Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Love makes you dumb. That certainly was the case for thirteen year old Izuku Midoriya. Back then it was just him and his mom, his body scrawny and underdeveloped and most of all, completely quirkless. 

He looked up to All Might to an unhealthy degree, wanting to become him, developing along the way a keen sense for heroes. He could recognize which debuting hero would make it big, which one would ultimately retire early or switch careers, he saw the authenticity in each one. Izuku Midoriya wanted to save people, to make their lives better, to feel important in life. So why was he agonizing so much over someone as horrible as Katsuki Bakugou? 

It had started as a mild fascination with his explosions. Izuku had always been fond of quirks even back when he didn’t know he was quirkless. Katsuki was his childhood friend, a fellow neighborhood kid that he rode bikes and caught cicadas with. Then when he first manifested his quirk, shooting sparks out of his hands, a little spark bloomed into Izuku’s heart as well. I mean, for a five year old, explosions were just about the coolest thing ever after All Might, right? And he could see just how much his praise and admiration fueled Kacchan’s enthusiasm, how he would become motivated to create bigger and bigger explosions. 

But then he discovered he was quirkless and Kacchan no longer cared for his praises. But Izuku never tried stifling his fascination with him. He kept reaching out, showing Katsuki what new moves he could incorporate into his style. He knew Kacchan wanted to be a hero, he wanted to become one as well, and so Izuku felt it was his duty to analyze and perfect both of their destinies. He began expanding his research, looking into specific heroics, taking meticulous notes on hero patrols and whatnot. 

Then the bullying started. Kacchan deemed it unacceptable that a quirkless nobody like Deku could ever reach the same peaks as him. Their lives were just too different, their destinies too. But Izuku could not cease his obsessions with heroism, with quirks or with Kacchan. Each part fueled the other in turn, creating a vicious circle of pain and analysis that in turn led to Katsuki picking on Deku more and more: a dirty school table, a spilled lunch, a slap across the face, his backpack thrown in a water fountain.  

Then came the day they each had to announce their plans for the future. Of course, Kacchan proudly announced he would be enrolling at UA. It was Izuku’s dream school as well, however Kacchan, as well as every other person in his life, only discouraged him from applying because of his quirkless nature. Izuku knew deep in his heart that the world of heroes was the only one for him, the only one that was captivating and motivating and stimulating enough, the only life he could imagine. There was no other career for him. 

“You should take a swan dive off a cliff and pray that you’ll be reborn with a useful quirk, loser!” Bellowed Kacchan as he once again grabbed Izuku’s hero notes and threw them out of the window. Midoriya was haunted for the rest of that day by those words. There had been witnesses when Kacchan had made his proclamation, his blatant bullying was nothing new. What if he actually did it? But that would ruin Kacchan’s dreams… 

A new thought entered Izuku’s mind. 

Was Kacchan even worthy of being a hero? Of course he is… after all he has a very strong quirk which he has great control over and a strategic and disciplined mind. No one could get into a prestigious school like UA without those qualities. Those really were the makings of a hero. But did they guarantee success? 

Thoughts boiled over in his mind, unrelenting, unstoppable—like lava finding every crack. How would Kacchan even handle the hero charts? He was loud and brash, he had no gentle or understanding bone in his body. He bullied those who were weak, how could he save them? 

But there was no denying it. Kacchan would pass the UA exam and get his license while Izuku wouldn’t be able to. No matter how much he studied, no matter how much he yearned and hoped and strategized, he lacked the most fundamental ability which ruled their modern society. 

All men are not born equal. 

For the first time in his life, Izuku Midoriya began thinking of a life where he didn’t attend UA. He went home that evening, hollowed out by Kacchan’s words, dragging his soaked backpack behind him. But he never made it inside.

Later that fateful evening, a loud knock was heard throughout the Bakugou household. Mitsuki found her good neighbor Inko, trembling on her front steps, twiddling her thumbs anxiously. 

“Oh, I’m sorry Mitsuki-san, it’s just… is… is Izuku here? He hasn’t returned home from school yet and he won’t answer his phone and I’m growing worried.”

Her eyes were glassy and her voice seemed strained. “I’ve walked throughout the neighborhood to the places where I know he sometimes like to go, but he’s nowhere to be found. I just didn’t know where else to go,” she bit back a sob.

 “Oh, Inko-chan, come inside. You’ll freeze out here.” Mitsuki turned slightly towards the staircase.  “Katsuki! Kettle. Now!”

“Piss off old hag!” The blond replied while also walking into the kitchen and pouring water into the boiler. 

“So you’re saying, Izuku-kun hasn’t returned home? Do you think the police will have to be involved? Masaru and I will definitely be on the lookout for him. Even if he tried running away, he wouldn’t be able to get very far. Did he pack anything? Then again, running away just doesn’t seem like Izuku-kun…” she began mumbling in a way which reminded Inko of her son and made the ache in her heart deepen. 

Katsuki listened from the hallway, pretending not to care but catching every word. The news of Deku’s disappearance had made his blood run cold. Could it be…? Because of that, though? Surely not! Deku was a lot of things but he never backed down from his dreams no matter how annoying that fact was to Katsuki. He would be back tomorrow at school, muttering and writing in his stupid notebooks. 

However, Izuku didn’t come to school the next day. Or the next. There would soon be public announcements and news ads about a green haired, green eyed, freckled boy of about thirteen, missing. 

None of his shoes were gone. His room had been left in perfect order—bed made, notes stacked, pencils aligned. His phone was still on the charger, screen glowing softly at 98%. There wasn’t even a note. It was like he’d walked out of the world and taken nothing with him. Witnesses claimed they saw him at Musutafu Station that night. Green hoodie, backpack over one shoulder, walking like he had somewhere to be, but no trains logged him boarding. No cameras saw him leave.

Rumors bloomed like mold in the corners of classrooms.

“He was kidnapped. Some villain took him for experiments.”

“No, he joined a gang. He always was kinda weird about quirks.”

“Nah, he ran away. Heard he couldn’t take the pressure.”

No one could agree, but everyone had something to say. As if words could help them make sense of this bizarre disappearance. 

The police eventually moved his file to the back shelf. There were no signs or reports of sightings, not a single lead to be followed. Officially, he was declared dead by suicide. Inko Midoriya refused to sign the paperwork, refused the funeral. She still made two bento boxes every morning, the second one wrapped in green cloth and left by the front door, untouched. She kept his phone line open and paid the bill each month. And when neighbors asked gently, Any news? —she just smiled.

Inko didn’t cry anymore. That was the worst part. She just smiled like she didn’t want to burden anyone with the truth. Bakugou didn’t blame her. Frankly, he didn’t know what he thought of this whole mess. Each time he laid eyes on one of those posters, his brow broke out in a sweat. Not because he cared. Not because he missed that muttering, notebook-clutching nerd. But because it had been his words , his actions, that became the final push. And now, no matter what anyone said, the outcome was the same: Deku was gone. Dead or not, the result was fixed—because of him.

He’d meant it as a throwaway jab. Just one more bad day in a string of them. And then the nerd never came back. How could he have been so stupid? He sometimes sat at his desk and started to write an apology letter, but he never made it past the first line. Not because it was hard to say sorry, but because he didn’t know what he’d be sorry for. What was the point?

He avoided the street where they used to walk home together. He couldn’t look at the cracked pavement without seeing a version of himself with blood on his hands.

Two more years passed. The UA entrance exam came and went. Katsuki got in, as was expected, first on the admissions list, yet he didn’t feel as victorious as he should’ve felt, walking through those pristine gates. And as he entered the 1-A classroom, he half expected to see green curls bobbing in the crowd. But Deku was still gone.

Chapter Text

Bakugou woke up that day with the sound of distant explosions ringing in his ears. He had had a restless night, trying to soothe his aching limbs from yesterday’s training at Best Jeanist’s agency. It was now his third year doing his work study with the hero and yet his drills were still the most challenging activities Katsuki had had to endure. Well, besides actually fighting the league of villains. 

The silence lately felt unnatural. Like a pressure drop before a storm. It left him oftentimes shaking out of reveries, his eyes heavy as if he’s half asleep. Since All for One’s defeat, since his fight against Shigaraki and All Might’s retirement, Katsuki has felt as if he’s been walking on air, dreaming, never knowing when he’s going to crash back on the ground. Dread seemed to be his only default emotion. He was no longer excited or energized when working out, when doing his homework or practicing his quirk. The number one title felt hollow in the face of all of which he’d seen, a thought shared by his peers. 

As Bakugou made his way towards the common room of UA’s third year dormitories he was greeted by a silent Iida and Todoroki. Both had terrible bags under their eyes and slumped shoulders, Todoroki cradling a cup of sencha as Iida was absent mindedly chewing salad leaves. 

“You’ll be assigned in Yamanashi next week to rebuild the Saruhashi bridge. I’ll be joining you, Aizawa-sensei has already informed both agencies,” mumbled Todoroki without meeting Katsuki’s gaze. They were mostly finished rebuilding the damages caused by the league and the entirety of the Paranormal Liberation Front had been dissolved, its members arrested. That had been most of their second year curriculum, a bold decision on behalf of principal Nezu and the education department. However, since their participation in the war had been voluntary, the hero commission accepted that efforts in rebuilding the country and fully understanding the consequences of becoming a hero were just as essential as putting your life on the line during the greatest battles of the last century. 

“We’re leaving today? Jeanist didn’t tell me anything.”

“Tomorrow, actually. Hawks has already bought us the train tickets. It’s very important, apparently. I’m surprised Jeanist didn’t tell you.”

“I have a patrol today with him. He mentioned  a villain op that needs busting.”

“Anything dangerous?” inquired Iida. 

“Nah, just some mafia losers doing tax fraud or something. Though they’ve got a bodyguard of some sort which is why we’re expecting a fight to break out eventually. You know how it gets.” 

No one said anything in response. More of their classmates were beginning to shuffle into the common room, some wearing workout gear, some still in their pyjamas. The dormitories were still dipped in a velvety silence which hung over the students’ shoulders, leaving their hearts wary of the new day ahead of them. 

At the agency, Katsuki’s eyes went straight to the bulletin board. His chest tightened—another missing person poster. He scanned it instinctively, half-hoping, half-dreading it might be the same one from middle school: green eyes, green hair, freckles. But it wasn’t. It never was. Even during the war, Midoriya had never resurfaced, and that silence gnawed at him. Officially, the boy had been lost in the chaos, lumped into the thousands listed as missing. The police had eventually declared him dead. But Inko refused to hold a funeral. For that, Katsuki was quietly grateful. He wouldn’t have been able to go. Wouldn’t have been able to sit there with that knowledge in his chest without exploding—and that, undoubtedly, would’ve caused one hell of a scene with his mother.

“Dynamight! Get your hero costume on and head out in 5! We’ve just received intel that the villain exchange will happen earlier than what we initially expected,” said Threadline, one of the sidekicks at the Genius agency. “Jeanist is already waiting outside!”

Bakugou quickly shuffled out of his daytime clothes and into his hero costume: his giant grenades had been modified to accommodate better maneuverability and he’d gotten hearing aids after the war, specially made to protect his ears during combat. He popped each one in place and checked his trouser pockets for flashbang grenades and spare gloves which were usually the first to go in a fight. As soon as he stepped outside, Jeanist immediately began explaining the updated situation as Bakugou and he, as well as Threadline, began descending onto the busy streets of Tokyo. 

Hawks had taken a keen interest in this mission. As the newly appointed president of the Hero Safety Commission, his job was to root out the remaining rot in Japan’s underground—especially now that traditional villains had all but disappeared. Bank robberies and public assaults were rare these days; the war had changed everything. The public no longer questioned the legitimacy of heroes. Anyone still wearing a hero badge had already proven themselves in fire and blood.

“Of course, we’ll try not to engage in combat since these aren’t villains per se, but I want you to be on the lookout for Yamato’s men in case they try anything. From what I understand Yamato-san will have two bodyguards, one with a minor elasticity quirk in his hair and the other is quirkless, though very proficient with weapons.”

Bakugou’s heart fluttered in his chest upon hearing the word ‘quirkless’, even now he still held onto that hope of finding Deku, even though he didn’t know what he would do in such a situation. If anything, Katsuki thought glumly, it was his own selfishness preventing him from accepting the current situation, his desire to absolve himself of any lingering guilt over his death. 

“Dynamight, you’ll be incharge of intercepting the henchmen, Threadline, ensure that no civilians get wrapped into this mess. I’ll be the one to confiscate the documents.” 

“Yes sir!”

They arrived at the scene. The exchange was happening in a residential area, between two ordinary looking flats. You could’ve been witnessing it and just assume it was two neighbours exchanging mail and be none the wiser. But Katsuki could tell this was no ordinary meeting. There was another guy going down the stairs, carrying a trash bag in what could be considered a casual fashion, but Katsuki identified him as one of the henchmen. He also noticed Threadline moving south and already identifying the other quirkless villain, no doubt in position with a sniper rifle. At the exchange, Yamato-san, one of the branch managers of an oil tycoon was exuding an oppressive and bloodthirsty aura, indiscernible to a civilian, but all too common to a veteran like Bakugou. Then he saw the recipient of the document delivery, wearing casual joggers and a hoodie. Jeanist hadn’t mentioned his name or ability, their intel team coming up short with any useful information. Their best guess was that this person was the interlocutor between Yamato and an even greater villainous force. It would be Katsuki’s job to intercept the documents while Jeanist restrained both parties. Yamato would ultimately be handed to the police, while the other guy was to be interrogated in finding out who the mastermind was behind this operation. With a sharp nod, Jeanist signalled to Bakugou to move in, when all of a sudden they heard a loud bang. Bakugou’s heart rate quickened with the familiar anticipation of a battle. 

He saw the mysterious recipient party jumping towards the trash bag guy, knocking him off his feet and instantly cutting off his hair with a sharp knife. Yamato immediately reacted and a gun was heard firing off into the distance, however no bullet found its target, Threadline having already intercepted the sniper. Jeanist immediately moved in with Bakugou in tow as Yamato screamed in retaliation. Their mystery man tried swooping him off his feet in an attempt to make him lose balance, but Yamato backed away and produced out of thin air a giant hammer - his quirk, no doubt - and began swinging violently. In the corner of his eye, Bakugou took notice of a little disc sitting in its case on the floor. Jeanist immobilised the hair henchman who was preparing to strike at the hoodie guy who evaded one attack only to freeze upon noticing Jeanist’s thread and try to dash with a yelp. Yamato took notice of this turn of events and tried collecting the disc before running away as well, however Bakugou immediately smashed it and grabbed the boss by his collar. Jeanist pulled his threads, tightening them around Yamato’s arms and torso. 

“The other one, Dynamight! I can handle Yamato!” he barked out and Katsuki felt his body move all on its own towards the hooded figure. He blasted an explosion, propelling himself forward, his left arm outstretched to catch this small time crook. He instantly latched onto the man and pushed him onto the ground using his entire body weight. The man let out another yelp. His voice was high pitched and his body felt lean. 

“I think it would be wise for you to cooperate with us if you want at least a chance to not go to prison,” Bakugou murmured even though the person under him was making no attempt to struggle. He felt that body tense up, breathing laboured and fists clenched, but he felt no incoming threat. He gently lifted himself up, one hand holding onto the boy’s wrists, pinning them behind his back while another forced his hood down. 

He didn’t recognize him immediately. He had changed quite a bit. For starters his hair was dyed pitch black and closely cropped along his sides. His skin was far paler than he’d known it, making his freckles stand out ostensibly. His lips were parted slightly, almost white and fairly cracked and his nose was crooked as if it hadn’t been set properly after being broken. He noticed an intricate orchid tattoo, crawling its way along the side of his neck. But his eyes, they were that same emerald green that Bakugou had obsessed over and had seen day in, day out on those missing person posters. Those eyes, he would recognize anywhere. His voice felt stuck in his throat.

“D-Deku?” he croaked. 

Upon hearing that name, the boy’s eyes shone more powerfully and Izuku took Bakugou’s moment of hesitation to shove his pinned hands backwards until he blindly felt for Katsuki’s crotch. Before the hero could react he grabbed both his balls and yanked them hard. The result was instantaneous. Bakugou keeled over in pain, gripping his nether region while Midoriya began wildly running in the opposite direction. 

“Deku, you bastard, I’ll kill you!” Bakugou shouted, his vein protruding out of his forehead, his teeth clenched. He noticed Midoriya fumbling with some sort of keychain, an All Might themed one, that he dropped to the ground and instead of retrieving it, it looked as if the boy had given up on its use entirely in favour of running away. However, just as he was about to jump over the back alley fence, his limbs were immobilized by Jeanist who was already done making Yamato’s arrest. 

Best Jeanist jerked Midoriya backwards and cuffed him right away.

“Dynamight, you alright?”

“Yes, sir, I was callous, I’m sorry,” Bakugou spoke, his voice scratchy from the pain. His heart was hammering in his chest, his breathing irregular and his eyes bulged out of his head. Bakugou lifted his head and gazed at Jeanist handling Midoriya’s immobilised body and felt a shiver run through his body. ‘This couldn’t be him, it just couldn’t. He was dead, right? Why now, after all this time?’ he thought. Those same thoughts clashed with louder, more aggressive ones. ‘How the fuck is Deku a villain? How could he abandon All Might? I’m gonna destroy him for grabbing my balls! He’ll rot in prison for the rest of his life!’ 

He took notice of the way Best Jeanist cupped Izuku’s face, lifting it up so that the tall man could take a better look at him. In that moment, Bakugou saw an expression settle over the pro’s features that he had never seen before, not after faking his death with Hawks and actually almost dying, not during the battle with All for One, not during the Nomu invasion. Jeanist looked absolutely horrified once he locked eyes with Midoriya, but it wasn’t just that. It was also recognition.

Jeanist was looking at Deku like he was staring down a bomb with a ticking clock. He gasped and suddenly the strings he used to immobilize Deku tripled in number. 

“Did he touch you?” he spat, turning towards Bakugou, his eyes looking at him erratically. Katsuki blushed and tried not to look at his crotch self consciously before muttering a yes. “Check for bombs, Katsuki, now!” 

“I had him immobilized, he only threw a punch that was unexpected, I highly doubt that-”

“Just do as you’re ordered, Dynamight! This could make the difference between-”

He couldn’t finish his sentence as Bakugou felt a vibration on his thigh and a sharp pain pierce through his leg with a loud bang. He coughed once, though was mostly unaffected since he was used to explosions on a daily basis. He grit his teeth. When had Deku managed to fucking booby trap him? 

Bakugou rose to his feet to assess the damage and heard another groan from Jeanist as he heard Deku spitting into his eyes. 

“Don’t let him escape!”

Using the same blade he’d wielded before to cut Yamato’s henchman’s hair, Deku cut himself loose from Jeanist’s threads. Katsuki plunged forward just as Deku released a smoke bomb, a minty green color which coated the entire alley. There was coughing from all sides and the sounds of feet shuffling. Katsuki let out a frustrated growl as he tried clearing the smoke and debris away, feeling Deku once again slip through his fingers. But he couldn’t, he wouldn’t let him anymore. 

Bakugou, allowed his vision to get used to the minty cloud of smoke and saw the small silhouette he was actively chasing. He propelled himself in the air with a carefully positioned explosion and extended his fist for a quick punch, however Izuku dodged, the smoke bomb never hindering his movements. ‘He’s used to this,’ Bakugou thought and another chill ran down his spine. He clenched his jaw and prepared to strike using his feet, but just as he was drawing nearer, he noticed Threadline jump Midoriya from behind, using his Seam quirk to permanently fuse Midoriya’s clothing to his own. In the meantime, Jeanist had made a swift recovery and moved to yet again immobilize Midoriya. This time around, Bakugou noticed the light in his eyes dim as his former childhood friend, the person he had once thought forever lost opened his mouth for the first time:

“Fuck! The sniper guy of course!” he shouted with an animalistic venom that made everyone’s skin crawl. His voice was somehow the same as it had been when they were kids, going through an almost nondescript puberty and Bakugou was, for a second, brought back to the times Deku would throw tantrums after being defeated in their pretend games of villains and heroes. Even so, his voice was hoarse as if it was very rarely used and it made the sounds coming from his mouth sound disembodied, as if belonging to someone else. 

“Nobody talks to him!” came Jeanist’s authoritative reply. He was still looking around as if looking for some other trap Deku could’ve set up to escape, but the coast seemed clear and the tiny prickles of tears which coated Deku’s eyes seemed to indicate that he was officially out of moves. 

“Jeanist, I-” Bakugou started, wanting to figure out this mess. Why was the pro so agitated? Did he know about Midoriya? Katsuki had information that could be useful to use. However he was quickly interrupted. 

“Don’t speak, you don’t know what he's capable of!”

“But-”

“Dynamight, huh? Is that your hero name, Kacchan? It fits you,” spoke Deku, his voice changing from a frustrated snarl to a breathy chuckle. At the use of his childhood nickname, Bakugou felt all air leave his lungs as he stared wide eyed at the boy before him. Deku was smiling exactly as he did back when they were kids and watching All Might videos together and, for a second, it was almost as if no time had passed, like none of the things that had happened since he had disappeared were real. Bakugou’s chest grew uncomfortably tight and he bit back an angry retort as he was technically still under Jeanist’s orders. The pro turned towards the blond, his eyes widening imperceptibly. 

“You know him?”

“I used to.”

The hero seemed to consider this new information, turning it over in his head before seemingly filing it away. He shot out several fabric strings and promptly covered Midoriya’s mouth before he could say anything more. Threadline began retracting himself from their target and locking his hands with special quirk cancelling cuffs. 

“You won’t need those,” Bakugou sneered. “He’s quirkless.”

“Not according to the police, he’s not,” shot out Threadline. 

“I’ve known him almost my entire life! He’s just a useless little shit! That isn’t possible!” Bakugou’s voice grew louder and louder and an unconscious spark was released from his hand. He looked down, stunned. This hasn’t happened to him since before the war once Katsuki had gotten full reign of his quirk, never allowing his anger to interfere with it. 

“Both of you, settle down,” said Jeanist, regaining his composure once it seemed that Midoriya was fully restrained once and for all. The sound of police sirens was nearing. “We still have to make sure Yamato is taken into custody. Threadline, check on the others. Bakugou, a word.” 

Bakugou shuffled closer, craning his neck upwards to catch the pro’s words. 

“You are not to speak a word about this to anybody,” Jeanist’s voice was once again cool and methodical, however he was still clearly on edge. “I don’t know what your relationship to that boy is, we shall have to discuss that later, but right now all I know is that we finally have custody of a very notorious underground figure that pros have been searching for for years during highly classified missions.  So whatever emotions you might be feeling right now, you must first prioritize getting Shinbun to the detective’s station for interrogation. Then, we shall deal with the fallout.”

“Shinbun?”

“It’s the alias he was given by the task force. You know his real name?”

Bakugou paused. He hadn’t uttered that name since he was four years old. 

“It’s Izuku. Izuku Midoriya.”

Chapter Text

During the aftermath of the villain op, Yamato and his men were arrested and kept in jail awaiting their formal trials, however Midoriya was kept under strict surveillance into one of the cells at the police headquarters manned by detective Tsukauchi who had been at the forefront of Shinbun’s investigation. 

Shinbun was a name highly regarded in villain circles, a prolific information trader who kept numerous secrets about both villain trading as well as the Public Safety Commission. There had been evidence of his activity since before the war as well, but ever since the League of Villains got defeated, he had become more and more well known. Hawks was especially interested in catching and interrogating him, as a former informant who was well aware of the threat such a character posed. During the two years of the war aftermath there had been several hunts for Shinbun’s head, a bounty of 200 million yen on his head for a safe capture. Tsukauchi’s team, along with All Might and several notorious agencies were the only ones in on the deal, as Shinbun’s profile could’ve sparked massive public outrage and fear. 

“What’s the deal with Deku anyway?” asked Bakugou on the way to the police station with Jeanist. He had noticed just how tense the hero still was even with Midoriya in custody and couldn’t help his weariness growing steadily as he took in more and more information about this supposed criminal Shinbun. It just didn’t click in his head. How could Deku become so dangerous? He had been a fucking loser! 

“Before the war there were reports of a mercenary gang who specialized in dangerous jobs for any client willing to pay,” began Jeanist as he steered the wheel of his Denim Mobile. “They collaborated with multiple parties, even a couple of vigilantes and some police forces for some underground missions, but were also spotted in various villain hideouts doing money laundering, trafficking of weapons or unapproved support items and whatnot. However, about 5 years ago, they got a new member which we called Minto because of his minty smoke bombs which you’ve witnessed first hand. At first, nothing had changed, however this group attacked the Public Safety shortly before the first League battle at UA. This made the police question their involvement with Shigaraki and his men. It was also reported that the Hero Archives and the Quirk Registry had been raided, the only trail left behind was that mint green. It changed everything we knew about the gang.”

“And you thought that was Deku? But he’s just a quirkless wannabe! He… He died! He went missing back in middle school and I knew him! He was weak and a crybaby and he barely kept up with his studies!” 

“When exactly did he go missing, Bakugou?” 

The blond paused. He remembered the date with a sort of disgust only years of guilt and hatred could muster. 

“It was June the 15th. He was thirteen. That was…”

“Five years ago, perhaps?”

Bakugou felt as if he’d swallowed a boulder, yet Best Jeanist paid him no mind as he continued. 

“To think, that incident was caused by a thirteen year old boy… You have no idea just how many strings the Hero Commission pulled to cover it all up. Thankfully, the media was fully focused on the League of Villains and as their group gained more notoriety, Shinbun’s gang faded into the background. The number of jobs they took rarefied. It was principal Nezu who came to the conclusion that they were anticipating a big move on Shigaraki’s part and surely enough there was the Gunga Mountain Villa raid.

“After the war, information became very important and more often than not, it came from unreliable sources and was not as accurate. That’s when Shinbun made his first appearance. There were newsletters being passed around refugee shelters with detailed accounts of the war, of Hawks’ classified missions, of every death and casualty on both hero and villain sides. We tracked down the source and surely enough we identified that it was Minto in charge of those. He had rebranded himself as Shinbun to the underground. On the day of Hawks’ inauguration in the Hero Public Safety Commission, he struck down three facilities and stole several documents detailing former heroes who had worked with the Commission doing its dirty work, people like Lady Nagant. That changed everything and soon we put Shinbun and his gang to the forefront of our operations.

“We were still busy, however, rebuilding the damages caused by the war, trying to bring back the sense of security and trust the public held for heroes. Tsukauchi along with several members of the Shinbun task force decided to keep his presence a secret and hunt him down behind the scenes. As of now, only I as well as All Might, Hawks, the police, Gang Orca, Eraserhead, Nezu and Mount Lady know about him. And now I can add you to the list. It’s great news that you know him, it’ll make his cooperation easier, but this is all classified and should not be discussed with anyone outside these circles. We don’t know what Shinbun is fully capable of doing and if more people were to know of his existence, he could make his escape easier as well as manipulate the media.”

“Deku? Manipulate the media? It’s like we’re talking about different people!” Bakugou scoffed. “I don’t know anything about this Shinbun person but he sure as hell doesn’t sound like the guy I know.” There was a pout settling on his lips and his brows were creased tightly. Jeanist sighed. 

“We’ll just have to see during his interrogation if he shows any signs of recognition. There might be some chances that a villain could’ve interfered with his mind or took over his body. You said he was quirkless?”

“Yes, he’s dreamed all his life of becoming a hero but he had no sort of power.”

Jeanist paused, considering this information. 

“In none of the accounts we’ve received has there been any sign of him exhibiting a combative quirk and we also know that he has no sort of heteromorphic traits. We initially assumed that his quirk is the type that isn’t initially noticeable, like Eraserhead’s erasure. At any rate, I want your full cooperation, Dynamight, in trying to pry whatever information we can out of him. No matter what sort of bond or history you two shared-” at this, Bakugou cringed - “we have to make sure we grasp the full scope of his knowledge on our hero society.” 

Bakugou didn’t reply, choosing to stare out the window instead and mull over the information in his mind. If he hadn’t seen him with his own two eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it. Deku? Dangerous? Deku, the guy who once cried when Bakugou stomped on a cicada? The guy who called him Kacchan and who called his mom auntie? He shuddered as he recalled Midoriya’s voice calling him that nickname during their battle. 

He thought of the missing posters which had haunted his remaining middle school year. The posters which showcased a scrawny preteen boy who seemed about to enter the full throes of puberty, his hair curly and all over the place, his cheeks still retaining most of their babyfat. This person, Shinbun, was nothing like Deku, yet Bakugou had inevitably recognized him. 

Best Jeanist pulled into the parking lot at the Investigation Bureau and got out of the car, Bakugou following sullenly. He felt a knot in his throat which made it hard to swallow and a fresh layer of sweat coated his clammy hands. He had considered Deku’s return for so long. There had been countless sleepless nights in which he had wished that he never came back, where he tried convincing himself that he never even existed. Yet he’d been haunted by his ghost whether it was his classmates whispering or Inko Midoriya visiting his house, crying while being held by his mother and staring at pictures from their childhood. More than anything he wanted to know if it had been his fault, if he had been the one responsible to push Deku to his limits, if he had created this Shinbun. His entire body felt cold all of a sudden as this realization set in. What if his callousness had caused all of this?

