Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ever since the first luminescent baby was born in Qing Qing City, the world hasn’t been the same. The supernatural became ordinary. A superhuman society, where eighty percent of the population now possess some uncanny abilities. In the confusion that followed, a new profession emerged—built on power, glory, and spectacle.

Heroes.

Those who rose to use their quirks in the name of justice.

Or at least, that’s how the story goes.

Being a hero means sponsorships, fan clubs, followers, and flashy PR stunts. Somewhere along the way, “saving people” turned into a popularity contest.

Real justice? Just a footnote.

That’s what I’ve always thought anyways.

A convoy of high-tech armored trucks tore through a city street, smoke trailing behind them. Minor heroes in tech-reinforced suits sprinted after the vehicles, hurling EMP grenades that flared and fizzed harmlessly against the steel hulls.

In an instant, armed men leaned out of the trucks and returned fire—flashbangs bursting among overturned market stalls. Shards of glass glittered in the chaos as the trucks screeched to a halt in the plaza. Villains of all shapes and quirks spilled out, unleashing destruction on anything in reach. Civilians screamed, pressing against cracked walls as smoke and debris swallowed the square.

Then everything stopped—
—with a flash.

A blinding spear of golden light ripped through the clouds like a divine blade. For a breathless moment, the world held its pulse.

He appeared, descending through the shaft of light like a War God. His armor was molten gold, threaded with inky black veins of pulsing plasma. The polarized visor over his glowing eyes reflected every flare of ambient heat, a sliver of cool metal in the inferno. He hovered just above the street, positioned between the villains and the scrambling heroes. The heat rippling from his boots warped the air.

A woman gasped from the sidelines: “It’s SUNFIRE!”

“Sorry, fellas,” he said, his voice smooth, amused, laced with swagger. He cracked a wry smile. “No autographs today —and really, hasn’t anyone told you not to look directly at the sun?”

He raised a hand.

Solar plasma ignited along his gauntlet, swirling and coiling outward in a radial burst. The lead truck exploded in a wash of molten metal. The villains dove for cover as he snapped his fingers and sent a chain of solar arcs through the second, third, and fourth vehicles—until the final bolt surged down into the pavement. Crackling fissures spiderwebbed across the plaza floor, glowing white-hot.

“Give up yet?”

One villain, furious that their ambush had been ruined, lunged at him.

Sunfire didn’t even blink. He flicked his arm in a casual backhand—unleashing a surge of searing air that launched the attacker like a ragdoll, landing in a heap beside a smouldering fountain.

A thunderous impact rocked the plaza.

From above, a second hero dropped into the smoke—a sleek, half-dragon form with wings unfurling mid-fall. Ryukyu landed hard, tail whipping debris aside as she moved with precision. She darted through the chaos, guiding panicked civilians behind barricades and shielding them from falling rubble.

Sunfire turned, hovering slightly higher.

“Thanks for the crowd control, Ryukyu. Nice of you to drop in,” he said with a lopsided grin. “But I had things handled.”

She gave a small, knowing smile before returning to the crowd, ushering the last of them to safety.

Sunfire drifted toward the barrier line, solar flares flickering lazily from his shoulders like embers on the breeze.

“Okay, okay—just a few autographs,” he said, gliding along the barricade. He scorched his signature into whatever fans pushed toward him—photos, shirts, phones, even a briefcase—all whilst moving with a practiced flair.

With a flourish, he rose above the crowd, arms outstretched in a blaze of gold. Cameras snapped. Fans screamed. Behind him, a radiant shockwave burst out in a radial display, lighting up the plaza like Christmas.

“Remember,” he called down, voice echoing like thunder. “Premium viewing distance only.”

With that, he rocketed back toward the fray—solar flares trailing his fists like comets—diving into the remaining villains in one final surge of blinding white light.

Awe and whispered excitement washed over the class watching the screen.

“Did you see that plasma wave?” someone hissed.

“Sunfire’s so smooth he should run for Prime Minister.”

“Yeah, if Prime Minister was decided by merch sales,” another muttered from the back, chin propped on his fist as he half‑watched the display.

The lights flicked on. Gray desks. Flickering fluorescents. No capes, no action —just junior high at its finest: elbow‑jostling, stifled yawns, the scent of old paper and a hint of floor wax.

Mr. Kaneko clapped once. “Alright! That was a textbook modern team-up—clean, efficient, and flashy. But think back to the old clips: Crimson Riot. All Might. Different vibe, right?”

He pointed to the screen.

“This week’s assignment: Write about a Hero who inspires you. Not the coolest— not the strongest. Who do you admire, and what does that say about who you want to be?”

Hands shot up.
“All‑Might, obviously!”
“Edgeshot—his quirk’s insane.”
“Best Jeanist. Style icon.”
“Mirko—strongest kicks in the biz.”

But the student in the back barely shifted. Slouched, arms crossed, dark bangs drifting over tired eyes as he watched clouds float by outside the window.

Mr. Kaneko noticed. “Yamashiro—who’s your pick?”

The student—Takuya Yamashiro—only turned his head slightly at the sound of his name, then shrugged. “I Dunno. Does it have to be a hero?”

A hush fell.

“What do you mean?” the teacher pressed.

“What if I admire someone else? A scientist, inventor—someone who builds solutions, not just punches bad guys for applause?”

Murmurs rose again.
“Does he seriously think a bunch of lab coats are cooler?”
“Why not be a hero?”

Sugihara’s voice rang out from two rows ahead, “Of course the Quirkless kid’s got opinions—jealous much?”

“Oh no, Sugihara, you’ve cracked the code,” Takuya rolled his eyes, “Yeah, I’m bitter I can’t blow stuff up and then pose for the cameras like I’m the best thing since cup noodles...”

The class erupted—
“Heroes protect us!”
“People would die without them!”
“He actually sounds like a villain, right now.”

Mr. Kaneko raised a hand. “Enough, please.”

The room stilled—mostly. He turned back to Takuya. “You can write about whoever you want—just keep it civil.”

Takuya leaned back in his chair, staring back out the window again. He exhaled through his nose, tapping his fingers against his desk.

I should just keep my head down. Stop making myself a target.

His grip tightened on his pen.

…Yeah. Like that’s ever worked before.

In the front row, a girl with chestnut hair in a neat ponytail watched him. She didn’t laugh.

Her brow furrowed slightly, thoughtful, as she scribbled something in the margin of her notes, next to a sketch of Ryukyu’s wings:

“Quirkless, but doesn't like heroes?”

She underlined it.

Later, the school hallways were alive with movement—students shifting between classrooms, voices blending into a background hum. Takuya adjusted the frayed strap of his backpack and wove through the crowd.

Then, he heard it.

That mocking laugh.

Sugihara was there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, flanked by his friend, Ken “Kong” Makiguchi. They loomed over a lone underclassman—short and lanky, eyes glued to the scuffed floor.

“C’mon, man,” Sugihara sneered, stepping forward in a crackle of light. “You gotta have some kind of power. Tell me—maybe I’ll even rate it—and let you hang with us.” He flexed, spiky black hair streaked yellow catching the fluorescent glare.

He had the quirk FLASH—teleporting short distances in a flash of light. He liked to imagine ‘Flash’ would be his hero name one day, though it never seemed to catch on.

Makiguchi cracked his knuckles—thud, thud—with the grin of a hyena sizing up prey. “Yeah, toughen up if you want to be a hero someday,” he rumbled. His quirk gave him the raw power of a gorilla.

The kid mumbled something too soft to hear. Sugihara leaned in. “Speak up! We’re dying to know what makes you special.” A couple of students slowed their pace, watching.

More laughter. The kid’s shoulders hunched further, shrinking beneath their gaze.

Takuya’s jaw clenched. He should keep walking. Just keep walking.

But he stopped.

Of course I stop…

He spun around to address the bullies.

“Wow. Big heroes here, huh? This is what you call protecting people? Or is it just a hobby of yours?"

Sugihara froze. Kong looked over his shoulder with disgust, before Sugihara slowly turned to face Takuya with a cold glare.

Why do I keep putting myself in these positions? I just told myself to keep my head down today…

Sugihara flashed—reappearing next to Takuya and shoved him hard in the ribs. Kong laughed. The underclassman scampered off the moment they turned their attention away.

Takuya’s mocking confidence from before wavered as Kong’s massive hand sent him sprawling.

Pain flashed. He tasted sweat.

"You really like running your mouth, huh, Yamashiro?"

"I dunno, man. Seems weird to worship people who wouldn’t spit in your direction, even if you were on fire."

Again, with my stupid mouth!

Before Takuya could react, Sugihara flashed behind him and shoved him down again.

"What’s wrong, Yamashiro? No fancy powers to save you?" the ape student laughed.

Again, and again – every time Takuya got back up, he was thrown back down.

“You never learn, do you Yamashiro?” Sugihara reared back a fist.

Takuya braced himself for the punch.

Nothing.

He blinked open. Wait, what—?

Sugihara’s fist never landed. Instead, his body locked up, eyes widening as if a ghost had just walked through him.

A hand—fingers stretched like a ghost’s—poking through Sugihara’s chest, as if he were made of mist. His flesh didn’t bruise or bleed; instead, it rippled around the intrusion.

"Seriously? You’re gonna jump the Quirkless guy? That’s not very ‘heroic,’ Sugihara," a girl’s voice.

The hand withdrew, clean and effortless. Sugihara jerked back, and the girl stepped fully into view.

Her uniform was immaculate, sure—but with her own spin: a silver pin on her lapel, blazer just slightly tailored, tie knotted with a casual looseness that somehow worked. Her chestnut hair was tied back in a sleek ponytail, but a few loose strands curled near her cheeks with just the right kind of effortlessness. Like everything about her, it felt intentional and cool without trying too hard.

And those eyes—golden-brown, bright and knowing—fixed Sugihara with a look that could’ve stopped a moving train. There was confidence in them, sure, but also something playful underneath, like she was holding back a smirk. Like she knew exactly how much power she had and exactly how to use it.

Hitomi Sakuma.

Takuya didn’t know what to say. He’d always thought she was out of his league—cool, clever, way too pretty to even know his name. But now here she was, stepping through them like a ghost and pulling off a rescue like it was just another Tuesday.

Kong, meanwhile, pulled a bento box out of Takuya’s bag and started eating from it with his hands like nothing happened.

"Dude. Seriously?" Takuya said, glancing at him from the floor, exasperated.

Kong shrugged, taking another bite.

Sugihara turned his glare from Hitomi back down to Takuya, "Watch yourself, Yamashiro. You won’t always have someone stepping in to save you."

He turned away with a huff and walked off, Kong still munching on Takuya’s lunch as he followed. The hallway emptied out, leaving only Takuya, and Hitomi behind.

She stretched out a hand to him with a warm smile.

Takuya blinked, not even reacting for a moment, before finally snapping himself out and taking her hand to stand.

He sighed, brushing himself off, as she laughed.

"Thanks for the assist, but I had that under control."

"Oh, totally. I could tell by the way you were mopping the floor," she grinned.

He scoffed, trying to hide an embarrassed smile, "Just strategy. Let them think they’re winning."

"Ah, yeah. ‘Make them pity you so they don’t punch you as hard.’ Classic move."

Takuya smirked, but didn’t have a comeback. She won that exchange.

He found himself watching her as she glanced down the hallway, checking if that kid had really gotten away safely.

He remembered the first time he saw her, when they were first years; she said 'hi' to him as she passed him in the hall, but he was too flabbergasted by her to say anything back. They never had another interaction since, so all he could do was admire her from afar, knowing a quirkless guy like him could never be with a girl like her. He never thought she’d notice him back. Even now, his eyes struggled to meet hers.

But now, here she was, offering him a hand.

Helping him up.

Is this my chance? What should I say?

Something cool? Casual? Maybe a joke? No, bad idea, she already won the last exchange—

Before he could even open his mouth, a teacher rushed into the hall to break up the fight.

“Alright now, everyone break it…” he looked around to see only Hitomi and Takuya standing in the hall, “where did everyone go?”

Takuya shook his head, “Dude...”

Chapter Text

Takuya trudged home, his stomach growling with every step—a low, constant reminder of the lunch he never got. He ignored it—barely. What gnawed at him more was the memory of earlier that afternoon.

“…I should’ve said something,” he muttered under his breath. “Thanks? Cool move? Literally anything besides sounding like a total idiot.”

First time she talks to me, and I fumble it…

But as much as he tried to focus on Hitomi, he couldn’t shake Sugihara’s parting words.

“‘Watch yourself, Yamashiro.’”

Takuya scoffed. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m the Quirkless loser who doesn’t know his place. Heard it before.”

The city moved around him—cars speeding past, pedestrians chatting, a Pro Hero swooping through the sky above with a flourish of neon wings. Takuya didn’t even look up.

A massive billboard loomed ahead, lit in oversaturated colors. A smiling Hero raised an energy drink in one hand, fireworks bursting behind him. ‘Unleash your potential’ it blared.

'What kind of Hero do you want to be?' That was the assignment. He had no idea what he would write yet. He talked about scientists being the real heroes, but in a world where your worth came down to your quirk… he didn’t have one. Which meant, as far as most people were concerned, he didn’t count.

She didn’t look at me like that, though…
Because she felt sorry for you? Or because she thinks you’re pathetic?

He shook off the thought and crossed the street.

Outside a local electronics store, a dozen TVs were lined up in the window, playing the same ad on loop. Takuya slowed down.

The Iron Cross Expo.

A sleek logo spun onto the screen, followed by glossy footage of drone swarms, towering mechs locking into formation, and a voiceover dripping with confidence.

“Iron Cross Laboratories welcomes you to our annual Winter Expo!” the voiceover beamed. “See the future of technology, Quirk enhancement, and scientific progress—this weekend, only at Iron Cross Tower.”

The screen cut to a tall man in a pristine suit: Mitsuo Akayama, Iron Cross’s famously charming CEO. He stood beside a gleaming red-and-silver mech the size of a car, smiling as it moved with near-human grace. The crowd behind him cheered. The mech raised a hand and gave a crisp, fluid salute.

Takuya stared.

Whoa.

This wasn’t just some government ad campaign or hero merch push. This was real tech. Real invention. Someone built that.

His stomach grumbled again.

“The world is changing,” Akayama said on-screen. “At Iron Cross, we believe it’s not about what power you’re born with—it’s about what you build with the power you have.”

Takuya blinked. That line hit a little closer than expected.

It's not about what you’re born with…

Takuya just stood there for a second.

Easy for a billionaire genius with a quirk to say, he thought. Of course people listen to him.

But as he stepped back from the display window, he felt something shift under the surface. A flicker of possibility.

The ad looped again, but Takuya had already started walking. The city buzzed around him, but that one line stayed with him all the way home.

“I’m home,” Takuya announced as he stepped into the apartment, toeing off his shoes by the door.

The place was modest—small and a little worn around the edges—but it was warm, clean, and felt lived in. The walls were decorated with mismatched photo frames and drawings from when he and his sister were younger, some still hung crookedly. A faint hum came from the heater in the corner, and the scent of miso and simmering vegetables wafted from the kitchen. A stack of science magazines teetered near the couch. Sewing spools and thread were tucked neatly into decorative bowls on the counter. Yarn baskets and patchwork fabrics were tucked into every corner like quiet proof of care. A bit cramped, maybe, but it always felt safe.

“Taku? Are you okay?” his mother called from the kitchen. She wiped her hands on a towel and hurried over, her slippers shuffling on the wooden floor.

Kiri Yamashiro was petite—her head barely reached Takuya’s eye level, something she often pretended not to notice. Her build was light, but not fragile, with soft, expressive features framed by a long, dark side plait that draped neatly over her shoulder. A few loose strands framed her face, and there was always a faint trace of lint or thread on her sleeves from her quirk. Despite her size, she had a kind of energetic presence that filled the room.

“You’re late today, did something happen?” she asked, immediately switching into mom-mode. Before Takuya could respond, she was already scanning him for damage, smoothing out his rumpled uniform with practiced hands.

“What happened to you?” she clucked. “Your shirt’s all scuffed.”

Threads shimmered faintly around her fingertips as her Threading quirk activated—tiny silver filaments dancing in the air as she smoothed out a torn patch, weaving fibers back together like silk under moonlight.

“And your hair’s a mess again,” she muttered, brushing at the top of his head with one hand while her quirk continued its gentle work.

Takuya squirmed. “I’m fine, Mom. Just school. Usual stuff. I fell.”

“That’s a lot of damage for just falling.”

“You know me,” he said with a sheepish grin, “clumsy…”

She gave him that Look—half concern, half suspicion—but let it go. “Okay. But if anyone’s been giving you trouble, I can always come to that school and—”

“Mom, seriously,” he cut in. “I’m good. No need for the cavalry.”

Her lips twitched with reluctant amusement. “Alright. Go wash up before dinner.”

From the living room came a low chuckle. “So, how’s the other guy?”

Takuya glanced over to find his father, Hiroshi, sprawled comfortably on the old couch, surrounded by cables and scraps of metal. He was fiddling with some kind of half-built device in his lap—something sleek with glowing strips and exposed wiring that looked suspiciously like it might explode or transform at any second.

Hiroshi Yamashiro looked like someone who used to be a clean-cut professional but had long since stopped caring. His hair, once neatly styled, now hung a little past his ears in dishevelled waves, and a bit of stubble darkened his jaw. He wore an old lab coat over a threadbare hoodie and had a pencil tucked behind one ear.

“What?” Takuya tried to hide his smile.

“How does the other guy look?”

Takuya crossed his arms awkwardly. “What? I didn’t—what do you mean?”

“Did you win?”

“How…” Takuya dropped his voice to a whisper so his mom didn’t hear, “How did you know?”

Hiroshi grinned without looking up. “It’s a scientist’s job to observe patterns. Well, that—and being your dad helps.”

He glanced up briefly from the strange, half-finished device in his lap: a sleek handheld object with copper wiring poking out like wild hairs and a faint, low pulse of light in its center.

“She worries because she cares,” Hiroshi said, his tone softening. “But if you’re going to face challenges, you should have the right tools.”

“You mean like… build a mech suit?”

His father laughed. “Not quite. Though I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it…” He stood and stretched his back with a faint pop. “For now, let’s try something simpler.”

He gestured for Takuya to stand. “I ever show you how to break a wrist grab?”

Takuya blinked. “No?”

“Come on.” Hiroshi motioned him over. “Left hand out. Grab my wrist. Firm but not too tight.”

Takuya complied—and in a blink, Hiroshi twisted, pivoted, and slipped free.

“The trick is not just force—it’s leverage and angle. You use their grip against them.”

Takuya stared. “Wait, do that again—”

Hiroshi reset, slower this time, guiding Takuya’s hand through the motion.

“See? Just a little shift here, and boom—gone.”

“That’s really… cool.”

“Self-defense is just problem solving under pressure.” He offered a wink. “Like math, but with more bruises.”

Then he abruptly flipped Takuya onto the couch. Takuya yelped, bouncing off the cushions, and both of them burst into laughter.

“You two better not be wrecking the living room!” Kiri called out without looking.

Hiroshi winced dramatically and nodded toward his workshop.

Takuya followed, still grinning, rubbing his shoulder.

The room smelled faintly of solder, old paper, and something vaguely metallic—like a science fair and a scrapyard had shaken hands. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a pale glow over the chaos: blueprints curling at the edges, half-drained test tubes in dusty racks, circuit boards cracked open like autopsy subjects. Stacks of old notebooks leaned dangerously on shelves already sagging under toolboxes and vintage tech. A safety poster, half torn, read “Proper Lab Protocol Saves Lives!” Hiroshi’s scrawled handwriting underneath made out ‘So does getting the hell out when the lab explodes!’

It was part lab, part storage closet, and entirely his dad’s mind laid bare.

Takuya’s eyes drifted to a set of vials near the back of the bench, each filled with a clear, viscous fluid.

“What’s that?”

“It’s supposed to be a high-tensile adhesive,” Hiroshi explained. “If I can get the formula stable, it could be used in rescue operations or containment situations. The problem is getting it to harden only when needed without seizing up prematurely.”

Takuya leaned in, studying the vials. “Have you tried adjusting the polymer structure? Maybe delay bonding until it's exposed to specific atmospheric conditions?”

Hiroshi paused, surprised. “Humidity triggers?”

Takuya shrugged. “Could be cleaner than relying on heat or impact. Airborne particles might be cleaner—less volatile than heat or impact.”

His father let out a low whistle.  “Not a bad idea. I’d considered temperature triggers, but humidity could work too. You’ve got a sharp mind, Taku.”

Takuya grinned and ran his fingers along the edge of the cluttered workbench, lifting one of his father’s gadgets for closer inspection. It was palm-sized, boxy, with three copper nozzles and a toggle switch taped down with masking tape.

Hiroshi watched him for a beat, eyes softening.

“You’re getting to that age,” he said. “Time to start thinking about what high school you want to attend. The entrance exams are just around the corner.”

Takuya didn’t look up. “Yeah, I know. Mom’s already on my case about it.”

Hiroshi straightened. “She’s not wrong to worry. But it’s not just about passing exams. It’s about direction. What kind of future do you want? What kind of life?”

That gave Takuya pause. His fingers stopped fidgeting. He didn’t have an answer—not really—but one thought kept rising to the surface.

“Maybe… U.A.’s Support Course? It’s got the best tech program in the prefecture. And it worked for Shinko, right?”

I don’t need a quirk to help people.
I could design tools that save lives.
Build things that last.
Make change without chasing the spotlight.
Scientists make a difference too.
And…
At U.A., I might still see Sakuma. That wouldn’t be so bad.

He shook the thought off and added quickly, “Still, I should focus on my grades first. No point dreaming big if I trip up at the start.”

His father looked at him—really looked at him—with a mixture of pride and something else. Sadness, maybe. Or fear. That this bright, brilliant boy might be overlooked. Or worse, might give up trying.

“You’re a smart kid,” he said. “And a good one. Don’t forget: you don’t have to be a hero to do great things. People like us, working in the background? We build the world they stand on.”

Takuya wanted to believe that. He really did. But the world didn’t exactly make it easy. He saw how people looked at Quirkless kids like him. He saw the way heroes only stepped in when the cameras were rolling.

Make a difference… without being a hero?

He wasn’t so sure.

That’s when they heard the front door shut.

Takuya’s sister, Shinko, stepped inside with a dramatic sigh, tugging her heels off with one foot. She looked tired, but still somehow pulled-together—her short jacket stylishly half-zipped over a dark turtleneck, and black hair twisted up in a claw clip. Her makeup was light but meticulous, the kind of effortlessly cool look that probably wasn’t effortless at all.

She pulled the clip from her hair, shaking it loose as her face formed a brighter expression.

“Look who’s here, and still alive!” Shinko called, floating her bag off her shoulder and setting it neatly by the door. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving,” their mother smiled, shaking her head.

“You try hauling power capacitors across a lab floor all day.” She flicked her fingers toward Takuya as he came in, ruffling his hair with an invisible nudge.

“Hey!” he swatted at the air, grinning. “Iron Cross wear you out?”

Shinko laughed, “Always! I swear they run us ragged, but it’s exciting work.”

As Hiroshi entered the room, his expression shifted, just slightly. Jaw a little tighter. Shoulders stiffer.

Shinko's smile dimmed for half a second.

She caught it quickly and forced a brighter one—but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"It... It’s fine, Dad. You don’t need to worry."

He gave her a slow nod, saying nothing.

Their mother stepped in, clearing her throat. “Alright, let’s not turn this into a silent standoff. Dinner’s ready, and I will not have a cold meal after spending hours cooking.”

Shinko gave a grateful chuckle, brushing past their father toward the table.

He sighed but followed alongside Takuya.

Their mother happily served everyone as she got to listen to the events of their day.

“You’re not eating enough—what happened to those bentos I pack?” Kiri fussed, nudging another scoop of food onto Takuya’s plate. “Honestly, you’ll blow away in a stiff breeze, you're so thin.”

“I’m not five, Mom…” Takuya groaned.

“Not five,” Shinko chimed in, “but that doesn’t mean you can let those jerks steal your lunch like that. Want me to come down and teach them a lesson?”

“Please don’t,” he muttered.

“They took your lunch?!” Kiri exclaimed.

“No telekinetic sibling revenge,” Hiroshi said, raising a finger mock-sternly. “The heroes will arrest you for using your quirk. Slipper beatings are good enough.”

Kiri swatted his arm. “Don’t encourage her.”

Shinko snorted with laughter, tossing her hair. Still buzzing with energy, she launched into the latest at her internship with Iron Cross—the dream job she’d finally landed.

“Oh! I got to help design a new prosthetic for a hero who lost his arm during a villain fight. It’s. So. Cool! They’re going to be testing it soon, and I get to be there for the results.”

“A hero prosthetic, huh?” Takuya said, “That sounds... impressive. It would have to be adapted to their quirk, on top of all the challenges of dexterity and manipulation that standard prosthetics face.”

“Totally! But we’ve got a smaller margin of error, since if it malfunctions it will put the hero and civilians at risk – which means we have to push the boundaries of modern technology for this to work! I'm already helping to shape the future!”

Takuya struggled to hide his jealousy, “They just don’t understand how cool this stuff is back at school. Everyone would rather just look up to heroes, or whatever.”

“It’s helping people – making a difference either way,” their mother chimed in, “that’s what it’s all about in the end.”

“Yeah, well, just remember to watch your back in that place,” their father added before taking a mouthful of rice.

Silence settled at the table.

Takuya glanced at Shinko—her jaw had tightened. She didn’t say anything, but he could tell she wanted to.

Before she could find the words, Hiroshi’s phone buzzed sharply against the table.

Their mother sighed, setting down her chopsticks with a little too much force. "Hiroshi, really?"

He exhaled, rubbing his temples. "I’ll just be a minute."

"We’re at dinner," she said, folding her arms. “This is the third time today. Can’t it wait?”

Hiroshi hesitated. For just a moment.

Then, with a small, apologetic bow to his wife, he grabbed the phone and left the room.

The tension lingered.

Shinko glanced toward the hallway where Hiroshi had gone. She cleared her throat, quickly pouring her mother a drink with her quirk from across the table. With a flick of her fingers, the water curved smoothly through the air into her mother’s glass, not spilling a drop.

"So, Mom, how was FEAST today?" she said, forcing a bright tone as she straightened in her seat, a little too deliberately.

Kiri softened immediately, her expression shifting from frustration to warmth as she threaded a loose ribbon through her fingers, tying it into a perfect loop without looking. “We set up emergency housing for families displaced in that villain attack in Minato."

Takuya perked up slightly.

"It wasn’t much," she continued, " There were a few families with toddlers—they barely had time to grab anything before running. But at least it gave them somewhere safe and warm to sleep."

She sounded proud.

Takuya glanced at his father’s empty seat.

His mom worked at a charity, his dad had to take commission work because no one else would hire him, and Shinko—despite working at her dream job—was still barely getting paid. To top it off, he was the only one not doing anything.

It's not that his family was struggling for money, but it was definitely all hands on deck, outside of himself.

He pushed a piece of rice around his plate.

Maybe if I got into U.A., I could finally—

Hiroshi returned to the table, cutting off Takuya's thoughts. He avoided Kiri’s eyes as he sat back down, forcing a casual tone. "Just some feedback on a commission. Let’s get back to dinner."

Shinko shot a look over to Takuya, “Oh! Taku, I almost forgot—you still want to come with me to the Expo this weekend, right?”

“Wait, I can go?”

“You can when you have an amazing big sister who works there,” she said, tossing her hair like she was on the red carpet. “And can bring a plus one.”

Takuya made bowing motions with his hands in her direction, “I am not worthy!”

Shinko laughed, basking in the adoration. “I might be able to show you a little of what I’ve been working on up close. But there’s also the robotics and mecha displays I know you’re into, some panels, guest speakers…”

“Just…” Hiroshi spoke up, drawing everyone’s attention. He exhaled, his expression softening. “Just promise you’ll be careful. Both of you.”

Chapter Text

Saturday morning. Iron Cross Tower loomed against the skyline like a monument to ambition—its glass-and-steel frame caught the sunlight like a blade, gleaming with corporate precision.

Takuya followed his sister through the security gates, weaving between crowds of excited enthusiasts, families, student groups, and press teams clustered outside the lobby.

Unlike the chaotic flash of Pro Hero agencies, this place didn’t shout for attention—it commanded it. Inside, the lobby buzzed with a curated energy: holographic exhibits hovered in the air, robotic drones offered pamphlets, and AR screens displayed looping footage of their innovative tech in action. Scientists in crisp uniforms moved among them like stagehands, quietly orchestrating the show. The future, laid out like a showroom. Gleaming. Untouchable.

Shinko handed him a visitor badge as they stepped off the escalator and onto the Expo’s main floor. “You get some behind the scenes access when you’re with me, but they’re pretty big on security here, so you need to keep this on you at all times.”

“Oi, Yamashiro,” one of the scientists called over, coffee in hand, “I didn’t know you were giving out private tours.”

Kosei Tanaka; a fellow intern—and one of the few people Shinko actually listened to on a regular basis.

He didn’t look like a university student. In his crisp white coat, sleeves casually rolled up to the elbows, Kosei looked more like one of the actual researchers than someone here for credit hours. His black hair was stylishly messy, like he’d raked a hand through it between microscope checks. Thin-framed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, giving him just enough of a professor vibe to offset the confident tilt of his smirk.

“Oh, this is my kid brother, Takuya,” Shinko replied, adjusting her lanyard.

“Ah, babysitting, huh?” Kosei chuckled.

“Well, he’s pretty interested in working here once he’s—” she turned to see he was gone. “Taku?”

Kosei tilted his cup in the direction of a nearby display. Shinko sighed when she spotted him gawking at a lineup of sleek, high-tech suits under dramatic spotlights and rotating platforms. Holograms pulsed beside them, listing specs and use cases in looping animations.

“I can’t believe I get to see these up close!” Takuya exclaimed, practically vibrating.

“Adaptive Exo-suits,” Kosei said, strolling up beside him. “We’re showing them off today to get feedback from potential support companies and tech investors. Designed for first responders—people without quirks, or with quirks not suited for rescue or high-risk environments.”

Takuya never turned his eyes from them, “With specs like these… do we even need heroes?”

Shinko groaned, walking up to prod his head. “Oi, Taku! Don’t just wander off.”

“He’s fine,” he laughed, “It’s always fun seeing fresh eyes light up like that.”

“You say that now,” Shinko smirked, folding her arms, “but if he starts bombarding you with questions, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I like a challenge.” He extended a hand. “Kosei Tanaka. Robotics & Prosthetics Division. So—what’s on your mind, Takuya?”

Takuya barely hesitated before launching into a rapid-fire string of questions.

“For rescue ops—how do they handle extreme temps? Wouldn’t the motors seize up in sub-zero conditions?"

Kosei raised an eyebrow and was about to answer when Takuya spoke again.

“And what about power? These things look like they’d drain a standard battery in minutes.”

“Good eye, actually—”

“Actually, what happens during longer operations where battery drain would become a real issue? How are they deployed and retrieved?”

Kosei blinked. He hadn’t expected this level of detail. Most kids just asked, ‘Can I try one on?’

He stared at him for a beat, then laughed—a warm, surprised sound. “Okay, you’re not just here for the souvenir pin.”

Shinko smirked, nudging him with her elbow. “Told you.”

Kosei turned back to Takuya. “The joints use reinforced myomer fibers to prevent freezing. But yeah, extreme cold does slow down the actuators. We’re testing a new heat-regulation mesh to counter that. As for power, they run on nanocell reactors—same tech used in some hero support gear. It allows for rapid energy recycling, but battery life’s still our biggest hurdle. We’re working on modular charging stations that can be deployed with rescue crews.”

Takuya nodded, wide-eyed. “That’s insane. You guys are literally inventing the future.”

Shinko gave Kosei a sideways look that only the two of them understood. “Don’t think too highly of him, Taku—he's not the 'cool, level-headed scientist', you think he is. Just last week he sat in a sub‑zero chamber to see if he would freeze before the joints did.”

His quirk allowed him to rapidly adapt to different environments or conditions on the fly, so Shinko has seen a number of occasions where he would test new systems personally, much to the horror of the health and safety officers on the floor.

Kosei shrugged, unbothered. “Hey, if it survives me, it survives anything.” He tossed a glance at Takuya, then added, deadpan: “Honestly? That chamber wasn’t nearly as cool as I am—had to bring my own chill.”

Shinko burst into laughter, jabbing her elbow into his side. “You’re such a dork!”

He grinned. “Takes one to intern with one.”

Takuya blinked, feeling like he was now intruding on something. He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right…”

Before he could launch into his next question, a young scientist in a slightly rumpled uniform hurried over, looking flustered.

“We’ve got a stabilization alert in Lab 4! Some of the magnetic dampeners in the prosthetics wing are fluctuating again—Dr. Murota’s asking for all available tech leads!”

Kosei let out a long sigh. “Of course. Right in the middle of the Expo…”

He gave Shinko a look. “Catch you later?”

She rolled her eyes, but her smirk betrayed her. “Go. Before Murota comes yelling for me.”

Kosei nodded and jogged off, vanishing behind a checkpoint near the restricted areas.

Shinko rubbed her temple. “Seriously? They know I’m on the Expo rotation today.” She sighed, turning to Takuya.

“What was that about?” he asked with a grin, motioning between her and Kosei. He wasn’t sure if the guy was supposed to be a scientist, a model, or both. The thought that Shinko probably had the same idea only made his smile wryer.

“It’s nothing,” she said a bit too quickly, brushing him off. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Takuya’s grin widened still.

Shinko pointed at him, squashing her finger against his nose. “Stay in the public areas, okay? If I come back and you’ve snuck off, Dad’s gonna hang me up by my boots.”

“No promises,” Takuya said with a shrug, though the gleam in his eyes gave him away.

She gave him one last warning look before dashing after Kosei through one of the side entrances marked STAFF ONLY.

Takuya turned back toward the Expo floor, but his gaze drifted to a set of distant doors flanked by security guards and glowing red access lights—the opposite direction from where Shinko and Kosei had vanished.

“That said… nothing wrong with just a little peek, right?”

Left to his own devices, Takuya wandered deeper into the Expo, his visitor pass catching the light as it swayed on his chest. Everywhere he turned, Iron Cross dazzled.

Crowds buzzed with excitement, camera drones hovered overhead, and soft synth music pulsed from recessed speakers above the exhibition floor.

One booth demonstrated adaptive hero support gear, with mannequins cycling through dynamic armor shifts in response to mock quirk simulations. Another offered a “GeneSync” simulation pod, where visitors could test hypothetical quirk compatibilities through AR overlays. Kids were lining up to see what kind of quirk they “might” develop if they had certain gene edits—most of it just flashy marketing, but it still drew a crowd.

Across the hall, massive AR screens played Iron Cross promotional reels on loop.

“Rewriting the future of society. Pioneering science for the next generation. Iron Cross Laboratories: Tomorrow, Today.”

Even outside of heroics, their influence was everywhere—next-gen smartphones with adaptive UI, autonomous vehicles with hover-assist parking, drones capable of emergency triage.

But in the quieter corner of the floor, something caught his eye.

Unlike the crowded booths, this one was framed by a minimalist display: white, glass, and silence. At the center stood a single automaton—sleek, beetle-like, perched on three angular limbs.

PROJECT: LEX – Living Exoshell Experiment
Design Lead: Dr. Okinari Mishima

Takuya’s breath caught.

“Designed by Dr. Okinari Mishima? The Okinari Mishima?” he exclaimed with wide eyes

He stepped closer, the crowd thinning around him. The exoshell twitched slightly, responding to his presence. Its sleek black chassis glinted with iridescent green patterns, almost like a carapace. Not mechanical in the traditional sense. Organic. Elegant. Alive.

A nearby info panel detailed the prototype’s purpose: autonomous adaptability for hostile terrain and disaster relief, inspired by arthropod physiology—insects, crustaceans, even deep-sea organisms. Its “muscle” systems were a hybrid of carbon fiber weave and synthesized tissue. Lightweight, flexible, and self-healing.

A woman in a white coat had paused mid-step, “Oh? Familiar with his work?”

Takuya turned. “I’m a huge fan,” he grinned.

Okinari Mishima was a legend. A pioneer in robotics. The man who pushed Iron Cross into an era of neural-link integration and bio-synthetic intelligence. But a few years back, he vanished from the public eye. Most blamed health issues. Others said creative disputes. Whatever the reason, his absence marked a clear shift—from robotics… to genetic engineering.

Takuya turned back to the display, practically vibrating again with excitement as he read aloud:

“Through bio-mimicry and neural-augmented control loops, the LEX system can adapt in real-time to its environment, fusing the instincts of natural survival with human logic. Not stronger than nature. In partnership with it.”

His breath hitched.

“In partnership with nature – that’s everything Okinari Mishima! He bases his designs off nature—there’s a reason these creatures thrive in their environments, we should learn from them, not fight them.”

The scientist blinked, a little surprised. “You’ve done your homework.”

“I’ve watched all his lectures.” Takuya beamed. “This guy’s work is more than just tech. It’s—it’s—”

“Art?” she offered, half-smiling.

“Exactly!”

The scientist turned back to the display, a faint glimmer of appreciation in her eyes.

Then, without looking at him:

“Nerd…”

She walked off.

"GOOOD AFTERNOON, Y'ALL!"

A voice like a sonic boom echoed across the atrium. Takuya snapped his head toward the makeshift stage surrounded by towering holograms and buzzing spectators. He lingered near the edge of the crowd, a head shorter than most, but still curious enough to crane his neck and see.

“YEAHHHH! Welcome, tech-heads, dreamers, and future game-changers!" The Pro-Hero, Present Mic, shouted with a finger gun, his mic almost peaking. Takuya flinched—Mic’s voice practically slapped the air around him. "I’m your host with the most decibels—Present MIIIIIIC—and this panel’s gonna be LOUD!”

He gestured dramatically toward the other panelists, his voice shifting into something more earnest.

"First off, let’s meet Dr. Saeko Sakuma, one of the lead scientists here at Iron Cross Laboratories. She’s going to talk to us about the exciting breakthroughs in technology that could revolutionize our world."

The crowd erupted into applause, and Takuya couldn’t help but feel a small spark of recognition.

“Sakuma?” he muttered, the name tugging at him.

There was a certain grace in her presence, a quiet confidence as she adjusted the microphone and gave a small, polite wave.

"It’s a pleasure to welcome you all to Iron Cross Tower," Dr. Sakuma began, her voice calm but authoritative. "At Iron Cross, we’re not just about pushing the boundaries of science; we’re about creating systems that support society as a whole. We believe the future of hero society lies in its accessibility."

Takuya leaned forward slightly, intrigued.

Present Mic clapped his hands together. “Thanks, Doc! We’ve also got Dr. Toma, Applied Systems Lead joining us science side! Say hi Dr. T!”

A younger man in a lab coat with an Iron Cross badge stood up and bowed, before promptly sitting down again.

“Oh, a man of few words. ANYWHO, next up, we’ve got a very special guest—Pro Hero, teacher, and fashion icon, Midnight!”

He leaned toward the mic with a conspiratorial grin. “She’s here to give us the hero perspective—on what tech means for both the cape-wearing crowd and the folks they protect.”

Midnight waved to the audience, lips curled in a polite smile. “Thank you for having me. I’ll admit—I’ve always admired the ambition of Iron Cross,” she said, nodding toward Sakuma and the other scientists. “But...” Midnight added, tilting her head thoughtfully, “as exciting as all this sounds, we can’t forget the other side of the equation.”

She rested her chin on her gloved hand, voice smooth but pointed. “Power is still power. Making it easier to access means making it easier to misuse, right?”

Takuya shifted on his feet. Most of the population have quirks of their own, what’s wrong with evening the playing field for everyone else, or those with barely noticeable quirks?

Dr. Toma leaned toward the mic.

“If I may,” he said, voice steady but eager, “we’re not suggesting open-sourcing dangerous weaponry. Our goal is integration—personalized tech that works with a person’s biology or lifestyle. We're not handing out rocket launchers—we’re handing out ladders.”

He looked toward Midnight with cautious optimism. “People climb differently. Doesn’t mean they shouldn’t climb.”

The hero, Power Loader adjusted his heavy-duty gloves, his voice gruffer than the others. “They’ve got a point,” he said, nodding toward Midnight. “But the way I see it, it's not just giving people tools—it's giving them hope.”

“I want to believe in that kind of future,” Midnight said, nodding. “But faith alone doesn’t make safeguards.”

Power Loader leaned forward slightly. “I’ve worked with kids who had nothing. Barely a Quirk, no family, no status. But give ’em a rig, a reinforced suit, or a neural uplink—and they build something incredible. Isn’t that what support items were meant for?”

There was a murmur of agreement in the crowd. Even some of the hero students near the back were nodding along.

Midnight’s lips pressed into a thin line as she responded, "I agree, Power Loader. But as I said, there’s a difference between assistance and empowerment. With quirks, we can educate holders on how and where to use them, but with tools – they can be turned into villainous weapons, of which we have less control."

Takuya’s eyes narrowed. That didn’t sit right with him. Control?

Dr. Sakuma leaned in slightly, sensing the shift in the conversation. She folded her hands calmly, gaze sweeping the panel. “It’s a valid concern,” she said, nodding respectfully toward Midnight. “It’s a question of trust—do we trust the people we’re trying to help?”

She let the silence linger for a beat.

“Iron Cross isn’t here to gatekeep innovation. We’re here to break down the gates entirely.”

A hush settled over the atrium. Even Present Mic didn’t crack a joke.

The applause finally followed.

“WOO! That’s what I call some next-level insight! You folks in the audience taking notes? I know I am!” He grinned wide. “We’ll open the floor for questions soon—but first, let’s get into the tech itself. Power Loader, Dr. T—you’re up!”

With a lot of the conversation sticking to hero politics, Takuya’s focus started to slip. He came for the tech innovations after all. The science.

Behind him, applause rippled through the atrium as another panelist began to speak. Takuya drifted away from the main stage, weaving through the crowd toward the rest of the exhibits. Holograms flared to life above him, and a robotic drone zipped past overhead, pulling his gaze upward. He wasn't paying attention to where he was going.

“Oof!”

A waft of chestnut brown hair, tied up in a flowing yellow ribbon. Golden-brown eyes flashed before his.

He had bumped into Hitomi Sakuma.

“Oh? Hey!” she smiled at him, catching herself from the impact.

His thoughts whirred. What—why—how—Sakuma—here—words—?!

“Didn’t think I’d see you here," she said. "It’s Yamashiro, right?”

Wait, these words are in my head! I need to speak them! Speak Yamashiro, Speak!

“Uhhhhhhh,” he finally let out.

She blinked, amused by his stunned reaction, before laughing.

“What happened to your smart mouth back at school?”

He finally snapped himself out of his stupor, “Yamashiro. Yes! That’s—me.”

She laughed again.

Some prototype blared a startup chime nearby.

They stepped aside to let a group of attendees pass.

“W-What are you…what are you doing here?” he stammered, awkwardly folding his arms.

“My mom works here. I figured I’d stop by to force a meeting with her, but I guess she’s too busy with the panel.”

It took Takuya a few seconds too long to figure it out. Hitomi couldn’t help but smile when the realization struck his face with wide eyes.

“Your mom’s Dr. Sakuma!”

“Yep, you got it,” she laughed, throwing teasing finger guns his way. “She practically lives here. I swear, she’s more married to the job than she was to dad," she said, rolling her eyes. “So, you’re really into this stuff, huh?” she gestured to the expo around them.

Takuya nodded enthusiastically, "Yeah! I’d kill to work here one day."

She chuckled at his enthusiasm. “Well, be careful what you wish for.”

Then, she tilted her head, tapping a finger to her chin. “Actually… if you’re really interested in this stuff, maybe you could help me with something.”

Takuya blinked. “Uh… help? With what exactly?”

Her smirk widened.

Hitomi led him away from the crowds, out from the main expo area, towards the restricted access doors. Scanners hummed faintly with blinking red lights. She pushed him gently against a column, leaning against it as she investigated the security around them.

Takuya blushed at how close she was, stammering through his words.

“Uh, I don’t think visitors are supposed to—”

She flashed a daring smile. “That’s what makes it fun!” She pulled out a camera—a vintage, analog model.

Takuya blinked. “Wait—you just carry that around?”

She shrugged in response, "You never know when a good story’s gonna find you."

Takuya frowned. “A story?” He glanced at the doors. “Wait, you think Iron Cross is hiding something?”

Hitomi adjusted her camera strap, “It’s not about that. My dad always said, ‘You don’t just trust what people tell you. You look. Ask questions.’" She looked around the column again, to see if there were any scientists or guards watching nearby. "But my mom? She doesn’t tell me anything. Every time I ask, she shuts me out. So, if she won’t tell me… I’ll find out for myself."

“Wait, hold on. Isn’t that kinda paranoid? Maybe she just doesn’t wanna worry you. My mom’s the same, she—”

She shut him up with a look.

He sighed, “What I mean is, if they were doing shady stuff, a hero would’ve exposed them by now, right?”

Hitomi’s eyes were back towards the restricted doors. "That’s exactly the kind of thinking that lets people get away with stuff."

“Still…”

“It’s fine~! You won’t get in trouble – even if we get caught, I’ll say it was my idea, and it’ll just be my mom giving me a lecture,” she winked at him.

She grinned before grabbing Takuya’s hand and raced towards the doors. “I’m going to become an Investigative Journalist Hero. Expose corruption, uncover secrets, and kick bad guys in the face while doing it!"

Takuya stumbled after her, wide-eyed, his brain still three paces behind his feet.

She’s so…cool.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

But glancing down, he saw she was gripping his hand in hers.

H-h-holding hands?!

Wait—

She’s running straight at the doors!

Before the rest of him could react, the world lurched around him. A strange, weightless sensation crawled over his skin, like static fizzing through his bones. His breath caught in his throat as the door melted away around them, a rush of cool air whipping past—

—And then it was over.

A scientist looked up from her clipboard towards the doors, only to see no sign of disturbance and returned to her notes. Just a trick of the light.

They were inside.

The shock of phasing—and holding her hand—made him trip on entry, yanking Hitomi down on top of him.

She laughed, “Smooth, Yamashiro. Really graceful.”

His face burned like a thousand suns as she pushed herself up, casually scanning the area. Her shoulders subtly rose and fell with her breath—like she’d just finished a sprint.

His thoughts raced, not really sure where to face. Play it cool, play it cool…

“Cool, we’re all clear,” she said, finally stepping off him, as Takuya continued to lie on the floor.

“You just gonna lie there all day, or what?" Hitomi called back, her voice echoing.

Takuya scrambled to his feet, “I—I tripped, okay?!"

She laughed again, as he ran to catch up.

The air was stale, and the lighting was dim and flickering. The area felt abandoned—but not completely empty.

“Okay, I gotta ask,” Takuya said, catching his breath. “How the heck did we get through that door?”

Hitomi glanced over her shoulder, smirking. “Seriously? You haven’t figured it out?”

He blinked. “Wait… that was the same thing you did to Sugihara back at school, wasn’t it? The ghost-hand thing?”

“Bingo.” She snapped her fingers, then added with mock pride, “You’re connecting the dots. Good for you, Detective Yamashiro.”

He made a face. “It felt like—like static and jelly, and cold air, all at once. Does it always feel like that?”

“Kind of.” She nodded. “I guess it feels different for people I pull along. For me, it’s … clenching your whole body while diving through cold water, hoping the wall doesn’t notice you. Definitely not something I can do all the time—wipes me out if I use it too much.”

She spun around and snapped a photo of him with her analog camera. The flash made him stumble, and she giggled.

“Sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t resist. I figured it’d be a nice keepsake of my assistant for this story.”

They carried on down the long hallway. The hum of broken lights buzzed overhead, one flickering like a heartbeat. A faint mechanical hiss echoed from a nearby vent—too steady to be alive, but too irregular to be calming.

“Kinda weird there’s no guards inside,” Takuya whispered. “You’d think restricted meant... y’know, restricted.”

“The expo’s pulling most of the security,” Hitomi replied. “Or maybe they just didn’t think anyone would be dumb enough to sneak in here.”

Takuya jumped, looking up. “Wait—cameras!”

But there weren’t any.

Hitomi giggled. “There’s no cameras in this wing." She phased her hand through the wall as they walked, "If we’re quick, we’re basically ghosts,” she emphasized the point with a playful ripple.

“But why?” Takuya said. “You’d think a corporation like this could afford to keep every corner monitored.”

“Maybe they don’t want anyone watching this place too closely,” she smirked. “My mom always acts weird when I ask about it. Never gave me a straight answer.” She stopped and raised her camera again. “But look here.”

QUARANTINE AREA: Mira Lab Wing D.

The pair studied the notice for a moment.

“Heh. That’s not ominous at all,” Hitomi muttered.

The hallway opened into a much larger room. The green glow of tank lights cast warped shadows across the floor. Crates sealed with hazard stickers sat in the corner, stacked beside an old Iron Cross transport bot with half its plating melted off. Beyond them, containment tanks lined the walls—filled with failed experiments.

Grotesque quirk mutations. Biomechanical hybrids. Embryos of strange, hybridized animals floated in the bubbling green liquid.

Whatever they tested in here… it wasn’t your usual chemistry.

The air reeked faintly of antiseptic and something… metallic. Old blood? Rotting coolant? It clung to the back of Takuya’s throat.

Hitomi started taking pictures, wandering off.

Some tanks were cracked, whilst others were empty. Security logs flickered on monitors.

SUBJECT 032-B: TERMINATED.

SUBJECT 017-A: LOCATION UNKNOWN.

One of the cracked tanks still dripping a slow ooze, trailing along the floor like veins across tile. Takuya stepped around it without thinking. Hitomi’s camera flashed every few seconds, lighting up glimpses of twisted shapes and frozen things in glass.

