Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mitsuki focused on the sound of her heels clicking against the tiled floor of Aldera’s hallway, doing her best to ignore the stares from the few irresponsible students who had decided to skip class and loiter in the corridors. She could feel their teenage eyes locked onto her body. Maybe once upon a time, she might’ve enjoyed that kind of attention—but now, it was just annoying.

“Ugh, control yourselves, you damn horny brats,” she thought as she walked.

But she held her tongue. Contrary to what most people believed about her, Mitsuki was generally a calm woman—she didn’t go around yelling at everyone all the time. Besides, she wasn’t in any position to be shouting at other people’s kids. That was the job of their own damn parents.

(Who could certainly do a better job of teaching their kids not to skip class or ogle a married woman so shamelessly.)

Wanting to shake off the feeling of being watched and judged, she reminded herself why she was even there in the first place. Anyone would’ve assumed she was at the school to pick up her son, Katsuki, after he'd gotten into trouble for his usual bad temper. And in part, Mitsuki would admit that such assumptions weren’t entirely wrong—though they weren’t exactly right either.

After all… it wasn’t her son who had gotten into trouble this time.

Her thoughts—and her footsteps—came to a stop as she finally reached the door to the principal’s office, staring at the dull gray metal with a small plaque that read “Principal Takahuma.” She inhaled, then exhaled, trying to push out the nerves and unease from her chest with each breath. Mitsuki already had a gut feeling this conversation wouldn’t be an easy one.

She raised her hand and knocked twice on the door’s hard surface, the sound of her knuckles echoing against the metal.

“Come in,” replied a muffled male voice from the other side.

Mitsuki took one last breath—still unsure what exactly she would find, though the outlines were already forming in her mind—then opened the door before she could hesitate or change her mind.

Aldera’s principal’s office wasn’t anything special. A desk, a few filing cabinets lining the walls, a nearly empty trophy case, and a couple of dying plants wilting in the corners. The most notable thing in the room was the desk at the center, behind which sat a bald, heavyset man. A pair of expensive-looking glasses rested on his nose, and the two small antennae protruding from his forehead were just another forgettable detail about Principal Takahuma—at least to Mitsuki, who barely registered him at all.

Her attention had already locked onto the other person in the room.

A green-haired boy sat slouched in one of the chairs facing the desk, his head bowed, staring down at his hands. He didn’t react to her presence—unlike the man behind the desk.

“Ah, Mrs. Bakugou!” the man greeted, spreading his arms in a performative gesture of welcome—his politeness clearly an act. “We really appreciate you arriving so quickly.”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t have anything else planned today,” she replied calmly, choosing not to call out his insincerity as she sat down in the empty chair next to the green-haired boy. “But I’d like to know exactly why I was called here.”

“Ah, well, you see, Mrs. Bakugou… young Midoriya here…” he threw a brief glance at the boy, filled with clear disdain and contempt, “was involved in a fight with three of his classmates.”

Mitsuki looked at the green-haired boy, who still had his head down, eyes fixed on his hands. Now she noticed the scrapes and dried blood on them. His uniform was dirty and disheveled, the sleeves scorched, and smudges of dirt covering the fabric. She stared a few seconds longer, looking for more traces—more signs of the fight.

(Waiting for him to lift his head and meet her gaze.)

But the boy kept staring at his bloodied hands, ignoring both her and the man beside him.

Mitsuki turned her head and looked back at the principal, just in time to catch him quickly wiping away a small smile from his face.

“And where are the other students? Their parents?” she asked, holding back the rising anger sparked by that smile. The principal raised an eyebrow, curious, waiting for elaboration. “If there was a fight, then the other kids involved should be here with their parents too, shouldn’t they?”

The man remained silent for a moment, taking off his expensive glasses and cleaning the lenses with a handkerchief from his pocket. Then he put them back on, laced his fingers together, and finally responded.

“We’ve already called the other parents, Mrs. Bakugou,” he said calmly—speaking a sentence that sent a chill down her spine. “They’re with their sons in the infirmary right now. Poor boys are being treated for the bruises and burns Midoriya caused during the fight.”

Mitsuki didn’t show it on her face, but a cold sensation settled in her chest as she realized this situation might be worse than she had initially imagined. She glanced sideways at the green-haired boy beside her, but he still wasn’t paying attention to the conversation—his focus remained on the blood on his hands.

“As you can imagine, Mrs. Bakugou, the boys’ parents are quite upset and were considering suing you,” the principal said casually. Mitsuki’s eyes widened in shock at his words. The man, however, looked completely unbothered by the entire situation—or by the condition of his students. A displeasing smile tugged at his lips as he went on, “Fortunately, I was able to calm them down and help them see that a lawsuit would only end up harming your family, Mrs. Bakugou. There’s no need to ruin your family’s spotless reputation and your son’s bright future—especially not over the actions of a troubled child who isn’t even part of the family.”

A flicker of anger flared in Mitsuki’s mind, cutting through the pressure and worry. Because the truth was—Izuku was part of the family.

(At least legally...)

“So instead, they’ve demanded that Midoriya receive a punishment proportional to their sons’ injuries,” the principal continued, still smiling like he was doing everyone a favor. “Thankfully, we were able to come to an agreement: Midoriya will receive a two-week suspension. A fair punishment, wouldn’t you say?”

Clenching her teeth hard and suppressing the urge to yell at the smug bastard, Mitsuki rose stiffly from her chair. The green-haired boy followed her lead and stood up as well.

“Thank you very much for your help, Principal Takahuma,” she forced herself to say, bowing politely so he wouldn’t see the scowl forming on her face. “I deeply appreciate your actions...”

Out of the corner of her eye, Mitsuki noticed Izuku bowing too, clutching his dirty yellow backpack tightly against his chest.

“Think nothing of it, Mrs. Bakugou. It was my pleasure,” the man said, practically basking in the authority his position gave him. “You can go now.”

Without another word—and without wanting to say anything at all—Mitsuki and Izuku straightened up and turned toward the door, never looking back. She opened it and stepped aside, letting the green-haired boy walk out first before following him and closing the door behind them.

. . .

The walk to Mitsuki’s car was silent—neither of them knew what to say after everything that had just happened. When they finally reached the vehicle, they got in without a word. Mitsuki took the driver’s seat, and Izuku climbed into the back. Both buckled their seatbelts… and nothing more.

Silence stretched between them. Izuku sat with his head bowed, staring at his scraped, bloody hands. Mitsuki pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling like the weight of an ocean was pressing down on her chest. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself and think carefully about what to say to the teenager sitting behind her.

(She never really knew how to deal with him.)

“Izuku,” she said firmly, feeling ready as she turned in her seat to look at him. The boy let out a faint hum in response, just enough to show he was listening—but he didn’t lift his gaze. “Izuku. I want to know what happened. Why did you fight your classmates? I know you're not a violent kid.”

(Or at least, that’s what she liked to believe…)

Izuku remained silent, still toying with his injured hands, his eyes fixed on them. Mitsuki was just starting to think he was going to ignore her—when, finally, he answered. Only three words.

“They insulted Mom...”

“Oh...” she exhaled softly, caught off guard by the response. “I see...”

Without saying anything else, Mitsuki fixed her gaze on the steering wheel, her mind turning over what he’d said. She understood that feeling all too well—that fierce, protective anger toward anyone who dared insult the ray of sunshine that was Inko Midoriya.

No one understood it better than her. She had done the same thing so many times in the past that she’d lost count. She’d been doing it ever since she met that sweet green-haired girl who loved candy and sunsets.

When was the last time she defended Inko...?

It had definitely been before they became adults...

Before Inko met that guy, Hisashi...

Before Inko became one of the most infamous villains in Japanese history...

(Mitsuki could still remember those weeks after Inko’s first crime alongside Hisashi…)

(Weeks filled with denial, confusion, anger, fear, sadness, and loss…)

Nowadays, she didn’t even flinch when someone insulted Inko. Because she knew those people had every right to hate her—for the things she’d done. Mitsuki understood that. She accepted it.

(But that didn’t mean she liked it.)

She said nothing. And neither did Izuku.

She started the car and began to drive.

. . .

After a while of driving in silence, letting the sound of the engine and the city’s noise fill the space between them, they finally arrived at the green-haired boy’s home. A house granted to Izuku Midoriya by the state and the HPSC—due to his unique situation and for “everyone’s safety.”

(And when they said “everyone,” they meant her and the rest of the population—not Izuku.)

The state and the HPSC called it a “temporary care and protection residence,” but Mitsuki knew exactly what it really was: a cage. Even the outside of the house gave off that feeling, despite its initial appearance as an ordinary suburban home: the indifferent gray of the walls, the subtle “seismic reinforcements” gridding the bulletproof windows, the dead front yard replaced by concrete, and the thick metal front door equipped with a peephole.

All of that was already far too much for a fourteen-year-old kid. And yet, Mitsuki could still spot a discreet camera watching the front entrance—along with the other cameras she knew were inside the house. And then there was the house’s location. Within a 400-meter radius stood a police station, a fire station, and a hero agency!

If all of that didn’t scream that Izuku was being watched inside his own home, then Mitsuki didn’t know what would. The only bit of comfort she could find was the fact that, at least for now, they hadn’t assigned anyone to live with him for even closer supervision.

(Yet...)

“Here we're,” she announced, stopping the car but not turning it off.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Bakugou,” the green-haired boy said, opening the door and stepping out of the car, his yellow backpack hanging from his arm.

Mitsuki blinked at the way he addressed her. “Hey, kid, you know you don’t have to be so formal with me, right?” she rolled her eyes, uncomfortable with him calling her that—maybe because she was supposed to be his guardian.

(Or maybe because he was Inko’s son...)

“You can just call me Mitsuki.”

The green-haired boy froze at her words, his eyes widening in clear surprise.

“Oh… I… Thank you, Mitsuki-san,” he finally said, avoiding eye contact, unsure of how to respond.

She snorted, smiling at his awkwardness. “Anytime, kid.”

The boy gave Mitsuki a quick bow before turning and heading toward his house, never looking back at her. She watched how his green hair swayed in the wind as he opened the door and stepped inside. The sight brought back nostalgic memories—and a strange sense of hope—to Mitsuki.

(She hoped she wasn’t repeating her mistakes by trusting him.)

(She didn’t want to fail him the way she had failed Inko...)

Chapter Text

Izuku’s eyes quickly scanned the words and questions printed on the sheet in front of him, while his hand absentmindedly scribbled answers in the corresponding spaces of the form. His mind processed what he was being asked, already jumping into it almost unconsciously.

He stayed like that for a few minutes, until he reached the end of the page and decided it was a good moment to take a break. Izuku let out a sigh as he set the pen down, feeling his eyes and wrist relax from the strain he had put them under for the last several minutes. He ran a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose in exhaustion.

“Seriously…?” He thought in mild frustration, squinting at the form on his desk. “I’ve been studying nonstop for the last two weeks just so I wouldn’t fall behind in class, and the first thing we do when I come back is… a form about our future plans?”

Yeah, not exactly what he was expecting.

But there was nothing he could do about it except resign himself and fulfill his duties as a student. Izuku let out another sigh and looked at the final question left unanswered:

“What do you want to be when you graduate?”

What did he want to be? Izuku didn’t have a clear answer to that question.

He wasn’t someone with big aspirations or much ambition. The life he was already living was fairly “average,” despite his circumstances, and he didn’t have a specific goal. The only thing he could think of that he genuinely wanted was to be able to help people.

But that wasn’t really a goal… was it? He didn’t know.

No matter how hard he tried, Izuku couldn’t come to a conclusion about what he wanted to be for himself. Most people who knew who he was—and who his parents were—simply told him what he was going to become.

That he would follow in his parents’ footsteps and become a villain.

Izuku stared at the question, unable to think of anything to write. He glanced at the rest of the questions and their respective answers, hoping to find something that might inspire him.

(At least so he could finish the form and avoid getting punished for leaving it incomplete.)

(It wouldn’t be the first time they did something like that to him…)

And then he found something that could help.

“Which high school do you plan to attend?”

Izuku’s eyes landed on the answer written below: “U.A. Academy.”

U.A. Academy was known across Japan as the top hero school, famous for all the pro heroes who had graduated from it. But when Izuku had chosen this school, he had been thinking about the other courses it offered, not the hero course.

(As if he, the son of two of Japan’s most infamous villains, would even consider applying to become a hero.)

(Izuku had no doubt that anyone who heard that would think it was an absurd, laughable idea.)

(Even he thought so…)

The General Education, Support, and Management courses. Izuku knew he could pick any of those and graduate without too much trouble, since he was aware that he wasn’t a bad student and his grades weren’t terrible.

(Fights and detentions were a different matter—it wasn’t like he was the one starting them.)

(It’s just… why did they have to pick fights with him of all people? Couldn’t they just leave him alone?)

He could choose from any of those three courses—preferably General Education or Management—and have a possible career as an average office worker. That would be a calm, comfortable, peaceful life for him.

But it wasn’t what he wanted…

“Whatever your dream is, I’ll support you in everything you need.”

Izuku closed his eyes, breathing deeply as the weight of those words settled on his shoulders, making him feel even more downhearted. He leaned back in his seat, staring at the sheet of paper that was causing him so much mental trouble, offering no comfort in return.

He didn’t move for a few seconds, his eyes fixed on the form he was starting to hate. But then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the teacher walking between the desks, collecting the papers in a stack held in his arms.

His reaction was almost immediate. He grabbed his pen and wrote down the first answer that came to mind, without a second thought.

“Doctor.”

(He didn’t question why that was the first thing that popped into his head…)

“Sorry, Mom…” he thought sadly, with a hint of shame, as he set the pen down again and watched the teacher take his paper without even looking at him, placing it on top of the pile. “But I don’t have a dream to fight for…”

. . .

