Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world froze.

Every pair of eyes glued to a screen, every voice screaming for victory, for All Might.

For the evil that’s plagued society for over a century to be taken down once and for all, and the beacon of justice to have served his last service to the country and to the world. No more will All For One’s cruelty and lust for power poison this world.

And finally I can say “I am free”.

A sentence I never thought I’d look forward to saying after year upon year of fighting my own crippling sense of self and slowly losing my mind.

I can finally — willingly— be consumed by the darkness that’s been whispering in my ear since my entrapment. Finally death can welcome me with open arms, like it was supposed to all those years ago. Finally All for one’s grip loosens on my now fragile mind, and I can pass.

I see my house I grew up in.

I see him.

His smile so weak but so pure it’s hard to imagine he’d turn into the monster he became.

We woke up together, ate together, wore the same clothes, spoke the same way. Bickered over what to do day by day, built pillow forts and tree huts.

I see the duck pond down the street, my cat, my childhood bedroom and him. His distasteful gaze as he looked at his twin brother, Yoichi. His carelessness over the early loss of his own mother. His furrowed brows and scowl.

Summer turned to autumn, autumn to winter, winter to spring and spring to summer. I watch the seasons pass before my eyes, flickering moments filled with warning signs I was too innocent to notice and fake fleeing feelings of love and affection.

I watch myself ignore all the bad things I knew he was doing. We were caught preemptively watching society explode into chaos after the first meta ability was reported. I watched as he realized meta abilities weren’t just a mishap in human genetics, but an opportunity for his superior ability to reign.

Soon he turned to me for long rants about the fragile state of the world and Japan, as he’d give me examples of what his ever growing power could do. 

I ignored how it made my stomach twist. 

He could take away people's meta abilities if they didn't want them. He could give people meta abilities when they needed the power. He disguised it as if he was doing people a service, but watching from the sidelines I saw the ways he threw people into the lion's den when they no longer served any use for him.

I ignored the hatred in his eyes. 

For he believed in this new world, anyone who couldn’t help him deserved to perish. While he saw me as weak, and I had nothing to offer him, he kept me around. It took me a while to understand why.

I ignored his desires for society’s crumble.

Most people he saw as tools, but he saw me as his possession. Like I belonged to him. He gave me a meta ability— a powerful one— one he claimed would be necessary for surviving in this world, one that I would need for his cause.

I now know he did it so I would bow to his leadership and fully join his side. I kept ignoring it.

He was a subtle, vindictive and manipulative man who ruled from the shadows. And I knew it all then, too, deep down. 

I knew.

I watch him and his younger twin brother, Yoichi. I watched him abuse and degrade him.

I started losing myself.

Nothing made sense anymore. As each day passed I saw the boy I thought knew me better than anyone else turn into a monster.

His heart was rotting, and the more abuse I witnessed, the more I saw his face twist with power and strength as he realized he could make anyone do as he pleases. I spiraled more and more.

Until I could no longer take it. Until my ignorance came back to bite me. 

The day I started retracting myself was the day he became my worst nightmare.

I ignored his texts and calls, his constant demands for my attention and obedience.

A week later he located me.

His power had grown to exponential heights, and just a few days away from his company he’d found a meta ability that he then stole that would ensure I would forever remain his.

A meta ability that could trap someone’s soul inside the user’s consciousness.

I remember feeling my body go limp, my face that was once contorted with fear and anger twist to realization, before falling flat.

He had killed me. I thought he took my life.

But the next 120 years could only be described as pure torture.

I was inside his mind, watching the world through his eyes as a mere spectator.

I saw from his perspective as he hid my body in a locked away room— and then everything that happened since.

Every moment of every hour of every day, I watch as he lives out his life through his eyes.

Watch as he steals and manipulates, kills and destroys from the shadows of society.

And I could do nothing, except observe.

I was no longer myself.

I was a fading human with no body and an ever weakening sense of self.

I can’t pinpoint when I started forgetting my name, my age, my family and my previous life.

Except for the parts with him in it.

Those never faded.

The sweet childhood memories of a boy I considered my closest friend.

How those memories make me shiver with disgust and sorrow.

How I want to scream and shout at myself from that time and tell her he is not who he says he is and he will ruin everything you’ve come to love, including your image of him.

The poison was always there, deep within, and while I dont blame myself for being ignorant, everyday of my entrapment I wish I had been smarter, faster and less forgiving. I can’t even remember who I was, but I dream myself away with the possibility of who I could’ve become. But I will never know, not in this lifetime.

But now, finally, I can rest.

As All Might defeats All For One, I can feel his grip loosening on my consciousness.

I can wave goodbye to my life, to him, to everything I've known. I’m relieved, but nevertheless the lingering feeling of sadness within me is impossible to ignore.

My life is coming to a close, but I haven’t lived. Not really. And if I ever felt truly alive, I can’t remember it. But at least the torture of watching first hand as a super villain plays out his goal towards evil and reigning supreme by manipulation and deception, is over.

And that is a greater gift than I could’ve asked for.

As my life finishes flashing before my eyes, death is welcomed with open arms, before everything fades to an endless black.

———————————————————————

The aftermath of the battle between All Might and All For One was in no sense of the word easy to describe. The world let out a sigh of relief, but mourned the impending retirement of the world's greatest hero. Shoto Aizawa was a little more cautious. Any pro hero knows the balance between heroes and villains is a slippery slope. Yes, All For One is no more, but his presence and influence is still there. The same can be said for All Might. Only difference now is, their successors and others who want to follow in their footsteps are just at the beginning of their journey. Less experienced heroes and villains result in more chaos. Result in more losses.

And don't get him started on the backlash he’s been receiving after one of his students was taken into captivity by the League of Villains. It's been a rough and long couple of days, and Aizawa is just ready to be done with everything.

Though he won’t deny how relieved he is that All for One was finally locked away, despite what it took. A man who seemed so unreachable was caught and the task to take him down that seemed impossible was succeeded.

One thing he’s not relieved about is the task he was assigned, which was to investigate one of All For One’s abandoned bases. Several of these bases were seemingly innocent at first glance but layered with crucial evidence and hints at what could be the next step for organizations like the League of Villains. This flat seemed rather odd though. In the fact that it was completely barren of anything. If it wasn’t for previous evidence that this property belonged to All For One, you’d think it was just an abandoned house that’s been abandoned for years. An easy job for sure but definitely one that felt like a waste of time, and truthfully Aizawa suspects Tsukauchi assigned him this base to take his mind off of everything else.

The base was a small flat in western Tokyo. Every light was turned off, every furniture covered in dust. The air was stale and Aizawa swore he could hear little footsteps every now and again, presumably from rats scurrying around. Each room was either empty or had minimal furniture which was again, covered with dust. He was about to clear this place and report there were no pieces of equipment or anything along the sort that could be of any help for the hero association, when he saw a weird and faint light from under the door of the room at the end of the corridor.

He wasted no time in approaching the room, and as he opened the door what he was met with exceeded his expectations of this small flat.

There was a girl on a bed, skinny and frail by the looks of it. But what caught the eye was her floating and glowing hair. It floated like waves in the ocean, surrounded by a faint, pink light.

Aizawa isn’t a man who’s intimidated by people easily, and while the girl wasn’t exactly an imminent danger he couldn’t help but feel a trickle of unease and anxiety coursing through him. His eyes swept the room, looking for any clues. But to his surprise, there was no equipment or machines. Only the girl on the bed, a bed she seemed to have been laying on for a long, long time.

The comms in his ears cracked and his heart jumped slightly with surprise, forgetting completely the whole point of the investigation.

“Eraserhead, what’s your status?” said Tsukauchi.

Aizawa hesitated for a moment, his eyes lingering on the girl.

“I found something. Or, someone. There’s a girl here who-“

Aizawa cuts himself off.

“You should come up here and see for yourself. Send a medical team too.”

This was far from the response Tsukauchi was expecting. So far most searches of these old bases had come up empty handed, and if there was anything of value it was too old to be relevant. But despite his surprise, he puts his focus on the mission.

“… I’m on it. The medical team should arrive shortly. I’ll try to get there as soon as possible.”

With that the comms went quiet, and Aizawa was once again left staring helplessly at the girl.

She seemed.. young, maybe around the age of his students. But was she even alive? She hasn’t moved this whole time, except for her hair. Perhaps it’s her quirk that’s making her hair float and glow, but if that is true she must be alive. There’s a possibility it’s her quirk itself keeping her alive, and in that case Erasure might not be the best idea to use.

Aizawa swallowed the unusual feeling of anxiety and slowly approached the bed. When he got close enough, he could see the faint rise and fall of her chest, indicating she was alive, by some miracle. Maybe someone came by routinely to take care of her, but surveillance would pick up on someone coming and going from this place so often. No, the best explanation Aizawa can provide is that her quirk is in fact keeping her heart beating, and her body from rotting. Even her face is covered in dust.

He couldn’t keep his mind from racing with explanations. The possibility was ruled out of this being one of All For One’s victims who got their quirks stolen, as she clearly still had a quirk. There were no machines to suggest experimentations. If her quirk made her survive what seemed like a comatose state without any equipment or medical aid, surely that would be a quirk All For One would like to have. This didn’t make any sense.

But whoever she is, All For One and his organization kept her hidden away. And that alone is reason to help.

—————————————————

No one prepares you for the feeling you feel when you wake up from a sleep that was supposed to kill you. No one prepares you for how it feels to wiggle your fingers and move your eyes around when you haven’t done so in over a century.

None of it makes any sense. Where I am is lost to me. The room I am in seems to make sense, a hospital room with a bright overhead light. But where the hospital is located, I do not know. Neither do I know how I ended up here, or how I’m even alive. Nor do I know who I am; only a faint flicker in my head tells me I was someone at some point, though that version of me is so blurry and unfocused I cannot point it out.

Should I feel relieved? But I was so ready for death. Even if I try my hardest to forget everything I’ve witnessed through the eyes of someone else it’s too heavy to bear. This is all I know; I was someone but now I am no one, and the only thing that remains is the knowledge that a man I once loved put me through what can only be described as a living hell. Relief seems unreasonable.

The realization of what’s left of me almost brings me to tears. A part of me says death would have been easier. For while I am technically free, my lack of self still chains me to suffering. A hopeful part of me wishes this is death. An empty hospital room, with a comfortable bed and a silence that lulls.

That hope is crushed when the only door in the room opens.

The nurse who enters seems just as surprised to see me awake as I am. Because I am supposed to be dead, aren’t I?

She turns around and scurries back out, looking as if she’s seen a ghost, as if this situation is too much for her to deal with. Probably above her pay grade, to deal with someone like me.

A few minutes pass before what I assume is a doctor walks in. She seems more collected, sure, but there’s still a hint of calculation and questioning in her eyes. Her voice is calm but nonetheless serious as she speaks.

“Hello.. My name is Dr. Kitch.. How are you feeling?”

I blink questionably at her. ‘how am I feeling’? A very simple question, but for someone who hasn’t felt anything except a cold creeping chill for as long as she can remember, it’s not really so easy.

But when I go to speak, my voice comes out crackled and weak. I give up as soon as I start, so the question remains unanswered. Dr. Kitch gives me an almost sympathetic look, as if realizing what is happening. I don’t like how a stranger seems to know so much about me when I can’t even pinpoint things myself.

She steps closer, until she’s standing by the bedside before speaking up again, this time a little more hesitant.

“There’s no easy way to put this but …You’ve been in a coma. And we’re not sure for how long you’ve been in it.”

My face twists with realization as I remember. Him hiding my body away in a locked room, hidden away from the world. My comatose state offers no resistance or anything at all, really. I watch my own body lay helplessly in a hospital bed, and I try to scream and cry but how can I without a body? Who am I when I am detached from my sense of self and my body? My body hasn't been dead, but instead it's been in a coma.

Dr. Kitch seems to notice my reaction and even more sympathy laces her expression.

“You were in one of All For One’s abandoned bases, but luckily you were found. You’re in Tokyo city central hospital.”

I nod my head appreciative of the knowledge of at least where I am. But there’s still so many things I do not know and the emptiness it leaves inside me is far from pleasant.

Dr. Kitch continues- “There are several officers and detectives who wish to speak with you, but you will only have to do so when you are ready.”

Dr. Kitch looks down at a clipboard and seems to read some information of sorts.

“You have no injuries, luckily, but your muscles will feel unstable and your senses will feel weak for a little while.” She then looks at me with a smile. “You’ll feel better in a short time, I’m sure.”

I nod but no relief or smile shows on my face. My physical state is not my biggest worry, rather figuring out how to live with everything that’s happened to me when no other problems, such as being in a literal hospital after a coma, can distract me. Not that the distraction is working, for each time I close my eyes I’m back in his head, back to watching and listening but unable to make a change or a decision or even move my fingers, because my consciousness is separated and is so far from my body. But one thought keeps ringing again and again: I thought my body was dead.

Dr. Kitch notices this too of course, my seeming uninterest in recovery. Best not to push, is what I assume she’s thinking.

“For now, rest. The button on your right is yours to press should you need any assistance from the staff here.”

Another emotionless nod and dr. Kitch turns around to leave. Before she does so, however, she looks back at me and our eyes meet.

“You will have another visitor soon. Good evening.”

The door closes and the silence returns. It wasn’t all bad talking to another human, but I think I’ve forgotten the basics. It’s been a while. Not that I can speak at all, my throat is too sore from the unuse.

Time stretches on, and while exhaustion is fast approaching I cannot let myself fall asleep. Just closing my eyes makes my body tense up in a way I forgot it could do. My mind is racing.

I thought my life was over as soon as he trapped me in his mind. I watched my body fall flat. I had already mourned my death over and over again, overconfident it had already happened. But now, I’m alive again, in my own body and everything is so new and so unpleasant. I feel like a toddler who’s been put into a more grown body. Even wiggling my stiff toes and fingers feels foreign and uncomfortable. God, I really wish I had just died and hadn’t ever woken up again. My body but also my mind is so tired, but it can’t rest. It knows something critical is missing, but despite searching for it it won’t be found. It will never be found. I have simply moved from one prison, to another, with the same chains wrapped around my wrist. An eternal battle I’m now being forced to fight, with no remembrance or concept of why I’m fighting in the first place. God, I wish death had taken me when I was ready for it.

Chapter Text

A few more uninterrupted hours pass before a nurse enters my room and, while staring at me cautiously as if I might implode on her at any moment, softly puts down a bowl of some sort of soup on the little table next to my bed. I barely even noticed, to be honest. Sitting alone in a hospital room with sterile white walls and a silence that's starting to ring in my ears makes my mind wander.

The doctor is easier to handle because- well, she kinda just let me stay quiet and nod along, but who exactly is this “visitor” even supposed to be? Dr. Kitch said several officers and detectives wish to speak to me, but truthfully I don’t think I can handle an interrogation. I don’t think I can handle much of anything.

While I haven’t been in a body for a while I know a body not supposed to be this numb, cold and slow. I feel useless. I’ve felt useless for as long as I can remember, being separated from everyone, unable to do anything about all the evil I was witnessing. But at least then, no one knew.
No one knew how foolish I had been, because no one knew me. Knew that I ever existed, or knew what my life ended up turning into.

Now, it’s like everyone is treating me like a wild and wounded animal that might pounce if you try to mend its wounds.

All the nurses, even dr. Kitch acted as if.. I'm someone to be wary about. Someone to distrust. So how much do they know? About my past, about everything? Do they somehow know, and are just avoiding telling me to see how I react to all of this? Maybe this isn't a hospital after all, but a prison, and they’re tricking me to make me confess. I can’t let my guard down. I have to keep reminding myself I don’t know these people, and I have no idea what their intentions are with me. I’ve experienced enough betrayal to not be fooled twice.

My hands are shaky as I pick up the bowl of soup. It isn’t hot anymore. My internal dialogue keeps spiraling so out of control I lose sense of time. It tastes okay, even if I don’t have much to compare it to. I can’t remember the last time I tasted food and I try not to linger on that thought for too long.

The strangest part about all of this is my hands and body. When I was… watching everything from his- All For One’s- point of view, his hands were rougher and full of scars, as well as his body. But I’m fragile and… pale and weak. I don’t recognize any of it.

There’s a scar right under my wrist on my right arm, I notice. Touching it sends a shiver down my spine.

Once there was a story behind this scar, but now I can’t recall it.

The bowl of soup remains half eaten.

I watch the light from the sky outside my hospital window slowly fade away as night approaches.

The sky outside the window turns into deeper shades of blue, and for a while, I just watch. I try to let the shifting colors settle something in me, but the feeling won’t come. Nothing feels real.

The air is too sterile. The bed is too stiff. My body feels too foreign.

All the same repetitive sensations hitting me again and again but I can’t crack the code. Is this what real life is like?

I should sleep, but I can’t. I should try to push everything away and let unconsciousness take over, but the thought of closing my eyes feels wrong. I’ve spent too long trapped in that liminal space—neither here nor there, only watching, only waiting. Sleep is too close to that.

So I sit in silence and stare. My own body– this room, the quiet hum of hospital equipment– none of it feels mine. None of the sensations I’m experiencing, like my fingers grasping the soft sheets or the clean smell of the sterile hospital room, feel concrete.

The soup is so cold now the surface is coated in a thin firm. It’s unappetizing smell and look makes me feel sick.

I need to move.

I push the bowl away and fail to notice how it falls to the ground, its content spilling onto the hospital floor.

The blanket falls away easily, and when my bare feet touch the floor, a chill spreads up my legs. The air-conditioning hums, a quiet, mechanical thing, but it still feels too sharp against my skin.

One step. Then another. My legs feel like they’re going to give up, my knees threaten to buckle. I reach for the edge of the bed to stabilize myself, my breath comes out heavy and uneven through my nose. Another step, and another.

I dont think or hesitate when I spot the small mirror over the sink in the far corner of the room– I just start moving.

I have to lean on the sink to catch my breath. I watch my trembling, pale arms against the porcelain. All I can think about is looking up, but something is stopping me– fear.

I can’t remember what I looked like, only barely. What if knowing lets me in on some secret I’ve forgotten about myself? What if it makes the memories all flow back again?

I slowly lift my head, regardless.

The terrified girl in the reflection stares back, her eyes meeting mine. Her skin is dull and tired. And her eyes—

I look away.

This is silly, right? This is me. It's who I’ve been all along.

I look back up.

But I don’t know this face. I don’t know this body. And for the first time since waking up, something inside me cracks open. A sharp, sinking feeling in my gut. A terrifying, gut-wrenching sensation–

The floor is giving away underneath me, and my arms tremble with all their minimal strength to keep me standing,

My breath comes out even quicker, but the oxygen isn't reaching my lungs,

How much of me is missing?

The room and the lights stare to spin around me–

No, this isn't right.

My fingers press into my skin, digging, as if there might be something beneath it—

That's when I feel it.

It burns.

A slow, creeping heat seeping into my bones, curling around my ribs, coiling tight at the base of my spine. It expands down my limbs into my fingers and toes, making them twitch involuntarily.

I stumble back clumsy.

My whole body is pulsing with an unexplainable heat. a strange pressure builds beneath my skin, pushing outward, begging to be released.

The mirror rattles violently, the reflection splitting as fractures splinter through the glass. The metal IV stand beside me lurches sideways without warning, clattering to the floor with a crash that sends my pulse into a full sprint. The room is shifting—

No, not the room. Me.

I can feel it. Something powerful is thrumming inside of me to the beat of my pulse. Something I don’t understand, something enormous.

A soft pink glow starts emitting around my fingertips, slowly pooling around my body. Strands of my hair float upwards, weightless and wisping around like waves during a thunderstorm.

The mirror groans as another crack spreads across its surface. The entire room trembles in response, small objects shuddering, lifting slightly before hovering.

My heart slams against my ribs, every nerve in my body screaming. I clutch my head, gasping, trying to force the feeling away, but it only expands. The walls seem to close in around me, the pressure building–

The nurse. She's saying something– but I can barely make out her words through the intense thumping of my heart.

But I can make out her terror and fear.

She’s scared.

I am too.

The IV bag bursts, making its content spray across the floor. The hospital bed creaks as it lifts off the floor, it too surrounded by a pink glow, as its suspended mid-air.

I try to breathe. I want to stop this, but I don't know how.

The overhead light flickers erratically. The air is thick with something charged,

I faintly hear the sound of glass shattering as the windows burst apart,

It mixes with the sound of the mirror exploding in a bang of reflective shards and light. The shards hang mid-air, but the force pushes me to the ground.

The chair in the corner bangs against the ceiling. The small table by the bed topples over.

The nurse shouts something–

I don't dare look at her terror-stricken face, don't want to see the way she pushes the emergency button before making a run for it.

The room continues to implode in chaos, and all I know how to do is cover my eyes, lower my head and wait for it to pass. But the intense surges of energy only get stronger and stronger, and I’m all alone with this monstrous power that's going to tear me apart–

I can’t breathe.

I can’t stop.

I don't notice the looming shadow in the doorway.

The sound of the door opening does not register in my mind.

The glow around me flickers. The furniture slams back to the ground.

I exhale sharply, the tension in my body finally unravelling for just a split second–

Then it all turns black.
—-------------------------------------------------------

When I open my eyes, I find a completely different room.

I push myself up too fast, and my head starts to spin. My limbs are even more sore and sluggish than they were– the remnants of that sickening heat still coil under my skin.

This new room is cold. And dark.

The only light is a small lamp in the corner. I blink sheepishly at the artificial lights. There are no windows. No sink or mirror. No visitor chairs except one– hidden away in the corner. No bedside table with cold, half-eaten soup on it.

I knew it. They were waiting for me to slip up. Waiting to see how long I could take the isolation before I lost it and revealed more things about myself. Somewhere, in some observation room, they’re watching my every move. I know it, because they see me as a threat. Someone involved with All For One. Someone dangerous.

And for all I know, I could be all three of those things.

Not only did I not know my own meta ability– but it blew out of control and nearly destroyed the whole room. All because I couldn't handle staring at my own reflection.

I don't know how long I sit there, unmoving and staring at the empty room until the silence breaks by the sound of a lock clicking.

I should be prepared, because I knew this was coming. I should be calculating every response to every question and find a way to convince them I shouldn’t be behind their bars. But no lie I can conjure up in my mind would do the trick.

The footsteps that follow are slow and measured. As if the person they belong to isn’t afraid of me, but still on guard.

A tired looking man with black hair and black clothes paired with an odd looking silver scarf comes into view. There's a bandage on his cheek. His eyebags are deep and dark.

But yet, he radiates a confidence and calm as if he already knows me. I hate it, I hate when strangers seem like they know more about me than I do. Just like that dr. Kitch.

I stare at him, waiting. I’m suspicious, angry and scared. And with the look he gives back, he seems to see right through me. A chill creeps up my spine.

Then he speaks.

“How are you feeling?”

How am I feeling? Like a wild animal. Like a threat. Like I don't belong in my own body. Like a ghost.

But I don’t say that. I don't say anything at all.

I look away from him, my gaze falling to the barren walls, the single light in the corner of the room, the hard concrete floor. I've been trapped for so long, I’ve been small for so long. And even if I’m technically free, that won't change. I’m still small and trapped.

They’ll ask me about who I am, and I won't be able to answer, because I don’t know. They’ll ask me about my meta ability, and I’ll tell them their guess is as good as mine. They’ll ask about my involvement with All For One–

I can’t. I don’t know. I don’t want to recall it– or even mutter his cursed name.

I close my eyes, my fists gripping the sheets tightly. I can feel that panicking wave rush through me again– I can recognize it now. There’s a throbbing in my chest, and it's that thing, that power, wanting to be released again.

His voice cuts through my spiralling thoughts, a steady cord in the mess of noise.

"You’re safe here.”

My gaze snaps back to his. It doesn’t feel like reassurance. It feels like a lie.

I shake my head before even processing the movement. My hands release the bedsheets, only to tremble sharply. That throbbing feeling is growing, just like it did earlier. Pushing against my ribs, coiling around my spine, extending to my fingertips and toes.

If I felt closed in in the last room, I feel it ten times more in this one. I'm afraid something will shatter or break if I make one wrong move.

I think I’m losing my sanity, fully this time. I bite my lip till I taste blood.

The very tips of my hair float up ever so slightly in a faint, pink glow.

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t move into action– he only watches. I want to scream.

I don’t know why this is happening or why my body is betraying me this way. Maybe it doesn’t recognize its host after years of absence. Maybe it’s rejecting me because it's been too long.

And then– a gust of wind tears through the room– a cold, chilling air, fierce and chaotic. The bed rattles. The single chair slides slightly to the right. It's happening again–

“Stop.”

He demands of me, but I can’t stop it. His gaze is a mixture of command and worry as I snap my head towards him.

It’s too late– or so I thought.

But as soon as the bed slowly lifts off the floor, and before the pink glow spreads through my whole body– it stops as quickly as it began.

My hair falls flat. The gust of wind stops.

I swallow, trying to make sense of what happened. Did I do that? Did I stop myself? Despite the relief, I can’t help my shaking hands and uneven breaths.

“I’m sorry.” Is all I could possibly say, my voice still not recovered as it comes out weak and low. It doesn’t mean anything. The words are too small to pinpoint what's happening inside of me.

He doesn’t respond, instead takes a few more steps, slow and deliberate, as he closes the space between us.

“Your quirk,” He says quietly, “is powerful.” He pauses as he narrows his eyes ever so slightly.

“And very out of control.”

I try to speak, but the words get caught in my throat. I can feel sweat trickling at the back of my neck, my pulse still running.

“You don’t seem used to it.” He murmurs, calculative but some of that earlier suspicion in his voice seems to have been replaced with a small softness. Empathy.

I press my hands against my lap in an attempt to stop them from shaking, but the tremors don't go away. The glow is gone– but that force that pushes against my very being is still there.

I should say something. Anything. But what’s there to say?

His gaze remains locked on me. He hasn’t moved much, hasn’t changed his stance, but I can tell he’s hesitant to look away from me for just a moment in case I lose control again.

I don’t want people looking at me like that. Like I’m a threat they need to monitor. That’s how they always looked at him. All For One.

I look down at my hands– pale and weak. Not the hands belonging to a monster, nothing like how his hands were, littered with scars and imperfections. But I felt it. Maybe I’m not a monster, but there's some intense, burning feeling inside of me. Something I can’t control, something I can’t stop.

I clench my fingers into a fist, digging my nails into my palm until the sensation grounds me.

“Where am I?” I ask in a hoarse and quiet voice.

He responds, “In a more secure room.” His tone was even and almost relaxed. “For your own safety.”

I almost let out a laugh. Not for their safety, no, for my own. Not because I wrecked that other hospital room, not because they dont trust me. What a lie.

I glance around again. There are no windows, no mirrors, nothing reflective. The walls are thick, smooth and sterile. A single bed, a lone chair, not even a small table.

A cage. Not a hospital room– a holding cell.

