Garbage Boy with a God Complex

I sense it before I see it.

The shift in the air. The crackle of warped space. That little whisper of cold that's not from Todoroki's ice.

"Kurogiri," I murmur, the name curling in my mouth like something sour and familiar. "Of course you'd notice me."

I don't move from my perch. I don't panic. I don't flinch when the warping portal opens beside me like a gaping wound stitched with shadows.

"Interesting place for a child to be," that distorted, polite voice says, materializing beside me in a swirl of black fog. "I hadn't expected a student to be so... detached from the action."

I roll my eyes. "Please. I've seen better choreography in kindergarten dodgeball."

The warp mist coils, his center pulsing. "You're not supposed to be here."

"I'm not supposed to be a lot of things," I deadpan.

And then he moves—fast.

A tendril of dark mist lashes out, aimed at my arm, a clean teleport meant to suck me away like some poorly coded RPG mechanic.

Except.

He never gets the chance.

Snap.

My hand is already fisted in the front of his metal collar before the warp even finishes forming.

"What—?" he rasps, the distortion in his voice crackling like a radio glitch.

I stare at him calmly, fingers unshaking, green eyes glowing with an otherworldly dull burn. Not fire. Not fury. Something colder.

"I'm not your average brat," I say simply, tightening my grip. "Touch me again, and I will erase your atoms from this plane with all the mercy of a paper shredder on caffeine."

Kurogiri doesn't answer.

He can't.

He's trying to phase out—trying to warp—but my hand holds him in place like a divine override.

"I know what you are," I say quietly, voice dropping, almost kind. "You're just another tool built by people too afraid to hold their own knives."

He freezes.

That hit a nerve.

"Tell Shigaraki," I whisper into the mist where his ear would be, "some monsters don't sleep. We just wait."

Then I release him.

Just like that.

He stumbles back a step, flickering like a broken light bulb before finally disappearing into shadow, the portal closing behind him with a distorted whumph.

I dust my hand off.

Below, chaos still unfolds.

But up here?

Oh, up here—it just got interesting.

Oh, there goes Aizawa's arm. That's definitely not supposed to bend like that.

I sit cross-legged on the highest broken catwalk, arms lazily resting on my knees, staring down at the scene like it's some B-grade action film where everyone's forgotten the script.

Nomu is a piece of work. Grafted muscle over muscle, mindless loyalty, zero thoughts behind those wet-dead eyes. It's like watching a blender with legs—and poor Eraserhead is the unfortunate fruit smoothie.

I tilt my head.

The hero is still fighting. Still gritting his teeth. Still doing everything to protect kids that aren't even smart enough to retreat properly.

"Man's literally being blended like a protein shake," I mutter, resting my cheek on my fist. "And still trying to be the dad none of you deserve."

A scream below—Midnight calls for support. The support that should have been here five minutes ago.

Kurogiri shimmers not far off, dragging students into chaos like a polite but persistent waiter taking people to their doom.

And what are the kids doing?

Flaunting quirks.

Screaming dramatic speeches.

Charging in alone.

I sigh through my nose.

"Oh, yeah. This is teamwork," I whisper dryly. "Peak hero education right here. Bravo. Ten outta ten. No notes."

Nomu punches Aizawa into the ground again, hard enough that I hear something wet and wrong snap even from up here.

I don't move.

I don't flinch.

Not because I don't care—if anything, that's the problem. I care too much. But caring and acting are two different things.

Because I know something they don't.

I know why this is happening.

I can feel it.

All For One's greasy fingerprints are all over this attack. The quirks, the Nomu, the twisted sense of purpose. This isn't chaos for chaos' sake.

It's a test run.

And they're failing.

All these years... all these so-called heroes... and they're still blind to it. Still too focused on optics and sponsorship deals to see the knife being sharpened behind the curtain.

I watch another student try to charge the Nomu.

"Oh yeah, you go, sparky. Use that quirk of yours and become paste in 3... 2..."

Midnight yells again.

Present Mic's voice cracks.

Smoke rises.

Blood pools.

And me?

I stay perched above it all.

Because the system they cling to doesn't work.

Because the world they fight for is broken.

Because I need to know—really know—if they're worth saving.

And right now?

They're failing the test.