The soft morning haze filtered through the edges of the curtains, painting warm streaks across the floorboards of Denki's dorm room. The storm had passed, replaced by that perfect early Tuesday calm—the kind that came with quiet relief.
Denki stirred, eyes fluttering open slowly. The world felt muted, gentle… safe.
Jiro was still there.
Curled under the blanket beside him, her arm draped loosely across his waist, her face half-buried in the fabric of his hoodie. Their legs tangled comfortably under the sheets, the shared warmth wrapping around them like something sacred.
He smiled.
Not the flirty one. Not the forced one. The real kind—the sleepy one that showed up when he didn't have to be anything but okay.
Because sleep had come easier with her beside him. No jolts awake in the dark. No echo of alarms or dreamless hospitals.
Just her heartbeat near his. And silence that didn't hurt.
Jiro mumbled something unintelligible and shifted slightly, fingers twitching against his chest before settling again.
Denki closed his eyes for a moment and let himself breathe into that stillness.
They didn't talk about it much. Why she stayed. Why he never asked her to leave. It was just… understood. Like unspoken truce. Like healing was allowed to take the shape of each other.
And for two people who once thought they had to survive every nightmare alone—this new kind of peace?
It was everything.
The morning light poured in soft and golden, painting faint stripes across the blanket tangled around them. Jiro stirred, her lashes fluttering before her eyes eased open—blinking slowly into the stillness.
She felt it before she saw it.
That look.
She turned her head and found Denki already awake, chin propped on the edge of his pillow, watching her with an expression so gentle it nearly undid her.
"What?" she mumbled, voice groggy, warm.
Denki grinned—sleep-soft and sincere. "Can't I admire my girlfriend when she sleeps?"
Jiro flushed instantly, mouth parting to fire back a reply—but before the words formed, he leaned forward and kissed her.
Slow. Warm. A kiss that didn't demand anything—just was. Like good mornings wrapped in lightning and lullabies.
Her hand found his chest instinctively, fingers curling into the hoodie she'd borrowed for what was now the fourth night in a row.
When they pulled apart, her heart was beating much too loud for a Tuesday.
"Dork," she whispered.
"Your dork," he whispered back, stealing one more kiss before she could argue.
Outside, UA was waking up.
Inside, Jiro smiled into his neck and decided they could stay under the covers for ten more minutes.
Maybe fifteen.
Definitely twenty.
(Somewhere, in the forgotten dark. 9:35 p.m.)
The alley was sharp with the smell of smoke and old rain—narrow, forgotten, and quiet enough to hold secrets.
Dabi leaned against the wall, boots scuffed, coat draped in embers. His cigarette crackled faintly in the silence as he exhaled a slow plume of smoke, the faint orange glow painting his stitches in flickers.
He wasn't cold. He didn't feel things like that anymore.
But rage—rage stayed hot. Always.
How poetic, he thought, letting ash fall onto broken pavement. My old man's legacy rising higher than ever... all while pretending I never existed.
He could picture it—his father's face proud in the papers, his precious students thriving, the world worshipping a lie.
"Not for long," he muttered.
And that's when he sensed it.
A faint scrape. A flicker of presence. He didn't turn—just lowered the cigarette and blew out one last stream of smoke.
"Bit late for a walk, isn't it?" he said.
From the shadows, a silhouette emerged—slim, confident, gliding like it belonged to the dark. Not familiar. But not afraid either.
In the shadows of that alley, Dabi's eyes narrowed as the figure stepped into the faint spill of light from a broken streetlamp.
Long brown hair, falling like silk down her back. Eyes flecked with gold—soft, not cold. Lips crimson without paint. And yet... she didn't look like someone who belonged here.
Not with them.
Not with him.
But she stood tall, hands folded in front of her, expression calm despite the creeping cold and danger whispering through the cracks in the bricks.
"You got a name?" Dabi asked, voice dry.
She hesitated. Then smiled softly, like the question itself was a gift.
"People call me... Darkcreasa."
A pause.
"I don't know if it's really mine."
The quiet hum of her words didn't match this place. She didn't match this place.
Yet her presence made something shift.
Dabi studied her, arms crossed now, smoke curling around his shoulders. "Memory Share," he muttered, as if testing something. "That your quirk?"
She nodded. "I can touch a memory. Let someone feel it. See it. Borrow it for a while." She looked at him—not afraid, not challenging. Hopeful. "Even if they don't want to."
He said nothing, but his jaw twitched.
This wasn't a warrior. Not a soldier.
She was something else entirely.
Something dangerous in her own way.
Because her kindness wasn't weakness—it was desperate.
She wanted in.
And the League?
They feasted on that kind of hunger.
"Come with me."
