Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Meta Abilities.

The next step of human evolution — extraordinary powers that shattered the boundaries of what people once thought possible.

Some could fly. Others could move objects with their minds. Meta Abilities came in all shapes and forms, wild and unpredictable.

But power, by its very nature, breeds conflict.

Some chose to misuse their gifts. They became Villains.

To oppose them, society created Heroes — people who stood for justice, wielding their powers for the good of the nation.

The system wasn’t perfect.

It was messy. Flawed.

But it worked.

More or less.

Izuku Midoriya had a Meta Ability.

But it wasn’t exactly what anyone would call... impressive.

On paper, it sounded incredible — Dynamo.

The manipulation of the elements: fire, ice, electricity, air.

And for some strange reason, laser eyes.

It sounded like the kind of ability that could shape legends.

A dream for any kid hoping to be a Hero.

The reality, though, was... disappointing.

His fire?

It could barely manage tennis-ball-sized fireballs or a sad little stream of flame.

His ice?

He could cool things down or, if he concentrated really hard, cover an object in a thin sheet of frost.

Sure it was handy, but the best he could do was cover the floor in ice and pray his opponent slips.

Not exactly a winning move in the middle of a fight.

Electricity?

Enough to charge a phone.

Maybe two, on a good day.

Air?

More like a soft forest breeze. The kind that gently ruffles your hair but does absolutely nothing else. Pleasant, but useless in a fight.

And his laser eyes?

They mostly just made his eyes glow red and sizzle a little.

Did it look cool?

Sure.

Was it useful?

Absolutely not.

The most he could manage was a glorified laser pointer that didn’t even hurt.

Normally, this would be fine.

Most Meta Abilities start off weak — it takes time and training to unlock their true potential.

If Izuku had just awakened his ability, that would've been expected.

Natural, even.

But he was already thirteen.

And his ability hadn’t grown at all.

The doctors were baffled.

Everything looked fine. His body, his ability genes — all normal.

Yet somehow, his ability’s growth was stunted.

Frozen in place.

What should’ve been a blessing.

Was now little more than wasted potential.

For any normal person, this wouldn’t have been the end of the world.

Take his mother, for example.

Inko Midoriya’s ability allowed her to attract small objects.

That was it.

No flashy combat skills.

No heroic feats.

Just the ability to pull a remote closer when it was too far to reach.

And yet... she was happy.

Content with her simple, peaceful life.

But Izuku?

Izuku didn’t want a quiet life.

He didn’t want to just exist on the sidelines, living in the shadow of real heroes.

He wanted to be a hero.

The kind who smiled through the danger — who saved people when no one else could.

Just like his idol — the Number One Hero.

All Might.

The difference?

All Might was one of the most powerful beings to ever walk the Earth.

Izuku, at best, could serve as a halfway decent matchstick, a glorified cooler... maybe a portable power bank on good days.

So while Izuku wasn’t completely crushed by the reality of his weak ability, he was disappointed.

Confused.

He trained every day, desperate to squeeze more strength from Dynamo.

And while he got better — more accurate, more controlled — his raw power stayed painfully stagnant.

No amount of sweat or effort could force his ability to grow.

But through it all, Inko was there.

Cheering him on.

Lifting his spirits when the weight of his dreams threatened to break him.

She didn’t fully support the idea of her son becoming a hero — not with an ability like his.

The job was dangerous enough for the strongest, let alone for someone whose greatest feat was making a gentle breeze.

But she knew.

She knew this dream was etched deep into Izuku’s soul.

Ever since he could walk, he would stare wide-eyed at the TV, watching heroes capture villains in brilliant displays of power.

Replaying the same All Might video over and over, as if trying to carve every moment into his heart.

Inko couldn’t shatter that dream.

Even if she was terrified for him, even if the world would be cruel to someone like her son...

She smiled.

She encouraged him.

Because she knew —

It would hurt far more to have no one believe in him.

However, the same empathy couldn’t be said for everyone.

Not by a long shot.

For reasons Izuku still didn’t understand, his childhood best friend — Katsuki Bakugou — had turned into his worst bully.

It started the day Izuku finally awakened his ability at four years old.
Everyone else thought it was cool. Little fireballs, a breeze here, some electricity sparks — it looked cool enough to wide-eyed kids who didn’t know any better.

They didn’t know what they were looking at.

Didn’t realize the tiny sparks, the weak breeze, the flickering flames — that was it.
That was the peak.

But at the time, most of the neighborhood kids thought it was amazing, clapping and cheering for the little Midoriya showing off his baby fireballs and sparking fingertips.

Everyone... except Bakugou.

The blond just scowled.

Then stormed off without a word.

After that, every time Izuku tried to hang out with him, he caught the same look:

Disgust.

Contempt.

Like he was something stuck to the bottom of Bakugou’s shoe.

Their "friendship" started feeling forced. Barely tolerable.

Held together by the fragile glue of "our moms know each other."

Until the day everything finally shattered.

"Ah!"

Bakugou’s sharp yelp tore through the woods as he slipped off the log he was trying to use as a bridge.

The old, rotting wood snapped under his weight faster than he could react, and he landed flat on his ass in the shallow stream below.

The boy winced, face scrunching in pain, but like hell he was going to show it.
Especially not in front of his friends.

“Bakugou! You okay?!” one of his little minions called out.

Bakugou quickly slapped on a cocky smirk.

“Duh! Of course I’m fi—”

"Are you okay, Kacchan?"

The words cut through his performance like a blade.

Bakugou froze.

And there, standing at the edge of the bank, was Izuku Midoriya.

Messy black hair, wide mint-green eyes, a worried frown on his face.

Hand outstretched.

“That was a big fall... I hope you didn’t get hurt.”

It wasn’t mocking.

It wasn’t smug.

It was genuine.

And Bakugou hated it.

Something in his chest twisted into a violent knot.

Before Izuku could blink, a crack of explosion rang out.

"AH!"

Izuku yelped as a blast of heat and pain struck his hand, knocking him backward.

He clutched his burning palm, eyes welling with tears and the smell o scorched skin wafting the air.

“Who the hell do you think you are, Deku?!” Bakugou roared, stomping up the embankment, fists crackling with sparks.

“You?! Looking down on me?!”

“I—I was just trying to help!” Izuku sobbed, cradling his burned hand. “What’s wrong with you?!”

“What’s wrong with me?!” Bakugou snarled, eyes burning hotter than his palms.
“I don’t need your help! I never needed your help! So stop following me around like some damn leech!”

Izuku’s vision blurred with tears, the red glow starting to build in his eyes — small, helpless fury.

“Why are you being so mean?!” he choked out.

Bakugou sneered, voice dripping with venom.

“Because we’re not friends! We were NEVER friends! Your mom knew my mom — that’s it! You were just... there! A stupid extra tagging along!”

No hesitation.

No mercy.

The red glow faded.

The crying stopped.

All that was left was cold, stunned silence.

"I hate you. Leave me alone."

And just like that, Bakugou turned his back and stormed off, his little gang following behind him like loyal puppies.

And they left him there.

Alone.

In the middle of the woods, hand burning, heart shattered.

When he got home later that day, and Inko gasped at the angry burn on his palm, asking him what happened...

He lied.

He hated himself for it, but he lied.

Said he’d been practicing his ability and messed up.

And she bought it.

Of course she did.

As the years dragged on and Izuku’s powers stayed pathetically weak, people stopped expecting anything from him.

They shrugged it off.

Life moves on.

But Bakugou?

Bakugou noticed.

And somewhere along the line, Bakugou decided that Izuku’s weakness was a permission slip.

An open invitation to make his life hell.

He insulted him.

Mocked him.

Pushed him around like he was trash clogging the sidewalk.

And one insult stuck.

Deku.

Meaning: useless.

A name drenched in spite.

Through it all —

the bullying, the humiliation —

Izuku never said a word.

He kept his head down.

He took it.

Because deep down, he was terrified.

Terrified that if he fought back, he would be the one labeled the problem.

Bakugou was destined to be a hero — everyone knew that.

Izuku? He was a nobody with a glow stick for a ability.

And maybe...

maybe somewhere in that cracked, aching heart of his,

he still believed it was his fault.

That he had done something wrong.

That maybe if he just smiled harder, apologized more, worked harder...

Bakugou would stop hating him.

He didn’t.

He never would.

He yawned, long and quiet, as his mint-green eyes blinked open against the soft morning light.

For a moment, he just lay there, cocooned in the familiar comfort of his All Might-themed blanket, the symbol of peace staring back at him from the pillowcase like a silent motivator. His limbs felt heavy, not from exhaustion — just that lazy warmth that clings to early mornings.

Eventually, with a quiet sigh, he pushed himself upright.

The room was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the city outside his window. He ran a hand through his mess of black hair, blinking away the last traces of sleep. A glance at the clock: 7:09 AM.

Figures. He always woke up before the alarm. Never on the hour, never at a clean 7:00 — always a little off, like his body wanted to remind him it had its own rhythm.

He stood, stretching his arms up over his head until his joints popped with muted relief. Then he padded toward the bathroom, feet light on the cool floor.

The moment he stepped inside, he leaned over the sink and splashed cold water onto his face — sharp, refreshing.

It washed away the haze, waking up more than just his skin. He exhaled slowly, gripping the edges of the porcelain as droplets rolled down his chin.

Routine took over from there.

Toothbrush. Paste. Clockwise, counterclockwise. Not too hard, not too soft. Rinse.

Mouthwash.

Shower next — hot enough to chase away any lingering sleep, but not so hot it scorched. He scrubbed clean with mechanical ease, letting the water run over him like it could rinse away the weight he didn’t talk about.

By the time he stepped out and toweled off, the fog on the mirror had barely begun to fade — just like his thoughts, still half-formed and distant, hovering somewhere between dreams and the day ahead.

But he felt a little more like himself now.

He slipped into his school uniform without much thought — white shirt, blazer, slacks. The fabric was still stiff from the laundry, faintly smelling of detergent and home.

He ran a hand over his hair once in the mirror, gave up halfway through fixing it, and headed out of his room.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

No sizzling from the stove, no hum of the television in the background. Just soft silence and the occasional creak of the old wood under his steps.

“Guess she had to head out early,” he muttered to no one.

Sure enough, the living room was empty — but waiting on the table was a plate covered with a little foil tent. A sticky note sat on top, scribbled in his mom’s careful handwriting: “Eat well, okay? Love you!”

He smiled faintly and peeled the foil back.

Simple curry, a side of rice, and two slices of bacon. Nothing fancy — but warm, even if it wasn’t, you know, warm.

He sat down, pulled the plate closer, and picked up his chopsticks. Time wasn’t exactly on his side, so he dug in without hesitation — only to flinch when the bacon touched his tongue.

Cold.

He stared at the slice for a moment. Not disappointed, just… thoughtful.

If it was cold, that meant she probably left hours ago. Before the sun even broke through the clouds. Probably didn’t even get to eat herself.

His eyes narrowed slightly, not in frustration — just quiet resolve. He held up his hand and took a deep breath through his nose, steady and measured.

Then exhaled.

A small stream of flame flowed from his mouth, more glow than heat — but enough. It flickered across the bacon for a second or two, then faded into smoke.

He poked it again.

Hot.

He smiled, barely. Not because it was impressive — it wasn’t. But because it worked. Just for a moment, his ability had been useful.

Even if it was just to warm up breakfast.

School was, shockingly, the same endless cycle of mild suffering.

The lessons dragged on like they were personally offended anyone wanted to learn something. Pages of material he'd already memorized months ago. Repetition so brutal, it felt like academic waterboarding. The only variation came in the form of a pop quiz now and then, which, of course, he also already knew the answers to.

And then, salvation: lunch break. Cue the collective groan of relief from the entire class — a symphony of the overworked and underfed.

Except for him.

He didn’t groan. Didn’t cheer either. He just quietly stood up, grabbed his bento, and walked to the same corner table he always sat at. Alone.

Not because he was some mysterious loner who “preferred the silence” or whatever cool people told themselves in teen dramas. No, he sat alone because he didn’t really have friends.

Not ones that stuck, anyway.

It wasn’t just that he was quiet. Or that his social skills hovered somewhere between “mildly awkward” and “please stop talking.” It was the whole Bakugou’s favorite punching bag thing.

Turns out, being the primary hobby of one of the most powerful, loudest, and most terrifying kids in school didn’t exactly make you a hot commodity.

Hard to make small talk when everyone’s afraid sitting next to you will get them set on fire. Or blown up. Or both, in that order.

And honestly? He got it. He really did.

Because if he were in their shoes, he probably wouldn’t sit with him either.

“Hey, you wanna eat with the weird kid whose ability’s basically a glorified lighter, and whose presence might get you publicly detonated by the walking grenade with rage issues?”

Yeah… not exactly an appealing sales pitch.

So he sat there, picking at his rice, not particularly sad — just used to it. After a while, loneliness stops feeling like a punch in the gut. It just sort of becomes background noise. Like a buzzing light you can't fix.

And maybe, if he kept his head down long enough, lunch would end before anything exploded.

Literally.

Three guys crowded around a lunch table, hunched over a phone, voices low but excited.

“I’m telling you—she snapped his legs in half,” the first one said, his tone caught somewhere between horror and admiration.

“No way,” the second guy leaned in. “Like… clean in half?”

“Bro, like twigs. Dude was crying like a toddler.”

The third guy reached for the phone. “Pull it up, pull it up.”

The first guy nodded, smug, unlocking his screen. “Bet. You gotta see the way his knees just—”

The screen dimmed.

Then blacked out completely.

“…No shot,” he muttered.

The others blinked. “What? What happened?”

“Dead. Phone died.”

The second guy looked at him like he’d just committed a felony. “How is your phone dead, man?! It’s not even noon!”

The third chimed in, “What the hell were you doing?”

The guy scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “…I was playing… Hentai Crush Mobile all night.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Of course you were.”

They all groaned in unison before one of them suddenly stopped, eyes narrowing at a corner table.

“Wait a sec,” he whispered, nudging the others. “Isn’t that the Midoriya kid?”

The others turned. “What, the guy with green eyes?”

“Yeah, I heard he charges people’s phones. Like, for free.”

Their faces lit up like they just found an outlet in the middle of a desert.

“Yo—let’s ask him.”

They all got up and made their way over, boots thudding against the linoleum. Izuku barely had time to process the sudden group approaching his table before one of them leaned in, casual but just a bit too close.

“Midoriya, right?”

He blinked, eyes darting between the three unfamiliar faces. “U-uh, yeah?”

The guy extended his phone like a peace offering. “Could use a little juice.”

“Oh. Uh—sure,” Izuku said, taking the phone gently. He pointed his index finger at the charging port, the familiar buzz of energy pulsing through his hand. Sparks flickered as his ability did its work. A soft hum filled the air as the battery bar began to climb.

Forty seconds later, full charge.

“Here,” he said, offering it back with a tiny smile.

The guy looked at the screen. “Oh shit—it worked.”

Izuku’s smile widened a little, nervous but genuine. “Y-you’re welcome! I’m just happy to be—”

They were already walking away, lost in their own conversation, laughing and pulling up another video.

“—useful.”

His voice barely made it out.

The smile lingered on his lips for a second longer… before quietly slipping away.

He looked down at his hands, the faint warmth from the ability already fading.

He stared down at his half-eaten lunch, the steam long gone, just like his enthusiasm.

He exhaled softly, muttering under his breath, “Who am I kidding…”

Just another nobody. That’s all he was. No reason for anyone to stick around or show actual kindness. Not when being useful was the only currency he seemed to have.

Still, he tried to smile, because—well, that’s what heroes do, right? Random acts of kindness, expecting nothing in return.

Even if said heroes had endorsement deals and monthly paychecks that could cover his entire tuition… three times over.

He sighed again.

Then a loud CRACK echoed from one of the phones nearby.

"Holy shit,” the boy whistled, leaning in closer to his screen. “She just snapped that guy’s arm like a pencil.”

“And then smashed his face into the wall!” the second guy added, laughing in disbelief. “Bro, look at that crater—did she dent the bricks?”

The video paused on a still frame: a girl, tall and broad-shouldered, standing over a circle of crumpled bodies. Blood on her fists, red flecks staining her uniform. Her face? Completely calm. Like she’d just swatted a few flies.

“I told you,” the first guy said, shaking his head. “This chick’s insane. Like—psychopath level. She’s been running through thugs all month.”

“And she goes here?!” the third guy chimed in, gaping at the screen. “You’re joking.”

“Nah, I’m dead serious. You haven’t heard about her?. Took down that biker gang last month behind the convenience store.”

“No way.”

“Swear on my life. The cops showed up and she was just sitting on the curb, hands in her pockets like she ordered pizza. Half those guys are still in neck braces.”

The third guy leaned in, wide-eyed. “Okay, but why the hell is she allowed to stay enrolled?!”

“They tried to suspend her. Principal said it’s better to have her in school where they can keep an eye on her.”

“Jesus,” the guy muttered.

Then the first guy grinned. “Oh—and get this. She’s the one who dropped Bakugou.”

All three went silent.

“…Wait. What?” the other two said at the same time.

“She beat Bakugou?!” one of them practically shouted, eyes bugging out.

“I’m not even joking. Happened, like, last week. Stairs near the upper gym. He told her to move—real ‘king of the world’ vibe, y’know? She just stared at him.”

“What’d he do?”

“Stepped up, started running his mouth. Typical Bakugou stuff. The second he even twitched, she ducked in and hit him so hard he went airborne—smashed right into the trophy case.”

“You’re lying.”

“Ask literally anyone. The janitor’s still cleaning glass outta the hallway.”

The third guy leaned back, still processing. “Bro… Bakugou’s got a win streak. He’s like, the one-man army of this school.”

“Not anymore. Apparently, he stood up—real shaky—and just said, ‘Tch. Lucky hit.’ Then he walked off, but everyone heard the wheeze in his voice.”

They all sat there, momentarily united in stunned silence.

“…I hope I never run into her,” one of them finally said, voice hushed.

“For real. I’d straight-up transfer.”

Unnoticed, just a few feet away, a tall girl with short black hair walked past—expression unreadable, eyes flicking sideways as the boys obliviously whispered about her.

Then she kept walking.

Izuku hunched slightly over his lunch tray, chopsticks in one hand, pencil in the other. A half-eaten piece of fried rice dangled awkwardly between his fingers as he scribbled into a worn, dog-eared notebook propped beside his miso soup.

‘Ability Application Hypothesis #37: Electro-Magnetic Field Manipulation Potential’

He tapped the pencil against the page, eyes narrowed in thought.

‘Assuming max voltage output = ~250V (estimated peak via stress test last week) → insufficient for sustained magnetic field large enough to affect iron masses over ~300g (note: test magnet pulled keys from ~8cm distance, but stalled beyond that)’

He paused to take a bite, chewing slowly, lost in the numbers.

‘However… could possibly influence smaller metallic shavings? Paperclips? Ball bearings?’

He underlined “ball bearings” twice and circled it.

‘Check material conductivity and compare induction time. Maybe build simple coil structure from old headphones?’

“Hmm…” he muttered, flipping the page with his wrist.

Ability Combo Theory #12: Dust Flash Ignition

He switched gears, eyes lighting with quiet interest.

‘Tested wind output (low pressure stream, ~4.3m/s at full exhale). Not enough to create gale-force push, but might be enough to stir settled particulate—especially in dry environments.’

He scratched in a crude diagram of a swirl of air collecting a cloud of dust and debris from the floor, followed by two arrows: one labeled “spark” and another “flash.”

‘Idea: Create dust cloud → electrify w/ static burst → follow up with focused heat spark (flint method?)’

Another bite. He chewed faster this time.

‘Explosion risk minimal. Flashbang effect plausible. Maybe enough to disorient for 1-2 seconds. Test needed in controlled setting.’

He stopped writing for a moment, staring at the diagram as his rice slipped off the chopsticks and flopped back into his rice. He didn’t even notice.

"...Yeah," he whispered. "That might actually work."

He quickly added a note in the corner.

‘Need vacuum cleaner filters. And a safe place to test without getting yelled at.’

Izuku flipped to the last empty page in his current notebook, the paper already soft at the corners from overuse. A few stray grains of rice clung to the edge of the paper, but he brushed them away with the back of his hand, too absorbed to care.

Ability Application Hypothesis #41: Ocular Beam Enhancement (aka “Laser Eyes”... sigh)

Current beam output = ~5mW (rough est.). Equivalent to consumer-grade laser pointer. Minor heating effect observed after extended focus (ex: managed to ignite napkin after ~47 seconds, direct line of sight, no ambient light interference).

He tilted his head, then jotted:

Confirmed: both concave and convex lenses marginally increase focus. Concave = wider, less concentrated beam. Convex = tighter, slightly hotter beam. Still underwhelming.

He paused to draw a diagram: a doodle of his eye with a weak beam shooting out, then the same beam passing through a convex lens, narrowing slightly with a little "sizzle" effect drawn at the tip.

He tapped his pencil against his chin thoughtfully.

Hypothesis: Custom lens may amplify beam focus beyond toy-grade levels. Need glass or polymer with proper refractive index

Then, underneath in smaller, neater handwriting:

Still lame. But maybe not completely useless.

He leaned back, stretching his arms with a quiet sigh, then looked down at the pages he'd filled during lunch.

"...Man, I really need some actual friends," he muttered.

The streets were still a little damp from earlier rain, glistening with leftover sunlight bouncing between shop windows and streetlamps. Izuku walked with his hands in his pockets, his school bag a little heavier today—more notes, more failed experiments, more questions.

His head was down, deep in thought, muttering softly to himself.

"If I just use an external prism to split the beam before contact, then redirect focus through a shaped—no, that’ll just scatter it again. Damn."

A familiar bench came into view.

And sitting on it, just like every Wednesday, was the blind man.

Old, weathered, with long gray hair tied in a neat ponytail, old age definitely did him justice. He wore black coat that somehow never seemed wet, no matter the rain. His cloudy eyes stared straight ahead, unfocused—but his head turned the moment Izuku approached.

"You're dragging your feet again, Midoriya."

Izuku blinked, then smiled sheepishly. “Evening, Doc.”

Dr. Kyosuke. Nobody ever called him anything else. Just Doc. Owner of Kyosuke Optical Repairs & Specialty Glass, tucked behind a flower shop like some kind of relic. Everyone in the neighborhood knew him—but few knew what he could actually do.

