The television screen was a frantic, flickering window into a world coming apart at the seams.
"—reporting live from the Kansai district, where the so-called 'Ripper-Rippers' gang has effectively seized control of the commercial sector," A newscaster's voice trembled, the professional polish cracking under the strain. Behind her, the backdrop was a haze of orange fire and swirling black smoke.
"Local hero agencies are overwhelmed, and police barricades have been pushed back for the third time this hour. We're receiving unconfirmed reports of looting and… and hostages being taken inside the Mega-Mart—"
SMASH!
The report ended not with a station sign-off, but with the sound of shattering plate glass. The camera jolted, spun, and crashed to the ground, showing a dizzying view of running boots and fallen equipment before the feed died into static.
In a different part of the city, in a small electronics store that had so far been spared, the owner and a few cowering customers watched the static, their faces pale. A moment later, their own front window exploded inwards. A man with elongated, prehensile fingers; the Quirk user who had just been on television; leaped through the opening, his face split in a manic, gold-toothed grin. He snatched the large flatscreen TV from its mount, yanking the cords from the wall.
"Lookie what I won!" he cackled to his companions outside, hefting the TV like a trophy. "A front-row seat to my own damn success story!" His laughter echoed down the street, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph in the chaos. This was the new normal. This was the jackpot.
Three blocks over, the air smelled of ozone, spilled gasoline, and fear.
"Back off! I'm warning you!" The hero, a C-Lister known as Blink for his short-range teleportation Quirk, had his hands up. His costume was smudged with soot, and a cut on his forehead bled freely into his eye. He was facing down four villains, their Quirks a low-grade arsenal of menace; one with hardened knuckles, another who could spit globs of acidic saliva, and two bruisers with lead pipes.
"Ooh, he's warning us," mocked the lead thug, a brute named Gash, tapping a pipe against his palm. "You hear that, boys? The little hero's got a warning for us."
Blink's eyes darted, calculating a teleportation vector. He could grab the one on the left, disarm him, maybe use him as a shield—
"This doesn't have to get ugly. Just disperse, and we can—"
He never finished the sentence. As he focused on the four in front of him, he failed to sense the fifth, a man with a chameleon-like Quirk, who dropped from a fire escape directly above him. The world exploded in a constellation of white-hot pain as a pipe connected with the back of his skull.
His vision swam, his knees buckling. The teleportation fizzled out, a misfired spark in his brain. He collapsed onto the cracked asphalt.
"Ugly?" Gash laughed, stepping forward. The others closed in, a tightening circle of shadows. "You think this is ugly? This is just Tuesday, you dumb bastard."
The first kick caught him in the ribs. He heard, more than felt, a sickening crack. A glob of acid hit his shoulder, and his costume sizzled, the smell of burning synthetic fiber and searing flesh filling his nostrils. He cried out, a short, choked sound.
"Where's your Symbol now, huh?" Gash snarled, bringing his face down close to Blink's. "Where's your big, smiling savior? Six feet under, that's where!"
The pipe came down again, this time on his back. Agony lanced through his nervous system.
"You heroes are a joke!" another goon spat, kicking him in the gut. "All talk, no bite! The strong do what they want, and the weak get what they deserve! That's the real law!"
"Yeah!" another chimed in, laughing as he stomped on Blink's outstretched hand, the bones crunching under his boot. "What the hell can you damn heroes do now?! You should've minded your own damn business!"
The beating was methodical, brutal. It wasn't a fight; it was a statement. A lesson. With every blow, they were erasing the ghost of All Might, proving that his era was dead and buried. When they were done, Gash hawked a wad of phlegm onto the hero's broken, twitching form.
"Come on," he grunted to his crew. "Let's go find some real fun."
They turned, their laughter echoing in the alley as they left Blink to bleed out in the dark, a discarded piece of a broken world.
They didn't get far.
A figure dropped from the rooftops, landing in the mouth of the alley with the silence of a falling shadow. He stood there, blocking their exit to the main street, a tall, wiry silhouette against the distant glow of the burning city.
