Shigaraki Tomura

You don’t know who he is. You don’t know why he took you. You don’t even know what he’s saying. Not that he’s said all that much since you woke up in a dimly lit room, arms bound in front of you tightly with rope that has gone from itchy to uncomfortable and now bordering on painful as your circulation has waned.

It’s been... three days? Four? You’re not sure. There’s nothing to accurately measure time with. Only the comings and goings of the man who kidnapped you, which don’t seem marked by any particular time of day, give you any sense of time passing.

Most of the time, he just sits in front of you and... talks. You don’t know what about. Your Japanese is rudimentary at best, and though you’d promised yourself that you were going to immerse yourself in the language during your stay, you found yourself relying on him or strangers or apps on your phone to cross the barrier instead.

You can say hello and goodbye and thank you, but two of those are words you have no intention of speaking to your kidnapper, and one might only make him angry.

So, you don’t say anything even when he’s clearly asking you questions. What gives this guy the right to ask you anything? He kidnapped you! Yet can’t help but shake the fear that knowing you can’t even understand him would make things worse. Maybe he is going to ransom you, maybe he would get frustrated by your inability to communicate and just kill you, or worse.

Your lack of a response doesn’t get in the way, it seems. He just talks and talks. Sometimes animated, hands waving, passionate about something. Other times his voice gets low and he practically spits words in your face, as you say nothing. Maybe he’s telling you to say something, to speak up, to answer him.

Still, he hasn’t hurt you. Aside from the soreness in your wrists and muscles from being bound for so long. He gave you a cot to sleep on, and if you pretend that it’s not stained, with a spring shooting out of a hole, it’s comfortable enough. He turns around whenever he hoists you up and pulls you into an attached bathroom, as unkempt as the rest of the room, which at least gives you some dignity.

He feeds you. It’s cheap and tastes old–like leftovers of leftovers. Hate to think of yourself as spoiled, but every time he shoves sodium-laden noodles in your mouth (because he has yet to untie your hands, even for meals) then finding yourself missing the frozen meals that you considered 'a good dinner.'

You wonder what to do right now. You were staying with him for the summer, an excuse to take a break from the stress of living at home, an excuse to experience a new culture and be independent (or something close to it) for a while. Maybe they would find you any minute now. Maybe you were hours away from being rescued.

Sure. The door opens and your muscles tense, exacerbating the pain constantly simmering in your arms and shoulders. Or maybe a mouthful of lukewarm noodles. But there’s no bowl in his hands, and that can tell the moment the door shuts–slams–that this is not going to be a simple one-sided conversation.

He’s agitated, clearly. Fingers clenching in and out as he paces the floor in front of you. He’s saying something–you wish at this point you had listened to others advice, but this could mean the difference between life and death–and his words are getting higher, more rapid as he continues.

Now and then he turns towards you, saying something that sounds like a question. But you can’t possibly answer when you don’t understand. Should you say something? What would you even say? Mind swims furiously, trying to recall how to say 'I don’t speak Japanese' in actual Japanese. But nothing comes up.

At your continued silence, he finally turns towards you, reducing the gap between you in seconds with his paces. He crouches down, face twisted in annoyance. One finger extends and jabs you harshly in the shoulder. He says something, half-snarled, but you have no idea what. It hurts more than it should, and the feeling of your muscles crying out in protest at the treatment.

He does it again. Repeating his words, whatever they mean. It hurts. You’re terrified, you’re in pain. All the words bubbling inside you over the last few days, inner conversations, back-and-forth debates about what you should do, boil over and your voice is hoarse but clear as the words come out quickly. At your words, his hand pauses mid-movement.

You don’t know if the decision to keep going is conscious or not. All you know is that you’d rather say something now before he gets the idea to hit you with more than a single finger.

You stammer, licking your dry lips as you quickly explain that you don't speak Japanese, only English. His hand retracts entirely then. His response takes a few moments. But it does nothing to ease the anxiety in your stomach, a curdling feeling that gets stronger every second.

Because he responds with a smile. A slow grin taking over his features, leading into a breathy chuckle. "Only English?" You nod at his question. Somehow the admission makes you feel humiliated. Maybe it’s the look on his face, grinning and teasing. Maybe it’s the realization that your language barrier makes this situation even more helpless and awkward.

You don’t have long to think on it, because his hand is reaching for you again. But instead of a harsh jab, a finger is on your chin, lifting it up. Then comes an undeniable feeling of his thumb stroking your cheek. "Silly." You feel like you’re frozen as a statue and ice completely.

'Silly?' Is he calling you silly for not speaking Japanese? If you weren’t currently held captive, you might bristle at the notion, which hits too close to him. How many times did your friends and others told you to practice before you came over, anyway?

His face leans in closer and his breath is stale, but you can’t focus on that because of a cold, creeping feeling that has been increasing since he laid his hands on you. "You should have said earlier." His grin twitches downward, an spark of annoyance. "I was telling you about the..." He seems to think on it. "Rules. And future. For you." He says, staring at you with his red eyes.

He sighs, and leans back, hands resting on his thighs. "I will have to explain it again. But simpler," He adds, mouth twisting into a smirk. Tingling prickles of humiliation shoots down. The meaning of his words, or potential meanings, only heightens fear, it almost feels like it’s floating, light and numb.

"Your rules," He says, correcting himself. His hand reaches out for you again, flicking your cheek lightly, teasing. "Your future." He continued then just chuckles. It’s not like you can go anywhere, anyway, you think. He knows it and you know it.

You open your mouth to say something but then a finger presses against your lips. "I know who you are. I wanted you. And I have you. So..." He taps his finger on your lips. Hush. Your bound wrists brush against him. He glances down at them as if he forgot you’d been tied up at all. Wondering if he’ll cut them off, now that he’s realized why you weren’t responding. Or will wait for him to repeat his... rules for that to happen?

Instead of grabbing a knife as hoped, he simply grabs the rope itself. A fleeting thought shoots through–he’s going to hold you down now, he’s going to finally do what captors do. But he doesn’t make a move closer.

"My name is Tomura Shigaraki." The way he says it almost makes you laugh reflexively. Something about the way it sounded. Like you two just met on the street and he was introducing himself. Like he was going to ask you if you liked video games or had tried a certain restaurant yet. Like he’d practiced the words himself in the mirror, a more diligent student at English than you clearly were at Japanese.

But when glancing down at the ropes that were underneath his fingers and see only disintegrating ash, you don’t know how you fall asleep that night, wrists aching from the returning circulation, fear coiling in your belly, but you do dream about escaping.

You dream about Shigaraki, slotting himself up against you at night, whispering in your ear. When you wake up, you’re not entirely sure that was a dream at all, the bedding on the cot is all mussed and rumpled. But he’s nowhere to be found and can enjoy what little is left of solitude.

You wrap your arms around your knees and press your chin into them, waiting in silence for your captor to return. You must have nodded off, because suddenly there's a loud banging sound right in front of your feet. A book, dropped unceremoniously by Shigaraki on the floor below. Shigaraki's face looks both expectant and smug, then down to the cover, with its big printed letters: Beginner’s Guide to Learning Japanese.