Chapter Text
The dumpster behind the convenience store reeked of curdled milk and wet flour. Izuku didn’t gag anymore, not at this one. It was familiar now. A second kitchen made of rot and rust. He’d learned to scan the bags for barcodes and color. Brown stains were meat. Green could be vegetables or mold. He reached in, elbow-deep, fingers brushing cold plastic.
His stomach ached, twisted tight like a clenched fist. He hadn’t eaten in two days. Nothing but water and lies.
A soft crinkle of plastic gave him hope—packaging. Still sealed. Something sweet maybe. Maybe expired yesterday instead of last week.
Then—
“Hey.”
The voice didn’t belong to any of the usual alley people.
It was smooth. Amplified.
Familiar.
Izuku turned his head slowly. His breath caught.
A Pro Hero stood at the alley entrance. Full costume. Limelight-bright colors. Cape even though it was winter. His logo shimmered across his chest in gold, obnoxiously large. His teeth gleamed when he smiled, but there was no warmth behind it.
Starbolt.
A flashy, self-obsessed hero known more for photo ops and endorsements than actual rescues. He had half a million followers on HeroGram. Hosted a talk show on Thursdays. The kind of man who called civilians “normals” and never learned his sidekick’s name.
Izuku scrambled out of the dumpster too fast, one foot slipping on old noodles. He fell hard onto the asphalt; the sealed package clutched in one filthy hand.
Starbolt stepped closer, nose wrinkling. He didn’t offer help. He didn’t ask if Izuku was okay.
He just stared.
“You stealing from this store, kid?”
Izuku’s mouth opened, soundless. He shook his head hard, tiny, panicked motions. His throat locked. The muzzle made his explanation garbled, useless.
Starbolt's eyes dropped to the straps, then to the bruises barely hidden under Izuku’s jacket sleeve. His lips curled.
“You one of those problem cases?” he muttered. “Runaway or... freak?”
Izuku flinched.
Starbolt exhaled loudly through his nose and turned slightly away from Izuku in disgust. “Another reason we need stricter patrols around local stores. Kids scavenging like rats. Can’t even talk right.”
Izuku dropped the package. Tried to bolt.
Starbolt was faster.
One gloved hand caught his collar and slammed him against the alley wall. The concrete bit into his back. His shoulder screamed where the pipe hit weeks ago and never healed right.
“What’s in your mouth, huh? Drugs? Stolen tech? You wearing that thing for attention?”
He shoved Izuku’s chin up roughly, forcing his face toward him.
“This is what happens when you let the system go soft,” Starbolt said. “You kids grow up thinking the world owes you something. Pathetic.”
Izuku’s breath hitched.
Tears burned his eyes, but he didn’t dare let them fall. Didn’t make a sound. Not a single one. Not even when the Hero shoved him down into the slush puddle near the dumpster, soaking his jeans and sleeves with garbage water.
“Be grateful I’m not taking you in.”
Starbolt finally turned off the recording—he’d only started it once he’d already shoved Izuku down, to make sure the ending looked clean.
Izuku kepi his head down, not showing his face.
“Next time, I call social services. And trust me, they don’t give out free meals to little freaks in muzzles.”
He walked away, boots crisp on the pavement, cape flaring dramatically.
Izuku sat there for a long time.
The cold soaked in deep, past his skin, into the bones.
The food was gone, crushed beneath his body. He didn’t even notice.
He stared at the alley wall, at the scuff marks and peeling posters and the smear of something that might’ve been old blood.
He pressed his hands to his mouth. Not to cry. Not to scream.
Just to stay silent.
He stayed there until it was too dark to see, and his legs stopped trembling enough to stand.
Then he walked home the long way. Avoided every camera. Every light.
Every hero.
Izuku reached the apartment just before midnight, shivering and wet, every muscle aching from cold and old bruises.
The hallway lights flickered overhead, buzzing like angry wasps. He wiped his sleeves across his face, smearing tears and gutter water together into one gray streak. His key jammed in the lock. It stuck, then caught, nearly slipping from his numb fingers before the door finally swung open.
Inside, the quiet held its own kind of threat.
