Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The aftermath of the war was unmistakable—debris from broken buildings littered every corner. With Tomura’s escape, all the heroes had collapsed under his final assault, and you were no exception. Your body throbbed with pain from open cuts and a few burns left by the attack—nothing too severe, thankfully.

As you lay sprawled on the cracked ground, you caught movement in your peripheral vision. Two figures stood a short distance away, dressed in minimalistic clothing that somehow made them look all the more professional. They seemed engrossed in their conversation, but you were almost certain their eyes were flicking over you, studying every detail.

You tried to sit up to get a clearer look, but your injuries protested, forcing you to sink back, helpless. Fatigue began to seep into your bones, your eyelids growing heavier with each breath. Sleep tugged at you like a gentle tide.

Just before your eyes slipped shut, you saw the two strangers turn and start walking toward you.

When you woke up, you found yourself in a dim, sterile room, bound to a metal chair by cold restraints. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and something you couldn’t quite place. You glanced down to see your injuries had been stitched up and the burns carefully wrapped in clean bandages.

Your mind, thick with sleep, drifted in confusion. How long was I unconscious? What the hell happened?

Before you could gather your thoughts, the door creaked open. A woman in a white lab coat stepped inside. Her smile was unsettling in its practiced warmth. Without a word, she approached and began to unfasten the straps securing you to the chair.

“Come with me,” she said gently. “We need to take your blood samples.”

You stared at her, trying to mask your unease. Blood samples? What is she talking about? You considered fighting back—she might be stronger than she looked, or have a tranquilizer ready if you resisted. I should follow her for now, you thought, and figure out where I am.

The woman leads you through the maze-like halls, the sterile white of the walls and floors disorienting.* She glances back at you with a small smile. 

"You cooperate so well."  She comments.  "It makes things easier." She stops in front of a door labelled  " Blood Draw ".  The woman gestures for you to enter.

The room beyond is as cold and impersonal as the rest of the facility. A medical chair sits in the centre. Beside it, a cart holds various test tubes, syringes, and other medical supplies. "Please, take a seat."  The woman instructs, still unnervingly calm.

You sit in the chair, the cushion surprisingly comfortable despite its stark appearance. The woman reaches for one of the syringes. “This won’t hurt, sweetie." She assures you, her voice almost motherly. The needle glints in the harsh ceiling light as she approaches.

She gently takes your arm, examining your wrist as if looking for the best spot to draw blood. Her hand is surprisingly soft, a contrast to the cold, clinical environment. "You have beautiful skin." She comments casually, still holding your arm. "So smooth, so fragile.”

You froze-  what the heck is that supposed to mean, fragile my non-existent balls .

She finally decides on a spot and wipes the area with an antiseptic wipe, the coolness of it making you shiver slightly.“Just a little pinch.” She presses the needle into your skin, swiftly and skillfully drawing a small sample of your blood into the syringe.

As she pulls the syringe away, she studies the dark red liquid it holds with an almost reverent expression. "Your blood is quite remarkable." She muses. "It will be a valuable addition to our research." She places the filled syringe on the cart. 

She led you out of the room, walking through the sterile white walls and through a maze of doors. Some doors read-‘experimentation’ or ‘measurements’, which sent a chill down your spine, with the thick scent of alcohol not helping at all

The female scientist stopped at a door- with one swift motion, she punched in the passcode to the door. She opens the door to a plain white room with a bed and a desk. On the left, there’s a door which leads to the toilet and a shower available - quite surprising.

‘Here, this is where you’ll be staying. We’ll continue more tomorrow.’ With that the door closes with a soft click.

Chapter Text

Your sleep was restless- tossing and turning around the covers. You in your dreams you wondered if anyone will notice if your gone or if anyone will fine you. The restless sleep was cut off by the sound of the door swinging open. A different women- one with a ponytail neatly tied leaving no stray hairs.

‘Wake up. You’re needed for a test.’ Her tone is frim, sensing no room for disobedience.

You quickly get up, running a hand through your hair to straighten your bed-hair sticking out all odd angles.

The women quickly turns her back and leaves, the only sound being her heels clicking in the distance. You quicken your pace not wanting to lose her or get lost.  She leads you down the halls and into a room labeled ‘physical test’. Inside the room stood a machine that resembled an MRI scanner.

