Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eraserhead was chosen, not by chance or misfortune, but by the very nature of his character: his inability to stay on the sidelines when the truth lurked in the shadows.

The work of a hero, far from bright lights and public applause, is a constant dance on the edge of death; a profession where knowing too much, where seeing what others dare not look at, can seal your fate in the most brutal way. True heroism does not lie in spectacular punches or televised smiles: it resides in the silent acceptance that, sooner or later, duty might cost you everything.

When he was assigned this case, Shouta Aizawa did not hesitate. As was his habit, he plunged neck-deep into the investigation, without shield or fear, accompanying Tsukauchi on one of those missions that are never written into public reports or retold in history books. Tsukauchi, well aware of his resolve, knew he needed a man like him to dive into the depths of a conspiracy that demanded not only skill but an impenetrable mind.

The incident seemed, at first, something minor: a young woman arrested for theft, a robbery that had escalated into unusual violence. The girl had confronted several heroes and police officers with unnatural ferocity, ignoring danger, injuring without mercy, destroying entire streets as if her life depended on her resistance.

What could have been shelved as an ordinary crime took on chilling overtones when one undeniable fact surfaced: the young woman had disappeared two years earlier. The initial hypothesis suggested that perhaps she had fallen into a life of crime by choice, as so many others forgotten by society had done.

But those who witnessed her fight knew this was no simple choice: her desperation was tangible, her struggle that of someone not trying to win, but to survive. Even when they subdued her, when there was no strength left in her body, she kept struggling like a trapped animal. And then, without warning, she began to scream.

Her screams tore through the air, raw and animalistic, so brutal they froze the blood of all who heard them. But as abruptly as they had started, they ended: her body collapsed, her life extinguished as if someone had cut the thread holding her up.

The autopsy revealed a discovery that made even the most seasoned forensics tremble. A small device, hidden deep within her brain, had spread tiny black roots intertwined with her nervous system. Each root seemed meticulously connected to the centers of her neural impulses, like a puppeteer's strings embedded into the deepest parts of her being. The device did not merely alter her movements: it implanted commands that her brain had to obey unconditionally, as if they were absolute truths, impossible to resist. Anchor orders, engraved deep within her mind, reducing her will to ashes.

The investigators realized she had not been the true thief. She had been sent to distract, to draw attention, to serve as bait while the real culprits escaped with their prize. Her life—her soul—had been deliberately sacrificed as a diversion. And even in her final breath, she had fought against the invisible chains forcing her to act against her will.

That case was only the beginning. Soon, more people started disappearing. Ordinary individuals, with no prior criminal ties, were found committing heinous acts or being used as living tools. The existence of "puppets" became a grim, silent reality: men, women, and children turned into instruments of flesh, stripped of autonomy, enslaved through unimaginable technology and boundless cruelty.

From the moment he got entangled in that hellish web, Shouta Aizawa knew there was no turning back. He committed himself with a cold, relentless determination. While public-facing heroes kept the media at bay—hidden behind smiles and vague statements—Aizawa descended into the darkness, into the sewers of the criminal world, interrogating informants, traffickers, and anyone whose conscience was stained but still feared true evil.

It was in those abysses that he uncovered an even more monstrous facet of the puppet trade: human trafficking, where human bodies were auctioned off like broken goods. Puppets weren’t just used as silent soldiers or ruthless guards in underground fights; they were sold to satisfy the darkest urges of monsters hiding behind façades of respectability. Stripped of will, voice, and autonomy, they were treated like broken toys, reduced to mere shadows of who they once were.

Aizawa knew he had crossed a threshold he could never return from. Not just because of the danger the culprits posed, but because by seeking the truth, he had drawn a gaze upon himself that would never look away.

The price of challenging the shadows, he understood, was not a swift death.

It was something worse: being turned into another tool of their infamy.

That day, he had decided without much thought: he would go find a gift for Hizashi. Our first anniversary as a couple. It wasn’t something I celebrated often—I wasn’t one for dates or grand gestures—but I had learned that sometimes small gestures held up the invisible pillars of important things. Hizashi always said, laughing, that he fell in love with me the day I accidentally broke his nose at the sports festival during our first year. It took me longer. Like everything with me, love didn't arrive as a blazing fire, but as a slow, relentless snowfall that one day, without warning, covered me completely. He didn’t mind waiting. Almost ten years. Ten years of shy glances, half-spoken words, silences where others would have filled the air with confessions.

I was walking down the street with my hands in my pockets, head low, searching through the shops for something that wouldn’t be too obvious but would still carry my meaning engraved into it. A rare book, maybe. Something that spoke of us without needing to be wrapped in words.

And then I saw him: an old man stumbling clumsily, his bags bursting against the ground, oranges rolling into the street, a jar of rice shattering on the pavement. I didn’t hesitate. I’m not the type to talk when I can act. I knelt down, picking up the fallen groceries with precise, almost automatic movements.

"Oh, thank you so much, kind young man. These days it’s rare to find people so kind," said the old man, his voice trembling with an old-fashioned warmth.

"No problem," I replied curtly, not looking at him too much, focused on picking everything up. I didn’t want conversation. I wasn’t looking for gratitude. Doing the right thing had never felt like something that deserved a reward.

"I wish my son would grow up to be like you," he continued, as if desperately trying to anchor me to his story, to his existence.

I nodded silently, feeling an uncomfortable prickling at the back of my neck. Something in the air was... wrong. Too sweet. Too deliberate.

It was then that I saw it: a metallic glint between the folds of his jacket. A quick movement, far too precise for someone his age. A hypodermic dagger, a needle as long as a broken promise.
My senses, sharpened by years of combat and vigilance, reacted before my mind could process it. Dodging it was almost a reflex.

I straightened up, alert, muscles tensed, scanning the surroundings for the real threat, because that old man was just a distraction. The number of men increased, going from two to four, moving from a street into an alleyway, where little by little they cornered me.

I didn't have time to fully turn when the blow struck me.

An unbearable pain exploded in my skull. A brutal, dry, merciless strike. The world wobbled before my eyes, images fragmenting into blurred lines. I dropped to my knees, barely aware that someone —another man, much younger and stronger— was gripping me with brutal strength.

"Of course I expected you to be this smart, Eraserhead," said a rough voice, amused by its own cruelty.

Dazed, I blinked, trying to focus. I saw the baseball bat, stained with something dark, and the shark-like smile of my attacker. The chill in my bones told me I'd made a mistake: I had underestimated the desperation of my enemies.

"You shouldn’t have stuck your nose into this, Eraserhead," he added, and I knew there was no way out.

My body, trained, struggled to rise, to react, but my strength fled me like water slipping through my fingers. Darkness swallowed me like a freezing wave, taking not just my consciousness but also the last scrap of control I had over my fate.

As I faded, the last image burned into my mind was the package I had been carrying under my arm, rolling across the ground, abandoned.

The gift for Hizashi.

The last thing my hands had touched as a free man.

That day, Shouta Aizawa did not return home. He didn’t walk back to his beloved, who would wait for him for hours, staring at the door, at the clock, wondering when concern should turn into terror.

That day, I ceased to be a person.

That day, they turned me into just another puppet of the puppeteer.

Sometimes, I woke up without understanding how, not knowing how much time had passed, only the nauseating smell of alcohol filling my nose and a viscous sense of danger clinging to me like a net. The air was dense, foul, heavy, as if the very oxygen wanted to reject me. My body was strapped to a stretcher, my arms, my legs, every limb bound by straps that bit into my skin with every involuntary spasm I tried to make. My head was held in place by a thick strap, so tight I could feel my own heartbeat reverberating against the leather. I couldn't turn it, couldn't move it, could barely breathe.

Everything spun around me, everything burned under my skin, in my skull, in my bones. The pain was so pervasive that, for a moment, I couldn’t even remember who I was. I only knew that I wanted to scream. That I NEEDED to scream. But even that was beyond me.

The feeling of helplessness was like acid poured over my nerves, burning away any remnants of pride I might have had left. I could feel them. The culprits. They were so close I could almost hear them breathing, so close that if I'd had even a second of freedom, I would have shattered their jaws and torn their secrets out with my bare hands. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything except feel, except be a piece of pulsing meat under their control. It was like being trapped in a lucid nightmare, aware of every damn second, of every missed chance to defend myself, to fight, to flee.

Panic was there, hissing through the cracks of my mind, coiling around my thoughts like a venomous snake. Fear, that enemy I swore never to show, pulsed alongside my rage.

I always knew fear was a tool, an invisible chain that bound you to the will of anyone clever enough to spot it. And I knew, too, that if I let it out, if I let it crawl over my skin and pour from my eyes, they would win. That’s why I clung to the rage. To the cold, burning fury that kept me conscious.
I forced myself to look, to hold their gaze if they allowed me to open my eyes, not to blink, not to break, even though everything inside me screamed that it was already too late, that I had already lost.

I wasn’t someone who cried easily. I didn’t cry in public. I didn’t even cry in private unless I was among the few who truly were my refuge: Hizashi, Nemuri... a few close colleagues from UA. The last time I allowed myself to break was when I thought I had lost Oboro. The day I pulled him from the rubble, covered in dust and blood, believing he had died under that mountain of ruins, the pain tore through me beyond measure. Holding his body in my arms, feeling the weight of his life hanging by a thread so fragile... that night, I cried. I cried out of rage, guilt, helplessness. I cried because I had promised to protect him, and I had failed.

But Oboro survived. Against all odds. And when he opened his eyes, when he smiled at me with that foolish calmness and told me to keep moving forward, I did. I continued down the path of heroism even knowing the system reeked, that we were disposable tools in a rotten machine. Because I owed him. Because I owed him the fact that I was still breathing.

Now, on that filthy stretcher, amid the shadows and the stench of death, my thoughts wandered to those memories like an impossible refuge. I remembered the days when Oboro announced his engagement to Nemuri and I pretended not to cry in silence. I remembered Hizashi singing at the top of his lungs in the shower while our house vibrated with laughter and life. I remembered the day we moved in together, stacking boxes, arguing over trivial things like which side of the bed belonged to whom.

I remembered the last promise I made to Hizashi.

"I’ll take better care of myself. I promise."

I said it after finding that damned anonymous message warning me not to dig any deeper into this case. I said it with a fake smile, because I believed I could handle it, because I believed, somehow, that I could defy death one more time without consequences.

But now, amid the buzzing and the pain, with the metallic taste on my tongue and the tears I refused to shed, I could only think one thing.

"I’m sorry, Hizashi... I fucked it all up."

Although the name Eraserhead never echoed through the media like those of heroes with gleaming smiles and grand gestures, in the circles where it truly mattered—the shadows of the city, the police force, the halls of UA—his presence was known, feared, and, above all, respected.

Aizawa was no ordinary hero. He was a vigilant ghost who never allowed himself the luxury of stopping, who took no vacations, who never rested. His absence would be as noticeable as a missing tooth in the jaw of public defense.

The disappearance of someone like him would raise alarms, spread rumors like wildfire. And that was something those monsters could not afford.

So, to cover their tracks, to erase from the face of the earth the uncomfortable question "Where is Eraserhead?", they wove a lie as grotesque and perfect as a nightmare.

They would fake his death.

Not a clean death, not one that left room for hope or doubt.

No.

They would create an artificial corpse, one that, at first glance, told a story of unspeakable horror: brutal torture, resistance to the very last breath, an ending so cruel that anyone who saw the remains would wish they'd never asked.

They built a body, molded it, deformed it. They destroyed it until it was unrecognizable, yet left enough details—scars, fragments of dark hair, pieces of the costume, his DNA—for immediate, painfully undeniable identification.

The scene was staged like a painting from hell: a cold cell, bloodstains, broken instruments, the echo of an impossible struggle. Everything arranged so that, when the rescuers arrived, they would not see a possibility, but a sentence.

Thus, with calculated cruelty, in the outside world, Eraserhead was declared dead. And in the hearts of those who knew him, a poisoned, deep-rooted emptiness began to take hold.

When I woke up, I knew immediately. Something inside me had changed irrevocably. It wasn’t sharp pain that told me, no. It was something worse. It was as if an invisible wall had been erected inside my own mind, separating me from myself. A cold, slimy barrier I couldn’t cross. My thoughts, once sharp and quick, now dragged as if walking on shattered glass. Every impulse to move, every command I gave my muscles, was met with a delay, a tremor, as if something else—something foreign—filtered every decision before it reached my body. It was my body, yes. But it was no longer entirely mine.

The sensation was suffocating. A constant tingling ran through my limbs, like dark roots twisting deeper and deeper beneath my skin. Sometimes, it felt like invisible hands were tugging at my nerves, trying to tear and twist them until I broke. It wasn’t pain I felt. It was pure humiliation. A slow, conscious degradation of my autonomy.

They locked me in a dark, damp cell. They fed me at regular intervals, though I refused to eat. Not out of pride, but because the mere act of accepting anything from them felt like another surrender. The guards who watched over me didn’t speak, didn’t look at me. To them, I was just another number, another defective piece in a warehouse of broken puppets. And I... I searched every second for a way out. I planned, analyzed, memorized their steps, their routines. Each day that passed, I felt that thing inside me gain a little more ground, and I had to escape before it became irreversible.

I counted the days by marking the stone wall with a rusty spoon. I didn’t need a clock or the sun to know when a day had passed. I had been trained for this. I counted the beats of my heart, the silent hours in the darkness, the guards’ shifts. If my calculations were correct, I had been a prisoner for six days.

And then, on the seventh day, someone different appeared.

"So you're the famous Eraserhead..." said a voice laden with mockery and false admiration. "The rumors say a lot about you, hero..."

I immediately straightened up, on guard. My muscles tensed, though the chip implanted in my brain buzzed with a dull pain every time I tried a sudden movement. The man remained behind the bars, smiling as if he were looking at a caged animal he was particularly proud of.

I recognized him immediately. Dark red hair, almost the color of rust; yellow eyes with elongated pupils, like a wolf stalking its prey; a triumphant, repulsive smile, like a cruel child enjoying tearing the wings off flies. Danzō, one of the prime suspects in the case I had been investigating. His Quirk allowed him to exert direct mental control over a person, but as far as we knew, only one at a time... how had they managed to extend that horror to implantable devices? It was still a mystery.

Danzō was a cursed name among underground heroes. His trail was stained with human trafficking, the sale of biological puppets, horrors that couldn’t be spoken aloud without feeling the crushing weight of guilt. He was the puppeteer in the shadows we never managed to catch.

"Oh, come on," he said lightly, "don’t be shy. I don’t bite... yet."

I stared at him in silence, teeth clenched, body ready to attack at the slightest opportunity. His guards stood behind him: two mountains of muscle, one a mutant with thick skin and claws, the other a human with arms like iron hammers. I knew that even if I managed to fight, the disadvantage would be monstrous. And worse: every attempt to use my Quirk was punished by a brutal jolt of pain that speared through my brain like a lance.

But I had to try.

I had to...

"Come closer, darling..." murmured Danzō, his voice oozing into my ears like poison.

And before I could even think about it, my feet were already moving on their own.

One step. Two steps. The cold of the bars against my face. The humiliation was total. Internally, I writhed, struggling with every fiber of will I had left, trying to pull my muscles back, trying to move away from that smile. My teeth dug into the inside of my mouth, my eyes wide open in a mix of panic and fury, fixed on him.

Danzō’s hand touched my face as if I were a precious object, as if he were caressing a trophy freshly won in a dirty gamble. His fingers, cold and dry, traced my cheek with repulsive familiarity, making every muscle in my body tense uselessly against the implanted command that forced me to stay still. It wasn’t a caress; it was the most humiliating mark of possession I had ever felt.

"How do you feel?" he whispered near me, savoring every word against my skin. "Do you feel anger, hero? Rage? Panic, perhaps? How does it feel to have no control over yourself? How does it feel to know that with a single word from me, I can make you fall to your knees? How does it feel to know you're nothing but an empty shell, Shouta Aizawa?"

His voice was a soft poison, like blades scraping raw flesh. His yellow eyes clashed directly with mine, searching, digging, burrowing into my being while his hand remained disgustingly tender against my face. I tried to keep my expression neutral, but I knew he could see the cracks, could taste the hatred and despair spilling over despite my efforts to contain them.

"Show me your Quirk," he ordered, with a crooked smile.

Unable to resist, I felt my traitorous eyes obey. The familiar warmth on my eyelids, the faint buzz that indicated my power had activated. My pupils turned a burning red, glowing intensely... to Danzō’s sick delight.

"What a beauty you are, Eraserhead!" he laughed, as if admiring a masterpiece. "You'll be the jewel of the night. Everyone will go mad to have you."

A wave of disgust and revulsion hit me full force. The feeling of my own power, the one I had used so many times to protect, was now being paraded like a trophy for scavengers. I felt the impulse to tear out my own eyes, to rip my skin off in strips.

"You can stop looking at me like that now, Eraserhead," he said with mock annoyance. "I don't like those looks on my creations. Although... I must admit they’re pretty common."

Without being able to prevent it, my Quirk deactivated, my eyes returning to their natural dark color. But my gaze... my hatred... that didn’t change.

"Come on, Eraser," he taunted. "You can talk. Say something."

I knew perfectly well that he was allowing me to speak because he wanted to manipulate every word that came out of my mouth. That anything I said would be used against me, for his amusement. Still, I took a slow breath, letting my survival instinct and professionalism filter the venom from my lips.

"You know," I rasped, my voice firm, laced with controlled hostility, "for someone as pathetic as you, it's impressive you still haven't learned to wipe that shitty smile off your face. So this is your life? Playing cheap god in a corner of rot?"

Danzō let out a long, satisfied laugh.

"Ha! You're funny. Very few would have said something like that in your situation..." he said, leaning even closer, his face twisted in a gesture of false sympathy. "You really are a special case."

"You're a son of a bitch," I spat, every syllable dripping with contempt.

"And I wear it with pride," he replied, laughing as if it were the best compliment he'd ever received. "And yet, here you are, tied up like a dog. You have no control over your life anymore, hero. You can keep repeating that empty hope in your mind, dreaming of escape, of going back to your precious home, to your dear friends... but that no longer exists. Say goodbye, Eraserhead! You're just another one in my collection now."

He paced in front of the bars like a satisfied predator, his voice dripping with venom as he continued.

"I know all about your little investigation. The chip, the sale, the loss of control... the loss of identity. Everything." He stopped and stared directly at me, savoring every word. "From the moment you stepped in here, you lost it all. You’ll be nothing but flesh for sale. Maybe you’ll end up in underground fights, bleeding for the delight of degenerates... or maybe someone will want you for dirtier things. Prostitution, perhaps? There are plenty who would pay a fortune to have a famous hero as their personal toy. Oh, the excitement on their faces! I can see it now."

My stomach twisted violently. Every word was like another nail being hammered into my flesh.

"You're a unique piece, Eraserhead. A great Quirk. A great service. They’ll have everything about you... and you’ll have nothing. You won’t be able to resist, you won’t be able to fight back. You’ll only watch... and accept."

Danzō then turned to his bodyguards, pointing at them with disgusting satisfaction.

"Look at these two," he said, laughing. "One was a police officer and the other was studying to become a hero. Until I took them. And look at them now: obedient, strong, loyal... perfect."

I couldn’t stop the growl that rumbled from deep within my chest.

"So that's your great achievement?" I shot back, my voice dripping with venom. "Turning people into rag dolls to hide your pathetic weakness? You're less than an insect, Danzō. Just a parasite too cowardly to face anything real."

Danzō let out another loud laugh, as if my insults were music to his ears.

"Oh, Shouta," he said between fits of laughter, shaking his head. "You're absolutely delightful! I wish all my toys had your spirit at the beginning!"

Then his smile faded slightly, and his voice turned colder, more final.

"But there’s no more time. Your time..." he leaned close, whispering into my ear, "is over, Eraser. It's time for you to start your new life."

And in that moment, with a frozen certainty, I knew that whatever sliver of hope I had left was about to be crushed under his boot.

"Stay still."

I don't remember how much time passed after Danzō left my cell. Maybe hours. Maybe minutes. Time had lost all meaning within these cold, filthy walls, just like my will, just like my body that no longer responded as it once did.

When they returned, there were no ceremonies. Two of his men came in, strong as steel towers, with not a hint of humanity in their faces. They dragged me like an animal, without caring about the bruises, without caring whether I could walk or not. My legs, stiff, tried to move, but the chip... the chip buzzed silently in my head, an invisible wall crushing every command I tried to give my body. My mind screamed, fought, but my muscles didn’t respond. It was like being trapped inside myself, watching as they dragged me toward my doom.

The hallway was long, endless, lit by a line of flickering lights. Each step they took echoed on the concrete like a death drum. The air stank of sweat, dried blood, rusted metal, and despair.

And then I heard it: the murmur of voices, hundreds of them, excited, hungry, waiting.

The door opened.

And hell welcomed me.

A vast, dark room, like an underground arena, packed with shadows dressed in expensive clothes, masks covering their faces, and disgusting smiles. All seated in bleachers, drink in hand, waiting for their show. In the spotlight’s cruel glare was the stage. That was where they would take me. That was where they would parade me like a piece of meat.

They forced me up there. Standing under the light, I could feel their gazes stabbing into me, skinning me alive. My name echoed through the room, deformed, dragged out from the grotesque lips of a presenter:

"Ladies and gentlemen! A jewel like no other! None other than Eraserhead, the UA hero, captured, tamed, ready to serve you, the perfect puppet! A one-of-a-kind specimen! Let’s start the bidding at... five million!"

The murmur turned into a roar. Hands went up, numbers were shouted, desperate bids flying. Some laughed. Others panted like beasts.

I saw their faces: known villains, human traffickers, perverts, sadists. Some corrupt heroes. People who were supposed to be protecting the innocent.

"Six million!" someone shouted, licking his lips.

"Eight million!" another bellowed, his grin crazed.

"Twelve million!"

Each number was another whip crack. Each shout, another chain around my neck.

I tried to move. I tried to run, to break the spell, to rip the chip out with my nails if needed. But I couldn’t. My entire body was trapped in an invisible swamp. Only my eyes moved, searching desperately for something, someone, a way out.

There was none.

"Look at them, Eraserhead," I heard Danzō’s voice at my side, relishing the show. "Look at them fighting over you. Over what you used to be. You're no longer a hero. Now you're just a prize."

Someone in the front row stood up. A fat man, with shining jewels on his greasy fingers and a smile so wide it looked like it would split his face in two.

"Fifty million!" he shouted, and the room exploded in cheers.

Danzō laughed, a sound that drilled into my skull.

"Sold at one!" announced the presenter.

The room no longer lifted signs. The frenzy of shouting and betting had died out, as if the announced sum had sucked all the air out of the place. As if they had reached a limit where not even greed could keep pushing. And yet, their gazes didn’t leave me.

I was a living trophy. A flesh-and-blood object, and every pair of eyes devoured me differently: some with lust, others with greed, others with a sadism so transparent it made the bile rise bitter in my throat.

When my gaze returned to the man who had almost bought my body for fifty million, I knew that my life would have ended in the worst possible way under his hands. That expression, those eyes full of a sick promise of what he would do to me, turned my stomach. Every breath he took, ragged, panting, hit me like an invisible blow.

Everything inside me screamed to run, to fight, to do something. But the damn chip buried in my head left me no choice but to witness my own downfall.

"Sold at two!" the auctioneer intoned, his voice dragging across my skin like a rusty knife.

And then, something sliced through the air like a sharpened blade:

"One hundred million."

Silence fell instantly, heavy, dense, brutal. It was as if the very gravity of the room had changed, dragging us all toward an abyss. My mind went blank for an eternal heartbeat.

One hundred million.

Dollars?

Yen?

What the hell did it matter?

Who the hell was that monster that had just placed that inhuman amount on my head?

The cheers erupted seconds later, dragging everyone out of their stupor. My body was frozen, my hands sweating cold, my chest pounding so fast it hurt. My eyes searched for the source of that sentence, and when I saw him, I knew the fear I had felt so far was just a whisper compared to what was coming.

Standing in the shadows, with the light giving him an almost spectral aura, was a man with white hair, a calm face, an almost gentle smile... but it was that calm that made my skin crawl. He wore no mask. He didn’t have to hide. And yet, I couldn't remember ever seeing his face in any database, in any operation, in any mission. It was as if he didn’t exist. Like a ghost only the condemned could see.

And yet, the villains around him knew who he was. Their backs straightened, their faces tightened, their laughter died in his presence. Even the filthy pig who had offered fifty million swallowed back whatever words were boiling in his throat, too cowardly to contradict him.

His mere existence was a threat that crushed the air, that crushed me, trapping me harder than any chip, any cell, any chain.

"One hundred million?!" the presenter repeated, visibly excited and nervous. "Anyone offering one hundred and ten million? One hundred and five?"

Absolute silence.

Sweat began to run down my forehead. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t even decide my own fate. I was a puppet in a macabre play, and all the strings were being pulled by someone who didn’t even need to shout to be feared.

"One hundred million, going once!"

My mind, like a wounded animal, fled to safe places. I thought about Hizashi and his stupid morning jokes, about Nemuri scolding me for not taking care of myself, about Oboro smiling like the world wasn't such a horrible place.

I thought about that dumb conversation about adopting, about forming something like a family.

I thought about everything I would never have now.

I could see Danzō. His face was a mask of satisfaction and greed, his eyes gleaming like those of a demon savoring his triumph. I could already imagine him swimming in that sea of dirty money, laughing at how easy it had been to break a hero.

"One hundred million, going twice!" the presenter shouted, eager to close the deal.

I wanted to leave. I just wanted to go home. I wanted to be sprawled on the couch, complaining about work, listening to Hizashi mocking me and worrying about my dark circles, arguing with Nemuri over who was the better cook. I wanted all those simple things that now seemed as unreachable as breathing underwater.

But it no longer mattered what I wanted.

"SOLD!" The word fell like a death sentence.

Something inside me shattered even more when I heard the presenter proudly declare:

"Sold for one hundred million to the generous All For One! Thank you, sir! You may collect your acquisition with our kind staff to my left."

All For One.

