Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Izuku Midoriya stared at the cracked, worn-out sidewalk beneath his dirt-streaked red shoes that were a size too small on his feet. His stomach churned, but not in the familiar way of hunger he had known before. This feeling gnawed deeper at his stomach lining, a strange emptiness that twisted his insides in a way that nearly brought tears to his eyes. Even at four years old, Izuku had already known what hunger felt like—when his mother forgot to pack him lunch or simply decided he hadn’t deserved one that day. But this was different, this was worse.

Inko’s, his mother’s, hand tightened around his wrist, yanking him forward with a roughness that made him stumble. Her face, which had once been soft and filled with nothing but kindness, was now twisted in frustration and anger, the stress lines around her mouth deepening every day. She muttered something underneath her breath, words too quiet and complex for Izuku to understand, but the tone was clear: it was his fault. No matter what, it was always his fault. She had been like this since her husband, Izuku’s father, had left them for the Americas to find work. Being in a high-stress position as a nurse wasn’t much of a help either; naturally, it caused her to have a lot of stress and frustrations. Izuku just happened to be the closest thing to her and she would take those feelings out on him.

They entered the doctor’s office, the sterile smell of disinfectant stinging Izuku’s nose and making it wrinkle in discomfort. It would be a lie to say that he wasn’t nervous, unsure of what to expect from something like this—he hadn’t been back to the doctor’s office since he gots his shots for preschool. The doctor, an old man with a bushy mustache and a pair of goggles, greeted them with a clinical smile and led them back to a small examination room. Izuku sat on the edge of the table in the room, kicking his feet absentmindedly as they dangled beneath him, while Inko stood nearby, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

The doctor performed a series of tests on Izuku, his movements steady and confident. Izuku could have sworn he felt his heart threatening to jump out of his chest as he glanced in his mother’s direction, hoping for any sign of reassurance or encouragement or something. But there was none. And after what felt like an eternity, the doctor finally turned to Inko.

“Well, Mrs. Midoriya,” he began, “Izuku here appears to have a quirk factor.” There was a pause and Inko was growing impatient. She motioned for him to continue, prompting the doctor to say, “While he does have a quirk factor, it appears to be… dormant. That isn’t a bad thing, necessarily, it just means that he hasn’t shown signs of any abilities yet but there is a strong potential for his quirk to activate in the future. It might just take some time.”

Inko’s eyes narrow, the flicker of something dark passing through them fell on blind eyes. Izuku shrunk in on himself instinctively, already having noticed the signs of anger his mother was exhibiting. “So, there’s nothing else wrong with him?” she asked, her voice tense.

“No, ma’am,” the doctor replied, eyes scanning the clipboard in his hand. “He’s healthy, a little on the skinny side, but healthy overall. The quirk should activate on its own given time.”

Inko bowed and thanked the doctor tersely, her grip on Izuku’s wrist tightening more than it had before as she practically dragged him out the office. He struggled to keep up with her brisk pace, his legs moving as fast as they would carry him. She wouldn’t speak to him as they left, would look at him, and Izuku found her silence more terrifying than when she was yelling.

She led them into an alleyway just outside the Quirk Specialist’s office, and that’s where Inko finally stopped. Izuku has found the courage within himself to look up at her, his sweat dropped when he saw the inhuman look in her eyes—unbridled rage and contempt swirling through pools of green. She stared at him with a hatred that made the hair on his neck stand up in anticipation.

“You little brat,” Inko hissed, her voice low and venomous. “Do you know how much pain you’ve caused me? How much you’ve ruined my life?”

Izuku opened his mouth to speak, but words seemed to be lost on his tongue. Instead, tears welled up in the corner of his eyes as Inko raised her hand into the air. Her palm struck him across the face, the force of the blow sent him sprawling to the dirty, concrete ground. He looked up at her once more, momentarily stunned, his cheek burning.

“You need to understand,” she continued, her voice rising, “what pain feels like.”

With a flick of her wrist, she used her telekinesis to pull a small, abandoned metal box towards her. The tool-filled box, undoubtedly heavy, slammed into the back of Izuku’s head, and he saw stars. Pain exploded at the base of his skull, darkness started to creep into his vision. The last thing he remembered seeing was his mother standing over him, a twisted expression of satisfaction on her face, before everything went to black.

…

Izuku’s eyes fluttered open, the harshness of the sun stinging his pupils and forcing them to dilate to accommodate the sudden light. When his eyes adjusted, all Izuku could see around him was a scene straight out of his nightmares.

Flames licked at the edges of the crumbling alleyway, and the air was thick with smoke and ash and a putrid burning smell. Sirens wailed in the distance, and the sounds of people screaming and crying filled the air. He sat up from his prone position slowly, his head still throbbing, and looked down at his hands.

They were covered in blood. Or what looked like blood. The dark red liquid slid down his fingers and onto the pale gray of the concrete, staining it with droplets of brown. Panic surged through him, and he wanted to vomit, but his stomach was strangely empty of even stomach acid. Also, that strange, gnawing hunger was gone, quickly replaced by a hollow sense of dread.

Izuku’s head swiveled back and forth immediately, searching for any sign of his mother. The action caused his vision to swim, but he finally spotted her crumpled form a few feet away from him. Scrambling over to her, he saw a subtle rising and falling of her chest, though it was weak. Relief and confusion warred within him—he didn’t know if he was happy she was alive…or if he wished she wasn’t.

“M-Mom?” he whispered, his voice trembling. Her eyes flickered open, and she was eyeing him with an unusual mix of fear and residual anger. She tried to speak, but no coherent words were about to come out, only gurgling sounds.

By now, Izuku’s mind was racing, trying to make sense of everything going on. The fire, the destruction—it was all centered around him. The realization hit him harder than any punch to his gut: this was his fault, like usual. Somehow, he had caused all of this.

Izuku staggered to his feet once again, his mother’s shallow breaths echoing in his ears. He knew she needed help, that he needed to find it for her. Stumbling away from the alleyway, he pushed through the haze of smoke and ash, every step becoming a struggle against the overwhelming sights and sounds assaulting his senses.

Everything was still too bright, too loud. His head throbbed with every pulse of light, and the sounds of sirens and shouting people grated on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Izuku winced, shielding his eyes with one arm as he forced himself to move forward. When he felt his vision was truly adjusting to everything, the true extent of the devastation around him came into focus.

Most buildings had been reduced to charred skeletons, cars overturned and burning. What was left of the streets were littered with debris, the smoke only growing thicker as it filled his lungs. Bile rose in his throat, but just as last time, there was nothing to expel. The hollow pit in his stomach remained, eating away at him from the inside.

Pushing down his rising panic, Izuku searched for signs of life, for anyone who could help. He spotted a large group of people gathered near the edge of the radius of destruction, their faces, from what Izuku could see, only being filled with fear and confusion. Desperation was one of the few things that was driving him forward, hoping against hope that someone, anyone, could help his mother.

As he grew closer to the crowd, a woman had turned towards him and saw him. A finger was pointed in his direction, then a piercing scream following close behind it. The sound reverberated off his skull and left him able to not do much else than cover his ears. The group had looked in his direction in unison, each and every one of their eyes blowing wide with fear as recognition set in.

A pro hero at the front of the group spotted him. “Hey! Kid! Stop right there!” the hero called out to him, his voice cracking. “Don’t make any sudden movements, or I’ll have to assume you’re hostile.”

Izuku froze, his heart pounding in his chest—or at least it felt like it should be. A sense of dread settled over him as he realized it wasn’t actually beating. His breathing quickened, but he forced himself to remain still, his anxiety climbing with each passing second.

The hero advanced cautiously, eyes fixed on Izuku. “Stay exactly where you are,” he repeated, sounding more sure of himself this time.

Before Izuku could respond, the hero lunged at him, tackling him to the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and before he knew it, quirk-suppressing cuffs were snapped around his wrists. The world tilted and spun, and darkness enveloped him once again.

When Izuku woke up, the first thing he noticed was the sterile scent of the room. He blinked, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light. His hands were linked to a metal table, the cold steel of regular handcuffs biting into his wrists. Panic surged through him, but he forced himself to remain calm.

As his vision cleared, he realized he wasn’t alone. Sitting across from him was a small, white rodent-like creature with a sharp, intelligent gaze. The creature tilted its head, observing him with keen interest.

“Good, you’re awake,” the creature said in a calm, measured voice. “My name is Nezu. I am the principal of U.A. High School.”

Izuku stared at him, confusion and fear warring within him. “W-what happened?” he managed to croak out, his voice hoarse.

Nezu leaned forward, his expression curious. “That is what we’re trying to determine,” he said. “You seem to be at the center of a rather unusual incident. I must say, you are quite interesting, young Midoriya.”

Izuku’s mind raced, memories of the destruction, the fire, and the blood flooding back. “I didn’t mean to… I don’t know what happened,” he stammered, tears welling up in his eyes.

Nezu nodded sympathetically. “I believe you,” he said gently. “But we need to understand what happened, and how. Can you tell me anything about your quirk?”

Izuku shook his head, the tears now spilling over and onto the metal table. “I don’t have a quirk,” he whispered. “Or, at least, I shouldn’t yet… the doctor said it was dormant.”

Nezu’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Dormant, you say? Interesting indeed.” He sat back, tapping his chin with one paw. “It seems we have much to discuss, young Midoriya. But for now, try to rest. You’re safe here.”

He didn’t feel safe. He felt like a monster, like everything his mother had ever said about him was true. But for now, all he could do was wait and hope that somehow, things would make sense again.

Nezu’s gaze remained steady as he continued, "You’ll be staying with us for a few more days, Izuku. We need to understand exactly what happened, and what it means for your future."

As Izuku nodded numbly, Nezu’s voice softened slightly. "In the meantime, you should go clean up. You are quite filthy, young Midoriya. But, for safety reasons, you’ll need to be accompanied by a guard. Hope you can understand our precaution.”

Another nod from Izuku. He didn’t have the energy to argue or question anything. He just wanted everything to stop spinning, to make sense again.

The door to the room slid open, and a guard—a pro hero out of costume—stepped in, almost hesitantly. The guard’s demeanor was loaded with caution as he approached Izuku, detaching the cuffs from the table. "Come with me," the guard said, his voice gentle but firm.

Izuku followed silently, his movements mechanical. The guard led him down a series of sterile hallways until they reached a bathroom. "You can shower here," the guard said, unlocking the cuffs from Izuku’s wrists. "Don’t take too long."

Izuku watched him back off all too eagerly, like he was some sort of feral animal ready to attack at any given moment. He didn’t like that. With a nod, he stepped into the bathroom, and the door clicked shut behind him. He was alone, the sound of his breathing echoing in the small space. He turned to the mirror and froze, barely recognizing the person staring back at him.

His hair, once a vibrant green, now had black roots creeping in. His eyes, usually bright and full of life, looked dull and dark, almost a lifeless shade of gray. His skin, once healthy and youthful with the slightest hint of a tan, was now pale and sickly, with a strange grayish hue. He could barely recognize himself.

Izuku reached up, touching his face with trembling fingers. He was taller, too. His cheeks weren’t as gaunt as he remembered. It was like he had aged years in the span of a few hours. The realization left him feeling hollow and disoriented. How had things come to this? How had he changed so much?

Turning away from the mirror, he moved to the shower. The controls were unfamiliar, and he fumbled with them, struggling to get the water to the right temperature. He was only four years old, but he had learned to take care of himself because his mother often wouldn’t.

The water was too hot at first, scalding his skin, and he yelped, quickly turning the knob to a cooler setting. When the temperature was finally bearable, he stepped under the stream, letting the water cascade over him. He scrubbed his skin furiously, trying to wash away the grime, the blood, the fear. But no matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn’t wash away the feeling of tear-filled eyes staring at him like…like he was some kind of monster.

As he struggled with the soap, dropping it several times because his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, his mind raced. What had happened back there? Why couldn’t he remember anything after his mother hit him? And why did he feel so different now?

His body was still aching, his head pounding with a dull throb. He could still hear his mother’s words, her accusations echoing in his mind. She had always blamed him for everything, and now it seemed like she was right. He had caused all that destruction, all that pain. He had always been the cause of it, others were just now privy to that information.

Tears mingled with the water running down his face. He didn’t want to be a monster. He just wanted to be a normal kid, to make his mom proud. But now, he didn’t even know who he was anymore.

The guard’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "Hey, kid. Hurry up. We don’t have all day."

Izuku quickly finished rinsing off, shutting off the water and wrapping himself in a towel. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself before stepping out of the bathroom. The guard was waiting, his expression softening slightly when he saw the state Izuku was in.

"Come on," the guard said, reattaching the cuffs to Izuku’s wrists. "Let’s get you back to the room."

Izuku followed, feeling more lost and alone than ever. He didn’t know what the future held, but for now, all he could do was keep moving forward, one step at a time.

…

A few days had passed since the incident, and Izuku found himself in a routine, albeit an uncomfortable and unfamiliar one. The days were a blur of confusion, fear, and unanswered questions. He had been given food and a place to sleep, but no one had told him what would happen next. The uncertainty gnawed at him almost as much as his growing hunger was.

One afternoon, a guard came to his room and informed him that he had a guest. Izuku’s face dropped when he saw his mother, Inko, standing there, his feelings twisted into a tight knot. She was smiling, her eyes filled with tears. His mother had never cried for him before. Who was this woman?

"Izuku!" she cried, rushing to him and enveloping him in a tight embrace. Her nails dug into his skin, but it was so subtle that the guard didn't notice. "I’ve been so worried about you!"

Izuku stood still, his body rigid as she held him. He didn’t know what to say, how to react. The warmth of her hug felt wrong, suffocating. He could feel the underlying malice in her touch, even though it was disguised as affection.

Inko turned to the guard, her voice soft and pleading. "Could we have a moment alone? Just a few minutes?"

The guard hesitated, looking between Inko and Izuku. Finally, he nodded. "Alright, but only for a few minutes."

As soon as the guard left the room, Inko’s demeanor changed. She leaned in, wrapping her arms around Izuku in what appeared to be another loving hug. But the grip was too tight, and Izuku felt like his ribs were going to break. Oh, this was his mother after all.

"You little monster," she whispered, her voice filled with venom. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done? When we get home, you’re going to wish you’d never been born."

Izuku’s breath picked up its pace. He wanted to scream, to push her away, but he was frozen in place, his body trembling. The familiar fear washed over him, drowning out every single other emotion he was capable of feeling at that time.

Inko finally released him, her expression once again the picture of motherly concern as the guard returned. "Thank you," she said in a honeyed tone to the guard, a similar smile following it. "I just needed to make sure he was okay."

The guard nodded, leading Izuku out of the room and back to the same room where he had first met Nezu. The white rodent-like creature was waiting for him again, his sharp eyes studying Izuku closely.

"Hello again, Izuku," Nezu said, his voice calm and soothing. "I hope you’re feeling a bit better."

Izuku didn’t respond, but that didn’t seem to bother Nezu much. He sat down, his hands trembling slightly.

Nezu continued, "You’ll be able to leave in the next two days, but before you go, we need to run a few tests and perform a physical examination. It’s just to make sure you’re healthy and to understand what happened during the incident."

Izuku nodded along to the statement for what felt like the hundredth time. He didn’t have the strength to protest or ask questions. He just wanted everything to be over, to stop feeling like he was trapped in a nightmare.

…

Izuku was taken to the examination room the following day. It was cold and sterile, like the other doctor’s office, filled with an array of medical instruments that seemed intimidating to Izuku. He sat on the examination table, feeling small and vulnerable when compared to some of the machines nearby. The doctor, a kind-looking woman with a gentle smile, began the process with a series of measurements and tests.

“Let’s start with your height,” she said, her voice soothing. “Stand up straight for me please.”

Izuku complied, standing against the height chart on the wall. The doctor made a note in her chart, clicking her pen a few times. “You've grown quite a bit, Izuku. According to your records, you were 98 centimeters tall at your last checkup. Now you’re 111 centimeters. That’s a significant increase in a short time.”

Izuku looked at her, unsure of how to respond. He had noticed the change himself, of course, but was it really that big of a deal? It must be, if the concerned look on her face was anything to go by.

“However,” the doctor continued, “your weight hasn't increased accordingly. This is most concerning. You need to increase your caloric intake, okay? Make sure you’re eating enough. I’ll make sure to let Nezu know about this.”

Izuku nodded along, as he had done so many times before, though the thought of food didn’t appeal to him much as of late. His appetite had been strange, even his favorite meal tasted sour on his tongue.

The doctor moved on to other routine checks: heart rate, blood pressure, reflexes. When she placed the stethoscope against his chest, her brows furrowed in confusion. She moved it to different spots, trying to find something.

“That’s odd,” she murmured. “Izuku, I can’t seem to find a heartbeat.”

Izuku's stomach churned. He had noticed it the day of the…incident, but hearing it confirmed out loud made it all the more real.

The doctor quickly wrote down her findings and moved on to a series of other tests. She took blood samples, checked his vision and hearing, and assessed his reflexes. Each test seemed to add to her growing list of concerns.

As she examined his eyes, she leaned in closer, her expression puzzled. “Your pupils… they’re vertical and slitted, like a reptile’s would be.”

Izuku tried to see his reflection in her glasses but couldn’t. That must’ve been something he missed in the bathroom. The revelation sent a shiver down his spine.

Finally, it was time for the quirk examination. The doctor brought out a device that looked like a combination of a scanner and a medical wand. “We’re going to check for any quirk activity now,” she explained. “This might feel a bit strange, but it won’t hurt. I can promise you that.”

Izuku nodded, bracing himself. The doctor ran the device over his body, starting from his head and moving down to his feet. The machine emitted a series of beeps and hums as it scanned him.

After a few moments, the doctor looked at the results displayed on her monitor. “It appears your quirk factor is active, classified as a mutant type. That explains these changes in your appearance.”

Izuku stared at her, the word “mutant” ringing in his ears. He had always hoped for a quirk, something to make him special, but this felt different. It felt like a curse.

The doctor’s eyes widened as she continued to review the scan. “It looks like you’re growing new canine teeth, but they’re sharper and longer than normal. Another mutation, it seems.”

Izuku’s fingers instinctively went to his mouth, feeling the pointed tips of his emerging teeth.

“You’ll need to name your quirk,” the doctor said gently. “Do you have any ideas?”

Izuku thought for a moment, recalling the strange changes in his body, the insatiable hunger, the lack of a heartbeat. “Hollow Body,” he said quietly. “I’ll call it Hollow Body.”

The doctor nodded, making a note in her chart. “Hollow Body it is.” She gave the clipboard another once over and slid it into a slot near the room’s exit. “We’ll need to monitor your condition closely, but for now, we have all the information we need. You did great, Izuku.”

Izuku managed a small nod, though he felt anything but great. The weight of everything that had happened was pressing down on him, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that things were only going to get harder from here.

Chapter Text

A month had passed since Nezu had released him, and, as Izuku found himself once again trapped in the pitch-black basement of his house, Inko had lived up to her promise of making Izuku wish he’d never been born. The basement air was stale and musty with the scent of damp concrete, and the only source of warmth for Izuku came from a pile of ragged blankets on the floor. Huddled beneath them, Izuku clutched a tablet whose screen was so cracked you could barely make out images, the brightness dimmed to the lowest setting as he watched a video on Endeavor’s latest arrest. Izuku could help but be amazed at the fiery hero’s power and ability to take on so many villains at once. He wished he could do something like that, or just have the courage to take on one particular person.

The sound of Endeavor’s voice cracked softly through the waterlogged speakers, but Izuku had been so intently focused on the screen that he hadn’t heard the front door opening. Nor did he hear the crack as the basement door was flung open. It wasn’t until the harsh light from the kitchen spilled down the stairs that Izuku realized he was no longer alone. The light seared into his overly sensitive eyes, causing him to fumble with the tablet, quickly shoving it under his blankets.

Inko stood at the bottom of the stairs, her face obscured by the shadows her hair casted against her face. Even still, Izuku could feel her gaze boring into him, and when he tried to force a greeting past his lips, his voice trembled too much to form the words.

“Shut up,” she hissed, cutting his babbling off before he could find his voice. “You know how much I hate to hear you speak.”

Izuku swallowed hard, his throat tightening up on itself in fear. He yelped when she suddenly grabbed him by the hair, yanking him to his feet. The blankets fell away, revealing his thin frame as he dragged him up the stairs. Today, she hadn’t let him walk up on his own, and he wound up his scrapes and a few splinters in his knees and feet.

In the kitchen, Inko released him, and he crumpled to the floor immediately. She started ranting, her voice raising with every word. “Everyone at work looks at me like I’m some kind of freak because of you! They don’t see me, they just see the person who birthed you, a monster! How unfair is that to me?!” Her eyes were wild by this point, face scrunched up in frustration.

Izuku trembled from his position as he listened, knowing better than to interrupt her when she got like this. He kept his head down, hoping she’d tire herself out. But when her rant abruptly stopped, he glanced up to see her looking down at him with nothing but pure hatred in her eyes.

“This is your fault. All of it,” she spat, pointing at him. She then grabbed his wrist in a crushing grip and hauled him over to the stove. Izuku felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck as the smell of gasoline hit his nose, then the click of a lighter. The flame roared to life, its heat quickly filling the room.

Inko’s gaze flicked to the flame, and then back to Izuku, a twisted grin curling onto her lips. “Maybe this will help you understand what I’m saying,” she said as she forced his hand down onto the burner.

The pain, though not immediately, was excruciating. Izuku’s scream tore from his throat as the searing heat burned through the epidermis of his skin. The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils, making his stomach churn. He gagged at the smell, but, once again, nothing had come out of it. The pain had become unbearable, his vision blurring as sweat from his brows stung his eyes and mixed with his tears. His body was starting to convulse, and he tried to pull away, but Inko held him firmly in place.

When she finally released him, Izuku immediately collapsed to the floor, clutching his hand close to his chest. His skin was discolored, the flesh underneath raw and exposed. He whimpered, unable to contain himself, as the pain radiated up his arm, his whole body shaking in shock.

“Do you understand a little bit better now?” Inko asked, crouching so she was near his level. When he didn’t answer, his mind too clouded in pain, she growled in frustration. Grabbing the charred hand, despite Izuku’s protests, she slammed it down onto a cutting board. Before he could even process the whole situation, she drove a knife through his hand.

Nothing—no pain, no reaction, nothing—had registered with Izuku at first; his adrenaline was already pumping from the agony he had been in only moments ago. But when she twisted the knife and yanked it out, the shock jolted him back. He gasped, his knees nearly buckling underneath him as blood pooled on the cutting board.

Inko repeated the action, stabbing his hand again and again, until the pain had put him in another daze. Izuku’s scream was hoarse, his voice cracking as tears and snot streamed down his face.

Suddenly, a cold splash of water hit him, snapping him into a more conscious state. He gasped, shivering as his adrenaline was starting to wear off. Inko stood over him, holding his mangled hand in hers like a prized possession as she forced him to look at it.

Something unexpected happened then. The wounds began to heal, the flesh knitting back together right before his eyes. Izuku watched in disbelief as the pain slowly ebbed away, replaced by a dull ache. His hand, though covered in blood, was whole again.

His fascination, however, was broken by manic laughter. Izuku turned to see his mother’s eyes gleaming with delight as she watched the healing process. “You’re lucky,” she whispered, her voice filled with a sickening delight. “You’re so lucky to have that quirk.”

Izuku didn’t feel lucky at all. But maybe that was the point. But from what he could gather, his quirk was not as straightforward as he thought. He wanted to know more about it, despite everything. It was his quirk after all.

Inko forced him back to reality. The smile on her face had yet to drop and her grip on the knife grew tighter. Without a moment’s hesitation, she plunged the knife into the soft flesh of Izuku’s stomach. His eyes went wide, a choked gasp, blood coming with it, as the blade tore through his skin. “If your quirk is strong enough, you’ll survive. If not?” she said coldly, her voice devoid of any kind of warmth. “Oh well.”

With a shove, she threw Izuku towards the basement stairs. He tumbled down, the knife sinking deeper into his abdomen with every bump and jolt. He landed at the bottom with a sickening snap and crack, something had broken, obviously, his small body collapsing against the floor. The pain had already been overwhelming, but this was more. His breaths were coming in shallow, ragged gasps as blood lined his throat. He coughed, spitting up thick, crimson fluid then stained the floor.

Tears blurred his vision as he looked up the stairs, his vision momentarily focusing as he locked onto Inko’s cruel eyes. They were the last thing he saw before she slammed the door shut, plunging the room back into darkness but his eyes adjusted much easier. The sound of the lock clicking into place echoed in the empty room, leaving Izuku alone again with nothing but his fear and pain.

His breathing quickened this time, each inhale becoming more difficult as panic set in. There was still a knife embedded in his stomach, the handle slick with blood as he gripped it with trembling hands. He wanted to get it out of him but it was lodged inside him deep and didn’t seem like it had planned on moving.

With a shaky exhale, Izuku summoned what little strength he had left in him and was able to dislodge the knife from himself. This time, the pain was immediately, a white-hot flare that nearly made him black out. The blade clattered against the ground beside him, the sounding ringing in his ears and causing him to wince.

Izuku bit down on his lip to stifle a scream, the taste of iron coating his tongue. Out of instinct, he pressed his hands against the gaping wound in his stomach, desperately trying to stop the blood from flowing. He was young, but even he knew that blood belonged on the inside. He felt as if he could feel his life slipping away with every beat of his heart—or what would have been his heartbeat, if he still had one.

But then, just as it had before, the searing pain was starting to fade and it was replaced by a weird tingling sensation. His wound, which blood had been flowing as easily as it did from a waterfall, started to close. The torn flesh slowly stitched itself back together, leaving only the faintest of scars as evidence.

But as his body healed, another sensation crept up on him—a grating hunger, one that chewed at his insides with a fierceness that was nothing less than terrifying. It was the same hunger he’d felt before, the one that wouldn’t go away that fateful day, no matter what Izuku had done to try and appease it. And now, in this moment, it was more powerful than anything.

The fear that accomplished this hunger was different from the terror Inko inspired. It was deeper, more primal—a fear of something he didn’t understand, something that was part of him. It scared him more than anything else in the world, even the woman who had, in every sense, tortured him for personal pleasure.

Wobbling on unsteady legs, Izuku slowly got to his feet. The world swayed around him, and he had to brace himself against the wall to keep from collapsing. His clothes were soaked with blood, he could feel the damp cloth as he rolled it between his fingers. He didn’t want to stain his blankets—one of the few comforts he had left—so he carefully stripped off his clothing, leaving them in a pile on the cold, hard floor.

He crawled under the blankets, pulling them tightly around his small frame. The sheer darkness of the room was suffocating, the silence only broken by his labored breathing. Izuku curled into a ball, trying to find some semblance of warmth and comfort, but it eluded him today.

Sleep was impossible. Every time he closed his eyes he was met with a play-by-play of everything that happened tonight. The panic, the fear, the look in Inko’s eyes—it all came rushing back, making it impossible to find the peace and quiet he was looking for.

He wasn’t alone, but Izuku thinks that he would prefer to be if his only company was the growing hunger that was beginning to consume him. As much as he would like to believe, this nightmare wasn’t one that would end when he woke up; this was his life, and there was no escape.

Izuku lay there, trembling beneath the blankets, too scared to move, too scared to sleep, too scared to hope for anything better. The night dragged on agonizingly slow, each second feeling as if it took an eternity, as he waited for the darkness to consume him once more.

…

The next morning came far too quickly for Izuku, who hadn’t slept much, if at all. The night had been long and torturous, his body being covered in a dull ache despite his wounds being healed. But as the dim light of dawn crept into the basement, reality set in: he had to get up and face another day.

Inko was already gone by the time Izuku made his way upstairs, leaving the house eerily quiet. Her absence didn’t bring him any comfort, though. It only meant that he had to move quickly and carefully, avoiding the possibility of her making a quick return.

He stepped outside onto the deck, the cool morning air brushing against his bare skin. The clothesline sagged slightly under the weight of his uniform: a pair of shorts and a light blue sweater with a star on the left side. He didn’t need the step stool to reach it this time, a not so subtle reminder that his body had changed against his own will.

As Izuku pulled on the sweater, he noticed that it didn’t fit as loosely as it had before. The fabric stretched tighter across his chest and arms, a sign that he was outgrowing it. But there was no money for new clothes, and he knew better than to ask for anything. So, he stuck with it, adjusting the sleeves as best as he could.

On his way out, Izuku hesitated by the pantry. The hunger from the night before still gnawed at him, an empty, aching void that nothing seemed to fill. He considered taking something, just a small snack that Inko might not have noticed he was missing. But the memory of her cold, cruel eyes and the burning pain in his stomach made him think twice. It wasn’t worth the risk of going through something like last night again. With a heavy heart, he turned away and slipped into his ratty sneakers. They fit even worse than they had before, the soles worn thin and the fabric frayed at the edges. But, like the sweater, he had no choice but to wear them. Complaining wouldn’t change anything.

Izuku stepped out into the city, the world around him bustling with activity. People walked to and fro, the early morning rush in full swing. But as he made his way to school, he didn’t notice the way people avoided him no matter which way they were walking, crossing to the opposite side of the sidewalk whenever they saw him coming. He was too distracted, too focused on the gnawing hunger that wouldn’t leave him alone.

At one point, he caught sight of a dead animal in the road, its body a deformed, bloody mess from being run over. The sight made his stomach turn in on itself, but not with disgust—with hunger. He started salivating, the thought of sinking his teeth into the carcass flashing through his mind before he could stop it. Self-loathing welled up within him, the hunger twisting into something dark and monstrous. He dug his nails into his palm as he clenched his fist and forced himself to keep walking, his eyes trained on the ground.

The rest of the walk to school passed in a haze, the world around him nothing more than a blur of colors and sounds. He couldn’t focus on anything but the gnawing emptiness inside him, the hunger that clawed at his insides like a wild animal. By the time he reached his homeroom and sat down in his seat, he was exhausted, both physically and mentally.

But the quiet of the day wouldn’t last long, it hadn’t since he’d met him: Katsuki Bakugo. Even when Izuku considered them friends, Katsuki wouldn’t let him have a peaceful morning even if his life depended on it.

As soon as Katsuki noticed him, the blond stormed over, his face twisted in anger. “What the hell are you doing back here?” he spat, his voice dripping with venom. “I told you, villains aren’t allowed to come to school!”

Izuku didn’t respond. He couldn’t. If even his own mother hated his voice, then surely everyone else must hate it too. He kept his head down, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, as if making himself smaller would make him invisible.

“Answer me, you damn freak!” Katsuki growled, his hand sparking with the telltale signs of his quirk. The bright light, the crackling sound, the sudden burst of heat—it all sent a wave of fear crashing through Izuku. He flinched, something pounding against his chest, but he didn’t say a word.

Katsuki noticed the reaction and smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “Scared, huh? Good. You should be scared of heroes, villain.” He took a step closer, raising his hand as if to strike.

Before he could do anything, the teacher stepped in. “Bakugo, enough!” the teacher called out, his voice stern. “The classroom is not a place for quirk use. Sit down.”

Katsuki glared at Izuku for a moment longer before reluctantly backing off. He shot Izuku one last contemptuous look before returning to his seat, muttering under his breath. Izuku didn’t dare look up, but he did swallow the lump in his throat.

The teacher resumed the lesson, but Izuku couldn’t focus. His mind was still reeling from the encounter with Katsuki, the fear, and the hunger mixing together in a nauseating cocktail. He wanted to disappear, to fade into the background where no one would notice him, but he knew that was impossible. Izuku knew he wasn’t allowed to have that kind of luxury anymore, not unless he decided to move to the opposite side of the country.

Izuku floated through the rest of the day in a similar daze as he had on the way to school this morning, barely aware of anything going on around him. All he could focus on was the hunger gnawing at him, eating at him from the inside out until he felt like he would implode. He had raised his hand a few times to ask a question or request a bathroom pass, but they didn’t see him or pretended not to. Izuku suspected the latter. Even so, he had gotten used to figuring things out on his own, piecing together the lesson from half-heard snippets and glances at his classmates’ work.

When the bell finally rang for recess, Izuku felt a wave of dread wash over him. He used to love recess, lived for the time to be worry free from classwork and his desk, but now he hesitated at the door and was pushed out by a stampede of preschoolers.

The sunlight was harsh on his eyes, and he squinted against the brightness. He stuck to the edges of the playground, seeking out the longest shadows where the sun couldn’t reach. Izuku found a spot corner of the school, where the building’s shadow cast a small patch of shade. He sat down, pulling his knee into his chest as he tried to ignore the distant sounds of children’s laughter puncturing his eardrums.

He hadn’t been sitting there long when he had noticed something scurrying along the edge of the brick building. A rat, small and quick, brown-gray in color, darted past him, its movements erratic. Izuku noticed a flash of red on its belly—a small cut, likely from a piece of broken glass or a sharp rock. The sight of blood, of easy prey, set off something within him that he’d been trying to ignore all day: the hunger, suddenly roaring to life.

His hands trembled as he fought the urge to lunge at the injured creature. But it was no use. The hunger had grown too strong, unavoidable. Before he knew what he was doing, Izuku pounced on the rat, his body moving with a speed that surprised even himself. He caught it all too easily, his fingers clamping around its tiny body. The rat squeaked in panic, heart thumping against Izuku’s hand, but he didn’t care anymore. He brought it to his mouth, crushed its head between his teeth.

Warm blood filled his mouth, the taste somehow being both revolting and intoxicating at the same time. Izuku tore at the rat’s flesh, chewing and swallowing without much thought, driven by something he could no longer control. He barely even noticed when the blood dribbled down his chin or when he bit into the bones with a sickening crunch. The only thing that mattered to him was the overwhelming need to eat, to consume.

It wasn’t until he heard voices nearby that Izuku was snapped out of his trance. He looked up, blood smeared across his face, to see Katsuki and a few others rounding the corner. The blond was in the middle of saying something, his tone carrying an air of arrogance.

“I thought I saw that damn villain run this way—“ Katsuki’s voice cut off abruptly as he took in the sight before him.

Izuku froze, taking the rat’s tail in his mouth and slurping it up like a noodle. He saw the horror in Katsuki’s eyes, the way his eyes shifted from disbelief to revulsion. The other kids were much quicker to react. One of them turned and vomited on the spot, the others screaming as they ran back the way they came, tripping over one another in their rush to get away.

Katsuki didn’t move. At first. He just stood there, staring at Izuku as if he was having a hard time believing what he was seeing. Izuku swallowed thickly, making a quick attempt to rub away the streak of blood on his cheek, the shame crashing down on him all at once. For a while, neither made a move. Then, Katsuki slowly started backing away, his face pale.

“You… you monster…” Katsuki whispered, as if he didn’t fully trust his voice.

Izuku couldn’t find the words to respond. His mouth was still full with the rat’s remains, his mind still running wild. He watched as Katsuki turned and ran, disappearing around the corner, just as all the others had. The sound of his footsteps faded from Izuku’s ears, leaving him alone in the building’s shadow.

Shaking, Izuku dropped what was left of the rat, his stomach twisting in disgust and regret. He furiously scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing more blood across his face. The taste lingered on his tongue, making him gag. He curled into himself, trying to push down the nausea building inside him.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that: hiding, trying to erase the memory of what he’d just done. The taste of blood, the feel of the rat’s bones between his teeth—it was haunting him, replaying over and over again in his mind, even as he forced himself to stand and stumble back towards the school.

The other kids avoided him for the rest of the day, more so than usual. He didn’t see Katsuki again, and part of him was glad for that simple fact. He didn’t think he could face him after what had happened.

With the final bell ringing, it signaled the end of the day, and Izuku wasted no time in packing his bag and leaving. He kept his head down, not daring to meet anyone’s eyes as he walked back to his house. If he were any the wiser, he would’ve thought the shadow of a rat had been following him the entire way.

By the time he got there, Izuku felt like he was going to collapse. The hunger had subsided, for now, but it was replaced by a deep, aching emptiness that he couldn’t quite shake. He went straight to the basement, avoiding the kitchen and the thought of food altogether. He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to be reminded of what he’d done.

All he wanted to do was disappear into his darkness, to forget that this entire day had ever happened.

Chapter Text

The days blurred together for Izuku, each one bleeding into the next with the same monotony that had settled over his life. His mother hadn't returned home since the night he... since then. He kept telling himself that. He refused to think of it, refused to remember the smell, the taste, the feel of fur against his teeth. It didn't happen. It was just another bad dream. One of many.

At school, no one spoke to him. The other kids avoided him like the plague, giving him a wide berth in the hallways and never meeting his eyes. The teachers seemed to forget he was there. They didn't call on him, didn't acknowledge his raised hand, didn't even seem to notice when he was there or not. It was like he was a ghost, drifting through the halls, invisible and forgotten.

Katsuki was the worst, or maybe the best. He hadn't said a word to Izuku since the incident. No taunts, no insults, nothing. He just sat there, quiet and still, like he was afraid of something. Izuku couldn’t help but feel a knot of dread twist in his stomach every time he glanced at Katsuki's back, wondering if it would all come crashing down on him at any moment. But Katsuki just remained silent, and that was even more unnerving than his usual torment.

But it was the rats that haunted him most.

It started with one rat, a small, gray creature with a twisted tail and a cut along its side. Izuku saw it on his way home from school, scurrying across the sidewalk and disappearing into a gutter. He thought nothing of it at first. But then he saw it again the next day, and the day after that. Always the same rat, always the same wound, always watching him from the shadows.

At first, he thought he was just seeing things. He’d blink, rub his eyes, and it would be gone. But then it started appearing more often, in places it shouldn’t be. On his way to school, in the corner of the classroom, under his desk during lunch. No one else seemed to notice it, but it was always there, watching him with those beady, black eyes.

Izuku tried to ignore it, tried to pretend it wasn’t there, but it became harder and harder as the days passed. The rat followed him everywhere, like a shadow he couldn’t shake. It was in his dreams, too, scurrying across his chest as he slept, whispering in his ear with a voice that wasn’t human. He’d wake up drenched in sweat, breathing erratic, only to find the rat sitting at the foot of his bed, staring at him with those cold, unblinking eyes.

He stopped sleeping after that, afraid of what he might see if he closed his eyes. The hunger gnawed at him, too, growing stronger with each passing day. It was a hunger that went beyond food, a hunger that continued to frighten him more than anything else. He tried to fight it, tried to push it down, but it was always there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for a moment of weakness.

The rat was there, too, always watching, always waiting. It became his constant companion, the one thing that never left him, never ignored him, never forgot him. And slowly, without even realizing it, Izuku started to talk to it.

It was just little things at first. A whisper here, a mutter there. But then the words started to spill out, and he couldn’t stop them. He’d tell the rat about his day, about how no one talked to him, about how hungry he was, about how scared he was. And the rat would listen, silently, patiently, like it understood.

And maybe it did.

Izuku didn’t know anymore. All he knew was that the rat was always there, always watching, always waiting. And as the days turned into weeks, and the hunger grew stronger, Izuku started to feel a strange sort of comfort in its presence. It was the only thing that felt real anymore, the only thing that hadn’t abandoned him.

The only thing that hadn’t forgotten him.

So he kept talking, and the rat kept listening, and the hunger kept growing. And Izuku kept telling himself it didn’t happen, that it was all just a bad dream. But deep down, he knew better.

Because the rat was still there, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

Or, it shouldn’t have been.

The next morning came, and Izuku slipped into his routine like clockwork. He got dressed, noticing the slight strain in his once-loose sweater, shoved his feet into his too-tight sneakers, and set out for school. Everything seemed the same as it always was—except for one thing. The rat was gone.

He didn't see it scurrying across the street, didn't catch its beady eyes watching him from the shadows. For a moment, Izuku felt a flicker of relief. But as the day wore on, a strange unease settled over him. The absence of the rat left him feeling...off. It was as if something vital had been taken from him, like he was walking on uneven ground, constantly leaning to one side.

At school, the routine of silence and isolation continued. He floated through his classes, ignored by everyone, even the teachers. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. It nagged at him, gnawed at the back of his mind like a persistent itch he couldn’t scratch. It was almost a relief when the final bell rang, and he could leave the building.

As he trudged home, head down, hands shoved in his pockets, he nearly missed it—the flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He stopped dead in his tracks, breath hitching as he did, and slowly turned his head.

There it was. The rat.

But something was different this time. The way it looked at him, the way it held its ground instead of scurrying away—it was almost like it was waiting for him. Like it wanted something from him. Izuku swallowed hard, a shiver running down his spine, and without really thinking, he began to follow it.

The rat led him through the maze of alleyways, down narrow paths where the light barely penetrated. Izuku trailed after it, his footsteps echoing against the walls, the glances of passersby barely registering in his mind. He was focused, entirely consumed by the need to see where this rat was taking him.

The sun dipped below the horizon, the sky bleeding into a deep blue, then into the black of night. Still, he followed. The rat was tireless, and Izuku was driven by something he couldn’t quite name. He didn’t recognize this part of town, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the rat and where it was leading him.

Finally, they arrived at a small, abandoned landfill near a sluggish, dirty river. The rat stopped, and so did Izuku. The night was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city and the occasional ripple of water. Izuku's breath puffed out in small clouds in the chilly air, and for a moment, he just stood there, staring down at the rat as it stared back at him.

Then, the rat spoke.

It wasn’t a squeak or a chitter, but a voice—an actual voice, low and calm and unnervingly familiar. “I forgive you, Izuku,” it said, the words sinking into him like stones. “You should forgive yourself, too. It’s okay to be a monster. It’s okay to embrace it. The food chain is a natural part of life, after all.”

Izuku’s blood pounded against his eardrums, his mind racing. This had to be a dream—another nightmare. Rats didn’t talk. They didn’t forgive. They didn’t tell you to embrace being a monster. But the rat’s voice was so soothing, so convincing, and somewhere deep inside, a part of him wanted to believe it.

“It’s okay,” the rat continued, its voice gentle. “It’s okay to be who you are. You’re just doing what you need to survive. You don’t need to feel guilty.”

Izuku’s knees wobbled, and he sank down to the ground, the cold, damp earth soaking into his clothes. He wanted to run, to get away from this talking rat, but his body wouldn’t move. The rat’s words were sinking into him, and a part of him, the part that had been growing hungrier and hungrier, wanted to agree.

The rat seemed to sense his hesitation, its tone softening even more. “But you need to prove it, Izuku. Prove that you’re ready to accept who you are. Eat me, and don’t feel guilty. Show me you’ve taken my words to heart.”

Izuku’s stomach twisted. He didn’t want to—he couldn’t. But the rat’s voice was so compelling, so soothing. It promised relief, promised acceptance, promised...forgiveness. And Izuku wanted that so badly. He wanted to stop feeling guilty, to stop feeling like he was wrong for existing.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the rat was still there, waiting, unafraid. Izuku reached out with trembling hands, picking it up. The rat didn’t struggle, didn’t fight. It just looked up at him, eyes full of understanding, full of forgiveness.

Izuku hesitated, but the hunger was too strong. The need for acceptance was too strong. He leaned down, teeth sinking into the rat’s midsection. The taste of blood, of flesh, filled his mouth, and a low hum of satisfaction vibrated through his chest. He ate, tearing into the rat’s body, consuming it piece by piece, until there was nothing left but blood on his hands and fingers.

He licked the blood off, savoring the last taste, feeling a strange, twisted sense of calm settle over him. A small, contented hum escaped his throat as he closed his eyes, letting the feeling wash over him.

When he opened his eyes again, the rat was gone.

In its place, lying on the ground before him, was the mangled, bloody carcass of a human being.

Izuku froze, his breath catching in his throat. The sight before him didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be real. But the blood on his hands, the taste in his mouth—it was all too real. He stared down at the body, at the lifeless eyes staring back at him, and for a moment, his mind went blank.

Then the bile rose in his throat, and he turned to the side, vomiting violently onto the ground. The taste of blood was replaced by the bitter, acidic taste of bile, and tears streamed down his face as he retched again and again.

When he finally stopped, his body trembling with the aftershocks, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood and vomit all across his cheek. The body was still there, still staring up at him with those dead eyes.

Izuku scrambled back, falling onto his hands and knees, crawling away from the corpse as fast as he could. He couldn’t look at it, couldn’t bear to see what he’d done.

But there was no going back now.

He was a monster. A real monster. The worst part was that deep down, he had already known it.

He turned and ran, his footsteps echoing in the empty streets, the image of a dead man burned into his mind.

…

Four years laters…

Izuku sat on the edge of a high-rise building, legs swinging back and forth as he gazed out at the city below. The wind tugged at his clothes, which were well-worn and fraying at the edges, but he barely noticed. In his hands, he held a pigeon who was attempting to fly from his grasp. With a quick twist, the bird’s head was removed from its body and was now falling towards an abandoned alleyway below. He watched for a moment as it disappeared out of sight, a small frown pulling at his lips.

“I don’t like the eyes,” he muttered to himself, wiping his hands on his pants as if to rid it of the memory of the pigeon’s gaze. “Feels like they’re staring back at me.”

With a shrug he turned his attention to the pigeon’s body. His teeth sunk into the flesh without hesitation, and as he began to eat, the taste barely registering beyond a bland familiarity as he focused on the rhythmic swinging of his legs. The city hummed with life around him, but Izuku was in his own world, isolated from the people below who went about their day, oblivious to the boy perched high above them.

He finished his meal quickly, wiping the blood from his fingers on the corner of his shirt with a distant look in his face. The pigeon’s body was discarded with the same lack of ceremony as its head, dropped off the side of the building without a second thought. Izuku watched it fall all the way this time, and then turned his gaze back to the skyline.

“Another one down,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of the howling wind. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll find something better, more filling.”

The wind shifted once more, and Izuku pulled his coat tighter around himself, feeling the cold bite through the thin fabric. He should be used to the cold by now, used to the loneliness that came with it. But the longer he sat there, the more difficult it was to shake the feeling that something was not quite right; that he was forgetting something important.

He stayed there for a while, lost in his thoughts until the sound of near-silent footsteps reached his ears. His breathing quickened, and he felt his muscles tense, ready to flee if someone was coming to chase him away. But then, a familiar voice cut through the silence.

“Hey, kid. You’re up here again?”

Izuku turned slowly, his eyes widening as he met the gaze of Eraserhead, the man who’d become a surprising presence in his life the past year. The pro hero’s scarf fluttered against the wind, and his eyes, partially obscured by the same cloth, held the same calm and understanding that Izuku had come to rely on.

Eraserhead glanced at where the pigeon had just been moments ago, now nothing more than a stain on the building’s edge, but made no attempt to comment on it. Instead, he took a seat beside Izuku, his movements unhurried as he settled in.

“Cold today,” he remarked, his voice barely above a murmur. This was his attempt at small talk. “You should’ve brought a warmer coat.”

Izuku shrugged, though he did pull his own coat tighter around himself. “It’s fine. ‘m not even cold.”

Eraserhead nodded, looking down at the city below. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds being the wind and the distant hum of traffic. It was a routine that fell into much quicker than Izuku had been expecting—meeting on rooftops, the quiet moments between that needed no words to be enjoyable.

Eventually, Eraserhead broke their silence. “You still thinking about becoming a hero?”

Izuku’s eyes flicked to the man’s face, searching for any hint of mockery, but to his surprise, there was none. He hesitated before answering, his voice soft. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Good. Don’t let them take that from you.”

Looking down at his hands, Izuku saw that they were still stained with remnants of his meal. He still didn’t fully understand why Eraserhead, a fully fledged pro hero with a job, kept coming back, why he kept talking to him like this. But he didn’t want to question it—not anymore.

“Why do you care?” Izuku asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it. He bit his lip, and he regretted that action immediately as his canine teeth dug straight into the soft flesh. He also regretted asking the question, but Eraserhead didn’t seem all that bothered by it.

“Because someone has to,” the hero replied simply. “And maybe because I see a little of myself in you, problem child.”

Izuku blinked, surprised by the admission. He had never thought of himself as anything like the man beside him—Eraserhead was a hero, after all, and Izuku was… Izuku. But there was a warmth in the man’s words that made his chest tighten uncomfortably, a feeling resurfacing that he wasn’t sure he knew how to handle.

They didn’t talk much more after that. Eraserhead stayed with him until the sun began to set, and then left as quickly as he had come, leaving Izuku to his own devices again. But as the shadows lengthened and the city’s lights flickered on, found that his usual loneliness didn’t feel quite as heavy as it usually did.

For a moment, the quickest of moments, he allowed himself to dream, to imagine a future where he wasn’t just some boy on a rooftop, but something more. And even though the dream was fragile, not much more than a faint whisper on the wind, it was enough to make him smile.

Izuku stood at the ledge, teetering from unstable footing and the gusting winds, and smiled. He then leaned forward, and jumped.

…

…

…

…

“Still not dead,” Izuku grumbled to himself, dragging a hand down his face. “Damn it.”

Chapter Text

The late evening breeze carried the distant hum of Musutafu as Izuku walked home, dwarfed by the towering buildings in the city. His footsteps echoed faintly against the pavement, blending with the faint rustling of leaves and the distant murmur of traffic. It was almost peaceful, if not for the low, gnawing anxiety that churned in his gut—the only constant in his life.

He was only eight, but he’d been telling everyone he was fourteen. He had to. With his height and thin build, most people bought the lie without question, and the few who doubted him never pressed hard enough to uncover the truth. He couldn’t afford for them to. This job—this miserable, exhausting job—was the only thing keeping a roof over his head.

Izuku adjusted the strap of his worn-out backpack, feeling the sharp edges of his homework digging into his back through the thin fabric. He was close to his apartment now, just a couple of minutes away. The thought of the assignment waiting for him made his chest tighten—he couldn’t afford to be late turning it in. The teachers were already breathing down his neck, and another missed deadline would just give them one more reason to single him out.

As he approached the corner near his building, Izuku’s pace slowed. Something felt off. It was subtle, but his senses had always been sharp, and tonight was no different. There was a faint sound, something that didn’t belong—the low murmur of voices.

Izuku’s breath hitched, but he forced himself to keep walking. He knew they were there, just around the corner, waiting. But he didn’t have time to take the long way home. He’d get in trouble if he didn’t finish his homework. He needed to get back, needed to desperately—

The moment he turned the corner, he saw it—a glint of metal in the dim light.

Before he could react, a metal pipe swung out and connected with the side of his head with a sickening thud. Pain exploded through his skull, a blinding, white-hot flash that knocked the breath from his lungs. The world tilted, then went dark as his small body crumpled to the ground, his vision blurred by black spots.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Izuku registered the wet warmth of blood pooling beneath his head, seeping into his hair. The voices he’d heard before became clearer, though distant, like they were coming from underwater.

“Shit, it’s a kid,” one of the voices muttered, close now, practically over him.

“So what?” another voice, colder, uncaring. “Kid might have money. Just grab it and let’s go.”

Izuku tried to speak, tried to tell them to stop, but his lips wouldn’t move. His brain felt like it was rattling around inside his skull, thoughts slipping through his fingers like sand.

“Sorry, kid. It’s nothing personal,” the third voice said, sounding almost apologetic.

Rough hands rifled through his pockets, pulling out the meager cash he’d earned from the day’s work. Izuku felt his consciousness slipping, the world growing darker, the pain more distant.

“Oh shit, he’s still breathing,” one of them said, a hint of surprise in their tone.

“Heh, Boss, you’re getting weak,” the first voice teased. “Can’t even take down a kid with one swing.”

They laughed, a cruel sound that cut through the haze in Izuku’s mind. But it didn’t matter. He could feel the wound on his head knitting itself back together, the pain easing as his body did what it always did—healed.

Slowly, he pushed himself up, the world spinning around him as he struggled to find his balance. His legs wobbled like they belonged to someone else, and he had to brace a hand against the wall to keep from collapsing again. He could still feel the vibrations in his head, the remnants of that bone-jarring impact.

They were walking away, laughing as they counted his hard-earned money.

Izuku clenched his teeth, anger bubbling up inside him, burning through the fog of pain. He had worked so hard for that money—hours of grueling, backbreaking work just to afford his shitty little apartment. He needed that money to survive, to keep his clothes clean, to keep himself fed. Without it, he’d have nothing.

He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let them have it.

He forced the words out, his voice weak and slurred, “G-give it back…”

They stopped, turned around. The shock on their faces was clear, even through Izuku’s blurred vision.

“You’re kidding me,” one of them muttered, irritation seeping into his tone. “Just stay down, kid. You’ll still be able to walk away from this.”

Izuku didn’t move. His head was down, eyes squeezed shut against the bright streetlights that seared his eyes. He couldn’t look at them, couldn’t afford to be blinded any more than he already was.

“Give it… back…” he repeated, stronger this time, though he still swayed like he was standing in a strong breeze.

One of the men—older, gruffer—stepped forward, crouching down to Izuku’s level. “Knock off the tough guy act, kid,” he said, a mocking edge to his voice. He pulled a crumpled thousand-yen note from his pocket and waved it in front of Izuku’s face. “Here. This is for being so understanding. Now go on back home.”

Izuku’s hand trembled as he reached out, but it wasn’t from fear. He was beyond that now, pushed past the limits of normal person, let alone an eight-year-old, should have to endure. It was an insult, a blow to his pride that cut deeper than any wound a person could inflict on him. But Izuku knew if he didn’t take care of this right now, these men would be back without a doubt. They now knew he used this route, at what time too, and they wouldn’t hesitate to do it all over again if they got away with it. He couldn’t let that happen.

So, when he grabbed the note, he didn’t just take the money. His fingers clamped down on the man’s wrist, his grip surprisingly strong for someone as thin as he was. He yanked it forward with all the force he could muster, and the man’s shoulder dislocated with a sickening pop. The man howled in pain, cursing Izuku out as he stumbled back, clutching his shoulder and with his other hand.

Izuku didn’t hesitate to continue his attack. He swept the man’s feet out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground with a heavy thud. Before the man could recover, Izuku was on him, his small fists striking out in rapid succession. Each punch was fueled with all of the anger and frustration that had been building inside of him for weeks, months, years. His knuckles cracked against the man’s jaw, the pain shooting up his right arm, but Izuku barely registered it. He had healed from worse before.

The man groaned, still conscious but barely. Izuku’s breath was coming in short, strained gasps as he stood over him, his chest heaving. Without a word, he delivered a swift kick to the man’s temple, finally silencing him.

Izuku turned his attention back to the other two, his eyes narrowing and blazing with a rage that belied his age. “Give me back my money,” he demanded, his voice low and steady, though his breathing was the farthest thing from stable at that point.

The other two men hesitated, their earlier bravado faltering in the face of the sudden fury rolling off of him in waves. One of them took a step back, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. But neither of them made any move or gave an inclination toward handing Izuku’s things back over.

“Give me back my money or,” he spat on the man lying on the ground, “you’ll end up just like him.”

This seemed to snap the younger of the two out of whatever stupor he seemed to be in, anger twisting his features. He stepped forward, a little swagger in his steps as he clenched his fists. “You little brat,” he snarled, the skin of his knuckles peeling away to reveal steel underneath. He swung at Izuku with a powerful left hook, but Izuku was ready. He parried the blow, sending the man stumbling forward.

Izuku winced as his hands vibrated from the impact—he immediately knew that he couldn’t let this man hit him as those punches of his could put even him out of commission for a while. The man then grunted, turning around with a speed that took Izuku by surprise. A right hook followed, faster this time, and Izuku instinctively went to block it. But it had been a feint. The man’s left jab came out of nowhere, connecting with Izuku’s ribs.

Pain came in the form of a shark crack as a few of his ribs fractured under the force of the blow. Izuku doubled over, a long wheeze escaping him as the air was knocked out of his lungs. He could barely breathe at the moment, let alone hope to fight back.

The man loomed over him, a smirk on his face. “I was a semi-pro boxer, you know,” he boasted, his voice laced with a condescending tinge that Izuku couldn’t stand. “Before they took quirk use out of professional sports, that is. Those bastards left me without a job. That’s no fair, isn’t it?” Izuku glared up at him, his vision blurring slightly. “It’s not my fault I was born with a quirk I can’t turn off.”

Izuku could relate to that, at least on some level. He could understand what it was like to be ostracized for something you had no control over. But that didn’t excuse these assholes for stealing from him, for thinking he would let himself be walked all over.

While the man continued his rant, Izuku’s ribs slowly began to fuse back together, the pain dulling to nothing more than a manageable ache. He gritted his teeth, appearing to be in more pain than he actually was, waiting for the right moment. When the man paused to take a breath, Izuku surged forward, catching him off guard.

The man’s eyes widened in surprise once more as Izuku quickly closed what little distance between them. Izuku quickly ducked under the man’s weak attempt to defend him and landed a solid punch to his liver. The man gasped, his knees buckling as Izuku followed up with another shot, and another, each blow landing with a weight and precision far beyond what a child his age should have been capable of.