"Hey! The hell's your problem, old man?" Gash barked, hefting his pipe. "Get out of the way before you get hurt."
The figure took a step forward, into the dim, jaundiced light of a flickering streetlamp. He was clad in dark, tattered fabrics, with a horrifying array of knives and blades strapped to his body. But it was his face that gave them pause; the heavy, industrial respirator, the piercing, bloodshot eyes that burned with a fervor that was entirely alien to their simple greed.
Stain's gaze swept over them, then past them, to the broken heap of the hero they'd left for dead. A low, guttural sound rumbled in his throat.
"You…" he said, his voice muffled but razor-sharp. "You filth. You dare to preach your 'law' while you stomp the only ones with even a shred of conviction left?"
Gash blinked, then let out a forced laugh. "You some kind of hero fanboy? Get lost, you creepy freak! Or we'll put you in a hospital bed next to your friend back there!"
One of the bruisers, eager to please, charged Stain with a roar, pipe raised high. It was a clumsy, telegraphed swing.
Stain didn't so much as dodge; he flowed. He sidestepped the blow with an almost contemptuous ease, his hand a blur. A long, serrated knife flashed in the poor light. The bruiser stumbled past him, his roar cutting off into a wet gurgle as a crimson line opened across his throat. He collapsed, clutching his neck, drowning in his own blood.
The alley went silent, save for the choking sounds.
"He was fast!" the acidic spitter yelled, panic edging his voice. He let loose a volley of globs. Stain moved like a dancer in a rainstorm, his body contorting, every movement precise and economical. Not a single drop touched him. He flicked his wrist, and a throwing knife embedded itself deep in the spitter's shoulder, severing tendons. The man screamed, his Quirk-arm going limp.
"You monster!" the second bruiser cried as he swung his pipe wildly.
This time, Stain met the attack head-on. He dropped low, the pipe whistling over his head, and lunged forward. His blade plunged into the man's thigh, finding the femoral artery. He ripped it sideways. A torrent of blood painted the alley wall. The man's eyes went wide with shock before he crumpled.
Gash, the leader, was backing away now, his bravado evaporated, replaced by primal fear. He turned to run, but Stain was faster. A second throwing knife sprouted from the back of Gash's knee, and he went down with a shriek of agony.
Stain walked over to him slowly, the sound of his boots on the pavement the only thing Gash could hear. He rolled the terrified man over with his foot.
"P-Please… don't…" Gash begged, his hands raised.
"You spoke of the strong and the weak," Stain murmured, his eyes boring into Gash's soul. "But you are not strong. You are a parasite. A disease that feasts on the rot of a society that has lost its way." He leaned down, his voice a venomous whisper.
"You are not worthy of this world."
The katana was a silver arc in the darkness. It was over in an instant.
Silence returned to the alley, deeper and more profound than before. Stain stood amidst the carnage he had wrought, his chest heaving not from exertion, but from righteous fury. He walked over to the fallen hero, Blink, and looked down at him. There was no pity in his eyes, only a grim, clinical assessment.
He knelt, applying a rudimentary pressure bandage from a pouch on his belt to the worst of the hero's wounds. It was not an act of compassion, but of preservation. A true hero, even a flawed and weak one, was a resource. A symbol to be protected from the filth.
As he worked, he muttered to the unconscious man, his voice a low, continuous growl of discontent.
"Unlawfully lawless… This is the festering wound All Might's absence has left. A city of fakes and pretenders, criminals without code, and heroes without spine… This decadence… this stench of false idols… it all must be purged."
He finished his work and stood, his dark figure outlined against the hellish glow of the city. He was not a solution. He was a symptom of the same sickness; a fever dream of purity in a world dying of infection. And as he melted back into the shadows, it was clear: the long, cold night had truly begun, and it was breeding its own, terrible monsters.
__________________
A black sedan pulled up to the imposing, modernist structure of the Endeavor Agency, but there was no fanfare, no cheers. Instead, a wave of shouted questions and the blinding glare of camera flashes crashed against the tinted windows like physical blows.
