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Chapter Text

The front door to the Bakugo household slammed open, the frame rattling from impact. Katsuki Bakugo stomped inside, sneakers tracking dirt into the entryway. His eyes burned with fury, jaw clenched tight enough to crack. They expelled him. Him. Bakugo Katsuki, a future top hero. Kicking the door shut with a resounding thud, Katsuki made his way toward his bedroom. He barely got two steps in before a familiar voice fired across the hallway.

“Oi, Brat! The hell is your problem slamming my door like that, huh?!”

Mitsuki Bakugo marched into view, her hair tied up in a messy clip, wild and furious. Her scowl deepened when she saw her son’s face. “What the hell happened?” she snapped. “Don’t tell me you got into another fight. I swear to god, Katsuki-”

“They expelled me.”

The words cut through the air. A beat of stunned silence passed.

Mitsuki blinked. “...what?!”

“I said,” Katsuki growled, tossing his bag across the room, “UA fucking kicked me out!” It thudded to the floor and slumped against the wall like the rest of his crushed pride.

Mitsuki stared, stunned for half a second– then exploded.

“Are you shitting me right now, you brat!?” she shrieked, storming up to him. “You got kicked out of UA?! The hell did you do?” “You’ve been there less than a year and you already blew it? I busted my ass to get you into that school, and you go and screw it all up?”

“It’s not my fault! He snapped, fists trembling at his sides. “Those extras didn’t even give me a chance to–!”

“You mean to tell me you got fucking expelled from the top hero school in Japan and it wasn’t your fault? Bullshit! Don’t you dare try that crap with me!”

“It’s not my goddamn fault!” he shouted! “They basically called me a villain and told me to fuck off!” The hell do they mean, ‘not heroic,’ hah?!”

“Guess what, brat?” she roared, stomping closer. “You’re now a liability! You know what people are going to say, huh? When they find out my only son got the boot from UA? I’ve got clients, Katsuki! A reputation! Your father and I worked so hard to keep your record clean, yet you can’t even manage to behave for a few months? First, you get restrained like an animal because you couldn’t behave at the sports festival, then you get kidnapped by villains! It’s just one thing after another, Katsuki!”

“Then maybe those extras should all go fuck themselves! Everyone should just get off my back for two fucking seconds and stop acting like I ruined the goddamn world.”

Mitsuki jabbed a finger in his chest, eyes narrowed and blazing. “You did ruin something. You ruined your one chance at being a hero!” Mitsuki straightened, her face now blank. It looked wrong on her– unnatural. In all of Katsuki’s years, he had never once seen his mother look at him that way. A lump formed in his throat.

“We will start looking into schools.” Mitsuki says coldly. “Whatever school that will take you.” Sighing, Mitsuki leans back and pushes a strand of hair out of her face. “I need to talk to your father about this, but moving you to another city could be an option. If your heart is still set on being a hero, we can even enroll you in an American school as an exchange student. As it is, Katsuki, your options are very limited.”

Katsuki’s heart skipped a beat. America?

“Just–” Mitsuki begins, sounding defeated, “just get out of my sight.”

Katsuki didn’t respond.

He stood there for a second longer, frozen, shoulders tight with rage and shame. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed down the hallway. His bedroom door slammed shut behind him.

The room was the same as always– trophies glinting on the shelves, weights stacked near his bed, All Might posters tacked to the walls. The room of a future pro hero.

A room that mocked him now.

He paced once, twice, then yanked a dumbbell off the floor and hurled it against the wall. It dented the drywall with a crack. His fists shook. He wanted to scream. Wanted to blow something up, watch it burn— but his quirk sputtered uselessly in his palm. All spark, no boom. Just sweat and shaking hands.

“Fucking bullshit,” he hissed under his breath. “Fucking… hypocrites.”

He collapsed onto the bed, still fully clothed, eyes burning holes in the ceiling.

They expelled him. Not for fighting villains. Not for blowing up robots. But for something that happened in middle school?

His throat tightened. He didn’t want to think about that. About Deku and his dumb, naive face when he let that slip in front of the teachers. He probably didn’t even mean to— the damn nerd just couldn't help running his mouth when he got emotional.

Katsuki clenched his fists in his lap, nails biting into his palms.

It’s not like he meant to push Midoriya around like that. Not really. He didn’t think about it at the time. It was just— Katsuki remembered how Deku used to smile at him. Even after being shoved, mocked, and threatened, he’d just smile. Tag along behind him like a lost puppy. Cheer him on during combat training. Call him amazing. Like Katsuki was some kind of goddamn hero.

And Katsuki hated it.

He hated how that look made his chest twist, like something rotten inside him knew he didn’t deserve it. He’d yell louder, shove harder— and Deku would still come back the next day with those same wide eyes and awkward compliments.

The nerd had looked up to him.

Even after everything.

“Fucking idiot,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

A part of him wanted to believe Midoriya meant to sabotage him. That he finally got tired of forgiving and told the truth to ruin Katsuki’s life. But that wasn’t Deku. That wasn’t how he worked.

He probably let it slip. Maybe in one of those therapy sessions they made him go to after Kamino. Maybe he said it while crying, saying something like “Kacchan used to be so mean, but I always believed in him.”

And UA listened.

Because Midoriya had always been the good one. The honest one. The one who’d earned One For All, while Katsuki got stuck with the title of “promising delinquent” and now “dangerous.”

He swallowed hard and leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling like it held answers.

Why the hell did Deku look up to him so much?

Why didn’t he hate him?

And why did that question hurt worse than anything else?

He buried his face in his hands.

They didn’t even give him a chance to explain. Aizawa wouldn’t look him in the eye. Nezu’s face stayed neutral the entire time, but there was this coldness under it. Like Katsuki had already been tried and sentenced before he even walked into the room.

“We have a responsibility to our students’ safety and mental health. We cannot in good conscience continue to enroll someone with a history of repeated harassment, especially toward a fellow classmate.”

Those words wouldn’t leave his head. “History of harassment.” Like he was some kind of predator. A villain in the making.

His vision blurred, and for a terrifying second, Katsuki realized he was crying.

He sat up fast, scrubbing his face with the heel of his hand. No. He wasn’t doing that. He didn’t cry. He wasn’t weak.

But he couldn’t stop the thoughts from racing, spinning, choking him from the inside.

What now?

What kind of hero gets expelled before even making it to their second year? What school would take him? Would they even let him try to be a hero again? Or was he done? Finished. Blacklisted by every agency in the country?

He remembered Kamino. Smoke. Fire. The ground crumbling beneath his feet. All Might standing tall—broken, bleeding—fighting because Bakugo couldn’t fight his way free.

Katsuki had looked up to that man his whole life. Even now. Even when he had been the one to end All Might's career, forcing him into retirement.

A weak, hollow laugh escaped his throat.

Some hero.

He curled up on the bed, back to the wall, and stared out the window at the slowly setting sun. His phone buzzed on the floor next to his bag, lighting up with unread messages.

He didn’t pick it up.

Chapter Text

The UA faculty lounge was quiet, save for the gentle clink of porcelain as Principal Nezu sipped his tea. Aizawa stood at the window, arms crossed, eyes trained on the training fields below. Papers lay scattered across the table behind them—disciplinary reports, performance evaluations, footage stills from training exercises, and one final sheet that neither of them had spoken about yet.

“He’s not ready,” Aizawa said finally.

Nezu set his cup down gently. “No. He isn’t.”

Silence settled between them.

“You’ve seen the footage?” Nezu asked, his voice calm but tight.

“I did.” Aizawa didn’t turn around. “It lines up with what Midoriya said.”

Nezu’s ears twitched. “He didn’t even realize he said it. Unintentional honesty is often the most revealing.”

Aizawa exhaled slowly through his nose. “We should have seen it earlier. We knew he had anger issues, but... we thought it would resolve itself with time. Structure. Mentorship.” Nezu’s voice was soft. “But bullying—especially the kind Midoriya endured—doesn’t vanish because someone wears a uniform and is given a dorm room.”

They both went quiet again.

“He is here to become a hero,” Nezu said. “But heroism is more than power. It’s compassion. Empathy. Bakugo Katsuki has talent—undeniable talent—but that alone does not make a hero.”

Aizawa turned, jaw tight. “He’s still a kid. He can change.”

Nezu nodded. “I believe that too. But he can’t do it here.”

The principal’s office was bright. Katsuki Bakugo sat across from Nezu’s desk, arms crossed, expression set in stone. Aizawa stood behind the principal, his face unreadable.

Katsuki tapped his foot against the tile. “So, what is this? Another warning? You gonna lecture me again about ‘teamwork’ or whatever?”

Nezu folded his paws together. “No, Bakugo. This is your expulsion hearing.”

For a moment, Katsuki didn’t react.

Then he scoffed. “Bullshit.”

Aizawa didn’t flinch. “You’re not here to be disciplined. You’re here to be informed.”

“I haven’t failed a single damn class. I was top of the entrance exam. You’re gonna kick me out over what exactly?”

“This isn’t about academics,” Nezu said evenly. “This is about character.”

Something flickered in Katsuki’s eyes—confusion, maybe. Or fear. It vanished quickly behind the usual scowl.

Nezu continued, “Your behavior towards your classmates—especially Midoriya—has been a concern since the beginning. But what truly cemented our decision was your unwillingness to reflect. To grow. You lead through intimidation. That isn’t heroism.”

Katsuki stood up so quickly his chair scraped loudly against the floor. “You think I’m not a hero?”

“You refuse to grow,” Aizawa said, stepping forward. His voice wasn’t angry—just tired. “You’ve had every opportunity to reflect and change since entering UA, but there’s no accountability for your actions. Heroism isn’t about winning fights or conquering villains. It’s about protecting people and lifting them up. You’ve shown us that you view vulnerability as a weakness—and that mindset is poisonous.”

Katsuki stared at him, trembling. Not with rage, this time. Not exactly.

Nezu took a sip from the cup in his paw, “We have a responsibility to our students’ safety and mental health. We cannot in good conscience continue to enroll someone with a history of repeated harassment, especially toward a fellow classmate.”

Nezu delicately sets his teacup off the side and folds his paws on the table, his eyes unblinking. “Effective immediately, you are expelled from U.A. High School.”

Katsuki's breath caught in his throat.

“This is not punishment,” Aizawa added. “It’s a wake-up call. We hope you’ll look into it and choose what you want to become. Because the path you’re on now leads to nowhere heroic.”

Katsuki’s mouth opened—then closed. There were no explosions. No outbursts.

Just silence.

Katsuki left without another word, his hands trembling.

The dormitory hallway was empty. Katsuki's duffel bag hit the ground with a heavy thunk. The others were probably in class. Maybe they already knew. Maybe they’d cheer.

He walked past the common room, past the training gym, past the place where they’d all laughed and shouted and pretended they were invincible.

At the gate, he stopped. The wind rustled through the trees. Somewhere behind him, the city continued to buzz. He turned back once, just briefly.

“I’ll prove all of you wrong,” he spat. “Just watch me.”

Then he walked away.

Chapter Text

The Bakugo household was quiet, but not in any peaceful way. The air was too still, the silence too heavy. The walls—normally trembling with Mitsuki’s voice or the low rumble of the TV—felt like they were holding their breath. There was no warmth to the quiet, only dread.

Katsuki sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, face lit by the pale glow of the screen. He hadn’t moved in hours.

Headlines screamed across his feed:

"EXPLOSIVE TRUTH: U.A. Expels Bakugo Katsuki Amid Bullying Allegations." "Is This the Face of Japan’s Future Heroes? Public Divided Over UA’s Controversial Decision." "From Top Student to Trouble Magnet: A Deep Dive into Bakugo’s Fall from Grace."

There were worse ones. Threads full of screenshots, grainy middle school footage, students anonymously sharing stories. The comments were a bloodbath.

"Can’t believe I used to think he was cool. What a psycho." "Should’ve been arrested, not expelled." "The way he treated that green-haired kid? Disgusting." "Just another villain waiting to happen."

Katsuki’s grip tightened on the phone until the plastic casing creaked. He wanted to throw it, blast it, make it disappear—but he didn’t. There was a hollow pit where his fury used to be. Something raw and echoing.

He didn’t recognize himself in the photos they used. He looked mean, dangerous. But worse than the photos was the way they twisted things that were already true. There had been shouting, fights, cruelty. Moments he’d thought were over, buried. Now they had come back to gut him.

No hero school would take him. His parents had called every contact they had, but the minute they mentioned his name, they got polite refusals or flat denials. It was all over the news now. No one wanted to touch him. Not with the kind of publicity his name brought. Even support courses hesitated. He was radioactive.

He scrolled again. More hate. More speculation. His past dragged into the open like roadkill.

He didn’t even remember half of what they were saying. Or maybe he did, but didn’t want to.

They were picking him apart.

And the worst part? He couldn’t say they were wrong.

He tossed the phone onto his bed and buried his face in his hands.

Somewhere downstairs, the TV droned. His mother had left it on, volume low. Probably another panel of talking heads debating his mental state or lack of remorse. One channel even had on a self-proclaimed "quirk ethicist" talking about how explosive quirks tend to correlate with aggression and instability.

The world had turned on him fast.

He could hear Mitsuki pacing. She’d barely spoken since yesterday. Masaru had tried—tentative words, awkward silences—but Katsuki had nothing to give. Not anymore.

He used to walk around like he owned the world. Like he was destined for greatness.

Now he couldn’t even leave the house without people whispering.

Even in online forums dedicated to aspiring heroes, he’d become a case study. The fall of a prodigy. The dangers of unchecked ego. Was this the cost of ambition?

He stood abruptly, anger flaring—but it fizzled out as fast as it came. He didn’t even know what to do with it anymore.

He moved to the window. The city skyline stretched in the distance, lights blinking like stars that refused to die. Somewhere out there, other students were still training. Still dreaming. Still rising.

And for the first time, he wondered if maybe he really didn’t belong in that world.

The atmosphere in Class 1-A was subdued.

It had been two days since the expulsion. Two days since Principal Nezu and Aizawa had called them into the common area with grim expressions and careful words.

Izuku remembered every second of it.

“Bakugo Katsuki has been officially expelled from U.A.,” Nezu had announced. “This is not a punishment, but a necessary intervention. His behavior—past and present—goes against the values we strive to uphold.”

There’d been silence. Denki blinked, mouth parted in shock. Kirishima had muttered a stunned, “No way.”

But it was Izuku’s gasp that cut deepest. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t wanted this. And yet, he was the one who let it slip.

He remembered that moment, too. Sitting with Recovery Girl, talking about past injuries—mentioning middle school. How quickly the air had changed. The questions. The tension. The realization.

Now, all he could think about was the look Katsuki gave him as he was escorted out of UA

Rage. Betrayal. Hurt.

Tenya adjusted his glasses, his posture rigid. “We must trust our teachers. They wouldn’t do this lightly.”

“I know that,” Kirishima mumbled, fingers digging into his thigh. “But Bakugo—he was trying. He was getting better. Wasn’t he?”

Mina looked pale.

Aoyama didn’t speak. Neither did Shoto. The room felt off-kilter, like a table missing a leg.

“Heroes are supposed to protect, not humiliate,” said Momo softly. “But it’s… complicated. Especially when the world watches your every move.”

The school’s image was already shaky after the Kamino incident. Now, they were being accused of covering up violence, of failing their students. Rumors flew like shrapnel: that Bakugo was violent behind closed doors, that he had been shielded until he couldn’t be anymore. Every student in 1-A felt it—the weight of a narrative spiraling out of control.

Izuku said nothing. All he could do was stare at his hands. They shook faintly.

“I didn’t want this,” he whispered.

No one answered.

They just sat there, listening to the silence Bakugo left behind, while the world beyond their dorm walls roared with opinions, judgments, and the unraveling of a legacy that had barely begun.

Chapter Text

The Bakugo household had always been loud. Shouting matches, the clatter of pans, the occasional explosion from Katsuki’s temper—noise was its own kind of comfort. But now? Now, silence ruled. The kind that wasn’t just quiet but hollow . The kind that echoed in the bones.

The morning sun filtered weakly through half-closed blinds, catching in the dust that lingered in the Bakugo household. 

Katsuki stood in front of the bathroom mirror, tugging on a plain black hoodie. His hair was messier than usual, tufts sticking up where sleep had pressed against them. His phone buzzed for the fifth time in ten minutes. He didn’t need to check it. He knew it was Deku. Again.

He’d blocked his number yesterday, but apparently, the nerd found ways around that.

A soft ping. An email this time.

“Hey Kacchan… I know you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for things to happen this way. I just… I hope you’re okay.”

Katsuki slammed the phone face-down on the table. The screen cracked slightly.

“Sorry,” he muttered under his breath. “Tch. Like hell you are.”

The words echoed in his mind, more bitter than he expected. The worst part was that he didn’t know who he was really mad at—Midoriya, the school, himself. Probably all of them.

He leaned over the sink, splashing his face with water. Katsuki could not muster a fuck to give over Deku’s pathetic apology. At the forefront of his mind were the articles, the videos, the angry mobs of netizens—he’d read them all. Every word was burned into his brain like the afterimage of an explosion.

Katsuki looked up at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes were dull, ringed with shadows.

He’d stopped reading the comments, but they still haunted him.

Villain.

Bully.

A walking red flag.

His hands curled into fists, but he made no sound. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. 

“I’m not just gonna sit around like some fucking disgrace,” he muttered, grabbing his phone and keys. He ignored the way his mother’s eyes flicked toward him from the kitchen table. She didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Instead, Katsuki slipped outside. Musutafu in late autumn carried a biting wind, the kind that cut through layers and snuck under your collar. The streets were cluttered with ad boards showing hero merch, support gear commercials, live-streamed patrol maps. The city moved on. With or without him. And even now, headlines ran under them like venomous subtitles:

“U.A. Student Expelled for Bullying. Quirk Misuse Allegations Under Review.”

“A Cautionary Tale: When Power Goes Unchecked.”

Katsuki shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking.

He’d found a listing last night—some construction company desperate enough to not care about his record. Physical labor. No customers. No cameras. Just noise and work.

The industrial district was lined with tired, gray buildings and chain-link fences. One of them housed a small, dingy construction office where Katsuki now stood in front of the foreman, dressed in an oversized hoodie and steel toed boots he purchased for this occasion.

“You ever done manual labor before, kid?” the foreman asked, eyeing him skeptically.

“No,” Katsuki said, voice clipped, “but I’m fast. I can carry my own weight.”

The man grunted. “You’re that kid from the news, huh?”

Katsuki stiffened, shoulders twitching slightly.

The foreman exhaled smoke through his nostrils. “You cause trouble, you’re gone. You show up on time, do the work, and we won’t care where you came from. Got it?”

“Got it.”

And so he began hauling bricks, mixing concrete, stacking rebar. It was mindless and exhausting, but that was the point. At the end of each day, he collapsed into bed sore, filthy, and too tired to read the latest headline dragging his name through the dirt.

Elsewhere, Class 1-A sat in tense silence. The dorm lounge, once alive with chatter and banter, had been subdued since the expulsion.

Izuku sat curled up on the couch, All Might keychain swinging from his fingers. 

Hey Kacchan. I just wanted to say… Delete.

I’m sorry things turned out like this. Delete.

He wanted to reach out. Desperately. But what would he even say? That he didn’t mean to get him expelled? That he still admired him, even after everything?

But every time he thought of that day—the look on Aizawa-sensei’s face, the weight of Nezu’s words, the look that must have been on Kacchan's face as he packed up his belongings- he was overwhelmed by the urge to fix this somehow. But he knows he can't. Not now.

The news hadn’t slowed. It was everywhere—video essays, think pieces, old classmates coming out of the woodwork with stories.

Some were lies. Some weren’t.

“He still hasn’t answered?” Uraraka asked, setting down a cup of tea.

Izuku shook his head. “I just wanted to talk to him.”

Uraraka gave him a sad look. “I know you do. But maybe he needs space. This is a lot.”

Across the room, Kirishima stared at his phone too, jaw tight. “I just… I thought he was better than that,” he muttered.

“He was ,” Sero offered, cautiously. “I think. Or maybe he was trying. But… yeah.”

“Good riddance,” Mineta piped up, earning him a sharp glare from several corners.

Iida straightened, his hands folded in front of him. “Whether we agree with the decision or not, we must move forward. Dwelling too much can cloud our judgment.”

But no one was really moving forward. The dorm felt off balance, a room missing a loud voice.

In a darkened room lit only by the cold glow of a monitor, the League of Villains gathered. Dust floated in lazy spirals through beams of pale light, and the hum of old machinery filled the quiet like a second pulse.

“All Might’s replacement has been quiet lately,” Dabi murmured, his fingers tapping idly on the desk. “But our explosive little friend is making headlines.”

“Predictable,” Shigaraki rasped. “He’s cornered. Isolated. That kind of desperation? It’s flammable.”

Spinner leaned forward. “But we tried that already, didn’t we? He didn’t break.”

“Not yet,” said Shigaraki. “But Sensei believes the brat may still be useful.”

Toga leaned over the back of the couch. “He looks so angry. It’s kinda cute.”

“Ugh, gross,” Spinner muttered, flipping a page of his manga.

Shigaraki scratched his neck, dry skin flaking beneath his fingers. “He’s valuable. Still dangerous. But… humiliated. Alone.”

“Vulnerable,” Dabi added from the shadows. “People like him, with nothing left? They’re easy to steer.”

“Let him stew,” Shigaraki grinned, a slow, stretched thing full of malice, “The world’s already tearing him down. When he breaks… we’ll be ready.”

By the time Katsuki made it home, his muscles ached and his clothes reeked of dust and sweat. But he didn’t mind.

His mom barely looked up when he entered. Dinner was on the counter, still warm. Masaru had left a note. “Hope the job went okay. We’re trying.”

Katsuki ate in silence, showered, and collapsed onto his bed.

Katsuki lay on his back, hands behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The muscles in his arms throbbed from labor. His knuckles were scabbed from hauling bricks. He liked it that way. Manual labor dulled the noise. Gave him something to do with his hands, something other than scroll or pace or think. It meant he could still feel something.

He thought of Deku’s message again. Of the silence from the people he thought were his friends.

He wasn’t looking for forgiveness.

He wasn’t looking for pity.

The world outside wanted him to break. But Bakugo Katsuki wasn’t the type to shatter quietly. 

He stared at the ceiling long into the night.

His resolve didn’t falter.

He’d carve his own path, even if he had to drag his nails through the dirt to make it happen.

Even if it killed him.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low over Musutafu, bleeding orange light across steel towers and rusting scaffolding. Between train announcements, traffic hums, and the sharp scent of asphalt and exhaust, the city thrummed with the rhythm of normal life.

For most people.

The days bled together, grey and relentless. Katsuki Bakugo's world had shrunk to a narrow rhythm: wake, work, eat, collapse. Every morning he boarded a local bus before sunrise, hood pulled up, sunglasses pressed to his face, boots laced tight. Sometimes he’d stare out the window, watching the city fade behind the grime on the glass. Other times, he shut his eyes and tried not to think at all.

He made his way to a construction site in Musutafu’s industrial edge, a skeletal rise of metal and cement cloaked in dust and sweat. It was a different kind of battlefield. No flashy quirks. No explosions. Just weight, noise, and men who didn’t care who you used to be. No one there called him “Bakugo.” They called him “Blondie” or “Kid.” 

Katsuki Bakugo wiped the sweat from his brow with the edge of his work glove. His body ached in the dull, familiar way of physical exhaustion, muscles throbbing beneath the orange construction vest and helmet. He was standing at the base of a half-completed apartment complex on the outskirts of town, hauling rebar and guiding deliveries like his life depended on it. 

Because, in a way, it did.

He didn’t need the money. Not really. Masaru had quietly set aside savings in case things went south, and Mitsuki was still keeping up the household bills. But Katsuki needed purpose . Something to fill the endless hours, to keep the headlines and whispers from gnawing at his brain. To remind himself that he still had strength in his arms, still had something left that wasn’t rage or shame or the echo of loss.

He didn’t talk much. The other workers had learned fast that the scowling teenager was no small-talk type. He did the work, did it well, and didn’t complain. Some of them had recognized him early on, whispering behind crates or during lunch breaks— "Wasn’t that the U.A. kid who got expelled?" —but no one confronted him. Not yet.

Until today.

“Oi, brat,” one of the senior workers barked during break, a lanky man with deep crow’s feet and calloused hands. “Heard you used to be some hotshot at U.A. You gonna blow up the site if you get pissed?”

A few guys chuckled. Katsuki stared at him, unmoving.

“You're real quiet for someone who used to scream in every Sports Festival broadcast.”

The laughter was louder this time.

Katsuki stood up, fists clenching slightly, but said nothing. Just walked away from the group, heading toward the water faucet. He didn’t trust his voice right now.

The voices behind him continued, quieter now but biting. 

"Heard he got kicked for bullying."  

"What kind of hero does that?"  

"Thought he was some kind of prodigy—just another fake."

Katsuki washed his hands slowly, letting the cold water numb his fingers.

The words stuck like glass under the skin.

He scrubbed his face with his sleeve and took a slow breath.

He felt eyes on his back like static. The foreman tossed him extra rebar with a shrug, like offering a bone to a dog.

At lunch, Katsuki sat alone beneath scaffolding, chewing through cold rice balls. His phone buzzed once. Then again. He didn’t look. Probably junk mail. Probably Deku. Either way, he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. He scrolled through the feed out of habit, barely absorbing the words.

Another headline.

Ex-U.A. Student Caught in Controversy . A photo of his face—unflattering, harshly lit, angry. Always angry.

He nearly crushed the phone in his hand.

The day ended in sweat and silence. He caught the train home, hoodie pulled low, earbuds in with no music playing. His stop came. His house was dark.

Days continued to blur together. Katsuki no longer paid attention to which day of the week it was. The monotony felt good. Safe.

The walk home felt longer than usual. The sun was dipping beneath the skyline, and the streets were starting to glow with neon signs. A ramen shop played an upbeat jingle; two kids ran past with All Might backpacks. Katsuki kept his head low. 

Then came the voice.

"Hey—hey, is that him? That Bakugo kid?"

He didn’t stop walking.

"Yeah, I saw him on the news. That’s totally him! He looks way shorter in real life."

A group of teenagers across the street were pointing. Someone pulled out a phone. Flash.

Katsuki walked faster.

Flash. Click. Flash.

An ugly knot formed in his chest. His vision tunneled.

He broke into a sprint, cutting through an alleyway and vaulting a fence until the voices faded. Katsuki turned the corner, lungs burning. The words clung to him like grease. 

By the time he reached his block, his breath was ragged, chest heaving with silent fury.

He slammed the door behind him when he got home, rattling the coat rack. His boots hit the floor with a sharp thud. He didn’t bother with dinner.

He stormed into his room, shoved the desk chair into the wall, and punched his pillow until feathers began to burst from a seam.

“FUCK!” he screamed, voice hoarse. “GOD FUCKING DAMNIT—!”

His chest heaved. His eyes burned, but he refused to cry.

His palm sparked, detonating in a crack of sweat and smoke. The shelf next to his bed toppled, books scattering. A picture frame—him at the Sports Festival podium—smashed against the wall, glass splintering. His breath came in gasps. His heart pounded in his ears.

He stood there, staring at the ruined corner of his room, hands shaking.

“I didn’t do anything fucking wrong,” he whispered.

No one answered.

The next day, he woke before dawn again. Routine reasserted itself.

The job was worse. One of the older workers kept glancing at him all morning. Finally, during lunch, he muttered just loud enough:

“Not surprised he got expelled. Cocky brat always looked like a ticking time bomb.”

Katsuki’s hands clenched.

“Better watch your mouth,” he said coldly.

The man laughed. “What’re you gonna do? Blast me? That’s what you’re good at, right?”

He didn’t. Couldn’t. Just turned and walked away. Anger simmering under the surface.

Three days passed like that. Quiet cruelty. Sidelong looks. The press kept circling like vultures, old classmates kept tweeting cryptic jabs, and Katsuki kept his head down. The Bakugos were gone—off on a business trip, leaving only a note and a few meals in the fridge. Katsuki didn’t mind. 

He preferred the quiet.

Sometimes he caught himself staring at the back door, or the spot where his All Might poster used to hang. Then he’d get up, run a few blocks until his lungs burned, or hit the heavy bag in the basement until his knuckles split open.

Pain, at least, didn’t lie.

On the eighth day, as dusk fell over the neighborhood, Katsuki turned the corner toward home—and froze.

The front door was open.

There was no sound.

Every nerve in his body screamed.

He stepped forward slowly, one hand in his pocket, the other reaching for a metal pipe near the porch. The hallway light was flickering. The air smelled... wrong. Dust and something faintly metallic.

Then came the voice.

“Well, well,” drawled a familiar tone, smooth like oil. “The prodigal son returns.”

Katsuki froze.

The TV was on, playing static. The living room was trashed. A knife stuck in the wall by the family photos.

And then he saw them.

Toga, perched on the couch like it was her own. Dabi leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Twice giving a two-handed wave from behind the kitchen counter.

And Shigaraki, center stage, like an actor awaiting applause.

“Welcome home, Bakugo,” Shigaraki said, voice like gravel. “Miss us?”

Katsuki’s mouth twisted. “You’ve got five seconds to get the hell out.”

“Still so hostile,” Toga pouted. “We came all this way to visit.”

“You don’t have to fight anymore,” Shigaraki said, ignoring her. “No teachers barking orders. No fake friends. No heroes pretending to care. You can stop playing their game.”

“I’m not interested in your game either,” Katsuki growled.

Dabi chuckled. “Sure about that? ‘Cause from where we’re standing, you’ve got no school, no future, no one left to call you a hero. Just a good quirk and a lot of anger.”

Twice chimed in. “That’s all it takes to be one of us, really!”

“I’d rather die,” Katsuki said, eyes sparking.

Shigaraki shrugged. “You say that now. That’s fine. But we’re not here to give you a choice.”

Katsuki lunged, hands crackling—but Toga was faster, slamming something into his neck.

He stumbled.

The world tilted, and darkness swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

The ceiling above him was cracked. A hairline fracture that curved through the plaster like a spiderweb. He stared at it, motionless, the world around him muffled and slow.

Katsuki Bakugo blinked.

The air was heavy—damp and metallic, like rusting blood in old pipes. Concrete walls boxed him in. One flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead. His arms were bound behind him, wrists chafed and numb from tight restraints. He didn’t recognize the room, but he knew the feeling.

