Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world burned around you.

Walls screamed as they collapsed, beams snapped like bones, and the air reeked of melted metal and smoke. You were fourteen, too young to die, too old to believe you were going to be saved. Every breath felt like swallowing glass. You could barely cry—your throat was too raw, your lungs too full of dust. Only quiet, stuttering gasps escaped you, muffled by the blood pooling in your mouth.

“…Mom?” you whispered.

But your mother didn’t move. Her body lay half-buried beside you, her hand limp and still warm. You reached out, brushing her fingers, pretending she’d squeeze back. She didn’t.

Then, through the haze, you saw him.

A man of gold and glory. His hair was bright as sunlight through smoke; his cape, a banner of hope against chaos. He was larger than life—All Might, the symbol of peace himself. You watched as he lifted broken bodies like they weighed nothing, voice booming even over the fire.

He picked your mother up.

For a moment, you thought—he saw you. You thought he’d notice the tiny movement of your hand, the cracked whisper from your throat. You tried to push a word out, just one.

“I’m—alive—”

But his back turned.

He handed your mother’s body to paramedics and turned to help someone else—a man groaning under twisted metal, an elder clutching his chest. He didn’t see the child crushed between beams. The one still breathing. The one still waiting.

You tried to reach him. Your arm trembled, your fingers grazed the hem of his pants before he moved away. You missed.

Something inside you snapped.

You screamed—a raw, wordless sound—and forced your leg free, skin tearing, bone grinding. Pain burned, but so did something deeper: betrayal. You dragged yourself through smoke and broken glass until the sirens faded, until no one could hear you.

You stumbled into an alleyway, barely standing. The world blurred, and you collapsed to your knees, coughing crimson into your palms.

“Why…” you rasped, voice shaking. “Why didn’t he look at me?”

Footsteps echoed.

A man crouched before you—tall, dressed in black and gold, a beaked mask hiding his face. His presence was quiet, heavy. His gloved hands were steady, not gentle but deliberate.

“Hello, little girl.”

You flinched, pressing your forehead into your palms. The sound of your sobbing returned, quiet and broken.

“Where is your mother?”

You looked up slowly, vision swimming. Then you lunged—weakly, desperately—grabbing onto him. The world tilted as he caught himself, sitting down with you clinging to his chest. You were trembling, clutching his coat with blood-slick fingers.

“She’s dead,” you choked. Your voice cracked but carried a strange steadiness, too old for your age. “That hero—he almost killed me. He left me.”

The man hesitated, then rested his hand on the back of your head, pulling you close. You felt his chin settle atop your hair. His heartbeat was slow.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “We will show him.”

You didn’t understand what that meant—not yet. But in the hollow of his chest, surrounded by masked strangers, something in you began to harden.

The child who believed in heroes died in that fire.
And the traitor the world would one day fear was born in the ashes.

—Kai Chisaki saved you that day. All Might didn’t.

Chapter Text

The world stopped burning years ago.
But the smoke never left my lungs.

Every morning starts the same: a hiss of steam, the click of metal, and the soft whine of gears struggling to mimic the rhythm of a heartbeat. My workshop smells like oil and antiseptic—two scents that keep me alive. One for what’s left of my body, and one for what I built to replace it.

The prosthetic leg sits on the table, half-polished, half-bloodstained from the last time it betrayed me. The brass joints catch the dim light; tiny tubes snake along its side like veins, carrying coolant through copper channels. A strip of dark leather braces the knee, worn smooth where my fingers always trace the same scar. Etched into the metal, just below the thigh socket, are my initials—Y/N L., carved like a promise.

I built it from scrap: pieces of Shie Hassakai armor, discarded hero tech, and parts no one would miss. It’s ugly. Heavy. Loud. But it’s mine.

When the doctors said the infection had reached the bone, I didn’t cry. I just stared at the leg they were about to cut off—the same one that had dragged me out of a fire—and felt…nothing.
That leg died saving me.
This one exists to remind me that survival comes with a cost.

I tighten the last bolt and brace my hands on the workbench. The prosthetic locks into place with a hiss. Steam rolls from the joint as I test the pressure. The first step always feels like walking on someone else’s grave.

The metal bites into the socket, and my muscles twitch from pain, but I keep moving. One step. Then another. The weight distribution’s off—too heavy on the left gear—so I nearly topple. My hand shoots out, catching the edge of the table before I fall. The tools rattle, and the air fills with the smell of burning circuits.

“Damn it,” I hiss, shoving my hair from my face. Sweat clings to my neck. My reflection in the workbench mirror looks like a ghost—dark circles, grease-streaked skin, eyes too sharp for someone my age.

I grab the pencil from behind my ear and scribble across the blueprints spread on the table:

BALANCE: center weight 2° inward. Stabilize torque shaft. Adjust gait sync.

The graphite snaps under pressure, so I switch to ink. The diagrams are messy, filled with notes, smudges, and half-finished sketches of enhancements—rocket boosters, shock absorbers, pressure sensors. I could make it perfect if I had the time. But perfection doesn’t matter when you’re expected to kill on command.

I take another step, then another, until the motion becomes a limp that almost feels natural. My breath steadies. The leg emits a rhythmic tick-click, tick-click, like a metronome for my own defiance.

In the far corner, the Shie Hassakai mask hangs on a hook—black and gold, the beaked design matching the one Kai wears. Its blank eyes stare at me, reflecting the sparks from my welding torch. To everyone out there, I’m the Yakuza’s pet mechanic. The sniper who never misses. The psycho with the metal leg and the smile that means danger.

Maybe they’re right.

I glance at the photo pinned to the wall— a photo of All Might stared back at me from across the room.

That damn smile—the same one that haunted the smoke and fire in my memories.
I raised my arm, took aim, and thunk.
The dart buried itself right between his eyes.

“Symbol of Peace,” I muttered, reaching for another dart. “Right.”

The door creaked open behind me. I stumbled slightly, turning my head.

“Kai,” I breathed, the sharpness in me softening. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” he said, tone flat as always—but I could tell. Years of reading him had taught me the difference between apathy and calm. Today, he was calm.

“Are you busy?”

I shook my head, wiping the oil from my hands onto a rag. “No. What’s wrong?”

“There’s a meeting,” he replied. “And I need you there.”

Need. Not want. Not request. Need.

I switched legs. The one on my bench still needed fine-tuning, so I grabbed my regular prosthetic—the reliable one. It clicked into place with practiced ease. I pressed a small patch against my temple; a hum answered deep within the metal. The leg whirred, lights flickered, and I felt it sync to my nerves like it had always been part of me. I stood, walking toward him with a smoothness that used to make doctors stare.

Chronostasis was waiting outside. “Good morning,” he greeted, nodding as we joined him.

The hall was quiet except for the echo of our footsteps. The air carried that faint scent of antiseptic and rust—home.

When we reached the meeting room, the door was already open. A man sat at the table, legs thrown up, cigar smoke curling through the air like arrogance itself. A few of our members lingered along the walls—Mimic, Rappa, and others—silent but alert.

Kai took the head of the table; I stood beside him.

The man grinned, leaning forward. “Overhaul,” he said lazily. “Didn’t think the mighty Shie Hassakai would lower themselves to meet with us gutter dogs.”

Kai didn’t respond. Just stared.

The man chuckled. “Relax. I just came to talk about leverage. There’s a gang moving in on my territory. You got the drugs. I got the manpower. We could—help each other out.”

Kai’s tone was calm, but colder than steel. “We don’t ‘help.’ We control. Either you fall in line or you fall apart.”

The man barked a laugh. “You’re still playing king in your little quarantine kingdom, huh?” He puffed out smoke toward Kai’s mask. “Hiding behind that freak show mask like it makes you better than me.” Kai’s porcelain skin broke out slightly.

My fingers twitched. Kai didn’t move.

The man leaned back, smirking. “Heard your little underlings are more virus than human. Tell me—what happens if your pet mechanic here decides you’re not worth catching anymore?”

The room froze. My blood turned to static.

I blinked once.

Then my prosthetic shifted. The plates along the shin split open, unfolding like petals made of iron. The air hissed as sharp edges locked into place, forming a blade where my leg had been.

The next sound was wet and final.

The man gurgled, clutching his throat as crimson spilled between his fingers. His cigar dropped, sizzling on the floor. He slumped over, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

No one gasped. No one flinched.

I walked past him, the metallic heel of my leg echoing off the tile. “Apologies,” I said softly. “I’ll clean it up.”

The blade retracted with a hiss as I knelt beside the body. My hands hovered over my stomach; the flesh there rippled. A seam opened just above my navel, revealing the slick grin of a second mouth. Its tongue—long and smooth like silk over steel—slid out and wrapped around the corpse.

The body vanished into the mouth in seconds. I felt warmth surge through me—a rush like lightning under my skin. My spine arched slightly as the new energy burned its way into my blood. My breath caught, a small sound slipping out before I could stop it. The quirk. It always felt like that—alive, euphoric, terrifying.

I swallowed hard and straightened, ignoring the way Mimic quickly looked away.

When the last of the blood drained from the floor, the tongue flicked out again, lapping up the red stain before retreating.

“Yum yum,” it sang from beneath my ribs, voice small and playful.

“Quiet,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

Mimic chuckled, arms crossed. “No matter how much I see it, it’s still gross.”

The corners of Kai’s eyes softened behind his mask. He stepped closer, gloved hand rising. For a moment, I braced for reprimand—but instead, he rested his palm gently on the top of my head.

“Good work,” he said simply.

The warmth in his tone was faint, but real. It was the closest thing to affection I’d known since the fire.

I looked up at him, smearing a streak of blood across my cheek as I smiled. “Always, Overhaul.”

—
Name: Y/N L/N
Villian Name: Eidolon
Quirk: Devourer
Quirk Type: Mutant / Transformation
Y/N’s body houses a secondary mouth located along the abdomen, capable of consuming organic matter to absorb its life force and genetic information. When a living being is fully consumed (or eaten, in other words), their quirk permanently fuses into Y/N’s system, granting their partial or complete access to that ability. Partial consumption allows temporary use, but total consumption ensures permanent inheritance. Smaller creatures (like insects or animals) provide partial mutations—enhanced vision, limbs, or senses.

Notable Traits:
Rapid cellular regeneration after consumption.
Ability to temporarily manifest biological features of absorbed quirks (claws, wings, extra limbs).
Dual consciousness between Y/N and the “mouth entity,” often speaking independently.

Think of it like Suneater and Fatgum’s quirks gone cannibalistic!
—

Silence settled after the cleanup. Only the hum of the ventilation system filled the room, along with the faint hiss of my leg’s cooling system. The smell of smoke lingered—cigar ash and blood, mixed with the sterile tang of disinfectant.

Chronostasis adjusted his gloves, unfazed. “That could have gone worse,” he murmured dryly.

“Could’ve gone faster,” Mimic replied, smirking from the wall. “They’ve getting soft. Used to be faster than a blink.”

“Watch it,” I muttered, tightening the strap on my leg.

Kai ignored the bickering. He pulled off one of his gloves, flexing his fingers. “The bodies are gone,” he said, voice calm. “No traces left.”

“No one’ll miss them,” Chronostasis added.

Kai’s gaze drifted toward me. “You shouldn’t let words get to you.”

I met his eyes, expression unreadable behind my bangs. “He insulted you.”

“He was irrelevant.”

“So was my leg,” I said, tapping the metal against the tile, “but I fixed that too.”

A pause. Then—faintly, barely there—a chuckle.

Kai turned away first. “You’re impossible.”

“Efficient,” I corrected, brushing oil off my cheek.

He didn’t argue. Instead, he gestured for me to follow. The others parted instinctively as we walked down the corridor, my metallic steps echoing between the concrete walls. Every door we passed bore the mark of his influence—clean, sterile, ordered. Every person bowed slightly, their eyes sliding past me like I was a weapon rather than a person. Maybe they weren’t wrong.

When we reached the elevator, Kai pressed the button and stood beside me. The quiet between us wasn’t awkward—it was heavy, familiar. Like gravity.

“Do you regret it?” he asked suddenly.

I tilted my head. “The kill?”

“The path.”

I thought about it. The fire. The screams. The way All Might’s cape had glowed like salvation before it turned away. The way Kai’s voice had steadied me when no one else had.

“No,” I said finally. “I regret believing in heroes.”

Kai’s gaze lingered on me. “Good.”

The elevator doors opened, revealing the underground lab—rows of medical tables, sealed rooms, and humming machinery that smelled like antiseptic and metal. Cold light bounced off the white tiles, too bright for comfort, too clean to feel human.

I’d only been here a handful of times.
Kai never liked me in this place. He’d say it softly, always the same way:

“I don’t want you involved in her.”

I had accepted the rule without understanding it the first dozen times he gave it, and the dozens after that. Rules were scaffolding; scaffolding kept a thing standing.

He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the hinge of his jaw flex. The proximity that used to feel paternal now felt like a string being tightened around my ribs. I told myself that tightening meant care. I told myself the string was protection. He had taught me to call it love.

“I have a task for you,” he said, and the words were not gentle. They weren’t meant to be. “Can you do it for me?”

I looked at him. I looked at the instruments laid out: a tray of casings that shimmered like a red jewel, a rack of glass vials filled with a red substance that caught the overhead light and made it look like liquid mercury, a slow, humming fixture that kept the room at a constant, controlled chill. I knew enough to recognize the danger in the way the red caught at the eye, to feel the way my palms warmed at the sight, as if something inside me recognized kin.

“Yeah,” I said, voice small but steady.

I did not ask what the bullets were for. I did not ask how the red behaved in different chemistries. I had learned that asking was a breach of discipline; Kai did not like breaches. Besides — questions were messy, and mess invited choices, and choices brought loneliness. I was not ready for that.