Detective Tsukauchi met them inside and led them to a sterile, white room separated by a transparent partition. On their side were Hawks, All Might as well as Principal Nezu, whose mind had been of great service in trailing and formulating theories surrounding this mysterious character. On the other side of the partition, sat Deku, strapped to a chair, his hands still tied with those quirk cancelling handcuffs which served to piss off Bakugou to no end. What if this entire time that piece of shit had had a quirk and had kept it hidden away? Bakugou would strangle the turd for ever looking down on him! 

There was a glint in Deku’s eyes—feral, almost unhinged. Even so, he smiled that same, innocent smile he’d always had since childhood. It made Bakugou’s chest ache. As soon as Jeanist and Bakugou entered the room, Deku kept his gaze trained on the blond, looking him once over and Bakugou could almost see the gears turning in his mind. Hawks rose. 

“Shinbun, there is no point in trying to resist or give us false information. We’ve injected you with a truth telling serum and we’ll know if you try to lie to us.” He spoke with a gravelly voice, keeping his eyes trained on the boy and squaring up his shoulders. 

“I’m detective Tsukauchi, I’ll be the one interrogating you. First there’s-”

“I already know,” said Midoriya and his voice left the whole interrogation room several degrees colder. He motioned with his chin. “You’re Naomasa Tsukauchi, 45, quirkless, Hawks or Keigo Takami, 23, quirk: Fierce Wings, though you’re quite wingless now, right?” He chuckled softly before continuing, no one daring him to stop. “Nezu, 51, quirk: High Specs, principal of UA High, Best Jeanist or Tsunagu Hakamada, 36, quirk: Fiber Master and of course Katsuki Bakugou, 18, quirk: explosion. Your hero name is Dynamight, as I happen to understand.” Midoriya’s voice was light, yet methodical. He paused as he set his eyes on All Might, sitting down in his skinny form which had been made public after his final fight against Shigaraki and All for One. “All Might or Toshinori Yagi, 49, quirk… Should I tell them?” His smile widened and Midoriya lurched forward with no warning. “Can I, All Might, can I?” 

Bakugou turned his attention to the former number one who was sitting stu nned in silence, his face several shades paler, but before any of them could reply, Nezu stood up all of a sudden, his face bearing a confident smile which matched Midoriya’s feral one. 

“Not a lot of people manage to guess my age so accurately, young boy. I guess it is true that you are a fine informant,” he began with his steady, chirping voice. “I suppose there’s no longer any need for any introductions, except perhaps yours. As I happen to understand, your real name is Izuku Midoriya, isn’t it? You’re 18?” 

At the mention of his name, Deku’s brow lightly twitched, however the small action didn’t go unnoticed by the genius rat. 

“He’s 17,” grumbled Bakugou. “He turns 18 in July.” 

“Oh, then my mistake. As for your quirk? Some people,” he looked pointedly in Bakugou’s direction, “seem to believe that you are quirkless. Is that right?”

There was a subtle shift in Deku’s behaviour. His smile remained fixed, wide and pearly teethed in a blatant imitation of All Might’s, yet his eyes gained a certain coldness to them. 

“No. Kacchan’s wrong,” Midoriya spoke as he felt the truth serum taking effect. “I’m just like you, Nezu-san. I can predict things by analyzing the environment around me and using my photographic memory,” he spoke at a fast pace and Bakugou saw dribbles of blood etch out the corners of his mouth. 

“He’s trying to bite his tongue so that he won’t reveal more,” said Hawks, a weary look on his usually laidback face. “We might have to bring in Shinsou if we want full cooperation.”

“That wouldn’t be a smart move,” Deku began eagerly. “Shinsou’s quirk might be brainwashing but he can’t make any of his targets reveal any information properly as he essentially takes over their brain. A more suitable quirk would be Shin Nemoto of the Shie Hassaikai, but he owes me a favour so even if you got him to cooperate, he would never actually get a confession out of me.” 

Hawks grit his teeth as his blatant intimidation tactic hadn’t worked. By that point, Bakugou was growing tenser by the second as he saw the casual way in which Izuku taunted the strongest heroes of today’s society. 

“You fucking dweeb! You think you’re better than all of us? Hiding and keeping a quirk a secret!” he bellowed. “You know what I think? No matter how tough and scary you think you are just because you know some crappy information, that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a fucking coward and that you’ve hurt more people than you’ve helped. Have you seen your mother? She was a wreck! You wanted to be a hero but all I see is a bitch!” 

“That’s enough, Dynamight,” Jeanist reprimanded, but Bakugou’s words were already taking effect. Deku paled at the mention of his mother, his smile all but disappearing, his lips pressed into a thin line. Seeing this as an opportunity for offense, Tsukauchi asked another question. 

“What do you know about the Villain Den? Is that where your associates have been hiding?” 

Izuku paid him no mind, still staring blankly at Katsuki, contemplating. 

“There’s a lot to be gained with your cooperation, Midoriya-san. If what Dynamight said is true and you did at one point wish to become a hero, that could still be possible with the information you’ve retained. In the eyes of the law, there still isn’t enough evidence to properly convict you. However, we still have the power to issue some sort of a sentence so play your cards wisely.” 

Nezu leaned in, crossing his arms. 

“I imagine you’ve already accounted for every scenario we might present to you. That’s the thing with analytical minds—they overprepare. But tell me, Midoriya, have you prepared for the variable you can’t control?”

“Which is?” Deku asked without even sparing the mouse a glance, eyes still boring holes into Katsuki.
“Rememberance. The best plans don’t collapse because of power. They collapse because of people. Emotions. Attachment. You still feel those things, don’t you?” Nezu waited for a beat, eyes trained on the restrained boy, waiting for any sort of indication that he was getting through to him. “What would you do if someone from Niwa showed up at UA, Midoriya?”

Izuku instinctively stiffened. Nezu pushed on. 

“There are some things not even the greatest minds can escape. Usually, it is exactly our minds which can turn on us and become torturous. I can… sympathize with that. We can help you overcome that, you know?” 

That line seemed to awaken something in Deku, his eyes once again shining brightly as if he'd found an opening in a game of chess. 

“Did he ever tell you?” he whispered as he looked at Kacchan with an expression of fondness which made the blond’s skin prickle. 

“Tell me what?”

“That he was looking for a successor.” 

Nezu’s arms uncrossed, yet he didn’t blink. “Midoriya-”

“Oh no, no, don’t look at me like that. I’m just clearing the air. I’m remembering, as you so gently put it. Let’s remember together, Toshinori-san. I’m surprised old Gran Torino isn’t here for this interrogation. Though, I suppose you couldn’t have known the extent of my information. I even know about her, Nana Shimura. Honestly, it was quite easy to figure out.”

“What the hell are you talking about, nerd?” Bakugou shouted.

“About One for All, of course. What, you didn’t know?” he asked, feigning innocence. 

Before Bakugou could respond, Tsukauchi banged his fist onto the metal table in front of them and rose to his feet. “Jeanist, Bakugou-kun, I need you to get out.” 

As the explosive hero was about to begin to voice a complaint, Jeanist grabbed him by the collar and dragged him away with force. “This isn’t the time and place, Dynamight,” he muttered. “We’ve…underestimated him.”

“How could we underestimate Deku? He’s… He’s nothing!” Bakugou shouted, stubborn and raw, like someone clinging to a truth that no longer fit. Unconsciously his pulse quickened, his body having already perceived that exchange as a threat to be dealt with. 

Inside, the four remaining men stared in silence at the apprehended criminal. The one who knew the secret of One for All, a secret so closely guarded it had survived even the war. Underestimated wasn’t a big enough word. All Might looked under those harsh lights even skinnier than before, his skin a sickly white, his cheeks sunken. 

“How?” asked All Might, his voice tiny compared to the raucous tone of his youth. 

“It was so simple. I had already noticed your powers weakening. You could only hold it in for a couple of hours, right? That muscled form. When All for One appeared for the first time it was as if my entire being tingled in recognition. So I looked into that chaotic period when he ruled Japan by transferring quirks. I found all sorts of accounts. He had approximately 567 quirks back then, though I only managed to categorize about 348. But no matter, that’s when I finally stumbled upon the name Yoichi Shigaraki. It all fell like dominoes after that.”

“How many people know?”

“Just me, for now. Though I suppose now, I should ask for your cooperation now.”

“For what? What exactly do you wish to achieve?” All Might pressed on. 

“Why, to be a hero, of course!” Midoriya laughed. “All men are not born equal! I know that firsthand! And our society currently doesn’t allow the people with the right dedication in their hearts to serve society. It casts them away and praises the strong! But who then controls the strong? Is it the Hero Commission? We all know how that turned out! Is it the Symbol of Peace? You’re gone, All Might! You can’t fight anymore! If you think all villains have disappeared after the war, you’re sorely mistaken! My information levels out the playing field. It lets ordinary people know how to defend themselves, how to think critically, to not blatantly accept whatever hero may come to defeat whatever villain of the week decides to attack our streets! Quirks aren’t supposed to be everything! There won’t always be the right hero with the right quirk at any given time!”

“This isn’t justice, Midoriya. You’re not trying to save people. You’re trying to burn it all down.” spoke All Might with more passion.

“Are you even aware?” Midoriya suddenly shouted, all shred of light gone from his eyes. He was fully crying now. “Are you even aware of how many people die because of ignorant heroes who don’t know where to look? How many people get their dreams crushed, how many can’t find work opportunities because of their quirks? How many people get falsely locked up or abused because of the whims of our society? I mean, just look at Eri! You think she’s the only victim of this system? Are you stupid? I’m not burning down anything. I’m simply reorganizing. ”

A beat. Everyone stared blankly as Midoriya panted with the effort of expressing his thoughts cohesively. It was difficult to talk at a pace regular humans could understand. After a while, Hawks cleared his throat. 

“I used to say the same things, you know. Back when I still believed the Commission gave a damn,” he spoke as he leaned forward against the glass. “I know all about power imbalances. And I think now more than ever I can feel the full weight of that as I’ll never be able to fly ever again. You might still be considered a villain, but you’re not entirely wrong. I just believe you’ve been going about it the wrong way.”

“So what? You want me to write an apology and do some community service?” Izuku scoffed. “Don’t play the sympathy card, Hawks, when you did all the Commission’s dirty work until you finally rose to the very top.”

“Yes, but you see, I can use my position to help you. I support to some degree your theory. Losing the Symbol of Peace has left a gap that now more than ever shows us the stark contrast of the weak and strong, the good and evil. But I can grant you a position to help bridge that gap.”

He took Izuku’s silence as an encouragement to continue. 

“I call it the Villain Reformation Program. It’s something Lady Nagant and I have been working for in secret. The public has yet to know anything about it! You’ll be monitored, leashed, judged every second. But you'll have access. To information. To resources. To the very system you’ve studied from the outside for years. I’m not here to save you, Midoriya. I’m here to use you. Just like the Commission used me. But this time? You get to choose how you’re used.”

“Young Midoriya. My mistakes can never be erased,” began All Might. “I, more than anybody, know the influence a hero has on people. But seeing your capabilities, your passion, your conviction… There is no doubt. You were always meant to be a hero.”

Sitting outside, Bakugou and Best Jeanist were startled by a loud scream. Of joy? Of sorrow? Of anger? They couldn’t figure it out. 

“I said before going into this interrogation that this Midoriya might not be the same person you once knew, Bakugou,” said Jeanist. “That he might’ve gotten his brain manipulated by a villain or worse. Do you think that is the case after seeing him?”

“No,” Bakugou’s voice cracked under the weight of that syllable. That smile, his eyes, those cries… They were Deku through and through. 

Bakugou simply stood, his muscles flexed in anticipation of battle, listening to more agonizing screams and sobs, not knowing what this meant for Deku. 

Chapter Text

“I found it,” Ran said, thumbing the All Might keychain lying inconspicuously on the cracked asphalt. It was small enough to miss, plastic dulled by weather, the little smile on the hero’s face nearly rubbed off. You’d overlook it unless you knew what to search for.

Ran always knew.

The paint on the surrounding walls peeled in shades of minty green, and the air reeked faintly of sour milk and smoke. He crouched, palm closing over the trinket like it was something sacred.

“Do you think Yamato could’ve gotten to him?” he asked into the burner phone pressed to his ear.

“It couldn’t be him,” came the static-laced voice on the other end. “Shinbun had counters for everyone in Yamato’s ring. Names, quirks, behavioral tics—he mapped them all out weeks ago. If anything, this was an outside force. Someone we missed.”

Ran’s brows furrowed. He shifted against the alley wall, a flicker of discomfort tightening his throat.

“I snagged a paper. Yamato was taken in by... Best Jeanist.”

A long silence. Then:

“This is bad, Ran.”

“He wouldn’t get caught. Not like that. Not by a pro.” Ran’s tone cracked on the last word. “He’s too smart for that.”

“Maybe. But he’s also reckless when he feels cornered.” The voice paused. “I’ll talk to Daichi. He’ll check the police records, see if he shows up in interrogation logs. But listen—until we know more, say nothing. If word gets out that Shinbun's not with us anymore…”

The implication hung like fog between them.

“I understand.” Ran ended the call and let the phone drop into his pocket. The keychain turned warm in his hand. For a moment, he didn’t move. He felt his mind slipping into his memories, into dreams he’d shared with him, back when Midoriya would sit next to him and mutter about his plans or battle strategies and Ran simply listened as if stuck in a trance. 

Ran exhaled sharply, grounding himself. He tucked the keychain into the inner pocket of his jacket, close to his chest. “You better have a plan, Shinbun,” he muttered to no one, his voice almost tender. “You always do.”

Then he vanished into the shadows—like the Den had taught him to, like Shinbun had trained him to—his steps already syncing to the rhythm of fear.

At UA, Izuku was sitting in the principal’s office, his hands handcuffed, but otherwise he had been allowed full mobility. In front of him were Nezu and All Might, this time joined by a frazzled looking man with deep eyebags and frown lines making him look older than he actually was. An underground hero, Izuku realised with a start and if memory served right… Erasermind? Eraserhead? 

He ignored the nagging, scratchy feeling on his brain that he got every time he couldn’t accurately recall information and focused on the most imposing figure in the room, sitting in front of him with her elbows propped on the desk staring straight ahead, piercing him with her eyes. Lady Nagant. 

“Hawks has a… soft spot for you,” she began, voice even, yet commanding. “Or rather your abilities. But I hold no such esteem for villains.”

“It’s interesting you’ve vouched for this program then, Tsutsumi Kaina-san,” Midoriya spoke leisurely and not as if his very future was being decided right on the spot. His mind was firing off in a million different directions: to Kacchan’s expression when he’d at last emerged from the interrogation room, eyes red and rubbed raw, or All Might’s skinny figure lingering in the corner of his mind, his hero, the Symbol of Peace reduced to a glorified stick figure. Lady Nagant stiffened at the mention of her real name which was classified information. Shinbun was just as informed as she’d been briefed, but it was still jarring to witness in real life. 

“I shall perhaps find it in me to care once you’ve proven yourself. But for now, you are under the Commission’s jurisdiction and I shan’t take any chances when selecting those who deserve a second chance. That is why-”

“Sorry, excuse me,” Izuku squealed, not being able to hold it in any longer. “This is getting painful. You’re Shota Aizawa, right? Age 33, has a quirk that erases other quirks and so on… It’s just…remind me of your hero name again?”

Aizawa made no move to answer the question, eyeing the boy warily and letting out a small sigh. 

“It’s Eraserhead, Midoriya-kun,” provided Nezu with a squeak. 

“Oh thank God.” Deku slumped back, shoulders loose. “Thought I was going to go insane for a second.” He once again set his eyes on Lady Nagant, finally able to dedicate his entire attention on her and the effect was visceral. The heroine backed away at the intensity in his gaze which threatened to decipher government secrets in the briefest twitch of an eyebrow. She cleared her throat. 

“You have both Hawks and All Might vouching for you, however. They say you have the makings of a hero, that you can use your abilities for good.” Lady Nagant watched him carefully, trying to pierce the casual confidence Midoriya wore like armor. But it was airtight. He didn’t sweat. He didn’t twitch. He didn’t flinch —not even under her gaze, the same one that made trained killers break.

“That’s what I’ve been doing so far,” he said with a tilt of his head. “The Hero Commission’s just too scared of the kind of work I deal with. That’s why you need me. I can teach you just as much as you can teach me.” 

The smile on his lips didn’t touch his eyes. For all his warmth, there was something surgical in how he said it. Lady Nagant shifted slightly in her chair, annoyed at how easily this boy got under her skin. If it were up to her, the boy in front of her would be in jail, at the very least until they could sufficiently pry his mind of every single nugget of information stored. But the debrief mentioned that he was only 17… Of course, Hawks would grow soft and believe he is something to be saved.

A beat of silence passed. Then:

“So let me get this straight,” she said coolly. “You’re offering to work with the people who once deemed you a risk to national security, in exchange for what? A dorm room and some cafeteria meals?”

“No,” Midoriya said simply. “In exchange for a chance to rewrite the narrative. From the inside.”

Aizawa let out a small breath. He hadn’t said much, typical of him, but he’d been watching the boy closely. Analyzing. Weighing. When he finally spoke, it was low and without emotion.

“I’ll keep him in my class.”

Everyone looked at him.

“You can’t be serious,” Lady Nagant snapped.

“If we want this to work, he’ll need structure, visibility. And surveillance. My classroom provides all three.” He glanced at Nezu. “I’ve handled problem children before.”

“He’s not a problem child,” she said. “He’s a walking classified document.”

Midoriya watched this exchange with quiet amusement. Then he turned back to Nezu, who had been silent until now—paws folded, ears still, eyes bright. 

“You understand, Midoriya-kun,” he began, “That one mistake, one manipulation attempt, and this collaboration falls apart. Although your cooperation is in our best interest, we won’t hesitate to pull you out of this program, should it not work. If you fail, it’s not just your freedom that’s gone, it’s this entire reform initiative.”
“I’m aware.”

“You’ll be forced to adhere to a strict and rigid program,” Nagant spoke coolly, still not fully convinced of the boy’s desire to cooperate. “You won’t have any contact with the outside world. You’ll live here, on campus, attend classes and follow the UA curriculum. You’ll have to answer to Aizawa-sensei at any moment of the day and Nezu-san will be doing your assessments weekly. You’ll have to be seen by a psychiatrist and Recovery Girl as well. The only moment of peace you’ll have will be in the bathroom and don’t count on that. They’re communal.” 

Midoriya’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, never breaking contact with the heroine. “Should I bring my own handcuffs or are those school-issue too?” Nezu chirped and extended a paw. 

“Welcome to Class 3-A, Midoriya-kun.”

Bakugou had to spend a week in Yamanashi with Icyhot in order to rebuild some stupid bridge. All the while his thoughts lingered on Deku. When he’d emerged from the interrogation room, Jeanist had had to hold Bakugou back in order to keep him from immediately jumping on his former childhood friend turned victim. Katsuki had had so many doubts and weird, inexplicable jolts of anxiety since discovering Deku and his newfound power and influence. By the time Bakugou had found him, he had been completely transformed and instead of Deku, there was now Shinbun. However, all those thoughts quieted down as he saw Deku, cuffed and dragged by Hawks out of the police station, his face red and blotchy from crying and his lower lip sticking out pathetically. It had reminded him so much of the quirkless loser he’d known him to be that he almost got whiplash and suddenly he was back at their middle school telling Deku to kill himself. That had been the day, hadn’t it? The day everything went to shit. 

Each night, Katsuki would collapse on his futon and recall every single detail about Midoriya on that fateful day they reunited. His hair had been much shorter and greasy, his curls matted on the side and his face had gotten even more freckled, yet he’d been so pale… Bakugou would recall how he’d held Deku’s wrists which had gotten bigger. He’d grown, being of the same height level as Katsuki and he hadn’t felt particularly frail or thin which meant he must’ve been working out a bit. It was an unnerving thought. Somehow, as the years passed and the photographs on the missing posters didn’t change, Katsuki had convinced himself that Deku had remained the same as he had known him on the day of his disappearance. 

He wondered how he’d broken his nose since Deku’s nose had been perfectly straight before. In fact, he’d argue it was one of the very few qualities which were endearing to see - his button up nose. ‘What the hell,’ Bakugou muttered, recoiling. ‘Did I seriously just call his nose cute?’ He got up immediately and began doing push-ups to further exert himself. This was also something he’d begun doing since going on the Yamanashi trip and it drove Todoroki crazy but Katsuki didn’t care. The physical effort made him temporarily forget all about his confusing feelings. 

It’s just…He’d thought for the longest time that maybe it was for the best. Deku was gone which meant another burden had been lifted from his shoulders and he could focus on becoming the best without any hindrances making unnecessary comments or analyses. Turns out though that had been his quirk, huh? That thought twisted in Katsuki’s gut like a knife. How could Deku fucking hide a quirk? Making a fool out of him each time he’d called the twerp quirkless? Or perhaps, he simply hadn’t known. Maybe that was the day he’d found out, the day he was gone. But that also didn’t make any sense… 

Deku’s dream had been to become a hero. As annoying as it had been, that fact was undeniable. Deku was also tenacious as fuck, so what the hell could’ve changed his mind? It’s not like he turned vigilante overnight. Fuck, Deku was classified as a villain. A highly intelligent, classified villain. That particular thought made Bakugou’s heart speed up and he increased his push-ups, panting and grunting all the way. His mind flickered as he was reminded of that orchid tattoo reaching his lower neck. Now that was something he wouldn’t have been able to ever see on Izuku. I mean, mister Izuku- didn’t even take one sip of coffee because it was for adults- Midoriya had a fucking tattoo? What was next, a lip piercing? His mind unwittingly procured that said image and Bakugou’s stomach started hurting once more. Just what the hell was wrong with him? Once again, he shamefully wished Deku had stayed hidden away. Now that he was aware of the fact that the damn nerd wasn’t dead, it was as if some invisible barrier had lifted and every bad thought and insult he’d kept at bay came hurling back at mach 20. 

He stopped his night workout at that moment, the tiredness finally catching up to him. Bakugou flipped over on his futon, groaning into the pillow. For the first time in months, his dream was full of green eyes and smoke. And when he woke up, he wasn’t sure if it had been a nightmare or not.

Once the bridge was finished rebuilding, Bakugou and Todoroki returned to the UA grounds and prepared for a day filled with school activities. Being back at the dorms gave Katsuki some relief. Now that he was back at school, perhaps he could find some way of contacting Nezu or perhaps All Might and find out more information about Deku. That would prove unnecessary, however, as that very Monday during homeroom, Aizawa-sensei pulled up to the class in tow with the nerd himself. 

The air caught in his throat the second he saw him. He was dressed in their school uniform, his red tie sticking out like a sore thumb, short and fat. The bastard didn’t even know how to tie the damn thing! His hair looked shinier and he had more color in his cheeks. Suspiciously, Katsuki glanced at his neck only to find the tattoo gone. A concealer perhaps? 

“Hello students,” Aizawa began to drone in his usual bored way, only this time everybody was listening with rapt attention. “I would like you all to meet Izuku Midoriya. He will be enrolling in our class and will be living on campus with you for the foreseeable future as part of the Villain Reformation Program.” The room noticeably got chillier as every pair of eyes in the class landed on Izuku’s frame. “I, as well as the school and several members of the Commission will be monitoring him closely to make sure he is fully cooperating and not causing any trouble. I would like you all to be welcoming and help him adjust to this new life. Keep in mind that it is an honorable thing to want to change for the better and if the commission has assessed him and decided that he is capable of just that, we have no right to judge or stop him. Midoriya-kun, would you like to say a few words?”

Everyone was deathly silent, watching the boy like he was a hawk about to attack. 

“I hope we’ll get along well,” he smiled one his foreign, colder smiles. “No matter my past, I hope you can accept me as part of this class and that we’ll all become great heroes. I am in your care.” He finished off with a bow and Aizawa gestured for him to take a seat. 

His voice was new. Flat, rehearsed. But when he bowed, his left foot turned slightly inward, just like it used to when he got nervous.

Bakugou gritted his teeth and an odd flurry of emotions bloomed in his chest. “The fuck are you playing at, nerd?”

Chapter Text

Homeroom had never felt longer than it had that day. No member of class 3-A could’ve paid attention after Aizawa-sensei’s blatant declaration that there was a villain among their midst. Well, a villain who was looking for redemption and reform, but a villain nonetheless which brought back uncomfortable memories of Aoyama’s betrayal. They had since talked to the sparkly boy who was also part of the program, but had opted out of re-enrolling in UA in favour of working closely with Gentle and La Brava. So maybe this was sort of like that? Maybe this Izuku Midoriya who was now quietly taking notes in his assigned seat, behind Bakugou no less, wasn’t actually all that bad. Maybe, like Aoyama, he hadn’t been an active chooser in this life of crime? 

And yet, there was doubt crawling over their skin and the class shuddered as a collective. Uraraka let her gaze linger on Midoriya’s small frame. Something about him felt off—not threatening like the League, but... heavier. He radiated an aura that scraped against her instincts, quiet but sharp, like a blade hidden in cloth. He didn’t feel dangerous, not exactly. Not the way Dabi or Twice had. No, he reminded her of Toga in her final moments: peaceful, in a strange way. At ease with her choices, yet carrying the weight of how others had decided to see her. Midoriya had been a villain. The Commission said so. But now the UA faculty had agreed to bring him in, so maybe he wasn’t resigned to that role after all? Almost two years had passed since Toga’s death. Uraraka hadn’t stopped replaying that moment, wondering if she could’ve changed anything. This time, she wouldn’t make the same mistake.

As soon as Aizawa finished the class and excused himself out, a bunch of people sprung up from their seats, eager to approach Midoriya. Kirishima and Uraraka stepped forward, as expected—the friendliest in the class, however another person who came out to greet the newcomer was Shoto Todoroki. 

“I didn’t think I’d see you again, Minto-san. Was that the name you gave us? I will never forget your help in saving us,” he deadpanned as he bowed slightly. In the seat in front of Deku, Bakugou immediately stiffened and turned around bellowing:

“You know him?! How?”

“I remember him from Hosu. He was there when Stain had carried out his attack.”

“You were Stain’s accomplice?” jumped Ashido while at the same time Denki asked: “Stain had an accomplice?”

Before Midoriya could answer, his cheeks slightly flushed at having been recognised, another voice made itself heard through the class.

“No, he wasn’t. Midoriya-kun actually helped Todoroki and I during that battle,” said Iida, his face taut, the corner of his lips turned downward. “Though, if I do recall correctly, you ran away almost as soon as the police arrived. At the time I thought of you as some kind of vigilante who was on the side of justice. How wrong I have been.” 

The mood in the classroom seemed to shift once more as everyone openly stared at Iida’s scowl, an expression they’d never seen their class president ever pull. It was common knowledge though, how anti-reform Iida was, still reeling from the aftermath of the Stain fiasco and the loss of his brother’s ability to walk. The spectacled boy regarded Midoriya in a chilly way. “To think, I was saved by a villain in hiding,” Iida said quietly, then added, “Maybe the Commission can forgive you. But I don’t know if I can.”

With that declaration, he abruptly got up in his robotical way and left the classroom. Once he was gone, the atmosphere seemed slightly airier and several people let out sighs of relief. 

“Ignore, Iida-kun. He’s had some… difficult experiences with villains,” said Uraraka, extending her arm and clasping Deku’s. The boy’s eyes widened at the sudden contact, yet he didn’t pull away. “I’m Ochako Uraraka, it’s nice to meet you!” 

“Oh, it’s alright, Uraraka-san. No need for introductions. I already know all of your names.”

That statement seemed to hang in the air and for the first time in a long while, Bakugou finally witnessed Deku squirm under an invisible pressure. Of course, none of the class 3-A students were aware of his intelligence quirk so that probably came off as plain creepy. Even Uraraka retracted her hand as quickly as she’d offered it, several shades whiter. 

“I m-mean, I saw you guys at the… at the Sports Festival! It’s televised, you know?” Deku quickly backpedalled and that explanation seemed to please several students. 

“What were you doing as a villain, Midoriya?” asked Tsuyu, changing the subject with her usual bluntness. “I can’t imagine it was anything that bad, since you’re here and all. How old are you?”

“Seventeen and well,” the boy hesitated, running a hand through his dyed locks and scratching the nape of his neck. “I- uhh, I was just doing some odd jobs here and there. Villain gangs would often hire me as a scapegoat for all sorts of things like deliveries and trafficking. So I was like uhh a delivery boy? I suppose?” he chuckled. 

Bakugou openly stared, mouth slightly agape. ‘Is this bitch seriously going to hide his quirk? His real motives? It might be the Commission’s terms, though.’ The blond scowled. Everything about this seemed fishy enough as it was and just having Deku this close after years of picturing him in his mind’s eye was making him uncomfortable enough. He couldn’t help siding with Iida with this one, not being as forgiving as some of his colleagues, not after so many nefarious interactions with villains along the years. But could he really lump Deku with the Sludge Monster? That also seemed so very wrong. 

