless energy of a predator toying with its food.
The warehouse stretched around them like the ribcage of some long-dead beast. Steel beams crisscrossed high above, their surfaces pitted with corrosion. Flickering industrial lights cast jagged shadows that seemed to move when Junpei wasn't looking directly at them. And the people...
Dozens of them, maybe a hundred. A salaryman in a rumpled suit clutched his briefcase like a shield. A nurse still in bloodstained scrubs hyperventilated into her hands. A girl no older than twelve with patches of reptilian scales creeping up her neck hugged her knees to her chest, her pupils slit with terror. They clustered together in uneasy groups, their whispers building into a nervous crescendo.
"Where... where are we?"
"Did anyone else get that text?"
"This has to be a prank right? One of those hidden cameras...!"
SCREEEE...
The feedback shriek of a microphone being dragged across concrete silenced them all. Junpei clamped his hands over his ears as the sound drilled into his skull. When he looked up, Shigaraki was standing now, a battered karaoke mic dangling from his fingers.
"Test, test. Oh good, it still works." He tapped the microphone, his voice dripping with mock cheer. "Welcome to orientation, shitheads."
A man in a delivery uniform shoved his way to the front. "Listen here you little shi-!"
Shigaraki's hand shot out and went through the dark misty portal.
Junpei didn't see the contact, but the aftermath. The man's uniform darkened as his skin turned gray and flaky, the decay spreading up his arm like speed-up footage of rotting fruit. He collapsed mid-scream, his desiccated fingers crumbling to dust before they hit the ground.
The warehouse went tomb silent.
Shigaraki examined his nails. "Raise your hand if you like videogames."
Junpei's arm moved before he could even process the command. It was like he had already forgotten the dead body. Around him, maybe a third of the crowd followed suit, a gangly teenager with shock-blue hair, the lizard-eyed girl, a middle-aged woman whose fingers bore the calluses of a life-long gamer.
Shigaraki's grin stretched wide enough to crack his chapped lips. "Awesome. My gamer tag's HandJob, and I live for progression systems." he began pacing the length of the containers, his voice taking on the cadence of a particularly unhinged TED Talk. "MMO's? Love 'em. Roguelikes? Obsessed. But modern triple-A titles?" He spun on his heel, his voice dropping into a snarl. "Dogshit."
A rustle of confusion passed through the crowd.
"Think about it!" Shigaraki flung his arms wide. "The villain's always some no-name scrub with three lines of dialogue. The hero gets a magic sword, a wise old mentor, perfect hair," he yanked his own greasy hair in exaggerated frustration. "Where's our legendary weapons? Our prophecies? Who the fuck roots for the villains?"
A murmur of uneasy agreement rippled through the crowd. Junpei found his fingers curling. He remembered seventh grade... the heroics simulation where his shadow quirk was deemed too creepy to play along with the other kids who were too scared of it. His dumb teacher even mentioned to his mother that villain containment should be a backup career.
"Bullshit!" A woman in a café apron stepped forward, her hands shaking. "Heroes go through hell too! You can't just."
"Name one," Shigaraki interrupted.
Silence.
He began counting on his fingers. "Hawks? Commission's golden boy. Got scouted at age seven, never wanted for anything. Endeavour?" A bark of laughter. "Rich and powerful. Doesn't seem like someone that's been through much hardship. And All Might?" Shigaraki's voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "The second that man awakened his quirk, the world bent over backwards for him. He's someone that can change the weather with a punch and cause earthquakes with a stomp."
Junpei's breath hitched. He remembered watching a news clip, it was All Might's debut overseas in America, the cameras loved him, the crowds adored him. The way Junpei's dad sighed while thinking of himself... "In another life maybe."
Junpei's dad had a quirk, it was similar to his in a way, he could form a replica of himself in shadow form, but it takes too much energy out of him and his parents wanted more from him so he didn't see much point in becoming a hero.
He didn't think that Junpei could be one either.
Shigaraki wasn't wrong.
A commotion broke out near the back. A man with elongated canines shoved forward, his mutation quirk making his snarl especially vicious. "This is insane! You can't just kidnap people and..."
Kurogiri's mist twitched.
One second the man was shouting. The next, his head vanished inside a swirling black portal, his body collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut. When the mist dissipated, he was gone, only a single pointed fang clattering to the concrete remained.
Shigaraki sighed. "Anyway. You're all here because you're villains. Don't believe me?" He crouched at the edge of the platform, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let me guess your backstories."
Junpei's pulse pounded in his ears.
"You wanted to be heroes once right?" Shigaraki's red eyes gleamed. "Dreamed of standing beside All Might? Then one day..." his fingers flexed. "You realized you'd never be good enough."