"He's here!"
"Endeavor!"
Before the car had even fully stopped, a swarm of reporters surged past the flimsy police barricades, their microphones and recorders thrusted forward like weapons. His sidekicks, led by a grim-faced Burnin', moved with practiced speed, forming a human wall between their boss and the media frenzy.
"Endeavor! The crime rate in the Kyushu region has spiked 300%! What is your agency doing?!"
"Can you comment on the retirement of Rock Lock and the severe injury of Gunhead? Are heroes just giving up?"
"Is it true the HPSC is considering martial law in some districts?!"
The questions were daggers, each one finding its mark. But the final, inevitable one cut the deepest.
"Endeavor! Five years on, do you feel you have truly earned the Number One spot, or are you just occupying a dead man's chair?"
Enji Todoroki didn't flinch, nor did he snarl. He simply stared straight ahead, his jaw a granite line, his eyes hidden behind the flickering orange glow of his fiery beard. He moved through the gauntlet like a battleship plowing through a choppy sea, his massive shoulders set, his silence being far more intimidating than any roar. He was a fortress, and the drawbridge was sealed shut.
Burnin' shoved the last reporter aside, her own expression a mask of contained fury. "That's enough! The Flame Hero has no comment! Clear the area!"
The heavy reinforced doors of the agency hissed shut, muting the cacophony into a dull, persistent roar. The silence inside was thick and heavy, broken only by the frantic beating of Endeavor's own heart in his ears.
He didn't speak to his staff. He didn't stop at the command center. He walked directly to his private office on the top floor, a spacious, minimalist room that felt more like a mausoleum than a place of work. The door clicked shut with a sound of finality.
For a long moment, he just stood there, his back to the door, his fists clenched at his sides. The composure he'd maintained outside fractured. The heat in the room spiked, causing the air to waver. With a guttural sound of frustration, he swept a stack of case files from his desk. They scattered across the polished floor, a blizzard of failed missions and escalating threats.
He slumped into his chair, the reinforced leather groaning under his weight. He buried his face in his hands, the flames of his beard receding to a low, sullen smolder. The image of the reporters, their accusatory faces, blended with the memory of a hundred other failures. There was just too much. The entire structure was collapsing, and he, the supposed pillar, was being crushed by the rubble.
A soft knock came at the door before it opened. Burnin' stepped in, her usual fiery bravado extinguished. "Boss… they're still out there. I've tripled security on the perimeter."
Endeavor didn't look up. "It doesn't matter."
"We got the latest casualty and retirement reports from the Commission," she continued, her voice hesitant.
"It's… not good. Another six from the Tokyo agencies handed in their licenses this morning. The morale… it's just gone."
Endeavor finally lifted his head, his eyes tired. "Who?"
"Mostly mid-tiers. But… there's a big one." Burnin' took a deep breath.
"Hawks."
That got a reaction. Endeavor's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing.
"Hawks? He's Number Two. He doesn't get to 'retire'."
"He's not retiring. Officially. The HPSC is listing him as on 'temporary leave'." She made air quotes, her expression skeptical. "He said he's 're-evaluating his operational capacity' and needs to 'keep a low profile for a while'. His words were very… vague."
The name 'Hawks' was a key that unlocked a chest of horrors Endeavor had tried to bury. A conflicted, tormented look twisted his features, it was happening all over again…
One Year prior…
The conference room was filled with the top ten heroes and HPSC strategists. The mood was one of grim, desperate resolve. For four years, they had been fighting a hydra. Cut off one head of crime, two more grew. But finally, they had traced the neck back to the body.
"The pattern is undeniable," a Commission analyst stated, holographic maps and data streams floating in the air. "The coordination, the resources, the emergence of these 'Nomu' creatures… it all points to a single, central intelligence. The demon lord All For One."
A file photo of a smiling, suited man from a century ago appeared, sending a chill through the room.
