Chapter Text
Seven days after the death of Aizawa Shouta
The silence in Katsuki's room was a palpable entity, a suffocating presence that pressed against his chest with an intensity that felt almost alive. The rigid neck and chin brace—a medical prison of white plastic and velcro straps—held his head immobilized, a physical manifestation of his powerlessness. Each breath was a laborious effort, the brace restricting not just his movement, but serving as a constant, mocking reminder of his humiliating inability to do anything against the Noumu. Five days had passed since the USJ attack, yet the darkness of that day crawled beneath his skin, a maddening itch that no amount of force could scratch away. The brace pressed against his jaw, a mechanical restraint that seemed to whisper of his weakness, of how easily he had been rendered helpless. It was as if the very air around him was thick with the weight of his failure, a fog that clouded his thoughts and suffocated any flicker of hope—the brace a cruel trophy of his most devastating defeat, holding him captive not just physically, but in the merciless grip of his own self-loathing.
Weak . The word reverberated in his mind, a venomous whisper that cut deeper than any villain’s most precise attack. It wrapped around him like a noose, tightening with every passing moment. It was a truth he could not escape, a label he had fought against his entire life. He remembered that moment, suspended in sheer, paralyzing terror, as the Noumu’s grotesque hands tightened around his throat, oxygen crushed from his lungs. Every heroic fantasy he’d ever spun, every boastful declaration, every moment of prideful confidence crumbled in an instant, collapsing like a house of cards.
What kind of hero hangs there, helpless? The thought slithered through his mind, a serpent of self-loathing that coiled tighter with each recollection. He wasn’t unstoppable. He wasn’t the invincible force he had always believed himself to be. He was breakable. Fragile. Human .
“Shit,” he muttered, the sound ragged and broken, barely escaping his constricted throat. His hand brushed against his neck, tracing the phantom pressure of those monstrous fingers, a vivid memory replaying in his mind like a relentless nightmare. Panic surged in his chest, his heart racing like a wild animal cornered, the world fading into a suffocating black.
Why couldn’t I do anything? The question echoed in the hollow recesses of his mind, a relentless drumbeat that refused to quiet. The worst part wasn’t the villains, nor the physical pain that lingered in bruises and wounds still healing. No, the worst part was the gut-wrenching realization of how easily he could have died. How close he had come to being just another statistic, another failed hero—another name lost in the annals of history.
Deku saved everyone. Deku , of all people.
What does that make me? The bitterness stung him, a sharp jab that made his fists clench involuntarily, muscles tensing with a mixture of shame and suppressed rage. His palms sparked with energy, nitroglycerin sweat a betraying testament to the storm of emotions he struggled to contain. Each tiny explosion was a reminder of his power—of the potential he had always taken for granted, the very thing he believed made him superior.
But now, that power felt like a cruel joke, a mockery of the self-image he had painstakingly crafted. I’m supposed to be strong. I’m supposed to be a hero . But those words felt hollow, echoing in the cavern of his mind like a mantra stripped of meaning. He had been all power at USJ, and yet utterly, devastatingly useless when it mattered most. The irony twisted in his gut, a bitter laugh threatening to escape his throat.
“I’m supposed to be the strongest,” he thought, the words a mantra repeated countless times, a desperate attempt to rebuild the shattered image of himself. “I’m supposed to be a hero.”
What kind of hero am I? The self-loathing rose like bile in his throat, thick and suffocating, a far more effective chokehold than the Noumu ever could manage. Every memory was a knife, each moment of helplessness carving deeper into his wounded pride, exposing the raw, vulnerable core he had spent years protecting.
He had always been loud, aggressive, convinced of his own superiority. But the USJ had stripped away those layers, revealing something fragile and terrified beneath—something he had never wanted to acknowledge, something he had fought against his entire life.
“I’m not weak,” he whispered to the empty room, the words a desperate plea more than a statement of fact. But who was he trying to convince? Himself? The walls? The memories that haunted him, replaying in a merciless loop?
Aizawa’s broken body. Thirteen’s defeated form. Todoroki lying on the ground like a broken doll. And him—paralyzed under the Noumu’s grip as the creature was slowly throttling the life out of him, a spectator to his own failure. The shame burned hotter than any explosion he could create, a searing brand on his very identity.
What if I had been able to do something? The thought clawed at him, a relentless, gnawing beast. It whispered of possibilities, of alternate realities where he was a hero, charging into battle without hesitation, where he wasn’t just a bystander in his own story. But those realities felt like a cruel mirage, shimmering just out of reach, taunting him with their impossibility.
The tremor in his hand was a truth he would never admit. Vulnerability was not something Bakugou Katsuki entertained. He was supposed to be the number one hero, the one who charged into battle without a second thought. Yet now, alone in his room, with nothing but the crushing weight of his own perceived failures, he felt like a shadow of the person he longed to be.
What does it mean to be a hero? The question spiraled within him, fracturing his thoughts into a million shards. Each fragment reflected a different version of himself—each one more distorted than the last. Was it strength? Was it courage? Was it the ability to protect? Or was it the willingness to sacrifice everything, even when faced with the abyss?
“Next time will be different,” he told himself, the mantra a desperate lifeline thrown into the chaos of his mind. He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms, a physical reminder of his resolve. “Next time, I’ll be the hero I’ve always wanted to be.” But beneath that bravado, a small, terrified part of him whispered: What if I can’t?
What if I’m just a coward in a hero’s skin ? The thought slithered through his mind, an insidious poison that seeped into every corner of his consciousness. He could feel the walls closing in, the room shrinking around him until it felt like a cage. Each breath became a struggle, a fight against the crushing weight of his own inadequacy.
The silence was deafening, a void that echoed with the ghosts of his failures. It was a silence that demanded answers, that begged for resolution. But how could he resolve something so fundamentally broken? How could he reconcile the image of the hero he wanted to be with the reality of who he was?
I’m supposed to be the strongest , he repeated, the words a desperate mantra, but they felt like ashes on his tongue. The truth was a bitter pill, lodged in his throat, refusing to go down. He could almost see it—his dreams of heroism, of glory, crumbling like dust in the wind.
What if I’m not meant to be a hero? The thought struck him like a physical blow, a wound that cut deep. It was a question he had never allowed himself to entertain, a fracture in the very foundation of his identity. The fear of that realization sent him spiraling deeper into despair.
