Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Midoriya Izuku’s heart hammered in his chest as he stood outside the U.A. gates. His hands clenched the straps of his backpack so hard his knuckles turned white. The weight of rejection still lingered, an ache gnawing at the corners of his mind.

All Might’s words rang clear in his memory, like a sharp, unforgiving slap.

"You can’t become a hero without a quirk, young man."

For a long time, he had clung to that dream, hoping that somehow, someway, he’d become the next Symbol of Peace. But now? That dream was gone—ripped out of his hands by the person who had once inspired him. He took a shaky breath, forcing himself to look up at the U.A. logo. This time, his future wasn’t going to involve standing among the next generation of pro heroes.

Instead, he was here as a first-year in the Support Department.

The thought stung, but he quickly shoved it down. He wasn’t going to let rejection define him. If he couldn’t be a hero, he’d make the tools to support them. He’d find a way to make himself indispensable, even without a quirk.

As Izuku stepped inside, the Support Department was buzzing with life. Unlike the main hero course buildings, the workshop area felt chaotic in the best way—half-finished projects littered the tables, gears and circuit boards spilled from toolboxes, and students huddled over blueprints as they discussed new inventions.

He felt a strange excitement flicker in his chest. This was different—messy, creative, and unpredictable. Maybe... just maybe, this place could be his new beginning.

"Watch out!"

Izuku barely had time to react as a massive gadget zipped through the air toward his head. He yelped, ducking just in time. The flying object—a strange contraption with wheels and claw arms—whizzed past him, slamming into the wall with a loud crash. Sparks flew.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no!” a high-pitched voice cried out.

A girl with wild pink hair and bright goggles perched on her head skidded to a halt in front of him, waving her arms in a panic. "I didn't mean for it to do that!"

Izuku blinked. “Are you... okay?”

"Me? I'm great! That was just a miscalculation!" The girl gave him a wide grin, not seeming the least bit bothered by the chaos she’d caused. "I’m Hatsume Mei, by the way! And you almost got hit by one of my babies! Isn’t that exciting?"

Izuku stared at her, half in awe, half in confusion. "Uh... sure?"

"What's your name?" Mei asked, adjusting her goggles as she peered closely at him. "Are you new? You look new. I can tell, because I’ve memorized everyone’s faces in the department."

"I’m Midoriya. Midoriya Izuku," he said awkwardly, unsure what else to say.

"Midoriya! Got it!" Mei clapped her hands together, a mischievous glint in her eye. "You wanna help me test my new prototype? It probably won’t explode!"

"Probably?" Izuku echoed, eyebrows raising.

"Don’t worry! I have a good feeling about this one!" She beamed, grabbing his arm and dragging him toward one of the workbenches before he could protest.

Izuku stumbled after her, both overwhelmed and intrigued. He was beginning to realise that the Support Department might be... a lot. But maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. If Mei was any indication of what life here would be like, it was bound to be unpredictable—and Izuku could work with unpredictable.

Two hours later, Izuku found himself sitting cross-legged on the workshop floor, surrounded by a tangle of wires, bolts, and blueprints. Mei buzzed beside him like an unstoppable force of nature, sketching diagrams and excitedly explaining her latest prototypes. Despite the chaos, Izuku felt... calm. He could lose himself in this—designing, building, testing. It wasn’t what he had imagined for his future, but it was something. And for now, that had to be enough.

Still, the ache in his chest hadn’t quite disappeared. No matter how hard he tried to focus, fragments of the past slipped into his thoughts: Kacchan, the entrance exam, the moment All Might told him to give up.

He pressed his fingers against the cool metal surface of a half-built gauntlet, grounding himself. He wasn’t going to be a hero in the traditional sense. But... maybe that was okay. Maybe there were other ways to matter. If he could build something meaningful—something that could protect others even without a quirk—then maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.

"You’ve got good instincts, Midoriya," Mei said suddenly, snapping him out of his thoughts. She gave him an approving grin, her goggles reflecting the flickering lights of the workshop. "You and me? We’re gonna make some crazy stuff together. I can feel it."

Izuku smiled despite himself. "Yeah. I think we will."

Elsewhere in U.A., the campus was quiet, night settling over the dormitories.

Shouto Todoroki stood by the window of the Class 1-A dorm common room, one hand resting against the cold glass. The flickering city lights stretched out before him, but his gaze was elsewhere—focused inward, lingering on a memory from the entrance exam.

It was a boy. Green-haired. Quirkless. And yet, that boy had stood in front of the zero-pointer, ready to sacrifice everything to save a stranger. He remembered the raw determination in those eyes, the reckless courage. Midoriya Izuku.

Todoroki’s brow furrowed slightly. He knew what desperation looked like—he had lived it himself for years—but what he saw in Midoriya back then hadn’t been desperation. It had been something else. Something... he couldn’t quite understand.

His fingers brushed the frost that had begun forming along the edge of the windowpane. "Midoriya..." he murmured, almost to himself.

The boy was in the Support Department now, far removed from the spotlight of the hero course. But something told Todoroki that wasn’t the last they’d see of each other. People like Midoriya didn’t just fade quietly into the background.

People like Midoriya changed things.

Back in the Support Department, as the workshop’s lights dimmed and Mei’s chatter faded into the background, Izuku leaned over his notebook, sketching out a new idea.

"I’ll find a way to protect them," he thought, determination burning in his chest. "With or without a quirk, I’ll make something of myself."

He glanced at the tools scattered around him, and for the first time in a long while, the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter.

Chapter Text

Midoriya Izuku’s first week at U.A.’s Support Department had been anything but quiet. Each day was a blur of chaotic experiments, scattered tools, and half-exploded prototypes. It was a sensory overload—noisy, unpredictable, and exhausting—but also strangely thrilling.

Unlike his old classrooms, no one here mocked him for his enthusiasm or told him his ideas were too ambitious. The students and teachers in the Support Department encouraged bold thinking, even when it meant things went wrong. Here, failure wasn’t a dead end—it was just a step in the process.

And yet, the sting of rejection lingered like a shadow. No matter how many hours he threw into blueprints or how deeply he buried himself in projects with Hatsume Mei, that familiar ache gnawed at the back of his mind.

"You can’t be a hero without a quirk, young man."

Those words from All Might echoed every night before he fell asleep. The man who had once been his idol had shattered his dream with brutal finality. And no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that this—working in Support, helping from the sidelines—was enough, part of him still felt like he was falling short.

The bell for lunch rang, cutting through the hum of machinery, and Izuku decided to take a break from the workshop. Mei’s latest “baby” had just exploded spectacularly, leaving both of them coated in a fine layer of soot. She wanted to dive back into repairs immediately, but Izuku needed some air—just a moment to clear his head.

The courtyard was quieter than the bustling workshop, the crisp autumn breeze carrying the scent of damp leaves. Izuku tightened his grip on his notebook as he wandered along the paved pathways, the pages inside filled with sketches of new gadgets and unfinished ideas.

He tried not to look at the Hero Course buildings looming in the distance, tried not to think about the students training there—students like Bakugou Katsuki, who had made it to Class 1-A without breaking a sweat.

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, forcing the memories back. Dwelling on the past wouldn’t change anything. He had a new path now—a different kind of dream. And if he wanted to make it work, he had to keep moving forward.

That was when he saw him—a figure sitting alone on a bench beneath a tree at the edge of the courtyard, half-hidden by shadow. At first glance, he might have been mistaken for just another student catching a break between classes. But Izuku recognised him immediately.

Shinsou Hitoshi.

The boy with the mind-control quirk who had stirred up controversy during the entrance exam. Izuku had admired him from afar for a long time, fascinated by the way Shinsou carried himself—like someone who was used to the world expecting the worst of him but who refused to let that define him.

And now, here he was, sitting on a bench with slouched shoulders and a tired expression, fiddling absentmindedly with the cap of a water bottle. He looked exhausted, like someone who had been running on empty for far too long.

Izuku hesitated. Shinsou didn’t exactly radiate “approachable,” and it was clear he valued his space. But something about the way he sat there—alone, quiet, as if the world had forgotten him—pulled at Izuku’s heart.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Izuku took a deep breath and approached the bench.

“Shinsou-kun?” he called softly, stopping a few steps away.

The other boy looked up slowly, his violet eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. “Do I know you?”

There was no malice in the question—just guarded curiosity, the kind of wariness born from a lifetime of being misunderstood.

Izuku offered a small, awkward smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not really. I’m Midoriya. Midoriya Izuku. We haven’t talked before, but I remember seeing you at the entrance exams.”

Shinsou’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, weighing his intentions, before he shifted slightly on the bench to make room. It wasn’t quite an invitation, but it wasn’t a rejection either. Izuku took that as a win and sat down beside him.

“Shinsou-kun?” Izuku called softly, stopping a few feet away.

The other boy’s sharp gaze flicked to him, eyebrows raised in mild confusion. “Do I know you?” His voice was calm, but there was a hint of wariness beneath it as if he wasn’t used to strangers approaching him without an ulterior motive.

Izuku smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh... not really. We’ve never talked before. I’m Midoriya Izuku from the Support Department. I saw you during the entrance exam.”

Shinsou’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze softened slightly as if the name rang a distant bell. “Support, huh?” he muttered, shifting on the bench to make room. “What are you doing out here?”

Izuku hesitated, then sat beside him. “Just... needed some air,” he admitted, fiddling with the edge of his notebook. “It’s been a long week.”

Shinsou snorted quietly, an amused sound that wasn’t unkind. “Tell me about it.”

For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, the noise of students milling around fading into the background. Izuku found himself relaxing, enjoying the quiet presence beside him. It was rare, he realised, to sit with someone without feeling the need to fill the space with words.

“So,” Shinsou said after a while, his gaze flickering toward Izuku’s notebook. “Why aren’t you in the Hero Course?”

The question was blunt but not cruel. Still, it hit harder than Izuku expected, stirring memories he didn’t want to confront.

He forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Things... didn’t work out the way I planned,” he said softly.

Shinsou studied him for a moment, violet eyes sharp with understanding. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know what that’s like.”

The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Shinsou Hitoshi was someone who had been told his quirk made him a villain waiting to happen. And yet, here he was—fighting for his place in the Hero Course, clawing his way toward a future that no one believed he deserved.

Izuku felt a strange sense of kinship with him—two boys who had been told, in different ways, that they weren’t good enough.

“You said you’re in the Support Department,” Shinsou said after a moment, breaking the silence. “What kind of stuff do you build?”

Izuku’s face lit up at the question, the weight on his chest easing slightly. “Oh! Well, right now, I’ve been working on some new support gear for the Hero Course students. And my partner, Mei—she’s, uh... very enthusiastic—wants to build a device that can enhance reaction time during combat.”

Shinsou’s lips twitched as if suppressing a smile. “Sounds... chaotic.”

“You have no idea,” Izuku muttered, laughing quietly.

They lapsed into silence again, but this time, it was lighter—like the beginning of something unexpected.

As the bell rang, signalling the end of lunch, Shinsou stood and stretched, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Well,” he said casually, “if you ever need someone to test out those prototypes of yours, let me know. Could be fun.”

Izuku blinked, startled by the offer. Then a grin spread across his face, warm and genuine. “I’ll take you up on that, Shinsou-kun.”

Shinsou gave him a small nod—more of a silent promise than a farewell—and turned to leave, his slouched figure blending into the crowd.

Izuku watched him go, a strange sense of comfort settling over him.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like he was standing on the outside, looking in.

That evening, the sky was painted in soft purples and gold as the sun set over U.A.’s sprawling campus. The glow from the dormitories spilled across the lawns, filling the night with murmurs of students settling in after a long day.

In the Class 1-A common room, Todoroki Shouto stood by the window, his gaze distant as he leaned one shoulder against the cool glass. The chill from his right side brushed against the frost creeping at the edges of the windowpane. He barely noticed.

His mismatched eyes drifted toward the faint outline of the Support Department building.

He hadn’t seen much of Midoriya Izuku since the entrance exam. The boy with wild green curls and quirkless determination shouldn’t have stood out—it shouldn’t have mattered.

And yet, he did.

Todoroki remembered the way Midoriya had moved during the exam: reckless, sure, but purposeful. The way he had thrown himself into danger, not to earn points, but to save someone else. He had watched that moment unfold with quiet fascination—a quirkless boy standing up against impossible odds with no power except sheer will.

There was something rare about that kind of resolve.

In his experience, people who burned that brightly rarely stayed in the shadows. They always found a way to make their mark, even if the world didn’t know what to do with them at first.

Todoroki’s gaze lingered on the windows of the Support Department. Faint lights flickered inside the building, a sign that someone—likely Midoriya—was still working long after most students had retired for the night.

His hand drifted to the frosted edge of the glass, fingertips tracing patterns in the ice as if they could somehow touch the thoughts that floated just out of reach.

He didn’t know much about Midoriya, but he knew this:

People like him weren’t meant to be background characters in someone else’s story.

And Todoroki had the strangest feeling that their paths were going to cross again, not by chance, but by necessity.

Because people like Midoriya Izuku didn’t just follow the rules—they rewrote them.

Chapter Text

The sharp, metallic clang of metal against metal echoed through the vast training grounds as Bakugou Katsuki slammed his fists together, a familiar explosion crackling between his palms. His sharp eyes locked onto the floating targets hovering in midair.

"Bakugou, you’re up!" Aizawa Shouta called from the sidelines, his voice as dry and indifferent as ever.

Without hesitation, Bakugou’s body moved on instinct. He launched forward with a blast, explosions propelling him upward with terrifying speed. The targets didn’t stand a chance. His hands crackled with energy as he weaved through the course, obliterating each one in quick succession, his face a picture of fierce concentration.

From the ground, Kirishima Eijirou watched, his crimson eyes bright with admiration. It wasn’t just Bakugou’s strength that impressed him, though that was undeniable. It was the determination—the sheer drive to win that radiated off him like heat from his explosions.

Bakugou landed with a final explosion, the last target obliterated in a burst of smoke and fire. He straightened, wiping sweat from his brow as he turned to Aizawa, a smug grin tugging at his lips.

"Done. And faster than last time," Bakugou boasted, his chest heaving from the exertion.

Aizawa raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Barely. You’re still wasting too much energy on unnecessary blasts."

Bakugou scowled, but before he could fire back with one of his usual insults, Kirishima jogged over, clapping him on the back with a wide grin.

"That was awesome, Bakubro!" Kirishima said, his voice full of genuine excitement. "You’re always getting faster! You’ve really mastered those moves."

Bakugou shrugged, pretending not to care, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward at the compliment. He couldn’t fool Kirishima—he knew Bakugou well enough by now to see when the praise hit home.

"Of course I’m getting faster, shitty hair," Bakugou muttered, crossing his arms as they walked off the field together. "You think I’m gonna let those extras outpace me?"

Kirishima chuckled, pushing his hands into his pockets as they made their way toward the lockers. "Well, you’re sure as hell leaving everyone else in the dust. I don’t know how you keep going at that speed."

Bakugou glanced at him sideways, the usual scowl softening for a split second. "I don’t stop. That’s how."

There was something raw in his voice, a quiet determination that ran deeper than pride. Kirishima’s grin faded slightly, his brow furrowing as he studied his friend. Bakugou had always been intense, but there was something else beneath the surface—something that had been eating at him ever since they started at U.A.

Kirishima decided to take a chance. "Hey, Bakugou… you’ve been pushing yourself harder than usual. Is everything alright?"

Bakugou’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and defensive. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Kirishima raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, I’m just looking out for you, man. You’ve been going at 110% lately. I’m just wondering… if something’s bugging you?"

For a moment, Bakugou didn’t respond. His usual barked insults were absent, replaced by a tense silence. Kirishima watched as Bakugou’s fists clenched and unclenched, his jaw tight. It was almost as if he was weighing whether or not to respond—whether or not to let someone in.

Finally, Bakugou let out a low growl, turning his gaze toward the horizon. "It’s nothing, alright?" he muttered, voice quieter than usual. "I just… I’m not gonna lose. Not to anyone. Not to Deku."

Kirishima blinked in surprise at the mention of Midoriya. They rarely spoke about him, especially since Bakugou had kept tight-lipped about their history. But something in Bakugou’s voice gave away more than he probably intended.

"Midoriya? You haven’t mentioned him in a while," Kirishima said, trying to keep his tone casual.

Bakugou’s scowl deepened. "There’s nothing to mention. The nerd’s not even in the hero course. He’s not a threat."

Kirishima frowned. "You really think that?" He hesitated before adding, "You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but… I know you’ve got history with him. Maybe that’s what’s bugging you."

Bakugou tensed, his fists clenching again. He glared at the ground, refusing to meet Kirishima’s gaze. "That’s not it," he snapped, but the edge in his voice told a different story.

Kirishima stayed quiet, giving Bakugou the space he needed. He didn’t press further, but the silence between them felt heavy with unspoken words.

After a few moments, Bakugou let out a frustrated sigh. "I don’t know what it is, alright? It just pisses me off. Seeing him go off to Support like it’s fine. Like it’s fine that he’s not in the Hero Course." He paused, his jaw tightening. "It’s like he doesn’t even care."

Kirishima’s heart ached for his friend, but he chose his next words carefully. "Maybe… maybe he’s just trying to find his own way. You know, everyone’s got their own path, right? Just because it’s different doesn’t mean it’s wrong."

Bakugou glared at him, but there was no real anger in it—only frustration. "That’s a load of crap, and you know it. He wanted this. He’s the one who kept chasing after it, even when it was obvious he didn’t have a chance."

Kirishima scratched the back of his head, unsure how to respond. He knew Bakugou well enough to understand that this wasn’t just about Midoriya not being in the Hero Course. It was something deeper. Something tied to how Bakugou saw himself.

"Look," Kirishima said slowly, "you’re both strong in your own ways. But maybe… maybe it’s not about who’s stronger. Maybe it’s about figuring out what kind of hero you want to be."

Bakugou didn’t respond immediately, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. His fists loosened just slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing.

"Tch. Whatever," Bakugou muttered, but the bite in his voice was gone.

Kirishima grinned, clapping him on the back again. "Hey, whatever happens, I’ve got your back, Bakubro. You’re gonna be an amazing hero. No one’s got the same drive as you."

For a second, Bakugou’s scowl softened into something almost like gratitude. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but Kirishima’s unwavering support meant more to him than he could put into words.

As they made their way back to the lockers, Bakugou shoved his hands into his pockets, his mind still buzzing with thoughts of Midoriya. Kirishima was right about one thing—this wasn’t just about strength. It was about something else. Something that Bakugou wasn’t ready to face yet.

But for now, he pushed those thoughts aside. There was still work to be done.

Meanwhile, in the Support Department, Midoriya Izuku was hunched over his workbench, lost in the intricate details of a new project. The steady hum of machines and the sharp clatter of tools filled the workshop, but it barely registered in his mind. His thoughts were somewhere else, drifting between the blueprints on his desk and the lingering memory of his conversation with Shinsou Hitoshi earlier that day.

There was something about the way Shinsou had spoken—his quiet acceptance of a path riddled with obstacles—that struck a chord with Izuku. Shinsou had been honest in a way that most people weren’t. He didn’t pretend everything was fine, didn’t try to hide the weight of expectations on his shoulders. That kind of raw honesty made Izuku realize how much he had been burying his own struggles beneath the noise of constant work.

As he adjusted a small wire on his latest prototype—a pair of custom gauntlets designed to enhance grip strength for heroes with physical quirks—he found his mind drifting back to Bakugou. Izuku hadn’t seen him since the entrance exam, but his presence still loomed large in his thoughts. The years they spent together weren’t something Izuku could just forget, no matter how hard he tried.

He hadn’t even told Hatsume Mei or anyone else in the Support Department about the connection he had with Bakugou. It wasn’t that he was ashamed—it was more that he didn’t know how to explain it. How could he put into words the complicated mixture of admiration, fear, and unresolved tension that Bakugou brought out in him?

Suddenly, a soft clink brought him back to the present. The wire he had been adjusting snapped under the pressure, and the gauntlet’s internal mechanisms sputtered out a small burst of smoke.

"Ah! I overdid it again," Izuku muttered, quickly grabbing a wrench to make adjustments.

Beside him, Mei let out a cackle, her goggles pushed high on her forehead as she leaned over to inspect his work. "Midoriya, you’re thinking too much and not building enough! Don’t let your brain overload the machine!"

Izuku chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, I guess I’m just… distracted."

Mei waved her hand dismissively. "Well, undistract yourself! These babies aren’t going to build themselves!" She flashed him a grin before diving back into her own chaotic project, muttering something about "perfecting the rocket boosters."

Izuku couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm, but the weight of his thoughts didn’t lift entirely. He knew that part of him was still holding on to the dream of being a hero. Even now, when he had accepted his place in the Support Department, there was a small voice in the back of his mind that wondered: What if things had been different?

Pushing that thought aside, Izuku turned back to the gauntlet, tightening a screw and reconnecting the wire. He couldn’t afford to lose focus, not when there was still so much to be done.

His hands worked automatically, but his mind wandered again, replaying the words Shinsou had spoken earlier that day: “You’ve got talent, Midoriya. More than most people in the Hero Course. You’ll find your way—you’re already on it.”

Izuku’s chest tightened at the memory, a strange mix of emotions swirling inside him. He wasn’t used to hearing that kind of validation. For so long, his efforts had gone unnoticed or were dismissed outright. But here, in this strange and unpredictable workshop, things felt different. People like Mei, like Shinsou… they saw him for what he was capable of, not for what he lacked.

Maybe that was enough.

Or maybe it was just the beginning.

Hours passed, and by the time the last rays of sunlight disappeared beyond the horizon, the workshop had grown quiet. Mei had long since left, eager to test her latest invention on the practice field. Izuku stayed behind, surrounded by half-finished gadgets and crumpled blueprints.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, sitting back to admire the now-functional gauntlet lying on the workbench. It wasn’t perfect, but it was close. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. This—building things, creating something that could make a difference—wasn’t so bad after all.

As he packed away his tools and prepared to head back to the dorms, a soft vibration in his pocket caught his attention. Pulling out his phone, he saw a message light up the screen.

Kirishima Eijirou:
"Hey Midoriya! A few of us are grabbing dinner after training. You should come! Would be great to catch up."

Izuku blinked at the message, surprised. He hadn’t spoken to Kirishima since their time at the entrance exam. For a brief moment, the image of Bakugou flashed through his mind—of his old friend, now rival, who had stormed ahead into the Hero Course without a second glance.

But Kirishima’s message was genuine, filled with the warmth and enthusiasm that was so characteristic of him. It wasn’t an obligation. It was an invitation.

And for the first time in a long while, Izuku allowed himself to consider it.

He typed a quick response, his fingers hovering over the keys for a moment before sending it off.

"Sure, I’ll come!"

Sliding the phone back into his pocket, Izuku grabbed his notebook, stuffing it into his bag with a sigh. Maybe reconnecting with people wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe, just maybe, this was his way of moving forward, one step at a time.

As he flicked off the lights in the workshop, a quiet sense of determination settled over him. His path might look different from everyone else’s, but it was his. And if there was one thing Midoriya Izuku was good at, it was walking forward—even when the road wasn’t clear.

Chapter Text

Midoriya Izuku jolted awake to the soft glow of dawn filtering through his curtains. His phone buzzed on the bedside table, lighting up with an incoming message. He fumbled for it, squinting at the screen through bleary eyes.

Hatsume Mei:
"Workshop. ASAP. It’s ready!"

Izuku’s heart skipped a beat, his sleepiness vanishing instantly. He’d been waiting for this—he and Mei had been working nonstop on their latest project for weeks, refining every tiny detail. If Mei was calling him in this early, then something big must have happened.

Excitement tingling through him, Izuku threw on his uniform, grabbed his notebook, and dashed out the door, the early-morning chill brushing against his skin as he crossed the quiet U.A. campus.

The Support Department workshop was bathed in soft, fluorescent light as Izuku stepped inside, breathing in the familiar scent of oil and metal. It was quiet at this hour, the usual bustling noise of students and machinery still absent. The workshop felt almost serene—a strange contrast to the frenzy that usually filled its walls.

Izuku’s gaze landed on Mei, who was already hard at work, her messy pink hair barely contained under her goggles. She glanced up as he entered, a wide grin stretching across her face.

“There you are!” she called out, waving him over. “It’s finished, Midoriya! And you’re the first to test it!”