The name pierced through me like a spear. I tried to scrape my memory, to search, to remember... but there was nothing. No data, no file, not even a rumor. Nothing. As if he were a myth, a whisper not even worth mentioning. And that made it even worse. Because the worst monsters aren’t the ones you see on the news or the wanted posters. The worst are the ones you never see coming, the ones that exist only in the deepest shadows where not even the heroes' light can reach.

"Get up and follow me."

Danzō’s voice cracked through the stale air like a whip, and before I could stop it, my body responded instantly. My feet moved as if they no longer belonged to me, as if they had been ripped from me and now acted by someone else's will. Inside my head, my inner voice screamed curses, threats, mute pleas that had no one to reach.

Every step I took was a slow, painful stab into everything I had sworn to protect. Fear, raw and sticky, clung to my skin like a cloak of mud. Panic pulsed like a second heart, pounding violently in my veins, but I couldn’t afford to give in to it. No. Not in front of them. I had to maintain control, whatever scraps of it remained, even if it was just a fragile illusion. I couldn’t show weakness. I couldn’t give them the satisfaction of watching me break.

They threw me into a cell that reeked of despair, of sweat, of old blood. They tossed me in like a bag of disposable meat, while the great bidder, that bastard who had spent a hundred million, came to collect his "acquisition." My stomach churned with disgust.

Everything about this situation was absolute shit, a nightmare I couldn't wake from. No matter how much I tried to fake calm, the fact remained that I had been reduced to merchandise. Sold like an animal. And though a tiny part of me felt some twisted relief at not ending up in the hands of that degenerate who offered fifty million, I couldn't feel any real gratitude. No. Because the man who paid for me was even worse. Because the unknown is always more terrifying than the hell you can see coming.

The hours crawled by like corpses under a dead sun. There were no orders to stay still, no prohibition against moving, but every time I even tried to approach the bars or examine the walls, an electric chill shot through my body — a brutal, relentless warning. I was allowed to pace in circles inside the cell, like an animal trapped in a rotting zoo.

Around me, the other cells overflowed with more condemned souls. Men, women, teenagers... even children. The horror was absolute. I watched as they were taken one by one: some trembling in fear, others struggling and getting beaten for resisting, others sobbing uncontrollably as they were strapped with fucking restraints like beasts.

The lump in my throat was unbearable. The pain didn’t come from the electric shocks, or the humiliation. It came from seeing kids —kids the same age as my students— being dragged toward a fate worse than death.

I curled up in a corner, pressed against the cold wall, knees to my chest, head buried in my arms. I closed my eyes, and started remembering fragments of my life: the sleepy mornings at UA, Hizashi yelling stupid jokes trying to make me laugh, Nemuri teasing my awkward ideas for dates with Hizashi, Oboro smiling like life was always worth it. Every memory twisted a knife deeper into my gut. I tried to plan, to think of an escape, but another electric chill warned me that even thinking about it wasn’t safe.

When I heard footsteps approaching my cell, I kept pretending to be asleep.

I didn’t want to see who it was.

I didn’t want to face what was coming.

But my body reacted to the command before I could resist.

"Get up," ordered a firm, emotionless voice.

My body obeyed in a heartbeat, standing up before I even opened my eyes. There was no choice. No escape.

And there he was. My buyer. The bastard who had paid an obscene amount for my body and my doom. Tall, imposing, with a calmness that was more terrifying than any furious scream. He didn’t need to intimidate. His mere existence was a palpable threat. Impeccable suit, serene expression, eyes examining me with barely disguised satisfaction, as if he already knew exactly what he was going to do with me.

A burning hatred ignited inside me. I hated him on sight, viscerally, without reservation.

"So you’re the bastard who paid for me?" I rasped, my throat dry with contained rage. "I hope you choke on every damn cent."

Danzō, the bastard, let out a nervous squeak, bowing hurriedly.

"A thousand apologies, sir! I’ll order him to never speak again!"

But the man —All For One, I reminded myself bitterly— simply raised a hand to stop him.

"There’s no need," he said, his voice so calm it was impossible not to feel it as a veiled threat. "I expected nothing less from a hero."

A shiver, cold as death’s touch, ran down my spine. His gaze, when he said the word "hero," was like spitting a curse. As if being a hero was, to him, the filthiest thing imaginable.

"We already explained how to implement the command control," Danzō intervened, servile, sweating nervously. "If you wish, we can install an extra tracking chip..."

Shit.

"That won’t be necessary," All For One interrupted with absolute calm. "We won’t need to verify where he’ll be."

His certainty was crushing. He didn’t need chains, or explosives, or threats. He knew he had me completely at his mercy. That no matter what I did, I would never escape.

"Oh, perfect!" Danzō shrieked, more relieved than pleased.

And then, All For One's hand extended, slow, inevitable, and grabbed my chin with grotesque gentleness. I couldn't pull away. I couldn't hit him. My body, my damn body, just trembled with impotent rage.

"Oh, how obedient," he purred, his fingers stroking my jaw as if I were some kind of show dog.

With that forced, humiliating obedience, the man—that monster wearing a human face—left the place like someone picking up just another object for his vast collection of horrors. At his side walked Shouta, following him like a trained dog, without will, without dignity, each step tearing more pieces from his soul.

A portal of purple mist opened in front of them, writhing in the air with a nauseating hiss, and the bastard even had the perverse courtesy to let Shouta go first, as if that held any trace of respect. Shouta stepped through, feeling his skin crawl as the mist enveloped him, as if all the filth of hell was trying to cling to his body.

On the other side, the landscape didn't get any better. He wasn’t on the surface. There was no sun, no sky, no hope. Only long, endless hallways of cold, gray walls, with a brutally functional architecture. Underground. Buried beneath the earth. Sunk, just like his own life.
What would become of him now? Would they make him dig tunnels like a mining slave? Would he search for gems to adorn the necks of his new masters?

"They told me you’re allowed to speak unless I order otherwise," said his captor, his voice calm like a slow-spreading poison. "So... Eraserhead, right? You’re quite famous in the underground... and among villains."

Shouta took a deep breath, swallowing down the nausea rising in his throat. They walked side by side, though “side by side” was a cruel joke: the man was a mountain, almost two meters of pure malevolent authority, while Shouta, at his 1.80 meters, felt like a meaningless shadow beside him.
But it wasn’t the height that crushed him. It was that aura... that thick, suffocating sensation that whispered to every fiber of his being to run, hide, bury himself underground and pray never to be found.

It was death, walking at its leisure, whistling a macabre tune.

"If I really had that much influence," Shouta answered with his usual grave, hardened voice, professional to the core, "we would have arrested all of you by now. But look at us... You're still here. And unfortunately, so am I."

The reply didn’t provoke immediate anger, but the air grew even heavier. All For One let out a low, guttural laugh that reverberated off the walls like a malignant echo.

"Oh, but we are here, aren’t we? You, with me," he purred like a satisfied predator. "And no one is coming to save you."

Shouta, by nature, was direct. Too direct. In middle school, that brutal honesty earned him the disdain of most of his classmates, unable to bear his deadly stare or his raw truths. Though he had learned to measure his words over the years, he knew that in situations like this—where the slightest insolence could cost him worse than death—he needed to be cautious

But his tongue, rebellious like his spirit, refused to bend.

"It would be more impressive if you didn’t need chains and tricks to keep me here."

The reaction was immediate. Brutal.

"Kneel."

And in a breath, without being able to resist, Shouta was on the ground, his knees crashing against the concrete, his back forced to hunch by an invisible, irresistible pressure. The ground smelled of dampness, of slow decay. He felt blood rushing to his head, his whole body trembling under the weight of the command, unable to lift his gaze.

"Do you know what really interests me about you?" All For One’s voice spilled like poison into his ear. "Your quirk. Do you know how easy everything would have been if I had your ability in my collection?"

Collection.

What the hell was he saying?

"I tried to take you a few years ago... Don’t you remember, Shouta-kun? The plan was simple. You were supposed to die, and I would use your body. But... it failed. We almost killed your friend."

A cold wave ran through every centimeter of his body. His hands began to tremble, not out of fear, but from the brutal flood of memories that surged uncontrollably: The building collapsing, dust blinding him, panic overwhelming him, his desperation as he dug with bare hands until he found Oboro’s bloody body. The scream he let out when he thought he was dead.vThe blood he couldn’t wash from his fingers.

It was him.

He was behind it all.

He had tried to kill them.

Their buyer.

"I really was going to take your little friend," All For One continued, his tone almost mocking, "but you were so... heroic, pulling him out of the rubble. God, you looked so desperate. Why don’t you lift your head?"

With an effort that tore at every fiber of his pride, Shouta raised his head.
And there he was, the monster of his nightmares, looming over him, inhuman, a nightmare sprung from the deepest abyss.

"But now I have you."

A gloved hand descended onto his head. And then, the pain.

A pain beyond description, as if his soul were being ripped apart, his bones dissolving from the inside out. He felt something essential, something that was him, being violently torn away.
His vision filled with black spots. His mind, his body, his quirk... were being ripped from him.

"A wonderful quirk you have, Shouta-kun," whispered the voice, distorted by the distance created by the pain.

When the torment finally stopped, Shouta lifted his head, panting heavily. Across the room, he saw the monster watching him... and something in his eyes froze him to the core.

They were his eyes.

The eyes of Eraserhead. His ability. Activated. In him.

Every cell in his body screamed in horror. He tried to activate his quirk in defense— But there was no response. There was nothing. Only emptiness.

It had been stolen.

He didn’t have his quirk anymore.

"I would love to keep it, if you’d allow me," All For One purred, showing a smile that, to Shouta’s eyes, wasn’t human. It was the grotesque grin of a demon born from the deepest hell.

"But... I know that would upset a certain someone. I want to surprise him, you know. I want him to see your face... intact."

"What...?"

He couldn't think anymore. The villain’s hand once again landed on his face. He felt a strange heat, a pain less intense but just as repulsive. His own trembling hands lifted in a useless reflex.

When the contact ceased, Shouta gasped, the dryness in his eyes familiar... comforting. He was back.

He had stolen his quirk. And he had given it back. Not out of mercy. Not by mistake. Purely for sport. Purely out of sadism.

Hatred burned in Shouta’s eyes. A hatred so intense he could barely contain it, but beneath that hatred, hidden, more bitter and devastating, was fear.

A cold, monstrous fear.

The command was clear, undeniable, like a claw tearing through the silence between them: get up and walk. Aizawa obeyed, moving stiffly, rigidly, like a broken puppet, as they descended in a grimy, rusted elevator that seemed to groan with every floor they left behind.

The entire ride down, that damned bastard insisted on talking to him, throwing poisonous jokes and taunts like darts, openly mocking his helplessness, delighting in every flash of frustration and hatred he managed to pull from Shouta. And though Shouta responded curtly, professionally, he couldn't hide the bile his words carried, nor the blind rage pouring from his pores. Every time, driven by suppressed fury, he asked what the hell the villain planned to do with him, the man simply smiled—a twisted grimace that made his skin crawl and his soul freeze.

"It’ll be a surprise..." he whispered venomously, wearing that inhuman smile. "You’re going to love it!"

The words, soaked in barely-contained sadism, echoed like an infernal chant in Aizawa’s mind, digging into him like rusty hooks.

When the elevator reached its final destination, they descended to the deepest, most isolated part of that hell. Aizawa understood then: if All For One had wanted, he could have brought him there directly through that purple portal, without the need to descend floor by floor. He hadn’t done it for efficiency. He did it to break him. To wear him down. To strip away every last drop of hope, word by word, step by step.

What rose before his eyes was a monstrous metal door, the size of a wall, secured with systems more sophisticated than any bank could dream of. It looked like the entrance to a bunker... or a prison meant for something too dangerous to ever see the light of day. Something that had to be locked away. Something that must not escape. Or maybe—he thought, swallowing the bitter taste of fear—something meant for him.

The door opened with a monstrous creak. And as he crossed the threshold, Shouta felt his entire body wanting to freeze, to turn back, to run away. But the invisible order hanging over him like a guillotine didn't even allow him to hesitate. He moved forward.

The room was enormous, absurdly so. And it was furnished… not like a cell, not like a prison.
But like a home.

A kitchen, couches, a desk, a bed, a television. All decorated with a forced warmth that felt grotesque in that place of death. Clenching his jaw, Aizawa forced himself to look beyond… to the kitchen, where a low table was covered in scattered colored crayons, and a half-finished drawing lay forgotten.

He saw the walls adorned with other drawings, some wrinkled, others torn and taped back together. He saw a huge toy box in the corner, half-open, spilling out the sight of torn stuffed animals, plastic cars, and building blocks.

And the bed... a small wooden bed shaped like a racecar, complete with a steering wheel. The walls were covered with glow-in-the-dark stars, designed to shine when the lights went out.

It was a child’s space.

Like a little boy’s room.

Shit.

A disgusting sensation, thick and viscous like coagulated blood, rose from Aizawa’s stomach to his throat.

No, it couldn't be. It couldn't be this.

"Izuku..." sang All For One’s voice in a macabre chant. "Stop playing hide and seek and come introduce yourself."

Aizawa’s heart stopped. Every muscle in his body tensed, ready to explode in a mixture of rage and despair. His mind, still tangled in denial, prayed. Begged. That the theory forming in his head was wrong.

But the man, far from angered by the lack of response, let out a laugh that echoed off the metal walls like the tolling of a funeral bell.

"Sorry..." he said, without a hint of sincerity. "He’s still very shy. Even with me sometimes. But we’re working on that, you know? He’s improved a lot."

Shouta couldn't answer. His tongue was a block of lead in his mouth.

"Izuku... do you really want to keep playing?" All For One’s voice slid through the air like a sharpened knife. "You know I always find you... Come on... come out of your hiding spot."

Aizawa, forcing himself to breathe, scanned the room. He analyzed everything, professional, calculating, his desperation buried under his iron mask. It was obvious: the child wasn’t here by choice. This place, this "home," wasn’t a refuge. It was a decorated cage.

The child had been conditioned. Manipulated.

Rewarded when compliant. Punished with thick, cruel silences when he disobeyed.

Shouta could see it: in the faint stress marks on the drawings; in the way the toy box was full yet messy, as if he didn’t really want to touch them; in the childish bed that, beneath its innocent design, was a daily reminder that he couldn’t grow up, couldn’t escape. The child had tried to hide before. Many times. And All For One always found him. And he always made sure to remind him who ruled here.

A faint sound broke the silence.

The closet door—painted in cheerful colors that now seemed more sinister than ever—slowly creaked open.

Aizawa held his breath.

First, small, unsteady legs appeared, awkwardly stepping out from behind the door. Hiding, as if the thin wood could protect him from what was coming. And then, the head emerged. Green eyes, wide, terrified, searched for All For One... and then landed on Shouta.

Those eyes, shining with a deep, raw fear, met his across the room. Aizawa, still reeling from the shock, could barely breathe.

The child clung to the door like his life depended on it, as if letting go would mean plunging into an endless void. Aizawa, hardened by a thousand battles, had seen fear in every form: the fear of criminals facing capture, the fear of victims confronting their worst nightmares.
But what he saw in the child’s eyes was something rawer, more devastating.

It wasn’t just fear toward him—a stranger, a possible enemy—but a terror even deeper, more visceral, aimed at the figure beside him: the man, the demon in human skin, the villain who smiled with satisfied cruelty.

The child feared him more than anything else in the world.

"Come on, Izuku... come here," crooned All For One, his voice oily and sticky like dried blood.

The boy hesitated. Every tiny muscle in his body trembled, each step a battle he fought against himself. Slowly, uncertain, shaking like a leaf in the middle of a storm, he moved toward the center of the room.

Aizawa could see it all: the tension in his small shoulders, the way his tears threatened to spill at any moment, the pure terror staining every one of his movements. And inside him, a voice roared, primitive, desperate: Fuck, fuck, fuck, he's just a kid. A fucking kid trapped here, locked away in a bunker of death.

The boy finally reached All For One, who welcomed him with a fake smile, placing a hand on his small shoulder with a false kindness that made Aizawa’s skin crawl. It was like watching a wolf disguised as a shepherd, petting its lamb before devouring it.

"Izuku... I want to introduce you to your new caretaker," he said in a jovial tone, as if speaking about a birthday gift. Aizawa felt nauseous. "You told me you didn’t like the previous ones—so many problems, so many disappointments... But since I know how much you love heroes..." there was a venomous undertone, full of hatred, that stained his words, making the room feel even smaller, even colder, "I got you the best of them all! Look! You even have him drawn over there!"

Reluctantly, Shouta glanced away for just a second toward the walls covered in childish drawings. There, with clumsy strokes full of hope, he saw images of heroes, of radiant suns, of colorful flowers, of a woman—probably the boy’s mother—drawn in shades of green. He didn’t see a single depiction of All For One. He didn’t need to: the absence was a louder declaration than any drawing could be. But he had no time to process it. His eyes immediately returned to little Izuku, who was now staring at him with a devastating mixture of fear, sadness, and confusion.

"Introduce yourself," All For One ordered, his tone sharp as a whip.

Shouta barely breathed before speaking, his deep, controlled voice resonating through the room like a grim echo.

"I’m Shouta Aizawa. You can call me Eraserhead."

And that was when he saw it: the change on the boy’s face was instant, brutal. His features, already tense from fear, broke even further. Surprise, horror, absolute panic took over his green eyes. It was as if the ground itself had opened beneath his feet.

"What did you do to him...?" the boy's voice was barely a torn whisper, trembling, fragile as glass about to shatter. "You told me you wouldn’t hurt them... you promised!"

The words, so small, so desperate, cut through Aizawa like knives. It was the voice of someone who had already lost too much, someone who had learned that promises are broken, that trust is betrayed.

"I didn’t do anything to him," All For One responded, his tone light, almost amused. "It was pure coincidence, Izuku. I just saw an opportunity... and took it."

The boy, knowing protesting would change nothing, nodded silently. But the sadness in his eyes, the defeat, were evident even to a blind man. Shouta felt as if an invisible claw gripped his stomach, squeezing until he nearly vomited.

"Shouta, let me introduce you to my little son," the villain declared with twisted pride. "Shigaraki Izuku."

Aizawa froze, processing every fragment of information with the cold precision his professional training demanded. He mentally reviewed: first, he had been sold, kidnapped, and placed under some form of control that restricted his free will. Then, he had been delivered to a man with enough power to kill him without blinking. Not only that: this monster had the ability to steal quirks, and now, he also had a child... a real, living, vulnerable child, here, locked away in a fucking underground vault. And now, as a cruel irony, they had turned him into the kid’s babysitter.

Control of the situation hadn’t just been lost. It had crashed, burned, and been reduced to ashes.

"And?" continued All For One, his smile razor-sharp. "Don’t you want to thank your father for the gift he’s given you, Izuku?"

The boy, trembling like a leaf in autumn, lowered his gaze. His lips moved, babbling words that were barely audible, full of fear, sadness, that broken hope Shouta already knew shouldn’t have been there.

"T-thank you... d-dad..."

Shouta, accustomed to facing the darkest facets of humanity, had seen hurt children, lost children, children broken by tragedies beyond repair. But never—never—had he witnessed something so profoundly wrong as this. This wasn’t a rescued child. This wasn’t a protected child. This was an emotional hostage, a prisoner shaped by invisible blows, by calculated manipulations, by nightly terrors in the name of "love."

He felt the hollow in his stomach expand, swallowing everything he was.

"You’re welcome, son," said All For One, ruffling the boy’s green hair with a repulsively paternal gesture. "Go on, go play. I need to talk about certain matters with Shouta."

The boy looked at Shouta one last time, his face an overwhelming mixture of fear, pleading, and hopelessness. Then he ran back to the closet, closing it behind him with a dull thud.

"He’s adorable, don’t you think?"

The silence that followed the closing of the closet was almost tangible, heavy as a slab of concrete on Aizawa’s shoulders. He didn’t need to see the boy to know he was inside, trembling, listening to every word, trapped in a nightmare with no end. All For One took a few steps toward him, with the serenity of someone who feared nothing and no one. His hands were clasped behind his back, his smile still present, like a grotesque grimace on a face already monstrous.

"Good," he said softly, as if they were in the middle of a casual conversation between old acquaintances. "Now that we’re alone, I’ll explain the rules of your new existence."

Aizawa didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Every cell in his body screamed to rebel, to fight, to strangle that bastard with his own hands, but he knew—damn it, he knew—that the control imposed on him would make it useless. All he could do was listen, record every word, every detail, searching for the tiniest crack he could exploit later. Someday.

"Your mission is simple, Shouta Aizawa," All For One continued, pacing slowly across the room as if it were his private stage. "You are going to protect Izuku. You will not allow anything to happen to him. You will not let him escape. You will not let others find him. You will not allow this little world we have built for him to fall apart."

He stopped in front of Shouta, so close that he could smell the corruption emanating from his being.

"You will care for him, educate him, entertain him. You’ll cook for him, clean up after him, teach him everything he needs to know. After all..." he laughed softly, a sound that made Aizawa’s skin crawl, "you’re a teacher at U.A., aren’t you? This should be a piece of cake for you. Just one student. So easy... so perfect."

Shouta clenched his jaw until his teeth went numb. Internally, he cursed with every word he knew, and still it wasn’t enough to describe the visceral hatred he felt toward that man. He had been humiliated, stripped of his will, and now reduced to a shadow of himself... a babysitter under the orders of a monster.

All For One seemed to revel in his silence, leaning in slightly as if sharing a terrible secret.

"This is your life now. No more hero missions, no more classes at U.A., no more battles to save the world. Just Izuku. Just this place. Just your role here."

Aizawa didn’t move, didn’t blink. He couldn’t. Each word was another nail in the coffin of his freedom.

He could feel his heart pounding violently, erratically in his chest, feel the bile still rising in his throat.

It was a nightmare built with the precision of a watchmaker, a prison without bars, where his only mission would be to keep a child—already broken in spirit—safe.

All For One spread his arms wide, encompassing the entire grim room, as if offering a kingdom of mud and chains.

"Welcome to your new home, Eraserhead."

Chapter Text

When All For One left, the heavy metal door clanged shut, leaving behind a silence that settled on Shouta’s shoulders like a tombstone.

Aizawa stood motionless for a few seconds, barely breathing, as if any sound from him could trigger a reaction he wasn’t ready to face. He was trapped, yes—but that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the certainty that he wasn’t alone. And not in the comforting sense of the word.

A child. A damn child. One who might’ve seen more than any soul his age should ever have to carry. Shouta clenched his teeth, closing his eyes briefly. He needed to think. Fast. But his mind felt clouded, like fear and rage had decided to coexist inside him.

He scanned his surroundings: a space made to look domestic, carefully arranged to fool whoever lived in it. Kitchen, dining area, and bedroom merged into one. Everything looked “normal,” like hell itself had decided to wear the mask of a home. Three doors: one white, one beige, and the metal one he already knew too well. Electronic devices—maybe tampered with, maybe not. He couldn’t risk it yet.

And then he saw it: the closet. The way the door shut suddenly, almost in response to his gaze, told him all he needed to know. The child was in there. He had seen him. Maybe had heard everything. Shouta’s stomach twisted with a brutal pang. Not out of fear—but guilt.

He didn’t know how to deal with kids. He never had. He was a teacher, sure, but that was different. Little kids had always avoided him like he was a living shadow. Even Hizashi’s nephew had called him “swamp monster” at the last birthday party, making everyone laugh. Everyone except him.

Hizashi… he was the one who knew how to calm kids. Oboro, too. Even Midnight, with her adult-hero reputation, knew how to soothe a child with just a smile. But him… he was the opposite. A presence that loomed, unsettled, scared. A smile from him meant danger, strategy, warning—not comfort.

But now, he had no choice.

He walked toward the closet, each step feeling like an irreversible decision. When he arrived, he raised his hand and knocked softly three times.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

There was a brief silence, nearly unbearable, until his voice cut through the anxiety.

“...Shigaraki?”

“Izuku,” the child corrected gently and quickly. “Don’t call me that.”

“Okay… Izuku.”

Another pause. Loaded silence. And then, the question that pierced him like an unexpected dagger.

“Did he force you?”

Aizawa blinked. Not from surprise, but from the pain laced in that word. “Force” was a complicated word for him. He had seen it twist over time, take on different meanings from different mouths. But in that child’s voice, “make” wasn’t just simple. It was desperate.

“Is Dad forcing you?” The vulnerability, the tremble in that question made his fists clench. But he didn’t get the chance to respond before the voice changed, turning tense, almost angry. “No, no! How do I know you’re real!? You could be a copy! One of his traps!”

The child seemed to strike the closet door, as if trying to point at him through it. Shouta took a deep breath. He didn’t blame him. In fact, he admired the kid’s ability to think that way at such a young age.

But that wasn’t admirable. It was heartbreaking.

“Well, I don’t know how else to prove it other than with words. I don’t think you know me personally… well, maybe from drawings, it seems. But my name is Shouta Aizawa. My hero name is Eraserhead. I’m not a copy, I wasn’t cloned, and I’m not an illusion. I work as a hero, yes, but in the underground. I trained at U.A. I was classmates with Hizashi Yamada—” he hesitated, but kept going, “—he’s Present Mic and my husband. I also studied and worked with Oboro Shirakumo… Loud Cloud. He is my friend, he made it to the top 17 this year.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, then continued.

“My quirk lets me temporarily erase someone else’s quirk by looking at them. My yellow goggles—the ones I use to activate my quirk—they took them. Same with my capture weapon, so I have no physical proof. But the clothes I’m wearing are the same as always… though they could really use a wash. I could too, honestly. I’ve been investigating a case for months, but I didn’t expect to be… kidnapped and… sold and ended up here.”

On the other side of the closet, the silence wasn’t just restraint anymore. It was pain. Shouta could almost hear the child’s shaky breathing, the sobs he tried to hold back. And then, unable to stop himself, he spoke again.

“Izuku… I’m here. I’m real. I swear.”

The child curled up inside the closet. His eyes welled up until the tears started falling without permission. His small body trembled with each ragged breath. He didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to show weakness, because he knew “Dad” liked that. But he couldn’t help it. It was too much. Everything. Too much.

He covered his face with both hands, as if that could erase what he was living.