"We have confirmed he was All Might's arch-nemesis. We believe he was the one who inflicted the injury that eventually killed him. But our intelligence suggests his victory cost him dearly. He is weakened. Hiding. And we have a lead." The analyst highlighted a derelict industrial zone on the coast. "We believe this is a primary Nomu manufacturing site. And he may be there, overseeing it."
Endeavor stood, his flames flaring. "Then we strike. Now. With everything we have. We cut the head off the snake."
It felt like destiny. This was his chance. To avenge the rival he could never surpass, to secure his legacy, to prove to the world; and to himself; that the new era was strong enough to clean up its own mess.
Two days later, under the cover of a moonless night, they descended on the facility. It was a trap.
The doors sealed behind them. The lights blazed on, revealing a cavernous space that was less a factory and more a charnel house. And waiting for them were not just a few High-End Nomu, but a small army.
The fight was a massacre from the beginning.
But the true horror emerged from the shadows. It was a hulking, black, brain-exposed beak creature. It moved with a speed that defied physics, tanking hits that would level buildings without flinching. It was designed with one purpose.
"It's… it's matching All Might's power!" someone screamed over the comms, their voice cracking with panic.
Endeavor faced it, unleashing hellfire that turned steel girders to molten slag. The creature walked through his Prominence Burn, its flesh regenerating faster than he could char it. It grabbed him and slammed him into the ground with force that rattled his teeth and shattered his ribs. He saw Best Jeanist's threads snap like cobwebs. He saw Edgeshot pierced by a bladed limb. He heard the screams of other heroes being torn apart.
They had walked in believing they were hunters. They were prey. Endeavor, the mighty Number One, was reduced to a battered, bleeding man, being pummeled into the concrete by a mindless copy of the man he could never equal. The last thing he saw before a concussive blast knocked him unconscious was the creature's dead, white eyes, a perfect mockery of his own failure.
Endeavor jolted back to the present, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The phantom pain of that beating flared across his body. He looked at his hands, the hands that had been so utterly useless.
"We were fools," he rasped to Burnin', his voice hollow. "Arrogant fools. We thought we could finish what he started. We didn't even come close."
Burnin' nodded, her face pale. "The Commission is panicking. With the public loss of confidence and the hero ranks thinning, they're enacting the 'Zero Tolerance' directive. Full-scale arrest on any criminal activity, no matter how minor. They're talking about… expanding Tartarus. Significantly."
Endeavor let out a bitter, humorless laugh that sounded more like a cough. "So that is our legacy. Not peace. Not order. A bigger cage." He looked out his window at the smoldering city.
"We tried to wield his hammer, Burnin'. But we lack his strength. And now the entire house is collapsing on our heads."
He was the Number One Hero. But all he felt was the weight of a crown of thorns, digging deeper with every passing day, a constant, painful reminder that he was, and would always be, a king of ashes.
_________________
The air in the Global Security Council chamber was as sterile and cold as the polished obsidian table that stretched its length. It was a room designed for quiet diplomacy, but today, it thrummed with a palpable, suffocating tension. Holographic maps glowed in the center, pulsing with red hotspots of criminal activity, a planetary-scale infection. At the head of the table, the Secretary-General presided, his face a mask of grim neutrality, while around him sat the most powerful political heads representing every major continent.
The focus, for the moment, was on two glaring, crimson blots on the world map: Japan and the Eastern Seaboard of the United States.
"The data is irrefutable," a European representative stated, his voice crisp and accusatory. "The 'All For One power vacuum,' as you've termed it, is no longer a regional crisis. It's a pandemic. The boldness we're seeing in Tokyo and Yokohama is inspiring copycats in Berlin, Sao Paulo, and Cairo. These syndicates are no longer just fighting for turf; they're fighting for a new world order."
An American official, a woman with the steely eyes of a former general, leaned forward. "Hope and paragons are no longer a viable strategy. We learned that after Metropolis. We've had to adopt… pragmatic solutions." She tapped a control, and the screen shifted to show grainy, black-and-white footage of a chaotic street battle. It was clearly metahuman in nature, but the combatants were a messy, brutal bunch.
