The commentary booth was a whirlwind of energy and noise, Present Mic's voice reaching volumes that should have been physically impossible without quirk amplification—which, of course, he was absolutely using. The crowd roared with every dramatic moment, every clash of quirks, every display of determination from the young heroes below.

And Y/N Gojo sat in his chair, doing his absolute best to keep up.

"AND THERE IT IS! MIDORIYA'S MOVING—WHAT'S HIS STRATEGY HERE?!" Mic's voice boomed across the stadium.

Y/N leaned toward his microphone, his voice steady despite the exhaustion creeping through his bones. "Shinso's quirk is Brainwashing—voice-activated. Midoriya knows he can't respond verbally, so he's staying completely silent. Smart play. He's closing distance while avoiding the trigger condition entirely."

"TACTICAL GENIUS FROM OUR YOUNG HERO! BUT SHINSO'S NOT MAKING IT EASY—HE'S BAITING HIM, TRYING TO GET ANY RESPONSE!"

Below, Izuku Midoriya stood frozen, his body rigid—caught. Shinso's quirk had activated somehow, and the purple-haired student from General Studies was smirking with satisfaction.

Y/N's Six Eyes caught the moment of victory turning to confusion. Caught the sudden surge of energy from Midoriya—multiple energies, actually, like ghosts overlapping with his form. Saw the boy's finger twitch, then his whole body jerk as if shocked.

One For All's previous users, Y/N realized with something between awe and concern. They broke him out of the brainwashing. The vestiges of the quirk protecting him.

"HE'S MOVING AGAIN! MIDORIYA'S BROKEN FREE SOMEHOW!" Mic's excitement reached new heights.

"Willpower," Y/N said into his microphone, keeping his analysis simple. Truthful, but not revealing. "Sometimes sheer determination can overcome quirk effects, especially if the user's mental fortitude is strong enough. Midoriya's showing exactly that."

The match continued its dramatic conclusion—Izuku charging forward, Shinso desperately trying to trigger his quirk again, the inevitable moment when superior training and physical conditioning won out. Midoriya grabbed Shinso, pivoted, and executed a perfect shoulder throw that sent the General Studies student flying out of bounds.

The crowd erupted.

"MIDORIYA WINS! WHAT AN INCREDIBLE DISPLAY OF TACTICAL AWARENESS AND MENTAL STRENGTH!" Mic was nearly vibrating with enthusiasm.

Y/N felt something unexpected bubble up inside him—a warmth, a genuine pride that caught him off guard. His student had won. Had used strategy over raw power, had overcome a quirk specifically designed to shut down opponents, had shown growth from weeks of training.

All Might trained him well, Y/N thought, watching Izuku help Shinso to his feet in a display of sportsmanship. But it's not all thanks to All Might. The kid was always strong—he just needed someone to believe in him. To give him that push.

"Excellent analysis, Y/N!" Mic said, turning to him with a grin. "See? You're a natural at this!"

Y/N managed a smile, but it felt heavy on his face. Wrong, somehow, like wearing a mask that didn't quite fit anymore.

"AND NOW, FOLKS, WE'VE GOT A SHORT BREAK BEFORE THE NEXT MATCH!" Mic announced to the stadium. "GRAB YOUR SNACKS, VISIT THE RESTROOMS, AND GET READY FOR MORE INCREDIBLE ACTION!"

He switched off his main microphone, turning to Y/N with that same enthusiastic energy. "You doing okay, man? You've been pretty quiet today. I mean, more than your usual mysterious silent type thing."

"I'm fine," Y/N said automatically. "Just letting you handle the hype. You're better at it anyway."

"Well, yeah, obviously," Mic agreed without false modesty. "But you were supposed to be the analytical counterpoint! The cool, collected expert breaking down the technical stuff!" He studied Y/N more carefully, his expression shifting to something more concerned beneath the perpetual enthusiasm. "You sure you're good? You look... I don't know. Off?"

"Just tired," Y/N repeated, standing up from his chair. "I'm going to grab some air. You've got the next match intro covered, right?"

"Yeah, of course, but—"

"Great. Be back in a few."

Y/N was out of the booth before Mic could protest further, stepping into the corridor that ran behind the stadium seating. The noise from the crowd was muffled here, a dull roar instead of the overwhelming cacophony. He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes behind the blindfold, and tried to steady his breathing.

Something was wrong.

He'd felt it for days now—ever since the USJ attack, maybe even before. A wrongness that had nothing to do with external threats and everything to do with something internal. Something shifting inside him that he couldn't quite identify or control.