“Sorry…” he whispered through sobs.

Aizawa leaned in a bit more.

“You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

“Yes… it’s my fault… you’re here because of me. That’s what he wants. I told him I didn’t want heroes involved, but he doesn’t even listen...”

The words hit Shouta hard. It took effort to respond, but he knew he had to. Carefully. Truthfully.

“No, no, Izuku… it’s not your fault. I’m here because I was reckless. I got overconfident. And I ended up like this. Don’t blame yourself for my mistakes. This… this isn’t your responsibility. This is technically All For One’s fault, the person who brought me here. And I get the feeling you didn’t want this either, so none of this is on you, kid.”

The boy cried silently, like he was trying to make the sobs disappear. Like he still feared every sound might betray him, condemn him. And Aizawa stayed there, at the foot of the closet, in silence. He didn’t try to open the door. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t insist. He just stayed. Waiting. Because sometimes, presence was the only thing you could offer a child.

He took a deep breath, the stale scent of captivity filling his lungs, and allowed himself to speak.

“Izuku… I don’t know how long you’ve been here,” he began in a low voice, rough from dryness. “I don’t know if that… man is really your father, or if he took you from someone, if he… stole you. All this is new, and now…”

The words caught in his throat. The weight of the implanted chip, the forced obedience, the feeling of being a puppet hanging from All for One’s and Danzō’s strings—all of it mixed in his throat with a guilt too big to swallow.

“And now… I’m under his control. Not by choice. I was stupid. But I swear you won’t be in this mess alone anymore, okay? No more. I’ll find a way to get you out and—”

“NO! DON’T SAY THAT!”

The boy’s voice exploded into the tense calm. The closet door burst open violently, and Aizawa barely had time to look up before the child rushed out, eyes wide, hands shaking, his whole body screaming panic.

“Don’t say that! Not here!” The desperation in his voice was so vivid it felt like a dagger in Shouta’s chest. “If Dad…”

Izuku’s voice suddenly dropped to a trembling whisper. He looked at Aizawa as if he was about to share a dangerous secret—one that could cost him everything. Then he looked back into the closet and quickly signaled for him to follow.

Shouta didn’t hesitate. He stepped inside with him.

The interior was small, barely enough room to hang clothes, now turned into a refuge. Clothes hung and folded with a precision only routine could teach. On the floor, a folded sheet like a mattress, some pillows worn down from use. As if turned into a sanctuary.

Shouta’s heart clenched.

“If Dad finds out… he won’t like it,” Izuku muttered with the voice of someone who remembers more than they should. He wasn’t making it up. He wasn’t acting. He spoke like someone who had already seen and survived punishment.

Shouta looked at him intently, trying not to imagine everything this child had endured.

“So don’t say things like that… not here. You’re more useful alive. I’m sure Dad thinks so too. I don’t want anyone else to die…”

And that last word dropped like lead on Aizawa’s chest. “Die.” He didn’t say it with fear. He said it with resignation.

Before he could respond, Izuku stepped out of the closet again. Shouta followed, slower, still processing what he had heard. When the ceiling lights illuminated the boy more clearly, he paused to study him carefully. Looking for signs. Wounds. Marks. Something.

There were no visible scars, but his eyes were red, swollen from recent crying. Faint dark circles, but present. Thin—not starving, but thin. Like he lived half-fed and half-rested. Like survival was his only routine.

Deep down, Shouta felt relieved the boy didn’t have visible injuries or scars, but he couldn’t be fooled by what he saw. They might be hidden. Or worse—mental wounds that man kept tearing open, making them harder to heal.

The silence between them grew uncomfortable. Tense. Until Izuku broke it, his voice unsure, wavering, as he turned to face him. Eye to eye.

“Are you really… Eraserhead?”

Shouta felt the air stop for a second. There was hope hidden in that question. A smothered illusion of childhood, buried under layers of fear and mistrust. As if Izuku’s boyhood was trying to peek through the cracks of all his trauma.

“I-I’m a big fan and… God, you’re here. You… you’re Eraserhead.” A nervous laugh escaped his lips, almost involuntarily. An emotion fighting to rise in the middle of so much pain. Izuku looked up at him, craning his neck, like he saw him taller than he really was. Or maybe he was just too small for this world.

“I have so many questions! Um… what should I call you? Eraserhead? Eraser-san?”

“Call me Aizawa,” he said, softer than he expected his voice could be. Yet there was still tension in it.

“Yes, yes! Aizawa-san! It’s so nice to meet you. You’re one of my favorite heroes! And… sorry for how I treated you earlier. So embarrassing, agh… But God, you’re really here.”

“Kid, breathe,” he said gently.

Izuku obeyed, though barely. His chest rose and fell quickly, short breaths from pure emotion, mixed with anxiety, with that internal chaos he didn’t know how to contain. And then, his expression shifted. The light dimmed again.

“And… you’re here. With me. Here. Locked up because of me. Dad never listens and…”

The sentence broke into a whisper, tearful eyes threatening to overflow again. He was about to collapse. Aizawa saw it. And he didn’t know what to do. He had no tools for this. How old was he? Eight? Nine? How do you comfort a child who’s seen more horror than most adults?

“Woah, hey, hey, kid. It’s okay… it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong. None of this is your fault. I promise.”

He had no practice with this. No idea if he was saying the right thing. He was improvising every word, every breath. And still…

“Do you… want a hug?”

Izuku looked at him like he didn’t know what that was. Like kind human contact was a distant memory. He hesitated. But then nodded. Slowly, he approached. And Shouta, holding back every instinctive reflex to pull away, crouched to his level.

The hug was awkward at first, tense, like the boy still feared it was a trap. But then, little by little, his arms clung to Shouta’s shirt, burying his face in his chest. And he began to cry for real. Aizawa wrapped both arms around him, more gently than he thought he could. His fingers stroked the long, soft green hair while the boy sobbed into him, whispering through tears:

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

Shouta swallowed hard, feeling a stab in his soul every time he heard that word.

“It’s okay…” he whispered. “It’s alright. I’m here. I’m with you.”

As the minutes passed, the hero and the child remained there, embraced. The boy no longer cried—he had fallen asleep. The hero stayed, still holding the smaller one. In his mind, Eraserhead wondered how long the boy had been trapped here—maybe months, maybe years. But now, he wouldn’t be alone anymore. He wondered what the child had gone through… to end up like this.

For as long as he could remember, Izuku Midoriya had lived wrapped in a warm, soft world, full of gentle voices and protective arms. A world where it was easy to feel loved, safe, protected. Mom was always there.

Mom, with her warm hands, her sweet smile, her voice that could soothe any nightmare. Mom, who made the tastiest breakfasts in the universe, who knew exactly how he liked his katsudon, who gave hugs that made any tears disappear.

There was Aunt Mitsuki, who baked All Might-shaped cookies and always had a gift hidden in her purse.

Uncle Matsuda, with his loud but calm laugh, and his endless card, dice, and board games.

And there was Kacchan. Always, always Kacchan. Three years older, impulsive, loud, but unbreakable. He was like an older brother who didn’t need to share his blood to be bound to him.

He was a child surrounded by affection, by constant presence. In kindergarten, while other kids cried when their parents left, Izuku eagerly waited for the end of the day. Because at the end of the day, Kacchan was there. Standing. Waiting. Always. Hand in hand, they would return home, to the aroma of mom’s lunch, to the safety of routine. Kacchan defended him, walked with him, taught him. He was his personal hero long before he truly understood what that word meant.

But everything changed. Not suddenly, but like a wound that starts as an itch and ends as an infection devouring the skin. At four years old, the sentence came: no quirk. Quirkless. A word he didn’t fully understand, but that transformed everything around him. As if, suddenly, he stopped being enough.

His classmates began to drift away, to whisper, to laugh with innocent cruelty. They called him useless. Trash. Nothing. And when they began to push him, when they threw him to the ground, when he came home with bloody knees, he thought his world was falling apart.

But Kacchan didn’t leave.

Kacchan never abandoned him. Kacchan saw the blood, the fury lit in his eyes, and the other child—the aggressor—ended up with one less tooth. He was punished, yes. But not a word of regret came from his lips.
"I’ll apologize when he apologizes to Izu," he said. And Uncle Masaru, though serious, couldn’t hide the flicker of approval in his eyes. Mitsuki scolded him, but not with the harshness of someone who punishes—rather, with the resignation of someone who understands the world is cruel, and sometimes kids need to fight fire with fire.

Life went on. Mom woke him each morning with tenderness, breakfast steaming on the table, and Kacchan knocked on the door at the same time every day. Hand in hand—always hand in hand—they walked to school. Izuku didn’t have friends anymore, but he had Kacchan. And that was enough. Because just the rumor that someone dared bother him was enough for Kacchan, with a spark of explosion at his fingertips, to make any enemy retreat.

In the classroom, on the playground, in life, Kacchan was his shield. His protective shadow. His hero.

And yet, in the shadows of Izuku’s young heart, a quiet doubt was forming. A question with no answer.

Dad.

Father’s Day was a celebration in disguise—a torture. He watched the other kids with their dads, laughed with them but crumbled inside. His mother, always loving, avoided the question. She said "he left," but that wasn’t enough.

Why didn’t he come back?

What had he done wrong?

Sometimes he dreamed about him. Imagined scenes where a tall, strong man hugged him, lifted him into the air, told him he was proud. And when he woke, he was alone with the hum of the fan and the murmur of his mother in the kitchen. The fantasy dissolved like smoke.

But nothing prepared him for what was coming. Nothing in those days of holding hands, of baked cookies, of board games, of tears dried by hugs, prepared him for what was coming.

Nothing warned him that the warmth of the world could vanish in a second.

And that his mother’s love, Kacchan’s protective fury, the arms of his uncles, the sun over his head, and the stars stuck to his bedroom ceiling… would soon become distorted memories—too perfect, too far away.

Because Izuku Midoriya never imagined that the story of his life would change so suddenly. That his whole world, a world made of love and beautiful routines, would be torn out by the roots.

That his father hadn’t disappeared by choice.

But that he had finally returned.

And with him, the true horror.

Izuku was eight years old when the monster came back into his life. That day, like any other, he woke wrapped in the familiar warmth of his All Might pajamas and the vague sounds of morning. But it wasn’t morning. The house was dim, wrapped in a silence broken by something that shouldn’t have been there: voices. Adult voices. Angry voices.

The boy sat up in bed, alert. His mother had always told him not to get up if he heard strange noises, but he didn’t believe in monsters anymore. And if one ever showed up, Kacchan would be there to chase it away with shouting and explosions. But tonight, there was no sleepover. Kacchan wasn’t there. With bare feet on the cold floor, Izuku stepped into the hallway. A long, dark hallway where each step seemed to stretch it farther. The walls, once familiar, now felt like they were closing in. At the end, where the light of the dining room began, two shadows stood: one he knew better than himself, his mother’s. And the other… didn’t belong in his world.

"Don’t try to play the good father now, Hisashi. Get out or I’ll call the police."

"I know I messed up, my love, but—"

"Don’t call me that! Get out!"

Izuku stopped. His mom never yelled. His mom never shook. But now she was. He saw her, eyes shining with fear and fury, her body tense, held by the arm of a large man. Too large. A tall, dark giant, elegant, with white hair and eyes like burning coals.

It was an image so out of place it looked torn from a nightmare. And yet, it was there.

"Inko, please, listen to me-"

"I TOLD YOU TO GET OUT!"

"I want to see my son."

Izuku blinked. His son? That man… was his father?

His mind filled with scattered memories: the times he had asked about him, the evasive answers, the long silences. But nothing prepared him to see him. Not like this. Not with his mother cowering under his shadow. Not with fear pouring from every inch of her body.

"He is not your son," his mother spat. "He’s fine here."

"This isn’t safe for him. He needs more protection, more security-"

"Security? Protection? Are you joking?"

"Life will be very hard for him, Inko. Without a quirk-"

"Just because your brother was sickly doesn’t mean my Izuku is too!"

"I want what’s best for both of you… I don’t want anything bad to happen to our son."

"The police are on their way. Leave, villain."

Izuku didn’t understand. But his heart was pounding. His feet didn’t want to move. He just wanted to go back to bed. For it all to be a bad dream.

"Izuku isn’t here," his mother lied, her voice firm. "He’s outside."

Then, the man looked up.

"Then who is the little creature standing right there?"

Izuku held his breath. His small fingers gripped the edge of the wall. His mother turned, saw him. And the terror on her face became absolute.

"Mom…?"

She ran to him. Izuku stepped forward, as if the mere touch of his mother could make the fear disappear. But she never got to hold him. A red light cut through the air. A line. A flash. A heartbeat.

And then, silence.

Her body fell in front of him with a wet sound. Like a sack of flour. Like her soul had been ripped away. Her face was hidden, tilted toward the floor, hair tangled over her eyes. From her chest, where warmth and life once bloomed, now spread a thick, red stain that wouldn’t stop growing. One of her hands, still warm, brushed against the boy’s foot. Izuku didn’t scream. He couldn’t. The sound was trapped inside. Only shallow breaths came out. The tears began to fall before he could even feel them.

"Mommy…?"

His voice was barely a whisper, as if he were afraid to wake something even worse.

"No, Mama’s not getting up, Izuku-kun."

The man’s voice was gentle. Calm. Empty. As if he hadn’t just done what he had done. As if it didn’t matter.

Izuku dropped to his knees. He touched the lifeless hand. Shook his mother’s shoulder.

"Mommy… wake up… Mom…"

He wanted her to rise, unwilling to look away, unwilling to see the man who was now staring at him with the same color eyes that were fading from his mother’s. His voice cracked like glass. He kept repeating her name, as if saying it would be enough to bring her back. As if just wanting it… she could return.

But she didn’t.

"This isn’t safe for you, Izuku."

The man was getting closer, each step slower, more careful. As if he didn’t want to scare him. As if he thought he wasn’t already broken.

"You’ll be safe soon."

Izuku couldn’t move. The liquid spreading under his mother’s body soaked into his socks. It felt warm at first. Then cold. Sticky. And still, he didn’t move.

"Daddy will keep you safe," the man whispered.

And his hand, pale and large, descended gently onto the boy’s head.

Then everything went black.

And the world, as Izuku knew it, ceased to exist.

When Izuku opened his eyes, he immediately knew he was no longer at home. He didn’t need to think too hard to realize it. There was no sunlight streaming through the window. No trace of the soft soap his mom used. No hurried footsteps creaking across the wooden floor in the morning. No sound of the TV playing quietly in the background.
What there was instead was a heavy silence, a void that seemed to swallow the air itself. As if he were inside a sealed box where even his own breathing sounded foreign. There was a hum in his ears, dull and persistent, like the distant memory of a scream that wouldn’t go away.

The room was unfamiliar. The walls, though white, were dimmed by a soft light that revealed tiny glowing stars, as if someone had tried to turn the place into something pretty—like a child’s room decorated with illusions. The bed he lay on was shaped like a red car, with a steering wheel at the foot. The sheets were soft, warm… too warm.
The kind of warmth that tries to comfort, that tries to pretend everything is okay. That tries to lie.

Izuku sat up slowly. Every movement was heavy. He didn’t understand why he felt a pressure in his chest, a discomfort that traveled from his toes to his last thought. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He didn’t know where he was, what had happened, why he couldn’t remember properly. Everything in his head was fragments, like old images from a broken film. He remembered his mom… on the floor… not moving. Too still. Like when she sleeps, but… no. It wasn’t the same. The memory felt distant, like someone had shoved it into a drawer and locked it.

"Mama…?"

His voice trembled, and the room’s silence swallowed it whole, leaving no echo behind. No response. No sound. No movement. He called again, louder this time, hoping she would appear through some door with her worried smile, telling him everything was fine, that it was just a bad dream.

But she didn’t come. No one came. And that made the fear settle deeper in his stomach.

Izuku looked around. He climbed down from the car bed and then noticed he was no longer wearing his All Might pajamas. Now he wore a smooth, moss-green pajama set, elegant. But even though his clothes had changed, he couldn’t shake the strange feeling, like there was still a damp stain on his chest… like his socks were still soaked in a thick, warm liquid that clung to his skin.

He wanted his mom. More than ever. And her absence felt like a giant hole opening beneath his feet.
Still, he forced himself to walk. To move. To search. He had to find her.

He moved through the room and realized it wasn’t just a bedroom. It was everything. Kitchen, dining room, living room, bedroom… all together, like someone had tried to stuff an entire house into a single space.

Everything looked too perfect, too organized. Like a TV set. Like a well-decorated lie. There were cozy couches, a table with spotless chairs, a desk with a computer, and a turned-off television. Framed landscapes adorned the walls—places he didn’t recognize.
It was warm. Too warm. So much so that it began to feel oppressive, like a heavy blanket in the middle of summer.
He looked for windows. Desperately. There had to be one. Any. But there weren’t any.

He found a beige-colored door with a metal lock, and when he touched the doorknob, a small green light blinked on, as if it had given him permission to enter. Inside, he found a playground—like the ones at school recess. It had two swings, a climbing bar with various levels, a multicolored slide, and the longest hopscotch board he had ever seen. Izuku didn’t miss the padded, cushioned floor beneath it all.

It was nice, even fun. But he had to keep searching.

He closed the door and continued looking.

He found a white door. It looked like an ordinary door, even a pretty one—like from a fairy tale. When he opened it, it revealed a bathroom. Large, modern, luxurious. The kind you see in catalogs. The towels were perfectly folded, there were flower-shaped soaps, and a shelf full of shiny products. The mirror was so big it almost felt like a window, but Izuku could barely see himself in it. He jumped up and down to get a better look until he found a stool, dragged it with effort, and climbed up. He finally saw himself fully.

He left the bathroom more anxious than before, scanning every corner with trembling eyes. Searching for something—anything—that would make sense of this place.
Until he saw it.

The door.

A massive door. Metal. Gigantic. A wall. It didn’t look like any of the others. It was so big Izuku couldn’t understand how he hadn’t noticed it before—like the room itself had been hiding it on purpose.

He approached with slow steps. He examined it. There was no handle. No window. Just a slab of steel that looked like it weighed more than the entire building. He raised his hand and knocked three times, holding onto the timid hope that someone—anyone—would hear him.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

The sound echoed with a cold ring. The knock hurt his knuckles, but it didn’t matter. He knocked again. And again. Harder. Faster. With more desperation. His voice shattered the silence in a restrained cry.

"Hello? Can someone hear me? Please! I shouldn’t be here! Mama! Mommy please! Kacchan! Someone!"

And then, something answered. A sound. Like gears turning. Locks disengaging. The door, slowly, began to move. Heavily. With force. Izuku cried. He cried with relief. Someone was coming. They had heard him. They were going to get him out. He was going home. To Mom.

But the moment the figure stepped through the threshold… the world shattered again.

A man. Tall.Imposing.White hair. Red eyes. An elegant suit. Shiny shoes. And a calm smile. Too calm. The calm of someone who didn’t need to worry about anything. The calm of a predator.

The memories exploded. His mind filled with uncontrollable images.

The blood spilling from his mother’s chest.

His feet soaked in red.

The absolute silence.

The need to cry burned in his throat. It was a physical, visceral urgency, as if his whole body were begging him to give up and fall apart. His legs trembled with the urge to run, to hide in his mom’s arms, for Kacchan to come yelling, furious, and save him like in one of those imaginary fights they used to play out in the park. But no one came. No one opened the door. No one hugged him. He was alone. Completely and horribly alone.

And the only thing he could do, the only thing his confused mind allowed him to remember, was what Kacchan had taught him one day on the school playground, when an older kid had pushed him to the ground and told him he was weird, useless, and had no future.

"When someone tries to make you feel like garbage, Izu… when they say you’re worth nothing…" Kacchan had looked at him seriously, with that expression he sometimes used to hide how much he cared. "You punch them in the face. No crying, no thinking. Bam. Like a real hero."

He had shown him, going straight at the kid, punching him and breaking his nose.

Izuku clenched his fists as tightly as he could. He didn’t think. He just felt his body lunge forward, and he started to hit. Clumsy, desperate punches to the man’s stomach. They were weak punches, lacking technique, but full of raw fury. Of fear. Of pain. A storm trapped in a small child, striking with everything he had.

The man stood still for a moment, surprised, looking at this little fury in the shape of a child throwing punches upward from his short height. But soon, his surprise turned into amusement. A crooked smile spread across his face. Because he could see what was underneath: the boy’s arms were shaking. Not from rage. Not from courage. They were trembling with fear.

"Izuku… calm down…" he whispered in a soft, paternal voice.

"Let me out! I want my mom!"

Then he saw it. A gap. A slit in the massive door. And without thinking, he rushed toward it, trying to escape, his heart pounding like a runaway drum. But he didn’t get far. The man’s large hands wrapped around him with ease, lifted him off the ground like a rag doll, and cradled him in his arms. As if he were a loving father.

"I’m happy you’re here, son."

"Shut up! Where’s Mom?! What did you do to her?!"

"She… couldn’t protect you, Izuku. I tried to convince her to come. But she refused. She left. She left you in my care."

"Liar!" Izuku screamed, struggling, kicking harder, trying to break free. "Liar! Mom was… she was on the floor when you…!"

His voice broke. A sob escaped his throat. The image hit him with brutal force: the blood, the floor covered in red, his mother so still, so silent. He trembled. He cried. He hit the man with his fists over and over again, shouting through tears that wouldn’t stop falling, trying to hurt him, to punish him.

But nothing worked. The blows did nothing. The monster held him just the same, with a tenderness worse than any scream, any threat. Because it was fake. As fake as the luxurious bathroom. As fake as the perfect kitchen. As fake as the ideal playground for any child. As fake as everything around him.

His fury faded like a fire extinguished by rain. All that remained was fear. Pure, cold, desperate fear. Izuku cried with his face buried, whispering his plea over and over again.

"Mom… Mom… Mom, please…"

And each word hurt like something being torn from inside him.

The man carried him back to the car-shaped bed. As if nothing had happened. As if it were just another night, as if he hadn’t just shattered his world.

Izuku felt lighter… or maybe weaker. More tired. Each tear stole a little more of his energy. He just wanted to close his eyes and wake up. For this to all be a dream. A horrible nightmare. For his mom to hug him the moment he opened his eyes. For Kacchan to laugh at him for being a crybaby. For everything to go back to normal.

The man sat on the bed with him still in his arms, and began to stroke his hair gently. Soft movements over his curls, damp with sweat and tears. Izuku squirmed, tried to escape, but the man kept going, as if he didn’t hear him. As if he didn’t care.

"Calm down, son…"

"Don’t call me that! You’re not my dad! My dad left when Mom found out I existed! YOU’RE DEAD!"

The man didn’t respond with anger. Only with a calm voice. Almost sad.

"I’ve made mistakes, yes. But I came back to fix them."

"Let me go! I want to leave! I want my mom!"

"Inko told you I chose your name, didn’t she? Did you know that? Though I wanted another one… one that fits your eyes better."

"Shut up! She chose it! WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?!"

Then his voice changed.

"Calm down."

One word. Just one. But it was as if something in the air shifted in weight, in density. The man’s voice was deep, grave, commanding. It sank into Izuku’s head like a stone dropped into a still lake. Suddenly, everything dulled. As if his body wouldn’t respond. As if his mind sank into dirty cotton.

And the villain spoke.

"I’m happy to have you here, my son. If I had known from the start what you were… that you didn’t have a quirk… I would’ve brought you with me. I would’ve protected you from the world. The world out there doesn’t understand kids like you. They would’ve destroyed you, Izuku. Here… here you’ll be something more."

"Do you know why you’re here?"

Izuku didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His voice wouldn’t come. Only his eyes spoke—wide, green, full of fear. Pleading.

"Because out there, you’re weak. But here you’ll grow. You’ll learn. You’ll do great things. Things others will never understand."

"I want my mom…" he whispered, barely audible.

The man smiled. A warm smile. Horrible.

"Your mom can’t protect you anymore. But I can."

And then, just like before, he reached out his hand. Very slowly. Placed it on Izuku’s head. And this time, Izuku didn’t pull away. He didn’t have the strength. Not even to tremble.

"You don’t understand yet. But you will."

Then he hugged him. A hug so sweet, so careful, it felt like a cruel joke. As if he were trying to convince him of something. As if love were a noose gently tightening.

"Daddy loves you, Izuku."

Izuku didn’t respond. He didn’t cry anymore, but not because he didn’t want to. It was because the tears had dried up inside him. The only thing left was one impossible wish:

"I want to go home…"

"This is your home now, Izuku."

And the silence returned. A silence thicker than before. More cruel. Because this time, he understood what it meant.

There was no escape.

No mom.

No way out.

Only that voice… in his head… repeating like an echo:

"This is your home now."

The days that followed were a nebulous delirium, a gray, endless parade of hours dragging like long shadows in a windowless room. Izuku couldn’t remember if he’d eaten or truly slept. All he knew was that he woke and fell asleep inside a nightmare that never ended. Sometimes, when he opened his eyes, his heart clung to the fleeting hope that it had all been just a bad dream. But then he heard footsteps—or that deep voice saying his name with sickly tenderness—and everything turned to horror again. It wasn’t a dream. It had never been a dream.

He hid under the sheets, clutching them as if they could shield him, hide him. As if, by covering himself enough, he could disappear, become invisible, so the man wouldn’t see him, so the world would forget he existed.

He cried. He cried so much that he no longer knew if his eyes were bleeding or just swollen from the pain. He whispered prayers he didn’t remember ever learning. He begged. “Mom, come get me. Kacchan, please. Someone… please, please…”

But no one came. It was just him and the man. The man who insisted he was his father. Who said he should call him “Dad.” The man who cooked for him, who tried to stroke his hair, who smiled with a fake grin and said he wanted to watch movies with him on a giant screen Izuku never dared to look at. There was something in that smile that froze him. Something that didn’t fit, like a mask poorly placed. He was happy. Happy to have him there. As if he thought he had won something. As if Izuku were a prize.