The room around him began to blur, the edges softening as tears threatened to spill. He blinked rapidly, trying to force the emotions back, but they surged forward, a tide he could not hold back. I can’t be weak. I can’t.
Yet the more he fought, the more he felt the cracks widening, the fissures in his psyche deepening. Each moment of self-doubt was a chisel, carving away at the hero façade he had built for so long. He could see it now—the illusion he had constructed, the bravado he wore like armor. It was all starting to crumble, revealing the raw, vulnerable core he had hidden beneath layers of anger and aggression.
He pressed his palms against his eyes, willing the tears to stop, willing the chaos in his mind to quiet. But the memories kept flooding in—each one a reminder of his failures, each one a weight dragging him further down. He could still hear the sounds of the battle, the cries of his classmates, the chaos of the USJ attack—a cacophony that played on a loop, a relentless reminder of his impotence.
I shouldn’t have been weak. The self-recrimination spiraled, a whirlwind of guilt and shame that threatened to consume him.
The fracture began quietly, almost imperceptibly.
"Something more," Bakugou whispered to the empty room, the words a dangerous seed planted in the fertile ground of his disillusionment. It wasn't a thought so much as an infection—a microscopic intrusion that began to spread through the carefully constructed neural pathways of his identity.
His heroic narrative: a fragile construct.
Memories of the USJ attack pressed against his consciousness like surgical instruments, each recollection a precision cut into the membrane of his self-perception. The cries of his classmates echoed—not as sound, but as acoustic weapons of collective vulnerability.
"I should have done more."
Not a confession. An indictment.
The guilt moved like liquid mercury through his veins, corroding everything it touched. His dreams of heroism—once solid, unbreakable—now revealed themselves as nothing more than thin glass, ready to shatter at the slightest pressure.
What constitutes a hero?
The question hung in the air, a quantum uncertainty that transformed the very moment it was conceived. Bakugou watched his identity fracture, tectonic plates of self-perception grinding against each other with tectonic violence.
His mind was no longer a sanctuary. It was a battlefield.
Aggressor and victim collapsed into a single, devastating entity.
"What if I'm not meant to be a hero?"
The thought was a black hole, consuming everything—his pride, his rage, his carefully constructed armor of explosiveness. Each memory became a knife-edge, precision-cutting through psychological defenses he'd spent years building.
Weakness was no longer a state. It was a contamination.
His consciousness imploded like a collapsing star, burning everything—identity, dreams, potential—into pure, devastating ash.
The spiral continued. Downward. Inward. Consuming.
Bakugou felt himself slipping further into the abyss, each thought a weight dragging him deeper into the darkness. The walls of his mind, once a fortress of defiance, now felt like a labyrinth of despair, twisting and turning with no exit in sight. He could hear the echoes of his own failures reverberating through the corridors, a haunting symphony of self-doubt that played on repeat.
"What if I'm not meant to be a hero?" The question morphed into a mantra, a relentless whisper that gnawed at the edges of his sanity. It was a thought that spiraled into a vortex, pulling him into a chasm where hope was a distant memory, flickering like a dying star.
The battlefield of his mind raged on, a storm of conflicting emotions. Anger surged, but it was a hollow rage, devoid of purpose. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but the energy felt like a ghost, slipping through his fingers. He was a warrior without a cause, a hero without a mission. The very essence of who he was began to erode, leaving behind a shell that felt foreign and empty.
"Am I just a failure?" The thought slithered through his mind, slick and insidious. It wrapped around his heart, squeezing tighter with each passing moment. He could feel the heat of his quirk simmering beneath the surface, a volatile energy that mirrored the chaos within. But now, it felt like a curse—a reminder of his inability to control not just his explosions, but the very core of his being.
He was both the aggressor and the victim, locked in a brutal dance of self-destruction. The anger he had always wielded as a weapon now turned inward, a blade that cut deeper with every self-inflicted wound. He was trapped in a cycle of despair, each thought a chain that bound him tighter to the ground.
The memory of his failure at the USJ played like a broken record, each scratch a reminder of his inadequacy, of his weakness.
As he spiraled deeper into the abyss, Bakugou felt the ground beneath him give way. He was falling, plummeting into darkness, where the echoes of his weakness reverberated like a haunting melody. The walls of his mind crumbled, and he was left exposed, vulnerable, stripped of the bravado that had once shielded him from the world.
The memorial hall was a study in muted grays and subdued shadows, light filtering through rice paper screens like wan memories struggling to maintain form—each beam of light a fragile, dissecting knife that seemed to flay the very atmosphere. Outside, cherry blossoms drifted in a wind that carried more than just seasonal change; this wind was laden with the weight of unspoken grief, each delicate petal a trembling testament to the brutal, senseless finality of death. The blossoms fell not with grace, but with a kind of mechanical surrender, much like bodies falling in slow motion—a visual metaphor for loss that cut deeper than any blade.
Akane sat with a rigidity that suggested her skeletal structure had been replaced by shards of broken glass. The week's weight seemed etched into her posture, a subtle gravitational pull that bent her slightly inward, as if the days themselves were a physical burden. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, revealing the network of veins beneath like a map of her internal devastation.
Tears were conspicuously absent; instead, her eyes held a kind of dissociative emptiness that spoke of a psyche so thoroughly shattered that weeping had become an impossible luxury. A half-empty glass of water sat untouched beside her, a small ritual of hospitality left unacknowledged, its surface gathering the faintest film of dust—a quiet marker of time's relentless passage.
Her husband's hand rested on her shoulder, not as a gesture of comfort, but as a desperate, primal attempt to hold together something that was already fundamentally destroyed. His touch was less a human connection and more a futile medical intervention, trying to suture a wound that had already consumed everything. The black mourning pin on his lapel caught the light briefly, a nearly imperceptible glint that spoke volumes in its silent commemoration.
Their son, Shinsou who was sitting beside them, in turn, embodied a different landscape of grief. His dark eyes—mirrors of his uncle's—were not vacant, but instead filled with a roiling, barely contained storm of rage and surgical precision of blame. Each muscle in his body tensed with an accusatory energy, a living indictment of the systemic failure that had consumed his uncle. His gaze periodically swept across the UA faculty, lingering with particular venom on Principal Nezu and the conspicuously large, guilt-laden form of All Might.
