Two years before canon.
Sir Nighteye woke up choking on certainty.
Not fear—certainty was worse.
His breath hitched as the vision snapped shut, the world reforming around him in sharp, mundane edges: the ceiling of his office, the faint hum of the lights, the ache behind his eyes. His glasses lay crooked on the desk. He had gripped the armrest hard enough to leave impressions.
Foresight never lied.
But it did mislead.
He pressed his fingers together, steadying himself, replaying what he had seen—not the details (there were never details), but the shape of it.
A cityscape under siege.
Heroes and villains alike converging on a single presence, one after another, as if drawn by gravity. Some charged. Some hesitated. None prevailed. They fell—not torn apart, not obliterated—but overcome. Crushed by something heavier than force.
At the center stood the figure.
Not human. Not fully beast.
A silhouette that warped perception the longer it remained in view—broadening, deepening, growing heavier with every confrontation. Each clash fed it. Each witness amplified it. Cameras, crowds, whispers spreading faster than panic.
The more it fought, the stronger it became.
No—
Nighteye corrected himself automatically.
The more it was seen.
He had watched seasoned pros brace themselves only to falter the moment they closed the distance. He had seen villains grin at the challenge—then freeze, instincts screaming at them to flee. The figure never rushed. Never postured. It simply advanced, its presence bending resolve until resistance collapsed under its weight.
It wasn't slaughter.
It was inevitability.
And that terrified him more than any bloodshed ever could.
Nighteye removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. His quirk showed a fixed future—unchangeable once perceived—but interpretation had always been the human flaw in the equation. He had learned that lesson the hard way.
Still.
Heroes and villains. Both falling. Both feeding the same outcome.
"That's not a rampage," he muttered. "That's a feedback loop."
He stood and paced, coat swaying with sharp, precise movements. The Hero Commission would see this vision and call it a disaster scenario. A living calamity. A monster Quirk that escalated endlessly through combat.
They would be wrong.
But their response would make it true.
Nighteye replayed the final seconds of the vision—the moment that lingered, unshakable.
The crowd.
Not screaming.
Watching.
Phones raised. Eyes wide. Voices overlapping into a single, spreading narrative. Fear, awe, belief—all crystallizing around the same idea.
A name.
He hadn't seen it clearly. Foresight never granted that kind of mercy. But the concept burned itself into his thoughts, heavy and ancient, like a truth humanity had invented long before Quirks ever existed.
A word surfaced unbidden.
"Myth."
Nighteye stopped pacing.
If this future came to pass, it wouldn't begin with evil intent. It would begin with reaction. With heroes rushing to stop something they didn't understand. With villains testing something they couldn't control. With society doing what it always did best—
—turning a person into a story.
And once that happened…
He straightened, resolve settling in his posture.
Then the future he had seen wouldn't be a warning.
It would be a sentence.