Chapter Text
All Aiko saw was red.
Red on the ground.
Red on his hands.
His arms.
And—oh god.
Godgodgodgod—GOD.
His stomach twisted. Something lanced through his gut, crawling up to his ribs, digging into his throat like claws.
"Someone help me!"
His thoughts screamed louder than his voice ever could.
He gasped. Once. Twice. Over and over.
But it didn’t stop.
His hands—where were they?
All he saw was red.
Red. Red. Red.
“AIKO!”
A voice pierced through the haze. Something sharp. Someone familiar.
He turned, instinctively, a flicker of recognition sparking. But his mind was blank.
Why?
Why was it red?
Then—
It reached his mouth.
That feeling.
It crept in like smoke, thick and choking, setting up camp on his tongue, filling his throat with its ash.
He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t feel anything but it.
BLEGHH!
He doubled over and vomited.
The bile hit the ground, sour and hot, his stomach clenching violently with each heave.
His knees buckled.
His body folded in on itself like paper soaked in rain.
He was shaking. Trembling.
"Make it stop. Please, make it stop."
Tears rolled down his cheeks. Salt touched his lips—fear and sorrow mixed with something bitterly human.
And yet…there was comfort in the taste.
“Not this,” he begged, in thought, in silence.
“Anything but this. Please. Please.”
A warm hand touched his shoulder.
He flinched.
“Aiko,” the voice said again—closer now, softer. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
He shook his head violently.
Safe?
Safe where?
Pink.
Soft and glowing.
Pink?
Like cherry blossoms in spring.
Ichigo.
“Don’t leave me!” Aiko lurched upright with a strangled cry, heart hammering so hard it drowned out the world. His breath came in ragged gasps, hair tousled, eyes wild. He looked like a cornered animal.
Surrounded by white.
Blankets.
Walls.
The slow beep of a monitor.
A television quietly murmuring something forgettable.
Doctors.
He was in a hospital.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, his mind spinning, rewinding—searching.
How did I get here?
What happened?
What—
Then it hit him.
USJ.
Villains.
Screaming.
Running.
Fighting.
Killing.
It all came rushing back in fragmented bursts—like bloodstained glass shattering in his head.
He remembered the moment fear took over.
He had growled.
He had fought.
Clawed. Bitten. Screamed.
Like an animal.
Not a hero-in-training.
Just a boy—desperate to survive.
His lips trembled. The memory wasn’t clean. It was jagged, chaotic. He could still feel the weight of it in his lungs. The stench of sweat, blood, and panic clung to him even now.
“Is he awake?” a nurse’s voice murmured somewhere at the door.
Aiko flinched. Every sound felt too loud. Every shadow too deep.
He curled slightly, drawing the blanket up to his chin, his fingers trembling.
He had faced villians. Almost dead.
_______________________________________________________________
Apparently, the school decided that two days off were enough.
Aiko buried himself deeper under the covers.
He was...
Overwhelmed.
Scared.
Shocked.
Disappointed.
For a moment, it felt like the fire inside him—the one that had burned so brightly that summer—had flickered out.
The fire that pushed him to become a hero.
The fire that existed not just for himself, but to help light up Ichigo’s dream, too.
Gone.
His classmates, though visibly shaken, seemed to be coping.
Smiling.
Helping each other.
Moving on.
Aiko remembered scoffing when a pro hero gently told him, “You’re safe now. Everything’s okay.”
It wasn’t.
Just breathing felt like a task. Resting was harder than fighting.
And when school resumed, things only got worse.
For the first time since high school began, Aiko found himself hating the warmth his classmates so freely shared.
He knew he was being ridiculous.
He knew that kindness, support, and comfort were the right responses after something like USJ.
But still...
They looked so fine.
So calm.
So normal.
And it was infuriating.
How could they just carry on, when he still felt like something inside him had broken?
But maybe… it wasn’t them.
Maybe it was him.
Maybe he was just a coward—drowning in self-pity, wallowing in fear while everyone else picked themselves up and tried to move forward.
Aiko lifted his gaze from his desk again. His classmates were talking softly, laughing even. Trying.
They weren't fine.
Right?
Oh.
He buried his face in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp.
“Why was I being so selfish?”
His spiral of thought was broken by the sound of the classroom door sliding open.
Their teacher walked in—or rather, limped in.
Bandages. Head to toe. Practically a walking mummy.
“Sensei! A-Are you alright?” someone asked, half-standing from their seat.
“Why are you even back already?”
Aiko blinked, startled.
Aizawa-sensei.
Still teaching, despite everything.
He'd nearly been beaten to death defending them. Fought tooth and nail to protect his students—only to return days later, wrapped in gauze and covered in bruises, just to teach.
