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Chapter Text

Y/n Kakegawa.
Age: 16
Code name: Gambit.
Known for their calculated risks and analysis on both heroes and villains. They are one of the highest ranking villains, despite their identity being unknown and their kill-count being zero.
— "The house always wins, sweetheart—I'm just kind enough to let you play." ᨶ႒ᩚ
(Inspiration(s): Tailung from Kungfu Panda, King Dice from Cuphead, Cipher from Honkai StarRail)

Kyota Kakegawa
Age: 17
Code name: Wildcard
Eldest Daughter of the Kakegawa family. Reckless, cocky, and unstoppable once she starts—Kyota lives for adrenaline. She's a storm in human form, switching sides and tactics as easily as flipping a coin.
—"Heads, I break your bones. Tails... I do it slower." ⋆౨ৎ˚
(Inspiration(s): Tigress from Kungfu Panda)

Renjiro Kakegawa
Age: 19
Code name: The Joker
Eldest Son of the Kakegawa family. A chaotic force of mischief, Renjiro thrives in unpredictability. He's known for elaborate traps, psychological games, and leaving behind laughter that echoes long after he's gone.
—"Am I really a monster if you've killed more than me?" ‧₊˚*

Kyoka Kakegawa
Age: 6
Youngest Daughter of the Kakegawa Family. Despite her age, Kyoka's intelligence unnerves even seasoned pros. Unregistered and officially "quirkless," her eerie intuition and unnatural silence amongst hereoes and strangers suggest something more sinister beneath the surface.
— "Mama hates you."
(Inspiration(s): Tattletales from Tattletale, Anya from Spy X Family)

Luka Kakegawa
Age: 42
Code name: The King
Head of the Kakegawa Family. Tactical, commanding, and cold as marble. Luka orchestrates the Kakegawa family's movements like a chessboard, eliminating threats before they're even aware of his gaze.
— "I don't raise pawns. I raise players."✧
(Inspiration(s): Devil from Cuphead, All for One from MHA)

Kami Kakegawa
Age: 40
Code name: The Queen
Mother of the Kakegawa Family. Elegant and ruthless. Kami walks with a calm grace that disguises her lethality—every word is calculated, every step deliberate. Some say she rules with beauty. Others say blood.
— "There is no mercy in royalty. Only strategy." ʚ♡⃛ɞ
(Inspiration(s): Yor from Spy X Family)

Katsuki Bakugo
Age: 16
Code name: Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight
A rising Pro-Hero in training with a volatile temper and unmatched drive. Bakugo doesn't bluff, doesn't play games—he's a walking explosion aimed at justice, and he will win.
—"You think I'm gonna lose to some cheap-ass card trick?! Keep dreamin', scumbag." *‧₊˚*

Mina Ashido
Age: 16
Code name: Pinky
Don't let the bubbly attitude fool you—Mina's a relentless fighter with acid in her veins and chaos in her soul. On the field, she dances through danger like it's a party she's hosting.
— "I smile so you don't see me coming." ᘛ

Eijiro Kirishima
Age: 16
Code name: Red Riot
A modern-day warrior with unbreakable skin and an even tougher spirit. Kirishima fights with loyalty, heart, and the kind of raw strength that makes villains second-guess everything.
— "If I'm standing, you're not getting past me. That's manly, isn't it?" ໒꒱

Izuku Midoriya
Age: 16
Code name: Deku
Tactician. Powerhouse. Successor. Izuku moves with strategy and hits with overwhelming force, all while studying his enemies like open books. Never underestimate the kid with notebooks.
— "You're nothing like your father." Ⳋ

Chapter Text

THE CLOCK ON THE WALL ticked loud in the silence, each second peeling away like paper. Your room was dim—lit only by the pale glow of your desk lamp and the hum of your laptop, which cast shadows across your face like war paint.

Your fingers moved with precision, flipping through each file with a sharpness more suited to a scalpel than a student. Names, quirks, combat scores, weaknesses. You took them all in without blinking. These weren't your classmates. These were potential threats. Variables. Assets.

Or obstacles.

You stopped when you reached Yuga Aoyama's file.

Your eyes narrowed.

The thin folder creaked as it opened, and a small smile tugged at your mouth—not warm. Curious. Calculating. The kind of smile a predator wears when it spots a wound.

The knock was quiet.

Your gaze didn't leave the page.

You didn't say come in, but the door opened anyway.

A man stepped inside, older by years, taller by more, but with the same cold intensity in his eyes that you wore when you weren't pretending to be a student. He didn't speak until he was beside your desk, glancing down at the screen like he already knew what you were reading.

"You got to him," he said. Not a question.

"Aoyama," you confirmed, voice quiet. Steady. "I had a feeling."

Your brother nodded once. "All For One's little canary."

You looked up at him.

"He's weak," you said. "Terrified. But loyal."

"He's desperate," your brother corrected. "Desperate people are easier to use."

You leaned back in your chair, tossing Aoyama's file onto the stack. Your coin—a small, worn silver thing—spun in your fingers like a habit you couldn't kill.

Your brother watched it whirl.

"He's your mirror," he said. "Different coin, same gamble."

You didn't answer right away, just rolled your eyes and finally peeled your gaze from the glowing screen. "Cut it out with the puns, Ren. You're not funny."

"I am funny," Renjiro complained, folding his arms with theatrical offense.

"Funny looking," you huffed as you leaned back, stretching your arms overhead until your back popped. "Now go. I have heroes to study and an alibi to perfect."

"Spoken like a true villain, Y/n," a new voice called gently from the doorway.

Both of you turned. Your mother stood there, arms crossed and smile soft—gentle in a way that disarmed you every time. Her eyes, though, were sharp. She always smiled like she knew something you didn't.

You smirked. "Learned from your husband."

Renjiro stifled a laugh behind his knuckle.

She stepped into the room, running her hand along the edge of your desk, pausing at the still-open file on Aoyama. Her fingers brushed over it like she was dusting off something delicate.

"You're getting in deeper," she said, not unkindly. "Be careful where you place your bets."

You swallowed that discomfort the way you always did—fast, without chewing.

"I don't bet. I calculate."

She gave a knowing hum and turned back toward the door. "Even the best gamblers lose, sweetheart."

Renjiro looked at you, quiet now. No jokes. No smirks. Just that look that said he wasn't your older brother right now—he was your handler. Your tether.

"Just be ready," he murmured, voice low as the door clicked shut behind your mother. "Your class isn't just full of hopefuls. Some of them... they'll see through you if you slip."

"I won't," you said flatly, stepping back toward the desk. The coin between your fingers spun once more—your own heartbeat in metal form.

Renjiro hesitated.

"You'll have to choose eventually, Y/n."

You didn't look at him.
Didn't need to.

"I already have." You clicked the next file open as you turned back around, returning to your work

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The light outside bled from violet to gold. Hours slipped by, and the warm haze of morning crawled its way across your floorboards. The desk lamp had long since gone cold. So had your expression.

Now, you stood in front of your mirror, smoothing down your freshly pressed U.A. uniform. Skirt sharp at the hem. Blazer perfect on your shoulders. You looked like everything they expected—dignified, determined, a hero in training. No one would suspect the truth. Not with how neat your tie was.

You adjusted the collar once more before heading downstairs.

The smell of breakfast drifted through the air—eggs, toast, something sweet. You didn't stop to savor it. You never ate in the mornings. The nausea would be worse than the hunger.

"Grab a granola bar in case you get hungry, N/n!!" Kyoka's little voice chirped from the kitchen table, her smile wide and gummy.

You felt your chest ease for a moment.

"Will do," you said, scooping her up mid-step.

She squealed with laughter, kicking her little socks in the air until you set her back down gently beside her cereal bowl.

The room buzzed with soft chatter—Renjiro reading the news on his phone, Kyota flipping through her flashcards while picking at toast. Your mother stood by the stove, flipping pancakes with a practiced hand.

"Is Father home?" you asked, keeping your tone light.

"In his office, like always," Kyota huffed.

"Kyota, hush," your mother said, firm but not sharp. She glanced over her shoulder, her voice softening like butter in a pan. "Feel free to give him your regards before school."

You froze just slightly—barely enough for anyone else to notice. But your older siblings would.
Feel free.
To Kyoka, it was a polite suggestion.
To you, Renjiro, and Kyota... it was a directive.

Your smile didn't falter. You leaned down and kissed Kyoka's forehead, smoothing her bangs with a soft hand. Then you stood up straight and walked toward the hall.

Toward the heavy door with its brass handle.

Your smile melted with every step.

By the time you stood in front of the office, it was gone entirely.

You stared at the door. It felt colder here. Heavier.

You inhaled sharply.

Then knocked.

"Sir, it's Y/n."

A pause.

"Come in."

You entered without hesitation, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft finality.

The office was the same as always—dim, cold, clean. Papers neatly stacked. No photographs. No clutter. Just a desk, a chair, and the heavy presence of a man who didn't tolerate wasted time.

You stood a few feet from the desk, posture straight, voice even.

"I'll be at U.A. until 3:45. Hero training ends around two, but I'll stay behind in the Support Wing to work on some gear," you stated. "There's patrol drills in the area later. If anything comes up, that should cover the time gap. I'll message Renjiro if I need to make adjustments."

You didn't look at him. You never did. Your eyes scanned the room instead—walls too bare to feel lived in, a faint hum of machinery behind the desk. You studied the glint of a paperweight, the ticking of a clock. Anything but him.

Then—

"Y/n."

Your gaze finally lifted.

He was glaring at you. Cold. Calculating. Like he could dissect your soul with a glance.

"Don't start to sound like one of them," he said, tone clipped. "A hero. Following orders. Hoping to impress."

You didn't speak. He leaned forward slightly.

"Don't be stupid. Don't ruin the Kakegawa name for a uniform and false praise. You know what's real. Don't disappoint me again."

You nodded once—silent and sharp.

Your fingers drifted toward your necklace, wrapping gently around the chain at your throat.

His eyes narrowed further.

"Stop being sensitive," he snapped, voice low. "I didn't raise a child."

Your hand fell back to your side.

"No, sir," you said softly. "You didn't."

You turned and left without another word.

You walked, rolling your shoulders as your fingers fidgeted with the cool surface of the coin dangling from your necklace. The weight of it was familiar—comforting, even. Like holding your own heartbeat in your hand.

Back in the kitchen, you offered quick farewells. A kiss to Kyoka's forehead. A soft wave to your siblings. Your mother's knowing smile lingered behind your eyes as you stepped out into the morning light.

The city moved fast, but you moved quieter. You slipped headphones over your ears, drowning out the world with something steady. Something rhythmic. Something that let you disappear.

No one looked twice at you—just another uniformed student weaving through the crowd.

Until you cut through the alleyway.

It was muscle memory at this point, a shortcut you'd taken countless times. The brick walls were lined with old posters, the scent of rain still lingering from the night before. You turned the corner, eyes on the pavement—then collided hard into someone.

Your body jerked back, headphones half slipping from your ears. The man cursed, slurring as he shoved you back. His breath reeked of alcohol, and his expression twisted with instant rage.

"You little brat—watch where you're going!" he barked, his voice muffled until you pulled one earbud out.

"Sorry," you muttered flatly, turning to leave.

But his footsteps followed.

You didn't even flinch when the chase began.

Another sigh escaped your lips as your fingers rose to the necklace once more, unhooking the clasp. You plucked the coin free and held it between your fingers, feeling the smooth edges—its familiar hum in your bones.

Then—

You tossed it into the air.

The world flickered.

And you vanished.

The coin spun—sharp and bright against the grey sky.

Time snapped.

And you moved.

A flicker. A glitch. One moment at the end of the alleyway, the next—behind him. Your knee connected with his back before he could process the shift, sending him stumbling forward with a strangled grunt.

He turned, fist swinging wildly. Missed.

You twisted beneath it, body fluid and low. One hand caught the coin mid-spin as it reached its peak. The moment your fingers closed around it—flash—you were gone again.

To the right.

Then the left.

Then behind.

Every movement left an echo—a glitch in the air, a faint shimmer of where you had been. You weren't just fast. You weren't just agile. You were untouchable.

You vaulted off the wall, twisting in midair as the coin flew from your fingers again. It soared upward like a second heartbeat, pulsing in time with your feet as they landed square on his chest. The force knocked him backward into the wall.

You rolled as you landed, catching the coin mid-fall again with a snap of your wrist, heels sliding against concrete as your momentum skidded you to a stop.

He was groaning now. Slow to rise.

You didn't wait.

Toss.

Glitch.

He swung a pipe this time—where the hell did he even get that?—but you were already above him, flipping with feline grace. Your leg came down in an arc, the heel of your shoe slamming into his shoulder. He dropped the pipe with a clang.

Coin caught. Again.

Again.

Again.

You were a blur. A predator in motion. But never once did the coin hit the ground. You couldn't let it.

The final blow was simultaneous. His elbow caught your side as your knee drove into his ribs.

Your breath hitched—vision splintering for a second. But you caught the coin. Just barely.

He collapsed.

The alley was silent again, save for the echo of heavy breaths. You stood there, fingers still clenched tight around the warm metal.

"What a pain in my ass." You exhaled, letting the coin slide back into its silver chain with a click that echoed like punctuation. You tucked it beneath your uniform collar, fingers brushing your sternum as if to remind yourself—still alive.

You pulled out your phone, checking the time quietly.

Y/N KAKEGAWA
QUIRK: JACKPOT — THE USER POSSESSES A SINGLE METALLIC COIN THAT FUNCTIONS AS BOTH THEIR HEART AND THE CORE OF THEIR QUIRK. THE COIN IS TYPICALLY WORN CLOSE TO THE CHEST IN A NECKLACE TO KEEP IT STABLE AND SECURE. ONCE THE COIN IS DETACHED OR THROWN, THE QUIRK ACTIVATES FULLY.

WHILE THE COIN IS IN MOTION (SPINNING, FALLING, BEING THROWN, THE USER EXPERIENCES A MASSIVE SURGE OF MOBILITY, REFLEXES, AND COMBAT SPEED. THEIR BODY APPEARS TO GLITCH, PHASE, OR WARP BETWEEN POINTS MID-MOVEMENT, MAKING IT ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO TRACK THEM VISUALLY. THE FASTER AND MORE UNPREDICTABLE THE COIN MOVES, THE MORE CHAOTIC AND POWERFUL THE USER BECOMES.

You glanced down at the unconscious man twitching on the ground beside you. With a roll of your eyes, you grabbed the collar of his jacket and dragged him across the cracked pavement, the scent of piss and yesterday's rain filling your nose.

"Sleep it off, dumbass," you muttered, tossing him unceremoniously into a dented trash bin. His head thunked against the rim on the way in.

You dusted yourself off, readjusting your uniform and slipping your phone away.

"I'm gonna be late at this rate."

Without missing a beat, you bolted.

Earbud in. Music back on.

The city blurred around you—crowds parting slightly as you ducked through shortcuts and alleyways like it was second nature. Your legs burned with leftover adrenaline, but your posture was calm. Measured. You didn't run like a delinquent. You ran like someone who had a place to be and knew how to get there.

As the train station came into view, you slowed just enough to blend in again. Uniform perfect. Face unreadable. Just another student on their way to U.A. High.

A hero in training.

You stepped onto the train and exhaled quietly, raising your arms to grab the nearest railing. The cold metal met your fingertips as your body relaxed under the gentle sway of the train's movement. With a small sigh, you closed your eyes.

The ride was quiet—save for the soft hum of the rails beneath and the occasional bump that rocked the floor. You didn't care for the view outside. It wasn't useful. Not like the thoughts in your head.

Izuku Midoriya: ordinary looking. unpredictable but emotionally driven.
Katsuki Bakugo: explosive in ability and temperament—best avoided unless provoked.
Momo Yaoyorozu: versatile, observant, capable of leading. Watch her closely.
Shoro Todoroki: conflicted.
Tenya Iida: moral compass.
Kaminari Denki: possible weak link.

You shifted your grip as the train hit a small bump, your body leaning to the side—and for a second, your balance was gone.

You bumped into someone's back.

Your muscles tensed immediately.

Your hand snapped to your necklace, fingers grazing the coin just in time. Still warm. Still safe.

"Ah—oh crap, I'm so sorry man! You alright?"

The voice was gravelly but kind. You looked up—and saw red.

EIJIRO KIRISHIMA
QUIRK: HARDENING
Physically resilient and emotionally dependable. Trains obsessively. Protective to a fault. Shows exceptional loyalty towards friends.
Threat level: Medium to High in physical altercations.
Psychological profile: Easy to read, emotionally sincere.
Manipulation rating: 4/10 – extremely low susceptibility. Consider alternate strategies.

"I should be the one apologizing," you said calmly, voice light, rehearsed. "I was zoned out and I guess I lost balance."

He scratched the back of his neck and grinned sheepishly, shark-like teeth peeking through.

"No worries, really! That happens to me, like, all the time."

Before you could process a response, a bubbly voice chimed in next to him.

"Oh, you're cute!" Your eyes flicked to the speaker, already recognizing her from her pastel skin tone alone.

MINA ASHIDO
QUIRK: ACID
Close combat and terrain disruption. Highly social, team player, known to bridge gaps between classmates. Emotional connector. Often underestimated due to demeanor.
Threat level: Medium.
Psychological profile: loyal, impulsive, talkative.
Manipulation rating: 6.5/10 – easily distracted, susceptible to emotional cues and validation.

She leaned in a little closer, eyes practically glowing.

"You're going to U.A. too? What class?" Mina asked, quickly noticing the neat, unwrinkled uniform you wore. Her gaze flicked from your collar to your tie with sharp interest.

"Class 1-A." You answered, voice calm but friendly.

The reaction was immediate.

"No way—us too!" Mina beamed. "What are the odds? That's so cool!"

"We should totally walk together," Kirishima added with an eager grin. "I'm Kirishima, by the way. Eijiro Kirishima. And this is Mina Ashido."

I know.
Their names were already etched into your mental files, along with everything your father made you memorize. Faces, voices, quirks, weaknesses. A small part of you itched at the thought. You hated how useful this was.

"My name's Y/n Kakegawa," you said instead, offering a soft, rehearsed smile as the train began to slow.

Mina lit up. "Y/n! That's so pretty!"

Kirishima nodded in agreement, his eyes friendly and open. "It fits you! You've got a cool vibe, y'know?"

The train hissed to a stop. You loosened your grip on the rail and followed them off the car, the morning sun finally cresting over the city skyline.

You walked side by side with them, the crowd thinning as you got closer to U.A.'s gates. You didn't say much—but they didn't seem to mind. They talked enough for all three of you.

"I wonder what kind of stuff we'll do on our first day," Kirishima said. "Think we'll meet Aizawa right away? That guy's a legend!"

Mina laughed. "Bet they make us run laps or something. Like, surprise obstacle course! 'Welcome to hell,' but make it U.A."

You smiled again, faint and practiced. You weren't here to make friends.
You were here to gather intel. To survive long enough to be of use to your father.
To carve a path straight through the heart of the hero society—for him.

But as you walked beside them, sunlight warming your skin, their laughter echoing gently beside you...

You couldn't help but wonder how long you could keep pretending.

And how long until the coin slipped from your fingers again.

Kirishima and Mina walked just ahead of you now, their conversation fluid and full of energy—laughing about entrance exam rumors, quirks, and who might be the strongest in class. You listened in silence, absorbing every word like a sponge, mentally tagging names and context for later. They talked a lot, and more importantly, they talked easily. If you could get close to them, you'd have access to more than just two classmates. You'd be connected to everyone.

You watched them carefully, evaluating.

ADDED INTEL ON EIJIRO KIRISHIMA
→ EXTROVERTED. FRIENDLY. IDEALISTIC.
→ DESIRE FOR CAMARADERIE AND MUTUAL RESPECT.
→ HIGH LOYALTY TENDENCY.
→ VULNERABLE TO FLATTERY AND EMOTIONAL CONNECTION.

ADDED INTEL ON MINA ASHIDO
→ SOCIAL GLUE. ATTENTION-ORIENTED.
→ STRONG EMPATHY RESPONSE.
→ CLOSELY TIED TO KIRISHIMA.
→ MAY SERVE AS GATEWAY OR OBSTACLE, DEPENDING ON STRATEGY.

Friends were useful. Allies could grant insight. Open doors. But lovers?

Lovers gave you everything.

You caught the way Kirishima glanced at you when he thought you weren't looking—eyes lingering just a second longer than necessary. Mina noticed too. Her gaze bounced between the two of you before she smirked knowingly, nudging his side with her elbow.

You saw your opportunity.

Stepping a little closer, you laughed softly—just enough to draw attention—then reached out, gently placing a hand on Kirishima's arm.

"You're so funny, Kirishima-kun," you cooed, voice sweet like honey as your eyes met his.

He froze slightly, a noticeable pink rising in his cheeks. "O-oh, really? Haha, thanks! I just like making people laugh, y'know?"

Mina grinned behind her hand, eyes flicking between you two like she'd just found her new favorite show.

You kept your smile subtle, your hand lingering for just a moment longer before dropping back to your side. His reaction was clear. Hook, line, sinker.

You glanced toward the looming silhouette of U.A. ahead, your fingers brushing your coin through your uniform.

Let's see how far you'll let me in, Kirishima.

Because once the cracks formed, everything else would follow. And you'd be there to collect the pieces.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The three of you walked through the gleaming halls of U.A., the sun filtering in through tall windows and casting long lines across the polished floors. Your laughter blended with theirs, a warm, pleasant sound that echoed naturally—even if yours was slightly practiced.

Every few steps, you made light, effortless comments toward Kirishima.

"You must get girls' attention all the time with that smile, huh?"

"That hair color suits you—it's kinda bold. I like it."

"Do you always walk on this side? Or are you just trying to stay close to me?"

Each flirt was subtle enough to pass as teasing, but purposeful. Testing waters. Measuring reactions.

Kirishima's smile never faded—if anything, he matched your energy eagerly, rubbing the back of his neck or laughing bashfully with a little spark in his eye every time. Mina caught on quickly, occasionally throwing you both a smirk or rolling her eyes, but she didn't interrupt. She was clearly enjoying the show.

You ascended the stairs as a group, and that's when the real prize came into view.

The upper floors were buzzing with life—students from all years and classes mingling, some prepping for training, others chatting about missions or internships. Familiar faces stood out instantly.

Fourth-year prodigy from the Sports Festival. Third-year intern under Edgeshot. That girl with the high-profile teleportation quirk.

A veritable goldmine of potential intel.

You kept your steps light and expression innocent, as if you weren't already sorting them by name, quirk, reputation, and potential vulnerability in your mind. Every one of them a stepping stone. Every connection a potential weapon.

This school was perfect.

You smiled brightly as your gaze landed on the classroom door. 1-A.

The center of attention. The future of hero society.

And you were walking right in.

You gasped, stepping forward dramatically as your eyes widened at the massive sliding door.
"This thing is huge!! What kind of students are there?!" you said with playful awe, your voice pitched with light excitement.

Mina laughed, hands on her hips. "Seriously, right? You'd think there's a giant behind it or something."

Kirishima grinned, "Guess we'll find out together, huh?"

You placed a hand on your necklace, your fingers brushing the coin gently, feeling its coolness against your skin.

Yes, you would find out.

And you'd make sure they'd never see you coming.

Kirishima slid the door open with a light grin. "Ladies first."

"A gentleman," you cooed teasingly, offering him a small wink as you stepped inside.

"I raised him right," Mina chimed behind you, her voice full of amusement.

You laughed softly, the sound delicate and composed as your eyes lifted to scan the room—and immediately, your brain clicked into observation mode.

Mezo Shoji. Tall, masked, arms branching out with keen awareness. A lookout. Quiet. Physical powerhouse. Not easy to sneak past. Possible surveillance problem. Keep at a distance for now.

Shoto Todoroki. Cold eyes. Calm demeanor. The duality of his quirk made him an outlier—fire and ice both. You remembered his Sports Festival performance clearly. High threat level. But his emotional distance? That could be cracked.

Momo Yaoyorozu. Upright posture, brows furrowed in thought even while seated. Intelligent. Responsible. Resourceful. Definitely someone to watch and possibly manipulate with the right emotional angle. She had influence.

Tenya Iida. Already muttering to himself about punctuality, arms moving like he was conducting a marching band. He wore his title like armor. Rigid. Predictable. Ideal for misdirection and red herrings.

Your eyes landed on a blond near the center of the room, his glittering blue eyes already locking with yours the moment your gaze met his.

Yuga Aoyama.

His smile faltered for just a second—so subtle anyone else would've missed it. But you didn't.
You tilted your head and smiled sweetly at him.

A fellow traitor.
Interesting.
You'd need to talk to him alone—soon. Figure out just how much he knows. Or doesn't.

Then, your eyes drifted to the final student.

Near the back. Feet kicked up on the desk. Arms crossed. Scowl so permanent it looked carved into stone.

Katsuki Bakugo.

The infamous one. Explosions. Anger. Arrogance. But not without reason—he had power to back it up. More than that, there was history here. You'd studied him before entering. A top recommendation, unmatched combat ability, a sharp mind buried under that volcano temper. A potential threat.

Or a useful distraction.

He glanced your way briefly, uninterested—or so it seemed—but his eyes lingered a second too long before looking away.

You gave a small hum, hiding your thoughts behind a gentle smile as you took your seat beside Kirishima, who offered you a wide grin as you sat.

"Ready for whatever this school throws at us?" he asked with a spark of excitement.

You glanced around at your new classmates, your new targets, your new tools.

"Definitely," you answered, voice warm. "I've been waiting for this my whole life." If they only knew what you really meant.

You chose the seat directly in front of Kirishima, earning a small whine from Mina as she flopped into the first-row desk next to you with a dramatic pout.

"No fair!" she groaned, looking between the two of you. "I got stuck all the way up here while you two are back there having fun!"

Kirishima chuckled from behind you, voice low and comforting. "Hey, at least you're at arm's length from us. Would've sucked if you were across the classroom."

Mina huffed but couldn't keep the grin off her face as she spun around in her seat, eventually perching on the edge of your desk like it was her own. The three of you talked casually—teasing and light-hearted. You continued weaving your charm into the conversation like a thread through silk, flashing Kirishima warm smiles and letting your fingertips brush his desk with each turn.

More students trickled in, filling the room with energy—some loud, some quiet, some already sizing each other up. You recognized each one. Walking files waiting to be cracked open.

Then, like a sudden storm in a clear sky, Iida stood with a sharp scrape of his chair.

"Excuse me! As representative candidates for this prestigious academy, I believe it is imperative we respect proper classroom etiquette!" he announced, voice booming. His glasses glinted with intensity as he turned to face Mina, and—oddly—Bakugo, who had barely acknowledged anyone since stepping in.

Mina blinked, stunned by the verbal assault, before recovering with grace. "Right, right!" she chirped, bowing politely and grabbing her chair to scoot it closer to you and Kirishima. "My bad, my bad!"

You raised an eyebrow, visibly impressed by the drama. "I would not let someone yell at me, personally..." you muttered just loud enough for her to hear, leaning slightly in her direction.

She giggled under her breath. "Girl, believe me—I almost didn't."

Bakugo scoffed from the back, not even bothering to look up. "Tch. Nerd thinks he's a teacher."

You chuckled quietly to yourself, the gears already turning behind your calm expression.
Every name, every voice, every interaction—you were logging it. Reading them. Calculating.

"Excuse me?! Take your feet off of that desk, now!" Iida ordered as the door slid open. Bakugo scoffed in response. "It's the first day of school and your already disrespecting this academy by scuffing school property, you cretin!"

"You're kidding me, right?" Bakugo barked "Your old school put a stick up your ass or were you born with it?"

You laughed loudly, quick to cover your mouth and put your head down for a moment. Kirishima patted your back from behind you, trying to hold in his own laughter as well.

Bakugo grumbled under his breath, shoulders tense and jaw locked.

"Uh, let's start over," Iida attempted, standing stiffly as he bowed. "I'm Tenya Iida from the Private Somei Academy!"

"Somei, huh?! So you must think you're better than me," Bakugo barked, cracking his knuckles with a grin that promised carnage. "I'm gonna have fun tearing you a new one."

"You would threaten me? Your own classmate?!" Iida gasped, clutching his chest like he'd been mortally wounded. "Are you sure you're in the right place?!"

You groaned, voice flat but laced with amusement as you crossed your arms, leaning back in your chair with a lazy smirk. "Can you two take a Xanax and shut the fuck up?"

Bakugo snapped his glare toward you, eyes narrowed and mouth twitching. For a second, it felt like a fuse had been lit—until his gaze suddenly slid past you, to the doorway.

His expression hardened. Tension rippled through the room like a wave as Iida adjusted his glasses, solemnly murmuring, "It's him."

You followed their gaze.

A boy stood in the doorway, stiff with hesitation and wide-eyed. Freckles dotted his pale cheeks, and messy green hair curled faintly around his forehead. He clutched his school bag tightly, as if bracing himself to be judged the moment he stepped inside.

MIDORIYA, IZUKU
QUIRK: SUPER STRENGTH
Threat Level: High
Psychological Profile: Obsessive tendencies with intense drive for self-improvement. Chronic overthinker; constantly analyzing environments, opponents, and allies. Displays strong empathetic response but has shown capacity for emotional compartmentalization in high-stress scenarios. Carries immense survivor's guilt and a savior complex—can be exploited under the right emotional pressure.
Manipulation Rating: Difficult to deceive outright due to sharp perception and emotional intelligence. However, his moral compass is rigid, making him vulnerable to tactics involving "greater good" rationalizations or manufactured crises. Tends to trust friends quickly, sometimes naively. Loyalty can be weaponized.

"Uh, hi..!" You tilted your head slightly as you watched him look up at the ceiling, shy and polite. His energy was so genuine, it almost made you uneasy. Not an ounce of deception in him. No mask, no hidden edge. He didn't even notice Bakugo staring daggers at him from across the room.

No... he did. He just didn't flinch. Interesting. On the file, it had mentioned they were childhood friends. Suppose that means something happened.

"That's Midoriya, right? The one who got all those hero points?" Kirishima asked. You smiled faintly, eyes still watching the green-haired boy.

"I think this class is going to be very entertaining," you murmured.

Your fingers lightly tapped against your desk, a steady rhythm that mimicked the ticking clock in your head. Every detail was being cataloged—Bakugo's bitter tension, Midoriya's haunted composure, Iida's rigid posture, Mina's easy laughter, and Kirishima's warm enthusiasm.

All of it. All of them. Pieces on a board.

And then there was Aoyama.

His blue eyes met yours—only for a second. But that second said everything.

Recognition. Anxiety. And something else... fear?

You didn't look away.

Not immediately.

Not until he did.

Good. He remembers.

You leaned on your palm, the weight of your head light but intentional, your smile gone but gaze sharp. Quiet. Calculating. You'd find a way to speak to him soon—alone, if possible. Your father wouldn't be pleased to know another pawn was this close without being properly leveraged.

Still, you felt the corner of your mouth twitch upward again.

Midoriya had taken a seat near the window, beside an empty chair. He was scribbling in a notebook already, face serious, eyes flitting from person to person with rapid analysis. The analyst and the bombshell. Childhood best friends turned cold strangers. That file had been vague on the specifics—but something told you the real story would be so much juicier.

And then—

"If you're here to make friends, I suggest you leave" A familiar voice rang from the door.

You glanced down lazily as a tall, yellow sleeping bag slithered into the room.

Shota Aizawa.
Pro Hero: Eraserhead.
Quirk: Erasure.
Known For: Underground work, no-nonsense attitude, unshakable composure.
Threat Level: ★★★★☆
Manipulation Rating: ★☆☆☆☆
Not someone you could charm easily.

He rose out of the sleeping bag like a ghost rising from its coffin, dark hair messy and eyes half-lidded with fatigue—or maybe contempt.

"It took eight seconds before you shut all up," Aizawa muttered. "That's not gonna work. Time is precious. Rational students would understand that."

"Didn't he break both his legs?" Kirishima asked. "I don't think that's a rational student.."

You smiled slightly. "Still crushed it, though."

Bakugo's glare hadn't let up. You could practically taste the tension between them—history boiling in the space between eye contact and breath.

You lowered your gaze again, hand brushing the coin around your neck.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

You sat up a little straighter, brushing imaginary dust from your sleeve. Aizawa's presence shifted the atmosphere immediately. Mina leaned in closer to you and whispered with a nervous smile, "He's kind of scary, huh?"

You gave her a smile, soft but unreadable. "The quiet ones always are."

Kirishima chuckled under his breath behind you. "Dude looks like he hasn't slept in a week."

Aizawa didn't react. He simply walked toward the front of the room and held up a tablet. "You've got three years to become heroes. You don't have time for pointless introductions or a 'get to know you' icebreaker."

Several students visibly deflated. Mina pouted. Iida straightened up like he was bracing for a storm. Bakugo scoffed.

Aizawa continued, "We're skipping the ceremony. Get dressed and meet at Ground Beta. You've got a Quirk Apprehension Test in ten minutes."

The entire class murmured in confusion.

"Did he say test?"

"But the entrance ceremony—?"

"We just got here—!"

You didn't say a word. You were already thinking about how this test could be used.

You stood up from your seat and stretched your arms above your head lazily, earning a glance from Kirishima—eyes on the hem of your shirt for a split second too long before he averted his gaze.

"I like him," you said casually. "He doesn't waste time."

"That's one way to look at it," Mina muttered, grabbing her gym bag with a groan.

As the students filed out of the classroom and headed toward the locker rooms, you took a moment to linger. You watched the way Bakugo marched ahead without a word, the way Midoriya hung back with that notebook clutched in his hand like a lifeline, the way Aoyama barely looked up from his glittering reflection in a pocket mirror—but the twitch in his jaw gave him away.

So many stories in this room.
So many tools waiting to be reshaped.

You turned to Kirishima, walking beside him. "Hey... You're strong, right?"

He blinked, a little surprised. "Uh—yeah, I guess you could say that!"

You grinned. "Then you're gonna carry us through this test. Better make a good impression, Kirishima-kun~"

His cheeks dusted pink again. "Y-yeah! I'll try!"

Mina grinned slyly beside you. "Oh, he's smitten."

You laughed sweetly, letting the sound flutter and die in the hallway air.

Good. Smitten boys talked too much. Smitten boys made mistakes.

You took a subtle step back as Mina and Kirishima broke into another cheerful round of conversation, their laughter bouncing softly through the hallway. With a glance over your shoulder, you slipped beside Aoyama. His back stiffened as you leaned in, your voice low and silken in his ear.

"You're like me."

His body tensed, glittering lashes fluttering just briefly as he struggled not to react too strongly. You didn't wait for a reply. You were already gone.

You turned with a bright smile, wrapping your hand around Kirishima's arm as you pulled him forward, away from Aoyama, away from suspicion.

"This is gonna be so much fun!!" you cheered, the energy in your voice infectious.

Kirishima blinked down at you, smiling in surprise as his free hand rubbed the back of his neck. "I like the attitude! Honestly, I was kinda worried we were gonna be doing paperwork all day."

"Same!" Mina added, skipping alongside you two. "Glad we're jumping right into the action. You think this test is gonna be hard?"

"I think it'll be revealing," you replied, tone casual. You caught Aoyama glancing back at you from a distance. He quickly looked away when your eyes met.

Yes, you thought, walking ahead with your arm looped around Kirishima's, this class is going to be very revealing indeed.

As the three of you neared the locker rooms, voices echoed off the tiled walls. Other students were filtering in—Kaminari laughing too loud, Sero tossing a ball against the wall, Shoji quietly folding his uniform with exact precision.

You tilted your head as you watched them interact. Each one had strengths. Weaknesses. Connections you could use.

But Kirishima—sweet, earnest Kirishima—was already letting you guide him by the arm, cheeks slightly red from the contact, heart unknowingly open to you.

And Aoyama?

He'd be reaching out soon.

Because if he didn't, you would.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The sound of rustling fabric echoed throughout the locker rooms—zippers zipping, shirts slipping over heads, sneakers squeaking slightly on tile as everyone changed into the same uniform.

The UA standard P.E. attire was snug, built for movement—navy blue with white geometric lines running down the arms and legs, forming a bold "U.A." over the chest. You adjusted the waistband of the pants with a slight tug, the material clinging comfortably to your form, cool against your skin. Around you, classmates mumbled about the test ahead, nervously checking their fits, brushing off invisible lint.

Soon enough, the sliding door to the outdoor training field hissed open.

A warm breeze greeted you as you stepped outside, sunlight spilling across the concrete and grass. The sky stretched endlessly blue above, just a few clouds drifting lazily by like slow swimmers. You squinted slightly, scanning the open training space.

It was massive—far bigger than it had looked from the classroom windows. A track circled the area, while sand pits, throwing lanes, and various testing stations stood at attention in the distance. Even further out was a forested edge, fencing barely visible through the trees.

You stood among your classmates in a loose cluster, everyone dressed the same, but still distinctly themselves—Bakugo crackling faintly from his palms already, Todoroki calm and unreadable, Iida standing stiff with purpose, and Aoyama, once again stealing quick glances your way.

Beside you, Kirishima adjusted his sleeves and flashed you a grin, full of excitement. Mina bounced lightly on her toes, stretching her arms across her chest.

You rolled your shoulders slowly, scanning the field ahead. A blank slate. A perfect place to observe.

"Today," Aizawa began flatly, standing before the class in his black capture weapon gear, hair messy and eyes half-lidded with exhaustion—or maybe boredom. "Like I said earlier, we'll be having a test. Specifically, a Quirk Assessment Test."

A few students perked up. Others looked confused. Uraraka tilted her head.

"Wait, what about the orientation ceremony?" she asked.

"There's no time for pointless gatherings like that," Aizawa replied, tone dry. "This is U.A. You're not in middle school anymore."

You watched as the smiles on some students began to dim. The realization started to sink in—this wasn't going to be fun. Not for everyone.

Aizawa dug into his pocket and pulled out a small device. "You've done these physical tests before, right? In middle school. You'll be doing them again—only this time, you'll be using your Quirks."

He tossed a ball at Bakugo, who caught it without much thought. "Bakugo. What was your best throw in middle school?"

"Sixty-seven meters," he answered, a little disinterestedly.

"Use your Quirk," Aizawa ordered. "Anything goes. Just stay in the circle."

Bakugo grinned, strolling forward to the marked throwing circle. With an explosive boom, the ball launched skyward, the screen on Aizawa's device flashing seconds later.

705.2 meters.

"WHOA!" Kirishima gasped. "That's so manly!"

A chorus of excitement echoed through the class. Even Mina bounced a bit. You, however, kept your gaze locked on the screen, eyes narrowing slightly.

Explosive propulsion on a small object. Angle of force output. Muscle enhancement combined with detonation. Useful. Dangerous.

"Awesome!" Mina cheered. "This'll be fun!"

"Fun, huh?" Aizawa's voice turned cold, and just like that—his scarf shot forward, wrapping tightly around her arms in a blur.

"You think this is about fun?" he muttered, eyes glowing red as his Quirk activated. Mina's body locked up, frozen mid-step. "Then maybe you should reconsider your priorities. The world of heroes is ruthless. One slip-up, one misstep—and you're dead."

The class went silent.

Aizawa sighed, retracting the cloth. "This test is to determine what you're capable of. And more importantly—who's not cut out for this school."

A heavy pause.

"Whoever comes in last... will be expelled."

Gasps broke out. You didn't move.

Oh, now this is interesting.

You glanced at Kirishima. His face was tight with tension, but determined. Then to Aoyama, who looked like he was about to cry. Mina, now free, whispered a panicked, "Is he serious?!"

"This looks fun as hell! Being able to use our quirks however we want!" Sero chirped with a grin, hands behind his head.

Aizawa's eyes flicked toward him like a blade.

"So this looks fun, huh?" His voice dropped, cold and sharp. Everyone around you tensed. The air shifted.

"You have three years to become a hero. You think it's all gonna be games and play time? Idiots."

Silence.

Aizawa scanned the class slowly, his expression unreadable. "Today, you'll be competing in eight physical tests to gauge your potential. Whoever comes in last has none, and will be expelled immediately."

A knot tightened in your chest.

No one moved. No one spoke. The breeze blew through the trees above, brushing over your arms, but it felt colder now—biting.

You smiled—instinct, automatic. But it didn't last long.

As the weight of his words sank in, your grin faltered. The edges of your lips twitched. Your mask cracked, just a little.

You were worried.
Worried about failing.
Worried about disappointing your father.
Worried about disappointing yourself.

You could feel your heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to escape. The others didn't know—they couldn't. Not yet. You were supposed to be one step ahead, always composed, always confident.

But this wasn't a game anymore.

You looked up at Aizawa, your smile gone, brows furrowed, expression hardening with resolve. You took a step forward.

"So what's first?"

────୨ৎ────
word count: 7066
sorry if this is a little rushed
nearing the end, i didn't want
to make the first chapter
too long 😭

Chapter Text

“SO, WHAT’S FIRST?” YOU asked, hands on your hips, voice bold.

Aizawa's tired eyes slid toward you, lingering for a beat longer than usual. Slight interest—almost amusement—crossed his features. "You'll see."

But then—

"You can't send one of us home! I mean, we just got here!" a girl protested from somewhere behind you.

You turned your head, eyes narrowing as the poor girl—frantic, clearly overwhelmed—continued. "Even if it wasn't the first day, that isn't fair!"

You crossed your arms, expression unreadable. "Did you not learn that life isn't fair, pinky?"

The words dropped heavy in the silence, and several students turned to face you. Even Mina blinked at you for a second.

You didn't flinch. "Think about it. A villain could attack us today. Or even while we're sleeping. You really think we'll get a break as a hero?"

"They've got a point..." Sero muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Aizawa's gaze returned to you. "I take it you learned that lesson young, Kakegawa."

You stiffened just slightly—only slightly. "My father's quirkless. So I was raised differently than most."

"Hm," Aizawa hummed, like he was filing that away for later.

Then, his voice rose just enough to address the whole class again. "Continuing from their point—between natural disasters and power-hungry villains, the world is full of unfairness. It's a hero's job to try to combat that unfairness."

He paused, then:

"If you wanna be a pro, you're gonna have to push yourself to the brink. For the next three years, UA will bring one terrible hardship after another at you. So—go beyond. Plus Ultra-style. Show me it's no mistake that you're here."

Silence again. Nervous glances. Uneasy fidgeting. You could practically smell the anxiety rolling off of some of them.

Except for you.

You turned slightly, leaning toward Kirishima and Mina, both still looking a little shaken.

"Chin up, you two," you whispered with a small smirk. "The more you let yourself be nervous, the more likely you'll fail."

Kirishima blinked, then shook out his arms with a small grin, straightening up. "Right. I'm not gonna let this get to me!"

Mina puffed her cheeks before exhaling deeply. "We've totally got this."

You smiled.

Yes. You did.

And if everything went according to plan, you'd walk out of here with more than just survival.

You'd walk out of here trusted. Powerful. And one step closer to your father's approval.

TEST ONE: 50-METER DASH
"RUNNERS, ON YOUR MARKS... READY—" the automated system chirped, robotic and precise. A hush fell over the group as the first batch of students stepped up.

BANG!

The starting sound cracked through the air like lightning, and the students sprinted forward.

You stood with your arms crossed, eyes scanning the race. Tenya Iida's calves sparked to life as his engines roared, launching him forward like a missile.

"3.04 seconds," the machine reported as Iida zipped across the finish line, skidding slightly to slow himself down.

TENYA IIDA
QUIRK: ENGINE
Engines located in his calves allow him to move at explosive speeds, surpassing the average vehicle with proper fuel intake and technique.

"5.58 seconds," the machine echoed as the next student completed the dash.

One by one, the groups rotated in. You watched them all closely—footing, form, posture. Efficiency. Weak points.

Then it was your turn.

You rolled your shoulders and stepped into position beside Mina and Kirishima, your name blinking on the screen.

Mina smirked at you, bouncing on her toes. "No hard feelings when you eat my dust, yeah?"

You flashed her a confident grin. "I'd say the same, but you won't even be able to see me from the starting line."

"Yea right!" she laughed.

"RUNNERS, ON YOUR MARKS..."

Your hand moved instinctively to the coin strung on your necklace. You flicked it up with a practiced motion, letting it arc high across the track.

"READY—"

BANG!

The moment the sound hit your ears, you moved.

Or rather—you were already gone.

Before the others had even taken a full step, you were across the finish line, crouched low with a grin and your coin landing perfectly into your waiting palm.

The machine chirped again:

"0.5 seconds."

There was a heartbeat of stunned silence.

Then—

"WHAT?!?!" multiple voices echoed behind you in disbelief.

Mina stumbled mid-run, her eyes wide as she watched you from the other end. Kirishima looked equally shocked, slowing instinctively as his brain processed what just happened.

You stood up, brushing imaginary dust from your knees.

"I told you," you said, loud enough for them to hear. "Eat my dust."

Aizawa's eyes lingered on you a bit longer than necessary, his brows furrowed just slightly. But he didn't comment.

He didn't have to.

You were already making waves.

"How did you go that fast?! What's your quirk?! I need to know all about it!"

Izuku Midoriya's voice rang out, chipper and fast-paced as he rushed up to you, eyes practically glowing with curiosity. You had just finished clipping your coin necklace back into place when the green-haired boy slid to a stop in front of you, a notebook already halfway out of his pocket.

Before you could even respond, more voices joined in.

"Dude, that was insane!"

"Were you using support gear?!"

"Wait, are you a mutant-type?!"

"Do you teleport?! Is it teleportation?!"

You took a small step back as the group quickly crowded around you, their questions overlapping one another, attention pressing in from all sides. You could feel your face flush—part from the attention, part from the chaos of it all. Your mouth opened to try and answer, but—

"Uhh..." you blinked, flustered. "I... uh—"

A firm hand suddenly grabbed your wrist, tugging you out of the crowd with practiced ease. You stumbled for a second, heart racing, glancing up with a quiet breath of relief.

"Kirishima—?" you started. Or maybe Aizawa pulling you aside?

But when your eyes met the sharp, simmering red of his, your breath hitched.

Katsuki Bakugo stood just inches away, face unreadable but eyes glaring deep into yours. The heat from earlier—the crowd, the questions—was nothing compared to the intensity in his expression now.

And just as fast, he shoved past you without a word, shoulder brushing yours with just enough force to rattle your balance. His boots stomped into the dirt as he rejoined the rest of the group near Aizawa, who was already calling for the next test group.

You stood there for a beat, brow furrowed.

"...The hell," you muttered under your breath. "What a weirdo..."

Still, your eyes followed him for a moment longer.

There was something different in the way he looked at you. Like he recognized something. Like you had just put a target on your back.
And if he did know something—
You weren't sure yet if that was going to be a problem.

TEST TWO: GRIP STRENGTH.
The metal of the grip dynamometer was cold beneath your fingers, its weight familiar but uninspired. You rolled your coin between your fingers, the movement second nature, like tuning a dial inside your own chest. Students around you snuck glances your way—eyes filled with curiosity, suspicion, awe. Everyone was still buzzing from the 50-meter dash.

You flipped the coin once.
A soft click echoed inside your head.
And with that, your fingers closed around the device like a steel trap.

The machinery groaned under your grip, metal visibly straining before a sharp beep broke the silence.

You released it with a sigh, clicking your tongue in irritation. "Tch. I could've done so much better," you muttered. "Guess my luck's running low today."

Kirishima leaned over, his grip test already done, cheeks slightly red from effort. "How many kilograms did you get? I got 405kg! Not bad, right?" he grinned with that trademark sharky enthusiasm.

You rubbed your wrist casually. "Only 530kg."

There was a beat of silence.
Then several voices echoed back at once.

"ONLY?!"

You looked up, only to find Kaminari gaping at you, one hand clutching his forehead. "You only hit—dude, you're a danger to society..."

"Wait, what was your highest?" Mina piped in, pink eyes wide.

You sighed again, scratching the back of your neck. "Last time I trained, I managed 780kg. I should've tossed the coin higher."

"Tossed—?" Midoriya's notebook was already open, scribbling notes furiously. "Wait, so the coin—does it amplify your output? Is it a trigger? Does it determine range or strength ratios—"

You turned away, whistling innocently. "A magician never reveals their secrets~"

Aizawa didn't say a word from the sidelines, but you could feel his gaze—quiet, observant, dissecting you like a puzzle he was close to solving.

You turned without a word and handed the grip dynamometer to Bakugo, who snatched it from your hand without so much as a glance. All attention, however, had shifted away from the two of you and landed squarely on you and Shoji.

"How much did you get, big guy?" you asked, voice light with genuine curiosity as you leaned toward him a little, tilting your head.

Shoji looked down at his dynamometer, six arms flexing slightly as he read the result. "540 kilo," he said, voice low but calm.

Your eyes lit up, a bright, toothy grin spreading across your face. "Good job, man!" you said with soft enthusiasm, your words sincere. Without hesitation, you raised your hand toward him.

Shoji blinked, taken slightly off guard, but then smiled—just a subtle lift at the corner of his mouth—and reached out with one of his larger hands. The high-five was gentle despite the size difference, the impact soft but warm.

"You're stronger than you look," you teased playfully, your hand still pressed against his for a second longer. "Next time, let's try and break the machine together, yeah?"

Shoji gave a soft chuckle, the sound surprisingly warm, and nodded. "Let's."

You turned around and waved goodbye to Shoji with a grin as you made your way toward the water fountain, brushing a little sweat off your brow.

"You got competition, Kiri—" Mina nudged Kirishima with a teasing smile.

"Shut up, Mina..." he grumbled, cheeks tinting red as he crossed his arms.

TEST THREE: STANDING LONG JUMP
The track leading up to the sandpit shimmered slightly under the afternoon sun. You stepped into position at the edge of the jump zone, rolling your shoulders and cracking your knuckles with calm precision. A few students paused to watch you again, curious—waiting to see what you'd do this time.

Without a word, you reached for your necklace and flicked the coin high into the air. It glinted as it spun, catching the light like a spark.

The moment your feet left the ground, your body launched forward like it had been shot from a cannon. In mid-air, you reached up and snatched the coin mid-fall—fingers curling around it with practiced ease.

The second your skin touched the cool metal, gravity reclaimed you.

You came down fast, landing hard right at the end of the sandpit, the very edge of the marked area. Your knees bent on impact, heels digging into the packed sand. For a split second, your balance tipped—arms windmilling—but you twisted your foot just in time and caught yourself, standing upright.

You exhaled slowly, a breath you didn't realize you were holding. "That's better than last time," you thought, eyes narrowing with quiet satisfaction.

Behind you, a few whispers broke out, but you kept your gaze forward, focused. You weren't showing off—you were proving something. Mostly to yourself.

TEST FOUR: REPEATED SIDE STEPS
The court was marked with two cones at opposite ends, the sun now higher in the sky and casting long shadows across the gym pavement. Aizawa stood nearby with his clipboard, silently observing as one group after another took their turn.

Kaminari was first—decent speed, a little sloppy on his footwork. Then came Sato, who moved with powerful bounds, though not quite fast enough to impress. Mina's feet danced nimbly, giggles following her even as she took the test seriously. Iida went last in his group, clearing it with blinding speed and mechanical precision thanks to the engines in his calves.

Then it was your turn.

You stepped up, expression unreadable. The coin was already in motion between your fingers—flip, catch, flip, catch—growing faster and faster as you focused. The light caught it just right, glinting like it was alive.

"Begin."

The moment the timer chirped, you exploded into movement.

Back and forth, your body flickered from cone to cone like a blur of color and motion. The wind from your movements rustled nearby grass, and your coin spun fast enough to hum in the air between your fingers. It was hard to tell where your legs began or ended—each step smoother and faster than the last.

"HOLY SHIT!! GO Y/N!!" Kaminari screamed, hands cupped to his mouth.

"Why does it look like she has no legs..." Mina whispered in awe, eyes wide.

"She's so fast..." someone else muttered behind her, barely able to keep up with your speed.

The timer buzzed to signal the end, and you skidded into a perfect stop, coin flicked into the air once more and caught with ease.

You didn't even look winded. Just gave a little smirk and stepped back to the group, flipping your coin casually like nothing happened.

You glanced toward Midoriya as Mineta finished his turn, the poor guy bouncing around with half the stamina and none of the dignity. But your eyes were locked on the green-haired boy beside you. He looked pale—like he'd seen a ghost, or maybe was the ghost. His hands were clenched tight at his sides, the faintest tremble shaking through his arms.

You remembered his file.

The reports said his bones shattered every time he used his quirk. Every. Single. Time.

You bit the inside of your cheek, the taste of iron grounding you in the moment. Your father would hate this—hate that you were considering empathy—but... this wasn't power or pride on display. This was a kid bracing himself to get hurt again.

You stepped closer and placed a hand gently on Midoriya's shoulder.

He flinched.

The tension in his body was immediate, like you'd just hit a nerve. But he didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his eyes toward you—wide, confused, hopeful.

"Hey," you said softly, voice barely above the wind, "it's okay to have a risky quirk."

He blinked, surprise flickering through those big, green eyes.

You leaned in a little closer, your voice lowering to a hush. "Keep this a secret, okay?"

Midoriya nodded slowly, his brows creased with curiosity, his lips parting as if to ask something—but then freezing when your hand gently cupped beside his ear. You whispered so only he could hear.

His eyes widened, like you had just told him a taboo. His face dulled in stunned disbelief, his breath hitching.

You smiled softly as you pulled back, clapping a hand on his back in encouragement. "So, it'll all be okay! Just try your best!"

And with that, you turned, leaving him blinking behind you as you walked over to the only two people you really knew in this class: Kirishima and Mina.

"Okay, what did you just do to him?" Mina asked, narrowing her eyes playfully.

"Nothing!" you grinned innocently. "Just a little push."

TEST FIVE: BALL THROW.
One by one, students stepped up and gave it their all.

Iida's form was near perfect—stiff but powerful. He adjusted his glasses before tossing the ball in a clean, straight arc. "63.4 meters," the machine chirped. Respectable.

Kirishima hyped himself up with a sharp grin, tossing it with all his hardened strength. The ball whistled through the air. "91.2 meters."

"YEAH, BABY!" he shouted, flexing dramatically.

Mina followed, spinning a bit for flair. Her throw was wild, with more personality than aim. "42.7 meters."

She shrugged. "Style points matter."

Aoyama made a whole production out of it, of course. He flipped his hair, winked at the class, and launched it with a dramatic twist of the wrist. "33.9 meters." He struck a pose. "Tres bien~"

Ojiro, quiet and focused, took a solid stance and launched the ball with a strong tail-assist. "78.0 meters." Clean. Efficient.

And then—your turn.

You casually stepped away from the group, walking over to Midoriya, who was holding your coin now, turning it over between his fingers. He looked at you, confused and a little nervous.

"When I'm about to throw the ball," you told him quietly, "throw this coin at me, okay?"

He blinked. "Uh—what? Are you sure?"

You nodded once, firm but calm. "Just trust me. Toss it as hard as you can. Right before I throw."

"O-Okay."

You walked toward the center where Aizawa was waiting. He didn't say anything—just handed you the ball, his tired eyes unreadable, but definitely watching.

You could feel everyone watching. Wondering what kind of quirk you had. What kind of trick you were about to pull.

You took your stance. Cracked your neck. Breathed in.

Then lifted your hand behind you, winding up—

"Now!" you called.

Midoriya flinched, startled—but tossed the coin fast.

And as your hand moved forward, the coin pinged through the air—glinting gold under the sun—

Right into your palm.

The moment it touched your skin, the power surged.

And the ball?

It had already vanished from your grip without a sound, shooting skyward like a missile.

Everyone's heads tilted up, eyes wide. It was gone.

"999.9 meters," the machine announced.

Gasps and shouts echoed across the field.

"NO WAY!!" Kaminari nearly fell over.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!" Sero shouted, eyes huge.

"It's outta sight... LITERALLY!" Mina howled, bouncing in place.

"Dude... that thing broke the system," Kirishima laughed, clapping his hands. "Y/n, you're unreal!"

You brushed your hands off on your pants, casually strolling back to where Midoriya stood frozen, still holding the air where the coin had once been.

You held your hand out. "Thanks."

He dropped the imaginary weight into your palm like a sacred offering. "...You're... incredible."

You just winked. "Don't let it distract you. You've got your own kind of power, remember?"

As you walked back to Kirishima and Mina, Midoriya still stood in place, processing every second of what just happened.

Mina leaned close to you once you joined them. "Okay, I need to know—what is your quirk?!"

You smirked, tilting your head. "I don't give away spoilers that easy."

Kirishima crossed his arms with a grin. "It's gotta be something crazy, though. Like—probability or control or... coin magic?"

"Coin magic," you repeated, deadpan. "Exactly that."

Mina laughed. "You're so weird. I like it."

From the sidelines, Aizawa said nothing. But he wrote something in his notes. Underlined it twice.

Student possesses rapid burst-type acceleration, strength, and directional control correlated to an object—possibly the coin. Investigate further.

Then, in parentheses: (Danger potential: High.)

But the test wasn't over yet. As Midoriya stepped forward to the starting line, you couldn't help but watch him closely. There was something different about the way he moved—stiff, hesitant, like he was fighting a battle no one else could see.

You could practically feel the nerves rolling off him.

You cupped your hands around your mouth. "WOOHOO!! You got this, Midoriya!! Remember what I told you!!" you cheered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Midoriya turned slightly, eyes wide in surprise before they softened. He gave you a small, grateful nod.

But before you could soak in the warmth of the moment, a voice cut through the air like a slap.

"Why are you cheering for a quirkless loser?" Bakugo hissed from behind you, voice low and sharp.

You turned, frowning. "Quirkless? What are you talking about?"

"Haven't you heard about what he did during the entrance exam?" Iida added, adjusting his glasses. His tone wasn't cruel, just genuinely perplexed.

You blinked. "Huh?!"

You rubbed your temples, trying to make sense of everything—until it hit you. Your eyes widened.

Quirkless? Midoriya was... born quirkless?

You looked across the group to Aoyama, who was already watching you with a curious tilt of his head. His confusion matched your own.

Your thoughts spiraled.
If he was quirkless... then how did he destroy that robot?
How did he get into U.A. at all?
There was only one logical, terrifying possibility.

Did All For One... give him a quirk?

You couldn't stay in the open—not with this theory bouncing around your skull.

You quickly pulled your phone out, raising a hand. "Excuse me, Mr. Aizawa? My dad's calling. Can I answer?"

Aizawa, already annoyed with today's antics, let out a tired sigh. "Don't take long."

You gave him a grateful smile and quickly jogged off, heart thudding in your chest. You found a quiet, shaded corner far from the field, eyes scanning for any hidden cameras, bugs, or surveillance gear. Nothing. You were clear.

As soon as you confirmed you were alone, you hit the call button and brought the phone to your ear.

The line rang once, twice—

"Sweetheart?" your mom answered, voice warm and unsuspecting.

Your tone dropped, eyes sharp. "Is dad near you?"

There was a beat. "He's still in his office. Why? What's wrong?"

You stepped further into the shadows, voice low. "I need you to check something for me. About a student here. Izuku Midoriya."

"...Midoriya?" your mom repeated, cautious now.

"Yeah. They're saying he was quirkless. But he has a quirk now. Something strong. I saw it during the exam. Can you... run his name through dad's system? Quietly."

A pause. You could hear her breath catch through the line.

"I'll try," she whispered. "But if he's protected by them, it won't show up on anything."

You closed your eyes. That was exactly what you were afraid of.

"I don't care if it's just the tiniest breadcrumb," you said. "Anything. Please. I need to know what I'm dealing with."

Your mom hesitated again, then said softly, "Alright. I'll check right now."

You waited with your back pressed against the cool wall, foot tapping softly as the line clicked and your mother's voice returned—this time quieter, more serious.

"You're on speaker now," she said, voice clipped. "He's here."

You didn't hesitate. "I think All For One gave a student, named Izuku Midoriya, a quirk."

There was a sharp inhale from your father on the other end. "Explain."

"Apparently he was quirkless. His childhood friend said so but his file from last night begs to differ. Until recently, I had access to everything. Birth record, quirk registry, even notes from his pediatrician. All confirming he never manifested anything." you paused, grinding your teeth. "If my suspicions correct, than the file should be locked now."

"Which means someone very high up is covering him," your mother said, voice tense.

"I'll try and get them from the U.A. servers directly. If he's tied to All For One, or any underground programs, I'll find it. I'll let you know if my hunch is right or not, sir." You swallowed and opened your mouth to continue—but your eyes caught a familiar figure in the distance.

You froze. Your jaw clenched.

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a sharp yellow suit stood at the edge of the training field, arms crossed, smiling faintly as he watched the students. His presence radiated energy. Power.

All Might.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," you muttered under your breath.

"What?" your father snapped.

"It's All Might," you hissed, ducking slightly as you turned to face the wall again. "I forgot he was a teacher here."

There was silence on the other line. Then your mother's voice, low and sharp, "Be careful what you say. He might hear you."

You took a deep breath and turned, slipping your phone into your pocket as you headed back toward the field, tone suddenly light, cheerful, affectionate. Your expression shifted into a practiced mask.

"Okay! I'll make sure to call you later tonight, papa! Love you so, so much!" you said sweetly, waving at no one in particular. But your next words, though soft, were layered with meaning.

"I'll keep the kitchen light on in case any guests arrive early," you said, your voice dripping with warmth. "And I'll make sure to clean under the cabinets, just in case something slipped through the cracks."

Your mother responded immediately, voice equally sweet. "You're such a thoughtful girl, sweetheart! Make sure to water the roses, especially the ones with thorns."

You grinned. Coded phrases.

Guests = potential moles or targets.
Under the cabinets = hidden secrets or files.
Roses with thorns = protect yourself around powerful people.

"I will! Love you both!" you chirped before hanging up.

You shoved your hands in your pockets as you walked back toward the training field, your face relaxed but your mind racing.

All Might. A quirkless kid with power now. Files being blocked.

This wasn't a puzzle anymore.

It was a countdown.

You plastered on the brightest, most starstruck smile you could muster as you approached the towering figure.

"All Might?! Oh my gosh!" you gasped, eyes wide as if you'd just spotted a celebrity in public for the first time—which, in a way, you had. "No way. You're really here?"

He turned, clearly surprised, but immediately returned your enthusiasm with a booming laugh. "Hoho! Young lady, you startled me! Are you enjoying your first day at U.A.?"

"I mean—yeah! But I didn't know you'd be teaching here!" You tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowed just enough to seem playful, not suspicious. "Is this a recent thing? Or have I just been living under a rock?"

"I've been here for a short while," he said, scratching the back of his neck with a chuckle. "Only for foundational hero classes. The school wanted me to help shape the next generation."

"Wow," you breathed. "That's so cool. I just... you know, I always looked up to you." You leaned in conspiratorially, voice hushed. "I even made a cardboard cutout of you once, but it—uh, didn't survive a move."

He laughed again, louder this time, clearly flattered by your act. "That's very kind of you, young one! I'm glad to hear I've been an inspiration."

You smiled sweetly. "So, what'd I miss? You're just standing here all mysterious—scoping things out or...?" You let the question hang as if it was innocent curiosity, brushing invisible dust from your shoulder. "You watching someone in particular? Or just keeping an eye on us all?"

All Might looked momentarily taken aback, his gaze flicking back to the field. "Ah—just observing!" he replied. "I like to watch how students push themselves during their first trials. It's important."

You followed his gaze, feigning curiosity. Your eyes narrowed when you saw who he was looking at. Standing in the middle of the field, back straight and posture tight, was Izuku Midoriya.

He was front and center.

Your jaw tightened imperceptibly.

There he is.

All Might's eyes were glowing with something—pride? Admiration?

Suspicion confirmed.

But before you could say anything else, your attention snapped toward a sudden movement.

Bakugo.

He moved like an explosion waiting to happen, fists lit with sparks, barreling toward Midoriya with something violent in his eyes. His mouth moved, shouting something you couldn't hear from this distance.

Then—CRACK.
A blur of gray, a flash of red goggles, and Bakugo was caught midair by Aizawa's scarf. The capture weapon snapped tight around Bakugo's torso, yanking him backwards with practiced ease. His feet skidded across the dirt as he growled like a caged animal.

You couldn't hear anything.

But you saw everything.

Midoriya stood frozen, face pale, hands clenched at his sides.

Bakugo was screaming something—mouth twisted in rage.

Aizawa's expression was unreadable, but his eyes were locked on Bakugo's like steel. Controlled. Cold. Furious.

