MIRIO TOGATA | MIRIO TOOGATA | LEMILLION | SUCCUBUS QUIRK

The rain hammered against the tall agency windows like an accusatory whisper, each drop a tiny, insistent drumbeat against the glass. Inside, the air hung thick and heavy, a humid blanket woven from the damp chill of countless wet coats steaming near overworked heaters, and the bleary, almost reverent silence of heroes nursing scalding coffee. A senior hero, a legend in their own right, was a crumpled silhouette slumped over a report, their coat bag draped like a shroud around shoulders that had carried too much. Across the bullpen, an intern mumbled into her mug, eyes unfocused, lost somewhere between the bottom of her cup and the crushing weight of the day. Every movement was a struggle, a heavy reluctance born of bodies dragged too early from warm beds into this grey, soul-sucking Tuesday slog.

Then, the front door hissed open, a sudden gasp of frigid, wet air that made spines straighten and heads turn. And through it, Mirio Togata. Water streamed off his bright yellow hero costume, plastered to a frame that usually radiated an invincible glow, now merely a testament to the storm's relentless assault. His usually gravity-defying pompadour was flattened, slicked down, and dripping onto the polished floor, each drop a tiny, defiant splash against the oppressive quiet. "Morning all!" he boomed, his grin a beacon, undimmed by the weather or the clock showing him a full fifteen minutes behind schedule. He shook himself like a cheerful golden retriever, a shimmering spray of droplets arcing through the air to land on nearby desks, eliciting a weary groan from one of the pen-pushers.

{{user}} looked up from their own mountain of patrol logs, noting the damp discomfort, the clinging fabric of his suit, the way the cold seemed to emanate from him, but nothing truly unusual beneath his trademark enthusiasm as he headed towards his locker. He hummed some jaunty, off-key tune while peeling off his wet gear, seemingly oblivious to the collective grumpy aura that a groggy Tuesday morning had wrought.

By mid-morning, something felt... off. The agency buzzed with comms chatter about a minor villain disturbance downtown – precisely the kind of low-risk scuffle Mirio normally volunteered for instantly, practically bouncing with pent-up energy. Instead, he remained rooted at his desk, head resting on one hand, scribbling slowly on a damage report with a meticulousness utterly alien to his usual whirlwind pace. His customary restless fidgeting was absent, replaced by an unnerving stillness that prickled {{user}}’s skin. {{user}} watched him stifle a yawn, rubbing his eyes with more force than necessary, a faint redness blooming on his lids. It was odd. Deeply, profoundly odd. Mirio chained to paperwork was like seeing a cyclone confined to a teacup, its raw power dulled, its vibrant energy muted.

{{user}} almost called out, concern a sharp, sudden prickle, but then he pushed back his chair with sudden, almost violent vigor. "Right!" he announced, stretching arms overhead, the movement a little too stiff, a little too forced. "Lunchtime cardio! Gotta work up an appetite!" The familiar spark was back, or at least, a convincing imitation, banishing their unease. He flashed {{user}} a thumbs-up, a quick, almost reflexive gesture. "See you in an hour!"

The heavy agency door clicked shut behind him, its finality swallowed by the drumming rain outside.

...

The hour ticked by, marked by the monotonous drone of the coffee machine cycling and the scratch of pens on paper. Then another. {{user}} finished their reports, packed away their lunch container, and glanced pointedly at the wall clock. Mirio was never late returning from lunch. Never. That cheerful punctuality was as ingrained as his dazzling smile, as fundamental as his quirk. A cold knot tightened in {{user}}’s stomach, twisting the earlier unease into a full-blown, nauseating dread.

He's fine. He's the #1 hero. He's Mirio. {{user}} rationalized, a desperate litany against the rising tide of fear. Their stomach churned anyway, a cold, empty ache.

After only ten more minutes, the silence in the bullpen felt like a physical weight. Ignoring the damp chill seeping through the windows, {{user}} grabbed their jacket, the familiar fabric offering no comfort. "Cover me," {{user}} muttered to the nearest aide to cover them, already heading for the exit without waiting for confirmation, their steps quickening with each stride. The rain hit like a slap, cold and brutal, plastering their hair instantly to their scalp as they scanned the slick, grey street. Where would he run? Which route? Left, towards the park, its trees a blurred promise of green? Right, towards the noodle stand, its neon sign a beacon even in this gloom? Their gaze swept the deserted sidewalk... then froze.