In his mind, the narrative was brutally clear: Nezu's calculated risk management had transformed his uncle into collateral damage. The principal's strategic calculations had failed spectacularly, reducing Aizawa—a dedicated hero—into collateral damage. And All Might? A phantom whose mere existence had drawn these villains, whose absence had been the fatal variable in this equation of destruction.
The hero students seated nearby became targets of a more nuanced contempt. Shinsou's eyes traced their forms with a clinical dispassion, seeing not individuals but a collection of quirk-enabled weapons. Their flashy, destructive abilities—gifts they'd been handed by genetic lottery—stood in stark contrast to his uncle's disciplined, strategic approach to heroism. They had survived while Aizawa had not, and in Shinsou's calculus, this was an unforgivable injustice.
His hands, periodically clenching and unclenching, mapped an internal topography of restrained fury. The movement was less a physical gesture and more a neurological syntax—each flex a grammatical unit in a language of unspoken retribution. Potential energy coiled beneath his skin, not seeking immediate discharge but storing itself with calculated precision.
When his gaze drifted toward Nezu, the principal's diminutive form seemed to vibrate with a grief that was simultaneously genuine and performative. The rodent's usually composed demeanor had fractured, revealing something almost vulnerable. But vulnerability, in Shinsou's calculus, was not the same as absolution.
Nezu's devastation meant nothing to him.
His handkerchief moved delicately across his eyes, a choreographed performance of grief that Shinsou found grotesque. Each precise dab was calculated, like a bureaucrat filling out a form—clinical, detached. The rodent's tears were architectural: structured, deliberate, designed for maximum symptomatic visibility.
Shinsou's scorn materialized as a microscopic curl of his lip. Performative mourning, he knew, was the lowest form of institutional theater. Nezu's grief was a structural construct, a facade engineered to deflect accountability. Behind those glistening eyes was a calculus of public perception, not genuine loss.
A hand gripped his shoulder—his father's touch, grounding yet tentative. But Shinsou's attention remained locked on Nezu, a predatory focus that refused to relent.
Present Mic materialized to his left, transformed. Gone was the loud, vibrant persona; in its place stood a man rendered monochromatic by grief. His typically wild hair was now slicked back, revealing a face on the precipice of total emotional collapse. The black suit hung on him like a shroud, emphasizing his fragility.
The man was seconds away from dissolving into raw, unfiltered sorrow—a stark contrast to Nezu's measured performance.
Present Mic's proximity was a shared gravity, a silent acknowledgment of their mutual loss. They were connected through Aizawa—not by blood, but by something more profound: a bond forged in the crucible of shared devotion to a man who had been simultaneously mentor, friend, and lifeline.
Mic's breath came in ragged, controlled intervals. Each exhale was a barely contained storm, threatening to shatter the fragile membrane of public composure. His eyes, usually electric with energy, were now dulled obsidian—reflecting an interior landscape of absolute desolation.
Shinsou recognized in Mic's grief a mirror of his own: not performative, not strategic, but raw and fundamental. This was mourning stripped to its elemental components—pure, unmediated loss.
Their silence was a language unto itself. No words could traverse the chasm of what Aizawa had meant to them. He had been more than a teacher, more than a colleague. He had been a constellation by which they had oriented their entire emotional universe.
And now that constellation had gone dark.
The space around them seemed to compress, charged with an unspoken understanding that transcended mere words—a shared knowledge of irreplaceable absence.
Shinsou felt the weight of that absence pressing down on him, a palpable force that threatened to suffocate. He turned slightly, allowing himself a fleeting glance at Mic, whose face was a canvas of anguish. The man’s lips quivered, struggling against the tide of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. In that moment, Shinsou saw not just a colleague, but a kindred spirit, both of them adrift in a sea of grief.
Mic's voice, usually a vibrant melody, was now a strained whisper. "He wouldn’t want us to be like this," he said, the words trembling as they left his lips. Yet, the sincerity behind them felt like a fragile thread, barely holding together the fabric of their shared sorrow.
"Aizawa would want you to be strong," Mic continued, his voice gaining a tremulous intensity. "He'd want you to look after your mother, to keep pushing toward becoming a hero. To make him proud."
The mention of heroism struck Shinsou like a match to kindling. His composure, already fragile, began to fracture.
The mention of heroism struck Shinsou like a match to kindling, igniting a slow-burning fury that had been simmering beneath the surface of his carefully maintained exterior. His composure, already fragile from grief and years of perceived injustice, began to fracture with the precision of a shattering glass pane.
"Easy for you to say," he muttered, the words emerging with a razor's edge that could slice through the somber atmosphere. The dam of his long-suppressed frustration burst, releasing a torrent of pain that had been building since childhood.
"You have no idea what it's like to be me," Shinsou continued, his voice a low, controlled burn that carried the weight of countless imagined slights and rejections. "To have a quirk that everyone looks at like it's something... contaminated. Something dangerous. Something that marks you as an outsider from the moment you're born."
His eyes, usually half-lidded with a veneer of disinterest, now blazed with an intensity that seemed to look through Present Mic rather than at him. The world had always been a battlefield, and he was perpetually on the defensive.
"Everyone in that hero course? They have no idea what real struggle looks like," he spat, the words dripping with a carefully cultivated resentment. "Todoroki? Midoriya? They get quirks that literally destroy everything around them, and suddenly they're celebrated as heroes. Brute force. Destruction. That's all it takes in this broken system."
The bitterness was a complex algorithm of oppression—constantly held back by a world too narrow-minded to appreciate his potential. Each word was a precisely sharpened blade, cutting open the facade of heroic meritocracy.
"I've had to fight for every single scrap of recognition," Shinsou continued, his voice rising slightly, betraying the passion beneath his usually apathetic demeanor. "Every. Single. Opportunity. While they—" he gestured dismissively toward the hero course students, his hand a sharp, contemptuous motion, "—just coast through life, born into privilege, their paths smoothed by genetics and institutional favor."
His laugh was a sharp, mirthless thing—a sound that was more a weapon than an expression of humor. "Do you know what it's like to be constantly looked at like you're one step away from becoming a villain? To have your every move scrutinized, your every intention questioned?" Present Mic listened, a mixture of concern and barely concealed frustration crossing his features.