I breathe in slowly and carefully. I can’t panic again.

But nothing about my situation seems to give me peace of mind. I’m trapped, I’m being monitored. They don’t trust me. They think I’m dangerous.

I was with him, I saw everything, I let myself get trapped in his conscience. Watching, unable to do anything. And now that I’m “free” instead of dead, I’m in a world where no one knows me, but somehow I am already feared.

I once again mourn how easy things could have been, had I just been killed and not trapped all those years ago. How unimportant and insignificant I could’ve been had I just died when I was supposed to. But no amount of wishing can change my fate.

He shifts slightly, his gaze still locked on me.

“We don’t know what happened to you.” He says, and I stiffen.

I know what happened to me. But I can’t say it.

“We don’t know how long you were there.” His voice is even and measured. “But I do know that when I found you, you were unconscious and barely alive.”

My eyebrows raise ever so slightly.

“You found me?” I ask, my voice quiet and still.

He stays quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable before responding.

“I did.”

I swallow hard.

He continues. “And.. whatever happened to you, you survived it.”

Survived? I don’t feel like I’ve survived anything.

I feel tricked. I feel left behind by death herself. I look away– I can’t do this. I force the words out of me before I can stop myself–

“You don't understand.”

His response is immediate. “Then help me understand.”

Help? Help him understand? I can’t even– I can’t even help myself. I can’t even understand it fully.

So I don’t answer.

He sighs and takes a step back. My gaze goes back up to him. His expression is still unreadable– but there's a hint of understanding behind his eyes. As if he knows I’m not ready.
“You don’t have to talk right now– just.. get some rest.”

I watch him turn around and head for the door, but right before he leaves he says one more thing.

“I’ll see you soon."

The door closes. The lock clicks.

Then I’m alone again. And I don't know what to do.

I don’t know who to be or how to act. I don't know this body or this power or this place.

I don't know anything at all, except for confinement and suffering. And I know I’d never want to cause that to happen to any other person on the planet.

I don't want to be a monster. I don’t want to hurt anyone. And for now, that's enough. I might not know kindness, but I know evil. And I know that's not who I am.

Chapter Text

—-------------

The silence doesn’t linger for long. Soon a nurse– a different one this time–  is hesitantly entering my room, eyeing me with a calculating gaze. She's carrying a tray with some rice and chicken on it, along with a glass of water. I don't say a word as she lays it on my lap, nor when she turns around to leave. 

I manage to eat most of it, and it’s better than the soup. The feeling of actually eating food and feeling it fill up my stomach is… weird. It makes me realize how hungry I’ve been this whole time, and how much more my body relaxes when it’s not starving to death. 

When the nurse comes back, she seems surprised to see my plate empty. She doesn’t talk though, and neither do I. She only takes it back before leaving again. After the not so pleasant conversation with– with… did he ever say his name?- I appreciate the nurses who all seem set on not talking to me. Having conversations is more of a bother than its worth. 

I curl into myself. This room is colder than the last, making a chill run down my spine. My body still feels wrong, too light. Too small. 

And all the people I’ve interacted with are strange. Their gazes are all calculating, as if studying me. With suspicion, with fear, with curiosity– I don’t know. It leaves a weird feeling in my stomach. That last guy especially. 

Despite my best efforts I feel exhausted and regardless of my resignation to falling asleep, I catch myself dozing off in small periods before jerking myself awake, until I can’t resist anymore. I fall asleep fully, My body half covered by the blankets and completely still. 

I count it as a blessing that my brain decided to play nice and let me have a dreamless and peaceful sleep.

When I wake again, I feel more rested than I have felt for as long as I can remember. I only get a few minutes before a nurse comes in and hands me what I can assume is breakfast, some toast with some eggs. I eat it diligently. When I finish, she grabs the tray and leaves. I sit there in silence, by myself. 

I don't know how much time has passed when the door opens again. 

He looks the same as he did yesterday with that same tired expression, that same unreadable gaze. I swallow hard as he approaches.

“Who are you?” I hear myself ask before I even register the words in my head.

He responds, his expression remaining unchanged– “Shouta Aizawa”. 

I roll the name over in my mind. It doesn’t mean anything to me, nothing I can recognize from my limited knowledge. 

I exhale shakily, staring down at my hands. They’re still trembling, but at least they don’t glow. I have to do everything in my power to make sure they don’t glow. 

“...and you?” Aizawa’s voice is quiet and careful, as if the question is an offensive one. I blink, and look up at him, meeting his gaze for the first time today. “What?”

Aizawa squints his eyes ever so slightly. “Your name.”

Oh. Right. I should’ve expected that. I should’ve– but… my mind is empty. There's nothing, no name, only the memory that there was a name that belonged to me at some point, but along the lines I forgot it. My chest tightens. 

Aizawa seems to notice my hesitance, because his expression changes ever so slightly. 

No name, no answer. 

“You don’t know.” He says so matter-of-factly it makes my skin crawl. As if he’s starting to piece together who I am– or rather who I am not. 

He exhales, slow and deliberately. He watches me, and I can’t help but look away under his piercing gaze that's picking me apart piece by piece. 

“... it’s fine,” he utters, “we can work with that.” 

I thought he’d push, demand me give an answer that I don’t have. He seems to believe me, somehow, and that I’m telling the truth when I say I don’t know my own name. 

He walks to the corner of the room and my eyes follow him there as he grabs the only chair in the room and drags it closer to where I’m laying on the bed before sitting down. As if he’s planning on staying, this time. 

He doesn’t speak, so neither do I. I don’t know what I can say, or what I should say. I don’t know what he wants from me. 

The silence stretches as he crosses his arms, yet his eyes never leave me. I feel his gaze on me, and I don’t dare look up to meet it. He's waiting– I don’t know for what. Does he want me to say something?

I glance at my hands that are clenched against my sleeves– at the lonely lamp in the corner– at the smooth barren walls–but they seem to come closer the longer I look at them, smooth, bare, solid . No windows. No mirrors. No way out. Except a door I know they keep locked. 

I press my hands against my lap, forcing myself to breathe.

It’s not a prison. At least I don’t think so… I don’t know. Even if they keep me locked in, even if-

“You’re panicking again.” Aizawa says. 

My breath catches. I hadn’t even realized. I keep my head down and my fingers clenched. I’m scared that if I release the tension in my body, that power will take over. I can already feel it bubbling under my skin. I can ‘t stay here, I can’t handle it. 

“I don’t–” I begin, “I don’t like this room.” 

“... why?” He asks after a tense silence. 

What am I supposed to say? That I don’t know what’s happening, that I don’t even know who I am and that I keep thinking I’ll wake up trapped again, inside his mind, and that this is all some terrible trick? That I don’t trust these walls, or anyone who comes to see me while I’m trapped inside them because I’ve spent over a century held against my will?

“... it’s too small.” Is what I settle on saying. 

Aizawa doesn't move, only speaks with a steady voice. “Okay.” 

And that’s it. My heart drops ever so slightly. That’s it? Maybe I should’ve known they can’t move me. Because they only moved me in this room because I'm dangerous– because I quite literally wrecked the last one. 

But that doesn’t change the fact that I’d do quite a lot of things to just see an open sky and feel some fresh air again. See some proof that my world is not limited to this room. 

Aizawa exhales through his nose and leans back slightly in the chair, but his eyes stay sharp. “If we moved you to a bigger room, would that fix anything?”

I blink. He says it like it’s a real option, not just a hypothetical. But… that doesn’t make sense, does it? I wrecked the last room. I may wreck this one. I might wreck the next one they put me in. I can’t trust myself, but I don’t want to stay here, in some small, shut off room with no windows and a locked door. 

I swallow hard and force myself to meet his gaze. “…I don’t know.”

He nods, slowly, and only now do I notice the very obvious eye bags under his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, and he’s studying me like I’m just another problem in a long line of problems. But there’s no hostility in his expression, just… patience.

The silence stretches again, but this time, it’s not suffocating. It’s just there.

Eventually, Aizawa rubs his eyes, then sighs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He stands up, already moving towards the door, the chair he was sitting on stays where he dragged it to. The door opens with a click, and before he leaves, he turns around one final time, nodding to me before the door slams shut.

I stare at it, half expecting something more to happen. Maybe for him to walk back in, or a nurse, or some alarm going off, or for me to wake up and be back in All For One’s mind. But nothing happens.

I’m alone.

The silence is thick, pressing in from all sides, filling the space he left behind. I try to tell myself that I prefer it this way—that the quiet is better than the careful questions, the unreadable stares, the feeling of being dissected piece by piece by people who want something from me.

But the quiet isn’t empty. It’s filled with things I don’t want to think about.

I glance at the chair he left behind, the only thing that isn’t bolted to the floor in this room. For some reason, that bothers me. A reminder of my predicament. Untrusted and chained. Locked away. A cell.

My fingers dig into the fabric of my gown, pressing inwards to ground myself. This body still feels wrong, like it’s too small, like I’m not supposed to be in it. That power hums beneath my skin, like a restless creature pacing inside a locked cage, waiting for a moment of weakness to slip through the bars.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help.

Everything feels like a trap. Every part of my being is chained to the floor. Every beat of my heart feels like a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. Every breath is laced with hopefulness that it could be my last.

I don’t want to be here.

I don’t even know what here is.

How much time passes? I can’t tell. There is no clock here, no window to let the sky tell me where I am in the endless cycle of day and night. No one to ask. The room exists outside of time, a place where things are only measured by the sound of my own breathing, the pacing of my own thoughts.

Eventually, dinner arrives. The same routine. A nurse—silent and efficient—sets the tray down, leaves without a word. I eat because my body demands it, but I don’t taste anything. I barely register the motion of bringing the food to my mouth, swallowing, and setting the tray back down.

The moment it’s gone, the exhaustion creeps in like a tide, slow and steady, dragging me under before I can fight it.

I tell myself I won’t sleep. That I shouldn’t sleep. That if I sleep, I might wake up somewhere else. I might wake up somewhere worse.

But my body betrays me.

I sink into the mattress, my limbs heavy, my mind slipping. The edges of the room blur, my vision tunneling into darkness.

And that night, much to my dismay, I dream.

It starts with a soft breeze dancing across my cheeks. It starts with laughter, so pure and soft it takes me a moment to realize it’s my own. 

The sun is warm against my skin, golden light slipping between the leaves overhead, painting the world in shifting patterns of light and shadow. My feet pound against the ground, bare against the dirt path, cool and familiar. I know this place. I don’t know this feeling. 

"Come on," he calls, "You’re too slow."

So I run, my heart beating like a banging drum, my limbs numb and done, but I keep running. The wind rushes past my ears and for a moment– just a moment– I feel invincible. I feel unstoppable. I feel relieved. 

I hear the pitter and patter of my legs as they run through a puddle, the swishing of the leaves and the crickets in the bushes. Summer was warm, the warmest it’s ever been. 

He’s ahead, laughing too. We weave between the trees, darting through the maze of the small forest. 

"Where are we going?" I ask, breathless.

"Everywhere," he answers, turning back to smile at me. "Anywhere we want."

We wind through fields of tall grass that whisper softly as we pass, I know where it leads. A house with a broken fence, a lantern hanging by the door, the wooden steps warm beneath my feet. Home.

We rush upstairs, between a decorated table with laid out chairs, the sound of our legs running up echoing through the house. Today there’s a party, and I think it’s for me. 

My room is blurry and small. I see it in flashes– the toys we built together, the drawings he drew me, the pictures from christmas and summer trips. 

"Do you want to see something?"

He steps through, shadow stretching long in the fading light of my dimmed room, his hand out and fingers curling. 

A gift, and it’s for me, that thing that's thrumming under his palm. It flows through the air like thick honey. 

"It’s yours if you want it."

The sun stills. The world holds its breath.

And I—

I blink.

I take it. 

Then I feel it.

A force that makes my heart pump faster, that makes my skin crawl with something unexplainable and foreign. 

Thump, thump, thump.

Some strangeness humming under my flesh, begging to be released. 

My body explodes in a fury of hot pink light, and it burns, and it’s burning me from the inside out. My bones rattle, my limbs scream, and nothing makes sense except for this. This power that's going to eat me alive. That he gave me.

I can’t move, and I can’t speak. The floor cracks below me. I fall. And I can only think, I can only know– this power is going to eat me alive. 

—----------------

The nurses station was usually crowded around this hour. Nurses leaned against counters, stirring coffees they weren’t drinking, and exchanging glances that flickered between concern and barely contained curiosity. The nurses might tell themselves it’s only natural to discuss their work and the many predicaments they get into, but in reality it’s just gossip. Everyone knows it’s an excuse to gossip. 

“So, you were on shift tonight, right?”

Natsumi leans over the nurse’s station, her voice lowered but filled with barely contained excitement. “Did you hear about what happened?”

Hana, who had been flipping through a patient chart with the kind of exhaustion only a night shift nurse could understand, barely lifted her head. “Which what happened are we talking about? The guy in 202 who tried to sneak his cat in by hiding it under his hospital gown? Because that was impressive.”

Natsumi rolls her eyes. “No, I mean her. The Jane Doe.”

That gets Hana’s attention. She sighs, closes the chart, and looks up. 

Natsumi’s glances around the station, as if checking for eavesdroppers, before leaning in conspiratorially. “Her quirk activated while she was sleeping.”

Hana raises an eyebrow. “Okay…? Not that weird. Plenty of people have quirks that activate unconsciously, especially if they’re delirious or on medication.”

“Yeah, but this wasn’t just, like, sleepwalking or something.” Natsumi gestures wildly. “She rattled the entire floor. I was doing my rounds like usual, and suddenly, half the machines in the ward started shaking. Monitors flickered, IV stands tipped over, the poor guy in 315 nearly had a heart attack because his bed moved with him still in it!”

Hana blinks. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I wish I was.” Natsumi crosses her arms. “One of the doctors ran in to check on her, and the second he opened the door—bam! He was lifted off the floor and flung out. It was like some freaky poltergeist stuff, everything just floating and trembling.”

Hana lets out a low whistle. “So what, is she some kind of high-level telekinetic?”

“That’s the thing,” Natsumi says, lowering her voice even more. “Nobody knows. No records, no name, no next of kin— nothing. ”

Hana rubs her temples. “How convenient.”

Before Natsumi can add more, the sound of a group of sharp voices catches their attention. Just down the hall, near the staff meeting room, a group of people is gathered. Some doctors, a couple of police officers and even a few pro-heroes.

Natsumi grabs Hana’s sleeve, dragging her toward the nearest corner so they can eavesdrop. “Oh, this is so above our pay grade,” Hana mutters.

“Exactly, which is why we should definitely listen.”

The voices grow clearer as they inch closer. Dr. Hashimoto, a stern-looking man with graying hair and a perpetual frown, speaks in a low voice, to the point that Hana and Natsumi have to sharpen their ears to hear what he's saying. 

“This is a hospital, not a containment facility,” he says, clearly exasperated. “We have other patients to think about. If she’s a danger to them, she needs to be moved immediately. ”

One of the officers– a detective, actually– who Hana recognizes as Detective Tsukauchi, rubs the back of his neck. “We understand your concerns, but it’s not that simple. There’s nowhere to move her to. She has no ID, no history—”

Dr. Hashimoto cuts him off. “I don’t care. She’s a threat. She cannot stay!”

A third voice interjects—gravelly, tired. Aizawa. “She’s not in control of her quirk yet, but that doesn’t mean she should be treated like a villain.”

Dr. Hashimoto pinches the bridge of his nose. “Regardless, she’s endangering other patients. What if she does this again while we have someone in surgery? Or she makes something happen to the equipment of a patient on life support?”

A long silence stretches between them, no one really knowing what to say. 

Finally, a police officer speaks up, “... I agree. This hospital doesn’t have the resources to handle someone like her. We’re lucky no one got hurt tonight, but next time? We might not be.”

Aizawa remained still, arms crossed over his chest, his tired eyes unreadable.

“She’s not in control of her quirk,” Tsukauchi said, his voice quieter, more thoughtful. “Moving her in this condition might make things worse.”

Hashimoto exhaled sharply and turned to the detective. “Are you kidding? She nearly ripped a medical cart out of the wall while she was asleep. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to stick around and find out what happens when she wakes up.”

A tense silence followed.

The police officer let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Tsukauchi, you can’t be serious about keeping her here.”

“I’m serious about making sure we don’t make a bad situation worse .”

“There is no worse,” Hashimoto barks back. “She’s putting other patients at risk, she has no records, no legal identity, nothing. We can’t keep someone like that in a public hospital!”

“Then where do you suggest we send her?”

Hashimoto opened his mouth, then closed it again, visibly struggling for an answer. Eventually, he turned back to the police officer. “The department has containment cells, doesn’t it?”

Tsukauchi stiffened. “She’s not a criminal.”

“She’s a threat —”

“She’s a scared girl with an unstable quirk ,” Tsukauchi cut in, his voice low but firm. “And locking her up like a villain when she hasn’t done anything wrong is morally incorrect.”

Hashimoto looked like he wanted to argue, but ultimately let out a frustrated breath, rubbing his temple. “Fine. Do what you want with her, but she’s not staying here. That's a decision I have the authority to make. She’s your problem now.”

Tsukauchi glanced at Aizawa, who had been silent through most of the conversation, finally speaking up. “Understood.”

Without another word, he turned and left. Tsukauchi sighed, shooting the police officer a tired look before following him out into the hallway.

Hana and Natsumi flinch when they see the pro-hero and the detective walking right towards them, and scurry back to the nurses station. Truly never a boring day with a job like this. 

—-------------

Tsukauchi caught up with Aizawa a few steps outside the hospital. The driveway was dimly lit, quiet now that the immediate chaos had settled. Outside, the cold air bit at their skin, the sky stretching dark above them. The city was still awake, but this street was quiet. Only the hum of distant cars filled the silence.

Tsukauchi dragged a hand down his face, looking exhausted. 

“This is a mess,” he muttered. “I’m not sure what the right move here is.”

Aizawa hummed, but didn’t say anything. Instead he shoved his hands deep in his pockets, staring off somewhere, deep in thought. 

“This kind of thing doesn’t just happen ,” Tsukauchi continued, shaking his head. “People don’t just show up in one of All For One’s bases in a coma with no past and no identity. We’ve got nothing to work with, because there’s no records and even if she knows something, I doubt she’ll say it outright any time soon. I mean– if she's telling the truth, then she doesn’t even know her own name.” 

Aizawa exhaled through his nose, staring at the pavement.

That was the first thing that had stood out.

She didn’t know her name.

He hadn’t pried, but the way she’d frozen at the question… there was something off about it. People forget things. Trauma can do that. But complete amnesia? No personal details at all? Forgetting your own name ? That was rare. Abnormal. 

The way she’d kept her hands clenched into the fabric of her sleeves. The way she’d avoided his gaze, but tracked his movements like she was waiting for something bad to happen.

Everything about her screamed fear.

But of what? What was she so afraid of?

Tsukauchi sighed beside him. “I don’t think she’s a villain.”

Aizawa raised an eyebrow. 

“I don’t know what or who she is. But something’s not right, clearly. And throwing her in a cell…” Tsukauchi ran a hand down his face. “It doesn’t sit right with me.”

Aizawa hummed, gaze distant.

No quirk registry. No medical history. No name. A powerful quirk activating on instinct, but no real control. It even activates during sleep.

And yet, she hadn’t attacked anyone. Not on purpose. Hadn’t lashed out, hadn’t done anything except sit in silence, clenching her hands and trying not to panic, despite it not working out most of the time. 

Something happened to that girl.

Something bad.

Aizawa knew he shouldn’t care. He had enough on his plate already. But…

There weren’t many people who could keep her quirk in check. Not unless they wanted to sedate her for the rest of her life.

But he could.

His quirk was one of the few things capable of keeping her under control without hurting her.

If she stayed in a hospital, she’d be a risk to the other patients. If she went to the police, she’d be locked away like a criminal despite there being little proof she was ever one. If she got put in some government facility, she’d just be another experiment waiting to happen.

No matter what option they picked, it wouldn’t sit right with him. Unless—

Aizawa sighed. “Tsukauchi.”

The detective glanced over. “Yeah?”

“…I think I have an idea.”                                                   

Chapter Text

I wake slowly. 

It's strange how I feel more exhausted than I did when I went to sleep. It doesn’t take me long to realize how the chair that was once left by my bedside is now flung across the room, laying on its side. Nor how my blanket is scrunched up by the foot of the bed. 

I sit up quickly as my groggy mind catches up to what this might mean. Something happened. And now my pulse is picking up, because what if– 

Did someone break into my room? But the door is locked at all times. Did I sleepwalk? Did I–

What if I activated my quirk in my sleep? 

I vaguely remember the dream I had, one of those fleeting childhood memories my brain so desperately grasps onto because it’s the only thing it knows where I was safe and happy. Safe and happy, though I wasn’t really. I only felt that way. But my fate was ruined the day I met him, even if I didn’t know it. 

He gave me my quirk as a birthday gift. That's what the dream said. Like a reminder this quirk was supposed to be a celebration of my life. I didn’t think twice when I accepted it. It was my birthday, after all. At least now I know– unless my brain is playing tricks on me– my birthday was in the summer. I know something. 

I think I activated my quirk in my sleep. Somehow, someway, that dream made it implode. And I didn’t even know it was happening. 

I stare at the chair, and the bundled up blankets, for a long time. 

My stomach churns. I was asleep. My hands, my body– everything feels normal. I don’t feel that buzzing under my skin, and I don’t see any faint glow on my fingertips. Maybe the chair just flew off on its own. I hope selfishly it was because of something that wasn’t my fault. But I know, deep down.

I stare at the chair for a little while longer. The silence presses down on me. No one has come in yet, I just now realize. The nurses always check in just around the time I wake up, even if they don’t say anything. They bring me meals and then leave. But now… nothing. 

Something happened. They don’t want to see me. My breathing becomes heavier. 

I don’t know how much time passes before the lock clicks open. I tense as the door swings open, expecting Aizawa, or the nurse from before, or—

Instead who meets me is Dr. Kitch. The only other person who’s told me their name. The first to speak to me when I woke up. 

Her once polite and sympathetic smile is no longer there. I press my hands to my lap, forcing my breathing steady. It doesn’t help.

She says nothing, so I say nothing. I seem to play this game a lot. 

She sighs through her nose, stepping further into the room. I notice the quick glance she throws at the chair in the corner.

“You activated your quirk in your sleep,” she says. No hesitation, no leading questions, just straight to the point. My stomach drops in a way that feels ingenuine. I already knew that. I just wished it wasn’t true. 

“I—” I swallow. My voice is hoarse– I haven’t spoken in hours. “What… happened?”

Dr. Kitch crosses her arms, regarding me carefully. “A bunch of furniture and equipment in the rooms down the wing started rattling or– or floating .” Her gaze flicks back to the chair. “That, apparently, happened as well.”

I feel lightheaded. No, not lightheaded. Small. Maybe both.

I press my back against the bed frame, as if that will keep me anchored. 

“I didn’t—” I stop myself. What’s the point of saying I didn’t mean to? I wasn’t even awake. That’s worse. That’s so much worse, because that makes me unpredictable. I know this, Dr. Kitch knows this too. 

She watches me, studying my reaction. 

“We’ve been monitoring your condition closely since you arrived,” she says, voice carefully even. “Up until now, there’s been indications of involuntary quirk activation, but only when you’ve seemed to be in stressful situations. But last night…”

She hesitates. I shrink further into myself. 

“…Well, I’m sure you can guess. The entire wing was shaking.”

I stiffen and have to remind myself to inhale and exhale. I clench my fingers into my sleeves, gripping tight enough to hurt. The entire wing was shaking. All those other patients, the doctors, the nurses– god, what if someone was hurt? What if I’m– what if–

Dr. Kitch lets out a slow sigh. “We can’t keep you here.”

The words are like ice water dumped over my head. I snap my gaze up to her, eyes wide.

“What?”

“This is a hospital ,” She says, carefully but firmly. “We’re not equipped to handle high-risk quirk activations, especially not ones we can’t predict or control.”

I stare at her, heartbeat hammering. No , I don’t like this room, or this hospital, or those nurses who look so scared they’re ready to bolt out of the room at any moment. But if I– if my quirk hurt another patient, they’re going too–

They’re going to lock me away. More than I already am. More than just a simple locked door and scared nurses and scrutinizing visitors. In a real cell, with police officers and handcuffs and bare walls to stare at for the rest of my life.

“But—” I stammer, and my own voice sounds so small, “—where will I… go?”

Dr. Kitch’s expression doesn’t change. She just shakes her head.

“I don’t know.”

I stare at Dr. Kitch, searching her face for something— I don’t know what. But there’s nothing. Just the weight of someone who’s already made up their mind and doesn’t have the energy to dress it up as anything else.

I don’t know what this means for me. I want to argue, want to say that I didn’t mean to, that I didn’t even know what I was doing. But truthfully I don’t want to be anywhere near these people if there’s a chance I could hurt them. I’m just scared the alternative is worse. 

“...what happens now?” I ask. 

There’s another pause.

And then, for the first time since she walked in, Dr. Kitch looks uncomfortable. I don’t like that.

“There are people looking into alternative placements for you.” She says quietly. 

"People," I echo.

She nods "Detectives. Law enforcement. Heroes." She exhales. "They’ll figure something out.”

But there’s something off in her voice. Realization clicks into place before she even has to say it. They don’t know what to do with me. No one does. There isn’t a plan.

I swallow hard. “And what if they don’t?”

Dr. Kitch hesitates.

She doesn't answer. That tells me enough. My stomach twists. It feels like my lungs are filling with water.

Dr. Kitch shifts, rubbing at her temple again.

"For now, you’re to remain in this room. But you need to leave as soon as that decision is made. It will probably be later today.”

I fiddle with my hands in my lap before forcing myself to nod, small and stiff. I don’t meet her eyes. I don’t look as she turns around, or when the door slam shuts. My hands are shaking regardless of how much I fill them with tension. 

I need air. I need to get out. I need– I need to leave. But I have nowhere to go. Nowhere to be. No one to be. And I know that, I’ve known that since I woke up. No one is waiting impatiently for me to be discharged from the hospital. No family longs for my return. No loved ones worry for my well being. There's me, and just me, and I don’t trust myself.

Maybe it’s weird to feel more alone now than ever. Because even back then, even when I was in his head, watching, observing, with no voice or body of my own, I saw the way he trusted the closest he had. His twisted sense of a family, but a family nonetheless, that Doctor, Tenko, the league, his allies, his rivals. He knew himself. 

I don’t know myself. I have nowhere to go. No one to be. 

It loops in my head regardless of how much I try to take my mind off of it. I try focusing on my breathing, on the feeling of fabric on my skin, on that damn fallen over chair in the corner of the room. It doesn’t change anything. 