“Lie down and don’t move,” the woman instructed.

You obeyed, settling onto the cool metal table. A shiver ran through you at the contact. The woman began tapping quickly on her tablet, her movements practiced and efficient. With a low hum, the machine came to life, and the table slowly slid deeper into the tunnel.

To your surprise, the space inside wasn’t an MRI—it was some kind of advanced scanner designed to capture precise measurements of your body.

The experience itself was uneventful. Soft, rhythmic beeping echoed around you, mixing with the mechanical whir of hidden components. You stared up at the blank ceiling, trying to keep your breathing steady.

It didn’t take long before the scanning was complete. The table began to slide back out of the tunnel, returning you to the harsh fluorescent light of the room.

‘There all done. You can go back to your room.’

With that the guards on standby quickly escort you to your room. As you sat down on your bed, wondering when will this be over.

You sit on the edge of the bed, still reeling from the sterile cold of the scanner. The silence of your room presses in on you—too quiet, too controlled.

You rest your elbows on your knees, head in your hands. The question gnaws at your mind: How long will this go on? Are they even trying to find me? Or… have they already given up?

The room offers no answers. Just blank walls, a desk with nothing on it, and a bed that might as well be a prison cot. You glance toward the door—no lock on your side, of course. Only the faint hum of electricity from the panel next to it.

If I want to get out, I need to know more.

Chapter Text

Before you could entertain that thought, the door to your cell swung open. Several men in stark white lab coats entered, their expressions cold and unreadable—void of empathy, all business.

"Time for your next test," one of them said, a slight smirk curling his lips.

“What test?” you asked warily, already tensing.

The lead scientist stepped closer to the table, the others flanking him.

“We'll be running some tests on your Quirk today,” he replied, setting down a tray of instruments. Metal glinted under the fluorescent lights. “We want to see how it reacts to certain stimuli.”

“No,” you said firmly.

His expression darkened, eyes narrowing.

“You don’t have a choice,” he snapped. “You’re here to cooperate.”

The others moved in, hands loose at their sides, ready to restrain you.

“Now. Follow us.”

You braced yourself. You wouldn’t go quietly.

The moment you lunged, they reacted with inhuman precision. Two of them grabbed your arms, forcing you back against the table. You thrashed wildly, legs kicking, fists swinging.

“Enough!” the lead barked, snatching a syringe from the tray. You aimed a final desperate kick at him, but the other two held you down.

Despite your struggle, they pinned your limbs with practiced ease. Leather straps locked into place.

“You leave us no choice,” the lead growled, his voice tight with anger. He plunged the syringe into your arm.

“This will make you more... cooperative.”

“What in the asschecks is that? Shibal is that drugs? Fucking hell.”

The needle burned. You gasped. For a moment, nothing. Then—

Dizziness hit like a wave, crashing into your skull. Your vision blurred. The room tilted. Limbs went sluggish. Thoughts dulled like wet ash.

They released you, confident now. You couldn’t run. Could barely think.

The lead scientist leaned in, eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction.

“That’s better,” he murmured, voice warped through your drugged haze. “Much easier this way.”

The others exchanged nods, then grabbed your arms and began dragging you down the hallway. Your feet dragged behind you, every step a struggle. Your mind screamed to resist, but your body no longer listened. Strength drained. Will flickering.

The door slid open.

A wave of sterile air struck your face—cold, sharp, and dry. The room beyond was too bright, too white, too clean. The hum of machinery rose like static beneath the surface of your skin.

And in the center of the room sat the chair.

You recognized it instantly. Thick leather cuffs waited, arms open like a grotesque invitation. A tray of tubes and wires lay beside it like a surgical offering.

A heart monitor beeped steadily in the corner, taunting you. Watching.

The guard behind you shoved your back.

“Inside. Now.”

You stepped forward. The door sealed shut behind you with a hiss.

No windows. No clocks. No way to tell how long you’d been here.

The man in the lab coat didn’t speak at first. He simply gestured to the chair like this was just another task in a long, boring checklist. You stared at the restraints. Your heart pounded harder.

“Sit,” he said calmly, tapping something on his tablet. “We’ll begin the Quirk stimulation shortly.”

