Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Izuku’s pen hit the table with a dull thud. Pencil lead dust puffed into the air from the speed of his hand as he raised it to press under his eyes. A headache had churned under the muscles behind them for hours—like hot knives stabbing and prodding at everything he was.

His tongue was sour. His ears carried a faint ringing from the scuffle outside school—some kid picking on him, and then on his best friend. One of the few he had, at least, and Izuku had tried to handle it himself.

He recalled it vividly. The thumping of shoes on pavement. Running toward a fight he could never realistically win. It was started in a vain attempt to protect his honor, something he didn’t really have much of anymore. But then, the first swing from his friend, then the retaliatory punch.

That's when Izuku got involved, throwing a punch, getting knocked down. Getting up and trying again, scrambling away as other students shouted that teachers were coming to break it up. Dragging his best friend out of the scuffle he’d caused, smiling and saying he’d take the fall. All while trying to ignore the ache in his knuckles, each throb following him into class minutes later.

His gaze shifted from the broken skin of his knuckles to the bitten, ripped-up fingers and nails, jagged and uneven. Sometimes he wished he had a quirk that let him heal fast; sometimes he wished for any quirk at all.

But those wishes meant nothing with no shooting stars to guide them. 

The worst part of being quirkless, other than the lack of something that made you unique, was always being at a disadvantage. Everyone else had something—power, fire, claws, speed. Izuku only had fists that broke and a body that couldn’t keep up. They could make him cry without even trying, and he had nothing to fight back with that could compare to a superpower. 

But. The other kid had cried worse. He had made sure, because if he was going to fight with nothing, then he would not lose to someone unwilling to hurt him badly enough to make him stop. That's why his hands were a ruin of bruises and ripped skin, singing praises to agony as he kept them under the extra length of the sleeves he wore.

He rubbed another attempt at calming the ache behind his eyes, trying to ignore the other problems that screamed across his body. The ringing in his ears, the ache in his shoulder that made tears prick his eyes—those were fine. Bearable. Just a dull burn that pulsed like smoldering coals beneath the skin. Cooling, but always ready to flare hot again if he moved wrong.

He couldn’t go to the nurse for this, no matter how much he wanted to. He didn’t want to make his parents worry about him—more than they already did. They had far more important things coming up than another schoolyard quarrel. So, as All Might had shown him, he smiled. He could wait for the pain to pass, for his body to heal, so long as his parents never found out.

That smile was paper-thin, and he knew it. His cheeks ached from forcing it so often, but he kept it there anyway. If he didn’t smile, the cracks underneath might show—the heaviness in his chest, the gnawing thought that he was just making everything harder for everyone. That maybe the world would move smoother if he stopped trying so hard.

Heat flared behind his eyes from his racing thoughts, the headache, the common problem he always had to deal with. The other aches and pains were temporary; the current, daily, mind-bending agony of a flash-hot migraine was just a symptom.

Of what?

His doctor said it was because he was quirkless. His father had worried it was a tumor. His mother had cried at the thought. But the MRIs, the tests—they all came back negative. His only “medical problem” was being quirkless, so everyone blamed that.

But to him, it felt like embers were buried behind his eyes, flaring and dimming with every heartbeat. Every throb was a reminder that something inside him was broken, or worse, something waiting to break. While others chalked it up to his quirklessness, Izuku wasn’t so sure.

With a sigh, he closed his aching eyes, tucking his head within the nest of his arms. All he wanted to do was attempt to nap the final minutes of math away, to ease the ache behind his eyes. To ignore the world for just a moment.

But he was never so lucky; the bell tolled through the classroom.

Sharp, metallic, endless.

Izuku jumped, pain flaring brightly as the joyful sound grated against his skull.

For everyone else, it meant freedom, the end of math’s timeless hell. Students leapt from their chairs—some glancing at him with that mix of pity and unease, others ignoring him completely as if he were invisible.

To Izuku, the sound was different. 

Not in the sense of anything concrete, but the sound of a bell had become something sinister. A sound that caused his mind to fall into a spiral he couldn’t save himself from.

To him, it was the same bell that haunted his dreams, the one that tolled over and over again behind stone walls and ash-filled skies. Like a summons. Or a judgment. Or a damnation.

An ending he couldn’t see, no matter how much he slept. A pain he couldn't quell, no matter how much he tried.

Another toll. 

Another flash of pain.

All of a sudden, he was alone in the classroom, and more pain flared behind his eyes. In moments like these, he just wanted to dig the offending organs out and find what was causing this pain. 

Another strike. 

He pressed his head further into his arms, pressing hard at his ears to try and reduce the agony in his skull.

Every strike was a reminder that he was falling further behind, that his struggles were meaningless. That no matter how hard he tried, just noise was enough to ruin his day. That simple things like a bell were stronger than the quirkless kid.

Another ring. More pain. Sometimes, he swore they made it ring more and more just to hurt him.

Each ring reminded him he wasn’t meant to rise at all, that he was meant to stay in that chair. In sleep and stay in those suffocating dreams. That he had nothing better to do with his life, beyond suffering the agony behind his eyes, like it was his only gift from god.

Sometimes he thought it was, he was given pain instead of a quirk, and sometimes he believed that whoever he took the pain from had a quirk great enough to be worth it. He prayed that it was the case, because then the pain, the dreams that led to the migraine, the bell. It would all at least be worth it somehow.

But, sometimes, in those dreams, no matter how daunting they were and no matter how horrible he felt in the morning. They were the only time he didn’t feel the pain behind his eyes. So… maybe that was the gift he was given?

Another ring, he felt tears well up in his eyes. 

At that moment, his thoughts weren’t about the piles of homework, the tests he had coming up, or the walk back to the dorm. They were darker, heavier. Abstract in a way only delirium and pain could cause.

“What if I just didn’t answer the bell one day in those dreams? 
What if I stopped running to it in those dreams?”

But then, he would have no reprieve from the agony of his head. He knew that, so an even darker thought bloomed through the pain, “So… what if I stopped pretending I could keep up here in a world that was leaving me behind?”

After all, there were ways to make the pain in his head stop, and the dreams to cease their call. Many ways, all of which sounded easier than waking up each morning.

The thoughts burned in him, shameful and tempting in equal measure. He forced it down, but it lingered, like the after-echo of the toll. Like the pain in his skull.

He pushed his chair back shapely, breath struggling to enter his lungs. 

He was the only quirkless one in that class. 
The only quirkless in the entire school.
Likely the only quirkless within fifty miles.

U.A. had only in the last year opened their doors to the quirkless since its founding. And even then, no other student had tried. 

Other than him..

He had even tried for the Hero Course.
He tried. And he had failed.
He had learned.

He had learned the hard way. A broken arm. The suffocating fear of training machines meant for heroes to be with powers. Being saved by some boy whose scream rattled the walls and earth. Put to sleep by a girl’s quirk while he panicked and sobbed in pain.

The only good thing from that attempt was that he finally got it through his head, after so many years of being told he would never achieve his goal. 

He had finally given in.

Not even his best friends from junior high had defended that dream.

But, back when he was in the earliest grades, he had been told he could. By his classmates, his teachers, they all had seen no problem with a quirkless holding the goal of hero. But that was ten years ago.

And ten years ago, quirkless discrimination hadn’t even been bad enough for kids to understand it. But as the years passed, it only grew sharper, crueler, like a knife honed on repetition.

So, like a flame fading with no one left to tend it, his dream burned low, leaving only ash and cinders. With hands that barely knew other hopes, he tried to rewrite those dreams. Over the last few months of his first year at U.A., he had tried. Really tried.

He did.

But nothing felt as… irreplaceable in his chest as being a hero others could rely on. To give his parents, and—

He let out a sigh as he stood, stretching an ache in his chest away, trying to put down the bitter thoughts that had begun to plague him since he found out.

A new member of the family. 

A baby. 

A newborn sibling.

Just hours away today.

The thought made his stomach squeeze, a lead ball settling in the back of his throat. Uncomfortable, bitter, sick, worried… fearful. All of it at once. All of it wrong, and he knew it was, but… but he couldn't help it.

When he was told four months ago that bitterness had been rage. The same day he tried to tell them he got into U.A., his mother surprised him, interrupting in excitement to share the news of this new sibling; five months had already passed before they had told him. Though they had only found out two months in, that meant they had kept it from him for three months by then.

Maybe that's why he was bitter, angry, why his chest ached almost as much as his head.

He had done the childish thing.

He had waited a few weeks to tell them about U.A. He waited until the first week of classes, when he had already signed up for the dorms. He had forged his dad's signature, not by hand, but the night his dad had gotten drunk and watched the reruns of the U.A. sports festivals, he had managed to secure an unethical signature.

His parents only had a two-bedroom apartment. He had decided for them that they needed the space he took up for the new kid.

His mom had cried. He had forced himself not to. His jaw had ached from clenching it shut, but it was worth it to look strong, steady. He didn’t want to worry her.

That would have been bad for the baby.

The ringing had stopped, Izuku managed to zip up his bag, slipping out of the Gen-Ed class and heading in the direction of his slightly cooler, more interesting elective—the only fun class he had.

Quirk Studies, covering the hero students of 1-A and 1-B. If he wanted to rebuild his dream—or well… recreate it—then what better place to start than his only real hobby: quirk analysis.

And U.A., upon his request for a class change, had implemented a much harder, but more efficient class route to becoming a Quirk Specialist. By fast-tracking his studies, he could shave off at least a few classes from that degree.

His dad, a support tech, had been really excited for him. It was nice. He had even given Izuku a whole host of his old textbooks on the subject for his master’s.

His mom… she had cried even more than he imagined. Her words about being thankful he gave up on being a hero stung.

But he knew she only meant well.

Still, sometimes he wondered. In another world—if he had been born with a quirk—would she have supported his dream to become a hero?

Three knocks.

The door slid open, and the teacher for the Hero Class of 1-A grinned down at him.

“Midoriya! Glad you have returned, ol’ boy.” The man spoke with a voice like rustling tree leaves and thick syrup.

Izuku grimaced at the boisterous voice. Lamp Light, the hero who created light constructs from his hands, loomed in the doorway before him. Only if grinning could be associated with an eight-foot-tall, moth-like man—with black fur and a white-and-gold costume—then he was doing it right.

Izuku’s mind wandered as he stepped inside. He preferred All Might’s new Silver Age costume: a clean, balanced look that captured hope without the almost garish excess of Lamp Light’s Light the Night outfit. Sure, Izuku missed the Golden Age costume, but the Silver Age felt like an evolution. Lamp Light’s new getup, by contrast, only made Izuku squint. Bright whites, screaming yellows, and black fur—too much, all at once. Still, Lamp Light was a kind hero. 

Izuku forced himself to ignore the clash of colors for the heroes' benefit.

“Good morning, Mr. Light,” he said, lowering his bag with a heavy thunk. “I finished the analysis of Shota Aizawa’s quirk, as you had asked.”

The words rolled out without spark. His old excitement—the bubbling, uncontrollable need to ramble about quirks—had been crushed under Lamp Light’s scrutiny. Every word now had to be sharp, concise. Every detail weighed. Every grade was a gamble.

Sunny disposition or not, the moth was a workaholic… probably because All Might had soared into the top charts while Lamp Light stayed stranded in the lower 100s, his mutation holding him back.

Izuku grimaced, not at Lamp Light, but at the thought. He had begun to notice cycles as he got older.

The cycle of quirkless abuse—expanding, festering, growing more cruel each year.
The cycle of mutant discrimination—different reasons, same hatred.

All because people were born different. 
Marked from the start. 
A fate sealed before you drew breath. 
No choice. 
No escape.

That thought burned in his chest, a phantom fire he swallowed down.

He slid his papers onto the desk in front of the moth and continued.

“Erasure can affect the motor skills of mutation quirks that expand past the normal range—tails, elongated limbs, multiple appendages. Like an electric shock, muscular spasms seem to be the most common. Pain, discomfort, and complete loss of motor functions are also within the usual effects.”

He looked up into the insect’s enormous eyes. The never-blinking red lights fixed on him. Watching. Weighing.

Good.

“Furthermore, when used on an Emitter or Transformation type, they completely shut down, as noted in his official quirk registry information. However, I have a solid theory on how his quirk functions mechanically.”

Izuku swallowed hard and forced a grin. 

His heart was beating too fast.

“Light waves. Specifically, within the ultraviolet spectrum. But you knew that, didn’t you, sir? You can see the lightwaves produced by his eyes—the heat generated from it, however, you cannot. While his body is adapted to the heat, his tear ducts and tears are not. They create the same saline solution as everyone else. His eyedrops only help somewhat through rehydration. But he needs a much higher temperature-resistant formula. Only then will the drawback of his quirk be reduced enough for long-term use. Until then, eye damage is more than assured.”

His throat tightened as he spoke. Up until last week, he’d only ever had to read small portions aloud to the man. Now, each sentence dragged like iron chains, his voice thin under the weight of silence.

What was the point, really? 

Who would ever listen to a quirkless boy’s theories? His words might have been neat, his logic airtight, his details painstakingly collected—but it didn’t matter. Not in the way quirks did. Not in the way power did. Heroes weren’t built on words; they were built on gifts he didn’t have. And without one of those gifts, his opinions were dragged through far more scrutiny.

The thought dug at him, sharp as glass. Maybe Lamp Light was only humoring him. Maybe the grade didn’t matter. Maybe he didn’t matter. His notes, his theories, all of it could be swept away with the same ease other kids had swept him aside on the playground.

And still, he kept speaking.

Because stopping—leaving the page blank, letting silence hang—would prove them right. It would prove every teacher, every doctor, every kid who called him useless correct.

So he swallowed down the doubt, the burning ache in his chest, and forced the words out steady and calm. If his voice cracked, if his hands shook, Lamp Light might notice. If he noticed, maybe he’d pity him. 

And pity was worse than cruelty.

So Izuku finished the presentation the same way he always did—like a man clinging to a ledge, knowing he’d fall the moment he let go.

But he needed to get better at this. Who would listen to a quirk specialist who couldn’t even speak in front of a crowd?

Even with all his perseverance, the thoughts clung to him like smoke. It didn’t matter how many hours he spent researching, writing, refining—if his voice shook, if he stammered, no one would care. They would only see a quirkless boy pretending to matter. Pretending to belong.

He finished the analysis with a few more colorful, concise points, glancing up at the teacher every few lines as if waiting for the axe to fall. At last, the moth handed him a USB for the next assignment. Another analysis due Monday.

He could do that. He told himself he could.

With a bow and a heavy pat on the shoulder from Lamp Light, Izuku left the classroom. The weight in his chest lightened—for a moment.

If only for a little while. Like a candle sputtering in the wind, never safe from being snuffed out.

By the time he reached his small, cluttered dorm, his phone buzzed with a barrage of messages.

“It’s a girl!” The first one, from his father. Hisashi sounded ecstatic—finally, another child, and he would get to choose the H-name. He had lists upon lists saved in his phone for this very moment.

The next came moments later: “I’m thinking Hinata. Do you think Hinata is cute, Izuku? I hope she likes it when she gets older.”

Izuku let the phone slip from his hand and fell onto his bed. The frame creaked beneath his weight as he stared blankly at the ceiling.

The headache was back.

Worse than before.

It always felt worse than before.

Like his eyes had been shoved into a bonfire, left to blister and cook before being jammed back into his skull—half-charred, half-melting. His ears rang with a tolling echo, the same bell from his dreams, each peal rattling against his skull. His vision blurred with sparks of light that pulsed like burning cinders, flaring and fading at the edges of his sight.

He shouldn’t feel so… jealous. 
His parents were stable now. 
They had good jobs. 

They had each other.

When he was born, they had only been sixteen. He was barely younger than they had been then. And still, they had chosen to keep him—to fight, to struggle, to endure—even after the word quirkless had been stamped on him like a curse.

His Aunt Mitsuki had babysat, her long-term boyfriend by her side. 
They’d married. 
Soon they’d have a child too.

He wondered if, had they started as young as his parents, their child might have been his friend. Would they have stayed by him even after the diagnosis? Even after the shame of being quirkless stuck like ash on his name?

He hoped so.

Hopefully, his sister would be quirkle—

Izuku bit down on his lip, hard. A metallic tang filled his mouth as blood welled across his tongue. He felt rage at himself for even considering the thought. 

That was not a thought he would allow. 

His parents had already endured enough for him—shielded him from the worst of the hatred, fought to keep themselves together. He would not jinx it; he would not be responsible for them suffering more, having to deal with another disappointment like him.

She'd better have a cool quirk.

There. Better. Positive.

And when she got it, he would be the one to document it. To make sure every detail was written down, safe, and certain. That she would get all the counseling, all the love for her quirk, no matter how weak or strong.

Good thoughts. Positive thoughts.

But they felt forced. 

They were forced, hollow. Like kindling tossed on dying coals, the fire flared brightly for a moment—then burned out faster, leaving only smoke. The jealousy still smoldered underneath, no matter how hard he smiled through it.

The ceiling didn't care; it didn't look at his smile, searching for the secret truth of his feelings.

He felt it crack; he felt tears in his eyes.

A knock at his door broke his spiral.

Izuku sat up, sluggish, and opened the door to find the boy who had started the fight earlier that day.

Sekijiro Kan—an old friend from elementary who had moved away long ago—stood there, scratching at his chin with a shy grin.

Kan had gotten into the Hero Course. They’d even taken the written entrance exam side by side. Pure chance, Izuku thought. Nothing more. But at least it had netted him a friend again.

“I’m… sorry about earlier,” the boy started. His voice was already deep, drawn with an accent from northern Japan, where he had lived for the last few years.

Izuku flashed a grin. “It’s okay. I should have guessed you would’ve thrown the first punch anyway.”

“He was calling you useless, Izuku—”

“And? It’s not entirely incorrect, Kan, you know that. My job opportunities keep getting shorter and shorter as more requirements are written into them.” He tried to hide the bitterness behind a shrug. He rubbed the back of his neck with a forced laugh, trying to reduce the pressure his words had produced. 

The gesture was practiced—casual on the surface, he hoped it worked in reducing the weight of his words. But really, it was just a way to hide the sting of saying the truth out loud.

Kan frowned. “But you’re the top-graded student of our year already. Your opportunities are far greater than you think.”

The white-haired boy pushed into the room without waiting for permission, grabbed the small TV remote, and flicked it on, side-eyeing the green-haired boy. “And anyway, I need help studying for Algebra.”

“Fine, but you have to attempt one of my Calculus questions.”

“You just want me to die.”

“Na, you’re just a scaredy cat about numbers, Kan.”

Izuku wanted to be alone; the ache behind his eyes was only growing more feral. But he could use the distraction.

Sadly, distractions don’t last forever.

By 9 P.M., when Kan—exhausted from the extra exercise classes he had to take—dragged himself off to bed in the room three doors down, Izuku was left alone with the pounding ache.

Three of them.
One in his skull.
One in his chest.
One in his soul.

Each throb echoed like a distant drum, slow and inevitable. A summons. A reminder. Something was waiting for him in the dark, patient and merciless. He named it death, and he knew one day, it would take the agony away for good.

He just had to last long enough to see it.

What was another night of that ever, never-ending beat behind his eyes? Even as it is made worse by the bitterness, the jealousy festering deep in his heart.

He knew sleep would not come today, much like death.

So he grabbed his favorite reprieve—melatonin—and shook three 10mg pills into his palm. He stared at them too long, fingers trembling as he turned the bottle over once, twice. The thought pressed in: If I took the rest, then maybe I could see the end of that dream…

The idea lingered, sour and sweet all at once. He knew melatonin likely wouldn't kill him, but a fresh bottle of two hundred 10mg pills would definitely do something.

With a dry swallow, he forced the three pills down and snapped the bottle shut. 

No. 
Not tonight.

If he couldn’t stay awake, he couldn’t ache. And if he could sleep, then he could dream.

Even if the dreams were horrors beyond his imagination.
Even if the dreams gnawed at him the same way the fire behind his eyes did.
Even if sometimes all he wanted was to let the bottle, and the many unused bottles of pain medication for his head, drag him into a dreamless, endless sleep.

But… he refused that thought, too.

So he let sleep take him, normal, long, nightmare-filled sleep.

And as the dreams came, the hours passed until they forced him awake, gasping, as though he had outrun a demon that would always catch him again.

A glance at his phone: five hours. Better than his usual. Worse than yesterday. Every day seemed worse than yesterday, and better than usual for his broken sleep schedule.

The dreams were always the same. Stone walls slick with damp, cold air thick with ash. Iron bars glowing faintly like cooling metal, branding his skin whenever he reached for them. Struggling, clawing, failing.

They were just like the headache.
Just the usual.
Just what he expected.

He scrolled through the rest of his father’s texts—about how cute the little girl was, about how his mom had finally relented and agreed to the name Hinata, about how excited they were for him to visit and meet her.

Soon. Maybe.

If he felt like it.

Maybe…

[Three Years Later]

Izuku bit down on his thumbnail with an audible click. The white of the nail had long been gone, so he gnawed on the jagged, close edge that would bleed if he took it just another bite too far.

The dead stare of Aizawa, the grinning look of Kan, and the sharp tang of sweat filled the space between the three boys.

Izuku had been working with them for the last few months on his final assignment for Quirk Studies. Each had been given a copy of his paper and was expected to grade him on his understanding, his comprehension, and the ideas he offered for how their quirks could be supported.

“You can deliver those, once graded, to Mr. Light at his office… thank you, Aizawa, for being my second subject for my assignment. I know you aren’t the biggest fan of doing extracurriculars outside the Hero Class work, but—”

“Yeah, yeah, you say this every time you ask to study my quirk for a test,” came the tired reply, Aizawa’s dry eyes narrowing into a glare. “You do realize I wouldn’t go along with it over and over again if it were a problem, right?”

“I… yeah, I do. But I still have to thank you!”

“Why don’t you ever thank me?” Kan cut in, glaring from the side.

“I got you through all the math classes you’ve taken, Kan. I’m pretty sure you owe me far more than just a little bit of your weekend.”

“While true, I am offended for the fun of it.”

Izuku grinned at him before grabbing his bag and slipping it onto his back.

“I won’t be here for the weekend. I’ll be at my parents’ house until Monday. So don’t burn down the dormitory.” He jabbed a finger at Kan. “Just because I won’t be here to cook doesn’t mean you can magically work the oven without being a safety hazard.”

Kan smirked and hit him lightly in the shoulder as he passed. “I can cook, you know. I just don’t like to.”

“Sure. Have a good weekend!” Izuku called after him, forcing brightness into his voice as he slipped down the hall. He could feel Aizawa’s eyes boring into his back until he turned the corner.

Excitement tangled with dread in his gut, a fire that burned both hot and cold. This would be his first time returning home since moving into the dorms in his first year. He had missed so much—the first three years of his little sister’s life, the small moments where he could have learned to be a better brother, a better son.

But staying away had been necessary. 

If he’d gone back sooner, he might have said things he couldn’t take back. Things that would have hurt his parents, fractured what little balance they had fought to build.

He didn’t want that.

So he did the harder thing—he focused on school. He buried himself in the work, in the books, in the long hours. His grades kept him in line for scholarships. He even worked part-time with hero agencies through U.A., supporting real pro heroes in ways that mattered.

His future was looking bright.

But if only looking bright actually meant something. The thoughts that followed every good thought were darker than he could admit aloud: What good is a bright future, if you don’t want to live long enough to see it?

That… that was a question he kept to himself.

The smile stayed on his lips, but his chest tightened, his head thrummed with the old, burning ache. A reminder. Relief never lasted. That's why the collection of pain medication only got larger, wider.

He boarded the train after the long walk to the station and broke out his notebook. Old sketches, notes, scraps of analysis, fragments of poems—the little pieces of himself he couldn’t share with anyone else.

The newest poem stared back at him, lines scrawled in his cramped handwriting, written in the dark hours when the migraine had kept him awake the night before through the haze of melatonin delirium.

To burn brightly is to burn short.
To burn until all that’s left is ash.
Dust.
Residue of your existence.
Light, fading, receding.

To fear is to smolder.
To fear is to linger until you’re the last left.
Shivering.
A shadow of yourself.
Dark, expanding, growing.

To live is to be all these things and more.
To live is to fear, to burn, to love, to hate.
Life.
The proof of you.
Being in the light,
While being of the dark.

To be fearless is to chain the dark.
To keep the fire burning, even as it smolders.
To keep the light bright, even as it is smothered.

So let nothing stand in your way.
So let the world shake, the earth roar,
Your blood quake and shiver and cool and heat,
Your heart skipping beats, skipping breaths.
Running.
Chasing.
Chase the fire, even as it dies.
Outrun the dark, even as it waits.

Izuku stared at the words, lips pressed thin.

On the surface, it almost looked like hope. A call to endure, to burn, to keep going no matter what. Anyone else might’ve read it that way.

But he knew better. He knew what he had really written.

Every line was a plea against something he couldn’t escape—the fire fading in his chest, the dark waiting in the corners of every dream. He wondered if he really could outrun the dark, if he could chase the fire long enough…

Or if he’d only ever been writing his own eulogy.

And then, he found himself at home.

Standing in the doorway, a grin stretched across his face so tightly it hurt, his jaw aching from the effort. His mother stood there, arms trembling as though she wanted to reach for him but didn’t quite know how, and his father swept him into a hug before she could. Hisashi’s voice tumbled into his ears, rapid and relentless, words spilling out one after another.

Hinata.
Hinata.
Hinata.

Her name was all he heard, echoing over and over.

And when Izuku finally saw her, he couldn’t deny it—she was adorable. A chubby little thing with thick, straight green hair like their mother’s and sharp red eyes that mirrored their father’s. No freckles spotted her cheeks, only soft, unblemished skin. She stared at him with a toddler’s innocent curiosity, blinking up at the stranger who happened to share her last name.

Izuku’s heart clenched. A strange ache bloomed there—pride, maybe, or love—but hollowed out by something darker, heavier.

He went through the motions.

He sat beside his father, nodding absently as Hisashi pointed at the television and rambled about the hero on-screen. Izuku echoed back half-formed answers, repeating notes he had already memorized, words spoken with no weight behind them.

At dinner, he folded his hands and mumbled a prayer above his food—a habit Kan had taught him nearly two years ago, the words still foreign and awkward on his tongue. The food should have tasted like home. It had once been his favorite. Instead, every bite turned to ash the moment it touched his mouth, his tongue numb, his throat tight. He swallowed anyway, smiling when his mother looked his way, pretending it warmed him.

It didn’t.

He felt himself realising that he… he was invading their home. 

The house felt smaller, yet fuller. Every wall seemed to hum with laughter, with memories he hadn’t been here to share. His mother’s stories about Hinata’s first words. His father’s exaggerated retellings of her tantrums. The small messes of toys in the corner. They filled the house, filled the silence, filled the cracks where he once belonged.

And he sat there, quiet, forcing himself into the rhythm of a family that had learned to live without him. And it was all his fault.

When night fell, he sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling as shadows gathered. The migraine came back in full force, a hammering heat behind his eyes that made every sound distant, every light too bright. Maybe it had been there the whole time, the act he put on too good for even the pain to recognize.

It struck him with a cruel, sharp clarity.
His family was whole.

And he no longer had a place in it.

And it was only his fault as to why. Why he felt distant. Why he felt wrong.

Night settled over the house like a heavy blanket, shadows pooling in the corners. Izuku lay on the couch, hands folded across his chest, staring at the ceiling until the cracks blurred with the pulse of the headache burning behind his eyes.

At first, he wanted to hate Hinata. 

He had come to, honestly, despise her existence while he had been in school. A solid chunk of his negative emotions had been forced into that thought.

He wanted to resent the way her laughter filled the home that had once been his sanctuary. But the more he listened—the tiny squeal from her room, the patter of her bare feet as she scrambled after their father’s voice—the less he could muster it.

She was innocent. 
She hadn’t asked for this hate he held.
She was pure and adorable.

No—the hate belonged to him.
And he needed to direct it where it belonged.

It was his fault. 

If he hadn’t been born when he was, a mistake of two kids too young and too desperate to cling to each other, his parents might have had a healthier start. A steadier life. Fewer fights. Fewer nights of muffled tears through thin apartment walls.

If he hadn’t been a burden.
If he hadn’t been quirkless.
If he hadn’t been him.
If he had been anyone else.

The heat behind his eyes flared, sharper now, until it felt as if embers were smoldering in his skull.

From down the hall, his father’s voice carried. Low, warm, patient in a way it had never been for him. Telling Hinata a story—not just any story, but one of the old ones he used to beg for as a child. The stories that had shaped his dreams of heroes.

Only now, those words belonged to her.

And the room they came from—the one that had once been his—belonged to her too.

His chest clenched. His throat closed. He rolled to his side, burying his face into the couch cushion to muffle the sound of his breathing, to block out the warmth he no longer deserved.

By the time his father’s voice faded and the house fell quiet, Izuku had already made his decision.

Once he got into college, he would never come back here. Not really. He might visit for Hinata’s birthday, every couple of years, but he couldn’t handle this. Couldn’t handle the hollow, foreign ache of wanting something he was far too old to ask for. Too… broken to ever have.

A family.
A home.
A place to belong.

He pressed his fists into his temples, willing the pain away, but it stayed. It always stayed.

The fire behind his eyes did not dim; it only grew hotter, searing pain into his brain.

At least, in two years, he would be able to do the initial quirk test; his timeline had to be perfect. Because, while he doesn't deserve it, he wanted to be the one to catalogue the first quirk born into the family. 

Chapter Text

[University of Tokyo, Quirk Science: Year 1]

Only a year into his time at the University of Tokyo, with Quirk Science as his major, Izuku had already begun to realize just how heavy a burden he had placed on himself.

Of course, it wasn’t him who admitted it. 

Left to his own devices, he was content to seclude himself day after day, burying his face in textbooks and endless research papers. He ignored the hero charts, ignored the news about his old classmates climbing their way up the ranks. Kan visited sometimes, but Kan worried. Always worried.

Izuku brushed him off with the same tired lines. I’m fine. I like it this way. Twenty-three hours a day inside suits me just fine.

Kan didn’t buy it. He never did.

So the larger boy had dragged the green-haired recluse out for a night on the town, refusing to take no for an answer. He had even gone so far as to provide drinks for the two of them—both underage, but the hero costume Kan carried in his bag usually got him past any ID check.