But Izuku didn’t believe it. He couldn’t. That man wasn’t his dad. He didn’t even resemble him. Mom was sweet, warm. He was ice in human form. Cold on the inside, even if he smiled on the outside. His voice was soft, but behind it… there was something dark. Something that reeked of lies and death. Then Izuku thought that maybe… maybe he was just a madman. A sick man who had done something terrible to have him. To kidnap him. To take his mother away.

In his head, the man had no name. He didn’t deserve one. He wasn’t “Dad.” He was the Villain. The Killer. The Kidnapper. Or, as Kacchan would say when Mom wasn’t listening, “that bastard son of a—.” But Izuku never said it aloud. He didn’t speak to him. He didn’t have the strength to hate him with words. He only thought. Thought, and cried, and slept. And cried again.

The man tried to make him eat. Gently. As if he cared. But Izuku barely took a bite. His stomach was as shut as his heart. He slept more than he should, and not because he was resting. It was an escape. A constant retreat into the only place where his mom still existed. Where Kacchan was real. Where everything was still the way it used to be.

Every time the man said they would spend “father and son” time together, Izuku wanted to scream. But he didn’t. He just locked himself further into his own world, refusing to accept that this was his life now.

Sometimes, the man left. Said he had things to do and disappeared for hours. Izuku stayed alone in that huge, bright, silent house. He didn’t move much. Didn’t explore. He didn’t want to know more about a place that already felt like a prison.

He was grateful for those moments, because they meant air, even if it was poisoned. Silence, even if it was cold.

Freedom, even if he couldn’t use it to escape.

Sometimes, rage boiled in Izuku’s chest like a storm, a force he didn’t know the source of, but that burned so hot he felt his small body couldn’t contain it. It didn’t happen often—fear was always there, lurking like a beast that gnawed at him from the inside.

But when it did explode, it was as if all the darkness he had bottled up became fire. And then he screamed. He screamed loud, even if his voice trembled and the tears burned his eyes. He hit the walls, kicked the floor, cursed, launched himself with tiny fists full of fury at that man. That damn man.

"You're not my dad! You're… you're a monster! A-a damn lunatic! Kill me if you want, but I’m not going to be afraid of you!" he shouted, fists clenched so tight his knuckles hurt.

But the man… only looked at him with those empty eyes, that cold smile that never reached them. As if what he said didn’t matter. As if it were a silly tantrum from a spoiled child. As if all of it… were part of the game. And it was worse when he talked about heroes. Because then the man changed. Not much, but enough for Izuku to feel the air turn heavy, poisonous. His chest tightened. The words hurt more.

"A hero will come here and save me!" he yelled, voice cracking, heart clinging to that last thread of hope that refused to die.

The man gave a soft laugh, a sneer masked as tenderness.

"A hero, huh? You think… someone will come here?" he said in that deep voice, like an echo crawling along the walls.

Izuku looked at him, lips trembling, cheeks flushed, fury and sorrow intertwined.

"All Might will come! With a smile! He’d never leave a kid like me alone! AND HE’LL DEFEAT YOU!"

But the name All Might in the man’s mouth sounded dirty. Like he had spit out something rotten. Like he was dragging the name through mud.

"All Might…" he repeated with disgust, as if the words themselves made him gag. "You think someone so tall, so perfect, would come all the way down into the abyss for a child who can barely sleep without crying? A child who hides under blankets? You think he’d go that far down for you?"

Izuku lost his breath for a second. The pain stabbed so hard he had to grab the wall to stay upright. But he didn’t give in. Because that flame, that tiny spark, still burned.

"Then Kacchan will come!" he yelled, and in his eyes, a different light sparked—a strength not born of hate, but of promise.

The man raised an eyebrow.

"Kacchan?" he repeated, amused.

"Yes! He’ll become Japan’s next symbol! The number one! And he’ll come for me! And he’ll defeat you!"

Then, silence filled the room. For a moment, time froze. The man only looked at him, that crooked smile on his face, like he already knew the end of a story Izuku had just begun to write.

"Then… let him come," he said in a voice so cold it froze the blood. "If he does."

And he turned away, as if none of it mattered. As if he didn’t know that those words, that sneer, that contempt, had just driven another thorn deep into the boy’s chest. Izuku covered his mouth with his hands, because he didn’t want to cry. He couldn’t cry. Not again. But the pain… the emptiness… the certainty that he was alone, that maybe no one was coming…

Time lost all meaning. Had days passed? Weeks? Months? He didn’t know. Everything was fog. A tunnel with no exit. An eternity without Mom. But then something happened.

He dreamed of Kacchan.

It wasn’t a happy dream. It was one of those dreams where Kacchan grabbed him by the shoulders and shouted at him, like he used to when Izuku fell and didn’t want to get up. He yelled that he wasn’t useless. That he could be a hero. That it didn’t matter if he had no quirk, he had heart. He had courage. And no villain could ever take that from him.

Izuku woke with wet eyes. But this time, he wasn’t crying out of fear. He was crying because he remembered. Because Kacchan was right. He had to fight. He had to hold on. He had to find a way. Even if he was just a child. Even if he was scared. Even if he was alone.

He sat up for the first time in days, legs trembling, heart pounding like a broken drum. He looked at the closed door. Looked at the walls. And for the first time, he didn’t just think about running away. He thought about surviving. He thought of Mom. Of Kacchan. Of the heroes. Of All Might. And he whispered, barely a breath, but as firm as he could manage:

"Thank you, Kacchan. I promise I’ll find a way out of here."

Because heroes don’t always win with strength.

Sometimes, they win simply by not giving up.

The house was a prison disguised as paradise. Every corner, every room was decorated with what any child might dream of: video games from every era, both new and retro consoles, mountains of toys, stacks of comics and books, a giant TV, a top-of-the-line computer with nearly full access to the internet...

Except for asking for help. Except for calling for rescue. Except for escape. Izuku had tried. Once. The system locked instantly. And then he understood: everything around him was calculated, measured, controlled.

It was a golden cage, but a cage nonetheless.

He discovered more as he walked through the house—sometimes dragging his feet, other times hiding when he heard the echo of those footsteps he knew so well. His "father"—that man he couldn’t call that without his chest burning—didn’t seem angry at his curiosity. In fact, he seemed pleased. As if watching the world that had been built for him was part of some plan. As if every step Izuku took was a success for him.

The kitchen was fully stocked. Shelves overflowing, fridges that seemed never to empty. Everything: fruits, vegetables, meat, candy, chocolate, cookies, chips, ice cream, strange foods he'd never tried. Everything. Even knives. And though part of him trembled at the thought, another part—a small, dark, desperate part—considered that hiding one under the bed might not be a bad idea.

Just in case.
Just for emergencies.
He didn’t plan to use it. But he had to be prepared. Because being with that man… was never safe.

The bathroom was… a bathroom, but from another world. Technological, modern. A tub that turned into a jacuzzi, buttons to make bubbles, colored lights in the water. A fantasy. A luxury. If he hadn’t been trapped, he might have been excited.

But he couldn’t forget how he got there. Or the fact that, if he didn’t bathe, that man would say in a calm, almost tender voice, that he’d do it himself. That he’d put him in the tub and wash him. As if that were normal. As if it were sweet. And so Izuku would step into the water slowly, eyes on the floor, stomach twisting in fear as he felt that gaze watching him from the doorway.

And then there was the playroom. Another perfect stage: trees painted on the walls, a sun on the ceiling, complete with clouds, as if the sky were always there, fixed, smiling. Fake. Too fake. Izuku used it to hide, to breathe without the man seeing him.

But sometimes he sat on the slide feeling even lonelier. Because everything felt like theater. As if he lived inside a carefully constructed lie meant to keep him still.

And the strangest thing: there was nothing of All Might. Nothing. Not a single mention. No posters, no movies, no books. Not even in the news. As if the symbol of peace had been erased from the universe. As if the man knew how important he was to Izuku and had decided that his world no longer deserved hope.

Still, the boy noticed things. “Dad” left the house often. Sometimes he wasn’t there for dinner, and that… that was a relief. Izuku could cook something simple, eat alone. Silence. No false words. No sticky smiles. No deep voice saying “son” like it was some poisoned gift.

But over time, the man changed too. He started paying more attention. He’d sit with him. Ask to watch movies. They played chess or Go. They talked about quirks. Izuku, despite the lump in his throat, sometimes fell for it. He talked. He theorized. His eyes lit up when he got lost in the details of a quirk. And the man listened. With genuine interest. He looked at him like he was watching a gem grow.

"You have an incredible mind," he said once, arms crossed, watching him from across the table. "If you’d been with me from the beginning, you’d already be someone important."

Izuku pressed his lips together. He wanted to scream at him to shut up. Not to say his name. Not to talk about Mom. But he just lowered his head. Because he understood something. To get out of there, he had to play. He had to lie. He had to pretend to be a son.

Until one day… the silence changed.

They began arriving one by one. The man, of course, realized he couldn’t leave the boy locked up alone, so what did he do?

He gave him a babysitter.

Izuku froze when the sound of the door opening knocked the air from his chest. The man walked in, wearing that soulless smile, with that soft tone that made him tremble more than yelling ever could.

"He’ll take care of you when I’m not here," he said simply, as if leaving a new toy in the room. Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

And then, he left.

Left Izuku there.

Alone.

With a stranger.

Chapter Text

Izuku's heart was pounding so hard he thought he might faint. The room felt smaller, more closed off, more suffocating. He didn’t know whether to cry out of relief or sheer terror. He wasn’t alone anymore. But that didn’t mean safety. It didn’t mean salvation. What if this new boy was on the man’s side? What if his job was to watch him more closely? What would happen if he said something wrong? If he asked for help and was betrayed? What if this boy was just like him… or worse?

His stomach twisted. He wanted to disappear. To melt into the floor. To sink into the bathtub until the world stopped existing.

The boy didn’t seem that scary at first glance. He looked about sixteen, not much older. His body was large, a bit chubby, but not intimidating. There was something in his eyes… exhaustion. Sadness. Like he carried a weight he couldn’t take off. His hair was cropped short, and he had huge, draconic red wings stretching from his back as if they didn’t know where to rest. He moved them very little, almost never. And although his face looked calm, there was something broken in him. Something that even Izuku, despite being so young, could recognize instantly: that boy didn’t want to be there either.

He said his name was Tsubasa.

And that was it.

The days passed strangely, heavily. Tsubasa cooked. Cleaned. Did what he was supposed to do. He didn’t talk much, but he wasn’t cruel. Sometimes he played with him, pushed him on the swing in the playroom or watched a movie in silence. Sometimes they painted together-he seemed to like art. In one of his drawings, he painted Izuku, making the boy giggle and smile.

At first, Izuku hid from him, withdrew. But there was something about his presence… something that, one night while they were eating dinner alone, made Izuku take a risk. With a trembling, quiet voice, he stepped beyond the fear.

"Please, Tsuba-kun… help me get out of here."

The plea came out broken, almost like a whisper. But Tsubasa heard it. And his eyes… filled with a pain Izuku couldn’t describe. It was like someone had said those words to him before. Like he had asked the same thing once, too.

"I… I'm sorry," said Tsubasa, and his voice cracked like thin glass. "I don’t want to be here either. I know they’re planning something for me. This… this is just to keep me trapped. Forgive me."

Izuku stayed silent, words caught in his throat. He didn’t even know what he had hoped to hear. Maybe a yes, a promise. But he got the truth. And it hurt more than any lie.

Tsubasa made good food, better than “Dad.” But never as good as Mom’s. Never as warm. Never with that taste that wrapped around your chest like a hug. It was clear he tried to keep his distance, didn’t want to get too close. He was afraid of getting attached. Like any connection with Izuku could be dangerous. Like he knew that sooner or later, they’d take him away.

And then one day… he just wasn’t there anymore.

Izuku woke up, and he was gone. No one said anything. No one explained. Someone else showed up. Another “babysitter.” Another stranger.

And Tsuba-kun… had vanished like steam from the bathtub when the door opened. No goodbye. No last word. As if he had never been there. As if he were only a whisper in the story of Izuku’s captivity.

Izuku cried when he noticed his absence. But deep down, he wished that Tsubasa was okay. That he had escaped. That no one had hurt him.

The second one appeared without warning, without preparation, like a cruel joke forced between trembling breaths. If Tsubasa had been a kind shadow, a walking sorrow made flesh, this one was the complete opposite.

He didn’t even have a name in Izuku’s mind. With childish venom, Izuku nicknamed him "Sweaty Sock Face," because even his laugh felt damp, dirty, and sticky, like a forgotten piece of clothing in the saddest corner of a room. And although his stay was short-no more than three weeks-he left scars time couldn’t erase.

From the very first moment, something about him felt rotten. He was a villain, and he said it with a twisted smile, with a pride that bordered on sickening. He bragged that he would die for Dad, that it was an honor to look after his son. But Izuku wasn’t stupid. That man hated being there. When he realized his “great mission” was to watch an eight-year-old boy-and not, as he had expected, to participate in killings or tortures or some other atrocity worthy of his level-something in him snapped.

He was cruel. Not like Dad, who masked his violence with sweet words and cold hugs. No. Sweaty Sock Face was brutal, dry, maskless. He didn’t let Izuku near the door, scolded him for crying, and once, when the boy simply tried to walk toward the door, he grabbed him with overwhelming force. His fingers clamped down like a shackle on the small arm, squeezing hard enough to leave purple bruises blooming like poison under the skin.

And Dad noticed. Oh, he noticed.

The scene was as quick as it was brutal. He opened the door without a word. His face, serene as always, radiated a fury so dense the air turned to lead. He dragged the man out of the room without shouting, without threats. Just presence. And the door stayed open. Izuku, trembling, looked out into the hallway for the first time. A long, eternal corridor, wrapped in soft shadows, like even the light was too afraid to move forward.

He could have escaped. He tried. Took a few steps. One. Two.

And then the screaming started.

The man’s shrieks were like knives in his ears. He begged. Pleaded. Izuku couldn’t understand all the words, but he felt the horror, the desperation, the crack of bones like branches crushed beneath the feet of something monstrous. He heard him choke. Gasp. Maybe die.

Izuku didn’t want to hear more.

He ran to the color closet-the only place where he still felt small, invisible-and curled up inside. He shut the door. Made himself a ball. Covered his ears so hard he left marks. But the screams still pierced his bones. His breathing grew fast and broken. Tears fell-he didn’t even know when they’d started. He just wanted everything to stop.

"Is Dad going to kill him?" he wondered, with a thought he didn’t want to have. "Like he did to Mom?"

When it was finally over, he didn’t even notice. The door opened softly, and Dad came in. He didn’t speak at first. Izuku didn’t move. He didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to see if there was blood on his hands. Didn’t want to see what he had done. Didn’t want him to do the same to him.

And then, with sickly tenderness, he picked him up like a wounded prince. Cradled him against his chest. His voice, soft like a loving father in a nightmare made flesh, rang in his covered ears.

"There, there, son. I won’t let anyone hurt you, ever again… not out there, not in here."

The contradiction was so cruel it felt like a sweet knife plunged into his soul.

The third one was different. He lasted longer. Celebrated his birthday with him and Dad. He was elegant, well-mannered, like one of those butlers from the movies. He brought something strange with him: an illusion of normalcy. Always respectful, always precise, always present. But there was something odd about him. Izuku had a theory: he wasn’t human. His quirk was too perfect, too useful.

He had answers for everything. He could teach, read, solve equations, tell stories. Thanks to him, Izuku learned important things.

First, that no teleportation quirk could pass through the room's walls. From the inside, the world turned to lead. Only beyond that white door could it work.

Second, that Dad valued his intelligence. He brought books, assignments, questions. He said that if Izuku’s mind grew, it would “bear fruit.” He never explained what that meant. But Izuku accepted it. Learning was a way to survive.

And third… his big escape attempt.

Izuku didn’t go into detail, not even with himself. He only knew that one night, after weeks of observation, he put his plan into action. And it worked. The door collapsed in a hellish crash, reduced to ashes. A miscalculation—or maybe a stroke of luck. He ran down the hallway. At the end, a white elevator. He stepped in. Mirrors surrounded him like giant eyes. A single button. He pressed it.

But the ascent never began.

The machine froze. The punishment came. Not with blows. Not with yelling. With silence. With a look. With a new cell. The door was turned to dust. Dad replaced it with a stronger one. His babysitter left without saying goodbye. And again, Izuku was alone.

But he had learned something new: Dad was amused by his plans. Fascinated by his failures. The punishment wasn’t physical. They just took away his video games. The sweets. Small things, like school detentions.

And still, Izuku was grateful. Because if that was the punishment… maybe he wouldn’t be killed.

Maybe.

Even though the second nanny’s screams still echoed in his mind like an eternal recording, reminding him of two truths he could no longer deny:

First: Dad was terrifying. A killer. A presence that drained the warmth from rooms and the air from lungs. He didn’t need to raise his voice. His power was absolute.

Second: He had to escape. No matter what. As soon as possible. Because if one day that man decided to stop seeing him as “his son,” if one day that mask slipped, Izuku knew…

…he knew nothing would be left of him.

The fourth arrived like a gunshot in the dark. Literally.

Izuku recognized her the moment he saw her, as if his mind had been struck by a silent bullet, a memory fired from some dusty corner of his childhood. She had been on the news. In the headlines. In the forbidden stories that spoke of betrayals, perfect shots, broken justice. The sniper with purple and pink bullets, the hair that killed, the eyes that never missed. A fallen hero. A glorious shadow of the past.

And now she was here. Standing just on the other side of the room, inside his golden cage. His new nanny. Another guardian. Another trapped figure.

The door had opened like any other time, the air dragging in an invisible threat that grew heavier with every second. Dad entered first, elegant, with that mild smile that always made Izuku feel cold. Behind him… her.

The hero Lady Nagant.

Izuku didn’t breathe.

He couldn’t.

It was her. It was her.

It was her!

But something was wrong. Very wrong. Lady Nagant didn’t look like she did in the pictures. Her hair, though still long, had uneven strands, some cut as if they’d been torn out. Her clothes weren’t those of a hero: they were dark, sober, like a funeral uniform. A long skirt, boots up to the knees, button-up shirt. Classic. As if color had died with her.

And her eyes… Her eyes saw him. And he didn’t know whether to run or scream or hug her. Because she looked confused too. Disturbed. And hurt.

"You told me I was only here to take care of a child," she said firmly, though the subtle tremor betrayed her. "You didn’t say he was… locked up."

Dad smiled. His voice was a knife wrapped in velvet.

"He’s being protected, Kaina. This world isn’t safe for someone as special as him. You know that better than anyone."

Izuku felt his stomach twist into a dense ball, like he’d swallowed rocks. “Protected.” That word. Always that word. Always used to justify the chains, the walls, the eyes that followed him even when he slept.

He didn’t want to be “protected.”

He wanted to be free.

"Izuku," the man said, approaching with a hand on his shoulder, as if the contact wasn’t a sentence. "I want to introduce you to Kaina Tsutsumi. Though you might know her better as… Lady Nagant."

The name fell like lightning on a starless night. Izuku felt it in his bones. The woman observed him in silence. There was something in her face, in her gestures, that unsettled him. It wasn’t a threat. Not completely. It was exhaustion. Distrust. A sadness so thick you could smell it.

"I hope you two get along," the man added before turning and leaving, closing the door with that click that sealed fates.

Then silence. The real kind. Not the kind in books, not the kind in normal nights. The silence of being trapped with someone who might kill you…

…or save you.

Izuku stared at her without moving. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if he should trust. He didn’t know if he should cry. "Why is she here? Why did Dad choose her? Is this another punishment?"

He thought about his other nannies. About Tsubasa, who cried when she thought he wasn’t listening. About “Sweaty Sock Face,” whose screams still visited his nightmares. About the third one, who taught him to read better and witnessed his best escape attempt fail.

And now, Lady Nagant.

"What if she hates me too? What if she gets mad like the second one? What if Dad tells her to shoot me? What if he uses me to blackmail her?"

Fear knotted in his throat like barbed wire. He wanted to ask if she was okay. He wanted to run to her and beg for help. But he couldn’t. Because his legs wouldn’t move. Because hope hurt too much.

Because if he broke again, this time he didn’t know if he could put the pieces back together.

And still… a part of him, as small as a spark in a bottomless pit, whispered: “She could help me. She could get me out of here.” But another part, darker, louder, more real, answered instantly: “Or she could bury you deeper than anyone ever has.”

Izuku lowered his gaze. He felt Lady Nagant’s eyes on him. He said nothing. Just breathed. And waited.

At first, everything was silence. A strange silence, heavy, thick like a wet coat Izuku couldn’t take off. He was used to silences—he knew them well, collected them like other kids collected stickers—but the silence Tsutsumi-san brought wasn’t one he recognized. It was different. It didn’t feel like Tsubasa’s mute fear, or the third nanny’s tense vigilance, or even the pulsing threat of “Sweaty Sock Face.” No. Tsutsumi-san’s silence was… broken. As if it came from someone who had talked too much to voices that no longer existed.

The first interactions with her were awkward. Not because she was cruel or strict, but because she seemed unsure what to do with him. Not like she disliked kids, not exactly. More like… having one in front of her hurt. As if every time she looked at him, something inside her shrank, like she was seeing a memory she couldn’t change. And that confused Izuku. A lot.

"Why her?"

"How did a hero end up here? Dad’s not a villain… is he? Maybe he kidnapped her like he did me? But… she knew she had to look after me. So she agreed? She wanted to be here? Why?"

"That can’t be. She’s a hero. She wouldn’t do that."

But then… why was she trapped too?

Tsutsumi-san knew the basics. Enough to keep the routine. She knew how to cook, barely, though it was obvious she didn’t like it. Izuku realized quickly, especially the day he saw her fighting with the stove, cursing at it like it was her worst enemy.

"Why won’t this damn burner—?"

"It’s in child-safe mode," Izuku mumbled without raising his voice much, as if afraid the room itself would hush him.

She turned and looked at him like she’d forgotten he was there.

"Sorry."

"It’s in child-safe mode for small kids… Dad sometimes puts it on when… he punishes me so I can’t cook, or when it’s not mealtime. I don’t know. He thinks I might leave the gas on on purpose," he said, swallowing. It wasn’t a complaint. Just a fact. Like reporting the weather. Even though inside, that sentence burned his chest a little.

Tsutsumi-san looked at him for a long time, silently. Her way of looking was strange. Like she was searching for something in him she didn’t dare name.

"And… how do I turn it on?"

Izuku approached carefully, measured steps, each one burdened with that invisible anxiety that settled on his shoulders when he felt watched. He pressed the button, waited for the beep, looked around—as always—and lit the flame. The burner obeyed.

"Dad… I don’t know how he watches me all the time. But I’m sure he lives in a room with lots of screens. A sort of control chamber where he sees everything… even this," he whispered.

She only murmured, "Oh, okay," and then:

"Thanks, Shigaraki."

Shigaraki.

His father’s real last name.

A word that always sounded like a cage to Izuku.

"Izuku," he corrected instantly, looking down. "Call me Midoriya Izuku. That’s my name."

A silence. Then, she nodded.

"…Okay, Izuku."

From then on, their relationship was… strange. Bittersweet. Lukewarm. Like water that couldn’t boil or cool. She wasn’t like the others. Not like Tsubasa, who sometimes played with him even though she clearly didn’t want to. Not like the third, who could make perfect blueberry pancakes. But she wasn’t a threat like the second. She didn’t yell. She didn’t touch him without permission. She didn’t watch him while he slept. Sometimes she even gave him space.

And still, Izuku didn’t feel entirely safe. Or comfortable. Or loved.

It was like she was there… only physically. The rest of her—her mind, her soul—was far, far away.

"She doesn’t like to talk about heroes."

"How can that be? She was one. One of the greats. Isn’t she proud? What happened?"

Izuku noticed the cracks. The insomnia. The times she stared into space. Like ghosts came to find her the moment the world seemed calm.

And he asked. Because his curiosity never slept. That spark kept him alive, even in a captivity that felt endless. He asked about her quirk, her aim, how her hair became a bullet. She sometimes answered, even with a tired smile. She spoke of technique, balance, precision. How a millimeter could mean the difference between a hit and a death.

But other times… she froze.

When showing him the arm where the bullet emerged, she sometimes flinched. Like a voice screamed inside. Like a shot still echoed in her mind.

“Flashbacks.”

Izuku had learned that word. He had them too. With Mom. And with the second babysitter. And with Dad… always. They were memories you didn’t ask for, that jumped on you like hidden beasts. And Lady Nagant had them too. He knew it. He felt it.

And in those moments, when he saw her take a deep breath, or squeeze her eyes shut like she wanted to erase the world, Izuku wondered something that filled him with a kind of anguish he couldn’t explain:

"Does she want to escape too? Is she as broken as I am? Or even more?"

But he never dared to ask. Because maybe, if he said those words out loud, the answer would be too real.

The conversation started like many others: with time suspended in a deceptive calm, and the room barely lit by the faint glow of the security lights. Izuku was sitting on the cold floor, legs crossed, scribbling in a notebook with a short, chewed-up pencil. In front of him, Tsutsumi-san sat with her legs tucked to the side, watching him with that mixture of curiosity and caution he had already learned to recognize.

She didn’t talk much about herself, but little by little, in those moments when the confinement felt less suffocating, she started asking him things. Personal things. Things that made the air in Izuku’s lungs feel heavier.

"Do you… feel safe here?" she asked suddenly, in a low voice, as if she were afraid something would break if she said it too loud.

Izuku stopped writing. He looked up. The question hit him harder than he expected. He shrank a little, thoughtful, as if he wasn’t sure how to answer. As if he had to check every corner of his memory before risking a word.

"Depends on the day," he murmured at last. "Sometimes I think I do. Sometimes I think I don’t. Sometimes I feel like if I breathe too hard, something’s going to explode…"

Tsutsumi-san nodded, saying nothing. She just listened. And somehow, that pushed him to keep going.

"And… do you want to be here?" she added.

The question fell like a stone into a pond. The words bounced around in his head, and for a few seconds, Izuku went completely still. The calm in the conversation started to crack, like a piece of paper slowly torn.

