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Chapter Text

Darkness was his only refuge.

Here, hidden inside the storage area where ten-year-old kids could not find him, Izuku could finally breathe. His back still burned from Bakugou’s latest "lesson," and his soaked clothes clung to his skin.
He clenched his teeth. He couldn’t afford to get sick. Not again.

Above him, through a small, dust-covered window, the sunlight was fading.
Soon, he would have to go home—walk through the crowded streets where people avoided his gaze. Go back to his house, where his mother would smile, exhausted, and where he would pretend that everything was fine.

That was his daily life. His world. A world where he was nothing. Or at least, that’s what he thought.

Until everything changed.

Izuku walked out of the storage room, observing quietly if anyone was around. No one. It was better that way.

He started to walk slowly home, letting his bag drag on the ground. He felt a chill run down his body when the wind blew his way. He couldn’t afford to be sick, so he walked faster. He didn’t want to worry his mother.
Walking home alone wasn’t hard—it was mostly painful because of his too-small shoes, but it was fine.
Weirdly enough, Izuku was never scared of the dark; running through the numerous dark passages didn’t scare him. But today felt different. He felt like he was being watched. He brushed the feeling off and ran home faster than ever.

Arriving home, he felt welcomed by the silence of the house. His mother was probably working late again.
He removed his shoes and entered the house, pushing his bag into a corner of the room before running to his bedroom.
He turned his computer on, excited to finally spend the rest of the day watching some hero videos.
Excitement bubbled in him as he watched one of his favorite videos over and over again. He imitated the famous smile of the number one hero while standing proudly with both hands on his hips.

But then his eyes fell on the mirror across his room. He saw the weirdly green child imitating a hero, while he was deemed worthless by others. He sat down and listened silently to the video this time.
As the video ended, the black screen of the computer greeted Izuku. He stared at his reflection deeply.
"Worthless" rang in his head over and over. His hand started to tremble, and quickly, tears ran down his puffy cheeks.

His little breakdown quickly stopped when he heard the key in the door.
His mother was home.
He couldn’t let her see him cry! After all, he was a big guy! His mother even let him walk home alone. He couldn’t let her down. So, he put a smile on and ran to his mother.

“Mommy!”

He yelled, ignoring the worsening pain in his back.

“Izuku, you're home!”

She smiled while hugging her son.

“How was your day?” she asked happily.

Izuku quickly replied with a “Good!” while mumbling about his day, inventing happy experiences he never had.
She listened to everything while cooking a quick dinner for the two of them.
Izuku sat down at one of the chairs around the dining table, kicking his feet while enjoying talking to his mother, even if everything he said was a lie.
And Inko Midoriya enjoyed every last bit of the story, even if she knew Izuku had most likely lied about his day.

A ringing phone quickly followed. Inko looked at Izuku.

“Daddy called!”

she whispered to him while taking the phone call.
And just as Inko knew Izuku’s lie, her son knew her lie too. But he ignored the failed attempt.
Inko talked for a while on the phone, taking a quick glance at Izuku from time to time, then resumed cooking.

“Was it Daddy?”

Izuku asked his mother, who nervously laughed and nodded.

“Yes, it was. He said he missed you and can’t wait to come back from his business trip!”

A lie. A white lie. But a lie nonetheless. Izuku knew his dad would never come back from his “business trip,” but if this lie could keep his mother happy, then he would keep pretending his father was at the end of the line.
Dinner was lively between the two. Even exhausted, Inko smiled and enjoyed the moment. They both cleaned their plates and then sat on the sofa, cuddling into each other’s arms, enjoying the news on TV and talking during breaks.
It was a nice evening in the Midoriya household.

The next day, while walking down the usual path to school, Izuku felt like he was being observed again. He sped up, mentally noting that he would take a more open, noisy path on his way home. But then he felt a hit—it was painful, but before he could react, he lost consciousness.

Inko knew deep down that having her ten-year-old boy walk alone to school was a bad idea. She knew it could only lead to trouble. But Izuku insisted on walking alone, and it gave her more time at work so she could be home earlier and not let Izuku eat alone. It was a win-win situation!
She was making excuses, she knew it. Getting a call from school wondering if your child was sick was never a good sign. She called work and excused herself for the time being. She ran through the streets like a madwoman, screaming her child’s name. She called the police and her friend Mitsuki, hoping to find Izuku.

Her heart raced the whole time, a mix of guilt and terror battling inside her.

That day, every pedestrian knew what Inko was searching for. But that didn’t help her find her precious child.

Night fell, and she ran home, hoping it was all a misunderstanding, that her son was just on his way home from school. The pain she felt when 8 p.m. struck on the clock was indescribable. Izuku was never late for dinner. It wasn’t uncommon for him to run late from school, but he never let her eat alone.
The police left her alone for the night. Mitsuki insisted on staying with her, but Inko knew her son Katsuki was definitely waiting for her at home. At least she still had one son.

Dinner was loudly silent. Just yesterday, happy laughter had echoed in the house. Now, only deep silence remained. A crushing wave of guilt collapsed on her shoulders. She knew she wasn’t the best mother, but having her son kidnapped under her nose was the worst feeling of all. How could she even continue life without her baby? How could she move forward when she didn’t know where he was? Was he even alive?

The TV muffled her sobs.

A muffled voice came from the other side of the room. Izuku woke up in a dark room, the pain from the hit still lingering. He looked around, feeling panic rise in his chest. He didn’t know where he was. He subconsciously knew it wasn’t some prank from Bakugou and his lackey.

He embraced the darkness and positioned himself as far away from the door as possible, the only light coming from the small gap at the bottom. The voices drew closer. Izuku didn’t know whether to scream or run, but he stayed still like the worthless child he believed himself to be.
The door opened, blinding him. Izuku quickly closed his eyes, afraid of what would come through.
A low voice resonated in the room.

“This child is quirkless, right?”

Izuku finally dared to open his eyes, coming face to face with a gigantic masked man. He heard a simple, timid “yes” from someone Izuku couldn’t see.
The masked man crouched down to Izuku’s level, who was still on the floor.

“What a wonderful gift. It is truly hard to find such a gem. Congratulations,”

the masked man smiled at the person behind him, never looking away from Izuku.
Izuku felt fear grip him, a chill running down his entire body. He wanted to run, but his body was frozen in place. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
The man moved closer upon hearing Izuku’s small whimper. Izuku was forced to look at him as the man placed a hand under his chin.
A smile echoed through the mask.

“Hah, what a perfect child you found me! I love him!”

It was terrifying.
Even the man behind seemed to step back upon hearing that. Izuku closed his eyes in fear, but even with his eyes shut, he could see the owl-shaped mask, which only showed a cruel smile and terrifying brown eyes.
He felt the desperate urge to escape, but the man never released his chin, gripping too tightly for Izuku to even move.
More tears ran down his cheeks. The masked man studied him, never breaking his gaze.

“Where did you find such a perfect child?”

Even while speaking, he didn’t let go of Izuku.
Izuku winced in pain as his skull felt like it was being crushed. He cried out in fear but dared not scream, too scared of being crushed by the man’s grip.
With a sudden tug, the man forced Izuku to stand up. Finally, Izuku looked at the man behind the masked figure—the kidnapper.

The kidnapper didn’t seem thrilled by the sight of the boy in such a state. He trembled just as much as Izuku, standing before this terrifying man.

“I overheard some kids laughing about a certain quirkless boy, so I followed them, which led me to him."

the man said uncomfortable by the situation

A quick hum followed from the masked man.

"Such a pity people cannot understand what a precious being this quirkless child is..."

He looked once again at Izuku, finally letting go of his chin.
Once free, Izuku ran to the wall, trying to get as far away from the two men as possible. Strangely enough, Izuku didn’t want to escape the room entirely. He was more afraid of the bright, chaotic outside world than he was of being here, trapped with two kidnappers in a dark room.

"…Well, too bad for them, since I get to have my hands on this boy."

The man smiled again, his grin so wide it seemed like it would never stop growing. He quietly chuckled, making him seem unstable.
He grabbed Izuku by the arm and dragged him out of the room. Despite his protests, Izuku finally let out a small scream, but it was no use. He was pulled outside and into what appeared to be an underground cafe. The blinding light hit him, but soon enough, he could finally get a clear look at the masked man.
The man had long blond hair, a tall and muscular build, and wore an owl-shaped wooden mask. His facial features were hidden, but the plastered smile and dry brown eyes remained visible. He looked even more terrifying in the light than he had in the darkness.
Izuku screamed, begging the man to let him go, but was silenced with another blow, losing consciousness once more.

Chapter Text

After this interaction, Izuku was taken to a facility. One with bright lights encased in cushioned white walls. He was then thrown into a dark room again, a concrete one.
The people from this facility must have thought he would be scared of the dark, but it was quite the opposite. He would not tell them, though.

He was left alone for a long time there. He didn’t mind it.
Honestly, Izuku was always told he was a rather special child, even before people knew he was quirkless. He was always crying for nothing, but when a normal child should have cried, he did not. He always looked blankly at the adult trying to appease him, wondering why he should cry. Sometimes mimicking a cry to not worry the caretaker.
He was an obedient child too—too mature, too calm, never expressing discomfort, nor did he even cry for something he did not have, like a child would. That is the reason why adults did not try to help him after his quirklessness was discovered.
He always was a monster. Being quirkless just proved them right.

After a while, the door opened, letting the light emerge into the dark room.

“Hello, Midoriya~”

The smiling man was back, wearing the owl mask again.
He entered and put his big hand on little Izuku’s arm to drag him out of the room.
Izuku followed him quietly. He wasn’t bothered by the strength the man put on his arm; it wasn’t as painful as the burns Bakugou put him through.

But what was painful—much more than he ever felt—was the experience these people put him through. They injected a cold product into his blood vessels that made him suffer as if he were being burnt from the inside. Screaming, tearing, scratching followed soon after.
Izuku begged and begged again to stop it. He cried for some sort of help. A cry nobody ever responded to.
He collapsed. From the pain, mostly.

The time he woke up, he found himself in the dark room again.
This time, he moved as far away from the door as he could, almost merging with the walls.

He cried; the pain was still deep inside his soul. He could still see the remains of his cry—his broken nail, his sore voice, and this strange mark on his body, mostly where his arteries and veins passed.

He didn’t want to leave the warmth of the darkness, but soon enough, the door opened once again, letting the deep bright light enter once more. Light was scary, more than darkness. Much more.

The experiment kept going, again and again. Day by day. Week by week. And soon enough, a month passed by.

His tears were dry, his eyes were unfocused, his voice was hoarse, his skin was red from the blood resurfacing. A broken doll was what the people in the facility played with.

He hated these white walls, he hated the softness of the cushion on the walls where he couldn’t scratch, he hated these people in white coats, he hated the blinding light, he hated these white teeth of his smiles, he hated his golden hair that seemed white by the light, he hated his owl mask, he hated the door to his comfort room, he hated this strange liquid, he hated feeling pain, he hated everything.
They drove him crazy. He was already far beyond repair. Broken into a million pieces.
But they weren’t finished with him.

“Oh, sweet Izuku~ OH, MY SWEET IZUKU!”

The crazy smile once again.

“MY MASTERPIECE! I always knew you were the right one, the last one I needed. I knew the first time I saw you!”

The crazy masked owl man took Izuku by his arm, making him stand up.
Izuku was far beyond conscious after the “successful” experiment. He wasn’t unconscious, but responding to the “joyful” occasion was an impossible task.
The man let go of Izuku, letting him fall on the cushioned ground.
Twirling and twirling, the man screamed with joy. He was far beyond reason.
Izuku didn’t know what this monster was talking about, but he hoped it would not cause him more pain.

How far wrong he was.

What the man succeeded in, was the creation of a quirk. He artificially created a quirk for little Izuku.

Honestly, Izuku couldn’t quite tell how they did it, but they did. That didn’t matter now.
What mattered was the fact that the owl-masked man was just starting with his experiment, and the pain was far from over.

First of all, was discovering what type of quirk Izuku gained.
By a stroke of luck, they discovered it quickly by burning the hand of Izuku. While screaming with teary eyes, Izuku noticed that his hand was melting and reforming, melting and reforming again and again, prolonging his pain.

While the people were thrilled by the fact that Izuku had gained a regeneration quirk, he was not.
He knew what would follow from it. And he was right.
For weeks and even months, he was tortured with various devices. He felt like dying every single time.
Even when he thought that not a single tear in his body could be left, he cried even more than before.

By now, he knew that when the light emerged in his room, it would lead to one thing: pain.

When he did not pass out from the pain—which was quite rare—he was put through the terrible pain of this liquid again. The one that led to all these experiments, the one that gave him his quirk.

He did not acquire another one to this day, but these people didn’t seem to care too much.

When he was finally left alone in peace in his dark room, he would go as far away from the door as possible.
Sometimes he would cry, sometimes just look at a random tile for hours and hours, like the soulless child he had become.

When the pain from the experiment was too intense for him, he truly felt like dying, seeing his best memories. The only problem was that with each experiment, he felt himself remembering less and less of what he once was.
He forgot his life before being quirkless, his childhood friend Kacchan, the warmth of his father’s hug, the smile of his mother, the thrill he felt every time observing a hero in action, the happiness, the bullying, the loneliness, the betrayal… everything good or even bad was slowly erasing from his memories.
The only last thing he knew of, was the pain he felt every day and this cold, comfortable, dark room.
Izuku forgot how to smile, how to speak, and everything that identified him as a human being.
He truly became an empty shell. A shell who could only show emotion through pain, only communicate through pain, only feel alive through pain.

Many days passed like this—at least, he heard of it.
Time was quite hard to understand without a clock or window.
He collapsed less and less from the pain, but when he did, people always complained about how long it would take him to wake up. At least three days, but mostly a week.

He was dragged from experiment to experiment. Burnt, drowned, crushed, cut, poisoned, shot, bled out, asphyxiated, electrocuted, choked, stabbed, frozen, dragged, drugged, gassed, exploded, stuffed. Everything you could think of, he passed through. Everytime getting out of these experiments alive. He hoped that one time he would not wake up from the pain, that his body would stop regenerating, but every single time he would survive. Again and again. Almost instantly. Meaning another experiment could follow rapidly if he did not pass out.
It felt as if he were regenerating more quickly than before.

And after a while, another miracle was done.

Izuku gained another quirk.

Chapter Text

The owl man was becoming less and less present with each passing day, which meant seeing his deranged smile less and less.

Maybe, just maybe, Izuku could finally hope to sleep without that unhinged grin haunting him.
But the day he acquired his second quirk, the man was at the facility almost every day, observing the experiments, trying to figure out what Izuku's new ability was.

At first, Izuku hoped they would never discover it, terrified of what might happen if they did.
Day by day, the scientists grew more frustrated, and the masked blond man's initial thrill gradually faded. Anger replaced his amusement, and he took it out on the people in the facility—who, in turn, unleashed their frustrations on Izuku.

Sometimes, when their rage boiled over, they would enter Izuku's dark room and beat him until he was left bleeding on the floor. And yet, Izuku never died... thanks to his quirk.
It wasn’t worse than the experiments, but he was breaking more and more, mentally.
His supposed place of comfort was no longer one, his rest was disturbed, and he couldn't grasp a moment of sleep.
Eating became impossible. This led to another death… and another regeneration.

By now, he was completely shattered.
Crying was useless.
Most of the time, he could only watch in horror as his body stitched itself back together, as if nothing had happened. The pain was so intense that he could no longer even shed tears.

He was washed out.

He wondered—was death rejecting him? Was that why they had given him this cursed quirk of regeneration?

Then one day, an accident occurred.

Izuku was curled up in a ball in the corner of his room when a woman entered. He knew what this meant. Seeing the door open, seeing the light replace the dark—it always led to the same thing.
She was here to vent her frustrations, and he was here to be her punching bag.
She raised her hand to strike him when Izuku exploded.
Literally.

Blood splattered everywhere, limbs hung from the walls, and the sharp scent of gunpowder filled the air where his body had once been.
The woman no longer had a face. What remained of her was sprawled in a grotesque, bloody shape, her organs exposed, thin wisps of smoke rising from her remains.
Slowly, the scattered pieces of Izuku’s body began to come together again, like dust being drawn into place. The grotesque noise of raw flesh stitching itself back together echoed through the room. In mere moments, Izuku was whole once more.

He was alive.

Shocked, he stared at the lifeless corpse before him.

A horde of people rushed in upon hearing the explosion. Gasps and horrified retches filled the air, vomit mixing with the growing pool of blood. Screams spread through the facility like wildfire, summoning even those who didn't bother coming.
The masked man pushed through the crowd, his expression a mixture of delight, curiosity, and madness.
Seeing the woman’s mutilated body, her insides on full display, was a delight to him.

“Oh, Izuku! OH, IZUKU! What a MAGNIFICENT child you are! How exceptional you can be! Your potential is exponential, and the little taste I’ve had has made me addicted!”

he cried out, his cruel smile stretching wide.

Meanwhile, Izuku remained frozen, staring at the corpse he had created. The man’s gleeful screams burrowed into his mind.
Death shouldn't be something to rejoice in.
It shouldn’t be.

Then why was Izuku so relieved that he hadn’t been beaten? Why did it feel… good to have protected himself? To have killed someone?

No. No, no, no. He was going crazy. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy.
He couldn't be crazy. Not like this madman. Not like the owl.

The light was blinding. Everything hurt. He remembered the pain.

Then a scream tore through the facility—a piercing, shattering sound. A cry of desperation, of someone reaching for a hand that would never come. The scream of a hopeless fool. The scream of someone who still wanted to believe they were human.
A loud click—a trigger being pulled—was muffled by the scream.
Then silence.
The scream stopped.
And so did his heart.

When Izuku woke up, he was in an unfamiliar room, similar to the one where the experiments had begun.

He didn’t want to be there.

Panic seized him, and he scrambled backward, crashing into the walls. There was no place to hide! No darkness to curl into! He wanted to scream, but his throat was too raw to produce a sound.
So he cried.
He cried and cried, flinging himself against the walls, uncaring if his bones shattered in the process. He just couldn’t stay in this white room, where the light consumed everything.

Then a voice crackled through a speaker.
Unconsciously, Izuku turned his gaze to the ceiling, where the microphone was mounted.
A shadow—a tiny one, barely visible—but it was better than nothing.
Izuku rushed underneath it, curled into himself, and hugged his legs, trembling uncontrollably.

“Izuku, listen to me!”

The sharpness of the voice made him flinch, which must have been enough of a response.

“I know how much you hate the brightness of this room, but we needed to put you somewhere while we cleaned up your… accident.”

A sickening smile followed. The masked man was the one speaking.
Izuku tried to calm himself, knowing that panicking was futile.
But he couldn’t help it.

For the next hour, the only sounds in the room were his own ragged breathing and the soft scratching of his nails against his skin, a desperate attempt to soothe himself—only to draw fresh blood in the process.
When the door opened, Izuku's body moved on its own, his instincts screaming at him to run.

The masked man caught him by the arm before he could escape.
As always.

“Oh, Izuku…”

he whispered in his ear.

“I was so disappointed in you when you reacted the way you did.”

Izuku froze.

Slowly, he raised his head to meet the man's gaze.
He could picture the devious smile behind the owl mask perfectly—it was burned into his mind.

“If you behave like that again, your beloved dark room will explode as beautifully as that woman you killed.”

Izuku’s blood ran cold.

Upon remembering what happened, his legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the floor. Tears welled in his eyes, and a new kind of pain tore through him—one he had never felt before.
It wasn’t like when they had ripped his heart from his chest.
It wasn’t like when they had stabbed it with toothpicks.
No, this was something else.
Something far worse.

But he didn’t scream.
Just like the day he was captured.
He didn’t scream.
Not wanting to lose his only comfort.

The next thing he remembered was being thrown into an experiment—one he had undergone many times before.
Being drowned would clear his mind.

For hours upon hours, he was submerged in the water tube, suffocating again and again.
It helped.
It left no time for thinking. Only pain remained.

But at night, his mind was consumed. Not by nightmares of his torture—but by the woman’s bloody corpse. The scent of death still lingered in his memories.
Even the darkness of his room could no longer comfort him.
He was being eaten alive from the inside, cracking again and again.
And when he thought he had hit rock bottom, life proved him wrong once more.

Why did he have to suffer like this? Did he deserve it? Was this his punishment?
Was it because he had killed someone?
Murderers should be punished, right?
That must be the reason why.

A hollow, despairing laugh escaped his tired lips.
He laughed and laughed, finally convinced that his misfortune was justified.
He was the worst of the worst, after all.
Scratching his head, he slowly spiraled further into madness, his thoughts a never-ending cycle of self-loathing and torment.

That night, he didn't sleep. He simply laughed until his voice gave out.

The next day, he collapsed from exhaustion in the experiment room.

The masked man must have realized that Izuku was on the brink of insanity because, for the next week, he was left alone in his so-called comfort room.

A calm mind and a familiar space helped Izuku return to his "original" state—not sane, not whole, but no longer lost in madness. Just broken. The kind of broken they wanted him to be.

By the end of the week, the masked man was delighted to see "his" Izuku back.
So much so that he even installed a more secure door, ensuring that no one but him could enter Izuku’s room. He couldn’t afford another crisis.

In all honesty, Izuku wasn’t particularly glad to have regained his composure. But he was grateful for the secure door. It made him feel safer, at least within these four walls.
He clung to the hope that, as cruel as the masked man was, he wouldn’t be the one to be physically violent towards Izuku.

The nightmares persisted, but they were less intense. And as time passed, the image of the woman’s mangled corpse—her blood, her flesh—began to fade, slowly buried beneath the new horrors of experimentation.

He still believed himself to be the worst being alive.
But at least, in some twisted way, the pain of the experiments granted him a strange sense of peace. It reassured him that he was suffering for his sins.

Recently, the scientists had become more focused on understanding his second quirk. Detonating a part of oneself was more complicated than expected. Understanding what triggered the explosions was the hardest part.

After much trial and error, they discovered that intense emotions seemed to activate it.

The masked man was tempted to put Izuku through another traumatic experience to test the ability further.
But he hesitated.
Breaking his masterpiece beyond repair would be a waste.

For now, Izuku was safe from blowing himself up.

But it wouldn't last.

Chapter Text

Taking it “easy,” the masked man was starting to get frustrated by Izuku’s inability to gain a new quirk.
Since his secondary quirk seemed to break his mind, the masked man had hoped to see a third one quickly enough to make up for lost time, but it never came.

If Izuku didn’t develop a new quirk within the next five days, then the masked man would feel compelled to take the risk of breaking his precious masterpiece.

Izuku didn’t know what would be best for him—to suffer “less.”
But he hoped for the better.

The first day, nothing in particular happened.

The same for the next two days.

On the fourth day, a miracle happened again.
Izuku gained his third quirk.

The masked man was delighted to hear the news.
Coincidence or not, Izuku had awakened this quirk just a day before the deadline.

He was still strapped to the table, with liquid continuously being injected into his body, the burning sensation inside him only growing worse, when the masked man entered the room.

“My sweet Izuku~ My sweet, sweet Izuku! Once again, you prove to me how magnificent you are.”

He caressed Izuku’s cheek in a simple, loving manner, making sure to show his obsession toward his precious toy.
The “toy” he was caressing was starting to slip away.
The past four days of relentless experimentation had left Izuku teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.
The ceiling blurred, the world spun, and soon, darkness overtook him.
The last thing he heard was the laughter of the man in charge.

If the Devil had sent his apostle to Earth, it would have been this man.
Or maybe it was Izuku himself.
Like the sinner he was, he deserved this punishment.
He needed to atone.
He was losing his mind again.
He had to stay sane.
If not, he would be deemed broken.
And he didn’t want to know what happened to an ex-masterpiece.

When he woke up, the masked man was still there.
Just the two of them.
In his room—his "comfort" room.
At least here, Izuku knew he wouldn’t be hurt. Not right now.
Strangely enough, the masked man had gone to great lengths to keep his word about this room being a safe zone.
Surely, he wouldn’t break his own promise.

“Izuku~”

A low, tempting voice. It felt like Izuku was nothing more than prey, caught in a predator’s gaze.
He instinctively backed away to his favorite corner of the room, eyes filled with fear.

“My Izuku~ You truly are the most splendid work I’ve created to this day.”

It sounded like he was cooing. Slowly, ever so slowly, he approached the trembling boy.
He tilted Izuku’s chin upward, forcing their eyes to meet—his golden irises staring deeply into Izuku’s empty soul.

“I know I’ve been hard on you this past week, but I promise—if that third quirk is as beautiful as your first, then you will be rewarded.”

He stopped, observing Izuku carefully, gauging his reaction.
The sudden tears slipping down Izuku’s green eyes were enough to make him continue.

“But if it’s like your second…”

He sighed, letting go of Izuku’s chin as his lips curled into a smile.

“I truly hope you’ll like your new room.”

And then, as quickly as he had come, he was gone.

Izuku was left alone.
He hadn't even realized he had stopped breathing.
The masked man had never threatened him this closely before. Not in all the months he had been in the facility.
He looked at his trembling hands and wrapped his arms around himself, trying to stop the shivering.
He couldn’t.

His third quirk was discovered quickly—faster than his first.
A fascinating quirk.

When a baseball was hurled toward his ribcage, his arm instinctively moved to shield himself.
In an instant, his bones tore through his skin.
And then, he died.
There was nothing he could do to stop it, even when bones seemed to pierce through his skin to protect himself.

However the people in white coat discovered that fear—self-preservation—triggered the quirk.
There was a pattern between his three quirks.
All of them were disturbing.
All of them were organic.
And most importantly, all of them were triggered automatically by specific situations.
They asked Izuku to activate one of his two secondary quirks voluntarily.
He failed.
Every time.

The masked man was ecstatic.
The scientists, however, needed to refine the liquid that had given him these quirks.
They had to create a quirk that could be activated voluntarily—one that wouldn’t harm its own user.

But while they worked, they continued to test Izuku’s new ability.

If he felt threatened, his own bones would pierce through his skin, forming blades and projectiles.
Each time Izuku tried to escape death, his body betrayed him.
His humerus would twist into jagged swords.
His patella would sharpen into knives.
His phalanges would splinter into deadly projectiles.
His scapula and clavicle would sprout thorns, eager to impale anything—anyone.
It was eerie.
As if his bones had a mind of their own.

The scientists were fascinated by the countless possibilities.

Izuku?

He was drowning in agony.
He suffered, over and over again, as his own body stabbed him from the inside out.

This was hell.

But the fact that he was getting used to it?
That was even worse.

Knowing too well the pain that was coming—waiting for it—made it all the more unbearable.
He could feel it before it even happened.
His bones pressing against his inner flesh, the slow, excruciating moment before his skin split open.
The sting of fresh wounds.
The way his blood painted his bones red.
The way fragments of muscle and ligaments clung desperately to the jagged edges of his skeleton.

And then, the unbearable reconstruction.

His first quirk would force him back together, knitting torn flesh, restoring ligaments, dragging shattered bones back into place.

The organic weapon meant to protect him was the one bringing him the most pain.

Every time he didn’t pass out from the experiments, he felt it all.
The recreation of every single cell in his body.
He was tired of bringing himself back to life.
Again.
And again.

He woke up on the hard floor of his comfort room.

He knew he could move.
But he didn’t.

He stayed there, lying motionless in the center of the room.

He didn’t even bother getting away from the door.
It was pointless.
In just a few hours, they would come for him.
Drag him out of his “precious” room.

He didn’t touch his food. Or his water.

He lay there like a drunkard who had collapsed in the streets.
Unmoving.

Days passed by like that.
Dragged from experiment to experiment like a lifeless doll.
His body reflected his mind.
His skin started to rot from neglect, and his bones grew fragile from inertia.

Then, light pierced through his darkness once more.

“Izuku~”

That monstrous smile—one that never faded—was there to greet him.

“It’s been three whole years since you’ve been in this facility, but as time passes, I find myself growing more and more concerned.”

The masked man stepped toward him, kneeling down, observing him like a caged animal.

“You know, Izuku, I worry quite easily. I hope you understand just how precious you are~”

“But… I feel like you can’t handle the experiments the way you used to.”

He tilted his head, golden hair shifting as his smile grew wider.

“I feel like you’re starting to lose yourself.”

“I feel like you’re starting to break.”

At that, Izuku’s blank eyes sharpened, suddenly focused on the man in front of him.
It has been a while since Izuku responded to something.

The masked man chuckled, ruffling his golden locks teasingly. It was fun to finally see a reaction from his masterpiece.

“I really hope I’m wrong.”

His lips curled into something wicked.

“But I must be… right?”

“After all, my precious masterpiece wouldn’t betray me like this!”

Chapter Text

Izuku knew exactly what he meant. As always, he threatened to take his only comfort away.

He didn’t know if the masked man would strip him of his room, driving him insane in the process and destroying his masterpiece.
But he didn't want to find out.

He couldn’t bear the consequences of losing his status as a masterpiece. Not if it meant even more pain.

Death was fine. Pain was hell.

So, Izuku endured the agonizing process of re-education.
He learned to walk again, to pretend he was alive, to act as though there was still a soul in this empty shell.
Trying, once again, to piece back together the shattered fragments of something long gone.

The masked man was thrilled by this performance.
He knew Izuku had died a long time ago.
But he also knew that a broken toy that could react was much more valuable than a beautiful toy that just sat still.

So they both played pretend.
A theatrical performance, carefully orchestrated.

Izuku gave the man his spectacle, responding to the experiments.
It wasn’t difficult, not really.
It still hurt like nothing else in the world—burning alive wasn’t something one could ever get used to.
But Izuku screamed and cried more than ever, agonizing every day just to please him.

His soulless eyes wept, imitating an emotion long lost.
Sadness implied the existence of hope.
And hope meant there was still something left to break.

Pretending was easy when there was no soul to begin with.

Months passed like this. Then, one day, the masked man disappeared.

Perhaps their little game had become boring.

Even fate itself had lost interest in Izuku—no new quirks had manifested for months, leaving his torturer frustrated with the lack of material to work with.
The experiments became laxer, less creative, less painful. And soon enough, people started to forget about him entirely.

He spent more time alone in his isolated room. No grand door bursting open, no blinding light. Nothing.

His stomach ached from hunger, his throat burned for water.
But Izuku never begged.
He simply kept dying, "resetting" his hunger like it was some twisted game.

When air became scarce, he suffocated—again and again. No screams. No protests. No tears.

Then, one day—a noise.

Yelling. Shouts of rage. Objects crashing, bodies hitting the walls.

Then came the light.

The door slammed open, sending a piercing beam into his prison.
Izuku flinched, momentarily blinded.
He sucked in a desperate breath, lungs stinging, and through the blur, he saw him.

The masked man.

Izuku had forgotten how much he hated that smile.

He barely registered the man's words, but from the voices outside—the screams, the begging, the gunfire—he understood what was happening.

The masked man had returned after months of absence, only to discover that his masterpiece had been neglected.
He was furious.

The punishments echoed through the facility.

Izuku sat still in his room, staring at the hard bread and stale water they had finally left for him.
He didn’t pay attention to the gunshots, the desperate pleas for mercy, or the bodies dropping one by one.

Then, suddenly—he was lifted.

The masked man held him tightly, whispering apologies with bloodstained hands.

Izuku despised being in his arms. But he didn’t resist.

He knew what would happen if he did.

So he let himself be cradled like a precious doll, forced to listen to the man’s shaking voice as he wept.

He didn’t care.

Because he knew what came next.

The cycle would begin again.
The pain would return.
The fire, the blades, the experiments.

And Izuku would be his little plaything once more.

And he was right.

The experiments resumed with renewed enthusiasm.
New faces arrived—more eager, more curious, even less empathetic.
The pain returned.

Test after test.

Laughter echoed as Izuku writhed.
Their eyes shone with excitement as his bones twisted into grotesque, organic weapons. Their empty words of admiration meant nothing.

Izuku felt like he was surrounded by copies of the masked man.

He hadn’t thought it was possible, but they devised even more shameless ways to break him.

If he could erase his instincts, he would—if it meant keeping his bones inside his body.

So, he resumed screaming and crying.
It surprised him that he even remembered how.

And so, the play continued.
Izuku, the star performer.
The masked man, delighted as ever.

As if nothing had happened.
As if things had never changed.

He thought it would stay that way forever.
That this would be his life from now on.

He never imagined freedom.

But one day, something changed.

The masked man seemed worried.

Precautions were even stricter than usual.
Izuku was never taken from his room, but people kept coming and going, peeking inside as if to check if he was still there.

Hours passed like this, then—fighting.

Gunfire.
Screams.
Then… silence.

Izuku didn’t react. He had heard all these sounds before.

But then—the door flung open.

A different light poured in, brighter than anything he’d ever seen.

It crawled into the darkness, spreading too far, too deep. It swallowed everything. It swallowed him.

He flinched, eyes burning. Then—a voice.

"Guys, we have a problem!"

Izuku stiffened. The voice wasn’t familiar.

New recruit ?

Slowly, cautiously, he moved to the darkest corner of the room.
But the light followed.

He stayed still. Waiting.

Footsteps. More voices. The sound of too many people.

Someone stepped forward, kneeling carefully.

"Hey there…"

The voice was gentle.

"I’m a police officer."

The man pointed at himself slowly, carefully.

"And you are?"

Izuku stared at him, waiting. Waiting for the moment he would grow bored.

Waiting for the moment he would grab him by the wrist and drag him to the experiments.

"What are you doing?"

A new voice. Lower. Rougher.

A figure moved through the crowd—a man dressed in black, his yellow goggles reflecting the dim light.

"He isn’t an animal in a cage. Give him space."

The others hesitated before stepping back.

The man crouched down, looking Izuku straight in the eyes.

"We’re here to rescue you."

He spoke plainly. Calmly.

"Can you stand?"

Izuku hesitated.
The man’s gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t look at Izuku with pity or disgust—just quiet observation.

Finally, Izuku nodded.

When he stumbled, the man caught him.

"It’s okay. You can use me as much as you need."

And together, they walked forward.

Towards the door Izuku had never seen before.

"This is the exit," the man said.

"You’re free."

Free?

Izuku stared.

Could it be true?

He had screamed for help countless times before. No one had ever come.

Why now?

The man nearly had to drag him forward.

And for the first time in his memory—

Izuku saw the world.

Not the beautiful one.

But the real one.

The industrial skyline loomed above, thick with smog.
Rain pounded down in relentless sheets.
The air was heavy, polluted, filled with things he couldn’t name.

And yet—

The vastness.
The wind.
The cold water against his skin.

It wasn’t unpleasant.

He closed his eyes, savoring it.

The man let him.

A cough rattled his chest, his lungs weak from years of suffocation.
But he didn’t care.

So this…

This was the real world.

He hoped—no, he prayed—this freedom wasn’t a lie.

Because after this, he could never go back.

Chapter Text

Izuku was taken to the nearest police station.
He never left the side of the dark-haired man.
He learned that his name was Eraserhead—at least, that's what he heard many people call him.

The police station was nothing like what Izuku was used to.
It was full of people smiling, like in the facility, but they weren’t in strange white coats or standing behind weird glass tinted white.

They were lively, and the noise was constant—not that Izuku minded.

If being free meant being able to see the outside world, then it would be alright.
Even buildings had these weird things that let people look outside.
It was annoying how Izuku couldn’t put his hand through, blocking the sensation—but seeing it was enough for now.

The man named Eraserhead stepped away from Izuku for a couple of seconds to talk privately with the people in blue uniforms.

"I want you to search for any missing child case that matches this one."

He pointed at Izuku, looking straight into the eyes of the police officer.
The officer nodded, listening carefully to the words of the respected hero.

"You—"

Eraserhead gently grabbed the arm of a novice policewoman who was passing by.

"I want you to take care of this child. Don’t stop him. Let him wander around, but never take your eyes off him. Even if you need to go to the bathroom, I don’t care—take him with you. If something happens, come get me."

He carefully instructed the confused woman, who eventually nodded and approached Izuku, who was still gazing outside the window.

The policeman from before questioned him.

"Why her? She isn’t suited for this. She’s still in training."

Eraserhead replied firmly:

"The kidnapper of this child was a man. I don’t want to lose the little faith he has in me. I don’t want him to have a crisis. I’m not taking the risk of him remembering anything traumatic."

Understanding his intention, the policeman nodded.
They continued discussing what would be done for the child.

Izuku stared at the woman, analyzing her.
She stood there, a little embarrassed by the intense gaze he gave her, but she said nothing.
Soon enough, Izuku returned to watching the window. He didn’t move—he stayed still like a statue.

But suddenly, the capricious clouds parted, letting the sun shine brightly, free from the wall of gray.

Izuku flinched from the sudden brightness and rushed away from the window.

The woman, unsure of what had just happened, followed him as he ran—straight toward the room where the cells were kept.

Upon seeing the familiar concrete floors and darkness, Izuku ran to one of the cells.
The one farthest from the exit, as always. In the far corner.
He hugged his trembling legs, his breathing heavy and unstable.
His eyes shut tight, remembering the experiments he had endured.

He thought it didn’t affect him anymore.
He thought he’d gotten used to it.
But seeing something new—something he didn’t want to lose—made him feel again.
He regained something he had been afraid of:
He regained his fear.

No tears came, but he whimpered like a poor sheep in front of a big, bad wolf.

The woman didn’t know what to do.
She stared at the frightened child, feeling a mixture of guilt and sadness. She hadn’t hurt this child, but somehow, she felt responsible.

Overwhelmed, her legs moved on their own—rushing to find the hero who had instructed her.

"Mister Eraserhead!"

She shouted across the room, grabbing everyone’s attention. Eraserhead instantly understood a problem had occurred and rushed toward her, yelling,

"I told you not to leave his side!"

They both ran together toward the holding cells.

"He suddenly got scared while looking outside and ran toward the cells! I didn’t know what to do!"

She was panicking, guilt pressing down on her like a weight.
She wasn’t trained for this. She didn’t know how to help.

Eraserhead opened the room and looked through every cell, the woman trailing behind him.
What he saw broke his heart:

Izuku was curled up in a trembling ball in the farthest corner.

"Hey, kiddo."

He gently opened the cell door.

"I don’t know what scared you, but it’s going to be alright. We won’t push you to do anything you don’t want to."

His voice was calm as he approached, but stopped just a few steps in, giving the boy space.

"You can stay here if you want. I won’t force you to move. But please know that nothing is trying to hurt you here."

He paused.

"Do you want to stay here?"

He asked softly, not really expecting an answer.
But Izuku responded instantly, like the obedient child he had been trained to be.
A quick nod—barely visible, hidden behind his arms—was enough.

Eraserhead sighed and turned to the woman who had watched the entire exchange.

"I’m sorry for yelling. That was my mistake. I shouldn’t have asked a novice to care for a traumatized child. You didn’t know what to do. It’s my fault."

He rubbed the back of his head and looked down.
He knew this could have ended much worse—but thankfully, it hadn’t. The child hadn’t had a full breakdown.

He checked once more on the trembling boy and left the room.

"If he said he wants to stay here, then I won’t pull him out of the cell."

"What a troublesome situation," he muttered, loud enough for the woman to hear.

She still felt bad about what had happened, but at least the situation was under control.

A couple of minutes spent in the darkness helped calm Izuku’s mind.
It was stupid, how he had reacted.
He should be glad he hadn’t been put through another experiment—for now.
He should be obedient and avoid causing a scene.
If they wanted to, they could take away his freedom—or even his comfort room.
What if they got rid of both?
Why did he have to be disobedient?
They would be mad.