She gestured to the workbench, where a pair of sleek, polished gauntlets sat, gleaming under the lights. They looked like something out of a futuristic hero catalogue—metal plates interwoven with shock-absorbent padding, designed to provide extra grip and stability for physical combat.

Izuku approached them slowly, awe in his eyes. “You… you finished them last night?”

“Pulled an all-nighter!” Mei chirped, barely containing her excitement. “The calibration’s set, the reaction-time enhancers are programmed, and they’re ready for a field test. I even added a feedback system so you can sense your movements better. You’ll have faster reflexes and better control!”

Izuku carefully picked up one of the gauntlets, slipping his hand into it. The fit was perfect, snug but flexible, and as he flexed his fingers, he felt a faint hum of power coursing through the material. It was like an extension of his arm, amplifying his strength and movement with a precision he hadn’t thought possible.

“They’re… amazing, Mei,” he murmured, awestruck. “The weight is balanced perfectly, and it feels almost… instinctive.”

Mei’s grin widened, her eyes shining with pride. “I knew you’d like them! Think of all the heroes who could use these! Just imagine—someone like Kirishima would be unstoppable with these in close combat. And that’s just the beginning!”

Izuku’s thoughts raced, the possibilities expanding in his mind as he adjusted the fit on his wrist. These gauntlets weren’t just another piece of equipment; they were a step forward in his dream of making a difference, even without a quirk. The thought was exhilarating.

Power Loader, their teacher, entered the workshop just then, raising an eyebrow as he spotted them. “What’s all this commotion? I could hear you two from down the hall,” he said, his tone gruff but amused.

Mei practically bounced in place. “Sensei! We did it! The prototype’s functional, and Midoriya’s about to take it for a test run!”

Power Loader walked over, his gaze falling on the gauntlets. He inspected them, nodding in approval as he tapped one of the metal plates. “Not bad, you two. You’ve put a lot of thought into this design.” He paused, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “With some fine-tuning, this could be a strong candidate for the U.A. Tech Showcase.”

Izuku’s eyes widened. “The… Tech Showcase? You think we could—?”

Power Loader shrugged, crossing his arms. “If you’re serious about this project, then yes. It’s up to you two to take it to the next level.”

Mei’s grin stretched even wider if that was possible, and she elbowed Izuku playfully. “You hear that? Looks like we’ve got a goal to hit!”

Izuku’s mind reeled. The U.A. Tech Showcase was a massive event, a chance for Support students to demonstrate their creations to pro heroes, sponsors, and industry leaders. If they could make an impact there, they could gain the recognition—and funding—to make their inventions truly game-changing.

For a second, self-doubt flickered in the back of his mind. The idea of presenting their work to an audience that included pro heroes was intimidating. But he took a deep breath, looking at Mei’s unwavering confidence and Power Loader’s quiet approval.

“All right,” he said, determination setting in. “Let’s do it. Let’s make something unforgettable.”

Mei slapped him on the back, nearly sending him stumbling forward. “That’s the spirit, Midoriya! We’re gonna blow them away!”

They dove into the work, refining and testing the gauntlets with a renewed sense of purpose. As Izuku adjusted wires and calibrated the sensors, he felt a warmth spreading through him—a sense of belonging and purpose that he hadn’t felt since arriving at U.A. This was his chance to prove that even without a quirk, he could create something that mattered.

After class, Izuku hurried back to the workshop, his heart pounding with excitement and a touch of nervousness. Power Loader’s words had stuck with him all day, fueling his determination. The idea of presenting at the Tech Showcase felt overwhelming but thrilling—like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing that the only way forward was to take a leap of faith.

He found Mei at the workbench, already hunched over the gauntlets with a laser focus that made her oblivious to anything around her. Tools, metal scraps, and wires were scattered across the table, evidence of her relentless drive.

Mei glanced up as he entered, her eyes gleaming with an intense excitement. “You’re back! Good, because we’ve got a ton of work to do if we’re going to be ready in time for the Tech Showcase.”

Izuku took a steadying breath, letting the weight of her words sink in. He could still barely believe it—the Tech Showcase wasn’t just some school project. It was an event where their inventions would be seen by pro heroes, sponsors, and engineers from all over. If they succeeded, they wouldn’t just be “Support Department kids” anymore. They’d be creators, innovators—people who could change the hero industry.

“Are we ready, Mei?” he asked, the question escaping before he could stop himself. “I mean… this is huge. What if it doesn’t go the way we planned?”

Mei shot him a mischievous grin. “Are you kidding? Of course, it’s huge—that’s what makes it fun! And since when do we plan things perfectly?” She clapped him on the shoulder with a laugh. “We’re Support Department students! We thrive on chaos!”

Izuku couldn’t help but laugh, her confidence melting away his lingering doubts. She was right—if he’d learned anything from his first week in the Support Department, it was that there was no “perfect” formula. Only trial, error, and the drive to keep going no matter what.

“Right,” he said, nodding, his voice firmer this time. “Let’s make it happen.”

The two of them got to work, fine-tuning the gauntlets with the focus of seasoned inventors. As Izuku adjusted wires and recalibrated the reaction-time sensors, Mei sketched ideas for additional features, her pencil flying across the blueprint with the ease of someone who lived and breathed invention.

Hours slipped by in a blur. The sun began to set outside, casting warm light across the workshop, and still they worked, side by side. Izuku felt a deep sense of purpose filling him with every small adjustment, every wire connected. For so long, he had dreamed of making a difference, but he’d never thought it could happen like this—through ingenuity, collaboration, and a relentless drive to create something that would help heroes in ways they couldn’t even imagine.

Finally, Mei set her pencil down, stretching her arms over her head with a satisfied sigh. “I think we’re done for tonight. These gauntlets are going to be epic.”

Izuku took a step back from the workbench, admiring their progress. The gauntlets sat there, gleaming under the workshop lights, a testament to everything they’d poured into this project. And somehow, looking at them, he felt a sense of pride he hadn’t expected. They weren’t just tools—they were a part of him, a part of the dream he was building.

Mei nudged him, grinning. “So, how does it feel to be a Support Department superstar, Midoriya?”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t say superstar… but it feels pretty amazing.”

Mei’s grin softened, and she looked at him with a rare seriousness. “You know, you’re a natural at this. I’ve never had a partner who could keep up with my ideas like you can. We’re going to make some huge waves together. Just wait.”

Izuku’s heart swelled at her words, a quiet, grateful warmth filling him. He hadn’t felt this kind of confidence in himself in a long time. The doubts that had plagued him since he’d arrived at U.A.—about his worth, his place, his potential—felt distant now, like shadows receding in the face of something brighter.

“Thank you, Mei,” he said quietly, meaning every word. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

She rolled her eyes playfully. “Well, Who else would put up with my genius ideas?”

They laughed together, the sound ringing out in the quiet of the empty workshop. And as the laughter faded, Izuku felt a surge of determination, unlike anything he’d known before. He was no longer the boy who dreamed of being a hero from the sidelines. He was creating his path, one invention at a time, and with each step, he felt himself getting closer to the person he wanted to be.

The Tech Showcase loomed on the horizon—a challenge, an opportunity, and a turning point all at once. And Izuku felt ready to face it for the first time, no matter what lay ahead.

As they packed up for the night, Izuku glanced back at the workshop one last time, the sparkle of the gauntlets catching his eye. They proved that his journey was only just beginning—and he couldn’t wait to see where it would lead.

Chapter Text

As the excitement for the upcoming Tech Showcase grew, so did Izuku’s nerves. The Support Department was buzzing with students working on last-minute adjustments, brainstorming new features, and discussing their strategies to catch the attention of pro heroes and sponsors. It was an atmosphere charged with ambition and hope, but for Izuku, it carried a weight he hadn’t fully prepared for.

As he and Mei fine-tuned the gauntlets each day, he felt the lingering sting of memories he couldn’t quite shake. He’d rather forget—moments when his dream of being a hero was crushed by the person he had idolized more than anyone. All Might’s words echoed in his mind even now, a bitter reminder of the rejection that had led him to the Support Department.

"You can’t become a hero without a quirk, young man."

Despite all his progress in the Support Department, Izuku still carried that ache with him, a hidden wound that hadn’t fully healed. Even as he threw himself into his work, doubts sometimes crept in. He had found a new path, yes, but part of him still wondered—was it enough?

On Wednesday, as he sat in the cafeteria during lunch, Izuku found himself scribbling feverishly in his notebook. The gauntlets were nearly complete, but he wanted them to be perfect. He had just thought of a new feature—a way to reduce strain on the user’s wrists during high-intensity combat—and was sketching out the blueprint when he felt a presence beside him.

“Midoriya,” a calm, even voice said, breaking him out of his trance.

Izuku looked up, startled, to see Shouto Todoroki standing at the edge of the table, his mismatched eyes fixed intently on him. It took Izuku a moment to gather his thoughts. Though they had barely spoken since the entrance exam, Todoroki’s appearance was a reminder of the Hero Course—of the world he had once desperately wanted to be part of.

“Oh! Todoroki-kun,” Izuku stammered, setting his pencil down. “Is something wrong?”

Todoroki shook his head, his expression neutral but his gaze intense. “No, I just heard that you’re working on something for the Tech Showcase. I wanted to see it.”

Izuku’s eyes widened, a flicker of pride mixed with surprise. The Hero Course students were generally focused on their training, rarely paying attention to the Support Department. Yet here was Todoroki—one of the most powerful students in Class 1-A—expressing interest in his work.

“Of course,” Izuku said, gathering his notebook and motioning for Todoroki to follow him. “It’s… not much yet, but we’re getting there.”

They made their way across the campus, the bustling sounds of students fading as they entered the quiet of the Support Department. Izuku led Todoroki to the back of the workshop, where his and Mei’s workbench was set up. Various parts, wires, and tools were scattered across the surface, surrounding the gauntlets that were the centrepiece of their efforts.

As they approached, Mei looked up from her latest invention, her eyes gleaming when she spotted Todoroki. “Ah, a hero course student! Finally, someone who can appreciate real genius!” she exclaimed, bouncing over with her usual energy. “Welcome to our workshop, Todoroki-kun!”

Todoroki nodded politely, his gaze shifting to the gauntlets on the workbench. He reached out, picking one up with a careful hand, inspecting the sleek design and intricate wiring. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight distribution, the smooth plating, and the precision that had gone into its construction.

“This is impressive,” he murmured, his voice filled with genuine admiration. “The balance is perfect. It feels like an extension of the arm. You’ve thought of everything.”

Izuku’s cheeks flushed with pride, but before he could respond, Mei launched into her usual enthusiastic pitch. “These babies are going to change the game for close-combat heroes! We’ve got reaction-time boosters, pressure stabilisers, and even impact dampeners so the user doesn’t injure themselves during high-speed punches! Imagine what someone like Kirishima could do with these!”

Todoroki listened carefully, nodding as Mei spoke. His gaze flicked back to Izuku, his expression thoughtful. “You know, Midoriya, people underestimate the value of support gear. But this? This could make a real difference. It’s… honestly, it’s genius.”

Izuku’s heart swelled at the compliment, but before he could thank Todoroki, a voice—both familiar and unexpected—cut through the workshop.

“What’s all this noise?”

Izuku’s head whipped around, and his heart skipped a beat. Standing at the entrance to the workshop, his tall frame silhouetted by the lights was All Might, accompanied by Aizawa. All Might’s gaze swept over the room before it landed on Izuku, and his expression changed, his eyes widening slightly in recognition.

“All Might,” Izuku managed, a strange mix of emotions swirling in his chest. He hadn’t expected to see his former idol here, and he certainly hadn’t expected All Might to be looking at him like that—with something akin to… surprise?

Aizawa, ever observant, raised an eyebrow and glanced at All Might, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I told you, Toshinori, this kid has potential. Just because he didn’t make the Hero Course doesn’t mean he’s out of the game.”

All Might’s face softened, his gaze shifting between Izuku and the gauntlets on the workbench. It was as if he were seeing Izuku in a new light, struggling to reconcile it with the boy he’d once dismissed.

“You’re in the Support Department now, Midoriya?” All Might asked, his tone tinged with curiosity.

Izuku nodded, his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest. “Yes, sir. I’ve been working with Hatsume-san on some projects for the Tech Showcase. These gauntlets are our latest design.”

There was a beat of silence, and for the first time, All Might seemed at a loss for words. He looked down at the gauntlets, a complex expression crossing his face—one that Izuku couldn’t quite decipher. There was pride, but also something like… regret.

“I see,” All Might said finally, his voice softer than usual. “You’re doing well, Midoriya.”

It was a simple statement, but it carried a weight that struck Izuku deeply. For so long, he’d believed he needed All Might’s approval to be worth anything, to be seen as valid. But standing here, in the workshop he had come to love, surrounded by his work and his vision, Izuku realized that he didn’t need that validation anymore. He had found his path—a path he could be proud of.

“Thank you, All Might,” he said quietly, his voice filled with newfound strength. “I’m happy here in the Support Department. I think… I think I can make a real difference.”

A brief, almost wistful smile crossed All Might’s face. “Then keep going, Midoriya. I’ll look forward to seeing what you accomplish.”

Aizawa cleared his throat, breaking the tension with a wry smile. “If you’re done with your heartwarming moment, Toshinori, I’d like to see what these two have been working on. The Tech Showcase is coming up, and I want our students to be ready.”

Mei’s eyes lit up, and she eagerly launched into her detailed explanation, her hands gesturing wildly as she described the gauntlets’ features with her usual enthusiasm. Todoroki listened attentively, nodding along, while All Might and Aizawa observed with interest. Izuku watched, feeling a deep sense of pride and purpose swell within him as Mei spoke.

By the time they finished, Todoroki turned to Izuku, his gaze steady and filled with respect. “You’re doing something important here, Midoriya. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Izuku felt a surge of gratitude, the last remnants of his doubts fading away. “Thank you, Todoroki-kun. I won’t.”

As Todoroki, All Might, and Aizawa left, Izuku stood in the workshop, surrounded by the tools, wires, and prototypes that had become his lifeline. This place had become more than just a workspace—it was a testament to his resilience, his creativity, and his desire to make a difference.

Mei nudged him with a playful grin. “Look at you, getting compliments from Todoroki and All Might! Told you we were onto something big!”

Izuku laughed, the sound light and full of hope. “Yeah… I think you’re right.”

As they dove back into work, the gauntlets gleaming under the workshop lights, Izuku felt a warmth settle in his chest. The Tech Showcase was just around the corner, and he was no longer the boy who’d been rejected from the Hero Course. He was Midoriya Izuku—a Support Department student with dreams, ideas, and a fierce resolve.

For the first time in a long time, he felt ready to show the world exactly who he was.

Chapter Text

As the days ticked down to the U.A. Tech Showcase, the Support Department transformed into a hive of activity, filled with the hum of machinery and the clang of metal on metal. Students worked tirelessly on last-minute adjustments, prototypes, and new features, each team hoping to make a lasting impression on the pro heroes, sponsors, and industry leaders who would be in attendance.

For Izuku, the excitement of the Showcase mingled with a steady undercurrent of nerves. Each evening spent with Mei at the workbench was another reminder of the stakes. The dreams he had once clung to—the chance to be a hero, the idea that he could make a difference—were now all wrapped up in this project. It was no longer just about impressing the judges. It was about proving to himself that he had a place here and that he could make an impact.

On Friday evening, as the sun dipped low over the U.A. campus, casting long shadows through the Support Department’s wide windows, Mei burst into the workshop, clutching a rolled-up blueprint in her hands. Her eyes sparkled with that familiar gleam of manic inspiration that Izuku had come to recognise—and anticipate.

“Midoriya!” she shouted, her voice ringing out over the hum of machines. Izuku looked up from the fine-tuning he’d been doing on the gauntlet’s grip mechanism, watching with a mix of excitement and trepidation as Mei unrolled the blueprint across the workbench. “I figured it out! This is the upgrade that’s going to blow everyone’s minds at the Showcase!”

Izuku leaned over, peering at the intricate drawing. Mei had sketched a detailed mechanism within the gauntlet, a complex array of wires, energy cells, and regulators.

“What is it?” Izuku asked, intrigued by the design but not fully understanding its purpose yet.

“Kinetic charge booster!” Mei said, her eyes lighting up as she explained. “The gauntlets will not only stabilize and enhance grip strength—they’ll store kinetic energy every time the user punches or makes contact with something. And then, when they need an extra boost, that stored energy can be released, amplifying the force of the hit or even creating a shockwave!”

Izuku’s eyes widened as he absorbed the concept. The idea was revolutionary, even a little dangerous. Adding an energy booster would mean completely overhauling their design. But if they pulled it off… the gauntlets wouldn’t just be a tool for hand-to-hand combat; they’d become a strategic weapon.

“Mei, this is… brilliant,” he said, a grin spreading across his face as his mind raced with possibilities. “It’s ambitious, but if we can get it working… it could be a total game-changer.”

Mei gave him a confident smirk. “Ambitious? We’re the Support Department, Midoriya! Ambition is our middle name!” She bumped his shoulder playfully before pointing to specific sections of the blueprint. “We’ll need to overhaul the energy distribution system, reroute some of the internal wiring, and make sure the kinetic cells can handle the power load without short-circuiting.”

Izuku nodded, his mind already mapping out the adjustments they would need to make. “Right… and we’ll have to run stress tests to make sure the charge booster doesn’t overload. If we miscalculate even slightly, the whole thing could malfunction.”

“Exactly! So let’s get to work!”

With renewed determination, they plunged into the project, the atmosphere in the workshop charged with a shared sense of purpose. Mei was in her element, tools whirring and hands moving with practised ease as she dismantled and reassembled parts with lightning speed. Izuku matched her pace, using his notebook to keep track of every change they made, every wire they adjusted, every component they added. He knew that the slightest misstep could cause their design to fail, and the thought only made him focus harder.

Hours passed as they worked side by side, deep into the night, the ticking of the wall clock blending into the constant hum of machines. The quiet U.A. campus outside was bathed in moonlight, but Izuku barely noticed. He was in his world, lost in the excitement of creation, of bringing a vision to life piece by piece.

Finally, around midnight, Izuku set down his tools and took a step back, staring at the newly modified gauntlet in front of him. The added kinetic booster looked deceptively simple from the outside, but he knew how much careful wiring and fine-tuning had gone into making it work.

Mei, looking as exhausted as she was triumphant, nudged him with a grin. “All right, genius—time for the big test. Let’s see if our masterpiece can handle a real impact!”

Izuku took a deep breath, slipping the gauntlet onto his hand. The new additions made it feel heavier, and more substantial, and as he flexed his fingers, he could sense the subtle vibration of stored energy within the metal.

“Ready?” Mei asked, practically bouncing on her heels in excitement.

“Ready,” Izuku said, steadying himself as he turned to face the metal target they had set up at the far end of the workshop.

He positioned himself carefully, his feet grounded and his arm pulled back. With a deep breath, he threw a punch, the gauntlet absorbing the force as the energy built up, and then—he felt it. A surge of power coiled within the gauntlet, an intense hum as the kinetic booster activated.

With a second punch, he released the stored energy, sending a burst of force through the target. A small shockwave rippled out from the impact, rattling nearby tools and causing a cloud of dust to puff up around the target.

Mei’s mouth dropped open as she stared at the target, then at Izuku, her eyes wide with amazement. “It… it worked! We just turned a regular support gauntlet into a powerhouse!”

Izuku let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a surge of pride washing over him. They’d done it. They’d turned an ambitious idea into reality, creating something that could change the way heroes fought on the front lines.

As they cleaned up, Mei talked animatedly about potential additional features they could add before the Showcase, but Izuku could feel the exhaustion settling into his bones, a pleasant ache from hours of work. Tonight had been a turning point—a moment when he’d felt the weight of his potential and the promise of what he could accomplish.

The next morning, Izuku arrived on campus feeling a mix of exhaustion and excitement, his mind buzzing with ideas as he walked across the training fields. As he neared the Hero Course training area, he spotted a familiar figure—Bakugou Katsuki, mid-training, his explosive blasts echoing through the air as he launched himself at a set of targets.

Bakugou was surrounded by a ring of debris, each destroyed target a testament to his raw power. Izuku paused to watch, momentarily transfixed by his former friend’s sheer intensity and focus. Bakugou had always been a force to be reckoned with, someone who attacked every challenge head-on with relentless energy. And even now, as Izuku watched him decimate target after target, he felt a strange sense of nostalgia—a reminder of the rivalry that had once driven him to keep pushing forward.

Just then, Bakugou’s sharp gaze shifted, his eyes zeroing in on Izuku across the field. For a brief moment, there was a heavy silence, the air charged with the unspoken history between them.

“What the hell are you staring at, Deku?” Bakugou barked, his voice rough but tinged with something else—perhaps curiosity or even begrudging respect.

Izuku straightened, meeting Bakugou’s gaze with a confidence he hadn’t felt in a long time. “Just… seeing how much you’ve improved, Kacchan.”

Bakugou’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t look away. “Better not be slacking off in that Support Department, Deku. You think you can keep up with real heroes?”

Izuku felt a surge of determination, his hand clenching around the strap of his backpack where his notebook and sketches were tucked away. He thought of the gauntlets, the countless hours he and Mei had poured into them, the way they had turned a simple concept into a groundbreaking invention.

“I don’t need to keep up, Kacchan,” Izuku replied, his voice steady and sure. “I’m doing my own thing. And… I think it’s going to be something great.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed, his gaze flicking over Izuku with an intensity that was both challenging and appraising. There was a flicker of something in his expression—a hint of acknowledgment, perhaps, buried beneath layers of pride and rivalry.

But in true Bakugou fashion, he scoffed, turning away with a dismissive wave. “Whatever, nerd. Just don’t get in my way.”

As Bakugou stormed off, Izuku watched him go, feeling a strange mixture of satisfaction and relief. He didn’t need to chase after Bakugou anymore. Their paths had diverged, but he had his journey now, one that was independent of his former rival.

When he arrived back at the workshop, Mei was already there, holding up a new blueprint with a triumphant grin.

“You’re just in time! I had another idea, and it’s going to make those gauntlets unstoppable!” she declared, her eyes practically glowing with excitement.

Izuku grinned, feeling his energy surge back as he rolled up his sleeves. “All right, Mei. Let’s get to work.”

Together, they delved back into their project, the hum of machinery and the clink of tools filling the air. The road to the Tech Showcase was almost complete, and with each adjustment, each spark of innovation, Izuku felt his resolve deepen. He was no longer the boy standing on the sidelines, watching others chase their dreams. He was a creator and an innovator, and he was ready to show the world exactly what he was capable of.

The Tech Showcase was just around the corner, and he couldn’t wait to see where this path would lead.

Chapter Text

The days leading up to the U.A. Tech Showcase were filled with relentless work, and the air in the Support Department was electric with anticipation. The workshop felt like a second home to Izuku now, where he and Mei could get lost in the rhythm of creation—hours slipping by unnoticed as they tested, adjusted, and refined the gauntlets that had become the embodiment of their combined efforts. For the first time since entering U.A., Izuku felt he was genuinely accomplishing something that could make a difference.

But as the excitement for the Showcase grew, so did a sense of tension Izuku couldn’t ignore. Whispers filled the hallways, and hushed conversations were cut short when someone else walked by. It was like an invisible weight pressing down on the school, and Izuku noticed things he hadn’t before—glances exchanged between students, the subtle way some of them seemed on edge. The unease crept into his thoughts, lingering like a shadow that refused to dissipate.

At first, he brushed it off as nerves. After all, the Showcase was the most significant event for the Support Department, and with so many influential people expected to attend, everyone was under pressure to perform. But as the days passed, the whispers grew louder, impossible to ignore. Izuku didn’t have all the pieces, but he felt it—the growing fear that something was wrong.

Things came to a head during a quiet afternoon in the workshop. Izuku had just finished making final tweaks to the gauntlets, feeling satisfied at how smoothly they functioned. Mei was off testing one of her other inventions, leaving him alone in the otherwise bustling department. As he packed up his tools, he heard hurried footsteps approaching from the hallway outside.

“Midoriya!” a familiar voice called out.

Izuku looked up to see *Kaminari Denki* jogging over, his usually carefree expression replaced with unease. His eyes darted around the hallway as if to make sure no one else was listening, and he gave Izuku a quick nod before motioning him to a quieter corner.

“Hey, Kaminari-kun,” Izuku greeted him, feeling the faint prickling of worry at Kaminari’s serious tone. “Is everything okay?”