Dabi's words are simple, yet they hold weight. Without hesitation, Darkcreasa follows him into the abyss, the shadows swallowing them both whole. The air is thick, suffocating, as if the darkness itself is alive, watching her, waiting. She keeps close, afraid that if she lags even a step behind, he'll vanish, leaving her alone once more.
They stop before a door—weathered, splintered, its once-white paint chipped away by time. The metal knob is stained with age, its touch worn smooth by countless hands. Dabi turns it effortlessly, and her heart pounds against her ribcage, a drum of anticipation. This is it. Could this be the moment where everything changes?
The door creaks open, pushing back the shadows with a dim golden light. The space beyond is a stark contrast to the decayed ruins outside—a small, cozy room, untouched by the rot that clings to the rest of the house. The brick walls give off an earthy warmth, and the furniture, though simple, is well-kept, even inviting. A bar gleams in the corner, stocked with liquor bottles lined like soldiers, their glass surfaces catching the faint glow of an overhead light.
And then—movement.
From a couch nestled in the room, a girl stirs.
Her golden-yellow eyes, bright as molten gold, gleam with curiosity as she looks up, taking in Darkcreasa with an eager smile. Her presence is deceptively innocent, almost youthful—yet there's something unsettling beneath the surface, a chaos thrumming just beneath her skin.
Her light blonde hair, styled into two messy buns, has loose strands that frame her face. A straight fringe falls just over her brows, and two chin-length side bangs sharpen her silhouette. The slight flush in her fair skin makes her seem cheerful—but her sharp-toothed grin betrays a wickedness that lurks within. Vampiric. Playful. Dangerous.
She springs to her feet, skipping toward them with the kind of energy only she could carry.
"Dabi-kin, who's this?" she chirps, excitement lacing her words. Her golden gaze flicks over Darkcreasa with fascination. "She's so pretty!"
Dabi barely reacts. "Toga, this is Darkcreasa. She wants to join."
Toga's eyes widen with delight, and she lets out a squeal, clasping Darkcreasa's hands in hers.
"Join? Oh, that's gonna be so much fun! I wouldn't be the only girl anymore!" She squeezes Darkcreasa's hands tighter, her smile stretching wider. "Oh, we're gonna be the bestest of friends!"
Darkcreasa blinks at her enthusiasm, unsure how to react, but before she can respond—another presence shifts in the room.
At the bar, a figure sits in eerie stillness.
Thin. Wiry. His body almost looks fragile, like it could crumble at the slightest touch—but there is nothing weak about him. His long white hair, once light blue, spills messily over his face, unkempt strands shadowing his red eyes—cold, hollow, yet piercing enough to see through everything.
His skin is pale, cracked, as if time and decay itself have laid their claim on him. His fingers twitch slightly, resting against the countertop like a predator waiting for the right moment. The ragged edges of his dark hoodie blend into the dim surroundings, his figure more like a specter than a man.
He doesn't speak immediately.
And then—he moves.
A slow shift, a lingering stare.
"I hear you want to join the League?"
His voice is unsettling—soft yet laced with razor-edged authority. The kind that doesn't need to be raised to be dangerous.
Darkcreasa straightens, nodding eagerly. "Yes, very much!"
Dabi doesn't bother adding a flourish. "She can shapeshift and read memories." His tone is flat, but something about it feels personal—like he knows firsthand.
Darkcreasa, sensing an opportunity, lifts her chin. "I can also plant my own memories into someone's mind."
Shigaraki's head tilts ever so slightly. Interest.
His lips curve into something that's almost a smirk. "That could make you a very valuable asset to the League."
Her heartbeat hammers in her chest. This is happening. All her life, she's been alone, wandering the world with nothing but an empty dream—but now? Now, she's standing on the edge of something real.
"Yes," she breathes, barely able to contain herself. "And I'm willing to do whatever you need me to do."
Shigaraki and Dabi exchange a glance. A silent, knowing look.
Then, Shigaraki turns back to her, his smirk deepening.
"You'd do anything?"
Darkcreasa nods—without hesitation.
She would do anything to have a family.
A pause.
Then—"Alright, welcome to the League."
The words hit her like a storm, knocking the air from her lungs. She barely has time to react before Toga throws herself at her, arms tight around her shoulders.
"Welcome to our broken family, Darkcreasa-chan!"
The warmth—it's overwhelming.
Darkcreasa struggles to hold back her tears, swallowing thickly as she forces herself to stay composed. She's been alone all her life—but not anymore.
She belongs.
Dabi exhales sharply from his spot on the couch, rolling his eyes at Toga's enthusiasm before slouching back into the cushions.
But Darkcreasa doesn't care.
She finally got what she wanted.
She finally has a family.