After that unexpected—and very unwelcome—questionnaire about his career ideas, classes continued as usual for Izuku Midoriya. Which meant boring lessons on subjects from the curriculum he had already read through in his rush to avoid falling behind, classmates barely paying attention and instead whispering to each other, and the occasional sneer or disdainful remark directed at his mere presence and existence.

Yeah, that was a normal day for Izuku Midoriya.

The most notable event of the day came during the last class, when the teacher entered the noisy classroom carrying a pile of papers in his arms. The very same papers were their future plans forms.

The teacher let the stack fall onto his desk with a thud that silenced the students’ chatter. The class stared in surprise at their usually laid-back teacher, quickly sitting up straight and attentive in response to the professional aura the man was giving off in that moment.

“Now, kids, I know you’re in your last year of middle school, but this is an important time to start thinking about your future!” By now, nearly every student was looking at him, hanging on his words. The teacher gestured to the pile of papers on his desk. “This morning, you were given a form to fill out about what you plan to do after graduating from Aldera.”

Izuku noticed most of his classmates shifting in their seats or exchanging quick glances with each other, unsure where the teacher was going with this.

“And according to the school protocol, I should be reviewing them and having a serious talk with you about your future plans…” the change in tone and the way his shoulders trembled with contained excitement relaxed the students, infecting them with the same mood. “But…!” With a big, confident grin, he grabbed the stack of completed forms and threw them across the classroom. “You all want to be heroes, right?!”

The reaction was exactly as expected. Students began shouting and whooping with excitement, jumping out of their seats and activating their Quirks for the world to see. Papers, bubbles, rocks, and hair flew everywhere as if they were celebrating a party. It was chaos—chaos the teacher watched with confidence and a touch of pride, as though the scene could be nothing else.

But among all the students, there were two who weren’t part of the uproar and instead kept to their own pace. One was a spiky-haired boy with sharp, ruby-red eyes, staring at the ceiling in boredom while resting his feet on his desk, waiting for the commotion to die down.

(Waiting for his moment to shine…)

The other was Izuku himself, hunched over his desk, too focused on his own personal notes to care about the chaos of his classmates or the unprofessional attitude of his teacher, who wasn’t making any real effort to quiet or correct them.

“I know, I know, all of you have amazing Quirks, but that doesn’t mean you should be using them in the middle of class.”

At those words, the spiky-haired boy’s bored expression shifted into a triumphant smirk.

(This was his moment!)

“Sensei!” His sudden shout silenced everyone else, even Izuku paused his note-taking to curiously listen to what the boy would say. “Don’t lump me in with all these extras! I’m on a completely different league!!”

Izuku rolled his eyes and shook his head, returning to his notes, far too used to and tired of the boy’s arrogance to bother reacting. The rest of the class didn’t follow his example, instead shouting back at the boy with anger and indignation.

“What the hell are you talking about, Bakugou?!”

“You’re an idiot!!”

“Don’t think you’re better than us!!”

The target of all this yelling, Katsuki Bakugou, simply laughed at his classmates’ outrage, clearly enjoying the attention if his mocking grin was any indication. It was almost like an adult man watching a litter of puppies barking at him, trying to look intimidating.

(Too intimidated by him to actually face him head-on.)

“Hahahahaha! Extras like you should just start shutting up!”

Bakugou’s laughter and taunts only enraged his classmates further, and they might have continued shouting if the teacher hadn’t interrupted.

“Oh, right,” he said out of nowhere, holding up Bakugou’s form. “Bakugou, you’re planning to go to U.A., right?”

That little bit of information stopped all the yelling, replacing it with stunned silence. But it didn’t last long—soon the classroom erupted again, this time with shouts of amazement and disbelief, tossing out facts about the difficulty of U.A.’s entrance exam. Bakugou laughed at their awe, standing on top of his desk with a victorious grin as he loudly declared his plans to rise to the top of the hero world.

Izuku, for his part, tuned out entirely from Bakugou’s grand and eloquent speech, far too tired of hearing it to endure it again. Internally, he’d rather be anywhere else than stuck listening to Bakugou talk, but unfortunately, he couldn’t just leave the classroom without a reason.

(At least not without getting punished…)

So instead, he focused entirely on his notes—his analysis of the Quirks and abilities of the two heroes he had seen that morning on his way to school, stopping a thief with what seemed to be a gigantification Quirk: Kamui Woods and Mt. Lady.

Both had interesting and fascinating Quirks.

(Like all Quirks…)

“Kamui Woods (Shinji Nishiya) — Quirk: “Arbor” (Mutant Type): Converts the flesh of his limbs into wood he can control/stretch at will. Uses the branches he produces to maneuver in combat and immobilize villains. The wood appears to be stronger and more flexible than normal—an enhanced version of Black Walnut, perhaps? Producing that much wood must cost a lot of energy. Does the quality of the wood vary depending on nutrients in the body? What would be the best diet? Probably rich in nitrogen, phosphorus, and so on.”

“Vulnerable to explosions or fire-type Quirks. A Quirk like mine could, without much difficulty, defeat him and kil—”

Izuku quickly scratched out that last line.

(“Don’t think that, don’t think that, don’t think that…” he repeated to himself like a mantra, feeling horrible for even considering it and not wanting to dig deeper into it.)

Wanting to shake off those thoughts, he turned to his newest notes on the rookie heroine who had debuted that morning.

“Mt. Lady (——) — Quirk: “——” (Transformation): Allows her to increase her size up to roughly 20 meters. The increased size grants greater physical strength. Is the growth full-body, or can she control which parts enlarge? Can she control how much she grows?”

“I need more information…” he thought with a frown, unsatisfied with how little he had on the new heroine.

Then, a few words about him yanked him out of his little world.

“Now that I check…” the teacher said, a small mocking smile on his lips as he held up another form, “Midoriya’s also planning to go to U.A.”

Izuku blinked at the words, realizing he had suddenly become the center of the class’s attention. His classmates stared at him in silence—until the usual insults and derisive laughter began.

“Midoriya, a hero?! What a joke!!”

“As if someone like he could be a hero!!”

“I knew he was stupid, but this much?!”

Those and more were thrown his way. Izuku stayed silent, leaning back in his chair while the rain of insults and contempt fell over him. At the front of the class, the teacher hid a satisfied smile behind his hand as he watched the results of his words.

The green-haired boy didn’t react, not to any of it—like a punching bag, taking all the hits without giving any back.

“Don’t respond,” he thought, closing his eyes and breathing to calm his tense fists. “It’s useless.”

And it was. Because if he did respond, if he decided to fight back against all that hatred, it would only end in a fight—and another punishment for him.

And only for him.

(He was always the only one at fault.)

So he stayed silent, which his classmates took as a free pass to insult him all they wanted without consequences, calling his plans stupid. But among them, there was one who didn’t see Izuku’s plans as stupid.

He saw them as a threat.

“Fuck you, Akumen!!” Bakugou’s shout was punctuated by an explosion on Izuku’s desk, silencing the entire class.

Izuku didn’t immediately react to the outburst, instead watching as the smoke from the blast dissipated, revealing scorch marks on the desk. He sighed, lamenting the state of his desk and thankful for his quick reaction to move his notebook out of harm’s way.

(He had no desire to rewrite all that work.)

Aside from lifting his emerald eyes to meet Bakugou’s ruby-red glare, Izuku didn’t say or do anything—something that only angered the spiky-haired boy more.

“Listen up, you damn Akumen!!” He growled, grabbing Izuku by the collar and pulling their faces close, the green-haired boy staring back with a cold, annoyed expression.

Smoke began to rise from Bakugou’s hands, scorching the uniform’s collar—his Quirk flaring subconsciously from the anger and utter disdain he felt for Izuku.

“If you dare show your damn face at U.A., I’ll personally throw you into Tartarus so you can rot next to that bastard father of yours!!”

That struck a nerve.

Izuku’s eyes widened at Bakugou’s words, then hardened as his teeth clenched. An expression of pure rage met Bakugou’s look of hatred. His fists clenched tight, nails digging into his palms and drawing a bit of blood as smoke began to rise from them as well.

The rest of the class stepped back, watching with anticipation the apparent imminent fight between Aldera’s “promised star” and its “shame.” Grins spread across their faces, and a few phones were already recording. Everyone went silent, holding their breath as they waited for one of the two—Bakugou or Izuku—to throw the first punch and start the brawl.

But then the teacher decided to step in, apparently remembering his job as an authority figure.

(Though without moving from his desk.)

“Well, I think that’s enough,” he said with a faint tone of disappointment and resignation. “Bakugou, please return to your seat so we can continue the class.”

It didn’t seem like either boy heard him at first, but then Bakugou clicked his tongue in annoyance, shoving Izuku roughly back into his seat before turning and heading to his own.

Izuku followed the spiky-haired boy with his eyes, fists still clenched and smoking, before taking a long breath and trying to calm down. Around him, his classmates were settling back into their seats, murmuring about how disappointing the whole thing had been and how they had been hoping for a fight. Izuku ignored them, organizing his school supplies on his now-burned desk, deciding the day was over—nothing else could happen to him now.

After all, this was just another normal day for Izuku Midoriya.

. . .

Classes for the day had ended, and Izuku finally had the chance to escape the stares and whispers of his classmates. As he walked toward the exit of Aldera’s grounds, he caught sight, out of the corner of his eye, of some students from other courses heading to the school gym—probably to fulfill their obligations in physical sports clubs.

He decided not to think too much about it and continued down the sidewalk after leaving Aldera. He wasn’t part of any of the few small clubs the school had, and he had no plans to join one in the future.

Izuku’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, replaying with perfect clarity everything that had happened that day. He walked without thinking about his destination, his mind instead on the teacher’s revelations, his classmates’ mockery, and Bakugou’s threats.

(What kind of obsession did that bastard have with him? Why did he always have to be in Bakugou’s sights?! He didn’t even want to compete with him!)

But among all those unpleasant things, there was one that bothered and frustrated him more than anything else.

“What do you want to be when you graduate?”

That damn question. Somehow, Izuku felt it was the cause of everything bad that had happened today.

(Because it reminded him that he didn’t have a future… or at least not one that would make him happy.)

(A civilian or a villain—those were his only options.)

(The only ones he could see, and the only ones the world offered him.)

“This is stupid,” he muttered with a growl, shaking his head and clenching his teeth as he walked through the city. “I shouldn’t be this upset over a damn question…”

He lifted his gaze, deciding not to think about it anymore, and found himself looking at a small, empty children’s playground. Izuku stared at it for a moment, taking in the tiny attractions made for kids to play on while their parents watched and chatted.

(A place he’d never been able to play in as a child.)

(At least, not without an entire squad of police officers and heroes showing up to arrest his parents…)

Letting out a weary sigh, Izuku decided to sit on the nearest bench. Once seated, with a clear view of the playground, he slipped his yellow backpack off his shoulders and placed it between his legs.

“What—?” He said without thinking when he noticed the faint burn marks on the cuffs of his uniform jacket—probably from when he’d been holding back from burning Bakugou in the face. He frowned and clicked his tongue. “Great, now I’ll have to fix it when I get home…” he muttered irritably, noticing more burn marks on the jacket’s collar.

The green-haired boy leaned back against the bench, feeling his irritation only grow with the events of the day and the consequences they’d have for his near future.

“I need to relax,” he thought, letting out a tense sigh. “And now.”

Almost automatically, he glanced around, making sure there was no one nearby to see him or interrupt his plans. Fortunately, the park and its surroundings seemed completely deserted.

(After all, one of the best pieces of advice his father had ever given him was: “If you’re doing something bad—or something you shouldn’t—make sure no one sees you.”)

A small smile formed on Izuku’s face. “Perfect.”

He crouched down and unzipped his backpack, rummaging through the inside side pocket. After a few seconds, his hand found the object he was looking for, and he pulled it out with barely contained enthusiasm.

A half-empty pack of cigarettes.

“I need to buy more,” he thought absently, taking one from the pack and putting it back in his bag.

He placed the cigarette between his lips and lit it with a small flame that appeared at the tip of his finger. Then he inhaled, feeling the smoke travel down his throat and into his lungs.

The effect was immediate.

(Just as effective as always.)

Izuku’s shoulders relaxed, and all the irritation in his mind faded away like smoke in the wind. He stopped inhaling when a third of the cigarette had burned away, holding his breath and savoring the strange pleasure of the smoke filling his lungs before releasing it.

He watched with satisfaction as a cloud of smoke drifted lazily into the air, only for the day’s wind to scatter it until no trace remained—except for the smell of tobacco.

“God, I love smoking…” he couldn’t help but think, a strange mix of affection and nostalgia in his chest as he looked at the cigarette. “I definitely get why Dad smoked so much at home, even if it made Mom mad.”

Izuku remembered those brief arguments from his childhood over his father’s addiction—his mother scolding him for smoking inside and in front of their son.

(“You shouldn’t be smoking in the house—especially not in front of Izuku!” Inko would snap, holding a young Izuku in her arms. And Hisashi would always bow his head in shame, the cigarette still between his lips, mumbling, “I just can’t help it…”)

(It still amazed Izuku how often they argued, despite how much they loved each other.)

The boy inhaled from his cigarette again, feeling the smoke travel down his throat and fill his lungs. He held it in for a long moment before releasing it with a sigh. It was a small habit he’d developed—keeping the smoke in his lungs longer than most people would.

He knew anyone else would be worried to see a boy his age smoking like this, fearing he’d develop serious health problems. But Izuku had nothing to worry about.

One of the advantages of his Quirk was a high resistance and immunity to fire and smoke. He could smoke as much as he wanted without worrying about lung or heart issues.

(It was one of the few times in life he could say luck had been on his side.)

Now much more relaxed, and with just one last drag left before finishing the cigarette, he decided to stay in the park a while longer and work on his analysis notes, taking advantage of the peace and quiet.

