Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The final bell screamed through the classroom like a mercy killing—sudden, shrill, and far too late.

Chairs scraped. Voices rose. The room spilled into motion like a cracked dam, students flooding out in waves of laughter and sneakers and backpacks slung too carelessly. The hallway swallowed them all, like it always did. All except for him.

Izuku stayed behind. Just like always. He told himself it was to review his notes, maybe get a head start on the homework. But that was a lie dressed in neat handwriting. The truth was quieter, heavier. He stayed because silence didn’t mock him. Because empty rooms didn’t sneer. Because when everyone else was gone, the air stopped pressing against his lungs so hard.

His notebook lay open on the desk in front of him—pages curled at the edges, scribbled with multicolored ink that bled into one another. Hero rankings in his rushed chicken scratch handwriting. Gear analysis covered in lines and question marks. Training stats written, then crossed out, then written again. It was a mess. But it was his mess. A thousand scattered hopes carved into paper, like if he just wrote enough, maybe he’d make himself real.

He scrolled through his phone with one thumb, calloused from holding pens too tightly. Blurry shots of this morning’s hero battle flickered on-screen—Mt. Lady mid-kick, half-loaded frames of destruction, angles taken from behind fences and rooftops. He absorbed them like scripture. Like maybe if he studied hard enough, he’d be good enough to be a hero too.

“Man. That fight from this morning is all over the news,” Izuku mumbled, mostly to himself. He turned his phone off and slipped it into his pocket. “Better write some notes down before I forget anything.”

He reached for his notebook, fingers brushing the corner, but before he could so much as lift the page, it was gone. Snatched. Yanked from his hands with the same cruel ease you’d use to swat a fly.

Kacchan stood over him, blue backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, one hand buried deep in his pocket, the other holding Izuku’s notebook up like a trophy. He was tall from Izuku’s angle—looming, chin lifted, neck stretched just enough to give him that air of arrogance. Those crimson eyes burned down at him, fierce and merciless.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doin’, Deku, but we’re not done.” His voice came like a blade dragged over bone—jagged, intimate, and painful in its familiarity.

Before Izuku could react, a voice joined from behind. “Whatchu got? His diary?” A dark-haired classmate slouched beside Kacchan, his backpack hanging off one shoulder like dead weight. His eyes were dull with boredom, but his smirk was sharp. Another student appeared beside him, sporting an undercut and the same wolfish grin, the kind that always promised trouble.

“Uh…” Izuku sat frozen in his seat, mouth slightly agape, words caught in his throat like glass. His eyes darted from his notebook to Kacchan’s face, then back again, as if searching for some kind of mercy.

The slouched classmate peered closer at the notebook in Kacchan’s hand, squinting like the scribbled pages were a foreign language. “Huh? Don’t tell me you’re taking notes on how to be a hero?” He said, voice dripping with disbelief. Then—laughter. Harsh, jagged. It cracked out of his mouth like something broken. “That’s so pathetic!”

“He’s delusional!” the other one added with a sharp grin, his voice brimming with mockery.

It starts with a single sentence. One Izuku has heard before—too many times to count. The kind that doesn’t make him flinch anymore, not because it’s lost its teeth, but because he’s learned how to bleed without making a sound. Words like that don’t land on skin anymore. They burrow. And by now, there’s nothing left to break that hasn’t already been splintered.

Izuku bolted upright, panic tightening his chest like a vice. He planted his hands on his desk, leaning forward as if urgency alone could undo everything. “Yeah, real funny, guys. Just give it back,” he stammered, voice higher than usual, shaky. He reached forward.

Kacchan didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he withdrew his hand from his pocket and gripped the notebook with both hands. His palms crackled, glowing orange with heat.

A sharp pop boomed in the room. An explosion snapped from the edges of the notebook. Ash and smoke spilled into the air, and the paper began to crinkle and blacken. Kacchan’s hair blew back slightly from the blast, a grunt escaping his throat. It wasn’t enough to obliterate it. Just enough to ruin it. To scar it. To make sure every page would reek of smoke and shame.

Izuku gasped, body jerking back like he himself had been struck instead. His shoulders shot up, his arms hovered awkwardly in front of him, trembling as he stared wide-eyed at the damage. “That’s so mean,” he whispered, voice small and raw.

Kacchan didn’t flinch. He just flicked the notebook over his shoulder to the window like garbage—eyes closed, as if Izuku wasn’t worth the effort of looking. The window was closed for once, so it just hit the glass with a dull thud before meeting the floor, but it didn’t change how Izuku felt one bit. That was the final push.

Izuku let out a sound—something between a choked sob and a cracked chicken’s war cry. It burst from his throat like his body couldn’t contain it anymore. Like the part of him that had been holding it all in finally snapped. But for some reason, Kacchan still didn’t stop.

“Most first-string heroes show potential early on,” He said, voice calm now, almost philosophical. Like this was a lesson he’d been dying to teach. “People look at them and just know that they’re destined for greatness.”

Izuku stood there, shaking. His face twitched like it didn’t know which emotion to land on—grief, fury, humiliation. His eyes shimmered, but didn’t fall. Not yet.

“When I’m the only student from this garbage junior high to get into Yuuei, people’ll start talkin’ about me like that. They’ll realize I’m legit, the next big thing.” Kacchan’s voice dropped, his smile widening as he tilted his head down, eyes shaded beneath his bangs. “That’s not ego talking. I just know I’m good.”

“Ego…” the slouched classmate sing-songed mockingly, dragging the word out like it was something sticky.

Kacchan stepped forward, the heavy thud of his footfall echoing in the near-empty classroom like a warning shot. Kacchan didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. He just placed a hand on Izuku’s shoulder with a smile. Casual, almost friendly. But Izuku knew better.

Then came another crackle. A flicker of heat, bright and sudden, hissed between them. Izuku gasped. A sharp, wounded sound punched from his lungs as every muscle in his body went rigid.

Smoke curled into the air, gray and acrid, rising from the spot where Katsuki’s palm met the fabric of his uniform. It stank of scorched polyester and something worse—burned skin. Izuku’s knees buckled, just barely. He caught himself white-knuckled, breathing in shallow, rapid gulps like he was trying not to scream. His temples were slick with sweat. His spine arched like he could pull himself away from the pain, but Kacchan held firm. Just enough brand pressure. Just enough heat to make sure he’d remember.

And the worst part wasn’t the agony of the burn. It was the closeness. The way Katsuki always had to be right there when he broke him. Breathing the same air. Sharing the same space. Like every act of cruelty had to be personal. Like he wanted Izuku to feel it not just in his skin, but in his soul.

“Here’s a little word of advice, nerd.” The smile widened. That wolfish, sunlit grin that used to mean something else. Now it was a razor hidden in honey. The voice dipped low. Soft. Sweet. The kind of mockery that didn’t need to shout to kill. “Don’t even think of applying. Or else.”

Izuku stared at the hand still pressing into him as smoke rose and disappeared into the air. His jaw moved, opened, closed—searching for something to say, something to hold onto. But all that came out were fractured breaths. Half-sobs. Choked sounds that didn’t know if they were trying to beg or fight. Static. Glitching fragments of someone who used to believe in words.

And still, Katsuki didn’t flinch.

“That’s just sad.” The voice came from behind. Izuku didn’t turn to see who said it. He didn’t need to. “I thought you at least had some fight in you.” Their footsteps began to fade as they moved toward the door.

“He finally gets it. He’ll never be a hero. Better to find out now instead of later, I guess.” Their voices faded like smog, drifting down the hallway and dissolving into nothing. Laughter echoing just long enough to leave bruises.

Izuku didn’t move. Smoke still curled off his shoulder in thin, lazy ribbons. The scorch mark on his uniform sizzled softly, like it was whispering the truth to him. A hiss. A hush-up.

The sting of burnt fabric mingled with the raw heat of skin gone red, bubbling under the pain he couldn’t show. His hands hung by his sides—useless, trembling. His fingernails bit into his palms. He couldn’t tell if it was from rage, or helplessness, or both.

But the worst part? He didn’t argue. Didn’t shout. Didn’t scream. Didn’t even cry. He just stood there and took it. Like always. Like that was all he’d ever been good at.

At the edge of the classroom, just before the doorway swallowed him whole, Kacchan stopped.

He didn’t say anything at first—just turned, slightly, like an afterthought. Like something unfinished. His chin dipped a little, fiery eyes sharp beneath the golden tangle of his hair, catching the light like a blade catching the sun.

“Y’know,” he said, tone bored, offhand—like he was talking about the weather. “If you really wanna be a hero that badly, there actually might be another way.” It was said too easily. But the pause that followed wasn’t. Too long. Too pointed. Too deliberate. It hung in the air like a noose, waiting.

Izuku didn’t look up. He didn’t look behind him. He didn’t need to. That voice crawled into him like static, vibrating in the spaces between his ribs, buzzing beneath his skin. It clung to the bones of old wounds, stirred the ghosts of every insult he’d swallowed like medicine he was supposed to be grateful for.

Izuku could already see Kacchan’s face in his mind. That curl of his lip, sharp and mean, a grin made of knives. Half a sneer. Half a dare. The kind of look that said, “You’ll never be anything more than this.” Izuku already knew it by heart.

He knew the way Kacchan stood when he was trying to hurt you on purpose—spine loose, stance wide, like the surrounding space belonged to him and only him. Like he didn’t just own the room, he owned you, too. Owned your silence. Owned your fear.

“Just pray that you’ll be born with a quirk in your next life,” Kacchan said, too casually. Like the punchline to some cruel joke only he was in on. “Then take a swan dive off the roof of the building.”

The silence that followed was deafening, only broken by a chuckle.

It cut through Izuku like frostbite. Not loud. Not cruel. Just amused. As if Izuku was the punchline. Like he was the fool who hadn’t figured it out yet. Like this was all just a game and he was still playing it, not knowing it had ended years ago. Not knowing he’d already lost.

And something inside him—something small, something already splintered—cracked again. Quieter than a bone. Softer than a breath. But deep. His throat tightened, a lump swelling where no words would form. His lips parted slightly, like he might speak, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t sound pathetic. Nothing that would matter to someone like Kacchan. Someone who used to be his best friend. Someone who used to laugh with him. Not at him.

Izuku’s chest felt like a dying star—collapsing inward, heavy with shame, the gravity of failure dragging everything down with it. His limbs buzzed with static, nerves flaring uselessly, like his body wanted to run, to fight, to do something—but he just stood there. Frozen yet burning.

The back of Izuku’s eyes prickled, a burning sensation he swallowed down and blinked hard—pushed somewhere deep, somewhere unreachable. He wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not again. But the feeling didn’t dissolve. It settled in his stomach, heavy and sour, coiling tighter with every snicker, every whispered word half-caught at the edges of his hearing. It wasn’t just sadness, it wasn’t just fear. It was something sharper, something hotter—a flicker of something he didn’t dare name—pressed so far down it felt like a stone in his gut.

He wanted to move. To do something. His muscles screamed for it—to flinch, to run, to speak—but the weight in his chest pinned him in place, a silent anchor. He stayed still. Rigid. Like a cornered animal playing dead, hoping if he didn’t move, they’d lose interest—hoping the moment would pass him by like it always did.

His jaw ached from how tight he was holding it. His hands, stiff at his sides, twitched—just barely—but enough for his fingernails to bite into his palms. He couldn’t unclench them. Didn’t want to.

The classroom fell silent around him—and somewhere beneath it all, buried so deep it barely felt like his own, was a thought.

Small. Quiet. Bitter. It festered deep inside, where Izuku would never dare to glance.

Izuku’s body remembered what his heart pretended to forget, the burn forming on his shoulder, the way Kacchan’s words always knew where to cut. He remembered being four years old with hero figures and bright eyes, looking at Kacchan like he hung each and every one of the stars. He remembered smiling with him.

And then he remembered the silence that followed when Kacchan’s quirk exploded to life and Izuku’s never did—and how everything changed after that. How Kacchan didn’t look at him the same way anymore. Like Izuku had shrunk. Like he had no right to exist next to someone like him.

Izuku’s breath caught in his throat, sharp and shallow, like his lungs had forgotten how to pull in air without pain. His shoulders tensed so tightly they shook, every muscle strung up like wire, stretched to the edge of snapping. His jaw locked, teeth grinding so hard it felt like his molars might crack, like the pressure in his skull was trying to force its way out through sheer force alone.

Slowly—mechanically, like his bones might shatter from the effort—Izuku turned.

His eyes were wide, glassy, bloodshot—not from tears, but from the sheer strain of holding them back. From the silent fury clawing at the edges of his vision. From the humiliation burning under his skin. His pupils were blown, not with fear, but with the dizzying pressure of too much. Like his body couldn’t decide whether to scream until his throat bled, or crumple to the floor and never move again, or do something to everyone who ever hurt him, just so they could understand how they made him feel. He didn’t know what he would do, but he would at the very least do something.

Izuku’s brows knit together so tightly they cast deep shadows over his face, every inch of it trembling, raw, exposed. His lips pulled downward in a twitch of something between disgust and heartbreak. His nose scrunched in a reflex of rage too exhausted to fully bloom. It was all there on his face—every shard of him, every bruised and beaten thought clinging to the last thread of composure he had left.

He wasn’t crying. Izuku refused to cry. But he was bleeding all the same—just from places no one could see.

And there Kacchan was. Spine straight, arms crossed, popping sparks from his palms so casually as if he wasn’t trying to threaten Izuku. His crimson eyes narrowed, watching Izuku like he was waiting for a reaction. A flinch. A whimper. A plea.

“Something wrong?” he said, feigning innocence. Smirking. Like he didn’t just say what he said. Like he hadn’t been saying it since they were nine.

And still—Izuku didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

His heart screamed inside his chest, trying to claw its way out through the cracks in his ribs, but he said nothing. Because what was there to say? What words could he possibly offer that hadn’t already been chewed up and spit out by years of silence?

So Kacchan scoffed. Turned. Walked out. His footsteps echoed against the tile floor, louder than they should’ve been. Each step sounded like something closing. Like the lid of a coffin. Like the ending of something that Izuku didn’t know how to mourn. And Izuku was left alone, in a room that still smelled like chalk and burnt ozone.

The sun outside had dimmed just enough to stretch shadows across the floor. He stood there in the half-light, heart splintering in his chest, feeling like a photograph left in the rain. Faded. Forgotten. Warped beyond recognition.

Izuku stood there, alone in the dying light of the classroom. The windows were closed. The breeze didn’t come. The world was too still, too sharp around the edges. His fingers curled tight around the strap of his backpack, knuckles white. His chest ached—not like heartbreak, not anymore. It was something quieter than that. Something rotting.

He moved. Slowly. Methodically. His body, tired, followed the motions on instinct, but there was no real intention behind it. Izuku’s fingers were numb as they curled around his charred notebook, the pages smudged with ash, the edges curled and singed from Katsuki’s explosion.

He lifted it without thought, his hand trembling just slightly. It felt heavier than it should have, like it was pulling him down rather than lifting him. As if the very act of holding it reminded him of everything he would never be able to change.

He stood, lifting his backpack with the same dull effort, the straps feeling like they were cutting into his shoulders as he swung it over his shoulders. The weight of it wasn’t just the textbooks or the pens or the scraps of paper—it was the weight of failure, the weight of something crushing him from the inside out.

Izuku felt like he was being pulled upward, but not with any sense of purpose or drive. No. His body was like a puppet, strung up by invisible strings soaked in rain. They were heavy, wet, and they weighed him down, dragging him forward in a kind of half-motion, as though his mind was too far behind to catch up with his body.

The classroom felt eerily quiet around him, as if the world had paused to let the moment settle into his bones. The window at the end of the room—the one Kacchan always flung open with a kind of reckless abandon to toss his crumpled notebooks or lunch wrappers or whatever else he deemed unworthy—was shut.

The sight of it, so small, so simple, sent a sharp sting through Izuku’s chest. It was such a mundane detail, yet today, it felt like a symbol of everything he’d lost.

Nothing had been thrown outside that window today. Nothing to retrieve. Nothing to chase. No reason to cut through the park on his way home to watch the stray cats by the pond, no reason to find something to distract himself from the weight of the silence. No strange, unpredictable twist of fate that could delay him long enough to keep him from facing what awaited him outside these walls. And that… that was the worst part.

Because today, the world gave him nothing to hold onto. Nothing to break the monotony of his empty existence. Just the quiet, and the emptiness that pressed against his chest with each step.

Izuku walked out of the empty classroom, down the hallway, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the stale air. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their dull hum the only noise in the stillness. As he passed the bulletin board, the faded fliers tacked up like forgotten memories, he could hear the sound of his own breath, too sharp, too loud in the silence.

His feet shuffled past the lockers—the same lockers that never bore his name, the ones that always stood as silent witnesses to the fact that no one ever really saw him.

He walked past the stairwell, the science lab, the vending machine with the faulty button that always made him wait twice as long for the same stale chips.

Everything about this place was familiar. Every corner, every chipped tile, every classroom door. But the familiarity didn’t bring comfort. It just made him feel smaller. It made him feel as if there was nowhere to escape to.

And as he walked, he found himself passing the spot where he used to wait for Kacchan before school. It was the place they’d meet every day—before everything changed. Before Kacchan got his quirk and his confidence bloomed like wildfire. Before he started ignoring Izuku and only seeing him as someone unworthy of being in his shadow.

It was all so clear now, how quickly it had happened. How quickly he had gone from being Kacchan’s best friend, someone worth protecting, to a nobody. A joke. A reminder of what Kacchan had left behind when he outgrew him.

But it didn’t last, did it? That kind of friendship never does. How could it?

Not when the other kids started whispering. It’s always "Bakugou’s gonna be a great hero," and "He’s so strong.’" Praises passed around like a game of catch, easy and constant. To be fair, Izuku wasn’t any better with the praise. He’s sure he’s probably eighty percent responsible for the huge ego Kacchan has today.

Izuku’s name rarely came up—almost an afterthought. And when it did, it was only ever a passing question, like someone felt obligated to fill the silence.

‘What about that kid with him over there? Midoriya?’

There was always a pause. A shrug.

‘Oh… he’s just quirkless.’

And that was it. A brief flicker of acknowledgment before the subject changed, swallowed by the next wave of excitement about Kacchan—his latest win, his newest feat, the endless possibilities of what he’d become.

The laughter that sometimes followed wasn’t loud or cruel—it didn’t have to be. It was quiet, effortless, like a sigh. Dismissive in a way that hurt more than mockery ever could.

Because the worst part wasn’t what they said about him. It was how little they said at all. And Kacchan never stopped them. In fact, slowly but surely, he began to join them.

Until then, Izuku had never known that shame could be a living thing. He hadn’t known it could slither into your skin, fill your veins with ice, and settle in your chest like a cold weight that never quite leaves. He hadn’t known that friendship, once so pure and whole, could sour so quickly, so completely, until you were left standing in the wreckage, wondering how you hadn’t seen it coming.

Now, as his shoes clicked softly against the linoleum floors, the sound was deafening in his ears. It felt like a countdown, the steps a reminder of how much further he had to go before he could be free of this place—of this constant reminder of failure. As he passed each piece of this school—each piece of his life—felt like a heavy weight, each one a constant reminder of how he’d never be enough. How Izuku was always second best, always the one left behind.

And yet, even in the face of all this, even as everything he thought he knew about himself crumbled away, Izuku didn’t look up. He didn’t look around. He kept his eyes focused straight ahead, his hands still clutching onto his backpack as if it could somehow hold him together, as if it could protect him from the relentless truth that was taunting him at every turn.

Izuku walks alone. He likes it that way.

The city is quiet in places like this—tucked between alleys, behind the noise. Here, no one watches him. No one notices the way he walks, the way he holds himself. Here, he can be nothing. A flicker. A shift in the corner of his vision. A breath he doesn’t hear.

Izuku’s footsteps echo in the stillness. Rhythmic, steady and slow. He’s been walking down this road for years. It’s familiar, comforting. It’s a shortcut, one he’s taken a hundred times before, a path he knows like the back of his hand. The cracks in the pavement seem deeper in the dark.

The spray paint on the walls bleeds into the shadows. The streetlamp hums, flickers—just like always. Except tonight, it feels like it’s gasping for breath. the same flickering street lamp that’s always one pulse away from dying, though it never really does.

He’s lost count of how many times he’s passed this way, weaving through the slivers of sunlight that fall between the buildings. He could do it with his eyes closed. It’s automatic, easy. He’s alone, and that’s fine.

Sometimes, Izuku just wants to be alone. Wants to be away from the noise, away from the people. Away from the eyes that see him differently, the ones that notice the odd way he carries himself.

His fingers move across the screen of his phone with practiced ease. Another text from his mom, probably asking if he’s on his way home yet. Another reminder to be home on time, not to worry her. Izuku texts her back, reassuring her that he’s on his way. She always worries too much.

The smell of oil and rust hangs in the air, mixed with the faint scent of wet concrete. It’s a smell that’s not entirely unpleasant—an honest kind of scent, like the world around him is breaking down, decaying in its quiet rhythm. This is the city of Musutafu, its heartbeat pulsing in rhythm with its own. It’s just the way things are, and that’s okay with him. It wasn’t like there wasn’t any other choice anyways.

The streetlamp overhead hums—a fragile, broken thing—clinging to life with a quiet, electric rasp. Its light flares and falters, each unsteady flicker spilling shadows across the cracked sidewalk. They stretch long and thin, like ghosts unraveling in the dark—faint, fleeting, and forgotten the moment they slip beyond the glow.

This is a place for no one, a place forgotten by the rest of the world. It’s ugly, quiet, unremarkable. Safe, in its own way.

And so, he walks—mind adrift in the comfortable, mindless lull of the familiar. His fingers scroll over the screen, swiping through distractions that feel like a temporary escape. Izuku’s textbooks press into his back like an unyielding weight, their dull edges digging into his spine, always there to remind him of what’s expected, what’s demanded of him.

But today, none of it matters. Today, it’s just noise. The thought of going home to his mother’s cooking lingers in the back of his mind. Kastudon, if he’s lucky. It’s predictable, safe, simple. Just another evening. Another meal made with care. Nobody makes Kastudon quite like Midoriya Inko.

For a moment, the weight of the day lifts. The world feels small, contained within the walls of his home.

Then—fingers like iron clamps around his face. Cold. Rough. Unyielding. Izuku jerks, chokes, but the breath is already gone.

They clamp over his mouth, dragging him back into the present with a force that shakes the quiet from his bones. Reality crashes in, jagged and real. This is happening. But what is happening?

The fingers dig into his skin, not just a touch but a command. Iron-shackled, unyielding, they clamp down like something forged in a furnace of fear and hatred. There is no softness here. No hesitation. Only violence. Only possession.

Izuku’s breath catches. His lungs protest, suffocating beneath the weight of it, his body too slow to react. For a heartbeat, he’s frozen, the taste of his own air stolen from him, as if he was never meant to have it in the first place.

The hand doesn’t belong. It’s foreign—wrong—and his body reacts before his brain can catch up. Muscles tighten. Legs jerk. But it’s too late. Too fast. The ground shifts beneath him like it’s been pulled out from under his feet, and suddenly everything twists. The world tilts off its axis, warping into something sharp and unfamiliar.

He’s dragged backward, stumbling as his heels scrape across uneven concrete, catching on cracks and discarded rubble. There’s no rhythm to it. Just unadulterated chaos. Blind, brutal panic.

Izuku’s phone slips from his hand. It hits the ground with a soft crack, the screen shattering into a thousand useless pieces. The light flickers once—fading. Gone.

His body trembles, slowly, as though trying to hold on. But his thoughts are already scattering, breaking apart like glass. His bag crashes against the floor. He tries to scream, but the hand is too tight, stealing his voice before it can even leave his throat.

Izuku’s thoughts shatter. Where is he going? What’s happening to him? Why is this happening? But the questions are meaningless. There are no answers in the dark. There is only the pull—unrelenting—toward a place the light doesn’t reach. The alley is tight, suffocating, the buildings on either side leaning in too close, like they’re trying to hide what’s about to happen. Like they’ve seen it all before.

The air changes. It thickens, turns heavy with rot and mildew and something older, sourer—something like blood left too long in the rain. The cold closes in, not the kind that prickles your skin, but the kind that sinks deeper. The kind that gnaws at your bones.

Izuku’s weak legs are trembling now. Useless. His body is turning traitor, locked in place by terror so consuming it burns. It’s animal, primal. Chanting for Izuku to run, run, run—but there’s nowhere to go. His limbs won’t listen. His heart is trying to escape through his ribs. He can feel it trying to crawl out of him.

The shadows swell, and they eat him alive. The panic is so loud it drowns out the rest of the world. He can’t hear the street anymore, can’t hear cars or footsteps or voices of people passing by. It’s just breath. Just movement. Just the heat of someone else’s body behind him, colder than it should be, fingers biting into his face, his chest, his arms like hooks.

The world becomes distant. Muffled. Like he’s underwater.

No.

Like he’s dying.

Izuku’s back slams into a wall. A shock wave tears through him—jarring, brutal. Pain explodes through his spine, radiates up into his neck, into his skull. Stone scrapes his shoulder raw, rips at his uniform and the skin beneath it. The breath is knocked out of him in one violent burst. His lungs gasp but catch on nothing. There’s no air, no space. Only pressure. The wall behind him and the weight pinning him in place. A hand still over his mouth. Another pressed flat against his chest like a warning. Like a promise.

Move, Izuku’s brain whispers. Move. Move. But nothing responds. His limbs are sluggish, his muscles made of wet sand, lead-heavy and uncooperative. His nerves scream, his brain fires command after command, but it’s like the signal’s getting lost somewhere between terror and defeat. His fingers twitch, barely. His legs feel like they’re tied down by invisible wires, like something inside him has already decided. It’s over.

Something is building in the back of his throat. Something thick and sour and awful. It’s not just vomit, not just fear. It’s memory. And oh god, not now. Not here. Because this—this feeling of being nothing—isn’t new. He’s lived with it. Grown inside it.

It’s the echo in the classroom when someone makes a joke at his expense and no one laughs—but no one stops it either. It’s the sting in his knees when he’s shoved too hard and his notebook splays open in the mud. The little doodles of heroes bleeding ink into the dirt while Kacchan and the others walk away, laughing like it’s just another Tuesday.

It’s the heat in his cheeks when he stands in front of the mirror at night, practicing how to look normal, how to make his smile seem confident instead of cracked. It’s the voice in his head that’s always told him he wasn’t enough. The voice that was starting to sound more and more like Kacchan every passing day.

He remembers meeting Kacchan for the first time—just two kids in preschool, still small enough that the world felt too big and their worries too soft. They were both quirkless back then, and it hadn’t mattered. Not yet.

Izuku had been sitting on the edge of the sandbox, fists full of gravel, eyes bright with curiosity, when Katsuki had stomped over in light-up sneakers and announced to the entire playground, “I’m gonna be the number one hero!”

Izuku had blinked up at him, wide-eyed with childish wonder. ‘Me too!’ He’d said, grinning so hard it hurt his chubby freckled cheeks. ‘We can be heroes together!’ And Katsuki had smiled back, just a little—sharp and crooked and full of fire. Back then, it had felt like enough.

They became inseparable after that. Two little kids with scraped knees and big dreams, racing each other down sidewalks, playing pretend with towels and blankets for capes, leaping off swing sets like they could fly. Izuku used to draw them as a hero duo in his notebooks. ‘Kacchan and Izuku!’ And Katsuki never corrected him.

They were best friends. Until they weren’t.

Katsuki’s quirk came in a blaze of sparks and gunpowder. Izuku had clapped the loudest that day. Had run up to him, eyes shining, practically vibrating with excitement.

‘Whoa! That’s so cool! Kacchan’s amazing!’

But something changed after that. Something subtle, then sharp. Kacchan’s smile started looking more like a sneer. His high fives turned into harsh shoves. And it got worse when Izuku’s quirk still never came in.

He stopped waiting for Izuku to catch up when they ran. Stopped answering when Izuku called his name. Started looking at him like he was a bug clinging to his heel. Like he was something pathetic.

And Izuku—he didn’t understand. He tried harder. Held on tighter. Kept drawing those hero duos in the margins of his notebooks, even as Katsuki burned the pages in front of him. He thought if he just smiled enough, if he just believed enough, he could bring things back to how they were. Back to when they were just little kids playing heroes together and everything was simple and kind.

But Kacchan didn’t seem to want that. And so Izuku became a shadow. Trailing behind him down the hallways. Taking the hits and the insults and the sneers and telling himself it was fine. ‘He’s just going through something, it’s not his fault. He’s still my friend underneath, right?’

And maybe, somewhere beneath the rage, pride, and fireworks, Katsuki did remember. But it didn’t stop him from pushing Izuku off the jungle gym that day. Didn’t stop him from standing at the top, looking down with those cold, furious eyes and saying, ‘Why don’t you crawl back into your little hole, Deku? It’s where you belong anyway.’

Izuku remembers the way the words hit harder than the fall. How the laughter of the other kids felt like static in his ears. How the pain didn’t start in his knees or his elbow but in the pit of his stomach—deep and ugly and coiling.

He’d gone home that day soaked in mud, a raw scrape bleeding through the knee of his pants. His mother had gasped when she saw him, but he’d smiled through trembling lips and told her how he slipped. How it was nothing.

Then he locked the bathroom door. And he’d thrown up until his throat burned and he couldn’t breathe. Curled up against the tile floor like a crumpled piece of paper, wondering why it hurt so bad just to be who he was. Wondering if maybe Kacchan was right. Wondering if maybe he was useless.

He remembers the fluorescent lights of the doctor’s office. How sterile they felt. How small he was in that chair, hands in his lap, swinging his short feet in excitement before the doctor said the words with no weight in his voice. ‘You should probably give up on being a hero.’

He remembers his mother’s face, tight with sorrow, tears spilling as she apologized over and over, ‘I’m sorry, my sweet Izuku, I’m so sorry.’ Like it was her fault. Like it hadn’t already broken something in him. Like he hadn’t already known.

He remembers staring at All Might’s video that night until the battery on the laptop died. He remembers whispering, ‘Even if I don’t have a quirk… I can still try, right?’

He remembers silence answering him back.

All of that—it’s pressing down on him now.

Not just the cold concrete biting into his spine. Not just the iron hand crushing his face. It’s everything. All the years of being nothing. All the times he smiled too wide just to hide the crack beneath it. All the swallowed sobs and tight-throat apologies for existing wrong.

Of course he couldn’t be a hero. How is he gonna save others if he can’t even save himself? Why can’t he do anything? Why does it feel like all the pain he’s ever felt is curling in on itself, pooling in his chest, in his throat, in his lungs, turning every breath into ash? Why is he still weak?

Izuku wants to scream, wants to shove, wants to fight back, but all that escapes him is a pathetic wheeze. No power. No strength. Just a boy who dreamed too loud and dared to hope in a world that never made room for him.

He thinks of his mother again. How she’ll worry when he doesn’t come home. How she’ll call his name over and over like it’s a spell that might bring him back. How she’ll fold the laundry and pause, waiting for the sound of the door that never opens.

He thinks of the way she pulled him in after school the other day. ‘You smell like fried food,’ she laughed, pressing a kiss to his temple, ‘Were you near that Takoyaki cart again?’ And Izuku nodded, smiled, and pretended that the bruises under his sleeves didn’t ache.

He thinks of All Might. Of every grainy video and late-night rerun. Of every time he’d clung to the hope that maybe—just maybe—someone like him could matter someday. That even if he didn’t have a quirk, his heart might be enough.

But now, pressed against this alley wall, gagged by a stranger’s hand, and drowning in the kind of terror that turns your veins to ice, he realizes. It was all a lie. Heart doesn’t save you. Hope doesn’t stop the knife. Dreams don’t mean anything when you’re face-down in the dark. He is going to die here. Just some quirkless nobody in a forgotten corner of the city. No final words, no hero’s sendoff. Just blood on concrete and a broken phone screen and the world continuing like he was never in it.

And the worst part? Somewhere, deep down, some part of him still thinks he deserves it. Because he wasn’t strong enough. Because he never was.

Tears well in his eyes—not from pain, not yet—but from the understanding sinking in too fast. No one is coming. No All Might. He isn’t here. No heroes. They’re busy doing better, more important things. No friends. Did he even have any, really? There was no one coming to save him. He’s not special. He’s not the protagonist of anything.

He’s just Izuku. Defenseless Izuku. And Izuku is scared. Izuku is alone. Izuku is going to die in an alley that no one even knows the name of.

His nails scrape at the hand on his face, weak and frantic, desperate. His legs try to kick, to move, to escape. But they barely twitch. His body is already giving up. Already surrendering.

He doesn’t want to die. Not like this. Not alone. Not forgotten. He’s too young. He’ll never get to know if things get any better. But the grip doesn’t loosen. He doesn’t move from the wall. And his heart—still hammering, still trying—beats like it’s breaking itself apart just to be heard. Just to be alive.

A glint. The flash of something metallic in the dim light. His heart skips a beat, and for a split second, the world sharpens into focus. It was a knife. Not a weapon meant for show, not a sleek, sharp thing designed for some dark ceremony. No. It was a rusted, ordinary kitchen knife, the kind someone might take from their drawer and use for either cutting up their dinner or something terrible.

It’s just a knife, but in Izuku’s mind, it’s everything. It’s everything he should’ve known was coming, and still. He’s too slow to understand.

There are no words. No threats. No warning. Only the soft hiss of fabric shifting in the dark. The rasp of breath, cold and close. The glint of steel catching the faint flicker of a broken street lamp.

Izuku feels the kiss of frozen metal against the delicate skin of his throat. And it slides. Not fast—not clean. Not some swift, merciful cut. It’s slow. Measured. Like the hand holding the knife is savoring the way flesh parts under pressure.

He hears it. That sound. The wet, grating tear of muscle and sinew, like paper soaked in water. A raw, awful gurgle claws its way from his throat before he can stop it—before he even understands what’s been done to him.

His body spasms. Jerks. The nerves in his neck light up like firecrackers. Agony sears down his spine, radiating outward until it eats up every inch of him. He doesn’t scream—he can’t. The sound curdles in his throat, choked off by the blood already pouring from the gash, warm and syrupy, too much, so much. It gushes over his collarbone in thick, steaming rivulets, soaking his chest, his hands, painting the alley floor in strokes of red that shimmer like oil.

His legs buckle. His knees hit the ground with a sickening crack. His body crumples, sinking into the cold, unfeeling ground beneath him. There’s nothing left but the weight of the world pressing down on him, suffocating him with its indifference. It sways, lurches sideways and all the color bleeds out of it like the blood bleeds out of him.

The taste of copper floods his mouth, thick and bitter, coating his tongue like rusted iron. He tries to breathe, but there’s no air, only the slick heat of his own life sliding back down his throat. Every heartbeat sends more blood gushing out, pumping faster, harder, like his body’s desperate to empty itself. His fingers claw at the pavement, slick with his own gore, useless, twitching like dying things.

His vision blurs. Splinters. The world stutters into fragments—faces he knows, voices he loved, flickering past like dying stars. His body is collapsing in on itself, heavy and hollow.

A husk of a boy that was already slipping away.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders not why, but how it all came to this. How he ended up here, alone in the dark, with the world spilling out of his throat. He opens his mouth, and only more blood and silence falls out.

He tries to scream. He tries to call out, but nothing comes. Only the taste of iron, thick and choking, filling his throat, and the weight of his own life slipping away. Everything slows. The world, once so loud, so full, becomes distant. Cold. Empty.

And then, just like that, it stops. The last beat of his heart shatters the silence as everything turns into nothing.

The alley is still. The air, thick with blood, lingers like a memory no one will ever remember. The flickering street lamp continues to hum, indifferent to the life it just watched burn out.

And Midoriya Izuku is gone. The world doesn’t stop. It doesn’t care. And in the end, all that’s left is silence. A soft whimper, lost in the unfeeling night, swallowed by a city that will never know his name.

The criminal exhales, stepping into the blood.

No hesitation. No recoil. Just a steady, unbroken stride as their boots sink into the thick, congealing pool, grinding crimson into the fractured pavement.

It isn't careless. It isn't an oversight. It's deliberate—an act of quiet desecration, pressing the remnants of life into the filth until it is indistinguishable from the grime of the city. Until it is nothing. Until Midoriya Izuku is nothing.

The sound is sickeningly soft. A faint, wet squelch, magnified by the silence, by the sheer absence of breath, of struggle, of anything that could call this place living. It shouldn’t matter—it’s just a footstep—but in this vacuum of noise, it does. It’s obscene, the way it settles into the space where Izuku used to be.

The last remnant of him, leaking out onto the street. A slow, rhythmic patter from the gash in his throat, droplets still falling, long after there is nothing left to hold them in. A final, dying heartbeat, echoed only in the blood that refuses to stop spilling.

The criminal doesn’t look down. Doesn’t acknowledge the mess, the reek of iron thickening the damp air, the way the metallic tang curls at the back of the throat. They only crouch—methodical, mechanical—and unroll a sheet of plastic. Black. Thin. Glossy. The kind used to line trash cans or seal windows in abandoned homes.

It rustles softly. The sound is wrong. Too domestic, too mundane—like the crinkle of a grocery bag, the whisper of tarp at a picnic. It belongs to a world of normalcy, of errands, of thoughtless routines. Not here. Not next to cooling flesh and blood still wet on the ground.

And yet, here it is. A scrap of plastic, unrolled with the same ease as wrapping leftovers. As if Izuku is already being packed away. As if he was never here at all.

Izuku lies there, twisted and slack, his limbs sprawled in a way that feels too casual, too careless—like a marionette discarded mid-performance. His strings weren’t just cut; they were ripped apart, leaving him half-posed, half-forgotten, his body caught between the last moment of life and the finality of death.

His neck wound gapes, a deep, red grin carved too wide, the skin ragged where the blade dragged just a little too long, a little too slow. The blood no longer gushes, no longer pulses—there’s no heart left to push it forward. Instead, it leaks in slow, exhausted drips. A tired, reluctant surrender. A quiet protest against the inevitable.

The criminal doesn’t speak. Doesn’t grunt with exertion, doesn’t mutter to themselves, doesn’t even sigh. Just silence—thick, absolute. It stretches out, pressing in, gnawing at the edges of the alley, at the thin, fragile space between the body and the world. Between what was once Midoriya Izuku and what is now just this—a husk, hollow and leaking.

And then, the hand comes back. It isn’t careful. It isn’t reverent. The grip is firm, fingers sinking into blood-slicked skin, warm and viscous, still fresh. But the flesh beneath is already losing its heat, slack and heavy, the weight of something no longer tethered to itself. Izuku’s head tips, jaw unhinged, the gaping wound at his throat still open, still waiting, a silent scream that never got the chance to escape.

The criminal doesn’t let go. Instead—something shifts. There’s no crackle of energy. No bright, dramatic display of power. No violent tremor in the air. The quirk moves like oil—thick, slow, seeping. It bleeds from the criminal’s palm into the open wound, dark and insidious, spreading not over skin but through it, sinking deep, further than death should allow.

It doesn’t attack the body. It doesn’t need to. It slips past flesh and bone, past cooling marrow, reaching deeper, grasping for something untouchable.

And then—it pulls. Not a yank. Not something anyone could see. But a pressure—deep, sickening, wrong. A dragging sensation, something being gathered, something unraveling. It tugs at the center of Izuku’s being, curling around invisible threads, unwinding them strand by strand, peeling them apart, separating what should never be separated.

Something deeper than blood. Something vital. Something that was once whole. And now never will be again.

If Izuku’s heart was still beating, maybe he’d thrash. Maybe he’d claw at his own throat, nails scraping against skin in a desperate, primal attempt to fight the wrongness slithering through him. Maybe he’d scream—not from pain, but from the unbearable sensation of splitting. A feeling that isn’t just suffering, but something worse. Something impossible.

Like being peeled apart from the inside. Like watching himself come undone, unable to stop it. But there’s no struggle now. No breath to hitch, no voice left to cry out. Just the criminal’s slow, deliberate grip, fingers pressing into still-warm flesh, as if holding something fragile in place. As if bracing for the inevitable.

It’s not a clean break. It’s a rip. Silent, yet brutal. The quirk tears into Izuku, not through flesh or bone, but through something deeper—something that was never meant to be touched. There’s no wound to see, no visible carnage, yet the violence of it is absolute.

A gut-wrenching sensation of rending, of something whole being forcibly wrenched into two jagged, uneven halves. It’s not a single cut, not a simple split—it’s like a cord snapping under unbearable strain, like the slow, agonizing tear of fabric pulled too far, threads fraying, unraveling beyond repair.

And the criminal feels it. The precise moment Izuku’s soul—his self—unspools. The exact second it gives, unable to hold, unable to fight against the quirk’s relentless, unyielding pull.

And with it, relief. It rushes in, deep and all-consuming, blooming in their chest like a long-held breath finally released. Like scratching an itch buried so deep beneath the skin it had almost felt like a sickness. A hunger, gnawing and endless, finally sated. The tension eases from their fingers for just a moment, almost reverent, almost savoring. This is what they’ve been waiting for. Not just death—not just flesh yielding to the blade—but something deeper. Something fundamental. The breaking of something that should never have been breakable.

And Izuku—or rather, what’s left of him—feels it, too. Not fully. Not in any way he could name. But there’s a flicker—some last, dying ember of him that seems to know.

A final awareness, fleeting and fragile, of what’s being taken from him. It’s like watching his own reflection shatter from the inside out, the pieces sliding apart before he can even grasp what’s been broken.

And then—there they are. The halves. The criminal sees them. Not with their eyes, but with something deeper, something attuned to the unnatural. They waver like heat distortions, like shadows stretched too thin, flickering and fragile as if they might dissolve at the slightest breath. Overlaid onto Izuku’s still body, yet separate. Wrong.

