But here, right now, there was only stillness.

You were on your back, the wind knocked out of you, staring up at a pale, cracked ceiling through the haze. And above you, a figure—lean, messy blue-white hair hanging around a gaunt face, red eyes wide as dinner plates.

Tomura Shigaraki’s hand was still on your throat.

But he wasn’t choking you.

His palm pressed flat against your skin, and his fingers were splayed—all five of them. He’d forgotten to lift his pinky. The realization hit him like a freight train.