Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hizashi, are you sure about this?”

“Yes, I am 100% sure about this, Shouta.”

“It’s one thing to adopt a cat, but fostering a kid? Let alone a teenage boy who’s quirkless?”

“Sho, you told me you didn’t have a problem with him being quirkless. So why are you acting like this now?”

Shouta sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “That’s not it. It’s fine that he’s quirkless, it’s just… we’re pro heroes. We do dangerous work. What if that danger follows us home one day? He could get seriously hurt.”

Hizashi crossed his arms, unwavering. “Shouta, we’re pro heroes for a reason. If something happens, we’re more than equipped to handle it. And besides, we’re only fostering him for now—nothing’s permanent.”

Shouta gave him a long, knowing look. “Hizashi, I love you, but you get attached. Too attached. And fast.”

Hizashi scoffed. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you. You see a stray cat on the street and basically fall in love on the spot.”

“That’s different!” Shouta shot back, frowning.

Hizashi just smirked. “Sure it is.”

Hizashi had always wanted to foster a child and he knew Shouta felt the same way. He’d brought it up a few times over the years, but with their demanding schedules as pro heroes and UA teachers, it was hard to find the right time to have a real conversation about it. Their lives were filled with training, missions, teaching, and barely any downtime. So, it always ended up on the backburner.

But then, one quiet evening, after a particularly long day of work, they found a moment. Him and his husband were sitting in their living room, a rare night where they didn’t have to rush off to handle a case or get back to the patrols. Hizashi had been holding onto this thought for months, and finally, he couldn’t keep it in any longer. And it was clear his husband was catching on.

“Hizashi,” Shouta began, leaning back in his chair, “you’ve been quiet. What’s on your mind?”

Hizashi hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking… maybe it’s time we do this. You and me. We could foster a kid.”

Shouta raised an eyebrow but didn’t dismiss the idea. They had both talked about their wish to help kids before, but it had always seemed like a distant dream, something they'd discuss but never take action on. “Are you serious?” Shouta asked, his tone neutral, though his eyes softened just a little.

Yeah, they worked with kids nearly every day at UA, but it wasn’t the same. At UA, they were teachers. They helped students develop their quirks, trained them to be future heroes, and gave them the tools to survive in the world of pro-heroes. They had a set routine, clear boundaries, and weren’t responsible for anything outside of the classroom. The students came, they learned, and they left. Their involvement was structured, controlled.

Fostering a child? That was a different kind of responsibility altogether. There was no bell signaling the end of the day, no lesson plans to follow. It wasn’t just about guidance—it was about providing a home, being a constant in someone’s life, helping them heal. It would mean stepping into a space they weren’t used to, without the safety of routine or professional distance. They wouldn’t just be teachers anymore; they’d be parents, in a sense, dealing with the complexities of a child’s life far beyond academics or training.

This wasn’t about preparing a kid to be a hero. It was about making sure they had a place to belong.

“I am,” Hizashi finally answered, his voice full of excitement. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Maybe we can give a kid a shot at a better life, you know?”

To his relief, Shouta didn’t immediately shut him down. Instead, he was quiet for a long moment, weighing the idea. Finally, Shouta nodded, though there was a hint of hesitation. “Okay… but we need to be realistic about it. We’re not exactly your typical parents. This won’t be easy.”

Hizashi grinned. “I know. But I think we can handle it.”

They agreed to start looking into it, determined to make it work. After all, it was a huge step for them both, and Hizashi was thrilled. He had always wanted to give a child a chance at the love and stability he never had growing up. He was hopeful, more hopeful than he’d been in a long time.

But that hope would be tested the moment he came home after visiting the foster agency. Shouta was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in front of him, his face unreadable as Hizashi walked in, his excitement barely contained.

“So, I went to the agency today,” Hizashi began, his voice bright. “I found someone. A boy. He’s 14 years old and his name’s Izuku Midoriya. He’s—”

A sharp silence cut him off as Shouta’s gaze turned colder. He set his cup down, the clink of ceramic echoing in the otherwise quiet room. “Wait… you picked a teenager?”

Hizashi’s smile faltered slightly, but he held his ground. “Yes. I know it wasn’t what we originally planned, but…” His voice softened. “Shouta, he’s been in the system for years. They keep passing him from foster home to foster home, and no one’s giving him a chance. He’s been through so much, and…” Hizashi’s voice wavered. “It broke my heart hearing how long he’s been waiting. He needs a home.”

Shouta’s brow furrowed, his expression guarded. “A teenager? We were going to foster a kid, Hizashi. A child. Not a teenager.”

Hizashi’s heart sank, but he refused to back down. He had seen the pain in Izuku’s eyes, the years of neglect and loneliness. It had struck a chord in him that nothing else had. “I know, Sho. But he’s the one who needs help the most. He doesn’t have anyone else. I couldn’t walk away from that.”

Shouta’s sigh was heavy, his shoulders sagging as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I knew this would happen. You get attached so quickly. And now we’re talking about taking in a teenager who’s been abandoned by everyone else.”

“I’m not asking for your permission,” Hizashi said softly, but firmly. “I’m doing this. This kid needs us. And I’m not going to sit by and let him stay in the system any longer.”

Shouta shifted, his gaze sharpening as he met Hizashi’s eyes. “You know there’s more to this than just giving him a roof over his head. It’s not just about being a teenager, it’s about—” He stopped himself, his jaw tightening. “What’s his quirk?”

Hizashi hesitated for a moment before answering. “He’s actually quirkless.”

Shouta’s reaction was immediate—a flash of surprise, quickly followed by an undercurrent of disbelief. His face tightened, and his brow furrowed again as he processed the information. He didn’t voice the words out loud, but the unease was there, evident in the hard line of his mouth.

It wasn’t that Shouta didn’t care about quirkless people. They both did, deeply. But they lived in a society where quirklessness was often seen as a disadvantage—where people like Izuku were sometimes pushed aside, overlooked, or worse. It was a harsh world to survive in, and Shouta hated it.

Hizashi caught the look and smiled softly, understanding the silent concern in his husband’s eyes. “I know, Sho. I know how people are. But you’re not like them. Neither of us are. And this kid... he’s been through enough already. He deserves something better.”

For a long moment, the tension in the room thickened, both of them standing their ground. Then Shouta sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re stubborn, you know that?” Hizashi smiled, his heart swelling with determination. “You love me for it.”

Shouta’s lips twitched slightly, but there was a resigned look in his eyes. “Fine. But we’re in this together. I just want you to be sure.”

“I am,” Hizashi said, his voice full of conviction. “I’m sure.”

The two pro heroes currently sat together in their living room, waiting for the agency to drop Izuku off. Hizashi felt a rush of excitement building in his chest, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in years. He and Shouta had spent the entire morning transforming their study into a proper bedroom for the kid. There were new sheets on the bed, fresh paint on the walls, and small touches that made it feel like a real home.

Shouta had grumbled the entire time, of course, complaining about the mess and the lack of time. But Hizashi knew better. He could tell by the way Shouta carefully arranged the books on the shelf, the way he added extra pillows to the bed, that his husband was secretly excited in his own, quiet way. It wasn’t that Shouta didn’t want this, it was just that he preferred to keep his emotions close to the chest. He'd been like that since high school.

“Everything’s set, right?” Hizashi asked, glancing over at Shouta with a grin.

Shouta gave a short nod, adjusting his scarf as if to distract himself from the feeling in the air. "Yeah. Just don’t go overboard." His eyes softened, though, betraying the calm exterior he put on. Hizashi’s heart rate increased. They had both been waiting for this moment for so long. He had always dreamed of giving a child a safe place, a real home—and now they were finally going to do it.

Just as Hizashi was about to double check that everything was in place for the fourth time that hour, a sharp knock echoed from the door. His heart skipped a beat, and he shot a glance at Shouta. “Here we go,” Hizashi murmured, his excitement barely contained.

Shouta gave him a look, a mix of scepticism and concern, but he said nothing as they both walked toward the door. Hizashi opened it with a wide smile, but it faltered slightly when he saw the teenager standing in front of him. He did not expect this.

Izuku Midoriya looked less than thrilled to be there. His posture was stiff, arms crossed tightly over his chest, and his hair—wild and unruly—framed his face in an almost defiant way. He seemed to be mentally preparing himself for disappointment. His eyes flicked around the room—not in curiosity, but in calculation. The way he held himself, tense and coiled, made Hizashi’s chest ache.

Behind him stood a woman, dressed in professional attire, holding a clipboard. She smiled at them politely but with an air of professionalism. “Good afternoon Yamada-San, Aizawa-San, I trust everything’s ready?”

Hizashi nodded quickly. “Yeah, all set!”

She turned to Izuku. “Alright, Midoriya, You know the drill, let’s go inside.” She turned to them. “I just need you to sign a few things, and then I’ll be on my way.”

Izuku didn’t move right away, his eyes scanning the house before finally landing on Hizashi and Shouta. He gave a small grunt, clearly uninterested. Hizashi smiled warmly, trying to put the boy at ease. “Hey, Izuku! Welcome to our apartment!”

Izuku glanced at him for a second, then rolled his eyes. His tone was thick with sarcasm. “Great. Another foster home. I’m sure this one will be just as different as the last one.” Hizashi’s smile faltered again, just a little, but he quickly tried to mask it. “No, really. We’re here to give you a fresh start.”

Izuku raised an eyebrow, his arms still tightly crossed. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Every time they move me to another place, they say the same thing. 'We’ll take care of you,' 'You’re not a burden.' But it’s always the same thing. Once they realize I’m just a quirkless kid, I’m out the door faster than you can say ‘next.’”

Hizashi felt a tightness in his chest, but he kept his voice gentle. “Izuku, we—”

“Its Midoriya and I don’t want to hear it,” Midoriya cut him off. “It’s fine. I know how this works.” He scoffed, looking around the room with an almost bored expression. “You’re probably just here to make yourselves feel better, huh? You two look like the type who’d want to ‘save’ me.”

Hizashi blinked, surprised by the bitterness in the boy’s voice. Before he could respond, Midoriya’s eyes flicked over to Shouta. He’s eyes scanned Shouta up and down, a sharp smirk tugging at his lips. “And you?” Midoriya’s sneered, his voice laced with sarcasm. “You look like you just rolled out of bed. Are you even trying, or is ‘dishevelled’ your signature look?” His eyes glinted with mockery as he crossed his arms tighter over his chest. “Is that how you’re supposed to be ‘looking after’ me? If that’s your idea of being a ‘parent,’ I’d rather take my chances on my own.”

Hizashi’s jaw tightened at the insult, and before he could say anything, the woman beside him stepped forward, her voice firm. “Midoriya, knock it off.” She wasn’t rude, but the command was clear, and it had the intended effect. Midoriya fell silent, his eyes flicking to her before quickly darting away. She looked at him with a slight frown, a little disappointed by the remark. “That kind of attitude won’t be tolerated here. You’re not here to cause trouble.”

Izuku grumbled something under his breath, but he didn’t argue, his arms still crossed as he glared down at the floor.

Hizashi was about to speak up, but he caught the flicker of something in Midoriya’s eyes—something almost weary behind the sarcasm and bitterness. He was used to the sharp words and the guarded posture by being a teacher, but seeing how easily it came to Izuku made Hizashi pause. He glanced at Shouta, who stood there completely unshaken by the comment. As always, Shouta was unreadable, his posture the same as ever—calm, collected, and completely unaffected by the jab.

Hizashi couldn’t help but wonder when Izuku’s defenses had become so second nature. When had he learned to lash out like that? Was it just the system that had made him this way, or had something deeper been behind it all along? Hizashi felt the weight of those thoughts but quickly pushed them aside. He couldn’t focus on that now. They had to start somewhere.

“Alright, Iz—Midoriya…” Hizashi began, his voice warm but firm, trying to keep the mood light. “Listen up, we’re not here to play hero. We’re just two people who want to help you out. And whether you like it or not, this is your home now. You’re not going anywhere. We’re not gonna drop you like everyone else. Got it?”

His tone was bright, but there was an edge of determination that made it clear—Hizashi wasn’t going to let Izuku slip through the cracks again.

Midoriya didn’t respond. He just stood there, his defiant stance still in place, the edge of his words still lingering in the air. But for a moment, Hizashi could’ve sworn he saw something softer behind the walls Midoriya had built up. A flicker of uncertainty that only lasted a second before it was buried deep again.

The woman who had been standing off to the side cleared her throat, taking a few steps toward the table where the paperwork was laid out. “I’ll just need you both to sign these papers, and then I’ll be on my way. I trust you two can take it from here?” She turned to Midoriya, offering him one last polite smile. “You’re in good hands, okay?”

Midoriya didn’t answer, still standing by the door, avoiding everyone’s gaze. Hizashi quickly signed the forms and passed them over to Shouta, who signed them with his usual methodical precision. The woman glanced at both of them one last time before heading for the door, giving a slight nod.

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it then, you have my number so call if you need anything.” she said, before stepping outside, leaving the three of them alone. The door clicked shut behind her, and for a moment, the room felt heavy with the silence. Midoriya had still said nothing since his last comment, his eyes fixed on the ground as if trying to escape it all.

Hizashi glanced at Shouta, a look of concern flickering across his face. Shouta’s gaze was steady, unwavering as always, though there was something in his eyes—a hint of understanding.

“Well,” Hizashi began, clapping his hands together in a somewhat exaggerated attempt to lighten the mood, “now that all the official stuff is out of the way, you’re free to make yourself at home.” He motioned around the apartment. “The kitchen’s stocked. Your room is down that way, feel free to explore! We’re not going anywhere, so feel free to take your time, alright?”

Midoriya didn’t respond, just stood there in the same position. His shoulders tensed, as if the weight of everything was too much for him. It was clear—he wasn’t ready to believe them, not yet. And with that attitude, it was obvious that he had been let down way too many times.

But Hizashi wasn’t going to give up. They were in this for the long haul, no matter how tough it was going to get.

“I’m going to settle into the guest room,” he muttered, his tone still distant, almost like he was talking to himself more than anyone else. He turned his back on them, heading toward the hallway with slow, deliberate steps.

Hizashi blinked, caught off guard by the way Midoriya said “guest room” rather than simply saying "my room." It was a subtle detail, but it felt... telling. It was as if he had already resigned himself to being a visitor in their space, never truly believing it was meant for him. Hizashi’s chest tightened, but he quickly masked the feeling, not wanting to let it show. “Hey, uh, Midoriya…” Hizashi called out softly, unsure of whether he should push or let it slide. “The room’s yours. You don’t need to call it the guest room. You’re staying here now. This is your home.”

Midoriya paused in the doorway, but he didn’t turn around. His voice floated back, low and flat. “Yeah, whatever.”

Hizashi’s smile wavered, but he kept it there, trying to stay hopeful despite the clear resistance in Midoriya’s tone. “Take your time. You need anything, we’re just in the living room.” He didn’t reply. The sound of his footsteps faded as he disappeared into the hallway, and the house felt unnervingly quiet.

Hizashi exhaled, glancing at Shouta again. There was a heaviness in the air, a weight that had settled in since the boy stepped through their door. Shouta shifted slightly, his voice low but steady. “He’ll need time. Don’t take it personally.” His eyes met Hizashi’s, and though his face was neutral, there was an understanding in his gaze. “It’s not about us. It’s about him. He’s been let down too many times.”

Hizashi nodded, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. “Yeah. I just want him to feel like he belongs here.” Shouta’s expression softened just a fraction. “He will. It just won’t happen overnight.”

The silence lingered, but it felt a little less heavy now. Hizashi offered a small, hopeful smile. “I know. We’ll get there.”

With that, they both stood in the quiet of their home, feeling the weight of what was to come.

***

Izuku didn’t give it a week before they sent him back. If anything, he might make it a challenge—see how fast he could get returned this time. Maybe if he got sent back enough times, the orphanage would stop bothering and just let him stay. It wasn’t like it made a difference where he ended up.

In fact, the orphanage was easier. No fake smiles, no forced small talk, no pretending like he was some kid they actually wanted. It was just a place—a place where no one cared what he did, as long as he didn’t cause trouble. He could come and go without anyone noticing, slip through the cracks like he always had. But houses? Apartments? Foster families who thought they were doing something noble by taking him in? They always had rules. Curfews. Expectations. People who suddenly acted like they were responsible for him.

It was exhausting. And temporary. Always temporary.

So why bother playing along?

If these two were like all the others, then fine. He’d make it easy for them.

Izuku had already memorized the apartment’s layout. It wasn’t hard—just a habit he’d picked up over the years. There were two main exits: the front door and the balcony door, which led to a narrow fire escape. His room had a window, but they were on the fourth floor, which was going to be a nightmare when he decided to sneak out later. Not impossible, just… annoying. He’d figure it out. He always did.

He let his bag drop onto the floor with a dull thud and scanned the bedroom. The walls were freshly painted—he could still smell it, that sharp chemical scent that hadn’t quite faded yet. Probably a last-minute attempt to make the place feel more like his room instead of whatever it was before. A study, maybe. He could still see faint outlines where furniture must’ve pressed into the carpet for years before being shuffled out to make space for him.

The bed was neatly made, the sheets crisp and new, like they’d just been bought. There was a desk in the corner, a dresser against the wall, and a closet with sliding doors. It was… nice. Too nice. Like they were trying too hard.

Why had they bought all this new stuff for him?

At his previous houses, he always got whatever secondhand furniture was lying around, no matter the condition. At the last place, he hadn’t even been given a blanket until the fifth night. And when he finally got one, it was barely more than a rag, full of holes.

Izuku scoffed under his breath and sat down on the edge of the bed, bouncing slightly as he tested the mattress. He had to admit—it was better than most of the places he’d been stuck in before. But it didn’t matter. This wasn’t permanent. It never was.

He leaned back on his hands, staring up at the ceiling. Might as well get comfortable while it lasts.

Izuku exhaled sharply through his nose, letting his gaze drift from the ceiling to the door. Yamada and Aizawa. That’s what Shimizu-San had called them. They were… different. Completely opposites.

Yamada was all loud energy and big smiles, acting like this whole situation was the best thing to ever happen. He had that kind of over-the-top enthusiasm that felt too forced to be real. People like him always tried too hard, always thought if they were nice enough, they could get you to trust them. Like trust was something you could just hand out. Izuku had met people like that before—foster parents who thought they could fix him with warmth alone. It never lasted.

And then there was Aizawa. The complete opposite. He barely spoke, barely reacted. He just stood there in his baggy clothes, looking like he hadn’t slept in a week, like he didn’t care about any of this. Honestly, Izuku preferred that over Yamada’s endless optimism. At least Aizawa wasn’t pretending. He seemed indifferent—like he wouldn’t care if Izuku stayed or left.

Maybe that was better. Maybe it meant they wouldn’t be as disappointed when he was gone.

Izuku sighed, running a hand through his hair before flopping back against the mattress. The ceiling blurred slightly as he stared at it, his mind already working through his next steps.

If he was lucky, he could be out of here in a few days.

Izuku lost track of time staring at the ceiling, letting his thoughts drift in circles. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there—ten minutes? An hour? It didn’t matter. The room still smelled like fresh paint, the bed still felt too soft, and the walls were still too bare. Everything was unfamiliar, and he hated it.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. It was quiet but firm, no hesitation. “We made dinner,” Aizawa’s voice came through the door, as flat and tired as ever. “Come eat.”

Izuku debated ignoring him. But before he could make up his mind, Aizawa continued.

“We also need to go over some ground rules and some other important stuff.”

Great. Rules. Because if there was one thing foster homes loved, it was rules. Do this. Don’t do that. Be grateful. Don't be a problem. Don't make us regret taking you in.

Izuku sighed, sitting up. His stomach twisted—not with hunger, but with something else. Annoyance? Dread? He wasn’t sure. He already knew how this would go. They’d lay down their expectations, act like they were reasonable, and he’d pretend to listen while planning his next move.

Pushing himself off the bed, he ran a hand through his messy hair and made his way to the door. When he opened it, Aizawa was standing there, arms crossed, looking as uninterested as ever.

Izuku shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with.”

Aizawa gave him a long look but didn’t comment. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the dining room. Izuku followed, already bracing himself for whatever rules they were about to throw at him.

As the pair entered the dining room, Midoriya watched Yamada place the last bowl of what looked to be ramen before sitting down at the table. He smiled warmly as they approached, and for some reason, it sent a shiver down Izuku’s spine.

He hesitated for a moment, eyes flicking to the food. The bowls were filled to the brim—steaming broth, thick noodles, perfectly sliced toppings. It smelled good. Better than anything he was used to.

Too good.

His stomach twisted. Not with hunger—well, maybe a little—but mostly with unease. This was… weird. He wasn’t used to food like this, to meals that looked like actual effort had been put into them. Foster homes usually meant microwave dinners or leftovers from whatever the family didn’t finish. And at the orphanage? If the food was warm, that was considered a lucky day.

This? This felt… off. Like a trap.

Still, he sat down, slowly, eyeing both of them as he pulled his bowl closer. He wasn’t stupid. People didn’t just do things like this. There was always an expectation, a price.

Izuku watched as Yamada and Aizawa exchanged a look—one of those silent conversations that adults seemed to have when they were debating how much to say. He narrowed his eyes slightly. What now?

Yamada leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “Before we go over ground rules, we need to talk about something else first,” he said, his voice still warm but noticeably more serious. “Our jobs.”

Izuku raised an eyebrow. Their jobs? Why did that matter? He had been in and out of enough foster homes to know that most adults only cared if a kid followed their house rules—not whatever it was they did from nine to five. He didn’t see why this was important enough to delay the inevitable speech about rules.

“Okay…?” he said slowly, eyeing them warily.

Yamada leaned forward slightly. “We’re teachers,” he said, his voice carrying an unusual weight. “Both of us work at U.A.” Izuku’s entire body tensed. He barely noticed the way his grip on his chopsticks tightened, pressing so hard against the wood that his fingers ached.

U.A.

As in U.A. High.

As in the most prestigious hero school in Japan. The place that molded future Pro Heroes, the same heroes he had stopped believing in years ago. The school he had once dreamed of attending, back when he was naïve enough to think effort alone could make up for what he lacked. Which was a quirk.

His mind stumbled over itself, scrambling to process the information. If they were teachers at U.A., that could only mean—

“We’re also Pro Heroes,” Aizawa added, his voice calm and indifferent, like he was stating the most unremarkable fact in the world.

Izuku’s heart skipped a beat.

No.

No, no, no.

What the fuck.

His stomach twisted violently, and it took every ounce of self-control not to visibly react. His brain was screaming at him to not freak out, to not let anything slip onto his face, but his chest felt tight, his breathing too shallow.

Pro Heroes.

Was this some kind of joke? Some cruel twist of fate? Of all the homes he could’ve ended up in, why this one? Why with them?

It felt like some cosmic punishment. A sick game played at his expense.

Had the universe really decided to dump him—Izuku fucking Midoriya—into the care of not just one but two Pro Heroes? The same kind of people who preached about saving others, yet turned their backs on the ones who needed them most?

His stomach churned. His head buzzed. His fingers twitched toward his chopsticks, but he forced himself to stay still.
He dropped the utensils into his bowl with a quiet clink and forced out a short, unimpressed laugh. “Huh. That’s… something.”

His voice came out steadier than he expected, but he could still hear the tightness in it. Izuku swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet their gazes. His ears rang, blood rushing in his head like static. Across the table, Aizawa studied him with those piercing, unreadable eyes, while Yamada still wore that same damn smile—though it was softer now, more careful.

What the hell have I just walked into?

Aizawa didn’t seem fazed by the shift in atmosphere. He took a slow bite of his ramen, chewing thoughtfully before speaking, as if it was the most casual thing in the world. “I have to go out on patrol tonight around ten,” he said, his voice level, though there was an underlying weariness in his tone. “Yamada has patrol in the mornings around five. But one of us should always be in the house at some point.”

Izuku swallowed, his mind still reeling from the revelation. His gaze flickered between the two men before he finally forced himself to speak. “So… if you’re Pro Heroes, what are your hero names?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Midoriya watched as Yamada’s grin somehow grew even wider—he hadn’t thought that was possible. “I just realized we never actually introduced ourselves properly. Bit of an oversight, huh? You might’ve heard of me,” he said, practically beaming. “But if not, that’s okay! I’m Present Mic!”

Izuku felt his jaw go slack. “What…?” he blurted out dumbly.

Present Mic.

As in the Present Mic. The Pro Hero with a voice powerful enough to shatter concrete. The same guy who hosted U.A.’s sports festival every year and had an energy level so obnoxiously high that Izuku had always assumed it was just for show.

How had he not noticed? Sure, the man looked different—his hair pulled back into a low bun, and he wasn’t wearing his usual glasses. He looked more... casual, in simple clothes that didn’t scream "hero." But his voice—how had he not recognized it? That voice should have been a dead giveaway. Whatever the reason, Izuku couldn’t believe he hadn’t put it together sooner.

His brain completely short-circuited. He had walked into this apartment expecting another temporary foster home, but instead, he was sitting across the table from a famous hero—no, two famous heroes.

A quiet snort pulled him out of his thoughts. Izuku’s eyes darted toward Aizawa, who was watching him with a look that was almost amused, though his perpetually tired expression didn’t shift much.

Izuku frowned. “And you?” he asked, hesitantly turning his attention to Aizawa.

The man simply blinked, then sighed. “Eraserhead.”

Izuku choked. You have got to be kidding me. He suddenly felt very sick. His foster parents weren’t just pro heroes—they were these pro heroes. One of them worked directly with the police, and the other was a damn public figure.

Izuku stared, his mind racing a mile a minute.

Could this get any worse.

Oh, he had definitely heard of Eraserhead. An underground Pro Hero with a reputation for being ruthless when dealing with criminals—especially Vigilantes. He was the guy who worked in the shadows, the one who didn’t bother with flashy heroics or public recognition. The one who actually got things done.

Izuku knew of a few Vigilantes who had been caught by him. Some of them had managed to slip away before things got too bad, while others… well, they weren’t seen much after that. He had been careful. Very careful. He had made sure to stay under the radar, to never do anything big enough to catch the attention of someone like him.

Yet here he was, sitting across from the man, completely exposed. He needed to be careful. More careful than ever.

The irony of the situation made him want to laugh. He had spent so much time making sure he never crossed paths with Eraserhead as Ghost—and now he had walked right into his home as Izuku.

What were the fucking chances?

Still, this wasn’t how he expected the underground hero to look. He thought Eraserhead would be more… intimidating. But instead of a looming figure shrouded in mystery and menace, he was looking at a man who, quite frankly, looked dead inside.

His eyes were half-lidded, his posture lazy, and there was this perpetual air of exhaustion hanging around him, like he was a single inconvenience away from passing out on the table.

This was the guy Vigilantes were afraid of?

Izuku squinted at him, then risked a glance at Yamada, who was practically vibrating with energy in contrast. He had no idea how these two even functioned in the same space, let alone lived together.

Still, the knowledge that these were his foster parents now made something uneasy settle in his stomach.

This was bad.

Very, very bad

Aizawa let out a quiet sigh, rubbing his temples as if he were already exhausted by the conversation. “Eat,” he said flatly. “The food’s getting cold.”

Izuku blinked, glancing down at the bowl of ramen in front of him. Right. Food. He hesitated for a second before picking up his chopsticks and taking a small bite. It was… good. Suspiciously good. His stomach twisted slightly. He wasn’t used to food like this.

Yamada, oblivious to the sheer panic clawing its way through Izuku’s chest, kept talking. “We get that it might be a little weird,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But, hey, this doesn’t change anything about the house rules. They’re pretty simple.”

Here it was. The list of restrictions, the inevitable reminder that he was only here because the system had nowhere else to put him. He forced his face to stay neutral. “Go on,” he muttered.

“We don’t have many,” Aizawa said, watching him carefully. “Just two main ones. First, if you go out, tell one of us where you’re going. And second, be home by 9:30 PM.”

Izuku froze mid-bite, his eyes flicking between them in disbelief. That was it?

No curfews so strict he’d have to be in his room by sunset? No rules about speaking only when spoken to? His mind immediately went to the last few homes he had been in. He hadn’t been allowed to be in certain rooms in some places, hadn’t been allowed to eat until everyone else had finished in others. He had to earn simple things—hot meals, permission to go outside. Some foster parents treated him like a burden the second they found out he didn’t have a quirk, and the rules had reflected that.

His fingers tightened slightly around his chopsticks. “That’s it?” he asked slowly, still half-expecting them to hit him with some sort of catch.

Aizawa gave him a look, eyes sharp despite his exhausted expression. “Yeah. That’s it.”

Izuku frowned. “No… other rules?” He hesitated before adding, “Nothing about—” He cut himself off, not sure if he actually wanted to finish that sentence. Yamada and Aizawa exchanged a glance. It was quick, but Izuku caught it immediately. It wasn’t annoyance or frustration—it was something else. Something that made his stomach clench uncomfortably.

Concern.

Izuku clenched his jaw and looked away. He hated that look. He hated when people acted like they cared when he knew it wouldn’t last.

“Kid,” Aizawa said, his voice quieter but firm this time. “What kind of rules are you used to?”

Izuku shrugged, keeping his gaze locked on his bowl. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, stuffing another bite of ramen into his mouth to avoid answering. Aizawa’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the quiet tension stretched between them. Izuku could feel the weight of his gaze, the pressure behind it, but he kept his head down, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Doesn’t matter?” Aizawa repeated, his voice softer now but no less insistent. “It matters to us.”

Izuku flinched, the words digging into him like an old wound. It wasn’t just the question—it was the genuineness in Aizawa’s tone. It wasn’t something Izuku was used to. Not at all. Why would they care about a quirkless orphan?

He wanted to snap back, to push them away, to shut them out, but his mouth felt dry. Instead, he pushed his chopsticks around in his bowl aimlessly, not really eating, just stalling. “It’s not important,” he muttered again, voice tight. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Yamada, sensing the growing discomfort, tried to intervene with his usual cheery tone. “Hey, if you don’t want to talk, that’s okay. Just know we’re here for you, alright?” His smile was kind, but there was a touch of sadness behind it, something that made Izuku’s throat tighten.

Aizawa remained silent for a moment, but his gaze was steady, not pushing, just observing. He finally spoke, his voice quieter but still firm. “We’re not asking you to talk about anything you’re not ready to. But we’d like to know if there’s anything we should be aware of. Just in case.”

Izuku’s stomach twisted again. He could feel the ball of frustration rise in his chest. He hated that tone. The way they spoke like they genuinely cared. He didn’t want their pity. They didn’t know him. They didn’t know what he’d been through. No one did.

He forced himself to meet their eyes, but his gaze was sharp, defensive. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion he didn’t want to deal with. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

Aizawa didn’t press, but he raised an eyebrow, as if he could see through the lie. Yamada just nodded, his smile fading slightly.

“That’s okay, kid,” Yamada said gently, “We’re here when you’re ready. But, for now, you don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

Izuku didn’t respond. Instead, he stared down at his half-empty bowl of ramen, pushing the noodles around aimlessly. The weight of their attention was suffocating, but he couldn’t escape it—not without risking their concern getting worse. And that’s exactly what he didn’t need. He didn’t want to be a burden to them, didn’t want to be another sad, broken kid they tried to 'save.' He was used to being alone. He was fine that way.

After a long silence, Izuku stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back a little too forcefully. He didn’t look at either of them as he muttered, “I’m done eating, I'm going to bed” and turned toward the door.

He could feel their gazes on his back as he walked toward the guest room, a weight pressing against him that he couldn’t shake off. It felt too much like... concern. But that didn’t make sense. Not with him.

As he reached the door, he heard Yamada’s voice, gentle and warm, “Goodnight, Midoriya.”

Izuku’s steps faltered for a split second. The words sounded sincere, too sincere. Why does he care so much?

He quickly shook the thought away, gripping the doorknob and pulling it open. “Yeah, whatever,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. As the door clicked shut behind him, Izuku leaned against it, exhaling deeply. Tomorrow will be different, he told himself. They’ll be different. They’ll act like everyone else. This is temporary. Don’t let it get to you.

But despite the harsh thoughts he tried to block it away, there was a gnawing feeling in his chest. Something about tonight felt different. Something about them felt different. Izuku stood there in the quiet of his room for a long moment, just staring at the door. He could hear the two heroes chatting, but he wasn’t sure what about—he could probably guess it though.

He quickly got to work, setting the thoughts aside, focusing on what needed to be done. He walked over to the small bag he had hidden in the corner of the room, pulling out the familiar black hoodie and mask. He wasn’t about to let tonight be any different than the others. The weight of the city’s streets called to him like a siren’s song.

Neither of them would come check on him. That much he knew. Aizawa would be heading out on patrol soon, keeping an eye on the darker corners of the city, and Yamada would likely be getting some rest before his early patrol. They both had their routines. Izuku had his, too.

He threw the hoodie over his head, slipping into his familiar, ghostly attire. The mask went on last, his face hidden, his true identity swallowed by the darkness. Ghost. That was who he was now. Not Izuku. Not that quirkless orphan. Just Ghost, the one who moved unseen in the shadows, who struck when no one was watching.

Once dressed, he stood in front of the small mirror in the corner of his room, staring at his reflection—or the lack of one. It was almost funny, how easy it was to leave Izuku behind when he was in the mask.

His hands moved quickly, checking his equipment: throwing knives, smoke bombs, rope, and a few other things he’d picked up over time. He had to be prepared. The city didn’t care about him. It never had. Izuku glanced at the clock. It was just past ten, which meant Aizawa would be gone. Yamada would most likely be asleep by now, which meant he had a window to slip out unnoticed. He checked the window. His escape route. Slipping out would be easy. Getting back? That was going to be a nightmare to parkour up later.

He took one last look around the room, his gaze briefly landing on the bed, still unmade and the blankets twisted from his earlier frustration. It wasn’t a home, just a place to exist. He reminded himself again—he wasn’t staying long. They wouldn’t keep him here, not when they figured out who he really was. They wouldn’t care when they realized what kind of kid they’d brought in.

With a final, steady breath, he pushed the window open. The cool night air rushed in, carrying the distant hum of the city. But no matter how loud the world outside was, his thoughts were louder.

His foster parents were heroes.

And he was so, so screwed.

Chapter Text

Izuku didn’t realize just how far his new foster home was from the Red-Light District until he was already halfway there. The usual route he took from the orphanage—the one he had memorized like the back of his hand—now felt unfamiliar, stretched longer than expected. It wasn’t impossible to reach, but it would take more time. More effort.

It was annoying.

He pulled his hood lower over his face as he darted across the rooftops, his body moving on instinct. The neon glow of the district flickered in the distance, a stark contrast to the quiet, respectable neighbourhood he had come from. That apartment—Yamada and Aizawa’s place—felt too safe, too stable. It didn’t suit him.

This, though? The narrow alleyways, the sound of muffled conversations, the heavy bass of music thrumming through the ground? This was familiar. This was home. This was as stable as things could get for him.

The red-light district stretched below him in a sea of neon, flickering signs casting long shadows against the alleyways. As he reached his usual vantage point, a familiar figure stood ahead, perched near the edge of the rooftop. The telltale green glow of her eyes sent a ripple of amusement through him.

Greenlight.

A smirk tugged at his lips. It had been a while since they’d crossed paths properly—time to say hello. Izuku crept forward, moving low and silent. She was focused on something below, her posture relaxed but ready. It was almost too easy.

He lunged.

Or at least, he tried.

Just as he jumped, his whole body locked up mid-motion, like he’d hit an invisible wall. The momentum he’d built froze in place, leaving him completely suspended in the air. The underground hero turned her head to stare at him. A second later, the green glow in her eyes faded, and all at once, the force released.

Gravity yanked him down hard, and he barely twisted in time to land on his feet, skidding slightly across the rooftop.

Laughter rang out. "Nice try, Ghost," Greenlight teased, turning to face him fully. Her dark uniform blended into the night, but the playful gleam in her eyes—now a normal shade of brown—was unmistakable. "You really think I wouldn't feel you sneaking up on me?"

Izuku grumbled, brushing off his hoodie. "One of these days, I'll get you."

She smirked. "Keep dreaming, kid."

Izuku rolled his eyes, but there was no real irritation behind it. Greenlight was one of the few people he could actually stand—hell, maybe even liked. From the moment they met two years ago, they had an understanding. She was supposed to arrest him, but when it came down to it, she just... didn’t. Instead, she’d told the police he vanished.

Since then, their paths had crossed enough times that they eventually fell into something almost like friendship—well, as much of a friendship as a vigilante and a pro hero could have. Still, he was careful. She didn’t know anything about him personally. He never asked why she’d let him go that first time. He figured if he didn’t ask, she wouldn’t change her mind.

Greenlight folded her arms, tilting her head at him. “You’re out later than normal.”

Izuku snorted, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Didn’t think anyone would notice.” Somehow, what was supposed to be a quick 30-minute trip had turned into 45, thanks to a few wrong turns. In his defence, the rooftops all started looking the same after a while. One wrong jump led to another, and before he knew it, he was doubling back so many times he might as well have been doing laps. Not his proudest moment.

Her smirk faltered for just a second—so quick that most people wouldn’t have caught it. But Izuku did. He always did. He ignored it, rocking back on his heels. “Anyway, what’s got you up here? Don’t tell me you’re actually working.”

She scoffed. “Unlike some people, I get paid to do this.”

Izuku hummed, tilting his head in mock thought. “Overrated.”

“You know,” she said, her voice light but edged with teasing, “if you really wanted to, you could get paid to do this too. Hero work, I mean. Might be easier than sneaking around like a literal ghost.”

Izuku’s smile faltered—just for a fraction of a second. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard something like that. His mother used to say it when he was younger, back when the words still carried the sting of an impossible dream. But coming from Greenlight, from someone who didn’t know the truth—that he was quirkless—it hit differently. He smothered the flicker of discomfort as quickly as it came, forcing an easy shrug.

“Me? A hero?" He let out a short laugh, the sound a little too forced. "I think I'll pass. Too much work, too many rules, not enough fun." His voice was light, but inside, it was like a tight knot in his chest. The idea of being a hero—actually being a hero—was a dream he'd abandoned long ago. And Greenlight, as sharp as she was, didn’t know that he was just... different. It wasn’t something he wanted to explain. Instead, he leaned back against the ledge, crossing his arms as if the weight of his words didn't matter.

“Besides,” he added with a grin trying to lighten the mood, “I’m more of a shadowy figure kind of guy. Way cooler that way.”

Greenlight huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head, but her gaze flickered toward the edge of the rooftop again, watching the streets below. Silence settled between them—not the awkward kind, not the tense kind, just... silence. Comfortable. Familiar. Izuku let himself sink into it, letting the night air cool the restless energy burning beneath his skin.

Moments like this reminded him just how far he’d come.

When he was ten, sneaking out of the orphanage had been a necessity—at first, just to escape. Just to breathe. But breathing wasn’t enough. If he wanted to survive, he had to be better. Stronger. Faster. Untouchable.

So, he trained.

Running came first—learning how to move without a sound, how to weave through crowds unnoticed (not too hard, considering his size), how to vanish into an alley before anyone even thought to follow. Then came climbing—memorizing which fire escapes wouldn’t rattle under his weight, which rooftops connected, which walls could be scaled with the right momentum.

He spent hours watching parkour videos, tracing each movement with his eyes until he could picture himself doing them. Then he practiced. Over and over. The first few months left him covered in bruises and scrapes, but once he got the hang of it, slipping up became rare.

Then came the fights.

At first, he lost. A lot.

It wasn’t just the streets. The orphanage had been its own battleground. He still remembered the way the other kids’ smiles turned sharp the day they found out he was quirkless. How they stopped asking him to play—then stopped talking to him at all. Until it was to shove him down. Take whatever little he had. And the caretakers? They looked the other way. Always.

But Izuku learned.

How to take a hit. How to throw one. How to move so they couldn’t touch him.

He memorized fights—on the streets, in underground hero reports, anywhere he could find them. But watching videos wasn’t enough. He needed to see it up close. So he found places—illegal fight pits, backroom brawls, underground clubs where people fought for money, reputation, or just the thrill of it. He never stepped into the ring himself. He wasn't that suicidal or stupid. Instead, he watched. Analysed. Traced every movement, every strategy, every mistake. Then, when he was alone, he practiced. Over and over, until those moves felt like second nature.

He had to.

Because no one was coming to save him.

Greenlight was one of the few people who actually knew about him. The second time their paths crossed, she had caught him in the middle of a fight—a scuffle with some low-level thugs who thought a kid in a mask was easy prey. He’d won, barely, but before he could disappear, she’d been there. Watching. Assessing.

She could’ve stopped him. Arrested him.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she’d said, "You’ve got potential. But you fight like someone who’s used to getting hurt."

Izuku still didn’t know what to do with that. I wonder if she knows Eraserhead.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Greenlight said suddenly, snapping him back to the present.

Izuku blinked at her. “What?”

She nodded toward him. “You get this look when you’re stuck in your own head. I could see the gears turning from a mile away.”

Izuku scowled. “Maybe I just like standing here in silence.”

“Uh-huh.” She smirked. “Totally believable.”

He rolled his eyes again but didn’t argue. Then, slowly, his lips curved into something sharper, more mischievous. “You know, I was gonna give you a heart attack when I got up here,” he admitted. “You ruined my fun.”

Greenlight scoffed. “Please. I felt you the second you landed on the rooftop. What, you think I got this far by ignoring the little gremlin waiting to scare me?”

Izuku grinned, pleased despite himself. “You say ‘gremlin’ like it’s a bad thing.”

She shook her head, turning toward the edge of the building. “Well, as fun as this has been, I’ve got an actual job to do. You planning on causing trouble tonight, or should I expect a quiet shift?”

Izuku tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Me? Cause trouble? I would never.”

Greenlight shot him a deadpan look. “Uh-huh. Sure, Ghost. Keep telling yourself that.” He grinned wider, wiggling his eyebrows. “Okay, maybe just a little trouble. But nothing too crazy.”

Greenlight sighed, though her lips twitched upward. “Just… stay out of my paperwork and the police tonight, alright?” Izuku gave a mock salute, spinning around with way too much drama. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” She shook her head with a grin. “Good. But you should actually stay away from Tsukauchi tonight.”

Izuku’s grin instantly widened at the name. “Ah, Detective Tsukauchi? I love that guy.”

Greenlight rolled her eyes, clearly amused. “I know you do. That’s why I’m warning you. He’s been stressed lately, and if you mess with him, I will laugh, but I’ll also never hear the end of it.” Izuku chuckled, already thinking of a hundred ways he could mess with Tsukauchi. “You’re right. I know. That’s what makes it so fun.” She raised an eyebrow. “You know, one of these days, he’s actually gonna catch you.”

Izuku snorted. “Catch me? Please. The guy can’t even keep up with me when I’m trying to let him catch me. I’ll give him a little chase—nothing serious.” He winked. “Keeps him on his toes.” Greenlight let out a groan. “I can already hear him yelling at me about you. You love pushing his buttons, don’t you?”

Izuku grinned, looking like a mischievous kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Wouldn’t be nearly as fun if I didn’t. I mean, he’s got that face, Greenlight. That perfect face when he realizes I’m getting away again. It’s like Christmas.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Yup, and you love it,” he said taking a step backwards. “I’ll make sure to give Tsukauchi a little heart attack tonight for you, though. You’re welcome.” Greenlight gave him one last pointed glance before turning away. “Stay safe, Ghost.”

Her eyes flashed bright green for half a second—then she was gone, disappearing into the night. Izuku stayed there for a moment, the remnants of her presence lingering in the quiet hum of the city.

Then, with a smirk tugging at his lips, he dropped into the alley below.

***

Crime never slept, and unfortunately, that meant neither did he.

Detective Naomasa Tsukauchi sighed, rubbing a hand down his face as he trudged down the dimly lit streets. It was late, he was tired, and his coffee was lukewarm at best. All he wanted was a quiet patrol, maybe a smooth shift for once in his godforsaken career.

Which, of course, meant it was the perfect time for him to show up.

There was no warning. No sound. No shift in the air. Just an all-too-familiar voice whispering right next to his ear—

"Miss me, Detective?"

Tsukauchi did not scream. He absolutely did not scream.

(Alright, maybe he did jolt like a startled cat, but that was beside the point.)

“Damn it, Ghost!” Tsukauchi snapped, whipping around, hand already halfway to his gun before stopping himself. Because, of course, there was no one there. He exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to his chest like that would somehow slow his racing heart. “One day,” he muttered, “one day I’m actually going to shoot you.”

A soft chuckle echoed from above. “Bold of you to assume you’d hit me.”

Tsukauchi’s eye twitched. He tilted his head up just in time to see a shadow perched on the edge of a rooftop, one leg casually swinging over the side. The faint glow of a streetlight barely outlined the smirking menace that had haunted his work life for the past two years.

“Ghost,” Tsukauchi said flatly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Get down here.”

Ghost hummed. “Hmm. Nah.”

The detective inhaled slowly. He had patience. He was a professional. He would not lose his temper over this pest of a vigilante—

Ghost moved.

One second he was perched lazily on the ledge, the next he wasn’t. Tsukauchi barely had time to think before a weight dropped onto his shoulders, and suddenly, he was staggering forward under the full force of an infuriating teenager who had just jumped onto his back like an overgrown feral cat.

“What the—get off me!” Tsukauchi flailed, trying to shake him off, but Ghost was already gone, flipping effortlessly off his shoulders and landing a few feet away with a grin so smug that he immediately regretted his entire career path.

“You know,” Ghost mused, rocking back on his heels. “For a detective, your reaction time is kinda slow.”

Tsukauchi clenched his jaw so hard it could’ve cracked. “Ghost.”

“Yes, dear?”

“I swear to every god above—”

Ghost bolted.

“GET BACK HERE!”

Tsukauchi was already running after him, coffee long forgotten on the sidewalk. He had chased this damn kid too many times to count. And yet, every single time, Ghost somehow managed to slip through his fingers, laughing the whole damn way.

Tonight? Tonight would be different.

(Except, of course, it wouldn’t.)

Tsukauchi’s shoes slapped against the pavement as he ran, already knowing he was wasting his energy. Ghost was fast. Not just in a he’s got long legs kind of way (Which he actually didn’t), but in the I-have-spent-years-turning-this-city-into-my-personal-obstacle-course kind of way.

Still, Tsukauchi gave chase, watching the flicker of movement ahead of him as Ghost vaulted over a railing and disappeared into a side alley.

Ah.

Tsukauchi slowed his pace, coming to a stop just outside the alley’s entrance, already bracing himself for whatever nonsense awaited him. Because if there was one thing he had learned in his years of dealing with Ghost, it was that the kid never ran without a reason.

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple before stepping in.

And there it was.

Two men—unconscious, tied up with what looked like industrial-strength zip ties—propped up against the alley wall. A bag of money sat neatly at their feet, wide open, practically begging to be considered evidence.

Tsukauchi’s eye twitched.

Of course. Of course Ghost would lead him here.

A soft thud sounded behind him. He turned just in time to see Ghost perched lazily on top of a dumpster, legs crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Wow,” Ghost said, voice dripping with faux admiration. “Look at you, Detective. Right place, right time. Almost like it was fate.”

Tsukauchi took a slow breath in through his nose. “Ghost.”

“Yes, sunshine?”

“I hate you.”

Ghost grinned. “That’s fair.”

Tsukauchi sighed, already feeling the migraine forming. He turned his attention back to the unconscious criminals, resisting the urge to bang his head against the nearest wall. Ghost always did this. Playing with him, running him in circles, only to conveniently drop him in front of a neatly wrapped crime scene. Tsukauchi knew what he was doing.

And he also knew that one day, the little menace would slip up.

It was just a matter of when.

Tsukauchi crouched down, inspecting the two unconscious men. Judging by the bruises forming on their faces and the way one’s arm was bent just slightly wrong, Ghost had definitely handled them before he got here.

“You know,” Tsukauchi muttered, checking one of their pulses, “most people just call the police when they see a crime happening.” Ghost let out a dramatic sigh from his perch. “And deprive you of the joy of the chase? Detective, I’d never.” Tsukauchi shot him a glare, but Ghost just swung his legs, looking completely at ease.

Tsukauchi ignored him and reached for his radio. “This is Tsukauchi. I’ve got two suspects in custody in—”

“Ohh, custody is a strong word,” Ghost cut in, sounding entirely too amused. “I did all the work. You just showed up.”

This kid is going to send me to an early grave, I swear to god. Tsukauchi pinched the bridge of his nose. “—custody in an alley off Fourth and Main. Suspected robbery. Need backup for transport.”

Ghost gave an approving nod. “Nice, nice. Very professional.”

Tsukauchi ignored him again and examined the bag of money, quickly confirming it matched the description of the cash stolen from a convenience store earlier that night. He sighed. “You could make this easier and just work with us, you know,” he said, standing back up.

Ghost let out a bark of laughter. “Detective, I do work with you.” He gestured toward the two unconscious men with a flourish. “Who do you think put them there?” Tsukauchi gave him a flat look. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Ghost smirked. “Yeah, but it’s funnier this way.” Tsukauchi was about to reply when the sound of approaching sirens cut through the air. Ghost straightened, stretching his arms over his head. “Welp, that’s my cue.”

Tsukauchi tensed, already knowing what was coming. “Ghost—”

But he was already moving, flipping off the dumpster and landing lightly on his feet. With a two-fingered salute, he smirked. “Always a pleasure, Detective.”
And then he was gone, slipping into the darkness before Tsukauchi could so much as blink. Tsukauchi exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples as officers finally arrived.

One day.

One day, he was going to catch that little menace.

But today was not that day.

*

Tsukauchi sighed as he rubbed his tired eyes, blinking blearily at the case file in front of him. The station was quiet—well, as quiet as a police station could be. A few officers milled about, some finishing paperwork, others shoveling down gas station coffee like it was the only thing keeping them upright. Tsukauchi was about to do the same when a familiar voice cut through the haze of exhaustion.

“Rough night, Detective?"

He turned to see Greenlight leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, a knowing smirk on her face.

Tsukauchi let out a tired chuckle. “Aren’t they all?” He gestured to the coffee pot. “You want some? I think it might be classified as a controlled substance at this point, but it’s hot.”

Greenlight snorted but stepped forward, grabbing herself a cup. “Tempting. But I’d rather not start vibrating through walls.” Tsukauchi smirked. “Yeah, yeah. Wouldn’t want to make the paperwork worse.”

She took a sip of her water before quirking a brow. “So. How many times did he run you around in circles tonight?”

Tsukauchi sighed deeply, dragging a hand down his face. “Four. Four times. And I still let him slip through my fingers.” Ghost was a menace. He’d been a menace since he showed up two years ago. A skilled, impossibly quick, frustratingly untouchable menace. He wasn’t just fast—he was smart, always staying one step ahead, always knowing just how far he could push before vanishing into the night. And the worst part? He wasn’t even malicious about it. If anything, it felt like a game to him. A damn irritating one.

And despite two years of chasing him, they still had no idea who he was. No name, no confirmed quirk, not even an exact age. The best guess put him somewhere in his late teens, but even that was a shot in the dark. Some officers swore he had a speed quirk, others thought it was stealth-based, but none of it added up. No one moved like he did. No one fought like he did. It was like trying to track a ghost—fitting, really.

Greenlight laughed, shaking her head. “Sounds about right.”

Tsukauchi shot her a tired glare. “Don’t encourage him.”

She shrugged, not looking the least bit guilty. “What can I say? It’s funny.”

“To you.”

“To everyone.”

Tsukauchi muttered something under his breath about vigilantes being a menace before finally taking a sip of his coffee. It did not make him feel better.

Vigilantes didn’t last long in this part of the city. Most knew better than to try. It was too dangerous—run by people who didn’t take kindly to uninvited guests. And if the streets didn’t swallow them whole, the underground heroes would. Any vigilante stupid enough to operate here got caught fast.

But Ghost?

Ghost wasn’t just stupid—he was fearless.

He wasn’t like the others who tested their luck. He didn’t just survive in the red-light district; he thrived in it somehow. Slipping through the cracks, laughing in the face of people who could snap him in half. And the strangest part? Greenlight, the only underground hero who could put a stop to him, the only person besides himself that had actually been within ten feet of him, hadn’t even tried.

If she wasn’t stopping him, that meant she thought he could handle himself.

And that was the part that worried Tsukauchi the most.

Because under the mask, Ghost was still just a kid. A kid who was in way over his head. One wrong move, one wrong fight, and he'd end up another body in an alleyway, another case on Tsukauchi’s desk—one he didn’t want to work. He’d seen too many vigilantes go out that way, too many bright-eyed idiots who thought they were untouchable.

Bringing Ghost in wasn’t just about enforcing the law. It was about keeping him alive. Getting him off the streets before someone decided to put him down for good. If he could just convince the kid to stop playing hero, to work with him instead of against him, maybe—just maybe—he’d stand a chance.

He was stubborn. And that made Tsukauchi’s job a hell of a lot harder.

Greenlight leaned against the counter, swirling her drink absently. “Well, enjoy him while you can, because I know I’ll miss him. My patrol route’s changing next week.”

That made Tsukauchi pause. He frowned, setting his cup down. “Wait—what?”

She sighed. “Yeah. A few underground hero’s are retiring, so they’re shuffling some of us around. I got reassigned to a different sector.”
Tsukauchi blinked. “That’s... weird. You’ve been in this area for three years. They’ve never moved you before.”

“Tell me about it,” Greenlight muttered, taking another sip of water. “I’m not thrilled about it, but orders are orders. They haven’t told me who’s taking my spot yet.” Tsukauchi frowned. That was strange. Underground heroes typically had set territories. Moving them around, especially without immediate replacements lined up, wasn’t normal. “You got any guesses on who’s replacing you?” he asked.

Greenlight shrugged. “No clue. Could be a newbie, could be a veteran. Either way, I doubt they’ll be as fun as me.” Tsukauchi huffed a laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

She smirked. “Don’t get all sentimental on me, Detective.”

Sure, he would miss Greenlight. Their station had worked with her for the past three years, but that didn’t change the fact that she’d never made a real effort to take Ghost down.

With a casualness that bordered on too smooth, Tsukauchi replied, “Maybe the next person in charge will actually do their job and bring in Ghost. Since, y’know, you haven’t.” Greenlight quirked a brow at him, taking a slow sip of her water. “Ghost? Never heard of him.”

Tsukauchi narrowed his eyes. “You do realize my quirk is Lie Detector, right, Greenlight?”

She didn’t even blink. “And yet, here I am, completely innocent.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Unbelievable.”

She just shrugged, far too pleased with herself. “If you could actually catch him, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Tsukauchi sighed, shaking his head. The worst part? She wasn’t wrong. He pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling slowly like it might give him patience. It didn’t.

“One of these days, he’s going to slip up.”

Greenlight hummed into her coffee, unconvinced. “Sure, sure. And when that day comes, you’ll be the first to know.”

Tsukauchi shot her a flat look. “And why's that?”

She smirked. “Because he’ll make sure you know. C’mon, Detective, you really think Ghost is gonna let just anyone be the one to catch him?”
Tsukauchi groaned. She had a point, and they both knew it. If anyone was going to drag that damn vigilante in, it wouldn’t be some new underground hero. No, Ghost would make a whole production out of it—he’d make sure Tsukauchi was there to see it, maybe even just to rub it in his face.

With another long sigh, he reached for his coffee, already lukewarm. “I hate that you might be right.”

Greenlight grinned, clinking her cup against his. “Then you’re really going to hate when I say, ‘told you so.’”

Tsukauchi leaned back in his chair, his eyes briefly closing as he muttered under his breath, praying they sent him a good underground hero this time—one who actually knew how to deal with vigilantes instead of befriending them.

***

Izuku exhaled sharply, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he finally hauled himself up to his window. His arms burned, his legs ached, and his lungs felt tight—but none of it compared to the sheer frustration clawing at his insides. He braced his forearm against the frame, willing himself to steady his breathing, but the irritation wouldn't fade.

Fifteen minutes.

It had taken him fifteen whole minutes just to climb up here. That was pathetic. Absolutely ridiculous. He’d scaled entire buildings in half that time, moved faster, been stronger—hadn’t he? He used to be able to move like he was weightless, like nothing could hold him back. Now every step felt heavier, every motion sluggish and exhausting, like his body was resisting him.

Like it didn’t belong to him anymore.

His fingers curled against the windowsill, nails biting into the wood. He grit his teeth and forced himself to move, swinging a leg over the ledge and dropping inside. His landing was clumsy, but he barely noticed, rolling his shoulders as he shut the window behind him. The room was quiet. Stifling. Every single thing was exactly as he had left it.

Of course it was.

Aizawa was probably still out on patrol, and Yamada didn't seem like the invasive type. Not that it mattered. There was nothing in here worth looking at anyway—just an empty room that wasn’t his, filled with things that didn’t feel like they belonged to him. The bed, the desk, the closet… none of it meant anything. It was all just part of the illusion they were trying to force on him, this stupid idea that he could stay here, that they could make him into something he wasn’t.

God, this was so fucking annoying.

How much longer were they going to drag this out? How long before they realized this was pointless? They should’ve sent him back already. They should’ve never dragged him here in the first place.

His jaw tightened as he kicked off his shoes, sending them skidding across the floor. His mask and gear followed, as he stuffed it into his backpack. He barely looked at it before turning away, flopping onto the bed with a heavy sigh. The mattress sank beneath him, too soft, too comfortable. It felt foreign.

Everything here felt weird.

He wasn’t actually tired. Not really. The exhaustion he carried wasn’t something that could be fixed with sleep. But still, he forced himself to stay still, staring blankly at the ceiling. It was late—later than usual.

He shut his eyes, inhaling deeply, then exhaled slow and steady.

The silence pressed down on him. Suffocating.

He didn’t belong here. He never had. He never will.

Just send me back already.

*

Izuku was dreaming about falling—which, to be fair, wasn’t all that unusual. It came with the territory of jumping off rooftops for a living. But this time, instead of hitting the ground or waking up in a cold sweat, something heavy landed directly on his chest, knocking the air out of him.

His eyes snapped open, instincts kicking in as he tensed—only to be met with a pair of large, unblinking green eyes staring back at him.

A cat.

There was a black cat. Sitting on him.

Izuku blinked. The cat blinked back. Its tail flicked once, like it was judging him.

“…I don’t own a cat,” Izuku mumbled, voice rough with sleep. The cat did not care. In fact, it seemed personally offended by his existence, because it promptly lifted a paw and smacked him right in the face.

“Okay, rude,” he muttered, reaching up to gently push the feline off his chest. The cat, naturally, ignored this attempt and simply made itself more comfortable, kneading its tiny claws into his hoodie like it had officially claimed him as property.

Izuku groaned, rubbing his eyes. “Seriously, where did you even come from?”

No answer. Just another flick of the tail and a soft, judgmental purr.

Izuku sighed, letting his head fall back against the pillow. The cat, apparently deciding it had won whatever silent battle they’d been having, stretched luxuriously across his chest before hopping off, landing soundlessly on the floor.

Shaking off the last remnants of sleep, Izuku turned his head toward the clock on his nightstand. A red, blurry mess of numbers greeted him before he squinted and rubbed at his eyes.

8:23 AM.

He groaned. He’d been asleep for a little over four hours. Which, all things considered, was actually decent by his standards. But it still wasn’t enough to shake off the exhaustion clinging to his bones. Not after the night he’d had.

Still, lying in bed all day wasn’t an option. He had things to do. Like eat. And figure out where the hell this cat had come from. That’s when it clicked. He wasn’t at the orphanage, he was at Yamada and Aizawa’s apartment.

Pushing himself upright, Izuku stretched his arms over his head, feeling his back pop in at least three different places. The cat—definitely not his—sat by the slightly ajar door, watching him with a completely unreadable expression. He pointed at it. “You better not belong to some villain, or I swear—”

The cat yawned, clearly unimpressed.

Izuku blinked at it, then sighed, rubbing his temples. Why am I even talking to a cat? He was losing it—and he'd been here less than twelve hours. He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’m getting up.”

Izuku stepped out of his room, running a hand through his mess of curls, still trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. He wasn’t used to waking up somewhere that actually felt like a home. The walls weren’t bland and impersonal, the air wasn’t thick with the scent of cheap cleaning supplies, and the distant sizzle from the kitchen was a far cry from the muffled chatter and rigid routine of the orphanage.

It was disorienting. Unsettling. And, honestly, weird.

He didn’t belong here.

With a quiet sigh, he padded into the living room and was met with a sight he hadn’t expected to be met with.

Aizawa was sprawled on the couch, surrounded by stacks of paperwork, his laptop balanced precariously on his knee. His sharp eyes flicked up for just a second—acknowledgment, not greeting—before returning to whatever case he was working on. He looked like he hadn’t moved from that spot in hours.

Meanwhile, from the kitchen, Yamada was humming softly as he flipped something in a pan. Izuku stopped in his tracks, frowning. He’s still here? The man should’ve been on patrol. Not home. Not cooking. Izuku clenched his jaw. They were really dragging this out, weren’t they?

Yamada finally noticed him. “Mornin’, kiddo!” he called over his shoulder, far too chipper for someone who had clearly been awake longer than Izuku. “Sleep well?”
Izuku blinked at him. Then, instead of answering, he said flatly, “You have a cat.”

Yamada paused mid-flip. “Uh. Yeah?”

Izuku crossed his arms. “No one told me you had a cat.”

Aizawa, still not looking up, muttered, “We have three.”

Izuku turned his head and stared at him. “Excuse me?”

As if summoned, a soft weight landed on the back of the couch, and a sleek black cat stretched lazily before flicking its tail at Izuku, looking wholly unimpressed with his existence.

“That’s Eclipse,” Yamada supplied helpfully, plating whatever questionable breakfast he’d been working on. “She likes to judge people.”

Izuku pointed at her. “She woke me up.”

A soft mrrp from the floor made him glance down, only to see a chubby white cat staring up at him expectantly, tail flicking.

Yamada grinned. “That’s Fish.”

Izuku’s eyes narrowed. “You named your cat Fish?”

“I didn’t,” Yamada admitted, jerking his head toward Aizawa. Izuku turned to the man on the couch, unimpressed. Aizawa finally met his gaze, completely unbothered. “It fits.” Izuku huffed, shifting his weight. “Okay. So what’s the third one’s name?”

“Cat.”

Izuku blinked. Then blinked again. “No. Please tell me your joking.” Yamada, who had just set down the plates, sighed dramatically. “I tried to stop him.” Izuku rubbed his temples, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You named a cat..Cat….?”

Aizawa shrugged. “Seemed logical.”

Izuku let out a slow breath, resisting the urge to sit down and put his head in his hands. This was his life now, apparently. Hopefully not for much longer, he just had to speed things along.

Before he could process that unfortunate reality, Yamada spoke again. “Oh, by the way, I swapped shifts so I could be here this morning,” he said, all bright and far too enthusiastic. “Figured it’d be nice to spend some time getting to know each other!”

Izuku gave him a flat look. “Lucky me.”

Yamada chuckled, unfazed. “Also, we would’ve let you sleep in longer if you wanted sorry the little menace woke you up.”

Izuku almost wished he’d taken them up on that. His body still ached from last night—his ribs sore from the punch he’d taken while stopping a robbery. It wasn’t the worst hit he’d had, but it still made every breath feel a little heavier.

Not that they needed to know that.

So, instead, he just muttered dryly, “Yeah, well, I’m up now thanks to the devil.”

Yamada beamed. “Great! C’mon, grab a seat—I made breakfast!”

Izuku glanced at the burnt toast and overcooked eggs, then blinked a few times, as if hoping the scene would change.

“…I’ll pass.”

Yamada pouted dramatically. “Aw, c’mon, it’s not that bad! You haven’t even tried it.”

Izuku raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need to try it. Look at it.” Izuku couldn’t help but find it odd—last night’s dinner had looked amazing, and now, breakfast looked like something the orphanage might’ve served. If they even had eggs and bacon to spare. How had Yamada messed up that badly, especially something so simple.

Aizawa snorted quietly from the couch, and Yamada shot him a betrayed look before sighing in defeat. “Hey! I'm not used to making breakfast, normally, Shouta drinks just coffee and I grab something from the local cafe after patrols.”

Izuku noticed the slight disappointment in Hizashi’s tone, and it unexpectedly sent a jolt of guilt through him. No, Izuku. Don’t get soft. If you give them what they want they will just drag this out longer, delaying the inevitable. He simply hummed; his arms still crossed as he leaned against the counter. He wasn’t planning to stick around long enough to get used to all this anyway. They’d send him back soon. They always did.

They could act all kind and well-meaning, say they wanted to help, but in the end, it always came down to the same thing. They’d realize he wasn’t worth the trouble. They’d see what he was, what he wasn’t, and eventually, they’d stop looking at him like a person and start looking at him like a problem. Just because they were Pro heroes didn’t change anything.

Because Izuku was quirkless. And that will never change.

The world only ever had one place for people like him, and it wasn’t here.

He was fine with that.

Yamada's voice cut through his thoughts. “You sure you don’t want anything? We got fruit. Probably.”

Izuku forced himself back into the present, shrugging. “Maybe an apple.”

Yamada's face lit up the second Izuku said maybe to an apple, like the kid had just agreed to a heartfelt family bonding session instead of begrudgingly accepting fruit. “Got it! One apple, comin’ right up!” he announced, practically skipping to the kitchen.

Izuku sighed. This man had way too much energy for someone who was awake at this hour. The cats, at least, seemed unfazed by his lack of enthusiasm. Eclipse had claimed the back of the couch again, lazily observing the room like some self-important queen, while Fish had stationed himself near Hizashi, likely waiting for scraps.

Then there was the cat—brown-furred and eerily still—who had appeared out of nowhere, watching Izuku with an unblinking intensity that felt almost unnatural.

“…Does it always do that?” Izuku asked after a long moment.

Aizawa, without looking up from his laptop, simply said, “Yes.”

Yamada yelled from the kitchen. “You get used to it.”

Izuku highly doubted that. But then again, he wasn’t planning to be here long enough to find out.

A moment later, Yamada returned—not with an apple, but with an entire bowl mixed with different fruits including an apple, a peach, an orange, and some blueberries. Izuku just stared at it. “What is this.”

“Options!” Yamada said cheerfully, setting the bowl down in front of him like he’d just solved world hunger. Izuku slowly looked from the fruit, to Hizashi, then back to the fruit. “I asked for an apple.”

“And I delivered,” Yamada said, pointing at the apple like it was undeniable proof of his success. “But what if you changed your mind and wanted something else?”

Izuku squinted. “I didn’t.”

Yamada winked. “You might.”

This was going to be a long morning. Izuku exhaled slowly, picking up the apple with the air of someone who was deeply, profoundly tired. “You’re exhausting.”

“Thanks!”

Before Izuku could come up with a response that could get him kicked out immediately, Yamada turned his attention to Aizawa. “Shouta, c’mon, stop working and come have breakfast,” he said, waving him over.

Aizawa didn’t even glance up. “Busy.”

“We have coffee.”

Aizawa was at the table in under five seconds.

Izuku raised an eyebrow as the man sat down across from him, reaching for his mug with a sigh like he was already regretting his life choices. Had he even slept at all since he came home from patrol? “That was pathetic.”

Aizawa sipped his coffee. “I have no shame.”

Yamada beamed, clearly pleased with himself. “See? This is quality family bonding.”

Izuku took a slow bite of his apple. “I don’t know what delusion you’re living in, but you should probably snap out of it.”

“Oh, c’mon, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Yamada said, taking a bite of his very overcooked eggs without complaint. “Sittin’ together, havin’ a meal, bein’ all cozy—”

Izuku cut him off with a deadpan, “I got woken up by a cat I didn’t know existed, watched another cat stare directly into my soul for five minutes, and was given an entire bowl of fruit when I only asked for an apple. This is the opposite of cozy.”

Aizawa hummed. “Thats a bit dramatic.”

Izuku gestured vaguely at the fruit bowl. “I feel cornered .”

Yamada gasped, clutching his chest. “My generosity threatens you?”

Izuku took another bite of his apple. “Deeply.”

Aizawa smirked slightly behind his coffee cup. “You’ll live.”

Izuku narrowed his eyes at him. “Will I?”

“Most likely.”

Hizashi clapped his hands together. “Look at that! We’re bonding already!”

Izuku muttered under his breath, “If I start breaking stuff, will that speed up the process?” Aizawa drained the rest of his coffee and set his mug down. “You wish.” Izuku was actually shocked he’d heard him. This was going to be a long morning.

Yamada, undeterred by Izuku’s lack of enthusiasm (or outright hostility, really), leaned forward with a grin. “So, kiddo, tell us about yourself.”

Izuku took another slow bite of his apple, chewing as if he had all the time in the world. “No.”

Hizashi blinked. “No?”

“No.”

Aizawa sipped his second mug of coffee, which Izuku didn’t even know he had. “That was predictable.” Yamada waved him off, a grin that could only be described as “too chipper for this world” plastered on his face. “C’mon, kid, we just wanna get to know you. Nothing crazy, just some fun facts!”

Izuku could already feel the gears in his brain turning. This was perfect. He had just been handed the golden opportunity to make this whole situation go up in flames. He could practically hear the sound of his escape plan kicking into high gear. If he gave them exactly what they wanted—just a few too many sarcastic, utterly meaningless answers—they’d get frustrated, lose their patience, and send him right back to the agency.

They wouldn’t know what hit them.

He leaned back in his chair and arched an eyebrow, the slightest smirk playing at his lips. “Fun facts,” he repeated, the words dripping with a mixture of incredulity and distaste. "Sounds so fun. Yeah, I’m sure I’ve got loads of those to share."

Yamada, oblivious to the dangerous glint in Izuku’s eye, leaned forward eagerly. “Yeah! Like... what’s your favourite colour? You know, something simple. Get us started!”

Izuku chewed thoughtfully, pretending to really think about it. He made a show of looking around the room, eyes narrowing as if he were considering the question of the century. His eyes flicked to the Gray walls, then back to Yamada, who was practically bouncing in his seat. Izuku’s smirk widened.

Izuku rolled a blueberry between his fingers, studying it as if it held the answers to life itself. Then, with a smirk, he looked up. “Gray.” Yamada froze, his smile faltering just slightly as his brain caught up with the absurdity of the answer. “Gray?” he repeated, horrified. “Gray? The saddest colour?”

Izuku’s shoulders shrugged casually as if he were simply stating an irrefutable fact. “It’s practical.”

Yamada gaped at him, clearly unprepared for such a cold, apathetic response. “Practical? You can’t be serious, kiddo. Gray? The colour of clouds, rain, and… well, more clouds! I mean, come on! Where’s the vibrance? The excitement?”

Izuku’s grin widened as he leaned forward a bit, savoring every second of Hizashi’s disbelief. “It’s the color of someone who's been let down so many times they stopped expecting anything more. What’s more practical than that?

Yamada threw his hands up in the air, defeated. “I swear, I’m never gonna get through to you.”

Yes this was exactly what he wanted to hear. This would be easier then he thought it would be.

"I think that’s an acceptable colour."

Izuku’s eyes flicked over to Aizawa, raising an eyebrow. Shit. Of course, Hobo guy would think that was a good color. He could imagine Aizawa wearing only Gray. Just the complete vibe of ‘I’m too tired for colour.’ He needed to be more creative with his answers.

Yamada shot him a glaring look, mouth slightly open as if trying to process how everything had gone sideways so quickly. But he wasn’t one to give up. “Okay, what about hobbies?” he asked, giving it another shot.

Izuku, not even skipping a beat, replied, “Sleeping.”

Yamada frowned, unconvinced. “Something other than sleeping.”

Izuku didn't hesitate. “...Thinking about sleeping.”

Aizawa huffed out what could’ve been a laugh, his eyes still locked on his breakfast.

Yamada sighed dramatically, as if this was some grand tragedy. “What’s your favourite food?”

“Edible ones,” Izuku said, his tone practically dripping with nonchalance.

“Favorite music?”

“Noise,” came the immediate reply, accompanied by an almost smug little grin.

“Favorite hero?”

Izuku, as though nothing could be more mundane than that question, took another bite of his apple and shrugged. “Pass.”

Yamada slumped back in his chair, groaning, dragging a hand down his face in pure exasperation. “Kid, work with me here.” Izuku just blinked at him, pretending to be deeply offended. “I am. I just don’t have any exciting answers for you.”

Aizawa, still perfectly at ease in his place at the table, leaned his chin on his hand and studied Izuku. “You’re avoiding the questions.”

Izuku feigned a look of pure innocence, which he was anything but. “I would never.”

Aizawa stared at him, his gaze piercing. Izuku stared right back, taking another slow, deliberate bite of his apple, his expression completely unbothered. The silence stretched between them, thick and filled with unspoken tension.

Izuku could see it written all over Yamada’s face—the deep, theatrical suffering, like this was physically painful for him. And Izuku was loving every second of it.

“I think this is going well,” Aizawa added in his usual deadpan tone.

Yamada shot him a look full of betrayal, his entire posture slumping as if the very foundations of his world had just crumbled beneath him. But he wasn’t done. He refused to give up. Turning back to Izuku with new resolve, he tried again. Which of course would backfire no doubt, “Fine. What’s your favorite animal?”

Izuku, without even needing a second to think, answered immediately. “Snakes.”

“OF COURSE IT IS,” Yamada practically screamed, throwing his hands in the air like he’d just been hit with an undeniable truth.

Izuku smirked, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “What? They mind their business. They don’t make noise. And they bite people who annoy them.”

Aizawa, who had been quietly watching the back-and-forth, nodded thoughtfully as though he were hearing the most logical thing in the world. “That makes sense.” Yamada who was unable to even respond, groaned and slumped back further in his chair, looking like he might collapse into a heap. “Of course you think it makes sense.”

Izuku chewed slowly, his gaze lazily shifting from one person to the other. He wasn’t really participating in this little game—they were just trying to distract themselves from the inevitable. The questions didn’t matter. Nothing they said or did would change what was going to happen. They’d get tired of him eventually. It was only a matter of time.

People always did. They always did.

Izuku swallowed the last bite of his apple, the sour taste of his thoughts lingering in his chest. He wasn’t sure why they kept pushing. Maybe it was just because he was there. Maybe they wanted to pretend this was something real, something that could work. But he knew better. It would fall apart. They’d realize he was a problem, a liability, and then they’d send him back to the agency.

Back to where things were simple. Where he didn’t have to pretend to be someone he wasn’t.

Where he wouldn’t have to feel like the freak in a world full of heroes.

He shrugged inwardly, pushing the thought away. Maybe it would happen sooner. Maybe it would happen later. It didn’t matter. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with this charade for long. But until then, he supposed he could entertain himself.

He set his apple core down, tapping his fingers against the table. “What about you two?”

Yamada perked up. “Huh?”

“Favorite animals.”

Yamada grinned, enthusiasm immediately back in full force. “Oh, easy. Hawks! Fast, sharp, loud—”

“Figures,” Izuku muttered cutting him off.

“Hey!”

Aizawa took a slow sip of his coffee, unimpressed. “Cats.”

Izuku snorted. “I never would have guessed.”

Aizawa smirked slightly, the barest twitch of his lips. “Shocking, isn’t it?”

Izuku huffed. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was close.

The conversation lulled for a moment, the only sounds being the occasional clink of utensils and the soft mrrp of Eclipse hopping onto the table—only to be immediately scooped up by Aizawa. The cat let out an indignant chirp, but instead of struggling, she flopped comfortably against his chest, purring. Izuku watched the scene, absentmindedly poking at a blueberry in his bowl.

It was weird.

He wasn’t used to this kind of quiet.

Not the kind that was comfortable.

At the orphanage, silence meant something was wrong. It meant someone was being punished, someone was crying, someone had finally snapped. Silence was thick, suffocating, pressing into his ribs until he felt like he might disappear entirely.

Here… it just was….No expectations. No waiting for something to go wrong.

Just the sound of a cat purring and coffee being sipped.

Izuku didn’t trust it. He wouldn’t trust it. Because at the end of the day, it didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. Not the bowls of fruit Yamada kept pushing toward him, not Aizawa keeping the cats from getting too close. It didn’t matter that they were trying, that they were acting like they wanted him here. Because they didn’t know the truth. They didn’t know what he had done. What he had become. And if they ever found it out, it would be the end for him. Ghost was a secret he would take to his grave.

Yamada voice cut through his thoughts. “So since it’s a Sunday and neither of us have anything on, what do you wanna do today, kiddo?”

Izuku blinked, snapping back to the present. He stared at Yamada like the man had just spoken in an entirely different language.

“What?”

“Well, it’s your first full day here, and we got the morning together, so we might as well do something, yeah?”

Izuku frowned. “Like what?”

Yamada grinned. “Dunno! What do you usually do for fun?”

Izuku picked up a few blueberries and fiddled with them, his thoughts drifting. It felt strange, thinking about what he wanted to do. But before he could respond, Aizawa’s voice cut through again. “We should talk about your schooling, too.”

Izuku blinked. “School?”

Yamada nodded. “Yeah, you’re doing online school, right? We could set you up here, or we can arrange something at UA. Your choice, kiddo. We’d prefer you be at the campus with us, but it’s up to you. You’ve only got one more term until the end of the school year, so it’s not like it’ll be much longer either way.”

Izuku froze, staring at them, eyes wide. “Wait, I... I can do it by myself?” The idea was almost too surreal. Nobody ever cared if he undertook schooling. He had enrolled himself into online schooling at the age of ten since none of his foster parents cared enough to enrol him in actual school.

Aizawa gave him a tired glance. “You’re 14, not a child. We’re not going to force you to come to campus with us. But you’d be with us at UA if you needed help, and we’d prefer to have you around.”

He glanced between them, then quickly said, “I’d rather stay here. In the apartment.” His voice was steady, though his heart raced. He could already feel the weight of the decision, but it was his.

Neither Aizawa nor Yamada seemed surprised, it was like they had expected him to say that. Aizawa simply nodded, Yamada, on the other hand, grinned widely. “If that’s what you want kiddo! We’ll make sure you’ve got everything set up here, then. Now back to what to do today. Any ideas?”

A slight grin crept onto his lips.

Yamada groaned as if he could read Izuku’s thoughts. “You cannot say sleeping.”

Izuku blinked. Tilted his head. “...Thinking about sleeping?”

Yamada slammed his forehead against the table. “MIDORIYA.”

Izuku smirked, but the expression quickly faded. Because the truth was, he didn’t have an answer. Because he didn’t do anything. Not really. Everything he did had a purpose. A function. Something that kept him moving, kept him from thinking too much.

Patrolling. Training. Analysing. Those were fun to him. But he couldn’t say that.

So what the hell was he supposed to say?

He was quiet for too long, and of course Aizawa noticed. The man’s sharp gaze flicked toward him, but if he had anything to say about it, he kept it to himself. Hizashi, ever the optimist, filled the silence for him. “Hey, no rush! We can just chill, no pressure.”

Izuku huffed. “Great. Sounds thrilling.”

Aizawa took a slow sip of his second coffee before speaking. “How about we go shopping to get you some items for your room?”

Izuku’s thoughts stuttered to a halt. The suggestion hit him harder than he expected, the word shopping twisting something deep in his stomach. For a split second, he forgot to mask the unease flickering across his face.

They wanted to buy him things? Why? What was the catch?

It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to getting things. He’d been in and out of enough places to know how this worked—new homes meant secondhand donations and maybe a charity drive when people felt generous. He knew how to accept things out of obligation.

But this wasn’t obligation.

This wasn’t some impersonal, state-mandated checklist of essentials. They weren’t just making sure he had a mattress to sleep on and clothes that fit. They were talking about comfort. About making him feel like he belonged.

Izuku clenched his jaw.

No.

That was dangerous thinking. That was attachment. That was the kind of trap he’d fallen into before, the kind that left him stranded and alone when people realized what a mistake he was.

“Shopping, huh?” His voice came out flat. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms in a way that felt too defensive. “That sounds like a waste of your time. And money.”

Yamada blinked, caught off guard. “Waste of time? Dude, it’s just a trip to get you some stuff for your room. Y’know, make it feel more like home.”

Home.

There it was again. That word. That lie.

Izuku’s fingers curled against his bicep, nails digging into the fabric of his hoodie. The last time someone had tried to make him feel at home, it had ended in disappointment. He knew better now. He knew not to get comfortable. He knew not to get his hopes up.

Because it never lasted.

“Don’t worry about money, that’s not a problem,” Aizawa said, as if that was the issue.

Izuku exhaled sharply, something bitter curling in his chest. Of course, that wasn’t the issue.

He was the issue.

“I don’t need anything,” he muttered, voice tight. The weight pressing against his ribs grew heavier with every second. “I don’t want you guys spending your money on me. I’ll be fine.”

Yamada's smile faded, but he didn’t back down. “It’s not a waste, kiddo. It’s what we do. Besides, you’ll need stuff to make your room more, y’know… comfortable.”

Izuku’s throat burned.

There it is again.

That relentless need to fix him. The idea that he could be helped. That he was some lost little kid they could pull out of the rubble and patch up like a broken doll.

He shifted in his seat, hands tense at his sides. “I don’t need you to waste your money on someone like me. I’m not your problem.”

Yamada opened his mouth, ready to argue, but Aizawa shot him a look. When he spoke, his voice had softened in a way that made Izuku want to flinch. “This isn’t about you being a ‘problem.’ It’s about making sure you have what you need. We’re not asking for anything in return.” A pause. Then, quieter—less like a lecture and more like a quiet plea. “Just… try not to make this harder than it has to be.”

Izuku hated that.

Hated how they kept talking to him like he mattered. Hated how they refused to just let this go. Hated how, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure he wanted them to.

He swallowed, throat tight. “I don’t want you wasting your money,” he repeated, but this time, his voice was quieter. Less venomous. Less sharp. His gaze dropped to his bowl of fruit, and for the first time, he struggled to look either of them in the eye.

“I don’t belong here,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not…” His throat tightened, but he forced the words out. “I’m not worth it.”

Why was he sounding so pathetic all of a sudden? Why couldn’t they just not care? It would be easier that way.

Yamada inhaled sharply, his expression shifting from confusion to something softer. Something sadder. Izuku hated that look. He wanted to snap at him, tell him to stop looking at him like that, like he was something tragic, something broken. Because he already knew that’s exactly what he was. God he really just needed to shut his mouth. Maybe at his next foster home he could pretend to be mute.

But Aizawa spoke first.

“You don’t get to decide that,” he said simply. His tone was as dry as ever, but there was something solid in it. Unshakable. “We’re offering because we want to, not because we have to.”

Izuku hated that answer.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

People weren’t supposed to just give like that. Not without expecting something in return. That wasn’t how the world worked.

And yet, they sat there, looking at him like they weren’t going anywhere.

Like they meant it.

Izuku’s stomach twisted violently. He wanted to get out of this conversation. He wanted to walk away. He wanted to scream at them, demand they stop pretending like this was going to work.

But he didn’t.

Because some part of him—some stupid, desperate, pathetic part of him—wanted to believe them.

And maybe… maybe he wasn’t ready for that. Maybe he never would be.

But he was curious.

They were still here. They hadn’t left. They hadn’t given up. And if they weren’t walking away just yet… maybe it wouldn’t hurt to see how this played out.

Just for a little while. Until they did eventually.

He wouldn’t get attached. That only ever led to disappointment. To hurt. And he’d had enough of both to last a lifetime.

“…Fine,” Izuku muttered, his voice barely above a breath. “I’ll go.”

Yamada immediately brightened, his grin returning. “See? That wasn’t so hard!” He ruffled Izuku’s hair before the boy could dodge, his laughter warm and genuine. “This is going to be fun, kiddo.”

Izuku huffed, but the weight in his chest didn’t feel as heavy anymore for reasons he couldn't explain.

Aizawa, ever observant, simply nodded. “We’ll leave in an hour.”

Izuku said nothing, just pushed his blueberries around his bowl. He still wasn’t sure what to think. He still wasn’t sure what to believe.

But for now… for just this once… he’d let himself have this.

Even if it didn’t last.

Chapter Text

Two days.

That’s how long Midoriya had been here, and already, Shouta could tell the kid was a tough one to crack. Not in the loud, rebellious way some foster kids lashed out when they expected everything to go wrong—no, Midoriya was quiet, sharp-edged, closed off in a way that spoke of experience. Like he had long since decided that trusting people was more trouble than it was worth.

He wasn’t polite. But he wasn’t rude either. He answered when spoken to, his words clipped and measured, carrying an undercurrent of tension—like a man standing on the edge of a battlefield, bracing for an attack that hadn’t yet come. Not outright defiant, just… bitter.

As a teacher, Shouta had dealt with kids like him before. He knew better than to take it personally. Still, when the suggestion of a shopping trip had come up, he hadn’t expected much of a reaction. It was a simple thing, routine—a run for clothes and essentials. Nothing that should have caused that brief flicker of unease in Midoriya’s face before he quickly masked it behind that same, practiced neutrality.

Shouta noticed. And he didn’t like what it suggested.