You clenched your jaw, throat dry. But your legs moved anyway. One step. Then another. The metal of the chair was ice beneath you.

The restraints snapped into place with a hiss.

The hum of machines grew louder.

The man in charge gave a sharp nod to his team. They stepped forward—eager now, like this was the part they enjoyed.

“Let’s begin.”

The room was colder than before. Too cold. You wondered if they lowered the temperature on purpose—to shock your system. Or maybe to mimic the conditions of stress.

A machine hissed to life beside you, priming a new syringe.

They were flooding your bloodstream again. Synthetic adrenaline. Cortisol boosters. Something to push your body into survival mode.

It worked.

Your veins were on fire, your breathing shallow. Your muscles twitched under the restraints. You weren’t scared anymore—your body was too busy reacting.

“Vitals elevated,” someone behind the mirrored glass said. “Proceeding to next trigger.”

Then came the clang.

Loud.

Jarring.

Your head snapped toward the sound, heart slamming into your ribs.

Pain followed. A jolt across your nerves, bright and hot. You jerked in the chair, eyes wide.

Your Quirk reacted instinctively—lashing out, uncontrolled.

Again.

Another sound.

Another surge of artificial panic.

Sometimes it was a hallucination: drowning, falling, a scream that didn’t belong to you. Other times, it was real pain—electric, raw, and targeted.

You couldn’t stop it. Every time fear spiked, your Quirk ignited—flickering, unstable, wild.

Your cells screamed in protest. Your vision went white, then red. Muscles strained and shook. You were being stretched too far.

But they didn’t stop.

They weren’t training you.

They were dismantling you.

Pushing.

Measuring.

Weaponizing.

And through the pain and the drugs and the rising panic, one truth pulsed louder than anything else:

“This is killing me.”

And still—they watched.

Waiting.

Eager.

To see how far you could break.

Chapter Text

The machine let out one last beep before powering down.

You couldn’t lift your head. Everything inside you was buzzing—like static buried in your bloodstream.

The restraints clicked open one by one, but you didn’t move ,the synthetic adrenaline wears down hitting you with a wave of dizziness and fatigue. The world feels like it’s spinning, you feel like you limbs are heavy and a pounding ache on the left side of your head. The guards come over to remove the restraints.

Your body is shaking, drenched in sweat, barely responsive. You can’t even stand up. Leaving the guards to forcefully drag you to your cell. The world blurred around the edges as they dragged you out of the room. You couldn’t tell if you were breathing or floating.  Their grip firm and rough.

You’re dumped into your cell like trash. You force yourself to get up and walk on to the bed, immediately plopping down on the thin mattress but that will do, it could have been worse anyway.

In the quiet cell, a million thoughts went through your mind. You start to wonder if you're slowly losing pieces of yourself. Your eyelids start to droop and you start to fall asleep.

In your sleep, you remember a quiet moment with Shoto :

‘Hey are you alright?’ He stood on the training grounds looking down at you extending a hand towards, you.

‘I’m fine, just a few scratches, I highly doubt that will kill me.’ You said grabbing his hand.

‘You know you should be more careful, you need to stop being so reckless in sparring sessions.’ His voice firm like telling off a child

‘Yea, yea, I get it. I’ll be more careful.’ You said slyly.

He frowns- clearly not happy with your unserious manner, of trying to have some sense of survival instinct.

‘You should really start thinking about you’re on survival skills. You’re in the hero course you are constantly being thrown into danger. ‘

‘I know that stop being so dense, of course I WILL look after myself in actual life threatening situations.’ You said annoyed.

For a moment, it felt like you were back there—on the UA training grounds, sun on your skin, bruised but laughing, warmth in your chest. His hand had been firm but steady when he pulled you up.

But the memory dissolved too quickly, slipping through your fingers like sand.

And when you opened your eyes, the only warmth was the leftover sweat clinging to your skin and the cold light bleeding from the ceiling above.

Your chest ached—not from the experiments, not from the drugs. But from that memory.

Would he even recognize you now?

You turned your head toward the blank wall. Every inch of this place was a reminder that you were alone. That here, you weren’t someone to be cared about. You were a test subject. A tool.

Your fingers curled weakly into the sheets.

He’d be looking for you. Right? He wouldn’t stop.