The sticky note still clung to the fridge, corners curled, one word nearly blurred completely away. No food on the counter. No mother in the living room.
He shuffled to his room, shoes squelching with each limp step, and dropped the ruined jacket to the floor. He peeled off small hunks of garbage stuck to the muzzle, pinched the old lock, and set it on the desk without even thinking, the routine now so familiar it needed no thought at all.
He checked the window. Saw nothing but darkness and the pulsing red sign of the pawn shop across the street. Then, as quietly as he could, he sat at the edge of his bed, knees drawn up, and let his head fall forward onto them.
The hunger curled again in his stomach, but he ignored it. Instead, he rocked side to side, eyes closed. His voice, silent still, played a song in his mind.
Happy, and then not. Sweet, and then something ruined. And even though he never let the melody slip past his lips now, it followed him, fragile but stubborn, waiting for the day he could give it back to the world, or at least to himself.
It was another night of scavenging for food when it happened.
A man came into the alley, pulled a knife on Izuku, and demanded, “Give all of your money.” Izuku stared at him blankly and gestured to the alleyway then pointed at the dumpster. Trying to convey that he was literally getting food from a dumpster and obviously didn’t have any money.
The man didn’t like his answer. His face twisted, ugly with frustration and hunger. “Don’t play dumb,” he snarled, stalking a step closer, his coat hanging loose from brittle shoulders. “You kids always hide something. Hand it over or—”
Izuku didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only lifted his hands, palms out, showing the nothing he had but scars, broken fingernails, and a strip of bruises up his wrist.
The muzzle blinked silver in the dark, catching the man’s gaze for a split second. He hesitated—a long beat, calculating, weighing risk against gain.
Then anger flared, hotter than the frost. He lunged.
Izuku’s reflexes, tuned thin by weeks of brawls over rotten rice, kicked in. He ducked sideways. Felt the knife brush cloth. Cold air slapped his cheek. Pain bit somewhere vague and shallow. a scratch, not deep enough to slow him down. He scrambled backwards, tripped on a loose stone, landed hard on hands and knees. The taste of metal and garbage stung his mouth.
The man cursed, swinging wide, blade glinting.
Izuku’s heart slammed against his ribs. He reached out, snatched a lid from the nearest trash can, a flimsy, dented shield, and held it between himself and the knife.
“Think that’ll save you?” Spit flew from the man’s lips, wild and sharp, his movements blurred at the edges by desperation.
Izuku shook his head slowly. His voice stuck behind the muzzle, his fear burning fresh and dangerous. But somewhere below it, memory unfurled, a move from a TV show, a dodge Bakugou used to practice in the midst of friendlier brawls, a footwork trick learned the hard way.
He braced. Waited for the knife to come closer.
It did, a short, mean arc aimed at his shoulder.
He blocked with the lid, the clang ringing sharp through the winter air. The man staggered back, just enough. Izuku saw his opening. No thought, just hunger and muscle memory. He jabbed with the edge of the lid, caught the man on the shin, scrambled to his feet, and tried to run, but before he could someone landed in front of him.
No thunder. No hero pose. Just a soft thud and stillness, like something had dropped out of the sky to end things.
The man didn’t move right away.
He stood there, shoulders loose, posture lazy—too lazy. Like a cat watching a mouse from two inches away. A scarf curled around his neck like smoke or a noose, drifting in the cold, and his coat was too thin for winter, but he didn’t even shiver.
Then Izuku saw his eyes. Red. Glowing faintly in the dark like twin warning lights. Flat. Empty. Not angry, not kind. Just measuring .
Izuku’s lungs froze.
The other man—the one with the knife—backed up fast. But it didn’t matter. The man in the scarf didn’t lunge. He didn’t shout. He scarf just unraveled and snaked around the man before he could move.
And somehow that was worse.
His hair looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. His face was all shadows and stubble and sleepless silence. He didn’t look heroic. He didn’t even look angry. He looked like the kind of person who could watch you fall apart and never blink.
Izuku had seen monsters before.In alleys. In his own reflection. But this man?
This man moved like he was used to being the scariest thing in the dark.