One side is pale, trembling—a guttering ember struggling against the dark. It curls inward, clinging, as if it knows what it’s lost. A fragile, wounded thing, barely holding shape. This half is raw with feeling—thoughts, emotions, the very essence of being flickering weakly, but still there. The part that cared, that ached, that dreamed. A soul still reaching for something, still trying to be whole.

And the other is less. Dull. Hollow. Like something vital has been scraped from it, leaving behind only the outline of a person. No warmth, no weight, no spark. Just a shape emptied, a husk where something once lived.

This is the shadow left behind when all else is stripped away. Blank. Wrong. The part unburdened by the drag of empathy, of love, of fear. It stands in eerie stillness, unfeeling, as if waiting for something it no longer has the capacity to understand.

And between them, there’s the ache. It festers, unseen but felt, a raw and gaping wound carved through the center of what was once a boy. A rift, not clean or smooth, but jagged and weeping with the sheer unnaturalness of its existence. It should not be. It should not be.

The criminal’s grip tightens around Izuku’s throat, fingers pressing into blood-slicked skin—not in violence, but in something closer to fear. As if the pieces might try to crawl back together. Might resist. Might fight to become one again.

But they don’t. They can’t. The damage is too deep. Too precise. Too final.

And just like that, Midoriya Izuku is no longer whole.

The criminal lets go.

Izuku’s head lolls to the side, neck yawning open—a gaping, red mouth frozen mid-scream. Blood seeps into the concrete beneath him, but it feels irrelevant now, like the true violence has already been done. The body—limp, leaking—is merely an aftershock, a hollow echo of the real brutality: the unseen, unnatural rending of a soul torn in two.

Plastic rustles. A crinkle, a whisper of artificiality against cooling flesh. Izuku’s body is wrapped and folded, a thing broken, a thing discarded. But something lingers. It clings to the air, heavy and wrong. The ripples of a severed soul. The ache of a wound too deep to ever close. The silent, gaping horror of a boy who never even got the chance to understand what was happening to him.

And for the first time in a long while, the criminal exhales. The itch—the one buried so deep it had become a part of them—has finally been scratched.

The first movement is too smooth. Too practiced. There’s no hesitation, no reverence, just cold, mechanical efficiency. Like they’ve done this before. Not once, not twice—but so many times that a human body is no longer a person, just a puzzle. A thing to be arranged. Packed away.

Izuku’s arm is lifted—still warm, but already cooling too quickly. As it moves, his fingers curl slightly, a last, empty twitch of muscle memory, a meaningless echo of life.

The criminal doesn’t pause. Doesn’t react when those fingers, slack and thoughtless, graze their wrist—like Izuku might be reaching. For what? For who? But there’s nothing left behind those fingers. Just nerves misfiring, the last pathetic sparks of a machine shutting down.

The arm bends back too fast, too hard—Pop. A sharp, wet dislocation. It’s an ugly sound, one meant to stay inside the body, not escape into the open air. Yet here, it’s swallowed by the alley’s stillness. Devoured by the city like everything else.

The second arm follows just as easily, twisted and pressed against the first. Crossed stiffly over Izuku’s chest like a mockery of a burial rite. But there’s nothing sacred in the motion. No gentleness. No grief.

This isn’t a funeral. It's packing. A mechanical arrangement of limbs, folding him down into something smaller. Manageable. Disposable. A life—reduced to something that can be wrapped up, tied off, and folded away.

Blood drips onto the plastic. It’s slow, methodical, a steady rhythm like the ticking of a death clock. Each drop, too bright against the black, is a vivid little burst of red—an explosion of life that shouldn’t be there, blooming across the glossy surface.

Thin, spidery lines spread outward, twisting like veins, as the plastic shifts under Izuku’s weight. The blood pools along the edges, collects in the folds like liquid trapped in the creases of a forgotten painting—streaking, spreading across the surface in a pattern almost intentional. Like art made from the remnants of a person who once dreamed, who once hoped, who once was.

But the criminal doesn’t care. They work around the blood, never pausing, never wiping it away. It stains their gloves, their boots, the hem of their coat—but it doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters. Izuku is no longer Izuku. He’s a thing now. A deku. A body, a burden, something to be discarded. A piece of trash.

The criminal folds the plastic over him with a sharp, precise motion, sealing the broken boy inside. His blood smears between the layers, staining the black as each side is pulled tight. Izuku’s head lolls with the motion, the neck wound widening slightly, oozing one final, thin stream of red that streaks across the tarp before vanishing into the folds. His hair—once vibrant, once alive—is dull now, flattened, stuck to his forehead. Strands cling to the dried blood on his cheek.

When the criminal hoists the wrapped body onto their shoulder, it’s lighter than expected. Dead weight always feels lighter than it should. As if the absence of life leaves something behind—like a soul weighs more than a body ever could.

Izuku’s frame—once tense with fear, with fight—now dangles limp, leaking. A hollow sack of flesh and bone, encased in black plastic. The criminal shifts their weight, adjusting the load.

The sound is a quiet thing, creeping under their skin. The plastic groans with every movement, a high, thin creak, like the sound of a dying breath held too long. It’s not loud, not really—but in the suffocating stillness of the alley, it might as well be a scream.

The blood trapped in the folds makes a sickening, sticky sound, a faint squelch with every shift of the criminal’s step. It clings, like it doesn’t want to let go, like it’s still trying to hold on—even when the boy it belonged to can’t.

But the criminal doesn’t react. Doesn’t shudder. Doesn’t even glance down. They move with the same cold, mechanical precision as before, each step dragging Izuku’s body further from where he died.

And behind them—almost an afterthought—there’s a trail. A broken, fractured line of blood, a quiet red thread smeared along the cracked pavement. It starts back where Izuku fell, where his neck was torn open, where his soul was ripped in two. A place that no longer belongs to him.

The trail stretches down the alleyway, jagged and irregular, interrupted by the criminal’s careful pauses—like a heartbeat skipping between beats.

No one notices. No one notices how the blood seeps into the cracks in the pavement, darkening them like veins, like they’re bleeding too. No one notices how the trail falters, stutters, every time the criminal adjusts their grip—sharp jerks in the trail, where Izuku’s shoulder dragged, or his head lolled too far to one side. No one notices how the crimson fades the further they go, thins to a faint whisper, already drying, already fading into the concrete. Already being forgotten.

The dumpster is old. Rotting wood and rusted metal. Half-collapsed against the alley wall like a broken jaw. The lid groans as the criminal shoves it open, its hinges shrieking in protest before falling into a sullen silence. Inside, the stench of decay rises—wet cardboard, spoiled food, something too far gone to identify. But none of it matters.

Izuku’s body—folded, broken, empty—isn’t too heavy after all. The criminal tosses him in like he’s nothing. The thud is dull, hollow. Izuku’s body lands with a soft scrape against the rotting wood, the plastic whispering as it shifts. The blood—what little still seeps from his neck—paints the dumpster’s edge as his body settles.

His head tilts just so, a sliver of pale skin—his cheek, his jaw—pressing against a pile of discarded papers. It stains the edges red, a stark contrast against the forgotten mess.

And still, there’s that trail of blood behind them. A thin, broken thread leading from the place where Izuku died to where Izuku will be forgotten. Unnoticed. Thin. Broken. Like him.

The criminal stands there for a moment, staring down at the mess they’ve made—the plastic-wrapped body crumpled among the garbage, discarded like refuse. There’s no satisfaction, no remorse. Only the slow exhale of someone finishing a task, a breath that dissipates in the cold air.

Their quirk hums faintly in their bones, an aftertaste of the soul-split still lingering, an ache that stretches deep into their core, like an old wound that refuses to heal. It’s not painful—not yet—but it’s there, an unshakable presence, a reminder that something has been broken.

The dumpster lid groans one last time, then slams shut. A hollow, final sound. Above, the street lamp flickers weakly, its light sputtering in uneven bursts. It casts long, broken shadows across the alley walls, jagged and fractured, as though the very darkness itself is crumbling. The blood on the concrete darkens, seeps into the cracks, slowly becoming indistinguishable from the grime that has long stained the streets.

The air remains still, suffocating in its silence. The iron tang of spilled life lingers, but it’s uncaring, unmoved. It’s the scent of a world that’s seen it all before, that has forgotten how to feel. This is just another night. Another death. Another life reduced to nothing.

The city doesn’t notice. The alley will forget. The blood will dry, fading into the cracks of time, erasing any trace of what happened here. And the world—indifferent, unknowing—will keep spinning.

But somewhere, in the unseen place where Izuku’s soul has been torn in two, something still lingers. Something wrong. A wound that goes deeper than death itself.

The air feels heavier now. Not with grief—because no one is here to mourn Izuku—but with absence. A hollow silence that clings to the night, thick and suffocating, as if the very fabric of the world has been strained. It echoes, not because it’s loud, but because it’s wrong. It should not be this empty.

And then the night devours it all.

Back home, Midoriya Inko waits.

The silence in the apartment presses in, heavy and suffocating. It doesn’t settle quietly into the corners or hum gently beneath the sounds of the city. No, it clings to the walls, thick and unwelcome, creeping into the air like smoke, curling and twisting until it coats everything.

The kind of silence that doesn’t just fill the space. It invades. It weighs on her chest, each second heavier than the last. She breathes in shallow gasps, the effort of it sharp, as though the air itself is thickening with the minutes slipping by.

The ticking of the clock grows louder, each second a thud, a reminder that time is passing, moving further and further from when Izuku should have walked through that door.

Dinner sits on the table, untouched, cooling in its own quiet way. The miso soup no longer steams, the thin broth a dull reflection of the overhead light. The rice, once fluffy, now clumps together in stiff, unyielding mounds.

It feels wrong. The food looks like it’s waiting for something—for him, for life, for movement. But it’s stagnant, still, just like the apartment. The two pairs of chopsticks rest beside the plates, one neatly beside hers, the other beside his. The small gesture—a detail she’s never thought twice about—feels like a wound, sharp and raw. It’s a reminder of what’s missing.

She hasn’t touched it. Can’t. Not yet. Because Izuku always comes home. Always.

Her fingers hover near her phone, the screen glowing faintly in the dim light. One more time. She presses his name, waiting for the connection, for the familiar voice to break the silence. The phone rings once, twice, then goes straight to voicemail.

Her thumb hovers over the “end call” button, the silence now thick, suffocating. She presses it anyway. The cheerful recording on the other end feels too bright for this moment. Too warm for the chill in the air. It makes her throat tighten, but she dials again.

Once.

Twice.

Then again.

The phone rings once, twice, and then the voicemail picks up, like a quiet slap across her face.

"Hi! You’ve reached Midoriya Izuku!" The cheerfulness stings.

She ends the call without hearing the rest, without letting his voice finish its bright, familiar greeting. It’s too much.

But he’s fine. He has to be fine. Maybe he’s just busy. He could be stuck with a teacher or lost track of time talking with a classmate. Maybe his phone died. Maybe he’s just running late. Izuku always comes home. Always.

The clock ticks on. Another minute, then another. Then another. By midnight, the food remains as it was, untouched. The soup cools further, a thin skin forming on the surface. The rice, dry and brittle, seems to mock her.

She stands by the table, her hand gripping the edge, knuckles white. The chopsticks are still in place, still set for two, as if she could pretend, just for a moment, that the meal was never meant to be eaten alone.

It’s not a late night. It’s not just a misplaced phone call. It’s something else. Something worse.

By morning, his shoes remain by the door, neatly tied, just as they always were. The bed is made, his blankets pulled tight, as if he left in a hurry but made sure to tidy up. His toothbrush still rests, untouched. Dry. She stares at it.

The small, insignificant details. His shoes, his toothbrush—just like they’ve always been. But now they feel wrong. The shoes that he always kicked off by the door, always leaving in a rush. The toothbrush that he always left wet, the bristles soft, still moist from his early morning routines. But now, everything is dry. Neat. Untouched.

Her hand shakes as she dials his number again.

Once.

Twice.

Straight to voicemail.

“Hi! You’ve reached Midoriya Izuku!”

The cheerful message grates against her. It’s a ghost of him. Not his voice, not his warmth, just the hollow echo of someone pretending.

She ends the call, the phone slipping from her fingers as if she’s been burned by it.

His shoes. His toothbrush. The rice. The soup. Everything in the apartment is exactly as it was last night—frozen in time. But everything feels wrong. Too wrong.

She dials again.

Once. Twice.

Straight to voicemail.

Again. And again.

Her thumb is numb now, her pulse thudding in her ears, each ring mocking her with its steady rhythm. Why isn’t he answering? Where is he?

Each time the voicemail picks up, she feels like she’s drowning. Like she’s being pulled under, deeper and deeper, by the weight of his absence.

She doesn’t let the phone drop. She can’t. If she stops calling, if she lets the silence wrap around her, then it becomes real. Then it becomes final.

So she calls again.

And again. And again.

Until the ringing fills her ears, until his voice, too bright, too alive, becomes a distant echo in her mind. Until the sound of it, the familiarity of it, feels like a betrayal.

And she knows, with a certainty that burns in her chest, that this isn’t just a late night. This isn’t just a misplaced phone. Something’s broken. And she doesn’t know how to fix it. The dread slithers in, cold and quiet. Where is he?

And she can’t stop dialing. She won’t.

Not yet. Not ever.

No one notices at first.

The bell rings, the halls hum with the usual mix of half-hearted chatter and clattering footsteps, and the day begins like any other. Routine. Unremarkable.

The teachers don’t bother counting heads. No one checks for missing faces. Why would they? It’s just Izuku. The quiet, forgettable nerd who blends into the walls like a shadow. The one who trips over his own feet and fills his notebooks with irrelevant hero facts no one cares about.

But then, on the fourth day, someone does notice. A teacher skims the attendance sheet, pausing ever so slightly when they reach Midoriya Izuku’s name. Their pen hovers above the empty box, the silence in the room thick enough to cut.

And then a student pipes up, half-laughing, half-forgetting. “Where’s Deku?”

The words fall flat at first. Almost as if the question doesn’t matter. But then another student shrugs, a low voice cutting through the chatter. “He’s always here. Where is he?”

It spreads like a slow infection.

"Did you hear about Midoriya?"

“Huh? Who is that?”

"Didn’t show up today."

“Who cares?”

"Wasn’t he kinda weird?"

The words slither through the air, soft at first, like the rustling of dry leaves in the wind. Then they grow louder, more insistent. They gather strength, feeding off each other like wolves circling a wounded animal, hungry for blood, hungry for something to latch onto.

At first, it’s just a murmur. A hushed exchange, barely more than a rumor. But with each passing second, the whispers stretch out, weaving into a more insidious tapestry. They coil tighter, tightening their grip around the room.

They become a story—a story no one fully understands, not yet—but everyone wants to understand. Everyone wants to fill the empty space with their own version of the truth, their own ideas of what’s happened to Midoriya Izuku. The whispers twist and curl, infecting the air like a disease that no one knows how to stop.

Katsuki hears them. He doesn’t even try to. It’s impossible not to. His mind registers them before his body does. It’s like his ears are too sensitive, like every word reverberates through his skin, scratching against his bones, clawing its way into his chest.

The words claw at him, tearing into his ribs like talons, scraping over the delicate tissue beneath. Every syllable lands in his stomach, heavy, a dead weight, a thick stone that drags him down. His jaw locks so tight, the muscles trembling beneath his skin, that he fears his teeth might crack under the pressure.

But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch. His body goes rigid, frozen, like he’s been caught in the center of a storm that’s too fierce to outrun. His fingers curl into fists, but it doesn’t help.

The heat in his chest rises, an uncomfortable burn that doesn’t soothe. It smolders beneath his skin, an itching kind of pain that doesn’t go away.

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t move. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, fingers curled into fists so tight the tips of his nails bite into his palms. Blood wells at the edges, the slow sting a welcome relief. It’s better than thinking. Better than feeling.

Because this is just Deku. The stupid, quirkless nerd who probably ran off to cry somewhere. Sniffling and whining about some pointless shit that no one cares about. He’ll show up. He always does.

Whether it be with his eyes red from crying or rambling about some hero trivia no one asked for. He’ll apologize, and Katsuki will shove him and call him a dumbass for worrying anyone. Right?

The thought doesn’t finish. It dies in his chest, crushed by the heat rising there. The kind of heat that doesn’t warm. It burns.

The whispers continue.

“Maybe he just ran away.”

“Couldn’t take it anymore, huh? Quirkless, and all.”

"People like him… they break easily."

And then, the shift.

"Y'know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he offed himself.”

Katsuki’s world blurs white hot, and for a moment, he can’t breathe. The explosion is silent, no sparks or noise—just the hollow, suffocating rush of blood pounding in his skull. His ears ring, the pulse loud and erratic, drowning everything else out.

What the fuck do they know?

His teeth grind so hard it feels like they might shatter. His nails sink deeper into his palms, the sharp, burning pain a welcome distraction from the ache crawling through his chest. Something—some voice—wants to claw its way out, but he shoves it down. Deep. All of it. Down.

Why the hell do they keep talking about stupid ass fucking Deku?

His pulse hammers in his throat, each beat louder than the last. Each whisper feels like a jagged stone thrown into the silence. His ears buzz with a noise that’s almost unbearable, a white noise that’s louder than anything they could say.

The laughter that follows only makes it worse. It's the same cruel kind of laughter, the kind that’s always been directed at him. At Deku. At whoever was kid that was too weak, too pathetic to matter.

And yet—there's something different about this. Katsuki doesn’t know why it stings so much more today. Maybe it’s the way the words seem to follow him, chasing him down the hallway, sticking to him like tar. Or maybe it’s the way everyone else’s voices are louder now, sharper—like they know something he doesn’t, and they can’t wait to tell him.

But it’s not just the words themselves. It’s the way everyone seems to be leaning in now, waiting for someone—him—to react. They’re looking at him, studying him like they expect something. Maybe they expect him to smile and crack a joke. Maybe they want him to get mad, to throw a fit. Maybe they want to see if they can break him.

He can feel their eyes on him like heat against his skin, the silent pressure of a dozen stares crawling across his back. It’s as if the world is holding its breath, waiting for him to flinch, waiting for him to show that he cares. Waiting for him to show weakness. He knows exactly what they expect from him.

He buries it. All of it. He locks the fire away in his stomach, where it can coil in on itself, a quiet simmering rage. He makes it look easy. Like his ribs aren’t crushing against his lungs, like his heart isn’t beating too fast. He knows how to play it, how to make it look like he’s above it all, like it doesn’t bother him—because it doesn’t. It shouldn’t. It never has.

Katsuki leans back in his chair, slow, deliberate. His movements are almost lazy, but there’s an undercurrent of something colder, something dangerous that hums beneath the surface.

He shifts his weight, the creak of the chair breaking the tension, but it doesn’t release the tightness in his chest. The air feels too thin, like it’s suffocating him, pressing against his ribs, forcing every breath into something shallow and strained. He doesn’t let it show.

His lips curl into a sneer—sharp enough to cut glass, jagged, like a blade drawn across skin. It’s a smile for no one. For nothing.

“Good riddance,” he mutters, the words dripping out like venom. They’re deliberate. Cold. Calculated. A small, sharp jab—meant to slice through whatever softness might be left in the room. It’s a blow, quick and painless to him, but he knows it’ll sting for them. The intent is clear. The message is simple: I don’t care.

And for a moment, the room is frozen. The air thickens, heavy, like it’s been stuffed with cotton. Time stretches out like rubber, pulling the moment longer than it should, until it’s unbearable. The silence is deafening, a pressure that builds, waiting for something—anything—to shatter it. And then, like a snap of a rubber band, it breaks.

They laugh. It’s not a surprise. Of course they do.

Because when Bakugou Katsuki speaks, people listen. When he sneers, they smirk. When he hurts, they twist the knife deeper, drawing out every drop of discomfort. He’s the one they fear now. The one they crave to provoke.

It wasn’t always like that, though. Not too long ago, they used to laugh behind his back, sneer when he wasn’t looking, when his temper was just something to poke at, to get a rise out of. Back then, his rage was something to toy with. Something they could push to the edge and watch spill over like an unstoppable force. But that was before he realized how to fight back.

Before he learned that if you strike first, they don’t get the chance to hurt you. If you take control, you become the one who breaks them, not the other way around. And now, they’re the ones who step carefully, who hesitate when his eyes narrow, because they know how quickly a smile can twist into something far worse. They know the cost of pushing him too far.

But even now, the memories linger—sharp, searing, like a hot brand pressed against his skin. The whispers in the halls. The laughter that followed him everywhere, cutting through his thoughts like a knife through soft flesh. It had always been there, lurking at the edges of his consciousness, waiting to spring forward and remind him just how fucking weak he’d once been.

“Bakugou, get the hell outta the way!” a voice sneered.

He could still feel the sting of the words, the feeling of being pushed aside, made to disappear into the shadows, like nothing more than an annoying fly buzzing around.

They hadn’t always feared him. No, back then, when his quirk had been nothing more than an unpredictable spark, they’d treated him like the joke he’d been—the kid with the stupid explosions, too loud, too brash, and too easy to pick on.

“Bakugou’s just a weak ass freak with a stupid quirk. He’s nothing. You see how bad he messes up? Hah, it’s hilarious,” another voice taunted.

The laughter echoed in his mind, their faces twisted in mockery. He remembered being younger, trying his best to be something more, to show them that he wasn’t just the explosive screw-up. But it never worked. No matter how much he pushed, no matter how hard he fought, it was never enough. He was nothing to them.

Except now, that same laughter was a distant memory, a cruel reminder of how far he’d come—or how much farther he still had to go. The pain from those days had shaped him, made him who he was now. That pain was something he could use, something he could bury deep down, twist into something useful.

But the memory of it still hurt. The rawness, the sense of helplessness, the feeling of being small in a world that felt so big and unforgiving. He wanted to crush those memories, make them disappear forever, but they clung to him like cobwebs, fragile but suffocating.

In moments like this, when they can feel his rage simmering beneath that calm, hard mask, they feed off it. It’s like a game to them now, the dangerous dance of pushing him to the edge, watching him bristle, waiting for him to snap—but it’s different now. They’re not in control anymore. He is.

But Katsuki doesn’t laugh. Not like them. He doesn’t crack a grin or ease into the discomfort of it all. He doesn’t react. His gaze stays fixed on the thin red marks smeared across his palm, the crescent-shaped indentations carved by his own nails.

The blood is dark, staining his skin in stark contrast to the usual white-hot fury that blazes in his chest. The sting is sharp and real, immediate. A pain he can control, something that’s his.

His thumb traces the jagged edge of one cut, over and over, as if the act of feeling it might anchor him, might remind him that some things are still within his grasp.

His eyes never leave the marks. They’re small, insignificant—no one else would even notice—but to him, they’re all he has right now. All that’s left in a room full of hollow laughter and twisted smirks.

Katsuki doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. Not even when his pulse spikes, when the urge to lash out simmers just beneath his skin. His hands tremble slightly, but not from fear. No, it’s a different kind of tremor—a fight against something he can’t control. But the pain, the blood, the sting—it’s his to feel. And right now, that’s enough.

He lets the silence stretch again, a subtle warning this time, before he pushes himself up from the chair. The scraping sound of metal against the floor cuts through the lingering tension. He doesn’t say anything more. Doesn’t need to. They already know.

He doesn’t need to hurt them. Not yet.

But the thought lingers. And somewhere deep inside, that’s what makes the sting of the cuts a little more tolerable.

But as the whispers get louder, something in his chest shifts. It’s not anger. It’s something worse. Discomfort.

A crack that widens with each passing second, like a fissure in concrete, and he feels it stretching down, down, until it’s twisting its way through his insides. His heart stutters, and for a split second, Katsuki isn’t sure where he is anymore.

His hands are still clenched in his pockets, blood still trickling from the crescent-shaped cuts his nails have left in his palms.

He can’t seem to let go of the pain. It’s the only thing that’s real, the only thing he can focus on. Focus on the pain, he tells himself. Don’t let them see anything. Don’t let them see you care.

But there’s a voice, soft and almost lost in the noise, that rises up in his head. It’s a whisper, a familiar voice, one that feels like it’s been buried for far too long.

It sounds like Deku. Like the way his voice broke when he said something stupid—something Katsuki said, once upon a time—that made him feel like crap.

It’s the way his words used to twist, always stammering, always trying too hard to be something he wasn’t. But then it turns dark and twisted. And it’s asking all the questions he doesn’t want to hear. A discomfort that gnaws at his insides.

It’s a feeling he’s never quite been able to name, but it presses against him all the same. It's the cold realization that this—this waiting, this absence of Izuku—has become something more than just an annoyance, something more than just Deku being late or disappearing for a day. There’s a deep, unsettling weight in the pit of his stomach, something darker than just a flash of irritation.

And for a split second, he lets himself wonder—what if something really is wrong? What if he’s not just being stupid, and Izuku’s actually hurt, or worse, gone?

The thought is like a wound opening up in his chest, but he slams it shut before it can bleed any further. He doesn't care. He won’t care. He can’t.

His breath comes out sharp, his knuckles tightening around the edge of his desk. He knows this feeling too well. This is the kind of vulnerability that people like him—people like Deku—don’t get to have. He can’t let it show. He can't let anyone see it.

The bell rings again, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts, the flood of panic momentarily buried by the rush of the classroom emptying. The noise of students flooding the hallways is just background static now, a buzzing hum that he drowns out.

His thoughts don’t stray far from Izuku, though. He’s been missing for days—days that should’ve been filled with awkward stumbles, rambling hero speeches, and those ridiculous grins of his.

But there’s none of that.

Katsuki grinds his teeth again. His chest feels too tight, the air too thin. Dammit, why does this hurt so much?

He’s not going to go looking for him. Izuku’s a pain in the ass, always getting in the way, always dragging him down with that stupid, pathetic hero dream. He’s better off gone.

So why does the thought of something really happening to him make Katsuki’s insides twist and coil like that?

“Bakugou,” a voice interrupts his thoughts, harsh and sudden.

Katsuki doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. He doesn't have to.

“Class is over. You’re just gonna sit there all day or what?” the voice teases.

It's his teacher, his overly energetic, perpetually optimistic teacher, trying to shake him out of the funk he knows Katsuki's in. He wants to ignore him, wants to stay angry—wants to hold onto the bubbling rage because it's easier than confronting whatever the hell this is.

“Shut up,” Katsuki mutters, pushing his chair back and standing up. He glances over at his blood-streaked palm one last time, the sting suddenly distant, and rubs his fingers over it. The moment is gone, buried under layers of anger, frustration, and something else—something he’s not willing to face right now.

His feet carry him out of the classroom, and for a moment, his eyes flicker to the halls, but no one’s really looking for him. No one cares where Deku went. No one even remembers the kid the way they should.

But he does. He always will.

And somewhere, deep in his gut, he knows he’s lying to himself if he thinks he won’t go looking for him soon.

Chapter Text

The space smothers them, pressing in from all sides—tangible, suffocating. It coils around every thought, every breath, until reality itself unravels. The air is wrong, too thick to inhale, too dense to move through, as if existence is folding in on itself.

Time doesn’t slip away—it dissolves, unraveling like thread pulled from an unfinished tapestry. No movement. No rhythm. No pulse. Just an absence so vast, so absolute, it devours the very concept of existence.

This is not a place of life. This is not a place of death, either. It is something in between. Something wrong. And yet, somewhere within the expanse, a faint flicker of awareness stirs. It is small—insignificant at first—but it grows, crawling and unwinding like smoke. 

It’s not Izuku. Not his awareness. It’s something else. 

There, within this unnatural stillness, a spark flickers. Tiny at first, almost imperceptible, like the first crack of a splinter in an otherwise unbroken surface. It grows, unwinds slowly, a hesitant awareness, something—or some one —awakening. But it’s not whole. It’s fractured. It’s two.

The two presences shift—not through motion, not in any way that follows logic. They stretch and distort, flickering at the edges of perception, as if they are not bound by space but by something else. 

They were bound, tethered to each other, but now separated—fractured halves of a whole, left adrift in this place that shouldn’t even exist. They are broken, neither knowing how they came to be here, nor why.

The space around them distorts, as if it can’t even hold them properly. It’s wrong. Utterly wrong. No air. No sound. No color, no shape. It is nothing, yet it is everything. A silence that grates against the soul, an absence that distorts everything it touches. A place that should not be.

There is a faint hum. Something just beyond the reach of the senses. A vibration, a pulse, but it’s distorted, fading, barely there. The world—or what remains of it—shudders, a faint tremor in the fabric of existence. It is as though the very essence of reality is beginning to unravel, thread by thread.

Time is forgotten. The weight of nothingness presses against them, closing in. And yet, it is not an empty void. It is filled with something—something nameless. It is the weight of being. But what does it mean to be here? What does it mean to be at all, in a place where time has no shape and nothing has a name?

One presence feels the crushing weight of confusion. A crushing pressure, like the walls of reality are closing in, but nothing makes sense. There are no answers, only the feeling of wrongness. 

The other—this second presence—feels something darker. Something sharp, like the cold scrape of a blade against bare skin. There is anger here. Rage. A bitterness that hangs heavy, pulling at the edges of their fractured soul. 

The pieces of them—the echoes of what they were—drift aimlessly, searching for something they can never find. A flicker of a memory dances at the edges of their consciousness, but it is fleeting, slipping away like water through fingers. The silence swallows it up, along with everything else.

And still, the emptiness presses against them. Not with force, but with existence itself—an oppressive, relentless force that has no shape, no voice, no name. Every inch of it screams that this is not where they belong. No person should ever be left to float in such an unnatural existence. 

It is not the afterlife. It is not limbo. It’s something else. Something darker. A rift between realms, a place too broken for words. A space that was never meant to be, where nothing is whole, where nothing is right.

The two presences begin to form, slow and agonizing, like the unraveling of a mistake that can’t be corrected. They stir in the void, not of their own choosing, but because something—some force —compelled them to. 

They curl inward, instinctively, as if trying to shield the remnants of themselves, yet the fragility of their forms is undeniable. They are broken, delicate, clinging to whatever they have left. But even in their vulnerability, they are contradictions—opposites that cannot bear to coexist. 

One flickers like the last ember of a dying fire, fragile and weak, its glow barely clinging to existence. The other is wildfire—raging, untamed, devouring all in its path. One fades, barely holding on. The other seethes, barely contained.

Their very existence is at odds, two forces that should never occupy the same space. One flickers, fragile and fleeting, like a dying ember struggling against the wind. The other rages, untamed and violent, a storm breaking free from the eye of the calm. They are the same—two halves of a whole—but they couldn't be further apart. Opposing forces, bound together by something neither of them can escape. Together, they are a paradox—born from both creation and destruction, from hope and despair.

They exist in this suffocating space, forced into proximity, but they are not the same. Not in any way that would ever make sense. Not in any way that could ever be reconciled.

One of them feels fragile. Almost innocent in a way that doesn’t belong here. The rawness of their presence is pure, untainted by bitterness or resentment, as if they’ve been ripped from something too pure to be left in such a place. They don’t belong in this hollow abyss. There is a softness to them—a quiet plea for understanding, as if they’ve somehow landed in the wrong dimension, in the wrong time, and are lost.

The other one, however, feels different. They feel heavy—like the weight of the world is pulling down on their soul, dragging them deeper into the void with every passing second. Their presence is thick with misery, saturated with emotions too complex and tangled to unravel. 

Unadulterated anger, fear, regret—each one heavy, relentless, a weight they’ve carried for far too long. They shiver in the emptiness, like someone trapped in their own mind, haunted by their own pain. There’s no relief here. No escape. Only a painful, endless drift.

The space around them is cold. Still. There is only the crushing, ever-present knowledge that something has gone terribly wrong, that everything they’ve known has been torn apart.

And yet, somehow, they feel something—an echo of who they were, a fading remembrance of who they might have been, even though their identities are fraying, slipping between the cracks of this desolate existence. 

The first figure blinks, wide green eyes shimmering with sorrow, like glass on the verge of shattering. His form is fragile—an echo, a whisper of a person, barely tethered to existence. He is what remains when something breaks beyond repair.

There’s an uncertain, hesitant quality to him, as if he’s teetering on the edge of something vast and unknowable. He radiates warmth—a quiet, comforting glow, like a faint ember clinging to life in the middle of an endless, freezing dark. But that warmth is fading. 

It’s flickering, cracking at the edges, like something that was never meant to survive here. He is the remnant of kindness, the last traces of hope and selflessness that once defined Midoriya Izuku. 

But now, in this hollow abyss, those qualities seem so small, so insignificant, as if they too will eventually burn out and disappear entirely. He lingers here, drifting in the emptiness, fragile and fading like a dying ember that no one will ever notice.

The second figure does not tremble. He does not waver. He stands as though the very concept of weakness has been scraped from his being—peeled away, leaving something raw, something jagged, something wrong.

His exhale cracks through the silence, jagged and broken, as though the very act of breathing is an agonizing, desperate plea for existence. His body twitches violently, as though it’s been bound, shackled for years, and now, finally , it’s free. 

But freedom doesn’t bring peace. It brings pain. It brings turmoil. He spasms, every twitch an involuntary reaction to the agony of existing in this place, as though the very fabric of his being is too fragile, too torn to endure the weight of the emptiness around him. 

His hands claw at the unseen ground, fingers digging into nothing, desperate for an anchor that does not exist. But there is only emptiness—vast, devouring, swallowing him like a starving void.

His shoulders rise and fall with each uneven breath, his movements erratic, as if he’s constantly at war with himself, constantly on the verge of losing control. He feels like an open wound, bleeding emotion, exposed and raw. His soul, naked and unprotected, trembles beneath the weight of his own existence.

This is the anger, the suffering, the unrelenting, searing rage that Izuku had buried deep, locked away in the darkest corners of his heart. The fury he could never express, now freed from its prison, burning like a wildfire through the emptiness. All the pain he had swallowed down, all the hurt he had hidden away, now takes form in this figure. 

Now it stands, tangible, real, an uncontrollable force in the void. It is everything Izuku had been forced to suppress, now given shape, now standing on its own, staring the other down with a darkness that rivals the emptiness surrounding them both.

The silence isn’t just wrong. It’s crushing. It coils around the first figure’s ribs, thick and suffocating, squeezing his lungs like a vice. He can’t breathe. 

But—no, that’s not right, is it? He is breathing. His chest is rising, falling. But it doesn’t feel right. It’s hollow. Thin. Like something is mimicking the motion of life without really being alive.

The realization destroys him.

Midoriya screams.

The sound rips from his throat like it’s been dying to escape, a jagged, visceral thing that scrapes his vocal cords raw. He thrashes, hands grasping for something—anything—but there’s nothing. No walls. No floor. No sky. Just endless, starving void. 

Midoriya’s limbs convulse, muscles spasming. “No—no, no, no, no, no—!” His voice cracks, rising to a shriek as he spins, grasping for something, anything. “Wh-Where.. what..?” His hands clutch at his own body, shaking, desperate. 

His own skin feels wrong. Not solid enough, not real enough. His throat feels like it’s shredding apart, desperate. His hands claw at his own arms, his chest, his face—

He can’t feel a single thing. Not his skin, not his fingertips. Too wrong. His breath stutters. His stomach lurches. 

Just for a second. They don’t move. They smear. Like ink bleeding into water. His breath stutters, heart slamming against his ribs as he yanks his hands back. His arms flicker at the edges, the shape of them coming apart in thin, dissolving wisps. He can feel it now—the slow, creeping sensation of unraveling, something pulling at his very existence, peeling him away piece by piece.

His stomach lurches. His breath comes in choked gasps. He tries to scream again, but the sound distorts, warping in the emptiness, like it’s being swallowed the moment it leaves his lips.

Midoriya’s throat is shredding apart with every breath, every broken sob. His nails dig in, harder, harder—he has to feel something , anything. But his fingertips keep slipping, pressing too deep, like he’s trying to hold onto mist. 

His chest heaves, stomach twisting into knots as he stumbles forward—except there is no forward, no gravity, just a sickening weightlessness.

His heart pounds, but—does he even have a heart anymore? He gasps—not out of necessity, but out of habit, and he convulses, his body curling inward, like he can hold himself together by force alone. But it’s slipping. The shape of him is slipping. And in the distance—if there even is a distance—something watches. Silent. Waiting.

Midoriya chokes, hands shaking, eyes wide, the taste of bile rising in his throat. His voice cracks, barely more than a breath.

“What… happened to me?”

The void is not empty. It breathes. It watches. It waits—hungry, endless, gaping like the mouth of something ancient and insatiable.

The emptiness should be liberating, freeing even, but it’s not. It’s crushing. It’s wrong. They try to move, but something invisible weighs them down, presses against their chests, their limbs, their very souls. 

The sensation isn’t physical—not exactly—but it’s there. A suffocating presence, like an unseen hand wrapping around their throats, pulling them deeper into a place they can’t escape. 

Gravity shouldn’t exist here. But it does. The weight of it presses on their bodies, sluggish, dragging them down with every passing second. They sink, even when they don’t move. It’s a slow, relentless pull.

“What… what is this?” Midoriya’s voice trembles, barely above a whisper. His gaze flickers, unsure if he’s talking to himself or the other presence in the void. “What happened?”

Deku—or whatever he was now—stares back. His face is drawn, expression hard, his body tense, like every fiber of him is fighting the suffocating pull of this place. But there’s something colder in his eyes. 

After a long pause, Deku finally speaks, his voice rough, like it’s been dragged across the sharp edges of this suffocating reality. “How the hell would I know?” He looks around, but the void stares back. “Where even are we?” His finger jabs at Midoriya accusingly. “What are you ?”

Midoriya shakes his head, his breath unsteady. “What? No, no, no, no. This can’t be real. This doesn’t make sense. We can’t just be… here.”

Deku’s lips curl into something bitter. He shakes his head, his fists clenched at his sides. “I don’t think it works like that. There’s nothing here, nothing for us. No one’s coming.”

Midoriya’s heart races. His thoughts churn, frantic. “Am I dead? How did I get here? Why am I—what are we—?”

Deku’s voice cuts through the storm of thoughts. “I don’t know. None of this makes any damn sense.” He looks down, his voice quieter now. 

Midoriya’s mind stumbles over the words. “I don’t remember… I don’t even know what happened. How did I get here ?”

Deku meets his gaze, his eyes sharp but flickering with something raw, something unsettled. His jaw tightens like he’s bracing himself, like he doesn’t want to say it out loud.

“I don’t know,” he repeats himself with a tinge of annoyance. “You think I have all the answers?” Deku exhales slowly, like the words are heavy in his chest. “I just—” His hand twitches at his side. “Something’s wrong. I don’t know what, but—” He hesitates, gaze flicking away for a split second before locking back onto Midoriya’s. “We’re definitely not human anymore. I know that much.”

Midoriya’s stomach twists. The certainty in Deku’s voice makes his skin prickle. 

“I—” Midoriya’s voice falters for a moment, then he swallows hard. “I don’t feel whole.” His fingers curl into a fist against his chest. “Like there’s something missing. Like I’m—” He stops himself, pressing his lips together like he doesn’t want to finish the thought. Like he’s afraid of what it might mean.

Deku’s eyes darken, a weariness in them as if he’s been trapped in this place far longer than Midoriya. 

He scoffs, the sound sharp and bitter, too familiar, like an echo of something he’s heard before. “Yeah, you’re not the only one. Feels like a piece of me got ripped out.”

The words fall heavy, like stones in the dark. A silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating. Midoriya tries again, voice smaller now. “This can’t be it. There has to be a way out. There’s got to be something— anything —we can do.”

Deku takes a step closer, his voice low, as if he’s tired of shouting into the dark. “All we can do is try to make sense of it. Try to figure out what happened, why we’re here. But… if we even can. If we can even figure out what the hell’s going on.”

Midoriya nods, the uncertainty eating at him. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

Deku looks at him, and for a moment, there’s something softer in his gaze. But it doesn’t last long. The hardness returns, his posture defensive again. “Neither do I. But we’ve got to figure it out. Or we won’t. But either way, we’re probably stuck here. We don’t get to change that. So… we’ll do what we can, I guess.”

Midoriya takes a shaky breath, trying to steady his thoughts. “Okay… Okay. We just have to find a way out. Together.”

Deku’s eyes flicker, darkening as if the void has been wearing him down far longer than Midoriya. He roams aimlessly, his steps slow and labored, pushing back against the invisible weight that tries to drag him down. 

Every movement feels like an effort, like he’s fighting something that isn’t even there. He’s looking for something—anything—to anchor him in this place.

Midoriya watches him for a moment, fidgeting awkwardly, unsure what to do but unwilling to stay still, feeling useless.

Deku gives him a brief nod, barely perceptible, as if acknowledging the unspoken tension between them. “Yeah. Sure.”

The silence stretches again, thick and suffocating. It presses harder now, as though the air itself has weight, choking the space around them. Yet something between them shifts. It’s not hope. Not yet. But there’s something fragile, maybe a flicker of understanding—or perhaps just the smallest sliver of it.

Midoriya’s throat tightens, a heaviness settling over him. Fear? Desperation? A toxic mix of both. He swallows hard, forcing his voice through the lump in his chest.

“There has to be a way out.” The words feel empty, like they’re meant to be reassurance but fall flat. His voice cracks, betraying the dying embers of hope that he can’t quite extinguish. “We have to find it. We have to.”

His breath is uneven, too fast, too shallow. His hands shake at his sides, clenching and unclenching, like he needs to hold onto something—anything—but there’s nothing here except endless, suffocating nothingness. 

Midoriya’s feet move before he realizes it, pacing back and forth, searching, desperate. For what, he wish he knew.

His hands drag over the warped, shifting walls of the void, his fingers digging into nothingness as if clawing at thin air could unearth something—some hidden door, some unseen path. 