It doesn’t change the fact that I know my options are limited. I’m dangerous, that’s what I’ve proven now, even if I don’t want to be. The doctors and police officers and heroes and whoever else is trying to solve this issue of my existence in this place knows nothing except for the fact that I’m a danger, and I can’t blame them for it, can I? I’m an anomaly. Telling them what I’ve been through won't change that. 

And they’re going to lock me up. In a prison or in a detention center, or a detainment facility–

The thought sends something cold curling in my stomach. A sharp feeling piercing my lungs, shaking my breath. 

I don’t want that. I can’t. I don’t want to be locked away, trapped somewhere with no control or freedom. I can’t— I can’t do it again. 

But I have no place in this world. There is no alternative, except one. One that will give me freedom. Give me rest. 

In the whirlwind of chaos that is my head at this moment, it's a soft comfort to know that if I ever end up in a place like that again, I don't have to be anywhere. Don’t have to be at all.

I could create my own out. 

It would be easier to just kill myself.

I wouldn’t have to wonder who I was, or where I belonged, or if I was dangerous, or if I was even meant to keep living. 

I wouldn’t have to feel this endless heartache all the time. Wouldn’t have to fret for a reason to keep going. Wouldn’t have to keep living in this state where I know nothing except for pain and hurt.

And no one would care, because no one knows me. No one would feel a loss. 

I think of the nurses, too scared to even check on me. Dr. Kitch, her once empathetic smile shifting to something emotionless once she realized the threat I pose. The detectives and heroes, trying to figure out where to put me like I’m just another case to crack.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

For 120 years, I was nothing but a ghost in his head.

And now I’m here, and it turns out I’m still nothing at all.

I think of the dream I had. My birthday. That summer. The gift I should have never accepted. My quirk that’s now harming other people, and how it wont stop buzzing under my skin.

I think of All For One, and the way he ruined my life. My hatred for him. How he did something so much worse than just ending my life all those decades ago. How he’s the only thing I can remember.

I think of his brother, Yoichi, how he probably never knew what happened to me. I think of my family, faces and names I don’t know, but I know they  existed at some point. I probably loved them, and they probably loved me, but I disappeared to them without a trace and they disappeared from my mind before I even noticed. I think of how they’re all dead now. How many funerals I missed of people I once loved.

I think of the chair in the corner, toppled over. The bed bolted to the ground. The locked door. The previous room that I wrecked. 

I think of the way the nurses didn’t come in this morning, how scared they must be of me. How I probably caused so much trouble for the other patients who are already so vulnerable.

I don’t want to be scared of myself anymore, or my future or my past. I don’t want to be me anymore. I sit with the thought for as long as I’m allowed.

I don’t know how much time passes before the door unlocks again. I don’t hear the slow steps approaching. I don’t realize how I’ve curled up into myself on the bed, how I’ve tuned out the rest of the world. 

It's safe to say my heart does a somersaults when I feel a hand lightly touch my shoulder.

My whole body jolts against my will. I pull away instinctively, my muscles tensing like I’m expecting a blow.

No strike. No pain. Just warmth, the lingering weight of a hand that’s already drawn back.

My head jerks up, and my whole body follows in a startle, scrambling back until my shoulders hit the headboard. 

My eyes, widened with fear and an instinctive urge to fight or flight, snap up only to meet the gaze of Shouta Aizawa. His expression is unreadable but there’s something careful about the way he watches me, like he already knows I’m close to breaking apart. He saw it before, I remind myself. Saw how I panicked so hard it activated my quirk. But there’s something careful about the way he watches me, like he already knows I’m close to breaking apart.

I force myself to breathe. In, out. Steady. I don’t notice the tips of my hair glowing pink until I see the reflection of the light in Aizawa’s eyes. It’s happening again–

But almost as soon as I notice it, it falls flat. And Aizawas hair is slightly levitating, his eyes glowing red. And the buzzing beneath my skin stopped. What just happened?

Before I can even process what just happened, I notice the other man in the room with us. A man I don’t recognize. A man in a brown trench coat, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp but not unkind. He doesn’t look scared of me, but he does look cautious.

Aizawa steps back a little until he's standing next to the man in the trench coat, yet his eyes are still fixed on me, as if I might do that again. 

The silence drags until the man in the trench coat takes a step forward and clears his throat.

"Detective Tsukauchi," he says. His voice is calm and measured. "I work with the police and with the heroes handling your case."

I blink at him. Maybe he’s one of the detectives who wanted to speak with me as soon as I woke up, to work on my “case”. Because that's what I am to them, a case to crack, a problem to solve– a mystery to uncover. How little they know of my truth. 

I lower my gaze to my lap, fingers curling into the fabric of my hospital gown. "Right," I mumble, the words coming out weak.

Aizawa sighs, "You’re being discharged today," he says, voice flat. "They can’t keep you here."

I nod weakly. I already know that, but I still don’t know what that means for me. And I honestly don’t know if I can handle them telling me right now. 

Tsukauchi shifts where he stands, his expression hard to read. “We’re here because we’re trying to figure out the best course of action for you.”

Best course of action. A problem to be solved. A case to crack.

My hands are shaking again, and I can’t stop them this time either. I can’t stop the fast pitter of my heart and how my throat feels like it's closing up–

Tsukauchi crosses his arms. "We’re still figuring out long-term placement," he says. "But given the circumstances… you need somewhere safe to stay in the meantime."

I clench my fists tighter in my lap, my nails digging into the fabric of my gown as I stare down at my trembling hands. "And where," I ask, voice hoarse, “exactly is that?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Aizawa speaks. “You’re coming with me.”

My head snaps up so fast it makes me dizzy.

“...what?”

Out of all the options I thought were plausible, that was not one of them. 

Aizawa is watching me carefully, his expression unreadable, but there’s no hesitation in his voice when he repeats, “You’re coming with me.”

My mouth opens, then closes. I have no words.

"You’re a danger to yourself and others, we can’t ignore that." he continues. "The hospital isn't equipped to contain your quirk, and no one here can stop it if it activates again." A pause. "I can."

My breath catches in my throat as I remember the moment just a minute ago—how the buzzing under my skin had vanished in an instant. How my power had flickered out the second his hair started floating.

That was him .

He canceled my quirk. He made the buzzing stop. Not just once, but twice. And I didn’t realize.

Tsukauchi clears his throat. “It’s temporary,” he assures me, probably because I must look as shocked as I feel. “But right now, it’s the best option we have.”

Best option. Not good, or ideal. But the best option.

My lips press together, mind spinning. Aizawa—this man I barely know—is offering to take me in. To take responsibility for me .A complete stranger. 

"Why?" I blurt out before I can stop myself.

Aizawa doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate. “Because no one else can."

The words settle heavy in the room, in my chest.

He’s not lying. No one else can . No one else will . Not the hospital, at least. 

And Aizawa doesn’t seem like the type to say something unless he means it. That's one thing I’ve picked up on.

And maybe that’s the only reason I don’t immediately say no.

I stare at him. He stares back, his tired eyes steady, unwavering. He isn’t afraid of me. Or if he is, he doesn’t show it.

I exhale, long and shaky. My fingers flex against the fabric of my gown.

“…Okay.”

And that's how I sealed my fate. 

—---------------------

When the “Jane Doe” is discharged from the hospital, everyone breathes a little easier, though no one will admit it. 

They keep their voices neutral, their faces composed. But the moment the door clicks shut, the tension in the air unravels like a thread finally snapping. Shoulders slump. Exhales are released. Someone even murmurs, Thank god.

It was kind of like having a bomb in the building. And you never know what's going to happen with a bomb in the building , because it could go off any second and kill everyone. 

An unknown girl with no records, no name, and a quirk that could shake an entire wing of the hospital. Yeah, not ideal. 

“She’s gone?” One of the younger nurses asks, peeking cautiously down the hall, as if expecting her to come back.

“She’s gone,” another confirms, rubbing tiredly at her temple. “Transferred into that hero’s– what's his name?– Eraser… eraserhead! Eraserheads custody.”

“That hero? Eraserhead? ” The young nurse’s eyes widened. “I mean, I guess that makes sense… if anyone can handle something like that… it’s him.”

“Well I guess someone has to,” another mutters, crossing her arms. “If she has another episode like that, it won’t just be a hospital wing shaking. It could be an entire building.”

A beat of silence follows. The weight of that thought settles in their stomachs.

“Well.” Someone exhales sharply, straightening their posture. “Not our problem.”

There’s a murmur of agreement.

The girl with no name is gone, and for the first time since she arrived, the hospital feels a little more relaxed. A little safer. And soon it will become a strange, unsettling story they might whisper about in passing. A name—or lack thereof—that will eventually be forgotten. Like all things, like always.

—------

Feeling air on my face wasn’t what I was expecting. It’s colder than I thought it’d be. The days in that hospital blurred together, one long stretch of white walls, locked doors, and eyes that never looked at me for too long. But out here, it’s cold. And the sunset is painting the sky in a way that makes my chest ache. 

The hospital gave me some worn down clothes for the journey. Just a hoodie and some jeans that are both very obviously several sizes too big. My fingers clutch at the too-big sleeves– at least it’s better than leaving in a hospital gown. 

The sun is setting, the cold wind is biting, and I feel like I should be heading home now. But there’s no home waiting for me.

There’s just this. A strange city, an unfamiliar sky, strange people and strange moments. I want to go home, I realize, even if I don’t remember what home once was. And I’m just supposed to live with that, just accept it. 

Aizawa is watching me. Not with pity, not with fear— just watching. Like he's seeing something in me that I can’t.

“...come on.” he says, voice steady.

I take a step forward. Then another, and another, and walking feels really weird after having not used my legs for 120 years, but at least I’m doing it—  even if it's slowly.

Aizawa turns and starts walking ahead of me, not saying a word. Detective Tsukauchi stays behind, talking quietly on a phone but somehow I just know the conversation is circled around me. I put in extra effort to not listen in. 

Eventually, Aizawa stops in front of a parked car. He’s watching the street ahead, his expression unreadable, but there’s something about the way he holds himself—calm, steady, sure, but at the same time– calculative, tense, uncertain . I can’t pinpoint it. I can’t read him. 

“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice quieter than I meant for it to be.

Aizawa doesn’t look at me, but he answers. “Home.”

I stop in my tracks.

Aizawa notices, finally turning his head to look at me. His red eyes aren’t glowing anymore, but they still pin me in place like they can see right through me.

“… My home,” he clarifies after a moment.

His home. Not a facility, not a cell, not some empty space where I’ll be locked behind a metal door. A home, not my own, but someone else’s. My stomach twists and I don’t know why.

I glance past him, at the car, at the road stretching ahead, disappearing into the city’s glow, painted by the light of the orange sunset. There’s no other option, not really. This isn’t a choice I get to make, or at least I don’t think it is. This is a choice they made for me.

It still feels like something heavy is shifting inside my chest, like I’m stepping into something I don’t understand. Something I’m not ready for, something huge.

I lower my gaze, gripping the loose sleeves of my hoodie once more. It doesn’t matter. Nothing has changed. I have nowhere else to go.

“Okay,” I say. The word feels small.

Aizawa nods once and moves, opening the car door. I force myself to follow, slipping into the passenger seat, my body moving on autopilot. The door shuts with a soft thud , sealing me inside. I remember seatbelts are a thing and I have to use one, so I drag it over my body as it clicks into place. Breathing in reveals the faint scent of old coffee and fabric softener, something deeply mundane but I can’t get enough of the lived in smell, so different to the sterile scent in the hospital. 

Aizawa slides into the driver’s seat, adjusting the mirror before starting the engine. The hum of the car vibrates through my bones, the soft flick of the turn signal filling the silence as we pull onto the road. Neither of us speak. 

Watching the city pass is some unexplainable experience. The neon signs blur together, casting shifting colors over my reflection in the window— hues of blues, red, yellow— all showered by the now dimming glow of the sunset. I can’t tear my eyes away. The buildings stretch high, lined with flickering street lights and windows that shine with lives I’ll never know.

People move along the sidewalks, bundled in coats and jackets, laughing, talking, arguing. Some walk alone, some in groups, some in a hurry, but all in their own little bubbles. They don’t know how strange this moment is, how fleeting things like memories and time truly are.

I watch a woman laughing on the sidewalk, her breath visible in the cold air. A kid tugging on his father’s sleeve, pointing at a shop window lined with colorful displays. A group of teenagers crowded together at a street corner, talking animatedly, faces lit up by the glow of their phones.

I must have walked streets like these before, lived in a world just like this, a place now lost to time. But no matter how hard I search the shapes of the skyline, the faces of pedestrians, the ebb and flow of traffic, nothing stirs inside me. No familiarity, no recognition. No connections besides that of an observer. 

I shift in my seat, pressing my forehead against the cool glass of the window. My breath fogs against it, a fleeting mark of my presence before it fades just as quickly.

Aizawa hasn’t said anything, and I’m grateful. He just drives, his hands steady on the wheel, his focus locked on the road. I don’t know what he’s thinking. If he regrets this already. If he’s wondering why the hell he’s bringing some nameless, unstable stranger into his home. I don’t quite get it yet myself, why he’s putting this burden on himself when he has no reason to.

“You don’t have to do this.” I say, the words leaving my mouth before I can stop them.

Aizawa doesn’t react right away. His grip on the steering wheel doesn’t tighten, his expression doesn’t shift. He just exhales slowly, his fingers drumming against the wheel.

“I know.”

That's all he says, I don’t know why I was expecting anything else. So casually, like this is any other night, like he's not driving a living question mark to his house .

And I have no clue where we're actually headed, or what's waiting for me there, but I do know that every second brings me closer to something I feel like I can't undo. 

A home that isn’t mine.

A life I don’t know how to live.

A person I don’t know how to be.

Memories I don’t know how to handle.

The cold seeps through the glass, prickling against my skin. I shift in my seat, tucking my legs up, hugging my arms around them.

The city keeps living. The sunset slowly fades away, throwing the sky into night.

I have an urge to speak. But the words fall flat on my tongue.

So I stay silent. 

And Aizawa keeps driving.

Chapter Text

Hizashi Yamada has heard a lot of crazy shit in his life. 

But this? This was definitely up there.

A phone call from his husband as he suddenly drops the bomb that a girl had been found in one of All For One’s abandoned bases with symptoms of amnesia and a quirk that's out of control.

And she’s moving in with them. Tonight. 

“She doesn’t remember who she is,” he’d said over the phone. “And her quirk is unstable. No one knows what to do with her, so she’s staying with us.”

That was it. That was all the explanation Hizashi got before the call ended. No warning. No Hey honey, hope you don’t mind, I’m bringing home a traumatized, amnesiac mystery girl with a dangerous quirk, love you!

Everyone was out of their minds. Just Shouta being Shouta , taking responsibility for things no one else wanted to deal with, like it was second nature. Like it wasn’t insane. Like the last few weeks haven’t been wearing down on them both, with the training camp incident, the whole kidnapping spectacle and now this. Yeah, everyone was out of their minds. 

And don’t get him wrong, he trusts Shouta with his life. Of course he does. He knows the man better than he knows himself sometimes. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t worried.

Because this is All For One they’re talking about. Nothing good has ever come from anything tied to that bastard. And now a girl—someone he had in his base —is going to be sleeping under their roof?

Hizashi runs a hand through his hair, pacing their living room with restless energy. There's too many variables, too much happening. 

Hizashi exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. He knows Aizawa. And if Aizawa had decided to take this girl in, it wasn’t on a whim. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t obligation. It was purposeful. It was instinctive. Aizawa isn’t the type of person to make decisions without being three steps ahead.

But his husband had spent years carefully keeping his distance from things that weren’t his to fix. He cared deeply—Hizashi knew that better than anyone—but he was always careful about what burdens he took on. He had enough of his own. They all did. And yet, he decided to take responsibility for this girl.

A traumatized, powerful girl, with no memory yet ties to the biggest villain in history .

And she was about to live here .

He ran a hand through his hair, glancing around the living room like it might suddenly tell him how to handle this. If Shouta thought this was the right call, then it was . But he can’t help but feel uncertain about how this will play out. 

Hizashi exhaled sharply, shaking his head before looking toward the door. The sun had set. They’d be here soon.

And all he could do was hope this girl—this lost, scared girl—would find some solace in this home they’ve built for themselves. He would try his best to do that for her.

—----------------------------------

The house is quiet when I step inside. Not in a bad way. Not like the hospital, where the silence was heavy and suffocating.

This is… different. Lived in. There’s warmth here, a kind of softness in the way the space is used. Shoes lined up against the wall. Jackets thrown haphazardly on the hooks. Shelves littered with books that aren’t perfectly arranged, a few leaning against each other like someone pulled them out and never bothered putting them back neatly. A home. 

I forget where I am for a moment until a voice calls out from further inside.

“Sho, is that you?”

I jump ever so slightly, my whole body tensing before I can stop myself. The voice is loud—way louder than Aizawa’s—but there’s something light about it, casual in a way I don’t expect.

Aizawa sighs beside me. "Yeah. We’re here."

And suddenly I’m very aware of myself and my presence here. Of my too-big hoodie, my widened eyes, the way my hands are curled into my sleeves because I don’t know what else to do with them.

There's footsteps, some movement around the corner, and then—

A man steps into view.

He’s tall, with blond hair that's up in a man bun and square glasses that hide his eyes. He’s wearing a casual sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and there’s a ring on his left hand that catches the light when he moves.

His gaze lands on me. Then, to my surprise, he grins.

"Well, hey there," he says, voice still loud but not as overwhelming now that I can see the face it came from. There’s something in his tone, something easygoing, but not forced. Like he’s not trying to pretend this isn’t weird, but he’s also not making a big deal out of it. "You must be the one keeping my husband so busy."

Husband. My gaze flicks to Aizawa, who doesn’t react.

That explains some things.

I shift awkwardly, not sure what I’m supposed to say. My throat feels tight, my mind buzzing with a hundred different thoughts, but none of them translate into words. 

He doesn’t seem bothered by my silence, and instead he turns to Aizawa. 

"You gonna introduce us, or you just gonna stand there being all broody?"

Aizawa exhales through his nose. "Hizashi, this is…" But he trails off.

Because I don’t have a name. My stomach twists.

Aizawa glances at me. "Do you want—?"

I shake my head quickly.

I don’t have a name, but the idea of picking something right now, on the spot, while they watch me —it makes my chest feel tight, makes my fingers curl tighter into my sleeves. I can’t explain why. It wouldn’t feel right. It would feel like a lie.

I can see them silently communicating something with their eyes, some type of look they throw each other. 

When he turns his gaze back on me, his grin falters slightly when he sees me tense, and then, more carefully, he tries again.

"Well, the name’s Hizashi Yamada," he says, "But you can call me Present Mic. Or, y’know, Hizashi. Or Yamada. Whichever works."

I nod stiffly and it’s quiet again. The silence stretches just a little too long—not awkward, exactly—just… something waiting to be filled.

And eventually, Hizashi… Present Mic? He gave me so many options I’m not sure which one to use— speaks up again. 

"...hope you’re cool with cats," he says after a beat. "Boba technically belongs to Sho, but I think she likes me more."

Aizawa sighs in a way that tells me this is an ongoing argument. "She likes whoever feeds her ."

"Which is me most of the time," Hizashi says smugly. "Which means she likes me more."

The casual back and forth between them is… strange. Something I’m not used to. Something I don’t know. There’s a rhythm to it, something practiced and easy, and for a second, I feel like an outsider looking in on a moment I wasn’t supposed to be part of. A fly on the wall of a home I have no business staying in. 

I shift on my feet, unsure how to carry myself, how to form my posture or move my face. I don’t belong here. I don’t know how to interact with these people who so clearly do belong. 

Aizawa moves past me, heading toward what I assume is the kitchen. “She needs rest,” he says, voice even. “It’s been a long day.”

Hizashi hums thoughtfully, tapping a finger against his chin. “Alright, alright, but hear me out—food then rest.” He turns back to me, raising an eyebrow over his glasses. “You hungry?”

I blink. Honestly food was one of the last things on my mind, but when I think about it I haven’t eaten since last night. I nod my head stiffly.

Hizashi looks at me again, his expression still open, still easy. “You good with rice and curry?”

I nod my head again. He turns around, following Aizawa to the kitchen.

I take a few steps forward, my eyes roaming the walls, the furniture, the floor. Everything looks so lived in. It’s a home in a way I can’t grasp, in a way that makes my chest ache. Even the air here feels different— warm, filled with something I can’t name. 

The floor is cool beneath my feet as I walk past framed photos on the wall. I don’t linger too long, but I catch glimpses—one of Aizawa standing next to Hizashi, both younger, maybe from their school days. Another of them with a small black cat curled up between them on the couch. Them on their wedding day. And another with… students? A group of them, all in uniform, standing in front of a school building.

And then I see it.

I stop.

The picture is similar to the one I saw earlier. The colors are slightly faded, but the moment it captures is clear: two boys in school uniforms— Aizawa and Hizashi— standing on either side of another boy with messy light blue hair and a grin so wide it makes my stomach twist.

I feel sick.

Because I recognize that boy.

I’ve seen it. Not like this—not full of life, not smiling.

I’ve seen it through his eyes.

Back then, when that grin was nowhere to be found. When those eyes weren’t filled with light.

When All For One retrieved his body from the accident that took his life, brought him to the doctor in that sterile, stinking lab where bodies were turned into something inhumane.

I remember it so clearly when I stare into the happy boy in the photo. 

I watched him be transformed. Picked apart and perfected. 

The boy who now makes up part of the league member Kurogiri. Another puzzle piece in the picture All For One is trying to build. It’s him. One of the many victims I saw come and go through those long stretching years.

He’s not supposed to be here, in this home, in this picture. Not like this. 

I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to know. The floor tilts beneath me, nausea brewing in my stomach. 

Do they know? Does Aizawa and Hizashi know what came of the boy whose photo is hanging in their hallway? 

The cold wind from outside still lingers on my skin, but now it’s like ice in my veins. The house no longer feels so warm.

A muffled voice comes from the kitchen—Hizashi. Aizawa’s voice rumbles in response. They don’t know I’m standing here, staring at a boy who was turned into a nomu against his own will. 

Staring into those eyes, trying to make sense of it, trying to make the thought disappear. My fingers clench against the fabric of my hoodie, and I force myself to breathe.

In. Out. Steady.

The photo stays where it is, untouched. 

I stay where I am, feet planet to the ground. 

It doesn’t change anything. 

The sounds from the kitchen have long turned into background noise. My stomach rumbles, I ignore it. 

Would they even believe me?

The thought makes my throat feel tight.

I’ve only just met them. They don’t know me, they don't trust me. I don’t even know myself. I’m a girl pulled from the depths of his world, a girl with memories that don’t belong to me, with knowledge I shouldn’t have over the years and years of being stuck in his head. And I still haven’t told a soul, because frankly, I don’t want to end up in a psychiatric hospital.

What would I even say? Hey, that guy in that picture? He’s alive. Sort of. But also not. He was turned into a nomu. And I know that because I’ve seen him through All For One’s eyes. And that nomu is the right hand man of the league of villains, Kurogiri. 

Yeah. No.

I exhale shakily, forcing my hands to relax, unclenching my fingers from the fabric of my sleeves.

I can’t say anything. Not yet. Maybe never. 

I don’t know what they’d do with that information. I don’t even know what I would do with that information.

And deep down, part of me is afraid of what it would mean— what it would change —if they did believe me. What would happen.

Aizawa’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.

“You just gonna stand there all night?”

I startle, my head snapping up to see him standing at the end of the hallway. His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable—but his gaze flicks, just for a second, to the picture on the wall I was so obviously staring at.

I swallow hard. 

No. No, he can’t know. I can’t say anything.

I force myself to shrug, pulling my sleeves further over my hands. “Just… looking.”

Aizawa watches me for a moment longer, like he’s trying to read something in my face. Then, finally, he just nods toward the kitchen.

“Come eat,” he says simply. “Hizashi made extra.”

I hesitate, casting one last glance at the photo before forcing my feet to move.

I can’t tell them anything. 

Dinner is a little awkward. 

Their dining table is small and circular, meaning I’m facing them both. And it’s a little difficult trying to hide the discomfort I know is visible on my face. 

Hizashi does most of the talking. Not in an overbearing way– just to fill the stiff silence in the room. He chatters between bites, throwing out comments about work, the news, some radio show he was hosting last week. I’m not really paying attention to the topics he’s shifting through, my mind still preoccupied. It’s casual, normal—like this isn’t weird, like I’m not some stranger dropped into the middle of their life.

Aizawa doesn’t talk much, but I get the feeling that’s just how he is. He eats quietly, only speaking when Hizashi prompts him to. And when he does, it’s usually short and to the point.

I try to focus on my food, on the warmth of the curry, the way the steam curls up from my plate. But every now and then, I catch one of them looking at me. Not in a bad way. Just… watching.

Like they’re trying to figure me out.

Like they know there’s something I’m not saying. 

I try my best to not meet their eyes. 

“So,” Hizashi says at one point, pointing his chopsticks at me with a grin. “You liking it? I’m a pretty great cook, huh?”

I nod quickly. “It’s good.” I say, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. 

Hizashi’s grin widens. “Damn right it is.”

Aizawa sighs. “You’re fishing for compliments again.”

Hizashi gasps, placing a hand over his heart. “I would never .”

Aizawa doesn’t reply, but I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch.

Something about the exchange makes my chest ache. Like this is something they do every night—like this is a routine they’ve fallen into without even thinking. And yet again I feel like an intruder. Like I’m not supposed to be here and witness these moments. Like I don ‘t deserve my spot at this table, knowing what I know and not saying a thing. 

I push a grain of rice around my plate, my fingers curled tightly around my chopsticks. I can feel their eyes on me again, brief but searching. I put a bite of curry into my mouth, even though my stomach is twisted into something tight and uncomfortable. The food is good, but I can barely taste it. There’s something stuck in my throat, something thick and unspoken, and I don’t know how to swallow it down. I don’t know how to look them in the eye. I don’t know if I can stop myself from blurting it out, because deep down I know they deserve to hear it. But I can’t.

Hizashi keeps talking, but his words start to blur together, like I’m hearing them from underwater. My fingers tighten around my chopsticks. I stare down at my plate, trying to force my thoughts to stay in the present, but that boy, those pictures, the doctor, All For One, the nomus—

  “Hey.”

My gaze snaps up. They’re both watching me. I don’t know how long I sat there– staring at my plate as if I looked hard enough I’d see something more. Something else. Feel something other than this feeling that's becoming all too familiar.

I swallow and force my grip on the chopsticks to loosen.

Hizashi isn’t smiling anymore. Not in the way he was before. His expression is still open, still easy, but there’s something akin to patience, like he’s not going to push, but he sees it. Sees through me.

And Aizawa doesn’t say anything, but I know he sees it too.

I hate it. I hate the way they’re looking at me. Not with pity. Not with fear. Just… awareness. Like they know my mind is somewhere else. like they’re waiting for me to come back.