"The 'Suicide Squad' initiative, under Amanda Waller, has been operational for six months. We use the worst of our black-site inmates as deniable assets. Their mortality rate is high, but their success rate in neutralizing high-value targets is… acceptable."
A murmur rippled around the table. Another leader from a Southeast Asian coalition nodded grimly. "We have a similar program. 'Project Wight.' When a hero's presence is too politically sensitive, or the mission too dirty, we send in the ghosts. It is not pretty, but it is effective."
All eyes then turned to the Japanese delegation, led by Madam President of the HPSC. She sat with perfect, rigid posture, her hands folded on the table, but a fine tremor ran through them.
"Madam President," the Secretary-General said, his tone gentle but firm. "Japan remains the epicenter. Your hero system, while valiant, is being systematically dismantled. The public's faith is eroding by the hour. Can you confirm you have deployed a comparable contingency?"
The President's jaw tightened. "The Hero Public Safety Commission has initiated a 'Zero Tolerance' policy. Our arrest rates have increased by four hundred percent. We are building new detention facilities and have authorized more… aggressive… hero licensure."
"You're putting more cops on a beat that's already on fire!" The European representative countered, his patience fraying. "You are treating the symptoms while the disease metastasizes! Arresting street-level thugs does nothing to decapitate the syndicates funding them!"
"Our methods are upholding the rule of law," she retorted with a sharp voice. "We are not in the business of becoming warlords, using monsters to fight monsters."
The room fell silent for a moment, the accusation hanging in the air. Then, from the end of the table, an older Japanese diplomat, a man who had served under the previous administration, spoke in a low, deliberate mutter, just loud enough for all to hear.
"The former Director… he was a pragmatic man. He would have seen the necessity. He wouldn't have let pride stand in the way of survival."
The words were a targeted strike. The President flinched as if struck. The ghost of her predecessor, a man known for his ruthless efficiency, was always in the room, a constant reminder of her perceived weakness.
The American official interjected, her voice losing its diplomatic edge, becoming cold and factual. "Madam President, the concern is control. We understand that. But the means exist. Waller's nano-encephalitic bomb technology is flawless. A single thought of betrayal, and the subject is terminated. It is a cleaner, more reliable leash than any hero's moral code. You are not unleashing them; you are aiming them."
The pressure was a physical weight on her shoulders. She saw the faces around the table; not allies, but creditors to whom she owed a debt of stability. They were no longer asking. They were advising. And their advice was a demand.
"The meeting is adjourned," the Secretary-General said softly, his eyes holding a note of pity for her. "We urge all members to utilize every tool at their disposal to restore global order. No matter how… distasteful."
Later that day, HPSC Headquarters…
Back in the stark, minimalist silence of her Tokyo office, the President felt the walls closing in. The hum of the city below was a taunt. She stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the distant plumes of smoke, the flicker of unrest.
The door hissed open without a knock. Hawks leaned against the frame, his hands in his pockets. His famous red wings were absent, leaving him looking strangely grounded, almost vulnerable.
"Rough day at the U.N.?" he asked, his tone light, but his eyes were sharp, always observant and missing nothing.
"You have no idea," she replied, not turning around.
"So," he began, getting straight to the point. "Care to tell me why I'm benched? The public is wondering where their Number Two is. I'm wondering why I'm reading about city blocks burning on a screen instead of from the air."
He gestured vaguely over his shoulder with a thumb. "Still getting used to the new set, but the 'fabulous chrome' look is really starting to grow on me. Great for intimidation, a real pain for subtlety."
She finally turned to face him. The weariness in her eyes was profound. "There's been a change of plans, Hawks. The old playbook is ashes. We're writing a new one." She walked to her desk and slid a single, thin file across its polished surface.
Hawks pushed off the doorframe and picked it up, his casual demeanor evaporating as he read. His eyebrows climbed. "'Task Force V.' Operational parameters: Deniable. Disposable. Comprised of… Tartarus's S-Class inmate registry."