They said it was ironic—a blind man selling glasses.

But Izuku knew better.

Kyosuke gestured lazily toward the shop door behind him. “Clocking in. Come on, I assume you’re here to bother me about another half-baked lens design.”

“Yeah,” Izuku laughed. “That obvious?”

“Like a migraine.”

The shop interior was cramped, cluttered, warm. Old wooden counters and dozens of glasses, goggles, visors, and warped contraptions lined the walls. Some were sleek and modern. Others looked like they belonged in a steampunk novella.

Doc flicked a switch and the lights hummed to life.

Izuku watched as Kyosuke made his way through the shop, unfaltering, smooth—even graceful. He didn't use a cane. Didn’t need to.

Because his ability—Photoglass—wasn’t just about shaping light into solid forms.

It was how he saw.

Kyosuke manipulated the ambient photons around him, redirecting streams of light in complex patterns that bounced off surfaces and returned to him.

It wasn’t true sight, but a kind of echolocation through radiant energy. Like sonar, but built from bending beams of light instead of sound.

He didn’t see shapes—he felt the way light refracted and warped around obstacles, sketching out the room in glowing outlines in his mind.

It was beautiful. And terrifying.

"Alright," the doctor said, pulling out drawers. “You’re not here for the usual polarized lenses. What is it this time?”

Izuku set his bag down, pulled out a notepad. “Okay, so… my lasers. You know they’re weak, right? Barely stronger than a pointer. But I was thinking… if I had a lens that didn’t enhance vision, but specifically focused and amplified laser emission—”

“—You’d increase the energy density of your beam without burning out your optic nerves.” Doc finished, already bored.

Izuku blinked. “Yes! Wait—how did you—?”

“You mutter when you walk. Loudly.”

He opened a drawer, pulled out a pair of round spectacles with cracked lenses.

“I’ve been sitting on these for a decade. Real thick boys. I used to use them to burn ants for fun.”

He popped out the broken lenses. The frames were simple steel. Vintage.

Then, extending two fingers, he summoned a thin filament of concentrated light—solid, glowing faintly yellow—and slowly shaped it into a dense convex lens, altering curvature with surgical control.

"These aren't glass," he explained. “Not really. They're made of compressed photons held in a glass matrix I generate myself. Stable, distortion-resistant. Won’t amplify sunlight or reflections, only tuned light within a specific emission range.”

He snapped the lenses into place. "Tuned these specifically to your ability’s wavelength. 0.63 microns—red band, right?"

Izuku’s eyes went wide. “How did you know that?”

Kyosuke just smirked. “I’m blind, not stupid.”

He handed the glasses to Izuku. They felt… heavier than expected. Charged, somehow.

“They’ll do what you want,” he said. “They won’t improve your aim. But they’ll concentrate it. Focus it tighter, denserb. You’ll see a noticeable boost in raw strength and size—assuming you don’t blink it away too fast.”

Izuku’s hands trembled a little as he accepted them. “Seriously?! So I wasn’t totally off about the focal curvature theory—?”

“Don’t get cocky,” the doctor cut in flatly. “You’re still running on biological emitters. These glasses aren’t magic—they just force your beam to hold shape longer, increasing the thermal yield.”

He leaned on the counter, folding his arms. His tone shifted—more serious now.

“But that focus comes with a cost. Hold it too long, and the light pressure’ll bounce back into your retina. You’ll get thermal loading in your ocular fluid. Boil your own eye from the inside out.”

Izuku’s face went pale.

“...Oh.”

Kyosuke smirked. “Which is why you pulse it. Short bursts. Controlled. Treat it like a scalpel, not a floodlight.”

“Right. Got it. Short bursts. Precision. No boiling eyeballs.”Izuku slipped them on.

The world didn’t look any different—but the moment he instinctively activated the faint laser in his eye, he could feel it respond. No bleed-off. No waste. Just a pinprick beam, coiled like a scalpel waiting to be used.

He looked at Kyosuke. “These are amazing.”

The old man shrugged. “You’ll break ‘em in two weeks.”

Izuku beamed. “Then I’ll be back in two weeks.”

“Of course you will.”

Bakugou Katsuki was pissed.

Not the usual simmering, short-fused kind of pissed — no, this was full-blown volcanic rage threatening to detonate at any second.

Word had gotten out. Not just in whispers either. Everyone was talking. Hallways, group chats, even the damn teachers were giving him that look — the “Oh, he’s the one who got dropped” look.

And all because of her.

That damn bitch. That freak. That fucking gorilla of a girl had sucker punched him like he was some no-name extra in her story.

One second he was telling her to move — telling, not asking — and the next he was airborne, getting introduced to the inside of a trophy case like a damn joke.

Bakugou Katsuki — humiliated.

He could still hear the glass shattering, feel the splinters in his back, the laughter that rippled through the crowd before anyone could even pretend to be concerned.

His fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked. Tiny pops and hisses escaped from his palms as sweat activated early sparks.

His teeth were grit so tight it felt like they’d crack.

She thought that shit was funny?

She thought she could just walk away after that?

The next time he saw her, the next time she even breathed in his direction, he was gonna blow her to hell. No hesitation. No mercy. Just ash and smoke and screams.

She wanted to prove something? Fine.

He’d show her what it really meant to piss off the wrong person.

He didn’t care who she was or what kind of freak strength she had. He was Bakugou fucking Katsuki.

And no one makes him look weak.

Not without paying for it.

Thanks, man,” a student grinned, pocketing his now fully charged phone with a grateful nod.

Speaking of weak.

“No problem,” Izuku said quietly, adjusting the round black-rimmed glasses resting on his face — ones Bakugou hadn’t seen before.

He squinted.

What the hell?

New glasses? What, the nerd’s trying out a new look now? Trying to act like someone different?

He sneered, his lip curling as a flicker of disgust ran through him.

Tch. What’s next? A cane? Maybe a seeing-eye dog?

‘What, he’s weak and blind now?’

Pathetic.

But then… something slithered into his thoughts. A slow, creeping grin began to spread across his face, cruel and deliberate.

He hadn’t reminded Deku of his place in a while.

Not properly.

Not the old-school way.

Maybe he’d gotten too comfortable lately, scurrying around like he belonged, like he had value. Helping people charge their phones like some abilityed-up outlet and walking around like he was worth noticing.

Yeah, no. That ends today.

Just a little reminder. A personal message from Bakugou Katsuki. Nothing major.

Maybe a desk flipped. Maybe a spark too close to those new glasses.

Maybe he’d see if Deku can still cry the same way he used to.

The student's eyes flicked toward the hallway, and in an instant, his expression dropped.
“Oh—uh, gotta run!” he stammered, stumbling backward with a nervous laugh before darting off like a spooked animal.

Izuku blinked, confused.
“What was tha—”

A hand clamped down on his shoulder like a vice, searing heat pulsing through the fabric of his uniform and making him flinch.

The air suddenly felt heavy.

Too familiar.

“Well, well, well,” a low, venom-laced voice rasped behind him, “What do we have here?”

Before Izuku could even turn around, he was wrenched back and slammed into a locker with a deafening clang. The world tilted for a second. His breath caught.

He didn’t have to see the face.

He knew that voice.

That heat.

That intent.

Bakugou.

“You playing dress-up now, Deku?” the blond sneered, stepping into his space, eyes glinting with fury. “What’s with the dumb glasses? Trying to look smart for the girls or something?”

Izuku didn’t answer.

He kept his gaze slightly lowered, trying not to escalate it. He could feel Bakugou’s breath — hot, erratic, angry.

“Or maybe you’re just finally owning up to being a four-eyed waste of space. Huh?”

Bakugou’s smirk twisted crueler. “Charging phones now too? That’s what you’re good for? What’s next, mop duty?”

Izuku shifted slightly. “Kacchan, I—”

“Don’t call me that!” Bakugou snapped, slamming a palm against the locker next to Izuku’s head. Sparks crackled, leaving black singe marks against the metal.

Izuku winced. His heart was hammering in his chest. He swallowed, steadying his breath.

“I didn’t do anything to you,” he said quietly.

Bakugou’s eye twitched. “You exist. That’s enough.”

There was silence.

And then—

“…Leave me alone,” Izuku said, the words barely above a whisper. But there was something firm beneath the fear. Something new.

Bakugou blinked.

Did this nerd just—?

“The hell you just say to me?” he growled.

“I said…” Izuku met his eyes, hesitant, but no longer looking away. “Just leave me alone.”

Bakugou’s expression twisted into something between amusement and rage, a feral grin crawling up his face.

“Oh yeah?” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Or what?”

Izuku gulped, heart hammering against his ribs like a drum. He could barely hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears.

He didn’t want to do this.

He never wanted to fight back. That wasn’t who he was.

But… he was tired. Tired of the punches. Tired of the fear. Tired of having to carry the weight of someone else’s anger while pretending it didn’t hurt.

He knew the truth—if he fought back, if he so much as grazed Bakugou, the school would paint him as the villain. The golden child could do no wrong. Bakugou Katsuki was their future Pro Hero. Top of the class. Top of the charts.

And he? He was Deku. Useless. A charity case in their eyes.

But… not today.

Not this time.

He took a breath and slowly adjusted his glasses with trembling fingers.
“I warned you…” he said softly.

A faint glow bled through the lenses—two pinpoints of deep, focused red, humming low with gathering energy.

Bakugou scoffed.

Then barked out a laugh.

“Seriously?” he spat. “Your laser pointers? That’s it? That’s your big move? You’re even more pathetic than I—”

Then the lenses glowed too—not dimly, not softly, but with a burning light that reflected off the walls and cast a hellish tint over Izuku’s face.

Bakugou stopped laughing.

Just in time.

ZWWEEEEEEEEM.

Twin beams of pure, focused red light erupted from Izuku’s eyes, cutting through the air with a shriek of burning ozone.

Bakugou’s instincts kicked in—he dove to the side, teeth clenched, the back of his shirt seared as the beam narrowly missed.

The lasers struck the wall behind him and instantly tore through metal and concrete, sending molten chunks flying. Smoke hissed from the glowing hole, wide as a dinner plate, smoldering at the edges with the unmistakable scent of scorched earth.

Bakugou landed in a crouch, eyes wide, heart spiking in disbelief.

“What the fuck?!”

Izuku blinked in shock, the beams vanishing with a soft crackle as the glow faded from his eyes.

He couldn’t believe it.

They worked.

The lenses—the doctor’s lenses—had actually focused the lasers into something real. Something dangerous. His heart soared with a sudden, fleeting joy. He had done something. He had actually—

WHAM.

The impact came fast and vicious. Bakugou’s shoulder crashed into him like a freight train, slamming Izuku against the wall so hard the breath left his lungs in a strangled gasp.

Pain shot through his back like lightning.

Before he could recover, a fist smashed across his face, sending his glasses clattering to the floor.

“You little SHIT,” Bakugou roared, his voice feral with rage. “You think you can pull that crap on me?! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

He reeled his palm back, sweat popping and crackling with sparks, a miniature inferno swirling in his hand.

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut.

Then—

SNAP.

A hand grabbed Bakugou’s wrist, fingers digging in with a pressure that made the bones creak.

The explosion died in his hand like a choked breath.

“...That’s enough,” a cold voice said from beside him.

Bakugou turned—and froze.

It was her.

The bitch that had punched him straight into the trophy case like he was made of cardboard.

Bakugou’s blood surged at the sight of her—his pride still throbbing from that memory.

He snarled, “Fuck off! Your turn’s coming soon, gorilla bitch—”

Her hand crushed down on his wrist like a hydraulic press.

CRACK.

The sound wasn’t metaphorical.

Her expression shifted—eyes narrowing, jaw tight.
“I really don’t like bullies,” she said, voice flat, low, and dangerous.

Bakugou’s smirk faltered.

She stood taller than him—half a head at least, her broad frame packed with lean muscle. She wasn’t a meathead, wasn’t bulky—but every inch of her looked like it had been carved out of discipline and pain. Her sleeveless jacket revealed arms that could break bones without effort—and were currently in the process of doing just that.

She didn’t posture.

She didn’t need to.

“Two options,” she said, voice like stone dragging across gravel. “You walk away—
—or I walk on your face.”

There was no humor in her words. No smug grin.

Just intent.

Bakugou’s mouth opened to fire back—

“You’re bluffing.”

He spat the words like a dare.

That was when her eyes began to glow—

Not warm. Not gentle.

Pink, yes—but bright like a blade’s edge. Searing. Focused. Cruel.

She leaned in, just slightly, and said with a slow, venomous sneer:
“Do you seriously wanna try me, princess?”

Her grip tightened for just a second more, enough to make Bakugou flinch.

The hallway was dead silent.

Even the walls were scared.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause—
—then Bakugou yanked his arm back.

Not because he broke her grip.

Because she let go.

He scowled, rage burning in his gut, but his feet were already moving—storming away without a word. No threats. No parting shots.

Just silence.

Izuku blinked. Once. Twice.

His brain glitched.

He stared up at the girl, mouth slightly agape, half expecting her to vanish like a dream.

Instead, she just bent down, picked up his glasses, and brushed them off like it was nothing.

“Next time,” she said coolly, placing them in his hand, “try aiming a little closer to the knees. Drops a bastard faster.”

She turned and walked off without waiting for a thank-you, hands in her pockets, power in every step.

Izuku could only stare, stunned stupid.

D-did someone just scare off BAKUGOU?!

“W-wait!” he called out before he could stop himself, the words tumbling out faster than he meant.

The girl paused mid-step.

She turned—slowly—casting him a sideways glance over her shoulder, pink eyes still glowing faintly beneath her thick lashes. That same pressure, that weight she carried without even trying, returned in full force.

She stared like she already regretted indulging him.

“Look,” she said coldly, “just because I saved your sorry ass doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

Her voice was low, measured. A verbal wall between them. A warning.

Izuku flinched. “I—I know…” he murmured, eyes dropping to the floor.

But he didn’t say anything else. Couldn’t.

Because his thoughts were already spinning.

She wasn’t scared of Bakugou.

Not even close.

She didn’t back down, didn’t cower, didn’t flinch like everyone else did when he stomped into a room full of heat and noise and superiority.

She stood her ground. Like Bakugou didn’t even matter.

That kind of strength—physical, sure, but more than that… presence.

He didn’t know what he was doing. What he wanted.

He had no plan. No request. No script to follow like he always did.

All he knew was that she scared off Bakugou like he was some pushy door-to-door salesman—and walked away like it was nothing.

Bakugou.

That never happened. Not in his entire life. No one had ever put Bakugou in his place. Teachers? Too scared. Students? Too passive. Authorities? Too biased.

But her?

She didn’t just stand up to him. She shut him down.

And walked off like she’d done it before.

Izuku’s heart pounded—not from fear, but from something more dangerous:

hope.

If someone like her was around… if Bakugou knew she was watching…

Maybe he’d finally stop.

Maybe he’d finally leave me alone.

He didn’t say any of that, of course. His throat closed up, and the words never made it past the first syllable.

He jogged a few steps forward, nervous energy making his movements stiff. “I… I just wanted to ask something.”

Now she turned fully, arms crossed over her chest, expression unreadable beneath her messy bangs.

“Well?” she said, voice flat, impatient. “Don’t stall.”

Izuku swallowed hard. His mouth opened—then closed. His fingers fidgeted at his side like they were trying to find something to hold onto.

“I—uh—it’s about… Bakugou.”

That got her attention. Her brow arched, and for the first time she looked at him properly—eyes dragging across his posture, his frame, his bruises, his nerves. Calculating.

“You want me to beat him up for you?” she said bluntly.

Izuku flinched, startled. “N-no! I mean—maybe? Not beat up exactly just—”

She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Talk. Already.”

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut and blurted out, “I need your help to make him leave me alone.”

There it was.

The words echoed in the hallway like he’d screamed them from a rooftop. Shame instantly followed—rising hot in his chest—but so did relief.

Her eyebrow rose higher. Then she actually turned to face him fully, her arms now loose at her sides, hands in her jacket pockets.

“You’re asking me,” she said slowly, “the school’s resident thug, for protection?”

Izuku winced. “I-I know how it sounds, I just…”

She stared for a beat.

Then a grin spread across her face—wide and sharp. “Oh, this is rich.”

He shifted awkwardly on his feet. “Look, I just thought… maybe if he saw you around, he’d back off. He’s scared of you. And—honestly? I would be too if you weren’t the one saving me.”

Her smirk widened, then she tapped a knuckle to her chin thoughtfully. “What’s in it for me?”

Izuku blinked, “H-huh?”

She leaned in slightly, voice low. “You’re asking for a favor, nerd. Favors ain’t free. So… what do I get?”

“I—I’ll do your homework!” he said quickly, too quickly.

The effect was instantaneous.

Her face twisted into a snarl, pink eyes narrowing, “What, you think I’m some kind of idiot? That it?”

“N-no! I didn’t mean it like that!” Izuku said, panic hitting him like a truck. “You don’t look dumb or anything, I just—I panicked, okay?! I’m sorry!”

There was a long pause.

Then suddenly—

She snorted.

A real, rough exhale of laughter. It wasn’t warm or sweet—it was entertained.

“This is gonna be good,” she muttered under her breath. “Alright, what’s your name, light show?”

“I-Izuku,” he answered softly.

“‘Izuku,’ huh?” She nodded to herself. “Alright then.”

She extended a hand toward him—big, calloused, and scarred. Her fingers were long and thick with muscle, the kind that looked like they could crush concrete.

“You got yourself a deal.”

He hesitated for only a second before reaching out and shaking it.

Big mistake.

Pain flared through his palm instantly. “Ow—ow ow ow—!”

“Oh relax,” she drawled smugly, easing her grip but not before grinning wide. “That was just a light squeeze.”

Izuku cradled his hand the second she let go, wincing. “How are you this strong?”

She didn’t answer—just turned on her heel with a grin on her face like she just found a new favorite toy.

He watched her go, still wincing from the handshake, when suddenly—

“W-wait!” he called. “You never told me your name.”

She didn’t stop walking, but her voice carried back to him easily.

“Call me Yan. Nothing more. See ya, light show.”

And with that, she disappeared around the corner—boots clicking softly against tile.

Izuku looked down at his still-throbbing hand.

“…What the hell did I just get myself into?”

The Queen’s Palace of Medicine.

A name so dramatic, so absurdly regal, it practically demanded a bow just saying it.

Officially, it was Tensei Memorial Hospital, but nobody called it that. No, to the public, to the press, and especially to the hopeful med school grads clutching their résumés like lottery tickets—it was The Queen’s Palace.

A crown jewel of the nation. A monument of polished marble, high-tech diagnostics, and enough gleaming chrome to make a spaceship jealous. E

ven the air conditioning had a soft, minty-clean smell to it, like it had a doctorate in pulmonary science.

Funded, owned, and pampered by the Hero Safety Commission itself, the Palace wasn’t just a hospital—it was the hospital.

Patients flew in from overseas. Rich people faked injuries just to get a room. Entire universities reshaped their curriculum to match its hiring standards.

Autonomous surgical units. AI-assisted trauma suites. Cryostasis pods. Genetic ability therapy.

The Palace didn’t treat disease—it humiliated it.

…But like every gilded tower, it had a basement.

And not every job came with prestige, or scrubs, or Nobel nominations.

Some just came with a mop.

Haruto had been a janitor at the Palace for twenty years.

Not the heroic doctor. Not the media-darling, spotlight-strutting kind. He didn’t have a cape. He had back problems.

A man with a thermos, a limp, and exactly zero delusions about his place in the pecking order. Most days, he cleaned the upper floors—polished the lobbies, refilled paper towels, nodded at heroes who didn’t know his name.

Sometimes, he’d get a wild hair and stare a little too long at those doors labeled AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, but he wasn’t paid to be brave.

Today, though… someone spilled coffee on Sublevel Two.

Now that was weird.

Nobody went to Sublevel Two. Not anymore. Not since the East Wing flood years ago. Officially, it was “storage” now. Translation: spider city.

He nearly skipped it. But curiosity plus overtime? Dangerous combo.

So he took the service elevator down.

The ride was too long.

The floor counter ticked slower. The lights dimmed. By the time the doors slid open, Haruto could see his breath.

The hallway was quiet. Concrete walls, flickering overhead bulbs. He followed the maintenance tablet’s map to Hall B—a corridor that looked like it had been carved out of a forgotten part of a prison.

There it was.

A broken styrofoam cup. Coffee pooling like dried blood in the corner. A pretty tame horror, all things considered.

He sighed, unslung his mop from his shoulder, and got to work.

Swipe. Swirl. Wipe. Done.

But as he turned to leave, something caught his eye.

A supply rack—old, rusted, pushed up awkwardly against a wall like someone wanted to hide how poorly it fit.

Behind it?

A seam in the concrete.

Haruto frowned.

Curious, he rolled the rack aside—and found a staircase. Metal. Steep. Covered in dust. Not on any blueprint. Not on any map.

And certainly not where it should be.

His gut said leave.

But gut instincts didn’t pay rent.

So he grabbed the crowbar he kept strapped to the cart for stubborn trash chutes, wedged it under the heavy door at the bottom of the stairs, and popped it open with a shuddering creak.

The room inside was small. No bigger than a janitor's closet.

But colder.

Staler.

The kind of air that clung to your skin like wet cloth. Something metallic. Something wrong.

A single bulb hung overhead, swaying slightly like it had somewhere better to be.

At the center, a rusting desk sat like a coffin. Papers spilled out of it like entrails.

Folders were everywhere—stacked, torn, crumpled, jammed into drawers like someone left in a panic.

Haruto stepped in slowly, his boots crunching glass or bone—he didn’t want to look too close.

One folder caught his eye.

Unlabeled. Dusty. Heavy.

He opened it.

Subject #0083
Name: Mei Oshima
Age: 11
Ability: High-Frequency Resonance
Chimera Factor: Type-B (Auditory)
Notes: Vocal amplification exceeded cranial pressure thresholds. Neurological rejection within 73 seconds of injection.
Result: Subject terminated.

His stomach twisted. His fingers trembled. He grabbed another.

Subject #0147
Name: Kaiyo Tan
Age: 13
Ability: Crystal Spikes (Unstable mutation)
Chimera Factor: Type-D (Skeletal)
Notes: Rapid skeletal growth caused catastrophic organ displacement. Subject displayed signs of partial merge with mineral substrate.
Result: Subject terminated.