All Izuku could think about was how much worse the next experiment would be.
If he was a bad child, they would punish him more.
If going through more pain meant keeping his freedom and comfort room, then it was worth it.

Maybe they would take it all away.
Maybe the sudden brightness that swallowed up his freedom was punishment.
Maybe they erased the gray smoke and the water falling through the ceiling because he didn’t acknowledge the woman.
Maybe he’d never see his freedom again.

Even in his little corner, he could see a small ray of light peeking through.
Even that was terrifying.

He knew punishment was coming.

And maybe, in some twisted way, the masked man had orchestrated all this to test him.
Maybe he wanted to see if Izuku would break.

It was worse than pain—losing something he cared about, without even getting the chance to enjoy it.

As he wondered if he would even get food today, the door opened.
He heard slow, deliberate steps.

It was Eraserhead.

The hero crouched down to Izuku’s level once again.

"Hey kiddo. I know you’ve already seen me before, but I never properly introduced myself."

His tone was slow and careful, deliberate.

"I’m Shota Aizawa. And from now on, I’m your guardian."

He watched Izuku’s face, hoping for some kind of reaction.
The child stared at him blankly, anxiously.

"A guardian is someone who protects you from people who want to hurt you."

He said it gently.
Izuku looked at him, curiosity flickering in his gaze, as if trying to decide whether or not to believe him.

"I’ll protect you from all the bad things. And all you have to do… is live your life."

Live your life?

Izuku didn’t know what that meant.

But if this man said he would protect him, maybe… maybe he wouldn’t give him back to the masked man?

He didn’t know if what Aizawa said was true.
But if being with him meant more freedom, he liked that idea.
And if it was a lie… then he’d just go back to how things usually were.
He wouldn’t lose anything.
So… why hesitate?

He took Aizawa’s hand and stepped out of his little dark room.
The light hurt—but it wasn’t unbearable. He didn’t want to disappoint his guardian.

But then came the next step: outside.

The brightness that had taken away his comfort.

The burning feeling of light on his skin.

He wanted the water back.
The gray smoke.
The wind.

But he kept his mouth shut.

And stepped outside—silent, anxious.

Quickly enough, Izuku found himself in front of a gigantic building with a tall, grand door.
Inside, it was lively.
Dozens of much smaller people than the ones in the facility ran around in strange matching outfits.

It struck him again—wherever he went, people always wore the same clothes.
First in the facility, then in the bright room, and now even here.

He couldn’t help but look around, wide-eyed.
The way everything was divided into light and shadow fascinated him.
Darkness clung to the corners, while the brightness nearly stung his eyes.
Shadows were everywhere.

Everything here was new.
The noise, the smell, the feel of the air.
He liked it.
Was this… freedom, too?

Before he could process more, he found himself standing in front of another door.

Aizawa glanced down at him and spoke gently.

“Hey. It seems you don’t want to talk, and that’s alright. But when we go into this room, someone will want to speak with you. Do you understand?”

Izuku looked up, almost ashamed.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk.
He just… couldn’t.

How could he explain that to his guardian?
Would Aizawa leave him if he stayed silent?

Fear wrapped around him like a net, thoughts spiraling.
He began trembling.
What if he was abandoned again?

Aizawa noticed the shift immediately.
He crouched slightly, placing both hands on Izuku’s shoulders, steadying him.

“Hey… hey. Don’t worry. It’s okay if you don’t speak to him. I just wanted you to know he might ask a lot of questions, and it can be overwhelming. That’s all. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay with it.”

His voice was soft.
Reassuring.

Izuku rapidly nodded, not wanting to disappoint him.
Not again.

And then, they entered.

The first thing Izuku noticed was the blinding light behind the desk at the far end of the room.
He couldn’t see the person seated there.
The brightness stung, and instinctively, he slipped behind Aizawa, into his shadow.

“Hello, Principal Nezu,” Aizawa said calmly.

A voice responded—one Izuku didn’t recognize.

“Good afternoon, Aizawa. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Izuku tried to peek out, but the light was too much.

“It won’t be needed. I’m here to speak about—”

“—The child behind you. Yes, I know,” the man interrupted softly.

Aizawa didn’t look surprised that Nezu already knew.

“We found him in the facility Maestro was using as a hideout. He seems to have been part of the villain’s experiments. We don’t know how long he was kept there… but it looks like it’s been a while.”

Aizawa’s eyes lingered on Izuku, worry quietly bleeding through his calm demeanor.

Nezu took a small sip of tea.

“And we don’t know what he suffered there, do we?”

His voice held a deep guilt.
He couldn’t look at the boy.
It felt like a failure.

“No, we don’t. But from what I’ve seen, the child doesn’t seem to have any scars. At least, we can assume he wasn’t physically tortured.”

How wrong he was.

Aizawa turned again to Izuku.

“Hey, kiddo. Are you okay?”

He wasn’t surprised by Izuku’s reserved behavior—he’d seen it before—but he couldn’t help but wonder: the boy hadn’t reacted like this with others.
What made Nezu different?

“What’s wrong?” he asked gently.

Izuku stared at him, his eyes wide but unreadable.
He didn’t respond.

“Are you scared of Principal Nezu?”

Izuku quickly shook his head.

“Are you scared of…”

Aizawa paused, thinking.

There had been something similar back at the police station too.

That fear again.
What was the trigger?

Nezu, observant as ever, spoke up.

“Maybe it’s the light he’s afraid of.”

Suddenly, everything seemed to place every part of the puzzle together.

What triggered Izuku at the police station.
Why he flinched when stepping out of the building.
Why he was always drawn to shadows.
Why he stared at the dark alleys instead of the bright park.
And Aizawa felt ashamed.

Ashamed that he hadn’t seen it sooner — it was right there. Obvious, even.

He looked at Izuku again, this time with heavy regret weighing in his eyes.

“Is it?” he asked gently.

Izuku hesitated before slowly nodding.
His little fingers fidgeted, betraying his nerves.

He was scared — scared that if they found out what he feared, they would punish him with a room full of light.
Like before.

Even now, some part of him believed that was how things worked.
But still… it was better than going back to the facility.

Aizawa said nothing, but immediately moved.
He reached for the blinds and closed them, covering the window and dimming the room.

Only a faint, soft light remained — enough to see each other, but no more than that.

Izuku finally looked forward.

So this was “Principal Nezu.”

A strange white mouse — or maybe a bear, or something in between — sat on the chair behind the desk.
Small in stature, but the way he looked at Izuku… there was nothing small about that gaze.

“I can finally take a look at you,” Nezu said gently.

There was no judgment in his voice. No coldness.
He didn’t seem to mind Izuku’s earlier behavior.
Fortunately.

“Can you talk?” he asked.

Izuku shook his head.

A thoughtful little hum came in response, followed by a calm sip of tea.

“That’s alright,” Nezu continued, warm as ever.

“I’ll ask some questions. Will that be okay with you?”

Izuku nodded.

“If you don’t want to respond to one of my questions, you don’t have to,” Nezu added.

And so, the questioning began.

Chapter Text

Surprisingly, Izuku didn’t seem to mind the countless questions Nezu asked.
Even though he couldn’t answer most of them, he still tried his best.

From what little information Nezu could gather, the child before him had suffered greatly—and for many years.
How many exactly, and what he had suffered from, remained unclear.
Even the reason behind it all was blurred.
It wasn’t nearly enough information for Nezu’s liking, but he understood—the child didn’t know either.

And then came the final question.
A simple one, but one that held deep meaning.

“What’s your name?”

He asked gently.
Nezu already knew Izuku couldn’t speak.
He knew the child would struggle to understand how to respond.
But he wanted him to know that someone cared.

Nezu knew Maestro, the villain who had kidnapped Izuku, lacked empathy.
Having a child in his “care” was anything but ethical.
If Izuku had been dehumanized, Nezu wanted him to know that here, at U.A., he would finally have the chance to be the child he never got to be.

Izuku fidgeted.
He knew well enough he couldn’t respond.

Aizawa sighed and placed a gentle hand on Izuku’s head.

“It’s alright, kiddo. We’ve talked about this. You don’t have to answer.”

Izuku’s heart warmed.
He didn’t know why, but it felt… nice.
He was touched by their words.
By their gentleness.

And for the first time he could remember, something stirred inside him—something cautious, trembling, and fragile.

Hope.

Tears welled in his eyes.

The only sound in the room was the small, broken whimper of the child.
Neither adult said a word.
They simply let him cry, let him show his emotions fully—something he hadn’t done in a long, long time.

He cried and cried, showing his vulnerable self to strangers.
To people he hadn’t asked for.
Help was something he’d given up on long ago.

He knew hope could crush him.
That trust could betray him.
But he let it in anyway, as easily as breathing.

He was desperate.

Maybe—just maybe—this time, he could be free of the masked man.
Maybe this time, he could truly hope never to see him again.

Eventually, Izuku and his guardian left the principal’s office.

“You don’t mind the nickname ‘kiddo,’ right?”

Aizawa asked, wondering if it might make Izuku uncomfortable.

Izuku shook his head quickly.

A small smile tugged at Aizawa’s lips, which he tried to hide with his hand, embarrassed.

Then he observed him silently, trying to guess his age.
He looked young—maybe twelve or thirteen, judging by his height and round face.
He wanted to ask but held back, knowing the question might only make Izuku more anxious.
The boy probably didn’t even know how much time had passed.

Aizawa sighed softly, catching Izuku’s innocent gaze in return.
He smiled again and ruffled the boy’s long, curly green hair.

The night fell quickly, and Izuku was amazed by the little sparkles he saw in the deep blue sky.
He pointed up, curious.

“That’s the sky,”

Aizawa explained, noticing his gesture.

“And those sparkles? They’re called stars.”

Izuku was mesmerized.
He liked the sky.
Especially the dark version of it. The one above them now.

The only other light came from the bulbs on strange metal poles lining the street.
Izuku never dared approach them. He stayed close to his guardian’s shadow.

He soon learned that Aizawa was taking him to his “house.”
Izuku followed, as silent as ever.
He knew what the word meant, but he had no real understanding of what a house was.

He had so much to learn.

Upon arriving, Izuku was overwhelmed by the sight of the place.
So many unfamiliar pieces of furniture.

Aizawa took off his shoes, and Izuku copied him.
Then, a young girl came running toward Aizawa, arms wide open and giggling.

“Hi, Eri. Did you have fun with Midnight today?”

he asked, smiling and hugging the girl.

Izuku watched them, almost envious of their closeness.
He didn’t know what that feeling was, but he wanted it too.
They looked so happy.

Wait—wanted? Was he allowed to want things?

Had just a few hours of freedom from the facility changed him that much?

He shouldn't want things he couldn’t have.
If they found out… he might be sent back.

He looked down, ashamed of his feelings.

“Who is that?”

The white-haired girl asked.

“He’s a child like you,”

Aizawa answered simply.

The girl looked surprised but turned to Izuku with sparkling eyes.

“Like me?”

She walked up to him cautiously and extended her small hand.

“Hi! I’m Eri!”

She smiled brightly.

Izuku stared at her face—rosy cheeks and deep red eyes that shimmered with kindness.

He hesitated, but took her hand. He didn’t want to disappoint her.
He nodded quickly to let her know he was listening, even if he couldn’t reply.

She giggled.

“I was saved by Mister Aizawa, just like you! We’re the same!”

How could someone smile so brightly if they’d been through what he had?

It didn’t matter.
He was just grateful she wasn’t angry at him for not speaking.

“You can’t talk, right?”

She asked innocently.

Izuku blushed and began to fidget.

“It’s okay!”

She said, and gently took his arm, pulling him toward a large, soft-looking chair.

“This is a sofa! It’s comfortable! Sit here!”

Izuku did as she asked.
She was right—it was comfortable.
Not hard like the floors he was used to.
He felt his body relax for the first time.

Aizawa, watching from the side, felt relief wash over him.
He’d been afraid Eri might struggle, or that Izuku wouldn’t accept her.
But they were both okay.
Eri might even become a great help.

He smiled to himself and made his final cup of coffee for the day.

Eri kept talking, even if Izuku never responded.
She explained every object in the house and even warned him about potential dangers.
She was glad to help someone who’d been through what she had—even if it wasn’t much.

When bedtime came, Aizawa had to separate them.
Eri protested, but Izuku said nothing.

He knew which room was his thanks to Eri’s earlier tour, so he entered quietly.

Aizawa followed, holding back his instinct to turn on the lights.

“Make yourself at home. It’s yours now,”

He said, ruffling Izuku’s hair.

“I won’t come in without your permission. You can trust me—unless it’s an emergency.”

He gave a simple goodnight and left.

Izuku was alone for the first time since being saved.
It felt strange, but he didn’t mind.
He looked around.

A “bookshelf,” a “chair,” a “nightstand,” a “lamp,” a “bed,” a “rug.” All unfamiliar.

He didn’t feel comfortable using any of them.
So he didn’t.

He sat by the bookshelf, curling up against the wall—just like before.

He knew he was supposed to sleep in the bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He was nearly asleep when the door creaked open.
His danger instinct flared and he curled tighter, eyes fixed on the door.

It was Eri.

She stepped in quietly, looked at the bed, and sighed—like she’d expected this.
She scanned the room, spotted him, and hurried over.

“Hi…”

She whispered with a bright smile, clutching a small teddy bear.

“I figured you’d feel weird about the bed, so I came to keep you company. Is that okay?”

He nodded his head to say yes—he didn’t mind.
Then patted the floor beside him.

She sat down and curled up next to him.
He flinched, unused to the closeness.
But then he remembered how she had hugged Aizawa.

A warm feeling bloomed in his chest.

He didn’t push her away.
Instead, he rested his head on hers.

They fell asleep like that.

The next morning, Aizawa saw them sleeping and didn’t say a word.
He didn’t reprimand Eri.
How could he?
She did what he wished he could—reach Izuku in a way words never could.

As he made his first coffee of the day, he reminded himself: never scold Eri in front of Izuku.
He didn’t want to trigger anything.

Eri kicked her tiny feet under the table while eating cereal.
Izuku tried to imitate her but fumbled with the spoon, spilling food on the table.

He tried to hide the mess, but Aizawa quickly reassured him and cleaned it up.

The same warmth from the night before returned.

Izuku didn’t want to cry—but he did.

He whimpered like an abandoned puppy.
Aizawa and Eri said nothing.
They just comforted him.

Which only made him cry harder.

Later, Eri left to get dressed.
Aizawa observed Izuku and made a mental note to ask Momo, a student of his, to make him some clothes.

“Is it alright if we go somewhere with a lot of people, kiddo?”

He asked gently.

Izuku nodded shyly.

Soon, the three of them were walking toward U.A.

Aizawa was impressed by how talkative Eri could be.
She tried to explain what U.A. was but quickly got distracted, veering into stories about hero society and pancakes.

Still, Izuku seemed to enjoy listening, even if he didn’t respond.

As they reached the school, Izuku remembered this place.
The people in strange clothes. The one called Nezu asking him questions. The one place who will protect him from now on.

He followed quietly, sticking close.

They stopped in front of a large double door.
Voices came from behind—talking, laughing.

“Eri, stay with him for now,” Aizawa said. “I’ll let the class know first, then call you in. Remember—he doesn’t like bright lights, so I’ll turn them off before you enter. Don’t switch them back on.”

Eri nodded seriously, ready to act like a big sister, even though she was far more younger than Izuku.

She turned to Izuku and smiled.

Aizawa stepped inside.

“Don’t worry! I’ll take care of you!”

Eri proudly stated.
Smiling even though brightly at Izuku.

A few seconds later, Aizawa opened the door.
The room was dark and quieter than before.
Izuku didn’t hesitate to enter, seeking refuge from the light of the hallway.

Eri followed after him.

A deep silence settled.

Eri noticed the students of Class 1-A.
She was familiar with them—but Izuku wasn’t.
She didn’t realize she was holding her breath, worried about how he’d react to seeing so many people at once.

Surprisingly, he didn’t seem bothered.

The students of 1-A appeared to be aware of the situation, having just been briefed by Aizawa.
Izuku looked around, seemingly more at ease in the darkness.
He took quiet note of the “students.”

All eyes were on him.
He didn’t mind.
He was used to being watched.

Then a trembling voice broke the silence.
A low, uncertain voice.

“Izuku ?”

Chapter Text

Katsuki Bakugou was a brilliant, curious, and energetic child.

Sure, he had a fiery temper—likely inherited from his mother, Mitsuki—but it never felt dangerous.
At least not at first.

Katsuki was a natural extrovert.
He had many friends at daycare, but none he liked more than Izuku Midoriya, the son of his mother’s best friend.

From Katsuki's point of view, Izuku was simple—he laughed, cried, and expressed every emotion without shame.
Katsuki found it amusing.
Teasing him was just child's play.

It was strange, though—Izuku wouldn’t cry when he scraped a knee or lost a toy.
But if a friend got hurt, he cried for them.

Some parents called him a monster for being so different.
Katsuki hated that.
If Izuku was a monster, then what did that make him for liking him?
No, that was unacceptable.

At four years old, Katsuki’s quirk manifested: Explosion.

The excitement in the daycare was palpable.
Everyone praised him, admired him—and his ego inflated with every compliment.

Izuku was the first to cheer for him, eyes wide with wonder.
Katsuki felt proud in a way he couldn’t describe.
They talked about becoming a “Wonder Duo” once Izuku got his own quirk.
Of course, Katsuki would still be the strongest, but he could carry them both to the top—Number One and Two heroes.

But as time passed, Katsuki’s temper worsened.
He hated the judgmental looks, the whispers about his “attitude.”
And most of all, he hated how Izuku tried to stop him when he lashed out.

Why was he defending them?

It only grew worse when Izuku—powerless—kept trying to protect others.

Was he trying to be stronger than him? Was that it?

No.

Katsuki had to remind him of his place.

Izuku needed to understand.
They were supposed to be on the same side.

At first, when Izuku got hurt, it wasn’t intentional.
But over time, Katsuki stopped caring.
If it taught him a lesson, wasn’t it worth it?

He started to wonder—was this “Wonder Duo” dream just a fantasy for Izuku?
Did he still admire him?
Or had he started looking down on him?

Katsuki couldn’t bear the thought of losing that admiration.
He couldn’t lose his best friend.

His parents began noticing his aggression.
Mitsuki, who understood anger too well, felt guilt settle in her chest.
She’d waited too long to seek help herself—she didn’t want that for her son.
She tried talking to him, but he was too young to grasp what violence meant.
Maybe later.
Maybe he'd grow out of it.

She could wait.

It will be fine.

Then came the day Izuku’s diagnosis arrived—quirkless.
Katsuki felt… relief.

He wouldn't outshine him.
He would stay by his side, understand his place.
Maybe they couldn’t be equals, but at least Izuku wouldn’t try to “protect” anyone else.

That same day, Katsuki gave him a new nickname: Deku.

It was to show his place, Izuku’s rightful place.

At first, Izuku hated it.
But he accepted it eventually.
He always did.

He thought he found his old Izuku back.
The one who stays put in place.

Yet Deku never changed.
He still threw himself in front of bullies, still tried to protect others.
Still acted like a hero.

Katsuki was furious.

Why couldn’t he stay in his place?
Why wouldn’t he let him protect him?
Did he respect him at all anymore?

He felt himself losing Izuku.

So he hurt him. Badly.

To teach him.
To bring the old Izuku back.

The bullying started then.
Not just teasing—but real, cruel actions.

He didn’t realize when the line had been crossed, when he’d become a bully.

He wasn’t protecting anymore—he was demanding respect through fear.

Mitsuki and Masaru tried everything.
Punishments. Conversations. Therapy.
Nothing seemed to work.

Mitsuki wept at the shame she felt.
Inko, her best friend, tried to remain understanding, but both mothers were exhausted.

Eventually, they made a painful decision: Izuku and Katsuki would see each other less and less.

It was the beginning of the end.

Izuku grew isolated. Katsuki grew angrier.
Every rare encounter ended with bruises and burns Izuku would try to hide from his mother.

And then came the worst mistake of all.

Inko had started working later shifts, and most evenings, it was Mitsuki who drove Izuku home—with Katsuki in the car too.
It only worsened the already strained relationship between the two boys.
Before long, both mothers agreed to put an end to it, deciding it was better for Izuku to walk home alone.

They knew it was risky—but at the time, they thought it would do more good than harm.

Only, it didn’t.

Soon after, Mitsuki stopped.
The silence between her and Inko grew louder.
Katsuki was nine, nearly ten.
He still didn’t see what he had done.

So Izuku walked home alone.

And then, he vanished.

The day Katsuki learned Izuku had been kidnapped, he didn’t understand.

Not until he saw Inko break down in his mother’s arms, not until he heard Mitsuki cry for the first time.

Not until his house—always noisy, always full—became filled only with grief, guilt.

A week passed, and it hit him. This wasn’t like before.

Izuku wasn’t just avoiding him.

He was gone.

Katsuki didn’t know how to process it.
He lashed out even more, but nothing helped.
His emotions were out of control.

He felt vulnerable. Naked. Angry.

Sad.

One night, his mother sat him down, and for the first time, they truly talked.
Openly.
About anger. About guilt. About love.

About Izuku.

That night, Katsuki agreed to therapy.

Accepting that someone left is hard. But realizing you were the reason they left is devastating.

He started to understand what he’d done—to Izuku, to others.
He had wanted admiration so badly that he burned everything in his path.
The road to healing was long, but he walked it.

He got quieter. More aware. Still angry, still guilty, but… trying.

The guilt never left.
It clung to everything—food, sleep, relationships.

Katsuki felt like a monster in human skin.

He no longer dreamed of fame or glory.

Now, he only dreamed of atonement.

If he couldn’t bring back one life, he’d save thousands. Maybe millions.

Maybe then, the guilt would lessen.

In his final year of middle school, the teacher handed out a form:
What do you want to be? Where do you want to go?

Katsuki stared at the blank page for a long time before writing "U.A."

He hesitated.
Did he deserve it? Truly ?

Around him, the class erupted in excitement, throwing papers and laughing.

But Katsuki stayed silent.

He had learned a few things over the years:
Being feared isn’t the same as being respected.
Validation means nothing if you lose yourself in the process.
Controlling your emotions isn’t weakness—it’s strength.
And guilt… guilt never truly fades.

But maybe, just maybe, redemption was still possible.

Many times, he wondered what happened to Izuku.

Was he still alive? Still out there?

Sometimes, Katsuki even caught himself imagining what he’d do if he found Izuku sitting in some lonely corner.

He’d apologize, no doubt—fall to his knees and cry, beg for forgiveness he didn’t deserve.

But it didn’t matter.

Izuku was gone.

Katsuki didn’t want to think about hollow hopes—those damn hopes that used to burn and bleed.
The kind that whispered Izuku was still alive.
That he was okay.
That he’d come back.

But those same hopes made him angry.
Because what if Izuku was alive, living comfortably somewhere while Katsuki stayed stuck in guilt and rot?

Back then, Katsuki was a mess.

Now that hope wasn’t gone…

Just dulled.

Muted by time.

Only a bitter aftertaste remained.

Middle school ended without much of a commotion.
Katsuki walked away from it without a single real friendship.

For a short time, he had some fleeting attention—pity disguised as praise—after that incident with the slime villain.
But the buzz died off fast, especially when he shut people down with his usual cold glare and sharp mouth.

There wasn’t much to say anyway.
The villain was taken care of, the hero arrived quickly—even if Katsuki had lost consciousness while trapped and suffocating, waiting for someone to pull him out.

Not that it mattered.

Whether he was saved or not wouldn’t have made a difference.

(And just like that, those thoughts crept in again. The ones that whispered it’d be easier if no one had shown up.)

He swallowed hard, jaw tight.
He made a note—quiet and practiced—to mention it to his therapist.
The same therapist who had spent years helping him peel back the layers of guilt, of regret.
Of everything he couldn’t admit out loud.

Not even to himself.

It was summer now, just before the UA entrance exams.

Katsuki trained like hell.

He was obsessive, relentless.
The kind of son every Asian mom would brag about—
If you erased two-thirds of his life.

He came home after four hours of training, drenched in sweat, feeling oddly at peace.

That peace shattered the moment he stepped through the door.

There she was.

Inko Midoriya.

His best friend’s mother.
The mother of the boy he bullied.
The woman he’d wronged more than anyone.

She looked dead.

Her once-bright eyes were void of light.
Her face, lined and hollow.

Dark circles bloomed like bruises under her eyes, red-rimmed and tired—clearly worn from years of crying and sleepless nights.

Katsuki looked away, disappearing into the bathroom.

He couldn’t face her.

And honestly, she didn’t have the strength to face him either.

The loss of her son had torn a hole through her life.

She kept breathing only because she clung to the idea that he might still be alive.
But she wasn’t really there anymore.

Her soul had left the day Izuku did.

She never gave up hope.

She believed—No she knew he was still out there.

But she’d lost everything—her job, her spark, her smile.

Her son.

And Katsuki?
How the hell could he ever look her in the eye?

It wouldn’t be fair.

Hell, he didn’t even understand how his own mother could still look at him.

He destroyed her friendship with Inko—the woman who had always been there for her, even before Katsuki’s dad came into the picture.

He cried.

He cried hard that night.
Didn’t even come down for dinner.

His father left a plate outside his door, like always when Inko dropped by, knowing full well what would happen.

By morning, it was cold. Untouched.

Mitsuki knew how much seeing Inko wrecked Katsuki.

If he had asked her to stop seeing her, she would’ve.
But he didn’t.

He even begged her not to.

He didn’t want to break what little was left of the bond between the two women.

Living like this was unbearable.
But they did it anyway—for five long years.

Trying to glue back the jagged shards of a shattered vase.

The Bakugou and Midoriya households walked on eggshells around each other.

Never as close as before.
But never able to truly let go either.

After that encounter, Inko didn’t visit the Bakugous again for the rest of summer.
Still, Mitsuki visited her.

Then came the UA entrance exam.

Katsuki crushed it—aced the written part and blew through the practical.

Even saved the ass of some random brown-haired girl with the help of that useless spiky-toothed guy.
He soon learned that those two would be his classmates for the next three years.
Great. Now he was stuck with the loud, spiky-toothed guy and the overly friendly, clingy brown-haired girl.

Their names were Ejirou Kirishima and Ochako Uraraka.
Katsuki preferred calling them Spiky and Pink Cheeks.
He made it clear—at least to himself—that they weren’t friends.
He didn’t want them to get the wrong idea.

But as time passed, something shifted.

The students of 1-A were different from everyone else he had known.
Even when he rejected their pathetic attempts at friendship, they didn’t back off.
They kept talking to him, including him, acting like he mattered.

He couldn’t understand it.
He didn’t deserve their kindness—he never had.

But even after he told them what he’d done, after he let the ugliness spill out, they stayed.
They didn’t flinch.
They’d seen how he’d changed.
They even joked that he should finally learn how to express his feelings better, though he always reminded them that even his therapist had failed at that mission.

And at some point—he didn’t know when or how—he felt it.
A quiet kinship.

Not with all of them. Todoroki (aka Peppermint) still had the emotional range of a rock.
But the class, as a whole, had a rhythm he found himself syncing with.

Until that day.

When Aizawa walked in, shut the curtains, and said he had someone to introduce.
Someone who’d been rescued, like Eri once was.

From the moment Aizawa spoke, something felt wrong.
Katsuki's skin prickled with goosebumps.
His gut twisted, flipped.
Something deep inside was bracing itself.

And then the door opened.

And he saw those eyes.

Staring straight at him.

His breath caught, his stomach dropped, and guilt exploded in his chest like a punch to the lungs.

He barely heard himself said it—ragged, sharp, and trembling:

“Izuku?”

Chapter Text

Katsuki drew all the attention to himself rather than the child.

He had just screamed the name of a stranger—or rather, the name of that child.

He rushed toward him, desperate to hug him, to look at him, to touch him—to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.
He didn’t think about anything else.

Everyone stood frozen, shocked.
Even Izuku never imagined hearing his name in this place.

The only times he’d heard it before were when the masked man called him—when he wanted something.
When he was preparing to hu—

“Katsuki Bakugou!”

Aizawa suddenly stepped between them, blocking Bakugou’s path.

Katsuki blinked, startled to find his teacher standing right in front of him.
He tried to peer past Aizawa to catch another glimpse of the person behind him, but failed.
Moments later, he was pulled out of the classroom.

The rest of the class remained in stunned silence, trying to process what had just happened in a matter of seconds.
Eri stood there awkwardly, glancing quickly at Izuku to make sure he was okay.

Izuku, meanwhile, stared at the door Aizawa and the blonde boy had exited through.
He looked just as lost as everyone else.

Then, a small voice cut through the silence.

“Um… What just happened?”

Izuku looked at the girl.
Her skin was pink, with little yellow horns poking through hair as soft and rosy as her complexion.

No one answered.

She stood from her chair, clearly expecting some kind of response.
But Izuku didn’t have one—not even for himself.
And even if he did… how could he communicate it?

Minutes passed in awkward silence.

Then the door opened again.

Aizawa walked in, looking tired, and nodded at Katsuki to sit back down.

Bakugou returned to his seat, his head lowered.
It was an unusual sight for his classmates.
He stole a brief, sad glance at Izuku, but said nothing.

Aizawa stood at his desk, scanning the room—his students, and then Izuku.

“Midoriya,” he said.

No response.

“Izuku,” he tried again.

Izuku’s head lifted slightly at the sound of the name they used.

Aizawa looked relieved… but also hurt.

Izuku didn’t know what to do.
But then Eri stepped to his side and took his hand.

Strangely, it helped.
He felt calmer.

“Is that your name?”

Aizawa asked.

Izuku nodded.

Things had just gotten much more complicated, and Aizawa knew it.
He ran both hands over his face, elbows propped on the desk.

The kidnapping case of Izuku Midoriya: 10 years old.
No information. No witnesses. No clues. No leads.
And now, five years later, here he was—fifteen years old. Alive.
Which meant... he had survived that place for five whole years.
Probably tortured.

Back before teaching at U.A., Aizawa had been involved in clearing difficult police cases, which is why he had strong ties to the department.
The Midoriya case had been one of the hardest.
It remained unsolved to this day.
Aizawa never imagined the missing child could be this one.
But now, looking at him—the green hair, the freckles, those green eyes—it was obvious.

He’d just changed so much.

Still… it felt like an excuse.

Even after five years, he should have recognized him.

He should have.

“Sensei?”

A voice spoke from the front row.
It was Mashirao Ojiro.

“What’s going on?”

Aizawa looked at his students, then at Bakugou—who was still watching Izuku like he might disappear.

Another sigh escaped Aizawa.
That must’ve been the tenth today.
Even for him, that was a record.

“Pardon me. This child was recently rescued from the villain Maestro—you may have seen it on the news. We didn’t know who he was or what he went through in that facility.”

He paused, gathering himself.

Then, looking his students in the eyes:
“But thanks to Bakugou, we might finally understand. I can’t confirm anything yet, but this child will likely be staying at U.A. for a while.”

Bakugou’s head lifted at that.

Izuku, on the other hand, looked even more confused.

“Class is canceled for now. I’m sorry you had to witness this. I need to inform Nezu about everything.”

The classroom erupted into murmurs as Aizawa, Izuku, and Eri left once again.

Everyone else remained—confused, invested, and thoroughly intrigued.

Later, after the chaos had died down and Nezu had been informed, Aizawa finally collapsed in the teacher’s lounge with a cup of coffee.

Izuku kept to himself in a dark corner of the room, trying to stay unnoticed.
He was panicking—feeling responsible for causing a scene. He curled in on himself, overcome with guilt.

Eri tried to comfort him, but he pulled away.

She sat beside Aizawa instead, giving Izuku space.

“Mister Aizawa... what’s going to happen to—” she hesitated, “—Izuku?”

Aizawa looked down at her, gently running a hand through her hair.

“We’ll inform his mother that he’s alive. Then... we’ll see. I don’t know what kind of future he’ll have, but hopefully, the best one.”

He glanced at Izuku, still curled up in the corner.

It pained him to see the boy blame himself, despite all Aizawa's reassurances.

“Mother?”

Eri asked innocently.

“Yes… he has a mother.”

He didn’t explain further—not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know how to.

Eri didn’t ask again.
She just sipped her hot chocolate.

The lounge was quiet. Still. Safe.

The overwhelming morning faded beneath the calm.

Eventually, Izuku started to relax.

Being in a corner calmed him.
Being in the dark calmed him.

But not being punished… confused him.

Why could he cause a commotion and not be punished?

Why could he be selfish and still receive kindness?

Why was their care so genuine? Didn’t they want something in return?

He wished they did.
That way, he’d know what to expect.

At least then, he wouldn’t be afraid they’d leave.

A useful tool is better than a pretty doll.

That’s what he had learned.

As they sat, doing nothing in particular, calm slowly returned—until the next commotion.

A problematic child, indeed.

When Present Mic burst into the room, loud as ever, it startled Izuku—who looked up and screamed.

The light. The golden hair. That smile.

He vomited.

Memories flooded back—experiments, pain, that voice.

Not even the return of darkness helped this time.

He convulsed.

He had never reacted like this before.

He hated it.
Every second of it.

If being rescued meant this—shaking from a single memory—then he would’ve rather stayed in the facility.
At least there, everything followed a predictable routine.

No surprises.
No hope.
No feelings.
No betrayal.
And then—

He blacked out.

Present Mic had no idea the kids were in the lounge.
Class was supposed to still be in session.
When he strode in, all smiles and energy, lighting up the lounge, shouting his signature greeting—

He didn’t expect a scream in return.

He panicked and turned, searching for the source.

Aizawa was already rushing to Izuku, yelling for the lights to be turned off.

Present Mic did so instinctively.

Eri ran to Izuku as well.

Mic was confused, but followed.

“What happened? What did I do?! I didn’t know— I’m sorry!”

Tears gathered in his eyes as he knelt beside the convulsing boy.

He had never heard a scream that intense—not even from his own quirk.

Aizawa shoved him aside.
Not out of anger, but to get space to help Izuku.

He gently moved Eri, too.

She covered her ears from the screaming, her own tears now falling.

Present Mic pulled her into a hug, rocking her gently even though he was still panicking.

Then—
Silence.

Aizawa had rendered Izuku unconscious.
He lifted the boy into his arms and rushed toward the infirmary.

Present Mic remained, holding Eri, both of them trembling.

He stroked her hair and back, calming her the only way he knew how.

They sat in silence.

Both of them needing—
desperately—
another hot chocolate.

When Aizawa returned—without Izuku—he sighed once more.
At this rate, he was going to break his personal record for most sighs in a day.
He noticed that both Eri and Present Mic had calmed down.
Honestly, he had been worried Eri would take it badly, but seeing her smile return eased his mind. Maybe he had worried for nothing.
Still, he apologized nonetheless, to both her and Present Mic for yelling earlier.

“It’s fine… It was urgent. You had to take care of the kid,”

Present Mic replied sincerely, running a hand through his blonde hair.

“I didn’t even realize there were people in the lounge. The lights were off and class was still in session. I should’ve been more careful... You even warned me the kid was scared of sudden brightness. He must’ve been really affected.”

His voice was dejected, heavy with guilt over unintentionally scaring the child.

Aizawa didn’t like seeing Present Mic like this.
He was supposed to be the gloomy one, not him.

“It was bound to happen eventually. And honestly, I should’ve put a sign on the door—something like ‘Do not shout or flip the lights.’ We both messed up. Hopefully, it won’t leave any lasting damage.”

He spoke quietly, trying to ease the guilt weighing on his friend’s shoulders.

Aizawa sat down beside Eri, still feeling bad for leaving her in such a confused state earlier.

“Was your hot chocolate good?” he asked.

She smiled and nodded.
He felt a wave of relief wash over him.
Even though he had apologized earlier, he felt compelled to do it again.

“It’s alright,”

She said, sounding a little more mature than her age,

“It was urgent. I wasn’t hurt. It was just a little overwhelming. But I’m strong!”

She smiled proudly.
Aizawa couldn’t help but reach over and ruffle her hair.
She giggled softly at the gesture.

“If you say you’re okay, that’s good—but remember, if anything does hurt, it’s always okay to say so,” he reminded her gently.

Eri stopped swinging her feet and looked down at the mug still warm in her hands.

“I know. But I really am not hurt. I just hope Izuku will be alright.”

Present Mic turned away slightly, trying—and failing—to hide his tears.
The quiet, heartfelt exchange between the two was just too sweet for his sentimental heart.

Aizawa noticed, but said nothing.
Probably because he was already drained from the morning’s chaos—even though it was only 10 a.m.

He silently wished the rest of the day would pass without further trouble.
He really hoped.

Chapter Text

When Izuku woke up in an unfamiliar place once again, he didn’t like it at all.
The soft light, the strange scent of disinfectant, the unfamiliar ceiling—it all reminded him too much of before. Of the facility.

He quickly recalled the events leading up to this and, after observing the white walls, the simple furnishings, and the faint beep of a nearby monitor, he guessed it was an infirmary.

At the very least, he was used to those.
In the facility, after every blackout, he was transported to one.
Even if things changed... nothing ever really changed.

Then, an old lady approached Izuku.

He observed her carefully.
His body didn’t move, but his eyes tracked every step.
Every motion.
Nothing passed unnoticed.

He remained alert.

“Hi, sweetie,” she said softly. “I’m Chiyo Shuzenji. I’m the nurse at U.A. Do you mind me approaching you ?”

She asked it gently, as if talking to a frightened kitten.

He wanted to say no.
Deep down, he screamed it.
But he didn’t.
It wasn’t like adults ever listened anyway. They always asked questions while already expecting a specific answer.

She stepped forward.

He flinched.

She stopped.

In all her years working at U.A., Chiyo had developed an eye for the more... complicated students.
The ones carrying invisible weights.
She had never been particularly skilled at handling kids gently—she’d never had children of her own—but she'd seen enough of them trying to act like adults, hiding behind silence and polite nods, pretending that everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t.

“Kid,” she sighed, crossing her arms, “if you want to say no, then say it. It’s more problematic when you don’t.”

She clearly felt too old for the nonsense U.A. threw her way every year.
But somehow, this kid... this one tugged at something different.

Izuku nodded, eyes lowered.
She had seen through him.
His poker face—so well-trained, so practiced—was falling apart after just a few days outside the facility.

He hated it.
Hated how human he was starting to feel.
How they made him feel.

He was scared. Terrified.

Scared of what he could become.
Of what he already was.
Scared of being cared for.
Scared of care itself.

The silence returned, wrapping the room in stillness.
Izuku’s thoughts bounced chaotically.
He was overwhelmed.
A mess.
In a foreign place, surrounded by unfamiliar people who were strangely kind, in a room full of soft furniture he’d never seen before. He was lost.

Why was freedom so complicated?

He just wanted to go back.

Back to the pain, the routine, the silence, the torture.

Back to what he understood.

Back to where everything started, and where, in his mind, it was supposed to end.

He didn’t know why—but he cried. Again.

This time, it wasn’t violent.
It was a soft, muffled cry, buried in the warm blanket he wasn’t used to having.
A blanket too kind. Too warm. Too much.

Chiyo didn’t say anything.
She stood in the room quietly, awkwardly.
Letting the boy cry.

She wasn’t unaffected—she was far from heartless—but she knew interfering would only complicate things.

If she knew one thing about children, it was this:
They’re weird.
They’re emotional.
They’re complicated.
They’re fragile.