Midoriya scours the ground, searching through the swirling dark beneath him, flipping over fragments of his own mind like broken pieces of glass, trying to assemble something, anything, that will lead them out of this.

A choked noise claws up his throat, somewhere between a sob and a curse. His chest heaves, frustration knotting his body so tightly it hurts. His mind races, the need to act, to fight, overriding the part of him that already knows the truth. They’re trapped.

Deku’s lips curl into a sneer, disgust flooding his tone. As he shifts restlessly on his feet, he glances around again, his body tense and coiled. “I sure hope so.” His voice is thick with venom. “But we probably don’t even exist anymore.”

His words slice through the air, leaving a gaping wound in their wake. The silence that follows is worse now, a suffocating weight pressing on their chests. The thought that they’re not even real—that they’re nothing at all—clings to Midoriya’s mind, twisting, gnawing at him.

And for the first time since they awoke in this empty prison, both of them feel it. A shiver crawling down their spines. Something else is coming. Something far worse than the silence. 

It’s been a long, long time since they found themselves trapped here. Days? Weeks? Months? Fuck, it wouldn’t be surprising if it had been several years. 

The passage of time feels like a distant memory, an irrelevant concept that has long since lost its meaning. The air here is thick, suffocating, as if it’s pressing in from all sides. The silence stretches endlessly, wrapping around them like a suffocating shroud.

It’s been long enough that they’ve both lost their grip on reality in different ways. Midoriya is a mess, but even in his disarray, there’s still a small flicker of that light inside him—the kind that clung to hope and refused to let go, no matter how dim it seemed. His hands tremble, always twitching, as though they can’t stay still for even a moment. 

Midoriya’s breath is shallow, uneven, and every little sound echoes in his ears, magnified a thousand times. His thoughts—every single one of them—turn into an endless loop of anxiety, but amid the chaos, there’s still that quiet part of him that wants to believe, to hope for something better.

He can’t stop thinking, can’t stop worrying, can’t stop wondering if he’ll ever see daylight again. He tells himself it’s not too late yet. He can still figure it out. He has to believe that. But that little voice of optimism only fights harder against the darkness gnawing at him from all sides. Midoriya’s chest tightens, like invisible hands are squeezing the breath from his lungs.

Midoriya presses his palms into his eyes, trying to block it all out, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. His head spins, his pulse races. Every second stretches on forever, each heartbeat loud enough to drown out everything else.

It feels like he’s unraveling from the inside, his mind fraying at the edges. But even as it all threatens to pull him under, he’s still Izuku. Right? 

He’s still the nice little kid who found a way to stand up again and again, even when things were impossible. He wants to believe in that part of himself, the part that tells him there’s a way out—there’s always a way out. But it’s getting harder to hear above the noise, the relentless pressure of the darkness around him.

Midoriya’s thoughts twist, slipping into loops of dread that only tighten with every passing moment. He looks at Deku, not really seeing him, his focus fractured by the storm in his own head. His hands shake as he clutches the edges of his legs, trying to steady himself. 

He tells himself to calm down, that it’ll be okay, though his voice barely registers in his own ears. But the more he tries to push it down, the worse it gets. His body aches from the tension, from the stillness, and it’s like he’s suffocating under the weight of it.

Midoriya opens his mouth, but the words he wants to say get stuck, tangled in the knot in his throat. Every attempt to find a way out only drives him deeper into confusion. We can’t stay here forever, he thinks. There’s a way out. There has to be. 

But the walls press in, the darkness swallowing every shred of focus, and the isolation claws at him like an animal gnawing at his insides. His heart aches—not just from fear—but from the crushing loneliness of it all.

Midoriya closes his eyes briefly, but it does nothing. His mind doesn’t stop. It can’t stop. His muscles ache, his jaw clenches, and that little voice in his head grows louder. There’s a way out, it insists. He just has to find it. He has to keep going. 

His heartbeat quickens, the panic rising like a wave, but somewhere deep down, that flicker of hope refuses to die. Even in the depths of this nightmare, even as it feels like the end is closing in, he holds onto that piece of himself. He has to.

It’s suffocating, crushing, but he won’t give up. He can’t. The thought of his family, his future—it pulls him back from the edge.

He didn’t get to say goodbye to his mom, his dad, Kacchan.

He never got to wake up to his mom’s soft humming in the kitchen one last time, the scent of fresh Katsudon filling their tiny apartment, wrapping around him like a quiet reassurance. 

He never got to tell her how much he loved the way she’d come home with Taiyaki, how those little surprises made even the worst days feel bearable. How much he cherished sitting at the table, rambling a mile a minute about some hero from his comics while she gently scolded him to slow down, to stop talking with his mouth full.

He never got to tell her that, even when the world felt like it was against him, she made him feel safe. That it didn’t matter if their apartment was small or if their lives were quiet—because as long as she was there, it always felt like home.

And his dad—

Midoriya squeezes his eyes shut. Would his father even find out? Would he even care? His calls had already become a rare thing, a distant voice from another life. Izuku had always told himself it was fine—he had his mom, he didn’t need more—but now? Now, he wonders if his father will ever know that his son is gone.

And Kacchan…

A sharp inhale. His fingers curl into his palms, nails digging in, harder, harder, until they threaten to pierce skin. He never got to prove anything to him. Never got to show him he wasn’t just some useless tagalong, some weak, sniveling afterthought meant to be left behind. He never got to show him he was strong too.

A bitter, suffocating weight presses down on his chest, thick and unbearable. Kacchan had always burned so brightly, a wildfire that consumed everything in its path. And Izuku—he was just the shadow left in his wake, chasing after him, never fast enough, never strong enough. Always reaching, always failing. And now? Now there was nothing left to reach for.

His stomach twists. It isn’t just grief—it’s rage. A deep, searing, hollow thing that digs into his ribs like jagged glass. It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t supposed to go out like this, alone and forgotten, another failure Kacchan would never even know about. He should’ve fought harder. He should’ve done more.

He never got to walk into Yuuei’s entrance exam with his head held high, nerves and excitement buzzing in his chest. He never got to step onto that battlefield as a hero-in-training, to finally stand where All Might himself once stood. Never got to prove that he was worthy.

All those dreams, all that effort—gone. Izuku never even got to do the little things.

He won’t get to spend another afternoon at the convenience store, flipping through hero magazines he couldn’t afford but studying it like a sacred script anyway. Won’t get to stay up late watching reruns of old hero battles, pretending he wasn’t exhausted in class the next morning.

He never got to visit the ocean. Never got to travel overseas along with his dad, see what life is like beyond Musutafu, see what makes it so appealing to his father to be away for so long. Never got to sit on a rooftop at night and count the stars, wondering how big the world really was. Never got to make things right with Kacchan and find out why things turned out the way they did.

He never got to know what it was like to have someone look at him—not through him, not past him—but really see him.

He never got to fall in love. Would it have been like in the movies? That rush, that heart-pounding, can’t-breathe kind of feeling? Or something quieter, steadier, like finally having a place to rest? He doesn’t know. He never will.

Midoriya’s chest tightens. His breath is ragged, unsteady. But he forces himself to keep moving. There has to be something here. A clue, a crack in this endless void. A way out. There has to be.

He knows he can’t do this alone, but there has to be a way, right? A way to make it through, a way to get out. He’ll find it. He has to.

Midoriya’s breath shakes. He grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches. Kacchan would’ve never let this happen to himself. Kacchan would’ve raged against it, torn through the void with his bare hands if he had to. Because he’s not done.

If Kacchan were here, he’d be screaming at him to get up, to fight, to burn through every last ounce of himself if that’s what it took. Midoriya wasn’t going to just fade away—not without a fight.

His hands uncurl, trembling, his chest heaving with ragged, uneven breaths. The darkness presses in tighter, suffocating, but Midoriya forces his muscles to move, his fingers to flex. Even if he was already dead, even if the void had already taken, he wasn’t ever satisfied.

But even with that spark of belief flickering weakly, the weight of the silence is almost too much. His voice feels trapped, suffocated by the weight of his own thoughts, his fear. His head spins, his chest tightens, and for a moment, he feels himself slipping—slipping into the dark. But still, Midoriya holds on. Just for a second longer.

Deku, on the other hand, has been losing his mind in a completely different way. The longer they stay here, the more the darkness begins to eat at him, creeping into his every thought, warping his perception. 

Every time Deku blinks, it’s like the shadows close in just a little tighter, pulling him further into a place where he can’t find himself anymore. His thoughts are a mess—a chaotic tangle of rage, hopelessness, and delusion. It’s like a constant buzz in his ears, drowning out everything else. It’s harsh. Jarring.

He’s coming apart, splintering like glass under too much pressure. The cracks run deep, jagged lines spreading through him, invisible yet impossible to ignore. 

Deku’s hands betray him first—fingers twitching, clenching, then unclenching, as if grasping for something solid, something real. His movements have lost their fluidity, now stiff, jerky, like a marionette with its strings pulled too tight.

His eyes darted, restless, never still. Every flicker of shadow, every shift in the air, has him bracing, waiting—for what, he doesn’t know. But something. Something lurking just beyond his reach, just outside his vision, taunting him with its absence.

And his voice—his voice isn’t his anymore. It scrapes out of his throat, raw and uneven, words laced with something bitter, something broken. Every syllable carries an edge, cutting deeper than it should, as if dredged up from a place inside him that’s been festering, left to rot in the dark.

There are moments when Deku starts grinning like a maniac, like the world has become some twisted game. His teeth gleam in the dim light, a sick mockery of what used to be a genuine smile. 

But it’s not funny. It’s dark, hollow—a laugh that feels like it belongs to someone else, someone who has seen something no one else ever should. His gaze darts around erratically, like he’s staring at a scene that no one else can understand, and it’s driving him mad .

Deku shudders, running a hand through his nappy hair, tugging at it harder and harder like it might help pull him back from the abyss. But it doesn’t. The more he tries to control it, the more the edges slip from his grip. 

His body doesn’t wait for thought anymore. It lunges, twitches, reacts—like his strings have been yanked by something primal, something burning just beneath his skin. 

Deku’s fingers curl into fists so tight his nails bite into his scalp, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. Can’t. The tension coils in his muscles, locked, rigid, like a storm waiting to break. It’s not a fire, not something bright or explosive. It’s colder, heavier, a slow-burning thing that’s settled into his bones, twisting, festering, growing stronger with each breath he takes.

Deku mutters to himself, his voice low and jagged, as though the words are too heavy to carry. 

“We gave everything. Everything … And look where that got us,” he snarls while pacing back and forth, his gaze wild and unfocused. His hands twitch by his sides, fingers curling into fists and uncurling as if his body can’t decide whether to fight or flee. “Now I’m stuck in this hell… with you .” 

Deku’s words drip with venom, each one a reflection of his frustration, of the anger that’s been building up like a pressure cooker inside of him. He flings his hand out, a desperate, jerky motion as though he’s trying to grab hold of something—anything—to ground him, but there’s nothing there. Deku’s chest heaves with the weight of his own bitterness, like the words are too much to bear, yet he can’t stop them.

His gaze locks onto Midoriya, and there’s nothing left in it—not warmth, not hesitation, not even recognition. Just a vast, hollow nothingness that stretches deep, endless, like a pit with no bottom. Nothing like the way he looked at him at the start. But the truth is, his eyes were never truly gentle before. That softness—if it ever existed—was only a diluted version of something darker, something caged beneath layers of restraint that have long since crumbled.

Now, there’s no mask, no filter. Just raw, unfiltered madness. The look he gives Midoriya isn’t just cold—it’s accusatory, venomous, seething with something that festers beneath his skin. It’s the gaze of someone who doesn’t just see an enemy, but a cruel joke, a walking embodiment of his own failure. 

His pupils tremble, dilating like a predator locking onto prey, and the corner of his mouth twitches—almost a sneer, almost a snarl, but not quite. It’s something worse. Because this isn’t rage that burns hot. This is rage that’s twisted, sharpened into something quiet and calculating. And the longer he stares, the more it feels like he’s not just looking at Midoriya. He’s looking through him, past him, into something deeper, something broken that neither of them can escape.

“You were always the perfect one, huh?” Deku sneers, the words coming out low and venomous, thick with resentment. He turns his entire figure to face the mentioned boy, lips curling into a bitter, twisted smile as he takes a step closer, his eyes gleaming with a manic, hollow intensity. 

“The one with all the answers, the one who was supposed to fix everything.” His words cut through the suffocating silence like a blade, each syllable dripping with frustration and raw emotion. “But look at us now. You didn’t fix anything . You didn’t save us. You only made things worse.”

Midoriya jerks back, his breath hitching as if the words have weight—sharp-edged, slicing straight through him. His shoulders tense, fingers twitching before curling into tight fists at his sides, knuckles white with the effort to keep still. His gaze drops, not by choice but by instinct, as if looking anywhere else might lessen the impact, might make it hurt less. But it doesn’t.

Deku’s voice lingers in the air, heavy and venomous, the anger woven into it sinking deep, filling the cracks Midoriya has spent so long trying to ignore. He swallows hard, but the lump in his throat won’t budge.

It crashes over him in waves—rage, guilt, helplessness—pulling him under before he can even think to fight it. The fragile wall he’s built to keep himself together splinters, fractures spreading through his resolve like glass under pressure, ready to shatter with the next blow.

“I—I never meant for any of this to happen,” Midoriya’s voice cracks as he forces the words out, the guilt and self-doubt eating away at him. His eyes flicker up, meeting Deku’s cold gaze, but he quickly looks away, as if unable to face what’s in those eyes—what’s become of them. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know how bad it would get.” His breath hitches as the weight of those failures presses on him like a physical force. He can feel the darkness closing in again, pulling at him, making it hard to think straight.

Deku’s lips twist into a grin, dark and twisted, and he steps closer, almost nose-to-nose with Midoriya. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? You never knew. You were just stumbling through it, pretending like knew everything. Like—Like you had a clue. And now look where we are. Look at where you’ve dragged us.” He almost growls now, as he leans in, eyes wild and unblinking.

Midoriya’s pulse roars in his ears, a frantic, uneven rhythm that drowns out everything else. His breath is shallow, ragged, dragging in and out like it physically pains him to keep going. 

His fingers twitch at his sides, trying—failing—to still the tremors running through them like something inside him is unraveling thread by thread, slipping through his grasp no matter how desperately he tries to hold on.

Deku’s words don’t just linger—they sink in, burrowing deep, twisting until they’re indistinguishable from Midoriya’s own thoughts. The weight of them presses down, suffocating, crushing, filling every space inside him with something dark and unbearable. 

And the worst part? He can’t deny them. Maybe not all of it, but enough. Enough to make his stomach churn, enough to make the shame burn hot under his skin.

His throat tightens. He wants to say something, anything—but what is there to say? The truth is staring him right in the face, wearing his own features twisted into something unrecognizable. Midoriya’s stuck with the version of himself he fears the most.

“I didn’t want this,” Midoriya whispers, his voice trembling with the barest hint of vulnerability. “I never wanted any of this to happen. I never wanted to hurt anyone. But I can’t undo what’s already been done.” His chest tightens, his voice barely audible. “I don’t think I can fix this. But… I can’t give up either. I can’t just accept that this is the end. Not yet.”

Deku’s eyes narrow, his lip curling into a snarl as he barks out a laugh. “What’s there left to fight for, huh? This place? This endless nothing?” His tone is bitter, laced with something darker. “You’ve already lost. We’ve already lost. And no matter how many times you tell yourself you haven’t, you know it’s true.”

His breath could stutter, hitching in short, panicked bursts as his lungs struggle to keep up. Each word from Deku feels like a strike against his chest. His hands tremble at his sides, fingers twitching with the urge to do something, anything, to make the world stop spinning around him. He wants to collapse, to give in to the weight of everything crashing down on him, but he can’t. Not yet.

Midoriya’s gaze drops to the floor, unable to meet Deku’s eyes as the weight of the words settles in. His chest tightens painfully, but the fight—the stubborn refusal to give up—drives him to stand tall. He’s shaking, his body screaming in protest, but he lifts his head slowly, eyes locking onto Deku’s cold, unblinking stare. It’s just the two of them, always has been since they got here, the silence pressing in like a storm about to break.

And then, despite the uncertainty clawing at him, Midoriya speaks, his voice firmer now, though still trembling with the weight of everything he’s holding back. 

“I have to keep fighting. I have to believe that there’s a way out of this, even if I’m the only one left to do it.” Midoriya’s hands ball into fists as he pounds it against his chest, the desperation bleeding into his words. His chest heaves with uneven breaths, each one a battle, like breathing itself is defiance.

A half-step forward. Midoriya’s body moves before his mind can catch up, like instinct is dragging him toward Deku, toward the thing that wants to drown him. His pulse pounds against his ribs—hard, insistent, alive.

“If this is it,” Midoriya rasps, voice raw, “then what was the point of any of it?”

The silence swallows the words, but he stands his ground.

His eyes don’t leave Deku’s. They burn with something fragile—something desperate—but there’s a glimmer of resolve there too, a refusal to surrender to the darkness surrounding them. Even if it’s just him, even if the world has crumbled around them, he won’t let go. He can’t.

Deku’s sneer deepens, his gaze hardening, but the slightest flicker of something—uncertainty?—flashes in his eyes for the briefest moment. Then it’s gone, replaced by a more mocking tone, as if he can’t stand the fragility he sees in Midoriya’s words. 

“You’re pathetic,” Deku spits, a cruel chuckle slipping from his lips. “You’re just a coward. Too scared to face what’s real.”

Midoriya’s throat tightens as his words die in his mouth. He stands there, feeling every ounce of self-doubt press in around him, but something inside him won’t let him completely break down. Silence hangs heavy between them, a chasm of broken promises and irreversible choices.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Deku’s voice is low, an undercurrent of venom threading through the words. There’s no compassion, no care in it anymore—just an accusation. “You’re just as trapped as I am, but you’re too weak to even realize it.”

Deku steps back for some reason, his eyes flickering with a mix of confusion and fury, as if he’s angry that the other version of himself doesn’t feel the same suffocating pressure. It’s like a desperate need for someone—anyone—to acknowledge the madness that’s taking root inside him. But Midoriya doesn’t. He doesn’t get it.

Deku’s hands shake with the effort of holding himself back, but there’s a faint tremor in his fingers that betrays just how close he is to losing it completely. His eyes narrow, fixing on Midoriya, as though he’s studying him. Watching him like a predator watches its prey. 

“We are not the same,” Deku says, every syllable coated in bitterness. “You think you’re still him —the sweet little child, the one who wants to save everyone. But you’re not. You’re just as broken as me.”

There’s a pause, and in that moment, the laughter comes again—this time more guttural, raw. It bubbles up from somewhere deep within him, as if he’s drunk on something twisted. 

“Maybe this is what we were always meant to be,” he sneers, his voice trembling with cruel amusement. “A joke. Both of us. Look at us. Stuck here, dying in this endless pit, and for what? For who? For that stupid ideal of yours?”

The words land like a slap, but they don’t stick. They don’t reach Midoriya—not the way Deku expects. Instead, there’s just silence, an awkward stillness stretching between them. 

Deku’s grin fades into something darker, more dangerous. He moves closer, his breath harsh and uneven. His mind, once so full of purpose, is now nothing but a haze of anger and emptiness, but he can’t stop himself. He can’t stop any of it—the thoughts, the fury, the feeling of being suffocated by something he can’t even name. It consumes him from the inside out. And the worst part? He doesn’t want to stop. Not anymore.

Suddenly, Deku stops dead in his tracks. His eyes snap to Midoriya, locking onto him like a predator scenting blood. His gaze is heavy, unblinking, as though he’s seeing right through him—no, into him, dissecting every piece of his being, like he’s searching for something, anything to give him answers. 

Deku tilts his head, slow and deliberate, his gaze narrowing and dragging over Midoriya like he’s studying something fragile—something just on the edge of coming apart. It’s almost curious, almost fascinated, but there’s something darker beneath it. A simmering resentment, a hunger to destroy.

Midoriya has always been like a nearly-finished puzzle, pieces painstakingly slotted into place, forming something whole, something stable. And Deku—Deku wants to ruin it. He wants to shove the table, scatter the pieces, grind them under his heel until there’s nothing left but a mess of broken edges. Maybe then, Midoriya will finally feel as incomplete as he does. Maybe then, they’ll be the same.

His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach out, to grab hold and rip Midoriya apart piece by piece, just to see if he can. Just to see if there’s anything inside him that Deku doesn’t already know.

Midoriya stiffens, his instincts immediately screaming at him to be ready for whatever comes next. His heartbeat is a drum in his ears, loud enough to drown out everything else, every other sound lost in the suffocating silence of the void. He has to force himself to meet Deku’s gaze.

Deku’s mind is a storm of disjointed thoughts, spiraling out of control. His focus flickers, shifting between Midoriya’s wide, frightened eyes and the void around them. 

His thoughts are fragmented—paranoia creeping in at the edges, like fingers of frost reaching for his soul. There’s a horrible pressure, a weight pressing down on him, urging him to act on the delusions that have been festering inside him for what feels like—and might be—years.

He’s convinced, in a sick, twisted way, that only one of them can make it out of here. That if Midoriya dies, he can be whole again—finally complete, as though killing him would restore the fractured pieces of himself. 

Deku’s mind churns this thought over and over, the idea taking root like a poisonous vine. The more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. It’s the only way to fix everything. To end the endless torment, to escape this void.

If he gets rid of him, he’ll be whole again. It has to be that way. He needs to be alone. He needs to be truly free.

The idea festers like an infection. His hands shake, his vision blurring around the edges as the world distorts, slipping further into madness. 

Midoriya is an obstacle—something standing in his way. An incomplete version of himself. If Midoriya is gone, there will be nothing to hold him back, nothing to remind him of who he used to be, the person who cared. That part of him, the vulnerable, hopeful side of himself, is slipping further away, disappearing into the shadows.

He takes a step forward, his body jerking unnaturally as his hand twitches toward Midoriya, like a reflex, like he doesn’t even think about it. The words come out in a low growl, each syllable dripping with venom. 

He exhales, slow and shuddering, but his grin is razor-sharp. His voice dips, almost reverent, almost amused.

“You shouldn’t even exist.” The words slip from his lips like a secret, like a prayer. His head tilts, eyes wide, fever-bright, drinking in the sight before him with something too wild to be called sanity.

“But if you die—” A quiet laugh, breathy, uneven. His fingers twitch like he can already feel it, the moment everything ends. “If you die, maybe we can finally be free of this… this hell .” His voice wavers, not with doubt, but with something worse—glee.

Midoriya’s breath hitches in his throat, his chest tightening as panic rises like bile. He takes a step back instinctively, his pulse pounding in his ears. His heart stutters, racing with adrenaline, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Deku. 

The change in him is so stark, so sudden, that it makes his blood run cold. He opens his mouth to say something, to try and reason with him, but the words feel impossible to find, caught in his throat like dry sand.

Deku’s fingers twitch, his eyes wide, almost manic, as if he’s already seeing what he needs to do. His expression shifts, warping with every thought that spirals deeper into chaos. 

He can’t even hear Midoriya’s voice anymore. The words are just noise, useless. There’s only the need for sweet release, the desperate urge to fix himself by any means necessary.

Midoriya feels the floor beneath him shift, his legs weak with the weight of the terror flooding his body. He opens his mouth again, trying to steady his breath, but the words won’t come.

Deku’s eyes narrow, his lips curling into something resembling a smile, but there’s no warmth in it. Just the cold, empty satisfaction of someone who has convinced himself he’s right. 

His lips curl, teeth bared in something too sharp, too twisted to be a smile. His breath comes in uneven bursts, laughter choking at the edges, caught somewhere between hysteria and rage.

“You didn’t save us.” His voice trembles, but not with sorrow—no, something far worse has taken root. A feverish, electric madness that glows behind his eyes. His head tilts, movements erratic, fingers twitching like he can barely contain the storm inside him. “You never could.” The words slip out, slow and deliberate, thick with something venomous, something rotten. His voice drops to a whisper, low and guttural, curling around each syllable like a serpent tightening its grip. 

“And now—” A chuckle breaks through, raw and jagged, splintering the silence. His eyes burn, wild and unhinged. “You never will.”

There’s no sadness in it. No regret. Just certainty. Just the echo of something long since broken, something that should have never crawled its way back from the dark.

Midoriya’s chest tightens further. He doesn’t know what to say, how to fix this, but one thing is clear. He’s running out of time. 

Deku doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t wait. His movements are swift, predatory—almost like he’s been waiting for this moment. His hands lunge for Midoriya’s throat, fingers curling around the fragile skin with a cold, mechanical precision. 

Overgrown nails dig in, biting into flesh, leaving marks that burn under the pressure. It’s all-consuming, suffocating, and Midoriya’s breath is stolen from him in an instant. His chest heaves with the desperate need for air, but it’s blocked, crushed under Deku’s unforgiving grip.

Midoriya’s hands scramble wildly at Deku’s wrists, nails scraping and scratching, trying to pry the hands away, but there’s no use. His lungs scream for oxygen, every gasp coming out shallow and ragged as his body convulses in panic. His mind flashes, thoughts scattering like a hurricane. Everything they fought for. Everything they were. Gone.

His fingers claw desperately at Deku’s hand, at the throat choking out his life. He kicks—once, twice—with all the strength he can muster, each movement more sluggish, but he keeps fighting. 

Midoriya’s body fights back, desperate to survive, and still, Deku’s grip only tightens. His knees give out beneath him, and he can feel his pulse thudding in his temples, his chest like it’s collapsing inward. His vision blurs, fading to dark, but there’s a fire in him—he won’t give up . He can’t give up.

The faintest flicker of doubt enters Deku’s eyes, almost imperceptible. For the briefest moment, Midoriya sees it—a hesitation, a crack in the madness. A split second of uncertainty. It’s all it takes for Midoriya’s survival instinct to flare, a surge of raw energy pushing against the suffocating grip. 

Midoriya kicks again, harder this time, his heel connecting with Deku’s side. But just as quickly as it came, the flicker of doubt vanishes, leaving only the cold, unrelenting intensity in Deku’s eyes. His hands clamp down harder, pressing, forcing, pushing Midoriya closer to the edge of unconsciousness. The world tilts, spinning, spinning—

The violence is brutal. Messy. No grace. No skill. Just raw, ugly rage.

Midoriya’s body is giving out, his movements sluggish, his vision darkening like a thick veil of shadows sweeping across him. His throat burns, every inch of his body screaming in agony, desperate for the air that won’t come.

“Pl—Plea… se, no… please…” His voice cracks as he begs, breaking with the weight of the words he’s struggling to force out. His breath is a ragged, broken gasp—almost nonexistent, caught in the grip of pain. “You don’t… Y’don’t have to—”

The rest of the sentence dies in his throat, swallowed by the crushing pressure around his neck. There’s no fight left in him, no strength to keep up the desperate resistance. 

Midoriya body trembles, weak, his legs buckling under the weight of his own failing consciousness. His movements are slower now, sluggish, like his body is too tired to even fight. Each breath feels like it’s his last, each second stretching into eternity.

His arms fall limply to his sides, the struggle draining out of him. He tries— he tries —to fight back, but his mouth opens and nothing comes. Just the horrible, choking sobs lodged in his throat, a guttural noise that betrays the panic, the terror, the pleading that he can’t express.

A scream rips from Midoriya’s throat—shrill, broken, something unnatural. It doesn’t sound human. It doesn’t sound like it belongs in this world at all. It’s raw, guttural, a shriek that splinters the air, vibrating through the walls, through the very bones of the earth itself. It’s the kind of sound that claws its way into the mind, that lingers long after it’s gone, an echo of something that should have never been heard.

It twists, warping midway, turning into something almost animalistic, something wrong. A wail of agony, of fury, of something beyond comprehension. It drags on, stretching, stretching, as if it refuses to die, refuses to be swallowed by the suffocating silence pressing in. The sound unravels, shredding into a ragged, gasping whisper, the last remnants of it bleeding into the void. 

And then—impact.

Midoriya’s body slams into the cold, unyielding ground with a sickening crack. Once. Twice. Over and over. The sound is wet, dull, Midoriya’s head meeting the void ground in a rhythm that should never exist.

“Just die already,” Deku snarls, his voice trembling—not with grief, not with hesitation, but with something darker. His grip tightens, fingers clawing at the skin of his neck, forcing what’s left of Midoriya to crash against the floor again. And again. And again.

Midoriya gasps, choking, his form flickering, breaking down. He’s slipping, crumbling apart beneath Deku’s grasp, yet it’s not fast enough. He’s still here. Still breathing.

“Why won’t you just die , goddamnit?” Deku’s voice fractures, filled with a fury so raw it scrapes against his throat like broken glass. His fingers dig in, shaking, as if trying to rip out the last remnants of something unfinished. Something incomplete.

Midoriya’s body convulses, light flickering in and out, fading into something translucent, something barely there. He’s falling—falling deeper into the abyss, into the nothingness waiting to consume him. And Deku keeps going. Keeps slamming him down. Keeps forcing the world to take him, to erase him, to end him.

And then, finally, Midoriya’s body gives in. His limbs fall heavy, unresponsive. His hands—weak, lifeless—slip away from Deku’s grasp. 

The last bit of strength slips from him like sand through an open hand. His form crumbles, collapsing into nothingness. The cold emptiness takes him, pulling his spirit all the way into the void like dust scattering in the wind.

The last thing he feels before he fades away is the pressure of Deku’s hands still there. Still gripping. Still trying to break him. But Midoriya is slipping through the cracks, the light in his eyes dimming, vanishing with every passing second.

The void shifts. It trembles. The air itself feels heavier. Something ancient stirs beneath the surface, waking up with a terrible, guttural growl, like the world itself is reacting to the violence that just unfolded.

Deku stumbles back as he lets go, his body unsteady, the ground beneath his feet shifting like it’s no longer solid. His chest heaves, breath ragged, too shallow to bring him any relief. 

His hands are trembling, his fingers twitching violently, like they can’t hold still long enough to grasp reality. He stares blankly at his bare hands, his vision flickering in and out of focus. 

Deku’s heartbeat is too loud in his ears, drowning everything else out, but the emptiness inside him screams even louder. That hollow feeling. The one he thought would be silenced if he just finished it. If he just destroyed Midoriya. But now… now it’s worse. Far worse than before.

He feels the weight of the silence crushing him from within. The stillness presses against his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs as he takes another trembling breath. 

Deku’s mind—already fractured and splintered—can’t make sense of the storm of emotions raging inside him. The anger, the fury, the feeling of betrayal. None of it is enough to cover up the awful emptiness gnawing at his core.

Deku waits, waits, and waits. Nothing happened. He thought this would fix it. He thought finally getting rid of him would make him whole again. The truth crashes over him like a wave, violent and unrelenting, and the realization sinks into his skin, making his insides twist painfully. 

Midoriya was supposed to be the key to his salvation, but all he’s done is tear open a wound that will never heal. His breath catches in his throat as the weight of what he’s done hits him like a physical blow.

Out of nowhere, the space around him begins to ripple. The air trembles, vibrating with an energy that doesn’t belong. Deku’s knees buckle, and he stumbles forward, his hands reaching out for something—anything—to steady himself, but the world is warping. 

The fractures in the air, in the ground, begin to spread, like cracks in shattered glass, splintering everything in every direction. He watches, detached, as the void splits, sending jagged lines through the space, splintering his reality. It’s all coming undone, unraveling piece by piece.

His head throbs painfully, the edges of his vision flickering as though his very mind is on the verge of breaking apart. The sense of unreality washes over him, and for a moment, everything feels like it’s slipping through his fingers, like he’s losing himself again. 

The voices in his head—the other him, the voice of his broken self—begin to scream louder, urging him to fix it, fix it, fix it to end it all, make it all go away but their words make no sense anymore. His thoughts blur together into an incoherent mess, unable to make sense of the chaos around him or within him.

Deku’s hands clutch at his temples, trying to steady himself, but the world is spiraling faster than he can follow. The ground shifts beneath him, but he can’t move fast enough. His legs give way, his body collapsing in on itself, and the ground feels too soft, too unreal.

He looks down, expecting to see his body unraveling, dissolving into the empty blackness, but he can’t tell if he’s even still there. His body feels weightless, like he’s caught between worlds, his very existence suspended on the thinnest of threads, dangling between life and oblivion. 

And then—without warning—he begins to fragment, his form splintering and crumbling away, fading into nothingness.

It’s just another day. Same old shit.

School’s a drag like always, filled with the usual mix of boredom and irritation. Teachers nag, extras yap, and Katsuki spends most of the day biting back the urge to tell everyone to shut the hell up.

And stupid fucking Deku is still gone. Not that it matters. It’s not like he cares. The nerd’s always been annoying, always been in the way, always circling him like some goddamn fly that won’t quit buzzing—except now he’s not. Katsuki should be glad, finally having a breath of fresh air, finally having time off away from Deku for once. 

Whatever. Not his problem.

He shoves the thought aside and focuses on routine. It’s what keeps things moving. What keeps shit from getting under his skin. He wakes up, gets dressed, takes the same route to school, walks the same halls, trains, goes home, sleeps, does it all over again. Simple. Reliable. Just the way he likes it.

But lately, something’s been off. It’s nothing he can name. Just a weird, empty sort of feeling, like when you wake up knowing you’ve forgotten something but can’t remember what. The rhythm of the day feels a little lopsided, like he’s missing a step without realizing it.

It’s small, barely there, but it needles at him in ways he can’t quite shake. The empty seat in class. The lack of a familiar mumbling voice that usually grates on his nerves. The absence of green in his peripheral vision, of someone always just a step behind, always watching, always there .

But his jaw stays tight. His shoulders stay stiff. And every time he rounds a corner, some stupid, useless part of him half-expects to hear footsteps hurrying to catch up. And when he doesn’t, the irritation flares hotter. Not that he gives a shit. He doesn’t . It’s just weird, that’s all.

It’ll go back to normal soon. Deku will come crawling back, running his mouth about whatever dumb thing he’s been up to, and everything will be the same.

He forces himself to believe it. Tells himself it’s just temporary, a blip, nothing worth thinking about. Because the alternative—the idea that this isn’t just some passing thing, that something might actually be wrong—It doesn’t sit right.

It throws everything off balance, unsettles something deep in his chest that he refuses to acknowledge. Things have always been a certain way, always followed a pattern. And Deku—annoying, persistent, and constant as ever—has always been a part of that. So he convinces himself that soon enough, things will snap back into place. Because they have to. Because that’s just how it works. That’s how it always was and will continue to be.

The walk home is nothing special. The streets are familiar, the air thick with the smells of the neighborhood—some old lady burning incense, a food stall frying something greasy. It’s all background noise, a blur of sensations he doesn’t bother to focus on.

But the heat is harder to ignore. Spring’s been slipping into summer, the temperature creeping higher each day, thickening the air, making everything feel heavier. The pavement bakes under the sun, warmth rising in waves, clinging to his skin. 

Sweat beads at his temples, soaks into his collar, and trickles down his spine, palms, and forehead. It makes the stray strands from his spiky blonde hair stick to his skin, irritating him all the more. 

It also fuels him. The heat stirs something in his blood, a restless energy prickling just beneath his skin. His quirk hums in response, sharper, stronger. The nitroglycerin in his sweat is more potent in the heat—more explosive, more dangerous. It builds with every step, a slow simmer beneath the surface, waiting for an excuse to blow.

He flexes his fingers, cracks his knuckles. The heat makes him powerful. Makes him unpredictable. And if he’s not careful, it makes him reckless. Not that he gives a shit.

His walk home is quieter. Too quiet. He tells himself it’s a good thing. Less noise. Less irritation. No one trailing behind like a goddamn lost puppy. His feet move on autopilot, tracing the same path they always do. He’s walked this way a thousand times before, probably with his eyes closed, probably with—

Katsuki scowls, shakes the thought off before it can land. What was wrong with him today? He keeps on thinking about things that don’t matter. Katsuki rolls his shoulders, heavy with the weight of his backpack, and cracks his knuckles.

Whatever. It’s just another day.

His feet know the way without thinking. Past the same old cracked sidewalk, the same rusted fence, the same vending machine humming faintly under flickering lights. It’s muscle memory at this point, and yet, something nags at him. An itch beneath his skin, something he can’t quite shake.

He pushes it down. But the second he steps inside the house and shuts the door behind him, it’s back. Stronger, suffocating. The whole place feels off.

Not that he’s expecting some warm welcome—he never does, but there’s something wrong in the silence that settles over the place. It’s too thick, too heavy, pressing in on him like a weight he can’t see.

The air is stale, like no one’s bothered to open a window all day. The usual background noise—the TV blabbering about some stupid shit nobody cares about, his mom ranting over the phone, the distant clang of his dad cooking—is gone. 

Not that he hated it, he actually preferred the silence, but it was still odd as hell. It isn’t often that you can hear a pin drop in the Bakugou household.

Katsuki kicks off his shoes, barely noticing when one lands crooked against the wall with a dull thud. His body feels wrong—too tight, too wired, like he’s been bracing for something all damn day without knowing why. His skin itches with restless energy, muscles coiled like a loaded spring.

His uniform collar rubs against his neck as he shrugs off his backpack and throws it against the wall, irritating, suffocating, but the discomfort barely registers. There’s something else, something deeper, gnawing at the edge of his thoughts, clawing at the back of his mind like an itch he can’t scratch.

Then he heard voices. Low. Tense.

Katsuki stills. The shift is instinctive, automatic. His hearing isn’t the best—too many years of detonations ringing in his skull—but he doesn’t need sharp ears to catch the edge in his mom’s voice. It’s a blade through the quiet, clipped and cutting in a way that makes his jaw tighten.

His dad speaks next, softer, steadier. Measured, like always, smoothing over the edges. They aren’t yelling, but they don’t have to. He knows that tone, knows the weight behind it. Whatever they’re saying, it’s not just some petty argument—it’s heavier. Real. And they sure as hell don’t want him to hear it.

He should just walk past. Go to his room, blast music, drown it out. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lingers in the hallway, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet, his breath slow, measured. The tension in their voices digs into him, something uneasy twisting in his gut before he even understands why.

Casually heading toward the kitchen, Katsuki couldn’t care less about whatever stupid argument they’re having this time—until he hears Inko’s name.

His hands freeze mid-motion, fingers curling around a plastic bottle left on the counter.

”—gone, Masaru. He’s been gone for days.”

Katsuki doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, he just listens. His mom’s voice is sharp, clipped in a way that tells him she’s trying not to yell. That’s never a good sign. Bakugou Mitsuki is always yelling.

Masaru’s reply is quieter, measured. “Inko said the police are looking, right? Maybe he’s just lying low somewhere—”

“ Lying low ?” Mitsuki snaps, the words crackling like gunfire. “If it were that simple, they’d have found him by now. Inko’s losing her goddamn mind. She said he’s not answering, not leaving anything behind—”

Ugh . No matter where he goes, he can’t escape this shit.

Something cold crawls up Katsuki’s spine. His grip tightens around the bottle, plastic crinkling under his fingers.

Masaru exhales a slow, worried breath, pushing up his glasses with a finger. “He’s a strong kid. Maybe he just needed some space—”

“You don’t get it,” Mitsuki cuts in, her voice sharp—too sharp. Raw in a way that makes something inside of Katsuki coil tight. It’s not like her. He doesn’t like it. “This isn’t like before. She’s scared , Masaru. And if she’s scared—”

The rest drowns beneath the pounding in his ears.

Katsuki stares at the counter, but the words slip through his fingers, too slippery, too fucking big to hold onto. The kitchen feels wrong, the walls too close, the air too thick, pressing against his skin like it’s trying to smother him. His own breath feels heavy in his lungs, like it’s not fitting right.

His thoughts don’t land. They just hang there, weightless, unreal. His brain keeps trying to twist it into something that makes sense—Deku’s laying low, training, being a dramatic little shit—but none of it fits.

Not if the cops are involved. Not if Inko’s so terrified. Not if Mitsuki’s voice is shaking.

His fingers twitch. His jaw locks so tight his teeth grind together. The bottle crumples under his grip, the plastic shrieking—before it explodes.

A sharp crack splits the air, a violent burst of heat flashing from his palm. Little bits of what water was left sprays in all directions, droplets sizzling against his skin. The remnants of the bottle fall to the floor in scorched, warped pieces.

The remnants of the bottle hit the floor with a dull thud, but Katsuki barely registers it. His breath comes too fast, shallow and uneven. The heat under his skin won’t settle. It crackles, restless, a storm barely held back.

His heartbeat slams against his ribs, each pulse a jagged spike of something sharp, something too much. His thoughts are a mess, slipping between his fingers before he can grab hold of anything solid.

The words loop and snarl, tangling into knots he can’t undo. They don’t settle. Don’t stick. His mind keeps rejecting them, shoving them away like an exposed nerve, like if he just refuses to acknowledge them, they’ll stop existing.

But they don’t. They cling to him, suffocating, pressing against his ribs like a weight too heavy to shake off. His breath snags in his throat, thick and sluggish, like trying to inhale smoke. His lungs fight against it, but it won’t go down right. Won’t fit. 

What the fuck was happening to him? Why was he feeling this way? Why can’t he make it stop, make it stop, make it stop—

His hands curl, nails biting into his palms, sharp enough to leave half-moon dents in his skin. His quirk stirs at his fingertips, heat flickering, licking at the edges, begging for an outlet. A crackle. A spark. Something. But he forces it back down, grits his teeth hard enough to hurt. It won’t help. It won’t fix this.

The kitchen is too damn small. The walls feel closer than they should, the hum of the fridge drilling into his skull, the air thick and heavy in his lungs. His parents’ voices tangle together in the background, words blurring, indistinct, distant—like a radio playing in another room, like a conversation he isn’t meant to hear.