Another.

Subject #0210
Name: Miki Arata
Age: 9
Ability: Thermal Vision
Chimera Factor: Type-A (Ocular/Neural)
Notes: Subject's optic nerves liquefied. Screamed for 11 minutes before systemic shutdown.
Result: Subject terminated.

Haruto dropped the folder.

They just kept going. Dozens of them. All children. All labeled “Subject.” All terminated.

And all of them… injected with something.

He staggered back, bile clawing up his throat, his vision tunneling. What was this? A lab? A black site? In his hospital?

Footsteps.

Behind him.

Smooth. Measured.

Haruto turned—

“Now now…”

A voice. Familiar. Calm. Like a warm cup of tea just before it shattered on tile.

“…You know better than to wander off, Haruto.”

Dr. Murata stood just outside the door.

Always smiling. Always tidy. His supervisor. The guy who said "We’re a family here.”

Now, that same smile was still there. But it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’ve been with us a long time,” Murata said, stepping inside. “Twenty years, right? You know the halls. You know the people. You know when to keep your head down.”

Haruto couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

Murata didn’t seem to mind.

“Curious little rats like you…” he said with a sigh, walking past Haruto toward the desk. “Always scurrying into places you don’t belong.”

Haruto tried to run.

He never got the chance.

A blur.

A whisper of motion.

Then—silence.

His head hit the ground with a dull, wet thud.

His body stayed standing for just a moment longer before collapsing like a dropped mop.

Murata bent down, picked up the fallen folders, and gave them a cursory brush-off.

“Shame,” he said casually. “You were a good janitor.”

He flipped the light switch off with a soft click.

The room returned to shadow.

And the hallway, once again, was silent.

Chapter Text

Izuku Midoriya had made a lot of dumb decisions in his life.

Like that one time he used All Might-themed ice cream as a spaghetti topping because “heroic dessert fusion” sounded cool in his head. (Spoiler: it was not cool. It was a crime against both Italy and taste.)

Or the time he tried lighting a match with his fire breath… while holding the entire box.

Let’s just say there was no funeral, but the matches? May they rest in ash.

But this decision? This one didn’t just take the cake.

It stole the whole bakery.

And unlike his past mistakes, this one had an audience.

“Yo, isn’t that the girl who dropped Bakugou last week?” a guy whispered to his table, jerking his chin toward the far corner of the cafeteria.

His friend glanced down at his phone, where a grainy video played on loop—Yan lifting some punk by the collar like he was a sack of moldy laundry and tossing him into a vending machine.

He blinked, then looked at the lunch table in question. “Holy shit. It is. Wait… who’s she sitting with?”

The table went quiet.

Another group a few feet over was having the exact same revelation.

“Isn’t that Midoriya?”

“Why the hell is she sitting next to him?”

“You think he paid her for protection?”

“Honestly? Smart move. If she’s his bodyguard now, Bakugou’s screwed.”

“Wait—dude. Is he blushing?”

He absolutely was. Face redder than a tomato in a tanning bed.

Izuku sat stiff as a board, eyes wide, tray untouched. His hands hovered awkwardly near his food like he’d forgotten how utensils worked.

‘W-why is everyone staring at me?!’

The poor introvert was experiencing something he had actively spent his entire school career avoiding:

Being the center of attention.

Meanwhile, Yan had already finished eating. And by “eating,” we mean “methodically dismantling her lunch like a lion cracking bones for marrow.”

A chicken wing was ground to powder in her jaw, bones crushed like they’d offended her.

She lounged in her chair like she owned the table, one leg kicked up lazily over the other, jaw slowly chewing as her eyes scanned the room.

And every time someone lingered too long—on her, on Izuku, on them—her gaze flicked to theirs.

Cold. Calculating. Just the hint of amusement.

Like she dared them to say something out loud.

They never did.

One poor soul choked on his juice box and turned a full 180, suddenly very interested in the fire exit sign.

Yan’s lip curled in something that might’ve been a smirk. Or maybe a warning.

Izuku glanced sideways at her. She hadn’t said a word since they sat down, but the air around her was practically vibrating with “try me.” Like she was just waiting for someone to test her patience for funsies.

He tugged the sleeves of his uniform down nervously. “U-uh. Thanks. Again. For, y’know. Letting me sit here.”

Yan didn’t look at him. She cracked her knuckles instead.

“You keep thanking me like I did this out of kindness,” she said, voice dry. “You know I expect something eventually, right?”

Izuku gulped. “R-right. Favor. Got it. Totally fine. Love... transactional relationships.”

She finally glanced at him—sideways, smirking. “You're weird, Light Show.”

“Izuku,” he mumbled. “I-it’s Izuku.”

“Mhm. That’s what I said.”

From across the room, Bakugou watched it all unfold. Tray clenched in one hand. Teeth grinding behind a scowl.

Yan met his eyes across the room.

And her smirk widened.

The blond was full-on snarling like a rabid animal.

The fuck is this shit?

Don’t tell him the two people he despises the most are suddenly chummy.

His red eyes locked onto her—her, the psycho who slammed him into the glass like it was her hobby.

She met his glare head-on, wearing the smuggest goddamn expression a human being could physically conjure. She was practically vibrating with “try me, bitch.”

Daring him to make a move. Begging for a round two.

And he couldn’t figure it out.

Why didn’t he blow her up the second he saw her?

She embarrassed him.

Publicly.

That was an automatic death sentence in his book. So why had he hesitated? Why the hell did one threat from her make him freeze like a wimp?

His wild eyes flicked over to Izuku.

That fucking nerd.

Of course. Of course he planned this.

He must’ve plucked this psycho off the street, fed her some sob story, bribed her with snacks or whatever feral trash she liked, and dragged her into Aldera just to screw with him.

She wasn’t here by chance—this was a setup. A trap. A declaration of war.

Deku thought this would scare him? Thought he’d back off?

Over his dead body.

Just let him catch that bastard alone.

Then they’d see who really needed protection.

Bakugou had the shot.

They were doing relay sprints. Yan was across the field, distracted. Deku was five feet away, tying his shoe like a dumbass. No crowd, no teachers watching too close.

Bakugou launched—

Only for a flick of movement to intercept him mid-step.

A shin cracked against his outstretched leg like a metal bat. He ate dirt.

Before he could even curse, Yan jogged past, not sparing him a glance, tossing over her shoulder:
“Oops. My bad. Must’ve tripped.”

The entire class saw. The entire class laughed.

He cornered Izuku by the lockers between 3rd and 4th period. Perfect. No teachers. No crowd. Just him and the nerd.

He slammed his hand on the locker next to Izuku’s head, mouth already loading up a threat.

“Thought you could hide behind your freak girlfriend forev—”

Crack.

Another hand slammed the locker on his other side. Yan leaned in, face inches from his.

“Finish that sentence,” she purred, voice low and thrilled. “Please. I’m so bored.”

Bakugou backed off without a word.

He found Izuku tucked behind the gym during lunch, nibbling on a rice ball and looking defenseless. Finally. The nerd was alone.

He stepped out from the shadows, murder in his grin.
“So this is where you hide—”

Snap.

The sound of a neck cracking—not literally, but dramatically—cut him off. Yan was sitting on top of the gym’s AC unit above them, legs crossed, gnawing on a chicken bone like a queen on her throne.

Bakugou froze.

“Ever see a rotisserie chicken scream?” she asked, tossing the bone and licking her fingers. “Try me.”

Izuku paled. Bakugou retreated like a whipped mutt.

He finally caught Izuku alone. ALONE.

No sidekicks. No witnesses. It was dark, the street was empty, and he was ready to take all his pent-up fury out in one glorious beatdown.

He crept behind him, footfalls silent. Ready to strike—

And then he saw her.

Yan, walking right beside Izuku like she’d been there the whole time. Hands in her pockets. Hair a mess. Lazy grin on her face. She looked at him over her shoulder like she knew.

Bakugou stopped in his tracks.

Izuku glanced back, confused, saw Bakugou, then Yan, then just… kept walking.

No fear. No panic.

The blonde stood frozen on the sidewalk as they disappeared into the distance.

He didn’t even get a glare. Not even a word.

Somehow, that was worse.

She popped a bubble of gum as she strolled into the alley, hands in her pockets, expression bored.

Same damn stretch of cracked pavement. Same tagged-up walls. Same sour stench of piss and ego.

This was her turf.

And she’d bled enough idiots into the concrete to prove it.

So imagine her surprise—and growing amusement—when the rusted doors of her warehouse, her sanctuary, creaked open to reveal a crowd of bottom-tier thugs playing house.

Their chatter stopped. Every half-brained head turned her way.

“Well, well, well…” said the skinniest one, face stretched over a fish-like skull, grinning like a moron. “What do we have here, boys?”

“Looks like some brat walked into the wrong alley,” another chuckled, swaggering toward her.

The whole group started to size her up like meat on sale. One with cracked mud skin tilted his head and leered.

“Oooh, you see the legs on this one? Damn, girl, you walk in here lookin’ like a snack. Might have to—”

She blew another bubble. Let it pop.

“You freaks done flirting, or do I have to come over there and beat your ass one by one?”

She was smirking. Like she was the threat. Like they were the ones in trouble.

A bulky brute with jagged teeth stepped up, cracking his knuckles. “You got a smart mouth, girly.”

“And you’ve got three brain cells playing musical chairs,” she said, lifting a brow. “Clearly none of you read the fine print outside, so lemme spell it out for you—”

Then she vanished.

BOOM.

A shockwave ripped through the alley as the biggest thug’s face met the pavement with enough force to shatter the concrete.

The air trembled.

Every single gang member froze.

Yan stood tall, her hand still buried in the crater she’d slammed him into. She rose, eyes glowing bright pink, gum still lazily resting on her tongue.

Her body pulsed with power. Muscles flexing under her shirt. An aura of raw, violent energy rippled out of her—beautiful, terrible, undeniable.

“This is my turf,” she said, voice low, dangerous, and thrilled.
“Now get the fuck out before I turn your bones into toothpicks.”

The gang didn’t move fast enough.

Rookie mistake.

They stared as their strongest guy lay twitching in a crater, half his face buried in the concrete, blood mixing with dust.

Yan straightened to her full height, cracked her neck to the left—pop—then to the right—pop.

“Alright,” she said, eyes flicking across the dumbstruck crowd. “Roll call, assholes. Which one of you wants to go next?”

The mud-skinned one let out a battle cry and charged, fists coated in a crust of hardened dirt. “I’ll bury you, bitch—!”

She didn’t dodge.

She stepped into it.

Her elbow slammed into his arm mid-punch—CRACK—snapping the joint clean backward like a snapped twig.

He didn’t even get the chance to scream before she pivoted and heel-kicked him across the temple.

He spiraled. Slammed against the warehouse wall hard enough to leave a dent in the corrugated steel.

“Next.”

Two tried to rush her together, one swinging a crowbar, the other pulling a knife from his boot.

She ducked under the crowbar, grabbed his wrist, ripped it out of his hand, and used the crowbar to bat the knife guy straight across the mouth with a sickening crunch.

Knife-boy spun like a dreidel and hit the ground teeth-first.

Crowbar-guy had just enough time to whimper before she jammed the blunt end into his stomach and lifted him off the ground with a feral growl.

THWACK.

She flung him like trash.

Another thug screamed and bolted for the door.

She picked up the crowbar and threw it like a javelin.

It pinned his hoodie to the door an inch from his neck. He shrieked and pissed himself.

“Sit. Stay.”

The fish-head leader tried to play it cool, stepping back slowly, hands up.

“L-let’s talk, yeah? We—we didn’t know this was your spot. It’s all just a misunderstanding, we can—”

She blurred forward and grabbed him by the jaw.

Lifted him clean off his feet.

“You talked,” she said, casually squeezing his face until the cartilage in his nose made an ugly pop. “That was your second mistake.”

“What was the first?” he wheezed, eyes wide in terror.

She smirked, the glow of her eyes intensifying.

“Breathing.”

SLAM.

His body cratered next to the first guy.

The last three thugs stood frozen in a triangle formation.

“Fuck this,” one whispered. “We need to—”

Yan snapped her fingers.

Pink energy rippled from her palm in a sharp, sonic crack.

They dropped. All three collapsed, seizing on the ground, ears bleeding.

“Light nerves. Fragile things,” she muttered, stepping over them without care. “Should’ve worn earplugs.”

The warehouse fell dead silent, save for the groans of the broken.

She walked to the center of the room, casually brushing dust off her hoodie.

Then she reached into her pocket, pulled out her gum pack, and popped a fresh one.

With a long exhale, she blew a bubble—and let it pop.

“Next time you want to die somewhere... pick a street that doesn’t belong to me.”

Her glow faded, leaving only her unimpressed glare and the thrum of fear in the air.

It was supposed to be just a normal day in Mustafu.

But when your normal day consists of superpowered individuals throwing themselves at each other with no sense of self-preservation?

Normal packed its bags and left town years ago.

A blur tore through the streets, shockwaves snapping windows and rattling teeth.

Speed Demon.

“EHAHAHAH! YOU’LL NEVER CATCH ME, LOSERS!” the villain shrieked, clearly high on adrenaline—and possibly something else.

His laugh echoed like a dying hyena as he rocketed past civilians, a trail of cash fluttering behind from his barely-tied sack of loot.

He zipped past a woman—wind blasting her skirt sky-high.

“PERVERT!” she shrieked, yanking it down.

“TOTALLY WORTH IT!” he yelled over his shoulder, cackling.

“FREEZE!”

The command boomed like thunder.

Speed Demon glanced back, and his grin twitched. Charging toward him like a missile was none other than Ingenium, the turbo-charged hero himself. Twin exhausts flared at his elbows, jets spitting fire.

“Surrender now,” Ingenium warned, his voice tight with focus. “Or I will use force!”

Instead of faltering, the villain just grinned wider, pupils jittering with mania.

“You’re gonna have to be faster than that, tinman!”

With one thunderous stomp, Speed Demon vanished.

A blink. A breath. He was gone.

Ingenium’s eyes widened behind his visor. “Damn it—!”

“LATER, SLOWPOKE!”

A blue blur zipped past the hero—no gust, no wind, no sonic boom. Just silence and static.

And then—

CRACK!

A figure materialized ahead of the villain, hand raised, lightning arcing from their fingertips.

“The fu—”

A bolt of electricity tore through the air and flattened Speed Demon mid-step, launching him like a ragdoll into a lamppost.

His body hit the pole with a clang, then crumpled into a twitching, smoking heap.

The figure lowered their hand.

Clad in high-tech armor, the newcomer looked like a cybernetic knight torn straight from the future.

Sleek, silver-metallic plating hugged his frame, etched with glowing blue circuit lines. A jagged energy spike jutted from his helmet like a digital horn. Broad shoulders, sharpened angles, and an imposing silhouette made him look born for war.

The crowd stood frozen.

“Did you see that?” someone whispered.

“Who is that guy?”

“Wait—I’ve seen him online! That’s the new hero—Volturex!”

Phones popped out. Applause erupted like fireworks.

Ingenium skidded to a halt seconds later, steam hissing from his engines. He took in the scene: unconscious villain, scattered cash, fried lamppost—and the stoic newcomer.

“You intercepted him mid-hyperdash,” Ingenium said, panting. “That was... fast.”

Volturex turned slightly. His voice, filtered through a modulator, came out smooth, calm, almost clinical.

“Calculated. Fastest path to impact. Minimal damage to the surroundings.”

Ingenium huffed a laugh. “Well, you nailed it. First day on the job?”

 Volturex nodded. He stepped forward, crouched, and lifted Speed Demon by the collar like a sack of burnt laundry. “First official field mission,” he said. “Didn’t expect it to include wind-related indecent exposure, but… I adapt.”

Ingenium chuckled and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got solid instincts. Stay sharp out here—this city eats the green ones alive.”

Volturex turned to the cheering crowd. Phones were flashing, people were shouting his name.

He gave a small, two-fingered salute.

“Appreciate the welcome,” he said. “Stay safe. Stay alert.”

Electricity crackled around him. The lines on his armor lit up.

The crowd gasped.

ZZZZZRRRRAAAP—

In a blink, he was gone—vanishing in a streak of blue lightning that curled up the walls like neon vines before fading into the sky.

Yan’s brows drew closer together with each swipe of her thumb, her expression shifting from passive to visibly annoyed as she scrolled through her phone.

“Ugh. Boring,” she muttered, exhaling like the world personally offended her.

Izuku looked up from her homework—the one he had willingly (or perhaps fearfully) taken upon himself to complete. Despite his best effort to keep a low profile, concern got the better of him.

“Uh… something wrong?” he asked, voice tentative, like a man carefully poking a sleeping lion with a stick labeled bad idea.

Yan didn’t even glance at him. “Internet’s dry. All anyone’s posting about is some guy named ‘Volturex.’” The disdain practically dripped off her words like venom.

Izuku’s nerves vanished in a blink. The name alone flipped a switch in his brain.

“Oh! Volturex?! Yeah—I know him!” he said, perking up like a kid on sugar. “He’s one of the Hero Safety Commission’s experimental trainees! Top of his class in every simulation—his debut was today! Did you see the footage? He singlehandedly took down thirty-two villains—alone! In like, six hours! And his ability? I think he converts bio-electricity into kinetic propulsion—it’s like, he’s not just fast, he’s built like a human railgun—”

Yan’s lip twitched. Not a smile. Not quite. More like her soul sighed.

But Izuku kept going. "—and if his numbers stay that consistent, he’s already gunning for the top ten next year, maybe higher! His movement is so precise, and his technique—"

A finger pressed gently—yet somehow ominously—against his lips.

He froze. Like a prey animal sensing death nearby.

“Shhh,” Yan said quietly. Her voice wasn’t raised. That made it worse.

Izuku blinked, voice muffled. “W-what? Did you hear something?”

She leaned in slightly, expression deadly serious. “Yeah. I did.”

“…What?”

Yan met his eyes, deadpan. “Silence. It sounds amazing when you shut up.”

Izuku recoiled like he’d been slapped with a wet towel of shame. “O-oh. S-sorry! I-I didn’t mean to ramble, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” she muttered, returning to scrolling.

He didn’t say another word.

Just hunched over her notebook again and went back to solving the quadratic equation like his life depended on it.

Yan’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than she intended. She could practically see the storm cloud over his head. Shoulders tense. Doodles in the margin turned sad.

Her expression softened—just a twitch in the corner of her mouth—before she sighed internally like someone being forced to pet a stray cat.

“You’re one of those hero fanboys, aren’t you?” she asked, tone casual, almost lazy, like she was asking about the weather while deciding whether to bully it.

Izuku blinked, caught off guard. “W-well, yeah... S-sorry, I just get excited when someone brings them up. I, um, take notes too...”

He trailed off. Realization hit him mid-sentence like a train made of embarrassment.

“I know, I sound like a loser.”

He slumped forward dramatically onto the desk, cheeks red enough to short-circuit.

Yan actually snorted—unceremoniously and unladylike. “So what? You stalk ’em for fun? Or are you trying to audition as their fan-club president?”

Izuku lifted his head halfway off the desk, cheeks puffed like a kicked puppy. “Uhh... I… I actually want to be a hero too. One day.”

And just like that—silence. One of those long, painfully heavy pauses that hangs in the air like a bad punchline.

Then:

It started.

A snicker.

A chuckle.

Then full-on laughter.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just the kind of laugh that hits when the world is too ridiculous to process.

“Oh my god, you’re killing me!” she wheezed, gripping her stomach like he’d just recited stand-up.

Izuku shrunk in his seat, shoulders tight. “I-it’s not funny…” he muttered, voice small, weak.

But even he didn’t sound convinced.

“I know!” she gasped. “It’s just—you, wanting to be a hero? That’s comedy gold, I’m sorry—gimme a sec—phew…”

Yan eventually calmed down, her breath evening out as she watched his defeated little slump. She clicked her tongue, the mirth fading from her expression.

“Look, I’m not gonna roast you for having a dream,” she said bluntly. “I’m a jackass, not a monster.”

His mint-colored eyes widened, blinking like she’d just handed him a golden ticket.

“But,” she continued, gaze narrowing, “if you’re always hiding behind someone else, needing to be saved, then how the hell are you gonna save anyone else?”

That hit like a punch to the gut.

“Wanting to be a hero’s cute and all,” she said, arms crossing, “but you can’t walk around saying that while flinching every time someone raises their voice. You’re living like a victim, Midoriya. And victims? Don’t get to be heroes.”

Silence again. Not the awkward kind this time—the heavy kind. The kind that means something.

Yan started to slide out of the booth, already pocketing her phone.

But just before she stepped away—

“W-wait!” Izuku called out, standing up so fast his knees bumped the table.

She paused, looking back at him.

“I-I know I’m weak,” he said, voice shaking but fierce, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to get stronger. That I don’t mean it when I say I want to be a hero!”

He swallowed hard, fists clenched tight.

“I know we’re not friends. I’m just the nerd doing your homework. But… if you could… if you would…”

He bowed, sharp and low.

“Please teach me how to be strong too!”

Now that got her.

Yan stared, genuinely stunned for the first time that day. She blinked, slow, then huffed out a breath that might’ve been a sigh—or maybe a laugh.

“…You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Light Show?”

Her lips curled into the most dangerous of smiles—genuine.

“Fine. I’ll help.” She stepped closer, leaning in just enough to tap a finger on his chest. “But you better keep up. I don’t do pity training, and I’m not gonna hold your hand.”

Izuku beamed, still red-faced but practically glowing with determination.

“Deal!”

He said it with stars in his eyes and a smile like he’d just been handed a winning lottery ticket.

That smile didn’t last.

Because now he stood dead center in what could only be described as a crime scene. An abandoned warehouse, lit by one flickering light bulb that buzzed like it wanted to fight him.

The smile froze on his face as his pupils dilated with the realization:

This is where people die.

There were craters in the floor like someone had been suplexed by God. Blood stains, old and new, painted the concrete like abstract art. And—

“Is… is that a tooth?”

He stared in horror at something white embedded in a wall.

Yan, ever casual, set up a punching bag that looked like it had survived ten apocalypses and a divorce. “Alright,” she said, clapping her hands once. “C’mere, Light Show.”

Midoriya didn't hesitate. Maybe out of respect. Maybe out of fear. He scampered forward like a soldier about to be yelled at by a drill sergeant.