The man’s body twisted in pain, but before Izuku could land another hit, a knee shot out and connected with his side, sending him stumbling away. Izuku hissed out a curse, but caught himself and was able to stay on his feet. His ribs still ached, not fully healed, and his breathing was labored. The man across from him was favoring his right side, shielding it with his arm as if to protect it from further injury. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Izuku.

“How are you still able to move?” he spat, frustration and disbelief evident in his tone. “Fuck— You should be dead by now. That blow to your head, your ribs. I’ve put guys three times your size down with less. What the hell even are you?”

Izuku’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, the pain in his side a reminder that he wasn’t invincible. But he couldn’t stop now. It would be an insult to all everything he’s endured up to this point if he let them walk away with what he’d worked so hard to earn. He knew he could be extremely stubborn, relentless even, when it came to things he wanted. This time would be no different.

“I want to be a hero,” Izuku said, his voice strained but surprisingly firm. He was still a child, after all. A child with child-like dreams and determinations that have driven him for as long as he can remember. “And I can’t be a hero if I let every piece of shit in this town take what’s mine.”

The man’s expression turned sour at the last part, his lips curling into an ugly snarl. “I’m supposed to believe that you can just magically keep going because you want to be a hero? Do you take me for some kind of idiot?”

While a growl, the man charged at Izuku, unleashing a series of combos, one after another, in a frenzied fashion. Izuku did his best to block, dodge, parry, and counterattack, but it was becoming increasingly clear that he was severely outclassed when it came to fighting experience. The man’s strikes were relentless, but even when they connected, none were as powerful as that initial blow to Izuku’s ribs. He could take these punches, roll with them.

But while Izuku was obviously outmatched in skill, he had something the man was beginning to lack—endurance and durability. He could see it in the man’s eyes, the growing frustration, the fear he was trying so hard to bury. The more Izuku got back up, the more desperate the man became. His movements grew sluggish, his strikes slower, less precise. He was quickly tiring himself out, and Izuku could see it.

When the man managed to knock Izuku down again, he turned to his remaining companion, a pleading tone to his voice. “Help me out here, damn it!”

The other man, who had been watching in nothing but stunned silence, jumped at the sound of his voice. He shook his head frantically, backing away. “No way, man. That kid’s a monster!” Without another word, he turned and bolted, dropping the wad of bills he'd stolen from Izuku as he fled.

The man clicked his tongue, turning back to Izuku just as the boy was slowly getting back to his feet. His patience snapped. He grabbed Izuku by the collar of his shirt, hauling him into the air with a grunt of effort. With his other fist, he began wailing on Izuku, each punch landing with brutal force. He didn’t stop until Izuku’s face was nearly unrecognizable, painted red with his own blood. With an exasperated huff, the man let go, letting Izuku’s body drop to the group in a heap.

The man then stood over him, breathing heavily, watching intently to see if the boy would move again. He had to be finished now. He had to be.

But as he started to turn away, Izuku’s hand shot out, weakly grabbing onto the man’s ankle. His fingernails dug into the skin, and in a sparse, broken voice, Izuku spoke. “It’s…not over. I’m…gonna get my money back.”

The man looked down in disbelief, his face contorting in anger once again. “Stay down and die, you damn freak!” But Izuku’s other hand wrapped around the same ankle, and with all the strength he could muster, he pulled himself closer. His mouth was near the man’s ankle now, and before the man could react, Izuku bit down, hard.

He screamed, trying to spin around, to kick Izuku off, to do anything, but the boy’s teeth were firmly latched onto the tendons in his heel. With a vicious pull, Izuku tore it out, sending the man crashing to the ground in agony. He clutched at his leg, the pain evident in his expression, which quickly morphed into fear when he saw the look in Izuku’s eyes—Wild. Hungry.

“I won,” Izuku said, his voice chillingly calm as he crawled closer. The man’s fear deepened as Izuku opened his mouth again, this time aiming for the throat.

And then, with a final, feral growl, Izuku went for the jugular.

…

Izuku always thought people with tattoos tasted weird. The ink on their body made them nearly inedible to him, like biting into something that was half spoiled. The man had been no different. Izuku had to force himself to finish, grimacing with every bite, but he had the hunger to drive him forward. Now, as he dragged the man’s mangled corpse into a nearby alleyway, he could still taste the bitterness on his tongue.

The body left a slick trail behind it, blood mixing with the grime of the city’s streets. When Izuku reached the alley, he took one last look at what remained of the man—a pile of torn flesh and bone, his throat torn open where Izuku had opened him up, his intestines hanging from his body and sprawled out on the ground. Izuku felt a dull ache in his head, but it was nothing compared to the burning satisfaction coursing through his veins. He’d done it. He’d won.

Without another thought, he gave the body a few hard kicks to the side, more out of a need to hear the dull thud than anything else. He panted, his breath coming out in ragged gasps as he tried to push down the rising nausea building up in the back of his throat. With a shaky breath, he calmed himself and walked back out to the street.

When he was out, he turned back to the guy he knocked out earlier, the one who was lucky enough to not have to hear his friend get devoured nor have to do anything about it. The bastard was still out cold, lying face down in the middle of the street. Izuku spotted his backpack clutched loosely in the man’s hand. Prying it free, he delivered another hard kick to the guy’s temple for good measure.

Izuku slung the backpack over his shoulder, the adrenaline starting to wear off as he was making his way away from the scene of the fight. He spotted his wad of cash on the ground where the other man had dropped it in his haste to make an escape. Crouching down, he scooped up the bills and quickly counted them, making sure nothing was missing. Once satisfied, he shoved the money back into his pockets and restarted his walk back to his apartment.

It wasn’t much of a place—just a run-down, shitty room in an even shittier building, with a leak in the ceiling that had been there since he’d moved in. A few odd bowls and containers were scattered around the floor beneath it, catching the dripping water. As he walked in, he emptied the container that was the most filled in the sink, the stagnant water splashing against the dirty basin.

Izuku didn’t waste any more time. He dropped his backpack by the door and headed straight for the bathroom, turning on the faucet and waiting for the water to run clear. It took a minute for the brownish sludge to filter out, but eventually, something resembling clear water began to flow. He stripped off his blood-stained clothes and stepped into the shower, wincing as the water hit his bruised skin.

He scrubbed at his hair, his face, watching as the clear water beneath him turned a murky brown, tinged with the remnants of dried blood and grime. It wasn’t until the water finally ran clear that he allowed himself to relax, lathering his curls with what little shampoo he had left. He rinsed it out just as quick, then squeezed the last remaining drops of conditioner from the bottle, mixing it with water to make it stretch.

While the conditioner sat in his hair, Izuku grabbed a rag, poured a small amount of soap onto it, and began to scrub his body. He didn’t stop until the gray-tint to his skin had turned into pink, raw from the rough treatment. But he didn’t care. He needed to feel clean, to wash away the filth and blood that clung to him like a second skin. When he was completely clean and satisfied, he stepped out of the shower, toweling himself off until he was no longer dripping water onto the mat.

Once dry, Izuku pulled on a pair of worn-out clothes and went to retrieve his backpack. He pulled out his homework—a pile of English worksheets, the subject that gave him the most trouble. He sighed heavily as he spread the papers on his bed, then grabbed the tablet on the floor beside him and opened it to a popular, free video-sharing platform. He searched for tutorials, hoping to find something in his native tongue that would help him make sense of the confusing mess of grammar rules, pronunciation, and vocabulary.

Izuku had learned a long time ago that he could no longer rely on anyone, let alone his teachers, for help. They still refused to answer his questions, ignored him in class, and now would just outright overlook him when he had his hand raised. When that became a lost cause, he’d tried asking the librarian for books to help him study, but she always came up with some excuse not to lend them to him. Eventually, he’d given up on that too.

Despite the lack of support, Izuku still managed to pass his classes, though he was always on the back half of the class when it came to grades. Still, he took pride in the fact that he was able to do better than others in his class, without the help of the teachers who had all but abandoned him. It wasn’t much, but it meant something to him. It proved to him that he wasn’t an idiot afterall; he could be smart and capable if given the chance.

As he stared at the cracked screen, trying to make sense of the information in front of him, Izuku felt the familiar weight of exhaustion settling in. His ribs still ached, and his muscles were still sore from the fight, but he pushed the pain to the back of his mind. He had work he really needed to finish. He couldn’t afford to fall behind any more than he already was.

…

The next day, Izuku kicked at the stray rocks on the sidewalk, his backpack weighing down his shoulders as he made his way to school. The events of the previous night were a haze, his mind drifting in and out of focus as he walked. As he neared the spot where he had been just a few hours ago, the haziness cleared, replaced by a sharpened clarity.

The area was now swarmed with reporters, police officers, and the telltale yellow tape cordoning off the scene. Izuku’s stomach twisted at the sight, but he forced himself to keep walking, trying not to draw attention. He spotted the man he’d knocked out last night, his face pale and littered with a purple bruise, talking to a sketch artist. Their eyes met for a brief moment, the man’s gaze narrowing before widening in recognition. Izuku felt a jolt of panic, but he quickly brought a finger to his lips in a shushing motion. “Quiet,” he mouthed.

The man’s eyes flickered with something—fear, perhaps—but he seemed to understand the message loud and clear: Tell anyone you saw me and you’ll be next. He looked back at the sketch artist, his expression tense but compliant. Izuku took that as his cue to move on, throwing the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head. He jaywalked to the other side of the sidewalk, keeping his head low as he continued his walk to school.

School was the same as it always was: his own personal floor of hell. Kids treated him like he had the plague, avoiding him with scrunched-up faces of disgust, or they went out of their way to let him know just how much they hated him. There were more of the latter as of late. In class, whatever students could get their hands on—pens, pencils, erasers, you name it—were tossed at the back of his head whenever the teacher wasn’t looking. Izuku tried his best to ignore it, focusing on his notes, thankful when the onslaught stopped as the teacher turned to face the class again.

Lunch was no different—he sat alone, poking at his food without much appetite. When the bell rang, signaling the start of recess, Izuku didn’t bother joining the other kids. Instead, he snuck off and headed to the roof, seeking the solace of solitude. Up there, he could almost forget where he was, almost drown out the taunts and sneers of his classmates. He spread out his notes, trying to make sense of his sloppy penmanship and get a head start on his homework before he had to go to work later that day.

But the peace didn’t last long enough for him. The bell rang again, signaling the end of recess, and Izuku sighed as he packed up his things and made his way back to class. The lecture resumed, and so did the harassment. Izuku gritted his teeth, ignoring the paper balls and erasers bouncing off his head. He was used to this. He could endure this.

Then something happened that he couldn’t ignore—a sharp pain pierced the back of his head, something hard and pointed embedding itself in his scalp. The classroom fell silent as Izuku yelped out in pain, clutching the spot where the sharpened pencil had lodged itself in his head and his fingers came away stained with blood. He whipped his head around, and his eyes locked onto the boy who had thrown it, frozen in shock with his hand still outstretched in the throwing motion.

The teacher, who had been ready to reprimand him for the outburst, stopped mid-sentence when they saw the pencil sticking out of Izuku’s head. His expression faltered, a mix of disbelief and uncertainty crossing his face.

“Midoriya,” the teacher stuttered, his voice shaky. “You… you should be more careful.” He hesitated, then quickly added, “Go on to the nurse’s office. Now.”

Izuku wanted to refuse, to tell him that he was fine, to stay and not have to miss any of the lessons. But the look of horror on the faces of his classmates, the way some of them visibly recoiled at the sight of him, made him think twice. He couldn’t pull the pencil out here—it would just make things worse. Reluctantly, he grabbed the hall pass and headed out of the classroom, the hallway seeming to close around him as he walked.

When he arrived at the nurse’s office, the nurse looked up, startled to see him. She was an older woman, with kind eyes that widened in shock when she saw the pencil sticking out of his head. Izuku had never been to the nurse’s office before—he’d never let himself get hurt in a way that required it—but he’d heard the whispers, the rumors that floated around the school about him. He braced himself for the usual dismissiveness, the coldness he’d come to expect from every adult he encountered.

But instead, the nurse’s expression softened, and she gestured for him to sit down on the bed next to her. “What happened to you, sweetie?” she asked, her voice gentle, almost soothing.

Izuku blinked, caught off guard by the question. She wasn’t asking him what he did to get the pencil stuck in his head. She wasn’t accusing him of causing trouble or making excuses. She was asking him what happened, as if she actually cared.

“It… someone threw it,” Izuku muttered, wincing as the nurse carefully examined the wound.

She nodded, her movements deliberate and cautious, as though she was trying not to startle him. “Hold still, this might hurt a little.”

Izuku bit his lip, expecting the usual rough treatment, but the nurse was surprisingly gentle as she worked to remove the pencil and clean the wound. She talked to him the entire time, her voice soft and even, almost like she was trying to placate a wild animal. Izuku found himself leaning into her touch, craving the kindness she was offering. It had been so long since anyone had treated him this way, with care and compassion.

By the time she finished wrapping the bandage around his head, Izuku felt a strange warmth in his chest, something he hadn’t felt in years. He almost didn’t want to leave, but he knew he had to get back to class. The nurse gave him a small smile as she handed him back the hall pass, her eyes lingering on him for a moment longer than necessary.

“Take care of yourself, Midoriya,” she said softly.

Izuku nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and made his way back to class. His head still throbbed, but the pain felt distant, muted by the lingering warmth from the nurse’s feathery touch. For the first time in a long while, the heaviness in his chest didn’t feel quite so unbearable.

When he walked back into the classroom, there wasn’t a smile on his face, but there was a content look in his eyes, and the heavy bags under them seemed a little less pronounced. He sat down quietly, picked up his pencil, and resumed taking notes, the whispers and stares of his classmates fading into the background as he focused on the task at hand.

Chapter Text

It had been two months since that night—since Izuku had been nearly beaten to death, if not for his regeneration, and then killed the man who’d tried to kill him. But that meal had been the last of any significance. Since then, he’d barely managed to scrape by, scavenging for scraps in a city that offered so little to the desperate.

To make matters worse, his landlord had decided to raise his rent exponentially. The hole in his ceiling had been fixed, but at what cost? Izuku was left with barely enough money to keep the roof over his head, let alone buy food—proper food, the kind that his stomach was actually able to digest and get the nutrients from. The kind to keep his…hunger at bay, even if only momentarily.

The nights were the hardest. The quiet hours between midnight and dawn, when the city was still and his stomach twisted in pain. He wasn’t able to find any relief for it tonight either. He started at his homework, the numbers blurring together and mocking him as his vision doubled. Frustration quickly boiled over, and before he knew it, he was out the door, the chilly air offering no comfort but at least a distraction.

Izuku hadn’t planned to walk far. Just enough to hopefully clear his head. But as he wandered the empty streets, something sharp cut through the haze of his thoughts—a sound, cracking and squelching, unmistakable and horrifying. Then, the smell came, thick and metallic, clinging to the back of his throat.

Blood. Fresh.

His feet moved on their own, following the scent down narrow alleys and deserted roads until he reached the back of an abandoned high-rise building. The smell was overwhelming now, pulling him closer, urging him to look.

Before him laid a suit, crumpled on the ground, stained beyond recognition. What pooled around it was what was left of a human man, a grotesque splattering of organic matter, bone splintering and mixed with flesh until it was no longer distinguishable from one another. Izuku’s chest pounded, a mix of horror and something much darker—something he didn’t want to name.

But his body knew. It knew what he wanted, what he craved.

He didn’t remember dropping to his knees, only the taste of iron on his tongue as he lapped at the ground, trying not to think, not to feel. Every swallow brought a wave of disgust, but it was quickly smothered by the desperate need to feed. He spat out fragments of bone, grimacing as they scraped against his teeth, but he didn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. Not until the hunger had been sated, if only for a moment.

And then, there was a hand on his shoulder.

Izuku whipped around, instinct taking over, hands slicing through the air before he even registered the face in front of him. Flesh tore, a sharp gasp followed it up,and then he was glaring at the man in front of him, his breath coming in ragged pants.

Eraserhead.

The man’s scarf hung loosely around his neck, his hand dripping blood where Izuku had slashed him. His eyes flickered from his wounded hand to Izuku’s, where dark stains of blood marred his fingers, the tips of his nails sharpened to a point and black in color. Claws, he realized. When had they turned into claws?

Eraserhead didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched him with those blank eyes as he usually did. Finally, he slid his hands into his pockets, taking a step back as if giving Izuku space to collect himself.

“Hey, kid,” he said, his voice even, betraying nothing. “You doing alright over there?”

Izuku’s ears burned, a flush of embarrassment crawling up his neck. He nodded quickly, too quickly, and the word slipped out before he could stop it. “Fine.”

The hero’s gaze didn’t waver. “What are you doing out this late at night?” His eyes shifted to the mess behind Izuku, his expression carefully blank.

Izuku swallowed, trying to think, trying to lie. “I-I… found him like this. I was just…checking it out.” The words felt hollow, pathetic, even to him. He saw the doubt showing on Eraserhead, the way his eyes lingered for far too long on him, the tremble in his voice.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, until Izuku couldn’t take it anymore. “I was just hungry…okay?” he blurted out, the confession ripped from him in a moment of weakness.

Eraserhead’s brow furrowed in confusion. He looked back to the remains once more, searching for something that might provide an explanation for Izuku’s words. But there was nothing, no scraps of food, no wallet. Nothing pointing in a direction that made any sense.

And then Izuku wiped the corner of his mouth with the back if his hand, smearing the blood there across his cheek further, and Eraserhead’s expression shifted. “Oh…um…” His voice was hesitant, the words coming slowly, like he was trying to make sense of it all. “Okay, I-I see.”

Izuku didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if there was anything he could say to try and explain it all away. His stomach churned with shame, the taste still lingering on his lips turning sour. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Eraserhead’s eyes.

“Be safe,” Eraserhead finally said, his voice still surprisingly soft. And then, without another word, he turned and scaled the building with the help of his scarf, disappearing up the fire escape. It left Izuku alone in the dark and with the guilt of his actions piling up on him once more.

He didn’t know it then, but that was the last time Izuku saw Eraserhead for a long while.

But when the moment he was gone, Izuku’s eyes fell back to the puddle of human remains at his behind him. Shame twisted in his gut, but it was overshadowed by the gnawing hunger still simmering in his belly. It was as if Eraserhead’s interruption had only sharpened his appetite, making him painfully aware that he wasn’t done.

With a resigned sigh, he knelt down again, the metallic scent of blood filling his nostrils. He didn’t hesitate this time, sinking back into the grotesque task with a mechanical efficiency that numbed his mind. The remains had gone cold by this point, congealing against the pavement, but he lapped them up without complaint, his claws scraping the gravel as he worked to get every last bit. By the time he was finished, his tongue was raw from the rough texture, and he spat out small pebbles that had stuck to his gums. But his stomach was full, finally, blessedly full, and that was all that mattered.

Izuku stood, wiping his mouth with the corner of his shirt. He didn’t feel regret, not really. The fullness in his stomach was worth the lingering taste of iron and the sickly feeling in his chest. But as he took a step forward, the sensation of fabric straining against his toes made him pause. He looked down and saw the worn-out shoes on his feet—his toes poking through the front, past the duct tape that barely held them together.

He sighed, the exhaustion of the night weighing heavily on him now. Kicking off the ruined shoes, he walked barefoot back to the remains of the man, his steps squelching against the wet pavement. The man’s black dress shoes were lying nearby, splattered with blood but otherwise intact. Izuku picked them up and slipped them on with too much ease. They were more than a little big on him, but they’d do.

The heels clacked against the concrete as he walked, a sound that seemed oddly comforting. He focused on it, letting the rhythmic noise dull his other senses, offering a brief respite from the overwhelming stimuli that usually bombarded him. By the time he reached his apartment, the sound had become a kind of white noise, something to anchor him in the present.

The next morning, Izuku pulled on the same shoes as he headed to work. It was the weekend, which meant double shifts both days. The diner he worked at had become his second home, a place where he could lose himself in the endless tasks that kept the place running. As soon as he arrived—nearly an hour early—he set to work with a single-minded focus.

Izuku wasn’t just a dishwasher. He was a part-time cook, a prep worker, a cleaner—whatever the diner needed, he did. His boss had given him a key months ago, trusting him to open up in the mornings and get everything ready before the rest of the staff arrived. And Izuku made sure he didn’t give her a single reason to regret it. He moved through the kitchen with a practiced efficiency, restocking supplies, prepping ingredients, and cleaning equipment. By the time the cooks and servers showed up, everything was in place, and the day could begin without a hitch.

Despite his hard work, Izuku remained an outsider. The other staff only spoke to him when they needed something—more vegetables chopped, more chickens broken down, tables cleaned. And he did it all without complaint, donning a cap and a face mask whenever he had to step out into the dining area to ensure he wasn’t recognized. His reputation in Musutafu was still abysmal, which made finding work hard, but he kept his head down, his focus on the work, hoping to go unnoticed.

As the day wore on, the constant activity kept Izuku from dwelling on the emptiness that was always eating away at him. He didn’t stop moving, didn’t allow himself a moment to rest or think, just kept going until the last of the staff had gone home and it was just him and the boss left.

He finished breaking down the kitchen, scrubbing the last of the dishes, sweeping the floors, making sure everything was spotless before he finally clocked out. But as he was about to leave, the boss appeared in the doorway, her expression neutral.

“Midoriya,” she said, her voice carrying an edge that made his stomach drop. “Come to my office for a moment will you.”

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he followed her, his mind racing through every task he’d completed that day, searching for something he might have screwed up. His thoughts spun, already formulating apologies as he lagged behind her.

When they reached her office, she settled behind her desk, gesturing for him to come in. Izuku stood before her, shifting from foot to foot, his nerves tightening into a knot in his chest.

“I just wanted to thank you for your hard work today, Izuku. I hope you know everyone here appreciates it,” her tone sounded almost genuine, but Izuku knew better. She smiled at him, the sight unnerving. “So, how was your day? Tell me, how are you finding the job? I hope you had fun!” she asked excitedly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It never did.

“Yes, ma’am,” he swallowed. “It was a good day. Everyone worked hard, we earned you quite a lot of money.”

She seemed satisfied with the answer, letting out a content hum before digging into a drawer on her desk and pulling out a folder. The woman rifled through the stack of papers within it, and then turned to Izuku again. “You’re fourteen, yes?” When he nodded along to the question, she almost seemed giddy at the response. There was a dreamy sigh that was followed up with, “What I wouldn’t give to give to go back to my teenage years…”

Izuku's eyes darted around the room, his blood thrumming in his ears as his boss’s words hung in the air. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their cold glow casting an eerie light on the small, cluttered office. The room felt smaller now, the walls seeming to close in on him as the silence stretched.

The boss lady tilted her head, a small, knowing smile curling at the corners of her lips as she caught his furtive glance downward. She leaned back slightly, letting the silence linger before she spoke again.

“Have any girls in school caught your eye, Izuku?” she asked, her voice a low purr. “You’re at that age now, aren’t you? The age when boys start thinking about girls in a…certain way.”

The question sent a cold shock through Izuku’s system, his breath catching in his throat. He shook his head quickly, the movement almost frantic as he denied the accusation. “N-No,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes fixated on the stack of papers on the desk, the pictures on the wall, anywhere but on her.

“Look at me, Izuku,” she commanded softly, but with an edge that left no room for disobedience.

He hesitated, then slowly raised his gaze to meet hers. The moment their eyes locked, he felt a deep, unsettling unease settle over him. There was something in her eyes—something predatory, something that made his skin crawl.

The boss’s smile widened, a sly smirk that only deepened the pit in Izuku’s stomach. “No interest in anyone at all?” she pressed, her voice taking on a more suggestive tone. “Or perhaps... someone with a bit more experience in the subject?”

Izuku shook his head again, more forcefully this time, his voice trembling as he repeated, “No.”

But she wasn’t deterred. She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to wrap around him like a vice. “Come closer,” she beckoned, her tone even more demanding than it had been before.

Reluctantly, Izuku stepped forward, his feet dragging as if weighted down by the dread pooling in his gut. He was close enough now that he could see the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, the way her pupils dilated as she watched him.

Then her voice took on a colder edge, a hint of menace creeping into her words. “You know, you’re lucky to have this job. Someone with all the history you have...not many people would be willing to take that kind of risk on you.” She let the words sink in before adding, “It’d be a shame if you lost it, wouldn’t it?”

Izuku’s stomach dropped, the threat clear as day. She knew exactly what she was doing—dangling his only means of survival over his head, knowing he couldn’t afford to lose it. A knot tightened in his chest as he swallowed hard, his mind racing, but the words that followed weren’t his own.

“I understand,” he murmured, his voice hollow, as if detached from his own body.

“Good boy,” she cooed, her hand reaching out to pat his cheek, the gesture sickeningly sweet. “Now, let’s make sure you stay on my good side.”

Izuku’s mind went blank, his movements mechanical as he complied with her demands. His thoughts raced, desperate to focus on anything but the reality of what was happening. It’s just for the job, he told himself, the mantra repeating over and over like a broken record. It’s just for the job.

But no matter how many times he repeated it, the weekend couldn’t end soon enough.

…

Izuku woke up abruptly, gasping for breath. His room was cold, the early morning air creeping in through the cracks around the window, but he was drenched in sweat. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to will away the sensation of his heart beating wildly—a sensation that had no physical source. His hand drifted to his chest, pressing against the smooth skin as if he could force the feeling to stop. But it didn’t.

He turned his head to the side, his eyes landing on the crumpled piece of paper on the nightstand. His last paycheck from the diner. He hadn’t even opened the envelope; he didn’t need to. He knew it wouldn’t be enough, and wouldn't cover the rent that was creeping up on him. But it was all he had.

Izuku reached over and grabbed the envelope, staring at it with a mixture of anger and hopelessness. His boss had fired him in the middle of a shift a few days ago, barely giving him time to process what was happening before she handed out the final verdict. All she said was that it wasn’t working out and that he would be getting his last check in the mail. No explanation, no apology. It was as if everything he had done, all the humiliating things he had endured, meant nothing.

He squeezed the envelope until his knuckles turned white, then released it with a shaky breath. It was almost 5 AM, and the check-cashing place would be open soon. He had to get up, get dressed, and take care of it before heading to school. Izuku forced himself out of bed, his limbs heavy and reluctant. He changed quickly, pulling on his hoodie, tucking his hair under a hat, and securing the mask over his face. He couldn’t afford to be recognized, not with the way people in Musutafu treated him.

Izuku grabbed his backpack on the way out, figuring it would save him a trip later. The morning air was crisp as he stepped outside, and he shivered slightly, the sweat on his skin chilling him as it evaporated. The streets were quiet, the city still waking up, and Izuku tried to focus on that—on the peace of the early hour rather than the gnawing hunger in his stomach or the anxiety twisting in his gut.

The check-cashing place was a small, dingy building squeezed between two larger shops. Izuku walked in, his eyes scanning the room. There were only a few people in line ahead of him, so he joined the queue, clutching the envelope in his hand. His mind wandered as he waited, thinking of the bills he had to pay, the rent that was due, and the food he needed to buy. When it was finally his turn, he approached the counter, handing the check to the clerk.

The clerk barely looked at him, glancing at the check before starting the transaction. Izuku cleared his throat and asked, “Do you know of any job openings? I can do anything—unskilled work, whatever. Just…anything.”

The man looked up, his expression indifferent. “Not that I know of, kid. You’ll have to look around, maybe check the street posts or something. There might be something out there for you.”

Izuku nodded, muttering a quiet “Thanks” as he took the cash. He stuffed it into his pocket and left the building, feeling no better than when he had walked in.

The streets were still relatively empty, the city not yet fully awake, and Izuku slowed his pace. He tried to take comfort in the stillness, the lack of people. There was no one to judge him, no one to sneer or whisper behind his back. It was just him and the sound of his shoes against the pavement.

By the time he reached school, more students had begun to trickle in, but the building was still mostly empty. Izuku knew that the faculty didn’t like students hanging around before school hours, especially him. He was a stain on the reputation of the school, a reminder of something they preferred to forget.

Izuku hesitated at the entrance, unsure of what to do. The thought of wandering the halls aimlessly didn’t appeal to him, and the idea of sitting alone in a classroom made his skin crawl. On impulse, he decided to head to the nurse’s office. Maybe she’d let him stay there until school started.

The nurse greeted him with a warm smile when he arrived, a stark contrast to the cold indifference he was used to. “Good morning, Izuku,” she said. “What brings you here so early?”

“I was wondering if I could wait here until class starts,” Izuku replied, his voice soft. “I just…didn’t want to be in the halls.”

“Of course,” she said, nodding. “You’re welcome here anytime, just like any other student.”

The kindness in her voice made something twist inside Izuku. He wasn’t used to it, didn’t know how to respond to it. He simply nodded and set his things down, pulling out a math packet from his bag. He still had a few problems left to finish, and maybe working on them would keep his mind occupied.

He stared at the numbers on the page, but the equations seemed to blur together. His brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of them, his frustration growing with each passing minute. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, the metallic taste flooding his mouth.

The nurse noticed, her expression concerned as she walked over to him. “Izuku, let me put a liquid bandage on that,” she said gently.

Izuku looked up, startled, quickly wiping at his lip. “It’s fine,” he said, his voice strained. “It wasn’t bleeding that bad. You must’ve seen something that wasn’t there.”

The nurse, not entirely convinced, softened her tone. “I wouldn’t feel right letting you go with any sort of injury, no matter how small. Let me help.”

He hesitated but eventually nodded, and she wheeled herself over to where he was sitting. Her movements were careful, her touch gentle, but she noticed how Izuku flinched even more than before. She paused, searching his face, but chose not to comment on it beyond a quiet apology. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be rough.”

Izuku felt a wave of self-loathing. There was no reason for him to be afraid—she had been nothing but kind to him. His mind whispered the same about his boss, but he shoved the thought away, refusing to let it linger.

The nurse leaned in closer, the name tag on his chest bearing the name Shuzenji, something Izuku could see clearly from their proximity. She shined a small flashlight on his lip, her brows furrowing as she tried to find the wound. Izuku’s pupils, with their vertical slits, dilated instinctively, and she apologized again for the light. “I’m sorry, but... I’m having a hard time finding where you were bleeding.”

Before he could stop himself, Izuku muttered, “That’s because you won’t find it. It’s not there anymore.”

Her expression shifted to one of confusion. “What do you mean by that?”

Izuku bit his tongue, realizing his mistake. He didn’t respond, just sat there, the silence growing heavy between them. The nurse searched his face for answers, then slowly pulled back and returned to her desk. Her fingers tapped rapidly on the keyboard, her gaze flickering between the screen and Izuku.

“Your school record mentions your quirk,” she said, her tone careful. “It says you have enhanced physical abilities and some reptilian-like mutations, but there’s no mention of a healing factor.”

Izuku swallowed hard, forcing a lie through his lips, though it came easier this time. “It’s... it’s something new. I only just discovered it. But it only works on little scrapes and cuts, nothing major.”

She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Would you like me to update that information?”

“No!” he replied quickly, then softened his voice. “No, please don’t. I’d rather keep it to myself.”

The nurse gave him a small, understanding smile and winked. “Your secret’s safe with me, Izuku.”

Chapter Text

Izuku’s days began to fall into a gentle rhythm, a welcome contrast to the uncertainty that had defined so much of his life. Every morning before school, he made his way to the nurse’s office. The air inside was always warm, a soft glow from the lamp on Ms. Shuzenji’s desk casting a comforting light across the room. The walls were lined with posters offering various health tips, but it was the quiet presence of Ms. Shuzenji herself that made the room feel safe.

She always greeted Izuku with a smile, her expression never failing to soften at the sight of him. It became their routine: he’d walk in, and she’d ask how he was doing, her voice gentle and without any hint of judgment. At first, Izuku was awkward, giving short, clipped answers, but over time he started to open up more. She listened, really listened, and never pushed him to say more than he was comfortable with.

One morning, she caught him squinting at a particularly difficult math problem. Without a word, she wheeled over to his side, her presence calming. She offered to help, and after some hesitation, Izuku agreed. What began as occasional homework help quickly turned into a regular thing. She was patient, explaining concepts in a way that made sense to him, never making him feel stupid for not understanding right away.

It wasn’t long before she began bringing in books from her own home, thick volumes that covered everything from mathematics to science. She left them on the corner of her desk for Izuku to take at his leisure, trusting him to return them when he was finished. Each book came with a small note inside, words of encouragement scrawled in her neat handwriting.

With her help, Izuku’s grades began to improve, slowly at first, but steadily. He found himself actually understanding the material instead of just memorizing it to get by. The better his grades became, the more confidence he felt, and the more he began to enjoy school—not for the social aspect, which he still struggled with, but for the quiet satisfaction of learning something new.

Outside of school, things were starting to look up as well. After losing his job at the diner, Izuku had managed to find work as a delivery boy for a small shop just around the block from his apartment. The pay wasn’t much, but it was more than what he had been making before, and the work was steady. The owner was an older man who didn’t ask many questions, which suited Izuku just fine. He spent his afternoons zipping around the neighborhood on his bike, delivering packages and groceries. The physical activity was a welcome distraction, something to focus on that wasn’t tied to his more disturbing impulses.

But it was Ms. Shuzenji who remained the constant in his life. In the back of his mind, a voice whispered that she was only kind to him because she didn’t know what he was really like—what he was capable of when the hunger took over. But for now, that voice had been quieted, drowned out by the warmth of her presence and the genuine care she showed him.

For the first time in a long while, Izuku felt like he had someone he could rely on. Ms. Shuzenji filled a void that had been gaping for years, the absence of a mother’s gentle hand on his shoulder, the soothing voice that told him everything would be okay.

Three months passed in this way, each day a little brighter than the last. Izuku couldn’t help but cling to the fragile happiness he had found, even though he knew better than to believe it would last forever.

One morning, he pulled on his uniform, the fabric still smelling faintly of the detergent he had borrowed from his neighbor. He slipped on his shoes—no longer held together by duct tape—and grabbed his backpack from where it lay slumped by the door. The last remaining sunlight streamed through the cracks in the curtains, painting the small apartment in dark oranges and yellows. For a moment, Izuku paused, taking it all in.

The sun had set long ago when Izuku finally stepped out of his house, the cool night air brushing against his face. It was just past 10:30 PM, and the streets were mostly empty by this time on a Tuesday night, save for the occasional car passing by and the distant hum of the city that never truly slept. His shift at the takeout place started at 11, and he had made sure he had more than enough time to make the short walk.

He pulled his hood up, adjusting it so that it hid the top half of his face. It wasn’t unusual for him to be out at this hour, but he still preferred to stay as anonymous as possible. His life had taken on a semblance of a routine, a rhythm that kept him grounded, gave him something else to look forward to other than the gnawing, grating, hunger that he constantly tried to suppress.

As he walked, the streets around him grew quieter, the soft glow of streetlights casting long shadows. Izuku’s thoughts drifted to the nurse, Ms. Shuzenji, and how much her presence alone had come to mean to him. She was the only adult in his life still around who seemed to genuinely care about him, and he found himself looking forward to their morning conversations. She had become the constant in his life that he had so desperately wanted.

Just as he was nearing the takeout place, a piercing scream cut through the silence, reverberating off the buildings, and stopping Izuku in his tracks. He clenched his fists, every instinct telling him to just keep walking, that this wasn’t his problem to deal with, to ignore the sound and get to work. But there was something in that scream—a desperation that pulled him, forcing him to betray his own survival instincts and break into a run. As he raced toward the sound, it continued to grow louder and more distressed, as if whoever was screaming had been running for a very long time without any respite. A chill slithered down his spine, goosebumps forming across the exposed skin of his legs.

His feet carried him towards the source, down a dimly lit alleyway where the sound of struggle thumped against his eardrums. As he rounded the corner, his blood ran cold, and he slowed immediately. A woman with familiar black was trying to fend off a man who seemed to have no regard for personal space as he grabbed fistfuls of her hair and yanked her head back. Her screams echoed off the walls, begging for anyone, someone, to come help her.

Izuku’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized the woman—Ms. Shuzenji. Her usually calm, kind brown eyes were wide with terror, tears freely streaming down her face. He could see a dark bruise forming on her left cheek, the size and shape of a fist. The sight of it made Izuku’s blood boil, anger surging through in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. The one person who had shown him kindness was being hurt, and he couldn’t stand by and do nothing about it.

Ms. Shuzenji saw him approaching and her pleas turned towards him, her voice shaking. “Izuku, please! Run! Get help!” she begged, but her words didn’t reach him. The blood pounding in his ears drowned out everything else.

Izuku’s initial plan to approach quietly, to use the element of surprise to his advantage, was ruined by Ms. Shuzenji’s cries. The man turned to face him, his expression contorting to a sneer. “What do you want, brat? Go play hero somewhere else, while I’m feeling nice,” the man scoffed at him, tightening his grip on the woman’s hair.

Ms. Shuzenji took advantage of the momentary distraction that Izuku had created, kicking the man hard in the groin and wrenching herself from his grip. She stumbled toward Izuku, grabbing his arm and trying to pull him away. “We need to go, Izuku! You can’t fight him—he’ll kill you!”

But Izuku didn’t move. His eyes, glazed over, locked onto the man before he slowly turned his head to look at Ms. Shuzenji over his shoulder. “Why would I run away…when the person who hurt you is right there?”

The words came out low and detached, sending a shiver down Ms. Shuzenji’s spine. She tried to pull him away again, but it was as if his feet were stuck in wet cement. “Please, Izuku, let’s just go!”

Izuku wasn’t listening. He bent down, picking up a loose brick on the ground, his grip on it tightened as he straightened up. Ms. Shuzenji’s pleas became frantic, but he no longer heard them. All that mattered to him was making sure that this man was never given the chance to hurt anyone again.

With a sudden burst of speed, Izuku sprinted at the man, who was still recovering from the kick to his crotch. The man swung at him, but Izuku easily sidestepped the punch, bringing the brick down on the man’s knee. There was a sickening crunch as the man collapsed to the other knee, clutching his now shattered one in agony.

Izuku didn’t stop there. He swung the brick again in a wide arc, this time aiming for the man’s head. The man tried to shield himself with his arms but it was too late; the brick smashed into his skull, sending him sprawling to the pavement.

But even as the man lay motionless, Izuku couldn’t find it within himself to stop his onslaught. He straddled the man’s chest, raising the brick high before bringing it down again and again. The man’s face had caved in on itself, a mess of tantalizing blood and shattered bone. Izuku didn’t even stop when the man’s heartbeat had faded, he kept going, ensuring that the man would never get up again.

When Izuku finally stopped, the brick slipped from his bloodied fingers, clattering to the ground. He stood, panting, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. Eventually, he turned to Ms. Shuzenji, expecting to see relief, gratitude…something.

But what he saw in her eyes was worse than anything he could have imagined—fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. Ms. Shuzenji was trembling, backing away from him as if he was the one to be afraid of, as if he was the…monster.

“Izuku… don’t…don’t come any closer,” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes had been blown wide again, filled with that same terror she had shown moments earlier, but this time it was directed at him.

Izuku reached out to her, his fingers trembling and drenched in a fresh coat of blood, but she took a step back, nearly tripping over her own feet as she did. She took once last good look at him and bolted, sprinting full force down the road and leaving him behind with nothing more than an awkward glance thrown over her shoulder.

Izuku’s knees buckled, and his entire world spun violently around him as he fell to the cold, wet pavement, clutching his chest as he stared blankly ahead, unable to process what had just happened. For a moment, he just sat there, the cold air biting at his skin. Then, with an unsteady breath, he steadied himself on his feet and forced his body to move forward again, dragging his feet along the ground as fast as he could, not bothering to check the surroundings or try to hide his appearance. He had his job to get to, but he was more than sure he was already late for his shift. Still, he needed to try and keep this job.

When he arrived at the takeout place, his new boss took one look at Izuku’s disheveled appearance and shook his head. “You’re fired,” was all he said, his tone flat and uninterested in hearing whatever Izuku’s excuse was.

Izuku didn’t have the energy to argue. He handed over the apron in his jacket pocket, the smallest amount of dried blood on it, and turned to leave. Fighting this wouldn’t have made anything better, so why bother? He’s so tired of fighting everything all the time. When was it his turn to rest? When was his turn to have something good happen to him, like everyone else?

He didn’t regret what he did, despite everything that came afterward. Saving Ms. Shuzenji was something he would do a thousand times over if given the chance.

But the memory of her scream haunted him. It echoed in his mind, curling around his thoughts like a thick, oppressive fog. He couldn't shake the image of her terrified eyes, wide and pleading, as if she couldn’t recognize him—or didn’t want to. He kept telling himself it wasn’t his fault. She had been hurt, she was bleeding, and he...he was the only one who could do anything. No one else had been there to stop the man from killing her, no one else but him.

His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms until the skin broke. The sharp pain grounded him, tethered him to the present, kept him from spiraling too far into his thoughts. But even that didn’t last long.

Izuku’s breath came out shaky, uneven. He dragged it in slowly, holding it until his lungs burned, then let it out in a long, shuddering exhale. He had to believe that what he did was right. It had to be right. If it wasn’t...what was the point of any of it? Ms. Shuzenji was alive because of him. She had to be grateful, even if she couldn’t admit it right now. People reacted strangely to things like that. He had read about it. Shock, trauma—it messed with their heads, made them do and say things they didn’t really mean.

But why did it feel so wrong?

The question gnawed at him, burrowing deep, until it settled like a heavy stone in his gut. He tried to push it away, tried to smother it with rationalizations. He wasn’t the monster here. The man who attacked Ms. Shuzenji—that was the real monster. Izuku had stopped him, had made sure he couldn’t hurt anyone ever again. That was what a hero would do.

Wasn’t it?

…

He tried to settle into the routine of school, though nothing felt quite the same anymore. Every morning was the same—wake up in his cold, too-quiet apartment, eat whatever scraps he could find, and trudge through the crowded streets to make it on time. He could feel the eyes on him, those suspicious stares from his classmates, but he forced himself to ignore them. He had more important things to focus on.

The classroom was no refuge. The walls seemed to close in on him the moment he sat down at his desk, the chatter of his peers a constant buzz that he couldn’t tune out, no matter how hard he tried. It felt like everyone was moving in slow motion around him, and yet his mind raced with thoughts he couldn’t control. School felt like a distant blur. The days bled into each other, a monotonous cycle of lectures, assignments, and overhearing his classmates’ half-hearted conversations.

His fingers tightened around the edges of his desk. He needed to pay attention, knew he should be taking notes, but his mind was somewhere else—lost in a loop of fragmented thoughts, replaying the events of that night over and over again. Ms. Shuzenji’s scream, the blood on his hands, the feeling of her pulse weak beneath his fingers... It all came rushing back in vivid, horrifying detail. And every time he tried to focus on the words in front of him, they slipped through his mind like water through a sieve.

The crackle of the loudspeaker pulled him from his thoughts, his head snapping up as the principal’s voice filled the room.

“Attention, students. I need to make an important announcement. Please listen carefully.”

An uneasy feeling settled in Izuku’s stomach, a strange sense of dread washing over him. The principal’s voice was heavy, serious, as if he were about to say something that would change everything.

“I regret to inform you all that we have received some very bad news. Our beloved nurse, Ms. Shuzenji, is… gone. She passed away last night. There’s no easy way to say this, and I know this will come as a shock to many of you. Ms. Shuzenji was a kind and caring soul who always put others before herself, and she will be deeply missed.”

The words hung in the air, meaningless, as if spoken in a language Izuku couldn’t understand. But slowly, painfully, the reality of what had been said began to sink in.

Gone. Dead. Never coming back.

The words didn’t register at first. They couldn’t. His mind refused to process them. 

Ms. Shuzenji was gone? 

No. No, that wasn’t right. 

She was alive, he had saved her—he had made sure she would be okay.

But, people don’t come back like Izuku does.

Izuku’s breath hitched, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin. His hands flew to his ears, trying to clean out the sound, trying to undo what he’d just heard. But the cries of his classmates, the gasps and sobs, only confirmed it. They knew. They all knew. But it all felt so distant, so far away, like he was trapped behind a thick wall of glass, watching everything play out from some disconnected place.

His head began to swim with thoughts that were too loud, too chaotic to make sense of. All of his efforts… for nothing. She was gone. He couldn’t save her after all. 

Useless… 

Worthless… 

Monster… 

Killer… 

The words played on a loop, drilling into his skull until he thought he might go mad from the noise of it.

But then, suddenly, it stopped.

Everything went silent.

Izuku’s breath steadied, his pulse slowing as the noise around him faded into nothingness. He could see his classmates moving, see their lips moving as they spoke, their faces twisted in grief and shock, but he couldn’t hear any of it. There was just silence—a blessed, eerie silence that wrapped around him like a comforting embrace.

He liked it.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t overwhelmed by the constant barrage of sensory input. The world was muted, dull, like someone had turned down the volume on reality. Izuku just sat there, staring blankly at the front of the room, his mind blissfully empty.

He couldn’t think, couldn’t feel. There was no guilt, no regret, no fear—only a hollow stillness that settled deep in his bones. He didn’t have to justify anything to himself, didn’t have to keep convincing himself that what he did was right. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the class, but Izuku didn’t move. He remained seated, his gaze distant, as his classmates filed out of the room, leaving him alone in the quiet.

It was better this way.

Ms. Shuzenji had been wrong. She hadn’t understood what he was trying to do, hadn’t seen that he was only trying to help. But that was okay. He didn’t need her approval, didn’t need anyone’s approval. He was going to be a hero one day, the one who was made to make the tough choices for others, who did what had to be done, no matter the cost.

Because in the end, heroes weren’t remembered for the lives they saved. They were remembered for those they beat, how they could instill fear into the hearts of villains by taking down even the strongest of them. Heroes never failed, never faltered, never let themselves lose to those who threatened the things they held dear.

So, he held on to that justifying, rationalizing thought until it became almost comforting. He was a hero. He had to be. And heroes don’t regret saving people. Even at the cost of others.

And if that made him a monster…so be it. He’d just show everyone that monsters can become heroes too.

Chapter Text

“So, you're all third years now... and it's about time to start thinking seriously about your futures and what you're going to do with your lives. I'd pass out career aptitude tests but what's the point?” The teacher flung a handful of papers into the air, scattering them like confetti. A laugh bubbled up from him, light and dismissive. “I know you all want to be heroes!”

The class erupted in response, a spontaneous display of quirks lighting up the room. One student sprouted extra arms, another’s skin turned to stone, while another floated a few inches off the ground. The cacophony of noise and the flash of powers would have once overwhelmed Izuku, but he had learned how to manage the onslaught of stimuli over the years. He’d gotten better at reducing the world around him to something more manageable, focusing on the details that mattered.

Sitting near the back, Izuku kept his gaze fixed on his desk, idly scribbling in his notebook. His classmates’ quirks whirled around him, each one more flashy and ridiculous than the last. They were all practically useless in his opinion, illusions of strength with no substance behind them.

Katsuki Bakugo, seated near the front, shot up from his chair, an air of superiority radiating off him. “Don’t lump me in with these rejects, Sensei. I’m the real deal. These losers would be lucky to become sidekicks for some busted D-list hero.”

Izuku didn’t even need to look up to agree with Katsuki. It was true. The quirks in this room had no business being anywhere near hero work. But as expected, the class didn’t take kindly to being outright insulted. Murmurs of dissent spread quickly, students firing back with weak retorts, calling Katsuki a jerk or worse.

Katsuki’s eyes flared with annoyance. “Shut up! You all know I’m aiming for U.A. High School. You think you can compete with me?”

The room fell into a tense silence. The mere mention of U.A. was enough to cow the rest of them. Katsuki’s reputation was well-known, and the idea that any of them could match his ambition seemed laughable. The students exchanged uneasy glances, some mumbling about the difficulty of the U.A. Entrance Exam.

Katsuki sneered, basking in their uncertainty. “I aced the mock exam, and I’m gonna surpass even All Might as the top hero.”

The teacher, who had been watching the scene unfold with mild amusement, chimed in. “Oh, by the way, it looks like Midoriya also wants to go to U.A. High.”

The effect was immediate. Every eye in the room snapped to Izuku, whispers spreading like wildfire. They didn’t know that he could hear every word, even those spoken under their breath.

“He’s insane if he thinks they’ll even let him take the exam.”

“U.A. might arrest him on the spot.”

“He’ll never make it...”

Izuku didn’t move, didn’t react. The words washed over him, as hollow and meaningless as the powers they wielded. He’d heard it all before, seen the way they looked at him like he was something less than human. Still, he said nothing. No point in defending himself against people whose opinions didn’t matter. But out of the corner of his eye, he caught Katsuki’s stare, their gazes locking for a brief moment. Neither moved, both holding their ground in the silent exchange, a wordless challenge hanging in the air.

Eventually, the teacher broke the moment, asking Katsuki to take his seat so the lesson could continue.

...

As the day drew to a close, Izuku packed his things, his focus split between the notebook in his hand and the combat video playing on his phone. Fighting had become more than just a way to survive—it was an art, one he’d decided to master. He’d been taking it more seriously ever since…she died. He couldn’t afford to brutalize people anymore, not if he wanted to keep a low profile, but he could still be effective, still instill the kind of fear that would make others think twice before crossing him.

But as he prepared to head home, a familiar shadow loomed over his desk. Izuku didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

Katsuki’s hand was already crackling with tiny explosions, the heat searing the edges of Izuku’s notebook. Before he could react, Katsuki slammed the notebook down and let his Quirk loose, the pages curling and blackening under the intense heat.

Without a word, Katsuki snatched the charred notebook and flung it out the window, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched it spiral toward the ground below. But Izuku was faster. In a blur of movement, he was halfway out of the window, arm stretched out to snatch the notebook between his pointer finger and thumb. His other hand gripped the window frame tightly, one foot perched precariously on the edge.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Izuku hung there, suspended between the classroom and the empty air outside, holding his ruined notebook like it was the most natural thing in the world. He pulled himself back inside with a practiced ease and stuffed the notebook into his backpack without a word.

Katsuki stared at him, incredulous. The anger that had been simmering just below the surface flared up again, his composure slipping. “You really think you can make it into U.A.?” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. “Give it up already. You know they wouldn’t accept someone like…you.”

Izuku remained silent, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t going to rise to the bait, not this time.

Katsuki’s irritation grew. He took a step closer, lowering his voice even further. “There may be a way you could get in after all, you know,” he mused.

Izuku glanced up, humoring him. “How?”

The grin that came to Katsuki’s face was anything but friendly. “Do the heroes a favor and take a swan dive off the roof. It’ll save us the trouble of taking out another shitty villain later on.”

Izuku’s body moved before his mind caught up. The sharp crack of his fist connecting with Katsuki’s nose echoed in the classroom, shocking those who were still making their way out of the room, including himself. He hadn’t meant to hit him, if anyone could believe that. He thought he was past letting others provoke him like this, but clearly, he still had work to do. The force behind the punch had knocked Katsuki to the ground, the blond clutching his nose as blood streamed between his fingers. Katsuki’s face was scrunched up, fluctuating between outrage and pain, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to show Izuku just how much he’d been hurt.

Izuku stood there, frozen, staring down Katsuki, his hand still held out in the punching motion. He could feel his breath coming hard and fast, his chest heaving as he struggled to reign in the adrenaline surging through him. For a moment, everything else faded away—the classroom, the stares of his classmates, the dull throb of his knuckles. All that existed was the raw emotions that had driven him to lash out, and the realization that he had given into them.

Without another word, Izuku tore out of the room, not stopping until he reached the water fountain near the underpass he always took back on his way back to where he slept. He didn’t have a home, not one he could call his own anymore. Steady income had been nearly impossible for him to come by in the past six years, and with no income, that meant no apartment. He’d lost the rights to the place a week after being laid off. Since then, Izuku was what some would call a nomad, though he knew the truth of it all. He was homeless, sleeping in places long forgotten about alongside the rats, the bugs, and the cold that had been abandoned there too.

He finally slowed down as he neared the entrance of the underpass, the lactic acid building up in his legs from exertion. The brick walls stood more than a meter above him, a familiar sight that only added to the weight pressing on his chest. He stopped in front of them, trying to catch the breath that had been escaping him for some time now, but there was a lump in his throat that wouldn’t go away. The anger hadn’t left him—it had just shifted, turning inward, festering.

Izuku cocked the same fist he had used on Katsuki back and drove it into the brick wall. The impact reverberated through his bones, leaving a crude imprint of his hand in the wall, a small hole roughly the shape of his fist. When he pulled his hand back, he inspected it, the skin over his knuckles was no longer intact. It was an angry red with trails of a deeper shade trailing down from it, dropping onto the concrete below like rain. A few moments later, it healed back over, the wound closing as if it had never been there in the first place. But the blood was—trickling down his hand, dotting the earth, staining the wall. There was something to be found in that, wasn’t there? Too bad Izuku was no longer looking.

With a resigned sigh, Izuku turned and headed into the tunnel, the clicking of his heels bouncing off the walls. He had barely taken a few steps when something cold and slimy wrapped around his ankle. He stilled, unable to move any further, hearing a voice that seemed to bubble up from the depths of the sewer below.

“An extra-large meat suit! Not my first choice, but beggars can’t be choosers!”

Izuku craned his neck around, his eyes widened every so slightly as he was met with the sight of a towering figure made of a dark green sludge. The creature (person?) had a large set of sharp teeth that were visible in the dark due to their bright color, and its eyes—round, red, and bloodshot—floated aimlessly in the amorphous mass of its body. Thick tendrils made of the same substance as its body shot out, wrapping around the remaining parts of Izuku’s legs and torso, snaking up his body until they reached his mouth, filling it with the disgusting liquid.

Izuku wasn’t impressed with the attempt on his life. Sure, he could feel the sludge filling his lungs, but it wasn’t as if he really needed to breathe—just another new aspect of his quirk that had been no fun discovering. This villain believed he was suffocating him, but all it was doing was irritating Izuku. The stench was awful, worse than anything he’d experienced in his entire life. With a grunt, he willed to get an arm free and reached for one of the villain’s floating red eyes.

“What—what are you doing? Let go of my eye!” the sludge’s mouth demanded, panic creeping into his voice as Izuku’s fingers closed around the eyeball. Izuku didn’t bother himself with forming a response. He tightened his grip and pulled back, tearing the eye free from the villain’s body. The creature let out a shriek, recoiling as soon as the eye was ripped away.

Izuku didn’t hesitate as he crushed the eye in his hand, feeling it squish and crumble in his grip. There was no blood to follow it, just a wet, sickening sound as the eye was destroyed. The villain’s hold on Izuku slackened, the mud-like substance loosening enough for him to spin around rapidly, throwing the sludge off his body. The dark green substance painted the walls, splattered against them and in pieces.

Izuku made a disgruntled noise, adjusting the straps of his backpack as he stepped over the mess he had made of the villain. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and resumed the long walk back, already having moved on from the encounter. But as he neared the exit of the tunnel, he could feel the temperature rising exponentially, the air growing thick with heat. A bright light shone at the end of the tunnel, flickering like a flame.

When Izuku got closer, he saw it, he fought the instinct to flinch away from it—fire, not just any fire, but the kind that formed the facial hair of none other than Endeavor, the number two pro hero in all of Japan. The hero’s presence dominated the space, his towering figure radiating an oppressive heat like the sun as he stood at the other entrance to the underpass, searching for something.

Izuku tried to keep his composure, even as he felt a twinge of awe at being in the presence of his favorite hero. Though he was just slightly taller than Endeavor, it didn’t make the pro any less imposing. The fact that Izuku, at fourteen, was already taller than the hero was a strange realization for him—Endeavor was a giant in his mind, both literally and physically.

“Boy,” Endeavor’s deep voice rumbled, his eyes fixed on Izuku. “Have you seen a villain made of sludge around here? I’ve been tracking him and it led me here.”

Izuku tried to stay calm, though his mind raced. “Yeah, I, uh… took care of him,” he replied, keeping his tone steady as he gestured back toward the tunnel. “He’s all over the walls in there.”

Endeavor raised an eyebrow, surprised but not entirely convinced. “You handled him on your own?”

Izuku nodded, trying not to let his nerves show. “It wasn’t that tough,” he said without thinking. “He made his weaknesses too obvi—“

Endeavor cut him off, his tone stern. “Fighting without a license is reckless, not to mention illegal. You could’ve made the situation worse…I should have you arrested.” He paused, then added, almost begrudgingly, “But you seem like you can handle yourself well enough.”

Izuku’s ears went pink at the unexpected praise. “Thanks,” he mumbled, trying to hide his embarrassment. He quickly fumbled with his backpack, pulling out a notebook and flipping to a blank page. “Um, could I… get your autograph?”