“Well regardless of that,” Kirishima said, flashing one of his shark-toothed grins, “it’s a good thing you’ve decided to stop. Did you join the program after hearing about it on the news? I don’t really know how any of that stuff works, to be honest…”

“Well, let’s just say, not joining would’ve been a conflict of interest,” Izuku laughed, earning several more confused glances. 

“I also think it’s a good thing,” Uraraka said and she gave a fond smile towards Deku, making the boy blush. “I’ve fought against villains before and you just don’t seem the type, you know?”

“I was never in touch with the league, no,” Izuku began, presumably trying to anticipate the girl’s line of thought, however mentioning the League of Villains brought out a fresh wave of tension which rolled through the classroom as each student remembered their own experiences with Shigaraki and his team. “They tried contacting me once, but it was the one job I just couldn’t do. That can of worms should’ve never opened in the first place.” He leaned back in his chair, regarding his peers and waiting for the inevitable barrage of questions that never came. Everyone simply stood in silence now, regarding him with quiet restraint. Just as he was considering what to add to diffuse the situation, Midoriya was aggressively grabbed by the collar by Kacchan who began dragging him out of the classroom with a barked: “Let’s chat, nerd.” 

“Kacchan, I don’t think you should-”

“Trust me, those bastards aren’t ready to talk about what happened with the League. Grow some awareness and shut the fuck up. You weren’t there so stop acting like you know everything.” Bakugou cut him off before shoving him into the nearest wall on the corridor, pinning him in place with one arm. At this sudden movement, Midoriya’s eyes narrowed into slits and the air around him turned predatory. Bakugou thought for a second of the opening Deku could create by kneeing him in the balls yet again, though he knew the nerd wouldn’t be stupid enough to do that when he was still placed under tight supervision.  “When were you planning on telling me you had a quirk? Or that you weren’t actually dead? Better yet, why are you here now?” 

Midoriya didn’t answer right away. He simply stared, face expressionless, as if calculating how much he could get away with saying. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice quiet, too calm.

“You want a list, Kacchan? Is that it? A neat little timeline of my disappearance, what I did, what I didn’t, what I wanted to do but couldn’t?”

“Stop fucking with me and tell me the truth, you piece of shit! You played me for a fool all those years hiding from me some dumb mind quirk and then leaving and letting all of us act like fools, putting up stupid posters and worrying and-”

“As if you’d actually worry! Be honest Kacchan!” Deku raised his voice and for a moment Bakugou thought to himself that he’d never actually heard Deku talk louder than an awkward squeak or lose his composure, for that matter. “You probably just felt worried how this might reflect on your career should word get out that the missing student was a quirkless nobody you enjoyed bullying! You wouldn’t even be able to handle the truth!”

A pregnant pause. Bakugou’s eyes widened ever so slightly and he pushed his elbow further into the hollow of Midoriya’s throat. 

“You weren’t worth worrying about,” Bakugou whispered harshly, yet his eyes glistened in the morning sun, suddenly glassy. “I just can’t believe that someone as fucking pathetic as you could ever be what the Commission is saying you are. I can’t fucking wrap my head around the fact that you just turned around and became what? A terrorist? You let your mom think you were dead for five fucking years! And for what?” his tone grew louder and louder and Deku flinched. 

“Don’t talk about my mother,” he warned, green eyes flashing with anger.

“Why not? You weren’t! She came to our house, Deku. Crying. My mom had to hold her like she was dying.”

Midoriya’s jaw twitched and he closed his eyes, breath shuddering and it gave Bakugou’s arm goosebumps. For the first time since their reunion, Deku’s eyes were riddled with tears. 

“I thought about her every single day,” he murmured, sniffling. “I wanted to go back at one point. It was when I lost my leg,” he suddenly paused, acknowledging he’d revealed too much as Bakugou eased up his grip at the new information. “I was in so much pain that day, I thought I had made the biggest mistake of my life. So I went back for a day, just hung around the old neighbourhood. I saw her there, you know? Just going about her day, doing the shopping, cooking, cleaning. She was wearing an All Might shirt.” He laughed dryly. “She never got the All Might thing before, so at the time I just laughed. I knew I had no right to return after everything I’d done. I didn’t deserve that comfort. I made my bed and I don’t regret my decisions.” He paused for a second and brought his tear stained face, meeting Bakugou’s gaze once again, except there was no more anger in those eyes. “I thought about you too, Kacchan. I would wonder if you were still on that path of becoming the number one hero like you used to claim.” 

He let the words linger between them and the silence felt loud enough to shatter glass. Then Izuku blinked, the sharpness returning. The moment passed.

“Anyway,” he muttered, wiping at his face roughly. “It doesn’t really matter anymore.”

Just then a stern voice broke them out of their reverie. 

“Bakugou. Midoriya.” Aizawa stood at the end of the hallway. “You’re both due at Gym Gamma in ten. Get your PE uniforms. This is your first training together. Oh and if either of you brings this drama into the training field…” His voice dropped. “I will expel both of you. Understood?”

He didn’t wait for an answer as he zipped up his sleeping back and began worming his way towards the school faculty office. Spell broken, Bakugou at last eased off Midoriya and the two boys awkwardly lingered near each other. 

“So… gonna explain the emo hair and tattoo?”

“Back off, Kacchan.”

“You’re still such a pain in the ass,” Bakugou muttered, but there was no heat behind it. “You know where Gym Gamma is, right? Since you’re all so knowing.”

He left without sparing the freckled boy a second glance. 

At the training grounds, the air was taut with silent anticipation. Midoriya stood apart from the group, his arms crossed, eyes flicking between each student like he was collecting data—and maybe he was.

“Midoriya,” Aizawa called out, clipboard in hand. “Since your quirk is non-combative and your abilities unmeasured, I’ve decided to assess your physicality separately. You’ll run a standard physical exam while the rest of the class proceeds with quirk sparring.”

Midoriya tilted his head, expression unreadable. Then he spoke:

“That won’t be necessary, Aizawa-sensei.”

He turned smoothly toward Yaoyorozu.

“Creati, right? Can you make me a hammer and some heat-resistant gloves? That’s all I’ll need.”

A few students exchanged glances. Kirishima raised an eyebrow. Sero muttered something under his breath. Even Aizawa blinked once.

“Midoriya, this isn’t—”

“It’s the most rational way to go about it,” Izuku cut in. “If the Commission wants an accurate assessment of what I’m capable of, this’ll be more efficient. And you have cameras for a reason, don’t you?”

He wasn’t wrong. High above, in the shadows of the observation room, All Might, Hawks, and Nezu watched silently from a live monitor feed. None of them spoke.

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed. Then, finally:

“Very well. Yaoyorozu, please create the requested items. The rest of you—new instructions. You’ll engage Midoriya using only capture tape. The goal is subjugation, not injury. This will double as a test on capture strategy.”

There was a long pause. Unease rippled through the class. Then Midoriya smiled.

“Don’t hold back,” he said, testing the weight of the hammer in his hands. “I won’t.”

The class eyed him warily. His gym uniform was slightly too big, his limbs thinner than most, his skin pale from time away. There was no visible quirk, no muscle mass like Kirishima’s, no sharpened instinct like Bakugou’s. Just a boy with a weapon and a smile. But something about him screamed danger.

Bakugou tensed. He didn’t know whether it was the casual confidence, or the way Midoriya had looked straight at him after that final sentence. Like a challenge. His fingers sparked. “Tch. I’m gonna wipe that smug look off your face.”

Chapter Text

“Who do you think will win? Aizawa’s kids or Midoriya?” Nezu asked good naturedly as he sipped some of his premium earl grey. Next to him, All Might was violently coughing up blood, yet his eyes remained transfixed on the screen, the anticipation of the battle to come evident in his tensed shoulders and knitted brows. 

“I’m inclined to say Midoriya if anything to prove just how valuable having Shinbun on our side can be. Well, that and I don’t want the person we’ve wasted millions of yen to catch to be easily subdued by a group of teenagers. Let’s see what kind of hero he can become,” said Hawks. He was standing in the opposite corner of the room, arms crossed, head slightly tilted forward. 

“What about you, All Might?”

“His quirk may offer him some efficient countermeasures against even the strongest of quirks and we already know he’s probably fully acquainted with class 3-A since they’ve been in the media’s spotlight for so long. What’s important is follow-through: his physicality and tenacity are the things Aizawa is really trying to test. But that kid definitely had a spark in his eyes. I’m only curious to see what strategies he’ll use.”

The three men hovered in front of the screen, each second leading up to the showdown lasting as long as a lifetime. 

Midoriya stared down his opponents, unflinchingly. Bakugou noticed, the exact moment his hand firmly gripped the hammer that his eyes narrowed in a deadly glare, his entire focus on the people in front. Similarly, the students of class 3-A were also staring right back, each preparing for their own spring of attacks. They had worked together in dire situations far more times than they could count, depending on a sort of synergy which was hard to reproduce elsewhere, putting their single opponent at a huge disadvantage. Even though they couldn’t realistically all jump into the fray just like that without ending up hurting each other, that didn’t mean that Izuku would get the chance to go one-on-one with any of them and even if he did, there was no guarantee he’d survive. Yaomomo had created enough capture tape for all of them, well, save for Sero who was literally a human sized roll of tape. Aizawa waited for a couple more seconds for each student to get in position, then looked pointedly at Midoriya who flashed a thumbs up. 

“Begin,” Aizawa called. The whistle blew. Nobody moved. 

Then Midoriya lifted his head to meet the eyes of his opponents and smiled. It was a radiating, sunshine of a smile and for a second everyone was too blindsided to make a move. Effectively concealing his bloodlust, Deku strolled towards his opponents like a kid going to elementary school, swinging his arms casually, his feet light on the ground. He stopped near the centre and suddenly dropped his smile. 

With no time to react, he crouched down and slid towards Iida smashing his right engine as he hooked a leg around Hagakure and pinned her to the ground, throwing a well timed jab in what he assumed was her neck. Both opponents were left groaning, leaving the rest of their classmates to take action. ‘The person next to Hagakure is Ojiro who is probably romantically involved with her,’ muttered Midoriya as he side stepped the giant tail that was supposed to pin him down. ‘He’ll be extra vengeful, but sloppy, his judgement clouded.’ Midoriya ducked Ojiro’s tail swing, yanked his own capture tape tight around it, and anchored the end to a training post, forcing Ojiro into a painful twist. 

He then jumped onto Sato’s shoulders and banged his hammer at the nape of his neck, causing him to involuntarily pass out. Four down, fifteen more to go. 

Just as he was about to move onto the next person in his vicinity, Izuku dropped to the ground in pain as harsh sounds reverberated through his core. ‘The earphone girl…’ he thought as he hastily covered his ears. Back at the Den, with his knife he could’ve ended the fight much faster, however handling such a weapon was something that had been strictly forbidden by the Commission, not even for cooking. So he grabbed onto Mineta who, not unexpectedly, began flailing around, throwing his sticky balls at random and stuck two balls, one in each ear to alleviate the auditive attack, before striking the pipsqueak down. Jiro scoffed at the technique and instead tagged Yaoyorozu who was almost finished creating a huge capture net. Midoriya began running in the other direction, away from Momo, and felt his torso encaged by Asui’s tongue as the girl skillfully pulled him towards her. 

It was just his luck that Kaminari was full on charging, in tow with Kirishima. Denki was wielding his special lightning sword and Midoriya had to bite down a satisfied sigh. He had been dying to see it in real life after hearing so much about it. With a huff of effort, he grasped Asui’s tongue and tried removing it using the sharp point of his hammer. It was a very efficient attack, as the frog girl retracted, instead pushing him straight into Kirishima and Denki’s field of attack. 

Kaminari jumped literally as he thrust his lightning sword, powered by a lower voltage into Midoriya who thankfully was able to grab a hold of Asui’s tongue, flinging the girl into the electrical hero like a bowling ball into pins. Two more down. Then he dodged Kirishima’s hardened fist, aiming for his solar plexus, but refrained from going on the offensive. After all, a hammer against a hardening quirk was just plain stupid. Instead, he manoeuvred the redhead as sort of a human shield and leapt as far away as possible from him as Yaoyorozu flung her trap, caging Kirishima instead. The chase was beginning to get cartoonishly comical.

Midoriya let out a breathy laugh. “Come on,” he muttered, swinging his hammer lazily. “Surely you can do better than this.” Maybe if they had gotten serious, they would’ve had a shot, but the fledgling heroes had severely underestimated him. 

The air bristled with tension. Somewhere in the crowd, Bakugou’s eye twitched; he couldn’t tell if he was impressed or disgusted.

Before anyone could answer the challenge, Uraraka launched forward. Midoriya ducked low, dodging her with minimal effort. Her quirk wasn’t especially useful in capture, but her hand-to-hand combat was formidable. He filed that reminder away as something he’d underestimated once, but wouldn’t again.

From behind, a set of heavy limbs closed in. Shoji’s tentacles snared his arms in a tight hold, and he couldn’t stop the audible yelp from escaping his throat. 

“Uraraka!” Shoji called out.

She changed course instantly, floating up and toward Midoriya with capture tape in hand. It was a clean strategy, coordinated and smart. But it was also predictable.

Midoriya clenched his fists and twisted sharply, using Shoji’s tension to spin himself. He intercepted Uraraka mid-air, catching her wrists before she could activate her quirk. “Release,” he whispered.

She dropped like a stone, only barely caught by Sero's tape. Midoriya didn’t hesitate—he jammed his heel backward, slamming into Shoji’s shin, while hammering his elbow into one of the gripping limbs. The tentacles recoiled slightly—enough to let him slip a hand free.

He snagged a strip of Sero’s tape still fluttering from the fall, then snapped it around Shoji’s eyes, binding his vision just long enough to dive out of the entanglement. But Sero was already on him.

“You’re outta line, Midoriya!” Sero barked, firing a burst of tape toward his ankles. The tension hit. Midoriya tripped forward—nearly—but didn’t fall.

He twisted his torso hard and crashed into Mina, whose acid-slick palms flared as she instinctively defended. The acid hissed against his back—searing—and Midoriya grunted. He fought past the pain. Using the momentum, he yanked himself forward by Mina’s horns, closing the gap in an instant. She flinched.

Before her reflexes kicked in, he dug both his palms into her palatine tonsils. Pain shot up through the girl's mouth and her eyes widened as she keeled over, shooting straight acid from her mouth. Sero recoiled, protecting Mina. The tape trap slackened. Midoriya tore himself free, acid smoking off his uniform. He rolled, coughed, and looked up, his face damp, his eyes sharp.

More students were approaching. Jirou. Momo. Even Kirishima, having freed himself from the capture net, had hardened his fists as he closed in to check on Ashido. Midoriya spat blood from his mouth and focused his attention on the remaining opponents. 

This turn of events prompted Todoroki to finally take action. He had been observing the exchange of blows and his classmates' failure in capturing Deku in quiet contemplation, yet after finally witnessing a real attack on his friend, he realised how serious the boy actually was. Sparing no more time, he began freezing the ground Midoriya stood on. ‘Predictable’ , Deku thought.

The boy retaliated by hammering the ice away and slipped to the left, letting the frost hiss past, and lunged—too fast. Todoroki fired a jet of flame that forced Midoriya into a roll.

“You’ll freeze or burn eventually,” Todoroki muttered. “You can’t dodge forever.”

Midoriya smiled faintly. “Good thing I don’t plan to.” Suddenly, he dashed toward Todoroki who braced, drawing up both ice and fire in a twin arc of destruction. That was his mistake. Midoriya ducked low, grabbing Todoroki's arm, and slammed three fingers against a point behind his shoulder blade—between the trapezius and deltoid. Todoroki’s flames sputtered. His next wall of ice cracked and fell limp at his feet.

Todoroki staggered, clutching his arm, unable to summon either element. “H-how?” he huffed. Before he could recover, Deku gently shoved him aside and kept his eyes focused on his next opponent, Tokoyami, who was manipulating his Dark Shadow to engulf the boy in a cage of darkness. It was the quirk Deku was dreading the most because of its near invincibility. He had already played his cards by stopping Todoroki’s fire and Kaminari was no longer paying attention to the exercise, trying to help an electrocuted Asui. So then, what light source could he capitalize on to rid himself of Tokoyami’s persistent attacks?  

Midoriya whipped his head to the right and closed in on Kacchan, sitting with his arms crossed, refusing to make a move. His jaw was tightly clenched and his red eyes were glowing daggers. Bakugou’s heart thundered in his ribcage and his hands popped small explosions. The blond narrowed his eyes, lips curling into a snarl as Midoriya stormed toward him, hammer swinging loosely in one hand like it belonged there. For a second, Katsuki’s instincts screamed to meet him head-on, to wipe that stupid confident look off his face, but his feet didn’t move.

Midoriya’s forest green eyes were laser focused on him, yet it felt like Deku wasn’t really seeing him, rather, was looking through him. Bakugou’s palms popped again, louder this time, the acrid scent of sweat and nitroglycerin clinging to the air between them.

"What the fuck do you want, Deku?" he barked, tone low and dangerous, his stance already dropping into combat position. But Midoriya didn’t answer. He dropped the hammer and ran right past him. Bakugou blinked, momentarily thrown, watching as Deku stopped just beside him and crouched, lifting something tucked in the sand. A shattered shard of an old support training drone, its surface reflective. 

Pop. 

Midoriya turned the shard at an angle, using the sudden flare of Bakugou’s miniature explosion as a source of light. The gleam bounced off the scrap, blinding Dark Shadow just enough for Midoriya to slip through the cage and dive into a roll. Tokoyami flinched, shielding his eyes as the light scattered.

And Bakugou just stood there. Hands still hot. Jaw tight. His body frozen not from hesitation, but from something entirely new even as his brain bellowed at him to just kill the damn nerd.

Deku turned mid-roll and met his eyes for a fraction of a second and all air left Bakugou’s lungs. He was finally looking at him with a tinge of familiarity and sparkles in his eyes, that same admiration he’d held for him since they were kids. Bakugou’s hands dropped to his sides and for the first time since Deku had arrived, since Katsuki had found him, a new thought finally settled in his adrenaline filled brain: ‘He’s alive. Deku is really alive.’ 

Midoriya’s breath came in harsh gasps as he spun to face Tokoyami again, the light still dancing off the shard in his hand. Tokoyami stumbled back, shielding his eyes from the redirecting light and failing to fully command Dark Shadow. Midoriya launched himself forward and, with a sharp twist, swept Tokoyami’s legs from under him, pinning him with a loop of capture tape before his shadow could recover.

A beat of silence.

“You used my blast,” Bakugou muttered, mostly to himself.

Midoriya stood up, breathing hard, shard still in hand. “I used what was available,” he replied. 

Katsuki let out a small scoff. “Figures.”

His fists sparked again—but this time, it wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Just pressure. Confusion. A need to get ahead of something he didn’t even fully understand yet.

Before Bakugou could sort himself out, Aizawa blew his whistle, notifying the class that the match had ended with Midoriya’s overwhelming victory. 

“This kid…” he said under his breath, gaze fixed on Midoriya who was panting heavily. As soon as he’d blown the whistle, the boy visibly relaxed, slumping on the ground, at last allowing himself a moment of vulnerability. 

“Let this be a lesson—not just about teamwork, but about assumptions. You underestimated your opponent. That won’t work in the real world.” His tone was clipped but laced with a tired sort of irritation. “Are any of you in need to see Recovery Girl? Asui? Ashido?” 

The two girls shook their heads, the initial shock of injury wearing off. With no time to lose, Mina scrambled to her feet and grabbed Izuku by the collar, lifting him like a sack of potatoes. 

“What the actual fuck was that, you prick?” she screamed and it took the entire class by surprise as no one was used to the bubbly girl to resort to such crass language even in anger. 

“Please don’t be mad, Ashido-san,” Deku began mumbling, making no move to free himself from the girl’s grasp. “I’ve been studying quirk pressure points. It’s not a really talked about subject since quirks are so different from individual to individual, but there have been several case studies on a number of quirk-types. Long range, acid types like yours stem from the tonsils. I simply stimulated them to induce a reaction which overproduced the acid which you then regurgitated.” His words came fast, analytical, and weirdly giddy . The shine in his eyes was unmistakable—pure researcher mode. “Your body reacted negatively because I was a bit harsh when pressing those points and because it wasn’t yet used to such power.”

“You mean to say… You gave her a powerup?” somebody asked

“I… I suppose so, yes? You all have great quirks and my power allows me to conduct analysis and gather information. I can’t help but think about things like that.”

With no warning, Todoroki let out a burst of fire from his left side only to stop it immediately, eyes widened at the effect. He too, turned towards Midoriya and soon the entire class was facing him to discuss what had happened during the match. 

“I did the opposite for you, Todoroki-kun. There’s a pressure point on your shoulder which if pressed can inhibit your quirks’ output. Since quirks are basically like muscles, this sort of thing can be interpreted as those tendon reflex examinations. The right touch can either stimulate or inhibit the right quirk. Though, I will admit when it came to you I got lucky since I was able to first use this technique on Endeavour.” 

The gym exploded. 

“Eeeeeh??? Endeavour?” the class gasped as a collective. 

“I suppose that’s a story for another time.” Midoriya laughed sheepishly. The whole class now sort of regarded him in quiet awe, before Kirishima broke the silence. 

“Still not manly, dude,” Kirishima muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “But that was… nuts.”

“As if he should hold back,” Aizawa cut in, tone steady as he finally stepped closer. “Midoriya has been cleared to stay because of his analytical advantage. His role in this class isn’t just to learn—it’s to help you learn. From your quirks. From your mistakes. You don’t have to trust him right away. But consider this match an introduction to what your collaboration can help you achieve.” He let the silence settle again, just long enough to let the message land. “Now get back to it. Sparring partners from last week. Upper-body hits only. Midoriya, a word.”

Aizawa waited until the students had returned to their sparring groups, his sharp gaze flicking briefly toward each of them before settling fully on Midoriya, who still stood by the sidelines, gripping the handle of the now-worn training hammer.

Midoriya didn’t fidget—he was too used to being watched. Still, the air shifted as Aizawa approached, the familiar pressure of an underground pro who had no time for games.

“You surprised them.”

Midoriya gave a slow blink. “That was the point.”

Aizawa’s tone didn’t change. “That confidence you walked in with—don’t mistake it for trust. No one here fully believes in you yet. I don’t either.”

Midoriya didn’t flinch. “I know.”

A pause.

“But you also didn’t go too far,” Aizawa continued, studying him carefully. “You could’ve done real damage out there. You didn’t. That’s a choice. I’m paying attention to those.”

Midoriya lowered his eyes, fingers twitching. “Well, it wouldn’t have been pretty heroic of me.”

Aizawa gave a subtle nod. “We’ll keep your quirk classification vague to the rest of the class. Let them see what you can do, not what you call it. You’ll get one session a week with me—solo. If you’re lying about anything, I’ll know.”

“I’m not,” Midoriya replied quickly, almost too quickly.

A beat.

Then Aizawa said, “Good. Because the second I think you’re manipulating anyone here, you’re gone. This is your only shot at being part of something again.”

Midoriya’s smile this time was tired, resigned. Aizawa looked over at the students—Kirishima shouting encouragement, Bakugou snarling, Uraraka frowning as she eyed Midoriya from across the gym. Then he returned his gaze to the boy beside him.

“Don’t disappoint me.”

Chapter Text

When Kumar calls, you answer.

It’s not protocol. It’s instinct. And today, all three major crime lords in the Den were called. That alone was enough to raise every eyebrow from the back alleys of Shinjuku to the neon gutters of Osaka.

Tanaka arrived first — a smirking arms dealer with a reputation for women trafficking, assassins and guns. He was a wicked old man, with a white, scratchy beard and colorful linen shirts. Matsuzawa came next, reeking of spice and high-end chemicals, the man behind the newest synthetic high plaguing Japan’s underground. His lizard head and heavy combat boots stood out against the paper floors. Yamato never showed. Everyone knew why.

The room was small and windowless — a private lounge in the back of Hanamura, a bar with sticky floors which reeked of cheap beer and sake. At the far end of the table, beneath a low yellow light, Kumar sat already waiting, one hand resting lightly on the table. 

He was, as always, dressed sharply: a tailored, navy blue suit, with lapis lazuli cuffs, his hair styled in a perfect coif. His fingers were adorned with various golden rings encrusted with jewels of every color, making him look like an overdressed business man.

His eyes, however, told the real story. Black as spilled ink and sharper than glass, they rarely blinked. When they settled on you, it felt like your soul was being audited. Not read, just dissected as if in search of finding out your real price. 

His movements were patient, feline. He didn’t walk; he drifted. And when he smiled—he often did—it was the kind of expression a vulture might give a wounded animal: beautiful, serene, inevitable.

In the Den, his elegance was legend. His cruelty, whispered. No one had ever seen him kill, but everyone knew of someone who had vanished after crossing him. Even his silence felt like a sentence passed. And always, always, at his side: the woman with the pipa, her footsteps as quiet as his orders were absolute.

Kumar didn’t need to shout to be obeyed. He only had to raise an eyebrow.

As the guests sat, they each placed their weapons on the table — handguns, knives, even a modified quirk enhancer. Symbolic gestures. Signs of civility. Except for her. 

“The little lady ain’t gonna disarm?” asked Tanaka, leaning backwards and taking a swig of lukewarm beer. Kumar didn’t look at him. Instead, he smiled — gentle, almost distracted — and tilted his head in the woman’s direction. Without a word, she stepped forward and placed a golden pipa on the table.

“I’m assuming you’re here to discuss Yamato's arrest?” asked Matsuzawa. He refused the beer offering and opted for a smoke. He narrowed his eyes at Kumar who had abandoned his smile and was carefully analyzing his nails, planning his move. 

“Yamato was a stupid man. I talked to his head and we’ve made sure there’s no bad blood between us. No… I called you here for something else. Tell me—have you noticed the silence?” His voice barely rose, yet somehow every word hit like a dropped pin in a crypt.

Matsuzawa stiffened. “You mean… the boy?”

“It’s been over two weeks and still no new headlines and no new write-ups. Makes me curious what’s keeping our little reporter so busy.” 

“I heard he was seen during the Yamato bust,” Matsuzawa offered, tamping his cigarette into a nearby ashtray. “Could he have been taken in by the police?”

Kumar smiled thinly. “Oh, don’t insult him. Shinbun doesn’t get caught. Not by accident, at least. If he’s disappeared, it’s because he wanted to.”

He turned, finally making eye contact, and the shift in the room was palpable. His eyes were the sharpest thing about him—glittering with intelligence, unreadable and endlessly dangerous. “Tanaka. You’ve worked with Niwa recently. Heard anything?”

The old trafficker scratched his jaw, suddenly sheepish. “Nah, nothing out of place. I sent them to the port a few days ago. Ten loads of guns. Maybe he’s just busy runnin’ errands.”

“Busy.” Kumar let the word hang in the air for a moment too long. “That’s one explanation.” He leaned back in his chair with the elegance of a practiced actor, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve. “But I think it’s time we reminded the Den who controls the ink. Let’s publish something of our own. Something… he can’t ignore.”

Tanaka shifted. “What kind of article?”

“A ghost story. Something about a little boy who vanished.”

“You're thinking of flushing him out?”

“I’m thinking of reminding him of where he came from.” Kumar leaned back, crossing one leg over the other.

Tanaka scratched at his beard. “I thought you said you weren’t worried.”

“I’m not.” Kumar’s grin returned, slow and syrupy. “But there’s nothing wrong with… keeping him awake at night.” He reached into his coat and retrieved a folded page of parchment, thick and cream-colored. He laid it on the table. “Deliver this to the Niwa safehouse. Tell Daichi it’s a draft. He’ll know what to do.”

“And if Shinbun doesn’t respond?” asked Matsuzawa.

“Oh, he’ll respond. After all, none of us want a repeat of last time,” Kumar chuckled. The air in the room dropped. Tanaka’s jaw tightened. Matsuzawa didn’t blink.

“If you’re planning to bait Shinbun, you better be damn sure he’s not already compromised.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Kumar said, serene as ever. He poured himself a drink but didn’t take a sip. “The Commission has gotten bolder lately. Hawks' little cleanup campaign has started sniffing at our corners. They’ve been asking too many questions—about distribution, territory, names.” He set the glass down with a click. “They want information and we all know there’s nothing Shinbun loves more than information.”

“You think he flipped?” Matsuzawa asked, his tone incredulous, but not dismissive.

Kumar smiled again, that awful, knowing smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “If he has, then we’ll know soon. If he hasn’t… then he’ll respond like he always does.”

Tanaka shifted in his seat, eyeing the golden pipa resting quietly on the table.

“And if he doesn't?”

Kumar leaned forward, his voice soft as silk and cold as steel. “That’s the beauty of paper, gentlemen. It burns quickly and no one remembers who held the match.”

The training carried on as usual, students pairing off in scattered groups while Aizawa ran drills and corrected form. Beside him, Midoriya stood stiffly, quietly absorbing his surroundings as Aizawa rattled off about how their combat assessments were structured.

“So you claim,” the teacher muttered, after Izuku had brushed off his own performance as luck. “But clearly, your instincts are trained. You don’t move like someone without discipline.”

