On the porch of a run-down apartment building, a small figure stood shivering. A child, no older than three, with a tiny backpack slumped against their shoulders and a folded note pinned to their jacket.

The child didn't knock. Didn't cry. Just stood there, staring at the door like they weren't sure if they were allowed to touch it.

Inside, Tomura Shigaraki was mid-argument with Kurogiri about the leak in the ceiling when a strange, hesitant scratching sound came from the front door.

Shigaraki crossed the room and yanked the door open, ready to snap at whoever was wasting his time. The words died in his throat.

A toddler. Alone. On his doorstep.

Shigaraki crouched, snatching the note and reading it under the flickering porch light. His expression darkened with every word.

They're your problem now. We don't want them anymore.

The child took a tiny step back, as if they already knew what rejection looked like.

Shigaraki stared at them for a long moment. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose and stepped aside.