That kind of reaction meant history. It meant this wasn’t just a shopping trip to the kid—it was a trap, a scenario laced with memories that had taught him something ugly. Had he been ignored in past homes? Given only hand-me-downs, told to take what he was given and be grateful? Or had he learned not to ask for anything at all? He had looked surprised when they suggested it. Maybe having choices was foreign enough to make him uneasy.

The stairwell creaked beneath their feet, the only sound in the quiet air. Shouta sighed, raking a hand through his hair as they made their way down the stairs of the apartment building. Hizashi led the way, humming some half-formed melody under his breath, his keys jingling in one hand. Izuku trailed behind, hands buried deep in his hoodie pockets, head down, body language curled inward like he was trying to make himself smaller.

Outside, a cool breeze wound through the empty streets, stirring the leaves in loose spirals. Shouta shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, his gaze flicking once more toward Midoriya. The kid was still guarded, but there was a stiffness to his posture, like he was coiled too tight, waiting.

Shouta wasn’t going to get any answers by prying. Kids like Midoriya didn’t open up just because someone wanted them to. If anything, pushing too hard would only make the kid retreat further into himself.

“We’ll keep this quick,” he said as they stepped toward the car parked at the curb.

It was a lie. A blatant one.

Because Hizashi was coming.

And nothing was ever quick with Hizashi.

Shouta had learned that the hard way over the years—what should have been a ten-minute errand would always stretch into an hour, then two, then somehow an entire day. The man had an uncanny ability to get distracted by everything: sales, unnecessary gadgets, things they absolutely did not need. And if there was music playing in the store? Forget it. Shouta had once lost him in an electronics section for forty minutes because he was too busy debating the merits of a new speaker system with an employee who absolutely did not care.

Even Shouta, who had more patience than most, hated shopping with him sometimes.

But Midoriya didn’t need to know all that.

Not yet, anyway. He'd probably find that out on his own.

So instead, he kept his tone level, steady—meant to soothe whatever nerves the kid was too proud to admit he had. “Just grab what you need."

Izuku’s expression barely shifted, but something flickered in his eyes before he muttered, “Sure,” his voice flat, daring Shouta to press further. Shouta didn’t take the bait. He just hummed in response.

The car chirped as Hizashi unlocked it, sliding into the driver’s seat while Shouta took the passenger side. In the side mirror, he watched as Midoriya hesitated—a brief, almost imperceptible pause—before he pulled open the door and climbed into the back. The ride started in silence. Hizashi tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, an absentminded rhythm, while the city rolled past in a blur of gray and muted colors. Shouta kept his eyes forward, but his attention remained split, anchored to the figure in the back seat.

Midoriya sat stiffly, gaze fixed out the window. He hadn’t pulled out a phone, hadn’t fidgeted, hadn’t done anything but stare at the buildings slipping by, as if willing himself to be somewhere—anywhere—else.

“So, ‘listener,” Hizashi started, voice light but deliberately casual. “What’d you bring with you yesterday?”

Shouta didn’t miss the way Midoriya’s shoulders tensed slightly.

“Not much,” he muttered. “Just some clothes, a toothbrush. Basic stuff.”

Hizashi hummed. “That all?”

Midoriya let out a short, dry snort. “Oh, my bad. Guess I forgot to bring my luggage set and yacht.”

Shouta flicked his gaze to the mirror again. The words were light, but his posture wasn’t. Hizashi, unfazed, grinned. “Damn, that’s a shame. I was looking forward to taking that yacht for a spin.”

Midoriya huffed. “Yeah, well. Maybe next time.”

Shouta resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The kid had a habit of deflecting with humor—though, to be fair, at least it was decent humor. Still, Shouta wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or concerned that Midoriya had managed to sound both sarcastic and completely exhausted at the same time.

Shouta sighed. “Seriously, kid.”

Midoriya’s expression sharpened, his eyes cutting to the side. “What? That’s what I’ve got. It’s enough.”

It wasn’t.

Shouta knew it, and so did Hizashi. What kind of life had this kid lived for him to think that was enough?

Hizashi, ever the easygoing one, didn’t let the tension settle. “Well, we’re getting you some more. Can’t be running around in the same couple outfits all week—especially not with how fast kids your age grow.”

Midoriya scoffed. “Right. Because that’s what this is about.”

Shouta exhaled slowly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

A pause. Calculated. “Nothing. Just that people don’t usually go out of their way like this unless they want something in return.”

There it was.

Shouta didn’t react outwardly, but the words settled heavy in his mind, another piece falling into place. The way Midoriya hadn't asked for anything at all in the last 24 hours. The way he barely reacted to the offer to go shopping in the first place. The way his shoulders never quite relaxed, even now.

This wasn’t about clothes.

This was about trust.

Shouta exchanged a glance with Hizashi, but the blond kept his focus on the road, letting him take the lead. That was fine. Shouta was used to reading between the lines, to hearing the things that weren’t said.

“We don’t want anything, Midoriya.”

A breathy laugh. Short. Bitter. Unbelieving.

“Sure,” he said, voice light but edged like a knife. “Because that’s how the world works.”

It wasn’t defiance. It was defense. The quiet armor of a kid who had learned the hard way that nothing came for free. That kindness was just a veiled transaction, a favor waiting to be cashed in. Shouta knew that tone. He’d heard it in other kids, different voices, same weight.

He tightened his grip on his jacket sleeve but didn’t push. Trust wasn’t something to be argued into existence. It had to be earned. “We’re getting you clothes because you need them,” he said simply. “That’s it.”

Midoriya finally turned from the window, meeting Shouta’s gaze in the rearview mirror. His expression was unreadable, but there was something behind his eyes—something wary, something searching. “And if I say no?”

Shouta didn’t look away. “You can say no all you want. Doesn’t change the fact that you need them.”

A pause. Barely two seconds, but weighted. Midoriya held his gaze, then exhaled sharply and slumped back against the seat. “Whatever,” he muttered. “It’s your time to waste.”

Shouta didn’t miss the way his arms folded tighter, the tension coiling in his frame. A habit, maybe. Or just another layer of defense, pulling in on itself. Hizashi clicked his tongue. “Man, tough crowd.”

Midoriya didn’t answer. But beneath his sleeve, his fingers twitched—small, barely there.

A tell.

Yeah.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

***

Midoriya hated this.

The shopping centre was too big, too bright, too much. The air smelled of food courts and fabric softener, and the distant hum of conversation mixed with the occasional beeping of registers. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, their glare too harsh against the clean polished floors.

It wasn’t the worst place he’d ever been, but he still wanted to leave.

Yamada led the way into a clothing store, Aizawa trailing behind with his usual unreadable expression. The moment they stepped inside, Yamada started browsing, pulling things off racks without hesitation.

Midoriya barely had time to register what was happening before a stack of t-shirts were suddenly shoved into his arms. “Alright, kiddo, let’s get you trying these on,” Yamada said, grinning like this was the best part of his day.

Midoriya blinked down at the pile. He counted—ten. Ten different shirts. “...This is too much,” he said flatly.

“Nah,” Yamada said, waving him off. “You need options! Besides, you should be comfortable in what you wear.”

Midoriya frowned, his fingers curling slightly around the fabric in hesitation. Options. The word felt foreign. The t-shirts were soft—good quality, no doubt—which meant they weren’t cheap. And he wasn’t worth that. Most homes didn’t care about “options.” You got what was given to you, and if you were lucky, it fit. If you weren’t lucky… well. You dealt with it. He’d never needed much. He was used to making do with whatever he had, because that was just how things were.
And this—this excess—felt unnecessary.

Izuku scoffed, arms crossing. "Oh, right. How could I forget? Every child in the system is just drowning in options." He shoved the stack of shirts right back at Yamada. "Pick five for me, then. Surprise me."

Yamada grinned like Izuku had just given him a fun challenge. "Oh, I could, but I feel like you’d regret letting me." Before Izuku could snap back, he felt Aizawa’s gaze settle on him. Calm. Steady. Blank as always. Izuku met it head-on, testing the waters, but Aizawa didn’t so much as blink.

"Just pick the shirts, Midoriya," Aizawa said, voice as dry as sandpaper. "You're not getting out of this."

Izuku huffed but turned to the rack, grabbing a shirt at random. Then he hesitated. A slow, calculated smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He reached for a neon pink shirt and held it up with a deadpan look. "How about this one? I think it really screams 'quirkless orphan with a bright future.'”

Silence.

Then—

"Love the confidence, dude," Yamada said without missing a beat. "You should get it in two colors!"

Izuku's eye twitched. He glanced at Aizawa, expecting at least an eye-roll, maybe a sigh. Instead, the man just blinked at him, unimpressed. "If you like it, get it. No one's stopping you."

Damn it. He was supposed to get a reaction, not encouragement.

Scowling, he shoved the pink shirt back onto the rack. "Fine. Five shirts. But if I hate them, I’m blaming you both."

"Noted," Aizawa said, completely unaffected.

Izuku gritted his teeth. He’d never met two people more infuriating in his life

The shopping trip dragged on. After settling on the cheapest shirts he could find, he was dragged to the pants section, where Yamada’s enthusiasm reached new and terrifying heights. “You’re gonna need variety in your wardrobe, kid!” Yamada declared, tossing pairs of jeans and sweatpants in his direction like he was on some kind of shopping game show.

Midoriya glared at the growing pile. “I didn’t even know pants were something I needed options for.”

“Oh, they definitely are.” Yamada beamed. “Trust me, you’ll thank me when you realize how versatile these are.”

Aizawa, as expected, stood off to the side, arms crossed, offering zero help. The only sign of his suffering was the faintest twitch of his eyebrow, like he was physically restraining himself from walking out and leaving them both to rot in this retail purgatory. Midoriya barely held back an eye roll. Oh, sure. Because you’re the real victim here.

Midoriya begrudgingly accepted the pants. “Sure, whatever. Next thing I know, you’ll be making me pick out socks in a rainbow of colors.” Yamada gasped, eyes lighting up. “Now that’s an idea! Ooh, maybe we can find some with little cats on them—”

Midoriya blinked rapidly. “Wait. No. I was joking.”

Then came the shoes.

His current pair was worn thin, scuffed beyond repair, the soles barely holding together. Yamada crouched beside him, rifling through shoeboxes. “You got a size preference?”

Midoriya shrugged stiffly. He had no idea. The shoes he wore now were a size too big.

Yamada hummed. “Alright, lemme see your foot.”

Midoriya hesitated. He almost said no. Almost insisted that his current shoes were fine, that this was a waste of money, that he wasn’t worth it.

Instead, he just sighed and did as he was told.

He was so over this. Just counting down the days until they realized he didn’t fit—like a book checked out from the library, skimmed through, and returned when they decided he wasn’t what they wanted.

Yamada grinned, ruffling his hair. “There ya go! Knew you could cooperate.”

Midoriya scowled, swatting Yamada’s hand away. The man just laughed, unbothered. Aizawa exhaled softly—something caught between amusement and quiet observation. They were weird. Easily the strangest foster parents he’d had. They weren’t like the others. The others had been predictable—cold, impatient, quick to remind him where he stood. The rules were simple: stay quiet, stay out of the way, don’t expect anything. These two? They were harder to read. Too casual, too steady. They didn’t push him, but they didn’t ignore him either.

And that was the problem.

Because they would turn. They always turned. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually, the patience would run out, the effort would dry up, and they’d realize he wasn’t worth it.

They all did.

Midoriya knew better than to waste time figuring them out. He just had to wait. Then he’d be free.

“You really don’t like the whole shopping thing, huh?” Yamada said, voice lighthearted, but there was an edge of genuine curiosity in his tone. Midoriya just shrugged, turning away, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m not here for fun. I’m just getting this over with.”

They had everything now—clothes, shoes, more than enough. Too much, if he was being honest. They could go back to the apartment. There was no reason to stay. By the time they left the store, bags in hand, he felt exhausted.

And for some reason, a little uneasy.

Like he was getting too much of something he shouldn’t have. Like he was being given things that wouldn’t last. Like they were setting him up for expectations he couldn’t afford to have.

“Alright! Shopping break. Let’s grab a bite.”

Midoriya opened his mouth, ready to protest—because really, this was enough, they were done, there was no reason to spend even more money on him—

“No,” Aizawa said, not even looking at him.

Midoriya blinked. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were going to.”

Midoriya squinted suspiciously. Was this man psychic? Did he have some kind of quirk that let him predict objections before they even happened? Because if so, that was deeply unfair. “…I could just wait in the car,” he tried instead.

Aizawa shot him a look—flat, unimpressed, soul-crushing.

Midoriya promptly shut his mouth. Ah. So this was why villains and vigilantes feared him. Not his capture weapon. Not his combat skills. Just that stare. A stare so powerful it could probably stop All Might mid-punch.

Yamada slung an arm around his shoulder, steering him toward the food court. “C’mon, ‘Kiddo. No arguments, no complaints, and definitely no weird plans to sit alone like some tragic movie protagonist.”

Midoriya scowled. “But—”

“Nope,” Yamada said cutting him off.

Midoriya let himself be guided toward the food court, but that didn’t mean he liked it.

The place was busy—loud, packed with people, with happy families, the smell of grilled meat and fried food thick in the air. He hated places like this. Too many people, too many things happening at once, too many opportunities for something to go wrong.

Yamada led them toward a stall, already scanning the menu. “What’re we feeling? Burgers? Ramen? Ooh, or how about some takoyaki—”

“Whatever’s cheapest,” Midoriya muttered.

Yamada blinked, pausing mid-sentence. “Huh?”

Midoriya crossed his arms. “I don’t care. Just get whatever’s cheapest. I’ll eat whatever.”

Aizawa sighed heavily, and Midoriya didn’t even need to look at him to know that he was giving him that look again. The one he kept throwing his way every time he said something he apparently found concerning.

“Midoriya,” Aizawa said, tone even. “Pick something you actually want.”

Midoriya clenched his jaw. “Seriously, I’ll eat anything, It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

There it was again—that calm, steady insistence. No anger, no frustration, just certainty. Like it wasn’t even up for debate. Midoriya hated that. Hated how easily they said things like that. Like it was obvious. Like it was normal.

His fingers curled into the sleeves of his hoodie, the fabric worn and familiar beneath his grip. “Why are you even doing this?” he muttered.

Yamada raised an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

Midoriya scowled. “This. The clothes. The food. It’s too much.” Yamada expression flickered—just for a second, something unreadable passing behind his eyes before his grin was back in place. “Nah, kid, it’s the bare minimum.” Midoriya bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t argue, but only because his chest felt too tight for words. Aizawa sighed again, and then, before Midoriya could react, reached up and placed a menu directly in front of his face. “Pick,” he said.

Midoriya scowled harder. But he picked. Not because he wanted to. Just because it would get them off his back.

That’s all.

He picked something simple—nothing too expensive, nothing flashy. A plain bowl of udon. It wasn’t what he wanted, exactly, but it was safe. Reasonable. Something he wouldn’t feel guilty about later. Yamada gave him a long look but didn’t argue. He just nodded, stepping up to place their order whilst they moved to find a table. Midoriya shifted in his seat, arms still crossed as he stared down at the table. The momentary silence made his skin itch.

Aizawa, as always, was watching him. Midoriya clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to snap what? at him. He didn’t owe them an explanation. He didn’t have to justify himself. He was being reasonable. It wasn’t his fault they insisted on making a big deal out of everything.

“You always like this about food?” Aizawa finally asked.

Midoriya bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Aizawa shrugged, tone casual. “You act like eating is some kind of privilege instead of a necessity.”

Midoriya’s fingers twitched, but he forced himself to stay still. He wasn’t about to admit anything. “Why do you even care?” he muttered instead, defensive by reflex. Aizawa didn’t answer right away. He just studied him, gaze unreadable. Midoriya despised that. It felt like being under a microscope. Like Aizawa could see straight through him, peeling him apart layer by layer without even trying.

But eventually, he just exhaled through his nose and said, “Because you’re a kid. And kids should eat properly.” Midoriya scoffed. “I do eat properly.” Aizawa gave him a look. “You said ‘whatever’s cheapest.’ That’s not ‘properly.’” Midoriya’s glare deepened, but before he could come up with a sharp enough response, Yamada returned, setting their trays down on the table.

“Alright, food’s here! No more gloomy faces—eat up!”

Midoriya sat stiffly as the other two settled in, grabbing their chopsticks and starting to eat. The whole situation was ridiculous.

It was just food. It shouldn’t feel like something important. It shouldn’t feel like something unfamiliar. He picked up his chopsticks, twirling them between his fingers for a second before finally digging in.

It was fine.

He was fine.

This didn’t mean anything.

Midoriya pushed his noodles around, lost in thought, his chopsticks tracing the edges of the bowl as he kept his eyes focused on anything but the two adults sitting across from him. The quiet weight of the food court buzzed around them, and yet Midoriya couldn’t seem to escape the sensation of being watched.

Finally, Yamada broke the silence. "So, you like the clothes, at least?" he asked, leaning over with a grin. Midoriya shrugged, keeping his eyes glued to his bowl. "They're... fine." He wasn’t about to admit anything was good about the situation. Fine was the most he'd give them.

Yamada raised an eyebrow. "Fine? Come on, you’ve gotta like one thing about it."

Midoriya hummed noncommittally. "It's just clothes."

"You know," Aizawa began, his voice steady but carrying an underlying sincerity, "We’re doing this because we want you to have what you need. Not because we feel obligated, but because we want to."

Midoriya's grip on his chopsticks tightened, his shoulders tensing as he focused on the food in front of him, avoiding their gazes. Yeah, that's what they all said in the beginning. He couldn’t find the right words, so he let the silence stretch between them.

Yamada exchanged a quick glance with Aizawa before turning back to Midoriya. "It’s not a charity, kiddo. You’re not some project we’re taking on." His voice was softer this time, less teasing, as though he understood the weight of what they were saying.

Midoriya’s throat tightened, but he said nothing, just poked at the noodles. It wasn’t that he thought they saw him as a project—but they still didn’t need to do any of this. They didn’t need to care.

"Bud," Yamada continued, his attempt to lighten the mood still there, "Seriously, you don’t have to act like you owe us anything. That’s not how this works."

Midoriya scowled, but this time he couldn’t hide the bitterness in his voice. "I’m not acting like I owe you," he muttered, barely audible. "I’m just... eating."

Aizawa studied him for a moment before sighing, rubbing a hand across his face. "You don’t have to shut down every time we try to help. You’ve been here two days, and it’s like you’re already building walls.”

The words hit him harder than Midoriya expected, and he resisted the urge to shrink back, his throat suddenly dry. He didn’t want to deal with this—didn’t want to let anyone in, didn’t want to be someone’s responsibility. He’d been on his own for long enough to know that trusting people was a quick way to get hurt. The last thing he needed was to let them get too close. It’ll just backfire in the end. It always did.

"I’m good," he said, a little more forcefully this time, though his voice was quieter. He didn’t look at them as he spoke. He didn’t want them to see what was written all over his face. Yamada was about to reply, but Aizawa held up a hand, cutting him off.

"Yeah," Aizawa said, voice softening just a little. "I’m sure you are."

The way he said it wasn’t sarcastic. It wasn’t mocking or impatient. It was... understanding. But he didn’t say anything. Didn’t challenge them. Didn’t argue. Instead, he just kept eating. Slowly. Yamada didn’t push. He simply smiled, albeit a little sadly, and took another bite of his own food.

He’d been alone ever since his mother was taken from him—ripped away in a moment that had shattered his world and left him grasping at the jagged edges. Her death had hollowed him out, carving a space inside him that nothing seemed to fill. One day, she had been there—warm, steady, the one constant in a life that had already been uncertain. And then, suddenly, she wasn’t. Gone in an instant. Gone in a way that didn’t feel real, even now.

People liked to say time healed, that grief softened. But Midoriya had learned the truth early: it didn’t fade. It just sat there, a dull ache beneath his ribs, a shadow stretching long behind him. And so, he’d learned to live with it. To carry it alone. Because in the end, that was all he had.

They had shopped a bit more after eating, much to Midoriya’s disdain. Every extra stop felt like another reminder that he was still here, still stuck in this arrangement. Aizawa had insisted on picking up more essentials—clothes, toiletries, things that made it painfully clear they expected him to stay. But Midoriya knew better. He wasn’t going to fall for it.

Yamada had tried to lighten the mood, pointing out ridiculous shirts and laughing at the strangest novelty items, but Midoriya had barely responded. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to pretend this was normal.

Now, finally, they were leaving.

The quiet hum of the food court had faded into the bustling noise of the mall as they walked in a loose trio toward the exit. Midoriya felt the weight of their presence beside him but kept his eyes fixed ahead, not daring to look at either of them too long.

The mall doors whooshed open, and the cool air rushed in, crisp against his skin. But he didn’t move.

His feet had stopped on their own.

Before he even understood why, his gaze was locked on something across the courtyard.

A hero merchandise shop.

Bright neon signs flashed in the afternoon light, their colours loud and obnoxious. Posters of the top-ranked heroes lined the windows, their figures larger than life. Logos were stamped onto everything—T-shirts, keychains, coffee mugs, bags, stickers, anything that could be sold to people still foolish enough to believe in them.

Midoriya’s stomach twisted.

If he’d seen something like this as a kid, he would have run toward it without a second thought. He would have pressed his face to the glass, wide-eyed with admiration, drinking in every detail. He would have spent what little money he had on keychains, figurines, anything with a hero’s emblem on it.

But that was a long time ago.

It wasn’t like that anymore.

The sight of it made his chest feel tight, like something was pressing down on his ribs, something cold and heavy and unwelcome. He didn’t want to be reminded of heroes. Didn’t want to see their faces plastered on every surface, grinning like they had all the answers. He wasn’t that kid anymore—the one who had believed in them, trusted them, thought they could fix everything.

Because they hadn’t.

Because they couldn’t.

Because in the end, heroes were just people. Flawed. Fallible. And far too many of them crumbled under the weight of the pedestal the world had placed them on. His throat tightened as his gaze locked onto a poster of him.

All Might.

Smiling. Untouchable. Frozen forever in a pose meant to inspire.

I hate this.

So why couldn’t he move? Why were his feet still planted on the ground, his body unwilling to turn away?

Something pulled at him, something he couldn’t shake. A lingering ghost of the boy he used to be.

"Midoriya."

His name cut through the fog in his head. He blinked, suddenly aware of the weight of a gaze on him. Aizawa had stopped walking, standing a few steps ahead, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. He was watching him, expression unreadable, but there was something else there, something understanding.

“Do you want to go inside?” Aizawa asked, his voice even. There was no pressure in it, no expectation. Just a question. But beneath it, there was something softer, something careful.

Midoriya froze.

For a split second, the answer almost slipped out. Yes.

A part of him wanted to step forward, wanted to cross that invisible line and push open the door. He wanted to see if it still felt the same—if the shelves still held that same magic, if the merchandise still carried the weight of a dream.

But that wasn’t who he was anymore.

He didn’t want to go inside. Didn’t want to stand in a store that worshipped something he had long since stopped believing in.

“No.” His voice came out clipped, sharper than he intended. There was something final in the way he said it, something bitter. He turned away, but his eyes betrayed him—flickering back toward the shop one last time before he forced himself to look ahead.

Aizawa didn’t question him. He didn’t push. He only nodded, the slightest incline of his head. “Okay.” There was something almost infuriating about the way he said it—so calm, so accepting, as if he understood. As if he saw something Midoriya wasn’t ready to admit.

Midoriya exhaled, though he wasn’t sure if it was relief or something else. His legs still felt heavy as he forced them to move.

Yamada, for once, said nothing. He simply glanced at Midoriya, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he, too, started toward the parking lot. The longer Midoriya walked, the tighter his chest became. But he didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

*

As they stepped into the apartment, the soft click of the door behind them seemed to echo in the quiet space. The late afternoon sunlight had begun to fade, casting long shadows across the floor. Fish barely stirred from his perch on the windowsill, where he was stretched out in the last golden sliver of warmth. His ear flicked at the intrusion, but he only cracked open one eye, surveying them with mild disinterest before dismissing them entirely. His tail gave a single, lazy twitch before he melted back into his nap.

Eclipse, on the other hand, was much more engaged. The sleek black cat trotted over with purpose, tail held high, her movements fluid and confident. She wove through Aizawa’s legs like she owned the place—because, in her mind, she probably did—before stopping directly in front of Midoriya.

She stared at him. Sharp green eyes, unblinking, assessing. Measuring him against some invisible standard only she understood. Her gaze was piercing, far too knowing for a cat. Then, just as suddenly as her interest had appeared, it vanished. With an almost dismissive flick of her tail, she turned and leapt onto the couch, curling into a perfect loaf as if she had never acknowledged him at all.

Cat was nowhere to be seen. He would give anything to be in that cat’s shoes right now. He was sick of the attention he was receiving, it was tiring.

He let out a silent sigh, his arms aching from the weight of the shopping bags. A quick trip, Aizawa had said. Just the essentials. Yeah, right. He should have known better. Nothing about this had been quick, and he was starting to suspect Aizawa knew that when he said it. The man had probably been fully aware of the impending multi-store marathon and just chose not to warn him. Probably thought it was funny. Midoriya wasn’t laughing.

Midoriya tightened his grip on the bag, his fingers curling around the straps as if they could anchor him to the present moment. He felt the weight of their attention settle on him—Aizawa’s quiet, unreadable gaze and Yamada’s more overt concern, even if he tried to mask it. Neither of them spoke, though. They just let him be, and for that, Midoriya was quietly thankful.

Without a word, he turned and walked down the hall toward the spare bedroom. The familiar space greeted him with the same quiet emptiness, the air feeling heavier somehow, as if even the walls understood why he was here. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with deliberate care, exhaling as the silence wrapped around him.

He placed the bags on the bed and stared at it.

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Then, finally, he let out a slow breath, his shoulders stiff.

He wasn’t stupid. This wasn’t permanent.

These walls, this room, the way they made sure he ate, the way they gave him space but never too much. He knew it wasn’t going to last. It never did.
He had learned that lesson the hard way.

With careful, almost mechanical movements, he unpacked. Each piece of clothing was folded into the dresser with precision, each small item tucked away. He didn’t bother hanging anything up. No point.

Don’t get used to this, Izuku. It’ll be gone before you even realize it.

A sharp knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Midoriya stiffened, then exhaled slowly, schooling his face into neutrality before pulling the door open.
Yamada stood there, his usual grin in place, but there was something behind it—something calculating, like he was quietly gauging Midoriya’s mood before deciding how to proceed.

"Hey, listener. You feel like playing a card game?"

Midoriya blinked. “…A card game?”

"Yeah! Thought it could be fun, y'know? Give us somethin’ to do before dinner."

Midoriya hesitated. He should say no. He didn’t need this. But saying no meant going back inside this room and sitting with his own thoughts, and that… wasn’t exactly appealing either.

So instead, he rolled his eyes. "Fine. But don’t expect me to go easy on you."

Yamada let out a laugh, clapping him on the back as he turned. "Wouldn’t dream of it, my guy!"

Midoriya barely refrained from flinching at the contact.

They settled in at the dining table, an old deck of President cards already shuffled in Aizawa’s hands.

Midoriya watched as the cards were dealt, fingers lightly tapping against the tabletop. The room felt warm, lived-in. The kind of space people got used to. He couldn't afford that.

“Rules are simple,” Aizawa said, dealing the cards. “Get rid of your hand as fast as possible. First one out is the President, last one is the Fool. You can only play equal or higher than the last card, and two of the same number clears the pile. Got it?”

Midoriya nodded. This was just another strategy game. He could handle that.

The first round started slow. Yamada played loudly, tossing cards down with unnecessary flair, calling out each move like it was some grand performance. Aizawa, on the other hand, was controlled, methodical, never making unnecessary plays. Midoriya remained quiet, watching. Calculating.

It wasn’t hard to pick up on their habits.

Yamada played too fast, eager to dump his worst cards just to stay in the game. Aizawa was careful, but predictable—he liked to hold onto strong cards too long, waiting for the perfect moment instead of adapting to the flow.

Midoriya, however, played to win.

It was easy. Too easy. His mind fell into the rhythm of it, analyzing, adjusting, predicting every move before it happened. Just like always.
And just like always, he came out on top.

The first game ended with Midoriya as President, Aizawa as Vice, and Yamada blinking down at his hand in stunned silence—the Fool.

“Wait, wait, wait—how did I lose?” Yamada blurted, staring at his last cards like they had personally betrayed him. Midoriya leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable.

“You play too fast. You don’t think ahead.”

“Excuse me?! I was playing with style!”

“You were playing with no skill.”

Aizawa snorted, a flicker of amusement crossing his normally tired expression as he looked at Midoriya. “You're good at this.”

Midoriya shrugged, crossing his arms. “It’s just pattern recognition.”

Just recognizing patterns. Just like he always did. With games. With fights. With people.

But as the next round began, something shifted. Midoriya didn’t just play—he was actually engaged in it.

He started muttering under his breath, barely aware he was doing it. Low, rapid calculations spilled from his lips as he placed each card down with sharp precision. "If I play this now, then the probability of getting stuck with the six later is—no, wait, Aizawa hasn’t used his doubles yet, which means—"

He was too caught up to notice Yamada’s grin shift into something smaller, something real. Or the flicker of quiet amusement in Aizawa’s gaze.

But then—he felt it.

The subtle change in the air, the weight of their eyes on him. It wasn’t just the game anymore. Their attention was no longer on the cards, but on him. Like they could see something beneath the surface, something they hadn’t before. The recognition was almost suffocating.

And just like that, the moment shattered.

Midoriya’s fingers curled around his remaining cards, the sharp edges digging into his palm. His posture straightened instinctively, as if bracing for something he couldn’t quite name. His expression went blank, a well-practiced shield slamming down over whatever thoughts had started to surface.

The muttering stopped. The rhythm he had fallen into vanished.

He hadn’t meant for this. He hadn’t meant for them to see him like this, to notice the way his mind worked when he was fully invested. It had been a game. It was supposed to be simple. Fun.

But now, they were looking at him differently. It felt like they were seeing something more than just a player, something they weren’t supposed to.

Why did it feel like that? Was it the way he’d been playing, the sharpness in his calculations? Or was it the fact that—without realizing it—he’d allowed himself to let his guard down, just a little? For the first time in ages, he'd let himself be in the moment, even if only for a few minutes. He wasn’t thinking about what was coming next, or about the things he needed to protect himself from. For a brief second, he wasn’t just on edge, waiting for everything to fall apart.

The room felt heavier now. Yamada’s narrowed eyes met his, a quiet understanding flickering in his gaze. Aizawa’s unreadable look deepened, as if he were seeing something he hadn’t expected to.

Midoriya stiffened, pressing his lips together as if to hold all his thoughts in check. He hated this feeling. The vulnerability. The quiet tug in his chest as if he had accidentally revealed something that wasn’t supposed to be seen.

Yamada didn’t say anything, but his eyes flicked between him and Aizawa. It wasn’t the teasing or playful glance from before—it was different. Thoughtful.Aizawa, as always, was the most composed. But Midoriya knew him well enough to see the smallest shift in his gaze, the way his brow furrowed just a little more, the faintest trace of curiosity in his eyes. He wasn’t just analyzing the game. He was analyzing him.

Midoriya fought the urge to break eye contact. The silence stretched, thick with something unsaid, something Midoriya didn’t want to acknowledge but couldn’t push away. This wasn’t just about cards anymore.

What did they see? What had they really seen?

And why, in this moment, did it feel like they were all waiting for him to finally react?

After a few games Yamada dramatically sighed and tossed his cards onto the table.

"Alright, nope. I’m done," he declared.

Aizawa raised a brow. "Quitting already?"

"Not quitting," Yamada huffed. "I’m just accepting the inevitable. Six games in a row. Six. And who’s been the Fool every single time?" He pointed to himself. "Me! The answer is me!"

Midoriya blinked, momentarily thrown by the abrupt change in tone.

Yamada flopped back in his chair. "I am officially retiring while I still have some dignity left. You two can keep your terrifying mind games—I’m making dinner."

Then, to Midoriya’s absolute horror—

"You’re cooking with me."

Midoriya stiffened. "Wait, what?"

"You heard me," Yamada said, already making his way to the kitchen. "Come on, kid, let’s see if your brainpower extends to something important—like food."

Midoriya groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Ugh. Do I have to?"

"Yes."

Midoriya sighed again, heavier this time, but as he stood and placed his cards down, an idea began to form. If he was going to be forced into this, he might as well make it interesting.

A slow, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Fine. If he had to cook, he was going to make them regret asking him. He followed Yamada into the kitchen, already plotting.

It started off simple. Small things.

He grabbed the wrong ingredients—on purpose. Reached for sugar instead of salt. Poured way too much oil into the pan. “Oops,” he said, completely deadpan as Yamada scrambled to fix it.

“Midoriya,” Yamada warned, already looking suspicious. “What? I’m trying.” He stirred the sauce way too aggressively, nearly sloshing it over the sides.

Aizawa, now watching from the table, sighed. “Don’t break my kitchen.”

Midoriya, as if on cue, immediately knocked over a jar of spices. “Oh no,” he said, absolutely monotone. Yamada’s eyes narrowed. “You little gremlin. You’re doing this on purpose.”

Midoriya turned, expression blank. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Aizawa huffed out something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Yamada pointed a wooden spoon at him. “You do realize that the more you mess up, the longer this takes, right?”

Damn. He had a point.

Midoriya begrudgingly reined it in just enough to actually finish cooking. But just as Yamada turned his back to grab the bowls, Midoriya’s eyes flickered toward the spice rack. His fingers hovered for only a second before grabbing the shichimi togarashi—a seven-spice blend with a serious kick.

Casually, he sprinkled a generous amount into just Yamada and Aizawa’s bowls, keeping his own untouched. When Yamada turned back around, Midoriya was already holding the bowls out innocently. “Here.”

“Thanks, kid.” Yamada took them without suspicion, handing one to Aizawa before grabbing his own.

Midoriya sat down across from them. Oh this was going to be golden. Midoriya could feel his lips twitching but he supressed the smirk, he needed to act as innocent as possible.

"Kid, Could you get three spoons from the kitchen." Aizawa said, cracking his neck before rolling his shoulders. Midoriya blinked before nodding. "uh…Sure." He stood, making his way toward the kitchen drawer. He retrieved the spoons, letting his fingers brush against the edges in a practiced, casual motion—stalling for time just long enough to keep them from taking a bite before he got back. By the time he returned to the table, he was barely holding back his anticipation.

He passed a spoon to Aizawa, then one to Yamada, before settling into his seat and taking his own.

Now, all he had to do was wait.

Midoriya kept his expression carefully neutral as they all dug in, excitement bubbling beneath his calm exterior. He couldn't wait to see their faces when the spice kicked in.

Yamada took a big bite first.

Midoriya, internally grinned, already anticipating the reaction—

But then Aizawa took his first bite. And something about it was—off.

The man chewed slowly, swallowing without even a twitch of discomfort. And then—he looked at Midoriya. Not a glare. Not even annoyance. Just calm, unreadable knowing. Midoriya was confused. Why was he not dying from the spice?

Something was wrong.

Yamada made a confused noise before going in for a second bite, and that's when it hit.

“Oh, what the hell—” Yamada choked, practically lurching forward as he grabbed his water. "Why is it so spicy?!"

Midoriya could feel Yamada’s gaze on him. He did everything in his power to look anywhere but at him, knowing that if he met his eyes, he would almost certainly burst out laughing.

Aizawa, still chewing methodically, barely spared him a glance before setting his spoon down. "Brat.”

He still wasn’t reacting? Did he not put enough in Aizawa bowl? Did he not put any in? Unless......

Midoriya’s stomach dropped. He looked down at his bowl. Then back at Aizawa’s. Realization dawned slowly, horror creeping up his spine.

He switched them.

Aizawa had switched their stupid bowls.

Midoriya barely had a second to process before the spice hit his tongue, a slow burn at first—then a wildfire.

His muscles locked up. His throat felt like it had been set on fire, the heat creeping up the back of his tongue.

How?

How had he been outplayed? Nobody ever bested him. He’d been careful. Subtle. He hadn’t let a single thing give him away. So how did Aizawa know?

No.

No.

He refused to react.

Absolutely refused. If he did, he would be giving Aizawa exactly what he wanted.

Yamada, meanwhile, was still dying.

“I—I trusted you!” he wheezed, gripping his cup like it was a lifeline, gulping down water between ragged breaths. His face was red, his eyes watery, and yet Midoriya couldn’t even spare him a glance.

Because Aizawa was watching.

The silence between them stretched, thick with something unspoken. Aizawa was still eating, casual as ever, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable—except for his eyes.

They were locked onto Midoriya, sharp, assessing. Waiting.

He knew.

He’d known from the start.

Midoriya slowly, painstakingly forced himself to swallow, his throat burning like molten lava. He ignored the way his muscles screamed for relief, the way his entire body wanted to recoil.

Aizawa, infuriatingly calm, took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes half-lidded, the picture of neutrality.

“Next time,” he said, voice smooth and unbothered, “pick a target who isn’t trained to anticipate underhanded tactics.”

Midoriya gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening with frustration.

Oh, he hated him.

But more than that—

He hated how impressed he was. That Aizawa had actually caught on. He pressed his lips into a tight, unyielding line and, out of sheer, stubborn spite, lifted his chopsticks again. If Aizawa thought he could rattle him, he was wrong.

He took another bite, ignoring the way his fingers felt unusually warm, the way his pulse had picked up just slightly. He didn’t break eye contact as he brought it to his lips and chewed, slow and deliberate, like nothing was wrong.

Aizawa quirked a brow. As if surprised by his actions.

Not a full expression, just the barest twitch of amusement. Midoriya chewed. Swallowed. His face remained perfectly neutral, but his ears burned. He knew Aizawa could see through him. He knew he was waiting for the inevitable slip. But he wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

He lifted his chopsticks again, determined to keep going, no matter how much his body protested. Without breaking eye contact, Aizawa took another spoonful of his perfectly normal, spice-free meal and ate at a steady, unbothered pace.

Midoriya felt played. Completely, utterly played.

This wasn’t just a loss. This was a lesson.

Aizawa had anticipated him from the start. Had seen through his little scheme before he had even executed it. He had let him believe he had won, let him hand out the bowls, let him sit there, waiting to revel in his victory— Only to turn it around at the last second. He could of stopped him from the start but instead he let him have a taste of his own medicine…or poison. He could've even saved Yamada, who had disappeared into the kitchen at some point, no doubt to find milk.

Midoriya narrowed his eyes at the man across the table.

Great, Now the man was smirking—

It wasn't big. Not exaggerated. Just the barest hint of a curve at the corner of his lips, like he had been waiting for Midoriya to catch on. Midoriya felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. Then, with a completely straight face, he picked up his glass of water, took a slow, controlled sip, and placed it back down without so much as a sound. Aizawa huffed out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. He may of won the battle but this war, was far from over.

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet.

After dinner—after his humiliation—they had all gone their separate ways for the night. Aizawa had gone off to patrol, Yamada had grumbled something about needing to drink a gallon of milk to recover, and Midoriya had retreated to the guest room without a word. If that didn’t get on Yamada’s bad side he wasn’t sure what would.

Now, standing by the window, he pulled on his gloves, securing them tightly before slinging his hood over his head, as well as his mask that covered his mouth. Outside, the city was alive. Streetlights flickered against the dark, the hum of distant traffic cutting through the quiet moments between sirens. The air was cool, crisp, but his skin still burned.

Not from the spice. Not anymore. This was different.

Midoriya exhaled through his nose, testing his tongue with a flicker of movement. The heat still lingered, a dull, annoying ember, but it wasn’t enough to distract him. No, what burned now was rage. He had been outplayed.

It was unacceptable.

He had studied tactics since he was a child. He had spent years picking apart the habits of those around him, memorizing their tells, their strategies. He had anticipated every possible reaction. Every single one.

And yet, he didn’t anticipate Aizawa catching on.

Midoriya clicked his tongue, irritation curling in his chest. He pushed the window open without a sound, stepping onto the ledge. The city stretched before him, vast and endless. Then, without hesitation, he jumped, easily parkouring towards the alley below. The wind whipped past his ears as he landed lightly on the ground below. In a heartbeat, he was moving again, his legs pushing him toward the nearest building, his body flowing with the rhythm of his training. He vaulted up the side of the building, his fingers grazing the cold brick.

Rooftop to rooftop, he ran. The city unfolded beneath him, streets and lights blurring together as he leapt across gaps, his feet finding solid ground on each new roof. The burn in his legs, the deep pull in his lungs—it was grounding. It was steady. It was the one thing that always made sense.

But still—

How had he known!?

Midoriya gritted his teeth, shoving the thought aside. It doesn’t matter. What mattered was making sure no one got the upper hand on him again.

His movements sharpened, quickened. He needed something to focus on—something to channel this raw, gnawing frustration into before it consumed him. And if he was lucky, there’d be someone out there tonight who deserved it.

Then, as if on cue, a loud crash echoed through the streets, followed by the frantic scream of a woman.

Perfect.

Midoriya’s pulse quickened. Without a second thought, he veered toward the noise, his senses narrowing in on the sound. His body surged forward, moving with purpose, his frustration now a sharpened tool he could wield. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled adrenaline flooding his veins. His eyes narrowed. This was what he had been looking for.

Without hesitation, he shifted course, landing on another rooftop with a quiet thud. He crouched low, scanning the alleyway below. The scene unfolded before him.

A woman, crumpled on the ground, her clothes slightly torn and her face bruised. A man, swaying on his feet, looming over her. His face was flushed red, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. He staggered around, his words slurring together, half-buried in the fog of alcohol.

“Stupid whore...you think you’re too good for me?” The man shouted, barely able to hold his balance as he kicked a nearby trash can in frustration, sending it tumbling across the pavement. “You ain’t shit! I gave you everything... and this is how you repay me?”

Midoriya’s stomach twisted. He knew that feeling. The way people treated those they thought were beneath them. The cruelty. The ugliness. It was an injustice he couldn’t stomach. He had to do something.

Midoriya moved in close, his footsteps quiet as a whisper. He stayed in the shadows, hidden from view, his gaze never leaving the man. Every muscle in his body tensed, ready to move the moment the situation required it.

The man was still ranting, his words spilling out, completely oblivious to the world around him. “You’re nothing,” he sneered, pointing at her like she was something to be discarded. “Just another damn toy for me to use!”

Midoriya’s hands clenched. He took a slow, controlled breath. Focus. He wouldn’t act in anger. That wouldn't make him any better than him. Every fibre of his being screamed to take action, but patience was key. He needed to do this right, not out of some blind rage, but with precision. A quick intervention. A swift correction. He couldn't afford mistakes. He wasn’t that type of person.

The man raised his fist, preparing to strike. Midoriya’s body was already in motion. He dropped down from the rooftop like a shadow, landing soundlessly behind the man. He could feel the heat radiating from the drunkard's body, the stench of alcohol thick in the air.

The woman looked up, her eyes wide with fear, tears streaking down her face. Neither of them had noticed him yet. Midoriya’s voice was low, but sharp enough to cut through the man’s drunken ranting. “It's a Beautiful night tonight don't you think?”

The man froze, his head snapping to the side. He blinked at the kid infront of him, too drunk to register anything more than a vague shape in the darkness. “What the hell you want, kid?” The man sneered, his words slurred and sluggish. “You want a piece of me too? I’ll—”

But before he could finish his sentence, Midoriya moved.

With a speed and precision honed over years of training, he grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting it with brutal efficiency. The man let out a strangled yelp of surprise as Midoriya used his own momentum to throw him to the ground, his head hitting the pavement with a sickening thud.

The drunkard groaned, trying to push himself up, but his legs were too unsteady. He looked up at Midoriya, his eyes now wide with panic, not understanding what had just happened.

Midoriya stood tall, his expression hard, his stance unyielding. The rage that had burned through him earlier now felt like a controlled flame. “You’re done,” Midoriya said, his voice unwavering, “Get up, and walk away before I change my mind.”

The drunkard stumbled back, eyes wide with terror, before he staggered off into the shadows, too afraid to do anything else.
Midoriya didn’t watch him leave. His focus was already back on the woman. She was still trembling, her body curled in on itself, eyes locked onto him with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

Midoriya knelt down slowly, keeping his movements calm and measured so as not to startle her. “You’re safe now,” he said softly, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

She blinked at him, her voice shaky. “W-who...?”
“I'm just someone who wants to help.” Midoriya said, his tone gentle but firm. “You need to get somewhere safe. Do you have a place to go?”

The woman hesitated, her breath still uneven, the remnants of fear lingering in her wide, tear-streaked eyes. Midoriya kept his expression soft, open, offering her an unspoken assurance that she wasn’t alone.

She swallowed hard and wiped at her face with a trembling hand. “I... I can get home on my own,” she murmured, though her voice wavered with uncertainty. Midoriya studied her carefully but nodded. “Alright,” he said, his voice steady. “Just be careful and avoid dark alleyways.”

She gave a small, fragile nod before turning on unsteady legs and making her way down the alley. He watched her go, ensuring she didn’t falter, didn’t look back. Only when she disappeared around the corner did he exhale, letting the weight of the moment settle over him.

A soft, nearly imperceptible sound behind him set his nerves alight, but it diminished just as fast. He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. “I was wondering when you’d show up,” he said, his voice laced with amusement.

The figure dropped behind him, landing with effortless grace. The streetlights barely kissed the edges of her form, but he could feel the weight of her stare burning into the back of his head. “You could’ve left that one for me you know.”

Midoriya turned to face the underground hero, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, tilting his head, “I didn’t realize we were calling dibs now.”

Greenlight crossed her arms, her sharp eyes narrowing playfully. “You knew I was watching.”

“I actually didn’t,” he admitted, rocking back on his heels. “And yet, I still managed to steal your thunder. Tragic.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Unbelievable. You’re still insufferable as ever.”

He grinned. “It’s part of my charm.”

She let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling her eyes, but there was warmth there—a familiarity that came with the kind of trust forged in the depths of countless battles, countless nights like this.

Then, just as quickly as the lightness had come, it darkened.

Her expression shifted, her posture stiffening just enough for him to notice. The humour faded from her eyes, replaced by something heavier, something unspoken. “We need to talk.”

At first, he didn’t take her seriously.

Greenlight had a habit of making things sound worse than they were. It was part of her whole thing—overly dramatic, slightly cryptic, always acting like the weight of the world was on her shoulders. So when she stood there, arms crossed, face set in something too serious for his liking, Midoriya told himself it couldn’t be that bad.
Whatever it was, he’d heard worse.

“What, did Tsukauchi try to convince you again to arrest me?” he teased, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Or let me guess—you accidentally set a building on fire again.”

She rolled her eyes, but the usual bite was missing.

“Ghost.”

The way she said his name sent a flicker of unease down his spine.

His smirk stayed in place, though he knew she couldn’t see it beneath the mask. “C’mon, don’t look so grim. What is it? Whatever it is, I doubt it’s anything—”

“My patrol route’s being moved.”

He blinked. His smirk faltered.

Greenlight exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. “To the other side of the city.”

Silence. His brain stalled. He waited for her to say just kidding, to smirk and shove his shoulder, call him an idiot for believing her. But she didn’t. Something inside him cracked.

“When do you go?” His voice barely rose above a whisper. She hesitated. And that hesitation made him feel sick.

“Tonight is my last patrol in the red-light district.”

The world tilted. A breath hitched in his throat. She was leaving. Leaving this broken, forsaken part of the city. Leaving him. Not in a week. Not tomorrow.

Today.

The realization slammed into him like a punch to the gut. Something cold and ugly coiled inside his ribs, constricting, clawing up his throat. It was the kind of ache that didn’t just sting—it burrowed under his skin and refused to let go. A familiar ache, one he knew too well. The kind that came when people left—when he was left.

When he wasn’t enough.

Midoriya sucked in a sharp breath, forcing himself to speak, trying to push the emotions away. “So that’s it?” His voice came out sharp, edged with something he wasn’t ready to name. “You’re just going?”

She looked at him, her expression unreadable, but he could see the edges of something in her eyes, some unspoken answer he wasn’t ready to hear. Greenlight exhaled through her nose, the sound heavy with a weight he couldn’t place. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Midoriya scoffed. Didn’t have a choice. He'd heard that before. Too many god damn times.

It felt like the world itself cracked open with that sentence. It felt like her leaving was just another reminder of how easy it was for people to slip through his fingers. A bitter, humorless laugh scraped past his throat. "Right. Of course. Nothing you could do, huh?" He shook his head, anger rising fast in his chest, hot and burning, stoking the fire that had been simmering just beneath the surface. “That’s funny, because you sure as hell didn’t try to fight it, did you?”

His words were a lash of resentment, a wound that hadn’t fully healed, one that came from a place he was too scared to explore. The one buried deep inside him—the one that remembered what it was like when people left.

When people stopped wanting him.

It was hard to breathe, harder still to swallow down the ugly weight in his chest. He hated this feeling. He hated that it was back—this gnawing sense of being abandoned, discarded. Of being too much, too broken, too unworthy for someone to stay.

The memory of his past foster parents slamming the door behind him, telling him to pack his things, telling him he didn’t belong anymore… It rose up, sharp and stinging, and suddenly, he wasn’t just facing Greenlight. He was staring at that hollow, dark truth he’d buried under years of masks and deflections.

Something flickered across her expression—guilt, regret, maybe both.

But it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough to take away the sting of her leaving. Of her words. Of her choosing this path without him.

His breath caught, and for a moment, he didn’t know whether he wanted to scream at her or pull her back, keep her here, keep her from vanishing like everyone else. But in the end, it was just a bitter silence, stretching between them, thick with all the things they hadn’t said.

And it was the most painful silence of all.

Then she finally broke it. “Ghost—”

“No.” He stepped closer, pulse hammering. “You didn’t even try. You just took the order and left. Because that’s what people do, right? They leave.” His throat tightened. The words burned on the way out.

“It was only a matter of time before you left me too.”

The moment the words hit the air, he saw it. The way her breath caught. The way her eyes widened, like he’d physically struck her.

Greenlight inhaled sharply.

For a second, he almost took it back.

Almost.

But he didn’t.

Because for two years, she had been the only constant. The only person he liked. The only person he trusted.

And now, she was leaving.

His fists clenched at his sides. His breath came faster now, like the air had thinned.

“So what now?” His voice was quieter but no less sharp. “Who’s going to watch over this section?”

Greenlight faltered.

That told him everything.

“I’m honestly not sure,” she admitted.

A bitter scoff left his lips. He threw his hands up. “Unbelievable.”

He turned away, shaking his head, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Of course. Of course it was ending like this. This was why he didn’t trust the system. Why he never put faith in heroes to actually be there when it counted. They always said the right things—preached justice, stability, hope. But the second it stopped fitting their perfect little framework, the second it got too complicated, too messy, they walked away.

They always walked away. And the people who needed them most? They were left to fend for themselves. He should’ve known. He should’ve seen this coming. Nothing was ever consistent in Izuku Midoriya’s life. Whether he was Ghost or not.

“Kid—”

“No, seriously,” he snapped, whirling back around. His breath felt sharp in his lungs, his voice rising despite himself. “They tell you to move, and you just go? No plan? No replacement? Just leave this part of the city to rot?” He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “And you trust them?”

“It’s not that simple.” Her voice was firm, but not as steady as before.

“Isn’t it?” His eyes burned as he took another step closer. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks pretty damn simple. They needed a pawn, and they moved you. You didn’t even hesitate. Just like they knew you wouldn’t.”

She exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down her face. “It’s not like that.”

“No?” His voice dropped, low and cold. “Then what’s it like, Greenlight? Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly like that.”
Her expression tightened.

But she didn’t deny it.

Midoriya let out a slow breath. His pulse roared in his ears.

He should’ve known.

He should’ve known better than to believe she was different.

That any of them were different.

They all said the same things, made the same empty promises. We’re here to help. We’re here to protect. But when it really mattered, when it was inconvenient, they always left. They always had an excuse.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“This,” he muttered, shaking his head, voice cold and sharp, “this is exactly why I’ll never be a hero.”

Greenlight’s took a half step back at his words, as if it physically pained her.

He didn’t care.

Didn’t care that his words cut, that they hit exactly where he knew they would. He would probably regret them later, when the anger burned itself out and exhaustion took its place.

But right now?

Right now, he simply didn’t care.

He let out a hollow laugh, motioning vaguely between them. “Look at you. You have all this power, all this potential—but you don’t even have the freedom to choose where you stand. They say jump, and you ask how high.” His voice hardened. “I’d rather be a ghost in the shadows than a pawn in their hands.”

Her lips parted slightly. But she said nothing.

“Save it,” he muttered, stepping back. His voice was quieter now, but it cut just as deep. “You’re leaving. So, leave.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed, like she was looking at a stranger. For the first time in two years, she looked at him like she didn’t recognize him. For the first time in two years, he didn’t care.

***

The city pulsed beneath her—its neon veins flickering like dying stars, its streets stretching endlessly into shadow. The hum of electric signs, the distant wail of sirens, the murmur of lives unraveling in the dark—all of it wove together, a symphony of quiet desperation.

Greenlight had been a part of it for three years now.

Three years since she had been thrown into this sector, barely more than a rookie. Back then, she had been nineteen—young, idealistic, and just stupid enough to believe she could make a difference. But the truth was, no one else had wanted this sector.

It was the city’s forgotten spine, where the system’s promises of justice didn’t reach, where the cracks in the foundation had widened into chasms deep enough to swallow people whole. There were too many underground heroes back then, not enough places to put them. So they had shoved her here, a pawn on the board, and she had told herself it was only temporary. That one day, she’d be stationed somewhere safer. Somewhere better. But after three years she was glad she had been put here.

Now?

Now they didn’t have enough heroes.

Every day, more and more slipped through the cracks—vanishing like smoke, losing faith in the system that had sworn to protect them. Some quit. Some disappeared. And some… some just stopped believing.

And Ghost—

The look on his face—what she could make out through the mask—was one of hurt and betrayal. Her chest tightened as she saw the raw emotion in his eyes, the kind of pain that cut deeper than anything words could describe. She hadn’t expected him to react like that—not in a million years. It was a surprise, a punch to the gut that she hadn’t been ready for.

She didnt even knew his real name. She didn’t know where he went after patrols, or where he disappeared to when the city started waking up. It was like he was a ghost, slipping through the cracks of the world, always just out of reach.

And now, he was gone.

His words still clung to her like an old wound, impossible to shake.

"You have all this power, all this potential—but you don’t even have the freedom to choose where you stand." It shouldn’t have hit her the way it did.

But it did.

Because wasn’t that exactly what she was? A soldier following orders. A puppet on a string, waiting for the HPSC to pull her in whatever direction suited them best. She had told herself she was doing good here. That she had a say in things. That her hands weren’t tied.

But the truth was simpler. Uglier. They told her to move. And she moved. They told her to leave. And she left. No hesitation.

Ghost had seen through it before she had. And now, she had let him walk away, let him slip into the night, blinded by anger. She should have stopped him. Should have said something. Anything. Because anger makes you reckless. It makes you blind.

And what if—

She swallowed hard, shoving the thought down before it could spiral. Landing silently on the edge of a rooftop, she let her gaze sweep over the city below, scanning the restless glow of the streets, the shifting silhouettes in the shadows.

Searching for him.

Hoping.

Praying.

But as her patrol neared its end, a cold, sinking realization settled in her bones.

She might never see him again.

*

For once, Tsukauchi was pleasantly surprised.

No run-ins with a certain masked vigilante. No alleyway chases. No cryptic notes slipped into his coat pocket when he wasn’t looking.

A quiet night.

A rare, fleeting miracle.

Or at least, it had been—until he stepped into the station and heard shouting.

It was 6 in the morning. There weren’t many officers or detectives who would still be in the building at this hour, let alone yelling.

He sighed, rubbing his temples as he rolled his shoulders back, letting the weight of exhaustion settle in. Of course, someone had decided to turn his office into a battlefield. Why not?

But as he got closer, he realized it was only one voice—and that voice sharpened into something familiar. Tsukauchi paused mid-step, his brows furrowing. He recognized that voice. But he didn’t recognize the tone.

It was Greenlight.

Of course it was.

Tsukauchi frowned. She was supposed to be gone by now. Her last patrol had ended an hour ago. Yet here she was, tearing into someone over the phone like they had personally ruined her life.

He pushed open the door.

She didn’t even glance at him. Just kept pacing, phone pressed tight to her ear, her free hand clenched into a fist.

“A week?” she snapped, voice low and dangerous. “You’re telling me this district is just supposed to go dark for an entire week? No hero presence, no patrols, nothing?”

She let out a sharp, humourless laugh.

“Yeah, that sounds like a brilliant plan. Can’t wait to see how that plays out.”

Tsukauchi leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, waiting. He hadn’t seen Greenlight this mad before, and it was… interesting.

Usually calm, composed, even in the chaos of the underground, she was now pacing the small space in his office, her hands gripping the phone so tightly he wondered if she was about to snap it in half. Her words were sharp, clipped, a stark contrast to her usual level-headed demeanour.

He couldn't help but watch her for a moment, fascinated by how much the frustration had gotten under her skin. He had seen her face off with criminals, had seen her face danger with little more than a frown and a focused expression. But this? This was different. There was something raw about it. Something... personal.

“Then find someone,” she bit out, her voice tight with frustration. “Because I’m not leaving this sector empty. If I go, who’s covering for me? Who’s keeping people safe here?”

A long silence stretched between them. Tsukauchi could almost feel the tension crackling in the air, wishing he could hear the voice on the other end of the line. He could only imagine what they were saying to make her so angry.

Then, just as he was about to speak, her pacing stopped. Her shoulders rose and fell with a slow, measured breath—her attempt at regaining control.

“…Fine.”

The word was quiet. But it carried weight. She lowered the phone, stared at it for a moment, then ended the call. Only then did she finally look at him. Tsukauchi raised a brow. “Feel better?”

Greenlight let out a breath, shaking her head as she dropped into the chair across from his desk. “Not even a little.”

He studied her. She looked... drained. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but something else had settled in too. Something heavier. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “You heard all that, right?”

Tsukauchi nodded. “Yeah. They’re not sending anyone for a week.”

She scoffed, running a hand through her hair. “A week. Do they have any idea what’s going to happen? The second people figure out there’s no hero in the red-light district, it’s going to turn into a war zone.”

She shook her head, jaw tight. “And Ghost…”

Tsukauchi exhaled, already bracing himself. “Ah. So that’s what this is really about.”

Greenlight shot him a sharp look, but didn’t argue.

“He’s not going to walk away,” she said. “Not now. Not when there’s no one else watching the streets. He’s going to stay and he’s going to fight, now more then ever.”

Tsukauchi rubbed his temple. “Yeah, that tracks. He’s got the survival instincts of a concussed wild animal.”

That got the faintest twitch of amusement from her, but it disappeared just as quickly. “He’s a good kid,” she admitted. “Smart. Quick. But at the end of the day?” She exhaled, her breath heavy with something he couldn’t quite place. “He’s still just a kid.”

Tsukauchi barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. I wouldn’t say good...

That silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths.

Finally, Greenlight spoke again, her voice quieter this time. “As much as I don’t want it to happen, I think it’s finally time.”

It took Tsukauchi a second to put together what she was saying. His eyes widened slightly as the realization hit him. He just stared at her. “You do realize I’ve been saying that for two years, right?”

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead. Get it out of your system.”

“Oh, I will.” He gestured vaguely. “Because let me get this straight—you’ve spent two years looking the other way, letting him run wild, and now, on the last night of your patrols, you finally agree with me?”

She huffed. “Better late than never.”

Tsukauchi shook his head, exasperated. “You didn’t even try to arrest him. Not once. Meanwhile, Myself and other officers have been chasing that menace all over the city.”

Greenlight smirked slightly. “Yeah. He likes messing with you the most.”

“Oh, trust me, I’ve noticed.”

Her smirk faded. She leaned back, crossing her arms. “I wanted to help him in my own way. But now? It’s out of my hands. Whoever they move here next—it’s up to them.” Tsukauchi studied her for a moment, then asked, his voice low, “You honestly believe someone can get through to him?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I think someone needs to try.”

Tsukauchi drummed his fingers against his desk, watching her. “You think if I ask nicely he’ll just give up?”

Greenlight shook her head with a small smile. “Not a chance.”

Tsukauchi sighed. A man can dream.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his jaw. The kid was a pain in his ass. A cocky, reckless, smart-mouthed menace who had made it his personal mission to haunt every crime scene and slip through every damn net Tsukauchi threw at him. It wasn’t just that Ghost was good at evading capture—he was brilliant at it. Quick on his feet, always five steps ahead, always with some half-amused, half-infuriating quip before vanishing into the night.

And yet, for all his defiance, he was never careless. Never cruel. Never took the easy, bloody way out like so many others who walked the vigilante path. That was what made him different. And that was exactly why Tsukauchi kept trying. Because once they brought him in—whoever he was—it would make his job a whole lot easier. And maybe, just maybe, himself or someone could steer the kid onto the right path.

Greenlight exhaled, her gaze distant. “Ghost saw it before I did. Before a lot of us did. How screwed up the system is. How it leaves people behind. And I hate to say it, but…” She hesitated, voice dipping lower. “He was right.”

That admission hung in the air between them.

Tsukauchi sat back, folding his arms. “Kid’s got brains, I’ll give him that. He’s sharp. Sees things most people don’t.” He shook his head. “Hell, if he’d actually gone through proper hero training, he’d put half the pro-hero circuit to shame.”

Greenlight huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. He would’ve made one hell of a hero.”

If he just let someone in.

Tsukauchi swallowed that thought before it could leave his mouth.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? Ghost didn’t let people in.

Greenlight must’ve been thinking the same thing. Her jaw tightened. “He doesn’t trust people.”

Tsukauchi nodded. She was probably right—Greenlight had been the closest anyone could get to the kid, and even she didn’t know the real Ghost. That made him wonder just how long it would take before the next pro hero could actually reach him—or if they ever would.

The reality was, the next person sent to patrol this sector might not have the patience or the empathy to try befriending the kid. Instead, they’d likely have to chase him down, corner him, and bring him in by force.

Tsukauchi clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to deal with the menace for another two years. He couldn’t. It would be easier if someone could just get through to him, he thought, but he knew the odds were slim.

She let out a slow breath. “No. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s alone out there. And now, without anyone watching this district—” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.

Tsukauchi exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair.

He’d spent the past two years trying to bring that kid in, and every damn time, he slipped away. But it was never just about arresting him. It was never about putting cuffs on him and calling it a day.

He’d had seen too many kids like him before—sharp and dangerous in all the ways that made the world chew them up and spit them out. He wasn’t going to let that happen again. And now, with no heroes left to watch this part of the city…

Ghost wasn’t going to walk away.

“So let me get this straight, you believe it's time to bring the kid in.”

Greenlight met his gaze. “I think it’s the only way to keep him alive.”

Tsukauchi let out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling for a moment.

Ghost would hate it. Fight them every step of the way. The kid was stubborn as hell, and Tsukauchi already knew he was going to regret this.

But if it meant keeping that reckless idiot from getting himself killed?

Yeah. He’d try.

He looked back at Greenlight, shaking his head. “You know, I never thought I’d see the day.”

“What day?”

“The day you and I were finally on the same damn page.”

A small, tired smirk tugged at her lips. “Guess it was bound to happen eventually.”

Tsukauchi just sighed, rubbing his temple.

“God help me.”

***

Midoriya felt numb—too numb. Too angry. His thoughts were a mess, each one sharper than the last, but none of them seemed to matter. Normally, he would have kept patrolling until around 3 a.m., moving through the streets like a ghost. But once the anger had faded, leaving behind only a deep, suffocating exhaustion. He wanted to close his eyes, shut off his brain, and just forget everything for a while.

So, at 1 a.m., he found himself back at Aizawa and Yamada’s apartment. It had only been two days since he’d started staying here, and already it felt like a strange kind of refuge—though temporary.

Aizawa would still be out on patrol, doing his usual thing. Yamada, though, would be fast asleep, probably still recovering from his earlier prank.

His thoughts spun in endless circles, as he took off his gear, but none of them made sense. It all came back to Greenlight. She was leaving. He couldn't understand it, couldn't wrap his head around it. It was like someone had torn a hole in his chest, and the pain kept getting worse every time he thought about it.

He wanted to yell, scream, do something—anything to make it stop. But every time his anger flared, something deeper twisted in his gut. He couldn’t do that. He couldn't blame anyone but himself. It had always been his fault. Every time someone left, it was because he wasn’t enough. He wasn’t good enough to keep them around. That’s what it always came down to, right?

So why was this any different? Why did it hurt more than it had with the others? Was it because of how much Greenlight had meant to him? Or was it just because he blew the chance to say goodbye to her?

He didn’t know. With a frustrated sigh, His gaze flicked toward the bed. There, curled up in the center of the mattress, was Fish—the fluffy white cat. Midoriya stopped in his tracks, blinking in confusion. The door was closed, the window was the only way in… how had he gotten in here?

He stepped closer, his mind still buzzing with thoughts of Greenlight, her leaving, his failure… but then, almost without realizing it, his hand reached out to gently pat Fish’s soft fur.

His purring vibrated under his fingertips, and to his surprise, something inside him shifted. It was small at first, almost imperceptible—a tiny sliver of peace that slipped past the anger, the frustration, the self-loathing.

The more he petted the cat, the calmer he became, almost without realizing it. The weight in his chest lessened, the tightness in his throat loosened. His breathing slowed, and before he even noticed it, his body grew heavier.

Without meaning to, Midoriya leaned back against the pillow, the warmth of Fish’s fur comforting him like a soft, familiar presence. And just like that, his mind went quiet, the world around him fading until everything was nothing but the gentle rhythm of the cat’s purring.

Midoriya had actually slept.

Not just an hour or two—six whole hours.

His eyes cracked open, sluggish with sleep, as his brain slowly processed the fact that it was already 7 a.m. Jeez. He’d slept more in the last two days than he usually did in an entire week. That was… concerning. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe this was what normal people did.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand down his face. His body felt heavier than usual, like it still wasn’t convinced he should be awake yet.

That’s when he noticed it.

The weight.

Not the usual crushing, suffocating kind that came with waking up every morning. No, this was something different. Something warm, soft—

His gaze dropped to his chest, and sure enough, Fish was sitting there, staring at him like he was the one who’d trespassed into his space instead of the other way around.

Midoriya blinked. Fish blinked back.

…Huh.

Why was this the second time he had woken up to a cat in his face? This was getting weird. Normally, the pets in other foster homes stayed away from him, and he stayed away from them. That was just how it worked.

Animals could always tell. Whether it was his nerves, his restlessness, or the simple fact that he never stayed anywhere long enough to matter—he didn’t know. But they usually kept their distance, and he did the same.

So why were these cats different?

The cat had been curled up at the foot of the bed last night. When had he moved? More importantly, why was he still here? Wasn’t he supposed to be in the kitchen or something. He didn’t get it.

Before he could think too much about it, a familiar voice came through the door, flat and dry as ever.

"Get dressed and come to the kitchen," Aizawa called. "Breakfast is ready."

Midoriya froze. Right. Aizawa.

Was he mad about last night’s prank? Probably. Hopefully.

Had they talked about sending him back yet? Surely they would’ve right?

His stomach twisted at the thought. Surely they wouldn't keep dragging this out. He’d been here two days already. That was longer than most people tolerated him. Any day now, they’d sit him down and tell him what he already knew—

It’s not working out, kid.
You’re too much trouble.
Go back where you belong.

Maybe that day was today.

Midoriya swallowed. Just as he was about to start brainstorming ways to make that decision easier for them, Aizawa’s voice came again, sharper this time.

"Kid, you awake?"

Shit. He forgot to respond.

"Yes," he said blankly.

Fish let out a tiny, unimpressed meow.

Midoriya exhaled slowly, dragging himself out of bed. Fish finally moved—though not before flicking his tail across his face. Guess that’s better then getting a paw to the face, like he did from eclipse yesterday.

He dressed quickly, barely thinking about it.

The scent of coffee drifted through the air as he stepped out of the room, leading him toward the kitchen. Sure enough, Aizawa was already at the table, sipping what was probably his third coffee of the morning. He barely glanced up, flipping through his phone with his usual blank expression.

But as Midoriya’s gaze flicked toward the kitchen, then the living room, something felt… off.

It took him a second to realize what it was. Yamada wasn’t here. Aizawa must have noticed his hesitation because he spoke without looking up. "He wanted to be here this morning, but he had patrol. He won’t be back until after school hours."

Right. Monday.

For a moment, that didn’t mean much. Just a reminder that both of them had their daytime jobs at U.A.

But then, as if the word patrol had flipped a switch in his brain, everything from the night before crashed back into him at once.

Greenlight. Leaving.

Midoriya’s jaw clenched.

He should've of seen this coming. He knew it would eventually, he just hoped things would be different this time. And yet, it still felt like someone had punched a hole straight through his chest. The frustration, the helplessness—it all curled in his stomach like something rotten.

She was supposed to be different. So why —

"You alright?"

Aizawa’s voice broke through his thoughts. Midoriya blinked.

Only then did he realize he was just standing there, in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the floor like an idiot.

He cleared his throat and moved toward the table, forcing himself to sit. His gaze dropped to the plate in front of him—grilled salmon, tamagoyaki, miso soup, and a small bowl of rice.

His stomach twisted uncomfortably.

Midoriya picked up his chopsticks, turning them over in his fingers, but he didn’t move to eat just yet. Instead, his mind kept drifting back.

Back to Greenlight. Back to the simple truth that she was gone. He would most likely never see her again. And now that the fire in his chest had died down he had wished he had handled that situation better. He didn’t want to part ways with her like that.

Midoriya stabbed at his food with his chopsticks, chewing slower than necessary. He had no appetite, not really. Too much was swirling in his head, pressing against the inside of his skull like a pressure cooker ready to burst. But skipping meals would just give Aizawa something to nag about, and the last thing he wanted was more attention on him.

The silence between them stretched. He figured Aizawa would let him eat in peace, but because the universe hated him, the man decided now was a great time to start talking.

"You still set on doing your online schooling here?"

Midoriya glanced up, not bothering to hide the slight glare he shot Aizawa’s way. "That is the plan, unless you’ve suddenly decided you want me out."

Aizawa didn’t even blink at his attitude. "Just making sure you actually want to be here all day by yourself."

Midoriya snorted. "Not like I haven’t done it before."

Which was true. Foster homes weren’t exactly packed with people dying to spend time with him. Being left alone wasn’t some grand, tragic event—he was used to it. So why was Aizawa acting like it mattered?

Aizawa let out a hum that sounded vaguely unimpressed before casually taking another sip of coffee. "How’s your tongue?"

Midoriya froze mid-chew.

His face burned as the memories of last night hit him like a truck. This bastard. Midoriya swallowed his food and deadpanned, "Oh, just fantastic. I love the sensation of my internal organs being set on fire."

Aizawa gave the smallest smirk. "Good. Maybe next time you’ll check your bowl before eating."

Midoriya scowled. "Maybe next time I won’t be an idiot and trust that you wouldn’t pull something like that."

"Maybe next time you’ll come up with a prank that actually works."

Midoriya stabbed his food again. This man was insufferable.

Aizawa checked the time on his phone and let out a quiet sigh. "I have to head out. If you leave the apartment, let us know. One of us will call during lunch."

Midoriya didn’t bother responding. He just shoved more food into his mouth, keeping his eyes glued to his plate.

He heard Aizawa push his chair back and move around the kitchen, probably getting his things together. Then, just as the man pulled his scarf over his shoulders, he paused. "I almost forgot," Aizawa said, turning to look at him. "We haven’t given you either of our numbers yet."

Midoriya barely lifted his head. His eyes flickered to Aizawa’s hand, outstretched in front of him. What, is he asking for a high five?

"I don’t know what you expect me to give you," Midoriya said flatly, "but I thought I made it very clear yesterday that I told you everything I had."

For the first time since meeting him, Midoriya saw something that almost looked like shock flash across Aizawa’s face.

It was gone in an instant. Aizawa pulled his hand back, slipping it into his pocket instead. Then, without missing a beat, he grabbed his phone, unlocked it, and held it out.

"Here."

Midoriya just stared. His brain fully short-circuited.

"What?"

Aizawa sighed, already looking like he regretted this decision. "Take it. It’s my personal phone—I still have my work one on me."

Midoriya stared at the phone, then at Aizawa, then back at the phone.

This was a joke, right? A trick? A test?

His fingers twitched. He shouldn’t take it. He knew better than to accept things from people—it always came with strings attached.

But Aizawa’s expression hadn’t changed. He wasn’t offering—he was giving. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it wasn’t some grand, impossible thing. Midoriya’s throat felt tight. He reached out, hesitating just for a second, then took the phone.

It was warm in his hands. He gripped it tighter.

Aizawa didn’t say anything else. He just turned toward the door, muttering a final, "Don’t break it," before heading out.

Midoriya stared down at the phone in his hand, feeling the weight of it more than he should. A real phone. Given to him like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a big deal.

What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

He of course had a cheap flip phone tucked away—his vigilante phone, the one he used for all his after-hours activities. It was the only one he could rely on when he needed to stay off the radar. No one knew about it, and he intended to keep it that way.

His fingers hovered over the screen for a second, but then he shoved it into his pocket. He’d deal with it later. Right now, though, he had something else to think about. Something much bigger.

For the first time in months, Midoriya had nothing to do.

Aizawa and Yamada didn’t know that he’d already finished all of his coursework months ago—months ahead of schedule, actually. He’d forged the documents, carefully making sure it looked like he was still attending a legitimate online program. As long as the grades kept coming in, no one would think to question it. No one ever did. Nobody ever cared.

So now, here he was, with an entire day ahead of him, with no responsibilities and nothing to keep him busy. Maybe he could spend the day at an illegal fighting pit, study some new fighting styles, see if he could pick up a few moves to use against the next asshole who tried to mess with him. But nah, they wouldn’t be opening during the day.

Midoriya’s smirk deepened as he considered the possibilities. Aizawa and Yamada were both out, and he had the whole apartment to himself. They honestly shouldn’t have given him this opportunity.

He could definitely mess with Aizawa’s coffee. He had only know the man for two days but he knew he was the biggest coffee junkie, always on edge until he had his fix. Midoriya could definitely mess with that. But not in the usual way. He wasn’t going to just swap out the beans with something spicy or irritating—that’d be too predictable. No, he had something much more creative in mind. He could hide every single stash of coffee in the house. Take it all—the beans, the ground coffee, even the instant packets—and stuff them somewhere so deep and unreachable that Aizawa would never find them. Behind the washing machine. Inside a locked drawer. Maybe even bury it under the floorboards if he really wanted to get extreme.

Imagine Aizawa coming home after a long patrol, barely holding it together, and then realizing he couldn’t even get a damn cup of coffee. It’d break him down slowly, like a slow drip of madness.

And then, just to make sure Yamada wasn’t left out of the fun, Midoriya could add a little something for him, too. Yamada was always so cheerful, always so carefree. What could mess with him? Midoriya’s mind clicked into place as he thought of the perfect thing: Yamada’s prized guitar. It was always sitting on the stand in the living room, gleaming like a trophy. Midoriya could do something simple—something that would mess with the sound. He could sneak in and loosen the strings, just a little. Tight enough that they still looked fine, but the moment Yamada tried to play? The notes would be off. Everything would sound wrong, like a small but irritating mistake. And Yamada would spend hours trying to tune it back to perfect, not realizing it was all a setup.

He smiled to himself. Maybe this would be more fun than he thought.

Chapter Text

Mornings at U.A. were rarely quiet, but the teachers’ lounge was one of the few places that offered some semblance of peace—at least for those who knew how to take advantage of it.

Shouta Aizawa sat behind his desk, a red pen in hand, steadily working through a pile of tests. They weren’t his students’ tests. He didn’t have any students, not after expelling them all last week, they would be re-enrolled next week anyway. It was a necessary part of his teaching philosophy, but it did leave him with more time than most. Enough time to take on grading work for other teachers who didn’t have the luxury of an empty class. Or to take a nap.

Normally it was the second option.

Midnight lounged on the nearby couch, scrolling through her phone, one leg lazily draped over the other. Snipe sat by the coffee maker, cleaning his revolver in slow, practiced movements, the scent of gun oil faint but distinct in the air.

The only real sound in the room was the steady scratching of Shouta’s pen as he marked incorrect answers. No chatter, no chaos—just a rare, fragile calm.
Then the door slammed open. Shouta didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.

"Nem, your 3D class is CRAZY today!"

Hizashi practically threw himself into the room, making a beeline for the chair beside Shouta (Lucky him) before collapsing into it with an exaggerated groan. His usual energy was still there, but it was fraying at the edges, dulled by whatever battlefield he had just walked out of.

"I know it’s Monday, period one, but none of them could focus on what I was saying!" He threw his arms up in dramatic defeat before slumping against the table.
Shouta didn’t even look up from the test in front of him. "Then talk louder."

Hizashi let out a weak, humourless laugh. "Oh, I did. Didn’t matter. One of the listeners was straight-up asleep, another was sketching me—gave me devil horns, by the way—and two of them started debating whether I could be replaced with an AI voice program."

Midnight hummed in amusement, glancing up from her phone. "To be fair, they might have a point. Your voice is basically public property at this point. Wouldn’t be hard to replicate."

Hizashi gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he draped himself over Shouta’s arm. "Sho, tell her she’s wrong." Shouta didn’t even acknowledge it. He continued to mark.

Hizashi let out another dramatic sigh, slumping forward onto the table again. "Man, I wonder what the little listener’s up to. Still can’t believe he didn’t wanna come to U.A." He pouted, kicking his legs out like a sulking teenager.

Shouta didn’t pause in his grading, but his thoughts drifted whilst Hizashi kept rambling.

Midoriya Izuku.

The kid was difficult to say the least.

Three days, and the kid was still a closed book. Not unusual for a foster situation, but something about Izuku felt… different. He wasn’t just quiet—he was guarded, like he was waiting for something to happen. He answered their questions when asked but never volunteered anything himself, he had never asked them for a single thing. He kept to his room when he could, barely touched his food, and always seemed hyper-aware of where they were in the apartment, like he was expecting them to corner him.

And then there was the phone thing. That had caught Shouta off guard. The kid didn’t have one.

That wasn’t normal.

Shouta had dealt with plenty of troubled kids before, but in this day and age, everyone had a phone. Schools required them for emergencies. Foster systems encouraged them for communication. Yet Izuku didn’t own one. He didn’t even seem to want one. Did this kid even know what wants were?

That sat wrong with him. The kid had been bounced between too many foster homes to count—surely one of them would have given him a phone, right? Even just to keep track of him? Even the worst placements typically offered something, if only for convenience. But Izuku had nothing.

And the worst part? He didn’t even seem surprised by it. Like it was just another fact of life, something he’d long accepted. Shouta didn’t like that. Didn’t like what it implied. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let it stay that way.

And then there was the moment he completely froze in the kitchen this morning. He’d just… stopped, staring at the counter like it held some kind of answer only he could see. Shouta had pretended not to notice, just watching from the corner of his eye. It took minutes before the kid blinked and kept moving like nothing happened.

Yeah. That wasn’t normal either.

Before Shouta thoughts could spiral too deep, Midnight suddenly gasped—loudly.

"OH MY GOD! I TOTALLY FORGOT YOU ADOPTED A KID!" she shrieked, sitting up so fast she nearly dropped her phone. "WHY HAVEN’T I MET THEM?!"

Shouta sighed. Here we go. He was dreading this part.

"Because you don’t need to yet." he muttered.

Midnight scoffed. "No, no, no, you don’t get it—this is huge! Eraserhead, a dad?! And Mic too?! How did I forget this?! I need details! What are they like? Are they like you?! Oh god, do they just nap all the time? Is that why they aren’t here?"

Hizashi snorted. "Babe, if he was like Sho, we’d never see him. Also, we are only fostering him right now.”

Shouta shot his husband a side glare. Rude.

"Then why didn’t he want to come to U.A.?!" she demanded.

Shouta exhaled slowly. "He doesn’t trust us yet," he admitted. "Or anyone, really."

He didn’t miss the way Hizashi’s expression faltered slightly. Had he really believed that fostering a teenager who had known nothing but hardship would be easy? That the kid would just settle in without hesitation? Midnight, however, leaned in, intrigued.

"Ohhh, so he’s a tough nut to crack, huh?" Her eyes gleamed with excitement. "That’s fine. I love a challenge! I have to meet him—immediately. Can I come over?"

"No."

"What? Why?"

"No."

"Can I bribe you?"

"No."

She groaned. "Ugh, you’re the worst!" Then, turning to Hizashi instead, she tried again. "Hizashi, please. You love me, right?"

Hizashi grinned, but his expression was softer now. "Yeah, but Sho’s got a point. Kid’s still figuring things out. Don’t wanna push him too hard." Then his face shifted, more serious. "Besides…I don’t think he likes me very much anyway."

Shouta could tell Hizashi meant it.

"Zashi, don’t take it personally. I just don’t think Midoriya is a people person."

Hizashi huffed. "You’re not a people person, and you like me!"

Shouta rolled his eyes.

Midnight crossed her arms with a dramatic sigh. "Fine. But the second he’s ready, I better be the first to meet him!" Shouta didn’t bother responding. Something told him that whether Izuku was ready or not, Midnight wasn’t going to wait long.

Finally, Shouta pushed his pile of tests to the side, the ink blurring slightly from his tired eyes. He glanced up at the two, a thought passing through his mind. "How many traps do you think will be waiting for us when we go home?"

Hizashi blinked, clearly thrown off by the sudden shift in topic. "What? Pranks in our house? Huh, no… he wouldn’t…" He paused, tapping his fingers on the desk thoughtfully. "….Probably at least five…."

Shouta didn’t even flinch. He was pretty sure Hizashi was underestimating the situation. Maybe they shouldn’t have given the kid the freedom to stay home, he thought to himself. But if that was what Izuku was comfortable with, then they’d just have to live with it. And the consequences.

Snipe, who had been quietly listening from across the room, finally joined the conversation. "Traps? Is this kid a troublemaker or something?"

Shouta’s answer was immediate. "Yes."

Hizashi, however, immediately disagreed. "No."

Shouta raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth that he hid in his scarf. "Mic, he literally put so much spice in your dinner last night you drank the whole carton of milk."

The mention of it caused a snicker to escape from Midnight, who covered her mouth, clearly amused. Hizashi shot her a glare. "He’s not a troublemaker. He’s just… getting used to us. That’s all." He shrugged, trying to defend Izuku. "Give him a week, and I’m sure everything will be okay."

Shouta wasn’t so sure. A week? He knew it would take longer than that for Izuku to feel truly settled. But he didn’t have the energy to argue. Instead, he grabbed his bag and stood up. "Let’s see if your 3D students will concentrate in my class."

"Of course they will, your scary Eraser." Midnight stated from her spot on the couch.

"What about me?! I can be scary!" Hizashi protested. Shouta paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder at his husband. "No, you can’t, Hizashi." Shouta’s voice was flat, the teasing barely hidden beneath the usual deadpan tone.

And with that, he left the room, the door closing softly behind him, leaving Snipe and Nemuri laughing in his wake.

*

Izuku was bored.

Painfully, excruciatingly, mind-numbingly bored.

And it was only 10 AM.

He sprawled across the couch in Aizawa and Yamada’s apartment, one leg draped over the backrest, the other hanging off the armrest, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it had personally wronged him.

He had already burned through his morning chaos.

Yamada’s guitar? Oh, that poor thing. He’d swapped out the strings with fishing line, which meant the next time Present Mic tried to shred, he’d be met with an ungodly twang before they snapped in dramatic, catastrophic succession.

Aizawa’s coffee? Buried behind the first aid kit in a cupboard. The man would tear the place apart before even thinking to check there. Izuku wonder how long it’ll take the man to notice his precious coffee is missing.

The bookshelves? He’d rearranged them by color, rather than by title or topic. Aizawa’s legal briefs were now snuggled up next to Yamada’s old music theory books, and their shared collection of battle analysis texts had been shuffled in with a stack of fantasy novels.

The thermostat? Set to an uncomfortably specific 23.7°C—too subtle to notice immediately, but just off enough to make them question reality. It was diabolical. They’d sit there, vaguely uncomfortable, never quite able to put their finger on why. Was it hotter? Colder? Were they imagining it? Was this room always this temperature? Were they getting sick?

Paranoia. That was the real trick.

Izuku smirked to himself, folding his hands behind his head. It was a masterpiece. A slow burn.

But even after all this…

He was still bored.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, sitting up in one fluid motion. His fingers drummed restlessly against his thigh as he glanced toward the window, the morning light spilling in across the wooden floor. There was no way he could just sit here and wait for them to come home. He had already conquered the apartment, and pacing around the same four walls for the next six hours sounded like a form of psychological torture.