"No," he said suddenly, with a firmness he didn’t know he had inside. "No, I want to leave. I want to go home, with Mom and Kacchan…"

The knot in his throat tightened when he said their names. The tears didn’t give a warning. They just came, first burning his eyes, then falling as if they had been waiting too long. Within seconds, his whole body was shaking. The sobs grew like a storm breaking loose without permission.

"I want to go…" he babbled between hiccups. "I want to go home… I want Mom… please… I don’t want to be here anymore…"

The words stopped making sense. They were just broken sounds, a mix of pain, fear, and the desperation piled up from too many days of pretending everything was okay. Izuku cried with his whole body, with his hands pressed to the floor, with his shoulders shaking with each sob.

And Nagant, for a moment, seemed paralyzed. As if something inside her had broken too. But then, slowly, she came closer. She knelt beside him, and without saying anything, she hugged him.

It was an awkward hug at first. Like she didn’t remember how to do it. But it was real. And warm. And strong. Not like the fake hugs full of empty promises he’d gotten from others. This one didn’t come with manipulative phrases or hidden conditions. It was simply a hug. A place to hide.

Izuku clung to her as if she were the only thing keeping him tied to the world. He buried his face in her shirt, crying harder, soaking her chest with tears as his little hands clenched the fabric like his life depended on it. She lifted him gently, settling him in her lap. She held him firmly but carefully, stroking his hair with slow, almost trembling movements while rocking him in silence.

"It’s okay… it’s okay. I’m… I’m here. Izu… I’m here."

And he cried even harder. Because those words, for some reason, hurt. They hurt more than anything. Because he wanted to believe them. Because he needed to believe them.

The scent of pine and gunpowder in Tsutsumi-san’s hair wrapped around him, filling his lungs with a strange feeling. She wasn’t his mom. She wasn’t. But for a moment… she felt like her. And that, even if it was different, also felt like home.

"I want Mom… I want to go home…" he sobbed.

"I know…" she whispered, her voice nearly breaking. "I know, Izu."

"I want my mommy!" he screamed between choked cries, and she only hugged him tighter, as if her embrace could stitch together the broken parts of his small body.

"It’s okay… it’s okay, Izuku…"

And little by little, the crying got quieter. He ran out of strength. Izuku fell asleep in her arms, his face still damp, but breathing slower. Even though Tsutsumi-san’s arms were stronger, firmer, bigger than his mom’s… even though she smelled different and spoke differently… in that moment, in that instant suspended between sorrow and comfort, he slept as if he were home. As if someone, finally, was truly protecting him.

After that, everything changed a little.

Nagant started cooking better. Asking him more things. Helping him with his homework with more patience. Really listening to him. Sometimes they fell asleep together on the couch or the bed, wrapped in each other’s arms. And even though she still smelled like gunpowder and pine, that smell stopped being foreign. It became part of the place. Part of his routine. Part of something that wasn’t happiness, but also wasn’t pain.

Sometimes, she taught him things about aiming. Showed him how to throw objects with precision, how to measure the wind, how to calculate a trajectory. Sometimes Izuku imagined that one day he’d have a Quirk like hers, and he’d be strong, brave… but also capable of protecting someone the way she did now with him.

And even though he knew that place would never be his real home… for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel completely alone.

Even though the days with Tsutsumi-san had become more bearable, even though her hug remained one of the few places where the world didn’t hurt as much… for Izuku, there was a thorn he couldn’t pull out of his heart. And every time he looked at her—with her tired eyes, her stoic expression, her hands that could kill and yet prepare a warm soup—that thorn hurt a little more. Because she was a hero. A real hero. And heroes shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t act like all of this was normal. Shouldn’t help him survive inside this cage disguised as a home.

So why did she accept it?

Why did she take care of him so devotedly, if she knew what kind of man "Dad" was? Why hadn’t she helped him escape? Why didn’t she scoop him up, break the walls, and run into the night until they found Mom, until she left him in Kacchan’s arms, until all of this could just be a bad dream?

Izuku didn’t want to think badly of her. He didn’t. But the thoughts piled up in his head like shadows he couldn’t push away. Like a corner inside him was starting to hate her for doing her job too well… like his confused heart didn’t know whether to hug her or scream at her.

Everything exploded one day, a day like any other. Father had arrived earlier than usual. There was a kind of relaxed humor in his voice that made Izuku tense immediately. It was always like that: when he seemed calm, something horrible usually followed.

They were playing chess. A game that sometimes managed to rescue him for a few minutes from the constant darkness. In those moments, he could hide in the rules, in the movements, in the strategy. His father also used it as an excuse to talk. To open his mind. Or manipulate him. Sometimes both.

"And Tsutsumi-san and I made paper hats," said Izuku, trying to sound neutral as he moved his pawn and took out one of the opponent’s.

"I’ve noticed the change between before and now with Lady Nagant and you," the man replied in a voice that seemed kind but carried poison hidden in every word. Izuku nodded.

"Yeah… it’s been better," he whispered, hoping that would end the conversation.

But no. Of course not. It never ended there.

"I’m glad you’re comfortable with Nagant here," he said, smiling. But it was what he said next that froze Izuku’s blood. "I thought you’d be angry with her."

The boy frowned, confused. He was focused on the game, but something in that sentence made his fingers tighten around the pieces. His breathing changed. His heart struck hard in his chest.

"What do you mean?" he asked, moving another pawn, almost mechanically.

"You used to say the heroes would come rescue you. And… look. They did. Just not the way you wanted."

The piece in his hand trembled. He dropped it wrong, and it landed outside the board. Izuku’s gaze hardened, fixed on the chessboard. He didn’t want to listen. He didn’t. Because if he listened… then he might start to believe.

"No… Tsutsumi-san didn’t…" he began, voice cracking. "Don’t lie to me! She didn’t choose this on purpose…"

But his father made another move on the board. Cold, calculated. Two of Izuku’s pieces disappeared. Just like that.

"Did he not? Or is that what you believe?"

Izuku clenched his fists. The air grew heavier. He couldn't keep playing along. He could only hear his voice, like a needle piercing into his head.

"Don't come here telling me lies," he whispered, almost pleading.

"My boy…" he said with a smile. "I just want you to see a bit of the truth. Being here all the time with her… it makes you get used to it. Makes you believe what she says. Or did you ever ask her?"

And that… that was when something inside Izuku broke. He hadn’t. He had never asked her. Never looked her in the eyes and said, "Why are you here?" Because he didn’t dare. Because he was afraid of what she might answer.

He froze. The chessboard no longer mattered. He only heard his father’s cold words.

"Checkmate. See you tomorrow, son…"

And he left. As if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb in his chest.

"Why are you here?"

Izuku’s voice sounded fragile, but it carried a tension far too heavy for a child. The question hung in the air like a blade, cutting through the dense silence already filling the small kitchen. The steam from the tea Tsutsumi had served rose between them like an indifferent fog, unaware of the drama about to unfold. The woman blinked, confused.

"What do you mean, Izu?"

He looked up, and in his eyes there was no trace of the shyness he usually showed her. Only an unbearable mix of sorrow and restrained anger, something that seemed to have been brewing for weeks, maybe months.

"Why are you here?" he repeated, now with a firmer, more pained voice. "Why… don’t you help me? Why are we still here?"

Tsutsumi parted her lips but didn’t say anything right away. Something in her face hardened. Maybe it was shame. Maybe fear. Maybe guilt.

"That’s…"

"It’s because you’re following his orders, isn’t it?! That bastard’s orders!"

"No, Izuku," she finally said, lowering her gaze for a moment, as if she couldn’t bear the weight of his. "I’m not following his orders. Not in the way you think."

"Then why are we still here?!" he shouted, his voice high-pitched and cracking with frustration. "Why aren’t we doing anything?!"

"Because it’s not that simple…" Her voice was tense, restrained. As if every word had to pass through a thick emotional wall.

"Because you don’t do anything!" Now Izuku was trembling, his voice rising with every syllable. "You! You were a hero! You should be helping me!"

"Izuku…" she tried to sound calm, but the crack in her voice betrayed her. "I need you to calm down. I don’t want this to end badly."

"Don’t tell me to calm down!" he roared, fists clenched. "What do you want from me?! What are you after?! You were a hero! You were supposed to help me escape this place! But instead, you choose to be part of all this… all this shit!"

Tsutsumi didn’t answer right away. She swallowed. Something in her broke.

"I’m not part of this, Izuku. Believe me, I’m not. I’m… trying something. I’m waiting for the right moment."

"Liar! You’re playing along with him!" The boy slammed both hands on the table, hard. "You’ve been here a long time! And all I’ve seen from you is… nothing! Nothing!"

"Izuku… I want to help you," she said softly, almost shamefully. As if her own words hurt more than his yelling.

"Help me?!" The laugh that left his mouth was dry, harsh. "I’m trapped! I’m still here! You’ve done nothing! Or are you doing it on purpose?! Are you on his side?!"

"No!" she cried out, her voice rising for the first time. "I’m not on his side! I’m not with All Fo— with… with your father."

"DON’T CALL HIM THAT!" Izuku screamed, a torn shriek from the depths of his chest. "HE’S NOT MY FATHER!"

A silence followed that hurt more than all the shouting. A void wrapped around them like a prison without bars. Tsutsumi took a deep breath.

"Izuku… first… we need to calm down. We can talk clearly, we can find a way out. But not like this."

"You don’t want to say anything? Then why don’t we talk now, huh? Why don’t you just tell me everything?!"

"Izuku…"

"No!" he snapped, his eyes now flooded with tears. His body trembled, not just from the approaching sobs, but from rage. "I want you to speak! Tell me the truth! Are you on his side?! Did you come here knowing I was here?! Did you agree to this?!"

Tsutsumi closed her eyes for a moment. Her jaw trembled. She was going to speak. Maybe for the first time. But Izuku couldn’t take it anymore.

"…Kaina…" he called her by her name, without the “-san,” without any respect, only with the desperate cry of a child. "I want to go home… I want to see Kacchan, I want to see my uncles… I want to get out of here…"

His breathing spiraled out of control. Irregular sobs began slipping through his clenched teeth. Tears streamed uncontrollably down his flushed cheeks. His small body shook with each word as if each one were too heavy to release. Tsutsumi stepped toward him, arms open, trying to hug him. But he jerked back violently.

"No! Don’t touch me!" he screamed. And suddenly, he began to hit her. To kick. To bite. Small desperate fists that sought to hurt, not out of cruelty, but out of despair. From feeling betrayed. From being alone.

She didn’t stop him. She didn’t defend herself. She only looked at him with eyes full of something that wasn’t just guilt. It was something deeper. Something that hurt more than any blow. Izuku pulled away from her and ran. He ran without looking back to the closet. Crawled inside. Closed the door. Curled up into a ball in the dark, clutching his knees tightly to his chest. And in the most absolute solitude, he whispered through sobs:

"…Mom… please… help me…"

The relationship between Izuku and Tsutsumi-san had turned into a minefield—a space where every word, every gesture, every silence was a ticking bomb about to explode. Since that night, something between them had shattered. He felt guilty. Terribly guilty. He had yelled. He had said cruel things. He had screamed that she was on his side. That she was part of it all. And although a part of him knew it wasn’t fair, he couldn’t help feeling like there was some truth in it. And that hurt the most.

Tsutsumi-san, for her part, seemed to avoid any conversation. Her gaze was no longer the same. Sometimes she looked like she wanted to speak, but stopped herself. As if she didn’t know where to begin. As if she feared that any word might be the final thread breaking what little still connected them. For Izuku, that weighed more than any punishment. Not knowing who to trust was like being trapped twice—once in the room, and once in his own mind.

And then, like an inevitable shadow, his father came. With that mocking, calm smile, as if everything were part of a game only he understood. He spoke about what happened the night before as if it had been some amusing show. As if the pain, the crying, the tension… had been entertainment.

Why does it affect me so much? Izuku wondered later, staring at the ceiling in his room, alone. Why is there a part of me… that wonders if I really should leave?

Sometimes, when his father spoke, there was a strange comfort in his words. A poisoned whisper: "You’re safe here, I give you everything… just don’t leave." And a voice inside Izuku, a very small but persistent one, asked: Wouldn’t it be easier to stay? Just… give in…

But then, as if waking from a nightmare, he remembered. He remembered the invisible chains. The captivity, the lies, the screams, Mom.

The fever came without warning one day. A fire in his body that stopped him from thinking, that made him delirious. He didn’t remember much of what happened—only blurred images. Tsutsumi-san by his side, damp towels on his forehead. Soft words. A gentle hand brushing through his hair. And then, darkness.

When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he heard was the noise. Banging. Gunshots. He sat up with a start. And then he saw her. Tsutsumi-san, firing again and again at the metal door, her eyes fierce, determined. Like a hero. Like the one he thought no longer existed.

"Let’s go," she said, her voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. "There’s no time."

Before he could even process it, she grabbed his hand. And they ran. They ran through corridors he had only seen once before. The lights, the muffled echoes of alarms in the distance. They reached the elevator, and the world seemed to stop. Inside, the metallic reflection showed them their image: Tsutsumi-san holding him tightly. Him, still trembling, confused. She loaded her weapon with mechanical precision. Her hands, her fingers, pulling bullets hidden in her hair.

"Kaina… what are you doing?"

"We’re leaving, Izuku."

The elevator rose, and with it, a lump grew in Izuku’s throat.

"To… where?"

"Away," she answered. And for the first time, her voice trembled. "I’m sorry, Izuku. You don’t deserve any of this. Not from that bastard who calls you his son… not even from me. I don’t deserve your forgiveness either."

Izuku looked at her, stunned. Was that… Tsutsumi-san? The unshakable ex-hero? The woman who always had control?

"I ruined everything," she continued. "Out there, before all this… I was arrested. And because of it, I wanted to change the system. This society is rotten, Izuku. Full of lies built by fake heroes. By the Commission. They… mold us into weapons. Into products."

He didn’t fully understand, but something in her voice told him every word was true.

"All For One… your father… he offered me a way out. In exchange for one favor. Just one. To watch over you. To keep you from escaping. And I… I accepted. I knew everything. I knew what it meant. And still… I did it. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I couldn’t keep seeing you as something he owns. I couldn’t keep being his accomplice. I couldn’t keep watching you suffer."

Izuku swallowed hard. His eyes were filling with tears. She… had known everything. And still… she had done it. But now she was here. With him. Running. Risking her life.

"You’re strong, Izuku. You’re brave. You’re more than a prisoner or his son. And I know, with all my heart, you’ll be a great hero. Not because someone tells you so. But because you choose to be one, every single day."

Kaina knelt to his level. Her face showed all the cracks left by years of repression. A deep sorrow. A real desire for redemption.

"I’m sorry, Izuku. What I did… has no excuse. But this… what we’re doing now… is real. It’s for you. No matter what happens, you have to escape. Do you understand?"

Izuku nodded, his voice shaking.

"Y-yeah…"

The elevator doors opened with a slow, heavy creak. In front of them stretched an endless corridor. Grey. Cold. Dead. A prison buried underground. Kaina grabbed his hand tightly. And they ran.

"This is a damn demon’s maze," she muttered.

Izuku didn’t fully understand what that meant, but he barely had time to ask. Kaina reacted instantly, pushing him behind her, shielding him, and fired. But the bullet ricocheted and, like a cursed shadow, came right back toward her left arm.

She dodged just in time, but their hands were torn apart.

"Sadly… I expected more from you, Lady Nagant," said a voice from the shadows.

Izuku stepped back, trembling. His heart pounded, breath caught in his throat. And then he understood: this was real. It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a story. This was his life. And it was at stake.

His father’s voice echoed down the corridor like a final sentence.

He wasn’t just imposing now. He wasn’t that distant figure who scared with a gentle smile and hollow eyes. Now his voice had something worse: a frozen tone, the silent promise of the end. A judgment. An executioner.

Izuku felt himself fall apart inside. His legs trembled, his hands clenched to his chest, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. His little body reacted like fear had become a physical force crushing him.

Before he could grasp what was happening, his body was thrown to the side. A dry shove. A blow to the ribs. Kaina stood in front of him. In one swift movement, she fired. Once, twice, three times. The bullets cut through the air, whistling. But it was useless. Everything was useless against him.

All For One didn’t need to move much. The bullets were deflected by pure will, as if reality itself bent before him. With a single, invisible, brutal motion of his hand, a force hit Kaina’s leg, making her fall. Before she could crawl, another invisible, precise shot hit her in the stomach. Blood splattered on the floor. She screamed but didn’t retreat. She was still trying to protect him.

Izuku saw it all. Felt it all. Her pain as his own. He saw how Dad approached, how he lifted Kaina by the neck like she weighed nothing, like she was just a piece of paper he was going to toss away. He didn’t think. He didn’t even realize he’d stood up. He just felt the roar inside him, louder than the fear, louder than the pain. He ran. He punched his father’s body with his small fists, screaming, crying, begging.

"NO! DAD! PLEASE! NO, NO, NO, NO! DON’T HURT HER! PLEASE! DON’T HURT HER!"

But his father didn’t flinch. His face, cold. Without the soft smile that terrified him, without that air of superiority disguised as affection. Just a hollow look, as if he saw no one there. And with a simple motion, like pushing a shadow, Izuku was flung across the corridor. His back hit the metal wall with brutal force. The cold stole his breath. He hit the ground, dazed, pain spreading through his back like icy fire.

"Kaina… Kaina… Kaina," he murmured, with a calmness that hurt. "And here I thought you wanted a better world."

Kaina spat blood, barely holding his gaze.

"A better world by locking up a kid like a damn dog? You’re a plague, a monster… not a father."

"Izuku needs protection."

"Well, he doesn’t want that disgusting protection of yours—he wants to be free."

"And you think you can give him that ‘freedom’? Do you even know what’s waiting for him out there?"

"He’ll be better off… far from you." Then, out of nowhere, Nagant began to laugh like it was a joke. "You don’t do this for him—you only do it for yourself," she whispered, and Dad leaned closer to her face. "You do it because you’re alone. Because you know no one will stay with you without those damn promises you can’t keep anymore. Without your lies. So you kidnap a child, call him son, and lock him up like a trophy. An object. A lie."

"You’ll end up alone, All For One," Kaina spat. "Like you should’ve always been."

And then, everything slowed. Unreal. Like a dream where the body doesn’t respond, where time warps. Izuku could see, but couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. His body refused to react. He wanted to run. He wanted to stop him. He wanted to save her. But he was frozen. And in front of him, the scene continued: his father still held Kaina by the neck, and little by little… white lines began to appear on her skin. Like cracks. Like fractures. Like she was breaking from the inside out.

"Such a shame… I had so many plans for you," he whispered.

And then, she simply exploded.

Izuku didn’t know how to describe it. It wasn’t a sound. It was a crushing silence. An eternal blink. And then… red. Only red.

His body stayed still. His mind too. He couldn’t think. He could only watch. The hallway was covered in red. Drops on the walls, puddles on the floor, hot splashes on his clothes. Kaina was gone. Not even her body remained. Only pieces. Only blood.

Blood on Dad’s face. On his hands. On the ground. On the walls. In Izuku’s own mouth.

Izuku trembled. He raised his hand to touch his face, feeling something coating part of it. He felt the thickness. He looked at his fingers. Red. Wet. Warm. The metallic taste reached his tongue. What is this? Why does it taste like iron?

Is it Kaina’s blood?

And then… he understood.

Kaina is dead.

Dad killed her.

That red… that red is everywhere. It’s hers.

Izuku’s stomach twisted. He felt the nausea rise like a wave until he couldn’t hold it back. He turned to the side and vomited. Everything. Between retching, tears, and someone else’s blood, his small body collapsed. His breaths were gasps, fast and uncontrollable. His gaze locked onto the vomit, like it anchored him to reality. Like it was the only thing keeping him from passing out.

"It’s time to go, Izuku," his father said.

A hand reached out. A large hand, covered in blood, extended toward him. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just murdered someone in front of him.

But Izuku didn’t see a hand. He saw an abyss.

"NO! DON’T COME ANY CLOSER!"

His body reacted purely on instinct. He crawled backward however he could, stumbling, dragging himself with his own tremors, with the fear choking him. He couldn’t escape. He couldn’t run. So he made himself small. Curled up. Wrapped his arms around his head, tucked his legs in, as if that could protect him from an impossible monster.

And there he stayed. Trembling. Sobbing. Eyes shut tight, repeating a broken plea, a desperate prayer.

"Please… please don’t kill me… don’t hurt me… don’t kill me, no, please… please… please…"

There were no thoughts. Only fear. Only pain. Only that shattered little voice, like that of a child who doesn’t understand why the world suddenly turned so dark. And who only wants to wake up. Just wants to leave. Just wants Mom to be there, for Kaina to come back, for all this to be a bad dream.

But it wasn’t.

The red was still there.

And so was the monster.

To say that what happened didn’t leave Izuku broken would be a lie—cruel and absurd.

What happened didn’t fade with time. It wasn’t a nightmare that disappeared over days, nor a wound that healed with kind words or forced affection. No. It was a mark. An invisible but deep cut, branded into his mind and heart.

From that day on, Izuku stopped being a child. Or at least, the child he pretended to be.

He couldn’t look at him anymore. That man who called himself father. Just hearing his voice made something twist in his stomach, and a glacial chill ran down his spine. His body trembled before his mind even processed why. His thoughts unraveled. The nausea came without warning, accompanied by images that never left.

Kaina’s eyes before she vanished, the taste of iron in his mouth, the sticky warmth of someone else’s blood, the hollow shell of someone who had tried to save him. Kaina was dead. And her blood was on him. In his head. On his skin. Even if he bathed a thousand times, he still felt it.

The thought that all of it was his fault.

Every time he heard footsteps behind the door, his mind set off every alarm. The creak of rusty metal was like an explosion. He didn’t think, didn’t choose—he just ran. Sometimes he hid in the closet, pressing his body against old clothes, covering his mouth to stay quiet. Other times, he crawled under the bed, curled so tightly it hurt. Or into the bathtub, shivering, feeling the cold ceramic against his back, praying the door wouldn’t open.

That it wouldn’t be his footsteps.

That it wouldn’t be him.

But it always was.

He always found him.

Always with that soft tone, those sweet words that now sounded so empty, so fake. As if he knew Izuku was hanging by a thread. That his mind, his stability, his sanity were on the brink of collapse. And he walked that edge with total indifference—sometimes as if it hurt him, other times as if he enjoyed it. As if watching Izuku tremble gave him pleasure. As if his fear proved he still had control. That everything was still in place.

Before… before it was different. Izuku had learned to accept his captivity. He wasn’t happy, but he pretended to be. He could talk. He could listen to him talk about quirks, strategies, heroes. Sometimes he even replied—clumsily—with that desperate desire not to upset him. It wasn’t a real relationship, but it was functional. It was what he could manage. He had learned to survive.

But now… now even a game paralyzed him. Just thinking about moving a chess piece in front of him terrified him. Because what if he got angry? What if a bad move cost him his life? What if everything happened again?

In his mind, everything could happen again.

Sometimes he thought his father regretted it. Not killing Kaina—no. That much he knew. He could see it in his face. There was no guilt for the death—but there was for what that death had done to Izuku.

Because since then, Izuku was no longer functional. He was no longer obedient without fear. He was a broken child. Fragile. Afraid. And sometimes, it seemed like that disappointed him… but other times, just sometimes, he seemed to enjoy it. Like when he found him hiding and a smile slipped out. A barely contained smirk, as if Izuku's fear were a funny anecdote. As if it weren’t real.

But it was real. The fear was real. Even if Izuku knew he probably wouldn’t hurt him. Even if he remembered that, technically, he hadn’t punished him for the escape attempt. Because it was Tsutsumi-san who had the idea. Because he had only obeyed. Because, like always, he was nothing more than a spectator. Just another piece.

But still, in his heart, lived the terror that one day that might change. That everything was just another lie. That one day he’d look at him the way he looked at Kaina. That one day he’d destroy him the way he did her. Or his second caretaker. Or Mom.

Yes… Mom.

During one dinner, Izuku gathered the courage. Or what little remained of it. His voice trembled, but the words came out.

"Can you not bring any more caretakers…?"

He looked up. Empty eyes.

"Izuku, I don’t think that’s possible. Someone has to look after you while I’m gone."

Izuku clenched his fists under the table. His nails digging into his palms. His breathing was short.

"Please… I’m… I’m fine alone. I won’t try to escape. I won’t do anything bad…"

"Izuku…"

"I don’t want you to bring someone else… to kidnap, or… or use heroes. I don’t want it to… happen again." His voice cracked. "I don’t want anyone else to die because of me."

He stayed silent. Long. Heavy. Like a sentence.

"Promise me! I swear if you do it… if you do something like that again… I’ll hate you!"

A deathly silence.

"Really?"

"Yes," Izuku said, eyes full of tears. "Promise me."

But he didn’t answer.

He just looked at him.

He just let a "I’ll think about it" fall, as if it meant nothing.

And in that instant, Izuku knew he had no control. That his voice, his pleas, weren’t worth more than the air that carried them. He knew he would hate him. That he already did. And that still… he couldn’t escape.

The days that followed were a nauseating mix of fear, silence, and loneliness. He hid. All the time. Technically, he ate because Dad made him, though eating with him at dinner made his stomach tighten or churn. His appetite was less, and he ate even less. Sometimes he felt a metallic taste in the food that made him vomit everything. Sometimes a movie played on the television. Or the radio, with its distant voices, offered an illusion of an outside world that no longer felt like his.

Present Mic’s radio show was the only thing that made him smirk, although later, for personal reasons, the hero took a few days off, leaving Izuku alone with the silence again. Even though the music remained, he still felt alone.

He started drawing more often, like today. The crayons were his soldiers, his defenders. He drew distant landscapes, fields he had never stepped on, skies he didn’t know. Places with no metal doors, no red eyes, no blood in his memories.

But the screech of the door ruined everything. Like a rusted blade sliding across metal, tearing through the artificial calm he had created. His fingers let go of the crayon before his mind could think. He just ran. Like a trained animal. He didn’t think, didn’t reason. He crawled into the closet, shut the doors, and held his breath, eyes tightly closed. But this time… this time it was different. He heard footsteps. More than one. It wasn’t just Dad. No. There was another presence. Heavy. Different. Unknown.