"My quirk—my entire existence—has been treated like a potential threat," he continued, the words tumbling out with a momentum that couldn't be stopped. "While these other heroes-in-training get to punch things and shoot fire and be celebrated for their 'strength,' I've had to prove my humanity with every single breath."
The irony wasn't lost on him. Aizawa—the one person who had truly seen him, who had understood the complexity of his potential—was gone. And now he was left here, surrounded by a system that had always viewed him with suspicion.
"Make him proud?" Shinsou's voice cracked slightly, revealing the vulnerability beneath his anger. "By playing a game that was rigged against me from the start? A game where my very existence is seen as a potential threat?"
His hands clenched and unclenched, a physical manifestation of the internal struggle that had defined his entire existence. The world had never understood him, never given him a fair chance. Or so he believed.
The weight of his words hung in the air—a testament to years of perceived marginalization, of a dream that always seemed just out of reach. In Shinsou's mind, he was the perpetual underdog, fighting against a system designed to keep him down.
Yet beneath the passionate rhetoric, there was a hollowness—the unacknowledged truth of opportunities not seized, of potential left deliberately unexplored. His parents had provided him with a comfortable life, a safety net that many could only dream of, yet he remained completely oblivious to the opportunities at his fingertips. The wealth surrounding him was just another piece of evidence in his elaborate narrative of systemic oppression.
"Do you think I wanted to be this way?" he continued, his voice rising with pure, unfiltered indignation. "To be seen as a threat? To be judged before I even had a chance to prove myself? I've had to navigate a world that sees my quirk as a curse, while others flaunt their powers like trophies."
He glanced at the other students, their laughter and camaraderie a stark contrast to his self-imposed isolation. "They don't know what it's like to feel like an outsider," he declared, completely convinced of his own victimhood. "The constant discrimination, the way people look at me, the way they whisper behind my back. It's like I'm being systematically prevented from succeeding."
Shinsou's hands moved animatedly, each gesture a dramatic punctuation to his perceived struggle. "I've had to claw my way through every single opportunity," he insisted, completely ignoring the fact that he rarely, if ever, actually tried to claw his way through anything. "They just waltz in, their paths laid out before them. It's a conspiracy! I'm not asking for much—just a chance to show what I can do without this constant discrimination."
His voice carried a tone of absolute certainty. "The world is against me," he proclaimed, as if this were an irrefutable fact. "Every time I could have put in effort, every moment I could have pushed myself, the weight of societal judgment held me back. It's not my fault I'm not succeeding—it's the system."
"I just want to be seen for who I am," he continued, "but every avenue is blocked by these prejudiced heroes who can't see past my quirk."
Shinsou's laughter was bitter, a sound that suggested profound insight but revealed only shallow self-delusion. "I want to make Aizawa proud," he said, "but how can I do that when the entire hero society is designed to keep people like me down?"
The memorial service around them faded into the background as he continued his passionate monologue. "I want to be a hero, but the discrimination is so intense, so overwhelming, that it's impossible to break through. It's not that I'm not trying—it's that I'm being systematically shut out."
His eyes scanned the small gathering of students that had formed at the front, a sneer forming on his lips. The eight students who had managed to attend looked somber, respectful—but to Shinsou, they were nothing more than impostors, unworthy pretenders to heroism.
"Look at them," he spat to Present Mic, gesturing dismissively at the group. "These are supposed to be Aizawa's students? They're a joke. Every single one of them."
His gaze swept across Todoroki, Midoriya, Iida, and Tokage—each student becoming a target of his contemptuous scrutiny. "None of them deserve to be in the hero course. Not a single one. Especially not that one," he added, pointing specifically at Midoriya with a mixture of jealousy and disdain.
"I should have been there," Shinsou continued, his voice rising with self-righteous indignation. "Me. Not these... these wannabes. Aizawa saw my potential. He understood me. These students? They're just playing dress-up, pretending to be heroes."
The fact that only eight out of eighteen students had attended only fueled his narrative of systemic discrimination. In his mind, it wasn't about injury or scheduling—it was a calculated slight against Aizawa, against his legacy.
"They're disrespecting him," he muttered, more to himself than to Present Mic. "Proving exactly why the hero system is broken. Why someone like me never gets a fair chance."
His hands clenched, a physical manifestation of the rage and self-pity that consumed him. "I would have made him proud," Shinsou declared, completely oblivious to the irony of his statement, given his own lack of genuine effort or commitment.
Shinsou's gaze locked onto Midoriya, his contempt crystallizing into a laser-focused rant that bubbled with years of repressed resentment and self-perceived marginalization.
"Look at that pompous white-haired brat," he muttered to Present Mic, his voice trembling with a mixture of jealousy and barely contained rage. "Sunglasses. Indoors. At a memorial service for Aizawa. Who does he think he is?"
His eyes narrowed, tracking every minute movement Midoriya made. The sunglasses became an inexplicable focal point of his mounting anger, a symbol of everything he believed was wrong with the hero system that had consistently rejected him.
"Is he trying to look cool?" Shinsou continued, his voice rising slightly, drawing a few curious glances from nearby mourners. "Trying to make some kind of dramatic statement? This service is supposed to honour my uncle’s memory, and he's playing dress-up like some wannabe rockstar. Sunglasses. Inside. It's not just ridiculous—it's disrespectful."
"Typical hero student behavior," he spat, his hands clenching into tight fists. "No understanding of genuine respect. No comprehension of what it truly means to honor someone's memory. These students think a pair of sunglasses and a tragic expression makes them heroes."
"They parade around," Shinsou continued, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, "acting like they're something special. But they're nothing. Nothing compared to what Aizawa saw in me. Nothing compared to the potential he recognized."
The sunglasses became more than an accessory—they transformed into a canvas onto which Shinsou projected all of his accumulated frustrations, his belief that the hero world was fundamentally rigged against him, that every opportunity was a closed door, every success a conspiracy.
Present Mic's sigh was heavy, weighted with a profound weariness that seemed to emanate from deep within his soul. He understood grief—raw, unfiltered, destructive grief—but Shinsou's anger was becoming something else entirely.