Captured. Again.

His breathing was shallow, but steady. Every movement sent a low hum of pain through his muscles—bruises bloomed across his ribs, his shoulder throbbed with a dull sting, and dried blood tugged at the corner of his lip.

He counted the seconds in his head. One… two… three. A slow rhythm to keep panic at bay.

Then came the voice.

“Ah. Sleeping Beauty’s finally awake.”

He didn’t need to look. The gravel-and-smirk belonged to Dabi. He stepped into view, hands in his pockets, lazy grin half-masked by the burns scrawled across his face.

“Got real tired of waiting,” Dabi added.

Katsuki didn’t answer.

Nearby, someone was humming—light, childish, and off-key.

Katsuki’s eyes rolled toward the sound. Toga sat cross-legged on a rust-stained table, twirling a knife between her fingers. It clinked against the metal every time it rotated.

“You looked like an angel when we dragged you in,” she sighed. “So pale. So sad. So bloody. It was cute. ”

Katsuki moved his jaw slowly, testing its stiffness.

They were in some kind of underground room—concrete walls, flickering lights overhead, boxes stacked haphazardly along the corners. A space that smelled of abandonment. Damp. Mold. 

A warehouse? A bunker?

He flexed his fingers, slow and careful.

“Well?” Dabi took a step forward, “You gonna say good morning, or just glare at us ‘til your eyeballs pop out?”

Katsuki spat blood onto the floor.

“Fuck. You.”

Toga beamed.

“Still got bite! That’s why we like you.”

“We could’ve killed you,” Dabi’s smirk twisted. “We didn’t.”

“Then maybe you’re even dumber than you look.”

“You were unconscious for two days.”

“I’m still not joining your cult.”

“Bold of you,” came another voice. This one softer, rasping—dry like the scrape of bone on stone. Shigaraki stepped forward from the gloom, red eyes half-lidded, his disheveled figure looming like a curse. “After everything… you still think you’re a hero?”

“I never said that.”

Shigaraki tilted his head.

“You’re not wanted by the public. Not trusted by the heroes. Even your precious U.A. threw you out like garbage.” He stepped closer. “Why keep pretending?”

Katsuki stared at him, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling like distant thunder. There was a pause, thick with venom.

“I’d rather die,” he growled, “than be one of you.”

Shigaraki stopped just a step away. His hand twitched—his fingers almost flexed. Then he pulled back, his smile widening.

“That can be arranged.”

Elsewhere in Musutafu, the Bakugo household was in chaos.

The front door had been kicked off its hinges. Furniture lay overturned, drawers pulled open. Mitsuki stood frozen in the hallway, cell phone shaking in her hand.

Masaru was calling out his son’s name—over and over again.

No answer.

“He’s not here,” Mitsuki whispered. “He’s not here. Katsuki’s not—” Her voice caught.

The police were called within minutes. The Bakugo household was locked down behind yellow police tape. Mitsuki paced the hallway in a rage, barking into her phone. Masaru sat with his head in his hands as police officers moved in and out of rooms, snapping photos and filing reports.

“They took him,” Mitsuki snarled. “Again. They took my son. ”

“We’re aware, ma’am,” said the detective. “We’ve alerted the HPSC. Hero Commission’s opening an investigation.”

“Do they even care anymore?” she snapped. “You didn’t the first time.”

The officer didn’t respond.

Outside, neighbors whispered behind closed blinds. News vans began to gather down the block.

“Isn’t this the U.A. dropout kid?”

Mitsuki nearly decked the one who said it out loud.

The HPSC issued a brief statement that evening:

“The Commission is aware of reports regarding former U.A. student Bakugo Katsuki. At this time, we are working with law enforcement and Pro Hero agencies to assess the situation. We ask the public to refrain from speculation while the investigation continues.”

It said everything and nothing.

At U.A., the news arrived through private channels. Aizawa didn’t react outwardly, but his hands were tight at his sides as Nezu read the report aloud in the faculty office.

“Second kidnapping,” Nezu said, voice grim. His cup of tea had long gone cold.

Back in the hideout, a grainy static noise crackled to life from a mounted screen in the corner of the room—an old, boxy monitor bolted into the concrete.

The League straightened.

Then his voice came.

Low, calm, and poisonous.

“Good evening, Katsuki.”

Katsuki’s eyes snapped to the screen. His breathing stilled.

The monitor flared with dim blue light as All For One’s face emerged from the static—half-shrouded in shadow, his ruined features blurred by the poor signal. But even distorted, his presence chilled the air.

He wasn’t in the room. And somehow, that made it worse.

“You’re still alive. Remarkable. I was beginning to wonder if your stubbornness would burn through your body before we had the chance to speak.”

Katsuki didn’t answer. He only glared.

All For One chuckled, low and indulgent.

“I know you’re not going to join us,” he said. “That was never the point.”

He leaned slightly forward on the screen, his voice growing softer, more intimate—like a whisper you couldn’t unhear.

“You misunderstand your role in all of this. You think your choice matters. But this was never about recruitment.”

Katsuki’s jaw clenched. His wrists twisted behind him, metal scraping metal.

“I will find a use for you, Katsuki Bakugo. Whether you want it or not.”

There was no malice in his voice—just certainty. A god explaining inevitability.

“Hero society,” All For One mused, “is built on faith. In Pro Heroes. In structure. In that ridiculous concept of legacy. You were once a symbol of rising power. A star. Now? You’re discarded. Tainted. Dangerous. And that’s precisely what makes you valuable.”

He let the silence drag for a beat.

“I could paint you as a tragedy. A cautionary tale. A former hero-in-training turned weapon. Or I could release you back into the world, just damaged enough to unravel everything the heroes hold dear. Let the public watch their golden boy fall apart in real time.”

Katsuki didn’t flinch. But his silence rang like a scream.

“You’ll explode,” All For One said softly, “because that’s what you do. We’ll aim you where it hurts the most. Society won’t know whether to hate you or pity you. Maybe they’ll do both.”

He leaned back into the shadows, but his voice darkened.

“And when the next One For All holder sees what’s become of you—when his heart breaks just enough—he’ll be vulnerable. Just for a moment. And that moment will be all I need.”

Katsuki’s head lifted, eyes gleaming like flint.

“You think you’re gonna win?” His voice was hoarse, raw. “You think you’ll break me just by talkin’ through a screen?”

There was a heavy silence filling the room. All For One was toying with him, Katsuki knew it. But part of him was unsure. All For One had completely ignored his taunt. His challenge .

All For One didn’t say another word.

The screen went black.

The screen went black with a sharp click .

Silence returned—heavy and electric.

Katsuki stared at the blank monitor, but the voice still echoed in his skull, coiling through the corners of his mind like smoke.

"You’ll explode. We’ll aim you where it hurts the most."

He didn’t have to ask what that meant.

It wasn’t subtle.

He knew who the bastard meant.

Deku.

His fists twitched behind him, strained tight against restraints that dug into raw skin. Blood was drying under the cords, his fingers going numb. But all he could feel was heat—rising fast—rage hot and suffocating in his chest, clashing against a cold, slithering dread that wound around his lungs.

They were going to use him.

Not just as a symbol.

As bait.

Katsuki ground his teeth, with barely contained rage. He hated being weak. He hated being used.

His breathing stayed quiet, measured

All For One didn’t bluff. He didn’t taunt without intent. If he said Katsuki would be used, it was because the plan was already in motion. Katsuki didn’t know what it was. He didn’t know how they were going to twist him—but he knew it was coming. Knew that every second he sat here in chains, they were getting closer to whatever endgame they had planned.

He gritted his teeth, jaw clenched so tight it ached. His wrists pulled reflexively against the restraints, nerves screaming under the pressure. He wanted to explode, to move, to do something—anything.

They wanted him angry. They wanted him reckless. But more than that—they wanted him uncertain. Unsteady. Afraid.

He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.

He closed his eyes for a brief second. To focus. To anchor himself. 

He slowly opened his eyes and studied the wall in front of him. It was rough, unpainted concrete, stained with something old and dark. A spiderweb of exposed wire snaked across the ceiling. The room smelled like rust, mold, and cold sweat.

He remembered this kind of place.

He remembered what it felt like to wait for someone else to decide your future.

But this time was different.

This time, they didn’t care what he wanted. They didn’t want him to join them.

He didn’t know if they’d inject him with trigger or if they’d turn him into a Nomu. Katsuki mentally flipped through several scenarios. Maybe they’d use him for ransom. They could always just kill him.

Katsuki grunted and stared at the floor, chest rising and falling with shallow precision. This train of thought wasn’t getting him anywhere. 

He couldn’t plan a counterattack when he didn’t know what kind of war he was in.

But if they thought he’d break first—if they thought silence and fear were enough to unmake him—they didn’t understand the one truth that kept him breathing:

He’d survived this once.

He could survive it again.

Even if he didn’t know what was coming.

He just had to hold on long enough to figure out how to tear it all down.

Even if they used him, they’d never own him.

Chapter Text

It came wrapped in mundane brown paper, tucked into the mailroom basket like any other delivery. Nothing about it screamed danger—except, perhaps, the archaic shape of the case inside, heavy in the hands of the second-year student who found it.

There was no postage. No sender. Just one word scrawled in bold, crude ink on the side:

U.A.

The student reported it immediately. Within an hour, the envelope had been rushed through security checkpoints and straight to the staff’s internal emergency wing—deep in the reinforced heart of the school.

Now it sat beside an old VHS player, humming faintly as it powered on. Principal Nezu, brilliant and precise, crouched beside it, paws moving with uncanny speed over the system.

The air inside the meeting room was dense with tension. Even the harsh fluorescent lights overhead seemed to buzz more sharply than usual.

This was not the public staff conference room—sealed and reinforced, this room was used only when U.A. itself was under direct threat. Here, surveillance feeds lined the walls, constantly updating. Emergency alerts shimmered in red along one panel, awaiting a word from Nezu to sound across campus.

The room vibrated with nervous energy as the faculty gathered.

Midnight sat ramrod straight, arms crossed tightly across her chest. Present Mic leaned against the far wall, uncharacteristically silent, shoulders tense. Cementoss and Snipe flanked the doorway like living statues. Vlad King hovered near the corner, his clenched fist shaking slightly. Recovery Girl sat primly in a folding chair near the back, eyes half-lidded but alert. Aizawa standing in the far corner.

And All Might.

He stood near Aizawa at the far end of the room, clad in dark civilian wear. Gaunt. Pale. His gaze remained locked on the dark screen, thin lips pressed into a grim line.

Nezu flipped the switch.

The screen hissed with static.

Flickering distortion bled into a dim, grainy image. The camera lens trembled slightly, as though held by an uncertain hand. A single overhead bulb swayed lazily, casting warped shadows across cracked cement walls. Somewhere in the background, water dripped rhythmically—deep, cavernous, echoing like a heartbeat.

A figure slumped at the center of the frame.

Bakugo Katsuki.

His arms were fastened behind him, wrists bound with a cruel mixture of barbed wire and industrial cord. The chair beneath him had been bolted to the floor. His body was worse for wear—clothes ragged and soaked with grime, his blonde hair dulled with sweat and dried blood. His face bore the bruises of precision cruelty.

The room froze. Even the air seemed to thicken, caught in collective breath.

Nezu’s ears flicked, but he said nothing.

Footsteps echoed.

From the shadowed edge of the screen, Shigaraki Tomura emerged—dragging a rusted stool behind him. The metal shrieked against the concrete. He sat sideways, gangly limbs folding in sharp angles, fingers twitching near his chin.

“You’re probably wondering why we used a VHS tape,” he rasped. “Why not livestream this? Show it to the whole world?”

He leaned toward the lens, mouth twisting into a crooked grin.

“Because this isn’t a show. Not yet. This is a message. For U.A.”

He reached out, grabbed a fistful of Bakugo’s hair, and jerked the boy’s head upright. Katsuki’s eye—the one not swollen shut—blazed with fury. But he didn’t speak.

“You failed him. Again.”

Shigaraki released him. Bakugo slumped, chest rising faintly.

“We’ve got plans for this one.” His grin widened, almost childlike. “Big ones. You’ll find out. Or maybe you won’t. Either way... he’s going to help us clear this level.”

A long pause. The camera panned sideways.

A cracked monitor flickered to life in the background

A new voice spoke, smooth and cold.

All For One.

“U.A.,” he purred.

“Your time draws to an end. 

"One cannot protect all things at once. Choices must be made. Some will be left undefended."

Another pause. A slow, deliberate breath.

"And when fire spreads across your cities, when shadows devour the edges of your light—remember this: some sparks will ignite devastation... once and for all."

The screen went black.

In the shadows of a distant chamber, All For One allowed himself a thin smile.

They will scramble, he thought. They will pull forces inward to protect the boy. Those still in the dark will take the threat at face value, extending their forces outward.

The pieces were moving. Predictably, as always.

He remained weak—crippled by wounds both old and fresh. His body, though sustained through unnatural means, was not yet ready. Months. Perhaps a year. But time mattered little.

He knew he could not yet confront All Might’s successor. Not yet.

Such a well-kept secret. Such secrecy will be their downfall.

One threat. Different interpretations. Different responses.

He knew Nezu would not reveal the truth of One For All. Not even now—when that very secrecy had already served its purpose. All For One was counting on it.

Without knowledge of One For All , the rest of the heroes had no choice but to take the threat at face value.

For now, strength was not his sharpest blade. Perception was.

And perception... was endlessly malleable.

The heroes will divide their priorities, he mused. They have no reason to doubt such a blatant threat.

His thoughts turned to the boy—the explosive prodigy chained in the depths of their lair. Bakugo Katsuki.

A pawn, yes. But a useful one.

How fitting, he thought, that such a volatile Quirk should serve as the spark.

The public adored heroes. They revered power when it was contained, controlled—a spectacle of strength in service of order.

But what they feared—what haunted their dreams—was power unleashed. Power beyond restraint.

Explosion. Raw. Devastating. Indiscriminate. A Quirk born to shatter structures and lives alike.

If such a force were turned upon the civilians—upon the very people heroes vowed to protect—while the nation’s champions were absent, chasing shadows... what faith would remain?

One tragedy. One moment, broadcast to a trembling public. And the people would turn.

They would not accuse the League first. No. The initial outcry would fall upon their so-called protectors.

Against the heroes who failed to act.
Against the government that had not prevented it.
Against U.A.—whose students seemed to invite calamity again and again.

The seeds of doubt had long been sown. Now, they needed only to be watered—in blood.

And the heroes—bound by duty, by pride—would scatter themselves thin in response. A desperate attempt to contain the spreading chaos.

Divide them. Exhaust them. Let them bleed themselves dry in the name of salvation.

When the cracks widened—when public sentiment soured, when despair festered—then, and only then, would he strike.

When Midoriya’s fragile heart is drawn out—toward a broken public and weakened allies—I will be ready. With renewed strength. With the board mine to command.

He allowed himself a breathless moment of satisfaction.

Even should the boy survive—even should they reclaim him—it would not matter.

The message would be etched in the public mind. The damage would linger long after any rescue.

And should Bakugo perish before the end—well. That, too, would serve.

He folded his hands in the dimness.

The board is set. The pieces fall into place.

The screen went black.

The monitor hummed. No one moved.

Midnight’s voice finally cracked through the silence. “They didn’t ask for anything.”

“No ransom. No terms,” said Cementoss.

“No,” Nezu said softly. “Control.”

All eyes turned to him. He stood on the table now, arms folded behind his back, sharp eyes narrowed like blades.

“They chose this method to slow us down. No digital trail. No broadcasting. This was personal. Deliberate. Old-fashioned.”

Present Mic frowned. “Why even show us anything at all?”

“They want us to panic,” Aizawa murmured.

Nezu nodded. “Fear breeds mistakes. Mistakes cost lives.”

Vlad King shifted uncomfortably. “And the ‘big plans’?”

“Vague by design,” Nezu replied. “The unknown gnaws at the mind more than any specific threat. Whatever they intend, it involves Bakugo.”

“Then we find them,” Aizawa said, voice hard. “We go underground. It would be irrational to send top heroes for this mission. The League is counting on it.”

Nezu nodded. “And alert the police. But not the media. If this leaks before we understand it, the public will spiral.”

The meeting dissolved into rapid orders and scrawled notes, but Nezu remained still. Calculating.

Later that night, a smaller meeting convened.

Nezu. All Might. Recovery Girl. Those who knew of One For All.

The tape had been analyzed. No digital fingerprint. No traceable material. A ghost.

Nezu’s voice was low. “I suspect the tape was also bait for us.”

Recovery Girl’s gaze was sharp. "‘Once and for all,’" she said softly. "That was no accident. He knows."

All Might’s fists clench. "Then we must assume the worst—that Young Midoriya is also a target, whether he realizes it or not."

A heavy pause.

Nezu spoke up. “Then, we proceed in two layers. One—underground teams search for Bakugo. Quietly. Two—Midoriya stays close to campus. No independent moves.”

“And we prepare for contingencies.”

The meeting dissolved. But the tension remained, thick as smoke.

The game had begun.

And the stakes had never been higher.

Chapter Text

It was an hour before dawn when Tsukauchi Naomasa and Aizawa Shouta found themselves once again in the cold, dim-lit operations room buried beneath U.A. Neither had slept. Neither intended to.

A scatter of files covered the table between them — surveillance logs, black market chatter, known League safehouses. A battered laptop hummed beside Tsukauchi’s elbow. Two empty mugs sat cooling between them.

“You’re sure there’s no chatter about moving him?” Tsukauchi’s voice was rough with exhaustion.

Aizawa rubbed at his burning eyes. “None that we can confirm. If they’re moving him, they’re using assets we don’t know about. No black market quirks, no rental transport, no sightings. Kurogiri is still being held in custody, so unless they have another member with a teleportation quirk, we’re back to square one.”

“They’ve gone underground,” Tsukauchi muttered.

Aizawa’s voice remained low. “They want us blind. They want us running in circles.”

The silence that followed was heavy. The clock on the far wall ticked out each second like a countdown.

“They’ve studied our response patterns.” Tsukauchi’s brow furrowed. “They know exactly how we’ll prioritize threats.”

“Which is why Nezu thinks the next move is coming soon,” Tsukauchi said finally.

Aizawa nodded. “He’s right.”

“They’re baiting us,” Tsukauchi continued. “The tape was just phase one.”

“Phase two will be bloodier,” Aizawa said grimly.

Both men wore the same expression—driven, but eroding at the edges. Red-rimmed eyes. Fists trembling from adrenaline and exhaustion alike.

They’d read All For One’s message a dozen times, dissected every word. The phrase “once and for all” rang through the back of their minds like a taunt.

Tsukauchi leaned forward, voice low. “He’s laying a trap. We can’t walk into it.”

“We won’t,” Aizawa replied. “But we have to keep hunting.” Aizawa’s jaw clenched. “If the trail goes cold—”

“It already is.” Tsukauchi didn’t sugarcoat it. “But we won’t give up.”

Aizawa’s nod was grim and final.

There was no sleep ahead for them. 

Above ground, U.A. carried on beneath a fragile illusion of control.

The sky was clouded, and the city’s usual hum was fractured. Helicopters buzzed faintly overhead. The media swarmed the story of Bakugo’s abduction. Headlines screamed from every corner of the internet. News vans prowled the gates, cameras bristling, each crew hungry for a new angle.

Nezu had ordered exactly nothing in the way of public statements. No comment. No acknowledgment. The strategy was deliberate — deny the League any narrative victory.

The decision was not without cost. Parents called in panicked waves. Rumors spread like wildfire. Even in U.A.’s carefully guarded walls, whispers found fertile ground.

Inside the school, classes continued. Patrols doubled. No obvious shifts, no fear shown.

The students were not oblivious. They knew Bakugo had been taken. 

Midoriya Izuku moved through his drills for the licensing exam with numb limbs and a mind in turmoil.

Focus, he told himself. Just focus.

But how could he?

His best-friend-turned-bully — turned…rival?  — was gone.

Taken. By them.

The training hall echoed with the sounds of feet striking mats, the soft crackle of Quirk usage.

Midoriya’s thoughts churned in relentless circles:

• The League had him.
  
  
• Bakugo had fought them once before. He wouldn’t go quietly.
  
  
• And now they had him again — this time with a purpose no one would explain.
  
  

He hated how everyone was acting like things were normal now. His mind wandered to a conversation he had with All Might that morning:

“Are we even trying anymore?” Midoriya’s voice cracked like glass.

All Might looked up from across the teachers’ lounge, brow furrowed. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly.

Midoriya paced in circles. He hadn’t slept. His notebook was filled with scribbles of Bakugo’s last known locations, snippets of villain sightings, and every detail he could remember about the league.

“Why are we giving up on him?”

“No one is giving up,” All Might said gently. “But we’re—stretched thin. Between the provisional license exams, patrol shifts, and the growing unrest…”

“I don’t care about the license exam!”

“Young Midoriya.” All Might’s voice grew sharp. “You have to care. You must be at your best—for him, too.”

Midoriya’s hands trembled.

“I can’t just pretend everything is normal.”

All Might walked over, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to pretend. But you do have to endure. Heroes endure, even when it breaks them.”

Midoriya’s fingers twitched, his heart racing faster than any warm-up drill could account for.

I should be doing something. I should be out there looking for him. Not… standing here pretending everything’s fine.

He pushed harder into the drills, every movement sharp, precise — yet barely controlled. His mind refused to be still.

Why haven’t they told us more? Why won’t anyone say what’s really happening?

A dozen half-formed theories spiraled through his analytical mind. He catalogued the League’s known quirks. He mapped their prior moves. He tried to calculate why now , why Kacchan , why like this.

His gut twisted again.

His eyes flicked toward All Might.

The former Symbol of Peace stood stiffly at the gym’s edge, arms folded, face grim. There was none of his usual booming encouragement. No smile. No warmth.

And when their eyes met — a flicker of something raw passed through All Might’s gaze.

Guilt. Fear. Regret.

Midoriya’s pulse spiked.

He knows something. He knows exactly what’s happening.

His breath caught. His heart hammered against his ribs.

Why won’t he tell me?

The logical part of his mind tried to reason through it.

Maybe they think it’s safer if I don’t know. Maybe they think I’ll do something reckless. Or maybe… maybe they think I’m not ready.

He forced himself to breathe. In. Out.

He glanced back toward All Might — and saw the barely-hidden strain in his mentor’s face — the knot of dread inside him only grew tighter.

High above the gym, in the quiet of his office, Nezu stood before the wide windows, surveying the campus below.

From this vantage, U.A. was a fortress. Every sensor, every patrol, every line of sight carefully maintained.

Yet Nezu knew better than to trust appearances. This fortress had nearly fallen once before.

Behind him, All Might sat hunched forward, head in trembling hands.

“You must not tell him,” Nezu said gently.

“He deserves to know.” All Might’s voice cracked. “He’s already guessing.”

“And that guessing is safer than knowledge.” Nezu’s tone remained calm, but implacable. “If he knows, he will act. And that is what All For One wants.”

All Might’s fists trembled.

How much longer can I keep this from him?

“He looks at me like he already knows I’m hiding something,” he whispered.

“Because he does,” Nezu replied. “But knowing a thing exists is different from knowing its shape. For now, ambiguity is our ally.”

Nezu’s mind moved in sharp, calculating lines:

• The League wanted to destabilize the public.
  
  
• They wanted the heroes scattered.
  
  
• They wanted One For All exposed—on their terms.
  
  
• And Midoriya… was not ready to face that battle. Not yet.
  
  

All Might exhaled shakily. “If anything happens to him…”

Nezu’s gaze softened. “You will protect him. But the best way to do that is to let us control the timing of the truth.”

All Might nodded, brittle with restraint.

But in his heart, the question remained:

How long before Midoriya forces the truth from us himself?

Far below the reach of rescue, Bakugo Katsuki remained chained — another piece in All For One’s cruel design.

His body ached. His wrists burned where the cuffs bit into skin. His throat was raw from screaming.

But his eyes still burned with fury.

They think they can use me, he thought savagely. They think they can break me.

The sound of distant footsteps echoed in the dark.

Not a chance, Bakugo told himself. Not ever.

The board was set. The next move loomed.

And the clock kept ticking.

Chapter Text

It was nearing dawn when the final pieces were set in motion for the first strike. In a chamber deep beneath the city, All For One stood before a bank of dim monitors. Their glow painted his gaunt form in fractured light.

Above, the waking streets of Musutafu stirred. Trains began to rumble through tunnels. Vendors rolled up steel shutters. The slow current of early commuters gathered, unaware of the eyes that watched from below.

So many lives. So easily unraveled. All For One’s eyes flicked from feed to feed. Cameras traced the movements of civilians in Musutafu’s vibrant core: winding streets, dense markets, pedestrian avenues already thick with morning foot traffic.

Perfect.

The pawn was almost ready. A minor criminal. Someone inconsequential. Soon he would give the man Explosion. All For One knew that this criminal’s body was not equipped to hold such quirk. He would self-destruct before the afternoon’s end, taking as many lives as the blast would claim. A tragedy born of stolen power. A spectacle no camera could look away from.

But more importantly—an accusation.

When the dust settles, the public will curse the ones who failed to stop this. The ones who promised peace.

The heroes.

U.A.

The Hero Commission.

It would not matter that they had been drawn away, baited by false threats and whispers. To the common man, the failure would seem damning. Deliberate.

Abandonment. That is the narrative I will gift them.

There were still pieces to move—backup plans, layers within layers. And soon, one more piece would fall into place. Midoriya Izuku would feel it. The boy already strained beneath the burden of a power he barely understood. When this failure broke across the nation, when guilt weighed on the shoulders meant to bear the next era—then the true strike could begin.

Not yet. But soon.

Patience remained his greatest weapon. He was still rebuilding. His body remained a fragile vessel, sustained by craft and force of will. A confrontation with All Might’s successor was months away—perhaps more. But perception could do the work that strength could not.

One blast. One spectacle. One city’s trust undone.

And if one thread unraveled, the rest would follow.

His gaze drifted from the monitors at last. There was one more matter to resolve. One last piece to set in place before the board shifted again.

Bakugo Katsuki awaited him.

The boy had served his purpose as bait. And if his quirk could be seized—repurposed, twisted—it would add another cruel layer to the coming tragedy. If not... the plan would proceed all the same.

Tools were meant to be spent.

The boy would no longer be a factor by the time the sun rose again.

Time was strange here.

Katsuki no longer knew how long he’d been held. The first days—weeks?—had been spent strapped to a chair, metal restraints biting through his skin, muscles locked until they ached. He’d fought against them until his limbs burned and blood stained the leather. They hadn’t cared. No one spoke. They brought water in silence, shoved food into his mouth with cold precision. Enough to keep him conscious. Enough to keep him aware.

At some point—he wasn’t sure when—they’d moved him.

This new room was a concrete box. Stained floor. Bare walls. No windows. No cot—just a drain in the center of the floor, rusted red around its edges. No light beyond the single bulb flickering overhead. Just four walls, chains around his ankles, and a lock he couldn’t break. He’d tried, of course. The first hour, the first day—he’d slammed fists against the door until the bones screamed. Punched the walls until his skin split. No response. No weakness to exploit. His quirk was useless. Quirk suppression cuffs fastened to his ankles. They'd been there since his arrival to the underground hideout. 

The next few days he’d paced endlessly, fists clenched, desperate to move. His body had screamed from exhaustion, but movement was life. Motion meant he was still fighting. They brought water now and then. Threw in scraps, a strip of dry protein. Enough to keep his body working. No more. It wasn’t the hunger that gnawed at him, it was the stillness. No words, no faces, no sound beyond the drip of old pipes and the faint hum of the walls themselves.

No chance to fight.

No explosions.

And that, more than anything, kept the fire clawing at the back of his throat. He wouldn’t say it aloud—never—but it terrified him. He didn’t know what he was without it. He paced again, bare feet scuffing the concrete, jaw clenched.

If they think they can break me... they don’t know a damn thing.

His body trembled with exhaustion, but his glare remained bright, sharp. He would not give them the satisfaction. No matter how long they left him here.

Katsuki’s head snapped up. His legs tensed beneath him, instinct screaming, even though his body felt like shit. Every nerve bristled.

Footsteps.

The figure that entered was wrong from the moment it crossed the threshold. Taller than any human frame had a right to be. Cloaked in black, form gaunt beneath the layers. A metal mask where a face should have been, gleaming faintly in the stale light.

All For One.

So this was the bastard.

Katsuki forced his breath steady.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

And then

All For One entered like he owned the fucking room. Cloak trailing, gaze hidden behind black glass. The door closed with a hollow clang, sealing them in.

Katsuki forced himself upright, shoulders squared, defiance burning through the exhaustion. His lip curled. “Go to hell.” His voice came rough, cracking with thirst and rage. 

A low chuckle reverberated from behind the mask. “I’m afraid I’ve already made my home there.” The voice was smooth. Too smooth. Like oil sliding over a blade.

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. His heart pounded so hard it hurt.

“You’re not touching me,” he snarled. “Not without a fight.”

Another step forward. No rush. No fear.

“You misunderstand,” All For One said softly. “There is no fight to be had.”

“Bullshit,” Katsuki spat. His hands twitched — empty of explosions, of power — but not of will. “You think you can just waltz in here and take it? Fuck no.” He was shaking now. Rage. Helplessness. Maybe a little fear, but he’d die before letting that show. He knew what All For One was there for.

“I won’t let you,” he growled. “You’ll have to rip it out of me, you sick bastard.”

The figure paused, tilting its head slightly. Almost amused.

“Oh,” All For One replied, “I intend to.”

Footsteps approached. The tall, imposing figure halted just beyond Katsuki’s reach. With a guttural shout, Katsuki lunged. Chains screamed against their anchors as he twisted, kicking out hard, body thrashing with every ounce of feral strength he had left.

“FUCK YOU! I’LL KILL YOU—!”

Sudden movement—another shadow swept into the room. Twice? No—Dabi. The smell of scorched air hit Katsuki’s nose a second too late. Blue flame flared, chains rattled—and in the next instant, a boot slammed into Katsuki’s side, pinning him hard against the floor. Another hand clamped down on his shoulder, forcing him still.

“Don’t make it harder on yourself, kid,” Dabi said coldly, voice a dry rasp.

Katsuki fought like a wild animal. Clawed at the floor. Snarled. Bit. He didn’t care. He didn’t fucking care. If he went out, he’d do it with blood in his teeth. But the weight held him down. Too strong. Too many days without food, without rest—his body screamed betrayal. His limbs shook with exertion.