Even the strongest-acting ones, the quietest, the most stubborn—they can break as easily as glass.
And she had only heard the surface of what this boy had gone through.
She couldn’t begin to imagine the rest.

So yes, she let him cry.
Because sometimes, a broken child needs to empty all those pent-up feelings before they can begin to grow again.

Eventually, the sobs faded.
A few soft sniffles remained, and tear stains streaked his little cheeks.
But he was better. Not fine, not okay—but better.

“Feeling a bit better?”

She asked gently, even though she already knew he would just nod.

And he did.

“Listen, kid,” she continued. “You don’t have to act like you’re fine here. It’s okay. Children have the right to be selfish sometimes.”

Selfish ?

He didn’t quite know what that meant.

But something inside him told him he had to obey.

“You clearly haven’t acted selfish your whole life,” she added, softer now. “Take your time. It’s hard to change habits. Especially bad ones... like yours.”

He didn’t really understand what she meant.
But once again, he nodded—like nodding was the only thing he still knew how to do.

She approached him again.
This time, he didn’t flinch.

She smiled.
A weird little smile, followed by a small chuckle.

“I like you. You’re quiet,”

She said while casually checking on him.

“Visit me if you feel fuzzy. I’ll welcome you every time.”

What a weird woman, he thought.

Suddenly, Aizawa, and Eri entered the room.
They had come to check on Izuku, to see if he had woken up.

What they found was a strange calm.

The normally bustling infirmary was quiet. Peaceful.

Just the old nurse and a crying child wrapped in stillness.

Chiyo had done the impossible—she had calmed a traumatized boy.
Even though everyone in the school knew her as the grumpy old lady who complained about children day and night.

Aizawa didn’t comment.

He stepped into the room and cleared his throat to draw attention.

“Hello, Chiyo. How is he ?”

He looked at Izuku.

Izuku did not return his gaze.

Was he intentionally avoiding eye contact ?

“He seems fine,” Chiyo answered, walking toward a chair with tired legs. “But, as you already know, he suffers from PTSD. Everything can be a trigger. He reacts strangely to everything. You’ll need to find something—anything—familiar to him. It’ll help ground him.”

Aizawa nodded solemnly.
He knew most of that already.
But hearing it from someone else still helped.

Present Mic entered the room behind them, careful not to startle the boy.
He reminded himself to not turn on the lights.

But even that small movement made Izuku start to tremble.

Present Mic’s smile dropped.

What had he done ?

Did he cause this ? Was Izuku... scared of him ?

But just as he was bracing for the worst, Izuku stopped trembling.
He looked at him—uncomfortable, yes—but not scared.

It wasn’t terror. Just... unease.

Present Mic let out a silent breath.
It still hurt.
But at least the child wasn’t afraid of him—just... reminded of something.

The other adults had noticed the strange behavior too.

Meanwhile, Eri, innocent and unaware, skipped happily toward Izuku’s bedside.

“Izuku ! How are you ?”

She asked brightly, climbing up beside him on the bed.

“You know there’s nothing here that can hurt you !”

Her joy was contagious. Her smile bright. Her words unfiltered in the way only a child’s could be.

Izuku didn’t reply.
But he didn’t flinch.
He didn’t pull away.

He just... listened. Quietly. Absorbing her energy. Her sunshine.

She was too bright for someone who had supposedly gone through what she did.
And he couldn’t help but be drawn to that brightness.

While the children sat together, the adults gathered in the corner of the room, still watching closely in case anything went wrong.

They were worried about what had happened earlier.

Izuku hadn’t shown simple fear.
Not like the fear of spiders or loud noises.

He had frozen.

His breath had stopped.
His pupils had dilated, his hands trembled.
He had looked on the edge of passing out.
It was like he saw a ghost.

Or something worse, indescribable.

Just like that time in the teacher’s lounge.
That same haunted look. That same fragile panic.

It was terrifying to witness.
And they never wanted to see it again.

But to avoid that, they needed to understand.
What had he seen ?
What was he remembering ?

And they were sure of one thing:
It had something to do with Present Mic. Directly or indirectly.

Present Mic hated the thought.
Hated feeling isolated.
Hated knowing a child might be scared of him.
But he quietly stepped out of the room.

To protect Izuku.

Aizawa turned back to the child.

“Izuku,” he said gently. “Are you scared of the blond man?”

Not very subtle. But Izuku didn’t seem to mind.

He didn’t shake his head immediately.

He wasn’t scared of that man specifically. But...

He looked down. Words didn’t come.
He had forgotten how to speak long ago.

So instead, he shook his head.

Aizawa exchanged a glance with Chiyo.

She silently nodded—encouraging him to continue.

“Then why did you react like that when you saw him?”

Aizawa asked.

Still not subtle. Still hard to answer.

Izuku hesitated, then looked at Eri.

She tilted her head, curious.

A seemingly understanding was created between the two.

He looked back at Aizawa.

Then he pointed at his hair.
Then at his mouth.

Eri blinked. Imitated him. Wondering what it meant.

He repeated the motion, this time pointing at her hair and mouth.

She giggled.

Then stopped.

“Did the bad guy have blond hair too ?”

She asked softly.

Like how she saw her own fears in every brown-haired man.

Aizawa froze.
So did Chiyo.

And Izuku nodded.

Slowly.

Of course. Of course it was the hair.

Maestro.

“Then... why did you stop trembling after a while?”

Aizawa’s voice broke the silence once again.

Izuku pointed again at the mouth—this time, mimicking a smile.

Izuku didn’t smile. Never had.

Because smiling only came when someone got hurt.

That was what he had learned.

He knew a smile didn’t always mean pain—like the one Eri wore every time she was with him.
But he never quite understood what it meant.

For him smiling meant danger.

So imitating one was the only thing he could do.

Imitating his smile.

Maestro’s smile was the last thing he saw before pain.

The smile. That horrid smile.

Masked or not, that grin was always there.
That was what Izuku remembered.
That was what he feared.

And Present Mic’s smile had reminded him of that.

It all made sense now.

Aizawa felt stupid.
Every time this child reacted, it took them too long to understand.
Was he truly the right guardian for this child ?
He wronged him so many time but–

But no. No self-doubt.

He had made a promise to this child.
He would protect him.

And he would keep that promise.

If he wasn’t enough, he’d become enough.

Now, at least, they knew one more trigger to avoid.

Every blond hero, every teacher who had the habit of smiling too brightly—they were all told to stay far from Izuku.
And if they saw him, they were told one simple rule: Don’t smile.

Present Mic received the news with a bittersweet mix of relief and sorrow.

He wasn’t the one Izuku feared...

But he also couldn’t approach him.

Couldn’t comfort him.

Couldn’t be near the boy who might someday need help.

But for now...

It would have to be enough.

At least, he hoped it would.

Amid all the commotion, a black car pulled up hard in front of U.A.'s gates.

The door slammed open, and a woman stepped out fast—no hesitation, no pause.

Her eyes didn’t move.

Just fixed on the gate like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Her face was stiff. Pale. Her mouth tight like she was holding something back—fear, maybe. Or hope.

She looked like she hadn’t breathed in years.

Chapter Text

After her son disappeared, Inko Midoriya didn’t just grieve—she died.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. She died.

Everything that made her human, everything that tethered her to this world, vanished the moment Izuku didn’t come home.

There’s no preparing a mother for this.
No pamphlet. No guide. No therapy. No god.
No universe could ever prepare a mother for the silence of a child’s empty room.
And unless you’ve stood where she stands—fists clenched around hope so fragile it cuts—you will never understand the agony of it.

She didn’t even want a miracle anymore.
Just a corpse. Just something to bury. A hand. A shoe. Anything.
Something to hold so she could finally let go.
So she could die with peace instead of screaming inside every night.
If they had to leave this world, then at least… they could’ve left it together.

But the world didn’t give her that.

Instead, it cursed her with hope.

Hope is a poison.
A venom that drips slow.
A cruel little whisper: Maybe he's still alive.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

She lived trapped in that word.

The police had nothing.
No blood. No sightings. No whispers. No camera footage.
Nothing but empty apologies and coffee-stained reports.

It was like he’d been erased by the hands of God.
Like her baby boy never existed at all.

Now she sat in a suffocating apartment that didn’t feel like home anymore.
It was hollow, like her chest.
The walls didn’t echo with laughter.
The air didn’t carry his voice.
The silence wasn’t quiet—it was loud.
Deafening.

The TV rambled in the background, some hero being praised for rescuing someone, some villain getting locked away.
Why?
Why couldn’t those goddamn heroes save her baby?
The one who believed in them more than anyone? Who worshipped them? Who cried over them?
Where were they when it mattered?

She broke down again.
Same as an hour ago.
Same as yesterday.
Same as every day.

Her sobs wracked through her chest as his favorite dish sat cold and untouched on the table.
She’d prepared two plates.
As always.
Dumbly. Faithfully.
The tablecloth soaked with tears.
Again.

Eight o'clock.
He was always home by eight.
He never missed dinner.
But for the past week, he had.
And still, she waited.
Because what else was she supposed to do? Not wait?

Every day, she dragged her dead soul to the police station.
In the beginning, they cared.
They really tried.

But as the weeks bled into months, they stopped looking her in the eye.
Stopped giving updates.
Stopped trying.

Now she just sat there, begging them to believe her.
To not file him away as just another case.
He was her everything.
Couldn’t they feel that?

She could.

He was still out there. Somewhere.

She didn’t care where.
She’d dig up every inch of this cursed world to find him if she had to.

Because the only thing keeping her alive was that need to know.

Inko never complained before.
Her life was hard, sure—shitty job, low pay, a husband who ran away the moment their son was deemed “useless.”
But she never asked for more. She didn’t need more. Because she had him.

And she always thought… once Izuku was grown, financially stable, living his life—then she could go.
She could rest.
Leave knowing she’d done her job.

But now?

Now he was ripped away.
Ripped out of her arms, her life, her soul.
And the world expected her to just live through that?

Nothing mattered anymore.

Not food. Not friends. Not her own body.

She forgot how to breathe without guilt.

Every night, she saw him in her dreams—begging her to save him.
And every morning, she woke up to the realization that she hadn’t.

If she hadn’t worked late that day.

If she had picked him up.

If she’d called Mitsuki.

If. If. If.

She knew letting a ten-year-old walk home alone was dangerous.

She fucking knew it.

And she did it anyway.

Why didn’t she stop him?

Why didn’t she say no?

Was this God’s punishment?

Fine.
Let her suffer. But bring him back. Please.

She cried. Again.
Like she hadn’t just screamed her throat raw hours before.

The only time she remembered she was still alive was when Mitsuki came.
Mitsuki, of all people—the mother of the boy who bullied Izuku relentlessly.
Her best friend. Her only friend.

She would clean up, cook, run baths, feed her like a broken bird.
Always setting three plates, just in case.
Just in case he came home.

And Inko let her.
Because she couldn’t stop her. Because she didn’t care anymore.

She didn’t count days.
She didn’t know what month it was.
Every minute without Izuku was a lifetime.
The only thing she did—if you could call it that—was search.

She wandered the streets like a ghost.
Filthy.
Hollow.
People avoided her, like she carried a disease.
And maybe she did. Maybe grief was contagious.
Sometimes the police would find her, bring her back home.

One time, Mitsuki found her three days after she disappeared.
She hadn’t even known she was gone for that long.

She wouldn’t be alive now if it weren’t for Mitsuki.

But Inko never said thank you.

Couldn’t.

Sometimes, in a rare lucid moment, she tried to apologize.
She’d eat a little. She’d talk a little. She even smiled once.

Until she saw him.

Katsuki.

The boy who made her son’s life hell.

The boy who ruined everything.

Ten years old and already a monster.

Because blaming herself wasn’t enough anymore.
She needed somewhere to put the rage.
The guilt.
And Katsuki Bakugou was the perfect container.

Why did he hate Izuku so much?
Why did he torment him?
Because of a quirk?
Because of society?
Because he could?
WHY?

Izuku was kind. Polite. Sweet. Bubbly. Hers.

Her only child.

Her everything.

And Katsuki got to live?
Got to laugh?
Got to run around carefree like he hadn’t taken a piece of her soul and spat on it?

She fantasized about killing him.

God, she wanted to.

But jail would mean missing Izuku’s return.

And if he ever came back and she wasn’t there?

No.
She couldn’t.

She swallowed it.
The rage. The hate. She buried it deep.
Mitsuki must never know.

Bills piled up. Rent loomed. She didn’t care.
But she couldn’t lose the apartment.
This was the only place Izuku knew.

If she left, how would he find her?
How would he find home?

So Mitsuki paid.

Of course she did.

Inko didn’t even ask.

Days bled into months.
Months into years.

No news. No leads. No one cared anymore.

The police closed the case. Unsolved. Forgotten.

Another missing kid.
Another broken family.

No one cared about the green-haired woman who still came to beg every week.
Who still believed. Who still knew.
They rolled their eyes. Whispered. Avoided her.

Only one person kept trying—Eraserhead.
A hero who hadn’t let go.
But even he was human.
And the world didn’t give him time.
Not when he had students to teach, lives to save, mysteries to solve.

Eventually, even he stopped showing up.

And now, Inko was truly alone.

Not just at home.

But in the search.

In the fight.

In the war for her son’s life.

She was alone in the grief that never ended.

She hadn’t showered in four days.

She couldn’t remember the last time she slept.

Her body ached, but she didn’t notice.

Her throat was raw from screaming into her pillow, her knees bruised from collapsing over and over again in front of that shrine of photographs, toys, and Izuku’s tiny All Might figure—clutched so tightly, the plastic began to crack beneath her grip.

She didn’t leave the apartment anymore.
The curtains hadn’t moved in days.

What was the point of sunlight when your son was gone?

What was the point of anything?

The phone rang.

It hadn’t rung since Day One.

She didn’t move at first.
Didn’t even flinch.
Just stared blankly at the sound like it was coming from another universe.

Then it rang again.

Her body moved on instinct, slow and brittle.
Her hand shook so hard she nearly dropped the phone when she picked it up.

“Hello?”

Her voice came out hollow, unrecognizable even to herself.

There was a pause.

“Inko Midoriya?”

The voice on the other end asked—gravelly, tired, professional.

She gripped the phone tighter.
Her heart didn’t race.
It didn’t know how anymore.

“Yes,”

She whispered. Barely.

“This is Aizawa Shouta—Eraserhead. I’m with U.A. High School. Hero course.”

Her breath caught in her throat.
Her eyes blinked but didn’t process.
A hero school? Why—?

“I… I don’t understand,” she croaked.

There was another pause.

Then, the voice softened—just a fraction.
A warmth, hesitant.

“I believe… I believe your son is here. At U.A.”

Silence.

Pure. Empty. Silence.

Her legs gave out.
The phone dropped but stayed connected.
She fell to her knees.
Her mouth moved but no words came out.

“…Izuku?”

She finally breathed, like the name itself would vanish if spoken too loud.

“We aren’t quite sure yet but…” Aizawa says, softer now. “Yes, It’s Izuku.”

She couldn’t hear anything after that.
Just static.
Just her own heartbeat slamming in her chest for the first time in days.
A sob rose in her throat, violent and unfamiliar.
It cracked through her like thunder.

She screamed.

A sound so full of grief and relief and disbelief it made her own ears ring.

Alive. Her baby was alive.

“Where is he?” she cried, gasping. “I—I need to see him. I need to go to him. Now. Please, I—”

“I understand,” Aizawa interrupted gently. “He’s safe. But he’s… not well. He hasn’t spoken. He flinches when lights get near. But he’s here. He’s alive.”

She sobbed harder.
Her entire body folded in on itself.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

That word shattered her.
Hope hurt worse than grief.

And still—still—she whispered, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Over and over. Like a prayer.

Like she was being reborn.

Chapter Text

After a long while of whispered conversation between Eri and Izuku, voices trembling with the effort of forming fragile connections, Aizawa finally interrupted, his tone low but firm.

"Izuku."

He waited, standing there with that immovable patience only years of experience could build, until Izuku lifted his head toward him.
His green — no, now more muted — eyes stared up at him blankly.

"I contacted your mother. She's probably already on her way here."

He spoke carefully, every syllable slow, like explaining something to a scared animal ready to bolt at the first wrong move.

And yet... he saw it.
The flash of confusion.
The absence of understanding.

Izuku didn’t register what he said.

And what Aizawa feared most, that terrible heavy certainty, settled into his chest like a slab of stone.

Izuku forgot.

Forgot his life before Maestro took him.

Forgot her.

He sighed, and caught Chiyo’s grim, knowing eyes.

There was nothing to say.

A soft voice broke the heavy silence.

"His mother will come?"

It was Eri, her small face tilted up, so hopeful, so earnest.

Aizawa's throat tightened.
After all Eri had endured, after all she had lost...
And yet she still asked with such gentle belief.

"Yes."

The word caught slightly.
He forced it out.

He cleared his throat, composing himself as best he could, hearing the telltale hurried footsteps approaching UA's gates.

He couldn't — wouldn’t — let Eri see what might happen next.

She was too young, too fragile still.

"Go play with Present Mic for a while, Eri. Izuku needs some privacy now."

Eri, obedient as always, gave a small nod and rushed from the room, her hair bouncing slightly with the movement.

Aizawa watched her go, an ache deep in his heart. She didn’t even question it.

She trusted him.
She trusted him to protect her from the sight of a mother breaking in front of her child.

The air grew heavier once Eri left, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Izuku looked at Aizawa, a slight frown on his too-thin face, wanting to ask something — anything — but the words never came.

And then—

The door slammed open with a crash that made everyone flinch.

Inko Midoriya stood there, disheveled, almost unrecognizable from the soft, cheerful woman in the photos.
Her hair clung desperately to a mess of a ponytail; dark circles underlined her bloodshot eyes.
Her clothes were crumpled and thrown on, nothing matched, but none of that mattered.

Her eyes — god, her eyes — locked immediately on the boy lying in the infirmary bed.

"Izuku,"

She whispered, as if she could breathe life back into him with just his name.

"Izuku,"

She cried again, louder, desperate, raw.

But Aizawa moved faster than she could.

Before she could cross the room, before she could throw herself onto him, he gently but firmly blocked her, steering her out into the hall.

“What are you doing, Eraserhead?!”

She hissed, almost unhinged with fury, the rage of a grieving mother who had tasted hope again.

If she had been thinking clearly, she would have never dared speak to a pro hero like that.

But she wasn’t.
She was a mother first.

Aizawa didn’t flinch.

He understood.

"Miss Midoriya," he said, voice softer than steel should allow. "I know you miss your son. But we need to be sure. Even if this child looks like Izuku Midoriya..."

She didn’t let him finish.

Her glare could have leveled mountains.

"Eraserhead," she said, her voice trembling, "I know my son. Even if his hair is dull, even if his cheeks have hollowed, even if his light has faded from his eyes... I know. I combed that hair every morning, I kissed those freckles goodnight, I know the way his hands fidget when he’s nervous.
You don’t have to tell me to be careful.
That—" she pointed tremblingly at Izuku through the window, "that is my son."

No one could argue with that.

No one dared.

So he let her pass.

He watched as she entered the room, quiet now, but filled with an unstoppable force.

Her knees almost buckled seeing him up close.

Five years.
Five years of nightmares, of empty beds, of lost birthdays and missed smiles.
Five years of an open wound that had never closed.

She crossed the room trembling, like every step would wake her up from a cruel dream.

Her hand, shaking, lifted and brushed his hair from his forehead.

Izuku flinched.

He flinched away.

It cut through her like a knife.

But she didn't stop.

She pulled him into her arms, slowly, like trying not to spook a wild animal.

He didn't hug her back.

His arms hung uselessly at his sides.

He didn’t even speak.

But she held him anyway.

Because that's what mothers do.

They hold on, even when everything inside them shatters.
They hold on because hope is stitched into their very bones.

Izuku sat there, frozen.

He didn’t know what to do.

This woman — she was familiar and yet... terrifying.

He wanted to move, to respond, to be the boy she thought he was.

But all he felt was numb.

Empty.

He forced himself to nod, stiff and mechanical.

But it didn’t matter that he didn’t recognise her.

It didn’t matter.

She told herself that over and over, until the words lost meaning.

She could wait.
She would wait.

Wait for him to come home.
Wait for him to live again.
Wait for them to be a family again.

She could wait forever, if that’s what it took.

It didn’t matter that he didn’t know her.
It didn’t matter that his empty eyes looked straight through her.
It didn’t matter that she remembered every laugh, every tear, every scraped knee — and he remembered nothing.
It didn’t matter.

Because he was alive.

That was enough.

It had to be enough.

Until it wasn’t.

She broke.
She broke in a way she didn’t know was possible.

She cried until her body shook, until her voice was nothing but a raw, gasping thing.

It’s one thing to find your son.

It’s another to realize he’s already gone.

All the nights spent praying, the years of waiting, the memories of holding his tiny hands, his baby smile —
They all came crashing down, burying her alive.

She knew it was stupid to believe he’d still be the same little boy after five years.

She knew.

She should have been happy.
She was happy.

But it still shattered her.

It hurt — god, it hurt — to know she remembered everything, and he remembered nothing at all.

Aizawa, from the doorway, watched the scene unfold with heavy, tired eyes.

He thought he had prepared himself for this.

He hadn’t.

Seeing Inko Midoriya break apart in front of her own son... it was worse than any villain he had ever faced.

This was real evil.

Not flashy powers or grand declarations.

Real evil was the quiet theft of time. Of memories. Of family.

When Inko finally let Izuku go, she stared at him like memorizing him all over again.

Five years lost.
Five years never to be returned.

She kissed his forehead, trembling.

“Izuku... It’s me. It’s Mom. I’m here, baby. I'm here. I missed you so, so much."

Her voice broke entirely.

And in that moment, Aizawa made a decision.

He made a promise to himself, one he would never break.

Later, outside the infirmary, as Inko wiped her face raw with a tissue, he stood next to her.

She looked at him, steel in her exhausted gaze.

Aizawa made a proposition — to keep Izuku at U.A., where they could protect him.

It was mercy. It was cruelty.

Because it meant he wouldn't come home.

Not truly.
Not the way she had dreamed of every sleepless night for five endless years.

Inko understood before the words even finished leaving his mouth.

She couldn't keep him — not in the place where he had been stolen, not in the house that had failed him once already.

She couldn't chain him to her side just to soothe her own terror.

She couldn't pretend that love alone could shield him from the world.

And if he stayed with her, she'd live with her heart in her throat, fearing every moment he was out of sight.

Worse — she knew there would be moments when he would need help, real help, and she would have nothing to offer him but trembling hands and helpless prayers.

So Inko Midoriya, who loved her son more than she loved her own life, did the hardest thing a mother could ever do.

She let him go.

And she asked only one question — the only question that mattered, when everything else had already been lost.

"Will he be safe?"

She asked.

No pretense, no ceremony.

Only the raw fear of a mother who had already lost too much.

Aizawa knew Inko Midoriya.
Or at least, he liked to believe he did.

He had seen the fractures beneath her brave face — how grief hollowed her out when her son vanished without a trace.
He remembered how she would clasp her hands tightly in her lap during questioning, her knuckles bone-white, her voice barely a whisper.
He had tried to find her child.
For three long years, he had tried — combing through dead ends, false leads, and empty promises.

But when another case emerged — a girl even younger, even more fragile — he had been forced to choose.
Forced to move forward, to save what he could.
And he did save her — that small, broken child now smiled freely at his side.

Still, guilt gnawed at him.
The knowledge that while one life was rescued, Inko Midoriya had been left behind to drown alone in her grief.

Now, facing her again, Aizawa made a quiet, unshakable promise to himself:
This time, he would not fail her.
He would not leave them behind.

"Yes," Aizawa said, steady. "I promise."

He would not let Izuku be lost again.

When Inko returned to say goodbye to her son — just for now, just until she could come back — her hand brushed his cheek, so gentle it was almost a ghost of a touch.

She pressed a kiss to his forehead — then whispered:

"Take all the time you need, my baby. I’ll wait. I’ll always wait."

And then she left.

Silently.

Like she had never been there at all.

But the ache of her absence stayed.

Izuku sat there, feeling the cold crawl up his spine.

He didn’t understand.
He wanted to.
But the world felt too big, too loud, too sharp.

Chiyo, pretending to busy herself cleaning, finally spoke.

“You alright, kid?”

He nodded. Automatically.

Because that's what he thought he was supposed to do.

“You sure?”

Her voice was so careful, so soft.

He hesitated.

Then nodded again.

Lie after lie after lie.

He didn’t know how to tell the truth anymore.

She sighed, giving him a small smile he barely noticed.

“You can show it, you know. Even if you can’t talk. You can show it.”

Her words floated around him, half-understood.

And yet...
And yet something in him stirred.

Maybe, maybe if he dared to be a little selfish this time, just a little...
Maybe they wouldn’t punish him for it.
Maybe.

Aizawa leaned against the wall outside, his eyes closed briefly.

He thought of Inko Midoriya's tear-stained face.

Of the weight of the promises he had made.

Nezu and the others would question him, would scold him, but he didn’t care.

He couldn't throw this boy out into the world yet.

Not when he was this broken.
Not when the world had already failed him once.

If keeping Izuku Midoriya safe meant bending a few rules, he would bend them until they snapped.

He opened his eyes, tired but resolved.

If they needed a reason, he would find one.
Quirk or no quirk.
Izuku was staying.

As long as he needed.
As long as it took.

Because once, long ago, Izuku had been an innocent child.

And maybe, if they were careful enough —
If they were patient enough —
Maybe he could be again.

Chapter Text

Aizawa had seen this coming.

Keeping the boy at U.A. had never been harder.

The child had a living mother, which meant technically, he had no reason to remain at the school — even with Aizawa pleading that he needed treatment.
He had even played the card of the “quirkless, discarded child,” warning that outside U.A., Izuku would receive no care, no real protection.
But it wasn’t enough.

Now that the world knew the truth — that the boy was Izuku Midoriya — there was pressure from all sides.
Nezu knew.
The press knew.
Every Pro Hero in the country knew.
And U.A. was no longer the place for him. Not officially.

But Aizawa wasn’t the kind of man who gave up.

He’d gone to Nezu and argued, relentlessly.
He'd even gone as far as to mention Nezu's own past — a risky move.
He saw the flicker of pain on Nezu’s face, the shame carved into every twitch of his whiskers.
But Nezu’s hands were tied, both by the Hero Public Safety Commission and by the scrutiny of the public.

Still, Nezu hoped Aizawa would find a solution.
He, too, understood what trauma did to someone — especially someone who had been kidnapped, experimented on, treated like a tool.
And he understood the quiet cruelty of being quirkless in a world built around power.

So Nezu gave him time.

Two weeks.

Two weeks to find something, anything, that would convince the Commission and the media to let Izuku stay.

Now, almost two weeks had passed.
It was Thursday.

Aizawa was exhausted — juggling being a teacher, a Pro Hero, a temporary guardian, and a man desperately fighting a system designed to throw away children like Izuku.
But he kept going.

Eri had just left for her special education program.
Izuku, too, had gone to his therapy session.
Both of them were beginning to bloom at U.A., and their bond with each other was growing stronger each day.
Aizawa saw the change — tiny, but steady.
And it made him more determined than ever:

He would not let Izuku leave.

When Inko came by for her weekly visit, Aizawa knew he should have told her.
He should have explained that her son, the boy she had entrusted to a stranger’s care, might soon be sent away again.
But he couldn’t.
He couldn’t betray the trust she’d given him — not when it was so fragile.
Not when Izuku was only just beginning to heal.

So, yeah.
Maybe it was a dumb decision.
But Aizawa kept her in the dark.

At least Izuku seemed… happy.
Or something close to it.

Eri still insisted on sleeping beside him, curled up on the floor where he had a pillow now, and a blanket warm enough to ward off the cold.
Aizawa had tried to get Izuku to sleep in a proper bed, but he understood.
Kids like him didn’t trust comfort.
Not yet.

But time would help.

In the past two weeks, Izuku had started to get used to Present Mic — even if it was hard to be in the same room.
Yamada had learned not to smile too widely around the boy.
A soft smile was okay.
Anything more made Izuku flinch.

He was even starting to respond — sometimes — to the name “Midoriya.”
A small turn of the head when it was spoken.
Rare, but real.
Aizawa clung to that progress.

Life, for once, didn’t feel like a battlefield. Not completely.

It was hard.
It was exhausting.
But it was good.

Until it wasn’t.

Because nothing ever stayed quiet for long when you were trying to help a traumatized child in a school full of loud voices and careless adults.

Izuku had just finished his therapy session.

He remembered what Aizawa had told him about the woman: that she was here for him.
She would listen, or she wouldn’t.
That choice was his.
She would never push.

At first, he had crouched in a corner, eyes fixed on her every move as she shuffled papers, occasionally offering a soft smile without ever starting a conversation.
She would greet him and then go silent again.

Eventually, he moved.
From the corner to the wall.
From the wall to a chair.

He still didn’t speak.

But he stayed.

And that was more than anyone had expected.

The room itself helped — the quiet shuffling of papers, the ticking of the clock.
The smell of clean spring air drifting in through the open window.
The light was never too bright.
It didn’t burn.

He even found himself kicking his feet sometimes, letting his guard down just enough to look around instead of watching her every second.
He tried picking up a pen, mimicking her motions.
It was hard at first, but she showed him.
Patiently. Kindly.

He felt… safe.

And that, for Izuku, was a miracle.

The therapy room didn’t lead to experiments.
There was no pain. No flashing lights. No twisted grins.

He wasn't dragged away.
He wasn't punished.

He was just… allowed to be.

And today felt like every other day.

He was going to show Eri that he could hold the pen now, properly.
After therapy, he’d go to his special class — where he was learning sign language, how to read, how sounds worked.
He even liked it.

For the first time in what felt like forever, life was fun.

Eri listened when he showed her what he’d learned.
The woman called “Mom” had hugged him and told him he mattered.
Aizawa ruffled his hair, never forcing anything.
His therapist never broke the silence — even though he once heard her voice outside the room.
It shocked him. She could speak.

But she never did, unless he wanted her to.

It felt like freedom.

Sometimes he even thought the nightmares might leave.

That the phantom pain in his bones might fade.

He walked the halls like a grown-up, proud.
The hallway between therapy and his class was always dim — a comfort.
A shadow he could melt into.

He reached the door.

Then he heard footsteps.

He turned instinctively.

And then—

“Hello, young one!”

Everything shattered.

No...

It was him.

Him. Him. Him.

He was back.

Back for Izuku.

Back to finish the nightmare he had started.

To drag him back.
To make him pay.

Why now?

Why did he let his guard slip?

Why didn't he run?

He was coming for him.

Coming to tear him apart.

Back to where the agony was endless.

Back to the place where pain was the only constant.

Where every smile was a mockery, a threat, lurking in every corner.

Where the light seared through his soul, blinding, burning, never letting him breathe.

Where laughter never stopped ringing in his ears, twisted and mocking, even in his dreams.

Back to the beginning.

Back to the hell he thought he'd escaped.

Back to where everything fell apart.

Back to where everything would end.

He didn’t hear the voice.

He didn’t see the hallway.

He didn’t know where he was.

His mind had snapped like a wire stretched too tight.
Reality shattered into fragments—white lights, cold restraints, muffled screams, white white white.

His body trembled violently.

But he wasn’t in control of it anymore.

Everything felt wrong.
Too loud.
Too bright.
Too close.

His breath caught—no, it vanished.
Like someone had reached into his chest and crushed his lungs.
His mouth opened, gasping for air that wasn’t there.
Nothing came in. Nothing came out.

His body began to curl in on itself, nails digging into his scalp, blood already blooming under them as he scratched at his head, like he could claw his thoughts out.

But it wasn’t enough.

Something deeper broke.

And his quirk answered.

A sickening crack echoed from within his body.

Then another.

Then another.

He didn’t know it was happening.

He didn’t feel it the way someone should—no time to scream, to react, to stop it.

His body just ripped itself apart.

Bones snapped. Split. Twisted.

A horrid sound—like meat tearing off the bone—rang out as his shoulders convulsed, shards of white bone bursting through his back like spears.
Not clean—jagged, wet, dripping.
The skin around them tore open like fragile paper, blood spraying in a high arc across the tile.

His left arm broke at the elbow.
Not dislocated. Not fractured.

Shattered.

Fragments pushed their way through the skin—raw, pale, pulsing—reforming outside the flesh, twisting like knives into unnatural weapons.
Muscle spasmed as more bone forced its way out, gouging through tendons, warping the arm into something inhuman.

His ribs split outward, some of them blooming like jagged petals from his sides, slicing the fabric of his uniform, glistening red.
His spine cracked with a series of wet pops, forcing his body into a twitching arch, a violent and unnatural shape.

He convulsed again—arms trembling, fingers contorting—some of them broke backward, like they didn’t belong to a human body anymore.
The skin stretched thin around the transformation, then split entirely.
More blood. Too much blood.

Izuku didn’t notice.

He was past noticing.

His eyes were wide, but he wasn’t there.
They were glassy, unfocused, dilated—like prey mid-mauling.
Mouth agape, breathing wet and shallow, foam collecting at the corner of his lips.
The muscles in his face twitched in pure panic, but not a sound escaped him.

Not a scream.

Not a plea.

Not a word.

Just pure, soundless horror.

His body was screaming for him, bleeding for him, twisting itself into something lethal—all while his mind curled into a corner, small and helpless.

The bone-spikes kept growing—more along his shoulders, his thighs, the back of his neck.
His entire frame a quivering, bleeding mess of jagged protrusions, dripping in his own blood, pulsing faintly with his terrified heartbeat.

And still—he didn’t fight it.

He couldn’t.

He didn't know where he was.
Who he was.
What was happening.

There was only terror.

And the unbearable pressure of becoming something he couldn’t even comprehend.

His body collapsed onto the ground again, a shivering wreck, breath stuttering in and out in pitiful, barely-there rasps.

His mouth moved.

Silent.

Just one word.

One tiny word, over and over, lips barely forming the shape.

"No."

All Might stood frozen, his eyes wide in disbelief, as the scene before him twisted into something grotesque, surreal—something he could never unsee.
You don’t witness a child tearing himself apart every day.
His stomach churned violently, the remnants of his last meal rising in his throat, a sharp, bile-tainted wave of nausea threatening to choke him.
The images from moments before slammed into him—he saw the child, small and fragile, his body collapsing inward as if his very skin and bones were betraying him, ripping and tearing.
This isn't possible, he thought, his vision blurring.

Now he remembered—that child, the traumatized one who had been shattered by fear, recoiling from the sight of blond hair and smiles.

The boy’s screams echoed in his ears, drowned by the horrific, sickening sounds of bones snapping and skin shredding.
He could smell the blood—the stench of it thick, metallic, overwhelming.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t move.

Then the vomit surged up, uncontrollable, spilling across the cold floor in a sickening splash of red and bile.
His eyes watered, but the scent of his own sickness was drowned out by the foul odor from the blood-soaked floor beneath him.
How much blood?
How could there be so much?

His legs trembled violently as if they were no longer his own, a twisting, unbearable pressure in his chest choking out any semblance of clarity.
Why can’t I move?

he screamed in his head.

He was the Number 1 hero.

He was supposed to save people, protect them, but in this moment, he was paralyzed.
This boy, this child, was dying right before his eyes.
How could I let him die like this?

The puddle of blood crept toward him, slowly, the crimson liquid seeping into every crack of the floor.
All Might couldn’t pull his eyes away.
He felt sick.
The world felt distant, disconnected, as if he were standing outside of his own body.
He thought about the janitor—Why the hell am I thinking about the janitor?

—but the thought twisted into desperate panic, and all he could do was scream inwardly,
Please!
Someone help this child!

And then it happened.

A sickening crack split the air, a sound so wrong, so unnatural, it pierced through All Might’s fragile thoughts.
He watched in horror as Izuku’s bones shifted, the fractured, exposed jagged edges of his skeleton moving like some kind of grotesque puppet, forcing themselves back into place with a sickening snap.
Skin, muscle, and tendon followed, the wounds closing themselves as if they were never there.
No scream.
No cry.
No sound at all.
Just a child, reassembling himself like some broken doll.

All Might stood in stunned silence, unable to do a single thing as he watched this impossible act of self-repair.
It was like the boy was both killing himself and saving himself all at once—ripping apart, then stitching together in a way that no human body should ever be capable of.

He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t even blink as the child, Izuku, slowly, impossibly, became whole again.

No scars. No bones exposed. No pain.

Just a boy lying motionless, like the nightmare had never even happened.

This can’t be real.

All Might’s breath caught, then steadied.
His body finally regained control, like an electric shock running through his veins, grounding him back to reality.
He staggered forward, pulling Izuku’s fragile form into his arms, his heart hammering in his chest.

The boy was breathing.

His chest rose and fell, faint but steady, like a quiet whisper of life amidst the storm.

All Might’s voice cracked as he muttered under his breath,

“Recovery Girl… I have to get him to Recovery Girl.”

The news reached Aizawa far faster than it should have.

As soon as class had ended, Present Mic burst into the room, his face pale and panic-stricken.
Without a word, he grabbed Aizawa, and the two of them rushed out, moving with urgency as if time itself had caught fire.
The class of 1-A watched in stunned silence, the chaos unfolding before them in a blur.

Even Nezu caught wind of the situation, his keen senses immediately reacting to the gravity of the moment.

Within moments, Chiyo, Nezu, All Might, Present Mic, and Aizawa were all gathered in the infirmary, surrounding an unconscious but very much alive Izuku.

Chiyo was already there, working quickly to assess Izuku’s condition.

The boy, pale and still, lay on the cot, unconscious but alive.
His chest rose and fell with a fragile rhythm, but the damage done to him wasn’t visible anymore.
Whatever had happened—whatever the boy had done to himself—it was like nothing they’d ever seen before.

All Might stood near the door, his expression one of disbelief, his mind still reeling from the sight of Izuku's self-inflicted mutilation and subsequent miraculous healing.
His hands were still trembling, and the strong scent of blood lingered in his nostrils, making him want to vomit again.

Aizawa stood beside him, his brow furrowed in deep thought, his arms crossed as he observed the unconscious boy.
He looked every bit as disturbed as All Might, his eyes dark with concern.

Nezu was there, too, his usual smile absent, his face grim as he watched the scene unfold.

Even Present Mic, who usually kept things light, seemed shaken by the gravity of what had just transpired.

“What the hell happened?”

Aizawa’s voice was low, but it carried the weight of a thousand questions.

His eyes locked on the security footage, his stomach turning with every second that passed.

Chiyo only stared in horror at the sight.
She already saw many awful things in her old life but this—this was something else.

“What did you do?”

Aizawa turned on All Might with a snarl, his voice full of suppressed anger.

He grabbed All Might’s collar, shaking him.

“One rule. One rule! How could you let this happen?”

All Might stammered, his face pale with horror.

“I—I didn’t know! I just said ‘Hi,’ I didn’t know—”

“You couldn’t follow one damn rule!”

Aizawa screamed, shaking All Might harder.

Present Mic stood there, shocked, but knowing how much Aizawa cared for his students.
Aizawa didn’t show emotion often, but when he did, it was raw and intense.

“I didn’t know...”

All Might’s voice cracked, and he stumbled back, unable to find the words to explain what had happened.

Aizawa’s fists clenched.

He was still angry, still furious at All Might, but deep down, he knew the truth.
He couldn’t let his emotions rule him now.

“Enough,”

Nezu interjected sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Aizawa reluctantly released All Might, stepping back as a heavy silence settled over them all.

