A week had crawled by, each agonizing second slower than the last, and I remained bound and shackled in the dimly lit hideout of the League of Villains. The chains rattled every time I shifted, their cold bite a constant reminder that freedom was a distant dream. Not that I expected anyone to come bursting through the walls in a heroic rescue. This wasn't some fairytale, and I certainly wasn't anyone's damsel in distress. I snorted at the thought, the sound echoing faintly against the stone walls.

My so-called "friends"? They probably assumed I was either dead or irretrievably lost to villainous clutches. Even Muerte, with all his cryptic wisdom and flair for drama, wouldn't dare set foot in this pit of chaos. He knew my fate as well as I did—grim, inevitable, and wrapped in an air of "Oh well, sucks to be her."

"You're awfully quiet today," came Dabi's familiar drawl from across the room. He leaned lazily against a battered couch, tossing a charred playing card between his hands. His smirk was the kind of smug that begged for a fireball to the face.

"Sorry," I said dryly, flicking my tail as best as I could in my confined state. "Guess I've run out of witty banter after a week of being treated like a houseplant."

Dabi barked a laugh, his scarred face twisting into something that could almost pass for amusement. "Cheer up, princess. At least we're not feeding you scraps. That deer leg from last night was pretty gourmet, huh?"

I rolled my eyes, the chains clinking in protest. "Yes, thank you, Michelin-starred villain cuisine is exactly what I dreamed of."

"Don't tempt me to downgrade your menu," he shot back, flipping the card into the air and catching it with a flourish. "We could always switch to canned tuna."

From the corner, Toga piped up, perched on a crate with an unsettling grin plastered across her face. "Oh, but I think Onyx is adorable just the way she is. Maybe we should have tea parties! Doesn't that sound fun?"

"Yeah, sounds like a blast," I muttered, glaring at the blonde menace. "Let me pencil that in right after 'escape my kidnappers' and 'don't lose my mind.'"

As she giggled to herself, Shigaraki sauntered into the room, his perpetual air of irritation trailing behind him like a storm cloud. He spared me a glance, those crimson eyes flickering with something unreadable before he groaned and rubbed at his temple.

"Dabi, Toga, do you have to annoy the hostage?" he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the dull monotony of my captivity.

"Hey, she started it," Dabi retorted, jerking a thumb in my direction.

"Did not," I shot back, and immediately felt ridiculous for arguing like a child. What was next, sticks and stones?

Shigaraki sighed, exasperated, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I swear, babysitting a dragon is more trouble than it's worth."

"Dragon queen," I corrected, my tone dripping with mock authority. "If I'm gonna be stuck here, you might as well get it right."

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I saw something almost human in him. Almost. Then he turned and barked an order at Toga to "stop looking at Onyx like she's a snack," and the moment was gone.

I sighed, resting my head against the cold wall behind me. A week in, and I was already turning into one of them—a smartass with a penchant for gallows humor. Maybe this wasn't a fairytale after all. Maybe it was a sitcom. A really, really twisted sitcom.

Twice and Mr. Compress strolled into the room, their arrival announced by the rustling of bags and Twice's usual chatter. "Food delivery! Villain Eats is here, no refunds, no receipts!" Twice declared, his voice ping-ponging between excitement and a gruff mumble. Mr. Compress, ever the showman, held the bags aloft like they were priceless treasures.

"We bring sustenance!" he proclaimed, bowing theatrically. His gaze flicked toward me, and his cheerful demeanor faltered slightly. "Why so silent today, Onyx? Cat got your tongue?"

I didn't bother turning to acknowledge him, my focus pinned resolutely on the cracked and faded wall in front of me. The silence stretched awkwardly as Dabi and Toga exchanged a glance, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern—not for me, of course, but for the sudden dampening of their entertainment.

Twice hummed, his dual-toned musings filling the void. "She's mad! No, she's sad! Maybe she's plotting to escape and burn us all alive!"

"Twice, don't give her ideas," Dabi muttered, lazily tossing his playing card onto a nearby table.

Toga, perched on her crate like an eager cat, tilted her head at me, golden eyes glinting with amusement. "She's just being dramatic. Isn't that right, Onyx?"

I didn't respond, and for once, her grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion.

Mr. Compress sighed, his mask catching the dim light as he set the bags down. "Such a waste of my theatrics. You know, a captive audience is supposed to appreciate the effort, Onyx."

"I'll go make something," Magne chimed in, her tone a blend of practicality and irritation. She snatched the bags with a determined air and headed toward the decrepit kitchen, the door creaking ominously as it swung shut behind her.

I didn't have to look to know what awaited her—peeling wallpaper, rotting countertops, and a fridge that probably hadn't worked since the turn of the century. The villains, for all their theatrics, clearly didn't believe in proper living conditions.

"You know," Dabi said, breaking the silence, "if you keep ignoring us like this, we're going to start thinking you actually don't like us." His voice dripped with mock hurt, though his smirk betrayed his true amusement.

Still, I said nothing, my gaze fixed ahead as if the wall might suddenly reveal the secrets of the universe. It wasn't that I didn't have words—I had plenty. But why waste them on people who were more interested in playing games than understanding the storm churning inside me?

"Maybe she's plotting something," Toga whispered conspiratorially to Twice.

"Yeah, definitely plotting. Or sleeping. Or...sleep-plotting?" Twice mused, scratching his head.

Mr. Compress snapped his fingers dramatically. "Or perhaps she's simply too stunned by the grandeur of our hospitality."

I rolled my eyes at that one, the faintest of reactions, but it didn't go unnoticed.

"Ah! There's life in her yet," Compress declared, clapping his hands together.

"Barely," Dabi quipped, and the room dissolved into low chuckles, the villains' laughter echoing faintly in the dim, crumbling hideout.