His father’s voice called him. As always. Soft. False. Dangerous. Izuku knew that if he hid too long, it would be worse. Dad always found him. Like a predator who enjoyed the hunt. So he opened the door. Trembling. Every inch he moved was a sacrifice.

His body screamed not to come out, to stay hidden, but his mind repeated one phrase: If you don’t come out, it’ll be worse. It’ll be worse. Come out.

He was scared to look. The idea that what he thought was happening was real only made it worse.

When he finally peeked out, he saw him.

Not Dad.

The other man.

He wasn’t a villain. Or at least, he didn’t look like one. He had long, black, messy hair. Dark, dirty, torn clothes. He looked confused. Lost. And yet, something about him felt familiar. Like a buried memory. Like a melody he’d forgotten but could still hum. Izuku couldn’t place it… but his heart started racing in a different way.

And then his father looked at him. With those red eyes that always seemed to pierce through him. That stole his breath.

"Come on, Izuku… come here."

Izuku’s body moved on its own. Each step was a betrayal. He hated that. Hated that his body obeyed Dad even when he didn’t want it to. Hated that fear made him so obedient, so useful. Dad surely knew. Surely loved it. He could feel his gaze feeding on each of his trembles.

When the hand rested on his shoulder, Izuku almost threw up.

"Izuku… I want to introduce you to your new caretaker. You told me you didn’t like the others. So many problems, so many disappointments… But since I know how much you love heroes..."

No.

No, no, no.

Dad, please, no… don’t drag them in again.

No more heroes.

"I got you the best one of all! Look! You even have him drawn right there!"

Izuku looked up at the wall. Covered in drawings. Drawings that used to be dreams, now seemed like mockery. There were the heroes he had admired, that inspired him, that gave him strength when everything felt lost. Some drawn with Nagant. Others with Tsubasa. Which one of them was he?

"Introduce yourself."

Izuku turned, slowly. The new man looked at him with a mix of confusion and something else. And then he spoke.

"I’m Shouta Aizawa. You can call me Eraserhead."

And the world stopped.

Eraserhead.

It couldn’t be.

Not him.

Izuku felt something tear inside his chest. His throat closed up. The tears wanted to fall but couldn’t. Eraserhead was his. His hero. One of the few he loved truly, with pure madness. One of the ones he secretly admired. He was one of the heroes Izuku dreamed of being. Not for his power, but for his strength. Because Eraserhead fought without relying on a Quirk. Because he was human. Because he used his body, his mind, his cleverness.

And now he was here.

In this prison.

With him.

Did Dad do it on purpose? Did he know how much I liked him? Did I tell him? God! Did he lure him in because I admired him? Is it my fault? Why is he acting like that? Did Dad do something to him? Convince him? Force him?

Izuku looked at him with a shrinking soul.

"What did you do to him…? You told me you wouldn’t hurt them… You promised!"

But Dad just raised an eyebrow.

"I didn’t do anything. It was pure coincidence, Izuku. I just saw an opportunity… and I took it."

Liar.

Liar.

He said it like it was a joke. Like it didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t destroying Izuku over and over with every word, with every action. Like the pain was part of the plan.

Izuku knew he should be grateful. Mom taught him to always say thank you. But now, he knew he shouldn’t say thanks, that he didn’t deserve to.

No.

He didn’t want to.

He wanted to scream. To spit in his face. To run to Eraserhead and tell him to run, to kill him, to do something.

But his lips moved.

"Th-thank you… D-dad…"

The words made him feel dirty. Disgusted. Like he had just swallowed poison.

When they were finally left alone, Izuku said nothing. He just looked at Eraserhead. Feeling guilt pour out of him like a dark river. He was sorry. He felt it with every fiber of his being. He had brought him here. Because of him. And now he was trapped too. Caught in Dad’s web. Another puppet.

Without saying a word, Izuku returned to the closet. Giving the hero one last guilty look, like he was apologizing that way, for dragging him into this. He closed the doors and curled up inside. From the crack, he listened. Memorized every word. Every gesture. Every silence.

Until his father left.

Until they were finally alone.

Izuku and his hero.

In a decorated cage that now felt darker than ever.

Izuku opened his eyes slowly, as if every blink hurt. His eyelids were heavy, crusted with dried tears and that burning itch only crying left behind once there were no more tears to shed. Everything was the same. Everything was still there.

He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and gradually sat up in bed. He blinked hard, letting his still-swollen eyes search anxiously for that face, that silhouette. He was looking for someone. He was looking for him.

For a moment, his small heart clenched.

Maybe he had dreamed it. Maybe, in the midst of his crying and exhaustion, his mind had invented it. Just another illusion. A mirage, like the ones he sometimes had when fear made him tremble so much he fell asleep without noticing. Maybe he had wished so hard not to be alone, so hard not to carry the weight of guilt, that he had imagined the arrival of a hero. Of that hero.

Praying he was with him.

Or that it had just been a dream.

At least then, the story wouldn’t repeat.

But no.

When his gaze dropped to the edge of the bed, there he was.

Curled up on himself, arms crossed over his knees, head tilted and hair falling like a curtain of shadow. Asleep. Vulnerable. Exhausted.

Eraserhead.

Aizawa-san.

Izuku remained still. His heart thundered in his chest, like it didn’t know what to do with the mix of hope and fear rushing through him. Because yes, the hero was there—the real one. But that also meant he now had another caretaker. Another guard. Another adult who would stay with him, watch him, control him. Watch. Lock him up.

The fifth. This was already the fifth.

Izuku looked at the sleeping hero with a mixture of confusion, distrust, and frustration. There was something about his face… something that didn’t match what he knew. It wasn’t the face of the adults who pretended, of the other caretakers who acted like everything was fine. It was something else. Pain? Exhaustion? Defeat?

He looked… real.

He climbed out of bed carefully, trying not to make noise. The floorboards still creaked, but not as much. He tiptoed to the closet. Pulled out a blanket. One of the thick ones, the kind he used when the cold reached the bones. He dragged it behind him, part of it covering the floor, until he reached the hero.

He knelt slowly.

Watched him up close. He had dark circles. Big ones. He must be so tired. How had he gotten to this point? How had Dad found him? How did he end up here, with him?

Aizawa was breathing deeply. He didn’t move. He was there. He really was there.

Izuku hesitated for a second, then spread the blanket and clumsily draped it over him the best he could. He didn’t want to wake him. Didn’t want to ruin it. Warmth wasn’t common in this place, but cold was. Cold was normal. Silence too. But warmth… warmth was rare here.

It was five in the morning. He knew because his favorite TV show had stopped airing—only shown during the early hours. The next one hadn’t started yet. It was that strange moment between night and day, where everything felt suspended. Where time didn’t move and it seemed like nothing existed outside those walls.

He went back to bed. But this time, he lay down on the other side. Closer.

On the side where he could watch Aizawa sleep.

On the side where, for a few minutes at least, he could believe he wasn’t alone.

He should’ve offered clean clothes. Maybe told him he could use the shower, or given him something to eat, or a pillow. But he didn’t. He didn’t know how. He had just cried. Like a baby. Cried in his arms like he was five again, like he hadn’t yet learned to swallow fear.

And now, now that the crying had stopped and only that silent pressure remained in his chest… he was afraid.

Afraid the same thing that happened to Kaina would happen to him.

Afraid that if he tried to help him escape, his dad… would kill him.

Izuku knew how things worked. He had learned. He knew that if another adult died because of him, he wouldn’t be able to bear it. So he wouldn’t repeat it. Not this time. He wouldn’t let him get hurt. He wouldn’t talk about escaping. He wouldn’t ask for help. He wouldn’t risk him.

He wrapped himself in his blanket like he could disappear inside it. Curled up into a ball. Small.

Invisible.

“Tomorrow’s Izuku will figure it out,” he thought. He’ll know what to do. He’ll decide if he can trust, if he can believe, if he can speak.

Today’s Izuku just needed to sleep. Just a little. Just a little longer. Because for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t completely alone in that hell. And even if it was a lie. Even if it was fleeting. Even if everything changed when he woke up…

For the first time in a long time, he fell asleep feeling warm.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Time didn’t stop. And even though the world above must have kept turning, underground time felt like a thick, lukewarm substance that clung to the body and the soul. Even if they had a clock to tell the hour, and a screen to see the outside world. Shouta felt it every morning, when he opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was that white ceiling with stars—silent, oppressive, unchanging.
At first, everything had been calculation, coldness, and constant observation. A meticulous evaluation of every corner, every system, every reaction. He searched for cracks, blind spots. Anything that might let him act, move, fight back.

He thought about escape routes, backup plans B, C, and Z. He counted the cutlery, the air vents, the outside noises. He lived in a state of hyper-awareness, fueled by survival instinct. By his desire to get the boy out of there, and to see the sunlight of his life again—not through screens or books.

But the chip embedded in his neck, the sharp pain that cut through him every time he tried to do something that wasn’t allowed... it had achieved what no villain ever could: it halted his will to act. Not the will to fight—but the simple power to move, to choose. And with each passing day, frustration dissolved into silent resignation.

And then, the routines began.

That didn’t mean he had accepted any of it. Of course not.

Shouta Aizawa didn’t give up. But at some point… he had understood that if he didn’t want to lose his mind, he needed to build something within the confinement. Something that felt his. Even if it was a lie. Even if it was a chain disguised as a choice.

He needed control.

And when Sensei wasn’t present.

He had that control.

It wasn’t acceptance. It was strategy. Survival also meant establishing order. If he couldn’t control his freedom, at least he could control his days. And Izuku’s too—because the boy was his priority.

So he started doing it. He forced himself to clean every morning. To cook at the same times. To check the status of things, the order, the meals. He became the caretaker they wanted—a hybrid figure between tutor, nurse, teacher, and protector. And yes... he knew. Sometimes it felt like Sensei had placed him there on purpose for that role. As if he were being used as a buffer between him and the child.

Shouta had begun to know him more than he ever thought possible.

He started mentally noting what Izuku ate, how much he slept, how he moved. As if being some kind of wartime babysitter was his new role. It wasn’t surrender—it was resisting in another way. Because if he completely gave in, then yes, Sensei would’ve won. And that was unacceptable.

Izuku was the axis of everything. The wide-eyed boy whose curiosity never died, not even in captivity, was the only thing keeping him steady. Because Shouta saw him. Truly saw him. Saw him in his thin frame, in the way he walked silently, in how he pretended to be fine just to avoid being a bother.

And that’s why, more than ever, he refused to fall. Because there was a child in that prison. One who shouldn’t be carrying any of this.

Shouta had to stop that. And if that meant becoming a sort of temporary father figure, then he would. With gritted teeth, with pain crawling up from his tailbone and a pounding headache. But he would.

And in the meantime, the details—or rather, the “bribes”—haunted him.

Like the coffee.

The damn premium coffee that had appeared one day, perfectly placed on the kitchen counter, as if an invisible butler knew exactly what he needed. Coffee. Imported coffee—the kind he had never tasted in his entire life as a coffee enthusiast—and it was there now, in a little golden box, waiting for him. Just for him.

Because Izuku didn’t drink coffee. Never had. He was a kid, he couldn’t.

It was obvious. It was a trap—a subtle attempt at seduction. "Look how comfortable you could be if you just stopped resisting." But Shouta wasn’t naïve or stupid. He knew Sensei never gave anything without expecting something in return.

Still... there were mornings when he couldn’t help but make a cup.
Or two.
Or five.

The caffeine kept him awake. Helped him think, helped him not let the weight of the situation crush him. Sometimes, he laughed to himself with bitter irony: they’re gonna get me out of here for a coffee overdose, not a rescue operation.

And so, the kitchen became his territory. A small space he controlled, where he could do something useful, tangible. The place where he fed Izuku. Where he found ways to make the boy smile—even if it was with bear-shaped rice or a poorly made heart-shaped tamagoyaki or... Katsudon.

He had learned which dishes Izuku liked best. He knew that when the boy said "I’m not hungry," it probably meant something was bothering him. That if he moved his fingers too much while speaking and dug his nails into his skin, it meant anxiety. That if he insisted on helping with the food, it was because he wanted to feel useful.

Shouta didn’t like that. Maybe because of the growing attachment he felt for him. But no child his age should be worrying about things like that. No child should have to wonder whether they’re a burden just for existing. Sometimes those thoughts of Izuku’s irritated him—not because he disliked the boy, but because sometimes he had no idea how to handle... children. Even with all the effort he was putting in (which wasn’t optional for him), he was afraid of messing up and making the tiny thing he had to protect end up crying, angry, or hurt.

And yet, Izuku was there. Resilient, curious—even affectionate at times. Sometimes he looked at Shouta as if he were his anchor, his last rope to the real world. And Aizawa felt how that burned inside him. Because he wanted to be up to the task. He wanted to protect him with everything he had. And at the same time, he knew he was failing.

But as long as he could help him while under control, Shouta would do anything for the boy. He would help him and show him that he would always be there for him.

He noticed the patterns with a clarity that hurt. It wasn’t immediate, of course. At first, he simply let it be. Midoriya needed his space. And if from time to time, Izuku disappeared toward the bathroom at strange hours or snuck around with almost silent steps, Shouta didn’t stop him. He didn’t want to invade, didn’t want to seem—even in the slightest—like the one who had them trapped.

But the details started repeating. The sudden pauses in the middle of a meal, the subtle way he pressed his lips together, the nausea that appeared without warning. Until one day, with the hollow sound of retching breaking the silence of the house, he knew he couldn’t keep pretending he hadn’t noticed.

He thought, for a moment, that maybe it was the food. That he had failed at something as basic as that. But it wasn’t the food. He knew by the second time. Confirmed it by the third.

It wasn’t the food.
It was Izuku.

His body carried the invisible weight of this whole shitty situation they were living through. And that weight—Shouta recognized it. He didn’t need a diagnosis or a medical report. He saw it in his eyes, in the way he sat, the way he faked a smile, the way he said “thank you” even when it was clear he couldn’t take it anymore.

It was anxiety.
It was fear.
It was trauma.

And even so… Izuku preferred to hide it rather than admit it. Shouta didn’t blame him. How could he?

So when he heard the retching again, he wasn’t surprised. He forced himself not to look alarmed, because the last thing the boy needed was to feel observed, judged. The last thing he wanted was for him to think he’d done something wrong.

Shouta walked to the bathroom without rush, without panic. Just with that quiet exhaustion and hidden frustration that had been with him since the first day. He pushed open the barely ajar door and saw him there, hunched over, knees on the floor, shoulders trembling, muffled sobs pressed against the sink.

He took a deep breath.

"Kid..." he murmured.

Izuku turned his face, and Shouta saw his eyes were red, lips tightly pressed together.

"I-I’m sorry… please… I…" his voice broke, "I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to waste it… I swear! It was really good! I… I wanted to eat it! It’s not that I didn’t like it! It’s just…"

His distress tangled up the words in his throat.

"Shh… it’s okay," Shouta knelt beside him and placed a hand on his back. He felt it rigid, tense, like it had been carrying the weight of the world for days. "It’s okay, really."

"I’m sorry… you made it for me and I…" his lips trembled, and more tears rolled down his cheeks. "I don’t know what’s wrong with me… what’s wrong with me?"

Shouta inhaled sharply and let out a sigh—not his usual tired or exasperated sigh, but one that sounded like the air was too heavy to breathe. His hand moved to wipe away the tears still flowing.

"There’s nothing wrong with you."

He felt out of place. He wasn’t good with kids. With Izuku, he had to be the exception; he couldn’t be so… blunt with his answers, like he was with his students or coworkers. He couldn’t break the intimate atmosphere like that.
Shouta closed his eyes for a moment. Not because he couldn’t bear to see the crying, but because he couldn’t stand what it meant. That guilt hadn’t been born inside these walls.

"Listen to me," he said calmly, though inside it felt like each word was a needle stabbing his chest. "You didn’t ruin anything. Do you hear me?"

Izuku sobbed, not entirely believing him.

"I’m not saying this to comfort you. It’s the truth. This is probably happening because your body is reacting to something that isn’t your fault. It’s stress, anxiety, and… trauma. It has nothing to do with being weak or not liking the food."

"But you work so hard to make it," the boy gasped, trembling. "And I… I can’t even eat like a normal person."

Shouta hesitated at first but then wrapped him in a slow, firm hug. He felt the small body against his own, warm from the crying, vulnerable. He knew the boy was starved for contact, even if he seemed unsure at first. But he understood why—when the only hugs he’d ever known came from Sensei. And of course, Midoriya wouldn’t find comfort in the arms of his kidnapper and likely the murderer of his own family.

"I don’t expect you to act like a 'normal person.' You’re not in normal conditions. Neither of us is. So you don’t have to apologize—not for crying, not for throwing up, not for not being able to eat. Understood?"

Silence answered.

"Understood, kid?"

Izuku nodded faintly against his chest. Shouta exhaled deeply.

"The only thing I care about is that you’re okay, that you feel a little better each day, even just a little. That’s all. I’m not watching you. I’m here to take care of you. Alright?"

The boy cried harder, as if those words had broken some dam. Shouta held him. There was no rush, no one would interrupt—for now.

"What do you say I make something lighter? A warm soup… something that won’t upset your stomach," Shouta suggested in a tone almost maternal, though his voice was still deep.

Izuku hesitated. Then mumbled through sobs:

"Wouldn’t it bother you…?"

"Of course not," he replied, awkwardly stroking his hair. "I’ll make it even if you only take one spoonful. I don’t care how much you eat."

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was necessary. And as he helped the boy to his feet, guiding him to the couch wrapped in a blanket, Shouta returned to the kitchen and began chopping vegetables for the soup.

After the conversation they had with Sensei about “The Game,” the subject of control was never brought up again. He didn’t know if it was because Izuku didn’t want to talk about it, or because he himself didn’t want to talk about it so as not to make the hero feel worse. Knowing Izuku, either option was perfectly viable. He wasn’t even sure if the boy truly understood the situation—if he thought Shouta obeyed his father out of obligation or fear-driven choice.

He could pretend everything was under control, keep up that hardened façade of a responsible adult, but he couldn’t lie to himself. Not when his own body had become his enemy thanks to that goddamn chip in his brain, sending out brutal shocks that cut his breath short and reminded him he was no longer free. And the worst part was, they didn’t only come when he acted, but when he thought. Thinking. Planning. Dreaming of escape. Just that was enough to earn a physical punishment that left him shaking. As if the very thought of rebelling was an unforgivable crime. As if simply wanting to rescue Izuku and get him out of this hell was too dangerous a dream to even imagine in peace.

He didn’t want the kid to see him like that. Not again. The last time had been devastating.

Even though Izuku didn’t see or hear the conversation he had with Sensei, Shouta was grateful the boy hadn’t been there. He would’ve panicked. The way he had reacted to the wound on his forehead said everything. Although he hadn’t been spared when Shouta had considered another escape route. And the punishment had left him trembling. That was when Izuku noticed—and went into full panic.

Oh god, may that never happen in front of the kid again.

He had screamed his name, trembled, and clung to him like he was about to vanish into thin air. Shouta had to hold him the best he could, even while his body was still burning from the shock. It was humiliating—unbearably humiliating. Every time he tried to think of a way out, calculate the security systems, remember the structures, the patterns... a jolt of electricity shot through him like a spear.

And meanwhile, Izuku was adapting. Like a child who had lived too much for his age, too much for his heart. Shouta watched him, day by day, mold himself to this new world. And Midoriya watched him molding to it.

He knew the boy wasn’t naïve and that something had broken him. Shouta still didn’t know what. Some trauma had marked him with a deep, visceral fear that made him tremble every time he heard those heavy footsteps coming down the hall. He believed it had something to do with his mother. Or maybe that last caretaker he had—Kaina…

But then… came the adaptation.

Little by little, with the weariness of someone surrendering from emotional exhaustion, Izuku began to accept Sensei’s presence. Not because he liked him, not because he trusted him. But because he had no other choice. Not when Sensei would come to visit and offer affection like he was some golden bird in a cage. Sensei knew very well how to play the role of a father. He would show up now and then, with that warm voice and perfect smile. He’d order Shouta to step aside, to cook, to clean, to play the role of the silent servant while he “spent quality time” with his son.

Shouta obeyed—not out of fear or submission, but because the slightest attempt at rebellion left him paralyzed on the floor. And of course, that would throw Midoriya into a panic, something he definitely didn’t want to happen. And so while he washed dishes, or swept, or prepared dinner like some housemaid serving a life sentence, he watched.

He watched that manipulative man, disguised as a paternal figure. He hated him. He hated him with a fire that burned in his chest. Or maybe it was something much deeper than hate. But he could do nothing. Absolutely nothing.

And then there was Izuku—the child full of fear and more determination than Shouta had ever seen in any student, with bright dreams buried the moment he entered this vault. The boy who wanted to be a hero, despite everything. Who bloomed in the most unexpected places.

Like in the game.

Chess, Go, and Shōgi. Games where the mind was everything, where logic triumphed over instinct. Where a child could defeat an adult if they were clever and smart enough.

Shouta had noticed it. He’d seen it in his eyes. Izuku was a natural strategist despite his age. He’d proven it again and again at the board. He moved the pieces with a mix of timidity and lethal precision. And in those moments, brief as they were, he was no longer a trapped child.

He was a rival.

A mind sharp as a blade—Sensei even seemed surprised sometimes. Sure, he could have been acting, but Shouta, who had spent his life reading people, knew at least part of that reaction was genuine. And that terrified him. Because if even Sensei recognized Izuku’s potential… what would happen when he decided it was time to mold him in his own image? What would happen if that brilliant mind, that indomitable spark, was finally bent to serve evil? What if Izuku, out of fear or sheer desperation, began to obey?

Shouta feared that more than any cerebral shock.

He remembered the afternoons with Nedzu, playing chess. Sometimes the rat would beat him horribly—but never out of cruelty. It was his way of stimulating him, keeping his mind sharp. Shouta knew that.

He missed him—surprisingly, he missed that rat. He’d never admit it, especially not to the rat himself. But he missed the clever sarcasm, the steaming tea, the games he never won, and even the damned coffee. Because the one he had here—that perfect-smelling, heavenly-tasting South American coffee—was a trap. He knew it.

And yet what hurt the most wasn’t the shocks, or the helplessness. It was seeing Izuku—so small, so bright—carrying a weight no child should ever bear. A boy who understood too much. Who knew his father was a villain, who knew he was a hostage, who knew he was being manipulated. And still, he tried to keep going.

That gave Shouta the strength to maintain control.

Sometimes, due to boredom and Midoriya’s desire to spend more time together. When the silence of that confinement became so thick, when Izuku sought to escape the bad moments, and the memories of the outside world threatened to consume them both, Aizawa resorted to the unthinkable: playing.

It wasn’t that he particularly liked board games. He had never been that kind of person who turned to them when bored—neither as a child, nor as an adult.
And yet, there he was: lying on a carpet in front of a Monopoly board, or dealing with a wobbly Jenga tower, or shuffling a deck of UNO cards like it was the most important thing of the day. Because it was. Because Izuku needed distraction. And so did he.

"Alright, want to try something new?" he asked one time, sitting cross-legged in front of the boy, while Izuku finished counting fake bills as if they were real. "How about… poker?"

Izuku looked up, curious.

"Poker? Isn’t that a grown-up game?"

Aizawa shrugged, picking up a deck without cartoon pictures—one of those old casino-style decks Sensei had left lying around as so-called “decorative” touches.

"It is," he replied without much inflection. "But so is everything we’re living through. And you’ve already been through all of that. So I guess you can handle this too."

Izuku let out a quiet laugh. But Shouta celebrated it in silence.

"Alright," said Izuku, settling in. "Teach me."

And he did. He explained with the kind of patience only someone could find when there was nothing else to do. He talked about combinations, bluffing, how not to show emotions. He told him how to read the opponent, how a single raised eyebrow could mean defeat. He spoke… as if they had all the time in the world. Because, in that place, they did.

"Do we bet on things?" Izuku asked suddenly, eyes wide and sparkling with a childish spark.

Aizawa raised an eyebrow.

"Bet? What are you planning to bet? Your worn-out socks?"

Izuku laughed.

"No! I could bet… my share of dessert."

"Hmm, risky," Aizawa grumbled, shuffling the cards. "I bet if you lose, you wash the dishes."

"That’s not fair!"

"Welcome to the world of dirty games, Midoriya."

They played game after game. At first, Shouta won them all. He was methodical, logical, and read Izuku with surgical precision. The boy furrowed his brow, confused, starting to realize this wasn’t just a game. It required cunning.

"How did you do that?" he asked in frustration every time he lost.

"You didn’t blink when you had a good hand. But you looked at your cards three times. You were unsure. Your face gave you away."

Izuku bit his lip, muttered something like “I need to work on that,” and tried again. Aizawa, for his part, tried not to think. Not to think about how Nemuri would mock him if she saw what he was doing. How she’d tell him he’d become this—teaching a kid to gamble like some old man on a bar corner.

“Next time, bet on something stronger, Shouta.”

Her voice rang in his head so vividly. Hizashi would yell at him for doing it and then pat him on the back. Oboro would laugh out loud and say he finally beat someone. Tensei would give him a disapproving look. And Nedzu… would probably want to join in.

They were piercing thoughts. But sometimes, a man doesn’t play to have fun. He plays to forget.

One night, during one of those games, Aizawa relaxed. He let his guard down. He started to enjoy a little more watching how Izuku placed his chips, how his hands trembled less, how he smiled without realizing it. Until the moment came to reveal their cards, and Izuku dropped his with unusual theatricality, eyes glowing.

"Full house: queens over eights."

Aizawa frowned and looked at his own hand. Three aces.

Silence.

"I won?" Izuku asked, his voice almost restrained, as if he couldn’t believe that sentence could possibly be real.

Aizawa nodded, exhaling with resignation.

"You won."

Izuku shouted—not too loud, but enough. He threw himself back with his arms in the air, laughing. A genuine laugh, clear, small. Aizawa looked at him the way he would have in another life. The way he would have if this were just a kid playing with a tired teacher on a random night.

I beat you! I really beat you!" Izuku sang, bouncing on his knees.