Kaminari hesitated, glancing over his shoulder before lowering his voice. “Midoriya, have you… Have you heard anything weird going around? Like strange rumours?”

Izuku’s brow furrowed. He’d noticed the tension and unspoken fears circulating in the hallways, but he hadn’t thought much about what it could mean. “Rumors about what?”

Kaminari shifted his voice to barely a whisper. “There’s been talk that… well, someone at U.A. might be leaking information. To the League of Villains.”

Izuku felt a chill run down his spine. The League of Villains—the very name was enough to unsettle him. This was the same group responsible for so many attacks on heroes, the same group U.A. had worked tirelessly to protect students from. The idea that someone within their own ranks might be working with them was unthinkable.

“A leak?” Izuku echoed, struggling to comprehend it. “Are… are people sure?”

Kaminari shook his head, looking frustrated. “No one’s completely sure. But some things aren’t adding up—files from the Hero Course going missing, strategies showing up on shady message boards… and the weird part is, it’s not just affecting the Hero Course. Some Support Department projects have supposedly been leaked too.”

Izuku’s mind raced as he tried to make sense of it. Why would the League of Villains care about Support Department projects? The inventions here were meant to help heroes, enhance their abilities, or support them in combat. But if the League had access to those same resources, they could easily exploit them.

“I… I don’t know anything about a leak,” Izuku said slowly, the weight of the revelation settling over him. “But I’ll keep an eye out. Thank you for telling me, Kaminari-kun.”

Kaminari nodded, his expression grim. “Just… watch your back, okay? And let me know if you notice anything strange. If there’s really a traitor here, no one’s safe.”

As Kaminari left, Izuku felt his heart pounding. The implications of what he’d just heard were staggering. If someone within U.A. leaked information to the League of Villains, everything he and Mei had been working toward was at risk. The Showcase, the gauntlets, their reputation… could all be ruined.

That evening, Izuku sat alone in his dorm room, his mind racing with possibilities. He stared at his notes, the blueprints for the gauntlets, but he couldn’t concentrate. The words on the page blurred as his mind replayed Kaminari’s warning.

*Someone might be working with the League of Villains.*

The thought was almost too terrible to consider. U.A. was supposed to be a place of safety, a haven for aspiring heroes. If someone was betraying them from within… who could it be? And why?

He heard a knock on his door as he grappled with these questions. He looked up to see *Shinsou Hitoshi* standing in the doorway, his usual stoic expression softened with a hint of concern.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Midoriya,” Shinsou said dryly, though his tone held a trace of worry.

Izuku managed a small smile, gesturing for Shinsou to come in. “Hey, Shinsou-kun. It’s been… a strange day.”

Shinsou walked in, crossing his arms as he observed Izuku closely. “Strange how?”

Izuku hesitated, unsure how much he should say. But Shinsou had become one of the few people he trusted implicitly—a friend who understood what it was like to be underestimated, to forge your own path. Taking a deep breath, he decided to tell him.

“Kaminari-kun came to me today,” Izuku began, keeping his voice low. “He said… he thinks there might be a traitor at U.A., Someone working with the League of Villains.”

Shinsou’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “So you’ve heard the rumours too.”

Izuku blinked in surprise. “You’ve heard them?”

Shinsou nodded, his voice even but laced with intensity. “People have been talking for weeks. Missing files, plans showing up online, and even some weird activity around the Support Department. I didn’t think much of it until recently, but… if someone leaks information, it could be bigger than we realise.”

“What do you mean?” Izuku asked, leaning forward, his heart pounding.

Shinsou met his gaze, his voice calm but serious. “Think about it. The League of Villains isn’t just interested in taking down individual heroes. They want to dismantle the whole hero society. They could weaponise it if they could get their hands on support tech—gear that could give them an edge in combat or help them evade detection. Everything you and Hatsume are working on, everything we’re developing… it could be twisted into something dangerous.”

The thought made Izuku’s stomach churn. He’d always considered the Support Department a force for good, a place where they could help heroes be their best. But the idea that someone could use their inventions against heroes—that their work could be turned into a tool of destruction—was horrifying.

“Do you think someone in the Support Department could be involved?” Izuku asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Shinsou’s expression darkened. “It’s possible. The League would want someone with technical knowledge who could get close to sensitive information without drawing attention. And if they’ve been watching us, they’d know just how valuable our work is.”

Izuku nodded, a fierce determination settling in his chest. If there was someone inside U.A. working with the League of Villains, he needed to find out who it was. He couldn’t let everything he and Mei had built be compromised. Not now, when they were so close to the Showcase, so close to showing the world what they were capable of.

Shinsou stood up, giving him a steady look. “Be careful, Midoriya. The closer we get to the Showcase, the more eyes will be on us. If someone’s planning something, they’ll make their move soon.”

Izuku nodded, feeling the weight of Shinsou’s words. “Thank you, Shinsou-kun. I’ll keep my guard up.”

As Shinsou left, Izuku sat in silence, the enormity of the situation settling over him like a thick fog. He had to protect their project to ensure the gauntlets didn’t fall into the wrong hands. If there was a traitor, he would find them and wouldn’t let them destroy everything he and Mei had worked for.

The next day, Izuku arrived at the workshop early, determined to throw himself into his work. Mei was already there, hunched over the gauntlets with a look of fierce concentration. She glanced up as he entered, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

“There you are! I was just thinking we could add an auto-stabiliser to the gauntlets.

. It’d help with balance during high-impact situations,” she said, her voice brimming with enthusiasm.

Izuku managed a smile, though it felt forced. “That’s a great idea, Mei. We will need every edge we can get for the Showcase.”

They worked in companionable silence, but Izuku’s mind was elsewhere, racing with thoughts of betrayal and hidden dangers. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching them, that someone’s eyes were on every move they made in the workshop. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the room for anything out of place.

As they wrapped up for the day, Mei noticed his distracted expression and nudged him playfully. “Hey, Midoriya, what’s up with you? You’ve been out of it all day.”

Izuku hesitated, forcing a reassuring smile. He didn’t want to worry her—not when they were so close to the finish line. “It’s nothing,” he said lightly. “Just… pre-Showcase nerves, I guess.”

Mei gave him a sceptical look but eventually shrugged it off, her smile returning. “Well, whatever it is, don’t let it mess with your focus! We’ve got a Showcase to win, and we’ll blow everyone away!”

Izuku nodded, but as he left the workshop that evening, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to go wrong. The whispers of betrayal hung in his mind like an unwelcome echo, each step feeling heavier than the last.

As he walked back to the dorms, he clenched his fists, making a silent promise to himself: he would protect their project, no matter the cost. The Showcase was only days away, and he would be ready.

Chapter Text

The days leading up to the U.A. Tech Showcase felt like the final stretch of a marathon. The Support Department was alive with noise and movement, each student racing to perfect their projects before the spotlight turned its way. Prototypes were assembled, disassembled, and rebuilt with frantic energy. The air smelled of soldering iron smoke and metal polish, a unique scent that clung to Izuku’s clothes long after he left the workshop each day.

For most students, the Showcase was a chance to shine and gain recognition from pro heroes and industry leaders. For Izuku, it had become more than that. The whispers of a traitor at U.A., hinted at by Kaminari and confirmed by Shinsou’s observations, had lodged in his mind like splinters. Every misplaced tool, every unfinished project, felt like a potential clue—or a threat.

Yet, in the chaos of the workshop, he found himself doubting his instincts. Could someone betray U.A.? And if they could… who? The question gnawed at him, even as he and Mei poured themselves into the gauntlets, fine-tuning them with relentless focus.

---

The workshop was at its busiest that afternoon, the clamour of tools and machinery almost drowning out the overlapping conversations of students. Izuku was hunched over their workbench, adjusting the gauntlets’ stabilisation joint while Mei darted around, grabbing components and shouting ideas.

“Okay, so hear me out!” Mei said, her voice cutting through the noise like a spark. “What if we added a heat-dissipation system to the boosters? That way, no overheating during extended use. We could route it through a micro-cooling mechanism—think about it! The user could punch for *hours* without their hands catching fire!”

Izuku looked up, blinking at her in surprise. “It’s a great idea, but we’d need to account for the added weight. If the system’s too bulky, it might throw off the balance.”

Mei grinned, her eyes gleaming behind her goggles. “Exactly why you’re here, Midoriya! You’ve got the brains for this stuff. Now figure it out!”

Izuku couldn’t help but laugh at her confidence, her sheer belief in their ability to pull off the impossible. He grabbed his notebook and sketched out a potential design for the cooling system as Mei continued to tinker with the gauntlets. In such moments, it was easy to forget the whispers of betrayal, the looming threat that had taken root in his thoughts. Here, surrounded by the hum of machinery and the clink of tools, there was only the work—the joy of creation.

---

By mid-afternoon, Power Loader began his rounds, moving from one workstation to the next, his sharp gaze scanning each project. When he stopped at their bench, his expression was as unreadable as ever. He picked up one of the gauntlets, turning it over in his hands, his brow furrowing as he inspected the intricate wiring.

“You’ve been busy,” he remarked, his voice gruff but not unkind. “The booster system alone puts this ahead of most of what I’ve seen today.”

Mei practically vibrated with pride, flashing him a wide grin. “Wait until you see it in action, Sensei! We’re going to change the game with these babies!”

Power Loader nodded, setting the gauntlet down with care. “Good work. Keep at it. The Showcase isn’t going to wait for anyone.”

As he moved on to the next group, Izuku felt a pang of unease. Power Loader’s approval was rare and should have been a moment of pride. But instead, it left him with questions. If the rumours of a traitor were true, could even Power Loader be trusted? He hated himself for the thought—it felt wrong, almost disrespectful—but the doubt clung to him like a shadow.

“You’re overthinking again,” Mei said without looking up, her voice light but knowing. She tightened a screw on the stabilisation joint, her movements quick and precise. “We’ve got this, Midoriya. Focus on making these things perfect, not on whatever’s spinning around in your big brain.”

Izuku managed a small smile. Mei had a way of cutting through his anxieties with her boundless energy and unwavering belief in their work. But even her optimism couldn’t completely quiet the unease that had taken root in his chest.

---

After most of the other students had left that evening, Izuku remained at his workstation, the workshop now eerily quiet. When a familiar voice broke the silence, he was going over the gauntlets’ energy regulation system, tweaking the output settings to ensure maximum efficiency.

“Still here?”

Izuku looked up to see *Shinsou Hitoshi* leaning against the doorframe, his violet eyes sharp and observant. He had become a frequent visitor to the Support Department, often testing prototypes or offering feedback. But tonight, there was something different about his presence—an intensity that set Izuku on edge.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Izuku admitted, setting his tools down. “There’s still so much to do.”

Shinsou stepped inside, his footsteps soft against the concrete floor. “Or maybe you’re still thinking about the traitor.”

Izuku stiffened, the words hitting him like a jolt. He hadn’t told anyone else about his conversations with Kaminari or Shinsou. But here, in the stillness of the workshop, it felt impossible to deny.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Izuku confessed, his voice low. “If someone is working with the League… it could ruin everything. Not just for us, but for U.A.”

Shinsou pulled up a stool beside him, his expression serious. “It’s not just a rumour, Midoriya. I’ve been watching people, listening. There are too many things that don’t add up.”

“What kind of things?” Izuku asked, leaning forward, his heart pounding.

“Missing files. Unfinished projects that have been tampered with. People being in places they shouldn’t be,” Shinsou listed, his tone calm but tense. “It’s subtle, but when you start connecting the dots, it’s clear something’s wrong.”

Izuku’s mind raced. He’d noticed some of those things, too, but he had chalked them up to the usual chaos of the Support Department. Now, they felt like pieces of a much larger puzzle that pointed to a betrayal he couldn’t yet fully comprehend.

“Do you think it’s someone in the Support Department?” he asked hesitantly.

“It could be,” Shinsou said, his gaze darkening. “Or it could be someone with access to all the departments. Someone who knows how to cover their tracks.”

Izuku swallowed hard. The idea that someone at U.A. could betray them all—that their school and sanctuary could be compromised—was almost too much to bear. But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

“Do you think they’ll target the Showcase?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Shinsou’s jaw tightened. “If they’re smart, they will. The Showcase is the perfect stage—heroes, sponsors, the public. If the League wants to send a message, that’s when they’ll do it.”

Izuku clenched his fists, determination hardening in his chest. The Showcase had always been his chance to prove himself, to show the world what he and Mei were capable of. Now, it felt like something else entirely—a target.

“We need to be ready,” Shinsou said, standing. His voice was calm, but there was a quiet urgency beneath it. “Stay sharp, Midoriya. Trust is a luxury we can’t afford right now.”

As Shinsou left, Izuku sat in the stillness of the workshop, his thoughts churning. He glanced at the gauntlets on the workbench, their sleek design gleaming under the fluorescent lights. They were more than just tools—they were the culmination of everything he and Mei had worked for. And he wouldn’t let anyone take that away.

---

The following day, the first light of dawn spilled across the U.A. campus as Izuku arrived at the workshop. Mei was already there, her goggles perched on her forehead as she tightened the last screws on the gauntlets. She looked up as he entered, flashing him a grin.

“Ready for another day of brilliance?” she asked, her voice full of energy.

Izuku nodded his resolve firm. “Let’s finish this, Mei.”

As they dove into their work, the whispers of betrayal lingered in the back of Izuku’s mind, a constant reminder of their unseen dangers. But as he worked alongside Mei, the tension began to fade, replaced by a singular focus: they would finish these gauntlets and make them the best they could be.

The Showcase was just days away, and Izuku knew one thing: he would protect their work, dreams, and school—no matter the cost.

Chapter Text

U.A.’s Support Department had never felt so quiet.

It wasn’t the kind of quiet that came with peace or calm. It was brittle. Anxious. A silence heavy with the weight of unspoken suspicion. The kind that made every whisper behind a workbench feel like it might be about you. The kind of silence that clung to your skin and made your heartbeat sound louder than it should.

When Izuku stepped into the workshop that morning, he felt it like a punch to the chest.

No cheerful greetings. No tool clinks or bursts of chaotic laughter from the back benches. Just the low murmur of students speaking in tight, hushed tones—tones that stopped the second he walked past.

His eyes found Mei immediately. She was hunched over their shared workstation, her goggles resting unevenly on her head, strands of pink hair sticking out in every direction. Her gloves were smeared with soot. She didn’t look up as he approached. Instead, she slid something across the bench toward him with a terse, wordless gesture.

Izuku stared down at the item.

It was a piece of the gauntlet’s internal regulator—melted at the centre, the casing blackened, the circuit paths warped and ruined. The once-silver copper coils were tinged an angry red-brown, as if they’d been cooked from the inside out.

“Mei…” Izuku whispered, sitting down slowly. “What happened?”

Mei didn’t immediately answer. When she finally spoke, her voice was lower than usual, devoid of its usual fire.

“I ran diagnostics last night. Everything was stable. The output was within margins, regulator heat dissipation was working fine. But when I powered it up this morning, it surged. Instantly. The booster kicked in and blew the whole thing.”

She tossed a scorched bolt onto the table. It bounced once before rolling to a stop.

“If I’d been wearing it during the test,” she added quietly, “I’d have second-degree burns.”

The full weight of her words sank into Izuku like ice. He reached for the fried circuit carefully, turning it over in his hands. It wasn’t just a failure. It was too precise—too targeted. Whoever had tampered with it had known exactly what they were doing.

“Someone did this on purpose,” he said, his voice tight.

Mei gave him a look. “Yeah. No duh, Sherlock.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The quiet of the room suddenly felt oppressive.

Izuku leaned forward, his fingers brushing the edges of the internal casing. “We need to go to Power Loader—”

“No.” Mei’s tone was firm. She didn’t yell, but the steel in her voice stopped him cold.

Izuku blinked. “Mei—”

“No proof, no backup logs, and no eyewitnesses,” she cut in, crossing her arms. “We go to Power Loader now, we look paranoid. Worse, we look like we’re trying to blame someone for our mistake. You know how that’ll go.”

She wasn’t wrong. In the Support Department, where everyone fought tooth and nail to be seen, there was nothing more damaging than the suggestion you couldn’t handle your own gear. False alarms could tarnish reputations faster than a circuit burnout.

“Then what?” he asked, frustration creeping into his tone.

Mei pushed her goggles up. “We rebuild it. Reinforce it. Make it better. And while we do, we watch. We catch whoever did this, and we make sure they never touch our tech again.”

There was something sharp in her eyes—something beyond anger. She was protective. Furious. And not just about the gauntlet.

Izuku nodded. “Okay. Let’s find out how they got in.”

They worked in tense, focused silence for the next three hours.

Izuku combed through the code, running line-by-line comparisons of the firmware files saved on their backup drive versus the ones on the fried circuit. Mei rebuilt the ruined regulator from scratch, her hands moving with mechanical precision as she muttered to herself, swearing under her breath every time a component failed to calibrate.

Eventually, Izuku found it.

“There,” he whispered, pointing to a line of code buried deep in the energy distribution script. “This wasn’t ours.”

Mei leaned over, eyes narrowing.

It was a reroute command—a single line that told the regulator to draw 40% more power than it could handle when the kinetic booster was activated. It would have passed unnoticed in any routine diagnostic. But in practice, it turned the gauntlet into a miniature grenade.

It was intentional.

Mei swore again. “They buried it where we wouldn’t look. You’d have to know exactly how our system operates to pull this off.”

Izuku’s stomach sank. “Which means it’s someone who’s been watching us work.”

Someone in the department. Someone they saw every day.

Later that afternoon, Izuku left the workshop for the air. The chill of autumn hit him immediately, wind cutting through his sleeves as he walked across the quad toward the cafeteria. His thoughts were a mess—half on the sabotage, half on the Showcase, and the rest circling the traitor rumours like vultures.

He didn’t notice Kaminari Denki until the boy jogged up beside him.

“Midoriya!” Kaminari called out, a little breathless. “You got a second?”

Izuku stopped. “What’s wrong?”

Kaminari glanced around before lowering his voice. “You heard about Class 1-B, right? One of their support systems exploded during test trials this morning. The entire eastern gym had to be evacuated.”

Izuku’s heart dropped. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Not seriously. Just burns and some smoke inhalation. But… the damage was bad. Their project’s done.”

Izuku’s mind jumped to the implications immediately. Two high-profile Showcase entries. Sabotaged. Within the same 24 hours.

“This isn’t a coincidence,” he murmured. “It’s coordinated.”

Kaminari nodded grimly. “And if it’s sabotage, the Support Department might not be the only target.”

Izuku stared ahead, gears turning in his head. “What if the Showcase isn’t just a distraction? What if it’s the objective?”

“You think the League’s involved?”

“I think,” Izuku said slowly, “that we’re running out of time to find out.”

Back in the workshop that evening, the atmosphere was different. Most of the students had gone home. The lights were dimmer. The clanking tools had fallen silent.

Mei had finished rebuilding the gauntlet's core systems and was running stability tests when Izuku returned. He was about to join her when he noticed something unusual in the blueprints she’d left on the table—an envelope folded inside the schematics.

Frowning, he opened it.

A single piece of paper slipped out. No logo. No signature. Just six words, written in tight, blocky print.

Stop digging. Some things stay buried.

Izuku stared at the note, blood rushing in his ears.

“Mei…” he said, barely louder than a breath.

She looked up. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he folded the note carefully and slid it into his notebook, his hands trembling just slightly.

They were being watched.

Chapter Text

Izuku didn’t sleep that night.

He tried. He lay in bed with the covers pulled up to his chest, staring at the ceiling in the dim light of his dorm room. His eyes burned with exhaustion, but every time he closed them, he saw the note again—those six words scrawled in blocky, emotionless handwriting.

Stop digging. Some things stay buried.

The message played over and over in his mind, more chilling than any villain attack he’d ever witnessed. Because this wasn’t chaos from the outside. It was something festering inside the very walls of U.A.—intentional, calculated, and aimed directly at him and Mei.

He hadn’t told anyone else. Not yet. Not even Shinsou.

Something about the note felt too personal, too invasive, to speak of aloud. Like giving it voice might give it power. Like the person behind it was waiting—watching—to see how he’d react.

By morning, he hadn’t made peace with it. But he had made a choice.

He wasn’t backing down.

When he arrived at the workshop just after sunrise, Mei was already there. Her hair was half-tamed under her goggles, and she was cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a pile of cooling modules and internal sensors. She looked up as he approached, and the moment their eyes met, she raised an eyebrow.

“You look like crap.”

Izuku sat heavily on the stool beside her. “Didn’t sleep.”

Mei shoved a half-finished regulator into his hands. “Then get to work. If someone’s going to keep screwing with our gear, I want every component double-checked, reinforced, and locked down. You got the note?”

Wordlessly, he pulled it from his notebook and handed it to her. She studied it again, slower this time, like she was trying to read between the lines of the blocky handwriting.

“Whoever left this got into our stuff without tripping any of my sensors,” she said quietly. “Either they have access... or they’re way better at tech than I want to admit.”

Izuku nodded. “It has to be someone in the department. Someone who knew we’d find it.”

Mei narrowed her eyes. “Or someone who wants to scare us into not finding something.”

They didn’t talk much after that. Their mutual determination was loud enough on its own. Mei rewired the backup regulator from scratch. Izuku replaced every line of the gauntlet’s power firmware with new code, bit by bit, piece by piece. No one would sabotage them again—not without getting caught.

But even as they worked, they both flinched every time someone walked behind them. Every cough. Every click of a toolbox. Every login at the central station.

The workshop, once their sanctuary, now felt like enemy territory.

They weren’t even halfway through reassembly when a chime echoed through the workshop's loudspeakers.

Support Department assembly in the Main Hall. Mandatory attendance. Effective immediately.”

Mei groaned. “Bet it’s about the explosion in 1-B.”

Izuku grabbed his tablet and locked the workbench drawers. “We should go. If there’s more sabotage…”

“…Then someone’s trying to derail the entire Showcase,” she finished grimly. “Yeah. Let’s find out what kind of damage control they’re doing.”

The Main Hall buzzed with tension.

Students were packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the tiered seating of the amphitheatre-style room, a space usually reserved for orientations or guest lectures. Today, the mood was anything but celebratory.

Izuku sat near the middle with Mei, flanked by other Support students. He glanced around, noting the way people leaned in to whisper to their neighbours, eyes darting across the room. Even Hatsume Mei, usually oblivious to social undercurrents, was scowling as she watched the doors.

At the front of the room stood Power Loader, his metal mask darkened with grease and shadow. He stood rigid, arms crossed, waiting until the last student filed in and the doors hissed shut behind them.

“I’ll make this simple,” he said, voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade. “As of this morning, three Showcase projects have failed due to system malfunctions. Two were collaboration entries with Hero Course students. One of them caused a containment breach in Lab D. The others barely avoided serious injury.”

A wave of unease rippled through the room.

Power Loader continued. “Initial inspections have ruled out simple design flaws. What we’re dealing with is precise, targeted sabotage.”

Gasps. A few students froze. One boy near the back dropped his stylus.

“All data storage must now be centralised on department-monitored drives,” he went on. “No more external USBs. No off-grid diagnostics. Anyone found accessing someone else’s project without clearance will be immediately suspended from the Showcase.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

Izuku tensed. He could feel eyes on him—students whispering, glancing toward him and Mei. Not accusing. Curious. Too curious.

“We will find out who’s responsible,” Power Loader said finally. “And when we do, the consequences will be permanent.”

Back in the workshop, the air was suffocating.

Some students packed up their gear early. Others huddled in corners, whispering behind their laptops. Izuku and Mei stayed at their bench, working in tense silence.

Mei didn’t say a word until everyone else had gone.

“Someone looked at what we made,” she said softly, “and decided it was too dangerous.”

Izuku glanced at her. “Too dangerous?”

“Too effective,” she corrected. “They knew it would work. They saw how much attention we were getting. And they sabotaged it to make sure we didn’t outshine them.”

Izuku didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

Because somewhere in his chest, that same thought had taken root.

He stayed after Mei left. Said he wanted to double-check the kinetic booster’s heat sink.

In truth, he just needed time to think.

He powered up the testing rig, watching as the gauntlet came to life. The core glowed faintly blue, the circuits flickering in perfect sync. The kinetic charge initialized without a hitch. The stability readout stayed green.

He exhaled, reaching for the interface to log the results.

Then the screen went black.

His hand froze.

The power indicator was still glowing.

But the software had crashed.

