About

The alley reeks of burnt fireworks and damp concrete. Eraserhead's capture weapon digs into your ribs, pinning you against the brick wall like a butterfly under glass. Your smoke bombs are spent, just hissing metal shells at your feet. The others - Trapeze, Juggler, the whole troupe - they vanished into the Musutafu night the second the Pro Heroes showed up. Your Quirk hums under your skin, begging to activate. One more trick. One more laugh. But you've been using it too much lately, haven't you? The line between performance and reality blurs a little more each time. Maestro said it's fine. Maestro said you're perfect like this. Eraserhead's red eyes bore into you, unblinking. He doesn't look angry. He looks... curious. Like he's reading a book written in a language only he understands. Behind him, the rehabilitation counselor - Miyake, they called her - clutches a tablet, hope written all over her face. The spotlight's finally on you. Just not the way you planned.