I clear my throat and look back down at my plate. “Sorry.”

The word feels strange coming out of my mouth.

Hizashi shakes his head immediately. “Nothing to be sorry for.” His voice is light, casual, like it’s just a passing comment, an everyday occurrence.

There’s a pause. The air feels heavy, and my hands are shaking ever so slightly.

Hizashi taps his chopsticks against his plate. “You a music person?”

The question catches me off guard. I blink at him.

He grins. “Y’know—music? Songs? Do you like listening to stuff?”

I don’t know how to answer that. It’s such a normal question that shouldn’t be so difficult to answer. But… I don't know. Of course I don’t know. All For One didn’t listen to music and I don’t remember if I ever did. 

Aizawa sighs. “Hizashi.”

“What? I’m just askin’.”

There’s something almost teasing in his voice, something that’s helping me understand their dynamic even more— Aizawa sighs a lot and Hizashi just keeps going anyway. This is how they are. 

I hesitate, then shrug. “I… don’t really remember.”

Hizashi’s expression doesn’t change. He just nods like that answer makes perfect sense, when it really doesn’t. “No problem. We’ll fix that.”

I tilt my head slightly. “Fix it?”

“Oh yeah.” His grin returns. “I promise you, there are songs out there with your name on them. You just haven’t heard them yet.”

Something about the confidence in his voice—like it’s an undeniable fact —makes my heart pound in a way I don’t understand.

Aizawa shakes his head, but I swear I see that twitch of a smile again.

Hizashi continues talking. Aizawa keeps responding, only when he’s prompted to. I keep eating my food. 

The house feels a little warm again, for a moment.

—-----------------------

I wake up in the middle of the night and I see a stranger in the bathroom lights.

When I was shown to my room, I was told I have my own bathroom connected to it. I told myself I wouldn’t go in there. But my bladder protested, and decided to wake me at 3 am. I never made it to the toilet. 

My reflection demanded my attention before I could.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. 

Everything about the bathroom is perfectly ordinary, except for the girl staring back at me.

Her face is unfamiliar, her eyes are too wide, her cheeks are too hollow. Her skin looks dull under the fluorescent light. The hoodie draped over her frame is too big, swallowing her whole. The sleeves hang past her fingertips. Her hair is tangled, strands curling awkwardly in different directions. 

I let out a sharp breath. I close my eyes. But the image is burned into the back of my eyelids. 

That girl is me, but something about her is unwelcoming. Unnerving. The feeling is all too familiar.

I drag my hands across my face. I hear the buzzing of the overhead light. 

It reminds me of the hospital. Of waking up there. Of not knowing where or who I was. Of power crackling beneath my skin like lightning as I watched my own face twist in uncertainty and fear.

I let my hands fall limp to my sides. I force my eyes open again. Some feeling settles in my chest, something wrong and bitter. 

For a moment, nothing happens. The power I constantly feel brewing in my bones is staying dormant. I watch the girl ahead. 

Then— For the briefest second, I see something shift in my reflection. My pupils dilate too fast, like ink spilling across glass. The light above flickers. The air becomes charged.

I stumble back, my shoulder hitting the doorframe.

The mirror just shows me. Only me.

I muster every nerve and muscle in my body to turn away. My steps are unsteady as I move toward the toilet. 

I finish quickly, and wash my hands without lifting my head. I turn away, I shut off the lights. I close the door and return to bed, trying to forget I ever looked. 

The sheets are cold when I crawl back into bed. 

I pull the blanket up to my chin, curling in on myself, but the chill doesn’t leave. It’s not just from the air— It’s in my bones, in my chest, in my flesh.

I will my brain to stop, to be quiet, to leave me alone. 

But my heartbeat is too loud in my ears. My skin feels too tight, stretched over something raw and restless. The image of my reflection lingers behind my eyelids—the unnerving way my eyes looked, the way the air had shifted, the way there’s just something wrong.

I know I’m being irrational. I know the girl in the mirror is me. I know looking at her makes my mind search for memories it knows should be there. It’s a trick my mind is playing on itself, I just wish all of this would stop. I want it to stop so badly.

The fear of the past, future and present. The guilt of carrying what I know about the most dangerous villain to have ever existed weighing down on my conscience. The feeling of not belonging. The surges of power I can’t control. The heaviness of my shoulders, of my legs. The look people give me when they know I’m wrong. My reflection. 

Sometimes, I think I hear my bones straining under the weight of all the things pressing me down. My body can’t hold it, nor can my mind— all those years I shouldn’t have witnessed and all those memories I don’t know how to keep out. 

And that’s the hardest part. Because I know.

I’ve already concluded that living a restful and easy life with all these things circling my head is impossible. It feels final. I can never live past this without scars running down my back, through my spine and in my mind, I can’t will it away. It's inside of me, it’s my entire being. I can’t build a new person out of trash and fire.

All For One. His eyes. His voice. His memories tangled with mine, like vines wrapping too tight around something they were never supposed to touch.

I know what he’s done. I know what he will do.

And I know that, no matter how much I try to push the idea of him away, no matter how much I try to force him out, he will always be a part of me. His influence on my life will never go away. It will dangle over my head until the day I die. 

The hospital. The mirror. That picture in the hallway. The way Aizawa and Hizashi looked at me across the dinner table— 

It’s all because of him. It’s all his fault.

My hate for him outweighs my fear of life. 

Fear is cold, lonely, isolating. Fear is instinctive. I can’t run from it. Fear is pulling me under, drowning me in daylight, as it latches on to the most vulnerable parts of my mind. 

Fear never lets me forget.

Hate feels different, hate is something I can hold.  Hate burns in a prouder, brighter way. Hate is solid.

Hate is mine.

Fear paralyzes, hate moves. 

And I want him to feel it.

I want him to feel even a fraction of what he’s done to me, feel just a smudge of fear— I want to tear him from the shadows he hides behind and make him face it. Make him face the hate he’s brewed in my heart.

Despite all the ruckus running through my mind, it latches onto this one solid, undeniable truth:

He has taken everything from me.

But this —this rage, this defiance—this belongs to me.

And one day, he will feel it.

Chapter Text

It’s been two weeks since the battle at Kamino.

The air in Tartarus is oppressive, thick with the kind of silence that can swallow you whole.

All Might wasn’t here for pleasantries. Nor for friendly discussions.

It’s been two weeks since his final stand, since the embers of One For All flickered out. Two weeks since the world watched him broken, bloodied, hollowed out before the eyes of a nation that once believed he was untouchable. Two weeks since All For One was defeated and put in a high security cell in the very building he's standing in, just a few feet away.

The sounds of the metal doors unlocking echoed down the hallway, a low screech that scrapes across the quiet like nails on a chalkboard. 

There’s a distant sound of footsteps, echoing, bouncing off the cold concrete. A guard appears from the shadows, leading him forward, but All Might doesn’t look at him. His gaze is fixed ahead, unwavering. The man in the cell, the one who has caused more destruction than any villain in history, is waiting. 

The doors creak open.

All Might steps through, and the cell door shuts behind him. At the center of the large and sterile white room, bound in layer upon layer of reinforced restraints, sat him.

All For One.

His biggest rival. His final battle.

His body is a ruin of what it once was. Even before Kamino, he had been a shadow of his former self—his true face long since stripped from him, his body ravaged by injuries decades old, some tracing back to their battle many years ago that gave them both life threatening injuries. Now, what remained of him was little more than a corpse that kept breathing through sheer force of will and the quiet hum of life-support systems woven into his flesh.

Steel clasps locked his arms in place. His legs, too, were immobilized. The oxygen mask covering his face, the cables wrapped around his throat, the cameras pointed at him 24/7 keeping a close eye so he won’t try to escape or use one of his quirks—it’s more than enough. Enough to keep him still. Enough to keep him contained.

Not enough to keep him quiet. 

Even now, even in his defeat, even with his empire crumbling outside these walls, he laughs. A low, rasping chuckle, barely more than breath.

“Ah…” All For One exhales, tilting his head ever so slightly. “All Might.”

All Might clenches his fists.

“You’ve come all this way to see me.”

Even in this cell, even with dozens of restraints and measures put in place so he won’t get out— that smile, that cold and cruel smile blooms on his face. And his tone. That insufferable, knowing tone. The same one he had used back then— when he killed his mentor, Nana—when he’d carved his way through the world without a care for the lives he destroyed along the way.

All Might's jaw tightens. “You’re exactly where you belong.”

All For One hummed, as if considering it. “Am I?” There was no rage in his voice, no bitterness. Only certainty. Cold certainty.

That was what made him so dangerous. It wasn’t just his power, his mind, his reach and influence— it was the fact that he never doubted. Never questioned. Never feared . Even now, even after everything, he still believes he is in control.

All Might steps closer, every muscle in his body littered with tension. He wouldn’t let himself be shaken. Wouldn’t let himself slip.

“You’ve lost.” His voice was steady and firm. “It’s over.”

All For One is silent for a moment. Then, slowly, he tilts his head, the bright overhead light showing every crevice of his wrinkled up face.

“Lost?” All For One’s voice was soft and amused. “Oh, All Might… you know better than that.” His ruined lips once again curl into that cold smile. “ This was never the end.” 

All Might doesn’t react. He refuses to, refuses to give him the satisfaction.

"You stand before me now, stripped of your power, in a shriveled up body," All For One continues, voice as smooth and measured as ever. "A man who once towered over the world, reduced to what, exactly? A symbol? A myth? A relic waiting to fade?"

All Might clenches his jaw. He won’t let the words sink in, won’t let them find purchase.

"You can say whatever you want," All Might says, "It doesn’t change the truth. You’re done. Locked away, rotting in the dark, and you will never escape.”

All For One chuckles again, "crumbles?" he muses, "No, no… not quite."

He tilts his head, flesh covered eyes facing All Might, as if he’s seeing right through him.

"You’ve always been so short-sighted, " he continues, almost pitying. " I was never what truly mattered. What I built was never meant to depend on me alone. I am simply a vestige. A foundation. A guiding hand for those who will inherit the world I’ve been shaping."

Something in All Might’s gut twists.

Shigaraki.

"It was never about me," the villain went on, voice almost soothing. "You restrain my body. You take me from my throne. And yet, what has truly changed?"

All Might doesn’t answer.

Then All For One’s expression shifts, just slightly. That same intense certainty remains, but there’s something else now, something almost thoughtful.

"Though, I must admit," he muses, almost to himself, "there is one presence I find myself… missing. "

All Might’s brows furrow. "What?"

All For One exhales, "Ah. I suppose you wouldn’t know, would you?" he says amusingly. 

All Might doesn’t say anything, but his mind is focused on every word All For One is saying. His stance tenses.

A low hum vibrates from All For One’s throat. "It is of no consequence," he says, voice light and dismissive. " Yet. "

There’s something in the way he says it, something in the way he lets the words linger— something that makes All Might’s breath catch in his throat. 

"You may have clipped my wings for now, but a seed, once planted, will grow no matter how deep you try to bury it." An eerie kind of ease settling over his expression. "I wonder… has she woken up yet? ”

All Might stiffens. What is he talking about? Who is he talking about? The words don’t make sense— but there’s something All For One isn’t saying. Something that tells him this is significant, he just doesn’t know why. Some tone in All For One’s voice that makes doubt root in his mind.

All Might’s voice is firm. "I don’t know what game you’re playing—"

All For One laughs, soft, raspy, patient. "No," he murmurs, "I don’t imagine you do." And he leaves it at that.

All Might glares at him for a long, heavy moment, but there’s nothing else to pry from the villain’s lips. Whatever he’s hinting at, he wants All Might to wonder. Wants him to dig. Wants the words to linger in his mind, make him mull over the meaning of them. 

A slow chuckle leaves All For One’s throat, hollow and rasping.

"You call yourself a mentor now, don’t you?" He sighs, almost amused. " Let’s hope you’re better at it than Nana was. "

All Might’s breath catches. He doesn’t let it show. He doesn’t react. But All For One grins anyway.

The metal doors creak open behind him. Cold air sweeps in, sharp against his skin, the guards peering in.

"See you soon, All Might," All For One murmurs.

With that, All Might turns and walks away. But as he steps out, leaving the uncomfortable brightness and charged air behind, the doubt lingers, a quiet whisper at the back of his mind.

Has she woken up yet?

—-------------------

The sun is out today. 

I thought it would be gray or cloudy—something that matched the way my mind feels sluggish and knotted. But no, the sky is clear and bright in a way that almost hurts to look at. 

I open the blinds, watching as the small black cat called Boba lay and stretch in the sun on the living room carpet. 

The house is quiet. Almost eerily. 

I woke up to silence, laying in my bed for almost an hour waiting for something. Some noise, or knock, or voices from down the hall. But nothing. 

When I finally lifted my body from the sheets and dragged my feet to the kitchen, I found a note that said: “Out for a bit. Back by dinner. Don’t burn the place down. – A.” It made my chest ache, just a little. Aizawa’s dry humor was... consistent. Not much else, but that was enough.

The quiet and empty feeling of the house is irregular. Their absence came as a surprise, like I forgot these are regular people with lives to live and errands to run and things to do. 

Boba stretches again, his little paws pushed out, oblivious to the weight of the day. I watch him for a moment before I move to the fridge.

It feels strange to be alone in this space. Not in a bad way, just different. There’s a certain comfort in the quiet, but it brings with it a heaviness, something tense that lingers in the corners of the house. Something unwelcome.

I try not to think too hard about it. I’m not sure I have the energy to.

So, instead, I prepare myself some fruit. An apple and a banana, because it was the only thing I knew of that didn’t involve risking something catching on fire. I know nothing about cooking— I don’t remember anything about cooking. The thought makes my throat tighten. 

My hand lingers over the counter as I try to remember the basics of myself. Of things I’d once known. Names, faces, places. Skills, hobbies, likes and dislikes. 

I know so little about myself. 

I move back to the living room, where Boba is basking in the plentiful sunlight. I place my fruit bowl on the small table next to the sofa, before laying my head down next to the feline’s. 

He starts to purr, the sound reverberating through my head. The soft vibration releases some of the tension I didn’t notice I was holding in my shoulders, in my chest. 

I close my eyes. I’m warmed by the hot rays of the sun. 

I don’t know how long I stay there, lying on the carpet with the sun painting my skin in gold. Boba’s purring is steady, unbothered, the sound of a creature who has never known fear, never had to question his place in the world. I envy him for it.

The apple slices in my bowl are starting to brown by the time I hear the front door unlock.

Footsteps echo through the hallway, then stop just inside the living room. I glance up, my gaze meeting Hizashi, his hands still on the doorframe, a grin already spreading across his face as he stares down at where I'm laying on the floor. 

There’s a sudden unexplainable tightness in my chest, like I've been caught doing something I shouldn’t. Like moments of peace and quiet aren’t mine to take.

Hizashi doesn’t say anything at first. He just stands there, watching me with an expression I can’t quite place—something amused, maybe. Then, finally, he speaks up.

“Well, isn’t this a sight.”

I push myself up onto my elbows, heat creeping up my neck for reasons I can’t explain. “What?”

Hizashi steps further into the room, shrugging off his jacket. “You. All stretched out in the sun like a cat.” His grin widens as he kicks off his shoes. “Didn’t take you for the lounging type.”

“I wasn’t– I wasn’t lounging,” I mumble, but Boba lets out a soft little mrrp beside me, blinking slow and satisfied, like he knows I’m lying and is calling me out for it.

Hizashi huffs amusingly, tossing his jacket over the back of the couch before flopping down beside it. “Uh-huh. Sure.” He nods toward the fruit bowl. “Breakfast?”

I glance at the browning apple slices. “Lunch, I guess.”

He lifts a brow. “That’s all you ate?”

I shift, uncomfortable under his gaze. “...yes.” I don’t mention how I forgot about it and I haven’t actually eaten anything.

Hizashi makes a noise like he very much disagrees with that but doesn’t push. Instead, he leans forward, plucking one of the apple slices from my bowl and popping it into his mouth.

I blink at him. “That was mine.”

He smiles. “Finders keepers.”

Then, without warning, he claps his hands together, the sudden sound startling Boba enough to make him bolt under the couch. “Alright! You and me, kid, we’re going out.”

I blink. “What?”

“Yep,” he says, already standing up and stretching. “Aizawa said you should have something to do during the day, and I happen to completely agree.” He grins. “So, congrats! You’ve been drafted into a very important, highly classified mission.”

I narrow my eyes. “What kind of mission?”

“A grocery run.”

I stare at him. “That’s… not highly classified.”

“Maybe not to you,” he says, already walking back towards the hallway, “but you haven’t met Aizawa when we run out of coffee.” He shudders dramatically. “It’s a real nightmare, kid.”

Despite myself, I let out a quiet huff that might've been in amusement. Hizashi grins, triumphant.

I stand up from my spot on the floor and follow Hizashi into the hallway. 

The sun is even brighter outside than it was through the windows of the house, the air warm but with a crispness that suggests autumn is just starting to settle in. I follow Hizashi down the steps, my hands stuffed into the pocket of my hoodie as he leads the way to the car. 

I slide into the passenger seat as he gets behind the wheel, adjusting the mirrors before turning the key in the ignition. The engine hums and Hizashi reaches for the radio, flipping through stations until a rock song filters through the speakers. 

I watch the streets pass by through the window. It’s quiet outside, the world moving at a slower pace. Leaves flutter from the trees, catching the sunlight as they drift to the pavement. 

The store is nearly empty when we get there. The automatic doors open with a whoosh,   and the cool air inside the store is a sharp contrast to the warmth outside. I tuck my hoodie closer around me. 

It’s nothing special, nothing significant. Just a grocery store. But something about being here, about moving through a space that feels normal, makes my chest feel strange. I don’t remember the last time I did something like this. 

I feel out of place. 

Hizashi chatters as we walk through the store, weaving through mostly empty aisles, grabbing things off shelves with practiced ease. He tosses a bag of chips into the cart, then immediately follows it with a family-sized container of instant coffee. 

Are people looking at me?

The errand itself is simple. Easy. We check off everything on the list—coffee, eggs, rice, cat food for Boba—before heading to checkout. Hizashi hums along to the store’s overhead music as he loads things onto the conveyor belt, tapping out the rhythm against the cart handle.

There’s too much happening.

Before I know it, we’re back in the car, the grocery bags settled in the backseat. The drive home is just as peaceful as the way there, the same slow-moving world passing by outside my window.

Yet I can’t shake that feeling. That feeling I’m becoming too familiar with. That anxious lump in my throat— the feeling of not belonging. The feeling of being watched. I wonder if it will ever go away. 

Hizashi parks, stretching as he steps out. “Mission accomplished,” he announces.

I grab a few bags from the trunk, following him up the steps. The house is the same as we left it, except for the sounds of dishes clanking coming from the kitchen. Aizawa is home. 

I find him at the sink, rolling up his sleeves as he rinses out a coffee mug. He barely glances up when we enter.

“Get everything?” he asks, voice as dry as ever.

“Would we ever fail you?” Hizashi grins, setting his bags on the counter with a dramatic flourish.

I help put away the groceries without being asked. No one comments on it, and I’m thankful for the silence. 

The two of them start on dinner, and I once again find myself drawn to Boba, taking a seat next to him on the couch. 

I know things can’t keep going this way. 

I can’t continue being a stranger to life. If my memories of my past self never come back— I’ll have to start from scratch. But I don’t know where to start. I don’t know how to build myself up without it feeling like a lie. 

I scratch Boba behind his ears, and he purrs. His soothing and simple presence stands in the middle of everything I can’t understand going on inside my head. His existence, so pure and one dimensional, stands at a contrast to my messy and twisted one. 

I wish I was a cat.

I lean back against the couch, my legs tucked underneath me, trying to find something solid to grasp onto. Something to measure myself with. 

All I have is those memories. All I have are these feelings I can’t stand.

I should be doing something. Saying something . Tell them what I’ve been through. Explain why I’m acting like a lunatic. 

But the words never come— every time I open my mouth, it feels like they’re stuck somewhere deep in my chest, lodged between my ribs, trapped in the void I can’t escape.

I want to tell them how he trapped me. How long I stayed there. What he took from me, even if I can’t remember it I know it was there at some point. 

I want to tell them about the picture in the hallway. About shigaraki, the nomu’s and all the secrets I shouldn’t know. 

But I can’t.

Every time I think about it, the words seem to curl up, disappearing back into the dark places of my mind. I don’t want to recall it. I don’t want to see the look on their faces when they understand. 

It’s easier to be quiet. It’s easier to let the silence stretch, even if it feels suffocating.

But I can’t ignore the ever gnawing part of me that wonders if I’ll ever feel like I’m not pretending. If I’ll ever stop feeling like a stranger in my own skin. If I’ll ever be able to live like a regular person if I don’t tell the truth. 

I reach over to Boba, scratching behind his ears again. 

Dinner is ready before I know it. The table is set, the meal laid out in front of us. I sit down quietly, trying not to draw attention to myself. But the silence around the table feels different now, like everyone can sense my apprehension. I wonder if it’s all in my head.

I pick up my fork, poking at the food in front of me, trying to keep my movements steady. But everything feels off. 

Aizawa’s quiet. Always quiet. But tonight, it feels like he’s paying more attention than usual. He’s watching me. 

I know Hizashi feels it too, as his usual energetic chatter subdued tonight.

It’s just dinner, I tell myself. A simple, normal meal. The kind of thing that shouldn’t feel heavy.

But it is. The food on my plate, the chicken and vegetables, looks like it’s been prepared with care. And yet I can’t focus on it. My stomach churns, not from hunger, but from the growing discomfort gnawing at me.

The truth is suffocating. I don’t know how to explain it to them—how to explain all the parts of myself that are broken, or the parts I can’t reach anymore.

But I can’t keep pretending. I know that.

“I’ll help with the dishes,” I say, pushing my chair back abruptly. I can’t sit here any longer. The words are right there, sitting just behind my lips, but they refuse to come out. I get up before anyone can stop me, grabbing the plates and stacking them together.

“Hey,” Hizashi calls after me, but I don’t stop. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly, trying to keep the edge of panic from my voice. It’s easier to hide behind the motion of cleaning up than to look them in the eyes. It’s easier to keep pretending.

They don’t say anything else, but I can feel them watching me as I work. The scrape of plates, the clink of silverware—everything feels too loud.

My hands shake between the bubbles. 

I try to steady them, scrubbing harder than I need to, trying to focus on the task, but the water feels too hot against my skin. My breath comes too fast, my heart racing in a way that feels like it could split me open. I can't breathe. I can’t breathe .

It’s too much. The noise. The silence. Their eyes on me. The weight of everything . 

The water splashes against my skin, burning hot, but I can’t feel it. I scrub harder, faster, like if I just keep moving, just keep focusing on the task, maybe I’ll stop feeling like this.

It’s too much. The kitchen feels so small. The air feels thick and stifling, pressing against my chest, making it harder and harder to breathe. I can’t think, can’t focus on anything other than the sound of my own heart pounding in my ears, faster and faster like it’s going to rip through me.

I don’t want them to see me like this. I don’t want them to know what’s bubbling beneath the surface. I hate it, I hate how everything feels like it’s on the edge of breaking. I hate that I can’t control it. I hate that I don’t have the words to explain, and I don't have the strength to pull myself out.

I grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles white as I try to steady myself. I try to calm my breath. I try to push everything down, to make it stop, but the harder I try, the worse it gets. 

Then I feel that buzzing under my skin. 

That electric, sickening feeling. A power that resides in me but that I can’t control.

The plate in my hands slips from my grip, landing in the sink with a thud as it breaks into pieces.

The silence that follows is deafening. Even the air feels still.

Then, I hear footsteps—Hizashi, probably, making his way into the kitchen. The tension in the room thickens, and I want to shrink into the corner, hide from it all, but I don’t move, my body wont let me. 

Hizashi stops just behind me. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, watching.

I hear another set of footsteps, slower, more measured— Aizawa. He stops near the counter, watching from a distance. I can feel his gaze, heavy and unreadable.

For a moment, no one moves. No one speaks. The quiet presses in, thick and unbearable. 

Aizawa sighs, “Go sit down,” his tone leaving no room for argument.

Slowly, I force myself to step back. The broken plate stares up at me from the sink, a mess I made, a mess I should be the one to clean— but I don’t fight. I don’t argue.

I shuffle toward the table, my legs unsteady beneath me. I sit down, pressing my palms against my knees, trying to ground myself, trying to push back the nauseating hum still crackling under my skin.

Hizashi doesn’t move right away. He lingers, gaze flicking between me and Aizawa, before finally pushing off the counter with a quiet hum.

“That was a pretty dramatic way to get out of dishes,” he says, voice light but missing its usual playfulness.

I don’t respond.

Aizawa crouches, sweeping the broken shards into his palm with practiced ease. I stare down at the wood grain of the table, tracing the lines with my eyes. I swallow, my throat feels tight and dry. Dinner isn’t sitting so well in my stomach. 

Aizawa pushes off the counter, the last pieces of the porcelain plate thrown into the trash. “Get some rest,” he says, already turning toward the hallway, not even meeting my eye. 

Hizashi remains for a few moments, and I can tell he wants to say something. Some reassurance, maybe. Or maybe he picked up on the fact that what I’d rather want is to be alone for a moment, as he instead turns around and follows Aizawa into the hallway. 

My shoulders sag once I’m alone. I stand, my body heavier than before, and retreat to my room.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. 

I have to tell them.                            

Chapter Text

One week later

I’ve decided the ceiling has become my worst enemy. 

I can stare at it for hours. It’s difficult to do something with your day when your body is glued to the bed, unmoving, heavy with exhaustion. It’s strange how the minutes feel sort of like forever. I forget my body is capable of more. 

I spend most of my time asleep, floating in between dreams. And sometimes, when I dream, I’m someone else— that little girl I don’t remember. In those moments, my heartbeat is a little faster, like the drum to the rock songs Hizashi likes to blast. 

Some nights, I dream of the past. Not those long dwindling years I spent locked away from my body— no, before that. Of the time I can’t remember. 

It’s mostly small moments. Nothing significant, only snippets of memories that don’t really feel like my own. 

A little white cat, a large tree in the garden, colorful towels stacked in the bathroom. Unimportant things. But I still don’t enjoy the sensation. 

It’s like watching a tragedy. You know it’s going to end with pain and suffering, and you’re not watching it to feel hopeful for the future— but to understand. Understand emotions, human connections, and to realize how fast everything can be lost. 

It’s hard being that little girl who doesn’t know what's ahead of her. Who’s just living day to day, with no idea what the future holds for her. 

And I never say anything about it. It doesn’t feel like me, it doesn’t feel palpable. It doesn’t feel real.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t think about it. It’s practically the only thing I have been thinking about these last couple of days. 