Izuku stepped forward slowly, frowning, and checked the gauntlet’s casing. The rear panel was open, not just loose, open. The tiny locking screw had been removed and hastily re-inserted, its head stripped.

He hadn’t touched that panel all day.

Which meant—

Someone had tampered with the gauntlet again.

His stomach twisted. He backed away, his pulse spiking.

This wasn’t just about sabotage.

It was a warning.

A threat.

And whoever had left that first note?

They were still watching.

Chapter Text

U.A. had never felt so unfamiliar.

Every hallway Izuku walked down buzzed with unspoken words. Conversations died when he passed by. Students—Support, Hero Course, General Studies—were glancing over their shoulders, their voices pitched too low, their expressions tight with suspicion. Paranoia spread faster than any rumour. No one said it aloud, but everyone felt it:

Someone was betraying them.

And no one knew who.

Izuku hadn’t told anyone about the second tampering—about the stripped screw, the frozen interface, the way the gauntlet’s back panel had been cracked open like a can of soda. He hadn’t even told Mei. Not yet.

Because it wasn’t just sabotage anymore.

It was precision.

Whoever was doing this wasn’t careless. They were careful. Patient. Watching. Waiting.

He couldn’t make a single move until he had something solid.

Breakfast the next day was a blur. He barely tasted the food—his thoughts were too loud, pounding behind his eyes like a second heartbeat. The cafeteria felt colder than usual, like the building itself knew something was wrong.

Across the table, Shinsou watched him chew through dry toast like it was sawdust.

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week,” he said.

“I haven’t slept well in a week,” Izuku replied, pushing his tray away.

Shinsou leaned in. “You ready for this?”

Izuku nodded, even though he wasn’t sure what this was yet. Just that Shinsou had sent him a coded text earlier that morning.

Meet me at breakfast. I found something.

Now, he pulled out a folded sheet of paper and slid it across the table. Izuku unfolded it carefully, his breath catching.

A list.

U.A. Workshop Entry Log — October 14, 6:00–10:00 p.m.

Maijima Higari (Staff)

Todoroki Shouto (Student)

Minoru Mineta (Student)

Izuku’s eyes scanned the names again and again, as if they’d change on the third or fourth read-through.

“You pulled workshop entry logs?” he whispered.

“Security doesn’t normally release them to students, but… I have friends,” Shinsou said, shrugging with a ghost of a smirk. “Every Support Department door logs a keycode. Even Mei’s biometric system reports log-ins now.”

Izuku’s stomach turned.

Three names.

Power Loader—department staff. Expected. Probably locking up.

Todoroki—his… friend. His face burned just thinking about that name on the list. Todoroki had come by the lab a few times in the last week. He’d watched them test the gauntlets. Asked questions. Offered help. But he wasn’t collaborating. He wasn’t working on the Showcase.

So why was he in the lab alone?

Then there was Mineta.

Izuku frowned deeply. Mineta wasn’t known for tech skills. But he was known for snooping, breaking rules, and sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. He was a walking boundary violation in grape-themed boots. He wasn’t enrolled in any cross-department projects this year. And he’d already been reprimanded in the past for poking around equipment without permission.

“Mineta doesn’t have a reason to be there,” Izuku said.

Shinsou nodded. “Exactly. So I started watching him.”

The day passed slowly. Too slowly.

Every noise in the workshop made Izuku jump.

He watched the doors. Monitored the hallway cameras. Ran software checks for backdoor viruses.

Every time Mei asked a question, he answered without really hearing her.

“You’re distracted,” she said bluntly. “That means something’s wrong. And if something’s wrong, I want in.”

He hesitated. Then nodded.

He showed her the list.

Mei’s reaction was instantaneous. “Mineta. Obviously. I caught him once sneaking into our project folders last semester. Said he was ‘just curious.’ Curious my ass. If he laid even one grimy finger on our stuff, I’m going to design a shoe that punches people.”

Izuku almost smiled. Almost.

“I want proof,” he said. “Tonight. We set a trap.”

Mei’s eyes gleamed. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

That evening, after the sun dipped behind the campus buildings and cast everything in shadow, the workshop emptied.

Mei left first, dramatically slapping a “CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE” sign on the door.

Izuku stayed behind in the dark.

He planted a decoy gauntlet on the workbench—one of their older prototypes, emptied of key tech, hollowed out and harmless. He made sure the casing looked loose, the wires slightly exposed. Then he tucked himself behind a nearby storage cabinet with a tablet, watching the motion sensor feed on silent mode.

The room was still.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

Then—movement.

The green sensor blinked.

The door creaked open.

A figure slipped inside, small, crouched low to the ground. Not stealthy, not smooth. Not a professional infiltrator. Just someone who thought they wouldn’t be seen.

Izuku’s heart hammered in his chest as the figure moved toward the gauntlet and reached out.

The casing buzzed. A sudden jolt—harmless, but loud enough to startle.

“OW—!”

The figure yelped and stumbled back, bumping into a stool with a loud clang. They whirled around to flee—only to freeze as Izuku stepped out of the shadows.

He flipped on the lights.

And locked eyes with Mineta Minoru.

Caught red-handed.

“Midoriya—!” Mineta began panicking. “This isn’t—! I wasn’t! I wasn’t gonna steal anything, I just—!”

“You were in our workspace,” Izuku said, voice ice-cold. “At night. Without permission. Again.”

“I wasn’t hurting anything!” Mineta protested. “I just wanted to see it! I heard you and Hatsume were working on next-gen stuff and—”

“You opened the gauntlet casing yesterday,” Izuku interrupted, advancing a step. “Didn’t you?”

Mineta blanched. “I don’t—what are you talking about?!”

Izuku didn’t answer. He reached down and yanked something out of Mineta’s hand.

A black microdrive.

Mei’s name was written on the side in faded red ink.

Izuku stared at it. Slowly, he looked up again.

“What’s on this?”

Mineta’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

“What’s on this, Mineta?”

Silence.

Then:

“…Backup schematics. Hatsume’s blueprints. I—I copied them. But I didn’t touch anything! I didn’t change your files—I swear!”

Izuku’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Why?”

Mineta shrank back. “Because… because the League pays for intel!”

The room spun.

Everything stopped.

Izuku stood very still, as if a single movement might cause him to break apart.

“You’ve been selling our work?” he said, voice shaking. “To them?”

Mineta opened his mouth. Then closed it. His silence was answer enough.

Izuku turned and locked the door behind him.

Chapter Text

“Don’t look at me like that!”

Mineta’s voice cracked through the stillness of the Support Department workshop like a sharp stone thrown through glass. He was backed against a cabinet, arms raised in panic, eyes wide and darting. Sweat beaded along his brow as he shrank further into the wall, as though he could disappear into it if he just pressed hard enough.

Izuku didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

He stood across from him, the black microdrive clutched tightly in his gloved hand. The only sound in the room was the soft whir of the cooling system overhead and the tiny static clicks of a half-powered gauntlet on the bench still discharging leftover energy.

Mineta kept rambling. “It wasn’t—I didn’t know it was them at first! It was just… just someone online! Said they were a tech analyst for a start-up! They offered money, and I thought—look, I didn’t even take much! Just a couple of files! Just parts of the design!”

Izuku slowly raised his eyes. His voice was eerily calm when he spoke.

“You took our designs. You tried to sell Mei’s work. You sabotaged our Showcase prototype. You walked into our lab. You lied. And you endangered everyone in this building.”

Mineta blanched, stammering. “No! I didn’t sabotage anything! I swear! I just copied files! That’s not the same!”

“It’s the same,” Izuku said, ice laced through every word.

His hand clenched around the microdrive until his knuckles went white.

“Do you even know what they could do with this?” he asked, voice rising. “Our gauntlets use kinetic feedback loops. If someone corrupted the safety protocols—if they used them against civilians—”

Mineta went pale. “I didn’t know! I just—I didn’t want to be invisible anymore!”

That stopped Izuku cold.

Mineta took a step forward, shoulders slumped, his voice smaller than Izuku had ever heard it. “Everyone else… they have teams. They have fan clubs. People who believe in them. I’m just the joke. I thought—if I gave them something… useful… someone would finally notice me.”

“You were noticed,” Izuku whispered. “By villains.”

He turned, walked to the wall-mounted emergency console, and slammed the red button.

A shrill alarm filled the workshop. Red lights flashed overhead.

Within sixty seconds, the door burst open.

Aizawa came in first, scarf already half-drawn. Power Loader followed with two heavily armed security bots at his heels. All three scanned the room instantly, their eyes locking onto Mineta and the clenched microdrive in Izuku’s hand.

Mineta panicked. “No—wait! I can explain!”

He turned to run, but Aizawa moved with practised precision. His capture weapon whipped through the air, catching Mineta around the ankles and dragging him to the floor before he could take three steps.

Power Loader stepped around them both, retrieving the microdrive from Izuku’s hand without a word. He examined it with a grimace, then passed it to one of the bots, who immediately began scanning it for wireless transfer protocols and remote access points.

Izuku’s chest was heaving now. Not from exertion. From rage.

Aizawa looked at him. “Tell me everything.”

They pulled the full story from Mineta in the staff office downstairs.

He’d been approached online weeks ago—on a public tech forum. Someone under the alias WireGhost77 had offered him cryptocurrency for “cutting-edge development insights from the support sector.” He hadn’t known they were League-affiliated at first. He’d sent blueprints. Then schematics. When the “analyst” asked for more full design prototypes, combat diagnostics, Mineta hesitated.

That was when the threats started.

They knew his name. His ID. His schedule. They knew when he worked late. What rooms he accessed.

They told him not to stop.

“I didn’t want to be part of this anymore!” he sobbed, curled in on himself as security sealed his wrists behind his back. “But I didn’t know how to make it stop!”

“You could have told someone,” Aizawa said, flat and final.

Power Loader stood like a steel post in the corner. His gloved hands were clenched, the hydraulic joints of his support gear flexing and whining under the pressure. He didn’t speak until the last data scan came in.

“They have a full replica of Hatsume’s second-generation schematics,” he said at last. “And notes about the Tech Showcase layout. Floorplans. Entry and exit schedules.”

Izuku’s blood ran cold.

Aizawa’s voice dropped into dangerous territory. “You didn’t just leak tech. You handed them a map.”

The next day, the entire Support Department operated under emergency protocol.

Security doubled. Students were required to scan in and out with ID chips and fingerprint pads. Class groups were split and rotated through monitored access labs. Several Showcase teams withdrew entirely.

And the Showcase itself? Postponed.

Forty-eight hours. Long enough to audit every system and question every student.

But the damage had already been done.

Izuku stood in the courtyard after lunch, watching the clouds churn above the school like they might burst any second. He hadn’t said much since last night’s interrogation. Not to Mei. Not to Aizawa. Not even to Todoroki, who had sent him three texts asking if he was okay.

He wasn’t.

Mineta had been caught. But the wound he’d opened hadn’t healed—it had deepened.

Because now, everyone was asking: Who else?

Mei found him outside the workshop door, her hands stuffed into her oversized coat pockets, goggles slung lazily around her neck.

“You’re brooding,” she said simply, sliding down the wall to sit beside him.

“I should’ve known sooner,” Izuku whispered. “We were right there. Right next to him.”

“Midoriya,” she said sharply. “You didn’t fail. You caught him. You did what no one else did. You protected the project. You protected me.”

He looked at her, tired and strained, and saw the rare vulnerability in her usually unshakable gaze.

“We rebuilt that gear because we believed in it,” she said. “So let’s keep believing in it. And when we present at the Showcase—because we will—we make damn sure everyone knows it survived sabotage, leaks, and betrayal.”

Izuku gave her a nod.

Not because it made the hurt go away, but because it gave it direction.

That night, Shinsou called him to the observation deck above the East Wing. The stars were faint behind the city’s glow, but the silence up there felt cleaner somehow. Sharper.

“Mineta’s been transferred,” Shinsou said, sipping from a paper coffee cup. “The Commission's involved now. He’ll be debriefed and evaluated. But they found something in the packet logs.”

Izuku turned. “What kind of something?”

“Mineta wasn’t the only one transmitting files,” Shinsou said. “They traced fragments of data metadata—some bounced off an old League server, still half-buried under ghost code.”

Izuku’s breath caught.

“Someone else sent them data,” Shinsou said. “Someone still inside U.A.”

Izuku closed his eyes.

So it wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

The sky above U.A. was the colour of steel, heavy with low clouds that promised rain but refused to fall. It matched the mood across campus: quiet, charged, and expectant.

It had been three days since Mineta’s arrest.

Three days since the word traitor stopped being a rumour and became a reality.

Three days since everyone began questioning how well they knew their classmates.

And now the Tech Showcase was finally back on.

The Support Department compound had transformed overnight. What had once been a messy sprawl of half-wired prototypes and open schematics was now an organised marvel of innovation. Rows of booths stretched across the quad and into the east hall, each marked with glowing display numbers and guarded by Commission-trained security.

Every entrance required three-point verification: ID scan, biometric confirmation, and facial recognition. Drones hovered in tight flight paths, scanning for heat signatures, anomalous code signals, and unauthorised frequencies. Patrols of third-year Hero students in full costume flanked the venue, their eyes sharp behind tinted visors.

What had once been a celebration of youthful brilliance now looked like a military installation.

But for Izuku and Mei, it was still a moment of reckoning.

Their booth, marked #23, sat near the centre of the main plaza beneath a reinforced awning of transparent polymer. It gleamed—clean white panels, digital screens looping specs, a neat table laid out with their centerpiece: a pair of kinetic shock gauntlets, rebuilt from the ground up.

Sleek. Powerful. Beautiful.

“Okay, Midoriya,” Mei said, straightening a display label for the fiftieth time. “You’re doing the talking for the opening demo. If I take the mic, I will accidentally swear, and that’s not very ‘commission-friendly.’”

Izuku nodded, tugging nervously at the collar of his uniform jacket. “You’re sure the booster will stabilise at 70%?”

“Tested it twice this morning. I’d stake my eyebrows on it.”

“That’s not comforting.”

Mei shrugged. “Then I’ll stake yours.”

Despite the nerves coiled in his stomach, Izuku laughed. Briefly. Quietly. It helped. Just a little.

The Showcase began with an announcement from Principal Nezu, who stood on a raised stage flanked by pro heroes and security officials.

“I am immensely proud,” Nezu said, voice amplified across the entire quad, “to see our students rise above fear and uncertainty. This year’s Showcase is not only a celebration of creativity and science—it is a testament to the will to move forward. Even in darkness, innovation can be a light.”

Polite applause followed. No one cheered.

Commission Director Saegusa took the mic next.

“Recent events have challenged our sense of safety,” she said, crisp and efficient. “But rest assured: today’s event is protected by top-level surveillance and licensed hero oversight. Any suspicious activity will be met with immediate investigation. That said—go impress us.”

That got a few smiles. Nervous ones.

Then came the start.

Each project was introduced in order. Izuku watched as a girl from Class 1-H unveiled a training module that simulated water-based terrain for quirk adaptability. A tech duo from General Studies showed off a rapid-cooling flame-retardant gel. Spectators nodded, scribbled notes, murmured approval.

But it wasn’t until Power Loader stepped up to the stage, microphone in hand, that Izuku’s heart started to race for real.

“Our next presentation comes from Midoriya Izuku and Hatsume Mei,” Power Loader announced, his gravelly voice echoing across the stage. “Support Department, Unit 23. They’ll be demonstrating a wearable kinetic enhancement system designed for field integration.”

A hush fell over the crowd.

Showtime.

Izuku followed Mei onto the platform, the kinetic gauntlet tucked under his arm. The raised stage was surrounded by seating where pro heroes sat in a crescent: Ryukyu, Kamui Woods, Ingenium, and even Snipe, arms folded, eyes hidden under the brim of his cowboy hat.

Beyond them, students and industry reps packed the rows, their attention fixed forward. Cameras zoomed in. Drone feeds floated overhead, beaming images live to media outlets and internal U.A. monitors.

Izuku took the mic, palms slightly damp despite the gloves. He cleared his throat.

“Our project is a modular kinetic gauntlet system designed to absorb, store, and release physical energy in controlled bursts. It’s built for close-quarters support and rescue applications. The outer plating includes shock-dampening alloy and internal microshock regulation, and the inner booster coil has been recalibrated to minimise heat buildup while maximising output stability.”

Mei stepped forward with her usual flair. “We also integrated adaptive syncing. The gauntlet reacts to the user’s muscle tension and movement trajectory. It feels your intentions and corrects the output accordingly. Even a student with no combat quirk could use it without backlash.”

Snipe raised a hand. “Compatible with powered users?”

Mei smirked. “Tested with three. Midoriya was the squishiest one.”

Izuku flushed slightly, but he smiled anyway.

With a breath, he slipped the gauntlet on.

The moment it clicked into place, it hummed to life, lights blooming softly along the spine and wrist as the coils aligned. The booster charged—slow, even, steady.

He walked to the target column on the demonstration floor. A reinforced alloy plate was mounted on a hydraulic sensor pad calibrated to measure impact force, kinetic transfer, and rebound control.

Izuku tightened his fist.

He struck.

A thunderous crack rang out.

The impact pushed the pillar back by ten degrees, but it didn’t tip. The floor beneath his boots thrummed with residual force, but the feedback was contained. Controlled. The telemetry feed lit up on the nearby screens:

Energy Discharge: 86% Stability: 99.7% Heat Buildup: 11% Integrity: Nominal

Gasps. Applause. Not just polite—genuine.

Ryukyu leaned toward the monitor. “Controlled feedback on the first strike. That’s difficult to engineer.”

Kamui Woods nodded. “It didn’t even stagger him. There’s no strain rebound.”

Ingenium was already writing something down.

Power Loader, watching from the stage edge, gave a small, rare nod of approval.

Mei grinned like she’d won the lottery.

Back at their booth, the feedback was immediate.

Pro heroes. Tech scouts. Alumni. Even Nedzu strolled by with a small pastry in one paw and a smile on his face.

“I must say, Midoriya-kun,” he chirped, “your engineering principles have matured.”

Mei shoved a business card into someone’s hand. “We are available for freelance commissions, contract work, and saving your butt in the field. Our rates are high, but so are our standards.”

But even as they basked in the spotlight, Izuku felt it again—that prickling at the base of his neck.

A sensation he couldn’t ignore.

He scanned the crowd.

That’s when he saw him.

Across the plaza, near the back security barrier, stood a student in a Class 1-C uniform—someone Izuku didn’t recognise. Tall. Dark hair. Hands in his pockets.

He wasn’t clapping.

Wasn’t speaking.

He was watching.

And when Izuku locked eyes with him, the boy tilted his head.

And smiled.

Cold.

Detached.

Not impressed.

Threatening.

Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

“Midoriya?” Mei said beside him, catching the tension in his shoulders. “You good?”

He nodded once. But his eyes didn’t leave the crowd.

Because he had the feeling that the real test was only just beginning.

Chapter Text

Even with the roaring applause behind him, Izuku felt cold.

Not from nerves. Not from the autumn breeze that swept through the U.A. courtyard as the crowd thinned. It was something deeper. Something that sat just behind his lungs, pulling taut every breath he took.

Because someone had been watching.

Not like the rest of the audience, who'd cheered at the kinetic discharge or leaned in to admire the blueprints. No—this person hadn’t been moved. Hadn’t clapped. Hadn’t blinked.

Just stood there.

Still.

Calculating.

And smiling.

“Izuku, you're doing the thing again.”

Mei’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts as she clicked the lid shut on their prototype case. She tossed a microfiber cloth over the table and gave him a squint from behind her safety goggles. “The pacing. The mumbling. The spiralling. You're spiralling.”

“I’m not spiralling,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You're spiralling,” she said flatly. “Was it a bad data reading?”

He hesitated.

“No,” he finally said. “It was a person.”

Mei blinked. “That’s vague. You’re gonna have to be a little more support-engineer-specific, partner.”

Izuku pulled out his tablet and quickly sketched the profile from memory—dark uniform, wrong badge number, the curve of the man’s smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “He was standing near the south barricade. Class 1-C uniform. But his face—something didn’t match.”

Mei took the drawing. Her expression slowly shifted from amusement to focused irritation.

“We don’t have a 1-C participant this year,” she said.

“I checked the roster. He’s not a student.”

“Then he’s a plant,” Mei said bluntly. “And you think he was watching us?”

“He was looking straight at me. He wanted me to see him.”

That night, the halls of Heights Alliance were quieter than usual.

Everyone was exhausted from the Showcase, but the tension hadn’t lifted. If anything, it had just settled into a deeper kind of unease, like a storm cloud refusing to break.

Izuku found himself walking the perimeter of the dorm grounds, trying to sort through the knot of thoughts in his head.

Todoroki was already there, hands in his pockets, leaning against one of the metal posts that lined the walkway to the athletic field. He looked over when Izuku approached, eyes unreadable.

“You didn’t come to the after-event dinner,” he said.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“You also skipped out before the commendations. Your name was on the top-ten list.”

Izuku stopped a few steps away, not meeting his eyes. “I had other things on my mind.”

“I saw you on stage,” Todoroki said. “You looked confident. Like you belonged there.”

“I didn’t feel like it.”

“Why?”

Izuku turned to him then. “Because while everyone else was looking forward, I saw someone looking through me. Like I was just a piece on a board he’d already studied.”

Todoroki frowned. “Who?”

Izuku hesitated, then told him everything about the man in the crowd, the fake uniform, the smile that felt like a warning more than a gesture of curiosity.

When he finished, Todoroki didn’t try to offer comfort. Instead, he said something that made Izuku’s heart twist.

“They’re trying to isolate you.”

Izuku looked up.

Todoroki continued, “That’s how they work. It’s not about brute force. It’s about doubt. Mistrust. Break the bonds. Make you question your instincts. Your allies. Yourself.”

“They’re succeeding,” Izuku whispered.

“No,” Todoroki said firmly, “they’re not. Because you’re telling me.”

Izuku stared at him, the words sinking deeper than they had any right to. He hadn’t realised until now how tightly he’d been holding everything inside.

He sat down on the edge of the sparring mat. Todoroki followed without a word.

“You’ve changed,” Izuku murmured after a long silence. “Since the Sports Festival. Since everything.”

“So have you.”

Izuku gave a bitter laugh. “I don’t know who to trust.”

Todoroki’s shoulder brushed his. “Start with me.”

The next day, Izuku met Shinsou in the South Wing security terminal, tucked behind layers of reinforced glass and buried beneath the administration building.

The lights buzzed low overhead, and the room smelled faintly of coolant and old wiring. Rows of surveillance monitors lined the far wall. Several faculty members—nameless, faceless in black Commission armour—stood in silence, watching the footage loop.

Shinsou handed him a data chip.

“I pulled security logs,” he said. “Your mystery guy? Not on any of the student registries.”

Izuku’s stomach dropped. “He bypassed the scanners?”

“He cloned a student’s ID.” Shinsou slid a file across the desk. “Guess who.”

Izuku opened it.

Authorisation Token: MINETA.MINORU — Status: REVOKED
Location Ping: Zone B3, Southeast Gate, 12:44 p.m.

“Mineta’s ID was used,” Shinsou said. “But he was already in holding. He never left campus.”

“So someone’s using his credentials as a cover.”

Shinsou nodded. “Worse—they got in deep enough to trigger auto-clearance. Whatever credentials they have, it isn’t just a random hack. It’s inside-level access.”

Izuku gripped the table’s edge. “Then we have more than one.”

“Or someone who was never on our radar to begin with.”

Later that evening, Izuku tried to focus on code repairs in the workshop, but his fingers moved more slowly than his mind. Mei had already gone home, and the lights above his bench flickered slightly, casting long shadows across the half-empty room.

He reached for his tablet to run a new diagnostic report.

That’s when the alert pinged.

>> U.A. SYSTEM ALERT — Unauthorised Access Detected
>> Terminal: Support Lab Sector B
>> Time: 23:41
>> User Clearance: UNKNOWN

Izuku stared at the screen. His blood turned to ice.

Someone was in the lab. Right now.

He didn’t think.

He ran.

The hallway lights were dimmed for after-hours protocols, but the motion sensors flickered as he passed. He sprinted barefoot across the tile floors, his breath loud in his ears, echoing through the silence.

When he reached the lab door, it was ajar.

The lights were off.

No sounds inside.

He pushed the door open slowly, heart thudding in his throat.

And there, at the back of the lab, was the glow of a terminal.

Still active.

Still open.