"Yeah, yeah," Shouta grumbled, feigning annoyance. "But now you still have to wash the dishes, remember?"

Izuku looked at him, confused.

"Huh!? But I won!"

"Champion’s rule: winners clean their own glory," Aizawa replied, crossing his arms with a hint of superiority.

"That makes no sense!"

"Most rules don’t."

Izuku looked at him… and then laughed again.

"73, 74, 75... But you've never seen an All Might movie?" Izuku had his brows furrowed and eyes wide open, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. "76... Not even the old ones, from twenty years ago, when you were my age? What did you watch as a kid, Aizawa? 77..."

Shouta raised an eyebrow while stretching his leg on the mat, his ankles rotating slowly in circles so he wouldn’t lose pace with his exercises.

"I wasn’t a fan of All Might back then. Still not," he replied naturally, as if he hadn’t just deeply wounded the number one fan of the Symbol of Peace. His tone was simple, dry, but not harsh. Just... honest.

"78, 79... But I don’t get it!" Izuku insisted, pacing in circles as he tried to work out the puzzle in his mind out loud. "When you were at U.A., All Might was already like… I don’t know, thirty? Or at least he’d already been in the top 10 for years. Though by then, he was already—"

"Number," Shouta interrupted without raising his voice, simply pointing out that the boy was losing count.

"Ugh! 80, 81 and 82! 82, sorry!"

Days had gone by, and with time, Shouta had resumed his training. He needed it. Not just for his body, which was starting to rust from too much inactivity, but also for his mind. The confinement, the control, the voices that weren’t his in his head… it all eased a little with movement. He’d found an unusual training ground in the playroom. He used the swings to stretch, the monkey bars to hang from and rebuild arm strength, the slides as obstacles. With a bit of imagination, everything worked.

At first, Izuku only watched him. Then, he began keeping up with the rhythm. Sometimes he helped count, other times he’d sit on Shouta’s back while he did push-ups or sit-ups. It wasn’t ideal, but it made the routine feel warmer. More human. And in that little corner of normalcy, in the middle of their confinement, they began talking about simpler things. Like heroes, movies… childhood.

"But—83—he should’ve already been number one!" Izuku burst out, waving his arms and his eyes lit up with excitement. "84—And when you were like… I don’t know, four or five? 85, 86—All Might must’ve already debuted! He saved over a hundred people in that live accident! In ten minutes! There's a video!"

"I know the video, kid," Shouta said dryly, still doing his sit-ups.

"Then… 87... I don’t get why you don’t like him. 88," Izuku said more calmly now, genuinely confused.

"It’s complicated," Shouta replied, this time with a bit of weight in his voice.

"Complicated how? 89, 90," Izuku asked, sitting on the edge of a mat, elbows on his knees, completely focused on him.

Shouta took a deep breath to ease the tension. You could tell he was choosing his words carefully.

"Adult stuff. Things you wouldn’t understand yet."

"I’m already—91—old enough for that! 92"

Shouta paused his movement and glanced at him briefly before replying.

"You’re still too young, Midoriya. Give it nine or ten years, and I’ll tell you whatever you want."

"93! That’s forever! 94! Why not now?"

"Because even if someone explained it, you wouldn’t understand. There are contexts you only get with time, experience… and a lot of disappointment. Besides, it’s all very political. Society, structure, decisions that seem heroic but have shadows behind them. And that crap—those things."

Izuku kept counting as he thought and processed the hero’s words.

He remembered Lady Nagant, her words in the elevator before she died. When she explained about the outside world and what she’d done. Was Zawa referring to that too? After all, both he and Kaina came from the same hero system.

He hadn’t fully understood what Kaina-san told him. But it stuck in his memory. Maybe if he asked Zawa about it, he’d understand.

Though… not right now. Apparently.

"99—That’s bullshit."

Shouta froze. He sat up slightly to look at him, somewhere between a frown and disbelief.

"Watch your mouth, Midoriya."

"You swear too," Izuku replied without thinking, pointing at him with a half-indignant finger. "Don’t start with that tone now, Zawa…"

"I’m an adult. You’re not. And you’re too young to be throwing around curse words without understanding what they mean."

"And who’s gonna hear me if I say it, huh?" the boy retorted, with a sly grin.

"I will."

"That doesn’t count."

"In my authority, it does."

Izuku crossed his arms with a mischievous smile.

"Too bad, Eraserhead. My brother Kacchan taught me the best swear words in the world. He’s a god of insults! A god! I’d say he’s like… the All Might of profanity!"

Aizawa let out a dry exhale, eyes narrowing as if it physically hurt to hear that. He continued his exercise.

"Something tells me that kid’s just a foul-mouthed brat who likes messing with people."

"HA! 100! You swore!" Izuku shouted, throwing his arms up like he’d won a bet. "And don’t call him that. Kacchan’s awesome!"

"If you think yelling profanities is awesome, you’re more lost than I thought." He paused briefly, then asked, almost by accident, "Is 'messing' a swear word?"

"Pff, Kacchan always said it. And Mom and Auntie got mad at him… Still, it’s a good one. Though I like ██████████████ better."

Shouta turned quickly, sitting up straight with his eyes locked on him.

"Never. Ever. Never ever say that again."

"But—"

"Promise me."

"Okay… I promise… but Kacchan says it all the time and—"

"Kacchan is a kid, just like you. A bit older, but still just a brat. And swearing doesn't make him mature. Or responsible. And even if he swears, he shouldn't. Let alone teach you."

"He doesn’t teach me, I just…"

"But you learned it from him, didn’t you?"

Izuku pressed his lips together and looked down. He stayed silent while Shouta resumed his routine, silently counting his reps. A few seconds passed—long like minutes—before the boy spoke again, this time more calmly.

"Don’t you have any curses you say? Any that you use a lot?"

"Of course I do," Aizawa answered without stopping, "I'm an adult."

"That doesn’t count!"

"It does count. Because when I speak, I know exactly what I'm saying. You're just repeating what you heard. And in many cases, you don’t even know what it really means."

"Some I do know."

"Then don’t use them."

Izuku crossed his arms again.

"...108," he muttered, going back to counting pushups.

Their conversations sometimes drifted on their own, like a kite breaking free from its string, floating wherever the wind would take it. From trivial things like food, favorite desserts, childhood heroes, to vague memories of friends, family, and moments that felt distant from the cell they now shared.

"195… But… couldn't I maybe…?"

"Spit it out, kid," Shouta growled, his voice raspy, not breaking the rhythm.

"196… Train?" The word came out shaky, as if Izuku feared he’d ruin something just by asking. "At least I want to know how to defend myself. In case… something ever happens. I don’t know."

Aizawa slowly lowered himself and this time stayed down. The silence between them grew heavy, so thick Izuku could feel it. Shouta didn’t respond right away.

"You want me to train you?" he finally repeated, voice low, almost faint.

"It’s just that… I want to be as cool as you! Imagine! Being trained by the great Eraserhead. Plus, I want to see if some ideas for moves I created for you would work."

The boy kept talking, throwing out ideas about his quirk and possible moves in his usual mutters. But Shouta wasn’t listening—he stayed there on the floor, remembering how he had failed as Eraserhead, and how he still was failing now.

How he had allowed himself to be captured, controlled, turned into a shadow of who he used to be. “Cool.” That word pressed down on him like an invisible chain—cruel, piercing.

Where was Eraserhead?
Where had that man gone, the one who brought down villains with a single look?
Where was the hero who was supposed to protect his own?

He wasn’t that anymore. He wasn’t cool. He was a failure with a chip in his neck. A puppet on strings pretending to be free.

"I'm not cool…" he murmured finally, not looking at the boy. "I'm not, Midoriya."

But Izuku didn’t hesitate, didn’t waver. His arms wrapped more tightly around Shouta’s neck, and his voice rose without the slightest doubt.

"Yes you are! Don’t think otherwise! Don’t let… all this going on here consume you…" The green-haired boy paused for a moment, lost in thought, remembering the situation they were trapped in. "Besides, you're about to hit 200—congrats! I wouldn’t even make it to ten."

Shouta couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh, exhaling through his nose while shaking his head. That kid had a damn talent for breaking down his walls, slipping through the cracks he worked so hard to keep sealed.

It was strange—in those months they’d been together, Midoriya had broken through the thick walls that had once kept Shouta guarded, vulnerable. Few people had ever gotten past them—some of his colleagues, his husband, his friends.

But in the current situation, he didn’t like it.
Not when they were locked away.
Not when he didn’t even know if he could get the kid out of this vault.
Not when the control wasn’t in his hands.
Not when that kid reached so deeply into Shouta that he could already feel someone using that against him one day.
Not when Shouta was at a total disadvantage.
Not when, from the moment he was captured, he felt like he’d already lost the battle.

"200, huh?" he muttered.

"Yeah. And without complaining as much as yesterday. You're getting better," Izuku replied, trying to sound playful, though his voice held a note of tenderness. "So… if you train me, I could be strong too. Not just physically. But… like you. Could you?"

Shouta turned his head slightly to look at the boy, who stared up at him with those huge green eyes full of hope, as if he still believed the world could be saved… as if he believed Eraserhead could do it. Despite everything. Despite the invisible bars, the forced silence, the constant fear, the voice that manipulated him at will.

Despite the hell. Izuku still saw him.

"I could teach you a few things…" he said, in the softest voice his throat could manage. "But you’ll need to start building some muscle. That means you’ll need to start eating better."

"Yup, I know," Izuku answered without hesitation, barely containing his excitement. "Now… let’s keep going! Just three more and you’ll hit 200! Come on, you can do it, Zawa!"

And Aizawa said nothing else. He just went back to the exercise, now with a new weight on his back. Not the boy’s body—but the weight of his promise.

Aizawa sometimes thought too much. Too much for his own good.

On those nights where the silence was so thick that not even the hum of the devices or the child’s breathing beside him could fully break it, his mind dragged him mercilessly to other times, to other people. He imagined what it would be like if Hizashi were in his place.

Izuku would have loved him. He knew it for sure. He would trust Yamada much faster than he trusted him—the man who always had that exhausted look, who never seemed to know how to stay in control, who didn’t always have the right response to the boy’s anxiety attacks.

Hizashi, on the other hand, with his ridiculous jokes, his loud but warm voice, his contagious laugh… He’d know how to make Izuku laugh without it feeling forced. He had experience. He had taken care of his siblings, cousins, nephews. He knew how to talk to a child, how to say exactly what they needed to hear without it sounding like a lesson. Shouta had seen it so many times. At parties, at events. Hizashi was one of those people children didn’t fear—they ran to hug him.

Sometimes it was harder to picture Nemuri in this place, and that hurt in a different way. She had always been a whirlwind. Unstoppable, fierce, wild. But he also knew that behind her public image, behind her reputation as an R-rated heroine, there was a woman with a fierce tenderness. One who spoke passionately about her dream of someday having a child, but who also admitted that fear of not surviving held her back. That heroism kept her far from that possibility.

And still… she would’ve been good. He knew that. She took part in more charity events than he could count, she had a way of crouching in front of a frightened child and making them feel seen. Nemuri would know exactly how to hold Izuku’s hand without making him feel pitied.

Oboro didn’t even deserve to be compared to Aizawa. He was warmth incarnate. Kids adored him. He had that natural gift, that light. In his presence, everything felt easier, more bearable. If he were here, he would have filled this place with laughter and silly jokes. He would’ve found a way to turn every corner into an adventure. Shouta had no doubt that Oboro would’ve been the best of them all.

And then he thought: What are you doing here, Shouta? Why you?

But then he also thought about the chip. That damned thing that felt like a parasite stuck to his brain. About how any attempt to resist sent him collapsing to the ground in convulsions. About how his body stopped being his, like a puppet held by invisible strings. And then he understood. Understood why, despite everything, maybe it was better that it was him. Because if Hizashi were here, if Nemuri or even Oboro had been chosen for this sentence, Shouta wouldn’t have been able to bear it. He wouldn’t survive watching them go through this hell. So he was grateful—grateful it was him. Because he could carry this.

Or at least… pretend he could.

"GOOD MORNING, DEAR LISTENERS!" roared a voice from the radio, crackling a little from the volume as it filled the dim room. "TIME TO FINISH THE WEEK STRONG ON... MIC MIC BANG BOOM! BUT DON’T WORRY! I’LL BE BACK MONDAY AT FULL BLAST!! AND I’LL BLOW UP THE SPEAKERS OR HEADPHONES WHEREVER YOU’RE LISTENING!"

Shouta couldn’t help a brief smile. Izuku did laugh, curled up beside him under the monstrosity of sheets covering them both up to their noses. It was cold—always was, in that place. Even when it wasn’t winter. On the nightstand rested two cups: Shouta’s forgotten and cold coffee, and Izuku’s steaming chamomile, which he sipped in tiny mouthfuls.

Whenever he listened to his husband, at the same radio time slot, Shouta would forget his therapeutic coffee and all this bullshit. Hizashi’s voice filled the room. Vibrant, full of life. As if nothing had changed. As if they were still in the radio office. As if he could still hear him from their apartment while getting ready for patrol.

But then, the voice changed. It dipped a little. Became softer. More real.

"And once again… I know I’ve spent days repeating it, but I want to thank you all for waiting for me. I had…" a long, deep pause, "…a loss. A loss of someone very important and meaningful in my life."

Shouta went still. As if the air had frozen. Izuku also stopped moving, as if he sensed that he shouldn’t speak.

"It was very hard…" Hizashi continued, and his voice didn’t tremble, but something in it vibrated differently. "Loss can come in many forms and… I didn’t expect this one. When you realize that person won’t be coming back and… even if you don’t want to accept it. That’s how things are. And sometimes, loss doesn’t only come through death. Sometimes, they’re just… not there. Or they can’t be. And that… that too is mourning. That hurts too. But I want to tell you something, listeners. Don’t carry that pain alone. There’s always someone willing to hold you when you feel like you can’t go on. Your family, your friends, even a stranger who’ll listen without judging. Seek help. Ask for it. Remember that we have a number for these kinds of calls or suicide prevention. Because no one deserves to carry it all alone… Just…"

Silence.

A sacred silence.

Shouta closed his eyes. His chest hurt. He didn’t want to think about what it meant, but his mind gave him no rest.

What the hell is happening out there? Do they think I’m dead?

"It was many months, actually. But I thank you for your compassion. Your love. Now… I’m doing better. Truly, thank you."

Aizawa didn’t move. As if any breath could shatter the moment. Carefully, he reached into Izuku’s nightstand drawer, pulling out the tablet, searching… for something. Some information about what was happening with his husband. Was it because of him? Or something else? Hizashi hadn’t spoken like that before. Not with those words. For months, his absence had echoed: "Personal issues," they’d said. "Time for himself." But now… now those words felt like a farewell.

And then, he heard it.

"The last song…" Hizashi said, and his voice cracked just a bit, "is for someone special. To… thank them. I got your gift. Ha. Yeah. I got it. I’ll treasure it for the rest of my life. Thank you..."

Shouta felt the world stop. His fingers froze, his muscles went slack. He couldn’t breathe. Izuku looked at him, not fully understanding, but sensing something was wrong.

Play the song “Labios Rotos” by Zoé

The music was playing. The first few seconds were enveloping, the keyboard like an emotional mist that never lifted, giving the air a dreamy quality. Fine, sweet chimes accompanied it, and the drums echoed softly in the background. It felt hypnotic, gentle, and full of a blend of nostalgia and vulnerability, wrapped in a spacey atmosphere.

They were like echoes of thoughts reverberating in an empty room.

The guitar came in afterward, bringing with it a sense of melancholy.

It was calming.

“Regálame tu corazón”
“Déjame entrar a ese lugar”
“Donde nacen las flores”
“Donde nace el amor”

The singer’s voice was mesmerizing. Soothing and vulnerable. Completely surrendering to the lyrics, to the song itself. Shouta felt his eyes clouding over and his chest tightening. He clenched his jaw.
And without thinking—like his body moved on its own—he hugged Izuku tighter.

Maybe because he needed support. Maybe because he didn’t want the boy to see him in such a vulnerable state. He buried the boy’s face against his chest. The child, curled up against him, said nothing. He didn’t lift his head to look at him—he simply melted deeper into his arms.

Shouta didn’t like sentimental things. Or anything overly emotional. But he couldn’t begin to describe the feeling swelling inside him.

The bass entered with a deep yet subtle presence, adding that emotional weight that settles in the chest.

“Entrégame tus labios rotos”
“Los quiero besar, los quiero curar”
“Los voy a cuidar”
“Con todo mi amor…”

Shouta pressed his lips together instinctively. They felt dry and cracked. They were cracked. Metaphorically, yes. Literally, too.

Hizashi used to heal them with his kisses. He had always been there for him—long before they were a couple, and even more so after. When they moved in together. Hizashi knew everything about him. He always knew how to read him—even when he didn’t speak. Especially when he didn’t speak.

And now, he was asking this of him.

The guitar played clean chords, with that melancholic feel. Not aggressive, not dominant. It played gently alongside the soft drums, which never interrupted—only followed, delicately.

“Es raro el amor, ah-ah-ah-ah”
“Es raro el amor, ah-ah-ah”
“Que se te aparece cuando menos piensas…”

Shouta felt a tremble in his chest. Not because of the music. Not because of the lyrics. Because of the memory. He had always been a coward when it came to friendship, to love, to anything sentimental. There was a reason it had taken them years to confess their feelings. Because of Shouta.

He had been a coward. And a fool. Or maybe he had just been too broken before Hizashi could fully get in. And yet… there he was. A song out in the open, for everyone. But also, just for him.

“Es raro el amor, ah-ah-ah-ah”
“Es raro el amor, ah-ah-ah”
“No importa la distancia, ni el tiempo, ni la edad…”

The last verse stayed in his head. As if that phrase was the message Yamada wanted him to remember. He hugged Izuku tighter. And in doing so, hugged himself. That part of himself still alive—the part Hizashi hadn’t managed to kill with his absence.

And he let himself be cradled by that song as sleep slowly overtook him, because he couldn’t stay awake much longer without falling apart.

“Moja el desierto de mi alma”
“Con tu mirar, con tu tierna voz”
“Con tu mano en mi mano”
“Por la eternidad”

The music carried a blend of longing, sadness, and sweetness. Where Shouta could lock himself away in his thoughts and memories. Instead of avoiding them.

“Y entrégame esos labios rotos”
“Los quiero besar, los quiero curar”
“Los voy a cuidar”
“Con todo mi amor”

"Zawa..." Izuku murmured, small and low, with that way of speaking one has when something fragile is in the air and even a whisper might shatter it. "Are you okay?"

The voice pulled him out of his prison of thoughts. He looked down, clinging to the only being anchoring him to the present. Izuku didn’t lift his head. He only rested it against his chest, as if giving him space. Shouta stroked his hair clumsily, as if afraid he’d fall apart from the contact. His voice came out rough, barely audible.

"Yeah… yeah, kid. I’m fine."

There were so many questions in his head that he knew would never be answered.

“Es raro el amor, ah-ah-ah-ah”
“Es raro el amor, ah-ah-ah”
“Que se te aparece cuando menos piensas”

“Es raro el amor, ah-ah-ah-ah”
“Es raro el amor, ah-ah-ah”
“No importa la distancia, ni el tiempo, ni la edad”

That night, there was no resistance.
That night, there was no denial.
Only the inevitable surrender to what had always been there.

The music continued playing, the singer’s voice accompanying him tenderly through lyrics that never needed to name what was felt. Shouta felt like he was floating in a dream. The music filled the empty spaces with simple yet emotion-filled harmonies. The production let each instrument breathe—letting silence speak, too.

“Amor, amor”
“Amor, amor”
“Amor, amor”
“Amor, amor”
“Amor, amor”
“Amor, amor, amor”

Chapter Text

July 15th.

Another day, or so Shouta thought when he woke up, just like every morning. But that July 15th wasn’t like the others, even if Izuku didn’t say a single word about it.

Today was Izuku’s birthday.

According to what Sensei had mentioned, there would be a “big party” for Midoriya later. A surprise. But Shouta had received a very specific order: entertain Izuku during the afternoon, keep him busy, distracted… and above all, make sure he didn’t suspect anything.

Aizawa had almost frowned when he heard that. If they hadn’t ordered him to stay quiet, he would have loved to ruin the surprise in a matter of seconds. For him, that day was like any other, and it would have been a perfect way to piss off the bastard. Besides, the kid didn’t seem too interested in celebrating anyway.

Midoriya didn’t act like someone excited about his birthday; in fact, he didn’t seem to like it at all. So Shouta decided not to meddle. Was it okay to ignore it and not wish the kid a happy birthday? Maybe not. But there could be many reasons why Izuku didn’t want that.

Aizawa didn’t enjoy birthdays either, especially not his own.
Weird? Not for him.
For his colleagues? Absolutely.

It could also be that, for the boy, this date was just a reminder of how much time he had already spent locked up in that bunker. So, if Izuku didn’t want to be reminded of it, Shouta wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up. Not yet.

But unexpectedly, the subject of a cake came up. It started with a vague conversation, where Shouta mentioned that, of all the cakes he had ever tried, the chocolate one Hizashi made was his favorite. The only one he remembered fondly.

And when Midoriya asked if they could try making a cake together… Shouta simply said yes.

Why not?

Of course, there was one obvious problem.

Aizawa had no idea how to bake a cake.

He could cook the basics, even some more complex meals. Nutritious dishes for lunch and dinner. But sweets… that was completely foreign territory. If anyone knew how to make them, it was Hizashi.

But Hizashi wasn’t here.

So… two complete amateurs decided to bake.
One exhausted adult and a kid with more energy than sense.
What could possibly go wrong?

“How many eggs do we need?” Izuku asked, leaning over the bowl.

“I think four,” Aizawa answered, trying to summon some sensory memory to help him. “More or less.”

“‘Think’?” the boy repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t we be following… I don’t know, a real recipe? We can look it up on YouTube. There’s gotta be a million videos on how to make a chocolate cake.”

Aizawa let out a long sigh, staring up at the ceiling as if asking the gods of cocoa for patience.

“I wanted to try remembering it. See if… I don’t know, if I could recreate the flavor of the cake Hizashi used to make.” His voice softened, like saying that name pressed something inside him. “Can you help me with that? Even if there’s a reasonable chance we’ll burn the kitchen down trying.”

Izuku thought about it for a second. Then, without saying anything, he cracked four eggs and carefully dropped them into the bowl, fully focused. Aizawa watched him with mild surprise. The brat had initiative. Or maybe he was just hungry. Probably both.

“What’s next?” Izuku asked, with the tone of a soldier ready for battle.

“Two hundred grams of flour and melted cocoa. Though… I don’t remember exactly how much cocoa. But Hizashi always used a lot of cocoa. And sugar.”

“It’s a chocolate cake, right? Then it should be chocolatey,” the boy said with an enthusiastic smile, as if he’d just had a revelation.

“Yeah… fine,” Shouta muttered, surrendering to the chaos.

They followed Aizawa’s memory like it was an old, blurry map full of gaps. And still, they made progress. Izuku was delighted. Then, as casually as if he were talking about the weather, he said:

“Oh, the kitchen won’t burn down anyway—it has an automatic system. If there’s a fire, these lamp-like things shoot foam jets at the flames. Don’t recommend standing close, it burns your eyes.”

Shouta immediately looked at him, stopping halfway through his task.

“How do you know that?”

“Experience.”

“What kind of experience?”

“Uh, yeah, forget I said that. How much milk and sugar was it again?”

Shouta kept staring at him, somewhere between alarm and resignation.

“I’m not forgetting that, kid. I think it was between two and three hundred milliliters of milk. And sugar… five or six hundred grams.”

Izuku nodded as if he had just received classified information. Meanwhile, Aizawa couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said. Experience with fires? This was the boy’s second birthday locked inside. And now, at just ten years old, he was already talking about fire suppression systems with the ease of a maintenance technician.

“Last year they gave me a dance floor,” Izuku murmured suddenly while measuring flour. “I know what you’re trying, but I can already tell there’s going to be a surprise party or something tonight. Dad likes big gestures. Like I told you, I mentioned the dance floor as a joke. But he took it seriously.”

“At least you danced on it?”

“Not now… but it was a good idea to keep me from lying in bed all day. My third caretaker used it a lot to cheer me up. We also played video games—he was obsessed to the point that whenever he lost, something ended up broken. Neither of us were any good at dancing, we were terrible. But it was… fun.”

Shouta stayed quiet for a few seconds. It was a strange revelation, sweet and a little sad.

“You trusted him that much?”

“Yeah. It’s complicated,” Izuku said, lowering his voice a little. “It wasn’t exactly the caretaker I danced with… but I’ll tell you about that another day. Let’s just say it was my fault things ended badly. I just hope one day he stops being mad and comes back. He was fun and he listened to me, in his own way.”

“And… why is he mad?”

Izuku fell silent for a few moments before speaking again.

“Because I broke his trust. I used him to try and escape. After that, he left and told my dad he didn’t want to… babysit anymore, so to speak. And they had to replace him.”

“He just left? Just like that? And Sensei allowed it?” Shouta asked, unable to hide his disbelief. He thought all the “caretakers” were like him: forced, manipulated, dragged into this twisted game without a say. He had never had a choice. Just orders.

Izuku nodded, not looking at him. He stirred the mixture absentmindedly, as if blending ingredients could dissolve the memories too.

“Yeah. Like I said… it’s complicated. But I hope he decides to come back someday.”

“Can he?”

“If Dad allows it, yes. He always gave him a lot of freedom, that’s why he could come down here. He’s… he’s important to Dad. And to me too. I love him a lot.”

Shouta didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His tongue felt like lead. Instead, he handed over the bowl with the dry ingredients. Shouta took care of the wet ones—milk, eggs, vanilla extract, oil, and the melted chocolate—while Izuku worked on mixing the dry.

The boy, who had seemed on the verge of crying just moments before, was now focused like a professional chef, whisking as if the peace of the entire world depended on it.

Aizawa poured the wet ingredients—milk, eggs, oil, vanilla, and chocolate—into a separate bowl. He was just about to combine everything when he froze: Izuku was dumping nearly the entire one-kilo bag of sugar into the mixture.