I’ve been staying with Aizawa and Hizashi for over a week, and every day feels the same. I’m woken by a cryptic dream and spend the first few hours of my day trying to figure it out. Then, after convincing my body that it’ll die where it's laying if it doesn’t get up to eat, I make my way to the kitchen. 

The house is always empty around this time, both Aizawa and Hizashi gone until the afternoon. I’m not really sure where they go but I haven’t gotten around to asking. I lay around, I try to make sense of things but it never really works, then one of the two residents of the house comes home, normally Hizashi first but it varies.

They make dinner, and we eat in between stretched out silences and awkward small talk. I go to my room before the sun sets. I stay up until late, tossing and turning before I finally fall asleep several hours later. Then it repeats.

I’m not sure what to do.

I feel stuck, but I also don’t want to move. 

I remember I wanted to run away from it all, from him — but instead I sat very still. And now, in this bed, in this room that isn’t mine, I do the same.

At the hospital, I was convinced that if anyone found out the truth, they’d lock me away for good. I was sure of it. The thought of speaking—of even hinting at what I went through—was enough to make my skin crawl, to make fear course through me. But now, it’s like the words are pressing against my ribs, clawing their way up my throat. I feel them every second of the day, burning and restless.

I want to tell them everything, but I also find comfort in the silences. I wonder how long it will take before they give up on me. 

For some part of me knows this isn’t permanent. It can’t be. Eventually, something will shift—the uneasy balance built will tip, and everything I’ve been holding back will come crashing out. I don’t know when, or how, but I can feel it coming.

And yet…

I let my feet carry me to the kitchen in the mornings without hesitation. I respond when Hizashi talks to me, even if it’s just a few words. I catch myself watching Aizawa when he’s lost in thought, trying to figure out what’s going through his head.

I still keep my walls up. I still swallow the truth before it can escape. But it’s different now.

It's creeping up on me. Each time I feel my shoulders relax, feel my mind empty even if just for a moment or feel my face slipping and morphing into something not so fearful and anxious, there's always a voice in the back of my head, telling me I’m getting too comfortable. But I can’t help it. 

It’s strange. I only now realize I’ve settled into a routine, fallen into place in a house that isn’t my own. And against my own will, I’m starting to let my guard down, just a smidge. I’m not sure how to feel about it. I’m not sure if I like it.

Maybe both my body and mind are grateful for the release of tension. Maybe I’m taking whatever normalcy I can find and sitting beside it, not quite becoming a part of it but basking in its warmth, because it's the only light around. 

I’m still not fully sure why Aizawa took me in. I’m not sure why they don’t push me for more. I’m not sure what they expect from me. 

I’m not sure what to expect from myself either. Some days I think I'll break. Some days I’m convinced I can’t go another minute choking it back. I feel it in my shoulders when I breathe, my heart when it pumps.

But there's just so much going through my head. Nothing is really coherent or stays in one place. Strange dreams, memories from when I was in his mind, uncertainty for the future, and a wonder for who I was growing ever stronger. And if I ever were to sit down and explain it all, I don’t have a clue where I’d start.  

And it’s especially potent at night, when I’m tossing and turning. The weight of it all pressing against me, curling up in the corners of my mind, whispering at the edges of my thoughts. Flashes of death, destruction, blood and war running through my mind as much as I try to push it away.

Some nights, it’s easier to ignore. Tonight is not one of those nights.

I push the blankets off, rolling onto my side, then onto my back again. Every position feels wrong. My own skin feels too tight, like I don’t belong in it.

I’ve been laying here for almost two hours now, like every night this week, and I have a stupid headache from my head working overtime. 

My fingers twitch against the sheets. I sit up, rubbing my face, my palms pressing hard into my eyes. Maybe I need a glass of water. Maybe I just need to move.

The floor is cold under my feet as I step out of bed, the house silent except for the faint creaking of the wood beneath me. The hallway stretches dark and empty. The only sound is the steady ticking of the clock on the wall, marking the passing of another sleepless hour.

I move down the hallway, barely aware of myself, barely thinking at all, ready to head into the kitchen to get my glass of water—until I hear something.

Two voices, Aizawa and Hizashi.

I can’t make out the words at first—just the low murmur of Aizawa’s voice, steady and measured, and Hizashi’s occasional hums of acknowledgment. They must be in the living room, speaking in that way people do when they think the rest of the house is asleep. 

Despite myself feeling a little less on guard around them, I hardly speak to them. Hizashi has been trying, but I don’t really know how to be around them. They feel so content in this space. I know my presence here is hindering that to some degree. 

That’s part of the reason I head to bed so early. Not just to avoid long silences and watchful eyes, but to give them space in their own home. 

But something about their hushed tones seems tense. Serious. They’re discussing something. 

And I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself from taking a few steps further towards where they’re talking, so I can pick up on their hushed tones. 

“—not sure what to make of it,” Aizawa says, voice low, like he isn’t sure he wants to be heard. “But if it’s true, it changes things.”

I press myself against the wall, being as quiet as possible. 

Hizashi exhales, a quiet sound, thoughtful. “You think he really meant her?”

A pause. Then, Aizawa’s voice again, steady but laced with something heavier. “I don’t know who else it could be.”

“All Might came to me after his visit to Tartarus,” Aizawa continues. “He said All For One asked him something strange. Just a single question.”

Silence. My breath hitches— All For One.

“Has she woken up yet?”

Aizawa’s words settle in the air like a thick fog.

I grip the wall of the hallway, fingers pressing hard against the wood. My pulse pounds in my ears, too loud, too fast and I can’t describe the full body chill that comes over me like a wave.

Hizashi exhales sharply through his nose. “Damn lunatic.”

Aizawa doesn’t respond right away. Then, "All Might didn’t know what he meant. But I did."

I swallow, my throat dry. My mind feels blank. 

“I told All Might about her.”

It hits like a punch to the ribs.

“He wants to meet her.”

The world tilts, my breath catching, my heartbeat erratic. Aizawa and Hizashi keep talking, but their voices suddenly blur, like they’re coming from underwater. Just a few words, and I’m even wider awake than I was before I left bed. 

Has she woken up yet?

All For One said that. He’s talking about me.

He asked about me. Directly.

It’s not a question that's just vague curiosity. 

It’s possession. It’s certainty. It’s taunting. I’ve known since I woke up that I was never just some random prisoner. Never just a forgotten victim. That's why he didn’t just kill me back then all those years ago, as much as I wished he did. 

I know him so well it hurts.

I know him in the same way I know the feeling of his presence pressing down on my chest like a weight I’ll never fully shake. In the same way I know that even after all this time, even after waking up in a different place, in a different era—

I am not free. Achingly so.

And worse—he knows that. He mentioned me. He knows I’m awake. He told All Might.

I can’t breathe .

I step back, careful, slow. My limbs feel stiff, like they don’t belong to me— belong anywhere.

I should’ve stayed in bed. 

I try to be quiet as I make my way back to my room, but everything sounds muffled and far away. Eventually I make it, don’t slam the door, carefully go back to bed.

It takes another hour before exhaustion claims me. 

And that night, I dream again. Of course I do.

A dream so fitting it hurts. 

No small snippets, no senseless memories. 

A true memory, an important one. 

He’s there. A shadow standing in the doorway. 

The figure isn’t just a man. He’s a presence, a force that fills every inch of space, turning the air heavy and sharp like a blade pressed against my throat. A shadow stretching far too long across the floor.

I can’t move.

I remember this moment, this exact moment, not the details but the feeling —the terror that sank into my bones, the sickening pulse of something being ripped from me, something I couldn’t comprehend.

He took everything from me. My life, my autonomy, my sense of self. 

This is it. This is the moment he trapped me.

I had run away. Left everything behind to get away from him. I knew change was hard– but staying in a place twisted by his ideals and lust for power was destroying me.

But that didn’t matter. None of it ever mattered.

He found me a week after I moved cities. 

The air is thick, suffocating, pressing in on all sides like I’m trapped in a box too small for my body. I can feel it—the pull, the invisible weight dragging me toward him.

“You’ve always been so difficult.” he muses, stepping further into the living room.

I try to shrink away, but my body won’t listen. My muscles are locked in place, frozen under the force of his presence. Frozen in fear .

“You don’t need to look so frightened,” his voice is smooth, amused. “After all, I’ve only come to talk.”

I can’t speak. My throat is locked tight, my breath barely slipping past my lips. 

“I never wanted it to come to this, you know.” He sighs, shaking his head as if I’m the one who’s pushed him too far. As if this is my fault. “But you left me no choice.”

I force my lips to part. My voice comes out thin, weak. “I don’t belong to you.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. Then he takes another step forward.

“Don’t you?”

The pull is stronger now, the air crackling, pressing down on me like a tall wave. My head pounds, my body trembles against a force I can’t fight.

“Everything you are,” he murmurs, voice low, “is because of me.”

His words sink into my skull like hooks, sinking deeper, pulling tighter. I shake my head, a sharp, jerking motion.

“That’s not true.”

“No?” His expression barely shifts, but I can feel the amusement creeping back in, cruel and knowing.

He exhales sharply through his nose. Then—faster than I can register—he’s right there , inches away, his fingers gripping my arm. His touch isn’t violent, not yet, but it’s firm. Unyielding.

“I created you,” he says, quieter now, but somehow more dangerous. “Every part of you that exists today? That strength? That power? ” His fingers press slightly tighter against my skin. “It was my hand that shaped it. Since we were young.”

I flinch, trying to jerk away, but his grip doesn’t budge.

His voice dips lower, softer, almost coaxing. “Come home.” It’s not a demand, not quite. It almost sounds like a plea.

Home.

The word twists inside me, hollow and bitter. It used to mean something. Before he warped it. Destroyed it. Before it became a place built on control, a gilded cage disguised as belonging.

I shake my head, trying again to pull away, but his grip tightens, fingers pressing into my arm. Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to remind me he could.

“You think there’s a place for me there?” I whisper.

His expression flickers, just for a second. Something unreadable passes behind his eyes, something almost offended. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone. His lips press together, his fingers twitch slightly against my skin.

“You were made for that place,” he corrects. “For me.”

His grip shifts, trailing up my arm, moving to my shoulder, his thumb pressing lightly against my collarbone. The touch is eerily familiar, like a ghost of the past I’ve tried so hard to bury.

“You act as though you don’t know me,” he muses, tilting his head slightly. “As though we haven’t always been connected, whether by fate or by choice.”

I swallow hard. I hate that part of me still remembers small parts of him—

The nights spent under flickering streetlights, the whispered conversations in dimly lit rooms, the way we used to stand shoulder to shoulder like two pieces of the same whole. I hate that part of me still wonders if, in some twisted way, he meant it when he said we were the same.

But that was before. Before I realized what he really was.

“We were never the same,” I force out. “We never wanted the same things.”  

His fingers still against my skin.

Then, without warning, the pressure surrounding me doubles.

The force slams into me, invisible but suffocating, crushing down on my chest, my ribs, my throat. I gasp , my knees buckling, but I don’t fall— he’s holding me up.

“You act as if you had a choice in any of this,” he murmurs, voice deceptively calm.

I squeeze my eyes shut, struggling against the force, against him, but it’s useless. The air is thick, charged, humming against my skin in a way that makes me feel like I might shatter at any second.

“You forget what you are,” he continues, leaning in, his voice now a whisper against my ear. “You are supposed to be by my side. And if you insist on running? I will take everything you have, until there is nowhere left for you to go but back to me.”

His voice is smooth, controlled—but underneath, there’s something else. Something sharp and raw. Anger. Not the cold, calculated kind. No, this is something deeper. More personal.

I meet his gaze, and I see it. The fury. The frustration. The possessiveness that lurks just beneath the surface.

I was never meant to leave. I was never meant to want to leave.

This isn’t just about control. It’s not just about power. It’s about me. He doesn’t want me to leave.

“I hate you.” The words slip past my lips before I can stop them.

His expression darkens.

The weight around me tightens, my vision starts to fade to black, and I can feel my mind unraveling, being pulled from my body—

And then—

And then I wake up. 

I wake up gasping. 

And I immediately recognize the buzzing feeling under my skin. 

A soft pink light radiates from the tips of my hair, moving like it’s caught in an invisible current. My sheets are tangled and hovering just above the bed. The bedside lamp rattles. A book lifts from my nightstand, hovers for a second, then slams to the floor.

I suck in a sharp breath, willing it to stop , but the energy only builds, growing sharper, bubbling under my skin, and I can’t control it —

The door bursts open.

“ Shit. ”

Aizawa. His voice is sharp, already moving before I can process it.

My vision blurs, my pulse pounding in my ears. I feel stretched, my mind barely clinging to my body, and I might well unravel if I don’t get a hold of myself.

Then, all at once, the pressure vanishes.

The pink glow fades from my hair, the floating objects drop back into place, the glass on my bedside table falls to the floor and shatters and the charged feeling in the air slowly goes out. The second the weight leaves me, I slump forward, gasping, hands clutching at the sheets like they might lead me back into reality.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes it worse—because the second I do, I see him. Feel him. His hand on my arm, his breath too close, the way his presence filled every inch of space until there was nothing left of me. 

I suck in a breath, but it catches, and I can’t help the way my chest heaves. A small sound escapes my lips, small and ragged. I dig my nails into the fabric beneath me, trying to swallow it back down , to pull myself together , to—

I feel a weight settle beside me. I don’t look up, but I know it’s Aizawa. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but I feel his eyes on me. 

Hizashi appears in the doorway, his hair messy from sleep, face creased with worry. “I heard—” He stops short when he sees the state of the room, the shattered glass on the floor, the way I’m hunched over, still trying to catch my breath.

I press a hand to my chest, trying to breathe through the ache, through the tremors still running through me. I don’t realize I’m crying until I feel the heat of it against my skin.

And then I break. I can’t stop the sobs, the hitched breaths, the shaking shoulders and tears. I’m still too stuck in my head to control it.

There’s no outrunning something that lives inside you. There's no escaping him.

I don’t even know what I’m shaking from more, the nightmare itself or the realization of how much of it is true —

Because I remember that night. I remember the way the air felt thick, the way my body refused to move, the way my own mind twisted against me like it wasn’t mine to control—

I remember the way he looked at me, like I was something he had lost. Like he had been waiting for me to return to my rightful place by his side—

Watching my own body fall limp as I saw through his eyes for the first time. 

It doesn’t feel like just a memory. It feels like reliving. Like I’m still there, still trapped, still staring through eyes that weren’t my own.

I can’t breathe.

I suck in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t reach my lungs. It sticks in my throat, thick and unrelenting, like hands pressing down on my chest, squeezing, squeezing—

The walls are too close. The air is too thin.

I gasp, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough. Because I can’t breathe—

I hear something—a voice? Maybe two? Muffled, distant, like I’m underwater. I can’t make out the words. I should be able to move. I should be able to breathe. But I can’t.

But then a hand lands on my shoulder, my shaking, trembling shoulder. Warm, firm, grounding. Aizawa’s voice breaks through the static—not loud, not sharp, but there.

“ You’re safe. ”

Safe. The word barely registers. But something else does, A small, familiar noise, soft and rhythmic, a gentle hum just on the edge of my awareness. I don’t recognize the tune, but I recognize the voice—Hizashi.

He’s kneeling a few feet away, his face still creased with worry, but he’s humming —low, steady, something simple and soothing. His hands are in his lap, open and unthreatening.

I try to breathe, but my lungs won’t expand. The buzzing under my skin builds again, and I can’t stop —

Then, Aizawa speaks.

“Count with me.”

I shake my head, barely able to register the movement, but he doesn’t let me retreat.

“Five things you can see.” His tone doesn’t waver. “Just one. Start with one.”

My vision swims, the world still tilting, but—there. The book on the floor. I can barely choke out the word. “Book.”

Aizawa nods. “Good. What else?”

I don’t want to. I don’t want to be here, in this moment, in this body, but—

“Bed,” I whisper.

He keeps going. “Three more.”

It takes everything in me, to do it. The window. The cracked glass. The folds of Hizashi’s sleeve.

“Alright,” Aizawa says, still steady, still there. “Four things you can feel.”

The sheets under my fingers. The air against my face. The pressure in my chest. The sting in my palms.

He keeps moving forward, slow and patient. Three things I can hear—Hizashi’s humming, Aizawa’s voice, my own ragged breaths. Two things I can smell—the faint trace of coffee, the cold night air from the open window.

“One thing you can taste.”

I blink, my breath still shaky. “Salt.”

My tears.

And strangely, while my chest still feels too tight and my hands still tremble where they clutch the sheets, I can breathe again. I can breathe.

I press a hand to my chest, fingers curling slightly as if I can steady the erratic rhythm of my heart with touch alone. It still feels like my ribs are too tight, like my skin is too small, but the air is moving through my lungs again. Slowly. Unevenly. But moving.

Aizawa doesn’t speak right away. He stays beside me, but removes his hand from where it was resting on my shoulder. Hizashi lets his humming fade into quiet, but he doesn’t move.

It feels fragile, this moment. Like if anyone breathes too loud, I might fall apart all over again.

My fingers uncurl slowly from the sheets. The sting in my palms lingers where my nails dug in, sharp enough that I know they’ll leave marks. I exhale shakily, then another breath, this one steadier.

Aizawa waits a moment longer before finally speaking again. “You’re back.” Not a question, but a quiet acknowledgment.

I nod, but don’t say anything. I have nothing to say. 

Hizashi leans back on his heels, stretching with an exaggerated groan. “Man, it’s too late for this kind of stress,” he mutters, but there’s no real frustration in his voice, just something light, something to ease the weight in the air. He gives me a lopsided smile. “How about some tea? You could use something warm.”

I hesitate. I don’t feel like I can swallow anything, not with my throat still tight and raw, but—

The offer is more than just tea. It’s normalcy. A reminder that there’s still a world beyond this room, beyond my mind, beyond what just happened.

“…Yeah,” I manage, though my voice is low and still shaky. “Tea sounds good.”

Hizashi grins, clapping his hands together. “Perfect. One calming tea, coming right up.” He pushes himself to his feet with far too much energy for someone who was dead asleep minutes ago.

Aizawa watches him go before shifting his gaze back to me. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just studies me with those sharp, unreadable eyes.

Then, finally—“You want to talk about it?”

I shake my head too quickly no , and Aizawa doesn’t push. He just nods, like that’s answer enough. 

I focus on my breathing again, slow and steady, in and out. The room feels more solid now. The air doesn’t feel so thin. And I can breathe again.

But the relief is somewhat temporary. 

Because this—this moment of normalcy, the warmth of their presence, the illusion that everything is okay—is built on a lie.

They don’t know. Nobody knows. What actually happened to me. That dream— memory, is a stark reminder of that. 

And I can’t keep lying and deflecting. I just can’t.

The thought settles like a stone in my stomach, cold and immovable. The truth I was once so terrified to share is ready to come to light, I only have to face it. I feel Aizawa’s gaze on me, steady and unwavering, waiting. 

I open my eyes, my hands curling into fists against the blanket. The words stick in my throat, but I force them out, barely louder than a whisper.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Aizawa’s eyes sharpen instantly, exhaustion giving way to something far more alert. He doesn’t move, doesn’t push, just watches me carefully as he asks, “…Do what?”

I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around the sheets. My voice is barely above a whisper when I speak. 

“Hide the truth.” 

Chapter Text

Next day

The next morning, my dried off tears and puffy face stared back at me in the mirror after I dragged myself out of bed. I rubbed at my swollen eyes, but it didn’t do much to make me look any less like a mess. The mirror doesn’t lie.

It felt like a revelation, to finally give some sense of proof that yes , I do remember something. I’m hiding something. There’s more to me than just an amnesiac girl with an out of control quirk. There's something deeper, more sinister, about my past. I just didn’t get around to saying exactly what it is.  

And I was going to, I swear I was, but Aizawa said it’d be better to wait until the next day. That I was tired and not thinking straight, and having that conversation at 4 am in a cluttered room with broken glass on the floor and tears still rolling down my cheeks maybe isn’t the best idea. So instead of breaking the dam, I drank my tea, sat in silence before falling back asleep. 

It had seemed like a good idea then, when exhaustion made it too difficult to think straight, to push it off until the next day. Now, I’m not so sure.

It’s strange. I thought that saying I can’t do this anymore would bring some kind of relief, like finally dropping a weight I’ve been carrying for too long. But now that the morning is here, it doesn’t feel any lighter. If anything, it feels worse, heavier, impending.

Because now I actually have to say it . And I’m not really sure how.

However, the house was empty, as usual per when I wake up, both Aizawa and Hizashi once again off to mystery-workplace, which gives me a few hours to figure it out.

So here I am, pacing the living room holding a cup of tea that’s gone cold, pretend-confessing about the reality of my past to the residential house cat, Boba.

Boba, for his part, doesn’t seem particularly interested in whatever I’m saying. He stretches lazily on the back of the couch, flicking his tail, and gives me a slow, unimpressed blink.

I sigh. “You're not a very good audience, you know that?”

Boba lets out a small, grumbly chirp, like he disagrees.

I shake my head, turning away to stare at the dark liquid in my cup. I don’t even know what I’m doing. Talking out loud like this, practicing how to say it—it doesn’t make it any easier. Every time I try to form the words, they feel wrong. 

I huff and flop onto the couch, pressing my hands over my face. 

What am I even doing ? Practicing my life-altering confession on a cat like this is some kind of staged rehearsal? As if I’ll magically figure out the perfect way to say it, and everything will fall into place?

It won’t. It’s not going to be clean or straightforward. There’s no script for this. I stare up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns in the paint with my eyes.

Maybe I should just… start from the beginning.

But where is the beginning? When I woke up? When he used that quirk on me? Or does the real beginning stretch back further—before I forgot? Before I became this version of myself, or rather, forgot the old one? How can I explain something I can barely remember?

Boba shifts beside me, stretching out one paw before tucking it back beneath himself. His tail flicks once, lazily, like he’s waiting for me to continue.

“You don’t care what I say, do you?” My voice is quieter now, “As long as someone fills your food bowl and scratches behind your ears, you’re fine.”

Boba doesn’t respond, of course. He just blinks, slow and deliberate, like he’s heard it all before. Like he knows things I don’t.

I huff out a quiet breath, dragging a hand down my face. “Maybe that’s the way to live,” I murmur. “Not worrying about the past. Just existing.”

Boba lets out a small chirp, shifting just enough to press his weight against my thigh. It’s the first real acknowledgment he’s given me, and somehow that tiny action makes my chest ache.

I glance down at my hands, fingers curling slightly against my palm. “I don’t even know how to start,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper. “There’s… so much. And the moment I say it, there’s no taking it back.”

Boba’s tail flicks again, a slow and steady rhythm. “Right. Not like I can keep it in forever, either.”

It’s strange, how something as simple as speaking can feel so impossible. Like the words might choke me on their way out. Like once they exist in the open, outside of my mind, I won’t be able to hold myself together anymore. But keeping it in isn’t exactly working in my favour, either.

Boba lets out another small chirp, shifting against me again, his warmth grounding me. I reach down, running my fingers through his soft fur. He is a very cute cat, maybe not as good of a listener. 

I get up and move to the kitchen, filling his bowl for his (not very hard) hard work.

After that, the hours pass slowly.

I go through the motions, clean up the broken glass from last night, pick up the things littered across my room, rinse out my abandoned tea cup— But no matter what I do, the weight of the coming conversation doesn’t ease at all.

I rehearse it in my head a dozen times, but every version feels wrong. Too blunt. Too vague. Too much . There’s no right way to say it.

By the time the sky outside starts shifting from blue to soft orange, my nerves are shot. I pace. I sit. I stand. I try distracting myself, but my thoughts keep circling back, restless and unrelenting.

Then, finally, the front door clicks open.

I hear them before I see them—Hizashi’s familiar and animated voice, Aizawa’s quieter and gruffer response. It’s such a normal sound, one I've gotten used to, but right now, I feel how the air shifts with it.

I push away from the couch and step toward the hallway, catching sight of them as they kick off their shoes. Hizashi shrugs off his jacket, mid-sentence, before his gaze lands on me.

The easy grin on his face flickers, just for a second, replaced by something more careful. Aizawa, already tuned in, points his eyes at me immediately and doesn't look away.

My hands curl into fists at my sides to keep them from shaking.

“I’m ready to talk,” I say, voice steady despite the tightness in my chest.

Hizashi doesn’t say anything, and Aizawa beats him to the punch. “Alright,” he says, “let’s talk.”

The words settle between us, heavier than they should be. My pulse thuds in my ears, but I ignore it, exhaling slowly through my nose.

Hizashi’s usual energy is subdued as he nods, stepping further inside. Aizawa doesn’t move, but his gaze never leaves me, remaining steady and unreadable.

“Should we sit?” Hizashi asks after a beat, voice careful.

“…Yeah,” I murmur.

I turn before I can second-guess it, leading them back to the living room. Boba has taken my spot on the couch, curled in the warmth I left behind, and he barely flicks an ear as we approach. I sit down next to him.

Aizawa sinks into the armchair with a kind of exhaustion that comes from an entire day of work, and Hizashi takes the other end of the couch, leaving space between us, giving me some room.

My fingers twist together in my lap as I stare at them, at the expectant quiet stretching between us.

I wet my lips, my hands tightening in my lap. Aizawa and Hizashi are watching me, waiting. They don’t push, don’t press, but that almost makes it harder. Because once I say it—once the words are out—I can’t take it back. 

I take a slow breath and finally speak.

“I lied.”

Hizashi’s brows pull together slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. Aizawa’s expression doesn’t change at all.

I force myself to keep going. “Not on purpose. Not—” I shake my head. “I didn’t mean to. I just don’t know how to explain…” 

The weight of their attention makes my skin prickle, but I push through it.

“...when I woke up,” I say, voice barely steady, “I didn’t remember anything. No name, or– or nothing..” My fingers curl against my palms. “...but that’s not the truth. I do remember something.”

Aizawa’s eyes narrow slightly, his gaze sharpening. Hizashi leans forward just a little, as if bracing himself.

I continue, my eyes dropping down to my lap, refusing to meet their eyes because I’m afraid doing so will make my brain short circuit. 

“I don’t know how to explain it,” I murmur. “...It’s not… like I have my memories. Or know who I am…” I let out a shaky breath, “but– but there are things I do remember, and they’ve always been there, since I woke up. I just… I didn’t say anything.”

The room feels too still, too quiet. My pulse pounds in my ears.

Aizawa’s voice is steady when he speaks. “What do you remember?”

I pause. The words sit heavy in my throat, uncertain, unshaped. I don’t know how to say this. How to make them understand.

I don’t look up. If I meet their eyes, I might lose whatever courage I have left.

Instead, I focus on the fabric of my sleeves, twisting it between my fingers as I try to steady my breathing. “I remember… being with them.” The words are quiet, shaky. “Two boys. We were the same age. We grew up together. They were… brothers.” 

Hizashi doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the shift in his posture, the way his attention sharpens. Aizawa stays silent, waiting.