Yan gestured to the punching bag. “Before I waste my time, I gotta see what I’m working with.” She stepped back. “Give it your best shot.”

Izuku took a deep breath, shook out his arms, and set his feet.

Sure, he wasn’t exactly bench-pressing trucks, but he’d studied heroes. Watched countless hours of form breakdowns, analyzed biomechanics, made charts—

He could throw a punch.

Kinda.

He stepped in, twisted his hips, and launched a clean, textbook basic right hook into the bag.

Thud.

It rocked gently. Not bad. Not impressive. But not tragic.

Yan raised a brow, folding her arms. “…Not terrible.” She stepped around him like a predator circling prey. “You’ve at least seen a punch before. Points for that.”

She smacked his shoulder. “But your base is crap.”

“H-huh?”

“You’re standing like a disgruntled office intern, not a fighter.” She moved behind him and kicked one of his feet outward. “Wider stance. You're not filing reports—you’re trying to take someone’s head off.”

“O-oh, okay,” he mumbled, adjusting.

“Back foot pivots. You’re not a statue. You want that rotation. Power doesn’t come from your arm, it comes from the floor—channel it through your legs, hips, then shoulder. Boom.” She tapped each point on his body with a sharp finger as she spoke.

Then she leaned in closer, smirking. “Also, keep your damn chin down. I’m not fixing your jaw when some idiot breaks it.”

Izuku nodded feverishly, locking the advice into his brain like sacred scripture. He rolled his shoulders, reset his stance, inhaled.

Then—

He let it rip.

This time, the punch had weight. The floor scraped under his foot as he pivoted. His hips turned, his fist launched like a bullet—

WHAM.

The bag lurched back and swung violently, groaning on its rusty chain.

Izuku blinked. He hadn’t just hit it—he’d nailed it. His knuckles stung, but it was the good kind. The kind that screamed: You did something real.

“Whoa,” he breathed. “That felt… different.”

Yan grinned like a shark smelling blood.

“Better.” She patted his shoulder once, firm. “You’ve got decent instincts. Just need to beat the coward outta your body and we’ll be halfway to not embarrassing yourself.”

Izuku beamed, practically glowing despite the bloodstains and trauma ghosts lingering in the rafters.

He’d taken the first step.

Yan cracked her knuckles. “Now we do it another hundred times.”

“W-what—?”

“Punch 'til your soul leaves your body, Midoriya. That's step one.”

He practically collapsed onto his bed like a broken marionette.

Every muscle in his arms screamed in protest. His fists were still trembling, his knuckles pink and sore despite the worn wraps Yan had thrown at him like she was tossing meat to a stray dog.

Turns out she wasn’t joking—she really did make him punch that bag a hundred times.

He made it to punch eighty-two before his legs gave out and his soul briefly tried to leave his body.

Thankfully, she showed the barest sliver of mercy—told him to go home before he keeled over for real. Not without casually adding that if he was actually serious about this, she expected to see him there again.

“Every day after school, nerd. No excuses. You miss one day, and I’m done babysitting.”

Now he lay in the dark, the weight of exhaustion pinning him to the mattress like gravity had decided to double down. His breath slowed. His body ached. His soul... buzzed.

Above him, taped dead center on the ceiling, his limited edition All Might poster smiled down at him. That massive grin, white teeth blazing. One thumb raised high.

“You too can be a hero!”

All Might’s thumbs-up was so confident. So sure. Like there was no question whether or not the world could be saved.

Izuku stared at it. And stared. And stared.

A week had passed since he made that deal with Yan—his personal pact with chaos incarnate to keep Bakugou off his back.

A terrifying delinquent, sure. Possibly a gang boss, definitely a borderline war criminal in gym shoes—but not cruel. She hadn’t hit him, even when he muttered too much, or flinched, or fell on punch thirty-seven and got back up anyway. She laughed at him, sure. But she hadn’t hurt him.

That had to count for something.

Still…

She was right.

He couldn’t keep calling himself a hero—not while he still flinched at harsh words.

Not while he still needed saving.

He wanted to protect people. That meant he had to become someone worth relying on. Even if it meant putting his fate in the hands of someone who may or may not have been an actual gang boss with a gym in a murder warehouse.

Midoriya clenched his fists, every joint screaming in resistance.

His mint green eyes shimmered in the low light.

For a second—just a second—they pulsed with a faint red hue, like embers catching in the wind.

Home sweet home.

God, she’s gonna barf.

The moment Yan pushed open the front door, the sterile scent of expensive floor polish and faint cherry incense slapped her in the face. It was the kind of house that screamed “look how well-adjusted I am,” and she hated it.

She kicked off her shoes with the grace of a drunken rhino and tossed her backpack onto the designer couch like it was cursed. It was a little after 9PM—late enough to trigger the incoming nag-fest.

Of course.

Of course, of all people in the entire goddamn country to scoop her off the streets and slap the label of “legal guardian” on her—it had to be him.

The only man in Japan with more government clearance than a quirk license examiner.

“Yanagi.”

Her name cut through the air like a sword. She didn’t have to turn around. That tone? That measured, disappointment-laced authority? She knew it too well.

Her lip curled into a sneer as she popped open a can of soda. “What is it, old man?”

Standing on the staircase like some kind of final boss of parental bureaucracy was none other than her adoptive father:

Takemura Hirotsugu.

Senior Minister of Education.

He descended the stairs slowly, each step perfectly even. Of course. Guy probably practiced his staircase posture in the mirror.

“What have I told you about staying out late?” His voice was stern, calm.

She took a long sip, loud and obnoxious. “Oh nooo, how dare I be out past bedtime,” she said, slamming the can down on the coffee table. “Next thing you know I’ll be committing crimes. Like walking alone without a permission slip.”

“It’s not about the curfew,” Hirotsugu replied, voice calm but firm. “It’s about respect. Communication. Trust. We’ve talked about this.”

“Yeah, yeah, and every time it’s the same speech,” she shot back, waving her hand like she was swatting a fly. “I’m not one of your little interns you can ‘redirect with positive feedback.’”

“Yanagi—”

“Save it.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not worried about me. You’re worried someone’s gonna see your ‘troubled charity case’ skipping down the sidewalk after dark and it’ll make you look bad on the evening news.”

His expression tightened, the kind of microexpression that only lasted half a second but said everything. She’d struck something.

Hirotsugu sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Yanagi, please. We’ve been over this. I didn’t take you in as some project or PR stunt—”

“No? Just happened to be in the area and thought, ‘Hey, that angry little girl might spice up my boring-ass mansion?’” she snapped, voice rising. “Come on, let’s not pretend this wasn’t a charity case.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t take the bait. “You were twelve. Living on the streets. Fighting grown men for scraps. Forgive me if I thought a roof over your head might be useful.”

She rolled her eyes, walking past him toward the stairs. “Yeah well, guess what? I’m not twelve anymore. You don’t need to keep acting like you own me.”

“You live here. You eat here. You’re still in high school. Until you’re legally out of my care, I’m going to worry. That’s not control, Yanagi. That’s called being a parent.”

She stopped halfway up the stairs, grip tightening on the railing.

“You’re not my parent.”

Oof.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t snap back. Just stood there in the hallway, still as a statue carved from guilt and duty.

“No,” Takemura said quietly. “I’m not.”

That silence came crashing down between them like a hammer on glass. Not dramatic—just real. Just honest.

“But I’m the one who shows up,” he added. “I’m the one who stayed. Not because I had to, but because someone had to. And if that makes me the bad guy in your story—fine. I’ll be the villain who made you do your homework and eat real food.”

Yanagi stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the wall like it owed her money.

He continued, voice a little rougher now. “You think I don’t get it? You think I don’t know you hate this house? That you count the minutes until you can leave and never look back?”

Silence.

“I don’t need you to love me. Hell, I don’t even need you to like me. But I am going to make sure you survive long enough to figure out who the hell you want to be.”

Her fingers curled tighter around the banister. Her shoulders were shaking—

barely, but they were. Like she was holding back something—anger, maybe. Or worse.

Emotion.

“I’ll be in my office. Let me know if you need anything.”

And just like that, he turned, footsteps quiet as he headed down the hallway, leaving her there.

She stayed frozen there for a few more seconds, then let out a long, slow breath like she’d been underwater this whole time.

Then she took the last few steps up and disappeared into her room, door clicking shut behind her.

Three days.

It had been three goddamn days since she last saw her husband.

He left at 2:13 a.m.

Something about a late-night call from the hospital—someone spilled coffee in and it was “urgent.” He chuckled about it like it was just another annoyance, kissed her on the forehead, and mumbled:

“I’ll be back by sunrise. I promise, alright? Get some sleep.”

She didn’t want him to go. She had grabbed his hand, begged him to stay, said that no job was worth dragging someone out in the middle of the night. But he gave her that tired smile—the one that looked like a band-aid trying to cover a bleeding heart.

“We need the money, baby. Rent’s due, and the kids’ shoes are falling apart. I’ll be back before you even miss me.”

That was the last time she saw him.

Day One.

She woke up at seven. His side of the bed was cold.

Her stomach twisted into a knot that never came undone.

She called his phone.

Straight to voicemail.

She tried again.

And again.

Twenty-three times before she even got out of bed. By the time the kids were awake, she was in the kitchen, hands trembling around her phone, redialing on loop like the next call would be the one that got through.

No response.

No message.

Just that damn robotic voice telling her the number wasn’t available.

She called the hospital.

Receptionist sounded polite—at first.

“Sorry, ma’am, could you repeat the name?”

“Haruto. Haruto Fujiwara. He works janitorial. He said he came in last night for an emergency call—”

“Ma’am, I’ve worked here four years. We don’t have anyone by that name.”

Her brain stuttered.

“No—no, that can’t be right. He’s been there twenty years. He was just there last week! Check again—please, check again.”

Click.

Call dropped.

She tried again.

Blocked.

She stood there in the kitchen for a full minute, phone shaking in her grip like it was possessed, her heart beating like it was trying to escape her chest.

Day Two.

She went to the police.

The officer at the desk didn't even look up from his coffee-stained crossword.

He sighed.

“When’d he leave?”

“Two a.m. yesterday. He never came home.”

“He take anything with him? Bags? Money? Clothes?”

“No! Just his work uniform. He got a call from the hospital—”

“And you say they don’t have a record of him working there?”

She blinked, stunned.

“Yes, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

He scribbled on a paper.

“Sounds like he might’ve walked out. Happens. Sometimes people just leave, ma’am.”

He handed her a flimsy missing person report with the same enthusiasm he’d give a grocery receipt.

She heard another officer whisper to his partner as she left:

“Another runaway husband. Poor woman doesn’t get it.”

He wasn’t a runaway.

He was Haruto.

Her Haruto. The man who put sticky notes in the kids’ lunchboxes with dumb jokes. The man who still slow-danced with her in the kitchen when the kids weren’t looking. The man who always kissed her before he left.

He never just left.

But no one cared.

Because he was a janitor.

Because they were poor.

Because she didn’t have power, or money, or a last name anyone recognized.

Day Three.

Silence.

A funeral hush hung over the house.

The kind of silence that feels wrong—like the house itself was holding its breath.

She hadn’t slept.

She’d been pacing, calling every hospital, every old contact, anyone who might’ve known anything.

Nothing.

The kids sat around the dinner table, poking at cold spaghetti. No one touched it.

Her youngest, Akira, hadn’t spoken all day.

Her middle child, Kenji, just stared at the wall like he was expecting it to peel back and show a hidden door where their dad might walk in.

Frida, the eldest, looked up at her.

“Mom... is Dad dead?”

The words hit her like a hammer.

“No,” she said, voice cracking. “No. He’s not. He promised.”

“But—what if he didn’t keep it?”

She knelt beside her kids, hugging them all at once. She tried to smile.

“I don’t care what anyone says,” she whispered. “Your father’s the kind of man who’d wrestle God before he broke a promise.”

Frida wiped a tear, tried to laugh. “He did try to fight that one goose that attacked Kenji...”

Kenji snorted. “He screamed like a little girl and threw his shoe.”

They all laughed, low and soft, a pocket of warmth in the frostbitten room.

For a second, they were okay.

Then came the flash.

Blue.

So fast they barely registered it.

The smell of ozone filled the room.

Frida jerked suddenly. Her eyes wide. Her face half-charred, the skin bubbling and blackening in front of them.

A sizzling burn tore through her skull and dropped her head face-first into her untouched plate of spaghetti.

Plop.

Her body slumped with a twitch.

Their mother screamed.

But it didn’t last long.

Snap.

Her neck twisted with a wet, crunchy pop, rotating an unnatural 180 degrees as her body collapsed onto the floor like a puppet with cut strings.

Blood sprayed across the wallpaper.

“M-Mom?” Kenji whispered, voice barely a breath.

Another flash.

Akira didn’t even have time to scream.

Just a wet thump as something blue slammed into her so hard her spine exploded through her back, her body ricocheting off the wall with a sickening crunch.

Red.

Red on the floor. Red on the ceiling. Red on Kenji’s face.

Only he remained.

Frozen.

Too afraid to cry.

He couldn’t scream.

He couldn’t even blink.

He just sat there.

Breathing hard.

Silence stretched.

Then came the noise.

Zzzt.

A hiss of humming electricity.

The kind of crackling you hear from a dying power line or a malfunctioning circuit.

Kenji turned his head.

Slow.

Almost robotic.

And there he was.

Standing in the ruined doorway.

Silhouetted against a backdrop of scorched wallpaper and crackling static.

A man of chrome and blue light.

A body that gleamed like a polished weapon. Face hidden behind a sleek visor that pulsed with inhuman energy. Sparks crawled across his armored frame like lightning eager to be unleashed again.

Volturex.

The world’s latest golden boy. The one the news wouldn’t shut up about.

The one they said was a hero.

He looked at the boy.

Visor pulsed.

And then, in a voice devoid of anything human, he said:

“Target extraction successful.”

The boy didn’t get to ask what that meant.

He didn’t get to run.

He didn’t get to cry.

Because the last thing he ever saw—

Was blue.

Chapter Text

“Thirty... Thirty-three, thirty-four... thirty-fiiiive...”

Izuku strained through gritted teeth, arms trembling like noodles on a trampoline. He pushed with every fiber of his being—one last rep. Just one more.

His body politely declined

With all the betrayal of a soap opera villain, his arms gave out, and his face met the cold, uncaring concrete with a painful thud.

“Ow...” he groaned, voice cracked and pitiful.

From somewhere above—specifically, on top of his back—a gum bubble popped obnoxiously loud.

“Only thirty-five?” Yan drawled, her tone flatter than a dead battery. “Seriously? Eh, I guess it’s an improvement from last week.”

Izuku weakly lifted his head, face smeared with sweat and defeat. The bags under his mint-green eyes looked legally exhausted.

“Maybe I’d go further if you weren’t sitting on me the whole time,” he wheezed.

Yan didn’t even look up from her phone. Thumbs tapped lazily as her gaze flicked over him, unimpressed.

“Oh please,” she snorted. “This is training. Resistance training. I am the resistance. You should be thanking me for the honor of my ass crushing your spine.

“W-we’ve been doing this for three hours,” he croaked, the final syllables barely surviving.

“Rookie numbers,” she replied instantly.

Still lounging on his spine like it was a beanbag, she popped another bubble. “Now quit whining, Light Show. We don’t have all day.”

“At least let me charge a little or I’m going to die,” he wheezed, and judging by how his voice sounded like a dying fax machine, it was not an exaggeration.

Yan rolled her eyes and finally stood, stretching like this was her workout. “Fine, drama queen. Go suck on your batteries.”

Izuku didn’t even respond—he crawled to his backpack like a soldier dragging himself to a medkit and fished out a fresh pair of AA batteries, his salvation.

See, Dynamo may function with the efficiency of a rusted lawnmower, but it’s not completely useless.

Over the years, the fire aspect of his Quirk gave him minor heat resistance—not enough to survive a blast, but definitely enough to touch a hot stove without crying. He could also hold his breath for 1.8 times longer than the average person. He tested it. With a stopwatch. Several times.

And his lightning? Well, it let him do this:

Small blue sparks danced from the batteries into his palm, flickering like tired fireflies. His fingers twitched. Muscles relaxed. His eyes drooped in relief.

Izuku let out the kind of sigh normally reserved for hot baths and canceled tests.

Thanks to his Quirk’s weird relationship with bioelectricity, he could absorb external electrical charges—granted, only in small doses. But the side effect? His body had adapted to convert electrons into glucose.

In other words: Batteries, to him, weren’t tools.

They were snacks.

Two little juice sticks to bring him back from the brink of death.

As the last arc of current seeped into his fingers, his eyes fluttered. His limbs stopped shaking quite so violently. He didn’t feel good, per se, but at least he didn’t feel like death was politely knocking on his spine.

Yan watched him slump into a sitting position like a wet rag with abandonment issues. Sweat clung to his skin, hair stuck to his forehead, and he looked—by generous estimate—maybe 4% more alive than the concrete beneath him.

She raised a brow.

“You good now, Light Show? Or do I need to plug you into a car battery again?”

Izuku, still wheezing like he’d just crawled out of a war crime, looked up at her with eyes full of betrayal and sorrow.

“C-can we take a break?”

No pretense. No pride. That was not a question—

That was a plea.

And Yan, cruel as ever, just grinned wider.

Like a shark.

A smug, gum-chewing, chaos-worshipping shark.

“Light Show,” she drawled, cocking her head. “Since we started this adorable little training regime... have I ever given you a break?”

Izuku blinked, hesitant.

“…No.”

“Exactly.” She clapped her hands once. “Now get off your ass and give me another forty. Actually—screw it—make it sixty. You’re getting lazy.”

“W-what?!” His voice cracked like a sad violin. “C-c’mon, I’m still seriously dying here! Just five minutes! Five!”

He even held up a trembling hand with five wobbly fingers like it would help his case.

It did not.

Yan’s grin only grew sharper. The kind of expression you’d expect from someone about to redefine psychological warfare.

It was as if his suffering was her morning coffee.

“Tired, huh?” she echoed, full of faux sympathy. “Awww. Don’t worry. I’ve got just the thing.”

Dear God.

He didn’t even have the energy to run. He wanted to run. He tried to run. But his legs were about as responsive as a dead phone in the snow. He could only watch in wide-eyed horror as she reached into her duffel bag and—

No. No. NO—

She pulled out a car battery.

A fully charged, spark-snapping, absolutely unnecessary car battery.

The clamps sparked dangerously as she held them up with the casual confidence of someone offering a snack.

His face drained of all color.

“Y-yan—please,” he gasped, scooting backwards until his spine kissed the wall. “The last time you did that I couldn’t sleep for three days!”

Yan just tilted her head, eyes gleaming with that “you’re about to hate your life” shine.

“Yeah,” she said, voice like silk and violence. “And you powered through three whole sessions without collapsing. So…”

She clicked the clamps open, letting the sparks sizzle mid-air.

“…clearly, it works.”

Izuku whimpered.

The battery hummed.

Yan stepped closer.

Training resumed.

And so did the trauma.

It had been roughly two weeks since Izuku made the single worst decision of his entire life:

Asking Yan to train him.

And in those two weeks, he had learned many things.

For example:

• His body had limits.

• Those limits had sub-limits.

• If he tried breaking those sub-limits, he will quite literally die.

The schedule she gave him had seemed deceptively harmless at first.

"Show up after school. Do some basic exercises. Go home."

Simple. Reasonable. Innocent, even.

She lied.

She lied hard.

Turns out, her idea of “basic training” involved performing crimes against anatomy and dignity — daily. These weren’t workouts. These were rituals of torment. He was doing exercises so heinous they probably counted as war crimes in at least 37 countries. And Yan?

Yan called it a warm-up.

Exercises that would break a normal person? Yeah, she did them on Tuesdays for fun.

“I don’t see the big deal,” she had said once, arms crossed, gum popping in time with his dying groans.

Politely?

How the fuck would you?!

Izuku didn’t even know what her Meta Ability was — he’d never had the balls to ask. But whatever it was, it made her a machine. A monster. A freight train with biceps and attitude. She moved like gravity was a suggestion and punched like regret.

So of course, her training regime made sense.

For her.

For him?

His greatest feat of strength was carrying all 13 of his hero analysis notebooks in one go.

Which, for the record, still left him winded.

And now he was expected to do clapping pushups with ankle weights while she sat on his back like a bored queen on a peasant throne?

Yeah, no. That math didn’t add up.

And judging by the glint in her eye every time he collapsed dramatically onto the floor, it was very clear she knew it didn’t.

She just didn’t care.

No—worse. She enjoyed it.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

But… he couldn’t quit.

No matter how many times his body screamed for sweet release. No matter how many times his arms gave out mid-push-up and he hit the floor like a sack of disappointment.

He asked for this.

He signed the metaphorical contract in blood and stubbornness, and now he was stuck with it.

And… annoyingly… suspiciously… it was kind of working.

God help him, it was actually working.

Barely. Almost imperceptibly. But something was happening.

He was… a little stronger.

Like, pick-up-a-chair-without-struggling stronger.

Like, run-a-block-and-only-mostly-wheeze stronger.

Which made no sense. It had only been two weeks. That kind of progress shouldn’t be possible unless you were on experimental steroids or praying to gym gods.

But he wasn't about to question it.

When the universe hands you a gift, you don't ask why — you just take it before it changes its mind.

So he kept showing up.

He was still dying, yes.

He still whimpered in his sleep.

He still flinched every time she said “I’ve got a new idea.”

Because somewhere beneath all the bruises, curses, and energy overloads

Izuku Midoriya was actually starting to feel like someone who could fight back.

Even if it was against his will.

Even if it came with trauma.

Even if it meant being trained by a gremlin in gym shoes with a God complex.

He made a deal with the devil.

Now he had to survive her.

And maybe, if he lived long enough…

He might just become a hero after all.

Or at least die swole.

“Tonight’s top story—tragedy strikes Musutafu once again, as authorities investigate what they are officially labeling a ‘targeted villain attack’ on a residential household. Four confirmed fatalities, including two minors, and one child—Kenji Fujiwara—currently missing and presumed abducted,” the anchor reported, voice smooth but strained, like it was working overtime to stay calm.

“Security footage of the incident remains largely unavailable due to what experts are calling ‘electromagnetic interference.’ Authorities were only alerted when nearby residents reported a strong, unmistakable stench of ‘burnt and rotting flesh’ emanating from the property.”