He could swing by the club, see if they had any missions. He hadn’t checked in for a few weeks, and there was always something going on.
Of course, Aizawa and Yamada had told him not to leave the apartment without telling them.

Izuku huffed, rolling his eyes. As if he’d actually do that. They had enough to deal with at UA—he wasn’t about to distract them with this.. He’d be in and out, back before 4 PM, no harm, no foul.

Decision made, he pushed himself off the couch, stretching lazily before making his way toward the guest room. He crouched down, reaching into the back of the closet where his hoodie and gear was stuffed—folded neatly at some point, but now slightly crumpled from being shoved into the shadows like some kind of guilty secret.

The black hoodie was slightly oversized, worn just enough to feel comfortable. As he pulled it on, he rolled his shoulders against the familiar weight of the fabric, then caught his reflection in the hallway mirror.

He could barely see the vibrant color of his hair under the hood. That was the point. If anyone ever got too close, they wouldn’t be able to notice it, and if they did, it could lead to trouble. Someone spotting his hair and reporting it to the police would risk exposing his identity. His hoodie was a size small, but still far too big for him. All the hoodies he owned were small in size, but large on him in reality. They hid the fact that he was too small to be a fourteen-year-old. The last thing he needed was people noticing and offering their concern. He couldn’t handle the pity, and the food they’d force him to eat would be unbearable.

Without a second thought, he slipped on his shoes, grabbed his phone, and made his way to the front door. Sure, he could’ve left through the window, but what was the point? No one was around to stop him, and dramatic exits were only fun when there was someone there to be shocked by them.

No, today he’d leave like a normal person.

At least, that was the plan—until he came face to face with an angry-looking cat blocking the doorway. What was her deal?

"Eclipse, you need to move."

All he got in response was an intense stare.

"What the—did Aizawa program you to watch me or something?"

The cat narrowed its eyes, almost as if to say yes. In reality, he knew that was impossible. But still, how had this cat known exactly what he was about to do? Izuku was starting to freak out a little, silently, as his mind raced.

Without another thought, he waved his hand, shooing the cat away, which surprisingly worked.

With one last glance over his shoulder, Izuku stepped out the door, closing it behind him with a quiet click.

*

Meanwhile, at UA…

Hizashi was mid-sentence, dramatically explaining the finer nuances of English idioms to Class 2-B, when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Years of experience had trained him to make the motion look effortless—one smooth reach, a quick glance, and right back to business.

At least, that was the plan.

Because the moment his eyes flicked to the notification on his screen, his easygoing expression faltered just slightly.

Front Door Sensor Triggered – 10:14 AM

Hizashi frowned. Had the lil’ listener forgotten to text us he was going out? They had been pretty clear about the whole "if you leave, let us know" thing. Not because they wanted to lock the kid inside like some overprotective prison wardens, but because they just wanted to keep the kiddo safe.

His thumb hovered over his messages, already halfway to firing off a quick Hey, where you headed, kiddo? when a text popped up at the top of his screen.

Not from Izuku.

From Shouta.

You owe me 10 bucks.

Hizashi narrowed his eyes at the message. Oh, hell no.

His eyes darted out the classroom window toward the direction of gym beta, where he knew Aizawa was currently overseeing a combat exercise with Class 2A. Was that man seriously texting him from the middle of training?

Fingers moving quickly over the screen, Hizashi shot off a response.

It’s only been a few minutes. Maybe he’ll text one of us soon.

The reply was instant.

No he wont.

Hizashi sighed through his nose, running a hand down his face. He could already see Aizawa’s smug little smirk in his head.

They had a small, ongoing bet—nothing serious, just a quiet challenge between two men who had very different levels of faith in their problem child’s ability to follow basic instructions. Shouta had bet that Izuku would sneak out without telling them. Hizashi, foolishly optimistic fool that he was, had believed the kid would at least send a text.

Clearly, he was wrong.

However, if there was one thing Hizashi knew about his husband, it was that Shouta wasn’t even happy about being right. No, he was just so certain this would happen that it barely registered as a victory to him.

Hizashi exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a second before forcing his usual grin back into place. He had a class to finish. Then he’d deal with their little escape artist.

And his smug husband.

Double or nothing says he’s back before 4.

This time, Aizawa took a little longer to respond.

Then—

Deal.
Hizashi smirked.

Alright, kid. Time to prove him right.

*

Izuku slipped through the door of the club, his presence so subtle, so silent, that it was as if he were a shadow among shadows. No one took notice, no one turned to greet him. To them, he was just another face in the crowd, an almost imperceptible figure, blending into the dark corners where only the faintest light dared to reach. He didn’t have to wear his mask in here. Nobody knew he was Ghost. But he still wore his hood. To hide and protect himself. There was unwritten rule to not start any fights in the club, however sometimes it still happened.

He’d found this place when he was at his lowest, drawn by a need—no, a desperation—that was as raw as it was relentless. He needed money, needed it badly. Especially back then.

It was a year and a half ago when he had just started patrolling, however being a vigilante didn’t pay well. Or at all. He was too young to apply for anything legal. So, he’d started searching for something else. Anything. A job, but one that didn’t ask questions. One that wouldn’t care about his age or his story, or the hunger gnawing at his gut.

The club had appeared like a flicker of hope. Hidden behind a narrow alley, beneath a sign that barely clung to the wall with rusted nails, it felt like a forgotten relic of some shady underworld. No name. Just a place where deals were struck, and people came and went, drawn by their own desires and fears. It was the kind of place where you could lose yourself if you needed to.

Izuku still remembered his first night here—the heavy door creaking open, the cold air sweeping past him as he stepped inside, and how the dim, murky light seemed to swallow him whole. It was as though he had entered another world, one where no one cared about your past, your mistakes, or the bloodstains on your history.

For a moment, it had been the first time in a long while that he'd felt like he belonged. Back then, he’d been terrified—scared of the unknown, of what he might find in this place—but now, he had settled into its rhythms. He knew where to keep his distance, which gang members to avoid, which to talk to (mainly to get information) and which faces he could pass by without drawing attention. The fear had worn off, replaced by a cold understanding of the rules that governed this hidden world.

Now, as he walked deeper into the club, he fought the instinct to shudder at the reminder of why he had to find a place such as this. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into the flesh of his palms.

He could still hear the faint echoes his foster parents had spat at him as if he was in that basement again. They hadn’t been parents; they had been something else entirely, something vile and unworthy of the title. He remembered nights spent shivering in the darkness, his stomach hollow, only to be locked away like an animal. He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to let the memories rise to the surface. They were poison, and he was still too weak to swallow it.

So he pushed it down, deeper, further away, into that place where he buried everything. Don’t think about it. He repeated the mantra like a shield.

He found work here, taking on small, quiet tasks that never asked for too much in return. A task here, a task there. Enough to survive, to keep his stomach from growling, to keep himself in the world of the living. But not enough to drown out the hunger that gnawed at his soul.

Izuku walked past the group of people sitting in the corner, their conversations low and conspiratorial. The usual crowd. A few rough types, mostly men, some of them wearing the marks of violence and hard lives. He didn’t speak to any of them; it wasn’t necessary, he didn’t need information right now.

His eyes drifted to the far wall, where a board was mounted, filled with faded flyers and job postings. Missions, most of them. Some were simple, mundane tasks—deliveries, pickups, things that didn’t ask for much. But there were others. The darker ones. Assassinations, disappearances. Dangerous work. The kind that could set someone up for life if they had the stomach for it.

Izuku’s eyes lingered on one of the flyers for too long, his hand twitching involuntarily as he fought the pull of the temptation. He could do it. He could take the job, disappear for a while, and when he came back, he’d never need to work again. The money would last for years. The weight of that thought pressed heavily against him.

But no. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

His chest tightened, a flare of heat rushing to his face. No, Izuku, he thought fiercely, shaking his head as if to cast away the thoughts. You’re not a villain. You never will be.

His hands tightened into fists again, and he turned away from the board, forcing his gaze to shift to the familiar faces that filled the club. Nothing had changed. The same worn expressions, the same faces etched with the weight of their own secrets. The world here was stagnant, locked in its own quiet rhythm—a place that never asked too many questions. It had been weeks since he last came through those doors, but now, it felt as if no time had passed at all.

A strange kind of comfort settled over him. He didn’t belong here, not really. But in some twisted way, he did. This place was a constant, a reminder of everything he wasn’t going to let himself become. Every shadow, every corner whispered the same thing: Don’t fall into the darkness.

Then, out of nowhere, he felt a hand land on his shoulder. Without thinking, his body reacted before his mind had time to catch up. In a blur of motion, he grabbed the hand and threw the person over his shoulder with practiced precision, sending them crashing hard to the floor.

"Fuck, Ghost, that's no way to say hello to your friend."

His heart raced, adrenaline surging through him as his eyes snapped to the figure now sprawled on the ground, stunned but unharmed. It took Izuku a moment to register the words, his breath still coming in quick bursts, as he processed who he had just tossed over his shoulder.

And then it clicked. Rin. Of course. Who else would have the nerve to sneak up on him like that? Izuku let out an internal sigh. Of all the people to nearly break in half, it had to be him.

“You should know by now not to sneak up on me, Rin,” Izuku muttered, his voice low but tinged with a mix of annoyance and amusement. The adrenaline slowly retreated, leaving a faint buzz in his veins.

Seriously, Rin? What’s next? You gonna try to sneak into my room while I sleep? Because that’s how you get thrown through windows, buddy.

Rin didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. In fact, he was wearing that same smirk he always wore—a little too cocky, a little too self-assured for Izuku's taste. Izuku rolled his eyes, exhaling a sharp breath, and extended a hand to help Rin up. "You can’t just walk up on me like that."

Rin grabbed his hand with a nonchalant grin, pulling himself back to his feet. "Oh come on I was testing your reflexes," he said, dusting himself off like it was no big deal. "Wouldn't want you getting too comfortable in here, Ghost. Some of these people might mistake you for easy prey.”

Izuku didn’t respond immediately, his gaze drifting across the room. The usual crowd, the same faces, the same familiar hum of low conversations. Nothing had changed. He felt the tension ease from his shoulders.

Instead, he turned back to Rin, his voice quieter now. "You been here long?"

Rin shrugged with a playful glint in his eyes. "You know me. Always lurking where the action is." He leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "But you? You've been gone for a while. What's going on with you, Ghost? Something on your mind? Or just avoiding trouble for once?"

The first time Izuku had met Rin, he hadn’t cared much for him. He’d kept to himself, like he always did, but Rin wouldn’t have it. From the moment they crossed paths, Rin was insistent, not taking "no" for an answer, a relentless pest. Izuku had no intention of making friends. He didn’t need friends. He didn’t even want them. But somehow, despite himself, Rin wormed his way in.

It had started off with little things—a comment here, a joke there. And then, before Izuku knew it, he was talking to Rin.

And Rin… Rin was something else. He was a kind, lively boy, a year older than Izuku, and yet Izuku couldn’t quite understand how Rin had ended up in this place. But after hearing his story, it all made sense. The boy had opened up to Izuku the first chance he got—talking about his amazing quirk, his rough upbringing, and how his life had fallen apart. Somehow, Rin had slipped through the cracks, fallen through the system like a shadow.

He was free in a way Izuku had never been—free to do what he wanted, say what he wanted, without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Izuku wasn’t sure what to make of it, or of Rin. But somehow, here they were, in this strange, unspoken friendship—a bond that Izuku couldn’t shake, no matter how hard he tried.

“Just been busy with personal stuff,” Izuku finally muttered, trying to keep the conversation brief.

“Come on, man,” Rin said with a playful punch to Izuku’s shoulder. “I’ve known you for almost a year, and you haven’t opened up once. Not about your life. Not about your quirk. When are you going to tell me?”

Izuku shot Rin a pointed glare, his eyes narrowing. Is this guy really pushing this now? His thoughts were sharp, a sharpness that felt familiar and protective. He’d been keeping this secret for so long, and Rin’s insistence only stirred the deep, familiar anxiety that never quite left him. You have no idea what you’re asking for.

“No,” Izuku replied flatly, spinning around to look at the mission board, his gaze intentionally avoiding Rin’s.

If Rin knew who Ghost really was, if he knew the truth, it wouldn’t end well. For anyone involved.

If people knew Ghost was quirk less his enemies would come after him thinking he was an easy target. The police would catch on eventually, and then the truth would really come out. They’d figure out who Ghost really was, and then... he would be the one who would disappear.

Izuku’s grip on the board tightened, his fingers digging into the cold surface as if it could somehow ground him, centre him in the middle of this mess. He didn’t need to explain himself, not to Rin, not to anyone. The less people knew, the better. The last thing he needed was someone else getting too close. Rin didn’t need to know the truth.

“Alright, man, no need to shut me out. I can take a hint.”

Izuku let out a silent breath. That was the one thing he actually liked about Rin—he could catch on quickly. No unnecessary pushing, no needling. Just understanding when to back off.

Rin leaned in a little, glancing at the board. “So, you looking to pick up a task, then?”

Izuku nodded, his attention still fixed on the various flyers pinned to the board. "Yeah, something simple to pass the time.”

Rin tilted his head, his gaze scanning the options before his fingers wrapped around one of the flyers. He read the description, then looked back at Izuku, an eyebrow arched. “How about this one?” He passed it to Izuku with a smirk that Izuku didn’t trust in the slightest.

Izuku glanced down at the flyer, his eyes skimming the details before his brow furrowed in confusion and disbelief. He looked up at Rin, unable to mask his incredulity. "You’re either joking or out of your mind to suggest this one."

Rin just grinned, that trademark smugness written all over his face. "What, is Japan’s most annoying stuck-up vigilante afraid he won't be able to handle it?"

Izuku scowled, his teeth grinding. This guy really knows how to get under my skin... He couldn't help but feel the sharp edge of annoyance. Rin was relentless when it came to pushing his buttons, and it worked every damn time.

"Who the hell would want to take on something like this?" Izuku muttered under his breath, his voice a mix of frustration and concern. This guy wants me to get caught, doesn’t he? Izuku thought. Seriously? Who picks the job that screams "Hey, come arrest me"?

But of course, Izuku couldn’t say no now that Rin had sprouted all that nonsense. He was Japan’s most elusive vigilante, after all. He had a reputation to uphold. But if he got caught? Especially if he got caught by Detective Tsukauchi? Izuku shuddered. Getting caught was not an option.

Izuku let out the loudest exhale and turned on his heel toward the door, the flyer still clutched in his hand.

"That’s the Ghost I know," Rin called after him. "Now, let me just grab my stuff and we can—"

Izuku stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. “We?”

“Yeah, you’re going to need help, and who better than me!” Rin grinned like he just figured out the secret to the universe.

Izuku blinked a few times, trying to process what Rin just said. Did he really just say "who better than me"? The audacity.

Izuku strolled over to him, placing a hand on Rin’s shoulder, the weight of the world in his eyes. “Rin, I can’t believe I have to remind you this, but you’re not a vigilante."

Rin shrugged with a cocky grin. “Yeah, I know, but I can be a great distraction. Especially with my quirk! It’s perfect for exits! Plus, I basically don’t exist—being pronounced dead and all. They wouldn’t be able to link it to me.”

Izuku paused, mulling it over. He wasn’t wrong. I can’t believe I’m saying this... “Alright, fine. Grab your stuff and meet me out front.”

Izuku watched as Rin skipped away with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm for someone about to help break into a police station. This kid might actually be the death of me. Is this what Greenlight thought of me? Oh god, I’m the idiot that’s dragging him into this mess...

Izuku sighed, shaking his head. At least I don’t have to do it alone. But even that thought didn’t ease the growing dread in the pit of his stomach.

*

Okay, remember the plan... you’re only supposed to distract the detective. Nothing else. I’m going through the vent on the west wall." Izuku’s voice was firm, his words clipped as he looked Rin dead in the eye, hoping the gravity of the situation would finally sink in.

“Yeah, yeah, Ghost. I can handle this.” Rin cracked his fingers with that cocky grin of his, like he was about to walk into a bakery instead of a police station.

Izuku blinked and stared at Rin, a deep sense of regret flooding through him. Why the hell did I agree to this? His mind was spiraling. The entire plan was a disaster waiting to happen. And yet here they were, about to pull it off. Maybe.

“Ghost, I don’t have to see your face to know you’re stressing. Chill out.” Rin leaned back against the wall, completely unfazed, like this was just another day at the office.

Izuku couldn’t even look at him. He felt a dull ache behind his eyes. Oh my god. This is how Ghost is going to get caught, isn’t it? His thoughts were a blur of anxiety. I can’t believe I’m trusting this guy to not mess this up. What was I thinking?

He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Just focus, Izuku. You’ve got this. You’re not going to get caught. You’re not going to get caught.

But as he glanced at Rin—smirking and cracking his knuckles like he was about to step onto a stage—Izuku couldn’t shake the feeling that this was already spiralling out of his control.

Too late now. Izuku thought with a grimace, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on him. There was no turning back now. He pulled himself into the vent, the metal cool against his palms as he maneuvered through the narrow space. The scent of dust and stale air hit his nose, but it was the least of his worries. His body ached from the cramped quarters, and the weight of the mission hung over him, a constant reminder that failure wasn’t an option.

Every movement felt exaggerated in the confined space, each soft clang of his boots against the metal grate echoing far too loudly in the otherwise quiet building. He tried to quiet his breathing, focusing on the path ahead. He needed to stay sharp—silent, efficient. It was simple: get in, delete the files, and get out. Nothing could go wrong. Come on, Rin. Don’t mess this up.

The vent system was a maze of twists and turns, every corner feeling like it would lead him to a new dead end. Izuku kept his eyes ahead, relying on instinct to guide him. He could hear distant murmurs—voices, perhaps, from a few rooms over. There was an undeniable hum of electricity, machines working in sync with the people around him. The faint buzzing of computers and radios, the sound of an office in full swing.

The closer he got to the target room, the more alert he became, his senses on high alert. Almost there. His heart thumped louder with every movement, but his body had long since trained itself to move silently. No one would hear him. Not unless they were listening for him specifically.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he reached the vent leading into the room where Tsukauchi was stationed. Izuku carefully slid the vent cover aside, peering through the small opening. His eyes locked onto the familiar figure of the detective, hunched over his desk, typing furiously at his computer. Tsukauchi’s back was to him.

The door to Tsukauchi’s office suddenly swung open, and Izuku's heart skipped a beat as he put the vent back into place. His breath caught as a uniformed officer stepped inside. The officer leaned in, speaking low, too low for Izuku to hear, but his gut told him Rin was following the plan. Tsukauchi stood, grabbing his coat with a quick motion, and then—just like that—he was out of the office.

Without a second thought, Izuku unlatched the vent grate and dropped down into the room, landing silently on the floor. He immediately moved toward the desk, fingers already reaching for the computer. The task was simple enough.

He had done this a thousand times before. The computer system was locked, but nothing Izuku couldn’t handle. He bypassed the initial security in a matter of seconds, the screen flickering as he accessed the encrypted files.

The job wasn’t glamorous, but it wasn’t horrible. Tsukauchi had a file on his computer that someone at the club wanted erased. With a few quick keystrokes, he was deep inside the system, his mind focused. Just a couple more steps…

His fingers moved faster, the commands flowing as his expertise kicked in. Every piece of security was bypassed like it was child's play, the files deleted without a trace. He double-checked his work—everything was wiped clean. He just needed to—

Then, out of nowhere, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Who would be calling him, wait he didn’t have a phone? Shit. He forgot about how Aizawa had given him his phone and how they would call him around lunch.

He quickly glanced at the phone. It was Yamada’s name flashing on the screen. If he didn’t pick up, it would raise red flags. Izuku cursed under his breath, trying to remain composed. He tossed a quick glance at the door, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard.

Focus. You can do both.

With a sigh, he pulled the phone from his pocket and hit accept.

“Hey, Kiddo, how’s the online study going?” Yamada’s voice crackled through the phone, loud and casual. Izuku flinched, but forced himself to speak as he typed away.

“It’s going good. I’m just taking a small break right now,” Izuku replied, keeping his tone neutral.

“Is that so…” Yamada dragged the words out. “Whatcha up to then?”

Shit. Izuku tried not to let his nervousness slip into his voice. “Just watching a documentary.”

“Very cool. Which one?” Yamada pressed, obvious to the chaos it was causing in Izuku as he thought of a lie. Why does he have to ask a billion questions?

“The nature one…” Izuku muttered, the sound of his fingers clacking away at the keys almost drowning out his own words. He couldn’t stop now, he was so close. “Right…” Yamada said slowly. There was a slight pause on the other end of the line, and Izuku could almost hear the grin on Yamada’s face. “Well, not sure if Sho told you, but we left some senbei in the fridge for you. Have you eaten it?”

Izuku froze. Of course, he hadn’t eaten it. He’d been too busy breaking into a police station. He wasn’t sure what kind of response would be the safest, so he went with the easiest one. “Yeah, it was great.”

“Mmhm, sure it was,” Yamada replied. “Alright then, kid. Don’t work too hard on that study, you hear?”

And that was exactly when the lights In the room flickered. Indicating he had Incoming. Thanks for the warning Rin. Izuku’s heart was pounding, his eyes darting nervously toward the door as he heard footsteps approaching. “I gotta go BYE.”

Without waiting for a reply, he slammed the phone down, trying to focus on his work. His fingers flew over the keyboard, finishing the last line of code just as the footsteps in the hallway drew closer.

With a final press of a key, the system flashed a confirmation. The file was gone. Everything was perfect.

And then, the door swung open.

*

A few minutes Prior.

Tsukauchi sighed as he stood from his desk, rolling his shoulders as he made his way toward the front of the station. Some kid had apparently come in, claiming to have information on Ghost. He wasn’t sure whether to be intrigued or annoyed—probably both.

More than anything, he was sceptical. Not many people had ever seen ghost and people who claimed to have information on Ghost were either lying or looking for a quick payout. None of them ever had anything solid.

Still, he had a job to do.

When he entered the room, he was met with the sight of a teenage boy, maybe fifteen, shifting awkwardly on his feet. He had dark hair, messy like he hadn’t bothered brushing it, and bright blue eyes that darted around the station as if memorizing every exit.

Suspicious.

The kid perked up the moment he noticed Tsukauchi walking in. “Oh! Hey! You must be the detective, uh—” He snapped his fingers like he was trying to remember. “Tsuka…Tsu… Tsukiyaki?”

Tsukauchi gave him a flat stare. “Tsukauchi.”

“Right, right! That’s what I said,” the kid chirped, grinning far too easily.

Tsukauchi sighed, already feeling a headache coming on. “You said you had information on Ghost.”

The kid nodded, rocking on his heels. “Yup. Sure do.”

True

Tsukauchi waited. The kid just stood there, grinning.

“…Well?”

“Oh! Right. So, uh… I saw Ghost the other day.”

True

Tsukauchi’s eyebrow twitched. “You saw him?”

“Yeah! He was, uh, doing his little—" the kid waved his hands vaguely, “—sneaky thing.”

“Sneaky thing,” Tsukauchi repeated, deadpan.

The kid nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, you know, the whole whoosh thing. One second he’s there, the next he’s not.” He clapped his hands together for emphasis. “Gone. Just like that.”

Tsukauchi crossed his arms, a growing sense of frustration building. This was getting ridiculous. “And where exactly did you last see him?”
“Oh, you know, just… around.”

Lie. Tsukauchi exhaled slowly, his patience wearing thin. “That’s not an answer.”

The kid hesitated, clearly scrambling for something that sounded believable. “Uh—near an alley. By a store?”

Lie.

Was this kid asking him? Tsukauchi pinched the bridge of his nose. This wasn’t getting any better. “That’s still not an answer, and it’s not even a good one. I should’ve mentioned earlier—my quirk is a lie detector. Half of what you’ve said has been a lie. So, kid, what exactly are you trying to pull?”

The kid laughed nervously. “What? I’m not lying.” Lie. “I’m just doing my part to keep this city safe, trying to help bring in Ghost. I mean, if he weren’t so elusive, you guys probably would’ve caught him by now, huh?”

Tsukauchi’s eyes narrowed. Something didn’t sit right. His instincts were on edge, a sharp, nagging feeling he couldn’t shake. The kid was dodging the question on purpose. It wasn’t just the lies—it was the way his words didn’t match the unease in his eyes.

This wasn’t some kid just making up stories for attention. The way he talked about Ghost… it was too familiar.

Then, trying to fill the silence, the kid blurted out something that made the detective freeze.

“Yeah, I mean, you probably hate how he keeps slipping away, huh. Down those alleys on fourth.”

Tsukauchi’s eyes snapped to him.

His blood ran cold. That wasn’t public information. No one outside of the task force knew where Ghost was seen. Let alone where Tsukauchi lost the vigilante most nights on Fourth street. How did this kid know that unless—

“What did you just say?”

The kid stiffened. His face went blank, eyes wide as if he just realized what he had said.

“Uh…” He swallowed. “Nothing?”

Lie

Tsukauchi took a step forward. This kids story makes zero sense but there was one thing he knew was that this kid had a connection to Ghost. “What did you say your name was, kid?”

The boy let out an awkward chuckle, taking a slow step backward. “Oh, you know, names aren’t that important. I mean, what even is a name, really?”

Tsukauchi’s jaw tightened.

That wasn’t an answer.

The kid’s eyes darted toward the door. “Well, uh, this has been fun! Really, it has. But I should probably go. My parents are probably wondering where I am, and I wouldn’t want to—”

He took another step back, hand reaching for the door handle—

Click.

Tsukauchi had shut the door before he could leave, his expression unreadable.

“Kid,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “I’m only going to ask once.” He met the boy’s gaze, watching his every move. “What’s your connection to Ghost?”

The kid stilled.

For a second, Tsukauchi swore he saw a flicker of something in the kid’s eyes—something sharp, something far too knowing for a fifteen-year-old.

Then, to his complete and utter disbelief—

The kid smirked.

“Oh, you know, I wouldn’t say Ghost and I are connected,” he said casually, tilting his head. “But you and him? I hear you two have a long history, sunshine.”

Tsukauchi’s breath hitched.

That damn nickname. Only one person called him that.

Before he could react, the air around the kid shimmered, as well as the lights above them—his body seemed to flicker, like a mirage—

And then—

He was gone.

Vanished.

Tsukauchi’s eyes widened. “What the—?!”

He whipped around, scanning the room, but there was no trace of the boy. No sound, no movement—just gone, as if he had never been there at all.

Tsukauchi stood frozen, his brain scrambling to process what had just happened. He knew the kid wasn’t Ghost. Too tall, too reckless, too eager to run his mouth. But the way he spoke—like he knew him, like he had insight no random street kid should have—didn’t sit right.

What was the point of all of this? Why had he just been pulled out of his office for something so unnecessary?

Unless—

His stomach dropped.

This was planned.

Tsukauchi cursed under his breath and turned on his heel, moving fast. His footsteps pounded against the floor as he rushed through the station, dodging startled officers. His heart hammered in his chest, the pieces clicking into place at an alarming speed.

Ghost was in the building. He was here. He had to be. And if that kid was the distraction—

Then his office was the target. More importantly, it would have been his computer.

“Shit,” he muttered, breaking into a full sprint.

Tsukauchi shoved the door open, ready for anything—an empty room, a shattered window, a hastily abandoned computer screen.
What he wasn’t ready for—

Was him.

Sitting there.

At his desk.

Looking as smug as ever (he assumed even though he had a mask covering half his face), spinning lazily in his chair like he owned the damn place.

Tsukauchi’s breath caught for half a second before his instincts kicked in. His hand shot to his cuffs. “Ghost, you’re under—”

“No, I’m not.”

Tsukauchi blinked. “What—?”

“No.” Ghost said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like the very idea of him being arrested was a mild inconvenience, easily dismissed.

Tsukauchi clenched his jaw. “That’s not how this works.”

Ghost hummed, leaning back in the chair, completely at ease. “That’s exactly how this works.” He gestured vaguely to the detective’s desk. “I already wiped what I needed to. You’re too late.”

Tsukauchi’s hand tightened around his gun, but he didn’t draw it. Of course he would never actually shoot the kid. Even though he really wanted to sometimes. He knew better than to underestimate Ghost. The kid had slipped through his fingers too many times for him to be reckless now.

“You broke into a police station.” Tsukauchi took a careful step forward. “Into my office, during the day of all times. That’s bold—even for you.”

Ghost just shrugged. Does this kid really thinks hes getting out of here. Tsukauchi exhaled sharply through his nose. “You do realize I have half the station just outside this door?”

Ghost grinned. “Oh, I counted. Eighteen officers within a thirty-foot radius. Twenty-two if you include the break room, but I doubt Officer Yamamoto is moving from his noodles anytime soon.” He tilted his head. “So really, the odds aren’t that bad.”

Tsukauchi resisted the urge to rub his temples. He could already feel the headache forming. “You’re insane.”

Ghost tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I prefer ‘resourceful.’”

Tsukauchi was so close to losing it. “You do realize there’s no way you’re walking out of here, right?”

Ghost grinned wider. “Oh, Sunshine,” he said, the nickname rolling off his tongue like a taunt. “Who said anything about walking.”

Just then, Ghost flicked his wrist, and a knife sailed through the air. Tsukauchi barely had time to react before it embedded itself in the wall just inches from his head.

Is this kid CRAZY?!

Before he could even process that near-death experience, the unmistakable sound of shattering glass filled the room.

Tsukauchi whipped his head around just in time to see the last few shards of his very expensive office window falling to the pavement below. And—of course—Ghost was already gone.

The damn brat had jumped.

His eyes snapped back to the knife lodged in his wall, his pulse still hammering. It wasn’t thrown at him, but it was damn well close enough to make his life flash before his eyes.

He inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing down the overwhelming urge to scream.

Instead, he stormed over to the shattered window, gripping the frame as he peered down. The street below was empty. No sign of a vigilante-shaped splatter, no trace of movement. Just like that, Ghost had vanished into thin air.

Tsukauchi slammed his fist against the windowsill, gritting his teeth.

“I hate that kid.”

Dragging a hand down his face, he turned back to his ruined wall.

“I am begging whatever higher power is out there,” he muttered under his breath, “send me a skilled underground hero to track down and arrest this absolute headache of a vigilante before I lose my damn mind.”

Because at this point, he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. If the kid didn’t end up getting himself killed, Tsukauchi might just do it himself—for no other reason than the sheer amount of pain and suffering ghost had caused him.

*

Izuku leaned against the bar, rolling his shoulders as he stared down at the drink in his hand. His fingers itched, a phantom sensation where his favourite knife used to sit snug in his grip. It pissed him off more than it should. He should be used to sacrifices by now, but this one stung. Better the detective have it than him, he supposed. But still—fuck.

Rin chuckled beside him, still riding the high of the mission. “Omg, Ghost, you should’ve seen the man’s face when I called him Sunshine,” he said, mimicking his own voice with a shit-eating grin. “You were right. It was priceless.”

Izuku huffed a laugh but didn’t respond. His eyes flicked to the bag that had just been dropped onto the table in front of them. Payment in full. He unzipped it, scanning the crisp bills before zipping it back up and shoving it toward Rin without hesitation.

“All yours.”

Rin blinked, his head snapping up in surprise. “What?! Ghost, are you sure?”

Izuku shrugged, tipping back the rest of his lemonade. “Don’t need it.”

Rin looked like he wanted to argue, but Izuku had already tuned him out, his eyes drifting to the digital clock behind the bar. The glowing numbers made his stomach drop.

Shit. It was 3.03pm.

His pulse spiked. It would take at least an hour to get back to the apartment. His fosters would be home by four. If he didn’t beat them there—

Izuku shoved off the barstool without another word, already moving for the exit. He felt Rin’s confused stare burning into his back, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides as he calculated his route, mind racing through shortcuts and alleyways.

He had to run. Had to make it back first.

After what felt like hours of running, Izuku finally skidded to a stop in front of the apartment building, his chest heaving, lungs burning. His hoodie clung to his back, damp with sweat, and every muscle in his legs ached from the relentless sprint across the city.

He reached for the front door handle—only to find it locked.

“Are you kidding me?” he muttered, resting his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. He checked the time, shit they would be home any minute. He clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose. Guess he was using the window. Great.

With tired limbs, he dragged himself around the side of the building, eyes flicking up toward his bedroom window. Third floor. Nothing he hadn’t done before. His hands found familiar grips as he climbed the fire escape, the rusted metal creaking slightly beneath his weight. By the time he reached the ledge, his arms were shaking from exhaustion, but he shoved the window open and hauled himself inside.

The moment his feet hit the floor, his body screamed in protest. His knees nearly buckled, but he forced himself to stay upright, quickly stripping out of his gear and replacing his sweat filled hoodie. Muscles aching, he trudged through the apartment until he reached the couch and collapsed onto it with a heavy sigh.
He just needed a second to breathe—

Beep.

His stomach twisted.

Izuku barely had a second to school his expression into something neutral before the door swung open.

And in walked Aizawa and Yamada.

He stayed slouched on the couch, stretching his arms over his head with an exaggerated yawn like he hadn’t just sprinted across the city, climbed three flights of fire escapes, and nearly collapsed from exhaustion. Oh yeah and he jumped out of a window.

“Yo,” he greeted casually, blinking at them like he’d been there all day.

Yamada hummed, shutting the door behind him before strolling toward the couch with an easy grin. “Yo, kiddo! How’s the day been?”

Izuku shrugged, playing it cool. “Good, I finished all my classes so now I’m just relaxing.”

“Yeah?” Yamada flopped down on the armrest, elbow resting on his knee as he leaned in slightly. “So, just chillin’?”

“Yup.”

Aizawa didn’t even acknowledge the conversation. His eyes barely flicked toward Izuku before he turned his attention elsewhere. “Where are the cats?”

Izuku pointed toward the bedroom without looking. “Sleeping.” Of course, that was a guess. He had no freaking idea.

Izuku exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his body to stay relaxed despite the lingering burn in his legs and the way his pulse still hammered from the run. He was fine. He just had to act normal.

But Yamada was still watching him. Too closely. Too amused.

“So,” Yamada started, tilting his head slightly, “did you like the senbei I made?”

Izuku didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It was great.”

Yamada hummed, tapping his fingers against the armrest. “Huh. That’s funny.” He leaned in slightly, smile still there, but something sharper creeping into his tone. “Because I didn’t make senbei. I made oyakodon.”

Izuku froze.

Shit.

His fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, but his face stayed carefully blank. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. He couldn't let them see him panic.

Yamada sighed, his usual energy dimming just a little. “Kid, we know you left the house.” His voice wasn’t accusatory, just… disappointed. “I thought we made it clear—if you go out, you tell one of us. You had the chance when I called earlier.” He crossed his arms, expression softening just a little. “So why didn’t you?”

Izuku stared at the floor. His jaw tightened. There was no point in lying now, but that didn’t mean he was going to explain himself either.

“… I didn’t think it mattered,” he muttered finally, his voice flat, distant.

Yamada sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck. “It does matter, Midoriya.”

Izuku didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just kept staring at the floor, shoulders tense, waiting for the conversation to be over.

“It matters,” he said again, softer this time. “Not because we wanna control you, but because we need to know you’re safe.”

Izuku’s fingers twitched against his hoodie, but he didn’t respond. His shoulders remained rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor like if he just stayed quiet, the conversation would end.

Yamada exhaled through his nose, then ran a hand through his gelled-up hair. “Alright,” he said finally, stepping back and letting some of the tension ease from his voice. “I’ll let Aizawa handle this one.”

Izuku’s stomach twisted.

Great. Cause that was so much better.

Like on cue, Aizawa returned from checking on the cats. “You left,” Aizawa stated, not a question, not an accusation—just fact.

Izuku nodded stiffly, still staring at the floor.

“You didn’t tell us.”

Another nod.

Aizawa set his bag down on the counter and moved to sit Infront of Izuku, on the coffee table. “And when Mic gave you an opportunity to be honest you lied.”

Silence. God why were they treating him like a kid. He could handle himself for god sake.

Izuku swallowed. He could feel the weight of their stares pressing down on him, waiting for him to say something, anything. But what was he supposed to say? That he hadn’t even thought about telling them? That slipping out unnoticed was second nature at this point?

That he didn’t see why it mattered—because no one had ever cared before?

Aizawa’s voice was calm, but firm. “You need to understand something, Midoriya. We’re not your enemies. We’re not trying to trap you here. But if you disappear without telling us, we can’t help you if something happens.” His eyes darkened slightly, and for the first time, there was something almost… frustrated in his expression. “And we can’t keep you safe if you won’t let us.”

Izuku’s jaw clenched.

Safe.

Funny. He had spent years keeping himself safe. Keeping himself alive.

He didn’t need them to do it for him.

“…I can take care of myself,” he said finally, voice quieter than before.

Aizawa sighed. “I know you think that.”

That hit something raw, something defensive. Izuku’s fists clenched. “I can.”

Aizawa met his gaze, unreadable. “You don’t have to.”

That—Izuku didn’t know what to do with that.

He dropped his gaze again, the weight in his chest growing heavier. The room felt too quiet, too tense. He just wanted them to stop looking at him like that.

“…It won’t happen again,” he mumbled, though he wasn’t sure if he actually meant it.

That’s when Aizawa nodded and walked towards the kitchen. Just a few more minutes, then Yamada would hopefully leave him alone too.

He glanced to the side, catching sight of Yamada removing his boots, his face blank, as if worn down by something he couldn’t shake.

Had Izuku stressed them out by leaving the house? How had they even known he'd left? Wait—oh no, it was the cat, wasn’t it? That furry little traitor had ratted him out. He should’ve just gone out the window like he originally planned.

Then—

Silence.

The kind of silence that made Izuku’s instincts scream at him to run.

A heavy presence filled the room, and Izuku’s shoulders tensed as his eyes flicked toward the kitchen entrance.

Aizawa was standing there. How long had he been standing there and why was he looking at him, with that look. It made a shiver run down his spine.

His gaze locked onto Izuku’s, dark and sharp, his expression unreadable—except for the barely restrained fury burning just beneath the surface.

Oh.

OH.

Izuku suddenly remembered.

The coffee.

Right. Ha

He had hidden all of Aizawa’s coffee earlier that morning. For fun. Just to see how long it would take him to notice. Turns out? Not long at all.

Aizawa’s grip on the doorway tightened slightly, his knuckles whitening. “Midoriya.”

Yamada, who had been watching the interaction, suddenly looked nervous. His eyes darted between his husband and the teenager on the couch, his voice a little higher than usual as he whispered, “Midoriya… what did you do?”

Even he looked scared.

Izuku opened his mouth, ready to deny it—

That’s when he felt something tighten around his waist.

The sensation of fabric coiling, pulling.

His stomach dropped.

Izuku barely had time to inhale before the scarf tightened, yanking him clean off the couch. His stomach flipped as he was dragged across the room, feet scrambling for balance, but Aizawa wasn’t having it. The fabric coiled around him with expert precision, locking his arms against his sides like a damn straightjacket.

Oh, he was so screwed.

Aizawa pulled him in close, his voice low, rough, and deadly calm. “Where.” A pause. A breath. “Is. My. Coffee.”

Izuku swallowed hard. He could feel the heat of the man’s glare boring into him, could see the slight twitch in his jaw, the taut grip of his fingers as if he was seconds away from putting him through the floorboards.

“I—” Izuku started, then promptly shut his mouth when the scarf tightened.

Yamada, still perched on the armrest of the couch, looked like he was debating whether to intervene or pray for Izuku’s survival. He lifted his hands, his usual grin slightly strained. “Uh, babe? Maybe we take a deep breath—”

Aizawa ignored him. His attention was locked solely on Izuku, his dark eyes unreadable beneath the messy curtain of his hair. “You have three seconds to tell me where it is.”

Izuku, ever the genius, went with: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The room was silent. He thought he heard Yamada gasp behind him but he wasn't sure entirely.

The scarf jerked him closer, until he was practically nose-to-nose with Aizawa, who now looked one second away from committing a felony.

Yamada stood up so fast the couch nearly tipped over. “Midoriya, for the love of God!”

Izuku cracked a nervous grin, eyes darting around the room like an escape route would magically appear. “Okay, okay! It’s—” He hesitated, quickly running through his options. He could lie, drag this out just to be an ass about it… but something told him Aizawa was not in the mood.

“Top cabinet,” he blurted out. “Behind the first aid kit.”

Aizawa didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Then, finally, the scarf loosened just enough for Izuku to breathe properly again.

Without a word, Aizawa turned on his heel and stalked into the kitchen.

Izuku let out a breath—only to stumble when the scarf shoved him backward, sending him crashing onto the couch with a heavy thud.

Yamada gave him a look. “Kid. You do not mess with his coffee.”

Izuku groaned, rubbing his ribs. “Duly noted.”

From the kitchen, the sound of a cabinet slamming open and the rattle of a coffee tin echoed through the apartment.

Then Aizawa’s voice, low and irritated:

“What did you do to the coffee machine!?”

Izuku winced. Yeah. He was probably going to die.

Chapter Text

The evening was a goddamn nightmare.

Detective Tsukauchi sat hunched over his desk, buried under an avalanche of reports and statements that blurred together in the station’s dull light. His coffee had gone cold hours ago, abandoned in favor of endless deadlines. Even with Sansa working tirelessly beside him, the paperwork never stopped breeding. It spread across his desk like a disease, suffocating any hope of an early night.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled sharply. The station was unusually quiet tonight—just the low hum of the ceiling fan and the distant murmur of officers working late. But that silence only made the weight pressing against his skull feel heavier.

Then, three sharp raps on the doorframe cut through the stillness.

Tsukauchi almost groaned aloud. If this was about more paperwork, he was going to throw himself out the newly replaced window. No hesitation.

“Come in,” he said, voice flat.

The door creaked open, and an officer stepped inside, uniform slightly rumpled from the late hour. “Detective, your newest underground hero is here.”

Shit. Tsukauchi had completely forgotten they were scheduled to arrive tonight. And since he was the lead detective on duty, that meant it was his job to get them up to speed. Perfect. Beside him, Sansa yawned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Who is it?”

The officer hesitated. “No clue. Thought he was a homeless guy when he walked in.”

Tsukauchi tilted his head.

Homeless?

“Send them up,” he said, waving the officer off. The door clicked shut, leaving nothing but the scratching of pens against paper and the quiet hum of the office. Minutes dragged by. Then, finally, the door creaked open again.

In stepped Shouta Aizawa, looking as exhausted as ever.

Tsukauchi blinked. He hadn’t expected them to send an experienced underground hero.

Of all the people they could’ve chosen, Aizawa wasn’t one he had considered. He knew the man, but not well—just enough to respect his efficiency, his skill, and his unshakable deadpan demeanor. They’d worked cases together before, and if there was one thing Aizawa excelled at, it was getting things done. Quickly.

“Good evening, Aizawa,” Tsukauchi greeted, voice heavy with exhaustion. He gestured toward Sansa, who had frozen mid-note-taking. “This is Officer Sansa.”

Aizawa gave a slow nod, his sharp gaze flicking to the disaster zone that was Tsukauchi’s desk.

“That’s excessive,” he remarked.

Tsukauchi let out a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, that’s thanks to my two-year-long problem.” He paused before adding, “Which is now your problem, Eraserhead.”

Aizawa raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to—”

“Wait—you’re the Eraserhead?” Sansa blurted, practically strangled with disbelief.

Aizawa barely reacted, shifting his weight slightly, as if debating whether or not to respond. Tsukauchi sighed, unimpressed. “Sansa, really?”

But the officer was still staring, slack-jawed. “Naomasa, you’ve basically won the lottery with them sending him—”

Tsukauchi frowned. No idea what the man was on about. His confusion must’ve been obvious because Sansa continued, voice edging on excitement.

“Let’s just say the gods have actually listened to you.”

That… didn’t help.

Aizawa looked just as lost.

Tsukauchi frowned. “Alright, sure. Moving on. Do you have experience with vigilantes?”

Aizawa didn’t hesitate. “Too much unfortunately.”

And just like that, everything clicked into place. Oh. That’s what Sansa was getting at.

A slow, electric thrill settled deep in Tsukauchi’s chest, buzzing under his skin like live wire. The exhaustion that had been dragging at his limbs all night evaporated. The paperwork? Forgotten. The headaches? Gone. For two years, Ghost had been a thorn in his side—no, a ghost in the damn system. Always one step ahead. Always just out of reach. A smug little shit who outmaneuvered villains and officers alike, laughing in their faces as he vanished into the night.

But now?

Now they’d sent Eraserhead.

A pro who specialized in shutting vigilantes down. Someone who didn’t care about red tape or PR. Someone who would actually get the job done.

Tsukauchi leaned forward, eyes practically gleaming. He was buzzing with energy now, sharp and focused like a predator that had finally caught the scent.

“Alright, listen up. We’ve got a reckless kid out there playing hero. No clue what his Quirk is—hell, we don’t even know if it’s a Quirk—but he’s been a ghost for two years. Every time we get close, he vanishes like smoke.”

Aizawa hummed, unimpressed. “And?”

He was a stark contrast to Greenlight, and Tsukauchi was beyond grateful for it. No jokes. No theatrics. Just sharp, quiet focus—the kind of man who cut through nonsense like a scalpel.

“And he laughs in the face of villains,” Tsukauchi said, voice rising in frustration. “Laughs, Aizawa. Like it’s all a damn game. He’s reckless. Fearless. The kind of idiot that makes you want to retire early and take up gardening. And worse? He’s good at it. He’s been outsmarting both criminals and officers like it’s second nature. This kid’s a problem. Sooner or later, he’s gonna piss off the wrong person and end up dead in a gutter.”

Aizawa folded his arms, eyes narrowing. “Two years, and no one’s caught him?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Tsukauchi muttered. He leaned in, dropping his voice like they were sharing state secrets. “Catch him tonight, and I’ll buy you coffee for a year.”

That got Aizawa’s attention.

Tsukauchi didn’t miss the way his eyes flicked just slightly, like a calculation had started running in the back of his head. He knew the man lived on caffeine—it was probably the only thing standing between him and actual death by exhaustion.

A full year of free coffee? That was a damn strong motivator.

For a beat, Aizawa just stood there, still as stone. Then, the corner of his mouth lifted. Barely. Not quite a smile—but for Aizawa, it was practically a declaration of war.

“…Alright,” he said, rolling his shoulders with the lazy grace of a predator stretching before the chase. “Let’s catch a kid.”

Tsukauchi grinned, all teeth.

Finally.

The hunt was on.

*

It had been a week, a long stupid week, and Izuku was still stuck at Aizawa and Yamada’s apartment. No matter what he did, they refused to kick him out. At this point, he was convinced that if he set the entire place on fire, they would just glance at the flames, sigh, and continue on with their day.

He had thrown prank after prank at them—moved their furniture just slightly off-center, swapped Yamada’s hair gel for extra-strength glue, man was not happy but he didn’t do anything about it. He even turned all the photos in the apartment upside-down. But nothing worked. Aizawa barely reacted, and Yamada just laughed it off like it was some kind of elaborate joke. Izuku had learned his lesson after the coffee incident, though. He would never, ever mess with Aizawa’s coffee again.

Some lines weren’t meant to be crossed.

But none of that really mattered now.

Izuku was exhausted, but not from his failed attempts at getting thrown out. His real exhaustion came from something else entirely—patrolling. The red-light district had no real hero presence, no one looking out for the people trapped in its shadows. And if the so-called professionals wouldn’t step in, then he would.

Every night for the past week, he crept through the streets like a ghost, slipping between alleyways, watching, waiting. He stayed out later and later—first until one, then three, then four. Last night, he barely made it back before sunrise, his body weighed down by exhaustion, his mind buzzing with the knowledge that no matter how much he did, it still wasn’t enough.

The last night when he had returned late—later than usual—he had nearly run straight into Eraserhead outside the apartment complex as the man was returning from patrol. He remembered the way his heart had slammed against his ribs, the sheer panic that had sent him diving behind a bush. Aizawa had stood there for a long moment, scanning the street, and Izuku had thought for sure he was caught.

But then, Aizawa had just sighed. Not annoyed. Not angry. Just… tired.

Then he had turned and walked inside without a word.

Izuku still wasn’t sure if Aizawa had seen him that night. But now wasn’t the time to dwell on that.

Izuku—no, Ghost—perched on the edge of a rooftop, shrouded in darkness, watching the deal unfold below. The red-light district was always crawling with scum like this—dealers preying on the desperate, the forgotten, the people society had decided weren’t worth saving.

It was only 11 p.m., but exhaustion already weighed heavy in his bones. At least tomorrow was Sunday. That meant a few extra hours of sleep, though he doubted it would make much of a difference. The kind of tired he felt wasn’t something a few extra hours of rest could fix anyway.

His breath was slow, controlled, barely stirring the cool night air as he observed. Two men stood in the alleyway below, speaking in hushed tones. One was a dealer he’d seen before, a greasy-haired lowlife who went by Kenta. The other was new—young, twitchy, looking over his shoulder every few seconds like he expected the shadows themselves to swallow him whole.

Ghost frowned. This kid wasn’t just some junkie looking for a fix. His hands were shaking, and his eyes darted around like he was looking for a way out. He didn’t want to be here.

That was all the confirmation Ghost needed.

He moved.

A quiet leap carried him to the fire escape. His steps were soundless, practiced, the metal barely creaking beneath his weight. He could have waited to see how the deal played out, but he already knew. The moment money changed hands, that kid would be trapped. And Ghost wasn’t about to let that happen.

He dropped from the fire escape, landing silently behind them.

The dealer noticed too late, how unfortunate...

Ghost struck fast, grabbing Kenta’s wrist before he could react. With a sharp twist, the man yelped, dropping the small bag of powder to the ground.

“The hell—?!” Kenta wheezed, twisting in an attempt to break free. But Ghost was already moving, twisting the dealer’s arm behind his back and shoving him against the alley wall. The kid stumbled back, wide-eyed. “W-who—?”

Ghost ignored him, pressing his forearm into Kenta’s back. “This is the last time I catch you dealing in this district.” His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the threat in his tone. Kenta scoffed, wincing. “You think you can stop—?!”

Ghost didn’t let him finish. He shoved him harder against the brick, forcing a pained grunt from the man’s throat. “Try me,” he said, voice cold.

Kenta’s breathing was ragged now, panicked. “A-alright! Alright! I got it, man! No more deals here!”

Ghost held him there for a moment longer before finally releasing him. The dealer stumbled forward, clutching his wrist. He glared, but the fear in his eyes was unmistakable. Without another word, he bolted, disappearing into the shadows. Ghost turned to the kid, who still hadn’t moved.

“You okay?”

The kid flinched but nodded quickly. “Y-yeah. I— I wasn’t really gonna buy anything, I swear, I just—”

Ghost held up a hand. “Go home.”

The kid hesitated but eventually nodded, turning on his heel and sprinting away.

Izuku exhaled slowly, forcing his pulse to settle as he adjusted his grip on the stolen bag of drugs. He should get moving. Staying still for too long was a rookie mistake—one he didn’t make.

But then Izuku heard it before he saw it.

A single step. Boots against damp pavement. Slow. Deliberate. Familiar.

He didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.

He knew that walk. Instead, his lips twitched, keeping his back to the alley entrance.

“You’re too late, detective,” he called over his shoulder, voice dripping with easy arrogance. “Deal’s already broken up, and your friendly neighborhood ghost has everything under control.”

A familiar sigh followed. “You mean, you interfered with a crime—again.”

Izuku smirked. He loved how fast he could get under the detective’s skin.

Finally, Izuku turned, cocky grin in place, hands stuffed in his pockets like he didn’t have a care in the world. Naomasa Tsukauchi stood at the mouth of the alley, looking just as exhausted as always. His fedora was slightly askew, his trench coat stained from the endless grime of the city, and his shoulders carried the weight of a man who had long since stopped expecting things to go smoothly.

But something was… off.

Izuku narrowed his eyes. The detective’s expression was unreadable, sure, but there was something beneath it. Something too controlled. He looked… expectant. Like a chess player who had just moved his queen into place.

“You really should stop doing my job for me, kid,” Tsukauchi groaned, stepping forward. “One day, you’re going to pick a fight with the wrong people.” Izuku raised an eyebrow and threw the bag of drugs at the detective. “One day? You say that like I don’t fight the worst of them every night.”

Tsukauchi frowned but caught the bag. “You think you do. But you don’t know half of what’s out there.” His gaze never left him.

Izuku rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. ‘You’re just a kid. You’re gonna get yourself killed. Let the pros handle it.’ Heard this one before, detective. You got anything new for me?”

Izuku had thought about what would happen if he just disappeared one day. Honestly? Nothing. No one would really miss him. Maybe Yamada would be sad for a little while—but he’d move on. He always did. The only thing keeping Izuku going, the one thing that stopped him from giving up entirely, was the people in this district. The ones everyone else had forgotten. He was all they had… because no one else was coming.

The detective’s frown deepened.

“Ghost.”

Izuku sighed dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “Ah, using the alias. You must be serious.”

Tsukauchi pinched the bridge of his nose. “I mean it, kid. You can’t keep this up forever. You need to stop before you get hurt—before someone else gets hurt.” Something in Izuku’s chest twisted at that, but he shoved it down, smirking wider. “You do realize you’ve been trying to catch me for two years, right?”

The detective’s eyes flickered slightly.

Izuku tilted his head, lowering his voice to something quieter. “And in all that time, you had exactly one person who ever stood a real chance of stopping me.” His grin sharpened, but there was something bitter underneath it now. “And you sent them away.” Izuku continued. “So, detective, seriously—what makes you think you can stop me now?”

Tsukauchi didn’t react. Didn’t defend himself. Didn’t argue. That was when Izuku knew something was definitely wrong. His stomach curled. Had he walked into a trap? Whatever. He could easily deal with whatever it was.

Normally, Tsukauchi would have sighed, rubbed his temple, tried to reason with him, something. But right now? He was too relaxed. Too controlled. He was waiting for something. The detective took another step forward, the dim glow of a streetlamp catching the hint of a smirk—small, almost imperceptible, but there.

And Izuku hated it. It was like he knew something Izuku didn’t. Normally it was the other way round.

“Oh,” Tsukauchi said simply, voice laced with something almost amused. “Just him.”

And then he heard it.

A soft thud behind him.

Izuku's breath hitched. His entire body locked up, instincts screaming at him before his mind could catch up. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t dare turn around. Someone had landed a few feet away behind him—silently. If it had been some random thug, they wouldn’t have been so quiet. If it had been a hero, he should’ve sensed them coming.

But he hadn’t.

He hadn’t noticed.

He was more exhausted than he thought. That was dangerous. Was it Greenlight? No. She was gone. No one else patrolled this district. No one cared enough to. So who—

“You know,” a voice drawled behind him, calm, steady, but edged with something unreadable. “Kids shouldn’t be out this late.”

Izuku’s stomach dropped. His smirk vanished completely, not like they could tell anyway. He felt like someone had just punched and kicked him in the gut, at the same time.

No.

No, no, no.

He knew that voice.

Fuck.

His hands clenched into fists as he fought the instinct to bolt on the spot. He forced himself to stay still, to think. It can’t be him. He doesn’t patrol here. He’s never patrols here before.

But then he heard the man take a step closer, boots scuffing against the pavement. Izuku took a deep breath, turned, slow, reluctant, every movement stiff as if the air itself had thickened around him.

And there he was.

Eraserhead.

His current foster parent. For fuck’s sake. This was his worst nightmare. No—this had to be a dream. Maybe he should slam his head against the wall just to be sure. Except Izuku never had dreams. So this had to be reality..

Eraserhead stood a few feet away, his posture relaxed, but Izuku knew better. His scarf was loose around his shoulders, but the capture weapon never hung slack unless he wanted it to. His sharp black eyes studied Izuku—no, ghost— carefully, expression unreadable beneath the thick shadows of his unkempt hair.

Izuku felt trapped.

The alley felt smaller, the walls closing in, the darkness pressing against his back. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond. It was like he had reverted to pathetic Izuku—like he was just some scared kid again.

No.

No—he had to stand his ground. Right now, he was Ghost. He couldn’t let them see the panic creeping in. Wait. He was panicking? He never panicked. Snap out of it, Izuku.

His lips curled into a sharp smirk, arms crossing as he tilted his head in mock curiosity.

“I didn’t know they let homeless people be heroes,” he sneered. “Guess they’ll take anyone these days.”

Eraserhead didn’t react. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Not surprising.

Izuku had spent a week trying to get under the man’s skin—snide comments, passive-aggressive remarks. Nothing. The man was an impenetrable wall. Well… unless it involved coffee, but Izuku was not stupid enough to go there again.

Instead, The man just stood there, arms loosely crossed, eyes sharp and unreadable beneath the wild mess of his hair. He didn’t need to do anything to be intimidating. The air around him was heavy, pressing down like a silent warning.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, finally—

“You done?”

Izuku scoffed, rolling his eyes. God, he was no different from how he acted at the apartment. He honestly expected more from the pro hero.

“What, no lecture? No ‘vigilantism is illegal’ speech?”

Eraserhead exhaled, slow and steady. “Didn’t seem like you were listening to them anyway.”

Izuku huffed. “Wow…So what exactly has the detective told you about me. How they have failed for the past 2 years to capture me? How I basically do half their job for them.”

Behind him, Tsukauchi sighed. “Ghost, come on. This doesn’t have to go on like this. We can help you.”

Izuku’s smirk twitched. God he was so sick of hearing those words. Those lies.

“Oh, that’s rich,” he snorted turning his head. “Tell me, detective—when, exactly, have the heroes ever helped me?”

Tsukauchi didn’t answer.

Izuku’s grin sharpened. “Yeah. Thought so.”
Eraserhead finally moved—just a step forward, but it was enough to make Izuku tense, enough to make his fight-or-flight instincts spark like a live wire. If Aizawa recognised him, his life as Ghost and Izuku Midoriya would be over. Then who would help the people in this area. The answer was nobody.

“You’re not a criminal.”

The words were calm. Certain. The man didn’t know him. He barely even knew Izuku. So why was he so certain about that. Something about the way Eraserhead said it—like it was just a fact, like it was so obvious—made his chest feel tight, like something had wrapped around his ribs and squeezed.

But before he could process it, Eraserhead kept going.

“You are, however, an idiot.”

Izuku snapped out of it immediately. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Eraserhead said flatly, gaze cool and unshaken. “You think running around in the dead of night, picking fights with dealers and lowlifes, is actually doing anything?”

“Yes, actually,” Izuku shot back, folding his arms. “Or should I just sit back and let them run this district into the ground like the real heroes do?”

Eraser's eyes narrowed. The air shifted. The weight of his presence settled, pressing down like a storm cloud. Izuku barely stopped himself from taking a step back. Damn he could be intimating when he wanted to be.

“You’re one mistake away from getting yourself killed.”

Izuku smirked, tilting his head, letting his grin widen under his mask with mock amusement. "Please. If someone could kill me, they would've already. Just like with you trying to catch me—you would've done it by now if you could."

Behind him, Tsukauchi let out a deep sigh and mumbled. “Oh for the love of—do you have to antagonize everyone you meet?”

Izuku didnt turn to look at the detective he's gaze was locked on Eraser, the real threat right now. Eraserhead fingers twitched—just barely—but Izuku saw it. The tiniest shift of tension in his posture, a reminder of how dangerous this man truly was. He was ready to strike. But Izuku was ready.

“Overconfidence will get you killed faster,” Eraserhead said, voice low, colder than before.

Izuku let out a sharp laugh, something bitter dancing in his tone. “Wow, is that actual concern I hear? You’re getting soft, old man.”

Eraserhead’s eyes darkened. Just a small shift—a slight tilt of his head, a subtle repositioning of his stance—but it screamed danger. The kind that didn’t need to shout to be heard. “So,” he said, voice low and unreadable, “you’ve heard of me.”

Of course he had. Who hadn’t?

The underground whispered Eraserhead’s name like a curse. The man who erased Quirks and erased people just as easily. The one who showed up without warning and made vigilantes disappear like smoke. No big hero speeches. No dramatic arrests. Just silence.

If you were lucky, you walked away with broken pride. If you weren’t—you didn’t walk away at all.

Izuku didn’t flinch. Didn’t answer. He just stretched his arms, slow and deliberate, like he was shaking off tension before a jog. His heart was hammering, but his face wore a lazy grin.

He already knew how this would go.

Because this wasn’t just another patrol. This wasn’t Greenlight. This was Eraserhead. And that meant this was going to get ugly.

Still, Izuku couldn’t help himself. You’ve heard of me? Please. What kind of insult was that?

Yeah, I’ve heard of you, jackass.

As if Izuku hadn’t just watched him unironically eat cereal for dinner two nights ago. In his pajamas. Muttering under his breath because someone (Izuku) had used the last of the milk and didn’t tell him.

He kept the words behind his teeth, but they burned at the back of his throat. He wasn’t scared. No, it wasn’t that. He just—he couldn’t afford to be.

Eraserhead took a single step forward. Calm. Controlled.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “I’m giving you a chance to turn yourself in before it gets messy.”

Oh, that was cute.

Izuku almost laughed. It would’ve been funny if it didn’t make his blood boil.

Turn myself in? As if that was ever on the table. As if he hadn’t already tried asking for help—begging for it—when he was younger, only to get tossed aside like garbage. As if people like him ever got to walk away clean.

He cocked his head, a cocky little smirk forming. “Guess we’ll see,” he drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Eraserhead took a single step forward. It was subtle, but to Izuku, it felt like the click of a cocked gun. At the same time, Tsukauchi spoke, a warning “Ghost.”

Izuku didn’t need to be told twice. That was his cue to go. Now.

He shifted his weight—

The capture weapon snapped forward.

Izuku dodged. Barely.

The scarf whipped past his face, close enough to graze his mask. Izuku twisted, leaping for the nearest fire escape—

The scarf caught his ankle.

Shit.

He twisted midair, wrenching his body in the opposite direction, and slammed his free foot into the side of the building. The impact jarred his bones, but it gave him just enough leverage to rip himself free. He hit the rooftop hard, rolling into a sprint before his brain fully caught up.

He wouldn’t get caught. Not tonight.

Izuku’s boots skidded across the roof as he sprinted, adrenaline pumping through his veins. His breath was ragged, but the smile never left his face. He’d been running for two years—two long years as Ghost—and in all that time, no one had even come close to catching him. He was untouchable. No one—no one—could outsmart him.

Eraserhead wasn’t going to change that. They was in his territory. His home.

His smirk widened as he glanced behind him. The Erasure Hero was closing the distance, his heavy boots thudding against the rooftop. He didn’t even seem to be breaking a sweat. It was honestly kind of impressive… but also annoying as hell.

"You’re persistent, I’ll give you that," Izuku called back over his shoulder.

Eraserhead’s voice cut through the air, flat and deadpan, as always. “This doesn’t have to be harder than it is.”

Izuku snorted, barely breaking stride. “Hah, I didn’t ask you to chase me, Hobo. If you’re going to follow me, at least keep up.”

The crackling irritation in Eraserhead’s silence only made Izuku laugh harder. The guy was trying so hard to be all serious and intimidating, but Izuku could see right through it. He knew what was going on. He was getting under the mans skin, and that was exactly how he liked it.

He leapt to the next building, pushing himself faster. The rooftops blurred by as he calculated his next move. The city lights flickered below, but none of that distracted him.

After what felt like forever—in reality, just thirty minutes—he’d finally lost him. Izuku scaled down a fire escape, landing silently on the alley floor below. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. That could’ve gone worse.

But just as he thought the coast was clear, the unmistakable sound of fabric snapping through the air made his blood run cold.

Shit.

Izuku’s heart skipped a beat as the fabric wrapped tightly around his waist and arms, yanking him backward with a force that sent him crashing onto the cold, unforgiving concrete. He barely had time to react before he found himself staring up at Eraserhead, the man’s face devoid of emotion. His capture weapon was still coiled tightly around Izuku’s body, holding him down with no effort at all.

How the hell had he snuck up on him for the second time that night?

"What the hell, Hobo?" Izuku gritted out, thrashing against the scarf even though he knew it was useless. His chest tightened with an unfamiliar wave of panic—one he refused to let Eraserhead see. "You really think you can catch me that easily?"

Aizawa stared down at him, his expression as unreadable as ever. "You've been a pain in the ass tonight. I don’t know how Tsukauchi survived the past two years." He leaned in slightly, voice calm, assured. "And yes, I did catch you that easily."

Izuku hissed, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Oh, really? You really think this is over, this is far from it.”

Aizawa didn’t respond. Instead, he just pulled the scarf tighter, dragging Izuku toward the alley exit.

"Tsukauchi’s waiting, and I’m about to score a year’s worth of free coffee while I patrol this sector," Aizawa muttered. The words were quiet—but they hit Izuku harder than he expected.

It wasn’t the coffee part. Of course Tsukauchi offered the man free coffee to catch him. Dirty move, detective.

No, it was the patrol part that made Izuku tense. A whole year? Don’t tell me Eraserhead is Greenlight’s permanent replacement.

Okay—sure, it was nice in theory. He wouldn’t be the only one patrolling the area anymore. But also? This was officially the worst news he’d ever heard. If Eraserhead—no, Aizawa—was going to be stationed in the red-light district... he was completely screwed. Not that he wasn’t already. What with him being literally trapped part and all.

Izuku’s stomach twisted with irritation, but there was something more—a deeper, gnawing sensation. A sinking feeling that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t going to get out of this one. That feeling was fear. He’d never felt fear as Ghost, which only made the panic that much worse.

The realization slammed into him hard. His vision blurred for a split second, and his breath caught in his throat. He stopped trying to fight the scarf. The walls of the alley seemed to close in on him as the tension in his chest built. This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t suppose to go this way. No, no, no... this wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Get up,” Aizawa said, dragging him through the alleyway with little care for his protests. “or I’m going to keep dragging you.”

Izuku ignored the mans words. He was still fighting the panic curling in his gut as he looked around frantically, but there was no way out. No escape. This was it. He was caught. And worse… he was leading him straight to Tsukauchi. Eraser ended up grabbing his arm and forcing him to stand.

The detective stood by the car, arms crossed, his expression unreadable—until he got a good look at Izuku. Then his brows shot up, surprise flickering across his face. Disbelief. Tsukauchi blinked, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “You… actually caught him?”

“Of course I did,” Eraserhead replied, his voice flat, almost bored, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I don’t miss.”

Izuku’s heart slammed against his ribs, his breath catching. His skin felt cold, clammy—his pulse roared in his ears like a war drum.
He was caught.

He was trapped.

No way out.

No. No. No.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

His chest squeezed so tight it hurt. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. His whole body felt wrong—shaky, unsteady, like he wasn’t in control of himself anymore.

Tsukauchi took a step forward, the sharp edge in his voice gone. “Kid?” He softened, eyes scanning the top of his face—really looking at him now. The way his breath was coming too fast, too shallow. The way his pupils were blown wide, the whites of his eyes visible in a way that wasn’t normal.

“Hey,” the detective tried again, slower this time, careful. “You're okay.”

Izuku’s breath stuttered. He was not okay. He was the furthest thing from. He felt small, caged, like a wild animal backed into a corner.

He had to go.

A hand pressed against his back, firm but not rough, trying to guide him toward the car.

No.

Something in him snapped. He didn’t think. He just moved. His foot connected with something—someone—hard. A sharp grunt. A stumble. A dull thud against pavement.

Tsukauchi. He had just kicked the detective hard in the ribs.

Izuku’s mind lagged, slow to catch up, like he was watching it happen from outside himself. He had never—never—hurt Tsukauchi before.

But there was no time to process it.

He turned to run—

The scarf yanked tight.

Oh. He had forgotten. Izuku gasped, panic crashing over him like a tidal wave.

No, no, no—

He pulled, twisted—nothing. The scarf held firm. Too firm. He couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe?

His lungs burned. His chest was caving in, crushed under the weight of something he couldn’t fight, couldn’t escape—

His body wasn’t listening.

His mind wasn’t listening.

Panic clawed its way up his throat, squeezing tighter, tighter—

It hurt.

Tsukauchi groaned, pushing himself up, but he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even frustrated. He looked at the kid in front of him, really looked, and his stomach dropped. This wasn’t the kid who snarked at villains and made a game out of evading the law. This wasn’t the fearless, cocky ghost he’d been chasing for two years.

This was a terrified child.

“Kid—”

“Please.”

The word was raw, desperate, broken. Izuku’s whole body shook as he fought against the scarf, gasping like he couldn’t get enough air. “Let me go.”

Eraserhead stiffened.

This… wasn’t what he expected.

The way Tsukauchi had talked about Ghost, he was supposed to be a problem—a cocky, impossible-to-catch thorn in their side. Someone who laughed in the face of danger.

But this kid wasn’t laughing.

This kid was scared. Was he scared to get arrest, or afraid of them? Or was it something else entirely?

Eraserhead’s grip on the scarf loosened just slightly, not enough to free the scared kid, but enough to allow one of his arms to break free. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. Steady. “You know we can’t do that,” he said. “What you’ve been doing is dangerous. And illegal.”

Izuku barely heard him over the roaring in his ears.

Move. He had to move.

His hand fumbled beneath his sleeve, fingers shaking. But they found the handle of his knife—cold, familiar, real. He would of been fucked if Eraser had released his other arm.

One swift motion. A flash of steel.

The scarf snapped free.

And so did his skin.

Pain flared hot and sharp as blood soaked into his hoodie, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

“Ghost!”

Tsukauchi’s voice—panicked, worried—but Izuku was already moving, bolting down the alley.

“Damn it,” Eraserhead hissed, taking off after him.

Izuku ran. Legs burning, arm screaming, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. A fence. High. Barbed wire at the top. Didn’t matter. He reached it, scrambled up—

A hand grabbed his ankle, fingers brushing fabric.

Izuku didn’t even look back, he just kicked. Not hard, not enough to hurt—just enough to make them let go.

And then he was over.

He hit the ground on the other side, his knees screaming in protest. His breath was ragged, his limbs shaking, but he forced himself forward. Someone shouted something at him, but Izuku didn’t hear it. Didn’t want to.

He just ran.

And this time, he didn’t stop until he reached the apartment.

*

Shouta hated paperwork.

He hated a lot of things, really—early mornings, noisy classrooms, heroes who cared more about fame than saving people. But right now, sitting in Tsukauchi’s office at Six in the damn morning, filling out reports about how they almost caught Ghost? Yeah. Paperwork was at the top of the list.

He slumped into the chair across from Tsukauchi, rubbing a hand over his face. His body ached from the chase, his eyes burned from exhaustion, and worst of all—he wasn’t even getting his free coffee.

Because he didn’t catch the kid.

The kid.

Not the vigilante. The kid.

Shouta exhaled slowly, letting his head tip back against the chair. Neither of them had spoken much on the way back. They didn’t need to. The same thoughts were weighing on them both.

Ghost had been terrified.

The moment he’d cut himself free, Shouta had known. That wasn’t the move of some cocky vigilante who thought he could outmaneuver a pro hero. That was pure desperation. A survival instinct overriding everything else.

And that didn’t sit right with him.

Ghost wasn’t supposed to react like that.

From what Tsukauchi had told him, the kid was reckless. Smug. A nightmare to catch because he never took things seriously. He was unpredictable. He taunted villains, ran circles around cops, and pulled off stunts that should have gotten him killed a dozen times over.

That wasn’t the kid Shouta had seen tonight. It wasn’t even close.

Tonight, he’d been tense. Jumpy. The second he’d realized he wasn’t getting away, something had shifted. Panic—real, deep-set panic—had taken over. And when Tsukauchi had tried to steer him toward the car—

Shouta exhaled again, opening his eyes to glance at the detective.

Tsukauchi was staring at his desk, brow furrowed, fingers drumming absently against the wood. He looked as tired as Shouta felt. More than that—he looked worried.

“You’re thinking the same thing, aren’t you?” Shouta muttered.

Tsukauchi sighed. “That I’ve been chasing this kid for two years and I’ve never seen him react like that?” He shook his head. “Yeah. I’m thinking the same thing.”

A pause.

Then—

“That wasn’t fear of getting arrested, Aizawa.” Tsukauchi’s voice was quiet. “That was something else.” Shouta frowned, arms crossing over his chest. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Tsukauchi let out a tired chuckle, though there was no humor in it. “Yeah? Tell me about it.”

Shouta sat up straighter, the exhaustion taking a backseat to something else. Something like curiosity. He replayed the chase in his mind, dissecting every detail. The kid was fast. Sharp. Every movement was instinctual, like he wasn’t even thinking—just reacting. If Shouta had been a rookie, he had no doubt he would’ve lost him.

But he wasn’t a rookie. He was a pro with years of experience. But in the end, he still didn't have the kid.

“I used my quirk on him.”

That got Tsukauchi’s attention. His fingers stopped drumming against the desk, gaze flicking up. “When?”

“Before I caught him.” Shouta narrowed his eyes, remembering how the kid had kept running like nothing had happened. “Didn’t slow down. At all.” Tsukauchi’s frown deepened. “So speed isn’t his quirk.”

“Or if it is, it’s got nothing to do with his physical movement.” Shouta leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “That means everything he pulled off tonight—the running, the climbing, breaking out of my scarf—that was all just him.”

The detective exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I knew he had skill but i thought it was to do with his quirk. That’s not normal.”

“No, it’s not.”

Shouta had restrained plenty of criminals before. Some struggled, some panicked, some fought tooth and nail, but none of them had reacted like that. None had ever gotten out of his scarf, especially like that.

And then there was how light the kid had felt. When he’d pulled him back with the scarf, he expected some resistance. Expected to feel weight. But Ghost had barely weighed anything at all. He should’ve been heavier.

“Naomasa,” he said slowly, voice quieter now, “What kind of life do you think he’s had?”

The detective didn’t answer immediately.

The way he hadn’t hesitated to hurt himself just to escape. The way he’d flinched the second Tsukauchi touched him.

“This isn’t just some kid playing hero,” he finally muttered.

“No,” Shouta agreed. “It’s not.”

If it took Tsukauchi this long to realize… then what kind of hell had this kid been living in to end up here?

Kids didn’t just wake up one day and decide to become vigilantes. Not like this. Not with the kind of desperation Ghost had.

This wasn’t about thrill-seeking. It wasn’t about rebelling against authority.

This was survival.

And if this was the only way the kid knew how to survive… then what had he been running from in the first place? There was a story behind this kid, one Shouta was going to unravel.

Shouta’s fingers tapped against the arm of his chair. “What did the last underground hero on this case do?”

At that, Tsukauchi sighed, dragging a hand down his face before leaning further back into his seat. Clearly a touchy subject.

“You don’t wanna know.”

Shouta narrowed his eyes. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

Tsukauchi hesitated, then finally, finally looked at him.

“She befriended him,” he said, voice heavy. “And refused to arrest the kid.”

Shouta stared.

Wait.

What?

Shouta blinked, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Befriended him? That wasn’t— That didn’t make sense. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean she refused to arrest him?”

Tsukauchi exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Exactly that. She made contact, got close to him, and when she had the chance to turn him in, she didn’t.”

Shouta frowned, a thousand questions fighting for space in his head. “Who was it?”

The detective hesitated before muttering, “Greenlight.”

Shouta stilled.

He remembered her—had met her back when she was still a rookie. She’d had potential as an underground hero. A damn good hero in the making. Greenlight was sharp, competent—one of the best among the underground. Especially for how young she is.

She hadn’t been soft. Not in a way that made her a liability, at least. If she had chosen not to arrest Ghost, then there had to be a reason. Shouta studied Tsukauchi carefully. “You’re telling me she just… let him go?”

Tsukauchi was quiet for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. “She believed in him.”

Shouta raised a brow. “Believed what?”

“That he wasn’t a criminal.” Tsukauchi met his gaze, and for once, there was something else in his expression. Something weighed down by memories. “That he was just a kid trying to survive. That he wasn’t doing this for fun or some vigilante thrill—he was doing it because he thought no one else would.”

The words settled heavy in Shouta’s chest.

Because that tracked.

A reckless kid who ran into fights he shouldn’t. Who never stayed in one place for too long. Who reacted to getting caught like he wasn’t afraid of getting arrested—he was afraid of what would happen if he stopped moving.

Shouta had seen adults like that before. But not kids.

Shouta exhaled slowly, the weight of that realization settling heavy in his chest.

Across from him, Tsukauchi ran a hand through his hair, his usual composed demeanor cracking at the edges. “What do we do now?” His voice was low, strained. Uncertain. “There’s an injured kid out there, and we don’t even know if he’s okay.”

He sighed, pressing his fingers to his temples. “Two years, Aizawa. Two years of chasing him, trying to pin him down, and I—” He shook his head. “I think this is the first time I’ve actually been worried about him.”

That made two of them.

Shouta’s gaze flickered toward the half-written report in front of him, but his mind was elsewhere. Thinking. Turning over possibilities. Solutions.

“What if I took a page out of Greenlights book?”

Tsukauchi looked up at that, wary. “What do you mean?”

Shouta leaned back, fingers drumming against the armrest. “What if I got close to the kid? Built some trust. If I can convince him to turn himself in willingly, maybe we can get him the help he actually needs.” He met the detective’s gaze. “We hear his story. We go from there.”

Tsukauchi let out a slow breath, eyes shadowed with something that looked a lot like doubt. “Aizawa—” He hesitated. “That was also Greenlight’s plan at the start.”

Shouta grunted.

Tsukauchi gave him a pointed look. “And in the end, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.” His voice softened, as if the words carried more weight than either of them wanted to acknowledge. “Her last patrol… That’s when she decided. She stopped seeing him just as a vigilante and started seeing him as a kid who needed help.”

Shouta’s jaw tightened. “And even she realized it in the end.”

That only made it more obvious.

This wasn’t about taking down a vigilante. This was about saving a kid who never should’ve had to become one in the first place.

His grip on the chair tightened. “That means I have to succeed.”

Tsukauchi let out a dry, tired chuckle. "You’re getting soft, Aizawa."

Shouta rolled his eyes. "Call it whatever you want," he muttered. "I just don’t want to find that kid’s body in an alley one day."

Silence settled between them.

Neither of them said it, but they both knew the truth.

If nothing changed—if someone didn’t reach him soon—that was exactly where this was headed.

*

Izuku barely registered the feeling of the window sliding shut behind him as he slipped into his room, his breath still uneven from the hour-long run home. His side burned with every movement, the deep cut just below his ribs pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

Pushing past the exhaustion, he moved on autopilot, grabbing the first aid kit from his backpack and settling on the bed. His hands trembled slightly as he threaded the needle, but he ignored it, forcing himself to focus. He’d done this before. Plenty of times.

The first stitch sent a fresh wave of pain through his side, but he clenched his teeth, refusing to stop.

Pain meant he was still here. Still in Aizawa and Yamada’s guest bedroom—not rotting in an interrogation room, forced to stare at his foster parent’s cold, emotionless face.

He was here. Still breathing.

And for now, that was enough.

Once he finished, he collapsed under the covers, exhaustion pressing down on him. But no matter how hard he tried—no matter how tired he was—sleep wouldn’t come.

Because the pain wasn’t what kept him awake.

It was the fear.

The moment he arrived something inside him had cracked. It wasn’t fear—not in the way it should have been. He’d faced pros before, evaded them with ease.

He’d trained himself to handle situations like this, to stay in control no matter who he faced. But Aizawa had spoken, and suddenly his responses had felt slower, less certain. His body had tensed in ways it shouldn’t have. His mask had slipped, just for a moment, and in that moment, he’d been Izuku instead of Ghost.

Had Aizawa noticed?

He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the blanket tighter. He couldn’t let that happen again.

By the time the soft glow of dawn crept through the curtains, Izuku had given up trying. His mind hadn’t stopped spinning all night, thoughts tangling into knots he couldn’t undo.

The moment he heard faint movement from the kitchen, he forced himself up. The house was supposed to be empty—except for the cats, who had curled up in their usual spots, blissfully unaware of the turmoil clawing at his chest. Aizawa would still be asleep after patrol, and Yamada was usually out by now.

So he wasn’t expecting anyone when he stepped into the living room.

The scent hit him first. Sweet, warm, unfamiliar. His nose twitched as he tried to place it, eyes landing on the stove where Yamada stood, humming softly as he flipped something golden-brown onto a plate. Pancakes. At least, he thought that’s what they were. He’d never had them before, but the scent was pleasant—comforting, even.

For a moment, he almost turned around. He didn't deserve that.

He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the weight of last night still pressing against his ribs, or the way his body screamed for rest he hadn’t given it. Maybe it was just the quiet, creeping guilt of standing in the home of people who didn’t really know who he was.

But then Yamada turned, beaming.

“Morning, kiddo! How’d you slee—”

The words cut off abruptly. The bright, easy warmth in Yamada’s expression dimmed the second his gaze landed on Izuku.

Izuku stiffened.

Why was he looking at him like that?

Was it his hair? Did it look messier than usual? Did he have something on his face?

“Midoriya, are you okay?” Yamada’s voice was serious now, tinged with concern. “You look really pale.”

Izuku barely had time to process before Yamada put the spatula down and took a step toward him.

His chest tightened.

It wasn’t a threatening movement—if anything, it was casual, natural. But instinct flared up before he could stop it, and his feet shifted back, widening the space between them.

Yamada froze mid-step.

Izuku forced his voice to stay even. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m normally this pale.”

Yamada didn’t look convinced. He tilted his head, eyes scanning him a little too carefully. “You sure? You look as pale as a ghost…”

Izuku nearly snorted at that.

But he swallowed down the reaction, choosing instead to ignore the comment entirely. “Where’s Aizawa? I thought he’d be the one making breakfast.”

At that, Yamada perked up slightly, grabbing the spatula again. “He messaged me this morning—said he wouldn’t be home till later. He’s working on a new case. Apparently, it’s a tricky one. He didn’t say much.”

Izuku went still.

His fingers twitched at his sides, but he forced himself to nod, like the information meant nothing. Like it didn’t send a cold, sinking feeling straight to his stomach.
Aizawa was working on a tricky case.

In other words that case was him.

Great. Now he wasn’t just wasting his foster parents time—he was wasting a pro heroes time. Normally he’d be fine with that. So why did it bother him so much that it was Aizawa.

“I could’ve stayed here by myself whilst you two were out, im not a child.” Izuku said defensively. He didn’t mean to sound so defensive, he was just lost in his emotions right now.

"I know you could listener, but you don’t actually want to be left by yourself, right? I mean wouldn’t you get lonely?"

Izuku didn’t even hesitate. “No.”

He knew the man was trying very hard not to stop smiling at that. It was kind of amusing to him. Yamada placed a plate of pancakes at the table and motioned for the boy to sit.

Izuku sat at the table, arms crossed tightly over his chest, staring out the window like it held all the answers to his problems—though it was just a view of the street. He wasn’t hungry. Hell, he was pretty sure if he even looked at food, it’d end up on the floor.

His stomach twisted into knots, and he could feel Yamada's eyes boring into him. Not that Izuku cared. He was used to people looking at him, but it was different now. Yamada wasn’t just looking at him like some weirdo watching a kid in a café; no, he was looking like he could actually see what was going on in Izuku’s head. And that was the problem.

Izuku scowled. He had been careful, too. He’d hidden everything—kept the panic buried under layers of irritation. He was good at that. Normally. But now? Now he’d forgotten to hide it, and Yamada probably saw right through him.

Izuku stole a glance at the older man, just to confirm his worst fear. Yep. There it was. Yamada wasn’t even looking at his own breakfast. No, he was staring at Izuku. Like he was waiting for a meltdown to happen at any second.

Great.

“Midoriya.” His voice was soft but insistent. “Come on man, talk to me. I can tell somethings weighing on you. Maybe I can help.”

Izuku’s stomach flipped violently. His nails dug into his sleeves, trying to anchor himself, trying to keep the sharp, restless energy in his chest from spilling out.

Talk?

Talk about what?

About how Aizawa was out there, hunting for Ghost? About how every patrol from now on was going to be a gamble—one wrong move, one misstep, and he’d be unmasked? How, the second Aizawa put the pieces together, he’d disappear? He’d be dragged back to the system, to whatever hellscape they deemed ‘proper placement’ for a kid like him.

Worse, how the people who relied on Ghost—the ones who had no other protection—would suffer for it? If he wasn’t there to protect them then who would?

No, Yamada. He didn’t want to talk about his problems with you.

Not now. Not ever. That door had been welded shut a long time ago and he wasn't about to pry it open just because someone asked nicely.

“I’m fine,” Izuku muttered under his breath, the words sharp, but lacking the usual conviction. He knew it wouldn’t work. Yamada had the superpower of being able to see when Izuku was lying. And it was getting kind of annoying.

Yamada chewed slowly, not bothering to take his eyes off him. “You sure? You don’t look fine.”

Izuku let out a humorless laugh. “Wow, really? You can see it, huh? You should’ve mentioned you were a mind reader, might’ve saved us some time.”

Yamada raised an eyebrow at his sassiness, setting his fork down and leaning back in his chair. “You know, I’m not a mind reader, but you’re about as subtle as a freight train when something’s bothering you.”