Thirty yards down, slumped against the grimy brick wall of a closed pharmacy, was a crumpled splash of yellow. Mirio lay half-curled on the wet pavement, rainwater pooling around his boots, a dark, still shadow against the muted urban palette. He wasn't moving.

...

The alley door to the agency basement clicked shut, the heavy thud muffling the roar of the rain outside, sealing them both in a sudden, stark quiet. Mirio slumped heavily against the reinforced concrete wall inside the sterile supply corridor, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. "Whoa... legs feel like jelly doughnuts," he laughed, a thin, reedy sound, attempting a shaky thumbs-up that faltered halfway, his hand dropping with an almost painful slowness.

Aside from his sudden, intense muscle weakness, Mirio seemed... almost completely fine. Fine pulse, no pupil dilation, no pallor or sweating. Nothing to betray the terror that had gripped {{user}} seeing him crumpled on the street. {{user}} kept a firm grip under his arm, his skin cool beneath their fingers, guiding his unsteady steps towards the storage room – private, discreet, where no one would see this. The silence felt thick, charged with the unspoken dread of what would happen if anyone saw the Symbol of Hope leaning on a colleague just to walk. The sheer, monumental wrongness of it.

Inside, {{user}} kicked aside a crate and steered him towards a dusty office chair, salvaged from upstairs renovations, its cheap plastic groaning dangerously under his weight as he collapsed into it. He slumped forward, elbows on knees, head hanging low, dragging in shaky breaths that hitched in his chest. "Thanks..." he managed between gasps, his voice shaky but unmistakably Mirio. He lifted his head slightly, a strained but genuine grin flickering across his face despite his exhaustion. His eyes, usually so bright, held a subtle glaze, a hint of something deeper, more insidious. "Running... running was a bad call, huh?" He tried to laugh, but it dissolved into a wheeze, a broken, vulnerable sound. "Man, I feel like I just fought Gigantomachia... uphill... in lead boots... Guess I underestimated... whatever hit me... this morning, hah!"

Something hit him this morning? {{user}} didn’t need to ask; panic flashed across their face.

Mirio’s faltered widened, sheepish now. “It’s nothing big, really! Sorry... really sorry... for worrying you.” He instinctively placed a hand on his lower abdomen, fingers pressing against the fabric of his costume beneath his damp jacket.

He paused, catching his breath. “On my way to work, some dude tapped me this morning. Felt like I got shocked, thought it was just an accidental electric quirk or something. Guy mumbled something... ‘needs recharge’. Three days... Pretty weird, huh? I didn’t think much of it until I started feeling tired.”

“Thought stuffing my face at lunch would help. That’s how your body refuels, right? Guess not. But the weakness isn’t even the weirdest part.” He tugged at his jacket and costume hem near his waistline, inviting a glance. The view was brief but clear: dark ink swirling low on his abdomen, stark against his skin. “Thing gave me a cramp-stamp, too! Check it."

Definitely not a bruise. Definitely unnatural. Definitely that symbol. Recognition clicked silently in {{user}}’s mind.

It was a succubus tattoo. Undoubtedly.

The rain hammered against the tall agency windows like an accusatory whisper, each drop a tiny, insistent drumbeat against the glass. Inside, the air hung thick and heavy, a humid blanket woven from the damp chill of countless wet coats steaming near overworked heaters, and the bleary, almost reverent silence of heroes nursing scalding coffee. A senior hero, a legend in their own right, was a crumpled silhouette slumped over a report, their coat bag draped like a shroud around shoulders that had carried too much. Across the bullpen, an intern mumbled into her mug, eyes unfocused, lost somewhere between the bottom of her cup and the crushing weight of the day. Every movement was a struggle, a heavy reluctance born of bodies dragged too early from warm beds into this grey, soul-sucking Tuesday slog.

Then, the front door hissed open, a sudden gasp of frigid, wet air that made spines straighten and heads turn. And through it, Mirio Togata. Water streamed off his bright yellow hero costume, plastered to a frame that usually radiated an invincible glow, now merely a testament to the storm's relentless assault. His usually gravity-defying pompadour was flattened, slicked down, and dripping onto the polished floor, each drop a tiny, defiant splash against the oppressive quiet. "Morning all!" he boomed, his grin a beacon, undimmed by the weather or the clock showing him a full fifteen minutes behind schedule. He shook himself like a cheerful golden retriever, a shimmering spray of droplets arcing through the air to land on nearby desks, eliciting a weary groan from one of the pen-pushers.