He turned toward her. “Why an analog camera? Isn’t digital better?”

Hitomi gave an exaggerated gasp, “The very thought!”

She laughed, snapping away and making little pleased or disappointed sounds after each click. “Nah, it would be easier. But my quirk wrecks electronics if I phase through them—even accidentally. Film doesn’t glitch.”

Takuya paused at one of the tanks, a cold weight settling in his gut.

Inside floated a disfigured humanoid figure with reptilian traits—twisted and malformed, like someone had forced evolution down the wrong path. Its lifeless eyes stared straight ahead.

Takuya swallowed, curling his fingers into his palms.

“This all feels…really wrong.”

Hitomi kept snapping pictures, humming a tune under her breath. Then, without a word, she hurried to his side—maybe a little too quickly. She peered into the tank, close enough for their shoulders to brush. Her smile was still there, but it didn’t reach her eyes anymore. Even the humming faltered, growing thinner at the edges.

Click.

“If Iron Cross really isn’t hiding anything,” she said, lowering her camera, “then why does this feel like the start of a horror movie?”

Takuya watched her. She was trying to keep a brave face.

“Maybe we should go back?”

Hitomi jumped back. “What? No way! We’ve still got plenty more to explore, and I’ve got lots of film left.” She spun around, forcing a grin as she gestured ahead. “Here! Let’s keep going.”

She went back to humming as she walked, but her pitch cracked now and then.

They moved deeper into the lab. This section felt different—not as decayed, but not exactly maintained either. The lights here, also flickered overhead, casting stuttering shadows across the floor. The air smelled sharper now: burnt metal, stale disinfectant… and something else, faint but cloying. Like copper and rot.

The room opened into a branching network of hallways. Crates, smashed consoles, and collapsed scaffolding littered the floor.

Then—from somewhere deeper in the maze—came a sound.

A long, metallic drag.

Takuya stopped dead.

It wasn’t mechanical. Not exactly. There was a wetness to it. Like something heavy… flesh or metal or both… being hauled across the floor.

“…Did you hear that?” he whispered.

Hitomi was already moving, camera raised. “Creepy labs always make weird noises. Keep up, assistant.”

The new room's walls were lined with smaller enclosures. Most were cracked or shattered. Jagged glass glittered across the floor. A few remained intact.

Takuya stopped in front of a reinforced chamber labeled:

SPECIMEN 15 – MIRA MUTATION TRIALS.

Inside was a spider. Vibrantly colored, slightly oversized, and oddly calm. Alive.

He felt a strange relief seeing it safely behind glass—but his skin still crawled.

“Seriously. Why haven’t we seen anyone here?” he asked. “You’d think there’d be somebody monitoring all of this?”

“What? You wanna get caught?”

“I mean… it’s too quiet. Like they cleared out in a hurry.” Takuya rubbed his arms. He hadn’t realized how cold it was until now.

Hitomi peered into the next hallway. The darkness beyond seemed to press in, thicker than shadow. “Could be a black site. Fewer people, fewer leaks?” She turned slowly, eyes flicking toward more shattered containment pods. “Or maybe… they abandoned it?”

A buzzing crackled overhead. One of the bulbs flickered violently—then popped, sending shards raining down.

Hitomi jumped, barely stifling a yelp. “Okay. Maybe they had to leave it all behind.”

Takuya turned from the spider’s enclosure, watching her creep forward more cautiously now.

“It just looks a little too wrecked, you know?” she added, quieter.

Takuya nodded. There shouldn’t have been so many broken capsules in such a high-tech place as Iron Cross Tower. Even the floor was a mess.

“But the spider was alive,” he muttered, kneeling to inspect the ground. “So someone has to be coming through here. Feeding it. Checking in.”

Hitomi caught a flicker against the far wall. She lowered her camera and edged toward the source. “Maybe it’s remote access?”

Exposed wiring sparked in a shallow arc across the wall—violently ripped out, not disconnected. The edges were jagged, melted slightly at the ends.

“How?” Takuya said, concentrating on the dirt on the floor. “No cameras, remember?”

This texture’s weird. Almost like a mark in the floor. In fact, it’s actually all pretty scraped up. It’s almost as if…

He looked toward the room they came from—toward the broken capsules and shattered glass—his thoughts spinning.

The air felt heavier now. Like it was holding its breath. Like it knew something they didn’t.

Hitomi stepped back into the room.

Her playful confidence was gone.

“Sakuma?” Takuya said, standing from the floor, trying to shake off the strange sensation. “You okay?”

“I-I think we should head back,” she said, glancing over her shoulders a few times as she brushed up against him. “Something’s not—”

SCREEEEEECH.

The sound was distant but grating, metal on metal, echoing down the hall like something dragging itself forward.

Takuya’s stomach dropped. The air was too thick. Too still.

He stepped in front of her.

This wasn’t just an empty lab.

They weren’t alone.

“The wires…” Hitomi said, keeping her voice low, “they were for the alarm…but…”

Clicks and Rattles seemed to come from every hallway.

Takuya clenched his fists. Too many directions. No way to tell where—

THUD.

Metal groaned above them. The vents warped under something heavy, the screws shaking loose.

Scrape. Click. Click. Click.

SCREEEEECH.

Takuya’s entire body tensed. He instinctively grabbed Hitomi’s wrist. She stiffened at the touch but didn’t shake him off.

The air was thick. Suffocating.

BANG!

The ceiling collapsed.

A mass of black and green exploded downward, metal and plaster shattering against the floor.

A wing—no, a claw—lashed out.

Sakuma!

He shoved her aside as the thing crashed down, its body twisting as it landed. The impact knocked him over, ceiling debris raining around him.

Then it twitched.

A screech ripped through the room, a jagged, unnatural sound that sent a shockwave of nausea through his bones. It wasn’t just noise—it was wrong.

Hitomi collapsed to her knees, gasping.

She gasped in fright to look up and see the creature. A grotesque mixture of green and black flesh and feathers. Bird-like legs of human skin, with enormous talons. Massive, feathered wings in place of arms. Its face morphed into a fleshy beak filled with sharp teeth.

“What the hell is that—?” they both breathed.

It looked like some kind of twisted… vulture.

The word stuck in Takuya’s brain like a splinter.

It straightened. Feathers rattled, cracked. The beak… opened.

“C—Rrrrekk…kklll…” its throat convulsed like it was choking on its own voice.

“Rrrrrelief… f-for… the… paaa—PAIIIIIIN!!”

The last word was half-shriek, half-growl—like metal scraping across glass.

It twitched.

A ragged inhale. A gurgling exhale.

“H… h-hel… help… hhrrkk—! Rrrg—!!”

The vulture’s deformed beak gnashed open and shut, like a puppet’s mouth on broken strings.

The thing launched forward, its beady eyes locked on Hitomi.

Move!

Takuya swung a metal pipe with everything he had.

CRACK.

The impact reverberated through his arms. Pain exploded in his shoulders.

It staggered—just for a second.

Then, it turned to him.

The feathers rattled.

And then—

The wing struck like a blade.

Pain. Burning.

Takuya was thrown back, crashing through the glass containers behind.

The last thing he saw before the world blurred was Hitomi screaming his name.

Takuya groaned as he lay there. One of the vulture’s feathers stuck in his arm like a knife. The spider from the container made its way towards him, over shards of glass.

The vulture dragged its talons towards him. Its beady eyes almost glowing.

“S-s-staaaayyy!!” it hissed before breaking out towards him.

“No!” Hitomi yelped.

She dived through it with her quirk, tightly shielding Takuya as the creature’s fleshly maw plunged into them.

The creature raised its head in confusion as Hitomi and Takuya remained intact in the debris. Its beak twitched. It knew it should've hit.

Sweat from the strain of using her quirk so many times, so intensely, was starting to be visible on her face, as she snatched Takuya’s hand and pulled him with her as hard as she could – narrowly avoiding another attack from the creature.

They bolted away, Hitomi phasing them through obstacles as the creature pursued.

“Are you…okay?” she panted, never once letting slip her grip on his hand.

Takuya, trailing behind her with one arm against his side, and the other gripping her hand tightly, replied “It’s just…my ribs, no biggie…”

The creature crashed its way through walls and containers after them. Gaining.

“H… h-hhrrkk… h…help… m…mee…”

“There’s the exit!” Hitomi exclaimed, as they rushed down the way they got in.

The doors were in full view. Almost there.

A sharp sting exploded at the rear of his neck, sharply jerking him back, gasping.

The spider.

Shock. Fire. His body seized. His vision spiked white.

He stumbled.

Hitomi’s grip ripped away as he slammed into the doors.

His vision swam—his pulse roared in his ears.

The Vulture was charging.

Crawling on all fours, its beak snapping.

This is it. I’m dead.

Then—fingers reached through the door.

Two hands wrapped around his face.

And the world yanked away.

That crawling, buzzing feeling shot through his bones.

The doors vanished.

Then—blinding daylight.

Takuya gasped, staggering. His stomach twisted.

Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up…

He glanced up to see Hitomi's panting face, her hands still wrapped around his face.

Takuya stumbled to his knees, still shaking. ‘I thought for sure I was…’

Then the wall behind them exploded.

“Thrr perr—PAAIIINNN—!!” the creature screeched, clawing its way through the hole.

“Maake…it…STAAARR—!!”

Concrete debris and shattered glass rained out as the Vulture burst into the open.

Panic hit like a bomb.

People screamed. Ran. Pushed. A surge of terrified attendees poured toward the exits as the creature stretched its wings wide, shrieking at the ceiling.

“MOVE!” Hitomi yanked Takuya again, dragging him behind a column just as the Vulture dove into the crowd.

Iron Cross security charged in, weapons drawn—too slow, too close.

BAM! One was snatched off the ground and flung across the lobby like a ragdoll.

“HEROES ON SITE! NOW!” someone barked over a comm.

And then—

“YEAHHHH!!”

A sonic pulse exploded from above, scattering feathers and debris.

Present Mic landed hard, arms wide, voice reverberating through the building.

“EVERYONE EVACUATE—NOW!”

The Vulture screeched and reeled, its body spasming under the impact—but it didn’t go down.

“I got eyes on the bogey!” shouted Power Loader, bursting up from the floor on an elevator rig. He aimed a cannon-like device and fired a snare net—but the Vulture sliced through it midair with a razor-wing.

“What the hell is that thing?” growled Midnight, appearing on the balcony above, whip in hand.

She lashed down. Gas hissed from her bracer. The Vulture slowed for a breath—

Then snapped back with a howl.

Its movements were glitchy. Twitching. Like it wasn’t fully in control of its own body.

One clawed foot landed on a presentation platform.

The other crashed through a support beam.

Its wings flexed—and shattered overhead screens as it lifted off, flinging shards everywhere.

Hitomi and Takuya ducked behind cover again as another screech shattered a row of glass displays.

Takuya winced, gripping his ribs. “We’ve gotta get out of here—!”

“LOOK OUT!”

A security drone exploded, sending fire and smoke spiraling into the air.

The creature cut through it, then turned its eyes skyward.

It howled again.

And launched upward, wings unfurling in a grotesque spiral of feathers and flesh. The skylight above cracked—then shattered completely as the Vulture crashed through it, sunlight pouring down in its wake.

It vanished into the clouds.

Screams still echoed. People cried. Smoke rose from the wreckage.

Takuya collapsed to his knees again, gasping for breath.

His shirt was torn. His ribs screamed. But he was alive.

Hitomi crouched beside him.

Sweat dripped from her brow.

She was breathing hard, eyes scanning the ceiling where the creature had disappeared.

“Not bad…for your first mission…assistant,” Hitomi said. “What…was…that thing?”

“They’re not…gonna…blame us for this, are they?” Takuya wheezed, heart hammering.

Hitomi chuckled, still breathless. “Nah… they’ll probably say it was some villain attack. Especially if… they were… responsible for it.”

She stood up, but rested back against the column. “They won’t want that bad press to get out.”

Takuya laughed weakly, standing up beside her. “Maybe…you…were right…about that story…” His arms felt weirdly heavy. His ribs ached, but…

Why… why am I still breathing so hard?

His heartbeat was pounding too fast.

Hitomi’s smile faded slightly, “Yamashiro?”

His vision pulsed. The room blurred in and out.

My body… it feels like it’s on fire.

“Yamashiro, are you okay?”

He staggered. His chest seized.

Then—he dropped.

She caught him before he hit the floor, her hands pulling back in shock as he started convulsing.

“HELP! HE’S HURT!” she yelled.

Takuya's veins burned. His vision blurred.

What’s happening to me?

He saw a flash of red—a familiar voice. Shinko was suddenly there, pushing past debris, eyes wide. “Takuya!”

The last thing he saw was his sister shaking him, and Hitomi’s mortified expression, frozen above him.

I can’t die like this. Not in front of her. Not like this.

Not when I didn’t even do anything…

His skin was buzzing. His blood felt like it was boiling in reverse—cool heat, burning cold. Wrong.

Then Darkness.

Chapter Text

The event floor lay in ruins.

Police cordoned off the wreckage with yellow tape and heavy boots. The air reeked of ozone and scorched plastic, and steam hissed from shattered vents. Overhead, strips of lighting flickered, casting stuttering shadows across overturned booths.

Emergency responders moved through the chaos like ants, ferrying stretchers past shattered displays. A paramedic wheeled out a stretcher, its occupant wrapped in an oxygen mask. A few attendees still lingered in the lobby, dazed and blank-eyed. Their murmurs mixed with the drone of sirens outside.

An elevator dinged.

From its open doors stepped a man with unkempt black hair, a scarf draped loosely around his neck. His half-lidded eyes took in the wreckage, the crunch of glass underfoot steady and slow.

“What a pain…” he muttered.

He hadn’t been on duty. But the second he heard about a “winged creature” attacking Iron Cross Tower, he showed up anyway. Instinct. Or maybe experience. Either way, it rarely led him wrong.

He moved through the debris, ignoring the buzz of questions and flashing lights. A shattered projection screen hung in ribbons above the collapsed stage. A branded Iron Cross banner sagged from its rafters, one corner burned away. Officers scrambled around him as he made his way beneath the broken skylight.

What is it about these kinds of events that always attracts trouble?

A faint beam of natural light cut through the jagged glass, glinting off a puddle of coolant and a bent conference stand. That’s when he noticed something on the floor.

He crouched for a closer look.

A feather. Green with a black tip. Long and sharp. Blade-like in fact.

He turned it in gloved fingers. The texture was off. Not synthetic. Real. Organic. But not familiar.

“YO, AIZAWA!” a loud voice called out.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look up, as the footsteps grew closer.

“Hey man, about time you got here! Found something?” Present Mic slid to a stop next to him. “Wait—lemme guess…you’re brooding dramatically over a single clue again, huh? Classic Eraser.”

Aizawa sighed through his nose. “Yamada.”

Mic grinned, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, scarf flipped over one shoulder. His shades were slightly askew—he hadn’t even fixed them since the Expo.

“We got Nemuri and Higari waiting in the meeting room back there with Tsukauchi and the Doctor,” Mic said. “They’re giving us the lowdown.”

Aizawa held up the feather. “Know anyone who sheds green?”

Mic whistled low. “No one on the registry I can think of. Sorta reminds me of Hawks, but that’s not his style.”

“I thought the same,” Aizawa muttered, “But this isn’t from Fierce Wings. Doesn’t sound like any bird-type Quirk I’ve ever seen either…”

“Well, it didn’t look like your ordinary bird either, I’ll tell ya that…” Mic scratched the back of his head, glancing up at the jagged skylight. “Big-time kaiju vibes.”

Aizawa slipped the feather into an evidence pouch. “Let’s see what the doctor says before we start calling it a kaiju.”

“You think they’ve got something to do with it?” Mic asked.

Aizawa didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the scorched floor, then shifted to the sagging Iron Cross banner. “These things don’t just show up. Someone wanted to make a statement.”

They walked through the gleaming corridor, stepping over fallen debris and shattered display signs—the remnants of chaos just hours old. A faint hum of emergency power pulsed beneath their feet as they reached a wide, brushed-steel double door.

Mic whistled. “Man, even after a kaiju attack, this place still looks fancier than any studio I’ve ever broadcast from.”

The doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the room beyond.

A polished obsidian table stretched across the center, surrounded by sleek, ergonomic chairs that probably cost more than Mic’s entire sound rig. Holographic panels shimmered faintly in standby mode on one side of the wall, while a recessed lighting system glowed a soft ambient blue above them. There were refreshments set out at the far end—untouched, from whatever event had been abruptly interrupted. A shattered champagne glass glittered in the corner.

"Check it—soundproof panels, built-in A/V, and… are those temperature-sensitive seats?” Mic leaned on a chair, then immediately recoiled.

Aizawa gave him a dry look.

Inside, four figures were already gathered—each one casting a long shadow of authority in their own way.

Power Loader hunched over one of the holoscreens, visor glinting as he swiped through the feeds with short, impatient gestures. His reinforced exosuit whirred softly with each movement—more tool than uniform, scuffed and battle-worn. He looked like a man who who would prefer to be getting his hands dirty with machinery, than to be sat in a meeting room.

Midnight sat at the far end of the table, legs crossed and arms folded, her usual playfulness absent beneath a sleek black utility jacket thrown over her hero costume. A tablet glowed faintly in her lap as she reviewed something, her dark eyes occasionally flicking up—sharp, calculating.

Detective Naomasa Tsukauchi leaned against the wall near the head of the table, arms crossed in his usual trench coat, shirt slightly rumpled, as if he hadn’t slept since the attack. His calm demeanor masked a quietly grinding mind.

And at the table’s center sat Dr. Saeko Sakuma—a presence both poised and clinical. Her white lab coat was immaculate, draped over a steel-blue turtleneck and tailored slacks, the lapel pinned with the sleek silver emblem of Iron Cross Labs. Her long black hair was tied into an elegant bun, held in place by a single lacquered hair stick—sleek, minimal, and unmistakably deliberate. Not a strand out of place. Her posture was textbook-perfect; her features elegant and pale, but with an edge that suggested steel beneath the surface.

She adjusted her glasses very slowly at the new arrivals. Her eyes—sharp amber, flecked with something colder—took in the room with surgical efficiency. No warmth. Just calculation. Precision.

She sat upright, hands folded neatly in front of her. The ambient blue lighting seemed to dim slightly in her presence.

Aizawa’s eyes flicked across the room, quietly assessing the tension. “Looks like we missed introductions.”

Midnight looked up. “Took you long enough.”

Mic grinned and gave a lazy salute.

“With Eraserhead here, let’s not waste any more time,” Detective Tsukauchi said.

Power Loader tapped the screen. The holopanel flared to life with distorted security footage. The room dimmed slightly as it played: a flickering hallway, emergency lights pulsing red, static crawling across the lower third of the feed.

“This was pulled from a secondary camera just outside the restricted wing,” Power Loader explained.

The footage showed the creature bursting through the metal doors. It was hunched, twitching, with jagged feathers bristling from elongated arms and its spine. Its face was a distorted blur of human and avian features—twisted beak, bulging eyes, and a mixture of pale skin and feathers, a shriek that echoed in the silent playback.

“His name was Dr. Keiji Tooma,” Dr. Sakuma said, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “A former technician. He was let go from Iron Cross several months ago due to behavioral concerns.”

Tsukauchi’s brow furrowed. “Let go? And you didn’t report anything?”

“There was nothing to report,” she replied evenly. “His Quirk was a bird-type, yes, but stable. Nothing we saw at the time suggested volatility. We believe this…” she paused, eyes flicking toward the feed. “…mutation… was self-induced.”

Mic gave a low whistle. “Yeesh. Dude turned himself into a horror flick.”

“We’re treating it as a tragic act of workplace retaliation,” Dr. Sakuma continued, eyes flicking to each of them in turn. “We believe he managed to sneak back in through a cargo maintenance hatch and accessed restricted areas using a stolen badge—his own, most likely reactivated through a backdoor exploit in our older clearance software. It’s already being patched.”

“And the restricted wing?” Aizawa asked flatly. “The one the creature came out of. Where’s the footage there?”

“There were no cameras inside, so we have no visuals on what went on,” Power Loader replied. He started flicking to other camera angles near the wing.

“It’s a highly classified wing,” Dr. Sakuma explained, “Storage of our upcoming products, and some R&D overflow. Iron Cross cannot afford leaks to our competitors; thus access is restricted to very specific personnel. Any experimental material that wasn’t destroyed was cleared out long before authorities arrived, per standard safety protocols.”

“It doesn’t seem to have been as secure as you were hoping,” Midnight commented, “What were Iron Cross’s plans if someone, like this Tooma fellow, were able to sneak in and record your materials?”

“We focused on surveillance surrounding the entrances to the wing, in tandem with our clearance-based access. Outside of Tooma’s hacking efforts, we would always be immediately informed of any attempts to enter without—”

Mic’s mouth dropped open. “...Is that—?”

The footage had switched over—another angle just before the Vulture burst out onto the Expo's floor. A student suddenly phased through a the doors into frame. She stumbled on entry, looked back to the doors, and pulled through a second student with her quirk, a boy.

Sakuma’s composure faltered. She pinched the bridge of her nose, over her glasses, groaning under her breath.

“For the love of… Hitomi...”

Midnight leaned forward. “That’s your daughter?”

“I'm afraid so...”

Onscreen, the Vulture burst through the wall seconds later, shrieking. The two teens bolted down the event floors, narrowly avoiding a swipe of those blade-like feathers. The footage cut to black.

Midnight tilted her head, lips curling. “Well, well… looks like young love breached your security.”

Dr. Sakuma exhaled sharply through her nose.

“I’m just saying,” Midnight said, lounging back in her seat, a glint of nostalgia in her eyes, “phasing into a restricted lab with some shaky boy in tow? It’s all the signs of teenage rebellion written all over it.”

Mic chuckled beside her. “He did look like he was one step away from passing out. Poor kid probably thought he was on a study date.”

Midnight chuckled, brushing a finger along her chin. “Still, you’ve gotta admire the audacity. She’s got guts—dragging some poor boy into a science death trap?”

“I will deal with her,” Dr. Sakuma muttered, voice like ice melting into a migraine. “But clearly, she wasn’t alone.”

Aizawa looked toward the now-blank screen. “You know the boy?”

“No,” Sakuma said. “A classmate, most likely. I’ll have security trace their movements.”

“What about Tooma?” Aizawa asked, his gaze shifting toward Power Loader.

Power Loader tapped the console. “He escaped through the Event Floor skylight, out into the city. No sightings since.”

“Nothing from our side either.” Tsukauchi frowned. “It’s like he vanished.”

“You mean we have no way to track him down?” Midnight said, raising an eyebrow.

Mic leaned forward, hands flailing as if trying to pull the words from the air. “That’s no good! That’s a whole Monster-bird swooping through the city—!”

The room shuddered as the doors rippled like a mirage, then a man stormed through it—phasing in with a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

“Where the hell is she?!” he barked, striding into the room.

Dr. Sakuma let out a long, suffering sigh, rubbing her temples again.

“That,” Tsukauchi said dryly, “is actually my answer to tracking Tooma. This is Detective Juzo—”

“Where’s Hitomi?” Juzo snapped, voice cracking with worry. “Where’s our little girl, Sae? She was here during the attack. Where did she go?”

Dr. Sakuma readjusted her glasses at him. “She’s not dead, Juzo. You can unclench.” Her expression was colder than before.

Mic and Midnight sat frozen, eyes wide, like they were watching a live soap opera unfold before them.

“What an unexpected twist," Midnight whispered.

Mic leaned in too, barely containing his excitement, “This is better than Thursday night dramas.”

“You think this is funny?! She was in the middle of a warzone, Saeko!” Juzo said, fury in his face. “I’m told it was some mutant…bird…kaiju-thing?”

“She was smart enough to follow emergency procedure,” she said coolly. “A quality, I note, she didn’t inherit from you.” She folded her arms as she stared him down.

“She didn’t call me, Sae.” Juzo’s voice cracked with frustration. “You have any idea what that’s like? Thinking your kid might’ve been crushed under this whole damn building, while you’re chasing ghosts across the city?”

“She’s at Musutafu General.”

“She’s in the hospital?!”

“She went with her friend—he collapsed after the attack. Ms. Yamashiro—one of my brightest interns—is with them. She’s safe.”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

Juzo’s fists finally unclenched, his broad shoulders sagging slightly. His usual harshness softened as the weight of Saeko’s words settled in.

Mic and Midnight leaned in closer.

Juzo finally looked away, exhaling deeply. “...Thanks,” he muttered, a hint of relief in his voice.

“If you’d answered my last three messages, you would’ve known sooner.”

“I tried calling you. You’re the one not answering.”

Tsukauchi gestured toward them with a tired smile. “As you’ve probably gathered, Detective Sakuma here is Dr. Sakuma’s husband.”

“Ex!” both snapped in unison.

“That was a whole three-act play in under two minutes,” Midnight whispered.

Mic grinned. “Man, and I thought Eraser’s dating life was messy.”

Aizawa shifted in his seat, pretending to ignore the sudden influx of attention. “I don’t date.”

Mic laughed and clapped a hand on his back. “Tell that to Ms. Joke! Pretty sure she’s still trying to marry you online.”

“She’s blocked,” Aizawa muttered.

“That’s not the denial you think it is,” Midnight smirked.

“Can we please focus on the winged mutant tearing holes in buildings?” Aizawa groaned.

Tsukauchi cleared his throat loudly, steering the room back to the topic at hand.

“Detective Sakuma wasn’t just here to yell at his ex-wife,” he said. “His unit’s actually been running into something familiar.”

Juzo crossed his arms, still bristling. “We’ve had reports over the last three months. Most dismissed at first—urban myths, rogue mutations. But they’re getting more frequent. Sewer-dwellers. Lizard-like, sometimes serpentine. One ripped through an old water main in Sector 5.”

Aizawa’s brow furrowed. “Lizard monsters?”

“We had a sighting near a scrap yard three weeks ago,” Juzo said. “Tore through fencing like paper. No Quirk registry matched it. Another one near the old tunnel system. Surveillance failed every time—either scrambled or blacked out.”

Power Loader frowned. “None of that hit our radar.”

“We kept it quiet,” Tsukauchi explained. “Didn’t want to cause panic without hard proof. But Tooma’s appearance today? Same energy signatures. Same pattern of destruction.”

Midnight leaned back in her seat. “So this isn’t an isolated event.”

“No,” Juzo said. “It’s an escalation.”

All eyes shifted to Dr. Sakuma. She didn’t flinch.

“We’ve had…an issue, lately,” she said coolly, brushing her coat sleeve. “A vigilante’s been attacking sites connected to genetic research. Destructive, erratic. Calls himself Exigen. Our sites have suffered extensive damage wherever he appears. No identity, no quirk registry, and no clear objective—just chaos.”

“Cool name,” Mic muttered under his breath. “Wait, wasn’t there a lab raid last month?”

“Three, actually,” Saeko replied, voice calm. “No one’s claimed responsibility, but the pattern fits. Break-ins, data theft, damaged prototypes—every time it’s an Iron Cross property tied to our bio-tech division.”

She tapped a few keys on her tablet. “He’s been spotted at multiple Iron Cross research sites. Security footage is fragmented at best—he’s careful.”

“Then there’s this,” she added. The screen flickered, shifting again.

The footage stuttered—A dark figure on a sleek motorcycle zipped across the display, weaving through a hail of gunfire. Frame by frame, he dismounted in a blur, his armor catching the light—sleek, high-tech, and black as obsidian. The helmet’s visor pulsed faintly with blue lines tracing across, like a heartbeat in the dark, steady and inhuman.

Another feed—He weaved between blasts of energy fire, leaping off the bike in a single smooth motion, and unleashing a bright pulse that disabled nearby turrets. His movements were precise, practiced. Like a ghost trained in science and war.

“He’s highly trained,” she said.

“Too precise for a random vigilante," Juzo added, studying the footage. "His tech is far beyond street-level. Nothing we've seen on the streets of any of this stuff on the black market.”

Midnight raised a brow. “And you’re saying he’s behind all this?”

“I’m saying his presence correlates with the increase in incidents,” Dr. Sakuma said. “If he’s tampering with our materials… there’s no telling what he’s already set in motion.”

Mic scratched his chin. “So this Exigen guy’s what? Some anti-corporate robin hood wannabe?”

“Or a mad scientist in body armor,” Midnight added. "His self-proclaimed noble goals could be a front to steal their tech for his own goals."

“I’ve got my people digging,” Tsukauchi said. “But if this Exigen is responsible for the escalation of these…'monster-kaiju' cases, we need to find him before another Tooma shows up.”

Power Loader crossed his arms. “He’s no joke. The last drone that got close was fried by some kind of energy burst.”

“Not to mention,” Juzo added, “he’s managed to stay one step ahead of everyone. If he's the same guy we've had reports on before, even our best recon teams can’t track him.”

A low murmur passed through the room. Opinions bubbled beneath the surface.

But Aizawa didn’t speak. He stood still, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the paused screen—on the glowing eyes behind that visor, the swift, purposeful movements, the way the man never hesitated.

“Got something on your mind?” Tsukauchi asked him quietly.

Aizawa didn’t answer right away.

Then, without looking away, he muttered, “I’ve seen enough.”

He turned toward the door.

“I’ll find him.”

Chapter Text

Takuya stirred to the steady beep of monitors. He heard a sharp inhale, followed by a rush of movement. Warm hands cupped his face, brushing his hair back.

“Takuya!” his mother’s voice was teetering on the edge of panic, but relieved.

“Mom…?” he murmured through the impact of his mother’s embrace.

His vision swam as it adjusted to the dim hospital light—strangely sharp, clearer than it should’ve been.

Probably just the meds.

“Where am I?” he said, trying to sit up.

Kiri’s hands pressed him back down, “No, no, don’t get up. You just woke up.”

His body felt weird. Heavy. His head was pounding.

Then he felt a sharp smack on his arm. He flinched to see his sister on the other side. Her eyes scanned him like she was making sure he was actually in one piece.

Then she smacked him again.

"Idiot. You scared the hell out of us."

"Ow—?! Okay, hi to you too."

Her arms were crossed, annoyance on her face—but her fingers gripped her sleeves just a little too tight

“Be gentler with him, Shinko,” Kiri huffed, “he’s been unconscious!”

Then she smacked him on the arm as well, “What were you doing, scaring us like that?”

Takuya groaned, rubbing both of his arms, "Okay, okay, I get it, I freaked everyone out. I’m sorry."

“You should be!” his mother and sister smacked him again in unison.

The doctor cleared his throat with a smile, as he flicked through his chart.

“Hello Takuya, how are you feeling?”

Takuya shifted his eyes between his mother and his sister, shielding his arms from them, “Very, very sorry…?”

Shinko swapped places with the doctor, allowing him to stand by his bedside, as she stood off on the other end of the room. She kept her arms crossed, looking at the floor, and she bounced slightly on one knee.

His father stood off to the side, arms folded, his foot bouncing silently. Takuya couldn’t remember the last time he saw him look so shaken.

“Do you remember anything about what happened?” the doctor asked.

Takuya glanced at Shinko, who gave him a brief, forced, smile.

“I was at the Iron Cross Expo,” he said, “there was an attack, some weird vulture-guy.”

“Anything about what led you to passing out? Were you feeling at all unwell at any point this morning?”

Takuya shook his head, “I don’t think so. It just, sorta, happened suddenly.”

Hiroshi, who had been absently drumming his fingers against his elbow, went still for half a second. Then, just as quickly, he resumed. His face tighter, as he muttered, almost to himself: “This shouldn’t have happened…”

Kiri gently rubbed her hand against her son's, looking up at the doctor, “Is he going to be okay?”

The doctor exhaled, looking at the chart again.

“We’ve run every test we have, but your son’s come up normal. Any injuries were minor; no internal bleeding, no toxins…” he stepped away from the bed, “From our tests, he’s perfectly healthy. Quite fit for his age, in fact.”

Takuya perked up at that last comment, not that he really believed it.

“To be completely honest, there’s no clear cause as to what happened. It was almost like his system… rebooted. Everything stopped, then started back up again without warning.”

Kiri frowned, "What do you mean there’s no clear cause? Then why did he collapse?”

The doctor opened his mouth to speak.

"Why is he still pale?" she continued.

“Mom, I’ve always been this pale,” Takuya said, softly.

“I’m your mother, I know exactly how pale you are and aren’t,” she said, glaring at him, “and you are in no position to be giving anyone your smart mouth.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, focusing straight ahead, his lips now sealed tight.

Even the doctor seemed a little afraid of her intensity.

“A-As I said, we’re not certain the exact cause,” the doctor continued, glancing over at Hiroshi for support. He got none. “But it is very likely it was a combination of shock, and exhaustion – a stress-induced seizure from the incident. His work is normal now, but we would like to keep an eye on him over night.” He gestured over to the door, “Could you come with me to fill out some paperwork?”

Kiri rose up. “I’ll get my overnight bag,” she marched after the doctor into the hallway, followed by his father.

Shinko lingered for a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”

Takuya looked down at his chest. “Sorry sis…” he said, “I really messed up today…”

“Don’t be a dummy,” she said with a light laugh. “I’m just glad you’re safe now. Don’t do that again though,” she made her way to the door. “You really made us worry.”

“Yeah, I know – Mom was really upset…”

“Not who I meant…” Shinko grinned like a Shark.

Takuya blinked, his brain buffering as his cheeks caught fire.

Shinko snickered, "You should’ve seen your face just now. Priceless."

Blushing hard, Takuya groaned, pulling the blanket over his head. “I hate you.”

"Love you too, kiddo,” and she exited into the hall.

With everyone gone, Takuya stared at the ceiling.

The memories of the attack replayed in his head—the Vulture’s screech, its beady, unnatural eyes locking onto him, the way its voice twisted between a plea and a scream. The feeling of swinging that metal pipe with everything he had—only for it to barely stagger. His fingers twitched at the memory. Even now, his arms ached from the impact. It was like trying to punch a typhoon.

What did I think I could do?

A bitter scoff left him as he draped an arm over his face.

What a joke. I wasn’t just helpless—I barely even slowed it down.
If Hitomi hadn’t been there…

Yeah. He didn’t even want to think about it.

...Maybe Sugihara was right.

The idea made his stomach churn, but the more he sat with it, the harder it was to ignore.

Am I just jealous?
I mean—who wouldn’t want a quirk? I just hate being seen as some weak, fragile, kid just because I don't have one.
If I had a quirk, things definitely would've gone differently.

His arm slid back down to his side.

Would I still be so bitter all the time if I had a quirk?
I hate that I’m even thinking about this...

Frustration flared, and he tossed in bed—knocking his phone off the side table.

He grumbled, reaching over to grab it.

The screen was still lit. A new message.

The number wasn’t saved in his contacts.

He frowned, then opened it.

Unknown Number: Hey, it’s Hitomi.  (✧∀✧)/
Unknown Number: Your sister gave me your number—hope that’s okay? I asked her to let me know when you woke up.

Takuya pressed his face against the screen in shock. He continued reading.

Unknown Number: Just wanted to check in. How’re you feeling?
Unknown Number: Also…
Unknown Number: sorry for dragging you into all that. (シ_ _)シ But, uh… thanks for sticking with me anyway!
Unknown Number: I was really glad you were there
Unknown Number: Mom found out about everything and definitely chewed me out for sneaking around. Sooo that was fun. (＞﹏＜)
Unknown Number: But hey, at least that meant she actually made time to talk to me. I’ll call that a win.

He smiled, reading her messages. His chest loosened for the first time since waking up.

Saving her contact in his phone, he then replied.

Me: Thanks. (｡•́︿•̀｡)

No, no. Too much. He quickly erased it and retyped.

Me: I’m fine.
Me: Are you okay? You know, after everything?

She replied pretty quickly.

Sakuma: Yeah! ＼(٥⁀▽⁀ )／
Sakuma: I’m so glad you’re okay. I know your sister said you were, but I wanted to make sure.
Sakuma: Yeah I’m okay. That thing was pretty scary. 〜(＞＜)〜
Sakuma: I didn’t see anything about it on the news. You think it’s still out there?

Me: Dunno. Maybe a hero already took care of it?

Sakuma: Maybe…
Sakuma: Let’s talk about it at school! You think you’ll be back on Monday?

She wants to talk more at school? Have I got my ‘in’?

Me: I think so. I feel fine. Doctor said I should stay overnight.

Sakuma: Cool!
Sakuma: Then you better get some rest! (￣o￣) zzZZzzZZ
Sakuma: I’ll need my assistant in top shape! ᕙ(•̀ ᗜ •́)ᕗ
Sakuma: I’m going to go develop these photos now. (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ 📷
Sakuma: Feel better soon!
Sakuma: Bye~!

Takuya laughed to himself.

Maybe he didn’t save the day, but…

I guess just being there counted for something.

Takuya set his phone down, staring at the ceiling.

Even after everything that happened, she still found a silver lining—getting to talk to her mom, even if it was just a lecture.

He sighed, rubbing his arm. That was something he and Shinko never had to worry about. Their parents were always there—maybe too much sometimes, sure. But still there.

He frowned, shifting in bed. His hearing felt too sharp, picking up every word even through the walls.

They’re fighting again.

The hallway outside buzzed with quiet tension. Hiroshi’s voice was the first to cut through.

“I told you that place wasn’t safe,” his voice firm.

“How are you blaming me for this?” Shinko shot back, “You think I knew the tower was going to get attacked by a freaky villain? Come on, Dad. Villains attack everywhere. This could’ve just as easily happened in a mall, a train station…”

“But it didn’t happen at a mall,” Hiroshi countered. “It happened there. And that wasn’t just some villain—”

Shinko scoffed. “Oh, what, are you saying we created that thing?”

“Don’t say ‘we’—you’re not like them—”

“I am a part of them, Dad,” she interrupted. “It's my dream job! Just like it used to be yours.”

A sharp voice cut through the hallway.

“Enough of that!”

Kiri’s voice.

She approached with her overnight bag slung over her shoulder, her glare cutting through them both. “I can hear you all the way down the hall! We are in a hospital. Takuya is recovering in the room right here, while you two are arguing like that!”

Shinko and Hiroshi fell silent. Shinko looked at the floor, shifting on her feet. Hiroshi exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Once she was content that the point was made, Kiri made her way into the room. A final cold glance at them both, keeping them quiet afterwards.

A moment of silence.

Then, Hiroshi’s phone buzzed.

He glanced down at the screen. The color drained from his face.

“I have to go,” he muttered, turning to leave.

“What?” Shinko’s head snapped up. She darted a glance toward the hospital room, lowering her voice but not her frustration. “You’re leaving? While Takuya’s still in a hospital bed?”

Hiroshi hesitated. Just for a second.

Then he clenched his jaw. “It’s… something I have to deal with. I’m sorry.”

That was all he said before walking off briskly, disappearing around the corner.

Shinko huffed a bitter laugh, running a hand through her hair.

“Unbelievable.”

She turned back toward the hospital room, hesitated, then stepped inside.

Kiri was already fussing over Takuya, fluffing his pillow and checking his blankets. She turned to Shinko with a pointed look.

“If you’re staying,” Kiri said, “go help me set up.” She gestured to a folded sleeping bag tucked against the chair.

“You know dad left?” Shinko asked.

Her mother gave her another pointed look, “We could hear your voices from in here.”

Shinko exhaled through her nose, then walked over to set it up without another word.

Takuya watched them, his chest tightening. The tension still clung to the air, but at least things had settled.

The minutes passed.

The night pressed on.

The hospital dimmed as visiting hours ended.

Takuya lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Kiri had dozed off in the chair beside him, bundled in the sleeping bag, her breathing steady.

He turned his head slightly. Shinko was stretched out on the couch near the window, arms crossed, eyes closed—whether actually asleep or just pretending, he couldn’t tell.

Everything was calm.

So why did he feel worse?

His skin tingled, an unbearable buzzing beneath his flesh. His fingers twitched. Every joint in his body ached, muscles spasming at random. His pulse hammered at his temples, too fast, too strong.

He inhaled sharply.

His ears picked up the faintest hum of the hospital’s fluorescent lights, the beeping of monitors three rooms down.

What the—?

His vision sharpened, then blurred. His heart raced. His limbs burned.

Takuya gritted his teeth, gripping his blanket.

Breathe. Just breathe.

His mother stirred slightly beside him. If he made a sound, she’d wake up. If he moved, she’d panic all over again.

He clenched his jaw. His fingers curled into the sheets.

Calm down. It’s just stress. Just exhaustion.

Then—A jolt tore through his muscles, like something inside was reconstructing itself.

He barely had time to process the pain before his vision lurched, and—

He was falling.

Darkness.

Skittering. Rhythmic. Chittering.

His limbs felt heavy. He tried to move, but his body wouldn’t respond.

But something moved.

No. Somethings.

Thousands of tiny, glowing red eyes.

Shifting.

Legs—too many legs. Crawling. Twitching.

They scurried all over him. Swarming up his body, but his body locked up.

He tried to scream, but nothing came out. Harder and harder he tried, until the skittering reached his face.

Prickling skittering. Tiny pins across his cheeks.

He writhed inside, but his body didn't listen.

Suddenly he was falling again.

Plunged into a tangle of silk, sticky and suffocating.

A spider’s web. Reaching out as far as he could see.

He thrashed and pulled, but it clung to him. Tightening.

A sharp, piercing sensation at the back of his neck.

Something spread through his veins, burning like fire.

He could feel them. Skittering beneath his skin.

His bones shifting.

Voices echoed from the dark all around him.

“You scared the hell out of us."
“But he did.”
"All Might would’ve stopped him in half the time!"
“The spider was alive, though,”
“Help! He’s hurt!”
“I was at the Expo...some weird vulture-guy.”
“Well, be careful what you wish for.”
“The spider there,”
"Love you too, kiddo,”
“Rrrelief…fer thr perr—PAAIII—!!”
"No internal bleeding, no toxins…”
"It bit me.”
"You're just mad because you don’t even have a Quirk."
“Changed me.”
“The spider…”

A wave of shifting legs and glowing eyes. Thousands of tiny spiders, merging, twisting, coiling together.

The mass pulled itself upright. From the swarm, a shape emerged.

A colossal spider, its body pulsing with an eerie glow, like the one in the lab.

It loomed over him, mandibles dripping.

Its eight eyes locked onto him, reflecting his own terrified face.

“You wanted to be strong.”

Takuya’s breath caught.

“Different.”

The silk tightened around his limbs.

He struggled, trying to scream— but no sound escaped.

“Power.”

He looked down at his arms.

They twisted.

They snapped.

His fingers merged, stretched, curled into new shapes.

His skin split open.

Eight long, spindly legs emerged.

He gasped—

He bolted upright, drenched in sweat.

His heart hammered. His lungs fought for air.

He looked around.

The hospital room. His IV. The quiet beep of the monitors.

His sister, was gone now but his mother was fast asleep in her sleeping bag on the chair beside him.

Just a nightmare...

He sighed in relief.

That was pretty crazy. What did I eat to get me like that? Probably just the meds again.

He adjusted his sheets, trying to get himself settled and comfortable again.

He turned to see his mom. She was sitting up now, eyes lidded, as she slowly looked up at him.

“Sorry Mom,” he whispered, “Did I wake you?”

She blinked at him.

Her expression shifted.

Her eyes went wide.

She screamed.

Takuya flinched, “Mom?!”

She scrambled back, horrified, ripping out of her sleeping bag as she slammed against the wall.

“Get away!” she yelled, “Get away from me you monster! What did you do to my son?!”

His stomach twisted.

“Mom, please, it’s okay. It’s me—”

He raised his hand toward her.

But his hand wasn’t a hand anymore.

His arms weren’t arms anymore.

Spider-like limbs stretched from his torso.

Each one twitched, curling unnaturally.

His skin wasn’t skin.

Black chitin. Segmented.

His chest tightened.

His lungs struggled to expand.

Then he saw his reflection in the hospital window, his mother sobbing behind him.

It was a monster.

A spider-like abomination.

Like the Vulture.

Like one of Iron Cross’ tank experiments.

Like something that shouldn’t exist.

The window exploded inward—

Flames poured in first, curling across the walls like starving tongues.

The flame hero, Endeavor, emerged from the inferno, eyes glowing. Silent. Burning. Judging.

His face didn’t move, but his eyes screamed like ravenous wolves.

Each step left scorched footprints behind.

A voice crawled up inside Takuya’s head—his father’s—“They’ll never accept you.”

A second wave hit—

A scream like a siren cracking concrete.

The lights shattered. The floor shook.

Present Mic, mouth wide, voice warping the air into blades.

Metal claws stabbed through the tile—

Shrieking, screeching, sparking—

Power Loader ripped through the floor, rising like some industrial nightmare. His arms weren’t drills—they were graves, spinning, gnashing.

Rust and oil bled from the joints as he pointed them at Takuya’s chest.

Behind them—

A ripple in the air, a perfume too sweet to be real—

Violet mist curled in like silk wrapping a corpse.

Midnight floated through it, smiling with lips that didn’t move.

Her eyes were empty. Her laugh didn’t match her face. Her whip slithered across the ground like a serpent.

Takuya gasped for air. He choked a glowing green liquid from spidery mandibles poking around his teeth.

The heroes didn’t speak. They didn’t hesitate.

No, not heroes. Executioners.

Here for him.

He scrambled out of bed.

The IV snapped loose—blood trailing—

His feet—no, not feet—clicked on the tile.

He stared at them in horror.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real!

He bolted through the door, into a hallway that stretched on forever.

Behind him—flames chased like wolves. The floor cracked beneath booming footsteps.

Mic’s voice tore through the air—warped, too loud, echoing from every direction at once.

“You can’t run, bug-boy… YOU CAN’T RUN… can’t run bug-boy…”
Y̶O ̴U ̶ ̴C ̷A ̶N ̴ ’ ̸T ̸ ̸R ̷U ̵N ̶ ̶B ̴U ̸G ̶- ̴B ̶O ̸Y ̶!

The ceiling cracked. The walls pulsed. The sound crawled into Takuya’s skull like claws.

His spidery legs buckled.

He turned a corner—and froze.

Hitomi.

She stood in the corridor, backlit by red emergency lights.

Her eyes met his—and widened in horror.

She staggered back.

No!

“Hitomi, it’s me—please—” he tried to say, but it came out in a garbled spiel.

She screamed.

Her voice cracked like glass—then soldiers burst in around her, Iron Cross insignias glinting under the red lights.

“You don’t understand!” he cried.

He took a step toward her.

She flinched.

Gunfire erupted.

Rockets flew. Sirens screamed.

Smoke swallowed everything.

He tried to reach her. Tried to run.

Help me, please!
Why are you all looking at me like I’m a villain?

But his legs—monstrous legs—sank into the floor like tar.

She kept screaming.

He found himself screaming, but it wasn’t his voice.

“Thrr PAAIIINNN—!!”

More Gunfire. More explosions.

Takuya flinched, curling in on himself—

GASP!

He jerked awake.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

The hospital room came back into focus.

The IV. The monitors. The quiet.

His mother, peacefully asleep beside him.

He jolted the bedsheets off him, expecting his limbs and body.

Human. Normal.

No screaming. No monster.

No Heroes trying to kill him.

Just me.

But the burn was still there.

And something deep inside… was still twitching.

Chapter Text

Hiroshi hurried out of the hospital, the smell of rain in the air and the sting of his argument with Shinko still fresh. His jaw clenched as he replayed her words in his head.

His phone buzzed. Incoming call.

He slipped an earbud into place and tapped to answer.

"Where have you been?" His partner’s voice was sharp.

"My son’s in the hospital," Hiroshi muttered, scanning his surroundings as he cut into a dimly lit alley.

A beat of silence. Then:

"You do realize it’s still out there."

Hiroshi exhaled slowly, stepping behind a dumpster.

“I burned through my last dose fighting those dealers. Nearly collapsed when it wore off.” he approached a dumpster, reaching into his pocket, “Needed to give my body time to recover. Besides, you said he went dark.”

His fingers brushed against cold metal. A key.

Click.

A sleek, black motorcycle uncloaked from the shadows, its plating shifting to reveal its streamlined frame. Minimalist. Silent. Engineered for speed.

“That was then. It's back now. The mutation’s likely unstable. Not sure what that could mean. Either way, we’ve probably got a brief window.”

Hiroshi pulled on his bike gloves, then his dark-visored helmet. Nanites poured from his suit, coiling over his body like living shadows. Armor hardened into place.

His voice was low, even. “Any competition?” he said, his visor flashing to life—HUD online.

"No sign of Iron Cross recovery teams. No heroes on record yet. Wait—damn it. They just deployed their hunters."

His grip tightened on the handlebars.

"They’re gonna cover it up. This was our best chance to expose them!"

"Then we move first."

He thumbed a switch. The motorcycle’s engine howled like a banshee. A small compartment hissed open, ejecting a vial into his waiting hand.

He hesitated.

The serum glowed faintly, reflecting in his visor.

Takuya’s pale face flashed in his mind. Unconscious. Monitors beeping. Kiri clutching his hand. Shinko’s guilt.

His grip on the vial tightened.

"The longer you wait," his partner warned, "the harder this gets to fix."

A long breath.

"Start the timer."

"Timer set. One hour."

The HUD displayed: Mira Enhancements: 01:00:00

“Exigen: Online.” Hiroshi jabbed the vial into his thigh.

Click.

The injection hissed.

For a second, there was nothing.

Then—fire.

It tore through his bloodstream, igniting every cell. His vision blurred. His pulse slammed against his ribs. His fingers curled into fists as his muscles tensed, hardened, surged.

A gasp of ecstasy, then hunger. Always hunger.

The world snapped into razor focus.

The HUD updated:

Mira Enhancements Active.

He exhaled; eyes sharp behind the visor.

He twisted the throttle.