He looked up, a flicker of his usual smirk returning, but it was dark, humorless. "Wow. You're not just scraping the bottom of the barrel; you're drilling through the floor." He met her gaze.
"This is the American method. Waller's method. You caved."
"We adapted," she corrected, her voice tight. "The global consensus left us no choice. We either become part of the solution they endorse, or we are branded part of the problem."
"And the control?" Hawks asked, tapping the file. "These aren't street thugs. From the looks of things, one of them could eradicate an entire building with enough power."
"The control," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "is you."
She tapped another command on her desk. A holographic schematic appeared, showing a detailed cross-section of a human neck, with a complex nano-device fused to the brain stem.
"Waller provided the schematics. Remote detonation. Neural monitoring. You will be their field commander, Hawks. You will carry the trigger. Their leash is yours to hold."
Hawks stared at the schematics, then back at her, his easy-going facade completely gone, replaced by the cold, calculating operative he truly was. The weight of the decision settled in the room.
"You're asking me to shepherd a pack of rabid wolves through our own cities," he stated flatly.
"I am ordering you to ensure that their rage is directed only at our enemies," she replied, her voice gaining a sliver of its former steel. "This is the new reality. This is what 'Plus Ultra' looks like when the symbols are dead."
Hawks was silent for a long moment, his eyes scanning the file again, then looking out the window at the dying light of the city he was sworn to protect. He let out a slow breath.
"Damn," he murmured, a world of implication in the word. He looked back at her, his expression unreadable. "You're sure about this? Once we open this box, we can't close it."
Madam President held his gaze, all hesitation finally burned away in the crucible of necessity.
"I have never been more sure of anything in my life."
_________________
Deep beneath the scarred earth of Japan, in a sub-basement that hummed with the dissonant chord of blasphemous science, All For One presided over his kingdom.
Massive, cylindrical tanks lined the walls, each one a murky aquarium of suspended animation. Within them, Nomus; his master's new army; drifted like grotesque fetuses, their forms a patchwork of stolen Quirks and sutured flesh, muscles twitching in artificial sleep. Wires and tubes, like metallic umbilical cords, fed them a steady stream of nutrients and electrochemical stimuli.
The man who was once a demon king was now a monument to his own ruin. All For One sat not on a throne, but in a reinforced medical chair, his body a landscape of catastrophic damage. The elegant suit he wore could not disguise the way his torso listed slightly to one side, nor the subtle, constant tremor in his left hand. But it was his face that held the true horror. Where there had once been a handsome, commanding visage, there was now a concave mask of pulverized bone and scar tissue, a permanent, gruesome crater. A sophisticated respirator was fused over where his mouth and nose should be, its soft, mechanical hiss the only sign of his breathing. His eyes were gone, seared away in the final cataclysm, but pinpricks of red light glowed from the depths of those ruined sockets, scanning the room through a feed provided by dozens of hidden cameras.
"The heroes grow more relentless, Master," Dr. Garaki muttered, not looking up from his workbench. He was meticulously calibrating a pneumatic injector filled with a viscous, iridescent purple serum.
"Their attacks, while clumsy, are becoming more frequent. Like gnats. A nuisance."
A low, synthesized chuckle emanated from the speakers built into All For One's chair. The sound was flat, devoid of true mirth.
"Let them buzz, Kyudai. Their efforts, however valiant, are futile. They swing at shadows while the foundation of their world crumbles." The red pinpricks shifted, as if focusing on a memory.
"Endeavor… he is no All Might. A flickering candle trying to emulate the sun. Barely a threat." The synthesized voice dripped with contempt. "Their pathetic assault a year ago proved that. They brought their entire might to my doorstep and were handed a massacre. They learned the price of arrogance."
Garaki nodded, finishing his adjustments. "Indeed. Now, Master, if I may. This new compound, Serum Epsilon-7. It is designed to aggressively stimulate your remaining neural pathways and encourage cellular regeneration in the… affected areas."