Katsuki’s chest feels tight, too tight, like there’s something clawing at his ribs from the inside. He swallows against the feeling, flexes his fingers, but the heat doesn’t settle. It shudders beneath his skin, coils hot around his spine, digging in, digging out. Too much. Too hot.

A chair scrapes against the tile floor as he shoves back, the sound sharp and grating. The fridge rattles, a half-empty water bottle tipping over, hitting the floor with a hollow thunk.

It’s nothing. It’s stupid. But the sound sticks in his ears, echoing too loud in the too-small space. And for some reason—he can’t shake the feeling that something just fell apart.

His parents keep talking, but their voices are just noise now—distant, useless, nothing he wants to hear. His chest feels tight, his whole body wired, thrumming, demanding action. The pressure building under his skin is too much, too loud. He needs to move, needs to do something before he fucking bursts .

Standing still isn’t an option.

Katsuki stomps his way to the front door before Mitsuki grips his arm. It felt like she was about to tug it off, her nails digging in just enough to piss him off, just enough to ground him in the worst way.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going, you brat?” she snaps, voice sharp enough to slice through the storm in his head.

Katsuki wrenches his arm free with a sharp twist, his glare burning, hands clenched at his sides. His pulse is a hammer in his ears, his breath coming too fast, too hot, and his fingers itch with the urge to set something off.

“Out.”

The word is clipped, bitten off, because if he says anything else, he’s going to fucking explode.

“The hell you are,” Mitsuki shoots back. “You don’t need to be running around by yourself anymore. You got that?”

He scoffs, shaking her off like she’s just another obstacle in his way. “Tch. Since when do I need permission?”

Mitsuki moves in front of him, blocking the doorway like she actually thinks she can stop him. “Since now,” she says, arms crossing tight over her chest. “Don’t be stupid, Katsuki.”

Something tightens in his ribs. The house feels too damn small, the air thick like it’s pressing down on him. His quirk sparks at his fingertips, barely restrained.

“Get outta my way.”

“No.”

“Bakugou Katsuki, I am your mother and you will listen to me !”

The heat in his chest spikes, frustration and something else—something twisting—curling under his skin like a live wire.

“The hell is your fuckin’ problem, hag?!”

“My problem,” Mitsuki snaps, “is my dumbass son thinking he’s fucking invincible!” She stabs a finger into his chest, hard, eyes blazing. “You think I’m just gonna stand here while you go tearing through the damn city, going who knows where, with who knows who?”

“I’ve been doing this for fuckin’ ever and you never had a problem! How is this any different?” Katsuki shouts back, his pulse a wildfire roaring in his ears.

Mitsuki doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t back down. But her hands shake at her sides, and she’s gripping her own wrist like she needs to steady herself.

“You’re not going out and that’s final .”

He laughs, sharp and humorless, something raw scraping up his throat. It tastes bitter. Wrong. 

“Watch me.”

Then Katsuki’s shoving past her, barely registering the way her fingers clutch at his sleeve, barely hearing her sharp curse as he wrenches open the door.

“Goddammit, Katsuki!” Her voice cracks—not just with fury, but something else, something that makes his stomach twist. “You walk out that door, don’t come crying to me when you get yourself into shit you can’t handle!”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn back.

The late afternoon heat slams into him, thick and stifling, the sun a smothering weight on his back. His skin prickles with sweat, but he barely notices. Barely cares.

His feet hit the pavement hard, each step jarring up his legs, rattling through his ribs. His hands shake with something he refuses to name. His quirk flares, sparking at his fingertips before he forces it back down, grinding his teeth until his jaw aches.

The words won’t stop echoing in his skull, pounding like a war drum, drowning out everything else. Something gnaws at his gut, sharp and relentless. He can’t sit with it. Can’t stand it. He needs answers. Needs to move. Because staying in the dark doing nothing? That’s never been an option. 

Katsuki doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going. Just that he is going. 

His legs move on their own, his body running on instinct, driven by something he can’t name and doesn’t want to examine too closely. His mind is a mess—too loud and too blank all at once, a storm of half-formed thoughts that won’t settle. But stopping isn’t an option. Not now. Not when everything in him is screaming to move .

Maybe it’s because of the silence in his house is unbearable, pressing against his skull like a vice. Every room feels too empty, too quiet. Even when his parents are home, their voices sound distant, muffled behind the ringing in his ears. He can’t stand it. He can’t breathe in that silence. In the sound of their voices.

Maybe it’s because every time he closes his eyes, he sees Deku’s stupid face, grinning like an idiot worth those stupid punchable freckles, or worse—looking at him with that quiet, tired kind of disappointment. But mostly, maybe it’s because of the words.

The last time they stood face-to-face, Katsuki had spat venom, sharp and reckless, the way he always did. Words like knives, meant to cut deep, but never to kill. 

Now those same words won’t leave him alone. They coil around his brain like barbed wire, sinking deeper each time they loop back, a vicious, endless cycle he can’t break no matter how hard he tries.

Deku was supposed to brush it off. He always did. He was supposed to shove past the pain, prove him wrong, come back stronger, more stubborn, more him . He was supposed to fight back, to do something. Because that’s who Deku was—who Izuku was. The idiot who never knew when to quit. 

The thought sinks its teeth in, cold and merciless. Katsuki’s stomach twists, something heavy and sour curling in his gut. He grits his teeth, tries to shove it down, but it’s been creeping in for days, gnawing at the edges of his mind, and no matter how hard he fights it, he can’t push it away anymore.

What if Deku really did it? What if the reason no one can find him is because there’s nothing to find?

The idea sinks into his chest, cold and heavy, like a weight pulling him deeper and deeper into something he can’t get out of. His throat tightens, every breath sharp and shallow, his body a furnace of anger that can’t burn it away. 

The memory gnaws at him, that last shitty conversation looping in his head, each word a weight pressing down on his ribs. He went too far. Pushed too hard. Now, Izuku’s gone. And maybe if he hadn’t let it end like that, if he’d fucking swallowed his pride for once—maybe Izuku would be here and not missing somewhere.

Katsuki tries to push the thought aside, but it won’t leave him alone. The knot in his stomach tightens further. He grits his teeth until his jaw aches, and his fists clench so hard his nails bite into his palms, the sharp pain barely registering.

He doesn’t want to think about it. He can’t think about it. Because if it’s true—if Deku is really dead, if it’s Katsuki’s fault—then what the hell is he supposed to do with that? He can’t go back. He can’t fix it. And if he’s the reason that Izuku’s gone, if those words are what pushed him over the edge…

Katsuki’s breath comes sharp, uneven, his hands clenched so tight his nails dig into his palms. He doesn’t stop walking. He can’t. His pulse pounding in his ears, drowning out everything else.

Then, suddenly, he swings. His fist slams into the side of a streetlight, metal ringing out into the empty night. Pain jolts up his arm, sharp and electric, but he welcomes it—needs it. Anything to quiet the storm inside his head.

His body shakes with the effort of keeping it together, of not completely losing his shit right here on the street. He feels so fucking stupid, like some dumbass who should’ve known better but still managed to fuck everything up anyway.

No, no, no, fuck . Don’t go there. Don’t—

But it’s too late. The thought is already sinking its claws in, dragging him down, suffocating him in everything he can’t fix.

Izuku’s face won’t leave his head. Every goddamn version of it. Wide-eyed, too damn hopeful. Bleeding, crying, smiling like he still fucking believed in something. Every time he stood back up when he should’ve stayed down. Every time he looked at Katsuki like he was something more than just fists and fury.

It haunts him. Shit, it haunts him. Worse than the idea of never seeing him again. Worse than the thought that he might never get the chance to fix what he fucked up.

His stomach twists, a gnawing, relentless thing, like something inside him is trying to eat him alive. Because if Deku really did it—if he really listened to all the bullshit Katsuki spat at him—if those words, that anger, were the last things ringing in his head when he—

Katsuki sways where he stands, breath ragged, like the air’s been knocked clean out of his lungs. His hands shake. He clenches them into fists, digs his nails deep enough to sting. Because no . No, fuck that. He refuses to believe it. Refuses to believe that the last thing Deku ever took from him was a reason to jump. But the thought won’t leave him. It latches onto his ribs, sinks in, stays.

Because maybe it doesn’t matter if he believes it or not. Maybe it already happened. Maybe he was the one who pushed him over the edge. And if that’s true, then all that anger, all those words Katsuki hurled at him, they didn’t just push Deku down. They killed him.

His vision blurs, but he grits his teeth, fists shaking at his sides. Katsuki might be a bastard—he knows that much. He might have spent his whole damn life trying to shove Deku into the dirt, trying to keep him beneath him where he belonged. Because if Deku was beneath him, then he could never be better than him. Never make Katsuki feel small. But he never meant to bury him there. Not like this .

The thought chokes him. Shrinks him down to something small and pathetic and helpless—a feeling he fucking despises more than anything. His fists clench so hard his nails bite into skin, blood welling under his fingertips, but it doesn’t do shit to stop the way his chest caves in, the way his lungs feel too tight, too fucking weak.

He wants to scream. Wants to blow a hole in the sky, burn this whole fucking town down until there’s nothing left but ash and ruin. Anything, anything but this suffocating silence, this aching, gnawing stupid feeling that coils in his gut like a parasite.

But all he can do is stand there, fists still shaking, teeth grinding so hard his skull aches, holding back the words he doesn’t even know how to fucking say. He fucked up. He fucked it all up. Again.

People are moving on. They’re talking in hushed voices, exchanging pitying looks, but no one is doing anything. No one is fighting for Deku. They’re just acting like he’s just some lost cause, some tragedy to be mourned instead of fixed.

It pisses him off. It makes his blood boil, makes his hands shake with frustration. Because Deku is out there, somewhere, and nobody fucking cares.

Katsuki grits his teeth and stomps as he continues walking, his chest heaving as he exhales sharply through his nose. He’s not like them. He refuses to just sit back and let this happen. He won’t let this happen. 

Because if he does, if he stops, if he lets himself sit in that silence for too long, then maybe he’ll have to admit that he’s just as scared as they are. That maybe, for the first time in his life, he might have actually pushed someone too far.

Katsuki shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched as he stalks up to the Midoriya household. The air feels heavier here, thick and suffocating, like the whole damn place is caving in under the weight of Deku’s absence. But that’s bullshit. 

He probably just got himself into some mess, like he always does. Maybe he ran off to train like an idiot, pushing himself too hard, too far. Maybe he got in over his head, got tangled up in some bullshit hero stunt, and now he’s lying low somewhere, licking his wounds. 

He’s probably in his room writing in his notebook about another new hero nobody gives a shit about. Something Deku always used to do. Something Katsuki knows Deku still does.

Katsuki’s jaw locks, his fists clenching deep in his pockets. The house looks the same as ever, but standing in front of it now makes something ugly coil in his gut. 

It’s been years since he’s had any reason to come this way, since the days when he’d show up unannounced, kicking at the door until Deku or his mom let him in to hang out and play, grinning like an idiot. Back then, this place had felt like everything—just another part of this life, just another stop on his way to something better.

Now it feels different. Nostalgic yet foreign. Feels wrong . Like he’s trespassing in a place that no longer belongs to him, in a past that doesn’t exist anymore.

The chipped paint on the fence, the uneven pavement leading up to the door—he remembers it all. Katsuki remembers the way they used to race down this sidewalk, Deku always a step behind, panting, grinning like an idiot even when he lost. Remembers the dumb little scuffle they had right on this patch of grass, over something so stupid he can’t even recall what it was.

But now, the house looms quiet, heavy with something suffocating. The windows stare back at him, hollow and lifeless. The porch light flickers like it’s struggling to stay alive. Katsuki swallows hard, shifting on his feet. Feels like if he steps any closer, he’ll wake something buried here—something he doesn’t know how to face.

He forces himself forward, steps heavier than they should be. His heart is a drumbeat in his ears, too fast, too loud. His pulse shouldn’t be fucking racing. It’s just a house. Just Deku’s stupid house.

But his breath catches the instant Katsuki sees the officers at the door.

The world shifts, goes out of focus. His legs feel unsteady, like the ground beneath him is buckling, giving way to something he doesn’t want to understand. He can feel the unease as his stomach sinks.

The sight of the dark and very official uniforms does something to him. Something deep in his gut twists violently, like a clenched fist tightening around his insides. He doesn’t want to acknowledge it, and doesn't want to think about what it means. But he can’t help it. It tells him maybe it’s something worse. Something that makes his chest tighten in an unfamiliar way that has nothing to do with anger.

And then there’s Inko. She stands just inside the door, small, fragile, like she might snap in half if someone breathes too hard near her. Her figure is swallowed by the two officers flanking her, both tall, imposing, their uniforms too crisp, too sharp against her broken shape.

Her face is ghostly pale, hollowed out and streaked with the remains of tears. Her eyes are bloodshot, rimmed red, and when she blinks, it’s like a second of agony stretches across her face. Her whole posture crumbles under the weight of it.

Katsuki has never seen Inko like this. Not even back then, before Katsuki ruined it all, when they didn’t go a day without seeing each other at least once. Sure, she was always too worried about Deku, always getting dramatic about the littlest things, but it never made her look this bad.

She was always the one trying to hold everything together, always the calm, steady presence. But now, she looks like she’s barely holding on, like one more push could send her toppling into an abyss she wouldn’t be able to crawl out of.

Katsuki’s throat is dry. His tongue feels heavy, unwilling to move. His pulse is too fast, too erratic, hammering in his ears. His chest is tight with a knot of emotions he can’t place, can’t unravel—just a tangled mess of something raw and burning, choking him from the inside out.

He just stands there, frozen in place, watching Inko like she’s going to say something—like she’s going to tell him this is all some stupid misunderstanding, that Deku’s fine, that he’s coming home soon. But she doesn’t. She just stands there too, and the look on her face makes his stomach drop.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His jaw tightens, then relaxes, then tightens again, like his body can’t decide whether to hold it in or let it spill. His fingers dig into his palms, nails biting into skin as the silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

Every second that passes feels like a countdown to something he’s not ready to face. The kind of moment that changes everything. And for the first time in a long time, Katsuki doesn’t know what the fuck to do. Doesn’t know how to fix this. Doesn’t know if he even can.

What the hell is he even doing here? Bakugou Katsuki doesn’t do this kind of shit. He doesn’t show up at people’s houses looking for assurance or whatever. But he needs something—answers, proof, anything that tells him this isn’t as bad as it looks. People keep telling him things, but Katsuki needs to see it to believe it.

Katsuki steps onto the porch, and the sudden silence hits him like a fist to the gut. Thick, suffocating, wrong. It presses against his skull, sets his nerves on fire. 

His skin crawls at the way Inko’s shoulders shake, at the way the cops stare at her with that empty, rehearsed sympathy, like they’ve already written this off. Like they’ve already decided how this ends.

It makes him sick. Makes his hands twitch, makes his teeth grind. The words rip out of his mouth before he can stop them, raw and jagged, scraping against his throat.

“Where the hell is Deku?”

It comes out harsher than he means, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t take it back. Can’t. Because the alternative is standing here in this choking silence, waiting, hoping, doing nothing. And that’s never been enough for him.

Inko flinches, just barely, like the force of his words hits something raw inside her. But she doesn’t snap at him. Doesn’t tell him off for barging in, for making demands like he has any right to. She just looks at him. Really looks at him. As if she was trying to figure out whether he was here because he’s worried or because he’s breaking apart just as much as she is.

Her lips tremble as she opens her mouth, but for a moment, nothing comes out. The silence between them feels like it’s stretching, suffocating. Then, with a deep, shuddering breath, she finally speaks, her voice barely more than a fragile whisper.

“I don’t know, Katsuki.” Her words are small, the weight of them barely reaching the air. Her hands flutter at her sides as if she doesn’t know where to place them, her eyes brimming with helplessness. The pain in her gaze is raw, exposed.

“His phone is off. The police can’t find him.” Inko continues. The last word breaks apart as it leaves her lips, a sharp crack that cuts through the already fragile air. It shatters the moment between them, and Katsuki feels something twist deep in his chest, the sound sinking into him. Her face crumbles, tears welling in her big, green eyes. “They can’t find my baby.”

Her voice cracks, the words faltering under the weight of her sorrow. Inko’s shoulders tremble as she chokes on the grief, unable to keep it in any longer. She presses her hand to her mouth as if to hold back a sob, her eyes squeezing shut for a second before she looks back at him, her face pale and drawn.

Katsuki’s fists are clenched so tight that his nails dig into his palms, but the tension doesn’t ease. His mouth opens, but no words come out. He wants to say something—anything—but his throat feels like it’s been stuffed full of gravel.

His gaze flickers to the floor, then back to her, but he can’t find the right thing to say. Katsuki’s heart pounds in his chest, not with the usual fire, but with something heavier. Something that sinks him deeper with every passing second. 

He barely hears the officer beside her continue to yap some generic bullshit about ongoing investigations, about how they’re doing everything they can. It’s all just white noise. Meaningless.

His jaw tightens further, the muscles twitching with the strain of holding back. His nails dig into his palms so hard he feels his skin split, the pain nothing compared to the flood of frustration choking him. 

Katsuki’s anger flares—not at Inko, not at the officer, not even at himself. It flares at the helplessness of it all. At the fact that they’re standing here, like fools, waiting for someone else to fix it. Waiting for answers that never come. Like that’s ever worked before.

Katsuki breathes in too sharply, the air coming out in quick, jagged bursts. He tries to swallow the burn rising in his chest, but it only makes it worse. His fingers twitch, desperate to punch something, to burn the tension out of his body. He forces himself still, grinding his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

“So what? You’re just sitting here, hoping he magically shows up?” His voice is raw, strained, but there’s a flicker of something darker behind it, a challenge aimed at everything that feels out of his control.

The officer with graying hair and a tired expression glances at him, barely hiding his annoyance. “We understand this is difficult, but we are investigating. These things take time.”

Katsuki’s eyes snap to the officer, his fists clenching at his sides. He takes a half-step forward, his voice a low growl. “Time? It’s been literal days . What the hell have you even found?”

The officer sighs, his patience already wearing thin. “We can’t disclose details of an open case.”

Katsuki’s laugh is sharp, cruel. It cuts through the air like broken glass. “Oh, really? Can’t or won’t?”

He feels the weight of Inko’s stare, the way she shifts next to him, like she’s shrinking under the weight of the whole room. She wraps her arms around herself, a silent plea for calm. Her voice trembles, but it’s laced with a desperation he can’t ignore. “Katsuki, please—”

He stops, mid-step, his body tensing like he might snap. His fists shake, fingers flexing like they’re reaching for something to destroy. The air feels too thick to breathe, suffocating him. He exhales sharply, bitter and sharp like the taste of metal, and looks back at Inko, eyes clouded with the storm he can’t outrun.

Katsuki wants to break something. He wants to scream. He wants to do something. But instead, he stands there, clenched and seething, fighting against the realization that it would be useless.

“When was the last time you talked to him?” His voice is quieter now, rough but not biting.

Inko’s fingers tighten against the fabric of her sweater. “Last Tuesday. He messaged me saying that he was on the way, that he’d be home soon.”

Katsuki swallows. His throat is dry. Of course it was on fucking Tuesday.

He shifts on his feet, his hands still clenched at his sides. “Did he… did he say anything out of the ordinary?”

Her breath catches. For a moment, she doesn’t answer. Then, barely above a whisper, “He told me not to worry.”

That’s not out of the ordinary. It’s stupid. It’s nothing. A throwaway phrase. Deku was always saying shit like that. But somehow, right now, it’s the worst fucking thing Katsuki has heard all day. The words sit there, heavy and sour, sinking into his skin like poison.

“Don’t worry.”

That’s not reassurance. That’s the kind of thing you say when you know damn well there’s something to worry about.

His throat tightens. The air feels thick, like it’s pressing against his ribs, refusing to let go. He forces his voice steady. “And that’s it? That’s all he said?”

Inko hesitates, her fingers twisting into the hem of her sweater like she’s holding on for dear life. She shakes her head, blinking hard. “I—I don’t know. He didn’t text me after that. I was hoping he was with you, but I called Mitsuki a—and...”

Katsuki’s jaw locks. A sharp, electric buzz crawls beneath his skin. The officer beside her clears his throat, cutting through the moment with a tone that grates like sandpaper. Condescending. Detached. Like this is just another case, another missing kid. Not his problem.

“Look, kid, you’re not helping by standing here getting in the way. We’re doing everything we can, but this isn’t your case to solve. Go home, let us handle it.”

Katsuki almost laughs, the frustration bubbling up into anger. If they think he’s just gonna sit back and let them screw this up, they’re out of their minds. 

But he bites his tongue, forcing himself to think. His mind moves too fast, racing over every possible place Deku could be. Every hideout Deku’s ever dragged his stupid ass to.

“Has anyone—” He exhales sharply, voice tight. “Has anyone checked the school? The playground? All the stores in the corner? Anything that actually makes fuckin’ sense?”

The officer frowns. “We’re checking all possible locations, but—”

“That’s not what I fuckin’ asked.” Katsuki’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and biting.

“Katsuki,” Inko murmurs, weary, pleading, warning. But Katsuki couldn’t find it in himself to care.

He doesn’t care that he’s being an ass. Doesn’t care that he’s in their faces, that the officer’s already looking at him like he’s a problem, like he’s another complication to deal with. 

He doesn’t give a shit about any of it. What he does care about right now is that Deku is gone. That he’s out there, somewhere, and these assholes are dragging their feet like he’s just another name on a report.

The officer’s mouth tightens, and for a second, it looks like he’s about to launch into some patronizing speech about “procedure” and “doing everything they can.” Katsuki doesn’t wait to hear it. With a frustrated groan, he turns away, every muscle coiled too tight, burning with the need to move.

“Oi.” The officer’s voice hardens. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To actually look for the goddamn nerd.”

“Katsuki!” Inko’s voice catches on his name, cracking under the weight of something dangerously close to desperation.

But he doesn’t stop. Because waiting isn’t gonna bring Deku back. And if no one else is gonna do something, then he will.

Katsuki barely makes it down the street before the officer’s voice turns sharp.

“Kid, stop right there!”

His fists clench. He grits his teeth but forces himself to turn back, eyes burning. “ What ?”

The officer crosses his arms, face set in a firm, unimpressed line. “This isn’t some damn game. It’s real life. You can’t just go running off on your own. We have an investigation in progress.”

Katsuki scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah? And how’s that going? You find him yet?”

The officer’s jaw tightens and he glances at Katsuki’s uniform. “This isn’t something a middle schooler should be interfering with. If you get involved and compromise evidence or put yourself in danger, we’re gonna have a real problem.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes. “Like I give a shit.”

“You should,” the officer snaps, stepping forward. “Because if you do anything reckless, I will have to bring you in. You understand me?”

Katsuki stares at the officer, heat crawling up his spine, his heartbeat pounding against his ribs like a war drum. The rage under his skin is suffocating, burning hot and restless, screaming for an outlet. He leans in just enough to make the guy flinch, his lips curling back, ready to let loose. 

“Katsuki.”

His head snaps toward Inko. She looks even smaller now, shoulders drawn up like she’s bracing for a blow, her fingers curled so tightly into the fabric of her sweater that her knuckles have gone white. 

But it’s not that that stops him. It’s her eyes. Wide, pleading, glassy with exhaustion and barely concealed terror. Too familiar. Big and green, shining under the dim light, full of something raw and desperate—just like his used to be. Just like they probably still were, wherever the hell he was.

A shiver runs down his spine, unwelcome and unshakable. It’s unnerving, remembering how similar they looked. Inko stared at him like he’s the only thing holding her together. Like he’s the last damn lifeline she has. It knocks the breath out of him, sends something ugly twisting in his gut. Because he’s seen that look before. 

On Deku, when he was scared shitless but still trying to stand his ground. On Deku, when he was hurting but pretending he wasn’t. And now it’s on Inko, and she’s looking at him like that.

His fingers twitch, aching to move, to lash out, and do something —but all he can do is stand there, rooted to the floor, drowning in the weight of her gaze.

She swallows hard, her breath unsteady, voice cracking like fragile glass. “Please, Katsuki. Be careful. I can’t…” She shakes her head, struggling to get the words out, but when they come, they land like a hammer to his chest. “I can’t lose you too.”

The fire in his gut sputters, dims just enough for the weight of her words to hit. Not just hit—sink in, settle like lead in his stomach, twisting tight, suffocating.

His nails bite deeper into his palms, but the pain barely registers. The frustration, the helpless rage, the goddamn ache of it all drowns out everything else. Every muscle in his body is screaming at him to move. To run, to tear through the streets, to do something. To rip the whole damn city apart until he finds that nerd himself.

But he doesn’t move. He can’t. Not with Inko looking at him like that.

The storm inside him has nowhere to go. It rages in his chest, burns beneath his skin, coils around his ribs like barbed wire. It’s too much, too hot, pressing against his bones until he feels like he might fucking burst.

His skin prickles, damp with sweat that isn’t just from the heat. It clings to him, thick and stifling, making his shirt stick to his back, making everything feel wrong. It’s late, but the air is still heavy, the last traces of the day’s sun baked into the pavement, rising in waves that make it hard to fucking breathe.

He exhales sharply, biting down on the urge to fight, to run, to go. Instead, he grits his teeth and steps back onto the porch, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, fists curling tight—

Crackle .

It’s barely more than a spark, a tiny flicker of heat at his fingertips, but it’s enough. Enough for the air around him to shift, for the officer to tense, for Inko to flinch ever so slightly—just a twitch, just a breath of movement, but he sees it.

And suddenly, the rage isn’t just under his skin. It’s crawling up his throat, curling around his teeth, making his whole body burn with the force of it.

He hates this. Hates standing here, hates doing nothing, hates how his body betrays him like this, lets the heat slip through the cracks when he’s trying so fucking hard to keep it together.

He clenches his fists even tighter, willing the sparks to die, forcing his breathing to stay even. Control. Control . It’s slipping as the heat is rising.

“Fine.” The word is like glass in his throat, jagged and unwilling. “I won’t do anything.”

It tastes bitter.

The officer eyes him up and down, skeptical. “Glad to hear it.”

Katsuki doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t fucking care. He just gives a stiff nod, jaw locked so tight it aches, and lets his gaze drop to the side. He can hear Inko sigh and turn away back into the house.

His thumb rubs slow, deliberate circles against his index finger inside his pocket. Pressing deep. Over and over. A habit. A tell.

Yeah.

He’s lying through his fucking teeth.

Katsuki doesn’t ask the cops for shit. They’re useless. He knows it the second he sees them dragging their feet, feeding Inko those weak-ass reassurances, telling her they’re “doing their best.”

Doing their best —what a joke. If that were true, Deku wouldn’t be missing. If that were true, he wouldn’t be standing here, fists clenched, stomach coiled into knots, watching Inko crumble under the weight of their empty words.

So Katsuki does what he always does. He takes matters into his own hands.

The heavy night air sinks into his skin. The heat from the pavement rises up, sticking to him like sweat, making every breath feel thick. His heart pounds, his blood thrums, and the restless energy beneath his skin screams for an outlet. He needs to keep moving. Needs to keep doing something.

His mind is already running through the possibilities, dragging him from one memory to the next, piecing together every scrap of information, every fucking clue that might lead him to Deku. 

It’s been long— way too fucking long—since he vanished. Too long since anyone’s seen him, too long since Katsuki’s heard his voice, that stupid muttering, that fucking never-ending annoying ass optimism. And now there’s just silence. It’s just not right. It doesn’t sit right with Katsuki.

The thought makes his stomach twist, but he shoves it down. He tells himself it’s nothing. It’s just a lead, just a place to check, just— fuck , he just needs to keep moving.

He’s already mapped it out in his head. The places Deku could be, the routes he might’ve taken, the shortcuts he always used when they were kids. He knows this neighborhood like the back of his hand. Knows where the streetlights flicker, where the alleys are quiet, where the shadows stretch long enough to swallow someone whole. And that’s what scares him.

Because Deku isn’t the type to just disappear. He’s always been predictable—annoyingly so. Always walking the same damn path, always sticking to his routine, always making himself easy to fucking find, easy to predict. So if he’s gone now— really gone—it’s because someone made him that way.

The thought sets Katsuki’s teeth on edge. His fists clench harder, nails digging into his palms, sparks threatening to lick at his fingers. His breathing is sharp, his mind a blur of static, but his feet keep moving, fast and certain.

The cops won’t find him. They’ll waste time, they’ll follow protocol, they’ll drag their feet until it’s too late. But Katsuki won’t.

He cuts through the side streets, his pulse a war drum, his body thrumming with restless energy. Every shadow feels too deep, every quiet alley too fucking empty. His thoughts keep circling back to all the wrong places, all the worst-case scenarios, but he forces himself forward.

Where the fuck is that nerd?

Katsuki doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. Not until he finds something. Not until he rips this whole damn city apart if he has to.

His legs ache, but he doesn’t stop. The sunset hangs heavy in the sky, a sickly orange bleed that stains everything in its path—casting long, twisted shadows that stretch like fingers, pulling the world into something dark and unrecognizable. 

The sun’s descent is slow, deliberate, as if it knows it’s the last time it’ll paint the sky with color. Everything feels too still, too quiet, as though the world itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

Katsuki doesn’t even hear his footsteps anymore. The air is thick, suffocating, pressing in around him, making each step feel like it’s taking him further into some hollow place where nothing matters anymore. 

The unusual silence of the streets is oppressive, the kind that presses on your chest and won’t let you breathe. His lungs ache, his heart stutters in his chest, but he keeps moving. going. 

Because if he stops, if he lets the silence settle, then maybe—just maybe—he has to admit that he failed. And that’s just not right. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. Each step forward is a weight he can’t put down, dragging him into the emptiness, farther away from the world he used to know. 

The sun dips lower, casting harsh shadows that twist and contort, stretching out across the cracked pavement. The street lights flicker to life, casting weak, pale halos that don’t seem to offer anything. The world is disintegrating, one breath at a time. It’s too quiet. Too heavy. The warmth of the setting sun feels like a mockery.

He takes the long way to the park, the one they used to visit when they were little brats. It’s stupid, pointless even, but he can’t bring himself to go anywhere else. His feet know where they’re going, even if his brain can’t make sense of it. 

The park. The one with the swings Deku used to push him on. The place where they would sit in the sandbox for hours, talking about anything and everything—laughter echoing in the empty air, their voices high-pitched and filled with childish wonder. 

They were too young to know the weight of the world, too innocent to understand the darkness lurking just beyond the horizon. But they were heroes in their minds, always chasing after something bigger, something greater. 

They’d sit on the swings, imagining themselves soaring through the sky, taking on villains and saving the day. Every conversation had been about the future—about what it would mean to be like All Might, to be strong and brave. They’d always argued over who would be the better hero, their competition playful but fierce.

Without wanting to, Katsuki knows the way Deku’s eyes would light up when he talked about All Might. How he’d lean forward, hands trembling, telling Katsuki about his latest theory or observation. 

He remembers the way his own voice would rise in excitement as he swore he’d be the one to catch the villain, to throw the final punch, to save the day. They'd pretend, heroes in a world of their own making, building castles out of sand and dirt, creating villains and scenarios with nothing but their imagination. 

They’d run around, slipping in the wet grass, scraping their knees, laughing and arguing over who had the best strategy for saving the world. Sometimes, they’d even sit in silence, side by side, staring up at the sky, imagining the future. 

Back then, the biggest question was whether or not they’d make it into Yuuei or what they’d do when they finally got their quirks. But they’d always end those moments with the same dream—becoming heroes, standing next to All Might, making the world a better place.

Katsuki swallows hard. The park feels like a distant memory, a place that was so full of life, so full of possibility. Now, it’s just empty swings, swaying in the wind. It’s all wrong. Everything is wrong .

He stops short when he sees it—the swings swaying slightly in the wind, as if someone’s still there. But there’s no one. The empty seats stare back at him like a ghost, just like everything else tonight.

He’s been here a thousand times before, in a hundred different memories, but now it feels different. Every inch of this place seems wrong, like the park has changed in a way he can’t quite grasp. 

The rusted chains creak with an almost mournful sound as the swings rock back and forth, a soft breeze moving through them. It’s just like it always was. But it isn’t.

Katsuki kicks at the sand again, his foot dragging through the gritty surface with more force than necessary. His breath comes quicker now, shallow, like something’s choking him from the inside. 

He wants to stop thinking. Wants to forget. The memories are clawing at the back of his mind, trying to break through. He clenches his jaw, his fists tightening at his sides, but it doesn’t help.

He doesn’t want to remember this place. He doesn’t want to remember the way the lake used to stretch out in front of them, endless and quiet, when it felt like nothing could go wrong. He doesn’t want to think about how simple things used to be, how everything was easier when it was just him and Deku, no bullshit, no complications. 

Back then, Deku was always right beside him—always willing to listen, always smiling through his stupid, hopeful eyes. The kind of smile that made Katsuki want to punch him and hug him until he couldn’t breathe all at once.

It was always that way. That fucking smile. The way Deku would stand there, looking at him like he was the only person in the world that mattered, like his dumb, freckled face was the answer to every question Katsuki had ever had. 

It made Katsuki want to knock the damn smile off his face with one punch—hard—but also, deep down, made him want to grab him and never let go. It was infuriating and confusing as fuck. How was it that Izuku could be so fucking weak and yet have so much strength in his eyes, in that damn smile?

Katsuki hated it. Hated that toothy smile. Hated the way it made his chest tighten like something was about to break loose. He hated that it was the one thing he couldn’t control, couldn’t fight, couldn’t push away. 

Every time Deku looked at him like he was the most important person in the world, it made something inside Katsuki snap. But it wasn’t the kind of snap that made him want to punch him or yell at him. No, this was different. This was something deeper, something raw. 

But that terrified him. Because Katsuki never let anyone get that close. Never let anyone matter that much. Not because he didn’t care—no, he cared more than he could even put into words. But it felt dangerous. It felt like standing on the edge of something he couldn’t control. 

The thought of letting Deku into that, of letting him see how much he really fucking needed him, made his skin crawl. But it wasn’t just fear. It was more than that—it was rage. 

Rage at himself for feeling this way, rage at Deku for making him feel this way. Because deep down, Katsuki knew if he let himself care that much, if he let Deku in the way he wanted to, he’d be giving away the last piece of himself that was still whole. And if Deku ever saw how weak he really was, how much he was falling apart inside, he might as well just run the hell away.

But now? Now, he isn’t here anymore. And all Katsuki can feel is the echo of what he should’ve said. The things he should’ve done. 

He can still hear Deku’s childish laugh, still feel the pressure of his shoulder next to his, still remember how it felt to walk together hand- in-hand in silence like the whole world didn’t matter except for the two of them.

The whole goddamn thing was a fucking tangle of emotions—hate, anger, regret, other bullshit feelings he couldn’t name. He wanted to rip his hair out just trying to understand it. Wanted to scream at Deku for being so fucking hopeful, for being so goddamn irritatingly optimistic, but at the same time, wishing he had more time to say everything he was too stupid to figure out.

It was the worst kind of thing, that feeling. The feeling that maybe—just maybe—he had liked him all along. But if he had, then why the hell did it feel so much like everything had been a fight? Like it was always a battle, always something he had to win? Why was it always about proving something? Wasn’t he just supposed to care? Wasn’t he supposed to feel?

The truth is, Katsuki isn’t sure if he ever fully realized how much Deku meant to him until it was too late. All the frustration, all the anger, all the fighting—it was never just about Deku being better than him. He wished it was that simple. 

It was about him . It was about how much Katsuki couldn’t stand the idea of losing him, of letting that stupid, hopeful smile disappear. And now that smile isn’t as presesnt in his life as often anymore..

 And Katsuki is left with the raw, aching hole that’s been tearing him apart ever since. 

That was before everything changed. Before the anger, before the fights, before the distance. Before Katsuki fucked it all up like he always does with everything good. He can still hear the words—

“I don’t want to fight anymore, Kacchan.” 

The way Izuku’s voice had cracked, full of something like sadness and guilt, like he was afraid of losing Katsuki forever. And maybe he had been. Maybe that’s what this was. Maybe everything that came after was his fault.

Katsuki’s teeth grind together, and he kicks the sand harder this time, sending a cloud of dust up into the air. He feels the sting in his chest again, that deep, gnawing pain that won’t leave him. 

It was just so much easier to hate Deku. To see him as weak, to see him as a nuisance. But now, after everything, it feels like the opposite. Like the rage was always the thing keeping him from seeing the truth—that maybe Deku was never the one holding him back. Maybe it was himself.

Katsuki curls his hands into fists again, his nails digging into his palms so hard he can feel the blood. He feels like he’s suffocating. He’s so fucking tired of feeling like this. 

Tired of this weight sitting on his chest, every second of every day. The world keeps moving, keeps spinning, and everyone else acts like nothing’s wrong. But he can’t ignore it. He can’t pretend.

And the worst part? He knows he’s the one who screwed it all up. He knows it wasn’t Deku’s fault. He knows that if he had just done things differently, maybe, just maybe, things wouldn’t have ended this way. But now it’s too late. 

It’s too late to fix it. Too late to go back. And the thought of that—of everything being lost, of everything he could’ve had with Deku and never will—tears him apart from the inside.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but it doesn’t help. There’s no escape from this. There’s no escape from what he’s done. The guilt is a weight that will never leave him.

The emptiness of the park, the ghost of those memories, is too much. It’s too fucking much. He turns away from the swings, hands curling into fists, a sharp pang of frustration and something darker rising in his chest. There’s no fucking point.

But his feet don’t stop. They take him to the next spot. And the next. Until there’s nowhere left. Until he finds nothing.

The silence presses in. The chains creak in the wind, swaying slightly, like someone was just here. Katsuki stares at them for too long, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ache.

Katsuki moves on to the corner store—nothing. The busted vending machine where Deku always used to stop for a drink after school—nothing. He checks near the school, near the train station, near every fucking place Deku has ever been, anywhere he might’ve gone if he was lost or hurt or—

No. Katsuki grits his teeth and forces the thought away. He refuses to think like that.

He passes street after street, each one stretching ahead like an endless maze, the street lights flickering, casting long shadows that seem to grow with every step he takes. 

People walk past him, faces blurred, eyes too tired to care. They’re all so normal. They’re walking, talking, living—oblivious to the world crumbling around him. 

They don’t notice him, not really. Some glance his way, their eyes flicking over him like he’s just another guy passing through. He doesn’t care, not really, but something tightens in his chest as he watches them. They’re so fucking normal. So goddamn unaware.

His legs move like they’re on autopilot, but his mind? His mind’s spiraling. He’s too aware of everything now—every person that walks by, every sound that isn’t Deku’s fuckass mumbling, every step that isn’t Deku’s behind him. 

One guy, an old man with a dog, looks at him as he walks by, eyes narrowing like he can see the storm inside him, and Katsuki’s lip curls into a snarl, the kind that comes naturally, the kind he can’t stop. The man looks away, not wanting to fight, not wanting to even notice the fire that’s been eating at him for what feels like forever.

He doesn’t stop, keeps walking, shoving the anger down where it hurts. His chest is tight, like the air isn’t reaching his lungs fast enough, like his heart is beating in time with the quiet around him. He’s fucking suffocating, and it’s all his fault.

But the city doesn’t care. The city doesn’t stop. People keep living, breathing, walking by—too distracted, too wrapped up in their own lives. The thought gnaws at him, bitter, and he bites down harder on it. What does it even matter? They don’t know. They’ll never know. He’s the only one who feels this, and maybe that’s what kills him.

He stops at an intersection, scanning his surroundings, frustration clawing at his ribs. His hands curl into fists at his sides. The skin on his knuckles is raw from how tightly he’s been clenching them.

The frustration under his skin crackles, restless and seething. His body is moving on instinct now, cutting through empty streets, slipping between back roads he hasn’t walked in years. He checks behind buildings, up fire escapes, even in places that don’t make sense. Nothing.

Katsuki stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, his breath rugged and uneven, a cold sweat dampening the back of his neck. His muscles scream from the relentless pace, but it’s not just his body that’s giving out—it’s his mind, too. 

He’s fucking wired, too strung out on adrenaline and panic, and it’s all building up to something he can’t control. His heart is a hammer in his chest, each beat too loud, too frantic, drowning out the rest of the world around him. Everything else is a blur, a low hum, while the thumping of his heart echoes in his ears.

This isn’t right. It can’t be. Deku isn’t just gone. He’s not the type to disappear, not the type to vanish without a trace, not without a goddamn word to anyone. Katsuki knows that better than anyone. He knows the exact way Deku walks when he’s excited, the way his eyes light up when he talks about heroes and how much he believes in them. 

He knows the stupid little details that make him Izuku—the way he stumbles over his words when he’s nervous, the way he’d never leave a note because his brain was too busy overthinking everything else. Katsuki memorized it all without even noticing, every goddamn thing .

So this? This doesn’t make sense. The pieces don’t fit. The familiar patterns of Deku’s life, his habits, everything he does, none of it adds up to someone who’s just fucking disappeared.

Katsuki he breathes in, short and sharp, like he’s trying to snatch air from thin fucking space. He’s missing something, something obvious, but it’s just out of his reach, like it’s slipping through his fingers.

The reality of it—of what he’s facing—smashes into him all at once. His stomach twists, that gnawing, sinking feeling that something is terribly wrong. Deku wouldn’t just leave. Not like this. Not without a fight. 

But here Katsuki is, alone, screaming in his own head, and nothing feels like it’s fitting back into place. His brain’s racing in a thousand different directions, trying to piece together what the hell he’s missing, but he can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Katsuki exhales sharply, shoving a hand through his hair, fingers dragging through the sweat at his scalp. He’s been moving for over an hour now, maybe longer, his mind wired, his body running on pure adrenaline. He keeps going.