The engine screamed.

The world exploded past him in a blur of rain and neon. Exigen rode the night.

He weaved through traffic like a shadow, slipping between lanes like liquid darkness. Cars honked in alarm, but he was already gone—tilting, flowing, vanishing through the chaos with inhuman precision.

"You’re getting close. Mira signature last registered five blocks east, moving erratically—unstable as hell."

Hiroshi’s grip on the throttle tightened. "How recent?"

"Two minutes. We need to move—now."

He swerved toward a glass high-rise. The pavement blurred beneath him.

Then, with a flick of his wrist—he launched.

The engine howled. Tires screamed. Gravity fought and lost.

The force pinned him to the seat. His heart hammered against his ribs as the skyscraper clawed at his wheels. His bike rocketed up its sheer surface. Lights from office windows streaked past like shooting stars. The wind tore at his suit as he surged skyward.

The second his wheels hit the top, he twisted the handlebars—vaulting over the ledge and soaring across the gap between buildings.

The HUD flickered. Scanning. Tracking.

"Show-off," his partner chortled. “You want a hero on your tail? 'Cause that’s how you get one.”

Hiroshi ignored him. The city stretched beneath him like a neon grid, a pulsing network of information. Heat signatures, security feeds, police radio chatter—it all poured into his visor.

A yell for help.

Hiroshi’s breath slowed. The sound lingered in his ears.

His visor adjusted.

One block away. A narrow alley. A cluster of figures. Red silhouettes.

Mugging. Five against one. Not a hero in sight.

"Let it go, Hiroshi. We don’t have time."

Hiroshi was already shifting gears. "No heroes on radar. They’re alone."

"That’s not the mission."

Hiroshi’s fingers flexed on the throttle.

"It’s always the mission."

The civilian hit the rain-soaked pavement, his hoodie slipping down to reveal his face.

Bright green scales. A lizard-like jaw. Swept-back pinkish-purple hair. His hands gripped the wet ground, claws digging into the cracks.

"I said I don’t want trouble," he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice low but firm.

He tried to push himself up—only for a boot to slam down on his back.

"Stay down, freak," one of the muggers sneered, pressing a foot onto his throat.

"Look at this thing. Disgusting."

Another mugger snorted, spinning a metal pipe in his hands.

“He’s practically a villain already. Maybe we should just do everyone a favor—”

CRACK.

The pipe flew from his hands.

The group flinched—just in time to see a black blur roar overhead.

The bike spun mid-air, tires shrieking before landing in a sharp skid beside them. A looming figure sat atop it—dark, armored, visor gleaming in the rain.

He revved the engine.

His voice came low. Unshaken. Absolute.

“Leave the kid alone.”

Silence.

One of the muggers lunged for the fallen pipe—

Hiroshi moved first.

The rear wheel snapped forward like a whip—

SMASH.

The mugger crumpled with a strangled yell, blood spraying from his nose.

Before his body even hit the pavement, Hiroshi was moving—

He twisted the handlebars sharply, kicking the wheel into the next attacker’s chest.

Then—

He spun the bike’s momentum into a brutal counter.

The force of the spin sent the mugger airborne—

His body slammed into another thug, knocking both to the ground.

Hiroshi’s foot hit pavement.

He kicked off the seat—

A vicious spinning heel-kick sent the last attacker sprawling.

The remaining thugs scrambled up, dragging their friends, and limped into the shadows.

The lizard-faced civilian stared at him. Suspicious. Cautious.

He adjusted his hoodie, claws tightening on the fabric.

“What, you gonna turn me in now?”

Hiroshi tilted his head slightly. Calm. Unreadable.

“For what?”

A pause.

"Enough with the hero thing," his partner muttered over comms. "You saved the kid. Let’s go."

The kid frowned, then slowly got to his feet. He rubbed his bruised jaw, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

Something hesitant.

"Tch. Whatever."

He turned, pulling his hoodie over his head.

But just before slipping into the shadows—

He hesitated.

He looked back. Just once. The rain glinting off his scales. Uncertainty flashing in his slitted pupils.

But he was gone.

Hiroshi was back on the rooftops, racing through the skyline.

“If we ignore those in trouble, what are we even doing this for?”

His partner’s sigh crackled through the earpiece.

"One kid doesn’t tip the scale. We take down Iron Cross, we save thousands. Pick your battles—" he paused, for a moment. “Heh. Fortunately for you, the Imperfect’s Mira Signature has stopped. The abandoned construction site. Turn right here.”

Hiroshi took the turn hard, tires screeching as he rocketed off the rooftop. The skyline blurred past in streaks of neon and steel.

Then—darkness.

The city lights faded as he crossed into the district. Buildings half-built, skeletal frameworks clawing at the sky, wrapped in tattered tarps that flapped like ghostly veils in the wind. Rusted scaffolding groaned under its own weight, casting warped shadows across the rain-slick pavement.

His HUD flickered.

Mira Signature: Stationary. 100 meters ahead.

Mira Enhancements: 00:46:32

He cut the engine, coasting silently into the site.

Silence.

No traffic. No workers. No stray pedestrians.

Only the distant drip of rainwater, the low moan of the wind curling through hollow beams, and the deep metallic groans of unfinished steel bending under its own weight.

He dismounted. Boots crunched softly against loose gravel. A click of his keys forced the bike to cloak, its sleek frame blending into the shadows.

Something glinted half-buried in the dirt.

An Iron Cross drone—what was left of it.

He crouched, fingers tracing jagged grooves torn deep into the metal. Gouges, twisted wires, and shattered optics—like it had been ripped apart with talons.

“Okay…” Hiroshi muttered, scanning the wreckage, “definitely don’t want to take a hit like that.”

“Then try not to get hit at all,” his partner’s voice crackled over comms. “Iron Cross likely knows where it is by now. They’ll be moving in soon. Wouldn’t be surprised if they pull in a hero to make it more legitimate."

Hiroshi nodded grimly. More eyes meant fewer chances to save Tooma.

He slipped deeper into the site.

A lone floodlight sputtered weakly overhead, drowning in its own flicker. The glow warped the half-built structures, twisting beams and cables into jagged silhouettes that stretched like skeletal fingers across the rain-slick ground. Chains hung limp from cranes, swaying with each gust of wind—creaking like old bones.

The place was a carcass.

Hiroshi scanned the site—eyes flicking from shadow to shadow.

A rusted scaffolding tower leaned dangerously against a skeletal building frame. One wrong impact and the whole thing would collapse.

A heavy-duty cargo container dangled mid-air, abandoned mid-lift—swaying just enough to make the severed cable groan under its own frayed weight.

Nearby, a collapsed scaffolding pile caught his attention—twisted metal and splintered planks sheared from above. Not wind damage.

Impact.

Violent.

And something else.

Mixed into the debris were shredded sandbags, snapped rebar, and torn scraps of fabric.

“Was it nesting?” his partner’s voice dropped, uneasy.

“Instinct,” Hiroshi said quietly, picking through the wreckage. “The raptor DNA mixed with the Mira would trigger territorial behavior. He probably doesn’t even know why he’s doing it.”

“Meticulous, though,” Oki muttered. “For a ‘mindless’ beast.”

“Dr. Tooma always infused art into his work.” Hiroshi sifted deeper—digging through the creeping feeling gnawing at him. Something wasn’t right.

A low scoff crackled through comms. “Ever the optimist. You really think Tooma’s still in there?”

He found it.

A blood-soaked feather. Longer than any bird’s should be.

A few more lay tangled in the rubble—bloody, but no trail leading away. Not likely from his own injury…

“He could be,” Hiroshi murmured, twirling the feather between gloved fingers, its crimson sheen reflecting in his visor. “I hope he is.”

He had to move.

The unfinished structure towered above—stairwells spiraling into nothing, an open elevator shaft yawning like a throat, rebar jutting from half-poured concrete like jagged ribs.

He climbed.

A chain snapped overhead.

SNAP.

It slammed into the ground inches from his boots, sparks blooming where it hit exposed wiring. The metal’s dying rattle echoed across the steel frame.

Then—

Scraping.

Something large—unnatural—dragging itself through the beams above.

Hiroshi froze, gaze flicking upward.

The skeletal frame of the building loomed against the night sky.

Nothing.

Wind howled through the hollow bones of the structure, rattling loose scaffolding and swaying chains. Somewhere above, tarps flapped like torn wings.

Then he smelled it.

Blood.

Rot.

Feathers—wet and sour.

A stack of metal sheets came into view—deep gouges carved straight through them, like claws through paper.

His HUD flickered.

Movement.

Something watching.

A gust of wind whipped through the beams—he thought he saw it then. A shadow slipping between girders, massive wings folding into the dark.

Gone before he could focus.

“…Be careful,” Oki’s voice dropped over the comms, tense now. “The signal’s been stationary for a while. If it’s not moving, that means it’s waiting for something. Or someone.”

Hiroshi’s gut twisted.

Then he saw it.

Blood. Everywhere.

A body lay crumpled on the concrete below—torn open, mauled beyond recognition. Limbs twisted at impossible angles, a grotesque mess of bone and meat.

Bloody feathers littered the ground around it, scattered like a grotesque halo. It wasn't fresh.

He was too late.

“…We shouldn’t have stopped,” Oki muttered, his voice tight with frustration.

Hiroshi knelt beside the corpse, breath slow, heart pounding beneath the armor.

“We don’t know if we could’ve saved them.”

“But that civilian you stopped for? Might’ve been better off than this.” A bitter pause. “The Imperfects have to be the priority, Hiroshi. Deaths like these will only continue if—”

Hiroshi’s visor flared an alert.

Movement detected.

“Wait—Hiroshi, LOOK OUT!”

A sudden shift in the air.

The Vulture’s maw reflected in his visor as he turned—

CRASH!

A massive shape tore through the scaffolding above, metal screeching as it bent and collapsed.

Hiroshi rolled—just in time.

The Vulture slammed down where he had just been, claws shredding into steel and concrete, its monstrous wings spreading wide.

Its wings beat once, scattering rain like shards of glass. From its throat rose a wet, rattling hiss—*kreeeghhh*—half-cackle, half-scream.

It jerked suddenly, twisting at an impossible angle, wings snapping out in a feint. Hiroshi braced for a slash—

But it didn’t come.

Instead—

The Vulture coiled its legs and sprung like a spring-loaded trap! Claws swiped where Hiroshi’s throat had been a second ago.

Only the enhanced speed from the serum allowed him to keep up and weave through the attacks.

Metal screeched. Sparks flew. The fight tore through scaffolding, shaking the structure around them.

Hiroshi adapted, weaving the chaos of the construction site into his strategy.

He led it through some dangling chains.

The vulture lunged at him, tangling itself in them.

He kicked a loose steel beam—CRACK!—it slammed into the Vulture’s side, knocking it off-balance.

A spinning kick to the back of the knee nearly drops the creature.

Hiroshi grabs a hanging cable, swinging over a gap to reposition.

The vulture rattled its feathers, hardening them into blades as a swing of its wings launched them towards Hiroshi.

Surprised, he dodged a little too late. Most miss, but one lodged into his shoulder.

The Vulture shook off the chains with a violent shudder, raining broken links across the scaffold.

Its wings snapped outward—BANG—blasting the wet air, throwing Hiroshi back. He skidded across the slick steel grating, barely catching himself on a broken support beam.

The creature didn’t press the attack immediately.

Instead—

It launched upward in a deafening beat of wings, ripping through scaffolding, spiraling up the skeleton of the unfinished tower.

Hiroshi’s visor flared warnings:

Pursuit Protocol Recommended

Mira Enhancements: 00:10:49

He pushed himself up, teeth gritted.

Every second counted now.

Without hesitation, Hiroshi sprinted after it, leaping from torn platforms, scaling broken stairwells, chasing the Vulture into the vertical maze of half-finished steel beams.

The air grew thinner. Rain blew harder the higher they climbed.

Steel creaked ominously under their weight.

The Vulture clung to the rebar skeleton above him like a grotesque gargoyle, hissing low.

It feinted a dive. Hiroshi instinctively ducked—

Instead, the Vulture raked its claws along the rebar, slicing a support cable.

TWANG!

A section of dangling scaffolding collapsed—

CRASH!

—right toward Hiroshi.

He dove forward, narrowly avoiding being crushed, metal shrieking against metal as it slammed into the ground below.

Mira Enhancements: 00:09:24

WARNING: Muscular Efficiency Degrading

Hiroshi sucked in a breath. His muscles burned.

Even with the serum, he couldn’t keep this up forever.

Above, the Vulture shrieked—a warped, broken sound—

Then it spoke.

“HEEEEELP—"

A gasping, inhuman croak.

Hiroshi froze for a fraction of a second.

That hesitation cost him.

SWOOSH!

The Vulture dropped like a missile, aiming straight for him.

Hiroshi twisted midair, grabbing a broken chain hanging from a crane arm—swinging hard out of the creature’s path.

The creature hit the beam with a thunderous impact, shearing it nearly in two.

Sparks cascaded like fireworks.

Hiroshi used his momentum, swinging up and over a collapsed catwalk, landing hard but rolling into a crouch.

His HUD flashed again:

Mira Enhancements: 00:07:58

“Hurrrrts…”

The Vulture's strangled cry echoed through the half-finished structure.

A raw, human pain beneath the monstrous voice.

Hiroshi’s breath caught in his throat.

He’s still in there…

But instinct screamed at him to move.

The Vulture lunged again—this time faster, wilder.

Claws swiping. Wings battering the air into chaotic gusts.

They clashed among the framework, steel beams groaning around them as they tore through the structure.

Sparks flew from metal strikes. Hiroshi weaved, countered, using the environment to survive.

A quick sidestep—

He lured the Vulture toward a suspended cargo crate.

At the right moment—

KICK!

He swung the crate free. It slammed into the creature, knocking it back through a steel support.

Mira Enhancements: 00:06:21

Structural Integrity Warning
Structural Integrity Warning

The HUD screamed at him.

They couldn’t keep fighting up here.

It would all come down soon.

The Vulture shook itself, shards of broken armor flaking off.

Its wings flexed—and it dived straight down.

For a heartbeat, Hiroshi hesitated—then chased after it.

He sprinted after the falling monster, the world whipping past in a blur—

Down into the open supply yard—

The impact shook the ground when the Vulture landed.

Crates splintered. Forklifts overturned. Steel pipes rolled loose across the muddy ground.

Hiroshi hit the dirt a second later, rolling to absorb the impact.

He came up breathing hard, fists clenched.

Across from him, the Vulture writhed.

The rain soaked them both, turning the ground to slick mud.

It hissed low, wings spreading wide.

Torn, ragged. Wounded.

But still dangerous.

Hiroshi circled warily, keeping loose pipes and forklifts between them.

The Vulture struck first—

It slashed the air with its wings, launching a new barrage of hardened feather-blades.

Hiroshi dodged left—

One slashed across his arm, slicing the suit open.

He hissed in pain.

Blood welled, but he moved.

He grabbed a fallen cable—SNAP—whipping it around a support post.

Using it like a makeshift flail, he swung it at the creature—

It tangled around the Vulture’s wing for a moment.

Hiroshi yanked hard—

The Vulture stumbled, skidding across the mud—crashing into an overturned forklift.

Mira Enhancements: 00:03:58

His legs trembled. His vision flickered at the edges.

He was getting closer to his limit now. He didn’t want to fight him without his enhancements.

The Vulture’s movements hesitated for a split second.

Tears streaked down its feathered face, steam rising from the rain striking its overheated body.
Its claws dug weakly into the mud.

A long moment stretched between them.

Broken breathing. Broken man.

Hiroshi raised a hand up towards it, “Hey. I know you’re still in there. This wasn’t your fault,” he took a careful step forward, “We want to help you.”

The vulture trembled, fighting. A guttural noise—half-sob, half-screech.

But the Vulture's instincts flared back to life.

It screamed—a gut-wrenching, soul-ripping sound—and lunged.

Hiroshi dodged—Almost.

A talon snagged his foot—yanked him off balance.

SLAM!

He crashed through a stack of steel pipes, rolling painfully across the ground.

Mira Enhancements: 00:02:04

The Vulture was on him instantly, a talon pinning him by the chest.
Its beady, anguished eyes bore into his.

“HYUUGH! HYUMAAANNN!” it sobbed, a gargling cry.

Armor panels cracked under the crushing pressure. Hiroshi screamed, straining against the talons.

The serum was wearing off—he could feel it—his strength bleeding away second by second.

Mira Enhancements: 00:01:36

Oki’s voice cracked through the comms:

“What are you doing? That thing isn’t human anymore! You're almost out of time!”

Pain blurred his vision. He gritted his teeth.

“No,” Hiroshi choked. “He’s… he's still in there…”

Mira Enhancements: 00:01:14

The Vulture hesitated—shivering, trembling. The human inside clawed at the surface.

For a moment— Hiroshi saw him.

Not a monster.

A man.

Trapped inside a cage of bone, sinew, and steel.

Hiroshi reached out, fingertips brushing the creature’s forearm.

“We can help you…”

Then—

BANG!

A high-powered stun round struck the Vulture square in the chest—CRACK!

The creature reeled back, screaming, feathers sparking violently.

More gunfire erupted—

Hunter Drones. Iron Cross Security.

“They’re here!” his partner barked through the comms. “Get out of there—NOW!”

Hiroshi staggered to his feet, heart pounding, vision swimming.

Rain hammered down.

He was almost there. We almost got through to him.

“NOW!” his partner roared.

Mira Enhancements: 00:00:35

He turned—but froze.

A new figure had arrived through the smoke.

Black outfit, scarf fluttering in the wind, eyes glowing crimson.

Eraserhead.

He was crouched on a steel beam above, half-hidden by the shadows. Watching.

Hiroshi's breath caught.

How long has he been there? Did he see everything?

The hero didn’t speak. Didn’t move. His eyes locked on Hiroshi—calculating, cold.

Then they flicked to the Vulture.

Screaming, the Vulture thrashed its wings, kicking up cables and steel like a tornado of bone and iron. Debris flew everywhere as it took off in a blind, clawing frenzy.

Hiroshi slipped away in the chaos.

The Vulture veered skyward.

SNAP—capture tape lashed out from above, catching one of its legs mid-flight.

The creature shrieked again, flailing as it tore free, clipping a tower crane and spiraling unsteadily into the clouds.

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed. He vanished into the smoke.

Iron Cross agents closed in on the Vulture’s escape route.

Hiroshi spun, disabling two guards in a flash of precise movement.

He leapt off one’s shoulder, vaulting into the air to grab a hovering drone.

Mira Enhancements: 00:00:07

He tapped a button on his wrist—his bike roared to life in the distance. He shifted his weight, steering the drone into a support pillar.

He dropped just before impact.

BOOM.

Mira Enhancements: 00:00:04

His bike surged beneath him, catching him mid-fall as he landed on the seat.

Gunfire followed him into the shadows.

Mira Enhancements: 00:00:01

He pressed a final button.

Autopilot Engaged.

Here it comes.

He gripped the handlebars tighter. His chest seized. His fingers stiffened.

His vision dimmed at the edges.

Mira Enhancements: 00:00:00

Mira Enhancements: Expired.

His body locked.

Veins burned. Nerves misfired. His limbs twitched involuntarily, jerking against his will.

Then the weight hit. Like a steel beam crushing his chest.

Vision flickered. His breath hitched. The world tilted.

If not for the autopilot, he would’ve already crashed.

The bike roared beneath him, but his body felt like it was shutting down.

He gasped for breath.

Each breath he took, he could feel his enhancements fading.

His arms grew numb, as he summoned the strength to press another button.

Another vial.

A hiss. Injection.

The twitching dulled. His pulse slowed. The pain retreated to a background hum.

The stabilizer serum. This lessened the withdrawal effects of the Mira Serum. Enough to make him feel normal at least.

“You okay?” his partner asked in his earpiece.

Autopilot Deactivated.

He coasted the bike to a sheltered spot, releasing a long exhale.

“Yeah…”

“That was our best shot.”

Searchlights swept across the sky. Iron Cross choppers buzzed overhead like carrion birds.

“We’ll find another,” Hiroshi replied, still out of breath. He pressed himself closer to the wall, avoiding the searchlight.

“It may be a while before it…before he, lets us find him again.”

As the searchlight passed, Hiroshi stepped out to focus his visor on the chopper.

Hacking Comms…67%

“You sure you’re okay? Your withdrawal symptoms seem to be getting worse each night…”

Hiroshi tried to hide a cough, “I’m Exigen. I’ll have to be. At least until the mission’s done.”

Hacking Comms…98%

“It’s fine,” his partner sighed. “Maybe we’ve been pushing ourselves too hard lately. Take a break while we’ve got the chance…”

Their comms connected.

“Secure the site!” It crackled, “Bossman will want full damage control on this.”

“The Vulture was too unstable—probably more than the last test, looks like Dr. Sakuma’s adjustments overshot with this one.”

Dr. Sakuma?

“That Jackal…” his partner added.

Another voice on the comms, “Its signature’s already gone cold. Are we gonna leave it to the Pro Heroes to handle?”

“It would be preferable to handle ourselves. Eraserhead’s abilities appeared ineffective against it. An idiot like Endeavor would Kentucky fry that bird, and we’d be left with nothing.”

“We’ve still got new subjects lined up at sector 9 for the next batch of Mira.”

Sector 9?

“Good. I doubt we’d learn much from the bird anyway. As I said, it would be preferable to have a living sample, but no real loss if the heroes destroy it first. I’ll file my report.”

“Did you get all that?” Hiroshi said.

“Yes…” his partner responded, after a brief pause. “Sector 9’s been scrubbed from all public records for years. Nothing I can’t handle, but I’ll need some time, fortunately for you. Rest up. No playing hero for a while. Spend some time with that family of yours. I’ll be in touch. ‘OM’ out.”

“Roger that. Exigen: Offline.”

With that his visor’s HUD switched off.

Making sure the coast was clear, he rode off back towards the hospital.

High above the rubble, Eraserhead stood still, eyes following the retreating blur of Exigen’s bike.

He didn’t move for a long time.

“Gone. We lost visual.”

“Tch. Typical. Get the cleanup crew in here.” The agent clicked something on his wrist console. “And push the new directive to Sector 9. If our… ‘friend’ was listening, let’s see how much trouble he’s willing to cause.”

A second agent smirked, scrolling through a tablet.

“Tracking signature confirmed. He took the bait. We’ve secured his visor’s feed.”

“Good. The doctor will want an update.”

“Of course. And if we’re lucky?” The agent chuckled, glancing at the city skyline. “We won’t even have to find him. He’ll come straight to us.”

Chapter Text

Takuya had been discharged the following morning, his condition largely unchanged except for a lingering fever. His mother insisted he stay —between muscle aches, pounding headaches, sensory overload, and fever-dreams, lounging in bed wasn’t the worst plan.

His appetite, though, was as feral as ever. One night she found him sleepwalking to the fridge, spoon in hand.

Wednesday morning.

He woke feeling… phenomenal.

No alarms. No snooze-button battles. Not his mom and sister bursting in to get him up. He was just… awake, utterly ready.

The miracles of several days’ sleep in a row, I guess.
Maybe I wasn’t getting enough before?

He stretched, rolling his shoulder, and winced—not from pain, exactly. More like… tightness? Like his muscles were spring-loaded. Still some lingering soreness, but nothing compared to before.

Why do I feel like doing pushups?

He wandered into the kitchen, stretching his arms over his head. His mother was already there, readying some pots for breakfast. She jumped slightly when she noticed him.

“Taku! You scared me,” she laughed, pressing a hand to her chest.

“Morning, Mom.” He grinned, making a beeline for the fridge.

Her smile faltered as she glanced at the clock.

“You’re up...early?”

Takuya yanked open the fridge. It was empty.

“You were feasting in your sleep again.” His mother’s voice was flat. “You raided the fridge at two in the morning. Half-asleep. Like some kind of starving raccoon.”

Takuya blinked at the barren shelves. “Huh.”

“If you keep this up, you’re going to eat us out of house and home.”

“No biggie," he laughed, finally shutting the fridge. "I’ll grab something on the way.”

“It’s okay, I’m making—” Kiri paused. “Wait. School? Are you well enough?”

“I feel great!”

“But—but you’ve been bedridden for three days!”

Takuya chuckled. “Yeah, but I’m fine now. I'm gonna go get ready.”

Kiri shook her head. “Waking up early. All smiles before school…”

She reached for a bowl, her fingers deftly tugging a thin thread of fiber from her sleeve and twisting it midair. The thread shimmered slightly, binding the frayed edge of a dishtowel without her even looking.

“You’re not hiding a fever, are you?” she asked, side-eyeing him as the thread stitched itself back into her sweater.

CRACK!

The bathroom door handle snapped clean off.

“What was that?” his mother called out.

Takuya stared at the mangled handle he held in his hands, “…Uh. I think the door broke.”

A pause. “Oh… Well. I’ll ask your father to fix it when he gets up.”

Takuya awkwardly propped a plastic footstool against the door as a temporary blockade. But then—

It wouldn’t come off his hand. His fingers stuck to it like glue.

He tugged. Nothing.

Tugged harder. The stool stretched with him.

What the hell?

After a solid minute of struggling, he finally got it loose—only for small pieces of plastic to still be clinging to his fingertips.

Weird.

Shaking it off, he turned to wash his hands—

POOF!

Soap exploded everywhere.

He fumbled for the faucet—

POP!

The valve shot off.

Water gushed from the sink like a busted fire hydrant. Panicked, he slammed the valve back in, stopping the flood.

He exhaled. “Why is everything breaking?!”

That's when he caught his reflection in the mirror. And froze.

For as long as he could remember, he had been skinny. A scrawny kid with zero athletic abilities to his name.

Now?

His shirtless reflection showed a full six-pack, sculpted arms, and legs that looked like they belonged to an Olympic sprinter.

For a second, he just stared. Like if he blinked too hard, it’d all vanish.

His mouth fell open, curling into an unbelieving smile.

"Now where did these come from?" he flexed.

His mother later continued to fuss as he was getting ready to leave, putting on his shoes by the door.

“Are you sure you’re well enough?” She pressed a hand to his forehead. His cheek. The back of his neck. Everywhere she could check his temperature. “Maybe just wait until next week, just in case?”

“He looks fine, Mom. Let him go.” Shinko strolled into the living room, lazily floating an energy bar beside her.

Takuya, adjusting his shoes, glanced up. “Heads up, the bathroom door’s broken.”

“Cool, I’ll use my quirk.”

Kiri still wasn’t convinced. “But Shinko, he’s been acting strangely all morning. He even got up before his alarm—on his own!”

Shinko froze, before peering around the corner at them.

“…For real?” She squinted at Takuya. “Bro, maybe you are still sick.”

Takuya groaned. “Okay, I’m going—bye!”

As the door clicked shut behind him—

BANG!

A spray of water exploded from the bathroom sink.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” Shinko’s voice rang through the house.

Takuya bolted down the street.

Takuya’s route to school was routine—a short train ride, then an uphill walk to campus.

Except today, everything was too loud. And too bright. And smelled weirdly... sharp.

It wasn’t just the usual morning chatter. It was like the whole school had forgotten how to use their inside voices.

“I swear if Fukuda gives us one more essay, I’m throwing my whole desk out the window.”

“You don’t even LIKE All Might, Satoshi! This relationship was built on LIES!”

Takuya winced, rubbing the side of his head. Every laugh, every footstep, even the rustle of uniforms—it all grated like static in his brain.

The cafeteria down the corridor was cooking something greasy, and the scent hit him like a punch—oil, onions, and some kind of fried tofu. It made his stomach growl.

He stopped at his locker, swapping into his indoor shoes—

“Yamada-sensei and Hoshino-sensei were totally on a date this weekend! I saw them at that fancy café.”

The teachers' lounge? Wait—how the heck am I hearing THAT?!

His locker slammed shut harder than he intended. A dent caved inward.

Takuya froze.

Crap, crap, crap—

He tried to pull his hand away.

It was stuck.

Not again—

He struggled, yanking at his palm discreetly. A couple of students passing by gave him weird looks.

“You hear about that guy who saved a kid from a mugging? Looks like a biker, all in black.”

He paused.

“That little quirkless freak was just lucky. I’ll make sure he remembers his place.”

His stomach twisted. The voice was unmistakable—Sugihara. And it hadn’t come from nearby. It echoed from across the courtyard.

In that moment, his hand ripped free.

He scrambled behind the lockers, heart pounding. Sugihara stalked past, none the wiser.

Wait.

That was from across the courtyard.

He shouldn’t have been able to hear that.

And now that he was paying attention—he could see everything. Every crack in the floor tiles. A spiderweb tucked in the corner of the ceiling. The shimmer of chalk dust on a teacher’s coat as she walked by.

He turned, staring toward the teachers’ lounge. That gossip about Yamada-sensei—he had heard it from inside there.

He blinked.

Okay. Okay, that’s… not normal.

A sudden ripple of laughter brushed his ears like a breeze—different from the others.

Brighter. Familiar.

He turned toward it just in time to catch a flash of chestnut brown hair and a blur of plaid skirts swishing down the hall.

Hitomi Sakuma.

She was walking with a group of girls, flipping through a file of photos as they pestered her from all sides.

“Come on, come on, just one—let me see!” said a shorter girl with low pigtails and way too much energy.

“Give her a break, Nanami,” said the tall redhead, casually holding her back with one arm. Her hand looked a little oversized—maybe just the angle, or maybe not.

A third girl lagged behind, arms crossed. “Maybe they’re all really suss, and that’s why she doesn’t want to show them!” she grinned.

Hitomi groaned, laughing, nudging her with her shoulder. “They’re for my portfolio! You can’t all keep clowning me every time I develop a new stack.”

Takuya didn’t realize he had stopped walking. He didn’t even notice he was staring.

Every word they spoke landed with vivid clarity—like they were right beside him instead of halfway down the corridor.

He caught the faintest scent of floral shampoo as they passed—lavender, maybe? And something sharper underneath, like ink.

Even the way her shoes tapped the tile—steady rhythm, light tread, not rushed—somehow, it was clearer than anything else in the hallway.

He finally realised he was staring, shaking his head clear, before he tried to continue down the hall again.

“...Wow. He really does look like a deer in headlights in this one,” Hitomi chuckled, holding up a photo, still teasing her friends as they tried to peek.

“No fair! No fair!”

His stomach flipped.

Wait—was she talking about me?!

He spun around, cheeks burning, but the group was already disappearing around the corner.

He exhaled sharply and dragged a hand down his face.

This is way too much for first period.

And it didn’t stop there.

Second period:

A student tossed a balled-up note across the room—aiming for the person in front of him.

Their aim was off.

Takuya felt a weird static tingle in the air—

His hand moved before he even thought about it.

The paper snapped into his grip, mid-air.

The two students gawked at him.

He blinked.

Slowly, awkwardly, he bowed his head and handed over the note. “Uh. Here.”

He turned back to his desk—

SNAP.

His pen broke in half between his fingers. Again.

“Of course…”

He groaned and slumped onto his desk…

…which creaked a little too loudly.

His sleeve stuck to the wood.

He tried to pull away.

Nope. Glued.

Third period:

A girl walked by with citrus-scented hand lotion. The smell hit his nose sharper than usual—weirdly sharp.

Someone popped gum a few seats over. It sounded louder than it should have.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead—grating, constant. He’d never noticed how annoying they were until now. After a few minutes, it felt like sandpaper scraping against his brain.

And his math teacher’s voice? Dry and droning as ever—but now it grated, like nails on a chalkboard.

Takuya pressed his fingers to his temples.

Lunch:

He caught someone’s dropped tray before it even hit the floor.

Then flinched when his own chopsticks snapped in his hand like twigs.

He groaned, trying to hide the broken sticks under his tray.

At the other table, Hitomi glanced over mid-laugh, catching just enough of Takuya’s flustered expression as he fought with his tray.

She tilted her head, curious.

“Hey,” one of her friends nudged her, “you zoning out?”

“Just thought I saw something weird,” she said, narrowing her eyes a little before shaking it off, turning back to the conversation.

Takuya, unaware, sighed into his lunch.

By the time gym class rolled around, he was so done with whatever weirdness was going on with his body. He’d managed not to break anything important (yet), but now?

Now he had to survive dodgeball.

And as he stood in line for team selection, he already knew how this was going to go.

The captains took turns picking teammates. Sugihara was one of the captains, and of course, picked Kong first.

Naturally the best athletes were snatched up first. Then the decent ones. Then the okay ones.

And then there was Takuya.

The second-to-last kid got called, leaving him standing alone.

“…Guess that means we get Yamashiro,” his team captain sighed, clearly thrilled by the outcome.

Takuya forced a smile. Glad to be here, man.

He shuffled over to his team, feeling the weight of their collective disappointment. Across the gym, Sugihara leaned over to Kong, smirking.

“Heh. Guess I get to knock you down a few pegs today, Yamashiro.”

Kong cracked his massive knuckles, grinning wide. “You won’t even see it coming.”

Takuya didn’t like that grin.

He also didn’t like the way Hitomi, standing with the girls on the other side of the gym, waved at him. Cheerfully. Like she was expecting something interesting to happen. It's not that he didn't like her acknowledging him like that, but did it really need to convey such a sense of high expectations of him?

He exhaled. This was gonna suck.

The whistle blew.

And just like that—rubber carnage.

Dodgeballs whistled across the halfway line like missiles. Players dropped like flies, bodies hitting the floor left and right. Sugihara and Ken Kong were unstoppable.

One kid dramatically collapsed into his friend’s arms, clutching his chest like he’d been shot.

“Stay strong, man! We can get through this!” his friend cried out, tears welling in his eyes.

The downed student’s eyes glazed over. His voice faint.

“I hear them calling me… Grandma… I’m home…”

His body went limp.

His friend screamed to the ceiling, “NOOO—”

WHAP!

A dodgeball slammed into his face, sending him skidding across the floor.

Casualty count: Rising.

Meanwhile, Takuya moved without thinking—his body just knew.

He dipped, twisted, and sidestepped every ball without even realizing it—a blur among the chaos.

One moment, he was at the edge of the court. The next—he was across the hall.

Nobody even noticed.

Except for the occasional player who turned in shock.

“Weren’t you—??”

WHAP. He got nailed before he could finish.

Sugihara and Kong’s onslaught was so brutal, the eliminated students couldn’t even crawl off the court before another rubber bullet whizzed past their heads.

The gym looked like a war zone covered in fallen ‘bodies.’

Sugihara’s team: four left.

Takuya’s: six—wait, maybe they could win thi—

WHAP.

WHAP-WHAP.

Correction: three.

The last of his teammates desperately scrambled off the court like they were escaping a battlefield.

“Uh… maybe we can chill a little?” Takuya let slip.

Silence.

Slowly—Sugihara and Kong grinned.

Oh.
Oh no.

I just reminded them I exist…

They zeroed in on him.

He swallowed.

A dodgeball whistled toward his chest—he twisted sideways.

Another, aimed at his legs—he slid under it, low and effortless.

Two at once—he flipped backward, barely grazing past them.

Gasps murmured through the eliminated students.

Even Takuya hesitated.

Wait. Did I just—?

Then he shrugged, trying to play it off.

“Uh… is that all you’ve got?”

Ken Kong narrowed his eyes.

He whipped a ball so hard, it dented the floor beneath Takuya.

The impact kicked up dust and specs of wood. The ball ricocheted upward—slamming into his teammate’s chin.

Takuya stared at the crater. That could’ve been my chest.

“That’s not good.”

Sugihara grinned. Then—he vanished.
A reminder of his Quirk: Short-range teleportation. ‘Flash’. He could blink across the court faster than most eyes could follow.

Takuya’s eyes widened.

Sugihara reappeared at the far end of the gym, ball in hand.

Then—FLASH.

Another teleport.

Then another.

And another.

He was building speed.

Sugihara launched the ball.

It bounced. Fast.

Off the floor—off the wall—at a ridiculous angle, spinning straight for Takuya’s head.

A static tingle shot down his spine.

Instinct.

Takuya spun out of the way—just in time.

The ball slammed into the wall—ricocheted back.

Sugihara smirked, readying his next assault.

Takuya dodged again. He flipped sideways, narrowly missing it.

Wait—are they using their Quirks now?!

His eyes snapped toward the teacher.

Yamada-sensei was too busy flirting with Hoshino-sensei to care.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

WHAP.

His last teammate got blasted off his feet.

Takuya was the last one standing.

Across the court, an opponent launched a dodgeball at him—fast.

BOOM.

The sound echoed like a cannon shot. The impact sent a gust of air through the gym.

Conversations stopped. Heads turned. Even the girls’ game froze in mid-throw.

“He caught that?” someone whispered.

Hitomi raised an eyebrow. Takuya? Alone against Sugihara and Kong?

The student who threw the ball gawked in disbelief, then slunk off the court. Takuya’s returning teammate barely had time to react before being practically shoved back onto the battlefield.

2 V 3.

But Takuya didn’t even register the catch.

Without thinking—he threw it back.

The ball rocketed across the gym.

Sugihara teleported out of the way just in time—his teammate wasn’t so lucky.

2 V 2.

The gym went silent.

“Did… Yamashiro just do that?”

Takuya blinked at his hands.

“…Was that too hard?”

Kong snorted. He cracked his knuckles again, now grabbing two dodgeballs.

Sugihara sneered, disappearing in a blur of teleportations, while Kong hurled both of his at once. Sugihara’s throw followed—three dodgeballs, three different angles.

A strange buzz settled in Takuya’s chest. Fear? Excitement?

He didn’t know. He just… moved.

A twisting, horizontal leap—all three balls missed.

His teammates roared.

He barely hit the ground before grabbing one of the bouncing dodgeballs—and immediately firing it back.

THWAP!

The ball slammed into Sugihara’s chest.

The impact made Yamada-sensei finally turn.

“Hey! No quirk—” He blinked. “…Oh, it’s just Yamashiro. Carry on.”

He quickly went back to giggling with Hoshino-sensei.

The gym erupted in laughter.

Sugihara stumbled back—right into Kong’s second throw.

The ball bounced off Sugihara’s face—straight back into Kong’s.

The two hit the floor simultaneously.

Game over.

Silence.

Takuya stood frozen.

Then—

The gym lost it.

Sugihara’s own teammates were howling, and even Kong cracked up.

Across the gym, Hitomi grinned.

Sugihara was humiliated.

Takuya stared at his hands, trembling slightly.

What… am I?

By the time gym class ended, Takuya had barely processed what just happened.

He dodged like an acrobat. He threw like a pro athlete.

And somehow… he just humiliated Sugihara in front of the entire class.

He wasn’t sure what was more terrifying…

The fact that he did it…

Or the fact that it felt completely natural.

Chapter Text

Takuya was in a rush to head home. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the new, positive attention he was getting from classmates after his dodgeball performance—even Kong had given him a friendly pat on the back.

But he knew Sugihara would be on a rampage.

He stepped through the school gate.

Home free!
Or at least, he thought so…

“And where do you think you’re going?”

Takuya jolted. His foot skidded slightly on the pavement before he caught himself.

Hitomi’s head popped through the gate before the rest of her phased through with a shimmer. She giggled at the sight of him.

He hadn’t even heard her coming. Not a footstep, not a breath.

Now that she was here, though, she stood out more than usual. Maybe it was the bright red ribbon tying her hair—new? It suited her, swaying in the breeze like it had its own personality.

Her blazer looked sharp as always. And with the sun behind her, he could just make out the camera strap peeking from under it.

The citrus scent of her shampoo hit his senses like a quiet surprise. And there was something else—her voice, when she laughed. Clear, warm. It buzzed faintly against his hearing, like a faint note of a tuning fork.

For a second, he swore the world slowed down around her.

“Trying to get away from all your adoring fans, mister dodgeball superstar?” she teased, placing her hands on her hips.

“Heh. No, just the one…” He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around for any signs of Sugihara again.

She circled, inspecting him like she was appraising a museum piece. “Gotta admit, you really surprised me. Didn’t think you were the sports type.”

I wasn’t until this morning.

“I take it you’re feeling better, after that? I was worried when I didn’t see you on Monday. I texted too.”

“Yeah, sorry about that—I was bedridden since I was discharged.”

“No way! And you still came in today?”

He tried to hide his blushing face. “I was just…better, y’know?”

He couldn’t tell her the real reason.

She clapped her hands together, “Oh! I developed those photos! What do you say, assistant? Wanna check ‘em out?”

“I almost forgot about those,” he said—and then promptly stumbled a little, walking over. He cleared his throat, brushing it off with a half-smile. “Yeah. Let’s check ’em out.”

“Great!” She skipped forward, the ribbon in her hair bouncing as she did. Then she turned with a mischievous grin. “I know a great café—where your fans won’t bother us.”

Takuya blinked, hesitating just long enough to look like he didn’t know what to do with his hands—then hurried after.

Unnoticed behind him, Sugihara leaned against the gate, arms folded, lips curled in a faint sneer. His narrowed gaze never left them.

As Takuya followed Hitomi through the city, his mind raced. It wasn’t just that he had done things today that should’ve been impossible.

Though, that was still a big part of everything...

But it was also the fact that he was walking—alone—with a girl. A super-cute girl at that!

To a café. Together.

Is this a date?! It has to be a date! Right?!
What am I supposed to do here? I don’t want to mess this up, but I’m so unprepared. Flowers! Wait, is that too much? Chocolates? No, that’s worse! What do I—

“You feeling okay?”

Takuya flinched. “Huh?”

Hitomi gave him an amused look. “I asked if you’ve always been that fast?” She laughed. “Then you just kinda… zoned out on me.”

“Oh! Fast? You mean the dodgeball?” He forced a chuckle, shaking himself out of it. “Ah—no, no. I was really just lucky.”

They stepped onto the crosswalk.

Then—
A sharp buzz flared at the back of his neck—like static bursting across his nerves.

His vision tunnelled, and his whole body tensed.

LOOK OUT.

His head snapped to the right—

A car ran the light. Barreling straight toward them.

Before the thought even registered, his body moved.

His arm shot out—grabbing Hitomi.

Yank—

The car whooshed past.

Water erupted from the street, drenching his back.

Hitomi gasped. “Woah! He didn’t even slow down!” She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Thanks for the save! Or was that that ‘luck’ you were talking about?”

Takuya chuckled stiffly, still hovering over her like a human shield.

His heart was pounding. What just happened? That wasn’t luck—that was…

Then—realization.

His arms were still around her.

He jerked back, clearing his throat and quickly shaking out his soaked jacket.

Hitomi grinned, brushing off the moment like nothing happened. “You good?”

“I—yeah! Fine. Totally fine.”

FLASH!

The camera clicked before he even had a chance to blink.

She peeked from behind the lens, grinning.

“Couldn’t resist. It’s not every day you get nearly flattened by a truck and rescued by your dodgeball MVP. Had to get a memento.” She winked. “Well, we’re almost there now.”

Takuya followed after, too dazed to think of anything clever to say.

The café wasn’t the kind of cutesy sweets shop he expected a girl like Hitomi to pick. It had a dark wooden interior with hanging lights he thought were supposed to look like conventional gas lanterns. He thought the traditional-style paintings of classic video game characters were cool.

Hitomi turned to smile at him, “So, what do you think? Super cool, huh?”

“Yeah,” it wasn’t at all what he expected, but he did agree.

Her face lit up even more. “Right?! C’mon, let’s get a good table – something with a real P.I vibe, yeah?” She grinned, dashing off before he could answer.

They found a booth further back, up against the misty window. A lantern hung over them, giving an orange-amber ambience.

Definitely a Detective Movie vibe.

With an exasperated look, she laid her head in her hand looking off into the shop “None of my friends really like this place, so I usually come alone… Well, I used to come with my dad, but that’s different. Stuff like this is just better with friends, y’know?” She leaned forward, “But hey, maybe we can use this as our base, then. Oh, that is, if you still want to? I’ve kind of just been dragging you around everywhere since then, haven’t I?”

Why is it so warm all of a sudden?

He tugged at his collar before responding. “Oh, no! I don’t mind! Not at all!”

She laughed.

“Actually, I’ve never really had many friends,” he said, looking down at his fidgeting hands. “At least, not since I was left behind in the ‘Quirk Department’, heh. So this, is kind of all new to me. I…I appreciate you showing me around…”

“Of course! It's your pretty standard café stuff, I just like the vibe.”

She proceeded to push the menu up to his face and walk him through her favourite drinks and treats on it.

That’s not what I meant.

She decided on a sundae that was supposed to look like the Tokyo Skytree.

That’s more in line with the image I had of her.

His stomach growled, but the prices made him hesitate. He settled on a random cheap cake and a melon soda, hoping it wouldn’t look too weird.

As they waited for their order, Hitomi pulled out her file of pictures from her bag.

“You’ve gotta see this!”

She flicked through the file. He caught brief glimpses of a myriad of photos from her past.

“Ta-da!” she stopped suddenly on a page. “It’s you!”

It was the picture she randomly took of him when they started exploring the restricted area in Iron Cross Tower. It wasn’t very flattering, with his flailing arms, and his eyes wide with the shock of the camera flash. But her giggling as she showed it to him, made him smile.

So that’s what she was looking at in the halls this morning.
Yeah… okay. I did look like a total deer in headlights...

“Hey, are these all your pictures?” he gestured to the pages she flicked through before, “Like, you took these?”

There was a hint of nostalgia in her smile.

Can we even feel nostalgia at this age?

“Yeah. Well, most of them. My dad got me into it. And for a while, it was just… a way to hold onto things, you know? I’ve got a lot of pictures of Mom, Dad, and me together. At least before…”

She gave a start, “Oh, but come on, we’re on a mission here Yamashiro!” She smiled, flicking forward again.

“Here,” she stopped at a later page, slipping out the pictures and spreading them across the table.

“Woah. You got a lot.”

“Took me hours,” Hitomi sighed, “Couldn’t start until my dad was done with his bath — bathroom doubles as my darkroom.”

Takuya scanned over the pictures. Containers, vials, experimental creatures, both alive and lifeless.

Maybe the answers to what’s happening to me is here somewhere.

He continued to scan through, gently pushing one photo along the table, to grab another.

“What do you think they’re up to?” he said, not looking up from the table.

Hitomi rested her chin on her hands, her elbows on the table as she watched him.

“Who knows? That’s basically Iron Cross for you. Pioneering tomorrow’s world, whether tomorrow wants it or not."

Takuya tapped one of the photos. “Yeah, but… they have done a lot of good. They’ve changed so much for so many people. Medicine, technology… all the healing they’ve done.” His expression darkened slightly. “…Right?”

“Yeah… but look at this one.” She hesitated before sliding the next picture toward him.

It was of a large, empty, container. More than big enough to fit a person. But it was clear something had broken out…

Flashes of that day. The monstrous creature that attacked them, and stalked his fever dreams for days since.

“…the vulture…” Takuya uttered.

Hitomi looked at him with a more serious face.

“I know I like a good story…but I hope you’re right about them, and that was just some really unfortunate accident…”

Takuya looked back down at the picture, focusing in on the details, trying to imagine the creature breaking out of its containment.

Hitomi continued, “Because if they’re doing this to people…” She trailed off, rubbing her arms as if a chill had run through her. “That’s not just scary. That’s...that's something else...”

Takuya squinted. Just beneath the gash marks, under the lab’s harsh fluorescent glare—something scratched into the metal. Rough and uneven.

A word. Or part of one.

His lips moved before he even realized he was speaking.

“…Mira…”

“What?”

Takuya showed her, “Here, you see that?”

Hitomi stared at it for a moment. “I’ve seen that before…”

She scanned around the scattered pictures.

She dragged one over, “Here.”

He recognised the lizard creature. Dead. Staring lifelessly into the glass.

‘MIRA: Subject L-032’

“And here,” Hitomi dragged another one.

Vials of flowering plants of different levels of health.

‘MIRA Biomatter Experiment 1067’

This must've been their earlier attempts, before they moved onto the animal testing.

Before Hitomi could announce the next photo, their waitress arrived with their order.

Hitomi’s glorious Ice-cream Sundae really did look like the Skytree. The glass bowl was shaped like a tower and the different colour scoops looked like the different lights the real tower glowed at night.

Takuya’s cake slice was certainly colourful, but didn’t look nearly as appetising in comparison.

“Would you like a taste?” she said, offering the spoon and waving it side-to-side with a grin on her face.

Her grin lingered—until she caught his expression: distant, tense, like he wasn’t really here anymore.

She tapped the table between them.

“Alright, I’m calling it. Let’s take a break,” she smirked. “How about a game?”

“A game?”

“Yeah. If we’re gonna be partners, we should know more about each other, right?”

His brain short-circuited for half a second.

Partners? As in… investigative? Or—Oh boy…

“Now, the normal thing is to ask each other a bunch of questions. But that’s boring,” she flicked her hair with a chuckle, “so I thought up a way to liven it up a bit.”

“…okay?”

“One person asks a question, but it has to be inspired by something in the café. The other has to guess what it is. Get it right? You don’t have to answer. Get it wrong? Spill the truth, and I get another turn.”

“Wait, so a ‘Truth-or-Dare’ but mixed with ‘I-Spy’?”

“Exactly! Look, I’ll start.” She cleared her throat, closing her eyes dramatically, and asked, “Which High School are you applying for?”

Takuya blinked.

“Go on!” she said, eyes now wide and bright. “What object can you see, that might have inspired me to ask that?”

He scanned the café, eyes flicking over the barista’s counter. A wide chalkboard displayed the specials.

School. Chalkboards. Teachers. That had to be it, right?

He gestured over to it, “the board?”

She made a loud “ERRRK” buzzer sound, complete with an exaggerated X-shape with her fingers like a game show host.

“Oooh, close, but nope!~” she sang, grinning. “I was looking at that guy’s backpack.”

She pointed over to what looked like a college student, setting down his bag by his table.