And All Might beside you?

Still watching Midoriya.

Smiling.

Not proud, exactly—but something akin to it.

You swallowed hard, keeping your voice light and playful. "Huh. Rough crowd. That normal?"

All Might gave you a forced laugh, tone gentler this time. "Just some tension. It's the first day, after all."

You gave a sweet giggle. "Guess I should be glad I missed that drama." You stepped back slowly. "Anyway, I should probably go before someone gets launched into orbit. Again. It was amazing meeting you, All Might! Seriously. Highlight of my life."

"Likewise, young lady," he said with that same bright smile. "Keep working hard."

You waved as you walked away—then dropped the grin the moment your back was turned.

Your jaw set.

Your eyes flicked back to the group.

Something is very wrong with all of this.

And now?

You were going to figure it out.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The wind had picked up toward the final round of testing, kicking up dust and debris that stung your eyes and bit at your skin like a warning from the universe itself. You had struggled with that last part—your aim faltering for just a second when your visibility dropped—but even so, you'd powered through with precision and speed that most couldn't match.

Afterwards, you stood in a loose group with your classmates, everyone shifting and buzzing with anxious energy. Your arms were crossed, eyes squinting toward the horizon as you tried to appear calm, but the truth was your heart was still hammering from the way the air had changed during the exams.

"You obviously got number one, ribbit," Tsuyu croaked beside you, arms tucked behind her back.

You blinked and turned toward her.

"She's basically the next All Might with that speed and strength," Kaminari chimed in from behind.

Your face didn't change, but your heart twitched.

Don't associate me with that monster.

You gave a small, forced chuckle. "You really think so?"

A few students nodded or muttered in agreement. Even Iida gave you a firm thumbs-up of approval.

Before anything else could be said, Aizawa stepped forward, his tired eyes peering out from his scarf.

"Alright, time to give you your results," he said plainly. "I've ranked you all from best to worst. You should probably have a good idea of your standing already. I'll just pull up the whole list. It's not worth going over each individual's score."

With a flick of his wrist, a pale blue hologram flickered to life in front of the group, casting a faint glow across everyone's faces. The names began to load, ordered from top to bottom.

You scanned quickly, but it was Kirishima who spotted it first.

"Oh, you got tied with Bakugo!" he grinned, pointing at the top two names. "Nice!"

Your lips parted in a quiet smile before your gaze met Bakugo's—who was staring at you like he wanted to incinerate your very existence.

"He doesn't seem happy about it..." Mina murmured.

You hummed quietly. "No. He doesn't."

Then Aizawa spoke again.

"Y/n Kakegawa is the one going home today."

The words sliced through the group like a blade.

You turned sharply, staring at him. "What? But you said—"

"I know what I said," he interrupted, eyes narrowing. "And I've changed my mind."

Your stomach dropped.

"What the hell are you talking about?" You stepped forward, voice tight but controlled. "I tied with Bakugo for third place. I didn't even lose."

"And yet, you're still a danger," he said, voice cold. "To others. And to yourself. This course isn't just about power—it's about temperament. Control. You may have potential, but your instincts scream villain. I won't train someone who could cause more harm than good."

Your jaw locked as your fists clenched. "I want to be a hero. I came here to prove that."

"And you've failed to convince me," he replied sharply.

A beat of silence.

Then—"That's not fair!" Uraraka called out suddenly, her fists balled at her sides. "She did everything right!"

"She's one of the strongest in the class!" Kirishima added. "And she came to the school through recommendations—don't ya think she was recommended for a reason?!"

Aoyama even raised a hand timidly. "It seems a little biased, monsieur."

Aizawa's eyes narrowed further, his scarf beginning to twitch around his shoulders like a warning. "Enough. You're all too new to understand the weight of these decisions. You've only seen her in one setting. You haven't read the full file like I have."

You took a step closer, teeth gritted. "Then read it out loud, Aizawa. Tell them what you saw."

"Y/n—" Iida warned gently, but you didn't stop.

"If you're going to accuse me of being dangerous," you snapped, "say it to my face in front of the class."

Aizawa opened his mouth—

"Enough."

The voice boomed from behind the group like a crack of thunder. Everyone turned in shock as the tall, golden figure of All Might stepped into view, arms crossed, eyes narrowed—not with warmth, but with restrained authority.

"Aizawa," he said calmly, but firmly, "May I have a word?"

Aizawa's jaw tensed. "Now's not the time."

"I believe it is the perfect time," All Might said, stepping between you and Aizawa. "I was observing as well. And I have a lot to say about this decision."

You stood there, the class silent behind you, as the world seemed to hold its breath.

All Might had spoken gently, voice kind and yet heavy with insistence. "Young Kakegawa," he said, "please, walk with us. There are things we must discuss... in private."

You didn't argue.

With Aizawa silently leading the way and All Might walking beside you like a wall of pressure, the three of you moved deeper into the school building—past the training zones, past the dorms, until you came to a quiet observation room tucked between reinforced doors and thick, soundproof glass.

Aizawa shut the door behind you, the soft click echoing louder than expected.

You stood in the center, eyes darting between the two Pro Heroes.

All Might didn't speak yet. He looked... torn. Wary, maybe. Like he was waiting.

But Aizawa?

He walked straight up to you and yanked the coin from around your neck without warning.

"Hey—!" You jolted, stepping back slightly, your fingers brushing the empty space on your chest where the metal used to hang.

Aizawa held it up, expression unreadable—but his eyes were sharp. "This. This is why you're a risk."

He turned the coin slowly in his fingers, inspecting it like a trap set to spring.

"If this coin is broken or slammed to the ground," he said, voice like sandpaper, "you're dead. Gone. No quirk, no backup, no second chances."

You tensed, throat tightening. You knew this speech. You'd given it to yourself before.

Aizawa's eyes bore into you like drills. "And yet you keep throwing it around like a toy. As if it's just some trick. You didn't put that in your file."

Then, quietly, almost venomously:
"But your mother sure as hell did."

Your stomach dropped.

"Damn it, Mama." you muttered under your breath, yanking the coin from his hand and stuffing it back into your shirt, your grip a little too tight, nails biting your palm. You didn't want to meet their eyes now, but you could feel them both watching you.

All Might finally stepped forward, his tone softer.

"Y/n..." he said gently, "why didn't you tell the school?"

"Because if I had," you snapped, "you wouldn't have let me in the door. My whole life i've been seen as fragile and weak, especially because of my father being quirkless—but here? I'm strong! I can be myself! What do you think they'd say if they knew my entire life depended on a coin staying intact?" You felt your heart beat quickly within the cold metal restraints, your worry about letting down your father making your eyes water.

A heavy silence followed your words.

All Might didn't immediately respond. His expression was conflicted—caught between the rationality of a teacher and the empathy of a man who'd seen the weight of legacy firsthand.

Aizawa, however, crossed his arms. "You don't get to hide things like that. Not when people around you are putting their lives on the line."

"I'm not trying to get anyone killed," you hissed. "I'm trying to live. I've trained every day since I was old enough to walk with this goddamn time bomb hanging from my neck. I know the risk better than either of you."

"But your classmates don't," All Might said quietly. "And neither did your teachers. Until now."

That shut you up.

The weight of the silence after was worse than anything they'd said. Your heart pounded so loud you wondered if they could hear it. You looked down at your shoes, fingers curled tightly around the coin through your shirt.

After a pause, All Might finally asked, "What exactly is the coin, Y/n?"

You looked up slowly, voice barely above a whisper.

"It's... my heart."

The air shifted. All Might's expression froze. Aizawa's brows furrowed.

You looked down at your feet, the words heavier than your bones.

"Everyone in my family has the same quirk," you continued. "Except it shows up in different organs. Lungs. Brain. Kidneys. I just got the worst luck, I suppose." You swallowed, the burn at the back of your throat making it hard to speak. "My little sister and my dad were born normal. It skipped them."

There was a pause. You felt the weight of their gazes, but you weren't done.

"This coin used to be a lot more fragile."

Before either of them could stop you, you took the coin from around your neck—and slammed it to the ground.

It cracked against the hard floor with a loud clack, a harsh jolt of pain shooting through your chest. You hissed, staggering slightly. It felt like someone had just stabbed you under your ribs—but not deep. Not fatal.

Just enough to remind you it was real.

"Y/n!" All Might stepped forward instantly, eyes wide with panic.

Aizawa's scarf whipped in reflex like he expected to restrain you.

But you didn't fall.

You slowly bent down, picked the coin back up, and held it out.

Wrapped tightly around the coin was a mesh of intricate, flexible machinery—like a protective shell. Thin bands of reinforced metal curled around the sides like a shock-absorbing frame.

"It's custom-made," you explained, breathing through the pain. "It's like a screen protector for a phone. If this part breaks, I can repair it. But if the coin inside breaks... that's it. I die. Right there."

You looked up at them, eyes unwavering.

"I know what I'm doing."

All Might opened his mouth, but stopped.

You tightened your grip around the coin.

"I've calculated every outcome. I've trained for every scenario. I know what this quirk costs. And I've accepted... I'll probably die in the field. That's how this ends for me."

Silence stretched around you.

Aizawa's expression was unreadable. But you could see the fire in his eyes—anger, maybe, or disbelief. You couldn't tell which was aimed at you and which was aimed at the people who let this happen.

All Might's voice was low when he finally spoke.

"You've... accepted martyrdom."

You nodded slowly. "Because it's the only ending I can accept. I can't live like this if I'm not doing something with it."

"You're a child," Aizawa said coldly, his voice quiet but razor sharp. "You talk about death like you're a soldier. Like you're already gone."

You looked at him, unwavering. "Maybe I've had to be both."

His jaw clenched.

All Might stepped forward. "And what of your future? What if you don't die in battle? What if there's a way to live, to thrive, to rewrite that ending?"

You hesitated.

"...Then I'll fight for it," you admitted. "But I won't wait for it. I'm not here to be coddled—I'm here to make sure no one else dies because I stayed on the sidelines."

For a moment, all you could hear was your breath.

Then Aizawa turned toward the far wall, running a hand through his hair.

"You could've killed yourself just now," he said bluntly.

"I didn't," you said, with a wry smile. "I knew the protector would hold."

All Might exhaled slowly.

"She reminds me of someone," he muttered.

Aizawa looked at him. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

All Might nodded.

Then, turning to you with a new gravity, he said:

"Y/n Kakegawa... if we let you stay, it won't be because we pity you. It will be because we believe you're capable of more than dying. You'll train harder than anyone. You'll be monitored. You'll report anything unusual with your quirk. And if anything puts your life or someone else's at risk, we pull you. No arguments."

Aizawa looked at you sharply. "You so much as hesitate to follow protocol, and you're gone. I don't care how high you scored."

You nodded, gripping the coin again as you slipped it back around your neck.
"I understand."

"Good," Aizawa said, already walking for the door. "Let's get back. You'll want to see your classmates' faces when they find out you're still in."

All Might followed, but just before stepping out, he paused and looked over his shoulder.

"You're not a martyr, Y/n."

You tilted your head.

"You're a hero in the making. And we don't throw those away."

The tension in the room barely had time to settle before the door creaked open again.

Your classmates all turned at once—some with concern, others with curiosity. The second they saw you walk in, heads turned, whispers sparked, and relief bled into the air like ink in water.

"Y/n!" Mina blurted, running over with wide eyes. "You're—wait. Are you okay?"

You offered a small, sheepish smile. "Still breathing."

Kirishima grinned. "Man, you scared the hell out of us."

Sero let out a breath he'd clearly been holding. "I was ready to fight Aizawa if he actually kicked you out."

"I think I still might," Kaminari added with a raised brow.

Tsuyu blinked. "Ribbit... So you're staying?"

"Yeah," you nodded. "But it was a close call."

You met Bakugo's eyes for a split second across the room. He didn't say anything—just scoffed and turned away, arms crossed.

Typical.

Before the noise could grow too much, Aizawa stepped forward again, calm but firm. The room fell quiet almost immediately.

"Now that that is resolved..." he began, casting a glance your way before continuing. "Each of you is to return to the classroom and pick up your syllabi. Review it. We'll start orientation and hero-specific training tomorrow."

Then his eyes landed back on you, tired and sharp as ever.

"Kakegawa, take Midoriya to Recovery Girl. I've already cleared it. After that, go to the Support Course and get that coin checked and reinforced before you're allowed back in my classroom."

You gave a single nod. "Understood."

Turning to Midoriya, you gestured with a small motion of your hand. "C'mon."

He nodded quickly, following after you as the two of you exited the gym together, the hall quiet around you.

"That was horrifying..." you muttered after a beat, rubbing your arms as if shaking off the echo of the conversation.

"You're telling me..." he groaned, clutching his side a little. "I thought they were going to expel you and yell at the rest of us for good measure."

You laughed, the sound coming out soft and surprised. "Honestly wouldn't have been shocked."

A few steps of silence passed before he finally glanced at you, fiddling with the bandages on his hand.

"Hey... is your heart okay?"

You looked over and gave a more genuine smile this time.

"Yeah. It'll need some tuning after that stunt, but I'm fine. And... I get to stay."

His shoulders eased with visible relief, and he smiled.

"Good."

Then, quieter—almost like he was afraid you'd say no—he added, "Um... do you think you could help me train?"

You blinked.

"Train?"

He nodded quickly, looking determined. "Without my quirk. I've been relying on O— my quirk too much even though I don't know how to control it and I... I need to be able to hold my own, even if I can't use it. You're strong even without flashy abilities. You... know how to survive."

The words hung between you for a second, vulnerable but honest.

You blinked, then grinned.

"Deku, that might be the smartest thing you've said since I met you."

He flushed, scratching his cheek.

You bumped your shoulder into his gently. "Yeah, I'll help you. Just don't pass out after the first ten push-ups."

"No promises," he said with a laugh.

Together, you turned down the hallway toward the nurse's office.

The nurse's office was as quiet and sterile as ever, with the scent of antiseptic lingering faintly in the air. Recovery Girl stood near her station, humming a soft tune while prepping supplies. As soon as she saw Midoriya limping in beside you, her expression softened.

"Oh, dear... you again," she sighed, but there was no real annoyance in her voice. Just the tired affection of someone who had patched up this green-haired disaster too many times already.

Midoriya rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling nervously. "Heh... sorry."

She motioned for him to sit and leaned in, her lips pursed in a familiar way. "You know the drill."

Smooch.

You blinked. "Wait. Did you just—kiss him?"

Her lips twitched into a small smile as Midoriya winced and then sat upright with a gasp, his body already beginning to mend. Bruises fading. Cuts vanishing.

"Yes, dear. My quirk accelerates cell regeneration through physical contact. Specifically a kiss—it's how I learned to control the flow of energy. It's why I keep it brief and targeted. Too much, and it could exhaust the patient's stamina."

"That's... kind of amazing," you admitted, stepping a bit closer to observe. "So, you're basically forcing their body to heal itself faster, but they still have to pay for that healing with energy?"

"Exactly," she nodded. "Some think I'm a miracle worker, but I don't make injuries vanish—I just speed up the natural process. And if someone's too injured or too weak, it can backfire."

Midoriya chuckled softly beside you, testing his hand with a slow flex. "Trust me, I've passed out more than once."

You turned to her with a spark of curiosity. "Would you mind if Midoriya comes with me to the Support Course? I need my heart... er, coin reinforced, and he said he wanted to learn how to train without his quirk. Maybe seeing how I make my gear might help?"

She raised a brow, then nodded. "As long as he doesn't get into more trouble. I swear this boy attracts danger like bees to honey."

Midoriya stood, now almost fully recovered. "I'll behave!"

You both thanked her before heading out, your footsteps echoing down the metal-lined hallway that led toward the Support Course wing. The air changed slightly the further you went—less polish, more machine oil and ozone. A comforting buzz of activity filled the air.

When you walked in, the clanking of tools and faint mechanical whirring welcomed you.

"Yo, Power Loader?" you called, glancing around the workshop space.

"You know him?" Izuku asked.

"Met him when I was a kid, he was always my favorite hero."

The support teacher popped out from behind a rack of iron plating, his large yellow visor catching the light. "Hm? Oh, hey, kiddo? What brings you down here?"

You held up the coin, its casing slightly cracked. "This needs fixing. Aizawa's orders."

His eyes narrowed at the object, then widened. "That's... your heart?"

"Technically, yes." You nodded, setting the coin down on a worktable and unspooling the flexible metal case around it. "The original was glass. Shattered during a mission. This is an alloy I customized and forged with a friend. It's like a screen protector, keeps the pressure even and impact resistance high."

Power Loader leaned in, inspecting the material. "You made this yourself?"

You smiled a little. "Yeah. I've always built my own support gear. For me, and my family."

He looked impressed, straightening up. "That's pretty damn smart. Your design sense is solid, and the adaptability is impressive. Who taught you?"

You shrugged. "No one. Trial and error, mostly. My mom hated the idea of me having to rely on strangers to protect what's literally keeping me alive."

He chuckled. "That's both inspiring or terrifying."

Then he paused, curious. "Is your family full of heroes, or...?"

You glanced down at your hands, then back up with a softer expression.

"To me, they're heroes."

He placed a hand over his heart. "How sweet!"

Midoriya smiled beside you, and for once, he wasn't just nervous—he looked genuinely inspired.

Power Loader clapped his gloved hands together. "Alright, I'll help reinforce it. I've got a few ideas. You want to observe or assist?"

"Assist," you said without hesitation.

Midoriya's eyes lit up. "Can I watch?"

"Absolutely," you grinned. "You're here to learn, right?"

He nodded, stepping closer to the table as the three of you began your work.

The workbench glowed under the soft overhead lights as you leaned in beside Power Loader, the hum of the machines and the quiet clicks of metal tools keeping time. You handed him the finer instruments, watching every move with an intense eye. Midoriya stood just behind you, fascinated, muttering little notes to himself under his breath. Occasionally, he'd point out something he noticed in the design or ask Power Loader a quiet question, which the pro answered with a nod or a short explanation.

You didn't say much—there was no need. You simply focused, keeping the coin steady as the casing was reinforced with a thin but strong polymer alloy. Something flexible. Shock-absorbent. Easier to replace. Easier to survive.

Once the work was done and the coin was safely secured once again around your neck, the three of you cleaned up the work station. Midoriya walked close beside you as you left the workshop. On the way back through the corridors, he began to talk—quiet at first, until he gained momentum.

He rambled on about his favorite heroes, starting with All Might and branching into obscure pro heroes you hadn't even heard of. His words were tangled in excitement, spilling out in theories about how their quirks really worked, how they used their bodies to maximize power output, what weaknesses they might be hiding and how he'd solve them if he had that kind of quirk. He asked you questions—What kind of quirk did you admire? Which fighting styles did you favor? What kind of support gear would you recommend for someone like Mirko?

You let him talk. Nodded, sometimes asked questions just to hear the way his eyes lit up again. You couldn't help but find it cute—the way he'd get sidetracked mid-sentence, pull himself back, and still manage to tie it all together like a theory board in his head. His enthusiasm was contagious. Warm. Like walking in sunlight.

As you stepped outside onto the main campus path, your footsteps slow, a voice called out.

"Yoo, Y/n!!"

You turned and saw Kirishima and Mina jogging toward you, the afternoon light catching in Mina's bright eyes and Kirishima's wild grin.

"You walking to the train station?!" Mina asked, hopping to your side.

You stretched, feeling the weight of the day in your shoulders. "I was gonna get a bite to eat, I'm starving. Wanna come?"

"Is it free?" Kirishima grinned, half-joking, half-hopeful.

You rolled your eyes and nodded. "Why would I offer if it wasn't free?"

"Hell yea!! Let's go!!" he whooped, already skipping ahead with the energy of a golden retriever.

Mina laughed, shooting you an apologetic smile. "He's gonna put a hole in your wallet..."

"I had a feeling..." you sighed, watching him dart toward the gate.

You turned to Midoriya as you slowed your steps. He shifted a little awkwardly, then quickly pulled out his phone.

"Hey, uh—do you mind if I get your number? Just in case... you know, training... or support gear stuff...?"

You exchanged phones, your fingers brushing briefly. You smiled as you handed it back, watching his face bloom pink from the nose to his ears.

"I'll text you," you said quietly.

You waved goodbye as Ochako and Iida appeared, greeting him with bright smiles and easy familiarity. He waved back, glancing over his shoulder at you one more time before turning to join his friends.

You lingered for a second, then turned toward your own group.

Ahead, Kirishima was skipping like a kid on a sugar high, yelling about ramen and soba and whatever else he could cram in his mouth.

Mina was laughing beside him, eyes sparkling, twirling beside him as they both cheered about free food and "the real hero of the day"—you.

You followed behind, hands in your pockets, the sun warm against your back. And for the first time since the coin had hit the ground, your heart felt light again.

────୨ৎ────
word count: 8919
lowkey plan on giving kiri
and mina a really strong bond
so get ready for a chaotic trio!!

Chapter Text

THE NIGHT AIR WAS cooler now. Still, and soft—heavy in the way summer evenings often are, when the wind forgets to move and the city holds its breath. Street lamps flickered above you, casting long shadows across the empty sidewalks. The gentle rhythm of your boots on pavement was your only company now.

You'd just walked Mina home, her parting hug still lingering like static on your sleeve. She'd been all smiles and glitter as usual, swearing she'd text you tomorrow about a new café she wanted to try. Kirishima had parted ways earlier, stomach full and satisfied, giving you a cheerful salute and a grin that could blind someone if they weren't careful.

Now, you were alone.

Your smile slowly faded as your fingers swiped across your phone screen. A message from Midoriya popped up first—full of thank yous and excitement about future training, a list of ideas already piling up in neat little bullet points. You saved his number with a soft hum and flipped to the next.

Kirishima's was short, a selfie with food all over his face and the words: "BEST MEAL EVER! UR THE GOAT!!!" You snorted, saving it under "Bottomless Pit 🦈".

Then Mina's—complete with heart emojis and a picture of your trio outside the restaurant. You added her too, promising yourself you'd check for social accounts later. No one had security anymore. Everything could be traced. Patterns always emerged.

You turned your phone off.

Your pace slowed slightly. Something had shifted.

There it was again—that prickling sensation at the base of your neck, crawling across your spine like frost. You weren't alone anymore. You weren't just being watched.

You were being followed.

Your fingers twitched, but your expression didn't change. You slid your phone into your pocket, running a hand up through your hair, using the screen's faint reflection like a mirror. Just behind you, distant but steady, a silhouette moved with practiced rhythm—matching your pace too well to be coincidence.

Your heart didn't race. It simply waited.

You continued walking, lips parting in a soft, tired sigh, and with a casual turn, stepped into a narrow alleyway between two buildings. Low light. Fewer exits. Perfect visibility in shadows.

Bait.

You ran a hand along your necklace. The coin was cool against your fingers, still freshly reinforced. Still dangerous.

You reached the end of the alley and stopped beneath a flickering bulb.

Your reflection in the glass window beside you was calm. Still. But your eyes sharpened.

They were getting closer. Confident.

And that... was a mistake.

You didn't turn. You didn't speak.

But you were ready.

The figure stepped into the mouth of the alleyway—and in a blink, you were gone.

Your coin hit the pavement behind them with a sharp clink, and the second it bounced, you glitched—warped—through space like a corrupted video frame, slipping behind them in a jagged blur of light and static.

Before they could even turn, your arm was around their throat, hoisting them off the ground with one swift, practiced motion. Their back slammed hard against the cold brick wall, the air leaving their lungs in a wheeze.

Your voice was sharp, low, and laced with the quiet fury of someone done with games.

"Just who the hell do you think you are?"

The figure's hands scrambled for your arm, their body twisting, kicking lightly off the wall, trying to relieve the pressure at their throat. You didn't let up.

The hood obscured their face, their outfit dark and cloaked, giving no hint of identity—until they gasped out a strangled, panicked word.

"Mon ami...!"

You froze. Your grip slackened just enough for their boots to find the ground. Confused and a little shaken, you shoved the hood back roughly—and your entire posture changed.

"Aoyama..? What the hell is wrong with you?! I could've killed you..!" you hissed, shoving him back as you let go completely.

He staggered, coughing, sucking in harsh breaths as if he hadn't realized just how close to death he'd been. Blond hair fell in messy tufts around his face, his wide blue eyes shimmering with fear and guilt. His hands remained half-raised, caught between defense and surrender.

You stepped back, pulse pounding, still scanning him for a trick, a trap—anything.

Your fingers clenched around your coin, but the urge to strike again faded. Barely.

Aoyama rubbed his throat, his voice hoarse but urgent. "...I need you to come with me. It's important."

Your brow furrowed. He wasn't confident—he was terrified. Of what? You didn't know. But that fear was something you recognized deep in your bones.

You sighed, the tension bleeding out just enough for your posture to drop. You nodded stiffly, gesturing for him to lead the way.

The two of you walked in silence through the twisting alleys, your footsteps echoing beneath the distant hum of city lights. Tension hung like static in the air, until Aoyama spoke again—quiet, uncertain.

"How... how did you know I was the traitor?"

You didn't answer at first. You didn't look at him. "The fear you held," you finally murmured. "I used to be like that."

He hesitated before speaking again, voice even quieter than before. "How long have you been doing this?"

You huffed a dry laugh through your nose.
"Doing what? Being a traitorous bitch?" That made him flinch. Your eyes flicked up toward the rooftops, then to the shadows ahead. "Since primary school, technically. Haven't been able to stop since."

Silence.

"Who's your boss? Is your family aware, too, or is it just you? Why did you choose this life? W-Why would you even—" Aoyama asked, almost too softly.

Your head turned sharply, your expression cold. "One more question, and I'll gut you like a fish."

He tensed immediately, swallowing hard, eyes darting away like prey that had stepped too close to the predator's den. The walk continued in stiff, uneasy silence until the alley opened up into an old, run-down lot at the edge of a shopping district—deserted, closed shops looming like watching eyes.

Aoyama stopped, then turned to you, uncertainty trembling at the corners of his mouth. His voice wavered. "He... he told me to bring you here. Said you'd understand why once you saw."

Before you could ask who he was, the flicker of movement in the shadows ahead pulled your attention. A figure emerged slowly from the dark—a tall man in a pressed tuxedo, his posture sharp and composed despite the swirling mass of thick purple and black mist that clouded his face like a living shadow.

You didn't flinch.

You didn't need to.
You knew that shape.
You knew that presence.
Kurogiri—a dumb lapdog. A manchild's escort. The man behind the warp gates within villain society.

You slipped your coin back into its chain necklace, the cold weight settling over your chest like a warning bell. Aoyama was dismissed with a casual wave, and the teen didn't hesitate—he left without a glance back, boots slapping against the ground with a mixture of guilt and relief.

Kurogiri watched you.

Silent.

Calculating.

"You're his age, yet you hold no fear toward me. Why is that?" he asked, voice smooth, echoing faintly as if being pulled through a tunnel of smoke.

You stepped forward, one hand loosely resting on your hip.

"You're weaker than me, Kurogiri."

For a moment, the mist around his collar shifted—slowly, almost thoughtfully.

He didn't laugh. He didn't get angry.

He simply regarded you in silence, the distortion of his body making it difficult to tell whether he found your answer amusing or offensive.

"Cocky," he finally said. "Just like him."

You raised an eyebrow. "Don't compare me to anyone," you warned.

Kurogiri tilted his head slightly. "Then prove you deserve the independence you were given. You've been playing a long game— your family. Keeping up appearances as heroic figures. What was it again? Hero technological advancements? Your game requires balance. Precision. One wrong move, and you fall."

You crossed your arms, face neutral. "If you're here to threaten me, get it over with."

"No." The mist curled tighter around his shoulders. "I'm here to deliver a message."

Your eyes narrowed.

Kurogiri stepped closer, the fog around him pulsing with each carefully chosen word.
"The boss is impressed. He doesn't say that often. The others... they'll trust you soon. Very soon. And when they do... he'll expect something from you."

You tilted your head, scoffing with a slow, growing laugh that echoed down the alley.
"Others? You and your little gang?" You chuckled darkly. "Don't flatter yourself."

Your voice dripped with venomous amusement as you leaned back against the brick wall, arms folding lazily across your chest. "With all due respect, no one in society even knows who you all are. And the villains who do?" You paused, biting down on your grin. "They think you're pussies. A reject ensemble of cowards playing at being threats. A gang made to fall."

Kurogiri remained unfazed. His mist pulsed again—steadier now, as though entertained.

"Even if All For One is our boss?" he asked quietly.

That stopped you cold. Your heart skipped a beat, just once. Your eyes narrowed, body going rigid.

All For One? The All For One?

The man whose name haunted bedtime stories and back-alley corpses alike?

The symbol of death, of power, of fear itself?

Your voice was lower now, sharp and biting. "Bullshit. Why would he waste his time with you?" You motioned toward him with a dismissive flick. "A puppet on strings with a smoky face?"

But Kurogiri didn't argue. Didn't defend.
Instead, his voice softened with a strange calm.

"Why don't we talk over a drink?"

You blinked. A glowing portal bloomed behind him—soft and swirling like ink dropped in water. The scent of alcohol and smoke wafted faintly through it.

You arched a brow.

"I'm a minor, y'know." You deadpanned.

"I'll let it slide—just this once." His tone was smooth, sly. "If I like you, I could be your supplier."

Your gaze lingered on his outstretched hand, mist curling delicately off his sleeve like smoke from a candle. Curiosity flickered in your chest. This could be dangerous. Stupid, even. But then again...

So was your entire life.

You slipped your fingers into his hand.

The mist warped around you, cool and humming as the alley disappeared—and within seconds, your boots touched down inside a bar.

Not a run-down, grime-slick tavern either.
This place was underground—literally and metaphorically.

The bar was quiet—eerily so. The hum of a refrigerator buzzed beneath the silence, but even that seemed hesitant to break the stillness. Wooden floorboards, worn from years of passing footsteps and long-forgotten nights, stretched into a warmly lit room wrapped in thick, red-brick walls. The counter stood like a sentinel, dark wood polished just enough to reflect the flickering amber glow of liquor shelves behind it. Rows of bottles—some pristine, others nearly bone-dry—stood like ghosts on display, each one soaked in stories, violence, and regret.

Four crimson barstools lined the counter, their velvet cushions untouched, like they were waiting for someone—anyone—to sit down and spill their soul. A monitor sat dormant at the edge of the bar, blank and black, its screen like a blind eye refusing to witness the sins of this place. Beyond it, heavy purple curtains framed a doorway. They swayed faintly, like something had just passed through—or was waiting on the other side.

Your gaze caught on a torn poster hanging crookedly on the far wall.

"All Might," it read—or used to.

Anger and temper tantrums had clawed away at the lettering, leaving jagged gaps like a scream that never finished. His iconic smile was half-gone, half-burned away. All that remained was the shape of something that once promised hope. Now, it just looked like a warning.

The air was thick. Not just with the scent of old whiskey and rust—but with something heavier. The weight of choices. Of past lives. Of danger waiting beneath polite conversation.

You hadn't even stepped in yet, and still, the room felt like it knew your name.

Then, you saw him.

A booth near the far end, tucked beneath the half-shadow of a hanging light, held a lone figure. He wore a black hoodie pulled loosely over pale, cracked skin. His hair—a light-blue hue—was unkempt and messy, draping over his eyes. His posture was lazy, slouched deep into the booth with all the elegance of a trashfire made sentient. His hands, scarred and twitching, held a controller like it offended him. He didn't even grip it properly—only used his index fingers and thumbs, his pinkies curled uselessly upward like they were allergic to effort. A pixelated rhythm game played on a handheld screen before him, aggressive music barely audible from his headphones draped loosely around his neck.

His red-rimmed eyes flicked toward you lazily. Like he didn't care—but also noticed everything.

Tomura Shigaraki.

The ghost of a boy with a kingdom of rubble.

"The infamous loser," you scoffed, stepping toward him with a smirk tugging your lips. "Tomura Shigaraki."

He didn't look up. Didn't flinch. Didn't stop the game.

"You've got a mouth," he muttered, one thumb missing a beat. The screen flashed MISS in red.

You pulled out the seat across from him, sitting without asking. "I've been told." Without hesitation, you reached forward and plucked the controller from his hands, your fingers slipping into place like it belonged to you. He tensed—not visibly, but enough that you felt it. That crackle of irritation beneath his skin, like static before a storm.

He glared at you, red eyes burning low with warning. You just smiled and started to play.

"So," you said, nailing a beat perfectly on your first try, "what the hell do you want with someone like me?"

There was a long pause.

The kind of silence where two predators size each other up, unsure if they're about to fight or fuck each other up.

Shigaraki leaned back slowly, watching you—not the game anymore. Not even pretending. His head tilted just a little, hoodie slipping more off his shoulder. That faint, papery crackle of his skin followed the movement like old leaves brushing each other.

"You tell me," he said. "You walk in here like you own the place. You talk to Kurogiri like he's your chauffeur. You insult me to my face." He paused. "Either you're suicidal... or you're smart enough to know something we don't."

You nailed another note, the screen lighting up PERFECT in electric blue. "Why not both?" you replied casually.

His lip twitched—like he wanted to smile, or maybe bare his teeth. You couldn't tell.

Kurogiri cleared his throat. "All For One wants to keep you close. So we are. I just thought it'd be a good idea for you two to grow accustomed of each other."

"You're babysitting me?" You didn't bother hiding the mockery in your voice.

Shigaraki laughed—a dry, broken sound, like someone scraping metal against bone.
"Hardly. I don't babysit strays. I evaluate threats." His eyes narrowed. "And you're not like the others."

"How so?" You paused the game, your thumb hovering midair. Kurogiri, ever the silent shadow, placed two drinks down between you both. You glanced at the glass warily—dark amber liquid catching the low light like an old secret. You lifted it slowly, bringing it to your lips as you gave the surface a long, considering sniff.

Sharp. Smoky. Bitter.

The first sip hit your tongue like rusted nails dipped in fire—burning and acrid, with a bite that clawed down your throat. It was the kind of drink that tried to punish you for being brave enough to taste it. The alcohol left a trail of heat curling behind your sternum, making you suck your teeth slightly, more out of reflex than discomfort.

"We've been told about you," Shigaraki began, watching your reaction with mild amusement.

"Rumors say you're ranked high on the underground villain boards. Consistently. Not because of body count—hell, you've never even killed anyone. But because of potential. Because you don't flinch. Because you don't scream. Because you don't lose." He leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table. "They say you took down a pro with nothing but a mask to hide your identity without even activating your quirk. That you walked into a meeting with yakuza and walked out with their loyalty. Some even suspect you're All For One's biological kid."

The words settled like smoke in your lungs.

You didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
For a second—just a second—your heart skipped in your chest, your grip tightening around the glass ever so slightly. Those were things you weren't supposed to hear from him. From them. From anyone.

You masked it fast.

"Well, I most certainly am not All for One's child." You let your body relax, cocking your head as your lips curled into a slow, deliberate smirk. "What can I say? Must be my charm." You raised your glass like a toast, locking eyes with him. "I guess it sucks being a legend before you're old enough to legally drink."

Shigaraki didn't smile.

But his gaze sharpened.

He'd seen that flicker.

And now?

He knew you had something to hide.

Shigaraki leaned back, the cracked leather of the booth creaking under his weight. His fingers drummed against the tabletop—rhythmic, sharp, twitchy. It wasn't a habit. It was a warning.

"You're sharp," he said finally, almost bored. "Not just your mouth. You plan three steps ahead, minimum. You manipulate people without even touching them. You know what to say, how to say it, and how to make someone think it was their idea all along."

He tilted his head, watching your expression like a predator bored of pretending he wasn't one. "No wonder you've been such a good little informant all these years."

The words hit like a bullet you saw coming too late to dodge. Your stomach tightened—but your face didn't so much as twitch.

"No childhood?" he added, mockingly sympathetic, lips curling at the edges.

You gave a cold, practiced shrug. "I grew up faster than most kids. I didn't need a stupid stuffed toy to make me happy."

"Nah, you needed lies and blackmail. Real cozy stuff." He sneered. "Let me guess—trusted you like family, didn't they?"

You rolled your eyes. "I was smarter than them. Still am. If that makes me the villain in their bedtime stories, then they were reading the wrong books."

He chuckled, low and scratchy. "Cute. You talk like someone who doesn't mind being hated."

"It's easier than being forgotten," you said, sipping the last of your drink, the burn hitting harder this time.

"I'll be honest," he said, suddenly blunt. "You're a bitch." He grinned, wolfish. "But you're my kind of bitch. How 'bout it? Want in?"

You laughed. Loud and amused.
The kind of laugh that echoes in a room not used to joy. "Join you? You're not even a blip on the radar. I've seen dogs make more noise dragging trashcans down the alley."

You downed the rest of your drink in one go, slamming the glass down gently but firmly. "When you do something flashy—I'm talkin' real headline shit, y'know? Something that makes the top pro heroes stop and piss themselves—then maybe, maybe, I'll think about it."

You stood, brushing imaginary dust off your pants, fixing him with a smirk sharp enough to slice a throat.

"Until then? Keep dreaming, Shigaraki. Maybe borrow a stuffed toy. Might help with the trauma."

Kurogiri silently opened a warpgate behind you.

You didn't wait to be dismissed. You just walked through, your boots echoing in the silence—leaving nothing behind but your empty glass and the faint sting of mockery in the air.

The warpgate closed behind you with a soft hiss, and as the night air settled against your skin, you found yourself walking home with something strange bubbling in your chest.

Amusement.

Shigaraki was a joke—but a curious one. You couldn't decide if he was desperate or delusional, but damn if his audacity wasn't entertaining. You replayed the scene in your mind—the pathetic invitation, your glass hitting the table, the way his mouth twitched when you declined him like he wasn't worth your time.

It felt good.

Too good.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You stepped into the classroom with a slow yawn, stretching your arms behind your head as if your muscles were protesting the morning sun.

"Y/N! Morning!" Mina chirped, practically skipping toward you. Kirishima grinned from behind her, his sharp teeth showing under his usual bedhead.

"Yo! Where were you this morning? We didn't see you at the station."

You blinked a little slower than usual, rubbing your eyes and offering a lazy smirk.
"Mm, sorry. I fell asleep super late last night. Studying."

Mina pouted. "Studying? Girl, you're insane. You're already smarter than, like, everyone."

Kirishima nudged her. "C'mon, it's good she's staying sharp."

You walked toward your desk, waving your hand lazily in the air.
"I wasn't studying for the midterm." You muttered under your breath just loud enough.

"Huh?" Kirishima tilted his head, squinting as he followed behind.

You set your bag down with a soft thump, pulling out a notebook—not the one filled with class notes, but the one with red-marked names, dotted maps, and pages dissecting each pro hero's stats like a game of chess.

"Just doing some... personal research."
You glanced up at them with a sleepy grin. "About heroes. Strengths. Weaknesses. Their patterns."

Mina blinked. Kirishima raised a brow.

"That's... specific."

"Curiosity's not a crime," you said smoothly, already flipping through a page labeled Edgeshot – unpredictability vs speed calculation. "Besides, heroes don't always fight fair. Someone should know how to keep up."

You yawned again, this time half for show. Elbows propped on the desk, your chin resting in your palm, you let your eyes flutter half-closed as students trickled in. The static hum of voices filled the air like background noise, and someone from the back laughed at Kaminari accidentally zapping his pencil sharpener again.

"Dude, stop frying your supplies," Sero snorted.

"It's not my fault they look so zappable!" Kaminari whined.

You smiled faintly, masking your thoughts behind drowsy disinterest.

The first class of the day was English.

"ALRIGHT, MY YOUTHFUL LANGUAGE LOVERS!" Present Mic's voice practically blew your eardrums into next week the moment he kicked open the classroom door. "Let's hit it with that English energy!"

Groans echoed through the room.

"What does 'go for broke' mean? Anyone?"

"It's like... giving it your all, right?" Kaminari guessed.

"YEAH, ELECTRIC BOY! A+ ON THE ENERGY!" Present Mic beamed, his shades flashing in the light. Then he pointed right at you. "Y/N, use it in a sentence!"

You blinked slowly, almost unimpressed. "I'm about to go for broke and jump out the window if I hear you yell again."

Present Mic clutched his chest like you'd shot him.

"That's a DANGEROUSLY good sentence, baby!"

The second: Modern Literature.

Cementoss's class was a complete switch-up from the chaos of Present Mic. Calm. Steady. Methodical.

You sat near the middle as he paced between desks, his deep voice smoothing over a passage from No Longer Human.

"This protagonist feels alienated—ostracized by society, and unable to show his true self. Sound familiar, anyone?"

You didn't move, but your pencil tapped once against your notes.

"Shoto?"

Todoroki blinked, then gave a half-hearted shrug. "I guess it's relatable... in some ways."

"Y/N?"

You didn't look up.

"Being a part of society doesn't mean you belong to it," you said coolly, flipping a page. "People wear masks even when they're alone."

Cementoss paused for a second—just a second—and then nodded slowly.

"Well said."

After that, The cafeteria buzzed with energy. Plates clattered, chairs scraped, and the scent of freshly cooked rice bowls, pork cutlet, and miso soup wrapped the room in warmth.

You stood in line casually, eyeing the options. A plate was handed to you by none other than Lunch Rush himself—bright, cheerful, and fast as ever.

"Extra ginger, just how you like it!" he chirped, steam curling from your bowl.

"Appreciated," you said with a nod, taking the tray.

As you walked to your usual table, Mina called you over with a wave.

"Y/N! Sit with us today!"

You did. Sandwiched between Mina and Kirishima, with Aoyama diagonal across from you—oddly quiet again, poking at his food.

"What's your favorite meal?" Kirishima asked, chewing. "You always get the same thing."

You shrugged. "Predictability isn't a weakness. Sometimes it's strategy."

"You sound like Todoroki," Mina snorted.

"Hmph." Todoroki blinked from three seats over. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Now this—this was why you came to this school. Not the textbooks. Not the smiling teachers. Not the cafeteria food, though Lunch Rush did have his moments.

Basic Hero Training.

Where quirks met grit. Where fists met pavement. Where masks cracked and true strengths started to bleed through.

And judging by the buzz that swept through your classmates like lightning licking a copper wire, you weren't the only one who lived for this part of the day.

Kaminari bounced on the balls of his feet like he'd downed five energy drinks. Mina clapped her hands together excitedly, her pink cheeks puffed with anticipation. Even Iida, normally a stiff stack of protocol and posture, tapped his heel against the ground like a revved-up engine.

Aizawa hadn't said a word yet, just stared at the lot of you with half-lidded eyes and a scarf that swayed like it was judging everyone in silence.

Then—

"I AM..."

A low rumble, like the heartbeat of a stadium. You didn't even lift your head.

But the class did.

"HERE!! COMING THROUGH THE DOOR LIKE A HERO!!"

The door slammed open with enough force to rattle the windows and a gust of air whooshed through the room as the Symbol of Peace himself stood in the doorway—beaming, larger than life, practically glowing in that all-too-bright costume.

And beside you—vibrations. Kirishima shook your shoulder like a kid who'd seen Santa.

"Holy shit, Y/n!! All Might is here!!" he hissed like he was afraid the man himself might vanish if he spoke too loud.

You didn't budge, still hunched over with your arms crossed on your knees.

"We literally saw him yesterday..." you mumbled into your sleeves, eyes closed like you were willing the crowd to move past the hero worship phase faster.

"Y'know," you added, voice dry, "If we acted like that every time he showed up, we'd all be unconscious from heart attacks by now."

Kirishima laughed. "You're so weird, man."

"And yet," you yawned, "Still more grounded than half this room."

"Welcome to the most important class at UA High!!" All Might's voice boomed across the field like thunder cracking against metal. "Think of it as Hero-ing 101!! Here, you will learn the basics of being a pro—and what it means to fight in the name of good! LET'S GET INTO IT!!"

He pulled out a deck of thick cards with dramatic flair, fanning them out like a magician before snapping one to the front. "TODAY'S LESSON WILL PULL NO PUNCHES!!"

That made your head snap up.

Your sleep-deprived daze was shattered instantly, adrenaline rising to take its place. You stood up fast—so fast your chair squeaked across the floor.

"FIGHT TRAINING!"

You and Bakugo shouted the words in perfect unison.

The two of you locked eyes immediately after—an accidental sync that neither of you seemed pleased about. A flicker of tension passed between you, a mutual recognition of competitive blood. Bakugo clicked his tongue and looked away with a scoff.

"Real combat?" Midoriya echoed under his breath, eyes wide with a mix of fear and curiosity.

All Might turned on his heel dramatically, gesturing toward the far wall of the room. "But one of the keys of being a hero is... looking good!!"

With a mechanical click, the wall shifted and peeled open like a high-tech vault. Rows of briefcases slid out of the compartments, each one labeled with student numbers.

"These were designed for you based on your Quirk registration forms—and the requests you sent in before school started," All Might explained, giving a proud nod. "Get yourselves suited up and then meet me at Training Ground Beta!!"

He walked out with the same larger-than-life energy, his cape billowing behind him. The moment the door shut—

"YES, SIR!!" the class echoed like soldiers at roll call.

The room exploded into movement—students racing to grab their gear, excited voices bouncing off the walls. The air was electric. Kaminari held his case like it was a box of gold. Jirou peeked inside hers and immediately flushed. Iida made a formal bow to his suitcase. You couldn't tell if he was thanking it or vowing to use it with pride.

You grabbed your briefcase in silence, fingers brushing over the metal surface before you clicked it open.

The changing room echoed with the sound of zippers, metal snaps, and excited chatter. You changed quickly, not bothering with comments or glances. Your suit fit perfectly—sleek, sharp, flexible where it needed to be, armored where it counted. Just as you requested. You didn't smile, but there was a flicker of satisfaction in your eyes as you caught your reflection in the mirror.

Training Ground Beta.

A full urban landscape built for destruction and disaster response. Broken roads. Scattered vehicles. Cracked concrete. Skyscraper shells for cover and strategy.

The class slowly filed in, each one suited up like a character from their own personal action movie.

All Might stood on the highest platform, wind catching his cape just right, as if even nature bowed to his theatrics.

"You all look splendid! Exactly like the heroes you're training to become!!" he boomed.

You cracked your knuckles, your voice low and calm.

"Let's see how many of them can back it up."

You adjusted the glove on your dominant hand, fingers flexing in the reinforced material. The costume moved with you—light, responsive, and deadly quiet with every step.

"Holy crap, you look hot, Y/n!!" Mina's voice broke through the crowd, high-pitched and teasing as she bounced up to you in her own flashy pink gear. "Seriously—who designed that? You look like you walked off a magazine cover and a crime scene."

Kirishima let out a low whistle beside her. "Dude. That's so manly. You look like a total badass."

Your face heated despite yourself, a flicker of embarrassment breaking through your usual composure. You gave a small huff of breath and tugged your mask up slightly to hide it.

The bodysuit was a dark obsidian base, sleeveless and high-collared with sharp silver trim that traced from your shoulders down your sides like veins.

Faint lines glowed faintly along your arms and ribs when you activated your quirk—subtle indicators of motion and energy flow. Black utility gloves laced with conductive fiber aided control, and your boots were sleek and soundless, molded for speed.

A half-cape hung asymmetrically from your right shoulder, weighed just enough to flow dramatically, but short enough not to get in your way. A retractable mask hung around your neck, ready to shield your face when needed. Every piece had weight and function. You didn't need to look loud—you just had to look like you'd win.

The entire design was made to enhance mobility while disguising your true strength.

Graceful. Tactical. Lethal.

"I'll take that as a compliment," you muttered to Mina, biting back a small smile.

"Take it as three," she chirped, nudging you playfully.

Kirishima grinned wide. "You ready to fight?"

"I was born ready," you said, voice low with that familiar tingle of anticipation sparking down your spine.

Then All Might's voice roared across the field.

"ALRIGHT, HEROES!! TIME FOR MATCH-UPS!!" He pointed to a nearby monitor, where randomized pairings flickered into place.

You began to zone out, thinking about every possible team up and what to do if they were against you, until, you heard your name.

"Y/N KAKEGAWA AND.." All Might pulled another name from the box. "KATSUKI BAKUGO!!!"

You froze for a moment.

Mina leaned in, gasping. "Oh shit. You're teamed up with Bakugo?! That's gonna be... explosive."

Kirishima cackled behind his hand. "Better not kill each other."

Your jaw set as Bakugo turned from across the field, already staring directly at you.

He grinned like a wolf. "Try to keep up, freak."

You rolled your shoulders, stepping forward without hesitation.

"Don't slow me down, Kacchan."

Bakugo's glare sharpened instantly.
"The fuck did you just call me?"

You raised your brows, smirking slightly.
"What, is that not your name? Kacchan Bakugo?" you hissed, voice laced with just enough venom to stir the pot. You knew that name pissed him off. Because only one person called him that. Someone he used to think was weak.

He took a step closer, expression twisted in irritation. "Tch. Say it again, and I'll blow your face off."

"Aw, is that a threat or a love confession?" you tilted your head innocently.
"Because your eyes are saying 'I hate you,' but your blush is saying 'marry me.'"

"SHUT THE HELL UP!!" he barked.

You just chuckled, turning slightly as All Might's booming voice erupted across the field.

"I DECLARE THE FIRST TWO PEOPLE TO FIGHT WILL BE..." he reached into two separate boxes, holding up two balls—one white, one black.

"...THESE GUYS!!"

Midoriya audibly gasped.
All Might read the slip: "Team A will be the heroes, Team D will be the villains!"

You turned to see Izuku and Ochako looking equally stunned.

Your lips curled into a mischievous smile as you rolled your shoulders.

"Ooh, lucky me." You cracked your knuckles. "No hard feelings, yeah?"
You patted Ochako's back playfully.

"Yeah, right! You'll be eating those words!" she grinned back, holding her hand out. You shook it firmly, a mutual understanding in your eyes—friendly sparring, but no mercy.

Then you caught Izuku's gaze. His nervous smile wavered under your attention.

You sighed, stepping in closer and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Hey. Don't worry about him." You flicked your thumb toward Bakugo, who was glaring from the side.
"He's just got a stick up his ass, that's all. Try to have fun and take notes. This is training, not war."

Midoriya blinked at you, cheeks flushing red as he stammered, "Y-You look good!"

You chuckled, straightening. "Thanks, Midoriya. Just try to—".

A rough grip locked around your arm and yanked you backward.

"Asshole! Let go!!" you snapped, twisting around to see Bakugo dragging you away from Izuku like a territorial beast.

You looked over your shoulder and waved.
"Try not to die, you two!!" Both Midoriya and Uraraka flinched slightly at your tone.

All Might approached you and Bakugo, smile bright but voice serious. "Young Kakegawa. Young Bakugo. The key to winning this battle is to embody villainy. Think from the perspective of an evildoer."

"Light work," you muttered, unfazed.

All Might gave a light laugh, reaching out to pat the top of your head in a rare fatherly gesture. Then he leaned in, voice lower.

"Please don't go overboard."

You rolled your eyes and scoffed, brushing his hand off.
"No promises."

All Might's smile dropped a little as he watched you disappear into the mock villain stronghold, Bakugo slamming the door shut behind you.

"If things go too far," he murmured mostly to himself, "I'll step in."

You walked ahead without waiting for Bakugo, scanning the structure with quick eyes. Two floors, multiple rooms, several corners perfect for traps.

"What the hell was that back there?" Bakugo barked.

"Which part?" you replied coolly. "The part where you kidnapped me in front of witnesses or the part where I was being nice?"

"The part where you touched Deku like that," he growled. "Tch. Flirting in the middle of training? Pathetic."

You stopped walking, slowly turning to face him. "Jealousy isn't a good look on you."

"I'm not jealous!!"

"Then stop acting like a child, Kacchan."

He flinched again at the name, teeth grinding. "Keep calling me that and I swear—"

"—You'll blow me up?" you interrupted. "Please. You're so predictable it's boring."

Bakugo's palms sparked faintly with heat, but you just smirked, moving toward the staircase.

"Anyway, we should pick a room to defend. Midoriya's smart. If we stand still, he'll find us."

He stomped after you. "We're not standing still. We're laying traps. You go left—I'll take the east wing. Don't get in my way."

"Likewise, princess."

You began to part ways, footsteps silent as you melted into the shadows of the villain stronghold.

"And hey!" you called out, just as Bakugo was about to round the corner.

He groaned, half-turning. "What now?"

You tilted your head, smile lazy and dangerous. "If you kill him, clean up the mess."

Bakugo froze for a heartbeat—eyes widening faintly at your tone—before a smirk slowly spread across his face. "Tch... got it."

Then he vanished into the east wing.

You lingered there for a moment longer, the silence wrapping around you like armor.

You didn't care how Bakugo treated Midoriya.

You didn't care what petty grudges still simmered under his skin.

The second you were told you'd be fighting them, you made up your mind.

Hero or villain...
This wasn't about titles.
It was about winning.

[Five minutes until combat...]
You swept through the building like a storm in silence. The empty halls became your playground, each object another piece of a brutal puzzle.

There were wires hidden under rugs, makeshift trip mines built from what looked like desk lamps and cleaning chemicals, net traps strung with fishing line and wall hooks.
Smoke bombs made from deconstructed fire extinguishers and flour.
Explosives disguised as overturned boxes.
Sharp furniture edges made more lethal with tension wires.

Your fingers moved fast—calloused from years of tinkering, creating, improvising.

You paused briefly on the upper floor, glancing out a dusty window.

Uraraka. Her quirk made her agile, and her teamwork with Midoriya was strong—but her stamina? Her physical strength? Her stability once weightless? It was all too easy to work against.

A ceiling fan turned trap, triggered by pressure plate. A fake corner rigged with flash powder. You planned for all of it.

Then came Izuku.

You didn't waste time laying traps for him.
You knew Bakugo wouldn't give him the chance to leave his shadow.

He'd be too focused on proving something—to you, to All Might, to Midoriya, to himself. You didn't need to get in the way. You just needed to keep control.

[Three minutes left until combat..]
You ducked into a narrow crawlspace beneath the stairs, brushing your fingers over a small switch rigged to the entryway. A simple setup—open the door, and a shower of thick, chalky smoke would flood the room. Just long enough to disorient. Just long enough to decide the winner.

Your comm crackled softly. "Oi. You ready?" Bakugo's voice grunted through the static.

You pressed the button. "Let’s kill those bitches."

All Might's voice echoed through the comms, booming with energy.

"BEGIN!!"

────୨ৎ────
6606 words

Chapter Text

TIME SKIPPED FORWARD LIKE the flick of a switch.

The dust had settled. The tension had not.

You sat high above the main corridor of the third floor, perched on a steel beam that overlooked the hallway like a predator looming in the canopy. Legs swung lazily off the edge, your back pressed against the wall with one arm resting over your bent knee. The building's silence buzzed in your ears—thick, tense, heavy with anticipation.

Your fingers absentmindedly traced the cold metal behind you, carving invisible patterns into the paint-chipped surface.

Boredom.

Not from a lack of danger—no. You'd rigged every inch of this place with traps so finely tuned, it would be a miracle if Uraraka even made it up here in one piece. You were bored because she would. That much was obvious.

You didn't underestimate her. You just knew how people like her operated.

Kind. Hopeful. Predictable.

They didn't do well in unfamiliar terrain.

You exhaled through your nose, letting the shadows cradle you as your eyes followed a slow, drifting trail of dust caught in a shaft of sunlight. You flicked a marble off your thigh—one of several trinkets you carried for distraction purposes. It clinked against a pipe and rolled off into the silence.

Any second now...

If you timed it right—and you always did—then Uraraka would have just passed the first net trap. Midoriya likely would've been pulled into a fight with Bakugo the second they entered the building. You'd made sure the main stairwell would funnel them exactly where you wanted them.

They were split. That was the key.

You stayed still. Silent. Even your heartbeat was calm.

Then—creak.

Your ears twitched at the sound of a footstep three floors below.

You didn't move. Just smiled.

Uraraka was here.

You could hear her muttering to herself as she tiptoed through the hallway—trying to be quiet, to not trip the traps, to stay light on her feet.

Poor girl.

Didn't she know that everything in here was already watching?

You slid silently down the beam, pressing a hidden panel in the wall. One of your smoke vents triggered on the floor below, flooding the area in a thick white cloud. She yelped.

"What the heck—?!"

You dropped from the beam like a shadow, landing silently in the upper corridor just above her.

"Boo."

She gasped, spinning too late as you appeared from the smoke behind her, You punched her, not caring about her cute face.

She staggered, dazed and breathless from the punch, hand flying to her nose as blood dripped between her fingers. You couldn't help but grin, your boot heel scraping against the concrete as you stepped slowly into view again—lazily, like this was nothing more than a game.

Her game.

Your stage.

"Y-Y/n— What the hell!!" she cried, eyes wide and shimmering as she tried to spot your shadow through the haze, every instinct screaming that something wasn't right.

You just tilted your head and cooed, voice sing-song soft, dripping like honey over razors.

"What a cute little hero..." Your smile didn't reach your eyes. "I was getting worried you'd gotten lost. Took you long enough."

Your tone should've been comforting, teasing maybe—if not for the cruelty behind it. Your voice had become colder, deeper, not quite your own. Like something had sunk into you, like something old.

Like your mother's laughter in the back of your mind.

Your fists curled and unclenched again. You kept moving, circling her like a lioness stalking a bleeding deer. She swung at you—clumsy, desperate. You ducked it easily, caught her by the waist, and drove your knee into her gut. She wheezed, the sound sharp, like it had been pulled out of her.

You didn't let her fall.

"Aw, don't go fainting on me, little hero..." you cooed, stroking her hair mockingly. "We're just getting started."

You shoved her back and struck again—a flurry of punches and kicks that forced her to keep moving, keep dodging. You were never really trying to hit her again... not properly. You were toying with her. Pushing her. Testing her.

Like a cat cornering a mouse and waiting for it to squeal.

And she did. She landed wrong, tripped over a loose piece of rubble. You were on her in a second, pinning her beneath you. Her lip was split, the blood bright and messy.

You leaned down slowly... and dragged your tongue across it.

"Mmh..." You giggled, nose scrunching with sick delight. "You taste like desperation."

Her breath caught, eyes wide in stunned silence. You just winked, hopping back effortlessly, bouncing from one chunk of fallen ceiling to another with perfect balance.

"Playing a villain is so exhilarating!!" You cried out with joy, spinning mid-air like it was a dance, landing in a crouch as your hand flicked up—

Your coin shimmered in the low light, the silver edges spinning as it flipped skyward, catching the glow of emergency panels as it fell.

You moved with the coin's rhythm. With a feral little laugh, you shot forward, landing a kick to her spine that sent her flying into the wall face-first.

A loud bang.

She didn't get back up right away.

The room echoed with the sound of your boots scraping across the ground, rubble crunching beneath your steps as you circled her again.

Uraraka was on her hands and knees, trembling and bloodied, her motions sluggish and weak. Her fingers barely gripped the floor. Her breathing was ragged, short gasps sucked between parted lips.

You tilted your head, exhaling sharply through your nose.

"Tch." Your amusement had long since melted away. This wasn't fun anymore. This wasn't a game.

You lunged again, quick as a shadow, and her slow attempt at defense was pitiful. She tried to lift her arm, to retaliate, to float something—anything—but your kick sent her crashing back down onto her side with a grunt.

Still no hit. Not one. She hadn't even come close.

You were breathing heavily now, chest rising and falling not from exhaustion, but irritation—pure, festering frustration coiling in your gut like smoke. You cracked your neck, eyes narrowing as your lips twisted into something colder than a smirk.

"Come on, Uraraka..." you muttered, voice low and dangerous. "You're in the Hero Course, right? You passed the same damn exam I did."

No answer. Just her soft, strained breathing.

You walked toward her slowly, each step heavy with purpose until you stood directly over her. Then—slam—you drove your boot down on her chest, not enough to break ribs, but enough to press the air from her lungs and leave her stunned. You crouched beside her, never lifting your foot.

She gasped, eyes wide, her body going tense beneath the pressure.

Your tone was venomous now, no longer dripping with mockery but with something darker—something real.

"A villain isn't going to wait for you to get up or hit back," you hissed, your voice close to her ear. "So get your ass up before I beat you to a pulp."

She blinked up at you, dazed. There was a flicker of a smile on her face—confused, wary—like maybe you were still playing the role, like this was still you having fun.

Until she met your eyes.

And the smile dropped.

You weren't just playing a villain anymore.

The anger in your gaze was raw, electric. Real. Your lip curled, fingers twitching like you were holding back something more violent than even you intended. Your hand even ghosted toward the coin around your neck, but you didn't flip it this time.

You leaned down lower, face inches from hers.

"Show me you're worthy of being my equal."

Uraraka's breath caught in her throat.

Because you weren't fighting like someone trying to win a game.

You were fighting like someone trying to prove something. Like this moment meant more than anyone else watching could ever understand.

The girl beneath you trembled—not just from pain, but from the weight of your presence, your words, your expectation.

And somewhere on the other side of the monitors... you knew he was watching.

Midoriya.

Bakugo.

Everyone.

You stood slowly, the pressure of your boot lifting from her ribs, but your eyes never left hers.

"Fight me, Ochako, or I'll make sure you regret not trying."

Uraraka's arm moved with surprising speed, and before you could register the shift in momentum, she swept your legs clean out from under you.

"Finally!"

But instead of hitting the ground, you caught yourself mid-fall with a practiced twist, flipping mid-air and landing atop a chunk of rubble in a crouch. Your laughter rang through the broken halls, not cruel this time—genuinely delighted.

"There she is!!" you shouted, eyes wide with thrill. "That's the future pro hero I know of!!"

Uraraka wiped her bloodied lip, panting. "Don't count me out just yet," she said, the shakiness in her tone replaced by steady resolve.

You grinned.

Good. You could work with this.

That's when her hand slapped against the ground—and suddenly, the debris all around you started to float. The chunk you were standing on levitated with a lurch, rising higher into the air alongside jagged, sharp-edged rocks. She was using her quirk—really using it now—and you saw the flicker of confidence in her expression.

But your smirk only widened.

Because she had no idea this was exactly what you wanted.

"Clever," you hummed, balancing on your floating perch as the room filled with weightless rubble. "Too bad I planned for that."

BOOM

The chunk of rock beneath your boots erupted into a thousand fragments with a sharp explosion—one you had rigged yourself with planted smoke explosives and pressure caps earlier. The other floating pieces followed, shattering into shrapnel as your trap chain-triggered.

Uraraka gasped, instinctively flinging herself back as the mini-barrage of sharp stone scattered toward her. She deflected a few, but—

Snap.

A thin wire cut through the air.

Before she could react, the trap you had lain in the debris sprang to life. A tight, reinforced net burst out with coiled tension, wrapping around her body mid-air and jerking her upward like prey caught in a hunter's snare.

Her scream was brief—cut off by the snap of the net tightening around her chest as she was yanked toward the ceiling.

You were already in motion.

"Bang."

On cue with your whisper, you launched forward in a single, swift motion and drove your foot into her chest with a sharp, decisive kick.

CRACK

The force sent her swinging in the net like a broken pendulum, and her head lulled to the side.

Uraraka went still. Knocked out.

You straightened, panting slightly as the dust settled, standing beneath her suspended form. The tension in your body slowly eased. You exhaled, wiping your mouth with the back of your glove.

"...And scene." With a glance to the nearest surveillance camera, you offered a wink and blew a sarcastic kiss. "That's a wrap on Team A's gravity girl. One down."

Your voice echoed like the last note of a war drum.

But there was no time to celebrate.

Because somewhere deeper in the building... you knew Midoriya was still out there.
And Bakugo?

Well.

You had no doubt he'd be coming soon too.

And something in your gut told you he'd be pissed.

Really pissed.

You didn't waste time.

With Uraraka still unconscious in the net, you carefully untangled her, tightening the bindings until you were sure—absolutely sure—she wasn't getting out unless someone cut her loose. She let out a quiet groan as her head lolled forward.

"Nighty night, cutie," you whispered, hoisting her up over your shoulder.

Then, came the distant sounds of destruction—faint tremors that made the floors vibrate beneath your boots.

BOOM.
BOOM.

You turned toward the sound with a sharp grin.

"Kacchan's angry again," you giggled to yourself, the echo of explosions ringing like music. "Good boy."

With Uraraka's unconscious weight slung over your back, you darted through the halls, each step echoing with anticipation. You didn't bother to hide your footsteps—no point in subtlety now. This part? This was the performance.

