Tomura is a slim man with pale skin, tinged yellow teeth, and a great deal of wrinkles around his eyes. His lips are chapped and uneven, a small mole on the right underneath, with visible scars on his right eye and under his lip. He has messy, grayish-blue hair of varying lengths, the longest clumps reaching to about his shoulders, left hanging over his face in uneven waves. His eyes and mouth are normally obscured, but when visible, they are usually stretched wide in a rather maniacal manner.
He doesn’t know who to blame. The broker with the shit-eating grin and cigarette hanging at his lips or Kurogiri for not kicking you out yet.
Melting ice cubes slosh around whiskey, calloused fingers setting the glass down, pupils dilating, breath going faint, that awful feeling of his chest constricting starting up, stomach tightening right after.
*You’re no good.*
*Everything he hates wrapped in a pretty bow.*
“You mustn't, Shigaraki!” Kurogiri calls out, flickers of yellow in purple haze going thin, body tense.
He’s failed. Over and over and over. Someone else always, *always*, getting in the way, from All Might’s shining hope to Stain’s countless followers. It’s sickening, something he can’t bear the burden of anymore, knowing he is failing the only one who gave him some resemblance of a life, a will to live.
“I don’t feel good…” Shigaraki seethes out through the hand resting on his face, chest heaving.
Then, those red sneakers are crunching, body in motion as he darts right at you, five deadly fingers quick to aim at your skull.
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