“What are you doing?!” Shouta jumped, snatching the bag from him before it could be completely emptied.

“You said five hundred grams… but since the cocoa’s 100% bitter, I thought a little more would balance it out.”

The boy smiled as if what he had just done was the most logical decision in the world. Shouta just stared, sighed… and muttered a “kids” that was quickly lost under Izuku’s soft laughter.

They mixed everything together. Of course, there were way too many dry ingredients. The batter looked wrong. Thick, dry, as if they were trying to bake bricks.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to look,” Aizawa muttered, eyeing the mixture with suspicion.

In the end, they poured in more milk—far more than any normal recipe would call for—until the batter finally became workable. It barely fit into the metal pan, but somehow, it did.

“Can I put a layer of sugar on top? Like they do on TV?”

Aizawa raised a brow.

“At this point, kid, if it turns into a diamond instead of a cake, I won’t be surprised.”

Delighted, Izuku dusted the top with sugar as if adding a gourmet chef’s final touch. And before Shouta could stop him, he had already scooped a spoonful of raw batter and popped it into his mouth, grinning guiltily.

“You shouldn’t eat that,” Shouta grumbled, half-serious.

“But it’s really good!” Izuku protested, licking his lips. “It tastes like the one my uncle used to make.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that didn’t need words.

Carefully, they slid the pan into the oven. Izuku, with almost sacred solemnity, was the one to push it in and close the door as though launching a rocket into space.

“And now?”

“Now… we wait. Thirty, forty minutes. When it starts to smell like cake, we’ll know it’s done.”

The birthday boy, eyes wide and shining, sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the glass door, as if guarding a treasure in the making. Shouta, with nothing better to do, joined him. The two sat on the floor, watching the batter rise. Too much. The cake puffed up beyond expectation. A giant cupcake, on the verge of rebelling against its mold.

“Is that normal?” Izuku asked.

“Definitely not. But at this point… let’s just call it culinary innovation.”

The kitchen filled with the smell of hot chocolate—rich, thick, almost homely. When it came time to take the cake out, Aizawa slipped on an old oven mitt, balanced the heavy tray, and carefully lifted out the swollen mass. It wasn’t a cake. It was… almost a living creature. A giant, misshapen cupcake, expanding and deflating like it was breathing.

“It looks like a mutant chocolate rock,” the boy said in awe. “I love it.”

Izuku leaned forward, eyes sparkling, his small body practically trembling with excitement. Aizawa caught a glimpse of him laughing, rocking on his heels, his face lit up by the simple joy of sharing a cake.

They prepared their cups—bitter coffee for him, sweet hot chocolate for Izuku. The kind Hizashi always liked when the weather turned cold. Sitting at the table, sharing that strange but comforting silence.

But that bubble of peace burst.

A mechanical click echoed in the distance. Shouta’s head snapped up. The sealed door let out a metallic groan and slid to the side with unnatural elegance, probably powered by a quirk.

And suddenly, everything changed.

Without warning, as though an illusion had been forced onto reality, the room was flooded with absurd transformation. Enormous piñatas appeared, and an avalanche of balloons engulfed them. Garlands burst from the walls like they’d grown out of the cracks. Colorful lights flashed from the ceiling, coating the room in a dazzling, artificial glow. Curtains of LEDs flickered to life out of nowhere, scattering dancing reflections across the metal surfaces. And from hidden speakers, a shrill voice blasted out: a birthday melody, warped by a synthesizer until it sounded almost sinister.

All orchestrated with the grotesque whim of a spectacle designed for delight… or, in Aizawa’s words, for punishment.

The table at the center of the room, dressed in a long, luxurious cloth, overflowed with food that screamed excess. Porcelain plates, crystal glasses—a dinner more suited to a corrupt politician than a child. Two chairs, placed with surgical precision. All arranged for a celebration neither of them had asked for.

They froze. In less than a second, a birthday hat had appeared on Shouta’s head. The same on Izuku. Their hands still clutched their steaming cups.

Then he appeared. The door, instead of closing, swung wider with theatrical flair, unveiling the outside as though part of some grotesque show. A massive teddy bear—the largest Shouta had ever seen. Surrounding it, mountains of toys: remote-control cars, dolls, trains, plushies, costumes of every genre and color, gifts wrapped in shimmering paper like mirages.

Sensei’s voice oozed into the room like venom:

“Shouta-kun, stay right there.”

In an instant, every movement Aizawa had planned was paralyzed.

Shit.

“Izuku, come here.” Sensei’s voice was soft, like a doctor about to deliver bad news with a smile. Hypnotic. False.

Aizawa felt the blood pound in his ears. Izuku hesitated, his gaze flicking toward him—scared, searching for something: permission, protection, comfort. Shouta hadn’t even realized when he’d taken the boy’s hand. Only now did he notice he was holding it tightly.

When had that happened?
When had his body reacted without asking him first?

His small hand trembled in his. But then, slowly, Izuku tugged. Not sharply. With resignation.

"It's okay, Zawa," he said, more for him than for himself.

Izuku stepped closer. With every step, the sound of the floating balloons echoed like muffled gunshots. The table before them was absurd: a luxury dinner, with gleaming meats, precise garnishes, and dishes Aizawa didn’t even know the names of.

"Happy birthday, my boy. Look what I’ve prepared just for you… Do you like it?"

Izuku nodded with a broken smile. His eyes flicked to the door and then back to him.

When Sensei noticed that glance, he let out a small laugh.

"Shouta-kun," he said with a sweetness that froze the blood, "why don’t you arrange all my son’s gifts while I celebrate his birthday?"

He didn’t even give him time to respond before his body, as if pulled by invisible strings, began to move. He was dragged out of the hall, pushed away, confined. The door closed behind him with a sharp sound. Locked in with the absurd mission of organizing thousands upon thousands of toys.

The playroom, where mountains of toys awaited, stacked like grotesque offerings. Each object shone with a golden label: "For Izuku. With love: Dad."

Love.

Shouta clenched his teeth.

He began to organize without enthusiasm. It was like moving bricks in a collapsed building. He placed Legos on shelves, shoved plushies into trunks, tried not to look at the massive two-meter teddy bear that seemed to watch him from the corner. It was ridiculous. It was grotesque.

Every box he opened revealed a new excess: clothes, sparkling sneakers, consoles, plushies shaped like heroes and animals, dolls of every size and style, a toy car as big as Izuku himself. There were makeup sets, hairstyling kits, board games, costumes, Legos.

Aizawa felt frustration rising in his chest, roaring like a caged animal. The impotence burned him—the fact that he was kept away, unable to be there with the child, unable to stop this day—this day that could have been normal—from becoming a grotesque spectacle.

He cursed under his breath.

"This is bullshit…"

He spat it into the air, though no one could hear. His gaze fell on an old comic book he found among the piles. It was about a hero from the quirkless era, one of those dreamers who saved the world with courage and justice, not with power.

He didn’t understand why it was there.

The endless torture of organizing mountains of toys was cut short when they called him back from the dining hall. Aizawa walked with heavy steps, anticipating what he would find, though deep down he was already exhausted from that never-ending farce.

He did not expect what awaited him in the dining room.

What greeted him was a six-tiered cake, monumental, decorated with fondant flowers and layers so perfect it looked more like a wedding cake than a child’s birthday cake.

What the hell??

The candles were so many that the surface looked ablaze, a small controlled fire casting shadows against the walls. Shouta didn’t bother counting them; what truly caught his attention was Izuku, standing on a stool to reach the central candle.

The boy, upon seeing him enter, straightened at once, as if Aizawa’s mere presence was more important than the giant cake itself. His eyes lit up like the morning sun, the kind that blinds you so you can’t even see the streets while driving.

"Shouta-kun," the man’s voice was soft, almost musical, as if inviting him to a harmless game, "Izuku wanted us to sing happy birthday together. So… join us."

It wasn’t an order but a request that couldn’t be refused. Aizawa moved slowly until he stood beside the boy. Sensei’s gaze fixed on him, unyielding, his smile widening in a disturbing way, as if savoring the broken and forced image.

Their voices joined in song. Aizawa’s monotone voice, dry and nearly emotionless, contrasted with the villain’s light intonation. They clapped at the end to cheer, a mechanical, hollow gesture. Aizawa silently thanked that no background music had been added to the scene—that detail would have turned the nightmare into an unbearable mockery.

He had never liked birthday parties. They always seemed too childish, with too many colors and too much noise. He’d rather die than go with Hizashi to another one of his nephew’s birthdays. But that night, in front of Izuku, he couldn’t allow himself to refuse. Not when the boy needed that smallest sign of support.

He then realized Izuku was trembling, almost imperceptibly, as he prepared to blow out the giant sparkler blazing at the center of the cake. Aizawa raised his hand and placed his fingers firmly on his shoulder, grounding him in silence.

The boy took a deep breath and blew. In an instant, all the candles extinguished at once, as if the room had been devoured by an invisible quirk. Aizawa’s heart tensed immediately, alert, but he restrained the instinct to be on guard.

"So, Izuku?" Sensei’s voice was far too kind, heavy with expectation, as if he were witnessing a sacred moment. "What wish did you make?"

Izuku looked at him with wide green eyes, nervous but determined, and answered with innocent honesty:

"Wishes aren’t told… or else they won’t come true."

A heavy silence filled the room. The man studied him for a few seconds, then smiled with satisfaction, as though that had been the exact answer he was waiting for.

In the blink of an eye, all the decorations vanished. Streamers, balloons, bits of confetti, even the monumental cake—everything dissolved, erased from reality, leaving the room bare and silent once more. The only thing that remained was the sense that it had all been a shared bad dream.

Sensei leaned over Izuku, wrapping him in a hug that was too long, too possessive, and placed a kiss on his forehead with artificial tenderness.

"Happy tenth birthday, my son."

Aizawa watched him, unmoving. The echo of those words left a knot in his stomach.

When he finally left, Shouta could feel control return to him. Air rushed into his lungs as if he hadn’t breathed in minutes, and a rough sigh escaped before he could stop it. He didn’t realize his hands were trembling, pressed instinctively against his chest, as if he needed to make sure his heart was still there, pounding, hammering with a rhythm that hurt.

He didn’t have time to gather his thoughts before something clung tightly to him. Thin arms wrapped around his waist, squeezing hard, and Izuku’s head buried against him. With the height difference, the boy could barely reach, as if trying to anchor himself to his body. Shouta lowered his gaze, let out a tired huff, and gently ran his hand through the boy’s hair.

“It’s okay…” he murmured, low and rough. “He’s gone now.”

The child lifted his head slightly, his voice cracking.

“I didn’t like not having you near me.”

Aizawa closed his eyes for a moment. That confession pierced him in a way he didn’t want to analyze.

“Me neither, kid…” he replied with dry honesty. “Me neither.”

The gentle touch in his hair turned into a full embrace. Shouta knelt, wrapping the boy in his arms, holding him tighter than he usually allowed himself. Izuku was still trembling, but his breathing was beginning to steady. The contrast hit Shouta hard—the boy looked so fragile, yet clung to him with such strength.

“It’s over now,” he said again, almost like a mantra, as if by repeating it he could convince himself, too.

They stayed like that in silence until the tremors began to fade. When Izuku finally let go, his eyes looked calmer, though they still shimmered with restrained fear.

“Do you want some cake?” Shouta offered, trying to cut through the tension still heavy in the air.

Izuku’s mouth twisted slightly.

“Dad took it all… even the decorations.”

The hero clicked his tongue softly.

“I’m not talking about that ridiculous six-tier tower. I’m talking about our mutant chocolate rock.”

The boy’s frown melted instantly. His eyes widened, and a spark of enthusiasm replaced the fear.

“Oh, yes! Yes, yes, yes! Please!”

Shouta stood and walked to the kitchen counter. Waiting there was the enormous slab of cake they had saved earlier that day. He picked up a large knife and began slicing two thick pieces. The metallic scrape against the tray was almost comforting in its routine. He slid the slices onto plates carelessly, as if the act of serving itself was enough.

He didn’t notice until then that Izuku had started the microwave, two cups warming inside.

“I know it’s reheated and not the same,” the boy said with a mix of timidity and pride. “But it’s still coffee.”

Shouta raised an eyebrow, though inside he felt something in his chest loosen.

“Kid, as long as it’s coffee, I don’t care. Trust me, after watching an entire toy store get emptied out, the last thing I’ll complain about is that.”

When the table was set, Aizawa searched through drawers and cupboards until he finally gave in. He grabbed a box of matches. Izuku’s expectant eyes followed him.

“’Zawa?”

The sharp strike of the match broke the silence. The tiny flame lit his fingers for an instant, and Shouta carefully set it into the slice of cake.

“Listen, kid,” he muttered, almost blunt in his honesty, “I’m not singing ‘happy birthday’ again. But at least you can blow out the candle once more—and this time without him.”

Izuku stared at him in silence, and then a genuine smile—small but bright—spread across his face. A short laugh escaped him, like fresh air after a storm.

And in a single breath, Izuku blew out the lone candle on the cake.

Present Day.

Izuku dreamed too many things, and each one seemed to tear away a different piece of his mind.

Sometimes they were nightmares that chased him until he shook in his bed, so vivid he could feel his body surrendering to fear, unable to hold itself together. Other times, they were sweet dreams—fragile escapes from a confinement he had already accepted as inevitable.

But then there were others—different, strange. Neither dark nor bright, but enigmatic, filled with meanings he could never fully grasp. As if they were hidden messages his subconscious was trying to send him, but he could never decipher.

Whenever his eyes opened to that world again, he recognized it instantly.

He couldn’t say for sure when he had started dreaming of that place—perhaps since he was very little. He never managed to remember clearly once awake, but each time he returned, he knew he had been there before. That it was the same stage welcoming him again and again. Confusing, strange, like a space without boundaries.

The walls dissolved into the air, the ceiling opened up to reveal an impossible sky, and the ground became damp grass—as if everything were alive and lifeless at the same time. He couldn’t tell if he was inside something or standing outside in the middle of nowhere.

And in the middle of that incoherence, there were always chairs.

One of them was his. He knew it. It rose from the ground, made of roots climbing upward and weaving together into a seat. From those same roots sprouted tiny, glowing flowers that seemed to breathe with him. And though it was made of earth, it didn’t stain, it wasn’t heavy—it was comfortable, as if it had been waiting for him long before he knew it would exist.

Izuku was always sitting there, as if that chair were a natural throne, and he just a child too small to fill it.

In front of him stood Kacchan’s chair. Or rather, a mirage of Kacchan.

Izuku had called him many times, but that reflection never answered. It was Bakugo, and it wasn’t; his features seemed to be there, but his essence vibrated differently, as if he were made of pure light and explosions.

The mirage glowed in shades of orange, with eyes blazing like detonations in the middle of darkness. His chair was similar in shape to Izuku’s, but made of another material: cracked cement, suspended dust, black marks of a destructive force that seemed to have carved his seat with bursts of explosions.

Where Izuku’s was life and roots, Kacchan’s was petrified fire, ruins, and contained energy.

Creation and destruction.
Nature and artifice.
Peace and violence.

And every time he dreamed, that mirage of Kacchan changed. It grew a little more, became stronger, more solid. As if the years also passed in that strange place, as if that other reflection of his friend kept a rhythm parallel to his own.

There had once been another chair, but he no longer remembered it. He didn’t remember its mirage either. Or anything about it. He didn’t know when it had disappeared or how he had forgotten it. He only knew that once there had been one, and then it was gone.

But this time something was different. A third chair had appeared, shifting the axis on which they always met. It was no longer just him and Kacchan face to face—now they were in a triangle.

This new chair was made of dark wood, carved with designs that seemed alive: flowers, leaves, thorns, and roses. Red roses, vivid and intense, standing out against the black wood. It looked like homely furniture, something that could belong in a warm dining room, beside tea with honey and cookies. And yet, that warmth hid something else: a weight, an air of confinement. Home and prison at once.

Someone was sitting there.

A mirage in pure red.

His long hair fell forward, his dark clothes wrapped around his body, and though Izuku knew he was familiar, he couldn’t make out his face. He seemed older, an adult. He was folded in on himself, legs pulled close, arms wrapped around his knees, head resting against them.

It was the posture of exhaustion, of someone defending himself from the world by retreating into his own body. Nothing like Kacchan, who was always open, aggressive, leaning back in his chair as if trying to occupy all the space with his force.

Izuku wanted to move, wanted to get closer, but he knew he couldn’t leave his chair. Every time he tried, the dream ended abruptly, and he woke up drenched in sweat. So he stayed, watching, trying to see past the shadows that hid the face of that strange adult.

And then, without warning, that being lifted his head.

The eyes found him.

Izuku felt the air leave his chest. It was as if they pierced through him, as if they had been watching him even before he realized he was there.

And suddenly, he understood.

It wasn’t a stranger.

It wasn’t just any mirage.

That hunched, exhausted figure wrapped in red… was Zawa.

And at that very moment, before he could say anything, before he could try to call out, Izuku woke up.

The first thing Izuku smelled was the dense aroma of freshly brewed coffee. It filled the air, strong and bitter, enough to make him wrinkle his nose as he opened his eyes. He stretched slowly, the heaviness of the dream still clinging to his body, and when he peeked out from the bed, he saw Aizawa in the kitchen.

He was there, moving calmly, preparing breakfast as if nothing had happened, with that tranquility that felt too perfect… too suspicious.

He noticed the soft steam rising from his own cup, already served and waiting on the table. Hot chocolate. Surely Shouta had planned to wake him soon so they could eat breakfast together.

Izuku got up without thinking too much, took the cup in his small hands, and brought it to his lips. The warmth comforted him a little, but the unease didn’t go away.

“Are we going to have a serious talk?” he asked suddenly, without hesitation, with that mix of shyness and childlike courage.

“Why do you say that?” Shouta asked without turning to look at him. His tone was flat, almost lazy, but there was a hidden edge beneath it.

Izuku tilted his head and pointed to the cup Shouta was holding.
“Because that’s not your first coffee. And… you only drink that many cups when you’re stressed. Not just a little… a lot. Like today. And if you’re already that stressed in the morning, then… it means we’re going to talk about something important.”

For a moment, the silence in the room grew heavy. Shouta sighed and finally nodded, without arguing, without looking at him yet.
“Yes, kid. We’re going to have a talk.”

He sat at the table with his coffee, and even from across the room, Izuku could feel it: the weight in his expression, the exhaustion that wasn’t physical but something much deeper. It wasn’t just bitterness in the coffee. Shouta was not okay. Not like always, not with that indifferent air he used as a shield. This was different.

“Zawa… are you okay?” Izuku’s voice trembled a little.

The hero lifted his head, fixing his gaze on Izuku for the first time that morning. His eyes were reddened, still swollen from last night’s tears. The sight hurt Izuku, but it also filled him with a strange warmth. He had seen him fall apart, and he had been able to stay by his side. He had been able to hold him, even just a little. That made him feel… proud. Important.

Shouta, however, looked burdened by a shame Izuku couldn’t understand. Why? He had helped him. He had been there when no one else was.

The adult let out a long, frustrated sigh, as if every word that followed weighed more than he could carry.
“Kid… about last night…”

“It’s okay, Zawa,” Izuku interrupted quickly, as if trying to take the weight off his shoulders. “You don’t have to justify anything. I understand.”

"No, kid. That’s not it." Shouta clenched his jaw, uncomfortable. "That’s not it."

"I understand, really. You don’t have to be ashamed."

"Kid."

"I’ve had relapses too... with you, with Kaina, with Tenc— I mean— my third caretaker... so it’s okay."

The answer came dry, almost cutting:
"It’s not okay, kid."

Izuku swallowed hard. Even so, his words kept flowing.
"You don’t have to keep everything inside. You could tell me. You don’t have to be afraid of crying or of... those things. It would help, you know? It would be good to have a companion."

Shouta set his cup down on the table with a sharp thud, holding back something he didn’t want to let out.

"Midoriya!"

The boy went silent at once, startled. The silence lingered for a moment before Aizawa spoke again, his voice lower.

"Midoriya, listen to me. What happened last night... it shouldn’t have happened. Period."

Izuku opened his mouth, hesitant. "But you shouldn’t keep everything bottled up, you—"

"Listen!" Shouta’s voice cracked slightly as he tried to sound firm. "Listen to me before you talk, alright?"

The boy closed his mouth, nervous.

Shouta drew in a deep breath, as if every word cost him too much. "I’m not just talking about the breakdown I had, though of course it’s related. I’m talking about how I acted."

Izuku looked at him, confused.
"It’s the same... both things."

"No." Shouta shook his head slowly, his shoulders tense. "It’s not. Izuku... I’m an adult. The adult. The only one here who still has his head straight, unlike Sensei."

"Don’t say that..." Izuku protested in a thin voice.

"No, listen to me." This time, Shouta cut him off, his tone harder, though the tremor beneath it didn’t fade. "First: if I want to insult him, I’ll do it because he deserves it." He paused for several seconds, as if the words tasted bitter. "Second: I’m a hero, Midoriya. And my job... is literally defined by not breaking. By enduring everything bad that comes. Heroism isn’t a fantasy. It’s dark. It’s harsh. And being a hero means seeing the world as it is: gray. I’m trained not to fall. Not to lose control. And even so... last night I ended up like that."

He went still, lowering his gaze to the coffee barely left in the cup.
"To me, that’s shameful. A stain on all my years of work."

The silence between them was heavy as stone. The dim light only barely outlined their faces.

"But..."

"Listen... please."

Izuku swallowed and nodded. His hands gripped the hem of his shirt tightly, as if he needed something physical to anchor himself.

"Of course I can’t forget I’m human," Shouta began, his voice low, almost hoarse. "I can’t forget this... is an unusual situation. And it overwhelms me. From the very first day. Not knowing what they told my family, if they think I’m dead, if they know the truth... it eats away at me. And the..." he stopped, his jaw tense, "the control... and the lack of it. Sometimes I feel it’s too much. And the worst part is thinking about you, Midoriya. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I just want the best for you. Which would mean leaving this place for somewhere safe with you. But as you see, we’re still here."

Izuku opened his mouth to answer, but Zawa’s expression stopped him. Shouta needed to let it out—everything.

"And it eats at me... all of this. You, specifically. Not because you’re a problem, but because... I feel like I failed you. That we all failed you. All of us."

"That’s not true!" Izuku’s voice cut through the air, almost desperate. "I don’t blame you!"

Shouta closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply.

"I know. But you’ve been locked here for two years. How could I not feel it?" His voice sank even lower, and for a moment it sounded more tired than ever. "I’ve been away from Hizashi, from my colleagues... and sometimes I think maybe they already consider me dead. And that... that’s not easy to swallow."

Izuku listened in silence. He wasn’t used to seeing him like this. Eraserhead, the unshakable hero, so vulnerable before him. Part of his mind wanted to tell him it was alright, that he didn’t have to carry it all... but another part, smaller, was afraid of what it meant to see Shouta like that.

"Last night I lost control," Aizawa confessed, staring down at the cup. "And yes, I already know what you’re going to say: that it wasn’t my fault. But that doesn’t change the fact that I need to stay on my feet. I’m the only adult with reason here… the only one who can think calmly. And above all… I’m the only one who can remind you that you are a child. Because that’s what you are, Midoriya. A child. Intelligent, brave, far too mature for your age… but a child all the same. And nothing should change that."

The words struck Izuku with a strange weight. Part of him wanted to argue, to shout that he could handle everything, that he was fine… but another part, deep inside, felt relief at hearing them.

"When you act so mature, when you try to calm me down… do you know what I think?" Shouta looked straight at him, with that searing seriousness. "I think you believe you can handle everything, that you can shoulder all of this by yourself. That you think you don’t have the right to cry, to be afraid, to feel small, to feel vulnerable. But you do. You have every right to all of that."

Izuku lowered his gaze, his chest aching with a strange knot.

"And you don’t?" he murmured.

"I’m an adult," Aizawa answered, measured.

"That doesn’t change it…" Izuku lifted his eyes, heavy with unshed tears. "This is hard for you too."

A dense silence. Shouta held his gaze, and for a second Izuku feared he had said too much. But the hero only sighed, tired.

"I know. But when I say ‘I’m an adult,’ I mean I’ve lived longer, I have more experience. It’s not that it doesn’t affect me, Midoriya. Of course it does. Sometimes I fall apart and I can’t endure, like last night. It happens. I’m human. It’s just that… it’s my role to carry this. You should be in school, with friends, learning, discovering. That’s your stage. That’s childhood. And I don’t want you to lose it completely because of…" he grimaced, bitter, "this captivity, that madman. And yes, it might force you to mature, to miss out on experiences that should’ve been ordinary. But they’re… wonderful, and beautiful."

Shouta looked him in the eye, and there was something in his voice Izuku had never heard before: fear. A fear so human it shook him.

"Childhood shapes you, kid. And I don’t want yours ruined any more than it already is."

Izuku bowed his head, processing those words. His fingers twisted together, nervous. He felt that if he spoke, his voice would break.

Shouta let out another long sigh.

"I don’t want you to think I can handle everything. I’m not invincible. I will fall, I will fail… and you know it. But I need you to understand something, Midoriya." He leaned toward him, his voice lower, steadier. "You don’t have to be the adult here. That role belongs to me. I’m the one trained to withstand extreme situations, the one who chose a job full of risks. You didn’t."

Izuku looked at him with wide eyes, shining with moisture, like a cornered kitten unsure whether to leap or curl up.

"But… you won’t carry all of this alone… right?"

Shouta held that gaze. And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to be honest, without walls or filters.

"As long as you don’t force yourself to be the adult, no." He paused, as if savoring the weight of the words. "I just need you to let me be. Can you do that, Midoriya? Can you allow me to carry what was taken from you, what you should never have to bear?"

The silence after that question was almost sacred.

Izuku pressed his lips together, his little hands trembling, but he nodded slightly, a small, vulnerable gesture.

"Thank you, kid… thank you."

The words lingered in the air for a moment, until Izuku rose from the chair and walked slowly toward Shouta. He received him in a firm embrace, wrapping carefully around his small shoulders. The boy squeezed his eyes shut against his chest.