(THO) THIRTY-TWO

The unwritten rules were unwritten not because they were sacred or logical or anything even remotely close to fair, but because they were the thin, brittle glue keeping the world from ripping itself apart at the seams.

In theory, they were simple: don’t go after civilian identities, don’t escalate without due cause, and don’t challenge the status quo too directly. A shaky agreement between villains, heroes, vigilantes, and the institutions trying to hold everything together with their limited control.

But in practice?

Bullshit.

Useful bullshit, sure, but still bullshit.

Because the real reason for the rules wasn’t morality or justice. It was fear. Mutual, bitter fear. The governments of the world, America included, were powerful only in name. In truth, their monopoly on violence had eroded the moment parahumans became a global reality.

Gojo had seen it, even before he came to this world. The same dangerous illusion. If every villain in Brockton Bay decided to stop playing along, to stop pretending they were afraid of government enforcers and tear gas and containment foam, the city would fall apart in a matter of hours. Maybe less. 

The PRT could bluff with kill orders and could field the capes on their payroll, but they couldn’t hold the line forever even if they tried.

And most villains knew that. They just didn’t want the system to collapse entirely because they needed it too.

Anarchy was bad for business, bad for recruitment, for reputation, and worst of all, bad for keeping the public afraid but not panicked. The fear needed to be manageable, and it worked best when it was just subtle enough to ignore during the day and remember only at night. That was how the world kept turning. 

But Gojo Satoru?

He wasn’t built for compromise.

He had no interest in preserving a system that thrived on soft threats and silent deals. If the unwritten rules only served to protect the current power structures, then what use were they, really?

And yet, even he knew better than to swing blindly.

Coil, for example, would not be so easily dragged into the light. The man was a layered mask behind layers of contingency, and half the city didn’t even know he existed. The other half had vague suspicions about a well-funded villain group with ambiguous motives and nigh-bottomless resources.

Even with Gojo’s power, Coil wasn’t the kind of threat you chased. He was a snake, and you didn’t hunt snakes. You smoked them out, forcing them to show his hand. 

And Gojo would, eventually.

But not today.

Today was about a different kind of villain: Max Anders, better known as Kaiser.

A different kind of animal, less careful than Coil, but more theatrical. The kind of man who believed in symbols and bloodlines, and proudly showed off that ideology in the open because, in this city, he didn’t have to hide. He had power, and he had permission to exercise said power, the kind granted by institutions either cowed into acceptance or too complicit to say no. 

More importantly, he was a known quantity, and that made him dangerous in a different way.

But Gojo didn’t fear or even respect him. What he did fear—if the word could even apply—was pushing too far, too fast. What he feared were the consequences. 

Because as laughable as the unwritten rules were, they still meant something to the average person. Civilians wanted to believe in them because they were their most powerful means of defence. And if Gojo shattered that belief—if he tore through Empire Eighty-Eight’s ranks without a care for optics—then the damage might be permanent, not just to the PRT, but to trust itself. And trust was far harder to rebuild than a few destroyed buildings or roads.

If people stopped believing they were safe from cape-on-civilian violence, if they truly realized just how little the powerful cared for them… the game would change entirely. Fear would sour into hate, hate would turn to chaos, and no amount of power—not even his—could clean up that kind of mess.

It wouldn’t just be the PRT left scrambling. It would be everyone affiliated, in one way or the other, to parahumans. 

So he needed to be careful. Smart, even. The kind of smart he usually didn’t bother with.

The goal wasn’t to beat Kaiser. That was easy. The goal was to utterly crush him. 

Gojo had to discredit him: he had to strip away the myth; show his followers he wasn’t invincible; and show the civilians watching from behind curtains and TV screens that overwhelming force could be used to serve real justice, not just brutality or the posturing kind with press conferences and PR-mandated damage control.

But the trick would be doing it right.

He could take the fight to them in the open, but that risked too many potential witnesses and too much collateral. He knew how villains like Purity, Hookwolf, and Krieg operated. None of them would hesitate to use civilians as shields if needed, or to make a point.

So that left one option: find their weakness.

Every gang had one. Maybe it was money, maybe it was reputation, or maybe even something more mundane like an old grudge, a secret ally, or a personal stake.

Gojo would figure it out. 

And when he did?

He would make damn sure the Empire Eighty-Eight remembered what it meant to feel helpless.

But that was for tomorrow.

Today, he would plan and prepare the stage. Because if he was going to burn the old world down, he’d rather make it look like a lesson instead of an accident.