Endeavor sighed, clearly not thrilled about the delay, but he took the notebook. “Don’t make a habit of this,” he muttered as he signed the page, his large hand almost engulfing the notebook.

Izuku watched in awe, hardly believing it was happening. When Endeavor handed the notebook back, he tried to stammer out a thank you, but the hero had already turned away, heading into the tunnel to deal with the remains of the villain.

Izuku stood there for a moment, staring at the signature, feeling the warmth of the hero’s lingering flames. Then, with a quiet breath, he tucked the notebook back into his bag and continued on his way, a faint smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

…

Izuku sat through the graduation ceremony at Aldera Junior High, giving little attention to the formalities. Students shuffled up to the stage in neat lines, receiving their diplomas with rehearsed bows. Polite applause followed each name, the principal’s monotone voice droning on with encouragement and advice for the future. Izuku couldn’t recall much of what was said; the words didn’t quite reach his ears. The entire event felt distant, like he was watching it from behind a pane of glass, not really there. He blinked, and suddenly it was over.

Standing outside the school, diploma in hand, Izuku stared up at the sky. The sun was just beginning to dip, casting a soft glow over the grounds. He didn’t bother with a folder or anything—he just folded the diploma in half and shoved it into his pocket, indifferent to the sounds of the paper crumpling up. It didn’t matter. The others were all clumped together in their groups, chatting and laughing, making plans for the summer. But none of them even glanced his way. It was like there was an invisible force field around him, keeping everyone at a distance. There was a ten-meter radius of empty space surrounding him, and it wasn’t an accident.

Izuku turned and started walking. The noise of the schoolyard faded as he headed toward Tatouin Station. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, fingers brushing against the diploma. The crinkle of paper was grounding, a reminder that this wasn’t some nightmare he’d wake up from to find himself back in a basement clutching an Endeavor plush. The station was still under repair, debris scattered here and there, remnants of a recent villain attack. Most of the damage had been cleared, thanks to quirks making the cleanup quicker and more efficient. But Izuku didn’t board any of the trains. Instead, he kept walking, heading further into the city.

Musutafu had its rougher areas, places where people didn’t flinch away from him or cast sideways glances. It was easier to exist here, to blend in without feeling like he was constantly being observed. Here, he wasn’t something to be gawked at; he was just another face among many.

He wandered until he reached a small restaurant, a dingy little place with a cardboard sign in the window that simply read "Restaurant" in red kanji. The door jingled as he entered, and the workers greeted him in unison, a simple, practiced routine. They seated him without fuss, a young lady approaching his table with a menu. But before she could say anything, the owner, an older man with a gruff demeanor, appeared.

“What’ll it be?” the man asked bluntly, not one for pleasantries.

Izuku fished out a crumpled wad of bills and coins from his pocket, counting out 3678 yen. “The largest cut of beef you have,” he said, “cooked blue rare.”

The owner raised an eyebrow, muttering something about how strange Izuku was, but he didn’t argue. He disappeared into the back, and less than a minute later, he returned with the order. The steak was barely seared, nearly raw, just the way Izuku liked it. The man sighed as he set the plate down. “I’ll never understand how you enjoy that, but money’s money.” He gave a small bow to Izuku, saying, “Thank you for the business.”

Izuku nodded in acknowledgment, digging in. The meat was tender, the blood pooling on the plate as he cut into it. He ate quickly, efficiently, finishing in no time at all. None of the other patrons gave him so much as a second glance, too absorbed in their own meals. He paid his bill and left, heading back to the place he’d been calling home for the past two months.

It wasn’t much, just an abandoned building he’d found, but he’d made it somewhat comfortable. After changing out of his graduation uniform into something more relaxed, Izuku examined himself in the cracked mirror. The clothes hung loosely off his tall, bony frame. He always had trouble finding things that fit—anything smaller than a 3XL turned into a crop top on him, and he was thankful the shorts he wore had a drawstring to keep them from slipping off his narrow hips.

Izuku dropped onto the worn mattress, letting out a long sigh as he tried to settle in. The springs dug into his back, but he’d gotten used to that by now. Yet, despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t get comfortable. He shifted around, trying to find a position that didn’t irritate him, but it was no use. Finally, he groaned out loud, dragging a hand down his face.

He was hungry again.

The steak had barely taken the edge off, and now the familiar gnawing sensation in his gut was back. It made sense, really—his metabolism was through the roof, and it took more than one meal to keep him satisfied. Izuku sat up, frustration bubbling in his chest. He was tired, hungry, and fed up with everything.

But there was no use complaining. With another sigh, Izuku got to his feet. He threw on a dark-colored sweatshirt, yanking the hood over his unruly hair, and shoved his feet into his dress shoes, not bothering to put on socks. The shoes weren’t ideal for this situation, one where he wanted to be ignored and unseen, but they’d have to do. It wasn’t like he had no money to afford anything else. He stepped over to the window, lifting it open with a creak before slipping outside onto the fire escape.

The rusted metal rattled under his weight as he descended, moving carefully but quickly. When he reached the second floor, he stopped and peaked over the railing, gauging the distance to the ground. It didn’t seem too far. He jumped over the top bar and dropped down, but the moment he hit the pavement, a stabbing pain shot up his legs. His ankles snapped under the impact, sending him sprawling to the ground with a sharp hiss. He lay there for a moment, waiting for the inevitable. The bones began to mend back together by themselves in a rapid fashion, the pain subsiding just as quickly as it had come.

“Too far up, Izuku. Too far,” he muttered to himself as he hoisted himself up with little help from the wall, testing the weight on his newly healed ankles. Satisfied, he tucked his hands into his pockets and started walking, sticking to the interconnecting back alleys where no light dared to shine.

He walked aimlessly, the city’s underbelly all too familiar to him by now. It wasn’t long before he happened upon a man slumped up against a wall, clearly strung out on something. The guy’s heartbeat was weak, barely there, Izuku could already smell the rot settling down in his veins. He cursed under his breath, frustrated with his luck. Drug addicts were second in awful tasting only to those with tattoos—bitter, and rancid, leaving him to deal with the nauseating high from whatever crap they had in their system. But his stomach growled, loud and insistent, reminding him that he didn’t have the luxury of being picky.

Izuku crouched low, glancing around out of habit. The alley was empty, save for him and the junkie. Reluctantly, he pulled the needle from the man’s arm, tossing it aside. It clattered against the pavement, rolling into a puddle. With another sigh, Izuku grabbed the guy by the hair and slammed his head against the ground. The man groaned the first time, but after the second and third blows, he was silent. Maybe Izuku had blocked out the sound, or maybe the guy had died—he didn’t have it in him to check.

There was a crack on the fourth that let Izuku know the skull had split open, and he dug his clawed fingers into the fresh crack, prying it open. He scooped out the brain in small chunks, biting into it with little hesitation. The taste was as bad as he was expecting, a sharp bitterness that made him gag slightly, but he forced it down. “Kind of like eating sashimi as a kid,” he mused to himself, his voice low and detached. The thought made him pause, remembering the sticky rice that usually came with it. He missed rice. He missed regular food.

He was lost in thought, more focused on the meal than his surroundings. Izuku didn’t hear the man approach, didn’t see his shadow creeping down the alley. One moment he was alone, gnawing on what was left of the junkie’s brain, and the next, there was a voice in front of him, casual and almost amused.

“Nice outfit you’ve got there,” the voice drawled. “Really… unique style. Shorts, a sweatshirt, and dress shoes? Bold choice.”

Izuku froze, his fingers tightening around the half-eaten chunk of flesh in his hand. He slowly lifted up his head, his eyes narrowing as he took in the newcomer. The guy, a young man maybe a few years older than him, was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his expression lying somewhere between bemusement and apathy. He was reasonably tall and lean, with black hair that spiked out wildly around his head. But what really drew Izuku’s attention was the purple, gnarled skin that covered the majority of his face, neck, and arms, held in place by crude surgical staples and hoop piercings. The rest if his skin was pale, a nice complement to the dark blue jacket and pants he wore. His turquoise eyes were thin, almost hidden beneath heavy lids, but they gleamed with a strange light, almost like he was enjoying the sight before him.

“Yeah, real unique,” the man continued, not missing a beat. “But you know what really brings it all together? The way you’re eating that guy and comparing it to sushi so casually. That’s…something else.”

Izuku scowled, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. This guy’s tone was irritating him, that apathetic, but still almost amused way he was speaking, like this was some kind of joke.

“What’s it to you?” Izuku shot back defensively, his voice rising to match the man. His voice seemed to make the man smile, although it wasn’t entirely visible due to the scar that ran across his forehead. He tilted his head to the side ever so slightly, the faintest trace of a grin tugging at his lips. The motion brought his face closer to Izuku, making him feel uncomfortable.

“Who knew insane, attractive, and a cannibal could all describe one person? You might be the only one, though. The other cannibals I’ve met are either only one or two of them, not all three.” The man raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “Guess that makes you one of a kind, huh?”

Izuku’s scowl deepened. He didn’t know what this guy’s deal was, but he wasn’t in the mood for his bullshit. Especially if he was gonna try to play some kind of joke on him. “So? Did you want something from me?”

The guy chuckled, the sound almost mocking, as he backed away from Izuku, putting some distance between them. He then threw Izuku’s words back at him, smiling like he was proud of himself. “What’s it to you?”

He glanced over his shoulder, his expression fading slightly as if expecting something or someone to appear. Izuku strained his senses but heard, smelled, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. “Looks like I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He turned to leave, tossing a final sardonic smile over his shoulder as he walked away. “See you later, sushi boy.”

Izuku watched him go, straining his neck, hoping to catch one last glimpse of his retreating form before disappearing around the corner. Something about the corner stirred up things within him, the stranger’s turquoise eyes lingering in his mind. Even after he returned to his makeshift house, the man’s smirk haunted him, slipping into his dreams and turning them into nightmares.

That same night, and many nights after, those turquoise eyes followed him into his sleep, eventually being able to lull him to sleep, until finally, the dreams faded to a whisper, and Izuku finally let go.

Chapter Text

Izuku stood in front of the mirror, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. It was stiff and ill-fitting, something that had belonged to a man even larger than he was, if that were even possible, but it would have to do. He brushed his fingers through his hair, attempting to tame the unruly black locks, but they stubbornly resisted his efforts. With a sigh, he gave up and slung his backpack over his shoulder. It was heavy with the weight of the textbooks he’d borrowed from the cram school, the ones that would hopefully fill in the gaps his junior high had left in his education.

The streets were already crowded with people heading to work or school, and Izuku blended into the flow, just another body in the faceless crowd. The cram school wasn’t far, a short walk through the bustling city, but each step felt heavier than the last. His mind was a whirl of formulas, dates, and equations, the things he had been cramming into his brain for weeks now. He had never been a stellar student, always struggling to keep up, but now he had no choice. If he didn’t pass the written exam, it wouldn’t matter how impressive his quirk was or how strong a villain he could defeat in combat. U.A. wouldn’t take him.

The cram school was a nondescript building tucked between two taller ones, almost easy to miss if you didn’t know where to look. Izuku pushed the door open and was greeted by the cool blast of air conditioning. The lobby was quiet, with a few students milling around, their faces buried in their books. Izuku didn’t know any of them, but that was fine. He was used to being alone.

“Midoriya, you’re here early,” a voice called out from behind the reception desk.

Izuku turned to see one of the instructors, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and thick glasses. His name was Mr. Ikoma, and he was one of the few teachers who didn’t look at Izuku with suspicion or disdain. Though, no matter how many times he told the man that he wanted to be addressed by only his first name, he refused to do so.

He chose to not reply but gave Mr. Ikoma a small nod before heading towards the staircase. He didn’t want to get caught up in small talk, not today. His mind was too full, too scattered, and he needed to focus.

The classroom was almost empty when he arrived, just a few other early birds like him. Izuku took his usual seat near the back, where he could spread out his books and notes without bothering anyone. He pulled out his notebook, the pages filled with scribbles and annotations, and flipped to the section on mathematics. Numbers, just after English, had always been his weakest subject, and he needed all the time to prepare.

As the minutes ticked by, more students trickled in, filling the room with the low buzz of conversation. Izuku kept his head down, focused on his work, tuning out the noise around him.

The door creaked open one final time, and Izuku heard the familiar shuffle of Mr. Ikoma’s footsteps. The classroom fell silent as the instructor cleared his throat and began the day’s lesson. Izuku’s pen moved quickly across the page, jotting down notes, his mind racing to keep up with the information being thrown at him. It was overwhelming, but in a way, it was also comforting.

In the blink of an eye, hours had already passed by. The afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the desks. Sunlight had shifted from harsh midday rays to the softer, golden light of late afternoon. Izuku glanced at the clock on the wall. Only another thirty minutes until this session was over. He could feel the weight of the day pressing down on him, the hours of studying and the gnawing hunger in his gut combining to make his head spin.

His stomach growled, loud enough that the girl sitting at the desk next to him glanced over. Izuku ignored her, flipping the page of his workbook. He couldn’t afford to waste time. His grades had improved, sure, but that wasn’t enough. If he wanted any chance of getting into U.A., he had to keep pushing, keep clawing his way up from the bottom.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the session. Izuku stuffed his books into his bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he stood. The other students filed out of the room, chatting quietly amongst themselves. Izuku stayed behind, waiting until the room had mostly cleared before he headed for the door. He had a routine now, one that he stuck to religiously. Cram school, food, training, then… the ring.

Izuku, though it was extremely busy, easily fell in stride with the people rushing home from work or heading out for the night. He made his way to the convenience store, his footsteps quick and purposeful. The thought of eating made his stomach twist, but he knew he needed the fuel. He couldn’t afford to be weak, not for what he had coming up for him later.

He had to blink a few times when he walked in the convenience store as the fluorescent lighting inside was too much of a difference from the outside for him to adjust to immediately. Once settled, he walked in, heading straight for the refrigerated section.

The selection was limited, but he didn’t care. He grabbed a pack of nigiri and a bottle of water, paid for it, and then moved to the small seating area near the window. The chair creaked slightly as he sat down, the plastic tray hitting the table with a soft thud. Izuku ate with deliberate, measured movements, peeling the fish away from the rice and letting the cool flesh slide down his throat. It wasn’t enjoyable—not really—but it was tolerable, and that was all he needed.

As he ate, his thoughts drifted back to the cram school. He was still behind, but the gap was closing, and he could feel the progress in the way the material didn’t seem as foreign as it once did. The teachers there were different, not weighed down by the expectations and prejudices he’d faced in junior high. It was…strange, almost unsettling, to be treated like a normal student, to be given the same opportunities as everyone else. It made him realize just how badly he’d been cheated out of a proper education before.

Izuku leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he stared out the window. The sky was tinged with the warm hues of sunset, the city beginning to glow with the soft light of early evening. His mind, however, was already moving ahead to what came next.

The ring.

He hadn’t planned on getting involved with something so dangerous, but the allure of easy money had been too strong to resist. It wasn’t like he could get killed—hurt, sure, but not killed. Not even if he wanted to. He had a goal, though, and he needed the cash. U.A. High was expensive, more than he’d ever imagined, and he wasn’t about to let something like money get in his way. The fights were brutal, messy, and downright savage, but they were also a way to hone his skills. He couldn’t afford to let this opportunity slip through his fingers.

The last of the sushi disappeared as Izuku’s thoughts circled back to the upcoming exam. It was only nine months away now, and the pressure was mounting. He had to be ready—physically, mentally, in every way possible. By any means possible.

Izuku gathered his things, crumpling the plastic tray into a ball before tossing it into the trash. As he left the store, the cool evening air washed over him, a welcome contrast to the stifling heat of the day.

There was still time before the ring opened for the night, but he wasn’t in a hurry. Izuku knew that once he stepped into that underground world, there was no going back. Each fight chipped away at something inside him, something he wasn’t sure he’d ever get back. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he won, that he survived, and that he got the money he needed. Everything else was secondary.

His pace quickened as he moved through the streets, the city’s pulse syncing with his own. The future was uncertain, filled with dangers he couldn’t yet see. But Izuku Midoriya was used to that. He’d been walking a dangerous path for a long time now.

…

The midnight air hung with a tangible humidity as Izuku wound his way through the labyrinthine-like back alleys of Musutafu. The ruckus of the day faded with each step, replaced by the low murmur of distant voices and the occasional clatter of something that was meant to go unseen to those not involved. He moved with purpose, his footsteps muffled against the worn pavement, each turn taking him deeper into the underbelly of the city—a world far removed from the sanitized streets above.

Finally, he reached his destination: a metal door that had long been rusted over set into the base of a dilapidated building. There was no sign, no indication of what lay beyond, but Izuku knew better. This was the place.

He pushed the door open with a bit of trouble, the metal groaning in protest, and descended a narrow staircase. The further he went, the more the air changed, growing heavier, saturated with the unmistakable scent of sweat, blood, and the nauseating tang of smoke that burned at his nostrils. The dim, flickering lights along the walls cast eerie shadows, warping the graffiti and peeling paint into grotesque shapes that seemed to move in the corner of his eye.

At the bottom of the stairs, the space opened up into a large, cavernous room. The ceiling was low, pipes and exposed beams crisscrossing overhead, while the walls were lined with makeshift seating—rusted metal chairs, wooden crates, anything that could support the weight of a human, or human-adjacent, being. A crowd had already gathered, a seething mass of bodies pressed together, creating a sheen of sweat that clung to Izuku’s skin.

He stood at the edge of the room, his eyes scanning the scene with a mixture of caution and calculation. The crowd was a mix of hardened, desperate fighters and those who looked like they’d stumbled into this world by accident, their eyes wide with either fear, excitement, or necessity. There were others, too—spectators with a glint of predatory interest in their eyes, men and women who lived for the thrill of watching blood spill. Izuku felt a twinge of unease in his gut, but he shoved it down, burying it beneath the cold logic that had brought him here in the first place.

He stood out in the crowd, taller and broader than most, his hair a dark, tangled mess that framed his sharp features. His eyes, however, betrayed him the apprehension in them—an instinctual alertness honed by years of living by himself with no one to watch his back for him. He’d been through hell before, and this place was no different. The rules were always simple: survive or don’t.

“New meat, huh?”

The voice came from behind him, rough and gravelly, with a hint of amusement. Izuku turned to see a man approaching—a veteran of the ring by the looks of him. His face was a road map of scars, each one telling a story of survival, and his eyes were cold, assessing, as they raked over Izuku.

“You got a name, kid?” the man asked, though his tone suggested he didn’t really care.

Izuku hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Mutt,” he replied, the word slipping out more like a growl. It wasn’t what they called him outside these walls, but it felt fitting here—something familiar, but something that couldn’t be tied back to him.

The man snorted, the sound more like a cough than a laugh. “Mutt, huh? Fitting, I suppose.” He jerked his head toward the center of the room, where a makeshift ring had been set up—just a roped-off area with a patchy, bloodstained mat. “You’ll be fighting in a few minutes after we get our little fee. But the rules are simple: anything goes and your only goal is to win. Understand?”

Izuku nodded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a crumpled wad of yen—the last of his money. He handed it over without a word, watching as the man counted it with a practiced hand before shoving it into his own pocket.

“Right,” the man grunted, jerking his thumb toward the ring. “You’re up.”

Izuku moved toward the ring, his chest beginning to pound in anticipation. The crowd shifted around him, parting like a wave, all eyes on the new contender. He could hear murmurs—speculation, bets being placed, the usual noise that accompanied these events. It was all background now, drowned out by the sound of his own breathing and the thud of his pulse in his ears.

His opponent was already in the ring, pacing like a caged animal. The man was smaller, wiry, with a lean, coiled energy that spoke of speed and agility. His eyes gleamed with a wild light, and he flashed a grin as Izuku stepped into the ring.

“Name’s Whip,” the man sneered, though Izuku didn’t ask. “Don’t worry, Mutt—I’ll make it quick.”

Izuku didn’t respond, his mind already calculating. This was his first fight here, and he had to make sure he made a great first impression. Whip’s quirk was obvious from the way he moved—lightning fast, a blur of motion that would be hard to pin down. But Izuku had his own advantages: strength, endurance, and a grim determination that had seen him through far worse than this.

The fight began without ceremony—no bell, no signal, just the sudden rush of movement as Whip lunged at him, a streak of speed aimed at his side. Izuku barely had time to react, twisting his body just enough to avoid the full impact, but still feeling the sting of a glancing blow.

Whip didn’t let up, racing around with jerky movements that made him difficult to track. He struck again and again, each hit coming from a different angle, a blur of motion that left Izuku struggling to keep up. He could feel the blows landing—sharp, precise, meant to wear him down rather than deliver a knockout punch. But while Whip was fast, he wasn’t strong. Each hit felt like a needle prick, painful but not debilitating.

Izuku gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay calm. He could take the hits; he’d been through worse. What he needed was an opening, just one moment where Whip slowed down enough for him to strike.

Then it came—Whip overextended on a punch, his balance momentarily thrown off. Izuku seized the opportunity, lunging forward with all the force he could muster. His fist connected with Whip’s midsection, and he felt the satisfying give of flesh and bone beneath his knuckles. The impact sent Whip staggering back, the air rushing out of his lungs in a gasp.

Izuku didn’t give him time to recover. He pressed the attack, a leg flying out, aimed right at the man’s legs, the blows landed with a crack. Whip tried to dodge on his ruined legs, to slip away, but Izuku was relentless, his movements becoming more brutal, more savage, with each passing second. Blood splattered the mat, staining it anew, as Izuku hammered away at his opponent, driven by something deeper than just the need to win.

There was no strategy anymore, no thought—just the primal urge to destroy, to tear down the threat in front of him until nothing remained. He could feel the crowd’s energy, their bloodlust feeding into his own, but it was distant, muted compared to the roaring in his head.

Finally, Whip collapsed, his body crumpling to the mat in a broken heap. Izuku stood over him, chest heaving, body shaking from the exertion. The fight was over, but the adrenaline still surged through him, leaving him feeling hollow and restless, like he hadn’t truly won anything at all.

The crowd erupted into cheers and jeers, money exchanging hands as bets were settled. Izuku barely registered it, his mind still focused on the sight of Whip lying motionless at his feet. He’d won, but the victory felt empty, like a box checked off a list rather than a triumph.

Izuku stepped back, his breathing slowing, the hollow feeling in his chest growing with each passing second. This wasn’t about glory, about proving himself—this was survival, pure and simple. Like a shark, he couldn’t afford to stop moving, couldn’t afford to hesitate, or he’d drown in the depths of this world he’d willingly stepped into.

As the man with the scars approached him again, probably to discuss his next fight, Izuku barely heard him. His thoughts were already elsewhere, focusing on the next challenge, the next opponent. He couldn’t stop, not now—not ever.

There was still so much further to fall.

…

Izuku slipped out of the fight ring as soon as he could after his latest fight, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridors as he retraced his steps back to the surface. The thrill of the fight had long since faded, replaced by a dull ache that radiated through his body, a reminder of the punishment he’d endured—and inflicted. The world outside felt muted, distant, as if he were moving through a haze. The city lights were harsh, too bright, and the noise of the streets grated on his frayed nerves. He kept his head down, shoulders hunched, avoiding eye contact with anyone he passed.

The walk to his house was a blur, the familiar path offering no comfort. By the time he reached the door, his hands were trembling, not from fear, but from exhaustion—mental, physical, emotional. The door creaked as he pushed it open, the sound jarring in the quiet hallway. Inside, the small, rundown space greeted him with its usual emptiness.

The room was just as he’d left it: a narrow bed with a lumpy mattress shoved against one wall, a battered table with one leg shorter than the others, and a tiny bathroom that looked like it hadn’t seen proper cleaning in years. The walls were a sickly shade of yellow, stained with age and dampness, cracks spiderwebbing across the plaster. The only light came from a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling, flickering at its own whims as if unsure whether to stay on or finally give up.

Izuku shut the door behind him, the click of the lock sounding too loud in the silence hovering over him. He leaned back against the door for a moment, eyes closed, trying to steady his breathing. The adrenaline that had carried him through the fight was gone, leaving him feeling hollow, as though something essential had been drained from him.

When he finally moved, it was with a heaviness that seemed to weigh him down with every step. He pulled his shirt off, wincing as the fabric scraped over bruised skin. The dim light cast harsh shadows across his bare torso, highlighting the cuts and contusions that marred his flesh. Dark bruises were already blooming along his ribs, and a particularly deep gash near his temple pulsed with a dull, insistent pain.

Izuku walked to the small, cracked mirror hanging over the sink in the corner of the room. The reflection that stared back at him was almost unrecognizable—his face nearly white, eyes sunken, the gray of his irises dulled to an even more lifeless shade. His hair, matted with sweat and dried blood, hung limply around his face. For a moment, he just stared, as if trying to remember the person who used to occupy this body.

He turned on the faucet, letting the water run until it was cold before splashing it on his face. The sting that came from that was grounding, pulling him back from the edge of the numbness that threatened to swallow him whole. Izuku reached for a towel, dabbing at the cut on his temple, doing his best not to wince. The stab wound was deeper than he’d realized, so much so that he could see the white of a bone in the mirror—probably would have felt it too if he was bold enough—and the skin around it was hot and swollen, refusing to knit back together as quickly as it should’ve been.

“Damn it…” he muttered, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. He hadn’t thought much about it before, but now, staring at the sluggishly healing wound, he felt a pang of unease settle within him. His regeneration was slower, noticeably so. Normally, something like this would have been nothing more than a fleeting discomfort, but tonight, it lingered, throbbing with a stubbornness that gnawed at his mind.

As he cleaned his injuries, methodically wiping away the blood and grime, he kept catching glimpses of himself in the mirror. His reflection seemed distorted, the edges blurred, as if the person staring back wasn’t entirely real. The mirror itself was old, the surface warped and scratched, but it wasn’t just that. There was something in the eyes that looked back at him—they were hollowed out, like he’d lost something that he didn’t even know had been there.

He wrapped a bandage around his temple, securing it with a rough knot, and dropped the bloodied towel into the sink. The room was silent, save for the sound of his breathing, and the faint hum of the flickering bulb overhead. Izuku leaned against the sink, gripping the edges tightly as he stared into the mirror, his gaze unfocused.

Time had lost its meaning for him. Days blurred together in an endless cycle of fights, recovery, and more fights. The physical pain was manageable—he could grit his teeth and push through it, as he always had—but the weight pressing down on his mind was another matter. It was like a creeping fog, slowly smothering everything, making it harder to think, harder to feel.

How much longer could he keep this up? How many more fights before his body finally gave out, before his mind snapped under the pressure? He didn’t know, and he couldn’t afford to care. Quitting wasn’t a luxury people like him could hope to have. He was too far in, too deep in this nightmare of his own making.

Izuku’s eyes drifted back to his reflection, his expression blank. He wasn’t sure who he was anymore, or if it even mattered. The person he’d been was gone, buried under layers of violence and self-deprecation, and what was left was little more than a shadow, driven by a relentless, unyielding need to justify the reasons he was still breathing while countless others were not.

He pushed away from the sink, turning his back on the mirror. The bed creaked as he sat down, the springs protesting under his weight. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his hands hanging limply between his legs. The flickering light cast his shadow on the wall, a dark, twisted shape that seemed to mock him. It seemed to grow horns, then a smile he recognized all too much from his childhood. He knew his mind was making these things up, a lack of sleep would do that to you, but it didn’t make it any less real to him.

There was no going back. No escape. Only the next fight, the next challenge, the next step forward in this endless descent. Izuku closed his eyes, shutting out the world, and let the silence consume him.

Chapter Text

Izuku’s knuckles hit the bag with a dull thud, a rhythmic cadence that matched the steady rhythm of his breathing. His breath came in slow, controlled puffs as he moved around the bag, eyes fixed on the worn surface in front of him. His feet shuffled, barely lifting off the ground, each step purposeful, calculated. He shifted his weight, pivoted, threw a sharp jab, then followed it with a cross, his body rotating with the punch to maximize its impact.

The skin on his knuckles was already raw, the friction from the heavy bag biting into it, but he paid it no mind. The pain was distant, almost irrelevant—a familiar companion in these moments. He wasn’t here to stay comfortable; he was here to get better. To fight better.

He adjusted his stance, watching the way his feet aligned, the way his hips followed the movement of his torso, ensuring everything was in sync. He’d seen other fighters move like this—professionals, seasoned veterans who made each strike look effortless. Izuku wasn’t there yet, but he was getting closer. Each match in the ring taught him something new, each fighter he faced showed him another angle, another approach.

A roundhouse kick snapped out, the air around his leg hissing before the impact sent the bag swaying violently. He followed through, not just with the kick but with the next step, regaining his balance, preparing for the next attack. The bag swung back, and he was already moving, sidestepping as if avoiding a counterattack, then darting in with a rapid combination.

His mind ran through the lessons learned in blood and sweat—keep moving, never stay rooted in place, don’t give the opponent a stationary target. His body responded with muscle memory, honed over months of practice, of relentless training that pushed his limits further and further. He couldn’t afford to be slow, to hesitate. Hesitation meant defeat, and defeat in the ring was more than just a loss; it was survival in a world that didn’t care how hard you tried, only how hard you hit back.

He slammed another fist into the bag, the force behind it causing a sharp pain to radiate up his arm. His bones rattled, but he welcomed it, pushed through it. The pain was good. The pain meant he was alive, that he was still here, still fighting. He wasn't soft, wasn't weak like he used to be. He was carving away the parts of himself that couldn’t survive here, molding what was left into something stronger, more dangerous.

His thoughts were interrupted by the muffled sound of an announcer calling out the next match. He ignored it for now, focusing on the rhythm he had built, the movement of his body, the swing of the bag. He didn’t need to think about the match, about the opponent waiting for him just beyond the door. All that mattered was what he did in the moment, what he’d been doing for months now—surviving.

He delivered a final blow, a solid right hook that sent the bag spinning on its chain, and stepped back, breathing heavily. The muscles in his arms and legs tingled with exertion, sweat dripping down his face, but he wasn’t tired. Not yet. Not ever. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, smearing the sweat across his skin, and let his gaze drift toward the door.

The ring waited. His next opponent waited.

Izuku cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp in the dimly lit room, and rolled his shoulders. It was time to fight. Again.

He couldn’t lie that there was a pounding in his chest as he was led into the ring, the noise growing louder with each step. The walls of the narrow corridor pressed in on him, closing in, forcing himself to be reminded that there was no turning back on this. He’d fought in this ring more times than he could count, but tonight was different. Tonight, he was facing someone new. Someone he hadn’t faced since the first day they met, someone who was strong, faster, and infinitely more skilled than him in every way imaginable.

The Butcher. Even the name sent a shiver down his spine, even though he hated to admit it. Izuku had heard the stories—everyone had. The man was a legend of the ring, undefeated, an unstoppable force. And now, Izuku was expected to go toe-to-toe with him. Well, more like survive him. He tried to push down the fear bubbling up inside him, to remind himself that he’d survived worse, that he’d come too far to let some man he’s never met intimidate him. But the unease lingered, stayed swirling around, a cold knot in his gut that wouldn’t go away.

When he was tossed into the ring, the noise had hit him like a physical force, nearly knocking him off balance. It was deafening, a roar of excitement and bloodlust that reverberated through his skull, making his vision blur at the edges. Izuku staggered only for a moment, disoriented, before forcing his eyes to focus. He couldn’t afford to be distracted, not now. He couldn’t afford to let fear rule him, to let weakness control his actions. It would cost him more than victory that night.

The Butcher was already there, standing across the ring with his arms crossed and eyes closed as if he was bored with the entire affair. Izuku dwarfed him, but his presence filled the space between them, his aura drawing the air around him in and making Izuku have to work harder to breathe. The man didn’t need to project his strength; it radiated from him, an invisible force that made Izuku’s muscles involuntarily tense up.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the staticy speakers, listing the fighter’s records, but Izuku barely heard it. His gaze was locked on the Butcher, on the calm, composed way he stood there, as if this was just another day in the office for him. It was unnerving if nothing else. Izuku had fought plenty of confident opponents, but this was something else entirely. The man didn’t just believe he would win—he knew it.

Izuku’s fist clenched at his sides, his knuckles still a little raw and bruising from his earlier warm-up. He couldn’t let the Butcher get inside his head. He had to focus, had to find a way to get through this, just like he has with everything else. The announcer’s voice droned on, but his attention was on the Butcher’s movements—or rather, the lack of them. The man hadn’t budged an inch since he’d entered the ring, hadn’t even opened his eyes.

When the announcer finally fell silent, the crowd erupted into cheers, the sound hammering into Izuku’s skull. He grit his teeth, resisting the urge to move away from the noise and cover his ears. Showing any sign of weaknesses to exploit would be a mistake—a fatal one. The Butcher would notice, and he wouldn’t hesitate to exploit it.

The moment of silence stretched on, a tension-filled second before the Butcher cracked his neck to the side, opening his eyes slowly. Izuku’s muscles tensed involuntarily, his body coiled like a spring. He figured the Butcher was waiting for him to make the first move. He didn’t want to, but it wasn’t like he had much of a choice in the matter. Standing still would only prolong the inevitable, and if he hesitated any longer, he’d be giving the Butcher even more of an advantage.

“I didn’t pay to watch two assholes stare each other down—I paid to see some blood spilled! Stop making us wait, Butcher!”

With that said, Izuku launched himself forward in a straight dash, his body a blur of motion. His fist was cocked back, ready to strike with all the power he could muster. But before he could even register what was happening, he was airborne and the world around him was upside down. There was a sharp pain in his back as he was slammed into the concrete floor of the ring, the impact driving the air from his lungs.

Izuku gasped, eyes blown wide, his mind struggling to catch up with his body. The Butcher had moved so fast that Izuku hadn’t seen it coming. He forced himself to roll to the side, barely managing to avoid a boot that came crashing down where his head had been moments ago. His vision doubled as he scrambled to his feet, swaying as he tried to find his balance.

The Butcher was already advancing, his expression void of any type of emotion, his movements methodical and calculated. There was no hesitation in the way he closed the distance, no wasted effort. Izuku barely had time to get himself back into a fighting stance before the next attack came—a sweeping kick directed at his legs.

Pain exploded in his knees as they buckled, a sharp, tearing sensation that left him reeling. He hit the ground again, his legs snapping beneath him. His regeneration kicked in almost immediately, the bones fusing back together with an audible crack, but it hadn’t been enough time to make a major difference. The Butcher was already on him again, his fist smashing into Izuku’s face with bone-shattering force.

Izuku’s vision went white with pain, his head snapping back as the blow connected. He tasted blood, felt his brain rattle around in his skull. He tried to fight back, to raise his arms in defense, but the Butcher was relentless. Every time Izuku managed to find his footing, another shot to his body would send him crashing down again. His bones were broken and healed so many times that he lost count, the pain blurring together in a continuous, agonizing ache.

The Butcher seemed to know exactly where to hit to inflict the most pain on Izuku, targeting his head whenever possible. Each strike was calculated, precise, and designed to maximize damage while giving Izuku no time to recover. By this point, Izuku’s world was nothing more than a haze of pain and blood, his thoughts struggling to keep up as his body was pushed to its limits.

He tried to find an opening, a moment to counterattack, but it was as if those kinds of things didn’t exist. The Butcher’s defense was impenetrable to him, his movements too fast, too fluid. Every time Izuku thought he saw a gap, it closed before he could act on it, leaving him vulnerable to another devastating blow.

His regeneration, which he relied on heavily during his fights, was quickly becoming a curse. It drained him, sapped his energy with each injury he had to heal himself from. He could feel himself getting weaker, his movements slowing as exhaustion set in. The Butcher never let up, never gave him a moment to breathe. It was like being trapped in a nightmare, one where no matter how hard he fought, he was always one step behind, always on the verge of losing.

And then as if to add insult to injury, he felt that hunger pulling at his stomach, that emptiness that had haunted him as a child, and for that moment, he was four years old again, hurt and starving. For a moment, the Butcher’s face started to blur, to shift into something else—something terrifyingly familiar.

Inko. His mother. Her eyes were bright with anger, filled with the same disdain he’d seen so many times before. She wasn’t supposed to be here, but there she was, staring at him with a look that said she wished he’d never been born.

Izuku’s breath got caught in his throat, panic surging through him. He lunged at her without thinking, his instincts taking over. His teeth bared, his mind blank with rage and fear, he went for her throat, desperate to silence that look, to make it go away.

The Butcher’s hand came down like a hammer, backhanding Izuku with such force that he was sent flying across the ring. He crashed into the metal cage, the impact sending shockwaves throughout his entire body. Teeth clattered to the ground, quickly growing back, but the pain was still there, throbbing in his jaw. He coughed, blood splattered the concrete beneath him, but he didn’t care. He was on all-fours next, his mind still locked on the image of his mother, of those angry, unforgiving eyes.

He pushed himself up, his body trembling, but he made himself lunge at her again, attacking with a ferocity that bordered on madness. His claws tore into her pale flesh, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to do more, to rip her apart, to finally make her pay for all the pain she’d ever caused him.

Izuku was relentless, throwing himself at her over and over again, each attack more brutal than the last. He didn’t care about the blood covering his body, didn’t care about the way his muscles screamed in protest. He just needed to end it, to stop the restless nights, the memories that tore at his sanity.

In a moment of her hesitation, his teeth sunk into her neck, a growl rumbling deep in his chest as he ripped out her larynx with a twist of his head. He felt the hot, coppery taste of blood fill his mouth, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t bring himself to stop. She collapsed face-first onto the mat, her skull cracking open with a sickening crunch as it hit the ground.

Izuku stood over her, panting, chest heaving with effort. The blood dribbled from his mouth, the taste metallic, bitter, but he didn’t care. The hunger, the emptiness, it was gone, replaced by a twisted sense of satisfaction. He had won. He had survived.

But as the world slowly came back into focus, as the blood in his mouth turned sour, he realized the truth. The body at his feet wasn’t his mother. It was the Butcher, his cold eyes staring back at him, lifeless, unseeing. The taste of victory turned to ash, the cacophony of the arena came over him once more, deafening in comparison.

The crowd is nothing but a frenzied blur of faces—some cheering, others screaming in outrage. Money changes hands, some furious, some triumphant, but the bloodied bills and coins tossed around the cage are inconsequential to Izuku.

A voice crackles through the speakers again, the same voice, the announcer’s voice, a fever-pitched mix of disbelief and awe. “Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t believe what I just saw! The Butcher… the undefeated Butcher has fallen! Mutt has done the impossible, and in the most brutal fashion we’ve ever witnessed! This kid—he’s something else, folks! He’s a monster in the ring!”

Izuku’s vision was still hazy, his mind still not yet caught up with the aftermath of everything. The pain in his body was nothing more than a dull throb, his regeneration already working overtime to mend the fractures and other internal damage. But it’s not fast enough. He’s been pushing himself too hard for too long, and his body’s on dangerously low reserves. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would be able to keep this up.

A group of men, decked out in heavy-duty protective gear, storm into the ring. Their faces are hidden behind the dark visors of their helmets, their movements jerky and frantic, their weapons gleaming in the low lighting as they rush towards the cage. Izuku’s instinct is to fight, to lash out and defend himself from these oncoming threats, but his muscles are sluggish, his reactions dulled by exhaustion and the lingering effects of months of strenuous activity with no break.

Even if he had the ability to fight back at the moment, they didn’t give him a chance to resist. Tasers crackled, and electricity surged throughout his body, locking up his muscles and sending him sprawling to the ground with a resounding thud. He convulses when the probes hit him, teeth gritted as pain shot throughout his nervous system, but he felt too physically drained to fight back. He’s barely conscious as they dragged him out of the ring, his vision darkening at the edges, the jeering crowd falling on ringing ears.

The next thing he knows, he’s being dumped into the waiting area, the cold concrete sending a shiver through his whole body. Four men loom over him, their voices muffled by the lingering ringing in his ears. “Get your money and get the hell out of here, kid. Don’t come back. Ever.”

They’re gone before he can even respond, leaving him alone in the room with the flickering lights and the one window to see out onto the streets. Izuku’s body feels like it’s made of lead, every bit of movement he makes sends spikes of pain into his bones. But he forces himself to stand, his legs trembling beneath him as he stumbles over to a table where his winnings were waiting.

The stack of bills is hefty, more than he’s ever seen in his life, but it feels empty in his hands. He stuffs it into his pocket without counting it, too numb to care. His thoughts weren’t together much better than his physical state. He couldn’t process anything, just numb, hollow. But, he was always hollow, wasn’t he? He shouldn’t have expected to feel any different.

The walk back to his abandoned house is a blur. He doesn’t remember exactly how he got there, just that by the time he collapses onto the mattress, the sun is starting to rise. He’s too tired to sleep, his mind racing as he stares up at the cracked ceiling, the events of the night replaying in his head over and over again.

Izuku doesn’t remember falling asleep. One moment, he’s staring up at the cracked ceiling, replaying the night over and over in his head, and the next, he’s waking up, a sharp, gnawing pain twisting in his gut. It’s a sensation that’s all too familiar now—a hunger that claws at him from the inside out, demanding to be fed.

The mattress beneath him is damp with sweat, his body heavy and stiff as if he’s been lying there for days. And maybe he has. Time feels slippery, hard to grasp. The light filtering through the broken windows has shifted, and the air smells different, stale, like it’s been sitting still for too long. It has been too long.

Pushing himself up, Izuku sways, the room tilting around him. His stomach churns, a deep, primal need surging through him. He’s felt this before, of course, countless times previous to this particular instance—when he was younger and his mother wouldn’t buy enough food for him, when he first started living on the streets and had to scavenge for scraps. It’s a hunger that gnaws at his insides, making his vision blur and his thoughts scatter, reduced to one singular focus: eat.

He stumbles to his feet, the world swirling around him. His body moves on autopilot, instincts taking over as he fumbles for a fresh pair of clothes, his shoes—everything he needed to get out of this suffocating space and onto the street. The hunger drives him, overriding everything else. There’s no room for anything but the need to satisfy this craving, to fill the void gnawing away at him.

Outside, the streets are eerily quiet, the city still in that strange, predawn limbo. Izuku’s feet carry him through familiar alleyways and side streets, the path ingrained in his memory from countless nights spent roaming these same routes. He doesn’t know where he’s going, only that he needs to find something—anything—to quell the hunger before it drives him mad.

Every shadow seems to pulse with life, every sound amplified in the stillness of the early morning. Izuku’s senses are heightened, his mind zeroing in on anything that might resemble food. His gaze lingers on a stray cat darting into an alley, the thought of sinking his teeth into its flesh momentarily flickering in his mind before he shakes it off, disgusted with himself. The creature ran away before he could even give it more consideration.

But the hunger doesn’t care about disgust or morality. It’s a living, breathing thing inside him, screaming to be fed. And Izuku knows, deep down, that if he doesn’t find something soon, he won’t be able to control it.

He’s been here before, more times than he can count. The edge of desperation, the line between man and beast blurring as survival instincts kick in. But this time, it’s different. This time, he’s stronger, faster, more dangerous. He can feel it in his bones, the power coursing through him, the result of everything he’s been through—everything he’s done.

The sun is just starting to rise, casting a pale light over the city as Izuku rounds a corner, eyes scanning the area. He catches sight of a trash bin outside a convenience store, the lid slightly askew. Without hesitation, he’s on it, ripping it open and tearing through the bags inside, searching for anything remotely edible.

He finds a half-eaten sandwich, the bread stale and the meat questionable, but it doesn’t matter. He devours it in seconds, barely chewing, just enough to keep from choking as he shoves more into his mouth. The taste is awful, the bread rotten and foul, but it’s something, a temporary relief from the burning in his stomach.

As he crouches there, scarfing down scraps like a wild animal, a part of him wonders how he got here. Not just to this moment, but to this point in his life—where he’s so far gone, so consumed by this endless hunger and need for survival that nothing else matters.

The illegal ring, the fights, the blood on his hands—it’s all led him here, to this alley, scavenging for scraps like the stray dogs he used to chase away from his mother’s doorstep. And he knows, with a sick certainty, that he can’t go back. He’s not welcome there anymore, his time in the ring cut short after the Butcher. He’s too dangerous, too unpredictable—a liability they can’t afford.

But that doesn’t matter now. All that matters is getting through this, pushing past the hunger until it fades, until he can think clearly again.

It takes hours, maybe more. He doesn’t know—time blurs together as he stumbles through the city, eating whatever he can find, stealing from stores and trash bins, his senses dulled by exhaustion and the single-minded drive to survive. By the time he drags himself back to the abandoned house, the sun is high in the sky, and his stomach has settled into a dull ache instead of a burning pit.

He collapses onto the mattress again, the world spinning around him as his body finally starts to shut down, the last embers of adrenaline fading. His mind drifts, the hunger still there, but muted now, less urgent—it was quiet, for the time being. He closes his eyes, letting the darkness pull him under, not knowing how long it’ll be before he wakes up again.

The days pass in a haze after that—weeks bleeding into each other as Izuku struggles to find a new routine. The ring is out of the question now, but he still needs money, still needs to survive. He picks up odd jobs, whatever he can find, using the skills he’s honed over the years to get by. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep him afloat.

Five months pass like this, the hunger always lurking in the background, never fully satisfied but kept at bay. Izuku feels himself changing, growing harder, colder, more detached from the boy he used to be. The night before the U.A. entrance exam, he lies awake on the same mattress, staring up at the ceiling once more. The hunger is there, as always, but so is something else—a determination, a fire that hasn’t been extinguished, despite everything.

Tomorrow is the start of something new. And no matter what, he’ll survive, because no one, or thing, will stand in his way of becoming a hero.

Chapter Text

Izuku moved swiftly from rooftop to rooftop, his feet barely touching the surface before he propelled himself to the next. It had become a habit by now—avoiding the crowded streets of Musutafu. Interacting with the people there was an ordeal he preferred to skip altogether. People stared too much, and when they didn’t, their averted eyes were just as telling. So, the rooftops had become his highway, isolated and free from the burden of others’ gazes.

As U.A. High School came into view, he slowed to a stop at the edge of a building. The sight before him was nothing short of awe-inspiring. The large, towering glass building gleamed in the sunlight, a beacon of heroism and prestige. The U.A. logo in gold above the gates shone with an almost divine light.

U.A. High. The name alone carried the weight of legends—All Might, Edgeshot, Best Jeanist…and Endeavor. They all started here, learned here from the greatest heroes of their day. And one day, he clenched his fists, they’d be saying the same about him. That went without saying.

With that thought driving him, he strode forward, confidence in every step. But as fate would have it, a loose brick underfoot had other plans. It slipped, throwing off his balance, and for a split second, he was on the verge of a face-plant. Yet, with quick reflexes, he caught himself, his other foot planting firmly on the ground.

A quick glance around confirmed no one had seen his stumble—or so he thought. As he craned his neck to look behind him, his gaze met with a girl extending her hand out toward him, just shy of touching his back. She was short, especially in comparison to him, with brown hair and pink ovals on her cheeks. The moment their eyes met, Izuku recoiled instinctively, his body snapping back as if he’d been burned.

The girl’s eyes widened in surprise, and she quickly retracted her hand, letting it fall to her side as she fidgeted awkwardly. “Ah, sorry about that!” she blurted out, her voice light and friendly. “I just didn’t want you to fall on your first day. That’d be bad luck, you know? But, uh, it looks like you’ve got it covered.” She paused, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink that matched the ovals on her face. “I’m Uraraka Ochaco, by the way.”

She offered a small, nervous smile when he made no attempt at a response, and then began shifting her weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. “Well, uh, I hope the next time we see each other, it’s as heroes-in-training!” And with that, she turned and practically sprinted into the building, leaving Izuku standing there, still processing the encounter.

It had been so long since someone had spoken to him in such a cheerful, friendly tone. The way she smiled, the way her voice carried a lightness—it reminded him of someone. A woman from his past. The memory sent a chill through him, darkening his mood in an instant.

Snapping out of his stupor, he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked into U.A.’s halls, his previous confidence dimmed but not extinguished. He followed the floor signs, leading him to a large-scale auditorium. The room was massive, with multiple floors and countless rows of chairs. He scanned the area, noting that all the seats were taken except for one—unfortunately, it was next to Katsuki.

Izuku muttered a curse under his breath as he slid into the chair, ignoring the heated glare Katsuki shot in his direction. Instead, his attention shifted to the man standing on the stage under the spotlight. Blond, but not like Katsuki—this one’s hair was styled like a cockatoo’s crest, and he wore sunglasses indoors. His presence was loud, almost overwhelming.

“WELCOME TO THE U.A. ENTRANCE EXAM, LITTLE LISTENERS!” The man’s voice filled the entire room with the help of the small speakers on his shoulders, a grin splitting his face. Izuku recognized him instantly—Present Mic, the pro hero known for his popular radio show. Izuku didn’t have much of an opinion on him, but he could respect the hero’s charity work and his contribution to the community.

“Today’s the day you all show us what you’re made of!” Present Mic continued, his voice carrying an infectious energy. “Now, let’s talk about the practical portion of the exam! We’ll be conducting mock battles in faux-cities, but you’ll be split up from people from your junior highs. That’s right, listeners, it’s time to show us what you can do in a real-world scenario!”

He paused, letting the information sink in. “You’ve got ten minutes to use your Quirks to immobilize as many robotic villains as you can. Each villain bot you take down will score you points based on its difficulty level. The more points you rack up, the better your chances of getting into U.A.!”

Present Mic pointed to a screen behind him, where images of various armored robots appeared. “Here’s the breakdown, listeners! We’ve got one-pointers—your basic baddies. Easy-peasy! Then, two-pointers—these guys are a bit tougher. You might need to put some elbow grease into it. And finally, the three-pointers—now these are the real deal! They’re hard, but the points are worth it!”

The screen then showed an image of a massive bot, towering over the others. “And last but not least, we’ve got the Arena Traps! These big bad bots are here to trip you up. They’re massive, they’re tough, and they’re worth—” Present Mic paused for dramatic effect, then grinned. “Zero points! That’s right! No points for taking these guys on. They’re here to weed out those who can’t handle the pressure, so don’t waste your time trying to fight them!”

Izuku’s eyes narrowed at that. Something not worth the time? Something made to be avoided? He couldn’t help but feel a spark of excitement at that sentiment.

“And that’s the lowdown! All you gotta do is go above and beyond and give it your all!” Present Mic shouted, raising a fist into the air. “Now, on the count of three, I wanna hear you all say it with me! One, two, three—PLUS ULTRA!”

The room erupted with energy as the majority of examinees shouted “Plus Ultra!” in unison, jumping from their seats and rushing towards the exits in a deafening roar of cheers. Izuku and Katsuki remained seated, the only two not swept up in the collective fervor.

When the auditorium had mostly emptied out, Katsuki stood up, brushing past Izuku without so much as a glance. But before he left, he threw a final remark over his shoulder, his voice dripping with disdain. “You shouldn’t even be here. Pray they don’t take one good look at you and arrest you on the spot, you shitty villain.”

Izuku watched as Katsuki left the auditorium, the door swinging shut behind him. He’d show Katsuki. He stood up with a determined look in his eyes, lips falling into a slight frown. He’d show everyone whoever dared to doubt him.

Izuku's anger simmered beneath the surface as he stalked toward the locker room, his mind still reeling from Katsuki’s parting words. The door creaked open, and the packed room fell silent as he entered. Everyone seemed to know better than to cross him today. Their gazes flicked nervously between him and their belongings as they hurriedly made space, avoiding eye contact with a clearly agitated Izuku.

He quickly stripped off his too-tight junior high uniform, starting with the pants, which he switched for sweatpants. His black jacket followed, and finally, the tank top he wore underneath. The moment it was off, a few low gasps echoed in the room. Izuku’s head shot up, catching the wide-eyed stares directed at his heavily scarred torso. He felt a surge of irritation, his instinct to lash out bubbling to the surface.

Before he could snap at them for staring, one boy with spiky red hair spoke up, his voice a mix of curiosity and shame. "Uh… how'd you get all those scars?"

The boy quickly backpedaled, looking embarrassed. "Sorry, that was really unmanly of me to ask. It’s probably a sensitive subject."

Izuku glared for a moment before throwing his tank top back on. Without a word, he stalked out of the locker room, his black jacket slung over his shoulder. The crowded room seemed to exhale collectively once he was gone.

The bus ride to the testing site was silent. Izuku sat near the back, away from the others, who kept a safe distance. As they approached the site, massive concrete walls loomed into view, topped by an equally massive gate. The faux-city behind them was almost laughable in its size, towering over even Izuku. He couldn’t help but let out a bark of laughter at the sight. The sound drew more stares, but he ignored them.

As the bus came to a halt and the students began to unload, Izuku lingered, the last to step off. He took in the sight of the testing area, feeling the weight of anticipation settle over him. He could practically taste the tension in the air, the unspoken challenge presented by the looming cityscape.

Suddenly, a hand clamped down on his shoulder, and Izuku’s first instinct was to retaliate. His muscles tensed, and his eyes flashed dangerously as he turned to face whoever dared to touch him. It was a guy with short blue hair, his expression set in an arrogant scowl.

Izuku shrugged off his hand, glaring down at him. “Do you make it a habit of grabbing people you don’t know?”

The guy looked taken aback, his robotic-like chopping motions betraying a rigid sense of righteousness. “No—! O-Of course not! That type of behavior would be unheroic! But you—” he cleared his throat, pointing accusingly at Izuku, “—are not taking this exam seriously. You’re treating it like a joke, and I won’t allow anyone to make a mockery of U.A.”

Izuku’s patience was thinning rapidly. He leaned in closer, towering over the blue-haired boy. "I would worry about yourself," he growled, his voice low and threatening.

Before the confrontation could escalate, Present Mic’s voice blared over the loudspeakers, giving the signal to start the exam. Without missing a beat, Izuku shot through the stone gates, leaving the blue-haired guy to gape at his back.

“Go, go, go!” Present Mic’s voice echoed through the mock city. “Don’t waste time, little listeners!”

Izuku didn’t waste a second. His senses sharpened as he moved through the city with terrifying speed, his claws out and ready. He quickly located small groups of villain bots scattered throughout the area, a mix of one, two, and three-point villains.

He tore through them with ruthless efficiency, his claws slicing through metal like it was paper. Sparks flew as his hands dug into the robots' electronic insides, the sharp jolt of electricity barely registering as his wounds healed almost instantly. He allowed his heightened senses to guide him, picking up on the whirring gears and mechanical groans of the villain bots hidden around corners and behind walls.

Minutes passed, and the sounds of other participants engaging the remaining bots reached his ears. Izuku didn’t care. He was in his own world, focused solely on racking up as many points as possible. But then, the ground beneath him trembled, and a deafening explosion rocked the city. Izuku’s instincts flared, immediately recognizing the source: the zero-pointer.

He abandoned the group of bots he was dismantling and turned toward the noise. The massive robot was easy to spot, towering above the faux-city’s buildings like a metal titan. Participants were fleeing from it in droves, their fear palpable in the air.

As Izuku approached, a hand grabbed his shoulder again. He shrugged it off with a growl, but this time, it was the red-haired boy from the locker room.

“The zero-pointer’s coming this way! You’ve gotta run!” the boy shouted, panic in his voice.

Izuku shot him a scornful look before he pushed forward, the red-haired boy’s protests fading into the background. As he neared the colossal robot, excitement stirred in his chest, a thrill he hadn’t felt in a long time. This was his chance to see just how strong he really was.

With a burst of speed, Izuku sprinted toward the zero-pointer and leaped into the air, landing halfway up one of its massive legs. His claws dug into the metal, anchoring him as he scaled the robot with swift, powerful movements.

He reached the top of its head in seconds, taking a moment to survey the city below before driving his fists into the robot’s head. Each punch dented the metal further until he reached the internal systems. The wires were thicker here, but that didn’t stop him. When his claws proved ineffective, Izuku resorted to biting into the cables, tearing through them with his teeth despite the searing pain of electricity coursing through his body.

The robot hissed out steam at its joints before it came grinding to a halt, its systems fried. Izuku’s muscles twitched uncontrollably as the last of the electricity left his body and he swayed to his unsteady feet. He punched his way out of the robot’s head, this time taking a bit longer as his still-twitching arms caused some difficulties, but debris raining down as he leaped to a nearby building. Instead of landing on the roof, he slammed into the side of the structure, his claws digging into the concrete to slow his descent.

His hand was a mess of exposed bone and charred flesh, but Izuku watched in morbid fascination as the muscle and skin slowly regenerated. The grotesque display held his attention until Present Mic’s voice once again echoed through the city.

“Time’s up! The practical exam is over! Head back to the entrance!”