His Six Eyes were as perfect as ever, perceiving everything in infinite detail. His Limitless was functioning flawlessly, Infinity maintaining its automatic defense. His cursed energy—or whatever the equivalent was in this world of quirks—flowed without obstruction.

But he felt... tired. Genuinely, deeply tired in a way that had nothing to do with physical or mental exhaustion. It was something else. Something deeper.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The sound of footsteps approaching—measured, deliberate, familiar—cut through his thoughts. Y/N didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Those footsteps were as distinctive as a signature.

He sighed, the sound barely audible. "What is it?"

Aizawa stopped a short distance away, maintaining that careful space he always kept—close enough to talk, far enough to respect boundaries. His capture weapon hung loose around his neck, his tired eyes studying Y/N with the kind of perception that came from years of reading people, of seeing through lies and facades.

"You've been off this whole festival," Aizawa said without preamble. His voice was quiet, meant only for Y/N to hear. "I thought you were looking forward to it."

Y/N turned his head slightly, white hair catching the fluorescent corridor lighting. The blindfold remained firmly in place, hiding whatever his eyes might have revealed.

"I am," he said, injecting just enough conviction into his voice to sound genuine. "Don't worry about me—just tired."

He pushed off the wall and started walking, moving past Aizawa with that casual confidence he always projected. Nothing to see here. Everything's fine. Just the strongest being his usual self.

But Aizawa's voice stopped him after only a few steps:

"That's not the truth."

Y/N paused but didn't turn around. Silence stretched between them, filled only by the muffled sounds of the festival continuing in the stadium beyond.

"Shouta—"

"Don't," Aizawa interrupted, his tone still quiet but carrying an edge now. "Don't deflect. Don't joke. Don't give me that casual dismissal you give everyone else. I've been watching you for weeks now, Gojo. Since before the USJ attack. You think I didn't notice?"

Y/N remained motionless, his back to Aizawa, his hands sliding into his pockets in a gesture that was part defensive, part habitual.

"Notice what?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"That you're running on empty," Aizawa said bluntly. "That whatever reserves you're drawing from are depleting. That being here—teaching, protecting, constantly maintaining that persona of the unshakeable strongest—is taking something out of you that you're not getting back."

The accuracy of the observation hit harder than Y/N expected. He'd been so careful, so controlled. Maintaining the mask, keeping the facade perfect. How had Aizawa seen through it?

Because he's a teacher, a voice in his head supplied. Because reading students—reading people—is what he does. And despite all your power, all your confidence, you're not as unreadable as you think.

"I'm fine," Y/N said again, but the words sounded hollow even to him.

"No, you're not." Aizawa moved closer, close enough that Y/N could sense him just behind his shoulder. "And the fact that you won't admit it—won't ask for help, won't even acknowledge that something's wrong—that worries me more than whatever the actual problem is."

"There's nothing to acknowledge."

"Gojo." Aizawa's voice softened slightly, losing the edge but gaining something more dangerous—genuine concern. "You stopped an entire villain army at the USJ. You've been training Class 1-A to the point where they're improving at rates that shouldn't be possible. You're maintaining constant surveillance with those Six Eyes of yours, tracking threats, analyzing everything. You're commentating a major event while probably also monitoring every single student for potential danger. And you're doing all of this while pretending it costs you nothing."

He paused, letting that sink in. "But it does cost you. Everything costs something. Even for the strongest."

Y/N was quiet for a long moment. The sounds of the festival continued around them—announcements, cheers, the background noise of thousands of people celebrating heroism and youth and potential.

Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper: "What do you want me to say, Shouta?"

"The truth," Aizawa replied simply. "Whatever it is. Even if it's just 'I don't know what's wrong but something is.' I'm not asking you to have all the answers. I'm asking you to stop pretending you don't have questions."

Y/N's hands clenched in his pockets, invisible to Aizawa but visible to his own perception. He could feel it now—that wrongness, that depletion that Aizawa had somehow identified. Like a well running dry, like a battery draining, like something essential slowly fading.

He didn't know what it was. Didn't know why it was happening. Didn't know how to fix it.

And that terrified him more than he was willing to admit.

"I don't know," he said finally, the admission costing more than any battle ever had. "I don't know what's wrong. I just know that something is. And I don't know how to stop it."

Aizawa was quiet for a moment, processing this. Then: "When did it start?"

"Weeks ago. Maybe longer. It's subtle—I only noticed it recently." Y/N finally turned around, facing Aizawa fully. "My quirk functions perfectly. My abilities haven't diminished. I'm not injured or sick in any conventional sense. But something's... draining. Something essential. And I have no idea what or why."

"Have you told anyone else?"