"Hitoshi," he said softly, using the boy's first name with a gentleness that momentarily cut through the young man's tirade, "these students are victims too. They lost someone important to them."
"Victims?" Shinsou scoffed, his voice dripping with contempt. "They're privileged hero course students. What do they know about real suffering? About being systematically rejected and marginalized?"
Present Mic watched, a deep sadness settling into his eyes. He recognized this performance for what it was—a young man's desperate attempt to transform his grief into something he could control, something he could rage against.
The sudden movement caught Shinsou off guard, his internal monologue of rage momentarily interrupted by Midoriya's direct gaze. The sunglasses slid away, revealing eyes that were anything but the privileged, detached look Shinsou had imagined.
When Shinsou meets Midoriya's gaze, he's momentarily stunned by the most brilliant shade of emerald green. These weren't ordinary eyes—they were vibrant, almost luminescent, seeming to pulse with an inner light that defied description. The color was so intense it was almost unreal, like polished jade infused with an ethereal radiance that seemed to shimmer and shift with each passing moment.
The emotion within those eyes was complex, layered—something Shinsou couldn't immediately categorize. It wasn't anger, wasn't grief in its purest form, but something more nuanced. A mixture of pain, understanding, and something else he couldn't quite name. Before he can fully unravel the depth of that gaze, Midoriya begins moving deliberately in his direction, each step measured and intentional.
The surrounding memorial space seems to blur slightly, with Midoriya's approach becoming the sole point of focus. Shinsou feels a sudden, inexplicable tension—the kind that precedes an inevitable confrontation, though he's uncertain whether it will be verbal or something else entirely.
Present Mic watches, his expression a mixture of concern and anticipation, sensing something significant is about to unfold between these two young men who share a connection through their mutual loss.
As Midoriya approaches and stands to Shinsou's right, an inexplicable tension rises. Shinsou feels an immediate, visceral need to match the boy's stance—to stand, to elevate himself, to meet whatever unspoken challenge seems to be brewing. It's a primal response, part territorial, part defensive, as if Midoriya's mere presence demands a physical acknowledgment.
Shinsou rises, forcing a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. The fakeness of his friendliness is deliberate, a thin veneer over the roiling emotions beneath. "Hitoshi Shinsou," he says, his voice carefully modulated to sound casual, almost friendly. "Aizawa was my uncle. I'm a student at UA too—in the general education course." The last part is said with just a hint of bitterness, a subtle dig at his own marginalized position within the hero academy.
His introduction hangs in the air, a challenge in its own right. There's an underlying current of "and who are you?" in his tone, a defensive posture that dares Midoriya to respond, to make the next move in this unspoken confrontation.
Present Mic watches silently, sensing the charged atmosphere between the two young men, each carrying their own complex relationship to the man they'd both lost.
Midoriya's response comes softly, his emerald eyes holding a weight of genuine remorse. "Izuku Midoriya," he says, then pauses. "I'm truly sorry for your loss. I wish I could have done more. I wish I could have saved him."
Internally, Shinsou's reaction is a sharp, cynical dismissal. Another hero-in-training offering empty condolences, another performative display of sympathy that means nothing.
"Saved him?" The words come out as a low, sardonic chuckle. "Right."
His eyes—sharp, analytical, carrying the same piercing intensity Aizawa was known for—scan Midoriya. Not with anger, but with a calculated assessment. A lifetime of being overlooked, of being on the margins, has made Shinsou an expert at detecting insincerity.
But something in Midoriya's gaze gives him pause. There's no performative grief here, no rehearsed sympathy. The emerald eyes carry a depth of pain that suggests lived experience, not rehearsed platitude.
Present Mic watches the interaction, recognizing the complex emotional terrain. He knows both boys intimately—their connections to Aizawa, their struggles, their potential.
"You think a simple 'sorry' changes anything?" Shinsou's voice is low, edged with a lifetime of accumulated frustration. "Heroes always say that. Always think words can fix everything."
Midoriya doesn’t flinch. He meets Shinsou’s gaze head-on, the soft glow of the altar’s candles reflecting in his emerald eyes. “No,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t.”
Shinsou’s lips curl into a bitter smirk, though there’s no humor in it. “Right. That’s what they all say. The shining heroes who swoop in, do their thing, and leave the rest of us to pick up the pieces.” He leans in slightly, his voice a venomous whisper now. “You brought that thing down like it was nothing. Nothing. And yet, here we are. Aizawa-sensei is dead.”
The accusation stings, but Midoriya doesn’t look away. His breath is steady, measured, though the pain in his eyes deepens. “I know,” he says softly. “I should’ve done more.”
Shinsou lets out a soft, derisive laugh, the sound bitter in the quiet space. “Should’ve done more? You did everything. That’s the problem, Midoriya. You’re too strong…too perfect” The words drip with sarcasm, but beneath them lies something raw—a mix of envy and grief. “You took that thing down like it was nothing, and you still couldn’t save him.”
Midoriya’s fists clench at his sides, his knuckles white. His voice doesn’t rise, but there’s an edge of steel in it now. “You think I don’t know that?” His whisper carries a weight that makes Shinsou pause. “You think I haven’t replayed it over and over in my head? That I don’t keep wondering if there was something—anything—I could’ve done differently?”
Shinsou’s sharp gaze falters for a moment, caught off guard by the depth of Midoriya’s words.
“I’m not perfect,” Midoriya continues, his voice trembling slightly now, though his resolve doesn’t waver. “I’m not some untouchable hero. I’m just... me. And every time I fail, every time I lose someone, it tears me apart.”
Shinsou scoffs, crossing his arms, though there’s less venom in his tone now. “And what? You’re gonna carry all that guilt, all that pain, and just... what? Keep pretending everything’s fine?”
Midoriya shakes his head. “No. I’m not pretending. I’ll carry it because I have to. Because if I don’t... if I let it go, then what’s the point? Aizawa-sensei’s sacrifice has to mean something.”
The words hang in the air between them, raw and unpolished. Shinsou doesn’t respond immediately, his sharp eyes studying Midoriya’s expression. There’s no bravado, no hollow heroics—just a quiet, unshakable determination that makes Shinsou’s anger waver.
Present Mic steps in then, his voice low but firm. “That’s enough, you two.” He places a hand on each boy’s shoulder, his usual exuberance tempered by grief. “This isn’t the time or place.”