Izuku glanced around, the stunned expressions of the other participants making it clear that they had witnessed his feat. As he made his way back, he noticed a small old lady he hadn’t seen before, her eyes sharp and discerning despite her age. She had to be a pro hero, but Izuku didn’t dwell on it. He had more important things to focus on; namely, the written portion of U.A’s entrance exam.

Izuku’s muscles ached with the familiar dull pain of regeneration as he climbed back onto the bus. The adrenaline that had fueled him through the practical exam was wearing off, leaving him with a heavy sense of fatigue. He collapsed into his seat at the back, letting out a long, weary breath as he reached into the bag he’d left on the bus. The bento box he pulled out was cold against his hand as he pulled it out, its contents nearly as unsettling as the meal itself.

He snapped the lid open, revealing the raw beef and nearly rotten sashimi inside. The smell hit him immediately, sharp and pungent, but it was nothing compared to the intense hunger gnawing at his insides. The sashimi’s sickly sheen didn’t bother him; in fact, it looked almost appetizing to his monstrous appetite. He picked up a piece of fish, ignoring the slight give of the flesh that indicated it was nearing the end of its shelf life, and popped it into his mouth.

The taste was rancid, sour on his tongue, but it didn’t make him gag. Instead, the hunger overpowered everything else, and he devoured the sashimi in silence, quickly finishing it before the rest of the students started boarding the bus. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then moved on to the raw beef, tearing into the bloody meat with his sharp teeth. It wasn’t until he’d eaten nearly all of it that he began to feel somewhat sated. He cleaned up quickly, shoving the empty bento back into his backpack just as the other students started filing in.

They were quieter now, subdued after the grueling test. Some were chatting in hushed tones, but most were too exhausted to do more than slump in their seats. Izuku leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes for a moment. The faint thrum of the bus engine and the murmur of voices became a dull background noise as his mind drifted. His body was still healing, his nerves tingling with the unpleasant sensation of his cells knitting back together.

By the time the bus returned to U.A.’s main campus, the fatigue had settled deep into his bones, but there was no time to rest. Izuku dragged himself off the bus, straightened his jacket over his shoulder, and headed to the exam hall. The written exam awaited, and though he was far more drained than he wanted to admit, his mind snapped into focus as he entered the classroom.

Hours later, Izuku stepped out of the front gates, the fresh air hitting him like a cold splash of water. He’d changed back into his school uniform at some point, though he hadn’t bothered to put his jacket back on, which hung loosely over his shoulder from two of his fingers, swaying with each step. Around him, the other participants milled about, talking amongst themselves.

Some were beaming with confidence, already bragging about their imminent acceptance into the hero course. Others looked crestfallen, muttering regrets about not studying enough or not practicing their quirks more. Izuku did his best to filter out the noise, focusing instead on the fact that he might’ve actually passed the written portion of the exam. The cram school had helped him more than he’d expected.

As he walked, a familiar voice caught his attention. He subtly glanced around, easily spotting the source over the sea of students. The spiky red-haired guy from earlier was talking to a girl with pink hair, pink skin, and small horns. Izuku strained to listen, curious despite himself.

“…there was this tall, scary-looking dude in my section,” the red-haired guy was saying with an oddly enthusiastic tone. “But he’s super manly! He fought the big robot Present Mic told us to avoid just so he could save a girl from being crushed, even though it was worth zero points! I’m kind of jealous, honestly… I mean, that’s really manly.”

The girl, who Izuku now realized must be the red-haired guy’s friend, laughed softly. “Stop comparing yourself to others, Kirishima,” she chided gently. “You’re brave too, you know. You always do what’s right, and that’s what really matters.”

Izuku’s ears felt warm as he tuned out the rest of their conversation. He didn’t need to hear more. The way they talked reminded him of how good friends from junior high might sound, comfortable and supportive. A strange feeling twisted in his chest—something akin to envy but mixed with something darker. He took out those negative feelings bubbling in his chest on the loose brick that had made him trip only a few hours ago, a satisfying sensation washing over him as it crumbled beneath the heel of his shoe.

He shook it off, his attention shifting to his next destination: a nearby butcher shop. The exam had left him drained, and he figured he deserved a treat, even if it was just a small one. He walked off, blending into the crowd of students until he was out of sight.

…

The observation room was bathed in the cool glow of dozens of wall-mounted televisions, each screen showing a different angle of the now-deserted mock cities. The aftermath of the practical exam was laid bare: rubble, smoking remains of robots, and one particularly impressive sight—a destroyed zero-pointer.

In the center of the room, seated in a plush desk chair, was a small, white, rodent-like creature. Principal Nezu’s beady, but sharp, black eyes took in everything on the screens, his expression unreadable as he was sipping on a steaming cup of tea.

“Principal Nezu,” came a voice from behind the creature. A man clad in a black jumpsuit with a white bandage-like scarf draped over his shoulder stepped into the light, his yellow goggles hanging loosely around his neck. It was Aizawa Shota, Eraserhead, his tired eyes narrowing as he scanned the carnage on the screens. “This year’s full of a bunch of problem children,” he sighed. “I assume you’re giving me the most problematic ones? Like always…”

Nezu hummed in agreement, flipping through a folder on his lap. “It certainly seems that way, Aizawa. Each year brings new challenges, but this one…” He trailed off, eyes lingering on the destroyed zero-pointer.

He turned slightly in his chair to address another figure in the room, a sickeningly thin but tall man with blond hair and hollowed-out blue eyes. “To answer your question from earlier, Toshinori,” Nezu began, his tone contemplative, as if he was trying to choose his words carefully, “the student who destroyed the zero-pointer is Izuku Midoriya. It’s been about… a decade since I last saw him, but he’s certainly grown up a lot since then. And not only in height, that is.”

Toshinori, or rather Toshinori Yagi, nodded slowly, his expression distant. “Midoriya Izuku… I see.”

Nezu’s gaze shifted back to Aizawa. “As you said, you’ll be taking him this year, Aizawa. He’s… special. I’m sure you know.”

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed further, suspicion flickering across his features. “What makes you say that?”

Before Nezu could respond, another voice joined the conversation—a broad man with short white hair standing off to the side. “Aizawa always gets all the most promising kids,” he grumbled. “Nezu, you’re showing favoritism to Class 1-A again.”

“Calm down, Kan,” Nezu replied, his voice even. “You’ll be getting plenty of strong hero candidates. But Midoriya… he’s going to be a handful, even by Aizawa’s standards.”

Sekijiro Kan’s, pro hero Vlad King’s, eyebrows shot up. “Why?”

“Oh! I haven’t told you all yet, have I?” Nezu perked up from his seat, setting down his teacup. “That’s because Izuku Midoriya should really be locked up in Tartarus for mass murder,” he said rather nonchalantly. “I’ve been covering up the information from the public since he was four years old. To give him a chance at a normal childhood.”

The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of Nezu’s words hanging heavy in the air. The screens continued to flicker, the destroyed remains of the zero-pointer a stark reminder of the power—and the danger—that Izuku Midoriya possessed.

What the hell were they about to get themselves into? Could someone, something, like that even be trained?

Nezu's declaration hung heavy in the air, casting a dark shadow over the observation room. The pro heroes exchanged uneasy glances, their faces reflecting the gravity of Nezu’s words.

"It’s true, yes, that Midoriya should really be behind bars for mass murder," Nezu said, his tone uncharacteristically grave. "It was his quirk awakening. The event happened when he was just four years old. That day, he killed just over twenty people. It was a horrific incident, one that left a permanent mark on the city of Musutafu as we know it."

Kan’s eyes widened in disbelief. "You’re telling us this child—this candidate for U.A. and a possible hero-in-training—is a mass murderer? How could you even think of letting him into the hero course?"

Nezu's expression softened slightly, though his eyes remained sharp. "It was a tragic accident, Kan, one he had no control over. A child with a newly awakened and incredibly powerful quirk. I couldn’t let the public know about it. So, I pulled every string I could, working behind the scenes to have the information erased from public records. The Hero Public Safety Commission was really instrumental in all of this. Any and all information regarding that incident has been completely destroyed. Even I don’t have a copy of any reports done that day."

Toshinori Yagi, his normally cheerful demeanor replaced with a somber one, spoke up. "But why would you bring someone like Midoriya into U.A.? Even if he’s strong, isn't he a risk to everyone around him? That seems too big a risk to take, even for you, Principal Nezu."

“Toshinori,” Nezu’s gaze was steady as he answered. "Consider this: would you rather have such a powerful individual as an enemy—someone with the potential and every reason to want to turn to villainy—or would you prefer to have them on our side, under the guidance and tutelage of U.A. teachers and alumni? If we have the chance to channel all of his raw abilities, shape his path, and direct his strength toward heroism rather than destruction, we gain a formidable ally for all of our efforts.” Nezu picked up his teacup again, tipping it back to take a long sip from it. “If you really think about this, the danger isn’t in the person, but in how we choose to handle them. Don’t you agree?"

The room fell silent once again, the weight of Nezu’s reasoning sinking in. Kan and Toshinori exchanged looks of reluctant acceptance, their initial shock beginning to wear off.

Nezu clapped his hands together, breaking the silence. "But enough of this for today. The next year promises to be full of challenges and opportunities, and we must be prepared. Each of you will have your role to play in shaping these students into Japan’s next generation of heroes. I can already feel that this year is going to be particularly interesting."

With that, Nezu dismissed the gathered pro heroes, each of them absorbed in their thoughts as they began to leave the observation room. The screens continued to flicker with the aftermath of the practical exams, a reminder of the tumultuous path that lay ahead for both U.A. and its newest, most controversial student.

Chapter Text

Izuku was inside his home, as he had been for far too long in his opinion. Though, “house” was a generous term for the crumbling, abandoned motel in the most forgotten part of the city of Musutafu. The constant hum of the generator in the corner, a piece of junk he’d scavenged from somewhere or other, filled the room. He’d gotten used to tuning it out, just like he had tuned out the persistent thumping of the refrigerator that was perpetually on the verge of dying.

He stared at the nearly empty fridge, its off-white interior even less appetizing than its lack of contents. He had no idea how old the thing was, but judging by its chipped enamel and the rust gathering at the edges, it probably should have been retired years ago.

It had been a week since the U.A. entrance exam, and while he’d convinced himself that he wasn’t nervous, he kept wondering when the results would be out. He told himself it didn’t matter, that he didn’t care either way. If worse came to worse, he’d just try out for Shiketsu’s hero program.

As if on cue, a single knock came at the door. Izuku flinched, the action almost unnoticeable, and turned his head towards the noise. He closed the refrigerator with a thud, his hand lingering on the handle for a moment before he walked over to the door. He hesitated, his ear against the peeling wood, listening for any sound of footsteps or movement outside. Nothing. He then opened the front door and peeked his head out, eyes scanning in all of the directions, only to see a small, metallic disk lying on the ground.

He frowned, reaching down and picking up the object, feeling its cool weight in his palm. He turned it over, examined it, squeezed it, pressed the smooth surface, tapped it—anything to make it do something. He had nearly given up when a sharp, holographic projection shot out of the device.

Izuku stumbled back, eyes widening as the glowing image of All Might appeared before him. The number one hero stood tall and imposing even in hologram form, smiling that broad, ever-optimistic smile.

“Congratulations, Young Midoriya!” All Might’s voice boomed cheerfully, too loud for the small, cramped room.

Izuku winced, a scowl pulling at his lips. Young Midoriya. He hated that name, hated the way it felt like a collar being snapped around his neck.

All Might seemed oblivious, continuing with his animated enthusiasm, “I am pleased to inform you that you are looking at the newest teacher at U.A. High!”

Izuku’s expression didn’t change; he didn’t care who taught at U.A. He only cared if he’d made it in.

All Might’s tone shifted, more serious but still brimming with that annoyingly sincere energy. “You were able to pass the written exam, but you will need to take your studies more seriously in the future. At U.A., we prioritize your general education just as much as your hero training.”

Izuku’s fingers tightened around the disk. “I’ve been trying my whole life. Cut me some slack,” he muttered under his breath.

Then, All Might’s hologram brightened again. “Onto the more exciting news…You’ve set a new record for the practical exam! You had more than enough points to pass by just defeating the robots—you scored 78 villain points, an equally impressive feat! But there is also a hidden point system—rescue points—for heroic actions, such as saving others!”

Izuku’s brow furrowed. Heroic actions? To his knowledge, he hadn’t saved anyone. He didn’t even try to.

The hologram shifted, and suddenly, the image of the brown-haired girl with pink cheeks appeared. She stood beside Present Mic, looking earnest and anxious. “I know he probably doesn’t need the points,” she said, “but I’d like to give some of mine to him—that tall, scary-looking guy—because he had to waste his time defeating the zero-pointer to save me instead of destroying more robots for himself.”

Present Mic gave her a reassuring smile. “No worries, young lady, the points will be fairly awarded!”

The girl still seemed hesitant, but she nodded and thanked him before walking away.

The image flickered back to All Might, who grinned so brightly that Izuku had to shield his eyes. “The judges couldn’t let a good deed go unrewarded! So, you’ve been given 60 rescue points for your actions, Young Midoriya!”

Izuku’s mouth opened slightly, surprise flickering across his face. Rescue points? He didn’t understand. He didn’t know that she needed to be saved. He just wanted to destroy the zero-pointer.

The image shifted to a leaderboard displaying the top ten scorers from the practical exam. Izuku’s name sat at the top, with 138 points in total. Second place, Katsuki Bakugo, had 77 points—all villain points. A small smirk tugged at the corner of Izuku’s mouth. Even without the rescue points, he would’ve still beaten the bastard. Third place showed a last name he recognized—Kirishima. That was the spiky red-haired guy, right?

“Young Midoriya,” All Might’s image returned, “…Welcome to your hero academia!”

The hologram vanished, leaving Izuku alone in his dimly lit room, the disk cold in his hand. He stared at it, unsure of what he was supposed to feel. The hum of the generator seemed louder now, the smell of carbon monoxide sharper, the thumping of the refrigerator more insistent. His head felt like it was filled with noise.

He needed to get out.

Izuku slipped out of the window, finding the old fire escape with ease, and climbed up the rusting stairs until he reached the roof. The night air was cool, and the city spread out before him in shadows and flickering street lights. He sat at the edge, his legs dangling off, the metallic saucer still clutched in his hand. He rubbed his thumb over it, feeling the smooth surface.

This part of Musutafu was almost silent. Almost. Izuku swore he could hear his own heartbeat again, faint but growing louder, clearer. He stopped, his muscles tensing. The sound grew louder, a steady thumping that he could feel in his bones.

He whipped his head around, eyes scanning for the source, his body ready to spring into action. Then he saw him. Eraserhead. Just as he had looked six years ago—same black jumpsuit, same scarf wrapped around his neck like bandages, same yellow goggles resting at his collar. The only difference was the extra stress lines and darkened eye bags on his face.

Izuku felt his face fall involuntarily, turning back to stare out over the city, trying to hide the emotion that threatened to surface. He didn’t speak, didn’t give Eraserhead the satisfaction. It had been six years. Six years since he’d seen him, let alone hear about him. Six years since Eraserhead had found him feasting on the body of a man who’d jumped from a building; six years since he ran away; six years of leaving him feeling more like a monster than ever. He deserved to be childish and petty for once—he was still a child himself, after all.

Eraserhead moved to his side, sitting down next to him like nothing had happened, like nothing had changed between them. Izuku hated it. Hated how vulnerable it made him feel. Hated that Eraserhead had the power to make everyone think he was a villain again. Why could no one see he just wanted—

“I’m sorry.”

Izuku’s thoughts stopped dead in their tracks, his mind going completely silent. His eyes remained locked on the worn bricks beneath his dangling feet, his knuckles white as his grip on the metal disk tightened. Eraserhead’s apology hung in the air between them like a bitter, acrid fog. It was an apology he never thought he’d hear, one that felt more like an insult than anything genuine to him.

Eraserhead kept talking despite Izuku’s lack of acknowledgment, his voice nearly swallowed by the city’s distant hum. “I’ve regretted it every day since, you know. Walking away like that… I knew you needed more help, but I didn’t know how to give it back then. I still don’t, but… I’ll try, somehow.”

Izuku didn’t move, didn’t react. He kept his face turned away, staring down at the street below, where faint shadows darted in and out of the alleyways. He could hear every note of hesitation in Eraserhead’s voice, the way it wavered, like he was pulling apart old wounds just to speak. The man continued, almost like he didn’t expect a response. “I know you probably hate me, and that’s fine. You should. I’d hate me too. But Hizashi—I mean, Present Mic—he’s been saying I need to speak more. To be vocal about my mistakes, my feelings, whatever. So… Here I am. Talking. You can just listen if that’s what you want.”

Eraserhead sighed, as if trying to find the right words, though they seemed stuck somewhere deep in his chest. “I looked for you, you know, but I wasn’t even sure if you were still alive. I kept up my search for a while, but I had to stop eventually… There were other things, other duties. Nezu asked me shortly after to become a teacher at U.A., and I… I had to cut back on my patrols.”

The mention of U.A. caught Izuku off guard. He turned to face Eraserhead, his brows knitting together. The man noticed the change and gave a tired smile. “Yeah. I’m a teacher at U.A. now—Class 1-A’s teacher, your class’s teacher, more specifically. Had that not been in the message I gave you?”

Izuku stayed silent, watching Eraserhead’s expression shift from a knowing smirk to a sigh of frustration. “Of course All Might, that idiot, would forget to mention something like that…” he muttered under his breath.

Eraserhead kept talking, recounting his surprise at seeing Izuku’s application come across his desk, the disbelief that turned into a grim acceptance when Nezu confirmed it. “I had to see it for myself,” he said, almost to himself, his voice low and strained. And then, suddenly, the words stopped. Silence stretched, awkward and heavy.

For a long, suffocating moment, neither of them spoke. Izuku didn’t look up from the ground, his jaw clenched tight. Then, finally, his voice broke through, quiet but sharp. “Why did you have to come back now, after all this time?”

Eraserhead didn’t hear him at first, so Izuku repeated himself, louder this time, almost a yell. “Why now? After everything—why did you have to come back? Huh?!”

His brows furrowed, and his normally dull eyes seemed to glow with a fierce, dark anger. “You should have stayed gone,” Izuku spat, his voice trembling with the intensity of his frustration. “You know too much about me. You’re just like the people from this town… knowing everything. Knowing who I am, what I am. Everyone’s going to know now, aren’t they?” His jaw tightened again, a small vein popping out on his forehead, but his voice had quieted by this point. “…Why couldn’t you just leave me the hell alone for a change?”

Eraserhead’s silence spoke louder than words. Izuku took it as confirmation, and he pushed himself up from the ledge, heading back toward the fire escape. He felt trapped, cornered. How could he start over when someone like Eraserhead knew so much? It was like he was a chain, dragging him back to a past he wanted so desperately to be able to move on from.

Before he descended, he turned back to glare at the older man, his voice a harsh whisper. “How did you even know where to find me?”

Eraserhead shrugged, standing and moving closer, his expression softening with something like pity. “You need to learn how to cover your tracks better,” he said. “And I can teach you that… if you come to U.A.”

Izuku started down a ladder off the side of the room, but Eraserhead’s voice followed him, almost pleading. “You can learn so much more there, Izuku. I know you want to be a hero more than anything, but—”

Izuku cut him off, his voice thick with emotion. “You don’t even know the half of it,” he shot back, glaring sharply up at Eraserhead.

Eraserhead remained silent, meeting Izuku's glare with a steady gaze. The man didn’t flinch, didn’t back down, and something about that made Izuku’s anger burn hotter. Eraserhead didn’t understand—he couldn’t understand what Izuku had gone through, what he’d become. And yet, the man had the audacity to stand there, calm and unshaken, as if he could see through all the darkness that clung to Izuku like a second skin.

“You think you know me,” Izuku continued, his voice laced with venom. “But you don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to be seen as a monster every day. To fight just to survive. To want so badly to be something more, but know that no one will ever see you as anything other than what they think you are.” He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as he struggled to keep his voice steady. “So don’t pretend like you care now. You didn’t when I was a kid, so you don’t get to now.”

Eraserhead didn’t respond immediately, letting Izuku’s words hang between them. His gaze never wavered, but there was something in his eyes—an understanding that didn’t come from sympathy, but from experience. “You’re right,” he said finally, his tone measured. “I don’t know the half of it. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through. But I do know one thing.”

Izuku narrowed his eyes, wary of whatever Eraserhead was about to say.

“If you walk away from U.A. now, you’re giving everyone exactly what they expect. They think you’re a villain? Fine. Prove them right by running away. Show them that you’re nothing more than a monster who doesn’t belong in the world of heroes.”

Izuku’s breath caught in his throat. Eraserhead’s words were like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of him. He wanted to argue, to shout back, but the truth in those words rooted him to the spot.

Eraserhead took a step closer, his voice dropping lower, more intense. “But if you stay—if you go to U.A. and show them what you’re really made of—you can prove every single one of them wrong. You can show them that you’re more than what they see. More than what they think they know. You want to be a hero? Then fight for it. Show them what you’re capable of.”

Izuku’s blood pounded in his ears, the anger that had fueled him moments before now mingling with something else—a challenge, a spark of defiance. He had spent years fighting to survive, proving to himself over and over again that he wasn’t weak, that he wasn’t just a monster. But what Eraserhead was offering was different. It wasn’t just survival—it was a chance to stand in the light, to prove to everyone that he could be a hero, no matter what they thought of him.

But it wasn’t that simple, was it? Izuku had made peace with what he was—had accepted that no matter how hard he tried, the world would never see him as a hero. Yet here was Eraserhead, challenging that belief, offering him a way to rewrite his story.

“Why do you care?” Izuku asked, his voice quieter now, more uncertain. “Why does it matter to you if I go to U.A. or not?”

Eraserhead sighed, his gaze softening ever so slightly. “Because I see potential in you, Izuku. Potential to be something great. But potential means nothing if you don’t do anything with it. I care because I don’t want to see you throw away the chance to prove to the world that they were wrong about you.”

Izuku looked away, his thoughts swirling in a chaotic mess. This was his chance—his chance to show them all. To prove that he wasn’t just a monster. But it also meant exposing himself, putting everything on the line in front of the very people who would love nothing more than to see him fail.

He thought about everything he had endured, every battle fought, every drop of blood spilled, and a grim determination settled in his chest. If he walked away now, he’d be nothing more than what they expected—a coward, a monster. But if he went to U.A., if he faced them head-on and showed them what he could really do… maybe, just maybe, he could finally be the hero he had always dreamed of being.

Finally, Izuku looked back at Eraserhead, the anger in his eyes replaced by something sharper, more resolute. “Fine,” he said, his voice steady. “I’ll go to U.A. But don’t think for a second that I’m doing it for you—or anyone else.”

Eraserhead nodded, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, stepping back to give Izuku space. “But remember, proving them wrong isn’t just about showing up. You’ll have to fight for it every day. And it won’t be easy.”

Izuku smirked, though there was no humor in it. “I’ve never expected anything in my life to be easy.”

With that, he turned and climbed down the fire escape, each step feeling heavier than the last. But there was a fire burning inside him now, a determination that only grew stronger as the minutes ticked by, and he refused to let this defeat stop him anymore. This was his chance—his moment to prove everything that they had been talking about. He needed to do this, to prove he was better than this.

He needed to prove himself.

…

Izuku was fiddling with the tie that hung too tightly around his neck, too noose-like for his liking. He was finally able to get a grip on the clothing item and loosen it so that it was no longer strangling him, just hanging loosely against the white button-up shirt that U.A. students were expected to wear.

The early morning air was still cool as he walked through the mostly empty streets, the faint hum of city life just beginning to stir. He liked this time of day—before the rush, before the noise. It made him feel less suffocated, like he could breathe a little easier. His disheveled appearance, from the loose red tie to the pants that barely reached his ankles, was a stark contrast to the pristine image U.A. tried to maintain. But Izuku didn’t care about appearances, not anymore. He was here for one reason: to win. No matter the cost.

As the gates of U.A. loomed in front of him, he slowed his pace, taking in the sight of the towering emblem at the top. The gold insignia reflected the early morning sunlight, a beacon of what this place represented to so many. But to Izuku, it was just another hurdle—another test to survive. Inhaling deeply, he steeled himself and pushed through the gates, the sound of his shoes tapping lightly against the concrete.

The hallways were eerily quiet as he made his way toward Class 1-A. Light filtered through the windows, casting long shadows along the polished floors. He glanced at the classroom doors as he passed, each one labeled with large red numbers. Finally, he stopped in front of the one marked “1-A,” his eyes tracing the letters for a moment before he schooled his expression, pushing down the unease creeping into his chest.

With a steadying breath, Izuku slid the door open.

The classroom was almost as empty as the hallways had been. Only a handful of students were inside: a boy with dual-colored hair, split cleanly down the middle; a girl with long black hair tied up in a ponytail; the bespectacled boy from the entrance exam; and, of course, Katsuki.

His eyes locked on Katsuki immediately, the familiar scowl on his former friend’s face as he lounged back in his seat, feet arrogantly propped up on the desk in front of him. The tension between Katsuki and the blue-haired boy—Tenya Iida, Izuku recalled—was palpable. Iida, as expected, was chastising Katsuki, his voice carrying an air of moral superiority.

“You’re being disrespectful to the academy and to everyone who has walked these halls before you!” Iida’s voice was clipped, his posture rigid as if he were giving a lecture.

Katsuki’s response was a sneer, as if the whole thing was a joke. “And you’re a stuck-up prick who probably had that stick shoved up your ass at birth.”

Iida’s mouth opened in indignation, but he forced himself to inhale, his glasses flashing in the morning light. “We’ve clearly gotten off on the wrong foot,” he said, trying for diplomacy. “I’m Tenya Iida, from Somei Academy—”

“Ah, Somei,” Katsuki interrupted with a mocking tone. “So you’re an elitist asshole too, huh? Can’t wait to beat the shit outta you and show you where you really belong.”

Iida looked taken aback, clearly unprepared for Katsuki’s aggressive hostility, but before the exchange could escalate further, Izuku turned away, tuning them out. He didn’t have the energy for their posturing.

His eyes flickered to the girl with the black ponytail as he took a seat in front of her. She acknowledged him with a brief nod, her expression calm as she glanced back down at the book she had been reading. Izuku appreciated the silence—no forced small talk, no unnecessary chatter.

The dual-haired boy in the corner didn’t even glance his way. It was like the guy was purposely ignoring everyone else in the room, and for that, Izuku could almost respect him.

More students started filtering in as the minutes ticked by, each one finding their seat and casting curious glances around the room. A few murmured among themselves, but overall, the room stayed relatively quiet. Then, the door slid open again, and their homeroom teacher, Shota Aizawa—Eraserhead—entered, dragging the silence with him.

His eyes were half-lidded, dark circles etched beneath them, and his long scarf hung loosely around his neck. He took one look around the room, and a sigh escaped his lips, as though just being there was a chore.

“You’re all taking too long to settle down,” Aizawa muttered, eyes sweeping over them lazily. “Not very logical for a group of future heroes.”

The room went dead silent, all attention now focused on him. He took another sip from a small pouch in his hand, seemingly unconcerned with their stares.

“I’m Shota Aizawa, your homeroom teacher. We’re not wasting time with introductions or ceremonies. Grab a gym uniform and meet me outside on the P.E. Grounds in five minutes.” He tossed a bundle of blue uniforms onto a nearby desk, his expression never changing. “You’re going to be doing a quirk apprehension test.”

Without another word, he turned and left the room, leaving the class in stunned silence.

Izuku was the first to stand, not wasting any time as he strode over to grab one of the uniforms. He didn’t look at anyone as he made his way out of the classroom, heading toward the locker rooms in silence. Changing quickly, he zipped up the gym shirt just as someone entered—Katsuki. They didn’t exchange a word, the silence between them stretching thick and uncomfortable, but Izuku didn’t mind. He preferred it this way.

By the time the rest of the class started filtering into the locker room, Izuku was already dressed and heading out. He made his way to the P.E. Grounds, finding Aizawa already waiting, his expression as unreadable as ever.

For a moment, Izuku considered asking him something. But before he could muster the words, more students began arriving, cutting off any chance for a private exchange. Izuku fell silent, retreating back into his own thoughts.

Once the class had gathered, Aizawa explained the details of the quirk apprehension test. The students around him cheered at the prospect of finally using their quirks, excitement buzzing in the air. But the moment was short-lived.

“Fun?” Aizawa’s voice was sharp, and his eyes glowed a faint red, his hair beginning to lift. “If you think this is going to be fun, then you’re not taking it seriously. Whoever places last in this test will be expelled.”

The sudden threat sent a wave of shock through the group, and the excited chatter died instantly. Uraraka, the brown-haired girl from the entrance exam, tentatively raised her hand, her expression nervous. “But… that’s not fair,” she said quietly. “We all worked really hard to get here.”

Izuku’s blood turned cold.

His gaze snapped to Uraraka, something primal and ugly stirring deep within him. He felt it rise, unbidden and unstoppable, as if a switch had been flipped in his brain. His mind blanked, a sudden fog settling over his thoughts, drowning out any rationality. He was on his feet before he realized it, moving without thinking, his body reacting on instinct, fueled by something raw and feral.

He towered over her in an instant, his shadow swallowing her petite frame. His eyes were dark—darker than they had any right to be, unyielding and predatory. His breath hitched, and he could feel the tension in the air shift, thickening like a noose tightening around the room.

“Fair?” The word came out as a low, guttural growl, barely human, as if the very concept disgusted him. His voice carried a dangerous edge, rough and hoarse from years of neglect, and something about it made the hairs on the back of everyone’s necks stand on end. His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a sneer but wasn’t far from it either. “When has life ever been fair?”

Uraraka flinched, her eyes widening in fear, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The weight of his presence bore down on her, suffocating, pressing against her chest like an invisible hand wrapped around her lungs. He could see it—her panic, her confusion, her instinct to recoil—and it only fueled the fire burning inside him.

“If you think this world is fair,” he snarled, his voice dipping lower, more menacing, “then you don’t deserve to be here.”

The silence that followed was deafening. His words hung in the air, heavy and final, like a death sentence. No one dared to breathe. The other students stared at him, wide-eyed, their faces pale with shock, clearly rattled by the sudden shift in his demeanor. They had seen glimpses of him before, but this—this was something else. This was something darker.

The atmosphere had changed, warped, like the very air around them had grown colder, sharper, hostile. Izuku was no longer just the odd student with the disheveled uniform and rough edges. He was something far more dangerous, something volatile, like a bomb that had been quietly ticking down the seconds.

Uraraka shrank under his gaze, her trembling hands clutching the fabric of her gym uniform as if it might somehow ground her. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but no words came out. She could only stare up at him, her breath shallow, her mind racing.

For a fleeting moment, Izuku could feel the raw satisfaction simmering in his veins, the primal part of him reveling in the power, the control. It was intoxicating. He had forced the truth on her, forced her to see the world for what it really was—cold, unforgiving, and full of monsters like him. But then, just as quickly as it had surged up inside him, the intensity drained away, leaving him hollow and empty. His chest heaved with slow, measured breaths as he fought to rein it back, to shove the ugly thing that had crawled out of him back into the dark recesses of his mind where it belonged.

He blinked, the fog lifting slightly, and for a moment, his gaze softened, just enough for him to pull back. He straightened his posture, stepping away from her, putting space between them, as if the distance could erase the damage he had done. His expression returned to its usual cold indifference, though his pulse still raced beneath the surface. He didn’t look at Uraraka again.

A heavy silence settled over the group, thick and oppressive. No one dared speak, their eyes still fixed on Izuku as if waiting for him to snap again, but he said nothing, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the P.E. Grounds, distant and unfocused.

Aizawa, watching from the sidelines, hadn’t intervened. His sharp eyes had caught every flicker of emotion, every shift in the boy’s demeanor, and despite the tension, there was a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He cleared his throat, the sound breaking through the thick silence like a blade through water.

“Midoriya’s right,” Aizawa said, his voice calm but firm. He crossed his arms, his gaze sweeping over the class, daring anyone to challenge him. “This world isn’t fair, and as heroes, you’ll have to deal with that. If you’re expecting fairness, you’re in the wrong profession.”

He let his words sink in, watching as the students absorbed them. Uraraka remained silent, still shaken, her eyes fixed on the ground. The others, though rattled, nodded in grim understanding. Aizawa’s gaze returned to Izuku, lingering for a moment longer than usual. He had seen something in the boy, something raw and unrefined but powerful. He knew that darkness, recognized it, and it wasn’t something he feared.

Izuku, meanwhile, stood frozen, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. What had he just done? What had come over him? He couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at the edges of his mind, the way his blood still thrummed in his veins with that strange, primal energy. His hands twitched at his sides, curling into fists as if he needed to anchor himself to something solid, something real.

But the satisfaction lingered. He had said what needed to be said, hadn’t he? The world wasn’t fair. People needed to wake up to that reality. If they couldn’t handle a little truth now, how would they survive later, when the stakes were higher, when lives were on the line?

As he stared ahead, his gaze unfocused, he could still feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on him, their silent judgment, their wariness. He was used to it by now. Being seen as something to fear, something not quite human—that was nothing new. But it didn’t make it any easier to swallow.

With a final, steadying breath, Izuku shoved his hands into his pockets and turned his gaze forward. Aizawa had moved on, explaining the next phase of the test, but Izuku wasn’t really listening. His mind was elsewhere, still trapped in the moment, still replaying Uraraka’s wide-eyed fear, still questioning if he had gone too far.

But no—he hadn’t. He couldn’t afford to. Not here, not in this place where weakness meant being trampled. If they couldn’t handle the truth, that was their problem, not his.

After all, he’d learned long ago that monsters like him didn’t have the luxury of mercy.

Chapter Text

The silence after Izuku’s outburst was a deep, marrow-sick thing. Not just quiet—hollow. Like the air had been scraped out of the lungs of every person on the field and replaced with a colder kind of oxygen. One that burned on the inhale.

Aizawa didn’t say anything. Didn’t call him out, didn’t scold, but a small indiscernible look overtook his features. He then clicked his pen and turned his attention to his clipboard.

The Quirk Apprehension Test would continue.

“First event—50-meter dash.” Aizawa’s voice cracked through the silence like static over a dead radio line.

Izuku stood still for a breath longer than necessary, eyes lowered, feet already itching against the dirt. His bones were thrumming. Cold. It is always cold now.

“Bakugo and Midoriya. You’re up first.”

The air got heavier.

Katsuki cracked his neck as he moved into place beside Izuku, hands flexing at his sides like he was winding up for something unsanctioned. His sweat already smelled like napalm.

Izuku didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to.

“On my mark,” Aizawa said.

Katsuki’s palms sparked.

“Set.”

Izuku let out a low exhale.

“Go.”

Katsuki moved first—barely—and immediately snapped an explosion behind him, angled just enough to whip shockwaves toward Izuku’s side. Cheap. Predictable. Like spitting into a storm.

But Izuku had already launched himself forward, not with technique but with a lurching, full-body heave that almost unhinged his own knees. The blast came too late. He was in front of Katsuki when it hit.

Katsuki’s scowl twisted, frustration biting down.

Izuku didn’t look back. His gait was crooked, limbs jerking like they weren’t fully synced with his brain. Still, he moved fast—faster. Every step sounded like a punch to the earth. Like the concrete should give way beneath him.

He crossed the finish with a violent skid—3.19 seconds.

Katsuki’s number lit up a moment later—4.12.

Izuku didn’t gloat. Didn’t breathe any harder.

He just walked off the track, gaze pointed at the dirt like it had answers. The cold wasn’t going away.

“Grip strength.”

The machine was small. Dumb. A toy.

Izuku stared at it for a beat too long. His fingers were twitching again.

He wrapped one hand around the handle, exhaled through clenched teeth, and squeezed.

The metal casing groaned like it didn’t want to exist anymore.

176 kilograms. The number flickered, almost apologetic.

The machine didn’t break. Barely.

Aizawa clicked his pen once more and moved on.

“Standing long jump. Move.”

Izuku crouched.

Someone behind him muttered something—low, sharp, afraid.

He jumped.

There was no lift, no elegant arc. Just a raw spasm of movement. His body flung itself forward like it wanted to separate at the seams, and he landed three meters past the edge of the pit, feet digging gouges into the grass.

Mina took an involuntary step back.

Izuku didn’t meet her eyes.

“Side-steps. One minute.”

Izuku stood at the line. Aizawa blew the whistle.

What followed wasn’t a sprint or even a coordinated rhythm—it was chaos. Izuku moved like his joints were on timers, snapping side to side with irregular jerks, barely staying upright. Each step sounded like a slap against the pavement. He tripped, recovered, and hit the line again.

And again.

And again.

He didn’t count. Didn’t need to.

When the whistle blew, he stopped instantly, breathing shallow, tongue pressed tight to the roof of his mouth. His muzzle was fogging.

Seventy-three. The number meant nothing.

But he hadn’t stopped. That part mattered.

“Distance run. Ten kilometers.”

Izuku blinked once.

Only once.

He was already moving before Aizawa finished speaking. No pacing. Just a steady, loping stride like a marathoner raised in a cage. His shirt was soaked through by the sixth lap. Someone threw up on the sidelines.

He didn’t look up once. His eyes were glassy. Fixed on some horizon no one else could see.

When the final lap ended, he stumbled to a halt, stomach knotted with hunger so bad he could taste it—metallic and mean.

Twenty-three minutes.

His hands shook. Not from fatigue.

“Toe-touch. Sit-ups. Let’s go.”

He reached forward until his fingers brushed past the backboard. Past it.

Aizawa blinked. Jotted something down.

Sit-ups came next. Two minutes. No breaks.

He moved like a jackknife. Like he couldn’t not move. His spine snapped with every rise, ribs clicking under his own momentum.

One hundred thirty-two.

Izuku stayed on the mat afterward, arms folded behind his head, legs shaking like something inside him had come loose.

“Ball throw. Final event.”

Everyone looked relieved.

Aizawa called his name.

Izuku stepped into the ring. The ball felt small. Soft. It reminded him of childhood in a way he didn’t like.

He rolled his shoulders.

Then—his muscles locked.

Sight narrowed. Hearing dropped out.

He could barely breathe.

A soundless gasp clawed up his throat.

His vision blurred—

Aizawa’s eyes were glowing red.

“Midoriya. Take this seriously. You’ve been holding back.”

Izuku didn’t hear it.

All he felt was fire behind his eyes. An awful, splitting noise inside his skull. Like someone had cracked open his brain and turned it off.

He didn’t throw the ball.

He screamed.

Or maybe he growled—maybe it wasn’t human at all. He dropped to his knees. Convulsed. The skin on his arms crawled.

Mina—stupid, kind, impulsive—stepped forward.

“Hey, are you—”

Izuku lunged.

Didn’t think. Didn’t see.

His body moved like a triggered trap, and she barely had time to scream before he was on her.

Her shoulder tore open. A clawed hand—his—raked across her arm. She fell.

Everything stopped.

Aizawa blinked. His quirk broke.

Izuku collapsed backward, blinking wildly, breath ragged. His hands were covered in blood.

Mina’s blood.

“K-Kaminari—get Recovery—”

Kirishima had already lifted her. His eyes burned holes into Izuku’s skull.

“You monster—”

Izuku didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe.

Todoroki was silent. Pale. Yaoyorozu looked away. Uraraka couldn’t stop shaking.

Katsuki didn’t flinch. Just stared at Izuku like this was inevitable.

Aizawa rubbed his temples.

“Class dismissed. Midoriya, with me.”

…

He followed like he was walking to his own funeral.

Aizawa didn’t look back. Not even once. They walked the whole way in silence, shoes tapping against polished tile.

Izuku’s fingers wouldn’t stop twitching.

When they entered the office, he froze.

Nezu sat behind the desk. He was smiling. “Ah, Midoriya-kun. It’s been a while. You look… very different.”

Izuku felt himself shrink, like the old version of him—the one Nezu knew—was still curled up somewhere inside his ribs.

“Didn’t expect you to grow so tall, though.”

Izuku blinked. The words stung worse than a slap. He didn’t know why.

Aizawa sat.

Nezu steepled his fingers.

“You’re not in trouble,” Nezu said gently. “The attack on Ashido was not your fault.”

Izuku’s hands curled.

“Losing control while under the effects of Erasure… well. That’s an oversight we intend to correct. Isn’t that right, Aizawa?”

Aizawa nodded.

“I shouldn’t have used my quirk on you mid-test. It was careless. I assumed you had better self-control.”

Izuku looked down.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Aizawa said.

“Because it might have cost you more than your own peace of mind. It might have cost you your class.”

Izuku’s voice was hollow. “I don’t need them to like me.”

“But you need them to trust you. One day, their lives may depend on it.”

Izuku’s throat went tight.

Nezu slid a document across the table.

“This is a clause, signed by both you and Aizawa, that legally protects you from consequences if you become unstable while under the effect of Erasure. We’re recognizing it as a medical side-effect—neurological, not criminal.”

Izuku stared.

“You’re not being punished,” Nezu said. “You’re being protected.”

Izuku didn’t move.

Not until Aizawa set the pen in front of him.

He signed.

It was the first time in years anyone had tried to protect him from anything.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

…

The hallways were still dim when Izuku stepped into Classroom 1-A. The windows were pale with early light, dust hanging in the air like static. It was so quiet he could hear the low hum of the vents overhead, the soft clacking of his own shoes on the floor.

He crossed the room in near silence, careful not to make too much noise.

Mina Ashido’s desk sat two rows in from the left, second seat from the front. The seat where she always leaned too far over her desk and laughed with Kaminari and Kirishima, like nothing in the world could touch her. The seat she hadn’t been able to return to yesterday because he had lost control.

Izuku’s hands shook as he pulled the roll of gauze from his pants pocket. They were clean. Fresh. The kind you use when you care enough to patch something up right.

He didn’t write a note. Didn’t say her name. Just placed the bandages carefully on the edge of her desk and walked away like it had never happened. Maybe she’d think someone else left them. Maybe she wouldn’t want them at all. But it was the only thing he could give.

An hour or so later, Class 1-A trickled in.

They came in groups of two or three, quiet, wary, like kids knowingly stepping back into a haunted house. The unease hung thick in the air, but it wasn’t fear exactly. Not anymore. Not entirely.

It was uncertainty.

Izuku sat at his desk, head down, posture relaxed in that unsettling way that made it look like he wasn’t resting—just waiting.

Katsuki entered without a word. His gaze swept the room once and landed on Izuku, unmoved.

Yaoyorozu arrived shortly after, clutching her bag tighter than usual.

Then Mina walked in.

She paused at her desk.

Stared at the gauze.

Her expression flickered—surprise, maybe. Something else beneath it. But she didn’t speak. Didn’t throw it away.

She sat down and held the bandages in her lap.

Izuku didn’t look at her.

Just as the bell rang, Aizawa entered. His eyes were as tired as ever, but his posture was different—stricter. He stood behind his desk without speaking for a few moments, letting the silence stretch until it was taut and uncomfortable.

Then he spoke.

“I’m going to say this once.”

Every head turned.

“Yesterday’s incident with Midoriya was not his fault.”

The words landed like stones dropped in still water. Ripples. Reactions. Small, sharp breaths. A whisper from the back.

Aizawa ignored it.

“It happened because I made a mistake.”

That caught them. Full stop. Some students blinked. Others sat straighter.

“I used my quirk, Erasure, on him mid-throw because I thought he wasn’t taking the tests seriously. I was wrong. My negligence triggered an involuntary response—one he could not control. What happened to Ashido was an accident. A terrible one, yes, but an accident regardless.”

More silence. Mina didn’t speak.

“I’m telling you this not to excuse the violence,” Aizawa continued, eyes cutting through the air like razors, “but to remind you that you are students. And students learn. That includes learning about each other.”

He glanced at Izuku then not with pity but with responsibility.

“Don’t define someone by the actions of others. That includes Midoriya.”

Someone whispered, “But he still—”

“Quiet,” Aizawa snapped, shutting it down instantly. “We’re moving on.”

The rest of the day passed in fragments.

Notes on hero law. Analysis of past battles. A quiz on rescue protocol.

Izuku didn’t take many notes. His brain didn’t work that way anymore. He remembered things by feeling them—where the ink smudged, where the paper tore, where the teacher’s voice dipped into something that made you feel like you needed to remember whatever they said.

People kept glancing at him when they thought he wouldn’t notice.

He noticed anyway.

Lunch was even more strange.

He sat outside, back to the concrete wall, tray untouched. The sun burned against his arms. He didn’t feel it.

And then someone sat beside him.

Kirishima.

“Hey.”

Izuku didn’t respond.

Kirishima stayed anyway. Pulled a rice ball from his own tray and held it out.

“For the protein, man.”

Izuku blinked once. Didn’t take it.

Kirishima didn’t seem offended. Just shrugged and ate it himself.

Then Mina showed up, dragging Denki behind her.

She didn’t say anything, just sat across from Izuku and took a loud bite of her apple like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Denki gave him a small wave. Kind of nervous. Kind of impressed.

“That 50-meter dash yesterday was insane, dude. You straight-up outran an explosion.”

Izuku stared at him.

Denki scratched the back of his head. “Anyway. Uh. Glad you’re still here.”

He said it like a joke. Like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

Izuku didn’t speak throughout the rest of their lunch period. He didn’t eat, didn’t leave. He just sat with them, surrounded by voices that didn’t belong to monsters or liars or people waiting to hate him. Just kids trying to pretend things weren’t broken.

And he didn’t understand it.

Not even a little.

Because no one had ever forgiven him for anything. Not when he was four. Not when he was eight. Not after the alley, or the rat, or the man in the mugging.

And now, three people—three—were smiling at him like he hadn’t almost killed one of them yesterday.

It made his stomach twist in knots and made him wish they would just hate him instead. Because it would be easier. Because he knew how to fight hate.

…

The final bell rang, and a hum of energy rippled through Class 1-A like static before a lightning strike.

It was time.

Heroics.

There had been some murmurs all day—jokes whispered under breath, theories about who their teacher would be. Most assumed it would be Aizawa again, or maybe even a rotating roster of underground pros.

None of them expected him.

The sliding door slammed open with theatrical gusto.

A blinding smile. A golden gleam.

“I AM HERE—!”

Every student jerked in their seats. Some flinched. Kaminari yelped.

The figure at the door stood tall, brilliant, larger than life even in the slim confines of the classroom. Blonde hair defying gravity, cape catching nonexistent wind, his voice booming with that unmistakable energy.

“—as your newest U.A. teacher for Heroics!”

There was a full three seconds of stunned silence.

Then—

“All Might?!” Uraraka practically leapt out of her chair.

The room exploded in noise.

“Wait—the All Might?!”

“What the hell?! He’s our teacher?!”

Even Bakugo looked rattled.

All Might laughed heartily, hands on his hips in a pose so heroic it felt like the room should burst into patriotic music.

“Yes, yes! Starting today, I’ll be guiding your first steps into the world of hero work. And what better way to do that than a little friendly combat?”

He gave them a gleaming thumbs-up.

“Get into your hero costumes and meet me at Ground Beta. Let’s see what you’ve all got!”

The locker rooms buzzed with excess energy.

Excitement. Anxiety. Confidence. Fear.

Izuku dressed in silence.

No one asked him what his costume was. No one really noticed until they were all walking out together—bright colors, armor plates, gadgets, and flash stitched into nearly every outfit.

And then there was him.

A shin-length black overcoat with a collar that looked ragged around the edges, like it had been torn and worn through the years. Black pants, black dress shoes polished to a dull shine. A gray scoop-neck shirt peeked out from under the coat, tucked into a belt with a satchel strapped to his waist. And over his mouth—his most telling feature—a black metal muzzle, sleek and utilitarian.

No insignia. No color. No symbol.

He didn’t look like a hero. He looked like something that haunted alleyways.

As the drew closer Ground Beta loomed ever more large and ominous, a faux city with plenty of indoor simulation facilities built to mimic the claustrophobic feeling of urban combat.

Class 1-A stood in their costumes, buzzing with nerves and anticipation as All Might gestured grandly toward the structure behind him.

“Welcome to your first Hero Basic Training exercise! Today, we’ll be running Battle Trials!”

He launched into the explanation with his usual flourish, arms waving like banners in the wind.

“In this scenario, one team will play villains who’ve hidden a nuclear device inside a building. The other team—our heroes—must either capture the villains or secure the device before time runs out!”

A few students blinked at the word nuclear.

“That’s… a little intense,” whispered Kaminari.

Tenya Iida raised a stiff hand.

“This scenario seems highly irregular, sir! Why are teams being chosen at random rather than based on skill sets or tactical compatibility?”

All Might paused for only a second. “Ah, well, young Iida—you won’t always get to choose your comrades in the field! A hero must be ready to adapt!”

Iida bowed instantly. “Understood! Forgive my insolence.”

Most of the class winced as secondhand embarrassment rolled over them.

Clearing his throat to bring the attention back to him, All Might reached into a box and pulled out the slips.

“Team A… Midoriya and Mineta as heroes!”

Mineta audibly gasped and gave a nervous laugh. “Ehehe, wait—seriously? I’m with him?”

“Team B… Asui Tsuyu and Sato Rikido as villains!”

All Might clapped his hands together. “The rest of you will watch from the surveillance room. Study your classmates well—you never know what you’ll learn!” With that said, the two teams were led to their starting positions.

Inside the building, Tsuyu and Sato were already in place guarding the “nuclear core” in a simulated storage room.

Outside, Mineta looked like he was vibrating out of his skin.

Izuku stood next to him in total silence, head slightly bowed and eyes focused as he studied the map All Might had given him. The sunlight caught the metal sheen of his muzzle.

Mineta gulped. “Uh. So. Any ideas, partner?”

Izuku didn’t bother with an answer. He simply stared at the building and took one step forward.

Then another.

Mineta scrambled after him.

All Might’s voice echoed over the speakers.

“Battle Trial Start!”

…

Up in the surveillance room, Class 1-A crowded around the monitors.

“Midoriya’s moving fast,” Yaoyorozu noted. “He’s already moved up to the second floor.”

“He didn’t even tell Mineta what the plan was,” Jirou muttered.

“No wasted movement,” Todoroki murmured. “He’s… efficient.”

Bakugo stared at the screen in silence, jaw tight.

“He’s hunting,” Kirishima said.

Everyone looked at him.

And on the screen, Midoriya kept moving.

Not like a hero.

Not like a student.

Like something born in darkness that knew how to navigate it better than anyone else.

The cameras switched as Izuku disappeared around a corner.

…

Izuku found him patrolling a wide hallway just outside the simulated “core room.” The air hummed with tension, overhead lights flickering.

Sato noticed him immediately—paused mid-step and squared his broad shoulders.

“Midoriya.”

He reached into his utility belt and popped a fistful of sugar cubes into his mouth, crunching down hard. His biceps bulged instantly, veins rising beneath his skin like cables.

Izuku didn’t stop walking.

He wanted him to eat it.

Sato rolled his neck and gave a deep, forced chuckle. “Heh. Guess I’m the first boss battle, huh?” He brought his fists up, stance wide. “Try not to cry when I wreck you. Y’know—villain stuff.”

Izuku didn’t respond. His eyes locked onto Sato’s center of mass, expression unreadable behind the muzzle.

Sato frowned. “Come on, man. At least say something creepy back. That’s your whole vibe, right?”

Then Izuku moved.

The first clash was sudden. Brutal. Fast.

Izuku darted low, gliding in like smoke. Sato threw a haymaker—wide, strong—but Izuku pivoted, slipping under the swing. His foot hooked around Sato’s ankle, sweeping with just enough force to tip his balance.

Sato stumbled forward.

Izuku was already there.

A driving shoulder to the gut. A sharp elbow under the ribs. Each motion surgical—delivered with no wasted effort.

“Ghhk—!” Sato gasped, spitting out a breath and sugar dust. But he didn’t fall. He staggered back, boots dragging, and forced himself upright.

“Okay… okay!” he barked, shaking his head. “You wanna play it serious? I can do serious!”

His arms tensed as the sugar hit full effect—muscles ballooning, eyes blazing with sudden intensity.

“I’m not gonna let some edge-lord scare me into freezing up! I’m here to win!”

Izuku tilted his head slightly.

Watched.

Waited.

He didn’t strike again. Just circled.

Measured.

He let Sato lunge forward—another wild punch, the kind that would’ve caved in someone’s chest if it hit. Izuku dodged it by a breath. Then another. Narrow sways. Controlled steps. Cool calculation.

He was studying Sato’s movement patterns. Speed. Angles. Momentum.

Toying with him.

“You’re not even trying to hit back,” Sato panted. “What—too good to fight me for real?”

“Eat more,” Izuku muttered, low and detached. “I want to see what it does.”

Sato snarled. “You’re messed up, you know that?”

Then he roared—slamming both fists down in a twin hammer-blow. The floor cracked beneath the impact, dust shooting up in bursts.

But Izuku had already moved—blurring around him like a shadow with intent.

Still, Sato was faster now. Bigger. Stronger.

He twisted and managed to catch Izuku with a sudden shoulder charge—one born more of instinct than strategy. It hit clean, slamming Izuku back into the wall with a hollow crack. Plaster crumbled around him.

Class 1-A leaned forward in the surveillance room, silent.

Izuku slowly stepped out of the crumbled indentation. Rolled his shoulders. Cracked his neck.

“I’ve seen enough.”

He surged forward.

A blur.

A black flash.

Sato tried to brace, arms up—

Too late.

Izuku spun, heel whipping around with brutal velocity, and struck the side of Sato’s skull with a sickening, wet thud. The larger teen’s eyes went wide—then empty.

He collapsed like a felled tree, limbs limp and twitching.

No hesitation, no mercy, just precision.

Izuku didn’t spare him a glance.

He stepped over the unconscious body without a word, boots whispering against the tile, and disappeared deeper into the maze of hallways.

It didn’t take him much longer to find Tsuyu. She was near the stairwell leading down toward the “nuclear core.” The corridor was quiet—dimmer than the rest, with condensation dripping from overhead pipes.

Tsuyu was already in a low crouch when he turned the corner. Her wide, unblinking eyes tracked him. Her tongue flicked out once—testing the air. She didn’t blink.

This wasn’t the same boy who sat at his desk in silence, this was something else. Something colder. Sharper.

Tsuyu didn’t wait.

She moved.

One leap back to gain distance. Her tongue shot out, aiming for center mass. A test. A warning.

Izuku sidestepped. Effortless.

Another lash—faster, this time. He ducked it with a tilt of the head.

Third strike—feint, then whip-crack—

It hit.

Smacked clean across his face with a wet snap and sent him flying into the wall. The plaster cracked in a human-sized shape, a spray of dust raining down.

Tsuyu landed again, arms out, knees bent, fingers splayed wide.

“Sorry, Midoriya-kun,” she said, voice calm but tight. “But I won’t go easy on you because you’re my classmate, kero.”

Izuku lifted his head.

The left side of his muzzle was cracked, a jagged split stretching from the cheek down to his jaw. His eyes glinted through it—still green, but duller somehow. More animal.

He didn’t look angry, he more so looked like he’d made a decision.

And then he moved.

No windup. No warning.

He came at her like a predator—low, fast, and silent.

Tsuyu leapt again, muscle memory reacting before thought. She aimed to arc over him—but he was already there, intercepting her mid-air.

One hand caught her by the ankle. Yanked.

She twisted mid-fall, lashed her tongue again—but he batted it aside and stepped into her space. A punch to the gut, brutal. Then a backhand to her jaw that cracked loudly off the stairwell rail.

Tsuyu grunted, trying to leap clear, tongue coiling outward to find something to grip.

Izuku caught it mid-flight. His fingers wrapped around the slick muscle, and with a jerk, he pulled her forward—his knee slammed into her sternum, folding her around it.

She gasped—sharp, choking. Still, she fought. Kicked out with one leg, tried to dislodge him—but he dropped low, swept her other foot clean from under her, and rose up with an elbow to the side of her skull.

Tsuyu dropped instantly. One smooth collapse to the tile floor. Froglike limbs splayed out, breath rasping.

Izuku stood over her.

One breath. Two.

The hallway buzzed with overhead lights. Dust motes spun in the stillness.

“Sato had her protecting it,” he murmured—voice low, almost thoughtful. “That’s probably the smartest thing he’s ever done.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Didn’t expect one.

He turned—boots whispering across the tile—and vanished down the stairs, headed straight for the last room. And when Izuku reached that room, he pressed his hand to the weapon and a loud beep followed closely after it.

“Hero Team wins!”

He didn’t smile nor did he cheer.

Just stood there, expression unreadable behind the black muzzle and the high collar of his coat.

A ghost in a graveyard.

…

The door to the surveillance room hissed open.

Mineta shuffled in first, half-hiding behind Izuku like a child clinging to the back of a parent. Izuku stepped through slowly, his coat whispering with each motion, the fractured muzzle catching the overhead lights in uneven glints.