“I only get one guess?”

“Them’s the rules~,” she said, popping another spoonful of her sundae into her mouth, before leaning back in her seat, arms folded in triumph.

“Alright, fine,” Takuya laughed, shaking his head. “I was actually thinking of U.A. Maybe look at the Support Course?”

“Oooh, you're looking at U.A. too? And the Support Course? Maybe you’ll help me with some hero gear someday!”

“Maybe,” Takuya smiled.

“So what made you decide that? You into gadget stuff? Maybe someone from your family?”

“Is that your question?” he chuckled.

She smirked, caught in the act of sneaking in extra questions.

“Okay, my turn again! Let’s see…” She tapped her chin dramatically.

Her eyes flickered around the café.

She snapped her fingers. “What’s something you’ve never told anyone?”

Takuya blinked. That caught him off guard.

Hitomi tried to hide the brief flash of realization—that maybe the question had been deeper than she intended.

Still, Takuya looked around. His eyes landed on a folded napkin at the next table over. It had writing on it. He probably wouldn’t have been able to make it out fully before, but with his sharpened senses, it was crystal clear.

It looked like someone had written a secret message and walked away.

“…The napkin?” he said, sheepishly pointing toward it.

Hitomi blinked. “How’d you do that?”

Heck if I know. It just seemed like the way she thought.

“Lucky… remember?”

I might be getting the hang of this.

She laughed, nodding like a proud master. “A Lucky guess indeed. But now I really wanna know.”

Takuya, feeling like he dodged a bullet, just shrugged. “Rules are rules.”

She smirked. “Okay, your turn.”

Takuya thought hard, scanning the room

Is there someone you like?

No. I can’t ask that! No way she wouldn’t figure out I’m into her then! I’d completely ruin the mood…

He needed something safer. But something interesting. Something insightful.

He sat up “Alright. My question…”

He let the moment linger, watching her lean in slightly, anticipating it.

“If you could take a photo of only one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

“You weren’t looking at my sundae, were you?” she smirked, barely even a beat.

His face exposed his exact thoughts.

HOW?!

She burst out laughing as he groaned.

“I win again~”

He slumped his face to the table, before turning back up at her.

“You’re way too good at this.”

“That was a good question, though. I almost wanna answer it, but…” She winked. “Rules are rules.”

Takuya scoffed. “Fine, hit me with another.”

Hitomi rested her chin in her palm, scanning the café.

“Hmm… okay, I got it! What’s your biggest fear?”

“What is this, a job interview?”

“Hey, I’m the one asking the questions here,” she giggled.

Takuya hummed, glancing around for the object she was using.

His gaze drifted across the café.

Then—his eyes landed on one of her photos, resting near the edge of the table.

His breath caught in his throat.

It was one of him. Mid-step. His gaze locked onto something.

His voice barely left his lips.

“…the spider...”

“Nope-nope! Actually, I was looking at the flickering lightbulb over here,” she teased.

She laughed, but Takuya barely heard her.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

His skin crawled.

The memory resurfaced like a tidal wave crashing down.

The lab.

They were running.

The spider on his neck.

The bite.

The fever. The nightmare.

His body changing. The strength. The speed. The senses.

It all makes sense now…
But if that’s true…

The Mira. The Spider. The Vulture.

His nightmare—turning into a monster. His mother screaming in terror. Heroes hunting him down.

Attacking Hitomi…

She noticed his pale expression.

"Yamashiro? Hey, you alright?"

Overwhelmed, he abruptly stood up.

"Sorry, I have to go."

Reaching into his pockets, he put down cash on the table—more than enough for both of their orders.

Then he rushed out. The door jingled shut behind him.

Hitomi blinked in confusion.

One second, they’re laughing, the next he’s sprinting out the door.

She turned toward the window, watching as he disappeared down the street.

Her reflection layered over his retreating figure.

A waitress passed by, chuckling. “Aw, poor thing—must’ve gotten too flustered.”

Hitomi blinked. “Flustered?”

She barely noticed before, but now—looking at the table, the half-melted sundae, the money he left behind—she saw how it might have looked.

Her fingers hovered over the cash, a slight frown tugging at her lips.

“Did I…do something wrong?” she murmured.

She stared at the money, at the half-melted sundae, then toward the empty seat across from her.

“Guess I lose that round…”

Takuya continued to sprint down the street.

He didn’t know where he was going—just that he had to move.

Am I about to turn into a monster?

The wind tore past him, his body moving faster than he ever had before.

A couple pedestrians turned their heads, startled. A cyclist nearly lost balance as Takuya blurred past.

It should’ve left him winded. But it didn’t. His legs didn’t ache. His lungs didn’t burn.

His mind raced, and with it his heart. His heart that thumped stronger than ever.

He ducked into an alley, skidding to a stop.

If I was turning into a monster, surely it would’ve happened by now, right?

He rubbed his arms as if checking for new joints or hairs.

No, nothing.
Not yet.

The spider thing was just a coincidence anyway. Those pictures don’t prove anything.

A movement caught his eye.

He turned his head.

A spider sat in its web, motionless in the corner.

He swallowed, thinking back to the times his hands kept sticking to things that morning.

He turned his head back to the wall. Slowly, gently, he pressed a palm against it.

A deep breath in.

Slowly—he raised the other hand, and tried to pull himself up.

No resistance. No effort. He was sticking.

Heh.

He kicked off his shoes. One foot up. The other.

His body obeyed.

Higher. Faster.

In no time, he reached the top, pulling himself onto the rooftop.

He looked down at the cityscape. A new perspective.

The city stretched out before him, endless and alive.

The wind rushed past, tugging at his hair. His chest rose and fell. Somewhere far below, a horn blared.

His suspicions were confirmed.

He grinned.

"Cool."

Chapter Text

The sun was beginning its slow descent behind the cluttered skyline, casting the school district in a dusty amber glow. The streets buzzed faintly with the after-school shuffle—students in uniform drifting toward train stations, convenience stores, or cram schools, their conversations overlapping in the usual chorus.

Aizawa’s shoulders ached with every step, his capture scarf a lead weight around his neck. He’d broken up five first-year scuffles today—and here he was, still ducking down back alleys like a street cop.

All he wanted was a cup of tea, and to curl up for at least ten uninterrupted hours of sleep.

He was about to head home when he caught the sound of shouting. Not kids goofing off. Sharp. Panicked. A cry for help.

“Damn it,” he muttered, walking towards it.

The altercation wasn’t anything dramatic. Three guys in off-the-rack masks and matching poor life choices were shaking down a corner store clerk, quirks flaring like overcompensation.

Aizawa approached lazily, his hero goggles still hanging around his neck. He loosened his jacket, letting the edge of his capture scarf slip into view. His expression didn’t change as the scarf snapped to life.

Thirty seconds, tops. He dragged all three out of the store, tangled and groaning, barely winded. The clerk bowed and thanked him profusely as he walked off with the crooks in tow.

But as he tightened the bindings and called in the incident to the local precinct, his mind wandered—not to the scuffle, but to the why.

He wasn’t even on patrol. This wasn’t his beat. So why couldn’t he let it go? Why did it still matter that even petty crime didn’t go unanswered?

Because if he didn’t show up, someone else would.

Someone like that Exigen.

He remembered him at the construction site a few nights ago, fighting against the Vulture on his own. He’d watched every scrap of footage available: Exigen shutting down armed robberies with surgical precision, slipping away before authorities could ask questions. But for every “good deed,” there was a lab break-in. A raid. A breach of classified research facilities.

Vigilantes played by their own rules. They swooped in, did what they wanted, and left someone else to deal with the fallout. And once they got comfortable being above the law in one place, they pushed it further. Then further. Until there was no difference between them and the people they claimed to stop.

That was the problem.

He wasn’t wrong. He knew he wasn’t wrong. But even now, some small part of him—a voice he kept trying to ignore—wondered if maybe he was just... out of touch. Too rigid. Too bound to a system that was already starting to fray at the seams.

I enforce the rules, he told himself. That’s enough.

He straightened the last coil of his capture scarf as the click of heels echoed behind him.

“Rough night, Eraser?” came a familiar voice.

He glanced over his shoulder. Midnight strolled toward him, coat draped over one arm, still in her teaching attire. Her expression was halfway between amused and impressed.

“They were hassling a clerk,” he said flatly. “Didn’t feel like letting it slide.”

Midnight crouched down beside the nearest crook, who immediately perked up.

“Guys, guys—it’s her! It’s Midnight!” one hissed.

“I knew we hit the right spot,” another whispered, starry-eyed. “I’m a big fan, Ms. Midnight.”

“We just timed it wrong… if we’d waited, she could’ve taken us down instead of smelly Eraserhead—”

“You’re about to regret that,” Aizawa said dryly, walking off as Midnight rolled up her sleeves.

“Hold still,” she told them sweetly, and the edge in her smile made them freeze. “Hero or not, I’m coming off a very long day.”

Aizawa stopped a few paces away, sighing as he looked back. “You on your way home?”

“Was,” she said, straightening. “Now I’m doing crowd control for your mess. Again.”

He gave her a tired look. She gave him a knowing one.

“You’re thinking about that new vigilante, huh?” she added, tone softening.

He didn’t answer.

She didn’t push. “I get it. I’ve been there. Met a vigilante not long ago—called himself the Cruller, believe it or not. Thought he was doing good. And honestly? He did. Things could’ve gone a lot worse if he hadn’t stepped in a few times.”

A pause.

“They’re not all idiots in capes trying to break the rules for the thrill of it,” she said, gentler now. “Some of them are just trying to do something in a system that doesn’t always work.”

Aizawa frowned. “That kind of thinking leads people to justify a lot of dangerous crap.”

“Sure. So does only following the rules,” she said. She looked back to the shop, and the clerk inside, her eyes soft, “I used to believe the system worked—until I watched kids rot in paperwork while villains ran free. Rules are no help to someone bleeding in a back alley.”

They stood in silence as sirens began to close in.

“Anyway,” she said, slapping one of the crooks on the shoulder as he whimpered, “I’ve got some hearts to break. You heading home, or do you want to grab a drink?”

Aizawa mulled silently for a moment. He was really looking forward to that tea and an early night.

“I’ve got a lead to follow,” he muttered, already turning.

Midnight just shook her head. “Try not to brood yourself into a migraine.”

Above, the city pulsed—millions of lives crammed into steel and silence. In a modest apartment bathed in the last amber of sunset, Hiroshi tightened the final screw on the servo-braced gauntlet—a commission demanding extra grip, extra shock resistance. He didn’t ask why; lately, questions cost too much.

Weird guy. Asked too many questions. Watched Hiroshi’s hands like he was memorizing every move. Not to mention the handshake he insisted on when leaving.

He shook the thought off. Probably just the obsessive type.

Hiroshi stretched his fingers, rolling the tension from his knuckles as he set his tools down and sank back into the couch. The dim glow through the window cast long shadows across the coffee table, cluttered with blueprints, half-finished commissions, and a cold cup of tea.

Four days since Exigen last rode out. Since the Vulture nearly tore him apart.

He’d spent most of it recovering. Withdrawal had hit harder than ever—limbs like lead, every breath heavier than the last. Even now, his fingers ached from the strain.

The Serum was taking its toll on him.

The couch shifted as Kiri leaned against him, nestling into his side.

"You know," she murmured, "we haven’t had a proper family day in weeks. You’ve been overworking yourself."

Hiroshi hummed, rubbing her head absentmindedly.

“You sound like your daughter.”

“She’s not wrong.”

At that, his gaze drifted to the door. His smile faded slightly.

Shinko was still at work. He hadn’t seen her since that morning—had barely spoken to her since their tense exchange at the hospital.

Not an argument. Not really. He was never angry at her for working there. He understood why.

But she…didn’t.

Or maybe he just didn’t know how to explain it.

And Takuya—he should’ve been home by now.

“…You’re worried about them,” Kiri said softly.

He blinked. “A little.”

She bumped her forehead lightly against his shoulder. “They’ll be fine.”

BZZT.

His phone buzzed.

He hesitated.

But, with a last glance at his wife, he rose and answered.

It was his partner.

"I found Sector 9. Time to bring Exigen online."

His stomach twisted.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked back toward the living room—toward Kiri.

“They could be running more human trials right now,” his partner said, voice tight. “You’re not going to leave them to it, are you?”

He closed his eyes. Exhaled.

No. He couldn’t ignore this.

No-one should have to go through what Dr. Tooma had to. Cursed to have a mind trapped in the body of a monster.

Not again.

Not while he could still stop it.

"I’m on my way."

He stepped back into the living room, watching her for a moment.

“I have to go,” he said quietly, guilt threading through the words. “I’ll probably be late.”

She saw the weight in his expression—whatever this was, it mattered. Instead of questioning, she smiled.

“Okay. Be safe. And don’t work too late, honey.”

She leaned up and kissed his cheek.

That made it harder to leave.

He stepped outside, decloaked his bike, and slid into the seat. The engine roared.

Four days was long enough.

Time to get back to work.

Exigen rides again.

His bike sliced through the city’s after-dark grid, the HUD rerouting him around patrols. He flexed his fingers on the throttle—still stiff.

I already feel like I’m rusting over.

Withdrawal had eased, but the itch to inject more serum pulsed in his blood.

Not yet. Pace yourself.

A flicker ran across his HUD. A static hum in his earpiece.

“Oki, you getting this interference?”

His comms crackled. His partner’s voice came through, garbled.

“It-crrrk…be-rrrzzz…her-rrrk…you-crrk…”

He frowned, fumbling a setting. The glitch cleared.

“That did it. You there?”

“Yeah,” Oki’s voice snapped back. “Just wear and tear. Drop her by the lab later and I’ll run diagnostics.”

Hiroshi exhaled. “Right.”

“We probably should’ve looked it over when you were here earlier,” Oki added.

Hiroshi frowned. “What do you mean? I’ve not been on your side for days.”

“Are you feeling okay? You dropped by earlier to pick up some supplies. You said it was after you met with some client.”

Hiroshi clenched his face, trying to remember. “I guess that sounds right, but I don’t remember it at all…”

“How’s your symptoms?”

“Lingering, but manageable.”

Oki was quiet now.

“Look, it’s nothing to worry about, Oki. I’m fine – really.”

“Hiroshi…” Oki came through on the comms, “Maybe we should look at refining the serum after this. Sector 9’s data will buy us time to tweak the formula. But if those side effects are worsening—”

“If they’re creating Vultures, I don’t much care what they have for us to—”

A red flash across the HUD: a high-speed, hostile heat signature locking on.

Hero-agency recon drone, model NEX-9: facial recognition, unlicensed-vigilante protocol.

Instinctively, Hiroshi cut his lights, swerved into a cramped alley, and engaged his engine-dampener. Above him, the drone’s rotor hum turned searching.

“Patrol Unit 3 to Central: residual heat trails, but no visual.”

“Exigen?” came the response.

“Negative. This one’s newer. The footage from the escape at Sakura Heights came in today—quicker, lighter. Could just be another thrill-seeker.”

Hiroshi stayed completely still, pressed against the alley wall.

Sakura Heights.
Why does that sound familiar?

The chatter continued, “Damn kids. Stay on it. If it’s a vigilante, we shut it down before it becomes another Exigen.”

Hiroshi narrowed his eyes.

Vigilante activity had always existed, but lately, the crackdown was worse.

After incidents like the Illegal Hero Fights in Naruhata, had escalated their methods.

And now?

Now they were treating him like the next big problem.

The drone lifted off, its searchlights sweeping empty streets. Once its hum faded, Hiroshi let out a long breath.

A few rooftops away, hidden beneath a nest of old solar panels, a pair of tired eyes tracked every movement below.

Unbeknownst to him, someone had caught the tail end of the drone feed—just long enough to recognize the figure slipping through the shadows. Same movement style. Same tactical retreat.

Hiroshi’s HUD flickered again—this time, stabilizing.

“Oki,” he muttered under his breath, “That was more than just a glitch.”

Oki’s voice came low through his earpiece. “Agreed. But Sector 9 waits. We can’t bail now.”

Hiroshi tightened his grip on the throttle.

No time to worry about it now then.

The city’s neon glow faded as he descended into the old district, the streets narrowing into winding tunnels of concrete and shadow.

Sector 9 loomed ahead: an abandoned subway station, buried beneath steel and rot.

Hiroshi eased his bike into a rusted maintenance tunnel. No surveillance. No patrols. Only dust, decay, the faint tang of stale coolant.

Too quiet.
A setup? A ghost facility?

He didn’t have the luxury of turning back now.

“I’m at the entrance. No obvious way in. What’ve you got?”

“Underground gateway for vehicles, a hundred meters east,” Oki replied.

Hiroshi swung his leg off the bike, engaging its cloaking field. The matte black frame shimmered out of sight.

Ahead, the outline of a service entrance. Keycard console. Surveillance cameras trained on it. Hacking the console was an option, but even with security scrambled, the risk was high. He didn’t know what was on the other side.

"Got anything else for me?" He pressed against his earpiece, scanning his surroundings.

"Nothing on the scanners. Too much reinforced concrete—my signal can’t pierce through."

The old subway service doors were an option—if they weren’t fused shut with rust. That left the ventilation shafts.

He spotted it then: a loose vent grate, half-hidden behind a service door console. Gripping its edges, he exhaled. His muscles still ached from withdrawal—each pull sent a dull, burning throb through his arms. The metal groaned in protest before finally giving way.

He exhaled, fingers grazing the last injection on his belt.

Not yet.

With a practiced motion, he hoisted himself up, slipping into the vents, sealing the grate behind him.

The inside was worse.

Every movement sent low metallic echoes reverberating through the cramped shaft. The air didn’t move. Stagnant. Unnatural.

“Oki, do you copy?”

Static crackled in his ear. “…weak… hack… boost…”

“Oki?”

No answer—just static and fragmented noise.

His visor HUD updated in blinking text:

Signal too weak.
Attempting system piggyback.
Locate access point to download.
Avoid alerting security.

A dim red warning light pulsed below. Automated turrets lined the corridor, but they sat idle—still scanning for movement.

Shifting his weight carefully, he hung slightly out of the vent to check the hallway below.

Finally a sign of life. Three guards. Armed, but blissfully unaware of what was about to drop in.

No cameras yet. Good, but he was sure he’d run into some eventually. He reached for a vial at his belt.

No time to hesitate now.

The serum hissed as it entered his bloodstream.

Impact. Acceleration. Enhancement.

The Mira hit fast—burning clarity flooding his system. The ache faded. His muscles tightened like drawn wire.

Heartbeats below. Three of them. Pulses steady. Movements slow. Radio chatter muffled.

Hiroshi dropped from the vent, landing without a sound.

A sharp strike to the first guard’s neck. He collapsed.

The second barely turned before Hiroshi wrenched the rifle from his grip—a single swing knocked him out cold.

The third spun—too slow. Hiroshi’s arm was already around his throat. One gasp. Two.

Silence. Three down.

“Sleep tight,” he whispered.

He stood, scanning for cameras. With a flick of his wrist, dart rounds popped from his gauntlet—sparks and short circuits snuffed each lens.

A soft scuff behind him.

“You always this theatrical?”

Hiroshi spun, gauntlet up—but saw nothing.

Then a scarf snaked across his forearm, yanking him off balance. The capture scarf coiled tight as he braced himself, visor reflecting a single pair of eyes emerging from shadow.

“I know you’re skilled,” the voice murmured as the rest of the figure stepped into view, eyes glowing faintly behind goggles. “But whatever you’re after, I’m not letting you walk away with it.”

Hiroshi’s arm tensed as he pulled on the scarf, slightly, standing firm as he stared the hero, Eraserhead, down from behind his dark visor.

Red emergency light pulsed slowly. Machinery hummed faintly in the distance. Turrets lined the tops of the hall like sleeping birds of prey, unmoving for now.

“I don’t want to fight you, hero,” he said, his voice modulated. He flicked his eyes to the top of his HUD.

MIRA ENHANCEMENT – 0:57:48 REMAINING

Feeling the pull, Aizawa yanked on the scarf tighter himself. There was more effort visible on him than the vigilante.

“You broke into a private facility. What you want stopped mattering the second you dropped those guards.”

“Then I’m sorry. But I’m pressed for time tonight.”

He yanked the scarf—hard—then shot forward like a bullet. Eraserhead let the momentum work for him, flipping up and over Exigen’s shoulder. His fingers grazed the gauntlet—missed.

But Exigen had already detached a magnetic clasp, snapping it to the scarf.

Aizawa’s eyes went wide as the device erupted in a strobing flash, shredding the air between them with static.

The force of the explosion caused Aizawa to roll along the floor. He recovered quickly, blinking hard as Exigen lunged towards him—fast. Too fast.

Aizawa tried to activate his Quirk—nothing changed.

He tried a last-minute jump out of the way, but Exigen caught him by the ankle and swung him across the hall.

The Eraser hero countered, still in the air, wrapping the scarf around Exigen’s legs.

Hiroshi rolled, breaking free. He leapt back up to his feet.

They circled each other.

“You’re skill’s a marvel to experience in person,” Hiroshi said. He checked his timer again.

MIRA ENHANCEMENT – 0:52:19 REMAINING

He’s about able to keep up with me with the serum. He’d have me if I wasn’t using it.

“My quirk’s not erasing anything,” Aizawa replied. “Meaning you’re using tech…or something unnatural.”

“Unfortunately, nothing these days is natural, my friend. Least of all this place.”

They clashed again. Exigen was faster. Stronger. Aizawa had to adapt, using shadows and angles, forcing close quarters where his scarf and precision could keep up. But Exigen’s senses were acute—every footstep, shift in breathing, the creak of gloves tightening—they all gave him away.

Exigen landed a clean hit, sending Aizawa crashing into the wall. He slowly wiped the spit from his mouth.

“Look, this place is the enemy. Not me,” Hiroshi said between breaths.

“That’s not how this works.”

The red emergency lights shifted. Brighter. Flashing now.

A synthetic voice droned overhead:

“INTRUDER ALERT. ZONE FOUR LOCKDOWN INITIATED.”

Hiroshi’s HUD pinged wildly. Aizawa’s scarf twitched but didn’t loosen.

“...You trigger that?” Aizawa asked.

“With my luck? Wouldn’t surprise me,” Hiroshi muttered.

A deep hum vibrated through the floor. Turrets twitched. Wall panels pulsed red. Then—the walls began shifting. Rearranging. From the cracks, a hissing mist seeped into the corridor.

The whole hallway trembled beneath their feet.

Aizawa cursed under his breath. “This facility’s more advanced than anything in the records.”

Exigen didn’t respond.

MIRA ENHANCEMENT – 0:44:27 REMAINING

“We gotta move,” he snapped, already sprinting. Aizawa followed without hesitation.

Behind them, turrets sprang to life—firing a trail of shots that chewed through the walls.

“I really don’t have time for this,” Hiroshi said as they ran.

“We need to shut it down,” Aizawa called. “Fast.”

“A truce?”

“For now. Once we’re out of this maze, you’re answering for everything.”

“Maybe,” Hiroshi said. The floor dropped out beneath them, “Assuming we make it out alive…”

They vanished into the dark.

Somewhere deep in the facility, hands flew across a glowing keyboard. Monitors flickered with infrared tracking.

“Separate them,” the scientist said coolly. “Guide him forward. Keep the Pro Hero occupied.”

She paused, watching Exigen’s tracker blink as they landed in the lower levels.

“Let’s see how far you’re willing to go, Dr. Yamashiro.”

Chapter Text

Aizawa stirred with a groan, sharp aches spiking through his shoulder and ribs. He’d landed hard—his capture scarf had cushioned part of the fall, wrapping instinctively around a pipe jutting from the wall—but it hadn't been enough to stop all the damage. He blinked, vision swimming in red emergency lights and swirling mist.

Where the hell am I?

A deep hum pulsed through the floor like a heartbeat. The space around him was different—industrial, maze-like, colder than the upper levels. Everything smelled like metal, oil, and something faintly chemical.

“Exigen?” he called, voice rough.

He reached for his goggles, tapping the side to enable low-light vision. The hallway stretched endlessly forward, and back...

“Good. You’re okay,” a voice called from above him.

Exigen climbed down from an elevated platform, landing beside him.

“I’m surprised you didn’t make a run for it,” Aizawa said, pulling himself up on his feet. “Not that this changes anything.”

“Believe me,” Exigen replied, “I’m counting the seconds until I can lose you. But we’ll need each other to get out of here.”

Aizawa snorted in response. Then he looked down the ominous hall. The only way was forward.

“Just don’t mistake necessity for trust. This doesn’t change things.”

Aizawa walked in silence beside Exigen, his every footstep echoing beneath the groan of shifting pipes above. The emergency lights overhead gave off just enough red to paint the mist like blood. The further they went, the clearer it became—this wasn’t just some little corporate facility.

They stopped at a sealed steel door marked only by faded stenciling: Sub-Level D7. Aizawa stepped forward to examine it, but before he could reach for the control panel, Exigen raised his wrist. A narrow beam of light flickered from the gauntlet embedded in his forearm, scanning the panel.

The door let out a low chime—then clicked open.

Aizawa narrowed his eyes. "How’d you open it so easily?" he asked flatly.

Exigen didn’t look back. "Let’s just say I used to have clearance."

Aizawa moved past him, eyes sweeping the corridor beyond. The air grew colder.

"You used to work here?" he said, tone edged like glass. "You helped build this place?"

"No." Exigen’s reply was clipped. "But I knew the people who did. I was never here, but I can easily replicate their access codes."

"And now you're blowing it up. Convenient."

The vigilante said nothing.

“You on a clock or something?” Aizawa said, noticing Exigen’s hurried actions.

“Aren’t you?” Exigen said, stepping through the door. "Or would you rather we sit philosophize while this place swallows us?"

They picked up the pace. Another junction. Another corridor.

Then came a new hum. Higher pitched and mechanical.

From above, the ceiling peeled open in segments. A cluster of black drones spiraled out like wasps disturbed from a hive—sleek, triangular, needle-pointed. Red optics flared to life as their wings buzzed.

Aizawa’s capture scarf snapped out on instinct, looping one drone mid-dive and slamming it to the ground with enough force to spark. The second he turned, another was diving at his flank—but Exigen blasted it with a burst of pale-blue energy from a palm emitter, leaving its frame a smoking arc.

A dozen more poured in.

Aizawa flowed into motion. He dodged, disabled, grounded the drones with fluid strikes and precise scarf traps.

Exigen, meanwhile, tore through them. His movements were tight, methodical—disassembling with speed and force born of experience. He used walls, shadows, and collapsing wreckage to corner the drones.

The battle was over almost as quickly as it started.

Sparks and drone shards littered the hallway like metallic ash. Aizawa stood still for a beat, chest rising and falling, the fog disturbed by every breath.

“You always bring in this much attention?” he asked, wrapping his scarf back in place.

“This?” Exigen muttered, eyes scanning the fragments. “This is just a polite welcome. Stay alert—I doubt that’s the last of their hospitality.”

A rumble shook the floor beneath them.

“What’s going on?” Aizawa spun around.

The corridor groaned. Panels slid apart like jaws opening, revealing a glass passage flanked by darkened chambers. Aizawa’s steps slowed. His hand unconsciously moved to his scarf again.

“It’s a labyrinth. They’re shifting the layout of the floor here,” Exigen said, looking at the rooms behind the glass corridors. “They want to split us up.”

Behind the glass, one chamber showed a failed quirk augmentation, skin blistered and body twisted grotesquely around an oversized spinal implant.

Another held an animal—once a dog, now bloated with metallic tubing fused to its skeleton.

And in the third: mannequins. Not human. Training dummies layered with muscle analogs and patchwork organs suspended in transparent torsos. Each bore surgical notations. Simulated mutation. Stress testing.

Aizawa paused, throat dry. “They’re prototyping. This isn’t just some villain-run op—it’s full on R&D. What the hell is all this?” He turned to Exigen. “Talk.”

Exigen pushed past, “No time.”

Another hiss echoed. Louder. More deliberate.

The eerie hum of the facility amplified, vibrating through their bones as the walls shifted again.

Aizawa turned just in time to catch a flicker in the glass wall beside them—a mannequin. Headless, motionless... staring.

Then it moved.

Jerking into place like a puppet on strings. Unnatural. Very wrong. A sickly, synthetic growl followed.

The glass shattered.

Shards sprayed across the hall as the mannequin lunged—its movement a jerking, twisted mimicry of a fighter—offbeat, twitching, wrong.

Behind it, others stirred. Torsos twisted. Limbs unfolded. One by one, they snapped into combat stances like actors rising on a broken stage. 

One. Two. Four. Six.

Aizawa didn’t hesitate.

His capture scarf lashed out, wrapping the lead mannequin’s arm and yanking it into the wall with a crack. It staggered, but didn't stop—pulling itself upright with relentless mechanical grace.

Exigen was already moving.

He surged forward, spinning low. His heel cracked into a mannequin’s midsection, launching it into a pillar hard enough to dent steel.

More spilled in from broken side doors.

“This is insane,” Aizawa growled, sweeping his scarf like a whip, snapping limbs and cracking joints. But they kept coming. Cold. Numberless.

Another mannequin lunged. This one more grotesque—stitched with pale flesh, twitching with robotic precision. He tripped it, slammed it headfirst into the ground. No pause. No hesitation.

A feral snarl cut through the din.

The mutant dog leapt.

Exigen ducked, his fist driving into its ribs with a crunch—but a mannequin crashed into him from behind, knocking him off-balance.

“Damn it!” he spat, twisting free. The walls groaned louder—grinding inward like puzzle pieces locking into place.

Escape routes vanished. Pathways reformed. Corridors bent like a living maze.

“This isn’t good,” Aizawa muttered, wrapping his scarf around a mannequin’s legs and flinging it into a charging dog. They crumpled in a heap—but more filled the space behind them.

Exigen surged back to his feet, blade in hand, cleaving a mannequin from shoulder to hip. Still more came. Dozens now. A swarm of headless horrors, each shrieking and groaning with faulty motors and clicking servos.

“They’re weak—but endless,” Aizawa panted.

Exigen nodded grimly. “And we don’t have the luxury of time.”

The walls screamed—a low mechanical rumble as sections of the room began folding in on themselves. Trapping them. Herding them.

“Exigen!” Aizawa shouted, slamming a mannequin into a lunging dog. “We need to find the exit—now!”

“I’m trying!” Exigen snapped, activating a burst of energy from his wrist device. A pulse exploded outward, mannequins flying like ragdolls. But the moment the air cleared—

The wall behind him began to shift.

Metal groaned as a thick barrier slid forward, cutting him off.

“Wait—!”

SLAM.

The wall sealed with a deafening screech.

“EXIGEN!” Aizawa bellowed, rushing forward—

Too late.

Exigen pounded the cold metal, teeth clenched. Beyond it—shouts, impacts, his teammate still fighting. Still surrounded.

He scanned the shifting walls. No time. No options.

“I’ll meet you at the exit!” Aizawa’s voice rang through—muffled, but fierce.

Exigen’s heart hammered. His gaze darted between the door and his path forward.

MIRA ENHANCEMENT — 0:28:56 REMAINING

He drew a sharp breath. If he can’t go back, there’s only forward.

“Hang in there, Eraser! Get to the exit!” he yelled out, before turning and sprinting into the only remaining corridor.

As he withdrew, silence fell like a lid. Only his footsteps remained—echoing, fast, alone.

Ahead—

The main lab.

It was a vast hall of containment pods, sterile and silent.

No personnel. No researchers. Better still, no mannequins.

Only the hum of machinery, and the quiet drip of circulating fluid in the tanks.

His eyes locked onto a massive containment tank, filled with murky water. Inside, a figure drifted through the liquid. Hiroshi inched closer. His visor adjusted to scan the being within.

A human—once. Now elongated limbs, serrated teeth, gills lining the throat.

Piranha DNA.

It was watching him. Its black eyes unblinking. Pressing clawed hands against the glass.

Then—it smiled.

Hiroshi tensed, backing into something behind him.

He spun—another pod loomed behind him. Open. Bloodied. Something had broken out violently.

His HUD flickered through the room—more empty pods. Some intact. Some shattered.

He forced himself forward. The lab’s research terminal glowed in the dim light.

Encrypted. He expected nothing less.

"Oki, do you copy?"

Static. He still couldn’t get through. But he knew this was where he could get the intel they needed.

Navigating through his Visor’s HUD, he connected to the facility’s system.

“Okay… starting the data copy. Then I’m out.”

A status bar appeared on his HUD. 23%.

Too slow.

His fingers flew across the controls, bypassing the more basic encryptions. One record wasn’t encrypted. Just a designation: Subject M-218.

He turned his head.

A stasis pod at the back of the room.

Inside, suspended in fluid—a man. Young. Early twenties. An intern, if Hiroshi had to guess. Why was he here?

The man didn’t move. But bubbles escaped his mouth—he was breathing. His eyes scanned for a release function.

He barely noticed the status bar creeping up. 34%... 56%...

Then—

Spotlights flooded the lab.

His HUD scrambled from the sudden surge of interference.

A voice crackled through the room. Smooth. Amused.

“Dr. Yamashiro. It’s been a long time.”

The hologram flickered to life above the research terminal, her expression smooth, self-assured.

Dr. Saeko Sakuma.

Iron Cross’ leading scientist. The head of Project Mira after he left. She hadn’t changed. Still poised. Still dangerous.

“I knew you’d come back eventually, Doctor. Nostalgia? Guilt? Oh—but you go by ‘Exigen’ now, don’t you?”

The room was silent. Hiroshi didn’t move. His breath slowed. His fingers curled into fists.

She knows.
How long has she known?

Dr. Sakuma smiled. Like she’d already won.

"Oki…?" Hiroshi’s voice was low, urgent.

The interference was still running through his comms. Crackling static.

She flicked her wrist. The holographic display shifted.

The feed blinked on.

His face. Bare. Unmasked. Broadcast straight from his own visor.

A flicker of his voice, tired and frayed:

"Exigen: Offline."

Then—static. The feed cut out.

His stomach dropped. His breath went cold.

They hacked us. They hacked me.
Since the Vulture fight. They’ve been watching ever since.

Dr. Sakuma’s voice was smooth. Amused.

“You always were brilliant. But never careful.”

He clenched his fists. One step too far. One second too late.

But the download was still running. Slower now.

Sakuma’s projection turned, walking through the lab.

“Let’s not waste time with heroics,” she said, gesturing toward the massive containment tank where the Piranha Subject drifted through the murky water.

“Aimi Morohoshi. Quirkless. A pioneer in marine biology. She should have been remembered for her discoveries, but… people only remember power.”

Her tone softened—just for a moment.

“I thought Mira could change that. Could change her.”

A pause.

“And in a way… it did.”

She gestured lazily at the tank.

Aimi drifted closer. Her serrated teeth flashed. She was watching them.

Sakuma didn’t even look. Unfazed.

“We found an undetected genetic marker in her DNA—one that suggested an affinity for aquatic traits. We targeted it with a Mira dosage. Her body accepted the changes. But her mind?” She exhaled, shaking her head.

Hiroshi’s eyes flickered to the second containment unit.

Sakuma’s hologram paused before it.

“Though still, she’s luckier than most—” she exhaled softly, glancing toward an empty, scorched containment pod. “Some were just too fragile for greatness.”

No straps. No claw marks. Nothing.

Just an outline. A charred imprint of a human figure, burned into the metal.

Hiroshi’s stomach twisted.

“We thought we had the formula perfected. A synthetic quirk. Stronger. More stable.”

Her fingers ran over the burned metal.

“But the moment we activated it… he dissolved.”

Hiroshi swallowed.

“Vaporized completely. The only thing left was a residual heat signature. Gone.”

A long pause.

Then—she turned.

She was smiling again. Collected. Composed.

“But science is built on sacrifice. Wouldn’t you agree, Doctor?”

She turned her gaze toward the empty pod, her fingers brushing the charred surface.

“A thousand failures for one breakthrough. That’s always been the price of progress. The difference between you and me… is that I’m still willing to pay it.”

His jaw clenched.

Sakuma resumed walking, strolling towards the broken containment unit from earlier, tracing her fingers over the deep gashes in the steel.

“A small-time Pro Hero. You might have even heard of him. Gyro, they called him. He could pivot and strike with surgical precision—his Quirk used microscopic gyroscopes in his arms to control momentum. Balance, speed, even inertia. But then a villain took his arms straight from their sockets.”

Her voice was mocking.

Hiroshi’s hands twitched.

“So, we gave him another chance. Mira, enhanced with regenerative properties, mixed with lizard DNA. It worked. He got his arms back.”

She turned to face him.

“But… then he started changing. Rapid mutation. Cold-blooded. Hardened scales. A mind that wasn’t entirely his own anymore.”

Hiroshi’s jaw tightened as Sakuma’s smirk widened.

“He escaped. Somewhere in the subway tunnels.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I’m sure he’ll turn up eventually.”

She let the silence sit.

Then, casually, she turned back to him.

“Which brings us back to you.”

Her voice was lighter now. Almost… familiar.

“This was your dream too, once. We were going to change the world together.”

She studied him for a moment.

“I can still give you that chance. We’ve studied your enhancements. Your independent version of Mira is far more stable than anything we’ve developed so far. Sure, it’s only temporary—but even that is an improvement.”

She clasped her hands behind her back.

“And that’s why the CEO has made you an offer.”

Here it comes.

“Hand over your version of Mira, and we let you go. No pursuit. No retaliation. Just… gone.”

He scoffed. Finally speaking.

“Yeah? You won’t need me anymore, so how could I trust your word?”

She tilted her head. “You’re smarter than that, Yamashiro.”

Her smile sharpened.

“Of course, you’re free to refuse,” her hologram stepped closer to the pod. Digital fingers tracing the burn marks. “But…your daughter?”

Hiroshi stiffened in his stance. Ice crawled through his veins.

Sakuma exhaled, almost pitying.

“She’s bright. Ambitious. She could be as great as you one day, maybe better. But you know how this world works…”

She tilted her head slightly.

“But potential without guidance? It can falter. And if you keep opposing us… well, I can’t promise she’ll find herself under the right mentorship.”

She sighed, shaking her head.

“I do want what’s best for her. And I’m sure you do too. Don’t you?”

Hiroshi clenched his fists.

He inhaled slowly.

 “You talk about sacrifice.” His voice was quiet. Steady. “That’s not what this is.”

He lifted his chin, eyes locking onto hers.

“There was a time I believed in Mira. I believed in us—that we were going to change the world.”

His fists clenched.

“But that wasn’t just a mistake.” His voice hardened. “That was a wake-up call, but you couldn’t look past your ambitions to see it.”

Sakuma’s smirk faltered. Just slightly.

Hiroshi lifted his chin.

“The real mistake I made was working for you people in the first place. Working for him.”

He met her gaze, steel in his voice.

“But I am not making that mistake again.”

Sakuma sighed.

She inhaled slowly.

The edges of her expression tightening—something resembling disappointment flickering in her eyes.

“I always thought you were a man of reason, Hiroshi.”

She exhaled, tilting her head slightly, as if genuinely puzzled.

“You know what we could achieve. But instead, you let yourself be shackled by guilt.”

Her gaze drifted toward the ruined containment pod, where claw marks were gouged deep into the steel.

“We could’ve stood together again. Like before.” Her voice lowered—cool, unwavering. “But I suppose sentimentality is just another weakness of yours.”

Then she lifted a single finger.

The intern’s stasis pod hissed.

Hiroshi’s breath caught.

The fluid inside darkened.

“You think I’m cruel. But the world isn’t kind to the broken. You wouldn’t understand—you walked away before real sacrifices had to be made. I never had that luxury.”

The man inside twitched violently. Black veins spidered across his skin.

A flicker of something crossed Sakuma’s face.

A flicker passed over Sakuma’s face. Weariness? Or something buried deeper—regret, maybe?

The young man’s eyes flashed open in the pod.

He tried to scream, only gargling the fluids of his tube.

“Every failed subject. Every setback. Every breakthrough. All of it leads to something greater. And tonight, Doctor… you will bear witness to what comes next.”

The fluid inside bubbled. A fracture split the glass. Then another.

Hiroshi lunged toward the terminal—too late.

The glass burst apart.

The intern hit the floor, convulsing. His scream muffled. His skin blistered—liquefying into molten gold.

Sakuma remained still, untouched by the rising heat, her gaze steady.

She tilted her head, watching the way his form twisted, reformed, solidified into something beyond human.

"Fascinating," she murmured. "He’s not burning—he’s evolving. A man made of molten ore."

Her lips curled. “No, something more…”

A beat.

"A…Molten Man."

Staggering to his feet, the Molten Man stared at his hands. In disbelief. In terror.

Then the terror melted away—boiling over into something else.

Rage.

His cry, an eruption of fury.

The heat surged—warping metal, setting the walls aglow.

Hiroshi braced for hell.

Molten Man’s roars split the air—raw, ragged, inhuman.

Aizawa turned toward the echo—tightening the cloth around his wrist.

“Found himself trouble right after I’d lost mine…”

He was able to escape the horde of headless horrors from before, but now he was lost. The place was quieter now. Dead. Like the facility had what it wanted and didn’t care what he did now.

He continued to wander through the corridor, eyes scanning every flickering corner for a threat or way out. Emergency lights died one by one, casting stuttering strobes across fractured walls and hanging cables. The air was thick with a chemical scent.

The remains of containment tanks jutted out like broken ribs. One had clearly exploded from within—jagged metal peeled outward. In its center was a pool of blackened sand, crusted like volcanic ash, but glinting faintly, unnaturally.

He crouched beside it. Gloved fingers dipped into the residue. It clung, sticky. Gritty. Almost alive.

He narrowed his eyes. The grit twitched in his palm—drawn to the static, almost like it was alive.

Nearby, a shattered identification tag lay half-melted:

MIRA SUBJECT 09 — STATUS: UNSTABLE. RELOCATED.

Aizawa frowned. Relocated?

He glanced around the wreckage. “So… a monster factory. Or at least where they tested whatever turned Tooma into that Vulture-creature…”

Where are they relocated to, and why? What are they planning to do with them?

He stood, brushing the ash off. His foot nudged a broken panel—still humming. A cracked console flickered with dying light, its display struggling to stay coherent.

Lines of data stuttered across the screen:

MIRA REACTIONS: ELEMENTAL COHESION — UNSTABLE
RECOMMENDED: CONTAINMENT
SUBJECT NEURAL RESONANCE — NONCOMPATIBLE. PHASE INCOMPATIBILITY DETECTED.

The log cut out with a static buzz.

“Mira…” Aizawa muttered. “Is that what this is? A new kind of Trigger?”

He stared at the dying console a moment longer.

A lab, hidden beneath the city. Unregistered subjects. Experimental drugs. Evidence of something far bigger than what he came here chasing.

And none of it discovered through official channels.

No arrest warrant. No raid team. No backup. Just a masked man in a lab coat playing hero.

Aizawa’s jaw clenched.

This isn't how it's supposed to work.

Heroes were licensed for a reason. Rules existed to protect people. Oversight kept them honest. Without that, things spiralled. People got hurt. Power got abused. He’d seen it before—students with promising futures broken by recklessness, or worse, by ego.

And yet…

If that vigilante hadn’t started sniffing around, none of this would’ve surfaced.

He never would've found this place. Not through the system.

A sour taste hit the back of his throat.

Damn it.

The walls suddenly shook with a deep rumble—muffled, distant, but unmistakable.

An explosion.

His head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

"...Great."

The vigilante might’ve been reckless, but if he was dead, so were the answers.

Aizawa took off down the hall, coat flaring, boots pounding against metal as another explosion rocked the facility.

The Molten Man’s golden, viscous body dripped magma, searing holes into the floor. His breathing was ragged, heavy—each inhale sending embers spilling from his throat.

Each step left behind molten craters, steel hissing as his burning body devoured everything beneath him.

He thrashed wildly, tearing through consoles, warping steel, and hurling fists at Hiroshi. Unfiltered rage. He wanted to destroy everything around him.

Hiroshi's HUD flickered—87%. Still too slow.

"Subject stabilizing faster than expected," purred Sakuma’s voice over the intercom. Her projection stroked a finger along her cheek, eyes gleaming. "Good. Let’s see what else he can do, besides destroy our equipment."

Molten Man suddenly jerked forward, his body twitching. His rage appearing to subside.

“Good, that’s better. Target Exigen. Execute.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—a moment of hesitation. His molten limbs shuddered, resisting some unseen force. Then his head snapped toward Hiroshi, and the rage returned.

With a roar, he lunged.

Hiroshi barely dodged as Molten Man slammed a fist down, the entire lab trembled. Metal groaned. The ground sagged under the heat.

Not as fast as the Vulture, but he hit harder than anything Hiroshi had fought before.

Hiroshi struck, but his punches did nothing—Molten Man’s liquid metal body absorbed the force.

Every attack sent sparks flying—his heat-warped body making Hiroshi’s suit struggle to compensate.

Warning signals flashed across his HUD—temperature thresholds rising, cooling systems failing.

Molten Man’s rage built—his body expanding, growing hotter.

"Temperature rising exponentially," Sakuma mused. "If this keeps up, he might surpass our previous combustion threshold. Interesting."

Then—Molten Man hurled a wave of searing molten rock.

Hiroshi dodged—but behind him—

The molten blast collided with the containment tank.

Hiroshi barely had time to react before the reinforced glass groaned, cracking outward in jagged veins.

Molten Man was still raging, blind to the destruction he caused, his molten fists swinging wildly.

Sakuma said nothing.

A slow hiss filled the air. The temperature in the room dipped.

Dripping water. The sound was soft at first. A slow patter against the scorched steel floor. Then— a rush. A deluge as the tank split apart completely, spilling its dark, murky contents.

And from the mist, a shape slithered forward.

Hiroshi tensed.

Molten Man stumbled back, his molten form steaming where the water licked at his feet.

Then, a laugh.

A long, drawn-out, giggling laugh.

Child-like. High-pitched, lilting into an unnatural sing-song.

"Drip, drop! Crack goes the tank!~"

A shadow moved within the mist.

“Haaah… so warm out here. So many little flames dancing everywhere…”

She padded forward, barefoot and dripping, every step slow—deliberate. A predator drawing out the moment.

“Heehee~ Did you let me out on purpose?”

Molten Man turned, confused. “Who—?”

She was already moving. Too fast.

The next sound was a wet crunch as she slammed into him—her sharpened claws sinking into molten flesh.

Molten Man howled, staggering back, swinging wildly.

She danced away, grinning.

Her teeth were razor-sharp, her pupils blown wide.

“Ahhh~ I like you,” she cooed, tilting her head. “You’re all soft. Squishy. Like a pudding!”

Molten Man stumbled back, roaring in pain, molten flesh hissing where her claws had carved through—though magma seeped back through, sealing the wound with a sharp sizzle.

He swung blindly, a fiery arc of molten metal trailing in the air—

Aimi ducked. She giggled.

“So mean~” She pouted, shaking molten residue from her fingertips. “You shouldn’t play so rough.”

Molten Man growled, heat surging, ready to melt her down to the bone.

Hiroshi barely heard them. His HUD pinged, the progress bar still crawling.

92%.

Not fast enough.

He scanned the lab—every door still locked down. If he made a break for it now, he’d have nowhere to run.

“Enough.”

Sakuma’s command cut through the air like a blade.

Hiroshi whipped his head back toward her projection—her expression was still calm, but there was something in her eyes now. A slight tightening at the edges.

She lifted a single finger.

Molten Man jerked mid-motion, his body convulsing unnaturally. His molten glow flickered, muscles locking against his own will.

Hiroshi’s breath caught. Control chip.

Sakuma’s voice stayed cool—measured.

“Focus.”

Molten Man’s breathing hitched—then steadied. His rage remained, but his erratic thrashing stilled.

Controlled.

Hiroshi’s stomach twisted. She wasn’t just monitoring them. She was commanding them like pieces on a board.

A pause. Then—

Sakuma’s gaze slid toward Aimi—and the room seemed to tilt with it.

She smiled motherly. “Aimi. You’ve been very patient.”

Hiroshi’s fingers tightened into fists.

Aimi tilted her head.

“…Patient?” She tapped a claw against her lips, considering. “Mmm. Maybe!~”

Sakuma’s voice softened—dangerously sweet.

“You would like someone to play with now, wouldn’t you?”

Hiroshi exhaled sharply, hands already moving. His HUD flickered—96%—

Come on.

Aimi’s pupils contracted.

Her grin widened.

Molten Man's fingers curled into fists, his molten form twitching against the restraints of the control chip. He wasn’t done—but he couldn’t disobey.

Sakuma’s voice dropped to mocking gentleness.

“Isn’t he the one you want?”

Aimi blinked.

Then, slowly, her lips curled back—exposing rows of jagged, shark-like teeth.

“…Ohhh.”

She giggled, rolling her shoulders back, letting the tension settle into something languid and loose.

Hiroshi’s back pressed against the console. The doors were still locked.

98%.

Too slow.

She turned fully toward Hiroshi, her grin still stretched wide.

“Ahh, Dr. Yamashiro, I’ve been dying to meet you properly~”

“You made me this way, didn’t you? And now you let me out~”

Her voice dipped into a delighted whisper.

“And now that means we get to play.”

The progress bar flashed—99%.

Then—she lunged.

Hiroshi moved.

Aimi was fast—faster than she had any right to be. Her claws slashed through the air, slicing past his visor by inches.

He dodged back.

Molten Man’s searing fist followed immediately, swinging for his ribs.

Too close.

He twisted, just barely avoiding the molten strike as it caved in the metal floor, leaving a warped, glowing crater.

Hiroshi gritted his teeth. He couldn’t keep this up.

MIRA ENHANCEMENT — 0:07:36 REMAINING

Another second. Another strike.

He barely dodged Aimi’s lunging bite—razor-sharp teeth snapping where his throat had been.