Midoriya looked away. “I just picked up what I needed. In the moment.”

There were still too many unasked questions between them—questions Aizawa had been instructed to find the answers to. Hawks had given him a mission: learn the truth behind Niwa. Figure out what the Villain Den really was. The Commission called it a rogue state. A sanctuary for villains where crime bloomed as often and as freely as cherry trees in spring. If the battles against the league had represented a great war for hero society, then what was happening now was more akin to a cold war, a conflict both sides weren’t willing to acknowledge was happening. 

 Midoriya had called it home.

Before either could say more, the class was interrupted by three figures entering the gym: All Might, Nezu and Hawks. Even now, their presence turned heads. The class straightened like soldiers. A few even stopped mid-fight.

“I was very impressed with your performance, young Midoriya,” said All Might, his voice still warm despite the rasp. “Your collaboration with these fine young men and women will be a turning point. I believe it.”

Hawks gave a lazy wave. “I second that. Buuut,” he added, eyeing the weapon in Midoriya’s hand, “you’ll have to hand that over for now. No hammers until further notice. Stick to hand-to-hand, yeah? Right, Eraserhead?”

“I was just about to say that,” Aizawa said, arms crossed.

Midoriya sighed and handed over the hammer. Nezu launched into an explanation of Midoriya’s modified curriculum based on his quirk, but the boy barely registered it. His eyes had drifted again—back to All Might. The thin form. The tired eyes. He remembered watching his rescue videos on loop, clutching an All Might plush in the early days at the Den. It was probably still there, under his cot. Sleeping without it had always been hard.

Then Hawks clapped his hands loudly to signal their departure, jolting Izuku from his thoughts. He flinched, crouching instinctively like something bad was about to happen. Then his face flushed as he forced himself upright. Safe. This was UA. Still, the nervous twitching of his fingers didn’t go unnoticed by Aizawa, who said nothing but watched carefully.

“You’re done for today,” Aizawa said quietly. “Take a break.”

Before he could respond, Aizawa walked off. Midoriya turned, only to find Todoroki lingering nearby, arms crossed.

“Are you always this reckless?” Todoroki asked, deadpan.

“Only when I think it’ll work,” Midoriya replied, scratching his neck.

Todoroki tilted his head. “You read us too well. It’s... unsettling.”

“I’m sorry about the pressure point. You’ll have full access to your fire and ice by tonight. I wasn’t too harsh.”

“You said you learned that... fighting my father.”

“I... yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t trying to—”

“It’s fine. I’m still confused about him too.”

A pause. Then:

“How did you even end up fighting him?”

Izuku hesitated. “I’m not sure if I’m allowed to say.” Another pause. He shifted, guilt flickering through his eyes. “It was a job. A delivery. We didn’t know it was for dr. Garaki. Endeavor intercepted us. Burned my arm. I hit the pressure point by accident.”

Todoroki didn’t react much, but something behind his eyes changed. He didn’t ask again. “Thank you for telling me,” he said instead. “I know you’re... on thin ice.”

“You’d know about that, huh?” Midoriya smiled awkwardly.

Todoroki blinked. “I’m not in trouble with the Commission.”

“Oh—no, I meant—"

“Todoroki-kun! Midoriya-kun!”

They both turned as Uraraka jogged up to them, bright-eyed.

“Join us for lunch! I’m starving.”

“Oh, it’s soba day,” Todoroki added, his voice lighter. “You’ll want to try it. Trust me.” Izuku blinked. Had Todoroki just... smiled?

“Thank you. That sounds nice.”

“We’ll meet you in ten at the cafeteria,” Uraraka beamed. “Need Iida to show you where it is?”

Izuku paused, then gave a faint, crooked smile. “I’m not too sure how eager Iida would be to interact with me. Besides, I already know the entire layout of the school.”

Uraraka exchanged a look with Todoroki before turning back at Midoriya with a raised brow. “If you say so,” she replied before turning on her heels and running to catch up to Tsuyu. 

The cafeteria was packed, students from all years and departments crowding to catch a bowl of curry or soba from the lunch hero - Lunch Rush. Izuku tried to calm his pounding heart - whether that was a response to the flock of students around him or just out of pure excitement to finally try the famous UA lunches, he couldn’t really tell. Todoroki graciously guided him towards the line and gestured which side dishes were the most delicious. 

Izuku hadn’t had a meal this big in over five years and a part of him wondered if he could even manage to finish everything off his plate. Uraraka slid into the seat in front of him, nipping at a croquette, while Todoroki mindfully chewed on his soba, his expression that of pure bliss. Izuku paused for a while to regard his new companions. They sat so close, alarm bells were ringing in his ears making heat creep over his cheeks and turning his hands clammy. However, one bite of tempura and suddenly all his doubts were replaced with the delicious taste. Midoriya began scarfing down his food like there was no tomorrow. Looking  up, he noticed Uraraka’s round eyes sparkling, amused. She was way shorter in real life, as opposed to how she looked on a tv screen. 

“I remember Iida talking about you, after the whole Hosu incident. He was so impressed that someone our age could subdue a villain like Stain. You really inspired him to be better. Don’t take it to heart if it takes him a while to warm up to you, though.”

“It must’ve taken him by surprise,” Midoriya replied, chugging some water and sighing contentedly. “Me being a villain and all.”

“I’m surprised you’re so open with that fact,” commented Todoroki. 

“Well, there’s no use hiding it, especially since we’ll be working together. Aizawa-sensei said as much, but as far as I know the media hasn’t been alerted. I wasn't the kind of criminal that was on the public wanted lists after all,” he laughed awkwardly. 

“But there were other, private wanted lists?”

“You had a bounty on your head, Midoriya?”

“Oh, it’s…” Midoriya began, suddenly red, green eyes almost popping out of their sockets. “It was 200 million yen.”

Silence. Todoroki raised his brows slightly while Uraraka stared, mouth agape. She didn’t reply and instead began muttering calculations, before slamming her fist on the table, face pale. “That would cover rent for a lifetime,” she murmured, leaning her head on the table with a groan. “Just what were you doing, Midoriya?”

“Oh, just, a little… uhh, data collecting, you know?”

“Must’ve been some data,” replied Todoroki as he put away his chopsticks and allowed his gaze to rest on Izuku. A moment of silence passed with Midoriya trying to figure out what to say next, before Uraraka talked again, sparing him the awkwardness. 

“Actually, I noticed something. You and Bakugou already know each other, right? He called you Deku at one point and you’ve called him Kacchan, no?” 

Midoriya stiffened and his gaze was subconsciously pulled to a table further away where Bakugou was sitting with Kirishima and Sero, eating sullenly. 

“You’re right, Uraraka. We used to be childhood friends,” he said and there was a hint of sorrow in his eyes. “I- We used to spend our days joined to the hip, that was before he manifested his quirk. Deku was a nickname he gave me back then because that’s another way the kanji in my name could be read. It was teasing, since my quirk manifested so late in life. We stopped getting along in middle school, though.”

“Oh, that was before the million yen bounty, I suppose?”

He chuckled, though it came out quieter than he intended. “Yeah. Way before that.” For the first time since arriving at UA, Midoriya let himself think of home—the real one, far underground. Had Ran found the keychain? Were they looking for him already? Was his disappearance being noticed in the Den? His stomach churned anxiously. Did they miss him? “I had a friend back there,” he added softly, “back home. He called me ‘Deku’ too. Said it sounded like someone who tries his hardest, even when everything says not to.” He looked down at his empty tray. “So I kept it.”

Uraraka tilted her head, then smiled with the kind of gentleness that caught him off guard. “I think that suits you too. After seeing you fight, it’s obvious you don’t half-ass anything.” She beamed, then suddenly perked up. “Actually, I wanted to ask! That pressure point stuff—can you teach me sometime? I’d never even heard of anything like it!”

Midoriya blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Sure. If you’re okay with bruises.”

“Wouldn’t be at UA if I wasn’t ready to plus ultra it,” she said brightly, extending a pinky.

He stared at it for a second before looping his own around hers. It was a simple promise. But it felt like the first normal thing he’d done in years. And for just a moment, he let himself pretend he belonged.

Bakugou was asked to come to the principal’s office that same day. So as soon as afternoon classes were over, he’d quickly packed his bag, ignored Shitty Hair’s comments about training together and headed straight for the faculty. 

There he was met by All Might and Aizawa, principal Nezu nowhere to be seen. He wrinkled his brow, eyes glowering at the two teachers. 

“Young Bakugou,” All Might began, taking a step forward. Even in his skinny form he still towered over everybody else and Bakugou’s heart leapt in his throat at the sudden attention from his idol. Not that he’d ever let it show. 

“It’s about Deku, isn’t it?”

“It’s just, we’ve been made aware that the two of you are familiar with each other.”

“I talked to Jeanist and I talked to Hawks as well. We lived in the same neighbourhood, our moms were friends, but I never wanted him as my friend! He just kept trailing after me all on his own! I never even…” ​​Bakugou’s voice cracked as he kept rambling, eyes trained on nothing. “I never even wanted him to disappear, okay? Just to leave me out of this…”

He was back at that fucking bridge. The river had been cold that day. He'd slipped. Then Izuku, chubby arms outstretched, face pale with worry, had jumped in after him. Saved him like it was natural. Like it was nothing. Like Katsuki deserved saving, even after he’d messed up. He’d looked up, coughing, spitting water, and all he could feel was rage. Not at the river. Not at the fear. But by the way Deku had looked at him like he was worth something. And Katsuki—he’d hated that. He’d hated being seen in his worst moment by someone he swore was beneath him. He hated that someone so useless still looked at him like he was something good. 

And now? Now he was back—and he wasn’t useless anymore. Deku was strong now. And not once had he looked at Katsuki like that since. Not with awe. Not with warmth. Not even with hate. Just distance and coldness. That terrified Bakugou more than anything.

‘You’re pathetic,’ Katsuki thought. ‘You’re pathetic and Deku left because you were a dumb fucking idiot who didn’t watch what he was saying. How can you even call yourself a hero when you’re so fucking weak that you couldn’t even handle that damn nerd? I bet you were happy when you thought he was dead, right? You don’t deserve anything.’ 

“Young Bakugou,” All Might snapped him out of his thoughts and Bakugou realised that the couch he’d been sitting on had its material lightly charred from his fuming hands. “We don’t fully understand the circumstances of Midoriya’s disappearance or what brought him to the Den. That’s something we’ll have to find out before we carry out any judgement.” 

Aizawa stepped in, arms crossed, gaze impassive—but sharp.

“Midoriya’s in a fragile place. We’re walking a razor’s edge here between recovery and relapse. If you can’t keep your emotions in check, you’re not just a liability to this program—you’re a danger to him.” He didn’t soften the blow. “This isn’t about your pride. Get your shit together, Bakugou. Or stay out of his way.”

Bakugou closed his eyes and for a second he pictured Deku on that last day before he disappeared. He saw his big, green eyes, freckles dusted across round cheeks, wild hair too big for his head. He saw his scruffy uniform and his long, bony fingers clutching a notebook. That version of him was gone forever. Maybe, if he squinted, he could still see traces of that kid in the one who’d come back. But the admiration in his eyes? The unshakable warmth? That was gone, too. There was nothing to admire anymore. 

Chapter Text

It was tiring, the whole UA thing. Only a week had passed since his first day, yet Izuku felt as if much more time had gone by. Maybe it was the incessant homesickness or the worry for his friends back at the Den or the constant nightmares that were keeping him more awake than asleep at night… All of these things were making time seem like it was lazily stretching out. Izuku felt like he was backed in a corner. 

More often than not he kept recalling the day he was captured, the fear in his heart, the anxiety in the pit of his stomach and the way Kacchan had looked. He hated remembering that last fact the most, yet his brain circled around those same thoughts obsessively. That day, Kacchan had looked every bit the hero.

His costume had been updated, sleeker gauntlets hanging at his wrists like restrained power, his hair still spiky but just a little more controlled. The new headgear cupped his ears, angled for protection, not flash. And his eyes — those burning, relentless ruby-red eyes — still carried that wildfire heat, cutting through Deku like they could see everything he was trying to bury.

Most importantly, Kacchan had recognised him almost instantly and that had thrown Izuku off. He could’ve fought Kacchan, could’ve won and never have to go through all of the bullshit he was currently going through, but he’d heard that stupid nickname grace his childhood friend turned bully’s lips once more and it’d felt like the five hellish years Izuku had gone through were completely wiped away. Fuck, he shouldn’t have gotten caught. Ran would laugh at him, say that perhaps he had wanted to get caught, was yearning for a chance to go to UA. After all, Shinbun always had a plan. Sumire would tell him to be opportunistic and find the bright side of being inside the facility with the greatest security system in the world. Daichi would simply tell him to forget his anxieties and get laid. 

However, Izuku just wanted one good night’s sleep. Maybe then his thoughts would finally fall into place and he would be able to plan his next move. 

Did he hate being a UA student? Not really, the curriculum was ridiculously easy to follow even as he noticed plenty of his new classmates struggle with the basics of whatever material they were covering, the lunches were topnotch, the dorm system was well thought out and practical - he had never slept in a bed all alone since being in the Den, it was an odd yet peaceful feeling, that is, when he didn’t have any nightmares. See there was one thing about Izuku that only those closest to him knew: even though he was considered by all means a genius, even though he’d been involved in crime schemes, gunfights and had seen the war unfold before his eyes, he couldn’t sleep without his All Might plushie which was back at the Den. He’d thought one night, after a particularly horrible night terror that he should just sneak out and leave, security be damned. He thought about contacting Niwa, security be damned. He thought about screwing it all and finally jumping off the ledge, security be damned. But those were fleeting thoughts as rationality always won in the end, curse his logical quirk! 

Besides, virtually getting only two, maybe three hours of sleep, there were a couple of other things that were growing more and more challenging for Midoriya to adapt to. For starters, his muttering, a habit he’d had since he’d been quirkless and which had only gotten worse after his late awakening. The Niwa members had always forgiven his incessant chatter, but the UA teachers weren’t as lenient. Oh and Bakugou had already exploded his face twice. Yeah, sitting him right behind Lord Explosion Murder wasn’t really the best decision, but that’s what happens when the seating is based on their alphabetical last names. 

Another habit was actually having to pay attention in class and the rigorous schedule that came with it which was something he hadn’t missed since dropping out of middle school. It was all so boring when there was no adrenaline rush to accompany some great discovery or information bust or article writing. He missed writing the papers the most! He missed his printer, Daichi’s graphics, doing the distributions during the night… 

His training was also very boring, focused a lot on hand-to-hand combat he already knew but had decided to strategically pretend he didn’t, lest Nezu and Hawks decide to increase his security which was already brutal. Morning and nightly check-ups from teachers, physical exams from Recovery Girl and mental assessments from Lady Nagant weekly and, of course, a student was assigned daily to ‘secretly’ monitor him, though Midoriya had figured that part out on his third day when Mineta had to follow him and blew his cover almost immediately. 

Izuku would look at the rest of his classmates, blasting their quirks during training and fighting each other under All Might’s watchful eye, improving finishing moves and collaborating during rescue exercises and he’d be pierced with a great longing to be just like them, to become a hero, a desire he hadn’t felt since he’d decided to disappear from normal society. It was surreal and disorienting to say the least, all of these new emotions and being monitored and dealing with his homesickness. He jolted out of his seat every time Kacchan locked eyes with him as if trying to read his every thought and understand him, but only for a second, before his glare would turn vicious and he’d spout angry nonsense in an oddly nostalgic way. That still didn’t mean it didn’t piss Izuku off, especially as he was beginning to notice Kacchan’s role within class 3-A, how people actually depended on him and looked out for him. 

Another aspect he was finding it harder and harder to maintain his appearance. Before, Ran dyed and cut his hair for him since Deku was useless with scissors, however it was already two weeks since his last haircut – his sides were beginning to grow and his roots were turning green once more. It freaked Izuku more than anything. He hadn’t had his natural green locks since joining Niwa and it left a sour taste in his mouth to see his old hair colour, a reminder of his days spent as a weakling. He had tried covering up the various scars he’d gained during his time underground, especially in UA’s changing rooms and was mostly successful, save for him being caught fully naked by Todoroki and Bakugou who both upon seeing his back, pursed their lips and avoided his gaze. His tattoo was also a pain to cover up and it wasn’t long before he gave it up entirely which obviously shocked class 3-A. Well, everyone besides Kacchan who eyed him warily and once more tried to question him about it. He was nowadays very pushy about finding out Deku’s background, which he was fiercely protecting and keeping a secret. Niwa, the Den and his newspaper business, they weren’t things to blab about carelessly, the very thing Hawks and the Commission were hoping he’d do. Izuku wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. 

The rest of the class however didn’t question it. Mostly. He had caught wind of a rumour surrounding his orchid tattoo which involved a notorious government official who retired during the League war and another which mentioned the Garden Heroine Silva, known for using flowers in her fighting style. Those did indeed make him chuckle. 

However, perhaps the hardest thing to get used to was being called by his real name again. Each time someone addressed him as Midoriya or heaven forbid Izuku - the way Kaminari had attempted - sent chills down his spine, dread settling in the pit of his stomach like lead. And whenever he heard Kacchan or Uraraka call him Deku his heart rate would quicken, barely repressing all of the overwhelming memories he’d tried for years to escape and reminding him once again of his friends from Niwa. 

This particular day had started like any other. Midoriya was up by 5 o’clock, unable to fall back asleep after a particularly tiring night of tossing and turning. He ate a small bowl of watered rice in silence in the common room since his stomach wasn’t quite used to the extravagant breakfasts his classmates would make and stared wistfully out the window at the training grounds where several people were already working out. Todoroki, sitting in a full split, caught his eye and the two waved at each other. It felt so familiar that for a second, Izuku forgot all about his horrible night and felt even a bit excited for the day to come. 

He muttered in class as he doodled in his notebook and was as always told off by Aizawa who was slowly becoming more accepting of his eccentric new student. He was assigned that day to spar with Ojiro who taught him several martial arts tackles which greatly interested Midoriya. He had his usual soba and tempura lunch, having gotten addicted thanks to Todoroki. 

Then, the day started going sideways when he was called into Nezu’s office. This, on its own, wasn't surprising. Izuku had been called in before to be assessed by the principal who was the only one capable of understanding the full scope of the boy’s quirk and of course he’d been called for impromptu interrogations. This time it was different though and Izuku figured as much when he set his eyes on Hawks in full hero costume, leaning against the desk with a serious look in his eye. 

So far, he’d always seen Hawks in his usual suit as was custom of Commission officials and he’d always had a mischievous twinkle in his eye and a conspiratorial smile. This time, Izuku witnessed Hawks the hero, the one who carried out the Commission’s dirty work for so long. 

“Take a seat, Midoriya-kun,” said Nezu, handing him a cup of tea which seemed comically large in his paws. Izuku accepted it, but didn’t drink. 

“We have some questions for you, Shinbun,” spoke Hawks, before Midoriya could say anything. At the mention of his alias, the boy instantly whipped his head in the direction of the Commission President, his entire body thrumming with renewed energy. His palms felt clammy and his throat suddenly extremely dry. “New papers have been circulating around town, bearing your signature mark.” 

He threw a couple of papers in front of Izuku and, true to his word, they were in the same format that Deku had used in all of his reports. The freckled boy felt lightning crackle through his veins and time slowed down. It was the same font, the same phrasing and, of course, at the bottom right corner was the green mint leaf he’d used as signature. The world spun around him as he gripped the papers and skimmed through the text, without actually being able to make out the sentences. Bile rose to his throat. Niwa used a special printing facility that Daichi ran along with him. There was no way he could have gotten wind of it, let alone find it and use it. Only Niwa members knew about it. What did that mean? Were they okay? Had Kumar gotten to them? Or… had someone in Niwa betrayed him? Even the thought felt like a second knife twisting in his gut.

“Now,” Hawks continued without paying any mind to Midoriya’s shaking. “We know that you haven’t gone outside of UA since you’ve been closely monitored, nor did we see you engage in any activities that would indicate you making this newspaper. However, it is clear that you have been communicating with someone on the outside, perhaps a fellow gang member, in order to create this. I just want to know the truth, Shinbun, how did you manage that? If you cooperate, maybe we will take some years off your sentence.” 

Izuku took it all in - the pure anger and disappointment which emanated from Hawks like a bleeding wound. And yet, beyond his thundering heart and racing thoughts stood out one fact that suddenly jolted Midoriya out of his shock: he hadn’t written this paper as Hawks believed and he had to prove it. 

“Do you have any mind readers? Any truth tellers?” Midoriya asked, raising his head and finally meeting Hawks’ icy gaze. “I did not write this and there has to be some way for me to demonstrate it. I haven’t been in contact with anyone, I don’t even know what’s happening in the Den at the moment.” He hated the way his voice cracked because of his sheer desperation. If they couldn’t prove he was innocent, the Commission wouldn’t just terminate his program—they’d bury him in Tartarus and call it reform.

“Then prove it,” Hawks said, crossing his arms. “Because right now, everybody thinks you’re lying and the Commission isn’t going to back you up this time. You’ve got until tomorrow at lunch. Until then, you’re under house arrest. Aizawa has already been informed.” He paused, leaning closer towards Midoriya until their eyes were on the same level. “I’m only allowing you this because someone with your quirk wouldn’t be stupid enough to sign their name on a crime. But then again, maybe you’re not as smart as we thought. Don’t disappoint me, Midoriya.” 

As if on cue, Eraserhead entered the room with a sharp knock and Hawks gestured to him to escort Izuku out. The walk towards the dorm was silent and tense, neither of the two talking, Aizawa sternly holding onto Midoriya’s arm. At the dorm, he cuffed the boy with quirk cancelling handcuffs. 

“I’ve already changed the passcodes to every dorm room and any outside doors here, except for yours and should you try to escape, the UA security system will be triggered which, believe me, is the last thing you want happening. You’re a smart kid, Midoriya, so don’t try anything. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t leave your room. If you need something, ask through another student. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Once the door shut and the lock clicked into place, Izuku sank onto his bed, cuffed hands still trembling. The silence felt heavier than any cell he’d ever imagined. He was still clutching the newspaper, crinkled from the force of his grip. Izuku began reading. It was undeniably well-written, adapted completely to his iconic manifesto style of writing. It left his blood running cold. Each page was marked with his stamp, the stamp Midoriya had meticulously carved for his articles. He tried identifying little bits of information, codes written for him - perhaps, this was Sumire trying to send him a message? That tiny spark of hope was shut down as soon as he reached the last page of the paper:

Justice. Is there a word more beloved by the masses? It does roll nicely off the tongue, doesn’t it? A promise, a flag, a weapon — all wrapped into five letters. 

However, without ever lifting your own hand, you seek the death of others at the hands of someone else?  Well, this justice, as you use it, smells pretty rotten to me. It’s the stench of blood sanctioned by distance. The noble lie that lets one man sleep while another kills. 

Its meaning lies in the noose that swings over the entrance to the Den. Perhaps you’ve seen it or heard of it. Or dreamed of it when you couldn’t sleep. It’s not there just for decoration. For the timid, it’s a warning. For the wild at heart — an invitation one cannot refuse. 

The Villain Den has never graced the front page of the mainstream papers, nor been a hot topic over suburban dinners, because since the beginning, we understood something the rest of the world keeps forgetting:
A secret stays safe only when everyone agrees to be complicit. 

Our businesses, our way of life, rely on the shared silence of the crooked. Heroes. Villains. Politicians. Innovators. They all have a stake in keeping this city’s shadows just dark enough. So let me offer a reminder: If we continue forgetting about each other, continue pursuing our own self-interests... who do you think will be left standing in the ring in the end? There won't be anybody there, ladies and gentlemen. Not you, not me... Not even the ring itself.

We were taught that power equals worth. That without a quirk, you must settle for less — less safety, less food, less dignity. But some of us, inconveniently, refused to disappear. We learned to sharpen pencils like blades. We learned to listen. We learned that truth could be louder than a punch.

And isn’t it funny, dear readers, how quickly the world changes its tune when the quirkless start printing the sheet music?

The Den has always welcomed those labeled “defective.” Those who mutate, malfunction, or simply don’t shine bright enough for the spotlight. While the polished towers of UA congratulate themselves for a handful of “good villains,” the alleys below know the real cost of being different.

Now, I hear talk. Of reform. Of redemption. Of justice, again.

I hear of people forgetting their way back home, people who go missing because they pretend they don’t remember how deep the well goes. I hear the bells ring now, even underground. Not even uniforms can hide ghosts. 

   S.    

‘Kumar knows.’ Izuku paled at the thought. Yet the fact was undeniable. It made the entire newspaper look cheap and fake. It crumpled his desperation while simultaneously renewing it. Izuku would have to explain to the Commission, would have to prove why this excerpt is something only Kumar could write. He’d have to talk about that night . It also meant that his friends were in danger, that Kumar had forced their hands to publish this. How many people in the Den have read this already? How long has it been since this has been published? Is Niwa still alive? 

He was broken out of his spiral by laughter echoing from the common room. Bright and oblivious, it cut through the silence like sunlight in winter. Afternoon classes were already over.

Chapter Text

As the sun began its slow descent upon the grassy hills of Musustafu, Izuku found himself slumped in front of his desk, hands still cuffed, making his movements difficult, as he readily reread and highlighted important passages from the news article Hawks had shown him. Each phrase felt like a stab in his chest, a reminder of every regret he had and of his notorious career in the Villain Den. As he listened to the background noise outside the dorms, he briefly considered his fate. There were high chances this wouldn’t work as the Commission was already wary of him. It was easier to just lock him up permanently and prevent him from ever gathering any more information than he already had. 

He thought of the classmates he’d had for the whole dreamlike week he’d spent at UA, the people who’d more or less welcomed him with open arms despite his nefarious background. He felt an odd sort of pain in his chest, dull, as if someone was trying to stab him with the hilt of a knife rather than the blade. 

A knock on the door shook him out of his reverie and he got up to open the door expecting one of the teachers to be there and check on him. Instead, he was greeted by Uraraka and Todoroki, the latter holding a plate with some curry rice. 

“We figured you’d be hungry,” the bicoloured boy said as he handed over the meal and the spicy aroma made Midoriya’s mouth water. As if on cue, his stomach growled and the two students smiled. 

“Look, we don’t know what’s going on. Aizawa and the rest are keeping us in the dark, but they’re saying that something bad happened and that the Commission might have to relocate you,” Uraraka added as her round, sparkly eyes met Midoriya’s. He sucked in an abrupt breath. “We just wanted to ask you if there’s anything we could help you with? You look awful, Deku-kun, only Shinsou has bags that dark under his eyes!” 

For a second Midoriya didn’t know how to answer. In that moment, seeing the two heroes in training dressed in their comfortable pajamas, Uraraka’s cheeks rosy and Todoroki’s hair slightly tousled from being up and about all day, Izuku felt a deep sort of gratitude he hadn’t felt in a long time. Ironically enough, he began missing his other friends even more, a wave of tiredness fighting to overwhelm his senses.  

“I’m ok, Uraraka, thanks for asking. And thank you for the meal. I wish I could explain, but Aizawa-sensei has forbidden me from speaking to anyone. Though, I suppose we’ll see tomorrow if I’ll actually remain here,” he forced a chuckle. 

Uraraka and Todoroki shared a concerned glance before waving Deku goodnight and returning to their respective rooms. 

That night, the dorms were quiet. Kaminari was snoring softly in the next room, and the air smelled faintly of curry from dinner. Izuku lay curled up on top of his blankets, staring at the ceiling with his knees drawn to his chest, the moonlight carving soft lines across his scarred arms. He hadn’t taken his shirt off even though it was already June. The rainy season had just started and it was downright pouring, the humidity further obstructing his ability to fall asleep. Back at the Den it was always early spring, yet he’d never really known just why that was. 

He stared at the closet, pretending the outline of his support uniform hanging there didn’t look like a body. He turned away. But the shadows followed. ‘Please fall asleep,’ he thought, yet it was futile. His own thoughts haunted him as he unwittingly recited the words of the newspaper, startlingly similar to what he would’ve written. The issue of quirks and quirkless individuals was something he’d touched upon before, but its complex relation to each person residing in the Den made it a versatile subject, meant to be explored deeply. That is, the Den had become a voice for those who could find strength in their powerlessness. It was what had attracted Deku to it in the first place. It was a place where one’s potential could take full bloom. However it could also be something to be abused. 

UA could really learn a thing or two from the way it operated. Not that Nezu or Hawks or any other hero really understood just what the Den was. That was half the magic – the secrecy and safety it provided, the fact that it felt like a whole other city with its own rules and its own laws, the edge of the world. Izuku closed his eyes, steadied his breathing and forcibly tried to empty his mind, letting exhaustion overtake him. 

The room was too hot. Izuku’s breath hitched as sweat pooled beneath his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt. His back arched against phantom pain, old wounds rekindling like a match to dry paper. 

His breath hitched, he blinked and suddenly the warmth of the dorm was gone. His wrists ached. Duct tape bit into his skin.

“This one’s stubborn,” someone said, a disembodied voice which Izuku couldn’t recognise. He didn’t remember falling asleep. Only the click of expensive shoes on concrete. 

