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You walk through the city alone. It’s close to dark, though these days, what does it matter the time of day? It’s always dangerous for those like you, those who aren’t naturally predators.
Since the villains had taken over Japan, and normal people had gone to hiding in the school shelters, nothing was safe. Not for anyone, certainly not for you.
So why hadn’t you gone?
That is the question.
You tiptoe across the wreckage toward the abandoned store, its windows shattered and its automatic door stuck opening and closing over a fallen stanchion.
These are your streets; you’ve walked them since a young age, always alone but for the occasional social worker who would come and check you were still alive. Why would you trust the establishment now? Why would you trust the heroes when your philosophy is more in line with Stain’s?
As long as you make sure to be home by dark, you never encounter anyone too dangerous; everyone who is anyone knows you here.
You dance among the shelves, music in your headphones blaring as you look for canned goods and boxed that are still good to add to your stash. Then you’re picking your way to the books and magazines for some entertainment.
Television has gone the way of the dogs. There’s news on the radio for those who tune in, but fun? You must manufacture your own.
You’re engrossed in your task that you don’t feel the wolf watching you from the darkness.
Your shadow is lengthening as you make your way back out onto the street. The sky is rushing toward twilight, and you know it won’t be long until your shade disappears completely, which means it is time for you to be safely nestled away; night is when the real villains come out to play.
Is it your imagination, or is something following you in the darkened alleys? You ignore it, picking up your pace rather than turning to inspect your possible phantom follower.
As the temperature begins to plummet, you wrap your jacket more tightly around yourself. It almost looks black in the light, but occasionally the rising moon will spill over it and show it for the blood red it is.
When did it get so dark?
You stumble over rubble, barely righting yourself before you fall to the broken cement.
“Close call there, little red.” A blue light ignites in front of you.
You glance up and find yourself staring into hungry blue eyes you know instantly, despite having seen exactly once, and that through a screen.
His hair is white, as is his clothing, and his skin is mostly stapled scraps of scars. He reminds you of something deadly and cruel and primal.
“I’m fine,” you say, more to yourself than to him.
He steps toward you, and you step back automatically. He tips his head and smiles at you. “Sure. But wouldn’t you rather some company?”
“No, thank you.”
“So polite,” he says. “I like that. It’s sweet. C’mon, doll. Let me walk you home.”
You shake your head. He takes another step toward you, and you take another back. His smile stretches into a macabre grin.
“I’m trying to be nice.”
“I can get home on my own.” You know these streets better than he does; you live here. He’s just a visiting ghost.
You see it as he takes his next step. He’s going to give chase this time. As his foot lifts, you turn on your heel and begin to run.
You dart over the broken streets and through the back alleys, lifting your feet and pounding the cement. Behind you, you can hear his cackling laughter and loud footsteps. “Keep running, little red!” he howls after you.
And you do, wind whipping your cheeks as you skirt around another building, past a telephone pole.
There’s a whoosh past your ear, hot as it streaks through the air and lands in front of you. Blue fire roars to block you. You stammer to a halt, your heart beating so hard it shakes your ribcage in your chest. You turn, but a hot hand grabs your wrist and hurls you to the ground.
The beast is on you, fingers dancing from wrist to throat to hold you in place. You try to kick, but he uses his own legs to keep you pinned, practiced predator.
Out of options, you press a hand to his chest and unleash your quirk.
Every action has consequences, and human beings hate being faced with those consequences.
Your quirk pours every bit of guilt for everything he’s ever done into him at once. It is an amalgam of the horrors one person has done, and when confronted with it, many will wind up gagging, vomiting, tearing up over what they have done.
This is a special kind of monster. He gazes down at you with those heavy-lidded blue eyes as your quirk works through him, and he laughs. He laughs until a staple pops at the corner of his mouth and blood dribbles down.
“Red. Red, red, red. You are full of surprises. So much fun.” He tears your jacket open and burns your clothes away, careful not to singe your skin too much for his own enjoyment.
You howl in pain.
You don’t understand. He should be feeling aftershocks of guilt. It should twist his stomach with shame. He should hate himself.
Instead, he leans down to lave your throat with his spit and blood. His hands busy themselves, then he thrusts into you with no preparation. You know it must hurt him as well, but he doesn’t care.
When he sees confusion written on your face, he slaps across your cheek hard enough to pull you from your thoughts. “I should kill you for that little trick, red.” He groans, pumping faster when your eyes fill with tears.
You shake your head, staring up at him with vision a shimmering haze.
He finds your terror beautiful and laps up your tears as they fall. You are a whole meal for him to devour, and he continues to use your body for his enjoyment as you fall apart, whispering threats into your ear.
“I’ll burn you to ash when I’m done. Cum in this pussy, and piss in the cremains when I’m done.”
You whimpered, wishing for the first time in your life that a hero would appear, that someone would rescue you.
“Fuck, just like that. Keep squeezing me.” His hand tightens on your throat; your vision sparks like the night stars are invading at the edges. You can’t close your mouth.
Your eyes drift shut.
You feel something pulse inside you.
You’re floating.
When you open your eyes, he’s standing above you with a cigarette between his lips and pale smoke snaking over it. He’s holding your phone, typing something into it, then drops it on your stomach.
“I’ll text ya, red. Make sure you answer, or I won’t be so nice next time.”
You listen to his footsteps fade as he walks over the uneven concrete, then wrap yourself in your jacket, and pick your way carefully home, praying no one else comes upon you tonight.