But you didn’t know how much longer you could keep your grip on hope. Every test chipped away at something—your strength, your mind, your sense of who you were.

And for the first time, a part of you wondered:

If you stayed here long enough, would you still be you when they finally found you?

Chapter Text

Meanwhile on the other end, Shoto has been using all of his resources and connections to find you along with the help of class 1A and the pro heroes- especially Aizawa and Mirko- who was your pro heroes mentor after the sports festival and you joined her during hero-work studies. Although, Mirko is a freelancer and can’t technically take in students. , took on the student through a special U.A.-approved work-study exception, impressed by their raw potential and willing to train them under her own brutal, no-nonsense conditions.

“You’ve got potential,” Mirko had said bluntly. “And I don’t do sidekicks. But if you can keep up, I’ll make it worth your time.”

Mirko remembered that saying that to you in your first day with her. The way you worked really hard and put in your all to work into being the best sidekick you can to meet her standards.

Mirko recalled telling you that on your first day, you arrived with something to prove, fire in your eyes, and scraped knees. You learned to move like a predator rather than prey, pushed yourself hard, and endured every grueling training session without complaining. You didn't request compliments. All you wanted to do was gain her respect, and you succeeded.

Mirko didn't think twice about joining the search when you disappeared in the post-war period. She owed you, not just because she was a pro hero.

During one of their intelligence briefings, she grimly informed Aizawa, "I've seen the way they operate." "Those jerks would take advantage of her quirk if they manage to get their hands on her. They will attempt to tear it to pieces.”

Aizawa and class 1A listen intently while listing off all the possible scenarios.

The intel briefing room at the agency was quiet—tense, heavy with the weight of frustration. Maps, surveillance shots, and lab facility reports littered the table. Mirko leaned back in her seat, arms crossed, her foot tapping impatiently against the floor.

Then someone burst in. It was Yaoyorozu, tablet in hand, breath short.

“I found something.”

Everyone turned.

She placed the tablet on the table, opening up a grainy piece of surveillance footage—taken two nights after you went missing. A black van. No license plate. The image flickered as it looped the same few seconds.

Mirko squinted. “That’s… nothing.”

“No, look,” Shoto stepped forward, tapping on the screen. “Zoom in—on the front wheel.”

Yaoyorozu did. The hubcap had a strange indent—a triangular insignia, almost completely scratched off. But not completely.

“That’s a private military model,” Aizawa said quietly, recognition settling into his eyes. “Very few groups have access to that.”

Shoto nodded. “I cross-checked the shape. That design is only registered to two facilities in Japan. One is abandoned. The other—”

He swiped to the next document: a map. Circled in red was a nondescript complex nestled against a remote forest, far from city surveillance. No roads. No power grid link. Officially listed as defunct .

“It’s not defunct,” Shoto said. “It’s where she is.”

Mirko’s lips pulled back into a grin that didn't reach her eyes. “Finally.”

Aizawa nodded grimly. “We’ll prep a stealth team. No flashy entry. We can’t risk them moving her again.”

As they began laying out the infiltration strategy, Shoto kept staring at the frozen image of the van, jaw clenched.

Hold on. Just a little longer.

He didn’t say it aloud. But it echoed in his chest like a silent promise.

Chapter Text

You barely slept the entire night, your mind racing with plans—half-formed ideas, desperate options. You had to try. You had to escape. Morning came, and right on cue, the guards arrived.

“It’s time for your test.”

This was it.

Your heart pounded as you stood. This is your chance. Your only shot at freedom.

In a swift motion, you activated your Quirk—summoning a colossal, shadowy phantom that burst from your body like a tidal wave of darkness. It expanded outward, swallowing the corridor in a thick, ethereal mist. Like an eclipse falling over the world.

The guards froze, startled and disoriented, their vision consumed by swirling shadows. They reached for their weapons, shouting commands—but they couldn’t see you. Couldn’t track you.

Perfect.

You bolted.

While the phantom’s form loomed and twisted like a living nightmare, you slipped past them, dashing out through the cell door and into the hallway. Once you were far enough—breath ragged, legs burning—you dispelled the illusion. The phantom vanished. The moment they realized it, chaos erupted behind you.

Alarms blared.

You didn’t look back.