“Ah. You’re awake. Wonderful.” Kumar always sounded like he was about to toast you over dinner. That was the most terrifying thing about him. Midoriya’s eyes widened as he took in the room he was held in: dark, with cold stone walls that had moisture clinging to them as if it was sweat, candles surrounding them, burning bright and making the room even stuffier than it already was. 

Deku's pulse thundered in his ears, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Kumar’s eyes shone like a polished lacquered box and his pearly white teeth were a stark contrast against his dark skin. The shadows danced on his amused face, making him otherworldly, yet the tightness of his mouth suggested anger, a god ready to punish. 

“You should be flattered,” Kumar said with a smile. “Your little paper caused quite the stir. Even Tanaka was impressed, and he’s usually half-brained from all the fumes.”

Deku tried to reply, to explain, to beg for forgiveness, yet no sound reached his throat and he only managed to flare his nostrils. 

“No threats? No witty comebacks? No adorable pleas for mercy?” Kumar walked behind him, trailing a gloved finger across the boy’s neck. His voice slithered through the dark, calm and conversational, like they were discussing weather. “That’s fine. I know you aren’t the type. I’m just disappointed… To read about your passion and righteousness…Shinbun is very charismatic I will admit. But a bit of a hypocrite, no?” He pouted, bringing his fingertips together and cocking his head to the side. “We both know what justice you want to protect, newspaper boy, so why get the story wrong? Was I not kind to you? Did I not help you? Did I not enact the very justice you so seeked?”   

Crack.

The sound echoed through his skull before the pain even registered. A thin whip sliced through the air, licking across his back like a serpent made of fire. He was kneeling again. Cold stone floor beneath him. His wrists bound. Bare skin meeting dust and blood. The copper tang of it clogged his nose, almost sweet from how thick it was.

Kumar crouched beside him, still smiling. “Oh, Shinbun. You forget who taught you half the trade.”

Another lash. Izuku bit down on his tongue until he tasted metal, tears pricking his eyes, knowing what was to come, but being unable to stop it. “It’s time you listened to my story. So that your next work will be more accurate.” 

Kumar disappeared from his line of sight and the shadows pulled back revealing Pipa. As always she wore a long, flowy white dress with no sleeves, her hands clutching her instrument tightly, her face in a neutral expression, framed by her long silky hair. 

Her fingers touched the strings of her pipa with delicate precision, as if plucking feathers from a bird. The first note rang out like a bell struck underwater—warped, beautiful, yet wrong. Izuku’s breath stopped in his chest. The second note coiled around his ribs. By the third, his body began to seize, as if his bones were trying to claw their way out from under his skin.

“There’s a noose,” Kumar whispered from somewhere behind him, “that swings over the Den’s gates. Perhaps you’ve seen it or heard of it…”

The song deepened, an aria of dread. The sound of distant cheers rose in the distance—mocking echoes of the war's aftermath. He could hear himself, standing on that battlefield, reading the article aloud, his voice steady and sharp: “All men are not equal! But it is not quirks that divide us! It is the truth and the information that’s wrongly concealed! The truth we must learn to fight for! We will listen! We will remember!” 

The whip returned. So did the laughter. And that was when Izuku screamed — not from the pain, not even from the heat. From the realization: Kumar understood.

“I don’t know anything! I don’t know anything!” He pleaded, feeling his consciousness slip. Kumar, Pipa, the candles, all melted together under the weight of the woman’s death song. “Please! Sumire! Ran! I have no information! I won’t write anymore! Daichi help me!” 

A fist shoved in his mouth kept it from being too loud, but it didn’t stop the tremors. His body curled in on itself, sweat soaking his shirt, eyes darting around the pitch black of his dorm room, tears streaming uncontrollably down his face. The shadows looked like Kumar. Faintly the music was still playing, making his muscles spasm and his eyes roll back from the pain. 

“Please, mom, help me! I can’t-” His voice cracked. 

Everything was spinning. Izuku felt like he would throw up. He should’ve never made that deal, should’ve never left home. We wanted to go back, back to that time when he was quirkless and Kacchan was quirkless and they’d chase after cicadas all summer. Kacchan, he’d just grin at him and stomp his feet and make the pain go away. 

“I’m sorry! Kacchan! I’m sorry!” 

Then suddenly everything stopped. The music died mid-note. The stone floor vanished. He was suddenly weightless, gasping, chest heaving as if he'd been underwater for too long. The pain was still there, but it was duller. Muted. Someone was touching his shoulders. Warm palms. A voice, soft but coarse around the edges, muttering half-swears and reassurances.

“Deku—shit, it’s just a dream, calm the hell down—fuck, you’re burning up…”

Izuku’s lashes fluttered, but he didn’t wake. His face was scrunched, tears at the corners of his eyes. His arms twitched weakly, like he was still fighting in his sleep. After a while, Izuku's muscles slowly slackened and his trembling stopped. Somewhere deep inside, the nightmare had loosened its grip just enough to let him rest.

However the noose, Kumar’s noose, kept swinging, just out of reach.

That morning, Izuku woke up with a sore throat, aching muscles and an oddly comforting feeling in his chest. He realized with a start that it was 8 o’clock already and that he was missing morning classes before he remembered that he was under house arrest. Yesterday’s events flashed briefly through his mind.

 As he shuffled to the mirror, he paused. His eye bags had faded slightly. His skin looked less sallow. He’d… slept. Through the night. For the first time since arriving at UA. Even without his All Might plushie. What bothered him most was that he couldn’t remember how.

Maybe the room had been cooler. Maybe the rain had helped. But there was something else—a lingering heat along his shoulders. A faint, acrid scent. Burnt caramel. He shrugged it off as he made his way to the common room for some breakfast, figuring that Aizawa wouldn’t mind as everyone was now in class. 

The common room smelled faintly of miso soup and burnt toast. Morning light slanted in through the wide windows, illuminating the dust motes drifting through the air. It was quiet, almost too quiet for a place meant to house teenagers. Midoriya shuffled in, cuffed hands held stiffly in front of him, drawn by the promise of hot food and a distraction from his dark thoughts as he focused on the speech he’d have to give in front of the Commission. Muttering under his breath, he sank into one of the chairs around the kitchen table and noticed a warm bowl of miso soup and some rice right in front of him. He whipped his head at the sound of someone shuffling behind. 

“Why aren’t you in class?” he asked sharply. His voice scraped in his throat like rust. Bakugou only stared impassively at him, his face fashioned in a small frown as if his facial muscles were incapable of ever relaxing all the way. 

“Aizawa said someone had to watch you until the trial. And apparently I’m the best candidate.” He didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, he slumped across from him, bringing his legs up and sitting cross legged on the narrow chair in a display of perfect balance. His hair was still damp from a shower, darker at the roots. “Now eat.”

“You made this?” Izuku asked, incredulous. The room was permeated by the unmistakable scent of smouldering caramel, like a flare misfired. His mind clicked into place. “You didn’t poison it, did you?”

“Don’t test me,” Bakugou growled, grabbing his own bowl and digging in.

Izuku gave a quiet chuckle. “You going soft on me?”

“You wanna keep your teeth?”

Still, Bakugou looked tired. Really tired. His undereyes were darker than usual. His lips cracked and raw, like he’d chewed them through the night.

Deku’s stomach twisted with something that wasn’t quite hunger, yet he graciously accepted the food without asking any further questions. They ate in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes, both lost in thought. Izuku took a few bites of rice, chewing slowly. The food grounded him, soft and salty. A welcome contrast to the way his muscles ached from tension he couldn’t remember. His fingers twitched at the edges of his sleeves.

“I slept the whole night,” he murmured eventually. “That hasn’t happened in weeks.”

“Why?”

“It’s just…” Izuku hesitated, his gaze snagging on Bakugou. The sunlight shifted, catching in Bakugou’s hair. It turned gold, framing his face like a crown. Izuku’s breath stuttered. He coughed, trying to mask it. 

Every time. Every damn time. The universe always did this. Since they were kids. Always spotlighting Kacchan, always casting him in that unreachable glow. And Izuku, desperate, had tried for years to step into it. 

He knew better now. Bakugou had never been one to share his light. And Izuku had learned how to live in the shade. But here it was again — that golden shine in his hair, that quiet ache in Izuku’s chest. A part of him still missed chasing after him. Another part resented that he still wanted to.

“Spit it out, nerd!” Kacchan said, breaking Izuku out of his thoughts. 

“It’s the All Might plushie!” 

“...”

“You remember, back when we were kids and I’d sleep over, I always had it with me. I… I can't sleep without it, you know…”

“Hah?”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk! You used to drag that stupid Bronze Age action figure everywhere.”

Silence. Bakugou was staring wide eyed as Deku further curled in on himself, cheeks aflame, suddenly aware that he’d foolishly let his guard down. Then, suddenly Bakugou laughed and Izuku realized that he’d never actually heard Kacchan laugh, not since they were four. It was an honest, startled, stupid laugh.

“I can’t believe you remember that! Deku the terrorist, not being able to sleep without his baby blanket! Haha, pinch me.”

Izuku pursed his lips and fumbled with the remaining grains of rice sticking to his bowl. He watched as Bakugou wheezed and slapped his knee like an old man, still grumbling about the All Might dolls they’d had as kids. Izuku then smiled, cheeks warm, ducking his head over his bowl. He risked a glance back up—just in time to catch something strange in Bakugou’s gaze. The laughter was fading. 

“But you didn’t sleep well, nerd. I could hear you all the way down the hall.”

Izuku froze. The joke was gone. The air felt heavier now — like a thread had snapped inside the moment. Bakugou wasn’t laughing anymore. He just stared at him expectantly, jaw tight, eyes shadowed with something Izuku couldn’t name.

“Did I say anything?” 

A pregnant pause. Bakugou let out a sharp breath and lowered his eyes. 

“No. You were probably just thrashing around. Must’ve been some dream.”

Izuku nodded slowly, but the chill crawling up his spine told him otherwise.

“Right.”

A silence settled again.

“Why did you leave, Deku?” Bakugou asked. His voice wasn’t angry. Just tired. Raw in a way Izuku hadn’t heard before. “You never quit. No matter how damn irritating it was. Even I can admit that now.”

Izuku looked away. “It doesn’t matter. I already made my choice. Now I’m living with it.” Bakugou’s eyes flicked to the cuffs. “You didn’t care back then,” Izuku added, quieter. “You don’t have to act like you do now.”

“I don’t think that’s your call,” Bakugou said, not expecting an answer. Then, with renewed vigor. “Why is the Commission after you again?”

“You’re just full of questions today, aren’t you? Is that the real reason you made me breakfast?” Izuku’s voice dripped with sarcasm. Bakugou scoffed, getting up and starting the kettle. 

“Aizawa was an elusive little shit this morning.” 

Having turned his back to him, Izuku felt like he could breathe once more. He considered confessing everything to Kacchan for a second, maybe then the tension in his shoulders would ease at least a little bit. But as his gaze was once again drawn to the papers he’d agonised over the other day, he suddenly thought of a better plan. 

“Here, read this,” he said, pushing the paper towards the blond who took it, eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

“What’s this?”

“Just read it, tell me what you think.”

Izuku watched as Bakugou’s eyes scanned the pages, stopping briefly at the signature bearing the Shinbun alias. His brow creased. 

“You didn’t write this.” It wasn’t a question. 

“No, I didn’t. But the Commission doesn’t care.”

Bakugou set the paper down carefully, tapping a line near the bottom. “This line - I hear the bells ring now, even underground. Not even uniforms can hide ghosts. It’s clearly a jab at you. Is the Commission really that stupid? Even back in middle school… They used to call you ghost boy.” 

Izuku’s eyes widened slightly, yet he didn’t comment. “The Commission’s not stupid. Just scared. Writing these, it was a highly delicate procedure. There was only a very close circle of people who knew how my operations worked. Maybe someone was forced to leak my old notes. Maybe someone else is sending me a threat. But I have until lunch to prove it wasn’t me.” Midoriya gestured to his cuffs. “Otherwise I go to prison. Or worse.” 

“That’s bullshit.” Bakugou’s hands curled into fists on the table.

“It’s policy,” Izuku replied with a bitter smile. “And I’m expendable. They took a gamble on me and this makes it look like I spat in their face.”

Bakugou didn’t answer. Instead, he stared at the signature. At the words. Then he nodded once. “Then we prove it. You’re not going anywhere, Deku.”

Izuku didn’t say anything right away. His hands stayed clenched in his lap, fingers twitching against the cuffs. But a strange calm settled in his chest.

The light that had once caught in Bakugou’s hair had shifted—spilling across the room now, warm and wide. And for the first time, Izuku felt it reaching him too.

Chapter Text

The informal trial took place in one of UA’s forgotten interrogation rooms — a small, concrete box in the basement that hadn’t been used since the war with the League of Villains, back when the Aoyama family had sat trembling under the same flickering lights.

Izuku sat on a cold plastic stool, hands cuffed in his lap, ankles shackled together. To his right stood Aizawa, ready to erase him if needed. To his left: Lady Nagant, arm half-raised, a bullet already chambered. And beside him, arms folded, was Bakugou who had forced his way into the room over Aizawa’s objections. Midoriya had to hand it to him: Bakugou was relentless.

Across from him sat Hawks, Nezu, Detective Tsukauchi, and a figure draped in thick cloth, face obscured. Hawks wore his hero costume, the formal one. That alone set Izuku on edge.

Nezu gave a small, disarming smile. “Midoriya-kun. Are you prepared to speak?”

Izuku nodded, throat dry. “Yes.”

“Then begin.”

He stood. His body still ached from the nightmare, but the strange calm from breakfast lingered — like embers under his ribs. He spoke without trembling. “When you gave me this chance, Keigo-san, you said I wasn’t stupid enough to sign my name on something this obvious. You were right.”

 His eyes scanned the table. “But I understand why you'd believe it. The article is almost identical to the pieces I used to write. The style, the voice — even the stamp. It quotes ideas and lines from my old reports.” He unfolded the crumpled copy. “But to publish this would be logistically impossible. The printing warehouse and the specialty paper are accessible only to four people. Two don’t speak Japanese fluently. And I haven’t left campus since my placement here.”

“You could’ve coordinated something from the inside,” said Tsukauchi, not unkindly. “There have been incidents like this before. The Arakawa leak, for example.”

“That’s true,” Midoriya said. “But I’ve been under constant surveillance. Aizawa-sensei checks my room daily. Security watches every hallway. And most of Class 3-A has been by my side constantly like Uraraka and Todoroki. You can question them.”

The cloaked figure moved slightly. A hand extended from the robe, palm raised, fingers spread in a signal. The tension in the room dipped just slightly.

Izuku took the opportunity and flattened the article on the table. “If I were leaking something, I’d be smarter than this. The writing is too perfect. It mimics my old structure without evolving. I’ve changed. This hasn’t.”

“Convenient,” said the cloaked figure — a woman’s voice, calm and unreadable. Izuku’s stomach flipped. Truth-teller? He couldn’t tell. She didn’t move like a cop.

“You know my quirk: Analysis. I adapt constantly. Even my syntax changes depending on the target.” He pointed to a line. “‘We sharpen pencils like blades’ — that’s lifted straight from an older column. It’s reused without context. Whoever did this copied my rhythm, not my reasoning.” He looked up. “And if you look closely… the real target of this article isn’t any official or underground figure. It’s me.”

Bakugou snorted. “There’s no mumbling either.”

Everyone turned. Bakugou’s face was tinged pink.

“I’ve read his notebooks since I was five. Doesn’t matter how slick he’s gotten, the Analysis shows up. Long sentences, zero commas, ten verbs per line, and some preachy-ass declaration at the end. It’s not a stylistic choice, that’s just who he is.”

The cloaked woman tilted her head slightly but kept her palm up. “Then who wrote it?” she asked. “And why pin it on you?”

Midoriya didn’t flinch. “If I may — where was this article found?”

“Shizuoka,” Hawks said, tone low. “Which we flagged. Your papers were always distributed locally: Musutafu, Wakayama… never that far out. But Shizuoka is home to the Quirk Registry Headquarters. You’ve hit it before.”

“Yes. But that’s not why he chose Shizuoka.”

Nezu’s ears twitched. “He?”

Izuku blinked. That had slipped out.

Nezu’s smile widened, slow and sharp. “Go on, Midoriya-kun. Tell us more about this ‘he.’”

Shit. He was baiting him.

Izuku glanced at Bakugou, who stiffened. He'd noticed it too — the change in the room. The way Nezu’s chair didn’t creak. The way Hawks suddenly seemed more alert.

‘They want me to say it,’ Izuku thought. Still, the game was already in motion.

“You’re already investigating him,” Midoriya said, slowly. “Aren’t you?”

Nezu tilted his head. “Perhaps. But tell us what you know.”

Izuku narrowed his eyes.

“You want me to tell you about Kumar.” Izuku didn’t wait for the reaction.
He could already see it in their eyes. They were all listening now.

“Midoriya,” Nezu said gently. “You’ve been on the run for over five years. There have been several multiple bounties on your head. You’ve uncovered state secrets that only the top brass know and lived to tell the tale. Shinbun is a national security risk and the government’s most guarded dirty secret. Why are you at UA?” 

“Weren’t you there when it happened?” Izuku retorted sarcastically. Next to him, he could feel Bakugou’s ruby eyes shooting daggers at him. 

“It took us two hours to convince you to enter the program and since you’ve acted like a model student which I personally am grateful for. But I think we should proverbially ‘cut the bullshit’,” Hawks said, the mischievous glint in his eye reappearing just as suddenly as it had disappeared. The man was an impeccable actor. “You are in the Villain Reformation Program because of this Kumar individual, are you not?”

A beat. Izuku considered his options before he sighed frustrated. Kacchan wasn’t the only one who hated to lose. 

“If I’m going to explain the article… I have to explain the first time I asked for justice. Because I meant it, once, but I asked the wrong person.” 

Izuku looked down at his cuffed hands, then slowly up at the panel.

“Three years ago, before the war, there was a job my associates and I had to take care of. We weren’t heroes. We weren’t villains either. We simply took contracts. Moved in the shadows. Watched everything.” He paused. “The Chie Hassaikai hired us.”

That got a reaction. Even the cloaked figure shifted.

“So the reason why the article popped up in Shizuoka was because that's where they kept their headquarters?” asked Nezu. 

“Precisely. We were supposed to be transport and protection. No questions asked. Then Overhaul showed up. But… he wasn’t the one giving orders.” Izuku’s voice dropped lower. “There was someone above him. Someone we weren’t even supposed to see. A third party who handed off the real product.”

His eyes met Nezu’s.

“Kumar.”

You could feel the silence thicken.

“Kumar was the one who gave Overhaul the children.” 

Behind him, Aizawa suddenly tensed. “During our investigations there was only one child involved with Overhaul and she was the granddaughter of the yakuza leader. There were no other children,” he said, his usual monotone voice carrying more bite. Izuku’s jaw tightened.

“There were at least five others besides Eri. All unregistered. All gifted. All disposable.”

“They were experiments?” the cloaked woman asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes. I didn’t understand it at first. I wasn’t allowed inside the lab. But I saw the bruises. The sedation. The way Eri wouldn’t speak. The others were already going catatonic.”

He glanced at Aizawa, and then Lady Nagant. Neither moved, but something in the air shifted — as if even they weren’t prepared for this.

“I wanted to stop it. My partners said we’d be walking into a trap, that it wasn’t our job. After all, we were just the delivery guys. But I thought…” he laughed bitterly. “I thought I could save them.” He looked up, and something sharp shone behind his tired green eyes. “I went to Kumar.”

“You went alone?” Hawks asked.

“Yes.”

“You were what, fifteen?”

Izuku ignored the comment.

“I told him I wanted justice. That I’d seen what the Hassaikai were doing, and I’d help him if he helped me get them out. I offered him maps, intel, underground records, Commission secrets, war reports that had never been declassified.”

“And what did he offer you in return?” Nezu asked, though his voice was quieter now.

Izuku’s expression darkened. “He told me he’d take care of it. That he was impressed. That I was a smart kid.” He looked down at the table, fists tightening. “Then he killed them.”

A chill cut through the room.

“I was so… angry,” Izuku growled, as pricks of tears formed in the corner of his eyes. “He said it was mercy. That kids like them would be hunted all their lives — by the yakuza, the triads, even heroes — just for being what they were. He said justice is preventing pain before it can happen.”

“How did he do it?” Aizawa asked, quieter now.

“He didn’t. He asked his right hand to do it. A woman. We call her Pipa.” He exhaled through his nose. Then asked, “May I?” No one stopped him. He leaned forward, shifting in his restraints just enough to hike up one leg of his trousers. What he revealed was skin aged beyond his years — darkened, sagging, scattered with liver spots. A sharp inhale echoed from somewhere in the room.

“This is what happens when Pipa plays her instrument,” he said, tone flat. “It can’t be undone. This happened when I tried to stop her from killing the children. Only Eri survived. Her quirk activated by reflex. She rewound herself… and Pipa’s effect. Kumar was furious.” 

There was a silence before he added, quieter – “We had a talk. He let me live.”

Izuku could remember it vividly even now. Kumar’s right hand closed around his throat, the other pointing a gun to his forehead, Pipa on his right her hand poised on her instrument’s strings.

  ‘Without ever lifting your own hand, you seek the death of others at the hands of someone else. Then you tell me I’m unjust and you try to take it back. If you ask me, that’s not very fair. So tell me, why should I spare you now after all the trouble you’ve put me through?’ 

Izuku hadn’t begged. ‘Because I’m useful’ he’d said. ‘And I know too much.’

It had been the truth. All he was good for was information. Dissection. Calculating the odds of survival and hiding the odds of breaking. Kumar had laughed. Lowered the gun. And let him walk away.

Izuku had run that night — fled across half the city to his old neighborhood. He’d stood outside his mother’s apartment building, watching the lights flicker behind her curtains. He couldn’t knock. Couldn’t walk inside with the blood of five children on his hands. So he turned around. And went back. Back to the Den. Back to Kumar.

“I started writing because of him,” Izuku whispered. Everybody leaned forward. Even the cloaked woman stilled, her hand unmoving in the air. Aizawa’s shoulders had gone rigid. Hawks had stopped twirling his pen. 

“I wrote because I hated him. Because I wanted people to see. The war had ended and the heroes were congratulating themselves — parades and headlines — but there were neighborhoods still burning, ditches filled with bodies that no one buried. And the Commission? They looked away.” His voice strengthened. “So I wrote. I broke into Gunga Mountain Villa with a friend, got proof the League had fallen. And I published an article the next day.”

He met Hawks’ eyes.

“I told people what the war left behind. That villains aren’t born — they’re abandoned. That we’re all part of a system deciding whose suffering matters. And that justice doesn’t exist if the truth stays buried.”

He could almost hear his own voice again, rising above the alleyways and rooftops of the Den and above bloody battlefields:

“All men are not equal! But it is not quirks that divide us! It is the truth and the information that’s wrongly concealed! The truth we must learn to fight for! We will listen! We will remember!”

Midoriya took a shaking breath. His eyes burned. This was always the hardest part to remember. 

“I think reading that article made Kumar realize just how much I knew and how much I could reveal. He wasn’t pleased. He…” 

His throat tightened. He blinked rapidly, but the tears came anyway — first one, then several. A sob broke free. Hawks stood, silent, and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. Izuku shook his head, shoulders hunched. ‘Pathetic,’ he thought bitterly. ‘Crying like a loser after rehearsing this speech a hundred times.’

“It’s okay, Midoriya,” Hawks murmured. “You don’t have to—”

“No,” Izuku croaked, wiping his eyes roughly. “No. The story isn’t done.” He sat straighter, like he had to hold himself together with posture alone. “I thought Kumar would kill me. But instead… he offered me a deal.” A broken laugh escaped him. “Said I’d keep writing. That I’d become the voice of the Den. All I had to do was stay useful.” He met no one’s eyes now. “I said yes.”

His next words came out like an oath and a curse all at once. 

“And I became Shinbun.”

His lip trembled. But he smiled — not out of joy, but defiance.

“With every article, more people listened. So I started hiding things — tips, warnings, leaks. Breadcrumbs no one could trace. The Commission kept chasing me. Kumar kept watching me. But I still had my pen. And now I’m done being someone else's weapon.”

He slapped the newspaper down in front of him. The fake article. The threat. “You wanted answers? There they are. This paper — it’s not just a forgery. It’s Kumar reminding me that he still owns me.”

The silence stretched. Midoriya kept his head bowed, breath shallow, fingers trembling against the edge of the interrogation table. The paper lay between them all like evidence at a crime scene, or a body no one wanted to claim. No one spoke. Not Hawks, not Nezu. Not even Tsukauchi, who had stopped taking notes halfway through the confession. 

Then the cloaked woman lowered her hand. Her voice, when it came, was calm, almost motherly.

“No lie detected. He told only the truth.” 

Nezu’s chair squeaked as he stood. When he spoke, it was carefully measured. “I believe Midoriya-kun should remain in the program.” He nodded once at Aizawa. “Remove the cuffs. And make the necessary calls. Shinbun stays.” He then closed the distance between them and propped himself on the boy’s lap as Eraserhead was removing his handcuffs. Midoriya sighed and rolled his wrists a couple of times, some tension already easing up. 

“Look at me, boy,” said Nezu, wiping away a tear with a paw. “It is not uncommon for intelligent types like us to get abused for our power. Heaven only knows, I have my fair share of stories. However, that’s the thing about quirks like ours. They never let up. We never stop thinking. Don’t think I didn’t notice the glint in your eye, that resolve. You have a plan.” 

“Yes, I would need the Commission’s permission though. I have a theory that, if true, could counter Kumar’s attack. Something that would really hurt him.” 

Midoriya felt, rather than saw, Bakugou stiffening next to him and the two boys locked eyes. Kacchan’s eyes were furrowed, his jaw set tightly and his shoulders tense. His nose and cheeks were slightly red and his eyes glassy. Midoriya broke their stare, his heart beating wildly in his chest and looked towards the others. Hawks smirked and Nezu smiled wickedly. Lady Nagant pumped her first which Izuku took as a sign of encouragement. 

“A paper. Of our own. If there’s anything I’ve learned at the Den it’s that when Kumar calls, you answer.”

Chapter Text

Midoriya was escorted out of the interrogation chamber by Aizawa while the rest of the panel remained inside, their voices low, indistinct. Plans were being made — strategies, surveillance, negotiations he wasn’t privy to. For his counterattack against Kumar to work, he’d need unprecedented access and approval. At the beginning of the program such a thing would have been impossible.

Even now, as he outlined the basics of his plan to Aizawa, he caught the sharp glance Lady Nagant shot at him, her brow furrowed in something between suspicion and restraint. But before objections could form, Nezu had promised new security measures. That was that. Izuku had no argument. He was still, on paper, a villain.

Bakugou kept insistingly looking at him, as if he wanted to say something, but Midoriya had no energy for Kacchan’s anger. He was already dealing with his own frustration at having played right into the rat’s paws. He knew that Kacchan was reeling from the information he’d disclosed, but maybe it was for the best this way. Maybe now, he’d be left alone to his own devices and Bakugou would stop bothering him once and for all. 

Outside the chamber, leaning against a chipped hallway wall beneath flickering emergency lighting, stood a tall boy with a sturdy build, heavy-lidded eyes, and violet hair like static. His expression was unreadable, not bored, not invested, just waiting.

Then Bakugou exploded.

“You purple bastard — what the hell are you doing here?”

He stalked forward and without hesitation grabbed the front of Shinsou’s uniform, yanking him up by the collar like a predator cornering a rival. The hallway lights caught the edge of his sharp canines as he bared his teeth.

“You on vacation from your creepy mind-fuck duty, or—”

“Returned from Hokkaido early,” Shinsou cut in, voice slow, raspy, and disarmingly calm. “Nezu’s orders.”

Midoriya blinked — he’d heard of the brainwash hero, but hadn’t expected him to radiate so much Eraserhead energy while somehow being... more smug. A smirk tugged at his lips, until—

“You would know all about Nezu’s predictions, wouldn’t you, Shinbun?”

Their eyes locked — green to indigo — and Izuku felt the back of his neck prickle. So Nezu really had planned for this. Had anticipated the article, Kumar’s game, his response. And now he’d brought in his own personal off-switch. Midoriya exhaled.

“You’re the new security measure, aren’t you?”

“Smart as your articles suggest,” Shinsou said with a tilted, unsettling smile. “If you even think about stepping out of line, I’ve got permission to hijack your brain. No resistance. No fuss.” He shoved his hands into his pockets lazily. “But hey — silver lining — we’re classmates now.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Bakugou’s fingers twitched. He released Shinsou with a low grunt, stepping back, his chest rising and falling too quickly. His cheeks were a bit pink like he was suffering from a fever, his spiky hair sitting in every direction as he ran a hand through it. “This is some serious bullshit.” He spat the words like venom, eyes darting between the two of them. “That rat really signed off on this? What — Deku  breathes wrong and you zap him? You gonna be his leash now? His babysitter?”

His voice cracked around the edges, somewhere between fury and something he hadn’t admitted yet. The flush on his cheeks deepened. A vein throbbed at his temple. “You gonna follow him everywhere now? Wipe his ass for him, too?”