“And that’s why I keep my costume with me at all times,” Kan said with a grin, leaning heavily over the wooden bar table as he poured Izuku yet another drink.

Izuku had lost track of how many he’d had. All he knew was that the sharp edges inside him had softened. The constant, gnawing voice that always whispered the worst possible outcomes—silenced. His chest felt lighter, his thoughts slower, and for the first time in forever, he wasn’t thinking about failure.

Better yet? The ache behind his eyes—the daily agony that had followed him since childhood—had dulled into nothing. Every sip blurred it further, until it was nothing but a secret he alone carried.

“At first, Kan, I wasn’t sure if—” he hiccupped, face flushing with embarrassment, “I wasn’t sure if it was moral… but I don’t care right now.”

He laughed at his own words, a raw, strange laugh that didn’t sound like him. His hands trembled slightly on the glass, but whether from the drink or the relief, he couldn’t tell.

For a moment, he felt free.

And that, more than the alcohol itself, scared him.

Kan slapped the counter, signaling the bartender. “A handle of whiskey and two shot glasses!”

The glasses hit the table with a clink, and amber liquid filled them with a flourish from Kan, catching the low light of the bar lamps. The sharp smell of oak and fire filled Izuku’s nose before the drink even touched his lips.

Kan raised his glass, nodding for Izuku to follow.

“To… what? Surviving another week?” Izuku asked, words slurring slightly as he lifted his own.

“To dragging you out of your cave.”

“Haha—I suppose that's something to celebrate.”

They knocked the glasses together and tipped them back.

The burn hit immediately—fire clawing down Izuku’s throat, making him cough as his eyes watered. Kan winced too, his nose scrunching as he let out a sharp hiss between his teeth.

“Gods,” Kan muttered, shaking his head hard. “That’s awful.”

Izuku’s laugh burst out, high and unsteady, half from the alcohol and half from watching Kan suffer the same way he did.

Before the sting faded, Kan had already grabbed the bottle, pouring again. But this time, he didn’t push the glass across the table. He let it sit there, his hand resting firmly on the wood.

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing, the bar’s dim light reflecting off the pale strands of his hair.

“We need to talk about something important.”

Izuku blinked at him, his stomach knotting for just a moment. Important? His mind spun, even through the haze of alcohol—was this about his workload, his dorm, the fact that he hadn’t been outside in weeks? His chest tightened.

Kan cracked a grin.

“So…” he dragged the word out, sliding Izuku’s glass across the table with a single finger. “Have you gotten laid yet?”

Izuku froze, then barked out a laugh that made his chest ache. The alcohol made it too easy to answer, too easy to let the truth slip past his usual walls.

“Nope,” he admitted without hesitation, the word heavy with blunt honesty. “Haven’t had any luck in the relationship department since… since my girlfriend back in our last year. And even then, I screwed that up. My… uh, introverted nature kinda killed it.”

He waved a hand vaguely, nearly tipping his glass in the process, and let out another hiccup. Being an introvert hadn’t been what ended it; it had been his inconsideration of her feelings. It had been his selfishness when it came to his free time. It had been him as an entirety, not just his personality.

Kan leaned back, roaring with a chest-deep laughter, loud enough to turn a few heads from the other end of the bar.

“Unbelievable,” he said, grinning wide as he finally raised his own glass. “You, the smartest bastard in our year, reduced to blushing over girls. That’s tragic, Midoriya. Tragic.”

Izuku flushed, cheeks redder than the alcohol could account for. But the words didn’t sting. Not here. Not tonight. For the first time in years, the heaviness in his chest lifted, if only a little.

So he rolled his eyes and took the blow; it wasn't like it was untrue anyway.

And the whiskey burned less the second time.

And the third.

Kan’s laugh boomed over the music and chatter again, his white hair catching the bar lights as he nearly doubled over. Izuku felt the blush returning to his face. He didn't remember what he had just said; had he mumbled something?

“Seriously, Midoriya. You, the guy who writes essays about quirks for fun, talked to hero students with more seriousness than our teachers did, and yet. A girl was enough to take out your insane confidence.” Another laugh, “That’s tragic.”

Izuku chuckled, shaking his head, though his face burned. “It’s not tragic. Just… embarrassing. I’m better with notes and numbers than… than people… Especially her.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed, still trying to remember what he had said, “And either way, hero students actually give a shit about what I say, I could’ve told you anything and you would’ve believed me.”

Kan smirked, sliding his next shot across the table. “Clearly, that numbers part is true, and of course, we listened; you were the talk of Mr. Light.” Kan thumbed a drop of whisky off the table, “But hey, you’re still nineteen. You’ve got time to change your relationship situation. Maybe if you’d actually leave your room more than once a season, you’d have better luck getting girls.”

Izuku raised the glass and took the shot before he could think twice. The burn was easier this time, the sharp bite dulling into a familiar warmth in his chest. He set the glass down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Maybe,” he muttered, staring into the wood grain of the table. “But I think the world’s already moving past me.” 

He tried to force the final moments he had experienced with his ex out of his mind, the kissing, the burn of feeling wanted, only for his mouth to spout words that he couldn’t take back. Words he had said in the goal of protecting her from him. Words that only caused her more pain than he had meant to. Even still, they were true; he couldn’t give her what she had wanted, what she needed. A future worthy of her. 

Kan gave him a look—half confusion, half concern—but Izuku waved it off with a lopsided grin. “Anyway, better to let you embarrass yourself out here tonight than me.”

Kan barked a laugh and poured them both another round.

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t be getting embarrassed today, you’ll watch me leave today a winner!”

The bar noise swelled around them—the clink of glasses, the hum of conversation, the faint crackle of an old song playing over cheap speakers. For once, Izuku let himself sink into it, let the noise and warmth drown out the world he was used to, the headache, the dreams, the constant whisper that he didn’t belong anywhere.

It wouldn’t last. He knew it wouldn’t. But for now, it was enough.

A shrill ring cut through Izuku’s haze as he downed—what was it, his third? Fourth? He wasn’t sure anymore. His hand automatically reached for the beer bottle, pouring both himself and Kan another round.

His other hand fished into his pocket, pulling out his ancient phone. The cracked screen lit up with the background he still hadn’t changed—the same photo of his ex, sky-blue eyes framed by dark hair, smiling in a way that made his stomach twist. Shame bubbled in his gut. He’d meant to change it a hundred times. A thousand. And every time, he didn’t.

He swiped to answer before he even registered the name. His mom.

“Hello?” He tried to keep his voice steady, tried to bury the slur under something that sounded normal.

“Izuku! We have some great news!” His mother’s voice practically sang through the receiver, carried by laughter in the background—his father’s deep chuckle, the high-pitched giggle of a little girl.

Hinata.

“Oh yeah? Did you finish reading my paper and find something good in it? Or is it something else?” He drummed a finger across the bar, then thumbed the cool ring of condensation left by his glass. The question was genuine—he’d sent her the rough draft of his analysis on her quirk just last week. Thirty pages. Thirty pages on a quirk most people dismissed as weak.

“Oh, I haven’t gotten around to reading it yet, baby.”

The words hit like a stone dropped in his stomach. He winced, cringing even as he forced himself upright. A week ago. He’d sent it a week ago.

But of course, she had a baby now.

Well… a four-year-old. That still counted as a baby, didn’t it?

That was far more important than his paper; if she never read it, that would be fine too.

“I called because it’s official! I’m pregnant again!” Her voice was bright with excitement, every syllable sparkling.

Izuku froze.

He knew they’d been talking about it. His father had been hinting at it in their family group chat since Hinata turned two. Izuku had assumed it was teasing, another round of uncomfortable jokes at his expense.

But no. This time, it was real.

Another child. Another future. Another chance for his parents to raise someone whole.

He glanced at the glass in front of him, amber catching the bar’s dim light. For a heartbeat, he thought about downing it immediately, letting the fire burn the tightness from his throat. Instead, he pressed the phone tighter to his ear, painted a grin on his face, and whispered,

“That’s… great news, Mom.” Izuku forced the words out with a lightness he didn’t feel. His lips stretched into a smile, but it was brittle, trembling at the edges. He pressed a thumb into the condensation ring on the table, as though grounding himself against the cool, wet circle.

“Yes! Your father and I are so excited. We’ve been waiting for the right time, and Hinata has been asking for a little brother or sister. She’ll be such a good big sister, you’ll see.” His mother’s voice was warm, bubbling with joy.

Izuku hummed an agreement. “Yeah… yeah, that’s… that’s really good. I’m happy for you.”

Kan’s laughter dimmed beside him. Izuku felt the weight of his friend’s gaze, a sidelong glance full of unspoken questions. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

“Baby, I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you long. Just wanted you to know right away.”

“Of course, thanks for telling me, Mom.” His voice cracked on the last word, but he pushed a chuckle after it to mask the sound.

Kan’s eyes narrowed.

“Get some rest, okay? Don’t overwork yourself,” she said, softer now.

“Yeah. I’ll try.”

They said their goodbyes, and the line clicked dead. Izuku lowered the phone slowly, staring at the dark screen until his own warped reflection stared back. He turned it face down on the bar.

For a long moment, he just sat there, throat tight, hands clenched in his lap.

Kan nudged a fresh glass closer. “Midoriya.” His voice was quieter than usual, stripped of its teasing.

Izuku forced a crooked grin and reached for the drink. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s fine. Really.”

But Kan didn’t move his hand from the glass, holding it in place between them.

A moment passed as Izuku attempted to pull the glass to himself, but Kan didn’t let go of it. His pale eyes narrowed, steady on Izuku’s face.

“What was that call about?” His tone was quiet, serious in a way that immediately set Izuku on edge.

Izuku gave a weak chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck. “Relax, it’s nothing. My mom just… called to tell me she’s pregnant again.” He tried to shrug it off, tried to pull the glass, but Kan didn’t move his hand.

The taller boy leaned in slightly, studying him. “Ah,” he said, voice soft but sharp as a knife, sympathetic, “you feel like you’re being replaced again, don’t you? I–”

Izuku froze.

The words landed harder than the whiskey ever could, a direct hit to the softest, most guarded part of him. He looked up and met Kan’s gaze, and the knowing look in those red-tinged eyes shattered what little composure the alcohol hadn’t already eroded.

His chest tightened. His throat burned. Something in him snapped.

“Don’t—” his voice cracked, harsher than he meant it to be. He forced it louder, sharper, meaner, as though volume could cover the tremble underneath. “Don’t you dare say that like you know what it feels like.”

Kan blinked, taken aback, but Izuku pressed on, words spilling out like broken glass.

“You think it’s so simple, don’t you? Like I’m just sulking over nothing! My parents—my family—they’re happy now. Whole. And where the hell am I in all that? Poof, gone, nowhere to be seen because it's better for them if I'm not there.” He slammed his hand flat on the table, the cold ring of water pressed shapless beneath his palm, the glasses between them rattling from the force. “So don’t you sit there and act like you get it. You don’t. With their first kid since me, I saw them actually happy, no fighting, no anger about their quirkless failure forcing them to grow up too early.”

The bar noise seemed to dim around them, laughter and clinking glasses blurring into the background hum of blood rushing in Izuku’s ears. His chest heaved. His eyes stung.

He hated how raw his voice sounded. He hated how much truth slipped into it.

But most of all, he hated the silence on Kan’s side—because it meant Kan was thinking, not an emotional mess like he was, trying to help.

“I am the oldest brother of five siblings. I know how it feels more than you think, Izuku.” Kan’s voice came out harder than before, edged with something like steel. His hands were raised, his lips parting to continue, eyes still holding that infuriating softness that poked through when he noticed Izuku was upset.

That only lit the fuse.

Heat flared behind Izuku’s eyes so fiercely he felt he might actually combust. He wrenched the glass free because he needed it—the alcohol was a sluice that dulled the burn, turned the ache into a manageable hum. He tipped the rim to his lips and pushed the liquid down as if it could swallow whole the thing clawing at his throat.

He interrupted Kan before he could even speak, “But you—” His voice came out jagged, raw. He shoved the glass so hard the ice clinked and the beer sloshed over the lip. “You’re the older brother with a quirk. You’re the hero—the pride of your family. You’re the one everyone pats on the back and says, ‘He’ll lead us.’ The next primarch of your family because you’re worthy. You have the respect of your father, your mother, and your siblings.”

He laughed then, a bitter little sound. “And me? I’m nothing. Quirkless. A mistake from the start.” The words spilled, too fast, too hot. “My family was barely a family until Hinata came. They stitched themselves together around her tiny fists and her warmth, and suddenly, there was something to hold up. Something that could matter. They adore her because she might have—no, will have—what I was never given.”

He jabbed a finger at the table as if it were a target. “Do you know what it’s like to be watched like you’re a broken thing? To have people count you out before you even open your mouth? To have doctors and pity and tests and ‘it’s probably nothing’ until the only answer left is the word: quirkless?” His nails dug into the wood; pain flared, and he welcomed it because it was real.

“And now—now they get a third chance. Another child to worship, another bright thing to focus on, another excuse to soothe the guilt they used to carry for me. Another reason to look away at every turn, just like graduation.”

His breath hitched. The whiskey made his throat thick; the sentences tumbled out like stones. “They won’t call me to run the tests, Kan. They won’t even ask. They’ll call specialists—I know they will. Even though I’ll be more than qualified by the time she awakens, they’ll call someone else.”

He could feel the emotion scrabbling at him, clawing for air. He should slow his breathing, apologize, and back away. He knew all that. But he was already too deep in the current to climb out.

“No,” he went on, voice rough, each word sharpened by a truth he’d been swallowing for years. “They’ll forget. I’ll be sitting in my dorm while they contact some half-baked specialist who can’t even document the case properly on day one—unlike me. I am the real specialist. I’ve spent more hours in the lab, more nights on case studies, more years than most of those people have spent in their entire careers. They take the easy route—hire someone with a name, someone who looks right on paper, because they don’t want to put in the time I did to earn the license.”

He spat the last words out, the bitterness tasting metallic in his mouth. The idea of being called only when convenient—only when they needed something—stung worse than any dismissal he’d suffered at school. “They don’t care in the way that matters. They love me, sure, because I was their mistake, and they fixated on that guilt. But the real love, the proud, hopeful kind—that’s for the babies. The ones who might become legacies. They’ll never love me the way they love a child who could be powerful, useful, and admired. I am left over. I am the thing they apologize for. I’m their afterthought.”

His hands trembled against the wood. The bar’s low light blurred as the room tilted a degree; the bottle at his elbow seemed suddenly too heavy. The confession landed between them like a thrown thing—too loud, too heavy to gather up again.

He leaned in until his face was a breath from Kan’s, voice dropping to a venomous hush.
“Do you know how that feels? To be the shadow in the room you were born into? To be told—without ever having to say it—that you were the mistake that swallowed their youth?” His fingers curled into the wood of the bar as if to anchor himself to something solid. “I know how that feels.”

The words came faster now, tumbling out in a rush of memory and hurt. “Eight years old and my father’s always gone—working, studying, trying to stitch a life together he never got. When he did come home, he smelled of smoke and exhaustion, and he’d snap because he was tired, and I learned to flinch before anyone raised their voice. My mother… she learned to hide in the bathroom and cry into her hands until her knuckles went white. I would hear her at night, soft and ragged, not wanting me to know.” He swallowed, the throat tightness making the next line come out raw. “After they told me I was quirkless, every dream I had of being a hero felt like another thing that hurt her. She loved me—God, she loves me—but her love tasted like worry. Every attempt I made felt like another reason for her tears. She knew the world would break me before it could make me whole.”

His laugh was small and bitter. “So I’m not angry at Hinata. She didn’t ask to exist. I’m not even angry that they have another child coming.” He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes for a second, then pushed them back down, palms flat on the bar. “I’m angry that I was the crack in their beginning. I’m angry that my existence was the thing that made my father drink on the nights he should have been home. I’m angry that my mother cried for years because she loved me and had no way to fix the thing that hurt me. I’m angry that they got a second, a third, a chance to be whole—while I remain the shard of the thing that broke them.”

The confession dropped into the space between them like a stone. “I watch them laugh and build that life, and I stand there and feel like a leftover—like a corner of the house they papered over because it was easier than tearing the wall down. I know on one level none of this is my fault. I know they didn’t ask for any of it. But knowing that and feeling it are two different things. And it hurts—God, it hurts—because they’re happy now, and I can’t help thinking I’m what made them need that happiness in the first place.”

His voice went thin. The bar’s light blurred at the edges; the whiskey at his elbow seemed suddenly too close. “I don’t want to be the reason they had to heal. I don’t want to be their excuse for starting over. But every time I look at them, all I can see is the cost of my being here.”

The last word cracked like glass. His hands trembled. His eyes shone—not from the whiskey this time, but from something colder and sharper: grief edged with a terrible, self-directed hate.

He’d meant it to be a release. Instead, it landed like a thrown stone between them, heavy and impossible to ignore.

He stood, grabbed his wallet, and tossed a handful of bills onto the table. “I… I’m sorry. I’ll go,” he managed through clenched teeth, flame burning hot behind his eyes as he rushed out the door.

Kan yelled out after him, but Izuku ignored him.

[University of Tokyo, Quirk Science: Year 2]

Izuku woke with a start, heart hammering against his ribs—not just from the nightmare, but from the alcohol still burning in his veins.

Another night spent drinking alone.

His favorite hobby.

The alarm shrieked again, a metallic scream that rattled the silence. The constant drip in the dorm sink had faded into background noise weeks ago. The mess around him barely registered anymore: thousands of pages of quirk analysis stacked in neat, obsessive piles, the coffee table buried under uneaten pizza boxes and empty bottles.

He grabbed the lip of the table to steady himself as he stood, fire scorching down his chest as the memory of the dream clung to him—endless dunes of hot sand, buildings crumbled into jagged bones, heat pressing against his skin from all sides.

The dreams. Always the dreams. Always the headache.

As a child, he had endured them. Found ways to cope. But now? Now they only got worse.

The mountain of work didn’t help.
 
Quirk analysis. 
Evolution studies. 
Psychology. 
Pedagogy. 
Physical quirk therapy. 

Dozens of minor classes piled high, suffocating him. He had taken on too much, tried to turn a multi-graduate certification—one that took even the best in the field over ten years to finish—into a six-year death march.

And the cure for his overworked mind was simple.

Alcohol.

Beauty in a bottle. A bottle to refine beauty. A bottle to forget, until he forgot the bottle.

He told himself it was worth it all. That this wasn’t some trivial degree. This was the pinnacle. It wasn’t just a degree that would allow him to do solo work, create his own business, freelance, and work with heroes on the regular. It would also allow him to be fully licensed by the HPSC, which would let him support children, adults, underground heroes, and even villain rehabilitation work. All backed by Hero Public Safety Commission funding, including a yearly bonus for each successful case.

If he even made it that far.

If he even got the job.

That was the scary part: if the HPSC were to deny him access to that license, sure, he could still do freelance work, sure, he could work within schools and small-time jobs. But it would be much harder to even charge a competitive rate that the licensed individuals would be able to. Even if they were not as qualified as him, only having a minor in their studies, then they could charge more, be paid more, and even be promoted around by the HPSC. 

Now that he really thought about it, were there any licensed quirk specialists who were quirkless since the turn of the century?

He shoved those thoughts down, swallowing them like another shot. There weren’t enough graduates in the field for them to reject him. Even if he was quirkless.

Still, the weight crushed him. Loneliness pressed down harder than the work ever could. He barely spoke to anyone anymore; professors were the only voices he heard day to day. A pang of pain filled his chest as he remembered the last time he talked to a friend in person. Kan had texted him, but he had ignored it. He burned that bridge; he needed to. He let too much slip out of his lips that night a year ago.

A chime snapped him out of his haze.

His phone.

He blinked, trying to imagine why his mother would be texting him now. A check-in? No, she’d done that yesterday. Just to chat? At this hour, unlikely.

He opened the message.

And reached immediately for another drink, hand fumbling to a half-drunk bottle of cheap liquor.

Hinata’s fifth birthday was yesterday. The message on his phone forced that memory back into place like a knife twisting in his ribs.

The pictures his mom sent hit harder than the liquor.

Hinata beamed widely, cheeks round and glowing with joy, her little cake ablaze—and charred. Sitting right beside her, Bakugo Katsuki, his aunt's kid born the same year as Hinata, smirked like fate had staged the perfect photo, his grin equally smug and full of childish wonder.

The two kids were adorable. Too adorable.

And there, off to the left, seated in their father’s lap with a toothy grin, freckles scattered their face with green eyes that mirrored his own, and a mop of dark amber hair—Yukio. The newest addition. His little brother. Izuku stared at him for a long moment, almost detached, almost admiring the naming choices their parents had made for their second and third children.

Then the knife of regret twisted deeper. He hadn’t even met Yukio in person yet. His brother.

He reevaluated the photo, eyes dragging back to Hinata. Something shifted in his gut. An ache bloomed low in his chest, spreading like a bruise.

Her lips sparked with fire, little orange licks dancing past her teeth. The top of the cake blackened where the flames had caught. Her eyes shone with a light he had never carried.

His father’s quirk.
The same shade of flame.
The same promise of legacy.

His mouth went dry as the realization clicked into place.

He kept reading.

“Izuku! Your sister’s quirk came in when she was blowing the candles out—or off, I should say! She can breathe fire like your dad. The specialist we took her to today—”

He froze.

The pang that tore through him was sharp, bitter, and undeniable. He’d called this last year. He knew. He knew this moment was coming, and he had prepared for it. He had studied for it. He had earned the right to be part of it. He had passed his basic quirk awakening documentation with flying colors just a month ago.

And yet—

They hadn’t called him.

They hadn’t asked him.

The only thing they had asked yesterday—yesterday, the day her quirk manifested—was if he was doing okay. Near midnight. A courtesy, an afterthought.

He had stayed sober the whole day, got his best clothes ready as he waited for the invite back to the house, one that never came. His mom had said she thought he had tests that day.

He had told her weeks ago he was free for Hinata’s birthday.

He read the next line through clenched teeth.

“She can also control it with her hands! It’s kind of like mine in a way—”

The phone slipped from his fingers. 

The image of his siblings and all her friends appeared next, another image he wished he could have experienced, another he envied. It stared up at him from the floor. He was frozen for a moment, stuck.

A flare of pain behind his eyes, a suck in of breath, and he was back, grabbing his phone with a huff.

The end of her message burned up at him, “We wanted you over, but Hisashi thought it would be better for you to focus on your classes, with all those tests we worry about you.” 

He shut the screen off and tossed it onto the couch as though it had burned his skin. His chest heaved. His vision swam.

He stumbled toward the fridge, finishing the first bottle in one long, painful swallow. The taste was hot, sour, and old on his tongue.

And still, it wasn’t enough to douse the fire burning inside him.

The next bottle was heavy in his hand, but his mind wasn’t here—not in the apartment, not in the stale light of his fridge. It was back there. Back in that cold, white room.

Hinata’s grin, her sparkling lips, her cake catching fire—crashed against the memory of the doctor’s pitying face, the clipboard lowered with too much gentleness.

“Quirkless.”

The word had echoed in his skull like a bell tolling.

His mother had crumpled in the chair beside him, tears spilling freely, her sobs muffled in her hands. He remembered the sound more than the sight—raw, wet, broken.

His father’s face had twisted with rage—not at him, never at him, but at the world, at the situation. Yet the way Hisashi stormed out that night, slamming the door so hard the frame shook, had seared itself into Izuku’s mind. He was eight years old, sitting in that sterile room, too stunned to cry, too shocked to even move.

That was his “awakening.”
That was his legacy.

And now—Now Hinata’s awakening was laughter, fire, cheers, and cake. A celebration. A story already becoming family legend.

Izuku pressed the bottle to his lips, choking down another burn of liquor. His chest ached as though the fire had lodged inside him, trapped, eating its way out.

The images wouldn’t leave him: his mother’s tears, his father’s rage, the doctor’s pity. All mirrored against Hinata’s joy, Yukio’s toothy grin, and his parents’ bright voices through the phone.

The room spun, not from the alcohol, but from the weight of it all crashing down at once.

He laughed—hoarse, bitter, empty. “Guess some of us get fire,” he muttered, voice breaking. “And some of us just get ash.”

That's what he was, the ash, the burned bits that stayed behind.

He chugged the bottle and tossed it into the pile, reaching deep into the fridge for another. 

He needed another drink. 

Anything to wash down the sour taste and the memories. He shoved aside a bottle of hot sauce, cracked the cap, and drained half in one pull.

Of course, she would get a hybrid quirk. One in a hundred chance. Fire from the lungs, fire shaped by the hands. Potential bursting at every seam.

He was so happy for her, it hurt.

It hurt.

He hadn’t even been able to be there to see it. He should have just driven over to his parents' house and joined the festivities even without an invite. He should have pushed to be more involved after so long, but… He drank some more.

Hurt shifted into anger.

If he had been the one to run the tests, they would know so much more than some quack with a basic license could tell them. He spent his entire life, the last over half a decade, solely on the advanced study and documentation of quirks, potentials, and chance.

The bottle emptied fast. 

He added it to the growing pile and dragged his laptop onto his knees as he fell back onto the couch. More work. More words. More molehills stacked into mountains. More mountains stacked onto his shoulders.

If they hadn’t wanted his opinion, it had to have been his fault. Maybe if he came around more, they would have, if he had sent that birthday text to his parents yesterday as he had planned instead of waiting, if he had arrived uninvited.

He bit his lip till crimson dripped from his chin and onto his boxers.

Just four more years. 

He would be twenty-four. But he could start his career strong.

He had dozens, nearing a hundred, letters of recommendation to the HPSC from U.A. and the heroes they managed to scrounge together for his classwork. He had more money from side work with heroes in his bank account than his parents could ever know. He had a future, damn it, and if they… if they didn't care, that was fine. 

He was nearing twenty-four, and he could start his career strong with a business and a name for himself, all backed by the HPSC Specialist License.

If he lasted that long.

He took another swig of the alcohol, letting it burn raw in his throat. He had grabbed the hard stuff; that was fine. He needed it today.

[University of Tokyo, Quirk Science: Year 6]

“Hey, Izuzu.”

The voice from his phone wasn’t the one he had expected. He’d thought it would be his mom again, probably calling to ask if he needed help covering the cost of his cap and gown for graduation. Instead, the voice was higher, brighter, full of unfiltered happiness.

Hinata.

Izuku blinked, setting his stack of notes down and sliding them across the table toward the undergrad he was tutoring. She was the daughter of a pro hero—the type who could afford to pay well for extra lessons. White-haired, with icy blue tips that glittered faintly under the dorm light. A mutation from an American ice-quirk family, her abilities weren’t flashy, but versatile: controlling temperature, shifting water and ice with surprising finesse. She’d been grinning at him since she’d walked in, but now her smile faltered as he raised a finger for quiet.

“Little sister,” he whispered, covering the phone with his hand. “Give me a sec. Jot down anything else that’s tripping you up.”

He slipped off the couch and into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him before pressing the phone closer to his ear.

“Oh, Hinata,” he said softly, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “I was expecting Mom. What’s up?”

Her voice came back low and conspiratorial, like she was letting him in on the world’s biggest secret. “Momma and Pappa have been worrying about what to get you as a graduation present! But they haven’t had an easy time, so I wanted to see if you could… help me give them ideas?”

Izuku chuckled under his breath, forcing the grin into his voice so she could hear it, even if she couldn’t see it. “Oh, hmm. I don’t really know what I want. But I bet you could figure something out.”

“Me?” She gasped dramatically.

“Of course. Mom says you have a good eye for gifts. And if she trusts you, then I do too.”

There was a pause on the other end, then a tiny giggle. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he said, leaning against the desk in the corner of his room. His chest ached, but in a good way—that hollow ache that came when he let himself feel the warmth he usually tried to bury.

“Are you sure?” Hinata asked again, her voice bubbling with excitement, almost like she wanted him to doubt her so she could prove him wrong.

“Absolutely,” Izuku said, sinking into the chair by his desk. “You’ve got the best instincts out of all of us. Way better than mine.”

“Well…” she hesitated, then lowered her voice even more, as if their parents might overhear from across the house. “Still, maybe a little hint wouldn’t hurt.”

Izuku chuckled. “A hint, huh? Let’s see…” He tapped the side of his phone, pretending to think. “I’ve been using the same bag since I was in my second year. It’s falling apart, so maybe something sturdy. Doesn’t have to be fancy. Just… reliable.”

“Okay, sturdy bag,” Hinata repeated like she was scribbling mental notes.

“And…” Izuku bit his lip, then softened his tone. “Something to read wouldn’t hurt. You know me. I like my books.”

Hinata giggled. “Boring books?”

He smiled despite himself. “Yes, boring books. The ones no one else wants to read.”

“Okay, boring books too.”

There was a pause on the line, then her voice came softer, almost shy. “And something fun? You always get us fun things when you visit.”

The words hit him like a gentle punch to the liver. 

When you visit. 

Twice in four years. 

He swallowed hard and forced the warmth back into his voice. “Alright, something fun too. I trust you, Hinata. You’ll pick the perfect thing.”

“Okay!” she said brightly, her voice rising again. “I’ll make sure it’s perfect! Love you, Izuzu!”

“Love you too, Hina.”

The line clicked off, leaving only the faint hum of static in his ear before the screen dimmed.

For a moment, the warmth lingered. The smile stayed. His chest felt lighter.

Then the silence crept in.

In four years, he’d spoken to her maybe a handful of times. Heard her laugh through a phone, saw her grow through pictures and brief calls. Nine years old soon, and he had yet to buy her a real present.

And Yukio… nearly five now. He hadn’t even gotten him anything at all.

All he had given them were half assed, half-thought-out presents from a toy store.

The smile slipped. The warmth soured into guilt.

He set the phone face down on the desk, staring at the grain of the wood as if it held an answer. But all it reflected back at him was the same truth he’d carried for years: no matter how close the moment, the distance always won in the end.

He stared at the phone where it lay face down on the desk, the soft glow of the screen fading to black. His chest still ached with the echo of Hinata’s voice, but the ache was heavier now, sourer.

Why did he even bother?

Why keep pretending to be a good big brother, throwing empty words across a phone line, when he knew the truth? He had failed. He was failing. And he would keep failing, no matter how many smiles he faked or promises he made. He wasn’t there. He never was.