The room hums with a strange, quiet energy—acceptance, curiosity, but also wariness. Darkcreasa's heart is still racing, but she forces herself to calm down. She made it in. She's standing among the League of Villains, breathing the same air, sharing the same shadows.
Now what?
Toga finally releases her, bouncing on her heels like an excited child. "Oh, I wanna see your quirk again! Can you turn into me?" Her eyes gleam with mischief, hands clasped together in expectation.
Darkcreasa tilts her head, then smirks. She takes a slow breath—and shifts.
Her hair lightens, curling into identical messy buns. Her stature shrinks slightly, her golden eyes flickering to life. Even her posture mirrors Toga's—a perfect copy.
Toga lets out a squeal, grabbing Darkcreasa's cheeks. "You're adorable!"
Dabi scoffs from the couch, uninterested. "She's useful. But cute? I dunno."
Darkcreasa shifts back, shaking off the lingering sensation of transformation. It's never fully comfortable—becoming someone else, feeling their mannerisms seep into her own.
But before she can dwell on it, Shigaraki speaks.
"Don't waste your quirk on party tricks." His voice is dry, but there's an edge beneath it. He leans against the bar, hands resting lightly on the counter—though never too relaxed. He never lets himself look weak.
Darkcreasa straightens. Right. She has to prove she's serious.
Shigaraki's red eyes lock onto her, calculating. "If you want to stay, you work for it."
She nods without hesitation. "I'll do whatever needs to be done."
Dabi chuckles under his breath. "She says that now. Let's see if she's still saying it when things get ugly."
Shigaraki watches her for another moment, then finally steps forward, inches from her face. His presence feels like pressure, suffocating but electric.
"Fine." His smirk deepens. "You want to prove yourself? You come with me."
Darkcreasa swallows hard. This is her first assignment.
Whatever it is—she can't fail.
Darkcreasa follows Shigaraki without hesitation, though she can feel the weight of Dabi's smirk behind her, lingering like a silent challenge. She's stepped into their world now—no turning back.
The hallway beyond the lounge is narrow, the floorboards creaking beneath their steps, each sound swallowed by the darkness stretching ahead. The dim lighting barely holds back the shadows, flickering from rusted fixtures overhead. This place isn't just abandoned—it's forgotten. A remnant of something that once mattered, now reduced to a hideout for outcasts.
She keeps her pace steady, but inside, her pulse is erratic. What will he have her do? What kind of trial will prove she belongs here?
Shigaraki stops at a heavy steel door, its surface stained with grime, scratches decorating its edges like battle scars. Without a word, he pushes it open, stepping into what looks like a makeshift meeting room—an old warehouse space, barely furnished except for a long table at the center, surrounded by scattered chairs.
Inside, more villains lurk in the shadows.
Some are leaning against walls, arms crossed, eyes calculating—others are seated, barely sparing her a glance. There's a presence in this room, something thick in the air, unspoken yet palpable.
And then—one voice cuts through the silence.
"She's the new recruit?"
A figure seated at the far end of the room leans forward, fingers steepled. His sharp smile is unnerving, amusement dancing in his gaze as he watches her like a predator sizing up prey.
Darkcreasa straightens. She won't let them undermine her. She has something to prove.
Shigaraki settles into his chair, exhaling slowly before resting his elbows on the table. He studies her, eyes flicking over her frame, calculating, as if peeling back her layers without touching her.
"You said you'd do anything." His voice is casual, but there's an edge beneath it—a test already underway. "Let's see if you meant it."
Dabi slides into a chair nearby, arms draped across the backrest lazily. He smirks, watching her like someone waiting for a show to begin. Toga perches on the edge of the table, swinging her legs, golden eyes gleaming with excitement.
Darkcreasa stiffens, inhaling slowly. "What do I have to do?"
Shigaraki gestures toward an old television, its screen flickering as a grainy video plays—a security feed of an alleyway downtown. A lone man, mid-thirties, dressed in a hero uniform, walks with purpose.
A hero.
Shigaraki taps his fingers against the table. "He's in the way." His tone is detached. "Fix it."
Darkcreasa freezes.
This is it.
Her initiation into villainy.
But she doesn't hesitate long. She asked to be here. She wanted this.
She nods, swallowing hard. "I'll take care of it."
Dabi chuckles under his breath. "She said that real easy."
Toga giggles, leaning closer. "Ooooh, this is exciting!"
Shigaraki merely tilts his head, watching her reaction carefully. Judging.
"Go."
That single word seals it. She has her mission. She has her chance.
Darkcreasa turns, stepping out into the night, the cold wind biting against her skin. Her mind races, but she keeps herself steady. This is her moment—her proof.
And failure isn't an option.