The city is a blur, the neon signs and flickering street lights bleeding into the dark. He barely registers the people he passes, barely hears the hum of traffic in the distance. 

Everything feels too fucking slow. Too useless. He’s searching, searching, but he’s coming up empty, and the longer this drags on, the worse the sinking feeling in his gut gets.

Then there’s the alley. He’s seen Deku use it before—sometimes taking it as a shortcut to and from school. Don’t ask how Katsuki knows that. Like everything else he knows about Deku, he just does . It was a place no one else really went. Isolated. Quiet. 

Katsuki slows, his pulse jumping into his throat, thrumming like a warning bell. Something is off. The quiet presses in around him, too thick, too heavy, like the city itself is holding its breath. 

The bottom of his shoes crunch against the cracked pavement, the sound too sharp in the unnatural silence. He turns into the narrow passage, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention, every instinct screaming at him to stop. But he doesn’t.

The air is colder here, the shadows stretching longer, darker, swallowing everything in their path. He steps forward, the weight of it all pressing harder on his chest with each step. The second he enters, he knows.

The smell hits first. It’s thick, suffocating—coppery, metallic, clinging to the back of his throat like it doesn’t want to let go. It’s the smell of something that’s been here for too long, of something wrong. Something that shouldn’t be.

Katsuki’s gaze drops, and his breath seizes in his chest, every instinct telling him to turn around, to leave this place, to escape this stench before it sinks too deep into his skin. But he can’t.

His feet move on their own, like they’re being pulled by some invisible force. His eyes flicker over the room, sharp, desperate for anything that doesn’t make his skin crawl. But it’s all wrong. The corners of the room are darker than they should be. The air feels colder, heavier, like it’s closing in on him.

And then he sees it. Deku’s school bag—his stupid, worn-out book bag—is lying crumpled on the floor. The zipper’s half open, like it was tossed aside in a hurry. The straps are tangled, like Deku had dropped it without a second thought. 

But it’s the phone not too far from it that stops him. Deku’s cracked phone, the screen shattered, lying in a way that makes his stomach twist. It’s the kind of fall that doesn’t just crack the screen. It makes it look like it’s been through something. Something heavy. Something violent.

Katsuki’s hand shakes before he even realizes it, reaching down to touch the edge of the phone, his fingers trembling, burning with the need to understand. But the moment his skin meets the shattered glass, it’s like the world goes numb. The weight of it crashes over him all at once, sinking him into the kind of panic he’s never felt before.

Deku’s bag. Deku’s phone. The smell. The silence.

All of it hits him like a freight train. His throat tightens, suffocating, and his eyes burn like he’s been awake for days. It doesn’t make sense. None of it does. Why was this here? Why wasn’t Deku? What the hell had happened?

Katsuki grips the phone tighter and slides it into his pocket, his nails digging into the cracks as if he can tear it apart and find some kind of fucking answer. But nothing comes. Nothing makes it any better. 

He feels like he’s drowning in this godforsaken, empty alley, and there’s no way out. He can’t leave. Not yet. Because if he walks away without knowing what happened, without finding out where the hell Deku is, then all of this will be for nothing. And because Bakugou Katsuki doesn’t back down. No dark, eerie alley is going to scare him off.

The dark stain is impossible to ignore. It’s almost black, smeared across the concrete, pooling in uneven patches like something had been dragged through it—no, some one had been dragged. The shapes, the patterns, they’re wrong, twisted, like a horror he doesn’t want to admit to. 

Katsuki swallows, but it does nothing to ease the dryness in his throat. The air itself feels like it’s choking him, thick with something foul and heavy that presses against his ribs.

He wants to turn. To run. To forget this entire fucking moment. But his legs won’t move. They’re frozen in place, rooted to the spot, like the pavement is pulling him down, forcing him to look, to see what’s lying in the shadows.

Katsuki’s hands tremble, shaking despite every command he tries to shove into his body. He tells himself to stop. Not to jump to conclusions. Not to fucking panic. But his thoughts are already spiraling, rushing too fast for him to catch, too loud for him to ignore. This is bad. This is wrong. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

But there’s a voice in his head that won’t listen to reason. It’s the one that knows Deku is out there, somewhere, buried under this mess, under this darkness, and it’s driving him forward. 

His body moves before his mind can catch up, every part of him screaming to stop, but that part—the stubborn, relentless part of him—won’t let him. He keeps moving, despite everything.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be doing this. His stomach churns, sour and sickening, but he doesn’t stop. The rage that fuels him is nothing but a twisted echo in his chest, muffled by something worse. Something more primal, more desperate. He needs to know. He needs to find him. He needs to see it for himself.

The trail leads to a dumpster. Katsuki stares at it, a knot of dread tightening in his chest, and the part of him that isn’t completely gone, the small part that’s still sane, screams at him not to go any closer. To walk away. To forget it. 

But his feet move anyway, heavy, unwilling, dragging across the pavement like he’s fighting against the gravity of the situation. Every step is a fight, every inch of movement a battle between the part of him that wants to turn and run and the part that is already too far gone to care.

His fingers curl around the edge of the lid, his grip tight and trembling. He’s disgusted. He can’t stand the idea of what’s on the other side, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because his curiosity is a sick thing, gnawing at him, making it impossible to turn back now.

He doesn’t let himself hesitate. He throws it open.

And when the smell hits him—sharp, metallic, something rotten and thick—his stomach rolls over, bile rising in his throat. His breath catches, but he doesn’t flinch. He can’t flinch. Not now. Not when he’s this close.

His eyes scan the inside of the dumpster, refusing to look at what’s right in front of him, but his gaze is drawn to it anyway. Something’s there. Something he can’t deny, no matter how much he wants to. He almost wishes he hadn’t come. Almost. Because now there’s no turning back.

Inside, buried beneath crumpled garbage and the overwhelming stench of rot, is a large black plastic bag. Katsuki’s stomach lurches. His brain is screaming at him to stop, to fucking walk away, to just say fuck it and let the police deal with this—but he doesn’t. He can’t. He’s gone too far now.

Katsuki’s stomach lurches when he spots the black plastic bag. The stench hits him first—sickly-sweet rot, blood caked into the seams of the material, sharp and cloying, curling into his nostrils like a warning. 

His instincts scream at him to walk away, to turn back, to ignore it, but his feet won’t move. They’re planted, rooted in place by some sick curiosity, some awful, desperate need to know.

He doesn’t want to know. But his hands reach out anyway, trembling, as he slowly, almost mechanically, pulls the bag closer. The plastic creaks and strains under his grip, the sound so loud, so sharp against the eerie silence that it feels like it’s echoing off the walls of his skull. 

He can almost hear his own thoughts screaming at him to stop, but they’re distant, muffled, buried under the sudden pounding of his heart.

“Holy fuck, I can’t believe I’m doing this shit right now,” Katsuki mutters to himself, his voice rough and tight. The words are bitter in his mouth, like the air in the alley itself is too thick to swallow. 

Katsuki grips the edge of the bag, his fingers curling around the slick material, the rancid odor seeping deeper into his senses, making his stomach churn.

His breath hitches as he yanks the bag open, and for a split second, Katsuki’s whole body freezes. He doesn’t want to look. He really doesn’t want to look. But his eyes, against his better judgment, are glued to the opening. Then he sees it.

His breath snags. His body seizes up. The world lurches, then stops dead. The sickening truth hits him like a freight train, and everything inside him just empties out entirely.

The bag is filled with something—no, some one —the familiar twisted shape of limbs that don’t belong, too limp, too unnatural. His body stiffens, a cold sweat breaks out along the back of his neck, but he can’t turn away. He can’t move.

Their skin is too pale. Almost ghostly. His lips are tinged blue, like death’s cold touch has already marked him. His body is contorted, unnatural. His skin looks waxy, stretched too tight over sharp bones. 

His mouth is slack, but not like sleep—like something ripped him out of himself, leaving his body behind. His arms bent at angles that shouldn’t be possible, the bones in them cracked, or worse. Something is wrong— so wrong . 

There’s a gash on the front of his neck, jagged and raw, the wound still dark with dried blood, like someone had sliced through him with deliberate, methodical precision. The blood clings to his skin in dark streaks, like the life had been ripped out of him, leaving nothing but the remnants of what used to be.

The crimson stains his uniform—soaked through, too much to count. One shoulder has been shredded, the fabric torn apart as if someone had tried to pull it off him with vicious force. 

Beneath it, the skin is battered and bruised, swollen in places. There are faint marks on his neck too, small but noticeable—purple-blue bruises, like fingers had wrapped around him and squeezed until he stopped struggling. Katsuki’s eyes refuse to leave them.

The worst part is the stillness. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t do anything. His body is a broken thing, thrown carelessly into the dumpster, like he didn’t matter. And somehow, it’s worse that way. 

The unfeeling, lifeless emptiness in his eyes—the ones that aren’t even closed. His eyes are wide open, unblinking, but they aren’t there anymore. 

They’re rolling back, the vibrant verdant that had always been so full of fire, of determination, admiration, of everything Katsuki knew, now a dull, glassy film. The pupils are barely visible, swallowed by the whites of his eyes, like they’ve been drained of everything that once made them alive.

Katsuki’s chest tightens. He’s seen those eyes his entire life—those wide, hopeful, desperate eyes that had always stared at him, waiting, always there , always present—and now they’re just empty.

He remembers when they were kids, back when Deku’s eyes weren’t full of fear or desperation but instead, hope. It was always hope with him. Those stupid, hopeful eyes that used to follow him around like a lost puppy.

Katsuki can’t count how many times those eyes had looked up at him, wide and brimming with that same damn hope, even when everything about Deku screamed “failure.” Even when he’d gotten beaten down, when he’d been crushed, when the world had told him he couldn’t make it. 

Those eyes never stopped believing. Never stopped looking at him like Katsuki was some kind of god, like he had all the answers, like he could somehow make it all okay. But now? Now those eyes are dead. There’s no hope in them anymore. No fight. No determination. Nothing.

It’s the final punch. The final blow. Katsuki’s worst nightmare—seeing Izuku like this, seeing that burning light snuffed out in such a disturbing way. 

The one thing that had been constant, that had been there with him from the very beginning, is now nothing more than a broken shell. And it’s not just that Deku is gone. It’s that Katsuki never even got to say goodbye.

His jaw is slack, dropped in a way that doesn’t look right, like his face isn’t even his own anymore. It’s hanging open in a grotesque, unnatural angle, as if death had yanked him into some twisted, irreversible position.  

It’s a position he’s seen before, every time Izuku gritted his teeth to push through another fight, every time he smiled at him, looking up with that stupid, hopeful face, even after everything. And now that same face is lifeless, almost unrecognizable.

The worst part is how it makes him feel. Like that something—that spark—has been ripped out of him, leaving nothing but a gaping hole that he can’t fill, no matter how hard he tries. Katsuki doesn’t want to see this. He doesn’t want to believe this is real. But it’s right in front of him. And it’s suffocating.

Katsuki’s throat tightens. His eyes burn with the sting of something that can’t be rage. It’s something deeper. More savage. Something that claws at him from the inside, leaving his chest raw. He doesn’t know how to process what he’s seeing. He doesn’t want to know. But it’s there, undeniable. He can’t unsee it.

He takes a step closer, his feet moving on their own, like his body is betraying him, forcing him to witness the wreckage. Katsuki wants to look away. He knows that he should look away. But his eyes are locked on him now, unable to break free from the horrific scene. 

It’s like his mind is racing in circles, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of his reality. His hands won’t stop shaking. His chest contracts, ribs locking tight, like his lungs have forgotten how to work.

No. This can’t be real. This can’t be Deku. He was supposed to be okay. He was supposed to be—

Katsuki wants to scream. He wants to throw up. He wants to do something—anything to fix this, to make it stop. He can’t—he won’t —accept this. But as his eyes trace the shape of Izuku’s broken body, he can’t deny it. This is real. This is happening. 

A slow, seething heat coils in his chest, spreading like wildfire through his veins. His breath shudders, his fists clenching so hard his nails carve into his palms, sharp crescents of pain barely cutting through the storm inside him. It’s not just anger—it’s something blacker, heavier, curling around his ribs like a vice. His vision pulses red at the edges, the air thick and suffocating, pressing down on him, crushing him.

His teeth grind. His lungs heave. Every muscle in his body screams for release.

He wants to rip the earth apart with his bare hands. He wants to watch the world crumble, to see it burn until there’s nothing left but ash. His blood roars in his ears, demanding—find them. Tear them open. Make them suffer.

The weight in his chest twists tighter, hotter, unbearable. His body vibrates with it, ready to detonate.

His knees hit the concrete—hard. He barely feels it. His hands hover over the body, fingers twitching, reaching, pulling back, reaching again. He can’t do it. He can’t touch him. If he touches him, it’s real. But then he presses harder, desperate to feel warmth. Desperate for anything. 

The tears burn behind his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. He doesn’t cry. He won’t. 

A strangled sound tears from Katsuki’s throat—something raw, something broken, something he didn’t even know he could make—but it drowns beneath the deafening roar in his ears. His chest locks up, breath hitching, ribs squeezing tight like a vice. The world tilts, sharp and wrong, as his vision tunnels to a single, unbearable point.

Deku. Izuku.

Motionless. Lifeless.

Katsuki’s mind stumbles, reaching, clawing for anything that isn’t this, but there’s nothing else. Just the body in front of him. Just the hollow silence where there should be a heartbeat.

“Deku,” Katsuki croaks. He hates everything about the way his voice breaks. He puts a palm to Izuku’s chest, shaking his limp body. It doesn’t move. “Deku! De—Izuku. Izuku ! Come on, dumbass,” he tries again, his voice breaking. “Get up. This isn’t fuckin’ funny.”

Nothing. The body remains unresponsive.

Katsuki feels his body tighten, like the air itself is expanding, pushing him back, away from everything he knows. The world grows, stretches out in every direction, until it feels like he’s sinking into a vast, suffocating void. His breath is shallow, his limbs heavy, like they belong to someone else.

The silence swells. Thick. Heavy. Drowning him. Too quiet. Too much. No air. No escape. There’s nothing left but that emptiness—an all-consuming space that he can’t fight, can’t burn away, no matter how hard he grits his teeth or slams his fist into the ground. 

Katuki’s breath hitches, suffocating him in the silence. His chest aches with an emptiness so profound that it pulls at his insides, threatening to rip him apart. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, clenching his fists so tight they burn, trying to will this nightmare to be over. Trying to force himself to wake the fuck up. But when he opens his eyes again, nothing has changed. Izuku is still there. Still lifeless. Still dead.

A sob rips out of him before he can stop it—raw, jagged, and desperate. It cracks through him like a dagger to the chest, tearing open something deep inside. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it until the sound of his own broken cry fills the air.

“No—no, no, no.” His voice is strangled, choking on the grief that threatens to drown him whole. His hands snap forward, grabbing onto Izuku’s torn uniform that matched his own only bloodier, shaking him violently. It’s an instinct, a desperate need to somehow make it stop. To wake him up. To make this go away. “You’re fine. You’re— fuck —wake up, wake up, wake up !”

Katsuki shakes him harder. The words are useless. The world is useless. He’s useless. Nothing more than a deku.

Izuku doesn’t wake up. Katsuki’s world cracks.

He can’t breathe. He can’t think. His head spins, and his body shakes from the weight of it all, the shock, the disbelief. His stomach churns, bile rising in his throat, but he swallows it back. He’s not going to puke. He’s not going to fucking break. Not yet. Not here.

But the truth is unavoidable. The truth smashes into him with a force so brutal, so unrelenting. 

“Izuku…” Katsuki’s voice breaks, fracturing like everything else. “Izuku, please…”

It’s useless. The words barely scrape past his throat, raw and desperate, but he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for. There’s no answer. No flicker of movement. Just the echo of his own voice bouncing off the walls—mocking, hollow. Just the quiet, suffocating stillness of death.

Something inside him shatters. The pressure in his chest caves inward, a dam bursting all at once, and everything he’s been holding back—every wall he’s built, every scrap of anger he’s clung to just to keep himself standing—collapses. 

It slams into him, brutal and unrelenting, a tidal wave of sorrow, rage, and something worse—something that sinks its claws into his ribs and won’t let go. 

It drowns him. Fills his lungs with something thick and suffocating. His hands curl into fists, nails biting deep into his palms, sharp enough to break skin, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough. 

Katsuski’s whole body trembles, breath coming ragged, uneven, like he might choke on it. The urge to do something claws at him, frantic, violent.

He wants to move. To run. To scream until his throat is nothing but raw, torn flesh. To punch something until his knuckles split open, until the pain in his body is louder than the agony hollowing out his chest.

But there’s nothing. No warmth. No voice. No Izuku. Just silence—empty, endless, irreversible. And the only thing left inside him is a deep, gnawing void.

The world outside the police station is too fucking bright. The sun hangs in the sky like a mocking reminder that everything keeps going, despite the fact that Izuku is gone, dead, discarded like some fucking piece of trash. 

Katsuki’s mind is still stuck on the image of his best friend’s lifeless body, crammed into that dumpster like no more than an afterthought. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t feel real. It shouldn’t be real.

His grip tightens around the cracked phone in his hand, the screen spiderwebbed with fractures, a smear of blood dried along the edge. He doesn’t remember picking it up—just like he doesn’t remember slinging Izuku’s book bag over his shoulder, its familiar weight now unbearably heavy. 

It had been tossed aside, half-unzipped, with notebooks spilling onto the pavement, pages damp and smudged from the filth. He had gathered them up anyway. As if that could fix anything. As if returning these remnants to the police could rewrite the ending.

The automatic doors slide open, and the sterile air of the station slams into him, cold and indifferent. The sharp scent of burnt coffee and stale paper stings his nose, the hum of voices a constant drone in the background. 

Katsuki’s grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, his knuckles go whiter, fingers curling tighter around the cracked phone, as if holding onto it might somehow bring Izuku back.

He can hear the relentless tap of keyboards, the occasional phone ringing, and the dull chatter of officers and detectives. The sharp click of the door behind him feels like a slap. His shoes scrape against the floor, slow and deliberate.

Katsuki wants to scream. He wants to break something. His hands tighten into fists, nails digging into his palms, but he swallows it down. He’s not here for that. He’s here for Izuku. He’s here to find out who the hell could do something like this to him and why.

The detective at the counter doesn’t even look up. He just keeps typing, oblivious. Katsuki can feel his teeth grinding, the pressure in his jaw burning, but he forces himself to stay calm. The sharp buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead makes it impossible to focus, but he won’t let it break him. Not here. Not now. 

Katsuki steps forward, his movements eerie in their steadiness, a stark contrast to the chaos tearing apart his insides. His mind is screaming, a thousand different thoughts crashing together in a tangled mess of rage, fear, and disbelief. 

His chest is tight, suffocating under the weight of something too vast to understand, but outwardly, he’s calm. Too calm. It’s like he’s already dead, moving on autopilot.

A uniformed officer glances up from behind the reception desk, eyes flicking to him like he’s just another visitor.

“Can I help you?” the officer asks, his tone too neutral, too detached.

Katsuki’s voice comes out a little too even, too controlled, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile grip he has left on his composure. “I need to talk to a detective.”

The officer looks up, then back down, his eyes briefly skimming over the file in front of him—another damn piece of paperwork to be processed. As if Katsuki’s fury, his grief, his brokenness are just another routine thing to handle. 

The officer’s brow furrows. “What’s this regarding?”

Katsuki locks eyes with him, his gaze cold, hard, and unyielding. “A murder.”

Then, the officer stiffens. His eyes sharpen, locking onto Katsuki with a new intensity—assessing, recalibrating. Katsuki doesn’t move, barely breathes, as the officer’s gaze flickers downward, catching on the blood splattered across the worn fabric of the bookbag. Then to the cracked phone jutting from his pocket, its shattered screen reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights.

A hesitation. A flicker of something unreadable—uncertainty, maybe, or the slow realization that this isn’t just some routine report.

“Stay right here,” the officer orders, his voice clipped, too quick, too sharp as he stands and moves away, leaving behind the bitter scent of professionalism. 

Katsuki doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His feet feel fused to the floor, as if the sheer weight of everything pressing down on him has anchored him in place. 

He won’t move. He doesn’t need to. He’s not leaving until they give him something— anything —to hold on to. Until they fucking answer him.

The minutes stretch thin, fragile as a spider’s web trembling in the wind. His calm is a brittle thing, a mask held together by nothing but raw, stubborn will. Every passing second pulls him deeper, the weight of reality settling over him like a suffocating shroud. 

Katsuki’s pulse hammers in his ears. The steady clack of keyboards, the quiet murmur of voices—they make his skin crawl. Everything is too normal. Too fucking indifferent. It makes his fingers twitch, his breath shallow, his entire body coil tight like a live wire ready to snap.

Then, finally, the door creaks open. The sound knives through the thick silence, dragging his focus back into the present. 

A man steps out—a detective, judging by the weary slump of his shoulders, the deep lines carved into his face. His suit is rumpled at the edges, his eyes dull and hollow, like he’s been drowning in this place for years. Like he’s already seen the worst the world has to offer.

Katsuki grits his teeth. He’s about to make sure the bastard understands.

“Come with me,” the detective says, his tone more like a command than an invitation, but there’s something faintly resigned in it, like he already knows what’s coming.

Katsuki doesn’t argue. He follows, each step echoing louder than the last in the narrow hallway, the walls closing in around him as they make their way to a small, windowless room. It’s stark, clinical—no warmth. Just the sterile smell of stale air and the faint buzz of lights overhead.

The detective gestures toward a chair. “Sit,” he says, but the word feels distant, like a command that belongs to someone else, someone not standing in front of him.

Katsuki doesn’t sit. He stands there, rigid, eyes fixed on the detective’s tired face, as if waiting for something that’ll never come. He’s not about to let this man dictate anything to him—not while he still hasn’t gotten a single goddamn answer. His hands, clenched into fists at his sides, tremble with the need to break something, anything. 

This whole place feels like it’s suffocating him, a vice tightening around his chest with every passing second. The air tastes stale, heavy with the scent of indifference and bureaucracy, and he can’t fucking breathe. 

He needs answers. He needs movement. He needs something—anything—that’ll tell him this is real, that he isn’t just standing here in a nightmare. But all he can do right now is stand. And wait.

The detective doesn’t look up, just flips his pen between his fingers, clearly in no hurry. “Name?”

“Bakugou Katsuki.”

The detective looks at him, nods, scribbles something down. “Alright, Bakugou. You said this was about a murder?”

Katsuki swallows, the dry scrape of it burning his throat, but his voice doesn’t crack. It’s still too steady. Still too fucking calm for everything that’s twisting inside him. “Yeah.” Katsuki leans on the chair and puts Izuku’s bookbag onto the floor as he forces the words out. “De—uh.. Midoriya Izuku. I found him.”

It feels like the words are made of lead as they drop from his mouth, the weight of them dragging his chest down further. Katsuki can feel the detective’s gaze sharpening, but the detective doesn’t speak. Instead, he just raises an eyebrow and looks at him, as if waiting for more.

The silence stretches, jagged and suffocating. Katsuki tightens his fists at his sides, the muscles in his arms burning with the effort not to break something. His jaw clenches, his teeth grinding together.

“He was in a dumpster. In the alley off Shinanome Street.” The words come out harsh, raw, and unsteady. He doesn’t know if it’s anger or grief that’s making his chest tight, but it fucking hurts. A physical ache that gnaws at him, and he just wants something to make it stop. “He’s dead.”

The detective’s breath catches in his throat, just for a second, but that’s enough. Enough for Katsuki to see it. Enough to know what he’s thinking.

The detective looks him over again, this time more carefully, his eyes flicking to the blood on the bookbag Katsuki carried in, the way his fists are still clenched tight. His expression shifts—there’s something cautious in the way he’s watching Katsuki now. 

Katsuki’s heart pounds harder in his chest, a sickening thud that drowns out everything else. He knows that look. All too well. The suspicion. The doubt. Everyone looked at him that way.

Fuck. He doesn’t need this right now. Not while his world is falling apart around him.

“Where was this?” The detective’s voice is sharper now, probing, like he’s already shifting into interrogator mode.

Katsuki’s head churns, the need to snap back, to scream, to hit something, almost overwhelming. But he doesn’t. He stays still, doesn’t move. “I already told you, off Shinanome Street. It’s behind the old grocery store. Alley behind it.”

The detective scribbles something, still studying him with that look, as if he can already see guilt where there’s none. Katsuki wants to shout at him, tell him that he didn’t do it, that he didn’t—he can’t. Not yet. Not until they get to the part where they actually fucking listen to him.

The thought of being accused again makes something ugly and sharp twist in his gut, the flickering embers of his rage threatening to set him off. 

Katsuki wants to snap. He wants to break something, anything, but before he can, the detective cuts through the tension with a low, calm voice. “Start from the beginning.”

And so, against every instinct telling him to punch something or storm out, Katsuki does. He grits his teeth and begins, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. He tells them how the cops weren’t doing their job, how he had to find Izuku on his own, and had to follow a trail that the police hadn’t even bothered to trace. How Katsuki looked in every place he could think of. How, in the end, he found the alley. How he followed the blood trail straight to the dumpster—

His throat tightens painfully as he remembers that moment, the one that feels like it’s branded into his fucking soul. Katsuki stops talking. His breath hitches in his chest, like something’s wedged in there, choking him from the inside. 

Katsuki can still see it when he closes his eyes—Izuku, crumpled and broken in that dumpster, eyes shut like he was just sleeping. Except he wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t waking up. He wasn’t breathing.

It’s all too much. His nails dig into his palms, the pressure almost painful as his body trembles with the effort to hold it together. The memory is too real, too vivid, too brutal to process.

The detective is still watching him carefully, his gaze sharp, like he’s searching for something in Katsuki’s face, waiting for the crack, the lie.

“And you didn’t call the police?” The detective’s voice is almost too calm. Too steady.

Katsuki’s fists clench tighter, the muscles in his arms burning. It’s too much. It’s all too much. “I am calling the police,” he snaps, his voice cracking under the pressure. He can’t keep it inside anymore. “I am in the fuckin’ police station, aren’t I?!”

The words tear from his throat, raw and jagged, laced with fury and something deeper—something hollow, aching. His voice shakes, but not from weakness. 

It’s the kind of unsteady that comes from something breaking apart mid-collapse. And for a moment, he doesn’t even know who he’s yelling at—the detective, the whole fucking world, or the gaping void inside his life where Izuku used to be.

The detective doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react. Just watches him with that same unreadable stare, and the silence presses down like a weight, heavy and suffocating. It grates against Katsuki’s skin, digs its claws into his ribs, and suddenly, it’s too much. His breath stutters, sharp and uneven, like he’s forgotten how to breathe. He forces the air in, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Nothing is enough.

He tries to shove it all down—the panic clawing at his throat, the rage burning behind his ribs, the horror twisting through his gut. But it’s useless. It’s like a dam bursting, the pressure too much to hold back. Every cracked, splintered piece of him is spilling out all at once, and there’s no stopping it.

Katsuki shakes his head in an attempt to clear it, but the tears are close now, burning in his eyes. He won’t let them fall. He won’t.

“You guys didn’t do shit ,” he spits, rage spilling over, burning like acid in his chest. “I had to find him myself. Me . And now he’s dead, and you’re just—just sitting here, asking me stupid fuckin’ questions like I had something to do with it!”

The detective doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. His voice is cold, measured. “Did you?”

Katsuki sees red. His entire body trembles with fury as he shoves the chair back with a screech, slamming his hands onto the table with enough force to rattle the whole room.

“You think I fuckin’ killed him?!” His voice cracks, rough and guttural, the words torn from him like they’re wrapped in barbed wire.

“Lower your voice—”

“ No ! You don’t get to sit here and act like I didn’t just—” He chokes, the word lodges in his throat, too sharp, too final. His breath stutters, and for a second, the rage flickers—just enough for the horror underneath to bleed through. His fingers curl against the cold metal table, knuckles going white.

“I pulled him out of a goddamn dumpster,” he spits, voice shaking, raw with something deeper than anger. “I had to lift him up—his body was so—” His breath catches, something cracking in his chest. His nails dig into his palms, hard enough to hurt. “He was just—he was just fucking lying there, like trash, and you think I—”

The words break apart mid-sentence, lost to the storm in his head. Katsuki’s body trembles, breath coming too fast, too shallow, his fury a thin veil barely keeping everything else at bay. He can feel the heat rising in his chest, but it’s not rage anymore. It’s something far worse, something much darker. 

The detective leans back slightly, watching him with an expression that’s almost unreadable—calm, practiced. But there’s a flicker beneath it, something small and fleeting. Katsuki doesn’t know what it is, and he doesn’t care. 

What matters is how it lands—the detective’s face shifts, just barely, into something too fucking familiar. Something close to pity. That’s somehow worse.

Katsuki’s breath stutters. His stomach twists. The room feels smaller, the air too thick, pressing in on him from all sides. 

Katsuki staggers back a step like the weight of it has finally knocked him off balance. His hand drags down his face, fingers digging into his skin like he can claw away the suffocating pressure building under his ribs. It doesn’t help. It never fucking does.

He barely registers dropping into the chair, the one the detective pulled out for him when he first walked in. Feels like a lifetime ago. Katsuki’s fingers tremble against the metal edge of the table, knuckles tight, his body screaming at him to move—but where the hell is he supposed to go? His limbs feel heavy, exhaustion gnawing at the edges of his mind, but he can’t fucking stop.

He’s spiraling. He knows it. It feels it like a frayed wire sparking inside his skull. But the world doesn’t stop, doesn’t let him breathe, doesn’t fucking wait for him to catch up. If he stops moving, if he stops pushing forward, then everything might just—

“I found him.” The words lip out, quiet, almost to himself. But the moment they leave his lips, they slam into him like a fist to the gut, knocking the breath from his lungs. 

He swallows hard, blinking rapidly, but the image is still there—Izuku’s body, lifeless and discarded, like he never meant anything at all.

The detective’s pen pauses against the page. His gaze flickers to the blood-streaked bookbag resting beside Katsuki, his expression sharpening. “That his?” He points with the pen.

Katsuki exhales sharply through his nose, his grip tightening around the strap. “Yeah.” His voice is rough, frayed at the edges. 

He hesitates, then shoves a hand into his pocket. His fingers close around the cracked phone, and he yanks it free, setting it on the table between them with a dull thud.

The detective studies it for a moment, the fractured screen reflecting the overhead light. “Where’d you find it?”

Katsuki’s jaw clenches. “On the floor of the alley. Not too far from the bookbag.” The words taste like bile. “I—I don’t know if it still works.”

The detective hums, flipping his notebook to a fresh page. “Did you look through it?”

Katsuki’s throat tightens. He doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to admit that his fingers had hovered over the power button, that part of him had been desperate to see if Izuku had left anything behind—one last message, one last piece of him. But he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it.

“No.” The word comes out clipped, almost bitten off. “Didn’t touch it.”

The detective nods, like he’s already expecting the answer. “Tell me what you know. Anything off lately? Anyone messing with him?”

Katsuki’s fingers twitch. His mind trips over itself, tumbling back through the years. Izuku had always been a target. Always the quirkless loser, the one everyone whispered about, laughed at, left behind. Fucking Deku. Too stubborn for his own good, too hopeful when the world had already told him where he stood. And Katsuki—he was part of it.

His stomach churns. His jaw clenches. The words scrape their way out. “People gave him shit.” His voice is rough, almost biting, like he’s choking on it. “You know how it is. No quirk, no chance. Everyone knew that. They just—” He exhales sharply, grinding his teeth. “They reminded him of it.”

His hands curl into fists against his knees. The pressure in his chest mounts, pressing against his ribs like something sharp. He reminded Izuku of it. Over and over and over.

“But nothing—” His breath hitches. His throat locks up. “Nothing like this.”

The thought slams into him like a fist to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. He bites back the rest, swallows it down before it can rip him apart.

The detective watches him carefully, pen scratching against the notepad with an almost lazy rhythm. “You two close?”

Katsuki’s jaw tightens, the answer catching in his throat like barbed wire. 

Close . What the hell did that even mean? They had been everything once—best friends, inseparable, a two-man army against the world. Izuku had followed him everywhere, always looking up at him with those too-bright, too-hopeful eyes, hanging on his every word like Katsuki was something worth admiring. And then things changed.

Katsuki sneers, more at himself than at the detective. “Yeah. I guess.” His voice is rough, dragging itself out of his chest. “We were close.”

But closeness wasn’t always kind. It wasn’t always safe. Katsuki had spent years shoving Izuku away, pushing harder, cutting deeper, like he could scrape that unwavering devotion out of him, like he could stomp out the thing in Izuku that refused to give up.

He hated it. He hated the way Izuku looked at him—like he was still that kid from before, like nothing had changed. But things had changed. And now—now there’s no one left to look at him like that at all.

His throat burns. He forces the words down, forces himself to stay still. Because if he doesn’t—if he lets himself think too hard, if he lets himself feel—he might not be able to stop. And he just wants this to stop. He just wants everything to end. Go back to normal, how it used to be.

The detective nods again, jotting something down. “And the last time you saw him?”

Katsuki’s pulse stutters. The memory doesn’t just surface—it slams into him, knocking the breath from his lungs.

Izuku had looked at him for a second—just a second—something unreadable flickering behind those stupid, stubborn eyes. And he just continued on and let Katsuki and the stupid extras that followed him around hurt him. Like it was any other day. Like everything was fine.

Katsuki’s nails dig into his palms, the sting sharp enough to keep him from choking on it. He never saw him again. Never got another chance to push him away. To shove him and sneer at him and pretend none of it meant anything. That he didn’t mean anything.

Because now Izuku’s gone. And the last thing Katsuki ever said to him—

His throat locks up. He forces himself to breathe, to focus, to shove it all down before it swallows him whole.

“A week ago,” he grits out, the words feeling like broken glass on his tongue. “Last Tuesday.”

Another note. Another slow nod. “And you have no idea who would want to hurt him?”

The words strike like a match against raw nerves, and Katsuki’s head snaps up, his vision tunneling in on the detective. Was he fucking kidding?

His chair scrapes against the floor as he leans forward, hands braced against his knees. “Are you serious?” His voice is razor-sharp, cutting through the stagnant air of the room. “He didn’t have fuckin’ enemies.”

But even as he says it, something ugly writhes in his gut. Because Izuku did have enemies. He had them every damn day. Kids who laughed at him, shoved him aside, told him he was worthless. A world that spat in his face and told him he’d never be good enough.

His breath shakes. His throat locks up, but he pushes through, his voice scraping against something raw.

“He wasn’t—he wasn’t some asshole looking for trouble. He was—” The words tangle, get caught somewhere deep in his ribs, because fuck, it’s Izuku . The idiot who never gave up, who smiled through the bullshit, who kept going even when the whole world told him not to. 

Katsuki’s throat burns. His nails bite into his palms, his breath coming sharp and uneven. “He was relentless.” The word rips out of him, raw and unfiltered. “He was the kind of dumbass who’d run headfirst into shit he had no business facing, just ‘cause he thought he could help. ‘Cause he thought it was the right thing to do.”

His chest heaves, anger and grief coiling tight, suffocating. He shakes his head, a bitter laugh scraping out—hoarse, uneven. “No, actually, you know what? Yeah, maybe—maybe he did have enemies.” His breath shudders. “But that never stopped him.” The words barely leave his lips before something in him caves. His voice falters, drops, tight and trembling. “Not until now.”

Silence settles between them, thick and suffocating. His throat burns. His hands curl into fists. His voice cracks, but he doesn’t care—because it’s the truth. And now—now Izuku will never get the chance to prove it.

The detective exhales, measured and steady, like he’s seen this a hundred times before. “Bakugou. I know this is hard, but I need you to—”

“You don’t know shit ,” Katsuki snarls before he can stop himself. His breath stumbles, his chest heaving with something raw, something splintering at the seams. His voice fractures, rough and desperate, splintering into a broken rasp. “You don’t—you don’t fuckin’ get it.”

The detective watches him for a long moment, like he’s trying to piece something together that’ll never quite fit. Then, with a slow, tired sigh, he drops his gaze, flipping his notebook open again. 

His pen scratches against the page, careless, detached—like this is just another name, another case, another fucking tragedy he’ll forget by the end of the week. Katsuki watches him, teeth gritted so hard his jaw aches. The bastard isn’t even looking.

Katsuki’s fingers twitch. Without thinking, he slips a hand into Izuku’s bloodstained bookbag, feeling through its contents with a touch that’s far gentler than anything he’s done since he walked into this goddamn station. 

His breath catches when his fingers brush the worn burnt edges of a familiar notebook, the one he’s seen Izuku scribbling in a thousand times before. His throat tightens. 

Katsuki grips the notebook, his movements quick and precise, and tugs it free, tucking it under his thigh, out of sight. His heart pounds, a sharp, unsteady rhythm against his ribs, but the detective doesn’t notice—doesn’t even glance up.

Finally, the man exhales again, flipping his notepad closed with an almost resigned gesture. “Alright. We’ll look into it.”

Katsuki stares at him, his lips curling into something sharp and vicious. “Yeah? Sure. You do that,” he spits, voice dripping with contempt. 

His hands ball into fists, nails biting into his palms, but the anger is nothing compared to the weight pressing down on his chest. He doesn’t wait for the detective to say anything else. Doesn’t care.

The door slams behind him as he storms out, footsteps hard and determined, but underneath them, he feels it—something fracturing, something splintering apart inside him. And no one is going to fix this. No one can fix this.

The days since Izuku’s death have blurred together for Katsuki, a haze of anger, confusion, and guilt. But now, it’s all starting to crack, the pressure mounting in ways he can’t escape.

Every corner he turns, every glance he catches, there are extras all around him. His classmates, his so-called friends—acting like everything is normal. They’re laughing, joking, whispering like nothing has changed. Like there isn’t something missing in this class.

It pisses him off. He’s not sure why, but it does. Maybe because it feels wrong—because it is wrong. There’s a hole in the world where that dumb nerd used to be, and no one else seems to care.

It’s like they don’t even notice the empty desk, like they don’t feel it. But Katsuki does. He notices it every single second of every single fucking day. It sits there, mocking him, like an empty void no one else seems to understand. How can they just pretend like things haven’t fallen apart? How can they act like this isn’t a fucking disaster?

Sometimes, Katsuki finds himself glancing at Izuku’s desk in class, his mind trapped in a cycle of what-ifs and why-nots. Could he have done more? Could he have stopped it? Was he too late? Every time he looks at that damn empty desk, the pain spikes. But it’s not just pain—it’s rage. Anger that Izuku’s gone, anger at how he handles things, anger that none of them seem to get.

And then there’s the quiet. The silence that settles over everything like a blanket. Izuku’s voice isn’t there anymore to break it, to lighten the moments with his dumb optimism. To make everything feel like it could be better.

Katsuki fucking hates it. The silence. The way everyone else just carries on like nothing’s wrong, like nothing’s missing. How the hell are they all just moving forward? How the hell are they pretending like nothing’s been fucking torn apart?

But Katsuki can’t. He can’t let it go. He’s stuck in this goddamn rut, drowning in all the things he should’ve said, the things he never had the chance to fix. All those broken promises, all those moments left hanging in the air like ghosts that won’t leave him alone. And it’s fucking suffocating.

He can’t forget the sight of Izuku’s body. The way his chest didn’t rise, how the light in his eyes had gone out for good. The blood, the brokenness—how fucking still he was. Katsuki can’t scrub it from his mind, can’t shake the image from his head, no matter how much he tries. It’s burned into him, that dead weight, that empty shell that used to be his best friend, his fucking partner in crime.

Every time he closes his eyes, it’s there. The color drained from Izuku’s face, a sickly, unnatural pallor that makes Katsuki’s stomach churn. The limpness of his body, the coldness of his skin where warmth should have been, where life should have been. 

That weight in his arms when he had to hold him, the dead heaviness that felt wrong, so wrong—in a way that he wasn’t meant to see, in a way that it wasn’t meant to be.

The smell of blood, sharp and metallic, still clings to his memory, thick in the air like it’s following him. He can still taste it on the back of his tongue, an acrid, coppery sting that refuses to go away. It’s suffocating, choking him from the inside, every breath thick with it. 

The slick feeling of his fingers, still sticky from trying to hold onto something that wasn’t there anymore. The ghost of it lingers on his hands no matter how many times he scrubs, no matter how many times he tries to wipe it off.

Even the touch of the cold floor, the hard, unforgiving ground beneath his knees as he knelt there—desperate, helpless—won’t leave him. It’s like the weight of that moment still anchors him, pulling him back into the fucking abyss, reminding him that nothing will ever feel solid again. Nothing will ever be right. 

The warmth of Izuku’s skin, the softness of his verdant hair, they’re all just gone—and Katsuki can’t make it stop, can’t stop the waves of wrongness that crash over him, again and again.

It’s a nightmare Katsuki can’t wake up from, a wound that won’t stop bleeding. And the worst part? He didn’t get to be there. He didn’t get to save him. He was too late—always too late, too stupid, always a step behind, and it eats him up inside.

It’s like a fucking shadow that follows him everywhere. Every corner, every breath, it’s there. The dead weight of guilt, the taste of failure that won’t wash out. The worst part isn’t just losing Izuku. It’s that he never had the chance to fix it, to tell him what he should’ve said—to make it right before it was too fucking late. And now, all he has left is the silence and the image of Izuku, frozen, lifeless, and unreachable.

The world keeps spinning around him, like nothing’s changed. But to Katsuki, it feels like time itself has stopped. He’s trapped in the wreckage, stuck in a moment that won’t let him go, alone in a sea of faces that don’t even fucking see him. They don’t know—don’t get —what’s eating him alive inside.