The screen flickered. Censored images blurred the corpses seated around the dinner table, slumped over cold plates and cooling blood. The censoring did little to hide the horror.

“We must warn viewers—the imagery recovered from the scene is graphic beyond description. Based on decomposition, forensic specialists estimate the family had been deceased for at least five days prior to discovery.”
The anchor's jaw tensed. He swallowed hard. The mask of professionalism cracked for just a second.

“Authorities have yet to identify the perpetrator. However, joining us now is a representative from the Hero Safety Commission, Mr. Tatsumaki.”

A man in a sleek charcoal suit stepped into frame—poised, polished, practiced.

“Thank you,” Tatsumaki began, tone calm and rehearsed. “Our investigative units have been working tirelessly to identify and locate the villain responsible. While the evidence at the scene is, regrettably, limited... we are confident in our ability to bring the suspect to justice.”

The anchor tilted his head, eyebrows raised.

“So to clarify—you have no leads. The perpetrator is still at large, and there’s no indication of when—or where—they might strike next?”

A beat. Tatsumaki’s smile twitched, just a hair too wide.

“Yes, that is correct. However,” he leaned in slightly, “I want to stress that the Commission is far from helpless. We are deploying all available resources to ensure the safety of our citizens. It is only a matter of time before this individual is apprehended.”

Then, he turned directly to the camera.

“Until then, we ask the public to remain cautious. Avoid being out late. Travel in groups where possible. And above all—report anything that feels... out of place. Even the smallest detail could save a life. You are our eyes on the ground.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tatsumaki,” the anchor nodded, the tension behind his eyes still visible. Then, without pause—without even a beat to breathe—the broadcast smiled.

“But let’s not dwell on the negatives!” the anchor chirped, a little too cheerfully. “There are bright spots in the world—and one of them is lighting up the hero rankings this week!”

The screen shifted.

Bright colors. Upbeat music. Graphs and stats.

“On a brighter note, the Hero Safety Commission’s rising star Volturex finishes his first week with a staggering 43% increase in urban response efficiency, leaping from rank 159 to 78 in just seven days!”

A photo of Volturex flashed across the screen. Polished armor. Blue lightning. That signature two-fingered salute.

“If he keeps up this pace, analysts say he could break into the top 50—maybe even the top 20—by the end of the month! A new era of peace, security, and speed.” the anchor said cheerfully, the earlier tension nowhere to be found.

“And it’s in moments like these,” he beamed, eyes bright and empty, “that we’re reminded—no matter how dark the world may seem…”

He turned slightly toward the camera, voice soft, smile a bit to wide.

“…we’re in good hands.”

Tsukauchi wasn’t buying it.

Something about this case stank—and it wasn’t just the rot left behind at the crime scene. No, this was deeper. Colder. The kind of wrong that crept under your skin and whispered, "This isn’t what it looks like."

He’d been assigned to the Fujiwara family massacre four days ago, and already he could tell—someone wanted this case to disappear.

And that? That made him dig harder.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing at the grainy black-and-white footage flickering on his screen. The Hero Safety Commission had claimed the house’s security system was “wiped clean by electromagnetic interference.”

But that was a lie.

Because Tsukauchi had a friend in evidence review. Someone who owed him a favor. Someone who'd quietly passed along this fragment of salvaged footage with a warning not to ask how it was retrieved.

“There was no footage,” the HSC had said.

And yet, here it was—timestamped, raw, and disturbingly intact.

The corridor inside the Fujiwara home. Low-res, no sound. Just a static angle of the hallway outside the dining room. A peaceful scene, ordinary in every way. Through the doorway, the family could be seen eating dinner. Nothing dramatic. No signs of panic. No one glancing at the door like they expected company.

Tsukauchi wished there was audio. Anything to ground the moment. Anything to explain what came next.

Then—

Static.

Exactly two seconds of blackout. The feed fizzled, warped, shimmered—then came back.

And everything had changed.

The eldest daughter was slumped forward in her seat, steam still rising from her flesh. Blood pooling beneath her head. No warning. No sound. Just—gone.

Tsukauchi didn’t react. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t curse.

He simply rewound the tape. Frame by frame. Over and over.

Until he saw it.

Exactly one frame after the feed returned: a thin, almost imperceptible arc of blue light. A flicker of something near the daughter’s cheek. Gone in a blink.

He paused the frame. Zoomed in. Ran filters. Adjusted contrast.

It wasn’t a camera glitch.

It was a discharge.

He leaned forward, tapping a knuckle against his chin.

“Enhanced speed. Energy projection. Electromagnetic distortion,” he muttered under his breath, eyes still fixed on the image.

That was all they had to go on. No fingerprints. No witnesses. No traceable energy signatures. No clear motive. The Hero Commission had chalked it up to a random villain attack—an unfortunate act of senseless violence.

But Tsukauchi had seen senseless violence. He’d lived through enough villain incidents to know the difference between chaos and precision.

This was planned

He exhaled sharply through his nose. Opened a second file. Cross-referenced the name “Fujiwara” in the national police database.

And that’s when the trail started to curve.

Haruto Fujiwara. Reported missing three weeks ago. Filed by his wife—the same woman who was now just another name in a blood-slick crime scene report.

The case had gone nowhere. No leads. No media coverage. It had been dismissed quietly as another domestic abandonment. “Man walks out on struggling family”—end of story.

But now that narrative didn’t sit right.

Because the timeline matched. Too well. Haruto vanishes. His wife files a report. Three weeks later, the whole family is butchered at the dinner table.

Coincidence? Maybe. But Tsukauchi didn’t believe in those anymore.

He clicked open a contact window. Dialed manually.

The Queen’s Palace—Tensei Memorial Hospital. Where Haruto had worked for over a decade as a janitor.

The line rang once. Twice.

Click.

“Tensei Memorial, this is reception speaking.”

“Detective Tsukauchi,” he said, flashing his ID at the screen out of habit. “I’m conducting a follow-up inquiry regarding a former employee. Haruto Fujiwara.”

Pause.

“...I’m sorry, who?”

Tsukauchi’s brows furrowed.

“He worked night shifts. Maintenance crew. Reported missing earlier this month. Should be in your system.”

More silence.

“We don’t have any employee on record by that name,” the voice said flatly.

He leaned back in his chair, frowning.

“That’s strange,” he said slowly. “Because payroll records from last year show a Haruto Fujiwara logged for over 1,200 hours on-site. I can fax you a copy if you'd like.”

The receptionist’s tone changed instantly.

“Ah—please hold.”

Click.

He stared at the paused frame again—the blue light. The dead girl. The absence of chaos.

Two minutes passed.

The line disconnected.

No follow-up. No apology. No explanation.

Just a dead line.

Tsukauchi didn’t react. He simply closed the call, reopened the video, and hit play again.

Watched the static roll in.

Watched the light flicker.

Watched the lie unfold, frame by frame.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

And the deeper he dug, the more he was starting to realize—

someone didn’t want this case solved.

They wanted it buried.

Ping.

Tsukauchi’s eyes flicked to the corner of his monitor.

Encrypted email.

Sender: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Fujiwara Homicide – Case #45712

His brow furrowed.

An email from the Commission less than five minutes after the call?

Quite the coincidence.

He clicked it open.

Detective Tsukauchi,

We appreciate your diligence. Apologies for any confusion—yes, there is indeed video footage, but it was deemed nonessential and subsequently classified.

Per Hero Safety Commission protocol, the Fujiwara incident has already been labeled a Class B Quirk Crime – Contained.

We are forwarding the official press release for public distribution.

Please direct all further inquiries through appropriate Commission channels. Be advised: any unsanctioned investigations will be considered a breach of jurisdiction and may constitute obstruction of justice.

— Lt. Sato
Oversight Division
Hero Safety Commission

Tsukauchi read it twice.

Then a third time, slower.

His jaw tightened.

His grip on the mouse turned white-knuckled.

"Classified as nonessential."

"Contained."

"Obstruction of justice."

They were telling him to back off.

To shut up, play along, and file the massacre under “unfortunate but handled.”

Handled what, exactly?

There was no suspect. No arrest. No resolution.

The killer was still out there—free. The case had more loose ends than a botched hostage negotiation.

And worst of all—

Kenji Fujiwara. Thirteen years old. Still missing.

No body. No ransom note. No signs of struggle.

Just... gone. Like his existence was an inconvenience they were eager to erase.

Just like Haruto.

Another file, another vanished name. Another life the system couldn’t be bothered to remember.

Tsukauchi leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

This wasn’t protocol. This was a cover up.

The kind where questions got you reassigned, discredited, or quietly disappeared.

His eyes drifted to the screen again. To the line in bold:

“Any unsanctioned investigations will be considered a breach of jurisdiction.”

He knew what that meant.

They weren’t just watching the case.

They were watching him— anyone previously involved in the investigation

His voice was low, bitter.

“Damn it.”

Nine years ago, he’d learned this lesson the hard way:

Don’t poke the Commission. Don’t ask the wrong questions.

Because when the Hero Safety Commission decides something’s over?

It’s over.

Facts be damned.

All he could do now… was watch.

See how deep this went.

How far the cover-up stretched.

How long they could pretend the blood on the walls didn’t matter.

Because someone was lying.

And sooner or later…

Tsukauchi was going to find out why.

>>>>>>THREE WEEKS LATER<<<<<<

Yan tilted her head—just slightly—as a flame-wreathed fist tore through the air inches from her cheek. Close enough to singe a few strands of hair.

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t even acknowledge it.

Her expression stayed cool. Analytical.

Like she was watching a training dummy trying its best.

One step. Light and smooth.

Her boot whispered across the cracked warehouse floor as she shifted back.

Izuku closed in.

Fast.

Faster than he used to be, at least.

He threw a tight right hook, his knuckles still glowing hot from his flame focus. Yan dipped, sidestepped, and he was already throwing the second punch—a cross this time, tighter, cleaner than before.

She leaned to her left and caught his wrist mid-strike. Her grip was brief—just long enough to kill his momentum and send him stumbling a half step forward.

But he recovered.

That was new.

He planted, pivoted, and whipped his leg around for a low sweeping kick.

Yan hopped over it lazily, like skipping a puddle.

Izuku was already moving—uppercut this time, flames reigniting with a pop at his knuckles.

She blocked it with her forearm.

His punch landed with a solid whump—and she didn’t even flinch.

Still, she didn’t counter.

Not yet.

She was giving him room. Watching. Measuring.

Izuku circled, breath shallow, fire flickering along his fingers. His eyes locked on her feet. He was thinking now. Calculating.

He darted in again—left jab, right elbow, backhand twist.

The movements were fast. Faster than last week atleast. His form wasn’t perfect—his footwork still jittery, and he wound up a bit too much before each strike—but it was aggressive, focused.

She parried his elbow, nudged his backhand wide, and sent a palm strike toward his chest—not hard, but fast.

He barely blocked in time.

The impact knocked him back a few feet, boots skidding across the floor.

He coughed.

Not because it hurt—but because she let him know she could’ve hurt him. If she wanted to.

She  stood across from him, arms down, expression flat. She didn't look winded. Not even mildly inconvenienced. But she was watching.
This match had one rule:

Land a single clean hit on Yan.

Just one.

Simple, right?

No.

He hadn’t touched her once.

Not even close.

Izuku exhaled hard. The flames around his right fist dimmed to embers as he let go of the oxygen focus he’d been channeling through his wind. A trick he’d developed—funneling his weak wind to intensify combustion by flooding it with O₂. It made his fire punch more like a real punch instead of a glorified birthday candle. But it took too much focus, too much balance, and it clearly wasn’t working here.

Not against her.

Not against Yan.

“Any day now, Light Show,” she called out, tone light, but her stance remained ready—loose, but dangerous. Like she could end this whenever she wanted.

Izuku grit his teeth.

He needed speed.

He inhaled sharply—and with it, the temperature around him dipped.

A sheen of frost bloomed under his boots.

Ice.

A thin patch, just enough. He’d trained this—used the ice to minimize friction, to skate, to accelerate into strikes faster than his legs alone could carry him. No wasted motion. Just raw momentum, his wind subtly pushing into his sides to stabilize the ride.

He kicked off.

Slide.

Momentum surged. His body blurred forward, one foot gliding, one tucked beneath him for control. Yan’s eyes tracked his motion, just a subtle shift in her posture.

He launched into a high roundhouse as he reached her. Fast. Wild. Almost too wide.

She dodged it. Effortlessly.

He slipped—just slightly—but caught himself, a quick push of air stabilizing his core. He redirected, dashing forwards then launched into what looked like a haymaker.

Predictable. Telegraphed. And obvious.

Yan’s eyes narrowed in mild annoyance.

"Typical," she clicked, already weaving back.

But then something unexpected happened

He twisted.

Left leg planted.

Her eyes widened in mild surpise.

It was a feint.

His spin kick.

Every time he tried it, he either over-rotated or misjudged the distance or lost control of the pivot. But now? Now he had speed. Ice. Wind. Momentum.

Now he could try it right.

He twisted into the spin—his left foot sliding out and his body whipping into the rotation. The fire blurred on his right leg. His wind tunneled along his turning motion. The angle was perfect.

He came out of the spin with a full-force, hell-bent kick aimed at Yan’s ribs.

And finally—

Contact.

Almost.

Yan moved—a step back, precise, weightless. Her hand snapped upward—not to dodge, but to meet the kick.

Block.

Palm against shin. Not even staggered. She caught his momentum like it was nothing more than a gust of wind.

Izuku blinked.

She looked at him.

And smiled.

“Nice try.”

Then—flick.

Two fingers snapped forward.

Crack.

Right to his forehead.

He didn’t fall—he crumpled.

The enhanced strength behind the flick hit like a miniature warhead, and Izuku hit the floor like a folding chair.

“Ow—owowowow—god—why—”

He curled on the ground, clutching his forehead, eyes watering as if he’d just been shot with emotional trauma and nerve pain at the same time.

Yan exhaled softly, stretching her arms behind her back, as if the whole spar had been a warm-up.

“You're getting better.”

She popped her gum.

“But ‘better’ still isn’t ‘good enough to hit me.’”

He groaned something in response. It might’ve been “thank you,” or “I see the light,” or just a sob.

Either way, she offered him a hand without even looking.

No ceremony. No grand gesture. Just a casual extension of her arm like she was helping someone off the couch—not the floor of a murder warehouse gym.

Izuku took it.

She hauled him to his feet with literally zero effort, like he weighed less than the idea of giving a damn.

And for just a second—just a flicker—her gaze almost looked… approving.

If he’d pulled that trick on anyone else, it might’ve worked. Against her? Not a chance. But she’d seen the thought process, the adjustment. The grind.

Izuku learned fast.

Like weirdly fast. Too fast for someone with zero practical combat experience. Sure, he had a brain stuffed with hero stats and textbook form breakdowns, but cramming words and application wasn’t the same. Not even close.

It was almost impressive.

She watched him dust off his black gym shorts, mumbling under his breath.

“Damn it... I almost had it... I didn’t compensate for her stance change, I should’ve led with the hook and—"

He was analyzing his own fight like it was an exam he got a B+ on.

Yan’s lip twitched. Not quite a smile. More like a “huh” that got lost on the way to being vocal.

“You’re a quick learner,” she said suddenly.

Izuku blinked like she’d spoken in Morse code.

Izuku blinked, caught off guard.
“Oh. Uh. Thanks.”

He rubbed his forehead again, the ghost of her enhanced flick still pulsing like shame in his skull.
“Do you always have to flick so hard?”

“Oh I’m so sorry, I’ll be sure to be gentle next time” she mocked, walking over to snag her water bottle.

She glanced over, half expecting him to do the usual ‘thanks for the lesson, see ya never’ routine. But he just stood there. Hesitating. Like a kid at the edge of a pool who wants to swim but isn’t convinced he won’t sink like a rock.

She grabbed a towel from a nearby bench and chucked it at his face.
“That’s enough for today.”

He caught it, barely, and blinked.

“Wait, really?”

“What, you want another concussion?”

“…No.”

Then she paused.

“...You hungry?”

Izuku blinked. “Huh?”

“You know. Food. Nourishment. Calories.” She raised an eyebrow.

He muttered nervously. “I mean… yeah, I guess.”

Then—to his complete confusion—she slung her hoodie over her shoulder, turned to him, and said:

“C’mon. Let’s go.”

“Go…?”

“There’s an arcade a few blocks from here. Has food. And a punching game I plan on breaking. Come on.”

“Wait—you wanna go with me?”

Yan turned halfway toward the door, glancing back like he’d asked her if water was wet.

“You’re the only one here, aren’t you?”

“No! I—I just—” Izuku stammered, scratching at his cheek like the words were too awkward to hold. His gaze dropped to the floor.

“...It’s just… I’ve never really, uh. Hung out with anyone. Like that. Before. Outside of school, I mean.”

His voice got quieter at the end. Like he was ashamed of it.

He rubbed the back of his neck. A nervous tic. Classic.

Then—

“…I don’t really have friends.”

Yan stopped mid-step. Not dramatically—just enough to make it clear she’d heard.

Her eyes flicked toward him, narrowing just a touch.

There it was.

That look. The one that always managed to crawl under her skin like an itch she couldn’t reach.

Not fear. Not hesitation.

Pity. For himself.

It wasn’t there when he was fighting.

Not when he charged at her with fire in his fists and bruises blooming on his arms like medals.

But now? Now it crept into his face like mold. That quiet, pathetic slouch. That self-loathing slump that said “I don’t expect anyone to want me around.”

Yan hated it.

Hated it.

She didn’t even know why exactly.

She just knew it made something inside her twist, and not in a fun way.

Maybe it was because she’d seen that look before.

In the mirror.

Years ago. Before she learned how to snarl instead of sulk.

Either way, she wasn’t about to dissect it.

“What’s your point?” she said flatly, cutting through the silence like a blade.

Izuku blinked, startled. “Huh—?”

“You don’t have friends. Cool. Congrats. Neither do I. We should start a club.”
Her tone was dry, but not exactly cruel.

“If you don’t wanna go, just say it. Spare me the pity party. I didn’t ask for your life story.”

She turned, walking toward the door like the conversation was already dead.

Because to her, it was.

What was there to say?

Cry about it? Wallow?

Waste time?

Self-pity didn’t fix anything. It just gave you something soft to drown in.

That’s why she bothered with this dork in the first place—he didn’t have that look when he fought. He moved. He pushed. He tried. That mattered.

This version of him? The quiet, apologizing one?

It pissed her off.

“W-wait! I’m coming—I’m coming!”

Izuku scrambled to grab his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and jogging to catch up.

Yan didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t slow down.

Didn’t say anything.

But her expression shifted—just a flicker. A small, invisible exhale behind her eyes.

Because he did get up. He did follow.

He didn’t sulk off or stand there whining. He moved.

Good.

Still worth the effort.

She shoved her hands in her pockets, eyes forward, voice casual.

“You’re still buying drinks.”

“R-right, yeah. Drinks. Got it.”

The arcade was loud, bright, and smelled like synthetic popcorn and the desperate tears of kids who just barely missed the claw prize.

Yan fit right in.

She strutted through the chaos like it was her personal kingdom—eyes scanning each game like a predator picking out which one she wanted to humiliate first. Izuku trailed behind her, nervously clutching a cup full of game tokens like it was a live grenade.

"You sure you’ve been here before?” he asked, glancing around.

“Course.” She stopped in front of a shooter game, dual light guns holstered like a wild west standoff in neon. “Arcades are the best kind of therapy. Violence, noise, and you can win a bouncy ball for your trauma.”

"That's... not how therapy works."

“Tell that to this high score,” she said, grabbing both guns and slamming tokens in like she owed the machine money.

She annihilated the first wave of pixelated zombies before Izuku even finished figuring out where the reload button was.

Headshot. Headshot. Headshot.

He blinked. “How are you—?”

“Shhh.”

Pop.

Pop.

“Mama’s working.”

By the end, she had the top three high scores, one bullet missed, and zero mercy.

Izuku placed 74th.

Out of 80.

They stepped up to the air hockey table.

“Okay,” he said, stretching his wrists, “I’m pretty decent at this.”

“Good. I like crushing dreams when they’re fresh.”

The puck dropped.

Izuku blinked.

It was already in his goal.

“W-wait— what?”

She scored again.

And again.

She moved like the puck owed her money. Reflexes unnatural. Body low, sharp, dialed in. By the end, the machine let out a sad little bwoop as she hit the mercy rule.

“Welp,” she said, cracking her knuckles, “I won. You owe me… I dunno, 80 bucks.”

“I’m starting to think I made a mistake.”

The moment she stepped onto the DDR pad, Izuku squinted. “Wait, you… you play this?”

“No,” she said, already picking the hardest song on the list.

“I become this.”

He didn’t know what to expect.

But it wasn’t this.

Yan wasn’t dancing. She was summoning ancient powers. Her feet were a blur. She looked bored. She chewed gum while landing a 200+ combo like it was light cardio.

The final screen flashed: FULL COMBO – S++ RANK.

Izuku stood on the other pad like a man who brought a soup spoon to a sword fight.

“I—I didn’t even know feet could move like that.”

“The trick is having no shame and no bones,” she said, popping her gum.
“Your turn.”

He stepped up.

He tried.

Oh god, he tried.

He didn’t do terrible.

But halfway through, his legs tangled and he face-planted into the foam bar at the back.

“A valiant death,” Yan said solemnly. “May your feet find peace.”

“Alright,” Izuku said, confidence returning as he grabbed the foosball handles, “this one I know I’m good at.”

Yan tilted her head. “This dork game?”

“Don’t insult the plastic titans.”

They played. It was brutal.

Turns out Izuku was a monster at foosball. Every angle was calculated. Every shot intentional. He’d memorized rebound physics like they were his grandmother’s cookie recipe.

Yan narrowed her eyes as he scored for the fifth time in a row. “You practiced this, didn’t you?”

“No,” he said, completely deadpan, “I trained.”

She lost 10-2.

He didn’t gloat. But he may have done a tiny fist pump.

She stared at him.

“…You should sleep with one eye open tonight.”

They counted up their prize stash. 486 tickets.

The prize wall glared down at them like a middle school bully.

The plushie Yan wanted? 750.

“Lame,” she muttered.

“We could play a few more—”

She held up a hand. “Nah. I have a better idea.”

Uh-oh.