The thought sat heavy in his gut like lead. For a long moment, he let it settle, gnawing at him, whispering truths he didn’t want to face. Then he shook his head hard, forcing the storm back behind his walls. He didn’t have the luxury of sitting in it right now.

He stood, ran a hand over his face, and walked back into the main room.

The undergrad still sat waiting, notes spread across the table, her pen tapping nervously against the margin of her practice sheet. She looked up at him with a quick smile—a little too quick.

Izuku’s eyes flicked away almost instantly, but not before he noticed it: the top button of her shirt had come undone while he was gone. Maybe by accident, maybe not. His stomach clenched, and he forced himself to keep his gaze fixed firmly on the notes instead.

“Alright,” he said, his voice steady, calm, professional. “Show me where you’re still getting stuck.”

He slid back into the role of tutor, of specialist, burying the weight in his chest under formulas and explanations, ignoring the whisper in his head that told him he was only pretending here, too.

Izuku forced the discomfort down where all the other unwanted thoughts lived, shoving it into that crowded corner of his mind. Professional. That was what mattered. She was a student who had paid him for his time, nothing more.

For the next few hours, he kept the mask firmly in place. His voice steady, his explanations patient, his pen scratching formulas and notes across her paper when she faltered. She leaned in often, her eyes lingering longer than the numbers required, but he didn’t acknowledge it. He refused to.

By the time the clock edged past dusk, her notes were fuller, her confidence stronger, and his own headache beginning to pulse at his temples.

“Alright,” he said, capping his pen. “That’s a good stopping point. Go over these problems again before bed, and you’ll be fine for the exam.”

She nodded, cheeks flushed—not from exhaustion, but something else. She gathered her books slowly, carefully tucking them into her bag as if stalling for time.

When she finally stood, she moved closer than he expected, close enough that he caught the faint scent of her perfume under the sharp edge of the dorm’s recycled air.

“Thank you, Izuku,” she said softly, extending a hand.

He offered his own without hesitation, the motion automatic, professional—until her fingers tightened around his, and instead of a shake, she tugged him forward.

Before he could react, she leaned in, eyes fluttering shut, aiming for his mouth.

Izuku’s breath caught.

For a fraction of a second, his body locked in place, the suddenness of it shattering the careful boundaries he’d built all evening.

Her lips brushed close enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath. For a heartbeat, he froze, the alcohol from earlier still humming faintly in his veins, his guard lowered just enough.

And in that instant of hesitation, the self-loathing hit. Pathetic. You even falter here. You can’t stop it cleanly, can you?

Izuku jerked back, breaking the moment like glass shattering. His hand slipped from hers, retreating as though burned.

“I—I-I’m sorry,” he said quickly, forcing a grin onto his face. “That’s… not appropriate. I shouldn’t have let it get that close.”

Her eyes stayed locked on his, searching, unblinking, as though daring him to take the words back.

Instead, she tilted her head and smiled softly. “Then let me make it appropriate. Come out with me sometime. Dinner. My treat.”

The words caught him off guard. His stomach twisted. A dozen reasons to say no pushed at his tongue, but the weight of her gaze pressed harder. The thought of returning to the silence of his dorm after this was unbearable.

“…Alright,” he said at last, the word heavy, reluctant. “One date.”

Her smile widened, a spark of triumph in her eyes. For a moment, the air between them felt charged, as though something new had begun.

But then Izuku spoke again, absentmindedly, almost bitterly—a reflex honed by years of deflecting before anyone could ask.

“Fair warning, though… I’m quirkless.”

The silence was immediate, suffocating.

Her smile froze, then faltered, her eyes flicking away for the first time all evening. “Oh.”

It was a small sound, but it carried more weight than any lecture he’d ever given. She pulled her hand back, tucking it against her bag strap, her posture stiffening.

“Actually,” she said, voice careful now, “I should probably… focus on finals for now. Maybe another time.”

Izuku felt the words like a familiar blade sliding into old wounds. He kept the grin plastered on his face anyway, his chest burning hot while his stomach went cold.

“Of course,” he said, too smoothly. “Good luck with finals.”

She left with quick steps, the door clicking shut behind her.

Izuku stood there in the quiet dorm, staring at the empty space she’d left, the ghost of her perfume still clinging to the air.

The headache behind his eyes surged. He sank onto the couch, laughing once—a hollow, bitter sound.

Some things never change.

He should just start with him being quirkless. Some people thought he had some intelligence quirk; some thought his quirk was quirk analysis. And every time he informed them that he had none, he found himself alone again.

[University of Tokyo, Quirk Science: Graduation Day]

Izuku wrestled with the graduation cap perched awkwardly on his unruly curls, forcing his grin into something bright and unwavering as he sat among his peers.

He should have been the one standing at the podium. As Valedictorian, it should have been his voice echoing across the hall. His speech, carefully written, sat folded and heavy in his pocket—a reminder of the honor he had earned but would never get to display.

Instead, he listened as the Salutatorian—a student he had once tutored—spoke in his place.

Izuku exhaled slowly, letting the anger slip out between clenched teeth. It’s fine. I’ll be okay. It doesn’t matter.

It wasn’t the biggest deal. He still had the title. He had achieved the goal.

Valedictorian.

The word burned warmly in his chest, a strange, rare sensation. Pride wasn’t something he allowed himself often, but here, now, it flickered bright.

He glanced out into the crowd, scanning the rows of faces. He remembered the half-dozen invitations he had sent out beyond his family, each one written with careful hope. The seats reserved for them were nearly empty.

But not completely.

Something in Izuku’s throat tightened as the dean called his name.

He adjusted the cap again, fingers lingering on the stiff fabric as though it might ground him. His grin stayed in place, wide and solid, but the muscles in his cheeks ached from holding it there.

The dean’s words rolled over him, but he only half-heard them. His gaze drifted back to the crowd as he stood from his seat and began his walk to the stage. The nearly empty row where more should have been seated glared back. Invitations he had written, names he had hoped to see, left unclaimed.

Still, at least his family was there. That counted. His parents were there. Hinata and Yukio, bouncing excitedly in their chairs. Aizawa slouched half-asleep beside his father, but was present all the same. And Kan—still there after all these years, even after their fight- sat beside Aizawa, dwarfing the smaller man.

His siblings nearly climbed out of their chairs, waving at him wildly as soon as they saw him, their excitement unfiltered and raw. His father’s voice carried above the others for a moment as soon as he stepped out of the mass of graduates, proud and booming. Aizawa raised a hand, subtle, almost lazy, but deliberate enough to catch Izuku’s eye. And Kan… Kan jumped out of his seat, clapping harder than anyone else in the room, his presence bold and as extra as ever.

Pride coiled in his chest, foreign and burning with every step, as the dean’s voice thundered across the auditorium.

“Midoriya Izuku, graduating top of his class and with the record for achieving the specialist degree in Quirk Studies, Diagnosis, and Therapy. It is our honor to welcome him onto the stage, and we—the University of Tokyo—are excited to see where this bright mind leads quirk studies in the future!”

Applause broke like a wave.

Izuku walked faster, his legs steady but his chest trembling. The sound filled the air, yet it cut sharply against his ears, not warm like he imagined it might be. Each clap echoed like something striking hollow wood. His steps onto the stage were measured, rehearsed, but his pulse pounded in his throat, threatening to drown out everything else.

When he reached out and took the diploma, the weight of the folder in his hands surprised him. It was real. After all the sleepless nights, the migraines, the isolation—it was his. For a second, he almost let himself fully feel it, almost allowed the pride to break through in full.

Almost.

Then the thought stabbed in: the paperwork. Mountains of it were still waiting before he could even begin his new job.

And with it, another memory resurfaced, sharp and cutting. The Quirk section of the HPSC application form. The box that stared up at him, blank and damning. The quiet reminder that no matter how many records he broke, no matter how brilliant his work was, his file would always carry that word.

Quirkless.

The pride soured, replaced with the familiar weight in his chest.

Izuku forced his smile wider, raised the diploma, and waved at his family. The applause roared louder in response, but all he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears, all he could feel was the reminder pressing against his ribs:

Even here, at the top, the shadow still followed him.

The ceremony blurred to a close, names called, diplomas handed, applause echoing like distant thunder. By the time Izuku stepped out of the auditorium and merged into the sea of graduates and their families, the smile on his face felt less like pride and more like armor.

His family found him quickly.

“IZUKU!” Hinata’s shrill cry cut through the crowd, and before he could brace himself, a small body barreled into him. His nine-year-old sister wrapped her arms around his waist with surprising strength, sparks of fire spitting from her lips as she squealed with excitement. They licked harmlessly against his gown, heat brushing against his chin as her words tumbled out in a rush. “You did it! You did it, big brother!”

He bent slightly to hug her back, the warmth of her flames close, too close. His throat tightened. She could do with some high stimulation work, something to help her get used to a lot of emotions and keep her quirk in check. 

He pushed the thought down and hugged her tighter.

Then came Yukio, soon-to-be five, grabbing at his leg and bouncing on his heels like a spring wound too tight. “Izu! Izu! Did you see me waving?! I waved so hard! Did you see?” His small hand clung to Izuku’s gown, green eyes wide and shining, freckles dancing across his face like flecks of sunlight.

“I saw,” Izuku murmured, leaning to the side enough to grab his brother into the hug, using one hand to ruffle Yukio’s hair. “I saw both of you. You were impossible to miss.” His voice carried warmth he didn’t feel as deep as he should, his grin stretched as tight as the fabric on his cap.

Then his father’s arms were around him—solid, proud, pulling him in with a strength that startled him. His mother’s voice rose behind them, laughter breaking with tears, her hand pressing over his shoulder. Words of pride spilled out, fragments lost in the chaos of family noise.

Kan was there too, weaving through the chaos of parents and graduates. He clapped a heavy hand on Izuku’s shoulder, his grin easy and unshaken. “Told you you’d get here. Top of the mountain, huh?”

Izuku let out a soft laugh, but inside it scraped hollow. The warmth pressed against him from all sides—siblings clinging, parents glowing, Kan steady and loud in his corner—and yet the fire in his chest felt thin, brittle, already cooling.

He should have felt whole. He should have felt their love. But all he could register was the numb weight under his ribs and the burn in his skull that whispered, You don’t belong in this picture.

So he accepted their words, their attention for as long as he could, and let his family’s pride wash over him.

Pretending it was enough.

The dinner afterward had been good. Better than he’d expected, really.

Kan fought with his father over the bill until the waiter, embarrassed, had to come back three times. In the end, Kan slammed his hero license on the table with a grin, and Hisashi groaned in defeat while Mitsuki, along with the Bakugo family, cackled from across the room. He had been so happy to see them after so long, and meeting Katsuki had been a treat; the small boy was the spitting image of Mitsuki. 

Even Aizawa had been there, slouched low and scowling at the fuss, muttering that he’d been “forced into this circus”—but he had stayed. He even lifted his glass in Izuku’s direction once, which was quite the honor from the underground hero.

The gifts had been thoughtful, too. A coffeemaker from Aizawa—blunt, practical, useful. A set of binders and fine pens from Kan, as well as a list of possible clients who could use his expertise. A leather satchel bag from his parents, the kind real professionals carried. Old print sci-fi novels and comics from his siblings, their covers worn and loved.

And a small folded note from Hinata, tucked into his hand with a conspiratorial whisper. “Read it when you get home, promise?”

He promised.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he sat at his desk that night, the gifts scattered around him like hollow trophies, his laptop glowing against the dark. The application form for the Hero Public Safety Commission’s Advanced Quirk Specialist Division & Licensing blinked back at him. It was the highest rung—the place for the best of the best. People with his degree, his drive.

Many had the license, many didn't deserve it, but he did; his entire life, since giving up becoming a hero had been this.

His jaw ached from clenching as he typed.

Quirk: N/A.
A red apostrophe lit up beside the field. A small textbox, “Please list a quirk within the HPSC Database.”

He tried again. Quirk: Quirkless.
Another red mark. “There is no HPSC data on a quirk known as Quirkless.”

His hands trembled. He tried a dozen more words, even tried placing a quirk he knew did practically nothing but make fingernails grow faster, but his name and info didn’t match the database.

So he sent an email. Loaded it with every recommendation from U.A., put dozens of files of his hard work, notes from heroes he did freelance work for, and even a digital copy of his degree and the letter from the Dean.

The minutes bled into nearly half an hour, the silence thick as he thumbed the folded note from Hinata again and again, the paper softening under his nervous grip. He thought of opening it, of giving himself a reason to smile. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

When the response finally came, his pulse spiked. He clicked. He read.

The laptop hit the wall with a crash. The case split; keys scattered across the floor like brittle teeth.

The email opened in his inbox like an accusation.

“Subject: HPSC—Specialist Division Application Result

Mr. Izuku Midoriya —

Thank you for your application to the Hero Public Safety Commission’s Quirk Specialist division. We have reviewed your materials with care. Your academic record is exceptional: your degree from the University of Tokyo, your published analyses on quirk mechanics, and the letters of recommendation you provided place you well above the majority of applicants in terms of theoretical knowledge and field experience. Your initiative and productivity are, frankly, impressive. (We note with interest the unusually high volume of case documentation you have independently produced.)

That said, the HPSC must always prioritize the safety and welfare of the specialists we deploy. Our Quirk Specialist division is structured around coordinated teams that face volatile, physical quirk phenomena in the field. For operational safety, and in line with longstanding Commission policy, our specialists are required to possess an active, registered quirk. Consequently, we are unable to accept a quirkless applicant into this division — regardless of merit.

Licensing and professional advancement are separate processes. We appreciate your desire to seek the commission’s license; however, as you are quirkless, our criteria require several years of documented employment in allied, supervised positions (for example, full-time work as a school counselor with quirk-handling responsibilities, university faculty in quirk studies, or frontline first-responder roles managing quirk incidents) before we would consider an exception. This is not a reflection of your scholastic abilities but of statutory safety protocols and risk management obligations we cannot waive.

If you would like to pursue these recommended pathways, the Commission would be happy to review documentation of multi-year employment and supervised casework when you can provide it. We wish you success in your future endeavors and commend your contributions to the field.

Respectfully,

Division of Quirk Specialist Affairs
Hero Public Safety Commission”

The words seared. The polite phrasing—the “commendations,” the “we wish you success”—felt like a slow, official dismissal. The single truth that undercut everything was there in clean black type: quirkless.

All those years. All that work. All that pain. One bureaucratic rule, and it knocked the foundation out from under him.

He sat in the shards of silence with his sister’s folded note still clutched in his fist.

The tears came before he knew he’d let them. Hot tracks ran down his cheeks, unwanted and raw. His fingers fumbled at the paper as if it might tear.

Hinata’s handwriting flowered across the page—big, clumsy letters bright with the pride only a child could give:

“Congratulations, big brother!! You are the best of the best quirk doctor, I know it!! I told everyone at school that my brother is number one!! Please come over more, I miss you a lots. Love, Hinata.”

The words blurred as another tear fell. He set the note down carefully, like something fragile that might break under his shaking hands.

His chest tightened. The ache behind his eyes flared into a white-hot pain. He lurched to the kitchen, yanked open the fridge, and grabbed a bottle. He twisted the cap with his teeth until his lower lip split and metallic copper flooded his mouth. He swallowed. The alcohol was cold and sharp—not enough.

He checked his bank account. He had saved up a lot over the years, the product of freelance work: tutoring, private consultations, documentation for professors who used his analyses and then forgot the man who produced them. It would keep him afloat. It would not buy him the HPSC’s imprimatur.

Regulations strangled the independent practitioner. Without the Commission’s backing, he could not bill like an official; pricing and contracts were shackled by law and by a professional ecosystem that favored licensed specialists. The HPSC’s “safety protocols” were an iron gate that locked out anyone the Bureau deemed inconvenient.

He thumbed a message to a lawyer with frantic fingers. He knew the odds were bad—government licensing appeals were a bureaucratic bog, a place to be stalled and worn out. Requests get postponed. Files get buried. Hope withers.

Still, he sent the message.

He checked his balance again. Enough to rent a small apartment if he lived very cheaply—maybe four years if he cut every corner, maybe six in the absolute best-case scenario. After that, the question mark over his life grew into a dark thing.

He slammed the bottle down on the counter so hard his elbow stung. Breath came in ragged bursts. His jaw ached from clenching.

“No,” he breathed. The word tore from him. “No. I didn’t crawl through all of this just to stop here.”

His reflection in the microwave’s dark glass looked fatigue-thin: pale face, red eyes, sweat prickling his brow, hands still trembling. He felt both pathetic and stubbornly alive.

He would find another way. He had to.

Reality, however, pressed in with ruthless questions. How? The options resembled paper bridges over a canyon.

Freelance work—quirk counseling for families, school consultations, odd case documentation—could keep him afloat. But the pay was inconsistent and the prestige nonexistent; it would be patchwork survival, never the platform he’d built toward.

Return to school for another degree—two more years for a teaching or counseling credential—could grant him a path into institutional work, maybe the supervised employment the HPSC named as a prerequisite. But that would mean re-entering a system where his specialty was a minor, where everything he’d already sacrificed would be diluted into credential bureaucracy. It felt like undoing himself.

Each idea fragmented before he could grip it.

His hands went into his hair. He pulled until pain grounded him.

“I’ll figure it out,” he whispered, voice raw. “I’ll… I’ll figure it out. Even if it kills me.”

The silence that followed was full of the burning behind his eyes and the one unanswered question that chewed at him like rust:

How?

Chapter Text

[Three Years After Graduation]

Izuku signed his name on the dotted line; he had read every line, and he knew nothing better would be coming his way anytime soon.

The pen trembled faintly in his grip. Across the desk, the black, beady eyes of Principal Nedzu bored into him with their unnerving intelligence. It felt less like signing paperwork and more like agreeing to an eternal suffering beyond his comprehension.

This wasn’t how he thought his life would turn out.

Two and a half years after graduation, he had given in and started another degree. 

Teaching. 

Not because he wanted to—but because his parents, after two long years of telling him he’d figure it out, he’d find work in the field he loved so much, had begun to worry. Their worry bled into gentle pressure, then urgency. “Try something else, Izuku. Try something safe.” And eventually, he had relented.

Well, their pressure and the dwindling number in his bank account. Not even the hero clients he had managed to snag over the last two years had managed to extend his slow decline in economic safety.

He hadn’t expected much to come out of this second degree. 
Another two years of debt. 
Another piece of paper. 
Another compromise.
Another chance for the world to kick him down.

So he had decided to send out applications early. Noting that he was a—while not HPSC licensed—well-decorated and degree’d professional Quirk Specialist with a high satisfaction rate with his clients over the years. 

He had sent out a lot of emails, filled out more application papers than he would like to admit, and even tried his hand at companies and schools that likely would never hire him with stray applications.

Each stray application—half-hearted, just for the hell of it—had mostly been jokes. He had forgotten them the moment he hit submit. He was just a name among hundreds. 

A hope–and a prayer he expected no answer for. Mostly because he didn’t even have the teaching degree finished. And yet, somehow, impossibly, one of the stray applications hadn’t disappeared into the void.

It had come back.

Not with a rejection. 

Not with the polite dismissal he had come to expect from the Commission or any government branch. 

But with an email. 
From Nedzu himself.
And then a phone call.
And then a meeting.

Izuku had walked into U.A. fully expecting to be told the application getting this far had been a mistake, that his lack of a teaching degree and lack of a quirk made him useless, on top of not being actually licensed. He had braced for it. He had almost welcomed the certainty of disappointment.

Instead, Nedzu had informed him of something extraordinary.

U.A. didn’t just want someone like him. They needed him. Someone with the obsessive detail and scar tissue of years in quirk analysis, someone who understood not only the theory, but the messy, painful reality of quirks on fragile bodies. A bridge between research and raw youth. A guide as much as a teacher.

The timing bordered on miraculous. The Quirk Theory chair had been left in limbo—Lamp Light, the moth-winged hero who had once tutored him with quiet patience, had filed his retirement papers. But he’d added a note: he would remain another year, two if need be, until U.A. found a successor.

“And it would look like he’ll be continuing for another two years!” Nedzu had chirped, sliding the paperwork across the polished desk, his paws gesturing grandly as though Izuku’s signature was already there. “He’s delighted, truly delighted, that it’s you. He says it feels only right.”

Successor.

Lamp Light had called him that. Not a student, not an intern, not a quirkless boy scribbling in notebooks. Successor.

Izuku stared at the contract. It wasn’t vague, it wasn’t bait—it was ironclad. Stamped and sealed with the U.A. crest. A promise wrapped in legal precision.

Izuku Midoriya, Quirk Counselor, Quirk Theory & History Instructor.
Full access to U.A.’s facilities. A private office. A professional salary. Bonuses tied directly to the number of students whose quirks he helped stabilize, whose drawbacks he eased, whose lives he made lighter.

Every name, every note, every hour he poured into someone would matter. Not in theory. Not in some abstract hope. Tangibly.

His chest tightened as his pen scratched the final line of his name. The weight hit him all at once.

The HPSC’s sneering rejection letter. The nights he drank until the bottle blurred the ache behind his eyes. His sister’s crooked, childish letters telling him he was already number one, even when the world made sure he wasn’t. Lawyers who never replied. Applications stamped with “pending,” then “denied.” A thousand locked doors.

And now—this. The one door he hadn’t even believed existed. Wide open. Waiting for him.

It had to be luck. Dumb, blind, impossible luck.

And yet the paper with his signature still lay beneath his hands. Proof he hadn’t dreamed it.

This was how life worked sometimes.

Some were born with quirks that lit up the world like suns. Others spent their lives stumbling through shadows. Izuku had fought shadows for decades—clawing, bleeding, crawling—and maybe, finally, fate had handed him a candle.

But candles burned out.

Even as warmth flickered in his chest, pride trying to take root, the thought slithered in: How long until they change their mind?

He shoved it down. For now, he had a place. For now, he had a future.

And for the first time in years, he dared to believe it. Even if he’d be thirty by the time he took his post, it would still be forward—forward into a life he could be proud of.

His hand trembled as he set the pen down. His mouth opened, but the words fractured, caught in the knot of his throat. “I—thank you—I don’t—this is—” He forced a breath through clenched teeth and tried again, voice thin but steady. “Thank you, Principal Nedzu. I… I can’t even begin to express what this means. I’ll do everything I can to prove worthy of it.”

Nedzu’s smile was sharp and unreadable, his obsidian eyes glittering with the kind of intelligence that dissected worlds. He extended a small paw, and Izuku clasped it with both hands, the handshake absurd in scale but crushing in weight.

“You have it backwards, Mr. Midoriya,” Nedzu replied, his tone as warm as it was unsettling. “I should be the one thanking you. To find someone as young as you with this level of education, drive, and practical field knowledge? Nearly impossible. And to find someone willing to turn all of that not toward fame or money, but toward teaching and guiding the next generation?” His ears twitched, head tilting with foxlike mischief. “Priceless.”

The words cut deeper than the contract itself. Izuku nodded mutely, the sting behind his eyes threatening to give him away.

Two and a half years. That was all that stood between him and the title he had once dreamed of, though never in this form. Two and a half years until he walked through U.A.’s gates—not as a trembling hopeful, not as a rejected candidate, but as a teacher. A counselor. Someone with a seat at the table.

He would inherit the role of his old mentor, Lamp Light, a man equal parts terrifying and inspiring. He would stand shoulder to shoulder with the names he once scribbled in notebooks, faces that had filled news broadcasts and billboards while he remained in the shadows.

And him—Izuku Midoriya, quirkless, rejected, forgotten—would be counted among them.

His degree would be finished in a year and a half. Lamp Light would remain on campus until then, easing the transition, ensuring Izuku was ready. The arrangement bought him time: time to prepare, time to grow into the role, time to settle into the small apartment U.A. had already promised him on school grounds.

It didn’t feel real.

But the paper in front of him said it was. The ink of his signature said it was. The Principal’s handshake—deliberate, anchoring—said it was.

And for the first time in years, Izuku let himself think a thought that didn’t feel like mockery: Maybe my hard work will finally pay off.

The door clicked shut behind him as he stepped into the hall. His pulse was still thundering, his hands still shaking, when clarity struck—piercing, undeniable.

Hinata.

His little sister would be putting in her U.A. application as soon as she was eligible. She had said it a hundred times with fire in her eyes, sparks literally spilling from her lips whenever she practiced her quirk in front of him. And if—no, when—she got in, then he… he would be her teacher.

Not just the distant brother who missed birthdays and milestones. Not just the shadow on the edge of the family. Her teacher. Her counselor. Someone present. Someone constant.

The idea sent a jolt through him stronger than the nerves already chewing at his stomach. For once, he wouldn’t have to piece together her life through texts, or shaky videos, or photos attached to emails at midnight. He could see her grow up in real time. He could help her. Guide her. Protect her.

He almost laughed, the sound small and incredulous.

Clutching his satchel tight to his side, he made his way down the hall, past the rows of portraits of former headmasters and heroes that lined U.A.’s walls. His reflection caught in the polished floor: pale, disheveled, exhausted. But walking. Moving forward.

By the time he reached the lot, his beat-up little dinger of a vehicle waited, sun glinting off its scratched paint. It looked so absurdly ordinary compared to the weight of the moment that he had to pause, forehead resting against the cool metal of the driver’s door.

His mind raced, tumbling with plans, fears, and impossible hopes. He still had a year and a half to finish his degree. He still had mountains of work ahead. But for the first time in so long, he felt like he was climbing up instead of falling further down.

Slowly, haltingly, he was making it.

[Three Years Later: February 26, U.A. Entrance Exam]

Izuku dragged a rolling chair across the tiled floor, the scrape muffled under the steady hum of fluorescent lights, and parked himself beside the sleeping form of Aizawa. Setting a steaming cup of coffee beside him. The man was a picture of disheveled apathy, hair spilling across the desk like ink, scruffy scarf wound haphazardly around his shoulders. Even unconscious, Aizawa managed to eclipse Izuku’s own shoddy, overworked appearance with the kind of unbothered authority only a night owl could produce.

Izuku rubbed the heel of his palm against one eye. He hadn’t texted either Aizawa or Kan since his meeting with Nedzu all those years ago, though to him it felt like the blink of an eye. 

Aizawa had sent him a single picture in reply—one of his cats splayed dramatically across a pile of grading with the caption, “Oh no.” 
Kan, on the other hand, had practically detonated his phone: message after message about how he had just started as the Heroics teacher for 1-B, how the first week was a whirlwind, how he couldn’t wait to see Izuku in the halls once he took his position in the following years.

Izuku hadn’t answered. Not out of malice. He’d just been… busy.

Busy trying to piece his life back together.

The last two years had been a blur of white-knuckle determination. He’d crammed his entire teaching degree into three brutal semesters, living on caffeine, late nights, and the dull ache behind his eyes that never really went away. Then he spent the following year and a half refining his analysis work, combing back through the mountains of papers he had written during university—pages upon pages that had gathered digital dust.

Most had never been published.

So, on a whim, he’d set up a private website. Nothing flashy. Just a clean archive, links neatly organized, his work displayed in the order he had written it. And then, with a mixture of shame and hope twisting his gut, he’d sent the link to Nedzu.

The response had come within hours. Not days. Not weeks. Hours.

A flurry of excited messages filled his inbox, one after another—Nedzu gushing about specific papers, praising observations that Izuku had thought no one would care about. Thirty full analyses were devoured in less than twenty-four hours. Then a phone call, sharp and startling at midnight, the principal’s cheerful voice on the other end brimming with questions.

Izuku had sat in stunned silence as Nedzu told him, with that unsettling certainty of his, “The HPSC really messed up not hiring you, my boy. I doubt they even read half of those recommendation letters.”

Izuku hadn’t known how to respond. He’d barely managed a strangled, “Thank you, sir.”

Mostly because he had no idea how the principal could even know he had sent them all.

And for once, he’d done more than just bury himself in coursework and papers. Slowly—awkwardly—he had begun reintegrating with his family. The process was halting, uneven, but real.

And required him not to be drunk from the moment he woke up.

Changing that habit had led to a lot more headaches than he had liked.

He still wasn’t used to being called daily. 
Sometimes multiple times a day.

Hinata called the most. Always brimming with fire, literally and figuratively. She’d ask for recommendations on quirk practice, send him shaky video clips of her progress, and begged him to double-check her classwork where she struggled. Sometimes she’d just ramble about whatever happened at school, or who said what at lunch, or how badly she wanted to try a new move with her flames. Izuku listened to every word, biting back the guilt at how much of her childhood he’d already missed. Yet, he felt proud of himself that he was doing better.

His mother called too. Stern and soft in the same breath—always checking his health, always demanding he call his father. And so he would.

Those calls usually devolved into long lectures about referrals. His father, still in support tech, endlessly reminded him: “If anyone needs assistance items, send them my way, Izuku. I’ll give them a discount if you’re the referral.” or “If you need any help with any support tech, just email me, I might not be one of the big dogs in the field, but I am well known.” A practical man, always mixing care with business.

And then there was Yukio. Ten this year, with Hinata nearing fifteen.

Izuku had been the one to document his brother’s quirk. That memory was one of the few bright embers he held onto from his hardest months after graduating with his first degree. The pride he felt as he wrote down every line of data, the spark in Yukio’s green eyes as the tests unfolded—it had been a lifeline.

Yukio’s quirk was remarkable: the power to push and pull heat into objects from a distance, storing it in his body, in a small, mutated chamber near his heart. Strong. Versatile. And with every test, every limit they pressed against together, his little brother grew more excited about becoming a rescue hero. Not the flash of an all-around hero, but something rarer, steadier—someone who could walk into fire and storm and pull people back from the edge.

The thought made Izuku smile, small and quiet, the way a man smiles when he realizes maybe the next generation doesn’t have to fight the same battles he did.

That was when Aizawa stirred.

The man groaned, red-rimmed eyes blinking open, and sat up with all the grace of a man who hated being conscious. He muttered something that might’ve been a thank you for the coffee before hissing a curse under his breath.

Kan arrived right on cue, rolling a chair between them with a high-pitched squeak, a grin plastered across his face like he hadn’t slept either, but was too excited to care.

“You excited, Izuku?” Kan asked as he dropped into the chair beside him, the legs squeaking in protest as his weight settled. He shot a grin at Aizawa across the table like a kid daring someone to scold him.

The two heroics teachers locked eyes, sharp glares cutting across the air. For a moment, the tension was palpable—then, just as quickly, it dissolved into something almost comfortable.