And yet—he keeps telling himself that it’s not about him . That it’s not that big of a deal. That he doesn’t care. He doesn’t have time to care. Because why would he? It’s not like they were close anymore. It’s not like they were friends. They fought more than they talked. Half the time, Katsuki barely even liked him. 

So then why the hell does it feel like something inside him is missing? Why does the sight of Izuku’s empty desk make his chest clench like there’s a weight pressing down on him? Why does he feel like he’s choking on something—guilt, maybe, or regret—every time he catches himself looking for that stupid mop of green hair in the crowd?

It’s ridiculous. He can’t even stand the thought of how many times he’s looked for Izuku in places he knows he’s never coming back from. And yet, his mind doesn’t care. It keeps searching. Keeps looking for a ghost. And no one else seems to give a shit.

He doesn’t get it. And he doesn’t want to get it. Because if he lets himself understand—if he lets himself admit that this hurts—then he’ll have to accept what it means. That Izuku is gone. That he’s not coming back.

So he keeps going, keeps forcing himself to act like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s not affecting him. He clenches his jaw, fists shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders squared like he’s daring someone to say his name.

But the whispers are still there. The little murmurs behind his back. They’re constant, sliding into his ears, infecting his thoughts. He can feel them in the air, heavy and suffocating.

“Bakugou’s been acting kinda different lately.”

“I get that he’s upset, but it’s been weeks .”

“It’s not like Bakugou and Midoriya were even that close. Why would he care, anyway?”

“He seriously needs to let it go already.”

That last one makes something inside him snap. A deep, furious crack that sends a tremor through his body.

“Let it go.”

They want him to just move on. To act like it never fucking happened.

The words burn like acid, digging into him, eating away at whatever resolve he has left. Let it go? Like he could . Like he could just forget about the fucking hole Izuku left in his life. Like he could just stop feeling this weight on his chest every goddamn day.

They don’t get it. But it doesn’t stop them from talking. The whispers grow louder now, like they’re gaining confidence.

“He always was the one who started the fights. Maybe it’s guilt, you know? Guilt for pushing him so hard.”

“You really think he was friends with Midoriya? He hated him half the time. He probably just wants attention, that’s all. Poor Bakugou. He lost his favorite punching bag, didn’t he?”

There’s a laugh from somewhere behind him, soft and mean, like it’s just another joke. But it hits him like a slap. He can feel the eyes on his back, the stares that follow him like a trail of flames, burning hotter with every step he takes.

Katsuki doesn’t know what’s worse. The way they talk about Izuku like he was just a fucking memory, or the way they’re starting to look at him.

They look at him differently now. Like he’s some kind of broken puzzle piece, something too sharp to fit but too familiar to discard. 

He sees the way their eyes flicker away when he catches them staring, how they murmur behind their hands, and how they’ve started to avoid him altogether. It’s like they’ve all started to see him as weak. As fragile.

“Did you hear what happened to Bakugou? He’s lost it. Poor guy… must be hard losing someone like that.”

“Who, Midoriya? I mean, I get it, but Bakugou’s always been so tough. I didn’t think he’d fall apart like this.”

Tough. That’s the word they always used for him. Always. It used to be a badge of honor, a reflection of everything he’d worked for. But now, the word feels like an insult. It feels like they think they know him. Like they think they can label him, define him, make sense of what they don’t understand.

But they don’t understand. None of them do. And it’s fucking tearing him apart.

One day, almost a month after he saw Izuku’s body, Katsuki couldn't take it anymore. He hears it—whispers between class, behind the gym, the quick glances of pity in the hallways—and it snaps him. 

They think he’s weak. They think he’s some kind of joke. They think he can’t handle losing someone who meant something to him. Katsuki doesn’t need anyone’s pity. He doesn’t need their sympathy. He doesn’t need their fucking approval.

But he can’t stop the rage bubbling inside of him, threatening to explode. The whispers—those fucking whispers—they never stop. They keep coming. Keep cutting at him, one insult after another.

Katsuki can feel the eyes following him again, their whispers creeping behind him like shadows. His chest tightens, and for a split second, it feels like he’s suffocating. It feels like there’s no escape from it. No way to outrun it.

It starts small. A snide comment from the extra with the undercut, trying to check in on him but in the worst possible way. “Hey, man, I know things have been rough, but you gotta stop letting this get to you.”

And then something sharper from someone else—another goddamn extra—thinking they’re being helpful. “Get over it, dude.”

His hands curl into fists. His nails dig into his palms. His pulse is a slow, dull roar in his ears. He tells himself it’s not a big deal, that they don’t know what they’re talking about.

But then the undercut extra says it. The words that push him over the edge. “We’re just worried about you, Bakugou. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

And suddenly, the fire inside him erupts.

“Doing what to myself?” His voice is razor-sharp, venomous. “What the fuck do you think I’m doing?”

Undercut falters, but he doesn’t back down. “You’re isolating yourself, man. You’re angry all the time—”

“What the fuck do you—I’ve always been like this!” Katsuki snaps. “This isn’t new! You think I should just fuckin’ smile and pretend everything’s fine like you guys are doing? Like that dumbass didn’t fuckin’—”

He stops himself before he can say it. But they don’t let up. They keep pushing.

Undercut tilts his head, his expression shifting into something almost patronizing, like he’s trying to convince Katsuki of something he knows better than him. “Man, it’s not about that. It’s just—”

“Just what ?!” Katsuki’s voice spikes, a torrent of frustration and grief mixing with the fury that’s been clawing at him since Izuku died. “What the fuck do you know about it? Huh? You don’t know shit about me. You’re just some goddamn fuckin’ extra.”

The other extras around him shuffle uncomfortably, eyes darting to each other. Katsuki can feel them now—he can feel them judging him. 

Their awkwardness turns into a kind of amusement, like they’re watching a lion in a cage. Like he’s some kind of freak show they don’t quite understand but can’t help but watch.

He feels a familiar sting in his chest, something ugly and old that he thought he’d buried long ago. Weak. That’s what they think he is. Out of control. Like he’s losing it, like he can’t hold himself together. 

The whispers pick up again, more pointed this time, the mocking tone creeping in.

“Man, Bakugou’s really snapped, huh?”

“Wonder if we should be worried. He’s acting insane.”

“Guess Midoriya really fucked him up. He’s breaking.”

Katsuki clenches his jaw. The heat in his chest flares up again, burning hot and ugly, but it’s not just anger—it’s humiliation, too. 

The way they look at him, like he’s something pathetic, something to gawk at from a safe distance. Like he’s some kind of spectacle, a joke to whisper about when they think he can’t hear.

“Oi, Kacchan ,” some extra sneers, the name rolling off their tongue with a mocking lilt. “What’s with the face? You look like you’re gonna cry or something.”

Laughter ripples through the group, low and mean, and Katsuki’s hands curl into fists so tight his nails dig into his palms. It takes him back, years back, to when the same kind of laughter filled the air—sharp and cutting, digging under his skin like knives. 

Back when he was the one getting shoved around, when every snicker, every sneer, every taunt felt like proof that he wasn’t enough. That he wasn’t strong enough. They’re doing it again.

His breath comes sharp, shallow, his vision tunneling as the heat rises in his throat, threatening to choke him. His body itches to lash out, to prove himself, to shut them up with his fists, with explosions, with anything that would make the laughter stop.

He’s not weak.

He’s not fucking weak.

The anger boils over, his hands shaking with fury and his vision turning red as he shoves one of the extras. Someone who’s been running his mouth the most. It doesn’t matter who it is. He doesn’t care.

“Shut the fuck up !” Katsuki snarls, the words coming out as a growl.

And then it all breaks loose. Katsuki’s fists are flying before he even knows what’s happening. His body moves without thought, every punch a blur of rage. 

He can feel their hands grabbing at him, trying to pull him off, but it’s too late. Katsuki’s skin burns with the need to hit something, to make them stop looking at him like this—like he’s weak, like he’s losing control.

The fight is ugly. Messy. His fists slam into whatever they can find—faces, shoulders, arms. It’s brutal, like a pressure valve that’s finally cracked, and the fury inside him is spilling out in violent waves.

“Get the hell off me!” The words tear from Katsuki’s throat, raw and furious, as his fist drives into someone’s gut. 

There’s a choked grunt, a stumble, but he barely registers it. His knuckles sting, the sharp ache blooming up his arm—but it feels good. It feels right . His body moves on instinct, fueled by something too deep, too twisted to name.

Hands grab at him, some desperate to hold him back, others shoving him away like he’s the problem. Someone’s shouting, telling him to stop, but their voices are nothing but static in his ears. 

He doesn’t care. He can’t care. They don’t fucking get it. They never have. They don’t know what it’s like to wake up every day choking on the weight of something that shouldn’t have happened. They don’t know what it’s like to be him.

And he can’t stop now. If he stops, if he lets them drag him down, then they’ll see him. They’ll see the cracks, the fractures, the way he’s already coming apart at the seams. They’ll see the truth—see that he’s weak, that he’s broken, that he’s nothing but a fucking mess barely holding himself together. They’ll look at him like he’s a freak. Like he’s a rabid animal losing control.

So he keeps fighting. Because if he stops, if he lets go for even a second—he’s not sure there’ll be anything left of him at all.

He’s not that kid anymore. He’s not some pathetic, weak little shit who lets people walk all over him. He’s Bakugou Katsuki—strong, untouchable, unbreakable. He won’t be shoved down again, won’t be made small, won’t let them fucking laugh at him.

And yet, somewhere deep inside, he knows. Knows that, despite everything, despite all the fight he’s put up, all the strength he’s clawed his way toward, they’ve still managed to turn him into exactly what he’s spent his whole damn life trying not to be. A joke. A spectacle. Someone to be mocked, pitied, pointed at like some tragic fucking story.

And the worst part? He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if he loses. He doesn’t care if they drag him through the dirt, if they kick him down, if he ends up bloodied and bruised. Because for the first time in weeks, he feels something other than that crushing, suffocating emptiness. 

The pain, the rage—it’s real . It’s something solid, something he can grip onto with both hands, something that burns hot enough to make him forget, even if just for a few minutes.

It’s like all those years of fighting, of carrying all that anger, all that hatred—at the world, at himself, at everything that’s been stolen from him—have finally found their release. Finally cracked him open. Even if it’s fucking twisted.

When it’s over, when he’s standing there—bruised, bloody, breathless—the crowd is already dispersing. His classmates are gone. They didn’t stick around. They didn’t want someone as fucked up as him in their lives.

And maybe they’re right. Maybe they don’t want to be around someone who’s this broken. Someone who can’t even keep his shit together long enough to talk about a fucking dead guy without losing his mind. 

Because if he really cared about Izuku, he wouldn’t have said what he said that day. He wouldn’t have let him die thinking he hated him. He wouldn’t have let everything fall apart the way it did.

But Katsuki can’t face that yet. He can’t face the fact that maybe the last thing Izuku heard from him was a cruel insult instead of something that mattered. Something meaningful.

So he does what he does best. He buries it. He pushes it down. Drowns it in anger. Because if he stops being angry—if he lets himself feel—he might just fall apart. And that’s not something he can afford. Not yet. Not ever.

Katsuki stands there, panting heavily, his blood running hot in his veins, and realizes with a sinking feeling that, in their eyes, nothing has changed. 

The blood is on his hands.

He’s still that same angry, unstable mess they all look at like an animal in a cage. The same weak kid who couldn’t control his temper.

They’re all laughing at him. But he doesn’t care. He shoves it all back down. He buries it. The humiliation. The anger. The guilt. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

Because if he stops being angry, if he lets himself feel any of it—if he lets them see just how badly it’s breaking him—it’ll be over. And he can’t let that happen. Not again. Not when he’s already lost so much.

As the days go on, whispers keep coming. The rumors get louder. His classmates have started to turn on him, their concern morphing into suspicion. 

They call him unstable, weak, like he’s not the person he used to be. And maybe, just maybe, they’re right. Katsuki doesn’t have the energy to care. Not anymore.

But when the quiet turns to pointed looks, when they think he’s not paying attention, he can hear it.

“Did you hear? Bakugou just lost his shit!”

“He’s not the same. Something’s wrong with him.”

“Maybe we were wrong to put him on a pedestal. He’s just a complete mess.”

And it eats at him. Fucking eats at him, gnawing at the edges of his mind like a wound that won’t close. He can feel their eyes on him—watching, judging, tearing him apart piece by piece. Like they’ve already decided what he is, who he’s always been. Like they know him. Like they understand. But they don’t. They never have.

Still, the thought lingers, festering in the back of his head, a whisper he can’t quite silence.

What if they’re right?

A gasp of air. Sharp. Jagged. His lungs scream, but they’re empty—hollow. It’s a breath that feels wrong, like his body is grasping at something it doesn’t remember, like it’s been missing for far too long. His chest jerks, heaves, but nothing about it makes sense.

He tries to move, but his body betrays him. He jerks upright, shaky, like his bones forgot how to hold him up. There’s no weight to him, no grounding—nothing to keep him tethered to the world. 

He’s not solid. He’s just… here . Existing in some strange limbo, like he slipped through the cracks between life and whatever happens after.

The cold, hard pavement should be biting into his back. He should feel it. But he doesn’t. His senses are all wrong. The stench of rain, iron, and decay hits him, clinging to the air like it wants to swallow him whole. 

The bitter tang of rust. Rot. Blood. But it’s not his blood. It’s nobody’s anymore, and yet it lingers, staining everything around him.

His heart beats, loud, harsh, uneven. But it doesn’t feel like it belongs to him.

He’s alive, but not. The world is foreign, an alien thing, and for a moment, he wonders if he’s still trapped in the void. If this is some fucked-up dream he can’t wake from.

But he’s here. Here.

And Izuku’s not.

Midoriya’s not.

Something inside him cracks open. It’s like his soul itself splintering, raw and aching, leaving an empty hole where the other half of him used to be. The piece that made him whole, the part that kept him human—kept him tethered to the world.

It’s gone. The piece he used to rely on. The only part of him that really mattered. Gone.

Chapter Text

Katsuki hated the rain. Always had. It got under his skin in a way he couldn’t fight. It blurred the edges of everything, dulled his spark, and made his palms useless. Too slick with rain, too dry of sweat to ignite. No sweat, no explosions. Just cold fingers and the useless weight of his own hands. 

The rain was coming down harder now. Not the gentle kind, but the kind that drowned out everything else—the chatter of his classmates, city noise, traffic, the static of late-night television humming through the dorm walls. 

Rain stripped him bare, left him silent in a world where being loud had always been the only way he knew how to exist. He used to yell to be heard, to fight, to matter. To feel real . Now, even screaming would feel useless. 

Because when the rain came down like this—sharp, steady, unmoved, and uncontrollable—it reminded him of things he didn’t want to think about. Of how fragile everything actually was. Of how much of his strength came from a body he barely understood, a quirk that felt like it could vanish the second he stopped clenching his fists hard enough to shake.

He used to think that if your quirk was strong, you were strong. That it was as simple as that. That power meant purpose. That strength was a birthright, something woven into the bones of the lucky few, and that those without it, those who had to struggle, were just wasting space. 

Katsuki didn’t come to that belief on his own. It was given to him, carved into him early, handed down in the way people lit up when he used his quirk, the way teachers smiled when his palms sparked, the way everyone around him told Katsuki that he was going places. They told him he was special. So he believed it, ‘cause what else was he supposed to think? 

He learned early that being loud got him attention, that winning got him praise. That people leaned closer when he burned brighter and turned away when he dimmed. And when he looked at people who couldn’t do what he did, people who hesitated, who cried, who didn’t stand out, he didn’t know what to make of them except that they were less. He didn’t want their weakness to touch him. He looked away like it might rub off.

Deku was the easiest one to look away from—and yet also somehow the hardest. Quirkless. Soft around the edges. Always staring at him with those wide, too-bright eyes like Katsuki was something he wanted. Like he saw something worth chasing. 

Katsuki hated that look. Hated the way it made his chest twist up, like he was being seen too clearly, like just being strong wasn’t enough unless he shoved someone down with it. It made him feel exposed, cracked open. Like there was something in him Deku wanted to reach for. And worse, like some part of him wanted to be reached.

He took it like an insult. Like Deku was saying he wasn’t already enough. That he needed saving. That all the power in the world still didn’t make him whole. And maybe that was true, but Katsuki didn’t want it to be. Didn’t want Deku looking at him like that, as if he understood something about him Katsuki didn’t even have the words for yet. Like he pitied him. Like he cared.

So he turned that hate into words, into threats, into ash on Deku’s notebooks, and called it balance. Told himself he was keeping things in order. Separating the weak from the strong, like it mattered. Like it meant something. Like it would always stay that simple. 

But now? Now he knew better. Or at least, he knew more . He knew how fast it could all break. Knew how strength didn’t mean shit when the right hit came from the wrong angle. Knew what it felt like to walk into a room and have no one glance up. Not because he wasn’t explosive enough or fast enough or talented enough, but because somewhere along the way, the world just moved on. He wasn’t the center of it anymore. Not even close.

People didn’t listen like they used to. They didn’t follow him the way they had in middle school, when raw power and a bad attitude were enough to keep everyone in line. Now, they looked through him. Around him. Past him. He wasn’t the strongest anymore. He wasn’t even a leader. And it wasn’t because they were stupid. It was because he’d burned too many bridges. Because his temper didn’t earn him respect anymore, just wariness. Distance. Because power without control didn’t impress anyone here.

He used to think strength was everything. That being unshakable meant never needing anyone else. But now? Now he wasn’t even sure what strength was . Was it being the loudest voice in the room? Was it fighting till your fists bled? Was it holding everything inside until it crushed you? Or was it something else?

And still, every time the rain came like this, he thought of that day. That moment. That voice that reached out to him in the quiet. The first time he realized strength might be something else, something softer , had come on a day just like this one. 

He remembered the rain that day. How it came down in fat, furious drops, hitting the pavement so hard it bounced, carving little rivers through the cracks in the sidewalk as they left the park. The kind of rain that soaks you to the bone, loud enough to make everything else go quiet. Like it was trying to drown out the things you didn’t know how to say.

Katsuki remembered how they’d been walking back from a konbini store near them, plastic bags swinging at their sides, sticking damply to their legs every time it bumped against them. Their moms had sent them out together. Told them they were “big boys” now, old enough to handle an errand on their own.

He remembered Mitsuki doing most of the talking, waving a hand like it was no big deal while Inko hovered nearby, clearly anxious. Inko had wrung her hands, biting her lip the way she did when she wanted to say no, but Mitsuki just clapped her on the back and laughed, saying something like, “Come on, they’re not babies anymore. What’s the worst that could happen?” And Inko, after a beat, had smiled too. 

That was how it always was with them. Mitsuki the loud, blunt confidence. Inko the soft, careful concern. Different in every way but close as found family, maybe even closer. It made sense, Katsuki thought. Their boys had been the same way.

They’d said it like it was a mission, their first as little heroes. Izuku had lit up like it actually was, smiling so wide it made Katsuki roll his eyes. He hadn’t said anything, but he’d felt it too. It was this weird spark of purpose that lit up in his chest, like they had something to prove. 

They were on their way back to Izuku’s place when the sky really opened up, like the rain had been waiting for them to step outside before it let loose. Izuku had walked beside him, gripping that stupid umbrella like it was a lifeline. It was bright red, blue, and yellow, cartoonishly bold against the dull sky. All Might colors, of course. Too small for two, tilting a little with each uneven step he took. 

His hair had been sticking to his forehead, damp and messy, and he held the umbrella with the same hand he held the bag with, making it sway with the storm carrying its weight. Katsuki could still remember it perfectly, all these years later. Like a snapshot burned into the backs of his eyes.

He could still hear the way Izuku had said his name. “Kacchan.” Gentle and certain, like it was something solid to hold onto. Like it still meant something good. Like it always would. “You know, you can share with me if you want.”

Katsuki hadn’t looked at him. Just kept his eyes locked on the road ahead, where the storm turned the world to static. Blurred stop signs, smeared tail lights, trees blowing in the wind like they might snap.

“I don’t need it,” he’d muttered, like it was obvious. Like needing anything was a kind of failure. Like if he said it sharp enough, it would cut away the part of him that did.

Izuku hadn’t argued. Of course he hadn’t. He never did when it really mattered. He’d just stopped walking, letting the space between them go still. 

The streetlight above buzzed, half-burnt out, flickering like it was trying to hold on. Izuku shifted the umbrella. Just tilted it over, holding it out like it didn’t cost him anything. Like it wasn’t a peace offering. Like it wasn’t a hand across a line Katsuki hadn’t even known he’d drawn.

“I think it’d just be nicer if we walk together. That’s all.”

He’d said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like it hadn’t just cracked something open in Katsuki’s chest. Something soft and small and already bruised from being held too tightly, too long. Something he didn’t have a name for then, and still didn’t now.

Katsuki hadn’t moved. Couldn’t. He remembered the way thunder had rolled in the distance, low and guttural like a warning, and how Izuku had inched just a little closer and just for a second, Katsuki’s stupid heart had jumped. But Katsuki never got scared of thunder, so why would it be any different then? 

Izuku’s free hand had reached out to Katsuki. Not to grab, not to pull. Just open. Waiting in the way he always did. Quiet, patient, and frustratingly sincere. Like he didn’t need to be asked. Like he wasn’t afraid of getting hurt. No pressure. No words. Just that same impossible kindness Katsuki had never known what to do with. The kind that didn’t expect anything back.

Katsuki remembered how he’d scowled. How he’d slapped Izuku’s hand away like he always did, muttering, “Quit being sappy, ‘Zuku.” like it didn’t mean anything. Like it hadn’t knocked something loose inside him. Like he wasn’t already halfway to giving in. 

But before Izuku could pull away—before the moment could vanish like it never mattered—Katsuki had moved. Reached out. Not for his hand, but for his sleeve. Rough. Uncertain. Clumsy in a way he hated showing.

Izuku blinked at him, surprised at first. And then he smiled. Not his usual too-bright grin, but something quieter. Something warmer. Like he understood. Like he always had.

They’d kept walking like that the rest of the way back home. Katsuki’s fingers curled tight around the fabric of Izuku’s sleeve. Fist bunched awkwardly at his wrist, damp cotton clinging to his knuckles. Not to be led, not to be comforted, but just to keep them tethered so they wouldn’t drift apart.

Their footsteps splashed through puddles, uneven in pace but never too far. The rain kept falling, steady and soft now, more of a hush than a roar.

“When we’re heroes,” Izuku said suddenly, voice muffled beneath the umbrella, “we’ll still do stuff like this. Finish a mission. Eat katsudon. Head home together. Like always.”

Katsuki snorted under his breath, barely glancing over. “You think we’re gonna have time for that? We’ll probably be swarmed with interviews. Or taking out bad guys.”

“Well—maybe most of the time,” Izuku admitted with a sheepish laugh. “But I promise I’ll always find a way to make time. Especially for my mom. And katsudon. And for you.”

Katsuki raised a brow, trying to hide the way his stomach did something weird and traitorous at the end of that sentence. 

It was stupid. Just words. Just nerdy, sentimental Izuku being the way he was. But still—there was something in the way he’d said it. Casual, like a promise that didn’t need proving. Like of course he’d make time for Katsuki. Like he always would.

“You’re already planning our schedule now?”

Katsuki forced himself to scoff and look away, pretending he hadn’t noticed how right it felt to hear that. Pretending this conversation won’t stick in his head longer than it should.

“Only the important parts,” Izuku grinned, jostling the umbrella slightly as he turned to look at him. “Like how my mom’ll make a huge pot and act like it’s no big deal even though she only does it when something special happens. And she’ll set your bowl out before mine and say, ‘He gets extra—he actually eats like a growing boy!’ ”

“She already says that,” Katsuki muttered, half-grinning, trying not to.

“I know!” Izuku beamed, his voice bright and certain, like the future he was already dreaming into existence. His hair clung to his forehead in damp curls, droplets of rain dripping from the ends since he was tilting the umbrella just enough to keep Katsuki dry. 

Izuku didn’t mention it, didn’t complain, didn’t seem to notice the way the cold was painting his cheeks pink or how water slid down the back of his neck. He just kept smiling like the storm didn’t matter. Like all he cared about was keeping Katsuki dry.

“That’s what I mean, Kacchan!” he said, eyes sparkling. “Nothing has to change. We’ll still be us, just hero partners with our own agency and cool powers and cool scars and amazing hero suits!”

Katsuki turned to look at that dumb wide grin, at the rain dotting his cheeks like extra freckles, at the soaked curls plastered under the stupid All Might umbrella, and he felt that quiet pressure in his chest again. The kind that crept in without warning. Not fear. Not pride. Something smaller, warmer. 

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t know how to. But he held on tighter to Izuku’s sleeve, and he didn’t let go.

Katsuki hadn’t known it back then. Not really. But maybe that was the first time he started to understand that strength wasn’t just about fists or firepower. Maybe it was something smaller. Something quieter. Just… holding on. Not letting go.

But that was all so long ago now. A different lifetime, back when things still felt like they were moving forward—back when there was still someone at his side to chase after, to yell at, to keep up with. 

Katsuki hadn’t meant to walk back alone. He just didn’t want to sit on that damn bus packed full of noise with laughter too loud and smiles too bright after a mission that left him feeling like a shell. He told himself he needed the quiet. Told himself he was fine. But he hadn’t expected the rain.

Now it was coming down hard. Cold and punishing, soaking through the thin fabric of his hero costume until it clung to him like dead weight. The water trailed down the back of his neck, sharp as ice, making him flinch. But he didn’t speed up. Didn’t adjust himself. Didn’t complain. He just kept walking, jaw clenched, hands jammed into his pockets as his boots splashed through shallow puddles with angry, uneven steps.

The street around him was dead quiet. No press waiting behind corners. No cameras shoved in his face. No All Might lingering on rooftops, pretending he wasn’t still watching every move Katsuki made. No classmates yelling his name, teasing each other, asking him what’s wrong like they cared. And no Izuku. Just silence. Just rain and stupid thoughts and memories he couldn’t get rid of.

There was space beside him. An empty one that hadn’t been filled in years. And he hated how easy it was to stand there now, without anyone bothering to close the gap.

Still, he reached out. Barely. Just a flicker of movement, like some stupid part of him thought he might find it again. That familiar hand, that dumb umbrella, that kid who always looked at him like he was worth something. Like he’d turn around, grin, and offer to share the rain like nothing had changed. But his hand stayed empty. 

The rain didn’t pause. It didn’t give him anything back. Of course it didn’t. It just kept falling. Louder, heavier, until the sound drowned out everything else and he felt like a kid again. Just a scared, stubborn six-year-old who didn’t want to admit he was cold or that he didn’t want to walk alone.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, letting it soak through him. Long enough that his hands started to tremble. Long enough that the weight of it all—the rain, the silence, the years—finally started to settle into something real. Something he couldn’t punch his way out of.

The rain didn’t feel like comfort. It felt like it was stripping everything away. Every excuse, every memory he couldn’t stop clinging to. It left him hollow. Scrubbed raw.

No matter how hard he tried, Katsuki could never rub off the memory of Izuku’s body in his arms. The way it had gone slack—not like sleep, not like unconsciousness—but truly gone. Heavy in a way that was wrong. 

He remembered the weight of it, how it didn’t move with him, how it sagged like something emptied out. The skin had been cooling by the second. His fingers had slipped in old blood that had started to clot, tacky and half-dried. And Izuku’s eyes— god , those eyes—were open, just slightly. 

Not wide, not dramatic, just enough to show the green glaze over, looking through him like even in death, Izuku hadn’t stopped trying to see him.

Katsuki had tried to shake it off. Scrubbed his hands raw more times than he could count. But nothing worked. Not the scalding water, not the yelling, not even the way he’d forced himself back into fights before his bones had healed. 

That feeling stuck with him. Crawled under his skin and festered there—the sick weight, the helplessness, the horror that he hadn’t gotten there fast enough.

And maybe that was the point. Maybe strength had never been about power at all. Maybe it was something quieter. Harder. Something he’d barely touched once, held in his hand for a second and then let go because he didn’t know how to keep it. Maybe that’s why the silence felt so much worse now. Not because he couldn’t break it. But because, deep down, he didn’t believe he deserved to.

He thought Yuuei would change that. Thought it would make the silence easier to carry. That being here would feel like moving forward. Like progress, like belonging. Like arriving. But it wasn’t. It was just more white walls, more fleeting glances that never stuck, more noise that never reached him. And out here, drenched in cold rain, water running down his spine and pooling in his shoes, he hated how familiar it all felt. Like disappearing. Like being nothing at all.

A few months ago, that would’ve sent him into a rage. He would’ve shouted until his voice gave out, blown holes in the sky just to remind the world he existed. Just to prove he still mattered. Still burned. 

But now? He just stood there and let it happen. Let the rain soak through every layer until the fabric clung like a second skin, until he couldn’t tell if the ache in his chest was cold or something else. Let it take whatever was left.

At first, Katsuki told himself nothing had really changed. That it didn’t matter. That yeah, stupid fucking Deku was gone, but Deku had always just been background noise anyway, hadn’t he? An annoying habit. A mosquito in his ear. A rock in his shoe he could kick out whenever it got too irritating. 

He kept telling himself that. Over and over. Until the words stopped meaning anything. Until the walk from home to Yuuei stopped feeling like something was missing. Until the moment he realized he wasn’t checking over his shoulder anymore—wasn’t waiting to hear footsteps catching up behind him, breathless and muttering, always too damn loud. And all he ever found instead was wind.

Deku never had a chance to make it to Yuuei. He didn’t walk through the gates, wide-eyed and shaking with nerves. Didn’t pull on the uniform or scrawl his name across a roster like it meant something. He never stood beside Katsuki during training drills, never faced off across the mat with that stubborn look on his face, fists curled like he had something to prove. Katsuki never got to shove his shoulder after a win, never got to sneer at him for keeping up. Never got to beat him fair.

He could’ve. Maybe. But he didn’t. And Katsuki told himself that was fine. That it was always going to be this way. Deku wasn’t made for this life. Too soft, too slow, too breakable. Quirkless. Couldn’t even stand his ground against the people who walked all over him—strangers, classmates, hell, even Katsuki himself.

So he repeated it. Over and over, like a prayer, like a shield: This is how it was supposed to be. Deku stays behind. Katsuki moves forward.

He didn’t like thinking about those summers. Those long, wandering afternoons down quiet side streets, back when things were simple. Before quirks and expectations. Before everything changed. Back when he and Deku were just them , glued at the hip, talking about growing up and becoming heroes like it was inevitable. Like it was common sense. Like it was easy. Like it could actually happen. Back when the dream was stupid and bright and weightless. 

Katsuki doesn’t really think about it now, either. Not directly. But sometimes he feels it. In the space beside him on the walk to campus, in the silence after the wind cuts a little too close. In the way no one ever quite fills that second spot. In how the noise after a win always sounds just a little too thin.

But he brushes it off. Shrugs it like it’s nothing. Because letting it in would mean it mattered. And if it mattered—if those dumb kid dreams actually meant something—

then maybe the wrong one stayed behind.

So yeah. Katsuki told himself this was right. That it made sense. That he was better off without that weak, delusional fantasy dragging behind him like a broken limb. He’d rise through the ranks, crush every extra in his path, make his name loud enough to shake the world. That was the plan.

And he did it. Just like he said he would. No Deku at the entrance exam. No muttering in his ear, no eyes trailing after him like he was something worth watching. No one clinging to his shadow. He was the only one from their middle school to make it in—just like he always said he’d be. 

And now? Now he stood at the top of everything he thought would make him whole. Alone. Bakugou Katsuki works alone and that’s how it was always meant to be.

Katsuki trained harder than anyone. Fought until his body gave out, then got back up swinging. Came back bruised, bloodied, scorched and still showed up the next day with his jaw clenched and fists ready. But no matter how fast he got, how clean his victories were, how many compliments came from pros with names that filled textbooks, it all felt wrong. Off. Hollow, in a way he couldn’t name.

Yuuei didn’t feel like Yuuei. Sure, it looked right—those massive gates, the spotless floors, uniforms stiff with starch. You could hear sparring echoing through the halls, smell burnt ozone and sweat in the air. Pro heroes walked by like it was normal, like they weren’t people Katsuki used to watch on TV on those late night sleepovers with Izuku, eyes wide sparkling with admiration and popcorn-sticky fingers. It was everything he’d built his life chasing. But it didn’t feel like it.

Back in middle school, when he still had that edge he’d ruled the place. He was feared. ‘Respected.’ The kind of respect only dumb, angry kids gave out of habit and survival. He snapped, and people flinched. That used to mean something. He used to mean something.

Then Deku died. And somewhere in all that silence that followed—after the dust settled and the grief stopped being fresh—that spark he used to carry just... burned out.

People stopped flinching. Started whispering. Started laughing when he got pissed off. Like he was a punchline, a tantrum in shoes, all bark and no bite. The fear dried up, and in its place came something worse. Mockery. Pity.

He didn’t even notice it right away. Didn’t realize what he’d lost until it was already gone. And by then, everyone else had seen it first. Whatever made people look twice, whatever kept them in line, whatever edge he’d sharpened himself against for years was gone when Deku disappeared. And he hadn’t figured out how to get it back.

By the time middle school ended, no one listened when he yelled. No one followed him. They didn’t even see him anymore. Just rolled their eyes, tuned him out, walked past like he wasn’t worth the space he took up.

And the worst part? He’d stopped being surprised. Some part of him had already accepted it. Like deep down, he knew that without Deku at his heels, without someone pushing back—calling him out, chasing after him—he was just noise. All that pressure and fire with nowhere to land. Nothing to burn but himself.

So when he stepped through the gates of Yuuei, he thought it would change. New place. New people. A clean slate. Here, surrounded by the best of the best, he’d finally prove everything he’d always said about himself. He’d climb higher, faster. He’d make them see him.

But it wasn’t like that. People didn’t flinch when he barked. They didn’t push back or bite like they were supposed to. They just stepped around him, calm and disinterested like he was bad weather they’d learned to navigate. No fear. No awe. Just blank stares and polite distance. They didn’t avoid him because he was dangerous. They avoided him because he was exhausting. A short fuse they didn’t care enough to light.

And slowly but surely, it started to sink in. His anger didn’t land here. His scowl, his temper, the explosions he used to wear like armor. None of it mattered the way it used to. Not in rooms full of people who were just as strong, just as driven, without needing to prove it by stepping on someone else. People who didn’t burn out everyone around them just to feel in control. That realization hit harder than he expected.

Because for all his talent, for all the noise he’d made on the way here, Katsuki started to realize he’d been shouting into a void. He looked up, and the world had moved on without him. No one cared how loud he was if he didn’t have anything worth hearing.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He trained like it owed him something. Threw himself into every drill, every fight, like pain could answer questions he didn’t know how to ask. Took every work study, every assignment, every blow. Pushed until his body gave out, until the bruises stacked so deep they just became background noise. Because if he couldn’t scare them into seeing him, maybe he could earn it.

Best Jeanist told him to keep his chin up, shoulders back, and temper in check. Said image mattered—that real heroes carried themselves with composure, with grace . So Katsuki did it. Bit his tongue. Straightened his spine. Curled his hands into something still. On the surface, it looked like growth. Like maturity. Like he was finally becoming the person the world wanted him to be. And people bought it. 

They started to believe in him. Not just as a fighter, but as a hero. Like he wasn’t dragging a goddamn grave behind him with every step. And that was the part that made him sick. Because it wasn’t him they believed in. It was the version he’d carved out to survive. The one who shut his mouth and played nice. The one who smiled just enough and didn’t bleed where people could see. That wasn’t real. That was scaffolding. A mask. And the more people applauded it, the worse it felt. Especially when it rained.

When the sky cracked open and bled grey down the skyline, when the gutters filled and the air smelled like ozone and loss, Katsuki didn’t carry an umbrella. He never had. He let it soak him, let it drag the heat from his skin and the nitroglycerin from his palms. Let it strip him down to something small. Like he’d been here before. On cold pavement, in heavier silence. Years ago, when sharp words could come with sharper hands. When flinching was automatic, and staying quiet meant staying safe. Because maybe the worst part wasn’t how it weakened him. Maybe the worst part was that it felt earned .

He already knew his attitude didn’t help, but he’s done it for so long, his outbursts are more out of habit than anything else. Because what else was he going to do? He barked at classmates during drills. Snapped during group assignments. Landed blows too hard during spars. People stopped partnering with him. 

Even the teachers noticed. Aizawa pulled him aside more than once, gave him that flat look that somehow managed to say everything without saying a word. Told him to get his shit together. To fix it . But Katsuki didn’t fix it. He didn’t know how. Wasn’t sure there was anything left to fix.

So he told himself it was fine. Repeated it like gospel. This was the goal, right? Winning. Climbing higher. Standing alone at the top, unshaken and untouchable. No distractions. No weaknesses.

No one was close enough to drag him back down. Not the classmates who glanced and looked away, not the one or two who tried but backed off when Katsuki barked too loud. No one stayed long enough to matter. But that was what he always wanted. No one to slow him down, no one to challenge him, no one to remind him of what he lost. Right?

And still, every time he crossed a finish line—every time the crowd erupted and someone shoved a medal into his hand like it was supposed to mean something—he felt it. That tug. Low in his chest. Sharp. Stupid. Like his body still hadn’t gotten the memo.

His eyes always drifted by reflex, not choice. Scanning the crowd before he could stop himself. Searching for something he knew wouldn’t be there.

Green. Freckles. That familiar scrunched-up face, all stubborn focus and spark. That look that used to say, I’m still here. I’m catching up. Don’t get too far ahead.

But it was never there. Just faces. Just cheering. Just the empty noise of victory. No rival at his heels. No voice to yell over. No idiot to shove off the podium with a scoff and a smirk and a mutter, try harder next time. 

Just silence. The kind that didn’t echo, it settled . In his lungs, in the space between heartbeats, in the way he held his trophies like they were too light to matter. And the longer it went on, the clearer it became: maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe it never would be.

By Christmas, Katsuki came to a quiet, bitter truth. He’d become what he used to spit on. Not because he lost his fire. But because no one ever told him what to do with it once it started burning him, too. 

Not the strongest. Not the loudest. Just another name on the list. One of the kids who made it through. Not because they had something burning inside them, but because they didn’t know what else to do. He kept going out of habit, not hunger. Not pride. Just momentum.

The rain made him feel like a ghost. Weak. Hollow. Like he was disappearing one layer at a time and no one even noticed. It robbed his quirk of its spark, reminded him of everything he couldn’t hold onto. 

Katsuki used to want to be a hero. More than anything. Used to burn for it. It was the only thing that ever made sense. But now, he couldn’t even remember what that meant. Not without someone to chase. Not without someone chasing him. No rival. No partner. No idiot with an umbrella. And without that, then what was the point?

The medals on his shelf didn’t answer. The crowd never noticed. The cheers had gotten quieter, or maybe he’d just stopped hearing them. No one ever reached back.

So he just stood there like an idiot, soaked to the bone, hand half-raised like muscle memory, same as before. Same reach. Same empty air. Like maybe he still expected someone to cover him. 

Like some part of him still believed a hand would find his. Still believed that dumb, stubborn kid would come barreling up beside him again, grinning through the downpour, saying, “You looked cold, Kacchan.”

But the space beside him stayed empty and the rain kept falling, no matter how hard he tried to escape it.

The sky above him churned low and endless, a smothering quilt of iron-colored crying clouds that hung like they might collapse under their own weight.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Eyelids scraped open like rusted shutters, and the world that greeted him looked wrong, fogged at the edges like a dream remembered through a cracked lens.

Where was he?

Deku tried to move. Tried to breathe, tried to remember. His body responded, but it moved without weight, like something suspended in water. Arms lifted slowly, legs bent and unfolded. His spine uncoiled as he sat up, every motion eerily fluid, disconnected.

The alley around him stretched narrow and wrong, carved out in sharp, filthy angles. Trash bins leaned like broken teeth against stained brick walls. Black water pooled beneath them, too dark to reflect, as if it swallowed light instead of bouncing it back. The rot in the air looked alive—bloated bags split open with the wet, glistening and disgusting weight of decay—but, yet, he couldn’t smell it.

As he looked down, the pavement beneath him was soaked, slick with grime and oil-streaked. And there, pressed into the filth, was the outline of a body. His body. A stain shaped like him. But the thing was, he wasn’t even wet. Not his shirt, not his pants, not even his red shoes, pristine and dry where they should have been soaked. When he shifted, there was no splash, no ripple.

Deku pressed a fist to his chest and hesitated. No heartbeat, no flutter, not even warmth. Just a dull, sick echo of pressure beneath fingers that already felt colder than they should.

His hands started to shake. He didn’t notice at first, but when he lifted them into the flickering spill of a distant streetlamp, they looked wrong. Too pale, too still, too tainted. 

They were a flicker of something else. A bitter edge he barely recognized, a flicker of bitterness or hunger he didn’t want to admit. Like the part of him that hadn’t forgiven, that still held grudges sharper than broken glass. And then it all faded into nothingness, leaving only this . The version, the shape, the entity.

He turned them over—palms up, palms down—and watched with numb fascination as the edges began to blur. His fingers curled inward before re-forming. Not flesh, not quite smoke. A flickering mirage trying to mimic something solid. His heart lurched. Or maybe it was just memory. Reflex. Echo.

Deku stood slowly, knees loose beneath him, bones moving without weight. Nothing resisted him. Not the cold, not gravity. Even the alley itself seemed to shy away, the puddles didn’t part, the shadows didn’t shift. He walked toward the mouth of the alley, and it felt like walking through a painting. A still life where he was the only thing allowed to move.