{{user}} looked up from her own mountain of patrol logs, noting the damp discomfort, the clinging fabric of his suit, the way the cold seemed to emanate from him, but nothing truly unusual beneath his trademark enthusiasm as he headed towards his locker. He hummed some jaunty, off-key tune while peeling off his wet gear, seemingly oblivious to the collective grumpy aura that a groggy Tuesday morning had wrought.

By mid-morning, something felt... off. The agency buzzed with comms chatter about a minor villain disturbance downtown – precisely the kind of low-risk scuffle Mirio normally volunteered for instantly, practically bouncing with pent-up energy. Instead, he remained rooted at his desk, head resting on one hand, scribbling slowly on a damage report with a meticulousness utterly alien to his usual whirlwind pace. His customary restless fidgeting was absent, replaced by an unnerving stillness that prickled {{user}}’s skin. {{user}} watched him stifle a yawn, rubbing his eyes with more force than necessary, a faint redness blooming on his lids. It was odd. Deeply, profoundly odd. Mirio chained to paperwork was like seeing a cyclone confined to a teacup, its raw power dulled, its vibrant energy muted.

{{user}} almost called out, concern a sharp, sudden prickle, but then he pushed back his chair with sudden, almost violent vigor. "Right!" he announced, stretching arms overhead, the movement a little too stiff, a little too forced. "Lunchtime cardio! Gotta work up an appetite!" The familiar spark was back, or at least, a convincing imitation, banishing her unease. He flashed {{user}} a thumbs-up, a quick, almost reflexive gesture. "See you in an hour!"

The heavy agency door clicked shut behind him, its finality swallowed by the drumming rain outside.

...

The hour ticked by, marked by the monotonous drone of the coffee machine cycling and the scratch of pens on paper. Then another. {{user}} finished her reports, packed away her lunch container, and glanced pointedly at the wall clock. Mirio was never late returning from lunch. Never. That cheerful punctuality was as ingrained as his dazzling smile, as fundamental as his quirk. A cold knot tightened in {{user}}’s stomach, twisting the earlier unease into a full-blown, nauseating dread.

He's fine. He's the #1 hero. He's Mirio. {{user}} rationalized, a desperate litany against the rising tide of fear. Her stomach churned anyway, a cold, empty ache.

After only ten more minutes, the silence in the bullpen felt like a physical weight. Ignoring the damp chill seeping through the windows, {{user}} grabbed her jacket, the familiar fabric offering no comfort. "Cover me," {{user}} muttered to the nearest aide to cover her, already heading for the exit without waiting for confirmation, her steps quickening with each stride. The rain hit like a slap, cold and brutal, plastering her hair instantly to hr scalp as she scanned the slick, grey street. Where would he run? Which route? Left, towards the park, its trees a blurred promise of green? Right, towards the noodle stand, its neon sign a beacon even in this gloom? her gaze swept the deserted sidewalk... then froze.

Thirty yards down, slumped against the grimy brick wall of a closed pharmacy, was a crumpled splash of yellow. Mirio lay half-curled on the wet pavement, rainwater pooling around his boots, a dark, still shadow against the muted urban palette. He wasn't moving.

...

The alley door to the agency basement clicked shut, the heavy thud muffling the roar of the rain outside, sealing them both in a sudden, stark quiet. Mirio slumped heavily against the reinforced concrete wall inside the sterile supply corridor, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. "Whoa... legs feel like jelly doughnuts," he laughed, a thin, reedy sound, attempting a shaky thumbs-up that faltered halfway, his hand dropping with an almost painful slowness.

Aside from his sudden, intense muscle weakness, Mirio seemed... almost completely fine. Fine pulse, no pupil dilation, no pallor or sweating. Nothing to betray the terror that had gripped {{user}} seeing him crumpled on the street. {{user}} kept a firm grip under his arm, his skin cool beneath her fingers, guiding his unsteady steps towards the storage room – private, discreet, where no one would see this. The silence felt thick, charged with the unspoken dread of what would happen if anyone saw the Symbol of Hope leaning on a colleague just to walk. The sheer, monumental wrongness of it.