He watched me with those flat eyes of his. “They must be precise,” he said. “Balanced. Each cartridge sealed. No residue, no faults.”

Precision was my language. My hands, scarred and steady, moved before my mind realized I had begun. I picked up a casing, weighing it by the way it sat in my palm. Brass. Cold and pitted. I liked the feel of metal that remembered hands other than mine. I liked the way a perfect curve fit like a promise.

My prosthetic hummed at my side; the patch against my temple had already synced the joint with my nerve impulses. The leg that had once been an absence now clicked into mechanical rhythm and kept me anchored when my knees wanted to turn traitor. I set the casing into the cradle and watched the red vial reflect in its curve like a tiny, molten sun.

Kai moved behind me without making a sound, the small of my back brushed by his coat. He didn’t touch me, not yet. He never needed to. His presence was weight enough. “Keep them even,” he instructed. “If one is heavier than the others the trajectory changes. Imbalance kills plans.”

I nodded. “Even,” I echoed, because evenness sounded like order and order sounded like approval.

Filling the cartridges was a ritual more than a recipe. I drew the red into a pipette — the motion ritualized, the pipette a wand — and held for a count that felt like counting the breaths of someone sleeping. I let a measured drop fall into the hollow, watched it bead, watched the surface pull taut before the seal closed with a hiss. I could not tell you the molecular dances or the ways the red would tear at biology; I could only tell you how the red smelled — metallic and sweet, like pennies and old blood — and how my chest loosened when it slid through the brass.

There was a small sick pleasure to the work, a neatness that made my bones sing. Each cartridge clicked into place, neat and uncompromising. I lined them up; they were a row of sleeping insects behind glass. I imagined them singing when it was time to wake.

“You’re slow,” someone near the doorway said, a voice with too many vowels. Mimic. He always sounded like he was chewing words. He’d seen me do this before. He did not flinch at the sight of the red. None of them did.

“I’m thorough,” I replied. It wasn’t a lie.

Kai’s hand landed lightly on the table, the pads of his fingers pressing there, not touching my skin but marking the space like a seal. He watched without expression, eyes narrowing the way a surgeon’s did before the cut. “Good,” he said. “Do not let sentiment slacken you. We cannot afford slack.”

I absorbed the word like an instruction and set my jaw around it. Sentiment was a messy thing he had taught me to swallow before it could be seen. He had taught me to hide it inside bolts and into the marrow of gear teeth. He had, over the years, shown me how the world responded better to certainty than to pleading. He had shown me how to be efficient.

When the last cartridge sealed, I pushed the tray toward him. The red reflected in the brass like the memory of a fire. He tapped one with a gloved finger, examined the seal as if it were a specimen.

“You did well,” he said, and it sounded like relief, not praise. “They will perform as expected.”

Relief unfurled in my chest like steam. I wanted to close the distance, to press my forehead to his palm and feel the warmth of his skin, but that would have been a different kind of asking. Instead, I straightened, allowing the metal in my leg to align, letting the small servos sing in quiet satisfaction.

He did not need to call me pet. He did not need to remind me that I was his. The look in his eyes said it all: a contract made of half-truths and warm collars, knots that neither of us could admit were binding.

As we left the table, the vial rack clicked shut like a mouth closing. I caught myself staring at the sealed red one last time, and for a moment, something inside me — the part that had once reached for All Might’s hem and found nothing — flickered.

Kai’s voice, low and steady, pulled me back low and unhurried. “Did you get any sleep, Y/n?”

The words hit harder than they should have. My fingers froze above the tray of finished cartridges. I didn’t need to look up to know his eyes were on me—steady, unreadable, dissecting.

My throat felt tight. “Not much,” I admitted.

His gloved hand lowered from the table, and when I finally glanced at him, his posture had changed. No longer the quiet precision of a scientist—something heavier sat in his stance, something that made the air between us sting.

“I told you to rest.” The words weren’t loud, but they carried the weight of a verdict.

“I was finishing the calibration,” I murmured quickly. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

The glare he gave me was sharp enough to draw tears without ever raising his voice. My eyes burned, but I didn’t dare blink. Disobedience wasn’t punished with violence here—no, it was worse. It was silence. That disappointed quiet that stretched between us like a blade waiting to fall.

Kai exhaled slowly, pulling the glove back onto his hand with deliberate care. “You can’t keep working through the night. It makes you sloppy.”

I nodded, barely breathing. “Yes, Kai.”

He turned toward the door, coat swaying with his movement. Just before leaving, he paused, glancing at me over his shoulder. His tone softened by a fraction—barely noticeable, but enough that my chest ached.

“Get some rest,” he said. “But be up and ready by noon. Your task isn’t done yet.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door hissed shut behind him, leaving me alone with the hum of fluorescent light and the faint smell of metal and red chemical. My legs felt heavier than the prosthetic attached to one of them. I reached up, rubbing the corner of my eye before the tear could fall, smearing grease across my cheek.

I told myself his harshness meant he cared. That his words were only sharp because the world was sharper. Because love, in his version of it, had to hurt a little to be real.

“Get some rest,” I whispered to myself, echoing him.
And even though every part of me trembled, I smiled.

Because he needed me. And I needed him.
And that was enough to keep me from falling apart.

—

The clock hit noon before I realized I’d been awake for hours.
Sleep never came easily anymore—every time I closed my eyes, the fire came back. The screams. The heat. The light that didn’t save me.

I stood in front of the mirror, half-dressed, half-assembled.
Black fabric wrapped around my body like shadow incarnate: a strapless, layered dress/shirt that dripped with torn silk and lace, delicate but deadly. The side slits framed the gleam of my prosthetic leg—white metal engraved with floral etchings, gold filigree winding down to perfect mechanical toes. I ran my hand over the smooth surface; it hummed softly under my touch, like a living thing waiting to move.

Over my shoulders went the cropped, asymmetrical mantle—leather laces up the front, one sleeve draping down like a wing. It framed me like armor.

Finally, I fastened the mask.

The world narrowed into two small circles of shaded glass and the sound of my own breathing. The scent of treated leather filled the air as I adjusted the straps. When the last buckle clicked, the person in the mirror wasn’t me anymore. They were someone Kai had built—obedient, precise, and unbreakable.

When I stepped into the hall, Kai was already waiting.
He looked at me the way he always did when something went according to plan—silence first, then that small, restrained nod.

I smiled beneath the mask. “Good afternoon, Overhaul.”

“Ready?”

“Always.”

We walked side by side through the corridors of the Shie Hassakai base, our steps echoing off the sterile tile. Outside, a black car waited. Chronostasis stood by the door, but Kai dismissed him with a look.
Just the two of us this time.

I slid into the backseat beside him, the leather sighing under our weight. The driver didn’t ask questions. He never did.

As the car rolled forward, I hummed quietly—an old melody from before the fire, something my mother used to hum while sewing late at night.

To my surprise, Kai joined in—just under his breath, low and almost human.

For a moment, the world felt still.

For a moment, it almost felt like peace.

When the car stopped, he opened the door for me. The city air hit, cool and metallic. We crossed the crumbling threshold of an abandoned building, the floors littered with glass and forgotten blueprints. Dust sparkled in the fractured light like dying stars.

Up on the roof, the wind tugged at the loose silk of my outfit. I breathed in the chill before Kai handed me a long, metal case.

I didn’t need to open it to know what was inside.

My sniper. My creation. My curse.

The latch released with a satisfying click, and there it was—sleek, matte black, the barrel engraved with tiny etchings that caught the sun. I assembled it in seconds, each motion muscle memory. It felt right in my hands, almost comforting.

I reached for a regular round, but Kai’s gloved hand stopped me.
“Use this.”

He held out a single bullet, gleaming faintly crimson. The same liquid we’d sealed in the lab.

I hesitated, brows knitting beneath the mask. “…Is it ready for field use?”

His voice left no room for doubt. “It’s ready.”

I nodded, sliding the round into the chamber. The metal whispered as it locked in place.

Lying flat against the concrete, I peered through the scope. Down below, chaos unfolded. A mid-rank hero was fighting a villain whose movements screamed withdrawal—the tremor of someone strung out on quirk-enhancement drugs. The hero was skilled, but he was tired. Each blow looked heavier than the last.

“Target?” I asked.

“The hero,” Kai said.

My breath caught. “The hero? I’ve never— Are you sure?”

“Do it.”

I steadied my aim. Through the glass, I saw the hero’s jaw clench, his eyes blazing with determination. He was trying to talk the villain down even while dodging attacks. That old word—hero—tasted bitter on my tongue.

One heartbeat.
Two.
I exhaled and pulled the trigger.

The bullet cut through the air with a sharp crack.

A heartbeat later, the hero’s body seized. The light in his eyes flickered and died. His quirk—whatever it had been—snuffed out mid-motion. The villain’s knife found his throat before he could even scream.

My finger froze on the trigger.

The world went still.

When I looked up, Kai was already watching me. His eyes—sharp, golden, calculating—didn’t hold surprise. Only satisfaction.
It hit me then: this was no experiment. This was proof.

I swallowed hard, disassembling the sniper with trembling hands. “What was that?”

“Proof of success,” he said simply, turning away.

“Success? He’s dead. That villain looks like he didn’t mean to.”

He didn’t stop walking. “Collateral.”

I followed him down the rusted stairs, boots echoing. “What was in that bullet? What did it do? Did it kill the quirk? Did it steal it?”

No answer.

I gritted my teeth, quickening my pace. “Kai—who is she? The one you keep talking about? Is she connected to this? To those bullets?”

He stopped so suddenly I nearly ran into him. My shoulder brushed his arm; I stumbled back.

His mask tilted toward me, and the tone that came next froze the blood in my veins.

“One more question out of you,” he said quietly, “and your tongue is gone.”

I stared at him, words dying in my throat.

“Don’t talk about her to me again.”

And then he was gone—coat flaring, footsteps deliberate. The car door slammed, the engine roared, and before I could move, it was pulling away down the cracked street.

For a long time, I just stood there, staring at the spot where he’d been. The wind tugged at the silk hanging from my clothes, the mask heavy on my face.

When the car disappeared, the silence broke me.

“Fuck.”

The word tore out before I could stop it. I ripped the mask off, the leather cold in my hands, and threw it to the ground. It landed with a hollow thud.

I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to make sense of the ache behind my eyes.

I wanted to hate him. I wanted to run after him. I wanted—
I didn’t know what I wanted anymore.

After a moment, I bent down and picked up the mask. My reflection stared back in the curved glass—warped, unrecognizable.

I inhaled slowly. Exhaled slower.

Then I put the mask back on and turned toward the alley.

The streets were quiet as I made my way home, shadows stretching long under the fading sun.

I didn’t look back.
But the echo of the shot followed me all the way there.

Chapter Text

The last few days blurred into one long, sleepless hum.

Water. Shower. Tinker. Sleep. Repeat.

Food stayed untouched on the counter until Mimic stopped sending it. Kai hadn’t spoken to me since the mission, and I’d rather rot in this room than see that same cold glare again.

I hunched over my desk, goggles pushed up, a soldering iron whining against a half-finished gadget. My hands shook from hunger, but I ignored it. Metal didn’t care if you starved.

The door opened.

Without thinking, I threw the wrench. It hit something—someone—with a dull thunk.

A quiet hiss of pain followed.

“You have a violent way of saying hello,” Chrona muttered, stepping inside and setting a plate of food on the nearest table.

“Then stop walking into my room.” I grabbed another wrench, twisting a bolt tighter. “What do you want?”

“You can’t starve yourself, Y/n. He’s not angry anymore.”

I scoffed. “Yeah, because he’s got you playing messenger instead.”

Chrona crossed his arms. “He’s busy.”

“Busy?” I snapped, finally looking up. “With what? Or should I say who?”

The air tightened.
“She’s got him busy,” he said after a beat too long.

That did it.

My chair screeched back as I stood, fury cutting through the numbness. “Who the hell is she, Chrona?”

He didn’t answer. Not with words, anyway. Just that same silence—obedient, suffocating. The same silence I’d been raised to keep.

I ripped my gloves off, slamming them onto the desk. “Forget it.”

“Y/n—”

I was already walking to the closet, pulling out clothes at random. The outfit was simple: a black halter top that hugged my form, charcoal cargo pants heavy with pockets, and the silver rosary I never took off. My prosthetic clicked softly as I dressed, the faint sound of gears steadying my pulse. Chrona politely turned away, pretending to examine the ceiling.

“Where are you going?” he asked when he heard the clink of my keys.

“Out.”

He started to speak again, but the door slammed in his face.

I stormed down the hall, each step echoing through the quiet corridors. The front doors loomed ahead—freedom, for once—and that’s when I saw him.

Kai.
He was coming down the opposite hall, posture perfect as ever, eyes cold and unreadable. Our shoulders brushed when I passed him. He didn’t say a word. Neither did I.

If I looked at him, I’d break.
So I didn’t.

Outside, the afternoon sun hit like static. My motorcycle waited in its usual spot, its matte black surface lined with streaks of my favorite color, sharp against the dark. My first gift from Kai. The only one that had ever felt like mine.

I slipped on my gloves, tightened the straps of my helmet, and swung my leg over the seat.
The engine roared to life.
For a moment, the sound drowned out everything.

Then I drove.
No direction, no plan—just the road stretching ahead, the wind screaming through my clothes, the city flashing by in blurs of color and noise. I didn’t care where I ended up.

When I finally stopped, it was in a parking lot near the mall. The neon lights reflected off the bike’s paint as I cut the engine. I pulled off my gloves, my fingers stiff from gripping the handlebars.

And then—
“What the hell is wrong with you!?”

A voice shouted across the lot. I turned, blinking behind my tinted visor. A group of teenagers stood there—one with red hair and shark teeth, another with pink hair and skin to match, and one with a jagged lightning bolt streaking through his yellow hair.