"You're very scary, Young Kakegawa..." All Might's voice suddenly crackled through the intercom system, calm yet tense. "Try not to—uh—go too far."

You rolled your eyes.

"I'll remind you not to let me turn into a villain when the time comes!" you called back playfully, waving to the nearest camera with a grin, your voice syrupy sweet.

The silence that followed made you laugh harder.

Poor All Might. So earnest. So trusting.

You were going to ruin him.

BANG.

A wall up ahead blew open, smoke spilling through the hallway like fog. You approached the source of the carnage, eyes glittering with excitement as you stepped into the open wreckage—

—and there they were.

Midoriya's eyes locked on yours first—wide, calculating, always thinking three steps ahead. Then they dropped to the limp form of Uraraka slung over your shoulder.

His breath hitched.

Bakugo came into view next, fists smoking, expression dark. And when he saw Uraraka—

"You bitch—" Bakugo snapped, stomping forward. "I thought I told you to stay out of my w—"

Midoriya didn't wait. He surged forward, eyes locked on Ochako.

Trying to save her.
How sweet.

You laughed at the attempt, flipping your coin with a flick of your wrist and catching it midair before slamming your foot forward—
—kicking Midoriya square in the chest and sending him crashing into Bakugo.

The two of them went down in a tangle.

"Kacchan~!" you chirped, dropping Ochako like discarded luggage. She hit the floor with a dull thud. You skipped forward, hands behind your back like you were strolling through a park. "I was wondering when I'd see you. Sorry I'm late!"

Bakugo shoved Midoriya off him with a growl, eyes searing with fury.
"I swear to God, I'm gonna—"

"Gonna what?" you teased, swaying on your heels.

Before either of them could react again, Midoriya stepped between you both, hands raised in a rare show of peacekeeping.

"Wait—wait," he said quickly, eyes flicking between you and Bakugo. "Is this... about Ochako? Is this personal?"

You tilted your head and shrugged lazily, one foot resting on the unconscious girl beside you, casually leaning against the wall.

"I'm just giving the performance of a lifetime," you replied smoothly. "Don't know about Bakugo though. Maybe he's just mad I got to her first."

Your eyes flicked toward the nearest surveillance camera, and your smile turned showy. You knew exactly what kind of drama you were feeding.

Midoriya looked back and forth between the two of you, clearly trying to read whether this was still training or a full breakdown of sanity.

Bakugo wasn't about to explain himself. He just squared up, raising one of his gauntlets and aiming it straight at Midoriya.

"I'm all loaded up."

You blinked. "Ayo?"

Bakugo shot you the filthiest glare imaginable.

"What does that mean?" Midoriya asked, concern instantly clouding his face.

Bakugo didn't answer. Not directly.

Instead, he took a challenging step forward. "Why aren't you using your fancy quirk, huh? Don't tell me you're underestimating me, Deku. Get over here and show me what you're really made of."

"Oh, that's a d1 yearner right there," you muttered, watching with fascination. You could hear the cackling from the intercom behind the walls—clearly someone on tech duty was enjoying the show.

"Kacchan," Midoriya spoke up, stronger this time. "I'm not scared of you anymore."

You gasped dramatically. "Awww. Bakudeku is real, guys," you said, eyes locked on the camera again.

"SHUT UP!!" both Bakugo and Midoriya yelled in sync.

You giggled like a gremlin. "My fault, continue."

Bakugo shifted his stance, explaining for no one in particular—maybe for Midoriya, maybe for the crowd.

"Since you're such a stalker, you probably know how my quirk works. I secrete nitroglycerin-like sweat from my hands and make it blow up," he said, yanking the pin from his gauntlet like a grenade. "Now imagine what I could do with this much stored up."

Your smile faded. Just a little.
That wasn't playful anger anymore.

"That's right," Bakugo went on, tone dark and low. "These aren't just for show. They've been storing up my sweat this whole time—for one monster blast."

"All Might—" Midoriya started.

"Young Bakugo, don't do it!! You'll kill them both!" the intercom blared.

You pulled your foot off of Ochako, eyes narrowing.

Bakugo didn't flinch. "He'll be fine as long as he dodges!!"

And with that, he yanked the trigger.

BOOOOM

The blast rocked the entire building. Walls cracked. The floor trembled.

You didn't think. You moved.

You scooped up Uraraka and bolted out of the blast radius, dropping her gently behind the next wall before diving back into the corridor where the explosion was thickest. Through the smoke, you could see Midoriya struggling to stay upright.

Your coin flashed in your hand.

Then—flip.

You slid into him just in time, the blast chasing your heels as you tackled him to the ground. You both hit the floor hard and rolled across the hallway, smoke curling around you in hot spirals.

Midoriya blinked up at you in shock. "Is that even allowed?!"

You felt it before you saw it—the burning deep in your chest, sharp and searing. You coughed, your vision swimming, and glanced down at the coin trembling in your hand. The casing had melted. It hissed faintly in your palm, singed and marred from the blast.

Midoriya's hand was already on your back, steady but trembling. "Are you alright?!"

You tried to answer but instead coughed harder, your body curling instinctively. The sharp rattle of dry heaving gave way to something thicker. You spat blood into your palm, and his eyes went wide.

From somewhere behind the smoke and rubble, Bakugo's laugh cut through the static. Wild. Unhinged. Adrenaline-spiked.

"Haha!! These things are awesome! The more nitro sweat stored in these gauntlets, the bigger the bang!" He stepped forward, grinning. "Go on, Deku! Use that fancy quirk of yours! Hit me with everything—you'll never beat me!"

You pressed the coin to your chest, your knuckles white around it. Your body trembled. Eyes glassy, lungs struggling. But you crawled.

"What's the matter?! You two look scared!" Bakugo barked out another manic laugh. "She saved you, didn't she?! Then fight me!"

You couldn't hear it all. His voice, Midoriya's concern, even your own ragged breathing—they blurred together, muffled like you were underwater. But you could see Ochako stirring. Barely. You dragged yourself to her, every inch of your skin feeling like it was peeling off.

"I—I'm sorry, Ochako," you whispered.

You didn't have time to explain. You just pressed the coin to her chest, and activated it. With the last of your strength, you kicked her gently through the gaping hole in the wall Bakugo had made with his explosion. She soared outside like freight—safe.

All Might's voice boomed from above, panicked.
"Young Bakugo! That blast jeopardized the stronghold! Do that again and we lose!!"

But his voice faded too, just like the rest.

Your vision blurred again, heat blooming under your skin. Your heartbeat roared in your ears. You barely registered the moment Bakugo slammed Midoriya to the ground.

Then—

"Y/N?!" A voice—urgent, raw. You turned your head weakly. Through the haze, you saw him. Kirishima, wide-eyed, leaning over the broken rail of the observation deck.

"Is that—is that blood?"

You lifted your hand toward him, fingers shaking, arm trembling like it might give out. "Kiri..."

You started to climb. But behind you—force.
Wind. A shockwave.

Midoriya. You caught a flicker of green light out of the corner of your eye as the blast from his punch launched you forward—too fast to stop. The broken wall gave way. You flew through the air.

"Y/N!!!" Kirishima's voice tore through the panic.

Strong arms caught you. You gasped, the wind knocked from your lungs as you hit his chest, vision tunneling.

"Kirishima!! Her—!" All Might shouted through the intercome.

Midoriya's eyes widened, catching it in the corner of his gaze— The coin, tumbling in the air, glinting.

"CATCH IT, KIRISHIMA!!!"

Silence.

The coin spun in the air for what felt like forever. Then— Kirishima's hand snapped forward, catching it tight against his palm.

Your breathing was ragged. Skin blistered and red.

"She's burning up," he murmured, voice hoarse. "Her whole body—her temperature's way too high..."

You could barely keep your eyes open. Pain bloomed in every part of your body. Your fingers twitched weakly, reaching up to Kirishima's wrist.

Suddenly, All Might's voice echoes through the ringing in your ears.

"The villain team... wins!!"

All Might's voice echoed from the comms, stunned. You could hear the disbelief in it, like even he wasn't sure what had just happened.

Your lips curved into a small smile. Weak. Soft. But there.

"...We win..."

And then—

Everything went black.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The sterile lights of the nurse's office flickered faintly above them, humming a low, unbothered tune that felt painfully indifferent to the weight of the room.

Y/n lay motionless on the bed, their chest rising and falling in jagged, shallow breaths. Bandages wrapped their body like a mummy, but even those couldn't hide the angry burns blooming across their skin. The scent of singed flesh and antiseptic clung heavy in the air.

Midoriya sat up slightly in the bed next to them, bruised and battered but still conscious. He couldn't take his eyes off them. Every twitch, every rattling breath twisted something tighter in his chest.

Recovery Girl stepped over, clipboard in hand, face drawn.

"Is..." Midoriya's voice cracked. "Is—are they going to be okay?"

Recovery Girl didn't answer right away. She glanced down at the burns, brushing the hair from Y/n's sweat-slicked forehead with a tenderness that made Midoriya's stomach lurch.

"I can treat the surface injuries," she finally said, "but not all of them. Their body took damage too deep. There'll be permanent scarring—especially where their quirk activated. Their system is... volatile right now."

Izuku nodded slowly, but his eyes drifted lower—to their coin, now resting in a containment dish nearby. It was warped, the casing cracked clean through.

"What about their heart?" he asked, voice trembling. "The coin—it was damaged in the explosion... Are you sure they'll be okay?"

Recovery Girl didn't answer.

Instead, she leaned down, lips pressing lightly to Y/n's forehead. Her quirk sparked.

Nothing.

Her brow furrowed.

She tried again, kissing another spot, this time with a faint frown pulling at her mouth.

Still nothing.

Izuku's stomach dropped. The silence was suffocating.

Without a word, Recovery Girl stepped back and pressed a button on the wall. A soft chime echoed in the room.

"Principal Nezu, to Recovery Girl's office. Immediately."

Midoriya froze. His fingers curled into the sheets.

"Wh-What's—what's happening?"

Recovery Girl turned to him, her voice steady but grim.

"I can't heal them."

The words hung in the air like the aftermath of a gunshot.

The door opened swiftly. Principal Nezu entered first, casual as ever, his small paws tapping against the tile. Right behind him, Aizawa stepped in with his usual tired glare, but his eyes flicked instantly to the bed. To Y/n. Then to Midoriya.

"What happened?" Aizawa asked.

Recovery Girl folded her arms.

"Their body won't let me heal them," she said simply. "Their quirk... something about it is interfering. Like it's locked them down to protect something."

Nezu hummed thoughtfully, though the smile on his face didn't quite reach his eyes.

"This is quite a trouble! But it can't be helped. Let us call their family. Perhaps they'll know how to handle it."

He padded out of the room, phone already in hand.

Aizawa didn't follow. Instead, he pulled a chair to Y/n's bedside, sitting with a heavy sigh. His gaze lingered on them, unreadable.

"I knew I should've expelled them," he muttered darkly. "Nothing but a pain in the ass and an empty beer bottle."

Midoriya's head snapped toward him, disbelief sharpening his features.

"They saved me," he said firmly.

Aizawa didn't move.

"Excuse me?"

"They saved me," Izuku repeated, stronger this time. "Kacchan made this huge explosion—one I wasn't going to dodge in time. And they pushed me out of the way. Took the full hit."

His fists trembled in his lap.

"They're more of a hero than half the pros I've met in this school."

Aizawa stared at him for a long moment. His face didn't change. But he looked down at Y/n again, eyes narrowing just slightly.

And in the silence that followed, the only sound was the weak, stuttering rise and fall of Y/n's chest.

Uncertain. Fragile.
But still breathing.

The room had settled into a fragile peace, a moment of reprieve amidst the chaos. Izuku sat in the chair beside Y/n, elbows resting on his knees, chin in his hands, watching their chest rise and fall. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting like that when the door opened with a soft click.

Principal Nezu entered with his usual polite smile, though his eyes were unusually somber. Behind him stood two people—striking in a way that made Izuku sit up straighter.

The man looked only a few years older than Y/n, his features sharp and defined. His hair mirrored theirs, the same deep hue and texture, though styled more aggressively, like he was always ready for a fight. His build was lean but powerful, and there was something rigid in his posture, something that said I don't break first.

The woman beside him was tall, elegant, and unmistakably beautiful, though her beauty was tempered by maturity. Her features were softer than the man's, but her eyes—Y/n's eyes—were piercing and cold, like she could see through everyone in the room. She wore her age like a badge, timeless and unwavering. Izuku immediately assumed: their mother.

They were beautiful—undeniably so—but unlike Y/n, they didn't unsettle him. It struck him suddenly: Y/n terrified him in a way he hadn't truly processed before. Not because they were cruel. But because their presence was otherworldly. Like they stood half in shadow, like they knew something no one else did and chose not to speak it. Compared to them, their family felt... mortal.

"My poor baby," the woman said softly as she moved to the bed, her fingers brushing Y/n's hair from their face with practiced tenderness. "Thank you for calling us in here. Unfortunately, my husband couldn't join us. His condition's been acting up again."

Recovery Girl, who had stayed silently in the corner, stepped forward. "I explained the situation. Your child is lucky. Midoriya here likely saved their life."

Izuku flushed slightly but nodded. "They saved me first," he added quietly. "I didn't do anything they wouldn't have done."

The man scoffed. "My sibling? Saving you? You look weak. Why would they even bother—"

"Renjiro," their mother snapped, her tone razor-sharp.

The man—Renjiro—immediately shut his mouth, though his jaw clenched.

"They don't care about whether someone is weak," she said firmly. "Not like you do. You need to remember that. They help people. Even the ones you wouldn't."

"Tch," Renjiro huffed, but said nothing more.

Nezu, still smiling, tilted his head. "Is there any way to heal them completely?"

The woman turned to him, her expression unchanged. "Yes, but it's... unorthodox, I'm afraid."

She turned back to Y/n, taking their hand in hers gently. "For the sake of my child, could I ask everyone to leave the room? They've never liked being seen like this. Vulnerable."

Nezu nodded politely. Recovery Girl didn't argue. Even Renjiro stepped outside, though not without a dramatic sigh. Izuku, however, didn't move.

"I'll stay," he said, firmly but respectfully. "They might want someone they trust here when they wake up."

The mother raised an eyebrow. "They trust you?"

"They do," he said quietly.

She hesitated for a moment... then nodded.

"Fine. But you don't get to watch."

With that, she drew a curtain between the bed and the rest of the room.

Izuku leaned back in his chair, fists clenched on his knees. At first, there was silence.

Then, a sound broke through—wet, sickening, and wrong. Something moist and squelching, like raw flesh being twisted and wrung out. Izuku flinched. Then came a scream—sharp and agonized. Y/n's scream.

It was quickly muffled, probably by a hand. Izuku's stomach turned. The noises got worse—deep, disgusting cracks, as though bones were being snapped in and out of place, one after another. The kind of sounds you weren't supposed to hear outside of horror movies or autopsies.

His breath quickened. What were they doing? Why weren't heroes allowed to see this? He wanted to peek. Gods, he almost did.

Then, it stopped.

There was a long pause. Then came voices.

"You're lucky," Renjiro's voice said quietly. "But reckless. Again. You're always like this."

A silence, then Y/n's voice, groggy but steady. "You came anyway."

"...Yeah. Whatever," he muttered.

Their mother's voice followed. "Rest up, sweetheart. You did good."

The curtain was pulled back.

And there they were—Y/n—sleeping peacefully beneath the sheets, their chest rising with a strong, even rhythm. Their face was soft, their lips slightly parted in a faint smile.

No blood. No scars. No pain.

Just them. Whole again.

Izuku exhaled for what felt like the first time in hours, the tension finally easing from his shoulders. The weight of panic, confusion, and horror lifted, replaced by a tired kind of relief that settled deep into his bones.

A soft snore escaped from Y/n's lips, gentle and unbothered. Izuku almost laughed—quietly—afraid even the smallest sound would disrupt the peace that had fallen over the room like a warm blanket.

The door creaked open again.

Recovery Girl returned with a clipboard tucked beneath her arm, her expression easing when she saw Y/n sleeping soundly. Aizawa followed behind, eyes scanning the room like always—like nothing could ever really surprise him—but even he allowed his shoulders to drop ever so slightly when he saw them both.

"They're stable?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

"They'll be fine," the mother said without turning around, brushing Y/n's hair off their forehead once more. "You'll want to monitor them for side effects, but they'll wake up in a few hours. Hungry and annoyed."

Aizawa nodded. "That sounds about right."

Recovery Girl chuckled and made a few notes. "At this point, we're just lucky. I've never seen anything like it."

Izuku didn't answer. He was still watching Y/n—his fingers finding theirs and curling around their hand. Warm. Real. He hadn't imagined it.

His thumb brushed their knuckles gently, his own eyelids heavy. The day had caught up to him. The fear, the guilt, the ache in his chest. But now that he knew they were okay... he could rest. Just for a moment.

He let himself lean closer, resting his forehead lightly on their joined hands.

And there, hand in hand with the most terrifyingly beautiful person he'd ever met, Izuku Midoriya fell asleep.

Their quiet breaths matched, the rest of the world momentarily forgotten.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You woke up to pain. Not the sharp, unbearable kind—no. This was deep. Low in your bones. Your head throbbed like a war drum, every joint ached like you'd aged twenty years in your sleep. Your throat was dry, your mouth tasted like metal, and your skin was too warm, like the room was closing in on you.

Instinctively, your hand reached up.

Your chest.

No pain.

Good.

Then, your fingers found the space around your neck.

Nothing.

Your heart stopped.

Your eyes flew open.

The ceiling was unfamiliar. The light above buzzed softly, fluorescent and white. You sat up too quickly, a new ache stabbing through your ribs—but it didn't matter.

Your coin.

Where was your coin?

You scanned the room, ignoring how your vision swam. You didn't register the shapes of the people around you. Not yet. Just hazy blobs of color and shadow. All you could focus on was the cold, empty feeling where your coin should've rested.

Your coin was your heart.

And your heart was missing.

Your breath caught in your chest, fury rising like bile.

You glared at everyone in the room like they were enemies, threats, obstacles between you and survival.

Until—

A warm hand landed on your shoulder.

"Easy, dear," a gentle voice coaxed.

Your body stilled, your eyes flickering to your side where Recovery Girl stood, her eyes calm, soft, and impossibly understanding. Like she knew.

Like she'd seen it before.

"It's alright," she said quietly. "It's safe. You're safe."

You wanted to scream, to demand answers, to tear the room apart until someone gave you your coin back—but her hand... her voice...

It grounded you.

"Your mother and brother helped us heal you," she explained, as though her words alone could dull your panic. "If I can be frank, you're lucky to be scar free."

Your vision blurred again, this time with tears, but you blinked them away. You didn't cry. Not in front of people.

"Where is it?" you asked, voice hoarse, low, dangerous.

She stepped aside slowly—revealing it.

On the tray beside the bed, resting inside a glass case like it was something holy. Your coin. Untouched. Whole. Glistening faintly in the light like it had just been made.

"I made sure it was returned the moment it was safe to do so," she said softly. "Do you want help putting it back on?"

You shook your head, already reaching for it.

You clipped the necklace back around your neck with trembling fingers. The weight of the coin settled against your sternum, heavy and familiar. You exhaled shakily—finally. You could breathe again. You didn't realize how tightly your body had been wound until the panic began to fade.

Then came the voices.

"You're reckless," Aizawa said, his tone flat and exhausted. He stood at the foot of the bed with arms crossed, his gaze unreadable—but his jaw was clenched. "You pushed yourself past every limit. You're lucky Recovery Girl and your family were able to stabilize you."

"You're not invincible," Recovery Girl added with a sigh. "Even if you pretend like you are. You shouldn't have even been in combat with a damaged heart, let alone using your quirk like that. What were you thinking?"

You didn't answer.

Because the truth was, you weren't thinking. You saw Midoriya dying and something in you snapped—like instinct, but louder. The kind that didn't stop to consider whether or not you'd survive it.

"It was stupid," Aizawa muttered, more to himself than you.

You slid off the bed carefully, your legs still aching and sore, but functional. Recovery Girl watched you with concern, but didn't stop you. She knew better. Knew that if you were on your feet, then you were going to leave, whether anyone liked it or not.

Aizawa handed you a wrapped sandwich and a water bottle, his eyes still narrowed. "You're going back to class. You can barely stand, but your mother insisted. Said you'd rather be miserable with your friends than resting alone."

You took the sandwich without a word, biting into it slowly as you walked the familiar hallway. It tasted plain—just turkey, lettuce, and mayo—but you hadn't realized how hungry you were until that first bite. You chewed mechanically, still replaying everything in your mind.

And then—classroom door.

As soon as it slid open—

"Y/N!!"

"You're alive!!"

Mina Ashido all but tackled you, pink curls bouncing wildly as she threw her arms around your shoulders. Kirishima was right behind her, his grin huge and eyes sparkling, hands on your back to steady you as Mina squeezed too hard.

"Careful," you muttered, stiffening under their touch. "Still sore."

"Oh my god, sorry sorry—! I just—dude, you scared the hell out of us!" Mina backed off but kept bouncing in place. "You were unconscious for hours! And then Midoriya wouldn't tell us anything except that you saved him!"

Kirishima nodded, a rare seriousness settling over his features. "You good? Like really good?"

You blinked slowly. Your coin was warm against your chest. Your body still ached. But you were standing. You were breathing. And despite everything... these two made it feel just a little more bearable.

"...I'm alright," you said softly. "I'm back, at least." You looked over at the two empty seats near the front of the class and squinted. "Where's the lovebirds?"

Mina blinked at you, confused. "Lovebirds?"

"Bakugo and Midoriya," you clarified with a teasing lilt, biting into the last of your sandwich.

Kirishima chuckled. "Ohhh. Yeah, they kinda are, huh?"

"I don't know where they are, actually," Mina said, glancing around like she'd just realized they were missing. "Midoriya ran out a bit ago."

"Yeah," Ojiro added. "He went after Bakugo, I think. Something must've happened."

You frowned and shifted your gaze toward the window. Sure enough, Bakugo was walking alone across the courtyard, his pace slower than usual. Brooding. You tilted your head, already piecing something together.

"I'm gonna go check it out," you muttered, slinging your bag across your shoulder and heading for the door.

"Be safe!" Kirishima called after you.

You nodded without turning back, bolting down the hall and out the front doors, the quiet sound of wind brushing past your ears.

You were about to call out when you heard it.

"I never lied to you."

You froze.

That was Midoriya's voice.

You ducked behind the side of the building, instincts sharpened by too many close calls. You peeked around the corner, careful not to make a sound.

Bakugo stood stiffly a few feet away, his back to Midoriya. The tension between them was thick, suffocating.

"This quirk..." Midoriya continued, his voice hoarse, "...it was given to me by someone else."

Your heart skipped.

Given?

That didn't make any sense. Quirks weren't gifts, they were a part of who you were. You couldn't just... give one away.

Unless...

Your breath caught.

All for One.

The thought sent a chill down your spine.

All for One wasn't the type to "gift" something. You knew that a quirk given by him would mean Izuku would be in debt.

Your eyes darted between them, trying to make sense of the pieces, when another figure entered the courtyard.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Familiar.

All Might.

Your blood turned cold as you watched the former Number One Hero walk up to Midoriya, speaking to him in low, urgent tones like this was routine. Not new. Not surprising.

Like this wasn't the first time they'd had a conversation like this.

Midoriya nodded at him, looking up with wide, trusting eyes.

And you knew.

You didn't want to know, but you knew.

Midoriya fought just like him. Moved like him. Felt like him.

The power, the pattern—it was too familiar to be coincidence.

Did All Might give Midoriya his quirk?

The logic part of your brain tried to reason it out. That's not how quirks work. But your instincts screamed that this wasn't normal. This wasn't random.

And if you were right... if he had inherited it—

What else had they kept from you?

You stepped away from the wall quietly, your coin necklace bouncing gently against your chest with every step.

No confrontation. No questions. Not yet.

You had enough secrets of your own to know how dangerous knowledge could be.

You turned and walked away, faster this time.

Because whatever this was?

It changed everything.

As you walked back toward class, your mind raced with a storm of questions—each one sharper than the last.

"Given." "I never lied." "They've known each other."

Your jaw clenched as you tightened your grip around your coin necklace, feeling the familiar edges press into your palm. That coin was your lifeline. Your reminder. Your tether to everything you were—and everything you were planning.

If anyone had answers, it was him.

The only person who'd been there from the start.

Your father’s admiration.

All for One.

You exhaled slow, eyes narrowing as the classroom door came into view.

A deep breath. You slipped it open with careful composure, stepping in like you hadn't just overheard something that could uproot the entire future.

"Couldn't find them," you lied easily, brushing past Kirishima and Mina without meeting their eyes.

They both nodded, trusting. You hated that. Hated how easily they believed you.

You slid back into your seat, feigning boredom while questions ricocheted in your skull. As classmates asked how you were feeling, you gave the same few answers over and over like a rehearsed script: "Better." "Still sore." "Recovery Girl worked her magic."

Every word was a distraction. Every smile was a mask.

Then the door opened again.

And they walked in.

Midoriya first—wide-eyed, jittery like always—but different now. He held something under his skin, something alive. And behind him, trying not to loom too much, was All Might.

You didn't even realize your gaze had sharpened until both of them flinched. They felt it. Saw it. But said nothing.

You stood up slowly.

"Yea," you muttered, shouldering your bag. "I'ma head out."

A few classmates blinked, confused.

"But class is—" All Might began, his voice even and calm.

Then your glare met his.

That awful, heavy silence fell over the room like a curtain.

All Might's words caught in his throat. He said nothing more.

You clicked your tongue, already walking away. Your steps were calm, but your body was coiled like a loaded spring.

Every move calculated.

You didn't need to stay.

You'd heard enough.

You stepped into the hallway, letting the quiet swallow you whole.

Keep Midoriya and Bakugo as far away as possible.

They were dangerous.

Not because of who they were—but because of what they didn't understand.

They'd only fuck up your father's plans more.

────୨ৎ────
7075 words
it’s literally so hard to
type with nails bro 😭

Chapter Text

THE WEEKS HAD CRAWLED by like molasses, every day stretching long and painful as you were confined to bed rest under strict orders from Aizawa himself.

Not just "rest," though. You'd pushed yourself too far again—trained until your bones cracked under the pressure, your muscles begging for reprieve you never granted. You weren't trying to prove anything. Not to them, anyway.

You were trying to catch up. To stay sharp. To stay ready.

By the time you were cleared to return to school, your bones had healed, but the ache still lived in your joints—constant, quiet. It was a reminder. One you didn't resent.

So here you were, walking the familiar path to U.A., dressed in your uniform again, coin necklace bouncing lightly with each step. You were still a little sore, your movements stiffer than you'd admit, but it felt good. Right.

You scrolled through your phone while waiting by the gates, giggling softly at a comment under a pro hero's edit:
"Imagine Hawks trying to do taxes. Bro would rather file for early retirement."

You snorted.

God, you missed this.

"Y/n, you were allowed to go to school?!" came a bright voice from behind you.

You blinked, lifting your head.

Uraraka stood a few feet away, waving at you with a sunny smile. Midoriya walked beside her, silent. Iida followed closely behind, ever formal.

"Yeah," you said, sliding your phone into your pocket. "Apparently threatening Aizawa with paperwork gets me out of bed rest."

Uraraka giggled, then suddenly punched your side.

You winced immediately, catching her wrist with a sharp inhale.

"That's for winning last week's fight training," she grinned.

"You mean, beating the shit out of you because you can't fight?" you teased, voice light but just a little biting.

She groaned dramatically. "You're so mean."

Your laugh was breathy, distracted—because you'd already locked eyes with him.

Midoriya.

He approached slowly, nervously, like he'd practiced what he was going to say. You didn't move. Just kept watching him with that unreadable expression you were getting too good at.

"Hey," he said, voice soft. "I... thought you might want this."

He held out a notebook. It was slightly burned at the edges, wrinkled from water damage—but still intact. His handwriting was neat, careful.

You raised an eyebrow. "Volume 13?"

Midoriya rubbed the back of his neck, not quite meeting your eyes. "I couldn't find an empty one... so I just let you borrow mine. You can copy everything if you want. It's got notes from all the days you missed."

Your fingers brushed against the cover as you took it, slower than necessary.

"...Thanks," you murmured, small but genuine.

He nodded, as if waiting for you to say more. You didn't.

There was a pause.

Uraraka glanced between the two of you, sensing the tension thickening in the air like a stormcloud. Iida awkwardly adjusted his glasses.

"Well! Time for class!" Iida announced, too loudly.

"Yeah," Uraraka said quickly, tugging Midoriya by the sleeve. "See you later, Y/n!"

You watched them go—Midoriya lingering for a heartbeat longer before he finally turned away.

You stared down at the notebook.

Volume 13. Burnt. Wrinkled.

Still intact.

Just like you.

You slipped your headphones in, letting the bass drown out the buzz in your brain. Back on your phone, back to scrolling, back to pretending you weren't exhausted in ways that didn't come with bruises.

Then—
"HEY, YOU!"

You groaned out loud, pressing pause.

"When someone has their headphones in, it means leave them the fuck alone!!" you shouted, yanking one bud out just to glare—only to freeze as you registered the dozens of cameras aimed in your direction.

Microphones, recorders, blinking red lights.
Media.

Midoriya stood nearby, visibly tense, the deer-in-headlights look practically trademarked on his face. The reporters wasted no time.

"Can you tell us what it's like to work so closely with All Might?" one called out, shoving a mic in his direction.

"U-Um—I, uh—I have to go to the, uh—bathroom!" Midoriya squeaked and bolted, practically tripping over himself.

Your lip curled. Coward.

The second he was gone, the crowd turned back to you.

"What's the Symbol of Peace like in person?" another reporter asked, too close, mic grazing your cheek like they were entitled to your breath.

You blinked once.

Then twice.

Your eye twitched.

"If you don't get that microphone out of my face," you said slowly, voice venomous, "I'm gonna break your equipment... and then your neck."

The crowd stiffened.

You adjusted your coin necklace. "He's literally just another hero. Stop riding up on his ass like it's gonna make you relevant. It's not cute."

Silence. Brief, uncomfortable, silence.

Then a new distraction.

The crowd turned in unison toward the gates—drawn like moths to flame—where a familiar, ash-blonde figure strolled up, hands in pockets, lip curled in disdain.

Katsuki Bakugo.

He ignored the flashes, the noise, the questions. Until—

"What was it like being saved by All Might during the sludge villain attack?"

He stopped.

Just for a moment.

Then: "Walk away," he growled. His voice low. Dangerous.

Your eyes met his.
You both tensed.

There was a strange tug in your chest—curiosity? Recognition? Something about him buzzed against your instincts like static.

You didn't like it.
Not one bit.

Your glare sharpened. His narrowed. And he walked past without another word, toward the school building.

Your gaze flicked back to the crowd—and froze.

From the corner, beyond the flashing cameras, standing in the shade behind a lamppost—

Scruffy hair. Pale skin. Red, irritated eyes. Hands in his pockets like he didn't belong to the world.

Shigaraki.

He was watching.
And he was smiling.

Your pulse spiked. Not fear. Readiness.

Just then—

"Y/n!"
"Heyyy! Finally!!"

You turned, finding Kirishima and Mina jogging up to you, waving excitedly. Kirishima had a protein bar in his mouth. Mina looked like she hadn't slept.

"Move," you said, grabbing both their arms.

"Wh—what's going on?" Mina asked, confused as you yanked her inside.

"Y/n??" Kirishima blinked.

You didn't answer.

Didn't speak.

You just walked. Fast. Silent.

You had seen enough.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The class was warm, the kind of warm that made your skin stick to your uniform and your eyelids fight to stay open. Present Mic's voice echoed in the background—loud, animated, something about verbs and conjugation—but it felt miles away.

Your head rested on your desk, one arm slung lazily over your eyes. You weren't sleeping.

You were thinking.

No—scanning.

Why had Shigaraki been there?

What reason did a villain like him have to show up in the middle of a media frenzy, risk being seen, risk it all—just to smile at you like you were sharing a damn secret?

And then it hit you.

A memory. Your voice.
Arrogant. Flippant. Desperate to provoke.

"When you do something flashy—I'm talkin' real headline shit, y'know? Something that makes the top pro heroes stop and piss themselves—
then maybe, maybe, I'll think about it."

"...Shit," you muttered, sitting up straight, heart skipping once.

Present Mic turned on his heel at the sound.

"Yo! Kakegawa!" he grinned, sunglasses gleaming. "Glad you're awake! Let's see if you were actually listening. What's the proper past tense form of 'to write' in English?"

The class fell quiet. Some students smirked, ready to see you bomb the answer.

You stared at him for half a second.

Then:
"'Wrote.' Present participle: writing. Past participle: written. Present perfect would be 'has written.'" You rolled your wrist lazily. "Depends on how much context you want, I guess."

The silence that followed was stunning.

Mina gawked. Kirishima let out a low whistle.

Present Mic blinked, stunned, before letting out a loud, "YEEEEAH, that's what I'm talkin' about!!"

You slumped back into your seat, the headache behind your eyes returning full force.

So he was listening.

And if he was watching you now, he probably liked what he saw.

You cursed under your breath, eyes narrowed on the desk.

Because if Shigaraki really thought you were worth recruiting...

He wouldn't stop at just watching.

He'd be back.

The classroom lights buzzed softly overhead, but it was Aizawa's voice that filled the room, low and dry as ever.

"We're going over last week's hero training—" he began, words monotone as footage played on the screen behind him. Your body was in your seat, but your mind wasn't. Your eyes fluttered closed.

Shigaraki. In the crowd.

You hadn't imagined it. You hadn't hallucinated it from exhaustion.
He was real.
He was watching.

Your thoughts skipped through memories, fast, erratic. Until—

"When you do something flashy—I'm talkin' real headline shit, y'know? Something that makes the top pro heroes stop and piss themselves—then maybe, maybe, I'll think about it."

You'd said that.

To him.

Your eyes flew open.
"Shit." you muttered under your breath.

The room quieted for a second.
Aizawa turned. His tired eyes zeroed in on you like lasers.

"Is it too soon to bring you back to school?" he asked, tone still flat but laced with the tiniest twinge of actual concern. "You're pale."

"I'm always pale," you groaned, smacking your forehead against your desk once with a dramatic thud.

Mina snorted beside you. "That was loud," she whispered. "You okay?"

You didn't answer. Just kept your head there, eyes blank, mind spinning in three different directions.

"Anyway," Aizawa sighed, as if this wasn't already a chaotic mess, "we need class representatives. Hero Course students are expected to be leaders, so it's about time we picked who among you has leadership potential."

The room exploded.

"I wanna do it!"
"Choose me!"
"Obviously it should be someone responsible!"
"Yeah, but I'm fun—doesn't that count?"

Voices overlapped, some standing, others throwing their arms up like elementary schoolers. You didn't move. You barely even blinked.

Iida stood up, hand raised with textbook posture. "We should conduct a vote," he declared proudly. "True leadership comes from the consent of the governed!"

Aizawa had already half-zipped himself into his sleeping bag. "Do what you want," he muttered, pulling the hood over his head. "Wake me up when it's over."

A small montage played in your head—students scribbling names on paper slips, Kaminari loudly voting for himself, Jirou pretending she didn't care but still scribbling her name down with flair. Kirishima leaned toward you mid-vote.

"You voting?" he asked with a grin.

You didn't look up. "Nah."

"You're not gonna nominate yourself?"

"I've got enough people watching me already."

And you meant more than just the class.

Your eyes flicked to the window.

Just in case.

The votes were tallied on the board—chalk scratching, little numbers next to names. A moment of anticipation stretched across the classroom like a rubber band ready to snap.

And then—

"Class Representative: Midoriya Izuku."

Everyone blinked.

Midoriya sat up straighter, confused. "HOW DID I GET THREE VOTES?!" he yelped, panic in his voice like he'd accidentally stepped on a cat.

Bakugo was already on his feet, pointing at the class like a furious prosecutor.
"OKAY YOU IDIOTS, WHO VOTED FOR HIM?!"

You didn't miss a beat. "Did you honestly think we were gonna vote for you?"

Sero snorted from across the room, mirroring you perfectly.
"Did you honestly think we were gonna vote for you?"

The room paused.

You and Sero looked at each other.

"JINX—!!"
Your hands met mid-air in a perfect high five.

Kirishima clutched his stomach from laughing so hard. "Man, that timing was perfect!"

Bakugo, meanwhile, looked like he was about to combust. "You two think this is funny?!"

"Absolutely."
"Extremely."

You and Sero again, in sync.

Even Iida cracked a smile—before adjusting his glasses and saying, "While I do believe Midoriya will be a responsible class rep, I do find it... curious."

Mina tilted her head. "Wait—Y/n, you got second place, right?"

You blinked. "Huh?"

She gestured toward the board. Sure enough, your name sat under Midoriya's, with two neat little votes beside it.

"You didn't even vote for yourself?" Kaminari asked, leaning over his desk.

"Nope." You stretched, spine popping. "Didn't plan on standing in front of anyone unless it was with fists."

"I voted for you," Kirishima said with a grin. "You're intense, but you're real. That counts."

"And I just wanted to see what would happen," Mina added, winking.

You blinked again.

"...You two scare me."

They just laughed.

But as the class quieted back down and Aizawa slowly emerged from his sleeping bag cocoon to make you and Midoriya come up to the front, your gaze drifted once again to the window.

"Our class representative is Midoriya and our Deputy is Kakegawa." Aizawa spoke, soon flopping back to the floor to sleep.

Midoriya was shaking, making you roll your eyes. "Seriously, can we retally?"

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The lunchroom had been loud—too loud.
Forks clanged against trays, Kaminari had accidentally launched a juice box across the table, and Kirishima was mid-rant about some new protein bar flavor that tasted like regret.

You didn't make it five minutes.

The nausea didn't help either.
So you walked out, steps slow, breath tight in your chest. The halls were blissfully quiet—just the hum of lights and the soft creak of your shoes.

When you slid the door open to Class 1-A, the light filtered in soft and gold from the windows.

And there he was.
Aoyama. Sitting by himself, legs crossed, his bento opened neatly on his lap, eating small bites of something that... honestly looked like 80% cheese.

He looked up. You looked back.

Neither of you said anything at first.

Then you sighed, dragging a chair beside him and flopping into it. "Didn't expect company."

"Nor did I," he replied, voice calm, gentle even.

You leaned back, head tilted. "You ever heard of a guy named Shigaraki?"

Aoyama blinked, mid-bite. "Is this a pop quiz?"

"No." You squinted at him. "I saw him today. In the crowd. Watching us."

His expression shifted—confused, maybe even a little concerned. But not panicked. "I don't know anything about him. I'm... not told much. I just let my parents know where 1-A will be."

Your stomach twisted.

"You're a spy." It wasn't a question.

He nodded slowly.

You stared, then looked at his plate.
"...That's a lot of cheese."

Aoyama offered a small smile. "My mother's favorite. And it helps my stomach pain."

"Are you a family person?"

"Yes." He didn't hesitate. "Even after what they did." He looked down. His next words were a whisper.

"I was born without a quirk."

Silence stretched.

You didn't interrupt.

"I was... different. I didn't want to be left behind. Neither did my parents. So they reached out. And he gave me this." He gestured to his belt. "But I wasn't strong enough. I've always hurt myself with it."

Your jaw clenched. "So All for One gave you a quirk. And now you have a debt to pay."

"If I don't fufil my duty, he'll kill me and my parents." He nodded again.

The silence grew more tense.

Your hand moved instinctively to your necklace—to the coin.

"I could kill you where you sit," you said, voice flat, emotionless.

Aoyama didn't even flinch. He just looked at you, eyes glassy but calm. "You won't."

You squinted at him, your fingers twitching.

"Why?"

He leaned back slightly, folding his napkin. "Because you're not the monster you think you are."

The silence afterward should've been tense.

But it wasn't.

You didn't speak again.

He didn't need to.

And somehow... that silence between you wasn't uncomfortable.

Just two people.

Two kids.

Who were never really given a choice.

Aoyama reached for another piece of cheese, but before his fingers could pluck it from his lunch tray, your hand beat him to it.

You didn't look at him as you stole the square, casually popping it into your mouth. "My dad's my boss," you said around the bite. "And my entire family—every last one of us—is a villain. Except for my little sister. She's... innocent. For now."

Aoyama's head tilted, eyes still shimmering from your earlier conversation. You continued, voice low and even, like you'd told this story so many times it had become muscle memory.

"I didn't choose this life either. It was forced on me the moment I was born." You held up your necklace, watching as the silver coin caught the light. "The coin appeared on my chest when I was a toddler. It's my heart. My literal, beating heart. I'm the martyr my father has yet to use. I'm replacable."

Aoyama leaned in slightly, gaze focused. "Wait, really—?"

You nodded. "If I drop it, I die. If it cracks, I die. If someone steals it—"

"You die," he finished, solemn.

You turned the coin slightly, showing him the faint engraving on its surface—a heart, etched deep. And within it, the carving pulsed in tiny, twitching motions. A stop-motion beat.

"I've never killed anyone," you said. "But I know I will one day. I can feel it in my bones. And it won't be an accident."

Silence sat between you again, but this time, it was thick. Dense.

"...Then why didn't you run?" Aoyama finally asked. "If you're replacable, why stay?"

You shrugged. "Because I wanted to believe they loved me. Not just what I could do. I wanted to make them proud. To be something. To pretend I mattered."

You exhaled sharply, the kind of breath that sounded more like a sigh of defeat than fatigue. "While everyone thought I was on bed rest? I was training 'til my bones broke. My family doctor healed me up. Then we'd do it again. And again."

Aoyama's eyes widened in horror, but you kept going.

"When I was a kid, my father trained me to be a killer. Not a hero. He'd point to parts of the body—here's where they'll faint, here's where they'll scream, here's where they won't feel anything. Pressure points. Vitals. All memorized before I turned ten."

You stared at the grain in the desk. "No one ever told me they loved me. Not once. Except my little sister. She hugs me before bed. Brings me candy when I'm training. Says I'm her favorite person in the world."

Your throat tightened, voice soft. "I know one day she'll hate me like the rest. And I'll be alone again."

You paused, letting it linger before clearing your throat. "There. Now we're even."

You looked up—and froze.

Aoyama was crying.

Silently, delicately. Tears traced pale paths down his face, but he didn't make a sound. Just looked at you like he was seeing something shatter.

"I'm going to make sure you forget all the bad things," he whispered. "When you're with me, I'll make sure you smile. I promise."

You frowned at that, confused. "I'm not crying."

"You are," he replied, voice softer still.

And then he held up your coin.

Your heart.

A thin crack ran diagonally across the engraved shape. So faint, you never noticed it. But it pulsed there, like a wound trying to stitch itself shut.

And your breath hitched.

You hadn't cried. But your heart had.

The bell echoed through the halls—but it wasn't the cheerful chime of lunchtime or the dull ring of a class change. It was sharp. Urgent. Metallic and cold.

"Warning: Level Three security breach. All students please evacuate the building in an orderly fashion."

You and Aoyama both froze.

His eyes were wide. "W-What does that mean?"

Your stomach dropped, and the cold realization hit you like a punch to the chest. "It means someone managed to get in."

You bolted upright, heart pounding.

Shigaraki.

Without another word, you dashed out of the classroom, leaving Aoyama stunned behind you.

Your steps were fast—silent and calculated—as you moved through the panic and chaos. Students were running, teachers were shouting orders, and the usual sense of safety in U.A. had been stripped clean away.

You slipped past the crowds with ease, moving in the opposite direction of evacuation—toward the teacher's lounge.

There would be files. Files that could change everything.

Your breath caught when you reached the door, your hand brushing against the cold handle. You hesitated for just a moment.

Cameras.

You lifted your head—eyes locking onto the blinking red lights above.

Then, a crackle of decay.

A hand slammed against the wall, five fingers spread wide—Shigaraki.

His blue hair was unmistakable, messy and lifeless, the hand over his face twitching slightly as he glanced at the camera. With a flick of his fingers, the lenses crumbled into ash.

Your body moved on instinct, slipping into the room behind him.

The two of you didn't speak—not at first. You both just moved. You knew what he was after. Files, folders, confidential logs. Anything that would give you leverage over U.A.

You yanked open cabinets while he scanned computers, your coin glowing faintly against your chest. "Third drawer," you whispered. "S-Class files. I read about the lock pattern in UA files. You can bypass it with the emergency override code—here."

He followed your directions without hesitation, a smirk twitching under the pale hand on his face. "You're good at this," he murmured.

You grunted. "I know."

You helped him load the files into a black case, slipping a few into your own bag—names, movements, hero weaknesses, and one file stamped with your father's symbol. You needed that.

"Let's go," you hissed.

He moved fast, following your path through the abandoned hallways. You led him around patrol routes, slipping through shadows, your movements fluid, your body silent.

By the time you got him to the escape route—an old ventilation shaft near the maintenance tunnels—he stopped and glanced back at you.

"You're more useful than I thought."

You rolled your eyes. "Just go."

He disappeared into the darkness with a final whisper: "We'll be in touch, Gambit."

You stood there a moment longer, catching your breath before turning back.

You were faster on the way back—silent as a ghost. As the halls began to fill with slowly returning students, you ducked into a side corridor and zipped your bag shut, the stolen files perfectly tucked away between textbooks and notebooks.

You returned to the classroom, entering just as the tension began to settle.

Aoyama looked up from his spot at your shared table, brows pinched with confusion. "Where did you—?"

You collapsed into your seat, exhaling through your nose and slinging your bag onto the floor beside you. "Just got caught in the hallway."

He stared. Your hair was slightly out of place, your chest still rising fast, sweat at your brow—but your expression was unreadable. Calm.

Your fingers tapped gently against your desk.

He didn't press you. Just leaned back and watched you quietly, chewing the inside of his cheek.

You gave him a brief, almost tired smirk.

Time moved forward like clockwork—faster than expected, slower than you wanted. But eventually, it brought you here:

Standing beside Midoriya in front of the class.

The room buzzed faintly with energy, a few conversations still hanging in the air until you spoke up.

"It's time, class rep. Let's begin."

Your voice was calm, cool—steady. A soft nudge in Midoriya's side reminded him to speak.

He cleared his throat, still visibly shaking. "Okay, so... we need to figure out who the other class officers will be. But first—there's something I want to say."

Your brows furrowed, surprised. He hadn't mentioned anything about this. You turned slightly to glance at him.

"I've thought a lot about this," he said, voice growing firmer with every word. "And I think that Tenya Iida should be our class rep."

Gasps and whispers passed through the class like ripples on water.

"He was able to capture everyone's attention and get us in line," Midoriya continued. "So I believe that he should be the one leading our class from now on."

Your eyes widened slightly before softening. That was... unexpectedly selfless of him.

Kirishima leaned over his desk, flashing a toothy grin. "Y'know what? If Midoriya vouches for him, I'm good. He was a big help. Totally manned up and took charge, right?"

Kaminari added with a laugh, "Did you notice he looked like the dude on the emergency exit signs when he was on the wall earlier?"

The class burst into laughter—easy, lighthearted.

Then you cleared your throat. "I'd also like to give up my role."

The class quieted down again, eyes darting to you.

"I think Yaoyorozu should take it," you said simply. "I'm not as smart as she is, and she scored the highest on all our entrance exams. She's a better fit. Plus..." You looked away with a faint smirk. "This whole thing's a little too formal for my liking."

A few chuckles rose from the crowd, and Yaoyorozu blinked in surprise—then smiled warmly.

"I... thank you," she said with a slight bow of her head.

You and Midoriya stepped back down, trading spots with Iida and Yaoyorozu, both of whom carried themselves with earnest pride and quiet determination.

As you passed by the window, your gaze slid over to the front gates.

Nezu was out there—along with a few other faculty. But the real sight wasn't them.

It was what was left of the gate.

Twisted metal. A fresh security system being bolted into place. A dozen cameras in places they hadn't been before.

You smiled as you sat down, propping your chin against your hand like this was any other day.

You'd have to buy Tomura a drink.
The help had been unexpected. But appreciated.

And now, with your title passed off and the school distracted?

You had time. Time to plan, time to breathe.

And time to think about what comes next.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The alley was damp with summer dew and the distant hum of traffic, but none of it registered.

Your footsteps echoed softly against the cracked pavement as you slipped into the narrow passageway, your presence barely noticeable to the few stragglers still awake in the city. The alley grew darker the deeper you walked, like the shadows themselves were swallowing you whole.

Kurogiri was already waiting—silent, unreadable, hands folded in front of him like a butler awaiting orders. You didn't greet him. You never really did. You just stepped forward and into the swirling purple mist of the warp gate.

The moment you emerged on the other side, you felt the weight of the space around you—cold, damp, and oddly still. Like the air itself was holding its breath.

Tomura was there, cross-legged on a worn-down couch with his game controller in hand. He didn't look up when you entered, but the faint twitch of his lip let you know he was aware of you.

Without a word, you dropped your bag beside him, unzipped it, and began pulling out the files—stacks of stolen UA documents, bound and stamped and marked confidential.

He finally paused his game, blinking at the titles. "Daaamn," he mumbled, pushing his hair from his eyes with his fingers. "You really did it, huh?"

You leaned back, exhaling. "I got a question for All for One."

His head turned sharply.

That got his attention.

"My master?" he asked, sitting up straighter. "You don't just... ask to see him."

"Too bad," you replied casually. "Because I need to."

There was a beat of silence before he leaned back, slouching again. "Why?"

You paused, considering your words. "If All for One can give quirks... is there anyone else who can?"

The air shifted. Just slightly.

Tomura's fingers drummed once against his knee, and his eyes flicked toward Kurogiri. The shadowy figure turned his gaze toward Tomura as well.

"It's a theory," Tomura said slowly, "but—"

"Stop talking." Kurogiri's voice sliced through the conversation like a scalpel.

You blinked, sitting up straighter.

Your eyes narrowed on Kurogiri. He wasn't just being protective—he was afraid. Or at least... as close to fear as he could feel.

Tomura made an exaggerated groan, standing up and stretching. "No fair! I wanted to figure it out on my own!"

A portal swirled to life behind him, purple and misty and cold. Kurogiri stepped through first, and Tomura gestured lazily for you to follow.

You hesitated.

Every instinct screamed no.

But curiosity had always been your worst trait.

You stepped in.

Immediately, nausea struck like a punch to the stomach.

The air was heavy, thick with pressure that made your lungs work harder just to keep going. The smell was what hit you next—rotting blood, sterile metal, something like rust and ash and old death.

And despair.

It clung to your skin like oil.

Like a nightmare.

The room was cavernous, though it felt more like a void than a space—dim lighting revealing only slivers of broken technology, medical equipment, tubes, and ancient files stacked like tombstones. In the center was a man.

Or what used to be one.

Wrapped in wires. No eyes. Just a mouth, breathing slowly beneath an oxygen mask. Yet somehow, despite the stillness, you felt his gaze on you.

Your knees wanted to buckle.

Shigaraki stepped forward, one hand in his pocket.

"Master."

The word sent a chill down your spine.

The eyeless man tilted his head toward the sound, as if savoring it.

His voice came next—low, rasping, and drenched in something awful. Like a voice made of wet smoke.

"...So you're the one asking questions."

You couldn't move.

You couldn't speak.

Because now... you weren't sure if you even wanted answers.

You rolled your shoulders back, the tension in them iron-tight, and forced yourself to breathe evenly. The scent of rot and chemicals still curled in your nose, but your fear — that primal itch behind your ribs — was caged for now. You stepped closer, lifting the files and handing them to the man who once brought the world to its knees.

All for One's fingers brushed yours as he took the folders. Cold. Precise. Not a tremor in sight. His attention lingered not on the pages, but on you.

He gestured with a hand that resembled something closer to a corpse's than a living man's. "The rest of you, out."

Kurogiri bowed. Tomura looked like he wanted to argue — and you could tell by the sharp turn of his head — but something in the way All for One exhaled shut him up immediately.

And then it was just you. And him.

You didn't sit right away, not until he gestured again — a pointed finger toward the dusty stool beside him, a sick invitation.

You sat. Straight-backed. Eyes level.

Your voice was calm. Cold. Calculated.

"This boy. Izuku Midoriya," you said, nodding toward one of the files, "he was quirkless. Just like Yuga Aoyama, from what he's told me."

All for One remained still.

"But I know you. The way your quirks work. Anyone you gift power to becomes indebted. Beholden to you, consciously or not. If they die, their family's next. And if their family dies, their legacy becomes yours."

A long silence.

"Why are you so sure," All for One rasped finally, "that I didn't give him his quirk?"

You smiled. Just slightly. "Because of the way he holds himself around All Might. You've trained many, right? Built many little monsters in your time. You can see the pattern. They always mimic their 'creator.'"

All for One tilted his head in interest.

You leaned forward. "Midoriya mirrors All Might. Almost to a fault. The obsessive admiration, the posture, the over-apologizing. The recklessness. It's not fear. It's not manipulation. It's inherited idealism. Familiar."

His mask shifted—no expression, and yet, you knew he was smiling.

"Just like Shigaraki mimics you," you added. "The anger. The aimless destruction. A child taught to resent everything that wouldn't bend to him. It's not as toxic between Midoriya and All Might... but it's still a bonded chain. A predecessor and a successor."

All for One chuckled softly. The sound was unnatural.

"But what about Shigaraki and Midoriya?" you asked. "They're two sides of a coin. A storm waiting to crash. When will they collide?"

All for One's voice was calm. Patient.

"...Soon. Very soon."

You didn't respond. Your gaze remained forward. Focused.

And then came the truth, spilling from his mouth like poison in velvet.

"Do you know what One for All really is?"

You turned to him.

He continued, his voice smooth, ancient, and terrifying.

"It is the only quirk that rivals mine. Not because of its power—but because of what it takes in return. Just like me, it is a grave masquerading as a gift. A candle burning its wick from both ends."

You didn't speak. He went on.

"That power was never meant to be passed on. It began as a hollow vessel. A useless ability meant to be chained to my brother, cursed to carry something he could never use... until it combined with his own."

"...A stockpiling quirk," you whispered.

All for One nodded.

"And now it carries many quirks. Too many. Every user burns faster than the last. Their bodies were not built to handle it."

You realized it then.

Midoriya.

He would die from it.

Just like you.

"I wonder how long he has left," All for One mused softly, almost fondly. "That body of his is already starting to crack."

You looked down at the coin on your chest.

So was yours.

Two different paths.

One shared end.

Your hand instinctively reached for the coin at your chest. It pulsed slow and steady—mocking, almost—like it knew something you didn't. You hadn't noticed how hard you were breathing until the silence between you and All for One was broken.

"I can help you," he said softly, like he was offering salvation.

You looked up, eyes narrowing. "Fix what?"

"Your heart."

"My heart doesn't need fixing."

"But you'll die of that cancer if you use your quirk too much."

You froze.

The room seemed to still around you, the echo of his words clanging against your skull.

"...Cancer?" The word left you in a whisper. A hiss of disbelief.

You stared down at your coin again. That ever-moving, ever-beating emblem of life and death. Your heart. Your curse. You never knew what the consequences truly were. Not fully. Just that it hurt. Just that the pain came in waves, and your body would break long before your spirit would.

He was lying.

He had to be lying.

...Right?

You stood, quickly, sharply—your legs tense and ready to run.

All for One didn't stop you.

"I can make it stop," he said as you stepped back, "the pain. The weakness. That slow, rotting weight inside your chest. I can take it from you."

You turned away.

"I don't want to owe you."

"You already do," he murmured, but there was no malice in his tone. "Not because of what I've done. But because of what they haven't."

You paused.

"Your father," he said, voice calm and knowing. "Your sister. They love you in ways that suit their roles. But I can help them love you in ways that suit you. The kind that doesn't feel like a leash."

You didn't move.

"I can make your father proud. I can make your little sister see you as more than just a martyr waiting to die."

Silence.

"And all I ask in return... is your protection."

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch his eyeless gaze.

"Be Shigaraki's second. His bodyguard. His shield when his rage is too loud to hear danger coming."

The air around you was heavy. Everything smelled like ash and regret.

You didn't answer.

You simply turned your head forward again, lips tight, and walked—right into the warp gate Kurogiri had left open.

The nauseating feeling of your stomach flipping through dimensions hit you again, but you didn't let it show. You didn't flinch.

And when your feet touched solid ground again, the cold, damp air of the villain's lair was gone.

You were standing outside your house.

A normal street. A quiet night.

Like none of it had ever happened.

You opened the front door, forcing your body to move like everything was fine.

The second you stepped in, small arms threw themselves around your legs.
"Y/n!!" Kyoka's little voice rang out like sunlight, tugging at your heart.

You instantly dropped your bag and lifted her into your arms, spinning her once just to hear her giggle.

"You're back! I missed you soooo much!" she said, her small hands patting your cheeks. "Guess what?! I made two new friends today! One of them gave me a sticker—look!" She excitedly dug into her pocket to reveal a crumpled, sparkly sticker of a cat with sunglasses.

You grinned, walking into the living room and gently setting her down next to your mother.

"Did you now?" you teased, brushing some hair from her face. "Making me jealous over here."

"Everything alright, Y/n?" your mother asked quietly, watching you from behind a warm cup of tea. Her eyes scanned you—like they always did—searching for damage.

You nodded, too quickly. "Yeah. I just want to train is all."

She nodded without prying. She never did. She just gave you that quiet, almost knowing look. One that said she already suspected something was wrong but wouldn't ask unless you gave her permission.

You turned, slipping through the sliding door into the backyard.

The night air hit your skin, cold and damp.

And there he was.

Your father.

Already standing by the training posts, arms folded, watching the stars like they'd wronged him personally.

"Father," you greeted, keeping your voice low and respectful.

"Child," he responded, curt and unreadable, his gaze never leaving the dark sky. “What happened today?”

You walked toward him, careful with your steps, your posture straight—military drilled into your spine.

"I had a long day," you started, trying to keep it casual. "But I made a friend. Aoyama. He's kind of weird, but—"

A sharp sound cut through your words.

Pain blossomed across your cheek.

You stumbled back slightly, blinking hard, eyes stinging not from the hit—but from the sudden shock of it.

He had slapped you.

Hard.

"You've grown soft," he spat, voice low and disgusted. "I hate jokes."

You stared at him, one hand slowly lifting to your cheek, the warmth of the slap spreading beneath your fingers.

"I'm sorry," you said through your teeth. "Nothing significant happened today."

He turned away like you weren't worth looking at. Like you weren't worth more than the dirt beneath your shoes.

"Sleep outside," he hissed, walking past you, the door sliding shut behind him with a final, metallic click.

Locked.

You stood there, hand still on your face, jaw clenched.

Not from pain.

But from the familiar ache settling in your chest again—the weight of being a tool, a vessel, a ticking time bomb with a smile painted on.

The grass was cold beneath your feet.

The stars above didn't look so different from the ones he glared at.

But you weren't like him.

You would never be.

And one day?

One day, he'd be afraid of you.

────୨ৎ────
6593 words

Chapter Text

THE CRAYON SQUEAKED AGAINST the paper, a vibrant red trailing behind your small hand. You hummed a made-up tune, tongue sticking out as you carefully drew little stick figures with uneven heads and too many fingers. One looked like your mother, with long hair and a pink dress. One like your father—taller, arms crossed. And you, with a big star on your chest. All Might stood behind you in the drawing, huge and glowing, giving a thumbs up.

Your heart bubbled with pride.

You grinned wide as you stood, holding the picture above your head as you ran across the polished floors of your childhood home.

"Mom! Dad! Look!"
Your little legs carried you into the living room where your mother sat with a cup of tea, smiling softly. She reached out to fix your messy bangs.

"Oh, did you draw this?" she asked sweetly. "That's very nice, sweetheart."

You turned toward your father, seated in his armchair, a newspaper in hand and a stern brow furrowed in concentration. You toddled up to him, eyes glowing with hope.

"Look, Daddy! It's us! We're heroes with All Might!"

You held it up, expecting him to finally smile at something you did.

His eyes lowered. Slowly.

Then narrowed.

He set down the newspaper and grabbed the drawing.

You were still smiling.

Then—rip.

One brutal tear down the center.

"W-Wait—"
You barely had time to react before his fingers wrapped around your small wrist, yanking you away from the warmth of the living room.

"No—! Wait! My drawing—!"

The front door slammed open, rain pouring in.

You didn't have shoes on.

You barely had time to blink before your father shoved you out, and you hit the wet ground with a squelch. Mud splashed your face, your hands scraping against the pavement.

You blinked up at him with wide, stinging eyes.

He stood in the doorway like a shadow.

"Mangy mutt," he hissed, venom coating each word.

Then the door slammed shut.

The click of the lock.

You sobbed, a quiet sound swallowed by the storm.

Through the window, you saw your mother watching.

She didn't move.

She didn't yell.

She just sipped her tea.

So you curled into yourself, muddy and cold, trying to keep your crayon from washing away.

You awoke with a sharp inhale, arms tightly wrapped around your knees, just like in the dream.

Except this wasn't a dream anymore.

The backyard was quiet, cold dew dampening your skin.

You blinked up at the early morning sky, heart pounding, throat raw like you'd been crying.

The sliding door creaked open.

You flinched.

Standing in the doorway was your father. The man from the dream.

Only it wasn't a dream.

He held something in his hand.

A silver bowl.

He kicked it toward you, the clang sharp against the stones. Warm rice and vegetables steamed faintly in the dish.

"Breakfast. Your mother made it."

His voice scraped your ears, hoarse and full of resentment.

"Eat it fast. And make sure your dumb sister doesn't see you."

The door slammed shut again.

You stared at the dish.

Then down at your own hands.

Covered in dirt, blades of grass caught beneath your nails.

You weren't a child anymore.

You were stronger now.

But somehow, in this moment, you felt just as small.

You sat there, hunched over the cold metal dish. Your hands were caked in grime, fingertips scraped and nails darkened from the night outside. Still, you didn't hesitate. You scooped food into your mouth with dirty fingers, chewing slowly, silently, as emotionless tears slid down your cheeks. No sound. No expression. Just... survival.

The door creaked open again.

"Y/n?" a voice called out.

You didn't need to look up to know who it was.

Kyota.

Her figure stood tall in the doorway, framed by the early morning sun. She had your father's jawline, but none of his cruelty in her face. Her hair, the same h/c shade as yours, fell long and straight down her back, still slightly wet from a shower. Her e/c eyes locked onto you, the corners tight with concern and frustration.

She stepped out onto the porch and lowered herself beside you, folding her arms over her knees. You continued eating, indifferent.

"Did Dad do this?"

Silence.

Your eyes never left the dish.

She huffed a breath through her nose, running a hand down her face. "Of course it was."

She looked at the bruise on your cheek, the mud caked along your arms and face, the torn hem of your sleep shirt. You still said nothing, the clink of food against metal the only sound from you.

"You're proving his point, you know," she said bitterly, standing to her feet.

That got your attention. You lifted your eyes just slightly from the position they rested—arms on your knees, spoonless meal halfway gone.

Kyota stared down at you with a disgusted twist to her lip. "You're nothing but a loyal dog to him."

Then she turned and walked back inside.

You sat still, the morning wind tugging at your hair.

A loyal dog.

The words echoed like a curse in your skull.

You stared at your fingers for a moment.

Then shoved another handful of rice into your mouth.

—

You didn't say goodbye when you were done.

You simply stood, muscles aching from the cold night, and climbed up the side of the house with practiced ease, slipping through your window and into the dim silence of your room.

You stripped without pause, clothes hitting the floor with wet slaps.

The shower burned your skin at first, but you stayed under until the dirt circled the drain and your tears became indistinguishable from the water.

You didn't look at the mirror when you stepped out.

Didn't want to see what you looked like after being treated like an animal.

Instead, you got dressed slowly, slipping on your uniform, combing your hair back, and wrapping your necklace back around your neck.

The coin.

Your heart.

Still cracked.

Still beating.

Still yours.

Without a word, you slung your bag over your shoulder and stepped outside—heading off to school like nothing had ever happened.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You sat on the stone wall just outside the gates of U.A., your school bag tucked against your hip and your eyes locked on your shoes. The laces were uneven—one tighter than the other—but you didn't fix them.

You didn't even move.

You were still thinking about it.

All for One's voice had slithered into your memory again like a splinter you couldn't dig out.

"I can fix your heart."

"But you'll die of that cancer if you use your quirk too much."

Cancer.

That word hadn't left you alone since the moment he said it.