She giggled as she landed, her eyes fully black with excitement.

“Oooh~ you’re getting slow, Doctor!~”

Hiroshi skidded backward, breathing heavy.

“Your legs are all wobbly! Wobbly-Bobbily!~” she sang, lunging, swiping, and snapping at him. “You’re gonna fall and then I’ll get to chew!”

He wasn’t winning this fight.

They were stronger, faster, and he was running out of time.

He needed another way out.

Then, his gaze flicked toward the main blast doors.

Steel-reinforced. Edges already warping from heat.

His mind locked onto the answer instantly.

Hiroshi’s muscles coiled. A risky gamble. One shot.

Molten Man roared, the corridor warping from the heat, his footsteps like thunder.

Now!

Hiroshi moved straight for him.

Molten Man reeled his arm back for a crushing blow—

Hiroshi dropped low at the last second—

The punch sailed past.

And collided with the blast doors.

A thunderous hiss filled the air as superheated metal melted into slag.

Molten Man staggered back, blinking in confusion.

Sakuma’s voice snapped through the speakers.

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

Hiroshi didn’t wait. He was already moving.

He vaulted over the wreckage, sprinting for the exit.

His boots hit the corridor—just as the alarms blared.

BZZZT. EMERGENCY LOCKDOWN ENGAGED.

Sakuma’s projection remained behind, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Control the situation. Now."

Aimi’s eyes gleamed, her grin stretching impossibly wide.

She swayed on her feet, mock-thoughtful, before sing-songing—

“Ooooh, orders! Bossy-boss says go fetch~!”

She sprinted after him.

Molten Man followed, each step leaving molten footprints behind.

The facility roared to life.

Red warning lights pulsed. Metal shutters slammed down over doorways.

Turrets snapped into position overhead.

From the ceilings and walls, hunter drones unfurled like wasps, scanning lights flickering as they locked onto Hiroshi.

BZZT. ALERT. UNAUTHORIZED ENTITY DETECTED. TERMINATION PROTOCOL INITIATED.

Hiroshi vaulted a fallen console, hitting the floor hard just as gunfire shredded the corridor behind him.

The drones gave chase, swarming like a pack of wolves.

A whip of fabric lashed down from above—

One of the drones jerked mid-air, then crashed in a shower of sparks.

A shape dropped into view behind Hiroshi, coat flaring as he landed.

“You really know how to make an exit,” Aizawa muttered.

Hiroshi blinked. “I forgot you were here.”

Another drone zipped toward them—

Aizawa’s capture scarf snapped it from the air, slamming it into a wall.

“Don’t stop moving,” Aizawa said. “I’ll cover your six.”

Hiroshi’s eyes flicked to the timer on his HUD:

MIRA ENHANCEMENT — 0:02:58 REMAINING

Another drone swooped low. Aizawa grabbed his shoulder—

“Duck.”

They dropped together as twin plasma blasts scorched overhead.

“How many of these things do they have?” Hiroshi grunted.

“I’m not on the payroll,” Aizawa said, flicking his scarf to snag a ceiling vent. He yanked himself upward, used the momentum to flip, and drove his boot into the drone’s chassis—crushing it against the floor.

More drones rounded the corridor ahead, flanking them.

“Left?” Hiroshi asked.

“Right.” Aizawa didn’t slow.

They split, each charging a side.

Hiroshi leapt, planting both feet into a drone’s chassis mid-air and flipping off it as it spun out of control.

Aizawa vaulted a railing, snared a drone by its rotor, and flung it into another mid-flight.

“Not bad for a kid,” Hiroshi called out.

“I don’t want to hear it from a cosplaying hero,” Aizawa shot back.

Hiroshi crashed through a drone lining up a shot on Aizawa.

“Then keep up,” Hiroshi snickered, “the old cosplayer’s giving a masterclass.”

The corridor narrowed—

Ahead, a bulkier assault drone dropped from the ceiling, plating locking into place like armor.

Its heavy plasma cannon powered up with a rising whine.

Aizawa landed beside Hiroshi.

They exchanged a glance.

“You got a plan?” Aizawa asked.

“You distract. I smash.”

They moved.

Aizawa sprinted forward, drawing fire as his scarf snapped the cannon’s aim upward.

Hiroshi surged beneath the barrel, Mira-enhanced muscles flaring—

He drove his fist into the drone’s undercarriage.

A burst of sparks—hydraulics shrieked—

The drone collapsed in a heap.

MIRA ENHANCEMENT — 0:01:18 REMAINING

Hiroshi was slowing down.

His movements lagged. His breath came ragged.

He was running out of time. The Mira was wearing off.

Just then, a turret swung toward them—

BZZT. ERROR. SYSTEM OVERRIDE INITIATED.

It whirled, its targeting reticule flickering.

Then—it spun and opened fire on the other drones.

Gunfire erupted as the turrets shredded through the facility’s own security.

A new voice cracked through Hiroshi’s comms.

“Hiroshi! I’m overriding the security—get to the exit!”

The lockdown gates hissed open ahead.

He could see it.

Just a little further—

SLAAM.

Something heavy struck his back.

Molten heat surged through his armor.

Hiroshi gasped, agony flaring through his ribs as Molten Man slammed him into the corridor wall.

The metal hissed, liquefying from the heat. His HUD exploded with warnings.

Too hot. Too much.

Aizawa turned—too late. Aimi was faster.

She raked her claws across Hiroshi’s shoulder mid-pounce, tearing straight through fabric and plating.

Red spilled.

Aizawa’s scarf caught her ankle mid-air, slamming her sideways into a pillar before she could finish the strike.

But she twisted with the impact—feral, laughing—and kicked off the wall.

“Ooooh~” Aimi crooned, licking blood from her fingers. “That’s warm... Heehee, maybe I should take another bite?”

Aizawa narrowed his eyes and activated his quirk—Nothing.

“My quirk’s not working on them!” he barked, eyes narrowing—they must be augmented. A mutation rather than a quirk!

The weight of his gaze still pulled her attention.

Her head swiveled toward him, tongue hanging between a gleaming, too-wide grin.

“Maybe I should taste your warmth.”

She lunged.

Aizawa dropped to his back, kicking her overhead as her own momentum sent her crashing into the wall.

Meanwhile, Hiroshi’s knees buckled—but he stayed upright.

Molten Man loomed. Flames poured off him in molten sheets. Aimi prowled the edge of vision on all fours like a hyena.

Back-to-back now, Hiroshi and Aizawa watched them.

Both breathing hard.

Aizawa glanced over. “Hey—you good there?”

MIRA ENHANCEMENT — 0:00:53 REMAINING

Hiroshi’s hand trembled toward his belt.

The serum. Another vial.

He wasn’t out of power yet. Not completely.

But it was dangerous to stack doses. Especially this close together.

The addiction. The pull. It always got stronger.

If he wasn’t careful, another dose now could fry his nervous system—or worse.

Seconds left... could they last that long?

He could feel the weight of withdrawal already setting in.

The exhaustion. The pull. The familiar ache gnawing at the edges of his mind.

He gritted his teeth.

No choice.

His fingers locked around the injector—

HISS.

The serum burned into his veins.

A jolt of raw power.

Muscles clenched. Vision snapped to crystal clarity.

NOW.

With a violent surge, Hiroshi tore free of Molten Man’s grip, flipping over him.

Before the molten beast could react, Hiroshi drove both feet into his back—

CRUNCH.

Molten Man staggered into the wall, flames sputtering off his body.

Aimi lunged again—

But this time, Aizawa was ready.

He tangled her in his scarf mid-air, dragging her down—

SLAM.

And Hiroshi met her with a brutal haymaker as she fell, smashing her into the floor.

They ran.

Blood in their mouths.

Fire at their backs.

Death on their heels.

Then—

“This way!” Hiroshi shouted, skidding through a narrow corridor, forcing open a rusted access door with a shoulder-check that sent fresh pain lancing through him.

He stumbled into the cold night.

The air stung his lungs. His vision swam.

He might’ve dislocated his shoulder—but he didn’t stop. His bike was there. Hidden just beyond the fence.

Just a little further. Just one more breath.

He gripped the handlebars with trembling fingers.

Behind him—

Aizawa paused at the threshold of the open exit. Inside, fire flickered in the depths.

Molten Man stood silhouetted in the firelit corridor—unmoving. A molten sentinel. Not chasing. Just watching. As if daring them to return.

Aimi’s laugh echoed—then vanished. She’d slipped into the sewers like a rat in the walls.

Aizawa took a step forward—

But then froze, eyes narrowing as he looked at Hiroshi.

The way the man stood. Shaking, yes—but standing.

Moments ago, he’d been at death’s door. Now—he moved like a man resurrected.

Aizawa’s voice was low, measured. “That strength—what the hell did you inject yourself with?”

Hiroshi’s helmet turned toward him—then away.

No answer.

The engine roared.

“I told you you’d answer for everything,” Aizawa warned, taking a step forward. “I can’t just let you disappear again.”

Hiroshi’s head dipped. He didn’t look back. “I told you I’m not your enemy.”

“Then give me some answers. Tell me what the hell is going on.”

But the sound of sirens was rising in the distance. Red lights bleeding across the sky.

Hiroshi’s grip tightened. “Can’t do that, Eraser. Not with them.”

Aizawa’s jaw clenched. “If you run now, I won’t be able to help your case.”

But Hiroshi was already gone. The bike screeched against the road, tearing away into the night.

Aizawa stood alone in the rusted threshold, scarf fluttering in the cold wind.

Behind him, Sector 9 burned.

And ahead—

The first lights of law enforcement arrived.

The hero, Snipe, stepped out of the cruiser, mask already lifted, eyes narrowed at the curling smoke. Tsukauchi followed; his face tight with concern.

“Aizawa,” Snipe called. “What the hell happened here?”

Aizawa didn’t answer right away. He was still staring down the road. Where the vigilante vanished.

Finally, he muttered, gruff and quiet:

“Something we weren’t ready for.”

Snipe glanced at the building, watching the flames eat what was left.

“Facility like this? Not on any official maps – just comes up as the old subway station. Classic Villain lab set up. We’ve been tracking this crew for some time. With this site gone, it might be a while to track them down again. If they’re smart, they’ll be going into hiding for a while.”

Aizawa turned to him, eyes narrowing. “A classic villain lab. You sure that’s all they were?”

Tsukauchi added, “There’s been chatter about biotech smuggling. Illegal enhancements. Ties to overseas groups.”

“That can’t be accurate.” Aizawa said. “There were layers of labs and hordes of experiments down there, but your standard villain lab? That’s our story on this?”

Snipe met his gaze, calm but unwavering. “Look, Eraser, I don’t doubt what you saw. But from where I’m standing? All we’ve got is what’s left—and it’s ashes.”

Aizawa’s hands clenched. His eyes were still on the smoke, but something deep inside him was unsettled.

There was more to this. He could feel it. They were being played—and the evidence was going up in flames.

His hands were tied for now. But he’d find the truth. One way or another.

The screen flickered.

Dr. Saeko Sakuma exhaled slowly, tapping her nails against the edge of her desk. Her skyrise apartment was bathed in a cold, synthetic glow—neon lights from the city skyline casting jagged reflections across the polished glass walls.

She wasn’t in Sector 9. She hadn’t needed to be.

Every camera, every sensor, every piece of data fed directly to her.

And Hiroshi had still escaped.

She turned away from the monitors, flicking a switch on her desk.

A holographic interface hummed to life. The Iron Cross logo rotated in the air before shifting into a real-time projection.

CEO Mitsuo Akayama.

His form materialized, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Even in holographic form, his presence radiated control.

His expression was unreadable. Expectant.

Sakuma folded her arms. “He got away.”

A pause.

“And we’ve lost the Sector 9 Facility. It’s being… cleansed as we speak—I’ve got the Molten Man melting every floor into slag. Nothing will survive the purge.” She watched the feed of him bringing down the facility into rivers of molten metal. “Still. I should have anticipated this…”

Akayama’s expression didn’t change. “You underestimated him.”

Sakuma’s jaw tightened.

“He stole classified data,” she said, voice cool but edged. “And his version of Mira—his body is handling it better than anything we’ve created. We can’t let this continue.”

She met Akayama’s gaze.

“Dr. Yamashiro is too dangerous to be left unchecked. If he won’t cooperate, we should consider elimination.”

Akayama didn’t respond at first.

Then—he sighed. Almost amused.

“We still need him, Dr. Sakuma.”

Her brow furrowed. “For what? Our latest batches are stable—”

Akayama raised a hand. “Relatively stable.”

Sakuma fell silent.

The CEO tilted his head slightly, watching her.

“Tooma’s attack on Iron Cross Tower destroyed our most advanced formulas. Everything we’ve built since has been… flawed.”

A slow flicker through the hologram’s interface.

Footage replaced the burning facility—now, a different location.

A massive containment unit, crackling with pure electricity. Inside, a figure floated, his body arcing with energy, lightning constantly pulsing through his skin.

Akayama’s voice was even.

“Our Electrokinetic Subject. His body is a generator now—but he can never turn it off.”

The footage shifted again.

Another figure strapped to a chair.

Muscles overgrown, bones malformed.

A monstrous mass of strength and power—but motionless.

Akayama gestured subtly toward the screen.

“Quirk enhancements that can’t be controlled. Mira’s potential is immense, but without regulation… we create monsters.”

Sakuma’s fingers curled into a fist.

“And yet, Yamashiro’s batch is different,” Akayama continued smoothly.

“It’s temporary, yes—but it’s consistent. The enhancements stabilize. He can use it, and then it fades.”

He clasped his hands behind his back again.

“Imagine what we could do with that. A controlled ‘power-up’ formula. Temporary enhancement—for the right price. A product that people would pay millions for around the world.”

His eyes glinted. “This is why I won’t waste Yamashiro’s potential.”

Sakuma exhaled sharply. “He refuses to cooperate. How do you plan to get the formula when he’d rather die than give it to us?”

Akayama’s lips curled.

“I’ve already made arrangements.”

Sakuma’s gaze sharpened.

Akayama’s tone was pleased now.

“We’ve had someone inside Yamashiro’s operations for a few days now.”

A slow, satisfied pause.

“Someone who can get close.”

Sakuma’s voice was quiet. “Who?”

Akayama smiled.

Somewhere, in the depths of the city, a figure shifted in the dark.

Snipe made his way alone through a dark alley, mask off, fingers running through his hair. He smiled at his reflection in a puddle of water, stroking his chin.

He reached for his collar, gripping the loose skin along his jaw.

Then—he peeled it away.

The flesh split, unraveling like a shedding snake.

Beneath it, a new face.

Not a disguise. Not an illusion.

A perfect, seamless shift.

The hero sidekick from earlier that week. The one who seemed obsessed with shaking Hiroshi’s hand.

His lips curled into a slow smirk.

He tapped a small recorder, letting the sidekick’s voice slip from his throat—flawless.

“Hey, Dr. Yamashiro—hope you’re doing well. Just wanted to follow up on that commission of mine—let me know when I can stop by for a check-up, yeah?”

The recording ended.

He let out a quiet chuckle.

Then, in his real voice—

A voice no one had ever truly known.

“Time to meet with Dr. Yamashiro again.”

Chapter Text

Hiroshi’s breath was unsteady. Ragged. Each inhale came sharp, like broken glass scraping his lungs.

He stumbled off his bike, letting it clatter to the ground as he limped toward the warehouse shutters. Pain hit him first—sharp, relentless, sinking into his bones. His body felt heavier with every step.

The shutters hissed open. He barely made it through before legs gave out—

A hand caught him mid-fall.

A firm grip steadied him, the scent of coffee and sterilized metal clinging to the man’s coat.

“Hell, Hiroshi—you’ve really done a number on yourself this time.”

Dr. Okinari Mishima.

Tall but slouched, perpetually one step away from exhaustion. His lab coat was rumpled, sleeves pushed up as if he’d been working for hours. Loose strands of dark brown hair framed a pair of sharp, perceptive eyes—eyes that flickered between concern and irritation behind his glasses.

“Oki…” Hiroshi barely had the strength to glare. “Shut up and help me inside.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mishima sighed, pulling Hiroshi’s arm over his shoulder, guiding him toward the dim glow of his lab. “You ever think about not almost dying?”

A click. A signal to Hiroshi’s bike. It whirred, upright and obedient, rolling in behind them.

The shutters slammed shut.

They navigated past stacked crates and shelving. The warehouse was worn out and still.

The doors of the freight elevator opened as they leaned against its wall, waiting for the bike before the doors closed.

The freight elevator hummed as it descended. The walls were old industrial steel, scratched and worn, but clean. Maintained.

Hiroshi swayed. His grip on Mishima’s shoulder weakened. His breath shallow. The last remnants of Mira-enhanced adrenaline were burning out, leaving nothing but hurt.

His bike stood beside them, its engine a low murmur as it followed on autopilot.

The elevator shuddered to a halt. The doors hissed open.

A different world.

Hiroshi’s eyes, heavy-lidded and fogged with exhaustion, took in the glow of holographic monitors casting neon grids across steel floors. Suspended mechanical arms twitched to life at the shift in air pressure, adjusting their positions like watchful sentinels. Blueprints, half-finished schematics, and notes cluttered glass panels and desks.

Mishima’s lab. A machine in itself.

Two small robotic assistants hovered by the main console. One of them—a sleek, multi-eyed drone—chirped in greeting, its optics flashing a soft yellow.

“I see you gave them voices,” Hiroshi muttered, voice hoarse.

Mishima shrugged. “Didn’t want them to be too human though. Got enough of that already.”

The second bot—a more arachnid-like construct—tapped its metal legs against the counter impatiently, scanning Hiroshi’s injuries.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mishima waved it off. “I know he’s a mess. Help me get him to the table first.”

The world blurred. Hiroshi barely noticed as he was guided into a chair, Mishima barking orders at the bots. The sound of scanning beams flickered across his body. Cool metal pressed against his temple, checking his vitals.

Then—his own reflection caught his eye.

His visor was off. His face was wrecked.

Blood streaked his cheek. His suit—charred, torn, barely holding together. His knuckles were raw. He looked like a man who had just crawled out of hell.

His gut twisted. The adrenaline may have faded, but the fear hadn’t.

Shinko was still in danger. He wasn’t even sure if he could protect her.

Mishima exhaled, hands on his hips. “So, what’s your plan?”

Hiroshi didn’t answer at first. He just… stared at himself.

Then, slowly, he scoffed. “The plan? Look at me, Oki. I can’t go home like this.”

Mishima adjusted his glasses, his sharp gaze unreadable. “Didn’t think you would. Kiri would flip.”

Hiroshi nodded, pressing his fingers to his temple. “And I don’t want to worry my family, if I can help it.”

Silence hung between them.

They both knew the real problem. Iron Cross was closing in.

Mishima’s fingers drummed against the counter. His usual tired sarcasm faded into something more cautious.

“…something’s off.”

Hiroshi glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—I don’t think Sector 9 was their endgame. They knew you’d come. They let you in. Let you see what they were doing.” His jaw tightened. “And let you leave.”

Hiroshi let out a dry, breathless chuckle. “They ‘let me leave’, he says…”

“The fact of the matter is, in your condition, they could’ve easily finished you off on the way here.” Mishima turned to his main terminal, tapping a sequence that made Hiroshi's bike whir to life. "And even that hero wouldn't have made a difference." Holographic diagnostics poured onto the screen. “Whatever’s going on,” Mishima muttered, his expression darkening, “I’m gonna find out.”

Hiroshi leaned back as a medical drone moved in, stitching up a gash along his arm.

“What are you gonna do about Eraserhead?” Mishima said, clacking away at his keyboard, his glasses reflecting the monitors.

Hiroshi didn’t respond.

“You thinking about using him?” Mishima asked.

Still no response.

“Don’t. He’s more liability than use to us. His fighting skills mean nothing if he doesn’t have the societal pull to bring them down. Besides, he doesn't seem the type to let a vigilante roam free.”

Hiroshi let out a slow breath and pulled his phone from his belt. Kiri’s number glowed on the screen.

He hesitated, looking around the room, as if he could find a better option in the clutter. Something else.

He sighed, shut his eyes, and pressed call.

The ringtone echoed through their apartment.

Kiri reached for her phone, glancing at the time. It was Late.

She raised the phone up to her ear. “Dear? Everything okay? You sound tired.”

“Hey, my love…” His voice was soft. “I won't be home tonight.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Yeah, just another one of those days, heh. Client needs me to finish this up before I go, and I don’t want to be on the road too late, so I’m just going to stay at a hotel for the night.”

“Okay.”

The apartment door clicked, as Takuya stepped in. The warmth of the apartment hit him harder than expected. After rooftops and alleyways and near-death falls, it didn’t feel real to be back here—

“You were right,” Hiroshi said over the phone, “It’s been too long since our last family day. Let’s do something soon. I’ll figure something out.”

Kiri pressed the phone closer, as if she could close the distance between them. “Okay, I can’t wait. See you tomorrow. Don’t work too hard!”

With that she put the phone down, her gaze lingering on it for a moment.

“Was that dad?” Takuya asked, standing in the entry.

Kiri spun around to him, “And just where have you been? You’re not usually out this late.”

“Well, I—”

“And what happened to your shoes?”

Takuya looked down to see his dirty socks. He left his shoes in that alley…

His socks were stained with dirt, bits of gravel stuck to the fabric. He must’ve looked like a total mess. He could feel his mom’s eyes narrowing at him, scanning him from head to toe.

“Uh—” He forced out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Funny story, actually! I was, uh… helping someone?”

Kiri folded her arms. “Helping who?”

Takuya hesitated. “You wouldn’t know them.”

A new voice cut in, “That so?” Shinko was lounging on the couch, legs crossed, flipping through her phone with a lazy smirk. “Or were you just off finally seeing her again?”

Takuya blinked. “Huh?”

Shinko didn’t look up. “C’mon, you know. Your favorite classmate?”

Kiri raised an eyebrow. “Favorite classmate?”

Oh no...

Shinko flicked a finger across her screen, scrolling through something. “Mhm~. The girl you’ve been sulking about all week. That pretty Sakuma girl.”

Takuya’s face burned. “I haven’t been sulking.”

“Riiiight.” Shinko shot him a knowing look over her phone. “You barely said a word at the hospital, and you’ve been acting super weird ever since.”

“I haven’t been acting ‘super weird’.”

“Suuuuure,” Shinko grinned, “Look at you. Out late? Missing shoes? And I bet, if we check your phone, there’s some new texts from her~.”

Kiri looked between them, amused. “So? Did you see her?”

Takuya swallowed, suddenly wishing the Vulture had eaten him.

Come on, say something. Deflect! Change the subject.

“She was at the café,” he admitted, a little too quickly. Then, realizing how that sounded, he added, “But it wasn’t—! I mean, we just—”

Shinko gasped dramatically, hand to her chest. “A café? Takuya, did you really go on a date?”

Takuya groaned. “It wasn’t a date.”

Shinko wiggled her eyebrows. “Suuuure it wasn’t.”

Takuya turned to his mom for support, but Kiri just smiled, resting her chin in her palm. “Well, I think it’s cute.”

Takuya wanted to sink into the floor.

Shinko wasn’t done. “Did she hold your hand?”

“No!”

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes dancing. “Did you want her to hold your hand?”

“Shinko—”

Kiri laughed softly, shaking her head as she turned back toward the kitchen. “Alright, alright, leave your brother alone.”

Shinko just hummed, tapping something on her phone. “Y’know, I do have Sakuma’s number. I could just—”

Takuya eyes widened. “Don’t you dare.”

With a grin, Shinko pocketed her phone. Takuya exhaled in relief.

“Come to think of it,” She said, tapping her chin, “one of the lead scientists at work is Sakuma—Dr. Saeko Sakuma. She’s intense, but I like her. Sharp. Takes charge. And she actually listens when I pitch ideas.”

Takuya blinked. His mind was racing with everything he’d seen at Iron Cross: the spider experiment, the Vulture, the nightmares.

Shinko smirked. “You’re not even listening, are you?”

He shook his head, forcing a shrug. “Huh?”

She flicked his forehead. “You’re so obvious.”

He rolled his eyes, but her teasing barely registered—his thoughts were miles away.

Later that evening, Takuya still felt restless, caught between the memory of the spider bite and the new abilities coursing through him. Artificial quirks… he could see the appeal (even if he hated the hero system). The power to protect, to fight back—he’d felt it. Yet the risks were clear: look at the Vulture. He had all that strength, agility, reflexes…but no webs.

Why not the one thing spiders are best known for?

Maybe he didn’t need it. His father had been tinkering with a high‑tensile adhesive for months now… Could that be the key to engineering his own webs? His heart pounded at the thought—excitement and nerves coursing through him. He had to try it.

He peered out of his room towards his father’s workroom, past the kitchen and living room.

Takuya’s foot hovered over the floorboards—just a few steps from his dad’s workroom. The door was slightly ajar. Shinko was still on the couch, absentmindedly scrolling through her phone again. His mother was in the kitchen, tidying after dinner. The faint hum of the TV masked any small creaks in the floor.

His fingers barely brushed the doorknob before he hesitated.

One creaky board, one wrong move—and his mother would be on him like a hawk.

He took a slow breath, steadying himself.

His hand gripped the doorknob. Slowly. Carefully. He eased it open, slipping inside like a ghost.

Click. The door shut behind him.

He exhaled, turning to take in the dim glow of his father’s workroom.

After scrambling around for a little while, he found what looked like his father’s notes on the formula. He flipped through pages, scanning ingredient lists, chemical compositions.

And something about them felt… different.

Although he had never looked at the notes for the formula before, something about the ingredients… clicked. Like, of course these were the components for the adhesive. Like, how else were they meant to fit together?

But it wasn’t like it was something he knew in his mind—more like instinct. Like the knowledge had always been there, waiting beneath the surface. Or like something in his brain had been rewired.

His fingers traced the formula’s main components. Grabbing a spare notebook, he scribbled down the key ingredients; even switching a few for better alternatives.

Then he gathered the ingredients his dad had on hand—glass vials, mixing tools, measuring spoons—wrapping them carefully in his jacket to muffle any clinks.

He cracked the door open to check the hall. Shinko and Mom were still where he’d left them. Perfect.

Creeping low, he edged behind the couch and under the counter. Shinko glanced up, catching sight of him skulking like a low budget spy.

He froze—heart in his throat—but she merely shrugged and went back to her phone.

Mom turned away from the sink. In one smooth motion, Takuya slipped past the counter and vanished into the hallway.

He reached for his doorknob when—

Bzzt.

My phone?

His heart sank when he saw it was from Shinko. He turned to see her silently glaring at him from the couch.

Sis: What are you doing? Take something from Dad’s workroom?

He quickly typed a response, before his mother noticed.

Me: Wanted to get started on a project for the entrance exams.
Me: For the Support Course

He looked back at Shinko. She raised an eyebrow but gave a light nod, satisfied.

Sis: K, let me know if you want any help. ♡( •◡-)✧

Takuya rolled his eyes and hurried to his room. He exhaled, slumping against the door. Not bad—maybe he really was getting the hang of this stealth thing.

He dumped the supplies onto his desk, rolled his shoulders, and let his racing heart settle into a steady thump.

Let’s get to work.

Webs. The one thing he hadn’t gotten from the bite. The last piece of the puzzle.

He flipped open his notebook to the scribbled formula. The ingredients stared back at him. His fingers itched. He already knew where to start.

Takuya grabbed the glass he took from his father’s workroom and an empty sports bottle and began mixing. His first batch came out too watery—dripping between his fingers like milk.

“Okay. Not sticky enough. Too much solvent?”

He adjusted the ratio, reducing the liquid base, adding a thickening agent. The second batch hardened too fast, snapping apart like dried glue.

“Great. Super glue. Not what I was going for.”

He exhaled, rubbing his temple. He needed something that had strength, flexibility, and rapid solidification after deployment.

He pulled up a video on spider silk mechanics, scanning for answers.

• Natural spider silk starts as a liquid and hardens when stretched.
• Different spiders make different kinds of silk—some strong, some elastic.

That’s when it clicked.

He needed a synthetic polymer blend that could mimic that exact process.

His eyes darted to his dad’s notes. The chemical structures were close—but not quite there.
Those instincts kicked in. He scribbled down an alteration to the molecular composition.

He scribbled down an alteration to the molecular composition.

This should work.

While the next formula set, Takuya turned his focus to the web-shooters.

He rummaged through spare parts—watch gears, pen springs, an old CO₂ cartridge from an airsoft gun.

His hands moved with purpose, almost faster than he could think:

• The CO2 cartridge would pressurize the fluid.
• A custom nozzle to prevent clogging.
• A spring-loaded mechanism to fire the webbing on command.

Takuya chewed the inside of his cheek, mounting the prototype onto a wrist brace.

The web-shooters were prepped. The web fluid looked stable.

He loaded a fresh cartridge, locking it into place. He flexed his fingers, feeling the trigger mechanism rest against his palm.

He took a breath.

Moment of truth.

He raised his arm, aimed at the closet door, and squeezed.

FWIP!

A thin, white strand shot out, latching onto the door.

His breath caught.

He yanked. The webbing held.

Slowly, a grin spread across his face.

“No way…!”

He leapt up, fists raised in a silent cheer. A quick victory dance.
Then—his hand clenched.

THWIP!

A second strand blasted straight into the ceiling.

His grin faltered.
Oh yeah. The super-strength thing.

He needed to adjust the firing pressure. Right now, his grip strength alone was enough to misfire.

Still… it worked. It worked.

He’d need to adjust the firing pressure—right now, his grip strength alone could cause a misfire.

Still… a success.
Excitement buzzed through his veins. He wanted to fire them again, and again. Pretending to be a spy.

Then he froze.

His room was covered in webbing. The closet. The desk. A strand dangling from the ceiling fan.

“…Oops.”

His bedroom probably wasn’t the best place to test these.

But he had to test them. Properly.

The excitement dimmed for a moment. He couldn’t exactly go out like… well, himself.

His eyes drifted toward the closet—an old hoodie, some gloves, scarves folded in the corner.

Stuff he could repurpose. Stuff that wouldn’t stand out on the street.

A makeshift disguise.

A mask.

Yeah… that could work.

The notebook sat open on his desk. Scribbled notes. Formula adjustments.

Takuya exhaled, fingers brushing over the fabric of an old hoodie. His mind was racing, ideas forming—plans.

He had so much to figure out.

He glanced toward his bed. It was late. He should sleep.

But his hands still twitched with excitement. His body buzzed with restless energy.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he’d push his limits even further.

Flicker .

The glow of a monitor screen. The rhythmic clack of a keyboard.

Hiroshi’s eyes cracked open.

Blinding light. A dull, sterile hum. A sharp ache thrumming beneath his skin.

The ceiling above was unfamiliar—cold, metallic. The scent of disinfectant lingered in the air.

His body felt like lead, sluggish and battered. He shifted, hissing through his teeth as pain lanced through his ribs.

His head throbbed. Every breath sent a dull spike through his chest. He blinked, trying to focus.

Clack-clack-clack.

Mishima sat across the room, hunched over his desk, fingers flying across the keyboard. The glow of his monitors cast sharp shadows across his face.

Screens flickered—data scrolling, security feeds looping, schematics rendering in real-time.

Working. Planning. Preparing.

Hiroshi let out a slow breath.

“We’ve got another problem…” Mishima said, continuing to type away without looking back at him.

One hand raised a coffee mug to his lips; the other never stopped typing. His eyes were hidden behind the glare of his glasses.

A small robot chirped and zipped over, offering Hiroshi a steaming cup of coffee as he gingerly checked his ribs.

A long sip, and a deep sigh, before he finally responded to Mishima.

“What’s wrong?”

Mishima rolled his seat from one keyboard and monitor to the next. Never missing a beat as he continued to type away.

“After running a full diagnostic of the cycle, I found the issue with your HUD. You’re luckier than we thought. They could’ve completely locked you out with how deep they had their hands in your systems. I’ve had to wipe the whole thing. Start from scratch.”

Hiroshi exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. “Yeah, well I figured they had eyes on me. She showed me footage of my face from my own visor.”

Mishima took another sip of his coffee, finally glancing at Hiroshi over the rim of his mug.

“Sakuma showed you your own visor footage, huh?” He clicked his tongue. “Yeah, figures. She probably could’ve shown you your social security number too.”

Hiroshi took another long drink of his coffee, like his body was screaming for it. “But you’ve wiped it clean. Problem solved, right?”

Mishima pulled up a timestamp on the screen, his keyboard clacking paused. “You sure you didn’t stop by the lab earlier this week?”

Hiroshi hesitated. “No. At least—I don’t remember it.”

“And that’s not a symptom of overdosing on your little serum?”

“No! I mean… it shouldn’t. I’ve been careful, I—” A pause. A flicker of doubt.
“Memory loss isn’t a symptom.”

“Before your client meeting,” Mishima added, “You didn’t stop by?”

“No, I haven’t been here for over a week now.”

“You were out of it even then. Thought it was brain fog from the serum. But if not that…” he glanced back. His glasses opaque from the glare of the screens. “Maybe it wasn’t you at all…”

Silence fell over Hiroshi. Staring into his mug, the coffee suddenly tasted bitter.

Setting his mug down, he finally spoke, “What are you saying?”

“The lab is compromised,” Mishima rubbed his temples. “You only thought they’d hacked the feed. But they did more than that.” He leaned forward, tapping a command into the console. “Your suit was bugged. So was your bike. But the worst part? Someone impersonated you—perfectly—and waltzed right into the lab. My lab.” His typing became more furious. “The whole damn place could be wired. Could’ve been listening in for days. Weeks, even. Who knows what data they’ve stolen from me.” Mishima gestured to the bots hovering by the servers. “I’ve got them scrubbing through everything. If they left a backdoor in my system, I’ll find it.”

Hiroshi muttered a curse under his breath. Mishima turned an exhausted look back at him.

“Iron Cross isn’t usually this subtle,” Hiroshi said.

“Oh, it’s not Iron Cross. Not directly,” Mishima’s fingers danced across the keyboard. A new screen flickered to life—a mess of encrypted files, security logs, and surveillance reroutes. “Whoever did this? They’re good. No, scratch that. They’re better than good.”

A smirk crept up on his face, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m better, obviously,” but something sharper lurked beneath the smirk—something intrigued. He took another casual sip of his coffee. “But I’ve never seen anyone slip past my defences like this. No wasted lines of code. No digital footprints. This guy is a ghost. But he’s going to wish he was one once I’m done with him…”

Hiroshi narrowed his eyes. “You found who did it?”

Mishima’s smirk widened. He tapped the screen. A distorted silhouette appeared, shifting like a mirage, its form flickering between different faces.

“Really, old friend? You doubt me?” Mishima leaned back, arms folding behind his head.

The distorted image solidified into a file name. A codename.

The Chameleon.

Hiroshi’s stomach twisted. He’d heard of him before—a corporate spy, though he took all kinds of work for hire. Whispers of assassinations. His quirk let him copy the appearance of anyone he…

Touches…
That eager client. The one obsessed with shaking my hand at every meeting.

Cold sweat prickled his neck. Could that have been—?

Mishima chuckled. “I will, of course, give credit where it’s due—this guy’s work is seamless. No wonder Iron Cross picked him up.” He gestured to the screen, grinning. “But, uh, he made one mistake.”

Hiroshi arched a brow. “And that is?”

Mishima spun in his chair. “He tried to out-hack Doctor Okinari Mishima.”

Mishima’s fingers danced over the keyboard, eyes flicking between windows of cascading code. One of his drones chirped, projecting firewall sequences as Mishima’s monitors flared red.

Hiroshi watched as one screen after another blinked out, systems shutting down, rerouting, locking out external signals. A digital purge.

Mishima cracked his neck. “Alright. That’s comms cut. No more bugs. No more backdoors. No more prying eyes.”

Hiroshi exhaled. “So, what now?”

Mishima leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. “Now? We figure out what the hell they’ve been listening to.”

A beat.

His gaze sharpened. “You’re thinking about your daughter.”

Hiroshi didn’t answer immediately.

Shinko.

His grip tightened around the coffee mug.

Mishima sighed. “Look. You and I both know the situation’s changed. You need to get her out of there.”

“I know.”

“Then do something.”

Hiroshi’s jaw clenched. Telling her meant exposing everything. But if he didn’t…

Mishima sighed. “I know that look. You’re waiting for something to make this decision for you.”

A notification flashed across the screen. Mishima’s gaze flicked toward it.

“Well, lucky you.” He smirked, tapping the keyboard. “Looks like our guy left us a little breadcrumb trail.”

Hiroshi’s eyes narrowed. “You have a location?”

Mishima grinned. “Better. I have a pattern.”

A loading screen flickered. Data fragments snapped into place—past jobs, movement patterns, falsified credentials. The Chameleon’s digital fingerprints.

Mishima tapped a highlighted sector of the city. “If I were a betting man—and I am—I’d say this is where he’s been operating out of.”

Hiroshi pushed off the medical table. His body still ached, but his mind was already working.

“…Then let’s pay him a visit.”

Chapter Text

The early morning air was crisp. Takuya poked his head out the bedroom window, scanning the empty streets. Satisfied, he slipped through the frame, breath fogging in the cold.

He wore a makeshift costume over his uniform—an old red hoodie, black gloves, winter socks, and black jogging pants. His school shoes and uniform pants were stuffed into the bag on his back. Over his face, a crude black mask with repurposed goggles. It wasn’t stylish, but it did the job.

His fingers clung effortlessly to the wall as he crawled out. The smooth surface should’ve been impossible to grip. Even now, a part of him tensed at the drop below. But his hands held firm. His balance remained perfect.

The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting cool blue shadows across the rooftops. The city was still. Quiet.

Okay. I’ve got this.

Slipping the window closed behind him, Takuya exhaled slowly, pulse steady with excitement. Today, he was going to push his limits.

The abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town was his destination. Isolated. Empty. A playground built for testing just how far he could go.

He steadied himself on the wall, eyes locking onto the rooftop across the street. His muscles coiled. Then—

He jumped.

The rooftops blurred beneath him. Each leap was effortless, carrying him farther than any normal person could dream. Wind tore past his ears as he moved, his body responding instinctively, like it was made for this.

By the time he reached the warehouse, his heart pounded—not from exhaustion, but from pure, unfiltered exhilaration.

He grinned behind the mask.

Slipping inside, he perched against the wall, surveying the open space. Dust floated in the cold morning light, sunbeams cutting through the cracked windows. The silence was perfect. No distractions.

No more guessing. No more accidents.

Today was about control. Refinement.

He pulled out his web-shooters, adjusting his stance.

First test: Precision.

He aimed at a steel beam. Thwip! The web latched on, taut and firm. Taking a breath, he let himself drop—his body swinging smoothly, the momentum carrying him forward. His feet skidded slightly, but he landed upright.

Not bad. A clean swing.

He fired again, this time at a higher beam. The moment his feet left the ground, something clicked—his body flowed with the arc, instinct taking over. He twisted midair, shifting his weight at just the right moment. His feet found the wall, absorbing the momentum like it was second nature.

He crouched there, perfectly still.

His fingers flexed against the concrete. Could he stand?

Slowly, he straightened, adjusting his center of gravity. His feet held firm. No slipping, no vertigo—just perfect equilibrium.

He leaned forward. Nothing.

He leaned back. Still nothing.

He coiled, flipped off the wall—and landed flawlessly.

Laughter bubbled up in his throat.

Okay. Next test.
Speed.

Takuya had done his research. Fastest spider? The Giant House Spider—1.73 feet per second. If that were scaled to his size…

He exhaled, crouched low.

Then he took off.

His feet pounded against the warehouse floor, each stride smoother, faster. Wind roared in his ears. The world blurred past him, steel beams flashing in his periphery. He wasn’t sure how fast he was going, but it felt fast—faster than he’d ever moved before.

Distance over time. Twenty-five meters per second. Fifty-six miles per hour.

Somewhere inside, he knew: he could go faster. But that was plenty impressive.

Now, for strength.

Takuya scanned the warehouse floor, searching for something heavy. His eyes landed on a dust-covered motorcycle, forgotten in the far corner.

Perfect.

He crouched beside it, fingers wrapping around the frame. He braced himself—legs set, back engaged—expecting resistance.

He lifted. Muscles tensed—
Nothing.

No strain. No real effort. The bike left the ground like a plastic toy, weightless in his grip.

Takuya blinked. He shifted his hands, testing the balance.

He could hold it up with one hand.

Slowly, he set it down, fingers tingling from the realization.

That was way too easy.

He exhaled, eyes flicking toward the warehouse’s back exit. The abandoned lot.

What else?

A parked car. Old. Rusted. Forgotten—just like the bike.

He stepped forward, rolling his shoulders.

Can I really lift this?

He crouched low, sliding his fingers beneath the undercarriage. Braced again.

Then—he lifted.

The frame rose instantly. No struggle, no strain. Like it was weightless.

His breath hitched.

His arms locked as he steadied the car, feet planted firmly. The realization hit.

"I could probably throw this..."

He looked at the car in his hands, and back to the warehouse.

Yeah, no.
He wasn’t going to test that…

Carefully—so carefully—he set the car back down. The metal groaned softly as the tires kissed the pavement again.

He stepped back, hands raised like he’d just defused a bomb.

Still—this… this is insane!
I’m strong!

Takuya glanced at the nearest clock.

Crap. Cutting it close.

No time to run.

His eyes snapped to the roof of the warehouse. Two thwips. Slingshot.

He bent his knees, aimed his web-shooters—

THWIP! THWIP!

The webs latched onto the upper beams. He yanked—
Too hard.

The world lurched. Suddenly, he was airborne. The city stretched beneath him, buildings shrinking fast.

Oh, crap. Oh, crap. Oh, CRAP!

His stomach flipped. Wind roared past his ears.

Okay, okay—think!

This was not part of the plan. A fall from this height? He’d be okonomiyaki on the pavement. He didn’t want to test super durability yet.

Only one way out of this.

He twisted midair, eyes locking onto the nearest building. His arm shot out—

THWIP!

The web caught. His body jerked into an arc, joints groaning in protest—but he held on.

The ground rushed past. His stomach somersaulted—
Then—

"WOOOOOOOOO!"

The exhilaration overtook him.

He was swinging. Actually swinging.

The city blurred past as Takuya swung forward. Momentum. Rhythm. He was getting the hang of it—

Except—
He released the web too late, and instead of a smooth arc forward, he launched straight up.

“AH—CRAP!”

His body twisted midair, arms flailing. The skyline flipped upside down as gravity took over.

No no no—think!

A building rushed past. He fired off another shot—
THWIP!

The web snagged onto the nearest skyscraper. He swung again—but at the wrong angle.

Instead of a clean arc, his body whipped sideways—
WHAM!

He slammed into the building.

His feet landed against the surface—his instincts kicking in just before he could bounce off. Now he was running. Sideways.

Oh. Huh. That worked?

He sprinted along the wall, eyes locked on the next building coming up fast. He had to time this right.

Takuya kicked off, flipped midair, fired another web—

He overshot.

“Nonono—!”

The rooftop came too fast.

THUD—SKRRRRRK.

He hit hard, skidding across gravel.

CAW!
A flock of birds erupted from their perches, squawking in outrage.

He barely had time to process before his momentum carried him off the edge.

Think fast!

He twisted mid-fall, pushed off the ledge, launched another web-line—

He was getting better at this. More fluid. More precise.

Billboard incoming—twist!

A clean aerial spin carried him right over—
WHAM.

Scaffolding.

Wood planks snapped. Metal poles clattered.

Takuya tumbled through the half-finished structure before catching himself on a thin support beam.

Silence.

He dangled for a second, breathing hard.

Then, from below;
“THE HELL WAS THAT?!”

Construction workers.

Takuya winced. “Uhhh—sorry! Keep up the good work!”

Before they could get a good look, he flung himself away, webbing toward the skyline.

A few swings later, he spotted his school in the distance.

Almost there.

One final swing. A rooftop landing. A sprint down the fire escape—

He hit the pavement right outside the front gates.

Panting. Sweating. Hair a mess under his mask.

He took a deep breath, shaking out his limbs.

Not bad.

Still needed work.

He ducked behind a tree, yanked off the mask, stuffed it in his bag, swapped pants, and slipped on his shoes—just as the first school bell rang.

Perfect timing.

As he straightened his uniform, he caught his reflection in a nearby window. His tie was crooked. His hair? A complete disaster.

He smirked.
Didn’t matter.

Today, things were going to be different. No more getting pushed around. No more being looked down on.

He had power now. Real power.

And for once, he was the one holding all the cards.

Takuya stepped onto the school grounds, shoving his hands in his pockets, ignoring the strands of hair still sticking out in every direction.

Let’s see how they treat me now.

Across town, a lone motorcycle tore through the golden morning—silent, matte-black, a shadow in the light.

Hiroshi gripped the handlebars, his HUD flickering in his visor as Mishima’s voice crackled in his earpiece.

"Target confirmed. East Industrial District—warehouse by the docks."

Hiroshi’s jaw tightened as he throttled forward.

He had a ghost to catch.

From the outside, it was just another crumbling relic—faded paint, broken windows. But Hiroshi knew better. This was the Chameleon’s hideout.

He pulled up beside the building, cut the engine, and dismounted. The warehouse was quiet. Too quiet.

His HUD pinged faint signals—scattered data fragments, surveillance nodes. The Chameleon had set up an impressive web of sensors.

“Surveillance is active,” Hiroshi muttered, checking his gear. He slipped into the fog, becoming one more shadow among many.

“I’m accessing the security logs,” Mishima said, tension riding his words. “Someone’s been in there. Recent.”

Hiroshi moved to the back entrance. The lock was simple—too simple. He bypassed it with practiced ease.

“You’re in,” Mishima said. “Feed looks clean. What do you see?”

Hiroshi stepped inside. Low crouch. Silent steps. The hallway swallowed sound.

Dim monitor light pulsed down the corridor, flickering over rusted walls and peeling signs. He followed it in deeper, heartbeat steady.

Then, he stopped.

A board covered in photos, notes, and maps—his entire life meticulously documented. Thin red strings linked every piece of information like a spider’s web.

His breath caught. For a moment, he just stared—frozen—before his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“…Hiroshi?” Mishima’s voice cut in, sharp.

No answer. Just the steady transmission of Hiroshi’s feed. Long seconds passed.

Then:
“Man,” Mishima muttered. “This guy’s been tracking you for months.”

Hiroshi stepped forward. His hands moved to the desk, where neatly arranged files lay waiting. He picked up the first one.

EXIGEN

His own name—his real name—written in bold beneath. Pages upon pages of notes. Analysis of his combat style, his suit’s capabilities, even a breakdown of his injuries over the years.

Attached were stills from security feeds, snapped photos of him at crime scenes, even blurry images from his own visor’s compromised footage. He flipped through, stomach twisting as he saw timestamps from months ago. The Chameleon had been watching for a long time.

Hiroshi’s fingers tightened. "This wasn’t just surveillance. This was study."

Mishima muttered something under his breath. "Keep going. What else is there?"

Hiroshi set the file aside and grabbed the next one.

KIRI YAMASHIRO

A new set of images. Not from security feeds. Personal photos. Kiri at FEAST, speaking with volunteers. Kiri handing out food, laughing with a child.

One image made Hiroshi’s stomach turn: Kiri shaking hands with a man—
The notes confirmed his fear:

"Alias: Hideki Murota. Possible Chameleon disguise. Objective: Direct interaction, behavioral analysis. Notes: Good rapport—trust gained easily."

Mishima swore. "He got that close?"

Hiroshi barely heard him. He flipped the page, reading the next note.

"Easily approachable. Strong moral compass. Susceptible to emotional leverage."

Hiroshi clenched his jaw. "Leverage."

A muscle in his neck twitched. His hands trembled—then tightened.

He forced himself to set the file down before he crushed it.

The next one:

SHINKO YAMASHIRO

Mishima’s voice was tight. "That’s not good."

This wasn’t the same kind of surveillance as Kiri’s. These were corporate records. Internal reports. Employee evaluations.

Iron Cross had handed the Chameleon this information.

But it was the final note that sent ice through Hiroshi’s veins.

"Recommendation: If Exigen refuses to comply, Shinko Yamashiro remains a viable candidate for Mira experimentation."

Hiroshi’s breath came slow and controlled, but Mishima caught the shift in his vitals.

"Hiroshi."

No response.

"Hey! Stay with me, man."

Hiroshi spoke through his teeth. “All she ever wanted to do was help people…”

He exhaled and slammed the folder shut.

The next file:

TAKUYA YAMASHIRO

A photo of his son at school. Just an ordinary kid.

"No known Quirk. Subject remains low priority for Iron Cross, but high priority for leverage. Possible asset in manipulating Exigen."

"They’re using your family as bargaining chips," Mishima said.

Hiroshi swallowed the rage bubbling in his throat. Going to his school?!

Then, the last file:

OKINARI MISHIMA

Mishima’s breath hitched. "Wait—me?"

Hiroshi flipped through it. There wasn’t much. Just fragments. Scattered details, half-redacted files. But still—

"Yeah."

A long silence.

Then—Mishima exhaled sharply, a humorless chuckle escaping. "Hah. Damn. Guess I was getting too comfortable."

Hiroshi could hear the edge in his voice—he knew that tone. "Even a ghost leaves footprints," he said quietly.

Mishima clicked his tongue. "Yeah, whatever. I’ll scrub my tracks later. For now, let’s focus on the scumbag who made those files."

Hiroshi nodded. His hands moved over the documents, carefully stacking them together. He wasn’t leaving anything behind.

Then—footsteps.

Hiroshi froze. Enemy? Reinforcements?

He snapped his gaze toward the entrance, tensing as a figure emerged from the shadows.

“You’ve been busy,” the man said, voice dry as dusk. Unkempt black hair, half-lidded eyes, and a long scarf coiled loosely around his neck.