Every pair of eyes turned toward him but no one said anything. He didn’t meet a single gaze.

“An excellent and decisive victory by the Hero Team!” All Might’s voice boomed with his usual charisma, trying—struggling—to lighten the air. “Now then! Let’s hear some feedback from the rest of the class!”

Silence.

No hands raised, no voices volunteered.

Until—

“May I speak, All Might-sensei?” Yaoyorozu said, lifting her hand with composure that didn’t quite mask the tension in her voice.

All Might nodded. “Of course, Yaoyorozu-san!”

She stood straighter, folding her hands in front of her. Her voice was clear but laced with caution. “Midoriya-kun’s performance was… effective. But I would argue that it was also unnecessarily cruel. The point of this exercise is to simulate heroic action, not just defeating the enemy. You could have restrained Tsuyu-san. Or Rikido-kun. You didn’t need to knock them unconscious.”

Her words weren’t unkind. Just measured. Professional.

But still, the silence afterward felt like someone had taken a breath and held it.

Izuku lifted his head slowly.

His eyes were dull and flat and empty—but there was something burning underneath. Controlled. Leashed.

“Tell me,” he said, voice muffled but sharp enough to cut through the air, “what exactly did you think is going to happen when we’re pros?”

Yaoyorozu blinked.

Izuku took a step forward.

“No, really,” he said, a low growl threading into his voice despite himself. “You think a villain’s gonna give you time to think? To weigh out your options? To talk them down? You think they’ll pull their punches because you’re new?”

No one dared to answer him.

He scanned the room slowly. “ Do you think a real villain’s going to care how nice you are?”

Kaminari shifted uncomfortably. Uraraka looked down. Even Katsuki, in the corner, was still and unreadable.

Izuku’s fingers twitched at his side.

He could feel it again—that thing inside him, the thing from yesterday. The thing that had nearly leapt out of him when Uraraka spoke up during the apprehension test. He could see her flinch, could hear the sound of her quiet breathing when she thought he might hit her.

He hated it.

He hated himself for it.

So he reeled it in.

His next breath was sharp and long.

“I’m not saying I did it the ‘right’ way because there is no ‘right’ way,” he muttered. “I won. What else could matter?”

That last part—he said it more for himself than anyone else.

All Might nodded slowly. “A… fair point. Though remember, Midoriya-shounen, there’s always a line between decisive action and reckless violence.”

Izuku just turned his head away from All Might’s awaiting gaze, the crack in his muzzle visible from the side like a scar.

From the back of the room, Kaminari crossed his arms, frowning thoughtfully. “Still… that was badass,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

Mina elbowed him softly, unsure whether to grin or wince.

All Might cleared his throat again. “Alright! Let’s keep things moving, my students! Team D and F, please prepare to head into the field!”

As the others moved toward the changing room again, Izuku quietly drifted to the back of the group. No one looked at him. No one approached him.

Except for Mineta, who gave him one nervous little nod.

Izuku ignored it.

And yet—he hadn’t lashed out. He hadn’t broken anyone’s arm. He hadn’t even yelled.

He was learning.

He hated that it felt like failure.

Chapter Text

They were already waiting at the gates.

Bright-eyed, sharp-tongued, mic-wielding beasts dressed in nice shoes and name-brand jackets. Buzzing with caffeine and camera flashes, their numbers spilled into the sidewalk like a swarm of ants over a dropped sweet. The moment the news broke that All Might had been hired at U.A., they descended on the school like it was blood in the water—and now they were here, arms raised and voices shrill, ready to snap up any scrap of information they could get their well-manicured hands on.

Izuku froze halfway through the gate, lips parting slightly when he saw the mess. He should have turned around.

Instead, he hesitated.

It was a mistake.

“There!” one of them shouted. “That one! That’s a U.A. student!”

They moved fast. Too fast. The first microphone was shoved in his face before he could even shift his weight.

“Are you in the hero course?!”

“Do you have All Might as a teacher?”

“What’s he like? Does he really teach combat?”

“Is it true he’s only here part-time?!”

Izuku blinked, the flood of noise rushing his ears like cold water. Faces closed in. Hands. Phones. Microphones. More questions. A camera flashed too close and made him wince.

He didn’t like this.

He didn’t like this at all.

His muzzle felt too tight. His neck itched under the collar of his coat. The smell of too many perfumes and deodorants and body heat made his nose crinkle.

Someone touched his arm.

Something inside him pulled taut.

His fingers curled into claws and his face scrunched, teeth scraping against the inside of his mouth with a low, rising growl—

“Yo! Cut it out—back off!”

A hand grabbed his elbow and yanked him out of the center of the pack just before he lunged.

Kaminari grinned as he dragged him backward, tone casual but forceful. “He’s not in the mood for interviews, folks.”

Kirishima pushed into the crowd from the other side like a human battering ram, throwing out a quick “Sorry! Coming through!” as he broke the line.

“Media’s not allowed on campus,” Aizawa said flatly, stepping out from behind the gate. His hair hung in lazy tangles and his eyes were already glowing red. “Last warning.”

Someone shouted another question.

The metal security gates clanged shut a second later.

Izuku stood in the shade of the overhang, tense and coiled. His skin prickled with irritation. His jaw ached.

Kaminari still had a hand on his elbow and he jerked out of it like it burned him.

“…Thanks,” he muttered, voice rough, and stalked off before either of them could respond.

Kaminari and Kirishima trailed behind, chattering like it was nothing. Kaminari even laughed.

Izuku kept walking, kept his head down, slipped into his seat with all the grace of a wound healing over.

He closed his eyes but he wasn’t really sleeping, just resting his eyes until the bell rang.

That five seconds of peace was ruined by Aizawa saying from inside his sleeping bag, “Today you’re electing class representatives. Figure it out yourselves. I don’t care how.”

Chaos erupted instantly.

“I volunteer!”

“No way, me!”

“Vote for me, I’m the best choice~!”

Someone threw a pencil. Someone shouted.

Iida stood up like a man possessed. “Everyone! We should hold a proper vote—!”

Somehow, they listened to him. Izuku didn’t vote. He rested his chin on his palm and stared out the window while the others scribbled names on paper slips and dropped them into Yaoyorozu’s hand.

When she read the results aloud, her eyebrows climbed.

“Midoriya…?”

His head snapped toward her, face tightening in disbelief.

Someone clapped.

“Who the hell voted for him!” Bakugo barked out, eyes flashing towards Izuku.

“I did!” Kaminari grinned. “He’s scary enough to keep people in line.”

“Same,” Kirishima added. “Dude’s intense. Makes sense to me.”

“I’m not doing it,” Izuku said coldly, already pushing his chair back. He then pointed at Iida, “I’ll give it to him since he clearly wants it so badly.”

Iida practically fell out of his seat. “M-Me?!”

“You heard him. Iida is our representative, vice rep is Yaoyorozu,” Aizawa grunted. “Moving on.”

…

At lunch, Izuku found himself standing in line for some sashimi.

Once he’d retrieved that, he found a place near the far window and sat by himself, chewing slowly. He liked the clean taste. The sharp salt. It didn’t leave anything behind in his teeth. This was way better than sashimi from a convenience store.

It had caused Lunch Rush to look at him funny when he ordered it, but he didn’t question Izuku any further about it. Not that Izuku blamed him. There weren’t that many kids his age who ordered raw fish with nothing else on the plate. No rice. No soup. Just sliced fish.

He ate in silence…

Until he didn’t.

A tray clattered onto the table beside him. Then another. Then two more.

“Yo, Midoriya!” Kaminari grinned, slapping his chopsticks together. “Mind if we sit?”

He did. But they’d already moved before he could give his answer.

Kirishima dropped into the seat across from him. Sero took the end. Mina sat beside Kaminari, still laughing about something that had nothing to do with him.

“You’re quiet today,” Kirishima said through a mouthful of food. “You okay?”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Fair,” he chuckled.

“We need you to settle the score between us, Midoriya. Please?” Mina asked suddenly, turning to him and waiting until he gave a noncommittal grunt. Her smile widened. “Awesome! Okay, so, do you think Kamui Woods could beat Mt. Lady in a one-on-one?”

Izuku blinked at her, suspicious.

“…Kamui’s quirk is more versatile and he’s smart with it,” he said after a beat. “He’d win.”

“Ha! I said the same thing!” Sero grinned.

They talked like he was one of them—he wasn’t. He’s not.

Regardless, Izuku answered their subsequent questions with clipped sentences, didn’t volunteer anything more than what was asked of him. Didn’t smile. But they didn’t seem to mind. It was irritating. And a little confusing to say the least.

He was chewing a slice of tuna when the alarm rang.

A shrill wail split the air. Red lights flared across the ceiling, spinning like sirens.

Chairs scraped against the tile. People stood.

A third-year by the door glanced toward the hall and frowned.

“That’s not a drill,” they shouted. “That light means someone got through the barrier!”

Izuku was already standing. He hadn’t realized he’d moved. His fingers twitched, his eyes burned.

Something wasn’t right.

The hallway was already a mess when they’d managed to push through the crowd.

Students from every class and every year spilled out of the cafeteria in waves—support students still in bulky tool belts, business kids gripping tablets like shields, general studies students who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. The hero course students were certainly not the only ones that got spooked.

Voices blurred into shouts. Someone started crying. Someone else tripped and fell, and a third-year practically vaulted over them. Elbows flew. Panic spread like fire.

It itched at Izuku’s spine.

His head snapped to the nearest window and narrowed. Past the crowd, past the building gates—

—press.

Just the damn press.

No villains. No monsters. Just reporters still yelling through the bars like they’d been wronged.

He exhaled, a slow sharp hiss behind his teeth.

“Kaminari,” he barked.

Kaminari blinked and looked up from the mess beside him. “Huh?”

“Can you run a low enough current through the floor? Not enough to hurt, just enough to get attention.”

Kaminari grinned like a light switch flicking on. “Oh yeah, I got you.”

“Do it. Now.”

A few moments later, a harmless crackle shimmered across the metal beneath their feet—just enough of a buzz to snap students out of their panic. They paused, startled.

“Hey,” Izuku muttered, stepping in front of Kirishima. “Climb on.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

Kirishima didn’t hesitate. He hoisted himself up, boots braced against Izuku’s thighs, steadying on his shoulders. He wasn’t light—but Izuku didn’t even flinch.

Towering over the crowd at over two meters tall, Izuku was impossible to miss—and now, so was Kirishima.

“Hey!” Kirishima shouted. His voice cut through the noise like a spear. “Everyone, listen! It’s just the media! Not a villain attack!”

Heads turned. The chaos started to slow.

“They didn’t break in!” Kirishima called again. “They just slipped past the gate while it was open! It’s just reporters!”

Someone cursed under their breath. The crying stopped. Slowly, like water draining from a broken basin, the panic receded.

Izuku dropped Kirishima back to the ground without ceremony. His hands twitched at his sides. He hated being in the center of a crowd, even one calming down.

“Good call, dude,” Kaminari said, clapping his back lightly and walking in the opposite direction.

Izuku stood there for a moment stunned, blinking rapidly in confusion. He then shook it off and headed in the same direction.

Back in the classroom, Aizawa was sprawled across his sleeping bag again like nothing happened.

They filed in with half-eaten lunches and strained nerves. Izuku sat at his desk and curled his fingers into his coat sleeve.

“Midoriya,” Iida said, stepping toward him. “About earlier.”

Izuku lifted a brow.

“That was quick thinking. Clever, even. You kept people from getting trampled.”

“…I just got tired of the noise.”

“You should reconsider the class rep role,” Iida continued. “I only received it because you gave it to me, but—”

“No.”

Iida blinked.

“I still don’t want it.” Izuku didn’t even look at him. “You’d have done the same thing if you thought of it first. I just moved faster.”

There was a beat.

Then Iida smiled faintly.

“I see.”

He said nothing else.

Aizawa stirred from his sleeping bag. “Good. Now that you’re done playing politicians—gear up. You’re heading out for Basic Hero Training.”

…

The changing rooms were noisy.

Izuku ignored them. He changed quickly, pulling his coat tight, checking the buckles on his satchel, adjusting the muzzle around his face.

It clicked into place with a final, quiet snap.

The bus ride was short and bumpy. The vehicle itself was spacious—no walls, just rows of benches and seats that forced everyone into loose conversation.

Izuku sat near the rear window, half-listening.

“Hey, hey,” Sero said, pointing. “Look at Midoriya’s arms, though—he’s jacked.”

“That’s gotta be a transformation quirk, right?” Kaminari added.

“No way, that’s a mutation,” Kirishima said. “He’s probably always looked like that. Like a total beast, dude.”

“I dunno,” Tsuyu murmured. “His strength—it’s kinda like All Might’s isn’t it?”

That made the whole bus go quiet for a second.

Izuku stiffened. His fingers dug into the seat.

Kirishima broke the silence. “Nah, no way. All Might doesn’t look like that—Midoriya’s more like, uh… like some cryptid. You know? Urban legend kind of thing.”

“Yeah, but I get what Tsu-chan means,” Mina said. “He’s obviously crazy powerful. That’s top-tier hero stuff.”

Kirishima crossed his arms. “Wish I had something flashier. I mean, my quirk’s tough, but it’s not flashy. Guys like Bakugo or Todoroki—they’ve got the kind of powers that make headlines.”

Mina snorted. “Being flashy isn’t everything.”

“Yeah, but it helps.”

“I think Bakugo’s too angry to be popular anyway,” Tsuyu said flatly.

A vein bulged on Katsuki’s forehead.

“Yo, she’s right,” Kaminari laughed. “You’ve got the personality of a flaming-hot dumpster fire.”

Izuku didn’t join in.

He was watching Katsuki. Watching the way his shoulders hunched, the way his teeth bared, how he bristled in the seat like a kicked dog.

It was strange. Back in middle school, Katsuki had been the one people feared, the one they watched their mouths around. Now he was the one being poked, jabbed at from all sides.

Izuku didn’t know what to make of it.

He turned his head and looked out the window until the bus rolled to a stop in front of a large, domed building.

It looked like something out of a sci-fi film—high glass, steel supports, and walls that glittered faintly in the afternoon sun.

Waiting for them on the platform was a woman in a space suit.

“Hello, everyone!” she greeted cheerfully. “I’m Thirteen, and welcome to the Unforeseen Simulation Joint!”

She gestured grandly to the massive facility behind her. “The U.S.J. is designed to simulate disaster zones, so you can learn how to use your quirks to rescue, not just to fight. That’s a vital difference. Quirks can save lives—but they can also end them.”

Her gloved hand lifted.

“Take mine, for example. My quirk, Black Hole, can absorb anything… including people. If misused, it could be deadly. But, I choose to use it to save others.”

Izuku’s jaw tensed.

He looked up, locking eyes with Katsuki. For a second, just one second, neither of them looked away.

Then Izuku did. He looked at the ground. The burn on his shoulder itched even though it had long since healed. He still felt Katsuki’s gaze still digging into his back like a blade.

Thirteen kept talking, words trailing off as she led the group through the main entrance.

Class 1-A quickly filed in and Izuku took one last breath of fresh air before following behind them.

The world behind the glass dome shimmered like a mirage—man made landslides, collapsed buildings, artificial oceans, and a burning city block all arranged in a terrifying panorama of staged destruction.

And then—

A wave of black mist bloomed outward from the center of the U.S.J. plaza, flickering with static and the faint scent of ozone. From within the fog emerged dozens of villains—men and women clad in armor, cloaks, or crude weapons. Their figures distorted like bad reception on an old TV set as the swirling mist warped space behind them.

At the back of the pack, three stood apart from the rest. One, a figure cloaked in purple fog with glowing yellow eyes and a distorted, rumbling voice. Another, hunched and twitching, pale skin littered with grotesque, disembodied hands. The most noticeable one being clutched his face like a mask. His red eyes gleamed with erratic malice. The last of the trio was a being with inhuman proportions—black skin, an All Might-like build, a bird’s beak instead of a mouth, and his brain matter was left half exposed.

“Are those guys part of the rescue exercise?”

Izuku isn’t sure which one of his classmates spoke, but he was half hoping that it had been meant as a joke.

If not… Whatever. The shortcomings of others aren’t his fault.

“No, they aren’t part of the exercise. These are real villains,” Aizawa said, voice tight and deadly serious. “Everyone, stay behind me and Thirteen.”

The fog villain scanned the gathered students with vague interest before turning toward the hand villain. “Tomura Shigaraki… All Might isn’t here.”

“What?” Shigaraki hissed, his voice like nails on cracked glass. “But the schedule… The schedule said he’d be here. He’s supposed to be here!”

He turned his crimson gaze toward the students, manic and twitching. “Maybe he’ll come after we kill a few of his precious students, huh?”

“No.” Aizawa stepped forward, goggles sliding down over his eyes. “You’ll have to go through me first.”

“You’re not All Might,” Shigaraki sneered, disappointed.

“But I am a pro,” Aizawa said coldly. “Thirteen—evacuate the students. I’ll handle this.”

Izuku surged forward before he could stop himself. “Wait—I can help you—“

“You’ve got other responsibilities now,” Aizawa snapped. His eyes flickered between Izuku’s and the rest of his students. “Trust me. No pro is a one-trick pony.”

Then he was gone—springing into action like a whip uncoiled.

The first wave of villains came at him like a pack of jackals, but Eraserhead’s gaze cut through them. Quirks fizzled out mid-air, and his capture weapon danced like a silver serpent. He slammed one opponent to the floor and flung another into the wall, all without missing a beat.

“That’s Eraserhead!” one villain gasped. “He erases Quirks just by looking at you—!”

“Then he’s mine!” A towering villain with scales for skin and serrated jaws lunged. “My Quirk’s not the kind you can erase!”

“Maybe not,” Aizawa muttered, calm as ever. “But I don’t have to erase it to beat you.”

He used his scarf to swing above the mutant’s charge and slammed his boot into the villain’s head. The brute staggered, and Aizawa bound him with quick flicks of his cloth before yanking him into the floor with brutal efficiency.

Back near the entrance, Thirteen corralled the students. “Move! We need to escape and call for backup—!”

“I’ll run to the school and contact the faculty!” Iida called. “Everyone else—get to the exit!”

But just as Class 1-A made for the door, the mist returned—rising like a wave, warping space into impossible curves.

“You won’t be going anywhere,” came a voice smooth as poisoned wine. The fog coalesced again, revealing Kurogiri. “We are the League of Villains. And our target is none other than All Might.”

Katsuki’s teeth clenched. “Like hell it is—!”

He launched an explosion toward the villain, only for the blast to vanish harmlessly into the fog. Kirishima followed up with a headlong charge, but Kurogiri sidestepped him with inhuman ease.

“Who knew U.A. had such golden eggs,” Kurogiri said. “Too bad this is where you’ll all meet your ends.”

Thirteen’s gloved hand opened. “I’ll deal with him—run!”

But Kurogiri struck first—portals opened mid-air, a spiderweb of warps wrapping around the class.

The world distorted.

Izuku barely had time to react before the floor beneath him folded into the sky. He plunged through the darkness—

And splashed down hard.

Freezing water closed over his head. The pressure hit his ears like a drum. He twisted underwater, instincts kicking in, but his eyes burned as the salt stung them. A dark shape lunged at him—a shark-like villain, jagged teeth and dead eyes. It grinned and dove.

Izuku’s eyes narrowed, instincts flooding his system like venom. His breath caught. His muscles bunched—

Then, a blur.

The shark-villain jerked mid-lunge, slammed in the side by a powerful kick. Bubbles exploded in the water as the villain tumbled and vanished in the dark.

A long pink tongue curled around Izuku’s torso and yanked.

He breached the water like a corpse launched from the sea, landing hard on the warped metal deck of a sunken ferry. Gasping, soaked, and blinking hard, he looked up into large, calm eyes.

“You okay, Midoriya-kun?” asked Tsuyu, crouching beside him, soaked but unshaken.

Behind her, Mineta flailed as she swung him onboard too. “I—I think I swallowed a fish! A live one!”

“Shut… Up,” Izuku said between gulps of breath, already getting to his feet. “Thanks. For the save.”

Tsuyu nodded. “We’re gonna need to work together to get out of here.”

Izuku turned, eyes scanning the dark, waterlogged battlefield. His muscles were starting to ache ever so slightly. His mind buzzed. He could still feel Katsuki’s eyes burning into his back from earlier. And yet now, far into the U.S.J., he was focused only on one thing: Win.

The water was still for only a moment before Izuku began pacing the edge of the broken ship’s deck, each step slow and deliberate. His mind was whirring. One glance below told him what he needed to know—dozens of villains circling, treading water or perched atop floating debris, each one leering up at them. Their bodies slick, webbed, scaly, gilled. They belonged here. This zone had been chosen on purpose.

“They’re all water-types,” Izuku muttered, watching how each villain moved with ease. “Mutants. Emitters. Water enhances them. But,” his eyes narrowed, “They don’t know anything about our quirks, especially if they sent her to the Shipwreck Zone. They’re being cautious. Waiting for us to move first.”

Mineta was shaking violently beside him. “We—we’re still dead either way! There’s no way out! They’ll kill us, eat us—”

A loud smack echoed across the ship’s remains as Izuku slapped the back of Mineta’s head hard enough to make his head jostle back and forth.

“Get it together,” Izuku growled. “You wanna be a hero or not?”

Mineta flinched, wide-eyed.

“I’m not dying here. None of us are.” Izuku’s voice was low but burning with resolve. “You just have to act like a damn hero. I’ll win. So stop panicking and make yourself useful for once.”

The sound of rushing water ripped the moment apart—an impatient villain raised both arms, eyes glowing blue, and with a shout, sent a crashing torrent at the ship. The deck beneath them split with a deafening crack as splinters exploded into the air.

“Move!” Izuku shouted, just as the broken pieces began to fall.

The ship collapsed beneath them, and Izuku jumped—using the planks and steel scraps like springboards, bounding fast, each impact launching him higher. Wind screamed against him. He focused all his force into his right heel. His descent cut through the air so hard the water itself warped from the pressure.

He landed with a devastating crash.

The water exploded outward before violently crashing back together in a swirling, concussive vortex. Screams bubbled up and were dragged down as the current smashed the aquatic villains together, spinning them until they collided like ragdolls. Limbs twisted, heads snapped back, and the water stilled again—now darkened with unconscious bodies.

Tsuyu blinked, visibly impressed. “Whoa.”

Before Izuku could even catch his breath, Tsuyu’s tongue lashed out and pulled him from the water. Mineta scrambled after them, and the three regrouped atop the nearest stable debris.

“Nice one, Midoriya,” Tsuyu croaked. “Now what?”

“We go back, obviously,” Mineta said quickly, still rattled. “Back to Thirteen. The entrance should be that way, right? Let’s just stay far away from that main plaza—”

But Izuku was already walking away.

“Midoriya?” Tsuyu called after him. “That’s not the way!”

He didn’t answer.

“Thirteen is back there!”

Izuku paused. His shoulders were rigid, his fists clenched.

“You two can head back,” he said, voice thick. “I’m going to find Eraserhead.”

There was no “sensei” in his tone—just the cold, driven snarl of someone spiraling. Someone stressed. Someone afraid.

Tsuyu and Mineta exchanged looks, then took off after him.

They caught up at the edge of the central plaza—and stopped cold.

Eraserhead had lost.

He was barely recognizable, crumpled on the blood-slick ground, one eye swollen shut, elbow twisted at an inhuman angle, flesh peeled back to near bone. A shadow loomed over him, monstrous and still—bird-like in silhouette, muscles warped and grotesquely overgrown.

Izuku froze. His breath hitched.

Then stopped.

Mineta collided into his back with a yelp, and Tsuyu grabbed his arm to steady them all, but Izuku didn’t move. His vision was tunneling, rimmed with black and red. Blood roared in his ears, louder and louder, until it was all he could hear.

He’s dying. He’s dying. He’s dead—

The world blurred.

Izuku stumbled forward—one step, two—then Tsuyu yanked him back by the elbow. “Midoriya, wait—”

He slipped her grip and broke out into a dead sprint.

“Midoriya—!” Mineta called.

But it was too late. He was already at Eraserhead’s side, trembling, crouched protectively over the broken body. The warmth radiating off Aizawa was still there—but faint. Too faint. He was alive, but only barely.

The voices ahead of them finally became clear.

“He’s really strong, huh? It’s kind of a shame. I actually liked this one,” said the villain draped in disembodied hands, scratching violently at his neck, his voice giddy and trembling. “But we need All Might, and this is the only way to make him show. Nomu! Kill—”

A crack rang out.

Izuku caught Nomu’s punch with both arms—his legs buckled, ribs shattered, but he held firm.

“Take him and go!” he roared at Tsuyu and Mineta. “Now!”

The shockwave of impact blasted dust and debris across the plaza.

Tsuyu sprang forward without hesitation, grabbing Aizawa by the arm and dragging him away. Mineta scrambled to help. They disappeared into the smoke.

Shigaraki tilted his head.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he rasped, scratching hard enough now to draw blood from his neck. “You’re not supposed to be in this cutscene. You’re just an NPC!”

He snarled, aiming a pointed finger at him. “Nomu! Kill him!”

Nomu moved fast—faster than Izuku expected.

CRUNCH.

A fist tore clean through Izuku’s abdomen.

He staggered, blood spilling from his lips. His mind shorted out for half a second—then his body twitched. His flesh rippled. Regenerated.

Shigaraki’s face split into a smile for a split second before it cracked.

“Wait—wait, what? You’re cheating! That’s not fair! You’re not supposed to have that! This is the tutorial stage— You can’t just— You cheater! Nomu!”

Izuku fell back, gasping, then lunged again. His hits barely made Nomu stumble. Every punch thrown broke something in his hand. He regenerated. Threw another. Nomu was stronger. Faster. Built to fight All Might—and Izuku wasn’t All Might. Not even close.

It wasn’t long until Nomu had its fingers wrapped around Izuku’s throat like a vice, talons digging deep, feet grazing the ground.

Another punch—it came with an audible crack—slammed into his side, ribs shattering again. Blood gurgled from his lips, trailing down his chin. He tried to swing back, to twist free, but his limbs felt heavier now. Slower. Nomu wasn’t just stronger—he was endless. A ceaseless storm of power. No weakness. No fear.

Izuku’s feet scraped the concrete, eyes wide and wild, panting through blood. His vision had turned to static at the edges. The world was going white and red—flashing in and out of focus.

I’m… losing.

He hadn’t lost in years. Not like this. Not when it mattered.

He could win in back alleys, in meat markets, in fights where his competition was at least human—but this? This was the first time since fighting the Butcher that he felt small.

He wasn’t supposed to lose.

Heroes don’t lose.

His body jerked, a half-conscious twitch as something inside him began to shift. The blood in his veins turned acidic. His fingers started to curl into claws. His lips peeled back into something too wide to be a grin. He stopped seeing Nomu. He stopped seeing the plaza. Everything began to blur.

His mind began to fold in on itself.

A faint, feral hum started in his throat.

Can’t lose. Can’t lose. Can’t lose.

He felt it coming—the hunger. The need to destroy. To survive. The part of his quirk he kept shackled deep down, rising like bile in his throat. He could feel his control fraying, each strand snapping under the weight of failure. His pulse screamed against his skull.

If he let go—if he broke now—he wouldn’t be Izuku anymore. He wouldn’t be anything more than teeth, claws, and an insatiable hunger.

Nomu raised another fist.

And then—

The air shifted.

A boom cracked through the plaza like lightning. Wind exploded outward in a sudden shockwave that knocked rubble skyward and scattered the stench of death.

A voice—bright, commanding, undeniable—cut through the noise like a blade:

“Never fear, students… because I! AM! HERE!”

The world stopped spinning.

Izuku’s eyes, still wide and bloodshot, locked onto the blur of red, blue, and gold that crashed into Nomu and sent the beast flying across the battlefield like a ragdoll.

He hit the ground hard and tumbled, a trail of dust, blood, and broken concrete in his wake.

All Might stood tall, a golden titan in the midst of the wreckage.

Izuku slumped forward, the feral hum in his throat dying out. The monstrous pressure swelling beneath his skin faded like a tide receding. His fingers unclenched. His eyes filled with something almost like relief.

He wasn’t alone anymore.

This wasn’t his fight to lose.

Chapter Text

The afternoon was cold, even colder now that the adrenaline was wearing off, and the shivering cluster of Class 1-A stood just outside the ruined shell of the U.S.J., bundled in silver emergency blankets that barely kept the sting of the air at bay. It smelled like smoke and burnt rubber, the air sharp with the electric tang of scorched circuits and blood.

Some of them—Tsuyu, Yaoyorozu, Kirishima—had patches of blood crusted in their hair. Others like Kaminari and Iida just stared at the pavement, blinking like they were still trying to wake up.

No one spoke for a long moment. No one really knew what they were supposed to say.

Tsukauchi stood a few paces in front of them, arms tucked behind his back, his expression the perfect mask of professionalism, but even then, the lines around his mouth seemed deeper tonight. Worn-in. Human. His voice cut the silence, low and even, almost too careful.

“Aside from Midoriya,” he said, and there was a moment where the name seemed to hang in the air like a corpse on a noose, “none of you sustained major injuries. Minor scrapes, concussions, dislocations. You’ll recover.”

There were no cheers. No sighs of relief. Just a heavy, collective exhale that sounded suspiciously like guilt.

Kirishima clenched and unclenched his fists beneath the blanket. Uraraka wiped at her nose, sniffling even though she wasn’t crying. Yet.

Tsuyu shifted her weight, opened her mouth, and for a second it seemed like she wasn’t going to say anything after all. But then, soft and blunt as ever, she asked, “What about Thirteen… and Aizawa-sensei?”

For the first time, Tsukauchi’s mask cracked. Barely. Just a flicker of something behind the steady gaze.

“Critical injuries,” he said. “But not life-threatening. They’re in capable hands. They’ll pull through.”

The words were clinical. Tidy. As if saying it simply enough could make it true. No one believed him entirely, but it was the kind of lie they needed right now, so no one argued.

Before anyone could press him further, a young officer hurried up, whispering into Tsukauchi’s ear and handing him a tablet. He skimmed it quickly, grunted something that might’ve been relief.

“The Nomu,” he added, lifting his head to look at them again, “has been secured. It’s in a high-security holding facility. Suppression cuffs. Quirk nullification. It’ll never see daylight again.”

He nodded once, sharply, as if finalizing a thought, then turned on his heel.

“I have to check on Midoriya,” he said over his shoulder. “Stay put until your teachers collect you.”

And then he was gone, leaving nothing but the distant wail of sirens and the metallic taste of smoke on their tongues.

…

The first thing he became aware of was the harsh buzz of fluorescent lights, stabbing through the fog behind his eyelids.

The second was the sour sting of antiseptic in his nose.

The third was the steady, mechanical beep of a monitor somewhere to his left.

Izuku shifted slightly, groaning low in his throat as pain bloomed sharp across his ribs and shoulder. His mind felt like it was underwater—sluggish, heavy—and for a dizzy, stupid second he thought he was still a little kid, waking up after scraping his knees at recess.

A small, squat figure leaned over him, adjusting the IV drip in his arm. Everything about her felt familiar—the little huff of breath through her nose, the soft clucking of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. His lips cracked as he tried to speak, voice wrecked raw and thick.

“…Ms. Shuzenji?”

The figure froze. Just for a beat. It was quick, but Izuku was perceptive enough to catch it. Something ugly flickered across her face before she smoothed it back into neutrality.

“No,” she said sharply, and there was a roughness to it, a snap of something brittle and barely-contained. “And it’s criminal you don’t know who I am, young man. After all the chaos you’ve caused.”

Izuku flinched, blinking up at her in confusion. The woman sighed, her expression softening a fraction as she pulled the blanket tighter around him with surprising gentleness.

“I’m Recovery Girl,” she said finally. “U.A.’s nurse. Remember it next time.”

The name meant little to nothing to him, but he nodded anyway, too tired to argue.

Recovery Girl gave him a rundown of his injuries with the mechanical patience of someone who had seen far worse: cracked ribs, fractured femur, torn muscles, blood loss bordering on catastrophic.

“But your quirk kicked in halfway through,” she muttered, almost sounding annoyed. “Otherwise, we’d be having a much different conversation.”

Izuku turned his head, swallowing against the sour taste in his mouth. His brain felt like it was slipping sideways. Memories blurred and churned behind his eyes—Nomu, the way its jaw had cracked sideways under his fists, the way it kept getting up, no matter how many bones he broke.

He barely noticed when the door creaked open.

A man in a trench coat stepped in first, carrying the weight of his badge and a stack of papers tucked under one arm. His gaze landed on Izuku, cool but not unkind. A second later, All Might ducked under the door frame after him, still smiling away—but Izuku, even half-dead and woozy, saw the way the man’s hands twitched slightly at his sides. The way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

All Might always looked larger-than-life. Unbreakable. But tonight, even with the bravado plastered across his face, he looked… tired.

“This,” All Might said, his voice bright in that slightly too-cheerful way teachers used when trying to reassure crying kids, “is Detective Naomasa Tsukauchi. One of my oldest friends. You can trust him, Midoriya.”

Izuku nodded slowly, fingers flexing weakly against the blanket.

Tsukauchi came to stand by the bedside, flipping open a small notepad.

“If you’re up for it,” he said, “I have a few questions about the incident.”

Izuku managed a grunt that Tsukauchi graciously accepted as permission.

The questions came slow and steady:

Did you notice the Nomu targeting specific people?

Did Shigaraki say anything unusual?

Were there any threats directed at All Might specifically?

Izuku answered as best he could, piecing his memories together like shards of glass. He didn’t remember everything. He remembered fists and blood and fear, Eraserhead laying face-down in the dirt, the sickening snap of his bones.

Tsukauchi nodded, jotting notes, his expression giving nothing away.

When he was done, he thanked Izuku and stepped out of the room, leaving only All Might behind.

The silence pressed down heavily between them. Izuku stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster because it was easier than looking at All Might.

Eventually, he forced the words out, low and rough and painful:

“…Thanks. For saving them. For saving me.”

He didn’t say the rest—that he wanted to save his classmates, wanted to be strong enough to do that—but it was there.

All Might’s smile softened. Not his flashy stage-smile, but something rawer. More human. “You were incredible, young man,” he said. “You stepped up when no one else could. You fought with everything you had. You held the line until I could get there.”

Izuku clenched his jaw. His throat burned.

“I saw how you all fought,” All Might continued, voice low. “You’ll all make fine pro heroes one day. You, Midoriya-shounen… you already have the heart of one.”

For a moment, Izuku wanted to believe him. God, he wanted it so badly it hurt worse than any of his broken bones.

…

The infirmary lights dimmed to a low buzz as Recovery Girl finally gave him the all-clear. No one was waiting for him outside the nurse’s office. No classmates, no teachers. No one.

He buttoned the last button of his uniform shirt, wincing as the motion tugged against the bandages wrapped tight across his ribs. The halls of U.A. stretched out in front of him, yawning and empty.

The pit in his stomach, however, wasn’t empty. It gnawed at him, savage and ugly.

He knew exactly what it meant.

The more he healed, the more he hungered. It was one of the first lessons he learned on the streets, one of the things he’d never forget.

The body doesn’t give for free. It takes something in return.

And tonight, it was taking everything he had.

He went home long enough to toss his shoes at the door, change out of his uniform, pull on the battered black hoodie and sweatpants he kept stuffed in the bottom drawer. He slipped his shoes back on—steel-reinforced soles clicking hollowly against the pavement—and disappeared back into Musutafu’s streets.

The hunger roared in his gut, a siren song he couldn’t ignore.

Tonight, he wasn’t a student.
He wasn’t a hero-in-training.

Tonight, he was just a monster.

And monsters needed to feed.

The night pressed down heavily on Musutafu, thick with mist and the low hum of neon lights bleeding out across empty streets. U.A. was miles behind him now, swallowed up by the skyline. Out here, the city looked different. It looked like the place he remembered—sharp edges, loose teeth, a thousand cracks no one ever bothered to fix.

Izuku kept his head low, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders rounded in a way that made him smaller, invisible. Just another street rat prowling the alleys. Nobody important.

He couldn’t afford to draw attention. Not now. Not when he had something to lose.

The hunger was worse tonight.
Gnawing at the marrow of him, scraping its claws up the inside of his ribs. He could feel the damage the Nomu had done still lingering under his skin—bone that hadn’t knitted quite right, muscle that still pulled and burned even after his regeneration had done its work. His body needed more. Blood alone wouldn’t cut it. He needed meat.

He needed to feed properly or it would start to eat him from the inside out.

Izuku slipped deeper into the veins of the city, weaving through half-lit streets and garbage-choked alleyways. His ears were tuned sharp to the sounds of the night—the rumble of distant traffic, the sharp, wet slap of shoes on pavement, the half-heard growl of something that wasn’t quite an argument.

He caught the scent before he saw it.
Sweat. Fear. Cigarettes.

He ducked into the mouth of an alley and saw them:

A woman, maybe college-age, cornered against a rusted dumpster. Her hands were up, trembling, as the man in front of her brandished a cheap-looking knife, the blade catching the streetlight in short, frantic flashes.

The man was big. Heavyset. The kind of weight that came from years of eating cheap food and throwing his fists around without much skill behind them. His quirk crackled faintly along his knuckles—some kind of low-grade bioelectricity, Izuku guessed. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

He could feel his breathing slow. His muscles relaxed, almost unconsciously, the way they always did when the outcome was already decided.

He stepped into the alley. His footfalls were deliberate—just loud enough to catch the thug’s attention, not loud enough to spook the girl.

“Hey,” Izuku called out, voice low, disinterested, almost bored.

The man whirled around, knife up, teeth bared.

“The hell do you want, kid?”

Izuku didn’t answer. He tossed something underhanded toward the woman—a battered wallet he’d snagged from a distracted pedestrian two blocks back, still bulging with cash.

“Take it,” he said simply, jerking his chin toward the exit. “And run. Don’t look back.”

The woman hesitated. She looked between him and the thug, wide-eyed and terrified, and for a second Izuku thought she was too frozen to move.

But then something in his eyes must’ve convinced her—something black and bottomless—because she snatched the wallet and bolted, stumbling over her own feet in her haste to get away.

Good.

No witnesses.

The thug sneered, waving his knife.

“Think you’re some kinda hero, brat? You’re dead—”

The knife lunged. A sloppy, overcommitted thrust.

Izuku didn’t even flinch. He shifted his weight just enough to let the blade skim past his side harmlessly, a whisper of cold air against his hoodie. The man cursed and tried again, slashing high this time. Izuku batted the knife aside with the back of his wrist, sending a jolt of pain up the man’s arm.

He didn’t counterattack. Not yet. He needed the woman far enough away. Out of sight. Out of earshot.

The thug cursed again, voice rising.

“Stand still, you little—!”

Izuku caught the man’s wrist mid-swing, fingers locking down like iron shackles. He squeezed—slowly, inexorably—until he felt bones grind and pop. The knife clattered to the pavement with a pathetic clink.

Only then did Izuku lift his head fully.
Only then did the man get a good look at his face.

And in that moment, Izuku saw it—the spark of recognition. Not of who he was, but of what: something monstrous, something wrong.

The man opened his mouth to scream.

Izuku moved.

His hand snapped up, clamping over the thug’s mouth, muffling the sound into a garbled, choked-off whimper. He slammed the man back against the wall with a sickening crack, holding him there with ease, like pinning a moth to a board.

“Shh,” Izuku whispered, almost kindly. “It’s already over.”

And then he went for the jugular.

Literally.

He struck with brutal efficiency—jaws snapping down into the meat of the man’s throat, teeth sawing through flesh and cartilage. Hot, arterial blood burst into his mouth, scalding and metallic and so good it hurt.

The man convulsed violently, legs kicking out weakly against the wall. Izuku pinned him harder, squeezing the dying spasms out of him. He buried his mouth deeper into the wound, tearing ragged strips free with mechanical, practiced bites.

It was over fast. Too fast.

Izuku let the man’s body slide bonelessly to the ground. He knelt over him, hands and mouth slick with blood, and worked quickly—stripping away muscle, cracking open the ribcage with inhuman strength, pulling what he needed and eating in desperate, shoveling handfuls.

The hunger screamed in triumph, looking to cure its thirst with every swallow—torn sinew, shattered bone. The sheer violence of it made something deep in him settle, a raw, ugly peace that scared him more than he would ever admit.

Izuku wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, breathing hard through his nose.

Already, he could feel it—the healing knitting itself tighter across his ribs, the weakness leaching out of his limbs. The sharpness returned to his senses.

He stood slowly, rolling his shoulders, surveying the ruin he’d made.

The alley stank of blood and death. But he’d been careful. No screams. No witnesses.

Still, he wasn’t stupid enough to linger. He tugged the hood of his sweatshirt further down over his face, his hands sticky and warm inside the sleeves.

By morning, the body would be found. Probably blamed on a villain turf war.
It wouldn’t be the first time.

Izuku melted back into the darkness, silent and unseen, the monster retreating into its cage once more.

He was a student of U.A. now.
A hero-in-training.

And no one could ever know what he really was.

The walk back home was colder than it had any right to be.

Izuku didn’t remember much of it—only flashes. The blood on his hands drying into itchy, flaking sheets. The faint, lingering smell of iron and copper and meat following him like a chain around his throat. His shoes, scuffing the pavement, heavy and clumsy in a way they hadn’t been when he first set out.

He shoved the apartment door open with a dull thud of his shoulder. Kicked it closed behind him. The hallway stretched out, narrow and peeling at the corners, like the whole building was trying to curl inward and rot from the inside out.

Izuku peeled the hoodie off over his head, the fabric catching briefly on a loose scab along his neck before he yanked it free. He dropped it carelessly on the floor. The sweatpants followed. His shoes were kicked off somewhere by the bathroom door—one landing sideways, the other smacking the wall with a hollow, unimportant sound.

The bathroom light flickered when he turned it on, buzzing with that cheap, dying fluorescent hum. The mirror above the sink was cracked in the corner from when he’d thrown up so hard against the counter once that his elbow had smashed into it. It made his reflection look like it had a spiderweb etched through the left side of his face.

He met his own eyes in the mirror. Watched the way his pupils were still blown wide, eating up almost all of the gray. His face was smeared with blood—not a lot, not like before—but enough. Enough to be obvious. A smear at the corner of his mouth, a thin trail dried down the side of his neck, his hands practically lacquered in it up to the wrists. It had soaked into the thin skin beneath his nails, and he had to grip the sink hard enough to make it groan just to steady himself.

He turned the tap. Let the water run scalding hot. Steam rose almost instantly, curling around the light and making the room feel tighter, heavier. He jammed his hands under it, hissing when the heat bit into his raw knuckles. Blood thinned, pinked, and spiraled down the drain like it couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

Scrubbing. He scrubbed hard enough to leave his skin angry and blotched. Hard enough that it felt like he could maybe scrape the guilt away with it, too, if he just pushed a little harder. If he just—

The water turned off with a sharp squeal.

Izuku stood there, dripping, hands clenched around the edges of the sink. His reflection stared back at him with something hollow and shivering behind the eyes.

He thought about the man’s face—the way it twisted when Izuku pinned him to the ground, the way his mouth opened to scream and how Izuku’s hand closed around his throat before he could. The way his blood was so hot it steamed against the night air when Izuku bit down, teeth shearing through tendon and flesh.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Bowed his head over the sink.

“You had to.”

The words came, slow and familiar.

“You had to. It’s not the same.”

He braced himself. Gripped harder until his fingertips whitened.

“You didn’t kill an innocent person. You didn’t go after someone good. You stopped a villain. You helped someone. You did something a hero would do.”

He dragged in a breath that shuddered on the way down. Then, he opened his eyes. Met himself again in the mirror.

The crack running through the left side of his reflection made it look like he was splitting in two.

“Get over it,” he muttered, voice rough and low. He reached for a towel, scrubbing harshly at his face, his arms, the blood that still clung to his skin even after the washing. “It’s over. You did what you had to do.”

He turned off the bathroom light and stepped out into the dark of his apartment, feeling the hunger quiet in his gut for the first time all day. It wasn’t gone—it never would be—but for now, it had been fed enough to let him be.

Izuku didn’t bother getting dressed again. He collapsed onto the thin mattress in the corner of the room, the one that smelled faintly of must and stale sweat, and pulled the threadbare blanket up over his bare shoulders.

Tomorrow, he’d go back to U.A. like nothing had happened.

Tomorrow, he’d be Izuku Midoriya, student of Class 1-A, future pro hero.

Tomorrow, he’d pretend he wasn’t a monster.

Tonight, he closed his eyes and tried not to feel the blood still pulsing warm and slick between his teeth.

…

Morning came cruel and heavy.

Izuku pushed himself out of bed like something half-dead and rotting, the blanket sticking to his skin from sweat he didn’t remember shedding. His body ached—not in the sharp, warning way of broken bones or torn muscles, but a dull, bone-deep fatigue, like his cells were still stitching themselves back together long after he’d already demanded they be whole.

The apartment was quiet except for the thin buzz of the fluorescent light above the bathroom mirror. It flickered a little, but Izuku ignored it, already reaching for the toothbrush and the cheap toothpaste he bought from the corner store. Routine was good. Routine meant he didn’t have to think too hard.

He was already dressed in his school uniform—the bare minimum he could get away with: the plain white short-sleeved button-up, clean if a little threadbare at the hem, and the standard issue green-blue U.A. slacks, just a little too big at the waist and cinched tight with an old belt. His collar hung open, no tie in sight, sleeves rumpled and rolled once at the cuff to keep the seams from catching on his elbows.

He leaned over the sink, brushing his teeth mechanically, eyes half-lidded. The taste of mint foam dulled the iron tang still lingering at the back of his throat.

He caught it out of the corner of his eye—a dark, crusted smear, just beneath his left ear where his jaw curved back toward his neck. Dried blood.

The toothbrush clattered into the sink, spit and foam spraying the porcelain.

Izuku’s breath got caught in his throat.
Stupid, stupid, sloppy—

He scrambled for a towel, fingers fumbling against the worn fabric. Drenched it under the tap, scalding hot, steam curling up in angry little tendrils. He pressed it hard against the spot, scrubbing more than wiping, feeling the skin grow raw and tender under the heat and friction.

When he finally dared to look again, the blood was gone.
Only pink, freshly-scrubbed skin stared back.

He finished brushing, rinsing his mouth out with a handful of cold water, and spat it down the drain with a shudder.

Without bothering to dry his face fully, he grabbed his satchel from where it hung on the rusted hook by the door—its canvas worn thin, stitched and patched so many times it barely resembled its original shape—and slung it over one shoulder.

He locked the door behind him. The click echoed too loud in the still morning air.

The walk to U.A. was different.

Bystanders gave him looks—furtive glances over the rims of coffee cups, whispered conversations behind raised hands, some people not even bothering to hide the way their eyes tracked the U.A. emblem stitched onto his shirt sleeve.

Izuku frowned slightly, not breaking stride. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and kept his head ducked low.

He didn’t know yet that the news of the U.S.J. attack had spread like wildfire overnight, headlines blaring about the “Villain Assault on Japan’s Top Hero Academy” and the “students caught in the crossfire.” Pictures, grainy and taken from helicopter shots, showed tiny figures fighting monsters. U.A. uniforms were unmistakable.

He just thought people were staring because that’s what people always did.

When Izuku finally slipped into Class 1-A, the atmosphere was thick and buzzing with an energy that felt a little off, a little too jittery.

Almost everyone was already there, scattered around the room in little clumps—talking, laughing, nervously fidgeting. Their voices tumbled over each other, loud enough that Izuku barely caught snippets as he slid into his seat in the back, satchel dropping heavily to the floor beside him.

“Did you see the news—?”

“They even caught my quirk on camera!”

“I hope my parents aren’t freaking out too bad…”

“I didn’t even know how they filmed it—!”

Izuku stared out the window, half-listening, the weight of exhaustion and too many thoughts pressing heavy between his shoulder blades.

It was then that he felt a presence hover a little too long at the edge of his desk. He blinked, turning his head slightly.

Denki Kaminari stood there, shifting awkwardly on his feet, one hand scratching at the back of his head. Behind him, Mina Ashido and Eijirou Kirishima flanked him like nervous backup dancers. Even Ochako Uraraka, sitting at her desk nearby, kept glancing at him sideways, biting her lip like she wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out how to start.

“Hey, uh,” Kaminari said, voice a little too bright, a little too loud. “You good, Midoriya?”

Before Izuku could answer, Mina piped in, her eyes wide and earnest.
“Yeah! We were, like, super worried about you! You kinda scared us back there, y’know? You were out cold for a while…”

“And man, you were fighting like a beast!” Kirishima added, grinning but still with that lingering tightness around his mouth that betrayed the concern. “Seriously, you were…that was super manly, dude.”

Izuku blinked at them, unsure what expression he should be wearing. The words washed over him like lukewarm water, hard to really feel, hard to really believe.

He opened his mouth, the automatic response rising—I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. It’s not a big deal—but before he could, he heard a familiar, derisive ‘tsk’ from the row behind him.

Katsuki Bakugo.

Izuku didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. He just tilted his head slightly, letting the sound register before swallowing it down.

“…I’m alright,” he said finally, voice low and steady. “You don’t have to worry. It’s not like I did anything cool.”

He shrugged one shoulder, as if brushing it off. He didn’t add that he’d barely survived the Nomu, that it took everything in him not to collapse before All Might arrived. He didn’t say how the weight of failure still gnawed at his ribs.

The others looked like they wanted to protest—but before they could, the classroom door slid open with a loud, metallic thunk.

All conversation died immediately.

Aizawa limped into the room, and the collective gasp that followed was almost comedic if it hadn’t been so loaded with horror.

Bandages wrapped around his torso so thickly that his arms barely fit through the sleeves of his uniform. One of his eyes was visible beneath the heavy gauze wrapped around his head, but even that was swollen and bruised deep purple and sickly green. His gait was stiff, uneven, but he still moved like he dared anyone to comment on it.

“Good morning,” he rasped, voice like gravel.

The class just stared.

“…You shouldn’t be here, Sensei,” Yaoyorozu finally said, her voice trembling slightly. “You’re injured—you should be resting—”

“My injuries are irrelevant,” Aizawa said flatly, cutting her off with a single look. “We have more important matters to discuss.”

He reached his desk, turning stiffly to face them, and though he couldn’t do the full dramatic caterpillar-in-a-sleeping-bag move he usually did, he still somehow managed to loom over the classroom with the same exhausted menace.

“Listen up. In two weeks’ time, we’ll be holding the U.A. Sports Festival.”

The words dropped into the silence like stones into a still pond.

Several students immediately burst into confused protests.

“Sports Festival?! After what happened?!”

“That’s insane!”

“We’re not ready—what if villains attack again?!”

Aizawa weathered it all with the weary patience of a man too tired to care about their panic.

“The Sports Festival is an important event,” he said, cutting through the noise with quiet steel. “It’s one of the most-watched broadcasts in the country. Maybe the world. Heroes, agencies, investors—they all tune in. It’s where many of you will secure offers for internships. Future careers.”

He let the weight of that sink in before continuing.

“U.A. cannot afford to cancel it. We won’t show weakness. We won’t let what happened define us.”

The classroom slowly fell into stunned, uneasy silence.

Izuku sat back in his chair, fingers curling loosely into fists beneath the desk. His mind was still sluggish, fogged at the edges, but even through that, something stirred.

The Sports Festival…

Another chance, another spotlight, another battlefield.

And he was still hungry.

…

The rest of the school day dragged like a stone tied to Izuku’s ankle.

Lessons blurred into white noise—lectures about hero ethics, strategy, even physical training instructions—and he jotted down notes mechanically, his pen scratching across the paper with the steady, mindless rhythm of someone who wasn’t really there. His body was in the chair; his mind somewhere else entirely.

The idea of the Sports Festival sat heavy in his gut. Not excitement. Not even nerves. Just an awareness—cold and sharp—that it would be another place he would have to bare his teeth and show the world exactly what he was.

He didn’t know if he hated the idea or if he still craved it.

By the time the final bell rang, signaling the end of the day, Izuku felt wrung out. He gathered his things slowly, waiting for the rush of bodies to surge toward the door and thin out.

But when he looked up, he realized no one was moving.

A dense crowd blocked the exit—students packed tight, spilling into the doorway, their faces a mess of curiosity, smugness, and barely concealed challenge.

“Tch.”

Katsuki shoved back from his desk with a loud scrape of chair legs against the floor. He jammed his hands into his pockets, stomping toward the door with all the subtlety of a grenade thrown into a glass house.

“They’re obviously here to scope out the competition,” he said, glancing back at them with a scowl. “Fucking extras.”

As he approached the doorway, a student stepped forward to block him.

He was relatively tall—though still short when compared to Izuku—with messy purple hair that floated slightly above his scalp like it defied gravity itself. His eyes were half-lidded, his whole body language dripping with lazy contempt.

“Bakugo, right?” the purple-haired boy drawled, voice low and slow like he was half-asleep. “You really made a name for yourselves at the U.S.J.”

Katsuki’s scowl deepened. “The hell do you want, Eye Bags?”

The boy smirked, thin and sharp.
“I’m from General Studies. Name’s Hitoshi Shinso. I’m here to make it clear to you and your whole class.”

He shifted his weight slightly, arms crossed casually over his chest.

“We’re not just gonna sit around and clap for you during the Sports Festival. If we do well enough, they’ll move us into the Hero Course. And you know what that means.” His eyes gleamed, sharp and calculating under that lazy exterior. “Some of you might get the boot.”

The tension crackled instantly.

Class 1-A shifted uneasily, casting wary glances at each other. Some stiffened. Others looked at the floor. A few, like Kirishima and Kaminari, visibly bristled.

Shinso leaned closer, still smiling that deadpan, cutting smile. “I’m declaring war on you. All of you.”

Before Katsuki could explode (and he looked seconds away from doing exactly that), another voice cut through the murmuring crowd.

“Oi, move it.”

A boy with silver hair, swept back into jagged spikes, pushed his way to the front. He was stocky, well-built, with a cocky grin and sharp, wolfish eyes. His presence was loud even before he opened his mouth.

Unlike Shinso, this one wore his disdain openly.

“So this is the famous Class 1-A, huh?” the silver-haired boy said, glancing around with a sneer. “The kids who fought real villains?” He clicked his tongue, clearly unimpressed. “As if. Bunch of stuck-up brats, more like.”

Kirishima stiffened visibly at the resemblance between them—enough that Izuku noticed—but he kept his mouth shut, muscles tensing under his uniform.

The energy in the air grew heavier, charged and crackling with the threat of conflict.

Around Izuku, he could feel his classmates folding in on themselves. Whispers broke out.

“Great, now everyone hates us.”

“Bakugo, why’d you have to open your big, ugly mouth—”

“This is bad, this is really bad—”

Katsuki rolled his eyes, scoffing loud enough for the whole hall to hear. “Let ‘em hate us. Doesn’t change anything.” He cracked his knuckles, flashing a grin so full of teeth it almost looked like a snarl. “Only thing that matters is who crushes who in the end.”

It was one of the only things he and Izuku would ever agree on.

Without waiting for permission, Katsuki charged into the crowd, shoulders thrown back arrogantly, practically plowing through the other students. He didn’t bother with apologies—just sharp elbows, muttered curses, and enough force to jostle people aside like bowling pins.

Kaminari and Kirishima scrambled after him, faces red with embarrassment as they called out hasty apologies.

“S-sorry about him!”

“Don’t mind him, he’s just—he’s always like that—!”

The crowd rippled after them, a few students glaring, others whispering behind their hands.

Izuku stood up slowly.

He shifted the strap of his satchel over his shoulder, letting the weight settle. His eyes swept over the gathered students in the hallway.

And then he spoke, his voice low and even—but carrying in a way that silenced the whispers.

“You don’t have to like us,” he said. “Doesn’t matter if you do.”

He paused, letting that settle. His height made the words land heavier—at nearly seven feet, broad-shouldered and scarred under the neat white uniform, there was something final about the way he said it.

“But if you get in my way…”

His mouth curved into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“…I’ll step over you too.”

Silence.

For a moment, no one moved. The tension hummed like an exposed wire.

And then, slowly, reluctantly, the crowd parted for him.

Izuku walked forward, his footfalls thudding softly against the floor. The students on either side stepped back instinctively, trying to avoid brushing against him.

He didn’t look back.

But he felt it—the steady weight of a stare boring into his spine, tracking his every move. Someone in the crowd wasn’t finished with him yet.

Regardless, he kept walking, the space around him cracking open like a wound, clearing a path straight out of the building and into the cold, uncertain future waiting just beyond the door.