"No. There's nothing to tell. I don't have enough information to—"

"Gojo," Aizawa interrupted. "This is exactly the kind of thing you should be reporting to Recovery Girl or Nezu. They might have insights you don't. This world works differently than wherever you came from—maybe your quirk is interacting with something here in an unexpected way."

Y/N hadn't considered that. His Six Eyes perceived everything about this world's physics, its energy systems, its quirk mechanics. But maybe there was something he was missing. Something his foreign nature—his nature as something that didn't quite belong in this world—was causing to malfunction.

"I'll think about it," he said, which they both knew was code for 'probably not but I'm saying this to end the conversation.'

Aizawa sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. "You're impossible. You know that?"

"It's been mentioned," Y/N said, his usual humor creeping back into his voice like armor being reequipped.

"The students need you," Aizawa said seriously. "Whatever this is, whatever's happening—we need to figure it out before it becomes a problem. Before you're in a situation where you can't protect them because you're too depleted to function."

"That won't happen."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do." Y/N's voice carried absolute certainty. "Because I won't let it. Whatever's happening to me, I'll handle it. The students will be safe. That's not negotiable."

Aizawa studied him for a long moment, those tired eyes seeing more than Y/N was comfortable with. Finally, he nodded slowly.

"Alright. But I'm keeping an eye on you. And if this gets worse—if you show any signs of actual impairment—I'm dragging you to Recovery Girl myself. Understood?"

"Understood," Y/N agreed, knowing that Aizawa absolutely would follow through on that threat.

From the stadium, Present Mic's amplified voice boomed: "ALRIGHT FOLKS, BREAK'S OVER! TIME FOR OUR NEXT MATCH! WHERE'S MY CO-COMMENTATOR? GOJO, YOU BETTER BE BACK HERE!"

Y/N couldn't help but smile slightly. "Duty calls."

"Go," Aizawa said. "But Gojo? Whatever this is, you're not alone in dealing with it. Remember that."

Y/N nodded, turning back toward the commentary booth. But as he walked away, Aizawa's words echoed in his mind.

You're not alone.

When had he ever been anything but alone? Even surrounded by people, by friends, by students—there was always that fundamental isolation that came with being the strongest. The burden no one else could share because no one else could understand.

But maybe—just maybe—Aizawa was right.

Maybe this time, he didn't have to carry it alone.

He stepped back into the commentary booth, sliding into his seat with practiced ease. Present Mic shot him a relieved look.

"You good, man?"

"Yeah," Y/N said, adjusting his microphone. "Let's do this."

Below, the next match was beginning. Students giving their all, pushing their limits, striving to be heroes.

And Y/N Gojo, despite the wrongness eating at him from the inside, despite the exhaustion he couldn't name, despite everything—

He watched. He commentated. He supported.

Because that's what teachers did.

Even when they were falling apart themselves.

The League of Villains' hideout was a decrepit place—abandoned, forgotten by society, perfect for those who existed in the shadows. Dim lighting flickered overhead, casting long shadows across peeling walls and cracked concrete floors. The air smelled of mold and stale smoke, punctuated by the faint metallic tang of old blood that never quite washed away.

In the center of the main room sat Shigaraki Tomura, hunched over a worn table littered with photographs, news clippings, and hastily drawn diagrams. His pale fingers scratched relentlessly at his neck, leaving fresh red marks that joined the constellation of older ones—a nervous habit that intensified with stress and frustration.

And right now, he was very stressed. Very frustrated.

"I don't understand, Master," he said to the flickering television screen mounted on the opposite wall. His voice carried that high-pitched edge of agitation, like a child trying to explain why they'd failed a test. "We planned everything perfectly. We studied the facility. We brought our best fighters. We even brought the Nomu—your masterpiece designed specifically to kill All Might."

He scratched harder, his nails digging into already irritated skin. "And we couldn't land a single hit. Not one. That man—Gojo—he stopped everything. Made us look like children playing at villainy."

The television hummed with static for a moment before a voice emerged—distorted, mechanical, deliberately obscured but carrying an undercurrent of ancient power that made even the air feel heavier.

"I see," All For One said, his tone deceptively mild. "Tell me, Tomura. This Gojo. Describe him to me. Everything."

Behind Shigaraki, the shadows shifted. Kurogiri materialized fully, his misty form coalescing into something almost solid. The warp villain moved with practiced silence to a small counter in the corner, retrieving a chipped teacup and a bottle of amber liquid—definitely not tea, despite his careful movements suggesting otherwise.

Shigaraki's hands stilled on his neck as he recalled the encounter. His red eyes, visible through the fingers of the severed hand covering his face, took on a distant quality.