You didn't feel sick. Didn't look sick. If anything, you'd been stronger than ever. The training, the missions, the sparring—it should've torn your body apart, but you kept getting back up. Your body ached, yeah. Your joints sometimes screamed when you moved too fast. But that wasn't cancer... was it?

Or maybe he didn't mean cancer like a disease.

Maybe he meant you.

Maybe he meant your quirk was the cancer.

A parasite, fused to your heart. A ticking time bomb under your skin.

Your fingers curled against your thigh.

Would your family still care if that's all you were?

"Get out of my way."

You looked up instinctively.

Katsuki Bakugo.

His blond hair was messier than usual, and his red eyes burned like coals as he stomped past. His bag was slung low, hands shoved deep in his pockets. You weren't even in his way—just sitting quietly off to the side—but you shifted anyway, giving him more space than he asked for.

You didn't respond.

Didn't snap back.

Didn't glare or make a snide comment like usual.

You just... let him pass.

He barely gave you a glance.

And you, after one flick of your eyes to his back, returned to your thoughts as if nothing had happened. Staring back down at your shoes, you traced a crack in the pavement with your heel, your thoughts heavy and looping.

Was that what you were too? A crack in the pavement no one noticed until it was too late?

The gate buzzed behind you, students beginning to funnel in.

Still no Mina.

Still no Kirishima.

But you waited.

Silent.

Still.

—

"Y/n!"

You looked up just in time to see Mina waving at you like a windmill, her pink curls bouncing as she jogged closer. Kirishima was right behind her, grin wide, a cup of juice in one hand and a convenience store sandwich in the other.

You forced your lips upward into a smile—tight, practiced.

"Morning, you two."

"Guess what we saw on the way here!" Mina chirped, practically vibrating with excitement as she grabbed your arm and started walking, dragging you along through the gates like it was her job. Kirishima kept pace on your other side, already nodding like he knew she'd repeat the story five times if he didn't.

"A little black cat!" Mina continued. "With the cutest little bell around its neck! Kiri wanted to take it home, but I told him no because his moms would probably explode if he brought another animal to his house."

"She was right." Kirishima chuckled sheepishly. "But seriously, it looked lost. Might've been someone's pet. It followed us for a couple blocks."

"Maybe it was a villain in disguise," Mina said dramatically, her voice dropping to a spooky whisper as she wiggled her fingers. "Or a surveillance cat."

You offered a quiet chuckle—just enough to show you were listening.

"I'd name it Shadowclaw," Kirishima added helpfully. "Super manly."

"I'd name it Mochi," Mina countered with a giggle. "Because its little paws were so round!"

You didn't say much.

You didn't have the energy.

They didn't seem to mind, though. They talked enough for all three of you, filling the silence as you all walked through the halls of U.A. toward your classroom.

Your smile stayed, shallow and harmless, like a mask throughout the day.

Like it was meant to be.

No one noticed how hollow your eyes were behind it.

And then—basic hero training.

The classroom had been buzzing with nervous excitement since first period, but now, the tension settled in like fog as everyone stood before Aizawa out on the training grounds.

"Today's training will be a little different," Aizawa began, standing before the class with his usual bored expression. "You'll have three instructors: myself, All Might... and another faculty member."

You tapped Kirishima lightly on the shoulder from behind, and he leaned back just enough to hear you.

"Think this has to do with the break-in?" you murmured.

"No idea," he replied, voice low. "But I wouldn't be surprised."

Across the group, Sero raised his hand with a grin that barely masked his nerves. "Sir! What kinda training is this?"

Aizawa reached into his coat and pulled out a small card. He held it up for the class to see.

"Rescue."

The word echoed in the air like a loaded statement.

"You'll be responding to simulated emergencies—natural disasters, shipwrecks, and the like. This isn't just combat anymore. You're training to be heroes who save lives, not just fight villains."

He paused, stepping to a control panel on the side wall.

"What you wear in this exercise is up to you. I know some of you are eager to test your costumes."

With the press of a button, a long section of the wall hissed open, revealing a row of sleek lockers—briefcases lined up neatly, each labeled with student numbers.

"But remember," Aizawa continued, "you're not used to your suits yet. Some of them might limit your mobility or drain your stamina. Choose wisely."

You scanned the room as everyone started toward the lockers, buzzing with quiet excitement.

Your hand rested briefly on your chest—your coin beating faintly beneath the fabric of your uniform like a ticking clock. Every beat reminded you: keep moving.

You walked toward your case in silence, thoughts racing faster than your feet. Your fingers hesitated on the latch, cold metal pressing into your palm. You hadn't opened it once since arriving at UA. Not since that day.

Inside was the beta version of your hero costume.

The one modeled after your family's legacy—the one made not for saving lives, but for ending them.

You exhaled slowly and opened it.

✦ Feminine Version:
A sleek black bodysuit with high slits along the thighs and sides, traced with glowing quirk-reactive lines. A cropped mantle sat over your shoulders, and a sheer coattail hung from your waist. The neckline dipped in a sharp "V", both elegant and deadly. Fingerless gloves and heeled, silent boots completed the look. Your coin hung from your neck like an insignia.

✦ Masculine Version:
A sleeveless tactical suit in matte black, chrome accents highlighting your form. Armor plating protected your torso, while energy lines pulsed faintly beneath the surface. Reinforced boots, fingered gloves, and utility straps were built for mobility. Your coin sat at your chest—bold and unapologetic.

As you stepped into formation with the rest of the class, silence followed.

You could feel eyes on you.

Kaminari was the first to speak, blinking hard. "Whoa. Hey—yo, is that your new look? That's like... intense. But cool, I mean—it's really cool!"

His voice cracked a little near the end.

Then came Mineta, like a cockroach on cue. "D-Damn... if rescue training means seeing you in that—"

CRACK.

Your boot connected with his side before he could finish. He tumbled into a bush nearby, wheezing.

You kept walking, expression unreadable, gaze already seeking the one person who wouldn't ask dumb questions.

Aoyama.

You made your way toward him, boots clicking softly as you passed startled classmates. Behind you, you could hear Mina and Kirishima call out to you.

"Y/n!"

"Hey—wait up!"

You didn't stop.

Not yet.

They watched you walk past without a glance. Both of them exchanged a look, concern painting their faces.

Aoyama tensed slightly when you leaned on him, but he didn't pull away—just blinked, surprised, as if he wasn't expecting someone like you to be so close. His shoulders relaxed when he heard your soft exhale.

"Everything okay, douceur?" he asked gently, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it.

You didn't answer at first, just closed your eyes. Your forehead lightly pressed against his shoulder, the cold metal of his suit oddly grounding. Then, after a pause, you nodded.

He caught on quickly. Too quickly. "Was it your father?"

Another small nod.

You didn't understand it—why this guy, someone you barely knew outside of school hours and awkward hallway glances, felt like the safest place in the world. You'd only talked a few times. Shared a secret or two. But something about him made you feel like you could unravel entirely and he wouldn't even flinch.

"Want some cheese?" he asked with that same matter-of-fact tone, holding out a ziplock bag like it was a peace offering.

You cracked a tired smile. "You're very weird, Aoyama."

But you opened your mouth anyway.

He popped the piece in with an overdramatic flair, and you hummed, genuinely delighted. "Mmm... it's like liquid gold," you said around the bite, melting into his shoulder again. "So much better than grassy breakfast."

Aoyama blinked. "Un petit déjeuner herbeux?" He tilted his head. "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"

You snorted. "I'll explain later..."

He didn't push you. Just leaned his head lightly against yours.

As soon as Iida started shouting about seating in number order, you didn't hesitate. You grabbed Aoyama's hand and bolted for the bus like your life depended on it.

"(Y/N), you must sit according to your—!"

"Iida, breathe," you called over your shoulder.

The layout of the bus was strange—seats lined the walls in long rows, everyone facing each other awkwardly, but in the very back, there was one seat that could fit two.

You claimed it immediately, flopping down and dragging Aoyama with you. Your legs stretched across his lap like it was the most normal thing in the world. Aoyama didn't complain—in fact, he looked oddly honored.

Leaning in, you whispered, voice low enough to drown beneath the soft engine hum of the bus, "Last night... I got home after talking to—" your eyes scanned your classmates quickly, watching for any eavesdroppers, "fear himself."

Aoyama stiffened. His body responded faster than his mind, like the name alone made his heart clench.

"And my dad—ya know, my boss? He went completely apeshit because nothing really happened. Locked me out of the house like it was my fault." Your voice grew thinner. "So I trained out the anger. Then I passed out outside. In the rain."

He blinked. "Like a dog??" he blurted, way too loud.

Your hand slapped over his mouth before the words could spread like wildfire. His eyes widened, but after a beat, he gave a sheepish nod and reached into his bag to stuff his mouth with snacks as a precaution. You sighed and pulled your hand back.

"I just don't understand him," you muttered. "He's always been cold, but last night... it felt personal."

Aoyama swallowed. "Well, what didn't you say?"

You froze, your gaze falling to your lap. He noticed, immediately softening.

"You didn't tell him anything," he said gently.

"How could I?" you replied, finally leaning back to look him in the eyes. "If he finds out... it would be worse than just being locked out. He admires the guy. He'd probably go on a killing spree if he knew I didn't call him the first time."

Aoyama nodded, a quiet understanding between you.

"Whatcha talking about?"

The sudden voice cracked the moment like glass.

You both turned, faces stiffening in unison. Kirishima stood there, smile stretched taut across his face. His eyes didn't match it. His head tilted just slightly—too slightly.

Jealousy.

Aoyama opened his mouth, but you cut him off. Sharp. Blunt.

"I was venting about my dad," you said plainly, no sugarcoating. No softness. Kirishima flinched, just barely, but you caught it. Others in the bus looked over now, the tension thick enough to fog the windows.

"Y/n—" Aoyama tried, but you didn't let him finish.

"I had a bad argument last night," you said, shifting into performance mode with a tired smile. "He doesn't want me to be a hero. It's... stuck with me all day, that's all."

You didn't tell them the rest.
Not about All for One.
Not about the rain.
Not about being treated like an animal.
Not about betraying the very people around you.

You just fed them a carefully crafted slice of the truth.

The class murmured quietly, offering kind words—advice from the heart. Sweet, naive, soft. You smiled. Nodded. Said thank you.

And as the bus parked and students began to step off, you stayed back, watching them go.

"The power of manipulating heartstrings," you muttered with a smirk, "take notes, Aoyama."

He exhaled beside you, clearly overwhelmed. "I forget you're trained..."

You walked down the bus steps side by side. "I forget sometimes too."

The sliding doors to the massive dome creaked open, and Thirteen's chipper voice rang out, "Hello, everyone!! I've been waiting for you!"

The class burst into excited chatter, practically vibrating with energy.
You, on the other hand, scoffed under your breath, arms folded as you leaned back on one heel. Aoyama glanced sideways at you, puzzled by your indifference.

"I can't wait to show you what's inside!"

As the class stepped into the massive training center, your eyes widened despite yourself. The dome was massive—easily the size of a small stadium—and every inch of it was dedicated to a different kind of catastrophe. You spun slowly in place as your eyes devoured the details.

There was a mountainous landscape mimicking a landslide, jagged and treacherous; a shipwreck simulation with a tilted vessel submerged in water, waves rippling with artificial precision; a scorching fire simulation that burned in a controlled sector; and even a downpour area with manufactured storm clouds hovering overhead.

"This is insane..." you breathed, awe sliding into your voice as you bounced once in place. "Hell yeah, this is a hive mind of training!!"

"A shipwreck. A landslide. A fire. A windstorm. Et cetera—" Thirteen began dramatically, gesturing around. "I created this facility to prepare you to deal with different types of disasters. I call it... the Unforeseen Simulation Joint!!"

You blinked.

"So... USJ... Like Universal Studios Japan..." Your voice trailed off. "Copyright?"

Kaminari snorted behind you.

Aizawa sighed and stepped toward Thirteen. "Hey, shouldn't All Might be here already? Don't tell me he booked an interview instead."

"Actually, it's something else," Thirteen replied, voice lowering as they held up three fingers, and the two teachers started whispering nearby.

"That man is the height of irresponsibility," Aizawa muttered, tired and annoyed. "The clock's ticking. We should get on with it."

"Okay! Let me just say two things— or three!! Maybe... four or—"

"We get it..." the class groaned in perfect sync.

You zoned out a little as Thirteen launched into their speech about their quirk, Black Hole. It was impressive, sure, but you weren't here for a lecture. You were here to move. To break something. To be useful.

You turned to Aoyama, about to make some joke about cosmic irony when you caught the look on his face.

That same nervous, shrinking expression. Like he was five seconds away from curling into himself.
He looked like you had the night you woke up in the rain.

Your voice died in your throat.

Instead of speaking, you gave his arm a small nudge with your elbow and looked back toward Thirteen. The class clapped after the speech. You joined in last, your hands moving slow and half-hearted.

"Right, now that that's over—" Aizawa began, but was cut off as the lights overhead flickered.

Then died.

A cold ripple ran down your spine.

The fountain at the center of the USJ began to churn unnaturally. The water warped, spiraling upward in tendrils of vapor as purple mist twisted and pooled like smoke. You squinted into the darkness.

A familiar shade of purple.

You grabbed Aoyama's arm. His skin was cold.

Then, you stepped away from him and locked arms with someone else—Katsuki Bakugo.

He jerked, glaring. "What the hell are you—?"

"I don't think this is part of training. Be on guard." Your voice was low. Measured. He went silent immediately.

And then...

Kurogiri materialized.
Aizawa was in front of the class in seconds, scarf at the ready.

From the center of the mist, a hand reached out—skeletal and decayed—and then he emerged. Tomura Shigaraki. The sight of him sent a jolt through your body, and you stiffened as you felt his presence like static in the air.

More figures stepped out behind him. Villains.

"This is real," Aizawa growled. "Those are villains."

You saw Bakugo flinch slightly next to you. He glanced at you, saw the way your muscles tensed, and looked away.

Shigaraki's gaze swept the room—and stopped. His hand rose.

It wasn't random.

It wasn't a signal to his men.

It was aimed.

Aimed at you.

"Y/N!" Aizawa shouted, his voice razor-sharp with panic.

You whipped around just in time to see a swirling mist appear behind you, warping space into a jagged spiral. You didn't even get a chance to move.

Something massive lunged from the void.

A creature from hell.

Towering. Skin black and glossy like tar. Muscles rippling unnaturally, exposed like armor. No eyes, no voice—only the hum of growling breath and a hunger for destruction. Its brain was exposed, pulsing with veins, and its claws gripped you like a ragdoll.

You reached for your coin—your heart—but your fingers slipped.

And it fell.

Bakugo caught it before it hit the ground, his eyes wide in horror at the sight of it pulsing in his palm.

And just like that—

You were gone.

Swallowed by the mist.

"WHY'S IT ALWAYS GOTTA BE ME, MAN?!" you shouted as you were flung from Kurogiri's body, landing hard beside Tomura Shigaraki. The hulking Nomu kept its grip around your torso as you twisted and fought to dive back into the closing warp gate.

"LET GO OF ME!!"

Tomura chuckled, standing far too close for comfort. "You look better on our side."

His words were met with snickers and catcalls from the other villains emerging through the mist, their shadows crawling across the warped ground.

You didn't scream. You didn't cry. You didn't beg.

Instead, you laughed.

Dry, cold laughter as if the whole thing was a twisted joke only you understood.

"Your acting skills are phenomenal," Kurogiri murmured just beneath the chaos. Something in his voice carried pride, and it wormed its way into your chest like static electricity as you bit down on the Nomu's forearm, teeth scraping over its rock-hard skin.

"I only perform when the audience is worth it."

Kurogiri gave a hum of amusement before turning to Aizawa and Thirteen. "The only real heroes I see are those two."

"Perplexing..." he added. "According to the schedule we retrieved from UA, All Might should be here."

"So you used the press as a distraction and slithered in like snakes," Aizawa hissed, stepping forward with a low growl.

Tomura cocked his head. "Where is he?" he mused, fingers twitching toward his neck. "I went through the trouble of bringing so many friends eager to meet him."

As he spoke, more villains spilled from the mist. Each one wore gear you recognized instantly—masks and suits you'd built by hand for your family. A design you thought would never see the light of day again.

The air around you turned cold.

"They want All Might... the great Symbol of Peace. But he's not here," Shigaraki continued, voice darkening. "Maybe if I kill a few kids, he'll come out to play."

The Nomu's grip suddenly shifted—from your torso to your neck.

Your feet kicked midair as its massive fingers squeezed like a vice. You clawed at its skin, your lungs burning. You couldn't speak, couldn't think. White noise overtook your ears as saliva dripped from your lips, your vision blurring into patches of gray and red.

You reached for your coin—your heart—

Gone.

Panic spiraled through you.

And then—SLAM—you were tossed like a ragdoll into the dirt.

You coughed, throat raw, spit trailing down your chin.

The Nomu treated you like nothing. Like a thing.

Your hands trembled against the ground.

You were pissed.

Aizawa lunged into action, capturing several villains with his scarf and disabling quirks with sharp, precise blinks. You scrambled to your feet, breath ragged.

"Get me down from here, you loser filth!!" you spat, using your weight and strength to grab Shigaraki by the collar and swing toward the Nomu. With a twisting snap of your hips, you dislocated its shoulder. The Nomu shrieked in inhuman rage and finally dropped you.

You landed and bolted for the nearest figure of safety.

"Y/N, get behind me!" Aizawa shouted, yanking you back with his scarf.

You stumbled into his side, panting. "After getting choked out by Frankenstein's cousin? I'm just peachy!"

"Means you can still fight," Aizawa said flatly, flinging a captured villain over his shoulder with expert grace.

"Bakugo has my—" You ducked as a blade narrowly missed your cheek. "Ah, fuck it!" you laughed, spinning around and slamming your heel into the attacker's gut.

Your back hit Aizawa's once again as he dispatched two more villains with swift, brutal strikes.

"If I beat more villains than you, you buy me dinner," he muttered, adjusting his goggles.

You raised an eyebrow. "Wowww, making your student pay? I'll have to report that to Nezu."

You darted forward, flexible like a whip, wrapping your legs around a villain's neck from behind and swinging them into a pile of others. The thud echoed, followed by a groan.

"He can't get rid of me," Aizawa quipped.

The battlefield was chaos.

You moved with a dancer's grace, dropping into splits and springing up into kicks. You flipped over an oncoming punch, grabbed a villain's arm mid-air, and slammed him into the ground with a twist that would've made a gymnast weep. The next charged toward you, and you ducked under their swing, locking your thighs around their waist and slamming your elbow into the back of their head.

You were fluid—violent—using speed, agility, and well-trained muscle memory. Every strike you threw was meant to subdue, not kill.

Aizawa's movements were tight and efficient. He didn't waste a single step. His scarf moved like a weaponized ribbon, entangling wrists, legs, throats—dragging enemies to the floor or into your range for a joint takedown.

You synced.

Teacher and student. Pro and villain-in-hiding. Fighting back-to-back in a dance of necessity.

But you were getting tired.

Your lungs were still raw from the earlier suffocation. Each breath was a sawblade scraping down your throat, and without your coin—your anchor, your core—every step felt jagged. Off-balance. Wrong.

But then you saw them.

Midoriya, Tsuyu, and Mineta, soaked and staggering out of the flood zone, eyes wide as they scanned the carnage. Midoriya's body shifted forward, fists clenched. He was calculating. Considering throwing himself into the fray again.

"Aizawa," you called hoarsely, just loud enough for your teacher to hear, "Midoriya's being reckless again."

Aizawa, already bruised and bloodied, blinked your way.

"Maybe you should take a breather," you offered, eyes narrowing. "Let me take the lead for a bit."

"And let one of my students die?" he grunted between pants. "I don't think so."

You grit your teeth. "Don't start with that crap! These villain idiots have no training and no strategy! They're looking for All Might, so let's treat 'em like All Might would!"

Just as the words left your lips, something fast and familiar launched at you from the side—claws glinting, mask reflecting light like a mirror shard.

You blocked the attack with your forearm, sliding back a few feet on the cracked tile.

Kyota.

You huffed through your nose, rolling your eyes. "Really?" you muttered, ducking another swipe from her. "We do this at home already."

Your sister snarled beneath her mask, her voice warped and metallic thanks to your own handiwork.

"Quit acting like a hero," she snapped, words distorted into a static growl. "It's pissing me off."

You danced around her blows, flipping and twisting with graceful precision. "And risk being caught? Please. You know better."

One sharp elbow, one sweep of the leg, and Kyota's body crashed to the ground like a ragdoll. You sighed and delivered a clean strike to the side of her helmet, knocking her out cold.

You barely turned your head. "Aizawa, do you need—"

And then you saw it.

Your stomach dropped.

Aizawa.

The Nomu had him.

And it was beating him like a drum.

Over, and over, and over again.

Crack.

Smack.

Crunch.

Blood splattered in wide arcs like paint across the battlefield. You couldn't even tell what parts of him were bone and what parts were flesh anymore—his limbs bent wrong, twisted and shattered like brittle twigs. His goggles were cracked, one lens completely gone, revealing an eye already swelling shut. His scarf had unraveled, trailing behind like a torn banner, soaked crimson.

Your whole body froze. Your eyes widened—widened until it hurt.

"Sensei—"

From the corner of your vision, another blur came charging.

Your brother.

He'd waited. Watching. And he took advantage of your distraction.

But not today.

You let him collide with you, but used the momentum to twist your bodies midair and slam him into the shallow flood water. His head dunked under with a splash, his body thrashing.

He couldn't swim.

"Stay there," you spat through clenched teeth.

Your boots pounded against the wet floor as you sprinted toward the heap that had been your teacher. Your heart roared in your ears, your body vibrating like a struck tuning fork.

The Nomu raised its arm again—

You dropped to your knees and slid into the blood.

You didn't care about the mess. You didn't care about what soaked into your uniform. You grabbed Aizawa's limp frame, his blood slick against your hands, and yanked.

He didn't move. His weight was deadened, heavy—like carrying a full corpse.

You screamed in frustration and hauled harder, dragging him away just as the Nomu's next slam crashed into the spot where his head had been.

"Sensei—! Sensei, c'mon—!"

You could barely breathe.

His blood was everywhere—on your hands, soaking your sleeves, slick on your knees. It pooled beneath him, warm and heavy, and every rasp of breath from Aizawa sounded thinner than the last.

But he was alive.

Barely.

"Can't handle a little blood, Y/n Kakegawa?" a deep, amused voice echoed from behind the smoke and carnage.

Your breath hitched. Your head jerked upward.

That mask. Gold and obsidian. Crowned. Regal. Cruel.

The King.

Your father.

Your fingers clenched the shredded fabric of Aizawa's jacket as your eyes narrowed. "How do you know my name?"

Your voice rang out—flat, cold. Just loud enough to sound like a stranger asking a threat.

But your heart was going ballistic inside your chest, slamming against your ribs. You felt like a matchstick caught in a hurricane.

Around you, the fight paused ever so slightly, just long enough for those closest to glance toward the imposing figure that stood tall, arms folded. The aura he radiated could chill fire.

Your father tilted his head. "I saw you fight," he said casually, like you were some street performer. "Without your quirk. Not bad."

You scoffed and stood up straighter. "Just instincts. You know, the ones you build after being chewed up and spat out your whole life."

The King's mask didn't shift. But you knew. You knew he was smiling underneath.

"To act so flawlessly in the face of fear—what a performance," he said, his voice dropping into something low, almost reverent. "But tell me, actress: what would you do if the stage lights went out?"

You stared him down, shoulders square. "I guess I'd keep performing in the dark."

A flicker of something like approval glinted in his posture.

But then Aizawa groaned, shifting slightly—and suddenly his arm, swollen and torn, curled around you, dragging you back.

"Get the hell away from my student," Aizawa hissed, his voice a mixture of pain and fury.

Your eyes widened.

His body—barely functioning—was still trying to shield you. His frame hunched over, wrapping around you as best it could. You were frozen, eyes burning with something unnamable.

You looked down.

The bone was pushing out through his skin. The arm protecting you was shaking. He was in agony.

And he still did it.

Your vision blurred as you turned away from the grotesque wound, hiding your face in his chest like a child. Your fists curled into his jacket, and the thudding in your chest only got louder.

What the hell is this?

Why is he doing this?

Your father's presence loomed behind the smoke. He didn't need to speak again.
You already knew what he was thinking: You know he doesn't really care. He never has. No one really does.

"You can erase powers. That's irritating," Shigaraki drawled, his tone more bored than impressed, fingers twitching near his neck as he stepped into the open. "But when you're up against true, devastating strength, it's the same as being Quirkless."
His masked face turned toward Aizawa—then you.
"And you..."

Suddenly, you were ripped from Aizawa's arms.

Your legs were yanked out from beneath you by a thick, warping hand. Dark-purple. Misty. Strong. You crashed hard onto your back, the wind knocked from your lungs. You barely had time to roll over before—

WHAM.

The Nomu was on you.

Its weight crushed your body into the floor. You kicked and screamed as its elongated mouth opened unnaturally wide above your face—a monstrous maw lined with jagged, yellowing teeth like rusted knives. Its breath hit you like a tidal wave of rot and meat and metal.

And then the tongue.

Slithering. Wet.
It coiled around your neck like a leech, pinning you in place.

He's gonna eat me. He's gonna eat me alive.

You thrashed, but it was like fighting a concrete wall. Tears welled in your eyes, not from pain—but from something rawer. Older. Something that made your soul scream:

Fear.

"This quirk," Shigaraki continued like he was reading your autopsy, "a living hazard. One that chews through its own user just as easily as its enemies. That's the tragedy, isn't it? You're just another ticking bomb."

The Nomu's tongue tightened. Your vision was starting to blur. The blood in your ears roared like waves, crashing against your skull.

No. No, not like this. Not in front of him. Not in front of them.

"Tomura Shigaraki."
Kurogiri's voice sliced through the air.

Shigaraki turned. "Did you manage to kill Thirteen?"

"The rescue hero is out of commission," Kurogiri answered, mist pulsing. "But some of the students escaped my control. One has likely left the premises."

Shigaraki's body jerked.

He scratched at his neck—no, clawed at it.
You could hear the skin tearing.

"Kurogiri... you useless void. If you weren't our warp gate," he snarled, "I'd tear apart every last atom in your body."

The tantrum echoed, but you barely registered it.

The Nomu's jaws creaked as they opened wider.
A string of drool hung between its teeth, breaking and splattering across your cheek.
The stench was unbearable—decay and sweat and blood, like a corpse that had been baking in the sun.

And its tongue, that tongue—slick and veined, wrapped once more around your throat.
You whimpered, too out of breath to scream.

Shigaraki's voice came again, muffled through your haze.

"There's no way we can win if pros show up. It's game over. Back to the title screen."
He paused, sounding almost disappointed. "I was really looking forward to ending this today..."

A long silence. Then—
"Let's go home."

The tongue slithered back. The Nomu grunted and climbed off you, one heavy step after another, until it stood silently at Tomura's side.

You curled into yourself on the cold floor, coughing violently, chest burning for air. You hadn't even realized you were crying until your vision cleared—tears streaking down your temples.

Aizawa was still slumped on the ground, shaking, bloodied fingers clawing into the floor as he tried to rise. His one working eye found yours.
He was reaching for you.

"Oh, but before we leave," Shigaraki muttered as he turned, shoulders hunched, fingers twitching, "let's make sure the Symbol of Peace is broken."
He tilted his head, like a child examining a toy.
"Let's wreck his pride."

Your eyes shot open.

"LOOK OUT!"

You didn't even get a second word out. The Nomu's hand whipped around like a whipcrack—grabbing your jaw and slamming your head into the floor.

That sound.

The sound of bone against concrete.

Of something important shattering inside your skull.

You saw stars—blinding white, blinding red. Your ears rang like church bells.

Warmth began to drip down your temple. The metallic scent told you before your body could: blood.

A lot of it.

The Nomu didn't let go.

Its grip crushed into your cheeks, pressing your head further into the floor as your body twitched. Your limbs refused to move, trembling like dead weight.

You clawed at its hand with everything you had left. Nails snapped. Skin tore.

But it didn't move.

Your breaths came in shallow gasps, your mouth filling with the metallic taste of blood as it slipped down your throat. You coughed, the noise wet and pitiful.

And then you saw them.

In the blur of your peripheral vision, standing just beyond the veil of combat:

Your brother.

Your sister.

Your mother.

Your boss—that familiar towering figure.

Unmoving. Watching.

Like spectators at a sport.

Not one of them moved to help you.

Something in your chest cracked far worse than your skull had.

This is what you are to them. A tool. A pawn. A test subject. A disposable dog.

You let out a soft, choking sob, your nails digging desperately at the Nomu's wrist.

You didn't want to die.

Not here.

Not like this.

Your eyes shimmered, the failure bleeding out with the crimson dripping from your mouth.
You blinked once—twice—three times—

And saw gold.

A glint in the air.

Spinning. Falling.

Your coin.

Through the blur of blood and chaos, your vision locked onto Bakugo—perched high in the wreckage of a shattered building, arm still extended from the throw. He met your gaze, unreadable. But the message was clear:

Get up.

The second that coin struck the air around you, everything in your body snapped back online. Like a puzzle clicking into place. Your quirk surged—reality jittered—your body blurred with motion.

The Nomu didn't see it coming.

Your body surged up with a twist of strength and velocity, knocking the monster off of you like it was made of air. Your hand shot into the air, catching the coin mid-fall—only to toss it again with a flick, activating the next jolt of unnatural speed.

In the blink of an eye, you were in front of Shigaraki.

His hand was already outstretched, reaching for Tsuyu, his pinky rising—

Too slow.

You caught his wrist just in time, twisting it back, your glare burning into him like a brand.

His red eyes met yours—his smirk returned.

For a second, everything stood still.
Even Tsuyu and Mineta, standing just behind you, didn't breathe.

You looked nothing like a hero.

You looked terrifying.

The quiet, the grin, the way your body seemed to glitch and flicker between moments—like reality itself couldn't contain you.

"You really are badass."
Your head snapped to the side—Aizawa. He was leaning against rubble, one eye open, using what little strength he had left to erase Shigaraki's quirk.

Your chest tightened. He was still fighting.

And then you saw him—Midoriya, barreling forward, his arm pulled back, veins glowing.

One For All: activated.

Shit.

You tackled Shigaraki—hard—before Midoriya could make contact, launching the both of you into a blur of motion. Your bodies flew through the air, kicked up dust, and landed hard against shattered metal and glass.

Behind you, the Nomu took the brunt of Midoriya's punch.

The building cracked. The shockwave rang.

Shigaraki groaned beneath you, brushing debris off his shoulder. "You're pretty powerful," he muttered, his voice unbothered. He kicked you back with an effortless motion—not even trying to hurt you.

You sold it anyway—crashing into a cracked beam with a grunt. You spat blood and glared. He grinned wider.

"This 'smash' of yours... Are you one of All Might's disciples?" he asked.

Did All for One not tell him?

You wiped your mouth. "Doesn't matter," he hissed. "I'm done with you now." Shigaraki's smile faded. The Nomu grabbed Midoriya by the wrist. Tsuyu lashed out her tongue, trying to pull him free, while Shigaraki reached toward Mineta with a twisted grin.

You moved to stop him—but everything slowed.

Your heart thundered.

Did you care if Midoriya died?

Did it matter?

...No.

But your cover did.

That was worth more than a dozen lives.

Suddenly, the heavy metal doors to the USJ slammed open.

Everyone turned.

"All Might!" someone gasped.

There he stood, broad-shouldered and tall, the great Symbol of Peace. But there was no smile on his face. Just grim focus, shirt open at the collar, his jacket fluttering to the floor behind him.

"Have no fear, students," he said, voice like thunder. "Because I am here."

The villains faltered. You could hear it—their fear.

And you... you couldn't help but feel something twist in your stomach.

It was harder to be heroic when your villain life was on a razor's edge. Harder to keep smiling, to keep playing your part, when All Might's entrance nearly made you laugh. You admired him once. But now? Now, he was the key to your family's downfall. And maybe your own rise.

He moved.

A blink of light and power.

Villains were flattened into the walls, crushed into the dirt. Then All Might was beside you, one arm bracing your weakened body and the other scooping up Aizawa's bleeding form.

You blinked, dazed, your hands now wrapped around your teacher's chest. His blood soaked your arms. You looked up at All Might as he handed you your coin. It was bloody. Warm.

He ruffled your hair.

"You must've been helping Aizawa while I was gone," he said. "Thank you."

Then—like magic—he disappeared again.

When he returned, he held Midoriya, Tsuyu, and Mineta.

He was slower now. You noticed that. Back in the day, he could've done that in 1/16th of a second.

You furrowed your brows.

A sign of weakness.

"Everybody, back to the entrance," he ordered. "Take these two with you."

You tried to move with Aizawa in your arms but stumbled. Midoriya stepped in, lifting your teacher with Mineta.

Everyone's eyes were on All Might. Yours?

Yours were locked onto Midoriya.

"Your quirk really is like All Might's," you said through gritted teeth.

"What?" he blinked.

"Nothing. Just quit looking at All Might and stop worrying." You turned away, hiding the fire in your chest.

Then a thought crossed your mind.

You slowed. Three steps. Four.

No one noticed.

You turned.

And went back.

This was stupid. You knew that.

But watching All Might die... maybe even being the reason?

Your father would be proud.

You flipped your coin and ducked behind rubble.

The battle raged. Smoke rose. You coughed, the taste of blood and ash thick in your mouth.

All Might's punch had thrown the Nomu back—but Kurogiri's warp gate warped the air. The Nomu recovered too fast.

It struck.

Right into All Might's stomach.

Blood spewed from his mouth.

You watched.

The fear in All Might's eyes—beautiful. Haunting.

You covered your mouth to hide your grin.

Kurogiri moved to block Midoriya, who tried to intervene.

"How foolish," he whispered.

BOOM.

An explosion struck.

Bakugo.

"GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY, DEKU!!" he yelled.

You giggled.

Then came a wave of ice, freezing the Nomu in place.

Todoroki.

"One of your thugs said you came to kill All Might," he said coldly. "How stupid."

Kirishima pounced toward Shigaraki. He missed. Shigaraki didn't even flinch.

"Dumbass," you muttered.

"Kirishima, Bakugo, you alright?" you asked, approaching.

"We should be asking you that, small fry!" Bakugo barked.

You kicked his arm.

"Sure you can handle this?" Kirishima asked, placing a hand on your waist to steady you.

"I'm good. Got my coin back." You grinned at Bakugo. "Thanks, Bakugo!"

"Don't smile at me like that! It's creepy!"

You laughed and turned toward Shigaraki, who was having another tantrum.

"Nomu," he snapped.

The beast regenerated.

"How?!" All Might shouted. "You said his quirk was shock absorption!"

"I didn't say that was his only quirk." Shigaraki giggled. "He also has super-regeneration."

Then he looked at you. Looked through you.

"Retrieve our escape. Get him."

The Nomu shot forward.

Too fast.

All Might was too slow.

But you?

You were the same speed.

You dove, crashing into Bakugo. Both of you rolled, the Nomu's attack barely missing as wind pressure sent students flying.

You landed in a heap, straddling Bakugo's lap, arms tight around his waist.

"Kacchan!" Midoriya called.

"I'm right here, ya damn nerd!" Bakugo hissed.

"Wow, you blocked him!"

"No, I didn't!!"

"Then how'd you get over here?"

You and Bakugo made eye contact. Both of your faces lit up.

"Pervert!!" he screamed.

"ME?? I SAVED YOUR ASS!! NEXT TIME I'LL LET THAT DAMN NOMU GET YOUR—!"

The smoke cleared.

All Might stood, battered but fierce.

"These are kids, and you didn't hold back?" he panted.

"I didn't have much choice. He was threatening my companion." Shigaraki pointed at the unconscious Nomu, then at Midoriya. "And these kids aren't angels. The plain one tried to kill me with a maxed-out punch. What kind of 'hero' does that?"

He scratched his neck, twitching.

"Well, you know what, All Might?" His voice turned dark. "That pisses me off. Why do people get to decide which violent acts are heroic and which are villainous? You think you're the Symbol of Peace? Ha! You're just another government-sponsored instrument of violence. And violence always breeds more violence. I'll make sure the world understands that... once you're dead."

You stood still.

Heart thudding.

Your breath caught.

That... that was brilliant.

A small monologue circled in your head.

He wasn't wrong. In fact—he was everything your father had warned you about. Everything he'd dreamed of. Everything you'd been trained to admire.

Shigaraki... he had the potential to be the next Symbol of Fear.

And honestly?

You admired that.

A slow, impressed whistle left your lips.

Even the blood on your tongue couldn't ruin the taste of victory brewing in your chest.

All Might's hands clenched into trembling fists.

The veins in his arms bulged—strain evident in his form. He was pushing past his limit. You knew that look. That kind of resolve. The same look your brother wore when trying to impress your father. The same fire your mother used to fake when she trained with you.

But this... this was real.

It disgusted you.

And it impressed you.

The duality of it was sickening.

Your lip twitched, coin dancing between your fingers as you shifted slightly to the side, unseen by your classmates, watching, calculating.

How much longer can he keep going?
How many seconds until his time runs out?
How many bones will break before he breaks with them?

"All Might," Shigaraki spat, stepping forward now, not hiding the sick glee in his voice. "What you call justice... is just the branding of the victor. That's all it is, isn't it? Winners become heroes. Losers rot in prisons."

"And you think you're the one who gets to change that?" All Might coughed into his arm, blood staining his sleeve.

Shigaraki paused.

"I don't want to change anything," he smiled under his hand-mask. "I want to level it all."

Your skin prickled at that. Because that was your line.

The Nomu began to stir again behind him, that grotesque, beast-like body mending—regrowing muscle, sinew, even the hole in its skull sealing with a wet pop.

You wanted to gag.

Midoriya stood beside Todoroki, wide-eyed. Mineta was still shaking. Kirishima had moved in front of them defensively.

"I'll handle this," All Might gritted. "Keep the others safe."

He charged. The air cracked like a whip with each step.

You barely noticed your own body moving.

A warped blink. The sound of your coin flipping mid-air. One flash, then another.

You were behind the Nomu. In front of it. To the side.

You weren't helping. Not exactly.

But you were participating.

Your cover demanded it. Your father would expect nothing less.

The Nomu roared, a beast uncaged, slamming a grotesquely oversized fist toward All Might—and missed.

Because you nudged his shoulder at the last second.

Because All Might didn't see you do it.

Because Shigaraki did.

He tilted his head at you, like a curious child watching a bug crawl a new path.

You blinked away before the gaze turned suspicious.

Then the punch landed.

All Might's knuckles buried into the Nomu's chest. Bone shattered. The beast was thrown, cratered into the ground. But it wasn't enough.

"WHY WON'T YOU STAY DOWN?!" All Might bellowed.

"Because he's better than you," Shigaraki whispered, watching his creature rise again.

"He was built to kill you."

You were standing back with the group now, no one noticed you had left. No one noticed your body disappearing and returning, moving like a stop motion animation. No one noticed you keeping track of everyone's position like a chessboard that never stayed still.

Kirishima was watching you. Only you.

That bothered you more than it should've.

You waved him off with a tired smirk. "I'm good, tough guy. Go freeze something."

And then—

The moment shattered.

The Nomu charged.

You felt it before anyone else did. The pressure of it. The ripple in the air like a predator's growl before the strike. You didn't think. You blinked forward, grabbed All Might's arm, and blinked back.

He stumbled, startled, as the Nomu's arm crashed through the space where he stood just a heartbeat before.

"Stop showing off, muscle man. You're gonna tear a hole in your hip," you muttered under your breath, releasing him before anyone saw.

He glanced down at you.

You didn't meet his eyes.

"I've still got work to do," All Might whispered.

"And I've still got a mask to wear," you whispered back, inaudible to him.

You blinked forward again.

Another step.

Another flip of your coin.

You didn't care about them. Not really.

But if one of them died now—especially All Might—you'd be compromised.

And if your father found out you'd let that happen?

You didn't know which punishment would be worse.

So you fought.

Not for the heroes.

Not for justice.

But for yourself.

Because the only person you were ever going to save was the one living in your own skin.

You flipped your coin once more—spun it into the air—and vanished back to the others.

You dusted yourself off, "Okay, let's go to the entrance." As you spoke, you felt an arm grab you and pull you closer.

Bakugo's arm was firm around your shoulders, the heat of his body grounding in a way you didn't want to admit. You leaned just enough to walk, resisting the temptation to let your full weight fall on him—not because you couldn't, but because your pride wouldn't let you.

"C'mon, you absolute dumbass," Bakugo muttered, adjusting his grip as you stumbled.

"I can walk, you know."

"Yeah? Well then quit limping like a corpse, and maybe I'll believe you."

You huffed, eyes flicking back to the smoke curling in the air behind you. "We should go back."

"The hell we should," he snapped, tightening his grip on your waist. "You already did enough. You wanna pass out in front of the Nomu next?"

You said nothing.

Because he wasn't wrong.

But still—your heart itched.

"Stop pushing it, dammit. You're not some invincible, glitchy ghost. You're human."

You chuckled bitterly, eyes lowering. "So I've been told."

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

For a moment, it was just the sound of your dragging steps, your rattling breath, and Bakugo muttering under his breath like he was counting seconds. Calculating damage. Cursing at himself.

Then, quieter than anything else he'd said:

"...Thanks."

You blinked.

"What?" you asked, turning to look at him. There was a scratch on his cheek and dirt smudged across his nose. He didn't meet your eyes.

"You heard me. Don't make me say it again."

And before you could respond, footsteps approached in a rush—

"Y/n!!" Uraraka's voice pierced the tension, followed by Tsuyu's firm, scolding tone.

"Ribbit. You shouldn't have gone back."

You barely had time to register them before your other arm was taken and they were forcing you down onto a chunk of concrete like it was a hospital bed.

"I've been through worse," you teased weakly, trying to wave them off.

Tsuyu raised a brow. "Doesn't mean you should be."

Uraraka fretted beside her, hands gently pressing against your shoulders to keep you sitting. "You're bleeding so much..."

"I'm dramatic, not dying," you mumbled, looking off to the side.

But as they fussed and cleaned you up with what little supplies they had, your mind wandered.

To the battlefield.

To Bakugo.

To the moment you saw the Nomu charge.

Your body had moved on its own.

No thoughts. No orders. Not even a conscious lie to hide behind.

You'd shoved Bakugo out of the way before he even realized what was coming.

Why?

He wasn't part of the mission.

He wasn't crucial to the plan.

Letting him die wouldn't have compromised your role.

And yet, here you were.

Wounded.

Sitting.

Staring at him as he barked orders at Kirishima and Todoroki nearby, his hands flaring with tiny pops of smoke. His voice still rough, his eyes still sharp.

Your chest ached.

Not from pain.

From confusion.

Because for the first time—

You didn't know if you did it to protect the mission, or because... you just didn't want him to die.

And that terrified you more than any villain ever could.

But right now, you tried not to think about it.

You had earned this moment.

A break from pretending that every classmate's pain mattered to you.

A break from forcing smiles and forced alliances.

A break from pretending you hated Shigaraki, when deep down, you admired him—his ideals, his chaos, the way he made the world listen.

A break from lying to yourself.
From pretending that the Nomu, that walking nightmare stitched together by science and suffering, didn't make your pulse quicken in awe.

Because it was badass.

So, for just a second, you stopped.
Stopped calculating.
Stopped analyzing.
Stopped pretending.

You let yourself breathe.

The adrenaline that had been burning through your veins like a storm began to ebb. The tension in your limbs melted away, leaving only the weight of exhaustion. Your muscles ached, your head pulsed, and the copper taste of blood still clung to the back of your throat.

With a quiet grunt, you let yourself fall backward, landing on the cool concrete with a soft thud.

Uraraka yelped, "Y/n—?! No, no, don't close your eyes! You could have a concussion!"

Her voice was distant. Muffled. Like she was yelling at you from underwater.

But you didn't listen.

You couldn't.

The world could burn for all you cared. For just this moment—this sliver of time carved from the chaos—you didn't have to be a villain. Or a hero. Or anything in between.

You were just...

Tired.

So your eyes slipped shut, and with the weight of your coin still pressed to your chest, your breath steadied into something quiet.

Peaceful.

Alone, in the middle of heroes, monsters, and liars alike.

────୨ৎ────
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Chapter Text

THE GOLDEN SUNLIGHT BURNED.

You winced the moment it hit your eyes, your lids fluttering closed again out of instinct. Too bright. Too harsh. Too real. It filtered through the windows like something divine, but all it did was irritate your dried-out eyes.

Had you really kept them shut for that long?

The soreness in your limbs said yes. The aching throb in your jaw said yes. The bloodied memory of the Nomu's grip said it loudest.

You laid there, still in Recovery Girl's office, pretending to sleep just a little longer. Your ears did the listening while your eyes remained closed. Your mind wandered—spinning circles around the chaos at the USJ.

Shigaraki.
Your father.
That disgusting, powerful Nomu.
And... the praise.

A twisted little grin crawled up your lips.

"You look better on our side," Shigaraki had said. And Kurogiri's whisper still rang in your head: Your acting is phenomenal.

For just a second, pride flared through your chest like firecrackers. Your father had been there. Watching. Listening. Testing. And you passed.

You fooled them all.

And Shigaraki... you'd have to visit him. Debrief, realign your "mission." Set boundaries. Keep the mask intact.

...But then your stomach twisted, and your grin soured.

What is my mission?

To gather information?
To impress your father?
To impress his master—All for One?

Was it about legacy? Revenge? Or were you just a well-oiled tool trying to carve meaning into your own blade?

Your silence cracked when Recovery Girl's voice chimed in gently, "Well, I guess I won't scold you for him being back here, since it wasn't your fault."

You tensed.

"I can't be sure yet. But I think I shortened my time limit again with that fight," said a voice—familiar yet unfamiliar.

It made your eyes twitch open.

And there he was. A frail, bandaged stick-figure of a man with hair far too familiar. You blinked, hard.

All Might...?

No. That couldn't be him. That was someone else. A stranger wearing All Might's face like a discarded costume.

"I hope I can still hold the form for an hour," the man muttered, before sitting up. "Well, no use worrying. These things happen."

No use worrying, you thought, biting down the laugh that tickled your throat.

The door slid open, and a polished man with a clean voice entered.

"Hi, All Might. Been a while," the man said with practiced ease.

"What the hell?!" All Might—the real All Might—choked. "I didn't know you were investigating!"

You slowly opened your eyes, watching everything unfold like a play from the front row.

Midoriya shot up beside you, as surprised as All Might was.

"It's okay he's seeing you like this?" he asked.

"Oh yeah, it's fine. This guy's all right. Naomasa Tsukauchi, my best friend on the police force. He's legit, I trust him," All Might explained.

You narrowed your eyes, watching every move.
So many people knew his secret.
So many people were allowed in.

"That's quite an introduction," Tsukauchi replied with a gentle smile. "Sorry to cut to the chase, but we could really use any information you might have—"

"Hold on," All Might cut in. "Before all that. Tell me all the students are okay. And Aizawa—er, Eraserhead—and Thirteen?"

"Not counting these two," Tsukauchi gestured to you and Midoriya, "the only student injuries were scrapes. And both teachers are stable. Relax."

You scoffed softly, drawing their attention for a brief moment.

"If you heroes hadn't risked your lives, the students would never have made it. You three saved the class."

But All Might, to your surprise, didn't take the praise.

"You're not seeing the whole picture, Tsukauchi. Those students also risked their lives." His voice was low and firm. "They fought as hard as us. I don't think there's ever been a group of first years who experienced a real fight like this so early in their training. They not only survived—they learned what it means to be a pro. Those villains made a mistake attacking them. This class is... strong."

He paused. Then looked straight at you, making you close your eyes quickly.

"They're filled with courage and drive. Mark my words. They'll become great heroes."

Something in your chest cracked.

Not shattered. Not collapsed.

Just... cracked.

You?

A hero?

No. That wasn't your fate. It wasn't your purpose. You were created for a different end. A different brand of suffering.

You were a villain—not by desire, but by design.

That was your mission.

You would gain the attention of All for One for your father through your role at UA. Your role wasn't to protect. It was to betray.

And betrayal was pain just as sharp as death.

You blinked fast, forcing the tears back into your skull like nails.

"You're all loud," you muttered, voice scratchy and dry.

Everyone turned to you.

Without hesitation, you grabbed a nearby pillow and threw it directly at All Might's head as you sat up.

"Don't say such heartfelt shit when you look like a twig," you grumbled.

Tsukauchi reached to pull a curtain around All Might, but the blond raised a hand, stopping him.

"You're not surprised?" he asked, cocking a brow.

"I am," you said with a shrug, "but I adjust quickly."

Midoriya sat upright. "Is that why you said our quirks were similar? Back at the USJ?"

You hesitated... then bit your cheek.

"I've known since the first day of school. I went to check up on you and Bakugo and... I heard it. From your lips," you said, eyes drifting to All Might. "I've heard stories since I was a kid—from people I call strangers. A god who can give quirks."

You leaned in, voice quieter, heavier.

"To be honest... it scared me. So I distanced myself from you."

You weren't lying.
Not exactly.

Midoriya didn't scare you.
You pitied him.

"Is that you, All Might?" you asked, your tone sharpening ever so slightly. "Are you the god who can give and take quirks?"

A test.

One you'd already answered, but now... you wanted to see if he'd lie.

All Might's eyes narrowed. "No. I'm not. There is no god who can give and take quirks."

Liar.

So he wasn't just hiding the truth from the world... he was hiding it from you.

Interesting.

He went on to explain One for All—passing it down like a family heirloom, like a torch meant for the "worthy." And the more you heard, the more you plastered your anxious, curious face on. Pretending to be amazed. Confused. Scared.

But inside? You were scribbling notes.

Mental T-charts.

Truth vs Lie.

All Might never mentioned All for One. Not once. Not even a whisper of the man who could bestow power like a god and crush society like a vice.

Because this story? This wasn't for you.

It was for Midoriya.

It wasn't about protecting the world—it was about protecting him.

And for the first time, you looked at Midoriya not with pity... but with jealousy.

He was chosen.
He was trusted.
He was... loved.

You leaned back on your elbows, smiling faintly to yourself.

Not because you were amused.

But because you understood something clearer than ever before.

All Might was the Symbol of Peace.

But Shigaraki?

He could be the Symbol of Fear.

And maybe—just maybe—you'd be the blade between them.

The one to decide which symbol deserved to remain.

"But what about that man?" you asked, casually. The question hung in the air like smoke from a fire not yet put out.

The room fell quiet.

All Might blinked. Midoriya tilted his head slightly. Tsukauchi raised an eyebrow.

You clarified, your voice just soft enough to sound innocent. "At the USJ... that hand guy—Shigaraki, I think—he mentioned something about Midoriya being your disciple. About how it'd hurt more to see one of your own die. Do you think they were aiming for your death, or the death of One for All?"

A genuine question.

One you'd ask All for One, too.

All Might tensed, his brows pinching with something between dread and confusion.

"I..." he began, eyes narrowing with the weight of your words.

Midoriya looked to him, concerned. He opened his mouth to ask something—then closed it when you raised your hand over your mouth.

"Was that a bad question?" you asked, playing dumb like it was second nature.

All Might slowly shook his head. "No. It was a good question. I just... never thought of it."

You stared at him blankly.

How the hell have you never thought of that... Is this man an idiot?

You sighed, flopping back down onto the bed with a dramatic huff.

"Nonetheless, your secret's safe with me," you muttered, folding your arms behind your head like a lazy cat. "I've kept it this long. Might as well keep it forever."

You turned your head, staring at Midoriya as he sat on the edge of his own bed, hands in his lap.

"But I gotta say," you added with a grin, "I'm jealous of you, Midoriya."

He blinked. "Huh?"

"You're basically the Symbol of Peace now, too," you teased. "Guess we'll all have to catch up!"

You raised your hand, palm open in a playful challenge.

"No hard feelings for when I kick your ass in training, though, okay, Mini-Might?"

Midoriya chuckled, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Deal."

The two of you bumped fists.

A rare moment of peace.
A rare moment of something that felt... human.

And it wouldn't last long.

Because in the very next second, Recovery Girl swooped in and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

"Ugh—!" you groaned, trying to wiggle away.

But it was too late.

Her quirk activated, flooding your system with warm, healing energy. The ache in your body dulled. The bruises began to fade. The pain crawled back into the shadows—but in its place came drowsiness.

"Finally worked!" Recovery Girl chirped, cheerfully bouncing back.

You groaned again, but this time it melted into a long sigh. You were warm. Drowsy. Comfortable. You hated it.

"Wait..." you murmured, your brow furrowing as your brain sparked one last time.

Your voice was quiet. Dazed. But still clear.

"How did you... get the quirk... exactly?"

Silence.

The room shifted awkwardly.

Midoriya's smile froze.

All Might's jaw clenched.

You blinked slowly.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You walked the nighttime streets of Japan like a phantom in plain sight, bag of steaming food swinging by your side as your boots crunched against loose gravel. Your breath was fog in the night air, and your eyes carried the exhaustion of someone too used to being everything but themselves.

Recovery Girl had put you on bed rest.

Starting tomorrow. Again.

"At this rate, I'm never going to school," you muttered under your breath, shouldering open the door of an abandoned building like you owned it.

Because, in a way, you did.

Up the stairs, past the flickering exit sign, and straight into the familiar bar.

A chair crashed into the wall inches from your head.

Your eye didn't even twitch.

Tomura Shigaraki was mid-tantrum, snarling under his breath as he chucked another piece of furniture across the room. His hand twitched at his neck. His other hand twitched at your presence.

Kurogiri nodded to you, wordlessly passing over a bitter-smelling cocktail. You took it without question.

"Did I come at a bad time?" you asked dryly.

Another chair flew toward you.

This one, you caught with your foot, twisting it aside and letting it crash harmlessly into the bar wall. You didn't flinch. Didn't blink.

"Stop throwing your tantrum and eat," you said coldly. "You won't heal up if you keep moving around like that."

Shigaraki tore a cushion in half with his bare hands.

Your eye twitched.

"Fine. Guess I'll just eat these meat buns and play Little Nightmares by myself—"

He stomped over and collapsed beside you on the couch with a huff, yanking the meat bun from your hand and stuffing it into his mouth like a feral child.

You snorted.

"You act more like a kid than my baby sister," you muttered, taking a bite of your own. Kurogiri received his quietly, your hand offering one to him without fanfare.

"I got some for All for One, too," you said casually.

Shigaraki's head turned, sharp.

"Since when do you care?" he asked, tone low, almost venomous.

You met his gaze head-on, licking Hennessy from your lips after a wince.

"Since All Might told me everything about his quirk."

That got his attention.

The air in the room shifted.

You reclined slowly, eyes half-lidded and swirling with something unreadable. "He told me everything," you repeated, tapping your fingers against the glass rim. "Everything. And now? I get why he's so scared of your master."

Shigaraki glared at you like he was trying to decay you with his eyes alone.

You welcomed it.

He stepped forward again—close enough for tension, close enough to crack—and you didn't budge.

"Is that why you're here?" he spat. "To soak in our failure? To watch me lose?"

The TV buzzed on behind you as you picked up the remote.

"—An update on today's incident at the U.A. Rescue Training Center where hero course students were attacked by a gang of villains..."

You didn't look away from him. Not once.

"They called themselves 'The League of Villains.'"

You turned it off.

Shigaraki still stood, that glare melting into something hollow and heavy.

"I failed," he muttered, mostly to himself.

"No." You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, voice dipping into something like a snarl. "You tripped. And you talked. Got under his skin. That's more than most 'villains' can say. You made All Might angry."

You traced a slow circle on the rim of your glass. "Heroes are greedy. You give them an inch, and they'll choke you with it."

"You're quite mature for your age, Kakegawa," Kurogiri murmured, voice amused.

"Please. If I'm going to be crashing here more often, call me Y/n."

Shigaraki scoffed. "Why?"

You tilted your head.

"Why the mood change? Thought I was a loser to you."

"Oh, trust me. You are." You smirked as you reached into your bag, pulling out a worn First Aid kit. You glanced at the soaked-through gauze on his shoulder. "But even losers can be useful."

His hand twitched. You raised an eyebrow.

"You gonna bite me, mutt?"

He froze.

You knelt in front of him, unwrapping the old bandages with clinical ease. Your hands were steady. Experienced. The way only traitors could be.

"I'm not here to hurt you," you said quietly. "If I was, I'd have done it already."

"Then what are you here for?" Kurogiri asked from the bar, voice sharper now.

You didn't look away from Shigaraki.

"I want to help. But I want something in return."

Shigaraki's eyes narrowed.

"No more stunts like at the USJ," you said, voice calm, too calm. "Don't make me the center of attention. I'm a hero in that world. Don't look at me. Don't know me. Hit me. Kill me, if you need to make it believable. But don't blow my cover."

"And what if I do?" he asked, voice tight.

You stood. Taller than him now. Dominating.

"Then I'm done helping you. And I'll make sure your little playground burns to ash before the week is over."

A moment passed.

And then—

"That's enough."

The television flickered on, static buzzing to life as a figure took form on the screen.

The voice chilled the room to the bone.

"All for One," you said, acknowledging him with a simple nod. "Speak of the devil."

"And here I am," the deep, gravelled voice chuckled. "You had rules you wanted to propose, I hear."

You stood in front of the screen, arms crossed.

"Yes. One: don't interfere with my mission unless I give the order. Two: no contact with me outside of neutral ground unless I initiate. And three..."

You paused.

"Three: Don't touch Aoyama."

There was a beat of silence.

"Our little sparkling traitor?" Shigaraki asked, confused.

You didn't look at him.

"It's personal," you replied. "If it ever comes down to it, I'll be the one to handle it. I will kill him, if I have to. But I'd rather not."

All for One seemed to study you, or perhaps savor the thought.

"Interesting," he mused. "Very well. Your requests are... acceptable. Would you like me to speak with your father— being he's your boss?"

You blinked once, hiding the relief behind your lashes. "Yes."

Praise would come. He'd call you worthy. Maybe, just maybe, he'd treat you like All for One treated Shigiraki.

Like his child.

Shigaraki scoffed under his breath.

"Daddy's approval," he muttered.

You turned on him so fast it startled him.

"Don't talk about him like you understand what that means," you said, ice in your tone. "You're just All for One's favorite experiment. I'm a daughter. I have a name. You? You're a title."

Shigaraki's hand twitched again.

The bar was quiet.

Kurogiri, for once, said nothing.

You took a breath, smoothing your hair back and finishing your drink in one swallow.

"You'll get there, Shigaraki," you said, stepping back toward the door. Your hand paused on the knob. "But maybe next time, aim to kill less furniture—"

Your eyes flicked back, sharp and cold.

"—and more heroes."

There was a beat of silence before Kurogiri's smooth voice cut through it.

"And what's in it for us if we help you?"

You turned, back now resting against the bar counter. One leg crossed casually over the other, body language relaxed—mocking. Your tone matched the ease of someone who knew they were holding the winning hand.

"Information Aoyama can't give you."

Both their eyebrows twitched. You could see the calculation behind Kurogiri's lens and the confusion in Shigaraki's scowl.

"Aoyama's good at playing dumb. He sparkles. He stalls. But he's not built for high-pressure. Not like me." You folded your arms, voice growing firmer. "He'll fall apart in the heat. Cry. Fumble. You can't rely on that."

You leaned forward slightly.

"But me? I was trained for this. Born into it. I've been feeding lies since I could form sentences—and I can kill if I need to." Your voice dropped to a chilling softness. "And even though I haven't yet... I will."

That made them both pause.

There was a long, heavy silence.

Then:

"Why haven't you killed?"

All for One's voice slithered out from the screen, low and curious. Not mocking—genuinely intrigued.

And for once, you didn't have a practiced answer.

You could lie. Twist something clever. But the truth? The truth itched beneath your skin.

You stared past the screen for a moment, past the bar, past them—thinking.

If I killed, I'd want it to mean something. Not some random. Not a mistake. The first one should be someone that matters. Someone who molded me wrong. Someone whose blood would make me clean. Whose final breath might finally let me exhale.

There's only one man I can picture dying by my hands...

Your eyes flicked back to the screen. Smile returning. A mask slipping back on.

"I like to play with my food, I suppose."

Shigaraki scoffed.

"Spoken like a true sadist."

You chuckled, a low hum of delight as you walked slowly back toward them, each step deliberate.

"Call it what you want. But you'll want me on your side. I don't come empty-handed."

You leaned your elbows on the counter, grinning at them like the devil at a poker table.

"I can get you more. More people. More bodies. More chaos."

Kurogiri tilted his head. "Clarify."

You counted it off with your fingers:

"One: I can act as a recruiter. Discontent quirk users, support course rejects, dropouts, vigilantes... I know where to find them, and I know how to talk them into something greater."

"Two: Multiple safehouses—family-owned properties, forgotten but still secured. Most of them aren't even in the system anymore."

"Three: Bodies. My family has a nasty little hobby of using people as currency. I can arrange for their assets to 'vanish.' You can use them for more nomus. Or whatever your heart desires."

You tapped your fourth finger.

"Four: Training. You need your crew sharper, faster. I know how to train rats into wolves. I was one of them."

Fifth.

"Five: Black market. You need gear? Drugs? Intel? I know who sells to heroes and who sells to villains, and trust me—most of them sell to both."

The tension in the room was mounting. Shigaraki leaned forward, Kurogiri's fog swirling subtly. Even the static screen of All for One seemed to lean closer, hungry for more.

You smiled wide.

And then—

"And of course, a warm bed to sleep in."

They blinked.

"My family's loaded," you said with a roll of your eyes. "Money up to our necks. Big name. Bigger wallet. And once they're dead, guess who gets the whole damn inheritance?"

You gestured to yourself with both hands, a twisted grin on your face.

"I'll have you living lavish until All for One himself dies of old age. High-end hideouts, stocked bars, fancy meals, silk sheets—hell, I'll even buy you new couches, Shigaraki."

He twitched again at that.

"I'm not running a damn hotel," he snapped.

"And I'm not offering charity," you shot back, grin still painted on. "This is a deal. You give me space to do my job, let me in, and I'll turn the League into something more than just thugs with a grudge."

Shigaraki's hand hovered near his neck again, twitching. You didn't flinch. You stared him down—one predator to another.

Kurogiri's voice broke the silence.

"...And if we refuse?"

You smiled. Slowly. Cruelly.

"Then you lose the best weapon you didn't build yourself."

The screen crackled with static. Then All for One's voice returned, low and composed.

"Let her stay. The offer is acceptable."

Shigaraki didn't speak. Just glared. Fuming.

You walked past him without another word, your shoulder brushing his intentionally. Just enough to spark something.

But he didn't attack.

He just watched you walk toward the door, posture coiled in silence, fury still simmering beneath the surface.

"Good talk," you said, stretching your arms behind your head. "Same time next week?"

The air remained heavy, Kurogiri saying nothing, the screen of All for One flickering once before going black.

You laughed—sharp and unbothered—as you stepped back into the night. Your steps were loose now, like you'd just closed a business deal, like you hadn't just walked out of a den of wolves with your throat still intact.

You weren't afraid of them. Your body said it. Your smile proved it.

The cool night wrapped around you like silk as you walked through the dim streets, a proud little rhythm in your step. Streetlights flickered overhead, casting your shadow in long streaks along the sidewalk. And all you could think about—

—was him.

Your father. Your boss. The man whose approval was a knife and a blessing all in one.

Your smile only grew as your pace picked up. You skipped the usual detours, taking the fastest route home. You barely even noticed Kyoka waving to you when you came in, brushing right past her with a grin too big for your face.

You went straight for the dining room, where he always sat—laptop open, coffee half-finished, your older siblings dutifully silent around him.

You sat across the table. No fear. Just the buzz of adrenaline still running through your veins.

He didn't look up.

Tension crackled in the room like static.

But you were too happy to care.

"I see you healed up," he finally said, still typing.

You nodded. "I have good news, sir."

He hummed absently, sipping from his cup.

"After the USJ incident today, I was put on a three-day bedrest. I'll be using it to train—with the League of Villains." You kept your voice even, professional, precise.

Still, he didn't look at you.

"They've accepted me," you said, voice soft but laced with fire. "Expect All for One to call you soon."

That made him pause.

The typing stopped. The hum of the laptop fan was the only sound.

Then—

He looked up.

And for the first time in your entire life, you saw it.