Hiroshi’s chest tightened. "Eraserhead."

The pro hero didn’t react to his name being spoken. He simply stood there, hands in his pockets, posture calm but unreadable. His eyes flicked briefly to the surveillance board before settling back onto Hiroshi. "You weren’t easy to track."

“So what?” Hiroshi said, watching every subtle shift in Aizawa’s stance. “You’re here to take me in? Even after what you saw last night. Easier to bag the vigilante than deal with the truth, huh?”

Aizawa exhaled through his nose. "I’m not here to fight you."

“Could’ve fooled me."

" You’re a vigilante, but you’re not reckless," Aizawa replied flatly. “You’re trying to clean up something bigger than yourself. And… you keep collateral lower than some pros I know.” His gaze dropped to the scattered files. “I just want to know your angle. And what this is all about.”

Hiroshi pressed his fingers against his visor, as if trying to rub his temples through the helmet. “You really don’t get it? It’s obvious. Iron Cross is developing Artificial Quirks—weaponizing them.”

Aizawa frowned slightly. “Quirk experimentation?” He glanced around the room, taking in the photos, documents, red-string paranoia. “But what’s that got to do with you?”

Hiroshi hesitated.

A pro hero could be useful, if he’s willing to help. Mishima said not to trust him, but Eraser’s got connections in the police, and U.A. That had to count for something.

“I…” He swallowed. “I was one of the original creators of their Formula. Of Mira.”

That made Aizawa stop. His expression didn’t change, but his attention sharpened.

“When I saw what it did to people—and what they planned—I stole back my research, deleted everything I could. Thought it was over.”

He gave a short, bitter laugh. “I was wrong. They had backups. Kept working. Buried me in lies, discredited everything I tried to expose. No one would listen.”

He drew a vial from his belt. “It’s not perfect, but it doesn’t mutate me into a monster. I modified their formula to give my quirkless body temporary enhancements. It made me Exigen.”

His voice dropped to a growl. “That’s what they’re after. My version. A stable model they can twist into something worse—so they can build an army.”

“You made yourself into something to fight back,” Aizawa said, “but they liked what they saw and made you their target.”

“Better they fixate on me than infect more people,” Hiroshi replied.

Aizawa snorted. “Looks like they got impatient.”

“Hence my urgency,” Hiroshi said. “Iron Cross must be stopped.”

Aizawa considered him for a moment. “There are already investigations underway. Some of their projects raised red flags. The Vulture incident only fueled suspicion. Problem is… leaks get people killed. Evidence vanishes. Whistleblowers disappear.”

Hiroshi leaned forward. “Then why not finish them off now?”

Aizawa’s gaze was calm, measured. “Because we need more than suspicion—we need proof. And you… you have something they can’t refute.” He nodded toward the vial. “Your serum.”

Hiroshi’s fists curled at his sides.

“If you turn in a sample,” Aizawa continued, “and testify, it could be the smoking gun we need.”

Hiroshi’s heart thundered. A lifetime of running, of fighting. Finally… a possible end.

“And after that?” he asked quietly, staring at the vial.

Aizawa’s tone softened. “You hang up the Exigen mantle. No jail time. No public exposure. You help us bring them down, and you walk free.”

Retirement sounded beautiful. A real lab job again. Time with his wife and kids. He looked at the serum, its promise of power now tinged with hope.

Could he give it up? Hand over the key to his own undoing—and their justice?

He lifted the vial… and Mishima’s voice crackled in his earpiece.

"Wait!"

Hiroshi froze.

Mishima’s voice was sharp. "Something isn’t right."

Aizawa’s brow furrowed at Hiroshi’s sudden hesitation.

"Listen to me," Mishima muttered, his voice lower. "Aizawa’s smart, but this? This isn’t his play. He wouldn’t try to cut a deal with you. He’d get evidence the right way."

Hiroshi’s pulse hammered in his ears.

Mishima continued, “More than that—if he truly trusted you, he wouldn’t need the serum itself. He’d let you run interference and swoop in when the time was right.”

Hiroshi’s grip tightened on the vial.

Aizawa stepped forward, voice unwavering. “We need that formula, Doctor.”

Hiroshi exhaled, torn between hope and suspicion. He studied Aizawa’s stance, searching for a tell. The man’s posture was too relaxed, too composed… the real Eraserhead carried exhaustion in every line of his frame.

This… wasn’t him.

In that heartbeat of realization, Hiroshi moved.

His hand shot out, yanking at the man’s scarf.

The fabric tore free, unraveling. With it, skin, flesh and hair peeled away like shed skin—revealing the newcomer’s true form.

A smooth, white, featureless face with only an indentation where the mouth should be.

And yet, somehow, it smirked—cold and calculating.

“Now how did you suss that one out, dear doctor?” it said, voice shifting into its natural cadence. “I rather thought I had nailed that role clinically.”

Behind him, Mishima’s voice in Hiroshi’s ear was taut: “It’s the Chameleon.”

On the other side of town, a loud, obnoxious bell echoed through a bustling Middle School hallway.

Takuya barely flinched as students poured around him, chattering, laughing, complaining about pop quizzes and overdue homework.

He saw a familiar sight. Sugihara shoving a skinny underclassman around. The poor kid was struggling, his face flushed with embarrassment and frustration, but Sugihara was relentless.

“Hey!” Takuya called out, his voice low but steady.

Sugihara turned, sneering as he recognized Takuya. “What, you want what he’s having?”

Takuya didn’t move. He just looked at Sugihara with that same calm expression. “Leave him alone, Sugihara.”

Sugihara laughed, “Just because you got lucky in dodgeball yesterday, you suddenly think you’re king of the school, huh?”

But Takuya got closer, his voice as firm as ever, “I mean it.”

“Or what? You’re really going to do something about it?” Sugihara mocked.

Takuya didn’t flinch. “You really wanna find out?”

The students around them were starting to notice, whispering among themselves. Someone in the crowd muttered, “Yamashiro? Seriously? What’s he gonna do—he’s quirkless.”

Sugihara scoffed, finally turning away from the underclassman. “Yeah, let’s see if he’s brave enough to do something about it.”

Sugihara shoved past Takuya, but Takuya didn’t budge. He anchored his feet to the ground. Sugihara turned back to push him, but his hands met nothing but air as Takuya stood firm.

Sugihara’s face twisted in surprise, his body straining to push Takuya out of the way—but Takuya wasn’t moving. His muscles flexed; his stance unwavering.

Sugihara’s face contorted in frustration as he shoved again, harder this time.

“You can’t push me around, ‘Flash’,” Takuya said, voice steady and calm. “Not anymore.”

He casually stepped aside—and Sugihara went sprawling onto the floor, crashing onto his back. Laughter erupted from the crowd.

Laughter rippled through the group. “Guess Sugihara’s not so tough after all,” someone whispered.

Takuya gave him a casual glance before walking away, making sure to let Sugihara stew in his embarrassment. He turned to the underclassman, offering a reassuring smile. “You good?”

The kid nodded, still wide-eyed from what he’d just witnessed.

Satisfied, Takuya grinned, and made his way to the cafeteria.

The clatter of trays and voices filled the room, but he couldn’t help but feel like the eyes of the entire school were on him now. His confidence had grown since yesterday, and he had no intention of letting it go to waste.

Even as he searched for a space to sit, he couldn’t wipe the smirk off his face.

“Somebody’s having a good day,” a voice called.

Takuya turned to see Hitomi sitting across from him, her expression unreadable. She wasn’t sitting with her friends today.

“Oh, hey!” Takuya said, trying to keep it casual as he slid into the seat across from her.

“’Oh, hey.’ That’s all I get?” she arched a brow, tilting her head. “No ‘sorry for vanishing into the aether’?”

Takuya felt his stomach twist. Was she— mad? No, she couldn’t be. It was just a little teasing, right? But her tone was different from usual. There was something under the surface.

“Uh… you okay?” he asked, his voice unsure.

She leaned forward on her elbows, eyes narrowing. “You disappeared like Cinderella at midnight. What, did you have a curfew or something?”

He chuckled nervously. “I, uh… had something come up.”

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, unreadable. Then, she sighed softly. “...Right.”

That pause. That small shift. She didn’t believe him.

Her fingers idly traced the rim of her soda can. “I just thought I was bad company, or something.”

Takuya blinked. “What? No—no way, I just—”

Was it, really a date? And I just up and ran out? Was that it?

“Relax.” She leaned back again with a light smile, but there was still something behind her eyes—quiet curiosity, maybe even a hint of something else. “Just figured you’d say something. I mean, you did kind of ghost me mid-sundae.”

“I…” he rubbed the back of his head before letting out a sigh, “…sorry…”

She studied him. “You’re… different today.” She squinted slightly, as if trying to line him up with the version from yesterday.

He looked back up at her, his face quizzical. “Different how?”

She hesitated, then just shook her head. “Never mind.”

Before he could ask what she meant, BAM—Sugihara’s tray hit the table. His eyes were burning with anger.

“You think you’re funny?” Sugihara growled, fist clenched. “Humiliate me in front of everyone and just walk away?”

Takuya blinked, startled—but before he could respond, Sugihara leaned in, right in his face. “Enough screwing around. You. Me. After school.”

Takuya’s eyes flicked to Hitomi, who watched with a mix of curiosity and concern. He opened his mouth, thinking maybe he could diffuse the situation.

But then—crack—his smirk returned, almost involuntarily. He leaned back in his seat, sizing Sugihara up.

“Fine. I’ll fight you,” Takuya said, voice steady, but with a glint of challenge in his eyes.

Sugihara’s face twisted with surprise. He hadn’t expected Takuya to agree so easily. “Y-yeah? Good. Behind the gym. After school.”

Takuya nodded nonchalantly. “Sounds good.”

Sugihara scoffed and stormed off, leaving Takuya with a moment to himself.

“Are you out of your mind?” Hitomi asked, her voice sharp with disbelief. “You’re really going to fight him?”

Takuya grinned, trying to mask the uncertainty creeping into his chest. “What, you think I’m scared of him?”

She arched an eyebrow. “It’s not even about being scared. It’s about—” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “You’re not that type. You’ve never been one to pick fights.”

Takuya shrugged, leaning back in his seat. “I’m not picking a fight, I’m teaching him a lesson. He’s been bullying people for way too long. Besides, he challenged me. I’m the challenge-ee!”

Hitomi’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of concern crossing her face. “But you’re not just anyone, Takuya. This isn’t like you. You’ve been trying to stay out of the drama. What happened to that?”

Takuya hesitated. A part of him agreed—but another part wanted this. Needed it.

He exhaled slowly. “I’m not letting him get away with it anymore. Someone has to stop him.”

Hitomi sighed, her expression softening. “I get that, but fighting him won’t fix anything. It’ll just make it worse.”

Takuya looked at her, something in his chest tightening at the concern in her eyes. “I know it’s not the best way, but sometimes you have to stand up for yourself...”

He flashed her a smile, but it didn’t quite feel like the triumphant grin he’d worn earlier. He was trying to convince her, and maybe himself, that he wasn’t doing this just out of pride.

But she didn’t seem convinced.

She stared at him for a long beat, something unreadable flickering in her gaze. Then, slowly, she stood up, pulling her bag over her shoulder.

“I’ve gotta go. 'Something came up',” she muttered, voice trailing off as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

Takuya blinked, caught off guard by the words. There was something in her voice—something hurt or confused that he hadn’t expected.

He opened his mouth to say something, but she was already turning, walking away from the table.

“Don’t let Sugihara break you, Takuya. That’s all.” she said over her shoulder, her tone flat.

She walked away before he could say anything, leaving him alone at the table.

He watched her go, chest tightening. His heart flickered between pride and something else—pangs of guilt? Worry?

Her words echoed in his mind, but he shoved them aside. Just a misunderstanding. She’d get over it. Besides, the challenge had been thrown, and there was no backing down now.

Back at the dockside warehouse, sweat and tension hung in the air. Hiroshi’s muscles burned with every movement, but he forced himself on. The serum—his secret—had to stay out of Iron Cross’s reach.

Across the concrete floor, a figure moved like liquid shadow—always one step ahead. Hiroshi lunged; the Chameleon slipped away without a sound, predicting every strike.

“Hiroshi!” Mishima’s voice crackled in his earpiece, distant but urgent.

He shook his head, refocusing on the fight. A feint. A pivot. The Chameleon vanished behind him.

A moment’s hesitation was all it took.

The Chameleon. Quirk – Moltskin. By shedding his old skin like a lizard, he perfectly replicates anyone he’s touched. But it’s not just the disguise: with elite-level mimicry and espionage skills, he copies voices, mannerisms—even attitudes—to infiltrate and strike where you’re weakest. A mercenary spy with no equal.

Hiroshi swung again, only punching empty air. The Chameleon mirrored his stance for a split second—just long enough to throw him off—before slipping behind him.

“Predictable,” the intruder murmured, voice smooth and analytical.

Before Hiroshi could turn, the Chameleon’s fist snapped forward—Hiroshi barely blocked, the shock rattling his forearm. He grit his teeth, launching another punch. Nothing.

“You’re pushing yourself past your limit,” the Chameleon continued, tone almost bored. “Stupid, but admirable.”

Another strike flashed out—Hiroshi blocked in time, the impact splintering bone through his gauntlet. A quiet chuckle from the Chameleon. He adjusted his cuffs, perfectly composed.

“Burdened men break easily,” he mused. “And you—you’ve been breaking for a long time, haven’t you?” His smooth, featureless face appeared to scan Hiroshi like data.

Rage flared in Hiroshi’s chest.

“Aha. There it is.” The Chameleon’s indented mouth curved. Then, in an instant, he shifted—fully into Hiroshi’s stance. A mirror image.

“You’re running on fumes,” he said. “I am not.”

Hiroshi exhaled, muscles screaming but determined.

He moved—fast, but not predictable. He lunged low, then stopped short, twisting at the last moment. The Chameleon’s counter swung through empty space.

For the first time, his body language flickered—just slightly.

Hiroshi grinned. Got you. He drove an elbow into the Chameleon’s ribs—hard—then hammered a knee into his gut. The spy staggered backward.

"Funny thing about people like you," Hiroshi said, rolling his shoulders. "You think knowing a man’s moves is the same as knowing the man."

The Chameleon straightened, smoothing his collar with that same measured indifference. “Not bad,” he admitted, a flicker of intrigue.

Hiroshi’s stance loosened—erratic, unpredictable on purpose.

The Chameleon tilted his head. “Interesting.”

He reached into his pocket and tossed a tiny sphere onto the floor.

Hiss.

Smoke billowed instantly, clawing at Hiroshi’s lungs. Chemical fug veiled the room. Hiroshi staggered, throat burning as the intruder’s strikes came out of the smoke—swift, precise.

“Not enough,” the Chameleon murmured, his voice a whisper close at hand. Then, as the fog thinned, Hiroshi saw him—at the door, calm, victorious. A vial gleamed in his hand.

"I win."

He pinched at the edge of his borrowed skin and peeled downward. The featureless white flesh sloughed away like a glove, revealing new features—Detective Tsukauchi’s exact likeness, right down to the trench coat and badge.

“Our transaction is complete,” he intoned in the Detective’s voice, then bolted.

“Dammit—Mishima, talk to me!” Hiroshi rasped, coughing through the last wisps of smoke. He vaulted over the railing and barreled down the entrance stairs just as—

BOOM.

The safehouse erupted behind him, flames roaring into the sky.

Hiroshi slammed into the ground, tucking his arms as hot embers rained down. Through the haze, he caught a glimpse of the Chameleon’s coattails flaring as he sprinted toward a sleek black motorcycle hidden in the alley. The engine snarled to life; he peeled out into the street, weaving through traffic before Hiroshi could recover.

"He's heading east, cutting through backstreets—if you push it, you can intercept him," Mishima’s voice crackled in his ear. "I’ll reroute traffic to slow him down."

Hiroshi sprinted to his bike. One fluid motion later, he was in the saddle, tires screeching as he rocketed after his target.

He barrelled through the alley, then angled up the side of a building—wheels hugging the vertical surface as he climbed. At the rooftop’s edge, he leapt across to the next block, then roared straight into the maze of rooftops.

Below, the Chameleon threaded his bike through snarled lanes with preternatural precision. One by one, traffic lights flipped crimson before him, courtesy of Mishima’s hack, forcing him to skid and swerve.

"Nice work," Hiroshi said over the comms. He caught sight of his quarry just ahead—almost within reach—when suddenly a blast of thick, gray smoke gushed from the Chameleon’s bike.

The street vanished in a choking cloud. Cars swerved, horns blared, brakes shrieked. Hiroshi gritted his teeth and dove from the rooftop—straight into the fog.

“Careful, Hiroshi,” Mishima’s voice crackled urgently, “He’s disguised as the Detective. Engaging him wrong could spell serious trouble.”

He was going to need to finish things quickly then. He needed a boost.

With the press of a button on the handles, he ejected another vial from his bike, and without looking at it, immediately injected it. Mira coursed through his system. Veins buldged. Muscles tightened. His lungs filled.

Mira Enhancements: Active

He hurtled into the gray swirl, lungs burning, Mira-enhanced reflexes slicing through the haze. He forced himself not to panic—every sense sharpened by the serum. He switched his visor to a thermal sensor. The heat trail of multiple vehicles in the smoke appeared, as he weaved through the panic.

“I’ve isolated the chameleon’s signature,” Mishima clacked away from the lab. The heat figure of a biked individual ahead of Hiroshi shifted to a different color on his HUD. “Take him down Exigen!”

His tires clawed at the asphalt as he closed in. He reached out to grab him, catching his attention in the last second. The chameleon swerved, his Tsukauchi face contorted in frustration.

“You’re persistent,” he hissed, pulling a gun from his coat.

Hiroshi gasped, braking and swerving to avoid the gunfire that cracked through the smog. Bullets bit into the road inches from his tires.

"Seriously?" Hiroshi snarled, twisting the handlebars and dropping low as another shot barely missed his helmet.

The smoke thinned just as Hiroshi caught sight of the Chameleon looking over his shoulder, gun in one hand, riding one-handed with infuriating ease.

Hiroshi revved his bike forward.

A deep hum pulsed through the air. Then—the entire intersection blacked out.

EMP.

Mishima cursed in his ear. "He just fried the grid—I can’t control the traffic anymore!"

Hiroshi clenched his jaw.

Sirens wailed. Patrol cars swarmed the chase.

The chameleon pocketed his gun with a wry smile.

The patrol cars called out to them "This is the police! Pull over immediately!"

The chameleon flashed a smile through Tsukauchi’s face, signalling to the officers for support.

Mishima cursed, “Not good, not good! Get out of there!”

Ahead, Hiroshi spotted the city’s giant digital billboard flicker—then his own helmeted visage exploded across it in bold red letters::

WANTED: ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.

The crowd below pointed and gasped; every patrol car’s spotlight swung to lock on him.

Mishima cursed again. "I’ll try to override it."

"No time," Hiroshi growled. He had to end this now.

Sirens closed in from every direction. Patrol cars fanned out, boxing him in as the Chameleon’s bike started to pull further away. Hiroshi’s mind raced. Swing wide to lose the police, or stay the course and risk being hauled in?

He reared the bike back and gunned the throttle. His wheels mounted a pursuing cruiser; sparks flew as he vaulted off into a narrow alley.

“Block the exit! He’s heading northbound!” crackled the police radio.

“Oki, plot my route back—I’m taking the rooftops,” he barked, fishtailing the bike up a slick alley wall alongside a fire escape.

“I think that last move bumped your wanted level…” Mishima rerouting the feed of Hiroshi’s HUD as it tracked the chameleon.

The bike roared across the rooftops. Below, two cruisers skidded into the empty alley mouth; Hiroshi rocketed over them, landing on the next building’s ledge.

“No way I’m losing him,” he muttered, launching himself back onto the street. Tires screeched as he slammed onto asphalt; day-drivers swerved in shock.

He slammed the boost, ramming into the Chameleon’s rear wheel—just as the mercenary made his next move.

He jumped. One moment astride his bike, the next, he was vaulting onto a moving truck and springing up a fire escape. His abandoned bike spun out, rear-ending a patrol car into a barrier.

Then Hiroshi saw the real emergency: a mother and two children trapped in their car as an out-of-control sedan fishtailed toward them.

He had a choice.

“Mishima—GO! He’s getting away!” crackled the comm.

But Hiroshi was already moving—toward the innocent lives. He killed the engine, skidded to a stop, then leapt from the saddle, yanking open doors and hauling the family clear seconds before the impact.

Above, the Chameleon’s laughter rang out as Hiroshi looked up—breathless.

By the time he returned to his bike, his HUD blinked: Mishima had locked onto the Chameleon’s new trail weaving through the lunch-hour crowd.

But somewhere within that crowd, the mercenary had already shed his disguise, vanished.

“He got away with the Mira…” Mishima’s voice was tight. “You do realise what that means, right?”

Hiroshi’s jaw tightened. “You know I couldn’t ignore those people, Oki.”

Silence. The roar of sirens grew.

“…I know,” Mishima admitted at last. “But while you saved three people today, Iron Cross is one step closer to perfecting Mira. More monsters are coming. You need to start thinking about the bigger picture. Heroism isn’t a luxury we can afford.”

The sirens crescendoed behind him. Hiroshi revved his engine and tore off into the city’s labyrinth of steel and light.

Iron Cross has the serum, and you’re more wanted by the police than ever, Mishima’s warning echoed in his mind.

As the streets blurred past, his thoughts spun—between the lab, the serum, and the constant threat of Iron Cross. A part of him still lingered on the choices he’d made.

Could he continue to balance the duty of his mission, with the lives he wanted to protect?

Chapter Text

Behind the school, the crowd buzzed with anticipation.

Takuya stood against Sugihara.

Sugihara sneered, his usual arrogance in full swing as he cracked his knuckles, "I've been waiting for this, Yamashiro! I don't know what's been going through your head these past few days that made you think you can step up to me, but I'm about to show you just how wrong you are. You're dealing with the future no. 1 Pro Hero - 'Flash'." 

"Are we really doing this?" he asked, fighting back a yawn. Also, I can't help but feel that name's already in use somewhere...

Sugihara snapped his fist back and vanished in a blink of light. He reappeared mid-swing, fist aimed for where Takuya stood—

But he was already gone.

“You’re so predictable.”

Sugihara snarled, slamming his elbow back toward Takuya’s head.

Takuya spun with him, ducking under the blow. Perfect read. He tagged Sugihara’s back lightly.

“Stand still you quirkless freak!” Sugihara growled.

“Even if I did,” Takuya said, grinning, “you still couldn’t hit me.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Sugihara’s face flushed red.

He blinked again—too slow.

Takuya danced around the attacks, weaving like smoke. His body moved on instinct, each dodge easier than the last. Like his muscles had already had the whole fight figured out.

“Try aiming where I’ll be next time,” he said, hands behind his back, grin widening.

Sugihara lost it—teleporting in a frenzy, fists flying from every angle. A blur of flashes and fury.

Takuya dodged them all. Completely untouchable.

Then—Thud.

Sugihara slammed into the wall behind them.

Groans echoed. A few gasps. Takuya tried to stifle a laugh.

Sugihara staggered up, clutching his shoulder. “You think this is funny?!”

Takuya crossed his arms. “Kinda. You’ve been trying to knock me down for years. Between this and yesterday’s game, that ‘hero’ name of yours might actually suit you…”

Sugihara charged blindly.

Takuya stepped aside, gave him the gentlest nudge—
—and let gravity handle the rest.

Sugihara crashed face-first into the dirt.

“…’cause in the end, you’re nothing but a Flash in the pan.”

Silence.

Takuya stood over him. “You done?”

Phones were out now. Whispers flew through the crowd.

Takuya didn’t care. He rolled his shoulders back, and lifted his chin.

He wasn’t hiding anymore.

Not shrinking away.

Not apologizing for breathing.

For the first time, the world listened to him.

He only looked back once—to see Sugihara crawling away, wiping dirt from his face in shame.

Takuya turned away. He had better things to focus on.

His fists clenched. His legs itched to move. His brain screamed:
What’s next?

Beating Sugihara didn’t satisfy him—it cracked him open. Unleashed something.

He wanted more.

He broke into a sprint, tearing down the alley behind the school.

The rooftops loomed above, calling to him.

He paused only long enough to slip into his makeshift costume, before he climbed to the rooftop.

He stood tall above the evening city stretched out before him. A whole new playground.

He was a blur above the streets. Parkour came naturally now—his movements were fast and fluid. He scaled walls, leapt between buildings, and flipped through the air with ease, feeling the wind rush past him. Each new building was just another hurdle to clear, another thrill to chase. The power, the freedom—it was intoxicating.

His heart raced as he landed on a rooftop, crouching low, then springing off again. Webbing propelled him forward.

Takuya laughed to himself as he swung high. This was it—the rush he’d been looking for.

He wasn’t weak anymore. He didn’t have to be afraid of anything. Not the bullies, not the people who laughed at him.

He felt like he could take on the world!

Then, suddenly—a sharp tingle ran up his spine.

His stomach flipped, and he dropped mid-swing, rolling into a crouch on the rooftop below.

What was that?

His head swivelled around. But, nothing? No—
It happened before. Back when Sakuma was almost hit by that car...

A buzzing at the back of his neck, firing off like an electrical charge through his body. It was like he was being watched. No, deeper than that—like his instincts were screaming at him before his brain could catch up.

M O V E.

The buzzing in his skull intensified—too fast, too strong. Urgent. His muscles tensed, ready to react—but to what? Where?

His eyes darted around again, scanning the darkened skyline.

THUD!

Before he could react, something slammed into him like a wrecking ball. The air rushed out of his lungs as he was yanked skyward, massive talons clamping down on his arms.

The screech that followed wasn’t human.

It crawled through his bones, a jagged, warping distortion of sound, like glass scraping against metal, mixed with something that shouldn’t have been able to form words.

“C—Rreckkl—KkkRRRR—!!”

Takuya twisted in its grasp, his brain still trying to catch up to what was happening.

Then he saw it.

No. No, no, no—

His blood went cold.

The Vulture.

Its beady, sunken eyes twitched, almost glowing, its fleshy beak gnashed open and shut like a puppet's mouth hanging from broken strings. Feathers and raw flesh twisted together along its arms—no, wings.

Takuya panicked, yelling out in terror.

He thrashed, struggling against the iron grip of its claws, but its grip was like a vice.

The thing’s body jerked, its voice warping into something almost human.

“Rrrelief… fer th’ perr— PPPAAAINNN—!!”

The last word was a scream. A choked, guttural sound that rattled in its throat before spilling out into the night.

Takuya acted on instinct.

His legs shot up, slamming both feet into its distorted chest.

The Vulture lurched, wings flaring out with an unnatural snap.

Its grip loosened.

Takuya wrenched himself free, falling through the air. The wind rushed past his ears, his body twisting toward the nearest rooftop—

THWIP!

His web caught, yanking him into a tight arc as he swung away.

His heart pounded. Sharp, uneven gasps wracked his chest. That thing…

He’d barely escaped it last time.

But, hold on. I was quirkless Takuya back then...
But n ow?
I’ve evened the playing field.

The grotesque Vulture hovered in the air—twitching, convulsing, barely stable. Its sunken, beady eyes flickered, searching for movement below—

CRACK!

Takuya shot forward like a bullet, driving his fist straight into its beak from the blind spot.

The Vulture jerked violently, its wings snapping outward as it reeled from the blow.

Takuya grinned beneath the mask. "Alright, beaky. Round two."

“C-C-CRAAAARK—!!”

The screech rattled in his skull, but this time, he didn’t freeze.

Momentum carried him over the creature’s back.

Before the Vulture could recover, Takuya fired two quick webs, latching onto its torso.

Yank!

He rocketed down, slamming straight into its chest—hard.

The force sent them crashing onto a rooftop, dust and shattered concrete flying as the Vulture tumbled across the surface.

It jerked upright almost immediately, twitching as its head snapped toward him.

Takuya didn’t wait. He was already on it.

Wild punches rained down. Its beak. Its head. Anything he could hit.

"Not so fun when the prey fights back, huh?" he taunted between swings.

The Vulture convulsed violently, its wings snapping upward.

Then—

BAM!

Takuya barely had time to react before a clawed foot slammed into his ribs. Hard.

A sharp, crushing pain exploded across his side as he was sent flying.

For a split second, the city spun around him.

He barely managed to fire a web, catching himself midair and swinging into a messy landing on a nearby rooftop.

He coughed, clutching his ribs. "Alright—ow. Gonna be real with you, I felt that one..."

The Vulture’s head twitched, rotating at a sickening angle, its gaze locking onto him.

"PAIN. RELIEFFFFF—"

Takuya sighed, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah, you said that already."

The Vulture’s wings flared. It dove.

Takuya launched forward, webbing an air conditioning unit and swinging it straight into its path.

Direct hit!

The Vulture reeled back, spiraling midair.

Still tethered to the aircon by his web, Takuya used its momentum to carry himself upward.

He flipped over the Vulture as it struggled to steady itself in the air.

Twisting into a spinning kick, he aimed at the thing’s head.

THWACK!

His foot connected cleanly, sending the Vulture lurching backward.

Takuya laughed, adrenaline pumping through his veins. This was incredible.

He was winning!

He flipped back, landing on the rooftop in a crouch. Confidence swelling.

"Man, I gotta say," he smirked, rolling his shoulders, "this is way more fun than last time."

The Vulture twitched violently, wings beating against the wind.

Its sunken eyes locked onto him, something primal and desperate flickering behind them.

Then it let out a horrible, gurgling sound, like metal scraping against bone.

Takuya's grin faltered.

Wait. Was it… laughing?

The Vulture’s body convulsed, its wings snapping outward like blades.

Before Takuya could react, it lunged.

Too fast.

"—Whoa!"

SLASH!

A searing pain ripped across his shoulder as a talon raked through his hoodie, tearing into his skin.

His body twisted violently midair, and before he could stabilize himself—

BAM!

The Vulture smashed him down onto a rooftop, sending him skidding across concrete.

He coughed, dazed, blinking away the black spots in his vision.

Where did that come from?!

A shadow loomed overhead.

Takuya barely rolled out of the way as the Vulture crashed down where he had just been, its claws slamming into the rooftop, cracking the pavement.

Damn. Okay. So maybe he wasn’t as in control as he thought.

He pushed himself up, shaking the dizziness out of his head.

"Alright, new rule," he groaned. "No more letting you hit me."

The Vulture’s head snapped toward him, its movements jerky, unnatural.

“PRREY…SSSSTRUGGLESSSS—”

Takuya shuddered. That voice. He tried to shake it off, springing back into action.

He fired a web at its leg, aiming to yank it off balance—

But it saw through him.

Before he could pull, the Vulture ripped its own foot free, then lunged again, its beak snapping open wide.

He barely dodged, momentum slipping away with every step.

Hits landed heavier. Dodges got slower. He was slipping. The Vulture was adapting. It was relentless.

Takuya tried to launch forward, hoping to get another clean hit—

But the Vulture was already there.

Its wing lashed out like a blade, slashing across his chest.

"GAH—!"

Pain exploded through him. He stumbled, his breath catching as he barely stayed on his feet.

The Vulture lunged again, its beak driving straight for him—

Takuya threw up his arms, catching the beak between his hands.

It pushed against him, snarling, driving him back, inch by inch.

He slammed into a wall.

The Vulture hissed inches from his face, breath reeking of rot.

Takuya gritted his teeth.

Okay…this is pretty bad.
I might be in trouble now…

Just then, over the chaos, he heard it—

The low rumble of an engine. Getting closer.

Then—
THWACK!

A blur of motion.

A motorbike slammed into the Vulture’s side, sending it crashing and tumbling across the rooftop.

Takuya sat there, breath caught in his throat, hands still frozen in the air where they’d been holding the Vulture’s beak at bay.

Did he just—?

He looked up.

The new arrival sat astride his bike, one foot planted firmly on the ground, visor locked onto the Vulture. His armor caught the moonlight—sleek, matte black with angular panels that looked almost militarized.

Did he ride his bike up here?

Takuya blinked. "Uh… hello?"

The biker finally turned his gaze toward him.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe now.” His voice was low, controlled. “You should get out of here. I’ve got this.”

Takuya sprang to his feet. "Yeah, well, I’ll have you know I was winning before you showed up."

The biker didn’t move. "Didn’t look that way."

Takuya crossed his arms. "I had it under control."

A snarl cut through the air.

Both turned as the Vulture crawled out of the rubble, its twisted body shaking violently as it let out a piercing, distorted screech.

The biker revved his engine.

“It’s not under control until the threat’s neutralized.”

Takuya grinned beneath his mask again. Now this was getting interesting.

The Vulture’s distorted screech ripped through the night. Takuya didn’t wait. With a burst of speed, he lunged first, fists raised. No hesitation.

The problem? He had no idea what he was doing.

His punch connected, slamming into the Vulture’s chest. The creature stumbled back, wings flaring, a jagged, gurgling cry escaping its throat—

But Takuya had already overcommitted.

And the Vulture capitalized.

SLASH!

A wing snapped out—hard and fast.

Takuya barely registered the hit before he was airborne.

WHAM.

He crashed onto the rooftop, skidding painfully before rolling to a stop.

"GAH—okay, ow," he groaned, pushing himself up. "Maybe leading with my face isn’t the best move."

A motor revved.

Before Takuya could react, a blur shot past him.

The dark rider rushed in from the side, closing the distance with ruthless efficiency.

One strike. Precise.

His fist snapped into the Vulture’s head, knocking it back mid-snarl. Before it could recover, Exigen stepped in, twisting sharply—

CRACK.

A clean kick to the ribs, sending the creature reeling.

Efficient. Nothing wasted.

Takuya, still shaking off the hit he took, watched from the side with an annoyed grunt.

"Show-off," he muttered.

The Vulture hissed, its body convulsing—

And lunged straight for the rider.

Takuya sprang forward.

He jumped in, closing the gap before the Vulture could strike. Too fast for it to react.

He twisted midair—another spinning kick.

WHAM!

The Vulture reeled from the impact, but this time, Takuya didn’t make the same mistake.

THWIP-THWIP!

His webs snapped out, latching onto the Vulture’s wings. With a hard yank, he threw it off-balance as it crashed back down.

Takuya gestured grandly. "See? I’m learning."

The rider didn’t even look at him.

"Your form is sloppy," he said. "You’re leaving yourself wide open."

Takuya tilted his head, hands on his hips.  "Give me a break, it’s my first time. Who even are you anyway?”

Before he could reply, the Vulture shrieked again, wings beating violently.

It recovered too fast.

One wing snapped out—not at Takuya this time, but at the rider.

He dodged, barely, but the movement forced him a step back.

And Takuya was right there.

“Exigen.”

The next thing Exigen knew, the reckless vigilante was lunging at the Vulture again—wild, relentless.

Exigen cursed under his breath, shifting position. He intercepted the Vulture’s counterstrike without missing a beat.

He caught a glimpse of Takuya’s movement.

Powerful. Fast. And completely untrained.

Takuya threw another punch, more controlled this time. His sheer strength was enough to stagger the Vulture again—

But his follow-up was too slow, too clumsy.

Exigen stepped in. Takuya’s attack had created an opening.

Moving with precision, Exigen struck—elbow to ribs, knee to gut.

The Vulture jerked, shrieking in pain.

Takuya tilted his head back slightly, a hand to his chin.
Oh. That’s how you’re supposed to do it.

"Not bad," he admitted.

Exigen’s visor tilted toward him for a fraction of a second.

"You’re reckless," he said flatly. "That’s going to get you killed."

Takuya threw up exaggerated jazz hands. "Yet look at me here, not dead!"

The Vulture let out another ear-splitting screech, its body convulsing violently.

Takuya and Exigen exchanged a glance.

Time to finish this.

Takuya plays bait, darting around the rooftop, using his speed and unpredictable movement to keep the Vulture’s focus.

Exigen positioned himself, calculating the exact moment to strike.

Takuya landed a well-timed blow, but instead of leaving himself open, he followed up by firing webs at its legs, yanking it off-balance.

Exigen didn’t hesitate.

He stepped in, delivered a brutal, final strike—a finishing move that left the Vulture slumped, unconscious.

Silence.

The fight was over. The Vulture was finally down.

Takuya stretched his arms behind his head, still catching his breath. "Whew. That wasn’t so bad. I mean, I only almost died twice—pretty good, right?"

Across from him, Exigen didn’t relax.

He pressed a finger to the side of his helmet. "Oki, he’s down. Send the—"

“Already above you,” he heard back. 

Above them, a drone hovered down to contain the downed creature.

“Cool, what is this—Amezon Ultra for villains?” Takuya called out, perched nearby. “Do you guys offer overnight pickup and deliveries too?”

Exigen continued watching the Vulture’s containment but turned his head slightly toward the kid vigilante. “You’re in way over your head, kid.”

“Hey, he attacked me,” Takuya scoffed. "Besides, I just helped take down a mutant bird monster—I'd say I’m doing fine."

Takuya felt a weird… prickle. Something told him that if this guy wanted to take him down, he probably could.

"Okay, fine, fine," he muttered, throwing his hands up. "But for the record—I definitely had it under control."

Exigen didn’t dignify that with a response.

Takuya rubbed the back of his neck, starting to feel a little awkward. “So… what are you guys gonna do with it? Take it back to your hero HQ?”

“Him,” Exigen corrected. “He was once a person. We’re taking him to our base. Hopefully, we can help turn him back to normal.” He folded his arms, eyes still on the containment drone. “Now you should run along home, kid. The vigilante gig is no joke.”

“What makes you think I’m out here trying to be a vigilante?”

“I didn’t want to call them pyjamas…”

Takuya looked down at his makeshift costume, “It’s a work in progress.”

“Leave the hero stuff to the Pros, kid. Live your youth. Enjoy it. That’s what kids should do. Then learn the hero stuff properly. I hear U.A.’s good.”

“Look, I’m not a vigilante. I'm not doing any kind of hero thing, or whatever - I was just out on a joyride with my, er, quirk,” Takuya said. “But the thing is, this isn’t the first time I’ve run into that guy. He attacked a friend of mine before too. And you clearly know more than you’re saying.”

Maybe he can tell me more about what transformed this guy into the vulture…and maybe some answers about that spider?

Exigen didn’t answer. Just repeating “Go home, kid.”

“I just want some answers. You know about Iron Cross Labs, right? What’s this ‘Mira’ thing they’re working on?”

A sudden tension filled the air. Exigen stiffened.

“Are they connected, somehow?” Takuya added.

Exigen slowly turned around, the boy’s masked face reflecting in his visor. “What do you know about Mira?”

“Hey, I asked you first!” Takuya protested.

“How do you know about it?” Exigen pressed. He stepped forward.

Behind him, the drone finally lifted off, the Vulture secured inside.

Takuya instinctively stepped back, falling into a loose defensive stance.
Oh man, maybe this was a bad call. I gotta smooth this out.

“I—I just know, okay? I overheard some chatter on one of my runs. Oh! And I know the Vulture came from Iron Cross Tower. I just figured there was a connection?”
I don’t think he bought that…

“They’d never be that careless to discuss such things where they could be overheard,” Exigen said, now looming over him.

Takuya laughed nervously. “You’d be surprised how sneaky… I can be…”
Wait, did I just make myself sound more suspicious?

“Now I need answers,” Exigen said. “You're going to have to come back with us.”

Takuya took another step back.

“Yeah, that’s gonna be a no from me,” he said, inching backward. “I’ve got places to be—a real full schedule tonight.”

“You don’t understand.” Exigen glanced at the drone as it zipped away. “If Iron Cross knows you’ve heard about Project Mira, you’re in danger—real danger. If they find out who you are, your family, your friends... they could be next.”

“I’ll take my chances. Thanks,” Takuya said, turning to leave. The prickle at the back of his neck flared.

“Sorry, kid. But I can’t.”

Exigen moved. Fast.

His hand snapped toward Takuya’s wrist in a vice-like grip.

“Whoa! Hey, what are you doing?” Takuya exclaimed. He’s stronger than he looks.

Exigen’s fingers curved around Takuya’s wrist—firm, but not cruel. “I promise, I’m not arresting you. I’m trying to keep you alive. I’ll call someone you trust—your parents or the authorities—and get you home safe.”

In that moment, Takuya remembered his father’s lesson:
Leverage an angle…

He slipped his free hand up over Exigen’s, palm pressing against the hero’s thumb, angling his wrist downward. He pivoted on one foot, twisting his whole body—

Snap.

Exigen’s grip loosened as Takuya slipped free, landing deftly on his second foot. Hiroshi blinked behind the visor, eyes widening just a fraction.

“You… you know that move?” he asked, the edge in his voice softening for a moment.

“—Alright,” Takuya panted, flexing his wrist. “He was right; like math, but with more—” he leapt into a somersault kick, “—bruises!” Exigen was shunted to the ground.

Takuya shot him finger guns as the hero pushed up from the floor. "I’d love to stick around, but I’ve had just about enough ‘crazy’ for one night, so—"

THWIP!

A web shot out. In an instant, Takuya yanked himself into the air, flipping backward off the building.

Hiroshi’s bike roared to life. He wasn’t letting this kid get away.

Takuya swung between buildings, twisting midair, vaulting over street signs. “Man, this guy just won’t quit.”

Exigen’s bike scaled a nearby building, keeping pace.

He grinned under the mask. "Alright, Kamen Rider…"

Takuya vaulted off a rooftop, free-falling toward the street.

Exigen accelerated. He had to keep a visual.

The kid was fast, but reckless. He moved purely on instinct—fluid, reactive, but instincts only get you so far.

He reached for controls on his bike, “Oki? That program ready?” His visor flickered in response, tracking the costumed kid ahead.

A click.

Across the skyline, digital billboards suddenly flickered to life.

Bright neon exploded in Takuya’s vision.

"GHH—!"

His eyes squinted behind his mask as massive ads screamed across towering screens—energy drinks, luxury cars, anime idols.

One screen glowed with a giant smiling anime girl holding a soda.
"BUY! BUY! BUY! 24-HOUR LIMITED SALE!"

Takuya twisted midair, barely dodging the massive neon monstrosity. "Okay, what the hell!?"

He swung again, but—

BZZZT!

A high-pitched whirring filled the air.

Takuya’s head snapped up. “Drones?!” He ducked as one zipped by. “You’ve got drones?!”

Small, sleek, and fast. They zipped through the skyline, tracking his movements, forcing him to change direction.

They transmitted Exigen’s voice to him, “You’re out of options kid. Cool it down. Let’s talk.”

Takuya huffed. "Yeah? Well, let’s see how good your flying Roombas are at keeping up!"

He dove between two skyscrapers, weaving through narrow gaps too tight for the drones to follow.

"Ha! And that’s how you outmaneuver—"

SNAG.

Something snapped around his ankle.

"Aw, come on!"

The line went taut—WHAM.

Takuya slammed onto the rooftop, air punched from his lungs. He rolled onto his back.

“You’ve got heart.” Exigen rolled up beside him, swinging off his bike. “And more skill than most I meet twice your age.”

Takuya’s jaw clenched. “Thanks… I think?”

Exigen was already approaching. "But you really don’t get how serious this is."

Takuya held up a finger. "Okay, counterpoint—"

THWIP-THWIP-THWIP-THWIP-THWIP-THWIP-THWIP!

Webbing blasted from his shooters in a wild barrage, coating Exigen’s torso and pinning him to the wall.

Takuya leapt to his feet, shaking out his wrists. "WOO! Ha-HA! How do you like them apples?”

He started shadow boxing in victory.

Exigen struggled against the webbing. "You—"

THWIP.

Takuya webbed his helmet for good measure.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh," he patted Exigen’s shoulder. “It’s fine. I won. You lost. There’s no shame in that Mr. Cool-Helmet-Bike-Guy.”

Hiroshi growled against the mask. Body language unamused.

Takuya turned to shoot a web and swing out.

Fissss…
Sputter.

And nothing.

Takuya froze. "Whoops… outta web fluid."

A long, awkward beat followed.

Exigen tilted his head slightly.

Takuya cleared his throat. "Soooo ... note to self—carry extra cartridges. Maybe on a utility belt?"

He glanced back at Exigen. "You stay right there. Seriously. No tag-backs."

Then he took off running, flipping off the rooftop, vanishing into the night.

Exigen sighed. "...Oki."

Mishima’s voice crackled through the comms. "You know I’m never going to let this go, right?"

Hiroshi’s jaw tensed. "Just get me out of this."

As the kid vanished, his words echoed back—like math, but with more bruises.
…It couldn’t be. Could it?

Takuya arrived on his home street, the cold night air bit at him as he perched atop a building across the street from the apartment. His mind was still racing.

This has gotten way bigger than I thought.

That weird biker vigilante knew about Mira, and the Vulture. Maybe Sakuma really was onto something about Iron Cross…
No, Takuya, you’re overthinking it.

Though… that Exigen guy was weirdly intense.

He dropped into the shadows, changed back into his uniform—wincing as fabric brushed against fresh scrapes—and crept up the stairs. Hopefully Mom won’t notice.

He inhaled, then pushed open the door.

“I’m home,” he called, shutting it behind him.

From the kitchen, Kiri’s voice sliced through the quiet. “Takuya! Do you know what time it is?”

She entered the living room, ladle in hand, brows furrowed more with worry than anger. Shinko lounged on the couch, glancing up only long enough to smirk.

“I—” Takuya started, but Kiri cut him off.

“School ran late?” she repeated, arms crossed.

He swallowed. “Yeah, tests ran overtime. And studyhall. Also, cleaning?”

Before another word could escape him, the front door clicked again.

“I’m home,” came a second voice.

Takuya’s head snapped around to see Hiroshi stepping in—dirt speckles on a jacket Takuya didn’t remember ever seeing. His father’s shoulders slumped, exhaustion written across his face.

Kiri exhaled and brightened. “Hiroshi! You’re home. I thought you’d let me know when you’d be back?”

Hiroshi raised his hands in surrender, flashing an apologetic grin. “Sorry—got a bit tied up with work. I’d have called, but the night got away from me.”

Shinko, typing away on her laptop in the living room, barely looked up.

“At least you’re here now,” Kiri said, softer. Then, eyeing Takuya, she added with a raised brow, “You’ve been coming home late a lot too.”

Takuya scratched at his wrist. “It’s not like I’m out causing trouble.”

Kiri sighed. “Well, dinner’s almost ready. You two go wash up.”

Hiroshi gave Takuya a knowing smile and shrugged. Takuya returned it.

As Hiroshi shrugged off his jacket, his gaze fell on Takuya’s arm—fresh bruises blooming beneath the sleeve. “Rough day at school?” he asked quietly, stepping closer. “These look new.”

Takuya froze for a heartbeat. “Oh—just the guys at school again. But I used that wrist‐grab trick you taught me. They won’t mess with me anymore.”

Hiroshi’s eyes flicked to the bruise, then to Takuya’s relieved nod. He offered a small, almost imperceptible smile—pride mixed with something sharper, a flicker of recognition. 

At the dinner table, conversation drifted over the day’s events.

“…and that nice Mr. Maruko finally found an apartment in the city that could accommodate his sand quirk." Kiri laughed as she added more food to Takuya’s plate. "He even made a sandwich platter to thank us—bit on the nose, but still sweet."

"Sounds like a win," Shinko said, half distracted as she furiously typed away on her phone.

“Do you need to be doing that know, Shinko?” Kiri asked.

Shinko looked up. “Oh, yes—you’re right. Sorry.” She set her phone down. “A few interns were taken in by Dr. Sakuma for some secret project. It’s gotten a little more hectic without them. But I want to get noticed, so I can get involved too. Things are really heating up, it sounds like.”

Hearing that sent flashes of the Molten Man through Hiroshi’s mind—the intern he hadn’t been able to save, warped beyond recognition. One of those “chosen” for a secret project. He couldn’t let his daughter be next.

Takuya, meanwhile, barely registered any of it. His mind kept drifting—back to the rooftops, the Vulture, Exigen. He shoveled food into his mouth faster than Kiri could refill his plate.

“It just feels like things have been getting worse lately,” Kiri said, setting down her ladle. “More villain attacks. Even with a hero like All Might, he can’t be everywhere at once—no matter how much people want to believe he can.” She paused. “I had to help a young man today who was attacked downtown. Poor thing kept talking about some ‘monster bird’ tearing through the place.”

Takuya froze mid-bite. So did Hiroshi. For a split second, their gazes flicked toward each other—then, just as quickly, they looked away, burying themselves in their food as if nothing happened.

Shinko, unaware of the charged silence, huffed. “Wasn’t that the same thing that attacked Iron Cross Tower? The one that caused Taku—” She stopped herself, eyes flicking to Takuya and then to Hiroshi. No way she was about to bring that up again now. She backpedaled. “Uh—what I meant was, Iron Cross has been in the news a lot lately, you know, with all those tech developments. Crazy stuff, right?”

“Right…” Kiri latched onto the distraction. “I just hope all this chaos dies down soon.” She sighed, glancing at Takuya. “You were always so fragile, Taku. No wonder you collapsed from the stress of it all…”

Takuya groaned, “Mom, it wasn’t that bad!”

“It’s exactly what the doctor said. With your allergies too, it’s no wonder. And you’ve been acting so strangely lately—waking up early, your appetite, the energy bursts when you get home…”

Hiroshi glanced up from his plate at Takuya, one eyebrow raised. Takuya felt his father’s stare burn into him—had Dad figured something out?

“That’s normal! Just a normal… totally normal… uh… puberty thing?”
Oh man, I suck…

Shinko leaned forward, grinning like a villain about to monologue. “Speaking of Puberty, Taku…”

Wow. Great start to a new topic sis… Takuya thought.

