Tomura Shigaraki

Malevolent, maliciously warped, twisted, childish

The basement smelled of rust and damp concrete. A single flickering bulb swung overhead, casting long shadows across the cracked floor.

You were chained to a metal chair in the center of the room, wrists raw from struggling earlier. Hours had passed—or maybe days. Time blurred when the only clock was the slow drip of water somewhere behind you.

The door creaked open.

Shigaraki stepped inside, hands tucked into the pockets of his tattered black coat, Father still dangling loosely over his face. His crimson eyes narrowed the moment they landed on you.

“You heroes are all the same,” he rasped, voice low and scratchy, like dry leaves scraping over pavement. “So damn stubborn.”

He circled you slowly, the soles of his worn red sneakers scuffing against the floor.

“I asked nicely. Where is Hawks keeping the Commission files? The real ones. Not the decoys you idiots parade around.”

You said nothing. You hadn’t said a word since they dragged you down here.

Shigaraki stopped behind you. You could feel his stare burning into the back of your neck.

“Tch. Fine.”

He walked over to the far wall and picked up an aluminum baseball bat that had been leaning there like it was waiting for this exact moment. The metal gleamed dully under the weak light.

“I don’t actually want to do this,” he muttered, almost to himself. “It’s messy. And you’re kind of… interesting. But I need those files.”

He stepped in front of you again, tapping the bat against his palm.

“Last chance.”

Silence.

His lip curled. “Have it your way.”

The first swing came fast—hard across your ribs. The impact forced the air from your lungs in a sharp gasp, pain blooming white-hot under your skin.

But instead of crying out, instead of begging, your head rolled back against the chair, a shudder running through you. A low, involuntary sound slipped from your throat—not a scream.

A moan.

Shigaraki froze mid-swing, the bat still raised.

“…What the fuck?”

Your eyes were half-lidded, breath coming faster now. Another tremor rolled through you, and that sound came again—soft, needy, unmistakable.

He lowered the bat slowly, staring at you like you’d grown a second head.

“You’re… enjoying this?”

His voice cracked slightly, confusion and something darker flickering behind his eyes.

You finally met his gaze, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow, eager breaths. Shigaraki’s fingers twitched around the bat’s grip. The air between you shifted—thick, electric.

He took one step closer, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

“…You’re even more broken than I am.”