Shinsou pulls back slightly, his gaze flickering to the altar where Aizawa’s photo sits surrounded by flowers. “Talk is cheap,” he mutters, though the bite in his tone has dulled. “We’ll see if you mean it, Midoriya.”
The Range Rover cut through the rain-slicked streets of Tokyo, its engine a low, persistent growl that seemed to consume the silence. Midoriya Izuku sat motionless, his lean frame pressed into the supple brown leather seat, emerald eyes fixed on the window where city lights dissolved into abstract streams of gold and white. Each streetlamp bled into the next, creating a liquid landscape of memory and pain.
Hitoshi Shinsou's words were razor blades, etched permanently into the soft tissue of his memory. "You're too strong, too perfect... and you still couldn't save him." Each syllable a precision strike, designed to wound where the armor was thinnest.
The memories came in violent waves.
The USJ. Fractured tiles. Aizawa-sensei's body—once a pillar of strength, now reduced to a broken collection of limbs and torn fabric. Blood pooled around him in dark, glistening tendrils, creating a macabre halo that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of lost potential. Midoriya's breath caught, a physical manifestation of grief so profound it threatened to shatter his very existence.
Too late. Always too late.
But it was the memory of his mother that truly broke him.
The convenience store was ordinary—fluorescent lights, linoleum floor, rows of packaged snacks and drinks. Ordinary, until the moment it wasn't. The villain moved with a predator's grace, blade catching the harsh overhead light. Inko Midoriya had been reaching for a bottle of water when he struck.
The first slash was quick, unexpected. A crimson line appeared across her forearm, bright and shocking against her pale skin. She didn't even have time to scream. The second strike was more deliberate, targeting her neck. Arterial blood sprayed across the white tiles, creating abstract patterns of violence.
Midoriya remembered bursting through the door, his small body trembling with a mixture of terror and desperate hope. "Mom!" The sound was more sob than word.
She was already dying when he reached her. Her green hair—the same shade as his—spread around her head like a dark halo. Her eyes, usually soft and warm, were wide and glassy. Blood bubbled from the corner of her mouth, each breath a wet, rattling struggle.
"Izuku," she tried to say, but only managed a bloody whisper.
The villain turned, blade dripping. He looked almost bored, as if killing was nothing more than a mundane task. Midoriya remembered freezing—a child confronted with a horror beyond comprehension.
His mother's hand twitched, reaching toward him. One final gesture of love. And then stillness.
Power had been his promise to himself. Strength would be his redemption. But what good was power if it couldn't protect the ones he loved? Each muscle, each hard-won ability felt like a mockery now—a cruel joke played by a universe that seemed to delight in his suffering.
The world outside the car blurred into streaks of pale light, fractured and distorted by the rain, a reflection of the chaos in Izuku Midoriya’s mind. His mother’s final moments played on an endless loop, vivid and unrelenting. The twitch of her fingers, the faint whisper of his name, the lifeless stillness that followed. The villain’s blade, slick with her blood, glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights. The mundanity of the killer’s expression. It wasn’t rage or joy or satisfaction—just indifference, as if her death meant nothing.
"What good is power if it can’t protect anyone?"
Izuku’s fingers tightened against the armrest of the car, his nails digging into the leather. His quirk, Event Horizon, was a cosmic joke, a cruel punchline in a story of endless tragedy. The limitless potential, paired with the omniscient clarity of the Watcher’s Sight—abilities that could bend the laws of reality themselves. He could erase threats before they even reached him, crush any enemy with a mere flick of his wrist, yet the faces of the dead continued to pile up.
At the USJ, his power had been absolute. The Nomu—a bioengineered monstrosity designed to kill All Might—had been nothing more than an obstacle to dismantle. His control over space itself had rendered its overwhelming strength meaningless, trapping the creature in a crushing, inescapable singularity. The fight had lasted minutes.
And yet, when the dust settled, the outcome remained the same. Eraserhead’s body had still been broken. His blood had still seeped into the shattered tiles.
Just as his mother’s had.
Izuku closed his eyes, his breath hitching as he leaned his head back against the seat. He could feel the weight of the quirk now, as if it were a physical entity coiled around his body, a snake tightening its grip. Event Horizon was the ultimate shield, the ultimate weapon, the ultimate power. That was what everyone said. That was what the Hero Public Safety Commission drilled into him during endless training sessions and missions.
“You’re unstoppable, Midoriya.”
“Society needs a Symbol of Peace like you.”
“With your abilities, villains don’t stand a chance.”
Empty words. All of it. What good was being unstoppable if the people around him kept dying? If the villains could carve through their lives like paper, leaving him standing amidst the wreckage with his useless, godlike power?
He opened his eyes, staring blankly at his reflection in the rain-streaked window. The face staring back at him was hollow, a pale imitation of the boy he used to be. He barely recognized himself anymore. The fire of idealism that once burned so brightly had been replaced with something colder, darker.
Hatred.
It was always there, simmering beneath the surface, sharp and unrelenting. It wasn’t just for the League of Villains, though they were the ones who fueled it most recently. It was for every criminal who had ever taken a life, every villain who reveled in destruction. It was for the system that allowed them to exist, that failed to protect his mother, his teacher, his classmates.
The League had taken Shouta Aizawa from them, and the world would never be the same. Aizawa wasn’t like his mother, though. His death wasn’t a cruel act of randomness, the way hers had been. The League had targeted him, planned it, executed it with ruthless precision. They had set their monstrous creation loose with the intent to kill.
And Izuku had killed in return. The Nomu had been annihilated without hesitation, its existence erased as easily as snuffing out a candle. There had been no time for mercy, no reason to hold back. He hadn’t felt anything in that moment—no satisfaction, no guilt. Only an empty, detached awareness that the threat was gone.
But the League was still out there.
Izuku’s hands curled into fists, his knuckles white with the effort. Event Horizon stirred within him, the limitless energy thrumming in his veins, a constant reminder of the power he wielded. He could end them all, he knew that. If he truly let loose, the League of Villains would cease to exist.
The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it felt like justice.
And yet, even that wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t bring Aizawa back. It wouldn’t bring his mother back. It wouldn’t erase the image of her blood pooling on the floor, or the sound of her final, broken whisper.