"He's tall. White hair. Wears a blindfold over his eyes, but he can see—he can see everything. His quirk..." Shigaraki paused, struggling to find words adequate to describe what he'd experienced. "He called it Limitless. Said he controls space itself. We couldn't touch him, Master. Couldn't get within centimeters of him. Everything just... stopped. Like the universe itself was protecting him."

"Infinity," All For One murmured, and there was something in his tone—recognition? Interest? "A barrier that divides space infinitely. Zeno's Paradox made manifest. Fascinating. What else?"

"He used some kind of... Domain? Called it Unlimited Void. Trapped me in white nothingness and fed information directly into my brain. Said he could have left me there until my mind shattered." Shigaraki's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Master, I believed him. That wasn't a threat. That was a fact."

Kurogiri placed the cup in front of Shigaraki with deliberate gentleness, the amber liquid sloshing slightly. "Drink, Shigaraki Tomura. You've been agitated since we returned."

Shigaraki grabbed the cup with four fingers—always careful, always aware—and downed it in one gulp. The alcohol burned, but it was grounding. Real. Unlike that endless white void.

The television screen flickered, the static intensifying before All For One spoke again. His voice carried something new now—calculation, strategy, the sound of a mind centuries old processing new information and finding possibilities.

"This Gojo is more than just a powerful hero," All For One said thoughtfully. "The abilities you describe—spatial manipulation, domain expansion, those terms—they're not standard hero language. He's something else. Something from outside our normal paradigm."

"Does it matter what he is?" Shigaraki asked, frustration bleeding back into his voice. "He stopped us. Completely. Our entire plan fell apart because of one man. How are we supposed to kill All Might if we can't even get past his teacher?"

"You're thinking too small, Tomura," All For One chided gently, the way a parent might correct a child's arithmetic. "Yes, Gojo is powerful. Perhaps even more powerful than All Might in raw capability. But power alone doesn't determine victory. There are other ways to neutralize threats."

"Like?"

"Understanding," All For One said simply. "Every quirk has weaknesses, limitations, costs. Even one as seemingly absolute as Limitless must have vulnerabilities. We simply need to discover them."

Kurogiri stepped forward, his yellow eyes glowing softly in the dim light. "Master, if I may—Gojo mentioned that his blindfold helps him manage sensory input from his quirk. That suggests his Six Eyes, as he called them, are always active. Always perceiving. That level of constant awareness must come at a cost."

"Excellent observation," All For One praised. "Yes, there's always a cost. The question is: what is it? Mental exhaustion? Physical strain? Some other resource we haven't identified? We need more information."

Shigaraki leaned back, his fingers resuming their scratching at his neck. "How do we get information on someone that powerful? We can't exactly capture him for study. We can barely survive being in the same building as him."

"There are other methods of gathering intelligence," All For One said, and his tone carried that quality of ancient scheming, of plans within plans. "Observation. Research. Exploitation of connections. Tell me, did Gojo show particular concern for anyone during your attack?"

Shigaraki thought back, his mind replaying the chaos at the USJ. "The students," he said slowly. "He was furious when we threatened the students. And that green-haired kid—Midoriya—he seemed especially protective of him."

"Midoriya Izuku," All For One murmured, and there was definite interest now. "The boy who smells like All Might. The one you observed. Yes, there are connections there. Threads we can pull."

The television screen brightened slightly, casting strange shadows across the room. "Here's what we're going to do, Tomura. We're going to wait. Watch. Gather information. The U.A. Sports Festival is happening right now—perfect opportunity to observe these students, to see what they can do. To identify weaknesses, relationships, pressure points."

"And then?" Shigaraki asked, leaning forward eagerly.

"Then we strike," All For One said with quiet certainty. "But not directly. Not yet. We'll use proxies. Test their defenses. Push them gradually. Force them to reveal more about their capabilities while keeping our own cards hidden."

He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice carried a darker edge. "And regarding Gojo specifically—we need to understand something, Tomura. A man that powerful, that confident, that seemingly invincible... he's either genuinely without weakness, or he's hiding vulnerabilities he doesn't want anyone to discover. I suspect the latter."

"Why?"

"Because no one is truly invincible," All For One said simply. "I've lived long enough to know that truth intimately. Everyone has something they fear losing. Everyone has limits, even if they themselves don't recognize them. We just need to find Gojo's."

Shigaraki nodded slowly, his mind already churning with possibilities. His fingers had stilled on his neck, replaced by a different kind of energy—focused, purposeful.

"I want All Might's head on my wall before this year is over," All For One continued, his voice taking on that commanding quality that brooked no argument. "But to get to All Might, we may need to deal with Gojo first. So we watch. We learn. And when the moment is right, we act."