Midoriya’s eyes widened slightly, thrown off by the sheer heat in Bakugou’s voice. Shinsou raised a brow, clearly entertained but choosing silence. Bakugou didn’t wait for a response.

“Forget this. You two can play watchdog and traitor all you want.”

His boots thundered as he stormed off down the corridor, not sparing Izuku a glance as he couldn’t trust what his face might give away.

“Should I ask what happened?” said Shinsou as he gazed at the empty spot Bakugou had left behind. 

“Leave Bakugou to me,” replied Aizawa. “Midoriya, as Shinsou said, Nezu has assigned him to keep an eye on you should anything unfortunate happen. However, the original rules still apply. You will still have regular check ups from Recovery Girl and the other teachers and whatever plans you may have, you’ll have to carry them out on your own time out of class. You will have internet access only under Shinsou’s supervision or another teacher’s, but no weapons and no outside access. You are dismissed.” 

Shinsou turned to Izuku, the same bored expression back on his face. “What now?”

Midoriya paused and took in all the information available to him. He briefly glanced at Aizawa who was already returning to the interrogation room, no doubt to receive more orders from the Commission. Then he looked back at the purple haired boy and the corner of his lip quirked upwards. 

“Now? We gather information.”

The only public computers available were in the small UA library, hidden in a corner in one of the main buildings. Inside were several General Studies kids studying for midterms and Business Course students debating a recent marketing strategy launched by the Dragon Heroine Ryukyuu. Upon entering, Shinsou was greeted by an average looking girl with short cropped hair and a clean pressed uniform. She was clutching an atlas. 

“Hitoshi! It’s been so long!” she bowed slightly and Shinsou returned the gesture, a genuine smile on his face. “How was Hokkaido? You do anything heroic there?” 

“That was the plan. Managed to finally rebuild the new Quirk training facilities the Commission has been gunning for. Had to return early for a different assignment though.” 

The girl’s eyes traveled to his left where Midoriya was hiding slightly behind him. Her mouth formed a little ‘o’ shape. 

“You’re that villain guy,” she gasped. Then, eyes wide, correcting herself. “I- I mean- former villain guy! You’re in the program and all, so I shouldn’t have assumed! I’m Sakura, from general studies. Actually, Hitoshi and I used to be classmates, believe it or not.” 

“Oh, I know,” said Izuku, not really paying mind to the flustered girl. “Shinsou Hitoshi didn’t transfer until his second year of UA because of his quirk. I’m surprised Nezu didn’t attempt to change the requirements for the entrance exam after that. Almost won the sports festival that year, right? I always catch it on tv.” 

“So I guess villains watch tv too, huh?” Shinsou replied, ignoring the well of information that usually intimidated so many. 

“There’s only so much crime one can carry out.” 

Poor Sakura watched back and forth between the two and her blush intensified before she excused herself and returned back to her classmates. Midoriya turned to his guard, a wry smile on his face making the freckles on his cheeks stretch and revealing crooked white teeth. One of his molars was missing. 

“Ex girlfriend?” 

“Just an acquaintance.” He snorted. 

Shinsou then guided Midoriya towards one of the computers, in a corner secluded from the rest of the library. The two sat in silence as Midoriya began searching various international news outlets. Shinsou was slumped forward, head resting on his forearms, eyes closed, yet fluttering every now and then. Midoriya typed rapidly, going from link to link and bypassing several firewalls, all while muttering under his breath. Shinsou sighed, annoyed. 

“This IS a library, Shinbun. People are usually supposed to be quiet.”

“It’s Izuku Midoriya. And shouldn’t you be closely watching me instead of sleeping on the job?”

“Oh, I’m watching.” He smirked. “Doesn’t mean I appreciate the background commentary.”

Izuku ignored him in favour of staring at the screen, chewing on his bottom lip, unaware. A beat. Shinsou narrowed his eyes as he noticed the writing on the screen was entirely in chinese. 

“So what are you looking for?” 

“Not sure if I’m allowed to say.”

“You forget I’m basically employed by the Commission already. And that I’m your watchman. I already know too much for my own good.”

Midoriya hesitated. His fingers stilled on the keyboard.

“I’m cross-referencing trade and shipping logs out of Osaka and Qingdao. Kumar’s people move through offshore black sites, not just the Den.”

“You’ve done this before?” 

“Of course, it was only natural to try to find out more about him. But right now, I’m digging even deeper than before because there’s a theory I have to prove. Kumar has only ever been seen inside the Den by the public a couple of times. He’s a very mysterious individual, it’s what keeps the fear and rumour around him going. Like how he’s quirkless but has managed to outsmart the Commission for years. But, unlike in our society, the Den actually favours those who are quirkless so this gossip just further amplifies his influence. I have a hunch that he’s just pretending. Kumar hasn’t always worked in Japan. If I can go after the trail he left behind of his past business ventures I might get a lead to where he’s actually from. Then I scour their National Quirk Registries or I find concrete evidence on the way. It’s only a matter of time.”

“And you’re going to write about that? Expose him? It’s that easy?”

“First you have to answer one of my questions,” Midoriya said, his hands never ceasing their typing, eyes glued to the screen. “When you take over someone’s mind just what exactly happens? I’ve always wondered, you know? Do you see things from their eyes, is it like their consciousness now belongs to you? Or is it more like a proxy thing? I already know you can’t manipulate higher nervous activities. And how does language play in your quirk activation requirements?” 

Shinsou blinked slowly. That actually seemed to take him off guard for a second and Midoriya inwardly grinned. 

“I’m… not at liberty to say,” the purple haired boy mumbled. Izuku whipped his head around and the two finally locked eyes. Shinsou looked oddly gentle and harmless, unlike the rest of his classmates which all had some intimidating auras representative of their offensive quirks. Well, except maybe Hagakure, but she was often the exception in a lot of things. “It’s… a proxy, mostly,” Shinsou ended up replying. 

Just as the words left his mouth, Midoriya’s screen lit up with a name: HYŌGO COASTLINE TRANSPORT, LTD. A shell company. Connected to a seemingly innocuous import business. One he hasn’t seen since the Chie Hassaikai incident. 

“Found him,” he whispered.

Shinsou leaned over to look.

“Kumar?”

Midoriya smiled, yet his eyes didn’t seem happy. 

“I’m getting there. Can you get me a notebook or something? I need to take some notes.”

As Shinsou asked around, Midoriya kept scrolling through various filler web pages with happy workers posing around construction equipment and various boats. Midoriya's fingers moved faster now. Not frantic, but methodical. Shinsou watched as multiple browser windows opened, minimized, cross-linked, and re-opened. Izuku wasn’t just researching. He was excavating.

“This was their latest shell, before the war. He’d moved three major containers through Hyōgo — likely tied to arms or human trafficking. But they’re not registered with customs in Japan.”

Shinsou leaned over his shoulder. “So where are they registered?”

“Nowhere. They’re routed through Shinra Capital & Trade Co. — the holding company behind Hyōgo.” Another window popped open. An innocuous-sounding finance branch with headquarters in Tokyo. Midoriya scanned documents, looking for any signatures, irregularities, or licensing gaps.

“Shinra is the smoke screen. They legitimize the money. But this—” he tapped a footnote buried in one of the PDF reports, “—this is the real connection.”

“Jinwei Capital Holdings.” Shinsou read the name aloud.

“China-based. Minimal presence in Japan now. But back then…?” Midoriya clicked again, already pulling up cached registry data from the year the League war started. “Jinwei was booming. But look here,” he pointed at a report written entirely in chinese. “Their invoices say they exported plastic tubing. But that port doesn’t even handle bulk plastic. And the money’s routed through Macau to a crypto wallet.” 

One document led to another, each more encrypted than the last — but he was used to that. Used to the language of misdirection. Of financial code masquerading as legitimacy.

“If I could just find a list of legitimate employees…”

He was halfway through a compressed archive of Jinwei Capital’s payroll tax documents when a misnamed PDF caught his eye.

“SEC-ARCHIVE_RanaAdmin_Conf.pdf”

A misfile. Hidden in a China-based company’s directory — but tagged with Rana . His pulse quickened.

“Shinsou,” Midoriya said without turning, “this file isn’t supposed to be here.”

“Then open it before it disappears.” Shinsou was now leaning against his shoulder, eyes wide, staring at the computer. 

The file lagged as it loaded. Then, lines of scanned text appeared, stamped with the seal of an old financial audit firm based in Sri Lanka.

Internal Review: RanaLogix Pvt. Ltd.
Date: March 17, ****
Subject: Unauthorized Executive Bonuses / Export Fraud

The name glared at him from the header.

Ravindran Rana – CEO

Section 4.2: Evidence of Fraudulent Allocation of Executive Bonuses

Between February and November of ****, RanaLogix Pvt. Ltd. processed six unauthorized wire transfers totaling ₹18.4 million (~US$170,000) under the ledger header “Executive Performance Incentives.” These transactions were routed through a complex chain of short-lived shell entities based in the Maldives, Dubai, and finally into untraceable crypto-wallets.

While these transfers bear the digital authorization signature of Mr. Rana, metadata analysis confirms that the requests originated from the CEO’s terminal and were often executed outside of standard working hours (see Appendix 3B: Login Activity 12:00 AM – 4:00 AM).

“The funds were funneled using payroll override macros coded in an internal access-only directory, one which Mr. Rana did not have clearance to edit.”
– Statement by IT Security Auditor, Priyadarshan A.

Furthermore, the bonuses were not accompanied by any formal board resolution, performance review documentation, or shareholder approval — all mandatory under RanaLogix’s executive compensation policy.

“This is it!” Midoriya whisper-screamed. “I can’t believe this is happening.” He began tapping the desk, adrenaline buzzing beneath his skin. He opened a separate file and began maniacally searching for Ravindran Rana and his corporation. His fingers trembled as he clicked through layers of files — old financial audits, shipping manifests, emails flagged as suspicious, but none quite pointed to the real mastermind. “This Rana guy… He’s a figurehead, for sure. But the pattern in the documents feels like someone’s controlling him. Manipulating everything behind the scenes.”

“And that’s Kumar? You think he has a mind quirk?” 

“I don’t have enough information,” Izuku bit his thumb, drawing blood. He reached a poorly made website written entirely in Sinhala. “Is there anyone we know who has a translation quirk? Who can read multiple languages?” 

“Not that I know of.”

Izuku swore under his breath, yet he seemed obsessive, bordering on compulsive in his need for information, for analysis. ‘It’s happening again,’ he thought vaguely. ‘Not another episode…’ 

He tried running the webpage through a translator, but that wouldn’t guarantee him the most accurate information, but it would have to do. Then he saw it and his heart skipped a beat. Another company that had actually conducted business with RanaLogix Pvt. Ltd., back when it was still fresh off the boat in the industry. At the bottom was a picture with several men in front of an official looking building. 

The image was grainy, and the men in the photo looked almost interchangeable in their stiff suits and tightly coiled expressions. But that man, the one half-concealed at the corner, as if avoiding the camera, stood out like a shadow in the sun. His posture was too controlled, his expression too neutral. He was hiding in plain sight.

Midoriya’s chest tightened. He knew those eyes.

He opened Google Earth and dropped a pin on the region most likely to house the building — somewhere near Colombo, if the footer on the site could be trusted. He shifted angles, tracing landmarks and rooftops until—

“There,” he whispered. “There you are.”

The structure was a modern building with a flat facade. He zoomed in. The front gate bore a rusted plaque with a partial company name: YAKU... HOLDINGS. A fragment. But the front awning was identical to the one in the image.

“Yakut Holdings,” he muttered. “Or maybe Yakura? I need—” He paused, scouring the government commerce archives next. A search. A guess. Yakura Holdings Pvt. Ltd. — dissolved a couple years back. Registered in Sri Lanka.

Midoriya blinked. He clicked into the corporate registry archive, praying the public database hadn’t purged old filings. The company’s original incorporation documents appeared with a painful lag, the logo barely visible in the corner. And then, there it was.

Director of Financial Strategy: Zahir Kumara.

His full name, typed in block print, right next to a signature.

Midoriya’s breath caught in his throat. His heart raced in his ears. He couldn’t stop staring at the line. Zahir Kumara. Zahir Kumara. The name rang out like a siren in his head.

Behind him, Shinsou stepped closer, reading over his shoulder. “That’s him.”

Midoriya nodded slowly, too stunned to speak. “That’s Kumar. That’s his real name. I have it. I can find him.”

He moved fast now, entering the name into the national quirk registry database. It was restricted, shielded by layers of official authorizations — but Midoriya had learned to navigate red tape like it was a second language. Within minutes, the entry loaded.

Name: Zahir Kumara
Nationality: Sri Lankan
Registered Quirk: Business
Classification: Cognitive Influence — Non-Combatant
Quirk Description: Allows user to exert conceptual control over financial behavior, decision-making, and cooperative outcomes within a structured system (e.g., contracts, negotiations, corporate environments).

Midoriya stared at the screen, the silence heavy. The words were clinical, but they pulsed with menace. Then, he laughed. It started small — a breathy chuckle, half in disbelief — but it grew fast, erratic, bouncing off the library walls like glass shattering. Several students turned in their seats, startled. 

Shinsou glanced around awkwardly, shifting to block Midoriya from view. “Hey. Hey, calm down—”

But Midoriya was grinning now, wide and unhinged. He rose to his feet and grabbed Shinsou by the waist, pulling him in a tight hug. Then, his cheeks flushed from the adrenaline and he grabbed his notebook with one hand and a pen with the other, and began scribbling.

“I was right!” he whispered between laughs. “I can’t believe it, I was right! All those little inconsistencies, the way everyone just trusted Kumar, the smooth-talking deals, the way he vanished when things got too loud — it wasn’t just charisma. It was his quirk. Cognitive influence. Structured conceptual persuasion. Oh my god—Shinsou, he could make you sign your life away and thank him for the privilege!”

Shinsou grabbed Midoriya’s wrist gently, grounding. “Midoriya. You’re spiraling. You need to breathe.” But Izuku was already writing furiously, his fingers smudging the ink and Shinsou could only stare, a chill running down his spine as he realized that this was the Shinbun the Commission was so scared of, the villain he was supposed to look after. 

“Midoriya… Midoriya, answer me!” he began demanding, trying not to betray how panicked he was getting at the sight of Izuku’s intelligence unravelling. His muttering was growing more ominous, switching between languages and pausing for short bursts of laughter. Shinsou grit his teeth and shook his shoulder. “Look at me, Shinbun!” 

This seemed to break Midoriya out of his stupor as he finally locked eyes with Shinsou. 

“I told you already, don’t call me by that–”

Suddenly he slumped forward, a faraway, empty look in his eyes. Shinsou sighed and grabbed his phone dialing a number. 

“Yeah…uh-huh…No… He wasn’t responding well…Yes, I’ve taken control…” He glanced at the slumped figure beside him — ink smudged across Midoriya’s palms, half-formed words trailing off in a spiral on the page. His breathing had slowed, but that vacant look remained, as if he’d wandered somewhere far beyond reach. “…No, I don’t think sedation’s necessary. Not yet.” He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. “But if he dives that deep again, you’ll need to come yourself.”

A beat of silence. Then he hung up and slid the phone into his pocket, staring at the mess of notes Midoriya had left behind. Shinsou carefully gathered the papers, folded them in half, and tucked them into his bag.

Outside the library, a figure with a pressed jacket and sharp eyes stepped away from the window, quietly lifting a phone to his ear.

“Target confirmed. Subject Shinbun is active… and unstable.” Then he disappeared into the crowd.

Chapter Text

“Hello, Powerloader!” Shinsou bowed his head for the fourth time this week as he and Midoriya made their way to the support work stations. More than a week had passed since their breakthrough in the Kumar case and since Hitoshi had been forced to brainwash the boy. Izuku had spent most of that week locked in a special room Nezu had asked Cementoss to create especially for such a situation. That rat truly was always two steps ahead. 

“It’s only natural,” Nezu had said when Shinsou had dragged Midoriya to his office. “It’s not unusual for intelligence types like him to get carried away when in overdrive, quirks like that tend to overwhelm the mind and he’s still very young. He hasn’t had any proper stimulation since joining UA, so this breakthrough must’ve been especially exciting. He might’ve not even been aware of your presence even. But he should ride out that wave alone, since the Commission doesn’t fully trust him yet and he could still be a liability to the program. I’ll supervise him and my guess is his mind will readjust and he’ll return by the end of the week.” 

Izuku wasted no time during his confinement, instead dedicating himself to writing the Kumar article. As he returned to class, Shinsou was bombarded with questions about Midoriya. Each time someone brought up the subject of Shinbun, he noticed Bakugou jut out his chin, pretending like he wasn’t eavesdropping. 

The truth was the class was both worried for the awkward, gangly kid, while also relieved this possible villain was restrained. Iida had even argued with the faculty that perhaps this scandal was a sign Midoriya shouldn’t be among their ranks and was backed by Ojiro and Mineta. There were also those like Uraraka and Todoroki who offered counters, saying that the villain reformation program was based on faith and that their job as heroes was to help those who couldn’t save themselves. Aizawa had shut off that stalemate argument, saying Nezu’s as well as the Commission’s decisions were final and that Midoriya was still in the program no matter what anyone said. 

When Izuku was finally let out of his solitary confinement, he looked rough. Covered in scratches on his arms, legs, even neck, his uniform slightly ripped and dirty, his hair a bird’s nest and the bags under his eyes were deeper than ever. Even so, he was smiling this small subdued smile, the complete opposite to the crazed one he’d had before, and he seemed spent yet oddly satisfied like someone who’d ran a marathon and won. 

Ever since, the two had spent most of their time in the Support Course classrooms as Midoriya insisted on building an offset printer himself and making the paper himself. 

“Not so fast!” Powerloader looked up from the hydraulic claw arm he was tuning and jogged towards the two. “You won’t be working here anymore. You exploded like half of the classroom the other day! You’re a little hazard.” 

Midoriya pursed his lips, gripping his tool box tighter. The tunnel vision hadn’t fully gone away and he was already on edge whenever Shinsou dragged him away from his machine. Hadn’t Nezu talked to Powerloader? 

“Don’t look at me like that! I just meant I’ve relocated you to the bomb room.” 

“Bomb room?” 

As if on cue a loud boom was heard from down the hall. 

“It’s where our more creative students let loose with new inventions. If you cause damage there, it won’t really matter.” 

Izuku visibly relaxed, before his shoulders squared again and he began looking around frantically. “Does this mean you’ve touched my machine? You’ve moved it already?” he growled. 

“Hey there, Midoriya,” Shinsou started, trying to calm the bundle of nerves next to him. “Powerloader is the top of the industry. He wouldn’t damage your printer. Besides, I don’t think-” 

He didn’t have time to finish the thought as Midoriya began racing down to the so-called ‘bomb room’. Shinsou groaned as he ran after him. The Commission owed him big time for this job. 

The bomb room was just what one would expect from a classroom with such a name. The floor was littered in scraps of various materials and shrapnel, everywhere were hangers and racks for various inventions and prototypes and on the walls were stuck elaborate blueprints. The inside smelled vaguely like melted plastic and sweat. 

Two support students were tinkering away in their respective corners, ignoring Midoriya who dashed for a nearby table where his machine sat. Initially, Shinsou had been confused just why the boy insisted on making the printer himself since surely, UA had their own printers, yet Izuku simply argued that it was to ensure the authenticity to his paper which would no doubt be verified by those in the Den. 

He was still very reluctant to talk about that place, much to Shinsou’s dismay and he still had yet to reveal anything about his associates who were still out there. That set Hitoshi on edge. It made Shinsou feel like it was only a matter of time before Midoriya would leave or betray them. Even as he worked, sometimes he’d stop and gaze wistfully at nothing in particular and Shinsou would know that he was thinking about his home. 

Their table was cluttered with stacks of ink cartridges, metal plates, gears, and a half-disassembled 3D printer that Izuku had rescued from Powerloader’s storage. Izuku immediately got to work, pushing on some goggles on his forehead and taking off his shirt which initially had embarrassed Shinsou a bit before a quick look around made him realise that that’s just how support course students worked, their teacher included. 

After the past couple of days, Shinsou had begun to understand Midoriya better, his awkwardness and infinite knowledge and subtle hints that betrayed his true emotions. His plump cheeks, littered with freckles and unruly hair made him seem like a harmless nerd who couldn’t possibly be the national threat everyone claimed he was. Yet his back told a different story, covered in long pink scars.  Shinsou was pretty sure that on his lower abdomen was a gunshot scar. Each time he’d tried to bring it up, however, Midoriya deflected. 

It still amazed Shinsou how good Midoriya was with machines — not just competent, but instinctual, like he'd learned with his life on the line. He was now struggling to jam something into the machine, tongue sticking out slightly and just as he managed to wedge the new piece in, Izuku turned around and flashed Shinsou a smile. He couldn’t help but be drawn to the gap between his premolar and molar. 

“Midoriya, what happened to your tooth?” he asked as gently as he could. 

The boy, although jittery, only shrugged. “Sometimes things just happen,” he said, which was the default response for ‘something bad happened in the Den, I got over it, don’t remind me’. Then he smirked and leaned into Shinsou’s space. “You should probably stop looking at my mouth.” 

Shinsou sputtered and backed away, running a hand through his hair, but not breaking eye contact. That was another thing he’d noticed, but wasn’t really sure if he should confirm his suspicions or not. Was Midoriya… flirting with him? Surely not, right? And yet, despite his usual awkwardness, there’d be moments when he’d gain confidence and say just the right thing to make the boy wonder. He briefly even considered if that was a Shinbun manipulation tactic, yet his eyes always remained clear and not glossed over the way they had been during the research incident. It also probably didn’t help that Shinsou hadn’t gotten laid since breaking up with Kaminari. It really didn’t help that Kaminari was also still not talking to him. But there was nothing Shinsou could do now, he was on a mission after all. He’d figure it out later. 

“Recovery Girl has already proposed that I get an implant, but I’m taking my time. I hate dentists.”

“Who knew our local terrorist was afraid of dentists?” 

Next to them they heard a small pop, followed by a much louder smashing noise and a frustrated groan. A girl with pink locks and elaborate goggles walked towards them, soot all over her coveralls. She surveyed them like a queen looking over her kingdom and let out a low whistle. 

“Well well well,” Hatsume said, sizing up Midoriya’s machine. “Who let the emotionally repressed genius touch the antique tech?”

Midoriya blinked. “I… I didn’t know we needed permission—”

“Relax, new kid,” she grinned, eyes glinting. “I’m complimenting you. The name’s Mei Hatsume.”

“It’s nothing, really,” he muttered, adjusting the drum. “With the proper tools and time I probably would’ve been able to also make the contactors myself.”

Hatsume leaned in closer, flipping up her goggles to get a better look. “You’re telling me you built this sheet-fed offset assembly? And by hand? These brackets — these don’t come from UA stock. You milled these yourself, didn’t you?”

Shinsou raised an eyebrow. “Wait, how can you tell?”

Hatsume popped a nut into her mouth like a snack. “Because I’ve built one before. During the war.” She turned back to Midoriya, poking a greased finger at the side of the machine. “This right here? This isn’t a Powerloader joint. This is the modular we used when materials were scarce.”

Midoriya froze.

“You’re not a Support Course student,” Hatsume continued, voice light but curious now. “But you handle tools like someone who didn’t just learn in class. And not from an internship either. You’ve built before. On your own. Somewhere no one double-checks your schematics. What’s your name?”

“Izuku Midoriya.”

She flipped open a panel and sighed dreamily. “Hand-tuned gear spacing. That’s survival engineering at its finest. Tight, rugged, efficient. You don’t build like someone afraid to make mistakes. You build like someone afraid not to.”

Shinsou shifted beside her. “He’s just resourceful.”

Hatsume didn’t take her eyes off the machine. She stood and wiped her hands on her coveralls, leaving streaks of soot like war paint. “I don’t know where you learned to build, Midoriya, but it wasn’t at UA. And it wasn’t from any regulated training program I’ve ever seen.” There was a pause. Then she grinned. “But I like it.”

Midoriya gave her a slow, uncertain smile. “You do?”

She turned to examine the ink system. “Hell yeah. Also I’m upgrading your stabilizer tomorrow because that will definitely cause you more trouble in the long term. But I like what you’re doing. You’ve got raw instinct. If you’d shown up last semester, I’d have kissed you.”

Shinsou stared back at Midoriya, waiting for the usual witty comeback he always provided when someone challenged him that way, but he seemed awfully shy, looking down at his hands. Hatsume didn’t seem to register his lack of a response and poked his shoulder. “If this thing explodes, I wanna be standing right next to you.”

Shinsou groaned. “Why is that the bar for friendship around here?”

Hatsume just winked. A pause. Then:

“Hey, you didn't build printers for, like, rogue media collectives or anything, right?”

Midoriya tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “I also didn’t build collapsible radio towers out of scrap metal and stolen car batteries, if that’s your next question.”

She grinned wider. “I knew I liked you.”

Shinsou, dragging a hand down his face, muttered, “He was joking. I think.”

Before Midoriya could retort, Hatsume had already knelt down again, half her body inside the printer’s guts, muttering in shorthand only engineers and madwomen understood.

“You routed the ink feed under the platen? Why?” she called, her voice echoing from inside the frame.

“To minimize spray. I can’t afford to waste even a drop,” Midoriya replied, sliding next to her. “It also keeps the plates cooler. The paper curls less.”

“That’s… yeah, okay, that’s smart,” she muttered, like it physically pained her to admit it. “But you’re getting slippage on the right side. The auxiliary switch’s uneven.”

Midoriya tapped his chin. “That’s why I was thinking of adding a friction plate. Or maybe even a circlip if I can scavenge the parts.”

“You’ll need copper washers. The grip won’t hold otherwise.” She sat up, wiping her cheek with the back of her glove and leaving a fresh streak of black across her face. “Tell you what, I’ve got a busted prosthetic arm in my locker that’s got the right pieces. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

Shinsou blinked. “Wait, we’re just—donating prosthetic parts now?”

“I’ve got three arms in storage. One’s a flamethrower. The rest are negotiable.”

Midoriya gave her a genuinely delighted smile. “You’re incredible.”

Hatsume gave a toothy grin. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Midoriya hesitated for a beat. Then: “If you offset the platen by 0.2 millimeters on the trailing edge, it increases yield by twenty percent.”

Hatsume stared at him. “That’s hot.”

Shinsou made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. “That’s horrifying.”

They both ignored him.

Then Hatsume said, “What’re you gonna print first, anyway? A takedown? A newsletter? A comic strip?”

Midoriya’s smile dimmed slightly. “A name.”

Hatsume paused. But before she could ask, he added, “And maybe a map.”

Shinsou straightened. “A map to what?”

But Midoriya didn’t answer — just kept testing the press’s balance with the careful reverence of someone assembling a weapon.

“Wait—” Hatsume scrambled up again, now fully energized. “Are you hand-cutting your plates?”

“I was going to.”

“No, no, no, no, you’re not wasting time like that. You’ll use my laser cutter. It’s hidden behind the vending machine.”

“That’s…. How did you even—?”

“Bribed Cementoss. Long story.”

They crouched over the press again, talking fast now — bouncing ideas off one another in a flurry of jargon, shared problem-solving, and the occasional burst of wild laughter when something misaligned or sparked.

Then, the door to the bomb room slammed open without warning, sending a loud clang ricocheting off the metal walls. Bakugou Katsuki stood in the threshold, arm slung over a satchel, eyes already narrowed in practiced irritation.

“Hatsume,” he barked. “I need you to adjust the pressure valves on my gauntlets. They’re overheating in the–”

He stopped, scowl faltering for half a breath.

Midoriya was crouched beside Hatsume, shirtless, grease on his collarbone and fingers still on the gear crank. His curls were pushed back by goggles. His hands were steady. And he was smiling. Whatever Katsuki had expected to find in the bomb room, it wasn’t this.

Hatsume didn’t even look up. “You’re late.”

“I wasn’t given a time,” he snapped.

“Well, you are now,” she replied, waving a wrench vaguely in his direction. “I’m busy. Ask the hot printer boy for help. He builds with the precision of a landmine.”

Bakugou’s eye twitched.

Midoriya tilted his head — that same unreadable calm, too composed for someone who used to flinch when Katsuki so much as coughed.

“Hi, Kacchan,” he said, his voice slightly breathless. Bakugou stared at him, mouth half-open. 

“Shut up, stupid Deku!” He quickly recovered, not without noticing Midoriya bristle at his sharp tone. “Hatsume, I’ve been asking you about these fucking pressure valves for a week already and in two days I’m having combat training at Ground Beta and I’m not going to lose points for leveling an entire building! Again! So either you adjust them or I do them myself and say that it was your work!” 

This grabbed Hatsume’s attention, who quickly got up and began earnestly bickering with Bakugou, matching his snarky attitude word for word. Meanwhile, Midoriya ignored them and carried on adjusting his machine, a ghost of a smile still gracing his lips. 