They were scowling. I could practically feel their moral superiority.

“You almost ran us over!” the blond yelled.

I stared at them, unmoving, voice muffled by the helmet. “Who are you, exactly?”

They blinked, thrown off by how calm I sounded. My gaze shifted past them, catching sight of the U.A. emblem pinned to one of their bags. The scowl came naturally.

“Ah. U.A. students,” I said, tone dry. “Explains the ego.”

The pink one huffed. “Excuse me?”

I ignored her, checking my phone. Kai, Mimic, and Chrona had all texted. I rolled my eyes and left them on read.

The redhead was still talking when I looked up.
“What’d you say?” I asked.

“I said you could’ve killed someone!”

“But did I?”

He blinked. “Well, no—”

“Okay then. Shut the fuck up.”

“Hey!”

Another voice joined in—a man with blue hair and glasses walking briskly toward us, exasperation already written all over his face. The light caught on his frames as he gestured animatedly.

“You must be new here,” I said before he could start. I took off my helmet, shaking my hair loose and tucking a few strands behind my ear. “You’re that hero’s brother, right? Ingenium?”

The air went still. His posture stiffened.

I smiled, genuine this time. “Heard you tried to kill Stain because of it. Pretty badass.”

The others gawked like I’d spat venom. I was being sincere. I thought it was cool. Passionate. But their stares said otherwise.

“Move,” I said simply.

They stepped aside as I passed, the sound of my boots echoing off the concrete.

“Nice seeing ya in the flesh,” I called over my shoulder, waving lazily.

That’s when I noticed him.
A boy standing slightly apart from the rest—green hair, freckles, eyes wide like I’d stepped out of a dream he couldn’t name. He didn’t say anything. Just stared.

I met his gaze and, without thinking, winked.

He turned red immediately, and for the first time in days, I laughed. Quiet, but real.

Then I walked into the mall.

The mall air smelled like sugar, grease, and freedom.
My stomach growled loud enough to make a kid turn and stare. Whatever. I’d earned this.

I walked through the maze of lights and noise like a ghost with a credit card — his credit card. Revenge didn’t have to be loud. It just had to sting when he noticed.

First stop: clothes. I didn’t need them, but watching the cashier stack pile after pile of black fabric into glossy bags felt like control.

Second: a gaming store. I bought every new release, even ones I’d never play, and a few collectible figures that I’d end up breaking when the mood turned.

Then posters — pretty ones, dark ones, the kind that would look poetic with knife holes.

Finally, snacks. Spicy chips, candy, drinks, and a box of pretzel sweets that smelled like cinnamon sin.

By the time I was done, I looked like a walking department store. My prosthetic creaked under the weight until I used a quirk from a deceased telekinetic. Now the bags hovered politely behind me as I chewed on a pretzel stick and sipped boba through a thick straw.

Standing on the escalator, I could almost pretend I was normal. A bored teen on a shopping spree instead of a weapon that walked and breathed.

Then I saw green.

That same mop of curls. The same wide, curious eyes.
Midoriya.

For a second, I considered ignoring him. I should have. But the sugar and adrenaline had me reckless, soft in the edges. Maybe an apology would balance the day’s chaos.

I started walking toward him, dodging shoppers and balancing the pretzel box between my teeth. That’s when I saw him.

Sitting beside Midoriya — pale hair, red eyes, hands that twitched like they missed the feeling of dust.

Shigaraki.

The sight froze me mid-step. Every muscle screamed danger. His hand rested on the boy’s neck, fingers spread like a loaded gun.

For a heartbeat, I weighed my options.
Help a fellow villain… or help a hero.

My leg whirred to life before my brain decided.

“Oh, baby! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” I called, voice syrup-sweet.

Both heads turned.

“Don’t come any closer,” Shigaraki warned, voice low, eyes narrowing.

I raised an eyebrow. “Relax, I’m not here for drama. Just making up for earlier.”

He shifted slightly. I could see the way Midoriya’s throat bobbed under his grip.

I smiled wider and triggered another stolen quirk, two arms appearing below my ribs. The arms stretched, elastic and fluid, snapping forward to wrap around the boy’s waist. One pull, and he was out of reach before Shigaraki could blink.

“See?” I cooed, tugging him close and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Told you I’d find you.”

Shigaraki’s gaze sharpened, recognition flickering but not landing. No one had ever seen me without the mask. He’d live just long enough to keep that streak unbroken.

“Didn’t know you had company,” I said lightly, eyes narrowing in warning.

He shrugged, scratching his neck. “Didn’t know Midoriya had friends.”

He said the name too deliberately. Then he turned, hands in his pockets, and melted into the crowd.

As soon as he vanished, the tension snapped. A brunette girl stood nearby, shaking, eyes wide. A U.A. student, obviously. Probably never seen a real villain up close before.

I released the quirk, setting the boy down. He stumbled, coughing as his lungs remembered how to work.

“You good?” I asked, chewing another pretzel piece.

“I—yeah—” he wheezed, coughing again.

“Breathe,” I muttered, patting his back like scolding a cat. Then I nodded toward the girl. “Go call it in. Tell them Shigaraki was spotted.”

“O-okay!” She fumbled for her phone, fingers trembling as she dialed.

When I looked back, Midoriya had managed to stop coughing, though his cheeks were still pink.

“Pretzel?” I offered, holding out the box.

He blinked, confused. “Who are you?”

“I should be asking you,” I countered. Then, after a pause, “Y/n L/n. Pleasure.”

“I’m Izuku Midoriya,” he said, still trying to figure me out. “Are you… a hero?”

“Oh, no.” I laughed quietly. “Just a 16 year old with a badass quirk.”

He smiled at that, a little unsure, but he smiled.

“Well,” I said, grabbing my bags from the floating orbit, “I should get going. Nice meeting you, hero boy.”

He smiled, and for a moment, it was disarming.

“Well, I gotta run,” I said, turning to leave. But the brunette girl stepped in front of me.

“No one’s going anywhere. You have to make a statement—you were a witness too!”

I groaned. “Here’s my statement: I saw a creep touching up a cute boy, realized it was Shigaraki, moved the cutie, and he left. Boom. Bam. Pow. Done. Happy?”

“Ma’am, please—”

“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me.”

Before I could escape, the mall’s exits filled with police lights.
Fantastic.

—

Outside, the flashing reds and blues burned against my eyes. The officers separated us, ushering me toward someone dressed like a cartoon cat.

“Do I need to meow for you to understand?” I asked dryly.

He chuckled, pulling out a notepad. “Just tell me what you saw, meow.”

I blinked. “…You’re serious.”

“Very.”

So, I told him. Everything—except for the part where I saved Midoriya using stolen quirks. I edited myself clean, trimming the truth until it looked palatable. But guilt bled through the cracks anyway.
Not guilt for Shigaraki.
For Kai.

If he found out, if he even suspected I’d interfered with another villain’s target…

I swallowed hard and looked away.

When the questioning was over, the officers reunited us. Midoriya and the brunette stood nearby, both wide-eyed. One of the cops clapped me on the shoulder. “You did good, kid. Saved a hero in training today.”

Another added, “Still reckless, though. Could’ve gotten yourself hurt.”

I grinned. “Danger’s my middle name.”

Silence. No one laughed.

“Am I muted?” I deadpanned. “Tough crowd.”

Midoriya laughed quietly. The sound cracked through the tension like sunlight through clouds. I glanced at him and smiled despite myself.

“I’m glad I could help, Midoriya.”

He nodded, that same shy smile tugging at his lips.

The cops waved us off soon after, and I made my way back to the parking lot. My extra arms carried the mountain of shopping bags effortlessly while I slipped on my gloves and helmet.

By the time the visor shut, my smile had vanished.

My name was now on record.

The realization sank in like ice. Would they find out what I was? Would they trace the quirk signatures I’d used?

I started the engine. The roar covered the sound of my heart pounding.

By the time I reached home, the headlights of Kai’s car were waiting in the driveway.

He stood outside, still as stone.

And the second I saw him, my stomach turned to lead.

The engine cut out, leaving nothing but the low hiss of cooling metal.
Headlights spilled over Kai’s coat, catching the faint dust in the air. He stood perfectly still beside the door, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable behind that mask.

I unclipped my helmet slowly, pretending not to see him. Maybe if I moved carefully enough, maybe if I said nothing, the storm would pass.
The helmet came off with a soft hiss. I hung it from the handlebar, grabbed one bag, then another.

I didn’t look at him.
Didn’t speak.

I turned for the door.

A gloved hand closed around my wrist.
Tight.

The bags hit the ground, scattering their contents.

“Kai—”

He pulled me toward him in one smooth motion until the air between us disappeared. His height swallowed my shadow, his breath slow and measured.

“Where were you.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a sentence.

“I went out,” I managed, trying to pull my hand free. His grip didn’t budge. The pressure bit against the joint where flesh met metal.

“Where.”

“The mall.”

The silence that followed was heavier than shouting.

His thumb shifted just enough for me to feel the tremor underneath the leather. “You were seen.”

My throat tightened. “By who?”

“Police.”
The word came out like the click of a safety being removed.

My pulse kicked up. “I didn’t—It wasn’t my fault. Shigaraki was there, and a kid—”

He stepped closer. The gloved hand slid from my wrist to my jaw, not hard, but firm enough to keep me still. The smell of antiseptic and latex burned my nose.

“I told you,” he said softly, “to stay quiet.”

“I did.”

“You were recorded.”

I swallowed hard. “They don’t know who I am. I used a fake name.”

He tilted his head. “And what name did you use?”

I hesitated. That was all it took. His hand dropped away, and the temperature between us shifted—less rage, more disappointment. Somehow worse.

“I told you before,” he said quietly. “The world does not need to see you.”

“I was just—”

“Disobedience isn’t a reason,” he cut in. “It’s a habit.”

The words landed sharp and precise. I hated the way they made me feel small. I hated that he could still make me feel like the child he’d pulled from the fire.

He turned away, coat brushing my arm as he walked toward the base door. “You jeopardized everything. Do you understand that?”

I stayed where I was. My hands shook, the metal fingers of my prosthetic twitching in sync with the pulse hammering through my ribs.

“You’re not angry,” I said quietly. “You’re disappointed.”

He stopped. The pause stretched long enough that the sound of the city returned—a car passing, the whisper of wind.

“Disappointment,” he said finally, “is what comes before loss.”

My breath hitched.

He didn’t look back as he walked inside. The door closed with a soft hiss that sounded too much like finality.

For a long time, I stood in the driveway, staring at my reflection in the bike’s mirror. My eyes looked unfamiliar.

Small.

Scared.

I crouched to gather the bags, the silence ringing louder than any reprimand.

He hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t hurt me.
He didn’t need to.

He’d already taught me how to hurt myself for him.

I stayed outside long after Kai disappeared through the door.

The night air pressed heavy against my skin, the hum of the city dull compared to the ringing in my ears. The lights from my bike flickered once before dying out completely, leaving me in silence.

Eventually, I forced myself to move.

When I stepped inside, every conversation stopped.

Chrona, Mimic, Rappa—everyone looked up. The sudden quiet made my pulse stutter. Their eyes followed me as I closed the door, my shoes clicking softly against the tile.

Mimic smirked first. “Well, look who finally remembered where home is.”

I didn’t answer. My gaze was fixed straight ahead, the bags in my hands feeling heavier with each step.

“Out shopping?” he added, voice sharp. “Didn’t think you’d come back after Daddy gave you that look.”

I froze.
The glare I threw him could’ve cut through metal.

Kai didn’t look up from the papers he was signing. His tone was calm, detached.
“Stop acting like a child.”

The words hit like a slap.
Something inside me cracked open.

“I am a child.”
My voice trembled—barely above a whisper, but it silenced the room. Every smirk fell away.

Kai’s pen stilled. He looked up, eyes wide at the sound of it—the break, the tears I couldn’t swallow fast enough. “N/n-“

I shook my head, vision blurring. “Forget it.”

“Here. I got you something while I was out.” I dug into one of the shopping bags, hands shaking, and pulled out a small red-and-black box. Without another word, I tossed it across the table. It slid to a stop near Kai’s hand.

“Spicy sweets,” I muttered, voice cracking. “Your favorite.”

No one moved. No one spoke.
The silence pressed against my ribs until it hurt.

Then I turned and left, the weight of their stares burning into my back.

The moment my door shut, I fell apart.

The bags dropped beside my desk with dull thuds. I didn’t bother putting anything away.

My shoes hit the floor next, kicked off without care. Then I crawled into bed, pulling the blanket over my head like it could hide me from the world.

I reached for the one thing that still felt like mine.

A small, burned, ash-stained bunny plush sat at the edge of my pillow. The fur was singed in places, one ear half gone, but it still smelled faintly of smoke and warmth.

I pressed it to my nose, curled around it, and let myself cry.

The memory came back sharp as glass.

I was fourteen again.

One leg straight on the bed, the other gone—bandaged, numb, the ache deep enough to make me dizzy. The room was small, sterile. Locked.

The door opened, footsteps soft.
I didn’t look up.

“She’s not healing fast enough,” Chrona’s voice muttered from the doorway.

Kai’s reply was quiet but cold. “I’m ensuring what’s left doesn’t rot.”

Their argument blurred into background noise until Kai stepped closer.
“I found something,” he said.

I turned my head just enough to see him kneeling beside the bed. He held something small and soot-stained. A bunny.

“Is it yours?” he asked.

For the first time in weeks, I spoke.
“It was meant to be for my little sister.”

Chrona paused mid-step. “Meant to be?”

I nodded slowly, eyes stinging. “My mother died before she could give birth to her.”

The bunny trembled in my hands as I took it. I stared at its burned ear, its half-melted ribbon. “She was so excited for me to be an older sibling.”

