Part Two —
It began the next day.
Tomura Shigaraki lingered in the shadows across from a small café, hood drawn low. Through the glass, the man sat at a corner table, sipping coffee and scrolling on his phone—completely unaware of the eyes fixed on him.
Tomura didn't know his name yet. That detail could wait. For now, he was watching, learning. The man's habits, his routes, the people he spoke to. Every ordinary thing about him only deepened the mystery.
When the man left, Tomura followed at a careful distance, weaving through crowds like a shadow stitched to his back. At a busy intersection, the man bumped into someone. Tomura's breath caught—not in worry, but in expectation. Still nothing. His immunity wasn't a fluke. It was real.
That night, Tomura sat in his dim hideout, staring at his bare hands. His mind kept replaying the moment of contact, the solid warmth of skin under his fingers. He could touch him—really touch him—without destruction. It felt almost… intoxicating.
Days turned into weeks. The man began to feel it—eyes on him where there should be none, footsteps behind him in empty streets. He'd glance over his shoulder, but the figure was always gone.
One rainy evening, the man ducked into an alley for a shortcut. He froze when he heard slow, deliberate footsteps echoing behind him.
A voice came, low and almost amused.
"You don't break. You don't crumble. Do you have any idea what that means to me?"
Lightning flashed, revealing the pale, cracked face beneath the hood. Fingers twitched at his sides.
"I'm going to find out what you are," Tomura whispered, stepping closer, "and when I do… you're never leaving my hands."