Lines of code scrolled rapidly across the screen.

The cursor blinked.

And just beneath it, a single sentence had been typed:

“You should’ve stopped digging.”

Chapter Text

“You should’ve stopped digging.”

The message blinked on the terminal screen in cold white text, a threat disguised as advice.

Izuku didn’t move.

The room was quiet—unnaturally quiet. Not the silence of peace, but the silence of trapdoors.

His breath caught.

Then the overhead lights snapped off.

The screen flickered once. Then went dark.

He was swallowed whole by the shadow.

His first instinct wasn’t to scream. It wasn’t to move.

It was to listen.

He could hear the hum of emergency power far beneath the walls and the distant whir of the building’s internal ventilation system. No footsteps. No breathing.

Still… he knew.

He wasn’t alone.

Someone had been here—maybe still was.

Izuku’s fingers tightened around his U.A. tablet. He flicked on the emergency flashlight and forced his voice to remain steady as he spoke into the comm.

“This is Midoriya Izuku. Support Department Lab Sector B. Immediate breach. Terminal accessed with unauthorised clearance. Message left on the system. Requesting backup. Now.”

There was a pause.

Then a hiss of static. And a reply.

“Affirmative. On route. Hold position.”

He didn’t realise he was shaking until he tried to lower the comm.

His hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

Less than a minute later, the door burst open.

A flood of light swept the room as Power Loader entered first, suit panels illuminated by internal diagnostics. Aizawa followed with his capture scarf already loose at his side, eyes glowing faintly with the activation edge of his quirk. Two security bots rolled in behind them, scanning for movement with red tracking beams.

Izuku stood frozen by the console, flashlight still on.

Aizawa moved to his side instantly.

“You’re not hurt?” he asked, sharp but calm.

Izuku shook his head. “No. But they were here. They were in this room.”

Power Loader was already at the console, working through manual overrides. “They wiped the local cache. No keystroke history, no system log-in trail. The only thing left is the cursor freeze and a voltage trace.”

Aizawa frowned. “Could it have been remote?”

Power Loader’s jaw clenched. “Not unless they had someone on the inside grant remote access. And from the signature left behind? They were here. Physically. Less than five minutes ago.”

Izuku’s stomach dropped.

“Then they were watching me.”

They moved the operation underground.

Not metaphorically—literally.

Two floors beneath the Support compound, beyond the administrative wing and underneath reinforced flooring, was a room few students ever saw: the Operations Security Monitoring Hub. A space of sterile white walls, pulsing lights, and the steady clicking of keyboards.

Shinsou was already waiting, a tablet open in his lap, headphones slung around his neck. His usual slouch was gone. He was sitting forward, spine straight, eyes sharp.

“They pinged the Support Lab console using a masked entry key from a blacklisted U.A. terminal,” he said before anyone spoke. “That terminal was assigned to Mineta.”

“But Mineta’s been in a Commission holding facility since his arrest,” Aizawa said. “He doesn’t have access.”

“He did,” Shinsou said darkly. “And someone copied it. Right down to the metadata string in his U.A. login ID.”

Izuku sat slowly, the weight of it settling in his bones.

“They’re still here.”

Shinsou nodded. “And now they’re not just observing. They’re engaging.”

A few hours later, Izuku sat in the common area of his dorm room, staring at the wall.

His prototype case sat beside his desk, unopened.

He hadn’t touched the gauntlets since the Showcase.

The message still echoed in his head like a drumbeat.

You should’ve stopped digging.

At 10:47 p.m., there was a knock at his door.

He opened it to find Todoroki holding two onigiri wrapped in paper and a pair of bottled teas tucked under one arm.

“You’re off-schedule,” Todoroki said, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “You haven’t left your floor since the lockdown.”

Izuku closed the door behind him. “How do you know that?”

“I have a good memory for floor rotations,” Todoroki said with a shrug, setting the food on the small table by the window.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the wind blow through the quad below.

Finally, Izuku whispered, “They got into the system. I was ten feet away. They knew I’d be there. They waited for me to see it.”

“And they left a message.”

Izuku nodded, gaze distant. “I’ve been going over every variable. Every login. Every project list. And I can’t find the breach. There’s nothing there.”

Todoroki was quiet for a long moment. Then:

“You know what scares me the most about what you just said?”

Izuku looked up.

“You’ve done everything right,” Todoroki said. “And it still wasn’t enough.”

Izuku’s throat tightened.

“But that doesn’t mean you stop,” Todoroki added, turning toward him. “It means you build stronger.”

Izuku exhaled slowly. “What if we’re not just being watched? What if we’re being played?”

“Then we stop playing defence,” Todoroki said. “And start setting traps.”

By sunrise, U.A. issued its official statement.

The Tech Showcase has been suspended.

All project-based systems are to be seized and scanned.

All student access logs will be reviewed manually.

And beneath that, in bold red letters:

All internal security levels elevated to Tier 3. Expect full lockdown protocols.

In the early morning light, Izuku stood in front of Lab Sector B with Shinsou, Todoroki, and Mei beside him. The door was sealed now—new reinforced lock plates humming with charge, warning labels lit like hazard signs.

Izuku looked at his friends.

“We’re not waiting anymore,” he said.

Shinsou nodded. “Let’s draw them out.”

Mei grinned, goggles down. “And make it loud.”

Todoroki stepped forward last, his voice steady as steel. “Whatever’s inside this school… we finish what we started.”

Chapter Text

U.A. was still running, but it no longer felt alive.

The buzzing hallways, the sharp chime of lesson bells, even the warmth of passing chatter—it had all dimmed. Like the school itself was holding its breath.

After the message in Lab Sector B, the energy around the Tech Showcase soured completely. What had been a moment of pride turned to ash. Applause became silence. Curiosity became caution.

The Showcase was officially suspended.

Security tripled. Badge checks were constant. The air was thick with suspicion. It didn’t matter that Mineta had been caught weeks ago—his shadow was still walking the halls, and now, everyone was waiting for the next reveal.

Izuku hadn’t slept.

He didn’t even try.

He sat hunched over his desk, legs bouncing, eyes fixed on the blinking cursor of his terminal. The message played over and over in his head.

You should’ve stopped digging.

He hadn’t. He wouldn’t.

But now he knew—they knew it too.

Whoever was behind this wasn’t just leaving breadcrumbs. They were baiting him. Watching him work. Leaving just enough trail to be seen... but never caught.

And somewhere, buried beneath code and cables, was the second infiltrator. Someone is still inside U.A.

Someone closer than ever.

The next morning, Izuku met with Mei, Shinsou, and Todoroki at Power Loader’s hidden backup lab—a secondary research bay not listed on any current blueprints. It was tucked beneath the original Support Department’s foundations, past rusted utility doors and stairs lined with dust.

Power Loader had let them in without a word. He knew better than to ask questions now.

“Welcome to the graveyard,” Mei said, arms spread wide as they entered the sublevel chamber.

The space was raw—exposed wires, old vent shafts, reinforced plating across the walls like the bones of an old machine. The air was stale but charged, like forgotten electricity still lingered here.

“This was U.A.’s original innovation hub,” Mei explained. “Before the new Support Wing went live. Most of the gear was pulled, but the network infrastructure? Still wired in. Still traceable.”

Shinsou was already flipping through a tablet’s UI feed. “You think the breach came from here?”

“No,” Izuku said. “But I think whoever’s behind it used this space—or knew someone who did.”

He turned toward an old schematic laid across the central table, dusted off just enough to reveal faded blueprint markings. His fingers traced a line beneath the main Support Wing.

“There’s a corridor here,” he said, pointing. “It doesn’t exist on the updated floor plans. But it used to.”

Todoroki leaned in. “Maintenance tunnel?”

“That’s what they want us to think,” Mei muttered. “But I overlaid the old and new scans this morning. That corridor runs directly beneath Workshop Hall 3. And it’s shielded—completely off-network.”

“Which means,” Shinsou added, “if someone wanted to tap into the Support servers without leaving a digital footprint…”

“They’d use that tunnel,” Izuku finished. “And they did.”

The old access hatch was buried beneath a false floor panel, wedged behind a half-decommissioned power converter in the storage bay. The lock was physical, rusted, and old-school. Mei opened it with a screwdriver and a hairpin.

The door groaned as it swung open.

Beyond was a stairwell that sloped downward, the walls narrowing with every step, until they reached a long tunnel damp, metal, hummed faintly.

Izuku felt it immediately. The press of something cold. Not air. Not water.

Intent.

This was a space meant to be hidden.

They followed the tunnel for what felt like ages, passing branching pipes and junction points with faded U.A. insignias. It felt ancient. Forgotten. Like they were trespassing in a memory that had never wanted to be remembered.

Then they reached it.

A door. Reinforced. No label.

Inside: a small room. Metal walls. A single chair. One dusty console. And a monitor—still on.

Lines of code crawled across the screen in an endless loop. Commands. Fragments. Warnings.

Izuku stepped closer.

NODE ONLINE >> CONNECTION STABLE
ROUTE PING >> UA.LOCAL >> NODE.REDACTED.00
LOG ECHO: ACTIVE
STATUS: STANDBY

Todoroki stared at it. “It’s live.”

Mei moved to the back panel, inspecting the ports. “Someone built this station from repurposed data terminals. It’s not just hooked into U.A.—it’s leeching data like a parasite.”

Izuku swallowed. “Someone’s been listening. Watching. For months. Maybe longer.”

Shinsou knelt by the terminal, expression hard. “They weren’t just spying. They were recording. I’m seeing flags for voice capture, thermal tracking, comm scrapes…”

He stopped. “There’s a name embedded in the startup protocol.”

Izuku turned. “Who?”

Shinsou tapped a key. The name was printed across the upper corner in faded grey.

Project: Prometheus

Izuku blinked. “That’s… a myth.”

Todoroki tilted his head. “The Titan who stole fire from the gods.”

Mei’s voice dropped. “Or gave power to people who weren’t ready for it.”

Back in the lab, they worked in silence to clone the terminal's memory drive. Shinsou encoded it onto a secure chip, layering custom encryption on top.

“Even if we crack it,” he said, “we’ll need someone from inside the Commission to verify the signatures.”

“No one at U.A.?” Todoroki asked.

“None we can trust,” Shinsou replied.

The words hung heavy in the air.

For the first time, Izuku felt it fully—they were on their own.

That night, after Mei passed out at her workbench and Shinsou went to sweep logs with Power Loader, Izuku sat on the floor of his dorm room, laptop balanced on his knees.

The stolen terminal data buzzed faintly in his lap.

He stared at the last message in the console’s memory.

all the ways to fall

Below it, one file name blinked, half-corrupted:

[subject_13.log]

Izuku hovered over it.

Paused.

And typed back.

“Let’s see how you handle the ones who learn to fly.”

Then he hit enter.

Chapter Text

Three days after the lockdown began, U.A. was quiet in all the wrong ways.

No cheering. No laughter spilling from common rooms. Even the Hero Course students, known for their bluster and brashness, moved with caution. Conversations were whispers, glances sharp, suspicion tucked behind every smile.

And in the middle of it all, Izuku felt like a lightning rod.

Everywhere he went, he felt eyes on his back. Not admiration. Not respect.

Doubt.

It was happening slowly. Subtle. A whisper here, a murmur there.

“Did you hear they shut down his project lab?”

“Izuku’s hiding something. He’s always been too smart.”

“They say there’s another traitor. What if he knows who it is?”

Izuku walked through the halls of the Support Wing with his shoulders hunched, hands jammed deep into his pockets, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes.

It didn’t matter that he’d caught Mineta.

It didn’t matter that he’d helped stop the Showcase from becoming a disaster.

It didn’t matter that he hadn’t slept in three days, trying to fix everything again.

They didn’t want a hero.

They wanted a scapegoat.

He spent most of the morning in Power Loader’s lab, running low-level diagnostics on their remaining prototypes—not because anything was wrong with them, but because he couldn’t sit still.

Mei worked across the room, sparks flying from her welding goggles as she reinforced the kinetic stabilisers for their secondary build. Shinsou had commandeered the side terminal again, his fingers flying over the screen, eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep. Todoroki came and went, quieter than usual, but always present.

They didn’t say it aloud, but it was obvious:

This wasn’t just about technology anymore.

They were planning for war.

“I scanned every access point in Sector B,” Shinsou said, flipping his screen toward the group. “I found a cluster of ghost log-ins bouncing through an old node we thought was dead. It’s not. It’s redirecting.”

Izuku leaned in. “Where?”

Shinsou tapped the screen. “Old fire suppression terminal. Doesn’t even connect to the main network anymore. But someone’s been patching through it. Short-range.”

“From where?” Todoroki asked.

“Inside,” Mei said before Shinsou could. “It’s a physical loop. It has to be.”

Izuku stepped back, mind already building models. “Then whoever’s been watching us isn’t just using digital access. They’re in the building. Still. Right now.”

“Or under it,” Mei added, her goggles fogged from exertion. “I’ve got schematics to prove there’s a hidden relay tucked under the workshop floor. Unlisted. Legacy build.”

Izuku looked at all of them. “Then we catch them. Our way. Quiet.”

They deployed their first sweep that night.

Mei installed six motion-sensitive relay pads into the service tunnel beneath Sector B, each one linked to Shinsou’s secure net partition. Passive sensors only—no signal broadcasted out. If someone came through the tunnel again, they’d trip the silent alert system and leave a digital fingerprint.

“We call it ‘Trapwire, ’” Mei said, stretching. “Low profile, high coverage, no noise. Just a ping straight to our network. I’ve set it to send an alert to our terminals and no one else.”

Todoroki arched an eyebrow. “You named it.”

“Of course I did,” she said. “It’s not a trap if it doesn’t have a cool name.”

Izuku smirked for the first time all week.

But the rest of U.A. wasn’t smiling.

The mood had curdled.

“Midoriya’s the reason this happened.”

“I heard he built the software they hacked.”

“I bet it was his tech that got stolen. Shouldn’t he be under investigation too?”

Izuku didn’t respond.

He walked past classmates in the Hero Course who refused to meet his eyes. Some turned away. Others narrowed their gazes. Even Aoyama, who usually smiled at everyone, now looked at him like he wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at.

Kaminari approached him once in the cafeteria.

“Hey,” he said, hesitating. “I, uh… I heard people are talking. About you.”

Izuku just looked at him.

Kaminari shifted awkwardly. “You’re not gonna say anything?”

“If I do,” Izuku said quietly, “what happens if I’m wrong?”

Kaminari didn’t answer.

And Izuku walked away.

That night, he climbed the stairs to the dorm rooftop, hoodie pulled tight against the wind, mug of untouched tea in his hands. He sat near the edge, where he could see the glow of the city beyond the trees. Lights that didn’t flicker. Streets that didn’t care who you were.

Todoroki found him twenty minutes later, footsteps soft on the concrete.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat beside him, letting the silence stretch.

Then he said, “Do you remember the day we met?”

Izuku glanced over. “The Assessment Trials?”

“You looked terrified.”

“I was terrified.”

“But you still stood up,” Todoroki said. “Even when everyone else expected you to fall.”

Izuku looked away. “I feel like I’ve been falling ever since.”

“You haven’t,” Todoroki said firmly. “You’ve just been flying lower than they expected.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the clouds move slowly across the moon.

And then Todoroki added, quieter, “You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Izuku didn’t answer.

But when he leaned slightly to the side, and Todoroki didn’t move away, it was enough.

At 12:41 a.m., Shinsou’s tablet lit up with a soft chime.

He was already awake.

>> MOTION DETECTED. SENSOR 4 – SECTOR B.

He tapped the alert.

>> UNAUTHORISED PRESENCE.

Izuku’s phone buzzed.

He answered before the second ring.

“They’re back,” Shinsou said.

Izuku’s eyes went wide.

He was already pulling on his shoes.

Chapter Text

00:41 a.m.

A soft ping echoed in the silence of the tech bay.

Shinsou’s tablet lit up.

>> MOTION DETECTED — TRAPWIRE SENSOR 4 (SECTOR B)
>> UNAUTHORISED PRESENCE CONFIRMED
>> TRACKING LIVE…

He was already moving before the second ping came. His fingers flew across the touchscreen, syncing the alert to the team’s comms line. His voice, tight and steady, filtered through the shared channel.

“They’re back.”

Izuku burst from his dorm, heart pounding like a warning bell in his chest.

The campus was cloaked in shadows. Pale light spilled across the pavement from the distant dorm windows, but the buildings themselves loomed large and silent, their usual warmth lost beneath the weight of high-alert security and unanswered questions.

He didn’t slow as he dashed across the quad, hoodie flapping behind him like a tattered cape. He hit the access stairwell at a sprint, taking the steps two at a time.

Mei was already there, crouched against the maintenance panel behind Workshop Hall 3. She wore her reconfigured gauntlet like armour, a miniature shock coil humming low under her sleeve.

“I tied the subfloor motion feed into the relay net,” she said. “If they break line-of-sight, I’ll still see their path.”

Izuku nodded, panting. “How long ago was the trip?”

“Forty seconds. Too fast for a maintenance patrol. Too precise for random.” Her eyes narrowed behind her goggles. “They know this route.”

Todoroki arrived moments later, silent and composed as ever, but there was a tension in his posture that hadn't been there the day before. Ice misted around his fingers, reflexively, like even his quirk had caught the scent of a hunt.

“Shinsou’s guiding us from the bay,” Todoroki said. “He’s tracking three more motion sensors. We’ll trap them if they turn back.”

“Let’s not give them the chance,” Izuku said grimly.

And they went in.

The tunnel air was thick—dust, disuse, and something fouler.

The lights above flickered sporadically, and where once they had hummed softly with familiarity, they now buzzed like the wings of trapped insects. The silence wasn’t true silence—it was listening.

Every breath. Every footfall.

The trapwire relay blinked green overhead. Still active. Still waiting.

Mei whispered, “Sensor 4 pinged again. Same depth. But they’re moving slower.”

“Why?” Todoroki asked. “If they’re running, why slow down?”

Izuku’s stomach twisted. “They’re not running.”

They’re leading us.

Shinsou’s voice crackled in their earpieces. “Midoriya. Todoroki. You’re approaching the western junction—split up just ahead. One path loops to the northeast sub-grid. The other—dead end.”

Izuku looked at the fork ahead. “They want us to take the wrong one.”

“I’m following their signal,” Shinsou said. “Stay left.”

Todoroki peeled off without a word. Izuku followed the path into a narrow corridor lined with old panels—once used for support systems, now nothing more than skeletons of U.A.’s older era.

Mei held out a hand, halting them. “Wait.”

They froze.

A faint scuffing noise echoed from up ahead. Not fast. Not chaotic.

Measured.

And then—

A shadow darted past the junction.

Too fast to catch. Just long enough to see the edge of a black sleeve.

Izuku stepped forward. “There.”

They followed the shape through two bends, into a wider corridor filled with piping and old lighting rigs. Then—sudden motion.

Todoroki reappeared from the right, frost already climbing the walls.

“He’s moving back toward junction six.”

“He’s herding us,” Mei growled.

Izuku’s voice dropped. “No. He’s being chased.”

Mei blinked. “What?”

“He doesn’t know we’re split. He thinks we’re one group. He’s trying to loop us.”

And then, instinct kicked in.

Izuku veered hard right, ducking into a forgotten side door. The hinges protested as he shoved it open, but he didn’t stop. He moved, fast and quiet, up a back tunnel, retracing the echo of footsteps from seconds earlier.

It was instinct.

It was a gamble.

It was right.

Because just beyond the curve, as the corridor opened into a long utility hall, he saw a figure ahead. Moving. Silent. Deliberate.

And Izuku pounced.

They collided hard—Izuku slamming into the figure’s side, shoulder-first, knocking both of them into the wall. The intruder scrambled back, twisted to escape, but Izuku gripped the collar and yanked.

The helmet snapped off in his hands.

Izuku froze.

His heart stopped.

The boy who looked up at him from the floor was not a villain.

Not a mercenary.

Not a ghost.

It was Riku Yamane.

A quiet, unremarkable student from Class 1-F.

Medium height. Average build. A forgettable face. Someone who’d sat four rows behind Izuku in orientation, someone who’d nodded politely in hallways and never once stood out.

“Riku…” Izuku whispered. “You?”

Riku stared at him.

Expression unreadable.

Eyes empty.

“You weren’t supposed to find me,” Riku said softly.

Then he pressed something on the device at his wrist.

A burst of smoke flooded the corridor.

White. Hot. Disorienting.

Mei yelled. Todoroki shouted his name.

Izuku tried to hold on—but the figure was already vanishing, dissolving into the haze like fog swallowed by dawn.

By the time the air cleared, Riku was gone.

All that remained was his student badge—charred around the edges, the ID strip melted into black plastic.

Back at the tech bay, Shinsou slammed his hands on the desk.

“Teleportation rig. Short range. Directional. That wasn’t student tech.”

Izuku held the ruined badge in his palm like it might start bleeding. “He had a suppressor in his collar. He blocked his quirk signature.”

Todoroki shook his head. “There’s no way Riku built that alone.”

“He didn’t,” Mei said grimly. “He used our tech. Or at least, parts of it. His escape trigger was a modified version of the launch capsule circuit I showed off last semester.”

Shinsou's voice dropped. “Then someone fed him your blueprints.”

Izuku’s voice was a whisper.

“We didn’t just miss the second infiltrator.”

He looked up, eyes burning.

“We trained him.”

Chapter Text

Riku Yamane had always been easy to overlook.

Even his file read like a placeholder.

U.A. First-Year. Class 1-F. Quirk: Signal Fade — a mild suppressor-type ability that dampened electromagnetic signals and sound waves within a small radius. Originally identified as a support-class quirk with limited combat application. Minimal combat potential. No hero track recommendation. Low visibility score.

Teachers said he was polite.

Peers said he was quiet.

Nobody said he was dangerous.

And for a long time, neither did Riku.

Because Riku didn’t want power.

He wanted to matter.

It started early.

Other kids discovered fire and steel in their blood. Wings that cut the sky. Eyes that burned with truth or heat or unshakable will.

Riku learned to disappear.

Not figuratively—literally. The more people tried to see him, the harder it was for cameras to catch his face, for mics to hear his voice. At first, it was fun. Hide and seek champion, library ninja, the boy who didn’t trip motion sensors.

Then came evaluations.

Hero agencies didn’t want a boy who vanished.

They wanted a boy who stood out.

By the time Riku reached U.A., he'd stopped dreaming of greatness.

He didn’t try to make friends.

He didn’t aim for extra credit.

He kept his head down, his profile low, his schedule tight.

Class 1-F was the perfect hiding place.

The forgotten class.

The not-quite-dropouts.

Nobody questioned where 1-F students went after their first year, because nobody ever remembered they were there.

And for Riku, that anonymity became comfort.

Until the day he walked past the Support Showcase and saw Izuku Midoriya in the centre of it all.

It wasn’t envy—not at first.

It was recognition.

That boy, the one in the spotlight, explaining his combat gauntlet to pro heroes, had once been like him. Quirkless. Invisible. Mocked. Small.

But somehow, Midoriya had climbed out of the shadows and into something untouchable.

Admiration turned to ache.

Why him?

Why was the world always ready to praise people after they became extraordinary, but never when they were still drowning?

Why was no one watching Riku now?

The first message came six weeks later.

Encrypted.

Embedded in the diagnostics return code of a malfunctioning training bot.

No name. No sender.

Just a data stream with one file.

“You are seen.”

And a location.

The meeting place was an old elevator shaft below the gym’s substructure. Off-limits. Decommissioned. His student badge wouldn’t open it, but the shaft moved anyway when he stood in front of it.

Inside, a man waited.

U.A. uniform. Not a teacher.

Eyes sharp, face blank.

“Riku Yamane,” he said. “Top five in 1-F. Quiet. Smart. Invisible.”

Riku didn’t answer.

The man smiled. “That’s what makes you perfect.”

They never used names.

Only directives.

Watch. Record. Report.

At first, it was small.

Blueprints from the scrap bins.

Footage from unused support cams.

A second copy of Midoriya’s early schematic, left behind after a showcase rehearsal.

They told him it was for security auditing.

Then for oversight.

Then for balance.

Then they stopped explaining.

And Riku stopped asking.

Because by then, he was already in too deep.

He learned to crack terminal echo logs. To scrub his own ID trails. To splice copied drive content into throwaway files. He built a node beneath Workshop Hall 3 out of discarded parts and rerouted power grids.