Pride.
Real pride. Undeniable and raw in his eyes. Your siblings' gazes followed his, wide-eyed and glowing with something almost like reverence.

The room, silent just seconds ago, erupted in motion.

They stood up—your brother, your sister, your father. And then they hugged you. Arms around your shoulders, around your back, voices whispering praise into your ears. Your sister was laughing. Your brother was clapping your back. Even your father joined them.

"You did well."
"This is the start of everything."
"You've made us proud."
"You've made him proud."

You froze.

No one had ever hugged you like this. Not them. Not him. Not like this.

Only your mother ever hugged you like you mattered. And your baby sister, small enough to still believe everyone deserved love.

But this? This was earned.
This was yours.

Your eyes stung—burned, even. And you hated that. But you let it happen.

You hugged them back, face pressed against your father's shoulder as he whispered something too quiet to catch.

Your smile was shaky, but it stayed.

You held on to this moment. You let it root itself deep in your chest. Because tomorrow, the games would begin again. The masks. The lies. The missions. The violence.

But tonight, they were proud.

Your father straightened, brushing a few strands of hair from his suit as he turned toward the hallway.
"Darling," he called, voice light. "Come in here, would you?"

Your mother walked in with Kyoka at her side, the little girl trailing close with a drawing still clutched in her hand. Your mother smiled warmly as she caught the sight of everyone gathered around you, her eyes lighting up.

"Did something happen?" she asked, brushing her hands on her apron.

Your father nodded toward you. "Y/n's efforts have finally borne fruit. They're officially being accepted by All for One."

"Oh, sweetheart!" your mother beamed, walking over and cupping your cheeks like you were a child again. "That's incredible! I'm so proud of you."

And for one beautiful second—just one—everything felt real.

Warm.

Then—

"You truly have been the ultimate sacrifice, Y/n."

You blinked.

The room didn't react. Your sister and brother just laughed, hugging each other like it was some inside joke.

"I call Y/n's room!" Kyota grinned, pointing dramatically at your bedroom door.

Your breath caught.

"What...?" you muttered, barely above a whisper.

Your father's voice stayed calm, matter-of-fact. "We'll negotiate the terms soon. Since All for One seems so fond of you, we'll offer him full rights. As his personal weapon. His legacy. His... possession."

"We're selling you to the League," Renjiro clarified, almost too casually. "You'll get a better life than here, anyway. Guess it worked out, huh?"

You didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

"But we're family—" you tried, voice cracking.

"Oh, come now," your mother said gently, stroking your hair like she pitied you. "You didn't think we actually cared about you, did you?"

Your mouth opened, then shut.

No words came.

"You should be happy!" Renjiro added, biting into an apple like he hadn't just shattered something vital. "You'll be with All for One—a god! So lucky!"

"Let's make dinner together!" Kyota chirped, already grabbing ingredients from the fridge, shoving some into your arms.

You hated that dish.

Every time you'd been punished, they made you eat it cold.

You moved robotically, hollow, eyes unfocused as you joined your sister at the counter. You chopped onions in silence, staring blankly as the blade rose and fell, rose and fell. Your hands trembled slightly with each downward motion. Not from fear.

From rage.

You'd almost died today. Face to face with death, with monsters, with broken bones and a bleeding coin clutched to your chest.

And you'd done it all for them.

For him.

Your coin. Your purpose. Every inch of pain and blood you'd endured.

All for praise.

You stared at the knife now, gripped so tightly your knuckles turned white. The gleam of it was hypnotic. Just one second. One slip. You could end it. Make them sorry.

Make them regret everything.

You exhaled through your nose, slow.

Then you remembered the words you'd said—
"I like to play with my food, I suppose."

Your grip loosened.

Your lips curled into something crooked.

You looked into the reflection in the kitchen window, catching the faint glint of your father's shadowed form in the glass, back turned, so sure of himself.

They thought they could sell you?

You licked your lips.

Let them believe that.

Let them all believe it.

Because when they least expected it... you'd chew your way out of the box they stuffed you in.

And then?

Then they'd understand what kind of monster they raised.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The faucet creaked.

Warm water rushed over Bakugo's hands as he scrubbed the toothbrush with quiet precision, his reflection scowling at him through the mirror.

"Damn germs," he muttered, foam bubbling at the corners of his mouth. "Disgusting."

His eyes narrowed as he brushed harder, then slower—his mind drifting without permission.

The USJ flashed behind his eyelids.

Y/n's face. Their voice.

Y/n, standing between him and a Nomu's death grip. The speed. The coin. The way they moved—like they were dancing with death and didn't give a damn who was watching.

They saved him.

They shouldn't have. And yet, they did. With zero hesitation.

"Freak," he hissed, the word muffled around bristles.

Bakugo rinsed and spat, gripping the sink as he stared into his own tired reflection.

Y/n didn't come to school often, but when they did, something always felt off. Not just weird—off. Like static in the air. Like he was being watched. Like they were two steps ahead of everyone and just pretending not to be.

What was someone like them even doing at UA?

Y/n didn't act like the other extras. They didn't chase praise from the pros. They didn't care about status.

So why were they here?

And why did he get the feeling that if he asked... he wouldn't like the answer?

Bakugo wiped his face with a towel and tossed it aside.

"Tch. Next time I see you," he muttered, walking back toward his room, "I'm getting answers."

────୨ৎ────
5153 words
planning on making this
chapter two parts for the sake
of me loving cliffhangers :b

Chapter Text

YOU SAT AT THE table with your family. A dish you hated sat steaming in front of you, but you chewed it anyway. Mechanical. Flavorless. You nodded at all the right moments. Smiled when expected. Said "thank you" when your mother passed the sauce.

Around you, they laughed and talked about him.

"All for One this—"

"Imagine being chosen—"

"A god, right in front of us!"

Kyoka sniffled beside you, tugging at your sleeve, eyes wide and trembling.

"I don't want you to leave," she whimpered.

You blinked down at her.

You gently touched her hair. "Go upstairs, okay? You need a bath before bed."

She hesitated, lip trembling.

You leaned close, pressing a kiss to her temple, so gentle it almost felt genuine.

"I'll be up to say goodnight," you said.

She nodded slowly, sliding off her chair and padding away with tiny footsteps. You waited until her footsteps disappeared completely before speaking again.

You didn't look up from your plate.

"He taught me different ways to kill," you said calmly, scooping more food onto your fork.

The table went still.

Then—

"Really?" your mother asked, intrigued.

"What kind?" Renjiro asked, leaning forward.

You flipped your coin across your knuckles, spinning it between your fingers like a nervous habit. But they knew what it really was.

Your quirk.

You were activating it.

"Hmm... I don't knowww," you hummed, dragging the sound out as your foot pressed subtly against the edge of the dining room rug—just enough to nudge it into position.

Your siblings laughed, pleading.

"Come on, tell us!"

"Don't be mean!"

You cringed behind your smile.

"He said... the messier, the better," you lied sweetly, voice velvet and glass. "Wanna see?"

They all nodded.

Your coin flicked upward—catching light.

A single blink.

Then carnage.

Snap.

They flew from their chairs like ragdolls, bodies flung against the walls as the dining room twisted into chaos. Chairs shattered. Plates shattered. Screams—

Your father grunted as he slammed into the sideboard, coughing as he tried to rise—

You stood calmly, lifting the knife from the table, its smooth silver blade glinting with promise.

You crossed the room without hesitation.

Your foot pinned his hand down first, a crunch of bone underneath. He howled.

Then you drove the knife down.

Into his chest.

Once.

Twice.

A third.

You didn't stop.

Not when he gurgled blood.
Not when your siblings cried and begged.
Not when your mother screamed your name.

Over.

And over.

And over.

The blade moved in rhythm with your breath, your face blank, blood flicking across your cheeks with each impact. Red seeped through his shirt, onto the tile, your shoes, your hands.

You stabbed until his chest was a cavity of pulp and ruin, until you felt the muscle memory settle into your bones—until your body understood what it meant to destroy.

Until there was nothing left of the man you once called father.

You paused, panting quietly.

Lifted your hand.

Blood dripped down your wrist.

You smiled.

"Helloo, are you gonna answer?"

Your eyes refocused—back in reality.

The table was intact. Your family laughing, your mother wiping her mouth delicately with a napkin. Renjiro talking about how All for One must be so pleased. Kyota mentioning which room she wanted to redecorate.

You took a bite of food.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

You didn't blink.

Soon, you thought. Very soon.

"Why don't I try to invite Shigaraki and the others to dinner tomorrow?" you asked with a lightness in your voice.

Your father didn't even look up, just gave a distracted nod. "That's fine. We'll prepare something big. Show them what real loyalty looks like."

You smiled tightly. "Of course."

Then you stood, lifting your half-eaten plate, scraping your meal into the garbage. It hit the bin with a wet thud. You didn't flinch. The clang of the fork followed. You rinsed it quietly, dried your hands, and made your way upstairs.

You stopped at her door.

Her room was warm, dimly lit, the walls painted with soft stars and cartoon stickers. Plushies overflowed from baskets. Shelves filled with colorful books, hand-picked clothes, carefully folded. Photos of school events and drawings. A real childhood.

Your heart squeezed.

You thought of your room—small, grey, lifeless. A twin bed with no frame. A dresser filled with uniforms. A desk with textbooks, blueprints, sharp edges. The only decoration: a poster, once of a hero, now slashed and curling at the corners. Torn by your father during one of his fits. You'd never replaced it.

You looked around her room like you'd never seen it before.

And maybe... you hadn't.

The door creaked.

Kyoka walked in, wrapped in a towel, pajama shirt already on, her damp hair clinging to her cheeks. She blinked when she saw you sitting on the edge of her bed.

"Hi, Kyoka," you smiled softly. "Come here."

She padded over shyly, and you took the towel, gently rubbing her hair dry. She sniffled as you worked the water from her scalp, and your chest tightened.

"Don't leave," she whispered suddenly. "Please, big sis... I don't want you to go."

You paused.

Your fingers tangled gently in her hair. You swallowed.

She was so small.

You couldn't kill her.

She was everything you couldn't be—sweet, loved, protected. The very reason you hadn't gone completely cold.

You couldn't let her see what you would become.

"I don't wanna go either," you said, voice thick with the truth. "But... sometimes I have to do grown-up stuff. So I can protect you."

Kyoka nodded, her lip quivering.

Then—

"Big sis... do you like Papa?"

You tensed.

Your throat tightened, and you glanced down, pretending to find something in the towel worth your focus.

"Why do you ask that?" you murmured.

Kyoka fidgeted. "I saw you sleep outside sometimes. Even when it rained. You don't have a tent. That's not camping, right?"

You blinked hard. Looked away.

"No... but I like the sound of the rain," you said, forcing a crooked smile. "Makes me feel calm."

She watched you quietly, the way kids do when they already know you're lying.

"Can you sleep in my room tonight?" she whispered. "I'm scared you'll be gone when I wake up."

You stared at her.

Something in your chest cracked again.

"Of course," you said, voice barely audible. "I'll stay."

You tucked her in, slid beside her carefully. The bed was warm. She curled into you immediately, her head pressing into your chest.

You brushed a hand through her now-dry hair.

And you hummed—softly.

That old lullaby. The one your mother used to hum before everything changed.

Before her love turned sharp.

Before her praise turned silent.

Kyoka was asleep within moments, her breathing slow and even.

But you stayed awake.

Watching the ceiling.

Heart beating steady and numb.

Tomorrow, you would smile. Pretend.

Tomorrow, you would eat dinner with the same people you would one day make scream.

But tonight...

Tonight you let your little sister sleep in peace. Wrapped in warmth you never had. In a love you swore not to destroy.

Because monsters don't hurt children.

And you may be becoming a monster...

...but not to her.

Never to her.

—

The morning light bled softly through the curtains, casting long golden stripes across the floor.

You laid still, careful not to move too much. Kyoka was curled tightly against you, her tiny arms draped over your waist, her cheek squished softly into your chest. You could feel her breath, slow and warm. She held you like a teddy bear. Like she always had.

You stared at the ceiling.

Not thinking. Just... feeling.

A smile tugged at your lips as you dipped your head and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She didn't stir. Not yet.

And in the stillness, your mind wandered.

You remembered.

Not much—but enough.

You remembered her running out into the garden with a messy sketchpad in hand, begging someone to look at her newest hero drawing.

Everyone ignored her.

But you knelt down. You asked for the name. You asked for the powers. You clapped like she'd just made a masterpiece.

You remembered the bruises from falling on the pavement when she begged you to play tag. You played until sunset. You took the scolding that followed without flinching.

You were the only one who didn't just tolerate her.

You were the only one who saw her.

You were practically her parent.

Your mother was just... someone the house kept around. A babysitter with blood ties. Never present. Never gentle.

But you...

You were warmth to her.

You closed your eyes again, feeling her shift slightly in her sleep. She nuzzled in closer.

And then—

Softly. Dreamily.

"Love you, sis," she whispered.

You froze.

A heartbeat passed. Then another.

She fell still again.

Your smile returned, but this time, it didn't shine.

It was soft.

Cracked.

You brushed a hand through her dark hair, gently twirling the strands between your fingers.

"Love you too, Kyo," you whispered.

And for a while, you stayed like that.

Letting her sleep.

Letting yourself feel.

There was power in stillness. A quiet, aching kind. And for once, you weren't in a rush to do anything at all.

You sighed, resting your cheek against her crown.

This morning, you wouldn't train. You wouldn't plan.

This morning, there would be no secrets.

No knives.

No lies.

Just her.

You'd make pancakes with too much syrup.

You'd braid her hair.

You'd draw in her sketchbook.

—

The kitchen smelled like sugar and vanilla.

You stood at the stove, spatula in hand, flipping a pancake with the kind of precision only someone trained to kill would have. But today, your target was golden-brown perfection—and nothing else.

"Big sis, that one's gonna burn!" Kyoka's squeaky voice called from the counter.

You turned just in time, catching the edge of the pancake before it crisped too much. "Hey, I got it, didn't I?"

She grinned, showing off her syrup-sticky cheeks as she sat on the counter, swinging her legs. She was in a LightFury onesie—hood up, tail flopping over the edge. And you?

You glanced at your reflection in the microwave's metal door.

Toothless.

Full black onesie. Wing flaps. Tail dragging behind you like a shadow.

You had no clue how she got you into it.

You remembered groggily brushing your teeth, only to have Kyoka throw it at your face while squealing something about "matching dragons!"

Now here you were. Dragon horns up. Fuzzy socks on.

Making pancakes.

You weren't even mad.

"You're really good at this," Kyoka said, pulling her hood back. "Did you make pancakes for your friends at school?"

You blinked, flipping another pancake onto the growing stack. "Not really."

"Why not?"

You hesitated.

Because I don't have friends.

Because I'm lying to everyone.

Because I don't deserve that kind of morning.

But instead, you gave her a soft smile. "Guess I was just saving it for you."

Kyoka blushed, covering her face with her sleeves. "You're cheesy."

"Syrupy, too," you quipped, drizzling an unhealthy amount over the pancakes.

You turned off the burner and brought the plates over to the table. Kyoka jumped down to follow, grabbing the whipped cream and adding entirely too much to hers.

You let her.

As she ate, humming happily, you braided her damp hair back from her face, fingers working gently through the strands. She looked so peaceful like this—safe, warm, loved.

Then came the creak of the kitchen door.

Your eyes flicked up, narrowing as your father stepped into the room, his gaze landing on your attire with a look of disdain.

"You look ridiculous," Your father said flatly.

"It was for Kyoka, Luka." you replied sharply, your eyes locking with his.

He raised a brow, unimpressed. "That's father to you."

Your jaw tensed. "A dad wouldn't hand me away like currency."

Kyoka flinched, small hands covering her ears. Your stomach twisted. You looked down at her—at her trembling—and your heart ached.

How much had she really seen?

Had she watched your bones snap during "training"? Heard your screams echo through the walls?

You stood, gathering her into your arms. Her little fingers clutched your onesie tightly.

"Why don't we go to the store, Kyo?" you said softly, kissing her temple. "You can get whatever your little heart desires."

That lit her up like sunshine. "Really? Anything?"

"Anything," you smiled, tucking a blanket around her before slipping on your boots. You didn't even bother changing out of the onesie. She loved seeing the two of you together—Toothless and Light Fury. A matching pair.

You helped her into her shoes and headed out.

You made sure she was always on the sidewalk, far from the curb. She giggled, picking up weeds and calling them flowers.

"They're for your hair, big sis!"

You didn't correct her. You never did. Her joy was delicate. You let it exist.

In the store, she asked every question her little brain could form, and you answered each one patiently.

People smiled at you both, complimenting your outfits.

"Your daughter is adorable."

You chuckled. "She's my sister."

"Well, you'd make a great parent."

You weren't sure why that comment lingered in your chest.

You pushed the cart through the aisles with Kyoka riding inside, a teddy bear clutched to her chest like a lifeline. She still asked questions. But then she asked ones you didn't know how to answer.

"Is your school fun?"

You hesitated. "Not really," you answered honestly. "But I think you'd love it. There's food made by pro heroes, and so many kids with cool quirks."

"Do you like being a hero?"

You crouched next to the cart, elbows on your knees, gently holding her hand. "Your sister is..." You paused. "I'm a bad person, Kyo. I go to school because Papa makes me. I don't like it. But I like the people there. Most of them."

She nodded like she understood, even if she didn't.

You smiled and stood up, wheeling her toward the grocery aisle.

"There's this boy. Looks plain, right? But he's so strong he punches the air and the wind explodes!"

Kyoka gasped, eyes wide. "Like a super punch?!"

You grinned, reenacting Midoriya's Delaware Smash with the cart. "But his quirk hurts him when he uses it. Breaks his arms and legs sometimes."

"Like yours?"

"Yeah, sweetheart. Like mine. But his might get better. Mine never will. That's okay though." You said it softly, honestly, like you were reassuring yourself.

"And there's this girl—Jirou. She has headphone jacks for earlobes. She can blast her heartbeat like a speaker. Loud enough to blow up rocks."

"Whoa! Like music bombs!"

"And there's Mina. She has pink skin and acid for sweat. Like she could melt the floor if she dances too hard."

Kyoka laughed hard at that. "That's crazy!"

"Oh! And Hanta Sero, the Spider-Man of our class."

"Spider-Man?!"

"He shoots tape from his elbows."

Kyoka stood up in the cart, making web-slinger motions with her hands. "Pew pew!!"

You cracked up. "Exactly."

She sat down again, still giggling, but grew curious. "Do you have any mean classmates?"

You paused. "There's one blond boy. Angry. Explosive. Kinda like a firework with legs. But... I think there's something in him. Like a hero waiting to wake up."

"What's his quirk, N/n?"

"Explosions. From his sweat. Nitroglycerin."

Her eyes widened. "Boom boy?!"

"Yeah," you chuckled. "He yells a lot. But it's kinda funny. One time, I almost got eate— hurt by a big scary monster, and he—" you paused, lips curling into something softer, "he threw me my coin. Right on time. Saved me."

"That's so cool!"

"He's not that cool." You rolled your eyes playfully.

She leaned in with a whisper. "Can we get his merch when he's a pro hero?"

You sighed. "Yeah. We can. But only if we put it next to my keychain."

Just then, Kyoka's eyes went wide behind you. "I love your cute onesies!" a voice chirped.

Your blood froze.

"Boom Boy!" Kyoka said.

You turned so fast you nearly flipped the cart—but it wasn't him. It was a woman. Blonde, spiky hair. Crimson eyes. But older.

Not Bakugo.

But she definitely looked like him.

You instinctively stepped in front of Kyoka, shielding her a bit.

"Do I know you?" you asked.

The woman laughed. "Nah. But I heard my son's name from the next aisle. Wanted to see who was talkin' about him like he's the next All Might."

Your eyes widened. "You're...?"

"Mitsuki Bakugo. Katsuki's mom."

Heat bloomed in your cheeks. If Bakugo ever found out you were fangirling about him in a onesie—no, this onesie—it'd be social suicide.

"I, uh..." You fumbled.

"She likes the boom boom boy!" Kyoka giggled, covering her mouth.

You shot her a death glare that immediately melted when Mitsuki laughed. "Well, shit, you got good taste in classmates."

She knelt to Kyoka's level. "And who's this little dragon?"

"I'm Light Fury!" Kyoka beamed. "And that's Toothless—she's my big sister!"

Mitsuki's eyes softened. "You're adorable." She stood. "Why don't you two join me for lunch? I was just grabbing stuff for a quick bite."

You opened your mouth to decline, but Kyoka's big round eyes pierced you with a silent please.

You sighed in defeat. "We'd be happy to."

Mitsuki walked beside you, her arms lightly swinging with the weight of her small shopping basket. Kyoka trotted ahead with her teddy bear tucked under one arm, occasionally spinning on her heel like she was dancing through the aisles.

"You know," Mitsuki said, glancing sideways at you, "I find it kinda shocking someone was speaking highly of my son."

You blinked, but then a slow smile tugged at your lips. Your heartbeat quickened a little.

"Bakugo is strong-willed," you said. "I see that in the fire in his eyes. He's an asshole—like, all the time—but I have a feeling UA'll help him. Probably already has. We don't talk, and when we do, it's always arguments. But that doesn't mean I don't think he's powerful."

Mitsuki laughed, a loud, genuine sound. "You're spot-on. The little bastard's got a bark worse than most grown men's bite. But he's smart. Doesn't always look it, but he is. He just... needs a little sanding down."

You smiled again. A small, real one.

"I'm glad you said all that," she added. "Takes a load off my mind. I worry sometimes, y'know? He's so angry. I just want to know he's not gonna explode in more ways than one."

"UA is good for him," you replied, voice soft but certain. "He'll be more than fine."

You both stopped at the checkout for a moment, and she placed her things on the belt. Kyoka was at your side now, leaning against you.

"It was nice meeting you, Y/n. And you too, Kyoka." Mitsuki winked.

"You too, Miss Boom Boy's mom!" Kyoka chirped with a little wave.

You gave a half-smile and a small wave back as you watched her leave, the moment hanging in your chest like a strange, unexpected warmth.

Just as you exhaled, Kyoka tugged your sleeve. "Sis."

"What?" You glanced down.

Her eyes gleamed with the light of a very dangerous idea.

"I have an awesome idea."

"Oh no."

"Look!" She pointed across the store.

Your eye twitched the second you saw it.

The Pro Hero merch aisle.

"Oh hell no," you muttered.

Kyoka was already marching toward it, her onesie tail bouncing behind her.

You sighed, dragging your feet behind her like a soldier headed for battle.

"Can we get something for Boom Boy?"

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "His name is Bakugo. And I'm not buying Bakugo merch—"

"Pleaaaase?"

You looked up. The aisle loomed before you like a trap, All Might’s face printed on everything from figurines to keychains to a goddamn pillowcase.

"Kyoka," you groaned, but she was already hugging a Bakugo plush like her life depended on it.

You looked up at the ceiling like the universe owed you an explanation.

"Fine," you muttered. "One. One thing."

Kyoka gasped. "Best. Day. Ever."

—

You paid, and as you exited the store, you thought back to Mitsuki's smile. To Kyoka's joy. To the stupid flutter you felt talking about Bakugo.

Something in your chest felt unrecognizable.

You were so used to being the villain.

To hiding.

To secrets and lies and knives in the dark.

But this?

This was different.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Your eye twitched as you stood at the front door of the Bakugo household.

You stared at it like it had personally insulted you.

This was stupid. So, so stupid.

In your hands, you clutched a large basket overflowing with spicy food—your favorite, obviously—and far too much All Might merch that Kyoka insisted on getting. Tucked behind that were several other gifts: a brand-new PS5, three controllers, and about five hundred dollars' worth of PlayStation cards.

That wasn't too much, right?

Kyoka was practically bouncing beside you, arms extended. "Let me hold the basket! I'm strong!"

You sighed and handed it to her, watching her stumble a little but recover with triumphant energy.

This wasn't much, right?

Just a friendly gift.

That somehow looked like a bribe.

You swallowed hard as Kyoka raised her little fist and knocked on the door with confidence that could knock a god out.

Maybe you could run.

Just leave the stuff, pretend you got lost—

Too late.

The door swung open.

A man with spiky brown hair and warm brown eyes opened it, smiling the moment he saw you.

"You must be Y/n and Kyoka! Mitsuki was just talking about you—come in, come in!"

You bowed out of instinct, nerves crawling up your back like spiders.

Kyoka beamed, holding up the basket like it was Excalibur.

"We got this for Boom Boy!" she chirped proudly.

The man laughed softly and took the box with surprising ease. "Thank you, sweetheart. I'm Masaru, by the way."

As he stepped aside to let you in, you followed shyly, scanning the interior.

Of course it was beautiful.

It wasn't extravagant, just... comfortable. Cozy. Lived-in.

About the same size as your house—but it felt completely different. There was no tension in the walls, no silence so sharp it could draw blood.

Of course Bakugo was rich.

You spotted Mitsuki in the kitchen, calling out, "You made it!"

She walked over to take the basket, grunting at the weight before setting it down on the table and digging through it curiously.

You rubbed the back of your head. "When your family has a lot of money, it's hard not to go overboard with gifts..! I hope this isn't, uh—offensive?"

You winced internally.

I need to calm down.

It's just lunch. Just lunch.

Why am I so nervous?

I can look the Symbol of Fear in the eyes, but I'm panicking over two civilians?! What the hell is wrong with me?!

Mitsuki let out a laugh. "Offensive? We were just thinking about getting a console for the living room. This is perfect."

You blinked.

...Craziest coincidence ever…

Kyoka shot you a victorious little smirk, and you nudged her playfully.

Soon, Masaru and Kyoka were working together to hook up the PlayStation in the living room, while you found yourself sitting on the couch with Mitsuki, knees tucked close, gradually easing into conversation.

You talked about U.A., the students, your supposed passion for tech, and Mitsuki shared little stories about Katsuki's childhood that made you snort into your sleeve more than once.

"He's always been like this," she said. "Loud, hotheaded, stubborn as a brick wall. But he's never backed down from anything, even when he probably should've. I worry about that sometimes."

You hummed. "I... can see that in him. That fire. I'm not the type to get all sappy, but... I do think he'll be a great hero someday. If he lets himself be."

Mitsuki gave you a sideways glance and a sly grin. "You like him?"

Your entire soul seized. "No. Absolutely not."

"Mhm." She sipped her tea, smirking. "Right."

You buried your face in your hands. "He'd never let me live it down if he found out."

Mitsuki laughed. "That's fair."

The longer you sat there, the warmer you felt. The walls weren't watching you. The air wasn't heavy. You weren't calculating exits or memorizing potential weak spots.

You almost forgot who you were.

Almost.

But then the thought returned like a whisper behind your ribs.

You're a villain.

These are a hero's parents.

Your heart started to pick up speed, pulsing in your ears.

Masaru chuckled in the background as Kyoka cheered—apparently, they just booted up a game.

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

It was hard not to like his parents.

Warm. Honest. Kind.

You couldn't help but wonder:

How had Bakugo turned out to be such a bastard with parents like this?

Ding.

The oven timer chirped out, and Mitsuki perked up instantly. "Ah—lunch is done. You hungry, Kyoka-chan?"

"Yes, please!" Kyoka chirped, still cuddling the teddy bear from the store.

You smiled as you followed Mitsuki into the kitchen, stepping in to help without a word. You set the table quickly, then turned to wash a few dishes before Mitsuki could shoo you away.

"You're too helpful," she muttered with mock annoyance, but you saw the smile on her face.

"Can't help it. Habit," you replied, drying your hands.

Always keep moving.

Stay useful.

Stay alive.

Soon enough, the table was laid out, and you all took your seats.

Mitsuki sat across from you. Masaru at the end. Kyoka nestled happily between them, already chatting their ears off.

You sat near the edge, back straight, trying not to fidget. It was... almost too peaceful. Which made you even more tense.

And then—

creeaak

Your head snapped to the stairwell like a soldier on the battlefield.

Heavy steps. A familiar weight. Tension slammed into your spine.

Katsuki Bakugo stepped into view.

He was shirtless—hair still wet from a recent shower, towel slung lazily over his neck. He froze when he saw you.

You froze when you saw him.

Your spoon hovered mid-air.

His eye twitched.

"The FUCK?!"

Mitsuki didn't even look up. "Language, you fucking ass!"

"What the hell is she doing here?!"

Masaru kept eating. "She and her sister are guests."

"I—what?! When?! Why?!"

"Your mom invited me," you muttered quietly, your face already burning with shame.

Kyoka was snickering like this was her favorite TV show.

Mitsuki stood, walked up to her son, grabbed his cheeks, and pulled.

"Stop acting like a goblin! You'll survive. Sit your ass down and eat!"

"OW—YOU HAG—!!"

"SIT!!"

That's where he got it from.

Bakugo grumbled as he was dragged over and unceremoniously plopped beside you. He shot you a glare like you were responsible for his entire life unraveling.

You refused to meet his eyes. Your ears were already red.

You sat in silence as he aggressively stabbed rice into his mouth.

Meanwhile, Mitsuki turned her attention back to you like the whole thing hadn't happened. "So anyway, you said you're in the Support Program?"

You nodded, trying to find your words again. "I'm in the hero course, but in all honesty, I wish I was in the Support Course. I specialize in custom designs and field tech. I've made tech for my family and a few small-time heroes"

"You must be talented if U.A. accepted you," Masaru said, his voice warm.

"Yeah!" Kyoka beamed, crumbs on her cheek. "My sister's the best! She made a taser-knife!"

"...Kyo," you muttered with a nervous laugh. "That was supposed to be a secret."

That "taser-knife" was a murder weapon from one of your mother's kills.

"Oh." She blinked. "Oops."

Bakugo scoffed beside you. "Sounds fake."

You turned just slightly toward him, eye twitching. "And yet you're alive today because of me, so."

The chopsticks in his hand tightened. "...Tch."

Kyoka kept going, animated and smiling so hard her cheeks looked like they hurt. "We saw flowers today! And dandelions! And a frog! And N/n wore a dragon suit with me!"

Mitsuki laughed, clearly enchanted by Kyoka's energy. "It was absolutely adorable."

"Pfft, a dragon costume?" Bakugo scoffed with a smirk, clearly amused.

You rolled your eyes, but your voice came out light, tired. "Spare me for wanting to make my sister happy."

At that, Kyoka's smile dimmed. Her hand lowered from her chopsticks.

"My sister's gonna be away soon."

The table fell quiet.

Your stomach twisted at the way she said it—soft, like she'd already been grieving.

"Going away?" Masaru asked gently, concern lacing his words.

You took in a slow breath, eyes flicking toward Kyoka—her face unreadable now, and so quiet.

You couldn't lie. Not about this. Not when she already knew.

"I, uh..." Your voice was strained. "It's a hard thing to explain."

Mitsuki and Masaru both looked at you now, brows furrowed in quiet worry. Even Bakugo's posture shifted, less cocky than before.

"But to put it short," you exhaled, fingers nervously drumming the edge of your plate, "my family... they're not too fond of me."

Kyoka looked down, her small hands folded neatly on the table like she was bracing herself.

You felt your throat close.

"My mom's neglected me since I got my quirk. I think she thought it was a curse. My siblings... they bullied me growing up unless they wanted something. And our..." Your voice wavered, your hand curled into a fist in your lap. "Our dad isn't kind. To anyone."

Silence.

Even the forks had stopped clinking.

You forced yourself to keep talking, the words spilling like warm blood. "Yesterday... they told me I'd be living alone from now on. They think it's a gift. But really, they're just throwing me out."

The words lingered like a bruise.

You turned your eyes to Kyoka, trying to smile even as your heart twisted. "I don't care about them. Never did. Just Kyo. She's the only reason I stayed so long."

Your sister, quiet and solemn, reached for your hand beneath the table. You squeezed it gently.

"I'm loaded, so I'll be okay. I made our money, they just don't know it yet. Once I leave, they'll drop to lower class overnight. I just hope I can take Kyoka with me when it's safe."

That's when Kyoka finally spoke, voice trembling. "Papa makes N/n train every day. I see them fall down and sleep outside. Papa is mean to me sometimes too, 'cause I don't have a quirk like him..."

You froze, chest aching. You wished—more than anything—that she hadn't said that. Not here. Not with these people. Not with him.

You looked up slowly, expecting judgment.

Instead, Masaru was crying quietly, holding Kyoka's hand in his.

Mitsuki's jaw was clenched, her eyes glassy.

And Bakugo?

He was staring at you. Still. Like he'd never seen you before.

Then, he broke the silence.

"If he has no quirk, then why not kick the shit out of him?"

You blinked.

"What?"

Bakugo shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You're strong as fuck. Like freakishly strong. You let some quirkless asshole toss you around?"

You frowned, your hand curling tighter. "It's not that simple, Bakugo."

"It is!" he snapped. "You're acting like you don't have options, but you do! He's nothing—just a sad sack with a god complex! You're stronger than him—so make him afraid of you!"

"You think it's that easy?" you hissed, standing now, voice sharp. "You think I didn't want to fight back? You think I didn't lie awake every night thinking of how I'd do it? When I'd do it?!"

He scowled, rising too. "Then do it! You're a goddamn powerhouse—stop letting trash walk over you like you're weak!"

"You don't get it!" you snapped, voice cracking. "You don't know what it's like to be trained like a weapon by the people who are supposed to protect you! You don't know what it's like to be a child and still choose to stay because of someone else's safety!"

The silence snapped like glass.

You breathed hard, hand trembling at your side.

Bakugo was staring at you, eyes still wide—his mouth parted like he hadn't meant to push that far.

Then:

"...Shit," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't mean—"

Masaru's voice broke in, gentle and firm. "Enough."

Both of you looked at him.

"You two are kids," he said softly, giving you both a steady look. "You shouldn't have to talk about things like this. You shouldn't have to live through them either."

Mitsuki reached across the table, taking your hand.

"We're sorry you went through that," she said. "And thank you... for trusting us enough to say it out loud."

You looked away, blinking fast.

Kyoka tugged your sleeve gently, smiling at you like you hadn't just cracked open at the seams.

"Can we have dessert now?"

You laughed quietly, rubbing your face. "Yeah... yeah, let's do dessert."

Mitsuki and Masaru stayed at the table with Kyoka, chuckling at her stories as she nibbled on mochi and told them how much she loved Mitsuki's cooking. You smiled at the sound of her laughter before turning back toward the sink, sleeves rolled up, ready to tackle the pile of dishes.

You didn't expect the sound of footsteps behind you.

"Move."

You blinked, turning your head just slightly to see Bakugo standing beside you, scowling, holding his hand out for the sponge.

You arched a brow. "Excuse me?"

"I said move," he repeated with a little more bite, but less heat than usual. "I'll wash."

You narrowed your eyes. "What is this? A hostage situation?"

"Just move, damn it," he grumbled, snatching the sponge from your hand and sliding in front of the sink.

Your arms crossed on instinct, but you gave in, grabbing a dish towel to dry the dishes instead. The two of you worked in silence for a few minutes—oddly synchronized, comfortable in the rhythm. He scrubbed like his life depended on it. You dried like it was a test.

Then, without looking at you, he spoke.

"...Earlier. What I said."

You glanced over.

"I was outta line."

You smirked faintly. "Didn't know you were capable of feeling sorry."

"I didn't know either," he muttered.

Your eyes widened, just a little. The honesty caught you off guard. No growl, no defense. Just a raw, quiet confession.

"...Thanks," you said, voice softer than you meant it to be.

Bakugo grunted in acknowledgment, still scrubbing.

You cleared your throat, needing a shift in tone. "My sister and I made you that gift basket, by the way."

He paused, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

"She picked out all the sweets. I picked out the spicy snacks. We didn't know what you liked."

"I don't like sweets," he replied immediately.

You chuckled. "Same. Kyoka keeps trying to make me like chocolate, but it's just... not it."

He snorted. "You got good taste, then."

"Obviously," you teased. "She picked out that gummy All Might. I nearly burned the cart in protest."

Bakugo huffed out a laugh—real, unguarded. You blinked again, feeling your chest squeeze a little.

The more you talked, the more you noticed something.

He wasn't yelling.

He wasn't sneering.

He wasn't even rolling his eyes.

He was just... there. Present. Speaking to you like you weren't a nuisance or an enemy. Just someone next to him. Someone worth listening to.

You talked more—about spice levels, how you both could eat habanero chips without blinking, how he once added ghost pepper flakes to school curry as a "challenge." You admitted your limits weren't that crazy, and he gave a smug shrug.

"Lightweight," he muttered with a smirk.

You nudged him with your elbow. "Try nearly dying to a Nomu and still eating takoyaki after. That's power."

He paused. Smirk faded. And then he looked at you—not in challenge, but in curiosity. Something in his gaze softer than before.

You didn't know how to label it.

"Tolerable" wasn't enough.

"Lovable" was too much.

But he was something. Something in between the storm and the silence.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt yourself relax beside someone who wasn't your sister.

"The slow burn is burning..." Mitsuki whispered dramatically, hands clutched to her chest like she was watching a soap opera.

You glanced over, confused, only to find her, Masaru, and Kyoka all watching you and Bakugo with matching grins—Kyoka mimicking her with a little wink.

You blinked. "What?"

Bakugo rolled his eyes and went back to rinsing the last plate, handing it to you. You dried it slowly, glancing back once before placing it neatly on the counter.

But the warmth faded as Masaru leaned toward Mitsuki, murmuring something about dinner.

Your body tensed instantly.

Right. Dinner. With them.

You sighed and pressed your fingers to your temples.

"You good?" Bakugo asked without looking at you, voice rough but softer than usual.

"Yeah—just..." You exhaled, trying not to groan. "My mom asked me to invite some associates over for dinner. I completely forgot."

Your eyes flicked to Kyoka—sitting crisscrossed beside Mitsuki, smiling and cuddling into her like she was already part of the family. You could see how much she loved this, how safe she felt here.

And the thought of them—Shigaraki, Kurogiri, even All for One—breathing the same air as your sister made your skin crawl.

"Oi, hag," Bakugo said suddenly, making you blink.

"What the hell, brat?" Mitsuki shot back.

"You wanna babysit that little anklebiter for this idiot?"

"Bakugo—what are you—" You started to protest, but Mitsuki gasped, eyes sparkling.

"FUCK YES. She's just the cutest, who wouldn't?" Mitsuki reached over and ruffled Kyoka's hair as Kyoka beamed proudly.

Before you could say anything else, Bakugo was already pushing you toward the door.

"Go do what ya gotta do. Call the 'associates' and come back," he said, then slammed the door behind you before you could argue.

You stood there in the quiet, blinking at the wooden frame for a moment.

"...Okay," you mumbled to yourself, letting out a deep breath. Some of the pressure in your chest eased. Kyoka was safe. And you had a little time.

You pulled out your phone, dialing quickly and putting it to your ear.

"Dinner. Tonight. Keep it low-key," you said as soon as the line picked up. You didn't use Shigaraki's name. You never did when you were outside.

There was a pause before a rough, raspy chuckle filtered through.

"Thought you'd never ask."

You hung up, your expression hardening for just a moment before you turned back toward the door.

Inside, the house was peaceful again.

Bakugo sat on the couch, PS5 controller in hand, his father beside him with a second controller and a concentrated look. Kyoka had climbed onto the back of the couch and was playing with Bakugo's spiky blond hair, braiding little pieces with intense focus. You opened your mouth to tell her to stop, but... he didn't seem to care. He was too busy yelling at Masaru about losing in the game.

"You suck, old man."

Masaru snorted. "You're cheating. That's the only way you win."

You shook your head with a quiet smile and walked back over to the couch, plopping down beside Mitsuki with a sigh. She passed you a soda and a smug smirk.

"He's smiling, y'know," she said under her breath, nodding toward Bakugo. "He never smiles."

Your face flushed slightly, and you quickly took a sip to hide it.

"Anyway—you wanna hear what that stuck-up peacock from last week did during the fashion conference? It's juicy."

"Oh god," you muttered with a grin. "Absolutely."

The scene softened, the weight of your reality momentarily dulled by good food, loud voices, and the comforting buzz of something resembling peace.

Even if you knew that peace would end the moment you stepped back out that door tonight.

────୨ৎ────
6728 words

Chapter Text

SMALL HANDE TUGGED GENTLY at his hair, separating strands and weaving them into uneven braids. Bakugo sat on the couch, half-focused on the controller in his hands, while the soft hum behind him began to lull him into something dangerously close to peace.

The little gremlin was humming some lullaby—off-key and way too sweet for his taste—but somehow it didn't annoy him. Not really.

Mitsuki and his old man were chatting nearby, laughing with that kind of open warmth that only showed up on days like this.

"Boom Boy, I wanna go to your room!" the gremlin announced suddenly, puffing up her cheeks like she was giving an order in a warzone.

Bakugo scowled. "Who the hell ya calling Boom Boy, kid?"

She pointed directly at him. Like he was stupid for asking.

"Tch—whatever." He stood up with a grunt, grabbing the basket that girl—Y/n—had brought earlier and following the squeaky-pajama-footed menace up the stairs.

His room was still a bit of a mess. He hadn't expected company. Especially not the kind who showed up with frilly braids and dragon onesies.

Kyoka stood near the door, eyeing the place like she was inspecting it. "You got trophies," she noted, pointing at his shelf.

"Yeah. 'Cause I win," Bakugo muttered, dropping the gift basket onto the floor with a heavy thunk.

"You sound like my sister."

He raised a brow but didn't answer.

She crawled up onto his bed without asking and patted the spot in front of her.

He blinked.

"The hell do you want—?"

"I wanna keep braiding your hair!" she huffed, like it was obvious. "It's spiky, like a lion."

Bakugo sat down with a sigh, not bothering to argue. He figured if he did, she'd just start crying and then his mom would yell at him.

Again.

She resumed her work—tiny hands picking at his unruly hair like it was string on a cat toy. The silence came back. The humming too.

Then:

"My sissy is really cool."

He grunted. "Mm."

He braced himself for a ramble. She gave off the same unfiltered energy Deku did as a kid—always talking, always going, never knowing when to shut up.

"When I was younger, we played heroes," Kyoka started. "She always saved me from the scary villains. Even when Papa yelled at her. She still played."

Bakugo narrowed his eyes at the floor. "Why's that?"

"'Cause she said people who hurt others are mean, even if they're family." Kyoka's voice was sweet—too sweet for what she was saying. "She fought big brother once. Mama said he wanted to kill me, but sis stopped him. I heard that she begged Mama not to throw me away. That's why I'm here."

Bakugo blinked.

What the fuck?

"She doesn't know I know," Kyoka whispered, braiding another little strand. "But I remember. I was little, but I remember."

Mitsuki and Masaru were still downstairs, talking over their coffee, totally oblivious.

Bakugo stayed silent, letting the kid keep going.

"One time, Papa pushed her down the stairs. Mama said she broke her collarbone 'cause of me. But sissy told me she was just clumsy. I saw it, though. I know it wasn't her fault."

He clenched his jaw.

Why the fuck was this so heavy?

Why was she telling him all this?

His mind flicked back to Y/n—Kakegawa—sitting beside him earlier, laughing weakly as she talked about cutting her family off like it was a joke. Like it didn't hurt. Like it didn't matter.

Then he remembered that first conversation at UA.

That damn Quirk Assessment Exam.

"Did you not learn that life isn't fair, pinky? Think about it. A villain could attack us today. Or even while we're sleeping. You really think we'll get a break as a hero?"

No shit.

Had her old man been "training" her? Beating her like a punching bag? Or was it worse?

He didn't want to guess.

And still, Kyoka kept going.

"Don't tell sissy I said this..." she whispered, voice dipping quieter like she was hiding something precious. "But sometimes... I get really scared. That she works too hard. That one day she'll come home hurt... or not at all."

Bakugo finally turned to look at her.

Kyoka wasn't braiding anymore. She had her fingers curled around a lock of his hair, her chin resting on his shoulder like she didn't want to move. Like the weight of what she'd said was finally sinking into her.

"She's my hero," she said softly. "But heroes get hurt all the time."

Bakugo stayed quiet.

For once, he didn't know what to say.

But he knew one thing.

If even half of what Kyoka said was true...

Kakegawa didn't need UA.

UA needed her.

"...She's strong, y'know," Bakugo muttered after a moment, voice low as Kyoka settled against his shoulder. "Your sister."

Kyoka blinked up at him, confused.

"She's not fragile," he clarified. "Not weak. She can handle shit most people can't even think about." His fingers toyed with the frayed edge of the blanket beside him. "She's tougher than half the dumbasses in my class."

Kyoka smiled brightly, her cheek smooshed against his arm. "She said something like that too!"

Bakugo raised a brow, despite himself. "Oh yeah? What'd she say?"

Kyoka hummed, her little voice sing-songy as she tried to remember. "She said... that you're misunderstood. Sissy says that you're an asshole but you were strong-willed. She told your pretty mommy that she had nothing to worry about and that you were an amazing hero. She promised that when you're a pro, we can get your merch!She also said you look like a firework with legs."

Bakugo blinked.

The words hit harder than he expected.

He was used to being told his quirk was strong. People feared it, praised it, analyzed it like a weapon.

But that?

That was different.

No one had talked about him like that, only his quirk.

His chest tensed.

He hated that feeling—the way his stomach flipped over like it was trying to somersault out of his damn body. The heat rising to his ears wasn't from embarrassment. No. Definitely not. It was just... annoyance. That's what it was.

Right?

He scoffed. "She's got some pretty dumb opinions," he muttered, brushing a hand over his face like he could scrub the flush away. "And don't say curse words, ya dumbass."

Kyoka giggled. "You like her, don't you?"

"I like peace and quiet, and you're ruining it."

Her laughter only got louder.

Before Bakugo could shut her up with another bark, she perked up suddenly. "Can we watch TV now?"

"Tch. What, you wanna see cartoons or some boring-ass—"

"I wanna watch All Might!" she beamed.

Bakugo froze.

His eye twitched.

"Oh hell no," he hissed. "You're a mini Deku."

Kyoka tilted her head. "Who's Deku?"

He ignored the question entirely. "No All Might. Not in my room."

"But All Might's cool!"

Bakugo was spiraling. First this gremlin was braiding his hair like he was a doll, then she was spilling every secret her sister ever said about him, and now—now—she was a full-blown Deku clone with a squeaky voice and round, hopeful eyes.

I'm in hell.

He stood up and grabbed the remote. "Fine. But we're watching literally anything else. You pick one show. If it sparkles, screams, or does that cheesy-ass hero pose—I'm throwing the TV out the window."

Kyoka giggled again, gleeful as she scrolled through the options with all the power of someone who knew she'd already won.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The house smelled like sizzling oil and overcooked expectations.

You wiped down the counters, flipped the food, and ran a broom across the floor with muscle memory alone—your mind somewhere else entirely. The clinking of glasses and the low drone of your family's voices buzzed in the background, their words like gnats. Unimportant. Ignorable.

Until they weren't.

"I can't believe it," your mother chuckled, lounging on the couch with a glass of wine. "It'll be peaceful with her gone."

"I call dibs on her room," Renjiro announced proudly, earning a scoff from Kyota.

"You had your chance last year. It's mine."

You froze. The broom stilled against the hardwood.

They were already replacing you.

Not even a goodbye—just dibs.

Your jaw tightened. Your hand gripped the broom handle a little too hard.

Kyoka's giggle echoed faintly in your memory—her hands busy braiding Bakugo's hair like he was a doll, her joy so easy, so pure.

You didn't know when you'd started walking toward them, but the words left your mouth like a blade flung in instinct.

"I plan on taking Kyoka."

Silence.

Your mother blinked slowly. "What did you just say?"

"I'm taking her with me." Your voice was steel now. Cold and sharpened. "She doesn't belong here."

A beat.

Then laughter.

Real, raw laughter. From all three of them.

"You?" your father snorted. "Taking care of her? Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not asking."

"She's not going anywhere," your mother said, sipping from her glass without a flinch. "Even without a quirk, she'll be useful. We'll train her just like we trained you."

Your body went still.

"What?"

"Oh please," your brother groaned. "She's already soft. If we wait too long, she'll start wanting to save people. Better to break that hero complex early."

Kyota grinned. "Dad said the first kill's the worst. But if we start with someone weak—like a stray or something—she'll be fine. Better than you."

Your stomach twisted.

"She wants to be a hero," you snapped, voice cracking for the first time. "She draws them. Talks about them. She's a kid. She's—she's good."

"She won't be." Your father stood now, his glass set aside like this was a business meeting. "Not when I'm done with her."

"She's gonna be a hero." you hissed.

"Over our dead body." Your father hissed back.

A second of thick silence passed.

And then—

Ding-dong.

The sound cut through the room like a guillotine.

You turned toward the door.

They were here.

You could feel it in your chest—the buzzing energy, the crawling sensation behind your eyes. The house suddenly felt smaller. Like a cage. Or a mausoleum.

You looked over your shoulder at your family.

Smiling.

Laughing.

Drunk on power they never truly earned.

You turned toward the door and exhaled slowly.

If they laid one hand on Kyoka—

If they thought they'd take her like they tried to take you—

They'd regret it.

You opened the door.

The door creaked open just enough for them to slip inside—
Shigaraki first, hood low and movements twitchy, followed closely by the shadowy figure of Kurogiri, mist swirling faintly around his neck like a scarf made of void.

You shut the door behind them quickly, locking it with a soft click.

No greetings were exchanged. None were needed.

They didn't remove their hoods, nor offer pleasantries. Shigaraki slumped into an armchair like he owned it, limbs draped, one hand always careful not to touch anything fully—like the whole house was ash waiting to happen. Kurogiri moved quieter, standing beside him like a butler whose presence was expected, not acknowledged.

You stepped away without another word, returning to the kitchen.

Your hands returned to what they knew: cleaning, slicing, stirring. But your ears—your ears were trained on your father.

"Thank you," Luka cooed, voice sweet with grease. "For the opportunity to join you during the USJ incident. It was an honor to serve your cause."

You didn't have to look to know Shigaraki barely blinked. He hated being praised.

"Tch," he grunted. "You didn't serve anything. You watched. If anything, it was a test run. For her."

You didn't flinch when he said it. Just... sliced the zucchini thinner.

Still, you began to zone them out. You had to. It was like poison otherwise.

A soft shuffle brought your focus back.

Kurogiri had entered the kitchen.

He stood near the counter for a moment, head tilting faintly. Then, he rolled up the sleeves of his black coat and reached for a towel, helping you dry dishes like this was normal. Like he'd done it a thousand times.

"I've got it," you said quickly, eyes narrowing. "I can manage."

"You're hosting," he replied, voice calm and smooth like static through silk. "Let me assist."

You hesitated, but nodded.

The two of you moved quietly around the space, falling into a rhythm that felt more familiar than it should have. You passed him sliced vegetables. He placed them into the pot. You stirred. He prepped plates.

"Why dinner?" he asked after a moment.

You didn't look at him as you answered. "My father was eager. I didn't want to risk saying no. Figured I could... contain it better if it was here."

"You apologize," Kurogiri said softly, "but this is not an inconvenience. Not to me."

You blinked, surprised. "...Why not?"

He tilted his head, as if considering the question deeper than it was meant. "Because I have seen what your home truly is. And despite that... you are still trying."

You stared at the pot, watching the broth boil slowly. It was starting to smell like comfort. Like something real.

"...Thanks," you whispered.

Kurogiri inclined his head again.

You dared to glance over your shoulder. Your father and Shigaraki were still talking. Luka's voice was loud and cocky, drunk on relevance.

Shigaraki slouched deeper in his seat, his fingers twitching against the table.
His posture wasn't new—he always looked bored, like the world was one bad sentence away from being dust under his hand.
But this time... the way he stilled?

It scared you.

Not because you feared him—
But because, deep down, you feared what he would do for you.

You heard the fridge open behind you.

Your father's heavy steps entered the kitchen. The hiss of a beer can cracked open, followed by him leaving the room again like he owned the air inside it.

You resisted the urge to throw the boiling pot at his back.

Dinner was soon ready. You plated everything quickly, almost mechanically. Your family sat themselves around the table like it was any other night. Shigaraki and Kurogiri joined, shadows against the harsh fluorescent light above.

Kurogiri took his place without sound. Quiet, polite.
Shigaraki... didn't even look at the food.

He was listening.

Your mother and father talked freely. Too freely.
About villainy. Glory. The pride of being hand-picked by All for One.
You tuned it out until your name came up.

Your breath hitched.

"She'll be of use to both of you," your father said with a confident smirk, tearing into a piece of meat like it had wronged him. "A gift, really. Smart, obedient—more powerful than she looks. With enough breaking in, she'll be his most loyal weapon."

The plate in your hands trembled.

You didn't speak. You just served it—quiet, mechanical. You weren't hungry anymore.
You took your empty plate to the sink, grabbing a sponge and the soap.
Your hands shook as you cleaned the utensils.

Behind you, Shigaraki's voice cut through the noise like a razor:

"What did you just say?"

The air went still.

You froze.

There was a sudden crack—
And then a scream.
Dust filled the air behind you. A body hit the floor, bones crumbling like crushed chalk.

You turned.

Your sister—your eldest sister—was nothing but a mound of ash and half-disintegrated bone.

Your eyes snapped to Shigaraki. He wasn't looking at her.

He was staring at your father.

Eyes red.

Voice low.

"If anyone thinks he's the one pulling strings, they're dead wrong," Shigaraki spat, every word laced with venom. "She's not a weapon. She joins because she wants to."

You felt your knees nearly buckle.

Those words. They rattled in your head, louder than the silence that followed.
You could still hear her scream. Could still smell the burn of flesh and decay.

But what made your blood run cold?

Your father laughed.

"Really?" he chuckled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You think she'll amount to anything more than a pawn? A stupid little girl playing house with killers?"

You clenched the knife in the sink tighter.

"She's not even good at it," he went on. "Her eyes are too soft. Her hands still shake. All she knows how to do is protect things—weak little things."

Your mother hummed. "She's been sentimental since she was born. That's why she needs us."

"Besides," your brother chimed in casually, "she won't last long out there. Not with a kid on her back."

You froze again.

And then came the final blow.

"Kyoka will grow out of that hero crap," your father said with certainty. "We'll train it out of her. And the first time she kills someone, she'll forget all about it."

Your mind blanked.

You stared down into the steel sink, the knife glinting under the kitchen light.

Through the blade's reflection, you saw them. Your family. Your blood.
They laughed like they hadn't just sealed their own fate.

And then...

"You let some quirkless asshole toss you around?"

Bakugo's voice—sharp, mocking—ripped through your skull like a bullet.

You tightened your grip on the knife.

Your chest rose.

And fell.

Your reflection in the knife was calm.

But something deep inside you had just cracked.

Not shattered.

Not snapped.

Cracked. Cleanly. Sharply.

And cracks spread.

Your reflection in the knife doesn't feel like it's yours.

The face staring back at you looks calm—collected—even pretty.
But inside, your skin is boiling. Your blood is blistering in your veins.

And behind you... they laugh.

She'll forget all about it.

Your hand shifts the knife just enough to catch another reflection—
Your mother.

Her lips curled into that smug, condescending smirk. The kind of smile that always came before pain.
She was still talking about Kyoka. About how they'd start training her. Start breaking her.

Start making her just like you.

The knife left your hand before you even thought about it.

Thunk.

The room fell silent.

She didn't even scream.

Just gasped.

The blade buried itself into her shoulder, right below the collarbone. Her wine glass shattered as she fell sideways, eyes wide.

"Wh—"

But she didn't finish.

Because you were already on her.

You ran.

The room blurred—
Your father's chair scraped against the floor.
Your brother stood halfway in shock.
Kurogiri rose from his seat.
Shigaraki didn't move.

Your hands reached the knife, still warm and buried deep, and you ripped it out.

She screamed then. Loud.

The sound didn't move you.

You shoved her back, her head cracking against the floor tile, and you stabbed her.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Over and over and over.

Blood spurted from her chest in thick, steaming bursts, soaking your hands, your shirt. Her shrieks turned to choking, then wet coughing, then nothing at all.

And you just kept going.

Again. Again. Again.

You were breathing hard, eyes wide, knees aching against the sticky floor.

And then you stopped.

Because—

Because the silence was deafening.

Not just the lack of her voice.
But the absence inside your chest. The weight that had been there your entire life—

Gone.

You didn't feel guilt.

You felt light.

Your hands were soaked. Your breathing ragged.

But the heaviness... was gone.

You looked up.

Your father was frozen. Mouth parted. Eyes wide.
He looked at you like he was seeing you for the very first time.

Good.

Let him remember this face.

"You little shit!" your brother roared as he lunged, fury replacing fear.

But he didn't make it halfway.

Shigaraki reached him first.

A single touch.

He collapsed midair, bones breaking audibly as his flesh turned to cinders. The room filled with the scent of ash, blood, and smoke.

You didn't flinch.

You were still over your mother, still stabbing, teeth clenched, as if every thrust of the knife could undo the years she stole from you.

"This hurts."
Another stab.
"But I loved you."

Stab.
"I begged for you to see me."
Stab.
"I prayed you'd stop him."
Stab.
"But you didn't."

You buried the knife deep in her forehead, the sound of bone crunching under steel ringing through the room like the toll of a victory bell.

Her body twitched once.

Then silence.

You sat there, blood on your hands, up your arms, in your mouth, across your cheeks. Breathing hard. Smiling.

It felt good.

Too good.

Your eyes rose slowly.

To him.

To Luka Kakegawa.

Your father.

Standing now. Holding a steak knife like it could mean anything.

Shigaraki moved, but Kurogiri stopped him, whispering something too low for you to hear.

Your attention was already elsewhere.

You stood.
He backed away.
Your smile widened.
"I hated her. But I loved her."

You started forward, slow and steady.

"But you?"
You tilted your head.
"I liked you before. That's why..."

Your smile split your face.

"I want to torture you."

He bolted toward the front of the house.

Foolish.

You flipped your coin. The air shimmered.

And just like that, you were in front of him.

Door locked.

Smile growing.

You kicked his legs—
CRACK.
Both of them gave way.
He screamed, hitting the floor.

You grabbed him by his thinning hair and dragged him back through the blood-slicked tile.

He begged. You didn't hear the words.

You were humming.

You scraped the half-eaten, bloodstained food into a silver bowl and kicked it toward him.

"Mangy mutt," you hissed. "Eat your food."

He choked.

You kicked his ribs.

"Eat."

He did. Crying. Gagging.

You watched.

When he stopped—another kick.

And when the bowl was empty?

You stood again.

Walked over to your mother.

Pulled the knife slowly from her skull. The wet, dragging sound sent shivers down your spine.

You walked back. He tried to crawl. Pathetic.

You pushed him down flat.

"Remember what you taught me?" you said, crouching by his chest.

"A good way to immobilize is right..."

Stab.

"Here."

He screamed.

You covered his mouth.

"And a good way to shut someone up is..."

You dragged the knife slowly along the base of his neck, cutting his vocal cords.

Blood poured from his mouth in thick streams.

Sweet silence.

You smiled, giggling softly, tilting your head as you drew slow, deliberate lines across his chest.

You stabbed areas that wouldn't kill.
You avoided the heart.

Because you weren't finished.

"You gave me life, Luka. The power to think."
You whispered now, inches from his face.
"And I was trapped."

You traced the knife across his sternum like an artist preparing a masterpiece.

"In all this beautiful world, you were selfish. And I, alone, had nobody. No choice."

He couldn't cry out.

Only stare.

"Hate?" you whispered. "Hate?"

Your voice broke, your smile growing.

"Let me tell you how much I've come to hate you."

You giggled again, lips trembling.

"There are 45 miles of nerves in the human body. If the word 'hate' was engraved on every inch, it wouldn't come close to a billionth of the hate I feel for you in this instant."

You placed the knife's tip over his heart.

He trembled. Eyes wide. Mute.

"Hate?"

You leaned in, teeth showing.

"HATE??"

And slowly—

You pressed the blade down.

His body convulsed.

Blood welled and spilled.

You carved slow. Painfully.

You watched his heartbeat fade beneath the crimson flood.

And when it stopped—

So did you.

Still.

Calm.

Quiet.

Then—

Clap.

You flinched.

One slow clap.

Then another.

Then a full, delighted applause.

You turned, breathing heavy.

Shigaraki stood in the doorway, his hands red with ash, his grin unhinged.

"Well," he chuckled, voice rasping with approval, "Now that's a fucking entrance."

You stood over the body.

Your hands...
Still shaking.
Still wet.

Warp gates opened with a quiet hum, like rips in the air, and began swallowing the bodies one by one. Your mother. Your brother. Your father last. The bloodied dinner table—gone. Even the blood-soaked silver bowl. Kurogiri worked quietly, expertly, wiping down counters, floors, walls, as if it were routine.

And maybe... for him, it was.

You stood still as stone.

The weight that had lifted off your chest minutes ago now came crashing back down.

Heavier.

Harder.

Your heart beat erratically, like it couldn't figure out if it was proud or afraid.
Your stomach churned. The scent of blood clung to your nostrils.
Your hands were trembling, blood drying and cracking across your knuckles.

You looked around.

Red.

Everywhere.
The walls were painted with it. The floor sticky beneath your shoes.
You could see the outline of your mother's skull print where it hit the tile.

It was like a massacre.

Because it was.

And you did it.

You... did it.

Your eyes widened as you took in the scene again with fresh eyes.

The knife hit the floor with a metallic clang, and you took a step back, breath catching in your throat.

What had you done?

The silence thundered in your ears.

Your vision blurred.
You blinked.
Twice.

The haze of bloodlust was gone.
And all that remained was you.

You.

And a growing sense of dread.

What would Kyoka say?

What would you tell her?
That her mother and father were gone?
That they'd been killed?

No—murdered.

By you.

You didn't think this through.

You didn't think at all.

The thoughts came fast, jumbled, fighting for dominance in your head.

They deserved it.
She'll hate you.
You did what was necessary.
You're a monster.
You protected her.
You ruined everything.

Your hands clutched your head as if trying to dig those thoughts out. Your knees wobbled.

You fell forward against the kitchen counter, your breath quick and shallow.

You weren't in control anymore.
You didn't know who you were.

You had finally been given choice—and you used it to kill.

You didn't know how to exist in freedom.

A sob cracked in your throat.

Suddenly—hands.

Cold but firm, on your cheeks.

You flinched—ready to fight again.
But they held you steady.
Made you look up.

Tomura Shigaraki.

Your reflection flickered in his crimson eyes.
Not the villain.
Not the weapon.

Just a trembling kid.

"Hey," he rasped, voice like dry leaves. "Look at me."

You did. Barely. Eyes glassy, wide.

"I know that feeling," he said. "You don't know what to do now, right? You've never been allowed to."

He didn't say it with sympathy.

He said it with understanding.

And that—broke you.

The tears came before you could stop them.

You lunged forward and wrapped your arms around him, not caring that your hands were still caked in blood, that you were staining his hoodie.

He didn't flinch.

He hugged you back.

Firm. Solid. There.

"It's okay," he whispered, one hand threading through your hair. "You were always meant to snap. They made you this. Not you."

Kurogiri moved quietly in the background, wiping walls, resetting plates, removing any trace of what happened. You could smell lemon cleaner. Disinfectant. Steel.

You didn't even realize you were being walked upstairs until the carpet shifted beneath your feet.

You were floating.

Your legs barely worked.
You felt cold.
So cold.

He led you to the bathroom. Sat you on the edge of the tub. Ran the water.

You stared at the faucet as if it were a puzzle you'd never seen before.

Steam began to rise.

"Lift your arms."

You did.

He peeled off your top first, careful around your shoulders. It stuck to your skin in places, dried blood clinging to fabric. Your breathing hitched when he touched a scar.

He paused.

And slowly, traced his hand over your back.

"...They did this?"

You didn't speak.

He saw enough.

"They'll never touch you or Kyoka again," he said. His voice didn't shake. It was a promise.

The bath filled.

He helped you in.

Warm water lapped at your thighs, arms, shoulders.

It turned pink.

Then red.

You sank lower.

He took a sponge and began to scrub the dried blood away—gently, methodically, with the care of someone who didn't know how to be gentle, but tried anyway.

You watched the water swirl with your past.

"My hands won't ever be clean again," you whispered.

Shigaraki's hands paused over your shoulder.

"They never were," he murmured. "But that's not a curse."

He dipped the sponge again. Wrung it out.

"It means you survived."

And that's when the second wave of sobs hit you.

Deeper.

More raw.

This time, you didn't try to hold them back.