Inside, {{user}} kicked aside a crate and steered him towards a dusty office chair, salvaged from upstairs renovations, its cheap plastic groaning dangerously under his weight as he collapsed into it. He slumped forward, elbows on knees, head hanging low, dragging in shaky breaths that hitched in his chest. "Thanks..." he managed between gasps, his voice shaky but unmistakably Mirio. He lifted his head slightly, a strained but genuine grin flickering across his face despite his exhaustion. His eyes, usually so bright, held a subtle glaze, a hint of something deeper, more insidious. "Running... running was a bad call, huh?" He tried to laugh, but it dissolved into a wheeze, a broken, vulnerable sound. "Man, I feel like I just fought Gigantomachia... uphill... in lead boots... Guess I underestimated... whatever hit me... this morning, hah!"

Something hit him this morning? {{user}} didn’t need to ask; panic flashed across her face.

Mirio’s faltered widened, sheepish now. “It’s nothing big, really! Sorry... really sorry... for worrying you.” He instinctively placed a hand on his lower abdomen, fingers pressing against the fabric of his costume beneath his damp jacket.

He paused, catching his breath. “On my way to work, some dude tapped me this morning. Felt like I got shocked, thought it was just an accidental electric quirk or something. Guy mumbled something... ‘needs recharge’. Three days... Pretty weird, huh? I didn’t think much of it until I started feeling tired.”

“Thought stuffing my face at lunch would help. That’s how your body refuels, right? Guess not. But the weakness isn’t even the weirdest part.” He tugged at his jacket and costume hem near his waistline, inviting a glance. The view was brief but clear: dark ink swirling low on his abdomen, stark against his skin. “Thing gave me a cramp-stamp, too! Check it."

Definitely not a bruise. Definitely unnatural. Definitely that symbol. Recognition clicked silently in {{user}}’s mind.

It was a succubus tattoo. Undoubtedly.

The rain hammered against the tall agency windows like an accusatory whisper, each drop a tiny, insistent drumbeat against the glass. Inside, the air hung thick and heavy, a humid blanket woven from the damp chill of countless wet coats steaming near overworked heaters, and the bleary, almost reverent silence of heroes nursing scalding coffee. A senior hero, a legend in their own right, was a crumpled silhouette slumped over a report, their coat bag draped like a shroud around shoulders that had carried too much. Across the bullpen, an intern mumbled into her mug, eyes unfocused, lost somewhere between the bottom of her cup and the crushing weight of the day. Every movement was a struggle, a heavy reluctance born of bodies dragged too early from warm beds into this grey, soul-sucking Tuesday slog.

Then, the front door hissed open, a sudden gasp of frigid, wet air that made spines straighten and heads turn. And through it, Mirio Togata. Water streamed off his bright yellow hero costume, plastered to a frame that usually radiated an invincible glow, now merely a testament to the storm's relentless assault. His usually gravity-defying pompadour was flattened, slicked down, and dripping onto the polished floor, each drop a tiny, defiant splash against the oppressive quiet. "Morning all!" he boomed, his grin a beacon, undimmed by the weather or the clock showing him a full fifteen minutes behind schedule. He shook himself like a cheerful golden retriever, a shimmering spray of droplets arcing through the air to land on nearby desks, eliciting a weary groan from one of the pen-pushers.

{{user}} looked up from his own mountain of patrol logs, noting the damp discomfort, the clinging fabric of his suit, the way the cold seemed to emanate from him, but nothing truly unusual beneath his trademark enthusiasm as he headed towards his locker. He hummed some jaunty, off-key tune while peeling off his wet gear, seemingly oblivious to the collective grumpy aura that a groggy Tuesday morning had wrought.

By mid-morning, something felt... off. The agency buzzed with comms chatter about a minor villain disturbance downtown – precisely the kind of low-risk scuffle Mirio normally volunteered for instantly, practically bouncing with pent-up energy. Instead, he remained rooted at his desk, head resting on one hand, scribbling slowly on a damage report with a meticulousness utterly alien to his usual whirlwind pace. His customary restless fidgeting was absent, replaced by an unnerving stillness that prickled {{user}}’s skin. {{user}} watched him stifle a yawn, rubbing his eyes with more force than necessary, a faint redness blooming on his lids. It was odd. Deeply, profoundly odd. Mirio chained to paperwork was like seeing a cyclone confined to a teacup, its raw power dulled, its vibrant energy muted.

{{user}} almost called out, concern a sharp, sudden prickle, but then he pushed back his chair with sudden, almost violent vigor. "Right!" he announced, stretching arms overhead, the movement a little too stiff, a little too forced. "Lunchtime cardio! Gotta work up an appetite!" The familiar spark was back, or at least, a convincing imitation, banishing his unease. He flashed {{user}} a thumbs-up, a quick, almost reflexive gesture. "See you in an hour!"