Izuku rolled his eyes and turned to the window. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m just tired of everyone poking their noses into my business,” he muttered, his voice dripping with irritation.

Yamada didn’t take offense. He never did. Instead, he smiled gently. “You know, I get it. You’ve been dealing with things on your own for a long time. But you don’t have to anymore. We’re here for you.”

As if.

Izuku shot him a side-eye, his stomach flipping again. “Maybe it’s better that way. You don’t know what’s going on in my head.”

Yamada nodded, still calm, still patient. “I don’t. But I’d like to. When you’re ready to talk, I’m here for you.”

“Right.... Just a heads up I won't be in the mood to talk ever with you,” Izuku grumbled, leaning back in his chair, challenging the man gaze.

Yamada, ever patient, leaned forward slightly. “Midoriya.”

Izuku’s teeth clenched.

The name stung. A reminder that the moment Aizawa figured things out, that name would be all he had left.

"Kiddo please—"

“Just—stop!” he interrupted, slamming his hands against the table hard enough to make the plate jump. His voice cracked on the last word, raw and furious and desperate.

Yamada didn’t even flinch.

He just looked at him—steadily, carefully, like he wasn’t thrown off in the slightest. Not angry, not even really concerned. Just… understanding.

It had only been a week, and somehow, the man already had him figured out.

Izuku hated it. Hated how exposed it made him feel, like his thoughts were laid bare—written across his face for Yamada to read.

Before neither of them could say anything else, the front door beeped open, and a familiar, sleep-rough voice cut through the tense silence.

“What’s going on?”

Izuku tensed. Of course, it was Aizawa, showing up at the worst possible time. The last person he wanted to deal with right now. He shot a sharp glare at Aizawa as he pushed himself out of his chair.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Izuku muttered, already heading for the door. He didn’t have time for this. Didn’t have time for anyone. He knew it was the blood loss that was making him feel this way. But he didn't care.

“Kid, you didn’t even eat—”

The bathroom door slammed behind him, cutting off whatever else Yamada had to say. He needed to get away. He needed to think.

*

Hizashi watched the bathroom door with a furrowed brow as Shouta kicked off his boots by the door. Hizashi could tell by the way Sho had looked at Izuku before the kid had stormed off, he noticed exactly what Hizashi had noticed when the kiddo entered the kitchen.

Shouta approached quietly. The moment he was close enough, he pressed a soft kiss to Hizashi's cheek, and Hizashi melted into the warmth of it, the kind of comfort that only Shouta could give. That kiss was enough to ground him, if only for a moment.

"Is he alright?" Shouta asked, his voice quieter than usual, the soft weight of his concern threading through each word as he sat beside Hizashi, his eyes flicking to the bathroom door where Izuku had disappeared moments ago.

Hizashi sighed, his fingers tracing the rim of his mug, more for something to do than anything else. He’d been trying to figure out what was going on with the kid all morning, but the puzzle wasn’t coming together. "I’m not sure," Hizashi admitted, his voice carrying the weariness that came from too many unanswered questions. "He looked... off. More pale than usual, and he couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes." He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his neck as the frustration mounted. "I think you saw it too. The moment you walked in, it was like he was about to crack. Like he was holding everything in and one wrong move was going to send it all spilling out."

Shouta gave a low hum of agreement, his lips pressed into a thin line as he watched the door. His voice was gentle, but firm. “I told you it would take more than a week.”

Hizashi chuckled softly despite himself. "Yeah, you were right, my grumpy cat." He slid the mug toward Shouta with a teasing smile. "Here, have the rest of my coffee. You look like you could use it more than I do."

Shouta took the cup with a quiet thanks, draining it in two quick gulps. “I think I needed that more than I realized,” he murmured, putting the empty cup down before dropping his head onto the table with a soft thud.

"Is this about that new case?"

Shouta didn’t move, just let out a deep breath in response, and Hizashi understood without needing words. He felt his heart ache a little. He knew his husband was running on empty, but it seemed like this case was taking a bigger toll than he was letting on.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked quietly, shifting closer. His fingers found their way into Shouta’s hair, running through the strands with a tenderness that only came from years of practice—years of knowing exactly how Shouta liked to be touched when he was tired, when he needed him.

“Not really,” Shouta muttered, his voice muffled but steady, "But I know you won’t stop nagging me about it, so I'll just tell you."

Hizashi smiled softly, letting out a quiet, affectionate chuckle. “You know me so well.” He nudged Shouta gently with his knee. “Why don’t we move to the couch? You can tell me everything, and I’ll try my best to just listen. We both need a break."

Shouta groaned but pushed himself to his feet with a sigh, letting Hizashi guide him to the couch. The moment they sat down, Shouta sank into the cushions, his head finding its place in Hizashi’s lap like it always did when he was tired, when he needed to rest. It was a familiar, comfortable position—a position they’d found years ago when life wasn’t always so complicated.

Shouta was like a large, tired cat, curling up into the warmth of the one person who could calm the storm that brewed in his chest. Hizashi smiled down at him, his fingers still threading through his hair as he waited for the story to unfold.

And then, Shouta began to speak, his voice quiet, heavy with something that wasn’t quite frustration, but more like the exhaustion of a man who had seen too much and was still carrying the weight of it all.

"There's a kid," Shouta started, his words wary, like he was testing them in his mouth. "A vigilante, Ghost. Tsukauchi’s been trying to capture him for the last two years. Kid’s young. Real young. I can’t even believe it. He’s been hiding —no, patrolling — out in the worst parts of the city, working in the shadows, trying to make things better. But it’s... it’s just too much for him. Too dangerous."

Hizashi’s fingers paused, but he didn’t say anything. Shouta needed to get it out.

Shouta took a deep breath, then continued. “When I caught him, he was... scared out of his mind. Panic attack as soon as I had him. And then, he—” Shouta’s voice cracked slightly, but he pushed on, his anger bubbling up now, more than his concern. "He tried to escape. Cut himself in the process. I couldn’t stop him. He got away. After everything, the kid just... vanished. Now I don’t know if the kid is in an alley dead. He could be anywhere."

Hizashi’s heart ached for the kid, and for Shouta. He could feel the weight of his husband’s words settling heavily in the air, and his chest constricted with the thoughts of a kid so young, trying to fight against a system that couldn’t see his pain.

“Shouta,” Hizashi said softly, running his hand through Shouta’s hair again, this time with a little more pressure. “If this kid has survived in one of the worst sectors of the city for two years, I’m pretty sure he’s capable. He’s not dead in some alley somewhere. Not yet. He’s tough, and he’s been surviving this long for a reason.”

Shouta let out a soft, defeated laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "You’re right, I know. I just—" He broke off, exhaling deeply, pressing his fingers into his eyes. "I should have done more."

"You did the best you could," Hizashi reassured, pulling Shouta’s hands away from his face. “He’s out there. You’ll catch him, but not if you’re running on empty, okay? You have to rest first, or none of this is going to matter.”

Shouta didn’t respond right away, but he squeezed Hizashi’s hand, just a little, as if to say he heard him. As if to say he knew.

“Rest,” Hizashi murmured, his voice soft but firm, "And then we’ll figure it out together—your vigilante and our kid—We’ll figure it out, as always."

Shouta nodded slowly, his body relaxing into the steady rhythm of Hizashi’s touch, the weight of his exhaustion finally beginning to ebb away, replaced by the comfort of knowing he wasn’t alone.

And in that moment, Hizashi didn’t need any more words. They had each other. They’d always have each other. And somehow, that was enough to weather any storm.

Chapter Text

Izuku was surprisingly in a good mood tonight. There was a lightness in his chest that hadn’t been there in days, maybe weeks. The city around him, usually a blur of tension and noise, felt almost serene.

At night, everything wore a different face—quieter, but never quite silent. Distant traffic hummed like a sleeping beast, neon signs blinked lazily against dark windows, and a siren’s cry echoed down the block before fading into nothing. It was a strange balance of calm and chaos, stitched together by shadows. For most, this was when the day ended.

But for others—those who walked rooftops instead of sidewalks, who watched instead of rested—this was when the real work began.

Izuku adjusted his mask as he crouched at the edge of a rooftop, eyes sweeping the street below. The city stretched out—alive, unpredictable, waiting. He had learned not to trust its quiet.

The panic had taken days to fade. That night still clung to him—tight, sharp, unwelcome. It hadn’t been supposed to happen. Not to Ghost. Ghost didn’t break.

But Tsukauchi had been too smart by bringing in Eraserhead. He had been too close. And for one terrible second, Izuku hadn’t been a shadow or a whisper in the dark—he’d been a kid with shaking hands and no plan.

He’d doubled down since then. Patrol routes were tighter. Escape paths, memorized. And his arsenal? Expanded—just in case. Just enough to remind the city, and himself, that he was still here. Still in control. So here he was. Not tense.

But that was probably because he’d hidden Aizawa’s scarf.

He’d stashed it after dinner, behind a ceiling panel in the laundry room—coiled like a sleeping snake. Wrapped neatly, of course. He wasn’t a monster.

The disappearance hadn’t gone unnoticed for long. Aizawa had muttered something about not being able to find it, voice clipped and tight, like he already suspected the truth. Which—fair. Izuku had absolutely hidden it.

And it had been worth it.

That was exactly when he decided to call it a night, because he was so (not) tired.

Yamada had stopped his husband from storming into Izuku’s room, whispering something about “boundaries” and “let the kid sleep.” The irony had nearly killed him. Because Izuku—buried under a blanket with a pillow over his face—was doing everything he could not to wheeze-laugh loud enough to give himself away.

Nothing quite like the satisfaction of mildly inconveniencing your terrifying foster parent.

Tonight, the streets were quiet—almost suspiciously so—but he didn’t let himself relax. The city liked to wait until your guard dropped before it lunged.

He was halfway through his route when movement below caught his eye. A flicker of motion in a narrow alley. A fight—three-on-one. Izuku shifted forward, crouching near the edge, gaze narrowing.

Eraserhead.

Of course it was him. Even without the scarf, the man was efficient. Brutal. But not invincible. Izuku tilted his head, watching the fight unfold. A solid punch caught Eraser in the jaw, and Izuku winced on instinct.

Okay, that had to hurt.

Technically? Kind of his fault.

He should help. Really, he should.

Instead, he stayed where he was, shoulders shaking with silent laughter as Eraserhead recovered and dispatched the last two attackers in a flurry of precise, punishing blows. The last thug crumpled against the alley wall, groaning. All three were zip-tied and unconscious within a minute.

Izuku was just starting to shift back into the shadows when a voice cut through the night—dry, low, unimpressed.

"Hope that was entertaining enough for you."

He froze. How the hell—

Eraserhead hadn’t looked up. Still crouched beside one of the attackers, adjusting a zip tie with the same maddening calm as always. Maybe he was bluffing. Guessing.

Then the man turned—just slightly—and looked straight at him.

Direct. Unwavering.

Well. Shit.

They held each other’s gaze for a beat too long.

Izuku didn’t blink. Without his scarf, the man couldn’t get to his level—so there was no need to stress.

Then, with the grace of someone determined to avoid all consequences, he rolled backward out of sight and vanished into the night.

He didn’t run. Ghost didn’t run.

But he didn’t circle back either.

Just in case.

He hadn’t seen Eraserhead since that night. But tonight, it was like the man had taken up ghost-hunting. Every alley. Every break-in. Every sketchy lead—Eraser was already there. And every time, without fail, his eyes would flick up, finding Izuku like he was made of smoke and spotlight.

No chase. No threats. Just the look.

It was... unsettling.

Izuku knew he wasn’t actively trying to run into him. But still, it was starting to get under his skin. He was more on guard than ever, nerves fraying at the edges. It was exhausting.

And if it kept up like this? For a year?

He wasn’t sure if he’d snap, disappear, or end up dragging Eraser into a rooftop standoff just to end the tension.

Izuku perched on a fire escape above a half-wrecked shop, watching as Eraser cuffed a would-be burglar with the same mechanical precision as always. Like it was just another Wednesday for him. Like Izuku wasn’t up there, a breath away, watching.

He should leave. Ghost would leave. He had more important things to do.

But he didn’t. Something twisted in his gut—cold, sharp, and far too familiar. It should’ve been relief. No chase meant no panic. No scrambling through alleys or burning through exit strategies. No risk.

But it wasn’t relief that kept him frozen.

It was suspicion.

Why wasn’t he being chased anymore?

Pft—why was he even complaining? Wasn’t this exactly what he wanted? Less drama, fewer rooftop lectures, no more judgmental squinting from behind that damn scarf? And yet, here he was—standing in the dark like a moron with this hollow weight sitting in his chest.

Because the silence didn’t feel like mercy.

It felt like strategy.

After awhile, Izuku finally found a crime that Eraserhead wasn’t already elbow deep in.

Yay, right?

Well, not exactly. Crime was still bad and all, but it was nice to have some space to work. Two guys were arguing in the alley—heated, shouting, and waving their hands like they were about to punch each other. Normally, he’d leave it alone. People argued all the time, and it wasn’t his job to babysit.

That is, until one of them pulled out a gun.

Izuku didn’t hesitate.

He closed the gap in a heartbeat, knocking the guy flat on his back with a swift takedown, the gun flew from his hand skidding away. Izuku made sure to pin him in place with just enough force to keep him under control.

The other guy stood frozen for a moment, eyes wide in shock, his breath caught in his throat as the adrenaline settled. He glanced between his fallen ex- friend and Izuku, then turned and bolted.

Izuku wasn’t bothered. He hadn’t been the one about to commit murder.

With practiced ease, he pulled out a length of rope from his belt and quickly tied the aggressor’s hands behind his back. All he had to do now was lead an officer to the scene, make sure the mess was cleaned up, and then disappear into the night.

Except he wasn’t alone anymore.

Izuku stopped dead as a silhouette blocked the alley’s entrance—half-shadowed, too familiar.

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

Of course it was the last person he wanted to see.

Eraserhead.

His pulse spiked. For a beat, his instincts screamed at him to run. Just bolt. But he didn’t. Couldn’t afford to. His back would be turned, and Eraser was too fast when motivated. Was he waiting for this moment, when he was distracted by the fight to pounce?

He narrowed his eyes, fingers tightening slightly at his sides. “Enjoy the show?” he asked, voice edged. No fear, just sharp and bristling. He had a reputation to protect, even if he’d cracked a little last time.

Eraser didn’t even flinch as his sass. Typical. “You’re fast.”

“And you’re a damn virus,” he snapped. “Everywhere I go—there you are. Seriously, should I start filing a restraining order or…?”

“Funny. I was going to say the same thing,” Eraser replied, expression unreadable. “I’ve noticed you tailing me all night.”

“Oh, get over yourself,” Izuku scoffed. “You think I’m following you? Every time I blink you’re already there, acting like you invented crime fighting. Honestly, it’s creepy. Have you considered hobbies?”

“I patrol the city. That’s my job, No time for hobbies.” Eraser said, calm. “You’re the one weaving through my path anyway.”

“I was here first,” Izuku shot back, pointing a finger like it proved something. “You’re the copycat.”

Eraser didn’t rise to it. Just stood there with that annoying calm, like he had all night to wait while he burned through his energy. But Izuku wasn’t here for a therapy session. He wasn’t here for him.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve seen me tonight,” Izuku continued, eyes narrowing beneath his hood. “And yet... no capture attempt. That’s weird. You’re weird. Is this like, reverse psychology? Gonna gaslight me into cuffing myself? Or Is it because your missing your very out of fashion accessory.”

“I’m not here to arrest you,” Eraser said evenly.

Izuku blinked. Once. Then scoffed, exaggerated and loud. “Wow. We doing that now? Soft-touch interrogation? You and the detective have a little wine night? Watch sad documentaries? Cry about misunderstood vigilantes?”

Eraser ignored him, instead he took a step forward, slow and steady. “I saw how you handled that man. Fast. Clean. You didn’t escalate.”

The pinned guy, who’d been silent until now, mumbled from the pavement, “Was real smooth, kid.”

Izuku turned slowly, venomous smile curling under the mask. “Thanks for the input, Nighttime Nuisance. No one asked” He then turned back to Eraser, “Yeah, well, I’ve got a thing against being shot. Sorry to disappoint, I know drama makes for better headlines.”

“You’re still an idiot,” Eraser said, ignoring the sarcasm. “But you’re not as reckless as I thought you were. feisty, maybe. But not careless.”

Who the hell are you calling feisty?—Oh. Wait. Did he just… was that a compliment? Ugh, now I’m confused.

Something in Izuku’s spine bristled. His smirk thinned “What, profiling me now? Or is this some sad flirting attempt?” He stepped closer, cocky on the surface, but every nerve in his body was on edge. “Because spoiler alert: I bite.”

Eraser didn’t blink. “You’re different to any vigilante I’ve had to deal with before.”

Izuku rolled his eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know.” The tension should’ve burned itself out by now. It never lingered this long. But the way Eraser kept watching him—like he was some puzzle with a loose piece—sent a pulse of unease low in his gut.

“Can’t believe you’re patrolling without your crime choke-leash,” he said, arms crossed, mouth curling. “What, think you don’t need it anymore?”

Eraser gave the faintest shrug. “Didn’t seem necessary.

That was bullshit. If Yamada hadn’t literally body-checked Eraser out of the damn hallway earlier, Izuku would’ve been wearing his scarf as a noose.

“Aw. Trying to impress me?” Izuku grinned, but it fell just as quickly, “Or just trying to lure me into dropping my guard again?”

A pause. Too long.

“I remember how you reacted last time we met,” Eraser said quietly. “That wasn’t nothing.”

Izuku's stomach dropped.

There it was. The reminder of how pathetic he was.

He laughed—sharp, brutal, defensive. “Yeah? Well, next time don’t sneak up on me in the dark like some kind of ghost. That’s my job. Maybe then I won’t lose my shit.”

“It was unusual,” Eraser pressed. “You were scared.”

“Was not,” Izuku snapped before he could stop himself. The words came out too fast, too raw.

Eraser didn’t move. Didn’t smirk. Just watched.

Izuku’s hands clenched into fists. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“No,” Eraser agreed, “but I’d like to.”

“Oh, gag me,” he hissed, stepping back like the words were poison. “What is this, a friendship arc? You gonna offer me cocoa next? Sit me down for some soul-healing bedtime story?”

A beat of silence.

“I’m trying to understand you,” Eraser said evenly.

Izuku’s expression hardened. “Yeah? Well don’t. I’m not some stray mutt you can coax in with soft voice and stale protein bars.”

Eraser raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t bring snacks.”

Izuku scoffed. “Exactly. Zero effort.”

Izuku whole body twitched as a sharp pulse shot through his side. He shifted instinctively, arm curling a little closer to the injury beneath his hoodie like proximity alone might dull the ache. The wrap he'd hastily thrown on earlier was already starting to chafe, made worse by rooftop sprints and slamming some guy into concrete. Stellar decisions all around.

Eraser's eyes tracked the movement—subtle, but not subtle enough.

“I hope you got that wound checked out,” he said, voice flat but not entirely impersonal. “It looked deep when it happened.”

Izuku let out a short, sharp laugh—more bark than humor. “Don’t pretend you care, walking eye bag.”

Eraser snorted. “That’s a new one.”

“You’re welcome,” Izuku shot back, sharp-edged and vibrant with spite. “If I’ve gotta deal with your grim reaper cosplay all night whilst you stalk me, I might as well enjoy myself.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“And you’re not denying the stalking,” Izuku shot back. “Who’s the real creep here?”

But the humour was thinning now. Wearing at the edges. There was something about the way the hero looked at him—calm, unblinking, pulling at threads like he could see straight through him. It made him want to run. Or scream. Or both.

Eraser didn’t rise to it. He just watched, that quiet, calculating look of his pulling at every thread like he was trying to unravel him one layer at a time. Izuku felt suddenly raw under it, like a nerve too close to the surface. Why wasn’t he making a move to arrest him?

“I can give you a contact,” Eraser said, calm. “Off the books. No strings.”

He hesitated—just a heartbeat. Then masked it with a grin so sharp it could slice through bone.

“You really don’t know how to flirt.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“Sure,” Izuku muttered, voice tight now. Something had shifted, and he hated it. “Well, I’m not in the mood for round two of whatever that emotional ambush was, so if this is some long con? Save it. I’m not interested.”

He turned, crouched to leap—fight or flight twisting up in his ribs—but Eraser’s voice cut through just before his muscles coiled.

“I meant it,” he said. “I’m not here to drag you in.”

And for the briefest moment… Izuku froze.

The wind tugged at his hood, chill biting at the raw skin near the gauze beneath it. “Then stop watching me like I’m about to break,” he muttered. “I can handle myself. I stitched it up already.”

“You did it yourself?”

“Duh,” he snapped. “Can’t exactly waltz into a hospital and say, ‘Hi, please ignore the mask and gaping slash wound, I’m a minor with no ID and a vigilante complex.’”

Eraser stepped forward—slow. Measured.

“Let me look at it.”

Izuku blinked. Once. Twice. A beat of confusion, then a scoff. Izuku had a feeling the man wasn’t asking. “What, and let you add freelance nurse to your sad little resume? Hard pass.”

But Eraser kept walking, not fast, not even confrontational—but with that same terrible weight he’d carried the first time they’d met. The kind of presence that had pressed all the air from Izuku’s lungs.

Izuku’s pulse jumped. No way in hell. What if he saw his eyes up close? His freckles? What if—

No. No. No.

He reached into his pocket and threw the smoke bomb before Eraser could get another word in.

The alley formed into a thick gray cloud, acrid and sharp. By the time it cleared, he was perched on the rooftop above, arms crossed, the ache in his side flaring but worth it.

Eraser looked up, mildly annoyed. Not impressed.

Izuku’s breath hitched. His eyes were red. Glowing. He’d never actually seen Eraser use his Quirk, even as Izuku, it was... kind of terrifying.

“That was dramatic.”

“Bet you’re regretting not having the scarf now, huh?”

The hero narrowed his eyes—just a sliver—but Izuku nearly doubled over from holding back a laugh.

Ghost: 1. Eraserhead: 0.

He wasn’t counting the first encounter. That was a fluke. This? This was the game. This was just the beginning.

And tonight, he was winning.

*

The clouds were doing that thing again—looming heavy and colorless overhead, promising rain but never quite delivering. The city buzzed as usual, a distant hum of cars and chatter, but Hizashi Yamada could only focus on the silence right beside him.

Well—not silence exactly.

There were footsteps. Soft ones. Hoodie rustling. A backpack creaking faintly with every step. But from Midoriya? Not a single word. Not since they’d left the apartment.

Hizashi snuck a glance at the kid from behind his shades. Hood up. Shoulders tense. Arms crossed like he was holding himself together. Classic teenage nonchalance—except this wasn’t just moodiness. It was armor. Always was with him.

“You know,” Hizashi started lightly, fingers tapping the strap of his own bag, “this counts as quality bonding time. They say grocery shopping is sacred parent-child enrichment territory. Like… caveman-level stuff. Hunting and gathering, but with discount coupons.”

Midoriya didn’t laugh. Didn’t even twitch.

Right. Cool. Tough crowd.

Hizashi exhaled through his nose, carefully not sighing. Pushing the kid wasn’t going to get him anywhere. It never had.

And yet—he couldn’t stop watching.

The kid didn’t look like a ghost anymore. Not the pale, that appeared out of nowhere a few days ago. He’d filled out some. His skin had more color now. His eyes less sunken. He’d actually eaten a whole bowl of rice yesterday without acting like it was a battle.

Progress.

Except… something itched in the back of Hizashi’s mind.

Were they not feeding him enough? Or maybe the right things? Was he allergic to something they hadn’t caught yet? Was he getting food somewhere else? Should Hizashi start keeping a food log? Was he the problem?!

I’m a hero, he thought. I’ve fought villains made of molten concrete and rage—how is raising one teenager harder?

Midoriya shifted beside him, adjusting the bag on his shoulder with a wince he didn’t think anyone noticed. Hizashi did. Of course he had, he was trained to notice things like that.

He almost asked. Almost.

Instead, he smiled, broad and bright, and nodded toward the store ahead.

“Alright! Mission one—groceries. Then library. Then maybe snacks. Don’t argue, snacks are non-negotiable!”

Still nothing.

But Midoriya followed him inside, which was more than nothing. So Hizashi counted it as a win.

The grocery store was nothing special—just one of those local joints with cracked linoleum floors and flickering freezer lights. But it had cheap produce, decent ramen, and a surprising selection of imported tea and coffee. Hizashi could live with that.

Midoriya moved through the aisles like he was on recon—eyes sharp, scanning labels with quiet judgment. Every so often he’d mutter something about price-per-unit or preservatives, barely loud enough to catch.

Hizashi watched him, and for once, it wasn’t worry that settled in his chest—it was something closer to wonder. There was a precision to the way the kid thought, a kind of focus that didn’t switch off, even in a grocery store.

He made ordinary things look deliberate. Like even the small stuff mattered.

When they reached the counter, he didn’t even wait. “Let me,” he said, already stacking it all into his arms like a challenge.

“You sure about that, listener?” Hizashi said with a grin as he paid. “I’ve still got a little muscle left—don’t let the skinny jeans fool you.”

Midoriya rolled his eyes but took the bags anyway. Not a joke. Not a smile. Hizashi didn’t stop him. He knew Sho would have. Shouta would’ve made him take half and made some flat comment about spinal health and long-term damage.

But Hizashi wasn’t Shouta.

So he let the kiddo carry the weight he wanted to.

The library was quieter. Comforting. Less fluorescent than the grocery store. Hizashi always loved the hush of it, the weight of words lingering in the air. Midoriya disappeared within minutes, vanishing between nonfiction shelves like smoke.

Hizashi pretended not to trail him. Just close enough to spot him again if he needed to. Not enough to crowd.

When the kid came back, he dumped three books wordlessly on the checkout counter: Forensic Psychology: Crime & Causation, A book about law around quirks, and So You Found a Stray Cat: Now What? That was a strange mix to say the least.

“…Bold mix,” Hizashi said, eyebrow arched. “Gotta say, I’m loving the character development arc.”

Midoriya didn’t look at him, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Not a smile. But close. Hizashi considered that a win.

They walked side-by-side again. Clouds lower now, sky grumbling in the distance. He was just about to make another snack joke when—

Barking. Loud. Abrupt.

A dog exploded into noise behind a rusted gate, snarling like it had a personal vendetta.

Midoriya flinched.

No—jerked. His whole body tensed, head whipping toward the sound like he expected to be hit.

Hizashi’s breath caught. That wasn’t a normal startle. Before he could think, he reached out. A hand to the shoulder—gentle, instinctual, grounding.

But Midoriya recoiled fast, stumbling like the touch burned.

“…Sorry,” the kid muttered. Quiet. Like the word hurt to say.

“You don’t have to be,” Hizashi said softly. No jokes now. No grin. Just steady.
And then, just for a second—Midoriya looked at him. Not through him. Not past him. At him. And his eyes—God, those eyes—they looked older than a kid’s should. Tired. Wary. But not cold.

Something unspoken passed between them. Then it was gone.

Hood up. Head down. He walked faster.

By the time they made it home, the moment was gone.

Midoriya slipped inside, mumbled something that might’ve been “Thanks,” and disappeared into his room with the quiet click of a door.

Hizashi stood in the hallway for a long minute.

He thought of Shouta, years ago. Thought of the grief that lived in the back of his eyes, heavy and unmoving, after Oboro died. Thought of how long it took to get past the walls—how he didn’t try to fix him, just sat there, until Shouta let himself be seen.

That had been the turning point. The start of everything between them.

Time, Hizashi thought, glancing at the closed bedroom door. That’s what it took. Not pressure. Just time.

He smiled faintly.

“Okay, kiddo,” he whispered to no one as he packed away the groceries . “I’ll wait.”

*

Some silences were heavier than others. This one—late Sunday afternoon stretching thin across the apartment—was the kind that sank into your bones and refused to budge. Shouta didn’t mind silence, usually preferred it, but this particular stillness had a weight to it. The kind that settled just behind the eyes and made everything feel slower, softer, like the world was holding its breath.

He sat cross-legged on the couch, worn sweatpants and an oversized hoodie that had probably belonged to Hizashi once but was now permanently his. His notebook was balanced across one thigh, a red pen lazily spinning between his fingers. Pages of scribbled notes stared back at him—some sharp and clean, most messy and half-obscured by coffee rings and the occasional faint claw mark. Cat’s doing, probably. She was curled up beside him, pressed against his hip like a particularly judgmental paperweight, purring like an old engine.

“This is why you’re my favorite,” he murmured without looking, reaching down to scratch the top of her head. Cat stretched her front paws out, blinked once, and then promptly flopped over again, her loyalty reaffirmed by ear scratches and body heat.

Fish was likely getting into something he shouldn’t in the kitchen, and Eclipse had disappeared into the kid’s room hours ago. Traitors. But Cat stayed. Always did. Shouta smirked faintly, soft around the edges, then turned back to his notes.

Part of him wanted to slap some sense into the kid. The other... Well, the other part was still stuck on the fact that the brat had called him a walking eye bag and the Grim Reaper all in one night.

The vigilante was a puzzle he hadn’t cracked yet, and it was starting to dig under his skin. Not in the usual way—not frustration exactly. More like… concern. Quiet and insistent. The kid was good. Too good. Movements tight and practiced. Adaptable. Disciplined. That didn’t just come out of nowhere. It either came from training—real training—or a life lived in the kind of situations that demanded survival more than growth. Shouta had seen both. Neither sat right with him.

And the tension. That was what bothered him the most.

The kid flinched when he got too close. Not dramatically, but enough. Enough for someone like Shouta to notice. Enough that he started second-guessing every movement, every step he took near him. Tsukauchi had mentioned Ghost never reacted like that around him. Never once flinched, even when backed into a corner. So why him? Was it his reputation? His quirk? The fact that he tended to bring in vigilantes who didn’t go quietly?

Or was it something else—something Ghost knew about him that Shouta didn’t know Ghost knew?

He'd used his quirk more than once, trailing the kid from the shadows when Ghost didn’t know he was being followed. And every time? Nothing. No reaction. No flicker. It was like using his quirk on empty air. That meant either the kid’s quirk was passive, internal, or so unusual it didn’t register the way most did. But that didn’t track with the way he fought. The reflexes, the agility—Ghost had to have something.

Or maybe the kid had just been hiding his quirk for so long, he knew how to keep it hidden.

Shouta groaned, tilting his head back against the couch. “I really shouldn’t be the one on this case,” he muttered to no one in particular. Cat blinked up at him, clearly unimpressed.

There were only four things he could connect with right now—and only one of them was a human. The others was probably currently plotting to destroy something soft and expensive, no doubt.

He flipped to a blank page and scrawled at the top: Plans.

Below it, he wrote:

— Stop sneaking up on him.
— Stop using the quirk, even if it’s tempting.
— Let him come to you. (eventually)
— Don’t ask direct questions. Let him fill the silence.
— Watch what he reacts to, not what he says.
— Don’t treat him like a case file.

The list looked ridiculous, but it was something. A start.

Maybe if he approached this like a stray—food, space, no sudden moves. Maybe then the kid would stop tensing every time he was around. It wasn’t tactical anymore. It was instinct. Shouta knew that kind of fear. Knew how it seeped into your bones and never really left. He'd lived with it long enough to recognize it in others.

He looked down at Cat again, who was now nestled so deeply into the couch she was practically part of it. He gave her a small scratch under the chin.

“You think I’m going soft,” he said dryly.

She didn’t move.

He leaned his head back again, letting the pen rest on his lip. The shadows were longer now, the orange haze of late afternoon bleeding in through the windows, warm and dull. The kind of light that made you feel like you were supposed to be doing something more important than sitting still.

But for now? Sitting still was enough. He’d figure out Ghost eventually.

Even if it took time. Even if it meant getting clawed a few times along the way.

Then there was Midoriya.

The kid had been quieter lately, less of a menace—which in itself was almost more worrying than the pranks. It had started a few days ago, right after he nearly snapped at Hizashi. That incident had left a crack in the façade, small but visible. Since then, the kid had become... withdrawn. Not disobedient. Just—dulled down. Like he was bracing for something.

Shouta didn’t like it.

He sighed, closing the notebook and resting his forehead against the cool surface of the couch’s armrest. Cat gave a low grumble and stretched out her paw across his knee like she disapproved of his sulking.

It was Shouta’s idea to give the kid a phone. Hizashi had raised an eyebrow when he brought it up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So he can not text us when he sneaks out again?” he’d quipped. Shouta went to the store after patrol and bought the phone. It was still in his pocket.

He rose, careful not to jostle Cat too much, and padded quietly toward the spare room that had become Midoriya. The boy would retreat there the second they got home, he was sure of it. He always did. Shouta walked in and left the phone neatly on the bed—nothing fancy. Just a new device with a green case, preloaded with their contacts and a few emergency services. Nothing demanding. Just... a gesture. Eclipse was sound asleep on the bed, Shouta scooped up the cat. Then he returned to the couch.

Cat had stolen his warm spot.

Figures.

It wasn’t much longer til the two had arrived home after their errand run. Hizashi walked in arms full of grocery bags and cheeks a little pink from the spring wind. Midoriya trailed behind him, carrying a couple of books. Shouta was flipping idly through a news article on his tablet, barely reading. As if on cue, Midoriya made a beeline for his room. It was like watching clockwork.

Hizashi flopped down next to him with a dramatic sigh, throwing an arm across the back of the couch. “Well, I’ve officially been glared at by a fourteen-year-old and a senior librarian in the same afternoon. New personal best.”

Shouta didn’t look up from his notes. “Impressive.”

“I know, right?” Hizashi grinned, then winced. “Midoriya nearly bolted when I asked if he wanted to check out the fiction section. Said something about 'traps' and 'emotional manipulation.'"

That got the faintest twitch of amusement out of Shouta. “He’s not wrong.”

“Rude,” Hizashi sniffed. “I just wanted to get the lil listener some books.”

Shouta finally glanced over, eyebrow raised. “Did you?”

“Yeah,” Hizashi slumped deeper into the cushions with a sigh. “He actually looked like he might have enjoyed the library. Didn’t smile once, though—just glared. But hey, that’s progress, right?”

“Terrifying progress,” Shouta muttered, but his tone was soft with it. Fond, even.

A few moment later he could hear the faint creak of the boy’s door swinging open, the soft thuds of socked feet heading toward them—and then, abruptly, hurried. Like someone trying to stop themselves before they lost the nerve.

The kid’s voice cracked on the first word.

“I—I can’t. No. I don’t—deserve this.”

Shouta looked up sharply. Midoriya stood at the threshold to the living room, phone clutched in both hands like it was about to burn him. His bright green eyes were wide, frantic almost, the panic so raw it nearly rattled the air.

Hizashi straightened immediately. “Hey, hey, kiddo—what?”

“I don’t—” Midoriya's voice was trembling, tripping over itself like his tongue was trying to outrun his heart. “I don’t get it. Why are you—why are you trying so hard? You shouldn’t. I’m not even— I’m not going to be here that long anyway.”

The silence that followed hit like a slap. Shouta felt it in his spine.

He exchanged a glance with Hizashi, who looked just as stunned, brows furrowed and mouth slightly open.

Shouta’s voice was low, even. “Midoriya. What makes you say that?”

The boy’s shoulders jerked, but he didn’t look up. He clutched the phone tighter, fingers trembling slightly.

“It’s nothing. You wouldn’t get it.”

The words came like a shield. Sharp. Fast. Designed to deflect.

Hizashi opened his mouth, clearly about to say something soft and warm and probably a little cheesy, but Midoriya’s gaze snapped up to the coffee table, suddenly focused.

He followed the line of sight— it was his notebook. He’d left his notes out.

Both men watched Midoriya’s expression shift, he no longer looked anxious. He looked Curious.

“Whats this?” he asked, voice still quiet, but... steadier.

And that—that was unexpected.

Shouta blinked. “A case file.”

“On...?”

He didn’t answer right away. Hizashi was watching him now too, cautious but interested. Shouta could feel the undercurrent shifting.

“Someone I’ve been trying to figure out,” he said simply, deliberately. “Complicated case.”

Midoriya stepped closer. Still guarded. But his eyes were scanning the page now, devouring the notes like they were something he understood. A fourteen year old boy shouldn’t understand any of this. But somehow he did.

And all Shouta could do was watch.

Because for the first time in days, Midoriya didn’t look afraid or dull. He didn’t brace for rejection. He looked... intrigued . Almost alive. Shouta didn’t know what it meant yet—but he intended to find out.

Midoriya edged closer to the coffee table, phone still clutched in one hand like he wasn’t sure if it was a trap. His other hand hovered, then dropped to his side. He glanced between the scrawl of red ink across Shouta’s notebook and the man himself, hesitant.

“You, uh… wrote all this?” he asked, almost cautiously, like it might bite.

Shouta gave a quiet hum of confirmation. “Helps me sort things out.”

Midoriya nose scrunched, but not in disgust—more like focus. “Your handwriting’s a mess.”

That earned the tiniest twitch of Shouta’s mouth. “So I’ve been told.”

A warm chuckle escaped Hizashi, still sitting beside him. He watched the two of them—his partner and this prickly, brittle, brilliant kid—as if seeing something he hadn’t dared to hope for. A quiet connection blooming in the gap.

Then, without a word, he leaned over, pressed a kiss to Shouta’s cheek, and murmured, “I’ll let you two be intimidating together. I’m going to get dinner started.” He patted Midoriya lightly on the shoulder as he passed. “Shout if you want to help with the noodles, kiddo.”

Midoriya blinked at the gesture but said nothing. Just... stood there, longer than Shouta expected.

“What’s the case?” he asked eventually, gaze dropping again to the page. “I mean—uh—you don’t have to tell me. I was just wondering. I’ve seen stuff like this before, kinda. On TV.”

Shouta tapped his pen against the notebook, considering.

He couldn’t tell him everything, obviously. There were names redacted, case numbers blurred. And this was different—this was Ghost. But something in him itched at the idea of pushing the kid away when he’d just started leaning in.

“Vigilante case,” he said slowly. “Complicated kid. Skilled. Smart. Stubborn.”

Midoriya brow furrowed faintly. “So… why chase him?”

“He’s breaking the law,” Shouta said simply. “But he’s not reckless. Doesn’t hurt people. I’ve seen the way he handles fights—he disables, never hurts. He stops crimes without causing more damage then needed, its impressive.”

Midoriya shoulders tensed slightly—just a flicker—but his voice stayed steady.

“Sounds like a good guy.”

“Maybe,” Shouta allowed. “But good intentions don’t erase consequences. Vigilantes get people hurt—civilians, sure, but more often than not, it’s the vigilante who pays the price.”

Midoriya didn’t answer. His gaze dropped to the edge of the page, thumb skimming the margin where notes trailed off. “Still... sounds like he’s doing more good than some heroes I’ve read about.”

Shouta raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been reading about heroes?”

“Duh,” Midoriya muttered, before catching himself. “I mean—not, like, obsessively. Just… here and there. Stuff online.”

Shouta nodded slowly. “You’ve got an eye for detail. Noticed you were staring at my notes like you were memorizing them.”

Midoriya flushed faintly. “No I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Silence stretched between them—but it wasn’t the cold kind. It was thoughtful. Careful. Midoriya's fingers traced the edge of the paper now, barely brushing the ink, gaze scanning over a diagram of a possible route Ghost had taken across the rooftops last week.

“You think he’s Quirkless?” he asked, voice lower. He had pointed at one his notes under possibilities on the kids quirk.

That caught Shouta off guard. He watched the kid from beneath lowered lashes. “Its just a theory, honestly? probably not. Why do you ask?”

Midoriya shrugged, but it was forced. Too quick. “Just wondering. If you can't catch him then he probably has a quirk.”

Shouta didn’t answer right away.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “Still figuring him out.”

Midoriya didn’t say anything. But he sat down—just barely. Perched at the edge of the coffee table, legs pulled in, gaze still flicking to the notes. And for a long while, neither of them spoke. Shouta jotted a few more things down. Midoriya watched his hand move, eyes occasionally darting to the map or the bullet points with questions he clearly wanted to ask but didn’t.

Eventually, Hizashi’s voice called gently from the kitchen, “Food’s almost done! Midoriya, you like udon?”

Midoriya startled—like he’d forgotten there were other people in the world—and nodded. “Yeah. I mean—sure.”

Shouta leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. “We’ll eat in a bit.”

Midoriya stood again, slower this time. He set the phone on the table for a second, as if debating something, then picked it back up and shoved it in his hoodie pocket.

“…Thanks,” he mumbled. It wasn’t clear if he meant the phone, the food, or the conversation.

Maybe all of it.

Then he disappeared into the hallway again, just like Shouta had expected. But this time, the door didn’t shut all the way.

And that—Shouta thought—was something.

Chapter Text

Shouta Aizawa moved through the dim alleyways in silence, his scarf brushing faintly behind him like a shadow tethered to his steps. Neon signs flickered and hummed with tired energy, casting fractured pools of light on cracked pavement. The city here felt hollowed out, rotting from the inside in slow, unnoticed decay.

He had patrolled plenty of rough districts over the years. But this place—it was different. Definitely not in a good way.

At the beginning Shouta was livid to hear that Greenlight had been stationed here, alone for the past three years. One pro hero covering a district that had become a festering wound in the city’s side. No support. No rotation. Just a single rookie hero assigned to a job no one else wanted, forgotten by an agency too comfortable with leaving cracks in its foundation.

It was no wonder a vigilante had shown up.

Honestly, Shouta was surprised there weren’t more.

The kid was fast—unnaturally fast. His fighting style lacked polish, not like someone who’d trained in an academy. But there was something else there. He fought like someone with everything to lose and nothing to prove. No flair. No wasted movement. Just clean, precise takedowns followed by a vanishing act that even seasoned pros would struggle to pull off.

But what struck Shouta most wasn’t the technique—it was the mindset. The way the kid moved, the way he guarded himself, it all screamed defense. Every strike was reactive, every dodge a reflex born of instinct. It was like he’d built his entire fighting style around never letting anyone get too close. Like the world had taught him, over and over again, that if he didn’t protect himself, no one else would.

And that... made Shouta pause.

He knew the kid had to be a minor—he could tell by the size, the build. But it still stung when he heard it confirmed in the kid’s own voice. Young. Too young. And from the way he’d said it, Shouta was pretty sure he hadn’t meant to let it slip. It had just... fallen out. Like he hadn’t learned how to filter himself yet.

Or maybe, like so many others, he was just tired of carrying everything alone.

Shouta exhaled slowly, the weight of it all settling in his chest. There had to be a reason. No one ends up on this path without one. And for a kid to walk it... something had to have gone very, very wrong.

Shouta had delt with a lot of vigilantes. Most were arrogant, glory-chasers too impatient to earn a license or too damaged to care. But this one… this one was different. He wasn’t here to make a name for himself. He was just trying to help.

And maybe that’s what bothered Shouta the most.

Because it made sense. In a district left to rot, where one overworked hero fought a losing battle night after night, of course someone would try to fill the gaps. Of course someone would break the rules to stop the bleeding.

But good intentions didn’t protect you in this world. They got you killed. Or worse.

If the Commission found out he wasn’t making a real effort to apprehend the kid, it’d be his head on the chopping block. Then again—scratch that. Considering Greenlight had slipped through the cracks for the past three years, it was clear the Commission wasn’t all that concerned. Shouta had nothing to worry about.

It had been a couple of days since he’d last confronted the kid. Not that it had been much of a confrontation. Words exchanged in the dark, both of them guarded (mainly him), feeling the weight of something unspoken pressing in around them. Since then, it had been the usual dance. He would spot the vigilante watching him whilst he was mid-takedown—and by the time Shouta turned after dealing with the criminal, he was gone.

And in contrast, Shouta found himself doing the same. Watching from the shadows as the kid dismantled another low-level thug, or chased down some scumbag trafficking in things that shouldn’t exist on the streets.

The kid wasn’t strong. Not physically. But he was fast—unnervingly so. Flexible, agile. He compensated for what he lacked in brute force with sheer cleverness, timing, and nerve. Shouta had been mentally cataloguing his movements without even realizing it at first. The way he used momentum, how he shifted his center of gravity mid-strike, the calculated avoidance of vital spots. It wasn’t just instinct—it was discipline. Self-taught, maybe, but built through real experience. Painful experience.

Shouta didn’t want to scare him off. That was never the point. If anything, he’d been doing the opposite—trying to ease the tension between them, picking his moments carefully. When to show himself. When to hang back and just let the kid be.

Every time their paths crossed, he made it clear: he wasn’t there to arrest him—just to make sure he was still breathing. Still okay.

All he ever got in return was a grunt, sometimes a glare, before the kid vanished into the night like smoke. He knew what pressure from above could do to someone trying to stay afloat. So he kept his distance. Didn’t follow. Didn’t call out. Definitely didn’t chase. Didn’t step in. Not unless it was absolutely necessary.

Like tonight.

Shouta crouched silently above a flickering streetlamp, eyes narrowed beneath his goggles as he scanned the alley below. Eight thugs. Loud, angry, and armed with more than just fists. It had started as a heated argument, but now knives were out and blood had already hit the pavement. Shouta had called for backup the moment he saw how outnumbered he was—he wasn’t reckless enough to wade into something like this alone.

But apparently, someone else was.

Ghost dropped into the fray like a phantom—no hesitation, no warning. Just a sudden blur of motion as he landed directly on one of the thugs, driving him to the ground before pivoting into a sweeping kick that sent another stumbling back.

Shouta blinked once, incredulously.

Does this kid have a death wish or something?

No armor. No support. Just pure courage and apparently zero regard for self-preservation. He fought like someone who thought they were invincible—or someone who just didn’t care if they weren’t.

Right. Because nothing screams ‘great plan’ like soloing eight guys with nothing but fists.

This kid was really making him eat his words. One moment, Shouta thought he was clever—too clever. The next, a complete idiot. It was Suicidal. Beyond reckless. The kind of stunt that ended with a chalk outline and a two-line article no one read twice.

Shouta’s jaw tightened. He remembered the list—the one he’d made the night he realized this kid wasn’t going to disappear.

‘Let the kid come to you.’

Right.

Except it was looking like there might not be a kid left if this kept up.

Damn it.

The decision made itself. Without another thought, Shouta leapt down, scarf already flaring into motion as he landed hard, low, and fast in the thick of the chaos.

Six minutes.

It took six minutes to put them all down and the police still weren't here. He couldn't even hear sirens signaling how close they were, which indicated that they werent.

Shouta had handled five on his own—two with precision strikes to pressure points, another with a quick snare of his binding cloth, and the last two through sheer force of strength and skill. Ghost handled the other three—messier, more improvised, but effective. One of them went down with a sharp blow to the knee, another with a joint lock that made Shouta raise a brow. Resourceful. Efficient.

When it was over, the alley was littered with groaning bodies and the sharp stink of blood and sweat. Shouta was panting, hand pressed to his side, where someone had managed to land a lucky hit. He glanced sideways.

Ghost stood near the fire escape, hunched forward with his arms resting on his knees. His head was bowed, mask slightly askew—like he hadn’t bothered to fix it. Or didn’t care. In the dim light, it was hard to see much else. Just a silhouette of someone who looked too young to be this worn down.

He didn’t seem surprised that Shouta had stepped in. Did he know Shouta was there already watching? Did he know he would jump in to help? Brat.

Shouta watched as the kid slid to sit on the floor.

Strange.

He hadn’t bolted. He didn’t even look tense, which was a massive change from their previous encounters.

Must’ve been too exhausted. Or maybe—just maybe—he finally believed him. Believed that Shouta wasn’t here to drag him in, wasn’t here to slap cuffs on and turn him over. That when he said he could help, he meant it.

If that was the case… it wasn’t much. But it was something.

Shouta had seen him vanish in under three seconds before—disappear into the dark like a ghost living up to his name. But not tonight. Tonight, he just sat there. Still. Breathing hard. Like the fight had emptied him out from the inside.

Shouta stared for a beat longer, his breath slowing.

Screw the list.

He let out a soft grunt as he lowered himself to the ground, the concrete cold against his palms as he faced the kid. The silence between them buzzed with leftover adrenaline—thick and unspoken.

Then, flatly: “Stop being a stubborn brat.”

“…What?”

“Turn yourself in so we can help you.”

“Help yourself out first—you still look homeless.”

Shouta blinked, deadpan. Defensiveness really was this kid’s default setting. If sarcasm were a quirk, he’d already be an expert. “You’d be a great hero,” he said evenly, “if you went down the path correctly.”

The kid froze—just for a second. Then came the response, sharp and immediate. A glare. Searing and raw. No words, just pure intensity.
That was when their eyes finally met for the first time that night.

Red.

Shouta’s breath caught, just slightly. Red? He didn’t remember the kid having red eyes. Every time they crossed paths before, it had been too dark—shadowed alleyways, rooftops, moonlight just enough to track motion, not detail. He’d always assumed they were dark, like brown or black. But not red. Then it clicked. Of course, the problem child still didn’t trust him — those were contacts.

He had taught dozens of kids. Angry ones. Proud ones. Scared ones who wore masks of bravado so they wouldn’t break in front of their peers. But that glare? He had no words for it. Couldn’t fully make out the kid’s face, but the eyes—narrowed, locked on him—stood out like a warning flare.

And Shouta, for all his experience, had nothing ready for that. He’d faced villains with blood on their hands who looked at him with less intent.

When it was clear he wasn't going to get a verbal response, Shouta continued. “You’re a kid,” he said, voice level despite the fire still burning in his lungs. “Probably in high school. You could easily make it into any hero school.”

The words weren’t meant to provoke. They were meant to offer a door—one that didn’t involve bleeding in dark alleyways and disappearing into shadows. But the reaction he got was sharper than a blade.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ghost spat. Shouta didn’t flinch. “I would actually know best,” he deadpanned. “You wouldn’t even need to give up your ident—”

“SHUT UP.”

The shout cracked through the alley like lightning, jagged and sudden. It echoed off brick and metal, scattering rats and silencing even the hum of the city for a breath.

Shouta froze—not in fear, but in shock.

The kid had never snapped before. Not once. In every encounter, every shadowed moment where their paths crossed, he had been controlled. Cool. Detached. Ghost moved like someone who didn’t waste energy on emotions, let alone let them leak out.

But now?

He was unraveling—anger pouring through the cracks in his armor like molten steel.

Shouta’s hand curled around the edge of his scarf without thinking—not out of self-preservation, but out of instinct. Something had shifted. He could feel it, raw and sharp in the air.

“Eraser,” Ghost said, voice quieter now, but far from calm. It trembled with something volatile. Not fear. Not sadness.

Fury.

“I’m only gonna say this once.”

Shouta didn’t like the way this was heading.

“I don't know what you're aim is by doing all of this... but you need to stop.

Shouta raised a brow.

Give up on me.”

A beat.

“I’m a lost cause.”

There was no drama in his voice, no flair. Just hard certainty. Like it was a fact he’d come to terms with a long time ago. It made Shouta's heart break. He thought he was a lost cause?

Shouta stayed silent though, letting him talk—mostly because he didn’t know what to say. He didn't want to say the wrong thing and make it worse.

“I wouldn’t last a week in some hero school. Not because I couldn’t keep up—but because I wouldn’t fit in. You think I want to be like them anyway?” He laughed bitterly. “They’re puppets. Bound by laws written by people who don’t even know what it’s like out here.”

His voice rose again, more venom behind each word. “Heroes don’t always save people. Not the ones who need saving the most.” He gestured roughly to the edge of the city. “She was out here alone for years. And not one top-tier hero came to help her. Not one. You think anyone gave a damn?”

Shouta felt the weight of those words settle like lead in his stomach.

“Heroes wait for permission,” Ghost seethed. “Wait for orders. While people die in alleys. While kids disappear. While gangs swallow whole neighborhoods and nobody looks twice because it’s ‘outside their jurisdiction.’”

Shouta watched as the kid’s shoulders rose and fell like he couldn’t breathe properly. “I couldn’t be one of them if I tried. I don’t follow rules. And I sure as hell don’t play hero in a system that only protects the people it chooses to care about.”

His eyes locked with Shouta’s, and there was no room for doubt in them—just heat and anger.

“I don’t want their title. I don’t need their approval. I’ll never be one of them.”

And in that moment, Shouta understood something painful and true: Ghost didn’t just reject being a hero. He despised what heroes had become.

He wasn’t trying to make a point. He wasn’t looking for sympathy. He was stating a truth—the kind that came from watching too much, surviving too long, and realizing no one was coming. And that, Shouta thought grimly, was the part that made this kid dangerous.

Not the rage.

Not the skill.

But the fact that he chose to bleed in the shadows instead of standing with heroes… like it was easier to suffer alone than believe help was real.Kid, you’re making me want to arrest you just to keep you safe. What kind of life teaches someone that this is the better option?

Of course. Just as he was about to say something, a siren howled in the distance—loud, untimely, and inconvenient as always.

He turned his head toward the approaching sound then back to the kid expecting him to already be halfway up the fire escape, slipping away like he always did. But when he looked back—

He was still there.

Hunched in the shadows. Frozen. And that’s when Shouta saw it—the way Ghost’s arm was wrapped tight around his side, fingers pressed hard against his hoodie.

Shit. Of course he would hide it.

“You’re in pain.” It wasn’t a question.

“No, I’m not,” the kid snapped, forcing himself to his feet. But Shouta could see how the kids face was twisted in discomfort under his mask, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful just to speak. Stubborn brat. He probably couldn’t even stand straight.

The sirens were getting closer—faster then Shouta wanted.

Shouta raised a brow as he watched the kid stand and limp toward the fire escape and began to climb, slow and shaky. “You’re going to collapse if you keep doing that,” he warned, voice low.

“Better than being arrested,” the kid muttered, not even looking down. Still trying to act like the pain didn’t matter. Like dying in an alley was a better option than being helped.

This idiot really does have a death wish.

Shouta’s legs twitched. His body was ready to move—to follow, to grab the kid by the back of his damn hoodie and drag him to a hospital whether he wanted it or not. He would’ve done it, too. But the unconscious thugs at his feet were starting to stir. If he left them now, someone else might pay for it.

So all he could do was stand there, fists clenched, and watch the kid slowly vanish into the night.

If he finds that kid dead in an alley later...Shouta would bring him back just to kill him.

“Pro Hero Eraserhead!”

He turned toward the voice.

A group of officers rounded the corner. “Sorry for arriving so late! Oh! It seems like you’ve got it all under control on your own.”

Shouta didn’t answer right away. He just hummed, low in his throat, and motioned vaguely toward the pile of unconscious criminals. The officers nodded and moved to secure the scene, cuffing wrists and reading off rights to people too unconscious to care.

“Whoa—are you injured, Eraserhead?” one of the officers asked, pointing to the dark smear near his boots.

“No.”

“Then whose blood is that?” she pressed, motioning to the pavement.

Right where Ghost had been.

Just great....

Shouta followed her gesture, glanced at the stain, then looked back at her—expression unreadable.

“No idea,” he said flatly. “Must’ve been a ghost.”

The officer blinked, laughing awkwardly, assuming it was a joke.

Little did she know, it wasn’t in the slightest.

“I need to finish my patrol,” Shouta muttered, already turning away.

“I’ll put the paperwork on your desk for when you come back!”

“Can’t wait,” he replied dryly, already throwing his capture weapon out towards the roof, the alley and the officers disappearing behind him.

But even as his body moved forward, his mind stayed rooted in that moment—on that fire escape, on the silhouette of a bleeding kid limping away like he hadn’t just told Shouta everything he needed to hear.

“I’m a lost cause.”

“I’ll never be a hero.”

“Give up on me.”

The words echoed louder than the sirens had. Not just anger in them—hurt. Betrayal. Disappointment so deeply carved into his bones, it had reshaped the boy’s spine. And yet, he still fought. Every night. Bleeding in alleys where no one else was watching.

And something about those words…

They stuck. Not just for what was said, but for how it was said. Like déjà vu scraping against the edge of his memory. He had a weird, familiar feeling—like he’d heard something similar before. Maybe not the exact words, but the weight behind them.

A student? Someone from years ago?

No. Something like that would’ve stood out more. It would’ve stayed with him.

Still, the feeling clung to him like a shadow he couldn’t quite place.

Shouta exhaled through his nose, pushing the thought aside.

Ghost wasn’t a villain. He was a boy who'd lost too much, seen too much, and still hadn’t stopped trying to save others—just not himself.

And maybe he hated heroes. Maybe he didn’t believe in the title. Maybe he thought Shouta was wasting his time. But none of that mattered. Because Shouta had made up his mind.

He wasn’t giving up on that kid.

Not now.

Not ever.

No matter how many times he vanished into the night.

No matter how many walls he threw up between them.

He’d seen that kind of darkness before. And he knew better than anyone from experience—

Sometimes, the ones who ran hardest from the light were the ones who needed it most.

So yeah. Ghost might be fast. He might be stubborn. Might even think he’s got everyone fooled.

But Shouta Aizawa could be stubborn, too.

And he was going to find that kid again.

Before the darkness did.

*

The pain was manageable. The silence wasn’t.

Izuku sat still, shirt discarded and blood crusted halfway down his side, as Rin carefully threaded the needle through the torn skin. The backroom smelled like antiseptic and cheap , and the beat of bass-heavy music from the club above thumped faintly through the walls—steady, distant, like a pulse.

He barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere. Stuck on the pages he'd read that morning.

Eraserhead’s notes.

While the two pro heroes were away at UA all week, Izuku had taken the chance to go through Aizawa’s notes—specifically, the ones on Ghost. On Him.

He found it odd, honestly. Out of all the case files and reports the man could’ve kept tucked away, that one just so happened to be left out on the dining room table? Open, even. Like it was waiting for him. Like Aizawa wanted him to see it.

Still… Izuku knew he wasn’t getting the full picture. There were gaps—missing observations, unfinished thoughts. Aizawa was too thorough to leave things that open-ended. There was another notebook. He was sure of it. A small, blue one—he’d seen Aizawa jot something down in it a few times, quick and quiet. Probably the real stuff was in there. The parts that mattered most. The things he didn’t want just anyone to read.

Izuku had checked everywhere else in the house. No sign of it. Which meant Aizawa was carrying it with him. Of course he was.

And God, Izuku wanted to know what was inside. Every part of him itched to flip through those pages.

But he couldn’t let that show. Couldn’t let them see how invested he was—how desperate. That kind of curiosity would only raise more questions. Ones he wasn’t ready to answer.

It had taken him a couple of days to convince himself the man wasn’t playing some long game. That there wasn’t a hidden line buried in the mess of field reports and scribbled shorthand that said “Ghost—lure, trap, arrest.”

But there wasn’t. He had checked. Twice. Then four more times for good measure.

No traps. No tricks. No grand betrayal in ink.

Just observations.

Dozens of them. Every time they crossed paths, every word Ghost said, every move he made—analyzed and recorded like some strange character study. And maybe that should’ve been creepy. But… it wasn’t. Mostly, it was baffling.

Because the man wasn’t wrong.

That’s what unsettled him the most. He wasn’t right either, not exactly. But he was close. Too close.

It was scary how accurate the notes had gotten over the week. Nothing that could out him—nothing that led back to Izuku Midoriya. Just things about him. About Ghost. The person he became in the dark.

He’d actually gasped—loud and unfiltered—when he read the note about his trauma.

High likelihood of prolonged exposure to traumatic events. Borderline hypervigilant. Self-directed guilt patterns...

That part? Too real.

But then there were other lines, and those made him laugh out loud. Quietly, bitterly. Like when Aizawa started circling back to the quirkless theory—only to talk himself out of it again three bullet points later.

He really didn’t understand how someone so emotionally unavailable could be that good at reading people. It shouldn’t have made sense. Clearly, though, Aizawa hadn’t picked up on one very loud hint: drop the damn hero talk.

He’d yelled at Greenlight and Tsukauchi the first time they brought it up too. It didn’t matter. They kept trying anyway, like hope was something that spread on contact.

He hissed slightly as Rin pulled the thread tight.

“Almost done,” Rin muttered, not looking up.

Izuku leaned his head back against the cold table. He should’ve asked for painkillers before this. Or a blindfold. Or both.

“...and done.” Rin announced, giving Izuku a hearty slap on the chest.

Izuku immediately shot him a glare.

“Right, sorry. Forgot you probably have a broken rib,” Rin said, completely unbothered, “from, y’know, falling off that rooftop on the way here.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” he deadpanned. “But seriously—thanks for your help. There was no way I could’ve made it back to the apartment without this.” He delicately slipped his shirt back on, wincing as the fabric brushed against the fresh stitches.

“Maybe you should take a few days off,” Rin said, squinting at him. “You’re starting to look like a real ghost. And what’s with the red eyes?”

“Contacts,” Izuku muttered, barely glancing at him. Then, with a dry edge to his voice, “Don’t tell me Eraserhead enlisted you or something.”

“Eraserhead... that sounds familiar…” Rin tilted his head, brows furrowed. “Tall? Scruffy? Looks like he hasn’t slept since the dawn of time?”

Izuku snorted. “Yeah. That’s him. Been patrolling this area for a bit now. It’s been hell. I feel like he’s just going to materialize out of a shadow one day and jump me.”

Rin smirked. “Right I’ve seen him a few times. Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure.”

A thought crossed Izuku’s mind. Should he ask Rin for his opinion? Sure. Another opinion couldn’t hurt. Except—it was Rin. Izuku liked the guy. Really, he did. But he wasn’t exactly a wellspring of wisdom. Or impulse control. Or… basic thought filtering. Still. May as well.

“Can I....get your thoughts on something?”

Rin gasped. Visibly. Dramatically. He whipped around like Izuku had just announced the world was ending.

Izuku barely had time to blink before Rin grabbed his hand and yanked him straight out of the room and down the hallway toward the bar.

He barely got his hood up before the shouting started.

“HARUTO! TWO SHOTS OF YOUR BEST STUFF!”

Izuku physically flinched. Too loud.

The bartender didn’t even move. Just took one long, suffering look at the pair of them and sighed, rubbing at his temples like he was fighting the urge to physically remove himself from existence.

“Boy, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you—that’s illegal.”

“I know!” Rin grinned, throwing an arm around Izuku’s shoulders like they were college bros at a reunion. Izuku winced as his side flared in pain. He really needed some painkillers. “But Ghost here is finally going to open up to me about something serious, and that deserves celebration!”

The bartender looked at Rin. Then at Izuku. Then back at Rin, who was practically vibrating with excitement, eyes buzzing, literally.

Izuku wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

No—scratch that. He regretted everything. Regretted stepping foot in this damn club. Regretted letting Rin into his life. Regretted—

Smack.

“Hey!” Rin said, clearly having just slapped the back of Izuku’s head. “I can hear you muttering. And no, you don’t regret being my friend. Don’t even try that shit.”

Izuku stared at him, irritated. “That hurt.”

“You’re welcome.”

Haruto groaned. “You know the rules, if you ask one more time tonight, i'll throw you out.”

“…Fine…” Rin groaned, turning back to Izuku with a look so serious it physically startled him.

Where had the idiot gone? Who was this serious-faced doppelgänger standing in front of him? Izuku shifted, uneasy. He hadn’t known Rin that long, but long enough to know that seriousness and Rin did not mix. This was like watching a dog walk on its hind legs. Impressive? Sure. Natural? Absolutely not.

Rin was still staring. Waiting.

Okay. Right. Come on, Izuku. You started this. No backing out now.

He cleared his throat, fingers twitching where they hovered over the edge of the counter.

“Okay… say you were in my shoes. What would you do?”

Rin raised a brow. “Ghost, buddy. You’re gonna have to be way more specific. You haven’t actually told me anything yet.”

Right.

Right.

Izuku dragged in a breath—deep, shaky. Not nearly as grounding as he wanted it to be. Well here goes nothing.

“This pro hero—Eraserhead,” he started, voice tight, eyes somewhere far away. “The one who almost caught me.” A short laugh followed, low and humorless. “Yeah. Him.”

He swallowed hard, then kept going before he could stop himself.

“Well… he keeps saying he doesn’t want to arrest me anymore. That he just wants to help. And I want to believe him. I do. But it’s—”

His hands curled tighter around the counter.

“—it’s like my brain won’t let me. Every time I think about maybe—maybe—letting my guard down, something in me just... screams. Like, nope, this is a trap, idiot. Don’t fall for it. Heroes lie. That’s what they do.”

He shook his head, staring past Rin now, unfocused.

“But then I found these notes. His notes. Don’t ask how—just… I got them.” He laughed again, softer this time, but it wasn’t amused. It was tired.

“I was surprised to find they aren't plans to catch me. Not really. They’re... observations. Thoughts. About me. And they’re so—honest.”

He drew in another breath, chest rising unevenly.

“I keep looking for the catch. For the angle. For some little slip that proves it’s manipulation or strategy or some long-game move. But it’s not there. It’s just… pages of what he sees. What he thinks he sees.”

His voice dipped lower, rough around the edges.

“And do you wanna know the worst part?” He took a breath. “The worst part is, he’s not wrong.”

Izuku blinked rapidly, rubbing a hand over his face like he could scrub the thoughts away. “Some of the stuff he wrote... I didn’t even realize about myself until I saw it on paper. And I hate that.”

His hands dropped to his lap, loose and useless. “But it’s not just the notes. It’s him. The way he talks. The way he looks at me.”

He shook his head slowly, voice fraying at the edges. “Like I’m not some ticking time bomb. Like I’m not just a label or a headline or a threat. Like I’m just—just a kid.”

His voice cracked. He didn’t try to hide it.

“A kid who got lost and decided the only way to survive was to disappear into a war zone.”

Still, he didn’t look up. He couldn’t.

“I hate that it makes me feel seen. I hate that it makes me want to believe him.”

Silence.

The only sound was the faint, steady beat of music thumping through the walls above them—like a pulse that kept going, even when everything else felt frozen.

“I keep telling myself not to trust him,” Izuku continued, softer now. “That heroes say what they need to say to get what they want. That it’s all just performance until they have the upper hand. I’ve seen that. I know that. And I’ve been fine living by that rule.”

He paused, biting the inside of his cheek.

“But he’s not following the script.”

Another beat passed.

“He’s not trying to pressure me. He’s not trying to play some mind game. He just… shows up. Every time. Even when I insult him. Even when I tell him to leave me the hell alone.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“And I don’t know what to do with that.”

A longer pause now—like something had finally left his chest, but the weight of it was still there.

“I’m scared to believe him,” he whispered. “Because if I do... and he leaves, or betrays me, or just stops showing up…”

He swallowed hard.

“It’ll break something I don’t think I can fix again.”

His eyes finally shifted toward Rin. “So what do I do?”

Rin just kept staring at him, eyes still wide, glowing faintly like they couldn’t decide whether to dim in shock or brighten out of sheer secondhand stress. Izuku, mortified, cleared his throat and looked away. “Sorry. That was… a lot.”

Rin blinked once. Twice. His mouth opened, then closed again, expression caught somewhere between shock and awe.

Izuku frowned. “Crap, did I break you?”

“…Dude,” Rin finally said, voice low. “I didn’t know you could… talk that much.”

Izuku exhaled, a mix of frustration and humiliation. “Neither did I.”

Rin let out a stunned laugh—quiet, disbelieving—and scrubbed a hand over his face. His hair stuck up worse than before. He looked overwhelmed, but present.

Then, slowly, carefully:

“…Okay. So. Listen.” He pointed at Izuku. “I’m not great with this kind of stuff, alright? You know me. I’m the guy who helps you make bad decisions and pisses people off.”

Izuku snorted. “I noticed.”

“But.” Rin held up a finger. “I’m not completely dumb. I watch. I listen. I’ve been here this whole time.”

Izuku squinted. “Still creepy phrasing.”

Rin waved him off. “Point is, I’ve seen how you get. How you act like you’re fine until you explode. And this—this whole speech? Yeah. That was a lot. But it also kinda sounds like... this Eraserhead guy? He might be the first adult in your life who actually gives a shit.”

Izuku stilled. God was he that easy to read.

Rin leaned forward, tone a little more serious now.

“Not because you’re useful. Not because you’re a threat. Just because you’re you. And yeah, that’s terrifying, but also? That’s not bad. It’s just new. And confusing. And you’re allowed to not have answers right now.”

He offered a small shrug.

Izuku blinked, trying to process what Rin had just said. For a second, he genuinely wondered if his friend had been body-snatched. Rin—king of avoidance, master of emotional redirection—was actually… making sense?.

Rin blinked back. He looked just as shocked.

“…I can’t believe that came out of me. Are you crying? Wait, no—I might cry. This is weird. Stop looking at me like that.”

Izuku gave a soft, stunned laugh. “You’re an idiot.”

“I know! This is your fault!”

“…Thanks, Rin.”

Rin gave him a lopsided smile and reached over, punching Izuku’s shoulder. “Now that we’ve had our emotional moment—wanna go punch a wall or something? Reassert our masculinity?”

Izuku wiped at his eyes and deadpanned, “That was the least masculine sentence I’ve ever heard.”

“Okay rude, but valid.”

Then Rin snorted and leaned back, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“From what i recall, Greenlight never even tried to arrest you. Honestly? If I didn’t know better, I’d say your quirk is accidentally befriending pro heroes. Like, seriously—what the hell, man? All I got was being snatched by a tree that one time we tried breaking into that abandoned support gear warehouse.”

It took Izuku a second.

A tree?

Oh.

Right.

Kamui Woods.

Of course Rin meant Kamui Woods.

Another mission Rin had insisted they take, swearing it would be "easy recon" and “totally worth it.” Spoiler: it wasn’t. Rin ended up dangling ten feet in the air, half-mummified in binding tape while Kamui gave a very loud and very public lecture on trespassing laws. Izuku had to step in and save his friend—again.

Typical.

As they exited the club, his thoughts finally all caught up. Shit. He hadn’t meant to say all of that.

He hadn’t even meant to say half of that. It had just… spilled out. Like a dam finally cracked, too worn down to hold the weight anymore.

Izuku exhaled slow, fingers rubbing at the corner of his eye. He felt lighter, weirdly. Like maybe the pressure in his chest had backed off just enough for him to breathe again.

Not that he’d ever admit that out loud.

Especially not to Rin.

No way. Because if he did, if he so much as hinted at feeling things or trusting people, Rin would run with it for the rest of the week. And gods help him especially if he found out about the Aizawa thing—

He winced.

Yeah, no.

He was absolutely never telling Rin that he was being fostered by said Pro Hero. That was a one-way ticket to emotional disaster. Rin would probably scream. Or laugh until he passed out. Or do both at the same time, and then dramatically declare that the gods had a personal vendetta against Izuku. Which, fair. They probably did.

They fell into an easy silence, Rin who was walking beside him turned to look at him, gaze softer than usual. Then, without a word, he reached over and placed a hand on Izuku’s shoulder.

“Whatever happens,” he said, surprisingly sincere, “I know it’ll all work out.”

They stopped walking. Izuku stared at him for a second, blinking.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “I hope so.”

A beat.

“Wait—can we backtrack to what you said earlier?”

Izuku turned, wary. “Which part?”

Rin grinned like he’d just won the lottery. “The part where you, Ghost, the untouchable, got caught and nearly arrested.”

Izuku groaned. “Shut up,” he muttered, dragging his hood further up and walking ahead. However his lips twitched in amusement.

Rin laughed, falling into step behind him. “There’s the Ghost I know!”

Chapter Text

Hizashi was excited.

Which, honestly, was a big contrast to his husband’s mood—somewhere between “mildly annoyed” and “ready to fake Nemuri's disappearance.”

Shouta had been complaining since the night before, grumbling through teeth-brushing, pausing only to spit, then picking right back up as they got into bed. Hizashi had even tried offering peace via back scratches. It hadn’t helped.

After a full month of fostering Midoriya—and a month of Nemuri cornering them at work with the stubbornness of a raccoon prying open a locked trash can, Hizashi eventually gave in. She was coming over this morning to meet the kid.

Shouta had not taken the news well. Hizashi was fairly certain his exact words were, “If she traumatizes him, you’re explaining it to his caseworker.”

Which, okay, fair. She had a gift. A vibe. A presence that hovered somewhere between “chaotic aunt” and “feral cat with a teaching license.”

Still, Hizashi couldn’t help grinning as he padded into the kitchen. This was going to be fun. …Probably. Maybe. Unless Midoriya cried. Or worse—Shouta cried. Hizashi had only seen that happen once, back in high school. And it had been Nemuri’s fault.

He stepped into the kitchen, already clocking the atmosphere like a teacher walking into homeroom five minutes late. The tension in the room was very thick. Everyone was on edge.

His hair, still down and loose from sleep, fell in soft waves around his face—giving him the air of someone who had either just rolled out of bed or just finished shooting a dramatic music video. Honestly, with how things felt this morning, either would’ve tracked.

Midoriya sat at the table, small hands clenched tightly around a mug, knuckles pale. He was biting his lip, eyes wide—like he was bracing for a pop quiz he hadn’t studied for.

Oh no. Hizashi narrowed his eyes. What the hell did Shouta say to make him more nervous than usual?

Across from him, Shouta slouched in his chair like a teenager forced to play board games with distant relatives. Hizashi barely suppressed a snort. Hizashi could’ve sworn there were two kids at the table instead of one.

“Oh good,” he said brightly, leaning against the doorframe, “the kids are at the table. One biting his lip, the other sulking like I told him he couldn’t have dessert.”

Shouta gave him a slow, unimpressed glare—one of his greatest hits—but Hizashi had long since developed immunity.

“She’s not even here yet,” Hizashi continued as he stepped further in, “and this one already looks like he’s planning his escape route out the window. What did you tell him, Sho?”

Shouta took a sip of coffee, then turned back to the kid. “Hizashi raises a good point. If you can’t escape her, the window’s the best option. Just make sure you roll when you hit the ground.”

He watched the way the kid tensed at that even more. Oh for god shake Shouta. Hizashi’s hand flew to his hip in dramatic offense. “Shouta! You cannot teach the child to hurl himself out of windows to avoid social interaction. That’s your coping mechanism.”

Shouta only shrugged and downed the rest of his coffee with the apathy of a man who had long since accepted the consequences of his actions. Hizashi rolled his eyes at the theatrics.

Instead, he crossed the room, and dropped into the seat next to Midoriya, softening his voice and offering a small, reassuring smile.

“Don’t listen to him, kid. You’re safe. No window dives required.”

Midoriya blinked at him, then muttered, “Yeah, right. From what I’ve heard, I don’t even think that’ll save me.” Hizashi’s smile fell completely. “Huh? Okay—Shouta, what exactly did you tell him?!” Before Shouta could answer, the doorbell chimed.

Everyone froze.

Nobody moved.

Shouta opened his mouth. “We could pretend—”

Hizashi snapped him a glare sharp enough to slice through drywall. Shouta wisely closed his mouth. Midoriya’s grip on the mug tightened.

This was happening.

And Hizashi had a strong feeling they weren’t ready. Oh well too late now. What was the worst that could happen?

Just as Hizashi stood up, he heard the familiar beep of the door unlocking. Oh—right. They’d given Nemuri the apartment code ages ago. Back when she used to stop by to feed the cats whenever he and Shouta weren’t around.

The door barely opened before chaos burst through it.

“BABYYYYY I’M HEEEEEERE!”

Nemuri swept into the apartment like a glitter bomb with legs, her coat barely clinging to one shoulder and her heels far too dramatic for 9 a.m. She made a beeline for Hizashi, arms outstretched like she was aiming to either hug him or tackle him through a wall.

“Ah! My beautiful boy!” she cried, enveloping him in a cloud of perfume and volume. They had literally seen each other two days ago at UA… Hizashi laughed, hugging her back without hesitation. “You’re going to wake the neighbors, you menace.”

“Good,” she grinned, pulling back just enough to look at him. “Let them witness joy.”

She turned toward Shouta next, arms already raising.

Shouta didn’t even flinch. “No.”

Nemuri froze mid-stride. “Me-ow, someone’s grumpy today.”

Midoriya, who’d been silently watching the hurricane that was Nemuri blow through the living room, piped up honestly: “No… he’s actually like that every day.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Hizashi snorted, full-on snorted, before biting back a laugh.

Nemuri blinked, looked at the kid, and then back at Shouta—who just sipped his refill of coffee with the deadpan calm of a man who’d long ago accepted his fate.

“Well,” she said, eyebrows raising, “I love him already.”

Nemuri pivoted smoothly toward Midoriya, her grin still wide, but softening just enough to not completely terrify the child. Hizashi held his breath. This part could go either way.

“You,” she said, dramatically placing a hand over her heart like she was meeting royalty, “must be the famous Midoriya. Finally. I’ve been dying to meet you.”

Midoriya blinked up at her, wide-eyed and clearly still assessing if this woman was, in fact, dangerous. Honestly, fair. Nemuri was wearing at least three shades of eyeliner and enough perfume to trigger a smoke detector. She radiated chaos like a second quirk.

“…You’re very loud,” Midoriya said. Hizashi choked on a laugh and immediately tried to turn it into a cough. Oh, he liked this kid.

Nemuri didn’t miss a beat. “And you’re very honest. I love that.”

Midoriya squinted, clearly not sure if that was a compliment or a trap. Hizashi could practically see the gears turning in his head, weighing the risk of engaging further.

“Are you always like this?” Midoriya asked, tone cautious, suspicious.

Nemuri’s eyes sparkled. “Sweetheart, I tone it down around strangers. You’re practically family now. This is the polished version.”

Hizashi bit his lip to stifle the grin threatening to break his face. Oh no. This kid was doomed. She’d claimed him.

Midoriya seemed to realize that too. He gave Hizashi a wide-eyed, silent help me look.

Hizashi just gave him a sympathetic shrug and mouthed, Too late. Honestly… this was already going better than expected.

Before Nemuri could launch into whatever dazzling introduction she had lined up next, Fish, leapt gracefully onto the dining table like he owned the place. Which, in fact wasn’t true in the slightest. That was more of Eclipses job.

Nemuri gasped like someone had just proposed marriage. “A shiny prince! Look at him!”

Hizashi barely managed to slide Midoriya’s mug out of the way before Fish’s tail swiped through the steam.

“Fish,” he said gently, “buddy, off the table.”

The cat looked directly at him, blinked once, and sat down with the regal air of someone who paid rent. Which he absolutely did not.

The cats never listened to him. But whenever Shouta said something they listened immediately. It was so unfair.

Nemuri was already reaching for him, cooing dramatically. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen him? You didn’t tell me he got chonky! Oh my god, look at this majestic loaf!”

“Don’t encourage him,” Shouta warned, not even looking up from his coffee. “He already thinks he’s above the law.”

Nemuri scooped Fish into her arms like he was a long-lost child. “And he should! This is clearly a creature of divinity. I will die for him.”

“You said that about the last raccoon you saw outside a ramen place,” Hizashi pointed out, sliding Midoriya’s mug back.

“That raccoon had vibes, Hizashi.”

Midoriya, who had been watching this entire exchange like someone tuning into a soap opera halfway through the season, finally spoke up, voice flat: “Is this… normal?” Hizashi didn’t even hesitate. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Nemuri plopped herself dramatically into the chair next to Midoriya, Fish draped across her lap like a scarf that had developed opinions. She turned her attention to the kid with laser focus.

“So!” she said, hands clasped. “You like cats, right? You live with three. If the answer is no, we might have a problem.”

“I… I mean, yeah, I guess?” Midoriya stammered.

“Wrong answer,” Nemuri said. “The correct answer is ‘I would die for them.’ But we’ll work on it.”

Hizashi saw Midoriya blink again—then slowly, slowly, the tiniest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Oh no.

Oh no.

This kid was catching on.

Nemuri leaned in conspiratorially. “So. Midoriya. Tell me everything. How’s foster life? How’s school? Any enemies I should destroy? Do you have a favorite type of soup? What’s your stance on jazz? Do you think Shouta’s hair looks better up or down?”

“I—what—wait—what kind of interrogation is this?” Midoriya sputtered, already flustered, but there was a hint of amusement buried in his tone.

“It’s a Nemuri interrogation,” Hizashi said, leaning against the counter and sipping his own coffee like this was just another Saturday. “You’re doing great.”

Shouta, from his post at the end of the table, just muttered, “It’s a trap. Don’t answer anything.”

“Oh, like you didn’t spill your entire emotional backlog to me when we were fifteen,” Nemuri shot back.

Shouta stiffened like she’d hit a nerve—because she had.

Midoriya’s eyes lit up. “Wait. What?”

Hizashi nearly choked on his drink. Oh no. She wouldn’t— “Nemuri…”

Too late, he thought, watching the train derail in real time.

“Wait, wait, no—” Shouta started, already moving to shut it down, but the damage was done.

“You mean to tell me,” Midoriya said, grinning like the cat that caught the mouse, “you have dirt on Aizawa?”

Nemuri’s smile turned positively evil. “Do I have dirt? Sweetie, I have archives.”

Shouta took one look at the gleam in both of their eyes, stood up slowly, and muttered, “The window’s looking real good right now.”

Hizashi nearly dropped his mug from laughing. "Your so dramatic Sho, sit down."

Yeah… maybe letting them meet had been a mistake. For the two of them.

Hizashi wasn’t sure when the tides turned. Maybe it was when Nemuri declared Eclipse the “reincarnation of the queen in cat form” and tried to kiss the cat on the head—promptly getting swatted for it. Or maybe it was when Izuku stopped looking like he was mentally rehearsing exit strategies and started grinning.

At first, it was subtle. A small twitch at the corners of his mouth. Then came the glint in his eye. The lean forward, the banter.

The kid was actually enjoying himself.

And Hizashi… wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

Not because it wasn’t wonderful—because it was. It was just that, up until now, Izuku had smiled only in careful, curated doses. Polite. Guarded. Never too loud. Never too long.

But now? Now he was smiling. And it was real. Smirking alongside Nemuri like they’d been partners in chaos their whole lives. It was the first time Hizashi had seen him relax, even just a little. And the fact that it came at his and Shouta’s expense?

Well. Worth it.

Even if it stung a little.

“Wait, wait—did you say mullet?” Midoriya asked, a small grin tugging at his lips. Hizashi tuned back into the conversation at that.

“Oh, not just a mullet,” Nemuri said, eyes gleaming. “It had layers. Drama. It looked like he lost a bet with a bottle of conditioner.”

Shouta groaned. “That was fifteen years ago. Let it die.”

“You should’ve thought of that before letting your hair look like a soap opera villain,” Hizashi chimed in, smirking.

Nemuri turned sharply. “You’re one to talk!”

Hizashi blinked. “Me?!”

“Oh yes,” she said, standing and pointing like she was making a closing argument. “Let’s talk about the time you tried to bleach your hair platinum blonde and turned it orange.”

Midoriya hummed softly—definitely amused.

“I—okay, first of all, I was sixteen—”

“Exactly,” Nemuri cut in. “And thought you were going to be in a punk band. You looked like a traffic cone with dreams.” Hizashi laughed, but something in his chest twisted slightly. Not painful. Just… bittersweet.

He remembered that day. The way the dye had burned. The way he’d scrubbed at his scalp until it bled a little. Because no one told him how to do it right, and he hadn’t wanted to ask. He’d wanted to look bold. Loud. Like someone who couldn’t be ignored.

He remembered the mirror. The disappointment.

And then he remembered Shouta—not laughing. Not mocking. Just silently stealing his mom’s toner and helping him fix it. He looked over now, at Shouta—who was currently holding Eclipse like a small, grumpy hostage while Nemuri plotted her next roast.

It hit him quietly, all at once: they’d grown up. Somehow. Despite everything.

And now they were raising a kid who deserved better than awkward silences and nervous apologies.

Midoriya leaned toward Nemuri again. “So, wait… is it true he passed out getting his ear pierced?”

Shouta didn’t even blink. “Yep. Behind the gym. Full collapse. Took down a trash can with him.”

“I swear to god,” Hizashi muttered, burying his face in his hands.

Midoriya’s smile twitched wider. His shoulders relaxed, just a touch. His eyes softened, glancing between them with the kind of wary affection someone gives a found family they’re still not sure they deserve.

And Hizashi thought: If this is what it takes to make him feel at home, then yeah. I’ll relive every humiliating teenage year we had. Twice.

Nemuri smirked. “He was dramatic then, and he’s dramatic now.”

“Look who’s talking,” Shouta muttered.

Midoriya’s voice was soft. “You all sound like you were kind of a mess.”

Hizashi smiled, quieter this time. “We were. And sometimes we still are.”

But then he looked at Midoriya. Saw the way he wasn’t shrinking back. How he was listening, present. How he wasn’t faking that smile.

“Messy’s okay,” Hizashi added. “As long as we figure it out together.”

Nemuri raised a brow. “Wow. That was almost heartfelt.”

“I’m allowed to have feelings, you gremlin.”

“Sure, sure. Just don’t start crying or I’ll text your students.”

“Please don’t,” Shouta said immediately.

Midoriya let out a quiet huff—just short of a laugh—but not quite. Still, it was more than Hizashi had seen before.

This… this might actually work.