I let them have their fun. Let them think I was broken, lost, or quietly stewing in defeat. I had my own plans, even if they didn't know it yet.

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Cold darkness wrapped around me like a suffocating shroud, and I squinted through the haze. A glint of crimson pierced the void, unblinking, its source concealed in the shadows. Slowly, the figure emerged—a familiar, skeletal snout coated in muted gray. Muerte. His hood was pulled low over his gaunt face, casting deeper shadows around the sockets of his unyielding red eyes. The twin scythes strapped to his back gleamed dully, their sharp edges a haunting reminder of who he was.

He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as though approaching something fragile. His paw lifted, cupping my snout with surprising gentleness for one with so much blood on his claws. "You aren't ready to join me yet, love," he murmured, his voice softer than I had expected, carrying an edge of desperation. "Keep on fighting, please. Don't let go. Don't let life slip away yet."

I narrowed my glowing green eyes at him, the betrayal twisting hotly in my chest. "You knew this would happen, didn't you?" My voice was sharp, cutting through the oppressive air like the strike of a blade. "You knew I'd end up here, captured by these scumbags."

He flinched, the flaring glow of his eyes dimming slightly. His grip loosened as though my accusation had struck a nerve. "What?" he stammered, his tone defensive but laced with guilt. "No. I don't choose your life, Onyx. Fate does."

I scoffed, the bitterness in my throat threatening to choke me. "That's convenient."

Muerte exhaled, the sound weary and hollow, as though carrying the weight of millennia. "You know she's not happy I chose you," he said quietly, his words laced with something between regret and resolve.

"She?" I growled.

"Fate," he said, his gaze flickering away from mine for just a moment. "She's not happy that I interfered, that I...picked you. She doesn't approve of interference."

I felt my lips curl into a snarl. "So what? I'm some pawn in your celestial lovers' spat now? How noble of you."

His paw tightened on my snout, not enough to hurt, but enough to command my attention. "Don't mistake my choices as easy, Onyx," he said, his voice dropping into a chilling rumble. "I defied the natural order for you. And I'd do it again. But that doesn't mean I can control what happens to you."

His words hung heavy in the darkness, and for the first time, I saw something behind his stoic, deathly demeanor: fear. Fear that he might lose me, or perhaps fear that he already had.

I turned my face away from his touch, the weight of everything pressing too hard on my chest. "Then why are you even here, Muerte?"

His silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity before he answered. "Because you are fighting to live. And as long as you're fighting, I'll be here to remind you why."

Muerte leaned in, his breath cold against my face as his snout gently brushed against mine. The contact was unexpectedly tender, a contradiction to the eternal force he represented. His crimson eyes softened, losing some of their unyielding sharpness. "Please, Life," he murmured, his voice low and aching. "Don't leave me. There cannot be death without life, just as there cannot be life without death. We need each other. Without you, I am nothing. If you faded away, so would all of U.A., all of the world."

His gaze deepened, a flicker of vulnerability beneath his usually stoic expression. "And only Fate holds the reins," he admitted, his tone heavy with resignation.

The words sank deep into me, but instead of comfort, they only ignited the storm inside. I hissed softly, my ears pinning back, anger and shame bubbling to the surface. "I'm a disgrace!" I snapped, my voice a mix of rage and despair. "I shouldn't even be a goddess!"

The admission hung in the air, raw and jagged, slicing through the quiet that surrounded us.

Muerte's eyes bore into mine, unflinching despite my outburst. "You think gods are perfect?" he asked, his tone taking on a sharpness I hadn't expected. "That we don't feel fear, or guilt, or the weight of our own existence?" His paw moved to my cheek, holding me steady as I tried to turn away.

"You are more than just a title, Onyx. You're flawed, yes. But those flaws make you real. They make you alive."

I growled low in my throat, the battle between my anger and his words raging within me. "And what if I don't want to be alive?" I challenged, my voice trembling despite its venom.

Muerte's grip tightened slightly, his expression hardening. "Then you doom the world to endless darkness," he said, his voice cold but edged with desperation. "You doom me to emptiness. And you let Fate win."

His final words struck a chord, the weight of them crashing down like a tidal wave. My breath hitched, my anger wavering as doubt crept in. I looked away, unable to meet his eyes, but his paw remained steady on my cheek, grounding me in the moment.

"I don't need you to be perfect," he said softly, the icy steel in his tone melting away. "I just need you to fight."

Muerte's gaze locked onto mine, his crimson eyes shimmering with a mix of emotions I couldn't untangle—desperation, hope, maybe even something deeper. Time seemed to slow, the cold, dark air around us fading into an almost tangible stillness. His paw remained on my cheek, steady yet gentle, a stark contrast to the chaos that churned within me.

And then, without warning, he leaned closer, his movements deliberate but unhurried. His snout brushed mine again, but this time, there was no distance between us. The touch was soft, unexpected, and electric, a collision of cold death and burning life.

He kissed me.

It wasn't the kind of kiss born of desperation or impulse, but one layered with meaning, as though he was trying to remind me of something I'd forgotten. The icy chill of his presence was there, but so was a strange warmth—a fleeting spark of connection between two forces that were never meant to touch, let alone intertwine.

My breath caught, my wings twitching involuntarily as the sensation rooted me to the spot. The weight of my despair seemed to lighten, if only for a moment, as though Muerte was trying to siphon some of it away, to carry a burden that had grown too heavy for me alone.

When he pulled back, his paw still cupped my cheek, his crimson eyes searched mine, seeking something I wasn't sure I could give. "Please," he murmured, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it. "Fight for me. Fight for them. For yourself."

I blinked, my thoughts a chaotic blur. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I didn't know what to say. The storm inside me quieted, just enough to hear the faintest whisper of hope.