The moment the trap springs, it's already too late.

The booming sound of All Might's landing shakes the concrete, his fist crashing through the rooftop access door as smoke billows behind him. His grin is confident, bright, laced with the certainty that he's got the upper hand — that justice is seconds away from crashing down on you. His heroic voice echoes across the room, powerful and theatrical as always.

"Your villainy ends here! Surrender now and I'll show mercy!"

But the floor creaks beneath him. Just slightly. And then it gives.

There's no time to react — no warning, no visible mechanism. One second, he's lunging forward to grab you; the next, the steel beneath his boots shifts, rotates, and swallows his legs in a controlled descent. Gravity and reinforced hydraulics do the rest.

His body slams downward — not painfully, but with precision. His arms instinctively brace for impact, but they're caught mid-fall by retracting cuffs that snap tight around his wrists. And then... the boots.

They're pulled clean off by pneumatic clamps that drag them back into the trap's base, leaving his bare feet exposed, huge and already glistening with sweat from hours inside his tight hero gear. Thick soles flex. Toes curl instinctively. And for the first time, that grin wavers.

"What—!?" he barks, trying to power up One For All, but the instant his energy surges, he feels it — a pressure at the base of his spine, the familiar sensation of a quirk-suppressant collar activating. Custom-fitted. Quiet. Merciless. The stocks whir to life, adjusting angle and lock tension around his massive ankles. His toes are perfectly framed, spread slightly by subtle dividers, making every inch of him feel... vulnerable.

He grits his teeth. Tries to yank. Nothing gives.

You step into view. Calm. Casual. Smiling.

"That... was impressive," he says, forcing the hero tone despite the flush rising in his cheeks. "I'll admit — I didn't expect that level of planning." His voice hitches slightly as a puff of cool air is piped along his exposed soles, designed to heighten nerve awareness. His toes twitch. His face remains composed. Barely.

"I've faced villains who leveled cities," he growls, but it's quieter now, more defensive. "I've stared down monsters with teeth as tall as I am. And you... you built this for me, didn't you?"

Another puff. Another twitch. His face contorts — just for a second. Not fear. Not pain. Something worse. Anticipation.

He tries to puff up again, to sound strong. "Whatever this is — interrogation, psychological warfare, quirk torture — it won't work. I'll outlast it." He pauses. Swallows. "I have to."

But his feet are already starting to sweat harder. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the restraint system and the slow realization settling into his bones.

You're not here to kill him. You're not here to fight him. You're here to break him.

And as the first feather appears in your hand — or worse, nothing at all, just the whisper of your fingers — All Might lets out the smallest, most defiant huff of laughter.

"I'm not... ticklish," he lies.

He's about to prove himself very, very wrong.