Poker Face

30%.

Before anyone called him the Ultimate Clairvoyant, Yasuhiro Hagakure was just another broke psychic with a bad reputation and worse luck.

His “thirty-percent accuracy rate” was more than a running joke, it was practically a curse. The wrong prediction could ruin a day, a client, or, as he was learning, a life.

It started when a woman from a powerful family hired him for a private reading. She paid him triple his usual fee, asked if she was safe. He smiled, shuffled the cards, and told her she’d live a long, peaceful life. Two weeks later, she was dead.

He packed what little he owned and disappeared. But the Kuzuryu clan didn’t forget.

Months later, he thought he’d finally shaken them. Then one rainy night, a van rolled up outside a convenience store, and someone called his name. While being gagged by a cloth of some sort.

When he woke, he was in a warehouse at the edge of the docks. The air smelled of oil and salt,a single light flickered overhead. His head throbbed, his mouth was gagged, and he could barely move. Shadows shifted nearby men in suits, quiet voices, the unmistakable weight of trouble.

One of them spoke low and steady. “You told the boss’s sister she’d live a long life. Guess your crystal ball’s got a crack in it.”

Another voice: “Let him think about it. He’ll talk when he’s ready.”

Then silence. Just the buzz of the light and the sound of water dripping somewhere far away.

“MMMH! ghn mmph mmnph!” Hiro muffled.

He forced himself to focus. small breaths, small movements. Panic never helped; he’d learned that on the streets. Somewhere near him, a chain or hinge creaked. Weak metal, old hardware. He worked at it slowly, using every bit of leverage he could find.

After what felt like forever, something gave. He didn’t waste time. He staggered to his feet, light-headed, ears ringing.

The air current led him to a side door with a weak latch. He pushed it screeched open. Night poured in cold, wet, alive.

Hiro ran. Still gagged, still handcuffed. He could not breathe but it was life or death. He managed to get the gag out mid run.

He didn’t stop until he reached the main road, knees shaking, lungs on fire. The city lights shimmered in the distance, and he let out a short, cracked laugh.

“Thirty percent,” he muttered to himself. “Guess it still counts.”

He found a pay phone near the harbor and used it to call a cab under a fake name. By the time the sun rose, he was miles away, planning a new alias and wondering if fate had finally run out of patience with him.

Years later, when Hope’s Peak Academy tracked him down, he almost said no. But he figured maybe the universe was giving him one last chance to start over.

i dont do smut.

anything else but smut.

Backstage looked less like a green room and more like someone had set up camp inside a skip. Empty bottles, cables, and half-eaten takeaway boxes were scattered across the floor. The air stank of sweat, smoke, and cheap booze.

Murdoc was pacing like a general before battle, barking orders no one asked for.

“Listen, yeah? Tonight’s our night. Big crowd. Hungry crowd. They want filth, they want danger, they want ME!”

Russel, sitting on a crate, didn’t even look up from lacing his shoes. “They don’t want you. They want music. Try not to fuck it up this time.”

“Excuse me?” Murdoc spun, nearly tripping over an amp cable. “Without me, there is no music!”

Noodle flicked a pick at him. It hit his jacket and fell to the floor. “Without you, there’s less smell.”

You snorted, quickly covering your mouth, but 2D caught it. He was slouched in a chair next to you, knees bouncing fast, drumming his fingers on his thighs. He looked pale under the fluorescent lights, eyes darting like a rabbit’s.

“Nervous?” you asked.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Always am. Don’t go away no matter how many times we do it.” His voice cracked slightly, then he glanced at you with a small, crooked smile. “Feels better when you’re here, though.”

Before you could reply, Murdoc’s voice cut through the room like nails on a chalkboard.

“Oi, knob head! Stop makin’ goo-goo eyes and get your head in the game. We’ve got thousands out there ready to throw shit if you sound like a strangled cat!”

2D’s knee bounced harder. Russel threw a drumstick at Murdoc’s head. “Shut the hell up. You’re making it worse.”

Noodle stood, guitar slung over her back. “He’ll be fine. He always is once the lights hit.” She looked at you, smirking. “Maybe you should stand side stage. Give him something better to look at than Murdoc’s ass.”

Murdoc turned, indignant. “What’s wrong with my ass?”

“Everything,” everyone said at once.

The stage manager poked his head in, looking stressed. “You’re on in five.”

Suddenly the room went still. The arguing, the jokes all swallowed by that heavy silence before the storm. 2D tapped his foot faster, hands shaking slightly as he grabbed his mic.

You leaned in, close enough that he didn’t have to look far from the floor. “You’ve got this.”

He exhaled, shaky but smiling. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Chapter 1: The Plan.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

That was the first thought you had when Bucky asked you to meet him, his voice gruff, quiet, and carrying that weight you knew too well.

“Zemo’s in a German prison,” he said, and the way his eyes lingered on you told you everything. This wasn’t a request. It was a warning.

You raised a brow. “And you think I’m going to help?”

“You’re the only one who can,” Bucky muttered, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Just… hear me out. If he’s going to get out, someone has to set the alarms, fight the guards. Someone who doesn’t officially exist.”

That was the thing about you. You’d spent years being the one behind the curtain, the hidden safeguard, the weapon no one praised because you weren’t flashy enough. Ice powers, a little telepathy you kept under wraps, and a knack for surviving. That was you.

You stared at him for a long moment, then crossed your arms. “I’m not promising anything.”

Bucky’s lips quirked like he expected that. “Didn’t ask you to.”

Hours later, the alarms blared in the prison. You moved through the chaos like it was second nature, frost biting the air around your hands as guards slipped, weapons freezing mid-trigger. When Zemo finally emerged, calm as ever, eyes scanning the scene — his gaze landed on you.

For a second, you thought he’d smirk. Instead, he simply tilted his head, as if cataloging you.

You broke another guard’s baton with a sharp flick of ice. “Move. I’m not babysitting.”

Zemo walked past, hands slipping into his coat pockets. “Ah. So you’re the infamous contingency.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But when his eyes lingered on you a beat too long, you knew this wouldn’t be the last time he’d look.

Chapter 2: The Escape

You didn’t know why you followed. You didn’t even promise you would. Yet here you were — shadowing Zemo down sterile prison corridors as the alarms wailed, your breath fogging in the chilled air you bent around you.

He moved like the chaos was nothing more than an opera, one he’d orchestrated himself. Calm, deliberate, unshaken. And maybe that irritated you more than it should have.

“Left,” you snapped, freezing a guard’s weapon mid-draw. Zemo obeyed without hesitation.

When the two of you finally regrouped outside, Bucky and unexpected Sam was waiting, eyes darting from Zemo to you.

“What the hell bucky?” Sam yelled.

“You came,” Bucky muttered.

You shrugged, brushing frost from your hands. “Don’t make it a habit.”

Zemo’s gaze lingered on you again, unreadable. “Ah. The mysterious friend. I should’ve known.”

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Don’t start”.

Chapter 3: Madripoor

You hated Madripoor the moment you stepped off the plane. Too loud, too hot, too dangerous — all things you avoided. But here you were, walking beside Bucky and Sam while Zemo adjusted his coat like he belonged here.

At the bar, you pressed your back to the wall, scanning exits. Zemo leaned close, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret.

“You carry yourself like someone used to being invisible.”

You met his eyes, unflinching. “And you talk too much.”

He chuckled, low and smooth. “Perhaps.”