Chapter Text

Soon enough, mornings started to bleed into afternoon, and afternoon would quickly fall into night. That was how the days blurred together for the past two weeks now.

First, wake up;

Second, school;

Then, training in school;

Follow by, studying at home;

It was onto, training outside of school;

Next, feeding himself;

Finally, collapsing into bed and do it all over again

Those two weeks since the U.S.J. have felt longer than the entire miserable stretch of years that had come before. Every day was a grind against glass—waking up sore, bruised, and hungrier than the day before. But it was better this way. Routine meant control. Control meant survival.

And he had to survive.

He had no choice but to survive.

…

School had seemed to speed up for Izuku because more often than he felt as if he’d blinked and he was already in seventh period.

Today wasn’t all that much different since he was already in Heroics class, last period.

The sparring mats spread out across the floor of Gym Gamma, battered and worn from years of use. The harsh scent of disinfectant stung the air. Students shuffled around in pairs, stretching, laughing, some already bouncing on their toes in anticipation.

Aizawa, standing off to the side wrapped up like a half-dead mummy, gave them a lazy wave of his hand.

“We’re doing just simple drills today. Sparring. Light contact if you can manage it. Don’t put each other in the hospital the day before the Sports Festival.”

A few people laughed nervously. Aizawa didn’t.

Izuku, rolling his shoulders out, scanned the room. He caught Kirishima’s eye almost immediately.

The redhead was grinning, his hands already flexing eagerly at his sides.

Izuku tilted his head slightly in silent question.

Kirishima answered with a sharp nod.

“Come on, man. Let’s go all out.” His grin widened, teeth flashing. “I wanna see what you’re really made of.”

“No holding back,” Izuku said, voice low and steady.

Kirishima’s hands hardened to jagged rock with a flex of muscle and quirk. "Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They squared off on the mat, classmates already gathering in a loose ring to watch. A few whispered bets traded hands.

Izuku crouched slightly, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. He didn’t need a starting bell.

Neither did Kirishima.

The instant tension snapped, Kirishima charged, hardening fully and swinging a wide, arcing punch straight toward Izuku’s ribs.

Izuku moved—low and sharp, weaving under the blow like smoke. His counter came fast—a hook aimed at Kirishima’s exposed side. The hardened skin cracked loudly under the impact, but Kirishima barely flinched.

He laughed—a loud, wild sound—and threw another punch.

Izuku caught the arm this time, twisted at the elbow, using Kirishima’s own momentum to flip him onto the mat.

Kirishima rolled with the fall, kicking up and aiming a booted foot straight at Izuku’s head.

Izuku ducked.

Another punch, harder this time. Kirishima wasn’t holding back—not even a little—and Izuku found himself grinning without realizing it.

This was good.

This was real.

The fight blurred into a rapid exchange of fists, elbows, knees. Kirishima’s durability met Izuku’s speed and brutality. Neither of them was playing nice. Neither of them wanted to.

The others cheered, winced, gasped as the fight dragged on. Mina whooped from the sidelines when Kirishima managed to land a heavy body blow to Izuku’s side, only for Izuku to retaliate with a brutal palm strike under Kirishima’s jaw that sent him skidding backward across the mat.

Aizawa didn’t even bother to tell them to tone it down.

After a few more minutes—both panting, bruised, and grinning—they finally broke apart.

Kirishima wiped a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth, still smiling.

“Damn, dude. You don’t mess around.”

Izuku cracked his neck, feeling the ache blooming along his collarbone where a punch had connected.

“You asked for it.”

They bumped fists briefly—a show of mutual respect.

As they stepped off the mat to let others spar, Izuku felt the familiar burn in his muscles, the hollow yawning pit in his gut where hunger always lurked. But it was manageable. For now.

Tomorrow, he’d need it at its sharpest.

Tomorrow was the Sports Festival.

And if the world wanted a show…

Izuku would give it one they’d never forget.

…

The day of the U.A. Sports Festival dawned grey and overcast, the clouds dragging across the sky like bruises.

A fitting mood, Izuku thought dryly, as he locked the door of his apartment behind him and started down the cracked sidewalk toward U.A.

The city buzzed more than usual. Streets were blocked off. Barricades and metal detectors funneled the foot traffic toward the massive sports complex that loomed like a crouching giant in the distance. News vans with gaudy logos blared headlines from rooftop speakers:

“Security measures tripled!”

“Pro Heroes called in to ensure safety!”

“An event watched by the entire nation!”

And walking among the crowds, standing out with their brightly colored costumes, were the heroes themselves.

Izuku caught sight of Mt. Lady immediately—towering above the crowd even at her regular size, waving with a wide, movie-star grin to a cluster of reporters. Beside her, Kamui Woods stood stiff and formal, his hooded head turning as he scanned the crowd with sharp eyes. Death Arms wasn’t far either, arms crossed over his broad chest, mouth drawn into a grim line.

Other pros moved through the crowd too—faces Izuku recognized from TV specials and old hero documentaries. It felt… heavy, seeing them here. Knowing they were here to watch him, judge him.

He kept his head down and his stride steady, passing through security without a word.

Inside the building, the atmosphere was even more electric. Students from every branch of U.A. milled around, buzzing with excitement and nerves. Izuku made his way toward the Class 1-A waiting room without slowing, ignoring the speculative looks shot his way by students in different uniforms.

The waiting room was stark—plain white walls, benches, lockers—but it pulsed with a quiet, simmering tension.

The others were already beginning to change, slipping into the regulation P.E. uniforms. Dark blue pants with sharp white lines trailing up the legs. Dark blue short-sleeve shirts with crisp white designs forming the unmistakable “U” and “A” across their chests.

Izuku shed his street clothes mechanically, pulling the P.E. uniform on with practiced efficiency. His height made the shirt ride up a little when he stretched, but it couldn’t be helped. His arms, crisscrossed faintly with scars, flexed as he tightened the straps on his muzzle.

He could feel the others watching him out of the corners of their eyes. Not with fear, not exactly, but… caution. Respect, maybe.

He ignored it.

Iida, already fully dressed, adjusted his glasses and clapped his hands together for attention. “Everyone, please be aware—we’re moments away from being called into the arena. Let’s maintain decorum and represent Class 1-A with pride!”

A few people nodded, others just returned to tightening shoes or rolling out shoulders.

But before they could move toward the door—

Todoroki stepped forward.

The room fell quiet almost instantly. Even Kaminari’s usual chatter dried up.

Todoroki’s gaze was flat, almost clinical as it locked onto Izuku. “Midoriya,” he said, voice cutting through the room like a blade.

Izuku arched a brow, arms folding loosely over his chest.

Todoroki continued, unbothered by the audience they’d gathered. “You’re strong. Stronger than most people here. That’s obvious.” He tilted his head slightly, the scar on his face catching the harsh overhead lights. “I don’t know what you are, exactly. But it doesn’t matter.”

He took a step closer. “I’m going to beat you and win.”

The statement hung there, heavy and cold.

Kirishima, ever the peacemaker, let out a rough laugh and stepped forward, clapping Todoroki lightly on the shoulder. “Hey, man, no need to get all intense right now. Save it for the field, right?”

But Todoroki shook him off, eyes never leaving Izuku’s.

Izuku’s fingers tapped idly against his bicep once. Twice. A steady, patient rhythm. Then he spoke, voice even and low.

“Yknow, Todoroki…” He shifted his weight forward slightly, letting a sliver of the weight he carried deep into his words. “You’ve got more potential than most people in this entire school. Hell, you could probably beat most pros as you are today.”

Around them, a few classmates stiffened at that, wide-eyed.

“But,” Izuku continued, a slight, humorless smile twitching at the edge of his mouth, “if you think I’m just gonna hand the top spot over to you, you’re dreaming.” His voice dropped, almost a growl, "If you want first place…” He leaned in just a fraction, enough that Todoroki had to tip his chin up to maintain eye contact. “You’ll have to pry that gold medal out of my cold, dead hands.”

The tension snapped sharp as a whip crack.

No one spoke.

No one even breathed.

Izuku turned sharply, his shoes scuffing lightly against the tile, and stalked toward the exit without another glance back. The heavy door thunked behind him as it closed.

It took a second before the rest of the class—still a little stunned—scrambled to catch up after him.

Once they reached the stadium, the noise hit like a physical force.

Thousands of voices screaming, stomping, cheering—vibrations shuddered through the soles of their feet as the first-year students filed out into the massive open stadium.

Rows upon rows of stands towered above them, packed with civilians, pro heroes and their sidekicks, and media crews.

Giant banners fluttered in the breeze, emblazoned with U.A.’s colors and symbols. Drones buzzed overhead, live-streaming the spectacle across the world.

Izuku scanned the audience briefly, blood pounding against his eardrums before settling into its familiar, steady thrum. He could see Mt. Lady leaning against the rail of a VIP box, Kamui Woods rigid beside her. Present Mic’s booming voice echoed across the stadium as he whipped the crowd into an even louder frenzy.

This was it.

The air in the stadium was trembling with energy as the students lined up in their designated spaces.

Standing at the center of the field, Midnight—the self-proclaimed “R-Rated Hero” and Chief Referee for the Sports Festival—leaned lazily on her crop and smiled brightly into the microphone.

“Alright, everyone!” she sang out, her voice amplified across the massive space. “Before we get started, we’ll have the student representative come up and lead us in the Athlete’s Pledge! Come on up Izuku Midoriya, the student who placed first on the entrance exam!”

Izuku simply exhaled and walked toward the podium without waiting for anyone to push him. His long, almost predatory stride carried him smoothly onto the stage.

Midnight gave him an encouraging wink before stepping aside.

Gripping the mic in one scarred hand, Izuku gazed out at the ocean of faces—heroes, civilians, students. He tilted his head, studying them like a butcher would study a herd before the culling. 

His voice, when it came, was low but unflinching.

“I just want to say…”

A beat. 

The stadium collectively leaned in.

“…Good luck to everyone. You might need it.”

Boos immediately erupted from the stands and from the other first-year students. Especially loud were the jeers from Class 1-B—their shouting practically foamed with resentment.

Even some of his own classmates turned toward him, hissing under their breath:

“Man, what is he doing?”

“Way to make everyone hate us again…”

“Seriously, how arrogant can he be?”

In response, Izuku dropped the mic back onto the stand with a thunk and stepped off the platform, his expression carved from stone. He wasn’t here for their approval. He wasn’t here for anything except the gold.

“WELL THEN!” Midnight practically purred, clapping her hands together to break the tension. “Let’s move on! The preliminary event of the festival is…”

A giant holographic board flashed above the stadium, the words emblazoned in gold letters: OBSTACLE RACE!

Midnight twirled her whip once for emphasis. “You’ll race around the stadium! A full four kilometers! Of course, there will be obstacles in your way!”

The students barely had time to react before she shouted:

“READY… GO!”

The starting cannon fired, and chaos exploded instantly.

The students surged toward the narrow gate leading out of the stadium—but the path was too narrow for all of them to fit at once. Bodies jammed into each other, elbows and knees colliding in a desperate rush forward.

Izuku moved with brutal efficiency, slipping between gaps with inhuman sharpness, keeping his head low. He was ready to force his way through if needed—until, ahead, he saw Todoroki make his move.

Todoroki’s palm slapped against the ground and a massive sheet of ice erupted outward, freezing the entire floor and trapping dozens of students in place.

A wall of frost rushed toward Izuku’s legs—

Without hesitation, he jumped over it, jamming his fist into the concrete wall beside him. He was dangling there, crouched like some monstrous spider as the ice swept harmlessly underneath. Below him, students yelped and skidded, falling into frozen piles. And when the freeze finally passed, Izuku kicked off the wall and bolted forward.

He wasn’t the only one.

Katsuki, his hands snapping with blasts.

Yaoyorozu, riding a pole she’d quickly crafted.

Aoyama, using his navel laser like a makeshift jetpack.

Kirishima, bulldozing forward through the slush, teeth gritted in a wild grin.

Todoroki glanced over his shoulder, surprise flickering across his normally blank face. He had expected the ice to thin the competition far more than it had.

The survivors pressed on.

From behind, Mineta—having somehow avoided getting frozen—scurried up toward Todoroki, hurling purple sticky balls at his feet. “Get outta my wa—!” Before Mineta could reach him, a robot villain came crashing in, its hand swatting the boy away like a gnat.

As he passed by his classmate’s prone form, Izuku’s arm shot out, grabbing Mineta by the collar and yanking him to the side just before another metal hand crushed the spot where he’d been. He then dropped Mineta unceremoniously onto a relatively safe patch of ground.

Izuku didn’t leave even a second of time for Mineta to stumble through an apology because he currently had bigger prey in mind because the second obstacle had revealed itself.

A gauntlet of villain bots, dozens of them—standard models, spindly ones, and even hulking Zero Pointers like the ones from the Entrance Exam.

Most students balked.

Screams rang out.

But not Izuku, Todoroki, and even Katsuki.

Todoroki moved first—calm, surgical. He froze one of the Zero Pointers from its ankles up, massive limbs locking mid-swing. The robot groaned and teetered, toppling backward to crash heavily onto the track, blocking dozens of panicking students.

Izuku scowled as a trio of smaller villain bots lumbered toward him, and Izuku didn’t even slow down as he ripped the head off the first one in a clean motion. He then used the scrap like a shield to bash the second. Then, he vaulted over the third, slamming his boot into its core, sending it flying into a group of slower students behind him.

Up ahead, he spotted it:

One of the Zero Pointers still intact—towering, monstrous, arms sweeping wide to clear the path.

A hungry grin split Izuku’s face.

He sprinted, feet pounding the cracked pavement—launched himself at the robot’s other arm—and began to climb, fingers digging into the gaps in its plating with frightening ease.

The metal groaned beneath Izuku’s feet as he sprinted up the Zero Pointer’s massive arm, every step rattling through the hollow frame. Ahead of him, Katsuki was already blasting forward in savage bursts, explosions hammering the air, each detonation flinging him higher and faster along the machine’s body. The two of them barely weighed anything compared to the robot’s size, but together they made it lurch, servos screeching in protest.

Katsuki glanced back, his face twisted into a sneer. “Try and keep up, freak!” he barked, voice crackling with adrenaline.

Izuku didn’t answer. He kept his body low to the arm, punching his fingers into the battered metal for grip, using it to anchor himself as he drove forward in long, brutal strides.

The Zero Pointer’s head jerked, trying to throw them off, but Katsuki was already moving. With a savage roar, he hurled an explosion straight into the robot’s face. Steel twisted, rivets popped, and in a flash of smoke and fire, a massive section of the head ripped apart.

The machine staggered under the assault, its massive legs grinding against the cracked ground—but Izuku wasn’t slowing down.

Shoving off the elbow joint, he dropped low into a crouch and slammed both fists forward, soaring through the air and tearing straight through the armor plating on the Zero Pointer’s chest. Sparks and shredded wiring rained down around him as momentum carried him clean through the robot’s core. Behind him, the machine gave a shuddering groan and began its death collapse.

Izuku hit the ground in a hard roll, ankles screaming from the impact, but he forced himself up instantly, spitting dust from his mouth.

The two didn’t even look at the wreckage they left behind. They were already running again, feet pounding over the broken ground, chasing the next obstacle.

Katsuki stayed just a few strides ahead, teeth bared, the smoke of his explosions still clinging to him like a second skin—Izuku could tell how much more polished his flight had become. Despite that, Izuku could feel the ache blooming deep in his muscles, the fire building under his skin. He was forcing his legs to move faster, lungs burning with every breath.

Ahead of them loomed the next trial: The Fall.

It wasn’t a canyon so much as a gash in the earth, wide and black and impossible to cross in a single jump. Spanning it were tightropes, sagging and shivering in the wind, stretched between the narrow ledges on either side. Students already crowded the ropes, arms out for balance, bodies trembling. Some didn’t even make it two steps before falling, caught by the invisible safety nets hidden far below.

Katsuki didn’t hesitate for a second. He hurled an explosion downward, rocketing himself over the first gap and landing roughly on the opposite ledge. He stumbled, skidding on the stone, but caught himself with a low, rough laugh that echoed back across the canyon.

Izuku reached the edge a second later, boots grinding to a stop. For a moment—just a moment—he calculated the distance, the angles, the force he would need. The ropes creaked under the students’ weight, whipping in the wind.

From across the gap, Katsuki spat out, his voice dripping with challenge. “Don’t get all choked up now!”

Izuku’s response was simple. He bent his knees, felt the ground crack beneath him, and launched himself forward with everything he had. The air ripped past his face as he cleared the first rope entirely, landing on the far ledge in a crouch that sent cracks spiderwebbing through the stone.

It had only taken him that one jump to establish a rhythm as he was springing from ledge to ledge, ignoring the death-drop below, ignoring the wind screaming in his ears.

Katsuki was still ahead, blasting himself forward with savage bursts, but Izuku was gaining.

As he sailed over another gap, he caught a glimpse of Todoroki farther ahead, calm and detached, gliding across a narrow path of ice that curled along the canyon wall. Todoroki didn’t even spare them a glance, focused only on the goal.

Izuku grit his teeth, feeling the sharp rise of heat building under his skin.

He wasn’t going to lose.

Ahead of him, Katsuki twisted mid-air to glance back, saw Izuku gaining, and snarled. “You’re gonna bite my dust once we hit solid ground, you bastard!”

The canyon fell away behind them, the ground shifting back to cracked, broken earth. The wind still howled in their ears, tearing at their clothes and hair, but ahead—stretching like a scar across the final stretch—lay the next obstacle.

The Mine Field.

Todoroki had reached it first, his pace slowing instinctively, eyes narrowing in calculation as he stepped carefully onto the battered dirt. Half-buried among the rubble were crude, metal disks, lying in wait for the slightest pressure. The blasts they carried weren’t lethal, but they’d leave anyone caught wide open—easy prey in a race like this.

Katsuki hit the ground in front of him with a fresh burst of smoke and fury, still riding the momentum of his explosions. 

Izuku wasn’t far after, body running hotter, faster, every muscle in his frame screaming for oxygen. He barely registered the occasional blast going off around him—small shocks, like pebbles rattling against concrete. They weren’t enough to slow him. Not nearly enough.

Todoroki was already halfway through the field when Katsuki caught up to him, murder flashing in his eyes.

“You’re pretty damn fast for an ice princess,” Katsuki sneered, sending a vicious explosion cracking toward Todoroki’s side. The blast shook the earth, dislodging a nearby mine that detonated harmlessly in the air.

Todoroki didn’t so much as blink. In a fluid motion, he answered with a jet of ice, sharp and sudden, nearly freezing Katsuki’s ankle to the ground. The two snapped into a brutal, silent war, trading blows with such force that the surrounding mines shook loose and detonated, sending geysers of dirt and smoke into the sky.

In their tunnel vision, they didn’t notice the third figure closing in. Steady. Relentless.

Izuku’s breath burned in his throat, harsh and fast, but his stride never broke. His arms pumped like pistons; his body burned with the hot, wild energy that lived just under his skin. He saw the gap between them, saw the mine just a few feet ahead—

—and didn’t slow down.

He hit the pressure plate dead-on.

The explosion tore through the field, a sharp shockwave blasting outward. Todoroki and Katsuki staggered mid-strike, thrown off balance—Katsuki cursed furiously, scrambling to stay upright, while Todoroki conjured a fresh sheet of ice beneath his boots at the last second, skidding back with a grimace.

But it was already too late.

Izuku tore through the smoke, low to the ground, sprinting through the chaos with a brutal kind of grace. Dust and debris churned around him, but he didn’t falter. Didn’t even hesitate. He ripped across the last stretch of the minefield like a bullet, legs screaming, lungs clawing for air.

The finish line loomed ahead—closer, closer—and behind him, he could hear the furious thunder of pursuit.

Katsuki recovered first, roaring with fury and blasting after him, the ground splitting under his palms. Todoroki surged forward a second later, skating fast and silent across a frozen path.

They were closing the distance. Fast.

But not fast enough.

Izuku pushed harder, gritting his teeth until he tasted blood, until the world narrowed to nothing but the white-hot goal ahead.

And then—he crossed the finish line.

First.

The crowd exploded around him, a roar so loud it barely felt real. For a moment, he kept running on pure momentum, only slowing when he was well past the line, stumbling to a stop with a harsh gasp. His shirt hung in tatters, his arms streaked with dust and blood, but he was still standing. Still breathing.

Barely two seconds later, Todoroki shot across in second place, his breathing sharp but controlled. Katsuki slammed through right after, rage twisting his face into something feral.

One by one, the rest of the students poured in—a scramble of bruised bodies, wide eyes, and shell-shocked faces. Class 1-A held strong; every single one of them made it into the top forty-two qualifiers, even if some of them practically crawled across the line.

Above them, Midnight’s voice cracked out over the speakers, bright and electric:

“AND THAT WRAPS UP OUR FIRST EVENT!! Congratulations to all our qualifiers!”

Izuku barely had time to catch his breath before Midnight’s voice crackled again, obnoxiously chipper, “Now, onto the second event!”

The stadium screen blazed to life—

CAVALRY BATTLE!

The crowd roared even louder, the ground vibrating under the weight of their excitement. And standing there, chest heaving, fists still clenched, Izuku only had one thought:

Bring it on.

Chapter Text

The buzz of the crowd hadn’t even begun to die down when Midnight sauntered to the center of the field, mic in hand, twirling her whip idly as she grinned.

“Alright, my lovely little competitors!” Her voice crackled to life, electric with excitement. “It’s time for the second event of the U.A. Sports Festival: the Cavalry Battle!”

The screen overhead shifted again, flashing the words in bold red.

“A Cavalry Battle,” Midnight continued, “means you’re going to form teams of two to four people. You have fifteen minutes to make your teams, and once the battle starts—” she cracked her whip dramatically, “—your objective is simple: steal each other’s headbands!”

Students around Izuku shifted, glancing warily at one another.

“Each of you will get a headband displaying your point value from the Obstacle Race. Teams combine their points. You can wear your headbands around your forehead, your neck, your waist—wherever you want, as long as they’re visible! If your headband is stolen, you’re still in the game, so don’t just sit there crying.”

A few nervous chuckles trickled through the air. Midnight gave them a sharp smile.

“You have fifteen minutes to snatch as many points as you can. When time’s up, only the top four teams move on!” Her voice dropped slightly, a teasing lilt creeping into it. “Oh—and don’t purposely try to make your opponents fall. Play rough, but not that rough~”

Katsuki, standing a few feet away, scowled so hard his entire body seemed to bristle.

“And with that,” Midnight finished brightly, “let the team forming… BEGIN!”

A loud buzzer sounded.

Students immediately exploded into frantic chatter, rushing into huddles, calling out names, tugging sleeves.

Izuku stood still. His brain was already spinning ahead, slotting all the pieces together.

He hadn’t needed Midnight’s warning to realize the biggest problem.

Because when the giant scoreboard flickered again to show the point values of each contestant, Izuku’s name was there at the very top—

MIDORIYA IZUKU — 10,000,000 POINTS

Ten million.

An impossible lead.

A glowing, searing target slapped across his back.

Around him, the buzz shifted sharply. Heads turned. Eyes pinned him like knives. He could feel the thoughts hammering against their skulls: If we take him down, we win.

Izuku clenched his teeth, the weight of that realization heavy but not unexpected.

And worse—

—No one in their right mind would want to team up with him now.

Who would willingly paint a target across their own chest by standing next to him? It was a death sentence.

Suppressing the bitter curl of his lip, Izuku raised a hand and called out, “Midnight.”

The Pro Hero turned toward him, whip poised. “Yes, Midoriya?”

He straightened his shoulders. “Are solo teams allowed?” His voice was calm, even bored-sounding, but inside his gut twisted. “I’m more than fine on my own.”

A few students nearby muttered. Someone scoffed.

Midnight laughed—a sharp, amused sound that bordered on pity. “Nope! Teams of at least two!” she said with an exaggerated wink. “You gotta work with someone!”

Izuku grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. Of course it couldn’t be easy.

Now not only did he have to survive a fifteen-minute free-for-all with a neon sign strapped to his head, but he had to protect someone else while he was at it too.

Fantastic. Just fantastic.

Still standing apart from the crowd, he crossed his arms and watched the chaos unfold.

Already, clusters were forming.

Katsuki was mobbed immediately. Several classmates rushed toward him, hands raised, shouting offers to team up.

“Bakugo, hey! Let’s work together!”

“You saw how well I did in the Obstacle Race—!”

“I can cover you with my quirk!”

Katsuki stared at them, unimpressed, arms crossed, mouth curling into a snarl.

“Who the hell are half of you again?” he barked. “What’re your quirks?!”

Their faces fell. Several students stammered out rushed explanations, but it was obvious Katsuki barely listened, already getting irritated with the noise. His ego hung in the air like smoke—suffocating and thick.

Izuku snorted under his breath. What an ass.

And yet, he understood it.

Katsuki was a bastard, but he was a smart bet to have on your team—explosively fast, viciously strong, and smart enough in a fight to turn almost anything to his advantage. Students weren’t stupid for wanting to latch onto that. In fact, they’d be stupid for not wanting to team up with someone as powerful as Katsuki.

Out of the corner of his eye, Izuku spotted Kirishima approaching Katsuki with that confident, headstrong grin of his, practically pushing himself into Katsuki’s orbit.

It stung a little more than Izuku expected to see him go for Katsuki first, felt as if he’d just lost a fight with him. But, again—he understood. Kirishima had the kind of quirk that would work perfectly alongside Katsuki’s blitzkrieg style.

Izuku’s gaze drifted back to the broader field.

Across the stadium, he saw students naturally clustering around their own classmates. Class 1-B stuck together. Class 1-A stuck together. Even some General Studies and Support Course students were linking up.

Everyone had people.

Everyone but him.

Izuku let out a slow breath, suppressing the ugly little itch at the back of his throat—the one that whispered, Of course they don’t want you. You’re a liability. A beast they don’t have the leash to.

He grit his teeth.

No.

He’d won the first event, he’d earned that win. And he wasn’t about to start wallowing just because nobody wanted to be collateral damage.

Even so, this was all a headache. A big one.

Just as he was considering the least painful way to drag someone into his disaster, a voice chirped out beside him:

“I’ll team up with you!”

Izuku blinked and turned.

Uraraka was there, bright-eyed and grinning awkwardly.

“It’s good for classmates to stick together, right?” she said, scratching her cheek.

She didn’t mention the real reason. Izuku could see it written in her tense shoulders, the way her fingers twitched slightly. She knew what he could do in a fight. She’d seen it firsthand during the Battle Trials.

Better to be with him than against him.

Izuku exhaled slowly, something flickering behind his eyes.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But it’s up to you to pick the rest.”

He had no desire to go begging anyone else.

Uraraka brightened, determined. “Okay!”

Her first target was obvious: Iida.

She jogged over to him, waving, calling out his name enthusiastically.

Izuku watched, arms crossed again.

Iida adjusted his glasses sharply and listened carefully to her pitch—but almost immediately, his posture stiffened. His jaw tightened.

Even from a distance, he could hear Iida’s response—formal, polite, and firm. “I apologize, Uraraka-san,” he said, bowing slightly. “While I hold you in the highest regard as a friend, I must decline. I believe it is my duty to test myself— and I’d like to challenge Midoriya-kun properly.”

He turned then, already striding away toward Todoroki, who was watching the whole exchange with dispassionate, half-lidded eyes.

Izuku frowned faintly.

Challenge him, huh?

He watched Iida shake Todoroki’s hand. Todoroki nodded in return, ice-cold and efficient as ever.

A small, sharp smile tugged at the corner of Izuku’s mouth. Good.

He liked it better that way.

He could respect people who fought him with everything they had, no matter how ugly it got.

“Looks like it’s just us for now,” Uraraka huffed, returning with a sheepish shrug. “But don’t worry! We’ll figure something out!”

Izuku nodded absently, already scanning the field, his mind piecing together possibilities like shattered glass.

He tapped a finger against his arm, thinking.

Two people.

Two targets.

He could make it work, maybe. If he kept mobile, if Uraraka used her Quirk at the right times to lessen their weight… Maybe he could—

His focus shattered when a blur of pink and wild mechanical whirring burst into his field of vision.

“Hiya! You’re Midoriya, right?!”

Izuku startled slightly, stepping back as a girl with unruly pink hair and heavy goggles grinned up at him. Her jumpsuit was covered in oil stains, and her arms were weighed down by various strange mechanical contraptions.

“Name’s Hatsume Mei! Support Course!” she announced, sticking out a hand without waiting for him to take it. “I’m joining your team.”

Izuku blinked at her, thrown. “…What?”

Hatsume grinned wider, the lenses of her goggles flashing.

“You’ve got the most points! Everyone’s gonna be looking at you! Perfect opportunity to show off my babies!” she declared proudly, pulling a small, bizarre-looking device from a pouch on her belt.

Before Izuku could even react, she shoved it into his hands.

“Check this out! Miniature gyroscopic stabilization unit! Modeled after Ingenium’s gear, but upgraded for faster directional change! Pretty sick, right?!”

Izuku turned it over in his hands, frowning in concentration. He recognized the design—Ingenium, a top Pro Hero famous for his speed and maneuverability. The craftsmanship was… impressive. Crude in some places, but functional.

He glanced up at Hatsume, who was bouncing on her heels, practically vibrating with excitement.

She’s insane. But… useful. Or rather, he hoped she’d be useful.

“…Alright,” he said finally, handing the device back. “You’re in.”

Uraraka stared at him like he’d grown a second head, but didn’t argue.

Still, even with Hatsume’s gear and Uraraka’s Quirk, Izuku felt the gnawing sense that they were a little too light. A little too vulnerable.

One more. He needed one more solid teammate. Someone who could anchor them, defend them, strike if needed—

His sharp green eyes scanned the dwindling groups across the field. Most teams had already formed. Class 1-A had clumped together in predictable little bubbles. Class 1-B had formed their own clusters, buzzing with a strange energy.

And then—

He saw him.

Off to the side, calmly adjusting the straps of his support belt, the boy with the sharp beak and piercing red eyes: Fumikage Tokoyami.

Perfect.

Before he could move, the loud, mocking voice of Neito Monoma sliced across the stadium.

“Listen up, Class 1-B!” Monoma barked, standing atop a bench like some smug general. “Everyone’s so obsessed with Class 1-A, just because they fought some villains once!”

Several students laughed, a little tensely.

“They’re arrogant! Full of themselves! Overconfident because of one little taste of real battle!” Monoma jabbed a finger dramatically toward the opposite side of the field, where most of Class 1-A glared back at him.

“We’re just as talented—more talented, even! So let’s crush those overhyped idiots and show everyone what we’re made of!”

A few of his classmates cheered half-heartedly. Others just looked uncomfortable.

Izuku barely spared Monoma a glance. His attention was locked on Tokoyami, who hadn’t moved an inch from his spot, unfazed by the noise.

Izuku approached quickly, the corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest approximation of a smile.

“You free?” he asked bluntly.

Tokoyami turned his sharp gaze on him. Dark Shadow stirred faintly over his shoulder, a looming silhouette.

“I am,” Tokoyami said simply. “You seek my strength?”

“I want someone that won’t fall apart the second someone breathes on us,” Izuku replied, voice dry. “You fit the bill.”

Tokoyami gave a curt nod. “Then I accept.”

With their team finally assembled—Midoriya, Uraraka, Hatsume, and Tokoyami—they fell into a loose huddle, working out a fast plan.

Fifteen minutes ran out in a flash.

Midnight’s whip cracked through the air again, loud and sharp.

“AND BEGIN!”

The Cavalry Battle exploded into chaos.

Immediately, half the teams surged straight for them—hungry eyes locked on Izuku’s headband like wolves scenting blood.

“Here they come!” Uraraka shouted, wide-eyed.

Izuku bared his teeth, instincts thrumming to life. But before they could make their first move, the ground beneath them buckled unnaturally.

“Watch it!” Hatsume yelped, barely managing to stay upright as the earth turned to sludge under their feet.

Izuku’s eyes snapped toward the source—across the battlefield, a broad-shouldered boy with jagged teeth and wild hair grinned at them.

Tetsutetsu’s team.

And right beside him, smirking and stretching his arms lazily, was Juzo Honenuki.

Izuku cursed under his breath—he was at least grateful that he’d decided to do some research on his sister class after all. Because at least he knew: Juzo’s Quirk—Softening.

The ground liquefied around them, sucking at their shoes, dragging them down—trapping them right from the start.

Hatsume whooped with excitement, yanking hard on the controls strapped to her arms.

The jetpack strapped to Izuku’s back roared to life, engines sputtering before stabilizing into a strong, steady thrust. The hover soles fitted on Tokoyami’s feet kicked up bursts of air, propelling Team Midoriya upward in a shaky but rapid ascent.

“Go, go, go!” Hatsume cackled, hair whipping around her face.

The ground softened by Juzo dropped away below them. For a few precious seconds, they were untouchable—high above the battlefield, floating out of reach.

But not for long.

From the corner of his eye, Izuku spotted Jirou’s team advancing fast, her Earphone Jack cords whipping outward like twin whips, aiming straight for them.

Perfect.

Izuku’s muscles coiled—ready to bat them aside once they entered his range—

—But before he could even move, a black, inky mass unspooled over his shoulder. Dark Shadow snarled and swatted the cords aside effortlessly, scattering the attack before it could even graze them.

Izuku turned his head slightly toward Tokoyami, momentarily impressed.

“…Nice,” he muttered. “Dark Shadow can give us defense for mid- and long-range attacks.”

Tokoyami inclined his head coolly, the faintest glint of pride in his sharp eyes.

They touched back down lightly, landing in a tight formation.

Jirou’s team regrouped fast, ready to chase them down again—until a flash of movement blurred past them.

Monoma.

Grinning like a jackal, Monoma snatched their headband clean off without even slowing, vanishing into the crowd with a mocking laugh.

“You were too easy!” he sang out, waving the stolen headband like a flag.

Jirou’s team skidded to a halt, stunned and furious.

No time to savor the win, though.

A huge figure barreled toward them—Shoji.

Izuku’s eyes narrowed. Something wasn’t right. Shoji looked… too bulky. Off-balance.

Trap. His instincts were screaming at him that this was a trap.

He spotted it at the last second—Tsuyu and Mineta, hidden among Shoji’s many arms, crouched low and ready to strike.

Tsuyu lashed out with her tongue while Mineta hurled a volley of his sticky purple spheres, aiming for their hover soles.

One sphere struck true, gumming up the left sole with thick, rubbery glue.

Their ascent stuttered.

Izuku hissed out, “They’re trying to ground us!”

Before he could counter, Tetsutetsu’s team crashed into them from the side, piling on the pressure and leaving them to scramble to stay balanced.

They were being swarmed and it was leaving him with little to no choices.

With a snarl of frustration, Izuku shattered the mechanism on Tokoyami’s hover soles, crushing it without much effort. He then pushed off the ground hard, momentum carrying them back into the air, and jammed his fist down on Hatsume’s backup control.

The jetpack reignited with a deafening roar, boosting them upward again.

A few precious seconds of breathing room—

—until Katsuki came for them.

Using his explosions like propulsion, Katsuki shot into the air in a white-hot streak, a furious snarl twisting his face.

“Goddamnit! Get back down here you bastard!” He blasted at them, trying to knock them down mid-flight.

But once again, Dark Shadow was faster, forming a protective wall around the team and absorbing the brunt of the explosion.

Katsuki snarled, explosions flaring to stabilize himself, but the recoil sent him tipping backward, gravity dragging him down—

At the last second, Sero fired a strip of tape, catching Katsuki around the waist and yanking him back into position before he could touch the ground.

Midnight’s voice crackled through the stadium loudspeakers:

“Still airborne! No rule violation!”

The crowd roared, fans leaping to their feet at the chaotic midair battles unfolding before them.

Present Mic’s voice practically vibrated with excitement:

“WHAT A SHOWDOWN, FOLKS! TEAM MIDORIYA HOLDING ONTO THEIR TEN MILLION POINTS LIKE CHAMPS! BUT WHAT’S THIS—? NO OTHER CLASS 1-A TEAM IN THE TOP FOUR RIGHT NOW!”

The camera panned to Monoma, who gleefully brandished multiple headbands, his team standing strong around him.

“AND LOOK AT CLASS 1-B, BABY! MAKIN’ THEIR MOVE!”

Monoma gave an exaggerated bow to the cameras, his smile oily and bright.

“We threw the Obstacle Race,” he declared proudly, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.

Class 1-A members froze, stunned.

Monoma’s grin widened.

“We stayed just within the top forty. All the while, scouting you idiots—watching how you use your quirks, how you react under pressure. Meanwhile, you were busy showing off.”

He tilted his head mockingly toward Katsuki.

“You wasted everything trying to win the preliminaries. And now you’re scrambling.”

Katsuki’s teeth ground together audibly, his rage radiating off him in palpable waves.

Monoma chuckled darkly.

“You’re already infamous, you know. For losing to Todoroki. For being outdone by Midoriya.”

He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into a sneer.

“Get used to it, Baka-go. Always chasing the ones ahead of you. Always coming in second. Third, even.”

Katsuki’s explosions crackled dangerously in his palms. He jerked his head toward his team—Sero, Kirishima, and Mina—voice cold and furious.

“New plan,” he snapped.

The team tensed, waiting.

“We’re not goin’ after that freak yet.” He jerked his chin toward Izuku without even looking at him. “First… we’re going to kill all these damn extras.”

Kirishima grinned fiercely, baring his sharp teeth. “Let’s go!”

They launched themselves forward, Bakugo leading the charge with a blast that cracked the air like thunder.

The battlefield descended into chaos once more, the crowd screaming with excitement.

Outside of it all, Izuku adjusted his stance, scanning the battlefield with cold, analytical eyes. Noticing that, despite their earlier ambush, Team Mineta had somehow already lost their headband.

Shoji’s hulking form was charging at them again with Mineta and Tsuyu clinging to his back, abandoning stealth for an all-out assault.

Izuku gritted his teeth. They were still grounded thanks to the remains of Mineta’s sticky spheres gumming up their hover soles, and too many teams had eyes on the ten million points strapped to his forehead.

The ring was closing in fast.

But not fast enough.

A wall of ice erupted across the battlefield, splitting the charging teams apart with brutal efficiency.

“Team Todoroki,” Izuku muttered, immediately recognizing the move.

Todoroki swept across the field, calm and ruthless, freezing groups of competitors in place.

In the chaos, his team plucked headbands from immobilized teams with clinical precision.

From the loudspeakers, Aizawa’s voice cut in, dry and observant:

“He’s adapting his strategy from the first event. Instead of relying purely on his own power, he’s using others—like Kaminari’s lightning attacks—to create openings.”

The stadium screens flashed footage of Todoroki coordinating perfectly with Kaminari earlier, shocking teams before freezing them solid.

“It’s smart,” Aizawa added. “Efficient.”

Izuku shifted his weight, blood humming. That efficiency was coming straight for him.

Team Todoroki turned their full focus onto Team Midoriya. Dark Shadow snapped forward, batting aside a wave of ice shards hurtling toward them.

But Tokoyami grunted lowly under his breath, loud enough for Izuku to catch:

“My quirk…” he warned. “It’s weak in bright light. Kaminari’s discharge weakened Dark Shadow earlier. If he hits us again, we’ll be in trouble.”

Izuku’s mind raced. They couldn’t rely entirely on Dark Shadow’s defense anymore. They needed to stay mobile. And they needed to avoid direct hits.

The next few minutes turned into a brutal game of high-speed keep away.

Izuku kept his team circling wide, constantly drifting toward Todoroki’s left side—the side he refused to use.

The gap narrowed and widened, narrowed again, and every time Todoroki lifted his right hand to freeze them, he hesitated—because Iida stood between them and his attack zone.

“Good,” Izuku thought grimly. “He can’t risk friendly fire.”

They just had to keep it up.

But Todoroki wasn’t about to let them win by evasion alone.

He murmured something to Iida.

The speedster nodded sharply—then crouched low, gears and braces on his legs snapping into place.

Steam hissed from his calves and Izuku’s eyes widened in realization.

Iida vanished, moving faster than any normal human eye could track, rocketing toward them in a white blur of pure speed.

There was no time to dodge the attack so Izuku stood at the front of the formation, braced and ready for when—

Iida crashed into him and had Izuku absorb the hit, digging his heels in and holding strong. Pain shot through his arms and ribs, but he grunted through it, muscles locking to keep Iida’s momentum from snapping their team apart.

In the same instant, his free hand shot out, catching Todoroki’s wrist before he could grab for the headband on Tokoyami’s head.

“No,” Izuku growled, voice low and guttural. “That’s not yours.”

Time ticked onward.

The crowd roared as the two teams struggled midair, the collision of power and tactics dazzling to watch.

From the corner of his eye, Izuku spotted another threat streaking toward them.

Katsuki.

Team Bakugo, still riding the adrenaline from demolishing Team Monoma, blasted toward them with raw, explosive force.

Katsuki’s eyes were locked on the ten million points, teeth bared in a furious snarl.

But time wasn’t on his side.

Just as Katsuki stretched out a hand to blow through the last few meters—

BZZZZT!

The buzzer blared across the stadium and the match was over.

Katsuki's explosion fizzled out mid-flight, the loss of momentum sending him directly into the ground.

Izuku let out a shaky breath, the headband still firmly tied around Tokoyami’s forehead, slightly scorched but intact.

With the buzzer still echoing in the stadium, the dust finally began to settle.

The results blazed across the giant scoreboard:

1st Place: Team Midoriya.

Izuku’s hands tightened slightly around the battered headband. First place. Against everything and everyone, he’d won. Again.

He barely had time to absorb the moment before the other rankings appeared:

2nd Place: Team Bakugo.

3rd Place: Team Shinsou.

4th Place: Team Todoroki.

Midnight’s voice crackled over the speakers, congratulating the top teams and announcing the end of the second event.

Around them, the losing teams slumped or argued among themselves, trying to rationalize their defeats.

Near the center of the field, Iida stood rigid, his face drawn tight with guilt.

“I failed,” he said, voice clipped. “We were the closest to taking the headband, and yet…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Yaoyorozu cut in, offering a polite but firm smile. “Without your Recipro Burst, we wouldn’t have gotten even that close. You were crucial.”

Iida looked unconvinced, but he pressed a hand over his chest and nodded, accepting the consolation with stiff formality.

Across the field, an entirely different scene unfolded.

Katsuki was flat on his back, his arms splayed wide, his teeth gritted so hard it was audible even over the crowd noise.

Then, slowly, tremulously—

He screamed.

A raw, animalistic sound tore from his throat as he slammed both fists into the ground over and over, dirt and dust kicking up around him.

It was the furious, helpless tantrum of a child who had just been told no for the very first time.

The audience didn’t know whether to cheer, laugh, or shrink back.

“Wow,” Present Mic muttered in his mix, not even trying to hide his bewilderment. “Somebody’s not taking second place well!”

Meanwhile, shock was spreading through the remaining students.

Somehow, against all odds, Team Shinsou had quietly climbed to third place, edging out Team Tetsutetsu.

Tetsutetsu and his teammates stood there in stunned silence.

“This has gotta be karma,” Tetsutetsu groaned, clutching his head. “For stealing that Mineta guy’s headband…”

“Yeah, that was dirty,” one of his teammates agreed, grimacing.

In another corner, Tsuyu leaned toward Mina, giving her a casual thumbs-up.

“Good job,” Tsuyu said.

Mina flushed a little and rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly.

“Thanks, but honestly… I didn’t do much,” she admitted. “It was mostly playing keep up with Bakugo.”

Near the front of the field, Ochaco had found Iida again and was teasing him with a broad grin.

“You were totally holding back, huh? You trickster!” she said, jabbing him lightly in the ribs.

“It was not deception,” Iida huffed, adjusting his glasses furiously. “It was strategic concealment for maximum effectiveness!”

Ochaco laughed.

But as the other students milled about, waiting for instructions for the next phase, Ochaco noticed something.

She turned her head, scanning the field.

“Hey… where’s Midoriya?” she asked aloud.

Hatsume, still fiddling with the jetpack strapped to her back, shrugged.

Neither of them realized what had happened.

Near the shadowed edge of the field, by the entrance tunnel leading back into the stadium, Todoroki had pulled Izuku aside.

The two stood facing each other—one calm and serious, the other wary and tense, the faint roar of the crowd muted around them.

Chapter Text

Todoroki didn’t say anything at first.

He just stood there, eyes like twin glaciers under the fluorescent shadows of the stadium corridor, hands in his pockets, shoulders squared with a tension that wasn’t visible until you were close enough to feel it.

Izuku didn’t move either. He leaned back slightly against the cool concrete wall, arms crossed loosely, watching the boy in front of him like a ticking time bomb—one with bi-colored hair and a half-burnt face.

It was Todoroki who broke the silence.

“I didn’t pull you aside because of rumors,” he said. “I don’t care if you’re Aizawa-sensei’s favorite. Or a monster. Or whatever the rest of the class thinks you are.” His eyes narrowed. “I pulled you aside because I wanted to see what kind of person wants to win first place so badly.”

Izuku blinked once, slow. His head tilted slightly. This wasn’t an insult. Not really. More like a test.

Todoroki kept going. “I don’t believe in accidents. Or coincidences. There’s always a reason. My old man… Endeavor… he used to say that all the time.”

Izuku didn’t speak. He let Todoroki talk, because something in his gut told him this wasn’t just about him.

“He’s obsessed with being the number one hero,” Todoroki said. “Always clawing at All Might’s shadow, chasing it until his lungs gave out. He couldn’t beat him in the rankings. Couldn’t beat him in battle. So he decided to manufacture the win.”

The next part came like broken glass—clinical, precise.

“He bought out my mother’s family. Paid them off to secure her for a quirk marriage. I was born because he wanted to create someone strong enough to surpass All Might. A weapon for him to mold.” He scoffed. “He succeeded, I guess.”

Izuku’s fingers twitched against his arms.

“My mother… All my memories of her… they’re of her crying. Or apologizing. Or screaming. The last time I saw her, she poured boiling water on my face. Called this side of me—” he touched the scar— “unbearable.”

Todoroki finally looked up, that iciness crackling just a little. “That’s why I don’t use my fire. It’s his. I won’t let his quirk win the Sports Festival. I refuse to become what he made me to be.”

And just like that, Izuku’s skin prickled.

The word fire had come out of Todoroki’s mouth like it was filth—like he’d sooner cut out his own tongue than associate with that half of himself.

Izuku stiffened. A bitter taste rose at the back of his throat.

Because Endeavor was the reason Izuku still believed he could be a hero.

Because Endeavor had a Quirk people feared, and used it anyway. Because Endeavor fought with it—saved with it.

Because Izuku had spent years convincing himself that even someone like him could use something monstrous to do something good.

And now Todoroki—privileged, powerful Todoroki—was standing here spitting on half of his own strength because it was inconvenient.

Because it made him feel bad.

Izuku pushed off the wall.

Todoroki had already turned to leave, apparently finished with his monologue. But Izuku’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“You need to fix your attitude,” Izuku said flatly. “Toward your quirk.”

Todoroki glanced back, eyes narrowing.

“You think this is about your father,” Izuku continued, stepping forward. “But it’s not. It’s about you. That quirk is yours, not his. Whatever he did to get it into your blood doesn’t matter anymore. It’s yours. Use it.”

A beat passed.

“You want to be a hero?” Izuku’s eyes flashed. “Then stop pretending like you only need half of your strength.”

He turned on his heel, beginning to walk away—but just as he reached the tunnel’s edge, he looked back, voice lower now, more like an afterthought dragged from somewhere deep and raw.

“Someday, you’re gonna meet a villain you can’t beat while half-assing it,” he said. “I just hope—for your sake—someone strong enough is around to save you when that happens.”

And then he was gone.

That tension didn’t follow him past the tunnel. Instead, it settled somewhere in his chest, tight and gnawing. He didn’t know why it pissed him off so much—Todoroki’s attitude. Maybe because it sounded too close to self-loathing in fancy clothes.

Maybe because it felt too familiar.

Back in the stadium lounge, rows of students were gathered at long tables, tearing into their pre-packaged bentos provided by Lunch Rush.

Izuku sat at the end of one, far from the others, and peeled open the plastic lid of his own. He stared at it.

Vegetables. Cold rice. Some little fish cakes.

His stomach curled in protest. The smell wasn’t bad. But the taste… he already knew. It would be ash on his tongue. Spoiled texture. Rotted illusion. Even his regeneration couldn’t fix the way food like this curdled in his throat.

He grimaced and lowered the lid slightly.

“You know,” said a voice to his left, “you don’t have to sit here all doom-and-gloom just ’cause you’re winning.”

Kirishima.

He flopped down into the seat beside Izuku, tray in hand, a goofy grin on his face.

Right behind him came Kaminari, arms full of drinks, loudly whispering “don’t be weird, don’t be weird” under his breath.

Sero, cool as ever, casually leaned into the space across from Izuku, while Mina practically danced into the open seat next to him with a high-energy plop.

Last came Jirou, earbuds draped over her shoulders. Kaminari motioned to the seat beside him, eyes hopeful.

She rolled her eyes. But sat down anyway.

Izuku blinked in the room around him. The table was full.

It’s still not something he’s used to.

He didn’t speak much at first and in favor of watching them all—Kirishima laughing too loud, Kaminari struggling to poke through the plastic film of his pudding cup, Mina drumming her chopsticks against the edge of her tray like she was warming up for a solo.

It was… strange.

Not bad. But strange.

Izuku was used to quiet. Used to people glancing his way and then glancing away faster. But here—now—he found himself surrounded. The table was loud, and the noise was… tolerable. Refreshing, even.

He was still chewing cold rice that tasted like spoiled milk when Jirou noticed a shadow looming beside her. She turned—and immediately waved her hand at the figures lingering nearby.

“Hey guys,” she said, nudging a spot open beside her. “Come sit down.”

Tokoyami stepped forward first, nodding once toward Izuku in that strangely dignified way of his before sitting across from him. Next came Ojiro, who offered a polite but low-voiced “Hey,” before settling into the space beside Sero.

Then Yaoyorozu, ever poised, with a graceful dip of her head. “Good afternoon,” she said, her voice formal but sincere. “If you don’t mind…”

Ojiro followed with a small smile, tray in hand. “Hey,” he added, more casually. “Figured we’d join you guys.”

No one objected. The table expanded like it had always been meant to hold this many.

The extroverts—Kirishima, Kaminari, Mina—kept the conversation alive with ease. Topics bounced from the Cavalry Battle to their favorite Lunch Rush items to who was most likely to get heatstroke in their hero costumes (the unanimous answer was Kaminari).

“I’m just saying,” Mina grinned, nudging him with her elbow, “if your costume didn’t have a literal jacket—”

“It’s cool!” Kaminari protested.

“It’s sweaty!” Sero shot back.

Yaoyorozu laughed softly behind her hand. “I believe that’s what we call a design flaw.”

Kirishima grinned and looked over at Izuku. “You alright there, man? You keep making a face.”

Izuku didn’t look up from his tray, poking at it with his chopsticks. “The steamed spinach tastes like wet mold.”

There was a pause.

And then snorting.

Mina nearly choked on her rice.

“Dude,” Sero grinned, “you can’t just say stuff like that without warning.”

“I wasn’t joking,” Izuku replied, deadpan.

That made it worse.

Kaminari nearly dropped his pudding. Even Jirou had to turn her head to hide a laugh. Kirishima smacked the table once, wheezing.

“It’s the way you said it,” he managed. “Like you were announcing someone’s death.”

Izuku frowned faintly. “I might.”

Another round of laughter. This time even Tokoyami let out a small, approving grunt of amusement.

The conversation shifted again. Someone mentioned the last match, and Kirishima launched into an enthusiastic recap of Izuku’s stand at the front of his team.

“That part where you just tanked Iida’s Recipro Burst?” Kirishima said, his eyes wide. “That was insane. Like, I saw it and thought you were toast—then boom, you were still standing!”

“He didn’t even flinch,” Ojiro added. “I was right there—he just stood there and held him off. It was like watching a stone wall with arms.”

Izuku shrugged. “I figured if I moved, Iida might’ve hit Tokoyami or Mei.”

“Oh my god,” Mina said, “you are a stone wall.”

Kaminari grinned. “A really scary one.”

“I take that as a compliment,” Izuku muttered.

“You should,” Jirou said, nodding toward him with a smirk. “Honestly? I thought you were gonna try and bite someone.”

That earned a quiet laugh from Tokoyami. “He did look like he might.”

Izuku paused, looked up, and blinked at them all, saying, “…Would that have worked?”

A beat of stunned silence—and then the table practically erupted.

Sero wheezed. Mina slapped the table. Kaminari was doubled over. Even Yaoyorozu, composed as ever, let out a small, scandalized snort.

Izuku, for his part, looked quietly confused. Like the joke had happened without him.

Eventually, the laughter settled. The conversation resumed. Izuku didn’t say much after that—but he didn’t need to.

People listened when he did speak.

And, for once, nobody was avoiding his eyes.

Nobody was flinching.

No one was afraid of the monster at the table.

Not right now.

After lunch, the students of Classes 1-A and 1-B were herded back to the arena grounds. The sky above had brightened, sun peeking through a veil of pale spring clouds. The energy in the air had shifted—less anxious, more chaotic.

Present Mic’s voice blared from the stadium’s speakers, “HEADS UP, LITTLE LISTENERS! Before the final round kicks off, U.A. has a little something special to help you all shake off that battle fatigue!”

A smattering of cheers from the crowd.

“THAT’S RIGHT—it’s time for a little fun in the sun with some recreational side games!”

A few students perked up, but others just exchanged tired glances. Izuku barely reacted, arms crossed over his chest. Fun wasn’t something he often trusted.

Still, he wasn’t the only one keeping his distance. Inside the announcer’s box, Aizawa had dropped his head into his hand with a long, audible sigh.

“Mic,” he muttered over the open mic line. “What are those girls wearing?”

“Huh?” Present Mic leaned over the edge of the platform and squinted. “Ohhh… OH.”

Sure enough, down near the prep area, several of the 1-A girls were standing awkwardly in full cheerleader uniforms—frilly skirts, pom-poms, and all. Yaoyorozu, red in the face, was clearly not enjoying the experience.

“Kaminari and Mineta said we were supposed to!” she shouted to no one in particular. “They told us it was a class duty! A class duty!”

“I feel like an idiot,” Jirou muttered, tugging the hem of her borrowed uniform down.

“That’s not true!” Uraraka said, trying to placate her classmate.

“I look cute,” Mina said with a grin, twirling once in place. “But they’re so dead later.”

Kaminari, already backing away, had the nerve to look sheepish. “Guys, it was a joke! Just some harmless morale-boosting!”

Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose. “Expulsion is still an option,” he muttered.

Before the chaos could escalate, Midnight strutted to the center of the field in her signature leather-clad authority. “Alright, alright! Everyone settle down! We’ve got something important to take care of.”

She flicked her crop toward a table being wheeled out by support staff. A box sat atop it—simple, wooden, and filled with small white lots.

“Each student still eligible for the final round will now draw a lot to determine their opponent in the one-on-one bracket,” she announced.

As the students began filing up to draw, Kirishima leaned in to explain to Mina, “This part’s always different—last year was a maze run with one-on-ones at the end. Year before that was an aerial capture zone. But they always boil it down to head-to-head matches.”

“Just pray you don’t get matched up with Bakugo,” Sero added, grimacing.

“Or Midoriya,” Kaminari muttered. “Todoroki too… Man, it’s unfair how powerful those three are.”

But before all the lots could be pulled, a hand raised from the crowd.

“I wish to withdraw.”

Heads turned.

Ojiro. Calm, polite, but resolute. His tail swayed slightly behind him, coiled with tension.

Midnight blinked. “Withdraw? Are you sure?”

Ojiro nodded once. “I was being controlled by someone during the Cavalry Battle. I don’t even remember participating. I don’t want to advance on someone else’s merits. That’s not right.”

A small murmur went through Class 1-A. It wasn’t just surprising—it was rare. Students didn’t give up the spotlight easily.

A moment later, another voice followed.

“I’d like to withdraw too.”

Nirengeki Shoda, from Class 1-B. A stocky boy with a quiet voice and a respectful nod. “I was just along for the ride. I didn’t do anything worth being in the finals.”

Izuku tilted his head slightly. He didn’t understand the choice—power was power, no matter how it came to you. But… he could respect someone who stuck to their principles. Even if he didn’t agree.

Midnight gave a dramatic sigh. “Well, if you’re certain…”

When no one objected, she snapped her fingers. “Then we’ll fill your spots with the next-highest scorers. Team Kendo, step up!”

But before Itsuka Kendo could even take a step, she raised a hand. “I think Team Tetsutetsu deserves it more. We might’ve scored fifth, but they fought harder than we did.”