“…haven’t you been spending a lot of time with a certain Miss Hitomi Sakuma?” Shinko’s expression was mischievously dark.

Takuya nearly choked on his rice. “I—what?”

“Oh yes, I remember her. She seemed very sweet,” Kiri smiled. “She’s not why you’re always so late home now, is she?”

“No, Mom,” Takuya said, exasperated. “I told you guys already, we’re just friends. We talk at school and stuff, and that’s all.”

“Kiddos these days start dating so young now…” Kiri shook her head fondly. “We couldn’t even date in Highschool when I was growing up, let alone Junior High. You two aren’t dating already are you?”

“No!” Takuya exclaimed, “Is this going to be something you two bring up every night now?”

“But you want to date her, right?” Shinko teased, eyes sparkling, grinning at their mother.

Kiri gave a playful nod. “You should invite her over one day. Not saying you have to date, but let us meet her.”

Shinko added a playfully mocking tone, “Developing some high-up connections there too, Taku. Dr. Sakuma’s own daughter and all. Be sure to remember us when you marry up the corporate ladder, won’t you boss?”

Hiroshi’s eyes widened. He fought to keep his expression neutral, but his grip on his chopsticks tightened.

“Seriously, it’s nothing,” Takuya muttered under Shinko's snickering.

Hiroshi tried to hide his shaking, idly reaching for the soy sauce, only to knock it off the table.

Takuya caught it mid-air without even looking, his hand moving on instinct before the bottle could hit the ground.

“Oh, careful!” Kiri gasped, reaching for a napkin—only to blink when she saw the soy sauce bottle perfectly caught in Takuya’s hand.

Hiroshi stared before breaking out with, “some sharp reflexes there, son.”

“Totally normal,” Takuya said quickly, dumping soy sauce on his rice like his life depended on it.

Kiri clapped in surprise. “Ooh, that was impressive, Taku! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you move like that before."

Hiroshi, though, narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. That was fast—too fast to be normal.

Shinko grinned, "Yeah, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve been secretly training in the mountains or something."

Takuya struck a goofy ninja pose, then internally cringed as he heard his own voice: “Oh yeah, totally—ancient ninja techniques!”

“Hey, you never know. There are some underground dojos out there. Some people actually train with them to fight crime without a license."

“You mean vigilantes?”

"Yeah. Most of them are just wannabe action heroes, though."

“I don’t know…” Kiri said, “If someone’s willing to risk their life to help people, doesn’t that mean they believe in something bigger than themselves?"

“Or they just don’t care about the law,” Shinko countered. “If they wanted to help people so badly, they’d just get a license like everyone else.”

“Yeah, like that Exigen guy.”

“Exigen?” Kiri and Shinko asked in unison.

“What kind of name is that?” Shinko added.

“I don’t know, but some kids at school were talking about him. Some old dude on a motorbike with some ‘dark rider’ vibe…” Takuya said.

“Old?” Hiroshi choked on his tea. “They said he was old?”

“…yeah?” Takuya said, looking at him confused.

“Anyway, I heard he was chasing down the Vulture earlier today.”

“He fought that thing?” Shinko said in surprise.

“Is he a Pro?” Kiri asked. “What’s his quirk?”

“I don’t know. I heard it was just his motorcycle he used,” he turned back to Shinko, “and it wasn’t much of a fight. I heard he mostly got his ass kicked.”

“The kid slowed him down…” Hiroshi muttered, angrily taking a bite from his chopsticks.

Takuya froze, chopsticks mid-air. “Wait—kid?”

Hiroshi stiffened for just a fraction of a second. He recovered quickly, but Takuya caught the hesitation.

“Uh… that’s just what people online were saying,” Hiroshi said, forcing a shrug that didn’t quite look casual.

Takuya narrowed his eyes. "I never heard anything about a kid…"

“Well, maybe you need better sources.” Hiroshi reached for his tea, avoiding eye contact.

Takuya hesitated, suddenly nervous. Someone saw me? “Uh, did your sources see a kid there with him then?”

Hiroshi glanced up at him. There was something in his son’s voice—something too pointed.

Why was he so fixated on that? Most people wouldn’t care about some nameless ‘kid’ in a hero story… unless they were worried about being recognized.

Shinko and Kiri continued talking—Shinko complaining about work, Kiri reminiscing about a funny story from her university days.

“Which website did you say you saw this on?” Hiroshi said, before taking a slow sip of his tea. “I believe the fight only happened recently…”

“Oh, you know, just one of those clickbait articles. Didn’t really pay attention to where,” he idly poked at the last grains of rice in his bowl. “But these sources of yours… they must be pretty reliable if they’re picking up details that no one else has.” He flashed his eyes back up to him.

Hiroshi didn’t look up from his tea. “I keep an ear to the ground.”

Shinko stretched with a satisfied groan. "Ahh, another delicious meal, Mother. If only I was able to eat like this at work..."

Kiri chuckled, shaking her head, “No, I won’t be making you a lunch for work tomorrow. You’re a grown woman now.”

“Worth a try,” Shinko laughed. “Just as well anyway. The moment I bring in homemade food, I'm gonna have like, five coworkers suddenly wanting to ‘trade.’" She got up to start collecting the dishes from the table.

Takuya asked, “So, what do you think, Dad? Why would someone like Exigen decide to play hero?”

Hiroshi nodded slowly. "Funny. I thought you weren’t the type to care about hero gossip?"

Takuya smirked. "I’m not. But you sure seem interested."

"Just trying to keep up with the times," Hiroshi said smoothly. "I figure, if someone’s running around playing hero without a license, it’s only a matter of time before they get caught. Or worse. Especially if they’re some reckless kid jumping into fights he clearly isn’t ready for."

Shinko walked past, collecting their dishes. "Pfft, yeah. If they’re dumb enough to pick a fight with that Vulture creature, they’d either be really brave or really stupid."

"Probably both," Takuya muttered, side-eyeing his father.

Hiroshi barely missed a beat. "I think it depends on whether he won or not."

"Yeah? From what I heard, the ‘kid’ was the real MVP."

Hiroshi barely hesitated. "Funny. I heard it was the other way around."

Kiri was already sat on the couch, with Shinko following. "Are you two still on about that biker guy? Come over and sit.”

"We were just talking," Hiroshi said. "It’s not often someone like that pops up."

Takuya crossed his arms. “Yeah? You talk like you know the guy.”

“You talk like you were there.”

Takuya’s fingers twitched. He wiped down the table with a cloth. "Pfft. No way. I was… studying. With friends. At the library."

Shinko snorted from the living room. "With little miss Sakuma?"

Takuya tensed. "Leave it, sis!"

Kiri tilted her head, glancing between Hiroshi and Takuya. “...you two are acting weird tonight.”

Takuya and Hiroshi snapped up at the same time.

“What? No way,” Takuya blurted.

“Completely normal,” Hiroshi added.

There was a long beat of silence after that.

Shinko squinted. “Okay, that was way too in sync.”

Another beat.

“...Are you guys really training in an underground dojo?”

Kiri shook her head, laughing lightly. "Honestly, sometimes you two are more alike than you realize."

Takuya quickly changed the subject. "Anyway, uh… What’s on tonight?"

Shinko flopped onto the couch, grabbing the remote. “Some new drama’s premiering. It’s supposed to have a crazy twist.”

Kiri hummed in thought. “I think it’s about a detective and a criminal chasing each other without realizing they’ve already met.”

Takuya and Hiroshi locked eyes. Neither of them spoke.

For a moment, the world faded—the TV buzz, the clinking dishes, even the chatter around them. Only the silence between them remained, charged with unspoken truth.

Takuya knew.

Hiroshi knew.

And now, they were aware that the other knew.

A flicker of something passed through Hiroshi’s eyes—concern? A warning? Maybe both.

Takuya swallowed hard. His father wasn’t just some blacklisted Tinkerer. He was the vigilante, Exigen. At least, that's what he's been led to believe; but the line between vigilante and villain, was a fine one. Which side did his dad really fall on?

Hiroshi wasn’t a fool. His son wasn’t just some reckless kid who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was that Spider-Kid. But how? Like him, Takuya was born quirkless - how was he able to do those things before? How long has he been able to do it?

They didn’t speak.

But they knew.

This changed everything.

The TV flickered to life, breaking the moment.

Kiri gestured at the screen, leaning into Hiroshi. "Oh, this looks good!"

Takuya exhaled, finally tearing his gaze away. "Yeah. Should be interesting."

Hiroshi set his cup down. "I imagine so."

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered through the thin curtains of Takuya’s bedroom. He sat up in bed, turning over his mechanical web-shooters in his hands as last night replayed in his head.

His dad was Exigen, the vigilante.

All his life, Takuya believed his father was quirkless—it’s why he was born quirkless too. Did it have something to do with Mira, like with his spider bite? How long had he been running around like this, behind their backs? Did Mom know? Why keep it a secret from everyone?

What if he’s actually doing something shady?

That thought made him shudder. But it would explain his secrecy. The lies. Otherwise why not become a Pro Hero?

He padded out into the living area. His mother was in the kitchen, assembling bentos.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she called over her shoulder. “Not getting up early anymore?”

“I guess I was just tired,” he replied, forcing a grin.

Shinko was hunched over the coffee table, scribbling away on some notes. Last-minute assignment, from the look of it.

“Are you going to eat something before you go?” Kiri asked.

Before he could respond, his father stepped into the living area. Hiroshi yawned as he scratched the side of his neck, adjusting his glasses with a familiar, easy smile.

Takuya immediately looked away. Hiroshi’s smile faltered as he winced.

“Actually, I’m gonna head out now—I'll grab something later. Bye!” he bolted for the door before anyone could press him.

Something slipped out of his half-zipped backpack as he threw it over his shoulder.

“You dropped this…” Hiroshi called out, jogging after him with a folded piece of navy-blue fabric wrapped around a pair of goggles.

Takuya froze. He turned as Hiroshi held it out—his mask.

They didn’t say anything. Just a quiet moment. Hiroshi’s expression was calm. Patient. Takuya’s eyes flicked between the mask and his father’s face.

Finally, he took it. Stuffed it deep into his bag and zipped it shut.

“…Thanks.” He didn’t meet Hiroshi’s eyes. 

Hiroshi watched him go as he turned and walked down the street.

Takuya never looked back.

Takuya’s steps echoed dully through the morning bustle of the school corridors, but every time he blinked, he saw that scene again at the bottom of the stairs—his dad holding out the mask. That knowing look.

Why didn’t he say anything? He obviously knows. Is it because he knows I know about him?
What is he even doing out there? Something shady? Something to do with Mira? Because he knew about it, and seemed really serious about what I knew.
Is that where his powers came from? What if it isn't? What if he always had a quirk? Because he definitely fought the vulture, and me, with superhuman strength and speed. Why would he hide having a quirk? I wouldn't! 

Well, except I am now - but that's because it came out of nowhere, and I don't understand what's happening. It's not because I want to take advantage of anyone or anything...
It must be similar to me then - an artificial quirk. Otherwise wouldn't that make me a mutant without the mutant-thing? A reverse-mutant?

He barely registered the other students around him, dodging out of his way as he made his way through the entrance. Still lost in another world, he turned down the aisle with his locker—nearly colliding with someone stepping back.

Hitomi was putting on her indoor shoes, one strap of her bag slung over her shoulder, hair loose around her face. Her golden-brown eyes flicked up to him. Sharp. Only a little startled—she’d just seen him a beat before.

Takuya froze. He immediately tugged up his collar, trying to hide his bruises beneath.

“Oh, hey Sakuma! G-Good morning,” he said, scanning his eyes back for his own locker as he shuffled over there.

Hitomi tilted her head at him as he awkwardly shuffled past, avoiding her gaze.

She sighed, “That bruise…was that from—?”

“Huh?” Takuya blinked. “Oh, uh…it’s nothing. Just my usual clumsiness.”

She furrowed her brow softly. She opened her mouth, as if to say something, but let out a sigh instead.

Takuya paused with his locker open, looking at her. Things had been weird between them lately. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but he did feel he was responsible for it.
She's always been nice to me, and I know we've only really been talking for about a week, but she's the closest thing I have to a friend. Why can't I just be honest to her?
Not that I even know how to explain any of it – I barely understand it myself!

I just really need someone to talk to about all this...
He pressed his head against his locker for a moment, before shutting it.

A trio of first-years passed behind.

They slowed, whispering “Isn’t that the guy who floored Sugihara?”
“No way…and without a quirk? Didn’t think he had it in him.”
“I heard he threatened him afterwards like ‘Next time, I’m gonna kill you’ or something. Crazy!”

Takuya’s shoulders stiffened. His head snapped to look, causing them to scurry off.

He snapped back to Hitomi, flailing his arms, “I promise, I never said anything like that!” His eyes then returned to his locker as he slid it open. He felt her gaze linger on him.

“Is that where the bruises are from,” she asked. She looked up at him, more with concern than what he expected.

He’d almost forgotten about the fight with Sugihara. It gave him a decent cover story for his injuries from the vulture, but he didn’t like the air around him that was left by that fight. It no longer invited bullying, but there was an uncertainty from everyone around him. They didn’t know what to make of him now.

Takuya thought back to the last time he talked to Hitomi, yesterday, in the cafeteria – when she was trying to stop him from agreeing to fight Sugihara. She told him then that this wasn’t him. She was right—it wasn’t. It still isn’t. But no one else saw it that way.

He closed back his locker, and turned back to her, “Sakuma, I—”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she smiled, but it looked a little forced. Stepping back, one hand loosely on the strap of her bag, she gave him a soft nod and left.

At the Edgeshot Hero Agency, R&D Wing. Mid-morning.

The faint whirr of ventilation and soft, sterile lighting hummed around Hiroshi as he hunched over a modular sleeve draped across a glass-surface workbench. His soldering pen hissed as it fused a glinting conduit into the lining—delicate circuitry woven into the hero costume’s synthetic muscle fibers. Near-invisible microfilaments pulsed faintly beneath his fingertips.

“Still too much delay in the left-side response window,” Hiroshi muttered, adjusting his glasses as he leaned in. “Can’t have a millisecond’s lag when you’re folding yourself into a damn sewing needle.”

A voice crackled in his ear, half-amused, half-scolding.

“And yet you agreed to work on it.” It was Mishima—gruff, clipped, and far too caffeinated for this early.

“Please. Edge Shot came to me.” Hiroshi tapped a diagnostic screen beside him. “Says his in-house engineers couldn’t crack the latency sync. He’s got half the stealth-based heroes in Tokyo asking him about it, so—he needed someone with a brain.”

He slid open a panel on the sleeve’s forearm brace, revealing the tactile trigger assembly—a fine mesh of conductive thread, much of it based on Hiroshi’s own Mira-adjacent prototypes. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

“Besides,” he added dryly, “It’s old Iron Cross design—back when we thought it was going to change the world for the better.”

Mishima stood at the central console of a dim, unpacked lab. Cables trailed from half-open crates. Machines still blinked standby lights in disorganized clusters. His fingers flew over holographic controls, swiping through diagnostic scans of the Vulture’s twisted human-avian biology hovering in a tube behind him, suspended in thick green fluid, twitching slightly.

“Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying your little nostalgia trip, then. Meanwhile, I’m trying to rebuild my lab to its lost glory with nothing more than your bare hands, less than a tenth of my machines, and a paperclip…”

A little droid beeped at him.

“Oh, my mistake,” Mishima said, “Two paperclips. We’re saved.”

Hiroshi didn’t look up. “You're the one who insisted on relocating everything overnight.”

“Because you let Chameleon walk off with a fresh vial of Mira.” Mishima’s glare sharpened. “Or do you not remember that part?”

“I wasn’t going to let that family die just so I could catch him,” Hiroshi said simply. “Not for anything.”

“Oh, don’t give me that ‘great power’ crap, Hiroshi. Saving one family? How many families could pay for that one with Iron Cross’ plans? And what if your family dies because of it?”

“I’m not giving it to you,” Hiroshi said quietly, soldering a final joint with a clean click-hiss. “I’m reminding myself.”

Mishima scoffed and leaned back in his chair—exposing more of the chaos around him. A partially disassembled quirk-dampening rig sat on the counter behind him, cables still unplugged.

“You know what’s funny? The great Docotor Hiroshi Yamashiro, former Iron Cross engineer, slumming it with vigilantes and philosophy. Meanwhile, they’ve probably already cracked your version of Mira. And when they start churning out more monsters, even with the few people you supposedly helped, will your hands still be considered clean?”

“We’ll stop them…”

Mishima laughed bitterly, muttering something about ‘idealism being a disease’.

“That spider-kid…” Hiroshi muttered softly. “The one from last night…”

“What? What’s he got to do with this?”

“He knew about Mira.”

“So? What use is a kid to us? We know what Mira is. Eraserhead now knows what Mira is after watching you. What new angle could some snot-nosed child pretending to be a hero, possibly grant us?”

“It was Takuya…”

Mishima’s hands froze above his console. “You’re kidding.”

Hiroshi didn’t answer.

“Your son? Your quirkless son?”

“He knows about Mira, and he suddenly gains powers after the Iron Cross Expo…”

Mishima was silent over the comms.

“I didn’t want to get my family involved in this,” Hiroshi said, voice lowered as some agency staff passed by. “But it looks like he’s already...”

“Then we bring him in. Study him. If he survived the formula—if he stabilized—it means Iron Cross accidentally perfected it. We can capitalize on their ignorance, but we only have a short—”

Hiroshi’s jaw tightened. “He’s a kid. My son.”

“If his biology holds the key, then he's the one clean sample we may ever get. You said it yourself—he got powers after Iron Cross. Besides, we don’t know how stable he really is. What if there’s a cellular degradation curve? What if it fails like the others did, but slowly? Best case he's our chance to solve everything right now, worst case you get to see if there's anything wrong with him and fix it before it rears its head. What's the problem?”

“I'm not going to turn my son into some lab experiment. He's starting Highschool in a few months - his life's barely begun!”

“Think, Hiroshi! Don’t be an imbecile. You want to protect your son—I get that. But if Iron Cross finds him first, they'll do worse?”

“The chances of that happening—” Hiroshi caught himself mid-sentence, realizing his voice had risen. He lowered it again, reining in the heat. “Getting him involved increases their chances of getting their hands on him, not lowers.”

Mishima took a long, hard, sigh over the comms. “If there was one time, of all the times you should listen to me, Hiroshi, it’s this. With his DNA, we’ve got our evidence of what Iron Cross has been doing. We may have a cure for our vulture boy, and we could get a more stable batch for your Mira.”

“He's still my son, Oki,” Hiroshi said, pain clear in his voice. What kind of father would he be to put that kind of weight on his own son?

“You’re not keeping him out! You’re just keeping him in the dark. That’s not protection—it’s negligence. Whether you like it or not, your kid’s already involved. They’ll find out, and they’ll come for him. And when they do, don’t you think it would be better if he knew they were coming? If he was prepared for them?”

“I’ve gotta finish this commission,” Hiroshi finally said, “I need to think about this. I’ll connect later.”

“After all your lectures, letting leads go to play hero…this right here, is that great power. I don’t want to throw that in your face, but if it makes you see reason, I have to.”

With that, Mishima signed off, leaving Hiroshi alone in the hum of lab equipment. The soldering pen hissed again as he bent back over the sleeve—but the thought of his son wouldn’t leave him.

“In today’s passage,” said Mr. Fukuda, tapping the board, “the narrator recalls a conversation he regrets never having. Why do you think silence can hurt more than action?”

No hands raised. He sighed.

“This matters. People misunderstand each other not because they’re enemies, but because they don’t speak when they should.”

Takuya wasn’t really listening. Not to the teacher, anyway.

He was staring at the edge of Hitomi’s profile—wondering how long it had been since she even looked at him.

But then, in the blink of an eye, he saw Exigen in her place. The armor. The helmet. His father behind it.

He shifted in his seat, wincing. His ribs still ached from last night, and he was pretty sure the desk was conspiring to make it worse.

Was Dad doing this every other night? Fighting people like that, then coming home to eat curry like nothing happened? Hiding injuries from us?

He shook the thought away.

No Exigen. No spider powers. No – whatever that MIRA stuff is, or that Vulture-guy’s deal.

One thing at a time. Just one, normal, thing. Please.
Just talk to her.

Hitomi sat just one row ahead, one seat to the right. Close enough to speak—if they were still speaking.

He reached into his pencil case and quietly tore a corner off his loose-leaf. Then, hesitating, wrote:

Hey. You okay?

A pause.

Then he folded it in half, scribbled her name, and lightly tapped her elbow with it before pulling his hand back like it had been burned.

Hitomi glanced down at the note.

She didn’t look at him—just took the note and, after a pause, scribbled something back.

I’m fine. You?

He exhaled—quietly. She’s not brushing me off. That’s good, I think.

He scribbled back quickly:

Sorry again about the café.

She hesitated longer this time before replying.

It’s okay. You don’t have to explain.
Just thought we were doing the whole ‘team’ thing.

Takuya stared at the words for a moment too long.

Mr. Fukuda’s chalk hit the board behind them with a sharp clack. “Let’s look at an example,” he said, turning back to the class. “Sometimes, we don’t say what we mean. And sometimes, we say it too late.”

Takuya wrote back:

I still want to.
Do you?

Hitomi’s pen hovered above the paper for a second. She’d started writing something… then scratched it out.

She was just starting again when a shadow passed over them.

“Ah. What’s this?” Mr. Fukuda plucked the note from between their desks with a frown, unfolding it mid-stride.

Takuya froze. Hitomi’s head sank slightly toward her desk.

Fukuda cleared his throat dramatically. “You two seem to have strong opinions on this week’s reading. Let’s see what sort of poetic expressions we’ve captured here.”

The class immediately perked up. A few muffled snickers. Takuya’s stomach dropped.

“‘Hey. You okay?’” Fukuda read in a deep, theatrical tone. “Ah, the great universal question. A classic icebreaker.” He flipped the note like a stage script. “‘I’m fine. You?’ Hmmm. Ah, our speaker deflects, but engages. Passive interest, perhaps? Or hidden subtext.”

Someone snorted in the back. Takuya wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Hitomi’s ears were bright pink now, but she still didn’t look at him.

“‘Sorry again about the café,’” Fukuda intoned. He paused. “Aha! A clue. The regretted encounter—a classic act two moment!”

“Sensei,” Hitomi mumbled, mortified. “Can we maybe not—?”

But he kept going. “‘Just thought we were doing the whole 'team' thing.’ Tragic. A friendship, perhaps even a fledgling partnership, now strained. The tension rises.”

Then—just as Fukuda reached the bottom—he squinted at the last unfinished reply.

“Hmm... no conclusion.” He tapped the page. “See? Even here—cause and effect. Misunderstanding creeps in the moment we stop short of understanding.” He folded the note and placed it on his desk. “Thank you, Mr Yamashiro and Miss Sakuma, for your generous contribution to the class. But perhaps, in the future you could keep these matters to more appropriate timings?”

“Sorry sir,” they muttered in unison as Fukuda turned back to the board like nothing had happened.

Takuya buried his face into his desk. Fixing things with her just got a lot harder.

Neither looked at the other again for the rest of class.

The bell rang, and chairs scraped back as students stretched or drifted to stretch their legs between lessons. Takuya lingered a second longer, pushing his notebook slowly into his desk. He glanced toward Hitomi—she was still seated, flipping through a folder filled with photos and scribbled notes, frowning slightly at something she read.

He took a breath, then a step forward.

“Hey, Sak—”

“Sakuma,” one of their classmates cut in, leaning over the desk. “Mind if I copy your sheet before the next period?”

She looked up and gave a small, distracted smile. “Sure, but only the first half. I messed up the conjugations.”

By the time Takuya opened his mouth again, she was already mid-discussion.

He sank back into his chair.

Between classes, while the others milled around or stepped out for water, he caught sight of her standing by the windows in the corridor outside. Her head was bent, flipping through that same folder—photos clipped to notebook paper, arrows and questions drawn in the margins.

Okay. Now’s the time.

He slipped into the hallway, voice low. “About earlier, I just—”

“Yo, Yamashiro!”

He flinched as two boys passed by, smirking. Takuya recognised them as some of Sugihara’s lackeys.

“That move you pulled on Sugihara yesterday—dude, that was wild. Did you see his face?”

“He’s still nursing that bruised ego. You gonna try out for the martial arts club now, or what?”

Takuya gave a forced laugh. “Yeah, not likely.”

When he turned back—Hitomi was already gone.

During lunch, he spotted her sitting near the windows in the classroom itself, eating alone with a book open beside her.

He made his way over slowly, tray in hand. Just act normal. Sit down, start with something small—

“Yamashiro,” their homeroom teacher called across the room, holding up a clipboard. “You're on cleaning duty today, remember?”

Takuya paused, shoulders sagging.

“But I—”

“No buts. Start with the windows after lunch.”

He looked back. Her friends had pulled up besides her, and they immediately started laughing and chatting away.

After school ended, Takuya slipped on his outdoor shoes and bolted for the front gates, bag slung over one shoulder.

He spotted Hitomi just ahead, already stepping toward the street.

“Sakuma!” he called out, half-breathless.

She turned, surprised, just as he skidded to a stop in front of her.

“Hey,” he said, breath catching.

“Hey,” she said back—an eyebrow lifting, concern flickering in her expression. “You, okay?” Then her gaze shifted.

“Takuya.”

He turned.

His father stood at the gates, arms folded, silhouette framed by the late afternoon sun.

“Thought we could go for a ride and talk,” Hiroshi said, gesturing to his parked motorcycle. Takuya recognised it from his battle with Exigen.

His eyes couldn’t help but flick between his father and Hitomi. He wished he could just deal with one thing at a time.

Hitomi was watching them both, her head tilted.

“I—” he started, but didn’t know who he was speaking to.

Hitomi gave a small, almost-smile. “It’s okay. You’ve got somewhere to be, right?”

“It’s not—” He winced. “I mean, yeah, just—”

She smiled at him again, playfully shoving his arm, “It’s okay. It’s not like we can’t talk on Monday, or whatever.”

“But I—”

She waved at him with a smile, then turned and walked off down the street. Takuya watched her go, until he couldn’t see her anymore. She didn’t look back.

“I’m sorry…” Hiroshi broke the silence, “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

Takuya didn’t respond. He didn’t turn around either.

“Was she…?”

“I think we’ve got some other things we need to talk about,” Takuya muttered, finally turning—eyes low, voice tight.

“Here,” Hiroshi said, tossing him the spare helmet.

Takuya caught it with one hand, sticking to it with his powers as he watched his father walk over to the bike.

“Get on”, he said, starting the engine, “I’ve got to show you something. We can talk there.”

Chapter Text

The city whipped past as Takuya gripped the sides of his father’s jacket, his thoughts louder than the engine. Exigen’s motorcycle. 

This crazy reveal that his father moonlit as a vigilante for who knows how long, then here he was, giving him a ride, like everything was normal. What exactly were they riding to? Takuya wanted to believe his father was still a good person - that he wasn't doing anything shady under the moniker of 'Exigen'. But what could he believe?

“We’re almost there now, I think,” Hiroshi said, trying to break the silence. “Had some stuff happen, and we had to relocate last night. I’m not quite used to the new route yet…”

Takuya didn’t know what to say. So, he said nothing. Just nodded.

They weaved through traffic, dipping into narrower backstreets, until finally the bike slowed and turned into a quiet alley wedged between an old soba shop and a shuttered dentist’s office. Hiroshi killed the engine and dismounted.

“This is it,” he said.

Takuya slid off the bike, eyes flicking up at the faded signage and the battered metal door. “For real?”

“Like I said, it was a rush to relocate,” Hiroshi muttered, already typing a code into a prisitne keypad surrounded by rust. “It’s bigger inside, but he’s still ‘redecorating’ the place.”

With a hiss of hydraulics, the door unlocked, revealing a narrow stairwell dimly lit by flickering LED strips. Takuya gave him a sideways look.

Hiroshi sighed, smiling, “Come on.” He then led the way, boots echoing against the steel.

“‘Oh, we had to quickly relocate our super-secret base, but we couldn’t forget the LED walkways! That would just mess up the vibe!’” Takuya mocked, following.

The air inside smelled like metal and ozone. At the bottom, another door slid open.

His father was right—it was massive, a whole underground space that opened up beneath the city. But was it possible to be impressed and disappointed at the same time?

The lab was big. Grandiose, even. But it was clearly a rush job. The walls were bare concrete, wires snaking like ivy across unfinished surfaces. Power cables hung from the ceiling like jungle vines, and parts of the floor were still cordoned off with crates and exposed machinery. But beneath the clutter and chaos, there was a strange cohesion—like the skeleton of something far more advanced slowly taking shape.

The glow of holographic monitors still cut through the gloom, casting dancing grids on the walls. Drones zipped overhead with a warble of static, dodging a half-installed vent with practiced ease. In one corner, an articulated mechanical arm twitched, still calibrating.

“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it about the old place,” Takuya said. “This sure is… something?”

“A work in progress,” Mishima declared from across the room, hunched over a cluttered workbench as he clacked away at a keyboard. “Don’t. Touch. Anything. Especially not the coffee pot. I've had it upgraded several times already. Violently.”

He spun on his stool, eyes red-rimmed and sharp behind his glasses. His lab coat was a battlefield of stains, and his hair looked like it had lost a fight with an electric fan.

Then his gaze landed on Takuya.

Hiroshi cleared his throat. “Son, this is—”

“No freaking way,” Takuya breathed, stumbling forward like his knees forgot how to work. “Doctor. Okinari. Mishima. The Doctor Okinari Mishima!”

Mishima blinked.

“You wrote Quirks: Catalyst or Consequence when you were—what, nineteen? And your theory on symbiotic energy harmonics? That changed everything about synthetic enhancement! You practically invented modern compact stabilization modules—Oh! And I saw Project LEX at the expo. The Living Exoshell! That thing was insane—adaptive locomotion, bio-mimetic response systems, hybrid carbon weave musculature—an efficient robotics movement system themed around arthropods!”

There was a silence as Takuya stopped for breath. Mishima tilted his head, blinking again.

Hiroshi folded his arms. “This is new.”

“And your lectures? I watched all of them. Twice! Your breakdown on neural-augmented control loops? That TEDx talk where you said nature doesn’t fail, we fail to learn from it? That hit so hard. Your whole approach to tech—it’s—it's not about overpowering the world; it’s about cooperating with it. Partnering with nature instead of trying to tame it…”

Mishima slowly smiled like a Cheshire cat, rising from his stool with a dramatic sweep of his coat. The glare of his glasses turned up toward Hiroshi, smug as ever.

“Oh? It’s about time I met someone with an appreciation for true genius! A pleasure to finally meet you, boy.”

Takuya’s mouth hung open. “Uh—the… it’s an honor, sir. A dream, even! Am I dreaming?”
He hadn’t prepared for this. He really hadn’t prepared for this. Meeting his hero? Mishima working with his vigilante dad?

Why was he working with his dad, though?

Wait. Oh no. Did he insult the lab earlier?
“Oh! The lab is awesome!” he blurted. “Love it. Totally see the vision now!”

Hiroshi cleared his throat again, sharper this time.

Takuya towards his father, whispering urgently, “You work together? Why? How? And why didn’t you tell me?”

Hiroshi shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already regretting this. “If I’d known you’d act like this, I don’t think I would’ve brought you.”

Behind them, Mishima downed the rest of his coffee like a shot, muttering something about “stimulant ratios” under his breath.

“I didn’t want to get you involved in all this, Taku,” Hiroshi added, softer now. “But judging by… last night, it seems you’re already pretty wrapped up in it.”

Takuya looked around again—at the wires, the drones, the eerie flicker of blue light on metal.
“What is all this?” he asked.

“Answer us this first,” Mishima interjected, approaching now with hands behind his back, posture oddly professor-like. He adjusted his glasses, squinting at Takuya as if inspecting a new prototype. “Your father tells me you were born quirkless. Yet you’ve demonstrated multiple superhuman traits after last night. How did this come about?”

“R-Right,” Takuya began, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly very aware of both their eyes on him. Mishima’s especially, like he was studying a new organism under a microscope..
“It was at the expo. A friend and I…well, we snuck into a restricted lab—”

“Sakuma?” Hiroshi’s voice was sharp, arms already crossed.

“Y-yeah. That’s her,” Takuya said.

The two men exchanged a look. Mishima gave a knowing little smile—like someone who’d solved the mystery halfway through act one and was just waiting for the reveal to catch up.

“She thought something was suspicious about the lab,” Takuya went on. “Her mom works there, so she had reason to dig. I… went along. Long story short, we were attacked by that Vulture-guy, and I got thrown into a glass tank with a spider in it. Didn’t notice it at the time, but on the way out—it must’ve bitten me. I passed out not long after. Then I woke up in the hospital.”

Silence hung for a second.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Hiroshi asked, his tone mixed with frustration and worry.

“I didn’t think of the spider,” Takuya admitted. “And I definitely didn’t want to say I’d broken into a restricted Iron Cross lab!”

Mishima’s head tilted, eyes narrowing behind his lenses. “Was there anything unusual about the spider? Are you certain it’s the source? No exposure to machinery, chemicals, anything else?”

“It had to be the spider. How else do you explain this?”

With no warning, Takuya flipped backward into the air. He landed on the ceiling in a crouch, clinging upside-down like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Mishima’s glasses caught the monitor light. “Fascinating.”

“I stick to walls. My senses are cranked to eleven. I’m stronger. Faster.” He dropped down lightly, barely making a sound as he landed. “And when we were in the lab, we saw a bunch of tanks with labels—‘MIRA’ this, ‘MIRA’ that. Some had dead things in them. One had a weird plant. One had the spider.”

He hesitated.

“There might’ve been more, deeper in the lab, but that’s when the Vulture attacked us.”

Mishima leaned back against his desk, arms folded, lips pursed. Hiroshi paced a step to the side.

“So,” Hiroshi murmured, “if that spider had been infused with the Mira formula, and it bit you—then the formula passed through it. Combined with its biology. Gave you powers through it. I hadn’t even considered using a living vector like that. That could explain why it’s worked—why your body accepted it.”

Mishima stepped forward slightly. “Have you experienced any side effects? Complications? Hallucinations? Mutations?”

Takuya shook his head. “Not really? I mean, I woke up in the hospital feeling awful—cramps, fever, weird dreams. Like… really weird. It lasted a few days. But then I started to feel—” He flexed a hand, still slightly unsure. “—great. Still get some cramps and twitches now and then, but they’ve gotten better over time. I haven’t even had any today.”

“The webs too?” Hiroshi asked, eyeing his son’s wrists.

“No, actually,” Takuya said. “That part’s all me. At first, I thought it was weird I didn’t shoot webs, but then I remembered that adhesive formula you were working on…”

Hiroshi blinked. “You... you finished it?”

Seeing his dad wasn’t mad, Takuya lit up. “Yeah! It was like… once I laid everything out, it clicked. Not just the tech—I built the shooters too.” He pulled them from his bag, slipping them on with practiced ease. “But the formula… it just made sense. Like I already knew what it needed.”

He raised an arm and fired a clean shot at the ceiling, then swung up, hanging upside down between Mishima and Hiroshi with a proud grin.

“Incredible,” Mishima chuckled, stepping in for a closer look. “The spider bite must’ve transferred more than physical traits. It possibly gave you instinctive knowledge—like how to make your own web formula.” He plucked gently at the webline, eyes gleaming behind his glasses. “And you combined that with your own ingenuity. Not bad, kid. Only someone like myself... or a Yamashiro... could’ve pulled this off.”

“Really?” Takuya beamed. “Thanks, Dr. Mishima—that means a lot coming from you.”

Hiroshi said nothing at first, arms crossed, watching the way his son lit up—grinning—as if he’d just been knighted. “Tch.” Hiroshi turned away, pretending to check a console. “You were asking what all this is, right?”

“Oh yeah!” Takuya dropped back to the ground. He looked between them, arms swung open. “How long have you guys been doing this? Why have you been doing this?” He paused, looking down at his hands, “And just what is this ‘MIRA'?”

Mishima glanced at Hiroshi. “Should I tell it, or do you want to do the honours?”

Hiroshi let out a long breath and moved to a nearby control panel, booting up a wall-sized holo-display. “MIRA is a project several of us were working on at Iron Cross Labs. I was its lead developer,” he said, gesturing as blueprints, data logs, and biological scans flashed across the screen. “It started as disaster relief tech. Then adaptive physiology. I thought I could cure everything—disease, disabilities, quirklessness...We named it after the word ‘Mirai’, using the kanji for future.”

“MIRA,” Mishima jumped in, “Mimetic Integration and Reprogramming Agent.”

A paused frame appeared: a silhouette of a human figure—warped and mutating.

Hiroshi continued, “Its earliest forms showed a lot of promise. Animal test subjects showed increases across all their statistics. But they…I…thought things were going too slowly. Wanted to speed things up.”

“On top of that, the company saw it beyond its medical use and healing. They saw the potential to overwrite biology. To remake people.” Mishima added. "Control the quirks, direct the course of evolution itself."

“Regardless, we went too far. We sped up development, and even though the results were unstable, we still moved onto human trials way too soon and…” Hiroshi trailed off into the memory.

Takuya tilted his head, "Dad?"

Hiroshi shook himself out of it. “Well, after that, I refused to work on it any longer. And so they fired me. Not only that but they dragged my name through the dirt. That's why I've been blacklisted for all other corporations.”

“Turns out Iron Cross continued to work on it without him though,” Mishima looked back at Takuya. “That thing that bit you? It was a test subject. They wanted to blend aggressive, instinctive survival traits into new forms. Artificial Quirks. Just imagine the kind of money Iron Cross could make if they could sell you whatever quirk you wanted? Or even custom order Heroes – or soldiers.”

Takuya’s eyes widened. “So… that spider—I—was part of an experiment?”

“You were never supposed to be,” Hiroshi said, voice low. “They don’t care about consent. They care about results.”

“But look at you—spider-boy,” Mishima grinned, gesturing with a mixture of awe and envy. “You were their first complete success. Brand new spider powers, without warping your mind or body. The others...weren’t so lucky.” He gestured back over to Hiroshi, “Your dad here, he’s fought a couple himself. The Vulture, of course, you're already familiar with. Just monsters - they can barely even be considered human anymore.”

He pressed a button, and a section of the far wall hissed open, revealing a reinforced tank filled with faint green fluid. Inside floated the unmistakable, distorted form of the Vulture—limbs contorted, breathing slow and shallow, wires and electrodes trailing from his back.

Takuya recoiled. “He’s here?!”

“Contained,” Mishima said, unfazed. “Barely alive. MIRA twisted his cells beyond what even his quirk could handle. But seeing how stable you are…” He stepped closer, intrigued. “You might be the key to reversing the process. Maybe even purging the MIRA strain from him entirely.”

Takuya looked between them, the pieces clicking into place.

“So, you need me here for my mutated DNA?” he said slowly. “To help you cure him?”

Mishima shrugged, “I don’t know what that’ll do yet, but it’s certainly a start. So don’t go thinking you’re just a blood sample. We’ll need much more from you.” He started clacking away at his keyboard again.

“But wait, hold on,” Takuya said, running a hand through his hair. “You had powers dad. Last night, when we fought. Wasn’t that MIRA?”

“Mishima took a sample from their labs, and I did my own work on it,” Hiroshi explained. “Stripped it down to the earlier forms, and built it up from there – the way things should’ve been done. But I just focused on the enhancements. It boosts my speed, strength, stamina, and reaction time – but it lasts roughly an hour, has turned out to be highly addictive often with bad withdrawal symptoms, and could possibly be doing other damages to my insides…It’s nothing like yours.”

Takuya smirked, “Yeah, any old excuse to explain how I beat ya, huh old man, ‘Exigen’?”

Hiroshi stood shocked for a moment, before bursting out in laughter. “I was going easy on you.”

“Yeah, I bet you just needed ‘Prep Time’ too!” Takuya chuckled, “Also, Exigen? What’s with that?”

“It’s a cool name!” Hiroshi said, wiping a tear from his eye, “I took this on to find a way to stop them. I had to do something. I created this thing, and they were carrying on my work. Could you imagine the carnage if this became a drug on the streets?”

“Like that Trigger stuff?”

“Worse. If they get it working right; instant superpowers, with minds that know how to use them.”

Takuya’s face became more serious again. “Does Mom know?”

“No,” Hiroshi said, solemnly. “It’s just me and Oki, here. I wish I could’ve told you all. I mean, your sister…Shinko has to work for those people.”

Takuya’s eyes widened, “…oh, no…”

“If she got involved, or worse – if she became another one of their tests…” He shook his head, “I don’t want her there, but if I told her, she’d only become a target.” His voice had lost its edge—tired now, almost hollow. “And you, Taku. You’re fifteen. You were supposed to live a normal life. Not get dragged into the mess I made.”

Takuya remained silent for a moment.

He glanced back at the tank—at what he could’ve become.

He swallowed hard. “...I get it now,” he muttered. The image of him, as some grotesque spidery thing, floating in that tank in his place. “This thing they made...it could ruin lives.”

He looked at Hiroshi. “So if I can help stop that...”

A drone floated over, clamped onto his arm, and withdrew a sample. Takuya jumped at the suddenness, though it didn’t hurt. The drone zipped back to Mishima, who loaded it into the scanner.

“This’ll take time,” Mishima said. “But with luck, it might help reverse the worst of the MIRA strain. Maybe even give us something solid to use against Iron Cross.”

Hiroshi turned to Takuya, “Alright. If you’re serious about helping, we’ll need to be careful. No drawing attention. No solo stunts. But if we start training—combat, stealth, patrols—you could be ready for the Hero Course by the time U.A. rolls around.”

“Wait,” he said. “Hero Course?”

Hiroshi nodded. “You’ve got real power now. With the right training, you could really start to make a difference.”

Takuya stepped back. “That’s not what I signed up for.”

The words came out sharper than he meant. Hiroshi looked puzzled.

Takuya took a breath and tried again. “I’ve been aiming for the Support Course. That’s the plan. Helping people my way—through tech, through building things. That’s who I am. That’s why I built these.” He gestured to his web-shooters. “I figured they'd help me crush the entrance exam.”

“I agreed to help with the research,” Takuya said carefully, “but the rest of it? This cape stuff? That’s not really me.”

“What do you mean?” Hiroshi said, trying to smile. “I thought you always wanted to be a hero. You used to dress up like All—”

“Yeah, when I was five,” Takuya shrugged. “What kid didn’t? But then I got told I would never have a quirk, and—”

“But now you do.”

“I’ve grown up since then! I want to be a scientist. A real hero, like Dr. Mishima, and—and you...”

"No-one's saying you can't still do those that. I do...for the most part."

"Yeah, but you're never around - I guess now I see why!" Takuya started to pace back and forth, the frustration in his voice getting harder to hold back. "You work on this Iron Cross case, you work, then you go 'fight crime', and then you try and fit family time into that. You can't do everything dad. There's enough heroes out there already, why do you need to do it? Why do they need Exigen? Why would they need me?"

Hiroshi’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t think people need saving?”

“That’s not what I—”

“So what were you doing out there last night? With the Vulture?”

“That was a fluke!” Takuya threw up his hands. “I wasn’t playing hero. I was messing around. I got caught in a fight I didn’t start. You’re really asking me to make a habit of that?”

“But Taku—”

“You think just because I’ve got powers now, I want to join the circus? What—slap on a name, strike poses, start selling soda on a billboard?”

He didn’t want to yell. He really didn’t. But everything was piling up. Iron Cross is evil? He was part of an experiment, caused by his dad? Now there's some kind of genetic-corporate war coming, and he has to be a part of it whether he wants to or not?

The old memory stung—being laughed at for being quirkless. The bullying. Always being told he’d never be a hero. He thought he left that all behind—he was above it all now.
Now suddenly he had to be one?

Hiroshi’s face tightened. “You think I wanted that life? This isn’t about fame. It’s about responsibility. I created MIRA. That was my ‘quirk'. And now people are suffering because of it. I have to stop it. I have to. And whilst I'm out there, trying to stop this war from happening, if I see someone in trouble, I help them too. If I can help them, I have to do it.”

“Here we go…” Mishima muttered, “Let it go, Hiroshi. The kid doesn’t want any part of that…”

Takuya’s voice rose. “It’s not my fault. So why am I supposed to risk my life to clean it up?”
He jabbed a finger toward the tank. “I hate this hero society. Pro heroes? There's already too many of them! It's all flash and clout. Fake! They only help when the cameras are rolling. You can't make any real difference like that!”

"To that one person, you make a difference, Taku," Hiroshi’s voice dropped. “There might be too may. But even so, they can't be everywhere. When I’m Exigen, I am there—even when no other hero is. I’ve helped people who would’ve been overlooked."

Takuya stopped pacing, looking down at the floor.

Hiroshi continued, "You’re right, there are fakes out there. But you can always be something better, you can make a real difference." He walked over to his son, gently placing his hands on his shoulders. "What you have is more than a quirk - you were their only success. But it's not just that, son." He tapped a finger to Takuya's head, brushing past the fringe, "You have a brilliant mind," then he tapped the core of his chest, "and a strong heart." He stood back, "I've always believed you would be this world's hero. Long before the spider bite. The spider...it's just one more tool, mixed into this already great power of yours. And with Great Power, there comes Great Responsibility.”

Mishima groaned, shaking his head.

“That’s great, Dad. A real cool mantra.”  He pushed himself away. “You're right about one thing: my power, has always been this,” he tapped his head. “The spider stuff? It's cool. Great for when I need to clear my head or need a thrill or whatever. But it’s not me. Not who I want to be. I can give you my DNA, I can help with the science, with fixing what you broke—heck, I can even run little errands after school with a web-swinging express service. But I am not your second chance.”

A long silence.

“…I never asked you to be,” Hiroshi said.

“Right. You just assumed I would. And then made that whole speech to get me to stand in line with you like a good soldier.” He grabbed his bag, slipping out his makeshift mask to put on. “It’s so I don’t get recognised outside,” he said before pushing past. “I’ll send the data for the web fluid if you want it. But I’m not here to live your life. I already have my own.” He turned towards the exit, aiming towards the ceiling.

“Takuya…”

“Enjoy your war.” He shot a line and was gone.

The shutter slammed closed behind him.

The lab fell silent.

Mishima let out a slow breath. “You had to give him the damn line, didn’t you?”

Hiroshi didn’t respond. He continued to stare off where Takuya had left.

Mishima shook his head. “He’s just a kid, Hiroshi. A stubborn, brilliant kid. Worse, a teenager. You might be asking too much of him. I've never known anyone as idealistic as you. You really think he’d choose that over his own future?”

Hiroshi stared at the shutter for a long moment.

“He’s got my fire,” he murmured. “But none of my faith. I'd forgotten the pressure this world puts on them, maybe I did...too much?”

Mishima looked over his shoulder at his friend for a moment. “I see myself in him, a little. I’ve never loved hero society either—but I get it. Doesn’t mean everyone with power is meant to put on a cape. I say, let him go the way he wants – not like our inventions weren’t able to do good in the past. Before all this.” He went back to clacking away.

“I never wanted him in this fight,” Hiroshi said quietly. “But I don’t know how to keep him out of it anymore.”

“You can’t. You never could. You just wanted to believe you could buy him time.” He stopped typing for a moment, letting the silence sit.

Finally he stood up, grabbing the coffee pot. “Trust me, Hiroshi. The moment that spider bit him—hell, maybe even before that—he was already in this. And if not? It’ll still find him. That’s how this world works. But at least he knows, and...” He patted a hand on Hiroshi’s shoulder, "he's got a good dad watching his back regardless." Then, he walked into the dark side of the lab.

Meanwhile, across the city: Iron Cross Tower – Executive Lab 07

The lab was quiet. Dimly lit. Stainless steel counters stretched in long, sterile lines beneath overhead lights, humming faintly. Thick reinforced glass walls enclosed sealed pods and server racks, quietly blinking. The room was locked far above the rest of the building. From here, the city’s nightscape stretched out in silence—its streets a distant web of lights, miles below.

Dr. Saeko Sakuma stood alone at the main console, labcoat sleeves rolled up, her eyes tracking a model on the central display. Side-by-side diagrams of a subject’s muscular structure before and after MIRA version 5 exposure. Tendons bulged. Bones shifted. Neural activity flared. Far more stable than the last batch with the Molten Man and the Pirahna.

She tapped a key, switching to the next set—cell regeneration rates, cortisol levels, synaptic responsiveness. The results were better than expected. It was already leaving Yamashiro’s serum in the dust.

Of course, these were only simulations. But unlike Sector 9’s incident; there were no more subjects to test it on.

She sat back in her chair, leaning back with arms folded, contemplative.

“How’s it coming, Doctor?” Director Akayama stepped behind her, his reflection warped in the glass. His voice was calm, almost serene.

He was tall and sharply dressed—immaculate suit, obsidian-black with deep emerald lining at the cuffs, perfectly fitted to a frame that moved like coiled steel beneath fabric. His face was angular, with cheekbones like cut glass and short, swept-back hair that shimmered with silver at the temples. Not a wrinkle out of place. Not a hint of wasted motion.

Dr Sakuma spoke without turning, “Dr. Yamashiro’s formula has pushed our own leaps and bounds. Retrieving it through the Chameleon was a masterstroke, as always.”

“Spare no expense when it comes to building the future. He was worth every yen.” He stepped into the soft blue light, hands behind his back. Though his gaze was on the city lights, rather than Sakuma’s monitors.

“It’s stable,” Sakuma continued, “A far cry from our previous test groups, at least. Though not without sacrifice. It’s certainly far from finished. No artificial quirks, no phenotype manipulation. Enhancements in strength, speed, and focus—but still only stable for about an hour, even with our improvements. It’s barely any better than high quality Trigger at this stage, and you’re calling it a success?”