His eyes snapped to the wall beside him. A smear, barely visible, streaked in long, dried strokes down the bricks. Almost black now. It hadn’t been there a moment ago. Or maybe it had always been there and he just hadn’t let himself see it.

The sound of faraway sirens broke the silence. Distant, rising. Then dipping again. Not urgent, not for him. Just noise in a world that he hadn’t thought he’d ever see again.

Izuku staggered back a step. His mouth opened but no breath came. He knew this place, or thought he did, but it no longer answered. Like a friend who turned away, or a reflection that smiled back with the wrong eyes. He was the same, but not. Familiar and alien. Good and not. 

The alley had changed. Graffiti painted over. Windows shattered. The trash bins were different. The air reeked of absence, of time rotting through. And he—he wasn’t right. He was the wrong Izuku.

A memory pressed against the edge of his mind. Faint, nevertheless still there. And then it all faded into nothingness. And the one that remained was this . This version, this shape, this entity. The half that lived, that killed, that couldn’t remember what it felt like to actually be good. Fragments of light pierced the fog. Moments of laughter, kindness, promises—but they slipped through him like sand, impossible to grasp. He was left only with the shadows.

Deku wanted to scream. At the world, at the silence, at the weak boy he used to be, but no sound came. Only that gnawing, empty hunger that never filled.

In the distance, sirens faded again. The alley folded back into silence and the rain—quiet, endless, whispering down from the dead sky—kept falling. But, still, not a drop touched him.

The clock kept blinking, each digit a heartbeat, each second another inch of thread unraveling inside him. Bright bold lettering read 2:07 a.m.

The dorms were dead quiet. No muffled laughter from down the hall, no Denki rustling in the kitchen, no footsteps pacing past his door. Just the rain and its constant presence whispering against the windows like it wanted to slither its way in. But it was already there, soaked into his bones, clouding every thought like smoke too thick to breathe through, too stubborn to leave.

During school hours, all Katsuki would wish for was peace and quiet. He’d wish he didn’t have to hear the annoying constant chatting and yapping from extras and lectures from his professors. 

He’d zone out and fantasize what it’d feel like to lay down and relax in silence, but when silence arrived for once and he got what he wanted, it always seemed to be stretched thin, skin over bone, the kind of quiet that rang in his ears. Like the whole building was holding its breath, like the world itself was waiting for him to crack.

Katsuki hadn’t moved a single muscle in hours. His body felt bolted down, tense and wrong in every joint, like if he relaxed even a little, everything inside him would spill out and stain the floor. His body ached. From training, overuse of his quirk, getting punched, thrown to the ground, from not sleeping well enough because of nights like these. Just existing in general. He ached.

Katsuki lay stiff on his back, arms folded over his chest like restraint. Like pressure. One thumb dug into the meat of his forearm, hard enough to bruise. Just to feel something for once. Just to prove he still could. But the noise in his head never stopped.

He’s here. Really here. Isn’t this what he wanted? Hero course. He was in the program, training to be the best of the best with the best of the best, just like he always said he would. 

So why did it feel as if he hadn’t arrived at all? 

Katsuki’s brain wouldn’t shut up, wouldn’t slow down, wouldn’t stop chewing the same shredded scraps of memory over and over again. Everything he said wrong. Everything he didn’t say. What he could’ve done better. The way people looked at him. The way he looked at himself. 

He used to think getting into this place would fix him, that the title alone would make him whole. But all it really gave him was more ways to fall apart. More eyes to watch him fail, more chances to disappoint both the people who believed in him too much and the ones who never believed in him at all.

Katsuki flipped over. Then again. Then onto his stomach, face mashed into the pillow like it might shut his brain up if he just pressed hard enough.

Katsuki didn’t cry. He never cried. That wasn’t what this was. But something was clawing at his chest. Tight. Unsteady. A shake he couldn’t stop and couldn’t burn out. It wasn’t panic—there was nothing to panic about, damn it! Nothing happened. 

It was all just too much . Too much of nothing, too much of everything, too much noise in his head, too much tension under his skin, too much of something building behind his ribs with no name, no outlet, just pressure, relentless and rising, like a kettle no one bothered to take off the stove. And he didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t want to know. Because naming it made it real, and real meant weak. And he didn’t fucking have time to be weak.

So he pressed his face harder into the pillow, gripped the sheets like a fuse he was too tired to light, and waited for the feeling to pass. Even though it never really did.

The blanket flung off and his feet hit the floor with too much force. Not anger, just pressure. A leak in the dam, a body that couldn’t take the stillness anymore. Katsuki sat hunched at the edge of the bed, fists pressed to his thighs, trying to stay still, trying not to shatter. He could feel his pulse in his ears, his fingers, his throat. 

There was no reason to feel like this. Not tonight. He hadn’t failed at anything. No one screamed at him, no one even looked at him wrong. But maybe that was worse. Maybe the silence was worse than the shouting. Maybe being left alone with his own thoughts was worse than anything anyone else could do to him.

Katsuki stood up and paced the room. Once. Twice. Counted the steps even though he already knew how many there’d be. Four steps across. Six back. One-and-a-half turns. Pointless and mechanical, but it was something at the very least.

He stopped at the window. Pressed his forehead to the glass and let the cold bleed into his skin. The rain outside looked like static—like everything out there was getting washed clean while he stayed stuck in the dirt. The feeling in his chest didn’t fade. If anything, it crawled deeper. 

Katsuki exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tight. Fine. If he couldn’t sleep, if he couldn’t shut his head up, then at least he could do something. Something useful, familiar, something that made sense to him.

He dropped to the floor and started with push-ups. Fast. Hard. The kind that slammed muscle and bone until his arms burned. Then more and more crunches. Sweat clung to his skin, but it didn’t help. His brain kept gnawing, kept talking, kept dragging up everything he didn’t want to look at.

Fuck, he needed to do more.

Katsuki pushed harder. Changed tempo. Form. Anything to exhaust this shitty feeling out of himself, to beat the shaking into submission with repetition. When the burn in his muscles got sharp enough, he stopped. Sat back on his heels, breath loud in the silence. His chest rose and fell like it was trying to outrun the weight pressing down on it. Still there.

Not enough. It was never enough.

His eyes flicked to the desk. If he was going to be up, he might as well make it count. Katsuki grabbed his notebook and textbook. Started flipping pages and reading over material he’d already memorized twice. He highlighted one line and underlined another. Took a note even though his handwriting was a mess from the sweat still clinging to his fingers. 

It didn’t help. Not really. But it gave him a wall to lean on.

Hero stats. Law codes. Quirk evolution theory. Shit that didn’t hurt to think about. Katsuki’s leg tirelessly bounced under the desk. His pen tapped once, twice, faster. He didn’t even register it until he snapped the lead by accident. The sound cracked sharp in the quiet. Katsuki froze just for a second. Then tossed the pencil aside and dug out another.

Keep going, keep moving, and don’t feel under any circumstances. That was the rule, it’s always been. If he stayed still too long, he might feel the thing he didn’t have a name for, the thing clawing behind his ribs. And Katsuki wasn’t fucking ready for that.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he felt good. Not just okay, not just functional. Good . The kind of good that didn’t come with guilt curled around the edges or exhaustion buried in the middle.

Maybe he didn’t deserve to. Maybe that was just what it meant to be him.

He backed away from the window. Sat again, slower this time. Everything ached. Not like pain, but like tired. Not the kind of tired sleep could fix.

Katsuki dropped his head into his hands. Dug his thumbs into his eyes until stars burst behind his lids. Anything to break the rhythm. Anything to drown out the noise.

The clock blinked again like it was mocking him. 

3:01. 

Then 3:02. 

Still not asleep, still not quiet, still not okay.

Katsuki dropped to his knees beside the bed, the hardwood cold against his skin, grounding him in a way nothing else could. He reached under the frame, arm stretching into the far-back corner where dust had thickened like sediment—layers of time left undisturbed. His hand found an old shoebox and dragged it out with a muted scrape.

The box was bent out of shape, corners caved in, held together with two strips of yellowing tape from the last time it threatened to split open. Inside was a mess of nothing. Junk. Useless scraps from years he didn’t want to remember but couldn’t bring himself to erase. Crumpled first-year handouts. A few letters from his parents he never responded to. A snapped All Might keychain, its plastic edges sharp where it had broken clean in half.

He couldn’t even remember what set him off when he shattered it, only that it had felt good at the time. Necessary, even. Like breaking something outside of himself might keep him from splitting apart inside.

Katsuki dug through the box like a scavenger, desperate for something to hold or destroy, whatever might drown out the static screaming behind his eyes. He didn’t really know what he was looking for. Maybe something to crush, something to burn, something to bleed on. But then his fingers brushed something stiff. Something different.

It was a notebook, weathered and warped, heavy in a way paper shouldn’t be. The cover was smudged with soot, stained like it had been dragged through fire and ash. Burn marks licked the top edge, curling the corners inward, and blackened smears ran across the white surface like something had tried to erase it from existence.

Across the front, thick blue lines still peeked through beneath the damage, and in the center, someone had written in bold, careful strokes—words that once meant something. There was a number, underlined. A title. Half of it was nearly illegible now, the ink smudged like tears that never dried.

In the corner, the word “Campos” remained intact—a brand no one cared about, but instantly recognizable. The kind of notebook a kid would buy with pocket change. The kind Izuku always carried. But Katsuki knew that inside was pages and pages, filled edge to edge with obsessive scrawl. Hero names, power breakdowns, weaknesses, analysis, praise, plans, and desperation. It was the kind of thing only a kid with no power and too much hope crammed into a body too small to hold would take the time to make. And Katsuki stared at it like it was a ghost.

The worst part was, Katsuki knew this notebook. He knew it like he knew the sound of Deku’s voice before it cracked in middle school, or the way he used to hunch his shoulders when Katsuki passed him in the hallway. This was one of the hero notebooks. The ones Deku used to scribble in during lunch. During class. During every goddamn moment they weren’t speaking.

It shouldn’t be here with Katsuki, it should’ve been at the police station. Maybe they would’ve been able to find more information on the case, but here it was.

Without meaning to, Katsuki’s hands moved differently. Not like they wanted to destroy, not like they even dared to, but he held it like it might fall apart just from being touched. He was careful, reverent, and ashamed. Katsuki sat there on the floor, notebook trembling faintly in his hands, the rain tapping at the window like it knew something he didn’t. He should’ve thrown it out but he couldn’t. No, not this .

He remembered the way he’d taken it and how easy it had been. Back in middle school, Katsuki had picked it up like it was trash, like it offended him just by existing. He could still hear his own voice, loud and mocking, laughing as he flipped through the pages like they were a punchline. Like Deku was.

The notebook creaked faintly as Katsuki cracked it open, brittle at the spine, the pages clinging to each other like they hadn’t been touched in years. Dust bloomed into the air and his fingers, rough and scarred, hovered for a moment before he started turning the pages. 

It was all there. So much fucking words. Sloppy sketches of heroes packed into the corners of ruled lines, tiny diagrams of fights recorded like they were sacred texts. Not just All Might, though he was plastered everywhere, arms raised, grinning like a god—but also Kamui Woods, Best Jeanist, even some no-names Katsuki barely remembered hearing about. Each one drawn and picked apart, piece by piece, like Izuku had been trying to crawl into their skin and figure out what exactly it was that made them shine.

Katsuki snorted under his breath. “Damn nerd,” he muttered, but the words didn’t carry weight. Not really. His hands kept flipping. The deeper he went, the tighter his throat pulled.

There were pages where the ink smudged, where the pencil dug too deep and carved scars into the paper. Taped-in pictures from magazine cutouts, hand-written battle strategy rewrites, like Izuku had been building a blueprint for a future he never got to reach.

Imagine Katsuki’s surprise as he flips to the next page.

“Bakugou Katsuki. (Kacchan!!!)

  Quirk: Explosion.

Nitroglycerin-like sweat secreted from palms → ignited to create controlled blasts. Explosion-type quirk. Extremely powerful. Unstable in theory, but somehow never loses control. Always explosive, always precise like a grenade that knows exactly where it wants to go.

Fighting Style: Close-combat specialist. Prioritizes speed and brute force. Charges in headfirst with little hesitation. Kacchan relies heavily on instinct and raw power. Improvises well under pressure. Overwhelms opponents with aggression before they can react. Excellent reflexes. Very adaptable. More strategic than he lets on (don’t let him fool you!!). Predicts enemy movement fast. It’s like he feels the fight in his bones. Could probably go pro right now if they’d let him. Leans toward offensive style, but if he ever trained his stamina and defense more, he could be unstoppable.

Notes: Explosions scale with anger levels??? More observation needed. Seems to detonate harder when insulted. Gets stronger when people underestimate him... and that happens less and less. Kacchan’s scary strong. Everyone says so, but he doesn’t care what people say. He only looks forward, always has! I’ve never seen anyone want to win as badly as he does. It’s like he was born knowing he was meant to be great. He’s confident, very loud, very intense. Too intense, sometimes. But that’s the beauty of Kacchan. He shines when he fights. It’s almost like nothing else exists.”

Katsuki blinked, the words somehow louder than the quiet pressing in from every corner of his room. He turned another page. Each note was obsessive in its clarity, the handwriting smaller and more frantic the further he flipped.

There were full sections labeled with blunt, surgical titles like “Pattern Tracking,” “Weaknesses,” “Quirk Exploits,” and “Countermeasures.” It didn’t seem like just analysis. It was clinical . Strategic. As if Deku had studied him not just as a rival or classmate, but like a creature to be dissected and outmaneuvered.

Some of the tactics were simple. Feints, misdirection, smoke cover to obstruct Katsuki’s line of sight and limit the precision of his blasts, but others were more... creative . Eerily so. Elaborate combo scenarios that involved terrain traps, flashbang replicas, even calculated psychological triggers designed to bait out an emotional overreaction. 

Katsuki stared at one scribbled margin note:

“When frustrated, Kacchan’s blast radius increases but precision drops. If I can bait him into blind rage, I might be able to push him off balance both figuratively and literally.”

What the hell?

He kept flipping, unsettled. There were weaknesses he’d never even considered, subtle patterns in his footwork, the microseconds of vulnerability right before he launched, even a sketch outlining how the sweat buildup on his palms could be thrown off by temperature changes or humidity. 

That one had a sticky note pinned to it:

“ Could probably force him to overuse his blasts too quickly if I time it right.”

A stupid doodle of an explosion followed, and yet the calculations above it were sharp. Accurate.

It wasn’t just unnerving, it was weirdly intimate. It felt almost invasive. Like Izuku had been quietly storing every tick, every habit, every imperfection for years. Probably not to weaponize it cruelly, but because he genuinely believed it mattered. Because he was trying to understand Katsuki on a level that no one else ever had.

It made Katsuki’s skin crawl. Not because it was cruel, but because it wasn’t. Deku had known him better than he’d known himself. Had picked apart the exact places Katsuki could be broken, brought to his knees, stripped of every advantage, and had written it all down like homework. As if even knowing exactly how to beat him, Izuku still looked up to him.

He flipped further, slower now. His fingers were trembling, and he didn’t know why. Page after page hit like gut punches dressed in ink.

“Even if he hurts, I still think he’s bound to be the best someday.”

The notebook sagged in his lap, the pages falling limp between his fingers. It was starting to seem like Deku had been studying him not just to compete or beat him, not even to catch up, but just to understand him. As if he was trying to keep the last pieces of their friendship alive in whatever way he could. 

Katsuki’s stomach twisted. He ran a thumb over the burned edge of a page. It crumbled slightly, flaking off into his palm. Sucking in the fact that all off this was written in a voice that didn’t exist anymore, one that Katsuki hadn’t heard in years yet it lingered in the back of his mind. And the silence that followed was worse than any insult he’d ever thrown.

It was borderline obsessive. Incredibly embarrassing and almost painful.

Katsuki felt his jaw tighten, a pulse hammering against the inside of his throat like it wanted to climb out. The next page wasn’t words, it was just lines. A fast, frantic, unrefined sketch that was messy and uneven in pressure, the pencil smudged in places from where a palm must’ve rested too long, dragging across the page without care for perfection, but the likeness was undeniable. 

It was Katsuki’s body mid-motion, a burst blooming from his palms, his mouth was twisted in that familiar snarl, eyes narrowed and wild, but not unhinged. He looked determined, alive. His hair spiked like a firework mid-detonation, every angle sharp, nothing softened or held back.

It wasn’t pretty, it didn’t try to be, but the details were sharp in all the right places is stance. The way his shoulders hunched just slightly before a full-force blast, the way his fingers curled as if dragging power from the air itself. 

Just by seeing, you can tell Izuku had been watching closely. Not just seeing, but knowing. Remembering. Recording everything that made him him before he even figured out what that was.

Katsuki stared at the sketch longer than he meant to, the shape of himself drawn through someone else’s eyes, like a mirror tilted at a slant, showing a version he wasn’t sure he recognized but one he couldn’t look away from either.

Back then, the fire from his palms had come too easy. The paper curled and blackened. He remembered the way he’d spat the words, something sharp and ugly, like he could cut Deku off at the knees before he got any ideas. Before he tried to come any closer. And Deku had just stood there. His huge green watery eyes wide and hurt, yet still trying to understand. Still trying, still following Katsuki, like some pathetic, unkillable shadow.

Now Katsuki was on the floor again. But everything was different. He sat with his knees bent, spine hunched, the notebook in his lap like something sacred and ruined like a body you buried wrong and were only now digging back up. His hands, so used to detonating, held it like glass. His head hung low over it, breath shallow, like getting too close might ignite it all over again.

The rain outside deepened. It hit harder now against the windows, the roof, the world. Like it was angry too, or maybe just tired. Like it knew what he was holding. Like it remembered, too.

Katsuki didn’t know who that kid had been—the one who laughed while it burned. All he knew was that he’d hated the look in Deku’s eyes. Maybe not because it was pity, but because it wasn’t. And now? Now he wasn’t even sure who he was. Not the kid who lit the match. Not the one who survived it.

Even as the clock hit 4:00 AM, Katsuki remained on his knees. Silent, still, alone in the dark with the one thing he’d once tried to destroy resting heavy in his lap, refusing to leave.

The lecture droned on, a slow, buzzing monotone that seeped into the classroom like mildew—clinging, numbing, filling the spaces between thoughts with white noise. 

The projector flickered every few seconds, casting faint shadows across the board where Cementoss methodically scrawled diagrams in precise, blocky strokes, outlining support systems, load-bearing thresholds, and internal quirk-safe architecture in squeaky black marker.

They were learning about support gear mechanics, week four. Supposedly important. Supposedly revolutionary. But the room had long since sunk into collective apathy.

Shouta had cocooned himself in his sleeping bag by the back wall, out cold. Denki slumped over his notes, drooling into the margin of an unfinished sentence. Hanta stared blankly ahead, eyelids twitching. Mina was doodling on the edge of her worksheet. Momo’s pen was still in hand, but she hadn’t moved in nearly five minutes.

Whatever faint curiosity had entered the room at the start of class had long since expired somewhere around “dynamic stabilization delay curves.”

And yet, Katsuki was still locked in. Hunched forward in his seat like a question mark with a grudge, jaw set, one elbow braced against the desk, the other hand moving in quick, clipped motions over a battered black notebook. The spine had split in places, the cover was torn, but the pages still turned. Katsuki’s pencil tore through them like a blade through an overgrown brush. Furious, precise, unstoppable.

He looked like hell. Eyes rimmed red, smudged with exhaustion, dark bags sunk deep beneath them like bruises he refused to acknowledge. His hair was unkempt, shirt rumpled, movements twitchy from too much caffeine and too little sleep. But none of it mattered. He didn’t let it matter. Whatever was in his head,whatever was clawing to get out, he was dragging it to the page, piece by ragged piece, no matter what it cost.

His eyes flicked across the board, tracking variables like they were threats, strategies already forming in the margins of his mind. He wasn’t just copying, he was dissecting. Revising, redesigning the entire system in real time, as if the original theory was an insult to efficiency. As if he couldn’t help but fix it.

And then, without realizing, his mouth started moving.

“…no, too much recoil if the plating’s that light—unless you reinforce the struts, but—shit, then you’ve got drag on the pivot. Unless you compensate in the bracer rig…”

It wasn’t loud. Barely more than breath. But steady and relentless. As if the thoughts were too sharp, too fast to keep caged behind his teeth, like silence couldn’t contain them.

“…needs weight balance near the hips or else the upper body throws off the center axis… could counter with variable shock springs, or—no, dampen with—”

“Uh, dude?”

The voice landed like a stone tossed into still water. Katsuki blinked. His pencil froze in mid-air.

He looked up and the room was staring back. Half the class had turned in their seats. Even Cementoss had gone still, mid-diagram, marker raised but motionless, his concrete features unreadable but his silence saying enough.

Katsuki straightened immediately, his scowl snapping into place like a defense system. “What?” he barked, voice sharp enough to cut through the haze. “What the hell are you all lookin’ at?”

“You were muttering,” Eijirou said, somewhere between confused and amused, leaning back in his chair with both arms crossed like he wasn’t sure if he was impressed or deeply concerned. “Like a lot .”

Denki blinked, lifting his head groggily. “Wait, that wasn’t just me hallucinating? It seriously sounded like some kind of mad scientist.”

“I wasn’t fuckin’ mutterin’,” Katsuki shot back instantly, too fast, too defensive. His chair scraped against the floor as he sat up straighter, shoulders squared like he was ready to fight the accusation itself. “Shut the hell up.”

“But you totally were!” Mina chirped, twisting in her seat, eyes bright with delighted disbelief. “All scribbly and intense and muttery. Honestly, kinda cute.” She giggled.

Katsuki’s hands slammed his notebook shut with a sharp crack , making half the class flinch. “Focus on your damn work, fuckass extras.”

The others exchanged looks but didn’t press it. Cementoss cleared his throat, slow and gravelly, and resumed with a few deliberate words about quirk-reinforced subflooring. The classroom slowly fell back into a sluggish rhythm. 

Katsuki didn’t move. He didn’t pick his pencil back up, his eyes stayed locked on the shut cover of his notebook, fists clenched in his lap. The air around him still buzzed faintly with heat. 

Not from anger, not really. Not at them. The burn came from somewhere deeper, somewhere quieter. A friction under his ribs he couldn’t explain.

He stared at the edge of the page still sticking out, where the margin had been filled with jagged arrows and overlapping phrases. The scrawl was messy, tilted, squeezed too tight. At first, it looked like his own—until he noticed the angles. The spacing. The way some words leaned too hard to the right, or how the arrows curved just so. It was wrong. Familiar. Terrifyingly so.

Katsuki didn’t remember when it started. He couldn’t remember when his thoughts started showing up in someone else’s handwriting. When the arrows got sharp, or when the muttering began, but the habits were there. Pressed into the paper like fingerprints that didn’t belong to him.

Katsuki’s throat worked. He flipped the notebook open again, slower this time, quieter. He was pretending to reread, pretending the handwriting was his, pretending he wasn’t trying to forget, but the pattern was already burned in. It was in the margins. It was in the way the words chased each other down the page, frantic, breathless.

A page ago, he might’ve mocked it. But now? Now it felt like hearing a voice that wasn’t supposed to exist anymore. A voice that used to fill the space between his own thoughts. Quiet, curious, obsessive. A voice that used to follow him everywhere.

He clenched his jaw. Flipped to a new page. Forced his eyes on the board.

The words didn’t make sense anymore.

And somewhere, buried in the quiet hum of the overhead lights and the mechanical scratch of other pencils against paper, the sound of his own voice still echoed in the back of his head.

Not loud. Not cruel. Just… eerily familiar.

“Hey—! Excuse me!”

The words left his mouth like cracked glass, too sharp at the edges, too fragile in the middle. Deku stepped into the man’s path with his arm half-raised, voice too loud, too uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if he was asking or demanding. Like maybe volume could make him real again. But the man didn’t slow, didn’t look up, didn’t see him. He passed through Deku’s shoulder like Deku wasn’t there at all.

A chill curled under Deku’s skin, worse than the rain seeping through his collar, worse than the wind slicing between his ribs.

“What—” His breath caught, turned brittle. He turned fast. “Are you serious? Hello? I’m right—”

But the man was already gone, footsteps fading into the downpour like water swallowed by a drain.

A couple approached next, their umbrella too small for two, shoulders brushing, laughter quiet and private between them. Something about the way they moved made Deku hesitate, but only for a second. He stepped into their path, blinking against the rain, arms half-raised.

“Hello? Can you see me?” he asked. His voice cracked again, softer this time, thinner. “Please. Just—just look at me.”

Deku stumbled back, the pavement slick beneath his shoes. His heart thudded out of rhythm, too fast, too hollow. The man’s elbow phased clean through Deku’s sternum and the woman’s hair, damp and curled, passed through his cheek like mist. Like nothing happened at all, they both kept on laughing.

His legs buckled and he stumbled back, feet skidding across slick pavement. The streetlights above buzzed faintly, casting halos in the rain. Everything shimmered, everything moved, everything except for him.

“What the hell is this…?” he breathed, eyes wide, chest rising too fast, too sharp. “No. No, no, no, no— ”

A woman in a yellow raincoat approached next, her hood drawn low over her face, shoulders hunched as she moved with mechanical certainty, boots slapping through puddles that rippled outward and then stilled like he hadn’t been standing there at all. Her stride never faltered, her head never lifted, her pace remained steady, as if she was walking a path that had no room for deviation, no room for anyone like him.

Without thinking, without planning, Deku stepped into her path, his arm lifting like instinct, fingers trembling as they stretched toward the bright plastic of her coat, seeking contact, confirmation, proof , and for a split second, her shoulder passed directly through his.

She just shivered, only slightly. A small, almost imperceptible twitch in her posture, the kind that might happen when a cold drop of rain slips past the collar, or a breeze brushes bare skin. She reached up as if to tuck her hood tighter, adjusted her grip on the umbrella she wasn’t carrying, and kept walking. She didn’t pause, didn’t glance back, didn’t say a word.

It wasn’t recognition. It wasn’t acknowledgment. But it was something . A glitch, a ripple, a reaction that didn’t quite make sense.

Deku’s hand fell back to his side like a weight cut loose from a string. He took a step back without realizing it, his legs moving slow and uneven like they’d forgotten how to carry a body that wasn’t really here .  

The sidewalk beneath him was slick and blurring, edges melting into the colorless water pooling in the gutters, and the cars that passed nearby were no longer solid things. They were streaks of motion, light smearing across glass, red taillights blooming like wounds in the distance and fading just as fast.

Pedestrians moved like background noise, like props carried on a conveyor belt of purpose he couldn’t access. Umbrellas bobbed above heads he couldn’t see clearly. The sound of a train echoed somewhere far off, warped by distance and rain, and still no one looked at him. No one really saw him.

The world wasn’t just ignoring him, it was reconfiguring itself in real time, smoothing over his presence like it was fixing a continuity error, rewriting the moment to close the space he once filled, like smoothing a wrinkle in the page, like pressing delete on a single line of code. His footsteps didn’t hold in the shallow puddles he left behind, the water didn’t ripple when he moved through it, his breath didn’t fog against the glass of the storefronts he passed. 

Deku’s voice cracked, dry and uneven, as he whispered, “Can anyone see me?” but the sound dissolved before it reached the edge of the block.

There was no echo, no response. Only the sound of tires slicing through water and the faint pulse of life that kept moving around him, relentless, indifferent, fast and fading.

He stood still as the city blurred around him, colors bleeding into motion, lights stretching into ribbons, faces passing like watercolor ghosts. And in that moment, it wasn’t just that he felt invisible, it was that he was beginning to believe he had already been erased. Somewhere far off, a dog barked, a car rolled by, a traffic light blinked red. All of it continued, all of it moved on . 

“No, no, no… I’m still here,” he whispered, the words curling in the air like smoke no one would breathe in. “I’m still here.”

But even he didn’t sound convinced anymore.

Despite everything, Deku kept trying, kept exploring even though the more he learned the more it hurt. Another woman passed him, her yellow raincoat bright against the gray world. 

Her shoulder brushed through his extended arm without resistance. The woman didn’t even flinch, just brushed her shoulder like she was dusting it off. A child on a bicycle raced by, tires hissing in the rain, zooming straight through the shadow of Deku’s legs as if he weren’t even there.

“Hey!” he practically screamed, throat tearing with the effort. “I’m right here! Please, someone—!”

The couple from before was still close enough to hear. The girl paused, squinting faintly through the mist behind her.

“Did you hear something?” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder.

Deku froze. Hope sparked, hot and fragile, a flicker too sharp to be comfort. But the boy only shook his head, gently tugging the girl’s hand.

“It’s probably just the wind. Don’t worry about it, baby, come on.”

And that was it. They disappeared into the blur of gray and movement, umbrella bobbing, their laughter already fading like a distant memory. 

Across the street, something fluttered, scrap of color against the rain-slick gray. A poster was barely clinging to the crooked pole of a traffic sign. Waterlogged, the paper sagged and peeled at the edges, curled like wilted petals. It hit him with the silence of a scream caught mid-breath. A stillness so complete it felt like the world was holding its breath with him.

Deku staggered closer.

The photo above was unmistakable. It was Izuku’s face. He was frozen in one of those forced, too-bright school portraits from the second-to-last year of middle school. His hair had been shorter and neater, his smile wide and stupid with belief. Deku barely recognized himself.

The ink had run in streaks, warped by time, blurred by sun and storm, but he could still make out the handwriting underneath. Still feel the way it wrapped cold fingers around his ribs and squeezed.

“In loving memory of Midoriya Izuku, may he rest in piece.”

“Rest in piece” had been underlined twice, the strokes so heavy they nearly tore the paper. As if someone’s hand had been shaking, like they hadn’t been ready to let go. The poster clung to the lamppost like it belonged there. Like it had grown roots. Half-ripped, fading but still holding on. 

He took a step closer, breath catching—not that it satisfied anything, but the reflex still kicked in, like muscle memory. Deku’s fingertips brushed the corner of the page, and it fluttered through him. 

Literally. It passed through his hand like he wasn’t there at all.

Deku looked down at his own body, something he should’ve done a long time ago. He was still in his old middle school uniform. Same one he wore in the picture. Only now the blazer was stiff in places, stained a deep, dried brown across the chest and shoulders. 

The blood had dried like paint, like it had soaked through the fabric and crusted directly onto the pale skin beneath. Most of it was concentrated around his throat. His fingers brushed over the collar, trembling. The fabric crackled under his touch—crusted, stiff, as if it had been soaked in something and left to rot. Beneath it, his skin felt too tight, too thin. 

Deku’s limbs didn’t help the illusion. Too long, too pale, too thin. His arms hung awkwardly at his sides, his hands shaking slightly as he stared at them. It felt like he was inhabiting something close to his body but not quite his own. Something that had been left somewhere cold and forgotten and dragged back too late.

He blinked, and the last thing he remembered crashed through him like thunder. The alley, the pressure at his neck, the flash of someone and then it all became dark. But that all felt like forever ago, and now here he was, standing again. But not right. Never quite right.

Deku turned back to the poster, his hands now trembling even though nothing else around him seemed to notice. His name was smeared, face faded, unrecognizable. The tape yellowed at the edges. 

He backed away without meaning to, footsteps soundless, heart hammering in a chest that might have been hollow. Around him, the street stretched wider than it should have, or maybe he was just getting smaller. 

He was still in the same area. The more he explored, he found that there were more posters scattered all around his neighborhood. 

On a telephone pole behind him, in the window of a darkened convenience store, plastered across the side of a crumbling bus stop. Dozens of them, old and new. Some had candles and wilted flowers under, some were ripped, vandalized. One had “GIVE UP” scrawled over it in red dripping spray paint.

Deku reached out, hand trembling as he tried to touch the one closest to him. More than anything, he wanted to feel the paper, to tear it down, to prove it wasn’t real, but his fingers passed through it like fog. There was no resistance, no texture, no contact at all.

The rain fell harder now. It was a cold, relentless curtain that beat against the city like it was trying to scrub it clean. It rattled on rooftops, hissed in gutters, splashed violently against pavement. It was the kind of downpour that left people drenched within seconds, clinging to jackets and hair, sliding into shoes. But it didn’t touch him. Not really. It didn’t soak his clothes or drip from his chin. It didn’t weigh him down or blur his vision. 

Instead, it passed through him like he was smoke, or air, or something less than either. Every drop that hit came fast and sharp, slicing through his body without resistance, like he wasn’t there at all. The sensation wasn’t pain, but it wasn’t nothing, either. 

It prickled along his skin in waves he couldn’t stop, fast and tingling and wrong. It made his limbs twitch like he could shake it off, like he could do something about it, but he couldn’t. The feeling stayed. Hollow, itchy, unmoored.

When he moved, the rain moved through him. When he stopped, it slipped around him like he was just the space between things. Not a person, not a presence. Just an absence shaped like a boy. And he hated it. He hated how even the sky didn’t see him, how even the goddamn weather treated him like a rumor. It made everything worse.

Because rain was supposed to be loud . It was supposed to soak your shoes and run down your collar, and make your teeth chatter, and give you something real to curse at. But this? This was silence disguised as noise. This was isolation in its purest form. No weight, no warmth, no proof that he existed at all.

Deku turned again, wild now, reaching for the nearest doorknob with shaking fingers and stumbled straight through the glass like it wasn’t there. His body followed without resistance, no hesitation, like he was no longer made of muscle or mass or anything the world had to answer to. 

He braced for impact, instinctively flinching for the crash, the scrape, the sound, but it never came. There was no impact. No floor to meet him, no shatter. He just slipped forward, weightless, like a shadow poured into water.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, cold and clinical. Somewhere above the shelves, pop music hummed low from the ceiling speakers, all static edges and cheer too thin to hold meaning. It was a regular konbini. Clean floors, candy aisles, fridge doors humming softly. It was ordinary, it was alive, and Deku might as well have been from another planet.

People moved around him. A mother gently guiding a small child down the snacks aisle. A man scrolling through his phone. A cashier counting change at the register. All of them within arm’s reach. None of them looked at him. No flicker of confusion, no recoil, no recognition. They just moved—on tracks, on loops—like he wasn’t standing in the middle of it all, dripping rainwater that didn’t stain the floor.

Deku found himself in the freezer section. Stared at the glass. Inside, everything was in place. Rows of green tea, soda, juice, perfectly lined up. Condensation clung to the doors in soft gray fog. Everything looked exactly the same. Everything except for one small detail.

When Deku stared into the glass doors of the freezer, there was no figure staring back at him. No school uniform, no soaked curls, no too-wide, terrified eyes. 

And that was when it hit him. Not like a whisper, not like a slow realization creeping in through the cracks, but like a steel beam straight through the chest. Sudden, immovable, final.

Really, he’d known, somewhere in the back of his mind. He wasn’t stupid. The moment that man walked through him like wind, the way the rain never soaked his clothes, how his breath didn’t fog the glass. He’d felt it crawling just beneath the surface of everything, this quiet, impossible truth he hadn’t wanted to name. But he told himself it was something else. A dream, a cruel trick the world was playing, something that would break if he just found the right seam to tug. If he waited long enough, if he screamed loud enough, if he just didn’t look too hard.

This, though, was undeniable. A glass door he couldn’t touch, a reflection that wasn’t there. Deku wasn’t part of the world anymore. He was nothing more than a ghost fumbling through a life that had already erased him. A name scratched out and still trying to speak, a boy chasing a story that had already turned the page.

Maybe this is what happens when you're not good enough. Maybe this is all what’s left.

Home felt smaller than he remembered. As if the walls had shifted inward, trying to squeeze him back into a version of himself that didn’t fit anymore. Or maybe he’d just gotten too big. Too loud inside, too full of everything he’d learned to carry since the last time he came back. Victory, failure, blood… he wasn’t sure which weighed more.

Late evening light stretched longer than it should’ve, warm and sticky against the windows. Early July always felt like it had more hours than it knew what to do with.

The hallway still creaked in the same places. The light in the bathroom still flickered if you left it on too long. The kitchen smelled like garlic, soy sauce, and whatever new essential oil his mom was obsessed with this month. Probably something citrusy and allegedly ‘good for inflammation’. The scent clashed horribly with the pork stew she had bubbling on the stove, but it was so her it made his chest ache.

And of course, Bakugou Mitsuki herself was just as loud.

“Katsuki! Boots off ! You think I raised a damn wild dog? You’re tracking half the city through my genkan! And don’t dump your bag there, it’s a tripping hazard! What if I fall and die, huh? Then what?!”

Katsuki grunted. Rolled his eyes. Kicked his boots to the side with exaggerated force and hoisted his bag into the laundry room.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you,” he muttered. “ Mythic bitch .”

“What was that, brat?”

“Nothin’!”

“Damn right it was nothing,” she huffed.

It was a familiar chaos. Predictable like stepping into an old pair of shoes—still scuffed in the same places, still a little too tight at the toes. His mom’s voice didn’t grate like it used to. He knew better now. Knew that all that barking and bluster was just her way of pulling him close without looking like she was worried.

The calendar in the hallway was flipped to July. Katsuki stared at the number fifteen for a beat too long before turning away. It wasn’t circled, wasn’t labeled, but it wordlessly screamed at him anyway.

Mitsuki didn’t ask about the bruises he hadn’t bothered to cover. Didn’t ask how the mission went, or what it felt like when the dust cleared and they counted heads. But she didn’t have to. She made enough food for five. Piled his bowl high like she thought he hadn’t eaten in days. Which, to be fair, he kind of hadn’t.

Not on purpose, not really. Just the kind of forgetting that comes when everything’s noise and adrenaline and too much blood on the inside of your gloves. He hadn’t realized how empty he was until the smell hit him—spiced broth and rice and something warm and slow-cooked—and his stomach clenched like it was remembering it had needs after being ignored for too long.

He sat with his arms tense on either side of the bowl, staring down like it might vanish if he looked away. The first bite was automatic. The second hit hard enough to make his eyes sting. By the third, he was eating like he was afraid someone might take it away. 

No words, just the scrape of chopsticks, the quiet drag of breath, the low sound he didn’t mean to make when the heat hit the roof of his mouth just right. It wasn’t just hunger; it was starvation, the kind that slipped under your radar until you were halfway through devouring whatever kindness had been laid in front of you.

She didn’t say anything. Just passed him a napkin and poured him more tea. Sat across from him without a word, like holding space could be enough. And somehow, it was. 

Because sometimes, silence meant more than questions. And food—hot, generous, real—was a kind of understanding. One that didn’t demand he explain why his hands were shaking a little, or why he hadn’t slept more than a few hours in three days.

His dad was quiet, as usual. Just gave him a nod when he walked in, a half-smile, and passed him the rice without a word. He didn’t talk much during dinner, just listened, nodding every now and then while Mitsuki filled the space like a one-woman army of commentary, sarcasm, and unsolicited health advice.

“‘Bout damn time you showed your face around here,” Mitsuki said after swallowing, pointing a chopstick at him. “What, forget you’ve got a family back at home? Or did school finally rot your last two brain cells?”

Katsuki didn’t look up from his bowl. The heat from the stew curled against his face, thick with soy and garlic, the slow warmth of ginger clinging to the back of his tongue. “Been busy.”

“Busy, my ass. You can’t send a damn text? Call? Or are your fingers only good for blowing shit up now?”

“Let the boy eat,” Masaru murmured, lips barely moving around his tea cup.

“I am letting him eat, but I’ll talk while he chews, thanks. You still like pork stew? Or did some dietician tell you protein’s evil now?”

“It’s fine,” Katsuki muttered through a mouthful of rice. The grains were sticky and warm, clinging to his teeth. The broth had a weird tang he couldn’t place—maybe lemongrass or some shit—but it was still the same heavy warmth sliding down his throat, familiar in a way that punched right under his ribs. “Tastes the same.”

“ Same?! I changed the whole damn recipe! Took out the sugar, added turmeric, it’s anti-inflammatory!”

“It tastes like ol’ regular stew, hag.”

“Uh-huh. Guess I’m that good,” she sniffed, victorious. “Can’t even tell the difference.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes, but a huff of a laugh escaped him anyway. The kind he didn’t even realize he’d let out until it was already in the air, soft and unguarded. What a rookie mistake.

“You know, for someone with a mouth as big as yours, you sure go quiet when you’re avoiding your own damn family.”

Katsuki froze mid-sip. The tea scalded the inside of his mouth as it went down, but he didn’t flinch. Just set the cup back down with too much control.

“Seriously,” she went on, not missing a beat, “I had to hear from your teachers that you were on break. You’re off doing god-knows-what, getting thrown into danger every other week, and you can’t even call your own mother?”

Katsuki groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Here we fuckin’ go.”

“Don’t you curse at the dinner table, Katsuki! I swear, you’re lucky I didn’t hunt you down myself. What if you’d died and I had to find out from some skinny reporter in a cheap suit? You’d better believe I’d have come back to life just to kill you again.”

She lifted her hand as she said it, like she was about to cuff him upside the head out of habit—but stopped short, just waved it instead, exasperated.

Katsuki ducked anyway. A sharp, automatic motion. Too fast, too practiced. Like he was still thirteen and bracing for the sting that used to follow that tone. She hadn’t actually hit him in years, not since he’d gotten tall enough to catch her wrist without thinking. But the reflex never left. Not when it got carved into the spine.

He muttered under his breath, “Can’t even die in peace, huh?”

Masaru gave him a look, subtle but sharp enough to clip the edge of his sarcasm. Mitsuki clicked her tongue and turned back to her food, but her voice was quieter now.

“You disappear for weeks, and… really, what are we supposed to think?”

Katsuki didn’t answer right away. He stared at his half-empty bowl like it might offer an excuse. The broth had gone lukewarm, a thin film forming on top, catching the light. Soft daikon wilted against the side. His chopsticks hovered for a moment, then lowered. His fingers drummed once against the table.