“You see?” All For One’s voice cut through the struggle. “Even now, your spirit burns bright. Admirable. But futile.”

Katsuki roared. A sound torn from the depths of him. “GO AHEAD! TRY IT! SEE WHAT FUCKING HAPPENS!”

“Struggle all you want brat,” Dabi muttered, voice low against his ear. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.”

Katsuki thrashed harder, muscles straining, heart hammering so loud it nearly drowned out the cold footsteps drawing closer. But All For One was already upon him. He crouched, fingers splaying over Katsuki’s head.

And then—

The pull began.

It wasn’t physical—at first. It was inside him. A wrongness that wrapped cold fingers around something essential.

Katsuki’s rage surged. He fought—not just with his body now, but with every ounce of will he had. He pushed back—not knowing how, not caring—just pushing, burning, holding on with a primal force beyond words.

Katsuki’s pulse spiked. But his glare never wavered. He’d go down spitting in this fucker’s face. 

“You better pray you get it all,” Katsuki growled through gritted teeth. “Cause if I’m still breathing when you’re done, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Another quiet chuckle. “So stubborn,” All For One murmured. “Such fire. You may yet surprise me.”

Katsuki felt it—Explosion, the core of who he was, being drawn away strand by strand. Not muscle. Not breath. Something deeper.

No. NO. You can’t have it.

He continued to fight with sheer force of will, with every ragged shred of defiance he could summon.

I won’t give it to you. I won’t.

The world blurred. Time warped. The pull grew savage. A soundless shriek tore through his mind. Something in him fought back—wild, explosive, desperate. Like claws in his gut holding on for dear life.

The pull deepened. His soul screamed.

He tried to hold it. Claw it back. I am this. I AM THIS. YOU CAN’T TAKE IT—

And then—something tore.

It wasn’t like losing a limb. Not like any injury or agony he’d ever known.

It was shattering—a part of himself ripped away with such force that only emptiness remained.

The room twisted. The light swam.

And darkness claimed him.

The boy crumpled at his feet, breath ragged, skin pale.

All For One straightened slowly, withdrawing his hand.

He reached inward to examine the prize.

And frowned.

Incomplete.

The quirk was there—but what lay in his grasp was hollow. Fragmented. Useless. Something was missing.

Impossible.

No one had ever resisted him. No quirk had ever slipped through his grasp.

Yet here was the evidence.

Dabi's grip on Katsuki slackened. He crumpled fully to the floor. He straightened, shaking out his hand with an exaggerated sigh.
“Tch.” He nudged Katsuki’s limp form with the toe of his boot. “Still got a damn spine even now. Stupid kid.”

All For One did not reply. No anger. No frustration. Only cold calculation.

The attack on the city would proceed as planned. "Explosion" was not needed. It would have been a fitting irony—but any blast would suffice. A different vessel would carry the destruction.

The spectacle would come.

There were always more pieces to move.

“Faulty goods. A broken vessel. Not worth the effort.” All For One’s voice was ice. 

He turned his back, already bored. “Dispose of him. Make it public.”

Dabi watched the villain’s retreating back, then crouched beside Katsuki again. His voice dropped to a murmur.
“You hear that, brat? You’re not even worth keeping alive.”

A faint curl of smoke rose from Dabi’s palm. “Funny. All that screaming about becoming Number One. You’ll finally hit the front page— wrapped in a body bag .”

Later that night, the League dragged Katsuki’s limp form to the recording setup in a decaying service tunnel beneath Old Musutafu. A crude camera. A spotlight. A bound teenage boy on his knees.

The air was damp. The walls peeled in long strips of gray. A cheap camera on a battered tripod stared at the center of the room — where a single floodlight burned down on concrete already stained dark.

“Get the angle right,” Dabi muttered, cracking his neck. “Let the heroes feel this.”

Spinner adjusted the tripod.

Katsuki slumped forward, head lolling, arms tied behind him with biting cords. His skin was bruised, blood crusted at the corner of his mouth. His breaths came shallow and slow — but they came.

“Prop him up,” Dabi muttered. His voice echoed off the concrete. “I want them to see his face.”

Spinner crouched and shoved Katsuki upright by the shoulders.

Shigaraki stood a few paces off, hands twitching absently. His smile was thin, unreadable.
“All that noise,” he murmured. “All that rage. Gone.”

“He’s still alive, right?” Toga asked, tilting her head.
“Alive enough,” Dabi said, with a sharp grin. “Won’t be for long.”

Twice giggled nervously. “Alive, dead, about to be dead—depends how you cut it!”

“Start it.” Dabi turned to face the lens.

The camera flicked on. A small red light glared in the dimness. Dabi stepped into frame, towering behind the broken boy.

“To the so-called heroes of Japan,” he began, voice smooth and ice-cold. “This is what happens when you fail your own.”

He crouched, resting one burnt hand lightly atop Katsuki’s bowed head.

“You teach them loyalty. Honor. Sacrifice.” A smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “And then you throw them to the wolves.”

He tilted Katsuki’s head back so his battered face caught the camera. The boy’s eyelids fluttered weakly — whether from instinct or dim awareness, no one could say.

“Funny thing about explosions,” Dabi continued, his tone cruel. “When there’s nothing left to ignite… all that’s left is ash.”

Blue flame flared to life in his palm.

“We send this message so that every citizen can see — your so-called heroes let this boy fall. We finish what they could not prevent.”

Without another word, he thrust his flaming hand against Katsuki’s chest.

The screen flashed blinding blue.

Katsuki jerked once—ragged breath caught in his throat—then collapsed forward.

Smoke curled upward. The air stank of burnt cloth and flesh.

The camera caught it all.

Spinner moved in, face pale, and checked for breath. “He’s gone.”

“Good,” Dabi said coldly. “Dump him. Upload the tape.”

Shigaraki gave a slow nod. “Make sure it spreads.”

Twice leaned down, helping Spinner lift the limp form. They carried Katsuki off-screen toward the runoff tunnels. The camera lingered for three final seconds—on the empty, scorched concrete—and then cut to black.

Elsewhere, parents demanded answers. Media outlets exploded. Hashtags trended within minutes: #UAFailure, #BakugoDead, #HeroSocietyCollapse. Protests brewed outside hero agency branches. Rumors spread like wildfire—U.A. let a kid die. Bakugo was executed because the heroes were too slow. The system failed again.

Heroes were stretched thin. Public trust wavered like a fault line under pressure.

Katsuki’s body was dumped in the remains of Old Town District 9. Half of it had been evacuated a decade ago after a villain-induced sinkhole collapsed the infrastructure. No one patrolled here anymore.

But under rusted scaffolding, where weeds had claimed the concrete, a broken body twitched.

Katsuki Bakugo lay in the mud and rain, dumped like trash.

His breathing was shallow.

Something inside him… was missing.

But something else—something strange and distant—lingered just out of reach.

He wasn’t dead.

Not yet.

But the boy who had entered that chamber was gone.

Chapter Text

Kojima Takeshi was not a good man.

At 53, he’d long stopped pretending otherwise. Life had eroded him down to a half-rusted shell—a man who once dreamed, once loved, and now mostly just drank.

His auto shop was a sagging thing tucked beneath overgrown telephone wires and the cracked shoulder of a disused service road. The metal siding had dulled to a colorless gray, warped from decades of sun and rust. The only sign it was still open for business was the peeling “OPEN” placard in the window, which swayed whenever wind crawled in off the mountains.

He hadn’t meant to find the boy.

It was dumb luck, if you could call it that—Takeshi was driving back from a scrap haul, already cursing at the heat and the sputtering AC in his truck, when something on the edge of the woods caught his eye. A crumpled figure. Barely human. Bloodied. Burnt. Motionless.

He’d almost kept driving.

Almost.

But something… something in the twisted way the kid’s arm was bent, or the way his face was half-shrouded by tangled blonde hair and dried blood, had turned Takeshi’s stomach in a way that made him swerve off the road without thinking. He’d dragged the kid—heavy as hell for someone so starved—into the bed of his truck. Brought him back to the shop. Dumped him on the sagging, oil-stained couch in the break room and stood there like an idiot for three minutes just staring at him, like maybe the right decision would manifest if he waited long enough.

He should’ve called someone. The police. The hospital. A hero agency.

He didn’t.

Why the hell didn’t he?

He didn’t know.

Maybe because the kid’s face looked like it had been stomped on. Maybe because his arms were littered with wounds that looked like they were made slowly, on purpose. Maybe because there were bruise-colored handprints—ringing his neck like a noose. Someone had meant to kill this boy. And the world? The world had let it happen.

Takeshi hadn’t thought of her in years. But as he scrubbed blood off the floor with a bottle of engine degreaser and a rag, her name echoed inside his skull like a ghost whispering through rusted pipes.

Aiko.

Twelve years old.

Smart, funny, loud as a motorbike and twice as fast on her feet.

The accident had been so fast, and so stupid. A drive to her violin recital, a flash of headlights in the rain, the sound of crunching glass and the howl of twisted metal. They told him she died instantly. But he’d seen the blood. All of it. He’d been the one who found her, when he clawed his way out of the flipped car. He’d screamed her name into the storm and cradled her tiny body, already cooling, in arms that refused to believe.

He couldn’t save her.

He wasn’t even hurt. Not really. Just a cracked rib. A bruised shoulder.

He remembered watching the EMTs zip her into the black bag.

And now here he was, kneeling beside another broken body—threading a goddamn sewing needle with trembling fingers, trying to suture wounds that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

“This isn’t the same,” he muttered under his breath, over and over, like a prayer or a curse. “This ain’t the same.”

The boy groaned.

Takeshi startled, hands slick with dried blood, one elbow knocking over an empty beer can.

“Kid, don’t die,” he hissed, not even sure the boy could hear him. “You hear me? I got enough goddamn ghosts.”

For days, he waited.

He did everything wrong. Didn’t know how to check for a punctured lung. Googled “how much blood loss is too much blood loss” and found nothing helpful. Tried spooning a bit of water into the kid’s mouth once—he choked immediately, and Takeshi nearly panicked himself into a stroke.

But somehow, the kid lived.

Barely.

By the third day, the fever broke. By the fifth, his breathing leveled out. Takeshi had to pry the ruined clothes off him piece by piece, and what he found underneath was enough to make even his beer-scarred heart clench.

Bruises. Cuts. Burns. Ligature marks. Every one of them was deliberate.

Someone had tried to destroy this kid, piece by piece.

It wasn’t random. It wasn’t just violence. It was intent.

Takeshi had seen car wrecks. Shop accidents. Knife fights behind the convenience store. But this—this wasn’t like that. The wounds on the boy’s body had been made with purpose. With time. With cruelty.

A shallow gash behind the ear. Burn marks in jagged, repeated patterns along the collarbone. Rope bruises across the wrists, some fresh, some faded. Even the bones in his right hand had swollen wrong, like they’d been broken recently and never treated. The skin along his ribs was yellow and purple with pressure bruises, and the boy’s lip was split so badly.

Whoever did this… hadn’t just wanted to kill the boy.

They’d wanted to make him suffer first.

Takeshi sat back on the floor of the breakroom, the flickering overhead light stuttering again, casting long shadows through the cluttered space. He picked up a chipped thermos and took a long drink.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared across the room at the silent figure on the couch.

He didn’t know who the kid was.

Didn’t matter.

Takeshi didn’t give a damn about the news. He didn’t follow the pro hero circuit, or whatever scraps of drama the media peddled. All he saw was a broken body dumped like garbage in the dirt. Left to rot in the underbrush, like someone had wanted him forgotten.

Some punk kid with half his blood on the ground and the other half soaked into Takeshi’s shop towels.

What was he supposed to do with that?

The shutters rattled outside as the wind picked up. Through the grimy shop windows, Takeshi could see dust devils kicking through the gravel lot. Late autumn in Musutafu was relentless—dry and brittle and loud.

Inside, it was too quiet.

Every tick of the clock dragged.

Takeshi exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, then stood. His knees popped with the effort.

He moved through the shop like a ghost, flipping the breaker on the failing light and grabbing one of the old lamps he used when repairing engine blocks. The bulb buzzed to life and threw pale, golden light across the boy’s body.

Takeshi crouched again.

Looked.

The boy was young. Seventeen, maybe. Calloused hands. Burn scars on his forearms that looked old—self-inflicted, probably, given how precisely they traced his skin. A fighter. Or a fool. Or both.

Takeshi reached for the medical tape and started redressing the worst of the wounds.

“Idiot kid,” he muttered under his breath. “What the hell did you do to end up like this?”

The boy didn’t answer. Just breathed, shallow and slow.

The locket around Takeshi’s own neck, long hidden under his sweat-stained shirt, shifted against his chest. He ignored it. Pretended it wasn’t there. Pretended it didn’t feel like it weighed a hundred pounds.

A memory flickered.

Little fingers pressing into his palm. A bow clutched in the other hand. Laughter under cherry blossoms.

“Again, Papa! Play it again!”

He shook his head.

That wasn’t this.

This wasn’t her.

This wasn’t saving anything. It was delaying the inevitable.

He was just… tired.

Still, every few hours, Takeshi came back into the room. Changed the bandages. Checked the kid’s breathing. Ignored the smell of blood that still clung to the air like rust in the pipes. He barely slept. Kept the front door locked and the curtains drawn. If anyone came looking for the boy, they’d have to go through him first.

Not that he’d win. But he’d try.

He had always been a stubborn bastard.

Days passed.

Then, on the seventh day—just as the sun cracked the sky in pink and silver—he heard it: a  breath, sharp and sudden.

A rustle of blankets.

Takeshi turned.

The kid’s eyes were open. Red. Fierce, even in confusion. Like he’d been fighting something in his dreams and had woken up mid-punch. For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then the boy rasped, voice like gravel on dry pavement, “...where…”

Takeshi scratched the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how badly he smelled.

“You’re alive,” he said simply.

The kid blinked.

Takeshi stood, his knees cracking again, and gestured vaguely around the garage.

“You’re in a dump,” he added. “But it’s my dump. Try not to bleed out again, huh?”

The kid didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Takeshi sat back in his chair and rubbed the locket beneath his shirt, eyes heavy, limbs heavier.

Maybe he’d saved the kid.

Or maybe the kid survived despite him.

He didn’t know.

Chapter Text

"Say goodbye, kid."

Hands pinned him down. Blue flames surged, heat blistering his chest—then the searing stopped too soon. The world blurred at the edges and he was weightless. Detached.

Dabi’s voice was distant and sharp, "toss him in. He’s done."

Rough hands gripped him again.

Falling.

Impact. Bone-jarring. Bitter cold water surrounded his limbs as darkness pressed in. Above him, footsteps retreated and laughter faded somewhere in the distance.

Then there was nothing. Cold. Alone.

Dying.

Suddenly, there was a flicker—someone moving through the muck hours later, maybe more. A hoarse voice cursed as hands pulled him free. He could feel it: the sensation of being dragged, limp and broken, across grass and mud.

-And then the blackness returned.

Darkness swam behind Katsuki’s eyes. It wasn't the suffocating dark of that cell, not the void where time meant nothing. This was different—soft, unsteady, as if the world itself hadn’t decided whether to let him wake or not. A shallow breath caught in his throat. Raw. His chest burned and limbs ached in ways he couldn’t name. Every muscle felt wrong—too slack, too loose, as if something beneath the skin had unraveled.

There was a faint russle somewhere nearby.

Someone was there .

Something shifted in the haze.

“You’re alive.” The words floated toward him, rough and simple. The words were graveled. Older.

Katsuki didn’t recognize the sound. His head swam.

Where— ?

“You’re in a dump. But it’s my dump. Try not to bleed out again, huh?”

Oh. He had spoken aloud hadn’t he. The man's words barely registered, but they cut through the fog just enough to land. Someone had him. Not the League. Not a prison cell.

He opened his eyes, squinting as blinding fluorescent lights stabbed at them, buzzing faintly overhead. The first thing he saw was the peeling ceiling. Then he noticed cracks spider-webbing across cheap plaster and rust stains at the corners. This wasn't the League’s lair. Not some concrete hellhole.

What the hell?

He shifted—and nearly groaned aloud. His body screamed in protest. Bandages wrapped around his ribs and shoulder, stiff and poorly knotted. The burn on his chest throbbed with every breath.

“Finally awake, huh?”

The voice was rough. Male. Weathered by too many years of smoke and cheap whiskey.

Katsuki's eyes traced the ceiling and down the wall until they settled on a man leaning in the doorway. Mid-fifties, maybe older, Katsuki noted. He had a thick frame gone soft around the edges, and stubble coated his square jaw. Grease-stained coveralls hung half-zipped down his chest; an unlit cigarette dangled from cracked lips. The man had brown hair that was outgrown and shaggy. Due for a good haircut, Katsuki mused. Plain was how he'd describe the man, someone who could slip through a crowd without standing out.

“You’ve been out for a couple of days,” the man said, arms folded. “Thought you might kick it for a while there.”

Katsuki scowled. His throat was raw, voice like sandpaper, “...who the hell are you?”

“The name’s Kojima Takeshi,” he smirked. “I’m the dumb bastard who pulled your half-cooked ass out of some ditch and stitched you back together.”

A ditch? Bits of memory came in jagged flashes—blue flame, suffocating smoke, blackness. Katsuki sat up too fast. The world spun.

“Take it easy, kid,” Kojima said, pushing off the doorframe. “You’ve been through hell. You ain’t gonna sprint outta here like nothin’ happened.”

Katsuki swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. But something was wrong. Not the pain. Not the dizziness. Something deeper. He couldn’t feel it–The restless crackle under his skin, the burn in his palms—that constant thrum that had been part of him since he was four.

Gone.

He clenched a fist. No sharp bite of nitroglycerin sweat. No familiar tension in his forearm. Just...emptiness. His pulse spiked. His mouth went dry.

No. No fucking way.

“Where... where am I?” he rasped.

“Back room of my shop,” Kojima said. “You’re lucky some street rats didn’t get to you first.”

Katsuki’s eyes darted around. Dingy cinderblock walls. A tattered couch beneath him. Faint smell of motor oil and mildew. His fingers twitched.

“What do you want?” he growled, voice hoarse.

Kojima barked a dry laugh. “Kid, I don’t want nothin’ from you. If anything, I’d have left you where I found you. Luckily, you’re alive ‘cause I got a soft spot for broken shit.” He scratched his chin. “That, and you looked like you still had some fight left. Figured it’d be a waste otherwise.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. Fight? he barely felt human.

Kojima turned. “Come on. You can crash at my place next door. Trailer’s a dump, but it’s got a bed and running water. Long as you pull your weight, you’re welcome.”

“I’m not a charity case,” Katsuki spat.

Kojima snorted. “Didn’t say you were. But if you’re breathin’, you’re workin’. Auto shop’s got enough busted rides to keep you busy.”

Katsuki hesitated. His body wanted to collapse again—but he couldn’t stay here. Not helpless. Not weak. And sure as hell not grateful.

And yet…

“Fine,” he gritted out.

The trailer was every bit the hellhole Katsuki expected.

Beer cans littered the floor. Dishes crusted with who-knows-what piled high in the sink. Clothes were strewn across a ratty couch, and the carpet smelled faintly of mold. Stale smoke clung to the curtains.

Katsuki wrinkled his nose.

“Make yourself at home,” Kojima said with a crooked grin. “I know it ain’t pretty. Been meanin’ to clean. Never get around to it.”

Katsuki scanned the mess, one eye twitching. Fucking disgusting.

But the exhaustion was setting in hard now. His legs shook beneath him. A thin film of sweat clung to his skin–it lacked the familiar scent of caramel.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. Water heater’s busted, but you can get a warm sink bath if you don’t mind workin’ for it.”

Katsuki muttered something under his breath and limped past him.

The bathroom wasn’t much better—grime on the tiles, rust around the faucet—but it had soap and a washcloth. And a cracked mirror. 

He peeled off the filthy remnants of his shirt, moving stiffly. His breath hitched when he saw the stitches–crude, crooked, and barely holding.

Fucking hell .

He traced a finger near the jagged thread.

“Tch... what kind of half-assed job did that old geezer do?” he muttered under his breath. “Did he use a damn fishhook for this?”

Still, it was better than bleeding out.

Katsuki stared at his reflection, his face looked like hell—bruises, cuts, dark shadows under both eyes. His hair hung limp and matted. The burn across his chest peeked out from beneath the bandages, angry and raw. But worse than any of it was that he could feel it. The wrongness inside him. The stillness where there should be fire. He gripped the sink. One deep breath. Then another.

“Come on,” he growled under his breath. “Come on...”

He spread his fingers. Focused—willed that familiar spark to rise.

Nothing.

There was no heat, no crackle, no scent of burnt caramel.

A low sound escaped him—half snarl, half breathless panic. He glanced at his palms, and then back at the mirror. The cracked glass spiderwebbed around his reflection.

Gone.

Not just the quirk–the fight . The fire that had always driven him. He sagged forward, chest heaving. Something inside him had been ripped out. Something vital. And he hadn’t even felt it until now.

The water ran pink as he wiped himself off. He worked around the makeshift stitches, face set in a hard, trembling mask. When he finally staggered out of the bathroom, Kojima looked up from the couch.

“Shower’s broke, huh?” the man said dryly. “You look like a drowned rat.”

Katsuki glared at him. “Can’t shower with stitches, you old geezer.” he shot back.

Kojima grinned around his cigarette. “Atta boy. Knew there was some bite left in ya.”

Katsuki didn’t answer. His gaze drifted to the window. Night pressed in against the glass. He didn’t know how long he’d been gone or who knew he was alive. If anyone did.

But right now–he was breathing. He was alive .

And he was fucking tired.

Later, when the trailer had gone quiet and Kojima had disappeared into the back room to snore like a dying engine, Katsuki sat on the edge of the lumpy couch, a threadbare blanket draped across his lap. The dim glow of a streetlamp filtered through the grimy curtains and shadows stretched long across the floor. 

Sleep wouldn’t come. Every inch of him ached, but none of it compared to the hollow thrum inside his chest. He flexed his fingers again, slow, deliberate.

Nothing.

No snap of sweat glands firing. No rise of heat beneath his skin. No itch of building pressure in his palms.

Gone.

He dragged his hands through his hair, fists tightening. His breath came short and fast.

What the fuck did he do to me?

That bastard—All For One. He remembered the hand. It had been clammy and cold against his skull, and time seemed to freeze. Something inside him was being pulled apart cell by cell. And the moment after…

Blackness.

Now… this. Katsuki clenched his jaw until it hurt.

I’m too fucking calm.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut. He should be shaking. Screaming. Breaking everything in this dump of a trailer. That’s what he would’ve done. That’s who he was.

But instead, he sat frozen. Hollow. A lead weight pressed behind his ribs. His muscles itched to move, to lash out, to do something —but the drive wasn’t there. Not like before. His mind kept circling the same thought:

Part of me is gone.

He could feel it—like an old scar under the skin, a tear that hadn’t fully healed. There was a gap where something used to burn bright. Rage had always been there for him. It was his engine. His fuel. Now it was only a flicker: distant and muted.

His hands trembled.

He wanted to scream, to tear the place apart until he found what was missing. But...even that impulse faded before it fully formed. A sharp breath rattled through his chest.

What the hell is going on?

Katsuki didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment he was sitting stiff on that lumpy couch, fists clenched around the fraying edge of the blanket, and staring holes through the grimy window.
The next moment, there was darkness.

He was running, boots skidding over broken stone and ash. The air was thick as tar in his lungs, burning his lungs. His muscles screamed, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t even think clearly enough to stop. Rubble surrounded him, buildings crumbled into jagged silhouettes against a colorless sky, and smoke twisted through the ruins. Explosions bloomed in the distance—blinding flares of heat and light.

But silent.

The world was silent.

The ground trembled beneath each blast, cracks spider-webbing across the debris-strewn path, but there was not a single sound reaching his ears.

It was wrong.

All of it was wrong.

And still—he ran.

Faster. Harder. Katsuki didn’t know why, he didn’t know where, only that he had to keep moving. A compulsion deeper than thought or fear—one foot in front of the other. Behind him, the smoke thickened as shapes shifted in the mist.

The figures were familiar somehow, but faceless and blurred. They felt like half-formed memories. And then, there was a voice.

Katsuki.

The voice was soft and distant, impossible to place, but it cut through the air like a knife. It was a voice he should know—a voice that meant something.

Katsuki. Stop.

His heart lurched. The sound of it—wrong in a way he couldn’t name. Too close. Too much like—

No.

He clenched his fists and pushed harder. The ache in his chest spiked with every stride. Something inside him strained toward that voice, reaching back even as his legs drove him forward.

Another burst of light—closer this time. Heat swept over his skin, weightless and burning. No sound. No sound. No sound.

Katsuki—come back.

The voice cracked now. Rougher. Pleading.

The pull in his chest grew sharper, an unbearable twist, like an invisible hand wrenching him backward by the ribs.

Part of him wanted to turn.

Part of him needed to turn.

But something deeper whispered: Don’t.

Cold certainty took root. If he turned, something terrible would happen. Something worse than all of this. So he ran. Faster. Harder. His chest was splitting open with the strain. Behind him, the voice rose—hoarse and breaking:

Katsuki—don’t leave me.

His breath caught, his steps faltered. The ache swelled to a roar inside him as the final explosion lit the world with pure white, so bright it burned through his closed eyes.

And through it:

Katsuki—

The scream wasn’t loud. It was desperate. Lonely.

Katsuki stumbled, the compulsion to run shattered like glass. But before he could fall—before he could turn—

He woke.

He bolted upright on the couch, chest heaving. Sweat slicked down his back; it was cold against his spine. The trailer was silent, save for the low creak of wind outside. No smoke. No voices. No light. Just the crushing emptiness in his chest. An ache without a source. An echo of something lost. Katsuki dragged a shaking hand through his hair, his breath ragged.

What the fuck was that?

The dream clung to him like frost, leaving his insides cold. He could still hear it—that voice. A voice so familiar . A voice so lonely. And the worst part—

He didn’t know what he’d been running from.

He didn’t know why he had to—why it felt like the most important thing in the world had been left behind. A knot twisted low in his gut.

Something’s gone.

Not just his quirk… it was his fire.

Where was his fire? Where was the defiance that had carried him through every fight, every beating, every goddamn day of his life? Where was the rage? That raw, untamable burn that had always been there, ready to swallow the world whole if it stood in his way. He tried to feel it—tried to summon it. Tried to force the anger up through his gut, into his chest, into his throat. The old familiar torrent that had never failed him. Yet, there was Nothing. The feeling was there, but muted. and distant. He could almost taste it. He could almost touch the edges of it—A flicker, a spark. Then it flickered out cold.

No.

His pulse raced, his breathing picked up. He reached again—grasped for that flame with everything left in him. He could feel a faint tremor of heat, a shadow of the old rage—there, for half a heartbeat—and gone again. Katsuki choked on air, his heart thundering. Panic rose sharply in his throat.

Who the hell am I without it?  Who am I without the fight? Without the fire?

Without me?

The answer clawed at him, raw and terrible. He sank forward, elbows on his knees, head in shaking hands. Katsuki tried to hold on to something—anything. But the edges of himself kept slipping through his grasp. He didn’t know how to bring it back—didn’t know if he even could.

And now, without question, something out there still reached for him. The echo of what he had lost.

And he—

He had run away

Chapter Text

Morning came slow. Pale light crept past the grimy blinds and bled across the trailer’s stained carpet. Katsuki stirred beneath the threadbare blanket, joints stiff, ribs aching with every shallow breath. For a few moments, he simply lay there—half-awake, half unwilling.

He didn’t know how long he’d slept. Time drifted strange lately. He couldn’t seem to care.

Pain tugged him back. His shoulder throbbed. His side burned beneath the rough bandages. Still, something in him wouldn’t let him stay down. He needed to move. Do something. Sitting still made the emptiness louder.

Pushing off the couch took more effort than it should have. His legs protested. The room tilted once before settling.

From the narrow hall came a faint sound—deep, rattling snores, punctuated by the occasional wet cough.

Katsuki followed it, bare feet cold against the floor. The door to the back room hung half open.

He leaned against the frame and peered inside.

Takeshi sprawled across a sagging mattress, mouth open, arm slung over his face. Around him—empty beer cans. Dozens. Some crushed, some tipped onto stained sheets. The air stank of old alcohol and sweat.

Katsuki’s lip curled.

Disgust gnawed at him, sharper than it should have been. He wasn’t sure why it even mattered. The old man had saved his life. The least he could do was leave the mess alone.

But standing there, watching that heap of bottles and filth, something shifted under his skin. An old reflex. He needed order. He needed something to do.

Without thinking, he limped back into the main room. Searched the tiny kitchen for a garbage bag. The place was worse than he remembered.

He started with the beer cans. Gathered them in sharp, methodical movements. His muscles screamed in protest, stitches tugging painfully beneath his ribs. He grit his teeth and kept going.

The sound of cans clinking finally roused Takeshi.

A voice rasped from behind him. “...What the hell’re you doin’, kid?”

Katsuki didn’t turn. “Cleaning,” he said flatly.

A long pause. The couch creaked as Takeshi dragged himself upright, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Damn stubborn,” the old man muttered. “Thought you’d be down for another day.”

“I’m not.”

Katsuki dumped the bag next to the door, knelt to pick up a soggy takeout box, and grimaced.

Takeshi squinted at him through bloodshot eyes. “You’re still half-dead. Sit your ass down before you rip those stitches open.”

Katsuki finally looked over, gaze cool, voice low. “You run this place like shit.”

Takeshi blinked. Then barked a short laugh. “Ain’t wrong.”

Katsuki straightened slowly, one hand braced against the wall to keep steady. “I don’t know anything about cars. I can’t help you out there.”

Takeshi raised a brow. “Didn’t expect you to.”

“I do know how to run a house,” Katsuki continued. His tone wasn’t sharp—not quite—but there was an edge of dry finality to it. “You’re obviously too useless to manage that.”

Another bark of laughter, rough and wheezing this time. “You got balls, I’ll give you that.”

Katsuki crossed his arms, shoulders tight with pain. “Here’s the deal. I’ll cook. I’ll clean. I’ll keep this dump from turning into a biohazard. That’s what I’ve got. Take it or leave it.”

Takeshi watched him for a long moment. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

Finally, he shrugged. “Fine by me. I sure as hell ain’t doin’ it.”

“Figures.”

The words came out without heat. Almost automatic. Katsuki wasn’t sure if he even meant them.