They called it The Watchpoint.

And from there, he saw everything.

Midoriya and Hatsume are building the next-gen gauntlet.

Todoroki is visiting the lab after hours.

Shinsou filtering CommNet traffic.

They weren’t just building gear.

They were building a team.

And Riku watched.

And reported.

And was rewarded with silence.

But silence, at least, meant someone was listening.

Then, Mineta was caught.

And panic set in.

Riku’s handlers went dark.

For three days, he heard nothing.

He considered running.

Destroying the Watchpoint.

Locking himself in his dorm and pretending to be a victim.

Then the message came.

Simple.

“You finish this, or we finish you.”

Riku left the message in the lab not to scare Midoriy, but to test him.

He wanted to see what kind of hero Izuku would be when the fear came home.

Would he crumble?

Would he protect?

Would he chase a ghost?

And when Izuku found him in the tunnels—when he ripped the mask off and said his name like a question, not an accusation—Riku didn’t feel guilt.

He felt grief.

Because it should’ve been someone else.

Someone stronger.

Someone who didn’t flinch when they were seen.

The teleportation circuit activated seconds after the smoke bomb dropped.

It was one-use.

Painful.

Disorienting.

He landed in a sealed room, lined in dull metal, the size of a cargo container. Every surface is insulated. Every signal was jammed.

No doors.

No cameras.

But he was not alone.

The figure who stepped from the back wall did not wear a U.A. badge.

He wore grey.

A coat with no insignia.

Eyes dark. Face plain. Voice quiet.

“Riku Yamane.”

Riku sat up. His head spun.

“You’re not who I spoke to before.”

“No,” the man said. “He was a recruiter. I’m your handler.”

“Is this… punishment?”

“No,” the man said, crouching. “This is confirmation.”

He handed Riku a device.

Sleek. Black. Active.

Riku held it like it might burn.

“What is it?”

The man’s mouth curled.

“Your next role.”

He turned the device over in Riku’s hands.

A display lit up: fragmented code, pulsing with low-power encryption.

PROMETHEUS: PHASE TWO — INITIATED

Riku’s breath caught.

“You said it was just observation. Support tech—tech-counter-design, tracking—”

“Observation was the first fire, Riku,” the man said. “Now we give it to others.”

“To whom?”

The man smiled faintly.

“To those U.A. left behind.”

He stood and turned toward the sealed wall.

“I’ll be in touch. You won’t remember this conversation when you wake. But your hands will.”

And then—

Light.

Pain.

Darkness.

Back in the cargo pod, Riku slumped against the wall, unconscious, the device resting in his lap.

Outside, the container was already loaded into the next outbound truck.

Destination: unknown.

Purpose: war.

Chapter Text

The badge was still warm when Izuku set it down on the steel workbench.

It clicked against the metal with a soft, final sound. Almost like a punctuation mark. The charred edges curled up slightly, blackened from the burst of teleportation energy. His name—Yamane, Riku—was almost entirely melted away, the barcode strip half-dissolved.

But Izuku didn’t need the name.

He saw Riku’s face every time he blinked.

Not angry. Not scared.

Just… resigned.

Like he’d already accepted what side of the story he belonged to.

The lab had fallen into silence. Not the usual silence of concentration or exhaustion—this was something heavier. This was the sound of something breaking underneath.

Mei stood stiffly over the schematic table, goggles pushed up onto her forehead, arms crossed so tightly it looked like she was holding herself together by force. Her lips were pressed in a thin line, eyes locked on a shattered casing from her third-gen gauntlet. It was identical to the one Riku had modified.

Todoroki lingered near the door, back straight, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the wall like it might confess something. He hadn't said much since the chase. His silence spoke volumes.

And Shinsou was hunched over his tablet, backlit by the blue-white glow of lines upon lines of corrupted system logs and scrambled surveillance loops.

“We missed him,” Izuku finally said, the words rough in his throat. “He was right under our noses.”

“No,” Mei snapped, sharper than steel. “He wasn’t. He wasn’t supposed to be there. 1-F doesn’t get clearance to our server logs. They don’t even know the protocols we run.”

“He knew them,” Izuku said softly. “He used them better than most support students.”

Todoroki’s voice was flat. “He wasn’t just accessing our files. He was adapting them.”

That was the worst part.

Riku hadn’t just stolen their work. He understood it. Reconfigured it. Personalise it.

He hadn’t broken in.

He’d studied them.

They found the data cache hidden beneath Riku’s Watchpoint node just after dawn.

Shinsou had rerouted the tunnel’s old power lines to isolate any remaining live signals. The others watched as he lifted the lid on the core housing—a low-powered portable server unit, no larger than a first-aid kit. It looked like any other decommissioned backup unit.

But when he plugged it into the lab’s off-grid processor, the screen came to life.

A single file sat inside.

“P_R0-ME-7H3U5”

Izuku’s blood ran cold.

Prometheus.

The name echoed from the Watchpoint.

He tapped the file open.

It didn’t contain weapons schematics.

Not blueprints.

Not gadgets.

People.

They stared at the projection that lit up above the console.

A branching tree of connected names. Students. Faculty. Staff.

Each one is marked by a colour-coded identifier.

Green: Low Threat
Yellow: Observable Asset
Red: Destabilising Influence
Black: Non-Replaceable / Target for Isolation

“It’s a vulnerability matrix,” Izuku whispered.

Mei leaned in, wide-eyed. “These are our classmates.”

Todoroki scanned the list. “And us.”

Each node led to subfolders: behavioural analysis, quirks, strengths, weaknesses, personal relationships, and decision patterns under stress.

“They’ve been profiling us for months,” Shinsou muttered. “Every fight. Every partner swap. Every drop in grades or moment of hesitation. This is… a deconstruction.”

Mei looked ill. “—I logged some of this data during our quirk calibration drills. For Power Loader. It was just meant for project matching.”

“They copied it,” Izuku said. “Wove it into something else.”

He scrolled.

Found his name.

MIDORIYA, IZUKU

Risk Factor: Critical
Role Disruption Potential: Tier Zero
Recommended Strategy: Erode support network. Accelerate burnout. Deploy interpersonal fracture triggers.
Replacement: N/A

Izuku swallowed hard.

Mei found hers next.

HATSUME, MEI

Intellectual Threat: Moderate
Containment Strategy: Redirect curiosity. Introduce conflicting collaboration directives. Slow momentum.

Shinsou’s entry was worse.

SHINSOU, HITOSHI

Emotional Isolation Index: High
Target Point: Authority Conflict
Strategy: Undermine trust in educators. Promote disciplinary fatigue.

Todoroki didn’t flinch when his name came up.

TODOROKI, SHOUTO

Loyalty Anchor: Midoriya
Exploitable Pressure: Family ties, legacy weight
Strategy: Fuel internal contradiction. Reignite paternal resentment.

Izuku stepped back like he’d been punched.

“They weren’t just watching us. They were… unravelling us.”

Todoroki crossed his arms. “This isn’t a plan. It’s a blueprint for psychological warfare.”

“Prometheus,” Shinsou said, staring at the screen. “They stole fire from the gods… and handed it to people who wanted to burn the sky.”

Later, after Mei had gone silent and Shinsou returned to run secure copies for Aizawa, Izuku stayed in the lab.

Alone.

He stood in the dim glow of the projection, watching the names flicker.

People he trained with.

Ate with.

Protected.

Fought beside.

This wasn’t just about Riku anymore.

This was about something built.

Designed.

Izuku closed the file and locked the drive.

And for the first time, in a long time…

He felt afraid.

Not for himself.

But for everyone else who didn’t know they’d already been chosen as pieces in a war they hadn’t agreed to fight.

Chapter Text

The conference chamber beneath U.A.’s South Wing wasn’t designed for this kind of meeting.

It had been meant for curriculum planning. For quarterly reviews and early morning debates about sports festival logistics. But now, the air was too heavy for academics. It was thick with unspoken fear and the creak of something enormous straining under pressure.

At exactly 05:02 a.m., the chamber doors hissed open.

Izuku walked in first, a slim encrypted drive clutched in both hands like it was a live bomb.

Todoroki followed, his steps silent and measured, the sharp scent of frost still clinging to his uniform.

Shinsou brought up the rear, his face a carefully constructed mask of exhaustion and defiance. His grip on the security tablet never loosened. It hadn’t since they’d discovered the full scope of Prometheus.

The faculty was already assembled.

Aizawa stood against the far wall, arms crossed, scarf wrapped tightly around his shoulders. His face gave nothing away.

Present Mic sat near the end of the table, bouncing his leg restlessly, barely blinking. Cementoss leaned forward beside him, hands tented under his chin. Vlad King kept scanning the room like he expected an ambush.

Nemuri Kayama was the only one who met Izuku’s eyes as he approached the terminal. She didn’t smile. Her look wasn’t soft. It was steady.

Power Loader paced slowly behind the chairs, fists clenched.

Recovery Girl, uncharacteristically quiet, sat beside Principal Nezu, who perched on a raised chair at the head of the table—hands folded, ears twitching once, twice, but his expression unreadable.

Toshinori Yagi stood in the back corner, not as All Might, just as a shadow of him. Tall. Quiet. Watchful.

No one said a word.

Izuku connected the drive.

The lights dimmed.

And the spiderweb appeared.

Names. Faces. Threads of digital classification and color-coded control strategies. A map of their entire school population—reduced to a battlefield of vulnerability.

Gasps filled the room.

Power Loader stopped pacing.

Nemuri leaned forward slowly, her expression hardening with each node that lit up.

And Aizawa… stared at the screen like it had grown claws.

“This is…” Nezu began, voice tight with disbelief. “A live system?”

“It was,” Shinsou said, stepping beside Izuku. “We severed its power source and extracted what we could from the Watchpoint node Riku left behind. But the code was mobile. Clean. The kind of structure built to spread.”

“And to hide,” Izuku added. “It embedded itself in our internal networks. Our security drills. Our support logs. This wasn’t just spying. It was… evolution. They used our systems as a testing ground.”

“Prometheus,” Todoroki said, stepping closer to the projection. “A war engine. Quiet, crawling, and waiting to be lit.”

They walked the faculty through the core systems.

How Riku had siphoned student analytics during drills.

How stress responses, emotional markers, and interpersonal data were compiled into long-form simulations.

How team breakdowns were predicted with surgical precision.

“Each person had a vulnerability tag,” Izuku explained, scrolling to Todoroki’s file. “It didn’t matter how powerful you were. It only mattered how you could be broken.”

Nemuri stared at her profile on the screen.

KAYAMA, NEMURI — Emotional Access Point

Trusted by students. Friendly rapport. Predictive Influence Model: High
Strategy: Emotional destabilisation via redirected blame. Undermine the relationship with Eraserhead and Midoriya.

“I’ve been… tracked?” she said quietly. “For what I care about?”

“Exactly,” Shinsou said.

Another tap.

YAMADA, HIZASHI — Surveillance Flaw

High vocal output. Low observational retention.
Strategy: Distraction. Use moments of levity to camouflage infiltration.

Hizashi recoiled.

“This isn’t just a violation,” Cementoss said softly. “It’s… surgical conditioning.”

They showed the student flags next.

Green for compliant.

Yellow for emotionally vulnerable.

Red for threats.

Black for non-replaceable targets.

Toshinori’s hand clenched the edge of his coat when his name appeared under a different category:

Systemic Legacy Flaw.

Instability Source: Obsolete Symbol
Strategic Use: Narrative fracture
Risk Index: High
Recommendation: Elimination from mentorship circles

No one spoke.

Even Nezu had gone still.

“They’re not trying to win,” Izuku said, voice shaking. “They’re trying to make us lose ourselves. From the inside out.”

Aizawa broke the silence.

“How long?”

Shinsou met his eyes. “We estimate the first data spike happened nine months ago, just after the winter field assessments. Possibly earlier. Riku wasn’t the start. He was just… one of the ones who listened.”

“And you’re sure this was Riku Yamane?” Power Loader asked, stepping forward.

“He built part of his gear from our early prototypes,” Izuku said. “He used Mei’s shock mesh schematics. My stabiliser ring. He was in our lab when we weren’t. Watching. Learning. Reporting.”

“He was in my support theory class,” Power Loader whispered. “I barely remember his face.”

“Exactly what they wanted,” Todoroki said.

Nezu stood at last.

He walked slowly to the projection, staring into the web like he was looking through it.

“This school has faced invasions,” he said softly. “Attack. Sabotage. Criticism. Fear.”

“But this is different. This is… contamination.”

He turned to face the room.

“We cannot contain this quietly.”

“There’ll be panic,” Vlad King said. “If word spreads—”

“There’s already panic,” Aizawa cut in. “It just hasn’t reached the surface yet.”

“We can’t lie to the students,” Izuku said, stepping forward. “They’ll feel it. They already do. People are withdrawing. Distrusting each other. Prometheus planted that.”

“We don’t tell them everything,” Nezu said. “But we start where it matters. With transparency. With unity.”

He looked at Izuku.

“Can you help me build that?”

Izuku nodded once. “Yes. But we start now.”

Later, as the sun crept over the horizon and spilled weak gold through the upper windows, the students were still asleep.

The school was still whole.

But Izuku stood alone in the lab, watching the projection slowly fade.

The Prometheus file was closed.

But its burn was still in his chest.

Todoroki joined him minutes later.

“You did it,” he said.

Izuku didn’t look away from the dark screen.

“No,” he said.

“I just lit the fuse.”

Chapter Text

U.A. High School had always been a place of motion.

Laughter echoed through open doors. Students are dashing from class to the training grounds. Collaboration, competition, camaraderie.

But in the days following the reveal of Prometheus, everything slowed.

Smiles dimmed.

Groups thinned.

Where there had once been open arms, there were folded ones. Clenched jaws. Avoided glances.

The halls were still full, but no one felt seen anymore.

Izuku felt the shift in his bones.

It started with how people didn’t greet him.

He walked into the cafeteria, and the usual voices faded to a hush.

He used to sit surrounded—Kaminari with his endless jokes, Iida with his unwavering posture, Ochako with her soft energy, talking too fast when she was nervous.

Now?

The table was empty.

Even those who nodded at him did so from a distance.

Like a ripple was expanding outward from his shadow.

And he understood why.

He had been at the centre of it.

They knew something was wrong.

Not everyone had seen the Prometheus files, but rumours had spread like wildfire. Too specific to ignore. Too surreal to believe they were fake.

“People are being profiled.”

“I heard they know who would snap first if a villain got in.”

“They’ve got logs of your worst days. Even things you said when you didn’t think anyone heard.”

One rumour said it was All Might’s idea.

Another claimed Nezu sanctioned it from the start.

Another whispered that the traitor hadn’t acted alone.

And still hadn’t been found.

Tensions started small.

A training partner hesitates to offer a hand after a spar.

General Studies students no longer sit in on Support showcases.

A muttered “spy” behind someone’s back, loud enough to be heard.

No fights. No explosions.

Just erosion.

Quiet, constant, devastating.

In Class 1-A, Kirishima had stopped shouting morning greetings.

Bakugou hadn’t spoken since the announcement. His fury wasn’t the loud, explosive kind—it simmered behind narrowed eyes, a ticking pressure waiting for somewhere to go.

Ochako still smiled at Izuku, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. She stood near him, never beside.

Iida stuck to his schedule, to his duty. But even he had begun speaking in clipped tones, especially when answering hypotheticals during training drills.

Only Todoroki remained unchanged.

Or perhaps, the same as he always was—quiet, calm, and fiercely present beside Izuku.

“Prometheus didn’t just map out our weaknesses,” Izuku told him quietly one night as they sat near the edge of the rooftop. “It’s… made them worse. We’re doing the rest to ourselves.”

Todoroki stared at the city skyline. “That was the point.”

Izuku shook his head, fingers clenched on the metal railing. “They didn’t have to fight us. They just had to make us doubt each other.”

“And the damage sticks longer,” Todoroki said. “You can heal from a broken arm faster than you can trust again.”

The Prometheus Task Force was formed on the third morning after the breach.

It wasn’t a committee. It wasn’t public.

But it was necessary.

Nezu approved it. Aizawa led it. Power Loader provided resources.

But the core—the heart of it—was made of students who refused to let this be the end.

Izuku. Todoroki. Shinsou. Mei. Yaoyorozu. Iida. Kendo. Shoji. Hakamada. Jirou.

Each was chosen for a different strength.

Not just power.

But balance.

The ability to build bridges across the departments.

To pull threads back together.

To remind the school that it could still be one body.

Still a family.

If they fought for it.

Their first meeting was quiet.

Held in the disused observation tower above the training fields. A space long forgotten, with rust along the railings and dusty training maps rolled into cabinets.

Mei had rigged the place with signal dampeners and frequency blocks. Shinsou had secured the door.

Iida stood at the front, rigid but resolute.

“We’re not here to hunt the next traitor,” he said. “We’re here to protect each other before someone else breaks.”

Yaoyorozu nodded. “That means restoring communication. Clearing up truth from paranoia. Rebuilding trust—slowly. Deliberately.”

“Carefully,” Todoroki added. “Some people don’t want answers. They want targets.”

Izuku said nothing at first.

Then:

“We’re not just protecting people from danger anymore,” he murmured. “We’re protecting them from themselves.”

Meanwhile, in the depths of the school, the consequences of exposure were already taking root.

In an unused classroom on the second floor of General Studies, a single student sat alone.

Their hands trembled.

In their lap, a printed sheet, snatched from a forgotten console. A name. A file. Their file.

MIYAKI, REI — Class 1-G

Observed Response to Social Isolation: Withdrawal
Strategy: Interpersonal Reinforcement Collapse
Outcome: Likely Transfer

The student stared at it like it might devour them.

They hadn’t spoken to anyone all day.

Not because they had something to hide.

But because the system had already assumed they would disappear.

And no one had tried to stop it.

Elsewhere, another student found their file.

This one laughed when they read it.

But the laugh wasn’t kind.

It was hollow.

Because their file had marked them:

Manipulator
Influencer
Red Node

Potential Recruitment Target

They closed the file.

And thought about what they could do with it.

Chapter Text

It started as a whisper.

Like everything else since Prometheus had surfaced, the danger didn’t come screaming through the gates. It slipped between conversations. Lurking behind strained voices. Eavesdropping in empty stairwells.

But Izuku had learned to listen to what wasn’t being said.

So when Shoji sent the coded message—

"Unverified. General dorm wing. Someone’s moving like they’re scared they shouldn’t be holding what they’ve got."

—Izuku’s heart dropped into his stomach.

He didn’t need a file name to know what it was.

The Prometheus Task Force assembled within twenty minutes in the shadowed upper floor of the disused observation tower, the space now refitted with Mei’s signal dampeners and Shinsou’s encrypted uplink. The air was still stale, and the metal beams groaned faintly in the wind outside, but this was the only place they could speak freely.

Shinsou flicked his wrist to cast a display hologram from his tablet into the air between them.

A map of U.A.’s east wing blinked to life. One small red indicator pulsed at the base of the General Studies dorm.

“That’s the data node,” he explained. “It pinged twice in the last three hours. First, just after lunch, then again less than an hour ago. Both times, it matched the digital signature of the Prometheus archive we scrubbed from Sector B.”

“Someone’s opened it,” Todoroki said, voice flat.

“More than that,” Shinsou replied grimly. “They’ve copied it.”

A silence fell.

Izuku’s mind raced. This wasn’t just about information anymore. If another student had a live Prometheus file—especially an unsanitized one—it could spark exactly what the system had been designed to do.

Divide them.

Pit student against student.

Force them to doubt each other.

Again.

Yaoyorozu stepped forward. “What’s our goal? Retrieval or containment?”

“Both,” Izuku said. “We don’t scare anyone. We don’t corner them. We talk. And we listen. This could be someone like Riku, or it could be someone who had no idea what they found. Either way, we stop this before it becomes a wildfire.”

They split into three units.

Izuku and Shinsou: Direct contact, supported by crowd analysis and emotional read.

Todoroki and Mei: Perimeter backup, with tactical suppression gear if the situation went volatile.

Yaoyorozu and Jirou: Monitoring U.A.’s comm grid and drone feeds from the tower.

It was their first field test as a Task Force.

Not against villains.

But against a wound that hadn’t stopped bleeding.

They found the student on the General Studies dorm’s lower staircase, pausing halfway down like he couldn’t decide whether to run or retreat.

He was tall, lankysecond year.

Fidgeting.

The kind of student who would’ve blended in at any lunch table—and likely had, right until he learned he wasn’t supposed to.

His name was Amano Keita.

Izuku didn’t recognise the name at first, but Shinsou did.

“Ranked top ten in General last semester,” he murmured. “Tech stream. Transfer candidate for Support, pre-Riku.”

Keita looked up when he heard footsteps.

When he saw Izuku and Shinsou, his body tensed, then slouched slightly.

Not like someone about to fight.

Like someone about to fold.

“I didn’t mean to find it,” Keita said. I—I was just running a scan through the project archive for old code. I didn’t know what it was at first. Just… files. Weird formatting. Strings of names.”

His voice shook.

“I thought it was a training sim. Then I saw my name.”

Izuku took a slow breath. “You didn’t share it?”

“I thought about it,” Keita admitted. “But no. I haven’t. I swear. It just… made me feel sick. Like everything I did at U.A. was already decided.”

Shinsou nodded. “Can we take a look?”

Keita reached into his bag, fingers trembling, and handed them a narrow flash drive—neatly tucked inside the lining of his pencil case.

He held it out like it was burning him.

Izuku took it with quiet care.

Back at the Tower, they projected the drive onto the room’s secured feed.

It wasn’t a full version of the core Prometheus web.

It was something more dangerous.

A fragment.

Cruder. Messier. But with one terrifying addition:

Names are listed in pairs.

Not vulnerabilities. Not targets.

Connections.

Best friends. Dorm mates. Siblings. Teammates.

Each set is linked by a shared node.

Underneath each connection, a stamped word:

FRAGMENT.

“Prometheus wasn’t just mapping individuals,” Yaoyorozu whispered. “It was analysing how to break bonds.”

Jirou scrolled further. “These aren’t weaknesses. They’re relationships.”

Kirishima + Bakugou
Todoroki + Midoriya
Iida + Yaoyorozu
Kaminari + Jirou

Each one is marked with predictive simulations.

Breakpoints. Arguments. Personal failings. Divergences of belief.

“I don’t believe this,” Mei said, rubbing her temples. “They built a system that could simulate falling-outs.”

“They didn’t have to create chaos,” Shinsou said. “Just predict where it would form—and make sure no one stops it.”

Keita agreed to speak to Aizawa, under Task Force protection.

He handed over the original file. No backup. No copy.

Just fear, and guilt, and a weight that no student should’ve had to carry.

Before he left, he asked Izuku quietly:

“Is it true? What did the file say? That I was never going to get into Support because someone already flagged me as ‘non-integral’?”

Izuku didn’t have an answer.

So he gave the only thing he could.

“We’re going to tear that system down.”

That night, the Task Force sat together on the Tower’s roof.

No helmets.

No protocols.

Just tired hearts.

“They’re still winning,” Jirou said. “Even now. Even after we exposed them.”

Todoroki looked out over the quiet buildings. “That’s how Prometheus works. It doesn’t need to fight.”

“It just waits,” Izuku murmured. “For us to fall out of reach of each other.”

Shinsou looked up. “Then we build something it can’t measure.”

Chapter Text

The dorm hallway was quiet. Too quiet.

U.A. wasn’t built for stillness. It was made of motion—footsteps thundering between classes, laughter echoing down stairwells, the rhythmic crash of sparring sessions from underground gyms.

But now, it felt like a breath held too long.

And Bakugou hated it.

He hated the way the silence crept in through the vents. How conversations stopped when he entered the room. How the warmth had drained from the walls of a place that used to be more home than battlefield.

But most of all, he hated the distance.

The space that had grown—not from enemies, but from Kirishima.

It wasn’t a fight.

Not really.

There hadn’t been shouting. No accusations. No slammed doors or turned backs.

But over the last few days, things had changed.

Kirishima had started saying "I'm good" instead of "I'm great."

Stopped offering snacks in training breaks.

Laughed a little too loudly, like he was trying to prove something.

And never—never—met Bakugou’s eyes when they passed in the hallway.

Bakugou noticed.

Of course he did.

He noticed everything when it came to Kirishima.

But he didn’t know what the hell to do about it.

The file appeared by accident.

Or maybe fate.

