Chapter Text
"Say goodbye, kid."
Hands pinned him down. Blue flames surged, heat blistering his chest—then the searing stopped too soon. The world blurred at the edges and he was weightless. Detached.
Dabi’s voice was distant and sharp, "toss him in. He’s done."
Rough hands gripped him again.
Falling.
Impact. Bone-jarring. Bitter cold water surrounded his limbs as darkness pressed in. Above him, footsteps retreated and laughter faded somewhere in the distance.
Then there was nothing. Cold. Alone.
Dying.
Suddenly, there was a flicker—someone moving through the muck hours later, maybe more. A hoarse voice cursed as hands pulled him free. He could feel it: the sensation of being dragged, limp and broken, across grass and mud.
-And then the blackness returned.
Darkness swam behind Katsuki’s eyes. It wasn't the suffocating dark of that cell, not the void where time meant nothing. This was different—soft, unsteady, as if the world itself hadn’t decided whether to let him wake or not. A shallow breath caught in his throat. Raw. His chest burned and limbs ached in ways he couldn’t name. Every muscle felt wrong—too slack, too loose, as if something beneath the skin had unraveled.
There was a faint russle somewhere nearby.
Someone was there .
Something shifted in the haze.
“You’re alive.” The words floated toward him, rough and simple. The words were graveled. Older.
Katsuki didn’t recognize the sound. His head swam.
Where— ?
“You’re in a dump. But it’s my dump. Try not to bleed out again, huh?”
Oh. He had spoken aloud hadn’t he. The man's words barely registered, but they cut through the fog just enough to land. Someone had him. Not the League. Not a prison cell.
He opened his eyes, squinting as blinding fluorescent lights stabbed at them, buzzing faintly overhead. The first thing he saw was the peeling ceiling. Then he noticed cracks spider-webbing across cheap plaster and rust stains at the corners. This wasn't the League’s lair. Not some concrete hellhole.
What the hell?
He shifted—and nearly groaned aloud. His body screamed in protest. Bandages wrapped around his ribs and shoulder, stiff and poorly knotted. The burn on his chest throbbed with every breath.
“Finally awake, huh?”
The voice was rough. Male. Weathered by too many years of smoke and cheap whiskey.
Katsuki's eyes traced the ceiling and down the wall until they settled on a man leaning in the doorway. Mid-fifties, maybe older, Katsuki noted. He had a thick frame gone soft around the edges, and stubble coated his square jaw. Grease-stained coveralls hung half-zipped down his chest; an unlit cigarette dangled from cracked lips. The man had brown hair that was outgrown and shaggy. Due for a good haircut, Katsuki mused. Plain was how he'd describe the man, someone who could slip through a crowd without standing out.
“You’ve been out for a couple of days,” the man said, arms folded. “Thought you might kick it for a while there.”
Katsuki scowled. His throat was raw, voice like sandpaper, “...who the hell are you?”
“The name’s Kojima Takeshi,” he smirked. “I’m the dumb bastard who pulled your half-cooked ass out of some ditch and stitched you back together.”
A ditch? Bits of memory came in jagged flashes—blue flame, suffocating smoke, blackness. Katsuki sat up too fast. The world spun.
“Take it easy, kid,” Kojima said, pushing off the doorframe. “You’ve been through hell. You ain’t gonna sprint outta here like nothin’ happened.”
Katsuki swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. But something was wrong. Not the pain. Not the dizziness. Something deeper. He couldn’t feel it–The restless crackle under his skin, the burn in his palms—that constant thrum that had been part of him since he was four.
Gone.
He clenched a fist. No sharp bite of nitroglycerin sweat. No familiar tension in his forearm. Just...emptiness. His pulse spiked. His mouth went dry.
No. No fucking way.
“Where... where am I?” he rasped.
“Back room of my shop,” Kojima said. “You’re lucky some street rats didn’t get to you first.”
Katsuki’s eyes darted around. Dingy cinderblock walls. A tattered couch beneath him. Faint smell of motor oil and mildew. His fingers twitched.
“What do you want?” he growled, voice hoarse.
Kojima barked a dry laugh. “Kid, I don’t want nothin’ from you. If anything, I’d have left you where I found you. Luckily, you’re alive ‘cause I got a soft spot for broken shit.” He scratched his chin. “That, and you looked like you still had some fight left. Figured it’d be a waste otherwise.”
Katsuki’s jaw tightened. Fight? he barely felt human.
Kojima turned. “Come on. You can crash at my place next door. Trailer’s a dump, but it’s got a bed and running water. Long as you pull your weight, you’re welcome.”