Things were starting to lighten up in the Aizawa-Yamada household.

*

Nemuri. Why did that name sound so familiar?

Izuku narrowed his eyes as she cackled at something Yamada said, moving with the confidence of someone who'd declared herself Queen of the Room, after Eclipse of course. There was something familiar about the way she held herself. The loudness. The sass. The heels that could kill a man.

It clicked the second she picked up the photo frame on the bookshelf—one of those casual, slightly grainy snapshots. Aizawa, Yamada, and… her. Young, smug, striking even in low resolution.

Izuku’s eyes widened.

“Wait. You’re the R-rated hero, Midnight?!”

He turned so fast to Aizawa it nearly gave him whiplash. “I think you forgot that major detail when you were warning me earlier.”

Aizawa didn’t even blink. “Oops.”

This man. He did that on purpose.

Nemuri, who had been mid-cat-nuzzle with Fish, slowly turned her head toward him like a turret locking onto a target.

“Warning you about what?” Her voice dipped sweetly, dangerously.

Izuku blinked at her, then at Aizawa—who had gone suspiciously still—and suddenly, he understood the power in his hands.

Oh. This is gonna be good.

He flashed Aizawa a wide, wicked grin. The kind only a kid with sudden leverage and no supervision could manage.

“Oh, just, you know…” he turned back to Nemuri, blinking up at her with maximum fake innocence, “he warned me about you. Said if things got bad I should consider, uh—jumping out the window? That’s what you said right?”

Nemuri froze.

Across the room, Yamada made the executive decision to very casually slip out toward the kitchen to start on breakfast.

The air dropped five degrees.

Eclipse, who had nestled herself contentedly in her favourite spot—Aizawa's lap—immediately sensed the change and bolted. Fish, held like a football in Midnights arms, yeeted himself out and bolted out of the room with a squawk.

Nemuri’s eyes were glacial as she turned fully to Shouta. “You. Sabotaged me. You’re actively ruining my odds of being the favourite aunt!”

Aizawa just groaned. “Kayama, you’re literally the only option. There is no competition.”

“That’s not the point, you emotionally repressed throw pillow!”

Izuku had to slap a hand over his mouth, pretending it was a cough. It wasn’t. It was a laugh. A real one.

He shouldn’t be enjoying this. He shouldn’t. But somehow, watching Nemuri square up to Aizawa like they were back in high school and he was a student caught sneaking off campus felt… normal.

Comfortable, even.

He wasn’t used to people talking to each other like this. With history. With affection wrapped in sarcasm and yelling and pet names that sounded like insults. He wasn’t used to laughing. But something small bubbled up anyway. Just a little smirk. Nothing huge. But it was real.

Aizawa, noticing, narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

“Don’t think I don’t see you enjoying this,” he muttered.

Izuku tilted his head, smirk still tugging at his lips. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Oh my god,” Yamada muttered from the kitchen, barely holding in his own laughter. “There’s two of them now.”

“And it’s beautiful,” Nemuri declared triumphantly, throwing her arm around Izuku’s shoulder like they were war buddies.

Aizawa looked like he was already regretting every life choice that led him to this moment.

And honestly? Izuku kind of loved that.

He shouldn’t have. He knew that.

But there was something about her—Nemuri—that made it hard not to be drawn in.

Midnight was iconic. Undefeated in hero rankings for charisma alone. But now, seeing her in person, with her dramatic flourishes and volume set permanently to max, there was something… oddly familiar.

The confidence. The chaos. The way she spoke like she already owned the room and you were just lucky to be invited inside it.

She reminded him of Greenlight.

His throat tightened a little.

It wasn’t a perfect match—Greenlight had always felt quieter somehow. Not in volume, but in intention. Like she could take up space without making others shrink. She had a way of focusing on you that made the rest of the world fade out. Nemuri didn’t fade anything out—she exploded into rooms, unapologetic and unfiltered. But still. That same sense of presence. That same gravitational pull. And for some reason, instead of feeling overwhelmed or annoyed or instinctively pulling back like he usually did, Izuku found himself… leaning in.

Not physically. He was still planted firmly where he sat, arms crossed and body language dialed to cautious. But mentally? Emotionally?

He was already one foot in.

And that terrified him more than any villain ever could.

He knew better. Knew how easily things could change. How fast comfort could disappear. He was used to being wary—used to filtering everything and everyone through layers of caution, because being too hopeful hurt more than being disappointed.

But… it was hard to stay closed off when she was tossing a throw pillow at Aizawa and crowing about “aunt rights,” and Yamada was laughing so hard he nearly dropped a pan in the kitchen.

It was chaotic. Ridiculous.

And warm.

He didn’t trust it. Not really. But… for now?

He let himself sit with it.

Just for a little bit.

Yamada came strutting back into the living room like a waiter in a diner-themed sitcom, balancing a plate piled high with bacon and golden pancakes in one hand, and a bowl of freshly chopped fruit in the other. His hair had been hastily tied up into a loose bun, the usual waves now more of a frizz halo from his brief kitchen battle.

"Breakfast is served, my darlings!" he sang, like he was on stage and not in sweatpants with flour dusting his sleeves.

Aizawa raised an eyebrow the moment he caught sight of the spread. “What happened to the eggs?”

Yamada’s face scrunched up like he’d bitten into a lemon. “Uh… let’s not talk about the eggs.”

Nemuri snorted. “You burnt them again, didnt you?”

“I will neither confirm nor deny that there may have been a minor incident involving a frying pan, olive oil, and my crippling overconfidence.”

“Tragic,” Aizawa said flatly, reaching for a piece of bacon anyway.

Izuku couldn’t help the way his lips twitched at that, the ghost of a smirk threatening to break free. This wasn’t the sort of breakfast he was used to—chaotic and messy and full of teasing—but it wasn’t bad. He watched as Nemuri stole a strawberry from the fruit bowl, only to dramatically declare it was “too healthy” and immediately trade it for a pancake. Yamada rolled his eyes and let it happen.

They bickered the entire time. Over who made the best coffee (Nemuri, apparently, “because you both make it like you’re punishing the beans”), over whether or not Aizawa actually chewed his food or just absorbed it, and even about how many cats were too many cats.

Izuku sat quietly at first, just listening. It was strange, watching them all interact like this. They weren’t perfect. They were weird. And loud. And the apartment wasn’t spotless and the pankcakes were slightly burnt—but there was something about it all that made his chest feel weird. Like it was expanding and tightening at the same time.

Warmth. That was the word for it.

“So,” Nemuri said casually, mouth full of pancake as she turned her attention to him, “when are you gonna let me give you an illegal amount of hero merch and an unhinged pep talk?”

Izuku blinked. “I, uh—”

“She will, too,” Aizawa muttered. “I had to talk her out of sending a life-sized cardboard cutout of herself the first week we started fostering.”

“You’re lying,” Izuku said flatly.

“Nope,” Yamada chirped, sipping his coffee. “I caught her trying to sneak it through the back stairwell.”

Nemuri just shrugged. “Everyone needs a six-foot-tall conversation piece.”

That time, Izuku couldn’t help it. A breathy little laugh escaped before he could stop it.

The moment the sound escaped him—light and fleeting, but undeniably real—everything in the room screeched to a halt.

Aizawa’s chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth. Yamada's mug froze mid-sip. Nemuri slowly lowered her fork, a mischievous glint already forming in her eyes.

Izuku immediately felt the heat rise up his neck, blooming across his cheeks like wildfire. He ducked his head slightly, instinctively trying to disappear behind his cup. What was that? Why had he done that? He hadn’t even meant to—it just… slipped out.

He could feel it, the way both men were still looking at him. Not judging. Just… surprised. Which honestly didn’t feel better. He wasn’t sure if he’d even laughed once since he’d moved in. A smile here or there maybe. But not this.

And now they were acting like he’d just performed magic. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “You’re staring like I grew a second head,” he muttered, crossing his arms.”

“Kid,” Yamada said, softly, with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You could’ve just sneezed and we’d still be this dramatic about it.”

Aizawa didn’t say anything at first, just hummed a quiet agreement and set his chopsticks down. “You’re allowed to laugh, you know.”

Izuku glanced at him, then at Nemuri, who was watching him with something far gentler than her usual chaos—like she was memorizing this exact moment for later blackmail, but also didn’t want to scare it off.

He rubbed his sleeve over his mouth. “Just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

Nemuri raised her eyebrows. “You weren’t expecting me to be hilarious and charming? Rude.”

That drew the smallest twitch of a smile again. Not a laugh. But close. Damnit.

And Yamada—still seated, still trying to pretend like he wasn’t tearing up just a little bit —leaned back in his chair, catching Aizawa’s eye over the table.

They didn’t say anything to each other. But the quiet look they shared said it all.

He needed a break. So once all the food was gone, he took that opportunity to escape the room. Izuku gathered the plates with a quiet sort of efficiency, stacking them in his arms like he’d done it a thousand times. Maybe he had. Maybe not here, not in this kitchen—but in enough homes that muscle memory had formed regardless. Something safe in the movement. Something detached. If his hands were full, then maybe his head would quiet down.

He didn’t say anything as he moved toward the sink. Yamada gave him a look—half cheerful, half thoughtful—but didn’t push. Nemuri was still laughing about something in the other room, and Aizawa's tired groan followed right behind it. The sound made something warm and sick curl in Izuku’s chest.

It felt too… normal.

The warmth of breakfast still lingered in the air. He could smell syrup, feel the softness of the pancakes on his tongue, remember how the fruit had actually been sweet instead of sour and half-rotten. It was all too much. Too good.

And that laugh—his laugh. Why did he do that? Why now? Why here?

The plate in his hand trembled slightly as he ran it under the tap. He clenched his jaw, trying to will the shaking away.

He shouldn’t be enjoying this. Not this much.

The way Nemuri had leaned into every joke. The way Yamada had made sure there was fruit because he noticed Izuku always picked around the bacon. The way Aizawa hadn’t said much but still kept subtly placing things closer to him—sugar, a napkin, the extra syrup—like he’d memorized how Izuku operated in silence.

None of that was supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to feel like anything. They were just… kind strangers doing their best until this all inevitably fell apart. Until he was moved. Again.

Don’t get attached.

He knew this.

Don’t laugh. Don’t sink into it. Don’t believe it.

They were pro heroes, after all. They probably just felt bad for him. Yamada's breakfasts weren’t about care. Just attempts to win him over. Nothing more. And it was working.

It shouldn’t be working.

He hated that it was working.

He hated himself for hoping.

You know better, he thought bitterly, scrubbing at the dish. You always know better.

And then—

The plate slipped.

It cracked sharply against the edge of the sink, then shattered in a spray of ceramic and water.

The crash of the plate in the sink had barely echoed before his body moved on instinct—flinching, breath locking in his throat, every nerve ending buzzing with alarm.

Because this had happened before.

Not in this kitchen. Not with these people.

But years ago. A different sink. A different house. A different pair of hands. Innocent hands that hadn’t been stained by blood yet.

He was nine. Small for his age. Barely tall enough to reach the counter without a stool.

The kitchen was smaller then, darker. The counters were too high and the faucet leaked with a slow, rhythmic drip that seemed to taunt him. He remembered the scratchy feeling of the too-big shirt hanging off his shoulders, the way it was already damp at the hem from the dishwater. He had wanted to help. Be useful. Quiet. Invisible.

The plate had slipped—just like now.

Just like this.

The sound of it breaking hadn’t even faded before the footsteps started.

Heavy. Fast. Furious.

He knew the pattern. He knew the rhythm. And he knew he didn’t have enough time to clean it up.

The kitchen door slammed open like an explosion. The man’s shadow fell across the floor like a punishment before the words even came.
“You stupid little bastard,” his foster father’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. “Do you know how much that plate cost? That’s worth more than you will ever be.”

Izuku had tried to speak. He remembered his mouth moving, remembered the word sorry caught in his throat like it had barbed wire wrapped around it. But no sound made it out.

The slap did.

It was open-palmed and hard. His ear rang. His head snapped to the side, and the kitchen tiles rushed up to meet him before he even registered the fall.

And then—

The quiet after.

Not peace. Not calm.

Just that awful, pressing quiet where he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t cry. Just started picking up the pieces. Bare fingers. Shaking hands. One shard at a time, trying not to bleed on the floor.

No one came to help him.

The present bled into the past like a cracked dam giving way.

The kitchen was too quiet. The sound of running water and the broken plate clinking in the sink felt like warning bells. His breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat, frozen, useless.

Then came the hand.

Firm. Heavy. On his shoulder.

His whole body locked up.

No—nonononono—

It was him. It had to be. He was back. He’d found him. Izuku had broken something again, messed up again, and now he’d pay for it.

The shaking started in his fingers but quickly swallowed him whole.

He couldn’t stop it.

He flinched so hard it rattled the dish rack. His hands flew up, instinct faster than thought—arms curled over his head, chin tucked in tight, eyes squeezed shut. His breath came shallow and rapid, panic climbing his ribs like barbed wire. He lowered himself to the ground, acting as small as possible.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry I didn’t mean to I didn’t mean to—” he whispered, barely audible, words running together like the blood in the sink. “Please I’m sorry I’ll clean it I’ll fix it I won’t do it again I’m sorry—”

He waited for it.

The yell. The slap. The crash of pain that always came next.

But instead, there was silence.

No anger. No footsteps. Just the gentle sound of water, the hum of the fridge, and the quietest intake of breath behind him.

Then—

“…Midoriya?”

The voice wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t low and sharp and furious.

It was soft. Careful. Familiar.

Still, he couldn’t move. The fear had him in a chokehold.

The hand didn’t tighten. Didn’t yank him forward or push him away. It just stayed there—steady, grounding.

And slowly, something inside him cracked. Not like a plate this time. Not like something broken. Something opening. Something that ached so badly it almost felt like relief.

He wasn’t there anymore.

But he hadn’t quite come back yet either.

The hand was still on his shoulder, steady but gentle, a grounding presence that felt like the only thing tethering him to the present. Slowly, the hand began to pull Izuku’s arm away from his head, his touch cautious, as though every movement had to be measured. Izuku’s breath was shaky, his chest tight with the weight of everything that had just happened. His skin felt too hot, like he was burning from the inside out, and his thoughts kept spiraling—too fast, too loud.

But then, when the hand finally coaxed his arm down, their eyes met.

Izuku wasn’t prepared for it.

Yamada’s expression was not what he expected. The usual confident, playful energy he always carried was gone. In its place was something softer—concern, yes—but also something deeper, something that made Izuku’s breath hitch. Yamada looked… scared. Not of him, not of anything he had done, but scared of what he’d just witnessed. The raw vulnerability. The panic. The break.

It wasn’t fear in the way most people were afraid of him, or the kind of fear that made someone recoil or pull away. It was the kind of fear that came from seeing someone you cared about in pain and not knowing how to fix it. A kind of helplessness that hit deep in your gut.

Behind him, Izuku caught the soft glances of Nemuri and Aizawa. Their expressions mirrored Yamada’s—concern, yes, but something else too. Aizawa’s normally guarded features were cracked for a moment, showing a depth of worry as he stood a few feet behind Yamada. Nemuri stood frozen by the door, one hand still on her mouth like she hadn’t known what to do with what had just unfolded.

They were all watching him.

They saw him fall apart.

A heavy, unfamiliar silence filled the room as Izuku held their gazes, unsure of what to do next. It wasn’t shame that settled in his chest, though. Not exactly. More like a question—Do I deserve this? Do I deserve to be seen like this?

Yamada didn’t look away, though. “Midoriya ,” Yamada said softly, like he was afraid of breaking something—someone. His voice was soft, patient, coaxing. “Look at me, kid. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Izuku blinked, the sting of tears still hot in his eyes, but he couldn’t look away from Yamada. Not when he said his name like that. Not when his voice carried something Izuku didn’t know how to handle—gentleness. Safety.

He didn’t feel okay.

He felt like he couldn’t breathe, like the air in the kitchen had turned thick and heavy, like it might drown him if he stayed still too long. His hands were still trembling at his sides, his breath shallow and uneven, but Yamada was kneeling closer now, letting his presence be something steady, something quiet.

“You’re not in trouble,” Yamada said, low and firm but warm, the kind of tone Izuku had never heard from any adult when he broke something. “You’re not gonna get yelled at. You’re not gonna get hurt.”

Izuku’s throat burned. He wanted to believe him. Wanted to so badly it made his chest ache.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t know how.

He just stared at Yamada, trying to make sense of it—of the way his words didn’t come with tension behind them, or a threat underneath. There was no edge, no bite, no waiting for a moment to strike. Just… a man kneeling on the kitchen floor, talking to him like he mattered. Like he was something more than a problem to clean up.

“Izuku,” Yamada tried, reaching slowly—not fast, not sudden—and placing a careful hand on his uninjured wrist. His thumb brushed faintly over the back of Izuku’s hand, grounding him. “You’re safe here. I promise. We’ve got you, okay?”

Izuku’s eyes burned harder. His lip trembled. He hated that. Hated how small he suddenly felt. Like he was nine again, curled up on the kitchen tile, hoping if he stayed quiet enough, maybe they’d forget he existed.

“I—I didn’t mean to break it,” he whispered, voice barely there. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey. Hey,” Yamada cut in gently. “I know. I know you didn’t. It’s just a plate, kid. It’s not more important than you. Nothing is.”

And that—

That broke something loose.

Because no one had ever said that to him. Not in all the homes. Not at the agency. And now this man, who had made him pancakes and told terrible jokes and wore bright yellow Crocs like they were a fashion statement—this man was saying it like it was a truth so obvious, it didn’t need to be argued.

Behind Yamada, Nemuri had stepped into the kitchen, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t try to fix it or make light of it. She just stood by the doorframe, arms crossed, face drawn tight with quiet fury—not at Izuku, but at the invisible ghosts she could see clinging to him.

Izuku didn’t know how to handle all of them looking at him like this.

Like he was someone worth worrying about.

He didn’t know how to be worth it

Aizawa had moved to the top cabinet and grabbed something. Izuku couldn’t exactly focus on what it was. It was a white box. Then he was moving towards him.

Aizawa knelt down beside Yamada, the white box in his hands clicking open as he flipped the lid. A small first aid kit—simple, compact, but clean and organized. Of course it was. Everything Aizawa touched had this quiet, methodical efficiency to it, like he never did anything halfway. Like he always had a plan.

Izuku watched him through lashes still damp with unshed tears, uncertain if he should move, speak, breathe.

Then Aizawa reached for his hand.

Izuku flinched before he could stop himself, the involuntary jerk of his arm sharp and immediate. He expected reprimand. Frustration. Even just the tired sigh adults gave when you made things more difficult than they needed to be.

But it didn’t come.

Aizawa just paused, hand hovering, eyes locking on his with a patience Izuku didn’t understand.

“I need to look at your hand,” Aizawa said softly, not moving closer. “Is that okay?”

It took Izuku a second to answer. His fingers twitched in Yamada’s grasp, and he nodded, once—short, unsure.

When Aizawa’s hand closed gently around his wrist, it was steady. Warm. Real. The contact wasn’t harsh or controlling; it was grounding. Like he was saying, I’ve got you without needing the words.

Izuku let him turn the hand over.

He blinked.

There was blood. A lot of it.

A gash ran across his palm—thin, but long, the edges already red and raw. The plate must’ve sliced him when it shattered, maybe when he reached out to stop it from hitting the sink. He hadn’t even noticed.

It didn’t hurt. Not really.

It tingled, sure, but pain was familiar. Manageable. Forgettable. He’d been through worse. Had felt worse.

Being seen like this? That hurt more.

“I didn’t even feel it,” he mumbled, voice too quiet.

Yamada’s grip tightened just slightly. “That’s not the flex you think it is, kiddo.”

Izuku tried to laugh—tried—but it didn’t quite make it out. Just a shaky breath, part chuckle, part collapse.

Aizawa had already soaked a cotton pad with antiseptic. “This is going to sting.”

Izuku nodded. “Okay.”

And it did sting. But not enough to make him flinch again. Not enough to outweigh the weight sitting in his chest like stone. He watched the blood smear away in slow circles, felt Aizawa’s thumb pressing steady along his wrist to keep his hand still.

He didn’t say anything about how bad it looked. Didn’t scold him for hiding it.

Aizawa finished wrapping the bandage with careful, precise hands, tucking the end in gently. It wasn’t rushed or careless. Every motion was measured—deliberate, like he was afraid any sudden movement might make things worse.

“There,” he said quietly. “It’s not deep, but we’ll keep it clean.”

Izuku stared at the gauze. It felt like someone else’s hand, like the injury belonged to a stranger. He hadn’t even realized he was bleeding until they’d pointed it out. The pain barely registered—just a dull, warm throb in his palm. Compared to what he’d felt before, it didn’t even count.

He hadn’t looked any of them in the eye for at-least a minute. His gaze was stuck to the floor.

Not since he’d flinched like that. Curled up like he was expecting something worse. Like they’d seen too much.

Yamada was crouched beside him again, his voice quieter now, softer around the edges. “You okay, kid?”

Izuku gave a shallow nod. It wasn’t really an answer, but it was all he could manage. His chest felt too full and too hollow at the same time.

Behind them, Nemuri lingered in the doorway, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her usual grin was gone. She looked... unsure. And Aizawa, had moved to turn the tap off and clean up the mess, he looked more tired than anything else. Not like he was annoyed or frustrated. Just... worried. Trying to figure out a puzzle without all the pieces.

No one had said anything yet. No one had asked. He knew they wanted to. He was glad they hadn’t. He didn’t have any answers.

But the way they looked at him told him they’d seen enough to start guessing.

Izuku’s throat felt tight. He hadn’t meant to react like that. Hadn’t meant to give anything away. It had just happened. Like muscle memory—an instinct he hadn’t even realized he still had.

He forced a breath through his nose, voice coming out low and flat. “I broke a plate.”

Yamada shook his head, not unkindly. “It’s just a plate, Midoriya.”

But he didn’t understand. None of them did. Not really. Still, no one got angry. No one raised their voice. No one reached for him too fast.

They just... stayed.

Nemuri stepped forward a little, her heels tapping against the floor, the sound somehow softer than usual.

“You know,” she said, trying for casual, “I once shattered a whole set of dishes because I was arguing with my rice cooker. It won. Obviously.”

Aizawa let out a slow sigh, and Yamada snorted under his breath.

Izuku didn’t laugh. Not really. But something in his shoulders eased. Just barely.

The room was still quiet. Tense but not like before. Not dangerous. More like everyone was waiting—for him to breathe, or bolt, or speak again.

He didn’t do any of those things.

Izuku just looked down at his hand. He flexed his fingers slightly, testing the bandage. It was tight but not too tight. Aizawa had done it perfectly, of course. That figured.

The silence lingered a moment longer before he felt it—the shift in him. That familiar tightening in his chest, the wall being rebuilt brick by brick. His breathing had evened out. His hands had stopped shaking. But now the shame crept in, followed closely by defensiveness.

He hated being seen like that. Weak. Exposed. Small.

He pulled his hand away from Yamada and stepped back, putting a little more space between himself and all of them.

“I said I was fine,” he muttered, voice low and a little sharper than it needed to be. His eyes didn’t meet theirs. “You don’t have to... hover.”

Yamada blinked, straightening up from where he’d been crouching. “We’re not hovering, kiddo. We’re just—”

“I said I’m fine,” Izuku cut in again, firmer now, even as his heart thudded a little too hard in his chest.

The three adults exchanged a glance, but none of them pushed. Not directly.

Nemuri raised both hands slowly, backing off like she was dealing with a spooked animal. “Alright, alright. No more hovering. But if you start bleeding again, I am bringing out the glitter band-aids.”

Izuku huffed—not quite a laugh, but not exactly annoyed either. “That’s not a threat, that’s a war crime.”

Nemuri grinned. “Careful, kid. I’ve got Hello Kitty ones too.”

Yamada let out a quiet chuckle, but Izuku stayed where he was, arms crossing tightly over his chest. His jaw clenched. His posture had closed back up—coiled, guarded. Still a little skittish. But no longer crumbling.

Aizawa didn’t say anything. He just walked over to the sink and quietly resumed the dishes, taking over where Izuku had left off, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Izuku hovered by the edge of the kitchen for another beat, unsure of what to do. Still feeling too much. Still feeling seen.

And it scared him.

So he did the only thing he could think of.

He retreated to the couch without another word, pulled one of the throw blankets over himself, and curled up with his back to the room.

Let them think he was sulking.

It was easier than letting them know he was still scared.

Nemuri waited a minute or two before moving toward the couch, quiet for once. She didn’t crouch or coo or ask if he was okay. Just flopped onto the other end of the couch like she’d been there all along and said, “So. Ice cream?”

Izuku blinked, not turning to face her.

She continued like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You look like someone who needs ice cream. I know a place. Twenty-minute walk. Open early. Best pistachio in the prefecture.”

From the kitchen, Yamada straightened. “Kayama, I don’t think now’s—”

“Shhh.” Nemuri didn’t even look back. “Adults are talking.”

Yamada frowned. “You’re the only adult talking.”

“And I am making a valid therapeutic suggestion.”

Izuku finally turned his head, just a little. “But we just had breakfast.”

She raised a brow. “Then we can go for a walk, If you want. Or we could sit here and let you stew in your overthinking until you implode. Up to you.”

He didn’t respond immediately. But fresh air sounded good. Ice cream sounded tolerable. And honestly, getting out of this house—away from the heavy looks and silent worry—sounded like breathing room.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Just… us?”

Obviously,” Nemuri purred with a wicked grin. “I’m here to dote on my favorite nephew. The other two are on my blacklist until further notice

Aizawa didn’t even lift his head from the dishes. “Fine by me.”

Yamada, though—his face pinched just a little. Hurt. Concerned. “Are you sure? You don’t have to go if—”

“I want to,” Izuku said quickly. Too quickly. Then glanced away, guilt curling in his stomach as he caught the flicker of disappointment in Yamada’s eyes. He didn’t mean to hurt him. He just needed space.

Nemuri stood, grabbing her coat with a dramatic flourish. “He’s allowed to want fresh air, Hizashi. He’s not made of glass.”

Yamada looked like he wanted to argue—but didn’t. Just gave Izuku a nod and a small, almost-smile.

“Text me when you’re on your way back,” he said quietly.

Izuku nodded, already pulling on his shoes.

He didn’t feel better exactly—but he felt like he could breathe. Even if that meant stepping away for a while.

Chapter Text

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Kayama and Midoriya, silence flooded the apartment.

Shouta turned, his gaze landing on Hizashi still frozen by the dining table. His husband hadn’t moved an inch—fingers white-knuckled around the back of the chair, jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful.

Then, with a sudden jerk, Hizashi shoved the chair back. The legs scraped harshly across the tile. He paced two restless steps before raking both hands through his hair, breathing hard.

“He flinched,” Hizashi said, voice rough with disbelief. “Shouta, he flinched like I was gonna hit him."

Shouta moved slowly, grounding himself with a hand braced on the back of another chair. Calm. Careful. Steady.
"I know," he said quietly.

“That wasn’t just being scared.” Hizashi’s voice cracked higher, too sharp. "That was trained fear. Like—like muscle memory."

He paced again, a caged, furious energy vibrating off him. Shouta stayed where he was, absorbing it, anchoring the room.

“He didn’t even react to the cut," Shouta said after a moment. "Didn’t even flinch at the pain." He couldn't get that out of his head, because that could only mean one thing. He was used to the pain.

Hizashi stopped short, facing the wall. His shoulders heaved with a sharp breath. "I knew he was closed off. I knew he was hiding something. But that—" His fists clenched at his sides. "That’s trauma, Shouta. That’s being hurt until you don’t even know you’re bleeding."

Shouta's heart twisted, but he kept his voice low, a steady undercurrent. "I saw it too."

Hizashi turned back, eyes wild and glassy with restrained fury. "How many homes, Sho? How many places looked at a kid like that—and still—"

“—hurt him,” Shouta finished, voice barely above a whisper.

They both stood there, the weight of it sinking in. It felt like failure, even if they hadn't caused it. Like finding a fire you couldn’t put out fast enough.

"He’s scared of being seen," Shouta said after a long beat. "And tonight... we saw everything."

Hizashi’s chest heaved once. He dropped into a chair with a thud, burying his face in his hands. “You think we messed up?” His voice was muffled, hoarse.

Shouta moved around the table slowly, lowering himself into the chair across from him. "No. We saw the real damage today. Can’t ignore it now."

Silence again. Thicker this time.

Hizashi lifted his head after a long moment, scrubbing at his face. His eyes were red-rimmed. “We can’t lose him.”

"We won’t," Shouta said simply. Absolute. He watched as Hizashi shook his head, almost like he didn’t believe it, like he was already blaming himself.

“We need to be careful now," Shouta continued, tone even but firm. "No more waiting. No more guessing. We won't push but we can guide him. Show him it’s safe, even if he doesn’t know how to believe it yet."

Hizashi gave a low, bitter laugh. "Sounds an awful lot like pushing, just softer."

Shouta shrugged, calm despite everything thrumming beneath his skin. "Difference is, we don't force it. We build it."

He glanced toward the kitchen—the memory of the broken plate and blood still hanging heavy in the air. “I kept wondering,” Hizashi said quietly, voice cracking, “why he never gets mad. Or annoyed. Or anything. Not where it matters.”

Shouta’s expression didn’t change. “Because somewhere along the way, someone taught him that emotions get you hurt.” Hizashi closed his eyes, breathing out slow and shaky. "You think he even knows he’s allowed to be a kid?" he asked, voice barely there.

Shouta shook his head. "Not yet. But he will."

Across the room, the faint smell of soap and clean floors lingered—a reminder that the mess was gone, but the damage wasn’t. They both knew the truth now.The wall had cracked, and what was underneath was terrifying—A kid who hadn’t been treated like one. Who braced for punishment over accidents. Who apologized for flinching. Who didn’t know how to trust that kindness wouldn’t vanish the second he reached for it.

"We start small," Shouta said, voice steady. "Consistent routines. Predictable reactions. We let him retreat when he needs to—but we always come back. Always." Hizashi tapped restless fingers against the tabletop, the movement sharp with bottled-up energy. "And if he shuts us out?"

"Then we wait," Shouta answered without hesitation. "No matter how long it takes."

There was no manual for this kind of parenting.

No quick fix.
Just patience.
Persistence.
Love.

Shouta could do all three. Well, at least he would try.

He didn’t speak again as he crossed the room, footsteps measured but heavy with purpose. Hizashi silently followed, worry carved deep into his expression, the line between anger and helplessness drawn tight.

Shouta dropped onto the couch, pulling out his phone with mechanical precision. Hizashi hesitated—hovering, uncertain—before sinking down beside him with a weighty thud that barely stirred the cushions.

If Midoriya can’t tell them yet…

Then someone else had to.

He pressed the phone app, and Hizashi finally spoke up beside him. “Who are you calling?” Hizashi asked quietly.

Shouta didn’t look up. “His caseworker.”

There was a pause.

Hizashi’s brows furrowed. “You think they’ll tell us anything?”

“If they won’t,” Shouta muttered, scrolling through his contacts, “I’ll find someone who will.” He found the number and hit call before he could second guess it. Hizashi leaned in slightly, watching the screen light up. Watching him.

It rang once. Twice.

Hizashi’s hands fidgeted nervously as he glanced at Shouta, his voice tinged with panic. “Sho. What if that happens again? What if we don’t handle it right next time? What if I—"

Shouta cut him off, his tone calm but firm. “Zashi, you did everything perfectly earlier. You handled him with care. We’re not going to mess this up if we stay steady. But we need to trust ourselves—and trust him—to let us in when he’s ready.”

Hizashi let out a shaky breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just... I can't stand the thought of seeing him like that again. Hurt and afraid. Afraid of us. I don’t want to break him, Shouta.”

“I know,” Shouta said grimly, lifting the phone to his ear. “And if we want to help him without hurting him more, we can’t go in blind.”

Third ring. Fourth.

Hizashi shifted beside him. “You sure you’re okay doing this now?”

Shouta’s jaw tightened. “I don’t think we can afford to wait.”

Shouta pressed the phone to his ear and waited, each ring dialing tension deeper into the space between his shoulders. Hizashi sat beside him, rigid, foot bouncing like he couldn’t quite contain the storm gathering in his chest.

When the line finally clicked, a woman’s voice came through, chipper in a way that felt all wrong for the moment.

“Well,” she said, almost laughing, “that took longer than I expected.”

Shouta’s brows drew together. “Excuse me?” He thumbed the speaker button, setting the phone on the coffee table so Hizashi could hear too.

“You’re calling about Izuku Midoriya, right?” she continued without missing a beat. “When should I come pick him up?” The words didn’t immediately register. Shouta blinked at the phone like it might start making sense if he stared long enough. He was speechless.

Hizashi, not so much. Hizashi reacted first—snatching the phone up like he wanted to crush it in his fist. “Wait—what?” Hizashi snapped. “Why the hell would you need to pick him up?”

“Oh, well, I assumed,” she said lightly, “you’d decided not to continue fostering him. Honestly, you two lasted longer than most. He usually doesn’t make it past the first month.”

It landed like a slap. Shouta's stomach twisted violently.

Is she joking? he thought. He looked over at Hizashi, whose jaw had locked tight, eyes burning. That familiar fury—the one that only came out when something was truly wrong—was beginning to rise in him like a tide.

He reached out, steady but cold, and took the phone back from Hizashi’s shaking hand. “Shimizu-san,” Shouta said, voice like cut glass, “there’s been a mistake. We’re not giving Midoriya back.”

There was a pause. Then, “Oh. Then… why are you calling?”

“We have a few questions,” Shouta replied evenly. “About his past.”

Silence hummed on the other end, heavier now. The easy script in her voice faltered. Finally. “Well… that’s a first. No one usually asks. What do you want to know?”

Before Shouta could respond, Hizashi leaned in again, voice low and sharp with a seriousness Shouta rarely heard from him. “How many foster homes has Midoriya been in?”

A rustle of papers came through the receiver. Then: “Give me a second… let me pull his file.”

Another few moments of shuffling. “Okay. Izuku Midoriya,” she said, reading now. “He entered care six years ago, age eight. This current placement—yours—is his thirteenth foster home.”

The number hit harder than any punch.

“His first placement lasted a year and a half. After that… the second and third homes didn’t even make it six months. And the others—”

Her voice faltered slightly.

“—ranged from four months to as little as a week.”

A beat passed. No one spoke.

Then she added, almost as an afterthought, “You two are actually his first foster family in a little over a year. Ever since the revised legislation required Quirk disclosure on child placement files… well, no one wanted him.”

Hizashi made a sound then—a low, furious breath. Shouta caught it and reached out, steadying him with a firm hand on his knee.

“He’s been alone for a year?” Hizashi said hoarsely.

“In the system,” the caseworker said, like that explained anything. “Group homes. Temporary shelters. Emergency housing. You know how it is.”

No.

They didn’t.

And now they knew exactly how badly the system had failed him.

Shouta had to ask. He had to know. Why the kid was trying to push them away. Why the fear was carved so deep into his bones it felt permanent.

“Why didn’t he last long in those foster homes?” he asked, voice low.

There was a rustle of papers on the other end, then the faint click of the woman’s tongue against her teeth. Like she was weighing what she should actually say. “Well, I probably shouldn’t be telling you any of this," she started, a little too casually, "but you're Pro Heroes. It shouldn't hurt.”

Shouta’s jaw flexed.

"Most of the removals were… voluntary. The foster families either requested reassignment or the placements broke down. The official reasons were the usual: 'lacked the time to properly support a child,' 'underestimated the level of care required,' 'felt they weren't the right fit after all.'”

Each line hit like a stone.

Soft.

Normal.

Stripped down to sound official.

Polished until it didn’t hurt to hear.

But every word painted the same picture: a child treated like a burden people regretted picking up.

Then she added, more delicately, “There were… other concerns, too. Not outright discrimination, but… his Quirk status came up often.”

There it was. The thing Shouta had been waiting for—and dreading.

“Please go on,” he said, voice tighter now.

Across from him, Hizashi was bouncing his knee, the motion sharp and restless. Shouta didn’t have to look to know—he could feel it—that Hizashi was barely holding himself together. Someone who knew, firsthand, what it meant to be overlooked, to be left behind. This wasn’t just anger. It was something deeper. It was personal. And it hurt.

“Well," she hedged, "nothing official, of course. People are careful these days. But the notes...”

A rustle of pages.

“They speak for themselves. Comments like ‘he’s not developing the way we expected.’ Or ‘we’re not sure what to do with him.’ One couple said he had ‘a tendency to get underfoot.’ Another said he was a ‘magnet for accidents.’”

Shouta felt Hizashi stiffen beside him, practically vibrating with contained anger.

“And before you ask,” Shimizu rushed on, defensive now, “every home was vetted. Full background checks. Psychological screenings. Home visits. These people know how to present well. And if a kid doesn’t say anything—”

“He was eight,” Hizashi snapped, voice sharp and ragged at the edges. “What the hell did you expect him to say?”

The silence on the line stretched, brittle and uncomfortable.

Shouta closed his eyes briefly, forcing a slow breath through his nose.

“Shimizu-san,” he said, voice steady but cold, “has there ever been any record of trauma? Regression? Shutdowns? Behavioral shifts?”

Another pause.

Then, softer:

“There’s only one major trauma event on file. When he was seven… his mother passed away.”

The words hit like a sledgehammer.

The world seemed to tilt sideways.

Shouta’s breath caught halfway in his chest. Hizashi went utterly still beside him, eyes wide and stricken.

They hadn’t asked.

God, they hadn’t even thought to ask. But how could they? They had barely scratched the surface of his story, and every time they tried, Midoriya would shut down—his answers sharp, blunt, defensive. It was like trying to crack open a door that had been bolted shut. Even the simplest questions about his day or what he liked to do had made him squirm, his eyes darting away, his posture tense. He deflected with sarcasm or silence, his defenses built up so high that every attempt to understand him felt like a battle. How could they ask about his parents when he couldn’t even talk about what he had for lunch without sounding like he was protecting something?

Asking him about his past would have felt like a betrayal. They knew, deep down, that he wasn’t ready to share, and forcing the issue—no matter how much they wanted answers—could shatter whatever fragile trust they’d managed to earn.

Some part of Shouta had assumed—hoped—it was a situation surrendered to circumstance. That maybe someone had made the wrong call, but that his mother was still out there, somewhere.

Not… gone.

He felt the cold settle deep, a hollow aching in his ribs.

Before Shimizu could continue—before she could turn the worst moment of a child's life into another case note—Shouta cut her off.

“No.”

The word came out low, final.

He gathered himself.

“I think it’s best if we don’t go into that,” he said, voice gentler now but no less firm. “Not yet.”

Another pause.

“…You’re sure?” she asked carefully.

“He hasn’t told us himself,” Shouta said. “When—if—he wants to, we’ll be here. But that’s not something I’m going to take from him.”

For a long beat, the line was silent. Then Shimizu let out a slow, almost weary sigh.

“I understand,” she said quietly. “You’re right.

"Thank you for your assistance." The call ended with a soft beep, and the room fell into thick, heavy silence.

Shouta set the phone down on the coffee table like it weighed a thousand pounds. Hizashi stared at it for a long moment, hands still clenched into fists against his knees.

Neither of them moved.

After a long few minutes of silence, Finally, Hizashi spoke, voice low and rough at the edges.

"Thirteen homes," he said.

Like he didn’t believe it even now. Like saying it out loud would make it real.

Shouta rubbed a hand down his face, exhaustion dragging at his bones. “He never even had a chance,” he said. His voice was quiet. Steady. But underneath, there was a razor-sharp edge that hadn't been there before. "They gave up before he could even start."

Hizashi let out a harsh breath and leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees.

"He's waiting for us to do the same," he said. "That's what all this is. The defensiveness. The walls. The sass. He's just... trying to get it over with."

Shouta nodded, slow and grim. "Easier to leave first than wait to be left."

They sat there a while, the weight of it settling between them like a third presence. Then Hizashi scrubbed a hand through his hair, his voice cracking at the edges. "We're not leaving," he said. It wasn't a question. It wasn't a hope. It was a vow, carved out of something raw and furious inside him.

He looked at Shouta, eyes burning.

Shouta met his gaze without hesitation. "No," he said firmly. "We won't be like everyone else who failed him."

The words hung between them — solid, final. A promise heavier than any they’d made before.

Hizashi leaned back against the couch, breathing hard through his nose, hands clenching and unclenching. "And if..." he started, then stopped, jaw working like he couldn't quite get the words out.

"If its what im thinking, if someone—if one of those families hurt him—"

He broke off again, fists curling tight.

"I swear to god, Shouta, I’ll—I'll find them. I’ll find every single one of them."

His voice shook with fury, barely contained, like the thought of it was a wildfire under his skin.

Shouta stayed where he was, calm but not cold. He understood that anger — he felt it too — but they couldn't let it control them. Not now. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees.

"If it happened," Shouta said carefully, "then it's not about revenge. It’s about making sure it never touches him again. About helping him heal."

He looked at Hizashi, steady. "We can’t change what happened. But we can control what happens next."

Hizashi scrubbed both hands down his face again, dragging in a shaky breath. "Yeah," he muttered. "Yeah, I know. It's just—" He dropped his hands into his lap, defeated. "It’s not fair."

Shouta let a quiet, bitter huff of air slip out. "No. It's not."

For a long moment, they sat there, both stewing in it—the helpless rage, the grief, the cold, nauseating weight of the truth. Then Shouta straightened a little, tone shifting—more practical now, more grounded.

"We start by making sure he knows he’s safe," he said. "Not just saying it, but showing it. Over and over, until he believes it. We can’t just suddenly change how we’ve been acting toward him either. That’ll only confuse and freak him out more."

Hizashi nodded slowly, his hands finally going still.

"And if he can't talk about it yet?"

"Then we wait," Shouta said simply. "We listen to what he does say."

Shouta could tell some of Hizashi's tension had eased.

Hizashi leaned over until their shoulders touched, grounding himself in the quiet, stubborn strength he knew better than anything else.

"We’re gonna fix this, right?" he said, half a whisper, half a plea.

Shouta tipped his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling for a long second.

"Not fix," he said finally. "He’s not broken. He’s hurt. There's a difference."

Hizashi let out a shaky laugh, wiping at his face again.

"Right," he said. "Right. Hurt, not broken."

They sat there, side by side, letting the promise settle deep into their bones.

*

Izuku hadn’t had ice cream in a long, long time.

Not real ice cream, anyway. Not the kind you got to choose. Not the kind that came in neat little tubs behind a glass counter, full of color and promise. He hovered uncertainly as they stared at the choices, fingers twitching at his sides. His eyes kept darting between strawberry and mint.

He was still stuck trying to choose when Nemuri clapped her hands together and said, “Guess we’ll just get both.”

He blinked at her. “Wait, what?”

She shrugged, already pulling her wallet out. “I’m your favorite aunt. That’s what we do.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” he mumbled.

“Doesn’t matter. The title’s been claimed. No take-backs.”

The corners of his mouth twitched before he could stop it.

He accepted the cones with a quiet “thank you” and followed her to a bench just outside the shop. The air was warm but not heavy, spring still holding off the heat of summer. He sat down slowly, aware of how odd it all felt.

She didn’t rush him.

She didn’t pepper him with questions or demand he smile or act like this was some grand outing. She just sat there, legs crossed at the ankle, her own scoop of rocky road balanced in one hand as she hummed something under her breath. A tune he didn’t recognize.

Honestly, Midoriya probably would’ve freaked out meeting the R-rated hero when he was younger. But that kid was gone. He wasn’t the naive boy who believed in heroes anymore.

Izuku let the first bite of strawberry melt on his tongue. Sweet. Cold. Bright.

He tried the mint next. Cool and clean and soft.

He went back to strawberry.

It was strange—how okay it felt to be here. Just him and her. No expectations. No tension pulling tight behind his ribs. Nemuri didn’t look at him like he was fragile. But she also didn’t act like everything was fine, either. She just existed next to him, calm and loud in her own way, but never in a way that made him feel small.

And that was… weird. But not bad.

Not bad at all.

For once, the quiet wasn’t unbearable. He didn’t feel like he had to fill it. Or fix it. Or run from it.

He just… sat. Eating ice cream. Next to someone who seemed like she wanted to be there. Who hadn’t left yet.

That thought crept in before he could stop it. She hasn’t left yet.

Yet.

He frowned down at his half-eaten cone, the sweetness suddenly a little too much on his tongue.

He didn’t notice Nemuri looking over at him.

“Alright, verdict?” Nemuri asked, gesturing to his now halfway demolished ice cream cones.

Izuku blinked, caught off guard. He glanced between the two flavors. “Um… strawberry. I think.”

“I knew it,” she said with a smug little grin, taking a victorious bite of her rocky road. “You’ve got good taste, kid.”

Izuku gave a soft, almost shy shrug. “Mint’s not bad, though.”

“Sure, but you’re not a toothpaste person,” she teased, nudging him lightly with her shoulder. “That’s a good sign. Means you’re redeemable.”

He snorted without meaning to. It startled him more than her, but when he glanced up, she was just watching him with something quiet in her expression. Not analyzing. Not prying. Just… seeing him.

“You’re good at that,” he muttered.

“At what?” she asked, licking a smear of chocolate off her thumb.

“Talking like this. Making things feel… easy.”

Her brow lifted, and for a second, Izuku regretted saying it. But then she leaned back, her tone shifting to something quieter. “It wasn’t always easy for me, you know. The talking thing.”

Izuku glanced over, unsure if she was being serious.

She was.

“I used to think if I stopped talking, people would stop noticing I was there,” she continued. “But then I figured out something. If I got loud first, people didn’t have time to make up their minds about me.”

He blinked at that. “That’s why you’re… like that?”

Nemuri smirked. “Part of it. The rest is just natural charisma.”

Izuku let a small, uncertain smile creep in.

They sat like that for a moment. Just two people on a bench, surrounded by the slow afternoon hum of the street. Birds chirped lazily from a powerline above. Somewhere across the road, a radio played faint pop music.

Then she said, “Aizawa talks about you, you know.”

He stiffened slightly. “He does?”

“Not in a weird way. Don’t freak out,” she said, bumping his shoulder again. “He thinks… he knows your a smart kid. Keeps saying how fast you pick things up.”

Izuku didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the drips forming on the edge of his cone.

“Yamada too,” she added. “That man could talk for an hour straight about your puzzle-solving skills alone. I hear you're pretty good at board games.”

His voice was quiet. “They’re just being nice.”

“No,” Nemuri said, and there was no teasing in her tone this time. “They’re being honest.”

Izuku didn’t know what to do with that. It stuck to his ribs in a weird way—too big to swallow, too sharp to ignore.

Nemuri gave him a second, then asked, more gently, “You like being there? With them?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know yet.”

“That’s fair,” she said. “It’s okay not to know. It’s okay to wait and see.”

She stood up then, brushing the crumbs off her jeans. “C’mon, kid. Let’s walk off some of this sugar before I get blamed for turning you into a hyper gremlin.”

Izuku followed her slowly, cones still in hand.

He didn’t say it, but—

He did know. A little.

It felt a lot like the answer was yes.

Even if that scared him more than anything.

Izuku had really enjoyed his time with Midnight. Or, well—Auntie Nem. She insisted he call her. She’d talked his ear off, paid for way too much sugar, and walked beside him like they were just two regular people in a city that didn’t ask questions.

For a little while, he’d actually forgotten about the kitchen. The plate. The cut. The blood

Maybe that had been her plan all along.

And for once, he didn’t care that he hadn’t seen it coming.

The front door clicked open, and they stepped into the apartment. It was the same as they’d left it, a bit too quiet and smelling faintly of dish soap and something burnt that still lingered from breakfast. But the moment they crossed the threshold, Izuku felt it—like stepping into a room where a conversation had just ended, too fast.

The air shifted.

He didn’t know how he knew. He just… did.

There was tension, subtle but unmistakable, thick in the way the silence held for half a beat too long before—

“Listener!” Yamada's voice rang out, bright and cheery as ever as he popped up from where he’d clearly been waiting in the living room. “How was the ice cream adventure?”

Izuku blinked at the sudden burst of energy, the too-wide smile that didn’t quite reach Yamada's eyes. He gave a small nod. “It was good.”

Aizawa emerged from the hallway behind him, slower, calmer. He looked tired in a way Izuku didn’t have a name for. But not distant. Not cold. Just… quiet. Nemuri tossed her keys onto the counter. “He loves strawberry. Isn’t that right, Iz?”

Izuku hesitated a second but nodded again. “Yeah.”

She turned to Aizawa and grinned. “Just like you, Shouta. Isn’t that something?”

Aizawa blinked at her, like the connection hadn’t quite occurred to him either. “Huh,” he said after a beat. “Guess it is.”

Yamada laughed, a real one this time, loosening the moment just enough to make it breathable again. “Told you we’re rubbing off on him already.”

Izuku didn’t reply, but something in his chest stirred, strange and too-big. He glanced between them—Aizawa with his quiet eyes, Yamada with his smile that still felt a little heavy at the edges—and tried not to think too hard about the conversation they’d had while he was gone.

Because he knew there had been one.

And he knew it had been about him. But instead of pulling away, he surprised himself by staying right where he was. Still near them. Still in the room.

Nemuri checked her phone with a dramatic sigh. “Alright, my darlings,” she said, ruffling Izuku’s curls as he tried to duck, “my morning of corrupting the youth is officially over. I’ve gotta run.”

Izuku nodded, quiet. He didn’t want her to leave, but he wasn’t sure he could say that either.

She leaned against the doorframe, grinning. “We should do this again sometime, yeah? School’s done in what—like, a month? Summer break’s coming up fast!”

“Right,” Izuku said.

She winked. “Think of all the trouble we can get up to then.”

He forced a small smile. “Sounds good.”

But all he could think about was how he wouldn’t be here that long. He didn’t say that, though.

Nemuri waved dramatically as she stepped into the hall. “Later, nerds! Don’t traumatize the kid without me!”

The door shut behind her, and the quiet left behind wasn’t uncomfortable exactly—but it was different. Izuku stayed near the door for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Yamada bounced over to the couch, grabbing the old acoustic guitar he kept leaning against the side. “Well, since the hurricane’s gone, guess I’ll have to make some noise to fill the silence!” he said with a grin, almost to himself, before his fingers started dancing on the strings.

Izuku could still tell he was a bit upset with not being invited out for ice cream.

Aizawa, meanwhile, had returned to his usual spot on the couch with a soft huff and his ever-present blue notebook, flipping it open with practiced ease. The pen clicked once.

Izuku’s eyes flicked over to it—just for a second too long. Was he working on his case again or something else. Oh he wanted to know.

Aizawa didn’t look up. “If you want to read my notes, just ask.”

Izuku jerked, blinking in surprise. Heat climbed into his cheeks. “No—I wasn’t—I wasn’t trying to—”

Aizawa turned a page. “I didn’t say you were.”

Izuku’s face burned. “I have homework I need to do.”

He turned before they could say anything else, heading quickly for his room. The guitar strummed on behind him, low and easy. At least they weren't looking at him with pity or concern anymore.

“Y’know, kiddo,” Yamada called, voice light but not unserious, “you haven’t asked us for help with your school work. Not even once.”

Izuku paused just before the hallway turned. Shit, he thought, they’re worried about me. That’s the only reason they were pushing now. Why had he acted like that earlier? You’re pathetic, Izuku. Letting them in more felt... risky. Now more then ever.

“We’re teachers,” Yamada added after Izuku stayed silent. “Kinda our thing.”

Izuku didn’t look back. “No,” he said, short and flat. “I’m fine.”

And then the door clicked shut behind him.

***

The overhead lights in the precinct buzzed faintly, casting a washed-out glow over the tired desks and older-than-they-should-be file cabinets. Shouta leaned back in the plastic chair by the coffee machine, arms crossed, scarf draped around his neck like a coiled snake. It was too early for real noise, but too late for peace.

Things with Ghost were moving slow. Agonizingly slow.

He ground his teeth as he thought about it. Every instinct he had wanted to just grab the brat—wrap his scarf around him mid-dash and sit him down until he talked. Until he trusted. But that wasn’t how it worked, not with this one. Not with how brittle the kid seemed behind that glare and the sharp tongue. That would only make it worse. He wasn’t about to be another adult who pushed too hard.

Shouta had watched him, though. Not always intentionally. His patrols sometimes overlapped the kid’s routes. Tensions flared. And he noticed. The way the kid winced anytime someone landed a hit too close to his ribs. The way he shifted his stance to favor his right side. The way pain flickered across his upper part of his face for a second too long before he masked it again.

Still healing. From that fight in the alley. Shouta clenched his jaw. The kid shouldn't be fighting at all.

“Morning Eraser.” came a familiar voice.

Tsukauchi set down a pair of mugs, one of them sliding toward Shouta with a practiced flick. The detective looked as tired as he felt, trench coat already rumpled and eyes shadowed with long nights.

“Any signs of him tonight?” Shouta asked, though he knew the answer. Ghost was careful with who he let notice him.

Tsukauchi shook his head slowly. “No. Nobody has seen him tonight.”

Shouta exhaled through his nose. “How the hell did Greenlight manage to friend him so fast?”

Tsukauchi gave him a look. “You want her number? You could ask her.”

“Maybe when I’m desperate,” Shouta muttered. “It’s only been a month.”

“Alright. Just let me know.”

The words faded, and Shouta’s mind slipped back—unwilling, but inevitable. Back to him. That first problem child. The kid with the dull green eyes, carrying too much silence for someone so small. Shouta could never find it in himself to be angry at the way he acted—how could he? The world had broken him long before he ever had a chance.

“You’ve got that look again,” Tsukauchi said, cutting through the silence. “More tired than usual. I could tell the moment you walked in. That’s why I brought you the coffee.”

Shouta blinked, the thought fog lifting just enough for him to glance at the steaming cup. He picked it up, nodded once in thanks. “Just this kid,” he muttered. “My kid. Kinda. It’s complicated.”

Tsukauchi raised both eyebrows, pausing mid-sip. “You have a kid?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

Shouta leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable as ever. “Since a little over a month ago. My husband and I are fostering him.”

The detective set his cup down, blinking. “Well, damn. Congrats… I think?”

“It’s… good,” Shouta said slowly. “But it’s also a mess.”

“Why is it complicated?”

Shouta gave a short, humorless huff. “Oh, where to start…”

He ran a hand through his hair, dragging his fingers through the tangles like it might help unknot the rest of his thoughts. “He’s not your typical teenager. Kid’s been on his own for a long time. Doesn’t trust easily. Doesn’t know how to accept help. And he’s smart. Really smart. Too smart for his own good, and stubborn as hell.”

“Sounds familiar,” Tsukauchi said, half-smiling into his cup.

“Yeah, well,” Shouta muttered, “this one makes me feel like I’m chasing a real ghost half the time. And the other, I’m worried he’s going to burn out before I can even get close.”

There was a quiet moment between them.

Then:

“But they’re worth it,” Shouta said, almost like he was trying to convince himself. “I just have to find the right way in. For both.”

“What’s your kids name?”

Shouta took another sip of coffee, letting the silence settle before he spoke again.

“His name’s Izuku Midoriya.”

Tsukauchi tilted his head slightly. “Midoriya… That sounds slightly familiar. Can’t place it, though.”

Shouta’s brow furrowed at that, why would that sound familiar to him. But before either of them could dig into the thought, the precinct doors slammed open with a sharp bang.

An officer rushed in, breathless and wide-eyed. “Detective, Eraserhead! We have a major situation.”

Shouta stood immediately, his body shifting into that instinctive alertness that never really left him, even on “quiet” nights. He cast one last look at his half-drunk coffee and sighed. Looks like he was going on patrol early.

“Honestly,” he muttered, already moving, “whatever it is has to be better than paperwork.”

Famous last words.

Chapter Text

Shouta was so wrong. He’d take paperwork for the rest of his life over this.

The monitor feed was grainy—static bleeding into shadows—but it was enough. The drone hovered too high for clarity, but not so high it missed the scene unfolding below.

An abandoned warehouse in the industrial zone. Supposedly empty. Now ringed by police, emergency lights painting the walls red and blue. Half the bomb squad paced nearby. Tsukauchi stood off to the side, barking into a radio, tension coiled tight in his shoulders.

Shouta's eyes locked on the screen. A single vent on the building’s flank—narrow, hidden. Just big enough for someone small.

And then—movement. A dark blur slipping through like smoke, silent, quick.

“Zoom in,” Shouta snapped.

The drone operator obeyed, drawing closer until the shape resolved: a slim teen in black, vanishing into the vent.

“Shit, kid,” Shouta muttered, already sprinting out of the station. “What the hell are you doing?”

*

What the hell did you get yourself into this time, Izuku?

And this time, he couldn’t even blame Rin. This was all on him.

The air inside was thick—dust coating his throat, burning his lungs—as he crouched behind a stack of rusted crates. His heart pounded in his ears as he took in the scene ahead: wide, hollow, and deathly silent.

Eight people. All tied to chairs. All rigged with bombs.

He recognized their faces—photos from underground bounty boards, surveillance files. Family members. Civilians.

This wasn’t random. This was a message.

A gang war.

The Kaji-Kai Syndicate and the Ashen Blade had been butchering each other for months, but this? This was different. These weren’t rival gangsters. These were wives, siblings, children. One boy couldn’t have been older than ten. An elderly man wheezed through a gag, head sagging from exhaustion.

Bait. Or revenge. Maybe both. It didn’t matter.

His eyes swept the room. Every window wired. Every door rigged. One wrong move, and this place would light up like a funeral pyre.

No heroes. No police. No backup.

Just him.

Why the hell did he think he could do this alone?

He took a shaky breath. No time for doubt. No way out but through.

Then—he spotted it. A vent near the floor. Larger than the one he’d crawled through. Cool air flowed steadily from it. An exit. Probably how the bastards got in and out without triggering the bombs.

Perfect.

He moved quickly, lifting the grate with trembling fingers, then turned to face the hostages.

They were staring at him. Wide-eyed. Terrified. Silent.

He couldn’t let them see his fear—not with eyes like that. He had to be more. Stronger. Even if he was shaking inside.

“I’ll get you out,” he said firmly. “I promise.”

He dropped to the floor beside the first chair, already working.

Each bomb was different—strapped to different parts of the body. Legs. Chests. A woman had one around her neck. This one was on a leg, thick bands clamped tight, wires humming with latent threat. A blinking red timer glared back at him.

4 minutes, 57 seconds.

Shit.

He didn’t hesitate. He slid the blade from his sleeve—custom handle, worn grip. He and Rin had practiced this. Over and over. Fake bombs, busted timers. One had almost taken his head off when he slipped. Only his reflexes had saved him.

And now, they’d have to save everyone else.

This model was familiar—an older, mass-produced type, probably stolen off the black market. Easy enough, if you knew what you were doing.

He popped the panel. Cut the right wire. Disengaged the trigger plate.

Twenty seconds. Done.

The first woman was free.

“Go,” he said. “Through the vent. Don’t look back.”

She stared for half a second, then bolted.

He moved to the next.

And the next.

One by one, he freed them—faster each time. Hands steady. Heart racing.

Until only one remained.

A girl. No older than twelve. Trembling. Eyes locked on the ceiling.

He looked up—and froze.

Another bomb. Bigger. Wired into the rafters.

A failsafe.

If the others didn’t go off... this one would.

15 seconds left.

“No, no, no,” he whispered, already cutting. “Hey,” he said, voice firm despite the rising panic. “As soon as I get this off, run. Straight to the vent. Don’t stop. Got it?”

She nodded, barely breathing.

He clipped the final wire.

5 seconds.

The vest dropped to the floor.

“RUN!”

She sprinted. He followed.

But they weren’t going to make it.

He heard the explosion before he felt it—BOOM. The ceiling shook. Steel groaned. Concrete cracked.

The roof was coming down.

She wouldn’t make it in time.

He saw it clearly—her small frame beneath the crumbling beams. He wasn’t fast enough. Just a quirkless kid trying to be a hero.

Without thinking, he shoved her forward with everything he had.

Then—

A snap around his waist. A sudden pull.

A blur of movement. A flash of pale cloth. A rush of wind.

They tumbled from the vent just as the building collapsed behind them—dust and steel roaring into the air like shrapnel.

Izuku hit the pavement shoulder-first, pain spiking down his arm. But he didn’t care.

He pushed himself upright, gasping. Heart hammering. Disbelief and relief crashing together inside him.

The girl was safe. Breathing.

Then he saw it.

The scarf.

Gray. Frayed at the ends. Wrapped tightly around his waist.

And the man it was attached to.

Wild hair. Tired wide eyes. Jaw clenched like stone.

“...Eraserhead?”

Izuku should have been afraid. But instead, a strange calm settled over him—like the man’s presence had pulled the chaos out of the air.

His body sagged. Not from fear. From exhaustion. A tremor rolled through him. The adrenaline was gone. And everything hurt.

He saw Eraserhead speaking, lips moving fast, but the words didn’t reach him. Just a quiet, heavy hum.

“I got them out,” Izuku whispered. His voice was thin. Fragile. “I—I got them all.”

And then the world tilted. The ground vanished.

Darkness rose up to catch him.

But Izuku didn’t fight it.

Everyone was safe.

Everyone was alive.

That was enough.

*

Pulse—fast. Unsteady, but there.

Shouta exhaled slowly, a ragged breath dragged from deep in his chest, one that did nothing to steady the tremor crawling along his spine. The air around him was suffocating—thick with smoke, stinging with the acrid sting of burning insulation, melted concrete, scorched metal. Sirens wailed somewhere beyond the curtain of haze, faint and warbled like a distant memory. But none of it mattered. The only thing that did—the only thing he could focus on—was the kid.

Too pale. Too still. Every part of him was dusted in ash, smeared with soot, splattered in dried blood and grime. He looked small like this. Fragile. His chest rose in shallow, uneven gasps—barely breathing, but breathing all the same.

Shouta’s gaze flicked to the girl a few feet away, still wrapped in the trailing end of his scarf like a lifeline. She was shaking, face buried in her hands, sobbing too hard to speak. But she was upright. She was whole.

They were both alive. Somehow. And only because of him. Because that reckless, stubborn, maddening child had run headfirst into a deathtrap without a second thought.

Shouta’s eyes flicked to the burning building behind them—the crumbling shell of what was left.

He should have been furious. If one of his students had pulled something like this, he would’ve expelled them without hesitation. Being a hero didn’t mean charging blindly into danger. It meant thinking. Choosing your risks. Being smart. But a hero was the last thing this kid wanted to be.

All he felt now was a crushing, cold weight sinking deeper into his chest, pressing tight around his ribs, stealing the air from his lungs with every heartbeat.

He was cold. Cold and hollow and—

Terrified.

Not of the fire still roaring behind him. Not of what the Commission would say if this ever got out.

But of the boy lying unconscious in front of him—the one who had just barely survived. The one who might’ve died. A second later and—

Shouta’s fingers trembled as he reached out, loosening his capture scarf from around the girl’s shoulders with more care than necessary as she rushed into the arms of one of the other hostages —her mother, probably.

His gaze dropped back to the kid.

Where are your parents now, kid? Shouta thought, not bitter—just tired. While you’re out here risking everything… do you even have anyone waiting for you?

He draped the scarf loosely back around his neck. His hand hovered over the boy’s face, hesitating—then gently brushed a streak of soot from his forehead. The touch was fleeting, cautious, as if too much pressure might make him vanish… or wake in a panic.

“Dumbass,” he muttered, voice raw and thinner than he liked.

It cracked halfway out.

The kid didn’t flinch. Didn’t wake.

Maybe that was a mercy.

He wouldn’t see how badly Shouta’s hands were still shaking. Wouldn’t see the fear carved deep behind his eyes. Wouldn’t see the guilt.

Because Shouta knew what he had to do now.

Footsteps crunched through the rubble behind him, fast and rushed.

Tsukauchi.

The detective coughed once through the smoke, then crouched beside him, voice low. “Bomb squad confirmed it. Wired to blow no matter what. Tripwires. Motion sensors. Pressure plates. If the kid hadn’t gone in when he did…”

“I know,” Shouta said, and didn’t look up, forcing his hands to still.

He couldn’t.

“He saved them all,” Tsukauchi said simply. No dramatics. Just the truth.

Shouta’s eyes stayed locked on the boy’s face—half-hidden beneath his mask, the rest smudged with ash. Breathing. Alive. But barely.

And it shouldn’t have come to this. It never should’ve gotten this far.

“I told him I wouldn’t arrest him,” Shouta muttered under his breath. “Told him he could trust me. That I just wanted to help.”

And he had meant it. At least… he thought he had.

Or had it just been strategy, back then? A long play to earn trust?

Maybe at first.

But not now. Not anymore.

Now... he didn’t know where the line was. All he knew was that this kid needed help. Not as a suspect. Not as Ghost.

As a kid.

“Get a stretcher,” Shouta said, voice hoarse. “And keep the media out. If even one headline paints him as a villain—”

“Are you sure this is what you want to do?” Tsukauchi asked quietly, rising to his feet. "What about you're plan?"

“Screw the plan. He’s a kid. He nearly died.”

Shouta didn’t look at him. Didn’t move.

He stayed where he was, kneeling in the dirt beside the boy, the edge of his scarf dragging through ash and soot. He didn’t fix it. Didn’t brush it away.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered, barely audible. His hand found the boy’s shoulder, pressing lightly to confirm what his eyes had already told him—solid. Warm. Real.

He couldn’t help the way his thoughts spiraled, looping over and over through everything he should have done. He should’ve been faster that first time they met. Should’ve brought him in, forced the kid to stop this dangerous cycle before it escalated. He’d told himself he was helping—building trust, trying to understand him. But what had he really accomplished? It had been weeks and the kid still ran headfirst into danger, whilst Shouta stood back and let it happen. Still took every risk without hesitation.

If the kid hadn’t made it out… if his hand had come away cold and limp… if those lungs had stopped fighting for breath…

That would’ve been on him.

And maybe it still was.

His mouth went dry. “You did good,” he said finally, voice low and rough. This time, it wasn’t just empty comfort. He meant it.

He didn’t know what to do.

Didn’t know if taking him in would help—or if that’ll shatter the fragile thread of trust he hoped they had built. Hell, he didn’t even know if that trust was real.

But if he brought him in now, after this, would the kid ever believe in anyone again?

Shouta swallowed thickly, the weight of indecision pressing down like a second ceiling threatening to collapse.

“I should’ve tried harder,” he whispered, barely more than a breath. “I should’ve stopped you before it got this far.”

He didn’t know if he was talking to the kid, or to himself. And he wasn’t sure which answer would hurt more.

Just as Tsukauchi raised his radio to call in the location of the hostages, the overhead light—flickering and cracked—sputtered once more. A harsh buzz echoed through the haze.

Shouta’s hand twitched toward his capture weapon, instincts flaring. His eyes snapped up.

What now?

The light buzzed—then blinked out entirely for half a second. And when it flickered back, someone was standing between him and Ghost.

A kid.

Shouta froze.

How did he—?

“Shit, Ghost,” the boy muttered, crouching beside him, completely ignoring both Shouta and Tsukauchi. “You don’t look so good.”

Shouta didn’t move. His quirk hovered at the edge of activation, but something stopped him. This wasn’t a threat. Not quite. Not yet.

The boy looked older than Ghost. Taller. Cocky. And unbothered by two authority figures and an unconscious vigilante on the ground. That alone set off alarms in Shouta’s head.

Then the boy’s eyes caught on the scarf around Ghost’s waist.

“Wait... why are you in a scarf?” he asked, gaze trailing up to Shouta.

Wide eyes. Blink. Realization. And then—

“AH! Don’t sneak up on people like that!”

“I didn’t,” Shouta said flatly. The kid was jittery, twitchy—but not scared. More like wired. A fox with a guilty conscience.

His presence scratched at something deeper in Shouta. Something not quite anger. Not yet.

Tsukauchi stepped forward, eyeing him. “Wait... it’s you, isn’t it? The brat who snuck into the precinct?”

The boy blinked, tilted his head. “Uhhh... no idea what you’re talking about.”

“My quirk is lie detection. Did you forget?”

“…No…”

A beat. Shouta could practically feel the anger radiating off the detective.

“…Fine. Yes. I forgot.”

Shouta’s gaze slid between Ghost—still breathing—and this new interloper. Unmasked. Unafraid.

Not a vigilante. Not just a civilian either. Please don't be another problem child he would have to deal with.

“Do you know him?” he asked, voice low, sharp around the edges.

Before the kid could answer, Tsukauchi jumped in, voice dry. “Oh, these two? Best friends. Partners in chaos. That one broke my office window. And this one broke a light.”

“I didn’t break anything,” the kid snapped. “That was all him. And you have no proof about the lights.”

Now he was throwing his friend under the bus? This was making Shouta's head spin.

“You ran.”

“Running’s not illegal. And I wouldn’t say I ran—”

Shouta’s headache pulsed behind his eyes. He started to step toward Ghost, but the kid cut him off again. Physically stepped in front of him.

Shouta stopped. Not out of threat. But... curiosity. Hesitation.

He looked down. The kid had guts. That much was clear. Stupid, reckless guts.

“Name?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to know the name of the kid trespassing on my crime scene.”

A grin tugged at the kid’s mouth. “Kaito.”

“Lie.”

The kid crossed his arms and turned his head. “I like the name Kaito, but that doesn’t mean it’s actually mine.”

“Don’t even bother with that, Eraser,” Tsukauchi muttered.

Shouta exhaled slowly, jaw tight. This wasn’t sustainable. He couldn’t keep doing this. But also—he couldn’t stop.

“Fine. Kaito. Do you know Ghost’s real name?”

Kaito flinched—barely, but Shouta saw it. Guilt. Conflict. Something real.

“…I mean, I might. But why would I tell you? Sounds like a trap.”

“It’s a trap. We’ll find out soon enough anyway,” Tsukauchi said, his tone deadpan.

Shouta observed the way Kaito's shoulders stiffened just a bit. “Well, in that case, I respectfully decline.”

Shouta stared at both of them. One unconscious. One feral. Both problem children. “You two are going to kill me,” he muttered. “Move. I need to check him.”

“He’s fine,” Kaito said cheerfully. “Watch.”

Then, without hesitation, he kicked Ghost in the shin.

“—Ow...” Ghost groaned, barely conscious.

“See? Responsive,” Kaito said, triumphant.

“That’s not a medical check,” Shouta snapped, beginning to move towards the kid.

“He told me a lot about you,” Kaito said, raising his hands like he was harmless. “Eraserhead, right? I’m the one who stitches him up most of the time. Trust me, he's fine.”

Shouta stilled. Did he just hear him correctly? He was the one stitching up Ghost?

“You what?”

“Yeah? You think he gets into all this crap and walks away clean? Someone’s gotta patch the idiot up. He’s like a stray cat with a hero complex.”

“Disturbingly accurate,” Tsukauchi muttered.

Shouta lowered himself beside Ghost, checking his breathing. His fingers hovered for a second over his mask. Before he pulled them away.

No. Not yet.

“Do you know he almost died?” he murmured.

“No,” Kaito said with a smirk, almost teasing. “He’s a Ghost. Ghosts can’t die.”

“Are you being serious?”

A groan from Tsukauchi behind him answered that question.

Then Shouta felt movement. Ghost stirred.

Shouta felt the breath shift under his palm. Fingers twitch. A whisper.

“…Did we make it?”

“You did,” Shouta said. “Somehow.”

“The girl...?”

“She’s safe. They all are.”

The tension bled from Ghost’s body like a sigh. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused.

Then he saw Shouta, still crouched beside him. Ghost groaned, shifting upright with effort. ‘…Oh. Great. It’s you.’”

Shouta’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. It’s me.”

Their eyes locked—and there it was. Fear. Not of death. But of being caught.

Shouta slowly untied the scarf from the boy’s waist, hands steady and deliberate.

No one said anything for a moment. It was obvious the kid could barely stay upright—he was swaying where he sat, eyes flicking between Shouta and the detective with bleary suspicion.

Then Ghost turned. His gaze landed on the other kid nearby.

“What are you doing here, R—”

“It’s Kaito!” the boy snapped. “And I’m here because you nearly died! What the hell were you thinking?!”

The explosion happened then. Not literal—but definitely destructive. They were yelling. Over each other. Over the sirens. Over the silence Shouta needed to think.

“You could’ve told me!”

“You were taking too long!”

“I was scouting—like a responsible sidekick!”

“ou're not my sidekick. You’re not even a vigilante!”

“You clearly need one!”

Shouta closed his eyes. “Tsukauchi. Tell me again why we don’t tranquilize minors.”

“Politics.”

“Shame.”

And then—

“Oh, excuse me for saving your life—again—”

“You didn’t save me, the Hobo did—”

“That’s not what I mean.”

A beat.

“Oh.”

Shouta opened his eyes. Enough.

Tsukauchi stepped forward, cuffs in hand. “You’re not running this time. You need help.”

He pointed at Kaito. “And you’re coming too. I want to talk to your parents.”

Both boys froze.

“What?” Ghost rasped. “You’re—arresting me?”

“You walked into a hostage scene,” Tsukauchi said, voice rough and worn. “Tampered with explosives. You endangered your life and theirs.”

“I saved them!” Ghost shouted, stumbling to his feet. “I was the only one who did anything!”

“No one’s denying that,” Shouta said quietly. “But you almost didn’t make it out.”

Ghost flinched like he'd been struck, but it wasn’t fear anymore—it was fury. Pain curling in his gut and spitting out as venom.

“I trusted you,” he spat. “You said you understood. You said you wanted to help.”

“I do,” Shouta said, barely above a whisper.

“Then why are you standing there with your capture weapon ready to strike?” Ghost’s voice cracked, rising with each word. “Why do you sound like every other hero who’s tried to drag me in?”

Shouta’s throat tightened. “Because you almost died. I can’t let that happen again. I won’t.”

“No,” Ghost said, stepping back like the words burned. “You don’t get to act like you care now. You lied.”

His eyes were wide, furious, devastated.

“I thought maybe you were different,” he said. “I thought—just this once—someone actually saw me.”

That hit deeper than any insult. Deeper than any wound Ghost had taken tonight. He wasn’t just mad—he was heartbroken. And Shouta had done that.

“You’re just like them,” he said, voice low and bitter. “Just another hero with a cage and a speech.”

Shouta took a step forward, reaching—not physically, but for some last thread between them. “Kid—”

“It’s Ghost,” he snapped.

Shouta’s heart dropped, but not before he felt a weird sense of déjà vu.

“About time,” Kaito muttered nearby, as the light above them began to flicker.

Shouta’s gaze snapped to him, instincts flaring.

"Kaito don’t—"

The streetlights overhead flickered once—twice—and then shattered with a burst of sparks. The street went dark.

“Light manipulation,” Shouta hissed.

“Can’t erase what you can’t see, huh, Eraser?”

In the black, he moved. Quicker than thought, his scarf shot out, whipping through the air—and caught. He had one of them.

The fabric pulled taut, a body on the other end.

Then a voice echoed, “Sorry, Eraser,” Kaito said smoothly, “but I don’t think so.”

And just as the lights flared back to life for half a second—brief, but enough—Shouta saw the smug twist of Kaito’s face.

Then he was gone.

The scarf slipped free like it had never held anything at all. Shouta stood there, stunned, still gripping the length of cloth. Not just light manipulation. His quirk was dangerous. Powerful.

Tsukauchi cursed under his breath beside him.

But Shouta didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

The scarf dangled from his fingers.

Empty. Just like before. Just like always.

*

They landed hard on the rooftop, stumbling into uneven footing and breathless laughter. The kind that wasn’t joy, exactly—just adrenaline and the hysterical relief of being free.

Izuku dropped onto the gravel like a puppet with its strings cut, limbs sprawled, chest heaving. “Well,” he panted, staring up at the sky, “that did not go to plan. God, I love running.”

Rin collapsed beside him with no more grace. “Speak for yourself,” he wheezed. “That’s the most cardio I’ve done all week. I want a medal. And ice cream.”

Izuku turned his head toward him, breath still ragged. “You literally teleported halfway here. How are you this tired?”

Rin groaned. “Like you said earlier—I’m not a vigilante. I’m not built for this lifestyle.”

Izuku let out a laugh, then immediately winced as something in his side protested. “Pretty sure I left part of my spleen on that fire escape.”

“Oh, good,” Rin said brightly. “We’ll swing back around for it after dinner. Want it with or without the cracked rib you’re definitely pretending isn’t real?”

Izuku let out a wheezy chuckle. “Gotta keep the brand consistent.”

They lay there for a while, letting the quiet sink in. The city buzzed faintly below them—sirens fading, the wind pulling at the edges of their clothes, rooftop gravel cold and sharp beneath their backs.

Then Rin tilted his head, voice lighter but earnest. “Seriously though. Maybe don’t nearly die next time?” He nudged Izuku’s arm with his shoulder. “I kinda like you alive and not a real ghost.”

Izuku snorted. “No promises.”

It was meant to be funny. Easy. Just another quip tossed into the dark.

But it hung in the air too long—unsettled, unfunny.

He missed the moment Rin’s grin faltered—just for a second. Didn’t see the flicker of fear in his friend’s eyes.

Izuku just shut his eyes and let the wind sting the sweat off his skin.

After a moment, he reached up and pulled down his hood and mask off, letting the cold kiss his face. It grounded him, a little. Made him feel real again.

They lay in silence for a moment, catching their breath. The night air was cool against their skin, tinged with soot and adrenaline. Then he turned his head again, more serious this time. “Why’d you come back for me?”

Rin blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You didn’t have to,” Izuku said softly. “Eraser and the detective were already there. You didn’t have to come save me.”

Rin grinned, easy and bright. “Because I’m a great sidekick and an even better friend, obviously.”

“Or maybe you’re finally repaying me for all the times I’ve saved your ass.”

“Yeah,” Rin said, smirking. “That sounds more like it.”

Izuku barked out a laugh before he could stop himself—sharp, sudden, cracking something tight and aching in his chest. The sound startled a laugh out of Rin too, and just like that, they were both grinning like idiots.

“You think they actually believed we were fighting?” Rin asked.

“I don’t know,” Izuku said, still breathless. “But neither of them stopped us for a while.”

“I was doing my best not to break character.”

“Me too” Izuku admitted. “It was a good distraction, though.”

“Right?” Rin said, pleased. “I figured you needed time to catch your breath. What better way than pretending to argue about how reckless you are?”

Izuku smiled—but it slipped quickly, eyes shifting away.

‘Just… be careful, okay?’ His voice dropped.” “Eraser knows part of your quirk now. I can’t—”

He paused, mouth suddenly dry. He forced the words out anyway.

I can’t—” he paused, throat tight. “I can’t lose my only friend.

Rin froze. Not a blink, not a twitch. Like the words had knocked the wind out of him.

Izuku’s eyes widened slightly. He hadn’t meant to say it like that. It just… slipped.

“I mean—” he started to backpedal, “—not only—I just meant—”

Rin cut him off by tackling him in a dramatic, wheezy half-hug.

“OW. Seriously. The rib.”

“Too bad,” Rin said, completely unbothered and unmoving. “You’re stuck with me now, emotion boy.”

Izuku groaned, half in pain, half in protest—but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curving despite everything.

He didn’t pull away.

“I like this side of you,” Rin added softly, teasing but not unkind.

“Shut up,” Izuku muttered, pushing Rin off of him. They fell into a comfortable silence, the kind only chaos-forged companionship allowed. The night was cooler now, stars cutting sharp against the inky sky. Izuku rolled his head to the side, eyeing Rin with the remnants of a smirk. “Why were they calling you Kaito?”

Rin chuckled like he’d been waiting for the question. “They asked for a name. I gave them one.”

Izuku snorted—then cracked up, breathless. “Kaito? Really?”

“What? It has flair. Mysterious. Sexy. Criminally underrated.”

“It sounds like a backup stage name for a failed magician,” Izuku said, wheezing. “Could you not come up with something more original?”

“What,” Rin scoffed. “Says the guy going by Ghost.”

Izuku opened his mouth to argue—paused—then muttered, “…It’s minimalist.”

“Oh, totally,” Rin said, deadpan. “So innovative, Very edgy. Brooding with a hint of tragic backstory.”

“Shut up.”

“I bet your original name idea was ‘Shadow’ but someone took it first.”

Izuku groaned, dragging an arm over his eyes. “I hate you.”

Rin beamed up at the stars, smug and victorious. “You love me.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Absolutely not.”

“’Only friend’,” Rin sing-songed.

“Concussion,” Izuku muttered darkly. “I’m blaming the concussion.”

*

Rin let his eyes drift sideways, watching ghost half-buried beneath his own hoodie sleeve, face red with laughter and probably embarrassment. He looked ridiculous. Covered in ash. Tired. But alive.

And for once, he didn’t look like he was carrying the weight of the world on his back.

Rin didn’t say anything at first. Just lay there, letting the wind thread through his hair and the stars blink lazily above them, like even the sky was catching its breath.

It had taken over a year to get here—a year of skirting the line, patching up injuries, trading half-truths and circling around confessions neither of them had the nerve to finish. Ghost never let anyone too close. He was smoke and mirrors, barbed wire in a hoodie—always moving, always deflecting, always just out of reach.

But tonight… Rin could feel the difference.

It wasn’t in the words, necessarily. It was in the laugh—real and reckless. In the way Ghost hadn’t shoved him off, hadn’t shut down, hadn’t disappeared behind that flat stare and paper-thin sarcasm. He was still guarded. Still dodging anything too raw. But he was letting something go, even if he didn’t realize it. Letting Rin in, just a little.

And damn, it felt nice.

But even with the warmth swelling in his chest, a knot of concern still sat heavy underneath it. Rin wasn’t stupid. Ghost didn’t just act like this for no reason. That kind of defensiveness wasn’t born overnight. It was armor built from years of learning not to trust people. Not to expect help. Not to expect anything good to last.

And the worst part? How unphased he’d been earlier. How easily he’d joked about dying. Like he’d already made peace with it a long time ago, and this was just the inevitable catch-up. That chilled Rin more than the night wind ever could.

He hated that. Hated how normal it was for Ghost to throw himself into the fire and laugh about the burns.

Back when they’d been “arguing” earlier, Ghost had played along—called it an act, a way to buy time. But Rin had meant every word. He had been worried. He’d heard the explosion and waited for Ghost to come out. And when he didn’t…

Yeah. That fear didn’t go away so easily.

But what could he say?

Rin wasn’t built for this. Not really. He wasn’t a therapist. He definitely wasn’t a hero. He didn’t always know the right words, didn’t always catch the signs until they were already bleeding.

Still… he was trying.

And maybe—just maybe—if Ghost could lower his walls a little, Rin could learn too. Get better at this. Be more than just the distraction, the comic relief. Be someone Ghost could lean on, really lean on,

One step at a time.

Rin glanced back at him, still half-hidden under that sleeve. Still here. Still real.

Yeah. Worth it

*

Izuku had expected the house to be empty that morning. By now, both pro heroes were usually long gone—off to UA or patrol. And good. He didn’t want to see him.

He’d spent most of the night stewing over it, flipping the whole thing around in his head. He’d even brainstormed ways to be annoying—moving his notes, hide all the pens in the house, maybe even putting salt in the coffee. Something childish. Something stupid. Just enough to make Aizawa twitch.

Really. Because screw him. For making Izuku believe him. For weeks of empty reassurances—just to prove in the end he was no different. Just another liar in a hero’s coat.

He was tired. Tired of being betrayed. Tired of people deciding what was best for him, then expecting him to smile and take it. Like his trust didn’t cost anything. Like his choices didn’t matter.

So yeah. The house being empty? A win. He could get some rest, pretend none of it existed, and ignore everything until it got buried again.

But then he stepped into the living room.

And stopped.

Yamada was there.

…What?

Izuku blinked at the clock. 9 a.m. He should’ve been gone hours ago. Did that mean Aizawa was still here too?

Great.

He was already planning his retreat when something stopped him.

Yamada didn’t look right.

He was slouched low on the couch, one arm draped over Fish, who purred quietly under his hand. But that wasn’t what struck Izuku. It was the silence. The absence of Yamada-ness. No big smile. No dramatic coffee slurps. Not even a lazy peace sign.

His hair was down. Unbrushed. It hung limp around his face like he hadn’t even noticed it. That alone made Izuku pause.

Yamada never left his hair untouched. Not unless something was wrong. Seriously wrong.

Izuku’s irritation flickered.

“…Yamada?” he asked, softer now.

No answer.

Not until Fish shifted and meowed in his lap.

Then—slowly—the man blinked and looked over at him.

Red-rimmed eyes. Slack face. A voice that barely sounded like him:
“Oh. Morning, kiddo.”

It landed like a thud in Izuku’s chest.

That wasn’t Present Mic. That wasn’t even Yamada. That was just… Hizashi. Stripped bare.

Izuku hovered awkwardly. “Are you… okay?”

Yamada blinked slowly, then looked down at Fish again, hand still petting him like it was on autopilot.