Present Mic stepped in between them, unsure of how to defuse the tension.

Chiyo continued to monitor Izuku’s pulse, her gaze locked on the boy's still form.
The sight of him—so fragile, so lifeless—haunted her, but the rhythm of his breath, the steady beat of his heart, reassured her.

"Midoriya…"

Chiyo began softly, her voice tinged with regret.

"...He’s been through more than we ever realized. If this kind of event is common for him, we can safely assume that he’s been subjected to mental and physical torture. Not like we originally thought."

Nezu’s voice was grave, his words heavy with meaning.

"This boy was supposed to be quirkless… but now we know that’s not true. His quirk is a curse—a curse that hurts him every time it activates."

Aizawa’s eyes flicked to Izuku, his hand running through his hair.

"Would this be enough to make him stay at UA?"

Nezu nodded slowly, his expression unreadable.

Chiyo’s voice broke the silence, her disbelief evident.

"You’re going to use this trauma to make him stay in UA?"

Aizawa’s response was sharp, cutting through the tension in the room.

"What other choice do we have? Let him go out there and suffer again?"

Chiyo looked down, her expression softening as she understood the gravity of the situation.

All Might felt a crushing weight in his chest.
He had failed this child.
He had let him down.
And yet, somehow, Izuku had come back.
Alive. Breathing.

The guilt surged again, and All Might stumbled to the bathroom, the urge to vomit overwhelming him.
He couldn’t bear the weight of what had happened.

Izuku woke up.

The sterile light burned behind his eyelids, and the first thing he saw when they opened—was him.
Aizawa. Then Chiyo. Then Nezu. And—

And a man with blond hair.

His breath hitched.

His chest caved in.

The weight of golden strands and hollow smiles came crashing down like a scream inside his skull.

The memories slammed into him—again—and he trembled violently, hands twitching against the sheets like a child mid-nightmare.

Hizashi’s face crumbled the moment he understood.
Without a word, Present Mic turned and walked out.
His boots were soundless on the tile, like he was erasing himself.
He didn’t look back.
He couldn’t.
If it was his face, his voice, that dragged Izuku back into that place, then he had no right to stay.
He would not be the shadow that haunted that boy’s trembling bones.

Aizawa’s heart, a thing long-accustomed to suppression, twisted painfully in his chest.

Relief flooded through him like a cracked dam.
He’d held onto that weak, steady beep, hoping, begging it meant something—but it was only now, with Izuku’s slow, blinking eyes, that he believed.

That the boy was here.
Alive. Still breathing. Still reachable.

And then—

Izuku flinched.

He remembered.

The sharp breath.

The panic.

The monster’s smile worn by every blond-haired man.

The way his body betrayed him—again—letting that third quirk rip itself from his soul when he hadn’t even known it was there.

His body folded in on itself.

He wrapped his arms around his legs, pulling himself into a shaking ball, small as he could make himself, like maybe if he shrank enough, they’d forget he was ever here.

Because maybe now they would punish him.

Maybe now they'd see what he was—something unstable, something dangerous.
Maybe they'd hurt him again.
Or worse—use him.
Take this new quirk and pry it out of him like glass from flesh.
Maybe they'd abandon him.
Throw him away now that he wasn't useful or clean or controllable.

Maybe—

Maybe he’d never see Eri again.
Or the one who once held his hand and called herself "Mom."
Or the soft-voiced therapist.
Or the quiet promise of safety he’d just started to believe in.

His gaze, flickering with fear and dread, finally landed on Aizawa.

And what he saw there unraveled him.

No anger. No disappointment. No fear.

Just those eyes—tired, maybe.
But steady. Kind. Unchanging.

The kind of eyes that didn’t punish.

The kind that didn’t shatter when he failed.

The kind he’d only started to believe were real during those strange, fragile two weeks at U.A.

And they were still looking at him like he was just a boy.
Not a weapon.
Not a mistake.
Just… Izuku.

He felt himself crying.
So he did.
He was scared.
Hurt.

He cried.

Like a child.

Like a traumatized child.

His sobs were loud and desperate, as if his entire body was finally giving in to the pain it had been holding in for so long.
He couldn’t stop.
It felt like all the fear, the terror, and the torment he had experienced was pouring out of him all at once, and he couldn’t control it.
He had never allowed himself to truly feel all of this, not like this.

And then, Aizawa was there.

His arms wrapped around Izuku in a gentle, protective embrace, pulling him close, letting the boy sob into his chest.

Aizawa didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

His actions spoke louder than any words ever could.

Izuku was scared.
So hurt.

He had always been afraid of this moment—of being vulnerable, of being seen in his weakest state—but right now, in Aizawa’s arms, he felt something else: safety.

The fear, the confusion, the doubts—they didn’t disappear, but they were held, if only for a moment, by Aizawa’s presence.

Izuku didn’t know how long he cried.
It felt like hours, but it could have been minutes.

The world outside faded away as he finally allowed himself to break.
And in that moment, Aizawa held him through it all.

He wasn’t alone.

Not anymore.

Chapter Text

Aizawa knew they would need to talk about what happened—but now wasn’t the moment.

Everyone in the room understood that.

A crying child who had just… died?
Maybe?
The situation was a wreck, if not worse.

After a long, wrung-out sobbing session, Izuku was finally too tired to cry anymore.
He asked to go home.
Something he had slowly started to call it.

Aizawa brought him there.
It was the end of the day anyway.

They had barely stepped into the house when Eri entered the house too with her usual bright voice.

“I’m home!”

She called out, beaming.

Izuku was curled up in the darkest corner of the room, half-hidden behind a tall potted plant.
The moment she saw him, Eri froze.

She didn’t ask. She knew better.
Sometimes it came back, the fear.
The echoes of something terrible.
And when it did, she just had to wait.
Letting him have his space for a while would be fine.

She was such a good sister.

She nodded to herself.
Then trotted over to Aizawa, who looked like he was trying to pour energy into his coffee cup by sheer willpower alone.

“Hey Eri. How was your day?”

He tried to sound normal.
Tried.

She climbed into a seat at the table across from him, her smile still intact.

“It was super good! We did so many things! And I even learned how to count!”

He blinked, tired but smiling.

“That’s awesome, Eri. So tell me—what’s three plus two?”

She stuck her tongue out, counting diligently on her small fingers.

“FIVE!”

She shouted with pride.
Aizawa chuckled, reaching over to ruffle her hair, earning a delighted giggle.

Her eyes wandered toward Izuku.
He was still hidden, head buried in his arms.
Still in his little ball.

It hurt, a little.
But she reminded herself—again and again—that it was okay.
Healing was messy.
She still had nightmares too, sometimes. Nightmares of her monster.

Still she wanted to help him.
At the very least making sure he was fine.

She took a breath, got up, and walked over to him.

Not too close. Not too far.

Izuku felt her presence.
He peeked up from his arm.

“Izuku!”

Her voice was sweet and light, like nothing was wrong.

“How was your day?”

She sat on the floor near him—not invading, just waiting.

“Mine was great! I learned addition and drew a pony!”

She kept talking, bubbling about her school day.
Trying to ease him.

Izuku looked at her.
Not just looked, but saw her.

Her smile wasn’t forced.
It wasn’t the scary one from the facility.
It was soft. Warm.

He knew what she was doing.
And he felt glad to have such a good sister—something Eri asked to be called as.

He tapped his side.

She understood immediately.
She scooted closer, squeezing into the small space beside him.
The pot spilled a bit of dirt, but neither of them cared.

She kept talking, occasionally pausing to help Izuku find the words with his hands.

She too was learning sign language to speak with him.

From the kitchen, Aizawa watched the scene with a rare warmth blooming in his chest.
He didn’t know how Eri did it, how she always managed to soothe Izuku like this.
But he wouldn’t change it for the world.

He found himself smiling.

Then—the doorbell rang.

Everyone froze for a second.
Eri paused mid-sentence.
Even Izuku lifted his head.

Aizawa raised a brow.
He wasn’t expecting anyone.

He opened the door.

Standing there was Hizashi.

Not Present Mic.
Just Hizashi.

In civilian clothes.

With… brown hair?

“Hizashi?”

It was all Aizawa managed, blinking at the sight.

“Hey, Shota! Like my new look?”

He grinned, striking a ridiculous pose to show off his dyed hair.

“…It suits you,”

Aizawa replied, deadpan but with a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“What are you doing here?”

Hizashi scratched the back of his neck, a bit sheepish.

“I felt bad about what happened to Midoriya. Thought I’d check in. Maybe… stay for dinner?”

The faintest blush dusted his cheeks.

Aizawa sighed.
But he wasn’t hiding the smile this time.

“Come in.”

Hizashi stepped inside, immediately noticing how dim the lighting was.

“Hey, kids!”

Eri lit up like a lantern and ran toward him.

“It’s Mister Annoying Blond Man!”

Izuku knew that definitely wasn’t his name.

Hizashi laughed heartily, scooping her up into the air like an airplane.

“I told you to stop calling him that, Eri.”

Aizawa said, shutting the door behind him.

She just giggled in response, completely unbothered as she soared through the living room.

Once he gently set her down (despite her little pout), Hizashi turned toward the still-huddled boy in the corner.

“Hey! You remember me?”

He beamed.

Izuku nodded slowly, watching him.
He wasn’t afraid this time.
Brown hair made him look softer.
Less like the masked-man from the facility.

Then Hizashi turned to Aizawa again.

“Want me to make dinner? I know you’ve had… quite a day.”

Aizawa blinked.
His mug was half-empty, and his shoulders still ached from stress.

“Yes,”

He said simply, with a sigh of relief.

Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
A soft, familiar silence hung between them.

Hizashi grinned and wandered toward the fridge, already opening drawers and humming quietly.
Meanwhile, Aizawa collapsed onto the couch with the kind of exhausted noise that only came from being both drained and finally safe.

He let his eyes fall shut, just for a moment.

He wasn’t asleep.

But he didn’t feel so tired anymore.

“Mister Aizawa! Mister Aizawa!”

Eri’s voice rang out, unbothered by the clear signs of exhaustion on his face.
Still, he opened his eyes again—slowly—and gave her a tired but genuine smile.

“Yes, Eri?”

She stood proudly in front of him, hands clasped tightly with Izuku’s.
He was out of his corner now, blinking softly at the light, a little unsure, but standing.

“Did you know Izuku can hold a pen now? He can draw with me!”

She nearly bounced in place with excitement.

Aizawa’s gaze softened.
He turned to Izuku and ruffled the boy’s messy hair, letting his hand linger a moment in quiet praise.

“Congratulations, kiddo. I’m proud of you.”

Izuku’s cheeks flushed.
He looked down, nervously twisting the hem of his shirt between his fingers.
Eri, on the other hand, giggled with pride—as if she had learned to hold it instead.
Her joy was contagious.

She tugged gently on Izuku’s arm.

“Come on! Let’s go draw!”

Izuku nodded.
And with that, the two disappeared toward her room, a hushed buzz of laughter trailing behind them.

Aizawa leaned back into the couch, exhaling slowly.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—filled with life, warmth, and the quiet miracle of healing children.

From the kitchen, the savory smell of something hearty drifted into the room, rich and grounding.

“It smells good,”

He murmured.

He didn’t even need to raise his voice.
Hizashi, still humming by the stove, called back easily:

“Of course it does. I cook with love.”

Aizawa rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips again.
Maybe today hadn’t been good.
But it was ending well—and in this house, that counted for something.

The soft clatter of pans and utensils in the kitchen was strangely comforting.
Aizawa let the sound wash over him while he melted into the couch, eyelids low but not closed.
His shoulders were still heavy, but it was a manageable kind of weight now—the kind that didn’t crush.

Eventually, Hizashi walked in quietly, carrying two mugs.

He placed one on the coffee table, then settled into the armchair across from him.

“Chamomile,” he said, tilting his head toward the untouched mug. “You looked like you needed something besides battery acid.”

Aizawa lifted the drink, sniffed it once.

“You’re not wrong,”

He murmured, then took a sip.

They didn’t speak for a while.
The house held a kind of silence only homes knew—one where footsteps and far-off laughter meant peace, not tension.
The scratching of pencils could be heard from down the hall, Eri’s voice occasionally chirping with excitement, Izuku’s low sounds of agreement or small taps of fingers echoing beside her.

Finally, Hizashi leaned forward.
His voice, when he spoke, was careful.

“How bad was it… after I left the room?”

Aizawa didn’t look at him.
He stared into his mug like it could offer answers.

“Bad,” he said eventually. “I’ve never seen that child cry like that before.”

A pause.
Then, quietly:

“I don’t know what he’s been through, but it’s probably worse than we can imagine.”

Hizashi’s expression darkened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I feel like I failed him… again. Every time I promise he’ll be safe with me, something goes wrong and—”

He stopped, not wanting to break down in front of Hizashi.

“It’s normal for a child to have a traumatic response… you know that, right?”

Hizashi said softly, his voice almost rocking with gentleness.

“I know, it’s just—”

Aizawa brought both hands to his face, dragging them down in frustration.

Then came a whisper from Hizashi:
“Shota…”

“I don’t know how much more he’s carrying. Every time I think we’ve reached the worst of it, another layer peels back.”

Hizashi leaned back, running a hand through his now-brown hair.

“And you’re just… handling all of this alone?”

Aizawa gave a weak snort.

“You think I have time to fall apart?”

“No. But you should have someone.”

Their eyes met for a moment.
It was quiet again—but not empty.
It was filled with something gentle, something understanding.

“I have someone,”

Aizawa said simply.

The weight of that landed.
Hizashi smiled, small and warm.

Then—

“DINNER TIME!”

Eri’s voice exploded through the house like a cannonball.

Aizawa groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Hizashi laughed.

“You sure she’s not part dragon?”

“She’s just excited,” Aizawa muttered, but he was already standing. “Which means I have exactly thirty seconds before she starts trying to carry the curry pot herself.”

They walked to the kitchen together.
The lights were warm.
The mismatched plates Eri had set were already half-crooked.
Izuku was trying very seriously to help her line up the utensils, tongue poking out in focus.

“Hi Mister Hizashi!” Eri chirped when they entered. “We did everything ourselves!”

“You two are a dream team,”

He said dramatically, ruffling both their heads.

Izuku gave a small nod, still hugging a spoon to his chest.

Aizawa looked around the table and let out a breath.

The smell of the food.
The laughter.
The way Eri kept rearranging the chairs so Izuku could sit beside her.
It all felt almost ordinary.
Soft. Real.

And only Hizashi knew how fragile that peace had been just hours ago.

Only he saw the cracks still healing in Aizawa’s tired eyes.

But neither of them said anything.

They just sat down to eat.

And it was enough.

Dinner was a patchwork of warmth.

Eri insisted on serving everyone herself, even if it meant small spills and slightly uneven portions.

Izuku, still a bit unsure about how to eat properly, was more focused on trying to manage his food than anything else.
His hands fumbled with his utensils, occasionally knocking over a glass or spilling a little rice.
But now he wasn’t scared to be punished for it or anything he simply tried again without frustration.

That sight was reassuring for Aizawa, after the whole deal today he was scared Izuku would struggle to feel safe again.
But it seemed his worries were unjustified.

Hizashi, who had cooked the meal, made a big show of complimenting the food, making some noise while eating even adding:
“This is the best curry I’ve had in a decade,” with theatrical reverence, dramatically placing a hand over his heart.

“It’s not true ! I made the best curry last time with Miss Midnight !”

Eri added some food still in mouth.
Izuku and Aizawa stayed in silence while the two argued over who could make the best curry.
It wouldn’t be shocking if by the end of dinner the food would be more on the nap than their mouth.
Even so, Aizawa couldn’t help but let out a tired smile tugging at his lips.

After dinner, while Eri and Izuku were getting to go to bed, Aizawa stayed behind to wash the dishes.
Hizashi, who had been quietly clearing the table, joined him without being asked, rolling up his sleeves.

“They’re good together,”

Hizashi said, passing over a plate.

Aizawa didn’t answer immediately.
He focused on rinsing the plate in his hands before he spoke.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m glad they fit like pieces of a puzzle.”

There was a pause before Hizashi spoke again.

“So…What was that with the whole Mister Annoying Blond Man! ?”

He jokingly said.

Aizawa only smiled.

“I don’t know who she heard it from.”

Aizawa didn’t look up.
He just passed another dish to Hizashi.
Trying to hide his smile growing wider.

“Truly a mystery”

He added.
The sound of the water and plates trying to hide both of their laughs.
Momently forgetting what had happened.
And the horror of the discussion they would have tomorrow.

Putting the kids to sleep was more than easy.
It was a tough and long day for Izuku and he fell quickly in the hand of Morphee.
Eri simply stayed with Izuku, still not in the bed, still in the corner but clearly comfortable.

Now truly alone, Aizawa and Hizashi sat on the sofa, another tea in hand.

They sat in silence for a few moments, the steam from their tea curling in the air.
The house was quiet—still—and it felt like for the first time today, everything could exhale.

Hizashi leaned back into the sofa, resting his mug on his chest.

“Hey… remember that summer we tried camping on the dorm roof?”

He said suddenly, a faint grin tugging at his lips.

Aizawa didn’t look at him, but his brow lifted slightly.

“You brought a single blanket. No food. And I think a broken flashlight.”

“Ah, but I did bring a speaker,” Hizashi countered. “And a playlist. That should count for something.”

Aizawa snorted.

“You blew the speaker trying to make it loud enough to scare off crows.”

“Successfully, might I add.”

They fell quiet again, the memory settling between them like a familiar coat.

“I think that was the first time I saw you sleep more than four hours,” Hizashi added. “You just… curled up in that hammock like a cat and vanished.”

Aizawa smirked faintly.

“That’s because you talked for hours. Eventually I just tuned you out.”

“I’m honored,” Hizashi said dryly, sipping his tea. “Truly.”

Their smiles lingered longer this time.
It wasn’t just nostalgia—it was the quiet comfort of still being here, after everything.

“You’ve changed,”

Hizashi said softly after a moment.

Aizawa turned his head slightly.

“You think?”

“You still look like you’re running on coffee and spite. But…” He hesitated, then nodded toward the hallway where the kids had gone to sleep. “You have a softness now. It’s not weakness. Just… gentleness. Even if it’s quiet.”

Aizawa didn’t answer right away.
He just looked down at his tea, thinking.

“…They changed me,” he said at last. “Without even trying.”

“Yeah.” Hizashi leaned his head back, letting it rest against the back of the couch. “That’s what kids do.”

Aizawa sipped the last of his tea, then stared into the empty cup for a moment longer than necessary.

“They’re not just kids,” he said finally, voice low. “They’re survivors. Every day they wake up and keep going… That’s strength I didn’t have at their age.”

“You give them something to hold onto,” Hizashi replied. “That matters.”

Silence fell again, not awkward—just full.
The kind of silence that meant everything had already been said.

Eventually, Hizashi shifted, setting his mug down on the coffee table with a soft clink.

“I should go,” he murmured. “Got work early. And if I fall asleep on this couch again, I’ll wake up with the worst back pain I ever had in years.”

Aizawa snorted.

“Come on, it's not that awful.”

Hizashi stood, stretching a little.
He moved to the door slowly, like he wasn’t quite ready to leave the warmth of the room behind.

He turned back just before stepping out.
His voice was soft, serious this time.

“Shota… if it gets too heavy, you don’t have to carry it alone. Not with me around.”

Aizawa looked at him, tired but not guarded.

“I know,” he said. “Thanks.”

Hizashi gave a small nod, his expression unreadable in the low light.

Then, with a quiet “Goodnight,” he slipped out the door.

The apartment was still again.

Aizawa stood there for a moment longer, then turned to head down the hall. He passed the kids’ room quietly, pausing just long enough to glance in.

Eri and Izuku were curled up in their corner nest of blankets.
Safe. Breathing deep.

He closed the door softly behind him.

Tomorrow would come with its weight—but for now, there was peace.

Chapter Text

When the morning breeze stirred through the half-open window, Izuku knew the sun had risen.
Sleep had evaded him once again, the nightmares clinging to the edges of his thoughts like cobwebs.
He had grown used to these sleepless nights.
Watching Eri sleep beside him was far more peaceful than any dream he could have.

He hated waking her, but their morning routines waited—his therapy, her special class.
Gently, with a touch that barely rustled the blanket, Izuku reached out.

She stirred slowly, blinking as she yawned and looked around.
It was no longer strange to wake up in Izuku's room.
In fact, it had become her comfort.
Falling asleep without him nearby was almost impossible now.

Her eyes landed on his face and lingered on the dark shadows under his eyes.
He hadn’t slept again.
But she didn’t say anything.
It wasn’t unusual.

She remembered when she was first rescued by Aizawa, how fear kept her awake for months.
Back then, he stayed with her.
She wanted to be that for Izuku now.

Rubbing her eyes with her fists, Eri groaned softly.
Her head felt heavy, and she didn’t want to leave the cocoon of warmth beneath the blanket.

But when Izuku stood up, shedding the blanket, she found it easier to follow.
That was how most mornings went.

Downstairs, Aizawa sat at the table, coffee in hand, the dark circles under his eyes rivaling Izuku’s.

“G’morning,”

He muttered, voice still rough with sleep.

Izuku nodded back in silent acknowledgment.
Eri shuffled over, still rubbing her eyes, and climbed onto a chair with the grace of a half-asleep kitten.

“Good morning…”

She mumbled, barely audible between yawns.

Izuku didn’t usually eat breakfast, but Aizawa insisted he try.
Something about breakfast being the most important meal of the day.
So he sat and poured himself a bowl of cereal, ignoring how overly sweet it tasted.

Aizawa rubbed at his temple, his headache already pulsing.
The upcoming meeting with the other adults about yesterday's incident weighed heavily on his mind.

Now ready to start the day, Aizawa took both of the kids to their meeting.
Leaving his peaceful home to the time they would go back in the evening.

In front of the principal door, he was accompanied by Present mic, Chiyo and even this idiot of All Might.
Yes, he was still mad about yesterday’s event.

They entered the room, silence hanging heavily between them.

“Good morning, everyone.”

Nezu’s calm voice broke the tension.
He sat at his desk, a steaming cup of tea in hand, as composed as ever.

Sunlight streamed through the windows, filling the room with warmth, but it couldn’t lift the atmosphere.

“I believe we all understand why we’re here,” Nezu began. “We need to make sense of what happened yesterday.”

Chairs scraped against the floor as everyone took their seats.
Uneasy glances were exchanged.

“All Might, if you would,”

Nezu prompted gently, though firmly.

All eyes turned to him.
He looked pale, haunted.
His posture sagged beneath the weight of memory.

“I already said I don’t remember everything,” he began, voice gravelly and quiet. “It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t human. The child—Izuku—screamed when he saw me. Then… his bones started piercing through his skin. His body twisted into something I’ve never seen before.”

He paused, words catching in his throat.

“It didn’t help him. It hurt him. It wasn’t a quirk that gave him strength—it was agony incarnate.”

A deep breath left him as if he had only now remembered to breathe.

All Might had seen horror—more than his fair share.
Cities destroyed.
Screams echoing through rubble.
People broken beyond repair.
As the Symbol of Peace, he had learned to carry those memories, to endure.

But this… this was different.

This hadn’t come from a villain.
There was no name, no face to blame.
This had come from within a child.
A boy who had done nothing wrong.
A boy who looked at All Might as if he were the monster.

The transformation had been grotesque—violence made flesh.
Every inch of Izuku's skin ruptured from the inside out.
Bones sliced through his body like blades.
Blood had spilled in horrifying amounts, far more than a child should even have.
The air had filled with the metallic stench of pain.

And the screaming.

It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t sharp.
It was raw.

It sounded like something deep inside Izuku’s soul had broken and spilled out.
A cry that didn’t fade—it stuck in the mind, echoing long after the moment passed.

All Might had held the dying.
He had buried the innocent.
He had learned to shut grief behind a door.

But not this.

This wasn’t death—it was something worse.
A child dragged back to life not through miracle but by something unnatural.
A force that defied the rules of life itself.
A cruelty with no name.

He had always believed he could protect people.
That he was a wall between darkness and the innocent.

But in that moment, he hadn’t been a wall.
He had been a witness.
Powerless.

And it changed him.

No hero—no man—could witness that and remain the same.

“Are you sure he stopped breathing?”

Chiyo asked, uncertainty flickering in her eyes.

“I know what I saw,”

All Might answered, firmer this time.
The memory wouldn’t leave him.
It visited him even in sleep.

Nezu placed his cup down with a subtle thud.

“Then we can conclude that Izuku Midoriya developed a quirk during his time in captivity,”

He stated.

“Not only that,” he added, “but we may be witnessing the first successful case of an artificial quirk.”

The silence returned, heavier than before.

“What do you mean?”

Present Mic asked, voice tight.

“I mean,” Nezu said, gaze sharpening, “Maestro—the man who abducted Midoriya—succeeded in creating a quirk. One that causes harm to the host, yes. But a quirk nonetheless.”

“That’s… that’s supposed to be impossible.”

Present Mic slumped further into his chair, stunned.

“He did the impossible.”

Nezu simply added letting the information sink in.

The weight of that possibility settled over the room like lead.

If the Hero Public Safety Commission found out, chaos would follow.
If the public knew, it could unravel society.
If villains found out, Izuku’s life would never be safe again.

There were too many ifs.

One thing was certain: Izuku Midoriya was in danger.

Villains would want him.
The Commission would want to replicate him.
The public might fear him.
This boy, already buried under trauma, was now even more vulnerable in freedom than he had ever been in captivity.

Nezu turned to Aizawa.

“I’ll tell the Commission it’s similar to Eri’s—unstable and dangerous. It’s true enough. It’ll buy us time. But we hide the rest.”

Aizawa nodded grimly.

“Hiding is lying,” All Might warned. “If they find out—”

“We don’t have a choice,” Nezu cut in. “Letting him out would be worse.”

All Might looked down, conflicted.
But he knew Nezu was right.

“I want you with him at all times,” Nezu continued turning his eyes towards Aizawa. “If it happens again… others could get hurt.”

He gathered papers into folders, planning ahead.

“He’s just a kid. We can’t treat him like a threat,”

Present Mic protested.

“He’s a kid with a threat inside him,” Aizawa replied. “That doesn’t change his heart—but it does change our responsibility.”

“If this happens again,” Chiyo said softly, “his body might not survive. Can we help him control it?”

“We don’t know yet,” Nezu answered. “We’ll ask when he’s ready. Until then, we observe. We protect.”

He looked at each of them in turn.

“I know you’re all scared. I am too. But worry doesn’t help. Action does. Midoriya needs us. So we protect him—with everything we have.”

He let the words settle, heavy and clear.

“This information stays here. Tell no one.”

The meeting ended, but the weight of it followed each of them as they left the room.

Aizawa had a little more time before class.
So, following Nezu’s instructions, he headed to the therapy room.
He knocked gently, and a soft feminine voice invited him in.

As he stepped inside, he was met with the warm scent of spring air drifting through the open window.
The therapist looked up, curious about his presence, but Aizawa's gaze was fixed on the green-haired child sitting quietly.

"Izuku, do you mind if I take you to class?"

Though it was his duty, Aizawa still wanted to ask.
He needed Izuku’s consent.
Thankfully, the boy nodded and walked over without hesitation.

“Are you sure it’s fine? Our session isn’t quite over yet, and he’ll miss his special class,”

The therapist asked gently. It wasn’t a protest—just genuine curiosity.

“It’s fine. Starting tomorrow, his schedule will change. He’ll only stay with you for one or two hours, and his special class will be reduced as well.”

The therapist didn’t like the change, but she nodded nonetheless.
She had no authority to override the decisions made by those above her.
They knew better.
She hoped.

And just like that, Izuku was taken to Class 1-A.

Aizawa felt uneasy.
Bringing Izuku into the classroom was risky.
Last time, one of the students recognized him—something that could’ve ended in disaster.
Still, he brushed off his nerves and focused on getting through the day without incident.

When he entered the classroom, it was buzzing with laughter.
Izuku followed quietly behind.
Aizawa instinctively switched off the lights, surprising the students.

"Are we watching a movie, Sensei?"

An energetic blond boy called out.

“No. The child I mentioned a few weeks ago needs to remain under my supervision. Starting today, Izuku Midoriya will be staying with this class.”

The class erupted with noise—some surprised, others curious.
Thankfully, the energy was positive.

“Sensei, will Midoriya be our classmate from now on?”

A small, purple-haired boy asked, raising his hand.

“No, he won’t. He’s only staying temporarily.”

Aizawa watched as Izuku walked straight to the nearest corner of the room, settling beside his desk.
He sighed quietly, then turned to one student in particular.

"Bakugou."

The blond explosive boy finally looked up.
Guilt and pain were written all over his face.

“May I speak with you?”

Another private conversation.
The rest of the class exchanged glances.
They’d always suspected Bakugou had some connection to this mysterious child, but they never asked.
They certainly hadn’t expected to see him again.

Once the two of them left the room, Mina Ashido—pink skin, yellow horns, and boundless energy—sprang from her seat, seizing the opportunity.

“Hi! I’m Mina Ashido! And you are Izuku Midoriya right ?”

She asked brightly, extending a hand toward Izuku, who remained huddled in the corner.

“Mina, maybe don’t get too close,” a dark-haired girl with a ponytail said gently, placing a hand on Mina’s shoulder. “It seems like he doesn’t like people getting too close.”

“Oh! Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you or anything!” Mina laughed awkwardly and stuck out her tongue.

Izuku quickly shook his head, trying to show he wasn’t bothered.
Then a soft, barely audible “…fine” slipped from his lips.

“OMG, SO CUTE!”

Mina squealed as she bounced in place, overcome with excitement.

“Mina, calm down, geez.”

A boy with dark hair and a wide grin walked over, his tone casual.

“Hey bro, I’m Hanta Sero! Nice to meet you—temporary classmate!”

He smiled warmly, but the crowd forming around him was starting to overwhelm Izuku.
He wasn’t used to this much attention.
As more students began to approach, he stood up and edged along the wall, trying to create space.

The students chuckled at the sight—not mockingly, but fondly.

Then Izuku saw it—darkness.
Deeper than the corner, darker than the room, even darker than night.
He bolted toward it and curled himself into it.

Tokoyami’s feathers rustled at the contact.
Looking down, he saw the boy now nestled at his feet.

“Um… What are you doing?”

Tokoyami asked, a mix of confusion and embarrassment in his voice.

The girls squealed at the sight, which only deepened his blush.
He hated being the center of attention.

Izuku didn’t answer.
Instead, Tokoyami's sentient Quirk shifted curiously.

Dark Shadow tilted its head—then let out a squeal of its own.

“OMG, he’s too cute! Want cuddles? Sure, I’ll give you cuddles!”

The shadowy figure began to twirl around Izuku, babbling about his cuteness and other nonsense, while Tokoyami tried to shrink into the floor.

“Hey, Tokoyami! I think the new kid likes you!”

Jiro teased from across the room, her headphone jacks twitching with amusement.

“Please… don’t talk about this. It’s already embarrassing enough…”

“Aw come on, Tokoyami, let him have a cuddle!”

Mina teased, watching Dark Shadow swirl protectively around the small green-haired boy.

Tokoyami crossed his arms and sighed, clearly mortified.

“Dark Shadow has no concept of personal boundaries…”

“Oh hush, you love it,”

Jirou smirked, nudging him playfully before walking over to Izuku.
She crouched down a bit to be more at eye level.

“Hey, Midoriya, right?” she asked gently. “That’s a cool name. I’m Kyoka Jirou—nice to meet you.”

Izuku blinked at her, unsure how to respond.
He gave the smallest nod, fingers clinging to the edge of Dark Shadow like it was a blanket.

Mina gasped again, whisper-shouting behind her hand to Sero.

“Did you see that? He nodded! He likes us!”

“I mean, I’d like us too,”

Sero said proudly, striking a cheesy pose that made Kirishima laugh across the room.

“Hey hey hey! You’re totally gonna scare the poor guy!” Kirishima called out, walking over. “Yo, Midoriya! I’m Eijiro Kirishima, but you can call me Kiri if you want. You like manly stuff? Like action figures? Or swords? Or spicy food?!”

Izuku looked completely lost at the avalanche of questions but managed a tiny smile, which was apparently enough.

“He smiled!” Mina whisper-shouted again, grabbing Jirou’s arm. “I’m gonna cry, he’s so cute!”

“Should we get him a snack or something?” Sato asked from his desk, already pulling a cookie out of his lunch box. “I have sugar cookies. Does he like sweets?”

“You’re gonna bribe the new kid with cookies?” Kaminari laughed, flipping his chair around to sit backwards. “Smart move. That’s how I make friends too.”

He leaned closer, a wide grin on his face.

“Hey dude! I’m Kaminari Denki, resident electric guy. Wanna sit near me? I promise I don’t shock unless it’s on accident. Which is only… like… sometimes.”

Izuku’s eyes widened slightly, more from the energy than the words, and he inched slightly deeper behind Dark Shadow.

“Oh noooo,” Kaminari said, dramatically falling over his chair. “I already messed up, didn’t I?”

“No, you just have a... high volume setting,” Yaoyorozu commented with a polite smile as she approached. “Don’t worry, Midoriya, not all of us are quite so… enthusiastic.”

“Hey!”

Kaminari protested as the others laughed.

“I’m Yaoyorozu Momo. If you ever need anything—school supplies, food, whatever—I can make it. Literally.”

Izuku blinked again.
He didn’t quite understand what she meant, but the offer sounded kind.

Then, Iida stood up suddenly and adjusted his glasses.

“Allow me to formally introduce myself! I am Tenya Iida, Class Representative of 1-A. If you require assistance navigating the building or wish to understand the class structure, I am at your service!”

Izuku flinched a bit at the volume, but Iida didn’t notice.

“Tenya,” Jirou said dryly, “maybe try not to sound like a tour guide from a museum next time.”

Izuku, overwhelmed but not scared, slowly peeked out from Dark Shadow’s cover and looked around.
So many people.
So many names.
So many… smiles.

No one was yelling.
No one looked angry.
They were all… laughing.
With him.

Finally, he took a step forward, out of the shadow, his small hand gripping the hem of his shirt.

“…thank you,”

He whispered.

“AHHHH HE TALKED AGAIN!”

Mina shrieked, bouncing in place.

“And he’s out of the corner!” Sero pointed. “Guys, we’re making progress!”

“We should keep a chart,” Kaminari joked. “Day 1: Subject leaves corner. Next up—eye contact!”

Izuku blinked at all the attention, then sat down on the floor right where he stood, curling his knees to his chest and facing away slightly.
Not returning to the corner—but not quite ready to be in the group either.

Dark Shadow circled once, then settled behind him again like a looming pillow fort.

“Okay, maybe we tone it down,” Jirou muttered, elbowing Kaminari in the ribs. “He’s not a science experiment.”

“He is reacting though,” Yaoyorozu said softly. “That’s a good thing, right?”

“Totally,” Mina whispered. “But like, let’s not all rush him with fifty friendship declarations just yet.”

“Agreed,” Iida said firmly. “We must pace ourselves.”

Uraraka glanced over.

“Maybe we should do something normal? Like… play a game? Make it feel less like he’s on display?”

“That’s a good idea,” Tsuyu said. “Just be ourselves.”

The idea caught quickly.

In no time, Kaminari and Mina had pulled out a deck of cards.

“Speed round?” Mina offered, wagging her eyebrows. “Winner gets bragging rights. Loser has to do a chicken dance.”

“Pass,”

Jirou said immediately.

“Accept,” said Kirishima, grinning as he sat cross-legged nearby. “Manly stakes.”

As the game began, the group naturally shifted its energy.
The attention on Izuku lessened—not gone, but no longer so concentrated.
The room hummed with laughter and competitive banter.

Izuku, still seated near the wall, let his eyes drift sideways.
Watching. Listening.
No one pulled him in.
No one touched him.
But they made space for him.
That was new.

He didn’t smile.

But he didn’t retreat either.

After a few minutes, he turned slightly to keep watching.
When Sero lost and started doing an exaggerated flailing dance, complete with chicken clucks, Izuku tilted his head.

“…ridiculous,”

Tokoyami muttered behind him.

Dark Shadow laughed loudly.

“YOU’RE JUST JEALOUS I HAVE FUN!”

“We share a body,”

Tokoyami replied flatly.

Then Izuku’s fingers twitched.
Just once.
Barely noticeable.

But Uraraka noticed.

She didn’t say anything, just smiled gently to herself and leaned back against her desk.

Maybe, just maybe… he’d be okay here.

The door slid open with a soft click.
Conversations in the classroom paused like a record scratching—heads turned, eyes widening. Aizawa stepped back into the room, followed closely by Bakugou, whose usual scowl was subdued.
His hands were stuffed in his pockets, jaw clenched.

The teacher’s tired gaze swept the room.
No one was screaming. No desks were flying.
Izuku was still in the room.

So far, so good.

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed slightly when he spotted Izuku sitting near the wall, still curled but upright, now partially encircled by Tokoyami and his overly affectionate quirk.
The rest of the class was playing cards, chatting, or pretending not to be watching the boy every few seconds.

Good.
They were giving him room.

Bakugou hesitated at the threshold.
His red eyes flicked toward the green-haired boy… and immediately flinched.
Izuku hadn’t looked at him. Hadn’t moved.
There was no recognition—none of the flinching fear, none of the strained politeness Bakugou had braced himself for.

Just… nothing.

Like he was a stranger.

“Don’t force anything,” Aizawa muttered under his breath, loud enough for only Bakugou to hear. “Just be part of the room. That’s all.”

“…Tch.”

Bakugou’s lips pulled tight, but he gave a sharp nod.

They both walked deeper into the room.
Aizawa settled behind his desk, already pulling out paperwork.

Bakugou walked past the others, ignoring Kaminari’s quick glance and Mina’s soft wave.
He slid down into his usual seat with a thud, one row away from Izuku’s little corner.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t stare.

He just sat.

And Izuku… turned his head ever so slightly.
Barely a motion.
Barely more than a flick of curiosity.

But for Bakugou, it might as well have been the world shaking.

His fingers gripped the side of his desk.
He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until Kirishima—trying to act casual—threw a crumpled piece of paper at his head.

“Oi,” he whispered. “You good?”

Bakugou didn’t answer, but the paper hit the floor without being incinerated, so that was something.

Meanwhile, Izuku slowly lowered his legs and uncurled from his sitting position.
He didn’t stand up. He didn’t speak.
But he scooted an inch to the side—just one inch closer to the rest of the room.

Just enough for Tokoyami to notice.
Just enough for Uraraka to quietly nudge Yaoyorozu and gesture without words: Did you see that?

And Aizawa, from his desk, let out a long, quiet breath.

Progress.

No explosions. No panic.

Just a classroom full of quirks, chaos, and one boy learning how to breathe again in the space between voices.

The rest of the morning passed.

Izuku didn’t speak.

No one forced him to.

He sat in the corner near Aizawa’s desk, his arms around his knees, sometimes watching, sometimes staring at nothing.
The classroom was filled with voices—some loud, some gentle—but none directed at him.
Not anymore.
It was like they had agreed, all silently, to just let him be.

And that was good.

That was enough.

Even when they practiced hero maneuvers outside, Aizawa didn’t make him join.
He just gave him a nod toward the shade of a tree.
Izuku sat under it.
Watching.

A few students ran past him.
Kaminari with his grin.
Ashido waving dramatically as she skated across the ground with her acid slick.
Uraraka floating something in the distance while Sero swung through the air.