That earned a shocked glance from her teammates—and a proud, open-mouthed gasp from Tetsutetsu, who immediately slammed a fist against his chest.

“You’re damn right, we did!”

“Not everything has to be loud, Tetsutetsu,” Kendo muttered.

With the bracket finally set, Midnight unfurled the match-ups, bold letters flashing across the stadium display screen as she read them out:

Izuku Midoriya vs. Hitoshi Shinso

Shoto Todoroki vs. Hanta Sero

Ibara Shiozaki vs. Denki Kaminari

Tenya Iida vs. Mei Hatsume
Mina Ashido vs. Yuga Aoyama

Fumikage Tokoyami vs. Momo Yaoyorozu

Eijiro Kirishima vs. Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu

Katsuki Bakugo vs. Ochaco Uraraka

The crowd roared.

Izuku’s eyes tracked the tournament bracket, settling on the name beside his own:

Hitoshi Shinso.

A pause.

His stomach turned—not with dread, but with something harder, colder. He remembered the boy from the start of the Sports Festival. Shinso had challenged Class 1-A openly, standing proud in front of the world, wearing bitterness like armor. That same sharp bitterness glittered in his eyes now, where he stood across the group of finalists, watching Izuku with unnerving intent.

Izuku shifted, boots creaking faintly. Shinso took that as his opportunity and stepped forward.

“You’re Midoriya, right?” Shinso asked, tone deceptively mild.

Izuku narrowed his eyes. There was something unnatural about the cadence of the question—its weight, its aim. Too deliberate.

Before he could answer, Ojiro stepped between them with a low grunt.

“Don’t respond,” Ojiro said. “Trust me.”

Izuku tilted his head just slightly. Something passed between them—some shared understanding that didn’t need words.

Ojiro’s jaw tensed. “He’s dangerous. Not the way you are. But… close.”

Behind them, others were murmuring. Todoroki gave Izuku a half-glance, then looked back to the board.

“I hope you win,” Todoroki said flatly. “So I can put you down myself.”

Izuku didn’t even flinch. He just kept watching Shinso. “Keep dreaming.”

Farther down the line, Katsuki was eyeing the bracket with open disdain.

“Ochaco Who-raraka?” he muttered under his breath. “What kind of shitty-ass name is that?”

Meanwhile, Mei Hatsume was practically vibrating with energy next to a very stiff, very concerned Iida.

“Tenyaaaa~,” she purred, “I have the most delightful thing to show you for our match. I’ve been dying for a new field test subject.”

“I would rather you not test anything on me!” Iida barked.

Once the match-ups were set, Midnight clapped her hands sharply. “Alright, competitors! You’ll be sent to your designated waiting rooms until your fight is called. In the meantime, everyone else—enjoy our recreational side events!”

The finalists began to trickle out, many toward their individual prep rooms. Some students stopped by the infirmary, Recovery Girl swatting them into beds to deal with bruises and sprains. Others took the opportunity to stretch, pace, or simply sit in silence, conserving what little focus they had left.

Izuku didn’t do much. He didn’t need to stretch. Didn’t need recovery. He just crouched in a corner, breathing slow, letting the sounds of the arena dull to background static.

But when his name was called over the speaker system, just as he rose to his feet and turned toward the tunnel—

“Hey, you.”

He stopped.

There, waiting in the mouth of the tunnel like a shadow peeled off the wall, was Katsuki.

The air between them thickened instantly. No insults. No snarls. Just that same simmering tension that had followed them for years. Katsuki’s expression was unreadable. For once, the fury wasn’t blazing across his face—it was banked, hidden, heavy.

They stood like that for a long second. Two cracked mirrors facing each other. And then, just as Izuku turned to walk—

“You better make it to the finals,” Katsuki said.

It wasn’t a threat. Not a taunt.

It was a demand.

A challenge.

Izuku stopped mid-step. A single breath pushed from his nose. Not quite a laugh—but close.

He turned, glancing at Katsuki from over his shoulder.

“You should worry about yourself,” he said. “You’re the one who has to survive long enough to face me.”

Katsuki’s lip curled as he clicked his tongue, muttering something venomous under his breath, but Izuku didn’t stay to hear it. He was already moving forward, boots echoing off the concrete.

Out into the arena.

Where Hitoshi Shinso waited.

The crowd was roaring. Cameras panned. Spotlights gleamed against the stone arena, which had been freshly constructed by Cementoss into a perfect circular ring.

Present Mic’s voice shouted from above:

“And now—let’s get this final round started! First up, we’ve got a battle between the brooding monster of Class 1-A and the brainy dark horse of General Studies! Make some noise for Midoriya Izuku vs. Shinso Hitoshi!!”

The stone beneath Izuku’s feet thrummed faintly with the roar of the crowd.

He stood still. Calm. Controlled. The way he always had to be—because the second he let himself crack open, something monstrous clawed its way out. Something too sharp, too fast, too hungry. Something that wouldn’t stop.

Across from him, Hitoshi Shinso stood with his hands in his pockets, looking more like a spectator than a competitor. But Izuku could feel it—beneath that blank stare was a scalpel of intent, waiting to cut.

Midnight’s whip cracked once.

“Begin!”

The crowd surged. Present Mic’s voice blared overhead, but Izuku barely registered it.

He waited.

Watched.

Measured.

Shinso didn’t move. Not a single step forward. He didn’t need to. His quirk wasn’t made for theatrics.

“You know,” Shinso said, voice echoing oddly against the ring walls, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Izuku didn’t respond and so Shinso kept going.

“They say you’ve got some kind of freak mutation quirk. Something feral. Something you have to restrain just to be here.”

Still, Izuku said nothing.

“But the part that interests me is that people are still calling you a ‘hero,’” Shinso said, and his smile curled sharp. “Even after everything.”

He stepped closer—slow, casual, like a cat inching toward the edge of a snare. “You don’t really think you belong here, do you? Not with them. Not in the light.”

Silence.

“You’re just a beast in a muzzle,” Shinso added, tone soft now, almost pitying. “I bet you wonder how long it’ll take before someone puts you down.”

That hit. Not hard—but direct.

Izuku’s brow ticked. The smallest twitch of tension behind his eyes.

Shinso’s smile grew. He had found the pressure point.

“I mean, how many people have you hurt to get this far?”

And Izuku—impulsive, prideful, starved for dignity—snapped back without thinking.

“Only the ones who deserved it.”

The second the words left his mouth, his breath hitched.

His eyes widened just slightly—but his limbs froze in place.

The crowd went silent.

A second later, Present Mic shouted, “He—he stopped moving? Wait—don’t tell me that’s—!”

“It’s Shinso’s Quirk,” Aizawa cut in. “Brainwashing.”

Murmurs broke out through the audience, surging like a tidal wave.

Aizawa continued, voice hard: “This is exactly why the entrance exam system is flawed. Shinso has a powerful, viable quirk. But the exam favors those with physically destructive abilities. He never had a chance.”

In the ring, Izuku stood like a puppet left mid-pose. Unblinking. Rigid.

Shinso approached with casual indifference. “Thanks for that,” he said quietly, now only a few paces away. “That’s all I needed.” He moved in close—close enough that only Izuku could hear. His voice dropped. “You don’t deserve to be here. But I’ll give you an out.”

Then, with clear authority, he said:

“Walk out of bounds.”

And Izuku turned.

One foot stepped back.

Then another.

The crowd gasped.

“No!” Mina’s voice cried out.

“Midoriya, stop!” Kaminari shouted.

Even Bakugo, from somewhere in the stands, let out a furious snarl—though whether it was out of concern or rage was hard to tell.

But Izuku couldn’t stop.

He was aware. That was the worst part. He could see everything. Hear everything. Feel his body moving—feel the muscle and sinew obeying a command that wasn’t his.

It was like when Eraserhead erased his quirk. That hollow feeling of disconnection. Of being empty. But this was worse.

This was him, alive, and still powerless.

He’d let his pride get in the way.

He was four steps from the edge.

In his head, everything was static. Noise. Fog. Dull pressure building behind his eyes. His fingers twitched at his side, jerking, just barely.

Three steps.

No. No. No. No.

He thought of Bakugo—spitting venom, demanding they fight in the finals.

He thought of Todoroki—his hatred for his own strength.

He thought of his classmates—watching from the stands, maybe hoping, just maybe, that he wasn’t a monster.

Two steps.

He thought of himself. Not the child. Not the starving thing. But the boy who chose this. Who would become this, no matter what they said.

One step.

His fingernails twitched again—this time sharper. Longer. Bone and keratin forced through skin. His instincts—those same instincts he’d spent years chaining down—fought back.

He stabbed his nails into his thigh.

Deep.

The pain was electric. Blistering. A red-hot scream that tore through the fog in his mind like a knife through gauze.

And then—

SNAP.

Izuku stopped walking, foot hovering over the edge.

The ring went still.

Shinso froze as Izuku turned to face him.

His mouth parted slightly—whether in awe or fear, even he didn’t seem to know.

Izuku’s face was unreadable. Not calm. Not neutral. Controlled rage, barely contained behind a clenched jaw and eyes that burned like dying stars. Shadow pooled beneath his eyes like bruises. His lips peeled back, just slightly, into the ghost of a snarl. The sound he made was not quite a breath. Not quite a growl. Something in between.

Feral.

Shinso stepped back. “That—should’ve worked,” he muttered, voice cracking at the edges. “You shouldn’t be able to move…”

Izuku didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink.

He just stood there, looming, the blood trickling down his thigh ignored completely, as though it weren’t even there.

“You broke out…” Shinso whispered, and then louder, more desperate, “You broke out?! That’s not—!”

No response.

Shinso gritted his teeth. “Figures. You probably don’t even know what it’s like. To have a quirk that people call villainous. To be punished for it. To be told you’ll never be a hero just because you don’t blow things up or light yourself on fire.”

Izuku’s head tilted faintly.

Shinso tried to force more emotion into his voice. “You’ve got a power people respect. A body that can fight. You don’t know what it’s like to claw your way toward something and get laughed at for trying.”

A small, sharp inhale left Izuku’s nose.

And then he was gone.

No— he was already there.

Shinso barely had time to flinch before Izuku drove the heel of his palm directly into his throat.

A sickening thud echoed. Shinso choked, stumbling back, clutching his neck, gasping like a fish out of water.

“—OOOH!!” Present Mic bellowed from the speakers. “That was brutal! Right to the vocal cords! Is he allowed to—?”

“That was smart,” Aizawa said flatly from the commentary booth. “He’s disabled Shinso’s quirk without causing permanent damage. Efficient and tactical.”

Shinso staggered, furious and wheezing, but tried to lunge at Izuku with a wild, desperate swing.

It was sloppy.

Izuku ducked under it and drove his elbow into Shinso’s rib cage, spinning him with the force.

A second later, Shinso tried to strike low—aiming for Izuku’s bleeding thigh.

He hit.

And Izuku didn’t even flinch.

That, more than anything, made Shinso freeze.

Izuku stared him down, eyes narrowed, lips drawn in a thin, joyless line.

He took a single step forward—and Shinso panicked, throwing out another jab.

Izuku caught it with ease.

He didn’t even need to counter. He just looked at Shinso.

Toying with him.

A flicker of emotion twisted Izuku’s expression, something like disdain.

“You really thought this was about luck?” he muttered—finally speaking, but with no opportunity for Shinso to respond now. “You thought someone gave this to me?”

Shinso bared his teeth, still trying to suck in air.

“You think people saw me and thought, Yeah. Hero material.”

Izuku knocked Shinso’s next punch aside and cracked a sharp jab into his sternum, forcing another gasp from him.

“You think I woke up like this?” Izuku growled lowly, circling him. “No. I built this. I tore muscle and bone into something they couldn’t ignore.”

He dodged again, then drove a knee into Shinso’s stomach and let him crumple to the ground.

“You want to be a hero? Then act like one. Your quirk doesn’t stop you from training. It doesn’t stop you from learning hand-to-hand. It doesn’t stop you from building up your body or your instincts or your reflexes.”

Izuku paced, every step deliberate.

“You’re not out here fighting for justice. You’re whining that the world didn’t lay down for you.”

Shinso groaned, dazed now, eyes unfocused.

Izuku looked down at him once. His expression didn’t hold anger anymore.

Just disappointment.

“You don’t deserve my silence. You deserve this.”

And with one brutal snap of his leg, Izuku drove a kick straight into Shinso’s chest.

The boy’s body sailed backward and skidded across the ring before tumbling over the edge.

Silence.

The entire stadium seemed to hold its breath.

Then—

“WINNER: IZUKU MIDORIYA!!” Present Mic bellowed.

The silence cracked.

The crowd erupted.

Screams. Cheers. Roars.

Some of it was awe. Some was confusion. But most of it was excitement.

They had just watched a monster make a statement—and win.

Izuku didn’t bask in it.

He walked over to Shinso’s body, now clearly unconscious. His chest rose and fell shallowly. He was alive. Just… out of the fight.

With no flourish, Izuku leaned down, grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and hoisted him effortlessly over his shoulder like he weighed nothing.

He marched toward Recovery Girl’s station as the crowd continued to thunder above him.

When he reached the nurse’s room, Recovery Girl looked up and immediately scowled.

“Midoriya,” she snapped, “what on earth were you thinking?”

“He’s fine,” Izuku mumbled, unceremoniously dropping Shinso onto a cot. “Didn’t even draw blood.”

She frowned harder. “That doesn’t make it better! You could’ve crushed his larynx!”

“Tried not to.”

“Apologize.”

“…Sorry.”

She gave him a glare that told him she knew damn well he didn’t mean it. Still, she sighed and waved him off. “Go. You’ve got more matches to win.”

Izuku left her room and headed back toward the stands where his classmates were waiting.

Mina caught sight of him first. “Mido!” she gasped. “You killed out there!”

“Not literally, thankfully,” Yaoyorozu muttered, still slightly pale.

Kirishima grinned wide. “Man, I forgot how scary you are! That was awesome!”

Even Jirou gave him a nod, leaning against the rail with a small smirk. “Way to make an entrance.”

Izuku gave them all a half-shrug and settled into the stands beside his classmates, ignoring the way his thigh throbbed slightly. The adrenaline had started to drain from his system, leaving him sore and faintly irritated, but still locked in that cold, simmering headspace.

He didn’t expect anyone to say anything to him.

So when Ojiro leaned over with a short nod and said, “That was a hell of a comeback,” Izuku blinked.

Ojiro offered him a calm, genuine look. “Thanks for listening to what I said. And… for not hurting him more than you needed to.”

Izuku grunted. Not quite a thank you. Not quite an acknowledgment. But close.

He took a seat, arms crossed loosely over his chest, and kept his eyes on the ring.

Present Mic’s voice echoed across the stadium, announcing the next match.

“Next up! The Tape Hero-in-training, Hanta Sero, versus the Ice Prince himself, Shoto Todoroki!!”

The arena shifted, barriers sliding down into the ground and resetting for the next round.

Sero stepped into the ring with an easy gait, his mouth tilted in a smirk that looked more nervous than confident. Opposite him, Todoroki walked out in silence, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable as ever.

Midnight called for the match to begin.

Sero didn’t hesitate—he launched tape from his elbows in quick succession, snapping Todoroki’s legs together and yanking hard. In a flash, he was skimming across the arena floor on another tape line, momentum carrying him forward.

The crowd gasped.

Izuku’s eyes narrowed.

Smart. Fast. Sero had gone in for the ring-out, knowing he couldn’t beat Todoroki head-on.

But Todoroki… didn’t move.

Didn’t panic.

Didn’t flinch.

A glare.

And then—

BOOM.

A wall of ice exploded outward from Todoroki’s side of the ring—shards piercing the sky, gleaming like a glacier had erupted beneath his feet. It roared across the stone like a tidal wave, swallowing Sero whole in a heartbeat.

The audience fell into stunned silence.

The newly formed ice spire, jagged and towering and impossibly vast, stood still and sparkling beneath the sun. It had completely engulfed the left side of the stadium—and the boy trapped within it.

Midnight ran to the edge of the ring, eyes scanning the ice before she called out, “Sero is immobilized! He cannot continue the match!”

She raised one arm. “Victory: Shoto Todoroki!!”

Cheers came only after a second or two of disbelief.

Todoroki didn’t raise his arms in triumph. He didn’t look proud.

He walked forward and stopped in front of the sculpture of frozen fury he’d created. With a small sigh, he lifted his left arm—the one that steamed with heat and carried the legacy he hated—and pressed it to the ice.

It began to melt in seconds, steam curling into the air.

Sero, freed but still shivering, stumbled forward, coughing and slick with frost.

Todoroki caught his elbow.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That was too much. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Sero didn’t respond at first. Then he managed a weak thumbs-up. “Cool trick, man. Just maybe warn me next time.”

Todoroki winced.

Up in the stands, Izuku leaned forward slightly. His eyes locked on Todoroki’s expression. It was brief—but there. A flicker of something tight and sour behind his eyes.

Guilt.

He knew that attack hadn’t been meant for Sero.

Izuku exhaled through his nose and sat back.

The tournament was only getting started.

But more than one person had something to prove—and even more had something to hide.

Chapter Text

The last of Todoroki’s ice was being cut apart and hauled away by Cementoss, who looked noticeably irritated as he labored to undo the mountain of damage his student had inflicted on the arena. Izuku, still sitting with Class 1-A, didn’t speak, didn’t shift, didn’t react to the low buzz of conversations around him. His leg was bouncing slightly, though. Whether from leftover adrenaline or a half-restrained urge to get back in the ring, even he wasn’t sure.

Focus.

He had more to learn.

Present Mic’s voice cracked back to life as the third match of the first bracket was announced.

“Coming up next! The devout vine-haired dominator of Class 1-B, the woman with a holy mission—IBARA SHIOZAKI!”

A wave of polite applause rose from the audience.

“And her opponent, the electrifying, short-circuiting flirt we all know and love—DENKI KAMINARI!”

Cheers erupted—Denki had already won over quite a few spectators with his antics during the cavalry battle. The blond trotted into the ring, throwing up peace signs and winking at the cameras.

Ibara stepped out with her hands clasped in front of her, the long vines of her hair swaying gently. There was a serene, almost eerie calm to her as she regarded the arena like a temple rather than a battlefield.

Mic was mid-rant when he blurted out, “And this quiet assassin’s—!”

“I am no assassin,” Ibara cut in, her tone gentle but firm. “It is my humble mission to spread light and virtue wherever I tread. I would never resort to such violence.”

The mic popped with Present Mic’s startled silence.

“A-ah—sorry about that, kid.”

Ibara gave a gracious bow of acceptance.

Denki, meanwhile, was smitten.

“She’s cute,” he muttered to himself, and then—aloud—“Hey, Ibara! When I win, how about a celebratory date? I promise I’ll console you after!”

Izuku didn’t react outwardly, but in his mind, he mentally crossed Kaminari’s name off a very short list of potentially competent tacticians.

The buzzer sounded. Midnight called for the match to begin.

“Get ready… and start!”

Denki wasted no time.

Electricity crackled through his fingers in a brilliant web, arcs of blue lightning dancing across the stone floor as he activated his Indiscriminate Shock 1.3 Million Volts. A surge of power lit up the air—and for a moment, the crowd winced, expecting to see Ibara roasted on the spot.

But—

A wall of vines rose up around her like a divine barrier, each one twitching and writhing with purpose. They absorbed the electricity—and then lunged.

Before Denki could process what happened, they wrapped around his arms, legs, and torso in a flash.

His expression froze.

Then his face slackened.

His eyes went lopsided.

“Bwuhhh…” he mumbled, short-circuiting completely.

Midnight raised a hand.

“Denki Kaminari is immobilized! The winner of this match is Ibara Shiozaki!”

Cheers scattered across the stadium. A few pro heroes leaned toward each other, murmuring.

Monoma stood up somewhere in the stands behind them and clapped slowly, mockingly.

“Bravo, Class 1-A. Yet another tactical genius undone by their own idiocy.”

Kendo grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back into his seat. “Enough.”

Izuku didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. Monoma was all noise and hot air. His classmates’ attention shifted quickly from Kaminari to the arena, where the fourth match was about to begin.

“Next up: The Speed Hero-in-the-making, TENYA IIDA, versus the dazzling gearhead of the Support Course, MEI HATSUME!”

Hatsume strutted into the ring with a spring in her step and a smug glint in her eye. She didn’t look like someone heading into a fight—she looked like someone walking onto a stage.

Iida entered at a measured jog—but the crowd blinked as they spotted his new gear. Jets. Bracers. Strange padding and support tools attached to his uniform in mismatched sections.

Midnight arched an eyebrow. “Iida, is that authorized equipment?”

He stopped in his tracks and gave her a bow so deep he nearly headbutted the ground.

“I must apologize, Midnight-sensei! Hatsume-san offered me this equipment in order to maintain balance in our match! I accepted out of a desire for fairness!”

A visible shiver ran down Midnight’s spine. “Mmm… so noble. Very well! I’ll allow it!”

Present Mic coughed. “…Man, what a weird vibe we got going here.”

The buzzer sounded.

And the next ten minutes became a circus.

Hatsume didn’t attack once. Not a single punch, not a single blast, not even a shoddy gadget launched his way. Instead, she sprinted around the ring at full speed, monologuing the specs of every single item on Iida’s body.

“And as you can see here, the recoil suppressor in the turbo-brace lets the exhaust vents stay stable under repeated bursts of—HEY CAMERAS, GET A CLOSE-UP OF THAT JOINT LOCK!”

Iida chased her like a frustrated referee at a toddler’s soccer game. “Hatsume-san, this is a tournament! Will you please engage in battle?!”

She blew him a kiss and launched a smoke bomb from her sleeve.

It took ten full minutes before she finally “accidentally” walked out of bounds while talking about gyroscopes.

“Oops,” she said sweetly. “Guess I lost.”

Midnight called the match.

“Winner: Tenya Iida!”

Iida stood in the center of the ring, panting, eyes wide with disbelief and betrayal. “You… you never intended to fight me at all.”

Hatsume gave him a finger gun and a wink. “I never said I wouldn’t win on my own terms. Besides… look at all this exposure!”

Izuku sat back in his seat.

His jaw tensed.

She wasted his time. She wasted everyone’s time.

It wasn’t just that it was annoying—it was insulting.

He looked down at the ring again, where Iida stood quietly, hands clenched at his sides.

At least Iida was angry, too.

Good, Izuku thought. Maybe he’ll do something about it next time.

His gaze lingered on the ring even after Hatsume sauntered off, still waving to the pro heroes and pointing to her back like she wanted sponsorship logos etched there.

She’s not a fighter. She’s a salesperson.

He mentally filed away every flaw he’d seen in her mock-battle—her gait, her stance, her complete disregard for maintaining spacing or watching her opponent’s hands. She didn’t even pretend to have a guard. Useful brain, maybe, but her body was an empty shell in combat. Nothing to analyze.

He was still cataloging her when, from the corner of his eye, he noticed movement.

Uraraka was quietly slipping away from the group.

She didn’t say anything. Just stood, turned, and walked up the steps. Her hands were clenched at her sides.

Izuku blinked once, his mind shifting like a gear click.

He didn’t follow.

Not his business. If she couldn’t handle the pressure, then she shouldn’t have come.

“Next up! Match number five! It’s time for a showdown of glitz versus grit—YUGA AOYAMA versus MINA ASHIDO!”

Tsuyu raised a fist. “Go, Ashido!”

Mineta nearly fell out of his seat. “C’mon, sparkle boy! Blind her! Blow her clothes off!”

“I’ll blow your head off if you don’t shut it,” Jirou muttered under her breath.

Izuku ignored them. His eyes were already on the ring. He analyzed their quirks in tandem, combing through memory.

Aoyama has range. Mina has mobility. She’s in trouble if she can’t close the gap.

But he paused, frowning faintly.

Unless… She already knows that.

The buzzer rang, and Aoyama didn’t waste a second. His belt gleamed—then fired a concentrated laser beam directly at Mina’s chest.

She slid.

Effortless, fluid, low to the ground—her acid secreted beneath her feet with a practiced rhythm, propelling her like a surfer on a wave of sludge. The beam cut behind her, scorching stone.

Aoyama fired again. And again.

And again.

But Mina’s movements weren’t just evasive—they were deliberate. Controlled. She kept circling in wide arcs, forcing Aoyama to pivot and chase her with his beam. It took seconds—maybe half a minute—but eventually…

“Mon dieu!” Aoyama clutched his stomach with one hand, lurching. “I-I overdid it…”

Mina grinned. “You always do.”

With a wild pivot, she launched toward him, acid searing the floor behind her. Aoyama scrambled to reset his aim—but he was too slow.

His belt hissed and melted in place. The laser module exploded in a tiny burst of sparks.

Mina cocked her fist back and uppercut him with the force of a freight train.

Aoyama’s legs lifted off the ground. He twirled midair like a ballerina—and collapsed, out cold.

“WINNER: MINA ASHIDO!”

The stands roared.

Mina waved with both hands, laughing brightly. “I told him to work on his core!”

Izuku wrote two mental notes:

Mina: Excellent adaptability. Sharp timing.

Aoyama: Still using his quirk like a crutch. Poor fighting ability. Poor stamina.

“Up next—match number six! FUMIKAGE TOKOYAMI versus MOMO YAOYOROZU!”

Yaoyorozu was stiff as she walked down the stairs. Her face was pale, her eyes darting between the crowd and her opponent like she couldn’t find a safe place to look. Her fingers tapped against her thigh like a metronome gone erratic.

Tokoyami descended the opposite staircase in silence. Calm. Focused. Dark Shadow loomed behind him, hunched and twitching with anticipation.

The buzzer sounded.

Yaoyorozu barely had time to react to Dark Shadow lunging at her.

A barrage of snapping tendrils, fists, and claws rained down on her position. She summoned a round riot shield from her forearm with a flash—but it only bought her seconds. Tokoyami drove the shadow into the shield over and over again, forcing her backwards with every strike.

The crowd gasped as her heels hit the white line.

Another flurry.

She was out.

“WINNER: FUMIKAGE TOKOYAMI!”

A stunned silence.

Then polite applause.

Yaoyorozu stood on the outer edge of the ring, stunned, her shield falling from her hand with a dull clatter. She bit her lip, blinking too fast.

She never even got a real attack off.

Izuku leaned forward, watching Tokoyami bow.

“He’s strong,” he said softly. “Focused. He doesn’t waste a lot of movement.”

Ojiro glanced at him. “Yeah, but… poor Yaoyorozu. She didn’t even get to show what she could do.”

Izuku tilted his head. “So?”

Ojiro frowned. “I mean… it just feels bad, you know?”

“She lost. That’s what matters. If she wanted to showcase her abilities better, she should’ve found a way to win.”

Ojiro looked away, his expression tightening. There was no arguing with that. But he didn’t like it.

Didn’t like that it was true.

Didn’t like that Izuku had said it so plainly.

Before he could answer, the loudspeakers boomed again.

“And now! Match number seven—EIJIRO KIRISHIMA versus TETSUTETSU TETSUTETSU!”

The two boys leapt into the ring from opposite ends, each one grinning like they were about to have the time of their life.

Both were clad in crimson, both cracking their knuckles, both shouting as they hardened their skin to steel and stone.

“Let’s have a real fight!” Tetsutetsu yelled.

“You’re on, man!” Kirishima roared back.

They collided in the middle of the ring like two freight trains, fists flying.

Izuku sat forward.

This one… would be fun to study.

And that was where Izuku had been wrong.

He’d thought the match would be “fun” to study. A pure, clean exchange of technique and power between two evenly matched opponents.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t technical. There was no rhythm to track, no subtle tells to exploit. No hidden weaknesses to exploit mid-battle.

It was a brawl.

Kirishima and Tetsutetsu charged at each other like mad bulls, fists colliding with the sound of war drums. Their hardened bodies didn’t dodge, didn’t flinch, didn’t yield. They slammed into one another with every ounce of strength they had—and when they fell, they fell together.

Simultaneous knockout.

Midnight blinked from her booth and raised a hand. “Double KO! Match ends in a draw! Winner will be decided after the next round by… arm wrestling!”

Izuku blinked. That’s it? Arm wrestling? He almost scoffed.

Paramedics rushed the field and dragged both unconscious boys onto stretchers, their arms still twitching, faces locked in dazed grins.

And just like that, the final battle of the first bracket began.

“KATSUKI BAKUGO versus OCHACO URARAKA!”

A low buzz ran through the crowd as the two stepped onto the field.

Katsuki didn’t posture. Didn’t sneer. He just looked at her with a flat, bored expression.

“Don’t make me kill you,” he muttered. “Give up now. You’re not gonna make me hold back.”

Uraraka said nothing. Her jaw was clenched tight. Her eyes didn’t blink.

Back in the stands, Sero, still rubbing his arms and glancing at the patch of scorched stone where he’d nearly frozen to death, turned to Izuku.

“Hey… you and Bakugo went to the same junior high, right?”

Izuku nodded once.

“What would you tell her to do? If you were coaching her?”

Izuku, not looking away from the field, clenched his jaw. “She needs to touch him. If she doesn’t, she can’t win,” he said simply. “Her quirk only works on contact—and Katsuki doesn’t let anyone get close. She should feint and strike first. Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. One touch. That’s all it would take.”

The buzzer sounded.

Uraraka darted right—and Katsuki’s explosion met her instantly.

A roaring right hook of fire and sound cracked against her ribs and sent her flying backwards. She hit the ground hard, coughing smoke.

He stomped forward. “Told you to quit.”

The smoke thickened. Katsuki launched another burst of fire into it—blasting apart a floating figure.

Clothing.

A uniform.

Empty.

Uraraka sprang from the haze, arm outstretched.

But Katsuki’s reflexes snapped like a trap.

BOOM!

A blast to the side. She flew, skidded, rolled, but got back up again.

Again.

And again.

She didn’t stop. Her limbs trembled. Her eyes watered. But she kept charging him, over and over, ducking low, circling, reaching out to grab him through the smoke.

The crowd started to murmur. Confused. Restless.

“She’s getting desperate.”

“She should’ve forfeited.”

“Bakugo’s going too hard. What a brute.”

Monoma, perched above with Class 1-B, rolled his eyes. “Idiots. Look closer.”

A voice suddenly echoed through the stadium, crackling over the loudspeakers.

“Quiet.”

Aizawa.

The murmurs cut off like a switch had been thrown.

“Bakugo isn’t bullying anyone,” Aizawa said. “He’s going all out because he respects her strength. He’s not underestimating her. He’s trying not to lose.”

Silence fell.

On the field, the smoke parted.

Uraraka was still standing.

Her arms were bruised. Her uniform was scorched. Her hair clung to her face with sweat—but her eyes were sharp.

Katsuki’s hands twitched at his sides. His expression flickered, just for a moment.

She isn’t dead yet.

Uraraka grinned through bloodied teeth. “Thanks. For focusing on me.”

Katsuki narrowed his eyes, then looked up.

A vast, patchwork sky of debris floated above them—chunks of stone and metal, torn from the ring by his own explosions.

And now—suspended by her quirk.

It wasn’t random.

She’d baited him. Directed his blasts. Kept low to the ground and drew his fire where it would do the most structural damage.

A battlefield made by your own hands.

Monoma nodded in appreciation. “She turned his quirk into a trap.”

The final phase began.

Uraraka dropped her hands—and the meteor storm fell.

Dozens of chunks of the stadium came crashing down from every angle.

Uraraka sprinted toward him, ready to capitalize on the chaos.

But Katsuki… didn’t flinch.

He braced a wrist with his other hand and unleashed a massive explosion—larger than any he’d used that match. A tidal wave of fire and force blasted the debris outwards in a thunderous shockwave that rattled the stands.

Uraraka’s eyes widened as the force hit her, lifting her off her feet—again.

She crashed. Hard.

And didn’t get up.

She tried. Her fingers clawed against the stone, dragging herself forward inch by inch.

Just touch him. Just a little closer. Just a little further.

“I promised,” she whispered, “I’d help…”

And then her arms gave out.

She collapsed.

“WINNER: KATSUKI BAKUGO!”

There were no cheers. Just heavy silence.

Midnight ran to her side and called medics. Uraraka was lifted gently into a stretcher, her fingers twitching like she still wanted to reach forward.

Katsuki left the ring to the sound of echoing silence.

No cheers. No claps. Just a collective breath held too long.

He rounded a corner backstage, jaw tight, still riding the high of combustion when he nearly walked straight into—

Him.

Izuku stood leaning against the wall near the back entrance of the stadium stands, arms folded, eyes like razors.

Katsuki’s shoulders rose half an inch. His hands twitched at his sides. His mouth twitched like it wanted to sneer—but nothing came out.

The moment stretched. Awkward. Charged. Ugly.

Izuku blinked slowly, his mouth curling just slightly into something not quite a smirk.

“I hope you’ll be able to hold up your end of our deal,” he said flatly, tone airy but barbed.

Katsuki’s lip curled. “Tch.”

Izuku stepped forward to pass him, but as he moved by, he spoke again without looking back, “If that fight was more difficult than you thought, then you’re not ready for me. Maybe just throw your next match so you don’t end up embarrassing yourself.”

Katsuki’s foot slammed into the concrete floor louder than necessary. The hallway echoed with the impact.

He turned to fire back—but Izuku was already gone, swallowed by the corridor.

Growling, Katsuki stormed up the stairs to the stands—only to be greeted by Kaminari’s smug face and a slow clap.

“Duuuuuude,” Kaminari laughed. “You really went full villain on her out there.”

“Yeah,” Mina chimed in. “You looked like you were about to detonate her spine.”

Sero gave a low whistle. “Kinda brutal, man.”

Katsuki scoffed, but his scowl deepened when Kaminari said, “I mean, I held back against Ibara since she’s a girl. You could’ve maybe not—y’know—tried to atomize Uraraka?”

Katsuki turned sharply. “She’s not frail.” His voice was low and honest. “She’s tougher than most of you.”

The group fell silent. That was maybe the nicest thing Katsuki had ever said.

…

Izuku didn’t hear the teasing. He’d already left.

He didn’t want to watch the rest of the banter. Didn’t want to be dragged into small talk or shallow predictions.

He sat in the dim waiting room alone, a medical kit open beside him, needle and thread between his fingers.

The cut on his thigh—an old stab wound from the qualifiers—had opened again during the obstacle course. He could’ve just regenerated it. But regeneration costs calories, and calories cost control. There was no need to waste energy on something he could fix the old-fashioned way.

The thread slipped through flesh without a wince. A perfect cross-stitch. Quick. Clean. Functional.

He tightened his shoes. Adjusted his muzzle. Ran fingers over the collar of his P.E. uniform top to ground him.

Ready.

Or as close as he’d get.

A low hum of noise buzzed through the hallway—the crowd outside surging, the announcer’s voice distant and echoing. The stage was being cleared. His match was next.

He stood and started walking—

And stopped.

The heat hit first.

A wave of pressurized warmth swept through the hallway like a prelude to a furnace, and then he stepped into view:

Endeavor.

Massive. Red. Radiating power with every breath. The scent of smoke and scorched ozone clung to him like armor.

Izuku tensed. The old admiration clawed up through his chest like a corpse trying to rise.

“I remember you,” Endeavor said, stepping into the corridor with arms folded. “You’re that boy who defeated that villain. That sludge villain.”

Izuku said nothing. Didn’t blink.

“I know strength when I see it,” Endeavor continued. “And I want you to go all out against my Shoto. Push him. Make him fight seriously. Make him earn it. He needs to surpass—”

Izuku held up a hand. Not a gesture of offense. Just silence.

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he said flatly.

Endeavor’s brow rose.

“I’m not All Might,” Izuku said. “And your son isn’t me.”

Endeavor scoffed. “I didn’t notice.”

“Then stop talking to me like I owe you anything,” Izuku snapped. “I’m not your whetstone. I’m not part of your plan. I’m not a stepping stone for your son’s ego.”

He stepped past Endeavor, jaw tight, muzzle clicking against his collar as he walked.

“I won’t lose for anyone.”

Endeavor watched him go, his expression unreadable behind the fire.

Outside, the crowd was roaring.

Spotlights strobed over the arena floor as the second bracket of the finals began.

The scoreboard flared to life.

IZUKU MIDORIYA vs. SHOTO TODOROKI

The announcer’s voice cut through the static of the crowd like a blade.

“And now, folks, it’s the battle we’ve all been waiting for! Two of the fiercest competitors in this year’s Sports Festival, now facing off in a match that’s bound to leave us breathless! Will Midoriya, the monster from Class 1-A, take down the ice prince of U.A.? Or will Todoroki freeze the competition and rise to the top?!”

Iida leaned over the railing in the student stands. “I believe Midoriya’s tenacity and physical abilities are unmatched… but Todoroki’s quirk offers superior control and versatility.”

Tokoyami tilted his head. “The question is: can he win at only half strength?”

Uraraka, her face pale but awake beside Recovery Girl’s watch station, murmured, “Midoriya’s not going to let him hold anything back.”

The dust settled on the ring.

Izuku and Todoroki locked eyes from opposite ends.

And the crowd held its breath.

Chapter Text

The match didn’t start with a bang.

It started with silence.

Two boys, polar opposites on the surface, stood beneath a sky gone flat with tension. The air was brittle. The kind of quiet before an avalanche.

Todoroki stood tall, stoic, a wall of winter carved into teenage flesh. Ice bloomed from beneath his boots, creeping outward in slow, hungry tendrils. He didn’t look at Izuku. Not yet.

Izuku was still. Chin dipped low, hair blowing faintly in the unnatural breeze. His eyes tracked Todoroki with something unreadable. No rage. No thrill. Just… intent. A surgical focus. He rolled his shoulders once, almost lazily, like a dog before it lunged.

Midnight’s whip cracked down.

“Begin!”

It happened all at once.

Todoroki moved first—ice erupting outward in a jagged, explosive wave meant to bury Izuku before the fight could even start.

But Izuku was already gone, his body a dark blur against the frost.

He didn’t dodge with grace. He scraped through—slamming shoulder-first into a chunk of rising ice, using it as a springboard, his feet skidding and punching through the shards. The muscles in his legs screamed as he launched forward, faster than he should’ve been able to move with that body. Faster than he looked.

He ducked under a second wave of ice and closed the distance, already in Todoroki’s blind spot.

His fist flew toward Todoroki’s ribs.

Blocked—barely.

Todoroki reeled, countered with a blast of cold that froze the floor solid in a blink. Izuku’s foot stuck mid-pivot, and the ice crawled up his leg like a curse.

He snarled and broke free—literally—tearing himself out of the trap by cracking his ankle sideways and dragging his foot through the ice, bones crunching. It regenerated mid-run.

“Come on,” Izuku hissed, baring bloodied teeth. “You’ve got more than that.”

Todoroki’s face didn’t change. But his ice did.

It rose.

Massive, spired, impossible—more a glacier than an attack. It smashed toward Izuku with the weight of a collapsing mountain. No gap to dodge. No path through.

Izuku didn’t stop.

He leapt.

Straight into the ice.

It swallowed him whole. The arena gasped. Present Mic shouted something, but the words blurred.

Seconds passed.

Then—

Crack.

A pulse.

Then a fracture.

Then—

BOOM.

The glacier shattered from within, a detonation of pressure and violence. Chunks of ice flew in every direction. Shards embedded themselves in the arena walls.

And at the center of the storm—

Izuku.

Bleeding. Shaking. Alive.

The stadium had gone quiet.

Snow swirled through the shattered remains of Todoroki’s frozen battlefield, the air so cold it burned. Jagged spires of ice jutted up from the earth like bones clawing their way out of a grave, casting pale shadows across the splintered ground. The scent of blood mingled with frost.

Izuku stood in the middle of it all like a wrong note in a silent song—small, hunched, trembling. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and dripped down his chin in slow, syrupy drops. It stood out too vividly against the pallor of his skin.

He was smiling.

No, grinning. Teeth bared, lips peeled back too wide. Not joy. Not even victory. Something deeper. Something meaner. Something rotten.

His eyes glinted with something unplaceable—exultation, maybe. Madness, definitely. The same look animals get when they’ve survived something they weren’t supposed to.

Across from him, Todoroki stood frozen—not from his Quirk, but from the boy he was facing.

The boy who wasn’t flinching.

The boy who should have been screaming, still impaled through the side on a spear of ice.

But he wasn’t.

Izuku was bleeding, yes—soaked through his uniform and leaving streaks across his shoes. But his voice? Steady.

“Y’know,” Izuku said, spitting blood into the snow with a wet, sharp sound, “I’m getting real tired of this tantrum you’re throwing.”

Todoroki didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Izuku laughed. Low and rough, like gravel churning in his throat. He tilted his head back, covering his eyes with one trembling hand—half a dramatic gesture, half a shield.

“But hey. I get it,” Izuku said, voice too calm. “You don’t want to be your old man. Can’t stand the thought of becoming a monster like him. Guess what?”

He lowered his hand, just enough to show his right eye. Just enough for Todoroki to see the deep tear trailing through his bloodstained face. A mirror of the scar Todoroki hated so much.

“I already am one.”

The grin came back, stretched and wrong. His teeth had grown sharper again—healed that way. His canines poked over his lower lip, stained red. His tongue ran across them slowly, savoring something that hadn’t even happened yet.

In one slow, deliberate movement, Izuku tore himself off the ice spike.

The sound was wet and ugly—flesh parting, muscle shredding, a low groan of agony swallowed back before it could become a scream. Blood poured freely, steaming in the cold, but Izuku didn’t fall. His body lurched, twitched, then began to seal itself, flesh knitting back together while his limbs realigned.

The crowd watched in stunned silence as the boy who shouldn’t be standing began to move again. Each step left crimson smears behind him. His body still shook from pain, but his hands clenched into fists anyway.

“You hold back like it’s some noble act,” Izuku said, stalking forward, voice suddenly intimate. “Like it’s heroic.”

He stood inches from Todoroki now. Close enough that his breath fogged against the boy’s cheek. Close enough that his fists—bruised, split-knuckled, trembling—hung between them like a promise.

“I don’t get that luxury,” he whispered.

Then he struck.

The punch cracked across the frozen arena like a gunshot. The impact threw Todoroki off his feet, flung him back like a ragdoll across the ice.

Izuku didn’t chase him. He stood over the place Todoroki had fallen, watching, breathing heavily. The grin was gone now, and in its place… disappointment.

When Todoroki finally stirred, Izuku crouched down. Just enough to meet his eyes. Just enough to let him hear:

“It didn’t matter how hard you tried to beat me,” he said, voice flat. “Because I’ll always win. Because that’s what I have to do. Because I’ll be a hero.”

No cheers followed his words. No applause. Just Present Mic’s half-hearted call of his name over the loudspeaker, cracked and uncertain.

Izuku didn’t acknowledge it.

He slipped his hands into his pockets and walked off the field with blood sticking to the soles of his shoes.

…

Kirishima bounded back into the waiting room, grin wide and victorious. “Ha! Tetsutetsu and I broke three stools before someone remembered we could just arm wrestle!” he said, rubbing his sore wrist with a chuckle. “I won by, like, a centimeter.”

No one responded.

He blinked. The room had gone still—tense in a way he couldn’t place. Everyone stared at the stadium monitor, faces blank, pale, or just… wrong. Not the expressions of people who’d just seen a great fight.

“What’d I miss?”

His words broke the silence. Yaoyorozu flinched. Mina didn’t answer. Kaminari looked like he’d seen a ghost. Even Jirou was speechless, her earjacks twitching uselessly in the air.

The screen behind them still showed the battlefield.

Snow.

Ice.

And blood. A lot of blood.

Kirishima’s smile slipped. “Guys? What—what happened?”

“It was Todoroki and Midoriya,” Iida said, voice taut.

Mina finally spoke. Quietly. “It wasn’t a fight. It was a one-sided takedown.”

…

Izuku stood outside the door for a moment, staring at the faded nurse’s sign before lifting a knuckle to knock. He didn’t bother wiping the dried blood from his shirt.

The door opened. Recovery Girl looked up at him with a pinched, unamused frown.

“You again,” she grumbled, words sounding like a curse. “If you send one more opponent limping into my care, we’re going to have words, young man.”

Izuku didn’t reply. She sighed, already turning.

“Well, don’t just stand there. He’s stable. Bruised and some minor frostbite, but nothing permanent. Not like you.”

Izuku stepped inside. Todoroki was sitting up on the cot, shirtless and half-wrapped in white bandages across his chest and arms. He looked less frozen and more like he’d been through a storm.

His eyes flicked up in faint surprise. “Midoriya.”

Izuku nodded. “Todoroki.”

He opened his mouth—maybe to explain, maybe to apologize—but Todoroki cut him off before he could say anything.

“If you’re about to say sorry,” Todoroki said, calm but firm, “don’t.”

Izuku blinked.

“You were right,” Todoroki continued, shifting to sit straighter. “About me. About how I’ve been treating my quirk.”

He glanced at his left hand—frost still clung faintly to the tips of his fingers, even through the bandages.

“It’s mine. Not his. Not my mother’s either. Mine. And next time we fight… I’ll be ready.”

A half-smile tugged at his mouth. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was something.

“So you’d better be ready too.”

Izuku stared at him for a long moment. Then—just faintly—he huffed a breath through his nose. Almost a laugh. “Deal.”

When the conversation was starting to fade into an awkward lull, Izuku took that as his chance to make his exit from Recovery Girl’s office. And that’s when he saw Iida.

Iida was halfway down the hall, pacing fast, phone pressed to his ear. His voice was muffled, tight, panicked. “No, I haven’t heard anything yet—but I can leave now if I—No, it’s just—I’m still in the tournament—yes, I know—”

He didn’t see Izuku until they collided shoulder-first. Iida muttered a distracted “Sorry,” barely breaking stride.

Izuku frowned after him. Weird. But he didn’t push it. Not his problem. And he was able to make it back to the stands just in time for the next match to be announced: Katsuki Bakugo vs Eijiro Kirishima.

The two met in the center of the ring, both bristling with competitive heat.

Izuku slipped into his seat, annoyed. He’d missed both Iida’s and Tokoyami’s matches. He frowned.

Below, the match began.

Kirishima charged, his skin hardening instantly. His first punch grazed Katsuki’s cheek, drawing a small cut and a flicker of blood.

Katsuki snarled and retaliated with a blast straight to Kirishima’s ribs—but the redhead didn’t flinch. His body tanked it.

Izuku’s eyes widened. Katsuki’s on the defensive?

Kirishima pressed the assault, fists flying, forcing Katsuki to dart back, deflect, evade.

Another punch, another blocked explosion. Katsuki’s eyes narrowed.

He ducked a wide swing and countered again—this time, the explosion left scorch marks, and Kirishima stumbled.

Izuku’s fingers tightened on the armrest. He remembered that fight. The way Kirishima’s hardening degraded over time. He was trying to hold it across his whole body—straining himself.

Smart move, Katsuki.

Katsuki didn’t miss the opening. He launched a flurry of blasts, each one more aggressive than the last. Kirishima grunted, pushing forward—but the hits added up.

Finally, one struck just beneath his collarbone. His body wavered.

And then he dropped.

Unconscious.

Katsuki exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his palm.

In the crowd, Tetsutetsu scowled, arms crossed. He didn’t clap.

And with that Midnight calling out Katsuki’s victory…

Four names remained.

Izuku Midoriya. Tenya Iida. Fumikage Tokoyami. Katsuki Bakugo.

The semi-finals were next.

…

The stadium buzzed with chatter as the brief intermission began. Fans funneled out of their seats to grab drinks, use the bathrooms, or rush souvenir stands hawking limited edition merchandise featuring the top eight. The blood and ice had been cleared from the stage, and with the crowd’s roar dimmed, Class 1-A finally had a moment to breathe.

In the stands, the students gathered in a loose cluster: Tsuyu and Mineta off to one side, Mina and Kaminari chatting animatedly, Jirou with her earbuds dangling, Sero kicking his legs over the seat in front of him. Yaoyorozu sat a row behind them, fanning herself with a handkerchief. Ojiro and Shoji watched the people pass below.

Conversations were light—forced in some cases, but well-meaning. Everyone had silently agreed not to talk about that match.

“Oh! Oh!” Kaminari suddenly jolted forward, nearly smacking Mina in the nose as he pointed toward the VIP box. “Is that Backdraft?! That’s totally him! I knew he was gonna show up for the finals!”

“No way,” Mina grinned, squinting. “I thought he was doing emergency relief down in Okinawa?”

“Maybe he flew in? I mean, he can. He’s probably loaded!”

“Backdraft?” Jirou muttered, unimpressed. “Seriously?”

“Okay then,” Sero smirked, “who’s your favorite hero?”

And just like that, the conversation shifted. The tension cracked.

One by one, answers came.

“Kamui Woods,” Yaoyorozu said, composed. “His capture techniques are elegant.”

“I like Gang Orca,” Ojiro offered. “He’s got strong fundamentals.”

“Mt. Lady,” Kaminari said instantly, and then winced when Tsuyu and Mina glared at him. “What?! I mean—she’s cool!”

“Snipe,” Shoji said simply.

“I like Edgeshot,” Mina chimed in. “He’s so fast and sneaky—like, ninja cool!”

Tsuyu blinked. “I like Selkie.”

“You would,” Mineta muttered. “Fish stick.”

When the question got around to Izuku, the group turned to him—half curious, half cautious.

He didn’t miss a beat. “Endeavor.”

A silence cut through their conversation. Even the ambient noise of the crowd seemed to fade a little. Mina’s smile faltered. Yaoyorozu’s brow twitched. Kaminari blinked.

No one said anything, but unease passed between them like static.

And then Jirou coughed into her hand and leaned toward Mina. “Anyway, did you see that guy with the giant novelty Present Mic hat?”

Just like that, the tension broke again. Their chatter resumed—louder this time, like they could drown out the awkwardness.

Izuku didn’t seem to notice, or care, for that matter, because soon enough Midnight was sauntering towards the middle of the stage once more.

“Hellooo everyone!” Midnight’s voice purred to life, velvet and sultry and full of flair. “Hope you’ve all had a chance to stretch your legs, get a snack, and maybe kiss your crush during that break—because it’s time to get back to the action!”

The crowd roared in response.

“And what action we’ve seen so far today! From explosive brawls to surprise knockouts to blood-freezing showdowns—literally!” she chuckled, twirling her whip. “But now we’re in the final stretch! Let’s see who’s up in our semifinals!”

The screen above the stage shimmered to life:

Match 1: Izuku Midoriya vs. Tenya Iida

Match 2: Fumikage Tokoyami vs. Katsuki Bakugo

The noise swelled again, fans clapping and stomping.

Izuku stood. A few people glanced his way.

“Hey,” Sero said, lifting a hand. “Go get him, man.”

“Be safe,” Tsuyu added quietly.

Izuku offered a nod—a tight-lipped expression on his face—and left.

…

The waiting room was empty. Cold fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Izuku sat on the bench and flexed his hands, checking his fingers. His knuckles were cracked, and his coat sleeve was torn from where a shard of Todoroki’s ice had punched through. Still, most of the damage was gone now. His body had been working overtime to knit it all back together.

His muzzle pinched uncomfortably at the side of his jaw. He adjusted the leather straps behind his ears and re-tightened the screws Mei had installed to keep it secure.

He exhaled once. Focused. Present.

Then the speaker crackled overhead.

“Midoriya. Report to the stage.”

He stood, making his way down the corridor, the noise suffocating as he drew near.

“Here we go, folks!” Present Mic boomed, voice climbing. “This is the battle of the speedsters—our track titans! During the Quirk Apprehension Test, these two placed first and second in the 50-meter dash! And now they’re going head to head!”

Iida stood across the ring, spine straight, arms folded, chin lifted like he was ready to pass judgment. His usual composure clung to him like armor—but under the helmet of discipline, something flexed. The lines at the corners of his mouth were drawn tighter. The air around him buzzed with anticipation, his engines already trembling.

Izuku cracked his neck, then his knuckles, slow and deliberate. No showmanship. No flare. Just a low-burning alertness beneath his skin, like the quiet snarl of a dog waiting for its leash to snap. The hunger was there too—always there—but he pressed it back with the same clenched control he used to keep himself standing.

Midnight raised her hand, whip glinting.

“Begin!”

Iida vanished.

The burst of speed tore across the stone stage like a bomb went off. Dirt kicked up, and Izuku ducked on instinct—Recipro Burst blurred past him in a white-blue flash.

But Iida pivoted—hard. He used the recoil to torque into a spinning heel kick aimed high.

Crack!

The blow slammed into Izuku’s arm, bone rattling like a cracked bell. He twisted with it to lessen the damage, but his forearm stung like hell.

Iida didn’t stop. He was already moving again—short, controlled bursts of speed that made him blur at the edges. Jab-step, retreat. Jab again. A piston made of muscle and heat and heritage.

Izuku rushed him—fast, reckless, teeth bared.

Iida juked left and baited him right, using footwork so sharp it cut through the dust. He dropped low and came in with a rising knee. Izuku barely twisted in time, the strike grazing his ribs instead of crushing them.

“Faster than you look,” Izuku muttered, more to himself.

Iida didn’t respond. He was already backpedaling, drawing Izuku in, trying to control the tempo.

So Izuku let him.

For a second.

Then he lunged—low, sweeping at Iida’s legs with a brutal, untrained swipe meant to maim, not score points.

Iida jumped—not just up, but up and over, his leap precise, practiced. He twisted mid-air with perfect form and brought his heel down like an executioner’s blade aimed at the back of Izuku’s neck.

Instinct screamed.

Izuku caught the leg in both hands.

The crowd gasped.

Iida tried to twist away, but Izuku held him for half a second too long—and slammed him downward. Iida hit the ground and rolled, controlled, engines flaring. He kicked backward out of the spin, barely missing Izuku’s jaw.

He was back on his feet before Izuku could press the advantage.

The bastard was fast. Fast and clean.

Izuku charged again—but this time, Iida didn’t run.

He met him.

Clash.

Izuku’s fist went high—Iida blocked. Elbow low—Iida turned his hips and caught it with his shoulder, but something gave. A pop. The bone moved wrong under the pressure.

Iida surged forward regardless.

A headbutt, clean and brutal, connected with Izuku’s brow.

Lights flared behind his eyes.

Then Iida used that same forward momentum to slide around and plant a double kick square into Izuku’s back.

The impact launched Izuku forward. He caught himself on all fours, coughing, growling.

Behind him, Iida shouted:
“RE-CI-PRO… BURST!!”

Engines howled. The ground shattered under Iida’s feet as he launched forward again—straight like a railgun slug.

Izuku turned too late.

The full force of it hit him dead in the gut. His arms came up too slow. He flew backward, skidding across the stone, boots carving twin trenches in the ground. Pain tore through him like shrapnel.

Stomach muscles ruptured. Blood flooded his mouth.

Still—

He stood.

Shaking. Breathing hard. Blood running down his chin.

Healing—but slow.

Across from him, Iida’s chest heaved. His engines hissed and sputtered, the metal venting steam, overclocked.

But his stance didn’t waver.

“I don’t know what drives you to fight this hard, Midoriya,” Iida said hoarsely, “but if this is what you call justice—then I refuse it.”

Izuku spat blood to the side, a slow scowl splitting his ruined lip.

“You ever seen your justice drag a kid out of a gutter?” he rasped. “Didn’t think so.”

He moved.

Faster than before—but not wild.

Izuku weaved. Shifted. Tested the distance. Iida responded—precision blocks, tight steps. He tried to reset the rhythm, control the range.

Izuku didn’t let him.

He feinted a left, ducked a kick, and slipped under another—drove an uppercut into Iida’s ribs.

Thud.

Then again.

Thud.

Iida’s elbow came down—Izuku rolled with it, teeth bared.

A sweep—Izuku avoided.

Another kick—

Izuku caught the leg.

Finally.

But instead of striking, he spun, dragging Iida off-balance before slamming him back-first into the stage.

Iida grunted, tried to rise—

Izuku drove a knee into his chest and pinned him.

He raised his fist, still trembling from exertion.

Paused.

Iida looked up at him.

Not afraid. Not begging.

Unmoved.

“You’ve already lost,” Iida said, voice low. “Not to me. To yourself.”

Izuku stared down at him, breathing ragged. His body hurt, his vision tunneled, but his fist didn’t fall this time.

The buzzer sounded.

“Winner: IZUKU MIDORIYA!”

The crowd exploded.

But Izuku didn’t celebrate. He stepped off Iida slowly, legs screaming with every movement. His fists ached. His stomach throbbed. His skin was mostly knit together again, but the burn was worse now—deeper, wrong.

His regeneration was still working—but only barely.

He looked down at the blood on his knuckles and then at Iida, who hadn’t looked away even once.