He turned away again, already scanning the cluttered kitchen for supplies. The work would keep his hands busy. Keep the thoughts quieter.

But under the motion, beneath the dull ache in his ribs—he still felt it.

That hollow place. The part of him that should’ve burned brighter at moments like this. Should’ve filled the space between his words with fire and fight.

Instead, everything came out distant. Mechanical.

Who the hell am I now?

The thought clawed at him even as he opened a cabinet and grabbed a half-used sponge.

Takeshi sank back onto the couch, rubbing his eyes with a grunt. “You’re a strange one, kid.”

Katsuki didn’t answer. He scrubbed at a sticky plate, watching the grime swirl down the drain.

Anything to keep moving. Anything to avoid the silence.

The next few days continued like this.

Katsuki cleaned.

He scrubbed every surface. The counters, the walls, the goddamn stove that looked like it hadn’t seen soap in five years. He scraped gunk from the bottom of the fridge, hauled out stained clothes from under the couch. He made food that wasn’t shit—simple stuff, whatever he could find. Rice, eggs, whatever canned junk Takeshi had stashed. It wasn’t about the taste. It was about doing something.

Takeshi mostly stayed out of the way, grumbling occasionally but not stopping him.

“Didn’t think I’d pick up a damn housemaid,” the old man joked once, half-grinning through his cigarette smoke.

Katsuki didn’t answer. Just kept scrubbing.

Finally, after nearly a week, Katsuki could say the house was somewhat decent. The place still smelled faintly of mildew and stale beer, but it no longer felt like living in a landfill.

And yet—

Something gnawed at the back of his mind.

The days blurred. The dull rhythm of cleaning and cooking filled the hours, but not the space inside him. That stayed hollow. The detachment didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened, like each chore dragged him further from something he couldn’t reach.

But worse was the silence.

He had no idea what had been happening to the rest of the world while he was gone.

How long had he even been out?

How far had the League gone while he’d been lying here useless?

The questions pressed harder with each passing day.

Finally, on a cold morning thick with drizzle, he snapped. The old TV in the corner caught his eye—a cheap piece of crap with faded buttons and a screen warped at the edges. Katsuki dragged a chair over, sat down stiffly, and grabbed the remote.

He turned it on.

The screen buzzed to life with a high-pitched whine, flickering through static. He flipped through channels, slow at first, then faster. The image settled. News anchors. Streets packed with protestors. Shaky footage of smoke rising from city blocks. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees.

Three things became very clear.

One. The world thought he was dead. 

Apparently the League had livestreamed his execution —his chest burned just thinking about it. One grainy freeze-frame showed him slumped, bloodied, before the feed had cut to black.

“Bakugo Katsuki presumed dead,” the anchor said grimly. “The League has taken responsibility for th-”

He scoffed under his breath. Idiots. The League fucking sucks at their job. I’m right here. But his gut twisted. His parents— Deku —who else thought he was gone?

Two. The League had been busy.

Explosions detonated in several key areas across major cities, transportation hubs, emergency response centers, and civilian shelters. 

“So that’s what you wanted my shitty Quirk for,” he muttered. His voice came out flat. Detached. No flare of anger. Just words. That scared him more than anything.

Three. The public hated the heroes right now.

Footage rolled of protestors lining the streets, banners waving, voices raised in bitter fury.

“Where were the heroes?” one woman shouted into a reporter’s mic. “They abandoned us!”

Another banner scrawled in black paint: You failed us.

Katsuki stared.

A slow breath escaped him.

Katsuki looked at the date displayed in the top corner.

Three weeks.

The number sat heavy in his gut, colder than anything else he’d seen on that cheap-ass TV. Gone for three weeks, while the world thought he was a corpse. While the League paraded his execution on every damn news channel.

His fingers dug into the armrest. Three weeks. That was enough time for the world to move on. Enough time for everyone to believe the lie. Enough time for him to change into… this. And for the first time, the timeline of it all really sank in. He’d missed life. Missed days he couldn’t get back. The part of him that would’ve burned with rage, that would’ve flipped the whole filthy trailer— just flickered. Faded.

He clicked the TV off. The screen faded to black, leaving his reflection faint in the glass.

“I guess I’ll stick around for a while,” he said quietly.

His voice sounded thin in the empty room.

No fire. No fight.

But even if part of him felt lost—he wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.

The next morning, Katsuki woke to the low drone of the old man’s snores vibrating through the paper-thin walls of the trailer. The house didn’t stink anymore—not like when he’d first dragged himself through it—but it still felt heavy, like the mess had sunk into the walls.

Katsuki rubbed at his ribs, bandages stiff beneath his shirt. The pain was still there. Dull. Constant. Just like the hollow weight behind his ribs.

He needed to move. Sitting around with that buzzing wrongness in his head wasn’t an option.

The fridge, however, provided exactly no options either. Half a pack of ramen. Mustard. Something that might’ve once been cheese.

Takeshi shuffled in sometime mid-morning, a battered mug of black coffee in hand, eyes still half-closed.

“We need food,” Katsuki said, before the old man could even grunt a good morning. “Real food.”

Takeshi scratched at his jaw. “Got ramen.”

“That’s not food. It’s salt in a cup.” Katsuki narrowed his eyes. “You’re takin’ me to a grocery store.”

The old man blinked. “Kid, the last time I went to town was a month back. For smokes.”

“Then you’re overdue,” Katsuki said flatly. “I’m not living off expired shit and beer.”

He could’ve gone himself, sure. But he wasn’t ready to be seen—not without knowing what kind of face the world would see. Not after three weeks of being dead.

By noon, they were bouncing along the pothole-riddled backroads in Takeshi’s rust-stained truck. The thing rattled with every turn, a toolbox clattering somewhere behind the seats. Katsuki kept his hood low, face shadowed beneath it.

The drive was quiet. Both of them seemed content to let the rumble of the road fill the space between them.

When they reached the city limits, the shift was immediate. More cars. More noise. More eyes. Katsuki tugged his hood lower, muscles tense.

Inside the grocery store, he moved fast. Produce first—fresh vegetables, garlic, ginger, real ingredients. Not the dried-up garbage Takeshi had lurking in his cabinets. He filled the basket with methodical efficiency, checking dates, weighing quality. Anything to keep his hands busy. Anything to keep his mind from wandering.

Takeshi followed with a second basket, grumbling under his breath about how much a damn head of lettuce cost these days.

Then—at the far end of the store—Katsuki heard it.

A news broadcast, tinny and muted from a wall of cheap flat-screens in the electronics section.

“…and in the wake of ex-hero student Bakugo Katsuki’s tragic execution at the hands of the League of Villains—”

The words hit like icewater down his spine.

He stiffened. Didn't look. Kept his eyes on the carrots in his hand, fingers tightening until the tops snapped clean off.

But Takeshi looked.

Katsuki felt it—a subtle shift in the air between them. The old man had stopped. Watched the screen for a beat longer than casual curiosity allowed.

A flicker of recognition.

Yeah. He knows.

Neither of them said a word.

-Takeshi-

Takeshi remembered that face. He’d seen it before—not in person, not up close, but in the hazy blur of bar TVs. One of his old drinking buddies—Sugi—had roped him into a betting pool on the damn thing. “Come on, Kojima, you old bastard,” the man had laughed, swigging cheap beer, “you gotta have a pick! The blonde brat’s a lock for first! ”

And he had been. The kid had torn through the rounds with that unhinged fire in his eyes, hands exploding like fireworks. Unstoppable.

Takeshi hadn’t thought about it much after that. Just another kid with too much talent for his own good. Another bright light destined to burn out fast in this shit world.

But now—he glanced sideways at the hooded figure moving beside him.

That’s the same kid. Can’t be anyone else.

Takeshi didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

Katsuki noticed anyway. Takeshi caught the flick of his eyes—sharp, knowing. No fear. Just resignation.

Neither of them said a damn thing.

The drive back was heavy with silence. The hum of the engine filled the space between them, but the words hung there anyway. Unspoken.

By the time they were halfway down the winding back road to the shop, Takeshi gave up trying to ignore it. His fingers tapped against the wheel, rough and restless.

Apparently the damn kid was supposed to be dead. No surprise there. But seeing it on the television—that made the situation real. He tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the day he had found the boy. His body broken and bleeding out in a ditch.

And yet here he was, sitting in his passenger seat. Quiet. Heavy-eyed. Something about him stripped down to the bone.

It didn’t matter how the world saw him on that screen. The kid in this truck wasn’t the same one who’d blasted through half the Sports Festival. Takeshi could feel it in the air around him.

When the truck rattled to a stop outside the trailer, the quiet finally cracked.

Katsuki kept his eyes on the dash.

“That was me,” he said, voice low and flat.

Takeshi exhaled slowly through his nose. “I figured.”

A pause.

“It’s not anymore.”

And that was all. The kid climbed out, groceries in hand, and moved toward the house without waiting for a reply.

-Katsuki-

—“It’s not anymore,” Katsuki said. The words felt strange in his mouth, unfamiliar. But true. Because what the hell was left?

Still, the old man didn’t pry, and Katsuki was grateful for that. He climbed out of the truck, making his way toward the house with the groceries in hand.

Back at the trailer, Katsuki unpacked in silence. Focused on the motions—stacking cans, rinsing vegetables, scrubbing rice. He set to work on curry, movements sharp and efficient.

By the time Takeshi slumped into his battered armchair, the scent of simmering spices filled the air.

When Katsuki set the plates down, Takeshi gave him a long, quiet look.

“Smells better than ramen,” he said simply.

Katsuki huffed. “Not hard to beat your sorry excuse for a diet.”

And that was all they said about it.

Later that night, as the old man snored in the back and the dishes dried in the sink, Katsuki stared up at the ceiling, consciousness waning.

He was running again.

Concrete underfoot, broken and jagged. Rubble stretched out in every direction, a dead city consumed by smoke and dust. Shattered windows stared like empty eyes. No sky. No sun. Just gray light bleeding through the haze.

And explosions—soft, distant flashes in the fog. There was still no sound. No boom. No rumble of heat. They flickered like dying stars. He ran harder. Breath burning in his throat, legs churning through the ruins. His skin felt wrong, heavy. Every step felt like wading through water.

There were voices. Faint. Familiar.
Calling his name.

Katsuki.

Come back.

It was that voice again. So familiar.

Katsuki. Please. Stop running.

But his feet kept moving. He couldn’t stop. Katsuki didn’t know why. A deep ache had taken root in his chest, the same ache that followed him in waking life. That hollow thrum beneath his ribs. Somewhere in the fog, a flicker of warmth tugged at him. A pull—aching, desperate.

He wanted to turn. He almost turned.

But something inside him screamed not to.

He ran faster, the rubble blurring beneath him. The world thinned around the edges.

And the voice—

Grew softer. Sadder.

You’re leaving me behind.

No.

He clenched his jaw, forcing the words away.

He couldn’t face it.

Don’t leave. You need me.

A ragged breath tore through him. His legs stumbled, faltered—but momentum carried him forward.

The explosions grew dimmer. The fog thickened.

He couldn’t feel the pull anymore. Couldn’t hear the voice.

Only the emptiness remained.

And then—

Katsuki jerked awake.

His breath was sharp in his throat, sweat cold on his skin. He could feel the couch beneath him—unfamiliar for a moment. The dim light of the trailer was disorienting. 

He sat up slowly, head in his hands. The ache was still there. It was stronger now—a phantom weight pressing against his ribs. For a long time, he didn’t move. He didn’t know why it felt like losing something all over again.

Didn’t know why the words you’re leaving me behind echoed louder than anything else.

And he hated— hated —that he was afraid to close his eyes again.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Takeshi dragged him out of the house. Katsuki hadn’t been given much choice.

“You need clothes that ain’t two sizes too big,” Takeshi had grunted, yanking on his battered old jacket. “And I gotta help a buddy fix some shit. You’re coming.”

Katsuki scowled but didn’t argue. The old man was right—even if the thought of being around strangers made his skin crawl.

He layered up before they left: one of Takeshi’s old jackets hanging off his frame, a black mask tugged over the lower half of his face, a faded baseball cap dragged low. The sunglasses he borrowed felt heavy on his nose, making the world a little dim, a little distant.

He looked like a kid trying too hard to be invisible. Still—anything to avoid recognition.

The world thinks I’m dead.

The words from the news still echoed in his skull. His execution, livestreamed for millions. The thought of anyone catching a glimpse, of some stranger seeing through the makeshift disguise—he didn’t think he could stomach it. The world didn’t want him while he was alive, then why the hell would they want him while he was “dead?” In a way, he already was. And part of Katsuki was afraid. He was afraid of going back to a life that was no longer his. He was not the same. Those who knew him—he couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t face them. Not like this.

The truck rattled and coughed to life. They drove in silence.

Katsuki sat stiffly in the passenger seat, shoulders hunched, fingers digging into the frayed seat cushion. His eyes, narrowed behind the tinted lenses, flicked from window to window, tracking the unfamiliar streets.

Everything looked normal.

Too normal.

Cracked asphalt ran beneath the tires, broken street lamps leaned at odd angles, shops displayed garish, sun-faded posters in their windows. A group of kids darted across a crosswalk, laughing, their light quirks trailing after them in vibrant hues. A salaryman hunched beneath an umbrella, nursing a coffee. The man had a similar glowing hue—he must be related to them, Katsuki mused. 

Katsuki leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

How?

After everything that he had endured—how could the world still turn like this?

Why the hell is the world still spinning?

The weight of it coiled in his gut.

When Takeshi pulled into a half-deserted strip of shops, the truck groaned to a stop.

“Alright. In and out. Get what you need,” the man said. “Don’t make a damn scene.”

Katsuki didn’t answer. He yanked the cap lower and followed him inside. The store stank of dust, synthetic detergent, and stale air. Harsh fluorescents buzzed overhead, casting long shadows in every corner. Katsuki stuck to the edges at first. Eyes down. Moving quickly. The less he looked at people, the better. He navigated aisle after aisle of cheap, threadbare clothing. He shoved a few things into the basket—plain shirts, dark pants, socks—get it done. Get out.

Then—

Something flickered.

At the edge of his vision.

He froze mid-step, one hand hovering over a rack of shirts.

A faint haze—soft, wavering—curled through the air around a passing man.

What the hell?

Katsuki looked harder. It wasn’t smoke, not a trick of the light. A shifting mist flowed around the man’s body—deep gold, tinged with brown. It was breathtaking. It rippled when he moved, trailing behind him like liquid light. Katsuki’s pulse jumped. He spun—subtle, trying not to draw attention—and saw more. 

A young woman near the scarves: pale green, like moss in a stream. 

A sharp-dressed teenager scrolling his phone: bright orange, pulsing in time with his footsteps.

An elderly man by the newspapers: deep, steady blue, flowing slow and thick.

Katsuki’s mouth went dry. Just like those kids. Just like that salaryman.

At first he thought it had to be their quirks—some kind of light quirk. But this is way too many people for that to be the case. Besides, Katsuki spotted a little girl with a mutant type quirk, and she was also bathed in the shimmering hue. Then, he thought that maybe it was some new trend with tech he hadn’t seen while he was away, stuck in a dark cell for weeks. 

But no.

Everyone had it.

Everyone.

The mist flowed around them—some bright, some dull, some thin and flickering like dying embers, some pulsed, while others flowed like water. 

He looked down at himself.

Nothing.

Not even a flicker.

His throat tightened.

He swore under his breath and shoved the shirt back on the rack. Moving like sleepwalking, he drifted toward Takeshi, who stood grumbling over a pack of discount socks.

“You see that?” Katsuki asked, voice low, tight.

The old man glanced up, frowning. “See what?”

“That—” Katsuki tilted his chin, trying to gesture without drawing attention. “The mist. Around people.”

Takeshi stared at him. Then shook his head.

“You been hittin’ your head harder than I thought,” he muttered. “Ain’t seein’ jack.”

Katsuki’s stomach churned. He looked again. Takeshi stood perfectly solid, no outline. No mist.

Why?

Why was it missing?

Why could he see it when no one else could?

Why didn’t Takeshi have it?

Cold washed over him, heavier than before.

He didn’t push further. Just grabbed the rest of what he needed and followed Takeshi out.

But as they left the store and the door hissed shut behind them, Katsuki’s mind kept turning, the images burned behind his eyes:

Mist. No mist. Colors. Movement. That invisible thread pulling through every single person—except him. Except Takeshi.

Later, they drove out to Takeshi’s buddy’s place. Some scrapyard that doubled as a repair lot.

“Gonna help me with this,” Takeshi ssaid.It wasn't a question. “You don’t gotta do much. Just hold parts and pass tools.”

Katsuki didn’t argue. His mind was still tangled around what he’d seen.

At the yard, Takeshi’s friend—a wiry man named Gen—met them at the gate. The guy had an easy grin and a calloused handshake. And a thick gold mist swirling around him like a slow tide.

Katsuki swallowed hard and looked away.

They got to work. Takeshi barked orders, Gen handed out parts, and Katsuki quietly did as he was told, jaw tight, eyes darting between the men. For a while, nothing strange happened.

Then—

Katsuki stumbled slightly while carrying a heavy wrench. His shoulder brushed against Gen’s arm.

The mist flared.

Just for a moment—like a jolt.

And something sharp jolted through Katsuki’s skin. Not pain. Not heat.

Something else.

Gen blinked, his eyes flashing faint gold. For a second, the air around him thrummed—Katsuki could feel it—and then it was gone.

“What the hell…” he muttered.

Neither man seemed to notice. But it happened again. Another brush of skin. This time it was intentional. There was another strange pulse, another spike of whatever quirk Gen had—subtle, but unmistakable. Something that has to do with metal, Katsuki's mind supplied. How the hell would he know that? Katsuki backed off fast, heart hammering.

He drew the connection in an instant.

That mist. It has to do with their quirks.

—And I’m affecting it somehow.

The realization sat heavy and cold in his gut.

There's one more thing that would confirm this theory.

They returned to the trailer as the sky dimmed. Takeshi didn’t say much. Neither did Katsuki—until they sat down. The old man cracked a beer and flopped onto the couch. Katsuki hovered near the window, gaze sharp under the brim of his cap.

Finally—

“You’re quirkless, aren’t you?” Katsuki asked quietly. Takeshi froze mid-sip. The can lowered slowly.

“...How the hell’d you know that?” he asked, voice low.

I knew it. 

Katsuki shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “Just a feeling,” he muttered.

That was all he said.

He didn’t explain. He didn’t want to.

Katsuki didn’t want to admit that something inside him was changing again—that he was seeing things no one else could.

The old man stared for a long beat. Then sighed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Born without one. Always been that way.”

Katsuki just nodded once, arms folded tight. He didn’t elaborate.

And Takeshi didn’t pry.

The conversation ended there.

The house was quiet.

Takeshi had gone to bed early, mumbling something about bad knees and cheap beer.

Katsuki sat alone at the kitchen table, hunched over a bowl of half-eaten rice. The overhead light buzzed faintly above him, its dim glow casting long shadows against the walls.

He hadn’t touched the rice in a while.

His hands rested on the worn tabletop. Every so often, his fingers would twitch—reflexively, unconsciously—as if they could still reach out and grasp something that wasn’t there.

That feeling wouldn’t leave him.

The memory played in his mind, clear as day: a casual brush of his fingers against Takeshi’s buddy. The sudden flicker in the air, subtle but undeniable. The way the man’s quirk had spiked—just a little—at the point of contact.

It wasn’t random.

It had happened again when he’d deliberately touched the man a second time. Another flicker. Another strange pull beneath the skin.

Katsuki leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyes.

This wasn’t normal.

He could see the mist, see the strange auras rippling around people like living currents. He could touch them. And when he did, something shifted—like he’d grazed the core of their power itself.

But no one else seemed aware of it.

Takeshi hadn’t seen anything. The man didn’t even have a quirk, which somehow made it even stranger. He had no mist at all, just empty air where that strange energy should have been.

Katsuki tapped his fingers against the table. He forced himself to think through it logically, the way he would in training.

The first contact had been accidental. The second had been deliberate. Both times, the quirk had reacted.

Was it proximity?

Was it intent?

Was it something about him—about what had happened to him?

The thought sent a chill down his spine.

He stared down at his palms, flexing his fingers slowly. They looked the same. Pale, steady, scarred in places.

But he wasn’t the same.

Not even close.

The emptiness inside him remained—a hollow, gnawing weight in his chest that no amount of rest or food seemed to fill. His temper, his drive, the fierce burn that used to fuel every part of him—it was all muted now, as though a layer of frost had settled over everything that made him who he was.

But this new… whatever it was—this ability to sense and affect quirks—was real.

And it terrified him.

Because he didn’t understand it.

I need to figure this out.

His jaw clenched.

If Deku were here, the nerd would’ve already launched into a dozen theories. Katsuki could almost hear his voice—fast, breathless, full of that damn enthusiasm: “It might be a kind of quirk resonance! Or maybe your quirk factor was altered somehow—maybe it’s interacting with other quirk factors directly now!”

Katsuki gritted his teeth and looked away.

“Shut the hell up,” he muttered under his breath, as if the imaginary voice could hear him.

The kitchen remained silent.

But the memory lingered.

Deku had always been good at this kind of thing—figuring out quirks, pulling apart their mechanics, understanding what made them tick.

Katsuki wasn’t like that. He wasn’t a strategist. He fought by instinct and force and raw will. He burned his way through problems.

Except now there was no fire to burn with.

Now he had to think.

Alone.

He sat there for a long time, fingers curled against the table, gaze locked on the empty air above his hands.

But that night, Katsuki sat awake in the dark, staring at his trembling hands—he knew this wasn’t over.

The first thing he felt was the wind.

Cold. Salt-slick. Biting at his skin.

Katsuki opened his eyes to gray skies and a shoreline that stretched into forever. This dream—it was different from the others.

He stood barefoot on wet sand. The surf rolled in, slow and heavy, white foam hissing as it pulled back.

Water.

A vast, endless ocean. Dark as slate. Rippling beneath clouds that seemed ready to swallow the sky whole.

And mist.

It hung over the waves in thick, churning banks, and swirled lazily over the sand. Colors swirled around like a Van Gogh painting, bathing the waves in colorful hues.

Katsuki’s breath caught. The same mist. The same strange light.

It was everywhere here. It was breathtaking.

He looked down, but there was no light around him.

Suddenly, a low pulse echoed from somewhere beyond the fog—steady, rhythmic.

Then the voice came. It was faint at first, then it grew clearer.

Come back.

He stiffened.

The words tugged something deep in his chest. Something frayed and thin, like a rope worn to its last thread.

He wanted to turn, to face it—

But his feet moved without thought. Forward. Toward the water. Sand gave way beneath him as he ran. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t let the voice catch him.

Come back.

The sound grew louder, raw with grief. With longing.

But Katsuki shook his head, heart hammering.

No. No. He couldn’t.

Katsuki reached the edge of the tide, cold waves slapped against his ankles with swirling white and black. His reflection stared up at him through the water. His skin was pale, and his eyes hollow. This wasn’t the face he remembered. 

Another voice whispered from the mist:

You’re losing me.

He backed away with a ragged breath—then forced himself forward again, running along the shoreline. The water followed. Each step grew heavier, and each wave grew higher. Soon it reached his knees, then his waist. The current dragged at him with invisible hands.

Come back. Please.

Katsuki’s throat closed. His legs burned, but he kept running. He kept running because the thing calling to him felt too close. Too real.

And in the farthest corner of his mind, one last thought whispered:

If I turn back now—I won’t be able to let go again.

So he ran.

Into the deepening tide.

The current rose, cold fingers clutching his chest. The sea swallowed him—choking him in shadow and salt.

And just as the last breath left his lungs—

A hand seized his wrist.

Warm. Solid. Unyielding.

It yanked him upward, out of the dark.

He gasped as air and light returned, sputtering against the tide.

And there—standing against the crashing surf, bathed in radiant gold and molten orange—was a figure. The light that burned through the mist—as bright as the sun.

Katsuki squinted against the glow, heart hammering—And froze.

The one holding his wrist—the one standing before him—

Was him.

Not the hollow, empty thing he’d seen before, but the him as he remembered: fierce eyes, defiant mouth, shoulders squared as though daring the world to try again.

Golden light poured from the figure’s skin, rippling with life, with the heat of everything he’d lost.

Everything he’d run from.

Their gazes locked,

And the dream shattered like glass.

Chapter Text

Midoriya Izuku was not okay.

He woke each morning with the same tight knot in his chest, a weight that didn’t shift no matter how much he moved, trained, or smiled. The sun rose, and the world kept turning. So he followed, step by step, because that was what was expected of him. The world couldn’t stop—not for him, not for anyone.

School. Training. Licensing exam prep. Pass the test. Keep going. He went through the motions, but it felt wrong. Every step, every breath. Pretending his friend wasn’t missing, pretending that everything was fine, like he wasn’t checking his phone every hour for news that never came. It had been unbearable. 

And then—the broadcast

He would never forget the first hollow beat of silence in the room when the screen flickered to life. The grainy footage. The shadowed room. The sick amusement in the voices that framed it.

And in the center of it all—Kacchan.

Chained. Bloodied. Burning beneath Dabi’s blue flame.

He watched in silence, every instinct screaming to move, to help, to do something , even knowing it was impossible. By the time the feed cut out, his hands were trembling so badly he could barely breathe.

And then,  the news spiraled out of control. Headlines screamed across every device.

UA Student Murdered by League of Villains.
Bakugo Katsuki: Another Casualty of a Broken System.

The headlines made him sick. The way the media had shifted the narrative from a “villain in the making,” to a “victim of the system,” even though they had been the ones to tear him down just a few weeks prior. 

He remembered the funeral. It was small, closed to the public. Only family and a few close friends had been allowed to attend. The reporters had been kept away, though Izuku knew that wouldn’t stop them from capitalizing on the story. Another tragedy. Another headline.

Izuku sat near the front in a stiff black suit that felt two sizes too small, his hands folded so tightly in his lap that his knuckles turned white. Beside him, his mother sat pale and trembling, clutching a tissue that she barely used.

There was no body.

The coffin at the front of the room stood sealed, untouched. 

That single fact gnawed at him. A small, stubborn flicker of hope clung to it. No body meant no proof. No proof meant… maybe, somehow, Kacchan was still out there.

Or maybe he was just in denial.

The rational part of his mind whispered cold logic: Kacchan was dead. His body was likely left in some forgotten place, beyond their reach. The League didn’t make mistakes.

The service passed in a blur of muted voices and soft footsteps. Friends and family moved like ghosts through the room, paying respects to a space that felt painfully empty. He caught glimpses of familiar faces—Kacchan’s friends: Kirishima, Kaminari, Mina, and Sero. He also caught a glimpse of Sensei somewhere near the back.

Still, it didn’t feel real.

Everyone mourned. There were tears and quiet moments of remembrance, but no one could truly say goodbye. There was nothing to say goodbye to. No closure. Just a gaping absence no words could fill.

Izuku wasn’t blind. He knew who Kacchan had been. A bully. Harsh. Explosive. A person with so much anger it seemed to define him. And yet… Izuku had also known him better than anyone.

He had seen the changes. They had been small, subtle—a bit more patience here, a grudging word of encouragement there. Small acts of kindness when he thought nobody was looking. Kacchan had been trying to be better. No one else seemed to notice, but Izuku had. And he had admired him for it.

He had always believed that one day, Kacchan would truly change. That the fierce determination that drove him would eventually turn toward something greater.

Now that hope was gone.

And Izuku carried the weight of failure. He should have done more. Should have found him. Saved him.

Instead, he buried the pain beneath duty. All Might had placed his trust in him. He was meant to be the next Symbol of Peace—a beacon for the world. The public needed hope now more than ever.

So Izuku trained harder. He smiled when others looked. He carried the responsibility as best he could.

But when he was alone—in the small, dark confines of his room, the mask finally cracked. He buried his face in his pillow, shoulders shaking with silent sobs, guilt and grief folding in on themselves until he could barely breathe.

Because Kacchan was gone.

And the world had no choice but to move on without him.

Aizawa Shouta stood alone in the staff lounge long after the sun had set. 

The room smelled faintly of old coffee and books, the air heavy and stale. The clock on the far wall ticked steadily, each second carving deeper into his skull.

9:57 pm.

He hadn’t truly slept in days. He closed his eyes, sometimes. Drifted for moments. But every time sleep pulled at him, it dragged him down into memories he couldn’t fight.

Katsuki Bakugo is dead.

The words echoed again, fresh and sharp as the first time he’d heard them. A student. His former student. The same boy they had fought so hard to rescue after Kamino—only to lose him weeks later.

It wasn’t supposed to happen again.

He had promised himself that.

After Oboro… after watching a bright, reckless idiot of a friend fall right in front of him—after living with the knowledge that he had been too slow, too helpless to stop it—Shouta had lived with that for years, the guilt a constant companion. He had sworn that no student under his care would share that same fate.

But here he was. And Katsuki was gone.

Each time he closed his eyes, the image returned. Katsuki—fierce, angry, alive. Then the broadcast. The battered boy on the floor, flames dancing over bruised skin. And beneath it all, a single truth he couldn’t run from:

I expelled him.

His throat felt raw just thinking it.

When Nezu informed him of Bakugo and Midoriya's history, he could hardly believe it. How could he have not seen it? He thought back to the battle trial–All Might had told him how Bakugo pulled the pin from his gauntlets. How the blast could have killed Midoriya, had he not dodged. Then he started noticing a pattern. The boy was explosive, stubborn, angry, and he didn't appear to be changing. 

He had made that call. He had told himself it was the right choice. Logical. Necessary. The records of Bakugo’s behavior had been undeniable—the bullying, the recklessness, the dangerous edge that hadn’t seemed to fade.

“This isn’t punishment,” he had said, hoping that this would push the kid toward something better.

That’s what he’d told himself.

But hindsight was a cruel teacher. Because in pushing Bakugo out, he had left him vulnerable. Alone.

He was racked with guilt when the media got ahold of the story of Bakugo’s expulsion. 

And yet.

He did nothing. Didn’t reach out, didn’t shield the boy from the cruelty of this world.

And then the League took him.

---------------------

The funeral had been short. Formal. Meaningless, really, without a body. The staff had been present, dressed in black, their faces drawn and somber. Yamada had squeezed his shoulder once, a silent attempt at comfort. Nemuri had offered a quiet word in passing.

But no words could touch the hollow cold lodged in his chest.