“I’m fine,” he said.

But the word rang flat. Like it didn’t belong in his mouth.

Izuku opened his mouth, closed it again, until he found the right words. "Did… something happen?”

Yamada let out a long breath. “It wasn’t me. It was Shouta.”

That made Izuku still. Huh?

“He came home from patrol last night… wrecked. I don’t know everything that happened out there, but i do know it hit him hard. He’s seen rough nights before, but this one…” Yamada trailed off, eyes distant. “It was different.”

Izuku frowned. “Different how?”

Yamada didn’t answer right away. His fingers moved absently through Fish’s fur, slow and distracted. When he did speak, his voice had dropped—quieter now, almost like he didn’t want to say it out loud.

“He looked like he’d lost someone.”

Izuku blinked. “What?”

He couldn’t stop the word from slipping out. Confused. Stunned. That didn’t make sense. He was sure he’d gotten everyone out. The building had been chaos, yes, but Aizawa had seemed fine afterward. Tired. But that was normal for him. He didn't seem broken.

…Was he missing something?

“He didn’t lose anyone,” Yamada added after a pause. “He nearly did.”

The words hung in the air like dust. Quiet. Heavy. Settling in slowly.

Izuku didn’t answer. He didn’t move. He just sat with it. And slowly—uncomfortably—his mind started retracing the night.

The vent.

The bombs.

The ceiling collapsing.

The scarf snapping around his chest, dragging him forward just in time.

And Eraserhead—standing there.

Then it had gone black.

Izuku hadn’t thought much of it at the time. He’d been too focused on the civilians. On saving them. On doing what needed to be done. Then he passed out due to exhaustion.

But now…

Now that memory hit different. Now that he could think clearly.

The way Aizawa had looked at him flashed in his mind.

It was as if he was already grieving.

Izuku sat down slowly, not quite sure why.

His stomach twisted.

He stared at the floor, something cold and quiet curling under his ribs. And then it clicked.

'Nearly died.'

He was talking about him—Ghost.

He saw it now—clearer than before. Aizawa yanking him out of harm’s way, the scarf tightening around his waist, pulling him to safety. Eraser had saved him from being crushed. And now Izuku could picture what that must’ve looked like from Aizawa’s side. Watching it unfold. Powerless to stop it until the last second.

What that must’ve done to someone like him—someone who’d already lost people. Who carried that weight in the silences, in the weariness behind his eyes, in every cautious step forward.

Someone who’d seen what it looked like when things went too far… and had to watch it almost happen again. Because of him. Because of Ghost.

And Izuku realized—this time, it had been because of him.

Izuku shifted uncomfortably, guilt tightening in his chest. Not for what he’d done before Aizawa saved him—but for what came after. The walls he’d thrown up. The assumptions. The sharp-edged anger. The bitter little voice that said Aizawa didn’t care. That he was a liar.

That he would’ve reacted the same way no matter who was in danger—because that’s what pro heroes do. Because that’s their job.

But now that his ears had stopped ringing and he could think straight, he knew that wasn’t true.

He knew it now—had known it, somewhere, deep down. Aizawa didn’t want to arrest him. Not really. Not out of cruelty or some need for control.

Izuku had spent weeks reading the man’s reports, watching his patterns, studying the quiet way he operated. Aizawa didn’t throw people away. He didn’t waste time on the hopeless.

He tried to save them.

And he’d been trying to save him. All this time.

Izuku bristled at that thought—he didn’t need saving. He was handling it. He had a system, a rhythm, a plan. He didn’t need someone watching over his shoulder like he was about to break. He didn’t want to be seen like that.

But… he had nearly died.

And Aizawa had been there. Had pulled him out of the way like it wasn’t even a question.

Izuku had nearly been crushed right in front of a man who had probably already stood in that exact spot before—helpless. Watching it happen. Too late to stop it.

And if it had shaken him—someone so flat, so composed, so relentlessly unreadable—then it must have been bad. Really bad.

Izuku hadn’t meant to do that to him. Hadn’t even realized.

He couldn’t stop seeing that look. The raw edge of panic in a face that usually gave nothing away.

He cleared his throat, voice low. “Is he… okay now?”

Yamada gave a tired smile. “As okay as he gets. He’s resting. Took some convincing, but I sat on him until he gave in.”

Izuku let out a faint breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.

The silence returned, thicker now. Not angry. Not sharp. Just… slow. Weighted.

Like something was finally settling.

He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t know how to.

He wasn’t ready to forgive—not everything. Not yet. But maybe now he understood the shape of what he’d been too pissed off to see.

“…Thanks for telling me,” he said, quiet but steady.

Yamada’s smile softened. Just a little. “Yeah. Of course, kiddo. Maybe just give him some space today.”

Izuku nodded, the guilt curling in deeper now. He could do that. It was the least he could offer right now—at least as Izuku.

Izuku glanced at the kitchen. The list of stupid petty ideas he'd carried in with him—salting the coffee, moving the notes, hiding the pens—felt ridiculous now. Small.

He didn’t feel like doing any of them now anyway.

Maybe… maybe he’d do something else instead. Something small. Not loud. Not obvious.

Just… something decent.

It felt weird to even think it.

But not bad.

Not bad at all.

Chapter Text

Sunlight bled through the thin gap in the curtains, casting a pale slash of gold across the rumpled bed. Shouta lay sprawled on his back, one arm draped over his eyes, shielding them from the slow, inevitable arrival of morning. The room smelled faintly of yesterday’s coffee and the lingering trace of Hizashi’s cologne.

He should’ve gotten up with Hizashi—shuffled into the kitchen side by side, half-asleep and bumping shoulders while the coffee brewed. Should’ve passed him a travel mug and made sure Midoriya hadn’t forgotten breakfast—again. Should’ve showered, dressed, maybe fed the cats. But instead, he lay there, unmoving, sunk deep into the mattress as if it might swallow him whole.

He didn’t have the energy—or the will.

He hadn’t expected to fall apart last night. Not like that. Not as soon as the door shut behind him and the lock clicked into place. One second he was patrolling, tense and alert, holding it together like always. The next—he was on the floor, back against the wall, arms wrapped around his knees like a damn rookie. Like he was a teenager again. Like he had just lost—

He swallowed hard.

Ghost.

He had nearly lost Ghost.

And it had felt exactly the same.

The same heart-plummeting silence. The same helplessness watching the kid disappear into that vent. The same paralyzing fear that he wouldn’t make it in time. That he’d be too late again.

He’d barely made it to the building in time. Barely managed to drag Ghost out through the vent. The kid had been talking—barely, weakly—but he’d been awake. And then, just like that, his voice had faltered, his eyes slipped shut. His head slumped back, limbs going limp in Shouta’s scarf.

For a few long, terrifying seconds, Shouta couldn’t tell if he was still breathing.

Panic hit like a freight train. Cold. Paralysing.

Then his fingers found a pulse.

Faint. Unsteady. But there.

Only then did Shouta remember how to breathe.

He thought he’d buried this feeling. Thought the weight of Oboro’s death had settled, heavy but still. But last night… all of it cracked open again.

And thank god Hizashi had been there. One look at him at the front door, and the other man hadn’t even asked—just helped him up, held him when the shaking started, and stayed until the worst of it passed. Until the guilt, fear and grief stopped boiling in his chest like a live wire.

If Hizashi hadn’t been there, he would’ve curled up and stayed on the floor all night . He knows that.

He shifted under the blanket, letting out a slow, steady breath. His whole body still felt sore tired in a way that sleep didn’t really fix. That fear didn’t let go of. When Hizashi had left him in the morning to feed the cats, he had reassured that they would take the day off. So, he could rest and recover. It had taken a few long moments for Shouta to agree, but he did in the end.

It was Ghost’s face that haunted him now. Not because of what the kid had done—but because of what he had done.

He’d tried to arrest him.

Shouta rubbed a hand down his face. He didn’t regret the words—not exactly. He meant every one of them. Ghost had nearly died.

He couldn’t lose him like that. He couldn’t lose anyone like that. Not like Oboro. Not again.

Still… he knew he should’ve handled it differently.

He stared up at the ceiling, blinking against the morning haze.

He’s just a kid. Just another kid trying to do good in a world that kept punishing him for it.

And that was the problem. He was trying to save everyone. Throwing himself into danger without hesitation—like it was instinct, like it was the only way he knew how to be.

Just like Oboro.

That same fire. That same damn selflessness.

And Shouta had seen where that path led. He closed his eyes again, exhaustion pulling him down. Just five more minutes. Just long enough to remember how to breathe.

Eventually, the weight of stillness became too much to bear. Shouta dragged himself upright with a groan, pressing a hand to his face as sleep clung stubbornly to his bones.

Cat was curled against his side, her small body rising and falling with soft breaths. She gave a sharp hiss as he shifted, tail lashing in protest.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he muttered, scratching under her chin in apology. “Didn’t mean to disturb royalty.” She grumbled but settled again, and Shouta finally swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. His joints still ached. His head was foggy. But it was better than lying there with his thoughts.

He made his way to the door, rubbing the back of his neck—and paused in the hallway as voices drifted in from the living room. He quietly closed there bedroom door and made his way down the hallway. He stopped at the entry taking in the sight in front of him.

He blinked.

There, at the table, were Midoriya and Hizashi. A card game was spread out between them. Hizashi looked like he’d aged a decade overnight, hair still messy and falling around his face, but the determined scowl he wore was almost comical.

Midoriya, on the other hand, looked entirely at ease. Focused. Calm. And, judging by the amount of cards stacked neatly in front of him, very much winning.

Shouta felt the corner of his mouth tug up, just barely. He wasn’t surprised. The kid had them all beat when it came to card games. Strategy was practically his second language.

Hizashi noticed him first. He glanced up mid-turn, cards in hand, and the tension in his face eased the moment he saw Shouta standing there. Without a word, he placed his cards down on the table and crossed the room.

Shouta didn’t move, didn’t resist, as Hizashi wrapped his arms around him in a slow, grounding embrace.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just quiet. Steady. The kind of embrace meant to remind someone they weren’t alone.

Shouta exhaled slowly, his forehead resting against Hizashi’s shoulder.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

When he opened his eyes, he found Midoriya watching them from the table, a faintly curious glint in his gaze—more thoughtful than surprised. But the moment their eyes met, the boy stiffened, like he’d been caught somewhere he shouldn’t be. His eyes widened slightly, something flickering behind them—something Shouta couldn’t quite place. Guilt? But why would he feel guilty seeing them hug?

Then he stood—too quickly—and made his way to the kitchen. Kid was socially awkward it seemed. Just like Shouta. Or….Shouta’s brow furrowed, gaze lingering a little longer than he meant it to. What had Hizashi told him?

He pulled back slightly and glanced toward him. “Zashi…”

Hizashi gave a small shake of his head, sensing the question. “Just that you had a rough night. That’s it.”

Shouta nodded once. Good. That was enough. He didn’t want to traumatise the kid….

Still… the way the kid had looked at him gnawed at him.

Maybe it was nothing.

Or maybe not.

Midoriya stepped back into the room, two bowls balanced carefully in his hands.

Each held a neatly arranged meal—rice, miso soup, grilled fish, tamagoyaki and an egg.

He moved silently, placing the bowls on the table without a word, then turned and disappeared back into the kitchen as if nothing had happened.

Shouta simply just stared.

Part of him wanted to retreat—crawl back into the dark quiet of the bedroom. But the smell of warm miso and hot coffee pulled him forward.

Hizashi tugged gently at his sleeve and led him over. “Lil Listener made breakfast today,” he whispered with a little smile, pulling out a chair for him.

Shouta’s eyebrows rose. “He cooked?”

Hizashi chuckled. “Yeah!”

That alone was enough to make Shouta sit down. Midoriya didn’t usually cook—he avoided it, even when Hizashi tried to coax him into the kitchen. And honestly, after a string of disasters, Shouta hadn’t pushed the issue.

The tea towel fire had been… concerning. The sugar-in-the-soup incident? Catastrophic. Shouta hadn’t even known miso could taste that wrong. Midoriya had apologized for both—swearing the towel was an accident, and the sugar had been mislabeled. Shouta knew better. Problem child.

And then there was the plate incident a few days ago.

They’d quietly agreed not to bring that one up. If Midoriya ever wanted to talk about his past, they’d wait. No pressure. No prying. Since then, the kitchen had been an unofficial Midoriya-free zone.

So this?

This was unexpected.

He watched the kid reappear with his own bowl as well as two mugs, which he placed in front of both of them. Then he finally sat down across from them, expression neutral. His eyes flicked toward Shouta just once before settling on his food.

No words. No explanations.

But Shouta was alright with that.

Shouta quickly shared a look with Hizashi and then reached for his chopsticks, but paused, catching the faintest flicker of tension in Midoriya’s posture. The kid wasn’t looking at him—just focusing way too hard on adjusting his grip on his chopsticks. He looked like he was bracing for something.

Before Shouta could speak, Midoriya spoke first, voice casual, but not guarded like usual. “I, uh… had to look up how to make the eggs. Turns out I’ve been cooking them wrong this whole time.”

Shouta raised an eyebrow. “You mean that wasn’t intentional?”

Midoriya rolled his eyes. “No, I thought they were supposed to be… crispy.”

Hizashi snorted. “This explains a lot.”

Shouta stared down at the plate in front of him, eyebrows drawn low. The meal looked… perfect. Too perfect. Neatly arranged, evenly cooked, not a single burned edge or suspicious ingredient in sight. The rice was steamed just right, and even the miso smelled like it had come from someone who knew what they were doing. The eggs, though—fluffy, but shaped a little strange, like they’d been flipped one too many times.

“Huh. So you take after Hizashi in the kitchen when it comes to eggs. That’s unfortunate.”

Hizashi threw a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Wow. Rude and untrue. My eggs have character.”

Shouta just sipped his coffee, deadpan. “Burnt character.”

Midoriya didn’t defend himself, just let out a small huff and kept eating. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was close.

“Nothing weird in it?” Shouta asked casually, gesturing to his bowl.

Midoriya paused. “No.” Then, sharper, “Why? Do you think I would?”

Shouta tilted his head. “You have before.”

“That was one time—”

“Three times,” Hizashi corrected getting up to refill his tea.

Midoriya scowled, then stood up abruptly. “Switch bowls with me then.”

Shouta blinked. “What?”

“If you don’t trust me,” Midoriya said, placing his chopsticks down with just enough force to shake the table, “then switch bowls.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t trust you,” Shouta replied calmly. “It was a joke.”

Midoriya hesitated. Then—slowly—sat back down. He muttered, “Wasn’t funny.”

Shouta didn’t push. Just gave a nod and started on his food.

It was always like this—two steps forward, one step back. Midoriya still hadn’t let go of the idea that this—this house, this table, this tentative sense of belonging—was temporary. Like one wrong move would send him packing. That edge never quite left his voice.

But still. He was here. He made breakfast. He hadn’t flinched from the table or stayed quiet. That mattered. That was progress.

Slow, halting progress—but progress all the same.

And Shouta would take it. He and Hizashi would keep showing up, again and again, until the kid finally believed he didn’t have to earn his place here.

No matter how long it took.

Shouta sipped his miso, watching the kid for a moment. He looked relaxed. Not completely, but more than usual. Less hunched. “You’re doing fine this actually tastes edible.” Shouta said. He meant it.

Midoriya glanced at him, surprised—but then ducked his head and hummed. “Thanks.”

That surprised Shouta even more. From the kitchen, Hizashi poked his head out with a wide grin. “Sho, we were thinking of heading to the park today. All three of us. Get some fresh air, ya dig?”

Shouta narrowed his eyes, his tone dry. “No, Zashi, I don’t ‘dig.’ The kid has school. You, of all people, should know we can’t let him slack off.”

“Actually,” Midoriya spoke up, eyes flicking between them before quickly looking away, “I finished all my work for the day. And I don’t have any scheduled classes.”

Shouta was unsure if the kid was lying or not. He glanced at the kid, really looked. For once, the kid wasn’t pushing away this idea—he was actually leaning toward it. He was fighting for it. Not against it. It was a nice change.

All Shouta really wanted to do was crawl back into bed and sleep for the next three days. But this— Midoriya making the effort, meeting them halfway—he knew he might not get that chance again, at least not easily.

“…Alright,” he said. “We can go to the park.”

Hizashi threw both hands in the air like they’d just won a game show. “Victory!”

Shouta sighed heavily at the theatrics, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re exhausting.”

“Mm-hmm. And you love me for it!”

A smile came to Shouta’s lips without him even realizing it. Yeah, he was tired. Bone-deep. But for now, with the warmth of coffee in his hands and Midoriya meeting them halfway—this was enough. Even if it only lasted one day.

*

The sun was warm on his back. Not too hot, not too bright—just enough that it soaked into his hoodie and made the world feel less sharp around the edges.

Izuku kept a little behind them as they walked the gravel path, hands stuffed into his pockets, hood half-up even though the breeze didn’t really call for it. He didn’t want to look too eager. Even if he kind of was. He hadn’t been to a park in ages. Not since…his mother took him when he was younger.

Yamada was walking backwards now, grinning like a fool as he talked at Aizawa, who trailed beside him looking unimpressed but definitely listening. Probably taking mental notes on every leaf on every tree around them—because that was just what Aizawa did. Always observing. Always ready. Just like when he steered Yamada away from tripping over a pothole in the trail.

He still didn’t know how he wasn’t kicked out after everything. After the spice thing. After the many kitchen incidents. After the kitchen incident. Especially after that humiliation.

Izuku shook his head slightly and looked down at his shoes.

But they hadn’t sent him back. They didnt even bring it up. Yamada made a joke the next morning and acted like nothing had happened. Shouta grumbled but didn’t say anything cruel. No lectures. No punishment. Everything had gone back to normal. Like they still wanted him around.

He didn’t get it. Not really.

But it was easier not to think too hard when Yamada suddenly whooped and sprinted toward the playground ahead.

“I call swings!” he shouted like an overexcited child, arms flailing like he was making a dramatic entrance.

Izuku blinked in disbelief. “Wait, is he—?”

“He’s serious,” Aizawa sighed next to him. “He always is.”

Izuku rubbed the back of his neck, trying to process the sight. This was the same pro hero people were afraid of? He honestly wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be concerned.

Sure enough, Yamada flopped into the nearest swing with a victorious cry, nearly flipping himself backwards in the process.

Izuku snorted. Actually snorted. Which caused Aizawa to side eye him.

“Go join him,” Aizawa said. His tone was even, but there was a flicker of something gentle behind his words. “You’ll never hear the end of it if you don’t.”

Izuku hesitated—then gave a tiny shrug and wandered over. He didn’t get in a swing. Not yet. Just stood nearby and watched Yamada swing his legs like he was aiming for orbit.

“You’re gonna break your back,” he simply stated.

Yamada flashed him a grin. “You wound me, listener!”

That earned another small smile. “I’m just saying, I don’t know if you’ve hit your daily stretch quota.”

“Midoriya, I stretch every day. Don’t insult my routine.”

He didn’t realize Aizawa had followed until he heard the unmistakable creak of the swing beside him groaning under the weight of a grown man in far too many layers of black.

“Great,” Yamada said brightly. “Now we’ve got an actual swing party!”

Aizawa gave him a deadpan look. “No one says that.”

“I say that!”

They stayed like that for a while. Just the three of them. Two swing chains squeaking gently. Leaves rustling overhead. The wind brushing past his cheeks and not feeling cold for once.

Izuku wasn’t sure what this was. A fluke? A test?

But as he finally sat down in the last empty swing, sneaker scuffing the gravel underfoot, he thought… maybe it didn’t have to be defined. Not right now.

Maybe just existing in this moment was enough.

He glanced to the side. Yamada was still swinging, one foot pointed dramatically like he was striking a pose mid-air. Aizawa looked relaxed swaying—shoulders looser, eyes half-lidded in the breeze.

For once, Izuku didn’t feel like he had to prepare for the end of it all.

And that felt kind of nice.

“Alright,” Yamada called from his swing, slowing down with his heels dragging through the mulch. “I think it’s time for the most important part of our outing.”

Izuku tilted his head. “...What part is that?”

Yamada pointed at him like it was obvious. “Snacks.”

“Oh god,” Aizawa muttered dryly .

“You say that like I didn’t come prepared,” Yamada said, already digging into the canvas tote he’d brought with him. Out came a thermos, a packet of dried fruit, a box of onigiri wrapped in cloth, and—Izuku blinked—a small packet of cat treats. “For the inevitable stray,” Yamada explained when he saw the look.

“Inevitable stray?” Izuku echoed.

“Every time we come to this park,” Yamada said, setting things up on the bench nearby, “a cat finds us. Every single time.”

“That’s not true,” Aizawa said, though there was a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s happened twice.”

“Three times,” Yamada countered. “You’re forgetting the orange one with the bent ear.”

“I’m not forgetting. I’m just denying it out of principle.”

Izuku listened quietly, hands tucked in his hoodie, watching them banter with practiced rhythm. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t cold. It was something familiar between the two of them—something lived-in. It made his chest ache a little.

He sat on the grass instead of the bench when they settled down, knees pulled up to his chest. When Yamada offered a rice ball, he took it carefully and mumbled a thanks.

Aizawa leaned back against the bench, eyes closing. “You actually made these?” he asked, a bit suspiciously.

“Yes,” Yamada grinned, “I tried a new recipe!”

“They’re good,” Izuku said softly. His voice almost startled himself.

Yamada beamed. “High praise from our toughest critic!”

Izuku lowered his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

A breeze stirred through the trees again, rustling the leaves into a soft whisper as they floated to the ground like confetti from a quiet celebration. From the dense tangle of bushes near the playground, a faint, inquisitive meow cut through the silence.

Aizawa didn’t even open his eyes. “See. Inevitable.”

Izuku blinked in surprise as a scruffy gray cat emerged—its white-tipped paws picking their way through the grass with the slow, assured swagger of something that believed the world was made for it. The cat paused, took one look at them, and continued forward without a hint of hesitation.

Yamada, without missing a beat, crouched and extended a hand with a small treat. “See?” he said with a triumphant grin. “I come prepared.”

The cat sniffed the offering once, then promptly ignored it in favor of climbing directly onto Aizawa’s lap, curling its tail around itself like it had found its rightful throne.

“Cat’s gonna be jealous,” Yamada teased, shooting Aizawa a sideways glance. “Hope she doesn’t find out. For your sake, Sho.”

Before Izuku could snort at that, another meow called from the bushes. Then—softly—something brushed against his leg. He looked down to find a second cat, almost identical to the first, gazing up at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

“Must be from the same litter,” he murmured, a quiet huff escaping him.

“Must be,” Aizawa replied dryly, already stroking the cat on his lap like this happened every other day.

The second cat stood on its hind legs for a moment, then gently climbed into Izuku’s lap. He stiffened, out of old habit—waiting for the inevitable hiss, the retreat. On patrol, animals tended to sense the storm always churning under his skin. They kept their distance. They didn’t trust easily.

But this one didn’t flinch. It curled against him like he was something safe. Like he was home.

Yamada leaned over, holding out the bag of treats. “Here. Give 'em one.”

Izuku hesitated. His hand hovered in the air for a breath too long before he took the bag and offered the tiniest treat. The cat in his lap purred so loudly it was almost ridiculous, curling its tail around his forearm in a soft, claiming gesture.

Across from him, the cat in Aizawa’s lap had completely melted, sprawled out with all four legs dangling like it had lived there forever.

“This is... a nice change from our three chaotic devils,” Izuku said, voice low, nearly lost in the hum of wind and birds and soft feline purring.

Yamada gave a long, low whistle. “Okay, but seriously... these guys just made themselves at home.”

Aizawa scratched behind his cat’s ears, already familiar, already gentle. “We could take them home.”

Izuku blinked, surprised. “Wait, really?”

“Shouta, no.” Yamada didn’t even bother looking up. His tone had the exhausted cadence of someone who’d fought this battle before and already knew how it ended. “We are not taking in more cats.”

“They like us.”

“They like anyone with snacks,” Yamada shot back, jabbing a finger toward the treat bag still in Izuku’s hand. “We already have three. Three, Sho. Cat takes up half the bed. Fish screams if his bowl’s empty at 7 a.m. sharp. And Eclipse? Eclipse goes full berserker on the toaster. Every. Morning. We’re tapped out.”

Aizawa looked down at the cat purring in his lap like a satisfied engine. “This one seems quiet.”

“For now,” Hizashi muttered. “Until it tears up the curtains or starts hoarding socks under the couch like a tiny thief.”

Izuku tried—and failed—not to laugh as the cat in his lap rubbed against his chin and tried to climb into the crook of his arm. “Honestly… this one’s kinda cute.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Yamada groaned, flopping back dramatically. “This is how it starts. This is exactly how it starts.”

Aizawa just kept petting the cat, clearly sulking, “I’m just saying… if they followed us home, it wouldn’t be stealing. That’s just... fate.”

Yamada snorted. “They wouldn’t be following. You’d be luring them. There’s a difference.”

As if offended by the accusation, both cats suddenly sprang to their feet with the effortless, grace only cats had. Without warning, they trotted off towards the tall grass, tails held high, not sparing even a backward glance.

“…Rude,” Aizawa muttered under his breath, hand finally falling still.

Yamada grinned and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Oof. Brutal rejection. You’ll survive, cat boy.”

Izuku snickered quietly at the glare Aizawa shot Yamada. “Guess we’re not adding number four and five today.”

“Not today,” Aizawa repeated, a touch too serious—but the corners of his mouth twitched, and there was a faint trace of amusement in his voice. The sulk lingered, but its edge had dulled. Beneath the gloom, a flicker of playfulness surfaced. Izuku could tell—Aizawa felt better than he had that morning./p>

Izuku glanced at him, and before he could stop it, a small smile bloomed on his own face—soft and unguarded. The kind that slipped out when he wasn’t thinking too hard, when it felt safe.

Aizawa watched the cats vanish into the tall grass and leaned back against the bench, the breeze tugging gently at his hair. He closed his eyes for a second and let the stillness settle in his chest.

“Thank you for this,” Aizawa said quietly, his voice steady, with a hint of something lighter beneath. Not quite warmth, but close. “I think I needed it.”

Yamada turned to him, smile softening into something quieter. “You don’t gotta thank us for dragging you into the sun, Sho.” Then, without hesitation, he threw his arms around him in a full-bodied hug.

Aizawa made a noncommittal grunt. “Seriously?”

“You know you love it,” Yamada said, chin resting on his shoulder now, far too comfortable with the contact.

Aizawa didn’t argue. He let his head tip slightly, a breath leaving him like an exhale that had waited days to escape.

Off to the side, Izuku wrinkled his nose with dramatic offense. “Ugh. Gross. There are children present, you know.”

Both men turned to look at him at once, synchronized and slow.

Izuku froze like a deer in headlights. Oh, he fucked up.

Yamada’s grin returned with full force, all teeth and mischief. “Oh? Gross, huh? You sure you don’t want in on this?”

“No. No, don’t you—” Izuku’s voice cracked as Yamada stood, cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders like a cartoon villain about to pounce.

“You mocked the sacred hug,” Yamada declared. “Now… you become the hug.”

Izuku didn’t know what that meant—and he didn’t have time to find out. Yamada was already lunging toward him with reckless gusto and the swagger of someone who treated hugs like a full-contact sport.

Izuku leapt to his feet. “NOPE—” He took off, bolting across the grass as Yamada gave chase with the clumsy, theatrical enthusiasm of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

Izuku twisted out of reach, narrowly dodging a grab and darting around the nearest bench.

And that’s when it happened.

A laugh—sharp and loud—burst from him.

It wasn’t deliberate. It cracked through him like a faultline, sudden and real. For a heartbeat, Izuku almost stopped moving, stunned by the sound that had come from his own throat. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t measured. It just… happened.

But he didn’t have time to question it. Yamada was still chasing him with exaggerated stomps and dramatic howls, and instinct took over.

He ducked behind a trash can, breath coming fast now, not just from running—but from something warmer coiled in his chest. Something he hadn’t felt in so long, he’d nearly forgotten the shape of it.

Aizawa watched from the bench, his expression unreadable at first. But then, as the two figures darted and spun across the grass like kids playing tag in the fading sun, something unspoken shifted in his face. His eyes softened. The corners of his mouth lifted—just slightly—but it was a real smile, hidden behind layers of weariness and habit.

And then, just barely, a small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. Not forced. Not faked.

Just honest. Like Izuku’s laugh had been.

By the time they made it back to the apartment, the sun had dipped low enough to stretch long shadows across the sidewalk. The day had bled away in slow, quiet hours, and now the world glowed gold at the edges—warm, hazy, and a little unreal.

They’d been out the entire day. Not for any particular reason. No appointments, no errands. Just… out. Breathing. Letting the world happen around them instead of trying to wrestle it into something manageable.

The walk home had been quiet, peaceful—even with Yamada putting on an exaggerated limp the entire way, groaning like every step was agony. “You wore me out,” he muttered dramatically, clutching his side like an old man in a soap opera. “My knees, Midoriya. My back.”

Izuku walked a little ahead, arms tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie, wearing the faintest hint of a smirk. He didn’t say anything, but the way his shoulders shifted—light, almost smug—said everything.

He’d won. He knew he’d won.

After all, he’d managed to evade Yamada’s dreaded Hug of Doom by scaling the top of the playground’s jungle gym like a cat cornered by a toddler. It had been an absurdly fast ascent—silent, smooth, and executed with such casual precision that both adults had simply stopped and stared.

“…Did you know he could move like that?” Hizashi had asked, shading his eyes and craning his neck to look up at him in disbelief.

Shouta, to his credit, just blinked. “No.”

There’d been a beat of silence, and then Hizashi had whirled on Shouta, scandalized. “Sho. Use the scarf! Get him down!”

Shouta crossed his arms and didn’t move. “You triggered his flight response. You fix it.”

With a long, theatrical groan, Hizashi had flopped onto a nearby bench like he’d been mortally wounded, mumbling something about betrayal and how no one respected the sanctity of hugs anymore.

Izuku, perched at the top like some wary alley cat, had watched them in silence for a long moment. And then—cautiously, slowly—he’d climbed down, only after Yamada made a show of placing a hand over his heart and solemnly swearing that there would be no bodily contact whatsoever.

Technically, Yamada had kept his promise.

As soon as Izuku’s feet hit the ground, he was met not with a hug—but with a large, calloused hand ruffling his hair like he was twelve and had just passed a math test.

Izuku had ducked away with a glare, swatting at him half-heartedly, but the grin on Yamada's face was all mischief, no regret.

Now, as they reached the apartment building’s steps, Izuku glanced back. Just once. A small, flickering look toward the two men behind him.

There was something in that look—hesitation, maybe. Or just surprise that it still felt okay. That none of them had shattered the moment on the way home. That this—this warmth—had lasted longer than he expected.

He didn’t smile. Not exactly. But his eyes softened, just barely, before he turned and let himself inside.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet ding, and Fish was already waiting in the hallway like a solider who’d been on duty all afternoon. He meowed once—sharp, imperious—and then turned, padding toward the door with his tail held high, clearly expecting the humans to follow.

Izuku blinked, brow furrowing. He could’ve sworn they’d locked all three cats inside.

Aizawa didn’t comment. Just pulled out his keys and unlocked the door with a soft click. As soon as it opened, Eclipse darted out from the living room like a shot, chirping excitedly with one of Yamada's socks dangling from her mouth like a trophy. Cat didn’t bother to move. She remained sprawled in a sunbeam on the rug, eyes half-lidded in lazy judgment.

Izuku kicked off his shoes, a faint smile still tugging at his lips despite himself. The apartment smelled faintly of lemon soap and miso—familiar, grounding. The warmth wrapped around him the second he stepped in, as if the space itself exhaled.

Yamada let out a loud groan as he leaned against the doorframe, tugging on his leather jacket with exaggerated effort. “Alright, I gotta head to UA. Left some things there I need to grab.” He paused there, lingering—hopeful. “Could use company.”

Silence.

Izuku was already half-flopped onto the couch, a book in hand, the same lazy smugness from earlier still playing faintly at the corners of his mouth. Aizawa didn’t even glance up from the dining table, where he was leafing through a folder like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

“I take it that’s a no,” Yamada sighed, brushing his hair from his face with a rueful smirk. “Cool. Cool. Just me, then. All alone. Walking into the night. Forsaken by my beloved family of introverts.”

“I have to fix a mistake,” Aizawa said, not looking up.

That landed heavier than the room expected.

Izuku’s fingers twitched against the spine of his book. Mistake.

He glanced up, subtle, just over the top of the couch.

Aizawa didn’t sound frustrated or sharp. Just tired. Resolute. Like someone who’d spent too long circling a problem with no solution, and had finally decided to stop waiting for one to appear. “Maybe you should take a break, Shouta.” Yamada said gently, voice lowering into something more sincere. “Just for a bit. Let your brain cool off.”

“I don’t have time to cool off,” Aizawa replied, calm and final, eyes flicking across a page. He tapped a corner of the folder without looking up. “Not whilst he's still out there.”

Izuku swallowed hard.

“Hey,” Hizashi leaned down, one hand bracing on the arm of the couch beside him. His voice was quiet now, almost conspiratorial. “Can you keep an eye on him while I’m out? Just… make sure he doesn’t forget to blink.”

Izuku looked up. Hizashi’s smile was still there, but it was smaller now—frayed at the corners. The kind of smile you wore when you were holding something back.

He nodded.

“Great!” Yamada clapped his hands and straightened. “Did you hear that, Shouta? Lil Listener wants to hear all about your master plan for catching that mystery vigilante!”

Izuku’s eyes widened. “That’s not what I said—!”

Aizawa looked up, brow arched slightly in silent question.

Izuku froze. Caught mid-protest.

Behind Aizawa’s back, Hizashi winked at him. Pure betrayal.

Aizawa gave a low grunt, but there was something almost amused in it. The smallest twitch at the edge of his mouth. “You wanted to listen. So sit.”

Groaning in protest, Izuku dragged himself to his feet and slumped into the chair across from him. “This is emotional blackmail,” he muttered.

“Mm.” Aizawa didn’t disagree.

“Have fun, you two!” Yamada called cheerfully, already halfway out the door. “But not too much fun without me!”

The door clicked shut behind him.

For a few seconds, there was only the soft rustle of papers as Aizawa returned to his file. Then, without looking up, he said, “You can go back to your book. You don’t have to stay. Not just because Zashi asked.”

Izuku blinked.

He could’ve left. It would’ve been easy. No one would stop him.

But…

His eyes drifted to the folder. To the careful handwriting, the clipped notes, the circled locations. Every piece of it built with intention. Every piece of it meant to understand him.

Even now, after everything, Aizawa was still here. Still working. Still trying. Even after what he had said last night. And every night before then.

Izuku’s chest clenched.

He was the reasons Aizawa looked so tired. He was the cause of so much of the weight behind those eyes.

Aizawa didn’t deserve that.

So—

“I want to listen,” Izuku said softly, before he could change his mind.

Aizawa raised a brow. “You do?”

“Yes.” His voice was steadier now. “I want to.”

Even if it hurt. Even if it meant sitting across from the man he’d spent weeks running from—listening while that same man unknowingly talked about him. Aizawa studied him for a moment, then gave a slow nod and slid the file closer. Izuku didn’t look at it—he didn’t need to. He already knew everything it contained.

“Not sure what Hizashi told you,” he began, voice low, even, “but I’ll catch you up anyway.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes distant.

“The vigilante I’ve been trying to work with—trying to get through to—got caught in a collapse last night. Building came down. He was nearly crushed.”

He paused, mouth tightening just slightly.

“It reminded me of someone Hizashi and I knew. From school. A friend.” He took a breath. “He wasn’t as lucky.”

Izuku’s throat tightened. His fingers curled around each other beneath the table.

So he was right. This wasn’t just frustration. This was PTSD—and he had triggered it.

Aizawa leaned back farther in his chair, arms folded. He wasn’t looking at Izuku, not directly. His voice was steady, but there was something brittle beneath the surface. Worn down—like the words had been turned over too many times in silence.

“I tried to give him space,” he said. “Didn’t chase. Didn’t corner. Just… kept showing up. Let him know I was there if he wanted to talk.”

Izuku said nothing. Just listened, hands clenched in his lap.

“That was the plan,” Aizawa continued. “But last night… I panicked. And I threw it all away.”

He finally glanced at Izuku, just briefly. “Tried to arrest him. Thought it was the only way to keep him alive. Stupid.”

Izuku’s chest twisted. He remembered last night—the flash of betrayal, the sting of those words. At the time, it had hurt like hell. But now… now it made sense.

“I broke the trust I’d been trying to build for weeks,” Aizawa said. “And now, if he’s smart, he won’t come back.”

He didn’t say it bitterly. Just matter-of-fact. Like it was already decided.

Izuku stared down at his hands. “So, what are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know. Try again, I guess. Smarter this time. No pressure. No threats. Just… something. But I doubt he’ll listen.”

Before he could stop himself, Izuku spoke.

“You don’t know that.”

What are you doing? his brain screamed. This is your chance. Convince him to stop. To give up. To move on.

But… was that even what he wanted?

“It was pretty bad,” Aizawa said quietly. “How things ended. I don't even know where to start anymore." Izuku watched the man. The way his eyes flicked downward told Izuku that he felt it—still did. Like a bruise that hadn’t faded.

“You could start small,” Izuku offered. “A note, maybe. Explain what happened.”

Aizawa gave a slow nod. “Maybe. But I don’t think he’ll believe me.”

Izuku looked up and met his eyes. “Can’t hurt to try.”

A faint twitch passed through Aizawa’s expression—almost a frown, but not quite. “It might.”

“Yeah,” Izuku said. “But not trying might hurt more.”

A long silence passed.

Then Aizawa reached for the file again, flipping it open with careful, deliberate hands.

“I’ll think about it,” he said. “Thanks.”

Izuku nodded. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, added softly, “I’m… sorry about your friend.”

Aizawa didn’t look up. Just turned a page in the file, his voice quiet but firm.

“It was a long time ago.” A pause. “But thanks.” Izuku sat back slightly, watching the man across from him.

His gaze drifted toward a blue notebook resting beside the other papers. One Aizawa didn't leave out like the others. One he hadn't looked at.

Without thinking, Izuku leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly to catch a glimpse of its pages.

The notebook snapped shut with a quiet thud.

Izuku blinked—caught—and looked up.

Aizawa was already watching him.

“Interesting,” he said calmly.

Izuku’s stomach dropped. “What’s interesting?”

“You’ve ignored every other file since I put them on the table. But the second I brought this one out—the one I don’t leave lying around—you got curious. Which can only mean one thing.”

Izuku stayed very still. Shit.

Aizawa’s voice remained even. “You’ve been reading through the files while I’m at work.”

Izuku met his eyes, refusing to look away. Refusing to flinch.

“So what?” he said flatly.

“You’re not denying it.”

“No. I looked. Yeah. So?”

“That qualifies as unauthorized access to private documents,” Aizawa said.

“And do you know that I don’t give two—” He stopped short.

Something had wrapped around his ankle.

The scarf.

Of course.

It tightened just enough to make a point.

Izuku scowled. “What, are you gonna arrest me now? Just like your vigilante problem?”

For a second, Aizawa looked genuinely caught off guard.

The scarf loosened and slid away.

“No,” he said at last. “Of course not. I’ve known for a while that you were reading them. That’s why I left them out.”

Izuku’s heart stuttered.

Idiot. That was a cheap shot. The guilt hit him fast and hard.

He looked down. “That was uncalled for. Sorry.”

Aizawa didn’t answer right away.

The silence stretched.

Then finally, “You’re fine, kid. I’m just… still a little fried after last night.”

Izuku looked up.

Aizawa wasn’t looking at him anymore. His gaze had drifted to the window, where the light was starting to fade from orange to black.

“I’m gonna take a shower before dinner,” Izuku said as he stood.

He turned toward the hall—then hesitated.

“I had fun today,” he said.

Aizawa turned his head. His expression had softened, just a little.

“Me too, kid.”

Izuku gave a small nod and stepped away, footsteps soft on the wood floor.

But as he walked, something heavy settled in his chest.

He wanted to believe this peace could last. Wanted to believe they could keep this fragile thing alive between them.

But wanting it didn’t make it real.

And it didn’t make it safe.

Not for someone like him.

Not for long.

Chapter Text

“I need to stop by the station tonight,” Aizawa said as Yamada cleared the plates from the table.

Izuku looked up, puzzled. “Wait, don’t you have patrol? Why not swing by before that?”

“I’m not on patrol tonight.”

Izuku blinked, caught off guard. He was stunned, to say the least. Aizawa didn’t seem like the type to skip out on patrol. “What? Why not?” The question slipped out before he could stop himself. He already knew the answer—he just didn’t want to say it out loud.

Of course they’d pull a hero off duty after something like that.

His fault, again.

Aizawa didn’t respond directly. He just shot a look toward Yamada, who had conveniently vanished into the kitchen.

As if sensing the silent accusation, Yamada called out from the other room, “Protocol says a week off, minimum. You’re lucky I agreed to just one night.” Aizawa’s glare didn’t twitch—but neither did Yamada’s as he returned to the dining room, wiping his hands on a towel with quiet defiance.

Izuku shifted in his seat, glancing between the two men. The air felt heavier now, and something in Aizawa’s expression made his chest tighten. He had never seen them this serious with each other.

His gaze dropped to Yamada’s hand as he dried a knife, the soft scrape of metal on cloth oddly grounding. An idea surfaced. He hesitated, then spoke, trying to keep his tone light.

“Um… Aizawa. Would it be okay if I came with you to the station?”

That got both of their attention. Aizawa narrowed his eyes slightly. “Why?”

Izuku’s heart skipped. Because I left my damn knife there and I kind of want it back. But he couldn’t say that. Definitely not to them. So instead, he forced a shrug. “I just... I haven’t seen that part of town in a while. I kind of grew up around there. Thought it’d be nice to see it again.”

Yamada raised a brow. “Wait—you lived near the red-light district? Was that one of your old foster placements?”

Izuku’s stomach dropped. His mouth moved before he could think. “No. I actually lived there with my mom. Before...”

He trailed off, eyes falling to the table as he turned away. Shit. That was too much. Maybe he should have said the alternative. His throat tightened.

Aizawa didn’t press, but he watched him for a long moment—too quiet, too still.

“Fine,” he said at last. “But stay close. We’re not sightseeing.”

Izuku nodded quickly, grateful for the out. “Got it.”

Yamada didn’t say a word, but the look he gave Izuku as he sat back down—quiet, concerned—said everything. There was no point dragging anyone into his sad backstory—he’d told himself that a hundred times with every foster situation. Everyone had enough to deal with already.

The car ride was... awkward. Then again, that might’ve just been Izuku overthinking things. Again.

Aizawa was behind the wheel, which already felt weird. It was almost always Yamada who drove, usually with music playing way too loud and one hand on the wheel like he was starring in some kind of road trip movie.

Izuku had genuinely started to believe Aizawa didn’t know how to drive. To his surprise, Aizawa was a decent driver. Controlled, smooth, maybe a little terrifying in how quiet he was the entire time. No music. No small talk. Just the low hum of the engine and the occasional sound of a blinker.

He tried to relax, eyes flicking to the city lights slipping past the window. If Eraserhead wasn’t on patrol, he should be out there instead. There wouldn’t be anyone else to help—so it had to be him. Once they got back to the apartment, he’d head out.

As they got closer to the station, his stomach twisted—not from nerves exactly, but anticipation. The knife had to still be there. Tucked away somewhere. If he played it right, maybe he could get in, find it, and get out before anyone noticed anything weird.

Of course, nothing ever went that smoothly for him. He had a feeling Aizawa wouldn’t let him out of his sight.

But hey. One problem at a time.

Aizawa pulled into the parking lot with the same calm, robotic efficiency he seemed to apply to everything in life. The engine cut off, and for a second, neither of them moved. It was so quiet, Izuku had a brief, irrational fear that Aizawa had powered down with the car. Was he even breathing?

Then Aizawa glanced over. “Stay by my side the entire time.”

Izuku gave him a look. Absolutely not.

Aizawa’s gaze narrowed. He seemed to take Izuku’s silence as an answer—just not the right kind. “Don’t make me use my scarf.”

Izuku huffed. “Fine. Don’t need to leash me. Jeez.”

They held eye contact for a long moment—silent, unblinking. Aizawa’s stare was unreadable. Izuku’s was pure teenage defiance, with just a hint of guilt tucked behind it.

Finally, Aizawa turned, exited the car and started toward the building.

Izuku followed, but every step made his skin itch. It felt wrong being here like this—walking in through the front doors, not slipping in through a side vent, not checking blind spots or keeping an eye on camera feeds. Not wearing his hood and mask.

Not being Ghost.

Without realizing it, his shoulders tensed, muscles coiling like he was expecting a trap. He wasn’t here to break into anything this time—well not exactly—but his body hadn’t gotten the memo.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, scanning the hallway as they entered. Officers passed by, paperwork shuffled, someone was laughing down the hall.

He just hoped—really hoped—he wouldn’t run into him.

Aizawa guided him down the hallway with quiet purpose, and it wasn’t until they turned a corner that Izuku realized exactly where they were headed.

Wait... no way.

The detective’s office. Of course.

Maybe, maybe, the guy wasn’t in. Maybe the universe would show him mercy just this once.

But the universe hated him.

Because the second Aizawa opened the door, there he was—sitting at his desk, very much not out.

“Eraser?” the man blinked. “Didn’t think I’d see you today. I thought you had the night off.”

Oh, cool, Izuku thought bitterly. I’d like to be anyone else right now. Literally anyone. A random traffic cone, maybe.

“I do,” Aizawa replied. “Just needed to grab some things.”

Izuku hovered awkwardly behind him. He’d honestly rather be Ghost right now—at least Ghost had a plan, a mask, and an exit strategy.

The detective looked up from his papers and added casually, “Didn’t realize you brought a shadow.”

Maybe if I focus hard enough, I’ll turn into an actual ghost. Poof. Gone. Problem solved.

“Midoriya?”

Great. That didn’t work. And that voice wasn’t Aizawa’s.

He looked up, meeting the detective’s eyes. The man looked surprised—more than surprised, actually.

“Hi, Naosoma,” Izuku muttered, stepping into the room fully.

Aizawa glanced between them, visibly confused. “Wait—you two know each other?”

Izuku nodded, keeping his tone even. “Yeah. He handled my mother’s case.”

Naosoma leaned back in his chair, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “You’ve grown up.”

“And you’ve gotten old,” Izuku shot back without missing a beat.

The detective gave a low chuckle. “I see you still have that attitude.”

Izuku gave a tight smile. “Old habits.”

Naosoma chuckled, but his eyes didn’t lose that sharpness. The kind that made Izuku feel like he was being dissected under a microscope. He resisted the urge to shift his weight or look away. Aizawa moved toward a filing cabinet against the wall, flipping through papers. “Won’t be long,” he said, mostly to Tskuachi.

Izuku lingered by the door, pretending to study the room. His eyes darted—desk, cabinet, shelf. Nothing obvious, but if the knife had been logged as evidence, it had to be around here somewhere.
Maybe in one of the drawers. Maybe just sitting somewhere. Unlabeled. Forgotten. No. There was almost no chance the only evidence of Ghost would be forgotten.

He stepped a little closer, feigning interest in a wall of case photos. “You redecorate in here, or has it always looked like a conspiracy theorist’s basement?”

Naomasa snorted. “You always this mouthy, or is that new?”

His smile faltered for half a second. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Something like that.”

A beat passed.

Then he spotted it. A drawer second from the left, he noted. Slightly ajar. Something metallic glinting inside. That could be it.

He just needed a distraction. A moment.

Just one second.

And that’s when his eyes landed on the radio sitting on the edge of the detectives desk. He couldn’t help the smirk that crossed his face. Perfect.

Naosoma leaned back in his chair, arms crossing loosely as his gaze lingered on Izuku. There was something calculating in it, but not cruel. Just observant. Familiar.

“When you said you were fostering a kid named Midoriya,” he said slowly, “I didn’t expect it to be this one.”

Izuku rolled his eyes. “Gee, thanks. Glad to know I left a lasting impression.” Honestly, he was surprised Aizawa had mentioned him at all.

“You made more than that.” Naosoma smirked. “You were stubborn, loud, and constantly causing trouble.”

“And now I’m taller.”

“Barely.”

Aizawa, without looking up from the drawer he was rifling through, asked, “Any sign of either teen yet?”

Naomasa shook his head. “Nothing. Ghost usually doesn’t show up before eleven. It’s only nine. I’ll give you a buzz if anything changes—but seriously, Shouta, take the night off.”

Aizawa didn’t respond right away. But Izuku saw it—just for a moment. The way his shoulders slumped, that faint crease between his brows. He looked... exhausted.

Guilt curled in Izuku’s stomach like a slow, cold knot. That was his fault. All of it.

Then Aizawa spoke again, quieter this time. “What about Kaito? Any matches on the quirk profile yet?”

Naomasa sighed, shaking his head. “No. Nothing in the registry. No hits at all.”

Of course there wouldn’t be. Izuku’s throat tightened. There couldn’t be a match—because there wasn’t anyone alive who fit the details. Not officially.

As always, Aizawa pulled himself back together in a blink—masking everything behind that calm, unreadable wall. Izuku tore his gaze away, biting the inside of his cheek. He needed a window. A chance. Something. “Hey,” he said suddenly, “is Sansa still here?”

Naosoma blinked. “Yeah, he’s downstairs. Break room, I think. You wanna see him?”

Izuku nodded. “Haven’t seen him in a while.”

Aizawa immediately looked up from the file drawer, suspicious. “No.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because I can see it in your eyes,” Aizawa said flatly. “You’re planning something.”

Izuku blinked. “My eyes?”

Naosoma leaned back in his chair, amused. “Come on, Eraser. This place is crawling with cops. What’s the worst he can do?”

Aizawa exhaled through his nose. Long. Aggravated. But he relented. “Fine. But if you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m dragging you out of this station with my scarf.”

Izuku grinned. “Yes, sir.” And before Aizawa could change his mind, Izuku slipped out the door, practically vanishing into the hallway. Just as it shut behind him, he heard Naosoma’s voice drift through:

“You’ve got interesting parenting techniques.”

The break room door creaked as Izuku eased it open and stepped inside.

Sansa was hunched over a file at the table, nursing a coffee that looked like it’d already given up on life. His ears twitched, lifting as he turned—and when he saw Izuku, he froze.

“...Midoriya?”

Izuku offered a sheepish smile. “Hey.”

Sansa blinked, standing slowly. “Wow. It’s been... what, years?”

Izuku scratched the back of his neck. “Something like that.” ...Or, you know, a few weeks ago in that alley when I almost kicked you in the head.

“You’ve changed,” Sansa said, stepping closer with a warm look. “Taller. Less angry, maybe.”

“Debatable,” Izuku muttered, but he accepted the quick hug Sansa pulled him into, patting the older man’s back awkwardly.

“Didn’t think I’d see you around here again,” Sansa said, stepping back with a warm smile. “Who’re you here with?”

“Eraserhead,” Izuku answered casually.

Sansa’s eyebrows lifted. “Wait—Eraserhead is fostering you?”

“And Present Mic,” Izuku added, like it wasn’t a totally insane sentence to say out loud.

Sansa blinked, then let out a low chuckle. “You hit the foster home jackpot or the apocalypse. I’m not sure which.”

Izuku smirked. “Bit of both.”

As they talked, his eyes scanned the room. Slow, calculated. There—clipped neatly to the edge of the counter by the sink—was a police radio. Standard-issue, just sitting there, begging to be borrowed.

Wonderful.

“Mind if I grab some water?” Izuku asked, already moving.

“Help yourself. You want a snack? There’s still half a donut in that box—not too sure how long it's been in there though.”

“I’m good thanks,” he said with a forced smile, pulling a paper cup from the stack. As he filled it at the sink, his hand brushed the radio. Quick. Casual. A practiced motion. Into the pocket it went like it belonged there. Sansa didn’t even notice—he was too busy downing his coffee.

“You know,” he said, “I always hoped you’d end up somewhere safe. You were a good kid. Still are, I’d bet.”

Izuku’s stomach tensed, but he nodded. “Trying.”

“Glad you’re here.”

If only you knew how often I was. Bet you wouldn't be saying that.

“Thanks,” Izuku said, swallowing the guilt. “It’s good to see you again.”

Izuku stepped out of the break room, double-checking the hallway.

Clear.

He moved quickly now—less casual, more intentional—turning down a quieter corridor until he reached a supply closet near the back stairwell. It was dark, unused. Perfect.

He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. He eyed the vent on the ceiling. He knew the complete layout of the stations vents. This would be a breeze.

He knelt down, pulled up the lining of his hoodie, and from the hidden inner pocket, withdrew a small voice modulator. The casing was scuffed, the switch half-taped, but it still worked like a charm. He turned it over in his hands, thumb resting on the activation switch.

Time for the fun to begin.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth—something sharper, colder than the one he wore around Aizawa and Yamada. This one belonged to someone else entirely.

Ghost is clocking in.

*

Shouta finally found what he’d come for.

The file sat at the bottom of the drawer where he’d left it weeks ago—half-buried under outdated paperwork and incident reports no one had touched. He pulled it free, flipping through it briefly to confirm the contents, then closed the drawer with a quiet thunk.

Behind him, Tsukauchi leaned against the desk, sipping his coffee with a tired sigh. “Still paranoid enough to hide things from the records clerk, huh?”

Shouta gave a dry grunt. “Paranoia keeps my students alive. Or in this case—my kid.”

Tsukauchi hummed, setting his cup down. “You’re really taking to that word, huh? ‘My kid.’ Never thought I’d see the day.”

“He’s not a project,” Shouta said plainly. “He’s just... mine now. Whether he likes it or not.”

There was a pause.

“You said you worked on Midoriya’s mothers case?”

Tsukauchi’s expression shifted, heavier now. “Yeah. It was, what—six years ago? He was eight. His mom had just been…” He trailed off briefly, then met Aizawa’s eyes. “Killed. Brutal scene.”

Shouta's jaw tightened slightly. Killed. That word, so simple yet so final.

It struck him in a way he hadn’t expected. He’d seen plenty of tragedy, but the idea of Midoriya going through something like that, at that age...

It was as if the detective could read his thoughts. “Wait—he hasn’t told you what happened?”

“No. We thought it was best not to bring it up. Let him come to it on his own time.”

Tsukauchi nodded slowly. “Yeah… that’s fair.”

The silence that followed was thick with mutual understanding. Still, something in the back of Shouta's mind itched—like a piece of the puzzle was just out of reach.

He glanced toward the hallway.

Ten minutes. Just about.

And yet.

BZZZT.

A burst of static tore through the quiet office. Both men turned toward the sudden crackle of Tsukauchi’s desk radio. Then—through the haze of interference—a voice filtered in. Distorted just enough to mask it from recording, but not enough to fool Shouta.

“Detective. Eraserhead. Fancy seeing you both here.”

Shouta’s breath caught—just for a second.

Relief hit him like a wave. He’s okay.

The realization landed harder than he expected. He wasn’t mad—not really. Not anymore. Not after everything. What he felt was sharper, deeper—relief blooming in his chest like a coil finally unwinding. Ghost was still out there. Still breathing. Still being a pain in the ass.

He hadn’t vanished into the shadows for good.

Beside him, Tsukauchi’s expression didn’t shift. He leaned forward and picked up the radio like this was just another late-night call. “Evening, Ghost. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, you know…” the voice replied, lilting with mock sweetness, “just checking in on my two favorite sleep-deprived coffee addicts.”

Shouta rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth. He could tell the kid was smirking behind the radio.

Tsukauchi didn’t take the bait. “We’re flattered,” he said flatly. “Why don’t you come up to my office? We could catch up properly.”

A beat of silence followed.

“Tempting offer,” Ghost drawled, “but I’ll have to pass.”

Then the static spiked again, sharp and uneven.

“Man… this is so much harder than I thought.”

That one wasn’t for them, Shouta realized. That was muttered—quiet, frustrated. A slip. He and Tsukauchi exchanged a look. And then—everything went dark. The entire station plunged into darkness. Fluorescents overhead snapped off, replaced by the low hum of emergency lighting flickering to life along the walls. Someone cursed down the hall. Footsteps scrambled above.

Shouta’s voice cut through it all. “He’s in the basement.”

They moved as one, charging into the stairwell, boots hitting metal in perfect rhythm.

Bold move for a kid who usually stuck to the shadows. Shouta had heard the stories—how he slipped into the station more times than anyone could count, always quiet, always gone before anyone knew better. Tsukauchi had only managed to catch him once.

Shouta gritted his teeth, his legs moving on autopilot.

He didn’t know why the kid was here. And honestly, he didn’t care—not right now. All he wanted was to see him. Just lay eyes on him, make sure he was still in one piece.

They reached the basement.

Empty.

Shouta’s eyes scanned the corners before snapping to the vent. Open. Sloppy. The screws hanging like afterthoughts.

The kid was smart. Too smart for his own good. He led them down here on purpose. But why?

Tsukauchi flicked the breaker panel. The red glow of the emergency lights blinked out, replaced by the harsh white return of normalcy. “Shit,” Tsukauchi muttered, voice edged with frustration. “This was the distraction. He’s in the office. Again.”

Shouta didn’t have time to question the ‘again’—Tsukauchi was already gone, moving fast. All Shouta could do was follow. As they took the stairs two at a time, Shouta’s thoughts continued to spiraled just as fast. He didn’t come here for fun. He came for something. And he’d been sloppy—the vent left wide open, screws barely hanging on. Ghost was better than that. Normally, there wasn’t a trace. No evidence. No presence.

You’re slipping, kid. Or you’re scared. Which is it?

By the time they reached the office, the breeze told them everything they needed to know. The window was open. Curtains fluttering. The night swallowing him whole. He was gone.

Again.

Shouta moved to the desk, scanning for any damage—but then Tsukauchi’s voice cut through the silence.

“Drawer’s open.”

Shouta pivoted. He glanced at the empty drawer. “What was in it?”

“Ghost’s knife,” Tsukauchi said, rifling through the now-empty drawer. “The only real evidence we had of him.”

Shouta sighed, dragging a hand down his face. All that—for a knife? No. Something didn’t add up. The way Ghost had avoided eye contact, the way his voice had sounded—it wasn’t cocky. Not even defiant.

It was nervous. Maybe even… regret.

What are you doing, kid? What’s the endgame here? You don’t risk breaking into a station just to retrieve a weapon—unless you’re afraid of what someone else might do with it. Or what it might mean.

And then he saw it.

A folded slip of paper, set dead center on the desk. Deliberate. Precise. Like a note left on a pillow before running away.

He picked it up.

No name. No mocking smiley face. Just numbers.

Coordinates. A time.

That was it.

“This from him?” Tsukauchi asked, though they both knew the answer.

Shouta stared at the paper a moment longer, then gave a slow nod. “Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. Thoughtful. He’s reaching out. “It’s an invitation.”

Shouta folded the note in half, his thumb resting along the edge of the paper before he tucked it into his pocket. His eyes lingered on the empty drawer for a beat longer, the cool night air drifting in through the wide-open window.

A meeting. A time. Coordinates.

Not a threat. Not a warning. An invitation.

Maybe Midoriya was right.

There was still a chance.

Ghost wanted to talk. Not fight. Not run. Not hide. This note—slipped in like a whisper—was proof of that. An olive branch, in its own twisted, dramatic way. So maybe it wasn’t fully broken. Maybe he hadn’t lost him completely. Still… something itched at the back of Shouta’s neck.

He could’ve come now. Hell, he was here. Inside the building, dancing circles around them like it was nothing. If he really wanted to talk, why stage all this? Why not just walk into the room?

Shouta exhaled slowly, the weight of exhaustion settling in deeper. He turned toward the door. “I need to find Midoriya,” he muttered, though Tsukauchi remained by the drawer, jaw tight. “It’s been over ten minutes, and he’s still not back.”

“He’s a good kid,” the detective replied. “Don’t be too hard on him.”

Shouta gave a dry smirk. “I was being generous. I gave him an extra ten minutes.” His hand tightened around his scarf as he stepped into the hallway.

Alright, where are you kid and I swear if you’re in a place where you're not supposed to be this scarf is going to be the least of your worries. That’s when he felt a ding in his pocket.

*

Izuku sat on the curb beside Aizawa’s car, arms loosely crossed, his shoulder resting against the door. Maybe he should’ve swiped the car keys while returning Sansa’s radio, Aizawa had left them sitting right there on the desk. But he’d barely had enough time to dive out the window before the office door opened.

The adrenaline had long since bled from his system, leaving behind only the dull, nagging throb of guilt lodged deep in his chest. It had been there since that morning—persistent, heavy. And from the way things were going, it wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

That was why he’d left the note. Why he’d made the decision to meet with Eraserhead. Because every time he looked at the hero as Izuku, the guilt clawed a little deeper. It didn’t matter what Aizawa said or did. Izuku couldn’t forget what either of them had said last night.

And he knew it wouldn’t stop eating at him unless they talked. As Ghost.

He wasn’t sure what to say yet. He’d have tomorrow to figure that out. But he couldn’t back out now.

He squinted at the parking lot entrance again. He was almost certain he’d sent the text saying he was outside. Right?

His head dipped forward slightly, eyes fluttering closed. Just for a second. Just to rest. The next thing he knew, he wasn’t outside anymore. Izuku blinked hard, jerking upright. The gravel was gone—so was the cold. He was sitting in the passenger seat of Aizawa’s car, warmth humming gently around him.

His heart stuttered. Wait—how long had he been out? Did Aizawa carry him? Did anyone see? His cheeks burned. God, he'd passed out like a kid. In front of Aizawa. Seriously?

His eyes darted to the side. Aizawa sat behind the wheel, one hand resting loosely on it, the other on the gearshift. He wasn’t looking at him, just out through the windshield, gaze calm and unreadable.

“…Did I fall asleep?” Izuku asked, voice thick with sleep as he scrubbed a hand over his face.

“You did,” Aizawa said, tone dry but without bite. “When I came out after your text, you were slumped against the door like a stray alley cat.”

Izuku winced. “That’s a flattering image.”

“You’re lucky it didn't start raining.”

Izuku shifted, stretching slightly as he tried to shake off the last dregs of sleep. His limbs felt heavier than they should. “What time is it?”

“It’s late,” Aizawa replied. “Didn’t expect to be stuck there so long. Ghost decided to make an appearance.”

Izuku tried not to react, but his shoulders tensed just enough to notice. “Oh. So the blackout was him?”

“That’s what it looks like,” Aizawa said, watching him from the corner of his eye. “Why didn’t you come back inside?”

“I got lost in the dark and found the exit, I thought I sent the text,” Izuku said quietly.

“You did,” Aizawa replied. “But I figured you’d be waiting in the lobby, not outside in the cold.”

Izuku gave a slow shrug, eyes drifting toward the windshield, the streetlamp casting faint gold across the glass. “Didn’t feel like going back in. I just… figured I’d wait here.”

Aizawa hummed, a low, noncommittal sound, and for a while, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn’t awkward. It just was—quiet, like a blanket settling over them both.

Izuku shifted slightly in his seat, a flicker of awareness sparking in his chest. The knife.

He let one hand drift down, subtle, brushing the side of his leg. His fingers found the cool press of metal beneath the fabric—still strapped in place. Had Aizawa noticed it when he’d moved him? Felt it?

No, if he’d been caught, he wouldn’t have woken up in the car. It would’ve been a holding cell.

“…Didn’t think I’d fall asleep,” Izuku mumbled, tipping his head back against the seat. “Just meant to rest my eyes.”

“You were out cold,” Aizawa said, voice quieter now. “Didn’t even stir when I opened the door.”

Izuku let out a quiet breath, rubbing his face again. Ugh, he must’ve looked ridiculous. Maybe even pathetic. “That’s… kind of embarrassing.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Aizawa murmured. “You didn’t drool.”

Oh, fantastic. Just what he needed—"at least he didn't drool."“Wow. Thanks for the reassurance.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Just the hum of wind against the car, the soft creak of the cooling engine.

Izuku’s voice came low and rough, almost reluctant—something he wouldn’t normally admit. “Sorry I didn’t come inside…” It wasn’t really an apology, more the tired part of him slipping through.

Aizawa shook his head lightly, his gaze still fixed on the windshield. “I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t mean to take so long.”

Izuku blinked over at him. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Aizawa said, quiet but firm. “You were out here, alone. I should’ve come sooner.”

Izuku’s gaze dropped to his hands in his lap, a faint, tired smile tugging at his lips. He felt so damn exhausted. Every muscle felt heavy, like he was carrying invisible weights. His eyelids flickered, begging for rest. “It’s okay. I didn’t mind waiting.”

Aizawa didn’t respond right away, but the quiet that followed felt different—softer. Like something unspoken had settled between them. Not tension. Just understanding. “You’re exhausted,” Aizawa said after a beat. It wasn’t a question.

Izuku shrugged again, sluggishly. “I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

Izuku glanced sideways, and found Aizawa already watching him—not stern, not suspicious, just… steady. Like he was anchoring him there. Aizawa pulled up to there apartment complex and parked the car. Izuku swallowed, feeling the pull of that safety, the softness of the moment. His voice came out smaller, hesitant. “Can I… stay here a little longer? Just for a bit. It feels… nice.”

Aizawa nodded once. “Yeah. You can stay.”

Izuku let out a slow breath, letting his body sink back into the seat. The weight in his chest didn’t leave, but it quieted. Just a little. Like maybe, in this moment, it didn’t have to press quite so hard.

He didn’t know how long this would last—this peace, this calm, this unspoken truce with the man beside him—but for now, it was enough.

To rest.

To breathe.

To be here.

And to be seen.

For a brief second, all thoughts of heading out on patrol faded, replaced by the quiet relief of just existing here.

*

Hizashi was curled up on the couch, a warm blanket thrown over his legs, a half-watched movie playing quietly in the background. Eclipse was draped across his chest, purring contentedly, while Fish lay sprawled at his feet, twitching occasionally in his sleep. The room was dim, cozy, the kind of peaceful that only really happened late at night when everything had finally settled.

He glanced at the clock. Still no sign of Shouta or the kid.

Just as Hizashi was debating whether to send a quick text, the front door clicked open.

He turned his head, expecting two pairs of tired footsteps—maybe one grumpy, one stubborn.

Instead, he stilled.

Shouta stepped inside quietly, his scarf draped loosely around his neck, boots scuffed with the city’s dust. But what made Hizashi sit up wasn’t any of that.

It was who he was carrying.

Izuku was tucked in Shouta’s arms, fast asleep, completely out. His head rested against Shouta’s shoulder, curls a mess, breath soft and even. One of his hands was loosely curled in the fabric of Shouta’s scarf.

And Shouta—Hizashi felt his chest ache a little—Shouta wasn’t just tired. That wasn’t what was written across his face for once. He looked… at ease. Soft. Like this, right here, carrying this stubborn, half-feral, brilliant kid in his arms, was the most natural thing in the world.

It was peace. It was comfort. It was love in a language Shouta didn’t always know how to say aloud.

Hizashi felt himself melt.

Neither man said anything as Shouta crossed the room. Hizashi just watched. Watched the way Shouta’s arms curled instinctively around Izuku as he adjusted his hold, the way his steps softened even more as he padded down the hall. Watched until they both disappeared into the kid’s room, the door clicking shut behind them with barely a sound.

He stayed still, blinking slowly, warmth blooming somewhere in his chest.

A few minutes passed. The low hum of the movie filled the quiet again, just enough to keep the silence company.

Then, the door opened again, and Shouta stepped back out. His shoulders had loosened, the lines of tension that always lived in his brow were softened. He looked like someone who had just set something precious down and made sure it would stay safe.

“He okay?” Hizashi asked softly as Shouta sank down onto the couch beside him, exhaustion tugging gently at the edges of his posture.

“He’s out cold,” Shouta murmured, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Didn’t even stir when I put him in bed.”

“You carried him all the way from the car?” Hizashi asked, eyebrows raised.

“He needed sleep.” Shouta’s voice was quiet, and there was something almost protective threaded through it. He glanced toward the hallway before leaning back into the cushions. “He felt… light.”

Hizashi tilted his head, catching the way Shouta’s fingers flexed like they were remembering the shape of holding him.

“Too light?”

Shouta nodded slowly. “Yeah. I don’t know—I just didn’t expect it.”

A beat of silence settled between them, soft and heavy.

“…Is this my fault?” Hizashi asked quietly, shifting to press closer, the warmth between them grounding. “Are we not feeding him enough?” Shouta shook his head, gentle but firm. “Zashi, you’re doing everything right. He’s eating, he’s got a roof over his head, people who care. It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?” Hizashi asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Shouta’s gaze drifted toward the hallway, his brows drawn. “I don’t know. But something still feels… off.”

They sat in silence for a few heartbeats, the movie still murmuring in the background, Eclipse nestled between them.

Then Hizashi broke it, voice gentle. “We probably shouldn’t bring it up.”

Shouta glanced over, a brow raised in question.

“The whole ‘you carried him in and tucked him into bed’ thing,” Hizashi clarified. “He’ll get embarrassed. Or worse—think we’re babying him and get mad.”

Shouta gave a quiet grunt of agreement. “Yeah. He wouldn’t take it well.”

“But it was really cute,” Hizashi added with a soft grin. “Just saying.”

“Keep it to yourself,” Shouta said, but there was no heat behind it—only a tired fondness.

And Hizashi did. For now.

But part of him tucked that image away anyway—quietly, privately—because some moments were meant to be remembered, even if they never got talked about again.

Hizashi felt himself begin to drift off to sleep; however, he was brought back by a low voice.

“Why’d you tell the kid I patrolled in the red-light district?”

Hizashi blinked his eyes open, finding Shouta’s gaze already fixed on him. "What? I thought that was you," he murmured, voice heavy with sleep.

Shouta shook his head. "No."

"No?"

"It wasn’t me."

Hizashi frowned, confusion flickering across his tired features. "Then… how did he know?"

Shouta's expression softened just a bit, eyes flickering with something like pride. "He’s seen the patrol routes I mapped out in my notes," he replied quietly. "Has to be that."

Hizashi chuckled, a soft, breathy sound that curled around the quiet room. "He's smart."

"That he is," Shouta agreed, voice low and certain.

Hizashi felt the pull of sleep creeping back, warmth settling into his bones as he leaned heavier against Shouta's side. His eyes fluttered shut, and his breathing evened out, lips still curved in a faint smile.

With a sigh that was more long-suffering than anything else, Shouta wrapped his arms around Hizashi and hoisted him up with the kind of practiced ease that suggested this wasn’t the first—and definitely wouldn’t be the last—time. For the second time that night, he found himself carrying someone to bed.

At least this one wasn’t as light as a feather.

"You're getting too comfortable with this," Shouta muttered, adjusting his grip as Hizashi snored lightly against his shoulder.

Hizashi, of course, didn’t answer. Typical.

As Shouta made his way down the hallway, two sets of eyes blinked up at him from the floor. The cats—both of them—sat primly in his path, tails curled neatly around their paws. They meowed in unison, like this was some sort of organized protest.

"Oh, no. No way," Shouta said flatly, shifting Hizashi’s weight for emphasis. "I am not making two trips. You either follow or you’re sleeping on the couch."

Eclipse meowed louder, like she was genuinely offended. Fish just flopped onto his side dramatically, clearly attempting guilt tactics.

Shouta stepped over the furry blockade without hesitation. "Nice try," he called back over his shoulder. He didn’t need to look to know they were already trotting after him in defeat.

Shouta rolled his eyes but couldn’t fight the tiny smirk tugging at his mouth. "You owe me coffee for this," he added to the unconscious Hizashi, even though they both knew he wouldn’t actually collect.

Chapter Text

Izuku had chosen the rooftop with care—high up, flat with tons of cover, the kind of place that offered plenty of exit routes. Fire escapes. Adjacent buildings. A convenient shadow to slip into if things went sideways. He didn’t think they would. Not really.

But with any pro hero, it was always smart to plan for the worst. Especially this one.

The wind tugged at the edge of his hood, and he adjusted it absently, red eyes scanning the skyline. The city was quieter at this hour. Quieter, but not silent. Neon signs blinked like tired eyes in the distance. Headlights moved far below like ants on glass. A siren wailed, distant and half-hearted.

Midnight in motion.

He shifted where he crouched behind the rusted hulk of a ventilation unit, half-swallowed by shadow. His breath fogged in the cool air. From this angle, he had a perfect view of the rooftop entrance—and cover, if it came to that. The spot wasn’t random. Nothing he did was random anymore.

It wasn’t fear that made him hide. Not exactly.

Caution, maybe. Paranoia.

Anxiety, definitely.

He didn’t know how this would go. Didn’t know what he’d do. His mind wandered back to the night before. He remembered being in the car. Warm. Quiet. He’d felt… safe, somehow. Even relaxed—just for a second. The kind of stillness he rarely let himself have.

Then—

Morning.

His bed.

He blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented, his heart lurching as reality caught up to him.

Hoodie? Still on. Thank god.
Shoes? Gone.

The shoes he’d been wearing were placed by the door. The blanket had been pulled up over him, tucked in just enough that it couldn’t have been accidental. It had taken him a solid minute—maybe more—to piece it together.

Aizawa had carried him.

Again.

The realization dropped like a stone in his gut. Mortifying. He curled in on himself, fingers twisting into the sheets. Why did this keep happening? Why couldn’t he just stay awake like a normal person? Why did he have to keep being this—this pathetic thing that needed to be carried around like luggage?

He’d buried his face in the pillow and wished, sincerely, that the mattress would just swallow him whole. Time passed. Maybe thirty minutes. Maybe more. He’d been too busy drowning in his thoughts to track it.

Then—

Knock knock.

His whole body froze. “Midoriya,” came Aizawa’s voice from the other side of the door. Low. Even. “Come out. Breakfast’s ready.”

Izuku said nothing. Just stared at the wall.

Knock knock. A little more insistent this time.

“Kid? You awake?”

His heart jumped. He knew what would come next. Aizawa wouldn’t just leave him in here. If he didn’t respond, the man would come in. So he forced his voice out, thin and rough. “Yeah. I’ll be out in a minute.” There was a pause. Then retreating footsteps. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

When he finally stepped out of his room, padding down the hallway with all the enthusiasm of someone walking to their own execution, he found Aizawa already at the table, sipping from a chipped mug that probably hadn’t been washed since yesterday.

Izuku’s eyes flicked immediately to what the man was looking at. The note. Right. He’d completely forgotten about that.

He froze in the doorway, heart doing a strange lurch in his chest.

He could still picture himself scribbling it in the dark, crouched over the desk, left-handed and rushed. The letters had come out crooked. Slanted. Barely readable.

Aizawa didn’t even look up. Just gestured vaguely toward the other chair. “Sit.”

Izuku moved stiffly, like his joints didn’t work quite right. He sat at the table, avoided eye contact like it was a minefield, and grabbed the nearest apple just so he’d have something to do with his hands. Maybe if he didn’t say anything, Aizawa wouldn't bring it up.

Aizawa was watching him now, mug halfway to his lips. There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes—dry, subtle, but unmistakable. The corners of his mouth twitched, just barely.

“About last night.”

Izuku nearly choked on his apple. Maybe jumping out the window was a better option than having this conversation. At least then he wouldn’t have to sit here and relive the absolute humiliation of being carried to bed like a kid who fell asleep at a sleepover.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared intently at the table, cheeks burning, trying not to combust.

“Ghost left me this note,” Aizawa finally added.

Izuku’s head snapped up before he could stop himself.

Aizawa was watching him over the rim of his mug now, eyes sharp and unreadable. That same flicker of dry amusement danced there, subtle but deliberate. The corners of his mouth twitched again.

Just enough.

That smug bastard. He knew exactly what he was doing. He’d said “last night” on purpose—just to watch him squirm. “What does it say?” Izuku asked, trying very hard to sound casual. Normal. Like his heart wasn’t pounding loud enough to echo.

Aizawa turned the note toward him, letting it hover just long enough for Izuku to pretend to squint at it like he didn’t already know every line, every badly formed number.

Sloppy coordinates. A time. Midnight. That was tonight.

Aizawa grimaced slightly. “Terrible handwriting. Not even sure what direction the six is facing.” He paused, then added, almost like an afterthought, “Though I’ve seen worse. You should see some of the essays I’ve graded.”

Izuku bit into his apple again, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Yeah, well—you try writing in the dark, on a time limit, with your non-dominant hand, he thought. I’d like to see your sixes under pressure.

The sarcasm didn’t help much. His thoughts were already starting to spiral. What was Aizawa going to say tonight? What could he say? Would he even show up? Would he recognize him? Would he tear him to shreds?

Maybe he could get a read on him now. Maybe he could brace for it.

“What are you going to say?” he asked, as casually as he could manage.

Aizawa’s gaze drifted back to the note. For a long second, he didn’t respond. Then, he took another sip of his coffee. Calm. Unbothered. Completely unreadable.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Izuku blinked.

Don’t worry about it.

Cool.

Cool cool cool. Easy. He could do that. Just… don’t worry. Like it was no big deal. Like he wasn’t about to walk into something that might change everything.

But of course, that was a lie.

Because the second Aizawa said it, Izuku’s mind exploded in a thousand directions at once.

What if this whole thing blew up in his face? He tried to shove those thoughts down, tried to push the fear and anticipation aside like they were annoying insects buzzing at his skin.

Nope.

They swarmed.

He spent the whole day replaying every possible scenario, every word Aizawa might say, every move he might make.

His nerves were shot.

Fan-fricken-tastic.

So now, here he was. Perched in the dark like a feral cat, limbs tense, heart crawling up his throat, waiting for Eraserhead like he was about to walk into judgment day.

He hadn’t decided what to say. Not even close. Words had circled endlessly in his head the entire way here—accusations, confessions, apologies. A dozen different scripts, all torn to shreds by the weight of possibility. Maybe there wouldn’t even be a conversation. Maybe they’d just stand on opposite ends of the roof, staring at each other until one of them blinked and walked away.

Maybe Eraser wouldn’t show.

No. That wasn’t true.

Izuku’s thoughts were cut off by a door opening and the quiet, deliberate sound of footsteps against concrete. He stilled.

He checked his watch. It was exactly Midnight. Of course it was.

He leaned forward slightly, breath caught, every sense tuned to the figure emerging from the rooftop access door. No dramatic entrance. No flash. Just a man in black, scarf loose around his neck, boots scuffed, hair a little windblown. Tired eyes scanning the rooftop until they landed—inevitably—on the shadows where he sat.

Izuku could still run. The edge of the roof was only a few paces away, and from there he could drop into the alley and vanish before the man took a second step.

But no.

He couldn’t leave. Not really. That wouldn't solve any of his problems

Plus, Eraserhead knew he was here.

It felt like every time he watched the hero, the man somehow knew he was there. If Izuku didn’t already know what Aizawa’s quirk was, he might’ve thought that was it.

Even now, the man was pretending not to. Pretending to give him space. Letting him make the first move. He rose slowly, boots scraping against gravel, hoodie rustling as he stepped out from behind the old vent. His heart thudded against his ribs, but his expression stayed blank. Distant. Controlled.

He stopped a few feet away from the hero. Neither said anything. Both just stared like they were about to have a show down.

Eraser was the one to break the silence, his voice quiet and even, like they were discussing the weather and not a felony. “You know, if you wanted your knife back… you could’ve just asked.”

Izuku narrowed his eyes, expression unimpressed. “Right. Because you would’ve handed it over if I asked nicely?”

Eraser gave a shrug, something almost like amusement ghosting across his face. “Probably not.”

Izuku rolled his eyes and huffed softly. “Exactly.”

The air stretched between them again, brittle and cool. The city buzzed faintly beneath them, distant and indifferent. “I thought…” Izuku began, then hesitated, the words catching awkward in his throat. He exhaled through his nose and tried again. “I thought we should talk. About the other night.”

Eraser didn’t say anything right away. He simply gave a short nod and walked to the centre of the rooftop, lowering himself into a seated position with practiced ease. There was no demand in the gesture, no pressure—just a quiet invitation.

Izuku hesitated before sitting down too, but he kept his distance. Far enough that he could still bolt if this went sideways. Close enough that it wasn’t running.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t hostile either. Just… cautious. Izuku sat cross-legged, arms folded loosely, staring out over the edge of the building.

The wind tugged at his hood again, dragging loose curls across his cheek. He shoved them back beneath the fabric, fast. If Aizawa saw even one of them, this wouldn’t stay Ghost vs. Eraser. It would become Izuku vs. Aizawa—and that was a line he wasn’t ready to cross. Not tonight. Not like this.

“I’m not going to arrest you,” Eraser said eventually, tone low and steady.

“I know,” Izuku said quickly, almost before he meant to. “I mean. I think I know that now.”

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the edge of Eraser's mouth which he hid in his scarf.

“Good.”

Silence stretched between them again. Not tense, exactly, but taut—like they were both waiting for the other to make the first move. Izuku’s fingers tightened around his arms, nails digging into the sleeves of his hoodie. He wanted to say something. Anything. But where the hell was he supposed to start?

He sucked in a breath. “I didn’t mean what I said. That day. Not really.”

Eraser didn’t look surprised. Didn’t look smug. Just nodded once, like it wasn’t something Izuku had been carrying like a knife in his ribs for the past two days.

“I know,” Eraser said simply.

That was it. No lecture. No guilt trip.

Well. This was going suspiciously well.

Izuku looked sideways, arching a brow. “You’re not gonna make me grovel? Damn. I was prepared to get yelled at, minimum.”

Still nothing.

“If you’re not going to say anything then I might as well go ” he added dryly, looking over the edge of the building. “I wonder if that jump is makeable.”

Both the hero and he knew that jump was very much not makeable.

Eraser gave him a long look. “Don’t.”

Izuku held his gaze for a second, then looked away. “It just… it sucked. When you came at me like that. I understood the detective, but you… when you said I was under arrest. I thought you got it. And for a second I actually let myself believe—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “Forget it.”

“I did get it,” Eraser said. “Still do.”

Izuku gave him a sideways glance, doubtful.

“I made the wrong call,” Eraser admitted, voice quiet. “I told you I wouldn’t arrest you, and then I did exactly that. Well tried anyway. It was hypocritical. And it broke trust I knew was fragile.”

Izuku didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

“But you nearly got yourself killed,” Eraser added, his voice hard, gaze fixed on the skyline. “You didn’t pause. Didn’t think. You made the hostages safety the only priority—and treated your own like it was disposable.”

Izuku opened his mouth, but the hero raised a hand—not to silence harshly, just to hold the floor.

“I’ve seen that before,” he said. “The same kind of recklessness. The same disregard for self-preservation.”

Izuku stilled.

Eraser's eyes were darker now, shadowed with memory.

“A hero I knew. He smiled right before the rubble crushed him. Like it was worth it.” The words hung there like frost on the wind. Izuku felt something sharp twist in his chest. “I… didn’t mean to make you—”

“That’s not the point,” Eraser said, cutting him off with a shake of his head. “You remind me of him. And that terrifies me.”

Izuku shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t want this—didn’t want the weight of someone else’s ghost strapped to his shoulders. He didn’t know how to respond to that. So he defaulted to the one thing that kept his walls up: dark humor.

“Well,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess that explains why you look at me like I’m already halfway buried.”

Eraser blinked. “What?”

Izuku gave a one-shouldered shrug, eyes fixed on the skyline. “You talk like I’m already a loss you’re bracing for. Like it’s not a matter of *if*—just *when.*” He let out a brittle smirk, thin and frayed at the edges that he knew the man couldn't see. “If I die, do I get a cool, tragic backstory? Something you tell the next vigilante pain-in-the-ass who won’t listen to you?”

A beat passed. Heavy. Still. Then Eraser stood.

Izuku’s head snapped around, pulse spiking. The man didn’t move closer, didn’t say a word right away—but his eyes had sharpened, storm-dark and locked on him. That easy, worn-out calm Eraser usually wore had cracked clean off.

Oh shit. He went too far didn't he. Maybe he should’ve kept his mouth shut after all.

“…What?” Izuku asked, voice quieter now. Uneasy.

“You think this is funny?” Eraser's voice was low—measured, but only barely. Like he was holding something volatile on a leash. “You almost died. You were bleeding out. You lost consciousness.And you think the takeaway is a joke?”

Izuku’s smirk slipped, but not all the way. He folded his arms instead. “It’s not like you weren’t already thinking it. I just said it out loud.”

“That’s not even close—” Eraser took a step forward, then visibly reined himself in, fists clenched at his sides. “Do you have any idea what it looked like? Watching you throw yourself into that chaos like your life didn’t mean a damn thing?”

Izuku looked away, jaw tightening. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” Izuku snapped, rising to his feet now too. “That I should’ve let someone else die instead? That I should’ve waited for permission before saving them all? I made a choice and I believe it was the right one.”

