Crackling static sliced through the heavy silence of the bar. I didn't lower my drawn weapon, a gleaming black ink-blade hovering dangerously close to Shigaraki's throat. "Who's the dial-up connection?" I asked, keeping my voice light, breezy, and entirely unaffected. Shigaraki didn't answer, but his shoulders sank in sudden, rigid obedience. Kurogiri bowed his misty head toward the glowing monitor. "A remarkable Quirk," a voice murmured from the speaker, the sound low, textured, and vibrating with an ancient, heavy power. Ice water seemed to replace the blood in my veins. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm I refused to let show on my face. "You must be the boss," I said, tilting my head with a practiced, arrogant grin. "I am many things, Ren Akigami," the voice replied, its calm tone carrying an unspoken promise of absolute destruction. A chill settled over the room, far colder than Kurogiri's mist. "Your work in the city has been... intriguing," the speaker continued, ignoring my bravado. "A boy who can bring his own imagination to life. A boy who rewrites reality with a stroke of a pen." "I write my own stories," I replied, twirling a droplet of ink on my fingertip. "I don't do guest appearances in low-budget villain clubs." He chuckled, a dry, papery sound that made the hair on my arms stand up. "Such beautiful arrogance," the voice whispered. "But even the greatest authors need a publisher, Ren. They need resources. They need a canvas." Pictures began to flash across the monitor screen, replacing the static wave. "What do you want?" I demanded, my eyes narrowing as I watched the images of ancient texts, hidden vaults, and glowing canisters of rare chemical compounds. "A trade," the voice replied. "I can offer you everything you have ever dreamed of. Unlimited wealth. Protection from the heroes who hunt you. And most importantly, knowledge." My fingers twitched, the ink in my veins humming at the mention of knowledge. "I have uncovered ancient grimoires," the voice tempted, dripping with dark promise. "Lost texts of Quirks from the first generation. Formulas for inks that can pierce the fabric of space itself. All of it can be yours." Ancient books of power, right at my fingertips. "And what do I have to write for you in exchange?" I asked, my voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. "A minor correction," the voice said smoothly. "A single, elegant rewrite of a failing cellular sequence within my own body." Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. "You want me to heal you," I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "Precisely," the voice confirmed. "With your Quirk, Author, you can rewrite the genetic makeup of my damaged cells. You can restore what was lost." Inside my chest, a sudden, sharp dread bloomed. This wasn't an invitation to be a partner. He didn't want an ally, nor did he want a protégé. To this ancient monster, I was nothing more than an organic pen to be drained, used until my ink ran dry, and then discarded into a trash bin. "I'm flattered," I said, my voice dripping with forced sweetness as I forced my lips into a dazzling, arrogant smile. Moving with lightning speed, I flicked my wrist. "Do we have a deal, young writer?" the voice asked, completely unaware of the liquid darkness creeping along the floorboards. "I don't co-author," I snarled. My ink surged forward, a violent torrent of black liquid that slammed directly into the monitor's wiring. Black liquid seeped deep into the electrical components, bubbling with supernatural acidity. "What are you doing!" Shigaraki screamed, lunging forward with his hands outstretched. "Rewriting the ending!" I yelled back, directing another stream of ink to flood Kurogiri's warp gate portal generator. Sparks exploded from the television screen, a blinding flash of blue and yellow light filling the bar. Kurogiri lunged to block me, but the short-circuiting warp gate sputtered and died, throwing him off balance. "Goodbye, boys," I laughed, though my heart was hammering so hard it threatened to crack my ribs. Slipping backward into the shadows of the alleyway, I chose a life of hunted isolation over gilded slavery. Darkness engulfed the room as the main power grid blew, cutting off the voice forever. As the screen died, the shadow behind me detached itself from the wall, taking the shape of a massive, multi-eyed ink beast I never drew.

Chapter 6: Voice from the Dark Screen