“I’m not a charity case,” Katsuki spat.
Kojima snorted. “Didn’t say you were. But if you’re breathin’, you’re workin’. Auto shop’s got enough busted rides to keep you busy.”
Katsuki hesitated. His body wanted to collapse again—but he couldn’t stay here. Not helpless. Not weak. And sure as hell not grateful.
And yet…
“Fine,” he gritted out.
The trailer was every bit the hellhole Katsuki expected.
Beer cans littered the floor. Dishes crusted with who-knows-what piled high in the sink. Clothes were strewn across a ratty couch, and the carpet smelled faintly of mold. Stale smoke clung to the curtains.
Katsuki wrinkled his nose.
“Make yourself at home,” Kojima said with a crooked grin. “I know it ain’t pretty. Been meanin’ to clean. Never get around to it.”
Katsuki scanned the mess, one eye twitching. Fucking disgusting.
But the exhaustion was setting in hard now. His legs shook beneath him. A thin film of sweat clung to his skin–it lacked the familiar scent of caramel.
“Bathroom’s down the hall. Water heater’s busted, but you can get a warm sink bath if you don’t mind workin’ for it.”
Katsuki muttered something under his breath and limped past him.
The bathroom wasn’t much better—grime on the tiles, rust around the faucet—but it had soap and a washcloth. And a cracked mirror.
He peeled off the filthy remnants of his shirt, moving stiffly. His breath hitched when he saw the stitches–crude, crooked, and barely holding.
Fucking hell .
He traced a finger near the jagged thread.
“Tch... what kind of half-assed job did that old geezer do?” he muttered under his breath. “Did he use a damn fishhook for this?”
Still, it was better than bleeding out.
Katsuki stared at his reflection, his face looked like hell—bruises, cuts, dark shadows under both eyes. His hair hung limp and matted. The burn across his chest peeked out from beneath the bandages, angry and raw. But worse than any of it was that he could feel it. The wrongness inside him. The stillness where there should be fire. He gripped the sink. One deep breath. Then another.
“Come on,” he growled under his breath. “Come on...”
He spread his fingers. Focused—willed that familiar spark to rise.
Nothing.
There was no heat, no crackle, no scent of burnt caramel.
A low sound escaped him—half snarl, half breathless panic. He glanced at his palms, and then back at the mirror. The cracked glass spiderwebbed around his reflection.
Gone.
Not just the quirk–the fight . The fire that had always driven him. He sagged forward, chest heaving. Something inside him had been ripped out. Something vital. And he hadn’t even felt it until now.
The water ran pink as he wiped himself off. He worked around the makeshift stitches, face set in a hard, trembling mask. When he finally staggered out of the bathroom, Kojima looked up from the couch.
“Shower’s broke, huh?” the man said dryly. “You look like a drowned rat.”
Katsuki glared at him. “Can’t shower with stitches, you old geezer.” he shot back.
Kojima grinned around his cigarette. “Atta boy. Knew there was some bite left in ya.”
Katsuki didn’t answer. His gaze drifted to the window. Night pressed in against the glass. He didn’t know how long he’d been gone or who knew he was alive. If anyone did.
But right now–he was breathing. He was alive .
And he was fucking tired.
Later, when the trailer had gone quiet and Kojima had disappeared into the back room to snore like a dying engine, Katsuki sat on the edge of the lumpy couch, a threadbare blanket draped across his lap. The dim glow of a streetlamp filtered through the grimy curtains and shadows stretched long across the floor.
Sleep wouldn’t come. Every inch of him ached, but none of it compared to the hollow thrum inside his chest. He flexed his fingers again, slow, deliberate.
Nothing.
No snap of sweat glands firing. No rise of heat beneath his skin. No itch of building pressure in his palms.
Gone.
He dragged his hands through his hair, fists tightening. His breath came short and fast.
What the fuck did he do to me?
That bastard—All For One. He remembered the hand. It had been clammy and cold against his skull, and time seemed to freeze. Something inside him was being pulled apart cell by cell. And the moment after…
Blackness.
Now… this. Katsuki clenched his jaw until it hurt.
I’m too fucking calm.
The thought hit him like a punch to the gut. He should be shaking. Screaming. Breaking everything in this dump of a trailer. That’s what he would’ve done. That’s who he was.
But instead, he sat frozen. Hollow. A lead weight pressed behind his ribs. His muscles itched to move, to lash out, to do something —but the drive wasn’t there. Not like before. His mind kept circling the same thought:
Part of me is gone.