The words cracked. Tears followed.

Kai didn’t flinch when I leaned into him. He let me cry, let my tears soak into his coat despite the way his skin must have itched under the touch. His gloved hand rested on my back in quiet, awkward comfort.

For that one moment, I believed I wasn’t alone.

I buried my face into the stuffed animal, sobbing until my throat burned.

Who would I have been if she’d lived?

—

The scene shifted miles away.

Izuku Midoriya sat under the harsh glow of fluorescent lights, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Tsukauchi flipped through notes across from him while All Might—small, hollow-eyed—listened silently.

“I think we’re all done here,” Tsukauchi said, closing the file.

Before Izuku could respond, hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway.

“Izuku?!”

He turned just as his mother burst through the door, face pale and wet with tears.

“Mom?”

“Izuku, my baby!” Inko’s voice cracked as she rushed forward, pulling him into her arms. “I can’t do this anymore—my heart can’t handle another scare!”

He bent down immediately, wrapping his arms around her trembling shoulders. “I’m okay, Mom. I promise. Everything’s fine. The heroes and the police have been great. Really.”

Tsukauchi gave a small nod toward the cat-faced officer. “Sansa. Make sure they get home safe.”

“Sir.”

As they walked toward the exit, Inko clung to her son’s hand, rubbing soft circles against his skin as if she could protect him by touch alone.

“You should’ve seen the girl who helped me,” Izuku said suddenly, smiling faintly. “She was… strange, but kind. If it weren’t for her, I don’t think I’d be here right now.”

Inko sniffled, wiping her eyes. “Then if you ever see her again, invite her for dinner. I’d like to thank her properly.”

Izuku laughed softly. “I will.”

Outside, the streetlights flickered against the wet pavement as they walked.

Two silhouettes—mother and son—hand in hand, safe and whole.

Chapter Text

The morning hit like a dull bruise.
My chest ached with the same rhythm as my heartbeat, heavy and tired. Dried tear tracks clung to my cheeks, the skin around my eyes tight and sore. I rubbed at them, sniffed once, and blew my nose into the nearest tissue, trying to force the ache away.

No luck.

After a moment, I sat up and stretched until my joints popped. The mechanical hum from my prosthetic socket filled the quiet as I disconnected it, setting the leg beside the bed before heading for the shower.

The water came out scalding, the kind of heat that burned away thought. I stood there longer than I meant to, watching the steam curl around my hands. Maybe I hadn’t cried for Kai. Maybe I hadn’t even cried for me. Maybe it was just my body reminding me I still could.

After not crying for a year, maybe it decided the time was right.

By the time I stepped out, the mirror had fogged completely. I wiped it clear with my towel, staring at the ghost version of myself staring back. I looked fine. Tired, but fine.

I brushed my teeth, combed my hair into some kind of order, then attached my leg again—each click, hiss, and lock part of the routine that kept me grounded.

Then came the armor.

Black lace, belts, and leather; layers upon layers until I felt more machine than girl. The cropped jacket hugged my shoulders tight, its furred collar brushing my jaw as I adjusted the straps. The corset sat perfectly under the coat, the bullet belt slung low on my hips, each round gleaming like a secret.

I pulled on my gloves and exhaled.
New day. Same battlefield.

-

When I stepped into the main hall, the room stilled for a second—eyes flicking toward me before darting away. The awkward silence that followed was almost funny.

“Morning,” I greeted anyway, voice light.

A few murmured responses followed. Mimic leaned toward Chrona, whispering, not quietly enough.

“Why are they even arguing?”

Chrona shrugged. “No idea. Probably the same as last time.”

“Yeah, but Y/n never cries,” another voice added from the table—Rappa, probably. “The boss must’ve really screwed up.”

I ignored them, moving straight to the counter. Same routine, same motions. I grabbed Kai’s mug from its usual spot and started the coffee machine. The smell of roasted beans filled the air, grounding me. My hands moved automatically—two sugars, no cream, perfect temperature.

When the cup filled, I glanced back.
“Where’s Overhaul?”

They all shrugged almost in unison.

I sighed and slid the mug across the counter toward Chrona. “Bring this to his office for me, will ya?”

He nodded, pushing his chair back, but before he could stand, the door opened.

Every head turned.

Kai stepped in. His posture was as pristine as ever, coat buttoned, gloves spotless. But what caught me off guard were his hands—full.

A bouquet of flowers. My favorite drink from the corner café. And something else.

Tickets.

He placed them on the table near me without a word. The others exchanged looks, unsure if they should leave or stay.

I stared at the flowers, the scent soft and sweet against the sharp scent of leather and coffee. Slowly, I reached out and took them, glancing up at him.

“You didn’t have to, Kai. I’m not mad.”

“Nonetheless,” he said simply.

My smile softened—then faltered when I noticed there were two tickets.

I held them up. “Are you coming?”

His gaze flicked to the paper, then away. “Too many germs.”

Typical.

“Bring a friend,” he added.

My heart skipped.
A friend.

The word echoed in my head like a foreign language. I didn’t have any. Not my age, anyway. The people here were coworkers, subordinates, tools, soldiers—but never friends. All I’d ever really had was him.

Still, I nodded. “Sure. I’ll figure it out.”

“Good.”

He started to turn away, but I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him, pressing my face lightly into his chest. For a moment, he froze—hands suspended midair. Then, like always, he relented. One gloved hand settled carefully on my back.

It wasn’t a verbal apology.
It never was.

But this was how Kai said he was sorry. Flowers instead of words. Tickets instead of eye contact. A silent gesture that somehow made the ache in my chest worse.

I pulled back and smiled up at him. “Thanks, Kai.”

He gave a short nod. “Don’t be late for breakfast.”

Then he was gone again, leaving the faint scent of antiseptic and cologne behind.

Chrona looked at me from across the table. “He’s trying.”

“Yeah,” I said, half-smiling, half-exhausted. “He always does.”

But deep down, I knew it wasn’t trying.
It was control dressed up as care.

Still, I tucked the tickets safely into the bouquet and carried it back to my room.

Because love—
at least the kind I’d been taught—
wasn’t about being free.

It was about being chosen.

Chrona stood beside the counter, arms crossed loosely, the edge of a smile hidden behind his mask.
“Go get comfortable, Y/n,” he said, tone unusually light. “You’ve been working nonstop. Take a free day.”

I frowned, setting my mug down. “I’ve still got blueprints to—”

He cut me off with a look that could only be described as sternly gentle.
“No projects. No cleaning. Go be a kid for the day.”

The words hit me harder than they should’ve.
Be a kid.
I couldn’t even remember what that felt like.

I blinked, then smiled despite myself. “Thanks, Chrona.”

He waved a hand dismissively, though I caught the soft laugh that followed as I turned and practically speed-walked down the hall.

My door clicked shut behind me, and I exhaled—half disbelief, half excitement.
A day off.
No orders. No cleaning. No metal between my fingers or blood on my gloves. Just… a day.

I flopped onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. “What do teens even do for fun?”

The silence didn’t answer.

Then it hit me—the beach. I hadn’t seen the ocean since before the fire. The idea of sun and salt and sound almost felt like something from another life.

I jumped up, already pulling off my jacket and unlatching the bullet belt. My outfit hit the floor piece by piece until I stood in front of the mirror.

That’s when I froze.

The mouth.

It stretched across my stomach—its jagged lips faintly moving with each breath, a permanent mark of my quirk. No matter what I tried, it never went away.
I stared at it until shame twisted in my chest.

With a sigh, I grabbed the baggiest shirt I owned—one that fell halfway down my thighs—and a pair of loose shorts. My prosthetic clicked as I adjusted it, the gold-etched metal catching the morning light.

Not exactly beachwear, but it’d do.

I grabbed my keys from the hook, checking the small photo of my mother tucked beside them. “Guess we’re doing this,” I muttered, pocketing them.

The base was quiet as I walked back through the hall. Chrona was still there, tidying up the counter when I passed.

“Tell Overhaul I’m at the beach!” I called, already halfway through the door.

Chrona looked up, and though the mask hid his mouth, his voice carried the warmth of a smile. “Will do.”

That made me grin. “Thanks!”

Outside, the world felt bigger than I remembered.
The air smelled like rain and asphalt, the sky painted with early sun. My bike waited where I left it—matte black with streaks of my favorite F/c cutting across the frame.

I swung a leg over, tugged on my helmet, and turned the key. The engine purred to life, deep and familiar, vibrating through my chest like a heartbeat.

I glanced back once at the base—just long enough to see Chrona standing in the doorway, arms crossed as he watched me go. Then I smiled beneath my visor and revved the throttle.

The tires screeched softly against the pavement, the city unfolding ahead like a map waiting to be explored.

For once, the possibilities didn’t feel like missions or plans.

They felt endless.

The wind rushed past as I sped down the road toward the coast, sunlight glinting off my metal leg and the ocean calling somewhere beyond the horizon.

—

The ocean smelled like freedom.

I parked my bike near the boardwalk, the air thick with salt and the faint scent of fried food. The sound alone was surreal—waves crashing, gulls crying, children laughing, all blending into something I’d only ever imagined.

I’d never been to the beach before.
I’d heard of it, read about it in books, seen cheap paintings of it in diners, but being here… it didn’t feel real.

The sand stretched for miles, bright and soft, glittering under the sun. I watched as people kicked off their shoes before stepping onto it. Was that custom? Some kind of ritual?

I hesitated, then bent down to untie my boots. My prosthetic leg glinted faintly in the light as I placed both shoes neatly beside me. I took a breath and stepped forward—

“Ah!” I winced instantly, hopping back onto one foot. The sand was scalding. My balance wobbled, and for a second, I thought I’d fall flat on my face.

A voice came from behind me, bright and amused.
“Sand’s really hot, huh?”

I turned sharply, startled.

The man standing there was hard to miss. He was tall, tan, with golden-brown eyes that sparkled like mischief itself. His messy blond hair framed his face perfectly, and behind him—feathers. Big, red, magnificent wings that caught the sunlight in every shade of crimson. He held a phone in one hand, smiling at the camera like it was a friend.

At first glance, I thought he was just some social media worker. Maybe an influencer—whatever that meant.

“Uh… yeah,” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck.

He tilted his head, curious. “You alone?”

I nodded. “Yeah. First time at the beach.”

His eyes widened, a grin forming immediately. “Really? Then why don’t you come with me? I’ll make it enjoyable!”

My body tensed automatically. The offer sounded too easy, too open. I took a small step back, narrowing my eyes in caution.

He noticed. The playful grin softened into something gentler. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

I frowned. “Am I supposed to?”

He laughed—light, genuinely surprised. “I’m Hawks,” he said, gesturing dramatically like the name should mean something.

I blinked, unimpressed.

“And you?”

My gaze flicked to the phone in his hand, still streaming live. Strangers were watching. My heart skipped. I forced a casual tone. “Kai. Kai Yama.”

He raised an eyebrow at my hesitation but didn’t pry. Instead, he smiled and extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Kai.”

I looked at it for a second, then took it carefully. His grip was warm.

We walked together through the hot sand, his feathers occasionally fluttering to shade us from the sun. I could only feel the heat beneath one foot, the other replaced by the smooth hum of metal. Still, I imagined the warmth spreading through both legs—imagined the sensation that wasn’t really there.

Maybe I could design receptors for that, I thought absently. A way to feel again.

He found a quieter spot away from the crowds, his feathers carrying a towel, umbrella, and cooler effortlessly while he chatted into his phone. The whole thing felt like watching a performance—smooth, confident, and completely effortless.

We sat down, and my eyes flicked to the camera, realizing I was still on it. The awareness made my pulse jump. I wasn’t afraid of danger, but this kind of exposure felt different.

Vulnerable.

Hawks noticed my stiffness and smiled reassuringly. “Relax. You’re fine. My fans just like to meet new faces.”

“Fans?” I echoed.

“Yeah. Viewers, followers, supporters—all that jazz.” He gestured at his phone, where hearts and messages scrolled by faster than I could read. “Since we don’t know each other, why don’t you tell me a few things?”

I hesitated but nodded. “Like what?”

He leaned back on his elbows, grinning. “Hobbies, favorite stuff, what you do when you’re not dying from hot sand.”

That earned a small laugh out of me. “Mechanics,” I said after a pause. “I build things.”

His eyes sparkled. “Oh yeah? What kinda things?”

I glanced down at my leg, suddenly self-conscious.

He followed my gaze but didn’t push. “You don’t have to tell me what happened,” he said gently. “I’m just curious if you made it.”

After a moment, I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I did.”

His expression shifted—genuine awe. “No way. That’s amazing.”

I took a breath and decided to explain, if only a little. “The prosthetics hospitals give the lower class are basically Barbie doll legs. Cheap, unbalanced, and impossible to adjust. So, I started making my own using scrap parts. Added a patch,” I said, pointing to the small chip-like square between my cheekbone and temple. “It connects directly to my brain. If I think of an action, the leg follows. If I think of an object, it can create it.”

Hawks blinked, clearly impressed. “You built that?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s incredible,” he said, eyes wide with genuine wonder. “How long did it take you?”

“Three years,” I admitted with a sheepish smile. “Had to test, repair, rebuild—over and over.”

He was hanging onto every word, his phone forgotten for a second. But then I noticed the comments flashing across his screen and felt my face flush.

@cherryviel: omg she’s cute 😭
@crybby.dve69: bro her LEG IS TECH OMG
@RedWings4Life: marry them NOW hawks 😭😭😭
@pixelrot: @RedWings4Life that looks like a minor babes
@tech_nerd88: they’re literally a genius what the hell
@bunnyhero: if you don’t invite them to your agency I WILL.
@luvsodapop: HELP MIRIKO’S RANDOM APPEARANCE ILYSM GIRL
@luvsodapop: she’s real asf tho SHE COULD HELP YOUR HERO TECH HAWKSS

My cheeks burned. I leaned away slightly, muttering, “Maybe I’m talking too much.”