“You’d better not think about taking the students I call dibs on,” Kan muttered, arms folded across his chest in mock defiance. “You stole half the kids I wanted last year. I’m calling them first this time.”

“Fine,” Aizawa replied, voice flat, “but I get to claim one of your dibs. You’ll probably pick a problem child who needs an actual teacher and not a muscle-brained idiot.”

Kan snapped upright, pointing a finger so close to Aizawa’s nose it nearly brushed him. “Muscle-brained—did you hear him, Izuku?!”

Izuku pressed his lips together to hold back a laugh, then leaned back in his chair with faux solemnity. “I did. He was very mean to you, Kan.”

“Thank you—” Kan started, chest puffing up—

“But,” Izuku added, deadpan, “he’s also right.”

Kan’s jaw dropped as Aizawa smirked faintly into his scarf. For a moment, the years fell away. Izuku wasn’t the anxious boy clutching notebooks in the corner anymore; he was their colleague, trading blows, slotting himself into the rhythm of their banter as if he’d been there all along.

The doors to the observation room opened and shut in intervals, teachers filtering in. Not just the heroics staff—over half were gen-ed, counseling, or support faculty. Some wore costumes; others were dressed like any ordinary office worker, their only heroics having been left behind years ago. The blend made the air feel heavier somehow, like the exam wasn’t just for the students down in the arena but for the teachers themselves, watching, judging, preparing.

Then Izuku’s eyes caught on a single face among the crowd, and his heart stumbled in his chest.

Baby-blue eyes, framed by a pair of red glasses. Dark hair that spilled past her shoulders—the same dark hair he had once braided carefully during their third year of U.A., hands trembling while she laughed and told him he was doing it wrong.

For a fraction of a second, her gaze met his. Widened, just barely. Then flicked away, quick and sharp, like she hadn’t seen him at all.

Izuku’s breath caught sharply in his throat.

Why hadn’t Kan told him Nemuri was a teacher here? Why hadn’t he checked the U.A. faculty directory when he had the chance? Stupid. Careless. His stomach twisted, the beginnings of a headache flaring back behind his eyes like hot iron.

He forced his gaze down to the screens in front of him, voice low and strained. “Why didn’t anyone tell me Nemuri works here?”

Kan made a strangled choking sound, whipping his head toward Izuku as if he’d just asked about the end of the world. Shota only raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Why would we?” Aizawa drawled. “She started the same year Kan did.”

That was when Izuku remembered, Shota had been pretty out of the loop since Shirakumo Oboro had died their second year. He had pretty much ignored Izuku for the early half of their third year, too.

Kan shot him a glare. “Well, you see—”

“Dear teachers and staff!”

Kan was cut off by the high, sharp voice that bounced off the walls of the observation room. All heads turned to where Principal Nezu sat perched at the front table. His nametag today read Nezu, though Izuku could have sworn it had read Nedzu the last few times he’d seen the rat. 

“It is with great pride that I introduce two new teachers today!” Nezu trilled, paws clasped together. “As most of you know, Lamp Light—a hero and a quirk specialist of great renown—retired at the end of last year, leaving behind a position not easily filled. However, fortune smiles on us…”

The rat turned toward Izuku with a theatrical flourish. “This is Izuku Midoriya, a Gen-Ed alumni and, as some of you may recall, currently the only man in Japan to both meet the requirements for HPSC Quirk Specialist status and be denied the job. Due to…” Nezu chuckled, teeth glinting, “…well, the fact that the HPSC is a bunch of dolts.” A laugh rang through some of the older staff, nudging newer heroes in the side with a grin.

Heat crept into Izuku’s face as Nezu waved him up. Adjusting his tie with stiff fingers, he rose to his feet.

“Starting today, he is our Quirk Theory and History teacher,” Nezu continued, “as well as U.A.’s official Quirk Counselor!”

Applause rippled through the room. Kan clapped loudest, grinning ear to ear. A few others followed with polite enthusiasm—faces Izuku half-remembered from his high school days, blurred memories now looking at him with cautious respect.

Izuku sat quickly, heart pounding, the ache behind his eyes sharpening at the thought of Nemuri somewhere in this room, hearing his name announced, remembering what they had been—and how it had ended.

“And secondly,” Nezu piped, tail curling like punctuation, “we welcome a new Physical Heroics instructor! He sits among you as we speak, though most of you would not recognize him out of costume, disguised as his civilian self. Yagi Toshinori! Please stand!”

A thin, gaunt man rose from his seat. His posture slouched, his frame almost skeletal. His hair, golden but limp, hung like dying straw. He looked as if a strong wind might topple him.

Izuku blinked. He had never seen this man before. Not in his endless hours of research. Not in any registry.

Then Nezu’s voice rang out again, bright and proud:

“Also known as…” 

“All Might!” The man interrupted, voice deeper than Izuku had expected.

The room jolted as the man’s body changed—inflating, filling, expanding. His shoulders broadened, muscles ballooning outward as if sculpted from the very idea of strength. His gaunt face reshaped into the wide, brilliant smile Izuku had grown up worshiping on every television screen in Japan. The baggy clothes tightened, seams groaning, until he stood immense and radiant before them.

“GOOD MORNING, FELLOW TEACHERS!” All Might’s voice thundered, shaking the walls, filling the room with impossible presence.

Izuku’s disbelief spiked—then died in the same breath, smothered by a heavy awe that left his pulse racing.

Because, of course, it was him. Of course, All Might would be here.

And Izuku, somehow, was supposed to call him a colleague.

The next fifty minutes blurred into a haze of noise and energy. The observation room, most years, was usually quiet and orderly during exams; however, this year, it erupted with conversation. A crowd of teachers swarmed All Might like bees to a flame, pelting him with questions, jokes, and congratulations. The Symbol of Peace laughed through it all, deflating back into his gaunt civilian frame and back into his hero persona more than once, waving them off with good-natured charm.

Izuku, however, found his attention caught elsewhere.

Each time All Might transformed, the air in the room shifted. Not metaphorically—literally. The temperature rose by a degree, sometimes more, creeping up by as much as five before the air conditioning kicked in to wrestle it back down. When he untransformed, the cool artificial chill reclaimed the room almost immediately.

Izuku’s fingers tapped the table unconsciously, his brain clicking through possibilities. He had always theorized All Might’s quirk was energy-based—something vast, stored, and released as raw power. This was the first tangible data point he’d seen that supported it. Transformation as an ignition. Heat is a byproduct. Excess energy had to go somewhere after all.

A part of him wanted to march right up and pepper the man with questions until he could map the quirk’s mechanical framework, start to finish. But he knew better. All Might had never once given a straight answer about his power to anyone. Not the press, not researchers, not even government reports.

So Izuku swallowed the urge and forced his gaze back to the large monitors sweeping across the written exam auditorium.

Hundreds of students hunched over their papers, pens scratching, brows furrowed. His eyes zeroed in quickly, finding the two he’d been unconsciously searching for: Bakugo Katsuki, posture rigid and jaw set, and Hinata Midoriya, head bowed and focused. Sister and cousin by choice, side by side, pens moving at a relentless pace. Both of them were cutting through the exam like it was nothing.

At their current speed, they’d finish within forty minutes. And judging from the way their pens didn’t slow, they weren’t just writing—they were confident. Izuku’s throat tightened, pride and worry tangling together.

He let his gaze drop to the few papers in front of him, the outlines of the practical section spread out in sharp text. His eyes narrowed.

“The zero pointer is how big?” Izuku muttered aloud, confusion furrowing his brow. “Is this a misprint?”

Kan leaned closer, peering over his shoulder. Shota gave a low grunt, eyes half-lidded but attentive.

Only then did Izuku notice the small weight on Aizawa’s shoulder. Principal Nezu, tea cup balanced delicately between his paws, sipped contentedly as though he’d been there all along.

Izuku stiffened.

Of course, he’d heard. And of course, he had been waiting for Izuku to say something. The glint in his eye told him far too much.

“The zero pointer is exactly as large as listed,” Nezu chimed before anyone else could speak, his voice as bright and sharp as glass. He gave a little sip of his tea, steam curling upward as though it punctuated the words. “It’s not a misprint, my boy. It’s a deliberate obstacle—one meant to test judgment rather than brute strength. After all, sometimes the wisest decision is knowing when not to fight.”

Izuku blinked at him, the words hanging in the air like a guillotine. He hadn’t even heard the rat move from Aizawa’s shoulder; now he was padding across the observation room table, tiny feet pattering like raindrops, his tail curling with smug satisfaction.

“Has he always been like this?” Izuku muttered, watching the creature pace with the ease of someone who knew he owned the room.

“Yep,” Shota replied flatly, not even glancing up from his scarf.

Kan snorted into his sleeve, shoulders shaking, while Nezu only grinned wider, as if pleased with the confirmation. He hopped down to the floor with a soft tap, his tea cup never spilling a drop, and continued his slow circuit of the room like a general inspecting his troops.

Izuku rubbed the bridge of his nose, headache prickling sharp again, though this time tinged with the bizarre realization that yes—this was the new normal. This was his new workplace.

“Your sister is going to be at Practical Site B,” Aizawa muttered, voice low as gravel. He took a sip of his coffee, expression flattening into the closest thing he ever had to approval at the blessed lack of sugar or cream.

“Oh? How do you know that?” Izuku shifted his attention, bringing his own mug to his lips.

The taste was foul. Bitter, burned. But the hidden burn of whiskey beneath it smoothed the edge, loosening the knot behind his eyes, warming his chest. He knew it wasn’t the best idea for his first day—whiskey in the morning—but the relief was immediate. 

A fragile reprieve.

“Nezu told me.” Aizawa set his mug down with a soft clink, eyes half-lidded but sharp beneath the messy fall of his hair. “Once the written exam finishes and the students separate into groups, the teachers will be split into eight groups. One group for each practical site, three groups to grade the written exams.” He turned his gaze on Izuku then, black eyes narrowing, a quiet edge in them that made the slightly older man straighten.

“You’re exempt from that rotation,” Aizawa continued. “Your task is different. You’ll be watching for anomalies. Students with quirks that don’t behave under stress. Signs of instability, danger, or difficulty controlling output.” His mouth twisted, not quite a smirk. “The kind of problems most of us miss while we’re busy checking how many robots got smashed.”

Izuku swallowed against the weight of the assignment. It was exactly what he was good at—what he had spent years training himself to see—but hearing it framed so bluntly pressed the responsibility into his ribs like a blade. His sister would be down there. His younger cousin would be down there. And every mistake he missed could cost a child more than points on a score sheet.

He took another sip of the bitter mix, forcing himself to let the burn anchor him.

He had a few minutes to prepare at least.

Izuku excused himself quietly, chair scraping across the floor as he stepped out into the hall. The sound of the teachers still murmuring behind him faded into a low hum as he walked the long corridor, his nerves thrumming with each step.

The staff restrooms were nicer than he expected—polished tile, bright lighting, sinks that didn’t sputter like the ones from his university dorms. He leaned forward, twisting the tap until icy water rushed out, and splashed a handful across his face. The shock made him gasp softly, chest tightening as the cold slipped down his neck.

When he finally lifted his head, his reflection stared back from the mirror.

Messy curls clung damp against his forehead. He pulled them back with wet fingers, smoothing them out of his eyes. And those eyes… green, ringed with exhaustion, the dark circles permanent as scars.

They used to shine. 
He remembered that. 
Even as the memories grow foggier with every passing month.

Back when he was a boy, before the diagnosis, before the word quirkless had been written across his life like a curse. They had once been as bright as Yukio’s when he talked about his dream of rescue work. As full of fire as Hinata’s when she practiced shaping her flames, sparks dancing at her fingertips.

But now? 

Now they were dulled. 
Tired. 
Hollowed out. 
Cold.
Like a lantern with its wick burned down to nothing.

And that cut worst of all. Because this was supposed to be his pinnacle. His first real position. A job he could hold with pride, one he had clawed toward through years of rejection and bitter nights alone.

And yet… he still felt lost. Standing in a place people would kill to reach, he couldn’t shake the hollow truth gnawing at him: it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like standing at the edge of something vast and dark, staring down, unable to see if anything was waiting below.

Izuku pressed his palms against the sink, water dripping from his jaw, and forced himself to breathe. One. Two. Three. The burn in his throat from the whiskey-laced coffee steadied him just enough to look away from his reflection.

The loudspeaker crackled in the distance. The start of the practical exams.

He didn’t have much more time.
He couldn't hold himself in the bathroom.
He had to get back out there, to do his job.

The loudspeaker crackled once more.

It was time to move.

One final breath.

Izuku slipped back into the observation room just as the overhead lights cut out, plunging the space into shadow. The only illumination came from the glow of dozens of monitors lining the far wall, each one flickering with live feeds of the exam sites. The sudden contrast painted everyone inside as stark silhouettes—teachers hunched over coffee, others standing tall with crossed arms, and the occasional shuffle of papers echoing in the dark.

Kan leaned back in his chair with a grin, already muttering at one of the screens. Shota’s gaunt frame sat motionless in front of his empty coffee cup, his face pressed flat into the desk as though the man had been unconscious for hours. And Nezu—Nedzu—Izuku squinted at the nametag. 

Did it change? 

The little principal was perched on the edge of one monitor with his cup of tea, like this was all a late-night movie showing. His dark eyes met Izuku’s as he passed.

Across the room, All Might’s gaunt civilian frame seemed even thinner in the dim light, and Power Loader’s mechanical arms clanked as he adjusted something near the back row. Nemuri—Midnight, Izuku corrected himself with a pang, trying to mentally distance himself—had just lobbed a crumpled paper ball across the room. It bounced neatly off the back of Ectoplasm’s head, earning a quiet snort from Snipe, who promptly fist-bumped her with a chuckle. The room felt more like a teacher’s lounge than the launch point of the most important exam of the year.

Izuku quickened his steps, sliding back into the seat beside Kan. The chair squeaked, loud in the hush, but no one seemed to notice.

He glanced at Shota’s slumped form, the man’s dark hair spilling over his arm. “Shota—” Izuku tried quietly, careful not to wake him fully.

The reply was little more than a muffled groan into the wood, a sound halfway between complaint and dismissal.

Izuku frowned, lowering his voice. “Did I miss anything?”

Kan leaned over before Shota could stir, his grin already wide, eyes glinting in the glow of the screens. “You missed Nemuri beaning Ectoplasm in the head with over half the loose paper in this room, and Shota giving up on life once more. Other than that?” He gestured at the monitors as the clocks ticked toward nine a.m. “You’re right on time.”

The feeds shifted, angles of nervous students filing into their respective sites, the cameras sweeping across tense faces and trembling hands. And somewhere among them—Hinata.

Izuku swallowed hard, forcing his eyes to stay fixed on the screens, even as the ache behind them threatened to flare again.

On the main screen, Site B’s camera panned across the crowd of students assembling at the starting gates. Izuku’s breath caught despite himself when his gaze locked onto a small figure standing near the front.

Hinata.

She was almost as tall as some of the boys around her now, green hair darker under the floodlights, pulled back in a messy braid that already looked like it was unraveling. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright and restless as she shifted from one foot to the other. Sparks crackled faintly at the corner of her lips each time she exhaled too fast, little licks of fire betraying nerves she thought she was hiding.

Izuku leaned closer, his professional brain taking over automatically. Shoulders tense—not bad posture, but readiness. Breathing uneven—adrenaline spike, he guessed, nothing dangerous, nerves. Stance wide, almost instinctive from her training… slightly off-balance; she’d trip if she launched too fast. His chest tightened, the ache behind his eyes swelling, because for all the technical detail he could list, all he really saw was his little sister, nervous and trying to look brave.

A few screens to his left stood another familiar figure. In front of the group at site D was Bakugo Katsuki.

Izuku’s lips pressed into a thin line.

The boy had grown taller, sharper around the edges, but the glare was the same. Blond spikes of hair caught the light like flares. He stood almost unnaturally still, jaw tight, palms flexing at his sides every so often—tiny pops of nitroglycerin sweat sparking like warning shots. His control was leagues better than it had been at twelve. Izuku noted the precision at first glance: no wasted motion, only a few stray explosions. Pressure, patients, contained, and waiting.

Professional analysis came quickly: explosive output was mostly stable, but as a twitch in Katsuki’s upper eyebrow caught his attention, Izuku noticed the small pops of fire grow slightly as another hero hopeful attempted to talk to the blond. Still affected by emotional triggers, it would seem. If provoked too early, his stamina might bleed out before the exam ended. But his raw speed and destructive power would give him a distinct edge in the chaos.

Brotherly instinct bled in just as fast. Hinata and Katsuki—his sister and his cousin—both standing at the edge of the trial that would shape their futures. 

Too young. 
Too eager. 
Too close to the fire. 

The same fire that burned him when he was their age.

He finally understood his mother's worry when he had attempted this exam oh so long ago.

Izuku’s jaw worked as he wrote their names at the top of his mental checklist. Not just as the Quirk Specialist assigned to watch for irregularities. Not just as the counselor who’d be expected to step in if anything went wrong.

But as a terrible older sibling and cousin who wanted to make up for years of distance.

The countdown began to flash in bold white on the screens, in time with Present Mic’s vocals that rang through the loudspeaker.

10.

Hinata bounced once on her toes, fire flashing from her lips as she took deep breaths.

9.

Katsuki’s palms flexed, sparks brighter now, teeth bared in something between anticipation and fury.

8.

Izuku rubbed his face and fished out his glasses from his bag, forcing his breathing steady. He had to be both things at once—the brother and the professional. He had to watch every second. He couldn't give all his focus to his family, no matter how much he wanted to.

7.

Kan muttered something about “the fun part.”

6.

Aizawa stirred faintly, grumbling without opening his eyes.

5.

Izuku’s knuckles tightened around the arms of his chair.

4.

His gaze stayed fixed on the two of them.

3.

His heart thudded once, heavy and sharp.

2.

The ache behind his eyes flared like a coal stoked too hot.

1.

The gates burst open, and Izuku forced himself to turn away from his family. His glasses caught the harsh light of the monitors, the blue glare protection muting the shine into something almost bearable. He leaned forward, spreading his hands out in front of him, fingers twitching as though a phantom keyboard hovered there.

He had no notebook this time. No laptop, no pen, no safety net. But he didn’t need them.

He had over fifteen years of practice—dissecting quirks, writing analysis after analysis until his hands cramped, his eyes burned, and the margins of every paper bled with theories. This was his battlefield, even if he was only sitting in a chair.

And he wasn’t just surrounded by heroes—he was surrounded by people who, at one point, had probably read his words without even knowing it was him behind them. Copies of his papers, passed around in high school study groups, cited in college theses, and even pinned on the walls of hero agency offices. 

His invisible fingerprints were everywhere.
The quirkless ones that were used to help the quirked

So he did what he always did.

His fingers danced in the air, miming keystrokes, cataloging quirks into the mental library he had built long ago. Each flick of his hand was another note, another line in the endless book of human potential he couldn’t stop writing.

His eyes flicked first to Hinata.

Superheated fire burst from her lips, red so bright it tipped into blue at the edges—hotter than he’d ever seen her push before. The flames seared across the armor of a faux villain, welding metal joints together until the machine’s own weight crushed them inward. Her hands twisted in sharp, practiced motions, and Izuku’s chest tightened at the sight. Fire stretched into threads, weaving into a lattice—a crude cat’s cradle of burning bars that hardened and speared through the robot’s frame. Metal turned from steel-gray to angry red, then sagged, slagging under its own heat.

She’d grown. She’d practiced hard over the last few years. And he hadn’t been there to see the majority of it.

He forced himself to shift his gaze.

Blond child. Exam Site B. Energy emitter. Izuku tracked the gleam of light sparking at the boy’s navel, a mechanical brace framing his stomach. Then came the discharge—a beam of condensed brilliance ripping forward in a steady stream.

Two and a half seconds. Enough to cut clean through the heads of multiple machines, slag spilling as they crumpled. Thirteen points earned in one strike. But the boy wavered immediately, hand pressed to his gut, face pale, sweat beading. He stumbled, nearly doubled over as the light winked out.

Impressive strength. Dangerous drawbacks.

Izuku’s fingers tapped against the invisible keyboard in front of him—and his hand brushed paper. He blinked, side-eyeing the neat pile of exam records that had appeared beside his hands. He didn’t remember fetching them, nor anyone setting them there.

He glanced sideways. Shocked to notice Shota sitting up, gazing at the screens before turning slowly to Izuku. Aizawa’s lips twitched in the barest ghost of a grin, his half-lidded eyes cutting toward Nezu perched smugly on his shoulder. The look was clear: He put them there.

Izuku huffed through his nose and pulled the file from the stack anyway.

Name: Yuga Aoyama. Quirk: Navel Laser.
Notes: “Late bloomer. Output exceptional. Tendency toward nausea with prolonged use.”

Izuku’s jaw tightened. The note read like something written to fill a line, not to help a student. Speculation dressed as observation. Worthless. The specialist should be fired for such a lackluster note. No information on use length, no information on internal side effects that could be the problem, nor medication suggested.

He set the paper aside, dismissing it as useless, and returned to the screens. Izuku decided he would hold a counseling session with this boy first, before moving on to the next screen.

Exam Site C.

A flash of pink darted across the streets, sliding effortlessly on a gleaming trail of viscous liquid that formed from her feet. Pink hair wild, matching skin glistening under the sun. The girl lifted her hand and fired a spray—thicker this time, darker, sizzling on contact with open air.

The robot she struck spasmed violently. Its chest plate hissed and bubbled as the liquid chewed into the circuits, acid eating through the casing until the faux villain collapsed with a smoking whine.

Izuku’s fingers traced the next file almost before the name appeared on the screen.

Mina Ashido. Quirk: Acid.

A grin tugged at his lips before he could stop it. Efficient. Versatile. Creative applications already blooming in her body language. But dangerous, too—he noted the slight distance she gave the acid from her hands, the subtle wince when a spray hissed too close to her ankles. No civilian-grade gear could withstand corrosive levels that high. Not unless she had a referral from a licensed Quirk Specialist.

His mind spun automatically, column after column filling in: neutralizing agents, durability testing, emergency hazard drills. Workarounds until the correct materials could be sourced so she could be safe. A whole checklist, neat and clinical, forming in the back of his head.

Then he froze.

Another burst splattered from her fingertips, sizzling across her right pants leg. Fabric shriveled, smoking holes opening like hungry mouths. Izuku leaned forward, breath caught, ready to confirm the danger, hoping that she didn't get hurt from her own quirk.

But the girl only threw her arms up in exasperation as the fluid finished burning the end of her pant leg, leaving the skin without any damage. Her lips shaped the words—clear enough for him to read them even without sound: “I just got these pants!”

The acid had eaten straight through the fabric, through the metal of the robots, reducing them to nothing where it had touched directly. Her skin, however, shone untouched. Not so much as a blemish.

Izuku’s brows lifted. Correction: not dangerous to her—only to everything else. She was fully immune.

“Neat,” he muttered under his breath, updating his mental notes with a flicker of quiet satisfaction.

The grin lingered a moment longer than it should have. Bittersweet. Kids like her—immune, adaptable, fearless—were the kind of cases that reminded him why he did this. And also why, in the pit of his chest, he sometimes wondered how far away from them he really stood.

And also why, deep down, he knew how far away he stood from ever being like them. Each one of these students was a universe of potential, every quirk a story he could unravel, catalog, and understand—but never share.

A sigh slipped past his lips as he scanned the screens. The work steadied him. His fingers twitched as though they held a pen, cataloging detail after detail. The ache behind his eyes dulled, if only for the moment.

“Adjustable PH of Acid noted, immunity confirmed,” he murmured under his breath, the cadence automatic, smooth, clinical. He pressed his lips together, but knew it was useless, as soon as he found another quirk of interest, he would just mutter more.

Kan gave a low whistle beside him. “Still freaks me out how you talk like a walking textbook when you get going.” But there was no bite in his grin—only a kind of pride, a recognition.

Aizawa glanced his way with tired eyes, hair draped across his face. “Better than half the specialists I’ve seen at Provisional Exams,” he said simply, then returned his gaze to the screens.

From Nezu’s perch, a cheerful laugh bubbled, his black eyes square on Izuku. “Oh, it’s delightful, isn’t it? Every observation is another mote of practical insight! You really do sound like someone narrating an audiobook of an encyclopedia entry—except with more heart, of course, my boy. I simply do so enjoy a teacher who can’t turn their brain off, even when they try.”

Across the room, Snipe leaned toward Nemuri with a chuckle. “Greenie mutters like he’s wired into the scoreboard.”

Nemuri tilted her head, lips curling into a faint smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Mhm. Some habits never change.” Her tone was smooth, conversational—but directed only at Snipe, not Izuku. Not once did her gaze flick toward him, as if twelve years had taught her the art of looking everywhere but in his direction.

Izuku blinked, caught off guard by all the attention, his cheeks prickling with heat. He hadn’t realized how long he had been speaking aloud, but if he had to guess, it was probably the whole time.

But he didn’t apologize. Couldn’t. Because the work—the act of analyzing—was distracting him from the urge to find a way to get something stronger than his coffee.

And still, the exam raged on, every screen showing more and more interesting quirks that caught his eyes.

[Monday, April 8, Quirk Apprehension Test]

A knock rattled against Izuku’s office door just as he finished straightening the last frame on the wall. His diplomas gleamed under the muted light, lined up neatly above his desk like trophies in a cabinet. Below them, shelves sagged under the weight of binders—blue for first years, red for second, yellow for third—every spine neatly marked with class numbers.

Three binders per class. Dozens per year. Hundreds of notes.

It had taken him the better part of the last month: combing through exam tapes, breaking down quirks into advantages and liabilities, transcribing observations until his hand cramped. Then, waiting for Kan and Shota to finalize their rosters, sending the costume info and added notes to the third-party support techs, then waiting for the five Gen-Ed homeroom teachers, then Support’s two, then Management’s three. Each delay was stacked into his nights like bricks.

Thirty-six binders for the first years alone. And still the second and third-year shelves stared back at him, their weight a silent reminder that he hadn’t had a moment of real rest since he signed his contract.

The knock came again, sharper this time. Izuku adjusted his glasses, trying to blink away the dry burn in his eyes. He hadn’t had a chance to relax, to take off the aids that dulled the fire that lived behind them.

The pair resting on his nose were new—only two weeks old—outfitted with every coating he could afford. Anti-glare. Blue-light filters. Lenses that darkened under sunlight. Even the subtle tint that muted the world’s vibrancy into something softer, bearable. The world looked flatter through them, less alive—but the muting of color had done wonders for the migraines that had shadowed him since childhood.

His old pair from university sat in the top drawer of his desk, heavier, scratched, their lenses a little too warped. A backup. Nothing more.

“Coming,” he called at last, pushing back from his chair and moving to the door.

It opened before he could reach it. Aizawa Shota stood there, arms folded, unimpressed as always. His sharp eyes flicked once over Izuku’s face, lingering on the glasses.

“Finally taking care of yourself?” Shota muttered, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “Took you long enough.”

Izuku pushed the bridge of his glasses higher, half embarrassed at being caught. “They help,” he admitted.

“Good,” Shota said simply, as if that closed the matter. He didn’t waste another word before continuing flatly, “Orientation’s about to happen. But I need you at the athletics field. Some of these problem children are going to need your notes.”

Izuku hesitated. “But what about the orientation—?”

“You don’t have to attend.” Shota’s gaze flicked over his shoulder, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Your contract states that as long as you’re working with a student in any capacity, you’re exempt from staff meetings.”

Izuku blinked, brows knitting. “How do you even know that? That was one line buried in legalese—”

“I read everyone’s contracts,” Shota said it as casually as someone might remark on the weather, already walking away.

Izuku stood frozen for a beat, staring at the shelves lined with the weight of his last month’s labor, before sighing and grabbing his satchel. Of course, Shota read everyone’s contracts.

When Izuku arrived at the athletics field, Aizawa and his students had only just crossed onto the tarmac. The morning air shimmered faintly above the blacktop, the heat of the sun already drawing waves from the surface.

Izuku’s eyes passed briefly over the vibrant cluster of students. Their voices tumbled into one another—excited chatter about quirks, speculation about the test ahead, nervous laughter. Threads of a dozen conversations overlapped until they blurred into background noise. He only caught glimpses of their faces, snippets of energy too bright for him to hold onto.

He didn’t pay them much mind. His thoughts were elsewhere, pulled backward like a tether he couldn’t cut.

The last time he stood on this same warming black tarmac, the world had been colder. A winter picnic. One surrounded by nipping snowfall and frosty windows. Warm smells of coffee and hot cocoa that left the chest heated and breath deeper. It had been a beautiful day.

A day he’d ruined.

Nemuri’s smile had been wide, playful, carrying that warmth that always seemed to burn brighter than his own. Her voice had been vibrant, excited, for him, for them. The smell of the food she had surprised him with, the scent of the hot chocolate, something he hadn't had since that day.

And then—his words. Short, ugly, born of envy and self-loathing. The way her expression shifted, joy cracking into confusion, then into tears. He remembered it in brutal clarity: the sharp twist of his stomach, the part of him that had felt almost vindicated seeing her hurt, as though her pain had somehow confirmed the self-image he carried.

If anyone wanted proof of what kind of man Izuku Midoriya was, he thought bitterly, they could find it there. A coward. Someone who pushed away the one person who had sat beside him in silence and read his scribbled analyses over his shoulder without complaint. The only person who had kissed him. The only person who had shown him that he could love—and be loved—by someone outside his family.

It had taken him far too long to understand how badly he had fucked up. And even longer to admit that some part of him still bled for it.

“Izuku!”

He was torn from his spiraling thoughts just in time to brace himself as his sister barreled into him. Her momentum nearly knocked him off his feet, but he caught her under the arms and lifted her into a hug.

“Hinata! Sorry, I didn’t call, I was—”

“Busy? Yeah, yeah, when are you not?” she cut in, her grin wide, mischievous. Her eyes flicked up to his face, and she pointed. “Are those new glasses? They look good on you! Well—” she poked a greasy fingerprint dead-center into the left lens “—as good as anything can look on you.”

Izuku sighed as she hopped back, already fishing a small cleaning cloth from his shirt pocket. He carefully wiped the smudge away, muttering, “Yeah, yeah. Joke’s on you. If it looks bad on me, it’ll look worse on you. Yukio would agree.”