He could still see the boy—bristling with fire, determined beyond reason, a force of nature contained in a single body. And now that force was gone, snuffed out before it had a chance to change.

Because of him.

—--------------

Shouta looked up at the clock again. It was now 10:35. The soft hum of the building’s lights seemed distant, muffled beneath the weight pressing down on his ribs.

The door creaked open behind him.

“Shouta.”

Nemuri’s voice, quiet. Yamada followed a step behind her, gaze shadowed with concern.

He didn’t turn.

“You should both go home,” he said, voice rough from disuse.

“We could say the same to you,” Nemuri replied gently, moving closer. The usual teasing note was gone.

Shouta exhaled slowly, fingers curling against the arm of the couch.
“I expelled him.”

The words broke the silence like glass.

Nemuri’s gaze flicked to Yamada, then back to him. “Shouta…”

“I pushed for it,” he continued, voice steady, hollow. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I told myself it wasn’t punishment.” He swallowed. “But I was wrong.”

No one spoke.

“I told myself I would never lose a student again,” he said softly. “Not after Oboro. I swore it. And then I made that call. And the League took him.” His voice cracked, barely audible now. “And now he’s gone.”

The word hung in the air, sharp as a blade.

Yamada shifted beside him. “You can’t shoulder this alone.”

“I can,” Aizawa said hoarsely. “I should.”

Nemuri sat beside him, folding her hands in her lap. “You made the choice because you cared,” she said quietly. “You didn’t know what would happen.”

“It doesn’t change what happened.”

“No. It doesn’t.” Her voice was soft. “But you didn’t kill him. The League did.”

The words meant nothing. Not in the hollow space where guilt had rooted itself.

A long silence followed, broken only by the hum of the city beyond the glass.

In the shadows behind his eyes, Aizawa still saw two faces—bright, burning, lost to his failures.

Oboro. Katsuki.

“I won’t let this happen again,” he whispered, not a vow, but a fragile prayer.

And this time, he didn’t know if he could believe it.

Chapter Text

It had been several days, and yet Katsuki hadn’t dreamed once. With each sunrise, the emptiness inside him pressed heavier. Oppressive. A dull ache beneath his ribs that refused to fade.

He threw himself into routine. Cleaned the house until it smelled less like stale beer and grease. Kept the geezer out of trouble, or tried to. Cooked real food, because Takeshi sure as hell wasn’t going to.

But even with his hands busy, his mind wandered. Always back to the mist. The way it moved. The way it reacted when he touched it.

He didn’t know what the hell was happening to him, but he wasn’t going to figure it out trapped in that tin-can trailer.

He knew it was a bad idea. Knew he was being reckless. Going out was a risk he couldn’t fully calculate.

But he had to understand this. He had to know.

That morning, he grabbed his jacket, mask, and hat, and told Takeshi he was heading out.

The old man barely looked up from his paper. “Don’t die.”

Katsuki tugged the door shut and left without another word.

--------------------

The train to Musutafu rattled beneath him. He sat alone, hood up, head low, sunglasses hiding his tired eyes.

He knew these streets like the back of his hand. He’d been born here, raised here. Every turn, every alley still lived in his muscle memory.

And… maybe, a part of him was homesick.

But this wasn’t about nostalgia. Not really. It was about watching. About observing—seeing if he can learn any more about this mist.

And really, what was there to return to anyway?

The ache in his chest answered that question before he could finish it.

He stuck to side streets once he left the station. Wound through quiet back alleys, kept well out of hero patrol routes. He knew the timings. The safe spots. The blind corners.

He couldn’t risk being caught. If everyone thought he was dead—he’d stay dead.

He pushed that thought down before it could sink its teeth in.

--------------------

Katsuki was cutting through an older shopping district when the first scream tore down the block.

He stopped mid-step. Head snapping up.

A deep crack followed—low and sharp, a sound that rattled in the bones. Then came the crash—glass shattering, metal groaning. A storefront exploded outward in a violent spray of debris. Shards of windowpane gleamed like falling stars as they scattered across the pavement.

The street broke into chaos. Shoppers screamed. A woman shielded her child, voice ragged as she called for heroes. The crowd surged in panic, a tide of bodies pulling away from the wreckage.

Katsuki ducked instinctively into the shadows of a narrow alley. His back pressed to cold brick. His breath came fast behind the mask. He peered around the edge, eyes scanning for the threat.

And then he saw him.

The villain stood amid the ruin—tall, gaunt, limbs jittering with erratic tremors. His face was drawn taut over sharp cheekbones, mouth slack, blackened tongue lolling from between broken teeth. Bloodshot eyes darted wildly beneath tangled hair.

But it was the mist that made Katsuki freeze.

This haze wasn’t like the ones he’d seen before.

It boiled off the villain’s body in thick waves—a sickly green mist streaked with jagged veins of crimson. It churned and cracked like molten glass, snapping through the air with an unnatural, living hunger. The space around him shimmered, distorted by raw force. Light bent and wavered, casting warped shadows across the wreckage.

And the heat—Katsuki could feel it even from here. Not warmth, but pressure, dense and oppressive, like standing too close to a fire that wasn’t meant to burn.

He narrowed his eyes.

Trigger.

The word surfaced, cold and sharp. He remembered the lectures. Trigger—an illegal quirk-enhancing drug designed to force quirks beyond their natural limits. Rare in the public eye, but devastating when used. Addictive. Volatile.

And dangerous.

The villain moved with the jerky, uncontrolled motions of someone half-conscious. His right fist slammed into the ground. A pulse of warped gravity rippled outward, the asphalt bending like liquid, sending civilians sprawling in every direction. Another burst shattered a light pole in a spray of sparks.

With each strike, the mist writhed, flaring higher, more frantic.

Katsuki’s jaw tightened.

If no one stepped in—people would die.

For a heartbeat, instinct screamed at him to run. He was powerless. No quirk. No way to fight this.

But then his mind flashed back—to Goh, to that strange moment when a simple touch had affected the mist. 

what if I could somehow calm it?

The idea was insane.

But he was already moving.

No explosions. No brute force. Just calculation and risk.

He circled wide, weaving through toppled carts and broken signage. The street was an obstacle course of debris. Shopkeepers shouted frantically, dragging loved ones to safety. Somewhere distant, sirens began to wail—but they were too far.

Katsuki kept his head low, blending into the chaos. The villain’s strikes came faster now—another blow sent a parked car tumbling through the air. The green-crimson haze thickened with each pulse, wild and feral.

I need to get close.

He timed his movements to the rhythm of the chaos. When the villain lashed out in one direction, Katsuki darted in the opposite. He used a shattered display case for cover, ducked beneath a fallen sign, and finally slid behind a crumbling planter just meters away.

Now the air felt heavier. The mist’s reach tugged at his skin—static and heat crawling across his arms and neck. Breathing became harder.

It didn’t matter.

Katsuki waited—watched for a gap between attacks.

And when it came—he lunged.

One hand forward. No hesitation.

His fingers plunged into the swirling mist.

-------------------

The world vanished.

Black waves stretched endlessly beneath his feet, cold and perfect, reflecting a sky painted in deep cobalt and bleeding red. The air tasted electric, humming with the raw pulse of power.

Katsuki stood atop the water, weightless yet grounded. It should’ve terrified him. It didn’t.

Ahead, a lone figure knelt—shoulders heaving, hands clawing at his skull. The aura surrounding him was a hurricane—violent spikes of quirk energy tearing through the air, each pulse sending ripples through the sea.

Katsuki’s throat tightened.

He had never been good at this. Calming people down wasn’t something that came naturally; usually he had the opposite effect. He’d always burned too hot—too raw.

But there was no one else here.

So he moved.

Each step stirred the mirrored surface, sending pale ripples outward. He stopped just behind the figure, heart hammering in his chest.

Then—he knelt.

A breath. A moment of hesitation.

Finally, his hand settled on the man’s trembling shoulder.

The figure flinched hard. The storm of energy flared, wild and spitting. For a second, Katsuki thought it would reject him outright.

But he held steady. Focused.

Bit by bit, the violent edges of the mist dulled. The howling pulse softened into low waves. The air grew clearer. The sea stilled.

And the figure’s ragged breathing evened out—just enough.

-------------------

When Katsuki’s eyes snapped open, the real world returned in a jolt.

He was still kneeling, hand outstretched.

The villain had collapsed—chest rising and falling in shallow, steady breaths. The mist had faded to faint wisps, drifting harmlessly away.

Alive.

No more time.

Katsuki bolted. Every muscle screamed in protest, but he didn’t stop. He shot down a narrow alley, weaving through trash bins and broken fences. His breath rasped in his throat, heart hammering.

By the time the first heroes arrived, their voices barking through comms, he was already gone—just another shadow swallowed by the night.

That night, sleep dragged him under.

No resistance. No fight left.

Just darkness.

And then—water.

Katsuki stood alone atop a black, endless sea. Waves shifted beneath his feet in molten currents, glowing faintly beneath the surface as if the ocean itself breathed. The air smelled faintly of ozone and smoke. Overhead, the sky stretched in a heavy sheet of slate-gray cloud, pressing down like stone.

But he wasn’t alone.

A voice came from behind him—low, rough, fierce.

“Katsuki.”

This time, he turned.

The figure stood several paces away.

Himself.

Almost.

It was like looking into a mirror warped by flame. The other Katsuki matched him in height, build, face—but this one burned with something wild. Light pulsed beneath pale skin in waves of gold and searing orange, like a furnace barely contained. His eyes blazed sharp and hungry. His mouth curved in a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“What the hell is this?” Katsuki asked, throat raw.

The other folded his arms, chin tilted. His voice came out rough, voice licked with heat.

“Tch. Took you long enough to turn around.”

Katsuki’s gut twisted. “Who—what are you?”

“You know.” The reply was flat, certain. “You just don’t wanna say it.”

The other stepped forward. Ripples flared outward in rings with each step, turning the mirrored sea into molten waves beneath his boots.

“When All For One came for your quirk… you fought. Harder than you’ve ever fought in your life.” His burning eyes flared. “You didn’t just grip your power—you wrapped your whole damn self around it.”

A scar carved through his chest, pulsing with molten light. It flickered in rhythm with his words.

“And when he tore it away… I tore with it.”

Katsuki’s fists shook. His mouth felt dry.

“My rage… my fire… my—”

“Me.” The word cracked through the air like a gunshot. The other Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not some scrap of junk. I am you. The fight. The will. The bastard who never quits.” His voice deepened, sharp with something closer to grief.

“The heat in your veins. The part that’d rather die on its feet than fall.”

Katsuki’s chest twisted hard, breath stuck halfway in his throat.

“And you—”

“Still here,” the other snapped. He stalked forward, steps slicing ripples across the black water. “Still fighting. Even now.” His gaze sharpened into steel. “I didn’t let go. And I won’t. Not for that freak. He can’t use what I won’t give him.”

Realization punched through Katsuki like cold steel.

“That’s why—why I can’t feel it. Why I’m like this.”

The other let out a dry breath—almost a laugh, but bitter.

“Yeah. You think I like this? Watching you drift around like some sad sack? You don’t even know how loud I’ve been screaming. Every dream, every shadow—I’ve been clawing my way back.”

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the slow pulse of light through the water. The waves surged higher, creeping toward their knees.

Katsuki swallowed hard. “How do I fix it?”

For the first time, the other Katsuki hesitated. His burning eyes flickered, gold dimming for a breath.

“I don’t know.”

Katsuki’s stomach sank. The answer landed heavy.

But the other wasn’t finished.

His gaze locked on him again—burning, unyielding. He stalked forward and seized Katsuki by the collar. Heat flared from his fingers—familiar, sharp, not painful.

“You find me,” he said, voice low, trembling with the force barely contained beneath it. “You fight. You drag us back together if you have to.” His grip tightened, fierce. “Don’t you dare leave me here.”

Katsuki’s heart slammed against his ribs. Rage. Drive. Himself—staring him in the face. Gripping him tight.

“I—” His voice cracked. “I’ll—”

The other leaned close, fire pulsing brighter. His voice dropped into something raw.

“I’m still here. Don’t stop. Don’t be a damn coward.”

And then—he let go. Light surged outward in a burst of gold and crimson sparks.

The sea shattered like glass.

Katsuki shot upright with a ragged gasp, heart racing. Sweat soaked through his shirt, his breath tearing in and out like he’d been running.

The trailer walls loomed close around him in the dark. The battered couch groaned under him as he lurched forward, burying his face in his hands.

He could still feel it—heat on his skin, the pulse beneath his ribs. He gripped his hair hard enough to sting.

“Shit.” The word broke out, hoarse and raw.

It wasn’t a dream.

All this time—he hadn’t been broken.
He’d been torn in half.

And half of him was still out there, burning, clawing, screaming to come home.

His breath shuddered in the silence. His fists trembled. The dull ache in his chest felt sharper now—something hot, insistent.

You find me.

“I will,” he whispered. Voice ragged, fierce. “I’ll find you.”

Chapter Text

--Katsuki--

5:27 AM.
The numbers burned red on the battered wall clock, stark against the dim gray of the trailer. Too damn early to do anything. Too late to go back to sleep. And yet—Katsuki couldn’t sit still. Not after that. His skin still felt electric from the dream, his breath catching in the hollows of his chest. His own voice, the other voice, still rang in his ears.

You find me. You fight to get me back.

But how? How the hell did you fight something like this? You couldn’t punch a missing piece of your own damn soul back into place.

His feet hit the cold floor before he even realized it. No more laying there stewing. He tugged on a hoodie, the frayed cuffs rough against trembling fingers, and padded into the cramped kitchen. The trailer’s fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. Outside, dawn hadn’t even cracked the sky yet—just an endless stretch of black behind the grimy windows. The whole world felt frozen. Waiting.

Kinda like me, he thought bitterly.

He rifled through the cabinets—pulled out a pan, a carton of eggs, some leftover rice from the night before. The motions steadied his hands. Something to do. Something to hold onto while his mind spun in circles.

Egg cracked. Rice sizzled. A splash of soy, the hiss of steam.

Keep moving. One thing at a time. 

--Takeshi--

Takeshi Kojima rubbed a calloused hand over his face as he stepped out of his room, the floor creaking beneath tired feet.

Too damn early. His eyes felt like sandpaper.

But something had pulled him awake—not the usual aches, not the usual thirst. Something else. A feeling, a weight in the air. Like something wasn’t right. And there, in the dim doorway to the kitchen, he found the source.

The kid was hunched over the stove, sleeves shoved up, movements stiff and sharp. This was a boy trying not to drown, and Takeshi knew that feeling all too well.

Takeshi leaned against the frame for a moment, watching. He’d known the kid was carrying shit—hell, you don’t find someone half-dead in a ditch by accident. But whatever had happened last night, whatever had cracked him open, was bleeding through now. The way his shoulders hunched. The way he gripped the spatula like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Yeah. Something had changed.

Couldn’t just stand here.

He cleared his throat.

Katsuki stiffened, glanced back, eyes shadowed but sharp. No words. Just that look.

Takeshi exhaled and pushed off the doorframe. Quiet footsteps across the worn tile. He set the kettle on the counter, grabbed a packet of instant coffee from the shelf—a familiar ritual. Something steady.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he said gruffly, voice still rough from sleep. “Just need somethin’ hot to wake my ass up.”

The kid didn’t answer. He just turned back to the stove.

Takeshi poured boiling water into a chipped mug and sat down at the kitchen table, newspaper in hand—but the words didn’t stick. He wasn’t reading.

His eyes stayed on the boy.

And after a long beat, he spoke—low and steady.

“You don’t gotta say what’s eatin’ you,” Takeshi said. “Ain’t my place to drag it outta you.” His gaze flicked sideways, tired but steady. “But I see it. Whatever it is—you’re wearin’ it like a damn second skin.”

No reply. The rice hissed, the pan scraped.

Takeshi set the newspaper down with a sigh. Rubbed at his stubbled chin.

“You know,” he said after a beat. “I ain’t one to preach. Hell, I’m the last bastard who should be offerin’ advice.” He stared at the black swirl in his mug.

“My girl—Aiko. She was twelve.” The words came rougher than he expected. “Car crash. Ain’t nothin’ you can do to stop a drunk driver when they blow through a red light.” His throat tightened, but he pressed on. “Blamed myself for a long time. Thought maybe if I’d picked her up from school earlier that day… maybe if I’d left work early.” He shook his head. “Didn’t matter. Guilt’s a bastard. And I let it eat me alive. Turned to the bottle. Drove my wife away. Woke up one day with nothin’ left but this old shop. I’ve done things I’m not proud of—just to make ends meet.”

A long breath.

“Point is—ain’t no shame in breakin’. But you gotta know when to ask for a damn hand.” He looked at the kid then. Studied him. “Even if you think you don’t deserve one.”

Silence stretched thin between them. Takeshi didn’t think the boy would answer him. Then—

Katsuki spoke.

“The day you found me,” Katsuki said, voice low, rough-edged. “I was meant to die.”

Takeshi blinked, letting him speak.

Katsuki’s hands shook faintly as he shoved the pan off the burner a little harder than he meant to. “I got kicked outta U.A.” A bitter laugh, sharp and flat. “Yeah. Real fuckin’ hero material, huh?” Shoulders hunched. “Left alone. League found me. Took me. Tortured me.” His breath stuttered. “Took my quirk. When they finally let me go… I wasn’t the same. Not even close.” Words came faster now, cracking like a dam giving way. “For weeks I thought—something was wrong. Couldn’t feel shit. Couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t feel anything the way I used to. Thought it was trauma. Some headcase bullshit.” He took a ragged breath. “I’ve been feeling—empty. Like some bastard reached inside and ripped out half of me. In a way, that's what happened.”

He looked up. Eyes bloodshot but burning under the weariness. “My soul—it’s split. Part of it’s still out there. With that bastard from the League.” His voice cracked hard, but kept going. “I talked to it last night. It’s still fighting. But I can’t reach it.”

Long pause.

Takeshi rubbed his temples.

For a long moment, Takeshi just stared. Soul? Quirk stolen? The hell was this kid wrapped up in? And yet—he wasn’t lying. Not a damn flicker of it. Takeshi had known enough liars in his life to spot one blindfolded. Hell, maybe the world really has gotten that strange.

He leaned forward.

“Look, I’m not sayin’ I don’t believe you. But you don’t survive out here long as I have without questionin’ shit that sounds impossible.” Eyes locked. “You’re either not lyin’, or you believe it so hard you need serious mental help.”

Katsuki cut in—sharp, biting.

“I know it sounds crazy, alright?” He met Takeshi’s gaze head-on. “But there’s more.”

Takeshi blinked. Waited.

Katsuki dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “I can see quirks now. Not like before. I can see the fuckin’ aura around them.” He jerked his chin at Takeshi. “Around the time I first started seeing this shit, I realized you don't have it. That’s how I knew you were quirkless.” He swallowed, voice roughening further. “And it's not just seeing. I can touch them. No clue how, but I can mess with ‘em too. 

A beat. Jaw clenched.

“There was this villain. He must have been a trigger junkie. Quirk was outta control, burning him out. I—I shut it down. Brought it back under control.”

Takeshi leaned back, sighing through his nose. “Jesus, kid.”

He rubbed his temples again. “I dunno what the hell I’m dealin’ with.” He looked across the table, steady. “But—I wanna believe you.” He folded his arms, “and I got a way you can prove it.”

Katsuki narrowed his eyes.

Takeshi didn’t blink.

“Buddy of mine. Kenji. Granddaughter’s four. Just got her quirk. Thing’s been actin’ up bad and parents can’t afford a counselor. Kenji ain’t got much either. You say you can see quirks? Touch ‘em? Fix ‘em? How about you show me.”

Katsuki let out a sharp breath. Jaw working. “This ain’t a fuckin’ parlor trick.”

Takeshi’s mouth tugged into a grim half-smile. “Didn’t say it was. But you help that little girl—you show me you got this power for real—then we talk.”

Later that morning, Takeshi kept his word.

The old truck rattled down narrow side streets, the skyline barely visible through rusted signage and tangled power lines. The sun had finally clawed its way up, sickly pale through smog-streaked clouds.

Katsuki sat stiff in the passenger seat, hoodie pulled tight around his shoulders. His fingers tapped out a restless rhythm on his thigh. This was a bad fuckin’ idea, but sitting still would’ve been worse.

Takeshi grunted as he turned the wheel. “You sure about this?”

“No.” Katsuki scowled at the cracked windshield. “But I don’t got the luxury of sittin’ on my ass anymore.”

Takeshi gave a rough chuckle. “Fair enough.”

They pulled up outside a weathered apartment block, concrete mottled with age. Laundry lines sagged between windows. Rust flaked from old metal stairwells.

“Place’s seen better days,” Takeshi muttered, killing the engine.

Katsuki gently kicked the door open with his boot. “Yeah. Kind of like you, Mr. Midlife Crisis.”

That earned a quiet snort from the older man.

Up two flights, the hallway smelled faintly of mildew and cheap incense. Takeshi rapped twice on a dented metal door. It creaked open, revealing an older man in a threadbare cardigan, deep lines carved into a tired face.

“Kojima,” the man rasped, eyes wary—then flicked to Katsuki. “This him?”

“Yeah,” Takeshi said. “Kid says he can help. Thought hell, might as well give it a try.”

Kenji frowned, arms folding. “You didn’t say you were bringin’ some punk.”

“I ain’t here for tea,” Katsuki cut in, voice flat. “You want help or not?”

Kenji blinked. Took a beat—then stepped aside.

“…Come in.”

- - - - -

The apartment was small and cluttered. Faded tatami mats, old photos on the walls. The sound of soft sniffles came from the back room.

“She’s in there,” Kenji said quietly. “Sakura. She's four, and has been goin’ nuts since the quirk showed up last week. Parents’re workin’ double shifts—left her with me.” His face pinched. “I dunno what to do.”

“What’s the quirk?” Katsuki asked, already moving toward the door.

Kenji rubbed the back of his neck. “Dunno. She makes crystals on her arms… but it hurts her. She won’t stop cryin’.”

Takeshi gave him a look. “You sure about this?”

“I’m already halfway down this fuckin' rabbit hole,” Katsuki retorts with no real bite. “Might as well give it a shot.”

Inside the room, the little girl was curled in a corner, blanket around her shoulders. Threads of pale, shimmering light crackled weakly off her skin—flickering and spitting like a shorted-out wire. Her eyes were red from crying.

I don't know how to talk to kids, Katsuki thought to himself as he slowly knelt down. keeping his voice low, he spoke: “Hey. It's Sakura, right?”

She peeked out, sniffling. She glanced up at Katsuki, then to Kenji, then back to Katsuki. 

“I’m not gonna hurt ya.” He settled cross-legged a few feet away. “I’m… gonna try somethin’. Might feel weird. You okay with that?”

A hesitant nod.

Katsuki exhaled, slow and steady. Alright, Katsuki. Time to see if this bullshit wasn’t just in your head. Would be real fuckin’ embarassing for me if it was.

He let his awareness shift—that odd second sight flaring to life. Instantly, the light around the girl flared brighter in his vision—wild, jagged, erratic. The quirk wasn’t stable. More instinct than control. Fear was feeding it, making it worse.

“Okay, kid,” he murmured. “Lemme borrow this for a second.”

He reached out—not physically. Fingers brushed the mist. It pushed back—sharp, hot—but he pushed harder. Focused. He willed it to slow, to settle. The wild threads began to weave tighter, light dimming to a soft glow. The sparks vanished.

Sakura blinked and sat up. Tiny crystal stubs peeked out from her arms. Light bounced off them, casting rainbows across the bedroom. Her eyes followed the light for a few moments, mesmerized by the glow. Then– “…It doesn’t hurt anymore,” she whispered.

Katsuki sagged in place, a tremor running through his limbs. Shit—that had taken more outta him than he expected.

Kenji stared, slack-jawed. “Holy shit.”

Takeshi, leaning in the doorway, gave a low whistle. “Well I’ll be damned.”

Katsuki dragged a hand through his hair, sweat-damp. “Told ya,” he rasped. “Ain’t a fuckin’ parlor trick.” He pushed to his feet, knees aching.

Kenji knelt by his granddaughter, checking her over. “It’s… it’s fixed. Kid, I don’t know what the hell you just did, but—thank you.”

Katsuki shrugged, voice flat. “Wasn't hard.”

Takeshi gave him a long look as they headed back out. “You weren’t lyin’.”

“No shit.”

“You really think this soul-splittin’ thing’s part of it?”

Katsuki’s mouth twisted. “Only thing that makes a damn bit of sense.” 

They reached the truck, and Katsuki sagged into the passenger seat. I don't remember the last time wiping me out like this. Must have been the adrenaline.

Takeshi sighed, pulling out his lighter. “Well, kid. You just convinced me.” He flicked the flame, lit a smoke. “And I might know someone who can get you closer to the League. That's who you're lookin’ for eh?”

Katsuki’s eyes sharpened. “Yeah.”

Takeshi took a drag.

“Name’s Giran. Old… acquaintance. Piece a’ work, but he’s got connections.” He glanced at Katsuki. “You sure you’re ready for that shitstorm?”

Katsuki gave a bitter grin.

“I have to be. Got no choice.”

Chapter Text

The place smelled like stale smoke and old sweat. Neon signs flickered half-dead outside the window, bleeding red and blue over warped floorboards.

Katsuki kept his head down. Hoodie drawn tight, cap pulled low. The damn thing smelled like grease and Takeshi’s shop, but it’d have to do. Couldn’t risk anyone seeing his face—least of all down here.

He moved stiffly behind Takeshi, footsteps too light, too careful. The air in this place made his skin itch. Too many eyes. Too many rats. He remembered being the loudest bastard in any room. Now? He could barely stand walking through one.

“Just stay cool, kid,” Takeshi muttered under his breath. “Giran’s no fool. Don’t give him a reason to look twice.”

Katsuki snorted, but the sound came out thin. “Y-Yeah. Got it.” His voice sounded wrong in his own damn ears. Too flat. Too dry.

They reached a door in the back—scuffed to hell, dented in the middle. Takeshi knocked twice.

“Yeah?” came the lazy voice from the other side.

“Old friend,” Takeshi called.

The door clicked open.

Giran leaned against the frame, suit rumpled, a smoke dangling from his fingers. His eyes were sharp, though, real sharp. Like he was already cutting you into pieces in his head. “Well shit. Kojima Takeshi. Thought you’d finally kicked the bucket.”

“Not yet.” Takeshi jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Brought a kid. Lookin’ for work.”

Giran’s gaze slid to Katsuki. Stayed there. Measuring.

Katsuki forced himself to meet it—barely. His heart kicked once, sharp. “Tch.” He shrugged. “Gonna let us in or are we going to just stand here making small talk?” 

Giran’s grin twitched wider. “Heh. Got a mouth on him.” He stepped aside. “Alright, come on in.”

Inside was worse. Smoked-up walls, peeling paint, a lamp that hummed like it was ready to die. Katsuki’s pulse stayed too high. His palms itched. Instinct said get out. Takeshi sat. Katsuki followed stiffly.

Giran leaned back, cigarette smoke curling. “So. You wanna run with the big kids, huh?”

Katsuki let out a breath through his nose. “Work’s work.” His voice wavered, too low. He added, like muscle memory: “Long as the pay don’t fuckin’ suck.”

Silence. Giran studied him closer. Too close. Katsuki stared at the table. “You got somethin’ to hide under that hood?” Giran asked. Voice amused, but sharp under it.

“Yeah.” Katsuki forced a ghost of a smirk. It felt brittle. “Don’t we all?”

Takeshi cut in. “Kid’s solid. Got reason to stay low. You got anything that fits?”

Giran tapped ash into the tray. Sat forward. “Maybe,” he said. “Matter of fact, there’s a job needs doin’. League’s been movin’. Takin’ an interest in the Shie Hassaikai lately. Whole underworld’s shakin’ since AFO went underground. Lotta hands grabbin’ for the same pie.”

Katsuki’s gut twisted at League. But he kept his face blank.

“They need a… babysitter,” Giran continued. “Chisaki’s kid. Little girl. Quirk’s valuable. Dangerous. Boss wants her kept happy. Safe. You do that, they might keep you alive long enough to pay you.” He grinned. “Fuck it up, well—” he dragged on his smoke—“you won’t have to worry about payin’ rent again.”

Takeshi shot Katsuki a glance. Think hard about this.

Katsuki stared at the smoke curling toward the ceiling. His chest felt hollow again. Like the words weren’t coming from him but from something left behind. He swallowed. Then smirked—a ghost of the old sneer. Forced it up, brittle as glass. “Yeah. Sure. Babysitting. Sounds like a fuckin’ dream.” But inside, the voice burned cold. Closer. Closer to the League. He looked up. Eyes steady.

“I’ll do it.”

Giran grinned wider. “Thought you might.” He leaned back in his chair, the cigarette hanging from his lips like an afterthought. “Alright then,” he said, voice lazy but eyes razor sharp. “You got some balls for takin’ this one. Not a lotta people would. But, before we go further..." He flicked another cigarette out of the pack, didn’t light it—just twirled it between his fingers. “One thing I gotta know.”

He fixed Katsuki with a look sharp as glass. “You can keep your name. Hell, I don’t need it. Don’t care. But your quirk—I need to know what I’m puttin’ in that room. That’s standard.”

Katsuki’s throat worked. He felt Takeshi shift beside him and could almost feel the weight of his stare. Katsuki exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. The words felt brittle in his mouth. “I don’t have one.” His voice came out hoarse. For a second the air felt wired.

Giran watched him. Really watched. Not blinking. Measuring every damn flicker. Then—he leaned back. Let out a short breath through his nose. “...You ain’t lyin’.” He tapped the unlit cigarette against the table. “Fuckin’ weird. But I seen weirder.” He shrugged. “No quirk’s fine. Hell, sometimes it’s better. Less questions. Makes you look weaker—keeps ‘em off guard.” A thin smile. “Just don’t get your ass killed.”

Katsuki’s lip twitched. “Tch.” His voice rasped, edges dull. “Wouldn’t fuckin’ be here if that was the plan.” But the words came out wrong—off rhythm.

Giran reached into a battered folder on the table, flipped it open, and slid a thin stack of photos across to Takeshi and Katsuki.

Katsuki stared down at them. A little girl. Big eyes. Long pale hair. Couldn’t have been older than six.

“She’s called Eri,” Giran said. “Daughter—or somethin’ like it—to Chisaki Kai. You might know him as Overhaul.”

Katsuki felt his gut twist again. 