(Or at least the lack of anyone criticizing his hobby…)

He pulled a notebook from his backpack, its cover labeled “Quirk Analysis (Heroes) No. 7”, along with a pen and his phone—which was far from the latest model and even had a keypad.

(But that was fine; he didn’t want anything flashy. Just something cheap that could do what he needed.)

Opening the browser, he quickly typed in “Mt. Lady,” pulling up at least 17 articles and web pages dedicated to the new heroine. A smile spread across Izuku’s face as he clicked on one and began to write, immersing himself in his favorite pastime.

. . .

Izuku looked down at his now-updated notes with a satisfied smile.

"Mt. Lady (Yu Takeyama) — Quirk 'Gigantification' (Transformation): allows her to increase her size up to 20.62 meters. The size increase grants her greater physical strength and endurance. The growth is full-body and cannot be controlled to stop at a smaller height. Useful for dealing with villains with super-strength Quirks; disadvantage against numerous villains or in enclosed spaces."

He closed his notebook. “That’s enough for today. I should head home,” he decided after checking the time and seeing the sun was already beginning to set. “But first, I’ll grab some food. All I’ve got left are leftovers.”

He packed all his things into his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, stood up from the bench, and headed toward the central district of Musutafu. After several minutes walking among shops and small businesses, he finally spotted, in the distance, the convenience store where he usually bought his meals.

(The katsudon from that place was phenomenal.)

(Though it would never beat the katsudon his mom used to make...)

BOOM!!!

All his thoughts screeched to a halt at the sound of an explosion. Like everyone else on the street, he turned toward the source. Even the passing cars slowed down for a moment.

For a brief moment, the street was silent, everyone frozen and listening as more explosions and shouting rang out from a few blocks away. But then, most people shrugged and went back to whatever they were doing. A couple of teens and some adults even started heading toward the noise, curiosity piqued to see what was happening and what sort of villain was causing all the chaos.

In short, everyone acted as though nothing out of the ordinary was going on—just another day in a society full of heroes and villains.

Everyone except Izuku.

He froze, the sound of that first explosion pounding in his head like a drum.

And then, without knowing why, he started running.

He sprinted down the sidewalk, completely forgetting about the convenience store, his mind focused solely on the apparent villain attack just a few streets away. He was so intent on getting there that he ignored the complaints and shoves from pedestrians he bumped into along the way.

(Why was he running? Why did he even care what was happening? This had nothing to do with him.)

Finally, after a relentless dash, he reached a street blocked off by a crowd of people. A few heroes—like Backdraft and Death Arms—were there alongside a squad of police officers, keeping the crowd back from danger and working to contain the damage.

Izuku joined the throng, pushing his way through until he caught sight of the scene.

It was complete chaos.

The entire street was littered with fire and debris. Explosions shook buildings, sending chunks of rubble crashing to the ground. He spotted several injured civilians huddled against a wall, trying to stay as far from the villain as possible.

Izuku’s gaze locked on the villain—an enormous, sentient mass of sludge, almost certainly the result of his Quirk—when something caught his attention.

“He’s got a hostage,” his eyes widened as he noticed a head and a pair of hands sticking out of the sludge.

And then he saw the hostage’s spiky ash-blond hair, his school uniform, his crimson eyes, and the explosions going off in his hands.

A cold dread settled in Izuku’s chest as he instantly recognized him.

“Bakugou...”

He froze again, his mind shutting out everything else as it focused solely on the ash-blond boy. Bakugou was thrashing wildly, fighting for his life, trying to rip the sludge from his face so he could breathe. His hands—trapped in the muck—kept firing off explosions, whether by instinct or deliberate effort to hurt the villain. But they were useless, only damaging the surrounding buildings and keeping the heroes away.

At some point in his struggle, Bakugou’s head turned toward the crowd watching him fight for his life—and their eyes met.

Emerald green clashed with ruby red. Those eyes, which always radiated confidence, pride, strength, and fury...

Now held only fear.

And with that realization, Izuku’s mind reached a single, unavoidable conclusion.

“He needs help...”

. . .

Toshinori Yagi was many things: the hero All Might, the Symbol of Peace, World’s Number One Hero, and the eighth wielder of One For All.

But right now, he didn’t feel like any of those things.

No.

He felt like a failure.

Hidden behind a wall, he watched helplessly as the boy was held hostage by the sludge villain, fighting and struggling with all his might.

Toshinori felt like an idiot. He was supposed to have caught the villain, but had lost track of him while chasing him through the sewers. And now, after finally making it back to the surface, a young man was suffering because of his mistakes.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” He cursed inwardly, gritting his teeth as the scar on his side burned. “If only I hadn’t run out of time and reached my limit!”

He pressed his side hard, a wave of pain washing over him and filling his mouth with blood—blood he swallowed instinctively. But none of that compared to what the boy was enduring.

From his position, Toshinori could see the boy twisting and thrashing, fighting against the villain’s grip with every ounce of strength he had.

(He had so much energy… so much life ahead of him… and he’s about to lose it because of his stupidity.)

“Please! Hold on!” He begged in his head, feeling his heart tighten with every passing second. “Hold on until a hero who can save you gets here!”

Unable to bear the weight of guilt and pain, Toshinori lowered his gaze and clenched his teeth.

“If only I had a little more time…”

“Hey, kid! What do you think you’re doing?!” The sudden shout of one of the present heroes made him look up. “Get out of there!!”

And then he saw him. Toshinori’s eyes widened as a green-haired boy, wearing the same school uniform as the hostage, broke through the crowd, darted past the barricade, and ran straight toward the villain. Toshinori’s heart clenched again, filled with despair and fear over the boy’s reckless charge and what it might lead to.

The sludge villain’s eyes locked on the green-haired boy, who was dodging debris and flames.

“Huh?!” The villain sneered, his massive teeth and sludge twisting into a wicked grin, eyes gleaming with malice. “Get lost, brat!!”

Toshinori saw the villain manipulating the spiky-haired hostage’s body, preparing to hurl an explosion at the charging boy. But then, the green-haired kid made a quick pivot, yanking his backpack off his shoulders and hurling it straight at the villain’s exposed face.

In that brief moment of distraction—just a second where the villain’s vision was blocked by the bag—the boy dodged the attack. The explosion went off meters behind him. Toshinori then watched as the green-haired boy closed the distance to the villain and, for a moment, thought he was going to help his friend by tearing away the sludge covering his face.

But that wasn’t what he did.

The boy reached out and grabbed one of the villain’s eyes in his hand.

“Huh?!” The villain cried, clearly caught off guard, before screaming in agony. “AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!”

Toshinori—and everyone else present, both civilians and heroes—were stunned. Some asked aloud what was happening, but it quickly became clear when they saw smoke and a faint glow coming from the hand clutching the villain’s eye.

“He’s burning his eye!!” One voice shouted—Toshinori couldn’t tell if it belonged to a civilian or a hero.

“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!”

The crowd erupted in horrified cries, mixing with the villain’s own shrieks. The heroes, Toshinori included, could only stand frozen as the villain’s sludge mass bunched together, releasing the hostage—who was in shock—from its grip.

The green-haired boy didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate, and didn’t seem at all disturbed by the torture he was inflicting or the screams it drew. Seconds passed—though for those watching, they felt like an eternity—until he finally let it go.

He released the eye, now nothing more than a blackened lump of burned flesh, and it dropped lifelessly along with the rest of the villain’s sludge, who was now only whimpering and sobbing from the pain.

For a few moments, everyone—heroes and civilians alike—struggled to process what had just happened. The green-haired boy, the one responsible for ending the incident almost instantly, simply began gathering his scattered belongings and putting them back into his backpack. Finally, one of the heroes found his voice and managed to get the others moving.

“Hey, the villain’s already been taken down. We should handle the rest,” Backdraft said, finally having put out all the fires. “Don’t you think?”

(“How can you be so calm?” Was the thought running through the minds of the nearby civilians who overheard him.)

His words had the desired effect, and soon all the heroes were tending to collateral damage and injured civilians.

Toshinori stayed on the sidelines, watching as the heroes cleaned up the mess and the crowd slowly dispersed, clearly unsettled by what they’d just witnessed. But for once, Toshinori wasn’t focused on the civilians or his fellow heroes.

His blue eyes were locked on the green-haired boy, who was now being scolded by Death Arms and several police officers. Next to him stood the spiky-haired hostage, being checked over by police and medics, still in shock and staring unblinking at the green-haired boy.

The boy, head bowed and looking exhausted, listened to the lecture—not only for his reckless actions, but for the way he had dealt with the villain.

(It was an expression Toshinori knew all too well.)

(And one he hated seeing on someone so young…)

Toshinori could only think of one thing he had to do.

“I have to talk with that boy.”

. . .

A while after the whole incident had ended, there was hardly anyone left at the scene. The green-haired boy was walking away on his own, not staying to talk to the ash-blond he had saved—who still stared at him in shock.

Toshinori, who had been waiting off to the side, saw that he finally had a chance to speak with the boy alone.

So he began to follow him through the streets.

(He was well aware that his gaunt, skeletal form gave him the appearance of either a stalker or a drug addict.)

At one point, the green-haired boy turned off his path and slipped into a narrow, inconspicuous alleyway. Toshinori, naively thinking there was nothing strange about that, followed him in.

(He had to admit—sometimes he could be quite clumsy and naive for being the Number One Hero.)

The moment he stepped deeper into the alley and rounded a corner, losing sight of the main street, he found himself face-to-face with the green-haired boy.

“You’ve been following me for a while now,” the boy said, frowning in suspicion as he stared Toshinori down. “Who are you? And what do you want?”

To add weight to his questions, the boy’s left hand suddenly ignited with a small flame—a clear threat for him to start talking. Toshinori blinked, a little surprised that an apparent civilian could have such sharp instincts and remain so calm in a tense situation.

(And… there was something in the boy’s eyes that seemed very familiar…)

(His apparent fire Quirk only reinforced that feeling.)

Toshinori decided to speak before things could escalate.

“I saw what you did against the sludge villain,” he said, watching as the boy’s eyebrows rose with curiosity. “I wanted to ask you something about that.”

“Oh? And what would that be?” The boy adjusted his stance, never taking his eyes off Toshinori, his hand still aflame.

“Don’t you think you were… a little excessive?”

The boy frowned at the question, but he didn’t seem angry—more confused, as though he couldn’t quite grasp the point of the question or how he was supposed to answer it. Toshinori waited patiently while the boy’s gaze drifted slightly downward toward the ground, almost without realizing it.

After a few seconds of tense silence, the boy finally answered.

“The villain had a Transformation-type Quirk, I think—turning his body into some kind of malleable sludge. Direct physical attacks would’ve been useless against him.” Toshinori blinked at the sudden rush of information spilling from the boy’s mouth, and at how deeply he seemed lost in his own explanation. “But this didn’t include his eyes or his teeth, so those were the only ‘attackable’ points that could actually harm him.” He then looked Toshinori in the eyes, utterly resolute. “I decided to completely incapacitate him by attacking one of his ‘attackable’ points. It was the fastest way I could think of to defeat him and save Bakugou.”

“I’m guessing Bakugou is the kid with the explosions,” Toshinori thought before speaking again. “You surprised me. And not just because of your… uh, aggressiveness…”

(It was truly unsettling to realize this kid had tortured a villain and seemed so indifferent about it…)

“You were very brave to save your friend.”

But as soon as those words left his mouth, Toshinori knew he’d messed up. The boy’s frown deepened, his teeth clenched, and the flame in his left hand flared higher.

“Bakugou is not my friend,” the bitterness and deep anger in his voice left no doubt. “I don’t even like him.”

Toshinori showed no sign of fear. A long career as a hero, facing countless powerful villains, had made a teenager’s anger seem commonplace—and far from threatening.

Instead, his mind focused on something else.

“But if you hate him so much… then why did you save him?”

To Toshinori, it was a completely legitimate question. If this boy truly hated the ash-blond, as his tone and expression suggested, then he could’ve simply walked away and left everything to the heroes. He had no obligation to save him.

(That was supposed to be his job.)

(And what a job he’d done…)

(The truth, Toshinori was deeply relieved the green-haired boy had stopped the villain.)

(Even if his methods seemed… excessive.)

The boy locked eyes with him, green meeting blue. But Toshinori wasn’t just looking at the color or the shape of his eyes.

(Though that familiar feeling was even stronger now…)

He looked at what was inside them. Behind those emerald eyes, there was a strength, a will, that Toshinori knew all too well.

“Because he needed help.”

The will to save someone who needed saving.

How many times had Toshinori seen that same will shine in the eyes of his master? In his comrades? In his own reflection when he was young?

(When was the last time he’d seen that will in his own eyes…?)

“Ha… Hahaha…! Hahahahaahaha!”

Why was he laughing?

Because, to him, the situation was hilarious.

He was supposed to be All Might. The Symbol of Peace. The Number One Hero. The one who defeated all villains and saved anyone who crossed his path. To the world, he was the greatest hero alive.

(To the world—except to himself…)

But for years, he hadn’t felt like a hero.

He still wanted to save people and stop villains, but… the motivation, that will he’d had at the start of his career, was gone.

And here was this boy, giving such a simple answer to such a complex question.

“Because he needed help.”

That was it. That was the only reason he’d jumped in to fight a villain and save someone he hated—because that ash-blond, Bakugou, had needed help.

“Hahaahahahaha!!”

Was it really that simple? Apparently, yes.

Years ago, he’d lost the reason he’d become a hero, and he’d just been going through the motions. And here was a kid reminding him of that reason.

Inspiring him, just like those storybook heroes his mother used to tell him about when he was a child.

“What’s so funny?” The boy asked, confusion clear in his tone.

Toshinori noticed he was no longer tense, his hand no longer aflame—his guard lowered. Apparently, he no longer saw him as a threat.