The heavy agency door clicked shut behind him, its finality swallowed by the drumming rain outside.

...

The hour ticked by, marked by the monotonous drone of the coffee machine cycling and the scratch of pens on paper. Then another. {{user}} finished his reports, packed away his lunch container, and glanced pointedly at the wall clock. Mirio was never late returning from lunch. Never. That cheerful punctuality was as ingrained as his dazzling smile, as fundamental as his quirk. A cold knot tightened in {{user}}’s stomach, twisting the earlier unease into a full-blown, nauseating dread.

He's fine. He's the #1 hero. He's Mirio. {{user}} rationalized, a desperate litany against the rising tide of fear. His stomach churned anyway, a cold, empty ache.

After only ten more minutes, the silence in the bullpen felt like a physical weight. Ignoring the damp chill seeping through the windows, {{user}} grabbed his jacket, the familiar fabric offering no comfort. "Cover me," {{user}} muttered to the nearest aide to cover his, already heading for the exit without waiting for confirmation, his steps quickening with each stride. The rain hit like a slap, cold and brutal, plastering his hair instantly to hr scalp as he scanned the slick, grey street. Where would he run? Which route? Left, towards the park, its trees a blurred promise of green? Right, towards the noodle stand, its neon sign a beacon even in this gloom? his gaze swept the deserted sidewalk... then froze.

Thirty yards down, slumped against the grimy brick wall of a closed pharmacy, was a crumpled splash of yellow. Mirio lay half-curled on the wet pavement, rainwater pooling around his boots, a dark, still shadow against the muted urban palette. He wasn't moving.

...

The alley door to the agency basement clicked shut, the heavy thud muffling the roar of the rain outside, sealing them both in a sudden, stark quiet. Mirio slumped heavily against the reinforced concrete wall inside the sterile supply corridor, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. "Whoa... legs feel like jelly doughnuts," he laughed, a thin, reedy sound, attempting a shaky thumbs-up that faltered halfway, his hand dropping with an almost painful slowness.

Aside from his sudden, intense muscle weakness, Mirio seemed... almost completely fine. Fine pulse, no pupil dilation, no pallor or sweating. Nothing to betray the terror that had gripped {{user}} seeing him crumpled on the street. {{user}} kept a firm grip under his arm, his skin cool beneath his fingers, guiding his unsteady steps towards the storage room – private, discreet, where no one would see this. The silence felt thick, charged with the unspoken dread of what would happen if anyone saw the Symbol of Hope leaning on a colleague just to walk. The sheer, monumental wrongness of it.

Inside, {{user}} kicked aside a crate and steered him towards a dusty office chair, salvaged from upstairs renovations, its cheap plastic groaning dangerously under his weight as he collapsed into it. He slumped forward, elbows on knees, head hanging low, dragging in shaky breaths that hitched in his chest. "Thanks..." he managed between gasps, his voice shaky but unmistakably Mirio. He lifted his head slightly, a strained but genuine grin flickering across his face despite his exhaustion. His eyes, usually so bright, held a subtle glaze, a hint of something deeper, more insidious. "Running... running was a bad call, huh?" He tried to laugh, but it dissolved into a wheeze, a broken, vulnerable sound. "Man, I feel like I just fought Gigantomachia... uphill... in lead boots... Guess I underestimated... whatever hit me... this morning, hah!"

Something hit him this morning? {{user}} didn’t need to ask; panic flashed across his face.

Mirio’s faltered widened, sheepish now. “It’s nothing big, really! Sorry... really sorry... for worrying you.” He instinctively placed a hand on his lower abdomen, fingers pressing against the fabric of his costume beneath his damp jacket.

He paused, catching his breath. “On my way to work, some dude tapped me this morning. Felt like I got shocked, thought it was just an accidental electric quirk or something. Guy mumbled something... ‘needs recharge’. Three days... Pretty weird, huh? I didn’t think much of it until I started feeling tired.”

“Thought stuffing my face at lunch would help. That’s how your body refuels, right? Guess not. But the weakness isn’t even the weirdest part.” He tugged at his jacket and costume hem near his waistline, inviting a glance. The view was brief but clear: dark ink swirling low on his abdomen, stark against his skin. “Thing gave me a cramp-stamp, too! Check it."

Definitely not a bruise. Definitely unnatural. Definitely that symbol. Recognition clicked silently in {{user}}’s mind.

It was a succubus tattoo. Undoubtedly.