The words struck like a physical blow. Junpei saw it again... the rankings on the board, his name perpetually in second place. The way his classmates eyes slid over him in training exercises, as if he were already invisible.
"Or maybe," Shigaraki continued, his gaze sliding to the lizard-girl, "you just wanted to walk down the street without people crossing to the other side."
The girl flinched as if struck. Junpei saw the moment it hit her. Whatever bad memory she was reliving.
"Or..." Shigaraki's grin turned feral, "... maybe you're just sick of hearing how your quirk is 'perfect for a villain.'"
Junpei's breath left him in a rush. Junpei's quirk wasn't as simple as shadow manipulation, or even jumping in and out of shadows. It's worse than that. And as an emotional prepubescent child, it can be hard to control such a thing, such instincts.
That's what he would have told his original mother if she were still alive. He wouldn't have had to continually play around with his father's memories whenever he could feel it slip.
A man in a security guard's uniform lunged forward. "This is insane! Villains don't just..."
Shigaraki's hand shot out again, only this time it stopped mere inches away from the man's face.
"Tell me, how's that knee treating you?" Shigaraki purred.
The guard froze.
"Torn ACL, right? From when you tried to stop that convenience store robbery last year." Shigaraki's voice dripped with false sympathy. "The heroes showed up just in time to take the credit... and the promotion went to the guy who didn't 'recklessly endanger himself'"
The man's face went ashen.
Junpei's stomach churned. This wasn't just recruitment, it was like Shigaraki was peeling back every scar, every insecurity, with the precision of a torturer.
This was most likely planned, he had probably looked into the lives of everyone here, everyone more susceptible to this attitude, those he just killed were probably just tagalongs to show how serious he is being. He doesn't want to kill the rest that are here and Junpei knows it, everybody that's still standing has a great enough value to let live.
But...
"Why would we want to be villains?" the words burst from Junpei's lips before he could stop them.
Every eye in the warehouse turned to him. Shigaraki's head tilted like a curious vulture.
For one heart-stopping moment, Junpei thought he's signed his death warrant.
Then Shigaraki laughed, a wet, hacking sound that shook his entire frame. "Oh, kid. Money."
He snapped his fingers.
Kurogiri's portals yawned open beneath them. Bundles of cash rained down, thick stacks of 10,000 yen notes spilling across the concrete like Autumn leaves. Another portal disgorged a literal feast, steaming platters of wagyu beef, towers of champagne bottles, desserts that looked stolen from a five star hotel.
Junpei's breath caught as a bundle of cash landed by his feet. He didn't need to count to know it was more than his father made in three months.
"Membership benefits." Shigaraki announced, spreading his arms out like a game show host. "White card holders: get out of jail free and underworld contacts. Red Card:" His grin widened. "Medical insurance, tax-free royalties, and quirk counselling."
It all was sounding so far-fetched. School like , society like. Junpei just didn't feel like he was in a villains den anymore.
The lizard girl hesitantly reached out for a stack of bills.
"And the Black Card:" Shigaraki's voice dropped. "Untraceable phones. Authority over lower ranks. And..." he leaned forward. "Quirk evolution consultations with certain benefactors."
Laughter erupted, nervous and disbelieving. Shigaraki was also laughing with his hand up in the air and his face revealed from behind the hand mask.
Junpei didn't laugh.
A path. A ladder. No more second place, no more being overlooked, just cold, hard power.
Shigaraki snapped his fingers again.
From the shadows, figures emerged.
Muscular stepped into light first, his grotesquely swollen biceps pulsing with each movement. Toga was next, she twirled into view. Then Dabi followed, blue flames licked under his eyes where dark purple bags were as he fixed the crows with a dead-eyed stare.
The laughter died in their throats.
"Tell anyone?" Shigaraki crooned, "Kurogiri knows where each of you and your family sleep." He waved his hand dismissively. "Welcome to the League of Villains."
Junpei's vision swam. The warehouse dissolved into streaks of colour, his stomach lurching as if he had stepped off a cliff...
---
Sunlight.
Junpei gasped, jerking upright in his classroom seat. His pencil rolled off the desk, clattering against the linoleum. Around him, his classmates continued their chatter, utterly oblivious.
Had it been a dream? A hallucination.
Then he saw it.
A single white card rested atop his math textbook, its surface gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
League Of Villains.
His name, Kisaragi Junpei, etched in crisp black ink beneath the logo.
Junpei's lips curled into a smile. He tapped the edge of the desk, and watched his shadow stretch to swallow the whole card.
No more runners-up.
This time... I'll play the villain that wins.