They didn’t forget he was there.

But they didn’t pull him in.

He appreciated that.

Bakugou didn’t look at him.

Not once.

He was sharp and aggressive with everyone else—sparking, barking, snarling when Kaminari or Kirishima got too casual—but around Izuku?

Nothing.

His eyes flickered toward the corner sometimes, but they never stayed.

He kept his distance.
So carefully that it was obvious.

Izuku didn’t know why.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t remember.

But the air around Bakugou felt tense.
Like the way old walls creaked before a storm.

Izuku stayed away.

That was safest.

Lunch came and went.

Tokoyami offered him a seat.
Not with words—just by leaving the space next to him open in the shade.
Dark Shadow hovered protectively, a little quieter than usual, but still humming nonsense about feathers and comfort.

Izuku sat there.

Didn’t eat much.
Just what was given to him.
Something soft.
Something plain.

Uraraka waved once from her table.
He waved back.
And she smiled.

By the time the final class wrapped up, the sun had started lowering through the windows.
It painted the walls in orange and gold.

Aizawa stood up, stretching his back with a yawn.
His hair fell loose around his face.

"That's all for today," he said lazily. "Good work. No homework. For once."

The class cheered.

Izuku flinched.

Not badly.

Just a blink.

He looked down at his lap again.

The scraping of chairs, the rush of footsteps, the swirl of backpacks and shoes and half-finished conversations—Izuku stayed seated in the corner as they began to file out.

Then a soft voice near the door:

“Bye, Midoriya !”

Ashido.

He looked up.

She smiled, beaming, then ducked out with her friends.
Jirou offered a quiet,

"See ya tomorrow, maybe,”

and followed.

Only a few students lingered.

A boy with white and red hair passed by without a word.
His expression unreadable, cold. Distant.
His eyes landed on Izuku for a heartbeat too long, then moved on without acknowledgement.
As if storing a file for later.

Izuku shivered slightly.

He didn’t know why.

Finally, only Aizawa, Bakugou, and Izuku were left.

Bakugou was gathering his bag, stiff movements, still not looking at him.

Aizawa walked up, crouched down to be at Izuku’s eyes level.

“You did well today,” he said lowly, like it was just for him. “You can go back to the therapist’s office now, or come with me. Your choice.”

He stood slowly.
Then he pointed—just slightly—in Aizawa’s direction.

“...You”

It was barely audible, but Aizawa heard it.

That was the first time Aizawa heard Izuku talk.
He brushed off his shock and smiled.

“Alright.”

Bakugou was already at the door, back turned, his shoulders hunched.

“Bakugou,”

Aizawa called.

The boy stopped.

Turned halfway.

Not toward Izuku.

“Thanks for today.”

Bakugou said nothing.
But his jaw clenched.
His fingers curled tight on the strap of his bag.

He left.

Aizawa looked at Izuku again, ruffled his hair and left the room.

Izuku followed without resistance.

The day was a success.

Chapter Text

For those of you reading the fanfic in one go—this chapter is your breather.

Go drink some water.
Stretch.
Take a walk.

Do whatever you need.

The next chapter will dive into Aizawa’s POV—a long, emotional reflection on everything that’s happened so far.
It’s heavy.
So feel free to pause here and take a break if you need it.

After that, a brand new arc begins.

Chapter Text

Shota Aizawa had seen a lot of things in his career.

Too many, maybe.

Kids with broken limbs.
Kids with broken spirits.
Kids who flinched at touch, who cried when it rained, who couldn’t sleep unless someone left the closet door wide open.

He’d seen trauma crawl under the skin and make a home there.

But even with all that, he hadn’t expected this.

A child.

Alone.
Silent.
Kneeling in the corner of a rust-stained room in one of the filthiest hideouts Aizawa had ever stepped foot in.

The first thing he noticed was how still the kid was—too still.
Not frozen in fear, but unmoving in that trained way.
Back straight.
Hands folded.
Eyes wide.

Watching.

No tears.
No trembling.
Just… watching.

It didn’t take long to push everyone out of the room to take care of it.
After all he was a teacher and knew how to approach kids like him.

He stepped in slowly, boots clicking quietly on the concrete.
The kid didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.

Didn’t act like a kid at all.

“We’re here to help,”

Aizawa said, crouching down to his eye level.
His voice softened—low, even, non-threatening.
The kind of voice he’d learned worked best with kids who didn’t trust noise.

The boy didn’t respond.
Just kept staring.

His eyes were too wide, too steady.
As if he was analyzing every breath Aizawa took.

It wasn’t fear.

It was calculation.

Aizawa’s gut twisted.

Still, he extended a hand.

“Can you stand?”

A pause.

Then—surprisingly—a small nod.
Stiff and automatic.

The boy pushed himself up soundlessly.

It was the quiet that unnerved Aizawa the most.
Not a whimper.
Not a shuffle.
Not even a breath out of place.
The child moved like he wasn’t used to space, like walking freely was something he hadn’t done in a long time.

Maybe never.

He didn’t know what to say, but he guided the child toward the outside world—where no wall would stop him.
Aizawa tried to shield him from the many corpses still lying on the floor.
It didn’t work well, but the child didn’t seem to register them anyway.

Then they stepped outside.
The air was thick—heavy with rain and dense with industrial pollution—but the child seemed to like it.
For the first time, something in his eyes lit up, like it had awakened something inside him.
Aizawa saw how unfamiliar he was with the air, the sky, the rain.
He seemed to like the rain.
The sound of the water gently hitting the ground played like a forgotten melody.
The child reminded him how beautiful that sound used to be.

He looked around and saw only buildings—grey, distant, some trailing smoke into the sky.
It wasn’t a pretty horizon, not by any standard.
But for—maybe the first time—he found it beautiful.
Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

Shota only stopped watching the view when he heard the child cough.
Of course.
The kid wasn’t used to the polluted air.
He quickly brought him into the car to dry him off and shield him from the smog.

He took him to the police station.
Unfortunately, protocol still had to be followed, even with a child in his care.
He didn’t want to leave the child alone, but in the rush and pressure of it all, he asked a seemingly reliable woman to stay and watch over him.

At first, everything seemed fine.
Aizawa kept glancing back every few minutes.
The child just sat quietly, watching the rain fall against the window.
It made Aizawa smile, relaxing something in his chest.

The case was nearly finished, faster than he’d expected, when the same woman came running in a panic.

He knew instantly what had happened.

“I told you not to leave his side,”

He snapped.

He wasn’t angry at her—not really.
He was angry that some part of him had thought this would go smoothly.

It never does.

Cursing under his breath, he followed the officer into one of the holding cells.

The child was there.
Again.
Sitting silently in a dark, dusty room.

No one could truly understand the mind of a traumatized child, and seeing him return to a place that resembled where he was found seemed odd—but Aizawa didn’t comment.

Once he confirmed the child was safe, Shota allowed himself to calm down.
He sent a quick apology to the woman.
He’d taken his frustration out on someone too young and too overwhelmed to deserve it.
He felt ashamed.

He rushed through the remaining paperwork—faster, and less neatly than he was used to.
He didn’t want to leave the kid alone again, not even for a moment.

When he returned to the cell, the child hadn’t moved.

His legs were drawn tightly into his arms, his face completely hidden.
That sight broke something in Aizawa.
Being confronted with a traumatized child was always the hardest part.

He let out a slow breath.
His expression didn’t show it, but his heart was beating faster.
He crouched down to the child’s level, hoping to offer some comfort.

He remembered Eri.
How long it had taken for her to cry.
How long it had taken for her to believe that kindness wasn’t a trick.

This boy had that same look.

The look that said:
I’m used to pain. What now?

With a calm voice, he told him his name, and explained what they would do from now on.
He knew the boy probably wouldn’t understand everything, but he said it anyway, meaning every word.
A quiet promise he made to himself.

"I’ll protect you from all the bad things. And all you have to do… is live your life."

The child didn’t react.
His body language didn’t change.
Only a brief flicker of curiosity passed through his eyes—and then it was gone.

Still, when Aizawa offered his hand again…the boy took it.

And together, they stepped back into the outside world.

This time, the reaction was different.

The sun had risen.
Aizawa thought the child might be amazed at the sight—but instead, he only squinted, as if it burned.

Aizawa chalked it up to being underground for too long.
It made sense.

Everything made sense.
Until it didn’t.

On the way home, Aizawa noticed again how the child’s eyes lingered on the shadows between buildings—not the light.
Never the light.

He took note of it but didn’t think too far.
There were always strange patterns.
Unpredictable behaviors.
Coping mechanisms.

He’d seen kids who panicked at the color yellow.
One who refused to speak above a whisper.
You couldn’t guess trauma.
You had to wait for it to speak its own language.

But something about this boy’s silence felt heavier than usual.

Soon enough, they were standing at the gate of U.A.

Classes had just ended.
Students were running across the grounds, loud and full of energy.

Aizawa kept the boy close—maybe a little too close, if the glances from passing teachers were any indication.
But no one questioned it.
Not directly.

Everyone knew: if Aizawa brought a child to school, it wasn’t casual.

Not after Eri.

Still, this boy felt different.

He didn’t cling.
He didn’t cry.
He simply watched.
Every corner. Every person. Every shift in light.

Like everything around him had the potential to turn dangerous.

Aizawa knew that look.
He’d worn it once, too.

He pushed away the thoughts and knocked on the principal’s door.
Before entering, he crouched to explain to the child what would happen inside.
He didn’t expect him to speak—it was clear by now that he couldn’t—but he wanted him to understand.
Shota knew Nezu wouldn’t push, either.

The door opened.
They stepped inside.

Aizawa noticed it instantly.

The boy hesitated—not in fear, but in something more subtle.
That same quiet stiffness Aizawa had already started to recognize.
The sunlight pouring through Nezu’s office window slashed across the hallway like a blade.

The boy didn’t move.

Not a single toe into the light.

Instead, he stayed behind Aizawa’s shadow, small fingers curling into the hem of his coat.

It wasn’t the first strange behavior Aizawa had seen from him—but it was the first time it felt deliberate.
Patterned. Specific.

Still, he said nothing.
Not yet.

“Hello, Principal Nezu,”

he said calmly as the child tucked himself fully behind him, presence light as breath against the backs of his legs.

“Good afternoon, Aizawa,” came Nezu’s voice from behind the glare. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“It won’t be needed. I’m here to speak about—”

“—The child behind you. Yes, I know.”

Of course he knew.

Nezu was always three steps ahead.
Normally, that wasn’t comforting.
But this time… Aizawa welcomed it.
He needed help.
He needed someone to see what he was seeing—or, more importantly, to see what he was missing.

“We found him in the facility Maestro was using as a hideout,”

Aizawa began, voice steady.

“He seems to have been part of the villain’s experiments. We don’t know how long he was kept there… but it looks like it’s been a while.”

He felt the child’s presence at his side—silent, unmoving.

Still hiding.
Still in the shadows.

No visible injuries.
No scars.
But Aizawa knew better than to assume that meant anything.

Nezu sipped his tea, eyes unreadable.

“And we don’t know what he suffered there, do we?”

Aizawa didn’t answer.

Because it was true.

He’d assumed the lack of wounds meant something.
He’d hoped it meant something.

But now, in this blinding room, with the child trembling and refusing to look up, something clicked.

Aizawa turned slowly and crouched again—just enough to be eye-level, not looming.

“Hey, kiddo. Are you okay?”

No answer.

Just wide eyes.
Quiet.
Guarded.

“What’s wrong?”

Still nothing.

Then Nezu spoke, quiet and precise:

“Maybe it’s the light he’s afraid of.”

Aizawa froze.

Suddenly, it all made sense.

Too much sense.

His mind replayed the last day like a film reel—

The flinch in the sunlight.

The way the child hugged the shadows at the police station.

Why he hadn’t looked at the sky.

Why he hadn’t looked at Nezu until now.

It wasn’t Nezu he was avoiding.

It was the light.

Regret hit Aizawa like a cold wave.
He swallowed, heart sinking.

“…Is it?”

he asked gently.

The child hesitated.

Then nodded.

Small. Fragile.

And that was enough.

Without asking for permission, Aizawa crossed the room, closed the blinds, and dimmed the space until only soft, filtered light remained.
Not gone—just gentle.

When he turned around, the boy was finally looking up.

Not at the ground.

Not at the shadows.

At Nezu.

From there, Nezu took over the conversation—kind, patient, never pressuring.
He asked questions softly.
The child didn’t speak, but nodded.
Shrugged.
Responded in small ways.

More than Aizawa had expected.

Then came the final question.

His name.

Aizawa felt the boy freeze.

He crouched again, gently resting a hand on his head.

“It’s alright, kiddo. We’ve talked about this. You don’t have to answer.”

The child didn’t speak.

He cried.

And it broke Aizawa more than any scar, any report, ever had.

He’d seen children cry before—out of fear, pain, confusion.

But this?

This was grief.

Grief that had waited too long to be seen.
Trust that had no strength left to hold itself in.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did Nezu.

They just let him cry.

Eventually, the child calmed down.
Aizawa stood.
One last glance between the adults said everything.

Then the door closed behind them.

The harsh sunlight had faded.
The glow of the moon filtered gently through the windows now.

Thankfully, it didn’t seem to bother the boy.

Outside, the sky was deep and dark—streaked with navy and hints of silver.
Stars scattered above like dust on ink.

It was beautiful.
Even for someone like Aizawa, who always preferred the quiet of night over the chaos of day.

The birds had quieted.
Crickets hummed in their place.
The clouds had parted, and in that silence, Aizawa thought: Even without the sun, the sky can be breathtaking.

He glanced down at the boy.

He was staring at the stars.

Utterly still.

His eyes shimmered with the same light as the sky above—like a perfect mirror.

And something warm bloomed in Aizawa’s chest.

Because even a soul that felt dead could glow again, in the right environment.

He tried to explain what they were seeing.
Tried to put it into words.

But words failed.
Even he couldn’t describe the beauty of that moment.

So he let the silence speak for them.

Then he brought him home.

By now, the signs were clear.

Aizawa had noticed how the child always avoided stepping directly under any bright light—especially the ones cast by the floor lamps.
If he needed to, he would make a detour.
It was deliberate.

And when they finally arrived home, a new worry took root in Aizawa’s chest.

How would Eri react?
And how would the boy respond to her?

But those worries faded quickly.

Eri, warm and welcoming as ever, took the child’s hand and showed him around the house like it was the most important mission in the world.
Room to room, corner to corner.

The boy didn’t seem to mind at all.

That alone was enough to put a rare smile on Aizawa’s face.

Bedtime came sooner than expected.

Eri clung to the boy like she’d known him her whole life.
It was sweet.
Too sweet.
The kind of sweetness that, if left unchecked, could lead to blurred boundaries Aizawa didn’t want either of them to face too soon.

So when the moment came, he gently stepped in.

“Alright, time to get some rest.”

Eri pouted immediately.

“Can’t we sleep together, just this once?”

The boy didn’t say anything—not a sound, not a nod.
He didn’t protest.
He didn’t move.
He just looked at Aizawa with those wide, unreadable eyes, waiting.

“Not tonight,”

Aizawa said, firm but kind.

Eri frowned, but didn’t argue.
She trusted him.
She always had.

The boy followed directions without hesitation.
He slipped away from Eri’s side and padded silently to the guest room she’d proudly shown him earlier that day.
He hadn’t said a word at the time, but he remembered.
He walked like someone used to memorizing safe zones in silence.

Aizawa followed.

He reached for the light switch out of habit—then paused.
His hand hovered mid-air.

Right. The light.

He lowered his hand and let the faint glow of the hallway lamp spill softly into the room, just enough to outline the walls and furniture.

“Make yourself at home,”

He said gently, stepping just far enough inside to be heard.

“It’s yours now.”

The boy stood by the bed, scanning the space as if counting exits.

Aizawa knelt for a moment and ruffled his hair—gentle, not startling.
Just enough to say: you’re safe now.

“I won’t come in without your permission,”

He added, making sure their eyes met.

“You can trust me. Unless it’s an emergency, this space is yours.”

There was no response.

But he didn’t need one.

He gave a quiet nod, backed out slowly, and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

No lights.

No questions.

Just space.

Because sometimes, the best thing he could offer wasn’t safety.

It was control.

Morning came like that.

Well—maybe not for Aizawa.

His sleep was restless.
He kept tossing and turning, waiting for the sound of a scream, a panicked sob—anything that meant the boy was reliving his nightmare.

Eri’s first night had been like that.
She couldn’t even close her eyes without seeing the monster in her memories.

But the scream never came.

And when Aizawa noticed Eri’s bed was empty, he knew exactly where she had gone.

He hadn’t wanted her to sleep with the boy— for her safety.
In case he panicked. In case he hurt her by accident.

But when both children emerged from the guest room unharmed, he exhaled in relief.

He couldn’t bring himself to scold Eri.

And he didn’t want to shame the boy either—not now.
So he let it slide.

Only this once.

If only he’d known it would become a regular occurrence, maybe he would’ve said something that first day.

When it was time to leave for U.A., Aizawa took quick note of the boy’s clothes.

They were far too old.
Worn thin at the seams.

He made a mental note to ask Yaoyorozu to create some spare outfits for him later.

Now that Eri was finally ready—she was always the last one to finish getting dressed—they could head out.

He couldn’t leave the boy home alone.
That wasn’t even a question.

So he brought him along.

Before class, Aizawa briefed his students.
Told them not to make a fuss.
To stay calm.
To follow his lead.

He even closed the curtains and made sure the classroom lights weren’t too bright.

The students were confused, sure—but they didn’t argue.
They knew everything Aizawa did had a reason.
Even if they didn’t know what it was yet.

And then the boy entered.
Eri right behind him.

Aizawa had planned to speak.

He wanted to introduce the child properly.
To explain.
To set boundaries.

But he didn’t get the chance.

Not when one of his students—Katsuki Bakugou—looked like he’d seen a ghost.

Not when one of his most aggressive students suddenly lost his voice.

Not when Katsuki breathed out the name of a stranger with the weight of the world in his chest.

And not when Aizawa caught the sharp, guilt-ridden stare that locked onto the boy who had just walked through the door.

Aizawa didn’t wait.

He moved fast.

Intercepted the moment before it could explode.

He didn’t know what was going on yet.

But he wouldn’t let anything happen.

Not to the boy.

Not again.

“Katsuki Bakugou!”

As quickly as the name left his mouth, Aizawa stepped in and pulled Bakugou out of the classroom.

The hallway was silent.

“What was that?”

Aizawa asked, demanding.

“Why is he here?”

A trembling voice responded not to the question he asked.

Bakugou didn’t look at him.

His eyes were locked onto the floor, his body tense, trembling.
His voice cracked on the edge of something raw—something too close to breaking.

Aizawa had seen Bakugou angry.
He’d seen him arrogant, defiant, explosive.

But this?

This wasn’t the same boy.

This one looked like he was falling apart.

“Bakugou, I need you to explain what happened.”

This time, Aizawa’s voice was softer.
Measured.
Meant to ground, not confront.

He watched as Bakugou clenched his fists so tight his knuckles went white, nails digging into skin hard enough to draw blood.
His jaw twitched.
His lip trembled.
Then came the sound—an almost inaudible whimper, strangled in the back of his throat.

Aizawa didn’t speak.
He waited.

“It’s not—why? Why, Mister Aizawa?”

“Why the fuck is he here?!”

His head finally snapped up.

Eyes red.
Glistening.
Brimming with tears that threatened to fall—and did.
One. Then two. Then more, like a dam giving out under pressure.

He bit his lip hard enough to bleed.
His whole frame shook.

Anger. Guilt. Grief. Relief.

All of it.

Crashing down at once.

“On a mission, I found this boy,” Aizawa said quietly. “Do you… know him?”

He tried to stay calm.
Collected.
But it was difficult—watching one of his students unravel like this.

He placed a hand on Bakugou’s back.
Light. Steady. Supportive.

The boy gave a weak nod.

“Izuku Midoriya,” he choked out. “His name is Izuku Midoriya.”

The words hit Aizawa like a train.

Izuku Midoriya.

If that was true…

“Bakugou… are you sure it’s him?”

Bakugou lifted his head again, something deeper behind his gaze now.
Something like recognition.
Like hope—twisted, desperate, and painful.

“I fucking know it’s him,”

He said coldly, voice steadier now.

He was composed again.
Or at least trying to be.

Aizawa gave him a moment longer.
Then, when he was sure Bakugou could walk without collapsing, they returned to the classroom.

Bakugou didn’t say a word.

He went back to his seat, shoulders tight, eyes fixed anywhere but on the boy.

He couldn’t look at him.

He knew that if he did, he’d break all over again.

Aizawa moved toward the child.

He kept his tone neutral, gentle—but every nerve inside him was burning.

“Midoriya.”

Nothing.

Silence settled around them like fog.

He could feel his students holding their breath.
He could see the worry building in Eri’s eyes.

He tried again.

“Izuku.”

The boy’s head lifted.

And Aizawa’s world split in two.

That face.

He didn’t recognize him.

He didn’t recognize the child he had searched for—desperately—for three years.
The boy whose mother he had held as she cried, begging for a sign.
The child he told himself was still alive.

He didn’t recognize Izuku Midoriya.

He saw a stranger.

Not the one that he had left behind while chasing shadows, while saving others.
Not the one who had spent five whole years trapped in the hands of a man who didn’t see him as human.
Not the one that had once been a boy—a child—he had failed.

A boy he abandoned while the world moved on.

The shame burned through him like acid.

He didn’t hear what his students said next.
The words passed through him like noise underwater.

But he saw the pain in Bakugou’s expression.

He saw how Katsuki tried to hold it together.

Even when he looked away, his eyes stayed locked on Izuku.

If eyes could scream, his would have.

Aizawa closed his own briefly, pulling himself back to the present.

Then he stood tall, cleared his throat, and dismissed the class.

Without another word, he guided Eri and Izuku out.

He took a huge breath of fresh air.

Eri was worried, but she knew saying anything wouldn’t help.
After all, she had already spent two years with him—she knew how Shota worked.
Sometimes, he just needed calm.
Time alone.

So she turned to Izuku—if that was really his name now.

“You like your name?”

She spoke simply, her eyes on a patch of daisies growing in the grass.

Izuku nodded warmly and began helping her pick flowers.

“That’s good! I didn’t like mine at first, but when Mister Aizawa called my name, it didn’t feel the same as when the one who hurt me used it… So I like it!”

She chuckled like she hadn’t just dropped a bomb.
Her smile, however, was truly warm.

Izuku couldn’t help but offer a tiny smile back.

She pointed it out immediately, proud of herself.

And just like that, after a deep breath and a crown of flowers later, Aizawa returned—composed again, as if his breakdown had never happened.

The kids didn’t mention it.

They just welcomed him back with quiet comfort.

He ruffled their hair.

“I just need to make a call. I’ll be back real soon.”

His gaze shifted to the flower crown.

“Why don’t I have one? You already prefer Izuku over me?”

He joked, and Eri panicked, trying to explain herself—a sight as cute as a kitten trying to fight a lion.

While Eri made another flower crown with Izuku, Aizawa stepped aside to call Nezu and explain the situation.

It was simple, really—just a report of what he had learned.

Then his gaze fell on another name in his contact list.

Inko Midoriya.

He hesitated.

But in the end, he had a duty to fulfill.

The ringtone rang loudly in his ear.
Once. Twice. Three times. Four...

Won’t she pick u—

“Hello?”

A hollow voice.

The voice of someone who kept living even after life had ended.

“Inko Midoriya?”

He knew it was her.
There was no doubt.
But he still asked anyway.

A simple “Yes,” came quickly—like something inside her had suddenly stirred awake.
He could hear her heart through the phone.

“This is Aizawa Shouta—Eraserhead. I’m with U.A. High School. Hero course.”

Silence.

Then a small, trembling voice.

“I… I don’t understand.”

He waited.
Gave her time.

And then, gently, he told her.

Even though he was almost certain—90% sure, at least—that the boy in his care was truly Izuku Midoriya, he didn’t give her certainty.
He gave her facts. Caution. Hope wrapped in warning.

But when he said “Izuku” and “here at U.A.” in the same breath—he knew she stopped listening.
She wept.
She might not have heard anything else after that.

It didn’t matter.

She whispered thank you again and again, and that alone made the weight on his chest feel a little lighter.

When Aizawa returned, it was with a flower crown in hand and two children who looked completely ordinary—peaceful even.

He brought them inside, heading for the teachers’ lounge.

At first, he thought Izuku would be fine.
After all, he’d spent a good while outside, in the shade, picking flowers with Eri.
He’d even smiled.

But the second they stepped back into U.A., something shifted.

Izuku shrank.

He quietly moved to one of the corners of the room.

Aizawa already noticed how corners seemed to calm Izuku, so he said nothing.
He let him be.

He didn’t stop him.

Some kids, especially the deeply traumatized ones, needed space to revert.
To cocoon.
He remembered being like that once.

He made hot chocolate for Eri, mainly to distract her—keep her from talking to Izuku, who clearly wasn’t in the mood to communicate.

And just as he began to relax…

The room lit up.

It was sudden. Too sudden.

Before Aizawa could even blink, he heard the scream.

Izuku.

He was screaming.

And just across the room—

Hizashi.

Fuck.

Aizawa sprinted across the lounge.
Cleared space around the boy.
Tried to speak to him.
Reach him.

But Izuku wasn’t listening.
He couldn’t hear.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Bam.

He acted fast.
The safest option was to knock the boy unconscious—gently, carefully, but decisively.

Better that than letting him spiral out of control.

Aizawa picked him up and rushed to the infirmary.

Everything afterward became a blur.

He was beyond tired.

Every moment bled into the next.
And he knew—another wave was coming.

Inko Midoriya was likely already on her way.

He sighed and returned to the lounge.

Hizashi was talking with Eri, who didn’t seem frightened or shaken by the outburst—thankfully.

After all, Hizashi was possibly even better with kids than he was.

But the moment Hizashi saw him, his smile dropped.

Aizawa’s heart did too.

“I didn’t even realize there were people in here,” Hizashi said quietly. “The lights were off, and class was still in session. I should’ve been more careful… You even warned me the kid was scared of sudden brightness. He must’ve been really affected.”

Aizawa exhaled.

“It was bound to happen eventually. Honestly, I should’ve put a sign on the door—something like ‘Do not shout or flip the lights.’ We both messed up. Hopefully, it won’t leave any lasting damage.”

It wasn’t Hizashi’s fault.
Not really.

It was his own fault.

Running on two hours of sleep and five cups of coffee wasn’t the best way to manage trauma and chaos.

Still, he apologized again—to both Hizashi and Eri.

They had a brief conversation.

And then Recovery Girl informed them:
Izuku had woken up.

The three of them rushed to the infirmary.

Eventually, Aizawa understood what had happened—and that no, it wasn’t just about the light.

And watching Hizashi’s face fall as he left the room?
That hurt more than expected.

But it had to be done.
After all, you cannot blame a kid for remembering pain.

Soon, Aizawa passed on the information to every hero and teacher at U.A.

It would become a routine reminder—every three to four days—to make sure no one (especially a few blonde idiots he knew) would forget.

Then, his gaze landed on Eri.

The child he had saved thanks to investigating Izuku’s case.

It was ironic, really.
He hadn’t even meant to find her—just pushed the kidnapping case of Izuku Midoriya long enough until it led him to something else.
Something that led him to another kid.

He didn’t want to imagine what might’ve happened if he hadn’t kept pushing.

He walked toward the two kids.

“...amazing how ice cream tastes, mostly the apple one!”

He caught the tail end of her sentence.
Of course.
Eri liked apple flavors—especially when they were sweet, like candy apples or ice cream.

“Sorry to interrupt this very serious food discussion,”

He said softly.

Both kids looked up at him.

“Izuku, I contacted your mother. She's probably already on her way here.”

He had repeated that sentence over and over in his head to get it right.

To make it soft.
Safe.

But Izuku didn’t react.

His eyes were empty.

Did he even remember what a mother was?

“His mother will come?”

It was Eri who asked.

She always surprised him with her maturity—sometimes he forgot she was only six.

She knew what parents were in theory, but she’d never truly felt the warmth of it.

He didn’t know if she was asking because she didn’t understand why a mother would come… or because she wondered why he had one, and she didn’t.

But her tone held no jealousy.

And that was what broke him the most.

She was in a safe place now.
But what she had endured in those early years… it was still too much.

“Yes,”

He answered, voice dry and quiet.

It was all he could say.

He hadn’t expected fatherhood to change him.
But being a guardian?
That changed everything.

Ever since Eri came into his life, he’d started thinking about quitting as a Pro Hero.

He couldn’t face kids like this anymore.

He saw her in every wounded child.

He thought about her every time he put himself in danger.

He didn’t want to leave her alone.

She had grown on him more than he could ever admit.

And when he looked at her—smiling, eyes bright like she hadn’t lived through hell—he knew she didn’t need to witness what was about to happen.

“Go play with Present Mic for a while, Eri. Izuku needs some privacy now.”

It was the least he could do.

And, as always, she obeyed without a fuss.

She was still that kid.
The one scared of being scolded, even now.

That—and the way she softened his heart—meant Aizawa rarely had the strength to scold her at all.

And then...

The room fell silent.

Aizawa didn’t know what to say or do, but the tension wasn’t high or heavy.

Actually, the silence was… welcoming.

A peace before the storm.
Between a tired man and a mute kid.

Recovery Girl never left the room, but she didn’t impose herself—she knew when to let her presence fade.
In times like this, it was better to disappear quietly.

Then, footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.

Both Chiyo and Shota knew who it was.

He stood up.

Izuku’s eyes followed the movement.

And before anything else could happen—before a mother could break down—Aizawa was there.

Because it was his job.

Because he knew too well what hope could do to a broken mother.

Inko Midoriya had arrived.

She was a mess.
Her ponytail nearly undone, her clothes wrinkled and clinging like they’d been slept in.
But her eyes—her eyes were alive.
Screaming.

If her body looked half-dead, then her gaze looked like it had come back from the grave.

She was ready to collapse at the mere sight of her child—if it really was Izuku Midoriya.

Even if Aizawa knew in his bones that it was, they still needed confirmation.

He stopped her.

He hated doing it.

But it was better—for her, and for the boy.

So he took her aside.

“What are you doing, Eraserhead?!”

She nearly screamed at him.

She remembered him.
And for the first time, he saw her with emotion—fiery, raw, unfiltered.

He never imagined her like this.
But maybe that was foolish.

Every mother ignites when it comes to her child.

“Miss Midoriya, I know you miss your son. But we need to be sure. Even if this child looks like Izuku Midoriya—”

He couldn’t believe he was saying that so professionally.

He’d followed this case for three whole years.
Of course it was Izuku Midoriya.
Even if he hadn’t recognized him on sight, two people from his past had.
Immediately. Unquestionably.

Sometimes, the eyes speak louder than mouths ever could.

And hers did, right before she opened them and said:

“Eraserhead, I know my son. Even if his hair is dull, even if his cheeks have hollowed, even if his light has faded from his eyes…I know. I combed that hair every morning. I kissed those freckles goodnight. I know the way his hands fidget when he’s nervous. You don’t have to tell me to be careful. That—that is my son.”

Her words were powerful, yes.

But her gaze was stronger.

The sheer force behind it… like she could tear through the world just to get to him.

No one could stand in her way—not and expect to come out whole.

So he stepped aside.

Letting her go.

Letting her have her moment.

She crumbled the moment she saw him—collapsed like she hadn’t just stared down a storm seconds ago.

And Aizawa could barely watch.

Because she remembered everything.
Like guilt was wrapping around her throat, like sorrow was pulling her under.

And the boy—Izuku Midoriya—looked at her like a stranger.

He didn’t remember.

Aizawa knew it.

And she… she knew it too.

It was painful to witness.
But he stayed.

Ready to stop things if anything went wrong.

Nothing did.

Just the slow, quiet collapse of everything.

She tried anyway.
She tried to spark something—anything.

“Izuku... it’s me. It’s Mom. I’m here, baby. I’m here. I missed you so, so much.”

Nothing.

And in that moment—seeing it all play out, knowing that if he hadn’t let go of the case, maybe he could’ve saved him sooner—Aizawa made a quiet vow.

He would protect this child.

He would help him build a life.

And maybe—just maybe—he could help him remember her.

But to do that, he needed to keep Izuku close.

He made the proposition then and there: to keep him at U.A.

He was ready to argue for hours if needed, ready to fight tooth and nail to make her see it was the safest choice.

But she didn’t argue.

She only lowered her head.

“Will he be safe?”

Her voice was low, but her eyes—her eyes pierced right through him.

And with no hesitation—none at all—because he had promised himself this, because he wouldn’t fail them again, because he refused to abandon them twice, he said:

“Yes. I promise.”

And that was it.

After one last goodbye—a farewell that felt like the last of many—she left.

Without complaint.

He turned back to Izuku.

The boy looked more lost than before.

Aizawa sighed, ruffled his hair gently.

“You did a great job, kiddo.”

Then he caught the look Chiyo sent him.
A meaningful one.

He excused himself.

She wanted to talk to the boy alone.
He didn’t know what she’d say—but he respected her too much to ask.

He rejoined Eri and Hizashi.

And every time he saw them together, something warm bloomed in his chest.

Eri was sitting on the floor, legs swinging, a soft smile on her face.

She held a picture book upside down—but Hizashi didn’t seem to mind.

He sat beside her, laughing quietly as she insisted she was “reading it backwards to be special.”

Aizawa leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Didn’t realize backwards literacy was part of the U.A. curriculum.”

“Only for the advanced students,”

Hizashi said, grinning.

Eri lit up.

“Mister Aizawa!”

He gave her a small nod.

“You alright?”

“Mhmm!” she chirped. “He let me win at rock-paper-scissors!”

“I did not,”

Hizashi muttered under his breath.

Aizawa let out something between a sigh and a laugh.

He crouched beside her and gently brushed a stray hair from her face.

“Good,”

He said quietly.

Hizashi watched him, eyes soft.

“Tired?”

Aizawa leaned back on his heels and muttered:

“After that day?”

“Yeah. I could’ve guessed,”

Hizashi said, still smiling.

“Want me to carry you to bed?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Eri giggled.

Aizawa stood with effort, gave her one last look, then nodded toward Hizashi.

“Thanks for staying with her.”

“Anytime.”

And as Aizawa turned to go, Hizashi’s voice followed—soft, warm, grounding:

“Hey—get some rest, will you?”

Aizawa didn’t look back.

But he lifted one hand in a lazy wave.

“I’ll think about it.”

The day after was long too.

Shota tried to follow Hizashi’s advice—really, he did.
But after yesterday, restlessness clung to him like static.

Even with exhaustion pounding behind his eyes, the migraine wouldn’t let him sleep.

Still, he’d managed five hours.

More than double the night before.
A win, in some twisted way.

The first thing he did was get Izuku added to the list of students needing therapy and specialized classes.
Things to help him begin again—learn how to speak, write, understand the world.

Anything, really.

It was a miracle the therapist had an open slot so soon.
A rare stroke of luck, and one Aizawa seized instantly.

Izuku had seemed wary at first.
But he trusted Aizawa enough to let go of his coat and stay behind in the therapy room.

That alone spoke volumes.

Then, Aizawa made his way to see Principal Nezu.
Again.

He felt like he’d seen that strange, tea-loving creature more than his own students these past few days.

“Good afternoon, Aizawa. Would you like a cup of tea?”

The usual greeting.
The same polite calm.

Aizawa sighed as he dropped into the seat across from him.
The glow behind Nezu’s desk—the same one that had unsettled Izuku yesterday—was still there.

“I’d prefer coffee, but I know how you feel about it. Anyway, I’m here to speak about—”

“—The child. Izuku Midoriya. Yes, I know. I heard what happened.”

Of course he did.

Aizawa wasn’t even surprised.

And since they were already on the same page, he didn’t bother tiptoeing around the subject.

He took two steps straight into it.

“I’m not asking for a miracle,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “I’m asking for time.”

Nezu set his teacup down, ears twitching as he studied him.

“I don’t think you understand how fast the Commission is moving.”

“I do,” Aizawa replied. “That’s why I’m here now.”

Nezu leaned back slightly in his chair.

“The boy was officially identified yesterday. The media has already started circling. Heroes, politicians, even child welfare groups—they all want a say. And most of them believe U.A. isn’t the place for him.”

Aizawa’s jaw tightened.

“His mother disagrees.”

“That does help your case,” Nezu admitted. “A lot, actually. Inko Midoriya’s approval carries weight. But legally, it still complicates things.”

Aizawa exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to hold his frustration in check.

“She’s not ready to care for him. And he’s not ready to leave. He just got here. He’s barely functioning.”

“He’s mute,” Nezu said softly. “And terrified.”

Aizawa nodded once.

“And still safer here than anywhere else.”

Nezu looked down at the reports stacked neatly on his desk.

“I don’t disagree. But I can’t ignore the law. If this isn’t formalized—if there’s no precedent or proper documentation—we’ll be accused of overstepping.”

Aizawa took a step forward, voice low.

“Then help me build the precedent.”

Nezu met his eyes.

“What do you propose?”

“Temporary educational placement under medical and psychological supervision,”

Aizawa said, already having rehearsed this in his head.

“With restricted access, a tailored routine, and documented therapeutic evaluation.”

Nezu blinked.

“You’ve thought this through.”

“I’ve had to.”

Silence stretched between them.
The hum of a wall clock filled the space between words.

Nezu finally spoke.

“You’ll face backlash.”

“I always do.”

Nezu’s eyes softened.

“They’re going to call it favoritism.”

“He’s not a favorite,” Aizawa said. “He’s a child.”

Another pause.

Nezu leaned back, sighing through his nose.

“You have two weeks.”

Aizawa’s brows lifted slightly.

“Two weeks,” Nezu repeated. “To make this legitimate. To file something that sticks. To convince the Commission this isn’t an act of pity or rebellion. I’ll hold the line until then.”

Aizawa dipped his head in silent thanks.

“I know what it’s like to be seen as a thing instead of a person.”

Nezu’s voice dropped a little, almost too quiet.

Aizawa didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

They were on the same page now.

After nearly two weeks of juggling between being a teacher by day, a hero by night, and somewhere in between trying to be some sort of guardian—all while looking for a way to keep him at U.A.—Aizawa was exhausted.

And for a brief moment, he thought things might finally settle.

No new commotions. No emergencies.
For once, he felt like he could breathe, even if the miracle he desperately needed to convince the Commission hadn't arrived yet.

But seeing even the faintest smile on Izuku’s face… that was enough.
Enough to feel like all of this wasn’t in vain.

Class ended, and hopefully, All Might would take over for the next hour.

Maybe, just maybe, Aizawa could sneak in a quick nap in the staff lounge.

Only—it didn’t happen.

As soon as the bell rang, Hizashi burst into the classroom.

And from the look on his face, Aizawa immediately knew something had happened.

Was it Eri?
Izuku?
Who?

He followed Hizashi without hesitation, not caring what his students might think.
They were used to this by now.

While running, Hizashi managed to explain:
Izuku had encountered All Might.

That alone was enough for Aizawa to connect the dots.

All Might was a heroic figure—yes.

But a teacher?
Not really.

Being able to use a quirk didn’t make you qualified to teach how to use it.

The two were entirely different.

Shota kept cursing himself in his head.

Why did trouble keep following him?

Why couldn’t he just take his damn nap?

When they arrived at the infirmary, nothing seemed particularly alarming at first glance.

Nezu, Recovery Girl, and All Might were already there.