Footsteps thundered down the corridor. They were gaining. Fast.

No time.

You held your breath in the cramped storage closet, crouched low between metal shelves stacked with cleaning supplies and crates. Your heart pounded so hard it felt like it echoed through the walls. Outside, the sound of heavy boots thudded across the floor — guards shouting, radios crackling.

You stayed perfectly still.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. You weren’t sure — time had twisted since you ran.

Then, a faint hiss.

You blinked.

The air suddenly felt… off. Thicker. A strange, bitter scent laced the room. Your eyes watered.

Gas.

You stumbled to your feet, reaching for the door — but your balance swayed, legs turning to jelly. Your vision doubled, the shelves swimming before your eyes.

They knew.

They'd anticipated your escape. And they’d flushed you out like a rat in a trap. You clawed at the door handle, but your fingers felt numb. Everything was muffled — your heartbeat, your thoughts, the world itself. Your knees buckled, and you collapsed to the floor, gasping for air that no longer helped.

The last thing you saw before everything faded to black was the flickering light above the closet door... and the faint reflection of yourself in a metal cabinet — eyes wide, terrified, and fading fast.

You never made it out.

You woke up head daze, dread filled you once you look up its the ceiling of the lab. You can fell the cold metal restraints over your hands and legs locking you in place. The scientist walks up to you a smug expression that you had the urge to slap that look off his face.

“Did you really think we wouldn’t prepare for that?” he says calmly, tapping a tablet in his hand. “Shadow manipulation, large-scale projection... it was only a matter of time before you tried something foolish.”

He crouches slightly so you can see his eyes—cold and clinical.

“Now we know how far you’re willing to go. That’s useful data.”

A pause. He straightens up again.

“But let’s make one thing clear—there’s no getting out of here unless we allow it.”

Another scientist wheels in a tray of tools. You can hear the clink of metal.

The man looks down at you one last time.

“Next time you try to run, we won’t be this gentle.”

He doesn’t wait for your response.

He turns away—and the machines begin to hum again.

The test passed by quickly maybe because of the gas, soon enough you’re getting transported back into your cell. The guards gripped your arms tight—too tight—and threw you back inside like trash. They muttered amongst themselves, sneering.

Then they turned.

The lead guard stepped forward. He grabbed you by the hair, yanking your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You made this harder than it needed to be,” he growled.

He raised his boot—

And drove it into your chest.

You gasped, the pain exploding through your ribs like shrapnel. You tried to curl inward, but another kick stopped you.

‘This is for being a bitch.’

Another kick.

‘This is for making our lives difficult.’

Another kick.

‘Maybe you need a broken rib.’

He kicks your ribs so hard that there was a crack. A searing bolt of agony shot through your torso, making it hard to breathe. Each inhale felt like knives grinding against your bones. Your vision blurred at the edges, black spots flickering like static. Even the smallest movement—turning your head, twitching a finger—sent shockwaves through your ribs.

‘Maybe you need a broken arm too so you won’t escape.’

With one swift punch, his fist connects to your arm. The crack was loud—unnatural. It didn’t sound like anything a body was meant to make. More like dry wood snapping under too much weight.

Then came the pain. White-hot and blinding, it surged through your entire arm like electricity gone haywire. Your breath caught in your throat, chest heaving in short, sharp bursts. Your hand spasmed open involuntarily, the muscles refusing to obey. You staggered back, clutching the limb with your other hand, but even the pressure made it worse. Your fingers twitched uselessly. You couldn’t move your wrist, couldn’t even tell if your hand was still attached right. The limb hung at an awkward angle, wrong in a way that made your stomach churn. A cold sweat broke over your skin. You bit your lip so hard you tasted blood, trying to stifle the scream clawing up your throat. It wasn’t just the pain—it was the knowledge. You knew something was broken. You felt it deep in the bone. The marrow itself felt like it was shrieking.

And worst of all, you didn’t even have time to recover.

Seeing your pain the lead guard seemed to be satisfied and he turns to leave with the other guards following behind him. The door to your cell closes with a loud bang.

You tried your best to get to your bed, using your remaining working hand to help you crawl to the bed. You carefully sit yourself up, you try to keep your breathing shallow avoiding the unbearable pain of your broken ribs. You look around trying to find a material to create a makeshift wrap for your broken bones. Gritting your teeth, you yanked the pillowcase off, tore it into strips with trembling fingers.