“League’s getting close with the Hassaikai. All For One’s gone—weak at least. The sharks are circlin’. League wants in on the new power structures. Problem is, Hassaikai don’t exactly play nice with outsiders.”

Giran smirked.

“That’s where you come in.”

He tapped the photo.

“Chisaki needs someone watchin’ the kid. Most of his own guys are too fuckin’ scary for it. Kid’s skittish. Quirk’s dangerous. League wants leverage, Hassaikai wants the girl stable. You? You don’t look like much. You ain’t one of theirs. You get in close. Keep her happy. Win her trust.” He crushed the cigarette out. “Do that, and you’ll be allowed to hang around. Maybe learn a thing or two. Maybe get close enough to what you’re really after.” He smiled coldly. “But—don’t kid yourself. Chisaki ain’t plannin’ to keep you. The second you’re no longer useful?” He drew a finger across his throat. “That’s it.”

Takeshi frowned. “Sounds like suicide.”

“Eh.” Giran shrugged. “That’s the job. I owe you, Kojima. That’s why I’m givin’ your boy first crack at it.”

Katsuki stared at the photos, jaw tense. Words built in his throat—old ones, sharp ones—but they tasted wrong. Sour. He forced a scoff. “Tch. Fuckin’ great. Get to play fuckin’ babysitter for a mob boss.” His mouth twisted. “Just what I dreamed of.” But his hands were already steadying. The path was opening. A chance to get close. To track them.

One step closer to my damn soul.

He looked up, voice flat but sure. “I’m in.”

Takeshi looked at him hard, but said nothing. The decision was made.

Giran grinned like a man who’d already bought the casket. “Good. I’ll set it up. You’ll meet with one of Chisaki’s men tomorrow. They’ll take you to the compound. You keep the kid smilin’, you keep breathin’. Simple as that.” He slid a burner phone across the table. “They’ll call you when they’re ready. And remember—keep your goddamn head down. You fuck this up? I can’t help you.”

Katsuki took the phone. His fingers curled tight around it. “Yeah.” His voice came low, quiet.

“I don’t plan on fuckin’ this up.”

The alley behind Giran’s office smelled like stale smoke and rust. Cold air cut through Katsuki’s hoodie as they stepped outside. Morning light barely touched the rooftops yet—everything was still gray. Quiet.

Takeshi shut the door behind them, jaw set tight. He didn’t speak at first. Just lit a cigarette with a sharp flick and stood there, smoke curling in the cold.

Katsuki shoved his hands into his pockets. The adrenaline from the meeting was already burning off, leaving him raw. Bones heavy. 

Finally—

“Kid,” Takeshi said, voice low.

Katsuki didn’t look at him.

“You don’t have to do this.”

That made him glance sideways.

Takeshi took a long drag. Exhaled through his nose. “I know why you’re going after ‘em. I get it. If somebody took a piece of me like that—” he shook his head. “But this job? It’s a suicide mission. You heard Giran. Chisaki’s not keepin’ you alive past useful. And the League—” he snorted. “They'll recognize you the moment they lay their eyes on you.”

Katsuki stared down at the cracked pavement. The words sat heavy on his shoulders, but the answer was already burned in his chest. “I know.”

Takeshi frowned. “Then why the hell—”

Katsuki’s mouth twisted. A sound came out—half laugh, half rasp. “‘Cause it's not like I have anything else, old man.” He met Takeshi’s gaze then, eyes too tired for someone his age. “I can’t fight them from the outside. Not like this.” He looked away again, voice dropping. “And if I don’t fight—then what the fuck am I even doing here?” The words scraped out slow, like glass through his throat.

Takeshi sighed. “You think you’re ready to walk into that snake pit? Look at you.” He gestured, frustrated. 

That got a bitter chuckle out of Katsuki. “Yeah? Well…” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Not like anyone’s expecting much from some quirkless stray.”

Takeshi ground out the cigarette under his boot. Took a step closer, voice rough. “You listen to me, kid. You get in there—you keep your head. You play it smart. You start slippin’, you pull out. You hear me?”

Katsuki looked up at him—really looked this time. For a moment, something flickered behind the exhaustion. “...Yeah.” He swallowed. “I hear ya.”

Didn’t say he’d listen. They both knew that.

But Takeshi saw the stubborn line in his jaw, the shadow in his eyes. And he knew—there wasn’t a damn thing he could say that’d change the kid’s mind. So instead, he clapped a hand on his shoulder. Grip steady.

“Then you come back alive, goddammit.”

Katsuki exhaled slow. “...I’ll try.”

And that was the best promise he could give.

Chapter Text

The trailer felt colder than usual when they got back.

Takeshi had only grunted on the drive home—didn’t say a word after they parked. He gave Katsuki a long look at the door, like he was biting back more warnings, more advice. But in the end, the man just clapped his shoulder again.

“Get some fuckin’ sleep,” he muttered. “You’ll need it.”

Katsuki nodded once. Then slumped down onto the lumpy couch.

Silence.

Too quiet.

He kicked off his shoes and laid back on the battered couch. Hoodie still on. Heart still hammering slower now, but sharp in his chest. Giran’s words kept looping through his head.

“Chisaki ain’t plannin’ to keep you.”

“No quirk’s fine–Makes you look weaker.”

The man had seen straight through him. No quirk. No bite. No damn backup. And yet—he’d walked out of there with a job.

Babysit Chisaki’s kid. “You get in close. Keep her happy. Win her trust”

It sounded simple, but it wasn’t. Katsuki knew damn well what this was: a leash. A test. A death sentence. But it was also the only shot he had. The only path forward. He leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Takeshi’s words still echoed.

Yeah. But if I don’t—

A breath shuddered out of him.

— then why the fuck am I still here?

It wasn’t a good answer. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. He could still feel that other half of him out there. Faint now—but burning in the distance like a second sun. Calling him.

“You find me. You fight to get me back.”

His throat tightened.

I will, he thought fiercely, the words raw. I fuckin’ will. Whatever it takes.

But even as the thought came, the exhaustion pressed in heavier. Muscles trembling. Bones aching. His body reminded him just how thin he was stretched.For a second—just a second—his chest caved in. Shoulders shaking. No sound, no tears. Just air he couldn’t pull in fast enough.

Then—he forced it down. Swallowed it like broken glass. Sat up. Rubbed his face hard. “Pull your shit together,” he rasped to himself. Voice flat. No bite. Just a reminder.

He sat up, pushed off the couch, and stripped out of the hoodie. Hit the shower—cold enough to burn. The sting brought him back. When he finally crawled into bed— if you can call it that —gray dawn was already bleeding through the window.

Sleep didn’t come easy. But when it did, it was shallow and restless. Dreams of red smoke. Of a voice. Of a cage made of bone.

And through it all—one thought, circling, sinking into his bones:

Don’t fuck this up.

The car hummed low beneath him, tires whispering against wet asphalt.

Katsuki sat stiff-backed in the rear seat, arms crossed beneath the too-large suit Giran had scrounged up. The fabric itched against his skin. He hated it. Too tight around the throat. Giran had allowed a face mask, but no other head coverings. Katsuki felt exposed. Vulnerable. 

Every mile they drove pulled him deeper into a world he had no map for. A place where mistakes didn’t just cost you—they ended you. He kept his gaze steady on the window. Watched the city smear past, gray and silent under the pre-dawn sky. Streetlights blinked like dying stars.

Beside him, Giran scrolled lazily through his phone, one leg propped up. Too casual. Like he’d done this a hundred times. Maybe he had. “You good, kid?” the man asked, voice rough with smoke.

Katsuki didn’t look away from the window. “Yeah.” Automatic. Dry. A lie he didn’t even bother selling.

“Uh huh.” Giran didn’t press. Just flicked ashes out the cracked window and kept scrolling.

The city gave way to narrower streets, older buildings. Taller fences. Katsuki’s gut tightened. His pulse ticked harder in his ears. Ahead, floodlights glared over a gated compound. Cameras twitched. Guards moved like shadows behind the chainlink. They were here. 

The car slowed. Giran leaned forward, said something low to the driver. Katsuki barely registered it. His body was moving on instinct—shift, brace, breathe.

“You listenin’, kid?” Giran’s voice cut through the fog.

Katsuki blinked once. “What?”

“Mind your fuckin’ manners,” Giran said, tone sharper now. “Guy you’re about to meet—you don’t wanna give him a reason. You piss him off, I won’t be able to pull you out. Clear?”

Katsuki’s throat worked. He swallowed against the dry scrape there.

“Clear.”

The gates yawned open. The car rolled through.

The building loomed—cold concrete, black glass. The air was thick here, stale and sterile, like the whole place had been scrubbed raw of life. Katsuki followed Giran through the halls, footsteps muffled against the too-clean floor. Cameras followed every move. Guards watched from the edges of his vision—no words, no wasted glances. A weight pressed against his ribs the deeper they went. Like the walls were closing in.

Finally, they stopped before a tall pair of black lacquered doors. A man with a white bird mask opened them without a word. And Katsuki stepped into the lion’s den.

Overhaul sat at a low table in the center of the room, back straight, masked face impassive. Eyes fixed on them the moment they entered. He didn’t move. Didn’t need to. There were two guards flanking him on both sides, each with matching bird masks.

Katsuki squared his shoulders, feet planted. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t glance away. But every part of him screamed— get out .

Giran sauntered forward, casual as ever. “This the recommendation,” he said, voice light.

“...Hmm.” Chisaki’s gaze flicked over Katsuki, slow and surgical. “You have a name?”

Katsuki’s voice came out flat. “No.”

One of the guards shifted. A click of metal.

Chisaki raised a hand. The room stilled again.

“What’s your quirk?” The question was smooth, almost idle.

Katsuki’s breath caught—just a fraction—but he forced the words out. “Don’t got one.”

A beat of silence. Then: “You’re not lying. Interesting.” Chisaki’s stare lingered. Not curiosity— calculation . Like a man examining a cracked tool to see if it still had some use left.

Katsuki met that stare, jaw locked. He couldn’t summon the usual bite, the bark. The words that came to him now were ash on his tongue.

Giran cleared his throat. “The job?”

Another long pause. Then Chisaki finally rose — slow, deliberate, every motion measured. “You will attend to my daughter,” he said. “You will entertain her. Gain her trust. Keep her happy.”

Each word fell like a nail driven home.

“And if you fail,” Chisaki added, voice dipping colder, “you will no longer be necessary.”

No threat. Just a fact.

Katsuki forced a breath through his nose. “Understood.”

Chisaki studied him for another beat, as if weighing the exact moment he might snap this stray piece apart. Then—a sharp gesture. “Take him to her.”

A guard approached. The door opened behind him. Katsuki followed. Each step felt too loud. His head buzzed with Takeshi’s voice— you sure about this, kid? You sure you’re ready to die here?

He wasn’t sure of shit. But this was the only lead he had. And besides, he was already dead anyway.

The door clicked shut behind him. The sound seemed to echo. Katsuki stood there, shoulders squared—but inside, his gut was twisting harder by the second.

The kid was small. Way smaller than he’d expected. Couldn’t be more than six, maybe seven. She was curled up tight on the futon, a thin blanket clutched to her chest. Bandages peeked out beneath her sleeves. More around her bare ankles. Wide red eyes stared at him—hollow. Terrified.

Something in Katsuki’s ribs clenched like a vice.

He’d seen injuries before. Burn marks, cuts, the sharp edge of healing bruises. He’d seen the aftermath of what bastards like the League could do. But this was a fucking child. And she was shaking so hard her teeth nearly chattered.

He took a slow breath. Forced his boots to unstick from the floor.

One step. Then another.

Careful. Measured.

“...Shit,” he muttered under his breath—not at her. At the whole sick mess.

Eri flinched.

Katsuki froze. Hands up.

“Hey, no. Not at you, kid,” he said quickly, voice low. Steady. “That wasn’t... I wasn’t talkin’ to you.”

Her trembling eased a fraction. Barely.

Katsuki dropped into a crouch a few feet away. Close enough to see her, but not enough to trap her. He’d seen cornered animals. He knew the look in her eyes—all instinct, all fear. He rubbed the back of his neck. The words stuck sideways in his throat. He wasn’t built for this shit. But he had to try. “I’m not here to hurt ya,” he said again, slow this time. Picking each word like it mattered. “I don’t work for those assholes. I ain’t one of them.”

Another beat.

She blinked once. Didn’t speak.

Good. No screaming yet. No bolting. That was a start.

“You can call me... doesn’t matter what,” Katsuki said. Voice hoarse, mouth dry. He shook his head. “Point is—I ain’t here to make ya do anything.”

The kid shifted. Her eyes flicked to the door, then back to him.

Katsuki caught that. Noted it. Yeah—she was used to watching exits. Used to looking for an out that wasn’t there. A sick heat crawled under his skin. Bastards. Absolute fucking bastards. But he pushed it down. Couldn’t blow this. Couldn’t scare her more.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. “You cold?” he asked, glancing at the threadbare blanket. “Or hungry? Somethin’ I can do?”

She didn’t answer.

But her grip on the blanket eased just a little.

Katsuki let the silence hang. Didn’t fill it. Let her set the pace. 

Here he was. No hero cape, no flashy quirk. Just... a kid who’d been gutted by the world, trying to talk to another one.

He sat back, cross-legged now. Palms open on his knees. A position that said not a threat. “Y’know,” he said after a long stretch, voice low and rough, “I’m pretty shit at this.” A dry smirk tugged at his mouth—not sharp, just tired. “Talkin’. People.”

A flicker—the faintest ghost of curiosity in her eyes.

“That’s alright,” he added. “We can sit here. Nothin’ wrong with quiet.”

More silence. But the room had shifted, almost imperceptibly. The air wasn’t as brittle. And that was when he noticed it—the faint shimmer. A curling, coiling aura around her. Like a quirk trembling on a hair trigger, too wild to be held down.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. Yeah. Whatever she had... it was unstable as hell. And someone— he knew damn well who —had been using her like a weapon.

Katsuki swallowed hard. “Kid,” he said softly, “whatever’s happening to you... I see it. It isn’t your fault. Not one fuckin’ bit.”

Her eyes widened just slightly.

“You got nothin’ to be ashamed of.” He leaned in just a little, voice dropping further. “And I swear to you—long as I’m here, nobody’s layin’ a hand on you.”

Another tremble—but not as sharp.

A single word slipped out, so faint he almost missed it.

“...Why?”

Katsuki’s chest tightened. He rubbed his jaw, thought for a beat. Why? Fuck if he really knew. He let out a slow breath. “‘Cause somebody fuckin’ should’ve told me that once,” he said. Quiet. Flat. Honest.

That did it.

Her eyes glistened. The tension in her tiny shoulders sagged just a little.

And Katsuki sat there, on the floor of a room that felt colder than any cell, steady as stone. This wasn’t about saving face. Or getting close to the League. Not anymore. This was about her. And in that moment, for the first time in days, he wasn’t thinkin’ about himself.

The minutes stretched thin. Katsuki stayed where he was—cross-legged on the cold floor, hands loose on his knees, gaze steady but soft. No sudden moves. No reaching out. He knew better.

Across from him, Eri hadn’t moved much either. But the tremors in her shoulders had dulled. Her eyes still darted toward the door now and then, but each time they returned to him a little faster. A little longer.

It was a start.

Katsuki leaned his elbows to his knees, chin tilted down just a little. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet—more like a rumble than anything sharp. “Y’know,” he said, “if you don’t wanna say nothin’, that’s fine. Not gonna push you.”

Another beat of silence.

Progress. Inch by inch.

Katsuki exhaled slowly, leaning back a fraction to ease the ache creeping into his legs.

Still, he stayed. Watching her without watching too hard. Giving her space without stepping out.

If there was one damn thing he could do right anymore—it was this.

–Overhaul–

The hum of old security monitors filled the stale air.

Kai Chisaki stood with arms folded behind his back, masked face tilted toward the largest screen.

The new hire sat still, patient. Unmoving for nearly an hour. Not a hint of nervous shifting. No pointless chatter. No tricks.

Chisaki’s gaze flicked to the girl. Eri—curled in on herself less than she had at the start. Not much. But enough for an eye like his to notice.

Interesting.

He leaned in slightly, studying the boy’s posture, the way he spoke—measured, quiet, but not coddling. No pleading or false kindness. No forced cheer.

Something about it grated.

And yet... it worked.

“...Tch,” Chisaki breathed, fingers curling behind his back. Who the hell are you, boy?

A quirkless boy—or so Giran claimed. With no file, no trail, no strings to pull. Someone trying too hard to stay off the grid. And yet there he was—handling her better than half the handlers who had come before.

Chisaki’s lip curled beneath the mask. No matter. The moment he outlived his usefulness, he’d be gone like the rest.

Chisaki stood, leaving the monitor room. His steps carried him deeper into the compound, past flickering lights and silent doors, his long coat brushing the floor behind him in neat, controlled sways. The halls smelled like antiseptic and cold metal. He breathed it in like air.

The boy had done what none of the trained handlers could. He hadn’t tried to fix her. Hadn’t tried to touch her, teach her, praise her. He’d simply... endured her presence. 

A faint tch scraped behind Chisaki’s teeth.

It wasn’t strength. It wasn’t talent. But it somehow worked.

He turned the final corner. The door to Eri’s room sat ahead—plain, windowless, too thick for sound to bleed through. Two guards stood stationed outside, bird masks impassive, heads bowing slightly as he approached. He didn’t acknowledge them. Just raised a gloved hand to the handle.

Kchhhk.

The lock disengaged. The door creaked open on weighted hinges.

Chisaki stepped inside, shadow spilling in before him.

Inside, the boy was still seated on the floor, shoulders squared but loose—as if he hadn’t noticed the hours slipping by. Eri, bleary-eyed now, had edged closer to him at some point. The blanket sat crumpled beside her.

Chisaki’s eyes swept the room once.

No overt changes. No contact. No signs of manipulation.

Still...

He stepped forward, the door closing behind him with a quiet thunk . The quiet that followed was heavy. Measured.

The boy’s head jerked up, sharp instinct flashing behind tired eyes.

“Enough,” he said.

His voice cut through the space.

The new hire rose slowly—not stiff, not brash. Careful. Watching. Chisaki’s gaze flicked between him and the girl. She was trembling again. Good. Fear kept her controllable. But this boy—that dead glint behind his eyes didn’t match his age. A dangerous thing to let linger.

Chisaki gestured for the boy to come closer.

The kid moved.

Chisaki’s voice, when it came, was smooth and precise—like a scalpel sliding beneath skin. “You’ll be staying here.”

The guards blocked the doorway.

The boy straightened, posture tense.

Chisaki’s eyes narrowed behind the mask, voice a low, lethal hum. “You are mine, now. And you do not leave unless I say.”

The boy said nothing. His fists remained loose at his sides. He was learning. Good.

Chisaki took a slow step forward, closing the distance by a hair. “Eri escaped yesterday,” he said, soft as silk, sharp as broken glass. “Ran straight into the arms of heroes. They know we have her. They are already sniffing, and it’s only a matter of time before someone tries to pry her loose again” He leaned a fraction closer, so only the kid could hear. “I want her here. In one place. Unmoved. Unspoiled.” A pause. “You will keep her that way.”

The implied threat hung between them like a blade.

Chisaki’s eyes gleamed. A faint, mirthless curve tugged at the corner of his mouth beneath the mask. “And if you don’t, then you will stay in one place. Permanently.”

-----------

–Katsuki–

A sick, slow dread curled in Katsuki’s gut—but outwardly, he gave nothing. No flicker of fear.

The words hung heavy in the air.

Katsuki didn’t move—but his pulse kicked once, sharp and fast.

“Entertain her. Keep her calm.” A pause. “And you will not leave.” A faint, amused tilt of the masked head followed. “You made her... more compliant today than she’s been in weeks.” The smile that wasn’t a smile. “Useful. For now.”

Another step forward. “If she leaves this room, if she is harmed, if she uses her quirk in any way— you will answer for it.”

Katsuki’s throat was dry. But he forced his voice out—flat. Controlled. “Fine.” He gave a faint shrug, the barest twitch of defiance still lingering in his spine. “Wasn’t plannin’ on goin’ anywhere.”

A low hum from Chisaki, deep and amused. “No,” he said quietly. “You weren’t.” Without another word, Chisaki turned and walked out. The guards followed, the door swinging closed behind them with a final, locking click .

And just like that—Katsuki was left standing in the cold room. No exit. No allies. Just him. And the terrified girl watching him with wide, wary eyes. A long breath hissed out between his teeth. His heart pounded in his ears. 

Babysitter. Guard dog. Prisoner.

And worse— he wasn’t sure which of those the kid would see him as now.

He let out a rough sigh and crouched down again, palms open on his knees.

“Guess it’s just you and me for a while, kid,” he muttered—voice softer this time. Less armor. More human.

She didn’t speak. But her eyes lingered on him.

Not trust yet. But something.

He met her gaze and managed a tired, crooked smirk. “You can still call me Kacchan,” he said. Voice hoarse. “Don’t care if you think it’s stupid. S’what people used to call me.” His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. “You can too. If you wanna.”

She didn’t answer, but her fingers loosened on the blanket again.

Another long beat.

Then—barely a whisper:

“...Kacchan.”

Katsuki’s chest ached. Yeah, he thought grimly. I’m in deep now. All the fuckin’ way.

–Takeshi–

The kid didn’t come home.

The clock on the wall ticked louder than it should’ve. Click. Click. Click. Past midnight now. Second hand dragging like a blade across his nerves.

Takeshi sat in the dark trailer, hunched forward in the battered armchair. One hand wrapped tight around a cheap metal lighter—flipping it open, snapping it shut. Open. Snap. Over and over. His cigarette had long since burned down to ash.

Didn’t even remember lighting the damn thing.

“Stupid,” he muttered to no one. The word rasped out of his throat like old sandpaper.

He’d known it the second the kid climbed into Giran’s car that morning.

“I’m going old man.”

And now—here it was.

No call. No word. No heavy footsteps on the porch. Just the empty whine of the wind outside.

Takeshi slammed the lighter shut and rubbed both hands hard over his face. His gut had been screaming from the start— bad idea, bad fuckin’ idea . You don’t waltz into the heart of a damn Yakuza compound with no quirk and no allies and think you’re walkin’ out clean.

The kid knew that. Hell, Takeshi had told him straight. “You got nothin’ to prove to ‘em. You got nothin’ left to give.”

And still… Still,  Katsuki had looked him dead in the eye.

“If I don’t fight—then what the fuck am I even doing here?”

Takeshi had seen that look before. Long ago. In a mirror he didn’t like to remember. So he’d shut his damn mouth. Let the kid go.

Now the chair creaked beneath him as he leaned forward, elbows on knees. Jaw set. Lighter clicking again. Open. Snap.

He’s smart, Takeshi told himself. Too damn stubborn to go down easy. Maybe it’s not what it looks like. Maybe he’s just stuck overnight—

But the lie tasted like rust on his tongue.

“Suicide mission,” he breathed. The words sat heavy in the room.

And the worst part—the part that dug sharpest into his ribs—was that Takeshi understood. When you had nothin’ left… Sometimes you walked into the lion’s den, for nothing more than a flicker of a chance.

Takeshi sat back hard in the chair. Fists clenched, trembling.

Dammit, brat. You better fight. You better crawl outta there if you gotta. ‘Cause if you don’t—

The words caught. He let out a harsh breath and dragged a hand through his graying hair.

Another hour passed.

Still no word.

And in that silence, for the first time in too long—Takeshi found himself praying.

Chapter Text

He didn’t mark the days anymore. There wasn’t a point to it.

The kid was gone.

The shop had fallen to silence—not the comfortable quiet of a man used to his own company, but the kind that pressed in behind the ribs. Every little sound rang too sharp. Every dark corner felt too damn empty.

Takeshi sat at the table most nights, a chipped mug of coffee gone cold between his hands, staring at nothing. His hands itched for the carton sitting in the refrigerator. No. He wouldn't drink. The TV stayed off. The radio gathered dust. Even the tools on his bench hadn’t moved in days.

He couldn’t make himself care.

The first night had been the worst. He’d sat up by the door like a damn fool, waiting for the sound of boots on the step. Told himself the kid would be back by afternoon.

When afternoon came, he told himself by evening.

Then tomorrow.

Then— soon.

But it never came.

And now each time the door stayed shut, it carved another line through his chest.

He didn’t even know what had happened. Couldn’t know. That was the thing eating him alive.

If they’d killed the boy—he’d never know.

If they were keeping him— hurting him —he’d never know.

And if by some miracle Katsuki was still alive in there, scared or hurt or caged—

Takeshi’s fingers curled tight around the mug.

He should’ve stopped him. Grabbed him by the damn collar and made him stay. Should’ve told him the fight wasn’t worth his life. Should’ve—

But the words wouldn’t come then. And they sure as hell didn’t help now.

Most nights, he found himself drifting toward the battered couch in the shop’s break room—the one where the boy had slept those first rough nights. Sometimes he sat there for hours, staring at the threadbare cushion like it might give up some trace of him. A voice.

But it was just a couch. And Takeshi was just a man too late to save another kid.

“You stupid little bastard,” he rasped one night, voice rough as gravel. “Why’d you have to go get yourself killed?”

No answer, of course.

Just the same empty room.

The same old ache in his chest.

He leaned back with a groan, rubbing his face. There were moments—god help him—where he caught himself listening for the damn door again. Like some part of him hadn’t got the message. Like maybe this time—

But no.

No footsteps. No voice.

Just the wind rattling the trailer walls. Just the grief eating a little deeper each day.

And still, Takeshi couldn’t stop waiting.

Even if hope felt like a lie now, even if it broke him to keep holding on.

He couldn’t stop.

Not for that kid.

Not for Katsuki.

He didn’t know how long he’d been here.

The days bled together, quiet and sterile, like the humming white walls of this underground purgatory had stripped time of all meaning. No clocks. No sunrises. Just a flicker of artificial lights and the same recycled air that clung to the back of his throat.

Long enough for the bruises to fade. Long enough to stop flinching at the buzz of boots in the hall.

Long enough for her to stop hiding in the corner.

He had been given clothes. Much better than the suffocating suit he had arrived in. But now, he was dressed in white. An oversized white tshirt, and white shorts. They hadn't taken his mask, but the rest of his stuff had been confiscated, even his shoes. They must've thought he'd run.

Katsuki sat cross-legged on the cold tile floor, back pressed to the wall. Across from him, Eri curled into a blanket with a tear in the corner— holding onto it like a lifeline.

He hadn’t touched her. Not even to ruffle her hair. At first, she’d flinched if he so much as breathed wrong. So he learned to hold still. To wait. He talked more than he liked—low murmurs in the dark, stories she didn’t ask for.

He didn’t care.

Because that haunted look in her eyes was too familiar.

He’d seen it in his own reflection. After Kamino. After they’d taken him. After he stopped being a hero and became something... else.

So no—he didn’t blame her for shrinking when the door opened. Or for staring at him like she was waiting for him to vanish. People disappeared around here. He’d watched a man become blood splatter on the concrete.

So instead, he talked.

– – – – –

That night, Eri looked more worn than usual. She sat curled on the edge of the mattress, a little bundle of bones beneath too-big sleeves, her bandaged arms wrapped around her knees. The shadows beneath her eyes were smudged deep into pale skin — the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from lack of sleep, but from carrying too much fear.

But she didn’t flinch when Katsuki sat beside her.

She didn’t move away, didn’t pull her legs in tighter. If anything, her shoulder brushed his sleeve. Just barely. A whisper of contact. But it was something.

So they sat there, quiet. Breathing in the same stale air. A silence that had once been tense and heavy now settled soft between them, worn into something almost companionable.

Almost.

Katsuki tilted his head back, eyes scanning the ceiling like he could punch through it and see the sky.

“Y’know,” he murmured, voice rough with the day’s weight, “you can’t see the stars in this shithole.”

Eri blinked slowly, her head tipping toward him.

He went on, his voice distant. “My old man used to say the stars could help you find your way if you got lost. Said if you looked close enough, they made pictures. Shapes in the sky. They got names — constellations.”

Eri was silent for a long moment. Then, in the smallest voice: “What’s it like?”

Her eyes flicked toward the bolted door. Not like she expected it to open — more like she was looking at the edge of a dream. “Outside, I mean. I don’t remember.”

Katsuki’s throat locked up.

She was six. Maybe seven. And she didn’t know the damn sky.

His hands curled against his knees. He exhaled slow.

“It’s loud,” he said, finally. “Bright. Crowded. People are annoying.”

She blinked, unsure.

He let out a quiet snort. “But it’s good,” he said. “It’s messy and loud and stupid sometimes. But you’d like it.”

Eri tilted her head, curiosity flickering past the ever-present fear.

“The sun,” Katsuki said, his voice softening as the memory unfurled, “is this huge ball of fire. Way up there. It gets in your eyes and makes you squint, and it makes your skin itch if you’re out too long.” He paused. “But it warms your face. On cold mornings, it feels like... like someone’s hand on your cheek.”

She shifted slowly, her blanket scrunching tighter in her grip. “It’s warm?” she asked, like she didn’t quite believe it.

“Yeah,” he said. “Real warm.”

A beat passed. She didn’t speak, but her eyes stayed fixed on him now, drinking in every word.

“There’s wind, too,” he added, his eyes distant. “Sometimes strong enough to knock your hood off. Smells different depending on where you are. Grass. Rain. Smoke from street vendors.”

“Rain…” she echoed, a whisper like a memory she’d never had.

“Yeah.” He gave a small, crooked smile. “You’d probably hate it at first. Cold, wet, gets in your socks. But then you’d start jumping in puddles just to piss someone off.”

A sound escaped her — small and tight. Not quite a laugh, but almost.

Katsuki turned his head to look at her — really look. She was staring at him like the world he described was impossible, and she was scared to hope for it anyway.

So he kept talking.

“There’s ice cream. You’d love that crap. It melts too fast and makes your hands sticky, but it’s stupid good. You’d get it all over your face.”

That earned him something close to a smile. Fleeting. Fragile. But it lit her face for half a second.

He leaned back again, let his head rest against the wall. “There’s parks. Swings. Slides. Grass so soft you can lie on it and stare up at clouds.”

Eri’s voice came small. “Clouds?”

“They move across the sky. Big and slow. Look like weird animals sometimes.” He paused, then added, “You’d see it all one day. I promise.”

Her tiny hand crept toward him — not quite touching, but close. As if she needed the space between them to feel safe, but didn’t want too much of it either.