But All Might looked pale—like he’d seen a ghost.

Aizawa had never seen him like that before.

All Might didn’t say a word. He looked completely out of it.

So Nezu took over, deciding it was faster to watch the security footage than wait for the Symbol of Peace to find the words.

All Might didn’t even look at the screen.

He turned away the moment it played, like it disgusted him.
Like he couldn’t bear to see it again.

And Aizawa… he watched.

He saw the moment Izuku twisted his own body—and snapped it back in place like it was nothing.

The movement wasn’t human.

Not biologically possible.
Not even with a quirk.

His throat tightened.

“What the hell happened? What did you do?”

He muttered, voice hoarse.

His eyes turned toward All Might.
And something snapped.

He saw red.

His body moved on instinct, grabbing All Might by the collar before he could stop himself.

“One rule. One rule! How could you let this happen?! You couldn’t follow one damn rule!”

He shook him, hard.

He could’ve done worse.
But he didn’t.

And All Might didn’t resist.
He just let himself be shaken.

It wasn’t until Aizawa caught Hizashi’s gaze that he stopped.

That quiet, steady look—calm and grounding—was enough to bring him back to himself.

Aizawa took a breath.

Let go.

The rage didn’t vanish, but he tucked it away.

The discussion that followed was... painful.

This boy wasn’t quirkless.
He had something now.
A power that clearly hurt him.
A body that moved in ways it shouldn’t.

Something not meant to be human.
Something artificial.

Maestro.

Aizawa would kill him.

Then he looked at Izuku… then at Nezu.
And the thought surfaced:

“Would this be enough to make him stay at U.A.?”

He saw Nezu nod. His face was unreadable, thinking—processing.

Aizawa never really knew what went on inside Nezu’s mind.

Then Chiyo interrupted.

“You’re going to use this trauma to make him stay at U.A.?”

She looked at him like he was someone else. Someone she didn’t recognize.
Like a monster.

And maybe she wasn’t wrong.

But it had been eleven days.
Eleven days of searching.
Eleven days of trying to find anything to keep him safe.

If this horrible fate was what it took to give the boy a better life…

“What other choice do we have? Let him go out there and suffer again?”

The conversation ended there.

The silence that followed was heavy.

And then Izuku started to wake up.

With All Might gone, and Hizashi stepping out (as much as it hurt to see him leave after how well he handled everything), Izuku could finally begin to process what had happened.

Aizawa saw it.

The panic.
The trembling.
The way Izuku’s eyes darted around the room—until they found his.

Aizawa didn’t know what the boy saw in his gaze.
He could never truly understand the mind of a traumatized child.

But whatever it was... it did something.

Izuku cried.

Not like the times before.

This was different—warmer, more fragile, more real.

It felt like something had sparked inside him.

Aizawa only hoped it was for the best.

He stayed there.
Quiet. Steady.
Letting Izuku let it out.

And two hours later, Izuku stopped and asked to be brought home.

So home they went.

Aizawa had just enough time to sit down and relax when Eri came back from her special lesson.

He noticed how she didn’t mention Izuku’s condition, and he was, at times like this, grateful she was mature and kind enough not to burden him with it.

The two of them shared a brief conversation.

Shota asked about her day and even jokingly questioned her, but the exchange quickly faded.

Aizawa didn’t know why Eri chose that moment to go talk to Izuku, but it seemed to be the right time.

Izuku didn’t push her away, and now the two of them sat together in the corner of the room, just behind a tiny potted plant.

It was a funny sight—he couldn’t help but smile.

He was glad to have Eri by his side.
She seemed to understand how Izuku’s mind worked.
Maybe she could help more than he could—an actual adult.

How pitiful.

Then the doorbell rang.

Aizawa stood up and cautiously peeked through the peephole to see who it was.

To his surprise, it was Yamada.

He quickly opened the door.

“...Hizashi?”

Aizawa looked him up and down, uncertain it was really him—his once vibrant blond hair was now dyed brown.

It didn’t look half bad.

“Hey, Shota! Like my new look?”

Present Mic announced loudly, striking a series of exaggerated poses to show off his new appearance.

It looked good—really good—but of course, Aizawa would never admit that.

“…It suits you. What are you doing here?”

He changed the subject, not wanting to inflate Hizashi’s ego.

“I felt bad about what happened to Midoriya. Thought I’d check in. Maybe stay for dinner?”

He noticed the way Hizashi’s cheeks flushed slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Cute.

He tried to stay neutral, but the corners of his lips betrayed him.

“Come in,”

He said simply, stepping aside to let him in.

Yamada entered with a peaceful smile—and just as he stepped into the hallway, a bubbly young girl rushed up to him.

“It’s Mister Annoying Blond Man!”

As Eri hurled herself into a hug with Hizashi, he turned to Aizawa with a knowing look.

Shota recognized that look instantly and turned his gaze anywhere but toward Hizashi.

“I told you to stop calling him that.”

He didn’t know when she’d heard him say it, but clearly, he had called Hizashi that at some point—and he had no desire to hear Hizashi whining because Eri picked up on it.

So he chose not to address it further, silently hoping Hizashi wouldn’t either.

The mood in the room remained light, and Aizawa noticed how relaxed Izuku seemed now that Hizashi’s hair was brown.

He could finally breathe easy, knowing that nothing in this house could go wrong.

Because he had this amazing daughter and husband—wait, what was he saying?

His eyes widened suddenly, his face turning as red as a tomato.

Eri wasn’t his daughter.
Hizashi wasn’t his husband.
He wasn’t even his lover.

He let out another sigh to calm his racing mind.
He was shocked by his own delusional thoughts.

Then he heard Hizashi offer to cook, and he gladly accepted.

He could relax—and forget what he'd just thought.

He heard the soft giggles and the sound of colorful pens on paper coming from Eri’s room.

It was peaceful.

After a while, Shota settled and finally struck up a conversation with Hizashi, who was still in the kitchen.

“It smells good,”

was all he said.

“Of course it does. I cook with love.”

Hizashi replied with a little too much enthusiasm, laughter blending into the sound of cooking.

His tired voice must’ve slipped through a little too much, because next thing he knew, Hizashi appeared in the living room with two cups of tea.

They sat together in a comfortable silence, letting the simple sounds of life surround them.

And Aizawa was grateful—Hizashi let him have his peace.

After more than 15 years of friendship, of course he knew how to handle his grumpy moods.

Then, the silence—long and familiar—broke.

It was Hizashi who broke it, gently, like he was afraid of spooking a terrified kitten.

“How bad was it… after I left the room?”

He dared to ask.

The silence returned, heavier than before.

The cooking sounds now seemed distant, and Eri’s giggling no longer registered.

Aizawa stared at his tea for a little too long.

“Bad,” he eventually said. “I’ve never seen that child cry like that before.”

Aizawa didn’t know what else to say.

Trauma clings to a body, follows it like a leech.

Remembering the footage—the breakdown, the sobbing—broke more than his heart.

Maybe his soul had never really left that room.

He didn’t—he couldn’t—think about what Izuku had endured in those five years of captivity.

The silence deepened.

Hizashi waited, knowing Aizawa well enough to know something had to come out eventually.

Finally, Aizawa tried to voice it.

“I don’t know what he’s been through, but it’s probably worse than we can imagine.”

“I feel like I failed him… again. Every time I promise he’ll be safe with me, something goes wrong and—”

He stopped.
His voice cracked.
He felt the tears coming.

But he didn’t want to cry—not now, not in front of Hizashi.

Aizawa never liked showing weakness.

But the last two weeks had been exhausting.

He needed to break down.

But the opportunity never came.

Between duties and constant worry, his countless sleepless nights had pushed his mind to the brink.

So when someone asked—someone who cared—it broke him.

“It’s normal for a child to have a traumatic response… you know that, right?”

Hizashi reached out, speaking gently.
He didn’t comment on Aizawa’s state—just responded to what had been said.

And Aizawa appreciated that.

What Hizashi said was true.
It wasn’t his fault that Izuku lashed out.

But he still should’ve taken more precautions.

“I know, it’s just—”

No.
He couldn’t go further.

He didn’t even know what he was thinking.

And breaking down while food was cooking wasn’t ideal.

Definitely not.

But then, Hizashi said his name—softly, tenderly.

He couldn’t resist anymore.

“I don’t know how much more he’s carrying. Every time I think we’ve reached the worst of it, another layer peels back.”

It came out raw and honest.

His worries spilled forth.

How Izuku always seemed to take one step toward healing, only to fall two steps back.

How each time peace seemed near, something shattered it.

And he blamed himself.

For not being careful enough.

For not being there.

For not being strong enough to protect him.

It hadn’t been this hard with Eri.

Sure, Eri had her breakdowns, but he’d always been there.

So what changed?

How do you care for a child who’d spent five years in captivity?

It had never happened before—because most children who’d been missing that long were…

His mind spiraled.

And like always, Hizashi pulled him back.

“And you’re just… handling all of this alone?”

It grounded him.

Aizawa looked at Hizashi.

He sighed, feeling his migraine briefly lift.

A small scoff escaped his lips.

“You think I have time to fall apart?”

“No. But you should have someone.”

Aizawa felt something stir in his stomach.

It must have been hunger—Definitely after all, the smell of cooking was back.

The silence returned, but this time, it was lighter.

Like a chapter had closed.

Because Hizashi was right.

Like Eri, like Izuku, like his students—sometimes, all you need is help.

And the truth was, Aizawa hadn’t been in the best place for a while.

So when he saw those warm hazel eyes, he found himself saying something he didn’t even know he felt.

“I have someone.”

Dinner was lively.

Between bubbly Eri, talkative Hizashi, and a clumsy Izuku, Aizawa found himself relaxing—if only for a moment.

The world paused.

The worries faded.

And everything felt… okay.

The evening passed quickly, and soon it was time for the kids to sleep.

Aizawa didn’t really want the day to end either, and the children’s whining as they brushed their teeth only made it harder.

But time never truly stops.

Now, with the kids in bed, Hizashi and Aizawa were alone again.

Aizawa began clearing the table, washing each dish one by one, while Hizashi wiped the table with more attention than necessary.

“They’re good together,”

Hizashi said as he handed Shota a forgotten plate.

“Yeah, I’m glad they fit like pieces of a puzzle.”

It was true.
At first, he had worried they wouldn’t get along—but looking back now, that worry felt almost ridiculous.
Of course they would get along.

Silence barely had the chance to settle in before Hizashi, just as expected, broke it with teasing.

“So… what was that about Mister Annoying Blond Man, huh?”

Aizawa smiled.
He knew it was coming.

“I have no idea where she heard that,”

He replied, dripping with sarcasm as he handed Hizashi a freshly cleaned plate.

“Truly a mystery.”

He tried to keep a straight face, but failed the moment Yamada grinned widely at the stupid joke.

And just like that, the chore was done.
The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky with softer light—but Aizawa didn’t quite want Hizashi to leave just yet.

So he poured them both another cup of tea and suggested they sit on the sofa for a while.

The day had been long and harsh.
They deserved a moment of peace—without breakdowns or heavy emotions.
Just quiet.

He wasn’t sure how it started, but they began rambling about the past, about when they were younger and reckless.

Even though Aizawa always insisted he wouldn’t go along with Hizashi’s ridiculous ideas, somehow, he always ended up doing them anyway.

Laughter echoed in the living room—soft, never loud enough to wake the kids, but warm enough to soften the heart.

Hours passed. The tea grew cold long ago.

And in that cozy quiet, somewhere between a laugh and a tossed pillow, Hizashi said something unexpectedly gentle.

“You’ve changed.”

It didn’t sound like criticism.
If anything, it sounded like admiration.

Aizawa gave a small smile.

“You think?”

“You still look like you’re running on coffee and spite. But…” Hizashi nodded subtly toward the hallway. “There’s a softness in you now. Not weakness—just… gentleness. Even if it’s quiet.”

So that’s what he meant.

People always said fatherhood changed a man.

And maybe they were right.

He liked the version of himself he was now.
He liked being home—and not being alone.

He liked Eri’s warm welcome and the quiet smile Izuku offered him.

He liked ruffling their hair.

When he thought about life before them—before Izuku, before Eri—it felt like it wasn’t really him. Because he never smiled as much as he did now.

“…They changed me, without even trying.”

He felt himself smiling again.
He was glad to have them.

“Yeah. That’s what kids do,”

Hizashi said, his tone playfully light.

And just like that, the emotion crept back in.

He was so grateful for them—these kids, who had endured so much.

Even if the reason they ended up in his life was terrible.

“They’re not just kids,” he said. “They’re survivors. Every day they wake up and keep going… That’s strength I didn’t have at their age.”

The words were honest, but not sad.
Just true.
They were strong—maybe stronger than he had ever been.

And all he wanted now was for life to treat them gently.
For their future to be kind.

“You give them something to hold onto,” Hizashi added quickly, his voice softer now. “That matters.”

Shota thought back to his earlier breakdown.
How foolish it felt now, thinking he had to carry it all alone—when someone had been beside him all along.

He smiled.

And that’s how the day ended.

Later, alone in the quiet of his home, he decided sleep was the best next step.

Tomorrow would be a big day.

But now… the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter.

The next morning, Aizawa was, as usual, the first to wake.
While pouring his second cup of coffee, he heard the familiar shuffle of footsteps entering the kitchen.

“Morning,”

He muttered, knowing full well no one in this household was particularly fond of early hours.

Izuku responded with a silent nod, and Eri mumbled a half-asleep greeting, far less energetic than usual. But that was okay.
Quiet mornings suited them.
The silence wasn’t awkward — it was comforting, familiar.

Even if Aizawa had to remind Izuku to eat or nudge Eri to get dressed properly, these mornings were peaceful.
Worth savoring.
But leaving the warmth of his home was always the hardest part.
Because once he stepped outside, the day truly began.

He dropped Eri off at her specialized class and Izuku at his therapy appointment.
He was glad to see them both eager to go.
That part was never a problem.

Now came the part he dreaded: the meeting.

Again, he stood outside the principal’s office, joined by a visibly anxious Present Mic, a calm Recovery Girl, and the ever-infuriating Number One Hero — who still couldn’t follow a single damn rule.

Aizawa clenched his jaw.
He was still angry.
Izuku had been doing so well before he showed up.

He tried not to glare.
He really did.

The four of them entered, Nezu greeting them with the same unreadable cheerfulness.
The meeting unfolded just as Aizawa had predicted.
The outcome wasn’t surprising, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept.

Hiding what had happened from the Hero Commission could lead to serious consequences — but the alternative was far worse.
He couldn’t even imagine what they'd do to a child like Izuku.

So this was the only solution:
keep Izuku close. Always.

It would mean reorganizing everything — especially with Bakugou looking at Izuku like he was already gone, and a classroom full of powerful, unpredictable students.
Still, if it kept Izuku inside UA, Aizawa would make it work.

He checked the time. 7:43.

Just enough time to pick up Izuku from therapy.
He’d need to explain the new program — to both Izuku and his therapist.
With Izuku spending most of the day by his side, therapy and special classes would be reduced.
It was messy.
Everything about Izuku was complicated.

But giving up wasn’t an option.

Later, after dropping Izuku off, Aizawa addressed the class and explained the changes.
Then he turned toward one student in particular.

This conversation would be painful but needed.

“Oh god,” he thought, “please let today go smoothly.”

“What do you want?”

Bakugou asked flatly, not even looking at him.
It was clear he didn’t want this conversation.

But it wasn’t his choice.
Shota had to do this.

“What was your relationship with Izuku before?”

Aizawa asked, unsure if being direct was the right move, but too tired to circle around it.

A silence followed.
Then Bakugou spoke.

“I was an asshole.”

He paused and bit his lip, trying to stop it from trembling.
He glanced at Aizawa before turning away, eyes drifting from the window to the floor.

He couldn’t stay still.

“Bullying. Harassment. Whatever you can think of—I did it.”

He still didn’t look at Aizawa.
Whether out of guilt or fear of judgment, it was enough to silence the usual fire in him.

“I was greedy for attention. A damn attention whore. And dumbass Izuku gave me too much. Too much trust. Too much admiration. I didn’t know how to handle it when he started looking up to someone else.”

His knuckles turned white, hands shaking.

He hated talking about this.
But he didn’t want to lie, either.

He knew what kind of monster he’d been.

“I hate myself for it. I even started going to therapy. You might not believe it, Teach, but I’ve been trying to make up for it. Still... I never apologized to the one person who deserved it the most.”

His voice was low, unsure.
Was he oversharing?
Maybe.

But he’d learned something in therapy—sometimes, you have to talk.
Even if you're bad at it.

“Bakugou, Izuku doesn’t remember what happened—”

Aizawa didn’t even finish his sentence.

“I fucking know. And that makes it worse.”

Bakugou punched the wall beside him, trying to stop the tears.
Trying to feel anything else.

“Because it feels like I’m the fucking idiot still dragging this around like a leech. Like it meant nothing to him—and I’m the one haunted by it every damn day.”

He was crying now.

Aizawa remained composed—or tried to.
This was a heavy conversation.

“Trauma made him forget, Bakugou. It’s not his fault. And it’s not yours, either,”

He said gently, trying to ground the overwhelmed teen.

Bakugou trembled harder.

“I know… I fucking know… But I can’t help it... I dreamt of seeing him again every day and now it feels like—”

He bit his lip, hard.
The words were stuck.

Aizawa didn’t push.
He waited.
Silent. Present.

Finally, Bakugou exhaled sharply through his nose.
His voice dropped to a whisper.

“—like he’s a stranger. And I don’t deserve to even be in the same room as him.”

A long pause.

Then Aizawa spoke.
His tone was measured. Firm.

“But you are in the same room. And whether you deserve it or not—that’s not for you to decide alone.”

Bakugou didn’t answer.
He stared at the floor, as if it might answer for him.

“Izuku is different now,” Aizawa continued, folding his arms. “He doesn’t speak. Barely reacts. Avoids light and loud spaces. His memory is fragmented. He clings to darkness because it feels safe. He didn’t even recognize his own name at first.”

Bakugou flinched.

“I’m telling you this,” Aizawa’s voice sharpened, “because you need to understand something clearly.”

He stepped forward.
Bakugou’s breath hitched.
But he didn’t move.

“I’m not asking you to forget the past. You’ve made your mistakes. You know them. But Izuku is fragile right now. I won’t let anyone force a connection on him—not even someone who means well.”

Bakugou looked up slowly.

“You think I’m gonna—?”

“No,” Aizawa cut in. “I don’t think you’d hurt him. Not intentionally. But intent doesn’t always matter. You want to help? Then fine. Stay back. Let him come to you. If he ever does. Don’t chase a redemption arc at his expense.”

Bakugou swallowed hard.

“I just… I wanna make it right…”

“I believe you,” Aizawa said, voice softening. “But making it right isn’t about what you want. It’s about what he needs. And right now, he needs time. Space. A place where he doesn’t feel pressured to be anything at all.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not hostile.

“…Can I still be near him?” Bakugou asked finally. “Even if it’s just… background noise. Familiar noise.”

Aizawa regarded him for a moment.
Then nodded.

“Yes. But no questions. No memories. No expectations. Not yet.”

Bakugou nodded too.
He didn’t trust his voice anymore.

Aizawa turned to leave, then paused.

“One more thing.”

Bakugou looked up.

“He didn’t stop being Izuku. Just because he’s different now doesn’t mean he’s gone. So if he starts remembering — I expect you to be someone he can face, not someone he has to survive.”

The words hit hard.
But Bakugou nodded.

When Aizawa finally stepped back into the classroom, Bakugou lingered behind for a few seconds.

Fists limp.
Eyes on the window.

Then he followed.

Aizawa was relieved to see nothing had gone wrong while he was gone.
He noticed Izuku seemed particularly intrigued by one student’s quirk.
It wasn’t surprising—Izuku liked darkness.

He shot a quick glance at Bakugou to see if his advice had been followed.
To his surprise, it had.

Bakugou had silently taken his seat, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the window—probably trying not to break down in front of the class.

Aizawa was quietly grateful.

What surprised him more was how kind the rest of the class had been.
They gave Izuku space.
They didn’t push him.

He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it made him proud.

And then, when only Bakugou, Izuku, and Aizawa were left in the room...

Something wonderful happened.

Izuku spoke.

Barely above a whisper.
But he spoke.

And that was more than progress.

It was hope.

Aizawa tried to stay composed and only offered a small smile.
He didn’t want to startle the child.
But it truly warmed his heart to see how far Izuku had come in just the two short weeks he had spent at U.A.

Then he noticed Bakugou leaving the room, and Shota felt compelled to say something.

Because Bakugou had tried.

He had done everything not to blow up, not to push Izuku too far.
He had listened to Aizawa’s request, even when it clearly hurt him to hold back.

Because Bakugou had tried.

“Bakugou.”

He waited for him to turn.

Bakugou didn’t look at him—because Izuku was right there—but that was still effort.
Still restraint.

“Thanks for today.”

He meant it.
Genuinely.

And he noticed how much that simple sentence hurt Bakugou.
The way his body tensed, the discomfort on his face—it was all visible.
When he left, Aizawa felt a pang of guilt.

Because that was his student, too.

But he couldn’t risk another panic attack like the one Izuku had had yesterday.

Still with lingering guilt, Aizawa took Izuku home.

When they got home, Aizawa started making dinner while Izuku settled on the sofa.
The soft glow of a single lamp tried its best to light up both the kitchen and the living room.

It was enough.

Aizawa had learned what light intensity was safe, and how to position it just right—enough shadow to make the sofa inviting, not overwhelming.
A small detail that made all the difference. Izuku no longer sat on the cold floor.

Then the most energetic presence in the house burst through the door, screaming her greeting as usual.

And soon, laughter filled the air.

Eri was thrilled to see Izuku and pouted when she heard he would be staying in Class 1-A.
She whined that she wanted to spend more time with the students, with Izuku, and with Aizawa.

But her pout quickly faded when she learned there would be apple pie for dessert.

Over a warm, glowing dinner, the three of them shared stories from their day.
Eri lit up when she heard that Izuku had spoken, immediately begging to hear his voice.
Izuku blushed, clearly flustered by the attention.

It was a good evening.
A rare, peaceful one.

But reality would return soon enough.
The U.A. School Festival was just around the corner.

Still—

For now,

It was alright.

Chapter Text

The next day was as strange as the last.

Izuku was taken again to Class 1-A after a one-hour therapy session.
He wasn’t thrilled to leave therapy—he liked her—but he didn’t mind going to Class 1-A either.

After all, it was always nice to be embraced by darkness.

Aizawa took him to Class 1-A, who were currently having an English lesson with Present Mic for the first hour of the day.

Now in front of the door, Aizawa turned to Izuku.

"Izuku, we’ll be heading to a training session today, so it won’t be indoors. These people will be fighting each other. You don’t mind?"

Izuku didn’t mind them fighting.
He had learned what heroes did, and he understood these students were learning to become the next ones.
So he quickly shook his head.

He could have spoken, but using his voice was tiring, and he didn’t feel confident enough to talk yet.

"Are you sure? They might hurt each other... maybe even bleed. You’re not scared of blood?"

Aizawa had started to become a little paranoid about Izuku.
Always questioning what might trigger the child.

But Izuku wasn’t like other kids.
He wasn’t scared of normal things.

Blood was never the problem.
Izuku didn’t mind pain, blood, or death.
No—he was scared of light, of smiles, of blond hair.

So he smiled at Aizawa.
He didn’t want his guardian to worry.
After all, he must stay an obedient child if he didn’t want to be abandoned.

"Alright." Aizawa passed his hand through his hair, sighing. "If you say so... Call me if anything troubles you."

And then the bell rang. The students of 1-A rushed out of the classroom.

"Oh, hey, Midoriya! You’re back!"

The moment they saw Izuku Midoriya standing in the hallway, a ripple of warm voices spread through Class 1-A.
The students turned, their faces brightening with genuine smiles and surprise.

"You came back!"

Jirou was pleased to see him again, a warm smile quickly following.

"Midoriya! I was wondering if you were coming back again!"

Uraraka called out, bouncing on the balls of her feet, her hands animated as she spoke.
Her enthusiasm was infectious.

Aizawa was pleased to see how quickly Class 1-A accepted Izuku into their class.
What was even more pleasing was the fact that Izuku finally started to react to the name "Midoriya."

Bakugou’s jaw tightened, and his eyes flicked briefly toward Izuku—but just as quickly, he turned away, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Aizawa noticed.

The others didn’t seem to notice.
Or maybe they chose not to.

"Midoriya, you’re coming to watch us spar?"

Kirishima approached Izuku with a huge smile.

Izuku nodded quickly.

"So cool! You better watch me, I’ll impress you with my quirk!"

Denki responded rapidly after the nod, excited to have a new friend to bond with.

Then Izuku looked around to search for Tokoyami.
He didn’t need long to find him.
He was at a distance, mostly uncomfortable from the crowd forming around Izuku.

"You’re searching for Tokoyami, right?"

Ojiro seemed to notice and asked for confirmation, and with a tiny nod, he called for Tokoyami.
At least that’s what he wanted—if Mina didn’t beat him to it.

"Hey Tokoyami! Your best buddy is here!"

Mina had a wide, smug smile on her face.
She was clearly teasing the shy birdie.

Upon hearing that, Tokoyami looked at Izuku for a second.
Then, the second after, he was gone—off to the training session.

"Not cool, man."

Was what he heard when leaving.
Great, now even Sero teased him.

"Don’t mind him, he’s a bit shy."

Momo tried to explain to Izuku, not wanting him to feel hurt.

But Izuku wasn’t hurt.
He was used to that.
He didn’t mind.
He was the one bothering Tokoyami, after all.

At the training session, Izuku was sitting under a tree in the light shade.
Aizawa was bothered by the sun, which was hitting strongly today, and always seemed to keep his attention on Izuku in case something happened.

Fortunately, Izuku was calmly there, unmoved.
Sitting in the grass was appeasing for him.
Even if he was afraid of the sun, he liked being outside.
He liked the gentle breeze, which carried a melodic sound and a fresh grassy smell.
It was something so peaceful and unfamiliar.
He liked it.
The sensation when he touched the grass, the little tickles, observing the ants moving mechanically in line, the moving leaves above him which reflected the shifting shadows, the distant laughter of the students in Class 1-A.

It was truly peaceful.

He drew his knees to his chest, watching them all silently.
He saw them fight, hit each other, and even use their quirks, but none of that bothered him.
He didn’t flinch at the impacts.
He didn’t react to the blood when Kirishima’s hand got scraped.
He simply watched everything.

Aizawa's attention was always partially on Izuku, afraid of anything happening.
It was the first time Izuku witnessed a sparring session, and Aizawa feared it might suddenly trigger a memory.
But Izuku never reacted.

Maybe his assumption of abuse was wrong... Maybe he had never been physically hurt like they thought.
But that didn’t make sense.
The silence, the flinching, the shadows—none of it matched a child untouched by pain.

Aizawa wasn’t sure what disturbed him more:
the idea that Izuku had been hurt… or that he hadn’t been, and still turned out like this.

He needed answers. But asking Izuku wasn’t possible. The only one who could answer was… Maestro.

"Sensei?"

Ah, right. He was in the middle of a training session. He’d think about that later. For now, he had to stay focused on the lesson.

"Yes, Todoroki?"

"I don’t feel good. Can I rest here?"

Todoroki, shockingly, pointed toward Izuku. Aizawa hesitated.
He knew Todoroki wasn’t social and was the type to stay quiet—and he also knew Todoroki wouldn’t skip training without reason.

So either he was intrigued by Izuku—which Aizawa hoped wasn’t the case—or he was genuinely unwell.

"Do you need to go to the infirmary?"

He asked, concern in his eyes.

"No, it’s fine. Just a quick rest should be alright."

He thought for a moment.
But in the end, he accepted it.
After all, Todoroki wasn’t the type to do something thoughtless.
That kid was rather calm.

"Sure, go rest a little."

And he returned to the lesson while Todoroki made his way to Izuku.

"Do you mind?"

Todoroki pointed at the grass next to Izuku, near the foot of the tree.
His tone was cold and clear. Izuku simply looked at him for a little too long, then nodded.

They didn’t talk.
Both of them only looked at the training session in progress.
But Izuku could feel the constant glance the other boy kept giving him.

While Todoroki stood with his back pressed against the tree, Izuku was on the grass, trying not to ask what he wanted.

Izuku was ready to ask.
He gathered all his courage, then—

A flash of light swallowed every shadow.
Even if Izuku was quite far from the blast zone, the light was so strong that it engulfed even the small shade the tree provided.

The source was a mix of quirks between Denki’s and Bakugou’s.
They were fighting a little too hard, and the collision sent a flash of light resembling a flash bomb.

Fortunately, Izuku was far enough not to be harmed.
He simply flinched at the sudden outburst.
But even though it lasted only a second, Izuku still trembled and moved slightly behind the tree to make sure that if it happened again, he could hide behind the trunk.

That didn’t go unnoticed by Todoroki.
He saw the tremble, heard the heavy breathing, and with a quick glance, already guessed that Izuku was trying not to panic. He didn’t comment.

"Izuku!"

Aizawa came running.
Probably concerned about the blast.
He first handled the situation, making sure the two students were okay, then came straight to Izuku.

"Are you okay?"

He sounded worried.
Todoroki never looked away.
A flicker of jealousy crossed his face—but he quickly hid it.

Izuku now had his hands on both sides of his head, like he was trying to mute every sound.

Todoroki was familiar with that feeling.

"Sensei, you shouldn’t shout in times like this. Every noise is multiplied when a panic attack wants to break out."

He looked back toward the training while saying it, like he wanted to hide the fact he even spoke.

Aizawa looked at his student, then back at Izuku.

"Thank you for this, Todoroki. I’ll keep that in mind."

Aizawa seemed to understand.
Todoroki didn’t want to explain why he knew.
And Aizawa wouldn’t push.

He focused on Izuku.
Took his hand, guided his breathing.
It worked.
The trembling lessened.
The breathing slowed.

"Thanks..."

A barely trembling voice slipped between the tears clinging to Izuku’s lashes.

And when Aizawa heard it, he smiled gently.

"You’re welcome."

He made sure everything was fine and was ready to return to the training—but paused.

"You’re always welcome to talk to me, Todoroki."

He didn’t turn around.
Just walked away.

"Yeah... right."

Todoroki muttered it under his breath.

And silence returned.

The glance never did, though.

Back at the classroom, Aizawa and Izuku were waiting for the students to return.
They had arrived early, while the rest of the class showered and changed back into their uniforms.

"If you feel the need to distance yourself for a while, Izuku, you can,"

Aizawa said, already preparing his yellow sleeping bag for his next nap.

Izuku didn’t respond, but Aizawa knew he heard him.

Soon enough, the students returned—laughing, smiling, chatting about their next meal and weekend plans.

As soon as Tokoyami entered, his quirk decided to act up.

"Izuku!"

Dark Shadow wrapped around the boy like a welcoming cloak, pulling him into a snug, shadowy hug.
Tokoyami, meanwhile, tried to bury himself in a book, pretending the scene unfolding beside him didn’t exist.

"Awww! Dark Shadow is already on a first-name basis with Midoriya! I’m so jealous!"

Mina leaned on Tokoyami’s desk, her grin smug.
Tokoyami responded by burying his beak even deeper into his book.

"Oh come on, don’t be such a shy birdie!"

Sero strolled over, plopping an arm casually on Mina’s shoulder.
Together, they looked like teasing older siblings cornering their flustered little brother.

"Shouldn’t you leave him alone? I feel bad that you always tease him,"

Hagakure said, flustered.

"Geez, we’re just joking. It’s funny how Dark Shadow is the polar opposite of Tokoyami! You don’t actually mind, do you?"

Mina’s tone softened with concern.

A long sigh escaped Tokoyami’s beak.

"No. I don’t really mind. Just don’t do it when I’m trying to read."

That eased Mina’s worries.
But Denki jumped into the conversation with a whine.

"Not fair! You’re always reading!"

He nearly tackled Sero from behind.

"BRO!"

Sero yelped, half-collapsing from the weight.

They both burst into laughter.
Mina laughed too, pulling out her phone and snapping a few pictures.

Izuku, still wrapped in Dark Shadow, watched the scene unfold with quiet relief.
The attention had moved away from him.
He glanced at Tokoyami.

"...Sorry."

Izuku hated disturbing anyone.
Aizawa had told him he wouldn’t be sent back to the facility for being a bother, but that was just his promise.
Not Tokoyami’s. Not Eri’s. Not his mother’s.
The fear of abandonment was deeper than fear of pain.
It crept into quiet moments, into smiles, into warm shadows.

He leaned further into Dark Shadow, holding onto the embrace.
Because Dark Shadow didn’t let go.
And because Izuku didn’t want to be let go.

"Don’t be. It’s not you who disturbs me. You’re calm. I don’t mind you, necessarily."

Tokoyami muttered this behind his book, feathers fluffed just slightly with embarrassment.

Izuku smiled at that, closing his eyes.
The warmth wrapped around him felt almost like a home.

The class started as usual: Aizawa, tired.
The class, loud.
And a boy asleep on the floor, embraced by a living shadow.
That part?
Not usual at all.

The bell rang.

All Might would be taking over the next hour, and while Aizawa would normally use the time to nap, today he had other plans.

Izuku stirred from his nap.
Lucky him.
He’d actually slept.

"Izuku, it’s time to go to your special class now."

Aizawa began packing his things.
The class immediately erupted in protest.

"What? Midoriya’s leaving already?"

Uraraka asked, her tone disappointed.

"Unfair! Why?"

Mina whined.

"For personal reasons, Izuku cannot stay in class when... All Might is teaching,"

Aizawa said simply.

"Dark Shadow. Let go of Midoriya."

Tokoyami gave the command, but his quirk resisted.

"No fair! I only got to hug Izuku for one hour! This boy needs my warmth!"

It sounded like a child throwing a tantrum.

Then—poof.

Dark Shadow vanished.

"I’m sorry, Tokoyami, but Izuku must go now,"

Aizawa said, his voice strict.

No one questioned him when he used his quirk.
That meant something.

Bakugou watched from his seat, face tense.
Confusion and anger flickered openly across his expression.
Kirishima leaned toward him, whispering something, only to be shrugged off with a sharp tongue.

From the back, Todoroki observed the boy living.

Izuku waved the class while being pulled by Aizawa.
Every girl waved back, swooning over the cuteness of it.
Todoroki didn’t respond.

Outside the classroom, Aizawa guided Izuku toward his special class.

Then: loud footsteps.

Aizawa sighed and placed a hand over Izuku’s eyes.

"Cover your eyes, kid."

Izuku obeyed instantly.
He liked the dark.
It was safe.

"Good morning, Yagi,"

Aizawa said.
His tone held a thread of restraint.

"...Good morning, Aizawa..."

The voice was unfamiliar.
Deeper. Hesitant.
It made Izuku curious, but he didn’t dare disobey.

"I’m sorry."

A moment of silence.
Then footsteps receding.

"You can uncover your eyes."

Aizawa gently pulled his hand away.

"I’m sorry about that."

Izuku shook his head quickly, not wanting his guardian to worry.

"It—fine."

The response was louder than usual.
Which in respond made Aizawa ruffled his hair with a small smile.

No other encounters occurred on the way.

Izuku entered the special classroom and sat down.
He was alone, except for the Hound dog, his teacher for his special class.

Meanwhile, Aizawa made a quick phone call to Principal Nezu.
He had three hours before his next class.

He needed answers.

And there was only one person who could give them.

The air inside Tartarus was sterile.
Too clean for the rot Aizawa could already feel ahead of him.

The guards barely spoke as they escorted him to Containment Cell 3-19.

“You’re sure you want this, sir?” one of them asked. “We can pull you out at any point.”

Aizawa didn’t respond.

He stepped into the observation chamber.
Through reinforced glass, the man responsible for Izuku’s trauma sat—chained, smiling.

Maestro.

No longer masked.
But the madness hadn’t faded—it had crystallized.
Blond hair matted, lips split from smiling too long, brown eyes empty of remorse.
He looked like someone who had stared into hell...

...and fallen in love with the view.

Aizawa approached the glass.
The comm system clicked on.

“Maestro,”

He said, low and even.

The villain’s head tilted.

“I wondered when someone would come,” he said softly, as if greeting an old friend. “The boy is with you, then? Of course he is. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Aizawa didn’t answer right away.
He approached slowly, the heavy air between them weighed down with questions.

“I wondered what kind of man would steal him from me,” he said. “Now I see. Dark hair, tired eyes… mmm. You look like guilt, Eraserhead. How fitting.”

The comm clicked on.

“You’re going to answer my questions,”

Aizawa said flatly.

“Oh, I’ll do better than that,” Maestro purred. “I’ll show you the truth.”

“I don’t care about all that. I know you gave him a quirk. How ? What have you done ?”

Maestro’s smile deepened.

“Oh… only one quirk? You poor, blind creature.”

He leaned forward, the chains biting into his wrists, but he didn’t flinch.

“You asked what I did?” he whispered. “No. Ask me what I didn’t do.”

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed.

Maestro chuckled, the sound low and indulgent.

“You think it was an experiment? A lab rat’s fate? No, no, no. Izuku… Izuku was a rebirth. A raw piece of clay molded by pain, carved by precision.”

His fingers twitched against the cuffs, like he missed the tools.

“I started gently. Isolation. Sensory deprivation. Darkness so thick it clung to the lungs. He was small. Quiet. So easy to forget he was even there. That’s the magic, Eraserhead. You erase a child’s presence long enough, and he begins to believe he was never meant to exist.”

Aizawa’s jaw clenched, but he stayed still.

“I enjoyed every time I got to witness the experiment we did in Izuku. At first it wasn’t much, wasn’t painful enough. Oh the good old day when he thought that it would be it. But when we started the injection to give him something special, that’s when it changed everything.”

A smile grew wider.

“Every time he screamed like a violin. Such music.”

Aizawa’s nails dug into his palms.

“And one day, we succeeded. An artificial quirk. It was intoxicating. That was the moment I knew—I had found my canvas.”

Aizawa regurgitated the best he could then muttered.

“The bone…”

“Oh no no no. Not yet.”

Maestro chuckled.

“It happened with one routine experiment. I burned his hand. Just to see. And it melted—skin turned to lightless jelly. But then…” His fingers curled in delight. “Then it regrew. Cell by cell. I nearly wept.”

“The first quirk: Regeneration. A living miracle. And oh, once we had that... well. The real art began.”

Aizawa was still, but his throat tightened.

“We killed him,” Maestro whispered. “Over and over. Drowning. Starving. Crushing. Injecting poisons. Electrodes to the skull. Izuku died, Eraserhead. Again and again and again. Four hundred and forty-seven deaths. I counted. I mourned each time like a conductor mourning the end of a symphony. And each time—he came back. More quiet. More obedient. More perfect.”

He paused, savoring it.

“But it wasn’t enough. It never was. I wanted him to be more beautiful. More magnificent. I grew impatient. I wanted a second one. Immortality wasn’t enough. It wasn’t fun enough.”

He smiled, eyes distant.

“So when he had his second one, I was thrilled to see what could be done. But it didn’t. We tried everything. The experimentation grew crueler. And I grew lax too, I let the scientist enter his precious dark room. The one he was so sure it would be safe.”

“They crushed him, even to death sometimes. They let out their frustration to him.”

Aizawa took a single step back.

Maestro saw it—and grinned.

“Then came the second gift. Finally.”