He held up the injector, the purple liquid catching the light ominously. "It is unstable, but the potential for restoring your physical vigor is significant."
Before the procedure could begin, a commotion broke out at the far end of the lab. Two hulking, low-grade Nomus dragged a struggling, bloodied man forward. He was a low-level lieutenant, a man who had thought he could skim from the empire's coffers.
"Master! Lord All For One, please!" the man begged, his eyes wide with terror, his face a mess of tears and snot. "It was a mistake! I was weak! I'll give it all back! Forgive me!"
All For One's head tilted a fraction, a gesture of cold curiosity. "Weakness is not a mistake, it is a terminal condition. And forgiveness… is a commodity I have never traded in." He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod to Garaki.
"Let us test the other serum. The one for the… recalcitrant."
Garaki's eyes lit up with a fanatical glee. "Of course, Master." He swapped the injector for another, this one filled with a violently bubbling orange liquid.
The Nomus dragged the screaming man into a sealed observation chamber, a thick plexiglass cube used for volatile Quirk testing. They pinned him against the wall. Garaki inserted the injector into a port on the chamber's exterior and pressed a button. A pneumatic hiss sounded, and a needle shot out from the wall, plunging into the man's neck and injecting the entire dose.
For a second, nothing happened. The man slumped, sobbing in relief. Then, he began to shudder.
It started as a twitch, then escalated into violent, full-body convulsions. His screams turned into wet, gurgling rasps as his body began to swell. His limbs distorted, stretching and bulging in unnatural directions. His skin stretched taut, turning a mottled, bruised purple, the sound of tearing flesh audible even through the soundproofed glass. His eyes bulged from their sockets, his jaw unhinged in a silent scream.
"The cellular mitosis trigger is too aggressive," Garaki noted clinically, scribbling on a datapad. "Lacks a stabilizing agent."
With a final, horrific, wet POP, the man's body could take no more. He burst apart, coating the interior of the observation chamber in a thick layer of gore and splintered bone. The orange serum sizzled as it consumed the remains.
"A failure," Garaki sighed. "We will have to work on that one later."
"A minor setback," All For One's voice echoed, utterly unfazed by the grotesque display. "Progress is paved with such… messy experiments." The red pinpricks turned back to Garaki. "Now, the report on our overseas acquisitions."
As Garaki began detailing the flow of stolen Quirks and resources, his voice faltered for a moment. "The… the Tartarus manifests came through. It seems young Tomura is still causing trouble. A minor incident involving another inmate's dismemberment."
The name hung in the air, a ghost at the feast.
"Tomura… Shigaraki," All For One mused, the synthesized voice taking on a thoughtful, almost wistful tone. "It was a shame. He had such magnificent potential for ruin. A perfect, empty vessel, primed to be filled with my will and my hatred." The red lights dimmed slightly.
"A pity the bastard child grew a spine and discovered my intentions. To run away at twelve… such spirit, wasted. He could have been my greatest masterpiece."
He waved a dismissive, trembling hand. "But it is of no consequence now. All Might is dust. I have no need for a symbol to mold, to taunt. The game has changed." The red pinpricks brightened, burning with a cold, ancient malice.
"I do not need a successor, Kyudai. I need my vigor back. And our collaboration with our… esteemed colleague in America proceeds apace. Vandal Savage understands the long game. He provides resources I currently lack. Together, we will not rule nations; we will outlive them."
In a cold, dark cell in Tartarus, light-years away from that underground lab, a certain adolescent laid on his thin cot. He stared at the cracked, damp concrete of the ceiling, seeing nothing. The silence was a physical weight. A memory, sharp and unbidden, flashed; a rainy night, a stolen file, the terrifying truth of his own existence.
A deep, weary sigh escaped him, a sound of utter exhaustion that seemed to come from the very core of his being.
'What a shitty life.'
Back in the lab, as if tuned to the same frequency of despair, All For One's synthesized voice concluded the thought, a perfect, cruel epitaph for the boy he had created and discarded.
"It is a shame, really. He was simply born to be this miserable."