“...We were inseparable,” I continue, voice barely above a whisper. “Always together… always looking out for each other.” My brows knit together as memories stir, old and blurry, just out of reach. “One of them… he was kind. He always tried to do the right thing.”

Something in my chest twists.

“The other…” My fingers tighten around my sleeves. “He was different. He was smart. He thought ahead, planned everything out.” a pause, ”He wanted to change the world, and he could , in ways no one else could.” I swallow, suddenly feeling like there’s no air left in the room. “Because he had a quirk that let him take and give quirks to other people.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. It takes a moment before I find the nerve to look up.

Aizawa and Hizashi aren’t just watching me now—they’re really looking. The recognition is there, the weight of realization settling in the space between us.

They know. They know who I’m talking about, because it can’t be anyone else. 

But no one says anything. I look back down at my lap. 

“...he changed,” I murmur. “...slowly. I barely noticed. He stopped laughing as much… he started talking in ways I–I didn’t understand… about power—about how the world was broken.” I swallow hard. “And then he started looking at his brother like… he was a problem.”

I grip my sleeve even harder, “He hated his brother. He thought he was weak, a fool for believing people could change. And I—I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t do anything.” my voice cracks ever so slightly,  “I just stood there, watching him turn into someone else.”

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, trying to steady myself. When I speak again, my voice is barely above a whisper.

“And then… he gave me my quirk.”

I don’t know why that’s the part that makes my chest feel like it’s caving in. Maybe because it was the moment that sealed it, that made me realize I was a part of something I didn’t understand. That he had plans for me I couldn’t comprehend. 

“...I didn’t have one before,” I murmur. “Not until he gave it to me. And—and I don’t know why. I don’t know what it meant to him, if it was supposed to be a gift or… something else, but… it changed everything.”

I exhale shakily, trying to pull the pieces together in my head. “He started berating his brother more and more. It was just arguments. But it got worse.” My fingers curl against my knees. I hesitate, the memory creeping back, raw and sharp.

“I tried to tell him he was wrong… I did . I told him that his brother only wanted to help people… that maybe he was right about the world being unfair, but that didn’t mean he had to make it worse.” My voice cracks slightly, “It didn’t matter.” I shake my head, my throat tight. “He wouldn’t listen. And one day… he– he went too far.”

“I don’t remember what exactly happened. I just remember knowing I couldn’t stay. If I did, I’d just keep standing there, letting him become something terrible. And I couldn’t—” My voice breaks, just a little. I swallow hard. “I wouldn’t .”

The image is so clear in my head. The way my hands trembled as I packed my things. The way my stomach twisted as I stepped through the door, as I walked away from everything I’d ever known. It’s one of the few things I can remember from that time.

“I left,” I whisper. “...I didn’t tell him. I didn’t say goodbye. I just… left.”

“...and I found somewhere else to stay,” I continue, voice unsteady. “It wasn’t far. Just a few towns over… I didn’t have a plan, didn’t know what I was going to do next, I just… needed to get away .”

I can still remember those days in hazy pieces. The feeling of being untethered and lost. Feeling guilty. Feeling scared. The weight of the silence around me, so different from what I had known.

“I thought… I could figure it out. That if… I stayed quiet and kept my head down, he wouldn’t come looking for me.” My fingers dig into my sleeves. “...I was wrong.”

Hizashi exhales sharply. Aizawa isn’t making a noise, staying completely quiet. I still can’t get myself to lift my head. 

I try to find the words, to explain what it felt like. That moment. The way the air changed, the way I knew I wasn’t alone before I even saw him. How the fear hit me, dragging me under before I had a chance to fight it. 

I swallow hard and push forward. “...I remember. It’s what I dreamt about last night.” My voice wavers slightly, but I refuse to let it break. A breath. In, out.

“He showed up at my door. And I—” My throat tightens. “...I was so scared.”

I don’t realize I’ve started gripping my sleeves again until I feel the fabric bunch under my fingers. “...He wasn’t angry. He tried to–to talk to me. Tried to convince me to come back.” My voice drops lower. “I told him no.” A pause.

“...he used a quirk on me.”

I shake my head, “...I didn’t understand what was happening.” I admit, voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t something I could see or fight. It just... happened. I was there, standing in that room, and then—” My breath catches. “...I wasn’t.”

The memory is fractured, blurred at the edges, but the fear is clear. As clear as it was back then.

“My body was still there,” I murmur. “Still breathing. But I wasn’t.” I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, my grip tightening on my sleeves. 

“I could see,” I whisper. “I could hear… But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I was stuck.”

The words feel wrong—too small to describe the horror of it.

I swallow hard, “I wasn’t in my body anymore. I was in his . ” My breath shudders out. “...I saw everything through his eyes. I wasn’t me anymore. I was… trapped.”

I continue. “I thought I was dreaming. That any second, I’d wake up… but I didn’t.” I shake my head again. I take a deep breath. “...days passed. Then weeks. And I realized– I wasn’t going to wake up. I thought—” I suck in a shaky breath, “I thought I was dead.”

My voice wavers, but I don’t stop. If I stop now, I won't be able to continue. I don’t let my brain process what I’m saying before the words are falling from my mouth. 

“I forgot things,” I admit. “First, little things. My favorite color. The sound of my own voice… then …memories, places, people.” My fingers dig into my sleeves. “One day I realized I couldn’t remember my own name.”

The words tremble as they leave me, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

“I forgot everything,” I whisper. “everything but him.”

I inhale sharply, but the air barely reaches my lungs.  “I thought it would never end,” I murmur. “That I’d stay there forever.”

The words taste bitter, and my hands tighten in my lap. “I was there for over a century.” My voice drops lower, barely above a whisper. “...one hundred and twenty years.”

My breath shudders out. The room is so quiet it makes my pulse sound deafening in my ears. I can feel their eyes on me.

“But… he lost.” I swallow hard. “All Might fought him.” My voice feels small, fragile, like it might break apart if I speak any louder. “And he lost. ”

I shake my head, still staring down at my lap. “...And– and I was back.” My throat tightens, and I force the words out before they can choke me. “I woke up. In a body I wasn’t… supposed to have anymore.”

I exhale, but it does nothing to steady me.

“I’m not there anymore,” I murmur. “But I don’t feel like I’m here, either.” My fingers curl into fists. “And I… I don’t know what to do.” My voice breaks at the end of the sentence.

Then, silence. It stretches, thick and suffocating.

When I finally gather the courage to lift my gaze, I’m met with two expressions that send a cold curling feeling in my chest.

Hizashi looks struck. His mouth is slightly open, like he wants to say something but can’t find the words. His usual energy, his constant, unshakable presence—it’s gone . His hands are curled into fists against his knees.

Aizawa—Aizawa’s staring at me like he… doesn’t believe me. Or maybe, like he does believe me, and that’s the problem. His brows are drawn tight, his mouth pressed into a thin line, and his dark eyes are unreadable, locked onto me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

They’re both still. But their eyes give them away. Wide and sharp with something I can’t quite name. It’s not just disbelief. It’s deeper than that.

Fear. Not of me . Not of who I am. But of the weight of my words, of what they mean.

I force myself to keep looking at them, even though I want to shrink away, even though every instinct is screaming at me to disappear. To take it back. To tell them I was lying.

But I’m not, I can’t take it back and I don’t want to. I brace myself, sucking in a slow, shaky breath.

“Say something,” I murmur. The silence is unbearable. “Please.”

Hizashi is the first to move. He sucks in a sharp breath, his fingers twitching where they rest against his knee. His throat bobs like he’s trying to force words out, but nothing comes.

Aizawa, on the other hand, doesn’t react right away. He just stares. His brows are furrowed, his jaw tight, his whole body locked in place like he’s bracing for impact. His eyes—usually tired, always calculating—are sharper than I’ve ever seen them.

He’s thinking. Processing. I can see it. The way his mind is working through every possibility, every detail. Trying to find a crack in my story. Trying to make sense of something that shouldn’t make sense.

I force myself to sit still, gripping my sleeves, heart hammering against my ribs. I feel exposed. Like I’ve laid myself bare in front of them and now I’m waiting to see if they’ll reject it.

Then Aizawa speaks, finally breaking the unbearable silence. “…That’s a hell of a claim.” His voice is low, steady, but there’s something under it. Something strained. “You’re saying you spent over a century trapped in… All For One’s consciousness.” He doesn’t waver. “That you witnessed his life.”

I nod, throat tight.

He studies me for a long moment, his jaw tensing. “If that’s true… then you know things.” His voice is quiet, careful. “Things no one else does.”

It’s not an accusation. Not exactly. But there’s weight behind it. Hizashi shifts, glancing between us. “Shouta,” he says carefully. There’s a warning in his tone.

Aizawa doesn’t acknowledge it. His focus stays locked on me, waiting.

I don’t hesitate. “I do.”

And it’s true– I hold so much inside of me, so many secrets that are buried so deep they should never see the light of day. Things All For One never meant for anyone else to hold. But now they belong to me. 

Hizashi rubs the back of his neck, his knee still bouncing restlessly. "This is—" He stops, dragging a hand down his face. His voice comes out rough, like he's trying to wrap his head around the weight of it all. " Damn. "

Aizawa holds my gaze for a moment longer, the weight of his scrutiny not letting up. There’s no judgment in his eyes, but something else—something closer to understanding, like he’s trying to weigh the full gravity of what I’m saying.

“...We need to talk about this,” he finally says, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of urgency. “Not here. Not now.”

I nod, feeling the tension in the air start to settle just a fraction. Hizashi looks like he’s about to say something, but Aizawa cuts him off with a sharp glance. The room falls silent again, the kind of silence that stretches long and heavy, like there’s more to say, but no one quite knows how to say it.

Aizawa stands up abruptly, glancing at me once more before heading for the kitchen, pulling his phone out of his pocket.  “I’ll make arrangements.” His voice is firm, but there’s something unreadable in the way he carries himself as he leaves the room, Hizashi following close behind.

I sit in the aftermath of their presence, the room feeling unnervingly quiet now that they’re gone. But I know this conversation is far from over.

The chirping of Boba at my side pulls me out of my head, and I glance down at him, his bright eyes blinking up at me innocently. I scratch his head absentmindedly, the soft fur beneath my fingers grounding me just enough to keep my thoughts from spiraling, for now. The weight of everything I’ve said still lingers in the air, pressing against my ribs.

I exhale slowly, leaning back against the couch. 

I actually told them, I managed to say it. And I can’t tell what they really think– if they believe me or not, if the terror on their face is from realizing what I’ve experienced, or from concluding I’m a nutcase. 

Either way, I’ve told someone, and now it’s out there. I don’t have to sit with it alone, carry it along, feel it’s suffocating weight everywhere I go. 

But I’m not really sure what happens from here. I’m not really sure I know what this means. What “arrangements” Aizawa was referring to, or why they both seemed so urgent, what silent conversation they had while I was explaining. 

I know this is far from the end.

—------------------------------------------------------

The police station was quiet at this hour. Not silent, never silent, but quiet in a way that made everything feel oddly distant. The low hum of computers, the occasional shuffling of paperwork, the quiet murmur of officers still on shift—just background noise to the steady pulse of the city outside. Life carried on. People lived, worked, laughed, argued, all blissfully unaware of the undercurrents that ran beneath their feet.

Tsukauchi had always found something almost comforting in that. The world moved on, even when he was sifting through the worst it had to offer.  That was the job. To take in the things most people never had to think about—the crimes, the villains, the threats lurking just out of sight—and keep them from ever touching the lives of those who remained unaware.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple as he scanned the report in front of him. Routine paperwork, nothing urgent. The kind of thing that blurred together after enough years on the job.

Then his phone buzzed against the desk.

Tsukauchi barely glanced at the screen before picking it up, late-night calls weren’t uncommon in his line of work. But the name flashing across it made him pause.

Aizawa Shouta. Not a routine call, then.

He answered immediately. “Aizawa?”

Silence, for a beat too long. Not hesitation—calculation. Aizawa was choosing his words carefully.

Then, finally: “It’s about her. The nameless girl.”

That was all Tsukauchi needed to hear. His posture straightened, muscles tensing with something sharp and immediate.

“What happened?” His voice was quiet, measured.

“She told us,” Aizawa said. His tone was steady, but there was something else beneath it. Something Tsukauchi didn’t often hear from him.

Unease.

“She told us everything.”

Chapter Text

The tape recorder clicks on, and a small mechanical whirring sound fills the silence of the interrogation room. I stare at it.

It’s such a small thing, just a little black box sitting between us on the cold metal table. 

The table is too long, the room is too bright, the presence of the tape recorder makes my words feel heavy, like they are being etched into something permanent. Something that can be played back, analyzed, turned over and examined under a microscope until the truth and the fear are indistinguishable from each other.

I don’t want to speak.

Last night didn’t feel like this. Last night, I could almost pretend I was just telling a story. That it was something I could take back if I wanted to, something that could remain soft and uncertain, slipping through my fingers like mist before it could solidify into something real.

Last night had been rehearsed in my mind over and over again until the words no longer felt like my own. Like I was reciting a script meant for a specific situation, only for specific people to hear. 

Now, my words are not just words. They are evidence. They are statements. They are something that will exist outside of me, something that can be played back long after I leave this room.

Now, I feel like I am being documented.

Everything’s gotten so loud. All the voices, the police and detectives, the bright lights and cold air. 

Aizawa and Tsukauchi sit across from me, watching me. Not speaking, not yet. Just waiting.

Aizawa’s gaze is steady, unreadable, but different from last night. There had been something softer then, something uncertain, like he was still figuring out how to piece me together. Now, his expression is careful in a way that feels more like a shield.

Tsukauchi… I don’t know what I expected from him. He’s a detective, this is his job. But still, the way he looks at me makes my stomach twist. Not unkind, not accusing, just aware . Like he’s seeing too much, but needs to know more.

I wonder what they see when they look at me. A person, a victim, a threat? Or something else entirely? I don’t want to know.

I have to go, I have to go , I need to leave. But I don’t move.

My brain shifts through emotions so quickly, so suddenly, I barely feel like the person I felt like yesterday. Yesterday I felt brave. The day before that I felt scared. The day before that I felt anger. Then emptiness, then shame, then misery. I somehow think I feel them all at once, but at the same time, none of it. 

I feel fake , my emotions feel fake, everything feels fake. Always out of place.

Life changes fast, life changes in an instant, I sit down in a chair in an interrogation room in a police station and life as I know it feels like it's ending.

And I try to tell myself it’s just like I rehearsed—it's just like last night—but something’s gnawing at the edges of my mind. 

The fear and panic I managed to push down to let the small pieces of courage that are still left in me come through is no longer there. Instead, uncertainty and hesitation is flowing through every limb of my body, and I can’t do this . 

Maybe it’s the room, maybe it’s their stares, maybe it’s the tape recorder or the bright overhead light, maybe it’s the still gnawing fear that I’m not safe from the threat of imprisonment, and a police station and a cold interrogation room is all my brain needs to go into panic mode. Either way, I never start. So, Tsukauchi starts for me.

“We can take things slow.” He begins, “…there’s no rush.”

No rush.  

But I didn’t miss the way Aizawa and Hizashi seemed anxiously impatient to get me in this room, in this building, with this detective, and that damn tape recorder. I didn’t miss their hurried glances and hushed words. Their worried expressions as I headed off to bed last night. Despite me not hearing anything, I knew they were still up, probably talking in whispers and quiet tones trying to figure out exactly what to do with the information I had told them. What to do with me.

I woke up and instead of being met with an empty house, Aizawa was waiting for me by the kitchen table. He didn’t say much, only told me to get dressed, that we had somewhere to be today. It wasn’t a request when he told me we were going to the station. It wasn’t harsh, either. Just a statement. Like it was inevitable.

Now, sitting here, I think about how he didn’t meet my eyes when we left the house. How I spent the ride in silence, watching the world blur past the car window, wondering if anyone else out there had ever felt like this, like a ghost being hauled back into a world that didn’t remember her, where nothing makes sense anymore, not even her own brain. 

“We’re just going to ask a few questions,” Tsukauchi says, gentle again, but there’s a firmness behind it. A quiet structure to lean on, if I could just find the strength to.

But I don’t answer. I’m too far away, too deep inside my own head again.

I think about last night. The way the words came pouring out like I’d been holding my breath for a hundred years—and I had. Maybe it was easier then because it was just a living room, just two people I had started to trust, just me trying to survive what’s happening inside of me by sharing it with someone else. 

Tsukauchi clicks his pen. The sound makes me flinch, even though it’s small and insignificant. But it feels like a countdown.

He studies me, and I can tell he’s trying to be kind and patient. But he’s also thinking about what’s written in the files they’ve started putting together on me. About what All For One said in Tartarus. What I told Aizawa and Hizashi last night. About the fact that I woke up in a hospital with no name, no record, no explanation.

“I know this is hard,” Tsukauchi says, his voice low. “But you’re not in trouble. You’re not being charged. We just… we need to understand what happened.”

I wish I could explain it in a way that would make sense. I wish I could pull the memories out like pages in a book and lay them across the table. But my mind doesn’t work like that. It’s a foggy reel of images and voices, colors that bleed together, timelines that collapse in on each other. And it’s all stitched to him. 

He’s in every corner of my memory, every stray thought, every whisper I try to ignore. His voice is carved into the walls of my mind like graffiti I can’t scrub clean. I hear him even when I sleep. Especially when I sleep.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s all I am, a shadow left behind by something terrible. Something unnatural. 

I glance at the recorder again. Still there, still red-eyed and waiting. It doesn’t care that I’m unraveling, it only cares that I speak.

My throat tightens. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My chest hurts with the effort of holding it in, this thing, this storm.

“I don’t…” I try again, my voice small and paper thin. “I don’t know where to start.”

“That’s okay,” Tsukauchi says, and I can hear the carefulness in his voice. Like he’s trying to hold a bird down that might take off and fly away. “Just start wherever you can.”

Aizawa shifts slightly beside Tsukauchi, the quiet scrape of his chair barely audible over the hum of the lights. He’s still watching me, steady and unmoving, the way he always does when he’s giving someone room to speak. But now, there’s something a little different behind his eyes, something more personal.

His voice, when he finally speaks, is quiet. Not coaxing, not soft, but level. “You don’t have to lay it all out perfectly,” he says. “Just… say it the way you did last night.”

It’s not a command, it’s not even a request. Just a reminder, something pulled from a place that feels almost like trust. Like he’s trying to return me to that moment, when the air was less sterile, when I wasn’t this exposed. When I was just a girl on a couch, desperate to breathe.

Last night hadn’t felt safe. Not really. It had felt necessary. It had felt like breaking something open before it rotted inside of me. But last night didn’t have tape recorders. It didn’t have two sets of eyes dissecting me. Last night, I wasn’t afraid of being catalogued and researched and evaluated. 

Still, something about the way he says it— just like you did then —makes me want to try. Because last night, I didn’t feel like a threat, I just felt like a person. A broken one, maybe. A confusing one, surely. But a person nonetheless.

I swallow hard. The words gather in my throat, heavy and waiting.

I look down at my hands in my lap, fingers twisting into each other, pale and still. I try to imagine I’m back on that couch, with the warm hum of Hizashi’s nervous energy in the room, with Boba curled beside me like a tiny, living heartbeat. I try to imagine I’m not here, in this room that triggers so much unexplainable fear in my mind.

But I am here. And the tape recorder is running. And they’re both waiting. I inhale, shaky and thin. 

“I spent over a hundred years inside All For One’s head,” I say, the words coming out smoother than I expected, colder than I feel. “I remember it all. Every second.”

—----------------------------------------------

The sun had started to sink behind the city skyline by the time they finally stepped outside. The station was quieter now, the buzz of activity from earlier fading into the low flow of the evening, just the occasional passing patrol car, the faint murmur of voices behind glass. The kind of stillness that didn’t last long, but felt just heavy enough to settle into.

Aizawa leaned back against the railing, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded but alert. Tsukauchi stood a few feet away, watching the slow drift of clouds overhead like they might offer some kind of answer. Neither of them speak right away.

It had been hours. Long enough for the air in that interrogation room to go stale. Long enough for Aizawa to hear things he still hadn’t fully wrapped his head around.

“She didn’t lie,” Tsukauchi finally said, his voice quiet.

“I know,” Aizawa murmured.

There was no satisfaction in that. Just confirmation of what they’d already known deep down, what had been growing more undeniable since the moment she was found in that old base, nameless and scared, with a presence that clung like something ancient.

A breeze moved through the alley beside the station, brushing past them like something restless, carrying the faint scent of asphalt and smoke. Aizawa watched it go, expression unreadable, his silhouette sharp in the dimming light.

Tsukauchi didn’t look at him. “You believe everything she said?”

“I believe she believes it,” Aizawa said. “And that’s enough.”

He could still hear her voice—unflinching, but shaky at times, as she described the inside of a monster’s mind like it was a place you could just walk through with your eyes open. Not vivid, not dramatic. Just real . And somehow that made it so much worse. 

There were things she said, quiet, half-formed memories, that didn’t belong in any textbook or historical record he’d ever read. Moments from a world that felt barely recognizable. A time when quirks were still a curse, when fear had more power than law.

Aizawa had always believed in facts. In evidence. But there was no evidence for what she’d seen—only the way her hands shook when she talked about it, the pauses that stretched too long when her voice caught on memories that didn’t have names. She spoke of a world cracking open under the weight of its own evolution, and of a man who had learned how to slip into those cracks and make them wider.

And she had been there. Not as a participant. Not even as a witness, not really. But as something held just beneath the surface, something that couldn’t look away.

Tsukauchi let out a slow breath, folding his arms as he leaned against the railing. The city lights were starting to blink on, littering the horizon in soft golds and restless reds.

“She’s not like any case I’ve ever seen,” he said, more to the evening air than to Aizawa. “Not even close.”

Aizawa didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on a spot far off, something behind the skyline, behind the moment. Like he was still in that room with her, still hearing the way her voice faltered on certain names, still watching her struggle to untangle herself from everything he’d tries to teach students to fight against.

“She’s a kid,” Aizawa said finally. “Underneath all of it. A scared one. She doesn’t talk like a kid, and she sure as hell doesn’t carry herself like one, but she is.”

Tsukauchi glanced at him then, just for a moment. “And if she’s telling the truth… if everything she said really happened… then she hasn’t been a kid in a long time.”

Aizawa’s jaw tightened. “No. But that’s not her fault.”

Tsukauchi gave a sharp nod, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked toward the distant horizon. “You think she’ll be able to handle it? Everything she’s about to face now? It’s not just about her past anymore, Aizawa. This is bigger than that.”

Tsukauchi’s eyes remained fixed on the cityscape as he continued. “If she’s telling the truth... the information she holds could stop All For One for good. His entire organization. Everything he’s built. She has the knowledge to take him down.”

Aizawa's brow furrowed, a flash of frustration crossing his face. “She’s not ready for that. Not by a long shot.”

Tsukauchi turned his gaze to Aizawa, his expression hardened, urgent. “If we don’t use what we’ve got, if we don’t act on the information she’s holding, we risk losing our chance to stop him and by extent, the League, for good.”

Aizawa’s breath came out in a sharp exhale, his mind racing. The weight of everything Tsukauchi was saying pressed down on him like an anvil, each word a reminder of the clock ticking down. “I’m not saying we ignore it, but what’s the point if she can’t even face herself? She’s still recovering. If we push her too fast or too hard, it could break her.”

“She’s already been broken, Aizawa,” Tsukauchi said, his voice low but insistent. “She’s spent over a hundred years trapped in a nightmare. Do you think letting her hide from it, pretending it’s not there, will somehow make it go away? She can’t outrun it anymore. But she can stop it. She can end it if she has the strength to face it.”

Aizawa fell silent for a long moment, letting the words hang in the air between them. His gaze shifted back to the station behind them, the quiet hum of life still going on inside. In there, she was probably sitting alone in a room, the silence stretching out in front of her like a threat she didn’t know how to combat. He had seen it in her eyes—how she wasn’t sure what to do with all of it. The weight of her own memories was more than she could carry alone.

But could he really drag her into the storm of it all now, when she was barely holding herself together?

Tsukauchi continues, “she has to face it eventually. The League of Villains are only getting stronger by the day.”

Aizawa’s gaze remained fixed on the station in front of him, the hum of activity inside now seeming distant. He could feel the burden of all the choices still hanging between them. He could hear the urgency in Tsukauchi’s voice, the truth in his words, but he couldn’t shake the doubt that gripped him.

She’s not ready.

He exhaled through his nose, steady but grim. “She needs more than just time. If we’re going to ask anything of her, she needs tools. Control. Options.”

Tsukauchi raised a brow. “What are you thinking?”

Aizawa’s eyes didn’t leave the station windows. Light spilled through the glass in warm, sterile streaks,too bright to feel comforting. Somewhere beyond them, she sat alone with a history no one should’ve carried. A weapon no one should’ve inherited.

“She needs stability,” he said finally, his voice low. “Her quirk is acting on instinct. Stress triggers it. Fear, memories. If we push her too fast and she loses control… we’re not just putting her at risk, we’re putting everyone around her in danger.”

Tsukauchi tilted his head slightly. “So, what? You want to put her in a training program?”

“No,” Aizawa said, shaking his head once. “Not yet. She’s not a student. We don't throw her into the same system we use for everyone else and expect her to keep up. She needs a buffer, something between isolation and the chaos.”

Tsukauchi looked thoughtful. “You think she needs to be around people.”

Aizawa nodded slowly, the motion small, deliberate. “Not just any people. People who won’t treat her like a threat or a case file.”

Tsukauchi crossed his arms again, brow furrowed in thought. “You think she can make that kind of connection? After everything?”

“She already has,” Aizawa said quietly. “With Hizashi. With the damn cat.” He let out a faint exhale—something almost like a huff of dark amusement. “It’s not much. But it’s something.”

He paused, running a hand through his hair, then let it fall back to his side.

“It means there’s still something left in her that wants to hold on,” Aizawa said, quieter now. “That’s what connection is. Wanting something to stay.”

Tsukauchi didn’t answer immediately. The breeze had picked up again, tugging at the edge of his coat. Somewhere down the block, a siren wailed faintly and then faded. The world kept moving.

“She doesn’t understand what her quirk is yet,” Aizawa went on. “Half the time it reacts before she does. You saw it at the hospital. She didn’t even know she was doing it.”

“I remember,” Tsukauchi said, and his tone was grim now. “And I remember the chaos in that hospital wing. The scared nurses and patients.”

“She didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Aizawa said. The words were flat, but they held weight. “She was dreaming. That’s all it took.”

Tsukauchi didn’t argue. He’d seen it too—how the walls had groaned like they were under pressure, how the lights flickered, how beds and trays had lifted from the floor. She hadn’t even been awake. Her eyes were shut tight, her fists clenched in the sheets, and still the air had throbbed with that strange, unseen pressure.