Katsuki stayed still.

“There’s a beach,” he said, quieter now. “Not far from where I grew up. The sand burns your feet in the summer, and the ocean looks like it goes on forever. You can scream out there and no one hears you.”

He closed his eyes.

“It’s freedom,” he whispered. “That’s what it feels like.”

Eri was quiet for a long time.

Then, in a voice barely audible, she said, “I wanna go there.”

He turned to her again, heart twisting.

“You will,” he said. “I swear to you. One day, I’ll take you there myself.”

And this time, when her hand brushed his sleeve, she didn’t pull away.

She looked down. Her voice, when it came, was a scrape of breath:  “My quirk… it breaks people.”

He stilled.

She wasn’t looking at him. Her fingers twisted the edge of her sleeve. She was quiet a long time before she added, almost too soft to hear: “He said it’s a curse.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened.

He knew who he was. Chisaki didn’t say it outright, but he saw the way she flinched when the man entered the room. The way she froze, like she was trying to make herself disappear.

A curse.

That bastard had taken her power—something hers —and twisted it into a weapon.

“You ain’t cursed,” he said finally.

Her lip trembled. “Are you gonna break? Everyone breaks. That’s what he said.”

Katsuki shifted forward, one knee brushing the floor between them. Careful. Slow. “Not planning on it,” he said. There was a long pause

“You know why I’m still here?”

She didn’t answer.

“Because I don’t break easy,” he said, voice like gravel and steel. “And because you’re worth it.”

Her eyes widened.

“I don’t care what he told you. That thing in you—it’s not evil. It’s power. You just haven’t had someone teach you how to use it yet.”

She stared at him, lower lip trembling, and whispered, “Please don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

Katsuki leaned back against the wall, eyes closing.

Silence fell between them again. But it was softer, now.

“I won’t. I promise.”

Time had begun to smear.

The walls were pressing in. Katsuki could feel it in his teeth, in the back of his skull—like static building before a storm.

Katsuki didn’t know how long he’d been in the compound anymore. A week? Two? Maybe longer. Days bled into nights without shape or meaning—each one marked only by the flicker of overhead lights and the dull ache in his bones.

Chisaki had been playing a long, slow game—loosening the leash one link at a time. It should’ve been a relief. It wasn’t.

Chisaki had even given him the combination to the panel—A gift. A warning. An unspoken dare.

Knew the bastard was getting cocky.

Last week, Chisaki himself had punched in the code to the door and told him flatly: "If you’re going to be of use to her, boy, you need to be able to leave. Don’t make me regret it."

Freedom. Or the illusion of it.

A glance. A smile in his voice.  “But if you try to run, you won’t make it two halls.”

Katsuki hadn’t answered. He’d just stared.

And then the leash had loosened further. He was allowed to leave the room now—move through small stretches of the wing where guards watched but didn’t stop him. Katsuki hadn’t asked why. He already knew. The man didn’t see him as a threat. No quirk. No power. Just a breathing tool to keep the girl calm.

His mistake.

Every step Katsuki took beyond that door, he’d counted cameras. Measured patrols. Memorized exits. Because sooner or later—this false leash would tighten again. He burned every detail into his skull.

He needed to get out. But with each passing day, doubt gnawed deeper. Would he be fast enough? Would he even get the kid out alive? And worse—what if there was no way out at all?

Soon, something shifted. He could feel it. Tension ran through the walls like current.

Something’s coming.

If he waited too long, the net would close. And this brief crack of freedom would be gone. 

The tension creeping under the skin of the place became thicker every day. More guards outside. Less chatter. Weapons drawn. 

And Chisaki—always composed, always untouchable—had grown colder. The amusement had faded from his voice. The mask more present. As if he knew something was coming.

Katsuki caught the signs. The sharp glances. The tight corners of mouths. The whole damn place was bracing for a storm. The guards moved differently now—clipped, restless. Voices echoed louder, sharp with nerves. The compound’s air, already heavy, had curdled under the weight of some unspoken fear.

They’re watching for it, Katsuki thought grimly, crouched low in the corner of his darkened room. Expecting a hit to come from the outside.

But while the enemy had their eyes turned outward, they’d left one crack wide open.

This was his chance.

And he was running out of time.

Katsuki mapped the halls again that night. Over and over in his head. The path to her room burned behind his eyes. The guard rotations. Which cameras flickered too often.

One shot. One clean shot. That was all he’d get.

And finally—he’d found it.

An opening. Small, but real. Late shifts swapped just after 2 AM — a blind spot in the security feed for barely forty seconds near the north wing. Enough time to slip a lock. Enough time to move.

Enough to take her and run.

He’d been weighing it for days. Fighting the gnawing doubt that whispered of failure, of what Chisaki would do to Eri if he fucked this up.

But tonight—

His gut screamed now .

Whatever was coming — the loaded stares, the shifting guards — it was closing in fast. If he waited, there might not be another chance.

And something deep down told him he couldn’t wait.

He sat hunched, heart a slow hammer against his ribs. Eri was curled up beside him.

One shot. One shot. Don’t blow it.

His mind moved through the steps. Breathe. Move quiet. Fast.

And if anyone stood in his way—

He flexed his fingers. No quirk. No edge. Just grit and speed. But that would have to be enough.

He wasn’t going to let that bastard hurt her any more.

Not on his watch.

The hours dragged like lead through his veins.

Katsuki sat hunched on the thin mattress, jaw locked, head down. Every so often his fingers twitched—muscle memory demanding an outlet—but he forced himself still.

1:56 AM.

Not long now.

Heavy boots sounded just outside the door before fading.

Now.

Katsuki moved.

He shook Eri awake. She looked up at him with bleary eyes. She didn’t flinch when she saw him.

Katsuki swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “We’re leaving,” he whispered, voice low but firm. “Now. You good to walk?”

She blinked—disbelief flashing across her small face—then nodded.

When she reached for him, her tiny hand wrapped around his wrist. Katsuki felt it like a punch to the gut. Hold on, kid. I got you.

The compound’s corridors were darker than usual, shadows pooling in the corners where the lights flickered.

Perfect.

Katsuki kept low, steps light, breath measured. No sudden bursts of movement. He was slipping through the cracks while their attention was elsewhere.

Down one hall. Past the first camera. A sharp left. The map burned behind his eyes, each turn branded in his memory. His pulse thudded steady—nerves coiled, but focused.

Every footstep brought him closer.

They moved together through the silent halls.

Eri’s small form pressed close against his side. Katsuki kept one hand around her shoulders, the other loose and ready.

Every sense burned sharp.

The compound was a pressure cooker now, guards stretched thin along the outer walls. Nobody was watching the inside—not well enough.

The halls seemed to hold their breath as he moved, each step landing like a hammer behind his ribs.

But he knew this path. Every turn. Every damn inch.

And they were almost through.

A single footstep. Soft — deliberate .

Katsuki froze.

Ahead, where two corridors met, a figure stood waiting.

Chisaki.

Impeccable as ever — gloves pristine, coat unruffled, that calm, coiled presence radiating from him like frost.

He might as well have been carved from stone.

Eri’s fingers dug into Katsuki’s sleeve, trembling.

Katsuki shifted, subtly angling himself between her and the man ahead.

No words yet. Just calculation. Options burning through his head—none good.

Chisaki tilted his head slightly, as though observing a mildly interesting insect. “I was wondering,” he said softly, voice carrying down the hall, “when you’d try something foolish.”

The words weren’t a threat. They were a certainty.

Katsuki’s jaw locked. Breath hissed between his teeth—cold. He wasn’t fast enough.

But no way in hell was he backing down.

His grip tightened around Eri.

No one was taking her back.

Not without one hell of a fight.

Chapter Text

A blast rocked the corridor, dust raining from above.

Katsuki held Eri close to his chest, her trembling body shielded by his frame as he crouched behind a toppled slab of concrete. His heart thundered against his ribs, a brutal rhythm in his ears. He couldn’t hear much else. Not over the shrieking alarms in his skull.

Blood trickled down his temple, stinging his eye. A sharp cut above his brow—shallow but relentless. His right arm shook, muscle knotted tight, and somewhere in the chaos of their escape, something had torn deep through the flesh of his side. Warm liquid oozed beneath the ruined hem of his shirt.

Katsuki’s breath was ragged, but his eyes burned bright with determination. His mind worked in overdrive, cataloguing the space. Narrow hall. Rubble-strewn. Too many angles. No clear cover. No exit.

Fucking hell.

He looked down at Eri’s terrified eyes. “You need to run,” he whispered hoarsely. “No matter what. I’ll distract him.”

She whimpered, tears streaking her dirt-smudged face. “But he’ll break you! You said—you promised.”

Katsuki rose, one arm steadying her behind a chunk of wall, the other clenched tight by his side. Blood smeared across his knuckles—someone’s. Probably his. “I’ll be okay, kid. Can’t fight the bastard if I’m worrying about you getting caught up in the middle.”

Eri stepped back. She didn’t run.

The floor beneath Katsuki shuddered—a jagged spike of stone erupting toward him.

Shit. One touch. Just one and you’re dead.

Chisaki moved like a ghost—untouched, calm. His eyes burned gold through the mask. “Give her back,” he said.

Katsuki’s breath hissed out through gritted teeth. He barely dove aside in time, rolling hard and slamming into the opposite wall. His shoulder screamed in protest. Something tore. Pain blossomed sharp and fast, and blood soaked into the side of his shirt. His breath left him in a painful wheeze. No quirk. No blasts. Just a body running on instinct.

I have to draw him away from her.

He could taste blood in his mouth; it was no doubt staining his surgical mask. His ribs ached. Maybe fractured. His fingers twitched erratically, stiff from adrenaline and the cold bite of blood loss.

Overhaul was already advancing, hands brushing against the wall—and suddenly an entire section of it twisted, warped, lunging toward him like a living beast.

Katsuki ran. No thinking—just pure motion.

Debris sliced the air behind him as he ducked and slid beneath collapsing girders, bare feet scraping over broken tile. Each step was fire. His muscles screamed. His wounded side flared with every breath.

But his mind was clear.

He controls the space. Anything he touches—he reshapes. Stay moving. Stay unpredictable.

Another jagged wave of floor splintered upward—Katsuki vaulted it with a desperate leap, almost falling short. His shin slammed into stone. Pain flared white-hot. He stumbled, bit back a cry, and kept moving.

“You can’t win,” Overhaul called, voice echoing. “You’re going to die.”

Katsuki’s gaze flicked toward a side corridor—a thin opening half-buried in rubble. Could use that. Narrow space limits his angles.

But it wasn’t enough. Running would only delay the inevitable. He had to keep him away from Eri. He needed to end this—but he couldn’t beat Overhaul in a straight fight. The guy could reshape the whole damn world with a touch. The ground, the walls, his body, even himself. He could heal. Break. Rebuild.

Even if Katsuki had his quirk, he couldn’t out-blast that.

Or maybe I don’t have to.

Katsuki’s breath caught. A wild, desperate thought burned through his head.

If I can fix a quirk... if I can fix one...

Could I do the opposite?

His skin crawled at the idea. The memory of touching that villain’s quirk—that visceral wrongness beneath the skin, calmed with a touch.

But what if he focused on that feeling? That feeling of wrongness. What if he could destabilize the quirk? Would it be enough to stop this monster?

Fucking suicidal. But it was the only card he had.

He ducked into the narrow side hall, forcing Overhaul to follow—and slowing his manipulation of the environment. A gamble. Katsuki braced himself, heart hammering. Sweat stung his eyes. Blood dripped from his fingertips.

Get close. You have to get close.

Another spike shot toward him—he dove forward, shoulder rolling with bone-jarring force.

Pain exploded through his body. Something snapped. His vision blurred at the edges.

Overhaul appeared at the mouth of the hall, frowning. “Persistent. But this ends now.” His arm swept sideways—the corridor wall morphed into a wave of spikes.

Katsuki vaulted through the narrow gap left before the stone locked into place, shoulders brushing the jagged edge. One spike nicked him, deep and fast—his upper arm split open, red staining the concrete beneath him.

Too close.

But closer was exactly where he needed to be.

Chisaki turned, annoyed now. His hand lashed out—the floor surged upward beneath Katsuki’s feet, ready to snap shut around him like a coffin.

Katsuki dove forward—a single desperate leap—and closed the gap.

A lurch—Overhaul stepped forward—hand outstretched. “Stupid boy,” Overhaul sneered.

Katsuki slammed his forearm against the man’s wrist, twisting hard to redirect the touch—and in that fleeting moment of skin-to-skin contact—he reached deeper.

It wasn’t physical.

It was a tearing sensation—a rush of something wrong, like his soul was stretching, warping, fraying. He felt the shape of Overhaul’s quirk—twisting, spiked, pulsing with dark intent.

And he pulled.

For an instant, the world narrowed, vision spinning. His stomach churned violently. Blood poured from his nose. The weight of Overhaul’s quirk screamed through his mind—alive, writhing, infinite. 

And Katsuki yanked it apart.

A surge of sickness punched through his gut. His heart hammered sideways in his chest. He tasted copper. He didn’t stop—not until the last thread unraveled.

Overhaul staggered back, eyes wide with shock. His hands clenched reflexively—but the stone beneath his feet didn’t move.

“What… what did you do to me?” he hissed, voice ragged. His pupils shrank, cold sweat breaking over his brow. “What—”

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?!”

Katsuki dropped to one knee, chest heaving, vision swimming in red and black. His entire body felt wrong—like his insides had twisted sideways. His arms were shaking. His skin burned cold. Blood dripped down his face and down his arms, soaking the floor. But he forced a grin through the agony. “Guess you’re not so untouchable after all, asshole.”

Overhaul stumbled back, trembling hands useless at his sides.

But Katsuki knew—he couldn’t push any further.

His breath came in shallow gasps. His limbs felt leaden. His pulse was uneven, distant. The backlash of what he’d done gnawed at him, eating away at something vital. His vision shimmered like heat waves. He was breaking apart inside.

Still—he forced himself upright. One last push.

“Eri,” he rasped. “Now.”

She clung to him, eyes wide with terror—but trust shining through.

They ran.

The last image Katsuki saw as they rounded the corner was Overhaul slumped against the wall—hands twitching, eyes burning with confused horror.

The facility was unraveling around them, and Katsuki ran with Eri tucked against his chest like she was the last thing anchoring him to the world.

He didn’t know how he was still standing.

Blood trickled from his temple, warm down his jaw. His side was busted—torn muscle, cracked ribs, a deep gouge that hadn’t stopped bleeding. Every step was a scream. His body was failing. But he didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

A corner. A staircase.

“Hold on,” he rasped, hoarse and shaking.

Eri nodded, burying her face into his shoulder. She didn’t cry. She just clung tighter, her tiny fists grasping his shirt like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go.

They burst into a maintenance corridor—low ceiling, pipes overhead, reeking of rust and mildew. Katsuki staggered forward, chest heaving. No cameras. No alarms.

And at the far end—an old steel door, bolted and half-welded shut. Light leaked in at the seams.

Outside. There was an outside.

Katsuki’s knees nearly gave.

He grit his teeth and pressed forward, half-dragging himself, half-carrying Eri. His hand fumbled at the latch—slick with blood, slipping. He cursed, slammed his shoulder into it once—twice—then shoved with everything left in him.

The door screamed open.

Night greeted them like an insult. Cold wind. Rain. The scent of wet concrete and garbage. A crumbling alleyway outside the back of the compound, surrounded by high fences and dumpsters. The city beyond was dark and distant—just shapes through the downpour. The compound loomed behind them, still sealed in its hellish maze.

Katsuki didn’t breathe until the door swung shut again behind them.

They were out.

He collapsed against the alley wall, sliding down with Eri in his lap. His vision swam. His hands were shaking so badly, he could hardly hold her properly, but she didn’t let go. She wrapped her arms around his neck and trembled, forehead pressed to his blood-slick collarbone.

“Y-you did it,” she whispered, voice small, disbelieving.

Katsuki stared into the rain, eyes half-lidded, blinking against the burn of exhaustion.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

And for a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of thunder, and the wet slap of rain on broken pavement.

Still holding her close, he forced himself upright again. His legs barely worked. His blood painted the walls in streaks.

But he started walking into the night.

Rain came down in sheets, cold and sharp, soaking through their clothes and clinging to their skin. Thunder cracked overhead.

Katsuki staggered through it, one arm locked around Eri’s shoulders, the other wrapped tight across his ribs. Each step sent a fresh wave of agony through his body. His breath rattled. The torn skin at his side pulsed with fire, and his shirt was soaked through with blood and rain and filth.

Eri was silent.

They had no shoes. Their feet were slick with mud and broken glass, blood smearing the pavement behind them in fading tracks. She limped. So did he.

Still, they moved.

They made it to the city—barely.

Katsuki could barely see straight, but his instincts dragged him toward the faint pulse of neon and life, somewhere beyond the haze. A late-night ramen stand. Headlights. A couple of drunks arguing under an awning. Civilization. Safety. Maybe.

He turned the corner and spotted it—a police station. Stark. Bright. Clean. Safety in theory.

He looked down at Eri.

Her entire body had gone stiff. Her eyes—so full of terror—locked on the building like it was worse than the League.

“Kid,” Katsuki rasped, “we’re done. We made it. They’ll get you somewhere safe. Food. A blanket. Real help.”

She shook her head.

“We have to, okay?” He tried to keep his voice steady. “You’ll be protected. I’ll tell them everything, and they’ll—”

“No!” she cried, louder than he’d heard her speak in hours. “You promised!”

Katsuki blinked, blinking rain out of his lashes. “What?”

“You promised you wouldn’t leave me.” Her voice trembled. “If you give me to them… they’ll take me away. I’ll never see you again.”

He stared at her, chest heaving.

“I don’t care if I’m cursed,” she whispered. “Not if you’re here.”

The rain pounded harder. Somewhere nearby, a siren wailed into the darkness and vanished.

Katsuki closed his eyes. Every cell in his body screamed for rest. His muscles twitched on their own. His pulse was barely a rhythm anymore.

But still—he nodded.

“Okay,” he said.

And they walked.

Side by side, bleeding and barefoot, Katsuki and Eri made their way down the darkened streets—past shuttered shops and locked apartments, empty sidewalks and flickering streetlamps. The world had moved on while they suffered. The world didn’t notice.

Eri leaned against him, limping worse now. Her feet were raw, small cuts painting the soles red. Katsuki carried her when he could, arms trembling under her weight, shoulders nearly giving out each time. He almost fell more than once.

He never let her go.

They crossed into the run-down edges of the hellhole Takeshi called home. The abandoned district—concrete husks and half-toppled streetlamps looming like broken teeth. Faded graffiti. Empty windows. Few came here, even fewer lived here.

He spotted the familiar narrow road. Bent chain-link fencing. The rust-streaked roof of the old auto shop just beyond it, sagging under the weight of the years. And there, beside it—his goal. That battered, dented trailer home. Quiet. Still. A single porch light wired to a motion sensor, dulled by grime and years of weather. No one else for blocks.

He stopped in the road, just before the gravel turned to puddled dirt.

His legs shook. His lungs scraped.

Eri looked up at him with those red eyes, trusting.

God. He shouldn’t be here. Not with her.

Takeshi didn’t ask for this. Katsuki didn’t even know what the hell he was anymore. Dead? A fugitive? And now he had a kid clinging to him like he was the answer to something.

She should be with someone safer. Cleaner. More stable.

Not dragging through mud and glass behind some blood-slicked burnout who couldn’t even use his damn quirk anymore.

But she had begged him not to leave. And he hadn’t.

He remembered her voice: You promised.

Katsuki gritted his teeth. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he’d regret it in the morning. Maybe it’d all fall apart the second Takeshi saw them on his doorstep.

But for now, Eri was still holding his hand.

So he took one step forward.

And the porch light flicked on.

Chapter Text

The rain had been coming down for hours.

It drummed on the metal roof—slow, heavy, relentless. The kind of storm that crawled into your joints and sat in your chest until breathing hurt.

Takeshi barely noticed anymore.

He sat hunched at the kitchen table, mug long gone cold in his hands. Didn’t drink it. Didn’t dump it. Just held it like something solid might keep him from unraveling.

The TV was off, so was the radio. The trailer walls groaned softly with wind.

No voices. No news. No closure.

Just the rain. And the ache.

He wasn’t waiting. Not anymore.

That hope had rotted out of him slowly—like rust in the seams. No more checking the door. No more hallucinating the sound of footsteps outside.  And still—when the old motion light buzzed to life outside with a click like a trigger pull—something deep inside him flinched.

He turned his head—and then he saw it.

A figure. Half-shrouded in rain and shadow. Still. Waiting.

For a split second, the world stood still.

It was the boy.

Not a hallucination. Not a dream born out of sleepless guilt.

Katsuki.

Soaked through. Standing just past the edge of the porch light like he didn’t know if he was allowed to cross it. Head bowed. Shoulders sagging. Barefoot. Blood-slick. Rain pouring down his face. 

Takeshi stood too fast.

The chair scraped back, the mug hit the floor, but he didn’t even register the crash.

He staggered toward the door, slammed it open like he could scare the image away—

But the boy was still there.

Alive.

Not quite standing. Not quite falling. Just existing by the thinnest thread.

Takeshi’s throat closed.

His knees almost did too.

He staggered down the steps, boots forgotten, breath torn open in his chest.

“Kid—” The word cracked in his mouth like a rib.

And then he was there, arms around the boy before Katsuki could collapse. He clutched him hard—filthy shirt and bony shoulders and skin too cold to be real. Held on like he was the last thing anchoring him to this goddamn world.

Katsuki didn’t move. He didn’t hug back. Didn’t speak. The kid just sagged against him like his body had finally given up pretending it could carry all that weight.

Takeshi made a sound. Something between a curse and a sob and a plea to whatever god hadn’t listened the first time. “Jesus, kid. You’re—” His voice shredded itself. “You’re here. You’re real.” 

And then the grief he’d never let himself feel slammed into him all at once.

The sob hit like a sucker punch.

He doubled forward with it, hands still locked in wet fabric. His forehead pressed to Katsuki’s crown. His ribs shook. He cried—noisy and old and broken in a way that had nothing left to prove.

Because the boy was here.

Because he’d thought he was dead.

Because something this battered and quiet had clawed its way out of hell and walked home.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. Only that the cold eventually sank in deep. That Katsuki’s body trembled harder now, uncontrolled.

That something else—something small—shifted in the dark.

Then he saw her.

A little girl. Maybe six. Maybe smaller. Clutching Katsuki’s sleeve like it was the only thing holding her upright. She was soaked through, knees bruised, and face wide-eyed and dirty. The way she stared up at Katsuki—it was like she was afraid he might vanish if she breathed too loud.

Takeshi froze.

His brain couldn't catch up. "Kid... you brought—" But the words died in his throat. There wasn’t room for sense, not in the face of this.

Katsuki tried to speak. Voice ragged. Shaky. “Take her,” he rasped. “Please. She’s—she’s safe now.” His knees gave out mid-sentence.

Takeshi caught him fast—arms looping under his shoulder, muscles screaming with strain. The boy was dead weight now. But warm. Real. “You’re okay. I got you,” he whispered like a prayer. “I got you, kid.”

He looked to the girl again, softer this time. “C’mere, sweetheart. You’re alright now. You’re safe. I swear it.”

The little girl didn’t answer—just crept forward on bare feet, fingers locked around Katsuki’s sleeve even as he leaned, unconscious, into Takeshi’s grip.

Takeshi backed them toward the porch, every step a struggle, every inch another piece of disbelief breaking loose inside him. He got the door open, herded them in with one arm and his whole heart. 

And the door shut behind them.

– – – – – – – 

The trailer was warm, but Katsuki wouldn’t stop shivering.

Takeshi hauled him to the edge of the couch, trying not to wince at the feel of the broken boy beneath his arm—wet and bony and all wrong. Like someone had gutted him and left just enough muscle to keep him breathing.

Katsuki didn’t speak. Didn’t look up. Only half-conscious now, eyes glassy and dark with pain.

Takeshi eased him down, brushing hair back from his face. It was matted with blood and dirt. Rainwater clung to his lashes like dew on grave grass.

“Don’t you fucking dare die on me now,” Takeshi muttered under his breath. His voice cracked on the word die.

He turned to the girl.

She hadn’t let go of Katsuki’s hand. She stood near the door still, dripping on the linoleum, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to exist in here.

“Hey,” Takeshi said, crouching to her level. “Sweetheart. Can I get you out of those wet clothes? You gotta be freezing.” 

She blinked at him. Slow. Hollow-eyed. Her bottom lip quivered, but she nodded.

He moved gently. Quick. Got a towel wrapped around her shoulders and led her to the bathroom like she was made of glass.

Katsuki tried to push himself up as they disappeared down the hall—muscles twitching with stubborn panic.

“No,” Takeshi barked from the doorway, sharp but low. “You stay down. She’s okay. I’m just gettin’ her warm.”

By the time he came back, Katsuki was halfway curled in on himself, shaking harder now. His face was pale enough to glow.

Takeshi set Eri down with a mug of lukewarm tea. She cradled it like it might burn her but didn’t make a sound.

Then he turned back to the boy.

He pulled scissors from the drawer and through his shirt. The cloth peeled away with a wet sound, revealing the mess beneath.

Cuts. Bruises. Gashes that had been bleeding so long they looked ink-stained. One shoulder looked dislocated. A line of red carved across his ribs. His feet were raw. Toes swollen.

Takeshi swore so hard and low it tasted like iron in his mouth. He grabbed the first aid kit. Alcohol. Bandages. Tweezers. Anything that didn’t feel like too little too late. “Sorry, kid,” he whispered—and started working.

Katsuki hissed once. Grunted when Takeshi popped the shoulder back. But he didn’t scream. Not even when the alcohol hit open skin.

Didn’t cry either. He just stared past him, eyes gone distant.

Takeshi wanted to scream for him. Wanted to tear the world in half for letting this happen, but he kept going. Hands steady. Breaths slow. “Just a little more, alright? Almost done.” When it was over, he covered the boy with a clean blanket and scrubbed his hands raw at the sink. Then he looked at the girl again.

She hadn’t moved. Just watched Katsuki like he might disappear if she blinked.

Takeshi exhaled. Ragged. He stepped into his bedroom, stood still for a second, then moved. He tore the sheets off and grabbed clean ones from the cupboard. He took time to smooth the corners, fluff the pillows, and tug the blanket straight. He scooped whatever crap that was on the floor into trash bags and tossed them in the closet. He would deal with those later.

They needed a warm bed—not a dingy old couch. He could manage at least that.

When he came back, Katsuki was half-asleep on the couch, but his fingers twitched when Takeshi got close—as if afraid someone would take the girl from him. 

“I’m not makin’ you sleep out here,” Takeshi said, rough but quiet. “I want you in the bed. Both of you.” Katsuki didn’t argue. Didn’t even nod. Just let himself be guided. Takeshi didn’t carry him—Katsuki wouldn’t want that. But he kept a hand steady on his back the whole way there.

Eri followed, silent, gripping Katsuki’s sleeve. She didn’t let go even when he slumped down into the mattress. She climbed in beside him without a word.

Takeshi covered them both.

And for a second—just a second—he let himself believe the worst was over.

The boy lay still. The girl curled into him like a shadow. Rain drummed the windows like a second heartbeat.

Takeshi stepped back, looked once more, then turned off the light.

He didn’t go back to the table.

Didn’t touch the mug.

He curled up on the couch with a blanket and a broken heart, and listened to the storm drag itself toward morning.

The sky was the color of dishwater.

Thin light leaked through the blinds, gray and soft and joyless. The kind of morning that didn’t feel like one. No birdsong. No sun. Just a stillness that clung to the corners of the room.

Takeshi stood at the kitchen counter, two mugs in hand. He hadn’t touched his, he just watched the steam curl and fade. The coffee tasted like rusted nails anyway. The couch creaked behind him. His back ached like hell, his neck was worse. But the old man didn’t complain. Instead, he glanced toward the hallway. The door was still shut.

He waited another minute. Then two.

Then—

A soft sound.

Movement. The click of the bedroom door handle turning.

Takeshi set the mug down gently.

When the door creaked open, it was the girl who stepped out first.

Eri.

She blinked at the low light. Oversized hoodie dragging at her wrists. One sock was missing, and her hair stuck out in every direction, tangled and damp. She looked like a ghost. But she was walking—that was something.

Takeshi crouched to her level. “Morning, sweetheart.”

She said nothing. Just looked at him with wide, tired eyes.

“You want some food?” he tried again, softer.

After a moment, she gave the faintest nod.

Takeshi ruffled her hair gently. “Atta girl. Take a seat, I’ll get you something.”

She shuffled to the table. Clambered into the chair like it was too much effort.

Takeshi turned back toward the hall—

And froze.

Katsuki stood in the doorway.

Barely.

One arm was braced against the frame. His sweat-stained shirt hung off one shoulder. His skin looked worse in daylight—grayish, waxy, veins too visible. His eyes were glassed over, red-rimmed.

He took a step forward.

Stumbled.

Takeshi lunged, catching him around the ribs. “Whoa—kid, easy.”

Katsuki hissed through his teeth. His knees buckled again.

Takeshi dragged him to the couch and eased him down. The boy didn’t fight, didn’t swear, didn’t push back—not like before.

That scared Takeshi more than anything. “Jesus, you’re burning up,” he muttered, pressing the back of his hand to Katsuki’s cheek. “You look like death warmed over.”

Katsuki didn’t meet his eyes. Just stared at the wall, breathing shallow. “Didn’t sleep,” he murmured.

“You should’ve.”

“I tried. Just—felt like something was crawling under my skin. Couldn’t breathe.”

Takeshi frowned. Sat beside him. “That from the fight?”

“Maybe.” Katsuki blinked hard. “I don’t know. Feels wrong. Like my body’s here, but I’m not.”

That stopped Takeshi cold. “Not here how?”

Katsuki rubbed his chest, fingers trembling. “Just... off. Weird.”

Takeshi looked him over. There was no blood, no visible injury they’d missed. But it was like the kid’s light had been hollowed out.

Dimmed.

Like something fundamental inside him had been scorched.

Takeshi didn’t have a name for it.

He gave Katsuki a light squeeze on the shoulder. “Alright. You’re not going anywhere today. You hear me? Now you sit your ass down and let yourself be alive for five minutes.”

Katsuki didn’t argue. Didn’t agree either. He just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared at his hands like they weren’t his.