(Unknowingly, the reason Izuku had dropped his stance was because of that laugh. That laugh in response to his answer… It held no trace of mockery—he could tell.)

(It had been a while since he’d decided that the skeletal man before him wasn’t a threat.)

(At least, not someone who could laugh with such genuine ease…)

“N-no, it’s nothing… It’s just that… thank you.” Toshinori held back another laugh at the boy’s look of surprise and confusion. “I think… I needed to hear that. I feel a lot better now.”

His words only seemed to puzzle the boy further, who narrowed his eyes as if trying to figure him out. Toshinori could practically see the gears turning in his head.

“Sir, are you a hero?” The boy asked, studying him closely.

Toshinori blinked, about to answer "yes," but quickly corrected himself. “N-no, I’m not. It’s just… you reminded me of something I’d forgotten a long time ago.”

The boy slowly nodded, processing that.

“Alright…” he turned and began to walk away, clearly intent on putting distance between himself and the complete stranger who looked like a skeleton and laughed out of nowhere.

(Toshinori couldn’t blame him—he’d do the same in his place.)

But then Toshinori spoke without thinking, letting his thoughts spill out.

“You’d make a great hero.”

The boy froze mid-step, as if paralyzed by the words. Toshinori realized he’d accidentally hit a nerve and braced himself for an angry outburst—but it never came. Instead, the boy slowly turned around, eyes wide in shock, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“What…?”

“You’d make a great hero,” Toshinori repeated, without hesitation, making sure the boy heard and processed it.

“You think…? You think I could be a hero…?”

The utter doubt and disbelief in his voice confused Toshinori, but he confirmed without missing a beat. “Yes, I do… No, I’m sure of it.”

The boy still wore the same stunned expression.

“Even if I’m the son of Hell Maw and Mind Lash?”

Toshinori’s eyes widened at that new information, reshaping all his thoughts about the boy.

(So that’s why he seemed so familiar.)

But in truth, it didn’t really matter. Because that wasn’t what had made the boy save the ash-blond.

That had been him—just him.

“You know, there’s a saying about some of the greatest heroes in history, from their days as students,” Toshinori said with a smile. “‘My body moved without thinking.’ That’s what happened, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for an answer—it was obvious. “You moved to save him without even thinking…”

The boy stared at him with an expression of pure astonishment, one Toshinori had grown used to—but this one felt different, as if this boy’s entire life depended on this moment.

“To me, that already proves one thing…”

Toshinori drew a deep breath, ready to speak the words that would change the boy’s life.

“You can be a hero!”

. . .

He didn't know how long he had been walking; he just wanted to get the hell to his damn house.

(He wanted to reach the place where he was safe, away from villains and the world’s judgments…)

Finally, he arrived, catching sight of his big, well-kept house, thanks to his parents’ work. He crossed the entrance, reached the door, slid the key into the lock, opened it, and stepped inside.

Done. Finished.

Katsuki Bakugou had reached his home.

(He was safe here…)

(No one would attack him. No one would…)

Katsuki let out a sigh of relief he hadn’t realized he’d been holding back. He took off his shoes and placed them neatly by the door. He looked around the living room and saw no one, though he knew his parents were already home—the sound and smell of a pot boiling in the kitchen was a clear sign of that.

Not wanting to talk to his parents, Katsuki headed toward the stairs, intending to lock himself in his room and work on his homework until dinner.

(He didn’t want to be with anyone…)

(No one to look at him…)

“Good afternoon, Katsuki,” his father Masaru’s voice came from the bottom of the stairs.

The blond turned and looked down, seeing his father with his usual passive expression, and his mother emerging from the kitchen, wearing an apron.

“Hello,” he replied dryly, turning back around and continuing up the stairs without saying another word.

(“Go away, go away, go away. Don’t let them see you weak,” his frantic thoughts raced, making sure his expression remained empty.)

“Hey! Don’t be like that, greet your parents properly, you little brat!”

At any other time, he would have snapped back at his mother with the same force and aggression. That was their usual relationship, the way they treated each other. But now, he wasn’t in the mood.

(Not now. Not for a long time…)

“Sweetheart, please don’t yell,” his father’s voice carried, even from the second floor.

(Katsuki never understood how someone so soft-spoken and passive like his father could have such a clear voice that reached him no matter what.)

“Katsuki, tonight we’re having curry for dinner, alright?”

Katsuki barely responded, but habit was faster than thought. “Yeah, whatever.”

And so, he walked down the hall without looking back at his parents.

(Unable to see the worried glance they shared between them.)

He walked down the hall until he reached his room, a sign on the door reading “Do Not Disturb.” He opened it and shut it behind him, taking in the furniture and decorations in his room. Katsuki saw his neatly made bed, the desk where he did his homework, the bookshelf against the wall filled with books, a few hero posters on the wall, the wardrobe across from his bed, and his training equipment with a punching bag in the corner. He dropped his backpack at the foot of the bed and sat on it, letting out a long sigh as his shoulders relaxed.

He was in his room. He was safe, and no one could see him.

The moment that thought settled in his mind, he began to breathe rapidly and his hands started shaking uncontrollably.

“Stop shaking, damn it…” he growled in anger, watching his hands tremble. He clenched them into fists, trying to stop the shaking, failing. “Shit, stop shaking! You’re fine!”

But no matter what he said or did, the trembling wouldn’t stop, and he kept breathing heavily.

(Because he could still feel that sludge wrapping around him, controlling him, suffocating him.)

(He could still feel and remember that fear of dying.)

(And how no one was doing anything to help him, just watching him fight to the death like it was nothing…)

“FUCK!!”

He sprang from the bed and rushed to the punching bag hanging in the corner of his room, pounding it with his trembling fists. The sound of the bag being hit over and over filled the silence.

But no matter how much he hit it, he couldn’t stop the thoughts—or the trembling.

“FUCK!! WHY!? WHY!? WHY!?” His punches grew faster and harder, battering the bag but bringing no relief. “Why the hell can’t I stop shaking!?”

He was supposed to be the strongest! The one who wasn’t afraid to face anyone and show the world his greatness! The next Number One Hero!

And instead… here he was, trembling like a fucking coward.

Why?!

(Because today he had the exact proof that he wasn’t the strongest, neither the best, that he was so damn weak a simple villain captured him and nearly killed him…)

(And there was nothing he could do about it.)

“THAT MOTHERFUCKER!!” His thoughts unconsciously shifted. “That damn Akumen!! What the hell did he think he was doing, jumping in and helping me like that?! He probably just wanted to rub his strength in my face, showing how fucking pathetic I am!!”

Yeah, that had to be it! There was no way the damn son of Hell Maw and Mind Lash would save him when no one else wouldn't.

(Not after what he’d done to him…)

“FUCKING BASTARD!” He continued hitting the bag, unaware that his hands had stopped trembling, replaced now by pure rage. “Don’t think this changes anything!! I will become the greatest hero ever, and you’ll still just be a piece of shit villain!!”

(A piece of shit villain that saved his life…)

“Katsuki!” His mother’s sudden shout stopped him mid-punch. “Dinner’s ready!”

Katsuki blinked at her words and turned to the window in his room, noticing the sky outside was already dark, full of stars.

He hadn’t even realized it was night.

“Katsuki?!”

“I’m coming!”

He left the bag alone and looked at his hands, sweaty and marked from striking the bag for so long. He let out a sigh and decided to go eat.

“Don’t think this changes fucking anything, Akumen,” he muttered as he left his room. “I’ll still become the best damn hero out there. And not even you can stop me…”

What he thought was a gap in his path had turned out to be a cliff.

But that was fine—Katsuki would overcome it and prove he was superior.

(He always did.)

. . .

Sitting on the sofa in his living room, Izuku’s mind kept replaying and trying to make sense of the day’s events. The question about his future, his teacher’s malicious revelation, the mockery from his classmates, Bakugou’s threats, the sludge villain, and…

"You can be a hero!"

Having already eaten the leftovers from his fridge—since he forgot to buy more food for the coming days—he still had a couple of hours before going to bed. Even without looking out the window, he knew it was night, but he didn’t feel tired at all. In fact, he felt more alive and energized than he had since the start of the day and his classes.

(More alive than he had in the last five years…)

And all of that, just because a random person on the street said something seemingly meaningless…

"You can be a hero!"

But… if it was as insignificant as he thought, then why did it ignite his heart and make it beat so fast?

He leaned back on the sofa, resting his head on the armrest, and stared at the empty, gray ceiling of his house. That phrase from the stranger echoed in his mind over and over, unstoppable and unrelenting.

"You can be a hero!"

Never, ever, had anyone said something like that to him.

It wasn’t at all like what his parents had done for him. His mother promised him eternal support in his goals, and his father advised him to live the way he wanted, no matter what.

They had given him a push, when he didn’t even have a goal.

And that stranger…

"You can be a hero!"

He had given it to him. Even after revealing his identity as the son of Inko and Hisashi Midoriya.

“It’s ridiculous…” he thought, shaking his head. “I can’t be a hero, I’ll only be a villain. Everyone said so…”

"You’ll only be a disgrace like your pa—!!" "You can be a hero!"

"The apple doesn’t fall far from the tr—!" "You can be a hero!"

"As if someone like you cou—!!" "You can be a hero!"

"You can be a hero!"

"You can be a hero!"

"You can be a hero!"

“SHIT!! Why can’t I stop thinking about that!?” Izuku covered his face with his hands, frustrated with himself.

He was confused and tired of thinking about that phrase and how it made him feel. How it made his heart race like crazy and filled him with the energy to do something—anything.

He stayed like that for a moment, then lowered his hands. He looked at them and set them ablaze, noticing something different immediately.

“Huh?”

Normally, when he set his hands on fire, it was a calm, controlled flame, like a stovetop burner. Restrained, controlled, indifferent—just fulfilling its purpose without thought.

But this time was different…

For one, it made a sound. Not the usual sound like a stovetop, but… it crackled.

And secondly, the way the flames moved. They were no longer the static, immobile flames he was used to, wrapping his hands like gloves. Now the flames danced on his hands, little particles of fire drifting with their movements.

The new way his fire behaved, the way his Quirk acted, confused him.

“What the hell…?” He shifted to sit at the edge of the sofa, making sure not to touch it with his burning hands. “I mean, I know Quirks respond to someone’s emotional state, but this…”

The fire on his hands, his Quirk, was almost as if… it was trapped and wanted to escape…

But why? It had never behaved this way before, not even when he was upset or in the middle of a fight in Aldera. Hell, it didn’t even behave like this when he attacked the villain!

“No, wait… Actually, it did. At least… a little.”

Yeah… His fire at that moment hadn’t felt like it was trying to escape his body. Because, in reality… he had been letting it out.

“But why?” Izuku bit his lip without thinking, frustrated. “What was so special about that moment that made it act this way?”

And then the answer came in the form of a phrase he had thought about so many times that it seemed embedded in his brain forever.

"You can be a hero!"

“It can’t be that… or can it?”

The only response he got was the crackling of his flames.

Doubtful and skeptical of what he was about to do, he closed his eyes and dared to imagine himself as a hero. He imagined flying through the city, wearing a practical and ‘cool’ suit, watching people go about their daily lives until a sudden villain attack endangered them.

(A small smile formed on his lips without him realizing it.)

He imagined flying to the scene, fighting the villains, defeating them while keeping civilians and the injured safe. He imagined standing there, surrounded by debris and fallen villains, as the civilians given him attention. But it wasn’t cheers or applause that he received—it was simple smiles.

Simple grateful smiles for saving them.

“Ah!” Izuku exclaimed, snapping out of his thoughts and opening his eyes.

And then he saw it. The flames on his hands now danced fiercely, crackling throughout the silent house, and had grown to the size of his head.

And that’s when Izuku understood.

“I want to be a hero…” he whispered, unable to believe his own words.

"You can be a hero!"

He turned off his Quirk, silencing the flames, but the warmth didn’t vanish…

It simply moved to his beating heart.

“I want to be a hero…” he repeated, feeling his heart pulse warmly as he rose from the sofá. “I want to be a hero… I want to be a hero, I want to be a hero! I want to be a hero!! I WANT TO BE A HERO!!!”

The scream echoed through the empty house, with no one else hearing his declaration. For a moment, he just stood there in the middle of the living room, breathing, as everything finally made sense.

Now he had a dream to fight for.

Izuku turned and walked to a corner of the room, kneeling on a pillow placed on the floor, and looked at the memorial altar before him. It wasn’t sophisticated—just the traditional incense sticks, a couple of candles, and a pair of vases holding Red Spider Lilies. His emerald eyes focused on the central pieces of the altar: an urn and a framed photograph.

The photo was of his mother, Inko Midoriya, also known as Mind Lash, one of the most infamous villains in Japan’s history.

And the urn was a simple metal container holding her ashes.

Izuku lit the incense sticks and candles with his finger, as both had gone out. When he finished, he straightened up in his usual posture and stared silently at his mother’s photo.

“Mom,” he spoke after a momento. “I know what my dream is now. I want to be a hero.” He took a deep breath, preparing to say what came next. “I know it’s not what you and Dad expected from me, but I also know you would support me no matter what. Well, at least I know you would, while Dad…” a small, fond smile appeared. “I think he would end up accepting it and supporting me under your pressure; he never could refuse anything you wanted.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head, remembering that even as a feared, powerful villain, Hisashi Midoriya could never go against his wife out of fear of her wrath.

(He couldn’t help but wonder what people would think if they knew it was his mother who really called the shots in their relationship.)

“But anyway… now I know what I want,” Izuku’s expression hardened, firm in his words. “I want to, and will, be a hero. I know many will be against it, both civilians and heroes, and they’ll try to make me give up, telling me it’s foolish or useless to try being anything other than a villain. That I’ll only end up like you… But I don’t care. For the last five years, since you died and Dad was captured, I didn’t fight and let the world trample me however it wanted. I’m done with that,” he placed a hand over his chest, right above his heart. “A flame has ignited in my heart, and I won’t let anyone or anything put it out.”