Hinata huffed, puffing her cheeks like she had when she was little. “Yukio’s an idiot!”

“Miss Midoriya,” Aizawa’s voice cut dryly across the exchange. He didn’t bother to raise it, but Hinata froze mid-protest anyway. Shota’s tired eyes flicked between the two siblings before settling, just for a moment, on Izuku. “Rejoin your class. And leave Quirk Specialist Doctor Midoriya alone. He’s only here to observe.”

Izuku cringed at the word Doctor, heat prickling at his ears. The title clung to him like something ill-fitting, something he had never chosen for himself. Yes, the degree gave it to him, stamped in official ink, but he had never used it. Hearing it from Aizawa—of all people—was almost worse.

He adjusted his glasses, hiding the faint twist of discomfort on his face, and muttered under his breath, “...Never using that title.”

But Shota had already turned away, a ghost of a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth as if he’d heard anyway.

Hinata marched quickly back to her class, her ears red in the same way her brother’s had been a moment ago. But the look she shot over her shoulder said everything: he was going to get hell later for not telling the family about the whole Doctor Midoriya thing.

Hushed whispers rippled through the cluster of students. Curiosity. Amusement. Speculation. Izuku’s eyes slid across the crowd until they locked with Bakugo’s glare—sharp, red, and every bit as familiar as the boy himself.

Izuku raised a hand in a small, almost sheepish wave. His other hand slipped into his pocket, producing a still-wrapped Heroes of Japan collectible card pack. He tilted it slightly, just enough for Bakugo to catch sight of the foil glinting in the sun.

The blond’s eyes widened by the smallest fraction, and the harsh edge in his stare dulled.

Izuku smirked inwardly. “Still the same kid. I know exactly how to calm that nerd down.”

“As I said in class, we’re doing quirk apprehension tests today,” Aizawa began, his voice steady and bored, yet carrying across the field with ease. He pulled a ball from the depths of his baggy pants pocket, tossing it lazily into the air before catching it again.

“Bakugo Katsuki,” he called, eyes half-lidded. “What was your ball throw distance from your last year of middle school?”

“Sixty-seven meters,” the blond responded crisply, dragging his eyes from Izuku and locking onto his homeroom teacher.

“You’re up first.” Aizawa tossed the ball, which Bakugo snatched out of the air without hesitation.

“Step to the line and throw it with everything you’ve got,” Aizawa continued, pulling a small device from his other pocket. “Use your quirk. This will track the distance. Give it your all.”

The students erupted in low chatter, some excited, some nervous. Izuku stayed silent, watching closely. His fingers twitched like he was holding a pen, already noting Bakugo’s body language—the set of his shoulders, the subtle flex in his hands, the eagerness in his stance as he looked down at the ball.

The blond rolled his shoulders once, the ball spinning idly in his palm as he stepped up to the painted white line. The chatter behind him fell into a hush—curiosity heavy in the air. Everyone knew the name Bakugo Katsuki, top score for the U.A. Practical Entrance Exam. But this was the first real test, the first chance to see him prove he was more than just a big number and a name.

He crouched low, muscles coiled, and with a sharp exhale hurled the ball forward.

The moment his wrist snapped, an explosion detonated from his palm. The blast roared, heat shimmering in its wake, and the ball shot through the sky like a comet. A blazing arc of smoke and heat trailed in its path until it was nothing more than a speck, swallowed by the blue.

“Holy shit!” someone shouted from the crowd.

“That’s so unfair—” another muttered, half awe, half bitterness.

Phones clicked, recording despite Aizawa’s likely scowl. Students leaned forward, craning necks, caught between amazement and dread.

The ball disappeared from sight completely. A beat passed. Then Aizawa’s device gave a single, sharp beep.

The number flashed across the screen in his hand: 705.2 meters.

Gasps rippled through the first-years. Someone cursed under their breath. Others gaped openly at Bakugo, whose lips pulled into a sharp grin as he shoved his hands into his pockets, sparks still flickering faintly at his fingertips.

Izuku exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. Explosive propulsion at the snap of the wrist. Raw force amplified by detonation timing. Perfectly executed. His gaze lingered a second longer on Bakugo’s hand. Almost.

There it was—the flaw. The violent bend in his wrist, pushed beyond its natural range by the recoil at the apex of the explosion. It wasn’t obvious to the cheering students, but to Izuku it stood out like a crack in glass. The joint had absorbed too much of the shock. Tiny microfractures would build, sooner rather than later. His hand wouldn’t last forever at this rate; writing and fine motor skills could be threatened.

Impressive. Dangerous. Brilliant. Self-destructive. Son, just like his mother, Izuku saw far too much Mitsuki in that boy and not enough Masaru these days.

Izuku’s fingers twitched against his thigh, aching for a pen, for paper to scrawl down notes. But he didn’t need them. Every detail etched itself into his mind, added to the endless archive of quirks he carried inside his skull.

“Doctor Midoriya?” Aizawa’s voice cut across the excited murmurs. His tone was flat, but there was a faint flicker of intent in his tired eyes. “Opinion?”

Izuku straightened slightly at the title, though it still felt heavy on his shoulders. He cleared his throat, pushing the edge of nerves down until only the cadence of analysis remained.

“Fine control of ignition of his nitroglycerin sweat,” he began, voice even, clinical. “Excellent understanding of its potential. The detonation was timed a fraction behind the apex of the throw, allowing the explosion to carry the majority of the momentum and spare him unnecessary effort.”

He paused, removing his glasses and rubbing at a speck of dust on the lens with a small cloth from his pocket. A breath filled the silence. Then:

“However.”

The word landed heavily.

Bakugo’s head snapped around. Gone was the aloof smirk he had worn for his classmates—his eyes sharpened, focused, demanding.

Izuku slid his glasses back on, gaze locking with his cousin’s. “His wrists,” he continued, his tone calm but unflinching. “If not given some kind of brace, along with consistent physical therapy, stretching, proper rest, and time to acclimate to the forces he’s producing now—” He tapped his temple once, as if punctuating the thought. “Then he will almost certainly develop arthritis in the wrists far earlier than most. Long-term muscular and joint damage is inevitable if the pattern continues unchecked.”

The field went quiet. Students glanced between Bakugo and Izuku, caught off guard by the bluntness. Bakugo’s jaw worked, sparks faintly spitting from his palms, but he didn’t immediately snap back.

Izuku didn’t flinch under his glare. He had spoken the truth—harsh, unvarnished, necessary.

Aizawa let the silence stretch just long enough for the weight of Izuku’s words to settle. Then he spoke, his tone as blunt as ever.

“He’s right,” Shota said, sipping his coffee like he was commenting on the weather. “It’s not just about how far you can throw, Bakugo. If you don’t want to be a crippled pro by thirty, you’ll listen.”

A ripple of murmurs swept through the class. Some students glanced nervously at Bakugo, expecting the inevitable explosion.

And it came, though not from his palms this time. Bakugo stormed across the tarmac toward Izuku, his boots striking hard against the ground. Sparks still hissed at his fingertips as he stopped just short of slamming into him, chest heaving.

“Why the hell didn’t you ever tell me that before?!” Bakugo’s voice was raw, halfway between a roar and a demand.

Izuku didn’t flinch. He adjusted his glasses, keeping his voice calm, even as his chest tightened. “Back when you were younger, your explosions were smaller. Plus, you couldn’t push them to their max before, not even in Quirk Gyms. Not like this at least.”

Bakugo’s eyes narrowed, but Izuku continued, unbroken. “Now you can. And as you get older, your max output will keep climbing. Your quirk granted your body a symbiotic mutation designed to absorb recoil and grant your body resistance to the impacts and heat of the blasts. But it has limits. Limits that will break you if you don’t support them. Braces. Therapy. Training smart instead of just harder.”

Bakugo’s teeth ground together; the fury in his expression caught somewhere between rage and reluctant understanding.

Izuku didn’t give him the chance to argue. “You’ve got the kind of power most people dream about. But if you don’t learn to take care of your body now, Katsuki, you’ll burn out before you ever get to prove it.”

The silence that followed was sharp, every student hanging on Bakugo’s response. Sparks crackled faintly from his palms, but his jaw clenched shut, lips pressed into a thin line.

The silence stretched. Students leaned forward, expecting fire, a shout, anything to shatter the tension.

But Bakugo didn’t explode. Not this time.

His fists flexed, palms sparking faintly as if to remind himself the power was still his. His jaw worked, teeth grinding, but no retort came. Instead, he turned, taking his first slow steps back to the class, words mumbled under his breath barely loud enough for them to carry only to Izuku—low, raw, bitter, and emotional.

Izuku only caught a few stray words, “…quirkless… My quirk… Idiot…” They were barely a whisper. But the words landed sharp, colder than an icepick to the chest.

His stomach twisted. He adjusted his glasses again, a pointless gesture, and kept his face carefully neutral. He refused to let his cousin see that he had heard him or the sting he felt from the words. Not here. Not in front of the class, not in front of his colleague and friend, and definitely not in front of his sister.

“Back in line, Bakugo,” Aizawa said, voice flat. “We’re wasting time.”

Bakugo obeyed, spinning on his heel and stalking back toward his classmates without another word.

Izuku exhaled slowly through his nose, fingers tightening briefly around the packet of cards in his pocket before he forced himself to loosen them. He went back to watching, cataloging, observing—the work steadied him.

But the echo of those words lingered, louder than any explosion.

[Monday, April 8, After School Hours]

Izuku pushed the mop of hair out of his eyes and leaned back in his chair, the stack of paperwork threatening to swallow his desk whole. The express alterations for Class 1-A’s and 1-B’s hero costumes lay spread before him, notes scrawled in the margins in his tight, practiced handwriting.

He chewed his lower lip as his eyes tracked the columns, muttering under his breath. What the hell is U.A. thinking? And who the hell signed off on half of these requests? Why hadn’t any paperwork been filled out on the improvised Support Tech alterations? Was there no process that the techs needed to go through before doing whatever they wanted?

Sure, some of them made sense—even showed that the right support techs had read his forwarded notes alongside the students’ design requests from three weeks ago.

Ochaco Uraraka, for example. Her tech had been sharp, adding pressurized reinforcement in critical areas of her suit. More than that, they’d gone further, designing behind-the-ear bone conduction headphones to help stabilize her inner ear and cut down on her nausea. Izuku had scribbled a rare “Good. Very good.” in the margin of that report.

That same tech was also responsible for Katsuki’s alterations—and the only one so far who’d bothered to reply to Izuku’s newer emails from today. They’d sent an excited response about recalibrating Bakugo’s bracers, with plans to reinforce the wrists, fingers, elbows, and shoulders exactly as Izuku had recommended. Finally, someone was taking the strain on those joints seriously. That had earned a relieved exhale from Izuku; he hadn’t realized he was holding.

But then there were the others.

Specifically, the tech assigned to Toru Hagakure and Momo Yaoyorozu’s costumes.

Izuku’s jaw tightened as he reread the notes. For Hagakure, they’d sent back approval of boots and gloves. Boots and gloves. Then, since there was no need for approval, they had sent the finished hero costume. Boots and gloves. Which now rested in the 1-A costume case for Hagakure. Boots and gloves. Just boots and gloves. Sure, she hadn’t sent specifications beyond boots and gloves, but there were so many options a tech had that…

He pinched the bridge of his nose, the dull ache behind his eyes flaring. He’d immediately fired off a follow-up request—and blind-carbon-copied it to Nezu. Only to discover, to his growing dismay, that the principal had three separate emails with three different spellings of his name. And, judging from the replies, he actively used all three.

But that wasn’t the point.

The point was that an invisible girl had been cleared for combat by her tech with nothing but a pair of boots and gloves.

So Izuku had requested a full hair sample for compatibility testing with quirk-support fabric technology. With the right composite threads, Hagakure could be outfitted with lightweight protective gear woven directly for her quirk. Anything less, and he wasn’t going to let it slide.

And then there was Yaoyorozu. Her base design was… functional, if too revealing. Izuku’s notes had been sharp: request a zipper across the front for modesty, but also flag for full quirk compatibility testing. Creation-type quirks manifested through the skin—there was a chance that the same fabric integration technology could enhance her ability to manifest items, while simultaneously giving her proper protection.

Not only more practical. More dignified.

Izuku drummed his fingers against the desk, frustration simmering low. These kids were going to be thrown into high-risk environments, and some people still treated their costumes like fashion statements instead of survival gear.

Not on his watch.

Izuku pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing a long breath through his teeth. If the support techs weren’t going to take this seriously, then he would.

He opened a blank email draft. Then three copies of it. One addressed to Nedzu, another to Nezu, and a third to Nedu. He didn’t know which one would catch the principal’s eye first—and frankly, he didn’t care. One of them would.

His fingers tapped against the keys with sharp precision.

“To Principal Nezu (and associated aliases),

I am formally requesting authority to assume oversight of the final review process for third-party support gear designs, specifically those pertaining to Classes 1-A and 1-B.

My compiled notes already highlight multiple instances of negligence, oversight, and, in some cases, outright disregard for quirk compatibility, student safety, and previous instruction. The most egregious examples include Hagakure and Yaoyorozu, whose current costumes fail to meet even the barest standards for combat readiness.

U.A. is a world-class institution. If our students are injured due to laziness or incompetence on the part of contracted support technicians, the liability falls not on those technicians, but on U.A. itself.”

He stopped, chewing his lip, then added the edge he’d been holding back:

“Therefore, I request executive permission to either (a) revoke U.A.’s business relationship with these third-party technicians, or (b) compel redesigns in line with my notes under threat of termination of contract.

I have spent my entire life around support technology. I know which technicians are stubborn, thick-skulled, and still worth trusting because they listen when it matters. I also know which ones gamble with other people’s safety. These students are not pawns. They are children. And I will not allow negligence to endanger them.

Signed,
Midoriya Izuku, Quirk Theory & History Instructor
U.A. High School”

Izuku leaned back in his chair, jaw tight, reading the email over once, twice, three times. It was aggressive. It was blunt. It was a risk. But it was right.

With a final click, he sent it to all three addresses.

He stared at the screen, the ache behind his eyes flaring, then fading into the background hum of his heartbeat. For the first time since stepping into this role, he felt a sliver of control.

If U.A. wanted him to protect these kids, then he was damn well going to protect them—even if it meant burning bridges with people who didn’t take their jobs as seriously as he did.

Izuku sat back, exhaling through clenched teeth. His fingers tapped anxiously against the desk as he stared at the sent folder.

Now comes the waiting—A knock at his door startled him. Sharp, quick.

“Come in,” he called, adjusting his glasses.

The door opened, and to his surprise, a small blonde head poked in—horns catching the light from his desk lamp. Wide blue eyes blinked up at him.

“Uh—Midoriya-sensei?” Pony Tsunotori shuffled into the room, her accent thick, her Japanese stilted but earnest. She fumbled the words slowly, her tone apologetic. “Vlad King… um, concern? My costume.”

Izuku blinked once. Twice. Vlad King? And then it hit him—of course. They only knew Kan by his hero name.

“Oh,” Izuku said quickly, standing and softening his tone, “You mean Kan-sensei. Yes, I understand.”

Relief flickered across her face at being understood. She stepped closer, hands clasped nervously behind her back. “He said… uh, costume wrong. Too big. Bulky. Has… head piece I didn’t want.” Her brow furrowed as she tapped the tips of her horns. “Gets in way. Can’t use quirk right.”

Izuku nodded, already cataloging the issue in his mind. Foreign exchange student. Horn projectiles. Range quirk—so why in the world would someone add a restrictive headpiece? He made a mental note to pull her file again, double-checking the compatibility reports.

“Thank you for coming to me, Tsunotori-san,” he said, gesturing toward the chair across from his desk. “Let’s go over what was submitted versus what was delivered. We’ll make sure you’re not hindered by faulty design.”

She beamed, a flash of gratitude breaking through her nervousness as she sat.

Before Izuku could pull her folder, his laptop pinged. An email notification glowed at the corner of the screen.

He clicked it open, eyes scanning fast.

“My dear Midoriya,

Oh, what delightful initiative! I must confess, I’d been wondering how long it would take before you snapped at our more… careless contractors. It warms my heart to see you put the children first—even if your tone might give some poor technician indigestion.

Consider this your official clearance: you may assume oversight of third-party support gear reviews effective immediately. Do be sure to copy me, whichever spelling you prefer, on all communication. That way, I may enjoy the fireworks when the stubborn ones push back.

With cheerful regards,
Principal Nezu
(Or Nedzu. Or Nedu. All are me, after all!)”

Izuku’s stomach flipped. He was waiting for this.

He flicked his gaze from the screen back to Pony, who was watching him with cautious curiosity. He closed the laptop gently and forced the tension from his voice.

“Alright, Tsunotori-san. Let’s fix this mess.” Izuku switched to English, the words rough on his tongue, but clear enough. Her eyes lit up in surprise, the tension in her shoulders easing a fraction.

“You… speak English?” she asked, her accent heavier now that she was less guarded.

He gave a small, awkward smile. “Little bit. Rusty. Needed… for my degree.” His green eyes softened. “But enough to help you.”

Pony sat straighter, a grin breaking across her face. “Thank you, Sensei!”

Izuku pulled her file onto his laptop, fingers skimming over the keys until the 360-degree render of her costume appeared on-screen. The mannequin turned slowly, showing off the final product: heavy boots, padded sections that looked more suited for a tank driver than a student, and the clunky headpiece she had mentioned earlier.

Beside it, he set her original sketch—a messy, enthusiastic drawing that looked more like a doodle from a notebook margin than a formal design. The differences were glaring.

His finger traced the boots on the display. “Too bulky,” he said in Japanese before correcting himself, fumbling with the English. “Thick. Not what you wanted?”

She leaned forward, tapping the sketch. “Yes! I wanted strong boots, but… light. Not heavy like this.” She mimed stomping and wobbling, making Izuku chuckle.

He nodded and typed a quick note into her file. “Okay. Reduce thickness. Keep strong, but thinner, less weight.” He glanced up, meeting her eyes. “Better?”

“Yes! Much better!”

His pen scratched across a notepad as he continued, noting the contracted tech’s name for later. “How did you catch it so fast?” he asked, voice curious. They had the costumes in, but it was only the first day. What reasons would they have for checking them already?

“Vlad King,” she said proudly, switching back to Japanese. “He ended class with a costume fitting. Said sometimes support techs… mess up first versions. Better we check now than later.”

Izuku hummed softly, leaning back. Of course, Kan would do that. He made another mental note—he still had to go over all of 1-B’s files, line by line, to make sure no one else had been shortchanged.

He shifted back into English, gentler this time. “Good. You did right. You come to me when something is wrong. We fix together early.”

Her grin widened, bright and toothy. “Hai, Sensei!”

For the first time in a long while, Izuku felt it—that spark. The quiet joy of guiding someone, of solving a problem that mattered. Not a mountain of unread papers, not a rejection letter, not the system grinding him down. Just a student. Just a problem he could fix.

And it felt… good.

[Tuesday, April 9, Early Morning] 

The coffee machine beeped, sharp and impatient, before spitting its last hiss of steam into the waiting mug. Izuku pulled it free, tired fingers automatically reaching for the sugar packets stacked by the machine. One. Two. Three. He stirred them in, the spoon clinking against porcelain as though keeping time with his own fraying nerves.

Then, with the ease of a man who’d made the mistake too many times to care, he uncapped the flask he had whisked from his coat pocket. The metal cap came loose with a low sloshing sound from within the metal container. He had expected the smoky bite of whisky when he tipped it, but the smell hit his nose wrong. Vodka. 

He frowned faintly. “When did I finish the whisky?” The memory refused to surface. He let it go. It had been a long night after all.

Hours spent firing off emails to third-party support techs, half of which would ignore him until Nezu applied further pressure. Hours comparing notes with his father on micro-adjustments he had caught but couldn’t quite explain. And then another hour drafting long, curt messages to Power Loader—Maijima Higari, he corrected himself wearily—roping him into the growing list of people who could help fix UA’s endless costume issues. The man hadn’t seemed surprised to be copied in. If anything, Izuku imagined he’d been waiting for someone to start connecting the dots and do the in-between work.

The sip burned his throat, bitter coffee and sharper alcohol clashing in his chest. He let it settle like a stone in his stomach. Enjoying the simple burn of liquor down his throat and into his chest.

Because today wasn’t going to be simple.

Both 1-A and 1-B were scheduled for their first practical tests. Labeled “battle training” on the calendar, but really they were gauges—measuring how the kids thought, how they moved, how they adapted when pitted against one another, this early on. Izuku had seen the outlines. Some of the matches were clever. Others… borderline cruel. All disguised as a game of chance.

He sighed through his nose, breath sharp, and leaned back into the too-soft couch. The staff lounge was dark, curtains half-drawn, the hum of the vending machine the only sound. His head tipped back, the ceiling blurring overhead.

The ache behind his eyes flared again. It had been bearable yesterday—buried under the avalanche of work, the shuffle of papers, the rush of notes to write and send. But this morning, with only his thoughts for company, the pain gnawed deeper.

And with it came the echo of a voice. Katsuki’s muttering, sharp as broken glass. Quirkless.

Izuku’s jaw tightened.

He’d tried. God, he’d tried to keep some kind of bridge between them. Every holiday, every birthday—gifts bought from the scraps of his savings, small things he knew Katsuki would like, folded in alongside Hinata’s and Yukio’s. A ritual of effort, of hope that maybe, just maybe, the years would sand down the edges of old wounds.

But the mutter had cut through all of it. No venom in it, not really. Just a truth Katsuki still carried—and maybe always would.

Izuku exhaled, long and quiet. It’s fine. Katsuki was a boy molded by a world that despised the quirkless. A world Izuku himself became a part of, too, on his worst days. He couldn’t fault him for echoing what he himself sometimes believed. 

The mug was warm in his hand. He lifted it, took another long swallow. The caffeine and vodka warred for dominance, leaving him caught somewhere in the fog between sharp and slow.

He let the silence linger. Just for a moment.

Because soon the students would be fighting. And his sister—his sister—would be standing opposite Bakugo Katsuki.

And he wasn’t sure which part of that scared him more.

So he put what faith he had—fragile, fractured, but not yet extinguished—into his sister’s fire. His hands came together in a shape that mocked a prayer, one Kan had shown him years ago, back when they were still kids fumbling for hope in different ways. He had left it behind since then, buried under deadlines, failures, and nights too long for belief.

Faith had never been his strong suit. It had never carried him through the worst of his days, never softened the blows of rejection or loneliness. Kan might still hold it in spades, steady as stone, but Izuku had none of that left.

Still. For Hinata? For her bright, stubborn spark? He could bend his hands into the shape of something he didn’t truly believe in and whisper a silent prayer anyway. Even if it was empty. Even if it was pointless.

Maybe—just maybe—it would make a difference.

He had mentored her from a distance for almost a decade, voice through a phone line, notes scrawled in margins, diagrams emailed between assignments. She was a natural, sharp and intuitive, her potential rivaling even Katsuki’s explosive growth. He could already picture her sparks dancing deliberately along his cousin’s skin, manually igniting the nitroglycerin sweat before he had a chance to weaponize it himself.

The boy would survive even if it ended in a chain detonation. Probably. Unless they allowed him to use those cursed bracers to their full potential.

That worry lingered, heavy as the ache behind his eyes.

Izuku drank down the dregs of the bitter mix, set the empty mug aside, and let his body sink into the couch. Four hours until the others arrived. Enough time to snatch a nap. Enough time to let oblivion dull the edges for just a little while.

He pulled his coat off, folded it beneath his head, and closed his eyes. The room fell quiet, save for the low hum of the vending machine. His breathing slowed. And soon, he was still.

Nemuri entered the staff lounge a few hours after, heels clicking against the polished floor. She paused in the doorway, one hand curling around the frame, her usual smirk softening without her permission. Caught between turning bitter, raw, and reforming into a fake grin.

Mr Midoriya lay sprawled on the couch, tie loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, his coat balled beneath his head like the world’s cheapest pillow. His hair had fallen in wild curls across his forehead. The rise and fall of his chest was steady but shallow, lips parted just enough for a faint breath.

The sight drew a pang low in her chest.

The black half-moons under his eyes weren’t new. He had carried them even back in high school. But now… now they had deepened into trenches, framed by the pallor of his skin. His freckles had faded, washed out by exhaustion until they seemed like shadows more than spots. His frame was thinner too, his shoulders less solid than she remembered, his posture collapsed into himself even in sleep.

A husk, she thought grimly. A husk wearing the shape of Izuku Midoriya.

Thinner. Hollower. In some ways, more skeletal than Yagi when he shrank into his true form. And somehow, that comparison hit harder.

She exhaled through her nose, forcing her gaze away. Sympathy was dangerous—it softened the edges she needed to keep sharp around him. Still, it clung like smoke.

Nemuri crossed the room quietly, heels clicking softer now. She set her bag down on the counter, all the while stealing glances at him. The boy she’d once known. The boy she had once…

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. Best not to finish that thought.

But she couldn’t help it: the part of her that remembered brading his hair before morning classes, stealing moments in dimly lit dorm halls, the first time he had ever smiled without apology.

That boy was long gone.

This man? This man was drowning in work, in ghosts, in whatever hell the last decade had carved into him.

Nemuri crossed to the fridge and yanked it open. Rows of bottled coffees lined the shelves, her brand—sickly sweet, overpriced, but necessary. She cracked the cap, took a long swallow, and let the sugar burn her tongue as she flicked through her phone for the day’s agenda.

Nothing new. Nothing urgent.

Her thumb slid up again. That’s when she saw them.

A stack of emails—dozens—forwarded by Higari straight to her inbox. The timestamps told the story before she even opened them.

3:32 a.m.
3:11 a.m.
2:58 a.m.
2:45 a.m.

On and on, stretching back for hours.

Her eyebrow arched, and despite herself, she tapped one of the flagged subject lines: Costume Request Form Revamp Idea.

The senders: Midoriya Izuku.
The recipients: Nedzu. Higari. Two dozen contracted U.A. support techs. Kan. Aizawa.

She exhaled slowly through her nose before opening it.

The email itself was no rant. No disorganized mess. It was cold, deliberate, almost painfully methodical.

Attached were three documents, each one fully drafted.

Part One: A student packet. A dozen leading questions designed to force the kids to think critically about their costumes beyond “cool factor.” Range of motion, heat resistance, visibility, circulation, and impact dampening. Each prompt carried the subtle weight of someone who’d spent years cataloguing the ways support gear could fail, and the injuries it left behind.

Part Two: A teacher addendum. Sections for notes, sections for quirks, sections for everything. Room to flag contradictions between what a child wanted and what their physiology could realistically support. An entire column dedicated to known drawbacks.

Part Three: A single, brutal sheet titled in bold: “Costume Refabrication Request or Termination Papers. You Choose.”

Nemuri stared at the phrase. The bluntness of it. The exhaustion bleeding through between the lines.

And then she read the body of the email itself.

It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t dressed up in academic language. It wasn’t anything but the raw, sandpaper words of a man who’d been at this desk far too long.

“This is the third time in less than two hours I’ve flagged fundamental flaws in multiple costumes. At least four of these ‘finalized’ designs put students at unnecessary risk of injury or death. You don’t have to agree with me. You don’t even have to like me. But you will read these forms and you will implement them. If you don’t, I’ll make it clear to Nedzu that U.A. is wasting money contracting support techs who don’t meet the bare minimum of competency.

You’ve had your chance to fix these things quietly, back when I sent the original notes with the costume requests. This is the final draft of all costume requests, updated, reformatted, and with direct links to Hero Costume Law. From now on, you either sign off on the corrections or you sign off on the termination papers. There’s no third option.”

Nemuri’s thumb hovered over the screen as she scrolled back up, lips pressing into a thin line.

Blunt. Tired. Not even angry anymore—just past it. Like he’d been fighting uphill for so long that this was what he had left.

She glanced over at the couch. His coat crumpled beneath his head. His mouth was slightly open in shallow sleep. The empty mug still sitting on the table.

And she thought, not for the first time: “I knew he would go downhill hard, but to see him like this…” She shook her head. After all he had said to her, he didn’t deserve her sympathy, even if she knew he hadn’t meant the majority of his words.

[Tuesday, April 9, Before Battle Training]

Izuku capped the end of his lecture with a deliberate pause, chalk still faintly dusting his fingers. His voice carried steady, though he felt the heat climbing into his cheeks from every pair of eyes fixed on him.

“The most important thing about a quirk,” he said slowly, letting the silence between each word sink in, “is not its strength. And it is not its reliability. It is stability. If you can make your quirk stable, then strength and reliability will come soon after. That is the foundation. That is how all quirks work. The stronger the flame, the faster it burns itself out—unless you learn how to control the burn.”

He set the chalk down with a faint clack. “Even the strongest quirks in this world can destroy their users if left unchecked. And most of the time,” his gaze swept the hall, forcing him to look each row of students in the eye, “it’s not the power that breaks first. It’s the person.”

For a moment, the room was hushed. Then pens scratched faintly against paper as the students resumed note-taking, the sound sharp in the wide lecture hall. Behind him, the boards were filled with diagrams and bullet points, the stark glow of the overhead lights catching on the chalk like frost.

Gen-Ed classes 3-H, 3-I, 3-J, 3-K, and 3-L—five full groups of third-years, kids on the cusp of graduation. Good kids, from what he could already tell. Focused, diligent, some even leaning forward as though they didn’t want to miss a word.

This was his first real day of teaching. His schedule was a patchwork quilt of odd allocations: one lecture a day, five days a week, each a massive group session spanning entire year cohorts. Monday was the outlier—hero courses, 1-A and 1-B, along with the second- and third-year hero students. Tuesday was the third-year Gen-Ed. Wednesday, second-year Gen-Ed. Thursday, first-year Gen-Ed. And Fridays? Management and Support, all three years combined, those classes are half the size but twice as specific.

Yesterday, he’d been exempt—first-day chaos and administrative shuffling. Today marked the start of his rhythm. His place.

Izuku felt the nerves prickle at the back of his neck, the memory of childhood presentations threatening to claw their way back. But when he saw a few students nodding as they copied down his last point, he let himself breathe.

Maybe this, he thought, just maybe… he could be good at this.

The entrance to the lecture hall burst open before the first student could slip through the doors. Aizawa descended the steps in strides of three, ends of his capture weapon dragging behind him, his expression the same dead-eyed exhaustion that somehow never slowed him down.