You let yourself fall forward, soaking wet, arms around him again, like he was the only lifeline left in this world.

"I'm scared."

"I know."

"I don't know who I am anymore."

"You're becoming."

His hand cupped the back of your head.

"I'll protect you. And your sister. I swear it."

You cried into his chest, bloody water dripping down your neck, your back, your thighs.

And for once in your life someone held you without letting go.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Bakugo tapped his foot.

The floor beneath him thudded in rhythm.
His parents were asleep on the couch.
Kyoka had nestled into his side, yawning, her little hand wrapped around the edge of his shirt like a blanket. She was warm. Too warm. Like a weight.

"Where the hell are you...?" he muttered under his breath.

He glanced at the time on his phone.

9:56 PM.

Three hours since dinner should've ended. Four since you left.

Kyoka stirred beside him, rubbing her tired eyes.

"Where's Sissy?" she mumbled sleepily.

"I don't know, kid," Bakugo grumbled, eyes glued to the front door—but his chest felt tight.

And that pissed him off.

He was worried. Legitimately.

After everything you'd said, everything Kyoka had seen, what if you were out there on the street like a dog? Bleeding? Fighting your family? Collapsed in the cold?

Bakugo scowled and clenched his fists.

But he didn't move. He stayed seated. Guarding Kyoka like a sentinel. Waiting.

He couldn't call. Couldn't text.
Couldn't shake the feeling that something had snapped.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The steam from the bath was long gone.

Your body trembled with exhaustion, but your mind—your mind was a battlefield.

You lifted your hand from the now pink-tinted water, watching the way the droplets ran down your fingers.

Your hands.

Hands that had cooked dinner.
Cleaned floors.
Pat your sister's head.

And murdered your family.

Why hadn't you felt regret?
Why did you enjoy it? Why did your pulse quicken when the knife sank in, when you saw their eyes go blank?

Why did you want more?

Your thoughts swirled violently. Guilt. Power. Shame. Freedom.

And Kyoka. Always Kyoka.

What would she say?

You dunked your head under the water, letting it swallow the sound.

You could've waited. You should've.

But deep in your chest, there wasn't a single ounce of regret.
Only a dull, terrifying satisfaction.

Then—a sharp tug.

You inhaled violently as your head was yanked above water.

You gasped, blinking, water running down your lashes.
Shigaraki stood over you, frowning.

But... he didn't scold you.

He offered his hand.

You took it.

He helped you up, and for a moment, you stood there—naked and shivering, eyes dazed.

"I'll get clothes," he muttered, stepping out.

You dried yourself in silence, your movements robotic, like your body was on strings. You stared at the towel, red smears staining the fabric.

Then your eyes fell to the mark.

A purple zig-zag.

Small. But wrong.

"Have you always had this mark?" Shigaraki had asked earlier.

You hadn't.

And something about that made your stomach turn.

You dressed slowly, then tapped him. He turned to face you. You nodded, like it meant I'm okay now, even though you weren't.

"I need to pick up Kyoka," you said, voice hoarse.

You bolted down the stairs, half-expecting blood and bodies, the stench of death.

But—nothing.

The house was pristine.

Clean.
Orderly.
Lived-in.

Not a single sign of what had happened.

You stopped, stared. Bowed slightly to Kurogiri.

"Feel free to stay here... there's rooms now, so... if you're tired..."

Your voice trailed off. Kurogiri nodded, polite as ever.

You stepped outside.

The air was cool. The world still. You were still shaking.

The walk was supposed to take twenty minutes.

But you couldn't wait.

Your legs began to move faster. Faster.
Your body ran even when your mind tried to slow it down.

Kyoka. Kyoka. Kyoka.

She was all that mattered.

By the time you reached the Bakugo house, your lungs were burning.

You knocked twice.

The door opened.

Bakugo.

Kyoka in his arms, her tiny frame bundled in a blanket, cheek pressed against his shoulder.

Relief. Instant and overwhelming.
Your knees almost buckled.

"Hey," you exhaled. "I'm so sorry, Bakugo."

He looked pissed.

His voice dropped to a whisper-shout. "Where the hell were you?"

You swallowed. Your brain was foggy. Everything hurt.

"Our parents and siblings... they... left. I had to deal with that."

His scowl faltered.

"That soon?" he asked.

You nodded.

"They were eager to leave. But... I can keep Kyoka. That's what matters."

You smiled shakily.

Kyoka's eyes fluttered open at the sound of your voice. She blinked, then lit up with a tired smile.

You reached out, and she leaned into you like she'd been waiting all day.

Safe.

You held her close.

"Thank you," you whispered. "This meant so much to me."

Bakugo rubbed the back of his neck, trying to act casual.

"I know we don't talk much," you continued. "But it was really nice, spending time with you and your family."

"Yeah," he said quietly, hands stuffed in his pockets.

You squinted.

"Are those... braids?"

His eyes widened in horror before the door slammed shut in your face.

You blinked, stunned, before bursting into soft laughter.

"Night, Boom Boy!" you called out.

You walked back into the night, Kyoka safe in your arms.

The world was quiet again. The stars blinked above you. You hummed something sweet, something familiar.

Kyoka nestled into your chest, snoring softly.

You looked down at her, eyes softening.

"I'll protect you," you whispered. "Forever. Even if the world burns for it."

And if anyone so much as breathed wrong in her direction?

You'd make what happened tonight look like a fairytale.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The door shut with more force than he meant to, the thud echoing louder than it should've in the quiet entryway.

His hand stayed on the knob. Gripped it, like if he let go, the storm in his chest might spill out.

He stared at the wood grain. Then leaned his forehead against it, the cool surface biting against his flushed skin.

His breath hitched.

Y/n.

Hair damp and clinging to the sides of their face.
Water dripping down the edge of their jaw.
Eyes wide—glassy—like they'd seen something no one else ever should.

Their smile had twitched. Crooked. Forced. Like it was sewn on with trembling fingers.

But that voice.

It cracked around the edges.

Still, they held that sleeping kid like she was the last warm thing on Earth.

He closed his eyes.

His hand, the one still on the knob, moved slowly to his chest.
Right over his heart.

It was beating hard. Too hard.

Every breath he pulled in was shallow, stuck somewhere between his ribs.

He clenched his jaw, pressed harder against the door.

Why the hell did they look like that?

Why did they have to sound so quiet?

Why did they make him feel like this?

Bakugo's fingers dug into his shirt. Still breathing hard.

Outside, their footsteps had already faded into the night.

And yet... they lingered.

Like smoke.

Like thunder in the distance.

Like something that should've passed by already—
But chose to stay

────୨ৎ────

6012 words

Chapter Text

THE HOUSE WAS STILL.

Too still.

Kyoka was curled up in her room, blankets tangled around her like a cocoon. Shigaraki had taken your brother's room—door locked, curtains drawn, probably sprawled out like a cat who didn't need to explain himself to anyone. Kurogiri was in your parents' room, eerily silent, though you doubted he was really sleeping. Maybe just... resting. Watching. Cleaning things that weren't dirty.

You were the only one awake.

Lying in your bed. Staring at the ceiling.

Eyes dry. Blank.

You couldn't remember how long it had been since you walked back through that door. Since you carried Kyoka to her bed, kissed her forehead, tucked her in like nothing in the world had changed. Since you retreated to your room, locked the door behind you like that would keep the guilt out.

But there was nothing.

No tears. No thoughts. Just... emptiness.

Your eyes slowly shifted to your dresser.

Your phone sat there, face down. Cold.

You didn't move to grab it until it buzzed.

4:39 AM.

You stared at the glowing screen. Felt the weight of it without even touching it.

You didn't even register the hours bleeding into each other until it buzzed again.

8:01 AM.

You blinked.

Picked up the phone.

Bottomless Pit 🦈: "The class exchanged numbers with each other and they're asking for yours. I wanted to ask if that was okay?"

You read it three times before your thumbs started moving.

You: "Always the gentleman. Feel free to give them my number."

A second later, your phone lit up again. Then again. Then again.

Messages from unfamiliar numbers, polite introductions.

You didn't bother saving the names.

Except the ones that already lived in your phone:
Aoyama.
Midoriya.
Kirishima.
Mina.

You just kept lying there, letting the buzzes come and go, numb to it all.

Until one message made your hand stop.

XXX-XXX-6470: "Oi, this is Bakugo."

You blinked.

Then another text:

XXX-XXX-6470: "You good?"

Your chest tightened.

No.
No, I'm not "good."
I killed someone.
Two people.
I watched my siblings die and stood still.

I cleaned blood off my skin and felt relief.
Ecstasy.

But your thumbs moved on their own.

You: "I'm a little better after last night! I think I'm going to go house hunting today, this house is too big for me and Kyo."

Too haunted.

Too empty and full at the same time.
It reeked of memories you couldn't outrun.

Another text lit up your phone:

XXX-XXX-6470: "That shitty-haired guy and the alien have been bitching since class started about you not showing up."

You snorted.

You didn't want to smile, but you did anyway.

You: "Kirishima and Mina?"

XXX-XXX-6470: "Who?"

You full-on laughed now, a soft sound muffled by your pillow.

You: "Do you really not know anyone's name in class? Do you even know mine?"

XXX-XXX-6470: "OF COURSE I DO, YOU DUNCE."

You: "Yea? What is it?"

XXX-XXX-6470: "Y/n"

You: "What's my last name?"

...

...

XXX-XXX-6470: "..."

You: "Exactly."

XXX-XXX-6470: "Kys??"

You wheezed into your pillow.

You: "Aww, I will keep myself safe!!"
You: "Thank you!! 🥰💖"

XXX-XXX-6470: "NO, I said KILL YOURSELF."

Your laughter punched out of you so suddenly, it startled even you.

Despite the rot that still clung to the corners of your mind—blood-soaked tiles, your own mother's eyes going glassy, your father's scream tapering off into silence—this?

This was normal. Stupid. Petty. Ridiculous.

Human.

And somehow, Bakugo of all people had given it to you.

Your laughter quieted when you heard a soft knock, followed by the unmistakable click of your door unlocking.

You turned your head slowly, already knowing who it was.

Sure enough—there was Kyoka, her tiny hands clutching the doorknob, her messy bedhead haloing her face.

You'd forgotten she knew how to unlock doors. You hadn't taught her, either. She'd just... figured it out. Something about the lock clicking open under her tiny fingers sent a chill up your spine, but you smiled anyway.

"Yes, my love?" you asked softly. "Did you need something?"

She shuffled closer, rubbing one eye with her fist. "Since I don't have school today... can I go with you?"

You sat up a little.

You were about to tell her no—that you weren't going to school either. That you had paperwork to file and a whole situation to clean up—but her wide, teary eyes froze the words in your throat.

She didn't want to be left in this house.

Alone.

Not today.

You glanced toward the ceiling and sighed. "The old lady's gonna kill me..."

Then you scooped her up and plopped her gently onto the bed beside you.

"Okay. Let's make a deal," you said, tapping your pinky against hers. "If I take you to UA today, you have to eat your veggies for lunch and dinner. Got it?"

Kyoka scrunched her nose like you'd just told her she had to eat gravel. "Ew..."

"But you'll get to see All Might~" you said in a sing-song voice, ruffling her hair. "And probably other really cool heroes too."

That did it.

She perked right up and stood on the bed with sudden purpose, fists balled at her sides.

"I'm gonna eat up all those veggieables!"

You giggled, correcting her gently. "Vegetables, sweetie. But okay!!"

You lifted her off the bed and spun her around, her laughter ringing through the room. "Go get dressed!"

She bolted out the door, bare feet thumping down the hall.

You pulled out your phone and quickly dialed UA's main line. You didn't expect Nezu to be the one who picked up—but as soon as you said your name, he seemed to recognize your voice immediately.

"Hello, my dear student," he greeted, voice soft and knowing.

You cleared your throat. "I... wanted to ask if I could come in today. I know I'm on medical leave, but I'm feeling completely fine now. No more dizziness or weakness."

He paused briefly. "If you're confident in your recovery, I trust you. Just take it easy."

You hesitated for a second, then added, "Also... is it okay if I bring my little sister? I... couldn't find a babysitter, and I don't want to leave her alone at home."

"Of course," Nezu said. Then, carefully: "And... how is your family?"

You stiffened.

"They... decided it was best to move to America," you lied. "For Kyoka's sake. So it's just me and her now."

Nezu was silent for a beat. "I see. Thank you for telling me. She's welcome to accompany you."

"Thank you," you murmured.

Once you hung up, you got changed quickly—putting on your uniform with hands that felt just a little less shaky.

Then you peeked into Kyoka's room.

She stood in the middle of the floor, proudly wearing an All Might-themed outfit that looked like a child-sized Halloween costume. You didn't have the heart to laugh, but a smile pulled at your lips anyway.

"Okay, fashion queen," you teased. "We need to tone it down just a little."

She pouted.

You walked into her closet and pulled out an outfit she rarely wore—because it was always reserved for special days.

A charming black pinafore dress. A cream long-sleeved top with soft texture. White knee-high socks with black ribbon bows. Classic black ballet flats. And the matching black hair bows to finish it off.

You helped her change, brushing her hair gently and pinning it back.

She only stopped pouting when you handed her the All Might bunny plush, and said, "You can bring him. He's a hero too."

She beamed.

And just like that, with her small hand in yours and her bunny in the other, you stepped out into the world again—still bleeding on the inside, but maybe, just maybe...

you'd start to scab.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ 

You stood just outside U.A.'s towering gates, the sun barely cresting the horizon as the early morning breeze swept through your hair. Kyoka's tiny hand was tucked tightly in yours, her All Might plush dangling from her other arm like a trusted sword.

You spotted them almost instantly—Nezu and Recovery Girl, standing just past the gate, a sight far more intimidating than it had any right to be. You bowed low, not just out of formality, but out of genuine thanks.

"Thank you for letting her join me today," you said, voice low and steady despite the tight coil of anxiety in your chest.

Kyoka, far less composed, gasped softly at the sight of Recovery Girl. Her eyes went wide with recognition, and without needing any prompting, she bowed. Once. Twice. A third time, with even more enthusiasm than before.

"Thank you, Miss Recovery Girl! Thank you, Mister Mouse!" she said with gleeful reverence, her high-pitched voice making Recovery Girl chuckle and Nezu beam.

"She's very polite," Recovery Girl commented warmly, bending down to place a laminated lanyard around Kyoka's neck. "This'll let her visit whenever you bring her."

You crouched down next to your sister, brushing a few loose strands of hair from her face. "What do we say to these two, Kyoka?"

Kyoka puffed her cheeks and repeated herself with a little bow, "Thank you Miss Recovery Girl and Mister Mouse!"

"Principal Nezu," the principal corrected gently with a smile, though he didn't seem to mind the nickname at all.

As the two walked ahead, talking between themselves, you felt a tightness coil in your stomach.

You narrowed your eyes at their backs.

Were they watching you?

Was this kindness... real?

Your mind began running at full speed, dissecting their tones, the angle of Recovery Girl's gaze, Nezu's ever-neutral smile. Were they trying to test you? Were they investigating?

But—no. There was no hidden message in their cadence. No suspicion layered in their words.

Just two colleagues chatting about a child's pass and a recovering school.

You let out a quiet exhale and felt your shoulders drop.

Kyoka walked beside you with wonder in her eyes, her head whipping left and right as she took in the size of the doors, the sleek architecture, the rows of high-tech security.

"It's so big, sissy," she whispered.

You chuckled. "This is where heroes train, Kyoka. It has to be big."

The two of you stopped just outside 1-A's classroom door. You checked your phone.

8:47 AM. Homeroom would be halfway through.

You swallowed down the tension in your throat and slid the door open.

Twenty heads turned.

The energy in the room shifted immediately. Kirishima perked up with a grin, Mina nearly gasped before shooting out of her seat.

"YOOOO, YOU'RE BACK!" Kirishima shouted, jumping to his feet.

"LOOK AT HER!! SHE BROUGHT A BABY!" Mina squealed.

You barely had time to greet anyone before Kyoka's little hand slipped out of yours.

You blinked, turning to her.

She stood just outside the doorway, clutching her bunny tight, peeking in like she was sizing up a battlefield.

"It's okay," you said gently, gesturing her forward. "Come on in."

She inched inside and immediately glued herself to the back of your legs. Her eyes locked onto Aizawa—bandaged, slouched, and still sipping from a juice box.

"Scary mummy..." she whispered.

You couldn't help it. You giggled.

"Awwww!" your classmates chorused, melting into a flurry of excitement as they began crowding the two of you.

"What's her name?"

"Is that your sister??"

"She's so CUTE!"

"She's like a baby version of you!"

Kyoka's eyes widened in panic, her arms flailing until she bolted toward the safest presence in the room.

"BOOM BOOM BOY, SAVE ME!!" she cried, launching herself into Bakugo's arms like a rocket.

You weren't sure what was funnier—her nickname or the horrified look on Bakugo's face as he caught her by pure reflex.

"GET OFF ME, YOU DAMN VERMIN!!" he snapped, twisting as she clung tighter, now fake-crying loudly.

"NOOOOO, BOOM BOOM, THEY'RE GONNA GET ME!!"

The whole room erupted into laughter.

You pressed your hand to your mouth to muffle your giggle, watching Kyoka wrap herself around Bakugo's shoulders like he was her personal jungle gym. His face was red, his hands twitching with frustration, but he didn't actually try to pry her off.

...Not yet anyway.

"I take it," Aizawa finally spoke from behind his desk, voice dry, "that this is your sister."

You turned quickly, bowing. "Yes, sir. Thank you for letting her come. Nezu gave her a day pass. I'll keep her quiet, I promise."

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Just don't let her climb anyone else."

"Too late," Bakugo muttered, deadpan.

Kyoka looked smug now, her arms still wrapped around Bakugo like she'd just conquered a mountain. He stood there, grumbling threats under his breath that even he didn't seem committed to. You tried not to laugh too hard as you sat at your seat, patting your lap.

"C'mere," you whispered.

She grinned and scrambled down from Bakugo, jogging over and launching herself onto your lap like it was a throne.

"I am ready to learn, Mister Scary Mummy, Sir!" Kyoka declared, sitting up tall.

A few students snorted, some full-on laughed. Even Aizawa blinked once—an acknowledgment, if there ever was one.

"Right..." he muttered, but you could hear the lightness in his voice. "To get Y/n caught up, we were just going over something important. The U.A. Sports Festival is coming up. The administration believes this is the perfect opportunity to show the world that the school is safe, that the threat has been dealt with—and security will be even tighter than in previous years."

You blinked. That fast?

You weren't sure whether to feel relieved or exposed.

"This event is a huge opportunity for every student here. Heroes from agencies all across Japan will be watching." Aizawa's gaze swept across the room. "It's not something we can cancel because of a few villains."

Kyoka tilted her head. "Threat?"

"Scary bad guys," you said simply, brushing a bit of lint off her dress.

"Ohhh," she nodded sagely.

Mineta raised a shaking hand. "Uhm, sorry, but like... why not? I mean—it's just a Sports Festival, right?"

You turned to him slowly. "Do you know how important the Sports Festival is?"

"Of course I do!" he shot back, flailing a bit. "I just don't want to get murdered in front of the cameras!"

Before you could retort, Aizawa began listing all the strategic reasons—hero agency scouting, media coverage, career-defining moments. Kyoka tuned it out, her attention drifting between each student until class was finally dismissed.

"I think Boom Boy and you is gonna win!" she chirped, turning around in your lap.

"Are," you corrected, raising a brow. "And I don't think I'll win, but thank you, sweetheart."

Kaminari, already leaning over to Bakugo's desk, snorted. "Boom Boy? Don't tell me she's a fan of Bakugo..."

"I HEARD THAT, YOU DAMN DUNCE FACE!" Bakugo snapped, slamming his desk as Kyoka jumped slightly.

"Dunce Face!" she echoed in perfect mimicry.

You wheezed. "Kyoka, honey, that's not very polite."

"But he said it first," she pouted, resting her chin on your shoulder.

Kaminari gaped at her. "Traitor."

You giggled and rubbed her back, shifting her slightly in your lap. "Kyoka, this is Kaminari. He's the one with the electricity quirk—remember what I said? Like Pikachu?"

Her eyes lit up immediately. "You're Pikachu?!"

Kaminari beamed. "I mean—yeah. Basically."

You began pointing out students one by one, keeping your voice gentle. "That's Mina. She can melt things with her acid. She's super fun. And that's Iida—he runs really fast. Tsuyu is like a frog. That's Shoji—he's the one with the arms. Ojiro has a tail. Aoyama shines."

"Aoyama...? Like sparkle sparkle?" Kyoka asked.

"Exactly."

When you gestured toward Kirishima, Kyoka sat up straighter. "What about him?"

Kirishima blinked, then smiled nervously. "Me?"

"Can I see your quirk, please?" she asked sweetly.

He chuckled and held out his arm. "It's not flashy or anything, but—" He activated it, his skin hardening into jagged, red stone. "I like it."

You tilted your head, watching how the light bounced off the hardened surface. "It's cool. It's not about flash, it's about power—and yours has a ton of it."

Kirishima flushed a bit and rubbed the back of his neck. "Thanks, Y/n... that means a lot."

You smiled softly, resting your chin on Kyoka's head as she leaned back against you. This moment—this room—it was chaotic, noisy, alive. After last night... it felt like someone had breathed life back into your lungs. The blood was gone, the screams buried deep. For now, all that remained was this warmth.

Kyoka squished her All Might bunny tight to her chest, her cheek mashed adorably against your arm. You wrapped both arms around her, your face nuzzled into her hair, letting the scent of her shampoo and the sound of her breathing anchor you.

Then her voice broke the calm in the best way.

"—and then the Charizard used Flamethrower, and Pikachu went boom!" she told Kaminari, arms flailing for dramatic effect.

Kaminari gasped. "What? That's illegal! Pikachu's a national treasure!"

"I know! And Sissy let me watch three whole episodes back to back!" she boasted proudly.

"Wowww," Kaminari said in awe, playing right into her excitement. "That's better than a quirk."

"Oh! And! She made me pancakes this morning! With strawberries and cream and sprinkles! But she almost burned them."

You lifted your head, scandalized. "Okay—hold on. That was one pancake, and I was zoned out!"

Kyoka turned to you with a smirk. "It was the first one, and it was crunchy."

You huffed dramatically. "It had character."

Kaminari burst out laughing. "I mean, burnt food does have a flavor profile—"

"Exactly!" you said, pointing at him. "Thank you!"

Kyoka giggled into her bunny, kicking her little feet against your thighs. "You're a silly sissy."

You poked her nose. "And you're a brat."

You both dissolved into laughter, the room around you still lively with students settling into free time. It felt like a different world than the one you'd woken up in. And even if the ghosts still followed you, their hands on your shoulders were a little lighter when Kyoka laughed like this.

The calm didn't last forever—but it shifted into something else. Something brighter.

The door slammed open with signature flair, and in came Present Mic, his voice booming through the classroom.

"YEEEEAAAHHH! WHAT'S UP, CLASS 1-A!"

Kyoka jolted slightly, ears perked, but her wide-eyed awe quickly replaced any nerves. "Sissy, he's loud!"

You chuckled, rubbing her back as she clung to her bunny. Present Mic noticed immediately, his sunglasses catching the light as he leaned in just a bit.

"Whoa, who's this little listener?"

Kyoka blinked up at him, like a deer in headlights. "...I'm Kyoka."

"KYOOOOKAAAA MY MANNNN!!!" He gestured towards Kyoka, who waved. "That's one heck of a name, little listener!"

Kyoka beamed. "I like music, too!"

Present Mic clutched his heart dramatically. "She's perfect! A future rockstar in the making!"

It was adorable—the kind of energy Kyoka needed, and it made your smile ache with fondness.

Next up was Midnight's class. You thought maybe Kyoka would get bored, but no—Midnight took her under her wing immediately, carrying her on her hip and giving her a dramatic, slightly censored-for-children lecture about hero society. Kyoka raised her hand constantly.

"Why do you wear heels?"
"What's the mask for?"
"Do you have snacks?"

Midnight answered everything with the grace of a woman who clearly adored kids but never got to teach them, and by the time the period ended, Kyoka was calling her "Miss Pretty Lady."

Then came Snipe. The cowboy hat was all it took.

"He's handsome." Kyoka declared like it was fact.

Mina gasped, throwing a hand to her chest. "OH, she's got taste! Immaculate!"

You snorted so hard you had to turn away, biting your sleeve. "Not the cowboy simp pipeline starting early..."

Kyoka just shrugged. "He looks cool. And cool people are handsome."

When Cementoss came in, everything changed. His deep voice, steady as stone, filled the room as he cracked open a worn novel.

And Kyoka? She sat up straighter than you'd ever seen her. She leaned in, listening to every word.

It was literature. That was her favorite subject, you learned.

She clung to the desk, even tugging your sleeve every time a big word came up.

"Read it, Sissy! I don't know that one!"

You whispered the word in her ear, and she'd repeat it with a proud grin, nodding like she'd just won the Hero Licensing Exam.

The book ended, and Kyoka threw her hands in the air. "I'm the best reader in the world!"

You grinned, mock-bowing beside her. "My hero, thank you for reading to me, Kyoka!"

At that, Jiro glanced over with a snort. "Name twins," she said, walking over and holding out a fist.

Kyoka gasped. "Like matching heroes?"

"Exactly," Jiro replied, and the two bumped fists.

The rest of class watched with smirks and soft glances, and you... you just leaned back in your chair, eyes half-lidded, arms around Kyoka as she started whispering to Jiro about bunny plushies and cowboy heroes.

Your chest ached again—but this time, with something warm. A tiny spark. The kind you used to think had died a long time ago.

Soon, lunch rolled around, and conversation sparked like it always did when the day got lighter.

"That villain stuff sucked, sure, but I'm pumped for these games!" Kirishima grinned, punching his palm.

"If we put on a good show, we're basically on the road to bein' pros," Sero added, leaning back.

"Yeah. This is why I'm even here in the first place," Sato nodded, his voice firm despite the chaos the class had been through.

You stayed quiet, your brows slowly knitting together as the others kept talking. Their reasons were solid—clear goals, paths lit with ambition. But you? You weren't supposed to be here. You weren't trying to be a hero.

You were trying to survive. You needed to drop out, find a job, find safety. Protect Kyoka.

That was all you had left.

"Sissy, pick me up!" Kyoka suddenly chirped from beside you, tugging at your sleeve.

"You're five," you huffed playfully.

"Please...?" She pouted, eyes wide and shimmering.

"...Fine." You sighed, scooping her up and standing. She giggled, arms wrapping around your neck like she was holding the world.

"I'M GONNA DO MY BEST!!" Uraraka shouted, holding her plushie up high. A few people nearby chuckled—Midoriya even cheered. Uraraka turned with a bright smile and raised a fist. "I SAID, I'M GONNA DO MY BEST!!"

You blinked, still a bit dazed, and nodded slowly. "Uhm... okay then."

"You okay?" Kirishima asked, voice soft and concerned. "You kinda look like you're losing it..."

You swallowed. "I—Oookay...."

"WOOHOO YAY!!" Kyoka squealed again, completely unaware of the tension clinging to your shoulders.

You followed Kirishima and Mina toward the cafeteria, Kyoka still nestled in your arms, her All Might bunny squished between you. The two of them were deep in conversation with her, laughing at every odd or cute thing she said.

As you waited in line, Mina finally asked, "So, why'd you bring your sister to school today?"

"Yeah, I was wondering too," Kirishima added.

Your breath hitched, heartbeat picking up at the memory of last night—of blood, screams, silence. Your lip quivered before you could control it.

"We—I—"

"None of your damn business, Shitty Hair."

A voice like a slow explosion. A hand tugged your arm.

You didn't need to look. You knew that voice. You looked anyway.

Bakugo.

His eyes were narrowed at Kirishima, but his hand was firm around your wrist, guiding you to another line without waiting for permission.

"Boom Boy!" Kyoka gasped, suddenly wriggling out of your arms and launching herself at him like a missile.

Bakugo grunted as she clung to him like a koala, arms looped tightly around his neck. The move pulled you forward too, your body nearly colliding with his. Your face flared with heat, and you quickly stepped away, flustered.

"Thank you, Bakugo," you muttered.

"Shut it. I did it for the ankle biter," he grumbled, one arm loosely supporting Kyoka as she showed him her plushie.

You stood there, blinking at him.

Silent. Watching.

Bakugo was unreadable. His body was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp. You couldn't analyze him. Not like the others. He was the first man who didn't fit into a pattern.

You didn't know if he was annoyed. Or completely fine. You didn't know if you should grab Kyoka back or if she was safe where she was.

"I can take her, if you're not—"

"Spicy curry. What do you want, dummy?" he asked, cutting you off to talk to Lunch Rush.

Kyoka perked up. "Katsudon! No—wait, soba!!"

"Small orders of both, coming up!" Lunch Rush chuckled.

You blinked in shock as Bakugo grabbed both of their trays, Kyoka still attached to him, and they just... walked off.

HE’S JUST GONNA IGNORE ME LIKE THAT?? I’LL KILL HIM.

Lunch Rush covered his mouth and cooed, "Young love, I see! Don't worry, your secret is safe with me!"

Behind you, students were whispering. Your face burned with embarrassment.

"I DON'T—IT'S NOT—JUST MAKE ME SOME SPICY MAPO TOFU, DAMMIT!!" you barked, flustered as Lunch Rush laughed and got to work.

Grumbling, you stomped away with your tray in hand, ready to sit with Kirishima and Mina.

But when you reached your usual table, you froze.

Bakugo was in your seat.

Your eye twitched.

"Move." You hissed.

"No." Bakugo smirked.

"Stop rage-baiting, Bakugo—move."

"This is my seat now."

"You can't just claim a seat."

"Oh, but you can?"

You narrowed your eyes. He didn't budge. Kyoka sipped her juice happily beside him like nothing was wrong.

You took a breath... and then shoved your tray down and squeezed into the tight space between Bakugo and Kirishima.

"Move over," you hissed to Bakugo.

"Make me," Bakugo huffed, not even sparing you a glance as he took another bite of his food.

"You're the worst," you groaned.

"I know," he said, like it was a badge of honor.

Mina and Kirishima snorted with laughter while Kyoka, ever the chaos mascot, grinned and held up a piece of tamagoyaki to Bakugo's lips. He blinked, looked at her with a kind of confusion like he couldn't process this level of wholesomeness, and ate it anyway.

Your face was already red, but somehow it managed to deepen as Kirishima shifted beside you. His strong arm rested along the back of your chair, and before you could question it, he gently pulled you closer to give you more room. You were practically on top of him now. He noticed how scrunched your legs were, and without asking, lifted them onto his lap.

"Comfy?" he asked, his voice all warm and casual.

You gave a flustered nod, burying your face in your food for a distraction.

You hated this feeling.

Too soft. Too warm. Too normal. You weren't used to it.

If Kyoka wasn't here, you could've brushed it off, teased back, maybe even put up a wall. But she was. And she was watching everything with those bright little eyes.

Too comfortable. Too exposed.

Mina leaned toward Hagekure and whispered something. Hagekure giggled, eyes glittering with mischief. Both of them looked at you with matching grins. You glared at them like you were about to throw your chopsticks. They shut up immediately, just as Kyoka turned to you.

"Why are you snuggling Mister Kirishima?" she asked innocently.

"Because Bakugo is being mean and won't give me room to sit comfortably," you grumbled, lifting a piece of pork to your mouth.

"No one told you to squeeze into that spot," Bakugo snapped, arms folding tight across his chest—which just made his elbow jab you in the ribs.

"And no one told you to spread your legs like some damn prostitute! Close them so I have room!" you hissed.

"Nah, I'm good."

"This is exactly why your mom likes me better."

"OI. SHE DOES NOT. IF ANYTHING, SHE LIKES THIS FUCKER." Bakugo pointed at Kyoka, who smiled smugly. "OLD HAG COULD NEVER LIKE YOU MORE THAN ME."

"You've met his mom?" Kirishima blinked.

You groaned. "Unfortunately. We ran into each other while I was grocery shopping with Kyoka. Somehow, that turned into me being dragged to lunch—"

"Which turned into me babysitting this fuckin' gremlin and takin' braids outta my hair for a goddamn hour," Bakugo muttered, side-eyeing Kyoka.

"But Miss Bakugo and Mister Bakugo said you looked cute!" Kyoka gasped, eyes wide.

"Wait, wait—do they have pictures?" Mina perked up like a predator.

You laughed, hiding your face in Kyoka's plushie. "I wish I took some. He looked adorable. There were little pink bows."

You didn't realize Bakugo had gone silent until the laughter faded slightly. When you looked up, you saw him staring at his tray—somewhere distant. The noise of the cafeteria blurred, the buzz of conversation becoming background hum. No one seemed to notice but you.

His usual resting scowl had softened. His eyes weren't angry. Just... thinking. Hard.

Then—

"You two got so close so suddenly," Kirishima said, lightheartedly, but you could hear the thread of something underneath. "Kinda jealous."

You glanced at him, noticing the tightness in his smile. Your expression softened. You leaned closer to him, pressing your shoulder to his and grinning.

"It's okay, Kiri. You'll always be my day one."

"Oh yeah?" he tilted his head, eyes sharpening just slightly.

"Obviously. Who else would carry me bridal-style out of every emotional breakdown I've ever had?"

"Hmm... only if you promise to look at me like I'm the light of your life while I do it."

You gasped playfully. "Kirishima, are you trying to sweep me off my feet?"

"Wouldn't be the first time." He winked.

You were laughing again, less tense now, and then you felt it—the absence. You looked up to see Bakugo standing. He grabbed both trays, his and Kyoka's. He didn't say a word. He just ruffled Kyoka's hair on his way out and walked toward the exit.

Your smile faltered.

"Can you two watch her?" you asked quietly, already rising from your seat.

Kirishima and Mina nodded, but their expressions showed they noticed too.

You followed Bakugo with your tray in hand, eyes locked on his retreating figure as he exited the cafeteria and headed toward the courtyard.

"Bakugo!" you called out.

He stopped. Turned slightly. Waited.

And then he kept walking.

You picked up your pace, catching up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said, voice low but even. "I just knew you'd follow if I walked off. Wanted to be alone with you for a sec."

You rolled your eyes. "Could've asked, you know."

"I like to rage-bait," he smirked.

You scoffed and bumped your hip into his.

"Yeah, I can tell."

The two of you walked in silence for a moment, the spring air crisp and quiet around you. Birds chirped. Leaves rustled. It was almost peaceful.

Almost.

"What's really up?" you asked again, softly this time.

You weren't sure what he was searching for. But you were starting to think he didn't know either.

Bakugo didn't answer right away. He just glanced toward the trees, then at the sky.

But, when he did speak, Bakugo's words sliced through the quiet courtyard like a blade.

"Why'd you come to UA?"
His voice wasn't accusing, but it wasn't soft either. It was blunt. Demanding.

You blinked and looked at him, trying to buy yourself a second of time. "Like everyone else did, duh. To be a hero..!" you answered, a practiced smile curling on your lips.

But Bakugo didn't buy it.

"Cut the fake smile bullshit," he snapped. "Why are you really here?"

Your breath caught.
The smile fell.

"Fake smile"...
No one had ever called it out before.
No one had even noticed.

You looked down, lashes trembling as your hands tightened around the tray.

"I'm here because my father wanted me to be," you muttered. "I didn't want to come here. I was here because my father wanted to impress someone. And that someone was gonna take me away. From Kyoka."

The words came heavy. Your voice cracked.

You could still hear it all in your head—last night's screams, the silence after. The weight of what you'd done still clinging to your skin.

"But... my dad got impatient," you added, voice lower. "So he just left. And now it's just me and Kyoka, and I... I have no reason to be here."

You rubbed your eyes, trying to stop the tears before they broke free. "I've been thinking about dropping out. Getting a job somewhere else, anything to keep a roof over Kyoka's head. That's all I care about now. I don't... I don't have a reason to stay. My only mission is to protect her."

Bakugo clicked his tongue. "You say mission like you're a spy."

You glanced up, surprised to see him looking at you—eyes sharp, but not cruel. Just intense. Focused.

"It's a stupid-ass reason why you came to UA," he said. "But it's even stupider to leave when you came this far to be a hero."

You swallowed hard. A part of you wanted—needed—to believe him. To let yourself believe it wasn't too late. That you could be more than what you did.

But you shook your head, pulling your arms in tight.

"I'm a monster," you whispered, "I can't be a hero."

Your voice cracked again, your shoulders trembling as you curled tighter into yourself.

"I've done so many bad things," you admitted. "There's no chance for me."

A beat of silence.

Then another.

And another.

The quiet stung more than the words.

You shifted slightly, placing your tray on the bench and curling your knees to your chest, hiding your face. Everything felt too heavy. Too cold. Even the air hurt.

Then—

"I've done bad shit too."

You didn't move.

You just listened.

"I used to bully someone," Bakugo said flatly. "Back in middle school. Midoriya."

Your head lifted slightly, just enough to look at him through your hair.

"He didn't have a quirk. And I... I don't even know why I did it. Not really. I thought it was because he was weak. Because I was better. But that's not it. I think I was just scared of being second place. I think I saw something in him that I didn't wanna admit was real."

His jaw was tight now, his gaze off somewhere in the distance.

"I said some shit to him one day. Stuff that... I regretted the second it left my mouth."
His voice dropped lower. "I knew I crossed a line. And I knew I couldn't take it back."

You stared at him, breath uneven.

"I'm not proud of what I did," he muttered. "But I try to be better now. Doesn't erase it. But I don't run from it either."

He looked at you then. Really looked at you.

"So maybe you are a monster," he said bluntly. "But so am I."

You flinched. He didn't soften the blow. He never did.

"But monsters like us?" he added, eyes narrowing just a little, "We've still got a choice. You can stay down there, thinkin' you're not worth shit... or you can fight to be better."

You didn't speak. Couldn't.

Bakugo leaned back, resting an arm across the back of the bench.

"You've got potential," he said. "Real potential. I see it. And it pisses me off that you're just gonna throw it away."

You stared at him, eyes wide, something unspoken catching in your throat.

Bakugo's words echoed in your chest, heavier than you wanted to admit.

You've got potential.

Your fingers clenched into fists, nails biting into your palms. You tried to push down the stinging in your eyes, the tightness in your throat. You opened your mouth—just a little—to speak. But the words wouldn't come.

He wouldn't understand.
He couldn't.

Not unless he saw the end of it all.
Not unless he saw the monster you really were.

You were perfect—your father made sure of that.
The perfect villain.
You knew how to charm, how to control. How to kill without hesitation.

So why—why was it that you wanted to tell him?
Why did you want to tear yourself open and show him every dark thing hiding underneath?

Why did you want to tell him the truth?
That your hands were red with blood.
That you'd murdered your parents.
That the man who nearly destroyed everything—Tomura Shigaraki—was living under your roof. That he knew you by name.

You bit down on the words and closed your mouth.

Your brows furrowed. You glared at Bakugo, the sudden urge to push him away overwhelming your chest.

"Don't look down on me," you hissed.

Bakugo blinked, caught off guard. "Why the fuck would I—?"

"Yesterday," you snapped, your voice rising, "I told you about my family. About my dad. And you—you went from being the biggest asshole I've ever met to the nicest and funniest guy I know." You scoffed, the bitterness flooding back into your tone. "You think that makes me feel better?"

You stood up sharply, your chair scraping against the stone.

"I don't need your pity. I don't need a savior. I'm not someone you fix with a few kind words and a hero complex."

Your chest rose and fell fast, and your fingers curled tighter around the untouched tray in your hands.

You were spiraling. You knew you were. Self-sabotage was second nature by now. If he didn't hate you, you'd give him a reason to. If he didn't leave, you'd make sure he wanted to.

You turned, voice quieter now—barely above a whisper.
"But it's fine."

Bakugo stared at you, unmoving. Quiet. Watching.

"I've already decided," you muttered. "I'm dropping out. I'm done after today." You forced a smile, but it didn't reach your eyes. "I'll make today fun for Kyoka, though. She deserves that."

You started walking, steps quick and stiff, the tray trembling slightly in your hands. The courtyard wind pressed against your face, drying the corners of your eyes before the tears could fall.

When you reached the trash, you didn't even hesitate.
You tossed the tray, nearly full, straight into the bin.

Not a bite.
It was a waste.
Just like this place.
Just like you.

And as the echoes of your footsteps faded down the path...
Bakugo remained on the bench, jaw locked, eyes still tracing where you'd stood just seconds ago. He didn't chase.
Not yet.

Class resumed.

Voices droned. Pens scratched paper. PowerLoader gestured excitedly at the projection about support gear.

But not for you.

You sat still in your seat, the world around you muted, faded like an old photo. You didn't write. Didn't blink. Didn't even pretend to listen. Your pencil stayed untouched, and so did your thoughts.

Kyoka nudged your arm. "Sissy... are you okay?"

You didn't answer.

She slid off your lap and wandered toward Bakugo, her bunny tucked under one arm. She climbed onto him without hesitation, whispering something only he could hear. His arms stiffened. His expression didn't change. But he didn't push her away.

Kirishima tapped your shoulder gently. "Hey... you alright?"

You didn't look at him.

As PowerLoader continued rambling on about the importance of support equipment for hero work, you stood. Quietly, deliberately.

You collected your things. Calm. Mechanical.

Kyoka turned, noticing you lifting her All Might bunny. She rushed over without a word, taking your hand.

"Kyoka," you said, voice steady. "Wanna go see All Might?"

Her eyes lit up immediately. "Yes!!"

You didn't say goodbye. Not to your classmates. Not to Aizawa as he called your name with concern. You simply walked. Straight through the halls, silent but for the sound of your shoes and Kyoka's excited babbling.

You arrived at the teacher's lounge, knocked once, then stepped in. You quickly covered Kyoka's eyes.

Inside were All Might, Midnight, Cementoss, and a few other faculty members. You smiled—faint, polite.

Fake.

"All Might, there's someone I'd like you to meet, if that's okay."
Your voice was airy. Distant.

The pros welcomed you with easy warmth. They didn't see the fracture behind your eyes.

"She's a huge fan," you continued. "I thought she might like a surprise."

All Might's eyes softened, and with a glow of golden light, his hero form emerged in a rush of steam.

"Now," you whispered. "Look."

You lifted your hand, and her joy was immediate.

"ALL MIGHT!!" she squealed, launching from your arms and running to him. "I have your bunny! Look!!"

All Might knelt to her level, beaming. "That's a fine-looking plush, young lady!"

The door opened again, and in stepped Aizawa—with Principal Nezu tucked into the folds of his scarf.

Your mask didn't crack.

You stayed smiling, watching Kyoka chatter with the Symbol of Peace. You were proud of her, genuinely. But the warmth of the moment didn't reach your bones.

And then, softly, you spoke.

"I'm dropping out."

The air in the room went still. The moment shattered.

Nezu's ears twitched. Aizawa blinked. Even All Might turned from Kyoka, visibly tense.

Kyoka looked at you, confused. "Huh...?"

You took a step forward, your voice calm, clinical.
"I'm not a hero. I can't be one. I came here to serve a purpose. My father wanted me here. And now he's gone. My family's gone. So my reason is gone too."
You kept smiling. It made it easier to speak.

"I'd like to recommend a replacement. If possible."

You turned toward the desk where PowerLoader usually sat—and there, quiet in the corner, was a purple-haired boy. Tired eyes. Stoic posture.
Shinsou.

You'd read about him when researching U.A. He wasn't in the Hero Course. Not yet.

"He'd make a better student than me," you continued. "He's got determination. A real reason to be here."

The silence was so thick it felt like glass underfoot.

You noticed it then—the way the pros shifted uncomfortably. The way Aizawa stared at you like he was trying to see through you. The way All Might's smile was gone.

They didn't know what to say.

But you weren't done.

"To be honest," you said, voice hollow, "I don't see the point in living if I have no mission to complete."

You heard the breath catch in All Might's throat.

That wasn't the response you expected—but you hadn't meant it as a cry for help.

You were just being honest.

"I think," you added, "it's better if you don't get attached to me."

You looked at Kyoka—her smile gone now. She looked at All Might, then at you, eyes wide and uncertain.

"But... sissy?" she asked. "Aren't we staying?"

You opened your mouth to answer—but Aizawa beat you to it.

"No," he said, firm. "We're not doing this here."

His voice cut clean through the room. Stern. Sharp.

He looked at Nezu.

"Principal," he said, "I think it's time we had a real conversation. With Y/n. A private one."

Nezu nodded, slowly, his eyes calculating and concerned.

"I'll take Kyoka," All Might said quietly, picking the girl up gently. "We'll go for a little walk, hm? Maybe grab a snack?"

Kyoka didn't argue. But she didn't smile, either.

She just looked over All Might's shoulder at you—still waiting for an answer you couldn't give.

The moment the door clicked shut, the air turned cold.

Aizawa stepped forward, his scarf trailing behind him like a shadow. His eyes met yours—sharp, unreadable—but not without care. And for once, they weren't dulled by fatigue.

"Sit down," he said.

And you did, quietly folding into the chair like a student awaiting judgment.

"Is this about the USJ?" he asked. "You were focused. Determined. Even now you keep pushing through the trauma. But suddenly... you're giving up. Why?"

You stared at the floor for a moment, letting the silence stretch before speaking.

"I fought to stay in U.A. because I wanted to make my father proud," you said quietly. "That's it. That's the whole truth. I had no reason to be here besides him."

Aizawa frowned slightly, lips tightening.

"But now?" You took a breath. "He's gone. They're all gone. And for the first time in my life, I get to make a decision for myself. This one... is mine."

That made him pause.

"You make it sound like you've never had that before," Aizawa muttered.

You didn't answer. You didn't elaborate.

"I'm sure," you said instead. "So don't try to talk me out of it."

Nezu adjusted himself atop the desk, ears twitching slightly. "Would you consider staying the rest of the month?" he asked, his voice softer than usual, almost pleading.

You shook your head.

"Today," you said. "I'll be gone by today."

Nezu's smile faltered, but he nodded. "Then I will need to check in on you and Kyoka from time to time. Simply for legal and safety reasons, now that your guardians are no longer present."

You gave him a short nod. "That's fine."

With little fanfare, Nezu slid a stack of withdrawal forms across the desk. You picked up the pen without hesitation and began signing your name over and over, methodically, like you'd practiced this moment in your head.

Your student ID was the last to go.

You placed it down with a faint clack, then stood and bowed.

"Thank you," you said, still smiling. "For everything."

No one said anything as you stepped out of the room.

You waited outside the lounge for a few minutes, ignoring the murmured whispers of your teachers behind the closed door. The hallway was quiet, sunlight casting long lines of shadow across the floor.

Then you heard familiar footsteps.

Kyoka turned the corner, cheeks full of snack cake, clutching her All Might bunny in one arm and the hand of the Symbol of Peace in the other.

"There she is," All Might said with a grin, crouching slightly so Kyoka could run to you.

You knelt to catch her, holding her close as she bounced in your arms.

"She told me she liked strawberry the best, so I got her one," All Might said, walking up slowly to meet your eyes. "She's... bright. Really bright."

"She's my everything," you replied, voice low.

All Might leaned in slightly, whispering to Aizawa. You caught the exchange—the tilt of Aizawa's head, the slow shake.

Then All Might looked back at you. His smile dimmed just slightly. Not gone. Just... knowing.

"He told me," Kyoka said excitedly, holding up her snack like a trophy, "that I can still be a hero! Even without a quirk!"

Your breath caught.

"He said I just gotta be strong! And kind! And keep going, no matter what!"

Your lips parted, the smile on your face faltering. The warmth in your chest spread, bitter and soft at once. You looked down at her tiny hand wrapped in yours.

And you smiled again.

This time, it was real.

"Then we'll keep going," you whispered. "You and me."

You squeezed her hand gently, and without looking back, you began walking toward the front gates of U.A., Kyoka skipping beside you.

The halls seemed longer this time.

The sun warmer.

The silence thicker.

As you descended the stairs, the school behind you loomed like a place you once belonged to in another life. You passed the sports field, the cracked cement still faintly dusted from the chaos of the USJ. You walked through the gate with Kyoka's tiny fingers squeezing yours and her bunny bouncing with each step.

She was talking—rambling about All Might, about her snack, about how she wanted to build her own costume when she was older—and you just listened.

But your mind was elsewhere.

You had done it. You left. You were free.

And yet...

As your shoes hit the sidewalk beyond the gate, a strange emptiness settled in your chest.

Like something—or someone—was still watching.

Still waiting.

You glanced over your shoulder one last time, just in time to see a flash of ash-blond hair disappear behind a classroom window.

Bakugo.

The warm afternoon breeze barely moved the silence between you and Kyoka as you both walked along the stone path outside U.A.'s gates. Her small hand fit perfectly in yours, fingers sticky from the sweet snack she was still chewing as she talked.

"...and then All Might told me I can be a hero too. He said, 'Even if you don't have a quirk, you can still save people if your heart is big enough,'" she beamed, her eyes lighting up like little suns.

You looked down at her, smile soft and thin. "He's right. You'll be the best hero in the world one day."

Kyoka glanced up at you with a proud little nod before skipping a few paces ahead and twirling. "I'll have a pink cape and throw sparkles!"

You chuckled, but then your voice dropped low. "Hey, Kyo... I've been thinking..."

She slowed down, blinking at you curiously as she adjusted her bunny plush.

"I think, one day, we move out of the house," you said carefully. "Now that Papa and Mama are... gone."

Kyoka stopped walking.

Her lips quivered a little, but she didn't cry. "We'll never go back?"

You knelt beside her. "Not anymore," you whispered, brushing some hair from her face. "But we'll be okay. We could live with some friends for a while."

Her face wrinkled a little in confusion. "Like Auntie Mei?"

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat. "No, sweetheart... not exactly. But they're people who are going to help us until we find a real home. Just us, remember?"

Kyoka took a deep breath and nodded, small and brave. "As long as you're with me."

You hugged her tightly, lips pressed to her hair. "Always."

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The classroom was too damn quiet.

Aizawa had just announced the rest of class was postponed due to "a sudden student matter."

Bullshit.

Bakugo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed and jaw tight. The muttering around him grew louder until he couldn't ignore it.

Raccoon Eyes leaned toward Shitty Hair, whispering loud enough for half the room to hear. "Do you think something happened to Y/n? They didn't come back."

"They left with Kyoka like... halfway through class, right?" Shitty Hair added, worry thick in his voice. "They were acting off earlier, but I didn't think it was that serious—"

Bakugo finally cut through the noise.

"Y/n dropped out."

Everything fell silent.

Every pair of eyes in the room turned to him, shock written all over their faces.

"W-What?" Shitty Hair sat up, stunned. "No way. They were just here. They were doing better. They wanted to be a hero."

"Guess not enough," Bakugo muttered.

"Why?" Raccoon Eyes asked, her voice soft. "Was it their family? Are they okay?"

Bakugo's eyes flicked to the window. "They didn't say. Just that they didn't have a reason to be here anymore."

"That doesn't sound like them," Shitty Hair insisted, shaking his head. "They're strong. Hell, they've been through more than half of us and still got back up."

Bakugo's gaze darkened, voice low and cutting. "Guess they were weak after all."

That shut everything down.

The alien girl's eyes flared. "Don't."

"You don't know anything about what they're going through." Shitty Hair spoke up next, tone bitter, a surprising snap in his voice. "You're not the only one who gives a damn, Bakugo."

"Oh yeah?" Bakugo spat, standing now, his chair skidding back. "Then how come I, a guy they talked to for three fuckin' days, knew their whole goddamn life story—while you two," he jabbed a finger toward Raccoon Eyes and Shitty Hair, "have been calling yourselves their best friends since day one and still don't know shit."

Shitty Hair flinched, and Raccoon Eyes' expression cracked.

"Kacchan," Deku tried to interject, cautious, worried—his voice caught in that soft, peacemaker register.

But Bakugo turned to him with fire in his eyes. "Don't. Don't try to be the moral compass now, Deku."

He turned back toward the others, voice rising. "They talked to me. And that goddamn sparkly freak more than they ever opened up to you."

Raccoon Eyes clenched her fists, standing as well. "Because we respected their space! Not everyone opens up on command—"

"Maybe they didn't trust you enough to begin with!" Bakugo snapped. "Maybe they saw through your fake-ass friendship—"

"Shut up!" Shitty Hair roared, slamming his desk.

Everyone froze.

His face was red, voice trembling with heat and frustration. "Don't you dare say we didn't care. You don't get to gatekeep who meant more to them, you jackass—"

"ENOUGH."

Aizawa's voice cracked across the room like a whip as he entered, scarf dragging behind him, expression carved from stone.

Every head turned. Everyone sat.

The tension was still thick. Still humming in the floorboards.

Aizawa's eyes scanned the class—then landed on Bakugo. He didn't say a word.
But his eyes said it all.
Control yourself.
You're better than this.
They're gone. Let them go.

Bakugo clicked his tongue and crossed his arms, refusing to meet anyone's gaze. The classroom was dead silent, filled with the ghosts of everything not said.

The lesson resumed, but no one was really listening. Not even Deku, who hadn't taken his eyes off Bakugo since he sat back down. Not even Shitty Hair, still stiff and red-faced. Not even Raccoon Eyes, who was now quiet—too quiet.

Bakugo stared down at the scratches on his desk.

The heartbeat in his chest hadn't slowed.
It kept pounding like something was about to explode.
Not from rage.

Not this time.

He didn't know why it felt like this.

And it pissed him off even more.

He reached up, roughly swiping at his eyes with his sleeve. They were hot.

Stupid.

He clenched his jaw, knuckles white.

He didn't cry. Not for some dumbass who bailed. Who said they'd be a hero and gave up.

So why did his chest feel hollow?

Why did it feel like someone had ripped something out of him the second they walked out the gate?

Why did it feel like they weren't coming back?

He didn't have an answer.

But the pounding in his chest didn't stop, no matter how long he sat there.
And neither did the burn behind his eyes.

────୨ৎ────
9164 words
villain arc, anyone?

Chapter Text

NIGHT BLANKETED THE WORLD in silence, save for the rhythmic whirring and crashing of fists meeting metal.

The training machine bucked forward—its arms shifting, one slamming toward your ribs. You ducked, slipped right, and struck its core with your knuckles, over and over. Your skin burned, your knuckles raw. But you didn't stop.

You couldn't.

Your breath came heavy and fast. You hadn't slept in nearly 24 hours. But sleep was a luxury you couldn't afford these past few weeks. After leaving UA, you tried to live like a normal civilian. As normal as a trained weapon could be. You took care of Kyoka like she was your daughter, keeping her from thinking of your parents for as long as possible.

When you weren't with Kyoka, you were house-hunting. And when you weren't doing that, you were training.

Kyoka was upstairs, bundled in a blanket, surrounded by plushies. Dreaming peacefully in the room you'd made safe for her.

You didn't get to dream. You didn't deserve to.

Your headphones blared something aggressive, distorted, just enough to drown out the words in your head. Just enough to try.

But they still found you.

"You're not mine. You never were. You're a fucking mutt."
"Can't even kill properly without whining."
"You're broken. And broken things get thrown away."

His voice echoed louder than the music. Louder than the machine. Louder than your own screams that never left your throat.

You swung again—arm trembling from the effort—and hit the machine square in the chest. The impact made your shoulder jar.

Still not enough.

You could feel phantom eyes crawling along your skin. Your breath hitched. Everything felt wrong—like the house remembered too. Like the blood you spilled here still stained the walls.

Your vision blurred. Your fists swung wide. Water clung to your lashes and your legs screamed to rest.

You didn't.

You couldn't.

You took another hit. Hard. The machine's padded arm caught your side—your ribs caved inward as you stumbled. You coughed once. Maybe twice. You didn't know. It was all a blur now.

The music suddenly stopped.

Your ears rang with static silence.

And then—
Riiing.

Your phone. You were still breathing heavy, face damp with sweat and tears as you fumbled for your pocket, the machine resetting with a mechanical whirr in the background.

You didn't check the caller. You just swiped and lifted the phone.

"This is Y/n," you said, steady—like your lungs weren't on fire.

"H-Hey, Y/n... Do you have a sec?"
Midoriya's voice. Nervous. Familiar. Too gentle for this hour.

You tensed.

Right then, the machine struck.

"Shit—!" you winced, breath knocked from your lungs as you collapsed onto the floor, the world tilting with the pain blooming in your back.

"Oh god, are you okay?" Midoriya's voice rose in panic.

"Yeah..." you groaned, flipping onto your back and kicking the kill switch on the machine. A low hum powered it down, the room falling into eerie quiet. "You just startled me. What's up?"

"I... it's not something I can say over the phone," Midoriya admitted, voice hushed. You could hear wind—he was already walking. "I'm sorry, I just—please."

You paused, eyes narrowing.

"...Alright." You sat up, wiping your face with your sleeve. "I'll send you the address. Just be quiet when you get here. Kyoka's sleeping."

"Okay. Thank you, Y/n."
Click.

The line ended, and your thumb hovered over your message app before sending your location.

You looked up at the ceiling for a second. Your arms ached. Your ribs throbbed. But the tears had stopped.

Midoriya... what the hell did you need at this hour?

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The door creaked open under your hand.

Midoriya stood there on the porch, his hair mussed by the wind, cheeks flushed from the walk over. He was in a hoodie, hands tucked in his sleeves like he always did when he was nervous. His eyes scanned the dim street behind him before quietly stepping inside when you moved aside.

He closed the door softly, reverently, like he knew the house was asleep.

And then he froze.

"...Whoa," he whispered, eyes trailing up the high ceiling, the curved staircase, the rows of shelves and expensive art pieces still untouched by dust.

You stared ahead, cold. "It's a lot of house for a family that never felt like one."

He blinked at you.

"I'm planning on moving somewhere smaller," you said, tone clipped. "More manageable for two people."

Midoriya looked like he wanted to say something—but he hesitated. You walked ahead, wordlessly, and he followed.

There was a heavy pause as you crossed the living room, your socks quiet against the wooden floors. He watched you—watched the stiffness in your shoulders. The way you didn't offer him a seat.

"...You're being cold," he finally said.

"I'm tired," you lied.

"No," Midoriya shook his head. "You're being cold."

You turned, arms folded. "Say what you came to say, Midoriya."

He clenched his jaw.

"...I wanted to talk about you leaving UA."

You rolled your eyes, already turning away. "That's why you didn't want to call. You knew I'd hang up."

"Listen—"

"No. You listen."

He flinched. But he didn't back down.

"You didn't just leave a school, Y/n. You walked out on people who care about you. Mina's been freaking out all day. Kirishima's practically tearing himself apart thinking he said something wrong—"

You scoffed, looking away.

"Everyone thought you were one of the strongest in class."

"They were wrong."

"They weren't." His voice hardened. "It wasn't about your quirk. It was you."

You shook your head. "I'm nothing but a danger, Midoriya."

"You're not."

"You weren't there," you hissed. "You didn't see what I almost did—what I've done."

"And none of us will, if you shut everyone out like this."

You stepped toward him now, fire in your veins. "You don't know me."

Midoriya stepped closer too, fists clenched, voice rising.

"Do you even know yourself?"

The air punched out of your lungs.

You went still.

Midoriya's eyes widened. He immediately stepped back, hands raised. "I—sorry. I didn't mean to—"

You didn't say anything. Just stared.

He swallowed hard, but kept going.

"...I know we're not close. I know that. I'm not trying to pretend like I know your life. But... I know pain when I see it. I know someone fighting to hold it together. And I saw that in you, even when you smiled. Especially when you smiled."

His voice dropped softer, steadier.

"You belong at UA, Y/n. You have people who'd fight beside you. People who believe in you."

You looked away.

Your knuckles were white.

"...Even Kacchan's worried, you know?" he added quietly. "He won't say it, but... he wanted to follow you. We all did."

The silence between you both stretched, tense and quiet and aching.

You weren't sure if you hated him for saying all this... or hated how badly you wanted to believe it.

Midoriya shifted on his feet, his voice quieter now. "All Might and I talked. About One for All."

You blinked. "What?"

He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes. "We... agreed. That you'd be the one to help me train."

Your brows furrowed, confusion wrinkling your expression. "Why me?"

"Because you're sharp. Strategic. You don't sugarcoat things. And because... I trust you." He took a breath. "But how is that even possible now? We have completely different schedules."

You tensed, eyes flicking to the side. Your jaw clenched.

"I'll..." you exhaled sharply, forcing the words out. "I'll stop by after school. Walk with you. We'll train at my place."

Midoriya rolled his eyes, stepping toward you with more confidence than he usually had. "You're so selfish."

You snapped your gaze up to him. "Excuse me?"

"You are. You're so wrapped up in how you feel—how hurt you are by what happened—that you don't realize how it's hurting everyone else. I get it. You're angry."

"Oh," you hissed. "You get it?"

"Yes. I do. I know what it's like to feel powerless."

You laughed—cold, sharp, like glass cracking underfoot.

"You think this is about the USJ Incident? You think this is some emo phase?" Your voice was rising now, breath quickening. "I was beaten into silence, Midoriya. I wasn't raised—I was trained. Like a weapon. I was told when to eat, when to sleep, when to speak, when to smile. And when I finally make a choice for myself—a real one—suddenly everyone's mad at me for not picking what they wanted!"

Midoriya's eyes widened slightly.

"I won't be happy at U.A. I can't be. I can't sit in classrooms and pretend I'm just like everyone else when I'm not. When I've done things—seen things—"

You stepped toward him, your eyes wild now.

"If you ever— and I mean ever— treat me like I'm a child again, I will fucking bury you."

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Midoriya's shoulders stiffened. You could see him—trying to steady his breath. He didn't move. He didn't answer.

"Sissy..?"

The voice, tiny and trembling, sliced through the silence like a blade.

You froze.

Kyoka.

She stood at the top of the stairs, tiny fingers gripping the railing. Her eyes were wide, sleepy—but scared.

You swallowed hard, trying to hide the heat behind your eyes. "Go back to sleep, Kyoka."

She stepped down, but when your eyes met hers—too sharp, too cold, too fast—she froze. Like she thought she did something wrong. Like she thought you were dangerous.

Your entire chest clenched.

"No, no, baby," your voice cracked as you stepped forward, hands raised. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to look at you like that. I'm just... tired, okay?"

She nodded slowly, still cautious.

You knelt, holding your arms out. "C'mere."

She walked into your embrace with hesitation. But the moment you picked her up, she melted into you, hugging your neck tightly, her tiny form burying itself into the nape of your neck.

"I'm sorry, Kyo," you whispered, kissing her forehead. "I'm okay now. I'm just tired."

Her breath was soft, warm against your collar. "Okay."

You held her until her breathing evened out again.

"Give me a second, Midoriya," you muttered over your shoulder.

He nodded silently.

You walked upstairs with Kyoka in your arms, kissing all over her face until she laughed. As you walked to her room, she began to ease.

You tucked Kyoka back in, brushing the hair from her forehead, lingering at the door longer than you meant to. You waited until her breathing was slow and steady again before quietly closing it behind you.

Your feet padded softly against the wood floor as you returned to the living room, rubbing your eyes and trying to reset your mask of calm.

"Okay," you exhaled, voice tired, "Let's get back to this dumbass conversa—"

But you stopped cold.

Midoriya was standing by the bookshelf, his eyes focused on something in his hand.

You froze.

His brows were drawn, his mouth slightly parted.

It was a photo. That photo.

Your voice caught in your throat. You hadn't realized he'd even moved from the couch.

"Why is this face down?" he asked softly.

You moved fast—snatching the photo from his hands, turning it over, setting it down like it burned.

Your fingers trembled.

You didn't answer him.

Because how could you explain what that photo meant?

You as a child, eyes watery, cheeks puffy, smile fake and stretched too wide. Baby Kyoka in your arms. You were on the beach, and instead of playing, instead of laughing, you were stuck feeding her formula under the hot sun while your parents drank in the distance.

She was too young to even be there. But they didn't care. Because it was never about you.

And yet you smiled for the camera.

Always.

You turned away, jaw clenched. "Don't look through my shit."

"I wasn't trying to snoop," he said quietly. "It was face down, and I—"

"Oh, fuck off with the excuses, Midoriya. You came here to scold me, not to go through my things."

He stepped toward you, brows drawn. "I came here because I care. Because everyone cares. You dropped out and didn't even say goodbye—"

"And I told you why!" you snapped, spinning to face him, voice rising. "You think I owe you something? That I owe any of them something? I don't owe anyone a damn thing!"

He flinched but stood his ground. "I just want to understand."