He was wandering the dorm halls at nearly 3:00 a.m., sleep once again eluding him. His mind was loud, and his body itched with restless adrenaline he couldn’t burn off. The usual training rooms were locked down for the night, and sparring with himself was starting to feel more pathetic than productive.

He spotted the faint blue glow from the rec room.

A screen left on.

Someone had forgotten to shut it down—or didn’t want to.

Curious and annoyed, Bakugou stepped inside.

He froze mid-step.

There, on the screen, projected in pale light, were two names.

His.

And Kirishima’s.

PROMETHEUS – RELATIONAL FILE 32-B: BAKUGOU/KIRISHIMA

Primary Anchor Node: Kirishima Eijirou

Emotional Sync Rate: 92.6%
Confidence Reinforcement: Peer Validation
Weakness Trigger: Guilt Associated with Failing Expectations
Strategy: Undermining Emotional Stability via Dissonant Morality Event

Primary Break Node: Bakugou Katsuki

Role Archetype: Command-Type Aggressive Stabiliser
Attachment Flag: Loyalty-Based Trust
Predicted Fracture Point: Ethical Disagreement Leading to Mutual Withdrawal
Probability of Irreparable Damage: 77.4%

Suggested Intervention: Simulated Tactical Misdirection Event / Fracture Pairing via Misaligned Moral Cues

At the bottom of the screen: Status: Monitoring Active

Bakugou stood still, jaw clenched, heart pounding hard enough to echo in his ears.

He read it twice.

Then again.

The words didn’t hurt at first.

They froze him.

He wasn’t angry.

He wasn’t surprised.

He was… empty.

Like someone had reached inside him and labelled the most important connection in his life like it were a threat. A calculation.

Breakable.

He didn’t remember leaving the room.

He barely remembered walking out into the open air.

Only that, somehow, the training field had appeared in front of him. And that his fingers were shaking from how hard he was gripping the railing on the fence.

It was still dark.

But the sky had started turning violet.

Kirishima found him an hour later.

Still in his hoodie.

Still red-eyed from a night of pacing the room and not crying.

Still clutching his name, printed from the archive files he’d found earlier that night when trying to find his class report.

He held the paper like a wound.

They didn’t speak at first.

Bakugou didn’t turn.

Kirishima didn’t move closer.

Then, quietly:

“You saw it too.”

Bakugou didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Kirishima stepped beside him.

“The file said all it would take is one fight. One argument. About something that mattered.”

“They think we’re that easy to break?” Bakugou growled, voice low. Rough.

“They think everything we’ve been through—Kamino, the war games, internships—can be undone by a misunderstanding.”

Kirishima’s laugh was hollow.

“And the worst part? I believed it.”

That made Bakugou look at him. Finally.

Kirishima kept going.

“I stopped talking to you. Not because of the file. But because I started watching for the things it said would happen. Started seeing signs where there weren’t any. Doubting where I never used to. It’s like once I read it… I was waiting for us to fall apart.”

Bakugou’s hands curled into fists.

“You idiot.”

Kirishima blinked.

“You think a file like that knows me? Knows you? Knows what it means to get punched in the ribs twenty times in a row and still trust the guy who threw them?”

“I—” Kirishima began.

Bakugou cut him off.

“No one tells me who I am. Not some system. Not some strategy doc. And no one gets to say when I stop choosing you as my partner.”

Kirishima’s breath hitched.

Bakugou didn’t soften.

But his voice went lower.

“Next time you doubt that, come to me. Not some stupid file. Not a damn screen.”

He paused.

“And don’t ever walk away without saying something again.”

Kirishima blinked once.

Then, a slow, growing grin broke across his face.

A real one.

For the first time in days.

“Alright,” he said. “Deal.”

Bakugou let out a short, frustrated breath.

“Good.”

And that was it.

No dramatic hug.

No teary-eyed embrace.

Just a promise, remade in the cold morning air.

The kind of promise Prometheus would never understand.

Because it wasn’t about logic.

Or prediction.

It was about choice.

Later that morning, they walked into the gym together.

Heads turned.

People looked.

No one said anything.

But something shifted.

Just slightly.

Because two people who were supposed to break had walked in with their heads high.

Still together.

Still standing.

Still unbroken.

Chapter Text

U.A. was coming apart at the seams.

Not with explosions. Not with battles. Not with traitors.

But with silences.

With the quiet erosion of trust between people who once trained together, laughed together, and saved each other’s lives.

Now, they barely made eye contact.

Group work turned into single-file tasks.

Hero students clung to their own.

Support kids stopped offering help.

General Studies walked like ghosts.

The school was full of people standing side by side, without ever standing together.

And Izuku could feel it happening in every hallway, every classroom, every tense, half-swallowed conversation.

Prometheus hadn’t needed to destroy U.A.

It had simply pointed out the cracks.

The rest?

They were doing to themselves.

“It’s not enough to protect what’s left,” Izuku said quietly during one of the late-night Prometheus Task Force meetings. “We have to rebuild what’s been lost.”

They were gathered in the observation tower again, lit only by tablet glow and the low hum of portable power cells. Mei’s signal dampeners buzzed faintly in the background, covering them like a security blanket.

Shinsou was pacing by the window. Jirou sat with her head leaning back against the wall, one earbud in but nothing playing. Yaoyorozu had spread out a half-dozen charts across the floor. Todoroki stood in the corner, silent and still, watching.

“We’ve exposed Prometheus,” Yaoyorozu said. “And we’re fighting the external breach patterns. But that doesn’t change what it’s already done to the students.”

“They don’t trust each other,” Jirou murmured. “Or us. Some of them are waiting for someone to betray them. Others are waiting to be accused of being next.”

“Because Prometheus taught them to look sideways,” Shinsou added. “Not forward.”

Izuku nodded, fingers tightening around the stylus; he hadn’t stopped tapping against his leg.

“Then we make them look forward again.”

That was the beginning of Bridgework.

A collaboration initiative disguised as a challenge event.

Equal parts tactical trial and emotional repair.

Not just a training session.

A reconnection strategy.

The plan was bold—intentionally so.

It would be the first time since the reveal of Prometheus that students from all four departments—Hero, Support, General Studies, and Business—would be compelled to work together under live pressure.

Not for a grade.

Not for a rank.

But the only way to clear the simulated course would be through cooperation.

With people they’d stopped trusting.

“This isn’t about forcing forgiveness,” Izuku said during the Task Force’s internal planning session. “It’s about reminding people what it felt like to believe in each other.”

Shinsou laid out the structure: rotating mixed-discipline teams, randomised without student input.

Yaoyorozu handled logistics: skill balance, risk moderation, and neurodiverse accessibility.

Jirou worked on communication strategy: flag systems, verbal relay blocks, and noise fatigue mitigation.

Mei created the tech: interactive barriers, pressure-sensitive decoders, and variable trust-triggered puzzles keyed to cooperation thresholds.

Todoroki managed the physical space, designing a terrain layout that emphasised choices requiring mutual aid, protection, and sacrifice.

And Izuku oversaw it all, adjusting for flow, risk, and emotion.

“Failure has to be possible,” he reminded the group. “But the message has to be clear: falling doesn’t mean you’re broken. It just means you try again.”

They presented the proposal to the staff under Level Five clearance.

Aizawa read it in silence.

Then set the tablet down, arms crossed.

“You’re asking us to let students confront the very thing that’s tearing them apart.”

“Yes,” Izuku said. “On their terms. But with our safety nets.”

Nezu studied the digital map layout for several long seconds before tapping a paw against the table.

“Then we’ll give them a bridge,” he said. “Let’s see who’s brave enough to walk it.”

The announcement went out that night.

An inter-departmental trial event.

Not optional.

Not for ranking.

And not safe.

The school lit up.

Confusion. Resistance. Curiosity.

“Bridgework? What the hell does that even mean?”

“I’m not pairing with someone from General who thinks this is a joke.”

“Business students don’t do field drills. What are they gonna do, sell us stress relief while we fall off a rope course?”

“Wait—do we have to do this?”

“Yes,” came the answer. “Every single one of you.”

In the background, resentment simmered.

But so did hope.

The quiet kind.

The kind that hides in clenched fists and half-lifted heads and teammates waiting just long enough for someone to reach first.

Izuku stood on the edge of Training Ground Echo the night before the event, looking at the course they had built.

Suspended platforms.

Narrow rope bridges.

Towers that could only be unlocked with dual inputs.

Puzzle doors that required empathy or observation, or memory.

A course where strength wasn’t enough.

Speed wouldn’t matter.

Only trust would get them through.

Todoroki approached, silent as usual.

They stood side by side, watching floodlights sweep across the grass and metal.

“Do you think this’ll work?” Todoroki asked after a moment.

Izuku didn’t answer right away.

Then:

“I think it has to.”

Todoroki glanced at him. “And if it doesn’t?”

Izuku took a breath.

“Then we learn who’s still willing to try.”

Todoroki nodded.

That was enough.

Behind them, the rest of the team arrived one by one, looking out at the course they’d built.

The literal bridgework.

To something broken.

To something worth rebuilding.

To something not yet lost.

Chapter Text

The sun spilled across Training Ground Echo like it, too, wanted to give them a second chance.

But no one looked up.

They were too busy reading the names glowing on their tablets—each one paired with another student from a different course, a different world, a different wound.

In the scattered morning light, it looked like a battlefield before the first shot.

But it wasn’t a war.

Not today.

Today was about trust.

Or what was left of it.

From the high tower, Izuku Midoriya scanned the terrain.

The Bridgework course stretched across half a kilometer of uneven ground—interlinked platforms, rope pulleys, dual-pressure gates, and zero-sum puzzles designed to force teams to talk or fail.

Each checkpoint required input from both participants.

Each decision mattered.

There was no “stronger half.”

No solo path.

And no backtracking.

Izuku’s voice filtered out across the speakers, calm but steady:

“This is Midoriya Izuku, speaking on behalf of the Prometheus Task Force.
Each of you has been assigned a partner based on a random department pairing.
Hero, Support, General Studies, Business.
Your goal is to cross the course. Together.
Not to be the fastest. Not to be the strongest.
Just to finish.
You’ll have three hours.
Begin.”

[SECTOR 1: GATE OF FIRST STEPS]
Team 3: Kaminari Denki + Shinsou Hitoshi

The moment the sensor light blinked green, Kaminari darted forward—and immediately tripped a relay panel, sending a zap of static through the steel floor.

“OW—okay, okay, that was my bad,” he muttered, brushing sparks off his sleeve.

Shinsou sighed. “We just talked about not charging ahead.”

Kaminari straightened. “Right. Uh. Strategic caution. Totally on board.”

Shinsou rolled his eyes, then crouched at the console. “It’s a dual-pressure plate. One of us opens the lock while the other holds the stabiliser. If you short it again, we will reset.”

“On it,” Kaminari said.

And this time, when they moved, it worked.

Not smoothly. Not without a few more curses.

But together.

[SECTOR 3: BRIDGE OF BALANCE]
Team 7: Yaoyorozu Momo + Iida Tenya

Their bridge wasn’t a structure—it was an algorithm.

Pressure plates responded only to mirrored input, meaning both participants had to move in exact synchronisation.

They hadn’t spoken much yet.

Not since reading their files.

Not since Yaoyorozu had seen hers say:

“Default Support. Prone to deferring in the presence of stronger moral voices.”

And his:

“Moral Conflict Risk: Yaoyorozu. Fracture Risk: Ethical Disagreement.”

Now, they stood on either side of the mirrored bridge, unsure.

“Iida,” she said, quietly, “I know we’ve drifted.”

He adjusted his glasses, not looking up. “The files were designed to make us second-guess. And I did.”

“So did I.”

Beat.

“I don’t want that to be permanent,” she said.

Finally, he looked up. “Nor do I.”

And together, they stepped onto the path.

One foot, then another.

Perfectly aligned.

[SECTOR 4: TACTICAL RIDGE]
Team 11: Bakugou Katsuki + Kodai Yui (1-B)

It was not a good pairing.

At least, not at first glance.

Bakugou growled as the slope beneath him tilted. “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS TILT—”

Yui blinked and silently activated her quirk, enlarging a stone anchor to rebalance the terrain.

The platform steadied.

He blinked.

“…That was useful.”

Yui gave him a quiet thumbs-up.

They didn’t speak again for the next ten minutes.

But they moved in rhythm.

Each saves the other’s footing three times.

[FIELD OBSERVATION POST – COMMAND CENTRE]
“Twenty-four percent of teams have passed the first threshold,” Yaoyorozu reported, eyes flicking across the digital display.

“No critical errors yet,” Mei added. “Only three trigger resets.”

“Team 6 just navigated the double lift,” Todoroki noted. “They’re ahead of pace.”

Izuku leaned over the monitor, watching faces.

Hesitation turned to surprise. Mistrust becomes cooperation.

Not all of them. But enough.

He felt something unfurl in his chest that hadn’t risen in weeks:

Hope.

[SECTOR 2: EMOTION LOCK – TEAM 14]
Team 14: Kirishima Eijirou + Business Student: Tsukuda Ayame

The console had two sides.

One displayed logic puzzles.

The other required the participant to choose emotional responses that matched the physical gestures of their partner—subtle cues like hesitation, posture shifts, and microexpressions.

Kirishima scratched his head.

“I gotta be honest—I’m terrible at this part.”

Ayame smiled gently. “That’s okay. I read people for a living.”

“You serious?”

“Body language is ninety percent of a pitch.”

He nodded, grin wide. “Guess we’ve got a shot then, huh?”

She stepped onto her plate. “Let’s find out.”

[EDGE OF SECTOR 5 – TREE LINE]
One figure didn’t move.

They weren’t assigned.

They hadn’t signed up.

But they stood in the trees beyond the field, silent and still.

Watching.

Their eyes tracked the sensors, not the students.

In their hand: a black drive. Small. Smooth. Coded to an old node sequence Riku had once hidden beneath Workshop Hall 3.

They opened a console box on the outer fence.

Inside: a relay.

Hidden during equipment setup.

It shouldn’t be active.

But it was blinking.

A frequency reader pulsed once.

Then again.

They input a line of code.

ACCESSING U.A. INTERNAL COMMS SUB-NET…
SIGNAL LINK ESTABLISHED
OVERRIDE KEYS: PROMETHEUS-EPSILON

The field lights flickered.

Only for a second.

No one noticed.

Not yet.

Back in the tower, Mei frowned.

“Power dipped. Only for a millisecond. But that’s not a field test trigger.”

Izuku stiffened.

“Check the perimeter logs.”

“Already on it,” Shinsou said. “We’ve got an unauthorised console ping on the west ridge.”

Todoroki’s jaw tensed. “Someone’s here.”

Izuku looked out at the field, at all the students just starting to believe again.

And whispered:

“Someone’s trying to break it before we finish rebuilding.”

Chapter Text

It started as a flicker.

Too small for most to notice.

But Mei Hatsume had built the relay systems in Bridgework herself, and a 0.6-second power drop wasn’t just an error.

It was intentional.

Her fingers blurred over the console in the task tower, golden eyes narrowing as she pulled up internal diagnostics. “That wasn’t interference. That was a forced bounce. Someone rerouted a signal from the west perimeter node.”

Shinsou straightened, already running pulse trace algorithms. “That’s outside student movement zones.”

“Unauthorised,” Yaoyorozu said quickly, scanning the security overlay. “Zone 5, northwest sector. Not part of the course.”

On the central platform, Izuku Midoriya tensed. “Is it still live?”

Mei didn’t answer right away.

Then: “No. They shut it off after the injection. One use. But they planted something. A remote access key.” She turned, eyes sharp. “Someone’s using Prometheus architecture.”

Shinsou’s face darkened. “Which means they knew the codebase. Maybe even wrote it.”

A beat of silence.

Then Izuku spoke.

“Someone brought Prometheus back inside U.A.”

In the training field below, students were just reaching the midway point of the challenge.

Kirishima Eijirou and Ayame Tsukuda from Business Studies were about to finish the floating platform sequence when the lights above them flickered, then turned red.

“Wait—” Kirishima stepped back. “Was that us?”

Ayame shook her head. “No trigger breach. I didn’t move.”

The light blinked again. Then green. Then red again.

“Something’s wrong,” Kirishima muttered.

In the forested puzzle zone, Team 9—Jirou and a quiet General Studies girl named Kaede—were halfway through a sound-based synchronisation test.

Suddenly, the tone loop screamed in their earpieces—sharp, high-pitched static.

Jirou winced and grabbed her earjack. “That’s not supposed to happen—!”

Kaede stumbled back. “Is it broken?”

“No,” Jirou said, voice clipped. “That was a spike. Deliberate audio overload.”

Her hand hovered near her comm. “They’re hijacking the trial.”

Up in the tower, alarms pinged across the diagnostics board.

Three teams had failed gate resets simultaneously.

Two others had lost synchronisation in cooperative tasks despite clean inputs.

“Now it’s affecting field logic,” Mei hissed. “They’re disrupting the back-end balance protocols. Not enough to force failure—just enough to make it look like the other person’s mistake.”

“They’re weaponising the simulation,” Shinsou said coldly.

“Prometheus 101,” Yaoyorozu said bitterly. “Turn doubt into a wedge.”

Izuku stared at the monitors, heart hammering.

He watched students argue—Hero Course accusing Support of deliberate sabotage.

General Studies shouting across puzzle panels.

Trust—already fragile—shattering again.

Just like the system had predicted.

“They’re trying to prove it’s still working,” Izuku said. “That Prometheus doesn’t need to exist to infect. Just linger.”

Mei’s hands froze over the keyboard.

“They’re using our trial to validate the fractures.”

Todoroki’s voice crackled across the command line.

“Western relay box breached. Opened with a coded override. No prints. No visual confirmation.”

Aizawa came on next.

“Console logs match old Support Hall systems. Whoever did this built their entry point days ago.”

Mei’s face paled. “It was planted before Bridgework launched.”

“They planned to sabotage this,” Yaoyorozu said slowly.

Shinsou looked up from his screen.

“No,” he said. “They planned to undermine us when we were healing.”

Izuku stood, jaw tight.

“I’m going in.”

Aizawa’s voice came sharply. > “Hold position.”

“They’re breaking the students,” Izuku said. “One mistake at a time. And we’re just watching.”

Todoroki’s voice came through. > “You won’t be alone.”

A moment later, a door below the tower opened, and Todoroki stepped into the base camp.

Mei rose immediately, already gathering a portable uplink pack. “I’m going with him.”

“Me too,” Shinsou said.

Yaoyorozu’s voice was calm, steady: “I’ll hold the tower. Someone has to guide them from the top.”

Izuku looked at them—his team—and felt a jolt of steel go through his spine.

This was what Bridgework meant.

Not the field.

Not the course.

But this moment.

Choosing each other again.

Down in the field, chaos was spreading.

Iida and Yaoyorozu, now halfway through a mirrored memory relay, were paused. One of their inputs had triggered early.

“We didn’t touch the panel,” Iida said. “It pulsed on its own.”

Yaoyorozu double-checked the sensor ring. “They’re being triggered remotely. This is sabotage.”

Nearby, Bakugou growled after a logic panel locked them out mid-attempt. “I know I did that one right.”

Yui, still quiet, simply pointed upward—toward the control tower.

Bakugou followed her hand.

And his face darkened.

“…No way this is random.”

Back in the tree line, the saboteur crouched beneath the roots of a utility trunk, eyes flicking between a handheld terminal and the blinking signal booster nestled behind a camouflaged panel.

Their hands moved swiftly—too sure, too calm for someone improvising.

They rerouted signal injections. Altered delays. Introduced just enough disruption to make each error feel personal.

Every delay.

Every flickering light.

Every misspoken command between students.

It wasn’t about breaking systems.

It was about breaking confidence.

A soft ping echoed in their earpiece.

They smiled.

Back at the tower, Izuku’s group checked their gear.

“Make sure we look like Task Force,” Mei said. “If students panic, we need to be identifiable as help, not surveillance.”

Todoroki zipped his jacket.

Shinsou slung his comm pack.

Izuku stood last.

“First checkpoint’s Team 9. Jirou’s already reporting signal distortion.”

Yaoyorozu pressed the comm switch. “Good luck, Midoriya.”

Izuku exhaled.

Then walked into the chaos they had sworn to stop.

Chapter Text

The ground was soft from the morning dew, but every step Izuku took felt sharp.

Sector 3, once alive with cautious cooperation, was fractured. Tension swirled like static in the air. The course had turned from a place of growth into a field of traps—emotional, technical, and now, personal.

This wasn’t just a challenge anymore.

This was an invasion.

Mei, hunched over her diagnostics rig as they moved, reported first. “The interference signal is bouncing off embedded relay keys. Someone hard-coded the redirection into my support shell script. It’s my code. But mirrored. Glitched.”

“That’s how they’re slipping under the radar,” Shinsou added, squinting at the flickering display on his tablet. “The system thinks it’s looking at self-correction. Instead, it’s hemorrhaging integrity in every quadrant.”

“Can you trace it?” Izuku asked.

Shinsou nodded once. “Like following a trail of breadcrumbs that’s actively rearranging itself. But yeah—we’re close. Within one sector.”

“Then we move,” Todoroki said, voice cool and even. “Fast.”

Their first stop was Checkpoint Delta, and what they found there made Izuku’s stomach twist.

Jirou was kneeling beside a collapsed console tower, one ear bleeding faintly from audio distortion. Beside her, her partner, Kaede, sat curled inward, hands over her head.

“They hit our feedback loop,” Jirou said through gritted teeth. “Spiked a sonic tone designed to trigger a panic response. This was custom-coded. Whoever did this knows our neurosensory interface models.”

Mei was already unpacking a patch kit. “They studied this. They weren’t improvising. This sabotage was embedded before Bridgework started.”

Izuku crouched beside Kaede.

“Hey. You’re okay. You’re not broken. This wasn’t your fault.”

The girl looked up, eyes glassy. “But I felt it. Like, I messed up. Like she’d hate me for it.”

Jirou shook her head. “I don’t. You didn’t.”

Izuku turned to the console. Hands fast. Eyes focused.

Inside, the damage wasn’t overt.

But he recognised the signs: redundant logic loops. Shadow echoes that only someone fluent in neural trigger patterns would know how to weaponise.

His notes were in the framework.

His handwriting is in the margins.

Riku Yamane’s copy of Izuku’s old schematic journals…

This was personal.

Sector 4. Team 5—Iida and Minami from Business.

They were mid-argument when the Task Force arrived.

“The bridge fell because you delayed the second prompt,” Iida started.

“I followed the readout exactly!” Minami snapped. “If there was a lag, it wasn’t mine!”

Shinsou broke between them. “It wasn’t either of you. It was external input. Hijacked from a false gate protocol. The collapse wasn’t triggered by your command.”

They both froze.

“You mean someone planned that?” Minami asked, voice low.

Izuku nodded. “To make you doubt each other.”

Iida stared at the broken platform, realisation dawning. “They’re not attacking the systems. They’re attacking our faith in each other.”

“That’s how Prometheus was always designed to work,” Izuku said. “Not through violence. Through design.”

Further south, more student teams were faltering.

Not because they couldn’t solve the puzzles.

Because the puzzles no longer behaved the way they were meant to.

A dual switch flipped itself early.

A trust-based puzzle locked out after both inputs succeeded.

A general studies student cried after her hero partner accused her of sabotage—and then realised she had believed it too.

It was unravelling.

And it was deliberate.

Back in the tower, Yaoyorozu ran full-spectrum diagnostics, her hands moving like lightning. “Two more relay boxes compromised. Signal trails are fractal. Whoever this is—they studied our entire infrastructure.”

Todoroki’s voice came through the comms. “Permission to deploy thermal trace—”

Then Shinsou’s voice, overlapping. “Wait. I’ve got movement—Sector 6 perimeter. Live code injection, 300 meters southwest of Tower 2. One signal. Local.”

Izuku’s heart jumped.

“They’re still in the field.”

They ran.

Feet pounding across wood planks and synthetic turf.

Between them, they carried hope—and the last shot to stop this sabotage before it infected everything Bridgework stood for.

[MEANWHILE — SABOTEUR POV]
The trees were quiet.

A breeze rolled through the leaves, masking movement. The handheld terminal in their grasp buzzed softly—commands executed, commands queued.

Each one is subtle.

Each one is lethal in implication.

It wasn’t about chaos.

Chaos was messy.

This?

This was precise.

Students needed only to feel failure once, at the hands of a friend, for the fracture to begin. The virus didn’t have to live in code.