She marched over to one of the ancient skee-ball machines in the back—half-broken, screen flickering, definitely not up to code.

“Alright, Sparky,” she said, motioning to the power port under the machine, “do the thing.”

Izuku blinked. “What ‘thing’? What am I doing?”

“You’re gonna fry it.”

“That’s illegal.”

“It’s not illegal if we don’t get caught.”

“I’m—Yan, I’m not a criminal!”

“You set the gym mat on fire yesterday.”

“That was—!! Okay, that’s fair.”

She grinned. “Come on. Just a little zap. It’s on its last legs anyway.”

He sighed. Looked around.

Then quietly flicked his fingers, a soft arc of electricity sparking from his palm to the panel.

The machine stuttered.

Hummed.

Then exploded in a glorious rain of tickets.

They shot out like a paper volcano, spewing across the floor in glorious, endless strings.

Kids screamed. An employee choked on his Icee. Someone yelled, “IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN!”

Yan casually crouched, scooping up the tickets like it was a harvest. She looked far too pleased.

“See? Flawless crime.”

Izuku stared at the mess. “We’re gonna get banned.”

“Worth it.”

They walked out twenty minutes later with a plushie shark, two slap bracelets, and enough candy to rot out every molar they had.

Izuku had a sugar high.

Yan had bragging rights.

And for once… they both had fun.

No demonic training sessions

No bruises

Just neon lights and dumb prizes

This was what it felt like to be normal.

Even if just for a night.

It had been long enough—a full month—that the entire school stopped side-eyeing it.

The fact that the resident thug and the human power bank hung out?

Old news.

They still didn’t get it, of course. Rumor said he paid her to keep Bakugou off his back.

Protection fee.

Muscle for hire.

Nobody asked if she ever actually protected him.

Nobody noticed that Bakugou hadn’t even tried.

Because the real wildfire that spread—fast and loud—was that the only reason Yan and Bakugou hadn’t had a rematch since she launched him into the trophy case like a paper football… was because he was scared.

And once that hit Bakugou’s ears?

He’d been nuclear since then.

Growling at lockers. Snapping at teachers.

The air near him felt like a war was about to happen.

He was just waiting for the right spark.

Izuku walked beside Yan, the two of them lazily heading toward the practice wing after class.

Yan was glued to her phone, thumbs flying. A pixelated rhythm game blared through her headphones, screen flashing bright enough to punch a seizure into anyone with weak genetics.

She didn’t look up.

“You ever try that move you’ve been scribbling in your little nerd bible?” she asked, flicking through menus.
“What was it? ‘Furnace Fang’? ‘Fire Tooth’? Something dumb with alliteration.”

Izuku chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s, uh… ‘Open Furnace.’”

His voice dipped, sheepish.

“I haven’t really used it yet. Still working on controlling the ignition chamber. It heats too fast and I can’t compress the air pocket enough to—”

“So, nerd science. Got it. Sucks to suck.”  she muttered with a smirk, just as her eyes flicked up—and immediately soured.

"Wow," the voice sneered behind them, poisonous and loud enough to cut the air.

“Look at this pathetic little picture. Deku and his pet freak.”

Izuku froze.

Yan lowered her phone.

The music kept playing.

Bakugou.

Arms crossed.

Neck stiff.

Eyes burning with the kind of fury that didn't come from today—or yesterday—but from years ago.

Old resentment. Old bitterness.

Boiling.

"This what you do now, huh?" he spat. "Trail behind this bottom-shelf knockoff villain like she’s gonna keep you safe? Figures. You couldn’t grow a spine, so you asked someone to hold your hand for you.”

Yan groaned, yanking out her headphones. “God, you again?”

She stared at him with the expression you’d give a roach trying to negotiate rent.

“Normally I’d be more than happy to stuff you headfirst into a urinal and flush until you drown, but I’m five seconds from a high score on BlockBlast, so could you fuck off until I give a single shit? Thanks.”

“Oh shut it, freak,” Bakugou barked, snarling now. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

He stomped forward, fury in every step.

Yan’s gaze sharpened. Murderous.

Bakugou noticed—hesitated—but only for a second.

Then, like a dog chasing its own ego, he stepped right up to Izuku.

Face to face.

“You think hanging out with some street rat you pulled off the street makes you look tough?” he spat.

“Think that makes people forget what you really are?”

Izuku didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

But his shoulders stiffened.

“Everyone knows what you are.”

Bakugou leaned in closer, voice dropping to a hiss.

“You’re nothing but a charity case—an actual waste of space. A living power outlet for people too lazy to find a wall socket.”

A few students flinched.

“You’re still the same pathetic freak who used to cry in the hallway,” Bakugou said, loud now, chest rising and falling like he was on the edge of a breakdown and a fistfight.

“That useless nothing who worships All Might like a dog waiting to be put down.”

Izuku’s fists clenched. His eyes stayed down.

One of the students filming winced.

“You remember that day on the roof? The one where I told you to jump?”
He laughed, sharp and bitter.

“Should’ve done it. At least then you’d have gone out doing something useful,” Bakugou snarled.

Then—he twisted the knife.

“Or better yet…”

“You could’ve met your deadbeat dad in the afterlife. One less disappointment in the world.”

One girl actually covered her mouth.

Even some of Bakugou’s usual cheerleaders looked unnerved. That was low.

Too far. Way too far.

Yan’s eyes actually widened, she’s met and beat up assholes before, but this guy’s a whole other mess.

One whispered, “Damn…”

Another nudged their friend, phone still recording.

Izuku didn’t look up.

But the air near him shifted.

Yan blinked.

Her expression shifted.

Not to rage.

Not to surprise.

To disbelief.

She’d dealt with assholes. Beaten them to pulp. But this?

This was filth.

Her eyes glowed hot pink, energy curling around her knuckles, but she didn’t move.

She didn’t need to.

Because Izuku beat her to it.

“What did you just say?” Izuku muttered, his voice low almost silent.

Barely audible.

Yan turned, surprised.

Bakugou didn’t get the warning.

Didn’t see the air growing cold.

“I said,” Bakugou started, eyes wild with spite, “you and that deadbeat you call a d—”

The fist came faster than he could think.

Ice coated knuckles colliding with flesh, nose cartilage cracked with a wet crunch.
His body reeled back, stumbling several steps before collapsing into a nearby locker.

“GAH—!”

Blood spilled fast. Too fast

He looked at his hands, confused. Like the red was unfamiliar.

He couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t process.

Izuku was already moving.

He grabbed Bakugou by the collar with both hands—ice creeping up his wrists, crackling like frostbite.

“Keep my dad’s name…”

His voice trembled—but not with fear.
With fury.

“…out of your mouth.”

His irises glowed red, that unnatural spark of crimson lighting up his sclera like coals under pressure.

Cold.

Not the kind that stings.

The kind that sinks.

That seeps into your bones and settles there, heavy, unmoving.

The kind of cold that doesn’t hurt—

Just is.

The liquid surrounding him pulsed gently, viscous and red, like blood diluted with something... mechanical. Unnatural.

Too bright.

The overhead lights were surgical, sterile, humming like flies. The kind of brightness that erased shadows but created no warmth.

Kenji couldn’t move.

Tubes wormed into his arms, his neck—maybe deeper.

He could feel the mask sealed to his face connected to machines outside the glass, not for air, but to help him breathe this. This suffocating, medicated soup they called “suspension.”

He was a child floating in science.

A thing, not a person.

A figure passed by. A lab coat. Clipboard in hand.

They paused as his eyes fluttered.

Kenji blinked once.

Weak. Slow. His body didn’t listen.

A figure in a lab coat stopped at his chamber. Their eyes scanned a tablet—then flicked to the boy inside.

His eyes fluttered.

The scientist clicked their tongue. Mild irritation, nothing more.

“Increase the anesthetic concentration in the aqueous medium,” they said flatly.

Another technician responded with a silent nod, fingers moving across the controls. A dial turned. A switch flipped.

A soft hiss.

The liquid around Kenji shimmered slightly as chemicals surged through it—translucent clouds of sedation blooming like ink in water.

Kenji blinked. Once.

His gaze tried to follow the figure outside.

Tried to move.

But his limbs didn’t respond.

His thoughts dulled.

The light blurred.

He stared up through the rippling red—

His reflection staring back at him from the curve of the glass.

Eyes wide.

Small.

Alone.

Then—

Black.

[

Chapter Text

It was a good night.

The kind of night you wish you could bottle up and keep forever.

Warm lights glowed in the big house, the air thick with the mouthwatering aroma of katsudon simmering on the stove. Inko hummed gently as she stirred, swaying just slightly to a tune only she could hear.

And beside her—Hisashi Midoriya, sleeves rolled, wooden spoon in hand, grinning like a fool in love.

Life was good.

No... life was perfect.

But let it never be forgotten: the true ruler of this household had just entered the scene.

A sudden blur dashed through the living room, feet pattering on the wooden floor, draped in All Might pajamas two sizes too big and energy two years too early.

“Never fear!” the boy declared, one finger pointed heroically skyward,

“For I am here—”

“FOR COOKIES.”

He dove like a missile toward the kitchen counter, eyes locked on the glass jar that glittered with the promise of sugary treasure.

But just before his fingers made contact, a pair of strong arms scooped him right out of the air.

“EHHHHH! I was so close!” Izuku groaned, dangling upside-down like a squirming fish caught mid-heist.

Hisashi chuckled, flipping his son around and gently lowering him back to the ground, ruffling his hair in the process.

“Nice try, little man,” he said, smirking.

“But what’s the rule?”

“No snacks before dinner…” Izuku mumbled with all the enthusiasm of a tax form.

“Atta boy.”

“But whyyyy?” the child whined. “I swear I’ll eat everything! Scout’s honor! Hero’s honor! Cookie Monster’s honor!”

Inko turned from the stove with a smile that could’ve ended wars.

“Because you’ll spoil your taste for anything not cookies,” she said sweetly, placing a steaming bowl on the table.

“And besides, you don’t need cookies. I made your favorite.”

Izuku’s eyes widened, shimmering like a thousand stars as he stared at the glory now sitting on the table:

KATSUDON.
Fresh. Golden. Beautiful.

He gasped like it was a religious experience.

“YAAAAAAYYYYYY!!!” he cheered, scrambling into the chair with the grace of a gremlin on caffeine.

Inko set down her and Hisashi’s plates, all three gathering at the table. Laughter. Light. The clink of chopsticks and the rustle of napkins.

“Best night ever!” Izuku beamed between bites, cheeks puffed with food.

Hisashi just watched them—his wife, his son, his whole world—bathed in the golden warmth of the kitchen light.

He smiled. A quiet, content kind of smile.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “It really is.”

BZZZZT.

The phone vibrated in his pocket. Sharp. Too loud. Too sudden.

Hisashi blinked, digging it out.

“Work – Emergency Line.”

His smile dimmed. The light in his eyes flickered.

He stood up without a word and stepped aside, thumb swiping the screen.

“...Hey. Now? But I— …Alright. I’ll be there.”

The warmth drained from his face.

When he turned back to the table, he was still smiling—but now it felt… off.
The kind of smile you wear to keep things from breaking.

“Everything okay?” Inko asked, noticing the shift.

“Just a last-minute thing at work,” he said.

“They need me to pop in real quick.”

“But—but we were gonna play Smash Bros!” Izuku cried, already halfway off his chair.

Hisashi crouched beside him.

“I know, buddy. I’m sorry.”

“It’s just for a little while. I’ll be back before dawn. I promise.”

“...Pinky promise?”

Hisashi smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Still, he held out his pinky.

“Pinky promise. And I always keep my promises, right?”

Izuku hesitated, then linked fingers. “...Okay.”

Hisashi stood. Put on his coat. Slipped on his shoes.

Inko stared at him, brow furrowed.

“You sure it’s nothing serious?”

He leaned in. Kissed her cheek. Hugged her just a little too tight.

“Positive. I’ll be back before you even know I’m gone.”

He opened the door.

Looked over his shoulder.

“Protect Mom while I’m gone, little man.”

And then he stepped out into the cold.

The hallway light flickered.

The night swallowed him whole.

The sun rose.

But Hisashi never came home.

The knock came mid-morning.

Hard. Heavy.

Izuku peeked out from the hallway as Inko opened the door.

Two officers stood there. One holding his hat. The other holding nothing but bad news.

“There was an accident…”

“He lost control on the highway…”

“We’re so sorry…”

“...He didn’t make it.”

Izuku didn’t understand everything they said.

But he remembered one thing, clear as day:

He broke his promise.

“Words cannot begin to describe how disappointed I am Midoriya,”

There hadn’t even been a proper fight.

No flashy moves. No screaming. No real damage—

Except to Bakugou’s ego, and his nose.

Izuku had just grabbed him by the collar.

His hands covered in ice.

And then a teacher saw them.

Bakugou's nose was already broken.

And that was all it took.

The rest? History.

Now he was here. Sitting stiff in the office’s too-small chair.

Under fluorescent lights that made everything feel colder. Cheaper.

And across the desk—Principal Nishizawa, all jowls and sweat stains and cheap cologne, looking like he’d just been rudely interrupted from a nap he didn’t earn.

“Using your ability in the halls is bad enough,” he snapped, not even glancing at Izuku, “but against a fellow student? A peer? That’s is absolutely unacceptable behavior, Midoriya. Dangerous. Irresponsible. And frankly? Disgusting”

Izuku opened his mouth. No sound came out.

“And not just any student!” the principal continued, waving a thick hand in the air like he was presenting royalty.

“Katsuki Bakugou is one of our most promising pupils. High marks, glowing reports, and a record of consistent excellence!”

Izuku side-eyed Bakugou. The blonde sat beside him with a bandaged nose and smug little grin, like the victim of the century. He didn’t even try to look ashamed.

He hadn’t said a single word. But his smirk said plenty.

“Do you understand the seriousness of what you’ve done, Midoriya? He sustained a serious injury! That’s a broken nose!”

“You’re lucky this little stunt didn’t get you expelled—yet alone suspended!”

The principal finally looked at him. Eyes hard. Lips pursed like he was personally offended.

“Frankly, I’m still considering disciplinary action beyond suspension. A student with your... history should know better than this.”

Izuku didn’t flinch. But inside?

Every word scraped against his sanity like a rusted nail across glass.

“And don’t you even try to spin this as self-defense,” the principal sneered, adjusting his glasses. “I don’t want to hear about what he ‘said’ or how you ‘felt.’ Kids say things, Midoriya. That doesn’t give you the right to act like some kind of street thug.”

Bakugou didn’t look at Izuku, but his smirk grew just a bit wider.

“This is going on your permanent record. Assault. Ability misuse. Aggressive behavior.”

Ability misuse? Aggressive behaviour?

Is this some kind of joke?

They had never cared when Bakugou had scorched his notebooks.

Or trapped him in lockers.

Or told him to take a dive off the roof.

But now?

Now, when he finally snapped back?

Now he was dangerous. Now he was the problem

“And it’s a miracle the Bakugous didn’t press charges. Do you understand what that would’ve meant for you? Hm? Juvenile court. A criminal record. Possibly even a recommendation for Ability suppression. You’re lucky we don’t just lock you away now.”

His stomach twisted.

Ability suppression? Ability suppression?

He barely even had an ability powerful enough to bake marshmallows. But that didn’t matter. It was about the message.

Shut up. Sit down. Take it.

Let him insult you, threaten you, humiliate you.

But the moment you stand up?

You’re the problem.

The man turned to Bakugou, who was lounging like he owned the building.

“Katsuki, I want to personally apologize for this. No student should ever feel unsafe in our halls, especially someone with your record of excellence and your upcoming Hero Course potential.”

The principal turned back, straightening his tie with self-important flair.

“I suggest you take this as a lesson, Midoriya,” the principal finished, leaning back in his chair like he’d just delivered divine judgment.

“Because next time, you won’t get the benefit of mercy.”

Inko Midoriya had worried about her son before.

That kind of low-level, ever-present worry that came with motherhood. The kind that clung to your shoulders like a too-heavy coat and never quite came off.

There had been signs.

His clothes, once perfectly folded and clean, started coming home singed, torn, sometimes with edges blackened like they’d been caught in a fire.

A favorite notebook would go missing. Then another. Then another.

A bruise a little too close to the eye. A scrape on the cheek.

Red marks on his wrists he swore came from gym class.

And every time she asked?

“I tripped.”

“I fell.”

“It’s nothing.”

“I’m just clumsy.”

He lied.

She’d known from the start.

Not because she was especially clever or intuitive. But because she was his mother.

And even when he smiled, she could see it—

The panic.

The fear.

The shame.

Like he thought telling her the truth would hurt her.

Like he thought it was his fault.

After the fallout with Katsuki—back when they were still calling it “just a phase”—things changed.

Her sweet little Izuku stopped talking about heroes.

Stopped drawing in his notebooks.

Started flinching at loud noises and avoiding mirrors.

She wanted to help.

She tried.

But every time she pressed, really pressed, she saw that look in his eyes—like a caged animal begging not to be cornered.

And what do you do when your child’s in pain but won’t let you touch it?

All she could do was tell Mitsuki.

And pray Katsuki would calm down.

And pray the school would intervene.

And pray—

“There’s no bullying here, ma’am.”

“Boys will be boys.”

“We’ve seen no such behavior.”

Lies.

Gaslighting with a smile and a clipboard.

And now?

Here she was.

Sitting outside the principal’s office.

Hands twisting in her lap. Chest burning.

Because now they were calling her son the problem.

Now Izuku—her sunshine boy, her stuttering, nervous, sweetheart of a child—was the one sitting in that office accused of violence.

He had broken Katsuki Bakugou’s nose.

With a punch.

“My baby knows how to throw a punch?”

The thought didn’t even seem real.

He could barely swat a fly without apologizing to it.

And yet here they were.

The school, who had spent years pretending not to see the burn marks, the missing books, the declining grades, the panic attacks—
Now had the audacity to say he was dangerous?

That she, a single mother trying her goddamn best, had failed to raise him right?

Her nails dug into her palms. She didn’t even notice.

She wasn’t angry at her son.

God, no.

If anything, she was equal parts furious and terrified.

Because something must have happened.

Something finally pushed him too far.

And instead of asking why, instead of caring, the school slammed the door on the story and slapped her with a warning.

“We could press charges.”

“This is on his permanent record.”

Her throat burned.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to burst into that office and tell every last smug, dismissive adult in there:

“You did this.

You ignored him.

You let it happen.”

But she stayed seated.

Because mothers don’t get to scream.

They just wait.

And pray their child walks out of that office in one piece—physically, emotionally, spiritually.

Because she needed to know what happened.

She needed to hear it from him.

Not from a report.

Not from a file.

Not from some desk jockey who didn’t care enough to listen until blood hit tile.

She just wanted her son.

“Fucking brat.”

The brash voice cut through the hallway air like a slap.

“Never fails to put me knee-deep in all kinds of bullshit,” the woman muttered, heels clicking as she strutted into view.

Ash-blonde hair. Red eyes.

Rage in her bones, exhaustion in her soul. Mitsuki Bakugou dropped into a seat with all the grace of a grenade, muttering under her breath until she caught sight of someone familiar.

“Inko?”

“Oh—Mitsuki, of course they’d call you here too,” Inko said, voice soft, smile tight and thin as thread.

Her heart was still hammering. She couldn’t relax. Not yet.

“Oh, thank god,” Mitsuki exhaled, scooting closer, her voice lowering just a bit.
“I can’t apologize enough for what happened. This is on me. I should’ve smacked some sense into that moron years ago. I knew he had a mouth on him, but this? This is—”

“N-no, no, please, it’s not your fault,” Inko interrupted quickly, palms up in defense.
“I’m just—aren’t you worried about Katsuki? They did mention his nose was broken.”

The temperature dropped by a full five degrees.

“Worried?” Mitsuki scoffed, eyes twitching, a vein visibly pulsing on her forehead.
“That brat breaks bones for breakfast. If he got hurt, it’s his damn fault. Probably opened that oversized mouth again.”

A sharp, amused noise came from the side.

“Heh.”

The two mothers turned.

Leaning against the wall with one boot kicked up and the other planted firmly, stood a tall, built-as-hell girl. Short black hair. Sharp eyes. Muscles that probably had muscles. She was scrolling through her phone like she wasn’t the living embodiment of “do not test me.”

If someone said she moonlighted in underground cage matches on weekends, Inko would believe it. Hell, she’d bet money on her.

Definitely here for disciplinary reasons.
...Right?

Inko smiled nervously, about to look away—when the girl looked up. Locked eyes with her.

“You gonna talk,” she said dryly, voice deep and scratchy, “or just stare at me all day?”

Inko flinched.

“U-uh, n-no, dear, don’t mind silly me,” she said with a laugh far too high-pitched.

The girl squinted—not in aggression, but recognition.

“Midoriya, right?”

That brought Inko up short.

“Excuse me?”

“Light Show,” the girl clarified, like it was the most normal nickname in the world. “Izuku. Mint eyes. Curly hair. He’s in there, yeah? You’re his mom?”

Inko blinked. How did this girl know her son?

“I... yes, I’m his mother. Who—?”

But the girl had already moved on. Glancing around, at the chairs, the hallway. Like she was expecting someone.

Then:

“Where’s his dad?”

Inko’s breath caught.

Like someone yanked a chain in her chest and all the air got stuck mid-exit.

She smiled. Reflexively. Automatically. But it was brittle.

“He’s... late.”

That pause? That one little beat too long?

The girl caught it. You could see it in her face. Her body language shifted—less “bouncer at a punk show,” more... human.

She looked at Inko for a moment.

“I see,” she said, quieter now. “Sorry for your loss.”

The words hit Inko like a gentle slap. Unexpected. Honest.

“O-oh... that’s very kind, thank you,” she managed. “It—it happened a long time ago, so we’ve mostly recovered.”

Lies.

But she said them anyway. Because what else do you say?

And just when she thought the conversation was winding down, her brain rewound.

Wait.

Wait a damn minute.

Why the hell did this girl call her son ‘Light Show’?

She was about to ask.

About the nickname. About how that girl knew her son. About what the hell was going on.

But she didn’t get the chance.

Because at that exact moment, the door to the principal’s office slammed open like it had been kicked from the inside.

Bakugou stormed out.

Head low. Shoulders squared. Bandage still taped to the bridge of his nose like a badge of dishonor.