"Izuku."
His chest tightened, and he pressed a hand to his forehead, as if he could physically hold the memories back. The car felt suffocating now, the walls closing in around him. The low hum of the engine, the rhythmic patter of rain—it all seemed to mock him, a cruel reminder of how small and powerless he truly was.
He was the most powerful person in the room, in the city, maybe even the world. And he couldn’t save anyone.
The driver glanced at him briefly, his expression unreadable. “You sure you’re okay, kid?”
Izuku forced himself to nod, his voice barely audible. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
It was a lie, of course. But he had gotten good at those. Fine was a mask he wore because breaking wasn’t an option. Not when everyone was watching, waiting, expecting him to become the next Symbol of Peace.
But deep down, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it up. The hatred, the guilt, the self-loathing—they were all consuming him, piece by piece. And the more he tried to push them down, the stronger they became.
The rain intensified outside, a torrential downpour that mirrored the storm raging within him. Izuku leaned his head against the cool glass, his breath fogging the window as his mind drifted back to the central plaza of the USJ, and then further still, to the sterile light of the convenience store.
His mother’s hand, twitching, reaching for him.
Aizawa’s body, broken and lifeless.
And the villains who had taken them both.
He closed his eyes, his voice a whisper swallowed by the hum of the car.
“What’s the point of all this power… if I can’t save anyone?”
The car’s interior became a vacuum, a crushing, suffocating void. Izuku’s chest heaved, though no air seemed to fill his lungs. His mind replayed the moment at the USJ again and again—a cruel montage that grew sharper with every iteration. Blood pooling under Aizawa’s body. The Nomu’s grotesque, warped muscles twitching as it roared its defiance before Izuku obliterated it.
It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.
Memories bled into each other, disjointed and surreal. His mother’s face, pale and streaked with blood. Her body crumpled on the tiled floor of that convenience store. The scent of copper and rain. The villain’s bored expression.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the images only grew more vivid, etched into the darkness behind his eyelids. His head throbbed, the pounding echoing the rush of his pulse. Somewhere in the distance, he heard his own voice, whispering to himself.
"It wasn’t enough. You weren’t enough."
The rain battered the windows with a relentless rhythm, like a thousand accusing voices. Why didn’t you save them? Why didn’t you stop it? Why didn’t you do something?
He clutched his head, fingers tangling in his hair as his breathing grew erratic. The world outside the car faded into static, every sound dissolving into a white noise that pressed in on him from all sides. His thoughts spiraled, looping endlessly between the past and present, between his failures and his power.
Event Horizon. The strongest quirk anyone had ever seen. The power to reshape the world itself. And yet, it had done nothing for the people who mattered most.
He could see them now, standing just out of reach. His mother, her eyes warm even in death, a hand outstretched toward him. Aizawa, his expression calm, detached—accepting of his fate. Both of them looking at him, through him, with the same unspoken question.
"Why couldn’t you save us?"
The air felt heavier, the pressure of his quirk thrumming beneath his skin, threatening to spill out. He didn’t even notice the faint shimmer in the car as space itself began to distort, folding inward under the weight of his turmoil.
"What’s wrong with you?!" his mind screamed at itself, a cacophony of voices. His own, his mother’s, the villain’s. Each one cutting into him like a blade. "You have the power of a god, and you couldn’t even save your own mother! You couldn’t save Aizawa! What good are you? What good are you?!"
The thought came unbidden, sharp and cruel: Maybe they were right. Maybe you’re just a weapon. A tool for the Commission. Not a person, not a hero.
His chest burned, the weight of it unbearable. His body felt like a cage, trapping the power, the anger, the grief. The more he tried to contain it, the more it pressed outward, seeking release.
The world had demanded he be strong. The Commission had demanded he be perfect. And the villains—
They didn’t demand anything. They only
took.
They took his mother, her warmth, her smile, her whispered encouragements. They took Aizawa, his quiet strength and rare, piercing words of kindness. They tore holes in his life that no amount of power could fill.
But they wouldn’t take anything else.
The thought solidified, cold and unrelenting, cutting through the storm of his mind like a razor’s edge. His eyes snapped open, staring blankly at the rain streaking down the window. The distorted reflection staring back at him was no longer hollow. It burned with something fierce and unyielding—a hatred so deep it felt like a second heartbeat.
Villains. They were a cancer, a blight on the world. Their existence was a constant reminder of how fragile life was, how easily it could be destroyed.
He wanted to tear them apart. To end them so thoroughly that they could never hurt anyone again. Not him, not his classmates, not the people who still looked to heroes for protection. If the League of Villains wanted a war, he would give it to them. And he wouldn’t fight fair.
A single thought crystallized, cutting through his despair with chilling clarity.
"I can’t save everyone. But I can make them pay."
The distorted shimmer in the car faded as Izuku forced his quirk back under control. His breathing evened, though the storm within him remained. The driver glanced at him again, concern flickering across his face, but said nothing.
Izuku leaned back into the plush leather seat, his gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the rain. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms as his resolve hardened into steel.
This wasn’t about saving anyone anymore. It was about stopping the people who tore lives apart. Permanently.
The room was steeped in silence, save for the faint hum of the hospital’s central air system. The fluorescent lights above remained off, leaving Todoroki Shouto alone with the soft, uneven glow of moonlight that filtered through the half-closed blinds. The light cut pale streaks across the cabin walls, fractured bars of illumination that seemed to trap him in place.
In his right hand, he held a pocket journal, its worn leather cover cool against his fingers. The pages within were thick, nearly rough, and filled with furious notes. The writing was immaculate, as precise and controlled as everything he allowed the world to see. Yet the sheer volume of text, the chaotic crossings-out, the occasional puncture in the paper from an overzealous pen stroke, betrayed the storm roiling within his mind.
Shouto lay back against the hospital bed, his dual-colored eyes fixed on nothing in particular, as if staring at the ceiling might yield answers he wasn’t sure he wanted. The journal’s weight felt heavier tonight, as if the thoughts he’d confined to its pages threatened to break free.
It had been two weeks since he first encountered Midoriya Izuku, the enigmatic boy with white hair and a calm demeanor that bordered on unsettling. Their interactions had been brief, limited to the context of class or group exercises. On the surface, Midoriya seemed polite, reserved—someone who kept his distance.