Hawks laughed softly. “Nah, they love you.” Then, with a grin, “Can you show them what it does?”

I hesitated but nodded. “Sure. Something simple.”

I thought of a cat.

Immediately, my leg detached with a smooth click, transforming midair—metal plates shifting, soft servos humming—as it reshaped into a small, silver cat with glowing eyes. It padded across the towel, tail twitching, before brushing against Hawks’ knee with mechanical affection.

He let out a surprised laugh. “No way. That’s—adorable!”

The comments exploded again, but I barely noticed.

Because when I looked at him, really looked at him—the bright eyes, the genuine awe—it sparked something old in me. A warmth I hadn’t felt in years.

The same look my mother used to give me when I’d show her something new I built. The same pride. The same love.

My chest tightened.

Then, pain. Sharp, sudden, flaring down my thigh. I gasped softly, reaching down just as the cat turned, padded back, and reattached seamlessly to my body. The pain faded instantly.

Hawks blinked. “You okay?”

I nodded quickly, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just… overclocked it a little.”

He studied me for a moment longer, then smiled. “Still—what you’ve built is amazing, Kai.”

The way he said it—like he meant it—made my throat tight. I turned my face toward the sea to hide the heat in my cheeks.

“Thanks,” I said quietly.

For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like a weapon.

I just felt like a kid at the beach.

==

The U.A. pool shimmered under the midday sun, the surface rippling as students splashed and laughed. Iida and Midoriya sat at the edge, legs dangling in the water while we went over training schedules.

Across from them, Mina and a few of the girls were sprawled on towels, scrolling through their phones.

Mina gasped suddenly, loud enough to make everyone jump.

“Hawks is live!” she squealed, sitting up straight.

Kaminari groaned, kicking water her way. “You’re such a fangirl, Mina!”

“I am not!” she protested, though she was already turning her screen so the others could see.

He didn’t think much of it at first—heroes went live all the time—but then Uraraka tilted her head. “Wait… is that—? I know them!”

That caught Izuku’s attention.

Izuku got up and walked over, drying his hands on his towel as he leaned over Mina’s shoulder. The stream was bright, full of scrolling hearts and excited comments—but the moment he saw who Hawks was sitting with, his stomach dropped.

It was them.
The person from the mall.

Their hair was wind-tossed, their smile awkward but genuine as they talked about mechanics, explaining something about prosthetics to a very impressed Hawks. They looked different out in the sun—softer, almost peaceful.

“Isn’t that the person from the mall?” Iida asked behind me.

Izuku nodded slowly, eyes glued to the screen.
“Yeah,” Izuku said quietly. “It’s them.”

His face grew warm as he watched—part curiosity, part something else he couldn’t name.

==

Hawks leaned forward, still smiling from my last explanation.
“Alright, Kai,” he said, brushing sand off his hands. “We’ve talked about your tech, but what about your quirk?”

I was about to answer when something caught my eye.

The water shifted unnaturally a few yards away—waves spinning, a small body trapped in the swirl. A kid, flailing.

It could seem like a child splashing in the salty water to the normal eye. But I wasn’t normal.

My pulse spiked.

The lifeguards nearby were too busy flirting to notice.

“Is no one gonna help him?!” I shouted, already on my feet.

Before Hawks could react, I was running. Sand flew behind me as my prosthetic leg shifted, compressing like a spring. I vaulted forward—air rushing past my ears—and hit the water hard.

The prosthetic detached the moment I dove, remaining anchored on shore as I kicked furiously with my good leg. The current tugged, heavy and cold, but I powered through it.

The boy’s cries faded into bubbling gasps. I reached him just in time, arms locking around his waist as I kicked upward. The surface exploded around us as I dragged him toward the beach, lungs burning.

When the water grew too shallow to swim, I crawled—fingers digging into wet sand, dragging the boy’s limp body with me. People were gathering now, phones out, voices overlapping in panic.

“Someone call an ambulance!”

I didn’t wait. I rolled the kid onto his back and pressed my hands to his chest, counting under my breath.
One. Two. Three—breathe.
Again.

Then—
A cough.
Water splashed from his mouth, and the boy sucked in a ragged breath.

I exhaled in relief, sitting back on my heels as he started crying. When he threw his arms around me, I froze, caught off guard. Slowly, awkwardly, I patted his head.

“You’re okay, kid. Go find your mom.”

He nodded through tears and stumbled off toward the crowd.

I finally stood—or tried to—before remembering my leg. With a quick tap to the patch on my cheek, the prosthetic sprang back to life, leaping across the sand and reattaching with a click. I adjusted my balance, then turned to the stunned lifeguards.

“Do your fucking job before someone dies!” I snapped, brushing past them.

The crowd parted as I walked back to Hawks, who was still staring like he couldn’t process what just happened. His phone was still recording.

I sat back down, crossing my arms and trying to catch my breath. My heart was still racing, but my voice came out calm. “Sorry. You asked about my quirk?”

He blinked. “Uh—yeah, but—”

“My quirk just lets me use other quirks,” I said evenly, like I hadn’t just dived headfirst into a rescue.

Hawks gaped, wings twitching in disbelief. “Wait—just like that? You—you saved that kid! You—what?!”

I tilted my head, pretending confusion. “What? Something on my face?”

The live chat was exploding again, hearts flooding the screen faster than the app could register.

@featherfiend: DID THEY JUST SAVE A KID ON CAMERA???
@wings4days: bro they’re not even a pro hero 😭😭😭 take notes people
@bunnyhero: The way Hawks is looking at them 💀💀💀
@des.io: KAI YAMA MY BELOVEDD SOMEONE MAKE AN EDIT NEOW
@birdmom69: I’m crying they’re so calm 😭

I looked at the camera, the corner of my mouth twitching into the faintest smile.
I felt awkward to say the least—stretching just to fill the silence, brushing sand off my legs. The crowd around us was finally dispersing, murmurs fading into background noise.

“Lifeguards seem as useless as pro heroes,” I muttered under my breath.

That made Hawks blink.
“Oh?” he said with a half-grin. “You think pro heroes are useless?”

I hummed, noncommittal. “Maybe not all heroes. Just All Might.”

He laughed—an easy, practiced laugh meant to diffuse tension.
Until he saw my face.

I wasn’t joking.

The smile vanished from his. “You think the Symbol of Peace is useless?”

“I think,” I said, gaze fixed on the waves, “he’s a bad representation of a hero.”

That silenced him—and, judging by the frozen comment feed, everyone watching too.

@allmightfan_01: bruh what 😭😭😭
@realquirkfan: bold take… explain yourself kai 👀
@featherfiend: oh they’re ABOUT to cook

I exhaled slowly, arms crossing. “Heroes like him… they smile while everything burns behind them. People worship that image, the grin, the speeches. But no one ever asks why they save who they save.”

Hawks frowned, more curious than offended. “And what do you mean by that?”

I tilted my head. “Heroes all have ulterior motives. Pride. Greed. Reputation. Doesn’t matter which word you choose—it’s all the same. They don’t save people because they care. They do it because they can. Because they should. Because someone’s watching.”

@birdwatcher97: not wrong tho
@symbol4ever: HOW DARE THEY 😡
@davi_lol: finally someone said it

I kept going, voice even but sharp. “Take All Might. Everyone calls him a symbol. He’s powerful, charismatic, and he knows it. But symbols don’t save everyone—they just keep their image spotless.”

Hawks sat up straighter, clearly trying to read me. “You sound like this comes from experience.”

My eyes darkened. I didn’t mean to sound bitter, but the words slipped out like old wounds reopening.
“If he can save a dead woman rather than a weak teen all because of status,” I said quietly, “what does that make him?”

The chat exploded.

@pu55fart069: wait WHAT
@angelwingz: that got dark real fast…
@quirknerd: are they talking about a real event??
@sourpatchkid: yo hawks looks SHOOK

I swallowed hard but didn’t stop. “All I’m saying is, ‘hero’ is just a label that’s been tarnished by his name. Everyone clings to the idea of him instead of asking what a real hero looks like.”

I glanced at the ocean again, tone softening.
“A hero’s different for everyone. A ‘villain’ can be a hero in someone else’s story. Like that kid back there.” I pointed toward where the boy and his mother were still crying together in the distance.
“I’m probably a hero to them right now… but I’m not a hero. I’m just a civilian who noticed he was drowning.”

Silence.
Even the waves seemed quieter.

Hawks’ feathers shifted slightly, red catching the light as he looked at me—not like a celebrity, not like a fan, but like someone seeing a mirror they didn’t expect.

“…You’ve got a sharp way of putting things,” he said finally, his voice quieter than before. “You might not call yourself a hero, Kai, but that doesn’t make what you did any less heroic.”

I shrugged, eyes still on the horizon. “Maybe. Or maybe I just did what someone else refused to.”

@birdmom69: I’m actually crying 😭😭 they gotta have gone through some shit
@quirkycomments: this hit way too deep 😭
@redwingheart: hawks isn’t even smiling anymore omg
@hawks_fanpage: the ocean. the speech. the TRAUMA. this person’s a poet 😭🔥

I turned my head just enough to look at Hawks. “Did I ruin your stream?”

He blinked, then smiled faintly—sad, almost understanding. “Nah. You just made it real.”

For a while, neither of us spoke. The waves rolled in, the sound soft and steady, like the ocean was washing the sting out of every word.

And for the first time since I could remember, saying the truth didn’t hurt.
It just felt… freeing.

I cleared my throat, dusting sand from my palms as I stood. “I should get going. My…”

I paused, searching for a word that didn’t feel wrong on my tongue. Boss sounded too distant. Friend sounded like a lie.

“…dad is gonna get upset if I’m outside too long.”

Hawks blinked, caught off guard. “Wait!”

I turned halfway, the wind catching my hair.

“Why don’t you give me your Insta? I wanna meet again sometime!”

I shook my head, smiling faintly. “I don’t have a phone. My dad isn’t a fan of media.”

He tilted his head, amused curiosity flickering in his eyes. “No phone, huh? That’s criminal.”

Then he pulled a marker from his pocket and held out his hand. “C’mere.”

I hesitated but offered my palm. The marker’s tip was cold against my skin as he wrote in neat, looping letters:
@HawksOfficial — (###) ###-####

“There,” he said, capping the pen with a grin. “When you feel rebellious enough to get a phone without permission—call me.”

I smiled, soft and uncertain. “Maybe I will.”

He pointed the camera toward me again, and I leaned in, waving.
“Buh-bye everyone, have a good day!”

The chat lit up with hearts and screaming emojis as I turned to leave. Hawks said something behind me—something teasing that made the crowd laugh—but his voice blurred with the sound of the waves as I walked away.

By the time I reached my bike, the sun had begun to dip, painting the sand gold. I slipped my gloves on, helmet next, the hum of the engine matching the quiet hum in my chest.

I had a friend.
If I could call him that.
My first friend.

I smiled beneath my visor, humming softly as the wind whipped past.

—

The red light stopped me midway through the city, neon signs flickering off the chrome of my prosthetic. I drummed my fingers on the handlebar, still replaying Hawks’ laugh in my head when a voice broke through the static.

“Hungry.”

My stomach tightened. The voice came from inside—low, wet, echoing against my ribs.

I glanced down, eyes wide. “We’ll eat when I get home—”

“No,” it hissed, the skin rippling faintly as the mouth strained beneath the surface. “I’m hungry now.”

Pain lanced through my abdomen, sharp and demanding. I gasped, gripping the handlebar tighter as the light ahead turned red.

“Not now,” I muttered through my teeth. “Not here.”

But the hunger crawled up my spine, insistent and angry.

With a frustrated sigh, I turned at the next intersection, steering toward the city’s main street. The engine roared louder as I sped up, chasing the closest grocery store sign I could find.

—

Inside, the air was cold and sterile. Fluorescent lights buzzed above me as I headed straight for the meat section, ignoring the curious stares. I grabbed the first packages I saw—bloodied, marbled steaks stacked neatly behind glass.

The voice purred from inside me. “Yes… that one.”

I grabbed another. And another.

By the time the voice went quiet, I had an armful. I dumped them onto the counter, eyes down.

The cashier blinked. “Big dinner?”

“Something like that,” I said shortly, tapping my card.

While I waited, my eyes drifted toward the small electronics section near the exit. Hawks’ words echoed in my head.
When you feel rebellious and get a phone… call me.

“Do you have any phones?” I asked suddenly.

The cashier looked up. “Uh—prepaid or plan?”

I hesitated. “Prepaid.”

—

I left with two bags—one filled with raw meat, the other with a small box wrapped in plastic. The street behind the store was quiet, narrow, lined with dumpsters and stacked crates. I ducked into the alley, setting the bags down.

The moment I lifted my shirt, my skin shifted. Two slick, veined arms sprouted just below my ribs, flexing as they reached into the bag.

The smell of blood hit the air.

I tried not to flinch as the arms tore into the steaks, the sound wet and guttural—bones cracking, sinew stretching, each bite accompanied by a low, satisfied growl. The noise echoed faintly against the walls.

I sank down beside them, unwrapping a rice ball I’d bought at the counter. I ate in silence, pretending not to hear the crunching beside me.

When the last piece disappeared, I sighed. “I’ll get you more when we get home. Just consider that a snack.”

The mouth reemerged, tongue licking the blood from the empty packaging.
“Yum, yum, yum,” it purred.

“You full?”

“For now.”

The extra limbs retracted, vanishing beneath my skin with a soft hiss. I stood, wiping my hands on a napkin before picking up the bag with the phone box still inside.

I walked back to my bike, the cool evening air cutting against my damp shirt. The city lights reflected faintly off my metal leg as I swung it over the seat.