“I wasn’t avoidin’ you,” he said finally, rough around the edges. “I just needed space. ‘S all.”

Mitsuki didn’t say anything. Just stabbed another piece of daikon a little too hard. The pickled root squelched softly, juice soaking into her rice.

Masaru reached across the table to refill Katsuki’s tea. The faint clink of ceramic against ceramic sounded too loud in the quiet. 

“You’re welcome to be busy,” he said calmly. “Just don’t be a stranger.”

Katsuki didn’t say anything to that, just grunted low and reached for another helping. The rice was sticky with broth, still faintly sweet underneath the spice, comforting in a way that pissed him off a little. Mitsuki watched him for a moment, then blew out a sharp sigh through her nose.

“I was talking to Inko the other day.”

Katsuki’s hand paused mid-scoop, barely perceptible, then kept going.

“She’s still in that same apartment,” Mitsuki added, plucking at her food like it suddenly didn’t taste right. “Says she’s been reorganizing everything. Again. You know how she gets…” 

Katsuki didn’t look up. Just shifted in his seat, jaw working. 

“It’s almost that time of year again,” Her voice stayed casual, too casual, like she was reading the weather report. “Told me she doesn’t expect to hear from you.”

“Tch.” Katsuki’s response was barely a sound, more breath than word. “Wasn’t planning to send a fuckin’ gift basket.”

“I didn’t say you had to,” Mitsuki snapped, more out of reflex than anger. Then, quieter. “I just think it’d be good for her if she saw you. That’s all.”

He said nothing. Didn’t flinch, didn’t nod, didn’t even blink, just kept chewing like the taste of rice could distract him from memory. Masaru’s chopsticks clicked softly against his bowl as he stacked it neatly on the tray. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes flicked to Katsuki and stayed there for a beat too long.

Katsuki scraped the last of the stew from his plate. “I bet she’s got plenty of people checkin’ in on her.”

“Sure,” Mitsuki muttered, pushing her food around. “But not the ones that count.”

After the dishes were washed, after the lights dimmed and the storm outside faded into a soft drizzle, Katsuki found himself standing by the sliding door, arms crossed, watching the backyard blur behind the glass.

It was then his dad stepped up beside him. “Help me with the chairs?”

Katsuki blinked. “The what?” His voice came out louder than he intended.

Mitsuki chimed in from across the room, because of course she had to. “Are you seriously going deaf, Katsuki? We need to schedule another appointment with your doctor, your hearing’s getting worse.”

He sighed hard through his nose. “Fuck no, my  hearing is doing just fine!” 

“Yeah, and me and your father don’t suffer from extreme back pain,” she shot back. “Get your brat ass over here and help us put the damn chairs on the porch.”

The chairs weren’t the old plastic ones anymore. “These are new,” Mitsuki said while they hauled them out of the garage. “Some higher-end brand your dad read about in that old-man magazine he won’t admit he subscribes to.”

“They’re better for your posture,” Masaru offered, setting one down with a grunt. “Supposed to last a long time.”

Katsuki didn’t say anything to that. Just looked them over—thick wood, heavy as hell, with soft cushions that hadn’t been sun-bleached to hell yet. They creaked less, sat higher, and looked like something out of a damn catalog. Expensive, sturdy, built to last. He sat anyway.

Out on the porch, the air smelled like wet cement and memory. The rain had thinned to a mist, soft and clinging, the kind that blurred the edges of things. The porch light buzzed faintly overhead, casting a warm gold haze that pooled across the rain-slicked railing and turned every drop into molten amber.

Beyond that, the world was deep blue and shadow-washed. The stone path glistened like a river of glass winding through the grass, and the hedges shimmered faintly under the last of the moisture, their leaves reflecting hints of streetlamp orange and distant neon. The windows of neighboring houses glowed in shades of butter-yellow and soft violet, cozy and distant like little paper lanterns scattered across a dark sea.

Above it all, the moon hung swollen and pale, veiled by thin streaks of cloud. Stars peeked through in patches—sharp and silver, like pinholes in black silk. The sky looked painted, thick with blues and purples that bled into each other like bruises.

Katsuki leaned back in the new chair. Stared out at the postcard view like it owed him something. His arms folded again and his chest felt tight.

Katsuki had everything. He knew he did. A safe house. Parents who gave a shit, even if they were loud about it. A future carved out by talent and fire. He went to fucking Yuuei . He was strong, rich, respected—to a fault.

He knew he was lucky. That’s what everyone always said. Parents who cared, even if they cared too hard. Even if love came with a raised voice and a quicker hand. 

His mom’s temper always snapped before it softened—she’d yell before checking if he was bleeding, shove before thinking to ask if he was okay. And maybe that was just how she was. Maybe that was how he learned to take a hit without flinching.

He never doubted that they loved him. But sometimes he wondered if that was the price of being raised right. If love was supposed to sting first and soothe later. And if maybe that’s why gentle things always felt like a trick.

Katsuki still often had the lingering feeling that something was missing. It wasn’t guilt, not exactly. It was deeper than that. Older. Like something had been scooped out of him years ago, and the shape of the absence was still sharp.

He shifted in the chair. It held firm under him, solid and warm from the house lights. Nice chair, but it didn’t fix anything.

The silence stretched long. Not uncomfortable, just quiet. Then, without a word, his dad stepped out and sat beside him. 

Masaru didn’t say anything. Just eased into the chair beside him with a low sigh, like the weight of the whole house had followed him out and finally let itself rest on his shoulders. 

The rain hadn’t stopped completely, just thinned into a lazy drizzle, enough that the wind carried it sideways across the edge of the porch. It kissed the tips of Katsuki’s fingers, cool and sharp, and left a damp shine on the wooden railing. 

The air smelled like wet earth, concrete, the sharp green tang of rain-soaked leaves. A clean scent. Cold and grounding. It didn’t make him feel better, just more awake. 

And they sat there like that. Katsuki in his expensive chair. On his quiet porch. In his safe, well-lit house. The life everyone said was golden. And still, that hollowness curled in his chest. That slow, sour ache of something missing, something he couldn’t name. Something he didn’t dare try to.

“You don’t have to be okay all the time, y’know.”

Katsuki’s jaw clenched. He didn’t look over. Just stared out at the rain bleeding silver through the dark. 

“Tch. I’m fine.”

Masaru didn’t argue. Didn’t push. Just nodded, like he’d expected that answer anyway. “Sure. But even if you weren’t… that’d be okay too.”

The silence returned, thicker this time. A pause that didn’t demand anything. A space Katsuki didn’t have to fill. Then Masaru chuckled, low in his chest, like a memory had wandered in without knocking.

“You remember that time you and Izuku got into a screaming match in the sandbox?”

Katsuki stiffened—just slightly. A shift in his jaw. A twitch in his fingers. But he didn’t answer.

“You must’ve been five. Six, maybe. You’d both built these crooked little castles—ugly things, falling apart at the corners. And for some reason, you decided his was too close to yours. Like you needed some kind of buffer zone in the middle.”

Masaru smiled to himself. “You stomped on the whole thing. Kicked it over like it personally insulted you. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a kid scream so loud over a shovel.”

Katsuki shifted in his seat, suddenly restless. His eyes didn’t leave the dark yard, but they weren’t really seeing it anymore. Masaru leaned back with a soft creak of wood.

“Then you yelled at him for crying,” he went on. “Tried to storm off like you didn’t just declare war. But you didn’t even make it to the gate before you turned around and started rebuilding it for him.”

Katsuki’s voice was barely a mutter. “He was bad at the towers. Didn’t pack ‘em right.”

“Mm.” Masaru nodded. “But you still sat there for an hour trying to fix it. Wouldn’t let him touch a damn thing. Just kept yelling at him to stop breathing so loud.”

Katsuki swallowed. His throat felt tight. Too tight for how soft the air was. Masaru glanced over, catching the edge in his son’s posture—the clenched fists, the held breath. He didn’t press. Just let the story end where it wanted to.

It was weird, because most of Katsuki’s memories weren’t often ones he cherished. He remembered when they were kids, he’d come home furious from days where nothing went right, waiting for someone to tell him it wasn’t his fault. Mitsuki would just scoff, slap him lightly upside the head, tell him to “toughen the fuck up.”  

She probably thought it was motivating, and maybe it was, but sometimes, it just felt like he wasn’t allowed to feel anything unless he’d already swallowed it whole.

“You’ve got your mother’s temper,” he said after a moment, tone shifting, edged with a quiet fondness. “But your stubbornness? That’s all mine.”

Katsuki huffed, half a snort. “No shit.”

“And just like me,” his dad went on, “you carry more than you should. You don’t ask for help ‘til you’re already half-shattered. That’s not strength, Katsuki. That’s pride wearing your voice.”

Katsuki didn’t respond. Just sat with it. Let it settle. Breathed out slowly through his nose, sharp and steady. His dad looked out at the yard, at the way the rain painted thin silver lines across the grass, soft and endless.

“No one’s asking you to be fine,” he said again, quieter now. “You just have to keep coming back.”

Katsuki looked down at his hands. Scarred, calloused, twitching faintly with static. Not from a fight. Just nerves. Memory. All of it curled under his skin like smoke he couldn’t quite breathe out.

“…Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

Masaru didn’t reply. Just reached over, squeezed his shoulder once—firm, solid, real—and let go.

And they sat like that. Two Bakugous, two quiet chairs, letting the silence settle into something that almost felt like comfort.

The breeze had teeth to it now. Damp, chilled. It made the warmth of Masaru’s hand on his shoulder stand out even more, brief and real. The rain still whispered across the porch roof, soft and steady, as if it was trying to say something he couldn’t quite catch.

The storm outside had now dulled to a whisper. And for the first time in weeks, Katsuki didn’t feel like he had to brace for impact.

He was home now. It was still loud, still messy, still flawed and imperfect and stubborn as hell.

But at the end of the day, it was his .

The apartment hadn’t changed much. Deku slipped in through the door like wind, careful not to pass through anything he didn’t have to. It felt wrong, somehow, like he was intruding. Like the home wasn’t his anymore, even though it technically was.

The lavender curtains were half-drawn, heavy with the faint scent of fabric softener and sunlight trapped in the weave. The television murmured low in the background, some late-night variety show flickering with canned laughter and bright subtitles no one was reading. The lights were dim and the air smelled like miso broth cooling on the stove, warm rice, and the faint, stale tang of dust in corners no one remembered to clean anymore.

Inko Midoriya sat in the same spot she always had, spine too-straight, hands folded in her lap for a few long seconds before reaching for her chopsticks. But she looked different now—older in a way that struck him deep. The kind of older that didn’t come from time alone, but from silence, from waiting, from grief left to settle into the bones.

He remembered her younger, softer somehow. Quicker to smile, quicker to worry, always hovering and bustling with nervous warmth. She used to hum when she cooked, used to talk to the TV even when no one was listening. Now she just sat there, quiet and still, like she was trying not to take up space in her own kitchen.

The little lamp cast its gold across the table, catching on the creases under her eyes, the furrow between her brows. She looked tired, dimmed like the lights that surrounded her. But in the end she was still her, still his mom.

There were two plates on the table. He didn’t notice at first. Maybe because some part of him didn’t want to, maybe because it looked so normal. So practiced. 

Two bowls of rice. Two sets of chopsticks. Two cups of tea, one of which had already gone a little cold. The second place setting sat across from her like it belonged there, like no one had told it things were different now, like it hadn’t realized it wasn’t supposed to show up anymore.

Deku stepped forward without thinking, drawn to it like muscle memory. He pulled the chair back and sat down—or at least he tried to. 

His body hovered just above the seat, unable to fully sink into it, like the chair didn’t recognize him anymore. Like the room itself didn’t. He adjusted anyway, knees bent, hands resting where the table should’ve met them, and tried to play along with the lie, tried to imagine that he could still be part of this, that he was still a middle schooler with messy hair and scraped-up elbows and too much homework, sitting down to eat dinner with his mom after a long day.

He reached for the bowl and his hand passed straight through it. The chopsticks didn’t budge. The tea didn’t warm him. The steam curled through his chest and vanished like he wasn’t there at all.

Across from him, Inko moved like she hadn’t noticed anything. Like she couldn’t. Her hands were slow, deliberate, tired. 

She picked up her chopsticks and brought a bite to her mouth, chewed without urgency, swallowed without tasting. The chopsticks clicked against porcelain, soft and rhythmic, and now and then the light caught the edge of a tear as it slid down her face—quiet, effortless, unnoticed. She didn’t wipe them away, didn’t sob or sniffle or falter. Just kept eating, like that was the only thing she still knew how to do. Like stopping would make it worse.

Deku watched her, frozen in place, a ghost pretending to be a son, a shadow pretending this was still his life, and something inside him twisted so hard it felt like his whole chest had been hollowed out and filled with ice.

“Mom,” he said.

It came out smaller than he meant it to. Cracked at the edges, barely more than a whisper. She didn’t respond, didn’t even blink.

He leaned forward instinctively, hands outstretched across the table like maybe this time she’d feel it. Like maybe if he was close enough, she’d look up and see him. Not the version of him in her head, not a memory, but him .

But his hands passed through the table again. Through the cup. Through the edge of her sleeve.

It was the kind of hurt you didn’t cry about. The kind that lived in your ribs and never left. Something deep and raw and old, the kind of ache that came from sitting right in front of someone and still being invisible. The kind of loneliness that felt like a punishment, even though no one meant it that way. Even though she would look at him if she could. Even though he knew for a fact that she would hold him, if it were possible.

Deku looked down at the bowl again. His . The one she’d served without thinking. The one she hadn’t touched. And even though he couldn’t eat it, couldn’t taste it, couldn’t stay in the chair like he used to, he didn’t move. He just sat there, hollow and shaking, listening to the quiet sounds of her dinner, trying to pretend he still belonged at this table. Trying to pretend he hadn’t already been gone for years.

Deku reached out with a trembling hand, his fingertips hovering just above her shoulder, like maybe if he was careful, if he was gentle enough, he could let her know he really was here with her. Just for a second. Just enough to remind her he hadn’t really gone. But when he let his hand fall, it passed through her like mist, like a cold exhale in the dark, leaving behind nothing. No warmth. No shift in her posture. Not even the faintest stir of air disturbed.

He tried again, lower this time. Her back, her arm, the curve of her fingers resting on the table like he remembered, but it was the same. No reaction, no chill, no shiver, no unconscious flinch like something in her had noticed him. Just silence, just stillness.

He sank to his knees beside her chair, both hands reaching out with the desperation of prayer, like if he couldn’t hold her, then maybe he could at least be close. Maybe that would be enough. But there was no solid body to cling to. No heartbeat to feel. Nothing to press his forehead against except empty air and a memory that didn’t reach back.

And still, the ache wouldn’t leave him. That sick, hollow, unbearable ache of still wanting to be her son—even now. Even like this . Even when he wasn’t sure he could be anything at all.

The sob that climbed up his throat had no sound. No breath behind it. Just the dense and brutal and voiceless weight of it. He couldn’t even cry, not really. Couldn’t offer her anything except the absence of what he used to be.

She didn’t see him, didn’t hear him. She only finished her dinner with slow, methodical movements, then gathered the dishes with a quiet care that made something twist hard in his chest. 

Inko didn’t throw out the untouched food. Didn’t leave it behind. She packed it away into a Tupperware container like it still mattered, like wasting it would’ve been a deeper kind of grief. Her hands were steady as she sealed the lid. Gentle, like she was saving it for someone she wasn’t ready to give up on yet.

Deku stood slowly, knees shaking as he stepped back, retreating toward the corner of the room again. He folded into himself there, small and silent, watching her move around the kitchen like nothing had changed like he hadn’t been kneeling inches from her feet, trying to reach her with everything he had left. And not once had she looked his way.

The front line had collapsed hours ago. Not in one explosive moment, but in slow, agonizing fractures, like an old dam buckling under too much pressure. 

Every blast, every scream, every body that hit the ground cracked it a little more, until all that was left was a wasteland of jagged concrete, scorched dirt, and steel skeletons of what used to be city blocks. The smoke didn’t rise anymore—it hung low and heavy, crawling through the wreckage like it meant to stay.

Katsuki moved through it like something half-dead and refused to fall. His steps were uneven, left boot dragging from a gash he hadn’t wrapped, the right gauntlet barely hanging on, cracked through from knuckle to wrist. 

His body ached, his bones sang in agony, but still he pushed forward. Not out of strategy, not even out of duty. He moved like someone trying to burn himself out from the inside.

There was no plan anymore. No line of defense, no backup. Just disjointed comm chatter, cries for help he didn’t answer, and the ever-present roar of his own explosions. 

His arms were throbbing from overuse or his quirk. His hearing was shot on one side, a constant ringing that never stopped. The pressure in his chest never let up, like he was breathing through a closed fist.

He wasn’t a hero right now. He was a feral fucking dog, backed into a corner, bleeding, snapping his jaws at anything that moved.

Mustard, a League member with an eerily familiar face, surged through the smoke like he belonged in it, as if he’d never left that goddamn hallway all those years ago.

Katsuki didn’t dodge when he attacked. He took the first hit like he deserved it, a sharp crack against his jaw that sent stars behind his eyes. His spine lit up with the impact, legs buckled but he didn’t fall. He roared back, a blast to the ribs that sent the bastard flying into the twisted remains of a collapsed bus.

He staggered. Spit blood. Waited for Mustard to rise. His whole body trembled, one gauntlet sparking from a hairline crack but his hands didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

Then the voice came, slithering out of the smoke like a memory he never wanted.

"You fight like you’ve got something to prove,” Mustard sneered, stepping out of the wreckage with a lazy kind of cruelty. “Same as always. Always overcompensating. Loud and pathetic.”

Katsuki lunged, but Mustard was faster. He dodged. Hit him again right where it hurt. The spot that was already cracked. Already bleeding.

“You think if you bleed enough, people’ll stop asking questions? That if you throw yourself at every villain in sight, someone’ll forget what you were?”

Katsuki’s eyes widened as his breath hitched. Just for a second.

Mustard grinned. “Oh, you remember me now, huh? I wasn’t even in your class, and you still made my life hell. That’s how loud you were. How cruel. You really think anyone believed the rebrand? That all it took was a uniform and a new snazzy haircut and suddenly you're a hero?”

“I said shut up!” Katsuki snarled, but it came out cracked. His next blast missed entirely, he burned through a building instead.

“And him —” Mustard’s voice turned venom-sweet. “He believed in you. Even when no one else did. Even when you didn’t. He looked up to you, wanted to be like you. You were his whole fucking world, and you crushed him.”

Katsuki froze. Something in his chest pulled taut like a tripwire.

“You didn’t just fail to save him, you broke him long before that. You made him into the kind of kid who’d walk toward death with a smile on his face. That’s what you did. That’s what you were and that’s what you still are now no matter how many pathetic people you try to save.”

“Shut—shut the fuck up—!”

“You think dying on a battlefield makes up for it? You think bleeding is a punishment? You don’t get redemption, Kacchan . You get to live with it. Just like I did.”

His scream tore out of him before the blast did—a wild, feral thing that shook the rubble around them. He didn’t aim, he didn’t care. The explosion ripped through the street, through concrete and rebar and silence. It vaporized Mustard’s voice, but it didn’t take the words away.

Katsuki dropped to his knees in the ash. His body was shaking. Hands still lit with sparks that had nowhere left to go. Smoke crawled into his lungs, but he didn’t cough. His face was wet again, and he didn’t even try to lie to himself this time.

Because Mustard wasn’t wrong. Not all the way. And even if he was , the voice in Katsuki’s head still sounded like Izuku, still looked up at him with wide, aching eyes, and still believed. That’s what made it worse.

The smoke choked his lungs. The sky cracked above him. He dropped to his knees. His vision blurred—not from blood or smoke this time. Something else. His face was wet, and for a moment he didn’t understand why. He blinked, wiped his eyes with the back of his glove. They came away damp. Too warm to be rain.

No. No . It was sweat. It was just sweat, nothing more. 

He wiped harder. Again. 

“It’s sweat,” he rasped. “It’s just— fuck —it’s sweat.”

But his hands shook. His shoulders. His whole goddamn body. And the words kept echoing in his head like poison. 

The blast left a crater where the street used to be. Smoke was curling up in lazy spirals as the silence that followed swallowed everything. Everything but the ringing.

It screamed in Katsuki’s ears, high-pitched and endless, muffling the world like he was underwater. He blinked slowly. He couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t even tell if Mustard was still alive, if someone was shouting his name, if he was shouting. All he could hear was that awful, blaring whine and the rasp of his own breath, ragged and dry like gravel in his throat.

His arms throbbed. Not just sore. He was fucked . Useless. His gauntlets were cracked, his sleeves burned away, and his palms were raw, skin peeled open and weeping from the sheer force of the last blast. He flexed his hands and felt something tear, but it didn’t matter.

Katsuki clenched his fists until they bled. The tears didn’t stop this time. He let them fall, streaking through ash and sweat and soot while the fire in his hands lit the ruins around him. 

If he stopped moving, if he stopped fighting, if he even breathed too deep, he’d remember. He’d remember Izuku’s eyes. Wide and afraid, still shining with that stupid fucking hope Katsuki never deserved.

And then he’d remember them again. Blank and empty. Fixed on nothing, rimmed in blood and dust, framed by cracked pavement and cooling skin. He’d remember falling to his knees beside the body like a child, grabbing Izuku's shirt, shaking him, calling his name with a voice that didn’t sound like his own. 

That was the look that haunted him more than anything, the second one. The one that didn’t look at him at all.

Katsuki’s knees shook as he forced himself upright, staggered forward like something possessed. He was broken, he was bleeding. He couldn’t feel his arms, could barely stand, but he moved anyway, a half-dead snarl in his chest, rage keeping him vertical. Because anything was better than seeing that look again when he closed his eyes. Because grief needed somewhere to go. And if he couldn’t cry it out or scream it out, then he’d burn it out.

He raised his arm—just one more time. One more blast. One more punch. But the sparks barely flickered.

Katsuki’s vision blurred and he immediately stumbled, taking a step forward that turned into a collapse. The world tilted sideways. The smoke thickened. And Katsuki hit the ground, chest-first, cheek dragging across rubble and heat. His fingers twitched, still trying to curl into fists even now.

But the fight was over. His body had given out.

And the last thing he saw before the dark closed in was the empty sky—blank and uncaring—and a flash of green in the smoke that could’ve been nothing.

Or could’ve been him .

The gym had been converted into a staging hall. Rows of soldiers—students, pros, temp-assigned sidekicks—stood packed shoulder to shoulder under flickering lights and humming vents. A makeshift podium had been set up near the front, draped in a cloth that bore the Yuuei insignia, hastily ironed and slightly crooked.

They called it a rally. A final morale boost before deployment. A speech to unify the ranks. To inspire.

Katsuki stood near the back, arms crossed, jaw tight. He wasn’t even fully geared up yet. It didn’t matter, this wasn’t a mission. This was a show.

Up front, Togata Mirio stepped into the light. Clean uniform, calm smile. He looked like a damn propaganda poster with his shoulders back, chin high, the kind of polished hope people wanted to believe in when the world was falling apart. And judging by the hush that fell over the crowd, it was working.

Katsuki’s mouth pulled tight. He didn’t clap.

Mirio grinned like he’d never known fear. Like he’d never laid awake at night wondering if he was good enough. He stood there and promised victory with the kind of easy certainty that made Katsuki’s skin crawl. Too perfect. Too polished. Too fucking… bright. And it pissed him off.

Not because Mirio didn’t earn it. He did and Katsuki knew that. Katsuki knew Mirio was strong, smart, relentless as fuck. Knew he’d worked his ass off, lost things, clawed his way back. 

Mirio wasn’t some fraud. He wasn’t soft, he wasn’t fake, but still , something about him rubbed Katsuki raw. It wasn’t jealousy, it wasn't even spite. It was just this knot in his gut that wouldn’t go away. Like a splinter under skin, too deep to see but always there.

Maybe it was the way Mirio made it all look easy, like he was meant for this. Maybe it was the way he smiled like he’d never had to bury anything. Like he didn’t know what it meant to carry something ugly and still walk forward. Or maybe it was just that Katsuki was tired, bitter, and still dragging around ghosts no one else seemed to see. 

And Mirio—grinning like salvation was simple—felt like the kind of lie Katsuki couldn’t swallow.

“I know things feel heavy right now,” Mirio began, voice smooth over the speakers. His voice was warm, full, steady. “We’ve all lost people. We’ve all lost something. But we’re not standing here today because we gave up. We’re here because we kept going. Because we believed in each other, and in a future worth fighting for.”

The words rolled out too easily. Too clean.

Hope. Unity. Sacrifice.

Like buzzwords on a mission statement.

“You don’t become a hero by being perfect,” Mirio continued, eyes sweeping the crowd. “You do it by standing back up. No matter how many times the world knocks you down.”

Katsuki’s shoulders locked. His jaw ached with how hard he was grinding it. 

Every word landed like a slap. Because now it wasn’t just a rumor. It wasn’t quiet anymore. It was official. Public. Announced with a smile and a fucking speech.

All Might’s successor.

Togata. The golden boy, the optimist, the safe choice.

The symbol’s legacy was handed off to someone who could smile through a war briefing and make it sound like they were signing up for summer camp. Like the end wasn’t breathing down their necks, like the system hadn’t already chewed up its best chances and spat out whatever was left.

The crowd clapped. Some even cheered. Katsuki didn’t move, didn’t flinch.

Mirio raised his voice, steady and strong. “They say a hero lights the way. That even when the night gets darker, we burn brighter. So let’s be that light. Let’s fight for each other and for everyone who can’t.”

Katsuki’s hands curled into fists.

Bull shit .

The war wasn’t clean—it never had been—and the choices they made along the way, the compromises and close calls and gut-punching sacrifices, they weren’t noble either, not in the way the media still tried to spin it. There wasn’t a single shred of purity left in this fight that anyone could point to and still call heroic without lying through their fucking teeth.

Not after the operations that fell apart mid-air before they ever had a chance to land. Not after the missions that turned into rescues, and the rescues that turned into body retrievals. Not after the empty dorm rooms with the lights still left on. 

Not after the silence that clung to the halls of their so-called safe haven like smoke, thick and choking and filled with names they didn’t dare say out loud. Not after the memorial wall kept getting longer, the updates carved in stone like patch notes for a system no one wanted to run. And now—after all that—he was supposed to fucking clap ?

The speech ended in a wave of applause that echoed off the walls like a bad joke trying too hard to land—loud, hollow, tinny. Cheers and whoops rang out, whistles shrill in the air, people clinging to that speech like it was oxygen, like the words had weight, like hope could be mass-produced, laminated, and stapled to a podium as if that made it real.

Katsuki didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t even breathe right. He just stood there, jaw tight, hands curled into fists at his sides, staring at the man on stage with a kind of quiet fury that didn’t need explosions to be loud.

All Might’s pick.

The golden face they’d plaster across history books. The one the world would remember if any of them lived long enough to write it down. 

And under his breath, quiet enough to be mistaken for a breath, he muttered, “Fuckin’ joke.”

“Kats.”

A voice at his side. Low and gentle, too fucking aware. He didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Eijirou stood close, his brow tight with worry, gaze flicking between the stage and Katsuki’s clenched fists.

“You’re gonna snap your damn jaw in half,” he said, half-joking but not really. “C’mon, man.”

Katsuki’s throat bobbed. “He talks like he knows what it’s like.”

Eijirou exhaled slowly. “C’mon,” he said again. “Let’s get out of here. You look like you’re gonna combust.”

Katsuki didn’t answer, but after a long moment, he let Eijirou guide him toward the edge of the crowd. Away from the stage, away from the cheers. His hands were still fists, his chest still hurt, but he followed.

It was just after nine when Katsuki finally crashed. Uniform tossed over a chair, gloves on the floor, boots had made it halfway under the bed before he gave up and left them there. 

He’d stripped down to sweats and a worn tank top, damp from a cold shower, and now sat cross-legged on the mattress, absently flipping through an old mission brief like it might calm the buzzing in his chest. It doesn’t.

The room was quiet and dim. A soft hum from the ceiling vent and the occasional bark of movement down the hall were the only sounds. 

Well, not for long.

“Bakubro!”

Katsuki flinched as Eijirou burst through the door without so much as a knock, grinning like an idiot and holding two bags of chips.

“The fuck do you want?” Katsuki sighed, not even looking up.

“You didn’t answer the group chat, so I assumed you were dying in here,” Eijirou said, like that was a completely reasonable conclusion. He at least had the decency to shut the door behind him before plopping down uninvited on the edge of Katsuki’s bed. He tossed him a bag on the way down. “You good?”

“I was trying to wind down.”

“By reading combat stats at bedtime?” Eijirou leaned forward, squinting at the file in Katsuki’s lap. “Yeah, that’s real soothing. Real meditative stuff.”

“I’ll shove your ass out the door.”

“Love you too, man,” he grinned. “Eat the chips. I didn’t see you have much today.”

Katsuki glanced at the bag. It was some overpriced sea salt–whatever brand with a sleek matte finish that practically screamed health-conscious consumerism. He scowled. 

“Mind your own business, I had enough, thank you very much. These aren’t real chips. What the hell is this? ‘Lentil crisp’ bullshit?”

“They’re good!” Eijirou said, already opening his own bag. “High protein. Low sodium. Full of like—uh, fiber or something. I’ve got a figure to maintain too, y’know.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Katsuki groaned, grabbing the bag anyway and tearing it open like it had personally insulted him. “All you do with it is flex at mirrors and flirt with extras.”

“That’s because it works!” Eijirou grinned and flexed dramatically, biceps straining against his hoodie sleeve. “The people love it. It’s part of my charm.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes so hard he nearly pulled a muscle. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re a recluse. We balance each other out.”

“Unbalanced,” Katsuki muttered, popping a chip in his mouth and immediately grimacing. “Tastes like drywall.”

“Oh, come on. They grow on you!”

They sat like that for a bit. Katsuki skimmed the same paragraph for the third time, jaw propped on his fist, trying to ignore how his muscles still itched with leftover adrenaline. 

Across from him, Eijirou had gone full gremlin and flopped sideways on the bed, legs kicking idly, rifling through the chip bag like he was mining for gold.

“So then Sero tries to do this fancy-ass flip off the rail, right? And lands straight on his back— bam ! Thought he broke the floorboards. We’re all standing there like, holy shit, we’re gonna get banned from the mess hall again, and you know what he says? ‘I meant to do that.’ I swear, he’s gonna die of ego before the hero work even gets him.”

Katsuki grunted, noncommittal. He didn’t look up.

Eijirou crunched loudly, talking through the mouthful like it was nothing new. “Also, don’t eat the curry tomorrow. I saw Kaminari add peach yogurt to the pot. He thought it was coconut milk, I shit you not.”

Katsuki flipped a page. “Dumbass.”

Another beat. Katsuki’s brow furrowed at the margins of the document, red pen notes scrawled too fast to read. 

Eijirou sat up, tossing a chip at his head, which Katsuki caught reflexively without looking. Eijirou turned to scan the rest of the room. His gaze drifted. Jumped from the gear shelf to the laundry pile to the unusually cluttered desk—

“Huh.” Eijirou said, already getting to his feet, moving closer.

Katsuki didn’t look up. “What.”

“I didn’t know you were into analysing heroes. It would make sense, though.” 

“What the fuck are you talkin’ abou—” Katsuki turned mid-sentence, eyes snapping to the desk.

And he froze.

Eijirou’s fingers were on a weathered, beat-up notebook, barely holding together, cover bent, edges yellowed and frayed. It was a little out of place among Katsuki’s gear reports and tactical folders. 

Katsuki moved before he could think.

“Don’t touch that!” 

But it was too late. Eijirou, mid-flip, startled, tried to hand it back.

“Shit, sorry!”

A page caught. Tore. It was small. Just a strip. But the sound— rrrip! —cut through the air like a detonation. 

Katsuki went still. All the warmth drained out of him in a blink, like someone had pulled the pin on something he’d been holding shut too long.

He snatched the notebook out of Eijirou’s hands with a force that made the other flinch, clutching it tight to his chest like it had been wounded. Katsuki’s eyes were wide, glassy, wild. 

“You’re so fuckin’ stupid,” he bit out—low, sharp, trembling at the edges. It sounded like venom, but it hit like panic. And he wasn’t even looking at Eijirou.

Eijirou froze, one hand still half-raised like he could rewind the moment. “Dude, I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I should’ve put it away. Shouldn’t’ve left it out like that, I—” Katsuki muttered as his breath hitched hard. 

Eijirou softened. “Bakugou, it’s just a notebook—”

“It’s not!” Katsuki barked, voice raw. Too loud for the room. Too loud for what it was.

His hands were shaking violently. Fingers twitching around the ruined edge of the notebook, palms flaring with sparks he didn’t remember summoning. His quirk itched under his skin like it wanted out, like it wanted to burn something. 

The air around him felt tighter. Hotter. His throat closed up, he couldn’t breathe right, couldn’t think right.

If it’d been anyone else, he would’ve just snatched it back and barked something ugly. Told them to fuck off and get out. But it wasn’t just anyone else . It was Eijirou. 

The one person who somehow didn’t flinch, who never backed down, even when Katsuki got mean, even when his words came out like shrapnel because everything else got stuck in his throat. The only person who looked at him like he wasn’t some monster gnashing its teeth just to be heard.

And maybe that was the part that hit too close. Because there’d been someone else who used to look at him like that. Someone who saw more than they should’ve—more than Katsuki wanted to be seen. Someone who looked too long, too kind.

And now Eijirou was standing there, not afraid. Not turning away. Just seeing him. And fuck, it was too much.

That just made it worse, because now he wasn’t just pissed, wasn’t just panicking. He was exposed, pulled open with his guts out, raw and twitching and so fucking seen he wanted to punch through a wall and crawl inside it. 

It wasn’t just grief. It wasn’t just the notebook. It was Eijirou seeing the part of him he never wanted anyone to see. And fuck, Katsuki didn’t know how to come back from that.

His breath hitched once and for a split second, it felt like something inside him was going to snap. But he couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t let anyone see that. So he shoved it down and buried it as he let the fire speak instead.

“Don’t fucking touch my stuff if you’re too dumb to be careful.”

His voice came out scorched and mean, hot enough to blister. The kind of anger that wasn’t about anger at all, but about the panic pulsing in his chest. The roar in his ears, the way the edges of his vision went white with it.

Eijirou blinked. “Baku—”

“You think you can just come in here and touch shit like it’s yours?” His voice was jagged, rising with every word, like he didn’t know how to stop himself. Like if he did, the silence would crush him. 

“I didn’t mean to tear it, I swear, I just—”

“Yeah, well maybe stop actin’ like a damn golden retriever and start usin’ your fuckin’ eyes .”

That one landed. Eijirou winced. Katsuki saw it, hell he even felt it, but his mouth wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. His throat was tight, like something was trying to claw its way out, and the only way to keep it down was to burn everything around him first.

Katsuki’s whole body trembled, twitchy with the instinct to detonate. His hands sparked once, weak and unfocused, but he crushed it down.

Eijirou didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, steady and careful, voice low. “Hey. Hey, Bakugou. Breathe, man.”

“Don’t—” Katsuki whipped around, shoulders heaving. “Don’t tell me to fuckin’ breathe, I—”

“I know,” Eijirou said, calm but firm. “But you’re not gonna scare me off. I know you’re trying, but it’s not gonna work.”

Katsuki’s chest hitched again, sharper this time. Like the rage had flared so high it burnt out. His fingers curled tighter around the notebook, like he needed the pain.

“You don’t get it,” he spat, turning away. “You don’t get any of this. Stop actin’ like you do.”

Eijirou didn’t move, didn’t raise his voice. Just said, quiet and sure, “Then help me understand.”

That made something snap.

Katsuki whipped around, eyes wide, voice rising fast. “The fuck do you know, huh? You in my head now?”

Eijirou flinched, but stayed steady. “No, but—”

“Then shut the fuck up !” Katsuki shouted, so loud it cracked in his throat. “You don’t know what it’s like—how fuckin’ loud it is in here. It never stops. It never shuts up. Just like everyone else—always talkin’, always starin’, like they know somethin’ I don’t. Like… they get it—like they fuckin’—”

His breath broke. The rest caught in his throat like glass. He turned again, like he could outrun the sound of himself. Shoulders locked, trembling from restraint. Like if he opened his mouth again, he’d either scream or shatter.

But Katsuki was already pacing, hand in his hair, spiraling, almost muttering. “I’m the one who brought it here, I’m the one who kept it, and for what, huh? So I could fucking stare at it like some pathetic fuckin’—god, I don’t even know why—”

“Bakugou—”

“I should’ve done somethin’. Said somethin’. Instead I just—what? Moved on? Let him rot in the ground like—like none of it ever mattered?”

His voice cracked at the end. A thin, frayed thing.

Eijirou froze. For a second, all he could do was stare. He didn’t get it. Didn’t know what was really in that notebook, or why Katsuki looked like something vital had been torn straight out of him. Maybe Ejiriou underestimated how much of a hero fan Katsuki actually was.

But either way, something was wrong. Really wrong. Because this wasn’t the usual blast of temper or edge-of-a-panic Katsuki. The shake in his breath, the way his voice cracked, the way his hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

That wasn’t anger in his eyes. It was grief. Raw and cornered like he’d been holding it together with duct tape and fury, and now it was all unraveling in the worst place, at the worst time.

Eijirou stepped forward. Careful. No sudden moves. Without asking, he placed a firm hand on Katsuki’s shoulder. Grounding and solid. 

“Kats.”

No response. Katsuki was still turned away, his jaw clenched, eyes on nothing.

Eijirou didn’t move. Didn’t raise his voice. But God, he wanted to. He wanted to say the perfect thing, the thing that would crack through that armor without Katsuki burning himself alive to feel it.

“Hey.” Eijirou’s voice stayed low. Gentle, but solid. “Look at me.”

It took a second—as if Katsuki was somewhere else entirely, locked up and halfway gone. Then his head turned, slow and heavy. His eyes were glassy. Too wide, too bright in the dim room.

“Breathe with me.”

Katsuki flinched, like the words slapped him. His lip curled. “Don’t tell me what the fuck to—”

“In,” Eijirou said, firmer this time. Not loud, but immovable.

Katsuki’s whole body tensed. His shoulders jerked back like he was about to lunge or run or both. “Get off me,” he snapped, his voice cracking. Eijirou didn’t flinch.

Katsuki twisted, trying to shove his hand off, grabbing at his wrist, swatting him away, fighting him like the touch burned.

“Don’t—don’t fucking touch me, I mean it—”

“I know you do,” Eijirou said, steady, grounding. He felt the sparks on his skin, but still didn’t let go. “But I’m not moving.”

“You don’t get it — ” Katsuki’s voice broke fully now, jagged and breathless. “You don’t know what the fuck this is — ”

“I don’t,” Eijirou said, calm but not soft. “I don’t get it. But I know you . And you’re not breathing right now, man.”

Katsuki let out a harsh, choking sound. It was a half scoff, half gasp, and he tried to pull away again. His fingers slipped on Eijirou’s arm. He didn’t have the strength. No, not like this.

He slumped forward a little instead, shoulders heaving. The notebook still clutched tight to his chest, like it was the only thing holding him together.

“Just breathe,” Eijirou said. “In.”

Katsuki sucked in a breath. Too fast, too shallow.

“Good. Now out.”

He exhaled hard. Gritted his teeth.

Another breath.

And another.

It wasn’t anywhere near calm, it wasn’t clean. It was messy and shaking and full of everything Katsuki didn’t have the words for. But he kept doing it. Kept breathing. Kept trying .

And Eijirou stayed. One hand on Katsuki’s shoulder, steady and unshaken. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t pull away. Whatever this was—whatever ghost Katsuki was chasing—he wasn’t about to let him face it alone.

The air felt brittle, like even the sound of a breath might set Katsuki off again. Like he might ignite just to feel something sharp and real. But Eijirou didn’t budge. He just held the line like he’d done a thousand times before. Like this moment mattered more than any fight they’d ever faced.

Katsuki’s fists stayed clenched around the notebook. White-knuckled. Like letting go would break him open.

So they stood there, in the quiet. No more words. Just breath and presence. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but charged and tight with everything Katsuki couldn’t say, and everything Eijirou didn’t need to hear out loud.

Eijirou kept his hand where it was, warm and steady against his friend’s shoulder. He could feel the tremble still working its way through Katsuki’s body, like his muscles were locked in a fight that had no target, no end.

He thought of all the times Katsuki had pulled him out of his own spiral without asking for thanks—just a sharp word, a shove, a presence that never faltered. The nights after brutal missions, the injuries they didn’t log, the weight they didn’t name. Katsuki was always there, even when he didn’t know how to be gentle.

So now Eijirou stayed. Not because he understood all of this—not yet. But because Katsuki did, and that was enough.

This time, it was his turn to hold the line, his turn to be the one who didn’t look away.

Eventually, Katsuki let out a rough, guttural exhale. A sound like shame dragged through gravel. He sat on his bed.

He wiped a hand down his face and muttered, “Shit. Fuck .”

Eijirou watched him carefully. “You alright?”

“‘M fine.”

“Wanna tell me what that was about?”

“No.” The answer was sharp. Immediate like a reflex.

Eijirou didn’t flinch. Just nodded slowly. “Okay. That’s fair.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed again, like nothing had happened, like they weren’t still standing in the middle of a raw nerve. 

Eventually, Katsuki reached into the crumpled chip bag and pulled one out. He didn’t even look at Eijirou. Just ate it with a grimace like it was penance. Eijirou smiled faintly, not because it was funny, but because it meant he was still trying.

And for a long time, neither of them spoke. Just the soft hum of the light. The weight of grief shared between friends.

Not fixed, not healed.

But held.