You pressed your arm close to your chest, using the cloth to bind it tight, keeping it from swinging uselessly. Then, using the rest, you wrapped your torso—tight, just tight enough to keep the sharpness at bay. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t sterile. But it was something.

“Don’t pass out. Not yet,” you muttered, head swimming.

Chapter Text

You leaned back against the thin mattress, your body trembling, pain pulsing through every inch of you.

Your head hit the pillow. And despite the searing in your ribs and the throb in your broken arm—

You fell asleep in an instant. Your body had no fight left. Just darkness.

In your half-conscious state, the world blurred like a foggy windowpane.

A figure emerged through it — unmistakable.

The dual-colored hair. The familiar posture.

Shoto.

You tried to call his name, but your voice refused to come.
He stood there, unmoving, back turned — as if he were waiting. Or as if he’d already decided to leave.
You reached out.

“Please, Shoto... help me.”

He began to walk away. Slowly.

Each step sounded like it came from underwater, muffled and distant.

You tried to scream — but your throat was silent.

And just like that, he was gone.

You were alone again.

Tears welled in your eyes.

This was torture. A cruel trick. Like the world was taunting you — showing you the one person you needed, only to snatch him away.

You weren’t even sure if it was real. But it hurt all the same.

You hugged yourself tightly, trying to keep it together — but the tears slipped free. You reached out, grabbing the nearest pillow, clinging to it like a lifeline. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Something warm. Something to hold on to. The sobs softened. The tightness in your chest loosened — just slightly.

Eventually, your breathing slowed. And this time, you slipped into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

It took you a long moment to register it—this wasn’t the same room you had been trapped in before. The walls were still white, but they had a clinical precision to them, the kind of sterility that made your skin crawl. The faint, sharp smell of alcohol lingered in the air, mingling with something else… something faintly sweet, almost like antiseptic mixed with warmth.

Your eyes dropped to your body. Your gown was different. Cleaner. Pristine. Not the ragged, blood-stained thing you remembered. Every fold of fabric seemed deliberately arranged, untouched by the chaos you had been through.

A shiver ran through you.

Had someone moved you? Or… had you finally slipped fully into some twisted dream? Your head throbbed with the effort of thinking. The memory of your last moments—of pain, darkness, and Shoto fading from your sight—pressed in like a weight, making it hard to breathe.

You tried to sit up, wincing as your ribs protested, but the movement was easier than before. Less sharp.

Almost as if your body had been… tended to. Carefully.

Your gaze drifted around the room, searching. There were no machines, no ominous instruments lining the walls. Just a simple bed, a small table with a pitcher of water, and a single chair facing the door. You look to your left to see the bedside placed with a beautiful bouquet of flowers to your liking and a unfortunately generic ‘Get well soon card’ looked like it was bought at the nearest supermarket for the low price of 200 yen. You unfolded the card with trembling hands, your pulse quickening. At first glance, it looked ordinary—generic font on the front, cheerful pastel colors. But the moment your eyes fell on the inside, the neat, elegant handwriting made your stomach drop.

“You’ve shown incredible resilience. Every flower represents how much stronger you’ve become under our care. Don’t worry—soon, the world will understand your true potential. Rest well. You’ll need it.”

The signature at the bottom wasn’t a name. Just a clinical mark. An experiment number. Your number.

The words coiled in your head, each sentence landing heavier than the last. They were mocking you.

Pretending to care. Turning what should have been comfort into another reminder—you weren’t a person to them. You were a project.

The bouquet suddenly felt wrong in your hands. The petals were too vivid, too soft, their sweetness clashing with the sterile air of the room. Like a cruel joke.

Your chest tightened. Rage and despair twisted together.

They hadn’t just broken your body. Now they were coming for your mind.

In a rage, you picked up the vase of flowers and smashed them to the ground, at that moment you didn’t about the possibilities of getting injured by the glass or the severe punishment of the aftermath. You just wanted to be free. To escape this hellhole of a place. Upon impact, the glass shards went flying everywhere, one glass shard gracefully grazes across your cheek leaving a small cut.

You hear footsteps coming closer and you knew….

You will not make it out alive