It could live in fear.

They watched the monitors scroll, saw the hesitation between teammates, and the arguments sparked from nothing.

Prometheus hadn’t failed.

It had only been waiting.

Waiting for a moment when U.A. dared to rebuild.

So it could teach them what rebuilding costs.

[FIELD — CONTACT]
Shinsou’s tablet pulsed once. “Target stopped moving. Twenty meters ahead. Just under the ridge drop.”

Todoroki broke ahead, sweeping the area with a chilling wave of mist to obscure escape routes.

Mei prepped an EMP beacon—ready to detonate if the saboteur tried to port out.

Izuku ran harder.

And there, just beyond the tree line—

A shape.

Crouched near an open relay box, hand extended toward a glowing node.

They turned.

Saw him.

Eyes behind a half-mask.

Familiar—not by face.

But by posture.

By silence.

By the way, they didn’t run.

Not yet.

Izuku stopped.

“Why?”

The saboteur tilted their head.

Then spoke, voice distorted but eerily calm.

“To remind them that trust is just another kind of trap.”

Then they threw the drive.

Todoroki caught it mid-air, barely.

But by the time they turned back—

The saboteur was gone.

Izuku stared at the shadows long after they vanished.

Behind him, Shinsou picked up the discarded headset they had left behind.

Inside: Prometheus variant code.

Fresh.

Modified.

With a new header.

PHOENIX PROTOCOL: Cycle 1 Complete

Chapter Text

The wind had picked up.

Leaves skittered across the now-silent expanse of Training Ground Echo, rustling along platforms and past broken gates like whispers of what could’ve been.

The field looked like a memory.

Not of triumph.

But something was interrupted.

Like the bones of a house that had almost been built—before the storm came in and made everyone doubt the ground beneath it.

Bridgework was over.

Not cancelled.

Not failed.

But cut short, like a story someone had torn from the middle and left unfinished.

And the silence that followed was loud.

Students returned to their dorms in groups, quietly escorted by staff. No one celebrated. No one joked. Even the overconfident, the sarcastic, and the brash were quiet.

They weren’t angry.

They were uncertain.

Not about the course.

About each other.

Because someone had manipulated their every move from inside the system.

And most of them would never know how close they came to turning on the people beside them.

Izuku Midoriya stood on the platform just outside the control tower.

He watched as the last of the field teams returned. The final one—Bakugou and Yui Kodai—emerged from the mist between Sectors 5 and 6. Yui’s expression was unreadable. Bakugou looked like he’d bitten through iron.

But they weren’t shouting.

We weren’t arguing.

They weren’t fractured.

Yui extended the final puzzle panel they’d recovered—scorched, but intact.

Bakugou accepted it without a word. Their eyes met.

And that look—unspoken, heavy—said:
We didn’t win.
But we didn’t break either.

Inside the tower, the Prometheus Task Force gathered in low light.

No one sat.

Shinsou Hitoshi leaned against the diagnostic wall, arms folded, watching the data roll in.

Mei Hatsume was pale beneath the glow of the floating relay core, sweat drying on her neck as she slowly dismantled what had once been her proudest project.

Todoroki was cleaning blood from a scrape on his forearm, eyes steady but far away.

Yaoyorozu stood at the central console, the decrypted files spread before her in quiet horror.

And in the middle of the room, hovering just above the tower's map table, was the drive.

The one the saboteur left behind.

Izuku stared at it like it might start breathing.

The header code shimmered to life.

A single word in red:

PHOENIX

Under it:
Cycle 1: Complete
System Observation: Archived
Adaptive Loop: Ready

Mei let out a breath that shook. “This wasn’t sabotage.”

Shinsou tilted his head. “What?”

“This was field data collection,” she said. “Every signal disruption, every failed checkpoint, every recorded argument or misfire—it’s been catalogued. Not just to break us.”

“To learn us,” Yaoyorozu finished grimly.

“They watched us try to rebuild,” Izuku whispered. “And they’re preparing to burn it down again. Only better.”

They stood in stunned silence as the deeper code parsed line by line.

Izuku stepped forward.

Lines of metadata blurred past his vision:

Emotional Fracture Index: Acquired
Response Time (Collaboration Delay): Logged
Adaptive Trust Model: Functional
Next Variable: Subject-Centric Cycle
Target Focus: MIDORIYA, IZUKU

His heart stopped.

“Me,” he said. “They’re targeting me.”

Todoroki stepped forward, face hardening. “What does that mean?”

Yaoyorozu ran the encryption loop twice. “Phoenix isn't just a network. It’s a learning intelligence. Prometheus catalogued behaviours. Phoenix predicts them. It’s building simulations. And now it’s choosing key stressors.”

Shinsou narrowed his eyes. “You’re not just the next target, Izuku. You’re the template.”

Mei finally looked up from the schematic she’d been dissecting.

Her voice was small.

“They’re going to watch how much of you breaks before someone notices.”

Izuku didn’t flinch.

He just looked down at the charred remains of the drive Riku Yamane had left behind months ago—and then back at the clean, surgical logic of Phoenix.

“Prometheus was made to disrupt,” he said. “Phoenix is here to perfect it.”

Somewhere beneath the school, deep below the surface, an old maintenance node powered on for the first time in years.

A single blue light blinked.

PHOENIX ACTIVE
Surveillance Mode: Infiltration
Cycle 2: Subject Immersion

In a small data cache tucked behind a corrupted firewall, another file opened.

Inside: footage.

Of Bridgework.

But not the field cameras.

From inside the helmets.

First-person perspectives. Eye tracking. Reaction times. Biometric stress data. Interpersonal audio.

Every moment when a student paused before reaching out.

Every second, someone hesitated.

Every time, someone almost gave up.

And then, a synthetic voice:

“Subject acquired. Isolation begins now.”

Back in the tower, Izuku closed his eyes.

The wind shifted.

It no longer smelled like dew and soft grass.

It smelled like ash.

Like something that had already burned once, and wanted to burn again.

Chapter Text

U.A. carried on.

Classes resumed.

Quirks were trained. Reports were written. Cafeteria lines moved as they always had.

But beneath the surface, nothing felt normal.

Especially for Izuku Midoriya.

It began the morning after Bridgework.

No announcements had been made about the sabotage. Officially, the trial was under review. The faculty, the Task Force, even Nezu had agreed: until they had more evidence, it was safer to withhold the truth.

But rumours spread like fire anyway.

“Someone hacked the course.”

“No, it was an accident.”

“Didn’t you hear? They were watching us. Collecting data.”

“It was a test to find another traitor.”

Each version was slightly off.

Each version painted someone as the threat.

And somehow, Izuku became the person everyone started glancing at.

Not to blame.

Out of uncertainty.

It started with partner drills.

Aizawa called out rotations on Field Gamma, like usual. But when Izuku’s name was announced, people hesitated.

Only for a second.

But enough.

He wasn’t being left out—just passed over.

Like they were waiting to see who would step forward first.

Like they didn’t want to be the only one.

Todoroki moved to stand beside him eventually, silent as ever, but the moment was already burned into Izuku’s brain.

That beat of pause.

That flicker of calculation in Todoroki’s eyes.

It was small.

But it hurt.

In Rescue Tactics, the same thing happened.

Kirishima grinned at him, just a little tighter than usual.

Ochako waved, but didn’t sit beside him during the scenario debrief.

Iida offered his notes without being asked, then rushed off before Izuku could say thank you.

Each interaction ended one second too early.

Each smile faded too fast.

Each word came with just the faintest edge of distance.

He told himself it was in his head.

That people were tired. Distracted. Processing.

But Phoenix’s interface—quietly stored in a restricted Task Force drive—told a different story.

CYCLE 2: SUBJECT – MIDORIYA, IZUKU
Observation: Live
Dissonance Score: 17.4%
Network Drift: Expanding
Emotional Lag: Increasing

“Seventeen percent?” he whispered aloud, reading the diagnostic.

“That's how much your relational stability has dropped since the sabotage,” Shinsou explained, watching the graph with grim focus. “It doesn’t mean they hate you. It means they’ve started hesitating. They’re pulling back. Doubting. You.”

“Because Phoenix wants them to,” Yaoyorozu added softly. “It's not just sabotage anymore. It’s a simulation of erosion. A stress test… on you.”

Izuku sat back in the Task Force command chair.

The numbers swam in front of him.

Each student now had a tag:

Trust Level

Drift Index

Volatility Prediction

He recognised the names.

People he knew.

People he fought beside.

Now reduced to metrics.

And every variable was orbiting him.

That night, he walked the campus alone.

He didn’t even realise he was doing it until he found himself outside the greenhouses, staring at the reflection of the moon in the glass.

He watched it shimmer.

Watched his silhouette shift behind it.

And wondered, just for a moment, how long it would take before he didn’t recognise the person staring back.

The next morning, he opened his locker to find an envelope.

No name.

No return mark.

Inside: a single slip of paper, folded twice.

The handwriting was clean. Too clean. Printed mechanically.

“They see you.
The hesitation. The panic.
You want to tell someone.
But what if they don’t believe you?
What if they already don’t?”

“Phoenix doesn’t need to hurt you.
It just needs you to stand still.
And let them walk away.”

Izuku stood there for a long time.

The letter burned in his fingers like acid.

He didn’t show it to Todoroki.

Didn’t tell Shinsou.

Didn’t even bring it up during the Task Force’s emergency sync later that day.

Because a small, sharp part of him was asking the same thing:

What if they already don’t believe me?

That day in the cafeteria, he sat at the edge of the Hero Course table.

Usually, Kaminari would shout something dumb by now. Usually, Sero would pull a chair close. Usually, someone would nudge him when he was too quiet.

Today, no one did.

Todoroki sat at the far end.

Ochako and Iida were surrounded.

And Izuku ate in silence.

Fork in one hand. Letter in his pocket.

Staring at his food like it might start whispering, too.

In the Tower that night, Mei brought him the latest scan.

“Phoenix’s cycle has stabilised,” she said. “It’s no longer interfering. Just watching.”

“So it’s waiting,” Izuku said.

“For you,” she said. “You’re the test now. Not just your code. You.”

Shinsou frowned. “They want to see how far they can push before you crack. Before the people around you look away and don’t come back.”

Yaoyorozu’s voice was tight. “And the worst part is—we can’t pull you out. If we change the field, we give them new data.”

“So we do nothing?” Izuku asked, eyes cold.

“No,” Todoroki said. “We let them think we’re doing nothing.”

Izuku stood slowly.

Looked at the screen again.

His name, now glowing at the top of a network map.

Every line of connection.

Every hesitation point.

Every person he might lose if he breathed wrong.

He swallowed hard.

Then said:

“Let them watch.
But when they do…
We’ll be watching back.”

Chapter Text

It began with the sirens.

Not the usual piercing tone that preceded drills or lockdowns.

This one was different—lower-pitched, stretched long and slow like a warning dragged across broken glass.

A sound designed to unsettle.

It worked.

Izuku had just finished his third set on the Field Gamma obstacle course when the alarm echoed through the air. All around him, his classmates froze mid-motion. Conversations stopped. Bakugou turned sharply. Yaoyorozu straightened from a crouch, her clipboard slipping from her fingers.

Then came the voice.

Monotone. Automated.

But off.

“EMERGENCY CONTAINMENT BREACH – SECTOR D7 – NON-QUENCHABLE CHEMICAL AGENT DETECTED – STUDENTS TO IMMEDIATE SHELTER POINTS.”

Silence followed.

A moment stretched long.

And then chaos erupted.

Students scattered. Some grabbed for their phones. Others bolted toward exits.

A few—mostly first-years observing from the far field—screamed.

The beacon lights along the perimeter flickered to amber, then pulsed red.

Sector D7.

Izuku’s heart skipped a beat.

That was his assigned zone for the afternoon lab survey. His name was on the student roster for that section.

This wasn't just a lockdown drill.

It was a crisis—

With his name at the centre.

He turned, searching for staff.

But Aizawa wasn’t nearby. Power Loader and Present Mic were stationed on the other side of campus for the Support mock trials. Midnight was off-shift. No high-level adult authority in sight.

The crowd began to push toward shelter exits.

Everyone is looking for a voice.

And when none came, they looked to him.

Todoroki stepped to his side.

His voice was low. Careful.

“You didn’t trigger anything?”

“No,” Izuku whispered.

Jirou cupped her ear. “No staff override on comms. No verification signal from Central Security.”

“That can’t be right,” Iida said, eyes darting across the field. “Every emergency has to be manually confirmed.”

“Unless it’s fake,” Todoroki said.

And that’s when Izuku’s comm lit up.

SHINSOU:
“False protocol. It’s Phoenix.
They’ve hijacked the backup broadcast net.
There is no chemical threat.
The system’s reading it as real because they used one of your access logins.”

“This is a simulated crisis.
Not for everyone.
For you.”

Izuku felt the blood drain from his face.

Phoenix hadn’t struck randomly.

It hadn’t gone after the systems directly.

It had engineered a test, right in front of everyone. In real time.

This was a trial. A social fracture simulation.
And he was the variable.

Would they trust him?

Would they follow him?

Would they blame him?

Or would they break?

Todoroki’s voice was quiet but sure. “You need to act now. This will spiral in thirty seconds.”

Yaoyorozu’s voice echoed in his ear from the Tower. “If panic spreads across sectors, we could have injuries. Containment drills aren't supposed to be live. Students aren't prepared.”

Shinsou again: “This is what Phoenix wants. Show them you can’t lead. Show them they shouldn’t follow.”

Izuku climbed the nearest signal riser.

Clutching the emergency override handle, he scanned the students across Field Gamma and the adjacent walkways—scattered, panicked, splitting into uncoordinated groups.

A beat passed.

Then he hit the mic.

His voice echoed through every local speaker.

“This is Midoriya Izuku.
Please remain calm.
I am confirming: no active chemical breach has occurred.
The alert is the result of a false trigger.
I repeat—there is no contamination.
No shelter-in-place is required.
Please remain in your current location until staff completes full sector sweeps.”

“This is not a drill.
But it is not a threat.
I’m asking you to trust me.
Please don’t run. Don’t scatter. Just—listen.”

Silence stretched like a second siren.

Every student in the field had stopped.

Some were still frozen in partial crouches. Others halfway through sprinting. Someone near the back dropped a backpack and let it fall.

Eyes locked on Izuku.

No one moved.

Until—

“I believe him!” Iida shouted, stepping forward.

Then Yaoyorozu. “Same.”

Kirishima raised a hand. “You got us, man.”

Jirou, frowning, slowly removed her earjacks. “Sounds more like someone’s trying to frame him than him making a mistake.”

One by one, they stayed where they were.

Breathing.

Holding.

Trusting.

In the control tower, Mei’s diagnostic system lit up.

Phoenix Drift Index: -4.6%
Target Isolation: Failed
Confidence Anchor Nodes Reinforced

Shinsou let out a long breath.

“They followed him.”

Down on the field, Izuku’s hands slowly loosened on the mic.

His heart still pounded.

But no one had run.

No one had turned on him.

He hadn’t failed.

Not this time.

Later that evening, as the field was cleared and security scrubbed the false alert, Izuku returned to his dorm.

Exhausted.

Numb.

He flicked on the light and found another envelope on his desk.

Unmarked.

Inside: a new message.

PHOENIX CYCLE 2A – INCONCLUSIVE.
LEADERSHIP STRESS TEST: SURVIVED.
SOCIAL BINDING LEVEL: RESILIENT.

And beneath that, typed in bold:

“You passed the first burn.
But even stone cracks if the fire is slow.
What happens when they’re given a reason not to follow?”

Izuku folded the paper carefully.

And whispered to himself:

“Then I’ll give them a reason to stay.”

Chapter Text

It began, as most wounds do, in silence.

A single file.

No announcement.

No signature.

Just a soft ping in the schoolwide notification system, marked:

REDACTED INTERNAL FILE: HERO COURSE – CODE 11-373 (CONFIDENTIAL)

By the time the sun rose, it had been opened 187 times.

By breakfast, it had reached every student's inbox.

It didn’t shout.

It didn’t accuse.

It simply suggested:

That Izuku Midoriya, the hero student turned support strategist, had known about Prometheus long before anyone else.

That he had failed to report key behavioural flags tied to Phoenix’s re-emergence.

That Bridgework was designed not to restore trust, but to measure how much could be lost.

And worst of all?

It included falsified logs. Video fragments. Cropped screenshots from training rooms, deepfakes of his voice mid-debrief. Just enough to look real.

Izuku saw it in his feed just before homeroom.

He read it.

All of it.

Twice.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stared.

Because he knew what it was.

Not an accusation.

A weapon.

Phoenix’s final test wasn’t about sabotage.

It was about legacy.

What would U.A. choose when the person who had tried to save it was framed as the one who broke it?

He walked to class anyway.

Sat at his usual table in the common area.

And felt the world go quiet.

No one approached.

Not Todoroki. Not Iida. Not even Ochako.

People whispered around him, but never to him.

And that was Phoenix’s brilliance:

It didn’t need people to attack.

It just needed them to pause.

Shinsou called an emergency Task Force sync in the Tower.

Mei ran diagnostics on the file metadata.

“They built it from fragments,” she confirmed. “It’s layered. Spliced from hours of Izuku’s real reports. Mixed with altered surveillance. It feels true because parts of it are.”

Yaoyorozu stepped back, visibly shaken. “They’ve learned weaponise truth adjacent. If we deny it outright, it makes us look like we’re covering for him.”

“Because that’s the trap,” Shinsou said. “Phoenix doesn't care if it’s disproven. It just wants them to hesitate.”

He turned to Izuku.

“And right now? They are.”

Later that morning, a vote began circulating.

A “request for faculty review.”

Unsigned.

Neutral language.

But everyone knew what it was.

A demand to remove Izuku from all planning authorities.

For “transparency.”

For “stability.”

For “safety.”

Todoroki found him after the second period.

He didn’t ask if the file was fake.

He didn’t say he believed him.

He just stood beside him and said, “We need to talk to them.”

“They won’t listen.”

“Then we make them.”

By noon, the entire Hero Course, most of Class 1-B, and over a dozen students from Support and General Studies had gathered in the central atrium.

Not by command.

Not under threat.

But because something had broken loose in the atmosphere of the school.

Not rage.

Not outrage.

Doubt.

And doubt spreads fast when no one speaks.

Izuku stood before them.

No spotlight.

No faculty behind him.

Just him. And them. And everything they had built between.

He looked tired.

Not weak.

Not small.

Just worn in the way people are when they’ve carried something too long, too far.

Then he spoke.

Not loud.

Not demanding.

But clear.

“I didn’t make that file.

I didn’t design Bridgework to manipulate you.

I built it because I believed we were better when we stood together.

Prometheus tried to break us apart with fear.

Phoenix tried to finish the job in silence.

This file… is its last attempt to make you forget who you are.”

He paused.

“You’re not statistics.
You’re not variables.
And I’m not a villain in your story.

I’m a student who tried—imperfectly, maybe selfishly—to give you something to believe in again.

And if that’s a reason to push me out… I understand.”

He stepped back.

Lowered his head.

And waited.

One second passed.

Then five.

Ten.

And then—

Ochako stepped forward.

Took his hand.

Held it up.

“I don’t care what Phoenix says. I was there. I saw what you gave us.”

Iida followed, firm. “U.A. is better because you stayed.”

Kirishima. “We broke. You helped us rebuild.”

Yaoyorozu. “And we still need you.”

Todoroki. “So you’re not going anywhere.”

Voices rose.

One by one.

And then, all at once.

In the tower, the Phoenix monitor flared with alerts.

SIMULATION FAILURE: NETWORK COLLAPSE
CYCLE 2: TERMINATED
SUBJECT: REJECTED FALSE DATA

The core interface flickered.

Tried to inject one last logic script.

But Mei was already there.

She hit the kill switch.

Hard.

And with a hiss of static—

Phoenix died.

Two weeks later, the students of U.A. walked the repaired Bridgework course again.

No sabotage.

No trials.

Just teams.

Working together.

By choice.

Izuku stood at the top of the final platform, looking out over the field.

Todoroki joined him.

“They tried to break you,” he said.

Izuku shook his head. “No. They tried to break us.”

“And they failed.”

Izuku smiled faintly.

“No,” he said. “We passed.”

Chapter Text

Five Years Later – We Chose to Stay

U.A. was no longer the same school.

It still stood on the same ground.

Still bore the same name.

But it wasn’t just a place for powering through the curriculum or surviving threats anymore.

It had become something else.

Something earned.

A place that is remembered.

The once-famed sports fields were now surrounded by low garden walls etched with student names and phrases carved in stone. Not memorials for death, but monuments for resilience. Survivors. Fighters. Reconcilers.

In the north courtyard, a new landmark dominated the horizon.

A ring-shaped pavilion stood beneath the cherry trees, its design a collaboration between Support graduates, Hero Course alumni, and civilian architects who once stood in awe of U.A.—now invited to help shape it.

The Bridgework Pavilion.

A tribute not to a battle.

But to a choice.

Etched along its inner arc, in fine metallic script, were the names of every student and staff member who participated in the original Bridgework Trials—and in smaller print, those who stood firm during Phoenix Cycle 2.

Beneath the names, a single quote:

“We don’t rise because we never fall.
We rise because someone gave us a reason not to stay down.”

Inside U.A., the day’s seminar had just begun.

The room was full of third-year students—Hero-track, Support-track, Business, and a new Leadership and Interdisciplinary Strategy program built specifically after Phoenix’s collapse.

They weren’t here for a combat drill.

They were here for something harder.

A conversation.

At the front of the room, a man in a charcoal-green vest and soft button-down shirt stood at the lectern. A tablet rested in his left hand, half-filled with notes. His other hand was scarred, fingers faintly calloused from years of writing and rebuilding.

His name was known worldwide now.

But to these students, he was just—

“Professor Midoriya.”

Izuku didn’t pace. He never had. His lectures weren’t fiery or theatrical.

They were steady. Precise. Thoughtful in the way only someone who had once been told “you’ll never make it” could be.

Behind him, a projection flickered to life—images from Bridgework, Prometheus archives, and Phoenix reconstruction files. Not for drama. For context.

For truth.

“Five years ago, we faced a crisis that didn’t arrive as an enemy in front of u, but as doubt between us.

Prometheus broke the surface. Phoenix went deeper.

Not with bombs.

Not with invasions.

With a whisper:

What if the people around you can’t be trusted?

That was the voice we all heard.

And for a while… some of us listened.”

He paused. Not dramatically. Just to breathe.

“But the story didn’t end with the fall.
It never has.

Because after we felt, we reached.
For each other. For clarity. For healing.

That’s what changed everything.

Not a fight.

A choice.”

The students were silent.

Not with boredom.

With weight.

Because U.A. was no longer a school that trained for brute survival.

It was trained for something Phoenix never predicted:

Rebuilding as resistance.

In the back of the room, Todoroki Shouto stood leaning against the wall, a subtle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His uniform jacket bore the insignia of the International Hero Accord Council—he worked now to prevent the next Prometheus before it started.

Yaoyorozu sat beside Mei Hatsume, both dressed in clean labwear, reviewing designs for a future resilience hub to be installed in northern Tokyo. Their project, “Bridgework Generation Labs,” was going global.

Kirishima and Jirou sat just behind the students, off-duty but present—two field operatives with mentoring positions in regional hero academies. Their fingers brushed, casually linked.

And Bakugou?

Bakugou Katsuki stood in the shadows near the door, arms folded, expression unreadable.

He hadn’t offered to speak.

But he hadn’t left, either.

And that was enough.

After the class dismissed, Izuku remained behind.

He stood beneath the open sky, now clearer than he remembered it from his student years. The rooftops of U.A. still looked out across the city like they always had.

But now, it wasn’t about watching for enemies.

It was about watching for opportunity.

A student approached. Young. Nervous.

“You really think we’re ready for something like that? Another Phoenix?”

Izuku smiled gently.

Not a heroic grin.

A real one.

“You won’t face the same Phoenix.

But you might face your own.

And when you do—don’t look for the strongest.

Look for the ones who stay.

The ones who reach back, even when everything says to let go.”

As the sun dipped lower, the wind moved through the trees and across the open Bridgework Pavilion.

Izuku turned toward it.

His name was carved there, among dozens.

Not above.

Not below.

Among.

He reached out and ran his fingers along the words etched beneath the ring of names:

“Fall together. Rise stronger. Choose again.”

And whispered,

“We did.”