Off to the side, Shinsou leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the whole thing unfold like a bored spectator. He glanced down at Izuku, at the way his shoulders moved, the way he shifted closer to the table top plate punch, and the smudge of grease across his cheek. For the first time in days, he looked good, no longer frantic, just content. Shinsou couldn’t help himself as he crouched next to him and extended his hand, wiping away the dark splotch from his cheek. Midoriya just looked at him blankly. 

“Didn’t know you had a type,” Shinsou said, his voice lowered. 

Midoriya blinked. “Type?”

“Support types. Girls that can build anything from scratch.”

Midoriya smirked. “You think that’s my type?”

“Could be.”

“Well,” he said quietly, not looking at him but definitely smiling, “As tempting as it would be to partner up with Hatsume and create a death ray, I have a different type.” His eyes gave him a once over. “I think you know.” 

Shinsou nearly choked on his own tongue.

Behind them, a bolt clattered to the ground and Hatsume shouted, “Whoever just dropped a ten-millimeter hex, you owe me a coffee!” 

Midoriya didn’t even flinch. Just turned back to the machine and grabbed a wrench. Shinsou exhaled slowly and stood back up. Okay. So maybe he wasn’t imagining it. And maybe that was going to be a problem.

“Bakugou, stop sulking and let me remeasure your arm!” Hatsume cried again. Shinsou whipped his head to see what was happening only to be met with the most intense staredown of his life. 

Bakugou was standing stiff as iron beside one of the workbenches, arms crossed, jaw clenched, and glaring at him like he was a live grenade pressed against Midoriya’s back. It wasn’t rage. Not quite. It was something darker. The kind of look that made your lungs forget how to move. Shinsou stared back, uncertain whether to flinch or laugh.

Midoriya, as if sensing it, turned his head slightly and said, “You okay, Kacchan?”

Bakugou didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink.

Hatsume, oblivious, rolled her eyes. “Great, now you’re brooding. What is it with you combat types? Get over here before I decide to modify your entire costume!” Hatsume met Midoriya’s eyes clearly asking for help. 

“Lugging around huge gauntlets into battle is unsafe and interferes with mobility. Hatsume, you should resize them first instead of focusing on the pressure valves. Make them expandable so that he’ll be able to control how much of his sweat he can store in them,” he said. 

Hatsume shrieked, delighted, and dropped everything, pulling out a sketchbook. “Why didn’t I think of that?! That’s brilliant!”

Shinsou was still warily looking at Bakugou. 

And Bakugou, fuming in silence, didn’t understand why his chest felt so tight.

Chapter Text

Midoriya returned to class shortly, once the printer was finally finished. It had only taken him three days.

He was now seated strategically in front of Shinsou — who, by this point, had become his shadow. The boy always sat close enough to interfere if needed, his dull, sunken eyes never far from Izuku’s own. Most of the time, Shinsou wore his usual mask of bored detachment, unimpressed by Izuku’s hyperfixations and mutterings. But there was always a slight lift in his tone when he responded. A pause, a twitch, a smirk he thought Izuku wouldn’t catch.

Izuku noticed. And he was exploiting it.

A part of him loved the thrill — the chase of it. He liked watching the unshakeable Hitoshi Shinsou flush when their fingers brushed while passing a notebook, liked the way he faltered whenever Midoriya got too close during a spar. It was harmless. Mostly. A distraction.

But the other part — the darker, hungrier part — felt sick with guilt. That he was manipulating someone he was supposed to be transparent with. That he was selfishly reaching for connection he hadn’t earned. That he was a hypocrite, charming the very people he’d spent years condemning.

He couldn’t stop, though. The lull of companionship was too strong to ignore.

It wasn’t just Shinsou. It was class 3-A itself. From the sodas Kirishima always brought him when he was down at the Support Department, to the lunches spent with Todoroki, to him tutoring Sero and Jiro in english. He tried reminding himself that this wasn’t his place, that he was too far gone to be bathed in their light. But then, he’d find his mind silently wandering towards other thoughts, ones that didn’t ponder death and betrayal and war. 

Now, when he sat in class, bored, he found his hand doodling costume schematics and quirk strategy notes. Like he used to, back when he was a nobody in middle school. The safety of UA was dangerous. He felt it softening him. Rounding his edges. Making him complacent. It terrified him.

He was still forbidden from using weapons during training. Only hand-to-hand. And even then, Aizawa had scolded him for his brutal, unorthodox strikes — all heel kicks and joint locks designed to disable, not score points. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was growing duller by the day. And worse — comfortable.

Then there was the article. The thing that was supposed to remind him of who he was. The thing that was supposed to burn bridges and send messages and change the game. But it wasn’t ready. 

The data on Kumar was coded cleanly, the tone razor-sharp. The encrypted paper design was a quiet threat of its own, hiding a map of Colombo beneath layers of microtext. His printer worked like a dream now that Hatsume had given him some pointers. However, Izuku knew when he was bluffing. The paper didn’t land. Not the way it needed to. He was gambling — as always — but this time, the odds didn’t feel right.

So for now, he stalled. Let the deadline creep closer. Ignored Nezu’s prodding. Told himself he’d know when it was time.

He was also training nightly with Uraraka. She’d held him to his promise to help her improve her fighting and quirk. It took a bit of convincing to have him engage in that sort of combat. It set Aizawa on edge. Shinsou would have to keep watch during their sessions, of course. Nezu, however, was completely on board with the idea, curious to see how Shinbun’s famous analysis could improve the performance of his beloved students. As long as they were safely monitored and working in Gym Gamma with no weapons, the two of them could go at it until even past curfew. Not that Shinsou would ever allow that since he was always on the verge of taking a nap. Honestly, the only thing he was missing was a bright yellow sleeping bag. 

The gym was mostly empty. Just the echo of steps, the hiss of breath. Uraraka was in her training gear, hair tied in a high ponytail, her face still slightly pink from the cold wash she always used before sparring. She looked up as Midoriya and Shinsou walked in and offered a smile.

“Hey,” she said. “You look like you haven’t slept in three days.”

“Who are you talking to?”

“Honestly, I could say both of you. I thought you liked curfew, Shinsou!” 

Shinsou flipped her off before sinking to the ground and taking out his math homework he was set on finishing before the end of the night. 

Izuku joined Uraraka and the two began stretching and rolling their joints comfortably. 

“What did you have for lunch?” asked Izuku as he got in position. 

“Aren’t you going to find out soon enough?” 

The two lunged at each other, Uraraka with her leg outstretched in a forward kick while Midoriya sidestepped and aimed a punch. They always started out with regular, quirkless combat which wasn’t necessary really, Uraraka was a pro after spending two more summers with Gunhead, but it was a thrill to see which of them could end up victorious. After a couple of more blocks and grapples, it was Izuku who came out on top this time. 

“I seriously need to meet your teacher and shake their hand,” Uraraka replied goodnaturedly as she always did when she was defeated. “If you weren’t my age, I would’ve assumed you were part of the military or something.” 

“Nah, been around military folks for a while and I’m nothing like them, believe me,” Izuku chuckled. Uraraka narrowed her tiny brows in the way she did whenever Midoriya would let something about his time at the Den slip. After a beat she huffed a breath and licked her lips, moment passing. 

“I’ll take your word for it. Now, are you finally going to teach me that nerve cluster disarm, or are you just going to keep hitting me in the ribs until I pass out again?”

“Both, probably.” 

She laughed. After enough experimenting they’d both concluded that her zero gravity quirk was an all or nothing type, a quirk that couldn’t really be enhanced using pressure points, the way Uraraka had hoped. After all, a body either held gravity or it didn’t. And so, Midoriya had taken it upon him to teach her the weaker points of her opponents, especially emitter types which were all around trickier for Uraraka to get around. This is when their sparring got serious and even somewhat dangerous if not for Shinsou’s watchful eye. However, right now, as the two students grappled on the floor mats, the purple haired boy was still elbows deep in equations. 

Midoriya dusted off his palms and cracked his neck. “Okay, we’ll go slower this time so you can really feel the pressure point under the collarbone.”

Uraraka rolled her eyes. “You always say that. And then I end up tasting mat.”

“That’s because you keep trying to brute-force it. You have to slide in and hook it — not jab. It’s about angle, not power.”

“Alright, alright, angle not power, Sensei.”

Shinsou, cross-legged on the bleachers now, piped up without looking up from his notebook. “You’re lucky he didn’t start rambling.”

Midoriya smirked. “As if I’d let myself open like that. Although, rambling does help clear my mind a lot and it’s been scientifically proven that speaking one’s thoughts out loud can....”

“Pay attention, Deku!” Uraraka launched herself at him, a close grapple that Midoriya immediately redirected with one arm hooked under hers and his foot sweeping out hers in a single fluid motion.

She crashed back onto the mat with a grunt. “Okay, rude.”

“That wasn’t even the nerve cluster.”

“No, that was just you showing off,” she wheezed, trying not to laugh from the floor.

“Technically it was your own momentum.”

“Technically you’re annoying.”

“Technically you’re still on the floor.”

Uraraka just flipped onto her feet again, bouncing lightly in place. “Again.”

This time, he didn’t hold back. They started slow — hands brushing, feet pivoting, each movement a quiet study of the other’s habits. But as Uraraka began to incorporate her quirk as well, she became harder to predict. She’d de-weight, push off Midoriya’s shoulders, launch off a wall, and twist midair, trying to sucker-punch him on the blind side.

Midoriya blocked just in time, but not without stumbling.

“You’ve been practicing that launch kick,” he muttered, rubbing his ribs.

“I’ve been practicing everything.” She grinned. “I want to be able to knock someone out without breaking a sweat,” she said. “Like you did with Sero.”

“That was an accident. He ran into me.”

Shinsou snorted. “He ran into your elbow.”

Midoriya shrugged, bashful. “Same difference.”

Uraraka leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “Let me try again. No redirection this time. Let me try the disarm.”

Midoriya let out a breath and nodded. She lunged — fast, sharp, pushing off one leg, hovering just slightly to reduce resistance, and aimed her palm for the collarbone…

He shifted, but not fast enough. Her fingers grazed the cluster just below the clavicle and shoved. Midoriya winced as his arm went limp for a beat — just long enough for her to twist him and pin. Both of them paused in stunned silence.

“…Did I do it?”

He blinked up at her from the mat. “Yeah. That was perfect.”

Her face lit up. “Holy shit. I did it!”

Midoriya laughed — a real one, warm and surprised. “I didn’t think you’d land it at that angle.”

“I win. That’s all that matters.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, rubbing his shoulder. “I think you're ready to start working on your shoot style.” 

“What do you mean, shoot style?” 

“I’m sure you’re familiar with Gran Torino.”

“I’ve fought alongside him during the war, yes.” 

“That’s the shoot style, we need to make use of more momentum from your quirk, increase speed and have you activate and release it faster. Become sort of a… guided missile. You're practically halfway there already, anyway.”

Uraraka pinched her chin between two fingers, contemplating. Then her eyebrows shot upwards and her lips curled into a soft smile. “I haven’t thought about it that way before! You’re amazing, Deku!” 

Midoriya flushed, but looked away. “The only problem is that your stomach won’t be able to keep up most likely. Since what you need to manoeuvre around is hip movement and intense core strength which is already messed up by your quirk activation.” 

“Oh, I’ve got my hero costume for that. I use grappling hooks, kind of like Sero’s tape for easier movements in the air. And my shoes have built in propellers. Don’t go imagining you’re the first one to ever think of me flying during combat. So what do you want me to do?”

Izuku stepped back and motioned toward her. “Float, then try pivoting on your core like you’re dodging in water. Don’t use your legs, just redirect.”

She activated her quirk and grabbed Midoriya’s shoulders, hovering a few feet off the ground, arms out. “Like this?”

“Now imagine I’m coming from behind.” He dashed forward, fast enough to force a reaction.

Uraraka twisted mid-air, bent at the waist, and spun sideways, grazing his shoulder as she used his body to push into a barrel roll that sent her flipping behind him. “Whoa,” she breathed. “That… actually worked?”

Midoriya adjusted the strap of his support glove and tilted his head, already assessing her balance mid-air.

“Good,” he said, eyes sharp. “You want to move like your body is a hinge, not a block. Redirect momentum, don’t cancel it. Think — if I’m coming in for a strike from above–” He jumped again, this time aiming higher. Uraraka dipped her left shoulder, twisted, and let her body spin in a controlled arc. Her arm shot out and clipped his wrist. “–then you don’t just dodge,” he muttered as they landed again. “You redirect me.”

She grinned, flushed from the exertion. “This would’ve helped so much back in second year. When I fought with Gran Torino he told me I moved like stale tofu.” 

Midoriya allowed the tiniest smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth before blinking and realigning his focus. “Anyway. Let’s push it further. You’re floating too lightly — not enough downward thrust. If you really want this to work, you’ll have to trust gravity more. Dive. Re-correct at the last second.”

Uraraka raised an eyebrow. “You want me to nosedive at you?”

“Yes,” Midoriya said, far too calmly. “If your center of gravity is tight and your rotation is right, you should be able to drop, twist, and launch back up. Think: missile. Ricochet off your own target.”

She floated up another meter. “Okay. If I vomit, I’m aiming for your shoes.”

“That’s fair,” he muttered.

From his spot on the bleachers, Shinsou watched silently, pen between his lips, textbook forgotten. His gaze lingered on the way Midoriya paced beneath Uraraka like a chess player setting pieces, eyes narrowed, hand raised in precise angles, constantly calculating. And then the way he flinched, barely, every time Uraraka praised him.

“Ready?” she called out.

Midoriya nodded. “Drop!”

Uraraka cut her quirk like a blade. She fell fast — faster than she'd ever allowed — tucking in and twisting at the last second. Her left foot extended like a battering ram.

Midoriya sidestepped. But only barely.

She shot past him in a blur, caught herself mid-air with an extended arm, hissing from the sudden impact, then swung out, and rebounded. Her legs tucked, then kicked outward as she performed a second, tighter arc.

Midoriya’s eyes lit up. “There! That was it!”

“I didn’t even plan that!” she gasped, breathless but triumphant. “I just… let go!”

“Exactly. Controlled chaos.” He stepped toward her now, hand raised like he might adjust her shoulder or stabilize her, then paused. “You’re turning your quirk into a close-range pressure system. You can fake out almost any melee type if you make them commit first.”

Uraraka grinned. “Oh, I’m definitely using this on Bakugou.”

Midoriya raised an eyebrow, smirking faintly. “Since when are you this violent?”

Uraraka snorted and wiped her brow. “What, you think rescue heroes can’t throw hands?” Then, more dryly, “Let’s just say I’ve had my fair share of influences. Bakugou tends to have that effect on people.”
Midoriya’s expression faltered for a second, curiosity flickering behind his eyes, but he didn’t push. Just nodded once and took a breath. Then he ducked his head slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re a lot better at adapting than you used to be. You learn fast.”

She looked at him, eyes wide. “Thanks. You’re a good teacher. Kind of intense, though.”

Midoriya glanced away. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“But it’s sort of endearing too,” she added a genuine smile gracing her lips, dimples in her round cheeks.

Midoriya froze.

From the sidelines, Shinsou raised one eyebrow, but said nothing.

Uraraka burst out laughing. “Relax, Deku! I’m messing with you.”

Midoriya’s ears went pink. “Right. Yes. I knew that.”

“Sure you did,” called out Shinsou. 

“...Get back in the air,” he grumbled.

The two of them went at it a couple of more times, Uraraka swinging violently off Izuku’s arms, launching towards the gym ceiling and propelling herself downwards before quickly redirecting her body. She was also managing small punches at Deku, yet her aim was still off and the poor girl did throw up at one point after all. The two decided that the very next day, Uraraka would start using her hero costume as well. 

It wasn’t long before the two settled on the gym mat for breaks, chugging water while Uraraka asked various tips on close combat. She was used to using whatever was available on the battlefield and was intimately acquainted with martial arts, however there were some tricks not even pros used because of their code of honour. However, Shinbun was no stranger to dirty tricks. 

“There’s a reason none of the teachers would show these hits. They’re very dangerous and heroes aren’t allowed to kill any villains, no matter how evil they are,” Izuku said, looking at the ceiling, pensive. “But I still think it’s important to know these weak spots, if anything, to avoid being hit yourself. My teacher was a very hands-on learner so our training was pretty hardcore. She broke my nose once.”

“No way!”

“It was when she taught me how to headbutt people. It’s useful if someone catches you from behind, you know? Especially if your arms are immobilised.”

“I suppose, it still feels pretty extreme! And here I thought UA was hardcore!”

“That’s not even the best part! Sumire was a genius when it came to sneak attacks. She could aim her spit into her opponent's eye!”

“Ew, Deku! There’s playing dirty and then there’s being plain gross!”

“It’s true! I never quite managed to pull it off though,” Izuku laughed, a faraway look in his eye.

The room was quiet again, just the buzz of the overhead lights and the low rustle of Shinsou’s notebook. 

“You know, I’m pretty grateful that you're in the reformation program. You make one scary villain, Deku.”

“Oh?”

“The things you know and the way you fight… It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. I can’t even imagine where you must’ve been all this time, what that place must be like for you to gather all of these skills.”

“It’s not really a bad place…” Izuku began. “My teacher, she always scolds me, saying I’m going to regret ever looking at the Den with life in my eyes. But that’s the path I’ve chosen. The Hero Commission will never understand that. They still see me as a kid too smart for his own good who got swept up by the current of villains, who had no choice. But I don’t believe that. There’s always a choice to be made and I don’t regret mine. The Den is festering with evil, sure, but it’s also festering with good people as well. People who, like me, have to live with what they’ve decided.” 

Uraraka was quiet for a long moment. “What if… There's someone who can’t help being a villain? Like, they can’t stop themselves from misusing their quirk or committing crime because there’s no one out there to help them or teach them or guide them? Can you really say they had a choice to make then?” Her cheeks are rosy and her eyes wide like she’s about to write a love letter. 

Midoriya was silent, not looking at her. Uraraka carried on. 

“It’s just, I used to know someone… She had a very dangerous quirk, a quirk which enabled her to do evil things and no one stopped her or helped her find another way to live. She ended up becoming a villain. We even fought, many times. But then, she saved my life. I-” A tear ran down Ochako’s face and Izuku further buried his head between his knees, closing his eyes. “I wanted so badly to believe that she wasn’t so bad after all, that I could’ve helped her if I had more time, if I wasn’t so young. Even if you say there is always a choice to make, sometimes your other options can just seem impossible.” 

Midoriya rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He stared down at the mat and sighed.

“I’ve met plenty of people during my life in the Den, good and bad. I’ve tried saving some as well, that was half the reason I was collecting information. Most people don’t even consciously think about their actions, not really. When you end up in the Den, you don’t live anymore, at least not in the way the rest of society does.”

His knuckles whitened as he squeezed his hands together. “So then you adapt. And you just do what you have to do so you don’t become a real corpse. Once you go past that point of no return you either keep walking deeper or claw your way out and atone. This person you knew, she chose the second option in the end, so I guess she was braver than I’ll ever be.” 

“It still wasn’t fair,” Uraraka whispered, biting back a sob. “Don’t say that she was brave when she basically just jumped off a cliff with her eyes closed.” She turned away, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her training shirt. “I just… I wanted her to want something more. To want out.”
“She probably did,” Midoriya said. “But wanting something doesn’t mean you think you deserve it.”

The air hung between them — heavy and bitter. 

“Oh,” she gasped, a soft chuckle gracing her lips. “Is that how you also feel?”

“No, not really. Everything I’ve wanted, I’ve fought tooth and nail for, always. That’s why I refuse to hold onto any regrets.” Izuku’s mind flashed with images of a river and a pair of piercing ruby eyes. “Even if it doesn’t always work out. I’ve made my peace with that and I carry on anyway. If this is where I end up,” he said, voice stripped of any anger or sorrow, “then that’s where I belong. Your friend probably thought the same.” 

He finally met her eyes then, wide and reassuring and a deep forest green. He looked younger somehow, unguarded, gentle yet just a tiny bit dangerous. 

“I think Toga would’ve liked you,” Uraraka whispered before abruptly rising to her feet. She extended a hand toward him. “Come on, Deku. I still want to try that back-throw again.”

He took her hand, let her pull him to his feet. “I’m not going easy this time.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, brushing hair from her face, her eyes clear now, even if her cheeks were still blotchy. “Besides, I’m ready to try my hand at those punches you’ve told me about.”

Off to the side, Shinsou closed his math book, quietly watching. His expression was unreadable, except for the way his gaze softened when Midoriya smiled again.

The Niwa Headquarters sat buried in the industrial slums on the outskirts of the Villain Den, tucked inside an abandoned freight warehouse once owned by a shipping company no one remembered. 

In one corner, crates of contraband and salvaged tech were stacked beneath hanging lamps Deku had wired by hand, fingers burned and bandaged, electrical book dog-eared and stained. Nearby stood his newsletter press – a hacked-together machine that groaned with every print of their underground paper. Stacks of zines tied with string, ink-stained gloves, a battered old printer Shinbun rebuilt from scraps. The smell of toner never quite faded.

The living space was less organized. Hammocks swung from ceiling beams patched with duct tape. Worn cushions and a discolored Persian carpet made a sad attempt at a sitting area. The only divider between “bedroom” and “everything else” was a curtain made from stitched-together old fraying hero capes that were found in the dumps. There was also a bathroom stall half-enclosed by a shower curtain strung up with binder clips. The plumbing groaned when it worked at all.

One wall had tally marks counting completed missions and another had half-finished murals — Ran’s dreamscapes in charcoal and paint representing various spirals and people, their faces distorted. Adjacent to that wall was Shinbun’s desk. Tacked above was a corkboard map of the city, lines of thread spidering from news clippings to coded notes, many with his anxious handwriting in green.

Sumire's coat was always draped over the same cracked chair, Daichi’s cables snaked everywhere like roots. Mismatched socks hung from pipes. A broken guitar with two strings sat next to a crate of instant noodles. Someone had drawn a smiley face on the microwave in red marker.

It was disorganized, damp, and a fire hazard waiting to happen, their home. 

“Well it finally happened,” Sumire said, flopping herself onto the ratty old couch and pulling up a sack of groceries. “Okajima-Baachan finally asked me whether Shinbun’s gone or not. And I couldn’t answer. This is bad, Daichi.” 

Daichi didn’t look up from the mess of monitors and wires tangled across his own desk. He scratched something down with his stylus, then paused, brows furrowed.

“Define ‘gone,’” he muttered. “Physically? Mentally? Morally?”

“Don’t get philosophical with me right now,” Sumire snapped. She dug out a bruised apple and took a bite. “You know what I mean. He's never been radio silent for weeks like this. He always managed to get into contact with us. And even Kumar’s contacts haven’t said anything, and those bastards know when we sneeze.”

“Ran did find that keychain, though?”

“It’s not enough!” Sumire grumbled. She huffed, running a hand through her closely cropped black hair. “You found nothing on those police reports from Jeanist’s arrest, that keychain has meant nothing for us so far and the people are asking about when the next article is coming. We won’t be able to hide like this forever. How can you be so calm?” 

Daichi finally turned, slowly spinning in his squeaky chair. The overhead light flickered once, buzzing. His baby blue eyes were hidden beneath thin rimmed glasses and his wild mop of chestnut curls was pulled away by an old headband. He was wearing one of his usual Hawaiian shirts and he hadn’t shaved in a week.

“You’re worried,” he replied flatly.

“Of course I’m worried, shithead!. Ran’s dreaming weird again. You know how he gets when his quirk is too active! He says he sees Deku near a flaming light like an explosion or a field of grass or a standard issue bed. Last night he woke up and thought his own hand was someone else’s.” She dropped the apple into her lap. Her voice softened. “You don’t think he’s left us again for-”

“No,” Daichi interrupted and his tone was finally dead serious. He leaned back, exhaling. “He wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t he?” she asked. “Not if he thinks he’s protecting us. Not if someone got in his head again.”

Daichi finally got up, his tall frame towering over Sumire as he wordlessly grabbed an apple himself and began biting in earnest. There was a shadow across his face like what he was doing was physically painful, but then he grabbed some papers from one of his files and dropped it in Sumire’s lap. Her lips moved soundlessly as she read the first paragraph and the second, then froze. This was an article that was clearly written by Shinbun. Except that was impossible. 

“Why didn’t you show me sooner?” she growled. “Where did you even find this?”

“The subway station by that konbini which gives us free milkbread. I already asked around and there was no sign of him. I wanted to investigate more before showing you. Don’t tell Ran. He’ll just worry himself until he gets sick again.” 

“This…” Sumire’s eyes were as wide as saucers and the hand clutching the paper was trembling. “This isn’t real. Someone’s been impersonating him. You don’t think…?”

“I think Kumar’s men have been silent so far because Kumar himself has been doing all the talking. Read through it. It’s clear that he knows something we don’t.” 

Sumire was worrying her lips between her teeth, eyes frantically scanning the writing. Her shoulders were tense and suddenly the military gear she was decked in felt too heavy on her body. Daichi extended a hand, gently ruffling her hair. 

“We’ll find Deku, Sumire. We just need to find a hint about where he’s been hiding. Then, I’ll get in contact with him.” 

Sumire nodded, but it was slow, mechanical. She folded the paper, creased it twice, and slid it into her coat.

“If he's hiding, it means he’s scared,” she muttered. “Or he thinks we’d be safer without him.”

Daichi didn’t respond. He just glanced toward the corkboard, to the map Midoriya had built thread by thread. The green string still pointed north.

“Then we’ll go looking,” he said. “And if someone’s keeping him quiet… we’ll make them talk.”

Outside, a train rumbled past in the distance. Somewhere in the Den, the first lights of morning began to flicker on. The search had already begun.

Chapter Text

“Grab your hero costumes, young students!” bellowed All Might from his spot in front of the class. “Today we’ll conduct our battle exercise at Ground Beta!” 

Everyone began shuffling around, whispering how unusual it was for them to be at Ground Beta this time of year when they were mostly still focusing on natural zones. All Might was just smiling warmly, his tall form looming over the almost fully grown students just as they did as first years. When Midoriya passed him, he was stopped by a bony hand. 

“Young Midoriya, actually I should mention,” All Might spoke softly, his gaze searching the boy. “You will be participating as well. I hope you don’t mind, but we took the liberty to create a hero costume for you. If anything, Young Hatsume insisted on developing it.” 

Izuku tried keeping his expression neutral, yet his heart clenched in his chest. This was basically his former idol and role model telling him he’d get a hero costume, a dream that he thought had died long ago. Despite his best efforts, he felt the tell tale warmth shooting from his temples straight towards his cheekbones. 

“That wasn’t necessary, All Might, I’m used to fighting in just military clothes.”

“Oh, no, no, if anything, Nezu insisted on it. This exercise is also mostly to assess your progress in hero combat.” He had a mischievous blue twinkle in his pitch black eyes and he flashed a signature smile. “I suppose you’ll find out soon enough. We left your costume in the changing rooms with the rest, number 15 ok?” 

Though overjoyed and beyond curious at the idea of receiving a suit, Izuku was also nervous about changing in the lockers with the rest of the boys, something he’d been actively avoiding since day one. He wasn’t blind – he realized just how his skin must look to the untrained eye, littered with scars and hardened over the years of living the brutal life in the Den. So far, few people had managed to see him naked and there were thankfully no weird comments, but that wouldn’t be a guarantee. There was something in the way All Might had talked to him that made him think that all attention would be on him today. He sighed and walked towards the locker rooms. 

As he found suitcase number 15 and pulled out the costume, Izuku’s breath caught in his throat and he forcibly blinked some tears away. 

The suit was eerily similar to the one he’d drawn a long time ago, back when he was still just a kid. It was a deep forest green which matched his eyes with sleek black lines along his sides and a metal mask to protect his jaw. Also to match were some heavy duty boots and sleek fire resistant, compression gloves. It suddenly hit Izuku just how real it was, how unbelievable his situation was – he was at UA! Training with All Might! Being a hero! For a short second, he felt as if no time had passed since his dream filled middle school days and his heart felt lighter than it had in years. 

“Like it?” asked Shinsou behind him. 

“You had a hand in this?” replied Midoriya, breathless. 

“I only approved the suggestions Hatsume ran by me and Aizawa-sensei. I wasn’t sure you’d like it though… Felt it’d interfere with your mysterious ex-villain persona.” He smirked. 

“Shut up,” Midoriya chuckled. His hands hesitated at the hem of his shirt. The faint buzzing of overhead lights filled the silence he felt. One breath, two. He peeled the fabric away, fast and mechanical, before he could talk himself out of it. Cold air kissed old scar tissue. No one said anything—yet. He shucked the pants first and then the rest of the jumpsuit and stared at himself in the mirror, wide eyed. If his hair was back to its original colour, it would totally match the rest of the outfit, he briefly thought. He blinked fast. His vision blurred anyway.

“Oh, dude!” Kirishima came to pat his back as he took in the suit as well. “Wasn’t aware that they’d let you get a costume. Makes everything feel more official, you know? Like you’re really part of our class now.” He grinned, his sharp teeth unnerving Midoriya briefly. Kirishima was a nice guy, though, he’d had to hand it to him, never making any unnecessary comments about his appearance or about his past. 