“A woman came to punish him. Routine. He was curled in the corner. Shaking. And then—boom.”

He exhaled like remembering a lover.

“Explosion. Not a firework. A bloodstorm. She ceased to exist. Literally. The woman next to him evaporated. He didn’t even know her name. There was nothing left but her shoes. And you know what he did?”

Aizawa’s voice was low.

“Don’t.”

“He laughed.”

A beat.

“And what did we do?” Maestro smiled. “We punished him, of course. For killing. And for existing.”

Aizawa’s lips parted slightly—he looked ill.

“We left the lights on for days. Floodlights. Too bright to sleep. He cried. Not from pain. From exposure. Light meant punishment. Light meant eyes on him. He begged us to take it away.”

“I almost broke him entirely that night. Maybe if I had pushed a little further it would have led to a broken masterpiece.”

A giggle.

“No—Thinking about it, it wouldn’t. Because he never wanted to know what happened to broken masterpiece.”

“So he quickly regained his senses after a talk. And the third gift came as soon as the first one. It wasn’t even tricky to find what it was. The experiment was simple enough. Throwing a baseball at full speed toward his head. For fun. To see if his skull would explode from the impact. It wasn’t his skull that exploded. His spine split open. Ribs like spears burst from his back. A cocoon of agony. Bone manipulation. Triggered by pure instinct. Died from the trauma. Came back again. Perfect.”

Aizawa stepped back, visibly shaken.
Breathing sharp.
Unsteady.

“You’re a monster.”

“I’m an artist,” Maestro snarled. “And he was my final canvas. I gave him everything—form, fear, function. You took him before I could finish.”

“You experimented on a child.”

“I raised a god.”

Aizawa’s breathing was shallow now.
His eyes burned—but he didn’t look away.

“Does he still crawl into shadows?” Maestro asked sweetly. “Still afraid of sunlight? He used to cry in corners for hours when we left the lights on. Poor thing thought the dark meant he was safe. That no one would open the door.”

“And yet,” he continued, “he never once asked for his mother. Not once. Isn’t that interesting?”

Aizawa finally lost it.

He slammed his fist against the wall next to the glass.
Hard.
The guards jolted, but the glass didn’t even crack.

“Every day,” Aizawa whispered, voice shaking, “he wakes up and tries to be okay. He overanalyzes kindness. He doesn’t speak. He thinks he has to earn the right to exist. That’s what you did.”

Maestro’s grin remained, but it faltered—just for a heartbeat.

“Izuku is mine,” he said quietly. “Even now. You can cradle him in your arms, give him sunlight and soft words, but he’ll still remember who carved him into what he is. I made him. And you—you’re just repainting a corpse.”

Aizawa stepped back.

“I’ll spend every day proving you wrong.”

Maestro tilted his head, smiling like a saint.

“Good luck, sensei. He only listens to pain.”

Aizawa didn’t remember leaving the cell.

He walked.
Through Tartarus.
Through its corridors.
Past guards who gave him wide berth.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe properly until he was back in his car, parked beneath the overcast sky.

He sat in silence.

Fifteen minutes passed.

The rain came.
Light.
Tapping against the windshield like fingertips.

He still didn’t move.

The words echoed in his head like an infection.

“He laughed.”

“Four hundred and forty-seven deaths.”

“He only listens to pain.”

Aizawa dug his fingers into the steering wheel, his knuckles white, breath shallow.
He didn’t cry.
He couldn’t.
Not here.
Not yet.

“Izuku died, Eraserhead. Again and again and again.”

He slammed the heel of his hand into the dashboard once.
Just once.
Enough to crack something—plastic or bone, he didn’t care.

He thought of the boy under his care.
The boy who flinched at sunlight.
Who only felt safe in a cocoon of darkness.
Who still bowed his head when Aizawa raised his voice by mistake.

Izuku.

He wasn’t a student.
Not yet.

He was a boy trying to remember how to exist.

And Maestro had carved that lesson into his bones.

Aizawa leaned forward, elbows on his knees, forehead pressed to the steering wheel.
His voice was quiet.
Almost nothing.

“I’m sorry.”

It was the only thing he could think to say.
Over and over.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner.”

“I’m sorry you had to survive that.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask.”

He closed his eyes.
Thought of how Izuku curled up in shadows like they were safety.
How he was uncomfortable when attention was too much on him.
How a smile fell like a trigger in his eyes.

There was no undoing what Maestro had done.

But maybe—just maybe—there was something left to protect.

He inhaled slowly.

Sat up.

Straightened his back.

And whispered, steady this time:
“I will never let him near you again.”

The rain kept falling.

Chapter Text

Izuku liked learning about many things.
He liked how Hound Dog always took the time to explain everything to him.
But he couldn’t help glancing outside.

He loved watching the rain.
The mechanical sound of water softly hitting the window.
The gray clouds hiding the sun.
The smell of wet pavement.
The colorful umbrellas dancing in the downpour.
He loved everything about it.

So, every time the rain came, he couldn’t help but be mesmerized by it.

It was crazy how life worked.
Less than two hours ago, the sun had been shining brightly, and now the water poured down as if the ocean had been turned upside down.

The bell rang, pulling Izuku from his trance.
It was lunchtime.
He heard the horde of hungry students rushing to the cafeteria.

Izuku peeked outside, just enough to avoid being seen but still catch a glimpse of what was going on.
Surprisingly, Aizawa wasn’t waiting for him outside—no one was.

Now that the wave of students had likely reached Lunch Rush, the hallway felt empty.
Almost too scary to step into. It reminded him of the corridors in the facility—the stark white walls, the echo of distant voices, the endless doors leading to places unknown.
It was strange, seeing such familiarity in a completely different place.

Hound Dog had never left before Izuku did.
Izuku didn’t want to take up more of his time than he already had, so he gathered his courage and stepped out into the hallway.

He wasn’t used to being alone anymore.
He had gotten used to always having someone with him.
And when he was alone, it felt like he was back.
Back at the facility.
Back to the torture.
The pain. The death.
Alone. Lonely. Abandoned.

“Midoriya?”

A bubbly, confused voice called out behind him.
Izuku turned to see Uraraka with her two friends.
Her face lit up with a warm smile and her usual rosy cheeks.

Izuku glanced at her companions—Asui and Iida.

“Are you going to eat too?” she continued, just as cheerfully. “Wanna come with us?”

Uraraka looked to Iida and Asui, waiting for their confirmation.

“Yes, Midoriya, come with us!”

Iida said quickly, raising his arm up and down like some sort of robot.

“It’ll be nice to eat with Midoriya,”

Asui added simply, her tongue peeking out.

Izuku wasn’t sure if going to the noisy cafeteria was the best idea.
But staying alone wasn’t helping anyone either.
He didn’t like feeling like a burden.
So, once again, he nodded.

Uraraka practically exploded with joy when Izuku accepted, walking a little faster toward the cafeteria.

The cafeteria buzzed with life.

Voices echoed off the walls, chairs scraped across the floor, trays clattered as they were piled with steaming food.
Izuku knew it would be overwhelming, but he tried not to let it get to him.

He focused on Uraraka, Asui, and Iida.

He followed closely, head low, never looking around.
He tried to filter the noise, focusing only on the rain tapping against the windows.
Everything would be fine.

“Let’s sit near the window!” Uraraka beamed, balancing her tray as she scanned for a table. “It’s still raining. It’ll look pretty while we eat!”

Izuku liked the idea.
He wanted to be near the rain, near the sound.
He would’ve liked to sit right by the window—but he didn’t want to push his luck.

Luckily, Asui nudged him toward the window without a word, only offering a small smile in response to his confusion.

Then they started eating.
Izuku wasn’t at ease with his fork and knife, but he tried not to show it, eating slowly and carefully.

Thankfully, Iida filled the silence that followed, drawing the attention to himself as he talked about the importance of a good meal.
Asui quietly peeled the edges of her sandwich.
Uraraka chimed in to keep the conversation going.

From a few tables away, Bakugou noticed them.

Uraraka was laughing.
Iida was gesturing like a malfunctioning robot.
Tsuyu, calm and steady as always. And in the middle of it all—him.

Midoriya.

Bakugou’s grip on his tray tightened.

He hadn’t said a word to Izuku since he’d come back.
Not because he didn’t want to—but because he didn’t know how.

He’d imagined it a hundred times.
Rehearsed what he would say.
But now that Izuku was here, now that he had the chance to apologize, the words refused to come.

He’d told his therapist countless times what he could say.
And every time, he was told not to push Izuku.
Because it wasn’t his decision to rebuild the relationship.

He hated that.

He hated the uncertainty.
He hated when people tried to "fix" him like they understood.
He hated seeing how broken Izuku had become.
He hated how quiet he was.
How the muttering had stopped, the spark faded, the warm smile turned dull.
He hated how much he had hurt that boy—how he couldn’t even look at him without feeling like he might break him all over again.

Kirishima nudged him, voice low.

“You should go talk to him.”

Bakugou didn’t answer.

He watched as Izuku smiled—just faintly—at something Uraraka said.
And it hit him harder than any explosion he’d ever created.

How could he dare join them?
He had hurt Izuku more than anyone else.
He couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror without seeing a monster.
So how could he ask for redemption?

Bakugou looked away.

He didn’t join them.

Not yet.

Kirishima let Bakugou walk off.
It was strange seeing his best friend so downcast.
He had a general idea of what Bakugou had done to Izuku—he’d been a target of bullying himself.
He knew what it could do.

But he also knew Bakugou.
And how far he’d come.
A true bully doesn’t feel guilt.
Doesn’t try to change.
Doesn’t take responsibility.

Bakugou had changed.
He wouldn't hurt Izuku now.

Still, Kirishima didn’t push.
Because he wasn’t inside Bakugou’s head.
Or Izuku’s.
That relationship could only be mended by them.

He followed his friend, trying to lift the mood with his usual positive energy.

Lunch ended quickly, and it was time to return to class.
Uraraka pouted at seeing Izuku leave for his special class again, needing to be pulled back by Iida and Asui to let him go.

When the bell rang again, marking the start of the next lesson, the only sound echoing through the hallway was the soft footsteps of Aizawa heading toward Nezu’s office.
Once again.

He entered without knocking.
Not that it mattered—Nezu always knew when Aizawa was coming.
What he didn’t know was the information Aizawa had brought with him.

He told him everything.

Everything.

The experiments. The artificial quirks. The explosion.
The corpse.

Nezu’s tea had gone cold.
The silence grew uncomfortably heavy, as if both of them were afraid to break it—afraid of what might spill out if a single sound was made.
Like everything would shatter, as if it were thin glass.

And yet, Nezu dared to speak.
To try to understand the cruelty he had just heard.

“If I understand correctly, Midoriya Izuku was physically abused for the five years he was in captivity. In addition, he was injected with not one, but three artificial quirks that his body couldn’t withstand—causing him to suffer every time he used them. Furthermore, he cannot control them. They’re triggered by pain, emotion, or fear. Is that all?”

Aizawa nodded.

Nezu’s face became unreadable.
But his calmness was too calm.
Controlled calm. Dangerous calm.

“Shota, he killed someone because he couldn’t control his quirk.”

Nezu added, almost fearful of what he had said.

Aizawa didn’t flinch.

“It was a reaction. Not an intention. He was cornered. Terrified. That explosion wasn’t power—it was panic.”

"And yet," Nezu said, folding his paws neatly in front of him, "someone still died."

The silence came back.
It was thick.
Like drowning in still water.

Nezu’s gaze shifted, sharp now.
He stared at Aizawa with an intensity few could hold.

“How can I justify keeping a child like that—one who could detonate—in a school full of others?"

Aizawa’s jaw clenched.
He looked at Nezu like he’d been slapped.

"He isn’t dangerous," he said quietly. “He’s scared. There’s a difference.”

He moved forward slowly, but not threateningly.
Just enough to close the emotional distance.

"You’ve seen him. He flinches when light is suddenly lit. He crawls into corners like he’s made of glass. He’s more afraid of hurting someone than being hurt himself."

Aizawa’s voice dropped.
He wasn’t sure if it would fonction but he used all of his cards.

"You're scared. And I get it. I am too. But you're not just the principal of this school—you’re someone who knows what it’s like to be used. To be broken and studied and left behind like you were never human to begin with."

He dared talk about Nezu’s past.
The past that was never mentioned outside of that one cold night.
The past that was trying hard to be forgotten.

Nezu’s eyes lowered, just for a second.
The monster of memory stirred behind them.

"You think I don’t remember?" he asked, almost a whisper. "Of course I remember."

"Then don’t do to him what they did to you."

Aizawa’s voice shook, just once.
Not from fear.
From conviction.

"If we push him away now—after all he’s survived—we’re telling him they were right. That he’s a monster. That no one can look at him without seeing what was done to him."

The words hung in the air like smoke from a slow-burning fire.

Nezu said nothing.
Just stared into nothing, eyes flickering with thought.
The weight of responsibility, legacy, fear—it all sat on his tiny shoulders like iron.

"This place was supposed to be a sanctuary." Nezu’s voice broke slightly. "Not a cage."

Aizawa’s expression softened—just a fraction.

"Then don’t make it one. Not for him."

Silence again.

And then:

"Fine."

The word was barely more than breath.
But it was enough.

"He stays. But under conditions. Monitoring. Supervision. Full transparency. I want regular check-ins—with Recovery Girl, with Hound Dog, with you. And I want the teachers informed. Every. Single. One."

Aizawa nodded.

"They’ll understand."

Nezu exhaled slowly and reached for his tea, though he didn’t drink it.
Just held the cup to warm his hands.

"If anything happens… I’ll be the one who answers for it."

"No," Aizawa said firmly, turning toward the door. "We both will."

And with that, he left the principal’s office carrying a whole package of decisions—so important they shouldn’t have been made in just one hour.
But one hour was all they had, because Izuku’s lesson was almost over.

Behind him, Nezu sat alone in the half-lit room, staring down at his tea like it might answer for him.
He didn’t touch it again.

The door clicked shut behind Aizawa.

Silence reclaimed the room.

Nezu sat still in his chair, paws folded neatly, eyes fixed on the window—but not seeing it. Not really.

His claws tapped against the teacup again.
Once. Twice.

Then he blinked.

And the light was gone.

It was colder, then. The room wasn’t his office anymore.
It was metallic.

He remembered the hum of fluorescent lights overhead—the kind that flickered, just slightly off-beat.

He remembered the stainless steel table under his back.

Straps across his tiny limbs.

Wires in his scalp.

The chill of alcohol-soaked cotton on fur.

"Subject #6 is responding faster than anticipated."

A voice. Not angry. Not cruel.

Just... observational.

“The brain is processing the electrical current more efficiently than prior tests. The cerebral tissue is adapting."

He had wanted to scream.

Not from pain—it was past that.
But from the emptiness in those voices.

Like he wasn’t even there.

He was an it.

A data point.

A deviation worth noting.

They never called him Nezu.

They never called him anything.

He was a test.

“Check the ocular response. Let’s increase the voltage."

"But—"

"Just do it."

He remembered the restraint.
The politeness with which they discussed hurting him.

The way they’d jot down notes while he writhed, while his eyes rolled back, while his heartbeat thudded too fast for something so small.

And the one time—just once—he whimpered.

“Do you think it... feels?”

The silence that followed that question was the coldest thing he’d ever felt.

“It doesn’t matter. Keep recording.”

The image broke.
Just like that.

Back in his office.

Back to a now cold tea.
A tea that was the first warm thing he tasted when freed.

Nezu breathed in—steady, quiet.
His claws shook only slightly.

“It doesn’t matter.”

He repeated the words aloud.
Just once.

Then—

“It does.”

Chapter Text

The special class with Hound dog passed quickly.
And it wasn’t surprising that Izuku saw Aizawa entered the class by the end of the lesson.

It truly was strange that he wasn’t there when he was supposed to eat but that didn’t matter.
He was here now. And he didn’t abandon him.

Izuku was surprised how dependent on Aizawa he had become.
In less than a month, his whole life changed.
He had now the freedom to move around and didn’t feel pain, people took care of him and didn’t put him through death and deadly light, he could curl up in his little corner and no one pushed him to get out, he got used to talking again and met many nice people.

He felt more and more attached to this kind of life, and he knew that if he needed to leave one day…he couldn’t.

He learned how to feel, how to talk, how to express himself thanks to everyone here.
He couldn’t even begin to think what he would feel if suddenly he was brought back to the facility.
That everything was only a dream.
It would break him.
Maybe truly kill him.

So when he saw Aizawa walk in the room, to appease his troubled mind, Izuku quickly walked up to him.

He didn’t dare to hug him for now.
But he liked when Aizawa ruffled his hair and he liked how he looked at him.

In a semi tired, kind and normal way.
Not a mean one.
Or no pity.

At least that's what Izuku guessed.

Because if there was one thing he understood—one thing he had mastered in that place—it was eyes.

Eyes told the truth when mouths didn’t.

The masked-man wore an owl mask that left only the eyes visible.
So Izuku learned to read them—because if he didn’t, he wouldn’t survive.

He saw everything in them.

The flickering horror of a new recruit watching a child scream.

The thrill in the masked-man’s pupils as pain bloomed.

The awe in the scientists’ stares, like he was a beautiful experiment.

And sometimes, rarely, he saw a different kind of gaze.
Like Aizawa’s.
Heavy-lidded. Tired. But warm.

So he watched.

He always watched.

Because he didn’t understand facial expressions.
Couldn’t decode smiles.
But the eyes?
The eyes never lied.

That was why, when Aizawa smiled and ruffled his hair…

Izuku saw it.

Something changed.

A flicker. A fracture.

His eyes shifted.

The softness dimmed.

The tiredness warped.

The kindness bent into guilt.

Guilt. Deep. Raw. Unspoken.

Izuku froze.

He took a step back, startled—not by movement, but by emotion.
The kind that hit like a pulse beneath skin.
The kind that bled through someone’s gaze before they even knew it was there.

Why had it changed?

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t know what it meant—but he knew it was bad.

No.
No, he promised.

Aizawa never lied.
Not once.
His words were always simple, clear, careful.
Never full of hope he couldn’t fulfill.

He won’t put me back in the facility.

Izuku repeated it to himself, over and over.
Like a mantra.
Like a shield.

Trust him.
Trust him.
Trust him.

The panic curled inside his stomach like something alive.

But he reached out anyway.
He took Aizawa’s hand.

Just move.
Just walk.
Just breathe.

He followed Aizawa out of the classroom.
He couldn’t remember if he said goodbye to Hound Dog.
Or if he packed up his things.
His limbs were stiff.
His chest tight.

Trust him.
It’s fine.
He never lied before.

The hallway stretched ahead.

Izuku walked beside Aizawa, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.

But the walls felt wrong.

Too smooth.
Too white.

Whiter than they’d been a minute ago.
Whiter than anything should be.

His heart gave a hard, lurching thump.

He won’t put me back.

But the hallway lights shifted—subtle, but real.
They grew brighter.
Sharper.
They burned against the backs of his eyes.

His breathing quickened.

The door ahead—just a door, just Class 1-A’s regular door—looked taller than usual.
Heavier.
It gleamed like metal.
Like that metal.

The metal door from there.

The overhead lights turned clinical.
Sterile.
A flickering hum wormed into his ears.
His lungs stuttered.

His steps echoed too loud against the tile.

Trust him.

His hand burned.

He looked down.

Aizawa was gone.

The hand he held wasn’t warm anymore.
It was gloved.
Cold.
Taut.

The masked-man.

He’s still here.

No, no, no—

The hallway blurred.
The air reeked of antiseptic.
The door ahead was a vault.
The floor a trap.
The walls screamed.

Beep. Beep. Beep.
Machines.
Echoes.
Screams behind glass.

No.

The lights flared.
His skull split open under the brightness.
His hand flinched away from the illusion—but it lingered.
Burned.

The white turned to needles.

Everything is fine.
Everything is fine.

But his knees trembled.

He didn’t want to go inside.

He couldn’t.

His chest hurt.
His head swam.
Something invisible clawed at his ribs.

I’m not there.
I’m not.
I’m not.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this way.
He’d been taught not to.

Emotions were weakness.
Emotions made things explode.
Emotions—

Someone could get hurt.

Like before.

Like the night he—

STOP.

The lights roared.
So bright they howled.
So sharp they cut.

His head dropped.

His fingers curled into fists.

Burn. Burn. Burn. Burn. Burn.

And then—

Warmth.

A sudden, heavy softness wrapped around him.

Everything went dark.

Not black.

Dark.

Like a blanket.
Like shadows behind curtains.
Like a closet door closed during a storm.

His eyes shut.

He didn’t know who had touched him.
But they were warm.
Gentle. Heavy.

His breath hitched once—then steadied.

Deep. Slow. Familiar.

Inhale.
Exhale.

There was no screaming light.
No walls.
No doors.
No pain.

Just the weight of something strong and calm holding him upright.

His body sagged.
The pressure melted away, one knot at a time.

He couldn’t see.
But he could feel.
And what he felt wasn’t fear.

It was safety.

For the first time in minutes—maybe hours—his body believed he was okay.

Everything else slipped away.

When Aizawa led Izuku toward Class 1-A, he noticed the boy had gone unusually quiet.

But silence wasn’t rare for him.
Izuku often slipped into long, hushed stretches, like he was still deciding whether the world was real or a dream.

What was strange, though, was how he stopped.

Not paused.
Not hesitated.

Stopped.
Entirely.

Right in front of the classroom door.

He didn’t move.
He didn’t breathe properly.
His shoulders trembled beneath his oversized hoodie, and sweat clung to his hairline, shining faintly under the hallway lights.

“Izuku,”

Aizawa called softly.

No answer.

He took a step forward.
The boy didn’t even flinch.
His hand was still clasped in Aizawa’s, but it had gone stiff.
Cold.

“Izuku,”

He tried again, more firmly.

Still no reaction.

His breathing changed—quick, shallow, and panicked, like someone drowning inches below the surface, unable to break through.

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed.
He reached to cut the lights in the hallway, plunging them into shadows.
But Izuku didn’t calm.
His eyes stayed glassy.
His grip tightened.

Then he let go.

Let go—and took a step back.
Then another.
As if the floor was turning to ice beneath his feet.

Aizawa reached toward him—

And that’s when the dark moved.

Something burst from behind, slicing through the air like a living ripple of black.
A thick wave of shadow engulfed Izuku in an instant, swallowing him whole.

Aizawa’s quirk sparked instinctively, his knees bending into a defensive crouch—until—

“Dark Shadow, stop!”

The voice echoed sharply through the hallway, pitched high with shock.

Tokoyami came running from around the corner, boots slapping against the floor, eyes wide with alarm.

Dark Shadow didn’t stop.

Instead, it shifted—grew—coiled tighter around Izuku’s trembling form, as if to shield him not just from light, but from reality itself.
The tips of its wings tucked around Izuku’s head.
Its claws dug into the ground for stability, but gently—no threat.
No harm.

Tokoyami skidded to a halt beside Aizawa, chest heaving.

“What… what is he doing?” he gasped. “He—he’s not listening to me!”

Aizawa’s brows furrowed.

“Release him,”

He said sharply.

“I can’t!” Tokoyami’s voice cracked, half-panic, half-shame. “He’s not responding! This—this has never happened before!”

Tokoyami stepped forward slowly, visibly unsettled by the disobedience of the quirk he’d always controlled.
He raised his voice again, steadier this time.

“Dark Shadow. Release him. Now.”

No response.

The shadow didn’t grow darker.
Didn’t tense.

It simply… remained.
Still. Silent. Holding.

Wrapped like a blanket around the shaking child inside.

Tokoyami turned to Aizawa, feathers bristling with unease.

“He’s not listening,”

He said again, softer now.

Aizawa’s voice was low.
Careful.

“That shouldn’t be possible. Dark Shadow has autonomy, yes, but it’s still bound to your command.”

“I know.” Tokoyami’s hands curled into fists. “Even when I lose control, he follows my instincts. But this—this isn’t me. This isn’t my will.”

The hallway felt heavier, quieter.

Both of them stared at the shifting silhouette in front of them, as Dark Shadow cradled Izuku tighter with each shaky breath.
The edges of the shadow rippled gently like curtains in slow wind.

Then they heard it—

A sound.
Soft.
Barely audible.

A faint whimper from inside the cocoon.

So faint it almost didn’t sound human.

Tokoyami stepped closer, guilt blooming in his chest like a bruise.

“I knew he liked wrapping around Midoriya. He’s always been... drawn to him. But I thought it was just playfulness. A curiosity. I didn’t think he could act like this.”

His voice dropped, as if he was afraid to say the next part out loud:

“...Like he felt something.”

Aizawa watched silently.

His muscles had relaxed—slightly.
Whatever was happening, it didn’t seem dangerous.
Not physically.
Not anymore.

Tokoyami looked down at his own quirk with growing discomfort.

“In battle, Dark Shadow reacts like this when I’m unconscious. Or if I lose control. If I’m furious, he becomes violent. But this?” He shook his head. “I’m not angry. I’m not unconscious. And he’s never done this in daylight.”

A beat of silence.

Then Tokoyami added, quieter:

“I don’t think this is about me.”

The shadow shifted again.

It became softer somehow—less jagged.
The edges flickered gently, not like weaponry but like smoke.
Like instinct.

Then Dark Shadow lifted his head.

His glowing eyes met Tokoyami’s first, then shifted slowly to Aizawa’s.
The movement wasn’t sudden—it was measured.
Careful.
Like a kid unsure if they were about to get scolded or praised.

And then he spoke.

His voice was lower than usual—not his dramatic battle tone, but something deeper.
Like it was coming from the earth itself.

“He was drowning.”

Tokoyami’s breath hitched.

Dark Shadow blinked slowly, like he wasn’t sure how much to say.

“He needed me,” he added, quieter now. “So I came.”

The words didn’t echo.
They didn’t need to.
They sat in the hallway like truth.

Tokoyami stepped forward, his heart thudding hard.

“But… how did you know? I didn’t feel it. I didn’t tell you—”

Dark Shadow’s wings shifted where they curled around Izuku, brushing the floor with a soft scraping sound.

“It wasn’t you who called,”

He said simply.

Aizawa didn’t move.
His eyes stayed locked on the boy bundled in darkness.
But the weight in the air changed—grew heavier, more real.
Like everyone understood the depth of what was being said, even if they didn’t have a name for it.

Dark Shadow looked down at the bundle between his wings again.
His voice, when it returned, was quiet and reverent.

“He was scared.”

Tokoyami blinked.

“You… felt that?”

Dark Shadow gave a small nod.

“He started shaking. Not like cold-shivering. More like... falling apart.”

He hesitated, wings flicking uncertainly.

“I remembered. Last time I wrapped him, he stopped shaking. So I thought—maybe it would work again.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Turns out, I’m a genius.”

Tokoyami gave a weak, breathy laugh—half relief, half disbelief.

“You’re not supposed to do things without me.”

Dark Shadow offered a tiny shrug.

“Oops?”

“You’ve never done this before.”

“I know,” he said, voice rising just slightly. “That’s what’s weird! I didn’t even mean to. My brain went all fuzzy like—boop!—and the next thing I knew I was flying down the hallway like a dramatic cape.”

A beat.

“Which I nailed, by the way.”

Aizawa finally spoke, tone steady but edged with softness.

“Why didn’t you wait?”

Dark Shadow’s voice shifted again—lighter, but not unserious.

“Because he needed me now. Not in a minute. Not after we talked about it. Right now.”

Another pause.

“I didn’t think. I just… felt.”

He ducked his head slightly, feathers made of mist curling tighter around Izuku like he was afraid the boy might vanish if he let go.

“I know I’m not supposed to act alone. I know Fumi’s the boss. But... he was sinking. Like—like the kind of sinking you can’t grab someone out of with words.”

Dark Shadow glanced at Tokoyami.

“You’re really good with words. But this time, I think someone needed arms.”

Tokoyami took one last step forward, kneeling beside the dark cocoon.

“…You did good,”

He whispered.

Dark Shadow blinked.

“Wait. Are you saying I get… praise?”

Tokoyami exhaled.

“Yes.”

“Like, actual praise? Like the real kind? With feelings?”

Tokoyami nodded once.

Dark Shadow blinked, glowing eyes wide and almost bashful.

“OH MY GOSH,” he squeaked. “This is my best day. My best day ever. I’m going to write a poem. No—a ballad!”

Tokoyami let out a quiet breath—half sigh, half laugh.
And for the first time in what felt like hours, the tension in his shoulders eased.

A small smile grew on his face.
Very small.
But it was there.

He never would have guessed that someone else—but him—would feel this safe with his quirk.
At the very least, feel this safe being embraced by it.

“What should I do now? Class is about to start.”

He asked suddenly, a little more grounded than before.
His voice was steady again, but a hint of worry lingered beneath.

He knew he couldn’t leave Midoriya alone in the hallway like this.
But he also couldn’t afford to skip class without a word.

Aizawa looked away from Izuku—just briefly—to meet Tokoyami’s eyes.

“Then you stay.”

Tokoyami blinked.

“But—class—?”

“I’ll mark you present. If anyone asks, I assigned you something.”

Aizawa shifted, already pulling out his phone to send a quick message to the substitute.
His voice remained even, but his gaze softened just slightly.

“This is more important.”

Tokoyami looked back down at the shadow-wrapped boy resting beside him.

“…I don’t really know what to say to him,”

He admitted quietly.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Aizawa replied. “You’re already doing enough just by being here.”

He paused for a beat, then added, lower now:

“Not everyone needs words to make someone feel safe.”

That settled into Tokoyami’s chest like a truth he hadn’t known he’d needed.
He didn’t answer—just let it sit there, warm and steady.

Aizawa stepped back slowly, giving them space.

“I’ll check in after class,” he added. “Just stay with him. Let him wake up when he’s ready.”

Then—almost as an afterthought, but maybe not:

“…Thank you.”

Tokoyami’s head lifted slightly in surprise.
But he didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

He just turned his gaze back to Midoriya, and stayed.

He just turned back to the quiet breathing inside the darkness of the hallway and stayed.

Izuku’s mind surfaced like something half-forgotten.

Not fast.
Not all at once.

But gently—like waking from too long underwater.

Warm.

That was the first thing he noticed.

Not light.
Not pain.
Not metal or restraints or antiseptic on his tongue.

Just... warmth.

It surrounded him like a thick blanket.
Heavy enough to weigh him down, but not in a frightening way.
More like the pressure of deep water, or the way a cat might curl against your ribs.

And it was dark.

But not the kind of dark that meant danger.
Not the pitch-black void of solitary rooms and echoing silence.
This dark was soft.
Deep.
Comfortable.

He didn’t open his eyes right away.

Didn’t want to.

Because for once, there was no light stinging the backs of his eyelids.
No alarms.
No shouting.
No burning.

Just breathing.

Slow.
Steady.
Not his own.

Someone nearby was breathing too.

Inhale.
Exhale.
Gentle.

Izuku’s fingers twitched slightly—barely a movement—but the shadows around him shifted in response.
Not retreating.
Not smothering.
Just adjusting.

Like they knew.

His body was still trembling faintly.
But it was the aftermath kind of trembling.
The kind that came after the panic ended, when the adrenaline began to bleed away and left nothing but emptiness behind.

He wasn’t sure when it stopped hurting.

He wasn’t even sure what happened.

There was a hallway, and light.
A door.
His hand in someone else’s—

He flinched.

No—no.
That hand wasn’t here.

He dared to open his eyes.

Darkness greeted him.
Not empty, but full.
He could see the faint glow of Dark Shadow’s eyes above him.
The edges of a wing curled beside his cheek.

And behind the folds of shade, he saw someone sitting quietly against the wall.

Tokoyami.

He wasn’t saying anything.
Wasn’t moving.
Just… there.

Watching.

His presence didn’t feel heavy.

It felt still.

Like a shadow at the edge of a room that never moves unless the wind says so.

Izuku blinked once.
Slowly.

He didn’t feel like running.

He didn’t feel like curling up tighter either.

He just... stayed.

Dark Shadow shifted slightly, as if aware he was awake, but didn’t unwrap.

Didn’t force anything.

Izuku let his head sink back into the darkness.

His throat ached.
His limbs were tired.
But nothing hurt.

Nothing screamed.

The weight of fear had lifted.
Not vanished.
But eased.

He was still here.

He was still safe.

And for now… that was enough.

He closed his eyes again.

Not because he was scared.

But because—for once—he could.

Izuku didn’t know how long he rested like that.

Time was soft here.

Quiet.

But eventually, his fingers shifted again—this time, not out of panic, but intention.

He blinked up at the quiet flicker of Dark Shadow’s eyes, then slowly turned his head toward Tokoyami.

The boy was still there.
Sitting against the wall like a silent sentry.
Legs crossed.
Hands still.
Waiting, but not watching too hard.

Izuku licked his lips, uncertain.
His voice hadn't worked much today.
His throat was raw—not from screaming, but from everything that had almost happened.

He opened his mouth.
Tried once.
No sound.

Tried again.

“…Thank you.”

Barely a whisper.
So faint it could’ve been imagined.

But Tokoyami heard it.

His head lifted slightly, surprised—but he didn’t speak at first.
Just looked at Izuku, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hair.

Then he nodded once.
Slow.
Not dismissive—just steady.

Dark Shadow stirred beside Izuku, his voice low and warm.

“You’re welcome.”

Izuku blinked, eyes wide for a moment.
He hadn’t expected a reply.
Especially not from him.

Dark Shadow tilted his head slightly, as if smiling without a mouth.

“You’re small. But very heavy when you panic.”

Izuku let out a tiny puff of air.
A laugh—but barely.

Tokoyami looked mildly horrified.

“You said that out loud.”

Dark Shadow gave a hum.

“He’s allowed to laugh. I like when people laugh. It makes things softer.”

Izuku smiled.

A real one.

Small.
Fragile.
But real.

Tokoyami gave a quiet sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’re lucky he likes you. Usually he only says things like that to me when I trip on the stairs.”

“I do warn you,” Dark Shadow huffed dramatically. “But do you listen? Nooo…”

Izuku giggled again—more of a breathy hiccup than sound.
His chest still felt tight, but not in the awful way.

In the way that happens when something unexpected lets light through the cracks.

He didn’t know what this was.

Not yet.

But maybe… just maybe…

It was the beginning of safe.

After a bit of comforting silence Izuku couldn’t help but ask still in his whispered and unused voice.

“…Did I scare you?”

Tokoyami turned to him slowly, eyes thoughtful.

“No.”

He said it like it was fact.
No hesitation.

Izuku ducked his head, fingers tugging lightly at the edge of Dark Shadow’s wing.

“…Scared myself,”

He admitted.

Tokoyami hummed in response.

“Understandable.”

Another pause.

Then—surprisingly:

“I used to pass out when I lost control of him.”

Izuku looked up.

Tokoyami’s gaze was distant now, as if he were pulling something from memory.

“First time it happened, I thought I’d killed someone. Woke up and everyone was screaming. There were holes in the walls. Lights flickering. The teacher crying.”

Izuku blinked.

“…Did you?”

“No,” Tokoyami said, shaking his head. “But I didn’t know that at the time. And that made it worse.”

Izuku swallowed.

“What did you do?”

“Stopped using my quirk,” he said simply. “For months.”

Dark Shadow huffed beside them.

“Very dramatic months.”

Tokoyami gave him a sidelong glare.

“You destroyed three windows and nearly collapsed a gym wall.”

“I was frightened!”

“You bit a teacher.”

“…He startled me.”

Izuku covered his mouth with his sleeve to smother the sudden, uncontrollable laugh that slipped out.

Tokoyami blinked, then smiled—just barely, just enough.

“I guess what I mean is…” he said, voice quieter now, “…You don’t have to be afraid of fear.”

Izuku looked at him again.

“You’re not wrong for panicking,” Tokoyami continued. “You’re just learning how to breathe again.”

There was no pity in his voice.

Just understanding.

Maybe not perfect understanding—but enough.

And Izuku… didn’t feel the need to explain.
For once, someone got it without being told.

He nodded.

Then leaned a little more into the shadow beside him.

They stayed like that for a while.
No words.
No pressure.
Just the sound of air vents and soft hallway light, slowly brightening again now that Aizawa hadn’t cut them back off.

Eventually, Tokoyami broke the silence:

“…If you want, we could stay like this until class ends or we could go back. Your choice.”

Izuku didn’t answer.

He just rested his head quietly against the fold of Dark Shadow’s wing.

Which was answer enough.

The bell cut through the quiet like a thread snapping.

Izuku flinched slightly—not from fear this time, just surprise.
Dark Shadow instinctively folded his wing a little tighter again, like shielding him from the sound.

Tokoyami turned his head, just in time to see the door in front of them slide open with a mechanical hiss.

Voices spilled out.

Laughter, conversation, the scrape of chairs.

Then it all stopped.

Like a collective inhale that didn’t know whether to release.

Uraraka was the first to freeze in the doorway, her mouth open mid-laugh.
Iida stepped in right behind her—and promptly walked into her back.

“Oof—Uraraka, please—why have we sto—”

He cut himself off as his eyes landed on the scene just beyond the door.

Kirishima poked his head around.
Then Mina.
Then Jirou.
Then everyone else.

It didn’t take long before all of Class 1-A stood gathered just behind the threshold, their chatter evaporated into stunned silence.

There, on the floor just outside their classroom, sat Tokoyami Fumikage.

Back resting against the wall.
Legs pulled in.
Quiet.

And next to him, half-wrapped in a warm tangle of shadows, was Midoriya.

Eyes open.

Awake.

Still curled beneath the soft curve of Dark Shadow’s wing, head resting against the edge like it belonged there.

Neither of them looked hurt.

Neither of them looked ashamed.

But something about it—the stillness, the softness, the calm—it didn’t match the hallway’s usual rhythm.

Uraraka’s expression softened almost immediately.
Her hand came to her chest.

“Oh…”

Iida opened his mouth to speak—but caught the look Tokoyami gave him: calm, sharp, measured.
The kind that said not now.

Iida nodded, slowly.

The others remained frozen, unsure what to do.
It wasn’t dramatic or frightening—just… intimate.
And unexpected.

Kirishima tilted his head.

“Should we… say something?”

“I think we already did,”

Jirou muttered, nodding toward the group’s stunned presence.

Inside the shadows, Izuku blinked at the sudden sea of faces.

He didn’t panic.
He didn’t shrink.

He just… blinked.

And slowly, carefully, lifted his hand in the smallest wave imaginable.

That was when Denki, of all people, whispered too loudly:

“Yo… is it just me, or is that weirdly adorable?”

Dark Shadow made a pleased rumbling sound.

“I like this one,”

He said.

Mina bit back a laugh.
Sero coughed.
Momo covered her mouth.

The tension cracked.

Just a little.

And in the wake of it, something gentler settled.

A moment—not just strange—but shared.

Uraraka smiled gently.

“Hey, Midoriya.”

Izuku didn’t speak.

But he gave the tiniest nod.

Still half-wrapped in the dark.

Still pressed against Tokoyami’s side.

Still safe.

The air shifted before Aizawa even spoke.

His presence had that effect—quiet, steady, unmistakable.

From the end of the hallway, he approached without urgency, his scarf slung loosely around his neck, hands tucked into his pockets.
He glanced over the scene once—Izuku still nestled in Dark Shadow’s arms, Tokoyami sitting still, the rest of the class half-spilled into the hallway, all slightly unsure what to do next.

He exhaled, slow and even.

“Alright,” he said. Calm. Neutral. “Everyone, outside. Training block. Go get changed.”