Izuku, halfway through sliding his chalk back into its tray and gathering his notes, didn’t even need to hear the words. He already knew what was coming.

“I need you for battle training today,” Aizawa said flatly, stopping at Izuku’s desk. His eyes—bloodshot, heavy, but sharp—fixed on him with that piercing weight. “Some of these kids have quirks that eat them alive if they use them wrong. Denki Kaminari. Yuga Aoyama. And that’s just two examples. I want your eyes on them. On all of them.”

Izuku adjusted his glasses, his folders tucked under one arm. “What about Kan’s kids?” he asked quietly, trying to keep the lecture-hall nerves out of his voice.

“They’ll wait. You’ll get his brats next battle training.”

A faint pang of guilt twisted in Izuku’s chest, but Aizawa’s tone left no room for argument… Well, he did have the choice, but really, Kan was the softer touch of the two hero homerooms; Shota’s kids could use the assistance.

As they moved out into the corridor, Izuku caught snatches of hurried support staff conversation echoing from down the hall—talk of shipments not arriving, orders delayed. By the time they reached the staff wing, the picture was clear: the majority of the first-years’ costumes were still incomplete, the redesigns and corrections Izuku had pushed through not yet finished by the contracted techs.

“They’ll be in the original costumes for today,” Aizawa muttered, pulling another thermos of coffee from somewhere within his scarf like it was a magician’s trick. “Faulty gear doesn’t belong in combat tests, however. Support says the new rounds of costumes will be ready for the USJ next week. The three support teachers managed to throw together some last-minute adjustments to the originals overnight.”

Izuku nodded, the words settling in his chest like iron. His mind immediately shifted into motion, cataloging risks with the speed of reflex. Aoyama’s fragile quirk stamina and already-worrying constitution. Kaminari’s over-discharge problem. Yaoyorozu’s vulnerability without specialized fabric or modular storage to balance her quirk’s problem of crafting time. Others, too—the quiet notes he’d already scribbled in margins, waiting for confirmation.

Today would be raw. Unguarded. Without the buffer of properly tuned equipment, every drawback would show in brutal clarity.

Dangerous.

And yet… There was value in that. He hated admitting it, but part of him understood. A stress test without up-to-code costumes was like stripping the illusions away. What the students could do without gear, how their bodies handled strain, what broke first—those were truths no costume could ever fully hide.

It could be useful. Ugly, risky, but useful. At least once, early enough to catch the flaws before the cracks widened.

Izuku exhaled slowly, forcing down the restless twitch of his hands. He would watch. He would record. He would catch everything they missed.

The two teachers continued their walk in silence, Izuku silently cursing himself for not bringing his laptop and field notes. His fingers itched with the phantom weight of his notebook, already imagining the annotations he could be scratching in the margins. He briefly wondered if he had time to run back to his office and grab them.

That thought vanished the moment they pushed through the heavy doors into the training facility.

The sight hit him like a flare.

The room was a collage of color—outdated costumes cobbled together with rookie charm, bright fabric stitched into silhouettes that told more about the students’ self-perception than their actual quirks. He couldn’t help but compare them to the restructured notes sitting on his desk, the corrections that would one day become second nature to these kids.

Still, the old designs had their appeal. Naive, impractical, but earnest.

Mina Ashido caught his eye first—pink skin already loud enough on its own, but paired with leopard print spandex, it was almost painful. Still, he noticed how her limbs moved easily within the fabric: flexible, breathable, resistant to restriction. Functional in its own garish way.

Uraraka’s, on the other hand, made him frown. The suit clung tighter than he had anticipated, the bulk of her wrist cuffs contrasting oddly with how constrained her core seemed. He made a mental note: speak with her after. A too-tight suit could restrict breathing, circulation, and even reaction speed. And a quirk that triggered on touch left no room for error.

His eyes kept moving. Tenya Ida’s suit gleamed with polished armor plates, too stiff across the shoulders. Impressive tech, but too heavy, and the torque of his engines would punish him for it. Shoto Todoroki’s simple two-tone uniform looked efficient at first glance, but Izuku could already see the risks—no built-in thermal management, no reinforcement against the extremes his body would endure. A child prepared to burn and freeze, but not prepared for the scars left behind… realisation trickled up Izuku’s spine like a chill. Todoroki hadn’t used the fire side of his quirk once in any of the tests he had watched of the boy. Worry ate at his gut, but he looked away. He would get a counseling invitation soon.

Everywhere his gaze landed, flaws and potentials lined up like puzzle pieces waiting to be solved. His head filled with checklists: padding here, insulation there, reinforced stitching, modular adjustments.

Then, above the hum of his own thoughts, came a booming voice that vibrated in his chest.

“Now! Each of you comes here and draw lots!”

Izuku glanced toward All Might, the man standing impossibly tall, cape nearly brushing the floor as he projected his larger-than-life grin across the room.

Predetermined lots. Of course. He knew Shota well enough by now to recognize that nothing here was random, even if he had already read the roster. The matchups had been carefully chosen, weaknesses sharpened against one another like whetstones was Shota’s specialty.

Izuku’s throat tightened. He straightened his glasses and steadied his breath.

Observation time had begun.

The line of students shuffled forward to the lot box, voices buzzing with excitement and nerves. Izuku’s gaze snapped instantly to the two names already etched into his chest like scars: Hinata Midoriya and Katsuki Bakugo.

Hinata stepped lightly, almost bouncing with restrained fire. Her costume was unmistakably hers, modeled after sketches she’d nervously shown him months ago over the phone. Dragon-inspired, scaled plating traced her shoulders and forearms in layered pieces, lacquered a deep green that caught the light. A mask swept back over her head like stylized horns, and her gloves ended in clawed tips. It was bold, fierce, a statement.

Too much of a statement.

Izuku’s eyes narrowed. The scale-plates were heavy—too heavy. They restricted shoulder rotation; he could see it in the slight tension in her gait. And her gloves? Sleek, yes, but unwieldy for delicate control. Those claws would hamper her ability to make fine adjustments mid-fight. He jotted invisible notes into the air with twitching fingers: lighten the armor, re-engineer the gloves, test for heat-channeling efficiency.

Even so, pride warmed his chest, unbidden and dangerous. She looked strong. Stronger than he had ever been at her age.

Then the boy beside her stepped up.

Katsuki Bakugo radiated confidence, shoulders squared, jaw set, every inch of him daring the world to underestimate him. His costume, however, made Izuku’s stomach tighten. The oversized grenade-shaped gauntlets—bracers that swallowed his forearms whole—were far larger than he remembered from the preliminary sketches. Bulk that size meant weight, and weight meant strain. Izuku’s eyes caught the faint hitch in Katsuki’s wrist as he flexed his hand, a fraction too stiff. Already compensating.

“Idiots,” Izuku muttered under his breath, more at the support techs than at Katsuki himself. Those gauntlets were engineered to maximize destructive output at the expense of long-term wear. Yes, they would amplify his explosions, but they would also grind down his joints until the boy’s wrists gave out completely.

Two students. Two costumes. Both powerful, both flawed. Both are on a collision course with each other.

Izuku adjusted his glasses, the reflection of the lot box catching in the lenses as Hinata and Katsuki each drew their slips. The tension in the room sharpened as numbers were announced, but Izuku barely heard them. He knew what number the two had gotten, his eyes fixed on both of them as they locked eyes with each other.

His sister. His cousin.

At least now Katsuki would get to find out which of them was stronger; that debate had been going on far too long.

“All right, young heroes!” All Might’s voice boomed across the training hall, rattling the glass panes above them. The slips of paper were clutched in dozens of anxious hands, faces turned toward the towering figure at the front. “The lots you’ve drawn decide your fates today! Villains versus heroes, in pairs!”

Izuku’s jaw tightened as All Might called the first matchup. 

“Team Villains: Bakugo Katsuki and Ida Tenya!”

The bespectacled boy shot a stiff salute, posture iron-straight as if the title of “villain” were some kind of dishonor he had to take in stride. Katsuki just smirked, eyes locked on Hinata like he’d been waiting years for this.

“And their opponents… Team Heroes: Midoriya Hinata and Uraraka Ochako!”

Hinata’s grin split wide, fire flashing behind her sharp red eyes as she glanced at the pink-cheeked gravity user beside her. Uraraka looked nervous for a heartbeat, then nodded quickly, determined.

Izuku pinched the bridge of his nose. Ochako was reliable—bright, eager—but her quirk taxed her stamina, and she hadn’t yet built up enough resistance to keep nausea at bay for extended engagements. Hinata, for all her potential, was raw power with too much armor weighing her down. Together, they could win, but only if Hinata restrained herself enough to keep Uraraka safe and steady.

“Rules are simple!” All Might clapped his hands, the sound echoing like a gunshot. “Heroes, you must capture the villains or secure the mock nuclear device within the time limit! Villains, your task is to defend the device until the end!” His smile was blinding, his presence filling every inch of the hall. “Use your quirks to their fullest! Remember: this is training, not combat to the death. But treat it as though your lives depend on it!”

Izuku’s teeth sank into the inside of his cheek, a bitter taste filling his mouth.

Because for Hinata and Katsuki, it wouldn’t be a mock fight. It would be personal. Years of bickering, one-upmanship, and pride burning at both ends.

He adjusted his glasses again, forcing himself to catalog rather than worry. Katsuki’s oversized gauntlets, Hinata’s heavy plating, Uraraka’s stamina drain, and Ida’s reliance on speed in close quarters. Flaws and strengths, intertwined.

This wasn’t just a test for them; it was a proving ground for all four. The first mock battle of the year, the first true glimpse at who they were when pushed into the crucible.

Izuku slipped away from Aizawa’s side, weaving behind the students with his head down, careful not to draw attention. He snagged a rolling chair at the edge of the observation area and dropped into it, the cushion groaning beneath his weight. From here, hidden just enough, he could focus without every nervous eye pulling him apart.

All Might’s voice boomed as he prepped the monitors, multiple screens flickering to life. The building’s blueprints appeared in neat partitions, camera feeds wiring through every hallway, stairwell, and chamber. Izuku leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping an invisible keyboard across his thighs.

A deep breath in. A slow breath out.

“Please,” he thought. “Don’t start with full force. Don’t make this a war of the bat.”

But he knew better.

Hinata was going to go all out from the get-go.

On screen, she stretched her arms high above her head, fingers crackling faintly as if even her joints radiated heat. Her chest expanded with the inhale, red lines of heat flushing beneath her skin, tracing her veins and arteries and glowing like molten steel running through smelter channels. The soft light produced made her skin look like lava had always lived just under the surface. Izuku could almost feel the warmth himself, phantom heat pricking at the scars of every migraine he’d carried for years.

Then the armor shifted against her shoulders, pinching where the plates overlapped. Her jaw tightened. He recognized the flare of frustration instantly—because he had worn that look himself, too many times. The design was wrong. Oversized. Less dragon-scale elegance and more cumbersome plating. The cost of faulty first drafts.

“Your costume feel off, too?” Hinata turned to Uraraka, lifting a foot and testing her balance with a short hop. The left boot thudded heavily, louder than the right. She gave it a pointed look.

Uraraka laughed awkwardly, scratching at the back of her head. “Haha—yeah. It’s… pretty close to what I wanted, just… tighter than I expected.”

Izuku scribbled the thoughts into his mental ledger: wrong weight distribution, tension points in movement, adjustments needed immediately. Faulty gear was already shaping the fight before it began, but this was to be expected. He was happy to hear his initial option of Uraraka’s costume was correct, too.

“HEROES!” All Might’s voice cracked like thunder, his silhouette filling the monitor feed as he threw out his arm. Hinata’s face lit up just from hearing him, that spark of youthful excitement that stabbed Izuku with something rawer than pride.

“You have thirty seconds before the assault begins! Finish whatever preparations you need!”

Hinata turned back, red eyes sharp with focus. “So you got the plan, right? Katsuki’s definitely placed it at the top. The faster we skip the lower floors, the better.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it!” Uraraka pumped her fist into the air, cheeks glowing with determination. “You can count on me!”

Izuku’s stomach dropped. He must have been zoned out when they were talking strategy. Skipping the lower floors and relying on predicting Bakugo’s placement of the make-shift bomb was, in some parts, a good idea—but one that relied on flawless execution against someone like Katsuki, and knowledge of the opponent that only Hinata had. But Katsuki had a similar amount of info on Hinata; he, too, could attempt to guess their plan if he wanted.

“All right then.” Hinata’s grin widened, fire flickering at the corners of her lips.

All Might raised a hand. The timer ticked down.

“BEGIN!”

The monitors flared with motion before Izuku was fully locked in.

Hinata surged forward, heat rippling from her frame, the air around her already shimmering as if reality itself were afraid of her fire and its potential. Uraraka pressed a hand to her leg, muttered something under her breath, and launched herself upward, her body weightless. She scaled the building in bounding arcs, pale-faced but determined, fingertips brushing along the stone until she caught a window ledge and slipped inside with barely a sound.

Hinata went for the front entrance with a grin that Izuku could only recall seeing from himself once in his life.

Izuku tracked her through the cameras—boots slamming against the tarmac, the echo reverberating into the stone as she barreled into the entrance. Every exhale scattered sparks that lingered like fading embers, leaving a trail of red motes behind her. A right turn, a left, another right—then a staircase, her momentum carrying her two steps at a time.

Second floor.

Uraraka was already clearing the third, her weightless steps letting her scramble across ceilings with uncanny speed. Each movement was deliberate, efficient, vanishing into shadow just as Katsuki passed below her. Izuku’s eyes flicked between feeds, scribbling invisible notes across his thigh: control better than he gave her credit for, still nausea risk—needs anchor points for endurance.

Katsuki, though… Katsuki was closing in fast.

The fourth-floor landing feed flickered—explosions flaring as he vaulted a hallway corner. He wasn’t waiting; it wasn’t his style. Of course it wasn’t. He was descending. Hunting. Izuku could almost hear the growl in his cousin’s chest, could almost imagine the volcanic temper waiting to ignite once he realized Uraraka had slipped right over his head moments earlier.

Hinata burst onto the fourth-floor landing from stairwell B and skidded to a stop. Sparks cascaded with every breath as she cupped her hands, forcing her lungs to compress tighter, harder, condensing raw heat into her palms. The bead glowed a furious scarlet, trembling, unstable, sweat beading down her temple as her chest heaved.

Izuku’s own breath caught. Unstable. His lecture on stability in quirks being the most important quality flashed through his skull. 1-A would be a point of interest when he talks to them about it next Monday. He returned his gaze to the mote of fire, and a small flicker of pride bloomed as for a fraction, effort melted in her forehead. The bead grew stable, like a red gem.

The feeds overlapped—Katsuki and Hinata captured from opposing angles as they hit the same corner.

Katsuki rounded first, eyes narrowed, every muscle coiled to strike. Hinata’s gaze snapped up to meet his. Cousin and cousin. Predator and predator.

Strain returned, the bead expanded a fraction before condescending, and she raised her hand holding the condensed flame with a struggle. Then she flicked the bead.

The super-condensed fire screamed through the narrow stairwell, air distorting around it as it expanded with every meter closed. Katsuki’s arm snapped up, a micro explosion propelling the palm up and open. His palm detonated with a second, larger follow-up explosion that could only be categorized as a thunderclap of heat just as the burning comet crossed into range.

The monitors flared white.

Power met power.

Izuku jolted in his seat as the feed shook violently, static tearing across the screen. Hinata hit the ground hard, rolling down the bend of the stairwell to escape the eruption, just as the stairwell bloomed with consuming flame. The fifth-floor camera blinked out.

Then came the roar.

The building quaked under the cacophony of chained detonations, each one pounding through the monitors like thunder. Smoke and sparks washed through half a dozen camera feeds, reducing everything to jagged glimpses of firelight.

By the time the static cleared, Katsuki was closing in, boots crunching debris as he pushed through the haze, every breath a snarl. Hinata was already gone, dropping down through the third floor and to the second floor with fire still licking off her frame, chest heaving as she readied for another clash.

Above, Uraraka slipped out a shattered window, floating effortlessly up the side. The reduced weight carried her like a drifting feather until she reached the rooftop. She crawled into the open structure—wooden scaffolding, half-built walls, shadows flickering from below.

There stood Ida, posture rigid, glasses flashing behind his helmet. The bomb loomed behind him, a ridiculous paper-mâché monolith painted black, ridiculous enough to make Izuku’s lips twitch despite himself. He looked every inch like some medieval Oppenheimer, standing guard before Armageddon with all the stoic fire of a knight.

Izuku’s fingers drummed harder against his thigh, faster, faster—matching the rhythm of the detonations reverberating through the training block. His pulse surged with every echo.

“Call the match.” The words ripped out of him before he could stop them, cutting across the hushed voices of the gathered students. He was already on his feet, chair skidding loudly against tile before hitting the wall behind him hard.

“What?” All Might’s booming voice faltered, his grin shrinking, his eyes darting back to the feed. “Why?”

“Katsuki Bakugo—” Izuku’s voice cracked as he leaned toward the monitors, green eyes blazing through the glare of his glasses. “Don’t you dare use those gauntlets. If you pull the trigger, you won’t just kill Hinata—you’ll blow yourself apart too.”

Gasps rippled through the room. Several students leaned forward, trying to catch glimpses of the screens.

Izuku’s eyes tracked the chaos: Hinata and Katsuki had abandoned quirks for fists, their bodies colliding in a blur of strikes. Same dojo. Same belt. Same years of merciless sparring. Every counter, every feint was carved into muscle memory.

And then Katsuki cheated the rhythm—using a blast mid-kick to twist his body unnaturally, the explosion turning what should have been a glancing strike into a brutal hammer. His boot connected with Hinata’s gut. She went flying, a ragged cough tearing from her chest as flames sputtered between her teeth.

Izuku’s stomach clenched.

Then he saw it. Katsuki’s fingers at his gauntlet. His hand tightening.

The pin.

The one safeguard separating nitroglycerin-laced sweat from catastrophic ignition.

“Don’t you—” Izuku’s voice broke.

“Shut up, old man!” Katsuki’s voice roared out from the speakers, raw with fury. His teeth bared as his eyes burned with defiance. “I’m sick of you thinking you know what’s best for me! She will be fine if she just dodges!”

The pin clicked free.

Izuku’s gaze snapped to All Might. The Symbol of Peace, frozen, a bead of sweat cutting a clean track down his cheek. His shoulders hunched, his time limit shackling him in place. He wouldn’t make it in time.

“I swea—” Izuku started, his voice rising—

The world turned white.

The blast tore through the building, the second-floor cameras blinking to black one after another. The observation room shook, students stumbling, several crying out in alarm. Dust sifted from the ceiling.

Izuku’s heart plummeted. His hands trembled, gripping the console so hard his knuckles blanched. The last working feed showed Ida stumbling as the tremor rattled the upper floors. Uraraka clung to the papier-mâché bomb in a queasy, weightless hug, her face pale but triumphant as she cheered her victory through the ringing static.

“Shota,” Izuku rasped, his throat raw. His eyes refused to leave the blank monitors. “If my sister—”

“She’s fine.” Aizawa’s voice cut in, dry, sharp, and immovable. The man didn’t even blink, though his fingers tightened subtly around the thermos in his hand. “I called Recovery Girl the moment you stood up. Med-bots are already in transit.”

The bluntness steadied him more than comfort would have.

But Izuku still felt the tremor in his chest, a hollow quake that refused to leave.

If his sister had died—if she had been injured so badly she could never step onto the path she’d dreamed of—then what was he supposed to do? The thought bled through him like poison, filling every vein with cold.

He hadn’t made up for the years he’d lost. For the times he’d pushed her away. For the shadow he had cast over her childhood as a distant brother. Stuffing his own self-hatred into her corner and leaving her to grow in it, thinking he had something against her. He hadn’t told her enough. Hadn’t shown her how much she meant, even now, even when the jealousy still flickered like an ember he couldn’t smother. The quirk he wished he’d had. The fire she carried so effortlessly.

None of that mattered. None of it. Not if she was gone. Every single moment of jealousy, of self-hate pushed onto her, all was a new palette of regrets that sat on his tongue.

He tore the glasses from his face and pressed cold palms against his eyes, fingers digging in as if he could hold back the burning heat swelling there. His breath hitched, sharp and uneven, and his chest rattled like it might cave in.

“Mr. Midoriya.”

The voice was calm, impossibly steady. A large hand, deceptively gentle, landed on his shoulder. All Might’s hand.

“Walk with me? Aizawa has this.”

Izuku couldn’t trust his own voice, so he only nodded, shoulders tight as a drawn bowstring. He let himself be led out, the cool shadows of the hall falling away into the warm brightness of the afternoon air. It didn’t help. His skin still felt clammy, his stomach twisting with every step.

“I am so sorry—” All Might began.

“It’s fine,” Izuku cut in, his words coming out hollow, stripped of any pretense. He didn’t have the energy to sugarcoat. “Your time limit is up for the day, beyond just holding that form, right? I read the papers. Health issues are causing new drawbacks to a quirk that never had them before. It’s typical of older-generation quirks. Especially ones from the last century.”

All Might flinched, ever so slightly, but didn’t deny it.

Izuku’s throat worked as he forced the words out. “But if she’s dead…”

“She isn’t.”

The grin was smaller this time, not the billboard grin, but something almost human. A cloud of smoke hissed from his frame, and in moments the towering symbol of peace was gone, replaced by a gaunt man with sunken eyes and a presence just as tired as Izuku felt.

“I saw her, Midoriya,” Toshinori said, voice hoarse but steady. “Right before the feed cut—she landed a mean uppercut on young Bakugo. Dropped him cold for a second. She might be hurt, yes. But she’s fireborn. Heat is nothing to her. The pressure, the concussive force—that’s another story. That’ll sting. But she’s alive. And she’s tougher than you think.”

The words slid through Izuku’s panic like water on stone, not erasing it, but softening its edges. He wanted to believe. God, he wanted to believe.

But the tremor in his chest refused to leave.

The tremor never left.

It lingered in Izuku’s chest as he watched them wheel Hinata and Katsuki off the field. His sister’s right side was mottled with angry bruises from the blast, the imprint of the wall she’d slammed into etched in purple and red across her ribs and shoulder. Katsuki’s gauntlet was a ruined husk, splintered into jagged fragments that clung to his swollen arm. Even a device that sturdy couldn’t endure the scale of force he’d unleashed.

The tremor remained as Izuku dutifully scribbled mental notes on the rest of the matches, cataloging every flaw, every tell, every sign of strain. His eyes never quite left the clock. Each fight blurred into the next, his chest tightening with every second that dragged between him and an answer.

By the time the last match ended, he was already on his feet, legs moving before he had finished storing his notes within his skull. His steps cracked too loudly against the stone paths of campus, each one an echo of the panic still gnawing inside. He crossed the grounds in long strides, throat tight, and slipped quietly into the nurse’s office.

The antiseptic tang of the room hit him first, followed by the sharp scent of herbal salves and faint metallic sting of sterilized tools. The curtains dividing the cots into private sections swayed gently in the recycled air.

From behind one, Recovery Girl’s small frame emerged, her hands folded neatly over her cane. Her eyes—sharp as scalpels when she wanted them to be—softened as they landed on him.

“Well,” she said, lips quirking into a smile that carried both warmth and reprimand, “what brings you here, Mr. Midoriya? Come to see your sister—”

“Yes.” The word snapped out too fast, and he stumbled over it, voice cracking. “I mean—yeah. Is she… is she okay?”

The old woman chuckled, not unkindly, as though she had seen this exact fear a thousand times in a thousand older brothers’ faces. She beckoned him forward with the crook of her cane.

“She’ll be fine,” she said simply, the confidence in her tone striking deeper than any explanation. “All that’s left is exhaustion. She pushed herself hard, but nothing was broken, nothing burned. She’ll wake shortly.” Her gaze narrowed as if measuring the dark hollows beneath his eyes, the tremor in his posture. “So either sit quietly and wait like a proper big brother—or head back to your office, and I’ll tell her to find you when she wakes.”

Izuku swallowed hard, nodding quickly, relief cracking through his composure but never quite dislodging the lingering quake in his chest.

Chapter Text

 Pain.
Fire.
A skull ablaze with agony.

Every breath dragged across knives; every heartbeat was a hammer against bone. Pain in the sockets where his eyes had once burned bright. Pain in his chest, as though even the act of living was rebellion against the body that contained him.

“People… are not born equal. That’s the hard truth I learned at age four. Reinforced at eight. Again at fifteen. Again at twenty. Again at twenty-four. And again—worst of all—when I was thirty and thought everything was finally going my way. Being quirkless was my first setback. And no matter how hard I tried to outpace it, it became the one constant that shaped my entire life.”

Setbacks. Endless, merciless setbacks. He remembered every one of them. They mocked him still, echoing in the cracks of his mind, no matter how far he had come.

“I should probably warn you: this isn’t the story of how I became the Number One Hero. Or even a hero at all. I was quirkless, and that was never going to change. This is just the story of how, for one single moment, I was able to be one. A moment that cost me everything.”

Miracles? Oh, he’d seen plenty. Quirks that could move mountains, shatter storms, reshape the world. Gifts that others wasted. Tools he could only ever analyze, never wield.

“It all began in Keikei City, China, with the news that a bioluminescent baby had been born. After that, 'exceptional' individuals began appearing all over the world. The cause was unclear. Even after decades of research, no theory is absolute. My personal favorite—the one Kan always liked to argue—was that God Himself granted quirks to humanity. A stretch, maybe. Or perhaps, as the leading science still insists, it really did come down to… rats.”

Rats. He almost laughed. That was the leading explanation humanity ran with. Him? With his paper-thin faith, the idea of divine intervention seemed even less likely than vermin rewriting evolution.

“As time passed, the 'exceptional' became the norm. Fantasy became reality. At present, 80% of the world’s population consists of superhumans with quirks.”

And him? Always on the other side of the number. The shrinking 20%. The last 20%. The final quirkless child born in Japan.

“The world was in chaos in those early days. No one knew what quirks meant for our species, for our future. But people clung to hope anyway.”

Hope. That was the biggest lie of all. One of the few he couldn’t tell himself and believe.

“And so a profession born of fantasy rose into reality. They were called Heroes. And for the first fifteen years of my life, I tried—God, I tried—to become one. I failed. So I turned to science, tried to become a Quirk Specialist. Failed again. But eventually, I found a place: U.A. High School. Teacher. Counselor. It wasn’t the dream I’d started with, but it was close enough to feel like one.”

His mouth twisted into a tired smile no one could see.

“So, welcome to the story of how, for one single moment, I became a hero. Not the kind on billboards. Not the kind in shining armor. Just a man who stood where no one else could… and paid the price for it.”

If only he had been given the chance to do more. If only he had been allowed to stand longer. But that was for his sister now—to become what he never could.

His moment to be a hero began the day after 1-A’s mock battles. He wouldn’t realize it until a week later.

[Wednesday, April 10 — Media Break-In]

Izuku stood at the front gates, shoulder to shoulder with Aizawa, his skull pounding with the kind of headache that felt like nails behind the eyes.

The reporters swarmed like vultures, microphones and cameras thrust forward, flashes popping. The din pressed against his temples until he snapped.

“Clear a path! Now! If even one student is blocked from entering, I’ll file a detailed report on every single network here—naming every studio that thought it was acceptable to bar my students from their own school!”

The threat came out harsher than he intended, but it worked. The crowd of journalists hesitated, then shuffled back, enough to form a narrow corridor.

Beside him, Aizawa hadn’t stopped grinning since the outburst. It was the most awake the man had looked all morning.

The students poured through, most with heads ducked, trying to ignore the press. A chorus of questions about All Might filled the air—apparently, the secret hadn’t stayed secret. Someone had leaked U.A.’s newest hire.

A mic shoved into Izuku’s face.
“Aren’t you Izuku Midoriya? The quirkless ‘specialist’ who tried to sue the HPSC?”

The word quirkless jabbed like a needle, but Izuku’s hand came down fast, pushing the mic away without breaking stride. He focused instead on the kids—the only ones who mattered.

“Keep moving,” he urged, slipping into the tide of bodies. Mina Ashido stumbled under the crush of elbows, Tsuyu Asui flinched at the noise, and Mashirao Ojiro’s tail lashed nervously. Izuku placed a steadying hand on each of them in turn, guiding them forward with a smile that masked the storm underneath.

Then, two figures in the crowd.

A shock of straight green hair. Red eyes bright with nerves.
And beside her, spiked blond, red eyes sharp as knives.

His voice cut the clamor like a blade. “Back it up! If I have to say it again, I’ll make sure every last one of you loses your damn jobs!”

The profanity rang louder than intended, and he cursed himself—until he saw her face.

Hinata froze, red eyes wide, lips twitching toward laughter. Awe and embarrassment mixed in her gaze. Katsuki’s, though… Katsuki’s burned with something different: anger, shame, and something else hidden beneath, sharp as ever.

Izuku softened his tone, inclining his head toward the gates.
“Miss Midoriya. Mr. Bakugo. This way, please. The bell’s about to ring.”

He gave his sister the warmest smile he could manage, though his chest still ached from the previous day’s terror. To Katsuki, only a knowing glance—a silent reminder of yesterday’s match, of the pin pulled, of how close they’d both come to disaster.

Katsuki didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence said more than words.

Over the night, he had made a promise. He didn’t care how much work it would take, or how exhausted he’d become. The students were his priority. He would gladly trade years of his life to keep them safe — a realization hammered into place after too many bottles of beer and even more paperwork.

And the morning hadn’t erased it. If anything, sleep sharpened the resolve. These were children. Innocent. The ones who might someday become the heroes he’d only ever studied from the margins. They deserved every ounce of his obsession.

He shepherded the last stragglers through the gate: Ibara Shiozaki from 1-B paused to give him a respectful bow, thanking him with the careful politeness of someone who’d been taught to value order. He returned her smile with a quick nod, and the gate clicked shut. Reporters shouted into the metal barrier; Aizawa only offered them that same unreadable half-smile he’d worn all morning.

“What are the odds they actually break that gate?” Izuku asked as they moved down the corridor. The question was half lightness, half a ridiculous attempt to keep his voice ordinary.

Aizawa’s answer was blunt as always. “Unless they’ve got a quirk that chews through three feet of alloy or someone brought a bomb, they won’t. But given the press? Don’t be surprised if they try.”

