Chapter 37


Chapter 37 - Domination or Freedom

As the workplace training week draws to a close, Izuku prepares to bid farewell to Gran Torino. Gratitude wells up inside him as he thanks his mentor for the invaluable guidance in mastering his Quirk's control. Gran Torino, ever direct, reminds Izuku of the critical boundaries—staying within the 5% limit and acknowledging how much he still has to learn.

Curiosity burning, Izuku poses a question that has been nagging at him. "Gran Torino," he asks, "you're incredibly strong. You even trained All Might. Why aren't you famous? Why didn't you become a Pro Hero?"

The old hero's eyes take on a distant look, a hint of his deeper past surfacing. "Fame was never my interest," he explains candidly. "I only got certified to use my Quirk because I needed the freedom to do so at a certain point in my life. All Might can fill you in on the rest of the details."

As Izuku prepares to depart, Gran Torino seemingly slips back into his familiar persona of senile confusion. "Who are you again?" he asks, his voice wavering.

For a moment, Izuku is taken aback, momentarily disoriented by the sudden shift. But then he understands—this is another test, another lesson. With a soft smile, he responds, "Deku."

Gran Torino's expression shifts, a subtle sign of satisfaction. He waves Izuku off, and they part ways—mentor and student, each carrying their own unspoken understanding.

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Consciousness seeps into your awareness like a slow-rising tide, and you stretch languidly, feeling the ache of muscles that have been too long confined. Your body protests—stiff from days of captivity, yet still resilient. The week of imprisonment has blended into a hazy landscape of moments, punctuated by Kurogiri's precise care.

A bowl of fish sits on the table, steam rising in delicate tendrils. They've been gradually improving your accommodations; the real bed is a testament to that—a small comfort in your otherwise constrained existence. You sigh, a sound that carries the weight of resignation, and begin to consume the soup with methodical movements.

Then—a scent interrupts your meal.

Burning meat.

The smell triggers something primal within you. A low, dangerous snarl escapes your throat, almost involuntary. Your wings—magnificent and dangerous—instinctively draw closer to your body, a protective gesture that speaks of ancient predatory instincts.

A man stands before you. Dark clothing. Dark hair. But his eyes—they're a startling, piercing blue that seems to cut through the dimness of the room.

"So you're the dragon hero that Shigaraki is so obsessed with?" he says, his voice a mix of curiosity and something darker. "I remember Stain saying something about you, too."

The silence between you stretches like a taut wire, charged with unspoken tension. Your muscles—tense beneath skin that still remembers the feeling of freedom—coil with a predator's wariness. The room, with its sterile walls and muted lighting, feels simultaneously too large and suffocatingly small.

"Who are you?" The words slip from your lips, more a growl than a question. Each syllable carries the weight of your captivity, the razor's edge between submission and rebellion.

Dabi moves—not quite a movement, more a fluid shift of shadow and muscle. His smile isn't a smile at all, but a jagged thing that cuts across his scarred skin like a wound. Those blue eyes—bright as exposed electricity—rake over you with a clinical detachment that makes your wings twitch involuntarily.

"My name is Dabi," he drawls, each word deliberate, loaded. He doesn't straighten from his casual lean against the wall, but there's nothing relaxed about his posture. It's a predator's stance, coiled and waiting.

You sniff—a sound that's part dismissal, part challenge. The remnants of the fish broth cool forgotten in your bowl. "I won't be here for very long," you respond, your voice a low, dangerous rumble. "They'll probably send me out into the field to do some ops." The promise hangs in the air, a blade waiting to be unsheathed.

His head tilts—a precise, almost mechanical movement that sends a ripple of unnervingly calculated observation your way. "You're fighting your will, aren't you?" Dabi's words are a scalpel, probing, cutting. "More attached to that hero school. Those stupid, shining heroes. More comfortable in the light than here—with us—in the shadows."

It's not a question. It's a declaration. A challenge wrapped in a statement, designed to provoke, to crack whatever internal resistance still holds you together.

Your wings—magnificent, dangerous—ruffle slightly. A warning. A promise.

The words tear from your throat—a raw, primal sound that's part snarl, part speech. Each syllable is rough-edged, like broken glass, carrying the weight of your barely contained fury. Your wings rustle behind you, a silent testament to the predatory energy coiling beneath your skin.

"So what?" The challenge erupts from you, a defiant growl that speaks of countless suppressed emotions. Your muscles tense, a predator's readiness vibrating through every fiber of your being. The room—with its sterile walls and muted lighting—seems to contract around the electricity of your rage.

Dabi's response is a sound that defies easy categorization. Part laugh, part bark, it's a chuckle that carries the edge of a knife. Scarred skin stretches across his face as his lips curl into a smile that never reaches those burning blue eyes. Those eyes—electric, piercing—drill into you with a mixture of curiosity and something darker. Something predatory.

"Haven't we done the same?" he drawls, each word measured, weighted with sardonic meaning. The casual lean of his body against the wall is anything but casual—it's a calculated pose of controlled violence. "We got you a bed, lizard."

The word "lizard" hangs in the air—part insult, part observation, a reminder of the otherness that separates you from your captors.

"Be grateful," Dabi continues, his voice a low, dangerous purr, "we didn't chain you to the wall like some of the others wanted."

The threat is implicit. The kindness is a razor blade wrapped in silk. His gaze never leaves you—watching, calculating, testing the precise moment when your restraint might shatter.

You curl up on the rickety bed—a small victory of comfort in your captivity. The mattress creaks beneath your weight, a protest of worn springs and grudging support. "Yeah, right," you mutter, your voice a low, defeated growl.

Your tail winds protectively over your head, a scaled armor of self-preservation. Eyes closed, you shut out Dabi's presence, willing yourself into a semblance of solitude. Each breath is a measured effort to push him from your consciousness.

Dabi sighs. The sound is soft, almost imperceptible—a moment of something almost like understanding. His smile fades, transforming his scarred features into something momentarily vulnerable before he turns to leave.

In the doorway, a figure stands—slight, feminine, balancing on the tips of her toes with a predatory grace. Toga, vibrant and volatile, tilts her head with childlike curiosity. "So, did she say anything?" she asks, a giggle bubbling up like poisoned champagne.

"No," Dabi responds, his blue eyes rolling with a mixture of frustration and dark amusement. "Not a word. She just told me that she liked the heroes better. That they treated her better."

Toga's giggle transforms, becoming something sharper. "Well, we'll show her precious treatment, alright."

Kurogiri, materializing like mist, hums softly—a sound of contemplation. "She's a hard nut to crack. That's true."

The conversation hangs in the air, laden with unspoken threats and calculated intentions.

Shigaraki nods, his fingers twitching against his scarred cheek—a nervous, destructive energy always lurking just beneath his skin. "Yeah," he mutters, "we'll maybe kill one of her friends to get her to listen."

The words hang in the air like a poisonous mist, casual yet loaded with absolute malevolence. He taps his cheek, the movement creating a soft rasping sound against his damaged skin—a rhythmic counterpoint to the cold calculation of his words.

"We'll have to get Stain out of her," he continues, "so we can control her."

The room seems to darken with the weight of his statement. Not from any physical change, but from the pure, unfiltered intent behind his words. Control. Manipulation. Violence—not as a last resort, but as a first strategy.

His companions—Dabi, Toga, Kurogiri—remain silent. They don't need to speak. In this moment, Shigaraki's plan is law.


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