He let out a sigh, feeling his words turn into a promise, one he would carry and uphold for the rest of his life.

He was ready.

“I promise."

With one last look at his mother’s photograph, he rose from the pillow where he had knelt and headed to his bedroom, ending the day with that promise and a new direction for his life.

(At least now he had an answer for that damn question on the form, in case they ask it again.)

Chapter Text

Izuku was lying on his bed, staring at the bare ceiling of his small room. The place only held his bed, a nightstand, and the wardrobe where he kept his clothes—not that he owned much.

(It wasn’t that he lacked money. Quite the opposite. He just didn’t like the idea of spending it on clothes when he already had some.)

(And in case he did need more, he always bought the cheapest ones he could find on sale.)

Two hours had already passed since he laid down, unable to sleep ever since he decided what he truly wanted in life and made his promise to become a hero.

Izuku knew it wouldn’t be easy, not only because of the opinion the world might have about his aspirations.

(Though that was no longer something that held him back, not anymore.)

But also because he’d have to work extremely hard to even participate in—and pass—the U.A. entrance exam for the heroics course, which was in ten months. And that was without even mentioning all the other potential candidates who had probably been training and preparing for years.

(Ever since they first realized they wanted to be heroes...)

"Right now, out of everyone aiming for the exam, I must be the weakest..." Izuku thought, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he stretched his hand upward. Then he closed it into a fist, feeling his nails dig into his palm. "If I want to stand on the same level as everyone else, I’ll have to work twice as hard... maybe even three times harder."

But despite how harsh it sounded, Izuku wasn’t the least bit disheartened by the thought. In fact, he felt... Excited at the idea of pushing himself so much for this new dream of his.

(Maybe it was because he hadn’t truly worked hard for anything in the past five years.)

In fact, Izuku could practically feel the flame in his heart flare and crackle even stronger at the thought.

So now that he was clear on his motivation, and sure the obstacles in his path wouldn’t stop him, only one question remained in the green-haired boy’s mind.

"Then... How should I start my training?"

With that doubt, his thoughts immediately shifted toward practicing with his Quirk.

Izuku looked at his hands, igniting them and watching as flames covered them, lighting up the dark room. He stared at the fire flickering around his fingers, wondering what else he could do with his Quirk. Could he fly if he blasted fire from his feet, like Endeavor? He already knew he could only control his own flames and not external ones, but could he still manipulate them even if they weren’t directly touching his body? How far could he push his Quirk before he started to burn himself?

(Now that he thought about it, for someone who found Quirks fascinating and constantly analyzed them, he had never really taken the time to truly analyze his own...)

What was the true potential of his Quirk? That, and many other questions, swirled in Izuku’s head as he extinguished the flames in his hands when another thought crossed his mind.

Close combat.

"Although, now that I think about it, I guess I do have some experience with that." Izuku frowned at the thought, realizing how true it was.

Of course, he definitely wasn’t the best martial artist in the world, but he wasn’t the worst either. After all, no matter how many opponents he faced at Aldera, he always ended up the one standing—while the others ended up in the infirmary.

(He... was going to ignore how bad that sounded...)

"Huh. I guess fighting all those idiots at Aldera paid off."

With that already taken into account, only one more idea remained for his training: learning to fight with a weapon. Izuku knew he couldn’t rely solely on his Quirk. Otherwise, what would he do in a situation where he couldn’t use it, either due to exhaustion or external risks?

(Especially considering there might be villains out there with Quirks similar to the hero Eraser Head.)

So, in Izuku’s eyes, learning to wield a weapon was an essential part of his plan to become a hero. But that raised a new question—what weapon should he learn, and where would he learn to use it? He didn’t particularly care about the type of weapon. What mattered was finding a place to obtain one and someone to teach him. Self-teaching sounded good in theory, but in practice, he knew it would be inefficient. He would have to learn everything from scratch, alone, with no one to correct his mistakes or point him in the right direction. And it could never compare to learning under the guidance of a master or someone skilled in wielding the weapon.

Which left Izuku with only one option: finding someone willing to teach him how to use a weapon—any weapon.

He spent a while thinking about that, tossing and turning in his bed as he considered the possibilities. He knew he didn’t want a private tutor or a private club since that would require too much money and permission from Mitsuki-san.

(He didn’t want to trouble her more than he already had...)

But then, as he started considering the possibility of a public club, an idea suddenly clicked.

Aldera’s clubs.

Or, more specifically...

"Tetsuyami-san’s Kenjutsu Club."

Akane Tetsuyami. From what Izuku knew and remembered about her—mostly from classmates’ gossip and whispers—Tetsuyami was a senior student, just like him, and the founder and sole member of Aldera’s Kenjutsu club.

(Why the club was still open with only one member was a complete mystery to Izuku.)

But that wasn’t the only reason she stood out in his memory. It was also her reputation among Aldera’s student body.

(A reputation almost as bad as his own...)

After all, Tetsuyami was known as an antisocial, cold girl whose only apparent priority was Kenjutsu. The rest of Aldera’s students often mocked her, whispering behind her back about her reserved attitude, her lack of friends, and her obsession with swordsmanship.

Not to mention that she was the only Quirkless student.

(The weakest, most pathetic one in the entire school...)

But to Izuku, none of that mattered.

(It wasn’t like his own reputation was any better—in fact, it was worse.)

"Yeah... I could join her club and have her teach me."

The idea didn’t sound bad at all to Izuku. In fact, it sounded almost perfect! With unexpected enthusiasm, he picked up his phone from the nightstand and opened Aldera’s website. He navigated to the clubs section and submitted an application to join the Kenjutsu club.

"Done." He thought after filling out his information and placing the phone back on the nightstand. Snuggling under his sheets, he prepared to finally get some sleep. "Can’t wait for tomorrow."

(Internally, Izuku could only hope he wouldn’t regret this...)

. . .

The blaring sound of an alarm clock filled the room, dragging Akane out of her sleep. She blinked slowly, trying to force her mind awake.

"Ugh..." Was all she managed, feeling the last remnants of sleep slipping away.

The alarm kept ringing in the background, grating on her nerves. With sluggish effort, she reached out to the nightstand beside her bed and finally silenced it. But even then, she didn’t get up. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling faintly lit by the light filtering through her window.

Her mind still clung to the dream she’d been having before the alarm tore her awake.

(A dream of fire, destruction, and pain...)

"Don’t think about that." Akane muttered, shaking her head, unwilling to let her thoughts linger there. "Get up."

With one motion, she shoved the sheets off her, revealing that her usual sleepwear was nothing more than shorts and a sleeveless shirt. She rose from her bed, her brain protesting at the sudden shift in posture and gravity, and reached for her phone.

"Damn it." She growled under her breath when she saw the time. She had overslept, and there wasn’t much time left before classes.

(She had lost a precious hour of training.)

After all, her daily routine was strict and unyielding. Every morning, she woke up two hours before class to spend one hour training her kenjutsu at home. Then she would shower, eat breakfast, go to school, and afterward, stay another two hours at Aldera practicing alone in her Kenjutsu club. When she got home, she would work on some homework and cook dinner for herself and her father.

(If her father made it home in time, they would eat together. If not, she’d leave him a plate and eat alone.)

(That was usually the case...)

Akane sighed, resigned to the lost hour. Training would have to wait until after class today. She walked to her wardrobe, pulled out Aldera’s plain, black uniform, and tossed it onto her bed.

That was when she caught her reflection in the mirror on the wardrobe door.

She froze, simply... Staring.

Her eyes first landed on her short black hair, with streaks that ended in red. It framed her usually cold, indifferent face, the crimson tips brushing her shoulders. She would have to cut it again soon.

(If she could, she would erase those red ends entirely. Too much like her mother’s...)

(But no matter how much she cut them, they always grew back.)

Next, she focused on her eyes. Crimson red, as sharp and cutting as a katana.

(Another thing she had inherited from her mother. Another reminder of her...)

Her gaze dropped to the rest of her body—slender, but firm and strong. Her legs, thighs, and feet, sculpted by training to give her speed in combat and the strength to stand her ground in any situation. A base as solid as steel, supporting both her stances in battle and her everyday life. She looked up at her torso—lightly toned and fit, allowing her to withstand blows, only barely hidden beneath her sleeveless shirt.

She also noticed the faint curve of her chest under the fabric. Other girls might mock her for not being very developed, but Akane didn’t care. In truth, she preferred it. Smaller breasts meant less interference in training.

Akane let out a quiet sigh at the sight of her body, shaped by years of strict training and discipline since childhood. All for the sake of her dream: becoming the greatest swordswoman in Japan.

(Everything she did was for that. And nothing else.)

To anyone else, her body might have looked average—fit, yes, but unremarkable. That impression ended the moment their eyes landed on her arms.

Or rather, the lack of arms.

She flexed her fingers slowly, watching as the metal digits gleamed in the mirror. Every movement of the mechanical joints carried the faint sound of gears and servos at work. She raised her prosthetic arms into a pose, following the movement with her eyes as the plates of metal shifted under her commands. Her elbows bent in a motion that reminded her of a doll’s joints, folding smoothly to match the stance.

Finally, her gaze lingered on her shoulders—where metal ended and flesh began. Plates fused to scarred skin at the shoulder, bridging the connection between her stumps and the prosthetic arms.

(Sometimes, it still shocked Akane to realize that beneath all that metal, there were no arms at all.)

(Only burned, scarred stumps...)

Without even noticing it, Akane raised one hand to her shoulder. She felt the cold touch of metal against her skin, only to lose the sensation as her fingers brushed over the plates that bound her prosthetics to her body.

(It was such a strange feeling—to both feel and not feel the metal of her own hand pressing against her body.)

She didn’t know how long she stayed like that, because her mind wasn’t really focused on the present. It had slipped elsewhere. To memories. Unwelcome ones.

(The dojo burning to the ground...)

(Her father screaming her name through fire and rubble...)

(Her body on the floor, covered in ash, unable to move...)

(The fire...)

(The blood...)

(The pain!)

But before she could drown in those memories, an involuntary gasp pulled her back to reality. She inhaled sharply, realizing she had forgotten to breathe, and lowered her arms.

"No... Don’t think about that." She muttered firmly, shaking her head and glancing at her arms. "It’s over... There’s nothing you can do about it. Just keep moving forward."

Deciding not to waste any more time, she grabbed the Aldera uniform from her bed, slipped off her sleepwear, and began to dress, ready to face the day.

. . .

Classes at Aldera were, in Akane’s humble opinion, a complete waste of time.

She sat at her desk, resting her head on her hand with disinterest as she watched her teacher write on the blackboard—notes that almost no one was paying attention to. Even without turning around, Akane could tell her classmates were either glued to their phones or whispering among themselves about whatever seemed more important than the lesson.

Not that she could really judge them too harshly. A glance at her own sparse, half-hearted notes was proof enough she wasn’t much better. But unlike them, she did have a reason not to care too much about her education.

After all, a diploma wasn’t necessary for her future plans.

(And really, it’s not like anyone would hire the Quirkless girl with prosthetic arms…)

Akane blinked, watching her teacher copy something from the book in his hand onto the board. At the very least, she decided she should write that much down. Shifting in her seat, she leaned over her notebook, her hair falling across her face and shielding her from the view of her classmates.

"Seriously?" She thought as she scribbled down the words. Straightening back up, she felt the tips of her crimson hair brush against her shoulders. "Guess I’ll have to cut it later."

But before she could linger on the thought, her classmates’ loud chatter reached her ears—too idiotic, too disrespectful to even bother lowering their voices and hide their lack of attention.

(Not that the teacher cared either.)

“Did you hear? He’s planning on applying to U.A.!”

“What an idiot! He doesn’t belong in a place as cool as U.A.!”

“I know, right? What, does he think he can be a hero?”

Akane rolled her eyes and shook her head, completely unimpressed by their mockery. She had seen it so many times before that it hardly even bothered her anymore. It wasn’t worth getting indignant or standing up for the poor victim—they never stopped, no matter what.

(After all, nothing ever stopped them from mocking her for being Quirkless, for her disability, or for her “obsession” with Kenjutsu.)

Akane simply couldn’t understand that kind of behavior. Why waste so much energy tearing others down for their choices and goals? Shouldn’t they just focus on their own lives?

(Why did they have to question her passion for Kenjutsu? Why did they have to laugh at her for being Quirkless? Couldn’t they just leave her alone…?)

“As if Midoriya could ever be anything other than a villain.”

All of Akane’s thoughts screeched to a halt.

(“Midoriya, Midoriya, Midoriya…” her mind repeated endlessly, like a broken record.)

Without even noticing, her arms started trembling with a metallic rattle, her breathing turning shallow and uneven as she gasped in short bursts for air. The harsh sound of metal spasms and ragged breaths blended into the classroom chatter, though Akane hardly felt grateful for the cover.

Her mind… wasn’t here anymore.

(Broken flashes of fire and pain and blood and—)

CLAP!

Thankfully, her teacher suddenly clapped his hands, silencing the room and drawing everyone’s attention—including hers. Students looked up in surprise at his bored expression.

“Please pay attention, everyone.” Was all he said before turning back to the blackboard.

The silence lasted barely a second before the class returned to its chatter. The teacher’s halfhearted attempt had changed nothing.

But amid the noise, Akane remained quiet.

She took a deep breath, glancing down at her hands as the overhead lights gleamed off the metal surface.

Akane clenched her fists. "Calm down…" She whispered under her breath.

She stayed like that for a moment, inhaling deeply, flexing her prosthetics and listening to the click of their inner mechanisms. Little by little, she managed to steady herself, pushing back the flood of memories.

(Still, she couldn’t help but wonder why just hearing the name “Midoriya” rattled her so badly. It had been years since… That incident.)