But Shouto was observant. He had to be. Observation was survival, a skill honed in the suffocating shadow of his father’s expectations. And what he observed in Midoriya didn’t sit right.
The way the boy carried himself around UA spoke of a life lived under constant surveillance. It wasn’t just his measured posture or his soft-spoken demeanor. It was the way his eyes would flick to corners others wouldn’t think to check, the brief moments of tension in his jaw whenever he thought he wasn’t being watched.
And then there were the men in black suits.
Shouto closed his eyes, the journal resting on his lap. He could picture them clearly—sharp, formal, and conspicuously out of place on a campus like UA. They weren’t school staff. That much was obvious. Their movements were too calculated, their presence too deliberate. And what made it all the more troubling was that they only ever appeared when Midoriya was nearby.
Black-suited men always within a twenty-meter radius of Midoriya.
Never speak to anyone else.
Disappear the moment he’s out of sight.
The facts were there, plain and indisputable, but they weren’t enough to satisfy him. They weren’t enough to explain what Midoriya was—because Shouto knew he wasn’t just another student.
He remembered the USJ attack, the chaos of that day burned into his mind with excruciating clarity. The Nomu had been a nightmare—powerful, unrelenting, seemingly impervious to pain. Shouto had fought alongside Bakugou, Kirishima, and Aizawa, and even then, they’d barely managed to keep the creature at bay.
And then there was Midoriya.
Shouto’s grip on the journal tightened. He could still see it, the way Midoriya had torn into the Nomu like it was nothing more than a nuisance. The boy had dismantled it—no, destroyed it—with a precision and ferocity that made the hairs on the back of Shouto’s neck stand on end.
That wasn’t just power. It was control. The kind of control that came from years of training, from relentless discipline. No one mastered their quirk to that degree without guidance. Without someone pushing them, molding them.
Shouto flipped to a blank page, his pen hovering above the paper. The memory of Midoriya in the Central Plaza resurfaced—white hair wild, his eyes cold and calculating as he tore the Nomu limb from limb. He hadn’t just defeated the creature; he’d done it while keeping everyone else safe. Not a single bystander had been harmed in the brutal display.
Shouto wrote a single line: No one learns restraint like that on their own.
The words sat there, stark and damning. Shouto leaned back, the pen slipping from his fingers as his hand fell to his side.
The pieces were fitting together now, their edges jagged and uneven but unmistakably forming a picture he didn’t want to see. Midoriya’s quirk, his precision, his uncanny ability to operate under pressure—it all pointed to one truth.
Midoriya Izuku wasn’t just a student at UA. He was something else entirely. Something forged.
The moonlight shifted as clouds rolled past, casting fleeting shadows across the room. Shouto stared at the journal, his mind churning with possibilities, his chest tightening with unease.
The thought settled over Shouto like a heavy mist, suffocating in its quiet intensity. If Midoriya had been raised the way Shouto had—trained, molded, stripped of a childhood and refashioned into something else entirely—then the obvious question loomed, dark and inescapable:
Who had been the one behind it?
Shouto’s gaze drifted toward the blinds, the slivers of moonlight cutting sharp lines across the room. His fingers tapped absently against the leather cover of his journal, a faint, rhythmic sound that barely registered over the cacophony of his thoughts.
Training like that didn’t come cheap. It wasn’t something a lone individual could manage, not without considerable resources and influence. Quirk training required special licenses, state-approved facilities, and an iron grip on bureaucratic red tape. Add to that the unique accommodations Midoriya’s quirk likely demanded—it was a logistical labyrinth.
Whoever had orchestrated it hadn’t just invested money. They’d invested time, effort, and purpose. This wasn’t the kind of thing one did on a whim.
Shouto frowned, his thoughts swirling. If this was about creating a hero, a new pillar to replace All Might, then the stakes were astronomical. Whoever Midoriya’s backer was, they weren’t just ambitious—they were playing a long game, one that Shouto was only beginning to glimpse.
He leaned forward, flipping through the pages of his journal. There were no answers here, only questions scrawled in increasingly desperate pen strokes.
No connection to pro heroes.
That much he was certain of. If Midoriya had ties to the hero world, Shouto would have heard about it. His father, Endeavor, was nothing if not thorough when it came to cataloging potential rivals. He’d spoken at length about Ingenium’s younger brother, Tenya Iida, and the Yaoyorozu heiress, Momo. But Midoriya? His name had never once come up.
And that absence felt deliberate.
Shouto exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His mind turned over every interaction he’d had with Midoriya, every observation he’d made. The black-suited men, the way Midoriya carried himself, the eerie precision with which he’d dismantled the Nomu—it all painted a picture, but the artist behind it remained in shadow.
He flipped to a blank page and began writing. The pen moved swiftly, each word etched with deliberate strokes.
Possible backer: Yotsuba Corporation?
He stopped, staring at the words. It wasn’t much of a theory, barely even a hypothesis, but it was the only name that came to mind. The Yotsuba Corporation had its fingers in everything—real estate, technology, pharmaceuticals, weapons . And its CEO, Okabe, was a figure of quiet, enigmatic power.
Shouto had only met Okabe once, briefly, at a gala his father had dragged him to years ago. He remembered little of the man beyond his polite demeanor and sharp eyes. But now that he thought about it, there was something in Okabe’s face that seemed familiar—something that reminded him of Midoriya.
The connection was tenuous at best. A similarity in facial features wasn’t proof of anything. But it nagged at him, a splinter in his thoughts that wouldn’t go away.
He scribbled another note beneath the first: Weak theory. No supporting evidence.
Shouto sat back, his grip on the pen tightening. The more he thought about it, the more frustratingly opaque the situation became. There were too many variables, too many unknowns.
And yet, the puzzle demanded his attention.
He thought back to Midoriya in the Central Plaza, his white hair wild, his movements deliberate and deadly. Whoever had trained him had honed him into a weapon, just as Shouto’s father had tried to do with him.
But there was a difference.
Midoriya wasn’t driven by a desire to surpass anyone. There was no ambition in his eyes, no hunger for recognition. What drove him was something else, something quieter but infinitely more dangerous.
And that made him even more of an enigma.