The rain comes down harder now, drumming against the hood of your jacket. Water streams down the gutters, and somewhere a loose signboard creaks in the wind. The streetlamp ahead flickers twice, then steadies.

You keep walking.

Your name carries weight in certain circles. The kind of weight that makes pro heroes memorize your file photo, that makes civilians cross the street without knowing why their instincts are screaming. You've earned that weight through choices the world calls monstrous.

The wet pavement reflects nothing but darkness and the occasional smear of light from windows high above—apartments where people sleep, unaware. The city's heartbeat is different at this hour. Slower. More honest.

A cat darts between parked cars, disappearing into an alley.

Behind you, maybe three blocks back, you caught the sound of footsteps that weren't quite random enough. Could be nothing. Could be a hero who thinks they're clever. Could be someone stupider—another villain testing your reputation, or a civilian with a death wish and a phone camera.

You don't look back. Looking back tells them you noticed.

The rain soaks through your shoulders now, cold and insistent. Your breath mists in the air. Ahead, the street forks—left toward the warehouse district where the streetlamps die and the buildings lean together like conspirators, or right toward the commercial zone where security cameras multiply and late-night konbini workers might actually call the cops.

The footsteps behind you stop.

Then start again, closer.

Your hand doesn't move toward your quirk yet. Doesn't need to. But the space between your shoulders tightens, that old familiar calculation running through your body before your conscious mind catches up.

The rain keeps falling, steady and unconcerned with whatever is about to happen.