"They’re not talking about those Midoriyas." She told herself, adjusting in her seat and feeling a little better. "They’re talking about their son—Izuku Midoriya."

Yes. Izuku Midoriya.

Now that she thought about it, Akane realized she didn’t actually know much about him. Just that he was the son of Hell Maw and Mind Lash, and that he had a reputation for getting into fights. Most ended with him in detention. The last rumor she’d heard was that he’d just returned from a two-week suspension after a fight that landed three students in the infirmary with burns.

(Akane wasn’t even sure a suspension that long was allowed, but she also knew Aldera didn’t care much about legality in its decisions.)

That was all.

She had never spoken to Izuku Midoriya, never even seen him in person.

The only reason she knew he existed at all was because his reputation was somehow even worse than hers.

(And because he was the son of the people who ruined her body, her life, and her father’s…)

Riiing!

Akane jumped at the sudden sound of the lunch bell, watching as her classmates bolted from the classroom like a stampede of wild animals. They rushed off to meet their friends, leaving her alone with the teacher.

(Not without throwing her a few mocking looks for being left behind, of course.)

(But that was fine. She’d rather be alone than with them.)

Unlike her classmates, she stayed put, checking the time on her phone. Still a while to go before classes ended for the day. With a resigned sigh, Akane pulled out the bento she’d bought that morning.

While she opened it and took a bite of onigiri, her teacher gathered his things into his briefcase—only to pause when he noticed a piece of paper.

“Hm? What’s this?” He muttered, lifting it up before nodding. “Oh, right…”

He rose from his desk and walked over to Akane’s seat, where she was halfway through her lunch.

“Tetsuyami, I need to speak with you.”

Akane narrowed her eyes, annoyed at having her meal interrupted, and set down her chopsticks. “Yes, sensei?”

“As the founder and only member of the Kenjutsu Club, this concerns you.” His tired, uninterested tone immediately soured her mood.

(Were they finally going to shut down her club, even though she’d been holding up her end of the deal?)

Before she could argue, the teacher handed her the paper. “This is an application to join the Kenjutsu Club. You’ll have to decide whether to accept it or not.”

An unusual flicker of surprise crossed Akane’s face as she took the form. Someone actually wanted to join? Nobody had shown the slightest interest since all the original members had quit within months of the club’s founding during her first year.

(Since then, it had just been her… Training alone in the gym, ignoring the stares and whispers…)

And now, out of nowhere, someone wanted in?

A spark of excitement lit in her chest. Someone wanted to share her passion!

(She wouldn’t be alone anymore!)

Her scarlet eyes scanned the application, landing immediately on the name of the prospective member.

“Izuku Midoriya”

She froze.

(Her arms twitched, just for a moment.)

But before the feeling could consume her, she forced herself to take a steady breath. She closed her eyes, then opened them again, her initial excitement drowned by a surge of rejection. Without even realizing, her teeth clenched and her metallic fingers gripped the paper tightly.

All that hope, all that enthusiasm about finally having a training partner—it vanished, replaced by cold aversion.

(Well… Maybe not that extreme. But it still felt wrong.)

She was ready to refuse outright, unwilling to spend her precious training time dealing with the son of those villains, when an old memory rose in her mind.

"It’s way better to train with someone else! Like a friendly rivalry straight out of a shonen manga! Having someone to surpass pushes you to become even stronger. After all, there’s only so far you can go alone.”

Her father’s words. A rare flash of wisdom from him.

Akane sighed, placing the application on her desk while the teacher loomed impatiently over her. She had to sort through her feelings quickly.

She sighed again. As much as she hated to admit it, her father had been right. It was better to train together than alone. In fact, it was those very words years ago that had inspired her to start the Kenjutsu Club in the first place, because she wanted training partners to help her improve on her passion.

(Her life’s mission…)

"I guess I could accept him." Akane thought skeptically. "But I’ll definitely have to train him from scratch…"

Yes. That was certain. She doubted Midoriya had ever touched a shinai, let alone studied Kenjutsu. She’d have to teach him everything—stances, rules, strikes. But deep down, Akane knew it wasn’t really a problem. If her father were here, he’d probably say something about how revisiting the basics was essential to reaching the top, and that teaching might even help her discover new things about Kenjutsu herself.

(She still didn’t get how her father could be so wise about some things and so… Childish about others.)

Another sigh. And with it, Akane realized she wasn’t as opposed to the idea as she’d first thought.

"Now that I think about it…" She blinked, struck by a sudden realization. "He could actually help me improve my combat skills."

Yes. Akane was proud of her dedication and skill, but she also knew the truth: she had almost no real combat experience.

(After all, she had no one to spar with.)

(And the rare times she did, they were too few and far time between to matter.)

But if she trained Midoriya to reach her level… Then she could finally gain experience, keep advancing, and prepare for future tournaments!

It didn’t matter if she had to spend two hours a day teaching the son of the people she hated most. If it helped her become the greatest swordswoman in Japan...

(It was worth it. For her dream.)

Having made her decision, Akane exhaled and looked up at her teacher, who was tapping his foot impatiently, arms crossed. She ignored his irritation as she gave her answer.

“I’ll accept him.”

And if Izuku Midoriya turned out to be nothing but trouble?

She’d beat him senseless.

. . .

Izuku did his best to stop his foot from tapping against the floor, but he just couldn’t contain all the excitement and energy coursing through him! Only a few minutes ago, in the middle of class, a teacher had told him that his application to the Kenjutsu Club had been approved, and that he could start attending that very afternoon.

(Izuku made a point of completely ignoring all the laughter and gossip from his classmates after the announcement was made so carelessly.)

(Let them talk all they want. He wouldn’t let their words smother the fire in his heart.)

He anxiously glanced up at the clock above the chalkboard—already crammed with notes and diagrams that he had carefully copied into his notebook—and saw that there were only a few minutes left before classes ended and the students were finally released from the boring lessons they couldn’t care less about.

“Midoriya, stop bothering your classmates with that noise.”

Izuku blinked, startled by the sudden scolding from his teacher, and realized once again he was the center of attention. Mocking grins and annoyed frowns were all directed his way. He finally forced his eager foot to stop moving.

(Not out of consideration for his classmates, but because he didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself.)

He lowered his head, pretending to focus on his notes, while laughter filled the room and he felt the invisible sting of pointed fingers. But Izuku no longer cared—his focus was entirely on the warm, surging feeling filling his chest.

“Heh, what an idiot, right, Bakugou?”

“Mhhmm.”

That brief exchange a few desks away caught Izuku’s attention. Not because he cared about what they were saying, but because of who was involved, and the strange way they responded.

Turning his head ever so slightly, carefully enough to avoid notice, Izuku looked at the back of the ash-blond boy, who was staring at the chalkboard with complete boredom and not writing a single note.

Katsuki Bakugou had been… Strangely calm.

From what Izuku could remember of the day so far, he hadn’t received a single insult, threat, or provocation from him. In fact, he was almost certain Bakugou hadn’t even looked his way once.

(What’s going on with him…? Was he okay? This was way too strange to witness. He’d never seen him like this before.)

“I guess that sludge villain really got to him.” Izuku thought, deciding not to look at Bakugou again and simply ignore him for the rest of the day.

(Or at least until Bakugou snapped back to normal.)

(Izuku would just take the blessing of being left alone.)

Riiing!!

The sudden ring of the dismissal bell made Izuku jump, and he quickly realized he’d lost track of time. The school day was finally over.

“Well, that’s all for today, class. Don’t forget to—”

Izuku didn’t even hear the rest of what his teacher was saying. He rushed to stuff all his notebooks and supplies into his old, trusty yellow backpack. As soon as the zipper was closed, he spun around and bolted out of the classroom, ignoring the calls of both teacher and classmates.

Weaving through the hallways, dodging students and staff pouring out of their classrooms, Izuku never slowed down. He finally burst out of the main Aldera building, squinting as the sunlight hit his face—and there it was, the school gym.

Barely stopping to catch his breath, Izuku locked his eyes on it and sprinted toward the doors. He shoved them open with a loud metallic clang, revealing an interior much larger than it seemed from the outside. But Izuku had no interest in the details. His gaze shot directly to one end of the gym—the section reserved for Aldera’s Kenjutsu Club.

When he got there, he couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. The Kenjutsu area turned out to be nothing more than a rectangular wooden platform tucked against one wall, separated from the basketball court only by a smaller dividing wall and a hoop mounted above.

“I mean, I get it. They’re not going to invest much in a club with only one or two people enrolled.” Izuku thought, looking at the limited training space. “It’s good enough, but it’s nothing compared to the basketball court…”

He stood there for a moment, then shook his head. No point dwelling on that. Taking advantage of the empty gym, he headed for the storage room to grab the equipment he’d need, then made his way to the locker rooms.

Inside, he quickly stuffed his backpack and Aldera uniform into one of the lockers, then began changing into the clothes he’d be wearing every day for the club. He pulled the hakama over his legs, leaving his torso and feet bare for the moment. He shifted around, testing the feel of the loose blue fabric, and was surprised by the sense of freedom it gave his legs. Despite how long and bulky it looked, it didn’t restrict his movements at all.

Izuku grinned, satisfied, and slipped on the keigoki—a white jacket made of surprisingly thick cotton that instantly hugged his frame. He glanced at his arms, noticing how the sleeves only reached down to his forearms. To his surprise, despite its snug fit, he could still feel the air brushing over his torso.

For a while, Izuku just stood there, smiling at how natural it felt to wear the uniform.

(This was real… He was taking his first steps toward becoming a hero.)

He picked up the bokken and gripped it tightly, the solid weight of the wooden practice sword sparking even more excitement in his chest. Leaving the locker room, he headed back to the Kenjutsu area—only to find himself face-to-face with Tetsuyami, who was walking toward the women’s locker room, carrying her own gear. Were those... Prosthetic hands? He hadn’t known she had them.

(Izuku couldn’t help but think they looked kind of cool.)

(But he wisely kept his mouth shut, not wanting to say something inappropriate or offensive.)

Their eyes locked, both equally surprised by the sudden encounter. An awkward silence stretched between them—neither knowing what to say in their very first interaction, or how to act around someone their age who didn’t openly hate or mock them.

(Neither of them really knew how to deal with that.)

Izuku swallowed hard, feeling all his bubbling excitement quickly shift into anxious tension under the sharp gaze of the black-haired girl with red streaks. She didn’t look any more comfortable than he did.

(Well… At least he wasn’t the only one terrible at talking.)

Finally, she seemed to decide to break the silence.

“Midoriya.” She said, giving him a short nod.

(As if they hadn’t just been staring at each other for several seconds.)

(But Izuku was grateful she’d spoken first.)

He mimicked the gesture. “Tetsuyami.”

Nothing else for a few seconds. Neither knew where to take the conversation.

“I see you’re already prepared.” She finally said, glancing down at his uniform and the bokken in his hand.

(As if it wasn’t obvious.)

Izuku nodded, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, I was looking forward to this.” Then, realizing how his words might come across, his face lit up red. “I-I mean… I’m excited to learn Kenjutsu with you.” His freckles stood out even more against the deepening blush.

“I see.” Akane nodded slowly, adjusting her grip on her equipment. “I’ll go get changed. After that, we’ll start with the basics.”

“Understood.”

She gave one last nod and walked past him toward the locker room, leaving Izuku standing there, face burning with embarrassment.

“Smooth, Izuku, really smooth…” He scolded himself, glancing down at the bokken in his hands. He seriously considered smacking himself in the face with it. “You’d better be better with a sword than you are at talking to girls.”

. . .

“That was… unexpected.”

Those were Akane’s thoughts as she stepped into the empty locker room.

During the last few classes, ever since she’d decided to accept Midoriya’s request to join the Kenjutsu club and train him, she’d spent her time imagining what he would be like and preparing herself to deal with a boy of his terrible reputation and background. She expected someone rude, cruel, and arrogant, someone who cared for nothing and no one but himself and who challenged anyone foolish enough to get in his way.

(Someone who only wanted to learn about her passion for his own twisted ends…)

She definitely hadn’t expected to run into a socially awkward boy who looked so harmless with his messy green hair, big emerald eyes, and the four freckles that stood out across his cheeks, deepened by the embarrassed blush spreading across them.

(Honestly, he even looked kind of adora—)

“…This was a strange way to break my expectations.” Akane finally decided, tucking her bag away and slipping out of her Aldera uniform until she stood in just her underwear.

Without really thinking, letting muscle memory guide her, she pulled her hakama over her legs, savoring the familiar sense of freedom and freshness she had always loved. With the lower half of her uniform in place, she flexed the joints of her metal arms and unclasped her bra, freeing her small chest in the privacy of the locker room. Then she picked up the bandages she had set aside earlier. She couldn’t feel the fabric with her prosthetic fingers, but she wrapped her torso with practiced precision, binding her chest flat.

That was another reason she preferred having a small chest—wrapping her sarashi was so much easier this way.

Once her chest was secured and no longer a distraction for training, she pulled on her familiar white keikogi. Unlike Aldera’s black school uniform, the short sleeves of the jacket left her prosthetic arms exposed for anyone to see.

(Akane had noticed the way Midoriya’s eyes lingered on her hands, the surprise in his gaze.)

(She couldn’t help but wonder… How would he look at her when he saw her arms?)

(How would he feel when faced with the result of her parents’ crimes?)

Shaking those thoughts away, Akane grabbed the wooden bokken leaning against the wall, hearing the faint creak as her metal fingers gripped the solid wood.

She stepped out of the locker room and made her way toward the Kenjutsu area of the gym, aware of the growing presence of other students arriving for their own clubs but paying them no attention.

(Her mind was locked on her goal.)

Ignoring the stares and muttered comments from others in the gym, she reached the far end where the Kenjutsu space had been set up—only to find Midoriya already there, standing tall, bokken gripped with determination.