“You should’ve run,” Izuku muttered, turning his back.

“I won’t,” Iida said. “That’s not the kind of hero I want to be.”

Izuku didn’t answer.

By the time he reached the tunnel, his vision had gone dim at the edges. He could feel it now—that curl inside him, that rot growing hungry in his chest. The healing had cost him too much.

And if his ears weren’t deceiving him—

His next opponent was Bakugo.

Of course.

Perfect.

…

The corridors beneath the arena felt endless—cement veins threading through steel bones. Izuku had stumbled away from the medical staff the moment they gave him the go-ahead, muscles twitching under the weight of half-healed injuries and something darker gnawing at his gut.

He wasn’t ready.

God, he knew it.

Not like this. Not with his cells this dry, not with that buzzing heat behind his eyes. Katsuki would tear through him, would push him to a line he didn’t want to cross. And if he crossed it—

He clenched his jaw, stomach gurgling. The muzzle bit into his cheek.

If he crossed it, there wouldn’t be a stadium left to cheer.

If he crossed it, no one would make it out alive.

The last time he’d blacked out from hunger, he woke up with glass in his gums and blood under his nails. The time before that, there’d been pieces of someone in his teeth.

He couldn’t risk it.

So Izuku did what he’d always done when survival outweighed shame.

He slipped into the staff hallway and pushed open the back door to the stadium’s understructure—where dumpsters lined the concrete like tombs and the air stank of grease and rot.

He didn’t hesitate. Couldn’t.

The first bin was empty save for napkins soaked in soda and something mushy that might’ve been bread once. He moved on. Second bin—nothing. Third—

His breath hitched.

A burger. Half-eaten. Sitting near the top of a pile of wax wrappers and fry cartons. Flies buzzed lazily nearby.

He didn’t care.

Izuku snatched it, peeled back the bun, and shoved the meat into his mouth with shaking fingers. It was cold. Sour with the taste of someone else’s spit. The grease had started to congeal.

He gagged halfway through chewing but forced it down.

It didn’t help much.

But it was something.

He kept digging. Tossed aside wrappers. Cans. A paper boat with old ketchup. A broken plastic fork.

His hands were trembling. Vision tunneling. He knew this feeling. His skin itched. His blood was pulling itself apart trying to feed on nothing.

He was so caught up in his search that he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him.

Didn’t notice the shadow until—

Tap.

A hand touched his shoulder.

Izuku whirled, teeth bared, shoulder slamming back into the dumpster as he snarled—

And froze.

The man in front of him took a slow step back, hands raised, not hostile.

He was short, thin, and had a metal mask covering his face. He wore a white chef’s coat with gloves and shoes in the same color. Izuku recognized him instantly: Lunch Rush.

“I was wondering where all my missing fries went,” he said dryly.

Izuku blinked.

He was still breathing heavily. The bottom of his muzzle was stained with grease. His hands were sticky from ketchup and god-knew-what else. There was trash on his coat. On his knees.

He didn’t say anything.

Lunch Rush’s tone softened. “What are you doing, kid?”

Izuku looked away, clenching his jaw. “…I’m hungry.”

A beat.

“And U.A. makes their concessions so damn expensive.”

The words came out hoarse. Honest. Low.

Lunch Rush didn’t flinch. He studied Izuku a moment longer, then sighed through his nose.

“Come on,” he said. “Just this once. Kitchen’s closed to the public right now, but I can throw something together.”

Izuku hesitated for a moment but then nodded, following the man until the smell of cooked oil and warm starch hit him. He sat at a prep table while Lunch Rush worked, pulling leftovers from hotboxes and scraping together a fast but hearty plate: grilled meat skewers, sticky rice, sweet pickled vegetables, and a small cup of miso broth.

Izuku ate like he was starved.

Because he was.

But he forced himself to use the chopsticks. Forced himself to chew. It wasn’t enough—not by a long shot—but it was warm, and it was cleaner than what he had before, and somehow tasted less bitter against his tongue.

Lunch Rush leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching with unreadable eyes.

“You’ve got a match coming up, I hear,” he said after a while.

Izuku nodded between bites.

“Against that explosion kid. Bakugo.”

Another nod.

Lunch Rush reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a single hard candy—wrapped in gold foil—and tossed it onto the table.

“For after.”

Izuku paused.

“…Why?”

Lunch Rush shrugged. “It’s just some candy, kid. A post-fight snack, if you will.”

A beat passed.

“Fight hard,” he said. “And don’t lose. I just fed you, so you owe me.”

Izuku blinked at him. Slowly.

Then, he nodded.

“…Okay.”

…

Back in the waiting room, the walls felt closer now. Warmer.

His stomach still churned with hunger, but the edge was blunted. Manageable. His hunger was stable again. Barely—but it was enough.

Izuku sat with his elbows on his knees, eyes half-lidded. The gold-wrapped candy sat in his pocket. His muzzle was back on tight.

Soon, they’d call him.

Soon, it would be him and Katsuki again.

And this time, he had just enough control not to end the world.

Chapter Text

The sunlight pours into the stadium, bleeding gold across the cracked stage floor still scorched from the semifinals. The audience’s roar dims to a low tremble of anticipation, a held breath before detonation.

From the waiting rooms, the heavy shutters open.

“AAAAAND HERE COMES THE MOMENT YOU’VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR!!”

Present Mic’s voice explodes from the speakers like thunder.

“It’s the FINAL SEMIFINAL MATCH OF THE DAY—A SHOWDOWN BETWEEN TWO UNSTOPPABLE FORCES—AND GUESS WHAT?! THEY’VE GOT HISTORY, FOLKS!!”

Spotlights flare to life, swinging hard left as Izuku Midoriya steps onto the field, shoulders squared, face unreadable behind his muzzle, his green eyes shadowed and glowing like verdant coals.

“IN THIS CORNER—THE DARK HORSE HIMSELF—THE FERAL FIGHTER WITH A TRACK RECORD OF SHOCKING UPSETS—IZUKU MIDORIYAAAA!!”

The crowd reacts with a strange, heady mix of awe and discomfort—cheers tangled with murmurs, some already on the edge of their seats, others sitting stiff and wary. His reputation is thick in the air.

Another spotlight cuts across the field to the opposite entrance—Katsuki stomps out, a human warhead barely held together by tape and rage, his teeth bared in a hungry, electric grin.

“AND IN THIS CORNER—THE BLAST KING HIMSELF—THE KABOOM KID FROM CLASS 1-A—KATSUUUUKI BAKUGOOOO!!”

This time, the crowd erupts properly—wild cheers, flags waving, even a few brightly colored streamers are thrown up into the air. The entire stadium vibrates with anticipation.

“THESE TWO HAIL FROM THE SAME SCHOOL—ALDERA JUNIOR HIGH, ANYONE HEARD OF IT?! WORD ON THE STREET IS THEY’VE BEEN RIVALS FOR YEARS!! FRIENDS TURNED FOES? OR FOES FROM THE START? WHO CARES?! ‘CAUSE THIS CLASH IS GONNA BE LEGENDARY!!”

Midnight struts to the center, voice calm but edged with warning.

“Students, remember the rules: no serious harm to one another, and the match ends immediately if someone yields or they step out of bounds. Show each other respect—and give the audience a good show.”

She flashes a wink. Then—crack! Her whip slices through the air.

“BEGIN!!”

Katsuki’s on him in a blink.

A right hook streaks toward Izuku’s temple—Izuku blocks—

BOOM.

The real attack comes from the left, a point-blank blast that detonates against Izuku’s stomach with the concussive force of a hand grenade. He twists with the blow, trying to absorb the impact—but the heat tears through his coat, boils his skin. Bone rattles. Blood sprays in a mist.

“AND IT’S OFF TO THE RACES, BABY!!”

Izuku stumbles back three paces, boots carving jagged skid lines through the stone. He exhales once, hard.

No time to scream.

No time to recover.

He drops low.

Katsuki’s already coming.

A second blast rains down from above—Izuku throws himself sideways, rolls, top smoking at the edges.

He pops back up, crouched and circling.

His rhythm changes.

Lower. Smoother. Like a serpent sliding through ash.

His stance isn’t brutal—not like the alley fights. It’s almost… elegant. Flow instead of force. Defense in motion. His heel brushes the ground. His weight coils like a spring.

He weaves around a wide right.

Slips under a rising knee.

Bends back from a sweeping arc of smoke and heat that rips past his jawline.

“OOOH!! DIDJA SEE THAT?! BAKUGO’S COMING IN HOT WITH A MEAT-GRINDER COMBO—BUT MIDORIYA’S SLIPPIN’ THROUGH LIKE A DAMN WHISPER!! THAT’S EVASION, FOLKS!! THAT’S SURVIVAL INSTINCT!!!”

Katsuki snarls. Sweat beads along his hairline. His palms twitch.

Izuku moves again—dodging just far enough to bait the next blast wide. Not outrunning Katsuki’s speed—outthinking his rhythm.

But Katsuki isn’t simple-minded. Not in the slightest.

He’s smart. He adapts.

He feints left—and when Izuku shifts—

KRAK—!

A micro-explosion to the knee.

Izuku jerks.

The blast barely clips him, but it’s enough.

Katsuki uses the opening, driving forward with a flying knee—Izuku spins, letting the attack graze his ribs—but he’s slow this time, slow enough for Katsuki to grab a fistful of his collar and—

BOOM.

An upward blast to the chest sends Izuku airborne—legs kicking, breath torn from his lungs.

But Katsuki’s not done.

He rockets up after him, smoke spiraling off his heels, palms lighting up again.

Mid-air, he catches up in an instant—face twisted in a snarl—and slams both hands into Izuku’s chest with a thunderous explosion that cracks the sky.

BOOM.

Izuku is launched straight down, limbs flailing, no time to twist or catch himself.

He hits the stage like a meteor—crashes into the stone with enough force to crater it.

Concrete fractures outward in a spiderweb. A divot at the center, smoke curling from the edges. Dust clouds bloom like impact debris.

The crowd goes dead quiet for half a beat—

Then the announcer howls:

“AND THERE IT IS!! BAKUGO TURNIN’ MIDORIYA INTO A HUMAN PINBALL—THAT’S A COMBO STRAIGHT FROM HELL, FOLKS!! STRAIGHT INTO A CRATER—IS HE EVEN ALIVE DOWN THERE?!”

Izuku rolls, coughs.

Once.

Twice.

Somehow—drags himself to his feet.

His coat’s in tatters. His chest is scorched. His whole body trembles like an engine trying to restart.

But he stands.

The arena is screaming.

Izuku’s hunched over, eyes narrow, chest rising fast. His torso is soaked with blood. The healing is working—but slower now. Not enough fuel. He hasn’t eaten since—

Doesn’t matter.

Katsuki lands hard, arms spread, chest heaving.

“You’re not fighting,” he growls, voice hoarse. “You’re just surviving.”

Izuku says nothing.

“I thought you were supposed to be some monster now.” Katsuki scoffs, spits into the dirt. “You’re pathetic. Still hiding. Still afraid of your own goddamn skin.”

His voice lowers—quieter. Meaner.

“You don’t deserve that power.”

Izuku blinks.

Just once.

Katsuki grits his teeth. “You’re still that same crying freak from the playground. And I’m gonna break you.”

He lunges.

Fists out. Palms igniting.

Izuku side steps. Barely. The air behind him explodes in a burst of heat that licks at his back, singeing through his shirt to the flesh beneath.

His hands shake now. His gut is melting. His ribs knit together and fall apart again. The healing’s off-rhythm. He’s hungry.

Katsuki charges again. Too fast.

Izuku lashes out with a heel kick, aiming for the knee—

Katsuki catches it, swings him in a brutal arc, and hurls him across the ring like a ragdoll.

Izuku slams into the arena wall.

Blood spits from his mouth as he slides down the stone, eyes wild, unfocused.

“STILL STANDING!! BUT MIDORIYA’S TAKIN’ A POUNDING OUT THERE!! THIS IS A BEATDOWN WITH NO OFF-RAMP!!”

Katsuki’s already above him, vaulting with a palm cocked back.

Izuku sees stars.

Moves on instinct.

Catches Katsuki’s wrist mid-air—barely—and yanks down, redirecting the explosion into the floor beside his head.

The blast howls—shattering concrete, forcing both fighters apart.

Izuku stumbles upright, arms shaking, mouth filled with copper.

Katsuki lands hard, panting.

He glares. “You don’t get it. You’re not fighting me. You’re just running from what you are.”

He flexes his fingers. Smoke pours from his palms.

“You’re not a hero.”

He launches into the sky.

“WOOOOOAAAHH—HE’S TAKING TO THE SKY, FOLKS!! IF YOU’VE SEEN THIS MOVE BEFORE, YOU KNOW WHAT’S COMING—IT’S ULTIMATE MOVE TIME!!”

Katsuki spins mid-air—explosions boom-boom-boom in sequence, forming a spiraling corkscrew of destruction. A living missile.

A human warhead.

Izuku doesn’t run.

Izuku doesn’t move.

He stares at the incoming missile.

There’s nowhere to run.

No angle wide enough.

He glances behind him. The edge of the ring. Twenty feet.

He looks forward again.

And—

Accepts it.

There’s no time.

No strength left to dodge.

The tornado slams into the ground.

“HOWITZER IMPAAAAAAACCTT—”

BOOOOOOM!!!

The stadium shakes.

A fireball erupts, deafening. Smoke clouds the ring in a churning mushroom of dust, fire, and cracked stone.

Silence.

Then—

“HOLY MOLY!! I DON’T EVEN KNOW IF THERE’S A STAGE LEFT AFTER THAT ONE, FOLKS!! DID MIDORIYA GET VAPORIZED?!”

As the smoke clears—

A shape stands in the crater’s center.

Izuku.

Barely.

His body is in ruin.

His coat is gone, shredded to ribbons. His pants are fused to his skin. One arm is missing below the elbow, the other hanging by sinew. His left eye socket is hollowed out. Muscle and bone exposed along his jaw where the muzzle was torn away.

And yet—

He breathes.

One foot forward.

One hand clenched.

Still conscious.

Still alive.

The crowd goes silent.

“…He’s still standing,” Present Mic whispers, breath caught in his throat.

The camera zooms in.

Izuku’s remaining eye lifts. Locking onto Katsuki across the ruin of the ring.

The exposed socket twitches. Charred skin shifts wetly over half-rebuilt bone. The tendons in his neck bulge as his torso rises, trembling. Smoke still lifts off the blackened remains of his coat, now in tatters around a raw and blistered frame.

The muzzle is gone. Blown off. What’s left of his mouth is exposed to the open air—and to thousands of horrified onlookers.

And then he starts to feed.

Not on anyone else. On himself.

With what remains of his jaw, he tears into the scorched meat of his own shoulder, rips a strip free with a wet, snapping sound. Muscle fibers unravel like rope. Blood sluices down what’s left of his chest, and—God help them all—his body begins to stitch.

Inch by grotesque inch, the damage reverses. Ribs warp and slither into place. Burned meat bubbles into new mass. Skin regrows patchy, then fully. His limbs jerk. Tendons pulse. He consumes, regenerates, consumes, regenerates. The healing isn’t just fast—it’s unnatural. Violent. Purposeful.

Present Mic’s voice, high and hoarse, cracks over the speakers:

“Uhhh… l-ladies and gentlemen… I—I—w-w-we’re witnessing something… something… UH, Midnight?! We—do we—?!”

No response. No words.

Because the entire stadium is silent.

No one cheers. No one moves. The cameras stay fixed, but even the drone operators hesitate, unsure whether to zoom in or look away.

Across the ring, Katsuki Bakugo stares.

He’s still panting. Chest heaving. Hands twitching with aftershocks of the explosion that had nearly ended this fight—ended Izuku. He sees the damage. He sees the slow, deliberate repair.

Izuku doesn’t blink. He starts to walk.

Every step is wet. Not with blood, but with the slop of regenerating tissue folding into itself. His left leg is still half-bone, exposed muscle grinding as it supports his weight. A tendon drags. He leaves a trail behind him.

Katsuki steps back.

And again.

And again.

He doesn’t even realize his foot’s hovering over the edge of the ring until—

Midnight’s voice, thin and rattled: “K-Katsuki Bakugo has stepped out of bounds—Midoriya wins the match!”

But Izuku doesn’t stop.

He just keeps walking. That same, dead-eyed stare. No anger. No joy. Just emptiness. The kind of look that says there’s no one left in there but the animal.

Midnight hesitates. Her hand twitches toward her whip. “Midoriya… you need to stop…”

He doesn’t.

She grits her teeth.

Her quirk hits him—hard.

Izuku’s knees buckle. He collapses to the ground mid-step. For a moment, the stadium doesn’t believe it. But then his twitching stops, and the air releases all at once in a mass exhale from the crowd.

…

Consciousness creeps back in slow, syrupy drips. The air smells like antiseptic—bleached and wrong. His eyes don’t want to open. His limbs feel heavy. Numb.

There’s a faint buzzing overhead.

Fluorescent light. White. Too white. A ceiling he doesn’t recognize.

His fingers twitch—but don’t move.

Straps.

Thick, leather restraints looped tight around his wrists and across his chest, biting into the soft gauze underneath. His ankles too. The mattress beneath him is stiff, medical-grade. A monitor ticks somewhere off to his left.

Panic flares in his gut, quick and animal.

He tries to jerk against the cuffs—but nothing gives. His ribs ache. Something in his spine throbs. The air tastes like blood.

His head tilts to the side, sluggish.

On the nightstand, beside a folded set of gray clothes, something catches the light.

A medal, a candy wrapper.

Both round, both gold.

A victory.

Both leer at him, mock him.

He stares at them, breathing shallowly, as memory begins to crawl back up through the muck.

The match.

Katsuki.

That final rush.

The rage in his bones. The weight of it.

And then—

Nothing.

The door creaks open.

Boots. A shuffle. A shadow cutting across the cold floor.

Aizawa steps inside. His hair’s pulled back, his capture weapon coiled loosely around his shoulders. The fatigue in him is palpable—but his eyes are alert. Watchful.

They flick to Izuku’s face.

Then to the cuffs.

“You’re awake,” he says, voice dry, low. Like always.

Izuku’s throat feels like sandpaper. He manages a small nod, just barely. His vocal cords scrape together when he tries to speak.

“…Did I…” He coughs. Swallows. “Did I kill someone?”

The question hangs there.

Sharp. Real.

Aizawa doesn’t look away.

For a long moment, all Izuku can hear is the quiet tick of the machines, and the faint murmur of voices from somewhere outside the room. Distant. Uncaring.

Then Aizawa exhales.

“No,” he says. “You didn’t hurt anyone. Midnight put you under the second the match ended.”

Izuku’s eyes drag back toward the medal.

“…I won?”

“You did,” Aizawa replies. “Bakugo stepped out of bounds. You kept walking. Midnight said your eyes were still locked on him. She made the call.”

Izuku doesn’t respond.

He just looks down—at his bandaged chest, his shaking hands, the restraints.

The cuffs.

There’s no fight in his eyes. Just a question. A quiet flick of his gaze. He doesn’t ask aloud.

Aizawa picks up on it anyway. His brow tightens. “Just a precaution. We remembered your… reaction to having your quirk turned off. No one was sure what would happen if you were knocked unconscious. So we restrained you before you woke up.”

A beat.

“Recovery Girl says you’re stable now. Healed. You’re cleared to go.”

He steps forward and begins undoing the straps. One by one. No sudden movements. No lecturing. Just silent, careful removal.

The last strap peels off with a soft snap.

Izuku slowly sits up. The world spins once, then steadies.

His body feels like it’s been crushed and reshaped. His nerves hum with half-dead static.

The gray U.A. sweatsuit waits neatly on a chair beside the bed. His shoes—polished black, faintly scuffed—rest beneath it. The medal still glints beside them. Too bright.

Izuku stares at it for a long time.

Then, without a word, he reaches for the clothes.

His movements are mechanical. He pulls the sweatshirt over his scarred chest. Tugs the pants on with slow, aching care. His fingers hesitate over the medal. Hover.

Then they close around it. He slips it into his pocket. Doesn’t look at it again.

As Izuku reaches for the door handle, Aizawa says, “Take the next two days for yourself, Midoriya. Rest. Recovery. Build your strength back up, whatever that looks like. School’s canceled anyways.”

With that, Izuku leaves.

The halls go quiet when he comes into eye view.

Evening light cuts pale lines across the tile. Most students are gone. Those that remain keep their eyes down as he passes. No words. No stares. Just absence. Emptiness.

Izuku doesn’t notice.

He walks like a ghost.

Down to the train station. Onto the platform. Onto the train.

People lean away when he boards. One woman grabs her child and pulls them back by the arm. No one says anything.

His shoes are too loud in the silence.

He steps off the train. The city’s evening buzz hums around him, distant and unimportant. His muscles feel like thread. Like barely held stitches.

The door to his apartment opens before he remembers unlocking it.

He barely makes it to the bed.

The sweats stick to his skin. His chest still aches. But he collapses all the same. Face-first, into the mattress. No blanket. No lights. No fanfare.

Sleep drags him under.

The gold medal stays in his pocket.

It never gleamed again.

…

Izuku didn’t leave his apartment for two days.

He told himself it wasn’t because he was scared.

He told himself that a lot.

It wasn’t the silence that made it hard to move. Wasn’t the dull ache in his bones or the memories of muscle knitting itself back together in real time while thousands watched. It wasn’t the eyes he imagined waiting for him outside—wide, terrified, curious, disgusted. It wasn’t the gold medal lying face-down on the floor where he’d dropped it after walking through the door like he was sleepwalking.

No. None of that. He just needed time to rest. That’s what Aizawa had said. Two days. A break. A chance to breathe.

So why did it feel like he was suffocating?

He didn’t shower. Didn’t eat. He sat by the window and watched the street below, though he couldn’t have said what he saw. The sunlight shifted. People passed by. And the hunger grew.

It always did. But this time, it felt… closer. Not in his stomach, but curled somewhere deeper. Tighter. Like his bones were hollow and gnawing inward.

By the second night, it was unbearable.

He still didn’t want to call it fear. But the clothes he put on were baggier than usual, and he made sure the hoodie he pulled over his head hung low enough to cast his eyes in shadow. The gloves hid the still-healing seams along his fingers. The coat was long and thick, familiar enough to feel like armor.

The walk was quiet. No one stopped him. No one noticed. That was good. That was what he wanted.

He found what he needed three blocks from home.

A side alley behind a half-abandoned bar, just far enough from a main road to make things easy. The body was already cooling when he found it. Head crushed, splattered blood turning tacky in the night air. Whoever they’d been—some fresh-faced rookie with a hero license and something to prove—they weren’t going to prove much now. The costume was still mostly intact. Neon blue, bright white, garish and optimistic. Izuku didn’t care enough to remember the name stitched onto the belt.

What mattered was the smell. The way the hunger reared up, desperate, gnashing, thrilled.

He dropped to his knees beside the body and didn’t hesitate.

His fingers curled into the split at the base of the skull, thumbs braced against shattered bone, and pulled. Flesh gave. Tissue tore. And then there was marrow, soft and rich and red, and he sank his teeth into it without a second thought. He wasn’t gentle. He didn’t need to be. He ate like a starving dog—ravenous and wild and far, far past shame.

“Y’know,” a voice drawled behind him, “we really have to stop meeting like this.”

Izuku didn’t stop chewing, but his eyes flicked up from beneath the shadow of his hood. He already knew the voice.

Dabi stood a few feet away, leaned against the alley wall like he’d been there for ages. Smoke curled lazily from one hand. His jacket hung open, the staple-lined skin of his neck catching a sliver of moonlight. He looked relaxed. Amused.

He always did.

Izuku swallowed and wiped his mouth on the back of one gloved hand. “You follow me?”

Dabi gave a small shrug. “You’re not hard to find. Your scent’s… memorable.”

That earned him a slow blink and nothing more. Izuku stood, rolling his shoulders once. He felt steadier now. Not whole. Never whole. But less hollow.

“Didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t,” Dabi said with a lazy grin. “But you’ve got a flair for theatrics, Sushi Boy. Couldn’t miss your big moment. You put on one hell of a show at the Sports Festival.”

Izuku stiffened, but didn’t look away.

“Wasn’t a show.”

“No? ‘Cause the whole walking-dead, self-cannibalizing finale sure felt like performance art to me.” Dabi stepped closer, boots squelching slightly in the blood-soaked alley. “You were cool, though. I’ll give you that. Scary. Broken. Real.”

“I wasn’t trying to be cool.”

“That’s what made it work,” Dabi said, voice softer now. “You were just surviving. That’s what they all saw. Someone too fucked-up to quit.”

Izuku didn’t respond. He didn’t know how.

The praise didn’t feel like praise. It felt like being dissected. Laid open and examined under a dirty fluorescent light.

Eventually, he turned away, knelt back down, and picked at what was left of the corpse.

“So,” he said, not looking up, “you gonna stand there all night, or do you want some?”

Dabi barked a laugh. “Nah. You earned this one, champ. I’m just here to admire the technique.”

Izuku rolled his eyes.

He didn’t smile.

But he didn’t hate the company.

They stayed like that a moment longer—one standing, one crouched in the ruins of what had once been a hero, the alley thick with the sour stink of iron and spilled guts. Dabi didn’t flinch. Not at the gore. Not at the blood. Not at Izuku’s teeth still red-stained.

Eventually, Izuku leaned back on his haunches and tilted his head, watching the man through the curtain of his hood. “You got a name, or do I keep calling you ‘creepy bastard’ in my head?”

Dabi smiled slowly, like he’d been waiting for the question. “Dabi.”

Izuku blinked. “Cremation? Sounds fake.”

That got a real laugh. Low and dry and a little too warm.

“I know,” Dabi said, wiping at one eye with the heel of his hand like he might’ve teared up from the effort. “Doesn’t quite have the ring to it like Izuku Midoriya does.”

The name hit like a slap. Izuku’s whole body went still, stiffening from the spine outward. His gloved hands curled into fists against his thighs before he could stop them.

He didn’t speak. Not yet. Didn’t need to. The weight of his glare said enough.

But Dabi, of course, wasn’t done.

“Did you really expect all of Japan not to know your name after that little show you put on at the Sports Festival?” He leaned in, grinning like a man sharing a secret. “You’re infamous, kid. There’s a whole thread online trying to figure out if you’re a government experiment or a cannibal serial killer with branding.”

Izuku scowled, and for a second Dabi thought he might throw something. Instead, the kid just slumped back against the opposite wall, drawing his knees up until the baggy fabric of his hoodie bunched at the elbows.

“People are stupid,” Izuku muttered.

“True,” Dabi agreed, and without asking, slid down the wall to sit across from him, their boots nearly toe to toe in the narrow space between. “But they’ve got good taste in horror shows.”

Izuku didn’t answer that, but he didn’t move either. Didn’t run, didn’t threaten, didn’t growl like some feral animal backed into a corner. Just… stayed.

For the first time in what felt like hours, his breathing slowed.

Dabi watched him openly, unblinking.

“You always eat like that?” he asked, chin propped lazily on one palm.

Izuku wiped a smear of blood off his cheek with the sleeve of his hoodie. “You always watch?”

“I make exceptions.”

“Lucky me.”

“You are,” Dabi said.

It came so easily that Izuku didn’t register it for what it was. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing again like he was trying to read between lines that weren’t even on the page.

“…You’re weird.”

“Says the boy who peels open skulls like oranges.”

Izuku snorted despite himself. He pressed the heel of his palm against one eye and let his head fall back to thunk lightly against the brick behind him. “Okay. That’s fair.”

Dabi hummed. “You don’t scare easy.”

“You don’t scare at all.”

“Wanna test that?”

The question hung in the air for a beat too long. Izuku blinked at him, confused by the tone, the lilt. His mouth opened, then closed.

“I don’t get you,” he said finally.

“That’s alright. You’re not supposed to.”

Dabi was still looking at him. Like he had all the time in the world. Like this alley wasn’t littered with blood and bone. Like Izuku wasn’t a monster in baggy clothes with a gaping hunger inside his chest.

Izuku squinted. “You’re older than me, right?”

Dabi smirked. “Worried you’re getting taken advantage of, Sushi Boy?”

“I’m worried you’re gross.”

“Too late for that. I’m absolutely gross.” He grinned, teeth flashing white against blood-dark lips. “You’re the one sharing dinner with me.”

“I didn’t invite you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence again, but a different kind this time. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just… still.

The blood on Izuku’s gloves was already drying. His hoodie was stained, his bones ached, and something unnamable flickered behind Dabi’s eyes like blue fire in a storm drain.

It wasn’t friendship.

It wasn’t camaraderie.

But it wasn't a threat, either.

Izuku looked at him again, longer this time.

“…Why do you keep showing up?”

Dabi tilted his head.

“You’re interesting.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Sure it is.”

Izuku scoffed, low in his throat. “You’re not very good at this whole ‘villain’ thing, are you?”

Dabi’s grin widened. “Neither are you.”

It was silent between the two for a moment until Dabi suddenly rose to his feet with the easy stretch of someone who’d been too still for too long, saying, “I can’t stand this smell anymore.”

Izuku blinked up at him from the shadows, half-lidded and still licking blood from the corner of his mouth. “What, the alley?”

“No,” Dabi said, jerking his chin toward the corpse between them. “Dead heroes. Too self-righteous on the way out. It clings.”

Izuku wrinkled his nose and stood, brushing off his hoodie like it mattered. “You’re full of shit.”

“Probably,” Dabi agreed, already walking toward the mouth of the alley. “C’mon. You owe me a walk. I brought the conversation.”

“I didn’t ask for the conversation.”

“And I didn’t ask to find you tonguing a brain cavity like it owed you money, but here we are.”

Izuku muttered something rude under his breath but fell into step beside him anyway.

The streets of Musutafu were quieter at this hour. Lights low. Air cool. The distant hum of trains rattled the bones of the city but didn’t touch them here. Izuku kept his hood up, hands deep in his sleeves, head bowed just enough to avoid scrutiny. Dabi strolled like he owned the place, all sharp limbs and loose swagger.

“Where are we going?” Izuku asked eventually, though he didn’t sound all that bothered by not knowing.

Dabi tilted his head. “Dinner.”

Izuku gave him a look like he was already full—which, technically, he was.

“Real dinner,” Dabi clarified. “Less screaming involved.”

They turned a corner, passed a shuttered dry cleaner, and ducked beneath a cracked neon sign that just barely read ‘KAMI’S KITCHEN’

The restaurant smelled like grease and too much history. The lights were yellowed, the booths were cracked, and the tile grout had definitely seen some things.

Dabi held the door and jerked his chin at a table near the back. “I showed up here once with a shattered femur and half my intestines on the outside,” he said conversationally. “Server just blinked at me and asked, ‘Table for one?’ Never even batted an eye.”

Izuku raised an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It’s supposed to prove they’ll let you in looking like that.” Dabi gestured to him, broad and exaggerated. “You’ve got half a corpse under your fingernails.”

Izuku scoffed but slumped into the booth anyway, peeling off his gloves and stuffing them in his pocket. He tucked his legs up like he wanted to disappear into the vinyl.

They ordered. Dabi got something greasy and spicy and cheap. Izuku asked for a steak—blue rare.

When it arrived, it was seared only enough to be technically legal. No blood. But red and raw and soft enough to trick his stomach into thinking he’d gotten what he wanted.

Dabi didn’t comment. Didn’t flinch either. Just picked at his food like he had nowhere else to be.

Izuku glanced up after a few minutes and found Dabi already looking at him, chin propped on one hand, eyes half-lidded, bored and amused in equal measure.

“What?” Izuku asked, mouth half-full.

“You’re prettier when you’re not snarling.”

Izuku choked on a bite. Coughed. Glared.

Dabi laughed, low and shameless. “See? I’m right.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re not saying no.”

Izuku stabbed another piece of steak. “I didn’t realize I needed to.”

“You don’t,” Dabi said, voice dropping just enough to draw out the heat behind it. “But it’d be cute if you did.”

Izuku flushed, sharp and angry and confused about why he was flushed at all. He looked down at his plate and muttered, “You’re a freak.”

“I’ve been called worse. Especially after first dates.”

Izuku froze, halfway to another bite. “This is not a date.”

“Mm. Says the guy eating steak across from a man who paid for his meal.”

Izuku paused again. “You’re paying?”

“I already did,” Dabi said with a shrug. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t ask—”

“You never do.”

There was no bite in it. Just… observation. A steady kind of interest. Like Dabi had been watching long enough to learn the rhythm of Izuku’s silences, the patterns in his defenses. It should’ve been infuriating.

It wasn’t.

It was—worse.

It was comforting.

…

They walked back in silence, both too full and too wound up to break it. The streetlights buzzed overhead. Izuku’s stomach had stopped gnawing at itself. The meat sat heavy in him. Not quite right. Not quite enough. But better than nothing.

When they reached the mouth of another alley, Dabi slowed.

“I’m leaving town,” he said.

Izuku looked at him. “Why?”

“Stayed too long. Made too much noise.” Dabi grinned. “Musutafu’s got too many eyes now. Gotta let the heat die down.”

Izuku frowned. “So you’re just disappearing?”

“For now.”

“…You gonna show up again?”

Dabi leaned in just enough that Izuku tensed.

“I enjoyed our first date,” he said. “Hope we have a few more. Assuming I don’t get gutted or shot or eaten first.”

Izuku stared straight ahead, expression unreadable.

Dabi turned on his heel, already walking away. “Stay hungry, Sushi Boy.”

And then he was gone—vanished into shadow and steam and the noise of a city that had already forgotten his footsteps.

Izuku stood there a long time before turning back toward home, blood humming in a rhythm he couldn’t quite name.

Chapter Text

Two full days had passed since the Sports Festival. Since the crowd. Since the lights, the cameras, the sweat, the blood, the roar of thousands.

Izuku walked to school in the soft hush of early morning, shoulders hunched against the cold and the silence that followed him like a shadow. The sky was pale, veined with orange, the air crisp enough to sting his lungs.

People were out, too—salarymen and mothers with toddlers and kids in other school uniforms. And they recognized him. Not from the entrance exams or the news, but from the Festival.

He heard it in the sudden catch of breath. Saw it in the way a woman’s hand shot out to grab her son’s wrist, yanking him close. How her gaze snagged on his face, then dropped quickly to the pavement. A pair of high schoolers walking ahead of him glanced back, whispered something, and crossed the street.

No one said anything to him directly. They didn’t yell. They didn’t scream. But the fear was so loud it felt like static against his skin.

He stopped walking, mouth tightening. Reached into his satchel and pulled out the muzzle. The leather was worn, the buckles familiar. He slipped it on without thinking.

It didn’t help.

They still avoided him.

So, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and slouched further, unconsciously trying to look smaller, less upright. Less dangerous. His frame curled into itself with the practiced ease of someone who’d spent years learning how to disappear.

He walked like that the rest of the way to U.A.

…

Inside Class 1-A, the atmosphere was better. Marginally.

Conversations stuttered when he walked in, though they didn’t die completely. Kaminari still offered him a “Yo,” and Kirishima waved from his seat, but both gestures were quieter than usual. Wary, maybe. Cautious.

Izuku gave them a nod and didn’t sit until the last possible moment, lingering near the back until Aizawa slid open the classroom door and shuffled in with his usual slouch. His bandages were gone. No sling. No visible bruises. Whatever Recovery Girl had done had worked.

Everyone returned to their seats at once.

“I’ll make this quick,” Aizawa muttered, tapping the board with a remote. “For today’s Hero Informatics Period, you’ll be deciding on your Hero names.”

Excited gasps filled the room like sparks in dry grass.

“This isn’t just for show,” Aizawa continued, tone flat but not unkind. “You’ll also be participating in fieldwork at Pro Hero Agencies. Some of you received nominations. These names will be part of how the pros—and the public—see you.”

Aizawa pressed the remote again, and the board behind him lit up with a list of numbers. Offers. Names. The breakdown of nominations was clear.

And the silence in the room was deafening.

Shoto Todoroki – 4,123 offers

Katsuki Bakugo – 3,556 offers

Fumikage Tokoyami – 360 offers

Tenya Iida – 301 offers

Denki Kaminari – 272 offers

Momo Yaoyorozu – 108 offers

Eijiro Kirishima – 68 offers

Ochaco Uraraka – 20 offers

Hanta Sero – 14 offers

Izuku Midoriya – 6 offers

A few people turned to look at him. Quickly. Then away again.

Kirishima’s brows drew together like he wanted to say something but didn’t. Uraraka’s mouth opened and closed. Even Kaminari glanced over, lips pressed in a strange line, like he couldn’t believe it.

Izuku didn’t react. Not outwardly. He just stared at the screen and counted the seconds between each heartbeat. One. Two. Three. Six offers.

He had ripped through the obstacle course. Almost single-handedly won the calvary battle. Swiftly defeated all his opponents in the tournament.

And still.

Six.

He already knew the answer. He knew what people saw. What they feared. But it still stung. Like a wound you thought had scabbed over, only to catch it on something sharp.

“The number of offers doesn’t define your worth,” Aizawa said plainly. “But this kind of experience can help you decide what kind of Hero you want to be. Even if you didn’t receive nominations, you’ll still be doing fieldwork. After the USJ attack, I’d say all of you need real-world context.”

That silenced any complaints.

“Now,” Aizawa said, “I’ve asked Midnight to help with this next part.”

The classroom door opened with a theatrical flourish, and Midnight strode in, fan in hand and smile already in place. “You’ll be choosing Hero names today,” she said cheerfully, “but they’ll need approval from a pro! That’s where I come in.”

“Choose carefully,” Aizawa added. “A name is more than just a label—it’s a brand. A reputation. The image you want the world to associate with you. You don’t get to pick it lightly.”

“You have fifteen minutes,” Midnight said, striking a pose. “Make it count!”

The class buzzed with excitement, students whispering with each other, scribbling ideas onto scrap paper. Some had clearly already decided. Others agonized over the decision.

Izuku didn’t move. He already knew what his name would be. He had known since he was four years old and blood had caked under his nails for the first time.

Those fifteen minutes passed in a blink, and students began stepping forward to reveal their names.

Todoroki was the first. Calm. Precise. “Shoto,” he said, using his given name.

Bakugo tried to use King Explosion Murder, only to be promptly shot down by Midnight, who told him to try again before next week.

Kirishima grinned as he presented Red Riot, a name chosen in tribute. Kaminari picked Chargebolt, grinning like it had taken him all of ten seconds. Sero introduced himself as Cellophane, earning a few chuckles.

Names passed quickly, each met with varying degrees of support or commentary. Creati, Froppy, Uravity, Tsukuyomi. Some bold, some clever, some aspirational.

Eventually, only two students hadn’t gone yet.

Tenya Iida stood, shoulders squared, grief barely hidden behind the stiff angles of his body. He held his board with both hands.

“I will be going by Ingenium,” he said, voice steadier than expected. “It was my brother’s name. And I will carry it forward.”

No one interrupted. No one laughed. Even Bakugo stayed quiet.

Only Izuku was left.

He stood slowly, the board tucked under one arm. He didn’t lift it. Didn’t explain it. Just walked to the front of the room and turned the board toward Midnight in silence.

The name written in rough, bold letters was simple.

FOUR

Midnight raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. Care to elaborate?”

Izuku’s eyes didn’t blink. “No.”

Midnight paused, then smiled with a shrug. “Mysterious type. Alright, ‘Four’ it is.”

He turned back to the class. Their eyes weren’t hostile. Not really. But they weren’t welcoming either. They looked at him like he was a puzzle they weren’t sure they wanted to solve.

Like something best kept at arm’s length.

Izuku walked back to his seat with his muzzle on, his spine curled, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

When the last name had been chosen and the final board set down, the class began to settle back into their chairs. Aizawa straightened, stretching his arms once, then tapped the board with the edge of a marker.

“Your field training starts next week,” he said. “It’ll last seven days. A full week working under licensed Pro Heroes.”

Some students leaned forward. Others sat back, smug or nervous or both.

“Those of you who received nominations,” Aizawa continued, “will get personalized lists of agencies to choose from. The rest of you”—his gaze flicked across the room, catching more than a few flinches—“will choose from a more general list of approved workplaces. Forty options.”

He didn’t elaborate on what kind of agencies made that list. He didn’t need to.

“You have until Friday to decide. Choose carefully.”

And that was it. A flick of the remote, the board went black, and the bell rang a moment later. Chairs scraped, students rose, chatter slowly reemerged.

Most were already pulling out their phones, opening emails, comparing agencies. Talk of internships filled the air almost immediately—Todoroki barely glanced up as someone approached him with a question, Bakugo grunted something noncommittal at a classmate who asked about his top pick. Kaminari announced his excitement to work with someone named Chargeburst, and Sero claimed he was hoping for a rooftop-swinging kind of gig.

Kirishima, as usual, moved like a wrecking ball through the forming social clusters, loud and good-natured, hauling people into conversation whether they wanted it or not. His grin was infectious, and he made it halfway across the room before locking eyes with Izuku.

“Hey, Midoriya!” he called, waving him over like they were old friends and not wary classmates still walking the tightrope between understanding and discomfort. “You decide where you’re going yet?”

Izuku hesitated. He’d been halfway out the door. But Kirishima wasn’t asking out of malice. Wasn’t digging for gossip or leverage. He was just…trying.

Izuku turned slightly, the muzzle still snug across his jaw. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m going with Mirko.”

The conversation behind Kirishima paused like someone had hit mute. Heads tilted. Kaminari blinked and made a strangled sound.

“Wait—Mirko?” Kaminari said. “Like, the Rabbit Hero Mirko? With the thighs and the kicks and the no-nonsense murder-eyes?”

Izuku nodded.

“Dude.” Kaminari looked around for confirmation. “Is it because she’s hot?”

Izuku didn’t even roll his eyes. “No.”

He let the pause stretch long enough that Kaminari’s smirk faltered.

“I picked her because I respect her fighting style,” Izuku said flatly. “She’s efficient. Strong. She doesn’t mess around with fancy gimmicks, speeches, or ultimate moves. She gets the job done with a minimal amount of collateral damage. I can learn something from that.”

“Oh.” Kaminari rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. No, yeah, that makes sense.”

Kirishima smiled, even as his eyes flicked between them. “That’s actually really cool, man. Bet you two’ll be a killer combo.”

Izuku didn’t answer that. Just dipped his chin, quietly appreciative. It wasn’t a bridge built yet. But maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t broken.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, and slipped out before anyone else could ask questions.

…

The rest of the week blurred. Quizzes. Physical drills. A cramped lunch eaten on the library steps in the shade. The list of agencies was emailed to him on Wednesday—he didn’t bother opening it. He’d already submitted his choice.

By Friday morning, Aizawa was at the station with the rest of Class 1-A, shoulders hunched beneath the cowl of his capture weapon. His eyes were tired as ever but alert, scanning the gathered students as they boarded trains in groups, each bound for different corners of the city and beyond.

“You all have your Hero costumes with you,” he reminded them. “Don’t wear them in public. Don’t lose them. Don’t do anything stupid.”

That earned a few snorts. Bakugo rolled his eyes. Kaminari saluted. Aizawa kept going.

“Be respectful. Listen to your mentor. You’re there to learn, not show off. Remember—you represent U.A. now. Don’t waste it.”

They nodded. Some murmured their agreement. Others already had earbuds in.

Then it was time.

Izuku’s train pulled up second, doors hissing open with a metallic sigh. He boarded without fanfare, settling into a seat by the window. The city crawled past outside, tall buildings smeared with sunlight. By the time he reached Hosu, the sun had dipped behind a bank of steel-grey clouds, casting the streets in cool shade.

The address Mirko had given him was attached to a mid-tier business hotel tucked between an insurance building and a ramen bar. Clean. Stark. The kind of place meant for one-night stays and business travel. The lobby was almost empty except for her.

She stood near the reception desk in full costume, unmistakable in white and purple, all muscle and presence. A group of kids huddled behind a sofa, whispering excitedly. One bold middle-aged man approached her with a pen, and she didn’t even flinch as she scribbled a quick autograph.

When she spotted Izuku, she lifted her chin in greeting.

“You’re early. Good.”

He nodded. She tossed a thumb toward the elevators.

“Go upstairs. Change into workout gear. The roof of the insurance building next door—street over. You’ll see it. It’s got solar panels on one half and a helipad on the other.”

Izuku didn’t ask why.

She rolled her eyes when another fan stepped up to her. “Go wait there. I’ll meet you when I can shake these leeches.”

He did as told.

…

The wind hit him hard on the rooftop—fast and dry, full of spring dust. He sat on the ledge with his feet dangling over the drop, gaze sweeping the horizon. Hosu was a maze of highways and rooftops, scattered cranes, blinking signs. It smelled like ozone and car exhaust.

He heard her boots land behind him before he saw her.

“Nice try,” she said.

“I heard you three blocks out,” he replied.

Mirko laughed, low and surprised. “Alright. Points for that.” She then cracked her knuckles. Her grin was sharp. “You stretched?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. We’re starting with sprints. Then strength training. Then we’ll see. Hope you didn’t eat anything heavy.”

“I didn’t.”

“Perfect.”

She stepped past him, already dropping into a crouch. “Let’s see what that freaky little quirk of yours can do when it’s not just survival on the line.”

Izuku stood, shoulders loose, hair caught in the breeze. The city spread out below them, uncaring. The world still turned.

He followed her lead.

And ran.

The wind tore past Izuku’s ears the second his boots hit the next rooftop.

Mirko didn’t wait. She moved like a missile—compact, fast, low to the ground with each lunge, her legs launching her across alley gaps and concrete ledges with terrifying ease. One leap, then another, then a spin midair that landed her hard on the corner of a distant apartment building. The impact cracked tile.

Izuku chased her.

His muscles screamed. The soles of his shoes scraped rough asphalt. He pushed off with a running start, clearing the first gap, then another, legs pumping hard as the city blurred around him—steel and brick and scattered neon lights flashing across his vision in violent streaks. Hosu smelled like rust, like sun-warmed exhaust and something older, fainter—concrete sweat and old rain.

He gained ground.

Not a lot. Just enough that he could make out the lines of muscle flexing beneath Mirko’s back as she pivoted and glanced over her shoulder mid-sprint.

She saw him closing in.

She grinned.

Then she was gone.

A single explosive leap vaulted her an impossible distance, well over the rooftop he’d been aiming for. She landed three buildings ahead—three—with a deep thud and a casual bounce that might as well have been a taunt.

“Dammit,” Izuku muttered, teeth grit. He forced his legs to move faster.

He shoved off the next ledge, but misjudged the height—too low.

His chest clipped the edge of a rooftop fence. His body jackknifed—

Clang!

He caught the rail in both hands before he could fall, momentum swinging his legs up in a wide arc. He twisted, flipped, landed hard on his feet, and kept running.

Ribs aching. Arms burning.

But he was laughing, just a little. A low breath of amusement hissed out between his teeth behind the muzzle.

Rooftop after rooftop flew by beneath his boots. Hosu’s skyline wasn’t like Musutafu’s—here, buildings leaned awkwardly, the gaps between them irregular, every route improvised. But he was fast. Getting faster.

Every scrape of his heel, every jolt of impact, every twist of his shoulders to adjust midair—he could feel the instinct kick in.

Don’t think. Move.

A final leap, then another—and he landed hard just a few feet behind Mirko, who had stopped near a squat, grey building topped with skylights and rusted ductwork.

She turned. Her brow arched.

“Not bad,” she said, one hand on her hip. “I thought I lost you back at the fence.”

“You almost did,” Izuku admitted, panting lightly. Sweat clung to his collarbone. His breath burned cold against the inside of his muzzle, fogging the filters.

Mirko smirked. “Huh. I thought you’d be more exhausted after that. Guess that means I’ll just have to train you harder in here.”

Then, without warning, she shoved him.

Izuku stumbled forward and caught himself on the side door of the building as it swung open with a rusty creak.

A blast of air conditioning hit his face like a slap.

The gym was massive.

Dimly lit, high ceilings, old industrial lighting humming overhead. Rows of squat racks, heavy bags, reinforced flooring. No logos. No brand names. This wasn’t a public place—it was a functional one. A pro gym. A war zone for the elite.

“C’mon, Bag-of-Bones,” Mirko barked, already halfway inside. “Warm-up’s over.”

What came next, Izuku could only describe as Hell on Earth:

Push-ups. Pull-ups. Weighted sleds. Wall runs. Plyometrics. Deadlifts stacked with plates that bent the bar.

Mirko didn’t ease him in—she dragged him into the deep end and let him sink or swim. No lectures. No breaks. Just movement. Form corrections came as sharp taps to the ribs or a barked “lower” from across the mat.

He dropped a kettlebell on his foot. Didn’t flinch.

She had him hold a one-minute plank. Then five.

She threw medicine balls at his gut. Hard.

At one point, when he tried to sneak a breath between sets, she grabbed him by the back of the shirt and threw him back toward the squat rack.

“You think villains are gonna give you a water break, kid?” she snapped.

Izuku didn’t answer. Just kept moving.

The gym floor turned slick with sweat. His shirt stuck to his spine. His shoulders ached in deep, molten pulses. His hands trembled under the weight of the bar—but he didn’t let go. Not once.

Mirko never told him “good job.” She didn’t need to. She hadn’t kicked him out yet.

By the time the sun began its slow descent across the skyline, the windows glowed with gold and pink and raw, aching orange. The clouds above Hosu looked like molten glass.

Izuku was on the floor.

Not collapsed—but close. His back against the wall, legs sprawled, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. His water bottle was clutched in both hands, and he drank like he hadn’t tasted liquid in hours.

Mirko stood a few feet away, towel draped around her neck, one hand on her hip, the other sipping lazily from her own bottle.

She looked… mildly winded.

That was it.

“Guess you’re not entirely useless,” she said, kicking the toe of his boot lightly. “You lasted longer than I thought. Didn’t even puke.”

Izuku blinked up at her, sweat soaking his curls.

“…Thanks?” he rasped.

She smirked wider. “Don’t thank me yet.”

She walked over to the corner bench where he’d dropped his silver case when they arrived, popped it open with her foot, and pulled out the folded contents inside.

Then she turned—and shoved the case against his chest hard enough that it thumped against his ribs.

“Get changed.”

Izuku caught it with a grunt.

“…Why?”

“Because you’re coming on patrol with me tonight.”

His breath caught slightly. “What?”

“You’re not fighting,” she said. “Not rescuing. Not talking. You don’t even blink unless I tell you to.”

Her eyes narrowed, sharp and satisfied.

“You’re here to watch. You learn by doing—and tonight, you’re learning by watching. So suit up, Four.”

She cracked her neck.

“And try not to slow me down.”

…

The rooftops of Hosu glistened faintly in the early night, damp from a passing cloudburst that had kissed the city just after sunset. Neon reflected in puddles. Distant sirens wailed and faded. A train groaned across its tracks like an old animal crawling uphill.

Izuku crouched low on the lip of a five-story building, elbows braced on his knees, eyes locked on the alleyway below.

Mirko moved like a phantom through the streetlight shadows—barely more than a ripple of white and violet muscle, her ears twitching every few seconds. Her pace was casual. Confident. She didn’t look like she was patrolling. She looked like she was hunting.

And Izuku… watched.

His body ached in echoes. Ghost pains. Faded and soft now, dulled by the slow churn of his quirk cycling through his tissues. The exhaustion had burned off like smoke. But in its place: hunger.

Deep. Gnawing.

The water bottle hadn’t touched it. His stomach was a void. His limbs felt tighter. He knew the signs. He was going to need fuel soon. Real fuel.

He gritted his teeth behind the muzzle.

Not yet.

Below, Mirko paused at the mouth of an alley.

Izuku leaned forward slightly, scanning the rooftops across from him—no movement. But down below, he spotted it: a flicker of shadow behind a dumpster. Fast. Twitchy.

His eyes narrowed. “One to your left,” he said softly into the comm device clipped to his collar. “Behind the trash bins. Breathing pattern’s irregular—looks nervous. Might bolt.”

“Gotcha, rook,” came Mirko’s dry reply, a crackle in his ear. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

She didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t even look.

Just turned her shoulder slightly as she passed the dumpster—

—and kicked it into the wall.

The entire steel frame folded like a soda can, crushing whoever was hiding behind it with a sharp yelp and a clatter of loose metal. A man tumbled out the other side, coughing and gasping, half-stunned before Mirko was on him, one hand grabbing his collar, the other pressing him face-first into the pavement.

She didn’t even break stride. Zip-tied his wrists with her off-hand, stood, dusted herself off.

Izuku watched her movements. Studied every beat.

He’d seen heroes before—All Might’s pageantry, Endeavor’s efficiency, Eraserhead’s control—but this was different.

Mirko wasn’t performative like so many other
pro heroes.

She executed.

Quick. Brutal. Minimal movement while maximizing the damage output.

She moved with purpose, like her body had memorized the battlefield before her brain could even catch up. Every step was a choice. Every strike had weight.

And Izuku—

He took notes in his head.

Foot position: always stable. Torso low. Hands rarely idle. Her strength wasn’t just power—it was kinetic control, the way she stayed in motion so her opponents never got a second to breathe.

She doesn’t hesitate, Izuku thought.

He remembered the training drills from earlier. How she’d pushed him to the edge without saying much at all. How she never wasted breath.

Another alley.

Three men.

Small-time, judging by their weapons—knives, one with some kind of stun baton. Mugging someone, maybe. Or shaking down a local shop.

Izuku watched from above, tracking their heat signatures before they even stepped fully into the lamplight. “Three incoming,” he muttered. “Middle one’s got a weapon tucked in his waistband. Right’s got the stun baton. Left is the slowest.”

“Copy,” Mirko replied, voice clipped.

She was on them in seconds.

Izuku watched the whole thing play out like a scene from an action reel.

Mirko ducked low under the baton, caught the wielder’s arm between her thighs in a crushing scissor grip, and twisted—his elbow popped like a cork.

The second one lunged. She shoulder-checked him into a brick wall. Teeth flew.

The third tried to run.

“Runner at your five,” Izuku said.

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. “I see him.”

She pivoted, jumped onto the wall like a spring-loaded animal, and launched off it, slamming her knee into the back of the fleeing man’s head with a loud crack. He crumpled.

Three in less than six seconds.

Izuku blinked. “That was…”

“Efficient?” she offered through the comms. “Yeah. Try keepin’ up, kid.”

He smiled. Just a little.

They made two more rounds through the sector after that. Petty theft. A couple of shoplifters. One would-be groper on the train platform who was promptly kicked into a vending machine so hard the glass shattered. Mirko gave him a warning and a lecture. In that order.

Izuku followed from above. He never touched the street.

His eyes scanned every alley. Every blind spot. He relayed movement when he saw it. Called out suspicious shifts in behavior. He didn’t try to be useful—he was useful.

And the longer he watched, the more he learned.

The way she turned her body just slightly before a strike to hide her tells. The way she tested for backup by faking a retreat. The way she landed silently, even from high drops, by aiming her heels to break force and twisting at the last second.

She doesn’t second-guess, he thought again. She just moves.

The ache in his stomach grew sharper as the night stretched on, until it hollowed out into a quiet sort of ache. His bones didn’t feel brittle yet. But soon. Maybe an hour.

He wondered, idly, if Mirko would go out to eat after this.

Eventually, the patrol ended—calm, clean, no injuries on her end and only minor paperwork left to do for the local precinct. Hosu’s night traffic picked up a little, but the real villains had stayed quiet.

Mirko stretched her arms overhead as they stood on a rooftop overlooking the southern district. Her breath fogged in the cooling air.

“Alright, that’s enough for tonight,” she said, cracking her neck. “No body count, no property damage, and I didn’t even get blood on my boots. That’s a win.”

Izuku hopped down from the water tower he’d been perched on and landed beside her.

She gave him a sideways look.

“You didn’t trip, you didn’t cry, and you didn’t get flattened like a stray cat. Not bad, Bag-of-Bones.”

He nodded once. “Thanks.”

She squinted at him, then seemed to notice the way he was slightly swaying on his feet.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“…Yeah,” he admitted.

Her grin turned wicked. “Figured. You got that look—like your stomach’s chewing through your spine. C’mon.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I said come on. You were a good sport today, and I’m not a total asshole. I’ll treat.”

“Treat…?”

“You pick,” she said, already vaulting over to the next roof.

He hesitated, then asked, voice low, “Is there… anywhere we can get some meat?”

Mirko rolled her eyes and huffed out something halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Ugh. Fine.”

She turned on her heel, already crouching to leap across the next gap between rooftops.

“Follow me. I know a spot.”

And just like that, she was moving again, hair whipping behind her like a banner in the wind.

Izuku followed.

And just like that, the night softened. Not warm—but not cold, either. Just… something new.

Something like respect.