I slipped my helmet on and started the engine.

For a brief moment, Hawks’ handwriting on my palm caught the glow of my dashboard light—his name, his number, proof that someone out there saw me as more than a weapon.

I smiled faintly.

Then the mouth whispered beneath my breath.
“Friend… smells sweet.”

I ignored it.

“Don’t start,” I muttered, gripping the throttle.

The bike roared to life, drowning out the voice as I sped off into the night.

Chapter Text

The dining table sticks to my skin in the heat of the kitchen light.

My hands are greasy from the meat I keep feeding the thing under my ribs, and no matter how much I give it, it begs for more. It’s patient and ravenous all at once—a contradiction that fits me better than most people.

I shoulder the basket up between my hip and arm and push myself from the chair. The metal ring of the prosthetic on the floor clinks as I move. “Yohoo, Overhaul, where ya at?” I call through the halls, letting my voice echo so someone can pretend they didn’t hear.

“Need a body,” I add, because I don’t lie to it. The mouth in my stomach answers before I can think better of it.

“Oh Overhaul, I need some fooood” it sings, its voice wet and small.

The sound makes the hair on my neck rise. I clamp a hand over my stomach and push until the skin settles, until the mouth stills enough to be muffled. “Shut the hell up,” I hiss at it. Then I knock, because the lab door is locked and I didn’t get an ID when I was supposed to. Kai said I’d get one when he decided I was ready. I’m his sniper. I fix his bullets and wipe his traces and erase bodies when he says it’s necessary. Family—but not always privy to everything family keeps.

A grim voice answers through the door. “What.”

Not a question. The single-syllable snap of his patience. He’s in that mood.

“I was wondering if you have anyone on your hitlist. I need—” My voice cracks off the metal.

“Meat! We need meat!!” the mouth belts, uncontrollable.

“You heard it,” I mutter, rubbing my temple. “Shut up.” Then louder: “I need someone—”

“No, Y/n. I don’t have time for your issues right now. Go kill a random guy on the street like the other cannibals,” Kai snaps when the hatch slides and Chrona’s silhouette appears behind him.

Chrona’s voice cuts in before I can protest. “Overhaul, stop being rude.”

“I can’t kill an innocent person, Kai,” I say, nausea curling in my gut at the thought. “It’s not right.”

A beat of silence. Then the lab door opens fully and light spills over the threshold. For a second I think I see white hair move inside—too quick to be sure. Kai’s face is all shadow and brass; his yellow eyes look like they’re made to find weakness.

“I—.. Nevermind. I’ll figure it out-“

“You already opened the door, Eidolon,” he says, breath flat.

Eidolon. He’s frustrated with me too. I was right. He is in that mood.

My mouth tastes like pennies. “Okay,” I whisper. “Overhaul.”

He gestures, and we leave the base. The city smells of oil and old rain. The alleys are a net of shadow and a hundred small tragedies. Kai prowls them with the air of a man looking for a specimen.

“There,” he says finally, pointing to a young woman huddled beneath a threadbare coat, a child pressed into her chest. A teen mom, hair in a loose knot, eyes darting like they keep watch for predators even when none come. My chest twists.

“Kill them,” Kai orders.

I blink. My mouth goes dry. “I can’t—” My voice trembles and the protest dies before it leaves entirely. My hands clench around the basket until the meat squeaks between my fingers.

“I don’t recall asking you how you felt,” Kai says, jaw tight. “I said kill them. Now, do it.”

I can’t. I won’t. Not them. Not a mother and her child.

Kai’s face goes very still, like glass about to crack. He raises his hand. For a breathless second I think it will end with a scream and then silence. I close my eyes and wait for whatever the right thing is to be—obedience, motion, the mechanical calm I have trained into my bones.

He moves with the same surgical efficiency he uses in the lab. The world funnels into the sound of Kai’s breath and the soft fall of the child’s small body. I shut my eyes tighter. When the life in that alley tilts away, my body makes a decision I am not fully part of.

Something in me lurches toward the smell of warm blood. I feel the stupid relief of instinct, the old, primitive part that answers to an emptiness I cannot soothe with bolts and code. The mouth under my ribs slides open, reaches, and consumes without the sensibility or sympathy I wish I had. It takes me a second to understand I let it—let it feed, let it erase what Kai has done—because remembering is a cruelty I cannot afford.

I taste innocence and fear, and it does not taste like victory. It tastes like ash and apology. With each swallow, a sliver of their life folds into me, and something inside hums: a memory of a lullaby, the faint echo of nails tapping a rhythm into a cheek. I absorb them—not fully, not in the glorious, clean way I once imagined powers might be claimed—just the bare, jagged shards left behind.

“You usually don’t care when your quirk eats,” Kai acknowledges immediately. “Why today?”

Because they were human. Because it mattered. Because I can draw the line and I won’t. Because I am tired of justifying the thing inside me with orders and bullets. Because there’s a part of me that remembers being small and wanting someone to look my way.

“They’re innocent,” I whisper, the words catching in my throat. I fold my hands over the basket like a child trying to hide a sin. “They could’ve had a normal life.”

“No one is innocent if they have a quirk,” Kai says, flat as a judge.

The sentence drops like a verdict. I taste it—metallic, unyielding. Kai believes it. Chrona probably does, too. I do not. I stand in the alley with the hollow under my ribs filled and the world tilting, unsure how hard my next step will hit the pavement.

When we walk back to the base, I carry the basket empty and the knowledge of what it meant to be chosen and not chosen, loved and not saved. The mouth in me hums, content for now. My hands tremble, and the night folds over the city like a curtain.

I keep thinking of the lullaby I swallowed with them, and wonder if, somewhere, a version of me with both legs whole would have learned it by heart.

I don’t know when the tears start. The air around me is heavy with the smell of blood and iron, and I’m just standing there, staring at what’s left of the woman and the child. The mouth on my stomach chews contentedly, humming a grotesque tune, and I’m frozen.

“Stop crying.”

Kai’s voice cuts through everything—flat, controlled, the same way he sounds when giving orders.

I blink, only realizing now that my face is wet. My chest feels tight, and I wipe at my cheeks automatically, as if that’ll erase the shaking in my hands.

Then Kai steps closer and wraps his arms around me.

It’s not warmth. It’s containment.

His coat smells of antiseptic and dust, and his embrace is firm, deliberate—like he’s sealing something back in place. “You won’t let me down next time,” he says quietly, words sliding in under my skin like a promise I didn’t agree to.

My throat locks. I nod because I always nod, because fighting him is harder than lying to myself.

When I open my eyes, I wish I hadn’t.

Half of the little girl’s body is still visible, her arm limp and small, disappearing into the gaping mouth on my abdomen. My stomach twists. The nausea hits so violently I almost retch, but the mouth keeps eating, finishing what it started with wet, satisfied sounds.

My knees give slightly, and Kai’s grip tightens to steady me.

“Good girl/boy,” he murmurs. “That’s it. Let it finish.”

I shake my head weakly, voice cracking. “I didn’t want—”

“You did what was necessary.” His gloved hand moves to my cheek, thumb brushing a tear away. “Don’t dwell on it, Y/n. You’ll understand when you’re stronger.”

The world tilts, and I stare at him, trying to find any sliver of mercy in his eyes. There isn’t any—only calm calculation behind that golden gaze.

“You’ll be ready to see her one day.”

My eyes widen at that. “Her?”

He doesn’t elaborate. “But that day isn’t today.”

I look away, jaw trembling as I close my eyes again. The mouth finally goes still, satisfied for now, and my stomach feels like it’s burning from the inside.

Kai’s voice lowers, steady and cold. “Go shower the blood off when he’s done eating.”

I can’t find the words to answer. My throat hurts too much to speak, so I just hum softly, a broken sound that could mean anything.

He lets go, and the sudden absence of his arms feels colder than the night air.

I don’t open my eyes again until he’s gone.

The alley is silent except for the faint hiss of my prosthetic and the quiet, wet sigh that escapes the mouth before it seals shut.

I stand there, shaking, surrounded by red that refuses to wash away—even in the dark.

—

By the time I make it back to my room, the blood’s gone tacky on my skin.
I strip down in silence, every movement mechanical—shirt, vest, belt, everything landing in a heap by the laundry basket. The air smells faintly of rust and antiseptic, a combination I’ve learned to stop noticing.

When I reach to unclip the brace on my prosthetic, something catches my eye.

Black ink.

Right across the side of my hand, smeared but still legible: Hawks’ username and number.

I freeze. My stomach twists—not the hungry kind, but the sick kind. The reminder of him feels like sunlight through a crack I don’t want open.

I glance toward the bed. The paper bag I’d brought home from the store sits there, half open. Inside: the box. The phone.

Against every screaming instinct, I walk out of the bathroom, towel around my chest, and grab it. The cardboard crinkles under my grip. I open it, take the phone out, and toss the bag into the trash before locking the bathroom door behind me.

Steam fogs the mirror. I sit on the sink, unbox the device, and turn it on.

For a second, I just stare at the glowing screen. Then, almost without thinking, I type in the number.

(XXX)-XXX-XXXX
Hey, Hawks. It’s me.

I set the phone down on the counter, half expecting nothing. The shower hisses to life behind me as I step under the water, letting it sting the dried blood from my shoulders.

Then the phone rings.

I jump. The shampoo bottle slips from my hand and smacks straight onto my foot. “Ow—!”

“Y/n, ya good in there?” Rappa’s muffled voice calls from the other side of my bedroom door.

“Y—yeah! I’m good!!” I shout back, nearly tripping as I reach for the phone to stop the noise.

When I swipe the screen, his voice greets me—light, familiar, teasing. “Wow, wasn’t expecting you to call so soon, Kai.”

Right. Kai Yama. My cover.

“I guess I felt like rebelling sooner than you thought,” I say, settling the phone on the edge of the sink.

He laughs, that easy sound that makes the world feel a little less sharp. “That’s my favorite kind of rebellion. So, what’s up?”

“I… uh. Don’t know what to do with this thing.” I glance at the phone. “What do people do on it?”

“Well,” he chuckles, “depends. Which one’d you get?”

I blink. “A black one?”

He laughs harder. “Okay, color’s a start, but model, genius—what kind of phone is it?”

I look down at it blankly. “It’s rectangular... Kinda thick and heavy..”

He hums, half amused, half disbelieving. “Yeah, okay. That’s basically a trap phone, Kai. You need a real phone. I’ll help you pick one later.”

I don’t know what that means, so I just hum in agreement. “Okay.”

He starts listing things I should download, his voice smooth and patient. I follow his instructions, my wet fingers tapping through icons while he explains what each app does.
Social media.
Messaging.
Photo filters.

He helps me pick a username—something simple, catchy. He suggests a profile picture, then a bio. “It’s like painting a version of yourself,” he says. “Make it a good one.”

I find myself listening to every word.

When he starts explaining how to take selfies, I laugh quietly. He laughs too. I set him on speaker and prop the phone on the counter near the shower, careful not to splash it, and for a while it almost feels normal.

He talks; I respond. The water runs.
He teaches; I follow.

It’s just talking—empty, ordinary conversation—but it feels strange. Not happy, not sad, just… different. Not like talking to Kai or Chrona or any of the others.

When he realizes I’m still in the shower, he chuckles. “Alright, I’ll let you finish up. I’ll follow your new account, and we can talk more later.”

“Okay,” I say softly.

“Catch you soon, Kai.”

The call ends with a soft click.

I’m left with the hiss of water and the echo of his voice.

The blood rinses off slowly, pink streaks swirling around my feet. My hair clings to my face as I lean against the tile, closing my eyes.

“This is a bad idea, Y/n,” the voice under my ribs murmurs.

“Don’t talk to me,” I hiss immediately.

It goes quiet for a beat, then continues, calm but insistent. “He’ll find out. They’ll all find out. Do you really want to go back in there?”

My hands tighten around the soap.

“You know exactly what he does in that room.”

My breath catches. The memory presses against the back of my eyes—cold metal, antiseptic, screaming through cotton walls.

“He won’t hurt me anymore,” I whisper, almost convincing myself. “He loves me now.”

The voice hums, a sound like a bitter laugh.
“If he loved you, would he force you to eat people?”

My chest burns. “He doesn’t force me to do anything,” I snap. “You do.”

Silence. Then a low, sad whisper from beneath my skin: “I only eat what you let me.”

I shut my eyes tight and let the water pound against my face until all I can hear is the rush and roar of it—like the ocean, like the sound that once meant freedom.

When I open my eyes again, the ink on my hand is almost gone, the name barely visible. But it’s there.

And for some reason, I don’t wash it off.

The water keeps pounding against my back, hot enough to sting. The steam turns the room into a blur. My prosthetic hums softly under the noise, the faint metallic echo filling the gaps between my thoughts.

I close my eyes, trying to breathe, trying to silence the thing beneath my ribs. But it never stays quiet for long.

“You shouldn’t have called him,” it murmurs. “You shouldn’t have brought that kind of light near us.”

My jaw tightens. “I said don’t talk to me.”

“You’re playing with fire, Y/n. You know what happens when he finds out—”

“Shut up.”

“—when they find out.”

“I said shut up!”

The voice laughs softly, the sound vibrating through my bones. “You act like I’m the enemy, but I’m the one keeping you alive. Without me, you’d have bled out in that fire. You’d have died years ago.”

“Stop it,” I whisper, pressing my palms to the tile.

“I saved you.”

The water hisses louder, and I lift my head, glaring at the wall. “You call that saving me? You think this—” I slap my leg, the skin twitching under my hand, “—is saving me? You ruined my life!”

It snarls in response, sharp and defensive. “I’m the reason you still have one!”

“I didn’t want this life!” I scream, voice cracking, echoing off the bathroom walls. “I wanted to be a hero! I wanted to save people—not eat them! I wanted to stand beside them, not watch them die because of you!”