“Good.” She couldn’t help the thought as she approached, catching the firm look in his eyes when he turned to her. “Very well. First things first, Midoriya—I’ll explain the basics before we begin.”

Midoriya nodded at her words, and both of them sat down in seiza on the wooden floor, placing their bokken beside them. The faint murmur of other clubs filtered through the gym, but neither of them paid it any mind. Their focus remained fixed solely on each other.

Akane drew in a deep breath, preparing herself for the explanation.

“Before anything else, I need to make this clear: what we’re doing is not Kendo—it’s Kenjutsu. A lot of people confuse the two.” She caught his attentive nod. “To simplify it: Kendo is a modern sport designed for competition, while Kenjutsu is a martial art meant for real combat. Which means what I’ll teach you… Is how to fight for real. Is that clear?”

Midoriya’s eyes shone with steady resolve. “Yes. That’s exactly why I chose to learn from you.”

“Good.” Akane nodded, choosing to ignore the way those words made her feel. “The style I practice, and the one I’ll be teaching you, is called Kōshintai-ryū—‘School of the Steel Body.’ It’s a style focused on sword control, precision, endurance, firmness, and the balance between defense and offense.” She rose from the floor, picking up the bokken at her side. Midoriya mirrored her, standing quickly and clutching his own bokken, anticipation in his eyes. “Today, since it’s your first lesson, we’ll dedicate it to basic stances and techniques. Are you ready?”

The green-haired boy looked her straight in the eye and nodded firmly.

“Yes, Tetsuyami-sensei!”

Akane couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at her lips at his enthusiasm.

(He reminded her so much of herself when she first started Kenjutsu.)

“Very well then. Let’s begin.”

. . .

“Kōshin-no-kamae.”

At her words, Midoriya adjusted his stance, settling into a firm and stable posture, the tip of his bokken pointed straight ahead.

“Hagane-tsuki.” She instructed next.

The green-haired boy nodded and stepped forward, extending his arms as he thrust his wooden bokken into the air. Seeing how steady and precise the strike was, Akane gave a small approving nod to herself.

Several minutes had already passed since she’d demonstrated the stances and techniques of her style to Midoriya, making sure he had observed them carefully and remembered which movements belonged to each command.

(Akane couldn’t help but feel a quiet satisfaction at how attentive and obedient Midoriya was.)

(She wondered if this was how her father had felt when he taught her Kenjutsu all those years ago.)

Since then, she had stepped back, calling out the names of postures and techniques for Midoriya to perform, helping him grow accustomed to associating the names with the correct movement.

“Hagane-no-kamae.” At her words, Midoriya shifted into a stance with the bokken raised high above his head, his torso and arms rigid. “Now—Tetsuzan and Tetsu-en.”

Midoriya responded instantly, stepping forward and bringing the bokken down with all the strength in his arms and torso, slicing through the air with a sharp sound. As the strike reached its lowest point, he shifted his grip, pivoted on his foot, and spun into a full horizontal cut.

Akane tilted her head slightly, then nodded—approving it despite knowing how difficult that technique was to master.

(It had taken her a great deal of effort to learn as well.)

“Kōshin-no-kamae.” Midoriya returned to his earlier stance, bokken pointed forward. “Hagane-tsuki.”

This time, the thrust was faster and sharper, proof of his steady improvement. Akane smiled, pleased with the progress. She was about to call out another command when Midoriya suddenly moved on his own, stepping forward and slashing diagonally with a sharp cry.

“HA!”

Curious and a little surprised, Akane fell silent, watching as Midoriya shifted again—this time into Tetsu-no-kamae, the bokken lowered at his side, his shoulders locked, his body taut. After holding the stance for only a second, he advanced again, slashing upward with force, the blade cutting the air with a whistle.

She recognized the stance instantly. “Kōetsu.” She murmured.

Akane didn’t speak again. She simply stood there, watching Midoriya move with precise diligence, repeating each motion without pause, without complaint. She expected that at some point he would stop to catch his breath or to rest his surely aching muscles.

But he didn’t stop.

She could see it in his eyes—that focus, that determination that didn’t waver no matter how many times he repeated the motion.

“…Yes.” The thought slipped from her before she realized it, a small smile tugging at her lips as she watched him. “Midoriya is very promising.”

But then a sound reached her ears, breaking through her thoughts. It didn’t come from Midoriya’s repetitions. It was something else. Something metallic.

She turned her head, scanning the area, searching for the source of the strange clinking sound.

And then she realized.

Her arms.

Lowering her gaze, she saw her crossed arms trembling, her left hand spasming against her right bicep, metal fingers twitching and clattering. Frowning, Akane stared at her prosthetic hand in confusion, wondering where the sudden nervous tic had come from. Her metal fingers kept twitching, clenching and unclenching as if trying desperately to grab hold of something.

Her eyes flicked to Midoriya, still striking with his bokken, then to the bokken at her own waist. Without thinking too hard, she untied it and gripped it in her hands. Immediately, the spasms stopped, the moment her fingers closed around the wooden hilt.

Akane drew in a deep breath and stepped toward Midoriya. He noticed her approach, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing, returning his focus to his movements. She silently thanked him for that unspoken acceptance, and readied herself.

She mirrored his stance, bokken raised above her head in perfect alignment with her torso and arms, and together they brought their blades down in vertical strikes.

Without a word, they moved in unison, strike after strike, neither of them stopping. Silence hung between them, but Akane didn’t think words were necessary. It felt as though she and Midoriya were flowing in the same current.

Both of them were absorbed in the training, unwavering, unshaken.

And it was in that moment that Akane understood what kind of person Izuku Midoriya truly was.

She didn’t know his full story. She didn’t know his passions. She didn’t even know exactly what his Quirk was, beyond the fact that it had something to do with fire. No—there was only one thing she knew for certain.

Izuku Midoriya was the kind of person who set a goal and would not stop until he reached it.

(Just like her…)

Her brows drew together, her resolve hardening.

She didn’t know what Midoriya’s goal was, or how Kenjutsu would serve him—but she would help him. Just as he was helping her now.

He would achieve whatever it was he sought. And she, too, would reach her goal.

She would become the greatest swordswoman in Japan.

(No matter what.)

. . .

Izuku and Tetsuyami kept up their training, repeating the same movements over and over without stopping, until they were interrupted.

Riiing!

Both of them froze, their bokken halted mid-horizontal strike, caught off guard by the sound of the bell. Izuku blinked and turned toward the dark-haired girl, who seemed caught somewhere between surprise and annoyance.

(He couldn’t blame her—he felt the same way.)

Because both of them knew exactly what the bell meant. It was the school’s signal to the still-active clubs that the building was about to close, and that they needed to start wrapping things up.

“Sorry, Midoriya.” Tetsuyami said, breaking her stance and holding her bokken at her side, gripping it tightly. “Looks like that’s it for today.”

“No problem.” He hurried to say, copying her and lowering his stance. “Honestly, I didn’t even notice—”

But before the green-haired boy could finish speaking, all the tension and strength drained out of his body at once, leaving him completely relaxed as he collapsed face-first onto the wooden floor.

(Izuku realized his muscles were so sore, he barely even felt the impact.)

“Midoriya!” She exclaimed, crouching at his side with a worried look. “Are you okay?!”

“Y-yeah... I’m fine, don’t worry.” He forced out, planting his aching arms beneath his chest and trying to push himself up. “I think I just... Overdid it a little.”

“'A little.'” Tetsuyami scoffed, knowing just as well as he did that they hadn’t stopped training for nearly two straight hours. “Do you need help?”

“No, no, just... Give me a second.”

Mustering almost all the strength he had left, Izuku strained his arms to push the rest of his body off the floor. After a few seconds of struggling, he finally managed to get onto his knees and then up to his feet with much less effort.

(He didn’t notice that the dark-haired girl had her arms extended toward him the whole time, ready to catch him if he collapsed again.)

“Are you sure you’re okay?” She asked again after seeing him wobble slightly on his feet.

Izuku brushed off her concern with a shake of his head. “Don’t worry, I just need some rest.”

Tetsuyami didn’t look entirely convinced, but she didn’t press further and simply nodded.

After picking up his bokken from the floor, Izuku and Tetsuyami headed toward the locker rooms, realizing the gym was now completely empty except for the two of them. They split off and entered their respective locker rooms, ready for a refreshing shower after the intense training session.

Neither of them said anything as they parted.

(But somehow, for some reason, Izuku didn’t feel like words were necessary.)

. . .

After a while, once Izuku had taken a good shower and changed back into his Aldera uniform, he stepped out of the locker room. To his slight surprise, he found Tetsuyami waiting for him at the gym’s entrance, already in her own Aldera uniform, arms crossed.

(He hadn’t expected her to bother waiting for him.)

(It was... A pleasant surprise.)

“Tetsuyami-san.” He blurted out as he approached her side.

She blinked at the way he addressed her, but said nothing and simply nodded. “Midoriya.”

“I... I didn’t think you’d wait for me.” He admitted, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. She said nothing, only continued to watch him with a calm expression, which made him more nervous and pushed him to speak without thinking. “You were faster than me in the shower.”

At that, the dark-haired girl raised a questioning brow and stared at him, as if trying to decipher what he meant by that. Izuku’s face turned red, and he fought the overwhelming urge to smack himself, already preparing to apologize profusely for how inappropriate his words had sounded. He was about to bow in a deep apology when she spoke.

“I wasn’t as sweaty as you.” She said matter-of-factly with a small shrug.

Izuku felt his face heat up even more, without the need for his Quirk. “Y-yeah, right...”

(He could still remember the feeling of relief the moment he peeled off the keikogi, how heavy it had been after soaking up all the sweat from their training.)

(Honestly, that quick shower in the locker room had been the best he’d had in a long time.)

Fortunately for him, the girl didn’t say anything else and simply turned to leave the gym. Izuku hurried to catch up, walking at her side as they stepped out of the building and into the orange glow of sunset. The two of them walked in comfortable silence across Aldera’s empty grounds.

After a short while, with no real need for words, they reached the school gates and looked each other in the eye.

(It was then Izuku noticed he was only a couple of centimeters taller than her.)

“We’ll continue practicing tomorrow.” Tetsuyami said first.

“Yes.” Izuku nodded with determination and gave a deep bow. “I hadn’t said it before, but thank you for accepting my request and for teaching me Kenjutsu. I really appreciate it, Tetsuyami-san.”

Izuku held the bow for a moment before straightening up, meeting the dark-haired girl’s eyes and catching the slight surprise in them.

She quickly composed herself and nodded, her expression returning to calm. “It was no trouble.” A faint smile crossed her lips. “I enjoyed practicing Kenjutsu with you, Midoriya.”

“Yeah, me too.” Izuku couldn’t help but smile back and gave a small bow. “See you tomorrow, Tetsuyami-san.”

“See you tomorrow, Midoriya.”

With that, the green-haired boy turned and began walking home, a broad smile on his face. He was satisfied with how the day had gone, and he was already looking forward to tomorrow, eager to practice Kenjutsu alongside the dark-haired girl again.

(Without him knowing, Akane felt the same way.)

. . .

“See you tomorrow after class, Shina-chan!!”

Himiko waved her arms in an exaggerated goodbye, her voice echoing down the empty street. In the distance, her friend mirrored her, waving both arms and shouting back.

“See you tomorrow, Himiko-chan!!”

Himiko Toga grinned wide, showing her teeth and accidentally flashing her fangs.

(But that was fine—no one else was around, and Shina-chan was too far away to notice.)

She turned and began walking down the deserted street, finally heading home after an afternoon downtown with her best friend, Shina-chan. Himiko started skipping lightly, humming a tune she had heard all afternoon in the different shops they’d explored.

She could feel the warm light of the sunset shining against her long blonde hair. She shook her head happily, watching the long strands sway with each movement. Still smiling and humming, she clasped her hands behind her back, took long strides, and lifted her gaze to the orange sky. Her golden eyes, with their slit pupils, scanned the clouds.

“That one looks like a heart...” She murmured, staring at a random cloud.

She knew how she was acting, how she must have looked—especially in her school uniform. Himiko let out a small giggle, certain that if any passerby appeared out of nowhere, they’d just see a cheerful, extroverted schoolgirl. And that was fine.

(It meant she was doing a good job.)

(It meant she was managing to look like a normal girl, like a normal person...)

(Not like a freak.)

But then, a sudden pain stabbed her stomach. Himiko froze, clutching her abdomen, and quickly ducked into a dark alleyway tucked between two closed shops.

“Damn it...” She hissed, her cheerful mask breaking into a grimace of pain and frustration.

She leaned against the wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the filthy ground, smudging the blue skirt of her uniform. But she didn’t care about that now. The only thing that filled her mind was the pain in her stomach.

(The thirst, the hunger...)

“Stupid... Control yourself...” She growled through clenched teeth, her fangs peeking past her lips. “You’re not being normal...”

She didn’t know how long she stayed like that—sitting in a dirty alley, clutching her stomach as if squeezing hard enough might make the pain and hunger stop.

“Shit...”

If only she could get what she needed.

(If only she could have some blood...)

But she couldn’t. She had to be a normal girl.

(Her friends had said it, her teachers had said it, that weird doctor had said it—her parents had said it too...)

“You have to calm down...” She whispered to herself, licking her lips.

Trying to ignore the pain in her stomach, trying to focus on something else, she raised her hand to her mouth and bit down hard. A twisted, shameful wave of satisfaction ran through her as her fangs sank into her flesh and blood filled her mouth.

(Himiko hated herself for feeling good about it.)

She kept biting, harder and harder, driving her fangs deeper into her own skin, letting her own blood spill across her tongue. Eating herself, almost literally—calming the cravings that tormented her.

(But it wasn’t enough.)

(She knew it...)