Tsukauchi gave a tight nod. “I know. I’m not blaming her. But it happened. And it could happen again.”

“It will,” Aizawa said. “Unless we give her a way to deal with it.”

Tsukauchi glanced at him. “And how do you suggest we do that?”

“Observation, support, controlled exposure,” Aizawa said, crossing his arms. “Not testing. I’m not talking about throwing her into simulations or handing her off to someone in a lab coat. We set up something low-pressure. Small-scale. Let her try to use it when she’s not afraid.”

Tsukauchi tilted his head slightly. “And what if that doesn’t work?”

Aizawa’s jaw tightened. “Then we adjust. But right now, she’s walking around with no idea what her quirk is or what it can do.”

He shifted his weight slightly, posture still guarded but steadier now. “I’ve been watching her, these past couple weeks. She’s quiet. Keeps to herself. But she listens. Pays attention. And when she’s not on edge, she doesn’t shut down. She’s trying. Even if it doesn’t look like it.”

Aizawa’s eyes lingered on the station window, jaw tight, but his expression shifted—just slightly—as his thoughts pulled inward.

He didn’t think control would fix everything. It wouldn’t erase what she’d been through, wouldn’t rewrite the years she’d spent trapped in the mind of the most powerful villain of all time. But control could give her something solid to stand on. Right now, she was all survival instinct and half-formed memory, and she doesn’ t trust herself, not with her quirk, not with her past, not even with the people trying to help her. And he couldn’t blame her for that. But if she could start to manage even a piece of what was happening inside her, maybe fear would stop running the show.

Control meant choice. And maybe once she realized that—once she stopped seeing her quirk as a threat waiting to happen—she’d start letting herself exist in the present again. 

“She’s only told us fragments ,” Aizawa said, pulling his thoughts back to Tsukauchi. “Details from a time so far gone, we can’t even cross-reference most of it. It’s not actionable. Just context.”

Tsukauchi gave a short nod, listening.

“If we want to get more out of her, more that matters, we need her to trust herself first. That’s not going to happen if she’s terrified of what might happen every time she remembers something or speaks too loud. She needs to feel like her power is hers again, not something that’ll blow up the room if she breathes wrong.”

Tsukauchi let out a low breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “So we’re stuck. Until she gets a grip on it.”

Aizawa didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

The weight of it, all of it, hung between them in the quiet that followed, thick as the dusk settling over the city.

—----------------------------------------------

Aizawa didn’t drive us back that night. 

He didn’t say why. Didn’t come find me after the questioning ended. One of the officers just opened the door and told me someone else would be driving me. No warning, no explanation, just a quiet escort to the parking lot and a stranger behind the wheel.

The officer didn’t speak much. Middle-aged, polite, with the kind of professional calm that suggested he wasn’t used to carting around nameless teenagers. I sat in the back, seat belt loose across my chest, staring out the window while the city passed by in smears of amber streetlights and reflected neon. Everything felt too loud and too distant at the same time. Like my ears were underwater but the world was shouting anyway.

I had kept waiting for Aizawa. To show up after the questioning. To explain. But nothing came.

Maybe he was still talking to Tsukauchi. Maybe something else had come up. Or maybe… maybe he needed space from all of it. I couldn’t blame him for that.

Still, it made the silence feel heavier.

And I can’t stop thinking about the interrogation room.

Hours. That’s how long I’d spent in there, answering questions, listening to questions I couldn’t even understand half the time. Most of it was quiet, like they were waiting for something else to come to the surface. But it wasn’t the silence that left the mark, it was what came out of me when I finally started speaking.

I had revealed more than I’d planned. More than I should’ve, maybe. More than I was ready to face.

The tension in my chest tightened, my fingers drumming on the seat, and I forced myself to look out the window, trying to breathe through it. It was too much. Too much to think about right now.

All I wanted was for it to stop. For things to make sense. For me to make sense. But nothing ever seemed to work like that.

And yet, as I stared out into the darkening city, one thought kept nagging at me; It’s so far from over. And I feel exhausted already.

When we finally arrive, I exit the car before the officer can say a word. I just opened the door and stepped out, not bothering to look back. He drove off, the sound of the engine fading into the distance as I made my way up the steps to the house.

The door creaked open when I got to it, and I could already smell the familiar scent of dinner wafting from the kitchen. Even after everything, the smell of food still managed to feel like a little sliver of the normal I’d gotten used to over these last two weeks. 

I stepped inside, not bothering to make noise, my eyes skimming over the hallway before they landed in the kitchen. There, Hizashi was standing at the stove, a wooden spoon in his hand, flipping something in the pan. The soft sizzle filled the air, and I could hear him humming to himself, a little off-key, as he stirred.

He glanced up as I walked in, his smile a little too wide, a little too bright. Like he was trying too hard to lighten the ever dampening mood.

“Yo, you’re home,” he said, his voice a little too loud. “I was thinking of making something special tonight. How’s that sound? Got some pasta going—nothing too fancy, but it'll hit the spot.”

I nodded slowly, my own voice coming out quieter than I meant. “Yeah, okay.”

Hizashi paused for a moment, his eyes flicking to me. The silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable but heavy, like both of us knew there was more unsaid.

“You feeling okay?” Hizashi asked, his tone a little hesitant, careful, like he wasn’t sure how to ask or even what the right question was. “You sure you don’t want to talk about—”

“No,” I interrupted, maybe a little sharper than I meant, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Talking about that again wasn’t something I really wanted right now.

His smile faltered just a fraction, but it didn’t last long. He gave a short nod and went back to stirring, his movements a little jerky. “Right. No pressure. Just… you know, if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here. And, hey—maybe we can make it a good night. I was thinking we could—”

I let him trail off, not because I didn’t appreciate the offer, but because I didn’t know how to make the words come out right. Instead, I just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him cook in silence.

There was a part of me that felt guilty. I could tell Hizashi was trying, really trying to lighten the mood. But it was hard to ignore the way things had changed since yesterday. The way we both knew there was something heavier in the air now. Something unspoken, but it was there.

He set the spoon down, finally turning to face me, his grin back in place, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get this figured out.”

The kitchen settled back into silence as he finished preparing dinner, the sound of boiling pasta and sizzling sauce filling the air. And though the quiet was different now, heavier, when we both knew something we weren’t saying, it was still the kind of normal I could hold on to, even for just a little while longer.

Chapter Text

Izuku had been zoning out all day during class, his mind naturally wandering back to everything that had happened recently. 

The summer training camp. The Kamino incident. All Might's retirement. It had all been a blur of pain, fear, and adrenaline, and it had left him feeling worn out. Even now, with everything that had happened, it didn’t feel like things had settled. There was this constant weight hanging over them all, like a storm cloud waiting to burst. But he couldn't dwell on it, not right now. He had to focus.

The substitute teacher didn’t help.

He was nice enough, sure, but his explanations were vague and his understanding of hero work felt... academic. Nothing like Aizawa-sensei, who always spoke with that grounded calm like he knew exactly what they needed to learn at exactly what moment, even if it came with a little dry sarcasm and a lot of deadpan.

Today, the classroom felt just a little off. No sharp-eyed glances keeping everyone in line, no quick, cutting comments when someone got out of hand.

No one really knew where he’d gone. Just that he wasn’t there this morning, and someone from the faculty had mentioned he’d be out for a bit. Most of the class assumed he was sick or called away for hero work. It wasn’t like him to disappear without a word, but it had only been a day. Nobody was uneasy, just curious. They’d never had a substitute before. 

Still, it was hard to stay focused on the board when his mind kept tugging at everything else, especially what was coming next.

internships.

Izuku’s eyes drifted to the corner of his notebook, where he’d accidentally drawn a tangle of little spirals instead of finishing the sentence he'd started. He sighed and pressed the pencil tip against the paper again, trying to refocus, but the words on the board were blurring together.

This was supposed to be a huge step forward. Real hero work. Real experience. But instead of feeling ready, all he could feel was a knot tightening in his stomach.

Mirio had agreed to introduce him to Sir Nighteye, All Might’s former sidekick . And the idea of meeting him made his nerves spike. What if Nighteye didn’t like him? What if he didn’t think Izuku was cut out for it? 

But yet, he couldn’t help but feel excited. The possibility that he’d get to not just witness but participate in real hero work was exhilarating enough, but that he might have the chance to witness the work of the number one hero’s former sidekick? That was something else entirely. 

Sir Nighteye wasn’t just a name in passing; he had history, legacy. He was someone who had worked directly alongside All Might during his golden years. Getting a chance to learn under him—even just to observe—felt like standing on the edge of something huge.

Izuku rubbed his palms against his pants under the desk, trying to keep his thoughts in check. It was that familiar tug-of-war again, nerves pulling one way, determination the other. He wanted this, really wanted it, but he also knew that wanting something didn’t mean you were guaranteed to get it.

Still, if Mirio believed in him enough to bring him along, that had to mean something, right?

Izuku bit the inside of his cheek, glancing again at the substitute fumbling his way through some half-hearted explanation of hero ethics. It was hard to sit still when everything outside these walls was starting to shift. He felt like he was standing at the threshold of something big, even if no one had said it outright yet.

Maybe it was just the way the teachers had been acting lately—more focused, more serious. Or maybe it was the quiet conversations that stopped the second a student walked by. No one had explained anything, but Izuku had always been good at picking up on tension. And there was definitely tension.

He glanced down at his notes. Barely half a page. Normally, he'd be scribbling furiously, trying to catch every word, even from a sub. But today his pen had barely moved. His head was too full.

He clenched his jaw, then forced himself to relax. Overthinking wouldn’t help.

He was here because of everything he’d worked for. Because All Might had passed One For All to him. Because he’d overcome every obstacle thrown at him, and he was ready and waiting for more. 

Still, as he sat in that slightly too-warm classroom, the low murmur of the substitute’s lecture buzzing in the background, all Izuku could feel was the weight of everything ahead.

It was exciting. It was terrifying. But more than anything, it was real.

—---------------------------------------

I woke up with a start. No nightmare, no sound, just that sudden jolt, like my body remembered something before my mind could catch up.

The house was silent, dark except for the faint blue glow from the digital clock by the couch. I didn’t mean to fall asleep here, but I didn’t have the energy to go to my room either. Everything from today, no, yesterday now, had left me drained in a way sleep didn’t fix.

My throat is dry. I stand up slowly, every joint stiff, and slowly make my way toward the kitchen barefoot, the floor cold under my feet. 

I reach for a glass in the cabinet without turning on the light. The moonlight spilling in through the window was enough to make out shapes, and I’ve memorized where everything is by now anyway. Familiar routines in a place that still doesn’t quite feel like mine.

I fill the glass from the tap, the sound of running water loud in the quiet. I take a sip, then lean against the counter, letting the cool glass rest between my hands. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. Then, I hear the front door opening.

It’s subtle, the soft click of the lock, the low creak of hinges. I freeze, pulse jumping despite myself. Footsteps follow, slow and steady. Familiar.

Aizawa.

He steps into the hallway, stopping just short of the kitchen. His eyes adjust quickly to the dark, and when he sees me, he pauses. We both do. Neither of us says anything right away.

He’s still wearing the same clothes from earlier, his usual capture weapon wrapped loosely around his shoulders, the black combat suit beneath it scuffed and crumpled. He looks tired, more than he usually does.

“I didn’t think you’d still be up.” he says, voice low.

I shrug, my fingers curling around the edge of the counter again. “Didn’t mean to be.”

He hums in acknowledgment, not pushing for more. Just standing there, steady. The quiet stretches, and I can almost hear the gears in his head turning trying to figure out how exactly to talk to me now that so much has been laid bare. 

“I stayed behind to talk,” Aizawa adds. “There were things to figure out.”

That makes me glance at him. “And?”

His jaw tenses slightly. “And there’s still more we don’t know than what we do.”

That’s not comforting, but I nod anyway. I already knew that.

He watches me for a beat longer, then finally pushes off the doorframe and walks to the counter, opening a cupboard to grab a mug. He moves like he’s run out of adrenaline and is just flying by on muscle memory.

“Did you eat?” he asks.

I blink. “Yeah. Hizashi made dinner.”

He nods, but doesn’t look at me when he speaks next. “You said a lot in there.”

I nod, even though I’m not sure he’s looking for a response. The glass feels too heavy in my hands. “I didn’t plan to,” I mutter.

“I know.” he mutters, not comforting, but instead sort of matter-of-factly, like he already knew.

The kettle clicks on behind him. He crosses his arms, gaze fixed somewhere past the sink. Not tense, but not relaxed either, like he’s still processing the contents of the conversation in his mind, every word we said in that interrogation room folded and filed away.

“You handled it better than most would have.”

I let out a quiet breath. “Doesn’t feel like I did.”

He shifts slightly, and when he looks at me this time, it’s direct. Not soft, not sharp. Just honest. “You didn’t lie.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. The words settle strangely in my chest, heavy and uncomfortable, as if my subconscious is regretting spilling as much as it did.

The kettle starts to hum, and Aizawa turns away to pour the hot water into his mug, steam curling upward in the dim light. He doesn’t push, doesn’t expect anything more, so we settle back into silence. I somehow feel like he’s already decided that whatever happened in the interrogation room is just another step. One of many, and probably not the last.

When he turns back to face me, he takes a slow sip from the mug. His eyes meet mine briefly, sharp as always but not quite as distant.

"Get some rest," he says, his voice low, like it's just a fact. "Tomorrow’s not going to be easier."

I nod, even though I don't know what tomorrow holds. There's nothing to say back, so I let him walk past me, his footsteps soft and steady as he heads down the hall, fading into the dark.

I stand there for a long moment, the glass in my hands colder now. I don’t know if it’s the water or the silence that feels so heavy, but something has shifted. 

Aizawa’s words echo in my head. You didn’t lie. And I didn’t. But I also know I haven’t said enough. 

I finish the water and set the glass down, careful not to make any noise. I glance down at the sink, and a tight knot forms in my stomach. Tomorrow. Tomorrow won’t be easier.

I don’t know how to prepare for what’s coming . I don’t even know what I’m really up against. What tomorrow holds for me, and all the days to come, and why exactly Aizawa says it won’t be easy. 

Maybe more investigations. More interrogating. More questions and tape recorders. Or maybe something else entirely, some other method they’ll use to try to get me to open up more. And I get it, I understand the urgency of the situation and why they want to get me to spill as much as possible to use what I know against the threats still lingering due to All For One’s influence. 

But… there are some pieces of my past I can’t bring myself to look at, memories that are too jagged and painful. Some things they’ll never hear, some things I think are better left unspoken. Not because I want to lie, but because truth and grief don’t always fit inside words. Some of it would only hurt more to say out loud.

Like that picture that’s always there, meeting my gaze when I walk through the house.

Framed neatly on the wall like it’s part of the furniture, something meant to warm the place up. And maybe it does , for them. For Hizashi, with the way his smile is stretched wide in it, arm thrown casually around Aizawa’s shoulder. For Aizawa, whose expression is almost unreadable, quiet, reserved, but not unhappy. And for the boy between them, blue hair tousled, his grin a little crooked, and eyes that glitter with the promise of a future he’ll never get.

It’s a good picture. If you don’t know what came after.

Ever since I connected the dots in my head, I’ve made sure to not let my eyes linger on it for too long. Because that’s one of those memories I keep buried, one of the jagged ones. The kind that cuts on the way out. If they talked about him, I don’t know what I’d say. I don’t think I could tell them.

So I don’t. I won’t. That grief doesn’t belong here, not in this house, not in this kitchen, not between the brief moments of quiet where these people are trying their best to help me.

I carry enough ghosts already. And this one, I’m not ready to let anyone else see, along with the countless others I can’t recall without breaking apart at the seams. 

People who had that light in their eyes, and lost it too soon. Faces I never learned the names of. Voices I only heard once, begging, screaming, whispering things no one should have to say at the end. Please. Help. I don’t want to die. Where’s my mom?

They blur together now, all of them. A montage of terror and silence, like my mind stitched them into one endless scream that never fades. I didn’t know them. But I remember every single one. Every time they fell. Every time I couldn’t look away.

And the worst part is, I'm scared that if I start grieving them, really let myself feel it, remember it all , I won’t be able to stop. That I’ll drown in it. That it’ll spill into everything, every word I try to speak, every breath I try to take, every quiet second I manage to steal for myself in this place that still doesn’t feel like mine.

Nameless victims from decades ago won't help the detectives or police. It won’t change anything. It won’t help to remember them, it won’t change what they went through. I couldn't do anything to prevent the pain. It’ll only pull me further under to try to recollect them all and jot it down on paper. 

So I’ll leave it all buried, for now, deep and dark where it can’t pull me further under. Because I already wake up choking on memories I don’t talk about. I already fall asleep listening for voices that aren’t there. And if I give in now, if I start crying for every ghost I never knew, I don’t think I’ll ever stop.

So instead, I take a breath. I shuffle back to the couch, I lay down, I lie still. I pretend the silence is peace and not just an absence of something to distract myself with. And I try, just for tonight, to forget the faces I carry with me. Try to forget the hurt he did to others, try to prevent the cracks from spreading further. Just long enough to sleep.

Because tomorrow’s not going to be easier, and if I’m going to do this, I need what little strength I have left.

—----------------------------------

Next day

Aizawa woke me up early. 

I sat up slowly, careful not to make too much sound even though there was no one else around to wake. A pair of boots were by the couch, neatly placed. I didn’t remember doing that.

He didn’t say much. Just told me to dress, eat something if I wanted, and meet him at the door at fifteen. No mention of what we were doing or why, and that part set my nerves quietly buzzing in my gut, but I didn’t ask. 

The hallway outside was quiet when I stepped out. There stood Aizawa waiting, coffee in one hand, his scarf looped around his neck like armor he didn’t need today. He nodded once when he saw me and turned without a word.

We didn’t talk on the way there. The car ride was short—twenty minutes, maybe less—but it felt longer. I kept my eyes on the window, watched buildings drift by, their shapes sharp and colorless under the overcast sky. 

We turned down a side street, then another. Fewer people. Fewer cars. Until we pulled up in front of a building that didn’t look like anything special, just plain concrete and large windows, darkened by time or maybe design. A place that could’ve been a warehouse or a storage center or one of those forgotten government buildings people walk past without noticing.

Aizawa parked, killed the engine, and stepped out. I followed.

He led me around the side entrance, where an ID scanner beeped softly under his hand. The doors hissed open. The inside didn’t match the outside.

High ceilings, reinforced walls, thick flooring that echoed slightly under our steps. It was mostly empty, but the scuff marks along the floor and dented panels on the walls told a different story.

“This used to be a facility for police recruits,” Aizawa said, glancing around as we walked. “Tactical drills. Combat evaluations. That kind of thing.”

“Used to?” I asked, voice low.

“Empty today,” he said. “Just us.”

We walked through two security doors, passed an empty check-in desk, then down another hall. The space opened up before me gradually, before we entered the largest room yet.

These rooms are different from what I was expecting. no cold chairs, no fluorescent lights, no tape recorder quietly blinking red. Just open space, clean floors and high ceilings. 

I stand in the middle of it, still half-expecting someone to walk in with a folder and a list of questions. But no one’s here. No clipboard. No long table. Just Aizawa, standing off to the side with his arms crossed and that unreadable look on his face. The one that says don’t ask yet .

I glance around. A training facility . I’ve seen rooms like this before, not in person, but in All For One’s memories. Heroes spar in places like this. Learn to fight, to win, to defeat villains and criminals.

But I’m not here to win anything. I’m here because they want something from me, I know it.

I cross my arms tightly over my chest, trying not to look as defensive as I feel. My heartbeat is already quick, tight behind my ribs, my body bracing for another serious voice asking me what I saw, what I know, what I remember.

My boots make a quiet sound when I shift my weight. The silence stretches until I can’t take it anymore.

“…This isn’t an interrogation?” I say, slowly.

Aizawa doesn’t shake his head, doesn’t deny it. He just glances toward the far wall where a series of weights, dummies, and reinforced targets are lined up. “No.”

That’s all he gives me. My eyebrows knit together. “Then what is this?”

“A test,” he says simply. “Not of you. Of your environment.”

I stare at him. “..what?”

Aizawa doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are on me, unreadable, like he's waiting to see what I'll do with the silence. It makes my fingers curl tighter around my arms.

He finally speaks. “You’ve only used your quirk under stress and fear.”

I blink. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. That’s not… wrong.

He continues, calm. “We’re not here so you can get interrogated. We’re not here to trigger you either. I want to see what happens when you’re not afraid.”

I don’t know what to do with that.“I—” My voice catches, I swallow it back. “I don’t think I can just… use it. Not like that.”

“That’s fine,” he says, like it really is. Like it doesn’t bother him. “You’re not being asked to perform. You’re being given space. Start there.”

Space. Right. 

I look at the practice targets against the far wall. They’re inanimate, unmoving, harmless. But something inside me flinches anyway. The last time my quirk did anything… I didn’t mean it to. The hospital, the wing full of patients, the broken glass. Those nightmares. The panic that bloomed too fast to catch, all out of my control.

"...I don't know how," I say, barely above a whisper.

Aizawa doesn't react. He just blinks slowly, arms still crossed. “Then don’t try to control it yet. Just focus on what it feels like.”

What it feels like. I’m not sure I know how to pinpoint it. 

There are times when I feel it clearly, when it claws its way up as my chest beats and my lungs heave. Other times, like now, it’s quiet. Settled under my skin like an old injury or scar. Not gone, just… waiting.

The room is wide and open, the kind built to take damage. Reinforced walls, scratch marks from old training sessions scored into the floor, high windows letting in a wash of overcast light.

I let my hands fall to my sides, fingers twitching once. My breathing’s steady, but shallow. There's a strange tension in my shoulders, like my body already knows what's about to be asked of it before my brain does.

"Start where it stirs," Aizawa says, voice calm but firm from the side of the room. “Don’t pull it forward. Let it surface.”

I nod without thinking. My throat is dry.

The nearest target is about ten feet away, sturdy, shaped like a human but faceless, bolted to the floor. I don’t move toward it, but stay where I am. I draw a breath in through my nose and close my eyes for a beat, tuning out the scrape of fabric when Aizawa shifts behind me and the low buzz of the lights.

What it feels like.

A burning sensation. One I’ve associated with fear. A pressure low in my chest, working its way up through my body, into my limbs as it forces its way out. 

Electricity charging the air, a faint pink glow surrounding my vision before it explodes outwards. Pulsing, pricking, terrifying. 

The burn starts low, like a spark at the base of my spine, crawling its way upward through every nerve. It’s not fire, not really, but it feels like it. Like the moment before lightning hits the ground, when the air shifts and the hairs on your arms lift without your permission. 

My fingers twitch again, sharper this time. The space around my hands distorts just slightly, the edges of the air trembling like heat rising off pavement. And then, my hair begins to lift.

Strands float slowly upward, weightless, as if suspended in water. That faint pink hue bleeds in at the tips first, but then it travels upward, pulsing softly with each beat of my heart. The light doesn’t shine, it thrums. Like it’s alive, responding to something deeper than thought.

The energy threads its way up my neck, crawling beneath my skin like static. Every breath feels like it carries charge. My shoulders tense against it, the effort of holding still making my arms tremble.

I open my eyes just slightly, catching a glimpse of the air warping around me. Pink streaks coil loosely around my limbs, floating like ribbons in water, trailing movement that hasn’t happened yet. It’s not quite visible, more sensed than seen, but it leaves a shimmer in the corners of my vision.

I clench my jaw. The pressure is there. But nothing’s moving.

I try to breathe through it, keep the thread unbroken. The first time I felt this, years ago, it was chaos, at least that's the way the experience retold itself in my dream. Power like a wildfire, no direction, no control. But this… this is close. Too close. But still wrong.

The target ten feet away stays perfectly still. Untouched.

I focus on it, just for a second. The shimmering threads around me flicker, pulled slightly forward— almost. Like the power knows what I want, but won’t obey, only flare up and explode.

And then, snap. It falters.

The light surging around my whole body breaks off in frayed pulses before dying down, like embers losing their heat. My hair drops suddenly back to my shoulders. The pressure inside my chest collapses inward like something just gave up.

I stagger half a step back. Not enough to fall, but enough to stumble. I breathe out, slow. My hands are shaking.

Aizawa doesn’t say anything right away. He watches me, calm, unreadable as ever.

“You didn’t lose control,” he says after a long moment.

I frown, swallowing past the tightness in my throat. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You didn’t lose control .” His tone is dry, but not cruel. “That’s something.”

I turn my head slightly, looking down at my hands. My fingers are still trembling. I clench them into fists.

“It felt like it was right there,” I murmur. “Like it wanted to come out but didn’t know how.”

Aizawa finally moves, stepping closer yet still at a distance. “It’s instinctual. Only shows itself to defend.”

I nod once, tightly. I can still feel it under my skin. Faint now, a dying hum, but not gone.

“I want to try again.” The words come before I think them through.

Aizawa doesn’t blink. “Then try.”

I nod before I square my shoulders.

I stare at the target again. Same faceless shape. Same stillness. I breathe in, let the pressure rise.

Again.

The faint shimmer in the air returns, swirling pink like smoke, brighter this time. It trembles along my skin, flickering, twitching with every heartbeat. I try to hold my ground, no panic, no surge,  Just feeling.

But it fizzles before it reaches the surface.

Again.

I stretch my fingers, grit my teeth, let it crawl up my spine. Feel as it pulses with my heartbeat, as it shakes my whole nervous system— but a car honks outside, snapping me out of it, pulling it back.

Again.

My eyes sting, my hands wont stop shaking, my jaw aches from clenching too hard. The dummy doesn’t budge, taunting me with its grounded stillness, and I huff in frustration. Just move it—

Aizawa doesn’t interrupt.

Again.

I lose count of how many times I pull the power up, try to shape it, only to feel it falter. How many moments I think I have it—only to watch it slip through my fingers like water too wild to hold.

Again.

My knees buckle this time. I drop to one hand, gasping, sweat beads at my hairline. The floor is cold beneath my palm. The static still clings to my skin, my hair still pulsing with that glow.

“I can’t—” I start, voice low and cracked.

But then something shifts. The air goes still, if only for a moment.

A sound—deep, groaning metal. Behind me, a dent blooms across the reinforced wall. Not where I was aiming. Not where I was even looking.

My breath catches.

Aizawa raises an eyebrow. Just one.

“I didn’t do that,” I say automatically.

He gives a slow blink. “Didn’t you?”

I stare at the warped metal, at the faint scorch of glowing pink curling in the dent’s center, before slowly fading away. 

And then, with a sudden crack , the entire panel explodes, a shockwave of pink light ripping through the air—just as my body ignites, power exploding outwards.

Chapter Text

Everything hit the floor at once.