Aiko stared, something like awe rising in his chest.
Dedication.
He really admired that.
Why? What made someone put their life on the line like that?
Was it money? Fame? No. Aizawa was an underground hero. He didn’t care for the spotlight. So money? But the man didn't seem like the type.
Aiko didn’t get to dwell on it long. Not when Aizawa—calmly, bluntly—announced:
“The U.A. Sports Festival will continue as scheduled.”
Silence.
Aiko felt his chest tighten.
What?
Panic bloomed in his stomach. He wasn’t ready—not even close. Not after the blood, the screams, the terror still echoing in his mind. Not after nearly dying.
“To show that U.A. isn’t shaken by the ambush,” Aizawa continued, his voice as flat as ever.
Aiko blinked.
Huh. Haha.
For a second, he thought Aizawa was joking.
Not shaken?
Maybe the teachers weren’t.
But the students?
Mentally? Physically? Yes.
They were wrecked.
Aiko clenched his jaw, his thoughts spiraling again.
'Is this all about reputation?'
He wanted to understand, to dig deeper into it—but his mind was too foggy, too fragile. Right now, he had bigger problems than figuring out the politics of hero society.
Still, one thing sat heavily on his chest:
This was ridiculous.
And yet... maybe this was also reality.
Being a hero meant walking back into the fire—even while you're still burned.
___________________________________________________________________________
Aiko felt like quitting. But he couldn’t admit it. Because that would be insulting—
To the hero society.
To U.A.
To his classmates.
To people like him.
Hitoshi Shinso. The boy who had introduced in the middle of lunch.
Aiko had been too tired to care about the commotion, but bits of conversation still slipped through the fog in his head.
Shinso wanted to transfer into the hero course.
So the best action that boy could think of - was to declared war.
Huh. Funny.
He vaguely remembered Shinso mentioning something about “flashy quirks.”
And honestly, Aiko didn’t care.
Yes, quirks gave certain people an edge. That wasn’t exactly a revelation.
But Shinso didn’t have to sound so bitter about it.
Quirks were like any other talent.
Some people were born with voices that could move hearts.
Some had minds that could solve impossible problems.
Some could create beauty from nothing but scraps.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t equal.
But it was natural.
Everyone had something.
Everyone was different.
Aiko sighed, leaning his head against his arm.
He didn’t have the energy to dwell on it.
Flashy quirks, underdog speeches—so what?
He understood Shinso’s frustration. The jealousy. The desperation.
He’d felt it too, once. Still did.
But bitterness didn’t justify hostility.
Judging others like that, putting them down to prop yourself up?
That was just…
Pitiful.
And unacceptable.
To be honest, Aiko wanted to lash out, to scream, to point out, to correcr Hitoshi Shinso's words despite not having cared, having no energy.
Why?
Aiko wondered. He didn't know.
So he stopped and ignored it
__________________________________________________________________________________
The Sports Festival.
A major event for heroes-in-training.
A golden opportunity for students to showcase their abilities—and get scouted by Pro Heroes.
Naturally, Aiko was nervous.
And excited.
Anxious energy buzzed under his skin as the festival drew near.
He had handed the consent form to his parents with a spark of pride, expecting maybe a few words of encouragement.
They had scoffed.
“It’s a circus in disguise.”
“A glorified popularity contest.”
They signed it anyway.
His siblings, though, had been more supportive. They grinned, ruffled his hair, and told him to give it everything he had.
What if everything I have… isn’t enough?
He hated to admit it, but his parents weren’t entirely wrong.
The Sports Festival was more than just friendly competition—it was about performance.
Presentation.
Popularity.
They weren’t just fighting to be the best.
They were fighting to be seen.
Still, it wasn’t just about scouts or fame.
It was a chance to test themselves.
To challenge each other.
To find weaknesses—and push past them.
To grow.
And Aiko, being one of the more thoughtful students in the class, decided to approach it like a strategist.
He asked Aizawa for help.
Not extra lessons—just honest advice.
Aizawa, being their homeroom teacher, knew their strengths and flaws better than anyone.
In summary?
Aiko needed to work on durability, stamina, and strength.
He was fast, sure—but speed alone wouldn’t carry him through a battlefield of quirks and chaos.
Aizawa told him to lean into that speed. Use it smartly. Make it his weapon.
And above all?
He had to get more creative.
Aiko’s quirk didn’t allow him to go all out like others. He couldn’t blow up the ground or summon giant ice walls.
But that didn’t mean he was weak.
He just needed to find the right fighting style.
The right strategy.
A way to make every drop of his quirk count.
Efficiency. Precision.
Cleverness.
That’s what would make the difference. But sounded like too much work before the festival, so Aiko had to make a plan.