Garbage Boy with a God Complex

The base was quiet, finally. Spinner's video game controller had long stopped clicking. Dabi had passed out on the couch, cigarette still smoldering between two fingers. Toga was curled up like a cat on a pile of blankets, muttering something incoherent about blood in her sleep. Shigaraki's door was shut—probably rage-breathing against some game or thinking up new ways to blow up society.

It was peaceful. Unnaturally so.

And I couldn't breathe.

The air was heavy, and not from smoke or dust. It was the weight of their hope.

Of their eyes.

Of their desperation.

They were all trying to be something different—but not for themselves. For me.

Trying to prove a point. To be good enough to convince the person who might burn it all down. Trying to live up to my judgment.

It wasn't real. Not yet.

They weren't being themselves. They were twisting into something they thought I wanted to see.

And that... wasn't what I needed.

I stood up in the dark, not even bothering to mask the soft creak of the wooden floor. If anyone woke up, maybe that was fate. But no one did. Of course they didn't.

I made it to the door in silence.

Paused.

Then turned my head slightly, just enough to whisper into the empty space behind me:

"You can't convince someone like me with words and pretty plans."

My hand wrapped around the door handle.

"I have to see it for myself... when no one's trying."

I opened it and stepped into the night, letting the door close quietly behind me.

The city was cold but familiar. My feet moved on instinct, through alleys and shortcuts, away from the places that still stank of villainy.

I didn't leave to betray them.

I left because watching them pretend wasn't going to show me what I needed.

They had to act like no one was watching. Only then would I know.

Only then would their change be real.

My apartment wasn't far.

And she'd probably still be awake.

By the time I unlocked the door and stepped inside, the lights in the living room were dim, and a faint scent of tea lingered in the air. The quiet hum of a heater filled the space like a soft lullaby.

She was there, on the couch, curled under a blanket. Half-asleep, but she stirred when the door clicked.

"...Izuku?" Inko's voice was soft and warm, like a distant dream.

I didn't speak. Just stepped in and dropped my bag to the floor.

"I thought you were... gone for a few days," she said, sitting up, blinking at me through tired eyes.

"Changed my mind," I muttered.

And I had.

I didn't need words anymore.

I needed truth.

Even if I had to dig through ashes to find it.

League of Villains POV

Silence.

Not the peaceful kind. The kind that fills a room when everyone's too scared to speak.

The couch where Izuku usually lounged was empty—like it always had been. Like he was never really with them, just a shadow sitting in their space.

Shigaraki sat on the edge of his seat, fingers tapping against the table, almost daring himself not to destroy it out of frustration.

"He's gone," Kurogiri finally said, materializing beside him like smoke clinging to worry. "Left without a word sometime after midnight."

"No shit," Dabi muttered, leaning against the wall with arms crossed. "I figured that out when his scent vanished. I just didn't think he'd actually walk."

"Why wouldn't he?" Spinner spoke up, voice dry. "He said it himself. He wasn't interested in being one of us—he was here to watch. Judge. Maybe burn the world. Maybe not. We're the test. And guess what? We failed."

"No. We didn't fail," Toga cut in, eyes wide, frantic, almost teary. "We started something! He listened! He even smiled once—he did! You saw it too!"

Shigaraki slammed a hand on the table—thankfully keeping all five fingers separate this time.

"If he decides we're not worth it," he growled, "we're all dead. Every last one of us."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Kurogiri, calm as ever, asked, "Then the real question is... what do we do now?"

Dabi let out a slow, exhausted sigh. "We get real. We stop pretending. If we're gonna survive this, we have to be better. Not for him. For us."

"He said we wouldn't convince him with pretty words," Spinner murmured. "That he needed to see the change without trying to be seen."

"So we stop trying to be seen," Shigaraki said, low and biting. "We do it. For real. No more faking it. No more trying to win his approval. We live. We grow. We build something."

"And if he still decides we're not enough?" Toga asked, voice small.

Shigaraki looked at the spot where Izuku had sat—the place now empty, like a countdown ticking in reverse.

"Then we die," he said. "But at least we'll die on our terms."

They all looked at each other, for once not as monsters, or outcasts, or even villains.

Just people—desperate, trying, scared.

People who had just realized the one thing more terrifying than a world ending...
...was being deemed unworthy of its salvation.