Tears welled up in her eyes, running down her face and mixing with the blood and saliva on her lips. “You have to be a normal girl...”

(Even if it hurt.)

(Even if it was driving her insane.)

(Even if it was killing her, little by little...)

. . .

Akane walked through the streets, heading toward her apartment. But despite having her head lowered, she wasn’t paying attention to the road or even thinking about her steps, since the muscle memory in her legs already carried her home without effort. No, her mind was focused on something else.

Her training session with Izuku Midoriya.

Even though it had been sudden, and she’d been skeptical about the idea at first, Akane was surprised to realize that she had actually enjoyed spending the afternoon with the green-haired boy.

"This… Was a good day." She decided, recalling her time with Midoriya. "He’s a really good student." She thought, remembering how attentive he had been during her demonstrations, and how he never complained even once about being tired.

Midoriya had definitely surpassed all her expectations.

She had been prepared to deal with someone she would hate, someone who was the worst of the worst.

(Someone just like his parents…)

But Midoriya ended up being very good company, someone Akane came to appreciate for his dedication and respect toward Kenjutsu.

(And besides, he was such an adorably dumb—)

Her thoughts stopped as she reached her apartment complex. She climbed the stairs to the third floor, then walked down the hallway until she reached her door. She pulled the key from her backpack pocket, slid it into the lock, turned it, and finally stepped inside.

She closed the door behind her, making sure to lock it, then bent down to take off her shoes and place them neatly in the hallway. But that’s when she noticed something important.

The other pair of shoes by the door.

Akane’s eyes widened the moment she saw them, immediately recognizing them as her father’s shoes. She stood barefoot and looked toward the hallway leading deeper into the apartment.

"I’m home!" She called out, her voice tinged with anxious anticipation.

For a few seconds, silence was her only answer, until the sound of footsteps approached the entrance.

"Welcome home." A tired yet warm voice spoke, appearing from the hallway.

Akane stared hard at the image of her father, Kaito Tetsuyami, as if she wanted to memorize it. His slightly messy dark-blue hair, his light-blue eyes framed by deep bags, and his business suit, now unbuttoned and missing its tie—clear signs that he had been relaxing after a long, exhausting day at work.

But none of that fatigue stopped him from smiling warmly at her. "Hello, Akane."

She couldn’t help but return the smile. "Hi, dad."

The two of them stepped closer and fell into a deep hug, one they hadn’t shared in a long time because of her father’s demanding and draining job. In fact, Kaito’s work was so relentless that he usually only returned home after she had already gone to sleep, and then left again after just a few hours of rest, long before she woke up.

(He worked that hard… For her.)

(The thought made Akane press her face even harder against his chest.)

They held each other for a while, as if trying to make up for all the time they had missed, until they finally pulled apart and made their way toward the kitchen.

"Sit down, I’ll make something." She told him, guiding him toward one of the chairs at the table.

"Alright." The man didn’t protest, too exhausted to resist anyway.

(After all, she had inherited both his stubbornness and her mother’s.)

The black-haired girl headed into the kitchen, pulling out a few ingredients from the fridge and beginning to prepare something quick and simple for dinner: miso soup. While she cooked, her father watched her from the table, observing the way she moved around the kitchen and the quiet “aura” that surrounded her.

"Did something good happen today?" He asked, making Akane glance back over her shoulder without stopping her cooking. "You look more energetic, and happier."

Her father’s words made Akane blink in surprise.

"Do I really look like that?" She thought, lowering her gaze to the meal she was preparing.

"Let me guess…" Akane rolled her eyes, not needing to turn around to know he was grinning with that playful, teasing smile of his. "It’s a boy, isn’t it?"

The girl sighed, far too used to her father’s ways to get properly annoyed anymore.

"Yes, it’s a boy. But it’s not what you think." She said firmly, cutting off the teasing comment she knew he was about to throw. "He’s a new member of my Kenjutsu club."

Her words didn’t earn an immediate response, but Akane already knew what he must be thinking. Surely he was surprised—and probably glad—that someone else at her school had taken an interest in Kenjutsu.

(Especially knowing how important it was to her.)

"Really?" She could hear the joy in her father’s voice, practically see his smile without turning around. "And what’s he like?"

"Well, he’s…" She hesitated for a moment as she served the miso soup into two bowls, staring into the food as if searching for the words she wanted. "He just started today, so he’s only a beginner, but…"

She set the bowls on the table and sat beside her father, whose face no longer showed any trace of fatigue. Now his entire attention was fixed on her expression and her words. Akane stared into her miso soup, searching for a way to describe Izuku, until she saw her reflection in its surface.

She knew exactly what to say.

"He’s someone diligent and dedicated, with a determination that will never let him give up on his goals."

(“He’s like me…” Was another way Akane could have put it.)

(And that thought placed a warm feeling deep in her chest.)

Her father studied her in silence for a moment, taking a sip of his miso soup, before smiling. "Sounds like a good boy."

Akane couldn’t help but nod with a smile. "Yeah, he is…"

"What’s his name?"

. . .

"What’s his name?"

Kaito Tetsuyami was thrilled about the day’s news. Not about his job—that boring, soul-draining place that stole days of his life and precious moments with his daughter. But he couldn’t quit, since it was their only source of income despite the brutal hours and demands. But tonight, his excitement came from something else: Akane’s Kenjutsu club had a new member!

(His daughter wasn’t alone anymore in the thing she loved most!)

Kaito knew that young people weren’t as interested in Kenjutsu these days, except maybe through manga or anime. Most of them focused much more on heroes. So to have proof that there were still kids willing to learn the fine and delicate art of the sword filled him with a strange sense of hope for the new generation.

(Hah… Now that he thought about it, that made him sound like an old man, even though he was barely past forty.)

He tried to imagine the boy based on the way Akane had described him: someone “diligent and dedicated,” with a determination that “would never let him give up.” Even from those simple words, Kaito felt this was someone he would genuinely like to meet.

(Strangely enough, he pictured the boy as a male version of his daughter… Weird.)

But all of that excitement faltered the moment he noticed her expression. Her eyes went wide, and the spoon in her hand froze halfway to her mouth. It was an expression of shock that clashed completely with her usual calm face. Kaito’s smile wavered, turning into something nervous, wondering what kind of rabbit hole he had just stumbled into.

"Akane?"

His daughter seemed to snap out of her thoughts at his voice, shaking her head almost imperceptibly, her lips twitching into a grimace as if the words she was about to say were too heavy to push out.

"It’s… Izuku… Izuku Midoriya is my Kenjutsu partner."

“Midoriya.”

Kaito’s mind went blank the instant he heard that name, his lips answering uselessly. "Oh…"

Neither of them said anything after that. Both of them knew what that name meant to their family.

"Midoriya…" Kaito thought, eating his miso soup automatically, though he didn’t taste a single bite. "The… Son of the Midoriyas…"

Izuku Midoriya. Kaito knew exactly who he was.

(How could he not know, when it was his parents who had ruined his life…?)

(The ones who had hurt his little girl?!)

He could still remember that day, just over two years ago, when Akane had come home after her first day at school and told him that the child of those monsters went there too.

(He could still remember the rage, the indignation at the idea that people like them could even be parents…)

Kaito took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, to suppress the violent urge to unleash his Quirk through his hands in pure fury.

(He didn’t notice the worried look Akane was giving him.)

"No. Don’t think like that…" He told himself as he clenched his fists against the table, determined not to lose control. "Calm down. Think rationally…"

(Easier said than done, but he forced himself to try.)

Kaito closed his eyes, sifting through his hatred, his contempt, his burning anger toward the Midoriyas.

It all began eight years ago, not long after his wife, Umi Seiko, abandoned him and Akane. And all for the stupid reason that Akane had been born Quirkless.

(Kaito had always known his wife favored strong, flashy Quirks, but he never imagined she’d go so far as to abandon her own child…)

(All the love he’d once felt for that woman had rotted into nothing but anger, pain, and resentment.)

Back then, his little girl had been so depressed. He’d thought of a way to lift her spirits, to distract her from Umi’s abandonment—by taking her with him to his Kenjutsu dojo. Where he was both the owner and the sensei, teaching a small but dedicated group of students.

(Sometimes he wondered what became of them—if they still practiced his precious Kōshintai-ryū style.)

Oh, how his daughter had loved that dojo, loved Kenjutsu from the very first moment. And the cherry on top? She was a prodigy with the sword! Kaito remembered with warmth the bright smile on her face whenever she watched him teach, or when she practiced the stances and techniques herself. The image of seven-year-old Akane, beaming with a toothy grin as she held one of his katanas, was etched forever in his memory.

(It was… Beautiful.)

By then, they had already survived the darkest event of their lives. Though Umi’s abandonment had been a tragedy, they had found a new joy, a way to be happy—not just as father and daughter, but also as master and student.

But then the Midoriyas attacked.

That day, it had only been the two of them in the dojo, cleaning up after a long practice. They were just finishing putting everything away when an explosion hit, knocking him unconscious. When he came to, paramedics were already tending to him, and a crowd had gathered outside to watch his dojo burn to the ground. Explosions, fire, screams—it was chaos, with pro-heroes fighting the Midoriyas in a near location.

But none of that mattered to Kaito. Not the fire, not his injuries, not even the dojo reduced to ashes. The only thing that mattered was finding his daughter—until the medics told him she hadn’t been found and was likely still inside the dojo.

So, barely awake, battered and burned, he staggered back into the inferno.

He remembered the desperation, stumbling through the flames and rubble, choking on smoke as he screamed her name over and over. He didn’t know how long he searched—just the sheer horror when he finally found her.

(It was… Unbearable.)

His little Akane lay sprawled on the floor among debris and fire, looking so broken she could’ve been mistaken for a corpse. Her hair was singed and falling out in burnt clumps. Her clothes were shredded and blackened, exposing wounded skin beneath. Blood pooled beneath her body.

But the worst of all… Were her arms.

(It was an image that still haunted his nightmares.)

Before the blast, she had been holding several of his katanas, helping him put them away. But the heat had melted the metal, fusing it to her arms, burning and melding with her flesh. Chunks of searing steel embedded in charred skin, the muscle beneath red and raw from burns and blood.

(Kaito sometimes swore he had even seen a patch of exposed bone through the melted flesh…)

(The memory alone was enough to make him sick.)

He had scooped her broken, bloodied body into his arms, ignoring his own pain, and carried her out of the collapsing inferno.

After that… Everything blurred.

The treatments. The amputations. Her new prosthetics. The endless financial struggles. The irreversible change to their lives.

Nothing was ever the same. Kaito had been forced to give up so much for her well-being—and his own.

(His dojo, his career as a combat instructor, his dream of training someone into Japan’s greatest swordsman…)

(But honestly, he never regretted a single sacrifice. Because they had all been for her.)

And all of it… Was the Midoriyas’ fault.

"I’ll wash the dishes." His daughter suddenly said.

Kaito blinked, snapping out of his thoughts, and noticed they had both finished their miso soup.

"Oh, alright…"

He watched as his daughter carried the bowls in her prosthetic arms, setting them into the sink before she began to wash them. His eyes followed the smooth, precise movements of her metallic limbs, and the utter calm she wore while using them.

Kaito stared in silence, unable to understand how she could remain so composed. How could she, when she now had to face the son of the people who had done this to her?

“Sounds like a good boy.” “Yeah, he is…”

Kaito’s brow furrowed at the memory of their earlier exchange. It was difficult—nearly impossible—for him to connect the words “Midoriya” and “good boy.”

(After all, children always resemble their parents…)

The thought startled him, and he resisted the urge to smack himself. Instead, he clenched his teeth, running his hands through his hair in frustration. He knew that line of thinking wasn’t just stupid—it was ridiculous.

He wasn’t like his own irresponsible parents, and Akane wasn’t like Umi.

He was being unfair to the boy, judging him without even meeting him, just because of who his parents were.

But he couldn’t help it.

(Not after what they had done to his little girl…)

Kaito exhaled a long, weary sigh, pondering what to do. "I guess I’ll just have to wait until I meet him."

Yes, he would have to judge Izuku Midoriya for himself when the day came, and decide whether or not he was truly a threat to his daughter.

(He knew she could take care of herself.)

(But still, it was a father’s duty to protect his family.)

. . .

Izuku was lying on his bed in his room, dinner already finished and ready to sleep, as the exhaustion from the day’s training was catching up to him and urging him to rest. But he didn’t feel like it—at least not yet.

“It was… Way harder than I thought.” He admitted, still feeling the fatigue and ache in his muscles even after hours of rest. “Tetsuyami-san is… Really incredible if she can do this every day without a problem.”

(It showed just how important Kenjutsu was to her.)

He shifted under the sheets, resting his head on his arms as he stared at the ceiling, thoughts circling around his training and the upcoming U.A. entrance exam.

“The entrance exam is on February 26th, so I still have 303 days left to prepare.” He calculated mentally.

(He probably should have done this math before lying down.)

“Taking out weekends and holidays, that leaves me with… 209 days. Two hours a day for Kenjutsu practice comes to 418 hours total. Which is… 17.4 days. And even less than that if anything comes up…”

After running the numbers in his head, Izuku kept staring at the ceiling for a moment, reflecting on the time he would dedicate to Kenjutsu in the future.

He frowned. “It’s not enough.”

If he wanted to get into U.A., if he wanted to become a hero despite his circumstances…

He had to push himself much harder.

(Harder than anyone else.)

Turning over in bed, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand and turned it on, going straight to the online marketplace and typing in what he was looking for.

“I have to work much harder.”

Izuku looked over the items in his cart: training equipment, a bokken, and a real katana. With a smile, he pressed "Confirm Purchase" and checked the delivery estimate: three days.

With that done, he turned off his phone and set it back on the nightstand. Settling under the sheets, he finally let himself drift toward sleep.

The next ten months would be tough, but he would endure it and become a hero.

(And nothing would stop him.)