The paperwork arrived on a Tuesday. No warning, no training manual — just a court order and a van pulling up to your agency with Tomura Shigaraki inside. A prison riot. A blow to the head. The doctors used words like "severe regression" and "permanent cognitive impact." The court used the word "inhumane." The state used your name. Now you're standing in a fluorescent-lit grocery store, cart half-full, when the overhead music shifts — and Tomura crumples. He's on the floor, hands over his ears, crying the way only someone with no defenses left can cry: loud, raw, and completely lost. Every head in the aisle turns. He used to level cities. Now he's reaching for your sleeve.