“It’s a start,” Akayama smiled. “The road to ultimate power requires patience; you remember the Trigger incidents in Naruhata, doctor? Trigger had the potential, already, to change this world. If what we have right now improves on that, and remains more stable? That’s marketable. Distributable.”

“To whom? Corporate investors?”

“Not yet. First, we give it to people who’ll put it through its paces.” He pulled out his phone, which summoned a holographic map of Tokyo in front of him. Blinking red zones appeared. "Low-level quirk gangs. Unsanctioned fighters. Black market arenas. Anyone with the desperation to say yes. We release controlled batches—microdoses—and sit back to watch."

“To criminals?”

“I want to observe it in the wild, Doctor. A taste of the new order.” He turned to her, his eyes sharp beneath the calm. “You know as well as I do that simulations only go so far. We need aggression. Risk. Real fights. Let it filter into the underground—spread through the gutters. If they survive, we’ll have enough combat data to refine the artificial quirk layer. If they don’t—well, we didn’t give it to them, did we?”

“We do need new test subjects, but to give villains access to it now; isn’t that a little risky for our operations sir?”

“It’s as you said. It’s only slightly more potent than Trigger; the heroes will still be able to deal with it, as we gather our own valuable data,” he gazed back over the city. “We’ll have our shadow assets seed it through the underworld. Maybe give that Giran gentleman a call.”

“You think distance will make it clean?”

“We’ll be invisible.” He tapped a few prompts on the holo-map as it disappeared. The tower’s power grid blinked in time with it—like a heartbeat. A notification popped up on Sakuma’s monitor—‘Distribution Protocol: MIRA-V5_Phase 1’. “No traceable components. No branding. Anyone gets caught? Just another Trigger knockoff.”

Sakuma stared at the display for a moment. “After all this time…” her lips quivered into a smile. “…it’s truly becoming a reality. And all thanks to Dr. Yamashiro’s foundation.”

Akayama inhaled a smile, like he was enjoying a fine wine. A faint hiss of steam coiled from his collar—residual output from his quirk, barely suppressed beneath tailored fabric. He didn’t notice, or didn’t care. “Poetry,” he murmured. He turned to look at her, still studying the monitor. “I trust you’re not hesitating now?”

“No, sir. I’m…calculating.” She stared back at the screen for another beat. “I’ll run final diagnostics. If it holds under stress conditions, I’ll authorize deployment. But I want full readouts on every test subject. Live monitoring. No improvisation.”

“Naturally. See to it, Doctor. I want to evolve humanity,” He turned to walk away, steam and smoke wafting behind him. “This city—this society of quirks and pride—needs to be reminded of what true power is."

“Sir, on Dr. Yamashiro,” Sakuma spun around on her chair as Akayama reached the exit. “What is your stance?”

He took a slow, deliberate breath—controlled, and with a predatory grin. Like a dragon sizing up his next meal. “We’ve gotten all we need. Send him our retirement package.” He chuckled once, then left.

Sakuma blinked, her fingers hovering just above the console for a breath too long.

In that moment, her phone buzzed.

A name lit the screen—Hitomi.

She stared at it for a long second. Then, picked up.

“Hitomi,” she answered.

“Hi, Mom,” came the reply. “Didn’t think you’d pick up.”

Saeko glanced at the time on her monitor. “It’s late. I assumed it was important.”

“Well, actually…” There was almost a shrug in her voice. “I just… wanted to check in. How’s it going?”

“Fine,” Saeko said, voice measured. “Your father said you’ve been keeping busy?”

“Yeah, well. School. Entrance exams. You know.”

“I take it you’ve continued to excel in your grades?”

“Yes. Of course.”

A pause. Then, with a quieter breath:

“Also, uh… random question. Does ‘MIRA’ mean anything to you?”

Saeko’s fingers froze mid-air above the monitor.

“…and where did you hear that?”

“I know you told me to stop digging. But I… I checked out the site at the tower again. Just a little.”

Her voice stayed casual, but her posture was sharp. Listening for the gaps.

“That’s classified research,” Saeko said evenly. “You shouldn’t be asking about it.”

“So it is real,” Hitomi said quietly.

“I didn’t confirm that.”

“You didn’t deny it either.”

“Hey—listen to me, young lady. This is serious.” Saeko exhaled, eyes narrowing toward the blackened lab glass. “This isn’t some school report you can poke at. I warned you: Iron Cross is not your playground.”

“Then tell me the truth,” Hitomi pushed, her voice still soft but insistent. “One truth. Something. Anything.”

A long silence.

“…It’s a medical project,” Saeko said at last. “Still under development. That’s all I’ll say.”

“Really? Then what were those test tubes and the—”

“Hitomi,” Saeko snapped, “are you using your quirk to trespass in Iron Cross facilities?!”

“Only a little bit,” Hitomi replied, innocently. “Just once. And no one saw me!”

“You—” Saeko pinched the bridge of her nose. “We’ve talked about this. Is this what someone aiming for the Hero Course at U.A. should be doing?”

“I’m kidding, of course…”

There was a pause. Then softer:

“I just wanted to hear your voice, really. I miss you. And Dad… he’s been buried in work too. Ever since…" She paused again. "I’m sorry.”

That cracked something in Saeko. Just slightly. “…you should get some rest. It's important at your age.”

“Yeah, probably. But I figured I’d call before you change the world and get too busy to answer.”

Saeko looked at the name still glowing on her phone. “…get some rest.”

“You too, Mom.”

She didn’t hang up right away.

Then: click.

She lowered the phone. The alert on her monitor—‘MIRA-V5_Phase 1: ACTIVE’—still blinked.

Hitomi lowered her phone.
She was standing in the lobby of Iron Cross Tower.

A security guard approached. “Are you lost, miss?”

She smiled, just slightly.

“Ah, sorry~. I think I took a wrong turn somewhere. I’ll be going now.”

She glanced up, once, toward the dark escalators.

Then she turned and left.

Chapter Text

The buzzing of the fluorescent lights was louder than it should’ve been. Aizawa rubbed the bridge of his nose, one eye squinting at the blurry report.

The Vulture, and the other two freaks from the lab a few nights ago, “Piranha” and “Molten Man.”  No real names. No records. Just monsters with no past. A mess of teeth and noise.

“Where are you guys coming from…?” he murmured, flicking through more files. This was giving him a headache.

“Aizawa?”

Aizawa turned to see a broad-shouldered man, walking up towards his desk. He paid no attention to the furniture around him, simply phasing through them like a shimmering mirage as he walked.

“Detective Sakuma.”

“Haven’t seen you since the Expo incident,” the detective said with a tired grin. “What brings you in?”

“Paperwork.” Aizawa sighed, going back to the file stack.

Sakuma chuckled. “Not exactly the best way to spend a Friday night. Any luck finding Exigen?”

“It’s never simple,” Aizawa clicked open a new file. He turned the monitor toward Sakuma, pulling up grainy security footage—frames frozen on the Piranha and the Molten Man during the lab incident. “These two. Look familiar to you?”

Juzo studied them for a moment. “No, can’t say they do, sorry.”

“I figured.” Aizawa leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing at the screen.

“There’s been a lot of those lately. The Vulture. Your two guys. We’ve even had a few reports of a Lizard-monster in the sewers back in November. Nothing solid since—just shadows and rumours.”

“I don’t like the pattern,” Aizawa said, opening another file. “Every time monsters like this show up, it’s tied to underground activity—illegal quirk meds, black market tech.”
He played old surveillance footage—an eel-quirk villain unleashing sparks before shorting out the power grid in Naruhata.

He remembered that blackout. The web of criminal deals beneath it all. Was it happening again?

“Are they the same?” Juzo asked.

Aizawa zoomed in on a freeze-frame, comparing the footage to shots of the Vulture and Piranha.

“Similar to Trigger,” he said, rubbing his temple. “But something’s different. The effects are more… mutative. Like the changes to their bodies are more refined to what we've seen.”

Juzo sighed. “Wish I could help, but I’ve got my hands full with these missing persons cases. Two more just dropped on my desk this week.”

“You’re seeing a lot of missing people cases?”

“Yeah, for a while now,” Juzo muttered, thumbing through a manila folder. “They’ve gotta be connected—same vanishing act, every time. No signs of a struggle. Just gone – completely off the grid.” He flicked up a file, “Aimi Morohoshi—quirkless marine biologist, 28. Went missing around Musutafu Tech.” He flicked up another file, “Yuji Takuto, 24. His quirk caused neural degradation—was on some kind of experimental treatment. Intern at Iron Cross. They filed the report—thought he went missing during the Expo attack.”

Aizawa’s gaze sharpened. “Both of them had quirk-related issues?”

“You caught that too, huh?”

“Could be a pattern.” Aizawa tapped the edge of the monitor. “Have you found any of the others?”

“No,” Juzo sighed. “Not one turned up.”

“Any more with quirk problems? Quirkless, mutations, instabilities?”

“Not all of them; but even the ones that didn’t had some other health issue.” He flicked through the file, dropping the folder on the desk as he sifted. “Ah, this guy. Keiji Saito. 42. Former pro hero, calling himself Gyro; his Quirk used microscopic gyroscopes in his arms to control momentum. That was until a villain fight had his arms removed…”

“When was he reported missing?”

“…November.” He looked at Aizawa, wide-eyed. Then he shook his head, “No, wait, the Lizard reports said he had his arms.”

“But some species can regrow lost limbs. Maybe someone’s trying to recreate that as a quirk.” Aizawa leaned back in his seat again. “You said no signs of struggle. So either someone covered their tracks extremely well... or they left willingly.”

“So you think it’s a group of good-hearted, underground scientists, who’s experiments just keep going wrong?”

“Who knows.” Aizawa folded his arms. “There’s that. Or maybe, if someone wanted to test something that interacts with quirks—serums, enhancers, mutagens—they’d want test subjects whose biology was already compromised. They're heroes if successful, but if not? Easier to blame the quirk.”

Juzo frowned. “So you think Ms Morohoshi and Mr Takuto are—”

“That, or they were made from them.”

“I hate that this makes sense.” Juzo scooped up the files, back into the folder, slowly closing it. “So what now? Seems our missions are one and the same.”

“We can track these monsters all we want,” Aizawa muttered, “but we’re no closer to who’s creating them—or how to stop them. The one lead I have is him.”

Juzo looked at the monitor. “Exigen?”

“He was at the lab. He knew things—more than he said. But I couldn’t get anything out of him before he disappeared.”

“Can you find him again?”

Aizawa leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “I’ve been thinking about that.” He rolled his chair toward the monitor and tapped a few keys, pulling up a map of Musutafu’s industrial outskirts.
“He avoids surveillance, but he’s drawn to scientific activity—illicit stuff. Abandoned facilities. Shady R&D. If he’s still out there trying to stop this, he’ll hit another lab site soon.”

“Set a trap?”

“No. We wait,” Aizawa said. “Stake out the most likely target. No ambush. No backup. Just a conversation.”

"Great. Throw stuff at the wall, and see what sticks..."

"The only option we've got for now, considering how well he's avoided everyone so far." Aizawa adjusted his scarf. "Besides, he'll definitely show eventually. From what I could tell from that night; that's the kind of person he is."

“So, you think he’ll talk?”

“He stayed behind to hold off those creatures. He didn’t have to. That’s not a villain move. He’s a vigilante—but I don’t think he’s our enemy.”

Juzo sighed, standing up. “Alright. Let me know once you narrow it down. I’ll keep digging on the missing persons angle.”

“Will do.”

Juzo pulled out his phone, thumbing a number on speed dial as he walked toward the station’s back hall.

Line busy.

“Hitomi, it’s Dad. Just checking in. Working late again. Study hard, okay?”

Leaving the message, he lowered the phone with a small frown.

“Huh.” He slipped it back into his pocket and headed for the elevator. “I’ll try again later.”

Hiroshi was on automatic as he rode through the city streets, weaving through the late-night traffic, lost in his thoughts.

Nicely handled there, Hiroshi. Really striking out with the kids; Shinko’s barely spoken to me since the hospital, and now Taku’s looking to join that club too.
It’s not like I’m trying to be the bad guy. Shinko works for a dangerous corporation that’s not above experimenting on their own employees, and Takuya’s suddenly developed new powers he barely knows how to use and also happen to be highly valuable to that same company – making him a target.

A good father would’ve done the things I’ve done to protect them.

So why don’t I feel like one?

Have I done it for them, or is it really my need to be right? Or thinking I could speed up some kind of redemption I’m—

Hiroshi skidded to a halt, almost dropping off his bike as he nearly ran a red light.

He exhaled as he straightened himself again.

Kiri was right. I’ve been away from the family too long. Focused on Iron Cross. Focused on Iron Cross. And when I’m not, I tell myself work—providing—is enough. But that just means they’ve only seen me when I need something, or to give them a lecture. That’s not what a father should be.
A family day’s not going to cut it. I think we need a whole vacation – to get away from all this.

The light turned green.

Maybe I could book somewhere in—

“I’m the greatest mind the world has ever known!” a voice called out over his comms.

“Oki?!” Hiroshi jerked his bike, startled and almost swerving.

“I hope you’re grateful for the brain you have the privilege of working alongside. The Chameleon was cunning—I’ll give him that. Wiped everything clean, down to the Sector 9 data we stole. But alas, he wasn’t cunning enough for Doctor Okinari Mishima!”

Hiroshi rolled his eyes behind the visor, “What are you talking about?”

“He didn’t think to check for any contingencies I left in our data packets,” he started laughing, almost maniacally. “And the imbeciles have already run my code!”

“Could you start from the beginning?”

“The Chameleon stole our Mira files and simulations in his little heist, and it turns out our dear friends at Iron Cross—so eager to gloat and dissect it—ran the files through their internal simulation systems. Including my DNA integrity protocols. And guess what those contain?”

“Let me guess—something nasty?”

“Something beautiful. A recursive checksum encoded with a retrograde tracer I wrote years ago—just in case someone ever got greedy. They fed it into their core modeling suite… which means now I can see where it went. And like the great city of Troy, the illustrious Iron Cross Laboratories will soon crumble by my hand!”

“You found their servers?”

There was a long pause after that. Followed by a “Hm…” from Mishima.

“Hm?" Hiroshi exclaimed. "After all that gloating?”

“They—they’ve brought the Trojan Horse through their gates,” Mishima said hastily. “I’m just… merely… waiting, yes—waiting for the most strategically opportune place to… unleash the full might of our… metaphorical army. Naturally.”

He’s stalling. Hiroshi could hear furious clacking on the other side, “There’s too many servers to look through, isn’t there?”

“Hundreds," Mishima groaned. "Shadow IPs. Duplicates. Firewalls so thick I’d need a week and a quantum supercomputer just to peek at what coffee brand they drink...”

“So, Iron Cross’ Troy is looking a little less penetrable than expected. What now?” Hiroshi pulled his bike up to the apartment complex.

“Don’t rush genius. I’m narrowing it down. Perhaps if I run correlation scans with different genomes we’ve studied—ones tied to recent Mira mutations. Yours? No. What haven’t we—” Mishima paused for a beat. “Wait. The Vulture. We’ve got him in stasis right here. If I get a direct match, we’ll know which server originally created him. That node? That’s our golden goose.”

“Didn’t realize we were doing poultry metaphors now.” Hiroshi removed his helmet, fixing his hair.

“I’m flexible. You don’t become a pioneer of biological systems and information warfare without a little linguistic flair.” Mishima’s voice became serious again. “Give me a few hours. I’ll have an update by then.”

Hiroshi sighed, turning to look up at his apartment. The light from their living room window shone down to the space next to him.

As he climbed the stairs up to the apartment door, he was thinking about how to smooth things over with Takuya. He probably didn’t want to speak to him again, not tonight at least. He could try again in the morning. For now, he’d probably need to come up with an explanation for Kiri as to why they had an argument.

The door unlocked with a soft click. Hiroshi stepped inside, slipping his boots off with a sigh. He barely had time to brush his hair back when—

“Kiri?”

She stood in the middle of the living room, phone clutched tight in both hands, eyes rimmed red. He rushed over, holding her by her elbows.

“Hiroshi,” she said, her voice brittle with worry. “Is Takuya with you?”

He blinked. “What? No—he stormed away after we had an argument. I figured he’d come straight home.”

Kiri’s lips trembled. “He hasn’t. I’ve been calling him for hours. It keeps going straight to voicemail. He never came back!” She grabbed his sleeve like a lifeline. “Hiroshi it’s almost midnight! I just—he’s never done this before! What if something happened?! What if he was kidnapped, or a villain—?”

“Hey, hey,” Hiroshi said gently, steadying her by the shoulders. “Take a breath. We don’t jump to that.”

Her voice rose. “I am jumping to that! Because our son is missing and there’s been so many monster villains on the news lately, and—and—"

He led her over to the couch, guiding her down. “You know Takuya. He’s stubborn, like me. He’s going through a lot with Entrance Exams coming up and growing up. He probably just needed to cool off.”

Kiri sniffed, “But he’s always been so frail…”

If you only knew, Hiroshi thought.

“What if something did happen? What if—”

“Kiri,” he cut in, quieter this time. “He’ll be fine. He’s smarter than that – he won’t put himself anywhere he could get attacked like that.”

She stared at him, eyes glassy. “You’re sure he’s okay?”

He hesitated, but held her hands with a warm smile. “I’ve got a few places he could be that I’ll check out. If I don’t find him, we give him tonight.”

“But—”

“If we called the police every time a teenager stormed out, they'd never get anything done. But if we don’t hear anything by morning—we call everyone. We search every inch of this city. I’ll drag out All Might if I have to.”

Kiri gave a shaky nod, eyes still locked on the phone.

“Keep in touch with Shinko. Tell her to keep trying his phone too – it’s probably just out of charge. If I find him, I’ll call you—”

“The second you find him!”

“Of course, I promise.” Hiroshi stood up, his hand still holding hers. “We’ll find him. But right now—you need to rest.”

Hiroshi stepped back outside into the cold, his eyes locked onto his bike. C’mon Taku, why’d you have to worry your mother like that?

He leapt onto his bike, tapping his comms as he pulled on his helmet and started the engine.

“Oki, I need your eyes; Tak—”

“I was just about to call you, we’ve got a situation.”

Hiroshi froze. “What do you mean?”

“By cross-referencing our Vulture’s genome to the server index, I’ve found some nodes running live Mira simulations. We’ve got our server.”

“Okay, so?”

“That was the good news. However, accessing that node immediately set off alarms in their AI systems, which have begun an auto-purge cycle to erase and migrate the project. We’ve got about 24 hours, at best, before we’re locked out, and my backdoor is patched up completely.”

24 hours? Hiroshi thought, looking back up to his apartment’s window, where his wife was likely anxiously texting or calling their daughter for updates on Takuya.

“So, what exactly are you saying? What do we need to do?”

“I'm saying our timeline’s been moved up. We’ve gotta act quickly. The servers are likely air-gapped now to stop anyone from accessing from outside; we’ll need to physically infiltrate the place and upload an extraction payload. We need to start planning now.”

“Oki, now really isn’t the time. My son hasn’t come home.”

“He’s got the proportionate speed and strength of a spider! What’s one night—”

“I’m going to let that slide because you’re panicking,” Hiroshi gritted his teeth. “Kiri’s in hysterics, Oki. I have to at least look.”

“Sorry," Mishima said, exhaling with a calmer tone. "You’re right. We’ve still got time.”

“Thank you. Can I leave you with figuring out the plan until then? Also if you could spare a few drones around the city…”

“Of course. I’ll figure something out. Hope it all goes well with your kid. I’m sure he’s fine, like I said...but I imagine he's going through it.”

“Thanks, Oki. I’ll keep in touch.”

“Just remember. Tomorrow night is our last chance.”

Takuya soared between buildings, the web-line hissing behind him as it clung to a lamppost with a sharp thwip. His landing was a little smoother this time—less crashing, more crouching. He was getting the hang of it.

I didn’t ask for this.

He launched again, crossing the skyline with a growing rhythm, the night wind biting at his jacket.

One spider bite and suddenly everyone expects me to slap on spandex and fix their problems. ‘With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility’? No offense, Dad, but that’s the kind of thing a washed-up hero says when they’re trying to pass the guilt to someone else.

He twisted mid-air, flipped once, then clung upside down to the underside of a billboard.

If I’ve got any responsibility, it’s to not waste what I’m good at. I’ve got a brain, not a thirst for applause. Let the hero-course meatheads run around doing photo ops and sponsorships. I build things. I solve things. I fix the messes they leave behind.
That’s what I’m good at! It’s what I love – what I want to do.

He dropped off the sign and landed on the roof of an old office block with a light roll. The skyline glittered around him, stars hidden by city glow. He pulled off his makeshift mask and stuffed it into his bag.

He sat near the edge, legs dangling over the side. Silence. Just the hum of power lines and a distant siren or two. He caught sight of the time on building’s clock.

“Shoot, is that really the time?” He rummaged through his pocket for his phone. The screen wouldn’t turn on. “Dead.”

He looked down to the streets below.

“Still a lot of people out… well, it is Friday night.”

He continued to watch them. Groups of friends. Business people. A few of them drunk, friends supporting them into taxis. Just people living their lives.

I bet Mom’s tried calling a bunch. She’s probably panicking right now.
Ugh, maybe I went too far…

He turned his head in the direction of home.

Dad’s probably calmed her down.
Still, I should head back.

Ugh! But I just can’t!

He leaned back on his hands and stared up at the hazy sky.

I just wanted to help. Run some tests. Contribute!
Not become my father’s legacy project. I’m not some fantasy do-over…

Maybe I should stay at a friend’s place. Charge my phone, call Mom in the morning and tell her my phone was dead so I couldn’t call?

Yeah right, you don’t have any friends…

Though there’s Sakuma…

His face turned bright red. He shook his head violently to dismiss the thought.

Like I could do that!
Besides, I don’t even know if we are friends right now.

Takuya, when did your life become such a drama series?
Maybe I should license the rights?

A screech of tires shattered the quiet.

Takuya sat bolt upright, eyes snapping to the intersection below as a battered white van skidded across the lanes—horns blaring, pedestrians scattering.

“What the—” he muttered, crouching at the rooftop’s edge.

The van rammed through the gate of an old warehouse, metal crashing and sparks flying. Four masked figures leapt out, shouting commands as one started cutting into the lock with what looked like a plasma torch.

“Oh crap,” Takuya whispered. “This is an actual crime. I’m witnessing a real crime. Right now. What do I do?”

People below were already pulling out their phones. A few ducked behind parked cars.

A mechanical clang echoed down the street as something large rolled into view—flashing lights and steam jets hissing like a carnival ride.

Backdraft burst onto the scene atop his rescue hover-platform: a wide, squat vehicle mounted with stabilizer arms, safety railings, and oversized water tanks sloshing with pressure.

“Oh nevermind,” Takuya said, perched on the ledge, “the clowns have arrived.”

He wore what could only be described as a firefighter’s uniform reimagined by a stage magician—bright red and yellow plating over fire-retardant cloth, shoulders adorned with rotating valves, a wide-brimmed helmet more ceremonial than practical, and goggles that gleamed like oversized bug eyes.

Takuya squinted from above.
As if you would actually leave the house like that? He looks like a walking boiler room.

Backdraft’s platform skidded to a halt between the panicking civilians and the warehouse. Steam curled from the nozzles on his arms.

“This is your only warning!” he boomed. “Step away from the building! I will not hesitate to douse you!”

The gang—four of them, all in cheap street gear with hastily strapped-on armor—barely paused. One of them leveled a stolen rifle.

PEW!
A lance of blue energy fired.

Backdraft raised his gauntlet in a practiced move.
SSSSSSHHHHH—KSSH!
A high-pressure water jet intercepted the blast midair, scattering it into harmless sparks.

But the impact knocked Backdraft clean off his hovercraft, sending him sprawling into a pile of road cones. One of his shoulder valves popped off and spun in circles like a bottlecap.

“Ughh…” he groaned, sitting up.

Takuya winced.
Isn't he a rescue hero? What’s he doing here?
I guess the fire department’s close by...

But Backdraft got to his feet.

Instead of going after the crooks, he pivoted to the civilians, who had started pulling out their phones or retreating to side streets.

“Everyone, please remain calm! Evacuate to the designated emergency zones! Building integrity could be compromised!”

But more civilians gathered instead to watch, despite the danger.

Backdraft shot foam onto the base of the warehouse wall to stop fire spread, then raised a barricade from the side of his hovercraft to create cover for civilians.

Another thug fired, and Backdraft ducked behind the barricade, shielding a couple who were still too stunned to move. His shoulder-mounted mist valve hissed again as he rolled them toward safety.

Then, a second blast detonated against the hovercraft, blowing it sideways in a shrapnel-laced crash.

Backdraft stumbled, helmet dented, breathing hard. “You boys… are making this very difficult!”

Takuya crouched on the rooftop, watching it all.

And that’s when the real spectacle began.

A voice shouted from above:

“Tacticool, deploy!”

Three figures leapt down dramatically from a parked rooftop van—posing mid-air before hitting the pavement with a clumsy superhero landing.

“Villains beware!”
“The impact of justice is inbound—”
“Because we are here!”

They switched to a new pose with each word.

“Good grief…” Takuya mumbled.

First up—

“Name’s Recoil!” shouted a grinning man in tight goggles and a red-and-black jumpsuit. “You hit me? I bounce back harder!”

He immediately charged the stocky thug—who didn’t even flinch. With a casual flick of his wrist, a shockwave erupted from his palm and sent Recoil flying like a rubber bullet—into a lamppost, then a dumpster, then clean through the side of a parked van with a metallic BOINK!

He ain’t bouncing back from that anytime soon.

Second hero:
“Stand back, civilians!” cried a wiry man with aluminium bracelets and a flowing cape made of fridge magnets. “MagNet’s got this!”

He struck a pose, arms raised. A few coins from nearby wallets shivered in the air and stuck to his hand.

Unfortunately, so did Recoil’s utility belt—right as he tried to leap back into the fray.

THUNK.

“DUDE! NOT AGAIN!” Recoil wailed from the ground, pants halfway down his thighs.

“Oops! Sorry! Tactical error!”

Third member stumbled forward: a gangly, bespectacled hero in a padded vest labelled TACTICOOL HQ: STRATEGY.

“Wait!” he shouted. “According to my thirty-eight-point engagement plan, this area hasn’t been properly—AAAAHHHH!” He was already tackled mid-sentence by one of the crooks.

Takuya rubbed his eyes. “Are they for real?” I could’ve stopped these guys just using my webs—and I haven’t even had formal training. “These are the heroes we’re meant to respect? I’ve seen crash test dummies with better tactical response.”

Backdraft groaned in the background, trying to put out a dumpster fire caused by Recoil’s earlier bounce.

And yet, somehow, the villains were actually losing.

The chaos seemed to confuse them more than anything, like they’d accidentally stepped into a comedy skit instead of a robbery.

Backdraft managed to pin one of them with a foam blast just as the thug tripped over Recoil’s crumpled body.

Another tried to make a run for it, only for MagNet to trip him by yanking up a manhole cover with just enough pull to mess up his footing.

The third turned toward the warehouse—only to get a face full of “tactical flash powder” thrown by the still-disoriented Hindsight, who then immediately sneezed and stumbled into a pile of discarded crates.

And the last—plasma cutter guy—was lining up a shot when a high-pressure water jet from Backdraft blasted him off his feet and straight into a stack of emergency traffic cones, which exploded into the air like celebratory confetti.

KA-THUNK!

Silence followed.

Takuya blinked. “You have got to be kidding me...”

The crowd below started clapping. Phones were out. Some people were cheering.

Tacticool regrouped.
MagNet adjusted his cape. Hindsight straightened his goggles. Recoil dusted himself off—still missing his utility belt.

Then they posed.

“Justice delivered!”
“Tacticool rides again!”
“…we’ll upload the highlights by morning!”

“Please don’t tag me…” Backdraft muttered, raising a hand to quiet and redirect the crowd from the scene as police lights drew closer. He paused to adjust the valve falling off his shoulder.

Flashbulbs popped.

Takuya stared in disbelief from the rooftop.

“…That’s it? That’s how they win? And they get applause?” He shook his head. “They’re like game show contestants who hit every wrong answer and still walk away with the prize money!”

He leaned back with a groan. “This whole industry’s a joke.”

That’s when he noticed someone who wasn’t getting involved with the celebrations.

A lone figure ducked away from the chaos—the stocky one who’d sent Recoil flying earlier. He was clutching a pair of small crates, darting down a side alley like a rat escaping a sinking ship. No one saw him. The heroes were too busy signing autographs.

Takuya’s eyes narrowed.

He vaulted effortlessly across to a nearby rooftop and landed silently on the ledge above the alley, watching.

Takuya watched as the thug ran through, completely unaware he was being watched from above.

The man moved quickly, checking over his shoulder with quick darts as he ran. His clothes were practical—black boots, cargo trousers, and a dark, sleeveless jacket over a tight grey top. Some kind of flexible padding bulked out his shoulders and chest, more DIY than official support gear.

He looked to be in his early twenties. His build was thick, with a squared jaw and sharp, heavy brows furrowed in focus. His eyes were a striking reddish-brown, almost amber under the alley’s lights. A healed scar cut across the bridge of his nose, clean but visible. His hair was messy and dark, the sides shaved close but uneven—as if trimmed at home.

A couple of web-shots from here, and he’s toast, Takuya thought.
His fingers twitched near the web-shooter. Just a reflex.

But why should I do those guys’ jobs for them?
If they’re so incompetent that they’d let him escape, then they shouldn’t be heroes.

Why save them from the consequences of their own actions?

With that, he turned and launched a web into the night.

Chapter Text

It was still, outside of a softly humming monitor.

Through his heightened senses, Takuya picked up the muted hiss of vending machines outside, the distant shfff of pages turning. Somewhere nearby, someone chuckled at a gag manga.

He stirred, groaning as he reached out to pull the blanket back over himself.

His hand grasped nothing but air.

A strange pull tugged at his back. Something tickled his ankle.

He cracked his eyes open—blinking up at his foot.

The blanket was wrapped around it, hanging…upward?

His eyes followed it—past his leg, past the desk, up to cushion…

He was on the ceiling.

Plastered against the top panel like a stray poster. One foot stuck awkwardly above his head, the other dangling loose with the blanket he'd slept under.

He gasped. His skin let go. Gravity did the rest.

THOOP.

He landed flat on the booth’s cushion, limbs twisted in the blanket. “Ow,” he mumbled.

A volume of Ultimate Mecha: Leopardon bonked him on the head a moment later.

The booth was small, barely wide enough to stretch out in, but it was private. Dim. Quiet.

Takuya groaned and rubbed his face. 

"Oh yeah...I stayed at an internet café..." 

Then he remembered.

His eyes widened. He scrambled toward the desk, nearly faceplanting as the blanket tangled around his legs. He snatched his phone off the charger.

The screen lit up: 12 missed calls. 26 unread texts.

Eight of those were from Mom. A few from Shinko. Even one from Dad.

‘Where r u?’
‘Everything okay?’
‘Call your Mom.’

Even Hitomi had texted:

‘Your sister messaged me.
She seemed worried.
Everything okay?’

Most of the texts, again, were from his Mom. His heart sank as he scrolled through them, realising how bad he made her worry.

“I should’ve just gone home...”

He opened the keypad, and fired off a message to her first:

Hey, sorry. Stayed over at a friend’s. Phone died. I’m okay.
Sorry I worried you.

Barely a second later, his phone started ringing.

Mom.

He swallowed, thumb hovering. Then he answered.

“...Hey.”

There was a sharp inhale on the other end. Then her voice, tight and trembling.

“Takuya?”

“Yeah. It’s me. I’m okay. I’m sorry—”

“You’re okay?” she repeated, the words overlapping his. “You’re really okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry I didn’t call, my phone died and—”

“Don’t you ever do that again.”

The sudden firmness stopped him cold. But then, her voice cracked.

"What were you thinking? Do you know what it was like, not hearing from you all night? I thought something had happened—that a villain had gotten you! That you were lying in a ditch, or an alley—or a railroad somewhere! I was about to call everyone. The police. Pro heroes. Vigilantes. The Defence Force? I thought—I thought—!" she cut herself off, a shaky breath filling the silence.

Takuya rubbed the back of his neck. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… needed space. I, uh... I stayed at a friend’s. I should’ve let you know.”

“Needed space?” she echoed softly. “Takuya, I don’t care if you sleep on the moon, you just call me, okay? Please.”

There was a pause. Then she added:

“Your sister was working late, and your father went out looking for you all night…” her breath was still shaking, “…and I was just sat on the couch, on my own, praying you’d come home safe…”

That hit harder than he expected.

“I should’ve known better…” he said, “I’m sorry. I’ll be home soon. Promise.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then a sniff, followed by “Good. You better – and I mean early this time.”

He blinked, “Y-yes ma’am.”

She sniffled again. “Okay. Be safe, alright? I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He hung up after that.

He didn’t want to lie to her, but explaining everything over the phone—especially with how panicked she still sounded—wasn’t something he could handle right now.

Was he even ready for that conversation? Should he even tell her?

He raked both hands through his hair, teeth clenched.
Why did it feel like everything was falling apart?

New powers. Weird status at school. Keeping secrets from everyone—including his family.

Then his dad finds out, and—oh hey! He’s been playing vigilante in secret for months, and now wants Takuya to follow in his footsteps.

Entrance Exams are coming up. He’s barely prepped.

And Hitomi… she probably hates him now.

He had to talk to someone.

Not to spill everything. Just… something. A distraction. A direction?

He scrolled through his contacts.

He wasn’t ready to talk to Dad again, yet.

Shinko? No. She was neck-deep in Iron Cross stuff. If he vented, he’d let too much slip.
And if she found out the truth? He didn’t know what she’d do.

He hovered over Hitomi’s name.

They never did get to clear things up at school – not with his Dad taking him away on his Exigen-cycle.

You said you needed to talk, right? Stop being a coward, Yamashiro. Unless you’re fine with her actually hating you now…

He sighed heavily.

Then tapped out a reply to her last message.

ME: Hey. Sorry.
ME: Phone died, and I stayed out last night.
ME: Stupid, I know.

He hesitated, looking for any signs of activity from her. Then added another.

ME: You busy today?

Her reply bubble was up as he sent it.

Then paused.

Then she started typing again.

SAKUMA: Hey
SAKUMA: Not really
SAKUMA: What’s up?

Takuya realized he was holding his breath.

Allowing it to escape, he typed out another message.

ME: Meet at the café?
ME: In a couple of hours?

Then, quickly—

ME: I promise. No vanishing acts this time.

It took a little longer.

The bubble flickered.

Then finally:

SAKUMA: Sure

Inside the cramped and cluttered workroom—walls lined with half-disassembled gadgets and shelves choked with old notebooks and cracked screens—Hiroshi zipped up the weathered duffel bag by the door. The faint scent of solder and metal hung in the air. His gloved fingers trembled slightly.

He still needed to stop by the lab for the rest of his gear, and to confirm the plan with Mishima.

His jacket hung over the back of his chair. A dusty All-Might bobblehead stood next to his Exigen helmet on the workbench. The helmet seemed to watch him—silent, expectant, eager to ride.

From the kitchen, a quiet voice called out:
“He’s okay.”

Hiroshi paused.

He stepped out of his workroom to see Kiri stood by the counter, phone still in hand, her expression still damp from earlier tears.

She nodded. “I just spoke to him. He stayed with a friend—said his phone died.”

Hiroshi smiled. One of relief, and a hint of sadness. Probably stayed in a Manga Café, he thought. “Good… That’s good.” He walked over and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder. “I told you he would be fine. He may do dumb things sometimes…like his old man…but he’s a smart kid.”

Kiri smiled, turning around in his arms to hug against his chest, “Like his father too.”

“Heh. Lately, I haven’t been feeling like that…” Hiroshi said, his voice low, almost drifting.

“You’re doing your best,” Kiri said.

Click.

The door opened.

Shinko stepped inside, tugging off her scarf mid-yawn. Her phone dangled from one hand, and her boots thudded dully against the entry mat. Her Iron Cross badge swung from her coat, catching the light.

“Morning,” she mumbled, kicking off her shoes. “Just came to grab a few things—gonna shower and head back out.” She darted into her room, calling back, “Oh—did Taku call you? I got a text from him saying his phone died. Said he stayed over at a friend’s.”

Hiroshi stiffened. “Wait—what? But you were out all night already? And it’s Saturday!”

“Yeah. It’s been busy—some kind of security breach. They’ve got all hands on deck.”

Hiroshi winced.

“You can’t stay for a bite to eat or anything?” Kiri said.

Shinko’s voice carried on casually, “No, we’ve got a bunch of deadlines coming up too.” She chuckled. “They never said changing the world was going to be easy.”

“But you can’t—!” Hiroshi caught himself, realizing how panicked he sounded.

“What are you talking about?” Shinko called back. “I just told you we’ve got deadlines and a ‘all hands’ order.”

Hiroshi tried to soften his voice, “Just—trust me on this. Please. Take the day off. Just this once.”

Shinko stepped out of her room, towel around her neck, brow furrowed. “I can’t just blow off work because my dad asked me to stay. There’s been a security breach! I was barely able to even come here to change.”

“It’s just…” Hiroshi fumbled. “It’s not safe, honey. Please—just today. You can call in sick—”

“This again?” a sharp flick of her hand tossed her jacket telekinetically onto the couch. “Though I guess it has been a while. You’re barely home these days, I guess I just got used to not having to hear this.”

Kiri stepped forward, gently: “Maybe we should all take a moment—”

“I worked hard to get in, Dad. They’re the best of the best. I have a real shot at doing something meaningful. I earned this.” She gave a brittle laugh. “Just because they blacklisted you—”

“That’s not—”

“You think I don’t know how you see it? The big betrayal. Your daughter, working for the company that ruined you.” Her voice hardened. “That’s what this has always been—you’re mad I didn’t take your side.”

A pen on the counter trembled slightly. She didn’t notice.

“No, of course not—I never…” He sighed. “I don’t care what they did to me. I care about you. What they could make you do, or—”

“So what? You think I’ve already sold out? That I’ve become one of the monsters you’re so afraid of?”

“That’s not what I said—”

“But you think it.”

“You’re blind to what they really do.”

“Then tell me!” she snapped. “Instead of treating me like some kid too dumb to see it for herself. You always throw warnings at me, but you never explain why. Maybe that’s why they got rid of you!”

Kiri gasped softly, trying to interject, but Shinko surged forward.

“I mean, do you hear yourself? You act like I signed up for some underground villain lab!”

“They’re not just scientists—they’re playing with fire.”

“Then maybe I want to play with fire!”

The lights flickered. A low buzz built in the air—like a static charge crawling up the walls.

The coffee mug slid across the table and shattered. Kiri flinched.

The room fell still.

“Shinko…” Hiroshi’s voice was soft now. “I just want to keep you safe. That’s all it is. That’s all it’s ever been.”

She stared at him, breathing hard.

“No. You want to hold me back. To be like you.” She grabbed her bag. “You hate that I’m not. That I’m moving forward while you’re being left behind.”

She stormed to the door.

“Stay out of my life!”

And with a flick of her wrist, the door slammed behind her in a shimmer of force.

The room fell quiet.

Hiroshi stood frozen, staring at the spot she’d been.

Kiri touched his arm gently. “She… she didn’t mean that,” she said softly. “She’s been working all night. She’s just tired.”

She reached up and cupped his chin, turning his face toward hers.
“I told you before—you’re doing your best. Takuya’s growing up, and that comes with changes. Shinko’s in a rough patch, and yes, we both know you’ve got history with that place…”

Hiroshi cracked a small smile, resting his hand over hers. “Are you trying to tell me to relax? You?”

She smiled back, “We can take it in turns. Sometimes you worry, sometimes I—”

“Sometimes, you?”

She tapped his arm, “What I’m saying is, these things happen. They love you. You love them. We argue, and we mess up. Worrying won’t change that, but we always find our way back.”

Hiroshi gave a short laugh. “Weren’t you just panicking ten minutes ago?”

“That’s what makes us a perfect team.”

They laughed quietly together.

“You’re wrong about one thing,” Hiroshi said, gently. “I’m not doing my best. But I know how to do better.”
He squeezed her hand. “I’ve just got one last thing to handle. One last job. Then tomorrow—family day. Like you said.”

“You mean it?”

“Absolutely.” He leaned in to kiss her forehead, then grabbed his coat from the chair.
As he stepped toward the door, he looked back with a smile.

“Tomorrow, I’ll make things right. For all of us.”

The warehouse was falling apart. Every wisp of wind made it creak like an old ship. Flickering overhead lights struggled against slants of late-morning sun cutting through cracks in the ceiling. Crates were stacked haphazardly, stained with water damage and varying degrees of rot.

The warehouse door clanged shut behind him as he was led inside. Stocky, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a hooded jacket and tactical boots. Your classic small-time thug.

His posture was alert. Cautious. The place looked like it could collapse at any time.

“Nice place,” he muttered, eyeing a rat skitter by.

“Hey, you want clean floors or mad science?” Giran, his handler grinned, a puff of cigarette smoke curling from his lips.

“They promised they could get me beyond the small-time stuff. I was just expecting a little…more.”

His handler laughed, “Ah, sorry to say you’re not quite big-time yet. Until then, my clients would prefer to keep things as inconspicuous as possible.”

Ahead of them, a wiry man in a labcoat, sat atop a large crate in a clearing. A gaping hole in the ceiling bathed him in sunlight.

“You’re late, Giran.”

“Hardly,” the handler replied. “And you’ll appreciate that it takes time to procure the right subjects for your group’s needs. Rest assured Mr. Kuroda here will more than suit your requirements.”

“Whatever, I’d rather not be in this cesspool any longer than I have to,” he adjusted his gloves hurriedly, “Let’s get this done.”

The thug shifted under his hood, “Thought I was just getting some new gear.”

“You’ll be getting much more than that,” Giran smiled, a puff of cigarette smoke bursting from his teeth.

The scientist stood to the side, motioning towards the crate. “Sit.”

Kuroda hesitated but took a seat.

“You’ve used Trigger before?” the scientist asked casually, tapping a few things into a portable tablet.

Kuroda snorted. “A few times. Stuff’s hit or miss. Makes you feel like a god one minute, bleeding from the nose the next.”

The scientist nodded. “What you’re about to receive is more stable. Cleaner. Potent enough to amplify strength, speed, and pain tolerance beyond registered quirk thresholds.”

“Sounds expensive,” he muttered.

“Oh, it is,” the scientist grinned, “That is why my superiors believe it necessary to test it on several willing subjects, like yourself.”

“Test?”

“If it works,” the scientist replied, “you’ll be matching Pro Heroes in no time. A Neil Armstrong for this new superhuman frontier.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

As soon as he said that, metal clamps burst from the crate beneath him, restraining his arms under cold steel.

“We clean up, and we try again,” he approached, a syringe in his hand as he jabbed it into Kuroda’s upper bicep.

The injector hissed. A surge of crimson Mira flooded into his bloodstream.

Veins bulged and pulsed like cables under his skin. His muscles twisted and reshaped, warping like clay forced into a new mold—tearing through the fabric of his hoodie.

His jaw clenched until his teeth groaned against each other. He tried to grab something, but the clamps restricted his movement.

Veins lit up like molten steel under his skin. Bones cracked. Muscles bulged.

He let out a ragged breath. Then started laughing.

“Oh, YEAH!”

The clamps burst off with his quirk, as he stood. He was taller. More muscular.

“Beautiful,” the scientist exclaimed, tapping away again at his tablet. “And how do you feel?”

“Like I don’t want to rip you half for tying me down like that anymore,” Kuroda said, flexing his new muscles at himself.

“Congratulations on making it to the big leagues,” the scientist said, ignoring his comment. “You’ll be given three vials; each dosage provides you an hour of this power.”

“And the side effects?” Giran asked, studying the new superhuman before them, calculating future profits.

“We’re still monitoring long-term effects. Neural instability, possible aggression spikes, memory slippage—mild side effects, if you’re focused. My superiors would appreciate any feedback you have.”

“I just want to take this thing out for a spin!” Kuroda exclaimed.

“Interesting you say that,” the scientist smiled. “We won’t be charging you for this batch, though we do ask for one small favour, which should also give you a chance to test drive your enhanced abilities…”

“What’s that?”

The scientist handed over a photo. Kuroda studied it for a minute:

A dark figure on a sleek motorcycle. High-tech armor, black as obsidian. A helmet with glowing blue lines traced across the visor.

“He goes by the name of Exigen. He’s been a thorn in my group’s endeavours,” the scientist explained. “We would like him terminated as soon as possible.”

“That’s it?”

“He’s not to be underestimated – he wields a similar version of that formula.”

“So, defeating him would prove you’re better,” Giran added.

The scientist cleared his throat. “Indeed. Additionally, if you succeed in this task—bring us his helmet—and you’ll be granted more samples.”

Kuroda smiled beneath his hood.
“If I’m doing this, I need a new vibe. Get me into the big leagues. I’m talking new gear… and a name.”

Giran stepped forward with a metallic case. “I’ve got you covered. I think this will go nicely with your quirk and ‘vibe’.”

Inside: a sleek, skull-like combat mask with a vertical red stripe. The interior glinted with reinforced plating.

“Got a name picked out already?”

Kuroda rubbed the back of his gloved knuckles against the mask’s smooth surface, then looked down at the photo of Exigen.

“Knockback,” he said. Voice low.

Giran chuckled. “Name’s got punch to it.”

Kuroda smirked.

He slid the mask over his face.

Click.

“Exactly.”

It was the late afternoon now. The lab hummed with low, ambient noise: the gentle thrum of cooling fans, the occasional pulse of distant generators. The lights cast the steel counters and cluttered workbenches in a cold, sterile hue.

Hiroshi stood near the entrance, back pressed against the wall, eyes closed. His gauntlet straps creaked softly as he tightened them. His hand trembled for a moment. He stilled it with a breath.

Across the room, Mishima sat at his terminal, monitors flickering blue and green across his tired face.

Finally, he broke the silence.

“Servers go dark in four hours. If the air-gapped node’s still local, we’re good. If not—we’re storming a graveyard.”

Hiroshi cracked one eye open. “A graveyard with a very lively welcoming party…”

Mishima snorted faintly, spinning in his chair. “They always have a welcome party. Trick is leaving before the cake explodes.”

His smile faded as he turned serious. “You clear on the plan?”

Hiroshi nodded. “Enter through the sewer access under the tower. Your drones create a distraction topside.”

Mishima picked up. “That’ll keep the security detail and scanners off the sublevels. Once inside, you reach Lab Block C and upload the payload.”

“Full Mira data,” Hiroshi recited. “Plus the backups, encryption keys, personnel logs. We broadcast it all—news outlets, hero agencies, police. Make sure no one can cover this up.”

“And scrub the surveillance cache,” Mishima added. “I’d rather not have Exigen listed as an Iron Cross asset.”

Hiroshi smirked faintly. “Of course. Would ruin my whole brand.”

A beat passed. Mishima’s gaze sharpened.

“No unnecessary conflict. Get in. Extract. Get out. If Sector 9 taught us anything, it’s that they’re escalating—and fast. Tonight, we’re not heroes.”

Hiroshi’s smile faded. “I understand.”

“I mean it, Hiroshi. If someone’s in trouble, you ignore it. You don’t have time for sidequests.”

“That’s a hell of a thing to say to me.”

“We got one shot at this. And every time you play hero, it’s made complications, and we can’t afford complications this time…”

Mishima stood and moved to a nearby drawer, tapping a key to open it. Inside sat two vials of Mira, glowing with faint blue light. He lifted one carefully. “Besides, you don’t exactly have the time for any distractions now…”

Hiroshi’s brow furrowed. “That’s all?”

“Chameleon’s sabotage, our relocation, stolen archives… I’ve barely managed to clone the base data back onto our own systems, let alone synthesize more. These two are it.”

Hiroshi picked one up. The liquid’s glow danced across the metallic surface of his glove.

“Two vials. Two hours.” He sighed. “Guess I’d better make them count.”

Mishima watched him carefully. “You still getting side effects?”

“The itch never goes away,” Hiroshi muttered. “Sometimes it feels like fire under the skin. But I’ve got it managed.”

“Well, once we’re done, we can finally rework the formula. Get rid of or reduce the cravings. Patch the Flaws. No more burnouts and blackouts.”

“Not until after tomorrow,” Hiroshi said. “Tomorrow’s family day. It’s time I made that real again. Takuya, Shinko, Kiri… they deserve better.”

Mishima’s expression tightened. “Then make sure you’ve got something to come home to.”

A moment passed. Hiroshi stared at the vial before loading it into the injector slot on his suit.

“You ever get the feeling,” he said, quietly, “that a mission will change you? Like you won’t come back the same?”

Mishima laughed. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Yamashiro.”

Hiroshi chuckled, “I guess, it never felt like we’d get to this point. It just makes you think about what’s next, you know? Maybe I don’t want to keep doing the Exigen thing; it’s not like I think Mira is something the world is ready for – even what I’ve developed.”

“I think we’ve still got a few years before we start thinking about retirement packages,” Mishima smiled.

“Yeah, but with Iron Cross gone – my name’ll be cleared, probably. You and I can go back to the lab work. You could start your own, like you always dreamed of, right?”

“Heh. Could even hire on that brilliant son of yours as an intern.”

“Then let’s make that real.” Hirohi grabbed his helmet. The visor flickered to life with a soft pulse. The rig hissed as it sealed, exoskeletal joints adjusting around his arms and chest. His voice deepened under the filter:

“Exigen. Online.”

He stepped toward the exit. Just before the door opened, Mishima called after him.

“Remember, Hiroshi. No detours, not tonight.”

Hiroshi paused… then gave a small wave without turning.

“Tomorrow, everything changes.”

And then he was gone.