He didn’t even glance toward his mother.

“HEY! GET BACK HERE, YOU BRAT!” Mitsuki barked, already on her feet, voice echoing down the hall.

“Fuck off, hag,” Bakugou snapped over his shoulder—without slowing down, without looking back.

And then he was gone. Just like that.

Mitsuki stood frozen, jaw clenched, one fist half-raised in the universal “I’m going to backhand you into next week” position.

She looked five seconds away from combusting.

The tall girl leaned back against the wall again, watching the chaos unfold with a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, saying absolutely nothing—which, honestly, said everything.

Then the door creaked again.

And Izuku stepped out.

He didn’t storm. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t do anything, really.

He just… existed in that doorway like a ghost.

No fight left in him.

No fire.

Just the dim glow of someone who’d been yelled at, silenced, and blamed all in the same breath.

He didn’t meet his mother’s eyes.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t flinch when she stood up.

He simply walked to the bench opposite her and sat down—shoulders hunched, hands clenched in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Inko’s heart cracked.

“...Izuku—”

But before she could say another word—

“Mrs. Midoriya and Mrs. Bakugou,” the principal’s voice rang from the now-open doorway, tone clipped and bureaucratic,

“You may enter now.”

Both women paused.

Inko looked back at her son.

Still hunched. Still silent.

He didn’t even glance up.

But as she rose—

She saw something.

The girl from earlier, the quiet muscle-bound one leaning by the wall?

She had been watching him the entire time.

Not with pity.

Not with judgment.

Just… intent. Like she was seeing something no one else could.

The door closed behind her with a soft, solid click.

Yan stayed silent.

A rare thing.

Like she was actually... thinking.

Not weighing whether to speak, but how to speak.

Because somehow, she understood: what she said next mattered.

A moment passed. Then:

“You good?”

Eh.

Close enough.

Izuku didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t flinch.

He just stared forward, hollow-eyed, like someone watching a train leave the station with a part of themselves still on it.

Then—

“Why’d you wait for me?”

That got her attention.

She turned. Looked closer.

Not the usual kicked-puppy look. Not the wide-eyed desperation or nervous wreck energy she’d come to expect from him.

This was different.

Not broken.

Not angry.

Not anything she could name.

It made her uneasy.

“Never seen you snap like that before,” she said, eyes narrowing.
“Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Still no response.

His fists sat clenched in his lap like he didn’t know if they were still his.

Yan’s phone buzzed.

‘Mr. Politics’ – [2 New Messages].

Her lip curled in annoyance. She shoved the device back into her jacket pocket with a bit more force than necessary.

“Tch... I gotta go.”

She stood, glancing back one more time.

“Just wanted to stick around till I was sure.”

Sure of what, she didn’t say.

She didn’t have to.

As she walked away, she spared him one last side glance.

Izuku didn’t move.

Didn’t see it.

Didn’t feel it.

He just sat there, as the weight of the world began to cave in again.

“Using your ability in the halls is bad enough, but against a fellow student? A peer?”
“That’s absolutely unacceptable, Midoriya. Dangerous. Irresponsible. And frankly? Disgusting.”

“And it’s a miracle the Bakugous didn’t press charges. Do you understand what that would’ve meant for you? Hm? Juvenile court. A criminal record. Possibly even a recommendation for Ability suppression. You’re lucky we don’t just lock you away now.”

“You could’ve met your deadbeat dad in the afterlife.”
“One less disappointment in the world.”

“Hey Deku,”

“If you wanna be a hero so bad, here’s a tip: throw yourself off the roof, and maybe you’ll wake up with an ability worth not getting shit on.”
“Either way, the world gets something useful outta you for once.”

“We’re sorry, ma’am…”
“But he didn’t make it.”

The office was suffocating.

Not in temperature, but in atmosphere.

Heavy with false civility and cheap cologne.

Inko sat with her purse clutched in her lap, every muscle tense. Mitsuki sat beside her, legs crossed, arms folded, expression already sliding into “try me and die.”

Principal Nishizawa stood across the desk. Sweaty. Smug. His tone that familiar condescending politeness that made Inko want to peel her own skin off.

“Mrs. Midoriya, Mrs. Bakugou,” he said with a rehearsed smile, “thank you both for coming in on such short notice.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” Mitsuki grumbled.

“Of course, of course,” Nishizawa said quickly, hands fluttering as if to shoo away the implication.

“Now, I do wish we were meeting under better circumstances…”

He steepled his fingers dramatically.

“But I’m afraid your son, Midoriya, has caused a rather serious disruption to the school environment.”

Inko’s heart dropped.

“Izuku... he wouldn’t—”

“I understand a mother’s instinct to protect her child,” the principal interrupted smoothly, like a hand gently slapping her words aside.
“But we can’t ignore the facts. Your son used his ability in a violent altercation—unprovoked—against another student.”

“It wasn’t unprovoked—” she tried.

“We’ll get to that,” he said, in a tone that suggested no, we won’t.
Then he turned—suddenly smiling wider—toward Mitsuki.

“That said, I’d like to commend your son, Mrs. Bakugou, for showing admirable restraint under duress.”

Mitsuki blinked.

“Restraint?”

“Yes, yes. I mean, to suffer such an unexpected and—dare I say—cowardly attack and still maintain his composure?” he chuckled awkwardly.
“Truly commendable. He even refused to retaliate.”

Mitsuki’s face shifted.

Very, very slowly.

From confused…

To amused…

To murderous.

“You’re saying my son—my son—showed restraint?” she said, leaning forward.

“Ah—yes?” the principal faltered slightly. “He’s among our top performers, as I’m sure you know,” he added to Mitsuki with a smile. “Top marks, fantastic field potential, glowing reviews from nearly every teacher—”

“The boy who once threw an iron desk out a window in second grade because someone called him short?”

“Ah, well, boys will be boys, you know. Hormones, stress, competition…” He chuckled nervously like they were all in on a joke no one found funny.

Then—he turned.

That same polite tone—but colder.

Target locked: Inko.

“Now, Mrs. Midoriya…”

She tensed.

“I understand this must be… very difficult for you.”

There was something about the way he said you that made her skin crawl.

“Raising a child on your own is no small task. And Izuku… well, he’s always been a bit of a... unique case, hasn’t he?”

Inko blinked. “I—I don’t understand what that means.”

“Oh, no no, please don’t misunderstand,” he said with a fake laugh.
“He’s very bright! Very creative. Just—well, sensitive. Emotional. He’s had trouble... adjusting to the structured environment we try to maintain here.”

“And by adjusting, you mean getting bullied for five straight years?” Mitsuki snapped.

The principal cleared his throat. Forced another smile.

“We’ve never seen any formal reports, Mrs. Bakugou. And the staff have always done their best to ensure a safe environment.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Mitsuki said, voice rising. “Half the damn teachers see it and just turn away! Hell, I’ve called it out before!”

“With all due respect,” Nishizawa said, tone dipping into patronizing, “We can’t act on anecdotal claims. And it’s important to understand the difference between harmless teasing and actual misconduct.”

Inko’s hands tightened in her lap.

Harmless teasing?

“What about the burns on his arms?” she asked, voice thin. “The missing notebooks? The bruises?!”

Nishizawa tilted his head like he was trying very hard to be patient.

“Children at that age are very… imaginative. I’m sure you understand how impressionable they can be, especially those with—well, difficult emotional histories.”

Mitsuki’s jaw dropped.

“You’re blaming her?!”

“No, no, no!” he laughed again, holding up his hands. “Of course not. I simply mean that… sometimes, when a child is already struggling, it can be difficult to determine what’s real and what’s a… narrative they’ve created to make sense of their own internal conflict.”

“So what, you think he imagined being punched? You think he imagined the hospital trip?” Mitsuki’s voice was practically vibrating.

The principal’s smile started to crack, just slightly.

“We are deeply sorry for any emotional distress,” he said smoothly, already pulling out a paper from a nearby folder. “Which is why we’re asking for your cooperation in moving forward constructively.”

He slid the page across the table.

It was a disciplinary form.

“Izuku will receive a temporary suspension, just for three days. Purely to allow things to settle and show we’re treating this matter seriously. But nothing permanent, no lasting damage to his record—as long as we all agree to put this behind us.”

He looked up with a plastic smile.

“I think that’s fair, don’t you?”

Mitsuki opened her mouth.

Paused.

Then turned to Inko.

She didn’t need to say anything.

Inko could feel the words sitting right behind her teeth:

“They’re never going to admit what they’ve done.”

“This is the best you’re gonna get.”

Inko stared at the paper.

Stared at her clenched hands.

Then—nodded. Once. Tight.

“Fine.”

“Wonderful,” the principal said, smile returning like a snake uncoiling.
“And again, we’re so grateful for your understanding, Mrs. Midoriya. We know you only want what’s best for him.”

He stood. Reached out his hand like this was all just a business meeting gone well.

Inko didn’t take it.

She knew exactly what kind of man was making the rules here.

The drive home was silent.

Torturously so.

The only sound between mother and son was the soft hum of the engine. Even that felt too loud.

He hadn’t said a word since they left the school.

Not a peep. Not a whisper.

Just... silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

The kind that pressed on your chest and made you feel like crying just to breathe again.

Inko kept glancing into the rearview mirror.

He was still looking down. Head bowed. Shoulders slumped.

Like a ghost of himself.

And still—she couldn’t believe it.

No.

Her son wasn’t that kind of kid.

Izuku had never been the type to lash out. Not out of nowhere. Not without reason.

There had to be something.

Something that made him snap.

She parked the car in front of the house, the soft click of the gear shift the only thing breaking the dead air.

Izuku was already opening the door before the engine even shut off.

“I-Izuku?” she called after him, startled.
“Wait for me to lock the garage door, I—I have the house keys—”

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

Warm lights flicked on as they stepped inside.

The house was quiet. Clean. Comfortable.

Spacious. Luxurious, even. The kind of home people didn’t expect a single mother to afford.

But they knew why.

And that silent truth only made Izuku's feet move faster toward his room.

He didn’t get far.

Inko reached out and gently caught his wrist.

“Izuku.”

Her voice was soft. But firm.
The kind of tone that meant you don’t walk away from this.

He stopped.

Didn’t pull away.

Didn’t turn around.

Inko stepped closer.

“I need the truth,” she said.

“And nothing but the truth.”

He finally looked at her.

And her heart cracked like glass under pressure.

He didn’t just look sad.

He looked destroyed.

Like he wasn’t sure who he was anymore.

“What exactly,” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper,
“did Katsuki say to you? Word for word.”

Izuku didn’t answer.

Not right away.

There was a silence—long and heavy, stretching seconds into something eternal.

Then, finally—

He spoke.

His voice hoarse. Croaking. Like the words were dragging themselves up from his throat with broken glass.

“...‘Remember when I... told you to…’”

He swallowed.

‘...jump off the roof…’”

He paused, swallowing hard.

His eyes burned, but he didn’t cry.

“‘...you should’ve.’”

Inko froze.

But he wasn’t finished.

“‘Would’ve joined your dad… in the afterlife.’”

A breath hitched in her throat.

“‘One less disappointment in the world.’”

The words hung there, ugly and raw and echoing in the walls of their too-quiet house.

She let go of his wrist.

And for the first time in years, Inko Midoriya wore the same look as her son:

Like something inside had finally broken.

“That’s why you hit him?” she asked.

Her voice was barely a voice anymore.

Not angry. Not judging. Just… empty.

Izuku hesitated.

“…Yes.”

Silence.

A beat. Two. Three. Ten.

She opened her mouth to say something.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Nothing came out.

So she swallowed the scream building in her chest and said instead:

“You can go. Get some rest.”

Izuku didn’t need to be told twice.

He walked away. Quiet. Still crumbling.

Leaving his mother alone in the hallway.

She stood there. Motionless.

And in the silence that followed, one phrase repeated in her mind like a ticking bomb:

“One less disappointment in the world.”

She blinked.

The warmth of the house was gone.

Replaced with something cold and hateful.

And then—

Something inside her snapped.

Her hands clenched. Her nails dug into her palms. Her lip trembled—not with sadness, but with something sharper.

Who.

Exactly.

Does that brat think he is?

The Bakugous’ home was quiet.

And that was the first red flag.

Not the usual “Katsuki went to bed early” quiet.

Not “Mitsuki fell asleep on the couch” quiet.

No.

This was dead-air, tension-in-the-drywall, nuclear bomb timer paused at 00:01 kind of quiet.

Which, in this house?

Wasn’t peace.

It was ominous.

Just twenty minutes ago, Mitsuki’s voice had been echoing through the hall like an air raid siren.

Words like “disrespectful little shit” and “barely raised you and already regret it” had ricocheted off the walls.

Classic.

Nothing new.

And of course, she was right. But Katsuki never cared about that part.

What mattered was the shift.

Because she had picked up a call.

Gone into her room.

Shut the door.

And the house had gone still.

Katsuki sat on the couch, scrolling through his phone like it owed him money, the glow of the screen painting faint shadows over the bandage across his nose.

He saw his reflection in the screen.

Crooked white gauze. Slight swelling. Red edges.

Mocking him.

Deku hit me.

That sentence alone felt wrong.

Like someone had swapped his reality with a joke version of it.

Deku.

The walking sob story. The muttering waste of oxygen. The mop-headed nobody he let exist in his shadow out of pity.

He hit him.

The thought replayed for the hundredth time—and still didn’t make sense.

Deku.

Fucking Deku.

The human doormat.

Hit him.

Broke his nose.

Katsuki’s fingers twitched. Jaw clenched. The phantom pain pulsed under the bandage again.

He'd rewound the moment in his head over and over.

Tried to find the gap. The flaw. The logic.

But every time—same ending.

He never saw it coming.

Because in his world—Deku didn’t get to hit back.

That wasn’t how this worked.

He was supposed to be the one with the power.

The one in control.

The one who decided who got hurt and when.

He was mid-sentence—already halfway through another taunt—
And then: crack.

A flash of blue.

A ice covered fist.

Impact.

And Izuku’s eyes.

Not scared.

Not desperate.

Just done.

It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t rebellion.

It was the kind of look people had when they stopped caring whether they lived through the fallout.

Katsuki had seen it for one second.

And it had made his blood run cold.

“Keep my dad’s name… out of your mouth.”

The audacity. The gall.

What, now Deku had some moral high ground?

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to spit.

Instead, he sat there seething.

You think that makes you better than me?

One punch and suddenly he thought they were equals?

No. Fuck that.

Deku was a worm. Always had been.

He was the punching bag. The background noise.

The thing Katsuki used to remind himself that no matter how messed up things got—he was still better than someone.

And now that thing had hit him?

Hit him?

No, no, no. That wasn’t right.

It was Yan. That bitch started this. That freak with the dead eyed stare and concrete fists. Slamming him through a trophy case in full view of everyone like he was some disposable NPC.

No ability. Just brute force.

Like he wasn’t even worth using power on.

And then—then—Deku started following her around like a stray dog finally finding someone who didn’t kick him.

And this was the result.

Izuku Midoriya.

The muttering, trembling, sniveling little failure—

Hit him.

Suddenly he had backbone?

Bullshit.

Izuku fucking Midoriya did not get to hit him.

Did not get to look him in the eye like an equal.

Like a threat.

Because Katsuki had spent years crafting this world.

He was the top dog. The real deal.

He was supposed to be the strongest.

Everyone else was filler. Deku was filler.

He was the one who’d built himself.
He was the one who trained. Who earned respect. Who forced the world to recognize him.

Who the fuck does he think he is?

He squeezed his phone.

Harder.

Harder.

CRACK.

A deeper fissure tore through the screen.

He didn’t care.

That worthless rat was lucky he was suspended.

Lucky there were teachers around.

Lucky there were cameras.

Lucky there were witnesses.

Because next time?

Next time he sees him… he’s not holding back.

He’s going to rip the glow out of that bastard’s chest and grind it into the concrete.

He’s going to remind him why he was born to be stepped on.

Next time he sees him—

He’ll make sure he wishes he had jump—

“Katsuki.”

The voice cut through the air like a blade.

Not a shout. Not a screech. Not the usual barking fury he was used to hearing from his mom.

No.

This was calm.

Too calm.

He looked up from his cracked phone, brow furrowing.

His mother stood in the doorway, arms at her sides, face unreadable.

No sneer. No twitching veins. Just… stillness.

The kind of stillness that only came before an earthquake.

Katsuki blinked. Warily.

“What do you want?” he asked, carefully. Tone guarded.

“Get up for me,” she said, voice even.

“Just for a second.”

Masaru looked up from his magazine, confusion on his face. But not confusion at what she was saying—

Confusion at how she was saying it.

Because he knew this tone.

And this tone only came out for two reasons:

Funerals… or murder.

Katsuki hesitated, then scoffed.

“Tch. Fine,” he muttered, rising from the couch.
“So? Spit it out already—”

“What did you say about Hisashi?”

The room froze.

Katsuki’s mouth hung open for a second.

No sound. No movement.

Even the air held its breath.

“...What?” he muttered, blinking.

“You heard me.”

Her voice didn’t rise—but it cracked like thunder.

“What. Did you say. About Hisashi?”

Masaru sat up straight.

“Honey…?”

Mitsuki’s eyes never left her son.

“Answer the question.”

“I didn’t say sh—”

SMACK.

The sound rang out like a whip crack.

Katsuki’s head jerked to the side. A red mark bloomed instantly across his cheek.

He stared at her. Wide-eyed. Frozen.

He couldn’t remember the last time she hit him.

She’d yelled. Thrown things. Screamed him into corners.

But this?

This was different.

“M-Mitsuki—!” Masaru started, half-rising from his seat.

“Don’t you fucking lie to me,” she snarled, voice cracking into a full-blown roar.
“What the hell is wrong with you!?”

She stormed forward, grabbing his shirt in both fists, yanking him close until they were nose to nose.

“You were at the goddamn burial, Katsuki! You saw what that did to Inko!”
“You saw her break on that field like the world was ending—and now you think it’s funny? You think it’s some punchline for your sick little power trip?!”

Spit flew with every word. Her breath came in heaving gasps.

Katsuki didn’t move. He couldn’t. He could only stare—eyes wide, ringing in his ears louder than any explosion he’d ever made.

“DO I NEED TO REMIND YOU,” she shouted, shaking him slightly with every syllable,
“That if it weren’t for Hisashi, you wouldn’t even be alive long enough to talk your shit?! Huh?!”

“You think you just popped out of me like magic?! That your life just happened on its own?”

“Hisashi Midoriya saved my damn life during labor! You were crowning sideways and I was bleeding out and that man—that man you spat on—he carried me to the hospital like his own wife was dying!”

Tears brimmed in her eyes now, but they didn’t soften her rage. They fueled it.

“You wouldn't even have a fucking name if it weren’t for that man.”
“And you throw him in Inko’s face like he was trash?”

She released him—shoved him back a step.

Not hard. Not violent. Just disgusted.

“What kind of man are you turning into, Katsuki?”

Her voice cracked on his name.

And that’s what shook him the most.

Because she didn’t sound angry anymore.

She sounded tired.

Tired of yelling.

Tired of making excuses.

Tired of watching her son rot into someone she didn’t recognize.

Masaru stood in the doorway now, silent. Pale.

Because even he hadn’t heard that story.

Mitsuki’s voice faded into silence.

But the weight of her words lingered like ash in the air.

She didn’t yell again. Didn’t move.

Just stared at her son like she didn’t even recognize him anymore.

Katsuki stood there—still hunched slightly from the shove. Red mark glowing across his cheek like a brand. His hands were curled into tight, trembling fists.

And for a moment, just a moment, it looked like maybe—maybe—he understood.

Then his lip curled.

“Tch.”

That was all it took.

Mitsuki’s heart sank.

He looked up at her. Eyes no longer wide.

Now they were cold. Hardened.

He wiped the spit from his cheek with the back of his hand and sneered.

“So that’s it, huh?” he muttered.
“You hear one sob story from Deku’s side, and suddenly I’m the villain now?”

Mitsuki blinked. “Are you—are you actually serious right now?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t play favorites too,” Katsuki hissed. “You’re just like the rest of them. The moment he finally grew a pair and swung once, you all act like he’s some kind of hero now.”

He pointed to his bandaged nose.

“He’s the one who threw the punch. He used his ability in the halls. But I’m the problem? I’m the monster? Because I said something?”

Mitsuki stared at him, stunned.

“You told him to die, Katsuki.”

“Yeah?” he snapped. “And he’s still breathing, isn’t he? So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is—you meant it!”

“So what if I did?!”

His voice cracked—loud, venomous, like a dog backed into a corner.

“You think I’m the only one who ever said that shit to him? Please. You don’t know what it’s like having to watch some nobody get handed sympathy just for existing. Like he’s entitled to everything just because his dad croaked!”

That was it.

Mitsuki reeled back slightly like she’d just been physically struck.

And Katsuki wasn’t done.

“He’s been pretending to be a victim since day one. Always looking for someone to feel sorry for him. Crying behind lockers like that made him important. Like he mattered more than the rest of us.”

“Well, guess what?” he spat.
“He doesn’t. He never did.”

He stepped forward, defiant, glaring into his mother’s eyes with pure hate.

“And if you think I’m just gonna roll over and let him act like he’s better than me now?”

“You’re outta your damn mind.”

Mitsuki stared at him—silent, unblinking.

And what terrified her wasn’t the anger.

It was how genuinely convinced he sounded.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

“Next time I see that bastard, I’ll remind him exactly where he belongs.”

He stormed past her.

Mitsuki didn’t stop him.

Didn’t scream.

Didn’t chase.

Because she saw it now.

There was nothing to reach.

Not tonight.

Maybe not ever.

She just turned to Masaru, who had been watching the whole thing, stunned into silence.

“...He’s not okay,” Masaru whispered.

Mitsuki didn’t respond.

She was too busy watching the hallway Katsuki had vanished down.
Jaw tight. Hands clenched.

Because now she wasn’t just afraid of who her son had become.

She was afraid of what he was going to do next.

Izuku lay face down on his bed.

Still. Quiet.

He’d been awake for a while now—maybe an hour, maybe more—but the thought of getting up didn’t even register as a real option.

His alarm had been blaring for over twenty minutes.

The same shrill tone, over and over again.

A sound designed to shake people out of sleep, to jolt them into movement.

But for him?

It barely even registered.

It was just another noise now.

Like rain against the windows.