However, in the corner of his eye, he could spy Iida glaring at his tattoo, something the class president was still very much scandalized about. Oh, that and the whole villain thing, I suppose. It looked as if Iida wanted to say something, yet he quickly cut himself off and put on his helmet, leaving soon after. 

Kacchan too was staring at him, yet it seemed his thoughts wandered beyond the room’s edges. His brows were still furrowed in that permanent scowl which Izuku had just accepted as the face Katsuki was simply born with. 

“Tch,” he scoffed under his breath, looking away first. “Figures they’d give you a costume.”

The hoard of students moved to the concrete jungle which was Ground Beta, boots clanging against metal walkways and gravel crunching beneath soles. Izuku greedily took in the surroundings, his mind already running at full speed. Every rusted vent, every blind corner, every broken window — variables. Cover. Tactics.

In front of them, All Might stood casually with his hands tucked into the pockets of his bright red tracksuit. Next to him, of all people, stood Hawks, small feathers flicking restlessly as if already bored.

“Hello, kiddos!” All Might boomed, throwing up his arms like an overly enthusiastic gym teacher. “Who’s ready for a good old-fashioned heroes vs. villains?”

The students’ murmur swelled into a cheer.

“We haven’t done something like this since our first year!” Kaminari laughed.

“Hope no one breaks their legs this time,” Jirou muttered under her breath.

“This exercise,” All Might continued, tone deepening slightly, “isn’t just about strength. It’s about strategy. Communication. Quick thinking under pressure. And of course going plus ultra!”

Hawks stepped forward, a lazy grin on his face. “Oh, and we’re watching everything. So don’t be stupid.” The students straightened instantly.

“The scenario’s simple,” All Might said. “Villains have hidden a bomb on the top floor of a secured structure. The heroes’ job is to infiltrate, secure the bomb, and subdue the villains. No quirks that could cause irreparable injury—this is still training. But don’t be afraid to fight like you mean it.”

A large screen blinked to life nearby, showing a live map of Ground Beta’s interior layout. An overhead view of its maze of corridors, staircases, and collapsed debris. “You’ll have ten minutes to plan before we send you in.” He paused, then pointed dramatically to the center of the group. “Villains: Bakugou Katsuki and Kirishima Eijirou.”

Bakugou smirked like he’d been handed a war. Kirishima cracked his knuckles, grinning.

“Heroes: Uraraka Ochako and Midoriya Izuku.”

The silence that followed was sharp.

Midoriya didn’t flinch. He nodded once, calm on the outside. But beneath his skin, something writhed and coiled with excitement and nervousness alike. 

“You’ll be first,” Hawks said. “Gear up, get briefed, and we’ll run you through the exercise. Everyone else will observe from the monitoring room.”

As the students filed out toward the locker rooms, Kaminari and Mina stopped and gave Uraraka a squeal.

“Can’t believe we’re finally seeing a rematch between you and Bakugou. How long has it been? Second year? Think sparks will fly?” The two looked at each other deviously. 

“Don’t say that,” she groaned, shoving them off.

Midoriya didn’t speak. He turned to the building in the distance, lips tight, fists clenched. Kirishima and Bakugou were already off, getting a 15 minute head start to settle into their roles and get situated. In his mind, Izuku’s analysis whirred like an overheated machine, coming up with scenario upon scenario of everything that could happen during this exercise. However, no matter the outcome, one thing was for sure: he’d win, no matter what. 

He nodded towards Uraraka and the two joined heads and began strategising. 

Inside the building Bakugou and Kirishima made a beeline for the room which held the bomb, already familiar with what they were supposed to do. Back in first year, Katsuki remembered faintly how he’d immediately jumped to attack the hero team, yet now he plopped himself on the ground, an intense look gracing his ruby eyes. Kirishima raised an eyebrow questioningly. 

“Strategizing? Not really your thing,” Kirishima said, half-grinning. “You think Uraraka’s gonna try and jump you?” 

Bakugou scoffed. “Nah. It’s Deku.”

“Oh, I was meaning to ask, you know each other right? I always see you staring at him, bro, don’t try to deny it.”

He seemed to hesitate at that moment, staring plainly at the ceiling with a scowl. “Yeah. We knew each other back when we were kids. A lot happened. But we shouldn’t underestimate him, Eijirou. Deku is one sneaky fuck. Always strategising, always pulling tricks. Even more so considering his background.”

“Did you ever know? That he’d become a villain?” Kirishima rubbed the back of his neck as he experimentally hardened his body in small increments. 

“He wasn’t the type,” he muttered with a grimace and the red haired boy knew not to push it further. “But, I do know he will try to play dirty. He might have some stupid intelligence quirk, but that just proves he has no real firepower. If they come guns blazing, we’ll easily overpower them. He won’t want a fight and he’ll aim for the bomb to secure it. Round-face is also more experienced in rescuing rather than fighting.”

“So we stay here, then. We’ll engage when they come, we’ll bide our time. That is, if you’ll be patient,” Kirishima snickered. 

“Oh, I’ll be patient,” Bakugou sneered. “We’ll crush those two once and for all.” 

In the waiting room, the fledgling young heroes took to the screen, watching anxiously to see the action play out. Mina and Kaminari were already running a betting pool on who would win. So far the odds were against the hero-team with the exception of Shinsou who’d grinned evilly, placing his 100 yen coin in Kaminari’s pouch and Iida and Asui who were confident in Uraraka’s desire to wipe the floor with Katsuki. 

Hawks was pondering the screen, observing as Midoriya and Uraraka began to move, the girl floating them and sneaking on the outside walls of the building, scouting it. Next to him sat Tokoyami, his former protege, cloaked in shadow as always. 

“Is Midoriya the reason you've come to help with the exercise?”

“Perhaps,” Hawks smirked. “No matter the assessments and training, we’ve yet to see just how Shinbun acts in a situation that requires combat such as this. Even when he fought against your class, he had the element of surprise as none of you were actually serious, or in hero gear. This will prove to be quite interesting and beneficial for the Program itself.” 

“But is it wise to leave him to his own devices like this?” 

“Most likely. We’ve interrogated him heavily so I know for a fact he won’t make any move that will get him in hot water. Now we see if he’s turning out to be the hero we gambled he could be.” With that, he flipped a coin toward Ashido with a wink. “Put this on the green boy. I like underdogs.” 

Tokoyami hummed beside him, arms crossed. “Gambling with darkness rarely ends well, Hawks.”

“Well if Midoriya breaks something, I’ll just say it was a strategic accident.”

He chuckled, but no one else did.

On screen, Uraraka and Midoriya vanished into the upper window shadows. From within the building, all the lights went out.

Tokoyami narrowed his eyes. “He’s begun.”

In the combat zone, Kirishima sat crouched behind a half-toppled metal cabinet, eyes scanning the door as his muscles tensed and relaxed in cycles. The bomb itself—painted neon orange with a blinking sensor—sat in the center of the room like bait. Bakugou paced nearby like a caged animal, shoulders hunched, palms crackling softly with preemptive pops of sweat-slicked nitroglycerin.

“Still nothing,” Kirishima murmured. His voice echoed dully off the steel walls.

Bakugou didn’t respond. He stared at the darkened hallway beyond the open doorway, mouth twitching, but then—

Click.

The lights overhead went out. All of them. So did the backup battery strips, the low hum of the fans, and Bakugou’s com earpiece buzzed once, then cut into static. Gone. Total blackout.

Bakugou snarled, voice low. “It’s a trap. He’s trying to blind us in here.”

Kirishima’s body hardened instinctively as he rose to a crouch, eyes narrowing. “Wanna pull back? Regroup somewhere with better visibility?”

Bakugou’s answer was a long exhale through his nose. “No. He’s not trying to win.” Another explosion crackled faintly at his palm. “He’s trying to outthink me.” He said it like it was the worst possible insult.

Kirishima blinked. “Uh… isn’t that kind of the point?”

Bakugou turned slowly toward him, face lit in harsh orange from a faint glow-stick under his collar. “Bastard thinks he’s better than me.”

And that’s when they heard it, the faint thud of someone running. The realisation that the hero team finally made it inside felt like a shot of adrenaline to the chest.
Midoriya was here.

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed. “We move.”

Outside, Uraraka was running her hands along the rough concrete, manoeuvring herself and peeking inside the windows trying to locate Bakugou’s and Kirishima’s positions. A difficult task since Izuku had cut off the lights. It still stunned her just how knowledgeable he was about the randomest stuff. Like electrical wires? Since when did villainy require technician skills? 

“Kacchan is impulsive,” he’d said earlier, trying to sound clinical — but Uraraka caught how his voice faltered on the name. “He also will probably attack me directly if we make our way in with no preamble.” 

“That’s what you think. I know you two were childhood friends or whatever, but that was ages ago, Deku. I know for a fact that Bakugou will be cautious and secure the bomb room.” 

Midoriya had raised his eyebrows. “Well then, if I was him, I’d send Kirishima against me. He’s obviously the worse matchup.” 

“So you want me to take care of him?” 

He paused, thinking – muttering still as unnerving as it had been on day one. “No. I actually have an idea of how to defeat him and they won’t expect it. We need to capitalise on our element of surprise since they have the court advantage. We’ll get them out of the bomb room so that we won’t be deducted points for a reckless attack where there is a bomb to diffuse.” He hesitated for a split second. “I won’t hurt them. Just… catch them off guard. Make them choose the wrong move. Then I go inside while you locate them from the outside. And as the stage is set, we attack.” 

As the two “villains” made their way down two flights of stairs, Bakugou sent small sparks snapping from his palm to light the narrow, shadow-choked corridor. There weren’t nearly enough windows for visibility, and what little ambient light filtered through the high concrete slats was smeared gray, sterile, useless.

The air was stifling, still.

Both boys moved like coiled springs, shoulder to shoulder, silent for now.

Suddenly— 

CRASH.

The wall to their left exploded inward in a cloud of shattered plaster and rebar as Uraraka launched through the third-story facade like a missile, propelling herself off the far building and smashing feet-first through the window.

She twisted midair, an elegant corkscrew, catching herself in a weightless float before slamming her boot heel down into the floor, cracking the concrete like glass as she landed in a crouch. Dust blew out in a perfect circle.

Her eyes gleamed, wide and bright. “Hi, boys.”

Kirishima barely had time to shout before Uraraka leapt again, her body weightless but violent as she rocketed toward them like a cannonball.

“Shit—!” Bakugou growled, lunging back. But it was Kirishima who moved faster. Hardening instantly, he tackled Bakugou out of the line of fire and met Uraraka mid-charge with a bone-rattling clash of muscle and motion. The two of them slammed into the far wall, cement cracking around them.

As Bakugou hit the floor, the wind knocked out of him, he snarled and spun, ready to light off an explosion—

But then—

Behind him.

Too close.

Hands locked around his throat and chest, legs wrapping his waist in one fluid movement. A tight, viselike grip. Izuku had emerged from the shadows without a sound, muscles tense and focused, eyes glassy with something unreadable.

“Kacchan,” he whispered, voice just above the rush of blood. “You let your back open.”

“God dammit–” Bakugou choked, growling. His quirk flared, but Midoriya tightened the choke and leaned in, cheek brushing his ear.

“Come on, you’ve trained better than this,” he murmured.

Then came the blast—Bakugou detonated both palms with enough force to shatter the banister beside them, and the two were sent flying in opposite directions, Midoriya flipping midair and catching the floor with practiced grace. Bakugou skidded, teeth grit, heat in his palms sizzling.

Midoriya straightened from the smoke, hands raised in a relaxed stance. Calm. Precise. Staring.

“Isn’t this the part where you shout ‘DIE’?”

Bakugou’s heart slammed once in his chest. And then he charged.

His boots hit the ground hard, his explosion launching him across the room in a blur of smoke and fire. Midoriya sidestepped, but barely. A scorched streak kissed his cheek, and he winced, one hand twitching like it wanted to retaliate, but didn’t.

“Move faster than that, bastard!” Bakugou roared, and this time the ground cracked beneath him as he rocketed forward again.

Midoriya didn’t answer. He simply dropped low, swept Bakugou’s leg with brutal efficiency, and pivoted behind him before landing a solid jab to the ribs. Bakugou snarled, spun, and caught him in the jaw with an elbow that made Midoriya stagger back, blood on his lip. They clashed again. And again. Every step Katsuki took was raw with fury, and, every time, Izuku dodged, relying not on instinct, but on memory, his green eyes almost shining in concentration. 

Bakugou lunged, fists blazing, yelling, “Don’t just stand there, fight me!”

Midoriya caught the wrist mid-swing, twisted it, and drove his knee into Bakugou’s abdomen. The blond gagged but retaliated with a blast to the side of Midoriya’s head. They both fell apart, panting, battered as Izuku let out a whiny groan.  For a moment, the smoke swirled between them like a curtain. 

‘He’s dodging too much. No move on the bomb either. Tch—what the hell’s he playing at? And shitty hair’s getting rocked up there. Fuck!,’ thought Bakugou as he raised his arms and prepped for an AP-shot. 

His pupils flared. He rushed again, but this time, Midoriya anticipated the charge and ducked, grabbing Bakugou’s vest and slamming him shoulder-first into a wall. His costume was already charred and smoking. 

Bakugou twisted in his grip and headbutted him clean across the bridge of his nose. Midoriya staggered, but only for a beat. Blood dripped down his face. He wiped it away without flinching.

“Cute,” he said, low.

The tension in the room buzzed, magnetic, painful. Katsuki knew what he had to do and unwittingly he grit his teeth. 

“Tch. Oi, Kirishima!”

“So you finally realised?” Midoriya said, smiling for the first time. “Still, didn’t expect you of all people to run from a fight.” 

A crash echoed next to them. Uraraka must’ve disengaged. Kirishima barreled down a moment later, scratched but still grinning. “You taggin’ me in?”

Bakugou didn’t look at Midoriya. “He’s yours.” Wordlessly, he propelled himself towards Uraraka who hung back in waiting. Something painful twisted in the blond’s gut. Something didn’t feel right. 

“Well isn’t this nostalgic?” Uraraka shouted over the noise of explosions as she shot out one of her grappling hooks and lunged backwards like a catapult. 

“You talk too much, pink-cheeks! Now die!” 

Uraraka shot off like a bullet, using a pillar as her springboard, boots ricocheting with a bang against the concrete. She tackled Bakugou mid-air, dragging him across the room, isolating him from Kirishima in one smooth, practiced motion.

“Oi, what the hell—?!” Bakugou snarled, only to be cut off as Uraraka somersaulted above him and kicked off his shoulder to gain distance again.

“Focus on me, Katsuki!” she called, flushed and grinning. “Show me how you’ve grown!”

Meanwhile, Kirishima turned his full attention toward Midoriya, cracking his knuckles with a smile that was half respect, half warning.

“Bad call, Midoriya. I’ll try not to make you pass out, okay?”

Midoriya didn’t reply. He simply exhaled, rolled his neck once, and slipped into stance — weight on the balls of his feet, body relaxed, arms low and ready. Then he moved.

In the observation room, the noise level doubled. On one screen, Uraraka and Bakugou were locked in a chaotic, high-speed brawl, limbs flying, explosions ricocheting off the walls. On the other, a quieter, more surgical violence.

“Holy crap,” Kaminari whispered, eyes wide.

Ashido leaned forward, clutching a growing tally sheet labeled URARAKA V. BAKUGOU SMACKDOWN™, but her pen slowed.

“What the hell is that style?” Shinsou muttered under his breath.

On screen, Midoriya danced, yet it was not the stomping, bruiser style of Kirishima or the sheer aggression of Bakugou, but something tighter, quieter, like a knife slipping between ribs. Every step was an angle, every breath controlled. He ducked a swinging hardened punch, pivoted, and jabbed once into Kirishima’s side where the skin hadn’t caught up with the hardening. Kirishima flinched. Midoriya stepped away again, completely silent. Even as he was barraged by hardened fists and had his body flinged backwards, tattered and bruised, his mouth didn’t open, teeth gritted and chin tucked. 

Instead, he lurched forward, clutching Kirishima’s shoulders and propelling himself in the air, coming down and shoving his heels in the boy's back, aiming for the kidneys. Kirishima grunted. Izuku kept dancing. 

Even Bakugou, grappling with Uraraka through a haze of pink sparks and detonations, flicked his eyes towards them. And for a moment, he forgot to breathe. What the hell is that? He hated it. That calm. That grace. The way Deku moved like he wasn’t part of this world anymore.

“Where did you even learn how to move like that, Midoriya?” Kirishima called out, panting slightly, wiping sweat and blood off his chin.

Izuku smiled — a small, lopsided thing that barely reached his eyes. His movements didn’t stop.

“Oh, here and there,” he replied, casually slipping under a haymaker. He twisted, pivoted off the balls of his feet, and jabbed at Kirishima’s thigh, the inner part, just before the hardening caught up. A clean hit.

“Pressure points are tricky with you,” Midoriya added conversationally. “Your quirk’s a nightmare for attackers like me. Not much I can do when you’re fully hardened.”

Kirishima growled and lunged again. Midoriya spun out of range.

“But,” Izuku said brightly, as if they were sparring friends and not locked in combat, “the trick is to get you before the full transformation sets in. You tense before you harden — your muscles betray the shift.”

Another flick of motion — Midoriya dropped low and swept his leg under Kirishima’s feet. The redhead stumbled back, hardened just in time to absorb the fall, but not without a wince.

“See?” Midoriya said. “Right there. That moment. You tighten your core first. It’s instinct, and your quirk follows.”

“Are you seriously giving me feedback right now?!” Kirishima barked, even as he rolled back to his feet.

Midoriya shrugged. “You said you didn’t want to make me pass out. I thought I’d return the favor.” He moved again, quick like static, and flicked his fingers against Kirishima’s sternum, enough force to be annoying, not enough to damage.

“Well that’s manly, I suppose,” Kirishima muttered, a grin displaying his two rows of shark teeth. “But I’m not a one trick pony anymore!” 

Izuku’s breath caught as he at last got to witness Red Riot’s signature move, Unbreakable. 

“What did you say before? Muscles betraying the shift?” Kirishima said as he aimed a powerful punch. Midoriya wasn’t able to dodge, yet his eyes sparkled in wonder as he took in the full form, the jagged edges and crooked angles. The punch collided with his ribs, sending him crashing against a pillar with a sickening crack. Pain shot through his side — at least one rib gone, maybe two — but he didn’t scream. He didn’t even groan. He stood. Slowly. Spitting blood onto the concrete.

“I always wanted to see Unbreakable up close,” he murmured, voice almost reverent. “You really are amazing, Kirishima.”

Kirishima advanced. His jagged, stone-like form glinted as he stalked forward with that same grin. Red Riot. A wall of muscle, invulnerable, immovable.

Midoriya’s head tilted slightly. Then, he started muttering. Quietly at first. “Unbreakable… full dermal hardening… quirk-enhanced density at the cost of stamina… breathing is heavier now… That hit fractured at least one rib... But you’re slower like this…”

Kirishima hesitated. Just slightly. Midoriya’s eyes were wide and glassy, pupils blown with adrenaline or something darker.

“Still,” he said, almost to himself, “I wonder… during Unbreakable… are you really hard everywhere?”

Kirishima blinked. “What—?”

Midoriya moved like lightning. He surged forward, gripping Kirishima’s neck and shoulder in a grapple so tight it wrenched their bodies together. Then he slipped his bloodied knuckles into the corner of Kirishima’s rigid jaw, forcing his hand between the unbreakable teeth.

“What the hell are you—?” Kirishima’s words were garbled as Midoriya shoved his entire fist down his throat. The reaction was immediate. Kirishima’s eyes bulged, his hardening flickered, and he gagged violently. He tried to clamp down, to bite through the bone — and did — a sickening crunch echoed in the room as Izuku’s hand bled profusely. Still, the hand stayed.

Midoriya twisted.

Kirishima’s hardened skin finally gave out. His quirk failed. Midoriya drew back his ruined fist, cocked the other, and struck him clean in the solar plexus.

It wasn’t a strong punch. But it didn’t need to be. Kirishima’s breath left him in a choked gasp. His eyes rolled, and he collapsed backward like a sawed tree.

Out cold.

In the observation room, silence. Even Hawks didn’t move.

Ashido’s mouth was open. Kaminari looked vaguely sick. Iida stood completely still, his hands clenched behind his back. All Might swallowed once. 

“Eijirou!” Bakugou bellowed, temporarily out of his fight and aware of his friend on the ground. 

Midoriya didn’t move at first. He stood over Kirishima’s unconscious body, shoulders heaving from exertion, blood dripping in fat, uneven drops from his mangled fist. The silence felt deafening.

Kirishima’s face was slack. His mouth was still wet with spit and red. His chest rose, shallow but steady. Midoriya’s gaze flicked to his own hand. Shaking. Bent wrong. Red and violet already blooming beneath the skin. His knuckles shredded, half of them caked with vomit and blood. His breath caught. The coppery stench filled his nose. His fingers twitched like they no longer belonged to him.

“Shit,” he whispered. He stumbled backward two steps, then a third. His boot skidded in the slick on the floor. His mind raced to analyze it, categorize it, file it away like another successful tactic, another prediction confirmed. But it wouldn’t process. There was no box to place this in. 

He looked again at Kirishima. Kind, funny Kirishima. One of the people who never looked at him like he was broken. And now he was crumpled on the floor because Midoriya made him gag until he passed out. The taste of bile rose in Izuku’s throat. His muttering started again, quieter this time. “Too far. Too far. That was—wasn’t supposed to—he’s okay. He’s okay. He’ll wake up—”

He dropped to his knees beside Kirishima, trembling hands hovering just above him, afraid to touch, afraid not to.

Then Kirishima groaned. Just a little sound, thick and dazed, but alive. His fingers twitched against the floor. His lips moved faintly, forming a single, garbled word: “…manly…”

Midoriya let out a ragged exhale, part laughter, part disbelief.

“He’s fine,” came Hawks’s voice over the broadcast system, cool and reassuring. “Vitals holding steady. Just a tactical KO. Try something like that again, Midoriya and we stop everything. Don’t lose your head, green boy.”

“Speak for yourself,” Bakugou snarled from above. “Because I’m about to knock someone’s head off.”

The wall behind him shattered.

Uraraka shot down like a meteor, boots first, flipping midair with her grappling hook taut behind her. She twisted once, twice, and caught Bakugou’s arm before he could launch a blast—using the momentum to hurl him into a steel beam. The metal groaned from the impact.

“Cheap trick!” Bakugou shouted, baring his teeth as he kicked off the beam, propelling himself like a missile through the dust. 

Uraraka landed lightly on the beam’s edge, crouched like a gymnast, her eyes glinting beneath soot-streaked cheeks. “Oh, come on,” she teased. “You’re grinning, Bakugou.”

He exploded toward her again, palm first—but she rolled sideways, catching his outstretched wrist with her wire and flipping him overhead in a dizzying arc. He twisted in midair, grunting as his back slammed against the floor. 

“You’re cockier than usual,” he growled, jumping up with a crack of fire behind him.

“Let’s not forget about our last spar,” she said, leaping backward and floating just long enough to pivot midair, landing behind him. “Consider this emotional revenge.”

Bakugou propelled himself in the air as Uraraka crouched to the ground and he shot a precise explosion across her back. Uraraka groaned, twisting and coughing as she tried regaining her footing, lurching and managing through sheer luck to touch his bicep, activating her quirk on Bakugou.  

He stumbled upward for half a second before she yanked him back down and kicked him square in the stomach. He slid several meters, coughing.

“You’ve been training with him?” he spat, blowing hair from his eyes and frowning.  

“What? Jealous?” she asked, hurling herself toward him again, knee raised.

“Don’t flatter yourself round-face!”

They clashed in a tangle of limbs and light. Bakugou was fire and fury, hands detonating like cannons, the air around him boiling. Uraraka bounced and bent, skimming the floor and walls, flipping over his head and launching herself again, spring-loaded and merciless.

He grazed her thigh with an AP shot—she winced, the burn stinging—but she didn’t stop. He choked as she crashed into his side with her full weight. He landed a blast near her shoulder—she rolled with it. Then she was behind him, again, her arms wrapped around his torso like a wrestler. “Gotcha.”

“Like hell—!”

 And then she headbutted him. Clean, sharp, right in the bridge of the nose. Something cracked.

“ARGH—! SHIT—!” Bakugou dropped, nose bleeding, flat on his back.

Uraraka followed, but not on purpose—she collapsed on top of him, limbs sprawled, breathing heavy and fast. Her sleeves were scorched, burns trailing red along her sides, and her braid had come loose, frizzing wildly around her head like a halo.

They didn’t speak at first.

Then Bakugou let out a laugh—harsh and sudden.

Uraraka wheezed out one too. “This is payback for the sports festival, Katsuki.”

“Still holding onto that, cheeks?”

“Oh, absolutely.” She smirked, nudging his ribs as he groaned. “You surrender?”

“I’m not dying for a fake bomb.”

She snorted. “That’s as good as a win.”

“Victory: Hero Team.”

The siren echoed across Ground Beta, tinny and distant.

“You all did great work,” All Might’s voice crackled from above. “Return to the waiting room for your assessments.”

Izuku didn’t move. Kirishima, now propped up against a nearby wall, was blinking slowly, pale but breathing. Other than that he hadn’t taken a lot of damage. Izuku had already checked his pulse. But now? Now he couldn’t look away from them. Bakugou and Uraraka. Burned, bruised, sprawled next to each other in the dust. Laughing. Bakugou’s head tilted back as he grinned, nose bleeding freely. He said something Izuku couldn’t hear. Uraraka smacked his arm and shook her head, pink cheeks flushed from exertion and heat. And Bakugou let her. Let her touch him. Didn’t explode. Didn’t snarl. Didn’t scream. His fight had ended too quickly. He hadn’t even used his Howitzer or Stun Grenade. 

Instead he sat there like he was—like he was normal.

Izuku’s breath stuttered. His brain whirred, as he took a step forward.

“Why,” he asked. Voice calm, too calm. “Why aren’t you fighting more?”

Bakugou’s ears twitched. He turned slightly, eyes narrowing at the tone.

Izuku’s hands curled into fists.

“Where’s your anger, Kacchan?” The name tasted wrong in his mouth. “Where’s the rage? The violence? The hate?”

Uraraka sat up quickly. “Izuku—?”

But he wasn’t listening.

“You just—gave up,” Izuku spat, his voice cracking. “You surrendered! You let her win! You smiled! You never lose!” The dust around him stirred with the electricity of his words. Katsuki’s gloves sparked faintly.

Bakugou stood slowly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You let her pin you down and you laughed.” His voice pitched up, trembling with disbelief. “You used to scream at me. You used to blow holes in the walls trying to make me shut up. Calling me useless! Telling me to die!”

Bakugou paled, his ruby eyes the size of onions. 

“You treated me like shit and now—what? Now you’re soft? Now you get to be the level-headed hero?” His eyes were wide, wet, wild. “When did you get so fucking soft, Kacchan?!”

“I—”

“No!” Izuku stepped forward, a storm surging in his chest. “No. You don’t get to be soft! Fight, dammit! Go on, punch me!” He grabbed Katsuki’s collar, lifting him up with a trembling arm. “That’s what you’re good at, right?” 

“Midoriya!” All Might’s voice cut in sharply, but it did nothing. Uraraka reached for him, but he didn’t even blink. 

“I did everything right! I fought! I did my fucking best, Kacchan! I became useful!” His tone bled with venom. “I became stronger and now people call me a villain and fear me—while you, you get to sit there and laugh.” He took a breath like a sob.

Bakugou’s mouth opened. But before the words could leave his throat, a gust of wind, a flash of feathers—Hawks appeared between them, one hand on Izuku’s shoulder, the other already raised in silent warning.

“Okay, okay,” Hawks said gently, almost playfully. “Let’s save the melodrama for the business course kids’ next mock-campaign, yeah?”

Izuku stiffened. His breathing was erratic, face blotchy and damp. He hadn’t realized he was crying.

“Deku, I-”

“You don’t get to call me that!” Izuku snarled as his palm rose and smacked Katsuki clean across the face, leaving an angry red mark. Hawks leaned in close, a hand now around Izuku’s neck and, lowering his voice:  “Let’s take five, Shinbun.”

“No! It’s not my fault! He’s holding back! It’s not fair! Don’t look at me like I’m the villain!” 

Izuku flailed his arms, blood smearing everywhere. His ribs hurt. Everything hurt. His fingers were crooked and purple.  He opened his mouth to shout something more, but felt his consciousness slip as he fell to the ground with a thud. 

A beat. 

Hawks crouched beside Midoriya’s unconscious form, eyes unusually serious. Blood had pooled beneath one of the boy’s palms, smeared against the floor like a signature. His breaths were shallow. Frantic. His lips moved soundlessly, still chasing the ghosts of whatever he'd tried to scream.

Uraraka had a hand over her mouth.

Bakugou didn’t speak. Didn’t move. His skin was hot to the touch, bruising where he’d been beaten during the exercise, yet it felt like mosquito bites compared to the slap Midoriya had handed him. 

Katsuki had never seen Izuku angry like that before. Not really. And yet, for the first time since his capture, he saw it—the spark in his emerald eyes. The same one he thought he’d crushed over five years ago.