The voice rumbles low, trembling with anger—or maybe guilt. “You think I like this? You think I wanted to exist? I didn’t ask to be born any more than you did! But every time you bleed, I patch you back together. Every time he hurts you, I keep your heart beating!”

“I never asked you to!” My throat burns. “I don’t want to be alive because of you!”

Silence.

For the first time, the voice doesn’t answer.
The mouth doesn’t twitch.
The humming stops.

The silence stretches until I can hear my own heartbeat.

The heat is gone from the water now. It falls in cold sheets, washing over me as I slide down the tile until I’m sitting on the shower floor. My back hits the wall with a dull thud, and the sound echoes hollow against the pipes.

Water pools around my knees, trickles down the prosthetic that gleams faintly in the dim light. I stare at it for a long time before something inside me snaps.

With a hiss of release, I detach it and throw it across the room. The metal hits the floor with a hard clang that rattles through the steam.

I bark out a laugh—ugly, bitter, broken. “A dream of being a hero. So stupid.” The sound twists in my throat until it’s closer to a sob. “How am I supposed to save people if I can’t even save myself?”

From inside me, the voice stirs—hesitant, quiet now.
“There’s other people who can save you.”

I scoff, head tipping back against the tile. “Yeah, because that worked out so well for me before.”

The words hang heavy in the steam.
I think of firelight and ash, of a golden figure walking away while my mother’s hand went cold in mine.
It all feels like a bad joke now—dreams, heroes, hope.

Being human was supposed to mean something.
Having a quirk was supposed to make me special.
All it ever did was make me useful.

I pull my remaining leg close, the cold tiles biting at my skin, and I look at what’s left—the soft, s/c flesh that leads down to a machine that pretends to be whole. The space where my body ends and invention begins. The lump of metal and meat that gets me through every day.

“Why couldn’t I have been quirkless?” I whisper.

The question doesn’t need an answer.
The room gives me none.

Only the sound of water circling the drain—
and the faint hum of the leg across the room, still alive, waiting for me to need it again.

Chapter Text

I didn’t sleep.
Couldn’t.

I just lay there in the dim hum of my room—AC rattling like a lazy heartbeat, the soft sway of old ornaments hanging from the ceiling. Little bits of metal and glass I’d made when I was younger, before everything turned red and mechanical. They caught what little moonlight bled through the curtains, moving faintly, whispering of better years.

My brain wouldn’t stop. Thoughts ricocheted off each other—loud, pointless, endless. Every time I tried to breathe, it felt like I was choking on smoke again.

So, I did what I always did when my mind got too loud. I distracted myself.

The phone sat glowing beside me. My first real one. It still smelled faintly of new plastic and guilt.

I opened the app Hawks had helped me install. The blank profile stared back at me—no posts, no followers, just an empty circle where my face should go. I flipped the camera, tilted it slightly, and took a 0.5 shot that caught half my cheek, part of my eye, and a blur of ceiling ornaments. I looked ridiculous.

It made me laugh—a small, startled sound I hadn’t heard from myself in a while. So I kept it.

Bio: “How do I work this thing?”

Simple. Stupid. Perfect.

I leaned back, staring at my handiwork. It wasn’t much, but it was mine. For the first time in a while, something about that felt… light.

Then a notification popped up at the top of the screen.

Hawks has mentioned you in their story!

My stomach dropped.

I tapped it before I could think.

A screenshot of my account filled the screen, his caption scrawled in bold white text:

“Give this lil rebel some love!”

There was even a tiny winking emoji.

I blinked once. Twice. My pulse jumped.

He didn’t—he couldn’t have—

I liked the story without thinking and clicked his profile. My finger hovered, then tapped. The page loaded, bright colors flooding my vision.

“Wing Hero: Hawks.”

The word hit me like a bullet.

Hero.

My breath caught in my throat. I sat up so fast the ornaments above me jingled. My reflection on the dark screen looked terrified, wide-eyed and pale.

A pro hero.
I’d been talking to a pro hero.
Flirting with one.
Laughing with one.

I wasn’t worried about myself. No—if I got caught, I could handle it. I’d take the fall, the punishment, the erasure. I’d built my life around the inevitability of pain.

But Kai—Overhaul—if they found him through me, it was over. Everything. The plan, the organization, his trust.

I could already feel his gloved hand at my neck, the cold tone of his disappointment:
You failed me again, Y/n.

“No, no, no…” I whispered, fumbling with the phone. Notifications started pouring in—likes, follows, comments.
My screen lit up like a city on fire.

@birdmom69 started following you.
@proheroDaily mentioned you.
@winghero_fanclub tagged you in a post.

I turned my notifications off, heart pounding so hard it hurt. The phone vibrated again, and I threw it to the far side of the bed. It landed face-down with a dull thud.

My hands found my hair, gripping tight. The room felt smaller, the air too thin.

“Shit…” I breathed, staring at the ceiling, trying to think. Trying anything.

If Hawks found out who I really was—what I really was—then all that “rebel” charm would turn into headlines. And once the world knew the name Kai Yama, it wouldn’t take long before someone connected it to me.

And then to him.

I curled forward, elbows on my knees, mind spinning.

I didn’t care if I burned. But I couldn’t let him go down with me.

Not Kai.

Not the only person who’d ever said he loved me.

I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to block out the panic. But behind the darkness, all I could see was Hawks’ smile—the one that made me forget what I was for a moment.

And the caption echoing in my head: “Give this lil rebel some love.”

Rebels don’t survive long. A cruel joke, really.

I sit up, fingers trembling even though my face is perfectly still. The room is quiet except for the distant hum of the base—sleeping people, machines, small lives moving without me. My poster is tacked to the wall across from my bed, the white paper puckered where I’ve pressed a knife into it a dozen times. All Might’s grin waits there, varnished and stupid, a totem for everyone who thinks a smile fixes everything.

I stare at the stab marks until my vision blurs, the plan sliding into place like a knife into flesh.

Being close to a pro hero might get me closer to him. To All Might.
I could make the world see what he refuses to look at. I could get close enough to make that smile bleed.

It’s absurd and perfect at the same time. A single repost, a careful comment, a handful of friendly messages — and Hawks becomes a bridge. I’ll cross that bridge, learn the names, the schedules, where heroes go when they think no one is watching. I’ll be a student in their halls. A helpful civilian. A friend. An insider. A traitor in training.

My shoulders roll on their own, the movement automatic, practiced. I breathe in, count to three, and force the small, polite face onto my features. There is a part of me that still wants to laugh — at how easily people mistake charm for harmlessness — but I tuck it down. I am composed. I am careful. I am someone who can be smiled at and trusted.

On the screen, Hawks’ story still blinks at the top of my feed. I tap it, then press the repost button. My thumb hovers over the caption field. For a second I consider sarcasm, a little jab — but that would be obvious. Subtlety wins.

I type: Thanks for the feature, @hawks! First time at the beach — lovely company. 😊

Short. Polite. Innocuous. The smiley is necessary; people read faces, not intent.

I reread it once, twice, then hit send.

The post goes up. My chest tightens, not from fear but from the precise, cold thrill of beginning a plan. I can feel the traitor awakening under my skin, slow and clinical. It’s not hatred toward the heroes I’ll infiltrate; it’s strategy. It’s survival. It’s the promise I made to the ashes.

My phone buzzes almost immediately — a like, then a heart from a dozen strangers. My thumb hovers over the screen, resisting the pull to check every single one. I wait. Patience will be more useful than eagerness.

On the wall, the poster with its stab marks hangs like a map. I look at it once, and then turn off the lamp. The soft glow of the phone is the only light in the room as I slide back under the blanket.

I press the phone to my chest like a talisman, feeling the tiny motor of it buzz against my ribs. The screen glows against the dark like a promise.

Most heroes are good. Most heroes mean something true to someone somewhere.
But him—All Might—was a polished lie wearing a necklace of corpses. He smiled while people burned. He got applause and medals and statues. He got to be the face of everything that never looked back.

And now he was a teacher at U.A.

The thought slides under my skin and lodges there, warm and terrible. My quirk tastes it before I can even name it—an ache that isn’t hunger so much as a hunger for consequence. I feel the pulse of it, that old animal thrill when a plan closes in a seam and you can see the dark thread you’re about to pull. The mouth under my ribs purrs, hungry for the promise of new quirks and new blood and the delicious, slow satisfaction of taking what was never meant for me.

“Overhaul is affecting you,” it hisses, voice slick with contempt.

I laugh, a short bark that sounds too loud in the quiet room. I ignore it.

On my screen, the follower list grows like a net tightening. UA students—some with handles I recognize, some with faces I only half-remember from the mall—pop up with bio lines that read like battle cries: UA STUDENT. A few hero accounts that looked like teachers, a couple of alumni. Small icons of emblems I’d only ever seen on coffee shop posters, now tiny and clickable.

My chest tightens. The idea blooms fierce and clear: use the bridge. Be kind. Be quiet. Be useful. Get in. Learn names. Learn routes. Learn where the symbol of peace goes when the cameras sleep. Be a ghost in their halls and a knife in his chest when the time is right.

It’s absurdly simple. That makes it perfect.

I draft a reply with fingers that barely shake:

@ka1yama_
Thanks again for being such a good person. Still can’t believe you’re a hero, you should’ve told me!

He replied almost instantly.

@official_hawks
i was wondering how long it was gonna take for u to realize 😭🤣
say, how about i show you around my agency sometime?

@ka1yama_
I’d love that!

The lie tastes strange—and delicious—on my tongue.

The mouth under my ribs makes a disgusted sound. For a second I let myself imagine the possibilities: stolen quirks like trophies, the slow collection of strengths that would let me get close enough to him—All Might—to make him see blood instead of applause. I imagine the look on Kai’s face when I tell him I’ve gotten what he wanted. I imagine the life the smoke promised being fulfilled.

Then the quirk whispers again, softer this time, almost parental dissatisfaction.

“You’re excited. You like this. You shouldn’t. You’re gonn regret hurting an innocent and you know it.”

My fingers clench the phone until the edges bite into my palm. Heat blooms across my face; a grin I don’t fully control lifts my mouth.

“Shut up,” I snap into the dim, and for once the voice within answers only silence.

I lie back and stare at the ceiling, the poster with its stab marks watching me even in the dark. Tomorrow I’ll make a few small moves—friendly replies, a DM that sounds casual, a follow to a teacher account that won’t raise suspicion. I’ll be careful. I’ll be gentle, and I’ll be charming, and no one will know what’s beneath the skin until it’s too late.

I tell myself again that I’m doing it for the family, for the ashes, for the promise that started in smoke.

But under that, something sharper and stranger hums with approval—an eagerness I have never let myself feel so clearly before.

Just this once. I’ll let my quirk consume an innocent. Just this once.

==

The bus smelled like nerves and sunscreen. It was early—too early—but everyone was buzzing. Iida sat rigid in his seat up front, trying to keep order with long, patriotic speeches about etiquette and safety. Most people ignored him. Mina and Ochako were squeezed together a few rows behind, Mina already scrolling through a dozen apps like it was oxygen.

“Guess who got social media?” Mina chirped, loud enough for half the bus to turn.

Izuku craned his neck. “Who?”

“That jerk who almost ran us over at the mall! Apparently their name is Kai Yama?” Mina squealed, showing her screen like it was treasure.

“I thought their name was Y/n—” Izuku started, then faltered as Mina cut in, eyes bright.

“Whatever their name is, they got a shoutout from Hawks AND are being followed by a bunch of teachers—Midnight and Present Mic are following them as we speak! I had to beg them to follow me back!” Mina’s voice went up an octave with every sentence.

Iida, from the front, made a soft, indignant noise. “What’s the big deal, exactly?”

“Oh come on, it’s exciting!” Kaminari laughed, tossing a stuffed mascot up in the air. The gossip picked up, the way things do when a name meets a handful of famous icons.

“Mina, you’re such a fangirl,” Ochako scolded with a smile, but she was leaning in, too.

Iida frowned. “They’re—how old are they?”

Mina waved a hand. “Who knows? But people are shipping them with Hawks already.”

Izuku’s face went red—not from embarrassment, but concern. “That can’t be—Hawks is a pro hero. They’re only 16.. That’s a crime…”

All three girls snapped their heads to him. “How do you know that?” Mina demanded, half-joking, half-accusing.

Izuku shifted, remembering the mall—the pretzel, the way the mysterious person had snatched him away from Shigaraki, the awkward kiss on the cheek. “They—uh, helped me. We introduced ourselves. They seem… nice,” he said, voice small and earnest.

Mina grinned wickedly. “Traitor! You’re on the enemy’s side now, Midoriya!”

“I’m not a traitor!” Izuku protested, cheeks flaming as he climbed onto his knees to face them properly across the seatback. “I doubt they remember me anyway—I doubt they remember my name!”

“I dare you to follow them and DM!” Mina tossed out, challenge bright in her eyes.

Izuku’s fingers trembled with a mix of nerves and resolve. He pulled his phone out. “Fine!”

“Fine! DM her!”

“I will!”

Iida sighed a weary, exasperated, “Why are you entertaining her…?” but the bus hummed on, full of chatter and the soft slosh of the road.

==

Rappa lunged, his fist slicing through the air like a cannonball. I twisted sideways, boots sliding on the concrete. The wind from his punch brushed my cheek—too close.

“Getting rusty, old man?” I teased, ducking under his arm. My prosthetic leg whirred, pistons flexing with every sharp kick. He grinned, wide and wolfish, as I caught him in the ribs with my heel. The blow barely made him flinch.

“Rusty? You’re just fast,” he barked, blocking my next jab with his forearm. “Speed means nothing when you can break bones.”