The class hesitated only a second.

Then they moved—scatter-fast, like they'd all been collectively released from invisible strings.

Murmurs stirred.
A few quick glances were exchanged, but no one lingered.
No questions.
No teasing.
Just quiet movement and a ripple of respect that had settled in somewhere between the silence and the shadows.

As Tokoyami stood, brushing himself off, Aizawa paused beside him.

“Good work,”

He said lowly. Quiet, but unmistakably sincere.

Tokoyami blinked.

“I didn’t do anything. It was Dark Shadow.”

“You stayed,” Aizawa said, watching him closely. “That counts.”

Tokoyami gave a small nod, not trusting himself to say more.

Dark Shadow loosened his wings, slowly, carefully drawing back from Izuku without rushing the moment.
The warmth lingered in the air like breath. Izuku slowly sat up straighter, still watching everyone retreat down the hall with a dazed sort of calm.

Aizawa stepped in, crouching slightly to meet his gaze.

“How are you feeling?”

Izuku blinked at him, unsure of the answer.

So he settled with a soft nod.

Aizawa nodded in return, a small smile flickering across his face.
He stood again.

“Come with me.”

He didn’t say where, but Izuku stood anyway.

As they made their way down the quieter hallway toward the training field, Izuku glanced up.

He fidgeted—just enough for Aizawa to notice.

Aizawa looked down at him, then sighed—not tired, not bored.
Worried.

“Stop being so anxious, Izuku,” he said, without hesitation. “You had a panic attack. That’s normal. Especially for you. I’m the one who’s sorry—for being the trigger.”

Izuku stared at the floor and shook his head.

“…Not you,”

He said quietly.

Aizawa smiled at that.
Maybe it was a lie, maybe not—but hearing those words from this child meant more than he expected.

“I’m glad, then,” he replied. “I just hope whatever caused it… doesn’t come back.”

His eyes softened, warm in a way Izuku had begun to understand.

Izuku looked up—and fell into that warmth.

He noticed it.
The change in Aizawa’s eyes.
The kind that never felt fake.
It bloomed somewhere behind his ribs, and before he could stop it, a smile found its way to his face.

A true one.
Like the one he’d given Tokoyami.

Like the laugh that had cracked through his chest just minutes ago.

Like something that belonged to him.

“…It—won’t.”

He said it with a smile to the floor.

Aizawa watched him.

And he knew, somehow, that smile meant more than any report.
More than any file, diagnosis, or quirk registration.

It was real.

And it was Izuku.

Chapter Text

As Class 1-A made their way outside, the tension from earlier still clung to the edges of the air, quiet and sticky like the aftermath of a thunderstorm.

But leave it to Mina to pop the bubble.
“So,” she said, sidling up beside Tokoyami with a suspicious grin, “you act all mysterious and shadowy—but you’re secretly Midoriya’s personal cuddle bird now, huh?”

Tokoyami gave no reply.
His feathers ruffled subtly.

That was answer enough.
“I was the one who cuddled him!” Dark Shadow boomed suddenly, his form stretching playfully beside them. “Fumikage’s too stiff to cuddle anyone. He’d rather brood about poetry!”
“I liked you better when you were quiet,”

Tokoyami muttered under his breath, though his eyes betrayed no malice—just mild despair.

“Aw, c’mon~” Mina teased. “I think it’s cute! Midoriya totally trusts you guys. I mean—he let you hug him. That’s, like, sacred.”

“He let me hug him,” Dark Shadow insisted, proudly puffing up. “Not this edgy tree stump I’m attached to.”

“I have plenty of emotional range,”

Tokoyami said with dignified offense.

“Yeah, like ‘grim’ and ‘slightly more grim,’”

Jirou deadpanned.

Denki jogged up, waving dramatically.

“I knew it! You’ve been keeping all that soft energy to yourself! I should’ve known it was the quiet ones.”

Sero joined in, tossing an arm around Denki’s shoulder.

“Dark Shadow out here getting more emotional intimacy than the rest of us combined.”

“Damn right I am,”

Dark Shadow said smugly.

The laughter wasn’t loud, but it felt good.
Relief, really. Something to hold onto after the rawness of what they’d witnessed.

Tokoyami exhaled through his nose.

“Can we not turn this into a circus?”

“No promises,” Mina grinned. “Also, for the record? I’m still shipping it.”

“I do not engage in shipping,”

Tokoyami said flatly.

“You don’t have to. We’re doing it for you,” Denki chimed. “You and Dark Shadow. New emotional support duo. Trademark pending.”

Dark Shadow hummed.

“I like the sound of that.”

“I don’t,”

Tokoyami said.

Behind them, the group started to splinter into pairs, joking and comparing notes for warm-ups.
The banter faded into a low hum as the breeze picked up across the training field.

Hagakure skipped up beside them, nearly bouncing.

“Oh right—Toko, you missed class! Sports Festival’s next week!”

Tokoyami’s brow furrowed.

“Already?”

“Yup,” Hagakure chirped. “One week. Momo and Iida have all the rules memorized. But basically? Get ready to be televised!”

Excitement sparked across the group.
Denki whooped.
Mina declared she needed a new outfit.
Sero mock-panicked about choreography.

But further behind them, Bakugou stayed silent.

He walked like a storm held back by skin.
Tense. Focused.
Guilt clawing beneath the surface.

He didn’t look at anyone.

Didn’t speak.

But his eyes flicked briefly toward the tent ahead—where Aizawa and Midoriya stood waiting, side by side.

Kirishima noticed.
Of course he did.

But he didn’t ask anything.

He just kept walking next to him.
Quiet. Steady.

Because sometimes friendship meant not asking the hard questions.
Not yet.

Just being there when the storm broke.

And it would.
Eventually.

But for now?

They walked.

From beneath the shade of the canvas tent, Izuku sat cross-legged on the ground, arms wrapped loosely around his knees.

The training field stretched wide in front of him, students ran drills in pairs—dodging, blocking, striking—laughter and determination mixing with the thud of boots against dirt.

And Izuku just watched all of this happening.

When Sero swung through the air on his tape, Izuku’s gaze followed the angle of his arc.

When Mina skidded on pink acid-slick ground, his head tilted just slightly, tracking the fluidity of her movement.

When Tokoyami unleashed Dark Shadow in a wide, spiraling attack, Izuku didn’t even blink.

Izuku watched—quiet, still, completely immersed.

But it wasn’t the kind of watchfulness Aizawa had grown used to.
There was no tension in his shoulders, no anxious flick of his eyes scanning for danger.
This wasn’t the observation of someone preparing to run.

It was curiosity.

Awe.

His gaze followed every movement on the field—the rhythm of it, the quirks in action, the way Asui slipped beneath Sato’s legs with practiced grace.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t brace.
He simply watched, eyes wide with wonder.

Aizawa noticed.

He stood beside him in comfortable silence before finally saying, with a voice low and soft,

“You like watching them.”

Izuku didn’t speak right away, but Aizawa didn’t mind.
His own eyes lingered on the field, catching the blur of motion, the laughter carried on the wind.

And then, from the corner of his vision—he saw it.

A smile.
Small.
Quiet.
Forming on Izuku’s lips like the first bloom of spring.

“Yes,”

Izuku whispered.

The silence returned after that—but it wasn’t empty.

It was warm.
Steady.

And just a little brighter than before.

The days passed in gentle rhythm.

Therapy sessions each morning.
Time with Class 1-A when possible.
Special education in the quieter wing of the building.
Meals shared in silence or small words.
Evenings with Eri curled beside him, and a new blanket he never kicked off anymore.

Izuku had begun to bloom—quietly, slowly, but undeniably.

He spoke more now.
Sometimes just a few words.
Sometimes entire, careful sentences.

He’d started humming when he was alone.
He didn’t always realize he was doing it.

He smiled—often in small corners of his face, or at things no one else noticed.
Denki’s clumsy landings.
Kaminari’s overconfidence.
Tokoyami feeding Dark Shadow a snack under the table.

Aizawa noticed it all.

He saw how Izuku no longer sat pressed to the wall in classrooms.
How he took steps forward without looking behind him.
How he said thank you when handed a pencil or water bottle.

Every step forward felt like a sunrise after a long winter.

And then there was Inko.

When she came for her weekly visit, she didn’t cry anymore.

She smiled.

Not a small, trembling smile—but a full one.
The kind that filled her cheeks and reached her eyes.

She talked about small things again—what she’d cooked, how the weather was changing, the flowers outside the station.
She laughed once when Izuku mimicked Present Mic’s hand gestures.

She didn’t carry her grief like armor anymore.
She just looked like a mom again.

And the way Izuku leaned into her, slowly, carefully, during those visits—it was like watching someone relearn what love felt like.

It wasn’t perfect.
Nothing ever would be.

But it was healing.

And that was everything.

On the last day before the Sports Festival, Aizawa stood beside him again.
The air was filled with the sounds of sparring, cheering, and laughter across the field.

Izuku sat in the shade of the tent, legs folded under him, arms resting loosely on his knees.
He didn’t curl into himself like he used to.
He simply sat.
Present.

Bright sunlight reached the edge of his shoes.
For once, he didn’t shrink back from it.

He was watching Momo create a net while Hagakure dashed across the field, and something in his eyes flickered with recognition.

That old spark.

The one Aizawa had only ever seen in files about the boy Midoriya used to be.

That deep hunger to understand.

“Remember what I told you about tomorrow?”

Aizawa asked, eyes never leaving the training field.

Izuku tilted his head slightly, confused for a second, before realization passed through him.
He looked up with a small nod.

“…Sport Festival.”

His words were slow, but clearer than they had been even a week ago.

“Right,” Aizawa said, his tone casual. “You’ll be spending the day with your mom.”

Izuku’s gaze didn’t leave the field.
Yaoyorozu had just finished her creation.
Hagakure clapped somewhere invisible.

“At first,” Aizawa continued, “I was going to ask her to keep you away from the arena. I was worried about the crowd. The lights. Noise. I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

He glanced at Izuku.

“But now,” Aizawa said, softer, “I’m not so sure.”

He looked down at the boy sitting in the grass.
Saw how the light didn’t bother him today.
How the wind touched his hair without startling him.

“I think you’ll be okay watching.”

Izuku didn’t say anything for a few seconds.

Then he looked down at his hands resting on his knees.
The sunlight touched his knuckles.
It didn’t sting today.
It just felt… warm.

“…Thanks,”

He murmured.

The word felt full of everything he didn’t have the words to say.
A thank-you not just for the day, but for the trust.
The safety.
The chance.

Aizawa nodded.

“I’ll let Inko know. She can sit you somewhere with a good view.”

Izuku smiled again, this one smaller.
But somehow more solid.

He felt something sting behind his eyes.
He blinked it back.

No need to cry.
Not now.
Not when things felt so good.

He’d save the tears for a darker day.

Right now, he just wanted to watch.

And Aizawa stood beside him in the quiet, the sun warm on their backs, the laughter of students in their ears, and healing blooming between them in ways neither of them could fully name.

“I hope you’ll enjoy this festival, Izuku,”

Aizawa said.

Izuku didn’t answer.

But the way he watched the field—wide-eyed and steady—was more than enough.

Chapter Text

A knock sounded at the door in the middle of breakfast.

Aizawa didn’t flinch—he already knew who it was.
Without a word, he rose from his seat and made his way to the entrance.

As soon as Aizawa’s back was turned, Izuku took the opportunity to quietly slide his cereal bowl toward Eri.
He never liked the sugary stuff but never voiced a complaint either.

He pressed a finger to his lips, signaling her to stay quiet.

Eri’s eyes sparkled with mischief.
She gave a bubbly nod and eagerly shoveled a full spoonful of colorful cereal into her mouth, cheeks puffing up like a chipmunk.

A moment later, Aizawa returned to the kitchen.

“Izuku,” he said, calm as always. “Your mom’s here.”

Izuku’s head snapped toward the hallway.
He couldn’t see her from where he sat, but he didn’t need to—he could feel her presence.

Eri’s grin grew even wider.
She turned toward the door, practically vibrating with excitement.

“His mom? Can I go say hi?”

She asked, eyes already locked on the hallway like a sprinter at the starting line.

Aizawa, quietly grateful that Eri didn’t seem to feel jealous or left out, simply gave a small smile and stepped aside.

“Go ahead.”

“I’m go too,”

Izuku mumbled, already pushing his chair back.

“You mean going too,”

Aizawa corrected gently, ruffling the boy’s hair on the way past.

They reached the entrance just in time to find Eri chatting animatedly with Inko, her tiny hands gesturing as she chattered about baby Izuku or something equally embarrassing.
Inko was smiling, clearly delighted by her enthusiasm.

Then her eyes landed on Izuku.

They softened instantly.

“Hi, baby,”

she said in a voice soft and sweet, like warm honey.
She didn’t step forward, didn’t reach out—not yet. She’d promised herself: she wouldn’t push.
If Izuku wanted to come to her, he would.
And if he didn’t, she would wait forever.

“Hi, Mom,”

He replied, cheeks pink and smile small—but real.

He hesitated, then took a step.
Then another.
And without warning, he wrapped his arms around her.

It was quiet, but it shook her to the core.

She didn’t cry.
Not quite.
But her arms closed around him tightly, maybe too tightly, and her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
It was his first hug—his first real hug—and the fact that it was for her made her chest ache in the best way.

The moment was brief, shorter than she wanted, but when Izuku stepped back, she let go.
She wouldn’t ask for more.
This was already more than enough.

Aizawa watched from nearby, a rare, wide smile tugging at his lips.
Not the usual ghost of a smirk he wore in quiet moments, but a real, open one.
The kind he usually kept to himself when no one was watching.

But today, three people were there—and one of them saw.

“Mister Aizawa looks pretty when he smiles,”

Eri said with innocent wonder, trying to mimic it with a grin of her own—hers even brighter.

He chuckled lowly and ruffled her hair.

“You’re the one with the beautiful smile, Eri.”

She giggled, face lighting up even more.

“We’ll be going now,”

Inko said softly, voice shaky as she dabbed at her nose, doing her best not to become a full-on water fountain.

Izuku’s hand was already holding hers.

“Enjoy the festival,”

Aizawa said, watching them step out into the street together.

He closed the door gently behind them.

There was still plenty to do—he needed to get ready too.

The sun was already climbing high—warmer now, glowing through the crisp spring air.

And Inko?
She came prepared.

She unfurled the umbrella she had brought just for Izuku—wide and dark, casting a gentle shadow over his head.

A pocket of safety.

She wouldn’t say how long she’d prepared for this day.
How many lists she’d made, how she packed her bag three separate times.
How she’d spent the week gently interrogating Aizawa for every possible trigger, every warning sign.

She wouldn’t share that.
She didn’t need to.

All that mattered was that her son smiled when he saw the umbrella.

And he did.

The crowd outside the stadium was already growing thick—buzzing with excitement, energy rippling like static through the spring air.
Colorful flags flapped above vendor stalls, voices rose in bursts of laughter and chatter, and the smell of fried snacks and sugary syrup clung to every breeze.

Izuku stayed close to Inko, half-shielded by the wide umbrella she carried.
The shadow it cast was soft and protective, and for once, the brightness of the day didn’t seem to bite so much.

Inko glanced at her watch.

“We still have time,” she said with a warm smile. “Want to look around a little before it starts?”

Izuku nodded, just once.
The plaza was chaotic—too many people, too much movement—but there was something… intriguing about it.

A bubble of noise swelled around them as they stepped into the current of the crowd.
He flinched once at a child screaming near a cotton candy machine, but Inko gently rested a hand on his shoulder, and the panic passed before it could grow teeth.

It was overwhelming.
But it wasn’t unbearable.

As they walked, Inko pointed out different booths.

“That one’s selling bentos… oh, and look at those little hero keychains! Those must be for cheering squads.”

Her voice stayed low, warm, steady.
She wasn’t narrating for her sake—she was guiding him.
Giving him something to focus on.
Something to hold onto.

And Izuku listened.

He nodded.

Then, just ahead, he paused.

He pointed toward a small line in front of a stand.
A simple white backdrop had been set up, and a smiling man stood beside a camera on a tripod.

A photographer.

Inko blinked, surprised.

“You want to take a picture?”

Izuku hesitated… then nodded.

They stepped into line together.

Inko couldn’t stop glancing at him.
He was standing taller now—not quite relaxed, but… willing.
Curious.

As they waited, she talked to him in a soft murmur, pointing out a pair of girls trying to pose like Mt. Lady and a boy dressed in a homemade Ingenium costume.
She bent down and traced the map with him again, asking what food looked interesting, what booths they should try after.

And he answered.

Not a lot.

But enough.

When their turn came, Inko crouched slightly so her eyes met his.

“There’s going to be a flash, sweetheart. It might be a little bright.”

Izuku nodded.

“Okay.”

They stepped onto the mat.

The photographer smiled.

“Big smiles!”

Inko wrapped an arm around her son’s shoulders, slow and careful.
His hand found the edge of her sleeve and clung to it.

The flash came.
He flinched—but didn’t retreat.

His smile was small, crooked, nervous.

But it was real.

When the picture printed a few seconds later, Inko stared at it like it was the most important thing she’d ever held.

“I love it,”

She whispered.

Izuku blinked down at it.

And—he liked it too.

They wandered a little longer, the umbrella tilting and swaying as Inko kept him in the cool shade.
The vendors had started calling out their offers more loudly now, and a few costumed mascots danced through the plaza, handing out stickers.

Izuku didn’t approach them—but he didn’t recoil either.

He was busy watching.

A hero in pink armor posed with a child.
Someone juggled glowing batons that crackled with light.
A performer shaped bubbles with her quirk into floating animals that shimmered in the sun.

It was chaotic, noisy, imperfect.

And Izuku couldn’t stop staring.

“You’re doing great,” Inko said quietly beside him, gently brushing hair from his face. “I’m really proud of you.”

He didn’t answer.

But he smiled again.
Not at her—but because of her.

Eventually, the crowd began to thin as people filtered into the stadium.

“We’ve still got thirty minutes,” Inko said, scanning the open plaza. “How about one last snack?”

She pointed to a truck parked near the edge of the square, where an enormous ice cream cone sat perched on the roof like a mascot.
The window was open, displaying dozens of flavors in neat pastel rows.

Izuku tilted his head.
He remembered ice cream.
He didn’t like it.

Sticky.
Sweet.
Too much.

But… this was different.
It was quiet.
He felt calm.
He didn’t want to ruin that.

So he nodded.

“What flavor do you want to try?”

Inko asked, her voice laced with excitement.

Izuku studied the menu.
So many strange names.
He didn’t know what half of them meant.

“…Coffee,”

He said finally.

Inko blinked.

“You sure? That one might be a little bitter.”

He nodded again.

He didn’t say it, but he wanted to know what Aizawa’s coffee tasted like.
Maybe this would help him understand.

She ordered one coffee and one vanilla.
Paid.
Waited.

They sat on a low bench in the shade nearby.

Izuku took a lick.

Still sweet.
But not offensively so.
There was a sharpness under the sugar.
Something deeper.

It was weird.

But he didn’t hate it.

“Is it good?”

Inko asked softly, already halfway through her own.

He looked at her.

Then down at the cone.

“…Yes.”

Inko smiled so warmly it could’ve melted the treat in his hand.

And for a moment, everything felt normal.

Not perfect.

Not healed.

Just… okay.

And that was more than enough.

By the time they reached the stadium gates, the plaza had mostly cleared. The noise had condensed—pulsing now from within the arena’s belly, a growing roar of excitement and anticipation.

Inko held Izuku’s hand a little tighter as they passed through the security checkpoint.
His umbrella remained open, shading them both as they moved with the slow current of late arrivals.
He didn’t flinch at the crowd anymore, though he stayed close, his fingers curled gently around her sleeve.

A festival volunteer approached them near the entry stairwell.

“Name?”

They asked, clipboard in hand.

“Midoriya,” Inko said. “We have a reserved seat—under Aizawa’s arrangement.”

The volunteer checked quickly and smiled.

“Got it. You’re on the east wing balcony. Section D. It’s shaded, slightly elevated, excellent view of the track. Just up those stairs and to the left. There’s a security team posted nearby and some staff stationed if you need assistance.”

Inko nodded in thanks, and they followed the directions up the long staircase.
At the top, a wide, open view greeted them—golden sunlight pouring down on the stadium like stage lights, gleaming off polished metal and freshly painted lanes.

But where most of the crowd sat exposed in the open bleachers, their section was tucked safely under an arch of steel and glass.
A wide canopy provided cover from the sun, casting a soft shade over a quiet corner of seats.
Only a few people sat nearby—some staff, a couple of VIPs, maybe another family or two.

Aizawa had chosen well.

Their seats were near the front row of the shaded section, high enough to see the entire track, but not so high it felt distant.
A gentle breeze passed through from the open sides of the structure, cool and welcome against the warmth of the day.

Izuku stepped forward first, guided by her hand, and stood silently at the edge of the balcony.

His eyes widened.

Below, the field stretched like a massive canvas—chalk lines and obstacle markers arranged with precision.
Some students were already warming up in the waiting zone, distant but recognizable.

Izuku spotted a spark of electricity—Denki.

A blur of pink—Mina.

And a dark form folding out into wings—Tokoyami and Dark Shadow.

He watched.

Inko let go of his hand slowly, letting him soak it in.

They took their seats.

“Comfortable?”

She asked softly, unfolding a small blanket from her bag and laying it gently across his knees.

Izuku nodded.
His eyes never left the stadium.

The umbrella rested beside him now, closed, but still within reach.
The shadow of the canopy above offered more than enough protection.

Inko leaned back, exhaling quietly.

Her son sat beside her.

Outdoors.

In a stadium.

Surrounded by strangers and color and motion—and he was okay.

She bit her lip and looked away, blinking quickly.

“...Do you see Aizawa down there?”

She asked after a moment.

Izuku scanned the edge of the field.
Then pointed.

A familiar scarf.
Dark hair.
Tired posture.
Aizawa, walking across the track to check on something.

“Good eye,” she said gently. “Of course he made sure we had the best spot.”

Izuku smiled faintly.

He believed her.

The wind shifted again, cool and light.
Below, the announcer’s voice began to echo across the arena as students started to line up just beyond the gates.

Inko reached into her bag and handed Izuku a pair of earplugs, just in case.

He took them.
Didn’t use them yet—but he held them close.

Just in case.

And together, they waited.

The Sports Festival was about to begin.

The booming voice of Present Mic suddenly echoed across the entire stadium, crackling through the speakers with uncontainable excitement.

“YEEEEAAAH!! WELCOME, EVERYONE, TO THIS YEAR’S U.A. SPORTS FESTIVAL!”

The crowd erupted.
A tidal wave of cheers, whistles, and applause surged through the stands, rumbling beneath their feet like a living thing.

Izuku flinched at the noise.

He understood why Inko gave him earplugs.

Upon putting them on, the world muffled at once, the sound softened into something tolerable, like distant waves crashing far away.

Down on the field, the first-year students of U.A. began filing into neat lines.
The sunlight gleamed off their uniforms. Each step they took across the arena was met with another ripple of applause.

Then Midnight strode to the center of the stadium—her voice coy and commanding.

“Let’s get this show started, shall we?” she purred into the mic. “Freshmen! Let’s hear some words from your representative…”

Snap—the sound of her whip cutting the air.

“Bakugou Katsuki, you’re up!”

And just like that, the crowd leaned forward in anticipation.
All eyes on the boy stepping into the spotlight.

Izuku sat still.
Watching.

The stadium held its breath.

Midnight handed him the mic with a grin, clearly expecting something scandalous.

Bakugou didn’t even glance at her.

He stepped up.
The cheers dulled slightly under the tension.
Everyone waited for something loud.

His voice was sharp.
Not shouted, but clear enough to carry.

“I don’t care who stands in front of me. I’m not losing. That’s all.”

A beat.

Then he handed the mic back, turned, and walked off without another word.

The crowd responded with a swell of energy—cheers, a few scoffs, and scattered murmurs of approval.
For most spectators, it was their first time hearing him speak.
For the general studies and support course students, it was just another example of how intense the hero course kids were.

As Bakugou returned to his class, eyes forward and posture rigid, Mina leaned toward Kirishima and whispered,

“Okay, but like… no insults? No yelling? Are we proud or worried?”

Kirishima chuckled under his breath.

“Honestly? That was kinda clean. Respect.”

“Great speech, Bakugou!” Denki said with a thumbs up as he passed. “Very professional. Like, almost inspirational.”

“I thought he’d at least throw in a ‘dumbasses,’” Sero muttered, mock-pouting. “I was waiting for it.”

Jirou rolled her eyes with a small smile.

“That was him being polite. Let’s not push our luck.”

Bakugou didn’t respond.
He just clicked his tongue and took his place near the back of the group.

But he wasn’t irritated.

Just focused.

Like someone who knew what he wanted—and was finally learning how to show it without burning the world around him.

Behind him, Mina tilted her head and whispered,

“Honestly? I liked it. Short and fiery. Very ‘Bakugou-chic.’”

“I do not think that’s a real word,”

Iida said.

“It is now,”

She replied proudly.

The crowd had barely finished reacting to Bakugou’s speech when the booming voice of Present Mic echoed again through the stadium speakers.

“AND NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—IT’S TIME!”

The volume swelled instantly. Cheers rose like waves crashing in from every corner of the arena, flags waving, horns blowing, and voices overlapping in anticipation.

In the middle of the field, Midnight took center stage once more, heels clicking dramatically against the polished floor.
She raised one gloved hand, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“Thank you for your attention, everyone! And thank you to our fiery representative!”

She said with a wink toward Class 1-A, where Bakugou stood with arms crossed, jaw tight.

“But enough talk,” she purred. “Let’s get to the fun part.”

The big screens above flickered to life, a glowing graphic spinning in a dramatic swirl of crimson and gold.
As the sound cue kicked in, loud and metallic, Midnight gestured grandly to the screen.

“The first round of the U.A. Sports Festival is…”

The crowd held their breath.
So did the students.

“...An Obstacle Course!”

Cheers erupted like a thunderclap.

Midnight laughed lightly, enjoying the tension.

“But this isn’t just any obstacle course, students. This one will push your limits—mentally, physically, and strategically. Think of it as a friendly little survival gauntlet!”

A few kids from General Studies looked visibly nervous.
Others in Support started rubbing their hands together in anticipation.

She spun on one heel, pointing toward the far end of the stadium where enormous gates were already beginning to creak open, revealing the long, winding start of the course—distant forested paths, jagged stone outcrops, and faint glints of metal contraptions just barely visible.

“You’ll start at Gate A and race across the entire outside perimeter of the stadium! First forty-two across the finish line will move on!”

“Forty-two?”

Someone echoed in surprise.

A collective murmur rippled through the crowd of students.
Some fists clenched in determination.
Others were already bouncing on their toes.

“In other words,” Present Mic boomed from the booth, “if you wanna make it past round one—you better run like your hero dreams depend on it!”

“And they do,” Midnight added with a teasing smile. “Positions, everyone!”

Inko had already been squeezing Izuku’s hand for most of the build-up, but now—after Midnight’s words and the roaring crowd—she was practically clutching it.

She didn’t mean to.
But seeing her son flinch slightly from the noise, even with his earplugs in, stirred something deep and tight in her chest.

“Sorry,” she whispered quickly, loosening her grip just a little. “Are you okay?”

Izuku nodded slowly, his eyes wide as he stared at the unfolding course on the giant screens.

He didn’t look afraid.

Just… captivated.

From where they sat, high enough to see the field but covered by a roof that softened the sun’s glare, Izuku had the perfect view.
And he was taking in every detail.

The towering metal gates.
The glint of something sharp beyond the tree line.
The layout, the spacing, the students stepping forward to the starting point with nerves etched across their faces.

All of it.

Inko followed his gaze, her heart a strange mix of worry and awe.

“This isn’t too much, is it?” she asked gently, brushing a bit of wind-tossed hair behind his ear. “We can leave if you want. We don’t have to stay the whole day.”

Izuku didn’t respond at first.
His eyes were still on the starting line, where Aizawa now stood near the edge, arms crossed, watching over the students.
His scarf fluttered lightly in the breeze.

Izuku’s lips parted.

“…Obstacle,”

He said softly.

Inko blinked, surprised.

“Hmm?”

“Obstacle course,” Izuku repeated, still watching. “It’s… smart.”

His voice was quiet, but calm.
Thoughtful.

Inko stared at him, eyes wide.

“Do you mean the design?”

Izuku nodded.

“Tests everything. Quirk. Speed. Thinking.”

Down below, Bakugou was already rolling his shoulders, glancing at the field like it had insulted his pride.
The other students looked tense but eager.

Inko took a moment to study her son’s expression.

He wasn’t anxious.

Not anymore.

Just focused.
Absorbing.

The way his fingers tapped gently against his own palm, the way his eyes moved—not with panic, but calculation.

It reminded her of the old days, in the rare moments he used to whisper about heroes.

She smiled quietly, warmth blooming in her chest.

“You’re amazing, you know that?”

She said gently, brushing his sleeve.

Izuku blinked at her, then looked down, flustered.

But he didn’t deny it.

And he didn’t pull away.

That was enough for now.

The screen above the stadium flickered—zooming in on the line of first-year students now assembled at the starting point.

The announcer’s voice rang through the stadium once more, cheerful but sharp-edged:

“And now—ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for!”

The audience leaned forward in a collective breath.
The wind stirred.

Inko gently touched Izuku’s shoulder.
He didn’t move.
His eyes were locked on the field.

The gates ahead of the students began to rumble.

“Contestants, prepare yourselves…!”

Bakugou cracked his neck.

Todoroki’s breath misted in the spring air.

Mina bounced in place, fists clenched with excitement.

Dark Shadow whispered something low to Tokoyami.

The tension thickened—like lightning held in a glass jar, seconds from shattering.

Izuku sat completely still, watching.
Not blinking.
Not breathing.

The screen flashed a red light above the gate.

Then yellow.

Then—

“Three…!”

“Two…!”

“ONE—!”

And the gates—

Chapter Text

The gates roared open.

The sound was thunderous—metal grating against metal, a signal to run, to fight, to survive.
Dust exploded from the path as dozens of students surged forward in a blur of movement and noise.
Ice ripped across the field, explosions flared in the distance, and the roar of the crowd thundered over it all.

From the shaded balcony above the chaos, Izuku watched.

He didn’t flinch at the sound.
Not anymore.
Earplugs softened the worst of it, and the umbrella Inko kept perched slightly to the side still cast a soft circle of shadow over them both.

His eyes followed the racers.

He saw Todoroki skate across his frozen path, effortlessly elegant, his breath misting in the spring air.
Bakugou was a flash of light and rage, blasting into the air, carving a line of destruction behind him.
Iida bolted past a crumbling section of track, legs pumping like pistons.

But Izuku’s gaze didn’t linger on the loudest.

It drifted.

To the edge of the field.
To the chaos.
To the strategy.

“YEAHHH! CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS, FOLKS?!” Present Mic’s voice cracked through the stadium speakers like lightning. “WE’VE GOT ICE, FIRE, EXPLOSIONS—AND LOOK AT CLASS 1-A GO!”

Aizawa’s voice, dry and unimpressed, followed quickly after:

“They’re too fast. They’ll trip over each other if they keep this up.”

“COME ON, MAN, LIVE A LITTLE! This is the good stuff! The real show’s just starting!”

Down on the field, Todoroki moved like a shadow over frozen glass, a path of solid ice cutting ahead of him.
He weaved through the first wave of obstacles—trap platforms, collapsing rock towers, robotic limbs swinging overhead.

Izuku leaned forward.

Beside him, Inko glanced nervously.
But her son’s eyes were steady.
Watching.
Following.

Todoroki was cold.
Unshaken.
Every motion was planned.

Bakugou, meanwhile, detonated straight through the maze.
No subtlety.
Just force and fury, a glowing cannonball of propulsion and grit.
He didn’t avoid the traps—he obliterated them.

“AND LOOK AT THAT ENTRY FROM BAKUGOU! FULL AGGRESSION MODE! NO BRAKES, NO CHILL, JUST STRAIGHT-UP VIOLENCE!”

“You say that like it’s a compliment,”

Aizawa muttered.

“FOR HIM IT IS!”

As the students spread into the next stretch of the course—a narrow canyon of shifting walls and spike pits—some began to fall behind.
Panic broke ranks.
A few got caught in timed traps.
One nearly slipped into the pit but was yanked back by a classmate.
The Support Course student beside them laughed—then immediately triggered another trap and vanished in a puff of powder.

Izuku blinked.

“…Harsh,”

He murmured.

Inko glanced sideways, smiling despite herself.

“It is an obstacle course.”

Down below, the frontrunners had cleared the midway point.

Todoroki was still in the lead.

But Bakugou was gaining.

Every time the terrain shifted, Bakugou found a shortcut.
He blasted off of debris.
Skimmed edges.
Used the explosions to redirect himself mid-air, cutting across paths that didn’t even exist five seconds before.

Todoroki didn’t look back.

But his pace quickened.

“OOH! IT’S A RIVALRY, PEOPLE! ICE VS. DYNAMITE! WHO’S GONNA BREAK FIRST?!”

“Neither,”

Aizawa said flatly.

“HAVE YOU MET THESE TWO?! I’M PRETTY SURE ONE OF THEM IS GONNA THROW THE WHOLE TRACK AT THE OTHER BEFORE THIS IS DONE!”

The finish line came into view.

Inko gasped softly as she saw the final stretch—a series of spinning platforms suspended over a pit, followed by a long straightaway covered in slick, uneven terrain.

Bakugou hit it first.

He launched into the air—too far, too fast—

He nearly missed the platform.

His foot slammed down just in time.
He gritted his teeth and pushed forward, sweat flying.

But Todoroki didn’t jump.

He slid.

Ice crept under his feet, forming a sleek path over the uneven track.
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t stumble.
The finish line grew closer—

Bakugou pushed.

The final jump.

They hit the line almost together.

But the scoreboard blinked once—

“FIRST PLACE: TODOROKI SHOUTO”

Bakugou crossed half a second later.

And exploded.

“YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!” Present Mic howled. “TALK ABOUT A PHOTO FINISH! THAT WAS ICE-COLD! LITERALLY!”

Aizawa sipped his coffee.

“Good control,” he muttered. “That’s how you win.”

Bakugou didn’t scream.
Didn’t punch anything.

But his eyes were sharp.
Furious.
Focused.

Todoroki stood still at the finish line, breathing steadily, a ghost of mist escaping his lips.

A new round of noise erupted as the other students began crossing the line.
Iida came in third.
Momo Yaoyorozu fourth.
Sero swung over a crater with tape and landed fifth, yelling something triumphant.

Students crossed.
Cheered.
Collapsed.

Midnight stepped forward at last, heels clicking against the stone floor, clipboard in hand and grin wide.

“Now, now, my darlings—what a show! But let’s not forget,” she purred into her mic, “placement in this round determines your points in the next!”

The crowd hushed slightly.
Anticipation crackled.

“And the top score goes to—” she paused dramatically “—Shoto Todoroki!”

Cheers thundered again.

“And he will be starting the next event wearing the crown—figuratively, of course—of 10 million points!”

Even through the earplugs, Izuku could hear the sharp intake of breath from the stands.
He didn’t know what that meant, exactly—but it sounded like a lot.

“Next round,” Midnight called, her smile sharp and gleaming, “is a Cavalry Battle! Four-person teams. The ten-million-point headband will be up for grabs. And everyone else will want it.”

Gasps echoed like thunderclaps through the stadium.

Ten million points.

A number too big to grasp—especially in a game where headbands were currency and targets were painted in blood-red ink.

Izuku didn’t move.

But he felt it.

The weight of the number.
The way the air shifted, not physically, but emotionally.
He didn’t need to understand the rules in full to know what ten million meant.

It meant everyone would be watching Todoroki now.

And worse—everyone would be coming for him.

Midnight’s voice crackled back through the speakers:

“You have fifteen minutes to form your teams! Three teammates, one rider. Work fast. Choose well.”

Present Mic immediately jumped in:

“ALRIGHT! THIS IS WHERE FRIENDSHIPS DIE AND STRATEGY IS BORN!”

Aizawa didn’t miss a beat.

“This is where panic makes people stupid.”

“Same thing, my dude!”

Izuku glanced around the field.

Already, the frenzy had begun.

Students grouped up like magnets.
Some moved with purpose—Yaoyorozu and Iida immediately paired off, like chess pieces in sync.
Kaminari darted toward Kirishima with a grin.
A few looked lost, frozen in place, hoping someone would notice them.

Todoroki stood still.

For a moment, he didn’t move at all.

Just… observed.
Like he was weighing every option, calculating like it was math and not people.

Then he walked.

Straight toward Iida and Yaoyorozu.

Iida looked stunned.
Yaoyorozu blinked, her hand half-raised like she was about to call someone else over.

“I want to win,” Todoroki said, loud enough for the cameras to catch it. “And I think you do too.”

Yaoyorozu hesitated.

“…I had another group in mind,” she admitted carefully. “But yes. I want to win.”

Todoroki didn’t try to persuade her.
He just waited.

After a few seconds, she nodded.

Iida gave a dramatic bow.

“I will serve as the cavalry’s engine!”

A tall, quiet boy from support course wandered near them with a hoverboard backpack and three tool belts.
No one quite knew his name—but he looked prepared for anything.

Todoroki motioned to him without missing a beat.

“You. Are you fast?”

“…Yes?”

The kid said, half a question.

“You’re on the team.”

That was that.

And just like that, Team Todoroki was born.
The team everyone now had to destroy.

Across the field, Bakugou was already gathering his team—but this time, there was no yelling.

He didn’t shout.
He didn’t blow anything up.

But his expression?
Still sharp enough to cut concrete.

“Kirishima,” he said with a nod. “You’re on defense. You got me?”

Kirishima grinned, already jogging over.

“Hell yeah I got you!”

Bakugou gave a sharp nod, then turned to Denki.

“You—no short-circuiting. If I see sparks and dumb giggles, I’m launching you myself.”

Denki raised both hands, grinning nervously.

“Loud and clear, Captain!”

Bakugou rolled his eyes.

“You’re lucky you’ve got good aim.”

He glanced around once more, eyes narrowing, then pointed at Sero across the field.

“Sticky tape guy. You in?”

Sero blinked.

“...Is that how you’re asking?”

Bakugou snorted.

“I don’t beg. You coming or not?”

Sero exchanged a look with Kirishima—who gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up—then shrugged.

“Yeah, alright. Just don’t blow off my arms.”

“No promises.”

The four of them gathered quickly, adjusting straps, headbands, and formation.

“TEAM BAKUGOU COMING TOGETHER QUICK!” Present Mic crowed. “NO EXPLOSIONS YET—BUT DON’T BE FOOLED, FOLKS! THESE FOUR HAVE FIRE IN THEIR VEINS!”

Aizawa’s voice came like a cold towel:

“Fire or not, if they don’t think before they launch, they’re going down in ten seconds.”

“You really have a lot of faith in your class, huh?”

Present Mic laughed.

“I have faith in reality.”

With only little left on the clock, the tension was rising.

Some students still hadn’t found teams.

One tall boy paced near the outer rim of the field, muttering under his breath.
Another stood alone with spiked hair and wide eyes, clearly unsure who to ask.
General Studies students were largely ignored.

Izuku saw one boy step forward.

Purple hair.
Calm eyes.
A little older than most of the others.

He asked three different people.

All three shook their heads.

Too risky, someone said.

No offense, but—your quirk’s kinda useless here.