The screen went dark with a sharp click, leaving the room in tense silence broken only by the hum of dying electronics and distant water dripping somewhere in the building's depths.

Shigaraki slumped against the table, his fingers immediately resuming their twitching. His mind was racing—replaying the USJ attack, analyzing what went wrong, trying to find angles and approaches for future attempts.

Kurogiri placed a hand on his shoulder—a gesture of support from the only consistent presence in Shigaraki's chaotic life. "Are you all right, sir?"

Shigaraki was quiet for a long moment. His red eyes, visible through the severed hand covering his face, stared at the darkened television screen with an intensity that bordered on obsessive.

"Yes," he finally said, though his voice was tight with barely controlled emotion. "Or... I will be. Once we take All Might's head..."

He paused, and something new entered his expression—not just the childish frustration of a failed plan, but something more complex. Something that might have been respect mixed with resentment. Fascination mixed with fear.

"And bring Y/N Gojo to our side."

Kurogiri's misty form solidified slightly in surprise. "Sir? You want to recruit him? After what happened at the USJ? After he threatened to—"

"I know what he threatened," Shigaraki interrupted, his fingers scratching harder at his neck. "I remember every word. Every second of being trapped in that void. But that's exactly why we need him, Kurogiri. Think about it. Someone that powerful, with abilities that make him essentially untouchable—if he were working with us instead of against us..."

He turned to face Kurogiri fully, and despite the hand covering most of his face, his excitement was palpable. "Master wants to destroy hero society. Wants to show the world that their symbols can fall. And what better way to do that than turning one of their strongest defenders into one of us?"

"That seems... unlikely to succeed," Kurogiri said carefully. "Gojo appears deeply committed to protecting the students. To his role as a teacher. What could we possibly offer that would make him betray that?"

Shigaraki's smile was visible in the slight shift of the hand covering his face. "Everyone has a price, Kurogiri. Everyone has something they want badly enough to compromise their principles. We just need to figure out what Gojo's is."

He stood up, pacing now, his energy shifting from frustrated to manic with planning. "Master said to watch. To learn. So that's what we'll do. We'll study Gojo. Learn everything about him. Where he came from. What he cares about. What he fears. What he wants. And then..."

He scratched his neck one more time, leaving fresh red marks. "Then we'll make him an offer he can't refuse. Or we'll destroy him. Either way, he won't be a problem for our plans anymore."

Kurogiri remained silent, his yellow eyes studying his young charge with something between concern and curiosity. Shigaraki Tomura was unstable, impulsive, prone to tantrums and destruction when things didn't go his way.

But he was also learning. Growing. Becoming more strategic under All For One's tutelage.

"Very well, sir," Kurogiri said finally. "I will begin gathering information on Gojo. Discreetly, of course. We don't want to alert him to our interest."

"Good." Shigaraki moved to the wall covered in photographs and clippings—images of heroes, students, targets. He stared at the center image: All Might, the Symbol of Peace, smiling that infuriating, confident smile.

Next to it, Shigaraki placed a new photograph—one hastily taken during the USJ attack by a villain with a camera quirk before they'd been neutralized. It showed Y/N Gojo standing in the central plaza, blindfold in place, surrounded by incapacitated villains, one hand raised with blue energy crackling around his fingers.

"All Might and Gojo," Shigaraki muttered, his fingers tracing the edge of both photographs. "The Symbol of Peace and the Strongest. Both of them standing in our way. Both of them thinking they're invincible."

He scratched his neck one final time, his nails leaving deeper marks. "We'll show them. We'll show everyone. Heroes can fall. Symbols can crumble. And even the strongest can be broken."

Kurogiri watched in silence as Shigaraki continued to stare at the photographs, his obsession solidifying into something more dangerous than simple revenge.

This wasn't just about completing a mission anymore. This was personal.

And in the shadows of that decrepit hideout, surrounded by the decay of forgotten places, the seeds of something terrible continued to grow.

Meanwhile, at the U.A. Sports Festival...

Y/N Gojo had no idea that his name was being discussed in villain hideouts. Had no idea that he'd become a target not just for elimination, but for recruitment. Had no idea that his display of power at the USJ—meant to protect his students—had inadvertently painted an even bigger target on his back.

He simply continued commentating, watching his students compete, maintaining his facade of unshakeable confidence.

Unaware that somewhere in the darkness, villains were studying him.

Learning his patterns.

Searching for his weaknesses.

Planning their next move.

The game had changed.

And Y/N Gojo was about to discover that being the strongest made you not just a protector, but a target.