Behind them, Eri quietly munched on her toast, watching Katsuki with wide eyes.

Takeshi stood, got a blanket from the closet, and draped it over the boy’s shoulders. “You're not fine,” he said gently. “Even if you think you are.”

Katsuki didn’t look up.

He just sat there in silence, the blanket hanging off his narrow shoulders like a shroud.

“Get some sleep kid. That’s an order.” Takeshi said, his tone left no room for negotiation. “Don’t make me carry you, sleeping beauty.”

Katsuki grumbles and gets up, stumbling down the hallway and into the bedroom.

Katsuki stood in the ruins of a memory that didn’t belong to the waking world. Smoke drifted over fractured ground. Firelight danced in the distance, though there was no warmth in it. The air stank of scorched ozone and old blood. He looked down and saw his own face staring back from the cracked, blackened water at his feet.

No—not his face.

His flame.

The part of him he’d left behind.

“You dumbass ,” the flame snarled, voice like gravel grinding through fire. “You really fucking did it this time.”

He looked like Katsuki after a war and a funeral. Singed edges. Smoke rolling off his back like steam from a bomb. His eyes blazed, but there was exhaustion there too—deep and splintering.

Katsuki bristled. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I will start,” his flame snapped, stepping forward, heat rippling off him in violent waves. “You didn’t just fuck up, Katsuki—you tore us to pieces. Overhaul? That wasn’t a win. That was a fucking execution. And it cracked our soul like glass. You felt it, didn’t you?”

Katsuki didn’t respond. The taste of it still haunted him.

“We were barely holding together,” the flame growled. “Just spit and fury. But now? It’s all coming undone. Everything that made you you—the spark, the will, the fucking fight? Slipping away.”

Katsuki stared out at the crumbling horizon. The world around them glitched like a memory drowning in static. The sky bled smoke.

“How long?” he asked, throat dry.

“I don’t fucking know,” his flame said. “Could be weeks. Could be hours. Tick-tock, asshole. This place? This is what’s left of you. And it’s burning down.”

A pause. A breath.

“You’ve got three choices,” the flame said. “One: you anchor what’s left. Lock it down. Survive with a soul that’s half-dead and get to play pretend hero until you die of boredom or guilt.”

Katsuki flinched.

“Two: you let it go. Just lie down and fucking die. Drift into the void, soul and all. No pain, no fire, no anything. Blank slate.”

The flame’s face twisted into something bitter. “Or three—the only real one, if you ask me—you grow a pair and come find me. The rest of me. The part you keep running from.”

Katsuki clenched his fists. “I’m not running.”

“Bullshit,” the flame spat, stalking closer. “You think you can be this soft, sanitized version of yourself and still call it living? You think playing house with a kid and fixing fucking wires is gonna make you whole?”

“I’m trying to change—”

“You're lying to yourself.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. “You’re just pissed I moved on.”

“Moved on?” the flame barked a laugh. “You didn’t move on. You amputated. You gutted yourself and hoped the bleeding would stop.”

“I had to!”

“Then own it!” the flame screamed, fire flaring in every direction, cracking the ground beneath them. “Own the fact that you chose to let go of the best and worst part of yourself. You didn’t lose me. You left me.”

Silence slammed between them.

The flame’s shoulders heaved. “You want to stay like this? Go ahead. Anchor what’s left. Lock me out. But don’t pretend you’ll be the same. You’ll smile, sure. You’ll laugh. But deep down you’ll know something’s missing. And that fucking hole? It’s gonna eat you alive.”

The flame was dying. And he knew it.

Katsuki’s voice came out rough. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because I am you,” the flame said, quieter now. “I’m every scream you swallowed. Every punch you threw to stay standing. Every time you refused to break, even when the whole damn world wanted you to.”

He stepped back, eyes burning. “So yeah, I care. Because if I go, you don’t get back up next time. And I’m not gonna watch you fade into nothing.”

Katsuki felt it in his chest—deep, gnawing panic. 

“Stop wasting time, dumbass. Come find me.”

The fire blew out.

And Katsuki woke up choking on ash.

Chapter Text

The raid began before they even stepped inside.

The Shie Hassaikai knew they were coming.

From the moment the task force stepped toward the walled compound, the ambush was sprung—foot soldiers swarmed the main gate, and explosions shook the side entrance where Ryukyu’s team had been advancing.

“Scatter and flank!” Rock Lock shouted. “Go, go, go!”

“Move forward!” Nighteye barked, already narrowing his eyes at the chaos. “Maintain formation—remember what we’re here for!”

Ryukyu's team and the other heroes engaged outside, creating an opening. Nighteye, Rock Lock, Fatgum, Red Riot, Suneater, Eraserhead, Bubble Girl, Lemillion, and Deku entered the compound. It was chaos.

But it was practiced chaos—trained heroes doing what they were built to do.

Inside, the heroes engaged in fierce clashes with the Eight Bullets of the Shie Hassaikai. Tamaki was dragged into a warped dimension by Hojo and Tabe. Fatgum and Kirishima were swallowed into a chamber with Rappa. Ryukyu, Nejire, and Tsuyu fought tooth and nail aboveground, trying to contain the flood of reinforcements.

Still, the heroes pushed forward.

Step by step, they carved their way through.

The members of the Eight Bullets were defeated, but Fatgum, Kirishima, and Tamaki were down for the count. The rest of the heroes made their way into the underground levels.

That’s when everything changed.

– – – – – – – 

The tunnels beneath the Shie Hassaikai compound looked… normal.

Too normal.

It set Nighteye’s nerves on edge.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Eraserhead muttered beside him, eyes scanning the dim corridor. “There should’ve been guards. Lookouts. Something.”

“They threw everything they had at us up top,” Rock Lock said, frowning. “But why not leave anyone down here?”

“Stay alert,” Nighteye warned. “It could be a trap.”

The group advanced in tight formation. At first, everything looked untouched—pristine tiles, smooth walls, sterile silence.

When they turned the corner, t he illusion shattered.

The hallway had been torn apart. It was precise, almost surgical, the way the floor was split down the center and the walls peeled back like a ribcage. Blood streaked the tiles—dried at the edges, but still recent.

“Quirk use,” Aizawa said, crouching beside the wreckage. “Overhaul’s, most likely.”

Nighteye’s brows drew together. “Why didn’t he repair it?”

Lemillion knelt near a dark pool. “Signs of a struggle,” he said quietly. “Do you think he evacuated?”

“Possible,” Rock Lock said, frowning. “But this doesn’t feel like a retreat.”

They pushed forward, deeper into the compound. But something felt wrong.

The deeper the team descended, the worse the damage became. Cracks spiderwebbed across the walls, shattered tiles crunched beneath their boots, and sections of the ceiling had collapsed. It was like something had exploded outward from inside the walls.

Then, at the end of a ruined corridor, they found it.

Eri’s room.

Empty.

The sheets were crumpled on the floor. No signs of a struggle. But the air still stung with antiseptic—sharp and bitter.

Deku’s fists clenched. “She was here. She had to be.”

“There’s no trail,” Eraserhead muttered. “No escape route. No forced exit. And none of Overhaul’s men claimed she left.”

“Unless,” Nighteye said grimly, “she didn’t leave on her own.”

They turned back toward the central corridor and froze. There was m ore blood and destruction.

And at the far end of the hall, slumped against the wall like discarded trash—

was Overhaul.

He was barely conscious. His coat hung in tatters, his chest heaving in shallow gasps. One arm dangled at an unnatural angle, twitching violently every few seconds, like it was trying—and failing—to heal.

Deku staggered to a halt.

Eraserhead stepped forward, quirk active, scarf unfurling. In a flash, he bound Overhaul with his capture weapon. “Where’s the girl?” he demanded.

Overhaul didn’t look at him. His eyes were locked on something distant. Haunted. Wild. “He took her,” he rasped. “The boy. The brat.”

“What boy?” Nighteye snapped.

“A monster,” Overhaul whispered. “Said he was quirkless. Said he was no one.” His voice broke—part rage, part disbelief. “He lied. He was hiding it! Played me for a fool!”

Aizawa knelt, quirk still active. “What did he do?”

Overhaul’s bloodshot gaze flicked toward him. “There’s no need for that,” he said, baring his teeth. “He touched me and broke my quirk. It’s gone! Doesn’t even respond!”

The air turned razor-sharp.

“You’re saying,” Aizawa said slowly, “he used a quirk to disable yours?”

“He walked into my base,” Overhaul hissed. “Pretended to be helpless. Let us think he was harmless. Got close to her, then he took her. Took everything! I didn’t see it coming. That brat—he was here for her the whole time.”

Deku’s stomach twisted. A chill crawled down his spine.

“Describe him,” Nighteye said. “Anything you remember.”

Overhaul’s eyes went glassy. “Blond. Maybe. Could’ve been dyed. Red eyes. Young. Fast. Barely spoke. We stripped his stuff—fancy suit, dress shoes. You won’t find anything. No ID. If you’re looking for DNA, there’s plenty right here.” He nodded at the dried blood painting the corridor.

Silence settled like frost.

A boy. Supposedly quirkless. Who disabled Overhaul’s power with a touch. Who dismantled the Shie Hassaikai from the inside—and stole Eri.

“Get me the security feeds,” Nighteye ordered, voice like steel. “Now.”

Buried deep within the Shie Hassaikai compound, the surveillance room was sealed behind thick, insulated walls. Archaic monitors lined the space, humming softly in the low light. Dust clung to the air like a film. Static danced across the central screen as the heroes combed through footage.

“This is the only hallway feed still working,” Eraserhead muttered, flipping through camera angles. “The rest are fried. If we’re lucky, we might recover recorded data.”

He worked the controls with practiced precision, finally pulling up stored files. One was labeled 05:00. The screen flickered to life—hallways wrecked and bloodied, just as they’d found them.

He rewound. 03:00. Same damage. Then—00:00. The hallway was pristine. Untouched. Silent.

Nighteye leaned in. “There. That’s the change. Fast forward.”

The footage jumped ahead. Nothing happened—until 01:59.

Suddenly, there was chaos.

Spikes erupted offscreen. Chisaki lunged at someone just beyond the camera’s view. Then a blur—a figure darted through the debris. Chisaki reached for him—only to recoil, staggering backward as if shocked.

“Stop. Rewind,” Nighteye barked.

The feed was grainy, warped by static and poor lighting. But the figure came into focus—just barely. He was young, lean, and moving fast.

Eraserhead rewound again, analyzing every frame. “No visible quirk activation. Must be contact-based.” He plugged in a flash drive and began downloading the footage. “We’ll need this for later.”

Moments after Overhaul collapsed, the figure bolted out of frame. Eraserhead toggled through camera feeds.

Finally—he found him. It was the same figure. But now, he had Eri. She followed him. 

No screams. No resistance.

“He’s injured,” Eraserhead observed, narrowing his eyes. “See that limp? He’s favoring the right leg. Could be the knee. Or hip.”

“But he still took down Overhaul,” Nighteye said grimly.

The boy leaned on the wall as he walked—movements uneven, but controlled. Intentional. Eri followed at his side, small hand tucked in his.

They slipped through a door—likely a maintenance corridor.

After that, nothing.

No more feeds. No trail.

“They found a way out,” Eraserhead said. “And the rain would’ve washed away any trace hours ago. He knew that. He used it.”

A pit opened in Nighteye’s stomach.

The boy couldn’t have been older than fifteen—maybe younger. Wiry build, like a gymnast or trained fighter. His hair, caught in the poor light, looked nearly white.

Everything else about him was forgettable. Plain. He didn’t look like a threat.

And yet—

He had dismantled the Shie Hassaikai from the inside.

“No facial data,” Rock Lock muttered, squinting at the screen. “Too blurry to enhance. He knew where the cameras were.”

“He’s not one of ours,” Nighteye said. “But he doesn’t fit the League’s profile either. If he’s not affiliated… then maybe he’s working solo.”

Rock Lock exhaled sharply. “A solo operator who can erase quirks by touch? That kind of power doesn’t just slip through the cracks.”

Eraserhead folded his arms, jaw tight. “A quirk that overrides someone else's? Permanently? That’s not rare. That’s unheard of. How the hell has no one heard of this kid?”

“Unless…” Nighteye’s voice dropped. “He never had to hide. He just let the world believe he was quirkless.”

Silence fell like a curtain.

Eraserhead broke it. “If Overhaul’s telling the truth… then we’re looking at a new kind of threat.”

Deku stood slightly apart from the others, shoulders rigid.

His voice was thin. Quiet. “What does he want with Eri?” he asked. “Is it her quirk?”

The question landed like a gunshot.

No one answered. The idea was too real—too possible. Eri’s power had already been twisted once—turned into something monstrous. Could it be happening again? But there’d been no fight and no screams.

Just… silence.

Nighteye stared at the screen. “This isn’t some reckless vigilante. He infiltrated the compound, neutralized its leader, extracted the most valuable asset, and left no trace.” His gaze fixed on the frozen image—Eri’s hand in the boy’s. “That’s strategy. Cold. Calculated.”

The implication hit hard.

Eraserhead’s face darkened. “You’re saying we treat him as hostile.”

“I’m saying,” Nighteye replied, “we already lost. And we don’t even know who we’re up against.”

Rock Lock shifted uncomfortably. “She’s not in any nearby hospitals. Not with the police. If someone had found her, we’d know.” He paused. Then added, “This is a kidnapping.”

“But by who?” Lemillion muttered. “No profile. No history. How do you find a ghost?”

Deku didn’t answer. His fists trembled at his sides. Why hadn’t she screamed? Why had she followed?

Unless—

His voice cracked as he spoke. “What if… what if Eri went with him willingly?”

The room turned toward him.

Izuku’s mind reeled back. “Please don’t go,” she’d said. And then—her hand slipped from his. She walked back to Overhaul.

“She chose to protect us back then,” he said softly, eyes locked on the screen. “Maybe… maybe she thought running would get someone else hurt. Maybe she saw what that boy did to Overhaul and thought—if she didn’t follow, someone else would die.”

Eraserhead stepped in, voice calm but firm. “Right now, all we have are guesses. Let’s stick to what we do know.”

He held up a hand, fingers counting off each point.

“One: he infiltrated the base. Whether or not Eri was the target from the start, he got in—quietly. No alarms, no resistance.”

“Two: he has a quirk. Hidden. Likely disables others. We don’t know if it’s permanent.”

“Three: he took Eri. Intent unknown. But anything beyond that is speculation.”

Nighteye nodded. “We’ll interrogate the remaining Hassaikai. Review damage patterns. Anything to track him.” He turned to the screen one last time.

A boy with no known name. No known origin. A boy who played at being powerless and destroyed one of the most dangerous criminals in Japan without raising an alarm. Something—or someone—had emerged from the shadows. Someone who didn’t play by the rules, and left no fingerprints. And took what he wanted without permission.

No calling card.

And no answers.

“This new individual is dangerous,” Nighteye said, voice iron. “Initiate a full-scale manhunt. Notify every precinct and agency. We need to find him.”

Outside, the wind howled.

As if the world had just realized what it had let slip through its fingers.

The door to the League’s hideout slammed open.

“Hey, boss!” Toga sing-songed, hopping over a cracked beam and dragging a half-conscious yakuza grunt behind her like a kid tugging a balloon. “Guess what? We found Humpty Dumpty. And we brought souvenirs~!”

Twice followed, arms out in a grand gesture, flanked by three men in battered Shie Hassaikai uniforms. “We return triumphant from the underworld! Survivors of rubble! Converts of chaos!”

The hideout was half-rotted wood and broken neon. An abandoned byilding tucked between a collapsed shopping arcade and a condemned subway line. Just mold and disrepair and the flickering buzz of a stolen generator.

Shigaraki looked up from where he sat crouched, skin flaking in patches, fingers twitching.

“You were supposed to be with the Hassaikai” he rasped.

Toga skipped over and dropped the yakuza grunt in front of him like a sack of potatoes. “We were! Though, there's not really much left of it. Guess who we found crying in a pile of his own blood?” 

Dabi straightened from his place on the windowsill, where he’d been smoking quietly. “Chisaki?”

“Mmhmm~” Toga twirled a knife in her fingers. “Turns out, someone beat us to him. Badly. Broke his quirk. He just kept muttering about a ‘brat’ who got him good.” She thought back to the encounter—

– – –

“Aww. Poor Chisaki. Not so scary now, are you?” She poked his blood-soaked clothes with her knife. “You remember big sis Magne? The woman you blew apart like she was nothing?”

Overhaul scowled.

“This is justice,” she whispered sweetly. “A little late, maybe. But I’ll take it.”

Twice knelt, mimicking a priest. “And lo, the big scary mafia boss was smited by a ghost with no name, no face, and no mercy. Truly, poetry.”

Toga and Twice left Overhaul where they found him. The whole Shie Hassaikai was soon aware of Overhaul's fall. His Eight Bullets and other lackeys gathered above ground to protect him. There were some members that looked unsure. Toga turned her gaze on them, smile bright and dangerous.

“You boys tired of following broken men?”

“…What do you want?” one of them asked.

Toga rose, stretching her arms. “Not much. Just loyalty. And maybe a little blood. Interested?”

– – –

Twice laughed. “‘He broke me, he broke me, he broke me’—not exactly inspiring last words, but y’know. Tragic poetry.”

Spinner looked up from cleaning his sword. “Just one guy took out Overhaul?”

“That’s what he said.” Toga flopped onto a crate, grinning. “I think he peed himself.”

Shigaraki’s hand flexed. “And you brought his men?” Shigaraki’s gaze flicked to the three yakuza standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Only some of them. The rest of his guys were loyal. Said something about having nothing to live for, Overhaul giving them purpose, yada yada. Lame if you ask me,” Toga said sweetly. “He lost. These guys want a leader who doesn't piss himself in fear.”

Shigaraki said nothing. The tension simmered.

Then, the laptop on the counter buzzed. Static flared.

Dabi crossed the room, flipping the screen open. The feed flickered to black. Then pale gray. Then—

“Tomura.”

The voice turned the air cold.

A grayscale face phased into view.

All For One.

Shigaraki’s expression didn’t change. But his hand trembled slightly.

“Sensei.”

“You’ve stumbled upon something… fascinating,” All For One said. “A boy who's quirk is off the records, name unknown. Yet he dismantled Overhaul’s core ability. He's dangerous.”

Shigaraki’s lip curled. “So what? We bring him in? Use him?”

“Find him,” All For One said. “Get close and find out his goals.”

The screen cut out.

Silence dropped like a hammer.

One of the yakuza recruits coughed.

Toga stretched. “Soooooo. Road trip?”

Shigaraki didn’t answer. He stared at the spot where the screen had gone dark, eyes twitching. His skin flaked, like something inside was writhing.

Chapter Text

The press got to it first.

Not the full truth—just enough to light a fire under the country’s collective paranoia. Enough to make the heroes scramble.

BREAKING: Villain Abducts Shie Hassaikai Child Pre-Raid

The footage had never been meant for public viewing. But someone leaked it—maybe a grunt, maybe a technician, maybe someone who just wanted the world to see. Either way, it was everywhere. Blurry footage of a boy with light-colored hair, barely more than a silhouette, limping through broken hallways with a little girl trailing behind him.

Eri.

The headlines didn’t call her by name. Not yet. But the stories buzzed with implication.

A child victim pulled from the hands of the Yakuza—taken again, this time by a masked teen with no known affiliation. Authorities suspect a high-level Quirk user capable of disabling powers on contact. Current identity unknown.

Sketch artists did their best. The result was a profile spread across every major channel by noon: a boy in his early teens, all harsh angles and sunken eyes, made to look feral and volatile. They gave him an expression that screamed danger .

A villain. 

“If you recognize this individual,” the news anchors repeated on every frequency, “contact authorities immediately. Do not approach. Suspect is considered armed and highly dangerous.”

Inside the temporary command center, the mood was sour.

“The image is all wrong,” Fatgum grunted, arms crossed. “They made him look like some street punk who chews glass and drinks battery acid.”

“They’re panicking,” Bubble Girl said, standing over the latest reports. “The press, the public… everyone’s scrambling to fill the gaps. And the more they fill it, the more control we lose.”

“The sketch is highly exaggerated,” Eraserhead said, voice even, “but it’s the best tool we have.”

Nighteye stood silent near the window, arms behind his back. His gaze was distant, unreadable.

“He wanted to disappear,” he said at last. “He moved like a shadow. Broke in, took her, and vanished before we even knew he existed. But now... now his face is everywhere.”

Eraserhead picked up the remote and flipped through news channels. Each one had some version of the sketch, some angle, some speculation. Some said he was a League of Villains recruit. Others claimed he was a failed hero student with a grudge. One headline even floated the idea of a government experiment gone rogue. No one knew, but everyone had an opinion.

Deku sat nearby, barely listening. His eyes kept drifting to the screen—specifically, to Eri’s hand in the boy’s. She hadn’t fought. She hadn’t cried—and that haunted him more than anything.

“This might actually help us,” Nighteye said, breaking the silence.

Rock Lock shot him a look. “You think the media storm is a good thing?”

“I think,” he countered, “that perhaps if the heroes can’t find him, maybe someone else will. A neighbor. A convenience store clerk. A schoolmate. With enough people watching, someone out there might recognize him.”

There was a pause.

He wasn’t wrong.

The surveillance had failed them. Their networks hadn’t seen him coming. He was a ghost. But even ghosts left footprints. And now the entire country was watching.

“We work with it,” Nighteye continued, “We use the sketch. The footage. Everything we can. Push it out further. Every agency, every region. We’re not chasing one lead—we’re casting a net.”

“Someone will see him,” Eraserhead agreed. “And when they do, we’ll be ready.”

Deku swallowed, finally speaking up. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot and… What if he was there to save her? What if they paint him as something he’s not?”

“They already have,” Fatgum said. “That sketch doesn’t show a kid who rescued Eri. It shows a threat. A criminal.”

“But we don’t know his angle yet,” Deku whispered. “What if we’re just making things worse.”

Nighteye turned from the window. “Intent doesn’t matter right now. What matters is getting Eri back.”

Another silence settled in, thick and uneasy.

Then the door creaked open.

A uniformed officer stepped in, holding a tablet. “We just got our first credible tip.”

Everyone turned.

“A woman up north—small town near the coast—says she saw a boy matching the sketch limping into an alley late last night. Said he had a kid with him. Quiet. Looked hurt. She tried to approach, but they were gone by the time she reached the end of the street.”

“Time?” Nighteye asked, voice sharp.

“Timestamp matches early morning—around 3:15 AM.”

“That’s just a few hours after he vanished,” Bubble Girl said.

“He’s moving fast,” Eraserhead muttered. “Or trying to.”

“We’ll dispatch a team immediately,” Nighteye said. “Get in contact with local precincts and surveillance grids. Pull everything within a ten-mile radius.”

The officer nodded and rushed out.

The room came alive with motion—phones dialed, names dispatched, maps loaded onto tablets.

They had a lead.

–Takeshi–

The television muttered in the background, a low drone of bad news and worse speculation. Takeshi barely registered it as he dragged a half-rotted mattress down the hall, the frame of the old spare bed already disassembled and leaning against the wall like a skeleton at rest.

“—authorities now believe the unidentified villain was responsible for the kidnapping of a child previously held by Shie Hassaikai. Multiple sources confirm that this individual struck before pro heroes arrived, and nullified the Shie Hassaikai leader’s quirk. The identity of the individual remains unknown, though online forums have dubbed him ‘Nullbringer’—”

The name made Takeshi's lip curl. He muttered something under his breath and turned off the TV with a jab of his elbow, leaving only the quiet creak of the floorboards and the wheeze of the heater.

Nullbringer. Like hell.

He hadn’t needed the news to know something had shifted. Tension hung in the apartment lately—tight as wire. Not just from the kid’s sleepless nights or the way he checked every lock twice. Katsuki had gone quiet in a different way. Not sullen. Not storming. Just… busy behind the eyes.

It reminded Takeshi too much of a broken engine spinning hard to mask the fact that something vital was missing.

But there were other things to do. Like making space. Making room.

The spare room had been a storage closet in all but name—tools, old furniture, faded photographs stuffed into boxes he couldn’t quite throw away. But kids didn’t sleep on couches forever. And he sure as hell didn’t want Eri curled at the foot of the bed like some unwanted cat. She deserved better. So did Katsuki, even if the kid wouldn’t admit it.

Takeshi cleared the room. Swept the floor. Scrubbed dust from the windowpanes and patched the cracks in the walls with paint he found in the back of the closet. Then, with creaking knees and calloused fingers, he built them something real: a bunk bed made from reinforced wood and metal. He even rounded the edges so no one would scrape their knee in the dark.

That night, he called them in without warning.

“Come here. I got something.”

Eri’s eyes went wide when she peeked through the door. “It’s a bed! Two beds!” she gasped. “It’s like a tower!”

Takeshi grunted and jerked his thumb toward it. “Built it myself. Don’t say I never gave you nothin’. Now grab your shoes—we’re going out.”

Katsuki hesitated in the doorway, brows drawn, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket. “Out?”

“To decorate. This place is depressing as hell, and you both deserve better than beige walls and my busted couch. You can even pick out lights or whatever.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. “I’m not going into town.”

Takeshi raised a brow. “Why not?”

“You’ve seen the news. There’s a goddamn manhunt on! My face is plastered all over every screen. They're calling me a villain. You want to get me killed?”

“You’re not staying here.”

“I—”

“Nope. Not arguing about this. You’ll wear the hoodie. You’ll keep your head down. And you’ll stick close. We go in and out quick. You need to live, kid, not hide.”

Katsuki looked like he might explode.

Eri tugged his sleeve. “Please?”

That settled it.

Katsuki’s jaw clenched. But eventually, he shoved off the doorframe and followed them out.

---

–Takeshi–

The shopping trip passed in a blur of lights and dusty shelves. Eri darted from aisle to aisle, holding up strings of plastic stars and fuzzy pillows shaped like frogs. Katsuki trailed behind, hood pulled low, gaze sharp as a blade. He didn’t pick much, just grunted approval or offered the occasional nod. But Takeshi saw the way he watched Eri—relieved and afraid, all at once.

Takeshi found himself staring at a display of girl’s sneakers. Little white ones with pink soles. He blinked and saw another face, another child with braids and scraped knees, bouncing on her toes in excitement.

His chest ached.

“Hey geezer,” Katsuki’s voice broke him from the memory. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Takeshi cleared his throat and turned away. “Just remembering something that hurts.”

---

–Takeshi–

That evening, they decorated the new room. Katsuki helped Eri string blankets from the top bunk, forming a little den below. He stuck glow-in-the-dark stars to the underside of the top bunk while Eri sat beside him. When the room was finally finished, they both ducked into the little hideaway and whispered like co-conspirators.

Takeshi didn’t eavesdrop.

But he stood by the door for a moment, hand on the frame, and listened to the soft rustle of paper and laughter under blankets.

Later, Eri fell asleep curled around a single folded paper crane.

Katsuki climbed to the top bunk without a word, leaving only the faint creak of old wood and the hush of night settling in.

---

–Takeshi–

Takeshi stayed up late in the living room. The news had looped again, louder this time.

“—nicknamed Nullbringer by underground sources. Sketch artists believe he is male, late teens, with an ability to nullify a quirk. Analysts suggest he may have ties to the League of Villains, though others argue—”

He turned it off and sat in the quiet.

---

–Katsuki–

That night, Katsuki stared at the ceiling. The stars didn’t glow much, but Eri had insisted they were magic. He liked how happy she’d been.

He thought about Takeshi—dragging furniture, scraping paint, handing him tools without complaint. The man had taken him in, protected him, let him stay. Gave him space.

And now… he was lying to him.

He hadn’t told Takeshi about the soul fracture. About the voice in the fire.

“Anchor what’s left. Or die.”

The words clung to him like smoke. What even was left to anchor? He wouldn’t be himself.

He thought of Eri curled up in the bunk below. Of Takeshi’s rough voice saying “I’m proud of you” and meaning it.

Katsuki closed his eyes.

“I’m not ready to die,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

Not if there was still something to bring back. Not if there was still some hope that he’d reunite with his soul. His soul was right. Finding my flame is the only real choice to make. 

---

–Takeshi–

That night, Takeshi passed the open door and paused.

Katsuki had fallen asleep on the top bunk, one arm thrown over his eyes. Eri was curled up below him in her blanket fort, her rabbit tucked under her chin, and the paper crane still clutched in her hand.

A glow star had been stuck to the ceiling.

The room smelled like new linens, old paint, and some kind of artificial strawberry spray Eri had insisted they buy.

Takeshi exhaled.

He turned off the hall light.

Let the door fall half shut.

And went to sleep, for once, feeling like maybe the house was full again.

The tip came from a woman who worked night shifts at a convenience store just off the coastal highway. Said she saw a limping boy and a little girl pass through the alley behind the lot around 3 AM. Thought it strange, but the way the girl held his hand stuck with her.

“She didn’t look scared,” the woman told them.

Nighteye stood beside the station’s aging security terminal as grainy footage flickered across the screen. They watched frame by frame. Then—there. Two shadows crossing the back lot. One limping, one small. Both gone within seconds.

“Pause,” Nighteye ordered. The image froze. It was too dark for a clear view, but the shape of the older figure was familiar. Too familiar.

“I’ve seen that gait before,” Aizawa muttered. “Favoring the right side.”

“It matches,” Nighteye said. “Same build. Same posture.”

“Not enough to identify him,” Rock Lock added, arms crossed. “But close.”

Fatgum leaned over the operator’s shoulder. “Is there anything after that? A direction they went?”

The attendant scrolled through later footage. One camera at a nearby intersection picked up a flicker of movement—just the back end of a tattered white shirt vanishing down a street lined with old homes and businesses.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

“They’re on foot,” Bubble Girl said. “And he’s hurt. They’ll need to rest.”

“They already have,” Nighteye replied, tapping the screen. “Somewhere nearby.”

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed. “We won’t find him by brute force. Not like this. If he sees heroes in uniform, he’ll vanish again.”

“Then we go quiet,” Nighteye said. “Plainclothes. Dusk until dawn. No sirens. No broadcasts. We knock on doors, we check empty buildings. We walk every block until we find them.” He stepped back from the screen. “I want teams rotating every eight hours. If they’re hiding here, we’ll flush them out. If they move again, we catch them on the next camera.”

Fatgum cracked his knuckles. “So we’re hunting ghosts.”

“No,” Nighteye said, calm and certain. “We’re hunting a boy who’s running out of places to hide.”