He swung again—strong, impatient. Always the brawler, all muscle and pride. His knuckles grazed my shoulder as I flipped backward, planting my hand on the ground and using my prosthetic as a pivot. It extended, gears clicking, spinning me upright in a fluid motion.

“Bones are overrated,” I said, darting forward. “You can’t fight what you can’t catch.”

My movements were sharper than usual, deliberate, each strike flowing like water. I ducked, spun, kicked—fluid, relentless. The air cracked with every impact. Rappa blocked most of them, but I could see his grin widening. He lived for this—this push and pull, strength against precision, power against adaptability.

He managed to grab my wrist mid-strike, his grip like iron. “You’re faster today,” he panted, tightening his hold until I hissed. “You hiding something from me, Y/n?”

“Maybe,” I said, twisting free and flipping backward with a smirk. “Can’t spoil a secret if I tell you.”

“Cute,” he chuckled. “You sound like Overhaul.”

I grimaced. “Don’t compare me to him right now.”

“Still mad?”

“Still annoying?”

He shrugged, still smiling, but the glint in his eyes told me he’d noticed the edge in my voice.

After another round of dodges and counters, we both backed off, sweat slicking our skin. My breathing was steady; his was heavy, satisfied.

We sat down on the cracked pavement, the sun spilling down like fire over the rooftops. I grabbed my phone, scrolling absently through my notifications.

Rappa leaned back on his hands. “So what’s the secret, kid?”

I hummed, noncommittal, showing him my screen instead. My social feed, filled with likes and comments, all from pro heroes. I explained everything to him. My idea, my plotting, my thoughts.

He squinted. “Lots of heroes,” he said. “And… what? You’re gonna use that to get to All Might?”

“Maybe.”

He smirked. “You gonna kill him?”

I stared down at my hands, then at the dull reflection of my face in my prosthetic leg. “No,” I said finally. “I’m gonna make him wish he was dead.”

Rappa laughed—a booming, genuine sound. He reached over and ruffled my hair like a proud father. “You’re growing up so fast, man! You might even be ready to see her!”

I froze.

The word hung heavy in the air. Her.

My heart skipped, and for a moment, I didn’t breathe. “Why do you all say that?” My voice came out low, sharp.

Rappa’s smile faltered. His hand dropped away from my hair, replaced by an awkward rub of his neck. “Ah, crap… shouldn’t’ve said that.”

“Why do you all say that?” I repeated, crossing my arms, every muscle in my body tensing.

He sighed, scratching his temple. “I can’t explain it, kid. Not my place. But… it’ll be a privilege for you soon. You’ll understand when the time comes.”

My stomach twisted. “A privilege?”

“Yeah,” he said, forcing his usual grin again as he stood up. “Now come on! You wanna take down the Symbol of Peace, right? You’re gonna need to hit harder than that.”

He bounced on his heels, fists up again, eager to fight like nothing happened.

I’m halfway to my feet when the phone buzzes in my pocket—tiny, impossible against the thrum of my blood. For a second I stand there, pulse in my throat, listening to the sun and Rappa’s bouncing feet and the city like it doesn’t exist.

Notification: DM Request— @small.might01

My thumb moves before my head catches up. The message unfurls on the screen in neat, earnest text

@small.might01
i keep thinking about what happened at the mall. are you busy? i’d love to chat! hope you’re alright. :)

The punctuation is small and too polite; the smiley is almost painfully innocent. For a breath, the world narrows to those few lines. Izuku Midoriya. The name settles somewhere in my chest with a soft, unfamiliar weight.

Rappa notices me staring and cocks an eyebrow. “What’s up?” he asks, grinning. “Got another fangirl?”

I thumb the message closed and stand all the way up, the concrete suddenly solid under my feet. “Midoriya,” I say instead, testing the name in my mouth like it’s a tool. It fits weirdly. Too clean. Too hopeful.

Dangerous.

Rappa whistles, a sharp sound that cuts through the lazy hum of the training yard. “Oho,” he says, smirking. “That boy from the Sports Festival?”

I blink, confused. “Sports Festival?”

“Oh yeah!” he starts, grin widening like he’s reliving it. “Kid was breakin’ his own fingers and everything, it was sick! I think he’s in Class 1-A, yeah?”

My hands still mid-motion as I strap my prosthetic back into place. “Class 1-A,” I repeat slowly, turning to look at him. “As in, All Might’s Class 1-A?”

Rappa opens his mouth to confirm, but the second he sees my expression—the sharp focus, the way my lips curl just a little—his face twists into half shock, half delight. “Oh, shit,” he laughs, stepping back. “No way you got one of his lil weirdos following you already. Whatcha gonna do?”

I’m already moving. My fingers fly across the screen before his question even lands, the words forming smooth and quick, no hesitation, no nerves.

@ka1yama_
Izuku Midoriya, right? I’m not too busy, just training with a coworker. I’ve been good, how about you :)?

I hit send before I can overthink it. The message slides out like a bullet leaving a barrel—silent, precise, irreversible.

Rappa’s still laughing, shaking his head. “You don’t waste time, huh? Overhaul’s got himself a little strategist.”

But I’m not listening. My eyes stay on the screen, watching the little “sent” symbol change to “delivered.” A single connection lighting up between me and him. Between me and All Might’s world.

The smallest thread in a web that, one day, I’ll pull tight enough to strangle a symbol.

==

The bus had never been louder. Between Mina’s squealing and Kaminari’s laughter, the quiet hum of the road didn’t stand a chance. Izuku and Mina stared at his phone, the notification of a new message glowing bright on the screen.

“She responded way too quick!” Mina gasped, practically climbing over the seat to read. “That girl was PRAYING for you to text her!”

Before Izuku could react, Mina snatched the phone straight from his hands. “H-Hey! Mina, give it back—!” he stammered, leaning across the aisle.

Ochako traded seats with him so he could reach, but it was too late. Mina was already typing furiously, her tongue sticking out in concentration.

“Mina—please, don’t—!”

She hit send with a dramatic flourish before tossing the phone to Kaminari, who caught it effortlessly and burst out laughing.

“Midoriya’s got himself a crush!” Kaminari yelled, waving the phone in the air. Heads started turning, curiosity sparking like wildfire. “Didn’t know you liked the alternative type, man!”

Sero leaned over from behind them and snagged the phone before Izuku could reclaim it. He scrolled through the messages, eyes widening a little before he gave a low whistle. “They’re pretty cute, nice job, Midoriya!”

“It’s not like that!” Izuku’s voice cracked, his face a full shade of crimson. “This is my first time talking to them!”

Sero smirked, thumbs already flying across the screen. “Then let’s make a good impression for you, Romeo.”

“Sero, don’t—!”

Too late.

Message sent.

Sero handed the phone back, grinning. Izuku grabbed it like it might explode and immediately tried to delete the text—but the tiny “seen” icon popped up before he could.

His heart sank. “Oh, no, no, no…” he muttered under his breath.

==

My phone buzzes again, screen lighting up mid-stretch. Rappa’s still pacing, his fists clenched like he’s waiting for me to move first. I swipe the notification open out of habit.

The new message reads:

@small.might01
you should show me how you train sometime 👀

I blink. The words don’t quite register at first. My brow furrows. “Show him… how I train?” I mutter under my breath.

Rappa glances over. “What’s that?”

I turn the screen toward him, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

For a second, there’s silence. Then Rappa’s laugh booms across the training yard, loud and echoing. “Ohhh, I get it now! Kid’s got game!”

“Game?” I echo, still lost.

He grins beneath his mask. “Means he wants to see you, Kai. Like, see you see you.”

My confusion deepens. “See me? I’m literally right here?”

He shakes his head, chuckling, and snatches the phone from my hand before I can protest. “Nah, nah, trust me—he’ll like this.”

“Rappa—what are you—?”

“Just stand still! Flex your arms.”

“What? Why?”

“Do it!”

I sigh and turn slightly, raising my arms like he asked. My prosthetic clicks as I shift my balance, and for a brief moment, my muscles catch the sunlight. I glance at my reflection on the phone screen—
and there it is.
A smirk. Small, sharp, instinctive. The kind I can’t fake.

“Perfect!” Rappa cheers, tapping the screen. “That boy’s gonna love it!”

“Love it? Why would he love it? It’s just a picture,” I mutter, grabbing the phone back.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ll see, Y/n. You’ll see.”

I stare at the message thread one last time—the flexed-arm photo now sent—and shrug. Whatever game Rappa’s talking about, it’s not one I care to play.

Without another word, I pocket the phone and roll my shoulders. The moment it’s out of sight, my focus shifts back to the fight.

Rappa throws the first punch.

I meet him halfway.

The world narrows to fists, sweat, and motion. Every thought of phones, heroes, and strange green-eyed boys dissolves in the rush of adrenaline. The rhythm of training takes over, steady and brutal—
the only place where my head ever goes quiet.

==

Izuku stared at the glowing screen in his hands like it might explode.
A new message notification flashed at the top — an image this time.

He didn’t open it.
Didn’t dare to.

His thumb hovered above the preview for what felt like hours. “I—uh—maybe I shouldn’t—”

“Move!” Mina hissed, snatching the phone right out of his grip.

“Mina, wait—!” Izuku protested, reaching for it, but she was already gasping, eyes wide and glittering with chaos.

“Holy shit!” she yelled, loud enough for half the bus to turn. “They’re training with that beefcake?! That’s like training with All Might!”

“What?!” Kaminari and Sero practically climbed over the seats to look. Sero leaned closer, squinting.

“Dude,” he gawked. “That’s— Oh my— Kai’s training with him?”

Mina shoved the phone into his hands, and he whistled low. “And look at those muscles on Kai! That’s so manly!”

Kirishima lit up immediately. “No way, lemme see!” He grabbed the phone and his jaw dropped. “Bro—look at this! They’re shredded!”

He turned around and shoved the phone in Bakugo’s direction.

Bakugo barely glanced up from his seat, scoffing. “They look too cocky.”

“Because they are!” Mina shot back, flopping down beside Ochako again. “They’ve got a motorcycle and everything! They almost ran us over at the mall, and when Iida tried to scold them—” she started laughing, “they told him, ‘Heard you tried killing Stain. Pretty badass.’”

“It was just so—” Ochako blinked, half appalled, half impressed. “Rude.”

“I still think it was highly inappropriate!” Iida said indignantly from the front. “I was simply enforcing safety regulations!”

Kirishima was still looking at the photo. “A motorcycle? Damn, that’s cool. Dangerous, but cool.”

Bakugo snorted. “Yeah? Deku can’t handle all that.”

“Be nice, Bakugo!” Kirishima huffed, crossing his arms.

“I am, ya dunce!” Bakugo snapped back, glaring.

Mina grinned, leaning over Izuku’s shoulder. “Well, whether you can handle it or not, they definitely likes you. Look at that smirk!”

Izuku’s face went crimson. “I-It’s just a picture! They’re training!”

“Training while looking that good?” Kaminari teased. “Yeah, sure, man.”

Izuku buried his face in his hands, groaning. The bus echoed with laughter and teasing, and even Iida’s scolding was drowned out by the chaos.

He peeked through his fingers at the screen one last time — at the image of Kai Yama, muscles tense, prosthetic gleaming, smirking like the world was already theirs.

And despite his embarrassment… his heart beat just a little faster.

The bus eventually settled.

The teasing turned into laughter, the laughter into background noise. Kaminari started a card game, Iida began lecturing about seatbelt safety again, and Mina—mercifully—had given Izuku’s phone back.

Izuku sat by the window, earbuds in but no music playing, scrolling through the same message thread over and over. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t stop staring at it—the picture, the quick response, the casual tone. It wasn’t like he hadn’t talked to people before. This just… felt different.

Then—ding.

The same notification chime cut through the hum of the bus. Ochako’s head popped up instantly, followed by Mina’s.

“What was that?” Mina whispered.

Izuku’s eyes widened. “I-It’s nothing—!”

But it wasn’t nothing. It was another message.

Not a photo this time.

A video.

He hesitated. Then curiosity won.

The video loaded, and sound burst through his phone speaker.

“Say it!”

The camera jolted slightly, and there they were—Kai, or Y/n, sitting triumphantly on top of a man easily twice their size. Their legs were wrapped around his neck like a victory hold, prosthetic glinting in the sun. The man was face-down on the ground, laughing, trying and failing to push up.

“You win!” he wheezed.

“Huh?” Y/n leaned closer to the camera, voice teasing. “Didn’t catch that over all this victory!”

“I said you win, Y/n—get off!!”

“Yeah, I did!! Like always!” Y/n’s laughter rang out—genuine, bright, nothing like the sharp sarcasm he remembered from the mall.

The clip ended there, looping once before pausing on their grin.

Mina’s jaw dropped. “Holy—okay, that’s adorable!” she whispered. “They’re totally flirting.”

“It could just be friendly,” Ochako offered, though she was smiling too. “Maybe they’re trying to show they train seriously?”

The phone buzzed again. A new message appeared beneath the video.

@ka1yama_:
I bet I could beat you if we trained :b

Izuku’s heart tripped over itself. He didn’t know what to think. It was bold, but playful. Confident.

“They’re asking you to hang out!” Mina declared, smacking his shoulder.

“M-Maybe they just mean training,” Ochako said quickly. “Like… sparring?”

Izuku rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks red. “I-I don’t mind being friends… They seem nice.”

Mina sighed dramatically, leaning against the seat. “Bakugo’s right. Maybe you can’t handle all that.”

Izuku didn’t respond this time. He just looked down at the screen, at the text glowing faintly back at him. His fingers hesitated over the keyboard for a moment before typing something small.

@small.might01
i’d like to see you try

He hit send.

Outside, the bus rolled on, the city shrinking behind them as the mountains began to rise in the distance.

Inside, Izuku leaned his head against the window, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips as the notification faded.