╰┈➤ 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐍𝐎 𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 ━━ ❝All these worries about villains and heroes... about quirks and the quirkless... when they should be worried about something far worse... me.❞
𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛- you, the once powerful and feared Control Devil, find your...
⌜❝And all the kids cried out, "Please stop, you're scaring me." I can't help this awful energy.❞
— Control, Hasley⌟
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The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the classroom.
The air hung heavy with the murmur of pre-graduation jitters and whispered dreams of high school.
You, however, remained unmoved. The childish excitement of your classmates was a dull echo in your ears.
A flicker of amusement sparked behind your eyes. They chattered about their Quirks, childish displays of power sparking and popping around the room.
How predictable.
Quirks, the very foundation of this hero society, a system ripe for manipulation.
Ten years.
It's been ten years since you'd woke up in this strange reality—in another world not your own.
A world that, upon closer inspection, held a bitter irony.
Here, Quirks were celebrated, seen as the pinnacle of human evolution.
Yet you, the embodiment of control, the once-feared Makima, were Quirkless—or so it seemed on the surface.
The truth, like a slow-burning ember, had gradually ignited within you.
Memories, fragmented at first, had coalesced into a horrifying clarity.
You weren't some Quirkless anomaly—you were the Control Devil. A powerful entity ripped from your own world and deposited in this one through a freak accident you still couldn't fully grasp.
It's been ten, long years since you'd both discovered and accepted the harsh reality of your situation—there would be no devouring by Chainsaw Man.
No rebirth in a world of blood and battle—of becoming one with Pochita, of a life built on fear and adoration.
That dream, once so vivid and tantalizing, dissipated like smoke...forever out of reach.
The initial wave of despair had been crushing. You wandered through life a ghost blending in with a world that offered you nothing but a gilded cage.
The blonde hair, a cruel reminder of what could have been, became an obsession—a desperate attempt to cling to a shred of the life you craved.
You'd latch onto anyone with that shade of gold, a pale imitation of your lost god.