“I didn’t know it was three feet,” Izuku said. “They must’ve upgraded security since our third year.”

“Mmhmm.” Aizawa’s tone was flat but not unkind. “Your lecture is soon. Kan wanted to drop off the recordings from his class in person. He’ll probably swing by.”

“Ah—okay. Thanks.” Izuku felt the familiar squeeze of nerves—an electric hum beneath the skin—then exhaled. They passed the break room and Nemuri’s laugh chimed through the open door, light as bells and twice as dangerous. Izuku’s shoulders tightened at the sound. Old memories skittered up behind his ribs even now, years later, the sound of her laugh still caught on old wounds.

“Oh, and next Wednesday you’re off lecture duty,” Aizawa added. “Nedzu will fill you in later today.”

Izuku nodded. The spare hour felt like a small mercy. He offered Aizawa a soft, automatic goodbye, then turned toward his lecture hall. The room was the same one he’d stood in yesterday—rows of seats catching the light, the chalkboard still ghosted with diagrams—but now he had a few new points to press into the students’ heads. Stability, endurance, and the warning signs that precede a breakdown. Little things he’d learned the hard way, passed down now as rules instead of regrets.

He rounded the corner and braced himself for the day. The promise from last night sat like a stone in his pocket, heavy and real. He’d made it to keep them safe. Now he needed to be the one to follow through.

A smile tugged at Izuku’s lips, easing the dull ache behind his eyes as he stepped into the lecture hall. The room was half-full already, clusters of second-year Gen-Ed students breaking from their conversations to watch their teacher stride down the aisle.

Chalk dust clung to his fingers as he wrote the heading across the board in neat, deliberate strokes:

“Protecting Yourself from Instability Within Your Quirk.”

When he turned back, rows of confused faces met him. Izuku adjusted his glasses, letting the moment hang before he spoke.

“You might not be in the Hero Course,” he began, voice steady but threaded with quiet conviction, “but each of you holds a special gift. And gifts—if misused—can turn on their wielder. Knowing when it’s safe to push your quirk in a life-or-death situation is just as important as knowing how to use it in the first place. Here, let me show you.”

He clicked the projector remote, and the lights dimmed. The footage flickered onto the screen: Hinata compressing fire in her palms, the confident control at first, then the unstable shudder as sweat and strain nearly tore the flame apart. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the class. Izuku folded his hands behind his back and watched their expressions closely. Hook achieved.

An hour later, the lecture wound down. He rewound the clip, highlighting the moment instability bled into recklessness, then clicked the projector off.

“Remember,” he concluded, scanning the rows, “in the worst situations, pushing your quirk might save your life. Or it might break you. Learn the difference now, before the cost is too high.”

The students filed out in small groups, their voices low, some thoughtful, others still unsure. The door clicked shut. Silence.

Technically, he was free for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. He could have gone back to his office, buried himself in paperwork until another staff member flagged him down, or until some student with wide eyes and shaking hands came knocking. But exhaustion pressed heavier than duty.

Izuku leaned back in the rough lecture chair, the wood digging into his shoulders, and let his eyes close. Just a short nap, he promised himself. A breath. A reset.

When his eyes snapped open, pain flared instantly behind them. The clock on the wall told him only two hours had passed. Lunchtime. He hadn’t meant to sleep this long.

The sound reached him then. Not the usual din of students in the halls. Not the chatter of lunch hour. An alarm, shrill and mechanical, ricocheted off the stone walls.

What alarm? His pulse spiked as he rose too fast, chair scraping back. Fire? Evacuation?

The announcement blared through the speakers, flat and cold:

“Intruders. Intruders.”

Izuku froze for a single heartbeat. Then he was running out of the lecture hall and into chaos. The corridors were packed, students shoving in frantic clusters, eyes wide, voices panicked.

The alarm kept shrieking, and Izuku’s legs moved before thought could catch up. Students surged around him in a tide of panic, voices overlapping in a dozen different questions, fears, and half-baked theories.

What was the protocol for intruders? 

Think.

Homeroom classes are built to be able to lock down. There were a few potential protocols he could follow, but the basement wouldn’t be able to hold all the students. 

“Everyone, listen—!” He raised his voice over the din, forcing authority into it the best he could. “Keep moving, don’t push, don’t shove—hands down!” His palms went out, guiding students along the hallway edges, steering them away from bottlenecks forming near doorframes.

A boy with a mutation quirk bristled spines in his panic; Izuku pressed a firm hand to his shoulder, lowering his tone. “Breathe. Focus on my voice. You’re safe. Keep them as retracted as you can until you’re in your classroom, focus on getting to your class above anything.” The boy gulped and nodded, the spines folding back.

Two girls clutched each other mid-corridor, paralyzed by fear. Izuku positioned himself between them and the rushing current of bodies, steady as a dam. “Home rooms. Both of you. Together. Now.” They stumbled off at his words, hands locked tight, but moving.

Every flicker of a quirk under stress caught his eye—the small sparks of static from Kaminari as he was jostled, the smoke curling faintly from a girl with a combustion mutation, the anxious tremor of telekinesis making pens and notebooks float uncontrolled. Each one was a hazard if it spiraled, but each one reined in with a sharp word, a guiding gesture.

Purpose burned in Izuku’s chest as he guided another child towards their class, giving them a warm smile. This is what I’m for. This is why I’m here.

And then—silence. The alarms cut abruptly, leaving behind the ghost of ringing in his ears.

A second later, Nedzu’s voice slid smoothly through the intercom, cheerful as though the school hadn’t just been on edge:

“Attention. All teachers to the staff room immediately. All students, to your home rooms. Further information soon.”

The command carried weight. The chaos broke like glass, the crowd dispersing as if a leash had snapped tight. Students peeled off in clumps, doors slamming shut one by one until the halls were eerily quiet.

Izuku stood still for a moment, catching his breath, wiping a sheen of sweat from his temple. The silence pressed harder than the panic had.

He straightened his tie, grabbed the strap of his satchel as if it anchored him, and turned down the hall. His footsteps echoed in the emptiness until he reached the staff room.

The door swung open, voices murmured low inside, and teachers gathered in restless clusters. Aizawa slouched by the wall, Kan standing stiff with his arms folded. Midnight leaned against the window, red glasses catching the dim light. And All Might—thin, gaunt, smoke drifting faintly from his shoulders—stood near Nezu, who was perched atop the central table like a king surveying his court.

Izuku slipped quietly inside, shutting the door behind him. No one missed the way he avoided eye contact, taking a seat near the corner, hands folded tightly in his lap. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He was part of this now, whether his pulse was ready or not.

Nezu hopped lightly down from the table, paws clasped behind his back as if he were about to give a lecture to a classroom of first-years rather than a room full of seasoned professionals.

“Ah, yes. Our little… press infiltration.” Nezu’s tone was sunny, chipper as ever, but his black eyes scanned the room with unnerving precision. “For those who missed the excitement in the past thirty minutes, the media managed to breach our front gate.”

He gestured toward the windows as though the ruined metal still stood in view, though it was far down the hill. “Three feet of reinforced alloy. A deterrent, impressive by most standards—unless, of course, you bring a disintegration-type quirk into play.”

A ripple moved through the staff: mutters, narrowed eyes, the faint scrape of Nemuri’s nails against the tabletop. Izuku’s eyes narrowed, mentally combing through his endless files of quirks in his head.

“Yes, yes, I see the same puzzle pieces you do.” Nezu’s smile widened, his teeth a fraction too sharp for the expression to remain warm. “One moment, the gate was whole. Next, it was dust. An act far beyond vandalism. Our press friends swarmed in after that, of course—like ants rushing toward spilled sugar.”

He paced as he spoke, tail flicking in measured beats. “Cameras shoved into some students’ faces. Microphones waved in ours. Chaos, designed not to inform or to gather a story, but to destabilize. They weren’t here for All Might, not really. That was the headline. The bait. What they want us to believe.”

Nezu hopped lightly back onto the table. His small paws tapped the surface. Click. “I think that they were here to test us. To test our defenses. To test our response.”

Izuku felt his jaw tighten. That word—test—hit like a stone in his gut.

The principal folded his paws together. “Our security is combing through footage. The police will send polite apologies, and once I can, I will be pressing charges on all groups involved. But we know this wasn’t random. This was no accident, no coincidence. The press should have dispersed hours ago, but someone kept them riled up.”

The silence in the staff room stretched taut as a wire. Midnight crossed her arms, Kan drummed thick fingers against his bicep, and Aizawa only sighed, scarf tugged higher around his mouth.

Nezu’s smile never faltered. “Which means, my friends, we’ll simply have to be better. Stronger. Smarter. If they wish to test our walls, whoever they are, we’ll remind them that U.A. was built to withstand more than journalists with delusions of grandeur.”

His gaze flicked—brief, deliberate—toward Izuku.

“And if they are foolish enough to test our students…” The glint of teeth sharpened. “That would be their last mistake.”

The words left the room bristling.

Nemuri spoke first, sharper than usual. “You’re saying this wasn’t just the press stepping out of line. Somebody handed them the key.”

Snipe tapped a gloved finger against the curve of his revolver. “Or handed them the quirk user. Reporters don carry that kind of firepower unless someone points them to somethin’ interestin.”

Power Loader slammed a fist into the table, tools jangling. “Three feet of reinforced alloy—months of work—undone in seconds. That’s not infiltration. That’s a goddamn declaration.”

Kan’s voice rumbled low, arms crossed. “Whoever it was, they knew exactly what they were doing. Testing us, like you said. Seeing if we’d blink.”

Aizawa exhaled through his nose, flat as always. “We blinked. The kids saw it. The reporters saw it too. That’s the problem.”

All Might, deflated and thin in his smaller form, rubbed the back of his neck. “What troubles me most is how close they came to the main school building. If the students had rushed out, then who knows what would have been said between fearful students and crazed press. If Mr. Midoriya and those students closer to the lunchroom hadn’t stepped up—” He cut himself short, his smile weighed down with rare grimness.

Dozens of eyes shifted to Izuku. He adjusted his glasses, throat dry, but made his voice steady.

“I’ve combed through quirk records for most of my career,” he began, quiet but firm. “For papers. For my thesis. For every cross-reference on high-damage or disintegration-type quirks, I could dig up. Every case I’ve studied, every licensed quirk in that category—it’s slow. Eating through matter takes time. Hours. Sometimes days.”

He leaned forward, knuckles whitening against the table. “But that gate? Three feet of reinforced alloy gone in seconds if what Nedzu says is true. That means one of two things. Either we’re looking at a quirk so new or so rare it isn’t in any registry… or it didn’t come from Japan. It’s foreign. Off our books. Off our radar.”

The words landed heavily. Even Aizawa’s eyes flicked sharper.

Izuku’s pulse thundered, but he held their gazes anyway. “Whichever it is, we can’t treat this as press overstepping. Someone tested us today. And next time, I don’t think they will stop at the gate.”

The silence that followed was thicker, deeper. For the first time since Nezu had started speaking, his smile dimmed into something smaller—something sharper.

“Well said, Mr. Midoriya,” he purred. “Consider your first official staff contribution… duly noted.”

[Wednesday, April 17 — Unforeseen Simulation Joint]

Izuku stamped the final acknowledgement onto the page, eyes heavy but steady as he folded the report and slid the last costume into its waiting case.

Class 1-A and 1-B finally had full sets of finished costumes that he could be proud of.

Yaoyorozu’s results had come back negative for quirk-infused fabrics, which he had expected, but Hagakure’s tests had confirmed compatibility. The new suit was everything she had nervously asked for the week before: soft to the touch, light enough to move in, yet treated with the specialized weave that allowed her quirk to interact properly. He’d even managed to include the little detail she had whispered about—boots that wouldn’t squeak when she ran.

He lingered on that memory a moment too long, lips twitching in the faintest smile. These kids… they didn’t know it yet, but their quirks, their futures, their safety—they were his responsibility now.

A part of him was more excited to hand over the costume cases than to stand in the observation room later that morning. Seeing their faces light up—seeing their confidence grow—was worth more than any faculty meeting or professional credit.

Izuku checked the clock. Thirty minutes until the students arrive.

He stretched, vertebrae popping loud enough to echo in the quiet storage room. Static flickered behind his eyes. Not the old searing pain, not the migraine haze that had been his shadow for decades. No, this was lighter, like sparks dancing in the dark. A reminder, but not a punishment.

Three days. Three days without liquor. He let that thought settle in his chest like an ember.

The final case clicked shut, and with a firm push, he set the cart rolling down the polished hall. His whistling bounced off the walls—an idle tune born from long nights hunched over fabric samples and measurements.

Snipe gave him a lazy salute as he passed, and Izuku nodded back, grateful for the cowboy’s quiet consistency. A few turns later, Kan appeared, leaning against a doorway with his arms crossed, grinning like he’d been waiting for him.

They stopped. Talked. The usual questions.
“How are you holding up?”
“Anything new in your notes?”
“Your students say anything else completely appalling?”
And Izuku, unable to resist, firing back with one of his own: “So, how’s your new girl?”

The way Kan’s face went bright red almost made Izuku laugh out loud. Almost.

For a rare moment, the halls of U.A. felt less like a place he worked and more like… somewhere safe? It had been a while since he had felt so at peace somewhere.

The cart rattled faintly as he pushed it to 1-A’s door. Chatter from the other side carried through the steel, half-nervous, half-excited. Izuku checked his watch. He must have spent too long talking with Kan, or perhaps the kids had arrived earlier than expected.

He fixed a grin on his face, with more ease than he had anticipated, and paused for a moment to enjoy their banter through the door. For a heartbeat, he let himself stand there, one hand braced on the handle, grounding himself with a slow inhale. Then he nudged the door open.

Conversations cut short. Heads swiveled. Shoulders instantly relaxed at the sight of him. They’d been bracing for Shota, he realized with faint amusement—Aizawa had that effect. He scared kids into silence with a glance.

“Good morning,” Izuku greeted, the corners of his mouth tilting upward in the practiced softness he saved for students. “I’ve brought your costumes. The finished 1.0 versions. With a few… alterations.”

That last word hooked them. The air shifted, curiosity sparking in their expressions. Dozens of eyes followed as he rolled the cart forward and began unloading cases, each one stamped with the U.A. crest, a stack of paperwork resting neatly atop each lid.

He stopped first in front of Ochaco Uraraka, offering her the slim case with both hands. “Support added pressure-assistance linings, and these,” he said, tapping the attached paperwork. “Bone-conduction headphones for balance training. They’ll help with your nausea if you practice with them consistently. Oh—and there’s an extra set in the case you can take with you after today. They use a type C charger, and the light behind the left ear will blink red when it needs charging.”

Her eyes went wide, a breath catching in her throat. “You… thought of that?”

He gave her a small grin. “One of the support contractors came up with it. I only suggested the second pair, and the addition of more padding and internal protection beneath the tighter layers. Shouldn’t hug too tight now—should let you breathe easier.”

She looked down at the case like it was something precious, her fingers hovering over the lock as though afraid to open it too soon.

Next came Mina Ashido. Izuku set her case down carefully, drawing her attention to a highlighted note in the documents. “Material coated with better neutralizing agents than the original. Your acid shouldn’t corrode this version as quickly, and it’s more resistant to tearing. Boots are reinforced but lighter—support developed a propulsion system in the soles to better suit your acid-jet movement. If it gives you trouble, there are other prototypes in your file, but this one should keep your feet safe while letting you use the jets freely.”

He flipped a page in the paperwork, pen tapping against the margin. “Don’t slack on the drills I left listed. And—” his tone softened, but his eyes sharpened “—there’s a recommended diet plan in there as well. Follow it for a week—not to the letter, I’m not cruel—but give it a fair try and bring me the results. My theory is that it’ll help regulate the pH of your acid. Even small changes could improve your control.”

Mina blinked at him, her wide eyes darting from the case to the paperwork and back again. Then, without warning, she grinned and hugged the case like it was a birthday present. A few students snickered at her enthusiasm, but there was no mockery—only envy that they hadn’t gotten theirs yet.

From his spot by the cart, Izuku adjusted his glasses, the grin still in place. Inside, though, he tracked every reaction: widened eyes, tightened shoulders, the grins passed between certain kids.

And if his temples throbbed with the dull ache of lost sleep, no one needed to know.

Katsuki’s case was heavier, the locks clicking louder as Izuku slid it onto the desk. His cousin glared, but the faint flex of his right hand betrayed his curiosity. “Bracers recalibrated and shrunk. Wrist supports added. Shoulder stabilization is woven into the straps. Read the notes. If you ignore the therapy recommendations, you’ll regret it by twenty-five.”

Bakugo muttered something sharp under his breath, but his grip on the handle was firm.

Izuku continued, case by case, desk by desk. Each time, the same rhythm: costume, paperwork, a direct explanation of what had been changed and why. Hagakure’s quiet thanks when she touched the soft new weave. Yaoyorozu’s relieved smile at the added zipper. Kaminari’s slack-jawed surprise at the safety cut-off regulators in his gear and insulators to try and reduce his drawbacks. Aoyama’s flourish faltered only when Izuku’s paperwork highlighted the risk of abdominal strain if he didn’t pace himself. And the one that made his smile hurt, Hinata’s excited gaze up at him when he set her case down, no explanation, just a wink and a grin.

By the time he returned to the cart, the room hummed with a low buzz—excitement, gratitude, the cautious weight of responsibility settling on their shoulders.

“These are not decorations,” Izuku said at last, adjusting his glasses. “They are tools, made to help you survive your own power. Treat them that way. And if something doesn’t fit, if something feels wrong—” He tapped his pen against the cart for emphasis. “—you tell me. Immediately.”

For a moment, silence lingered. Then chairs scraped, hands explored fabrics and straps, and voices rose in overlapping chatter.

Izuku let it wash over him; the buzz behind his eyes softened by something warmer. This—watching their faces light up, watching possibility click into place—was why he stayed. Why he pushed himself past exhaustion.

“Now,” he said, forcing his voice to cut through the swell of chatter, “go change, then return here. Who is the class representative?”

Ida’s hand shot up with robotic precision, his back straight as a steel rod. “I am, sir!”

“Good. Your job is to make sure the entire class returns here as quickly as possible. We’re on a tight schedule today.”

“Yes, sir! I shall ensure every student returns with haste!” Ida’s booming tone drew a few muffled giggles, but his classmates already began filing toward the changing rooms.

Izuku gave him a curt nod, then wrapped his hand around the cart’s handle, guiding the now-empty cart back toward the storage room. The wheels rattled across the tile, a steady rhythm that helped steady his own pulse.

By the time he returned to the corridor, Shota was already waiting with his scarf draped loose around his shoulders, a thermos in hand. He raised a brow.

“They’re changing now,” Izuku said, adjusting his glasses with a faint smudge still clinging to the corner of one lens. “Ida’s on herd duty. They’ll be back soon enough.”

Aizawa grunted in approval, sipping his coffee. “And you?”

“I’m heading to the USJ early,” Izuku replied, and couldn’t quite keep the flicker of excitement from his voice. “Thirteen’s overseeing prep, and… well. You know me.” He gave a sheepish shrug. “I want a moment to look around before the kids get there. Geek out a little, while no one’s watching.”

The corner of Shota’s mouth twitched—half amusement, half exasperation. “Don’t trip over your own shoes while you’re at it.”

Izuku huffed a laugh, pushing his glasses higher. “No promises.”

And with that, he turned down the hall, the hum of anticipation quickening his step.

He had seen photos, schematics, and even contributed to academic papers that referenced the facility. But to actually go there—to set foot inside the USJ—it was like someone had plucked a childhood dream out of his notebooks and told him he could finally live it. Back in his U.A. days, this had been one building he’d never managed to see. And now, here he was, not as a student, but as a teacher. A counselor.

The faculty van hummed as it wound its way down the long road toward the Unforeseen Simulation Joint. Izuku’s hands gripped the wheel a little tighter than necessary, knuckles pale, his heart beating far too quickly for something as simple as a drive.

His grin kept tugging wider as the dome shimmered in the distance, a massive sphere of steel and glass catching the sunlight like a second sun. “It’s… bigger than I imagined,” he murmured, almost to himself, before remembering he wasn’t alone.

Thirteen adjusted the stack of notes balanced in her lap, the fabric of their bulky suit crinkling. “It looks even better up close. And before you ask, yes, it’s as fun as it looks, too.” She gave a helpless shrug, voice lowering, “Sorry for making you drive. This suit makes driving a physical nightmare.”

Izuku chuckled, eyes flicking from the road to her. “I figured. Guess I’m your chauffeur today, just don’t forget to tip.”

Thirteen’s helmet tilted, voice lilting with playfulness. “Oh? Does this mean I can expect the full treatment? Music, snacks, and perhaps some charming conversation?”

The words skimmed right over him, landing somewhere outside the orbit of his comprehension. He hummed thoughtfully, glancing at the glove box. “I think there’s a pack of mints in here from the last time Kan borrowed the van… as for music, Aizawa said the speakers cut out two years ago.”

There was a long pause before Thirteen laughed, the sound bright even through the modulator. “You’re adorable, Midoriya-sensei. Don’t ever change.”

Izuku’s brows knit faintly, confused, but his eyes snapped back to the view ahead as the dome grew larger, swallowing the skyline. His chest swelled with something almost childlike, his fingers drumming the wheel. USJ. “I’m really here.”

And underneath that boyish thrill, the specialist in him stirred, cataloging details he had read about: reinforced blast panels disguised as terrain, subtle ventilation intakes to cycle smoke, water filtration systems for the flood zones. Every piece of it was designed with foresight and precision.

But at that moment, he didn’t care about blueprints or specifications. He just felt… happy.

The van rolled to a smooth stop at the edge of the parking platform, the shadow of the massive dome looming over them. Izuku killed the engine, heart thudding in his throat as he stepped out, his sneakers crunching softly against the gravel.

Up close, the Unforeseen Simulation Joint was breathtaking. The dome stretched upward like a false horizon, glass and steel curving into infinity. Even after years of research, even after poring over architectural diagrams late into sleepless nights, he hadn’t been prepared for the sheer scale of it.

Thirteen keyed in the access code, and the side doors groaned open with hydraulic ease.

Izuku stepped through the threshold—and froze.

The air inside was cooler, filtered, tinged with the faint metallic bite of machinery humming somewhere beyond sight. And before him lay a world stitched together out of disaster: a flood zone glittering under artificial lights, a cityscape torn into jagged concrete ruins, a mountain slope lined with fractured stone, even a wildfire zone smoldering with controlled embers that flared brighter when the filtered air shifted.

His glasses caught the reflection of it all—every zone mapped across the lenses like a dream he’d once written in the margins of a notebook.

“Beautiful…” The word slipped out before he could stop it.

Thirteen glanced at him, the curve of their helmet tilting, but didn’t interrupt.

He moved forward slowly, almost reverently, as though afraid stepping too hard would break the illusion. “Each sector… built to mimic natural disasters at scale. And the transitions are seamless. Look at the flood—see the way the paneling shifts to direct runoff toward the drainage grates? They disguised it in the shoreline rocks. And the wildfire zone—automatic venting to recycle smoke without choking the dome.”

The specialist in him whispered a dozen notes, but his grin was wide, boyish, his steps quickening as he turned in a slow circle, drinking in every detail.

Back then… he dreamed of seeing this. He dreamed of training here, with them.

Now, he would watch over others as they did.

Thirteen’s voice echoed softly. “Still want that chauffeur tip, Midoriya-sensei?”

Izuku laughed under his breath, unable to stop himself. “Honestly? Being here is enough.” His eyes kept flicking upward, wide in spite of himself, drinking in the sheer size of the dome. The ceiling lights hung like artificial stars, casting shifting beams across the different zones. It was everything he’d dreamed of as a kid, and more.

Thirteen chuckled softly, the sound muffled but warm through the modulator. “You graduated here twelve years ago, right? Same year as Shota, Kan, Hizashi… and Nemuri?”

“Yeah.” Izuku’s mouth twitched, somewhere between fond and regretful. “Though I was in Gen-Ed. Still, I’ve been friends with those fou—three, I mean. Shota, Kan, Hizashi. Hizashi’s always been a little too loud for me, though. I usually just text him when we talk.” He tried to keep the tone light, professional, but his gaze drifted back up to the massive light rigs and the way they reflected off the flood zone’s waters.

His voice lowered. “I used to be friends with Nemuri, too. But… I said something horrible before graduation. Burned that bridge.”

The space-hero’s helmet tipped slightly, a gesture of sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that, Midoriya. For what it’s worth… I know how those years could chew people up.” A pause, a faint shift of the bulky suit. “I graduated two years after you, four. Class 1-B. But I spent most of my time with Gen-Ed students.”

Izuku blinked, surprised, his focus snapping away from the gleaming arc of the flood pumps. “Really? I didn’t know that.” His tone carried genuine shock.

“Wasn’t exactly loud back then,” Thirteen admitted with a laugh, self-deprecating. “Didn’t make much of a splash. Funny, isn’t it? I ended up teaching disaster response.”

Izuku rubbed at the back of his neck, lips quirking in a small, genuine smile. “Guess we both ended up teaching. Even if it wasn’t the future we thought we’d land in.”

The helmet turned toward him, visor gleaming with the reflected glow of simulated sunlight. The hum of the facility seemed to quiet for a beat, leaving a stillness between them that hadn’t been there before.

“Midoriya-sensei…” Thirteen’s voice carried a strange edge—hesitant, but hopeful. “If you’re not too busy after work one day, maybe we could—”

The heavy boom of the front doors cut the words in half.

Voices spilled into the dome, loud and excited, echoing against the walls. Class 1-A tumbled in with wide eyes and chatter, their awe filling the air like the rush of a wave.

Izuku straightened instantly, shoulders squaring, expression smoothing into the calm professionalism of a teacher. He turned toward the students, every trace of warmth or awkwardness folded neatly away.

Thirteen lingered a half step behind him, visor glinting. The words she hadn’t finished hung unspoken in the filtered air, fragile and fleeting—swept aside by the noise of twenty eager first-years.

Izuku had an inkling of what Thirteen had been about to say. The words lingered in the back of his mind like smoke, curling and unfinished. He made a quiet promise to himself: after the training, after the kids were safe, he’d find the right moment to circle back. To let her finish.

For now, though, the flood of students demanded his focus. He skirted around their chatter, keeping to the edges, gaze sweeping the dome as his mind shifted back to the day’s responsibilities. Past Aizawa’s scarf-draped form, his eyes automatically sought the towering frame of All Might.

But he wasn’t there.

“Thirteen and I thought All Might would be with you when you got here?” Izuku asked, adjusting his glasses.

“I thought he’d already be here,” Aizawa muttered, tone flat but not without the faintest note of concern.

The buzz of their phones went off in near unison. Izuku fished his phone from his coat pocket, screen lighting his face as he read the message.

I used up too much of my time limit. I apologize. After I rest, I will try and make it to the final half of USJ today. —All Might

Izuku cringed. That man needed to take teaching more seriously… though, a corner of his heart softened. Once, All Might had been able to save everyone in reach and still had time to wave at the bystanders, to reassure every last person. Those days were long gone. What was left was a man trying to patchwork the same hope with less and less time.

“Oh. My. Gosh. It’s Thirteen!” Uraraka whisper-shouted to Ida, gripping the taller boy’s arms with both hands and shaking him like a maraca.

Thirteen stepped forward, voice bright as she raised a hand in greeting. “Yes! I am Thirteen! Rescue Training Specialist for the first-year hero course. It is an honor to finally meet all of you!” She placed both hands on their suit's chest. “Your teacher, Mr. Midoriya, has told me so much about you during our drive here.”

“Between geeking out about the USJ?” Hinata piped up from the crowd, lips quirking in a sideways grin.

A few chuckles rippled through the class. Izuku pressed the bridge of his nose with one hand, cheeks heating as he felt half the students’ eyes dart his way. “Professional admiration,” he muttered, too soft for most of them to hear. And maybe a little bit of childhood wonder, he admitted silently.

Thirteen’s visor tilted toward him in what could only be amusement before turning back to the class, their voice slipping into something more formal. “Now then! Let us begin your introduction to the Unforeseen Simulation Joint…”

The dome’s lights brightened overhead, illuminating each disaster zone in turn as the day’s lesson came alive around them.

Thirteen stepped into the center of the gathered class, their voice carrying the calm confidence of someone who had lived through every disaster the USJ could simulate.

“But before we begin, I have one or two points.”

She paused, tapping their fingers against their gloved palm in mock thought. “Or three… maybe four?”

A ripple of laughter threatened to break the tension, but then Thirteen sighed and straightened, their posture firm. “Only a few points. Important ones.”

The dome hushed again.

“As many of you are aware, my quirk is called Black Hole. It can suck in and tear apart anything… and anyone.”

The silence that followed was sharp, immediate. For many, the reality of their instructor’s power settled on them for the first time. Izuku, however, only nodded, his expression grave.

“In our society, quirks are heavily restricted for a reason—not just to protect those with powerful abilities, but to protect those without. The regulations are stable now, far more so than in the early years of quirk emergence. But it only takes one uncontrollable quirk for people to die.”

Their gloved hand swept wide, gesturing to the immense dome as the overhead lights shifted. One by one, disaster zones flared to life—the burning sector crackling with controlled flames, the flood zone’s waters churning, the landslide groaning with shifting earth.

“Your quirks are powerful,” Thirteen continued, their voice steady, deliberate. “They are tools of wonder. But they are also weapons. Weapons that can harm you, harm civilians, and harm your allies if you cannot control them. If you learn nothing else from today, learn this: stability and restraint are the lifelines of a hero.”

She let the words settle before speaking again.

“What you see today may look theatrical—fires, floods, collapsed buildings, landslides. But I promise you this: there is nothing more real than the chaos you will face when lives are on the line. Rescue work is not glamorous. It is grueling. It is dangerous. And it will test not only the limits of your quirks, but the limits of your patience, your empathy, your resolve. My goal is to show you how to wield even the most destructive quirk not for harm… but for salvation.”

Izuku felt the resonance in his chest. His lips tilted upward—small, faint, but genuine. Another teacher who spoke about control, safety, and restraint, not just raw power and spectacle. Rare. Refreshing.

His eyes lingered on Thirteen longer than he should have. The mirrored visor gave no expression away, but their sincerity radiated through every modulated word.