Like static in his brain.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for it.

Didn’t even flinch.

The room was warm. Too warm.

His body sunk into the mattress like he was trying to disappear into it, face buried in the pillow, breath hot and shallow.

Eyes open. Blank.

He could see the fabric’s weave inches from his face.

Every tiny thread, every wrinkle, every lint particle illuminated in hazy morning light.

But it all felt… distant. Like he was underwater. Watching the world through a glass wall.

There was no school today.

Suspension, after all.

No expectations. No responsibilities.

Just… nothing.

And for some reason, that made it worse.

He’d never thought about how much of his life was structured around noise—around rushing, planning, pretending he was okay just long enough to get through the day.

Now there was none of that.

Just him.

Him and the weight pressing down on his back like gravity had gotten personal.

He could feel the numbness stretching across his limbs.

Not tiredness. Not soreness.

Just that heavy, dull ache that came with giving up on the idea of motion altogether.

Would he get up eventually?

Maybe.

But right now?

The odds were low.

And the progress?

Snail’s pace.

ZZZMM! ZZZMM! ZZZMM!

The sudden vibration startled him.

He blinked.

…his phone was ringing?

For a second, he just stared at it.

As if it were some foreign object that had appeared out of thin air.

Slowly—clumsily—he reached for it, nearly fumbling it off the edge of the bed before catching it with a sleepy sort of desperation.

He squinted at the screen.

Unknown Number? No…

His brow furrowed.

YAN.

Written in bold, all caps, like the phone itself had attitude.

His eyes widened a little.

Then narrowed in suspicion.

Why would she—? How does she—? Who gave her my number—?

He swiped up anyway.

“Uhm… hello?”

There was nothing for a moment.

Just crunchy background noise—cars, wind, distant yelling—like the phone had been dropped in a street fight.

He was just about to hang up, assuming it was a butt dial, when—

“Oh good. You picked up.”

Her voice was blunt, sharp around the edges. Like she’d already been talking and just expected him to catch up.

Izuku froze, thumb hovering over the red hang-up button.

“W-why are you calling me?” he mumbled. “How did you even—shouldn’t you be in class?”

There was a pause.

And then, in that same deadpan tone:

“You really think I give a shit about class?”

He paused.

“...Fair point.”

A soft ding lit up his screen. A message.

A dropped pin. Location sent.

Some park he barely recognized.

“Meet me here after school,” she said before he could speak.

“And don’t give me any excuses. I know you’ve got nothing better to do.”

He blinked at the screen. At the message. At the way she didn’t even bother waiting for confirmation before assuming he’d show.

Honestly?

She was right.

He sighed softly.

“Okay…” he murmured.

“Good,” she replied. “Wear something that doesn’t make you look like a half-dead sock.”

Click.

The call ended.

He stared at the screen for a long moment, processing.

“...Half-dead sock…?”

Then he sat up.

Sluggishly. Awkwardly.

But for the first time all day—

He moved.

Izuku walked along the sidewalk, glancing down at his phone like it had personally betrayed him.

He wore a green bomber jacket, white t-shirt underneath, black pants, and a pair of red sneakers that made his steps louder than he liked.

But his real concern?

Was the address on his screen.

According to his phone, he was standing in front of a peaceful, tree-filled park with walking trails, benches, and a playground.

He lowered the screen.

Looked up.

This was a demolition site.

Huge machines roared across the field like mechanical beasts.

Bulldozers clawed at the ground.

Excavators tore up what was left of the path.

Lamp posts were snapped in half like toothpicks.

Benches were flipped like someone lost a Pokémon battle on them.

It was chaos.

The earth was cracked open like a battlefield.

Dust in the air. Steel groaning.

A place for chaos—not conversation.

He glanced back at the image on his screen. Lush. Pristine. Picturesque.

He looked up again.

“What the—”

"AH!"

Izuku nearly jumped out of his shoes.

Yan was suddenly standing right in front of him.

No footsteps. No warning.

Just appeared—like she’d risen from the rubble itself.

“Wh—when did you—?!”

He stopped mid-sentence.

She wasn’t looking at him.

Just staring ahead, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the destruction like the machines were personally offending her.

The wind tugged at her sleeveless black shirt, revealing lean muscle packed into every inch of her frame. Her dark brown cargo pants had scuff marks and ash stains like she'd wrestled a forest fire on the way here.

Her voice was flat. Irritated.

“Damn it.”

Only then did she glance at him.

“Didn’t expect them to start this early.”

Another metal beam came crashing down in the distance. Dust puffed up like smoke.

She sighed. Like she was dealing with mildly inconvenient weather.

Then turned, already walking.

“C’mon. I’ll find another spot.”

“W-wait, we’re not—?” he started to ask.

But she was already halfway down the next street.

‘Guess that answers that.’

He scrambled after her, not wanting to get left behind. Again.

Their footsteps echoed against the pavement as they walked side by side, a city block between them and the demolition site now.

Yan led the way, not saying anything at first. She walked like someone who didn’t waste time with small talk—or sidewalks, for that matter, cutting across streets without checking both ways. Izuku trailed a few steps behind, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, still wondering if this was a trap.

He finally broke the silence.

“You, uh… didn’t answer my question.”

She didn’t slow.

“Which one?”

“Why’d you call me.”

“Told you,” she said, casually hopping off a curb.
“Had nothing better to do.”

“Seriously?” he muttered.

“No.”

A beat.

“But it’s easier than saying I didn’t wanna leave you face-planted in bed with your guts twisted like ramen.”

He blinked.

“…You knew I was in bed?”

“You give off ‘depression burrito’ energy,” she deadpanned, before pausing to face him, “Yesterday’s still eating you alive?”

Izuku hesitated.

“…Kinda.”

They walked in silence a little longer. The wind blew gently. A car passed. The city felt far away.

Then—

“Never seen you lash out like that,” Yan said, like it was just another observation.
“Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Izuku’s steps faltered.

“I—I didn’t mean to hit him that hard,” he said quickly.

“It just… happened.”

“You should’ve hit him harder,” she snapped without missing a beat.
“He said something you don’t say. He fucked around. He found out.”

Izuku didn’t respond.

And for a moment… it almost felt peaceful.

Until Yan spoke again. Quieter this time.

“You miss him?”

That caught him off guard.

“H-huh?”

“Your dad,” she said, casually unwrapping a stick of gum and popping it in her mouth.

“You miss him, right?”

Izuku looked down. Eyes flicking to the cracks in the pavement.

“...Yeah,” he said, voice small.

“But I shouldn’t ha—”

“Oh, shut up.”

The words hit like a slap—sharp and sudden.

Izuku flinched on instinct.

She turned, full stop.

Sneer gone.

Eyes narrowed.

“That. That right there is the one thing I can’t stand about you.”

She stepped closer, jabbing her finger into his chest—not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point.

“You always talk yourself down. Always. No matter what happens, no matter who says what, you find a way to blame yourself.”

“You always act like you’re the problem. Like the second you finally throw a punch after years of getting stomped on, it’s your fault the other guy bleeds.”

“You talk yourself out of every ounce of self-respect you try to grow. Every time someone hurts you, your first instinct is to wonder what you did wrong.”

“You think loving your dad—missing him—is selfish? That standing up for him is crossing a line?”

Izuku opened his mouth, but she barreled on:

“You think finally standing up for yourself makes you the villain? That the second you draw a line and swing back, you’re suddenly a bad person? Let me make this real simple: you got pushed, cornered, and baited with the worst shit someone could say. And instead of breaking down and crying like you used to, you finally punched back.”

“Good.”

Her gaze sharpened.

“You’re not wrong for defending what’s yours. Especially when it’s someone who meant something to you.”

Izuku didn’t say anything.

He just stood there, stunned by how blunt—but right—it all sounded.

She scoffed, eyes cutting away like she couldn’t even look at him.

“The only reason I bother with you is because I thought, maybe, just maybe, you were trying to change. That somewhere in that cluttered, self-hating skull of yours, there was a version of you that gave a shit enough to stop letting people walk all over you.”

She turned to walk again.

“Don’t make me regret thinking that.”

“...Thanks,” he said quietly.

She didn’t answer.

Not with words.

But her shoulders relaxed just slightly.

A few minutes passed as they walked in silence again.

“What was he like?”

Izuku looked up, caught off guard.

Yan wasn’t looking at him.

Just chewing her gum, jaw moving slow and steady, eyes fixed on the road ahead like she hadn’t just asked something heavy.

“Your dad,” she added casually. “Was he… like you?”

He blinked.

Then gave a soft, sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“No. Not really.”

He smiled, small but real.

“He was… loud. Goofy. He used to play video games with me when I was little—even the ones he bought for himself but pretended he didn’t.”
“He’d do those dumb voices for the characters. Always said I could beat him if I tried hard enough, even though I never won.”

Yan smirked faintly, not turning to face him.

“Sounds cool.”

“Yeah,” Izuku muttered, voice barely above a breath.
“He was. I miss him every day.”

There was a pause.

Nothing dramatic—just silence settling around them like a warm blanket.

Then, suddenly—

Yan stopped walking.

Hard. Abrupt.

“We’re here.”

Izuku nearly walked right past her.

“W-where is here?” he asked, catching himself.

She tilted her head toward the space ahead.

“Take a look for yourself.”

Izuku stepped past her, blinking as the view opened up in front of him.

They’d reached the edge of a slight hill, a worn footpath curving through overgrown grass and leading up to a quiet overlook. No signs. No fences. No crowds.

Just… space.

And at the edge of it?

A breathtaking view of the city.

The skyline stretched out across the horizon, washed in the golden tones of late afternoon sun. The buildings stood tall but distant, softened by light and framed by trees rustling in the gentle breeze.

From here, the chaos of the city felt… small.

Manageable.

Almost beautiful.

Izuku took a slow step forward.

“Whoa…”

Yan didn’t say anything at first.

She just walked over to a patch of concrete half-covered in faded graffiti and sat down like she’d done this a thousand times.

“Found this place a few years ago,” she said, tugging at a weed poking through the pavement.
“Used to come here when I was pissed off. Still do, sometimes.”

She popped her gum again.

“You yell up here, no one hears it. Punch the ground, nobody calls the cops.”

Izuku sat beside her slowly, still taking it all in.

“It’s… really nice.”

“Yeah. And it’s mine,” she said. Then glanced at him.

“Well, ours. I guess. Temporarily. Don’t get comfortable.”

He smiled faintly.

“Thanks… for bringing me here.”

Yan shrugged like it was nothing. But she didn’t look away.

“You needed somewhere to breathe. I figured… if this place helped me, it might help you too.”

As the breeze swept over the hill, the two of them sat in rare silence—neither needing to fill it.

The sun had dipped lower now. Shadows stretched longer across the city, casting gold across the rooftops.

Yan stood, dusting off her pants, stretching her arms like a cat after a nap.

Izuku still sat, legs dangling off the edge, eyes distant.

She looked down at him.

Chewed her gum once.

Then asked, casually—

“What was his name?”

Izuku blinked, then turned to her.

There was a pause, like the question surprised him.

“My dad?”

She nodded once.

He hesitated.

Then said it, soft. Reverent.

“Hisashi.”

Something in the air shifted.

Yan’s jaw didn’t clench.

Her eyes didn’t widen.

But her chewing stopped.

Just for a second.

Then she looked away—back toward the city.

“...Huh.”

That was all she said.

Just “Huh.”

Izuku glanced at her, confused.

But she didn’t explain.

She just stuffed her hands in her pockets and started walking.

“C’mon. We’re burning daylight.”

Chapter Text

The lake was still.

Not silent, not dead—just… still.

Water rippled softly beneath the wooden dock, glinting orange with the glow of the late afternoon sun.

Birds chirped somewhere in the distance.

Dragonflies skimmed the surface.

It should’ve been peaceful.

But not for Izuku.

He sat near the edge of the dock, legs swinging over the water, fishing rod in hand, his brow furrowed with that distinct brand of kid frustration that made everything feel like the end of the world.

The bobber drifted in the water.

Then—jerk!

He yelped, pulling too late, too slow. The line snapped clean.

Again.

“Argh!” he groaned, teeth clenched.

“That’s the third time!”

The fish stole another bait. Just like the last one. And the one before that.

Izuku’s hands gripped the rod tighter, knuckles whitening.

“Stupid fish, stupid rod, stupid everything—!”

He raised the pole like he was ready to chuck it straight into the lake—

And a firm hand caught it mid-throw.

“Whoa, whoa there, little man,” Hisashi said with a small chuckle.
“Pretty sure you need the rod to catch the fish.”

Izuku froze.

Then slumped, defeated, letting the rod fall back to his lap.

Hisashi plopped down beside him on the dock, setting his own rod down lazily.

“That same fish get you again?”

Izuku nodded, eyes fixed on the water.

“Keeps stealing the bait. Like it knows…” he muttered.

“Smart fish,” Hisashi said.

“Dumb fish,” Izuku pouted.

Hisashi let out a soft laugh and ruffled his son’s hair gently.

But then, his expression shifted—just slightly. Softer. Calmer.

He could see it. That something was wrong.

Not just about the fish.

Not just about lost bait.

“Alright,” he said after a pause, “what’s really eating at you?”

Izuku didn’t answer.

His shoulders hunched just a little more.

Hisashi waited. Didn’t press.

Then reached into the cooler and popped open a juice box with the dramatic flair of a man pretending it was the best beer in the world.

He took a long, ridiculous sip, and sighed.

“You know…” he started, voice lighter, “when I was a kid, I used to be terrified of the water.”

Izuku blinked. “Really?”

“Mhm. Wouldn’t even touch it. Thought lakes were full of swamp monsters. One time I saw a koi fish and screamed like someone stabbed me.”

A small laugh slipped out of Izuku before he could stop it.

Hisashi smiled.

“Didn’t try to swim. Didn’t try to fish. Sat on the dock with my life jacket on like it was armor and glared at the water like it had insulted my mom.”

“What changed?”

Hisashi leaned back, gaze lifting to the orange sky.

“One day, my dad looked at me and said:
‘You lose the battles you never fight.’”

He turned to Izuku.

“That line stuck with me. Still does.”

Izuku tilted his head.

“...Even with fish?”

“Especially with fish,” Hisashi said, grinning.
“You can’t win if you quit. Can’t catch anything if you throw the rod away. Can’t find out who you are if you walk away before it even starts.”

Izuku stared at the water again.

His fingers fidgeted with the line.

The ache in his chest hadn’t gone away, but somehow… it felt lighter.

Hisashi nudged him gently with his shoulder.

“I don’t know what’s bothering you. I won’t make you talk if you’re not ready.”

He tapped his son’s chest, right where the heart sat beating under the green hoodie.

“But whatever it is—you don’t have to face it alone. Just don’t give up before the fight even starts.”

Izuku didn’t speak.

But he didn’t throw the rod, either.

He cast again.

And this time, when the bobber twitched—

He was ready.

This time, he wasn’t losing.

The cafeteria buzzed with casual energy.

Not chaotic—just noisy in that usual midday kind of way.

Trays sliding across counters.

Chopsticks tapping against styrofoam.

Laughter echoing in distant pockets of the room.

For once, it was kind of… normal.

Izuku sat near the far wall, tucked into a corner seat at one of the less-crowded tables. His tray was barely touched—some rice, half a sandwich, and a soda he hadn’t opened yet. He stared at it as if it might judge him if he picked it up wrong.

Yan was sitting across from him, devouring a protein bar like it owed her money, already halfway into a second one.

“You gonna eat that?” she asked, eyeing his untouched sandwich.

“I… think so?” he replied.

“Wrong answer.”

It was gone before he could second guess himself, swallowed in two chews.

Izuku offered a weak smile—still haunted from the last few days, but better. Finally summoning the courage to open his soda.

Sure there were the occasional stares but a single glance from Yan was more than enough to cut them short.

It was almost peaceful.

Almost.

Then—

slam.

A tray slammed down at the table behind them like a gavel calling court into session.

The buzz of conversation didn’t die immediately—just dipped, like the air itself flinched.

“Well, well, well…”

Izuku didn’t need to turn around.

He knew that voice.

It was the kind of voice that dripped poison just for the joy of it.

“If it isn’t the little glowstick bitch and his personal bodyguard.”

Why?

Izuku’s jaw clenched.

Bakugou.

And judging by the tone, he was already seeking violence.

Yan stopped chewing.

Slowly.

Izuku stayed still, hands tight around the edge of the tray.

Bakugou kept going, louder now.

“What’s the matter? Still crying about your nose-breaking stunt? Hope you’re enjoying suspension while the rest of us do real work.”

Is this it?
Is this how I’m going to live my life?

“You think one punch makes you tough now? You forget how many times I’ve knocked you flat on your back?” Bakugou said, his voice rising.

“You throw a tantrum because I called your deadbeat daddy what he is, and suddenly you’re a badass? Don’t kid yourself.”

He leaned against their table now, smug expression and bruised ego on full display.

“You know what really pisses me off, though?” Bakugou continued, louder now.
“You actually had the balls to get mad when I mentioned your dad.”

Izuku's breath stuttered.

His juice box was trembling. But not from his hands.

Yan’s eyes narrowing. Not looking at Bakugou—yet.

She was looking at the frost crawling up Izuku’s soda.

He calls his name like trash and I do nothing? Wait for someone else to stand up for me?

“You’ve always been pathetic,” Bakugou hissed, leaning forward now. “You were born a disappointment, and you’ll die a disappointment. No wonder you hang around trash like her. She’s the only one too dumb to see what a waste you are.”

Still no reaction.

No rebuttal.

Just quiet.

“You know what?” Bakugou said, smirking now.

“I wish your dad was here. Just so he could see what a worthless sack of shit his son turned into.”

He gripped the tray tighter. The frost creeped. Crawled. But he stayed still.

Is this it?

Is this how it’s going to be?

Every day, the same cycle.

Bakugou throws poison, and the world just nods along.

He takes it. Swallows it.

Smiles through it.

Pretends he’s fine.

Is that all I am?

The weak kid who gets walked on?

The boy everyone forgets until they need to charge a phone?

Even now… after everything…

He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t even looked at him.

Because some part of him still thought if I don’t react, maybe he’ll stop.

But he didn’t.

He NEVER did.

So is this what I am? Forever?

“Hell, maybe that’s why he offed himself in the first place. Took one look at you and realized that—”
“that was his legacy. That was what he made. And he couldn’t take it.”

The atmosphere shifted.

The frost spread. Across the table. Crawling up the base of the soda.

Whispering across the metal tray like veins of ice.

Izuku blinked slowly.

And just like that—

He made a choice.

Bakugou kept going.

“What, cat got your tongue? Can’t open your mouth unless you're crying? Answer me, you little—”

Cough.

Bakugou stopped.

Tried to speak again. Failed.

Cough.

He took a step back, confused.

His throat tightened.

His mouth opened—but no air came.

Panic.

Quick. Immediate.

He clawed at his chest.

Coughed harder. Nothing came out.

His lungs burned. Like something invisible had cut him off.

His knees buckled, just slightly. But pride locked them in place.

His skin turned a sickening shade of purple.

His face contorted. Mouth gaping.

No air.

People started noticing.

Heads turned.

Bakugou’s hand slammed the table for balance.

Eyes wide. Veins bulging. He was choking on nothing.

Yan watched, one brow slowly arching as realization dawned.

A slow, crooked smile spread across her face.

Izuku hadn’t moved.

Still facing forward.

Still not looking.

The only thing that moved—was his soda.

Which now sat frozen solid.

And then—

It stopped.

Bakugou collapsed against the edge of the table, gasping.

Sucking in air like it was gold. His whole body trembled, every breath scraping his throat like razors.

His vision cleared.

And finally—finally—Izuku looked at him.

Red eyes.

Glowing.

Cold.

Empty.

“I won’t tell you twice, Katsuki,” Izuku said. Calm. Cold.

“Keep my dad’s name out of your mouth.”

It took Bakugou a moment to fully register what happened.

But when he did?

“Feral” wouldn’t even come close.

“You— you LITTLE SHIT! I’M GONNA—”

“You’re going to what?” Izuku interrupted, voice razor-sharp.
“Hit me? Say my dad’s name again?”

Bakugou froze.

So did everyone else.

The entire cafeteria went dead still.

Even the buzz of fluorescent lights felt too loud now.

“Did… he just—?”
“Shh—dude, shut up, something’s happening.”

Izuku stood up slowly. Calmly.

He reached into his pocket and unfolded his glasses, slipping them on with unsettling ease.

His voice didn’t rise.

It didn’t need to.

His eyes gleamed—not with tears, but heat.

A thousand unspoken things finally ripping themselves free.

“For as long as I can remember,” he said, voice clear and steady,

“You’ve gone out of your way to belittle me. Humiliate me. Tear me down—for nothing. Didn’t matter if I deserved it. Didn’t matter if I was minding my own business. You just… needed to remind me that I was beneath you.”

He scanned the room.

“And you know what? None of you stopped it.”

The words hit the air like a hammer.

Students looked away. Some flinched.

A few had the audacity to scoff.

But the guilt?

The guilt was loud.

“I used to think maybe I did something wrong. Maybe I deserved it.”

“Maybe if I smiled more. Apologized more. Tried harder—you’d stop.”

His voice trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer effort of keeping it controlled.

“But it never did. No matter how much I bled for your approval, it was never enough.”

Yan didn’t speak.

But the smirk on her face was loud enough to make up for it.

He looked back at Bakugou.

“You made my life hell. Every day. And I let you.”

“I let you step on me, laugh at me, treat me like garbage because I thought if I just took it—if I endured long enough—you’d grow out of it.”

His eyes narrowed behind the lenses.

“But you didn’t grow. You just got louder.”

“So guess what?” he said, stepping forward.

“I’m done.”

“I don’t care if I get expelled. I don’t care if I’m blacklisted, if they erase my name from the school entirely—I’m done taking your shit.”

His voice cracked—sharp, full of years’ worth of cuts finally allowed to bleed.

“You’re not better than me. You’ve never been better than anyone. You’re just an insecure little bitch who throws tantrums because deep down you know the truth.”

“You’re scared.”

The cafeteria was silent.

Dead quiet.

Bakugou’s face twitched.

That twisted, entitled snarl returned to his lips like it was the only expression he knew.

“Spare me the therapy session, Deku. You’re not in my league. You’re not even in my shadow. I let you breathe in my air out of pity.”