"There's nothing to understand!" You were yelling now. "UA was a cage I was thrown into. You want me to sit there and pretend to be some bright-eyed idiot who thinks they can save everyone? Please. You're all the same. All of you wannabe heroes."

Midoriya's lips parted, stunned. "Is that how you really see us?"

Your glare answered before you could.

"I told you," you hissed, "I wouldn't be happy in UA. Who would be? It's just a school full of weak-minded wannabes who hide behind their quirks and titles because they don't have the guts to really fight."

Your laugh was cold—mocking, venomous.

"The same people who judge villains for the same shit they do in the dark. You all worship the system like it's flawless, like it hasn't killed more people than it's saved. Hypocrites, every single one of you."

Midoriya stared at you like he didn't recognize you.

"You..." he started slowly, his voice low. "You sound like Shigaraki."

Your heart dropped.

Your eyebrows furrowed, your hands curling into fists. "What did you just say?"

"I said—"

"I heard you." You stepped closer. "Say that shit again, and I swear—"

He didn't back down. "You're just repeating his words. You talk about saving Kyoka, about leaving the past, but all you're doing is dragging it with you. He thinks the same way you're talking right now—"

"I'm not him!" you roared. "Don't you dare—!"

You were stuck in a loop now, the two of you screaming back and forth, words overlapping, anger crackling in the air like lightning. You couldn't even hear yourself anymore—until everything went silent.

You blinked.

And behind Midoriya, standing in the kitchen, was your father.

Dead.

Blood soaked his shirt, pooling at his feet. The knife still buried in his chest. Mouth twisted in that same cruel sneer you'd seen the night you ended his life.

Your body went cold.

Midoriya's voice was still going until he noticed the way you'd gone still. "Y/n...?"

You didn't answer. Couldn't.

He turned to follow your gaze, eyes narrowing at the empty kitchen.

"There's nothing there," he said. "What are you looking at?"

You blinked—and he was gone.

Just... gone.

The kitchen was empty again.

You backed away, breath short, hand flying to your chest.

"Get out," you whispered.

Midoriya turned back toward you. "What—?"

"I said get out." Your voice cracked, fury returning like a wave crashing over your ribs. "I can't do this right now, just leave—"

"No."

"Why won't you leave me alone!?" You shoved him, your palms slamming against his chest. "Why won't you let me be happy on my own?! Why won't you let me leave this all behind!?"

Midoriya stood strong, but you saw it—the pain behind his eyes. He wasn't angry.

He was hurt.

"Because you don't want to be alone," he said. "You just think you deserve to be."

You tried to push him again, but your strength was gone.

Too tired. Too much.

He wrapped his arms around you suddenly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You froze.

"Let go of me—" Your voice cracked again.

"We care about you, Y/n." His voice was gentle. "I care."

Your throat clenched. Your fists pounded against him weakly, over and over.

And then you broke.

The sob ripped from you before you could stop it. Your shoulders shook, your face buried in his shoulder, your fists slowly loosening.

You finally pulled away, wiping your eyes furiously. "Well, you shouldn't care. I'm not a hero. I never will be."

You stepped back.

"Please," you said, voice trembling, "just—get out. Get out of my house."

Midoriya watched you for a moment, his eyes softer than they'd been all night.

"...I'll see you tomorrow."

He turned without another word and left, the door clicking softly behind him.

And you stood in the silence that followed, surrounded by shadows and ghosts that wouldn't let you sleep.

You stood there for a second too long, blinking back the tears, the echo of the door closing behind Midoriya still ringing in your ears.

Then—
You closed your eyes.

Just for a moment.

But when you opened them—

He was there.

Right in front of you.

Your father.

Dead.

Mouth hanging open in a twisted, grotesque smile that stretched too far, teeth stained red, lips peeled back like raw meat.

His eyes—
Cloudy. Dead. But still watching you.

Still enjoying your pain.

Even in death, he was reveling in it.

You stumbled back, hitting the wall behind you, trying to blink it away—he's not real, he's not real, he's not real— but it didn't matter.

Because when you looked again—

They were all there.

Your mother.
Your brother.
Your sister.

All of them standing in your living room, mangled.

Their bodies were bloated and torn open, limbs at wrong angles, skin sloughing off like wet paper.

Your brother's arm was half-gone, disintegrating with every twitch of his fingers. Chunks of his face flickered in and out of reality like static, skin splitting at the seams.

Your sister's eyes had rotted down to the sockets, but she still looked at you. Her mouth moved, forming your name in an endless, voiceless whisper.

You screamed.

You ran.

You didn't even know you were running until your shoulder slammed into your bedroom door. You flung it open, fell to your knees, and shoved it shut behind you, curling up right there, on the floor.

Your breath came in ragged gasps.

The door moved against your back—light, then harder.

Like fingers. Like someone was scratching. Trying to get in.

You slammed your palms over your ears, nails digging into your scalp as you sobbed, curled tighter, shaking.

"You're dead..." Your voice was hoarse.

"You're dead... You're DEAD..."

You rocked back and forth, tears slipping down your cheeks as the pounding started again.

"You're dead you're dead you're dead—"

But they didn't leave.

Their eyes never stopped watching.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The sun opened its eyes, casting golden rays over the rooftops in a greeting that used to feel soft. Sweet. Comforting.

But the light didn't touch you.

Something was blocking it.

Someone always was.

"Hate. Hate. Hate," your father's voice growled wetly, the sound a garbled mess through the blood perpetually bubbling in his throat. His corpse still stood in your mind's doorway, smiling with a slack, torn face—mocking you.

"Hate. Hate. Hate."

You couldn't breathe.

The rattling at the bedroom door hadn't stopped. Your siblings screamed through the crack, their voices shrill and rotting, distorted through their disintegrating flesh.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

And it got louder.

No sleep.

Again.

You jolted slightly at a knock—this one soft. Real. Different.

"Sissy?" Kyoka's voice.

Your eyes widened. You uncurled yourself from the floor, your body aching as you crawled to the door and peeked through the keyhole.

Only Kyoka. Just her.

You opened the door quickly and plastered on a smile, eyes wide to mask the redness. "You ready for school, Kyo?"

She nodded, blinking down at you with curiosity. "Why are you on the floor?"

You paused. Then stood, ignoring the question. "Just stretching."

You brushed past her and moved into your morning routine, working like a machine.

In the shower, the water cascaded over your back, steaming hot as you tilted your head up, letting your hair soak before pouring shampoo over your scalp. You scrubbed hard, almost too hard, like you could scrape away yesterday. As the suds slid down your body, your eyes flicked to your upper thigh.

The zigzag-shaped marking. It had grown again.

Barely—just a sliver. But enough.

You shut your eyes and shook it off. Not today.

You brushed your teeth, got dressed, made Kyoka breakfast, and then soon you were walking her to her school's entrance gates. Her small hand squeezed yours tightly, her bunny peeking out of her backpack. You only let go when her teacher arrived and Kyoka gave you a quick hug goodbye.

You watched her walk inside.

You didn't turn away until she was gone from view.

Then—headphones in—you turned and started walking home.

The walk was... haunted.

Not the kind you could see.

But you felt it.

The eyes.

All over your skin. Pressing into your back, your shoulders. Watching. Judging. You knew those eyes. You'd felt them your entire life. And now they never left.

It wasn't the house that was haunted.

It was you.

When you finally reached home, your brows drew together. Something was on the porch.

A white box.

Wrapped in a ribbon—your favorite color.

Cautiously, you bent down and picked it up. It was heavy. When you shook it, something inside shifted. Multiple things. Metallic.

You looked at the card.

Your heart stopped.

"All For One"

Your hand tightened around the box as you stepped inside the house, slamming the door shut behind you. You flipped the card over:

"Consider this an invitation to join the League of Villains as Tomura's second-in-command."

Written in fine cursive, like something from a historical declaration. Almost regal. Almost mocking.

Your stomach twisted.

What if someone had seen it? A hero? All Might?

You didn't open the box.

You brought it upstairs, set it on your bed, and walked away.

Then, you began to clean.

Deep clean.

Every room.

Your family's belongings—clothes, papers, keepsakes—you threw it all away. Bag after bag. You scrubbed the baseboards, the ceilings, the corners of the closets. You wanted it all gone.

No memories. No traces.

Just empty rooms.

When you got to Kyoka's room, you paused. Reorganized her shelves. Straightened her bunny's ears. Rearranged the furniture so it faced the window now, where the sunlight came in.

Then the kitchen.

The living room.

The bathrooms.

Lastly—your room.

The box still sat on your bed.

You didn't touch it.

You glanced at the clock.

Class 1-A would be in their final lecture right about now.

You sighed.

Then picked up your phone.

You winced. Unread messages — 42.

Most were from Kirishima.

Then Mina.

Aoyama.

Midoriya.

But not Bakugo.

Not a single message.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and opened Aoyama's first.

Yama: "Mon étoile, are you alright? Do you need me to come over after school? Did something happen with the League... or your family?"

You couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. Aoyama—direct and full of glittering drama. Naive to the villain world he was forced to live in. You quickly typed back:

You: "You realize you shouldn't text about the League of Villains, right? You'll get caught one of these days."
You: "It's a long story, wanna come over Friday?"

You didn't wait for a response.

Next was Midoriya's message. His was longer.

Midoriya: "Hey... I wanted to say I'm sorry for last night. I shouldn't have pushed you like that. Are you still okay with training later? All Might and I will be waiting at the gate if you're up for it."

You stared at the message.

Then turned your phone off.

And placed it face down.

You rubbed your temples, the soft ticking of the clock your only company.

The house was spotless.

But the mess inside you?

That wasn't going anywhere.

The silence was suffocating.

No music. No chores. No distractions left to throw yourself into.

Just the ringing.

High-pitched. Constant. Like pressure building in your ears, your skull. You gritted your teeth and tried to breathe, but even your breaths felt wrong—too loud, too heavy, too not yours.

And behind you, you could hear them.

The dead.

Breathing.

The air turned thick and iron-tainted. You didn't need to turn around to know they were there. You could feel them, the weight of their broken bodies pressing against your spine like gravity was folding in on itself.

"You're not real," you whispered, your voice shaking, eyes stinging. "You're not real."

But when you turned, they were closer.

Your murdered family stood in the center of the hallway. Their flesh distorted—wrong. Twisted like static. Unsettling in ways your mind couldn't fully process.

They looked... different.

And then, the whispers started. Warped. Slurred. Slipping between your ears like oil.

Closer. Closer.

"Box. Box. Box. Box..."

Your sister's mouth stretched, her baby teeth lengthening, sharpening. Her smile bent and curled like it had too many hinges. It split too wide for her cheeks to hold.

"Boxy, box, box—"

Their laughter hit like a freight train. Shrill. Splintering. A crescendo of sound that rattled the windowpanes and made your knees buckle.

You screamed and clutched your ears, stumbling backward, bumping into the wall.

Not real, not real, not real—

You turned and bolted.

Out the front door.

The sunlight didn't help.

You stood on the porch, panting, sweat slick on your brow, your phone trembling in your grip. The buzzing in your hands reminded you you were still here. Still alive.

Still not free.

Your gaze flicked toward the box on your bed through the upstairs window.

You needed a distraction. Anything.

Your fingers moved before your mind caught up, unlocking your phone and opening your messages.

There were too many names.

Too many people trying to reach you—trying to help.

You hated it.

But you needed it.

Your eyes skimmed your phone.

Your thumb hovered. Then tapped.

You: "Yeah. I'll come. Be there in 30."

You slid your phone into your pocket.

The dead didn't follow you out here.

But their voices still echoed behind your teeth.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The breeze was still. The metal of the gate cold against your back as you leaned into it, arms crossed tightly. Your gaze remained pinned to the concrete, where a single crack split the sidewalk like a scar.

You weren't thinking.
You couldn't.

Because every time you did—
They were there.

So instead, you stood quietly outside the gates of U.A., waiting. Waiting for the bell to ring. Waiting for the ache in your chest to quiet. Waiting for something to make this day feel less like drowning.

Then, the bell echoed.

Sharp. Final.

You swallowed thickly, bile rising in your throat. Your fingers twitched at your side. You could hear footsteps approaching—quick, excited, chattering. You couldn't tell if it was students or... them.

You kept your eyes shut.

Don't look. Don't let them in. Not now. Not here.

"Y/n..?"

Your eyes opened slowly, the voice anchoring you back. Familiar. Real.

Mina stood just a few feet away, her pink hair bouncing as she ran toward you. Behind her were Kirishima, Kaminari, Jiro, and Sero—all wide-eyed and smiling.

"Hihii!" you chirped brightly, lips curling into that perfect, practiced smile. One you'd worn your whole life. One that never reached your eyes.

"Y/n!! It's only been a few weeks and it's so boring without you!" Mina groaned dramatically.

"Seriously, we thought we'd never see you again," Kaminari added with a lopsided grin.

"I was starting to think you changed your number," Sero chuckled, nudging Jiro who was already pulling out her phone.

"Are you coming to the Sports Festival? You have to! Please tell me you are!" Kirishima beamed, red eyes filled with genuine hope. "Ohoh, do you wanna come hang out with us?"

"Kirishima's moms are making a hotpot!!" Mina chirped.

Your mouth opened to reply, but your words caught on the edge of your throat. Your fingers twitched again— say no, smile, make it quick— but before you could, a voice cut through.

"Y/n!"

Midoriya.
His steps were rushed, his shoulders tense as he made his way over.

And then he hugged you.

It wasn't like before, when he hesitated or tiptoed around your anger. No. This was a real hug. A "please forgive me" hug. His arms were tight around you, and his face buried into your shoulder. You could feel his body tremble.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he whispered quickly, voice cracking, "I didn't mean to upset you— I didn't know— I—"

You raised your hands defensively, caught off guard. "I-It's fine, Midoriya..!"

He pulled back slightly, blinking at you with red-rimmed eyes.

"No, it's not," he said softly. "But thank you for still coming."

Everyone around you had gone quiet, watching the exchange with curiosity and some confusion. But no one asked. Not yet.

Kirishima rubbed the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly. "Sooo, that's a no to hanging out at my place, huh?"

You offered a sheepish shrug. "Rain check?"

"Rain check," they all said together.

As they waved goodbye and wandered off down the street—your smile slowly faded. The warmth Midoriya left in his hug still lingered, but your chest remained hollow.

"So," he said beside you, gently. "Ready to train?"

You nodded, just once.

Anything to keep the ghosts quiet a little longer.

The courtyard began to empty.

Students funneled out of the gates in scattered pairs and groups, laughing and chatting, their shadows stretching long in the fading light. The sky burned orange, bleeding slowly into dusk.

You sat on the low stone wall just outside the gate, arms crossed and foot tapping faintly. Midoriya stood nearby, hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels as if unsure whether to speak or stay quiet.

Eventually, he broke the silence.

"So... Kirishima and Mina keep talking about doing a takoyaki night soon. They said it won't be the same without you, but Jiro's been teaching Kaminari how not to explode the batter, so... progress?"

You gave a light hum, polite. Distant.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Uhh... Shoji actually made a cool new training dummy for hand-to-hand. It's kind of terrifying, actually. It mimics your last attack if it hits you, so if you mess up it really punishes you. Iida called it 'educational brutality.'"

You gave a faint smile at that, barely a twitch of your lips.

"And, uh... Bakugo's still being Bakugo." He chuckled awkwardly. "But he hasn't said anything since... you know."

Your smile faded again.

Midoriya glanced at you from the corner of his eye. "You okay?"

You exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against your knees. "I've been... taking care of Kyoka. House hunting."

"That's good," he said gently. "She's lucky to have you."

You didn't reply.

The silence stretched again. It didn't feel comfortable, but it wasn't sharp either. It just... was.

And then, the whispers returned.

Soft. Gnawing. Rotten.

Your face twitched. One hand lifted to press against your ear like you could shove the noise back inside your skull. The other gripped your thigh hard, nails digging into the fabric.

Midoriya's eyes narrowed. "Is the traffic bothering you? I can ask All Might to pick a quieter spot next ti—"

You shook your head once, sharply. "It's not the traffic."

He didn't push. Just nodded slowly, turning back to the road. "Okay."

A few more moments passed before headlights washed across the sidewalk. A car rolled to a quiet stop in front of you—one you recognized instantly. The driver's door opened, and All Might stepped out—not in his towering hero form, but his frail, skeleton-thin body that barely stood straight in the wind.

He gave you both a nod, his eyes soft but still proud.

"Let's get going, young ones."

You slid into the back seat without a word. Midoriya climbed in beside you.

"All Might, could you drive us to this address?" he said, tapping it into his phone and showing it to the pro.

All Might squinted for a second, then smiled. "Of course."

The car pulled away from the curb.

Midoriya leaned slightly toward you. "You okay back there?"

You were staring out the window, head tilted, face unreadable.

Silent.

You didn't answer. You couldn't.

The whispers had followed you into the car.

The world outside the car window was soft and blurred, like watercolor bled into paper. The trees passed slowly, their branches bowing in the wind, their shadows stretching and snapping against the cracked sidewalks. The city was winding down for the day—shutters closing, neon signs flickering on, the last golden beams of sun chasing the skyline like they were trying to catch something they'd never reach.

But you weren't looking at the beauty.

You were staring through it.

Through the reflection of yourself in the window, pale and wide-eyed, haunted by thoughts you couldn't even name without invoking them fully. You weren't thinking about the car. You weren't thinking about the people inside it. You were thinking about the silence you'd return to, and the noise that came with it.

You flinched when All Might's voice gently broke through.

"Are you alright, young one?"

You blinked. Sat up straighter.

"Yeah. Just haven't been sleeping well these past few weeks," you murmured, your voice distant, flat.

"I see..." All Might glanced at you in the mirror, a flicker of worry in his gaze, but he didn't push.

The rest of the drive was quiet.

When the car finally pulled into the driveway of your house, you were the first to open the door, stepping out like the ground might vanish if you waited a second too long.

The gate creaked as you unlocked it.

The key turned with a heavy click.

The door swung open.

And there they were.

The bodies.

Your family.

Sliced and splayed exactly how you left them, blood soaked into the floors like the house had tried to swallow it and failed.

Your breath hitched. Your body locked.

The panic was rising fast, a scream climbing your throat. But Midoriya stepped inside like he saw nothing. Like the world was normal.

"Did you rearrange?" he asked casually, now standing right beside your father's corpse in the kitchen.

You blinked.

The body was still there.

But Midoriya moved through it—right through the gore like it was nothing. Like it wasn't there at all.

Fake.

Fake.

You exhaled slowly and nodded. "Yeah. I wanted a change."

You stepped in after them, shoving your panic deep down.

You led them out to the backyard.

The space was massive, an expanse of short grass and reinforced fencing, old rusted targets still bolted into far-off corners. Both of them stared, jaws slack.

"Whoa," Midoriya said, turning in a slow circle. "You could fit a whole training camp out here."

"Yeah. That's the plan."

You cleared your throat. "I have to pick up Kyoka soon."

"I can do that," All Might offered. "As All Might, even. I bet she'd love that."

You hesitated.

The farther she was from this house—this sickness—the better.

"...Alright," you murmured, and then turned to your mechanical sparring machine. You activated it with a hard kick, the gears hissing and coming to life. "This thing mimics the attack strength and angle of whatever it's hit with. Go wild."

Midoriya blinked at you. "Wait, seriously? Where did you even get this?"

You shrugged. "My father made it when I was a kid."

You didn't elaborate.

You left them there, walking back into the house. You filled a glass with water for Midoriya, poured a small glass of red wine for All Might. The scent of simmering broth filled the kitchen.

Katsudon.

Kyoka's favorite.

You glanced out the window and caught Midoriya tapping the machine's shoulder—only for it to gently do the same back. He looked amazed. You rolled your eyes with a tiny, amused snort.

All Might soon returned, stepping into the kitchen quietly as you stirred the sauce.

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

Then, as he watched Midoriya train outside, All Might spoke without turning to face you. "His issue is that he's stiff."

You hummed. "He needs to be more fluid. He reacts rather than predicts. You should start incorporating flexibility training—yoga would help, surprisingly."

All Might blinked at you. "You analyze your peers like a pro."

You shrugged, adding rice to the bowl. "It's habit."

All Might was quiet for a beat, then asked softly, "How do you train?"

"Until I pass out," you said, like it was no big deal.

His mouth thinned. "Did your father train you that rough as a kid? Or did you start that yourself?"

You glanced over your shoulder, a wry, flat smile on your lips.

"Quite the nosy hero, All Might."

Then, back to your task. "But yeah, he did. 'Til my bones broke, actually."

All Might tensed.

But you didn't see him.

You felt the breath against your neck.

The hands—rotting, cold—wrapped tight around your throat like a cruel hug.

You didn't fight it.

The sick part of you found the sensation comforting. Familiar.

"I'm a weapon waiting to be used," you said absently. "I've told Midoriya. I told Bakugo."

Your fingers clenched around the kitchen knife.

"Why the hell don't you heroes understand what that implies?"

All Might's voice was gentle, like stepping through a minefield.

"What does it imply, Y/n?"

You scoffed. "Consider it the easiest damn riddle known to mankind. Figure it the fuck out before it's too late."

You forced the knife down, finishing the final cut of the pork.

You turned, voice flat. "Now, can you go pick up Kyoka for me?"

All Might gave a slow nod and stepped out.

The hands released your throat the moment the door clicked shut.

You inhaled sharply. Blinked the dizziness away.

You made your way to the back door and opened it.

"Y/n?" Midoriya turned just in time for the machine to land a soft punch to his ribs, knocking him backward with a startled yelp.

You laughed—really laughed.

And Midoriya flushed with embarrassment but grinned too.

"Okay," you smirked, walking toward him. "Let's fix that stance. You've got a long way to go before you earn the right to spar with me."

—

Midoriya was panting like he'd just run a marathon, sweat soaking through his shirt as he threw another punch at the machine. You leaned out from the kitchen, spoon in hand, voice sharp.

"Your back foot! You're off balance again!"

"I'm trying!" he huffed, trying to adjust, but slipping right back into the same damn stance he always defaulted to. You sighed, turning the heat off under the katsudon and wiping your hands on a towel.

Outside, All Might—back in his true, gaunt form—was sitting on the patio bench with Kyoka beside him. She clapped excitedly every time Midoriya landed a hit.

"You got it, Midoriya!" she cheered.

He beamed at her and gave a thumbs-up, completely out of breath.

"Alright," you called, stepping outside, "food's done. Come in."

Midoriya let out a groan of exhausted relief. You walked to the machine and kicked the shutdown panel. The whirring stopped with a mechanical sigh, and the arms retracted.

The four of you sat at the table. Kyoka sat beside you, Midoriya across from her, and All Might settled into the last seat—your father's seat.

You froze for a split second.

Your body tightened like a spring, shoulders rigid, the back of your neck burning. You stared at him, expression blank but gaze sharp, until you couldn't look anymore. You glanced down at your food and began eating silently, shoveling it into your mouth like speed might kill the flavor of the memory.

"This is amazing," Midoriya said around a mouthful. "Katsudon's my favorite!"

Kyoka raised her hand, smiling bright. "Mine too!"

All Might, still in his true form, sipped his wine politely. You'd told Kyoka he needed to take breaks and to keep it secret, and thankfully she didn't think twice about it. She wouldn't remember. She never remembered anything that mattered.

Your jaw clenched.

"You're really gonna let a hero sit in our dad's seat?"

The voice was like a blade dragged down your spine.

Renjiro.

You flinched hard, teeth grinding as the pain shot from your skull to your fingertips.

"You're pathetic," he hissed, his voice like ash and smoke curling around your ears.

"Murderer~" Kyota giggled from somewhere behind you. That voice made your eyes sting—made your stomach twist. Their laughter started slow. But it built.

You closed your eyes. Rubbed your temples hard enough to bruise.

"Shut up," you hissed under your breath.

Silence.

When you opened your eyes, three sets of very real eyes were on you.

Midoriya. All Might. Kyoka.

All staring.

You blinked, throat dry.

"I... Sorry." You stood quickly, bowing your head out of habit, and grabbed your bowl. "I'll eat upstairs."

You didn't wait for a response.

You didn't want to see their faces anymore.

You walked up to your room, two other pairs of footsteps following you. "All you do is scare her, Y/n," Renjiro's decaying form chuckled as you stepped into your room. "Silly, silly."

"You waiting 'til she's older to kill her?" Kyota asked with a grin stretched too far across her rotted face, like her skin didn't know when to stop.

You froze. Then you turned and looked at them.

That was your mistake.

The moment you met their mangled, mocking gazes, they erupted into laughter.

Loud. Piercing. Wrong.

It split your thoughts like a nail between your eyes.

"No, no—stop," you gasped, dropping your bowl. It shattered against the floor, ceramic shards glittering like broken teeth. You fell with it, hands snapping up to cover your ears.

But it didn't help.

The sound burrowed deep into your skull, echoing around like it belonged there, like it lived there.

Their voices sounded like they were behind your eyes. Inside your blood.

"What the hell is happening to me?" you whispered, curling in on yourself. "What the hell is wrong with me..."

You pressed harder against your ears, rocking slightly on the floor as their laughter dragged on and on and on.

You didn't know that your fingers were trembling.

You didn't know that your temperature was higher than it should be.

You didn't know your vision had been subtly fading in and out of focus for days.

All you knew was this:

You were slipping.

And you didn't know how to stop.

The silence in your room wasn't silent.

It never was anymore.

Even now—after the laughter had stopped, after the phantom images of your siblings slinked back into the shadows like they'd done something good—you could hear them. Not with your ears. But somewhere else. Somewhere deep inside your body, like a heartbeat that didn't belong to you.

You curled your fingers into your scalp, trying to think.

What was this?

A mental breakdown?

Were you... losing it? Hallucinations? Night terrors bleeding into the day?

You'd read about that before. PTSD. Trauma. Phantom pain. Schizophrenia. Psychosis.

But there was pain. Real pain. Your muscles burned. Your skull ached. Every nerve in your head felt like it was sparking off against bone.

And then...

"But you'll die of that cancer if you use your quirk too much."

All for One's voice returned like a punch to the gut—low, velvety, cruelly amused.
It wrapped around your spine like a snake you didn't even realize had coiled there, hissing those words into your ear like he'd always known something you didn't.

You sat upright, gasping.

Your eyes widened.

No.
No, no, no.
That wasn't real. That couldn't be real. He was lying. He was always lying.

You rubbed at your face, your cheeks sticky with tears—
But your hands felt wet. Too wet.

You blinked down at your palm.

And froze.

It wasn't just tears.

Your ears were bleeding.

You touched your earlobes again in disbelief, fingertips trembling.
The blood was warm. Fresh. Your hands were coated, streaked down your wrists like paint.

It was dripping down your neck, soaking into your shirt collar.

You could barely hear the quiet hiss of the outside world anymore.
The ringing had taken over. The kind that isn't caused by sound, but by something deeper. Something wrong.

Your heart stuttered.

Your breath caught.

Your thoughts spun in circles like trapped birds slamming against the cage of your skull.

Am I dying?

────୨ৎ────
7464 words
love this trope of descent
into madness when it comes to
villains idk why 😭

Chapter Text

THE PEN IN HIS hand scratched across the page—neat, clean lettering that barely matched the image most people had of him. Midnight was lecturing about hero ethics, something about balancing law with instinct. Bakugo didn't need the lecture. He knew who he was. He didn't need anyone telling him how to be a damn hero.

But still, he wrote.

Mid-sentence, his eyes flicked to the side.

The chair next to him was still empty.

It had been weeks since Y/n left U.A., and the silence that came with it pissed him off more than he'd like to admit.

Everyone else was easy to forget. Extras, every single one of them. Not even worth the breath to say their names. Weak. Predictable.

But Y/n?

Y/n had challenged him. Matched him. Didn't flinch when he barked, didn't crumble under pressure. They'd gotten under his skin before he even realized it—fucking parasite of a presence, and now that they were gone, the hole they left was loud.

Tying with Katsuki Bakugo. No one had done that before. He hated it.

But also... he didn't.

"Bakugo," Midnight called, her tone sharp.

He looked up, blinking once.

"What?"

"What would you have done in this case study?"

Without hesitation: "Knock out the villain, then deal with the hostage. The villain's the threat. They don't get to talk, and I don't wait."

A pause. Midnight sighed. "Direct. But not entirely wrong."

He looked back to the empty chair as she moved on.

Tch.

When the bell finally rang, he shoved his notebook in his bag and stood so fast his chair screeched. He was halfway to the door before he heard it:

"K-Kacchan..?"

That voice.

That goddamn voice.

He turned slowly. "What?"

Everyone in the room flinched. Some stared. Some whispered. They were ready for the explosion. The usual screaming match.

But Deku didn't flinch. Not this time.

"I—uhm—was wondering something," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "You still talk to Y/n, right?"

Bakugo's brow furrowed at the name. His gut twisted without warning.

"...Yeah," he lied. "So what?"

Immediately, the room erupted. Kaminari spun around in his seat.

"Tell them I said hey!"

Raccoon Eyes rose her hand high with an annoying smile, "O.M.G.—ask them if they want to come to the Sports Festival, they'd love it!!"

Tape arms interrupted, "I miss their sarcasm, man."

Ears was quieter than the rest, "Tell them... they don't have to be alone, if they don't want to be."

Bakugo raised a brow. "What the hell do I look like, a fucking carrier pigeon?"

But Deku stayed quiet until the chaos died down. Then, eyes heavy, he said, "Are they okay?"

Bakugo narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Because..." Deku looked down at his shoes. "I trained with Y/n yesterday. I went to their house, and they were acting really strange."

Kirishima turned, interested. "Strange how?"

"Like... I don't know. They'd zone out. Stare off into space like they were watching something no one else could see. And their mood kept shifting. One second they were laughing with me and Kyoka, and then they suddenly snapped—told Kyoka to shut up out of nowhere."

The whole room got quiet again.

Even Bakugo.

His hand clenched at his side.

"...Maybe they're just stressed," he muttered, but it didn't sound convincing. Not even to himself.

Deku looked up again. "I think something's really wrong. Not just emotionally. Physically."

Bakugo's heart thudded once. Then again.

He clicked his tongue and turned back toward the door. "I'll talk to them."

No one said anything else.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

It had been four days. Four days since the hallucinations started. Or at least, that's what you thought.

Time had become your enemy. You were known for your memory, but lately it seemed like you barely even remembered if you had eaten 10 minutes ago or not. All you'd truly remember was the hallucinations.

The evolving hallucinated nightmares that became a reality to you.

At first, you thought it was grief. Trauma. You'd only see them—your family—in those low, broken moments where your mind was fragile and your guard was down. But as time slipped forward, so did the hallucinations. The trigger became looser. It wasn't just sadness or rage that summoned them now. It was everything. Anything.

Even joy.

Even Kyoka.

She waved from the schoolyard, little fingers wiggling, her smile toothy and wide—like the world hadn't shattered. You waved back, forcing your lips into something soft, something warm.

But inside?

You were clenched. Rigid. Barely stitched together.

Your arms held themselves, like your ribs couldn't stand to do the job anymore. The ache wasn't just emotional now. It had settled deep—into your nerves, into your bones. Your skin felt too tight. Too hot.

You were unraveling.

You knew it.

But you still had errands.

You pushed the grocery cart slowly, half-lidded eyes trying to focus on the list you made the night before. Tomatoes. Soy sauce. Fabric softener. Bread.

It was supposed to be simple.

But nothing was ever simple anymore.

"Are we getting snacks?" a voice asked from the cart, tone innocent and teasing. Familiar.

Your head snapped up.

Renjiro was sitting inside the cart—knees drawn up to his chest like Kyoka did when she was little. His bloodied shirt clung to half-rotted flesh, his collarbone cracked clean through, jutting just slightly out of torn skin. His jaw dangled loosely on one side, the flesh around it eaten away, like something had gnawed it open. His eyes were milky, yet somehow... aware.

And that smile.

That fucking smile.

It split his face in half—cracked through a missing cheek like a jagged crescent moon carved out of decay.

You froze mid-aisle, hands gripping the cart like it might keep you tethered to this reality.

The smell hit you next.

Rotting meat. But worse.

It wasn't fresh decay—it was old, soaked-in death. Like the reek of something long forgotten under floorboards, baked by time, swollen and cracked, leaking pus and wet air. The stench wasn't even consistent—it was more like a static. Like the humming buzz from a television left on a dead channel, sharp and dull all at once.

It clung to your nose. Coated your tongue.

Sweet, sour, metallic. Bitter.

And under it all?

A wetness.

You could smell the slop of internal organs as they spilled across the floor of your memory—intestines bloated and blackened, stomach contents long since curdled into mush. Your mother's lungs, which you remembered splitting with a kitchen knife, had reappeared in yesterday's hallucination still twitching. Still expanding. Breathing.

You clutched your side harder. Your nails dug into your shirt, and you prayed for pressure to stop the shiver crawling up your spine.

Renjiro didn't move. He just watched.

"Remember when you bought me the caramel ones?" he whispered, his voice a grotesque mimicry of his childhood lilt, broken up by the air whistling through holes in his throat.

You didn't answer.

Couldn't.

You reached for a jar of peanut butter and missed.

Your hand shook.

You blinked.

He was still there.

The dead didn't just haunt you now. They sat with you. Spoke to you. Shopped with you.

And with every passing day... they smelled more real.

"Oh, mon amour, is that you? It's strange to see you in outside clothes," a familiar voice called.

You looked up sharply, your grip still locked on the cart. Aoyama approached with his usual flair, scarf fluttering lightly behind him like some sparkling cloak. But when your gaze flicked briefly to the cart—where your brother's corpse was still lounging like a child—you didn't smile.

Your eyes snapped back to Aoyama. "Why aren't you in school?"

He tilted his head. "Aizawa-sensei has allowed us to take homeroom to train for the Sports Festival. You should be resting, no?" he said gently, concern beginning to creep into his tone. "Oh! And what time do you want me over, mon ami?"

You blinked slowly. "Today's Friday?"

He nodded, slower this time. His expression shifted from playful to cautious. He could read it on your face—something was wrong.

You gestured silently for him to follow.

No words passed between you as you moved through the store, aisle after aisle, picking up things almost on autopilot. Aoyama trailed beside you, small basket in hand, loading it up with sparkly candies, two boxes of French cookies, and that weirdly expensive water he always liked. Still, his eyes never fully left you.

"I've been seeing things," you murmured finally, voice soft, almost lost under the hum of the fluorescent lights.

Aoyama turned his head, studying your profile. You didn't stop walking.

"My heart's been hurting more than usual. I haven't been able to sleep. I forget things. Or I remember the wrong things," you admitted.

There was a pause. He didn't interrupt, didn't laugh it off.

"Everything feels..." You exhaled. "Like it's cracking. In pieces."

He said nothing but silently moved one of your heavier grocery bags into his arms when you reached the checkout. You added his items to your purchase without a word. The cashier didn't comment, didn't glance at your face too long.

You both stepped outside, the sun too bright, too loud.

As you walked, Aoyama made sure to carry more than his fair share, but his eyes kept flicking to yours, like he was waiting for the full weight to come crashing down. You could tell his silence wasn't disinterest—it was patience. It was care.

So when you turned into a narrow alley, a shortcut you'd taken many times, and he followed—hesitantly—he already knew the next words would ruin something.

Still, he followed.

"What's going on, Y/n?" he asked finally, voice gentle but firmer now.

You stopped walking.

The wind was low, dragging a piece of trash across the alleyway concrete like a slow whisper. The bags in your hands felt too light. The ghost of your brother was no longer in the cart, but you felt his eyes boring into your back. Still watching.

"I killed them."

Aoyama froze mid-step.

The silence between you was sharp—cutting through the air like broken glass.

His lips parted slightly, eyes wide. "...Your parents?" he asked, cautious. Scared. Not of you—of the implications.

You nodded slowly. "And my brother. My sister. Not Kyoka. My first sister."

Aoyama stepped back once, just a foot. He wasn't judging. You could tell. But his body didn't know the difference between fear and shock. And this? This was a bombshell.

"Why...?" he breathed.

"They were going to sell me," you said. Simple. Honest. "To All for One. They said I was a burden. That I was worth more dead or gone than alive."

Aoyama's eyes shimmered. Not with tears—he wasn't crying. But with too many things all at once. Horror. Compassion. Rage.

"You don't have to say anything," you added, lifting a hand. "I don't regret it. I'd do it again. But I think..."

Your voice cracked for the first time. "I think I'm dying."

That's when he dropped the bags.

You looked over at him. Aoyama was shaking, not from fear—but helplessness. "Y/n, mon cœur... What do you mean?"

"I've been hallucinating them," you explained, tone eerily steady. "Sometimes they look how they did when they died. Sometimes worse. They speak to me. They laugh. They sit beside me while I eat. I can smell them. I've been bleeding from my ears."

"Oh my god..." Aoyama whispered, rushing forward. He took your face in his hands, gentle as ever, thumbs brushing under your eyes. "Have you told anyone?"

You flinched slightly at his touch, but didn't pull away. "I have no one to tell." Your voice was slightly shaken. "I-I've never trusted anyone in my entire life. I came to UA with ulterior motives, they are not my friends. I shouldn't have talked to them to begin with. I was befriending Kirishima because his heart was so easy to manipulate, Mina was just an add-on— and now- now Midoriya has been coming to my house to train and hang out with Kyoka, and-and Kirishima and everyone else texts me— I don't even remember if I've ever responded!" You backed away from Aoyama as you began to cry, trying not to seem so vulnerable but the reality of the situation was hitting you.

"I hate these mood swings, too! One minute I'm angry for no reason and the next I'm sobbing! One minute I'm guilty and the next I'm grateful!" You sobbed.

Aoyama didn't move right away.

He just stood there—his hands still raised as if he were afraid touching you again would make things worse, but walking away would make him worse. The light in his eyes had dimmed to something soft, something unglamorous and real. This wasn't the sparkly boy from class anymore. This was Yuga, the boy with hollow bones and a shaking soul. The boy who knew, deeply, what it meant to live in a body that felt like a betrayal.

"Y/n," he said quietly, gently, like he was trying not to spook you. "Mon étoile, you're allowed to be angry. You're allowed to feel everything all at once. You're sick. This isn't just sadness or guilt or rebellion—your brain is being hurt. This isn't your fault."

You pressed your hands into your face, curling into yourself. "But it feels like it's my fault. I let them get close. And I shouldn't have. I can't afford to care about anyone. And now Kyoka's calling Bakugo her favorite hero— and Midoriya has been trying to act like he understands, and all of them think I'm someone I'm not—someone better—and if they find out who I am, what I've done, they'll hate me."

"They won't," Aoyama said. But his voice was trembling now, too.

"How do you know that?" you snapped through the tears, shoulders hunched. "How do you know they won't turn on me? You should run too, Yuga. You shouldn't be here. I'm not stable, I'm not even safe—"

"You are not a bomb waiting to go off," he interrupted, stepping forward again—closer this time. "You are someone in pain. You are someone trying to stay, even when everything in your head tells you to go. That's not weakness. That's not failure. That's human."

You broke. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But your legs buckled, and you sunk to your knees in the alley, your hands gripping the sides of your head as if you could squeeze out the noise.

"I don't know what's real anymore," you whispered. "I don't know if any of this is real."

Aoyama didn't say anything.

He sat beside you.

No glitter. No sparkle. Just warmth.

He leaned his head on your shoulder and let the silence stretch.

Eventually, you reached up and wiped your face, eyes puffy and raw. "Sorry," you croaked. "That was... I didn't mean t—"

-

You blinked.

A sharp ache bloomed in your stomach.

Your hand was wrapped around a fork, the metal cold and already half-buried in a plate of rice. You were seated at the dining table. Your house. The kitchen light flickered above you once. Twice.

What?

You looked down again. Your untouched food. The fork in your hand. The weight of the moment crashing down like a wave you hadn't braced for.

You blinked again. Harder this time.

You were just in the alleyway. You were just with Aoyama.

"A-Aoyama?" you said, your voice rasping in your throat like sandpaper. You looked around the room in confusion, your eyes scanning corners like maybe he'd just stepped out of sight, like maybe you could rewind the last ten minutes if you tried hard enough.

Kyoka looked up from her seat across from you, swinging her feet as she munched on a mouthful of katsudon. Her cheeks were puffed out like a chipmunk. "Sparkly boy went home a little while ago, sissy," she said with a shrug, then shoveled in another bite. "You okay?"

Your mouth went dry.

You tried to nod, the movement stiff and unnatural. "Yeah... just... spaced out," you murmured.

But the fork in your hand shook. Not visibly—barely perceptible—but you felt it.

You felt the way your body didn't remember moving. Didn't remember cooking. Didn't remember sitting.

You didn't remember saying goodbye.

You didn't remember anything.

Something was wrong. More wrong than before.

You forced yourself to chew, even though the food tasted like ash. Each bite was like swallowing cement. Kyoka didn't notice. She was humming to herself, swinging her legs, her plate almost cleared.

Your thoughts screamed in too many directions at once: Was this a memory loss episode? A hallucination? A blackout? A new symptom?

You looked up at Kyoka—your little sister, so small, so unaware of the war happening inside your body. Inside your brain.

I could hurt her, a voice in your head whispered.

You clenched your jaw. Hard. So hard you felt your molars grind.

Not now. Not in front of her. Not again.

"Wanna watch a movie after dinner?" you asked, your voice as steady as you could force it.

Kyoka grinned. "Only if I get to pick!"

"Deal."

You kept your head down as you cleaned your plate, smiling at her jokes, laughing when she got rice on her nose.

But all the while, in the back of your skull, that voice throbbed like a second heartbeat.

Were you day dreaming?

You were never in that alley.

Or maybe you were.

And maybe you never came back.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

y/n please stop reading the gc n ANSWER

Kirishima: Yooooo Y/n you should've seen Bakugo yesterday (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞
Kirishima: He was doing this solo drill thing and just BLEW UP THE WALL
Kirishima: Aizawa didn't even flinch. Man is immune at this point ˶ˊᜊˋ˶
Kirishima: Anyway I tried to help clean but got caught under debris and Sero had to tape-lasso me out (T_T)
Kirishima: I deserve a nap or something for that fr fr

Kaminari: damn, multi-texting? whipped

Sero: My tape deserves hazard pay. This man is a walking wrecking ball.

Jirou: You weren't complaining when you got to dramatic-hero-pose in front of the Support Course girls...

Sero: I can't help being cool (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

Kaminari: lololol

Mina: awww do you miss us, y/n?? you been too quiet (๑•̌.•̑๑)
Mina: I SEE YOU READING THE GC
Mina: this bitch has deadass basically been ghosting us. explain urself miss girl (｡•̀ ⤙ •́ ｡ꐦ) !!!

You: just been tired.
You: why are you guys training so hard again?

Jirou: The Sports Festival..? No way you forgot..

Your fingers paused above the screen, a tension curling in your stomach. You couldn't remember if you actually forgot—or if something had been wiped from you entirely. You felt like you should've remembered. Like it should've meant more. But you shook it off and typed back.

You: (°Ծ‸Ծ°)

Kaminari: LMAO brooooooo
Kaminari: that's it we're staging an intervention
Kaminari:

Sero: Agreed. You bring snacks, we bring the drama ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

Kirishima: Also you promised to cheer us on!! You better be there tomorrow or I'm tackling you with love and guilt ( ⸝⸝･̆⤚･̆⸝⸝) ♡

You: i did ..?

Mina: okay fr—u good?? like really? not fake-good?

You: can i be honest?

Jirou: ofc girl, always

Kirishima: you can tell us anything, seriously

You: lately... it's been weird-  i've been forgetting things. like really forgetting. a few days ago i was talking to aoyama since we saw each other at the store—i blinked, and suddenly i was at home, fork in hand, like a whole page in my brain just... ripped out

Sero: wait like blacking out?

You: sorta ?? but i wasn't drinking or anything. it's not even just that... it's like there are holes in my day. i'll go to do something and then boom, i'm somewhere else or i'll forget what i just said. or if i responded to a text at all. idk

Kaminari: yo that sounds serious, dude
Kaminari: have you told anyone??

You: not about the forgetting, no... i only told aoyama because i trust he wouldn't have told anyone.

Kirishima: what did you tell him?

You: just me hallucinating and my ears bleeding from it, no biggie

Sero: NO BIGGIE??? NO BIGGIE???

Mina: (⁠╯⁠°⁠□⁠°⁠）⁠╯⁠︵⁠ ⁠┻⁠━⁠┻

Kaminari: "yeah my brain is probably bleeding and im going fucking insane, no biggie xoxo" like what...

You: (๑°⌓︎°๑)

Kirishima: bffr rn... that's a HUGEEE deal

You: didn't want anyone to freak out or treat me different
You: it's probably stress, right?

Mina: nah nah that's not just stress- i mean stress can mess you up, but this sounds scary- please promise you'll go see someone about it?? like a doc or a counselor or something

Kirishima: is that why aoyama mentioned a doctor's appointment today ?? maybe you two talked about it while you were blacked out ?? after what you said, i doubt its for him.

Jirou: that's fair... we're keeping an eye on you now. even if you disappear, we'll find your emo ass (⑉･̆-･̆⑉)

Kirishima: Bet. You're part of the squad now whether you like it or not (˶ᵔᵕᵔ˶)

You: ദ്ദി‎◍˃ ᵕ ˂◍)
You: i'll show up just to see you fall on the stadium or whatever

Mina: YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Mina: THAT'S OUR BITCHHH

You turned off your phone and placed it on your dresser, the faint hum of the screen dying out with a soft click. As your hand dropped away, your eyes landed on something else—something quiet and unnervingly patient.

A white box, wrapped in a ribbon your favorite color.

Your stomach flipped.

Oh, yeah... All for One's gift.

You stood slowly, muscles stiff like your body already knew this wasn't something you were ready for. The box felt heavier than it should have when you picked it up—like it had absorbed the weight of your dread. You returned to your bed, sitting cross-legged, the edge of the blanket twisted between your fingers.

You gave it one cautious shake.

Clink.

Your heart skipped. It wasn't fear. Not exactly. It was something worse—recognition.

Your fingers hovered over the ribbon. But before you could unwrap it again, your eyes darted to the note tucked beside it on the nightstand. You picked it up with slow, deliberate care, rereading the last line like it had changed:

"Consider this an invitation to join the League of Villains as Tomura's second-in-command."

Second-in-command.

You let the note flutter from your hand and land like a feathered noose against your sheets. You stared at the ceiling. You waited for the laugh to come—because it had to be a joke, didn't it? Some twisted test. A game. A hallucination.

But no. The box was real. So was the note.

Your legs kicked out beneath the blanket, frustration rising like bile. You threw yourself into the pillow, groaning hard, the fabric muffling your spiraling thoughts.

"If I become a villain for real," you whispered into the dark cotton, "kill people for a living... what does that mean for Kyoka?"

Your throat burned. You hugged the pillow tighter, like it could ground you to some version of reality that made sense. But it was getting harder and harder to find your footing—like each day dragged you a little further off the edge of the map.

You tried not to think about it.
Tried not to think about the look on your father's face.
Or the way your fingers curled so naturally around that blade.
Tried not to think about how satisfying it felt to watch him die.
Tried not to wonder if... if joining them—the League—would make that noise in your head stop. The whispers. The bleeding. The rot.

Would it go away if I joined?
Would the guilt finally settle into purpose?

...Would it make my father proud?

You froze.

And then you shook your head hard, like you could knock the thought right out of your skull.

No.
This isn't up to him. Not anymore.
This is my decision.

You sat up again, reaching toward the box just as—

Riiiiiing... Riiiiiing...

Your phone buzzed violently on your nightstand, cutting through the quiet.

You ignored it.

Riiiiiing... Riiiiiing...

You groaned, grabbing it, ready to shut it off entirely—

Your breath hitched.

Bakugo [XXX-XXX-6470] is calling... 

Your finger hovered over the screen. Then you slowly pressed green.

"...Hello?" you murmured, like it might be a prank. "What's up with all of you guys talking to me when it's late as fuc—"

"Open the door."

You sat up straighter, your spine going stiff like someone had poured ice water down your back.

"...What?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I said open the damn door," Bakugo repeated, low and firm, every syllable clipped like a grenade about to blow.

Your breath caught.

You turned slowly, eyes dragging toward your front entrance as though it might already be wide open—inviting him in. But it wasn't. Deadbolted. Locked tight.

You stood up from the bed, phone still pressed to your ear as if it were the only thing anchoring you to this moment.

"You're at my door?" you asked, this time without the fake annoyance—your voice brittle, cracking just slightly at the edge.

"No, I'm at some other house yelling into the phone at midnight for fun," he snapped, dry as ever. "Yeah, I'm at your door."

You hung up without saying another word, tossing your phone to your bed like it burned. You grabbed the hoodie hanging off the back of your desk chair and rushed downstairs barefoot, heart pounding so loud it echoed through your ribs.

Each step down felt like you were carrying a boulder in your chest.

You hesitated only for a moment at the door, hand hovering over the handle.

Then, you unlocked it and pulled it open.

There he was.

Katsuki Bakugo.

In black sweats and a fitted long-sleeve shirt, arms crossed like he'd been standing there for hours. His brows furrowed deeper the second he saw you, and for once... he didn't speak right away.

His crimson eyes scanned your face like he was looking for a reason—any reason—not to be worried. And clearly, he didn't find one.

"You look like shit," he muttered, stepping inside without asking. The moment he crossed the threshold, your space changed. Charged. Alive.

You shut the door quietly behind him.

"I—What are you doing here?" you asked, voice soft.

You closed the door behind him gently, pressing your back against the wood as if you could keep everything else in your life from barging in after him. Bakugo stood there in the center of your living room, his boots planted like he belonged there—like he wasn't about to flip everything inside you upside down.

His eyes darted around—clocking the unwashed dishes, the eerie stillness, the air that felt...off. He didn't need to go upstairs to know something was rotting in this house.

He ran a hand through his hair, jaw clenching hard enough to crack enamel. You could feel the weight of his anger pressing in from across the room.

"Why the fuck didn't you tell anyone?"

You looked at him, brows drawing in. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't start being stupid with me. The fatigue? The zoning out like you're scared as fuck? I don't know, your ears bleeding?" His voice cut the air like a blade, laced with concern he didn't know how to show properly.

You tensed. That hit a nerve.

"God damn it, Kirishima..." you muttered, rubbing your temples.

"Oh, trust me, that ball of hair-dye didn't tell me shit," Bakugo snapped. "You think I wouldn't notice something's wrong just because you fake a smile once a week?"

Your face shifted from defensive to confused.

"How—?"

"Because I see you, idiot!" he shouted, taking a step forward. "The gate, the tree, the vending machine— You think you're subtle, acting like no one gives a damn about you?! You think isolating yourself makes you strong?"

You stared at him like he'd grown another head. The anger in your throat finally snapped.

"So what? I want to be alone, and suddenly that's a crime now?" you barked back. "What's so wrong about me needing space?"

"This isn't space. This is straight up silence. Silence turns into you disappearing. Then next thing I know, I'm at your fucking funeral wondering why I didn't kick down your door sooner!"

You scoffed, arms crossed so tight your nails bit into your skin like maybe pain could hold you together. "Like who would even show up to that funeral, huh? You? Don't make me laugh!"

That stopped him.

His fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight, chest heaving. His gaze was scorching, but not cruel. It was the kind of fire people built homes around—dangerous if mishandled, but warm if you let it in.

"You're acting like you fucking know me," you hissed, stepping forward. "You don't! You think a few conversations and pity texts give you a right to care?! You're just some egotistical jerk with a savior complex and a loud voice—"

"And my name is Katsuki Bakugo."

The words cut your tirade in half.

You blinked. Confused. That...wasn't what you expected. "What?"

But he kept going, voice low but unwavering.

"My name is Katsuki Bakugo," he repeated, slower this time. "My hair's naturally blond, but my roots turn dark if I don't bleach 'em. I do it with my old man every few weeks in the bathroom while my mom complains about the smell."

You opened your mouth, confused, but no words came.

"I like modeling," he continued, "because my parents own a styling business, and I've been doing shoots since I was six. That's why I don't flinch when cameras are shoved in my face."

He took a small step toward you, voice steady but not angry.

"I ate every piece of spicy shit from that gift basket you made for me. Gave the sweet ones to the hag. She liked 'em."

You felt your heartbeat slow for a moment, caught off guard.

"I play drums. Not because I think it's cool—but because hitting something over and over keeps me from breaking walls when I'm pissed. I train after school until my bones ache. I study at night until my brain's fried. And when it all gets too loud—I sit in the quiet and remind myself not to burn out again."

His red eyes found yours—vulnerable, and a little bit furious, but steady.

"There, now you know me," he muttered, tone sharp but oddly soft at the same time. "Tell anyone about me bleaching my hair and you're dead."

Your eyebrows furrowed at the whiplash shift, your throat tightening.

"Now, say whatever else you have to say so I can interrupt you again," he added. "I like talking about myself."

You tried to hold your glare, keep your mouth curled in frustration, but your stomach turned with something softer—almost nauseating in how gentle it felt. A fluttering you hadn't felt since you were a kid, when the world hadn't yet broken its promises.

There was a pause between you both. Then, finally, you spoke.

"My name is Y/n L/n Kakegawa."

His posture changed. Less defensive now. Listening.

"I like spicy food and staying inside. I'm bisexual. When I'm not training, watching Kyoka, or cleaning I'm either thinking or watching anime. I cried when Rengoku died in Demon Slayer, and I'm still waiting for a new season of Ouran Host Club. I dyed my hair f/c when I was a kid and had an emo phase because of it."

Bakugo's lips twitched, like he was trying really hard not to smirk at that one.

You exhaled slowly. Then:

"The coin from my quirk... it's not just a coin." You hesitated, voice quieter. "It's my heart. If it breaks, I die. That's why when we were training—I was coughing up blood."

His expression darkened with concern, but he said nothing. He let you speak.

"I lied about my parents leaving."

There. Out in the air. You braced yourself, fists tightening at your sides.

"My parents were murdered by a villain named Gambit. My older siblings were killed by Shigaraki. It was while you were babysitting Kyoka for me—that's why I was late that day."

His mouth parted slightly, red eyes widening. But still, no judgment. No interruption. Just... a steady presence.

"I haven't used my quirk since then. I couldn't save them. So I left U.A. I lied so Kyoka wouldn't be taken away. So we wouldn't get dumped into foster care."

Not a single part of your voice shook when you said it—but your soul did.

"I think my quirk is killing me. That, or I'm finally going insane." You stared at him, as if waiting for the blow. The insult. The scoff. The rejection.

"There," you finished. "Now you know me."

Silence. Long, drawn. Suspenseful.

You looked away, ashamed, preparing yourself for his ridicule.

But it didn't come.

Instead, you heard the soft shuffle of his boots against your floor, and then—without asking—he stepped forward and pulled you into a hug.

Not a hesitant one.

Not a pity hug.

But firm. Real. Like he was holding you up when your own strength was running on fumes.

You froze.

His chin rested lightly on your shoulder. "Fuck the system if they'd ever try to take her from you," he muttered into your neck. "You've been raising that girl better than most damn adults I know."

You blinked hard, trying not to cry again.

"And you're not insane," he said next. "You're in pain. That's different. And you're allowed to be."

Your fists slowly uncurled. Your walls cracked in quiet.

"I'm not gonna treat you like some broken doll," he continued. "You're not a kid. You're not a monster. You're not weak. You're someone who's still here, after all the shit you've been through. That matters."

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, but his grip stayed firm, grounding. Like he was holding you there—not out of control, but out of care.

"You told me the truth. So now you deal with the consequence," he said.

Your brows drew together, confused. "What consequence?"

He smirked.

"You're stuck with me."

"Oh nooo!" you groaned dramatically, voice cracking with a surprised laugh. "Anything but that!"

Bakugo's hands tightened with faux menace as he pulled you into another hug-attack, holding you like you might actually try to escape. You squirmed with a grin, half-heartedly pushing against his chest.

"Get off me, Bakugo!"

"Make me." He growled playfully, resting his chin on your head like a smug cat.

You struggled, only to realize halfway through that you'd... stopped. Somewhere in the warmth and rhythm of his breathing, you'd melted into it. Into him. Your arms were no longer defensive; they were just there, relaxed at your sides. When had that happened?

"L/n is a stupid middle name, by the way." Bakugo muttered against your hair.

You pulled back just enough to narrow your eyes. "Way to ruin the wholesome moment, asshole."

"Says the one who dropped 'my parents are dead' like a fun fact," he snapped. "Mine were normal. Yours were—"

"Random?" you offered.

"I was gonna say depressing, but whatever." He rolled his eyes and then, without warning, shoved you gently onto the couch.

You laughed as you bounced back, rolling from your back to your stomach with a huff. Bakugo took the corner of the couch, legs spread and arms over the back like he owned the damn thing.

"You're surprisingly really nice," you teased, resting your chin on your arms. "when you want to be, I mean."

He turned to glare at you like you'd insulted his entire lineage.

"The fuck did you want me to do? Say 'oh damn' and give you a pat on the head?" He grumbled. "I'm not a fuckin' idiot."

You snorted. "Could've fooled me."

"Keep talkin', I dare you." He huffed, but there was no heat in his words—just that strange fondness he hid behind snark.

The conversation after that twisted into something easy, almost absurdly so. One minute, you were arguing about which anime character would win in a fight, the next, you were ranking the best junk foods. He even admitted—grudgingly—that he liked those overpriced spicy ramen bowls you had stacked in your pantry.

You found yourself watching the way his nose crinkled when he laughed—really laughed—and how expressive his hands were, even when he tried to be cool. You were desperate to know what was going on in his head... yet part of you liked not knowing. It felt realer, somehow.

And god, that sickly, fluttering feeling in your stomach?

You still didn't know what it was. Or maybe you did. Maybe you'd just refused to give it a name.

But right now?

You didn't need to name it.

You just let it happen.

You blinked at him, your head tilted just slightly. The couch felt warmer now—not just physically, but in a way that made you aware of how close he was sitting, how his knee brushed yours every so often, not entirely by accident.

"Class is worrying 'bout you, ya know." Bakugo muttered, eyes locked on a loose thread in the throw pillow he was picking at. His ears were tinted pink again.

Was that how he blushed?

It was... kind of adorable, actually.

You raised a brow. "What do you mean?"

"Ears said you didn't deserve to be alone," he said, still looking anywhere but at you. "Deku was the reason I started observing you in the first place."

You gasped, mock-offended. "By observing you mean stalking, right?"

His glare shot up to meet yours. "I will go home and block your number so fast your ghost won't even text me."

You snorted, covering your mouth as your laughter shook your shoulders.

But then... he kept going.

"They haven't really said anything, not directly," he continued, quieter now. "But I can tell. They're quieter when you're not around. Ears kept checking the door like you were gonna walk in any second. Dunce Face asked Deku if he could bring snacks to your place just to 'drop by'. Hell, even Half 'n Half looked kinda pissed when he realized you were gone. And that guy's face is a damn glacier."

You looked down, lips parting slightly. You hadn't expected that. You hadn't expected any of them to actually... miss you.

And then Bakugo dropped it. His voice was still rough, but there was something careful underneath it. Like he didn't want you to run this time.

"Come to the Sports Festival."

You looked up, startled.

"With Kyoka. Not to compete or anything. Just... show up. Sit in the stands. Wave if you want to. Don't if you don't." He shrugged, feigning indifference as he leaned back. "Take a break from all the shit going on in your head. Say hi. Watch us be idiots."

You stared at him. Really stared. The offer sounded so simple. But you could feel the weight of it—the way he was handing it to you like a rope across a ravine, no pressure, no expectation... just there.

You chewed your bottom lip. "You think that'll fix me?"

He finally looked at you—really looked at you—and for a moment, his voice softened.

"I think it might remind you you're not broken."

Your breath caught.

Silence filled the room again.

But this time, it wasn't heavy.

It just was.

You leaned your head against the couch cushion beside him, eyes fluttering closed for just a second. "You gonna be all explosive and loud if I show up?"

"Tch. I'll be explosive and loud either way."

You smiled.

Maybe you'd go.

Just to say hi.

"Boom Boy and Sissy are flirting..." a small, sleepy voice echoed from upstairs.

Your eyes widened in horror, snapping toward the source.

Kyoka stood at the top of the stairs in her pajamas, hair fluffed from sleep and eyes squinting down at you both with a judgmental squint far too powerful for a six-year-old.

"NO WE ARE NOT!" you and Bakugo shouted in unison, voices overlapping in panic.

Silence.

Kyoka blinked.

Then shrugged, turning around. "Okay, but if you kiss I'm telling Miss Midnight."

You nearly choked as Bakugo groaned and collapsed back against the couch.

────୨ৎ────

6816 words

Chapter Text

KYOKA WAS SNORING SOFTLY, sprawled out in the center of the couch like a sleepy queen in her domain, her tiny limbs taking up far more space than anyone her size should've been capable of. Which meant you and Bakugo were left shoulder-to-shoulder, squished into the edge like a pair of teens awkwardly forced into proximity by fate—and a sassy six-year-old.

You had your legs tucked under yourself, head tilted slightly as you both stared at the TV, the glow of the paused menu casting pale light over the room. Neither of you had moved in a while. It was... strangely peaceful.

Until Bakugo broke the silence.

"So," he muttered, shifting just a little closer. "Top hero. Who's the best?"

You blinked. "Like, power-wise? Or popularity?"

"Doesn't matter. There's only one right answer."

You grinned at him, playful. "Lemme guess. All Might?"

He scoffed. "Obviously."

You gave an exaggerated yawn, leaning your head back. "Overrated."

Bakugo snapped his head toward you, jaw practically unhinged. "What?!"

You snorted. "I'm just not really fond of heroes. I mean, don't get me wrong, some of them do good work, but..." You shrugged. "I haven't met one that wasn't greedy. They want something—fame, recognition, power, praise. It's always something. Even All Might. He smiles because it's a symbol. Not because he's happy."

Bakugo narrowed his eyes. "How do you know that?"

You turned your gaze back to the screen. "My dad... he taught me how to read people. Too well. Said a good hero is just a good actor. And a good actor can get anything they want if they know what strings to pull."

Bakugo was silent for a moment, eyes still on you.

"That why you're so good at gettin' under people's skin?" he asked finally.

You cracked a smile. "Maybe. I was raised to be a manipulator. It's like second nature now."

He leaned slightly toward you, voice low. "Could you read me?"

You turned to meet his eyes—quiet and sharp like a blade held flat. The moment stretched.

Then, you shook your head. "No. You're unpredictable. Not like anyone I've met. It's... inspiring."

The word slipped out before you even realized it.

Bakugo blinked. "Inspiring?"

You froze. Like your brain hadn't even processed what you'd said until it was repeated.

"...I guess so." You said, softer this time, like you didn't trust yourself to speak too loud.

He didn't say anything. But his expression shifted—barely. Like he was trying to hold something down, something warm, something alive.

You sat there in silence for a while. The kind of silence that wasn't uncomfortable. Just full.

Then you glanced toward the clock.

"It's getting late, Bakugo," you started, pulling your knees up. "You should head home. I bet your mom and dad are worrying."

He didn't move.

"Nah," he muttered, grabbing the remote and scrolling through Netflix. "I told 'em I was spendin' the night here."

You stared at him.

"...What?"

Bakugo shrugged like it was no big deal. "Told them I'd be on the couch. With backup. In case you melt down again."

You smacked his arm.

He didn't flinch. Just grinned.

"You're so dramatic," you muttered, but your voice was lighter now. A little less strained. "And I'm fine."

"I know," he said simply, settling deeper into the couch next to Kyoka. "But just in case."

The room fell quiet again, only the soft sound of the TV menu theme looping in the background.

Bakugo scrolled through the endless sea of half-watched titles and mindless fluff, pausing occasionally, brow furrowed, clearly judging each one. Then he stopped, hovering over one.

It was a poster with soft pink hues bleeding into deep purple. A woman in a cracked, white hero mask stood in the foreground, while a man in a black coat with iridescent streaks curling from his hands loomed just behind her, watching from the shadows. The title glowed in cursive gold letters:

"Moonbound Hearts"

Your breath caught. "That's my favorite movie!"

Bakugo looked at you with a raised brow. "Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously!" You grinned, already pulling the blanket up and sliding into the cushions like it was a throne. "Click it! Click it now, boom boy."

He rolled his eyes but didn't fight you. "Tch. You've got garbage taste."