Thirteen’s hands pressed over their chest. “Rescue is not secondary to combat. It is heroism in its purest form. Thank you all for humoring my little spiel.”

The students shifted, murmurs rising like wind. Awe rolled across their faces in waves. Even Katsuki stayed silent, though his scowl bristled with defiance rather than dismissal. Hinata’s eyes burned brightest of all, lips sparking as if her quirk could barely contain the fire in her veins.

Izuku let himself sink into the rhythm of the moment, chin resting against his knuckles as Thirteen’s words settled over the class like a blanket. Perhaps—just perhaps—this would be the rare session without anyone getting hurt. Thirteen was careful, responsible, everything All Might wasn’t when it came to instruction. That thought eased the ache behind his eyes. For once, he allowed himself to believe this exercise might be smooth.

And then the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

The air changed. Subtle at first—like a draft through a sealed room. A ripple at the far end of the plaza. It looked like heat-haze, but colder, sharper, something wrong to the eye in a way his brain immediately rejected.

Aizawa moved before Izuku could even stand. His scarf snapped loose with a predator’s grace as he cut through the students, voice cracking across the dome like a whip:

“Students, huddle up and don’t move! Thirteen—protect them. Midoriya, get help.”

Izuku’s heart dropped into his stomach as the distortion yawned wider, unraveling into a swirling, inky void. Figures spilled out—first in smudges of shadow, then solidifying into armed silhouettes. Dozens of them, faces obscured, bodies bristling with crude weapons. And behind them… a hulking monstrosity that made the ground tremble under each step, a silhouette too massive, too unnatural to be human.

“Are those more battle robots? Like the entrance exam?” Kirishima’s hopeful voice cracked, cut short by the grim bite of Aizawa’s reply.

“Stay together. Those are villains.” His voice was low, steady, the sound of iron sharpening. Goggles slid over his eyes, his body already stepping forward, forming a barrier between the encroaching mob and his students.

“Thirteen. Eraser Head. And the Counselor.”

The voice floated smoothly across the plaza, cultured and calm—unsettlingly so. The smoke itself had coalesced into a man in a black suit, eyes gleaming faintly within the mist that made up his form. The one who had ferried this army into the dome.

Izuku’s pulse spiked, chest tightening as his mind snapped back to the press infiltration a week ago. Nezu had been right—it hadn’t been about All Might, or even the students. It had been a test run. A probe. And now the real attack was here.

He stumbled back one step, then two, gaze flicking toward the massive front doors. His phone vibrated uselessly in his pocket—data cut off, connection severed. Jamming. Of course, they thought of that.

His throat worked around the thick knot forming there, but the migraine he so often battled was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was only a cool, buzzing clarity, a stream of thoughts sorting themselves into columns: numbers, tactics, distances. He was a few dozen meters from the exit. If he could just—

A new voice ripped through the dome, raw and jagged.

“Where is he?”

It scraped like broken glass, pitched high with irritation yet rough at the edges, carrying through the steel and stone. A figure stepped forward, thin and angular, every movement off-kilter. Baggy clothes draped from his frame like they’d been stolen from a thrift store bin. His hands twitched constantly, brushing against his own throat, his elbows, his shoulders, as though he could never be still. Hands, mummified, gripping arms, shoulders, one across the face.

Izuku felt sick just seeing the man.

“Where is he? We came all this way. Brought so many adds to the boss fight for nothing?” His head jerked side to side, red-rimmed eyes scouring the space until they seemed to latch onto something unseen. Skin flaked and scabbed across his neck and jaw, raw scratches carving his appearance into something half-feral.

The voice rose, cracked with venom. “Where’s the Symbol of Peace? Where’s All Might?”

The words reverberated through the dome like a curse. Students stiffened, some flinching outright. Izuku’s stomach twisted because he could already hear where this man’s thoughts were heading, already taste the cruelty on his tongue.

A crooked grin split the man’s cracked lips. “…I wonder if some dead kids would bring the boss to the arena?”

A collective intake of breath rippled through the students; fear bloomed fast and hot, a wildfire through dry brush. Voices stuttered into silence. Someone began to cry.

“Sensei!” Momo Yaoyorozu’s voice rose, sharp with alarm. “Aren’t there intrusion sensors at the USJ?”

“There are,” Thirteen answered without hesitation, their tone clipped and businesslike now. “But they’re offline. Someone’s jammed the feed, or they’ve used a quirk to bypass the system. This facility is isolated—far from the main campus—and they picked a window with fewer staff on site.” Their gloved hand swept the dome as the floodlights threw long shadows across the floor.

“It’s coordinated,” Izuku said, taking a step forward, though his mouth felt like cotton. His eyes stayed pinched on the smoke-formed figure. “Last week wasn’t a random press stunt. They really were probing us. They wanted a guaranteed opening.”

“They may be stupid enough to attack a school full of heroes,” Aizawa muttered, “but they’re not that stupid.” His scarf coiled tighter, eyes already scanning escape routes and choke points.

“They must have an objective, or more than one,” Izuku went on, adrenaline sharpening his voice. “It can’t just be about killing All Might—their resources say different. And since All Might isn’t here, they’ll move on to a secondary objective. Distraction. Hostages. Publicity. Whatever their goal is.” He swallowed the knot in his throat. Hinata. Where is she? He flicked his gaze over the students again, needing to know she was away from the worst of it.

“Izuku—get help. Iida, you go with him.” Aizawa’s command was quick, deadly calm.

“Shota, you can’t—” Izuku began, but Aizawa cut him off with a look.

“No hero is a one-trick pony,” Aizawa snapped, curt. “Midoriya, move.”

Before Izuku could argue, Shota Aizawa was already in motion. The world blurred at the edges as the tired teacher leapt down from the raised entry platform and vanished into the press of dark shapes. He didn’t hesitate. He never did.

And neither could Izuku. He turned, ready to sprint to the entrance.

“I can’t allow that, Doctor Midoriya.” Smoke thickened, curling like fingers along the floor, carving a ring around the students and the teachers who stood with them. The mist’s edge hummed with a cold, chemical tang that made Izuku’s nose burn.

A new voice, more cultured than cruel, broadcast from the center of the smoke. “Greetings at last. We call ourselves the League of Villains. Forgive our audacity—we came to end the life of the so-called Symbol of Peace. We were told he would be here today.” He paused, the words looping with theatrical savor. “Unfortunate, isn’t it? But if we cannot kill him, we will make our mark in other ways.”

The air thickened with a sickly perfume—rotting meat, stale liquor, a cloying sweetness that turned Izuku’s stomach. Everything felt wrong: the taste in his mouth, the way the lights seemed to dim as the mist rolled.

Katsuki and Kirishima erupted from the crowd, the pair crashing forward like living battering rams. Explosions flared where Katsuki’s palm detonated, hard concussive booms that clipped at the smoke-figure’s edges. Kirishima’s momentum carried a rock-solid blow aimed true.

They missed.

“Get back! Both of you, now!” Thirteen screamed, hands cutting the air in a protective arc—an attempt to put themselves before the students near them—but their motion came half a beat too slow.

The smoke-figure’s voice rose, lilting and terrible. “Begone. Writhe in torment. Live in despair until you breathe your final breath.”

The words slid out like a curse. The world narrowed.

Light leached, then snapped.

Everything went black.

For a beat, there was nothing.

No sight.
No sound.
No taste.
No feeling—only the sour, cloying stench of rot and the acrid burn of spilled whisky that seemed to hang in the air.

For a sliver of time, Izuku felt detached, like a spectator watching his own body from somewhere warm and distant. Maybe he was in shock. Maybe the world had simply been turned off.

Then sensation slammed back.

Heat—an immediate, searing heat—hit him first. He landed hard on a scorched floor in the fire zone; the prop-charred timber bit into his palms. Smoke clawed at his throat, an acidic rasp that forced him to cough until his ribs burned. This was not the tidy, controlled blaze he’d inspected earlier. This was something else: wild, wrong.

The truth snapped into place with the same blunt force as the blackout—whatever was jamming the sensors had jammed everything. Cameras. Communications. The building’s systems. Someone had turned the dome into a sealed oven and cut the lights on the outside world.

He shoved a cloth—pulled stiff from his pocket—over his mouth and nose, tasting only stale fabric and the bile in the back of his throat. Around him, bodies thudded and retched. Someone hit the floor beside him, coughing so hard they spasmed. A laugh of panic in the distance, then silence.

“I’m… I’m Invisible, over here,” a voice gasped. Tiny, familiar, and scared.

Hinata’s scales flashed a dull red a few paces away, the dragon-themed costume catching stray embers. Her hand flew to her mouth; she was trying to draw breath but was coughing instead. Thick green smoke mixed with the gray that polluted the air; every breath he breathed caused a flare of sickness to bubble in his gut; it would seem Hinata wasn’t immune to whatever was in the green smoke that mingled with the rest. The invisible girl—Toru Hagakure—shimmered into view for a second as the smoke thinned around her form, a few feet from Izuku’s shoulder, then phased again, a pale outline that dissolved into the smoke.

Another sound—someone else collapsing in the distance—made Izuku’s stomach drop. He didn’t have the luxury to check identities. He could only see one figure that mattered as far as threats go: a man standing a dozen paces away, skin sparking with a poisonous green flame that made the air around him shimmer and stink. He filled the space like a wound, the green smoke that trailed him billowed and thickened in the air.

There were no thoughts, only motion. He grabbed Hinata with a grip that surprised him—old, instinctive reflexes he’d never had to test on a battlefield. He scooped Hagakure up with his other arm; the invisible girl’s form was light, tiny, shaking with panic, but she was weight and breath and a warm thump against his ribs. 

He wasn’t strong. 

He’d spent years bent over papers and monitors, not in the kind of training rooms Kan and Shota had thrown themselves through. But adrenaline is a blunt, merciless ally. Muscle remembered what mind could not; it hauled.

They staggered, inch by agonizing inch, until Hinata’s coughs eased into ragged breaths and Hagakure’s body stopped shaking. Fire licked a half-circle to their right; everywhere else, the smoke was a pulsing ocean.

“Let me,” Hagakure whispered when she came fully awake, the invisible timbre thin but urgent. “Let me go get help.”

Izuku’s chest collapsed into a tighter thing. “I can’t—” he started.

“Please.” Her voice slipped like silk. Small hands found his sleeve in the dim. She sounded frightened in a way that made the floor tilt under his feet.

He released one arm, dropping Hagakure into a crouch and pushing her toward a narrow corridor. “Fine. But be careful, please be careful.” The words left him ragged. He shoved her onward, then pivoted, the world shrinking to a single tunnel of purpose: keep Hinata alive.

They reached a door—wood veneer, a training prop. Izuku kicked it inward with the heel of his boot; it splintered and swung open on brittle hinges. Inside, a staged bedroom lay frozen under smoke-gray light. A mannequin lay on the bed as if asleep, fake hair matted with soot—one of the props still intact.

“Under the bed,” he barked, voice rough. “Now.”

“What?” Hinata rasped, eyes huge.

“You heard me.” He forced the words out and plastered a courage he didn’t feel over his face. “You’re immune to smoke damage. Hide. Don’t come out until I tell you.”

She swallowed, cheeks streaked with ash. “What about you?”

He swallowed the burn in his throat. The migraine he'd lived with for years had been absent all day—replaced now by an icy, sharpened panic. “I’ll distract them,” he said. It came out small. He tried to make it a grin, something brave for her to hold on to. “Go. Run when you can.”

She looked at him, every line of her nine-year-old face creased with fear and fury. “You can’t—you’ll get hurt!”

“Trust me,” he said, and the lie was a bad thing to taste. He’d promised this before—promised to be careful, promised to be the good son, the good brother. He was a liar wrapped in good intentions now.

“Only if you promise to stay safe.”

He wanted to say the truth—I don’t know how—but the words would shatter her. Instead, he gave the practiced, crooked grin he’d used to hide pain for years. “I promise, give it ten minutes and head for the exit. I’ll meet you there,” he lied again, his voice steadier than his hands.

Hinata crawled beneath the bed without another word, settling into the dark like a small, fierce thing tucking itself away. Izuku stood in the doorway, smoke stinging his eyes, the roar of the dome a distant thing now, and felt the full weight of what he’d said press down on him.

He had promised.

And promises were the only weapon he’d ever been given. No quirk, no divine spark, no blessing from rats or gods—just the ability to look someone in the eye and lie so well it became the truth.

One breath.
One heartbeat.

He lunged from the doorway, fingers white-knuckled around the broken shard of wood from the door he’d kicked in.

The villain didn’t expect it.

Izuku swung with all his weight, the splintered edge connecting with a wet crack. Pain shot through his shoulder as the wood shattered, but the villain reeled, stumbling. Izuku bolted past in the opening, lungs searing with smoke.

A wall of fire cut across his path. He threw himself left, teeth clenched, legs screaming as flame kissed the fabric of his dress pants. The first pair he had bought for this job—the first pair he had felt proud to wear—now charred, blackened, ruined. The heat bit deeper, skin bubbling beneath.

The bile climbed, bitter and acidic. He forced it down.

He ripped the last shard of the door and hurled it at the green-flamed villain dogging his heels. It bounced off uselessly, clattering into ash.

“COME GET ME, DICKBAG!” he roared, voice hoarse, torn from his throat. “I KNOW WHERE ALL MIGHT IS!”

The words rang like a flare, desperate, reckless. A promise of bait.

Fear lanced through him, hot and sharp, but his body didn’t slow. He ran harder, every stride pulling on calves that felt like they were splitting open. Smoke blurred the edges of his vision, but his mind catalogued every turn, every step. Training pathways meant to teach chaos became his lifeline, each corner buying minutes, seconds for Hinata.

Flame followed.

He kept running.

The villain’s laughter chased him like the crackle of kindling catching fire.

Izuku broke through into a wider area—his ears ringing—the edge of the fire zone, and in the distance, movement.

Shota.

Scarf whipping, eyes blazing red behind his goggles, his friend carved into the mob of villains like a phantom of precision. The students watching from above would only see a tired man cutting down monsters. But Izuku saw more: discipline, sacrifice, everything Shota had turned himself into. And the strain the fight had already started to put on the man.

Pride swelled in Izuku’s chest, so sudden and sharp it almost made him stumble. That’s my friend. That’s the man who’s been there, the one who never left me behind, even when Shirakumo died, distanced himself, but never left.

Then fire swallowed his leg whole.

The green blaze tore through fabric, biting deep. His scream strangled in his throat as he collapsed forward mid-stride, slamming into the scorched floor. Dizzy, the world tilted sideways. The sound of battle blurred, muted, and the only thing he could feel was fire—eating, gnawing, consuming his left leg.

He clawed at the ground, dragging himself forward an inch, two, the bitter taste of blood on his tongue. His head swam. His heart pounded too fast, too loud.

The plaza was ahead. Just meters. The place where zones met, where maybe—maybe—he could survive long enough for someone to see him.

God, if only he had been born with a quirk, then maybe he could have done more.

But the fire crawled higher, devouring his leg, licking into muscle and nerve. His world blurred at the edges, tunneling into heat and panic.

Izuku’s fingers clawed at the stone floor, nails splitting, skin tearing raw against the blistering heat of the ground. He dragged himself forward, every inch a lifetime. His chest heaved with shallow, ragged gasps, heart hammering too fast.

Fifteen years ago, he imagined himself dying, by a rope or a bridge, maybe even hypothermia. But not by fire, never by fire. Fire was family. He had learned that fire was safe, that people with fire quirks were good. Even in his darkest of hours, he never thought he would die by fire.

His cheek pressed to the stone lip of the plaza. He needed to climb. Needed to haul himself up and over, but his body shuddered, useless. His arms trembled like wet paper. He was a mouse scratching at a wall, and the wolves behind him knew it.

He tried again. Pushed.

And slammed face-first into stone. The crack rang in his skull as a few teeth split against the rock—sharp agony flaring through his jaw, blood flooding his mouth. A molar shattered, fragments crunching against his tongue.

“Well, well…” A voice oozed from behind him, dripping with amusement. “I’ve always wanted to curb stomp someone. You think Shig would mind if I take out this poor excuse for a teacher?”

Another chuckle, cruel and close. “I think he’d be fine with it.”

“He said he knew where All Might was, right?” Another spoke, concern lacing his voice.

“Could’ve been lying.” A fourth voice cut in, harsher, searing. Footsteps crunched closer, and then heat—searing heat—curled into Izuku’s scalp as his hair was fisted in the green-flamed villain’s hand. Flesh sizzled at the touch. Izuku’s scream tore through his throat, ragged and raw.

“Bite down on the rock,” the villain whispered, breath reeking of smoke and rot. His laughter rumbled deep. “I hear it makes the pain go away faster.”

Izuku’s jaw was wrenched open. Stone ground against enamel as his teeth pressed hard against the rock. His body convulsed. Static exploded behind his eyes.

“Oops,” another sneered. “Don’t want you to have to suffer.”

Two red-hot fingers slid into the corners of his eyes. And pressed.

Agony.

Sizzling, popping—his own flesh bubbling. Vision blurred, streaked red, fading into black as his tear ducts burned away. His screams choked into whimpers.

Through the haze, he caught one final flicker of clarity, two things caught his attention before only black remained. Shota. His friend—scarve snapping, boots carving into villains—turning just enough to see him. To see what was happening. And the small, half-wiped off fingerprint from the Quirk Exam, the one his sister had pressed ever so teasingly into the glass.

He hoped she was safe, away from the villains, too far away to see what was about to happen to him.

Then pressure. A hand at the back of his head, forcing him down.

Then a kick, shallow, testing the waters.

“One.”

The stone cut his gums as another landed, harder.

“Two.”

A third, harder, pain bloomed across his head. Blood filled his mouth, thick and hot, shards of teeth shrapnel pulsed painfully in his gums where feeling remained.

He mentally prayed, one final time, reaching for that faith Kan somehow always kept within himself even at the worst times.

Please let his sister be safe.
Please, if he lived through this, he would be better.
He would live a better life.
He would apologize to Nemuri.
He would spend more time with his family.
He would make something of hims-

Crack.

“Three.”

The world went white.

Thoughts ceased.
Pain.
Fire.
A skull ablaze with agony.

Then nothing.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Breathing.

Wet, ragged, endless. The shuffle of bodies. The press of skin against skin. Heaps. Droves.

Not cold. Not warm. The absence of temperature. The absence of anything.

Fingers pressed against sockets that saw no light. No dark. No color.

It was not the dark of night. It was not even the dark of a blindfold. It was the dark that existed before there was ever such a thing as light.

Breathing.

Shallow.
Deep.
Hundreds of lungs, dragging air that did not exist into bodies that had never lived.

Huddled together in the place before darkness had meaning.

Shuffling.

Breathing.

How many breaths in a minute?
He knew this, didn’t he? He’d counted them before. He had always known.

But what was a minute?

What was the sky, if he could no longer summon its color?

Who was he?
Why was he?
What was a he?

The answers hung at the edges of his mind like fragile glass, ready to shatter if he reached too far.

Breathing.

Cold before cold. Warmth before warmth. Sight before sight.

He reached out blindly, groping through the void. His fingers brushed—damp, smooth—skin?

A gasp. A clutching hand seized him. Shoved him.

Stone cracked against his back.

Breathing.

Time.

How much time had passed since he woke?
How long had he been awake?
How long had he been—

Had he been?

Breathing.

It filled him, filled everything, a tide of sound that drowned the thought of silence.

Until silence was all that remained.

He leaned against stone—the same stone he had hit… How long ago? The press of bodies shifted and shuffled nearby.

He sat.

Why stand? What was the point?

Had he been sitting forever? Or had he only just lowered himself down?

He wasn’t sure.

Who was he again?

He swore it started with an I. But what was an I? What was language? Was he thinking—or pretending to think?

Or… was he a rock?

Was he the stone beneath him?

Was he rock?

Breathing.

Shuffling.

Feet against stone. Stone against feet. Souls against rock, rock against souls, grinding each other down.

Was his soul stone? Just like the soles of his feet?

What was a soul?
What were feet?

Cold.

He knew cold. Oppressive. Merciless.

He was naked.

Had he ever been clothed? Was there such a thing? Why did it feel wrong?

Cold.
So cold.

Shivering.

He stood. Steps, staggered steps. No bodies nearby.

His breathing.

Only his breathing.

Shuffling. His shuffling.

He had been left.

Cold, colder, coldest. The absence of heat.

Warmth.

He needed warmth.

He pushed forward, stumbling over jagged stone, legs trembling, muscles screaming with overuse, though he had no memory of using them.

He had been cold. Now he was cold and tired. Cold and tired and still cold.

Footsteps.

Clinking, clanking. Metal. Armor.

Ida?

Who was Ida?

The darkness shifted, softened. From pitch-dark to the faint dark of a bedroom at night.

Bedroom? Yellow-haired man. A poster. A smile. Warmth pressed into paper.

Cold. Stone underfoot.

He tripped. Fell hard. Skull against rock. Panic. Stone—bad. Teeth ached with phantom agony as he remembered them cracking against curb-stone long ago.

Warm.

The rock beneath him was warm.

His eyes had closed in the fall.

They opened.

He was surrounded. Hundreds—no, thousands. Or more. Naked. Shivering. Pressing close.

He staggered upright and pressed into the crowd, his hands flat against the warm back of a stranger. His teeth chattered. He shook.

A shove—hard. His back hit stone again.

A hand, thin but steady, gripped his shoulder.

Kind blue eyes stared down at him. Black hair, pale skin, arms opening in an offer of warmth.

Color bled into the cavern, faint at first, like threads tugged through black cloth.

He pressed into the other body, leaned into the warmth.

And more came. From tunnels, from cracks in the stone, from caverns that had no end. Drawn like moths to a spark, bodies pressed in: shoulder to shoulder, back to chest, hip to hip.

The press grew heavier. Warmer. Voices cracked through the endless chorus of breathing—raw, jagged, infantile. Sounds trying to remember what words were.

The cavern pulsed with it.

Voices.

The first words.

“Flame… oh blessed First Flame.”

It was distant, impossibly far, and yet the syllables vibrated inside his bones.

He looked at his companion—another male, blue eyes, black hair, a face lined faintly by something older than age.

Others clustered close. A woman pressed against his back, her breath shallow but warm. Another man’s fingers clutched his arm, icy and trembling, and he allowed it. 

They were all cold. 

They all needed each other.

They needed each other’s warmth.
Skin pressed to skin, shoulders wedged tight, hips locked, bodies trembling but clinging. A desperate heap against the cold that gnawed at knees and toes, biting deeper every moment.

Something moved through the crowd.

Not tall—not radiant—but small. A figure like them, hunched and gaunt. Hollow cheeks, eyes sunken, blackness staining only their hands. Hands that brushed against each body they passed. Skin to skin, palm to shoulder, fingers to ribs.

And with every touch, motes bled into the flesh: specks as black as void, yet warm. Tiny embers of nothing, pressed from one to the next, spreading through the tide of bodies.

For every spark passed on, a fragment remained behind. A shard lodged within.

Whispers rippled after the figure. Words hissed in broken voices. King… king…

Some rose from the mass to follow. Wandering deeper, leaving the warmth that pulsed in the distance behind the one who had given them the ember.

Time fractured.

Days bled into hours, hours into eternities.

The shard of dark heat in his chest burned slow, steady, seeping into fingers, toes, knees. The woman clinging to his back sighed as her own ember bloomed, her cracked lips curling faintly into a smile. Her hand pressed to her sternum, pale flesh warming. Not just hers—all of them. Everywhere his gaze landed, the tide of flesh shifted: skin flushed, warmth returning to the gray pallor of the crowd.

The horde swelled behind. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Ahead, thicker still—a tide without end, a tide that glowed faintly now, ember-lit and alive.

They sat.
They huddled.
They tried to stay warm.

But not all did. Some lay down and never rose. Others drifted into the dark, chasing after the black-handed man who had given them the first spark.

A month—no. Longer. A year? A century? Time collapsed, meaningless. Only the ache in his limbs told him it had been long since the first warmth had entered his skin.

Iz…
Izu?

Was that his name? Was that who he was?

No. Not right. Or maybe it was. If he thought harder, maybe if he had gotten a bit more of that black shard, perhaps—

“Lesser Men! Humans of that Furtive Pygmy’s thief hand!”

The words shattered the cavern, rolling across the tide of bodies like fire through dry brush.

Heads snapped up.

A voice—calloused, commanding, cold.

From the dark strode a figure taller than a man, like an artist had stretched the being to tower over the hoards he stood within, armored in silver that caught what little light had crept into existence. A greatsword gleamed in one hand, its point raised to the heavens that were not yet.

“Listen! This is an order from the Lord of Sunlight!”

The armored giant’s voice rolled like fire through dry leaves, scattering whispers into silence.

“We go to war! And for war, Lord Gwyn requires volunteers to be more than mere slaves. Who among you will step forth? Who among you will take glory into your breast and serve?”

The sword angled higher, catching unseen light.

“Those of valor, those of courage, shall be rewarded. The caverns shall no longer bind you. The lands above shall be ours. You will march in his name. And in the warmth of the sun, all shall find their place!”

The crowd shifted, murmur swelling again. Some pressed forward eagerly, eyes alight with a hunger Izuku could feel even without seeing. Others shrank back, clutching closer to their fragments of warmth.

Izuku’s heart—or whatever sat in his chest—throbbed uneasily.

War. Glory. Belonging.

It was tempting. It was warmth.

And yet—

The word volunteer echoed too sharp, too thin. Like a blade made of glass. Like a lie told once too often.

But lies… lies he knew. Lies he was made of.

He rose.

The ancient man—the one with kind blue eyes and black hair—rose with him. The woman, too, trembling but upright. Two more men followed, shadows dragging themselves into shape. Together, they stumbled forward, prying apart the living gates of bodies, forcing through those who would not move.

Every step pressed against flesh, against warmth. The tide hissed and shifted, clinging, tugging, yet parting just enough to let them through. The shiver in Izu’s muscles stuttered, then ceased, like frost thawing in his veins.

Step by step. Until the silver.

It was only then that height struck him.

The man behind him—the one who had given warmth—was shorter by a head. The woman barely reached his chest. The others, smaller still, all eyes upturned. Izuku loomed above them, though he did not feel tall. He felt… wrong.

Before him stood the knight. Clad head to heel in silver, broad as the cavern itself, sword raised toward the unseen sky. Izuku’s crown barely brushed the knight’s chestplate. He craned his neck, straining, but the helm’s visor was void—no glimmer of eyes, no face, no humanity. Only darkness, thicker than the cavern’s.

“So. Thee understands the tongue of the gods?” the knight’s voice rumbled, accent heavy, ancient, weighted with centuries. “I anticipated none would rise to the occasion, and thus a tithe be demanded.”

The helmet lowered, settling its unseen gaze square upon him. “Art thou the leader of this paltry band? Do they comprehend thy tongue?”

Izuku froze. The stare was heavy, crushing, more than a man’s eyes should be. He turned, stiff, toward those who had followed: blue eyes, black hair, pale woman, nameless men. They looked to him, waiting, clinging to his shadow.

His tongue scraped against the roof of his mouth, heavy, dry, cracked. Pain bloomed as he forced sound through his teeth.

“I…” His lips trembled. “I. am. Izu?”

The words spilled jagged, wrong. Each syllable seared his throat. But the knight listened.

“These—others. They… no speak.”

“Perhaps,” the knight intoned, voice like rusted bells tolling through the cavern, “thee art more curious than the rest of these groveling savages. Born of thieving hands, without morality, without order. Thus, penance for thine ascension into the true and the living mayhap is in order.”

His words slithered like scripture, yet the helm never turned fully toward Izuku. He wasn’t speaking to him. He was speaking around him, over him, as if Izuku were an object, a stone being discussed.

The massive blade sank with a shriek into the cavern floor, sparks dancing as silver carved stone. The knight bent, not in deference, but in judgment, lowering that cold, gleaming hand. Fingers like sculpted iron closed on Izuku’s shoulder, heavy enough to grind bone, edges biting into skin. Izuku flinched, breath caught between his teeth. Pain—real, sharp. But not the worst pain. No, the worst pain was a memory knocking at the locked doors of his mind: eyes burning, skull splitting, light white-hot until only black remained.

“Follow,” the knight commanded, his voice reverberating through every rib, every hollow cavity of the cavern. “Thou shalt be guided into war—not as slaves, but only if thou servest with diligence and honor. Fear not. My lord hath decreed it. Should thee, and thine feckless band, prove of passing interest… then perhaps His fire shall find thee fit for more than meager bondage. Perhaps.”

The pause was deliberate. The grip on Izu’s shoulder tightened—not for necessity, but for the savor of pain.

“Or perhaps thou shalt serve as all thy kind have since first crawling to the flame. Slaves. Slave knights. Branded, broken, bled unto ash. It mattereth not to me.”

Then, dismissal. The knight released him with a shove, as though casting off a tool of no more interest than a shard of stone. His gauntlet gleamed, wet and red, Izu’s blood running down the grooves of silver like offerings.

In a single, fluid motion, that same hand gripped the sword hilt. Steel screamed as it tore free of stone. The knight turned without ceremony, shouldering his way into the throng. Bodies scattered like kindling, some crushed underfoot, others slammed aside by shield and blade. Their cries split the cavern—wet, guttural, animal.

But Izu’s gaze clung elsewhere.

The man with ancient blue eyes tilted his head, expression unreadable. Then, with hands rough as bark, he brushed the blood from Izu’s shoulder in slow, deliberate strokes. The woman followed, silver hair sliding over her fingers as she wound a lock around her hand, pressing it to the wound as a makeshift cloth. Her touch was soft, trembling, worry marking her soft blue eyes..

A ragged breath left Izu, escaping like a prayer torn from his lungs. He held on to them both—rough hand and gentle hand—and turned his gaze to the other two who lingered near.

One had a tumble of shaggy brown hair, his face bearing the lines of a man older than his frame suggested. His eyes were deep, intense, watching with a prideful sheen, like thoughts honed by centuries.

The other’s locks carried a faint red hue, glinting even in the cavern’s half-light. His gaze was darker, heavier, lingering too long, sharp as a blade yet hollow as the void behind it. His features were cut with an austere precision, a face that spoke of judgment—or cruelty—yet not a word had passed his lips.

The five of them, pressed together in that sea of faceless thousands, suddenly felt less like strangers and more like fragments of the same fragile ember.