“You made a choice that nearly killed you!” Eraser's voice cracked across the rooftop, fury laced with something deeper. “You were in there for five minutes. You knew about the bombs. Knew how long you had. And still you stayed. Like you didn’t care if you came back.”

Izuku flinched, the words landing harder than he’d expected. Not because they were wrong. But because they were true.

Eraser's voice dropped again, raw and tired. “And all you can do after that is joke about it. Like it didn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.”

That hit differently. Izuku stared at him, chest tight. Because for a moment—just one—he didn’t know how to argue with that.

He scoffed anyway, arms folding tighter across his chest like he could squeeze the emotion down. “Yeah, well... you weren’t exactly subtle with the whole ‘I see someone else when I look at you’ thing. I mean, seriously—the way you looked at me before I passed out? It was like you were watching a real ghost.”

“That’s not what this is,” Eraser said, stepping forward. “You know it.”

“Do I?” Izuku said, voice rising. “Because that night, it sure didn’t feel like I was anything but a liability. Like maybe if I got buried under that rubble, it would’ve just saved you the trouble of having to deal with me at all.”

Izuku didn’t even know if he believed what he was saying—he wasn’t thinking, not really, just like the other night. He kept throwing words like weapons, anything to keep the walls from crumbling.

Eraser didn’t flinch. “You think I’d stand over another kid’s body and call that a relief?”

“I think,” Izuku said taking a step forward, “that you saw someone else when you looked at me. And when I didn’t die the right way, you didn’t know what the hell to do with me anymore.”

The silence hit hard. Even Izuku felt the cold shift in the air. Eraser stared at him, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. The. “You’re right. I did see someone else.”

Izuku blinked. “His name was Oboro and he was my best friend. He was brave and reckless and couldn’t stand to see people hurt, even if it killed him. And it did.” Eraser's voice dropped lower. “And you? You ran straight into that building like you wanted it to kill you too.”

Izuku looked away, jaw clenched so tight it ached. He really jinxed it. This was going horribly now. “That’s just how I function,” he said, voice flat, finally meeting his gaze. “Maybe you should’ve tried harder to stop me if it mattered that much.”

Eraser's expression didn’t shift. “I tried.”

“You tried to arrest me.”

“I tried to save you.”

Izuku rolled his eyes, backing away a step toward the ledge. “Right. Because cuffs and threats have always worked out great for me.”

Eraser stepped forward, voice low. “You can’t joke your way out of this, Ghost.”

Izuku raised his eyebrows. “Wanna bet? I mean, I’m halfway to being an actual ghost anyway—thought I’d start practicing the material.”

“You were two seconds away from being crushed!” Eraser snapped, and there was something brittle under the heat now. “I thought you were going to die. And the first thing you did when you got out was to make sure everyone else was okay. You didn’t check yourself for injured, I bet you didn’t even acknowledge that you nearly died.”

That made Izuku pause. Just for a second.

Eraser kept going, voice like a wound being pulled open. “You scared me. And I don’t scare easy.”

Izuku’s face twitched—something flickered, just beneath the surface. But he swallowed it, shoved it down. “Yeah well, I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“For now.” Eraser's eyes were sharp again. “But how long until the next time you decide your life’s not worth holding on to?”

That was it. The crack. Izuku’s mask slipped, just enough for something bitter to slip out. “Well maybe it isn’t,” he snapped. “Did you ever think of that?”

Silence.

Izuku took another step back, breathing hard, like he’d just realized what he said—but too late to pull it back. He forced his gaze downward, avoiding Eraser's face. If he caught the hint of pity one more time, he might just test the theory that the jump off this rooftop was as impossible as it looked.

“I didn’t mean that,” he muttered, turning slightly away, arms crossed like they might shield him from the weight in the air. “It just came out wrong.”

But he could tell Eraser hadn't move. He hadn't look away.

“Yes, you did,” he said quietly.

Izuku’s jaw clenched. “Shut up. You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Eraser replied, voice steady. “Because I’ve been where you are. And I’ve said the exact same thing.”

Izuku froze.

The words hit harder than they should have—because they weren’t sharp. They weren’t judgment or reprimand. They didn't even feel like pity, which confused him the most. They were something worse: understanding.

He turned, slowly, staring at the man like he was seeing him for the first time. Aizawa—wasn’t supposed to say things like that. He was supposed to be unshakable. The guy who stared down villains without blinking. Who didn’t get rattled, didn’t break.

But now… Aizawa had been through what he had? There was something raw behind his eyes. Something familiar in a terrifying way. Izuku's breath caught. For a second, he couldn't tell if he felt seen—or exposed. Because if Aizawa meant it, if he had really been there… then maybe Izuku wasn’t as alone as he’d always believed. Maybe the weight crushing him wasn’t unique to his own brokenness. Maybe someone else had stared into the same darkness and somehow found a way to keep moving forward.

That realization both unsettled and comforted him. It was terrifying to think someone else understood this kind of pain so intimately—because it meant his scars weren’t invisible. But it was also a fragile hope, a sliver of light breaking through years of doubt and silence.

He wanted to ask how. How Aizawa had survived it, how he kept going when everything felt so unbearable. But the words caught in his throat.

“What..?” It slipped out before he could stop it—small, fragile. Not a challenge. Not a wall. Just a breath of disbelief hanging between them.

Before Izuku could brace for an answer, Eraser moved.

Slowly. Deliberately. He took a deep breath, then stepped forward.

The motion was fluid—controlled—but it still sent a jolt through Izuku. His body locked up on instinct. Muscles tensed. Breath caught.

He tried to back away. He really did. But his legs didn’t listen—numb from fear or maybe just the weight of everything—and instead of moving, he stumbled.

Fell.

It wasn’t graceful. Wasn’t planned. Just a messy, awkward collapse backward that left him sitting on the rooftop like something had short-circuited.

Eraser faltered for a second, then continued to walk.

Every instinct screamed trap.

Run.

Disappear.

Be Ghost. Be nothing. Be safe.

But he didn’t run.

Not because he couldn’t.

Because deep down, terrifying as it was…

He didn’t want to.

Eraser stopped a foot away and crouched, lowering himself to Izuku’s level. He didn’t reach for him, didn’t crowd his space—just met his eyes with a gaze that felt too steady, too knowing.

“You need to understand something,” Eraser said, voice soft but unshakably firm. “Probably a lot of things. But this first.”

He raised a hand—not to grab, but to gently tap two fingers against Izuku’s chest.

“You’re not expendable.”

The words hit harder than they had any right to.

“You weren’t worth less than those hostages. You weren’t worth less than any of the people you’ve thrown yourself in front of. You don’t get to trade yourself in like a spare part just because you’re used to hurting.”

Izuku’s breath stuttered. He opened his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to deny it—that’s not true, it never was—but Eraser didn’t give him the chance.

“You don’t have to agree with me. I’m not asking you to believe it overnight,” he continued. “But I need you to hear it.”

He let the silence settle for a moment.

“You matter,” he repeated, more quietly this time. “Whether you want to or not.”

Izuku swallowed hard, throat tight with things he couldn’t say. The weight of those words—it wasn’t just heavy. It was terrifying. Because he wanted to believe it. And that made it worse.

Eraser didn’t move. He wasn’t demanding anything. Just there, steady and unflinching, like he had all the time in the world to wait for Izuku to catch up.

And somehow, that made it harder to breathe.

Izuku stared at him, then shook his head—barely, like anything bigger would crack something open. His voice caught as he whispered, “It’s not that easy.”

Eraser didn’t flinch. He just nodded, like he’d expected that. “I know it’s not,” he said. “I wouldn’t trust it if it was.”

Izuku let out a breath—half a laugh, half a scoff—but it died somewhere in his chest. His hands clenched in his lap, gripping tight onto nothing, like it might keep him from unraveling.

“I meant what I said,” Eraser replied. “I’ve been where you are. Different circumstances, maybe. But the same weight. Same silence. Same... emptiness.”

Izuku felt his heart stutter. He wanted to scoff, to call it dramatic, to shove it away with a joke or a snarl—but nothing came. No sharp retort. No bite.

Just that quiet, aching, “Why are you telling me this?”

Eraser's gaze didn’t waver. “Because someone should’ve told you sooner. I don’t want you walking around thinking you’re the only one who feels like this. Because you're not. You never were.”

That landed somewhere deep in Izuku’s chest. Something unspoken curled tight beneath his ribs, like the words were trying to pry it loose.

“I don’t want your pity,” he said, but the heat was gone from it. It came out low. Tired.

“You’re not getting it,” Eraser answered. “You’re getting the truth.”

And somehow, that was worse. Because Izuku could take anger. He could take blame. But this? This quiet, steady truth that refused to treat him like a lost cause? He didn’t know what to do with that.

Izuku exhaled, slow and shaky, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t trying to make light of it,” he muttered. “The jokes. That’s just... how I deal...with stuff... ”

Eraser's voice softened, low and even. “I figured.”

There was a pause, not awkward—just... full. "You were right,” Izuku added, almost too quiet to hear.

Eraser stood up. For a moment, Izuku thought he was going to walk away, give him space. Instead, he moved over and sat down beside him, not close enough to crowd, but close enough to anchor.

“Which part was I right about?”

Izuku gave a faint, humorless huff. “Probably all of it... especially..." He took a deep breath. "The part where I didn’t acknowledge that I nearly died.”

Eraser looked at him steadily. “Why didn’t you?”

“I’m honestly not sure,” Izuku said, avoiding his gaze. “I just… didn’t.”

“I think I know,” Eraser replied.

“Yeah, right,” Izuku muttered.

“I think it’s because you feel responsible for everyone in this area,” Eraser said calmly. “You’ve made yourself their protector. Their shield. That’s why the first thing you did when you got out was check to see if the girl got out instead of your injuries. You needed to make sure she was okay—because if she wasn’t, it would’ve been your fault. At least in your head.”

The words hit like a strike that didn’t hurt—just knocked the air out of him. Izuku blinked, stunned.

Well, shit. He really does know me better than I know myself.

He took a breath. “Yeah, well... if I don’t look out for them, who else will?”

Eraser didn’t miss a beat. “Me.”

Izuku rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you’ve been here for—what—two seconds? What about the other three years?”

“Greenlight was holding the place together,” Eraser offered.

Izuku shook his head. “Barely, She was trying. But it was too much on her own, its probably even too much on you're own. The week before you showed up, the week after she left. That was the worst week we’ve had in two years. More thefts, more fights, more everything.”

Eraser didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded, like he understood more than he let on. “You were doing the best you could,” he said. “But the job was never supposed to be yours.”

“It shouldn’t have been Greenlight’s alone either. But it was. For three whole years.” Izuku’s voice was sharp with frustration. “Like seriously—why didn’t the stupid Hero Commission send anyone else to help? I’ve seen the reports. This is the worst section in all of Musutafu.”

“I agree with you there,” Eraser said, his tone flat, but resolute.

Izuku finally glanced up. Eraser was staring straight ahead, expression unreadable—but something simmered beneath the surface. His jaw was a little too tight. His shoulders a little too stiff. “They shouldn’t have even sent a rookie here,” he said, quieter now. “Let alone by themselves.”

The words struck deeper than Izuku expected. He wasn’t sure what it was—relief, maybe. Or something close to it. Because for the first time in a long while, someone else was saying what he’d been thinking all along. The system was cracked. And maybe, just maybe, not all the heroes were blind to it.

Izuku shifted slightly, wincing when pain lanced up his side. “What happens now?” he asked, voice quieter.

Eraser finally turned his head to look at him, eyes sharp but not unkind.

“Like I said—I’m not going to arrest you,” he said. “But things can’t keep going the way they are.”

Izuku frowned. “Why the hell not?”

“Ghost,” Eraser said, tone dry but pointed, “I can already tell you’ve got at least one broken rib from the way you’ve been favoring your left side. Your shoulder’s strained—probably from a fall—and if I’m not mistaken, you’ve been wincing slightly since you fell down, so something’s up with your knee too.”

Izuku blinked.

Observant bastard

“You’re not denying it,” Eraser added, “so I’m assuming at least one, if not all, of those are correct.”

Izuku grumbled something incoherent and looked away.

“I rest my case,” Eraser muttered, crossing his arms. “You and Kaito have been duct-taping yourself together for months I bet. You need help. Real help. And not just on patrol.”

Izuku didn’t argue—not because he agreed, necessarily, but because he was too tired to put up the fight.

“Are you saying I’m grounded?” he asked instead, trying for levity that didn’t quite land.

“I’m saying we’re going to figure this out,” Eraser replied. “Properly. No more running head first into the fight alone. No more running yourself into the ground. And if that means grounding you for a bit—then yeah. Maybe I am.”

Izuku groaned theatrically. “Great. Just what I always wanted. A curfew and moral supervision.”

“You could use both.”

“Gee, thanks,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “What if I say no?”

Eraser smirked, just faintly. “Funny you think you have a choice.”

Izuku squinted at him. “What are you gonna do, put me in time-out?”

“I’ve got zip ties and I know an underground apartment with no cell reception,” Eraser replied flatly.

Izuku gave him a look. “You joke about that too easily.”

“I’m not joking.”

Izuku rolled his eyes. Great. Kidnapped by a sleep-deprived ninja cat dad who runs of pure caffeine. This is definitely how I die.

A beat of silence passed before Aizawa’s tone shifted—quieter now, but unwavering. “All jokes aside, I just want you to stop treating yourself like you’re disposable.”

Izuku’s smile faltered. He looked down, jaw tightening. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, looking away, “that’s a little harder than it sounds.”

“I know,” Eraser said simply.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, exactly. Just... tentative. Like neither of them wanted to push too far and risk breaking the fragile ground they’d found.

Izuku fidgeted. “You gonna keep watching me from the shadows, to make sure I don’t ……?”

Eraser snorted. “If that’s what it takes.”

“Persistent,” Izuku muttered.

“You’re worth being persistent for.”

Izuku looked at him, something wary flickering behind his eyes. He wasn’t used to this—people staying. People noticing. People caring without demanding something in return. He didn’t trust it. Not completely.

But… he didn’t hate it, either.

And if he could find some kind of truce with Aizawa—something steady, something that didn’t end in cuffs—then maybe he could keep patrolling without constantly looking over his shoulder, waiting for him to drop from the shadows and drag him in.

But what if Aizawa knew the truth?

That Ghost was just a quirkless kid.

That he was pathetic, useless Izuku.

Nothing would be the same after that.

Eraser stood and casually dusted off his jumpsuit. “Give me your phone.”

Izuku blinked. He must’ve misheard him.

“…What?”

“You heard me,” Eraser said. “Phone number. Contact info. Something. I’m not letting you vanish into the night again without a way to reach you.”

Izuku hesitated, eyes narrowing. “So you can track me?”

“So I can check in.”

“And if I say no?”

Eraser raised an eyebrow. “Then I start showing up unannounced. And I’ll bring Tsukuachi.”

Izuku groaned. “You really don’t fight fair.”

“Nope.” Eraser held out his phone.

Izuku stared at the phone for a beat. Then, without a word, he reached out and took it. His fingers moved quickly, typing in a number that definitely didn’t belong to the phone Aizawa had gotten him. No way he was using that one—that would be awkward, to say the least.

He handed the phone back, careful not to meet Aizawa’s eyes.

“There,” he muttered. “Happy?”

“Very,” Eraser said dryly.

“You won’t be able to track it, by the way.”

“Right. Why am I not surprised.”

Izuku just hummed, smug.

“I’m going to send you a location,” Eraser said, already typing. “I want you to meet me there tomorrow night. Around 11.”

“Let me guess,” Izuku drawled. “Another rooftop? Gonna stare me down again while we have another awkward heart-to-heart?”

“No. It’s a house.”

Izuku blinked. “Okay, hold on. Eraser, we’ve been... whatever this is—acquaintances, maybe?—for like two seconds. What makes you think I’m just gonna show up at your house?”

“Not mine.”

“Then whose?”

“Someone who can heal your injuries.”

Izuku stiffened. “What? No. I don’t need that. We shouldn’t waste time on pointless stuff.”

Eraser gave him a long, flat look. “Kid. If this is going to continue—if you’re going to keep going out there—you need to not be in pain all the time.”

But Izuku's head was already spinning through possibilities, cataloging risks, worst-case scenarios. But something about Eraser's posture told him this wasn’t a trap. And Eraser could clearly read him like a book, because before Izuku could ask—

“She’s a pro hero. My friend. She can be trusted. I promise.”

That made Izuku falter.

Over the time he’d been staying at Yamada and Aizawa’s place—even if unofficially, even if no one had said it out loud—he’d learned a few things. Like how Yamada always filled the silence with too much energy and checked in on him during the day, everyday. Or how Aizawa, when quiet, wasn’t checked out—he was calculating. Watching. Waiting.

But more than that... Aizawa never lied. Not once.

Everything the man said always matched what he did. There was no show, no manipulation. Just plain, blunt truth.

Izuku exhaled through his nose, rubbing the side of his face.

“I’ll think about it,” he muttered, which in his world meant probably yes but I’ll pretend I hate it.

Eraser nodded once. “That’s all I ask.”

“But if it’s weird, I’m ghosting halfway through.”

A faint smirk. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Izuku pushed himself to his feet with a faint wince—definitely at least one broken rib, maybe two—and stretched like he hadn’t just emotionally unraveled on a rooftop.

“Well,” he said, dusting off his hoodie with exaggerated flair, “I should probably go annoy a certain detective before the night’s over. At least twice.”

Eraser raised an eyebrow. “Is that a threat or a cry for help?”

Izuku grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” He was gone before he could hear the hero's reaction, vanishing into the night like a ghost slipping between shadows.

Eraser stood there a moment longer, arms crossed, gaze following the rooftop edge where the vigilante had disappeared.

“Brat,” he muttered—quiet, but not without a thread of fondness.

*

Hizashi woke up before sunrise.

Not because of an alarm—but because something in his gut had him wired. He’d stayed up way too late waiting for Shouta to get home and eventually forced himself to sleep, but now? He was up again.

Restless.

He brewed coffee in the quiet, careful not to make a sound. The apartment was still and dark, save for the soft hum of city noise through the windows. He didn’t want to wake the kid.

But he couldn’t sit still.

Because Shouta had gone out last night to meet Ghost. And Hizashi—well, he’d wanted to be awake when his partner got home, to ask how it went. How the kid was. How Shouta was. If the lil listener was still running himself into the ground.

But as soon as Shouta walked through the front door, Hizashi didn’t need to ask.

He saw it written all over him.

It wasn’t anything obvious—Shouta was still Shouta, eternally exhausted and barely emotive—but the shift was there. Barely a crease between his brows. A quiet calm in his shoulders. No blood. No scowl. No haunted weight like he'd just watched someone spiral out of reach.

He looked... tired. But not wrecked. Good sign.

“You’re up,” Shouta murmured as he stepped inside, blinking at Hizashi like he was a surprise.

Hizashi sipped his coffee and smiled. “Couldn’t sleep. Had a feeling.”

“A feeling?”

“Yeah. Like a certain grumpy pro hero was about to initiate an emotionally mature conversation, and I needed to be conscious to believe it actually happened.”

Shouta gave him a look, dry as hell, but Hizashi caught the faintest twitch of amusement before he passed by.

“You talk to him?” Hizashi asked, keeping his voice low.

“More or less.”

“Just talk?” Considering Shouta wasnt covered in blood or limping in anyway, Hizashi assumed the meeting had been civil.

Shouta paused to shed his scarf and boots. “Mostly.”

Hizashi hummed, watching him move. “Did it help?”

There was a pause, then a slow nod. “I think so. Not all at once. But… maybe it’s a start. I hope. I think he felt guilty about what he said the other night.”

That had Hizashi blinking, surprise flickering across his face. So it wasn’t just Shouta carrying the guilt.

Shouta stepped closer, quiet and deliberate, the way he always moved when things got heavy. Hizashi set his mug down on the windowsill with a soft clink, watching him.

“He still hurt?” Hizashi asked.

“Of course he is,” Shouta said leaning against the counter. “But he’s stubborn. Won’t let me help. Not really.”

Hizashi opened his arms without a word, and Shouta leaned in. The hug was brief but solid—familiar, grounding. A silent reminder they were still here, still in each other’s corners.

When they pulled apart, Hizashi turned to grab his coffee—only to find it missing.

Shouta took a long sip from the mug, utterly unapologetic. “You weren’t guarding it.”

“You’re a menace,” Hizashi muttered, but his smile tugged at the corner of his mouth anyway.

“You knew what you were getting into when you married me,” Shouta said, taking another sip. “Blame yourself.”

Before Hizashi could retort, soft paws tapped against the floor.

Eclipse padded into the room like she owned the place—which, to be fair, she kind of did. Her black fur shimmered in the low light, bright eyes blinking up at both of them as if to say why are you awake, and where’s breakfast?

“It’s not time yet, princess,” Hizashi murmured, crouching to scratch behind her ears. “Still got two hours to go.”

Eclipse let out a disgruntled chirp anyway, tail flicking as she wound around Shouta’s legs and then promptly jumped up onto the windowsill to sulk. Shouta didn’t acknowledge her, but Hizashi saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

Hizashi stood, brushing invisible fur off his pants. “Well, speaking of things that aren’t on time… I should probably head out. Patrol shift starts in twenty.”

Shouta gave a low hum. “Be careful.”

“Always am,” Hizashi replied, grabbing his leather jacket from the back of the chair. “Don’t fall asleep standing, okay? You’re not that young anymore.”

Shouta flipped him off without turning his head.

Hizashi grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

He kept his footsteps light as he moved past the hallway, not wanting to disturb the sleeping kid. He paused just briefly by Izuku’s door, listening for any sign of movement. Nothing yet. Good.

As he slipped on his boots, Eclipse leapt down and followed him toward the front. “You’re not coming with me,” Hizashi whispered. “It’s a solo mission today.”

She gave another chirp, unimpressed.

With a final nod toward Shouta, Hizashi opened the door and stepped out into the quiet city, the air crisp and a little too still.

Patrol was surprisingly quiet. But it was normally like that in the early mornings. He was glad he patrolled a few streets away from UA. It made getting to work easy after patrol.

The city had its usual stillness in the early hours—empty streets, the faint hum of distant traffic, and the occasional flicker of streetlights. Hizashi’s boots echoed in the silence as he walked, lost in the rhythm of his thoughts. Patrol was never the most exciting time of day, but it gave him the space to clear his head. He didn’t mind the solitude.

He didn’t head to his classroom. Instead, he wandered into the teacher’s lounge, fingers still tingling from the chill outside. He still had 30 minutes until classes started.

Shouta was already there, predictably holed up in the corner with a mug of coffee that had probably gone cold ten minutes ago. He looked up when Hizashi walked in, giving the smallest nod in greeting.

Nemuri raised a brow from her spot on the couch. “Well, that’s a surprise. You’re early.”

Hizashi dropped into the seat beside Shouta, stretching his arms overhead with a dramatic groan. “What can I say? Patrol was quiet.”

Shouta grunted. “Did you lose your quirk or something?”

Nemuri burst out laughing. “Careful, Shouta. With sarcasm like that, people might start thinking you’ve got a sense of humor.”

Shouta didn’t even blink. “Let them try and prove it.”

Hizashi snorted, leaning back in his chair. “You’re both hilarious. Really. I patrol in peace one time and this is what I come back to?”

“Hey, we’re just checking you didn’t hit your head,” Nemuri teased, taking a sip from her coffee. “Or worse, got replaced by a quieter clone.”

“I’ll have you know,” Hizashi said, holding a hand to his chest in mock offense, “I was the picture of professionalism. No shouting. Just me, the sunrise, and some very unimpressed alley cats.”

Shouta’s brow quirked at that. “You say that like it’s an improvement.”

“I say that like I’m savoring the calm before the next storm,” Hizashi said, then sobered a little. “Because let’s be real, it’s coming. Always does.”

Nemuri raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “So, how’s my favorite nephew doing? I haven’t seen him in ages. I want to spoil him again soon—he deserves it.”

It had in fact not been ages, it had only been a week..

Hizashi sighed, leaning back in his chair as he rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s busy this week. Last minute, end of year assignments. After dinner, he disappears into his room. Kid doesn’t give himself a break.”

Nemuri’s face softened. “Poor thing. Sounds like he’s working himself too hard.”

“Exactly,” Hizashi muttered, concern creeping into his voice. “I’m worried he’s gonna burn out if he keeps going like this. He’s already rejected my offer for help—what, seven times now? Not sure what else I can do.”

Shouta, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke up. “Midoriya is smart. He doesn’t need help. If he wanted it, he’d ask for it.” He gave Hizashi a pointed look. “You know how he is. He’s stubborn, but he’s capable.”

Nemuri tilted her head slightly. “True, but there’s a limit, right? Even the smartest need a hand sometimes.”

Hizashi nodded but didn’t seem convinced. “Yeah, well, I’m just worried about him. He’s pushing himself so hard.”

Shouta’s tone softened just a little. “This is the last week before summer break. After that, he’ll have some time to relax.” He turned to Nemuri. ”Then, you can spoil him as much as you want.”

Nemuri gave a small smirk. “Ah, fine. I’ll let him finish his work, but after that, he’s all mine.”

Hizashi chuckled. “He’ll be running for the hills by the time you’re done with him.”

“Not if I bring him sweets,” Nemuri winked. “Ooh, we should take him to that café we used to go to when we were younger. I bet he’d love it!”

Shouta’s lips tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close. “He might actually enjoy that. He’s got a sweet tooth, though he tries to hide it.”

“Oh-ho, then it’s settled,” Nemuri grinned. “Café trip after finals. He won’t know what hit him.”

Hizashi laughed, already imagining the flustered look on the kid’s face. “Poor thing doesn’t stand a chance.”

Before any of them could add more, the distant chime of the first bell rang out through the hallways, echoing off the walls.

“Showtime,” Shouta muttered, pushing off the wall and grabbing his capture weapon from the back of his chair.

The three teachers fell into step as they headed for their respective homerooms, the comfortable rhythm of routine guiding them down the corridor. Just before they split off, Hizashi turned slightly toward Shouta.

“How was he this morning?” he asked in a quieter tone, keeping his voice low in case any students were nearby. “Midoriya, I mean.”

Shouta gave a small nod. “He was actually… good. Seemed lighter, even. Happier for some reason. It was subtle, but I could tell.”

Hizashi blinked, surprised but visibly relieved. “Yeah? Huh. That’s… good. That’s really good!"

Shouta just hummed in agreement as they each turned toward their classrooms. It wasn’t much—but for a kid like Midoriya, even small shifts meant something.

*

Shouta was sweating. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this tense—it was almost embarrassing. Normally, nothing shook him. Not surprise villain attacks, not grading stacks of half-done essays, not even Hizashi’s temper on a bad day. But this…this was different. This wasn’t normal.

Because normally, he wouldn’t be pacing outside Recovery Girl's office, working up the nerve to ask for a favour. Especially not this kind of favour.

His fingers drummed against his thigh, a nervous habit that he quickly stilled. He had been standing there long enough for his fifth coffee of the day to go cold. Shouta scowled at it, as if the temperature was personally offensive. Maybe it would be better just to show up tonight—with the kid. If he was at her doorstep, bruised or barely standing, how could she say no?

Yeah. That was a good plan. Less room for argument.

He turned on his heel, already retreating when the door to the nurse’s office slid open with a soft shhhkt.

“Oh, hello, Aizawa. I didn’t expect you to still be here.”

Nedzu’s voice was as cheerful as ever, his tiny paws clasped around a steaming cup of tea. Shouta blinked, barely suppressing a groan. Of course, the damn principal would be here.

“Trust me, I’d like nothing more than to be at home right now,” Shouta drawled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “But Yamada’s tutoring some of his students, so I’m stuck for a bit. Figured I’d speak with Chiyo. But if she’s not here, I’ll just go—”

“I’m here,” came a voice from inside, soft but sharp, like the snap of a twig underfoot.

Damn. He really hoped she wasn’t still here.

Shouta sighed, long and exaggerated, before stepping into the room. The familiar scent of chamomile and peppermint hit him like a wave. Tea—of course. He’d never understand it. The stuff always tasted like flavored water. Coffee was far superior.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Shouta turned, narrowing his eyes as Nedzu pulled it closed with a bright smile. Wasn’t he leaving?

“Aizawa, tea?” Nedzu offered, raising his cup in a mock toast.

Of course not. Shouta forced his expression to stay neutral, though irritation prickled beneath the surface. Nedzu wasn’t leaving. That complicated things. He didn’t want to reveal too much about the kid—not to Nedzu. That rodent was as perceptive as he was calculating.

“No, thank you,” Shouta replied, his tone clipped.

His gaze drifted to Chiyo, who was seated comfortably at her desk, hands folded over her lap, eyes sharp with that knowing glimmer she always had. Like she saw right through him.

“I need your help,” Shouta said, voice rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat. “I need you to heal someone.”

Chiyo tilted her head, brow arched in surprise. “Oh dear, is someone injured that you know?”

“You could say that.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly, a flicker of suspicion sparking there. “You barely send your own students to me unless it’s absolutely necessary. Is this person badly injured?”

Shouta’s jaw clenched. “I’m not actually sure.”

Nedzu’s ears perked up, the curiosity in his gaze sharp enough to cut. “Who is this person, Aizawa? I must say, I’m intrigued. It’s not often you come seeking aid for someone outside of school matters.”

Shouta bit back a sigh. Of course, he’d ask. And of course, Nedzu would make it more complicated. He shifted his weight, fingers curling in his coat pocket.

“Alright…fine,” he muttered, voice dropping just enough to feel the weight of it. “He’s a…vigilante.”

There was a beat of silence, heavy and unyielding. Then Chiyo sat up straighter, eyes widening. “Shouta Aizawa, you want me to heal a vigilante?”

Shouta held her gaze, shoulders squared and eyes unflinching. “Yes. I do.”

Chiyo’s lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers tapping rhythmically against her desk. Outside, the faint hum of students shuffling through the hallway drifted through the hallway, oblivious to the charged silence stretching between them. “A vigilante,” she repeated, the words rolling off her tongue slowly, deliberately. Her gaze sharpened, zeroing in on his face as if searching for some sign of a joke. “I don’t suppose this is some elaborate prank from Yamada?”

Shouta almost snorted. “I wish.”

A long, deliberate sip of tea from Nedzu broke the silence. “This is quite unlike you, Aizawa. Offering assistance to someone operating outside the law?” His voice was casual, but Shouta knew better. Those black eyes sparkled with interest, the same glimmer he got when a particularly tricky problem landed on his desk.

Shouta’s fingers twitched. He forced them still. “He’s a kid,” he said bluntly. “And he needs help.”

Chiyo’s expression softened by a fraction. “A child?”

“Not that young, at least I don’t think” Shouta corrected quickly. “But young enough that he shouldn’t be bleeding out in alleyways.” He stopped, jaw tightening as he forced the memories back of all the times he’d seen the kid get hurt and all Shouta could do was watch.

Chiyo leaned back in her chair, expression contemplative. “You want me to heal a vigilante?”

Shouta nodded, his jaw set and eyes steady. He could feel Nedzu’s gaze drilling into the side of his head, but he ignored it. He wasn’t about to back down now—not when he’d finally worked up the nerve to ask.

Chiyo’s fingers drummed against her desk, rhythmic and unyielding. “And why, pray tell, should I help someone operating outside the law? You know it’s against regulations. If word got out…” She trailed off, her gaze flickering to Nedzu, who hadn’t stopped smiling.

“It’s not going to get out.” Shouta’s voice was steel, each word clipped and deliberate. “I wouldn’t ask if I thought there was any other way.”

Chiyo’s fingers stopped tapping. “And you’re sure of that?”

He hesitated, just for a breath, then nodded. “I am.”

Nedzu cleared his throat, setting down his teacup with a soft clink. “This is highly irregular, you know. I assume you’re planning to bring him somewhere discreet? A secret visit, perhaps?” His smile stretched a little wider. “How very…clandestine of you, Aizawa.”

Shouta’s eyes flicked to him, narrowing. “You’re not going to say anything.” It wasn’t a question.

“Of course not,” Nedzu replied cheerfully. “I wouldn’t dream of it. After all, I’m quite curious to see where this goes.”

Chiyo sighed, rubbing her temples. “You’re both going to be the death of me,” she muttered before fixing Shouta with a hard stare. “Fine. But if this backfires, it’s both your hides.”

“Understood.”

Nedzu just chuckled, reaching for his tea again. “I suppose this will be quite the learning experience for you, Aizawa.”

Shouta ignored him, already turning on his heel, hand reaching for the door. He didn’t say goodbye—didn’t need to. But as the door clicked shut behind him, he allowed himself a single exhale of relief.
Now he just had to hope the kid would show up.

Chapter Text

Izuku landed unsteadily, staggering as a sharp pain flared in his side. He caught himself against the nearest railing, jaw clenched to keep from crying out. The rooftop seemed to tilt beneath him—not because it moved, but because his body, battered and exhausted, had begun to betray him.

He pressed a hand to the leaking gash under his hoodie. Warm. Wet. Throbbing with pain.

Great.

He glanced at the address on his phone and eyed the text Eraser had sent him earlier— blunt and annoyingly to the point:

"Go straight there. Don’t argue."

Like hell he wasn’t gonna argue or go straight there. He stopped three times on the way over. And of course in the process of stopping a robbery at a small supermarket he got slashed. It wasn’t deep. But still annoying. It was worth it though. The criminal had been arrested in the end.

“This is so stupid,” he muttered, hopping down to the street, boots hitting pavement with a dull thud. Why couldn’t it have been you’re house instead. Would’ve been easier. Since I live there.

Not that Eraser knew that.

Izuku groaned kicking a stone. Why does he even care? Why is he wasting some pro’s time on me?

He silently climbed up the front steps of a quiet little house. It looked… normal. Cozy. Like it belonged to someone’s sweet grandmother who baked too much and crocheted things no one asked for. Was this the right house?

This better not be some rescue-squad intern with a first aid kit, he thought bitterly, blood beginning to leak through his shirt. Shit, the stitch must of tore. He hesitated at the door. A flicker of guilt crept up his spine, hot and ugly.

This is a waste. This is a joke. I should be out there stopping something—saving someone—not playing patient in some hero’s side project.

And Eraser? He should be out there too. Not babysitting me. Not arranging crap like this. God, why can’t he just let me be? Let me handle it? Let me break, if that’s what it takes.

However, he knew he wouldn't hear the end of it from the hero if he didn't show.

Izuku let out a sharp breath, already regretting coming, already feeling like a fraud.

Then he knocked.

Hard.

And when the door opened and he came face to face with a tiny old woman with a cane, glasses, and an expression like she already knew he was going to be a pain in the ass—

He blinked.

The woman stood in the doorway, as unmistakable as she was out of place in this whole mess of a night. Same height. Same cane. Same vaguely menacing grandmother energy he’d once admired through grainy support course footage and half-illegal livestreams. For a heartbeat—maybe two—his brain completely short-circuited.

Recovery Girl.

The healer of heroes. He’d never seen her in person before. Just low-res footage, scattered field reports, the kind of stuff you had to dig for—not because it was hidden, but because no one thought to highlight her. She wasn’t flashy. Didn’t do interviews. Didn’t care about the spotlight. She just showed up, fixed what was broken, and moved on. Efficient. Brutal, sometimes. Honest.

He hadn’t liked many heroes growing up.

But he’d respected her.

Because she didn’t pretend.

She didn’t smile for the cameras while stepping over the rubble. She didn’t brand herself as some untouchable symbol. She just helped people—quietly, consistently, like it was the bare minimum.

Now she was in front of him. In real life.

About to heal him..

And suddenly, everything felt wrong. His stomach curled like he’d been sucker-punched. His knees almost gave out—not from blood loss this time, but from something worse. She’s not supposed to waste her time on people like him. She helps heroes. Real ones. Not people like him. The guilt hit like a truck. Hot. Breathless. Swallowing him whole.

His hand curled tighter around the wound at his side, but it might as well have been around his throat. “I—” he croaked, backing up a step. “This was a mistake.”

“Deary—” Recovery Girl started, frowning.

“Nope,” Izuku muttered, already backing away. “I’m out. Tell Eraser I’m fine—”

A hand landed on his shoulder.

Firm. Familiar. Heavy in the worst way.

Izuku froze.

Then spun.

His fist came up out of instinct—blood loss, panic, everything hitting him all at once. His pulse thundered in his ears. His vision tunneled.

Don’t touch me—don’t pity me—don’t—

But Eraser caught the punch before it even got halfway there. His grip wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t violent. It was just… unshakable. Like he’d known the swing was coming. Their eyes locked—Ghost’s wide, panicked, still spiraling; Eraser’s steady, unreadable, but locked on him like a chain. The moment stretched. Wind blew softly down the quiet street.

“You done?” Eraser asked calmly, not letting go of his arm.

Izuku’s breath stuttered. His fingers twitched in Eraser’s grip, still half-curled into a fist, but the fight had already drained out of him, just like everything else lately.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Eraser sighed, releasing his arm. “You can throw your tantrum later. Get inside.”

Izuku bristled, eyes narrowing. “Tantrum? I was about two seconds from knocking your ass out.”

“Yeah? With what? Wishful thinking?” Eraser’s tone was flat, unimpressed. He stepped aside, gesturing toward the door. “After you, Problem Child.” Izuku hesitated. “Wasn’t a question.” Eraser gave him a light shove forward. Izuku stumbled, still off-balance from the shock of it all, then caught himself and shot a glare over his shoulder. “Watch it, Hobo.”

“How original.” Eraser shot back drly, shutting the door behind them.

Izuku snorted, still not entirely sure how he’d been corralled into Recovery Girl’s house of all places. He didn’t even realize he was sitting on a couch until Eraser crouched in front of him, staring him down. Izuku blinked. Had he spoken? “What?”

“I thought I told you not to engage in any fights before coming here,” Eraser said, with the weary exasperation of someone who’d given up expecting to be listened to.

Izuku rolled his eyes. “You really thought I was going to listen to you?”

Eraser raised an eyebrow. “Would’ve been nice for a change.”

“Yeah, well, I’d like a million yen and a vacation to Okinawa, but I don’t see that happening either.”

Eraser sighed heavily, dragging a hand down his face. “This is—”

“Recovery Girl, I know.”

Eraser stopped short, blinking like he’d just been slapped. “You…you know?”

Izuku rolled his eyes again, more dramatically this time. “Of course, I know who the number one healer is in Japan. I’m more shocked I’m sitting on her couch and not, you know, a dodgy backroom with a rookie who probably can't even stitch.”

“That makes two of us,” Recovery Girl interjected, stepping forward with a raised eyebrow. Her house was cozy and crammed with neatly organized medical supplies—like a clinic disguised as a grandma’s living room. “Then you’d also know how my quirk works, hmm?”

Izuku’s eyes flicked to her. His mind shuffled back through his mental library of quirks, each filed away meticulously. And then it hit him. His eyes widened slightly. “Wait—no, forget it. I’m fine. Seriously. Totally fine.” He started to stand, only for a hand to plant firmly on his shoulder and shove him right back down.

“You’re doing this whether you like it or not,” Eraser said, voice deceptively pleasant. “Please don’t make me restrain you. I’m tired, but I will if I have to.”

Izuku snorted, arms folding tightly across his chest. “Didn’t know you had it in you, old man.”

“You bring it out in me,” Eraser replied smoothly.

Izuku’s mouth twitched despite himself. “I’m honored. Really.”

“I’d be less honored if I were you.”

Izuku sank a little deeper into the couch, scowling at nothing in particular. There really was no way out of this. The door was shut. The woman—Recovery Girl—was still watching him. And Eraser was in that infuriatingly relaxed stance of his, which meant he was absolutely serious.

Cornered. Thoroughly.

“Noted,” Izuku muttered, exaggerating his slouch into the cushions like it might buy him a shred of control. He really wasn’t getting out of this one. Not without running—and honestly? He didn’t have the energy to bolt through a plate-glass window tonight.

“So,” he drawled, “are we gonna sit around and braid each other’s hair, or is this the part where she knocks me out?”

Recovery Girl’s eyebrow twitched. “You’re worried about the side effects. That you’ll fall unconscious after?” Izuku stilled, glancing back up at her. Both adults were watching him closely. He swallowed, then looked away, arms crossing tighter. “...Yes.”

Eraser crouched In front of him again, his gaze steady but softer than usual. “You’re in a good place, Ghost. You’re safe here. If you’re worried about you’re identity neither of us will take your mask off. I promise."

Izuku’s jaw clenched. Safe. The word tasted foreign and bitter, like something he shouldn’t be allowed to say out loud. His gut twisted with suspicion. “Yeah? What’s the catch? What do I owe you for this?”

Recovery Girl chuckled softly, stepping forward. “You don’t owe me anything. Just…don’t injure yourself as payment.”

Izuku stared at them both, the skepticism sharp and clear in his eyes. “Just like that, huh? No price?”

“Would you like me to charge you?” Recovery Girl asked dryly.

Izuku paused. “...No.”

“Good,” she said with a nod. “Now, you’ll just need to take off the hoodie so I can see what I’m working with.”

Izuku leaned back instantly, arms crossing like armor. “Yeah, that’s not happening. I don’t exactly make a habit of stripping layers in front of strangers.”

Eraser glanced over at Recovery Girl helplessly. “Chiyo, I don’t think he’s taking it off. Kid’s as stubborn as a brick wall.”

“Hobo’s correct,” Izuku deadpanned.

Recovery Girl sighed, clearly unimpressed. “Fine. Just tell me what hurts.”

Izuku snorted. “Pfft, what doesn’t hurt?”

Eraser slapped a hand to his forehead. Recovery Girl raised an eyebrow. “Specifics, please.”

Izuku leaned back, counting off on his fingers. “Pretty sure I’ve got a busted knee, at least two broken ribs, three jammed fingers...uh, headache, so maybe a concussion. Oh, and a new slash on my stomach. I stitched it up myself, but since it’s bleeding again, I’m guessing the stitches tore on the way here.”

When he looked back up, Eraser’s face was locked somewhere between disbelief and regret. Recovery Girl was just glaring at him. “And you didn’t take him to a hospital because...?”

Aizawa didn’t even blink. “Problem child.”

Recovery Girl’s expression grew even more exasperated, she turned to stare at him. “How are you even moving, dear? And with no pain medication?”

Izuku just shrugged. “Spite and adrenaline.”

Eraser raised an eyebrow. “You’re gonna need more than that, if you want to continue this.”

“Yeah? I’ll just run on sheer pettiness next time,” Izuku shot back.

“Seems sustainable.”

“Thank you for your support.”

Eraser rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome.”

Suddenly, something landed lightly on his forehead. A sharp, electric jolt raced through his veins, making him gasp involuntarily. His eyelids grew heavy, fluttering like curtains caught in a slow breeze. Recovery Girl’s quirk hit like a tranquilizer—one moment he was blinking sluggishly, the next the edges of his vision blurred and darkened. Before he could even protest, the world slipped away, and he was out cold

When he finally stirred, the room was empty and eerily quiet. He blinked slowly, disoriented, the lingering haze of unconsciousness clouding his mind. His shoes were no longer on and he was laying down on the couch. He was getting major deja vu. For a moment, he couldn’t place where he was. Then it all came rushing back—Recovery Girl’s house. Right.

He pushed himself up slowly, bracing for the familiar punch of pain. But...nothing. His head was clear, his ribs didn’t ache, and his stomach wasn’t trying to murder him from the inside out. For the first time in what felt like forever, he could take a full breath without feeling like his lungs were splintering.

A laugh bubbled up, shaky and incredulous.

He rubbed at his eyes, grimacing, then paused. Muffled voices filtered in from the hallway—somewhere close, probably the kitchen. He tilted his head, straining to listen.

“I couldn’t take him to a hospital. It was a stretch even getting him here,” came Erasers familiar deadpan voice.

Recovery Girl exhaled. “Definitely a problem child you’ve got. Luckily, that’s your specialty.”

Izuku nearly snorted. He could practically hear Eraser rolling his eyes.

When he swung his legs off the couch and tried to stand, his knee gave out immediately, sending him crashing back down with a yelp and a few curse words. Right. Not everything was magically fixed. His knee was still throbbed angrily with every attempt to straighten it. Guess Recovery Girl had prioritized not dying over not limping. Fair enough.

He was about to settle in for some quality eavesdropping when the door swung open so fast it smacked against the wall, and Eraserhead strode in like he was expecting a villain ambush.

Izuku blinked up at him, unimpressed. “Jeez, where’s the fire?

Eraser just blinked at him letting his scarf relax. “Why are you on the floor?”

Izuku winced but managed a crooked smirk he knew the hero couldnt actually see. “Gravity’s got a great sense of humor.” He shifted, groaning. “What do you think?”

Eraser’s eyes narrowed. “How are you awake?”

Izuku stretched his arms overhead with a dramatic yawn. “I don’t know, maybe I just got bored of napping. Thought I’d join you for tea.”

Eraser stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “It’s only been nine minutes.”

Izuku froze, eyebrows knitting together in disbelief. “Nine minutes? No way.”

“Way,” Eraser replied dryly, crossing his arms like he wasn’t just as confused. “You should’ve been out for at least a few hours.”

Izuku let that sink in, glancing down at his hands, then at his still-aching knee. His eyes flicked back up to the hero, suspicion glimmering in his gaze. “You sure that old lady didnt inject caffeine straight into my veins? I feel amazing.”

“Pretty sure.”

Izuku huffed. “Damn. I gotta get the name of whatever vitamins she’s on.”

Eraser just sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I’m starting to think you’re not entirely human.”

Izuku grinned, tapping the side of his head. “It’s the sheer force of spite that keeps me going.”

Eraser raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Spite and sass can only get you so far.”

Izuku shrugged. “Better than eyebags and caffeine, I guess. When’s the last time you slept? 2004?”

Eraser didn't even blink. “Look who’s talking. You look like you crawled out of a dumpster.”

“Hey!” Izuku shot back, pointing a finger. “I at least shower. You look like you use dry shampoo and hope.”

“And you look like you use bandages and prayer.” Eraser didn’t miss a beat. “You think you’re invincible? Pretty sure I just heard you yelp when you fell down just trying to stand up.”

Izuku who was still on the floor crossed his arms, glaring up at Eraser. “You know, I think I preferred it when you were just lurking in alleyways. At least then I didn’t have to listen to your endless nagging.” Izuku could tell he was starting to get under the mans skin, and he was loving ever second of it.

Eraser's eyebrow twitched. “Trust me, the feeling’s mutual. You’d think someone who’s half-dead every other week would be a little more grateful.”

Izuku scoffed. “Grateful? Oh yeah, thanks so much for dragging me to the world’s grumpiest grandma.”

Eraser’s lips twitched into a faint, reluctant smirk, barely softening the tired shadows under his eyes. His gaze pinned Izuku with unyielding sharpness. “You seemed perfectly fine when you were passed out, snoring on her couch.”

Izuku’s eyes flew open, wide with surprise and a flicker of indignation. Snoring? That’s not how I remember it, he thought defensively. “I wasn’t snoring,” he said quickly, voice higher than he wanted.

Eraser chuckled dryly, the skepticism in his tone barely concealed. “Right. Keep telling yourself that.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Izuku sank back into the carpet, mixing frustration with amusement. Does he always have to act like he’s already figured me out? “You’re just mad because I got away from you during our first encounter,” He shot back, trying to keep things light. Unfortunately, Izuku had done the exact opposite.

Eraser’s eyes darkened, a shadow crossing his expression as if weighing something unsaid. “We both know why you really got away.”

For a brief moment, Izuku froze, caught off guard by the weight behind that look. Then, shrugging with casual confidence, he replied, “Maybe I just wanted to give you something to do. You looked bored.”

A flicker of something unreadable passed over Eraser’s face. “Trust me,” he said quietly, “looking after a feral child is anything but boring.”

Izuku shot him an accusing finger, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “Hey, I’m not feral. I prefer... creatively independent.”

Eraser pinched the bridge of his nose, a faint sigh escaping him. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Leaning forward, Izuku’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Got a better name?”

There was a pause before Eraser muttered, “I’ve got a few, but Recovery Girl would scold me for using them.”

As Izuku watched him, the usual stoic mask softened just enough to reveal exhaustion and a quiet patience. Beneath the rough exterior, Eraser saw more than just chaos—something that unsettled Izuku in the best way possible.

“Oh, don’t censor yourself on my account.”

Eraser raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t last five minutes.”

Izuku snorted. “That’s what you said the first time you chased me. And yet—” he gestured to himself with a flourish—“I’m still here.”

Eraser opened his mouth to retort, but Recovery Girl chose that moment to step back into the room, arms crossed. “Are you two finished?”

Leaning back, Izuku folded his arms behind his head, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “I dunno, I think I could go another round. Feeling pretty energetic right now.”

A flat look was shot his way, laden with skepticism. “That’s the adrenaline talking.”

“Oh? Adrenaline makes you smug now? You must be hopped up on it 24/7.”

“Alright, enough,” came the exasperated voice of Recovery Girl. “If this keeps up, we’ll be here all night. Ready for round two?”

Recognition dawned in Izuku’s wide eyes. “Round two of—oh.” The words caught in his throat as she pressed her lips to his knee. Protests dissolved into nonsense, eyes rolling back as unconsciousness claimed him before his head even touched the carpet.

With a resigned shake of his head, Eraser carefully lifted Ghost and settled him back onto the couch. “Finally,” he muttered, voice low and steady

Recovery Girl shot him a glare. “You’re just as bad as he is, you know.”

Eraser rolled his eyes. “I’m not the one who thinks spite is a replacement for proper rest.”

Recovery Girl chuckled, shaking her head. “If it works, it works.”

Eraser just hummed, gaze sliding back to the unconscious vigilante sprawled out on her couch. “You know he’s going to wake up and start mouthing off again.”

“I’d be concerned if he didn’t,” she replied.

Eraser didn’t say it, but he silently agreed.

*

At first, it had been…nice. Or at least, it seemed that way.

The Takahashi house had a white picket fence and a swing set in the backyard. Mrs. Takahashi wore floral aprons and Mr. Takahashi shook his hand firmly when they first met, his smile wide and just a little too forced. This was his third foster home. The social worker had patted Izuku’s shoulder, telling him to “be good” before leaving him on the doorstep with a backpack and a wish for good luck.

Izuku had stared up at the house, eyes bright with something fragile and hopeful. He’d thought—maybe, just maybe—this time it would stick. This time it would be different from the last two.

For the first few days, it almost was. He went to bed on time, woke up early, did his chores, and spoke only when spoken to. He’d learned that much from the others before them. How to stay quiet. How to not take up too much space. How to be…easy.

And then, two weeks in, Mrs. Takahashi asked him about his quirk. He dreaded that question the most. After the first three times he was asked it, he realised a pattern that would occur striaght after.

Izuku had been helping her in the garden, dirt caked under his nails, sunlight warm against his back. She was pruning the roses when she asked, her tone light and casual.

“So, what kind of quirk do you have sweetie?”

Izuku paused, blinking up at her from where he was pulling weeds. “Oh, um…I don’t have one.”

The shears stopped snipping. Mrs. Takahashi turned to look at him, eyebrows raised like she hadn’t quite heard him right. “You don’t have one?”

He shook his head, wiping his hands on his jeans. “No, ma’am.”

She stared at him for a long moment, eyes sharp and assessing, and then she sniffed. “Well, isn’t that just…unfortunate.”

Izuku didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. He just went back to pulling weeds, the dirt under his nails suddenly feeling thicker, grimier.

That night, dinner was quieter. Mr. Takahashi didn’t ask him about school like he usually did. Mrs. Takahashi didn’t offer him seconds. He’d stared at his empty plate, stomach growling, but when he opened his mouth to ask, she’d whisked the dish away with a curt, “You don’t want to be greedy.”

Izuku had swallowed hard, nodding quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”

It got worse after that. Subtle, at first. The way their eyes flickered past him like he wasn’t there. The way they stopped saying goodnight before bed. When he asked for help with his homework, Mrs. Takahashi would sigh long and loud, muttering under her breath as she snatched the paper from his hands.

One day, she didn’t bother muttering. She’d just looked him straight in the eye and said, “I don’t know why you even bother. It’s not like you’re going anywhere.”

Izuku had gone very still. “….What do you mean?”

Mrs. Takahashi’s smile was thin, stretched too tight over too-white teeth. “Oh, you know… People like you. Kids without quirks. You’re lucky you’re even here.”

At this age, he still held onto the dream of becoming a hero—though that hope was destined to be broken soon after.

His throat had gone dry, and he’d looked down at his shoes, scuffed and worn. “I…I can still be a hero,” he’d whispered, half to himself.

She laughed. Loud and unkind. “A hero? Oh, sweetheart, you’re barely even a person.”

The words sank into him like claws, tearing into the soft, hopeful parts of his chest. He’d stayed silent after that. Ate his dinners quietly. Cleaned his plate. Washed the dishes. Did his chores. He made himself small. Smaller than he’d ever been before.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing he did was right. Nothing he did made them look at him with anything but disdain.

When his grades came back with high marks, Mr. Takahashi had sneered. “You think you’re better than everyone else? Just because you can scribble in some answers?”

When he stayed silent, Mrs. Takahashi would press further. “If you worked as hard at something useful instead of your silly little notebooks, maybe you wouldn’t be such a burden.”

The notebooks. He remembered the day she found them. He’d kept them hidden under a loose floorboard in his room—meticulous sketches of heroes, analysis of quirks, training routines he thought might work even for someone like him.

Mrs. Takahashi had found them while cleaning. She’d dragged him by the arm, knuckles digging into his skin, throwing the notebooks onto the kitchen table like they were garbage. “What is this?” she’d snapped, voice sharp and biting.

Izuku had stammered, trying to explain, but she didn’t let him. “Stupid dreams,” she hissed, tearing out pages right in front of him. “You think anyone’s gonna let you do this? Pathetic.”

He’d tried to grab them back, hands scrambling, but Mr. Takahashi had stepped in, gripping his shoulder hard enough to bruise. “Maybe if you stopped filling your head with nonsense, you wouldn’t be such a damn waste of space.”

They burned the notebooks that night. All but one. The very first one he’d ever had was kept in his backpack. She hadn’t found that one.

From the back porch, Izuku watched the flames rise, knees pulled tightly to his chest, the sharp sting of smoke searing his nose and throat. He didn’t cry. He wouldn’t give them that.

That night, something in him shifted. No more notebooks. No more training montages in his head. No more quiet hopes whispered into his pillow. He stopped pretending.

And for the first time in his life, he stopped believing he could ever be a hero.

*

Izuku woke up with a sharp gasp, his heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest. His hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone pale, crescent moons carved into his palms by his own nails. He sat up, shaking, the phantom scent of smoke still clinging to the back of his throat like it had moved in and paid rent.

For a long, frozen moment, he just stared at his hands. He flexed his fingers slowly, like they might shatter if he moved too fast. He hadn’t dreamed about them in years. Thought he’d buried that part of him deep enough that it wouldn’t claw its way back up through the cracks.

He was wrong.

Izuku rubbed his face with both hands, forcing his breathing to steady. His heart wouldn’t slow down, the adrenaline still burning under his skin like a live wire. He couldn’t stay still. Not here. Not now. Swinging his legs off the couch, he stood, legs shaking just slightly as he paced the length of Recovery Girl’s living room. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like moving would force the memories back where they belonged.

He dragged his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath. “Get it together,” he whispered to himself, jaw clenched tight. “Get it together.”

He was fine. He was fine. He just…needed to breathe.

But even as he paced, the words still echoed, low and hateful.

You’re barely even a person.

He took a deep breath. He was fine. Totally fine. Just… y’know. Having a mild breakdown in a retired nurse’s living room at god knows what time. No biggie.

He glanced at the clock. 2:04 a.m. Lovely. He’d been out longer than last time.

He held his breath. The house sounded quiet. Too quiet. Maybe Recovery Girl had gone to sleep. Maybe he could just sneak out and—

The door creaked open, and the light flicked on like a slap to the face.

“Thought I heard movement,” Recovery Girl said, stepping into the room in a pink robe and slippers that somehow made her look more intimidating. “How’s the knee feel now, dear?”

Right. The knee. He’d honestly forgotten about it. He flexed it experimentally. No pain. No stiffness. Huh. “Better,” he said, trying not to sound surprised.

“Glad to hear it. Now go home.”

“I’m not going home,” Izuku said, stretching out his arms. “I have a job to do.”

“Are you getting paid for it?”

“…Well. No.”

“Then it’s not a job.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “I have a hobby I need to do.”

He looked around. The house was still. Dimly lit. Only one set of slippers by the door.

“Eraser’s not here?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“No,” she said. “He left to patrol shortly after you fell unconscious.”

“Right,” Izuku muttered. “Because he has a job.”

His voice curled with something bitter he didn’t have time to name. He shifted his weight toward the front door, toeing the edge of the rug like it might magically open a portal out of here. Before Recovery Girl could say anything else, he moved. Smooth. Silent. Boots pulled on with barely a sound. He crossed the living room with the practiced ease of someone who knew exactly how to vanish before someone got the bright idea to stop him.

He made it to the door, hand on the knob, when her voice stopped him—not loud, not sharp. Just firm.

“Don’t come back here that broken again, Ghost.”

Izuku froze, fingers tightening around the brass. “I mean it,” she added, still standing by the kitchen, arms folded over her chest. “You do whatever ghost-boy thing you think you have to, but I don’t want to see you on that couch broken and bleeding out again. You hear me?”

He didn’t turn around. Just stood there for a moment, shoulders tense under the weight of something he wasn’t sure how to name.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “I hear you.”

Then he opened the door and slipped into the night.

The cold hit his face like an old friend. The wind pulled at his hood, and the silence stretched wide around him. No lights. No footsteps behind him. Just the world and the long walk ahead. He was fine. Totally fine. Actually—no. He was better than fine.

Every nerve was buzzing, every breath sharp and alive in his lungs. The nightmare still clung to the back of his mind like a shadow, but it only made the night air feel sweeter. Cleaner. He rolled his shoulders, hands buried in his hoodie pockets, a slow grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He tilted his head back, pulling his mask down and exhaled, watching the breath curl up like smoke into the night.

This city had no idea it was about to have a very interesting night.

With a lazy grin, he pulled his mask up, shoved his hands back into his pockets, and turned down a side street.

“Let’s see who’s still awake.”

And with that, he disappeared into the dark, quiet as a rumor and twice as hard to shake.

*

The night air was heavy with the kind of cold that slipped past fabric and settled into bone. Patrol was quiet, at first—uneventful in that deceptive way that always made Shouta uneasy. Too still. Too quiet. The kind of silence that meant something was about to go wrong.

He was perched on the edge of a rooftop, eyes scanning the dim alleys below, when his phone buzzed.

Chiyo.

He quickly flipped his phone out and checked the message.

Of course the kid didn’t go home. It was almost a given the kid wouldn't.

A low, gravel-thick sigh escaped him as he pulled the scarf tighter around his neck. Should’ve just tied him to the damn couch.

Still, that was—unfortunately—not his biggest problem tonight.

It was nearing the end of his patrol. Across the street, the flickering light of a worn-down streetlamp revealed two figures in a cracked alleyway, their quirks flashing dangerously in the dark. Energy sparked and twisted between them—reckless, unsanctioned use in a residential zone. Shouta dropped down without a sound, already preparing to shut it down before anyone got hurt.

The second he stepped into the alley, what had been two voices became six.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Of course this was happening. Maybe, just maybe, they’d surprise him and surrender quietly.

One look at their faces—at the way one of them sneered, “Hero”—and he knew that was wishful thinking.

“This,” he muttered, eyes narrowing as his scarf uncoiled like a viper, “is exactly why I hate Tuesdays.”

The first man lunged. Shouta moved instinctively—scarf snapping out, wrapping around the guy’s arm and slamming him into the side of a dumpster with a dull, metallic clang. The second and third were right behind, one swinging a pipe, the other lighting up with a crackling quirk that looked barely stable.

He activated his quirk, nullifying it. He blocked. Redirected. Struck. Clean, controlled movements honed by years of patrols and worse. But the odds weren’t in his favor tonight—too many angles, too many fists, and not enough time.

He caught motion behind him—too late to react.

A fist sailed toward the back of his head—

—and never landed.

There was a crack—bone meeting something solid—and the attacker dropped with a muffled grunt. Shouta turned in time to see a rusty street sign clatter to the ground, and a familiar blur dart past him like wind wrapped in a hoodie.

Ghost.

Shouta exhaled through his nose. “You have terrible timing.”

“I have impeccable timing,” Ghost corrected breezily, sprinting to the other side of the alley to drive a knee into someone’s gut. The man folded with a wheeze.

Shouta’s eyes narrowed slightly. That move had been… faster than usual. Sharper. The kid was always quick, but this—this was clean. Precise. Stronger.

Had he been holding back before? Or just that badly injured?

Now that he was healed…it seemed like he was at 100%.

The remaining thugs took one look at the two of them—one a pro hero with glowing eyes and a scarf that moved like it had teeth, the other a feral vigilante wielding rusted city debris like divine punishment—and bolted.

Shouta didn’t chase them.

Neither did Ghost.

Silence dropped like a curtain over the alley, broken only by the sharp sound of boots dragging behind him.

“Sorry I’m late,” Ghost said. “Traffic was murder.”

He’d never admit it to the kid, but he was glad for the backup. Without it, he’d probably be nursing a concussion right about now.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The alley stank of adrenaline and sweat, steam rising off the asphalt where quirk sparks had scorched it minutes before.

Shouta let out a slow, rasping breath, rolling his neck until it cracked. His scarf hung loose over one shoulder, streaked with grime. Ghost was now leaning against a broken crate, one hand pressed to his ribs, chest heaving.

However, he still wanted to scold him. God, did he want to lay into the kid. Freshly healed and already out here throwing stop signs and sarcasm like candy on Halloween. What the hell are you doing out here? You were literally unconscious an hour ago. Do you have a death wish, or are you just terminally allergic to common sense?

But instead, the words that came out surprised even him.

“You hungry?”

Ghost blinked, the faintest twitch of confusion crossing his shadowed features. He straightened, subtly. “…What?”

“I said,” Shouta repeated, already regretting the impulse even as the words left his mouth, “you hungry?”

A pause followed. Silence thick enough to feel. Then Ghost tilted his head slightly, like a curious animal, voice almost sheepish beneath the mask. “I could eat.”

Shouta sighed through his nose, already turning toward the alley’s mouth. “Come on, then. I know a place.”

It was late anyway. Nearing the end of patrol. Normally, he’d swing by a quiet little 24/7 bakery on his way back to the station—just part of the ritual he'd picked up when he started in this sector. But tonight, he didn't need to head to the station.

He glanced over his shoulder at the figure trailing behind him. The kid was walking straighter than usual—no limp, no hesitation. That was something. Meant Chiyo had done her job.

Now came the harder part: keeping him that way.

If Chiyo messaged around 2 a.m. that Ghost had left, then—Shouta checked his watch—it was nearly 4:30.

Must be feeling pretty amazing to stay out an extra hour past normal. Or stupid. Could go either way.

“Where are we going? We’ve been walking straight for ages.”

“It’s been five minutes,” Shouta deadpanned, not bothering to turn.

“Yeah, like I said—ages,” the kid groaned.

Shouta didn’t dignify it with a reply. Instead, he rounded the corner. There it was, just as dependable as ever—a soft-lit bakery tucked onto the street’s edge, glowing faintly in the night like a promise. Open 24/7. He came here nearly every day after patrol. Routine made tangible.

He reached for the door and held it open. The kid stopped short a few feet away, eyeing Shouta with that familiar guarded glare. Still suspicious. Still testing him. Shouta exhaled slowly through his nose. This dance was exhausting—but necessary. It would be worth it, eventually.

“No one asks questions here. You’ll be fine.”

He watched the hesitation flicker across Ghost’s posture before he gave a resigned sigh and stepped through. Shouta followed, sliding into a booth with a tired slump, pressing his knuckles into one eye. The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the kitchen and the occasional clatter of plates. Oddly soothing. Or maybe he was just too worn down to be properly irritated.

He peeked up at the kid. Noticed how Ghost’s fingers tapped an idle, rhythmic pattern on the table—measured. Focused. Always calculating. Never at rest. Not reckless, exactly. Just committed.

Shouta had taught a lot of kids. Brilliant ones. Students with quirks powerful enough to tear buildings apart. But none of them—not one—had this. That pure, untamed drive to act. To do. To save, no matter what.
Yeah, the kid was undisciplined. Broke rules like they were suggestions. Pushed buttons Shouta didn’t even know he had. But—

He was going to save lives. One way or another.

“You always going to do this?” Shouta asked quietly, eyes drifting to the kid’s.

Ghost raised an eyebrow. “What, eat? Yeah, probably.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

Ghost smirked, half-hidden under the mask. “Then ask a better question.” Before Shouta could retort, a voice interrupted from beside him—warm, familiar. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite 4 a.m. customer.”

Shouta looked up. The barista- Hikari, young, cheerful, dangerously good with coffee—leaned on the edge of the table, her smile laced with gentle amusement.

“I’m your only 4 a.m. customer,” he muttered.

She chuckled. “Didn’t expect you ‘til later. Haven’t got your usual ready to go—but looks like you’ll be staying awhile, huh?” Her eyes flicked toward the kid still studying the menu like it might attack. “Didn’t take you for the ‘company’ type, Eraserhead.”

The kid glanced up, meeting her gaze with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “I’m not. This is a… special case.”

“Don’t get used to it. I charge by the hour.”

Shouta rolled his eyes. “I’ll take my usual. The unpleasant child will have a hot chocolate.”

“What the hell? I want a coffee.”

“It’s nearing 5a.m. You just got patched up by Recovery Girl. You’re riding that high now, but in an hour, it'll drop—and you’ll crash hard. No caffeine.”

The kid looked ready to argue, but Hikari was already jotting it down.

“Perfect. Be back in a moment!”

Silence fell again, heavier this time. Shouta leaned back, eyes slipping shut. The day had been long. Too long. But just as he started to relax into it, Ghost’s voice cut through the quiet. “So why exactly are we here?”

“For a hot drink.”

“Eraser, I’m not an idiot. You’ve got a motive. Just spit it out.”

Shouta opened his eyes. The kid wasn’t even looking at him—just staring out the window, shoulders tense. Fine. Best to get it over with. He tapped the table. The sound drew Ghost’s gaze, sharp and expectant. "I’m going to start checking in. Once a night. Won’t be hard—we run into each other often enough anyway.”

“Why?”

“To make sure you’re not dead.”

A laugh escaped Ghost’s lips, dry and bitter as winter air. “How thoughtful of you.”

Before anything more could be said, Hikari returned, sliding their drinks in front of them. Shouta reached for his coffee immediately, taking a long gulp. He welcomed the burn. The grounding warmth. There was almost nothing better.

Almost.

The silence returned, briefly, until Shouta’s voice sliced through it again—this time sharper, edged with something harder to name.

“You can’t keep being reckless out there. If there’s a fight you can’t win, call me. Don’t try to be a hero alone.”

Ghost leaned back in the booth, fingers wrapped around the mug but not drinking yet. He stared at Shouta, expression unreadable beneath the hood and mask, but there was something sharp in his eyes. Unimpressed. Unmoved.

“Didn’t realize I signed up for a babysitter.”

“You didn’t,” Shouta replied evenly. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Ghost let out a low scoff. “So what now? I get curfews? Report cards? A gold star if I make it through a night without bleeding out?”

Shouta’s jaw ticked. “You get alive. That’s the deal.”

“Oh,” Ghost said with mock realization. “So this is the part where you pretend you care.”

That landed harder than Shouta expected. He met the kid’s stare head-on, fingers tightening around his coffee cup. “If I didn’t care, I would've arrested you by now.”

Ghost looked away, jaw tight. For a second, it almost seemed like the conversation would die there. But of course, it didn’t.

“You ever think maybe I don’t need saving?” he muttered, quiet but defiant.

Shouta leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. His voice dropped.

“You’re a kid wearing a mask and risking your neck every night for god knows what reasons. You’re not invincible, and you sure as hell aren’t fine.” Ghost’s gaze flicked back to him. Cold. Furious. But underneath it—maybe—there was something splintering. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Here we go again. “I know enough.”

“Bullshit.”

Shouta didn’t rise to it. He just drank again, slow and deliberate. The heat helped.

“You think I haven’t seen a hundred versions of you? Angry. Alone. Think you’re smarter than every pro out here. And maybe you are. Doesn’t change the odds.” Ghost looked away again, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. “If I waited for the odds to be good,” he muttered, “more people would be dead.” There it was. That flare. That righteous fire under the cynicism.

“You can’t save everyone.”

“I know that,” Ghost snapped, eyes suddenly alight. “But I can save someone. And that’s better than sitting around waiting for red tape to clear or for heroes to show up late.”

Shouta didn’t argue. Couldn’t, really. He'd thought the same things once, in the quiet parts of himself he didn’t share. Instead, he spoke slower this time. Quieter. “You’re not wrong. But you’re not unbreakable either. And if you keep going like this, you’re gonna burn out before you even get a chance to make real change.”

Ghost’s shoulders sagged a little. Just barely. Like the weight of it all had finally pressed in deep enough to find skin.

“…Then what?” he asked. “I play nice? Register? Go through the motions like every other hero-in-training with a neat little sponsor and a press-friendly origin story? I told you Eraser that not for me.”

“I know” Shouta said simply. “But that doesn't mean you have to do everything alone.”

A long silence followed. Ghost stared down into his hot chocolate like it might offer a different kind of answer—like maybe if he stared long enough, it would whisper a way out.

Finally, he muttered, “...I still think the coffee would've been better.”

Shouta nearly groaned. This kid was insufferable.

“You haven’t even taken a sip yet.”

Ghost didn’t respond. Just kept looking at the drink like it had suddenly grown thorns. Shouta narrowed his eyes. The kid wasn’t being dramatic—he was hesitating. His hands were steady, the drink within reach, but he made no move to touch it. Seriously? Shouta thought. He can dodge knives in the rain but won’t drink hot chocolate in a bakery?

What—did he think it was poisoned?

The idea seemed ridiculous, and yet... not completely out of the question. Trust, clearly, didn’t come easy to him. Maybe it never had. Shouta opened his mouth to say something, but before he could—
Hikari returned, sliding two small dessert bags in front of them with a practiced grace. A flaky croissant for him, and something sweeter—denser, chocolate-drizzled—for the kid.

And then... she placed a straw next to Ghost’s cup.

A straw.

Shouta blinked. Ghost blinked. Then Hikari winked at the boy like it was some kind of secret pact before gliding back to the counter. "Enjoy the goods for the road!”

Right. The mask.

Of course.

No words were exchanged. None needed to be.

Ghost didn’t hesitate this time. He picked up the straw, pierced the lid, and took a slow sip. His shoulders relaxed by a fraction. Not much, but enough to notice.

Shouta pretended not to. Instead, he broke a piece off his croissant and leaned back, letting the warmth of the drink and the rare quiet settle over him.

For a moment, they just sat there. Not enemies. Not allies. Something in between—floating in the hush of a too-early morning and the soft clatter of dishes behind the counter.

Then Ghost spoke, voice casual but deliberate.

“You always come here after patrol?”

Shouta didn’t look up. “Most mornings.”

“Huh.” A pause. “So, what—no friends waiting at home?” Shouta’s eyes flicked to him. Ghost’s tone wasn’t mocking. Not really. If anything, it sounded... curious. Genuinely curious. Was he asking him about his life outside of patrols?

Still, the question caught him off guard.

“That’s a pretty personal question,” he said evenly.

“You brought me hot chocolate,” Ghost said, lifting the cup with a small shrug. “And honestly? Better than hearing you call me reckless for the millionth time.”

Shouta studied him for a beat. Then, with a soft exhale, he leaned back again. “Yes I have…people back home.” He shrugged. “and 3 cats.”

Ghost raised a brow. “Cats?”

Shouta nodded. “Needy. Smarter than most heroes i know.”

The boy let out a quiet laugh, the sound half-buried in his cup. “That tracks.”

“You surprised I’m not more social?”

“Honestly? I’m surprised you’re not less.”

Shouta snorted. “Fair.”

A beat passed. The atmosphere had shifted—lighter, more open—but he knew better than to trust it would stay that way. Still, he tried. “What about you?” he asked, turning the question gently, not pressing—yet.

Ghost didn’t answer right away. He took another slow sip of his drink, then reached for the dessert Hikari had given him, poking at it like it might explode. “I’ve got a nice place to sleep,” he said eventually, carefully. “That’s about it.”

“Not what I asked.”

“Yeah,” Ghost said, tearing off a corner of the pastry. “I noticed.”

Shouta didn’t push. Just filed that away like he did everything else about the kid—a long list of fragments he still hadn’t pieced together. But then Ghost looked up at him again, eyes sharp. “You always been like this?”

“Like what?”

“You know. Quiet. Brooding. Half-dead on your feet.”

Shouta raised a brow. “You mean responsible?”

“No,” Ghost said with a hint of a smirk. “I mean tired.”

Shouta resisted the urge to sigh again. “Comes with the job.”

Ghost tilted his head. “You didn’t answer the question.”

He reached for his coffee instead and took a long drink, the warmth doing little to cut through the chill in his chest. He could’ve answered. Could’ve told the kid about the sleepless nights, the weight of watching over students who either didn’t know or didn’t care how close they danced to death. Could’ve said he hadn’t always been this way—but somewhere along the line, the exhaustion had stopped feeling temporary. Somewhere along the line, it had just become part of him. The silence pressed in again, but it wasn’t heavy this time—just familiar. Ghost didn’t seem to mind.

Ghost gave him a long, appraising look. “You know,” he said slowly, “you’re a lot weirder than I’ve heard about you.”

Shouta shrugged. “You’re a lot quieter than you seem on rooftops.”

Ghost popped another bite of pastry into his mouth, chewing slowly. “Yeah, well, kind of hard to be loud around a guy who looks like he’d erase you just for talking too much.”

That earned him a sharp look from Shouta.

Ghost leaned back, clearly enjoying himself. “Aren’t you so glad you invited me?”

“Trust me,” Shouta muttered, rubbing his temple, “I’m regretting it more with every passing second.”

“I’m growing on you,” Ghost teased, eyes glittering with something just shy of mischief. “Admit it.”

“You’re growing on something, but I don’t think it’s fondness.”

Ghost chuckled—a real one this time, dry but genuine. It didn’t last long, but it was there.

For a moment, things were still. Warmer, even. The tension between them didn’t vanish, but it changed. Twisted into something more bearable. Something vaguely resembling trust—however fragile.

Shouta glanced toward the window, the city still dark outside. “Finish your drink. I’ve got another hour before I clock out.” Ghost gave him a sideways look. “And then what? You walk me home?”

“No,” Shouta said flatly. “I watch you disappear into the night and pray you go straight home and don’t get stabbed again.”

“Touching.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Ghost just grinned around his straw, loud and smug and far too satisfied with himself for someone who still had dried blood on his collar.

He just shook his head and stared out the window again, watching as the early hours of the city stretched out in silence, streetlights casting long shadows no one would notice. When they asked him to transfer to this district, he’d thought it would be temporary—a few weeks at best. Nothing permanent. Nothing that would matter.

He definitely hadn’t expected this—this feeling. That quiet pull in his chest, steady and persistent. The urge to stay.

Even with the nightly chaos, the constant threat of injury, and the ever-growing mountain of paperwork waiting back at the station—it felt worth it. He felt worth it.

A half-feral kid with too much power, too little fear, and a vigilante streak wide enough to rival any Pro’s. Sharp-edged, reckless, and carrying the kind of relentless determination that didn’t come from training—but from surviving.

He took a slow sip, finishing his coffee off. He’d come here expecting trouble. A waste of time, maybe. A problem to contain, document, and forget.

Instead, he got Ghost.

And somehow—against all logic, against his better judgment, and probably in violation of a few laws—it felt like something worth staying for.

Something worth protecting.

Chapter Text

The club was a ghost town—fitting, all things considered.

The speakers thrummed faintly in the background, but the rest of the place sat in silence. During the day, it was just a run-down bar—quiet, dim, and mostly empty. That’s when he and Rin liked to show up. No crowds, no chaos. Just peace, if you squinted hard enough.

At night, though? The place transformed. It became an information hotspot, a noisy blur of half-truths and rumors bouncing between shady regulars and street-level brokers. Izuku sometimes lingered in the shadows just to listen, to sort the useful from the trash. Most of it was garbage. But every now and then, something real slipped through.

Izuku dropped into the nearest booth with theatrical flair, sprawling out across the cracked seat like he owned the place. “I feel amazing,” he announced, arms stretching out behind his head. “Like—legitimately incredible. No stabbing pain, no head spins, no limping. I forgot what this felt like.”

Rin, leaning lazily against the bar with a soda in hand, didn’t even look up. “Adorable. He thinks he’s safe. That’s precious.”

Izuku rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying. Recovery Girl did her thing. I think she actually reversed time on my spine. I could probably backflip off the roof and stick the landing.”

Rin sipped his drink, watching him over the rim. “I give it three days before you’ve either got a knife sticking out of you or you’re leaking from somewhere you shouldn’t be. Bonus points if it’s both.”

“Wow. No faith in me at all.”

“Oh, I have faith. Faith that you're gonna trip over your own dramatic instincts and land on something sharp. It's practically your brand.”

Izuku huffed a laugh. “I’ll have you know I’m going to be so careful. Cautious. Responsible. I’m turning over a new leaf.”

Rin raised an eyebrow. “I’ll believe It when I see it.”

Izuku rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching up. Rin always had that effect. Loud, smug, and annoyingly observant. It was kind of refreshing. They sat in companionable silence for a beat, Then Rin tilted his head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “So. You and Eraserhead.”

Izuku blinked. “What about him?”

Rin gave him a look like he was stating the obvious. “You’re letting him help you.”

Izuku looked away, gaze flicking toward the door as it chimed. “If it means the people in the area are safe,” he said quietly, “then I’ll have to live with the hobo lurking around every corner. It’s just… a relief to believe he isn’t actually going to arrest me.”

Rin leaned forward back on his elbows, grinning like he’d just won a bet. “Took you a month to get to that conclusion. Good job, Ghost. Real speedy.”

Izuku groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Do you ever let someone have a moment?”

“Not when it’s this entertaining,” Rin said, and then, softer, “but seriously. I’m glad. You looked like hell last week.”

“I always look like hell.”

“No,” Rin said, tone a little more serious now, “I mean when you were out cold. That hero—Eraser—he looked... worried. Like, not in a ‘this is a problem for the agency’ way. Like in a real way.”

Izuku tensed, something cold curling in his gut. "Don't need to remind me of that," he muttered.

Rin shrugged, still sipping on that same lukewarm soda like it was the height of luxury. “Just saying. Maybe he gives more of a damn than you think. People like that? They don’t come around often.” Izuku didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could. His eyes tracked the flickering neon sign above the bar—one of the letters was half-dead, stuttering in and out like it couldn’t decide if it was worth the effort.

His thoughts drifted. School would be out in two days.

Which meant…

He groaned, slumping back into the booth like gravity had just doubled. Aizawa and Yamada would be around more. At home. Checking in. Watching. Which meant he wouldn’t be able to sneak out here during the day. Or hang out in the club with Rin.

“What’s that about?” Rin asked, finally moving from his perch and sliding into the booth across from him. He draped his arms along the backrest. “You just made the most tragic noise known to man.”

Izuku didn’t answer right away. He let out a long sigh, still staring at the cracked tabletop like it might offer a solution. “Just realized I won’t be able to come around here for the next few weeks.”

Rin gasped like he’d just been shot in the heart, one hand flying to his chest. “Wow. You’re abandoning me.” Izuku blinked, startled. “I didn’t say that—”

“Oh, no no, it’s fine.” Rin was already fake-crying, dramatically wiping at his dry eyes. “My only friend is leaving me. What ever will I do? Guess I’ll have to sit here in this empty, cursed club, all alone—talking to the furniture and waiting for the walls to start whispering back.”

“You are unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head. The edges of his mouth twitched. Rin sniffled dramatically, dabbing at his imaginary tears with the edge of his sleeve. “Don’t try to backpedal now. The betrayal has already been felt in my soul.”

“You don’t have a soul.”

“Exactly. That’s how deep this wound goes.”

Izuku laughed again—real this time. It slipped past his guard, small and startled. The sound of it surprised him again. How easy it was, even now, to fall into this rhythm. Rin’s nonsense had a way of reaching into his chest and untangling the knots, even if just for a moment. “You’ll survive,” Izuku said, dragging a hand through his hair. “Probably.”

“Probably?” Rin looked personally offended. “Ghost, I am a fragile and emotionally complex individual.”

“You once headbutted a guy for saying pineapple on pizza was valid.”

“It was self-defense.”

“It was a cashier.”

“And he had the audacity to say it while holding my change.”

Izuku leaned back again, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders loosen. Just for now. Just here, in this dim booth with the flickering neon and Rin’s terrible jokes and the distant thump of music vibrating through the floor.

This was a break. A pause. A breath of air after drowning.

And even if it wouldn’t last, even if he knew he’d have to leave it behind for a while… it helped.

Rin helped.

Rin leaned forward again, smirk sliding back into place. “So, Are you still patrolling at night?”

Izuku didn’t hesitate. “Of course.” Rin gave a casual shrug, lips twitching into a smirk. “Good. If you weren’t, I’d be convinced you’d been body-snatched or replaced by some overly functional clone.”

“Glad I still pass the vibe check.”

“You always do,” Rin said easily. Then, with a grin that softened just slightly around the edges, “Just try not to get gutted too much out there, yeah? Good company’s hard to come by—and I’ve grown strangely fond of the way you bleed and still manage to argue with me about everything.”

Izuku snorted, shaking his head. Of course Rin thought stabbing was inevitable. Like it was just another Wednesday. “I’ll do my best to survive your extremely high standards.” He leaned forward, resting his chin in one hand, voice lighter. “Hey, toss me your phone for a sec?”

Rin raised an eyebrow but fished it out of his pocket anyway. The thing looked like it had survived a war...Barely. The screen was spiderwebbed with cracks, the casing half-melted at the edges, and one corner was scorched black like it had been set on fire.

“Jeez,” Izuku said, turning it over carefully. “What happened to this?”

“I may have… accidentally over-sparked it trying to charge it,” Rin said, deadpan. “Now it looks like I torched the edge of it.”

Izuku let out a low whistle, trying not to sound impressed. He was, though. Rin’s quirk was flashier than it had any right to be, and Izuku had always been a little jealous of how amazing it was.

“Why not just buy a new one?” Izuku asked, handing the thing back with exaggerated caution. “Don’t tell me you already burned through the money we made last week?”

Rin stretched a hand behind his neck, expression turning sheepish. “Yeah… about that…”

“It’s gone, isn’t it.”

“Yup.”

Izuku sighed, but it wasn’t annoyed. More like… resigned. He didn’t know the full story of Rin’s situation—didn’t know where he lived, who he lived with, or how he even got by half the time. But then again, Rin didn’t know much about him either. Who was he to ask those questions.

“Well,” Izuku said, standing up and stretching, “I guess that means we’re checking the board.”

Rin blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah.” Izuku rolled his shoulder, testing the motion. Still no pain. “Let’s find something quick and clean.”

Rin jumped up, looking suddenly flustered. “Ghost, you don’t have to. I’m fine. I’ll figure it out.”

“It’s what friends do, alright?” Izuku said, giving him a small, sideways smile.

Rin stared at him for a moment longer, the usual sarcasm briefly slipping from his face. Then he huffed, grinning wide. “God, you’re such a softie under all that mystery and gloom.”

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“Too late.”

Izuku shook his head, already heading for the back hallway where the task board was pinned up—half-lit, slightly crooked, and full of more trouble than they probably needed. But honestly? He didn’t mind. Not right now. Not when he finally felt like himself again.

Izuku paused at the board, then turned back around. “Wait,” he muttered, fishing around in the pocket of his hoodie. After a second, he came up with a battered pen and the back of an old receipt. “Here.”

Rin blinked, catching the paper Izuku flicked at him.

“My number,” Izuku said, already turning back toward the board. “For when you get a new phone.”

Rin looked down at the scrawled digits, brows rising. “Wow. Ghost’s number. Should I frame it?”

Izuku shot him a look over his shoulder. “Only for emergencies. And I swear I will block you if you send me memes or dumb questions like ‘what’s your favorite cursed alleyway?’”

“That was one time,” Rin said, holding the note like it was a sacred artifact. “And it was a valid question. Some of those alleys have vibes.”

“Rin.”

“Okay, okay. No memes. No cursed alleyways. Just life-or-death texts and maybe the occasional cryptic emoji.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” Rin’s voice softened, and he folded the note with careful precision, tucking it into the inside of his jacket. “Thanks.”

Izuku didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The way Rin grinned at him said enough. He was really going to regret this.