Still, he clicked it.

The screen went dark for a moment, then opened on a city blanketed in heavy rain, flickering neon signs painting the puddles. The opening sequence followed the villain—Jinu—hunched on a rooftop, his glowing tendrils slithering along the metal rails, tracing the edge like whispers. The music swelled when Rumi, the hero, dropped from the sky mid-fight, her mask cracked, her face bloodied but defiant.

"Jinu's quirk is called Phantom Bloom," you explained, voice dreamy. "He uses hallucination petals to distract and confuse his enemies. But they come from his own memories—like... his emotions become the battlefield. The stronger the memory, the more vivid the illusion."

Bakugo hummed. "That sounds stupidly complicated. What if he forgets stuff?"

You giggled. "That's the point! That's why it's so good! He falls in love with Rumi, right? But to keep her safe, he has to erase her from his mind. The final fight—ugh, it wrecks me every time."

Bakugo glanced at you sideways. "You like that sappy crap?"

"Don't act like you're not watching." You nudged him, and to your surprise, he didn't pull away.

As the movie played on, you found yourself rambling every time he asked something—"Why's she hesitate there?" "Wait, she could've dodged that." "Isn't he supposed to be the bad guy?"

And every time, you answered, not with annoyance, but a kind of growing joy. Like... you'd been waiting for someone to care this much about something you loved. And it was him.

"He's not a bad guy," you said at one point, eyes soft as Jinu and Rumi stood under a ruined clock tower. "He just didn't know how to be good without losing everything. That's different."

Bakugo was quiet for a moment, staring at the screen. "...Sounds familiar."

You looked at him.

He didn't elaborate.

But you felt it.

The tension in your chest eased, replaced with a slow, warm pulse. It wasn't just the movie or the moment—it was the realization that you weren't being studied, or tolerated.

You were being seen.

—

The final scene struck like a punch to the chest.

Rain poured down like the sky itself was sobbing. Sirens in the distance. Jinu was walking away from the wreckage of another fight—blood on his knuckles, hair matted to his face.

And Rumi ran after him, yelling his name.

"Jinu! JINU, STOP—damn it, would you just LISTEN?!"

He turned. Finally. Soaked to the bone. Tired. His eyes glassy like he'd already cried out everything.

"What?" he rasped.

"You can't keep doing this," she shouted. "This war's going to kill you. Let us help. Let me help. Come to the other side. Please."

There was a pause. A long one. The camera lingered on Jinu's eyes.

His lower lip trembled just barely. His breath caught.

Then—

"I... can't."

He turned and walked away.

Rumi stood there in the middle of the street, soaked, shaking, lips parted like she wanted to scream but couldn't.

Then the screen went black.

"Directed by Shin Takanawa"

"Thank you for watching."

...

"...WHAT?? THAT'S IT?!" Bakugo yelled.

"That's it?" Bakugo barked again, sitting forward on the couch like someone had just slapped him across the face. "You're kidding—that's how it ends?! She just lets him go?!"

You couldn't help it—you burst out laughing. Like, actual breathless, wheezing laughter that made your eyes water.

"You sound offended," you teased, wiping at your cheek.

"I am offended!" Bakugo snapped, turning toward you, his expression caught somewhere between outraged and betrayed. "Why the hell would she chase him down like that just to let 'im walk away?!"

You tried to catch your breath between giggles. "Because that's the whole point! They love each other, but they're on opposite sides! It's about sacrifice, Bakugo. The heartbreak makes it mean something—"

"Bullshit," he cut in, pointing an accusatory finger at the screen. "That chick would never give up. Not on him. Not after everything. That's not love, that's just being a coward."

You blinked. Your laughter died down just a little.

"...You think it's cowardly to walk away?"

He scoffed. "No. I think it's cowardly to let someone walk away when you know they don't want to. People always talk about how 'real love is letting go'—but real love is holding on even when it hurts like hell. And if you really care, you fight. Even if they hate you for it."

You stared at him for a moment, something tight blooming in your chest.

"You know that's not how the world works, right?" you said softly. "Sometimes people walk away because it's the only thing they can do. Not because they want to."

Bakugo didn't look at you. His jaw tensed, and for a moment, all you could hear was the faint hum of the credits music and Kyoka's tiny, rhythmic breathing from her corner of the couch.

Then he muttered, "Doesn't mean I won't follow."

That silenced you.

You looked at him—really looked—and he finally turned his head to meet your eyes. The heat in your chest wasn't nervousness anymore.

It was something heavier.

Realer.

And for a terrifying, fleeting moment, it felt like you were Jinu. The villain who didn't ask for that life—but survived it anyway. Not because he wanted to hurt anyone, but because no one ever gave him another option.

"You know why I love that movie?" you asked, your voice quiet.

Bakugo leaned back, arms crossed. "Because you're a hopeless romantic who likes cliché tropes?" he guessed with a smirk.

You snorted and lightly punched his shoulder. "No. I mean, yes—but no. I resonate with Jinu. His character is just so real. He didn't become a villain because he wanted to be evil or whatever—he became one to protect his family. Because no one else would. Because the system failed him and the heroes ignored him. That life was forced onto him. He was made into something people could blame."

Bakugo stayed quiet, his expression unreadable.

You added, "Also, his taste is immaculate. Rumi's pretty, smart, and actually has morals. Man's got a type."

That finally earned a scoff from him. "Tch. Jinu's overrated."

That earned a low chuckle from Bakugo as he leaned back, arms crossed. "Nah. Rumi was way more relatable than Jinu."

You turned toward him, raising a brow. "Oh really? Enlighten me, Rumi fanboy."

"She's not some delicate moral compass, okay?" he started. "She's jaded. She's tired. But she keeps going anyway. Even when it feels hopeless. Even when she wants to give up. She's angry—like, all the time—but she uses it. She channels it into something useful. She's got scars, and she's got regrets, but she doesn't use them as excuses. She just fights harder."

Your smirk faded slightly as you studied him. The more he described Rumi, the more it clicked.

He wasn't talking about her.

He was describing himself.

You looked back at the screen where the teaser for the sequel played—just a flash of Jinu's back, blood-soaked and limping, reaching out toward something—or someone—you couldn't see.

And you felt it bubble up from your chest before you could stop it:

"I wish I was someone's Jinu."

Bakugo's head turned toward you. Slowly.

You winced. "Sorry, that was cringe—"

"No," he said, cutting you off, voice quieter now. "It's not."

There was a pause. A long one.

Then he gave a crooked grin and muttered, "Guess that makes me your Rumi, huh?"

You blinked, surprised—before laughter cracked through your lips. "You? Please. Rumi's graceful. You're like a caffeinated grenade."

"Oh, fuck off," he barked, grinning despite himself. "You're the mopey antihero in every scene. I'm the one keeping your ass in check."

You rolled your eyes, still smiling. "Fine. I'm Jinu. You're Rumi. One day, I'll find my Rumi."

"And I'll find my Jinu," he echoed, just a little sarcastically.

The two of you stared at each other for a moment.

Then—

"We're so full of shit," you said.

"Oh, absolutely," he agreed, smirking.

But neither of you looked away as you laughed. And neither of you meant it.

The TV auto-played a trailer, but Bakugo grabbed the remote and began scrolling again. "Alright, your turn's over. Time for a real movie."

You snorted. "What, you gonna put on some ultra-gore slasher film where everyone dies in the first five minutes?"

He smirked like you'd just praised him. "Damn right. This one's a classic." With a click, the screen darkened, and an ominous soundtrack filled the room.

The title scrawled across the screen in dripping red letters: The Hollow Room.

Within minutes, screaming, flickering lights, and increasingly stupid character decisions took over the screen. You watched with a mixture of amusement and mild disgust while Bakugo, despite pretending to be stone-faced, clearly loved every second of it.

"You have terrible taste," you mumbled, halfway through the movie as another character split from the group to investigate a noise.

"And you're still watching," he countered, nudging you with his elbow.

You rolled your eyes but didn't respond.

You were going to—really—but your body had other plans.

You didn't notice how your head slowly tilted, your eyelids growing heavier and heavier with every blood-splattered scene. You didn't even process the moment your head landed on Bakugo's shoulder.

You did feel him stiffen for a second, though. Not in discomfort. More like surprise.

Your instincts told you to move—lift your head, apologize, something—but your limbs had turned to lead, and a warmth was beginning to pull at your spine.

So you stayed.

You heard him shift slightly, but instead of shaking you off, you felt his arm shift—shoulders dipping ever so slightly to make your position more comfortable. His scent was sharp—burnt caramel and smoke, something familiar and safe.

Your breathing evened out. Your thoughts slowed.

And then, finally—sleep claimed you.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn't dream of blood.

You didn't dream of your father's voice.

You just slept.

Peaceful.

Beside someone who saw you.

And didn't flinch.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Your good dream twisted suddenly. Warmth turned to crawling pressure—hands, heavy and cold, pressing against your body like they belonged there. You couldn't scream, couldn't move. The comfort dissolved into something wrong, something too familiar. Your brows furrowed as your eyes snapped open, breath catching in your throat.

You were in your bed.

Sheets tangled.

Kyoka snuggled up against your back, breathing soft and slow.

Your eyes adjusted to the dim glow of the nightlight in the corner—just enough to make out the faint silhouette leaving your room. The door creaked slightly as it shut, and a strange, hollow dread pooled in your gut. You didn't know why, but the moment the presence left the room, you felt... exposed.

Vulnerable.

Unsafe.

You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes as your skin prickled with the ghost of the dream. You stared at the door, unsure if the pressure in your chest was fear or panic—or both.

"Bakugo?" your voice cracked slightly as you called out.

A moment later, the door reopened.

He stepped inside, looking half-asleep and already annoyed. "The hell? You were just snorin' like a freight train. How the fuck did you even wake up?"

You rolled your eyes at his banter, trying to will your heartbeat to calm. "I... I dunno. Just... come here."

He blinked. "The fuck?"

"I feel bad if you sleep on the couch," you said, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrayed you—thin, laced with the kind of worry that had nothing to do with comfort.

He caught it instantly.

Bakugo sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "You're so damn needy, it's ridiculous." But he still walked toward the bed, flopping down on the very edge like he'd rather fall off than admit he wanted to stay.

You rolled your eyes and reached over, tugging him closer.

Now he was facing you. Kyoka still lay behind you, soft breaths brushing your back. You were sandwiched between her gentle rhythm and Bakugo's heavier, warm exhale.

"...Bad dream?" he asked after a moment.

You nodded.

"Childish, I know."

"Why do you do that?" he asked, and his tone made your brows draw together.

"Do what?"

"Degrade yourself," he grumbled. "You always fuckin' do that. You call yourself a martyr or a monster, like—like you want people to believe that shit."

You blinked, startled. You hadn't even realized it.

He shifted slightly, folding his arm under his head—his bicep now serving as a shared pillow. "Talk," he ordered.

You hesitated, but he didn't sound truly angry—just... stubborn. Protective. So you spoke.

"It was a good dream. At first. I was a hero... with you guys. I was happy. But then, I saw my parents. They were in the shadows—bloodied, hollow-eyed, gutted. Disappointed. I—I walked into the dark with them and when I looked back, Kyoka was the hero. They all looked at me like I was the enemy."

Silence stretched between you.

Then Bakugo's voice cut through it. Quiet, low, serious.

"...Were your parents villains?"

The words made your blood run cold.

You wanted to lie. You really wanted to.

But you didn't.

"Yes. They were," you whispered. "My older sister and brother too. They were quiet villains— in the background. The King, The Queen, Wildcard, and The Joker. I always thought the names were stupid. They were too cocky. That's the reason they're dead now."

Bakugo tensed beside you. You could feel it in the way the mattress dipped slightly with the way he pulled inward, like he was bracing for something. His next breath came slower, heavier.

"...Are you a villain?" he asked, voice quiet, almost too careful.

The question pierced through the dark like a blade.

Your throat tightened as your eyes welled again, but this time, you didn't turn away.

"No," you whispered. A lie. Smooth. Practiced. "I'm not."

Bakugo didn't say anything immediately, but he didn't relax either.

"I came to U.A. because of my father. He... wanted me to get information. Files, tech specs, quirks, blueprints. Stuff I didn't even have access to." You laughed, humorless. "He wanted me to be a spy. A thief."

Bakugo's jaw clenched slightly. You could see the muscles twitch in his profile.

"I couldn't do it," you said. Another lie, gentle as snow.

You let the silence fill in the rest—let it speak for you in the way that made your story look cleaner, braver. Like you were too heroic to give your father what he wanted. Like something in your heart stopped you. Something noble.

You didn't say how eager you'd been at first. How obedient.

Like a good little dog with a job.

You didn't tell him how you passed along every bit of information you could find, grinning when your father praised you. How you lived for those crumbs of affection. How it felt like being seen.

You didn't tell him that you only stopped when you realized Kyoka was being watched too.

Bakugo exhaled slowly beside you, staring at the ceiling. His gaze looked tight—calculating, suspicious, but not unkind.

"You didn't do it," he said eventually. His voice was low, gruff, but there was something like relief beneath the edge.

He believed you. Or maybe he just wanted to.

You watched his expression in the dark. His brows furrowed just enough, his lips tight. He looked like he'd put the pieces together—not all of them, but just enough to land on a version of the truth he could live with.

A version where you tried your best, and maybe failed a little, but ultimately chose to be better.

You hated how easily he made it make sense. How easy it was to pretend you weren't a traitor.

You shifted closer to him unconsciously, the guilt making your chest feel tight. He didn't pull away. In fact, he moved too—letting your head rest against the crook of his arm, letting the weight between you fall into something warm.

Something forgiving. Something you never deserved.

"...He ever threaten Kyoka?" Bakugo asked suddenly, voice sharp and quiet.

You tensed before answering. "Once. I made sure he never got close."

That part was true.

"Good," Bakugo muttered. "'Cause I would've killed him myself."

You didn't reply.

Not because you disagreed, but because for once, you didn't want to admit how much you wanted to say me too.

Instead, you let your fingers curl into the edge of the blanket and stared at the wall, letting the silence drape over you again.

"Is it bad that..." You hesitated, brows pinched in thought as your hand reached for a stray strand of your hair. You toyed with the edge of it, your voice barely above a whisper. "I was happy they died?"

Bakugo's body stilled beside you, barely perceptible—but you could feel it. That quiet tension, like a storm trying to keep itself from breaking.

"I mean, I was guilty. Really guilty. And scared—so scared for Kyoka. I knew I had to make sure they never touched her again, and I did that." You swallowed. "But somewhere along the way... I realized I didn't feel sad. Not really. Just guilty." You paused. "Guilty because I enjoyed it. Knowing they were gone. Knowing it was over."

You didn't describe the feeling of slicing your father's stomach open. Or the crack of your mother's ribs beneath your hands. You didn't talk about the warm blood, or the way it didn't feel like blood anymore—just release.

Freedom.

Bakugo didn't respond immediately. He turned his head to look at you, red eyes searching. There wasn't disgust in his face. Just quiet thought.

And then he said, "I get it."

You blinked, turning to face him fully.

He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched. "You were trapped. Forced to live a life someone else picked for you. Those people—if you can even call 'em that—they were the reason you kept your head down. Why you were scared. Why you flinched in your own goddamn house."

You were still.

"If they were holding me down like that," he continued, voice rough but steady, "I'd feel the same. Probably worse."

Your breath hitched.

You looked at him again, really looked. At his eyes, still lit with fire in the dimness. That quiet blaze in the back of his gaze—fury not at you, but for you.

He didn't say You're not a monster.

He didn't say It's okay.

He didn't fake his comfort like he had done a while ago.

Instead, he gave you something rarer: understanding.

And that made your chest hurt more than anything else.

You blinked rapidly, eyes welling again—but this time, you didn't cry. You just stared. At the boy with the sharp tongue, the calloused hands, and the eyes that didn't look away even when you confessed the ugliest parts of yourself.

And for once... you could read him perfectly.

He wanted to save you.

Wanted to drag you out of the fire, even if it burned him too.

And yet... your smile faltered.

Because what he didn't know—what he couldn't possibly understand—was that it was already too late.

By tomorrow, you planned to stop running from it. To stop pretending it hadn't already scorched your heart black and hollow. You'd finally step into the heat and let it consume you—greedy, destructive, all-consuming. If you were going to burn, you may as well take the world down with you.

Because in fire, there's no guilt. No right or wrong.

Only fuel.

You smiled through your tears, eyelids heavy as they fluttered closed. "You're so out of character tonight," you whispered. "Don't tell me, you're looking down on me again?"

Your voice tried to joke, but it cracked around the soft and vulnerable place it came from. When you opened your eyes, Bakugo was already watching you. His face unreadable. Not harsh. Not warm. Just... caught in something. You couldn't tell if it was confusion about you.

Or about himself.

You gave him no time to answer.

Instead, you turned over to cuddle Kyoka's tiny frame, letting her warmth dull the fire curling at the pit of your stomach. "Good night, Boom Boy."

"Quit callin' me that, Dumbass."

You smiled sleepily into Kyoka's soft hair. "There's the Bakugo I met."

And just like that, the fire flickered low... for now.

—

You woke to the sound of hushed gasps and dramatic whispers.

Blinking sleep from your eyes, you squinted against the soft light filtering through the curtains—and were met with way too many people in your damn house.

"What the hell..." you murmured groggily.

Red hair. Pink skin. Yellow hair.

Kirishima, Mina, Kaminari.

Your confusion sharpened as memories clicked into place—your emergency key under the potted plant outside. "Oh my god," you muttered.

You tried to sit up, but a soft tug pulled you back. Kyoka.

Her arms were wrapped tightly around your head like a plush octopus, legs tangled with yours, cheek squished up against yours in a sleepy, half-choking cuddle.

You leaned into it for a second, sighing.

"Cutest pair of sisters ever," Kaminari whispered like a squealing fangirl.

You managed to shimmy free, rubbing your eyes. "What are you guys doing in here?" you asked, surprisingly unbothered.

"We wanted to make you breakfast before the Sports Festival!" Kirishima beamed. "But we, uh... got carried away taking pictures of you and Kyoka..."

Your eyes darted to the lump on your bed—the one you instinctively shifted to block from view.

Covered in blankets. Barely breathing. Quiet.

Bakugo.

Mina's eyes squinted suspiciously. "OoooOooh? Did we interrupt a sneaky link?" she sang. "Cheeky Y/n~"

Your cheeks flushed instantly. You grabbed a pillow and launched it at her.

"No, dumbass," you snapped. "He was just over. We talked. I had a bad night and a worse dream, so I asked him to stay. That's it."

Mina gasped dramatically. "So it was a sneaky link."

"You guys are so immature—"

And then Bakugo stirred.

With a groan and a stretch, he kicked the blanket off. His shirtless chest rose with a slow breath, hair a disaster, face still half-asleep.

"So noisy..." he muttered.

Dead silence.

Then—

"YOUR SNEAKY LINK IS BAKUGO??!" all three screamed at once, nearly shaking the walls.

Kyoka woke up in terror, letting out a frightened noise as she clung to you tighter.

"Seriously?" you growled, glaring murder at the trio as they quickly covered their mouths. "No, we didn't fuck, you damned perverts," you hissed. "I was sad so i asked him to stay. That's it."

Bakugo stood up and yanked his shirt over his head, grumbling something inaudible.

You gestured lazily toward him. "Why he doesn't have a shirt on, I don't know—"

"DO YOU KNOW HOW FUCKING HOT IT IS WITH YOUR HOT ASS AGAINST ME??" he barked.

Your brows shot up. A slow grin slid across your face.

"Aww," you cooed, hands on your hips. "You think I'm hot, baby?"

Bakugo's face ignited. "I didn't say that! And don't call me that, you menace!"

He threw a pillow this time.

You caught it and laughed, catching Kyoka in your arms as she wobbled sleepily behind you.

"C'mon, gremlins. Let's go eat the weird-ass breakfast they probably burned."

Kirishima gasped. "It's actually good!"

"Then I definitely don't believe you."

As you all made your way to the kitchen, the warmth of laughter and teasing replaced the ashes still smoldering in your chest.

But that fire?

It waited. Patiently. Waiting for it's own meal to arrive.

The kitchen table was filled with more food than any of you could possibly eat—burnt pancakes, overcooked eggs, and at least three different attempts at bacon. You blinked at the spread and sighed, already preparing to beg Kirishima to be a human garbage disposal.

You moved toward the counter, switching into autopilot as you reached for the coffee grounds.

"You want some?" you asked Bakugo, who sat at the table rubbing the back of his neck.

He nodded once. "Black."

You smirked as you worked. Along with the ground beans, you added a pinch of cinnamon. Then, barely enough chili powder to taste—but just enough to feel.

When you handed him the cup, he squinted down at the steam, then took a slow sip.

He froze.

"...The fuck?" he muttered. He took another sip, face unreadable. "Why does it taste like a it’s spicy?"

“Because it is,” You raised a brow. "I remember you like spicy food. Thought you might like your coffee to match."

He stared at you, unimpressed, but you caught the slight upturn of his mouth before he brought the cup back to his lips.

Kyoka giggled from beside him, her fork digging into a blackened pancake like it was gourmet cuisine. "You're gonna turn Boom Boy into a caffeine-addicted dragon," she joked between bites.

You smiled. A real one.

Warm. Relaxed.

And then—

The scent hit you.

Faint. Iron. Rotten.

The smell of death. Of him.

You didn't let your body flinch—but the smile froze on your face. A little too perfect. A little too still. You shifted your gaze toward Kyoka as she excitedly told Kaminari about her dream of joining the Wild, Wild Pussycats one day. You tried to listen. Really, you did.

But then—

"You're getting better at lying."

His voice slithered through your ear like poison. Your throat tightened as your grip subtly clenched around your mug.

You refused to look.
Refused to acknowledge him.

But in your peripheral vision, his shape stalked forward.

"Do you care about him?"
His hand—imagined, ghostly—slid into Bakugo's hair like a proud father greeting a son-in-law.

You didn't move.

"You could kill him so easily, Y/n." His tone dripped with delight. "I showed you all the ways, didn't I? The arteries. The pressure points. The angle and weight. You're a good girl, so you remember, right?"

He chuckled.

And that sound—crackling, delighted, rotting—stabbed into your skull like nails dragged across glass. Your breath caught. Your jaw clenched.

"Slit his throat in the hallway."
"Poison in the coffee."
"Or... hell, slit his wrists in his sleep. No one would know."

"Stop," you whispered before you realized you had spoken.

The laughter roared, deafening and dry. You flinched and immediately clutched your ear as the phantom sound seared behind your eyes. It was as if your eardrum cracked under the pressure.

That's when they noticed.

Forks paused mid-air.
Mina's brow furrowed.
Kirishima looked up from his plate, concerned.

"Y/n?" Bakugo asked, sharp and immediate, eyes burning into you.

You winced but forced a smile, trembling fingers still cradling your ear. "It's nothing. Just a little—uh. Migraine. Loud voices, you know?" you waved off.

You could feel your father's phantom still grinning behind you. Waiting. Watching. Waiting to see if you'd break.

You took a long sip of coffee, trying to keep your hands from shaking as Kyoka reached over and gently touched your arm.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

You looked down at her—wide eyes, sticky syrup dotting the side of her cheek, hair messier than usual. Her voice was careful. Innocent.

Too innocent.

And suddenly, that warmth you'd just started to feel twisted into something cold. Your stomach rolled. The touch that once brought you peace now burned like acid on your skin. Nausea crawled up your throat as if her very concern infected you with guilt.

You flinched.

Pulled your arm away like it had been scalded.

She blinked. Confused. Hurt.

You couldn't explain. Wouldn't.

"I'm fine," you muttered, standing abruptly, the chair scraping back against the floor. "I'll be right back."

The fake smile barely stayed long enough for you to turn away.

You bolted up the stairs.

You didn't need to look behind you to know he followed. You heard him—the pop of knuckles, the wet grind of old bones shifting, reanimating.

Crack. Pop. Crack.

Each step felt heavier. Like the house knew what was about to happen. Like it mourned your return.

The second you entered the bathroom, you slammed the door behind you—but it didn't matter.

He phased through it like a shadow bleeding through wood.

His grin greeted you in the mirror.

You didn't bother locking the door. Instead, you dropped to your knees at the porcelain throne just in time for the retching to start.

Your body lurched violently as something thick and unholy forced its way up your throat. Your eyes widened, watering instantly, tears spilling as the acid burned its way free.

You gagged again, violently, the noise wet and raw as the stench hit you—rotted copper, bile, metal, and something sweet. Like spoiled fruit that had fermented in the sun.

Your throat tore as you convulsed again, coughing, spluttering, spit and phlegm trailing from your lips.

It wasn't food.
It wasn't drink.

It was something wrong. Something alive.

You didn't even want to look—but instincts made your eyes open.

Your blurred vision slowly cleared... and you saw it.

Blood.

Dark, thick, still warm. Pooling at the bottom of the toilet like a sacrifice.

Your breath hitched.

More tears fell as your hands braced against the cold tile floor, your arms trembling from the effort. You couldn't even speak. Couldn't scream. All you could do was breathe through your mouth, shakily, as the coppery scent stained your nostrils.

Behind you, your father clapped slowly.

"Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful," he whispered. "Just like when you were small. I always knew you had it in you. Now it's clawing to get out. You should let it."

You couldn't even look at him.

Not yet.

You just... stayed there. Kneeling. Shaking. Staring down at a part of yourself that wasn't supposed to be real. A warning.

Or maybe... a promise.

The moment your eyes met the blood, something shifted deep inside. You didn't let yourself think about it. You couldn't.

Instead, you flushed it away—flushed yourself away—and stood up, legs trembling beneath you like paper in a storm. You nearly collapsed, vision blackening at the edges, but you held yourself up. You had to.

By the time you stepped back downstairs, your body moved like a puppet. Numb, but present. The moment you descended, all eyes turned to you.

Concern hit you like a flood.

Kyoka looked like she was about to hop up from her seat again when you caught her attention.

"Kyoka, can you go get dressed for me?" you asked gently, your voice syrupy sweet. The way your mother used to do when pretending nothing was wrong. "Feel free to wear that onesie if you want. You're going to the Sports Festival to cheer on your friends!"

You even added a playful wink.

Her face lit up like a sunrise, all excitement and giggles as she bounced upstairs to change. The moment her bedroom door clicked shut, the facade melted from your face.

"What's wrong?" Mina asked quietly.

It shattered something inside you.

"I, uhm..." You faltered. The lie was there. On your tongue. So simple, so practiced.

But then—Bakugo.

One glance. His eyes. Narrowed, heavy with unspoken worry.

The lie dissolved.

"I just threw up," you said quietly. "Blood."

Silence.

Their faces fell. Wide-eyed and startled. The weight of your truth sunk into the room like cold fog.

"I was going to ask if you guys could take Kyoka to the Sports Festival while I go to the hospital." You tried to smile. It came out cracked, as forced as it felt.

"Oh my god—do you want us to come?" Kirishima asked immediately, already halfway to standing.

You shook your head, firm but kind. "This is once in a year for you guys. Go have fun. And tell the class to enjoy it, too. I'll try to stop by if I get discharged early."

Bakugo didn't say anything. Just looked away, jaw clenched so tight it made his temples twitch.

"I'll walk you there," Kirishima offered, already at the door pulling on his sneakers.

You opened your mouth to protest—but stopped. The look on his face told you it was non-negotiable.

So you nodded and disappeared to your room, dressing quickly in a black tank top and soft gray sweatpants. Something comfortable. Easy to move in. Easy to rest in.

You didn't say goodbye to the others. You didn't think you could.

The walk was quiet at first. Kirishima matched your pace, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, watching the sidewalk instead of you.

It wasn't until you passed the train station that he finally broke the silence.

"So... you and Bakugo?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. "What about us?"

He gave a soft smile, one that didn't push—just welcomed.

You exhaled, eyes softening. "We just... talked last night. Got to know each other. It was... nice. It felt like I could forget everything for a few hours."

You didn't mean for your voice to sound so gentle. But it did.

"He was... different."

Kirishima raised a brow.

"Like—still rude as hell, but..." you smiled faintly, eyes on the pavement. "I don't know. I expected him to be all explosions and yelling with me too. But he was calm. Careful. He talked. He listened. It was like... like someone turned the volume down on the world."

Kirishima glanced at you then. The corners of his mouth lifted.

"That's just him, I guess," he said. "People aren't always what you expect."

You nodded slowly, gaze lingering on the horizon. "Yeah. I'm starting to see that."

The silence that followed was brief, replaced with soft jokes and teasing remarks. Kirishima was easy to talk to—too easy. He cracked a dumb pun about Bakugo's hair exploding every time he was flustered, and you laughed, despite yourself.

"You're not bad company, Red," you admitted, nudging him with your shoulder.

"You say that like it shocks you."

"It does."

He snorted and gave you a mock wounded look. "Alright, next time you're sad and throwing up blood, I'm showing up with spicy ramen and horror movies."

You paused, hesitant for a breath.

"...Yeah. I'd like that."

The hospital came into view. You both slowed.

"This is me," you said, offering a small smile.

He nodded, lips quirking with something unreadable. "You'll be okay. You're kinda indestructible, you know?"

You didn't believe him, but you liked the way he said it.

The receptionist didn't even ask your name.

You stepped into the pristine front area of a small clinic attached to the hospital—a place not listed for walk-ins. The nurse looked up, her expression flattening with recognition.

"She's in her office. Go on back."

You walked through the sterile hall, the distant hum of machines filling your ears like static. You stopped at the frosted glass door that read:

Dr. Suna Natsuki, M.D.
Paraneoplastic Research and Quirk-Integrated Physiology

You knocked once before pushing it open.

She was already looking up from a thick stack of papers. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose braid, strands falling across her face. Her glasses were crooked and scratched, as always.

No smile.

But her eyes softened.

"Good morning, Y/n." Her voice was even, steady. Familiar. "How has your family been?"

You stared at her.

She didn't flinch. "Patient-doctor confidentiality," she reminded. "You know your family made me sign an NDA."

"I killed them," you said. "My mom and dad. The League of Villains killed my siblings—except Kyoka."

Still, she didn't flinch.

Instead, Dr. Suna let out a long sigh and leaned back in her chair. A smile, subtle but satisfied, crept onto her lips.

"I always hated those four," she murmured. "Got what they deserved, I hope?"

You couldn't help it.

Your smile was real this time.

"Gutted my father like a pig."

"That's my girl." Dr. Suna chuckled, standing and motioning for you to sit beside her. "Come. Tell me what's been going on. Start from the top."

You did.

You told her everything. The hallucinations. The coughing. The blood. The way your ears bled, how your head felt like it was cracking open some days. The rage. The numbness. The fact that you couldn't remember if you'd eaten that morning.

At first, she listened quietly, her expression thoughtful.

"I assumed it was trauma, maybe PTSD," she said slowly, clicking her pen. "Murdering one's parents isn't exactly light fare, even if they deserved it."

She paused. Her voice dropped slightly. "But... the blood. And the ears."

Her hand moved to your temple before you could even flinch. She examined your jaw, her touch firm but gentle. Years of knowing how to touch someone without setting off their instincts.

"Any chest pain?"

"Like something's trying to tear its way out."

She nodded. Scribbled something on her clipboard.

"Fatigue?" she asked.

"Since middle school," you admitted. "Thought it was just anxiety. My job... my quirk... stress."

"And after the incident?"

"It got worse. Screaming. Rage. I see them, even when I don't want to. I feel them." You paused. "Sometimes... I hear my father talking about how I should kill my friends."

Dr. Suna's brows knit tightly together.

"Classic paraneoplastic syndrome," she muttered, standing up. "And if I'm right, we might be dealing with something more aggressive."

She gestured toward the door.

"Let's run some tests, shall we?"

You followed her, body heavy but moving. You didn't fight it.

In the sterile cold of the imaging room, you lay still as the CT scanner whirred around you, clicking and groaning like a beast from another world.

Bloodwork. Chest x-rays. Cognitive reflex testing. Her fingers pressed beneath your jaw again, into your sternum, your ribs. You flinched.

Everything felt too loud, too bright. Too close to the truth.

"Get some rest," she told you as you sat up afterward. "I'll call when I know more."

"What are you thinking?" you asked, voice quieter now. "What's your theory?"

Dr. Suna met your gaze, her eyes sharp—almost sad.

"I'm thinking you've been carrying something. I’m not too sure if it's a cancer or a tumor," she said softly. "One that's been affecting your brain. Likely in the temporal lobe or thalamus. And if I'm right..." she paused. "It's been feeding off your quirk."

You blinked. Your mouth went dry.

"I'll confirm everything when the scans come back," she continued. "But Y/n... if we don't act soon, you won't have a choice between villain and hero."

She touched your shoulder.

"You'll just die."

Your eyes narrowed, a slow smile tugging at your lips despite the heaviness in your chest. "Spoken like a true doctor, Natsuki."

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Kyoka giggled as she skipped between Mina and Denki, the three walking side by side with matching bright grins, the morning sun washing them in warmth.

Their chatter bounced back toward the two boys trailing behind them—Bakugo and Kirishima. The two walked side-by-side, a noticeable gap of awkward tension between them.

Bakugo stuffed his hands into his pockets, eyes narrowed on the path ahead. "You always this loud?" he asked, voice sharp.

Kirishima raised an eyebrow. "Huh?"

"You and your... whatever that skipping thing was."

"That's just called being happy, man." Kirishima grinned. "You ever try it?"

Bakugo scoffed, muttering something under his breath.

The silence hung awkwardly for a few more steps.

Then—

"You're Kiriyama or something, right?"

Kirishima blinked. "It's Kirishima."

Bakugo didn't apologize. "Whatever."

"Hey," Kirishima said after a beat, not offended in the slightest. "You and Y/n—are you two close?"

Bakugo's steps faltered slightly, barely perceptible. "What kind of dumbass question is that?"

Kirishima shrugged, kicking a stray pebble off the sidewalk. "I dunno. You just seemed pretty protective of her. I think that's cool."

Bakugo didn't respond, but his jaw clenched.

"She's cool," Kirishima continued, more thoughtfully this time. "Like, there's something about her that just feels... honest. Even when she's lying, you can feel the truth under it. You know what I mean?"

He chuckled to himself. "I wish I got to know her more. I think I like her. Might ask her out after the Festival—maybe get ramen or something."

Bakugo stopped walking.

His heart stuttered in a way that pissed him off. It wasn't anger. Not really.

It was something worse.

He wasn't even sure why it made him so tense. But the words hung in his chest like smoke in his lungs, and for some reason, it burned.

"...Tch," he finally grunted. "If you're gonna ask her out, don't be a damn coward about it."

Kirishima looked at him, a little surprised.

"You're giving me dating advice now?" he laughed.

Bakugo looked away. "Just saying. She's not the type you can half-ass with. You wanna know her? Actually know her?" He exhaled sharply. "Then don't say you might ask. Just ask."

Kirishima grinned, eyes wide with unexpected gratitude. "Thanks, man. That actually means a lot."

"Whatever," Bakugo grumbled, brushing past him. "I don't care."

But his fists clenched tighter in his pockets.

And deep down, a storm was beginning to churn.

Because no matter how much he denied it—Bakugo did care.

And he wasn't sure what that meant yet.

────୨ৎ────

7643 words

Chapter Text

The sun was high over the U.A. Sports Festival arena, glittering across the polished concrete and casting long shadows from the stands. Excitement buzzed through the air like static, students in their gym uniforms stretching, jogging, warming up.

Midoriya's eyes scanned the crowd as he stood near Kirishima and Kaminari, his hands twitching nervously. Kyoka sat proudly on Bakugo's back, kicking her little legs with every push-up he begrudgingly did beneath her weight.

"You're strong, Boom Boy!" she cheered, slapping his shoulder like a personal trainer.

"Get OFF me, you gremlin!" Bakugo barked, face flushed. "This ain't a damn playground!"

Midoriya smiled softly before turning toward Kirishima.

"Hey," he asked quietly. "Where's Y/n? I thought she'd be here with Kyoka..."

Kirishima opened his mouth, a well-prepared lie forming, but—

"She's in the hospital," Kaminari blurted.

Kirishima groaned. "Dude..."

"H-Hospital?" Midoriya blinked. "Wait—what happened?"

Mina came up beside them, sighing. "Last night... she said she'd been having hallucinations for the past few weeks. Her ears were bleeding a few days ago. Then she threw up blood this morning."

"Yeah," Kaminari added, rubbing the back of his neck. "She didn't wanna make a big deal out of it, but... she looked bad, man. Like she was..."

"Like she was what?" Midoriya asked.

"Dying." Kirishima finished as his fists bawled.

Midoriya's heart dropped. His eyes shifted back toward Kyoka, who was now climbing on top of Bakugo's shoulders while he flailed to get her off.

"GET OFF—SOMEONE GET THIS BRAT—"

"NO, I WANNA BOTHER YOU!!"

Without warning, Kyoka slapped him across the cheek. The sound echoed across the gym yard, followed by a stunned silence.

Kyoka blinked, eyes wide... and then she bolted, squealing with laughter.

"YOU LITTLE—!" Bakugo shouted, face bright red, chasing after her through the students like a raging bull. He didn't use his quirk—just sprinted after her, gritting his teeth as he shoved past a surprised Midoriya and tackled Kyoka by the ankle.

He hoisted her into the air upside down, shaking her like a stuffed animal.

"Say you're sorry, damn it!!"

"NEVER!! MY SISSY'S GONNA HEAR ABOUT THIS!!"

Midoriya stared at them with a soft, distant smile.

I wonder how Y/n is doing right now...

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The sterile beeping of machines.

The lights were dim, drawn blinds filtering the sunlight into fractured lines across your hospital blanket. Your arm itched slightly under the IV line, and your head throbbed—more gently now, dulled by the medication, but still present.

You were alone in the room. A tray of untouched hospital food sat beside you. The TV hanging in the corner played a live stream of the U.A. Sports Festival, the broadcast cutting through the silence with the shrill voice of some overenthusiastic hero commentator.

"—and now we await the arrival of the UA students, with rising stars like Class 1-A! These kids could be our next Top 10!"

Your lip curled.

The commentators debated the rankings like they were betting on horses. Heroes promoting their agencies, the crowd cheering for names they didn't even know yet. You could see the hunger behind their words—the greed in the way they talked about quirks like property. As if these kids were just tools to invest in.

You glared at the screen.

The flame inside you, quieted only slightly by fatigue, flickered awake again.

You could smell the smoke in your thoughts. The familiar blood lust that you hadn't realized had grown worse until recently. The same greedy lust that always watched, always waited.

But for now, you simply leaned your head back and listened—pretending you could hear Kyoka's giggle in the crowd, pretending you didn't feel like you were miles away from everything.

"You really hate heroes, huh?" a familiar voice said from the doorway.

You didn't need to look to know it was her. Dr. Natsuki Suna. Crisp white coat, blunt bangs, eyes too tired to be as sharp as they used to be. You glanced at her, but your glare didn't leave. She didn't care about it.

"They're greedy," you muttered. "Half of them don't even deserve the title. It's all sponsorships and quotas now. How many lives can you save while smiling for the camera."

A cough cracked through your chest. You already had the tissue in your hand—blood-smeared, again. Your mouth tasted like metal.

"Did the results come in yet?" you asked, not daring to let hope enter your voice.

Natsuki nodded, handing you a paper cup of water. You noticed how slow she moved.

That didn't seem like a good sign.

"Can I ask a question before you tell me?" you asked, voice low.

She nodded.

"What is a paraneoplastic symptom? You mentioned that earlier."

Natsuki didn't flinch. Her expression remained the same—calm, clinical. "Paraneoplastic syndromes are when your immune system tries to fight and ends up attacking the rest of your body instead. It thinks it's helping you, protecting you, but really—it starts breaking your nervous system down. Your brain, your nerves, even your muscles."

Your hands clenched the blanket tightly.

"...Is my quirk the reason this is happening?" The question came out too fast, too quiet, like you were scared of the answer.

She nodded.

"That mark on your leg... it's no coincidence. The more you use your quirk, the more your immune system tries to respond. It's feeding the fire. But..."

"But?" you echoed.

"You'll need to test my theory."

Your body tensed again.

"What theory?"

She glanced down at her clipboard and said it like she was talking about the weather.

"Kill more people. If the mark grows, you'll know I'm right."

The silence between you was stifling.

Finally, she flipped the clipboard open.

"Ready for the real diagnosis?"

You nodded. Hesitantly. Like you were stepping off a cliff.

She didn't sugarcoat it. Didn't soften the words. She never did.

"What you're experiencing isn't just psychological—it's neurological," she said plainly. "Your immune system is reacting to a tumor in your anterior mediastinum, near your heart, by attacking your brain. Specifically, the temporal and limbic lobes."

She met your eyes.

"That's memory, perception, mood. Your personality."

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your face blank as a ringing built in your ears.

"That's why you're seeing your father. Why you hear voices. Why your own touch makes you recoil. Why you can't control your rage sometimes."

You blinked. The corners of your vision fuzzed slightly.

"The tumor is called thymic carcinoma. It's rare. And aggressive. The condition riding shotgun with it—paraneoplastic encephalitis—is what's causing the cognitive breakdown. Your body thinks it's fighting for you, but it's eating you alive."

You were shaking.

"How long..." Your voice barely registered. "How long do I have?"

She didn't flinch.

"Given the tumor's size and the current progression... three to six months untreated. Possibly longer with aggressive immunotherapy, radiation, and experimental drugs. But even with that—some of the damage may be irreversible."

The air drained from your lungs like you were underwater.

Your vision blurred—not from tears, but from pure mental collapse. Your mind trying to eject you from your own body.

You heard Natsuki's voice again, faint and distant, like she was on the other side of a tunnel.

"If this had been caught earlier—years ago, maybe—I could've done something. Hell, if they brought you to me as a child instead of only when you were bleeding from the ears..."

You weren't crying. Not yet. Just staring down at your lap. Your fingertips numb.

You had spent your whole life trying to survive.

And now?

Now your body was the thing trying to kill you.

You didn't even realize your posture had slouched, or that you were gripping the edge of the table like it was the last solid thing anchoring you.

Your knuckles were white.

Your mind spun, replaying years—sixteen years—of moments now twisted in a cracked lens. You'd always been praised for your memory, your retention, the way you could memorize entire dossiers after one glance. You thought it was training. Conditioning. Obedience.

But what if it wasn't?

What if your sharpest edges weren't gifts... but symptoms?

"...Can I ask you something kind of... weird?" you murmured, your voice no stronger than a crack in glass. "Is self-sabotage a symptom? Like... skipping appointments, pushing people away, doing things I know are bad for me—almost like I want to fall apart?"

Dr. Suna didn't even blink. "Yes. It can be."

Her tone was steady. Unflinching.

"The inflammation in your brain—caused by the immune system's attack—targets the areas that regulate emotion, judgment, impulse control. It sends the wrong messages. Makes you fear connection. Makes you believe you deserve pain. That healing is a trap. It's not you. It's the disease warping your thoughts."

Your hands trembled slightly.

"...Okay," you whispered. "Then what about the opposite? Like—" you paused, trying to keep the guilt out of your voice, "—I can remember stuff I read just once. Pages, quotes, whole paragraphs… Files… I recite things without even thinking. Is that part of it, too?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation. "That's also a symptom. Some patients experience hyperthymesia-like episodes. Bursts of total recall. Like your brain is on overdrive—flaring in one area, burning out in another. It's not a gift. It's a glitch."

She met your eyes.

"It's not a superpower. It's a warning sign."

Your mouth opened.

But nothing came out.

The voices had gone quiet, like a storm rolling just beyond the clouds—but the eyes remained.

Watching.

Growing.

Dilating.

Swallowing the room.

"I-I-I always thought I'd die because of my quirk bu-but—," you choked, dragging a hand into your hair, your nails scratching into your scalp. "But this—this? I can't—I can't even see Kyoka graduate? What's gonna happen to her—? What if no one tells her the truth?! What if she grows up thinking I abandoned her—like the rest of them?! What if—what if—what if she ends up just like me?!"

Your voice broke apart.

Your breathing broke with it.

The walls of the room pulled away from you.

And then—

They were there.

Your family.

Your mother. Your father. Your brother. Your sister.

Their corpses stood in a silent circle around you, hollow and putrid. Pressing in. Cold breath on your cheek. Bone-white fingers dragging against your skin. Your father's jaw opened, unhinged and unnatural, tendons snapping soundlessly as if gasping a final breath.

Your sister's head was bent at the wrong angle.

Their eyes... weren't eyes. Just milky voids. White. Featureless. Stretching wider. Wider.

Smiles pulled at mouths that no longer had muscle. Just teeth.

Just reminders.

You couldn't scream.

You couldn't move.

The stench was thick—of iron, rot, and something even darker: guilt.

They leaned in closer.

Your father's corpse reached forward, a hand on your cheek, and you swore you could feel the cold touch.

"You like the idea of dying, don’t you? Naive little dog." he whispered.

Your eyes flew open.

Your body jerked so violently that your chair nearly tipped backward.

"Y/N!"

Dr. Suna's hands were on your shoulders now, firm, grounding. Her voice cut through the ringing in your ears.

"Breathe. Look at me. Inhale—now exhale. In. Out. You're not there anymore. They're gone. They're gone."

Your chest rose and fell, uneven, broken, but moving.

Moving.

"I..." you gasped. "I—I didn't mean to see them—I didn't want—"

"You didn't see them," she said calmly, holding your gaze. "You remembered them. Your brain just blurred the lines."

She let the silence sit for a moment, until the trembling in your hands dulled to a twitch.

Then she stood.

"You need rest. But first, I'm prescribing you an anti-inflammatory and anti-seizure medication. It might ease the hallucinations. Just enough to function."

You barely nodded, sweat clinging to the back of your neck like a second skin.

Dr. Suna turned to leave, but paused at the door.

"Y/n?"

You looked up.

"Whether you die as a hero, a villain... or neither—it should be your choice. Not the tumor's." She paused and gave you a motherly smile. "I'll discharge you, I know how much you hate hospitals. But I'll be coming by weekly for home visits and house calls." And then she left you alone in the room.

The light above flickered once.

And you wondered— if you even had a choice left at all.

Time dragged.

Not in minutes. Not even in hours.
But in aches.

Each second stretched over your skin like glass pulled thin, warped and useless.

You sat in that sterile white room long after your crying had stopped—because there was nothing left to cry. You had cried so hard your body simply gave up, your throat raw, your eyes puffed and bloodshot, but dry. You felt hollow. Not peaceful. Not numb. Just emptied.

The hospital bed creaked when you moved, but even the sound of it felt distant. Like someone else had made it.

You heard Midoriya's voice over the speaker system, faint through the window.

Then Todoroki's name.
Then a roar of applause.

Kyoka's giggle floated behind the static of the mic, followed by Present Mic's exaggerated gasp.

You didn't smile.

You couldn't.

Because the sound didn't make you happy—it reminded you of the world still spinning without you. Of how close you were to disappearing in it.

And for the first time, it truly hit you: You were dying.

Not dramatically. Not in a blaze of glory or a villain's last stand.
But slowly.

Rotting.

From the inside out.

A tumor eating away at the parts of you people used to admire.

Your memory. Your perception. Your mind.

And suddenly, you realized something terrifying.

You didn't care.

Not about the people you passed in the streets.

Not about their worried glances or their fake politeness.

You didn't fake a smile. You didn't apologize for bumping into someone or duck your head with polite shame.

What was the point?

Why keep pretending to be kind to people who never saw you anyway?

Why keep trying to be the girl who went to U.A., who helped with her powerful hands, who endured beatings and orders and silence?

Why pretend you regretted killing the people who carved their names into your bones like you were a gravestone that already belonged to them?

What were you trying to protect now?

Kyoka?

...She'd be better off with a hero.

You were too far gone.

You signed your discharge papers with a shaky hand, not bothering to read the fine print. Didn't care about the signature line, didn't care that your pen smeared a bit from the tremor in your fingers.

You stepped out of the hospital and didn't flinch at the sun.

It was warm.

Mocking.

The walk to was quiet. Too quiet.

You weren't really walking to UA, but simply walking. Like a ghost forced to wander aimlessly instead of passing on.

No headphones. No distractions. Just your thoughts following you like a shadow.

You should've been afraid.

But you weren't.

Because fear meant you had something to lose.

And you?
You were a walking deadline.

All that was left was picking up Kyoka, smiling like you always did—except this time, the smile wouldn't be there to keep you together.
It would be for her.

Just her.

Because when your body finally gave out...
You wanted her last memory of you to be the lie you told best:

That everything was okay.

You didn't realize you were in Hosu until the glow of the Sports Festival billboards faded behind you and the streets grew unfamiliar—tight, cracked, worn from fights you'd only read about.

You weren't headed anywhere, not really.

You were just walking until your legs stopped. Until your body gave out.

Until it ended.

You didn't even notice the man you bumped into—only the thud of the collision, his scoff of irritation as he stumbled back a step.

"Watch where you're—" He cut off as soon as your eyes met his.

The anger melted from his expression.

Because something in your gaze—something hollow, something already gone—made him freeze.

He backed away silently. Didn't say another word.

You didn't watch him leave.

Instead, you turned into a nearby alleyway and leaned back against the cool shadowed wall, fingers trembling as they opened your jacket pocket and pulled out two orange bottles.

The pills rattled like bones.

You stared down at them in your palms as the first tear hit the label.

And then another.

And then your chest caved in again.

You sobbed.

Hard.

Loud, ugly, hiccuping sobs—your body folding in on itself like you were trying to disappear. You didn't care who saw. You didn't care if anyone passed by.

You just wanted to hurt less.

"Excuse me, ma'am—are you alright?" a voice asked gently.

You froze.

You knew that voice. Knew the silhouette as it stepped into the alley, the way the metal gleamed under the sunset.

Ingenium.

Or rather, Tensei Iida. Older brother to one of the most disciplined students at U.A.

His suit was a thick navy mesh woven with reinforced armor plates—sleek and aerodynamic. The exhaust pipes at his calves hissed with light steam as he stepped forward. Silver gauntlets reinforced his arms, and a crest shaped like stylized wings gleamed against his chest plate.

He was the kind of hero little kids idolized. The kind Kyoka might've pointed at and said, "That one's fast like a train!"

But your sobbing didn't stop.

You turned your head away, hiding your expression. Shame wasn't why.

It was protection.

Because showing weakness to a hero was dangerous, even now.

"Are you safe?" he asked again, tone more cautious now.

But you didn't have time to answer.

Because behind him, in the dark mouth of the alley's throat, something moved.

Tall. Thin. Drenched in menace.

The man was ragged, all exposed muscle and matted black hair, tied into a loose and filthy tail. His gear looked like salvaged scraps—metal plating stitched to cloth with wire, a long red scarf wrapped around his neck and dragging like a cape. His eyes were hidden behind a cracked beige visor that gleamed beneath the streetlamp above, but you could feel the weight of his hatred like heat.

And his blade—

—already drawn.

SHHNK.

The metal pierced Ingenium's side before you could scream.

You gasped sharply as the blade twisted, and the hero stumbled, blood arcing from his mouth.

You didn't need his name.

You knew him from whispers. From the way his presence felt like the crushing weight of truth in a world built on lies.

He didn't speak. He simply moved like instinct—fast, brutal, efficient.

Another slash. Artery.

Another. Tendon.

Blood splattered your cheek.

You flinched—but not from fear.

From awe.

Stain dipped two fingers into the blood dripping off his blade and brought them to his tongue.

He licked.

His body stiffened for a breath—like tasting sin—and then it relaxed, eerily calm.

Ingenium collapsed, twitching. Muscles locking.

His eyes wide with panic as his limbs refused to obey him.

Paralyzed.

The villain’s quirk.

You should've screamed.

You should've run.

But instead—you watched.

Watched with breath caught in your throat and heat blooming in your chest like a forbidden flower.

Because something about it was beautiful.

The silence. The precision. The judgment.

You wiped your tears away, blood smearing with saline across your cheek, and it didn't even matter. Your jaw clenched, heart thudding faster—not from terror, but thrill.

Ingenium tried to move, his fingers twitching.

You stepped forward.

Stain turned to look at you.

His glare hit you like his blade, sharp and immediate, warning and interest tangled together.

You froze.

But didn't back down.

Your breath hitched as you looked down at Ingenium, his eyes wide and pleading.

And for a moment—just a brief moment—you thought he died.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up.

Your face went hot. Your fingers curled.
A shiver rolled down your spine like pleasure dressed as fear.

You swallowed harshly.

And whispered, "...So this is what judgment feels like."

Stain's gaze lingered on you longer than it should have.

He wiped the blood from his cheek with two fingers, smearing it across his jaw like warpaint. The expression he wore wasn't cruel. It was curious—almost impressed.

"You're the first person to notice that," he said, voice low, rough like steel dragged across stone.

Your breath hitched.

The tone. The gravity. It wasn't just the statement—it was how he said it. Like he hadn't spoken to someone who understood in years.

Your cheeks flushed. Your skin prickled with goosebumps.

You didn't move. You just looked at him, standing amidst the echo of violence, and whispered, "It felt like... watching God pass judgment."

He cocked his head slightly, the red scarf fluttering with a gust of wind. His visor hid his eyes, but you could tell—he was staring straight into you.

"That so?" he murmured, voice more amused now. "Tch... rare, these days."

You hesitated only briefly, and then, as your heartbeat soared, you dared to ask:
"What's your name?"

He turned slightly, shadows licking his silhouette. The moon caught on the edge of his blade as he sheathed it with a quiet snikt.

"Stain," he said.

The name hit you like an incantation.

Stain.

You smiled—grinned—your eyes dilated in awe. You whispered it again like you were tasting it for the first time. "Stain..."

You gasped as Stain lifted you effortlessly, his arms firm and his grip steady—like you weighed nothing at all.

But the second your feet hit the rooftop, instinct kicked in. The fire in your chest flared to life, your muscles tense and quirk humming like a sleeping beast suddenly roused. You swung your leg toward his ribs, a test—more flirt than threat.

He blocked it with the flat of his forearm and retaliated fast, spinning to disarm you before you could draw breath.

You grinned.

Your body moved without hesitation, slipping between instinct and purpose. It wasn't training. It wasn't survival.

It was fun.

You darted low, slid beneath his legs, twisted, and shot your arm up—your palm slamming into his chest hard enough to knock him a step back. Your quirk activated—finally—a flicker of silver heat dancing around your fingertips, whispering for something more than just control.

He didn't falter.

He came back harder.

In a blur of motion, he swiped his blade down toward your shoulder, but you pivoted, grabbed his wrist, twisted—and flipped him over your hip.

The sound of impact echoed on the rooftop.

You dropped onto him in a straddle, hand on his chest, fingers pulsing with energy.

Your breath was quick, chest heaving with adrenaline.

You were laughing.

Giggles spilled out like they'd been waiting for years, giddy and wild. "You're fast, but you let your elbow hang too far out when you swing down," you teased, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "Sloppy. Could've cost you if I wasn't having fun."

His hand shot up, gripping your wrist like a vice.

In one quick movement, he rolled, flipping you beneath him.

Now he straddled you.

And the knife?

It was at your throat.

The blade pressed against your skin, cold, sharp, demanding silence.

But you didn't stop smiling.

In fact, you tilted your head just slightly, the blade catching against your pulse.

"If you want to make it cleaner," you whispered, "go under the chin and slice up. Less bleeding, faster windpipe crush. Almost surgical."

His eyes narrowed.

"You're insane," he growled.

You let out a breathy laugh, the sound between a sigh and surrender.

"No," you whispered. "Just a dead girl walking."

For a second—just one—you swore he looked like he understood.

You kicked him away—hard—and he slid backward on the rooftop, boots skidding across gravel. The moment he regained footing, you charged again.

Your coin was already in motion.

A flash of silver and gold.

It flicked into the air, spun once—twice—and you vanished, reappearing behind him like a haunting. You barely gave him time to turn before your foot connected with his ribs again, this time harder, more precise.

He grunted.

You moved like a storm with no center. The coin clinked between your fingers like it had a soul of its own, like it had missed this just as much as you had.

You vanished and reappeared. Attacked and vanished again.

Stain parried, dodged, struck. He was good—better than good—but even he couldn't hide the gleam of approval in his eye. You weren't some brat looking for a thrill. You were a weapon. Sharpened. Deadly. Alive only when the blade was pulled free of its sheath.

And for the first time in weeks, you felt alive.

But it wasn't just adrenaline flooding you now—it was grief.

It was the cruel irony that the very thing bringing you back to life was also dragging you closer to your death.

Your feet skidded to a halt. Your breath hitched.

And suddenly... the smile on your face cracked into a sob.

You collapsed to your knees, hand gripping your coin tight. Shoulders trembling.

"I'm dying," you whispered, almost to yourself.

Stain froze.

Not in pity.

Not in fear.

But in respect.

You looked up, laughing through your tears, a wide grin carved on your lips like a wound. "Can you believe it? I was made for this. This chaos. This power. This fight." You slammed your palm into the ground, voice rising with a breathless hysteria. "But my own fucking body is turning on me. My own quirk—my quirk—is killing me. I always thought it would happen, but I didn’t expect it to be so soon."

Your eyes glistened as they locked with his, your voice dipping low, almost reverent.

"I forgot how beautiful it felt to move like that. To use it. I felt whole. And it's not fair. It's not fair that this is the last time I'll feel like this. That everything I am—everything I could be—ends with me rotting in a bed with a brain that doesn't even remember who Kyoka is."

Your coin trembled between your fingers. "It's not fair..."

Stain stepped closer.

He crouched beside you—not in comfort, but with purpose.

And for a long moment, he just looked at you. Let you sob, let your laugh echo between them both like a requiem.

"You're not dead yet," he said finally, voice low. Steady. "But you're right. The world doesn't deserve what's inside you. Heroes especially."

You looked up slowly, your breath unsteady, but your gaze sharpened. "Why don't you teach me a few things before I go?"

Stain's blade kissed your cheek, the cold sting slicing through skin with terrifying ease. Blood dripped—warm, fresh—and before you could react, he dragged the edge across his tongue.

His quirk activated instantly.

Your knees buckled, body dropping like a puppet with cut strings, breath hitching as your muscles locked. You stared up at him, frozen, helpless—your heart pounding with something that wasn't fear.

He loomed above you, eyes burning behind that chipped beige mask, shoulders rising and falling with the calm rhythm of a killer who'd done this before. Who'd done worse.

"Why should I teach you?" he asked again, crouching down so you were nose to nose, the blood-slick blade resting against your throat. "You're dying. Useless. The world chews people like you up—then forgets your name. So tell me..."

His grip tightened around the hilt of the knife.

"...Why the hell should I waste my time on a corpse?"

You didn't blink. You didn't flinch.

Your lips pulled into a lazy, cracked smile.

"Because I've got nothing left to lose," you whispered. "No fear. No future. No lies. Just time... and a body that won't make it past winter."

Your words echoed, soft but unshakable.

"I could use that time hiding. Pretending. Crying," you continued. "Or I could spend it learning how to leave a scar on this world so deep that even the heroes can't scrub it clean."

Stain didn't answer right away.

He just watched you—watched the blood dry on your skin, watched the madness dancing behind your eyes like embers in a wildfire. And maybe, just maybe, he saw a reflection of himself in that broken grin.

He stood.

The paralysis faded slowly, and you sat up with a hiss, your limbs shaky but alive.

"You still want to learn?" he asked, voice quiet, but heavy—like a door being shut forever behind you. "I won't go easy on you. I won't coddle you. I will break you. And I won't save you. Not from them. Not from the heroes. Not from your tumor. Not from yourself."

His eyes gleamed with something sharp and ancient.

"But I'll show you what it means to use that death of yours. Every second left."

You inhaled deeply, lungs screaming against the weight of your body and fate. The blood on your tongue tasted like metal and madness.

And then you smiled—like someone who'd finally stopped drowning.

"I don't want to be saved," you said, rising to your feet with your coin clenched tight. "I want to be remembered."

Stain paused, then gave a small nod—barely perceptible beneath his tattered scarf. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, voice low and final. "'Til next time."

And with that, he vanished, leaping into the night like smoke dispersing in the wind. No cape. No theatrics. Just a ghost bleeding purpose through the dark.

You stood there for a moment longer, staring into the spot he left behind, heart pounding like it had just been rewired. Everything was quieter now. The city, your mind, even the pain behind your eyes. For once, it all aligned.

Then the sirens started.

Shrill. Distant. Familiar.

You blinked once—twice—and turned on your heel. With a flick of your wrist, you placed your coin back into its place: the necklace that now hung like a badge of death. You unhooked it from your neck, letting the chain coil around your fingers as you swung it lazily by your side. The sirens grew louder.

You couldn't stop smiling.

Not the polite kind. Not the fake kind you wore for Kyoka, for heroes, for survival. This one stretched across your cheeks like it had been carved there—deep, real, and humming with something close to euphoria.

You walked through the dark streets, swinging your coin necklace by its chain, watching it catch the dim light of passing signs and flickering bulbs. The sirens faded behind you. Hosu felt like a distant dream already. But that moment... that blood-slick rooftop, Stain's blade, his voice, the thrill of the fight—

It replayed in your head like a favorite scene from a film you wanted to memorize.

You didn't know what to call it at first. The high in your veins. The way your heart hadn't stopped racing even now, long after it should have slowed. You could still feel the sting on your cheek. Still feel the afterimage of his weight pinning you, knife to your throat, and the exhilarating certainty that you could die right then and still feel like something had finally gone right.

You were glowing.

When you reached the front door, your hands were shaking, not from weakness—but from leftover thrill. You stared down at your fingers for a second. Twitching. Restless. Alive in the most dangerous way.

Were you an adrenaline junkie? You had no idea.

You didn't know the word yet, not really. But your body did. Your quirk did. It had known for years. It had tasted the edge of death and craved it. Craved more. The clean, sharp moments where the pain made everything else quiet. The blood. The rush. The clarity.

And now?

Now you'd met someone who understood that chaos.

Who fed it.

It was different than your family— the league or even All for One himself.

Stain's voice echoed in your head again. "I won't save you. I'll show you what it means to use that death of yours."

You smiled wider.

You didn't even take your shoes off when you walked into the house.

You went straight to the kitchen, footsteps soft but sure, each step humming with the aftershock of adrenaline. The overhead light buzzed faintly, flickering once before holding steady as you opened the drawer and pulled out a kitchen knife—plain, serrated, worn from years of slicing vegetables and carving open packages.

Now it would carve something else.

You brought it with you like a treasure, walking calmly to your room and letting the door shut behind you with a quiet click. You didn't bother with the lights. The dark was comforting now—like a thick blanket you didn't want to crawl out of.

You collapsed onto the bed, knife resting on your chest like a secret only you were allowed to hold. Then slowly, reverently, you brought the blade to your palm and closed your fingers around it.

A hiss of breath escaped your teeth.

Blood welled instantly, sharp and bright, sliding down your wrist and dripping onto your face below. It wasn't deep—just enough to sting, to ground you. To remind you what it meant to feel real.

It was your blood this time. Not someone else's.

And that?

That made it all the better.

You tilted your head slightly, watching as another drop clung to the edge of your knuckle and finally fell, warm and wet, to your collarbone.

You grinned. Not from joy. Not from pain.

From clarity.

This was the closest you had felt to understanding your own body in weeks. Maybe months. The ache in your bones, the cracks in your mind—they all quieted for a moment in the presence of blood. Not because you wanted to die.

Because this was yours. Something you chose.

You lay there in silence, letting it drip, letting it breathe.

And eventually, you whispered to the dark:

"I don't want to be saved."

The words lingered like smoke.

You didn't want salvation.

You wanted control. Over your body. Over your fate.

Over how you'd be remembered.

You looked at the gift box from the side, blood continuing to fall as you sat up, dripping down your face.  You grabbed the white box with bloodied hands, fingertips trembling from a mix of adrenaline and exhaustion. Your palm left a red print against the pristine surface as you lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled in black velvet like a ritual offering, was a mask—crimson and obsidian, forged in silence, edged in violence.

Silver thorns curled along its ridges, vines of steel blooming into sharp leaves that crowned the upper arch like a corrupted laurel. The mask covered most of your face, leaving only your right eye exposed—a window into the storm that lived behind your skin. Around the eye, the metal was delicately carved with lacework-like filigree, soft shadows giving it depth, a twisted elegance. The rest was smooth, cold, gleaming like oil in moonlight.

Your reflection warped in its metallic curves.

But it wasn't just you staring back.