The air was thick with dust and sparks, and I couldn’t hear anything except the high-pitched ringing in my ears and the thud of my heartbeat punching at my ribs. Something metal groaned somewhere above me. Something else crashed behind me. I didn’t know where to look. I couldn’t tell what I’d done.

Then it all stopped.

Like a switch had been flipped, or ripped out of the wall.

Aizawa stands a few feet away, hair floating for just a second before it settles. His eyes glowing red–I know that look now. It meant my quirk was off, he had turned it off.

He doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, watching me, making sure I’m still breathing or maybe just waiting to see if I’ll lose it again.

I stay crouched where I landed. My palms sting. My knees hurt. Everything else is numb.

“I didn’t mean to,” I say, and my voice cracks like the wall behind me.

He finally walks closer. Steps around the mess of weights and training dummies scattered across the floor like it’s not even there. Not cautious, not scared. As if he’s seen this a hundred times and knows exactly how it ends.

“You didn’t lose control,” he says. “You stopped holding it in.”

I look up at him. His scarf is dirty. There’s a cut on his arm, small, nothing serious, but it makes my stomach twist. I did that. 

I stand up too fast and stumble. He grabs my arm to steady me and I flinch, stupid, but I can’t help it. He doesn’t let go.

We step over broken concrete and shattered equipment. There’s a scorch mark on the far wall, black streaks running up to the ceiling like something tried to claw its way out of me and couldn’t find the door. I keep my eyes down.

When we reach the hallway, the cold hits me as the burning sensation of my quirk fades away. 

He doesn’t say anything until we’re outside. He stands next to me with his hands in his pockets, looking out at nothing.

“You didn’t aim at the wall,” he says. “That was a reflex.”

I nod again. I can’t look at him.

“It means we’re close,” he adds, and I glance up.

“Close to what?” I ask.

“To real control.”

I want to believe him. I want to believe this means I’m not just a bomb someone forgot to defuse. But all I can picture is the cut on his arm, and the huge explosion in the room we just left behind.

“How?” I ask.

He looks at me for a moment, then out at the parking lot like the answer might be hiding in the asphalt.

“Because a reflex is better than a panic response,” he says. “Your quirk has activated when you’re overwhelmed. You lose control because your body thinks it’s under attack.”

I stare down at my hands, flex my fingers. They’re still shaking. Not just from the power, but from everything going on.

“This time,” he continues, “your quirk responded to an intent, even if it wasn’t working at first. You wanted the dummy to move, it didn’t. But the energy still went somewhere. That’s a start.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“So I still messed up.” I say.

“You didn’t black out. You didn’t destroy the entire room.”

“Just half of it.”

He gives a small shrug. “Progress.”

I stare ahead at the pavement stretching past the building. My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to. “Why are we doing this, really?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Not because he’s ignoring me, just taking his time, like he always does. Picking his words.

“Because every time your quirk activates, it’s not random,” he says. “It’s emotional. It’s reactive. It doesn’t just come from adrenaline, it comes from fear, or from stress.” He glances at me. “That’s not something you can just fix easily.”

My chest tightens. I already know where this is going, but hearing him say it makes it feel heavier. 

“So… this isn’t just about my quirk.”

“No.” He sighs, shifting his weight slightly. “Learning to control your quirk means learning to understand your own emotional patterns. If we can give you control here, physically, it might give you the groundwork to start building control somewhere else.”

Somewhere else.

Like my thoughts, my panic, my past–everything I try to shut away just to survive through the day.

I swallow. “You really think that’ll work?”

“I think it’s the first step to stopping the cycle you’re stuck in.” He looks down at me again. “If we take it one step at a time, it might stop your quirk from bursting out when you’re panicking.”

I look away. My throat burns, but I nod.

He starts walking toward the car. I follow a few steps behind, not really thinking about it, just moving because he is.

I hate that he’s right. I hate that this is progress, even if it doesn’t feel like a success in any way shape or form. I hate that this is a natural first step towards… I’m not sure. Recovery? Coping? None of those sound right. The weight on my conscience isn’t something I can just “recover” from. I’ve accepted that. But still… he’s right. Controlling my quirk better might avoid me putting others in danger. 

By the time we’re driving, the silence has settled in again. It’s not uncomfortable, just heavy. Like there’s too much neither of us is saying, as the truth of the gravity of the situation remains unspoken. 

If this is the first step, how many more am I going to have to take? 

Despite trying not to, I keep looking at the cut on his arm. It’s small, but I see it every time he shifts gears.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” I say quietly.

“I know.”

“You should’ve erased it sooner.”

He glances at me, then back at the road. “You needed to see what it felt like.”

I don’t respond. I just stare out the window, the city lights blurring past, watching the raindrops race each other down the window.

I’m not sure if he means the power itself or the aftermath of it.

—---------------------------------------------

Later that day

Hizashi Yamada stood in the kitchen, rinsing out two chipped mugs . One said WORLD’S OKAYEST TEACHER . The other didn’t say anything, just had a faded sticker of Present Mic that some student had slapped on years ago. He’d meant to replace it, but he never got around to it.

Behind him, the house was quiet. The kind of quiet he used to like, now it felt loaded.

She’d gone to bed without a word. Just nodded once at Aizawa when they walked in, then disappeared down the hall. He hadn’t heard her close the door, but he knew she was in there. Hiding, probably. That was her pattern.

Aizawa hadn’t said much either. Just dropped onto the couch like the day had taken a swing at him.

“You should disinfect your arm,” Hizashi said over his shoulder.

“It’s fine,” came the reply. Of course it was.

Hizashi didn’t argue. He dried the mugs and set them in their usual places, then leaned on the counter, watching his husband sit there with that same look on his face—the one he wore when something was bothering him and he didn’t feel like explaining it. Which was often.

“She did that?” Hizashi asked, nodding toward the cut on Aizawa’s forearm.

Aizawa didn’t look up. “Reflex, not rage.”

“Still drew blood.”

“She panicked, not attacked.”

Hizashi sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I know. I know that. I’m not blaming her, Sho.”

Aizawa finally looked at him, eyes heavy. “I didn’t think you were.”

Silence stretched between them, the kind that didn’t need to be filled with words but begged to be anyway.

Aizawa leaned back, head tilted against the couch cushion, eyes half-lidded. “She’s not gonna talk just because we ask her to. You know that.”

Hizashi crossed his arms, still leaned against the counter. “So, what? Train her until she controls her quirk, then just assume she’ll spill everything?”

Aizawa didn’t flinch at the sarcasm. “I’m saying if she learns to control her quirk, she might stop feeling like she’s about to explode all the time.”

“Sure. I get that,” Hizashi said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Control the quirk, control the fear. But Sho—she spent over a century locked inside someone else's mind. Someone like him. You think a few training sessions is gonna fix that?”

Aizawa exhaled through his nose. “No. I don’t. But it’s a start. She’s not ready to see a therapist, she barely lets us look at her. If training gives her even a little confidence, or control, if it gives her something to focus on that’s not her past... I’ll take it.”

Hizashi walked over, sat on the arm of the couch. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. I just think... maybe we should be ready for it to take more than that. Have a therapist on call, just in case. You’re great at pulling kids back from the edge, Sho, but this is deeper than anything either of us can handle. She’s not a scared first-year. She’s…” He trails off without finishing his sentence.

Aizawa gave a quiet grunt of agreement. “I know.”

“I just—” Hizashi stopped, then tried again. “I don’t want you putting everything into this and thinking you alone can fix it. Because you’ll try, and it won't be good for you or her.”

Aizawa looked at him then. Really looked. “I’m not alone.”

Hizashi gave him a half-smile, one corner of his mouth pulling up. “Damn right you’re not.”

They sat in silence again, but it felt easier this time.

After a moment, Hizashi reached over and tapped the spot on Aizawa’s arm where the cut had started to clot. “Still think you should clean that.”

Aizawa sighed. “Fine.”

“I’ll get the first-aid kit.” A beat passed.

“Don’t say it,” Aizawa warned.

“I wasn’t gonna.”

“You were.”

“I wasn’t. ”

“You were gonna call yourself something ridiculous.”

Hizashi grinned as he stood up. “I was gonna say ‘nurse Mic,’ actually. But now that you mention it…”

Aizawa groaned, dragging a hand over his face.

And for just a moment, the weight in the room got a little lighter.

—-----------------------------------------

Next morning

The room is quiet, morning light stretching across the ceiling. I went to bed without dinner last night. Hizashi knocked, but I didn’t respond. I didn’t feel like eating.

I don’t feel like I’ve slept, even if I know I must have. My body’s not buzzing, at least, no static in my veins, no tug in my chest. Then I remember the cut on Aizawa’s arm and feel sick all over again.

I didn’t mean to, but it still happened. I know it’s not the first time my quirk hurt someone, and I know it won’t be the last.

It’s a tough pill to swallow, to know your emotions are causing others harm, literally. To know it’s manifesting itself in such an aggressive way. 

Pulling my knees up, I rest my forehead against them and try to breathe through the part of me that wants to pretend yesterday didn’t happen. Pretending won’t work, ignoring it won’t work. 

Even if I don’t want this quirk, it’s not going anywhere. If I ignore it, it just waits until I’m scared or cornered, then explodes out of me. That’s not control, that’s a bomb with a timer I don’t know how to read.

And I don’t want to hurt anyone else. I don’t want to be a danger to other people, like he was. 

So if learning to control this stupid thing is what it takes to keep that from happening again, then…

I’ll try to figure it out, even if it scares me. Even if it's hard. Even if it will take more steps then I can predict. Because not doing anything scares me more, and it’ll keep happening over and over again. I don’t know if I could live with myself if I ever seriously hurt someone. I can’t stop the whirlwind of flashes and memories running through my mind, but I can try to control the way it manifests itself. I can .

I get up and open the door. The hallway is quiet, lights still off. The clock on the wall in the kitchen says it’s almost nine. No one’s here, Aizawa and Hizashi are gone.

I check the front door and it’s still locked, but both their shoes are missing. They left early again.

I sit down on the edge of the couch and look out the window. The sky’s overcast. Not stormy, just gray, the kind of day that could go either way.

An idea sprouts in my mind before I can stop it. 

They’re not here, and I don’t know when they’ll be back, probably sometime in the evening. But, I don’t really feel like sitting around and doing nothing. 

If I want this to stop—this fear my own quirk holds over my head—I shouldn’t be sitting around doing nothing. I should be spending my time wisely. Take another step.

I glance to the back door. The yards not big in any sense, but it’s private and quiet. Fenced in, no one around, and most importantly, nothing to break. No garden gnomes or pretty flowers, just grass and a white picket fence. 

I grab one of the jackets hanging by the door—Hizashi’s probably, I still don’t have my own—and step outside barefoot. 

The ground squishes under my feet. Dew soaked grass clings to my feet, and I regret not changing into actual shoes. 

For a second, I just stand there, trying to settle the noise in my head. It’s not loud, not exactly, just full of trains of thoughts that lead to nowhere. Thoughts running over each other, overlapping, tugging me in different directions. Like they always do. 

I shake out my hands. 

Okay.

This isn’t about blasting something across the yard or pushing myself to the limit. If I try that without knowing how to hold it, I’ll just end up where I started.

Instead, I try what Aizawa said yesterday. Intent. Not panic. Not instinct.

Not pushing my boundaries but instead trying to hold them back, try to control something that feels so uncontrollable. But I don't know where to start. Exploding is all I’ve ever seen my quirk do, it’s hard to imagine it any other way. 

That's the problem, isn’t it?

If I keep thinking my quirk is dangerous and unstable, maybe that's all it will ever be. All I'll ever let it be. 

Because I’m terrified of it. I’m terrified of the fact that my quirk is an extension of me, and all it does is unravel and explode. Just like my thoughts like to do, just like I do. 

That fear is a fuse. Aizawa said it reacts like I’m under attack, and maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s just trying to protect me the only way it knows how. Maybe I never gave it a chance to do anything else.

It’s not lashing out for no reason. It’s responding, over and over, to what I feel underneath everything else. Fear. That I’m not safe. That I can’t remember a time when I have felt safe at all. 

My quirk isn’t saying I’m dangerous, It’s saying I’m scared.

It’s telling me I’m unraveling, that I’m holding on too tight, or not tight enough. That I’m always one wrong breath away from exploding. It mirrors everything I try to hide. That I don’t trust the world around me, that I don’t trust myself.

Maybe that’s why I can’t stop it when it first starts. Can’t control the pulsing fire coursing through my body, just like I can’t control the panic and the quick breaths.

Because the truth is, if I want to learn control, I can’t just treat this like a power I need to wrestle into shape. I think have to start with…myself. I have to believe I’m not in danger every second of the day. I have to convince my body—and my quirk—that we’re safe. That I’m okay.

…I don’t know if I can believe that. 

I look down at my hands again, flex my fingers slowly. The skin’s already bruising across one knuckle, where I must’ve hit something yesterday. 

What does it even feel like?

I don’t remember. True safety, true contentment. Can I try imitating it, if I just shut off everything else? 

I close my eyes and drop my arms to my sides. Let my shoulders fall. Let my jaw unclench. It’s harder than I expect. My muscles want to stay tense, like if I stop bracing, something bad will happen.

How do people do this? Be calm?

Nothing happens. The wind brushes past me, cool and quiet. A bird chirps somewhere in the distance. A car rumbles down the road a few blocks over.

I try to breathe through all of it. In, then out. Slow and even. No thoughts, just sounds. Just the air, my bare feet in the grass, the creek of the fence in the breeze. 

Relaxing my body comes easier than quieting my mind. My hands stay open, fingers loose. Shoulders down. Jaw soft. I keep breathing, slow and steady, like I’m trying to lull my own system into trust. There’s no threat here. No darkness creeping down the edges of my subconscious. Just sky and grass and my own heartbeat, still pumping faster than it should. 

Can I really lie to myself like this?

I open my eyes again. The yard hasn’t changed. Same fence. Same patchy grass. Same pale light filtering through the clouds.

I glance at a small rock near my foot. Nothing heavy. Nothing meaningful. Just something to focus on.

Slowly, carefully, I reach inward.

My quirk responds almost immediately. Heat curls up through my chest and shoulders, winding down my arms like coiled smoke. It’s not gentle, but not violent either. I can feel it settling into place, ready, but not pushing. Waiting for the threat. For the panic to bloom, so it can react. 

It burns. Pressure through every vein, like my blood’s being charged with something sharp. Usually, that’s where the panic kicks in. But this time, I try to keep breathing.

Don’t flinch. Don’t brace. Don’t panic. Don’t think. 

I keep my body relaxed, fingers open. I let the burn pass through me instead of fighting it. The pressure’s there, sure, but I’m not choking on it. Barely.

The small rock wobbles where it sits.

I try to picture it moving upward. Just a few inches. That’s all.

My breathing slips for a second, just a hitch in my chest, and the heat inside me spikes in response. I feel it crawl higher up my neck, sharper, closer to slipping out of my control.

But I catch it. I breathe again, slow, and let my shoulders drop. The spike dulls.

The rock lifts. Maybe an inch. Maybe less.

A strange, weightless feeling blooms in my chest. Something like surprise, maybe even something close to pride. I actually did it. I actually controlled it. Just a little, not enough yet. But a little is more than nothing. Little is more than I thought I could do.

And then—

Crash.

A lighting strike. Quick, sharp, splitting the quiet.

My head snaps toward the sound—instinct, fast and automatic.

And the rock snaps with me.

It zips through the air like it’s tied to my eyes, cutting a straight line across the yard. A crack snaps loud against the fence as the rock slams into it hard enough to split the wood. A piece splinters free, scattering into the dirt. The rock punches past, landing somewhere on the other side with a heavy, solid thud .

I stare. Heart thudding in my throat.

So much for control.

—-------------------------------

Later that day..

The rain started pouring in sheets, thunder cracking hard enough to rattle the windows. A thunderstorm has passed into the city, and each crash feels personal, like the sky’s mocking me. Like it knows exactly how easy it is to make my pulse rise and control break.

All it took was one sound, one bolt splitting the air, and the whole thing unraveled. The fence is proof of that. A whole chunk cracked right through, like it was nothing. And I just stood there, frozen, the weight of it creeping back into my chest.

I feel stupid. Not because I messed up, but because I thought I wouldn’t.

Because I really stood out there thinking I could figure this out alone. Like Aizawa wasn’t right to supervise me yesterday. That I’d be okay out there with no safety net, no backup, just hope and quiet breathing.

When I’m spiraling, when my heart’s in my throat and my mind’s racing, there’s no way I can just… stop. Shut down every thought and act like nothing’s wrong. That kind of calm isn’t something I can just force my brain into when it’s overloading. 

And that's why I feel like a fool. I really thought spending 10 minutes just trying to stand on my feet without tensing my muscles and without preparing for something to happen would work? Is that somehow going to fix this? Clearly not, because one distraction, one spike of my pulse pulled me out of that temporary calmed mindspace. 

So if that’s not the answer, then what is? What am I supposed to do when my brain is a minefield and my quirk reacts before I even finish a thought? When I don’t have time to breathe deep and unclench my muscles before my quirk reacts?

I don’t know. I really don’t know the answer.
But I know this isn’t it.

A car crunches into the driveway, tires pushing through gravel and water. I glance out the window, it’s Hizashi’s car. He’s earlier than Aizawa, like most days.

I get up and brush my hands on my sleeves like that’ll do anything, like it’ll make me look less like someone who put a hole in the fence just a few hours ago. By the time Hizashi walks through the door, I’m sitting on the couch with a blanket draped over my shoulders and a cold cup of tea between my palms. I don’t say anything. Just tilt the drink a little and pretend I’ve been sitting here the whole time.

He steps in shaking off water, rain dripping from his ponytail. “Storm’s nuts out there!” he says, dropping his bag by the door and toeing off his wet shoes. “Lightning almost kissed the car on the way in. Saw my life flash before my eyes!”

I just look at him.

“Get it? Flash? Thunder?” He looks back with an expectant expression.

I blink at him, the joke landing somewhere in the fog of my brain but not quite hitting. He waits a beat longer, then throws both hands in the air.

“Wow. Tough crowd,” he mutters with a dramatic sigh, making his way toward the kitchen. “Gotta work on my material.”

He’s joking, but not really. I think he does it to feel out my mood without asking directly. That’s kind of his thing, sounding like he’s teasing while checking if I’m okay. I don’t give him much to work with, after all.

He heads into the kitchen and starts pulling things out of the fridge like it’s just another normal evening. “You hungry?” he calls over the noise of pots and clinking dishes. “Thinking curry. Warm, easy, good for storm vibes.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Sure.”

Boba hops up beside me, shoving his face against my thigh every time thunder rolls through the house. I keep one hand on his back, slow and steady, and the other wrapped around my cold tea.

The second car comes a little later, headlights sweeping across the living room wall before cutting out. The slam of a door. The clink of keys. Aizawa’s home.

I still don’t know what I’m going to say. How I’m going to explain the hole in their now broken fence. Or how they’ll react. 

Aizawa throws me a glance as he walks through the hallway, just a flick of his eyes, sharp and unreadable, but he doesn’t say anything. Typical for Aizawa, just like Hizashi’s dad jokes are typical. They’re both very predictable. He slips past, headed straight for the kitchen where Hizashi is already halfway through prepping dinner, sleeves rolled up and music low on the speakers. Their voices murmur quietly over the rain, thunder, and the simmering pot.

I sit there for a while, just listening. To the sound of water boiling, Hizashi’s humming, the low cadence of Aizawa’s voice as he asks what spice mix they used last time. It’s domestic and mundane. Comforting in a way.

Eventually, Hizashi calls out for help setting the table. I rise, moving on autopilot. Plates. Chopsticks. Napkins. It’s only when we’re all sitting, bowls steaming, that I realize I’ve been waiting for this moment with a kind of dread I didn’t want to name.

I clear my throat, sudden and sharp in the quiet. Hizashi’s in the middle of a story, something about a student in his second-year class mixing up quirk declarations, but he pauses mid sentence.

Two sets of eyes turn to me. I stare down at the table instead.

“I…” I begin, the word sticky in my throat. I force myself to keep going. “After yesterday, I kept thinking about what Aizawa said. About my quirk. About how it reacts to me. To my emotions…and I realized why that’s a problem.”

Neither of them speak. Aizawa’s chopsticks hover over his bowl. Hizashi leans forward a little, brows raised but not impatient.

“I get why it’s important for me to control my quirk better. I get that it’s the only way to prevent me from hurting someone. Or breaking things.” My voice wavers. “So… I thought if I could just try calming down… I might be able to manage it better.”

I glance up. Aizawa’s brows have furrowed, almost imperceptibly. Hizashi’s eyes have softened. He doesn’t look surprised—just waiting.

“I was alone,” I admit. “And I know I shouldn’t have tried without…anyone home, I know how stupid that was, but I thought… I could try.”

A pause. A long one.

Aizawa’s voice cuts through it, low. “What happened?”

Hizashi throws him a small glare. Not sharp, but clear: wait for her to finish.

I swallow. “I managed to lift a rock. It wasn’t an accident, I meant to do it. I kept my body calm, or I tried to, and I pushed out as much noise in my head as I could. And it worked.. for a second.”

They’re still looking at me. I can’t tell what either of them is thinking. I look down again.

“But then… the thunder hit. And I lost focus. I looked up, and the rock went flying. Right into the fence. It cracked. A lot.”

I wait. For the silence to feel like shame. For them to say something sharp or disappointed.

But nothing comes. Not right away.

The silence stretches just long enough to make my skin prickle. I keep my eyes down, tracing the curve of steam curling from my bowl.

Then Hizashi speaks, voice light but not careless. “Well,” he says, “you got the rock off the ground. That’s something.”

I look up at him, unsure if it’s a joke.

But his expression is steady. “Seriously. You did it. That’s the first time you’ve made something move on purpose, right?”

I nod, hesitantly.

“That’s huge!” he says with a smile, like it’s obvious. “Controlled or not, that’s progress. Good job!”

Aizawa hasn’t said anything yet. He’s still watching me, his expression unreadable in that way only he seems to have perfected. I try not to shrink under it.

Finally, he speaks. “Hizashi’s right. You made a choice to try something hard, and it worked, until it didn’t. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t valuable.”

“But I broke the fence.”

“It’s a fence,” Aizawa says simply. “It can be fixed.”

“It still matters.”

“It does,” he agrees. “But so does learning what your quirk can do. That’s what this is. That’s what you’re doing.”

I blink, thrown by the lack of judgment, by the praise. Part of me was braced for disappointment, some stern reminder of what I should’ve done. But it never comes.

“You said you kept your body calm,” he adds after a moment. “That’s good. That means you have some point of entry. But next time… maybe wait till one of us is home.”

“I will.” I say quickly while nodding. “I just… I wanted to… do something. Try.”

“Well,” Hizashi says, nudging my elbow with his. “Nothing wrong with trying, right?”

“And now you know what breaks the focus,” Aizawa continues. “That gives us something real to work on. You weren’t wrong to try.”

I glance between the two of them. Hizashi, grinning softly like this is all normal. Aizawa, calm and unwavering, like he expected this, some way somehow.

I can’t pinpoint the warm feeling that blooms in my chest. 

Dinner resumes slowly. Hizashi picks up where he left off, launching back into his half-finished story. Aizawa listens, occasionally interjecting with a dry comment. I don’t say much, but I eat. The tight coil in my chest eases, just slightly.

Outside, the storm continues to rage on. But the booms of thunder feel a little less sharp. 

—----------------------------

Later that night

From their bedroom window where Aizawa and Hizashi are standing, the damage is plain to see.

The fence is fractured in a wide arc. Half of the row where the rock hit leans at an awkward angle, boards twisted, nails pulled loose. A jagged gap sits in the center—where the impact blew through completely. Chunks of wood lie scattered across the yard, wet and splintered under the storm’s roar.

Hizashi lets out a low whistle beside Aizawa, arms folded as he surveys the scene. “That’s not just a crack,” he mutters. “That’s… gone. That whole panel’s just gone .”

Aizawa doesn’t answer right away. His eyes track the scattered debris, slow and thoughtful. The kind of look he gets when something’s clicking into place, but he’s not ready to say it yet.

“She’s strong,” Hizashi says, quieter this time. “Her quirk, that is. Way strong.” A pause. “Strangely strong.”

Aizawa’s gaze doesn’t leave the wreckage. “I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking about it since that time in the hospital. The night she shook the whole wing in her sleep.”

Hizashi shifts, watching him. 

“I think…  the quirk grew without her.” Aizawa says, voice low. “While she was unconscious. One hundred and twenty years is a long time for a quirk to sit dormant. But not inactive. Not if it kept trying to activate. Not if it kept wanting to, because its user was under distress. When I found her in that base, her quirk was still pulsing around her, even if she wasn’t conscious. It was still going.”

“...You’re saying it developed on its own?”

“I’m saying it might’ve evolved. Into something it wasn’t supposed to be. A reflex, a shield, a defense mechanism that spent over a century trying to protect a body that didn’t have a conscious host.”

Hizashi turns fully toward him now, blinking. “That’s—” He stops. Rewinds. Then nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. That tracks. Creepy. But it tracks.”

“It’s why she can’t control it yet. Why it reacts before she even decides to use it. Because for over a century, her mind was in panic, but far from her body. Yet her quirk still acted. It’s not just tied to her emotions, it’s tied to her survival instinct. And it’s used to acting alone.”

A heavy silence settles between them. Neither of them know what it means to train a quirk… like that.

“So…we’ve got our work cut out for us.” Hizashi says, voice quieter now.

“She does too.” Aizawa murmurs.

And they both know the truth of it, how long this might actually take. How precise it’ll need to be. How dangerous it could get if they don’t act fast enough. Because time isn’t on their side, and neither is the League. Even with All For One locked away, the unrest is building. The world is waiting for the next fracture. And she might hold information to combat that, but wont share it until she feels more in control. Tsukauchi pushed for more interrogations, more sit downs, but Aizawa insisted letting her train her quirk instead. Now he just sees more and more how difficult that might be, because he hasn’t encountered this before.

“I’m not sure how we’re going to handle this,” Aizawa admits, almost to himself. “We don’t have the time. Not with UA, patrols, the problem kids–”

“Don’t remind me,” Hizashi mutters. “Our schedules are already barely hanging on.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Hizashi sighs and gestures vaguely toward the ruined fence. “And now we gotta fix that , too. Guess we’re spending our weekend with wood glue and a prayer.”

Aizawa huffs softly. “You’re using nails. Not glue.”

“ Glue and nails,” Hizashi insists. 

Aizawa doesn’t smile. But his eyes narrow in a way that Hizashi knows is affectionate.

Outside, the last low rumble of thunder rolls into the distance. They both know: this won’t be easy. And it sure as hell won’t be quick. But it has to be done. They have to try. Just like she's doing.

Just one board at a time. Glued and nailed together by hands who might know a lot about fences, but not quite how to fix them when they’re complicated and prone to explode.