He could feel it—like an old scar under the skin, a tear that hadn’t fully healed. There was a gap where something used to burn bright. Rage had always been there for him. It was his engine. His fuel. Now it was only a flicker: distant and muted.
His hands trembled.
He wanted to scream, to tear the place apart until he found what was missing. But...even that impulse faded before it fully formed. A sharp breath rattled through his chest.
What the hell is going on?
Katsuki didn’t remember falling asleep.
One moment he was sitting stiff on that lumpy couch, fists clenched around the fraying edge of the blanket, and staring holes through the grimy window.
The next moment, there was darkness.
He was running, boots skidding over broken stone and ash. The air was thick as tar in his lungs, burning his lungs. His muscles screamed, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t even think clearly enough to stop. Rubble surrounded him, buildings crumbled into jagged silhouettes against a colorless sky, and smoke twisted through the ruins. Explosions bloomed in the distance—blinding flares of heat and light.
But silent.
The world was silent.
The ground trembled beneath each blast, cracks spider-webbing across the debris-strewn path, but there was not a single sound reaching his ears.
It was wrong.
All of it was wrong.
And still—he ran.
Faster. Harder. Katsuki didn’t know why, he didn’t know where, only that he had to keep moving. A compulsion deeper than thought or fear—one foot in front of the other. Behind him, the smoke thickened as shapes shifted in the mist.
The figures were familiar somehow, but faceless and blurred. They felt like half-formed memories. And then, there was a voice.
Katsuki.
The voice was soft and distant, impossible to place, but it cut through the air like a knife. It was a voice he should know—a voice that meant something.
Katsuki. Stop.
His heart lurched. The sound of it—wrong in a way he couldn’t name. Too close. Too much like—
No.
He clenched his fists and pushed harder. The ache in his chest spiked with every stride. Something inside him strained toward that voice, reaching back even as his legs drove him forward.
Another burst of light—closer this time. Heat swept over his skin, weightless and burning. No sound. No sound. No sound.
Katsuki—come back.
The voice cracked now. Rougher. Pleading.
The pull in his chest grew sharper, an unbearable twist, like an invisible hand wrenching him backward by the ribs.
Part of him wanted to turn.
Part of him needed to turn.
But something deeper whispered: Don’t.
Cold certainty took root. If he turned, something terrible would happen. Something worse than all of this. So he ran. Faster. Harder. His chest was splitting open with the strain. Behind him, the voice rose—hoarse and breaking:
Katsuki—don’t leave me.
His breath caught, his steps faltered. The ache swelled to a roar inside him as the final explosion lit the world with pure white, so bright it burned through his closed eyes.
And through it:
Katsuki—
The scream wasn’t loud. It was desperate. Lonely.
Katsuki stumbled, the compulsion to run shattered like glass. But before he could fall—before he could turn—
He woke.
He bolted upright on the couch, chest heaving. Sweat slicked down his back; it was cold against his spine. The trailer was silent, save for the low creak of wind outside. No smoke. No voices. No light. Just the crushing emptiness in his chest. An ache without a source. An echo of something lost. Katsuki dragged a shaking hand through his hair, his breath ragged.
What the fuck was that?
The dream clung to him like frost, leaving his insides cold. He could still hear it—that voice. A voice so familiar . A voice so lonely. And the worst part—
He didn’t know what he’d been running from.
He didn’t know why he had to—why it felt like the most important thing in the world had been left behind. A knot twisted low in his gut.
Something’s gone.
Not just his quirk… it was his fire.
Where was his fire? Where was the defiance that had carried him through every fight, every beating, every goddamn day of his life? Where was the rage? That raw, untamable burn that had always been there, ready to swallow the world whole if it stood in his way. He tried to feel it—tried to summon it. Tried to force the anger up through his gut, into his chest, into his throat. The old familiar torrent that had never failed him. Yet, there was Nothing. The feeling was there, but muted. and distant. He could almost taste it. He could almost touch the edges of it—A flicker, a spark. Then it flickered out cold.
No.
His pulse raced, his breathing picked up. He reached again—grasped for that flame with everything left in him. He could feel a faint tremor of heat, a shadow of the old rage—there, for half a heartbeat—and gone again. Katsuki choked on air, his heart thundering. Panic rose sharply in his throat.
Who the hell am I without it? Who am I without the fight? Without the fire?
Without me?
The answer clawed at him, raw and terrible. He sank forward, elbows on his knees, head in shaking hands. Katsuki tried to hold on to something—anything. But the edges of himself kept slipping through his grasp. He didn’t know how to bring it back—didn’t know if he even could.
And now, without question, something out there still reached for him. The echo of what he had lost.
And he—
He had run away