***

School had finally ended—not that Izuku had any real reason to care. His online classes had wrapped up months ago. Still, appearances had to be maintained. So while Aizawa and Yamada were home, he kept up the act. Disappearing to “last minute assignments.” Laptop open. Headphones on. Occasionally scribbling in a notebook—never notes, always maps and escape routes.

The last few days had been manageable. He’d kept his patrols short, quiet. Met up with Eraserhead twice under the cover of night. Nothing too eventful. A few scuffles. One close call. Nothing too dramatic.

But now… summer was here. They were home. All day. Every day. And somehow, that made everything worse.

He sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, flipping through the folder he kept hidden between the bed and the wall. Crinkled forms, faded intake records, state paperwork. He thumbed past most of it until his fingers caught on something smoother.

His middle school graduation certificate.

It had shown up at the orphanage months ago, just another envelope in a pile no one cared about. He hadn’t told anyone—mostly because there was no one to tell. The staff barely noticed him unless he caused trouble. He liked it that way. Made sneaking out easier.

Still, the certificate had survived. Uncreased. Official. Dated.

He stared at the date. It would give him away instantly if anyone read it too closely. He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, then reached for a pen. Carefully—awkwardly—he scratched it out and rewrote today’s instead. The ink bled slightly. Sloppy, but it’d pass at a glance.

He padded into the living room and dropped the paper onto the table with a dull thwap. Yamada’s eyes lit up the moment he spotted it.

“Yo! Look at this!” he beamed. “We should frame it! Make it all official—hang it right next to the cursed cat calendar!”

Izuku didn’t even pretend to smile. “I’d rather you not.” His voice was flat as he snatched the paper back.

Yamada blinked, grin fading. “Ah… sorry, kid. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Izuku cut in, sliding into the seat across from him without looking up. But it wasn’t. Not really. And he knew Yamada could probably tell.

Izuku kept his gaze on the paper, not reading it, just avoiding everything else. He didn’t hate Yamada—he didn’t, not at all. But there was something about the way the man was always smiling, always performing like everything would be okay, that wore Izuku down. He knew it came from a good place. Still, it felt like Yamada was holding up a mirror, reflecting some version of care that Izuku wasn’t sure he deserved.

At least with Aizawa, there were no performances. No forced smiles. Just a steady, quiet presence that didn’t pretend. That didn’t demand anything from him. That didn’t ask Izuku to meet it halfway when he couldn’t.

Right on cue, Aizawa stepped in from the kitchen—silent as ever—carrying three bowls of steaming curry with practiced ease. Two shadows trailed behind him, Fish already halfway up his pant leg in an ambitious climb, no doubt aiming for the food.

“Dinner,” Aizawa announced, setting the bowls down with the kind of no-nonsense efficiency that said you will eat this and you will like it.

“Whoa, Sho!” Yamada leaned in with an exaggerated sniff and a wide grin. “You actually cooked! Wait—hold on—is this... edible?”

Aizawa rolled his eyes and handed Izuku a spoon. “It’s curry. You’ve eaten it a hundred times. I’m perfectly capable of making things that don't involve caffeine, you know.”

Izuku snorted into his drink, doing his best not to choke as he avoided the sharp glare now definitely aimed in his direction.

“Thanks for cooking, Aizawa,” he said quickly, a little too innocent.

The smell hit him almost immediately—warm, spiced, and oddly comforting. He sat down and took a bite, chewing slowly.

It was good. Really good, actually.

For a while, the room was calm. Spoons clinked. Fish purred under the table. Eclipse purred on the table—until Aizawa unceremoniously shoved her off with a muttered, “No.” Some lo-fi ambient track drifted from Yamada’s phone.

It was… comfortable. The kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled. But of course, nothing was ever truly silent when Yamada was involved.

“So!” Yamada said, mouth still half full. “Now that summer break’s here… more time to hang out! Movie nights. City walks. Oh—ice cream runs. I’m making a list.”

Izuku froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. His stomach twisted—not from the food, but from the thought that had been sitting heavy in the back of his mind for days.

Summer break. Weeks of them being home. No more quiet afternoons. No more empty apartment. No more space.

“Sounds… great,” Izuku said, voice perfectly flat, with a smile so fake it might as well have come with a disclaimer.

“You say that like it’s a threat,” Yamada laughed.

It kind of was.

Aizawa didn’t say anything, but Izuku felt his gaze linger just a second too long. Then it moved on.

“You’ve been here just over a month already,” Aizawa said, his tone softer than usual. “Weird how fast that went.”

“Yeah,” Izuku murmured. “Time flies.”

Yamada lifted his glass. “Here’s to a weird summer.”

Izuku tapped his water glass against it. He even managed a smile.

But inside, something cold curled tight in his chest.

Don’t get used to this.

He stared down at his curry, watching the steam rise like ghosts.

Because the moment he let himself believe this was safe—normal—he knew what would happen. It always happened. They’d see through him. Change. Flip. Just like all the others. And when they did, they’d send him back. They always did.

He'd been through more homes than he could count on his fingers. And every single one ended the same way: a bag, a closed door, and silence.

Why should this be any different?

After dinner, Izuku automatically started collecting the bowls. It was muscle memory more than thought, hands moving before his brain caught up.

But just as he reached for Yamada’s, Aizawa stepped in beside him. “I’ll take those,” he said quietly.

Izuku blinked. He hadn’t done the dishes in a while—not since… oh. Of course. That’s what this was about.

His jaw tightened. Just as he was about to hand the bowls over, he yanked them back, glaring up at Aizawa with sharp, narrowed eyes. “What?” he snapped. “Do you think I can’t do it?”

Just like how everyone didn’t think Ghost could get through a patrol without getting injured. He was getting real tired of being treated like a walking disaster.

Aizawa frowned, but didn’t raise his voice. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Izuku shot back, tone clipped and bitter.

He risked a glance toward Yamada, who sat still at the table, watching the interaction unfold with something unreadable in his gaze. Thoughtful. Not judging. But not jumping in either.

Izuku turned away before either of them could say anything else and strode into the kitchen, heart hammering harder than it should’ve.

So that’s why they never asked him to do dishes again. They thought he’d break. They thought he was too fragile, like glass already chipped at the edges, one bump away from shattering all over the floor.

He washed in silence, movements careful, deliberate. Rinsed. Scrubbed. Rinsed again. He didn’t look up when he heard the soft creak of the floor behind him, the subtle shift of weight. Someone was standing at the doorway. Watching. He didn’t want to know who. He didn’t dare glance back.

Instead, he focused on the water. The steam. The ache creeping up his chest that the heat couldn’t touch.

Just do it right. Show them. Prove you’re not broken.

He shut off the tap with a metallic squeak and stood for a moment, breathing.

The water had cooled.

When he finally turned, the doorway was empty. But it still felt occupied. Like someone had been there. Like something had been left unsaid.

He dried his hands on the hem of his hoodie and padded into the hallway, footsteps muffled on the floorboards. The house was quiet. Normal. Like nothing had happened. But the weight in his chest hadn’t lifted. Not even a little.

He expected the usual. Aizawa hunched over a case file, eyes scanning reports like a hawk dissecting prey, red pen in hand and hair tucked back in that lazy-but-somehow-intimidating way of his. Yamada would likely be sprawled on the couch, volume down low, half-watching some weird vintage horror flick while commentating like a podcast host with too much coffee.

Instead, both of them were seated at the table.

And in front of them?

A deck of cards.

Yamada was already shuffling them with dramatic flair, the sound of the cards snapping against each other sharp and deliberate. Aizawa leaned back lazily in his seat, arms crossed, expression unreadable but unmistakably amused.

As Izuku stepped into the room, Aizawa raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze.

“Up for a little challenge?”

Izuku couldn’t help the smirk that crossed his face as he approached. “Yeah, let me know when they get here. Because I know you’re not talking about Yamada.”

That earned a rare sound—a genuine snort—from Aizawa. Low and quick, but definitely there.

Yamada whipped around in mock offense, mouth dropping open. “Hey! I beat you at Scrabble last week!”

“We played the English version.”

“So?!”

“You’re literally an English teacher. And like… triple my age.”

“Jeez, kid, you make me sound fifty.”

Izuku slid into his usual seat across from Yamada, trying to suppress the grin tugging at his lips. Aizawa sat at head of the table, as he always did—king of the card table, silent and brooding. Their little formation was familiar, comfortable, something that had settled naturally over time. No one had ever said this is your seat—they had just fallen into place.

Izuku glanced at the deck. “So what are we playing today?”

Yamada was practically vibrating. “Well, the game’s got a couple of names—Liar, Cheat—”

“Bullshit,” Aizawa interrupted flatly.

There was a small thud. Yamada had clearly kicked Aizawa under the table, and the faint twitch in Aizawa’s eye hinted at both annoyance and affection. Izuku bit back a laugh.

Izuku wouldn’t lie—he liked seeing Aizawa like this. Relaxed. Unarmored. It was such a shift from Eraserhead, the stone-faced pro hero who could paralyze a room with a look. Around Yamada, though, he softened. Just a bit. Just enough for Izuku to catch glimpses of the man behind the reputation.

“Anyway,” Yamada went on with a grin, as though his foot hadn’t just been weaponized, “it’s a pretty intense game. The goal is to get rid of all your cards—by either playing honestly or lying through your teeth. But if someone calls you out and you were lying, you have to take the whole pile. Got it?”

As he spoke, he split the deck with a practiced flick and began dealing.

Izuku nodded, pretending to absorb the rules like it was new information. But inside?

This was going to be fun.

Most people would be at a disadvantage trying to lie to two pro heroes. Especially these two. Aizawa could see through just about anyone with that unnerving stare of his, and Yamada—despite his goofy exterior—was no slouch when it came to reading people.

But Izuku?

Izuku was a kid with a PhD in secrets.

He’d been lying by omission for most of his life. Lying to survive had practically been a reflex before he even realized it.

Yamada placed two cards down with exaggerated flair. “I’ll go first—two tens!” Izuku watched closely as the cards hit the table face down. Yamada grinned like a man who’d just pulled off a magic trick. “Sho, you’re up!”

Aizawa didn’t waste time. He slid one card onto the pile. “One nine.”

Of course he didn’t give anything away. The man had a poker face that could out-stare a statue. Izuku studied him for a beat longer, then pulled his cards closer.

He fanned them out, scanning quickly. Pulled two from the middle and laid them down with a calm, neutral expression.

“Two eights.”

His face said nothing. His tone was casual. Easy. He was playing the part of the rookie, trying not to look like he was already twenty steps ahead. The trick was to appear like he was trying.

Yamada leaned forward, placing his next card. “Yeah there you go, Listener! Easy, right? One seven!”

Aizawa followed with a quiet, “Two sevens.”

Izuku smirked inwardly. No reaction. No flicker. No tells.

But he was better.

He dropped his next cards smoothly. “Two eights.”

This time, Yamada froze. His hand hovered over the deck, but then he paused, his expression shifting just slightly.

Izuku saw the moment it clicked.

Yamada sat up straighter. “Wait… Sorry, Kid, but I’m calling liar. Nice try, but I’m pretty sure you already threw down two eights last round.”

Izuku blinked, wide-eyed. “Oh? Did I? Whoops.” He said it in the most obviously-fake innocent voice he could manage, throwing in just a touch of dramatized guilt. “Guess I got ahead of myself.”

“It’s okay, you’re learning!” Yamada said brightly, reaching out to flip the two cards with a flourish. “Let’s see—”

The top card turned.

Eight.

Then the next.

Another eight.

Yamada froze, hand still hovering.

“Wait what!?” he yelped, eyes bugging out.

Izuku leaned back in his chair, arms folded, lips curling into a slow, smug grin. “Aw. You didn’t trust me?”

Yamada turned to Aizawa, who was now sipping from a mug that Izuku swore hadn’t been there a second ago. “Sho! He—! How did he—?”

“I warned you,” Aizawa said with a sigh, “the kid’s good at any game you throw at him.”

Izuku twirled a card between his fingers like it was a coin. “What can I say? I’m good at lying.”

Yamada narrowed his eyes, trying to look serious but failing miserably through the smile tugging at his lips. “You better watch it, Sho. We've created a monster.”

“Created?” Aizawa muttered. “Pretty sure he came that way.”

Izuku just snickered quietly, already plotting his next move. This wasn’t just a card game anymore. It was war.

The next few rounds passed in a blur of cards and calculation.

No one dared call a bluff. Every play was smooth. Precise. Clinical. Tension crackled in the air like static on metal. It was no longer a game—it was a psychological duel.

Then Aizawa played a ten.

Izuku’s eyes narrowed instantly. Yamada had already played two tens. He himself held the other two.

That meant Aizawa was lying.

Izuku didn’t even blink. “Liar.”

Aizawa flipped the card. A six.

Izuku exhaled slowly, the corner of his mouth lifting in satisfaction.

“You got me, kid,” Aizawa said, unbothered, pulling the deck toward himself.

Izuku’s fingers twitched around his cards, calculating his next three plays before Aizawa had even touched the pile. His hand was lighter—only a few cards left. The path to victory gleamed in his mind like a lit-up flowchart.

He was close. Dangerously close.

“I don’t know how you do it, kid,” Yamada said, laughing and groaning at once. “We teach you the rules and you’re gunning for the throne before we even finish round one. It’s kinda terrifying.”

Izuku didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His mind was too loud. Every detail mattered now.

Yamada just played a five. Aizawa followed with two sixes. That meant—

He placed down a card, movement crisp and clean. “One five.”

It was bait. Beautiful bait.

He had the real five tucked in his hand. He knew it was obvious that he had one, Both Yamada and Aizawa had burned there's so that just left his. There was no reason to doubt him. Not yet.

The real five would come next. The winning play.

His expression was carved from stone. He wasn’t just playing. He was orchestrating.

He had full control.

Yamada raised a card. Aizawa’s hand hovered—

“Liar.”

The word hit like a steel spike. Izuku looked up sharply, pulse skipping. Aizawa’s voice was calm. Dangerous. How'd he know? Izuku rolled his eyes theatrically and flipped the card—an ace.

Yamada flailed. “WHAT!? I swore he had a five!”

“He does,” Aizawa said evenly.

And just like that, Izuku’s strategy shattered like glass.

He stared at Aizawa, stunned, then slowly pressed his lips into a thin line. His fingers clenched around his remaining cards, knuckles white. So that was how it was going to be. He took a breath. “You psychic now?” he asked, tone dry.

“You’re predictable when you think you’re clever,” Aizawa replied.

Yamada whistled. “Oof. Burned. You gonna let him read you like that, kiddo?”

Izuku didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The spark behind his eyes said everything.

Oh, it was on now.

He adjusted in his seat, posture razor-straight. A few more round past, it was mainly Yamada who got called lying.

His cards—three of them—lay like weapons in his hand: a five, a three, a jack. Not ideal. But winnable. If he was smart. If he was calm.

“Alright!” Yamada cheered, blissfully chaotic. “One four!”

Aizawa laid a card down. “One five.”

Izuku’s eye twitched. Bait or bluff? Was Aizawa baiting him? Was this a trap? Too risky.

“...One six,” he said, keeping his tone neutral as he laid the card down.

No challenge. Safe.

Yamada: “Two sevens!”

Aizawa: “One eight.”

Izuku: “Liar.”

Aizawa flipped the card. Eight. Izuku’s shoulders sagged. “You have got to be kidding me.” Yamada cackled leaning forward in his chair. “You’re spiraling, kid!”

“I’m fine,” Izuku said tightly, dragging the pile toward himself with barely controlled dignity.

“You had two cards left,” Aizawa said, fanning his cards. “One mistake is all it takes.”

Izuku clenched his jaw. He knew. He knew.

“Aaaand—one nine!” Yamada chirped.

“Two tens,” said Aizawa.

Izuku froze.

Two?

He had a ten. Yamada had played two earlier. That made four. No way Aizawa had two. No way.

But last time… Last time he’d thought he had Aizawa. He was wrong. He scanned his own memory like footage. Card counts. Play order. Expressions. Micro-reactions. His fingers hovered. Was this a feint? Was Aizawa counting on him second-guessing again?

“Call it or move, kid,” Aizawa said, his voice as lazy and unreadable as always, eyes half-lidded as he leaned back against his chair like this whole game meant absolutely nothing to him.

Izuku narrowed his eyes at the card in his hand. He hesitated—just for a breath—before muttering, “...One jack.”

There was a flicker in Aizawa’s expression. Barely noticeable. The faintest lift of one eyebrow. A sliver of something that might’ve been amusement—or worse, satisfaction. It was the kind of expression that told Izuku, without a word, that he’d already walked into a trap.

“One queen,” Yamada chimed in cheerfully, tossing his card onto the stack like he was just here for the vibes.

“One king,” Aizawa said smoothly. Izuku stared him down, suspicion burning in his chest. Something wasn’t right. It reeked of setup. He couldn’t explain it—he just knew.

"Liar."

A pause.

“Bold,” Aizawa murmured. He flipped the card.

King.

“No!” Izuku shouted, rising to his feet and pointed at Aizawa. “You bluffed two rounds in a row and then didn’t the third?! That’s ILLEGAL.”

“It’s called strategy,” Aizawa replied, utterly calm.

“I hate you,” Izuku muttered, dragging the stack toward himself.

“So dramatic,” Yamada said with a grin, ruffling Izuku’s hair. “You’re losing to a man who hasn’t blinked in ten minutes.” Izuku slowly turned to stare at him, deadpan. “I’m not the one with forty cards, Yamada.”

The grin on Yamada’s face faltered like he'd been physically struck. He clutched his chest in mock offense, nearly toppling over the back of his chair. “Oof. Wow. That was uncalled for. Right in the pride.” Izuku didn’t even try to hide the satisfaction curling at the edge of his mouth. The burn had landed. It felt good, just a little petty revenge for the chaos this game had become. “This isn’t a game,” he said, eyes narrowed. “It’s psychological warfare.”

“It’s a card game,” Aizawa deadpanned from across the table, his voice calm and maddeningly neutral.

It was not a card game. Not anymore. Atleast not to him. It was war—disguised in cheap cards and casual expressions. A crucible. And Izuku was being melted down in it, his pride bubbling like water on heat. He dropped a queen with more force than necessary. Yamada, grinning wide, slapped down a king right after.

“One ace,” Aizawa said evenly, barely glancing up.

Izuku froze.

He could have sworn all the aces had been played, right? He knew that. He’d been tracking it for four rounds. Unless Aizawa had lied earlier? No there was no chance, he was thinking this far ahead.

He didn’t even blink. “Liar.”

Aizawa turned the card over slowly, almost lazily.

Ace.

Izuku stilled and then groaned, dropped his head against the table with a dull thunk. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re predictable,” Aizawa replied, the faintest curve of a smirk tugging at his mouth. Izuku could see it now—how much he was enjoying this, even if he refused to show it fully. He was smug in the quietest, most infuriating way possible.

And then—like a knife slipping between his ribs—Aizawa laid down his final card with no flair, no drama. Just a silent declaration.

Game over.

Izuku didn’t just feel the loss in his pride. It hit deeper. It was the sharp sting of a challenge unmet. Like armor splitting at the seam. He wasn’t just frustrated—he was wounded.

“Midoriya?” Aizawa prompted, cool and patient, but the smirk hadn’t faded.

Izuku stared at the cards in his hand. Useless now. He could argue. Blame bad luck. Claim sabotage. But none of that would change the reality laid bare on the table.

He sighed, shoulders sinking. “You win.”

Aizawa leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest with a quiet kind of finality. “Told you. One mistake.”

Yamada threw his hands in the air like a sports commentator watching a last-minute goal. “That was WILD. Sho, seriously—join a tournament or something. Clean sweep.”

Aizawa shrugged, eyes half-lidded with that infuriatingly calm confidence. “Only if the opponents are sharp.”

Yeah. That wasn’t aimed at Yamada. Not even a little.

Izuku inhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, pulse still high. He wasn’t angry—he was focused. Driven. Already rewinding the game in his head, tracing every choice, every bluff, every twitch of expression. He would figure it out.

“I was close,” he muttered.

“You were,” Aizawa said, and his voice was softer now. Not gloating—teaching. “But close doesn’t count when the game’s about reading people.”

Izuku looked up at him, eyes narrowing. “You saying I’m easy to read?”

“I’m saying you’re intense,” Aizawa replied. “And sometimes, that makes your moves louder than you think.”

Izuku blinked.

It wasn’t a jab. It was an observation. But it still landed like a small blow to the chest. He hadn’t realized just how visible he could be. Could they always see through him this easily? That thought sent a sudden, sharp pang of fear curling through his ribs. What else had they noticed that he had thought he kept well hidden?

Before the silence could stretch too long, Yamada leaned forward between them, his grin wide enough to fill the room.

“Rematch?”

Izuku was already collecting the cards, hands moving fast, eyes gleaming with new determination. “Double or nothing.”

They’d been at it for hours.

What started as a “quick rematch before bed” had spiraled into a relentless war of attrition, fueled by sheer stubbornness and fraying patience. Izuku had lost track of how many rounds they’d played—six, maybe seven? Time blurred together like a bad dream. The only thing that mattered now was the desperate, gnawing hunger for victory.

And beneath that hunger, a colder edge: anxiety.

He couldn’t stop overthinking each move. Every twitch, every delay, every fidget of his hand felt like a broadcasted signal. A spotlight exposing him. He hated it—how easy he must be to read. Aizawa didn’t say much, but Izuku could feel it every time the man calmly called a bluff and nailed it. Like he could see straight through him.

Izuku shifted in his chair, jaw tight. He wasn’t used to being this visible. Not after learning how to hide.

Yamada slammed down another card with theatrical flair, blissfully unaware. “Two twos, baby! Trust me —I’m on fire this round!”

“Fire implies wins,” Aizawa muttered without looking up, casually dropping a single card onto the pile. “One three.”

Izuku blinked at his hand. The edges of the cards had started to blur hours ago. His mind, once sharp and calculating, now felt dulled—swamped by a strange cocktail of exhaustion, frustration, and something close to delirium. He’d been tracking every bluff, every twitch, every suspicious pause, but that razor edge was gone. Precision replaced by sheer stubborn spite.

He’d won three games so far. Aizawa had won four.

And somehow, despite losing every single time, Yamada still smiled like he’d conquered the world.

Izuku rubbed the back of his neck, heart heavy and weary. How had it come to this? He’d forgotten what time it was, forgotten the patrol he was supposed to be on, even forgotten how to blink without thinking about face cards and lies.

Yamada cackled beside him, drawing a fresh card with too much enthusiasm for this late hour. “Midoriya, you’re scaring me. Your poker face looks like you’re about to rob a casino.”

“I might,” Izuku muttered, placing a card face-down with surgical precision. “One four.”

Aizawa raised an eyebrow. “You’re starting to sound like you believe your own lies.”

Izuku didn’t even blink. “Only way to win.”

Aizawa studied him for a long moment, as if trying to pinpoint where the boy ended and the maniacal strategist began.

Then, calm and sharp: “Liar.”

Izuku hesitated, heart pounding. Was it a lie? He flipped the card over with a flick of his wrist.

Four.

A subtle twitch in Aizawa’s jaw was the only sign of his surprise. Yamada whooped, thrilled.

“Mido's gone feral!” he laughed. “You don’t even know what you’re playing anymore, do you?”

Izuku leaned forward, lacing his fingers together like a mob boss negotiating a hostage crisis. “I’ve achieved strategic madness. Even I don’t know what I’m doing. That makes me unstoppable.”

“You haven’t won in two games,” Aizawa reminded him with a dry smile.

“Unstoppable,” Izuku repeated, eyes burning with stubborn fire.

The game pressed on—round after round. Cards passed, bluffs layered over bluffs. Yamada was called out lying the most, unsurprisingly, but his grin never faded.

He cheered every time he played a card, somehow making losing look like a celebration. “Alright, my turn—one eight!” he declared, tossing a card down like a royal decree.

“You already played both your eights,” Aizawa said flatly.

“What? No way. Really?”

“Liar,” Izuku croaked, voice cracked and deeper than before from fatigue.

They flipped the card.

Seven.

Yamada gasped, scandalized. “Nooooo, my streak!”

“You never had one,” Aizawa and Izuku said together, almost laughing.

Midnight came and went unnoticed. Time lost all meaning. Izuku was close now—two cards left. A ten and a jack. He could still tie. He had to.

His eyes slipped closed for just half a second. He jerked upright, heart hammering. No. No, no, no. Too close now. He couldn’t lose again.

Yamada played a card. Aizawa followed.

Izuku placed his card without thinking.

“Liar,” Aizawa said smoothly, already reaching forward.

Izuku blinked. “Wait—I didn’t even say what card I was playing yet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Aizawa replied, voice calm, certain. His fingers brushed the edge of the card and flipped it over in one motion.

Nine.

Izuku stared. His mind blanked for a full beat.

“…Where did that even come from?” he whispered, genuine confusion settling in his chest like a fog. He could’ve sworn—no, he knew—that wasn’t in his hand a second ago.

Aizawa didn’t gloat. He didn’t need to. The tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth said everything.

Yamada winced, as if he'd just watched a puppy walk into traffic. “Aw, kid…” he said, wincing in sympathy.

Izuku felt his stomach drop. How had he slipped that far? He wasn’t even keeping track anymore. He wasn’t just losing the game—he was unraveling right there at the table. He stared down at his hand. Two cards a second ago—now almost ten. The exhaustion crashed over him like a tidal wave, heavy and relentless. He was done. Outplayed. Outlasted.

“I’m so confused,” he mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

Aizawa hummed, calmly placing his final card. “One queen.”

Silence stretched across the table.

Then Yamada leaned over, eyes wide. “Wait. Did you just—?”

“Win,” Aizawa confirmed, stretching back in his chair with ruthless efficiency.

“Nooooo,” Izuku groaned, collapsing forward. His forehead hit the table with a solid thunk. “I was supposed to tie. Tie! Losing by two is worse than losing by a landslide!”

“You fought bravely,” Yamada said solemnly, patting his back. “But the war is over.”

Izuku checked the clock. 12:15 AM.

“Bed,” Aizawa said simply, already stacking the cards with practiced ease.

Yamada stood with a yawn and stretch. “Alright, troops. I may have lost seven games in a row, but I won in spirit.”

“That’s not a thing,” Aizawa muttered.

“Don’t kill my vibe, Sho!”

Izuku didn’t move. His forehead still rested on the table. His body was heavy with defeat, but his soul—his soul was still gripping that last round with desperate fingers, screaming for a rematch, for another chance.

Aizawa rapped the table gently. “C’mon. You can plot your revenge tomorrow.”

Izuku lifted his head just enough to glare at him. “...You’re going to let me win eventually, right?”

Aizawa looked him straight in the eye. “No.”

Izuku squinted, exhausted but dead serious. “I will beat you.”

“I look forward to it,” Aizawa said, quieter now. Warmer.

Izuku had lost. But he’d remember this night forever. And next time? He was going to win. Even if it killed him.

*

The house had finally gone still.

The only sound was the soft click of cards being boxed up and the distant hum of the fridge — underscored by Midoriya's retreating footsteps as he dragged himself off to bed, groaning like he’d just lost a world championship instead of, y’know, a simple card game.

Hizashi chuckled to himself, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching Shouta slot the deck back into its case like he was filing a police report.

“You know,” Hizashi said, voice softer than usual, “that was a good plan.”

Shouta didn’t look up — just hummed faintly as he slid the box into the drawer.

“I mean it. With the whole dishes situation, when you tried to steal them.” Hizashi went on, padding over in socked feet. “It was a good idea to make it up to him.” Shouta shot him a slow, unamused side-eye. “I wasn’t trying to steal them.”

“Yeah,” Hizashi said, tone quieter now, “but he’s catching on. He knows we keep ‘accidentally’ getting to them first.”

“I know,” Shouta sighed, pressing his fingers to his temple.

“That’s why the card game was smart,” Hizashi continued, nudging him lightly with an elbow. “Good distraction. You know how he gets with anything that involves strategy—hyperfocused, stubborn, borderline feral.”

“He glared at me like I’d kicked a cat.”

“Only because he’s determined and stubborn,” Hizashi said, lips twitching. “Wonder where he gets that from.”

Shouta gave him a deadpan look. Hizashi grinned. “I’m just saying,” Hizashi continued, more thoughtful now, “it worked. You saw him. He was… happier.”

Shouta didn’t answer right away. They lingered in the calm that followed the chaos — the sharp laughter, the wild accusations of lying, the way Midoriya had refused to go to bed on a loss, but after one glare from Shouta he had shuffled off to bed. Now, there was only quiet. The kind Hizashi had come to treasure.

“Did you notice how I called him Mido?” Hizashi asked, voice quieter now—more careful, like the words might break if he spoke them too fast. “And he didn’t flinch? Didn’t get annoyed or shut down?”

Shouta didn’t answer right away. He was watching the hallway entrance where the boy had vanished moments ago, the fading echo of retreating footsteps still lingering in the silence. Slowly, he leaned back against the edge of the table, arms folding across his chest in a way that looked more like bracing than resting.

“Yeah,” Shouta said at last, voice low, thoughtful. “I noticed.”

Hizashi let out a soft breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. His gaze lingered on the hallway where Midoriya had disappeared minutes ago, like he half-expected the kid to peek back in. “God, Sho... that kid. He’s terrifyingly smart. Strategic. Plays cards like he’s mapping out a battlefield.” He paused, smile pulling at the corners of his mouth—touched with something gentler now. “And when he smiles? Really smiles? It’s like... you feel it.

Hizashi bent down and gently scooped up Fish, who was curled up and sound asleep on the floor. Cradling the cat against his chest, he let out a quiet breath. “That smile… it nearly knocked me flat,” he murmured. “He doesn’t give it away easily, but when he does? It’s real. Pure. Like it slips past all that armor before he even knows it’s there.”

Shouta didn’t smile—not exactly. But something in his face shifted. Something small and steady, like a thread pulled loose from the tight knot he usually held himself in.

Hizashi stroked Fish’s ears absently, his voice softer now. “He’s settling in. You feel it too, right? Little by little, it’s less like he’s just staying here. And more like… he’s ours.”

By the way Shouta said nothing, made it clear the man was deep in thought. But the way his eyes flicked to the empty chair Midoriya had claimed—and stayed there—said more than words could.

“You gave him that tonight,” Hizashi said gently. “A night to just be a kid. No pressure. Just fun.”

They didn’t really know what his other homes had been like.

Midoriya never talked about them, and neither of them had pushed. But they didn’t need the stories spelled out to understand the shape of them. It was in the way he always asked permission for the smallest things. How he apologized too quickly. How he watched their moods like they might turn on a dime.

It hadn’t been good. That much was clear.

Shouta sighed. “He still lost.”

“Yeah, well, you still argue with the coffee maker and sleep under a twenty-pound blanket. Nobody’s perfect.”

That earned a tired huff of amusement from Shouta. “You really know how to kill the mood.”

Hizashi grinned, leaning forward to peck Shouta on the cheek. His spine ached, and the weight of the day pressed heavy on his shoulders—but he felt warm. Grounded. Like something fragile had settled into place without shattering.

The house was still now, full of quiet. Midoriya was asleep. Safe under their roof. His things in drawers. His shoes at the door. His chair at the table.

He’d smiled tonight when he thought he’d won.

Not the careful kind he gave when he thought someone expected it—not the polite, practiced one that flickered and vanished the second attention shifted. No, this one was different. It had been quick, yes, but real. Unthinking. It bloomed without hesitation and lingered just a little too long to be accidental. Like, for one small moment, he forgot to be on guard.

The best part? Midoriya hadn’t even noticed he was smiling. It had just... happened.

And somehow, that made it feel even more sacred. Like watching something fragile begin to heal, without even realizing it was broken.

Hizashi held onto that moment like a match struck in the dark. Small. Bright. Precious.

And if that smile—unguarded, unconscious, and honest—was something Midoriya could start giving himself?

Then Hizashi would do whatever it took to protect it. Even if it meant sitting through a hundred more late-night games, even if it meant watching him lose and grumble and press his forehead to the table like the world had ended. Because next time, maybe that smile would last even longer.

“That’s seven games in a row I lost,” Hizashi added with a dramatic sigh. “I think I’m cursed.”

“You never had a chance,” Shouta said flatly. “You tell on yourself every hand.”

“Maybe. But at least I look good losing.”

This time, Shouta let the corner of his mouth lift — just a little. Hizashi caught it and leaned in, close.

“You do know,” he murmured, “we’re gonna have to do that again and when we do he’s gonna come for blood.”

“I expect nothing less.” Shouta lingered a moment longer, eyes still resting on the chair Midoriya had nearly conquered like a battlefield and the blanket he’d wrapped himself in during the last rounds hung halfway off the seat.

“I’ll head out now,” Shouta murmured turning towards the door.

Hizashi frowned but didn’t argue. “Still going ou?”

Shouta nodded, already reaching for the scarf by the door. “Just for a few hours. Quiet patrol. I need to check in with the brat at some point.”

“You say that every time and come back with a stab wound.”

“Only twice.”

“Three if you count the screwdriver.”

“That didn’t count. It was barely embedded. And all of those happened last year. I'm more careful now.”

Hizashi gave a long-suffering sigh. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Shouta pulled his scarf tight with practiced fingers. “You’re lucky I’m not out longer.”

“That a promise?”

Shouta didn’t answer — his eyes flicked one last time to the hallway. The soft kitchen light cast everything in gold, and the faint creak of the floor told him Izuku had finally stopped pacing and made it to bed.

He pulled down his goggles.

“Sho.”

He paused.

“Thanks,” Hizashi said. Not loud. Not joking. Just quiet and sincere.

Shouta blinked once behind the lenses. Then: “Don’t thank me yet. He’s going to make us suffer next time we play.”

And with that, he stepped into the cold, the door shutting gently behind him — the warmth of their home sealed safely inside.

His patrol was just beginning. But his thoughts lingered on green eyes and card games, and the rare, precious sound of Izuku Midoriya’s laughter.

*

The morning light slipped through Izuku’s curtains, far too bright for how tired he felt. He groaned, dragging himself out of bed with all the grace of a soggy rag. Every limb ached like he’d run a marathon—but no, just card games. Intense, rage-inducing, dignity-stealing card games.

He shuffled into the kitchen, hair a disaster and hoodie hanging off one shoulder. “Morning…”

Yamada turned from the stove, grinning. “Well look who survived the night!”

Izuku slumped into a chair with a grunt. “Barely. I think I lost brain cells.”

“You and me both, listener.” Yamada flipped a pancake. “You played well! Beat Aizawa 3 times.”

“Yeah, well he beat me five times.”

“He has years of experience.”

Izuku rolled his eyes. He also had years of experience lying so he should of won. “Where’s Aizawa?”

Yamada didn’t even turn. “Sleeping still. I don’t think he got home from patrol until an hour ago.”

Izuku froze. Shit.

Patrol.

He’d completely forgotten.

Izuku quickly turned his head to glance at the clock. 8.02am. Aizawa normally finished between 5 and 6am, so considering it was just after 8, said everything.

Just as Yamada slid a plate in front of him—blueberry pancakes, that looking suspiciously competent—Izuku shot up from his chair.

“I have to grab something from my room—be right back!”

He was already halfway down the hall before Yamada could respond, blinking after him with a spatula still in hand.

“…Oookay.”

When Izuku got to his room, he shut the door with a soft click and made a beeline for his closet. He dug past a tangle of hoodies and bags until his fingers closed around his burner phone—tucked away in a shoebox like some cursed relic.

He unlocked it and immediately grimaced.

Six messages. All from Eraser.

Well, shit.

The first one came in just after 1.30 a.m.:

Either it’s a miracle we haven’t crossed paths or you’re dead in an alley.

The second followed barely a minute later:

Please tell me it’s the first one.

Message three dropped at 2:35 a.m.:

Are you patrolling tonight?

The fourth hit twenty minutes later:

Kid, if you're dead in a ditch somewhere, I’ll drag you back just to kill you myself.

Then at 3:40 a.m., another:

This isn’t like you. If you’re laying low, fine. But silence isn’t your style.

And finally, just before 6 a.m., the last message:

I need to know you’re breathing. One message. That’s all I’m asking.

He checked the time. It had been two hours since that last message landed.

A flicker of guilt twisted in his chest. If he had been dead, he knew exactly who would’ve carried the weight of it. Aizawa would’ve blamed himself.

Izuku hated that.

But... another part of him—the part still bitter about being absolutely wrecked in last night’s card game—felt a flicker of satisfaction. Aizawa had made him spiral with every smug bluff and unreadable stare.
Now it looked like Ghost was driving Eraser a little bit crazy too. Call it karma.

Izuku stared at the screen for a moment longer, thumb hovering. His mouth curled into a smirk as he tapped out a reply.

You miss me that much? Kinda cute, actually.

He hit send before he could second-guess it. Eraser was probably going to throttle him for the attitude alone just like he had for his last stunt.

Two days ago, when he’d crossed paths with the man during a patrol, he’d deliberately pissed off and led a group of thugs causing trouble straight into Eraser’s route—just to see how fast he could react.

He hadn’t stuck around long after that, but he had waved from the nearest rooftop as Eraser glared up at him mid-fight.

In his defense, Eraser had told him that if he didn’t think he could handle something, he should call for backup. Technically, that’s what he’d done. Sort of.

Not that he’d helped. Not even a little.

Izuku had just stayed up high, perched on a ledge like a smug gargoyle, watching it all unfold. He knew Eraser could take them—three guys with flashy quirks and not a brain cell between them. Once their quirks were gone, they crumbled fast.

Totally worth it.

It felt good to be the one messing with him for once.

He knew Aizawa had basically pulled an all-nighter. He would be dead asleep in his room. Which happened to be just down the hall.

But less than thirty seconds after his message sent, his phone buzzed.

Don’t flatter yourself. I just didn’t want to waste time identifying your corpse.

Izuku snorted. Okay, fair.

Another message came through almost instantly.

Glad you're alive. Next time, answer me. I spent the last hour of my patrol looking in every dark alley for you.

The smirk slipped from Izuku’s face.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, the weight of it catching up to him. He had spent time looking for him? Why? Why would he waste time doing that?

He texted back before he could talk himself out of it.

Yeah. Sorry. I’m good. Couldn’t make it to patrol.

Part of that was true, part of it wasn’t. He most definitely could of patrolled after the card game fiasco. Just as Aizawa had. However, it seemed he was too tired to even acknowledge the fact he had patrol.

He was about to put his phone away when another message lit up his screen. Unknown number.

New number who dis

Izuku rolled his eyes.

Rin, you know exactly who this is.

Aw that was fast. Anyway I was just messaging you to show you I have a new phone! :D

I’m gonna block you.

NOOOOOO DON’T

Emergencies only.

There was a solid thirty seconds of silence before another message popped up.

what if the emergency is that i’m bored.

Izuku groaned and locked his phone without answering. He shoved it back into the box at the bottom of his closet, stuffed an old hoodie on top, and closed the door with finality. He was definitely going to regret giving Rin his number.

But the silence that followed felt different—less like isolation and more like… peace.
His stomach growled.

Right. Breakfast.

When he’d left the kitchen earlier, there had been exactly one pancake on his plate.

Now, as Izuku stepped back in, he froze. The single pancake had multiplied. There were five. A whole stack. Towering. Steaming. Syrup already dripping down the sides like a waterfall.

At the counter, Yamada was mid-bite into his own pancake stack, looking far too proud of himself.

“I—what happened?!” Izuku pointed accusingly at the plate. “There was one! One pancake! Where did the other four come from?!”

Yamada gave a sunny grin. “I got a little carried away,” he said brightly. “But who doesn’t like pancakes!”

Izuku stared at the food like it had betrayed him. “This feels like entrapment.”

“Correction: it’s breakfast,” Yamada said, taking another huge bite of his own. “Also, you’re welcome.”

Grumbling, Izuku took a seat. “You’re lucky these smell good,” he muttered, stabbing into the top pancake.

They were good. Fluffy, golden, soft in the middle with just the right crisp at the edge. Sweet but not too sweet.

He made it through two full pancakes. Halfway through the third, he dropped his fork and groaned.

“Nope. I’m out. I physically can’t.”

Yamada blinked at him. “Only two and a half?”

“I’m not a black hole,” Izuku said flatly, pushing the plate away. “This is enough food to sedate a pro hero.”

“Guess I’ll have to finish the rest,” Yamada said with mock sorrow, already eyeing the leftovers.

Izuku just leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes fall closed for a second. The kitchen was warm, the air smelled like syrup and cinnamon, and even if his stomach was too full—it was nice.

Really nice.

And maybe, despite the food coma setting in, he was okay with that.

Chapter Text

A week had passed since school let out, and summer was finally in full swing.

Izuku thought he was going to hate being around both heroes. But it wasn’t as bad as he thought.

They mostly let him be during the day. Yamada would try atleast once a day to get Izuku to go on a trip with him, but as soon as it was clear he was uninterested the man didn’t push.

Right now, everything was peaceful.

He was sprawled on the couch with a book he’d borrowed from the library two days ago—Yamada had insisted on taking him again, calling it a “literary adventure.” The book he chose was pretty good. Quiet. Calm. Nobody demanding his attention or trying to pull him into a movie marathon or ask him a million questions.

So of course, that was exactly when Yamada collapsed dramatically onto the couch beside him.

Izuku startled as the cushions dipped, fingers tightening around his book. Yamada was grinning like a man with a plan. Never a good sign.

“We have a surprise for you, kiddo!”

Izuku stared at him, wary. Slowly closed his book “Does this surprise involve me going into the guest room to pack my bags?” he asked flatly.

“What?! No!” Yamada gasped, looking slightly alarmed. Izuku opened his book back up. “Alright. What does it involve, then?”

“Nuh-uh. It’s a surprise. If I told you now, it’ll ruin it!”

A low voice came from behind him—one Izuku definitely didn’t jump at. Nope. Not him.

“Just get dressed.”

Izuku turned to see Aizawa looming behind the couch like a sleep-deprived shadow. He narrowed his eyes. “So neither of you are going to tell me where we’re going.”

“Like I said—” Yamada started.

“—it would ruin the surprise. I know,” Izuku sighed. He snapped his book shut and got to his feet, dragging himself toward the guest room.

Just as he reached the doorway, Yamada called after him, voice sing-song and way too cheerful, “It’s gonna be pretty hot today, so maybe ditch the hoodie! Wouldn’t want you to overheat!”

Yeah, right.

There was no way he wasn’t wearing a hoodie. Not with the scars. There weren’t that many, not really—not by his standards. But they were… noticeable. One glance, and alarms would go off. They’d ask questions. Because no kid his age should have what he has.

Instead, he dug through his mostly empty drawers and pulled out a green long-sleeved turtleneck. Breathable, but full coverage. Perfect.

When he stepped back into the hallway, Aizawa and Yamada were already at the door, like they'd been waiting for him. Izuku blinked, caught off guard—not by their speed, but by their outfits. Aizawa was wearing red. A red tank top, of all things, with a black jacket tied around his waist like someone from a retro workout video.

Yamada, on the other hand, was in a muted outfit—black shorts and a gray sleeveless hoodie that looked about three decibels quieter than his usual style.

Izuku froze in the doorway, thoroughly confused. It was like they’d swapped aesthetics while he was in the other room.

Aizawa was the first to notice him, crouched by the door lacing up his boots. "You know we got you short-sleeve shirts for a reason," he said.

“I get cold easily,” Izuku replied without missing a beat.

Aizawa didn’t push, but Yamada’s face twitched—just for a second. The grin faltered, then snapped back into place like a light flickering on. “Looking good, Listener!” he said with a wink, voice back to full volume.

Izuku narrowed his eyes slightly.What was that about?

The car ride wasn’t as loud as he expected.

Yamada was driving, which meant music—low for once, probably on Aizawa’s request since it was still pretty early. Something mellow hummed through the speakers as the car moved steadily through the city. Aizawa had the passenger seat reclined just enough to look like he might doze off, sunglasses pulled down over his eyes.

Izuku sat in the back, arms crossed loosely, watching the scenery pass. They weren’t heading toward the usual places—no library, no grocery store, no park. Not the ice cream shop he and Midnight had gone to. Damn. And not UA. He’d never been with them to the school. But he still knew where it was.

He leaned forward slightly between the seats. “You know... the orphanage is the other direction.”

Izuku watched them trade a glance—quick, silent. Then Yamada met his eyes in the rearview mirror.

“We’re not going to the orphanage, Midoriya,” he said, calm and clear.

Izuku raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“We’re not tricking you,” Aizawa added without looking back. “Relax.”

That 'Relax' didn’t help. It had the opposite effect.

Izuku slumped back in his seat and stared out the window, trying to figure out what kind of summer-weather-appropriate, parental-weird-outfit-level surprise they could possibly be taking him to.

The drive continued in silence—well, relative silence—until the car finally slowed in front of a small building tucked between a bookstore and what looked like a flower shop.
Izuku squinted through the window.

A café?

They parked. Yamada shut off the engine with a flourish, then turned around in his seat to grin at Izuku like he was about to deliver life-changing news.

Izuku frowned. “We came all this way… for coffee?”

“You’ll see!”

They all got out of the car, and Izuku took another look at the place. It didn’t seem particularly mysterious. There was a chalkboard out front advertising seasonal drinks and discounted scones.
Aizawa shut the door behind him with a soft click—and for some reason, he looked… almost excited. Like, subtly. The corners of his mouth were fighting not to lift, and his hands twitched slightly like he didn’t know what to do with them.

What the hell was happening? Aizawa never looked excited...

Yamada elbowed him gently. “He’s been looking forward to this all week,” he whispered, then shot him a wink and disappeared through the door, bells chiming softly above him.

Izuku blinked. He turned to Aizawa. “Okay. Seriously. What is this?”

“You’ll see,” Aizawa said, and walked in after Yamada.

Izuku sighed and followed, ready for whatever weird surprise they had orchestrated.

What he wasn’t ready for was the woman standing at the front counter—hugging Aizawa, who looked decidedly unamused by the whole thing.

Midnight.

“Hi there, sweetie,” she purred the moment she saw him, smiling far too knowingly. “Glad you came!”

Izuku stopped just inside the door. He really wasn’t prepared for whatever this was if Midnight was involved. “…Midnight?”

She laughed—loud and unapologetic—resting a hand on her hip as she stood beside Aizawa, her long skirt swaying with the movement. “You wound me, Iz! Call me Nemuri, or Aunty Nem!”

“Or just don’t call her anything. If you ignore her long enough, she’ll leave you alone,” Aizawa deadpanned.

He took a cautious step back, suddenly aware of just how underprepared he was for whatever this was.

“Oh, don’t look so alarmed. You’ll love it.” She gestured toward a side door behind her, painted soft green and cracked slightly open.

Right on cue, a faint meow drifted out.

Wait.

Izuku stepped forward just enough to peek past her shoulder—and saw a fluffy white tail flick through the doorway.

Cats?

Yamada reappeared from inside with a huge smile and two kittens in his arms. “Welcome to the best part of your summer, Listener! It’s a cat café!”

Izuku blinked.

He couldn’t stop the way his eyes lit up—just a little—but quickly tried to rein it back in, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

“Oh” he said, flatly. Too flat.

Aizawa had already disappeared further into the café, barely waiting for them to finish their dramatic reveal.

Nemuri turned back to him with a smile that was somehow both warm and mildly terrifying. “Have you ever been to a cat café, darling?”

Izuku shook his head. “No, I haven't.”

“Well, today’s your lucky day.” Nemuri began scratching the ears of one of the cats nestled in Yamada’s arms, her tone light and amused. “We’ll grab the drinks. You go find Aizawa before he passes out with a small colony on him.”

Izuku blinked. “That’s… oddly specific.”

Nemuri just grinned. “Experience.”

He pushed open the green door and stepped inside.

It was like walking into another world.

The lighting was soft and warm, casting a gentle glow across the room. Plush floor cushions were scattered around low tables, and the air carried a cozy mix of coffee, warm wood, and the faint, herbal scent of catnip. There had to be at least fifteen cats spread across the space—lounging on sunlit window sills, curled into hammocks that swayed gently from the ceiling, and perched like tiny monarchs atop high shelves.

And right in the center of it all, crouched comfortably near the floor like some kind of sleepy animal whisperer, was Aizawa.

Five cats had already claimed him. One was curled in his lap. Another was perched on his shoulder. A third was gently batting at his hair, more curious than mischievous, while the remaining two sat directly in front of him, accepting treats from his hand like worshippers at a shrine.

He wasn’t even phased. He was murmuring softly to them, completely absorbed, like this was his natural state.

Izuku stared for a long moment. Then he stepped closer.

“You really are a crazy cat man,” he said dryly.

Aizawa didn’t even look up. “It’s not crazy if it’s mutual,” he replied, stroking the ear of the cat on his lap.

One of the kittens glanced over at Izuku and let out a high-pitched meow, tail flicking. Another launched itself from a nearby shelf directly onto Izuku’s shoulder. He froze. “What the—”

Nemuri’s voice called out cheerfully from the door. “They like you!” She entered a moment later, expertly balancing a wooden tray with two drinks, as she weaved around lounging cats with practiced ease, finally settling it on the low table nestled between floor cushions.

Yamada followed close behind, carrying two more drinks and somehow managing not to trip over a cat winding around his ankles. “Told ya this place was magic,” he said with a grin, carefully setting the cups down beside hers. “Cats know good vibes when they see ’em.”

Izuku glanced down at the cats weaving between his legs and thought, Yeah, or maybe they just smell the snacks.

“Alright,” Yamada announced cheerfully, passing the drinks around. “One black coffee for crazy Catman.”

Aizawa grunted in approval, already shifting one arm carefully to take the mug without disturbing the two kittens napping in his lap.

Nemuri lowered herself gracefully onto one of the cushions, her long skirt flowing like a blanket. She picked up her drink, a rose-colored tea in a delicate glass, steam curling from the top. “Mine’s hibiscus. It’s meant to be calming.”

Izuku lowered himself onto a cushion a bit more cautiously, eyeing the drink placed in front of him. Tall glass. Whipped cream on top. Chocolate drizzle.

“…What is this?” he asked.

Yamada beamed. “Chocolate milkshake, baby!”

Izuku blinked. He’d heard about these before, but he’d never actually had one—certainly not at the orphanage, and definitely never at any of his previous foster homes. So this was a shock. “I’ve never had one.”

There was a collective pause. Nemuri actually set her tea down with a dramatic gasp. “You’re kidding,” she said, scandalized.

Aizawa didn’t even look up. “He’s not.” Izuku frowned slightly but took the straw anyway. He took a sip—slowly, suspiciously. It was…Sweet. Cold. Smooth. Definitely chocolate. His eyes widened just a little. He tried to play it off. “It’s… alright.”

It was the best thing he had ever tasted.

Yamada looked like he might actually cry from happiness.

“It’s life-changing, that’s what it is,” Nemuri said with a wink, then gently nudged a passing cat off the table. “No, sir, that’s not for you.”

One of the larger cats—a fluffy tortoiseshell—had climbed into Izuku’s lap without warning. He stiffened for a moment, but the cat simply curled up like a warm, living cushion. It reminded him of Fish.

“Guess you’re part of the furniture now,” Yamada joked, taking a sip from his own cup—a hazelnut iced coffee topped with a tiny cat-shaped cookie balanced on the rim.

Izuku glanced down at the cat, which was now purring loudly. “Is this… normal?”

“Absolutely,” Aizawa replied without even glancing up. A third kitten was nestled comfortably in the crook of his elbow. “You move, you lose lap privileges.” Nearby, a gray cat took an interest in Yamada’s long ponytail, batting at the strands with calculated mischief. “Oi!” Yamada laughed, ducking and twisting. “Hey, man, this is styled! That took effort!”

“You say that like they care,” Aizawa murmured into his coffee.

“Rude,” Yamada sniffed, but didn’t swat the cat away. Instead, he pulled a treat from his pocket and offered it up as a bribe. The cat accepted with smug satisfaction.

Izuku slowly relaxed, his fingers drifting to the cat in his lap. It blinked up at him before tucking its head into the crook of his arm.

“You’re very warm,” Nemuri whispered, watching him with a smile that felt less performative and more genuine.

Izuku looked away quickly. “Its hot and I’m wearing a turtleneck.”

She hummed. “Sure.”

They slipped into a quiet rhythm—sipping drinks, trading lazy banter, occasionally shifting to accommodate a demanding feline.

Izuku didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to. The soft hum of the café, the chill of the cup against his fingers the slight weight of the cat in his lap—it was enough.

For once, no one was asking anything of him. No pressure.

Just a milkshake. And cats.

Weirdly… he didn’t hate it.

Nemuri was halfway through sipping her tea when she leaned forward slightly, fixing Izuku with a casual smirk. “I must ask,” she began, tone light, “which high school are you thinking of going to? Surely U.A., right? There’s no way you wouldn’t get in—with your parents and all.”

Izuku’s hand tightened slightly around his milkshake glass. He didn’t look up. “They’re my foster parents,” he corrected quietly. Then, after a beat, added, “And… I kind of thought I’d just keep doing high school online. Like middle school. It’s easier that way. Y’know—for foster kids.”

He didn’t say the rest: It would be awkward to be around Yamada and Aizawa after they send him back...

The table went quiet for a moment, just the soft clink of Aizawa setting his cup down and a cat purring somewhere near his feet.

Yamada jumped in, voice upbeat but gentle. “Kiddo, I really think in-person school could be good for you! You’d get a more hands-on learning experience—and hey, you’d even make some friends.”

Friends.

Yeah, right.

Izuku stared down at the whipped cream now melting into the top of his milkshake. They all expected him to just… go to school, make friends, act like a normal kid. But it wasn’t that simple. Sure, it might start off okay. People might smile and talk to him and sit near him in class.

But once they found out who he was—what he was—how long would that last?

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “Yeah… maybe.”

Yamada opened his mouth to say something else, but Aizawa beat him to it, looking up from the cat curled in his lap. “No pressure.” Izuku met the mans gaze. “We’re not going to shove you into anything you’re not ready for,” Aizawa added. “It’s your decision.”

That made something twist in Izuku’s chest. Not bad exactly—just unfamiliar. Like trying to breathe in a room that wasn’t full of smoke.

“Thanks,” he said softly, not quite sure who he was thanking.

One of the cats rubbed against his leg, purring loudly. He reached down to scratch behind its ears, letting the silence settle.

Nemuri shifted gears, sensing the moment. “Well, if you do end up at U.A., I expect to see you in my class. And I won’t go easy on you just ‘cause you’re cute.”

Yamada choked on his drink. “Kayama!”

Izuku flushed and looked away, ears pink.

“Okay, okay,” she said, laughing. “I’ll behave. For now.”

Aizawa muttered something into his coffee that sounded suspiciously like, “Doubt it.”

The tension eased again, laughter circling the table like steam from their mugs. Izuku didn’t laugh exactly—but he didn’t stay silent either. He stayed seated, the cat still warm in his lap, the faint taste of chocolate still lingering on his tongue.

He wasn’t sure about school. Or friends. Or where this whole situation was heading.

Aizawa suddenly stood up, carefully brushing off the mountain of cats that had claimed him like some kind of throne. A few gave lazy protests, one even tried to climb back up as he walked away, but he ignored them with the calm resignation of a man used to this exact routine.

Izuku watched him leave in silence, a little curious. Aizawa didn’t say a word—just slipped out through a side door that seemed to lead toward the café counter.

A few minutes later, he returned, balancing four small plates like an experienced waiter. Each one had a scone perched on it, still warm, dusted lightly with powdered sugar and served with tiny dishes of jam and cream. He lowered them onto the table with precision before sitting back down, adjusting his cushion like nothing had happened.

“Thanks, babe,” Yamada said brightly, already grabbing one of the plates and pulling it toward himself.

Nemuri turned to him, eyes wide with mock horror. “Please tell me you’ve at least had a scone before.”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

There was a beat of silence. She clutched her chest like he’d just told her he’d never had oxygen before. “What do people even feed you? Oh my god. You poor, deprived child.”

“I eat food,” Izuku said, a little defensively.

“Clearly not the right kind,” she huffed. Then pointed dramatically at him. “That’s it. I’m organizing a weekend where I kidnap you, and we eat nothing but sugary junk food until you understand what happiness tastes like.”

Izuku’s eyes widened. “Is that legal?”

“No,” Aizawa said flatly, already buttering his scone.

“Who cares?” She replied, waving him off. “It’s for a good cause.”

Yamada laughed, nudging a small saucer of jam toward Izuku. “Try it, kiddo. I promise it’ll blow your mind.”

Izuku picked up the scone with cautious hands, examining it like it might explode. He spread some jam on a bite, then tasted it. Sweet. Buttery. Soft, a little crumbly. Warm. “…Okay,” he admitted. “This is good.”

“Victory,” Nemuri whispered.

One of the cats jumped up next to Izuku, eyeing his plate with suspicious intent. He instinctively shielded it. “Not for you.”

Yamada chuckled. “See? You’re already learning café survival skills.” Another cat flopped over onto Aizawa’s foot. He didn’t even react. It was weird, Izuku thought, taking another bite. Not bad-weird, just… new. He wasn’t used to being fed like this, teased like this, included like this.

But maybe he could get used to it.

Maybe.

When they stepped out of the cat café, the heat hit Izuku like a punch.

He flinched instinctively, one arm rising to shield his face from the sun. Okay—okay, he was very glad he hadn’t worn the hoodie. The turtleneck was still warm, but at least he wasn’t baking alive. “You alright?” Aizawa questioned beside him, his voice dry as the pavement beneath their feet.

Izuku glanced at him. “I’m fine.”

The four of them began walking down a broad, clean street. Izuku didn’t recognize this part of the city. It was too polished, too perfect—designer storefronts, neatly pruned trees, cafes with flower boxes. The kind of place that smelled like money even through the heat haze.

He didn’t like it. It made his skin itch, like he didn’t belong just by breathing the air.

The others didn’t seem to notice. Yamada was chatting with Nemuri about some show they’d watched, Aizawa trailing a step behind like usual. Izuku kept pace, but a part of him tugged inward, pulling tight.

They eventually turned onto a quieter path that opened up beside a wide, slow-moving river. The sounds of the city faded, replaced with the distant hum of conversation, laughter, and the spray of water.

It was a small riverside park—bright grass, shaded benches, families spread out on picnic rugs. But what caught Izuku’s attention was the splash pad up ahead: a small waterpark area with sprinklers, fountains, and jets of mist. Kids of all ages ran through the spray, laughing and shrieking, clothes plastered to their skin, shoes slapping against the wet pavement.

Izuku slowed, eyes drawn to the chaos.

Part of him—a buried, long-forgotten part—ached to run through the water, to feel it cool his burning skin, to laugh freely just because. He could almost picture it, the rush of cold against heat, the carefree joy. But another part of him stiffened—the part that remembered the scars hidden beneath his sleeves. He wasn’t a normal kid. And because of that, he didn’t deserve this.

And that was exactly when Yamada’s hand landed gently on his shoulder. “Hey,” he said, grinning down at him, hair already starting to frizz in the humidity. “Wanna go cool off with the rest of the gremlins?”

Izuku opened his mouth to refuse, instinctively.

But before he could speak, Aizawa spoke up, tone lazy but pointed.“You don’t have to go in if you don’t want to. But if you do, we’ll be right here.”

Izuku looked between them—Nemuri lounging on a bench nearby with her shoes already off, Yamada beaming, Aizawa standing with his hands shoved in his pockets like he didn’t care either way.

And he hesitated.

Just for a second.

“…Maybe just my feet,” he mumbled, already kicking his shoes off.

Yamada whooped like he’d just won a prize, and Nemuri let out a dramatic cheer that turned a few heads. Izuku rolled his eyes but felt something loosen in his chest. He stepped forward, barefoot on the sun-warmed path, until the mist hit his skin like a gentle shock.

*

Shouta let the sun sink into his shoulders as he leaned back against the bench. The kids’ laughter echoed through the small park, bright and shrill, the splash pad alive with movement—bare feet slapping against wet pavement, water arcing high, mist catching the sunlight like scattered glitter.

Midoriya had drifted toward the edge of it, shoes off, pant legs already damp. He stepped into the mist like someone testing the water for the first time, cautious but curious. Not running, not shouting—just… being. Letting the spray hit his arms, then lifting a hand like he wanted to catch it.

Shouta glanced over. Nemuri had kicked off her sandals, her toes tapping to a rhythm only she could hear. Hizashi, sitting cross-legged on the grass in front of them, was already halfway through a bottle of water and delivering exaggerated play-by-play commentary about the water jets like it was a televised event.

“Look at him!” Nemuri said from her spot on the bench beside Shouta, her voice warm. She turned to them. “How have things been?”

“He’s easing up,” Hizashi said, shielding his eyes as he watched Midoriya. “Took him a minute, but I think we’re seeing progress! Kid’s loosening up!”

Midoriya stood near one of the gentler jets—the kind that arched low and steady. He let the water splash over his feet before crouching down, running his fingers through it like he was trying to figure out how it worked. His hair had started to curl from the mist, sticking up in odd directions.

“He’s acting like a normal kid,” Shouta said, his voice quiet, thoughtful.

Nemuri gave a soft hum of agreement, then tilted her head. “Shouldn’t he get to act like one, though?”

Shouta wasnt exaclty sure how to answer that so he didn't, instead he let the breeze roll over him, eyes half-lidded, the heat soaking in. It was rare to feel this… still.

For a few minutes, they all sat in silence.

And then, Hizashi’s voice dropped—quiet, like he wasn’t sure he should say it out loud. “…Did you notice how small he looks?”

Shouta didn’t respond right away. He had. The moment Midoriya had stepped out of his room that morning, bleary-eyed and wrapped in silence, Shouta had done a double take. It was the first time they’d seen him in something other than his usual hoodie—just a plain, green long-sleeved turtleneck, thin and a little too big.

Shouta blinked slowly, gaze drifting toward Hizashi. “…Yeah,” he said quietly. “I saw.”

“I mean, I always knew he was small,” Hizashi went on, more thoughtful than worried. “But he’s really skinny under all those hoodies.”

He couldn’t shake the image of Midoriya, fragile and withdrawn, like a ghost barely holding himself together beneath that oversized turtleneck. It wasn’t just small—it felt like a quiet warning.

“We don’t know anything for sure,” Shouta said. “And I’m not going to make it a thing unless there’s something to make.”

“Right,” Hizashi said, but his eyes stayed on the boy. “Still. Worth keeping in mind.”

Midoriya kicked at a puddle, then mumbled something under his breath when it splashed higher than expected. He shook his hands out, blinking water from his lashes.

The quiet stretch of contentment lasted all of another minute before Hizashi groaned dramatically and flopped backward onto the grass like a melting popsicle. “Ughhh. I’m overheating,” he groaned, arm flung across his face. “I’m gonna combust. Tell my story, Nem…”

Nemuri didn’t even look up. “Tell it yourself, you drama queen.”

Shouta sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He knew where this was going to go as he watched Hizashi get to his feet. “Hizashi. It’s for kids.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Nemuri leaned her head back and laughed. “He is a kid. Just trapped in a grown man’s body.”

Hizashi turned around, grinning like a cat who’d just been invited onto the counter. “Exactly! Someone gets it!”

Before either of them could say more, brushing grass off his shorts and heading toward the splash pad with all the enthusiasm of a five-year-old on a sugar rush. Shouta watched him go, resigned. “He’s going to—”

Before the sentence was even done, Hizashi was crouching beside Midoriya with mock innocence, hands behind his back. Midoriya looked up, startled, and barely had time to react before Hizashi gave him a gentle—but deliberate—shove sideways.

Right into the direct path of a high-pressure jet.

The water caught him square in the side, sending a solid arc across his chest and shoulder. Midoriya let out a startled yelp, stumbling back a step and blinking through the spray. But instead of retreating, he slowly turned his head toward Hizashi, a raised brow accompanying a dry, knowing smirk—one that didn’t quite belong on a fourteen-year-old’s face.

Shouta shifted on the bench, sitting up a little. That was different. It wasn’t the fierce, competitive smirk he wore when he crushed Hizashi at Uno. No, this one had a sly, almost mischievous spark to it—like he was daring Hizashi to try again, but also having a bit of fun with the whole thing. Playful, confident, and just a little bit cheeky. It was a glimpse of the kid beneath all the weight he carried—lighter, sharper, and definitely up for a challenge.

Midoriya didn’t say a word. Just pivoted on bare feet, darted to the closest water jets—the kind kids could swivel and aim.

Hizashi hadn’t even noticed. He was still whooping to himself, doing a little victory dance with his arms raised like he’d just won a wrestling match.

Midoriya adjusted the nozzle.

Took aim.

Fired.

The stream nailed Hizashi directly in the side of the head with a satisfying splat, sending his hair flying and water dripping down his face in rivulets. He froze mid-celebration, arms still in the air, mouth open in an exaggerated gasp. “Betrayed!” he cried out, wiping at his eyes. “The audacity!”

Nemuri bursted into laughter. “Direct hit!”

Shouta chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as Hizashi staggered in a slow, dramatic circle like he’d been mortally wounded.

Midoriya didn’t even try to hide the smile this time. It tugged full at his cheeks, his eyes squinting from the sun and from how hard he was trying not to laugh. He cranked the jet again, not quite aiming, just letting the arc sweep back and forth near Hizashi’s legs.

“Mercy!” Hizashi called, holding his hands up in surrender. “I raise the white flag!”

Midoriya dropped the stream. Only for a second. Then hit him again. Headshot. Twice. Nemuri was doubled over now, snorting with laughter. “He’s ruthless,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “He’s a mini you!”

“I regret nothing!” Hizashi called back, already lunging toward the next water cannon. “Except underestimating my opponent!”

Shouta leaned back again, letting the warm breeze drift across his face as water war waged across the splash pad. Midoriya was grinning now, moving with real confidence—ducking and dodging behind the curved jets, quick on his feet, laughter caught in his throat.

*

By the time they were walking back to the car, the sun was starting its slow descent, turning the river into gold.

Izuku trailed behind the others, shoes squishing with every step, his clothes clinging to him like damp paper. He hadn’t planned to get that wet—he really hadn’t. But once Yamada had shoved him into the jets, the line had been crossed. The war had begun.

Now both of them were soaked head to toe, Yamada's hair plastered to his scalp in flattened spikes, his shirt dripping like he’d fallen in a lake. Not that it bothered him in the slightest. If anything, he seemed thrilled.

“I’m just saying,” Yamada said, waving a hand animatedly as they walked, “we could stop for soba—classic, clean, refreshing—but we could also go full summer festival and get yakisoba from that food truck on 3rd Street—you know the one, Sho!—or hear me out, ice cream first, then food?”

“I’m not eating dessert before lunch,” Aizawa replied without even looking at him.

“Oh come on, live a little—”

Izuku let their voices fade to the background as he kept a half-step behind them, eyes flicking across the quiet sidewalk, the open street, the trees lining the path. His shirt stuck uncomfortably to his stomach, and his socks squelched with every other step, but he didn’t really mind.

He liked the quiet part of the walk. When his body felt heavy and warm and used, in a good way. Like he’d done something normal.

His eyes scanned the street out of habit—checking corners, noting parked cars, watching for sudden movement. It wasn’t nerves, not really. It was just… something he did now.

Yamada’s voice floated back toward him again, upbeat and full of ideas. “What about takoyaki? Or okonomiyaki? Nemuri said she was craving it before she had to run—maybe we bring some back for her?”

“She’s not coming back,” Aizawa said. “You just want an excuse to order five things.”

“Can’t prove that,” Yamada said brightly.

Izuku smiled to himself, just a little. It was the kind of arguing that wasn’t really arguing. It filled the air with something easy. Something nice.

Just as they turned the corner onto the quiet street where the car was parked, Izuku noticed something.

At first, it barely registered—a flicker in his periphery, a passing shadow between two parked cars. It could’ve been anything. A stranger. A bird. A trick of the light. But his head turned anyway. Something in him knew.

And then he saw them.

Two figures. Standing just across the street.

And suddenly, the world narrowed.

His lungs stalled, like they’d forgotten how to work. The heat from the sun vanished. The sounds of Yamada's rambling, the hum of traffic, even the soft crunch of gravel under his shoes—all of it faded into nothing.

No. No no no no—

His feet locked to the pavement. Breath caught, thin and sharp in his throat.

Standing there, as if time had rewound and dropped them into this very moment, were two people he had spent years trying not to remember. Their faces were blurred by time, names faded—but them? He knew.

His old foster parents.

The ones from that house.

The ones who smiled too easily at the beginning and slammed doors when no one was looking. The ones who had taken him in with kind voices and turned cold the moment they’d found out. Who called him dramatic. Too much. Not enough.

A cold, invisible fist closed around his chest, squeezing hard, and for a moment he genuinely thought he might throw up.

He wished—desperately, irrationally—that he hadn’t looked. Because now he couldn’t unsee them. Couldn’t unfeel the way their presence pulled every part of him apart, small and shaking and ten years old again.

He didn’t remember everything about them. Not clearly. Not birthdays or where the house had been. But he remembered her eyes. He remembered her cold, very fake smile.

And right now, she was looking straight at him. There was a beat. One, two. Her eyes widened. And then she recognized him. Her face didn’t change much—no dramatic gasp, no loud exclamation. Just a subtle twist of the mouth, a wrinkle of her nose.

Disgust.

The same look she’d given him when she’d found his notebooks. That look, back again like it had never left.

Izuku’s stomach plummeted. His knees nearly gave out.

Move, he thought. Move, Izuku, please— But his body didn’t listen. His brain fired a thousand signals all at once, but fear had already slammed the emergency brakes. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t blink. His arms hung heavy at his sides like he didn’t own them anymore.

And then—

She stepped forward. Toward him.

A soft, casual motion. One foot, then the other. Like she was just walking to the store. Like she wasn’t dragging the past behind her like a chain, wrapping it around his chest, pulling tight. The edges of his vision blurred. His heartbeat was thunder. He wanted to run. He needed to run.

But all he could do was stand there. Waiting for the nightmare to catch up.

Desperate for something to ground him, Izuku’s head snapped toward the car. Aizawa and Yamada were still standing there, absorbed in what looked like a casual argument—Yamada gesturing animatedly, insisting that coffee wasn't a valid lunch option, while Aizawa gave him a flat, unimpressed look.

Would they even help him?

Would they see this for what it was? Would they understand the way his skin felt like it didn’t fit right on his bones, the way the air sliced into his lungs like knives, the way his heart was pounding so violently it made his whole body tremble?

Or would they laugh it off—think it was just an awkward run-in, a strange coincidence? Just some old faces from a foster home, nothing more?

Probably not.

Nobody ever did.

His name floated toward him, faint and distorted. Yamada’s voice—bright. He didn’t catch what was said. Aizawa’s posture shifted subtly, and Izuku caught the moment the man's gaze sharpened—zeroed in on something behind him.

But it was too late.

The past had already swallowed him whole.

She was standing in front of him now. Her. That same woman—same clipped smile, same posture like she was trying to appear gentler than she really was. Like this was normal. Like she had the right to be here.

“Izuku,” she said, voice soft, almost fond. “It’s been such a long time.”

His throat closed. His breath caught, sharp and useless.

She turned to the others, her tone polite, pleasant—performative. “Oh, I’m so sorry—where are my manners?” she said, as if introducing herself at a school fundraiser. “I’m Mrs. Takahashi. My husband and I cared for Izuku for a little while, a few years back.”

Cared.

Like it had ever meant something.

Yamada inhaled sharply at his side, the sound too sudden to be subtle. Aizawa didn’t say anything, but Izuku saw it—the way his shoulders went still and square. Watching. Analyzing. Already reading the space like a battlefield.

Then Mr Takahashi stepped forward.

Izuku flinched.

It was small—barely more than a twitch—but Aizawa noticed. Of course he did. His eyes flicked toward Izuku, just for a second, before settling cold and steady on the woman again.

Yamada, in contrast, didn’t seem to catch it. Or maybe he did and was playing along. Either way, he stepped in with a smile, smooth and practiced. “Well, isn’t that something?” he said, head tilted, voice light. “Guess it’s a small world.”

Mrs. Takahashi laughed—polite, empty. “It certainly is.” She turned her attention back to Izuku, her gaze sweeping over him. He hated every single second her gaze was on him. “You’ve grown.”

Izuku forced himself to nod, though his throat still refused to work. Every breath scraped against the tightness in his chest.

This wasn’t how she’d acted before.

She hadn’t been outwardly cruel. No physical violence. No screaming. But the coldness had been constant—always there in the way she looked through him, not at him. In the way dinner conversations carried on like he wasn’t at the table. In the way she said his name only when she had to.

Being unwanted didn’t always look like violence.

Sometimes it looked like silence.

Aizawa’s gaze was unblinking. His tone even. “So,” he said quietly, “you fostered Midoriya.”

Mrs. Takahashi’s smile grew, a little too bright. “Yes, we did! He was such a sweet boy. Very quiet. Always tried his best.”

God. She was speaking like he wasn’t even standing there. Like he was a memory, not a person. He couldn’t stay here another second. His breath came too fast, too shallow. He felt trapped inside his own skin. Get out, his mind screamed. Get away from her.

He didn’t want her words. He didn’t want her lies.

He wanted to leave.

Now.

Before —

“Izuku was a bright boy,” Mrs. Takahashi went on, that same sugar-sweet smile stretching too wide across her face. “But we had to think about what was best for him. And—”

That’s when Mr. Takahashi cut in.

“I mean, it’s not like we wanted to give him up,” he said with a chuckle, light and careless, like the conversation was about a misplaced object, not a child. “But what were we supposed to do? A quirkless kid can’t really take care of themselves. How could we expect him to have a future without one? It’s not how this society works.”

The words hit Izuku like a punch to the chest. There it was. The truth, bare and unfiltered.

His breath hitched. His nails bit into his palms so hard they broke the skin, pain blooming in his hands just sharp enough to keep him tethered to the moment—just enough to stop him from shattering completely.

The world around him began to twist. Sound faded, muffled like he was submerged in water. Everything moved in slow motion. Mr. Takahashi's voice became a distant hum. A buzzing, grating noise that scraped against his thoughts.

Inside his head, everything spiraled.

You’ll never be enough.

You’re broken.

No one will ever want a kid like you.

He had heard it all before. He had believed it before. And right now, it was all crashing back in.

Somewhere beside him, Yamada sucked in a breath—sharp, indignant. Aizawa’s arms folded tighter across his chest, his expression unreadable but dangerous, his gaze glinting with something cold and lethal. The air around them had shifted—thickened—charged with quiet, volatile tension.

But Izuku didn’t see it.

Didn’t feel it.

Because in his mind, he already knew what was coming.

They would agree. Of course they would. They might not say it so bluntly, but they’d find a way to justify it. They’d say it was hard to raise a quirkless child in a world like this. That you couldn’t really blame the Takahashis for thinking that way. That it was just the reality of things.

They’d look at him the same way everyone else had.

Like he was broken. Flawed. A burden.

Because that’s what he was, wasn’t he?" A quirkless orphan. Nothing more.

No one had ever expected him to be anything. And he had tried—god, he had tried. He had worked harder than anyone. Given every piece of himself just to be seen. Just to matter.
But the world hadn’t cared.

It never had.

Maybe Yamada and Aizawa had just been kind out of obligation. Maybe their patience had limits. Maybe they were already starting to see the cracks. Maybe they were already thinking of the moment they’d let him go, too.

They’re going to leave you.

Everyone does. Why would they be any different.

His chest tightened. The pressure in his lungs was unbearable. He couldn’t bring himself to look at them. Couldn’t stand to see the disappointment forming behind their eyes.

Mr. Takahashi was still speaking, but Izuku couldn’t hear him anymore. All he could hear was the echo of empty nights in cold bedrooms, the creak of floors he learned never to step on, the silence that always meant you are not wanted here.

He felt himself slipping—back into that version of himself he thought he’d buried. The boy who packed his things in silence. Who never asked questions. Who left without protest, without tears. Because there was no point in begging to stay when no one wanted you in the first place.

He looked up, and she was watching him.

Mrs. Takahashi.

Her expression was mild, but her eyes were dissecting him—like she was still waiting to confirm he had failed. That he hadn’t grown into anything. That he was still that small, frightened, inconvenient child.
And maybe he was.

He took a step back.

No one noticed.

She looked away and kept talking, her voice syrupy, her smile too wide. Nothing about her was real.

Aizawa and Yamada stood beside him—solid, immovable—but their focus was still on the Takahashis, not on him. He didn’t want to know what was written on their faces. He was too scared to look.

He took another step back.

Still, no one noticed.

His heart pounded in his ears. His hands trembled, curling into the fabric of his sleeves. His body moved on instinct, legs carrying him slowly, quietly—anywhere that wasn’t here.
And then—

He was gone.

Swallowed by the street, by the noise, by the storm inside his own mind.

Because if he stayed another second, he would break. And no one was going to catch him when he did.

Not this time.

Chapter Text

Shouta had encountered plenty of ignorant, insufferable people in his life. It came with the job. He had listened to villains trying to justify their crimes, bureaucrats making excuses for failing the people they were meant to protect. He had seen arrogance, entitlement, and outright stupidity more times than he could count.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

This was cruelty wrapped in self-righteousness, neglect disguised as practicality. And if they didn’t shut the hell up soon, he wasn’t sure he could keep himself from doing something about it.

Shouta’s grip on his own arms was the only thing keeping his hands from shaking. From lashing out. From doing something he might not regret as much as he should.

Mrs. Takahashi was still talking, her voice smooth, condescending, like she was explaining something simple to a particularly slow child. They were Pro heroes for Christ sake, the nerve she had.

“We tried,” she sighed, all faux sympathy. “But some kids just… don’t fit, you know?”

Shouta’s vision went sharp.

“You make it sound like he was a pair of shoes that didn’t come in your size,” Hizashi said, voice dangerously calm. Shouta flicked his gaze to him. His stance was stiff, his jaw tight. His fingers twitched at his sides like he was barely restraining himself. His smile was gone, replaced by a razor-sharp glare, his eyes cold and unreadable.

Most people never saw this side of Present Mic—the side that didn’t joke, didn’t smile, didn’t fill the silence with easy laughter. Shouta had seen Hizashi lash out before, had witnessed the sheer intensity that lurked beneath all that brightness, and if he was being honest… sometimes, it scared him.

Mrs. Takahashi pressed a hand to her chest, the perfect image of wounded innocence. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No?” Hizashi’s smile returned but it was razor-sharp. “Then do tell. How exactly did you mean it?”

Her husband spoke up, his voice just as easygoing, just as dismissive. “We did the best we could. But let’s be honest, a quirkless kid is always going to struggle. No matter how much you want to pretend otherwise, society isn’t built for them.”

Shouta’s fingers curled so tightly into his sleeves that his nails bit into his skin. He breathed out slowly, forcing control. Because beneath the rage, something colder and heavier twisted inside him.

It made so much sense now. Of course Izuku thought so little of himself. Of course he flinched at kindness like it was something temporary, something that would be ripped away the second he stopped being useful.

This explained everything.

This was what had shaped him. What he had grown up with. What he had to deal with. This society was so messed up because of people like them. He had spent his whole life being told, in one way or another, that he was never going to be enough. That his worth was something to be determined by other people. That he was lucky anyone tolerated him at all.

And these two—these self-righteous, sanctimonious cowards—stood here, acting like they had done him a favor.

“That’s bullshit,” Shouta said flatly.

Mr. Takahashi sighed like he was the one being inconvenienced here. That only fuelled his rage more. “Look, I get it. You’re trying to be the hero. That’s admirable. But at some point, reality is reality. No matter how much effort you put in, Midoriya will never be like the other kids.”

Shouta felt something crack inside him.

Beside him, Hizashi inhaled sharply through his nose. His breathing had gone slow and measured, but Aizawa could see the tension locking his shoulders, the way his fists twitched at his sides. He was two seconds away from throwing a punch.

And Shouta might let him.

Because if these bastards didn’t shut the hell up—if they said one more thing—he wasn’t sure he would stop himself, either.

“Do you even hear yourselves?” he asked, voice deceptively mild. “Do you hear the things coming out of your mouths?”

Mrs. Takahashi looked genuinely taken aback, as if she had expected them to simply nod along in agreement. Her smile wavered, stretching too tight as she let out a carefully measured sigh. “This isn’t about us,” she said, her tone laced with false patience. “We’re just being practical. You have to understand—” her voice dipped into something almost pitying, “—children like him don’t belong in normal homes. They never adjust. It’s better to focus resources on kids who actually have a chance.”

Shouta’s vision narrowed.

That was it. He had heard enough. He had to do something otherwise Hizashi might actually commit assault. He stepped forward, his movement slow, deliberate. The Takahashi’s stiffened, just slightly—barely noticeable. Cowards.

“You talk a lot about how much you ‘tried,’” he said, voice cold. “You ‘tried’ to help him. You ‘tried’ to give him a home. But the second it wasn’t easy, the second you learned the truth, you gave up. You tossed him aside like he was defective. And instead of admitting that, you stand here justifying it to yourselves by blaming the kid.”

Mr. Takahashi’s expression darkened. “We didn’t—”

“You did,” Shouta snapped, voice cracking like a whip. “You did, and I don’t give a damn what excuses you tell yourselves to sleep at night. Because what you did wasn't a mistake — it was a choice. Every time you ignored him. Every time you made him feel like he was less because of his quirk, or lack of one. You broke a kid who was already grieving, already scared, and you made him believe it was his fault.”

Hizashi’s breathing was still too even. Too measured. Shouta didn’t have to look to feel it — the storm brewing beneath the surface. It was the kind of quiet Hizashi only reached when he was on the edge. Not of lashing out — but of crumbling. Shouta could practically hear the way his husband's heart was splintering beside him.

Mrs. Takahashi’s gaze flicked between them, something wary creeping into her otherwise condescending expression. Maybe she was finally realizing they weren’t going to stand here and nod politely like all the other adults who had let them get away with it.

She cleared her throat, smoothing her tone. “We should go.”

“Yes,” Shouta said, blunt and cold. “You should.”

Mr. Takahashi made a huffing sound, irritation etched into every line of his face, but he didn’t argue. No denial. No apology. Nothing.

“Best of luck,” Mrs. Takahashi added with a patronizing smile, like she was offering them some sort of parting grace. “I just hope you’re prepared. Sooner or later, you’ll see it for yourselves.”

The bloody nerve she had.

And then, just like that, they turned and walked away.

Shouta barely registered it. His pulse was still hammering. His blood was still roaring in his ears. Normally he wouldn't let things get under his skin. But this?

This was different.

This wasn’t some random threat or faceless enemy. This was personal. This was a kid—a child—who’d been passed around like luggage, treated like he was broken or inconvenient because of something beyond his control. And these people—these supposed “caregivers”—had stood in front of them without shame, without guilt, and with the audacity to imply that they would see the same thing eventually.

As if they’d find out Midoriya wasn’t worth it.

Shouta’s jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He could feel his nails biting into his palms, his whole body coiled like a wire stretched too thin. There was a fury burning in him, one he rarely let surface, one he only ever felt when something truly unjust forced its way past his usual walls.

“Damn, man,” Hizashi muttered beside him, voice low but edged with a bitter kind of humor. “I was two seconds away from going full villain on them. Like—cameras off, headlines tomorrow kind of villain.” He exhaled hard, a tense sort of laugh catching in his throat. “But you? You scared them so bad they nearly tripped over each other when they left. Seriously—thanks for that. You saved my hero licence.”

But Shouta wasn’t listening. He turned his head slightly, just enough to check on Midoriya—

Except he wasn’t there.

Shouta’s breath hitched. His eyes darted around, scanning the lot, the car, the street beyond—anywhere Midoriya might have gone.

The anger that had been swarming in him only moments ago—the tight, blistering heat that had been aimed squarely at the Takahashis—sputtered out in an instant.

And in its place, panic bloomed.

He was gone.

“Midoriya?” Hizashi called as he realized the kid was gone, voice sharp, urgent. The barely restrained anger from before was gone, stripped away by something raw and anxious.

Silence.

Shouta took a step forward, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with fury anymore. How? How had this happened? He and Hizashi were both trained professionals—pro heroes with years of experience reading their surroundings, tracking movement, catching the smallest shifts in behavior. And yet, somehow, Izuku had slipped away right in front of them.

His jaw tightened. Had he run? Was he hiding? Was he—

“He was right here,” Hizashi muttered, spinning on his heel, scanning every possible direction. His shoulders were taut, his fingers twitching again—but not with the same restrained violence from earlier. This was different. This was panic. “Shouta, he was right here.”

Shouta exhaled sharply, forcing himself to think, to focus, even as a sick feeling settled in his gut.

Shouta had seen how tense he was when they approached earlier—had noticed the way his shoulders curled inward, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. He hadn’t understood why at the time, but now… God.

Had this been his entire life? Had every home treated him like this? Like he was a burden? Like he wasn’t worth the effort?

And now, after hearing those bastards talk about him like he was nothing, like he was less—

Of course he had run.

The realization hit Shouta like a gut punch.

Midoriya hadn’t wanted to be here. He’d never looked comfortable, never seemed at ease. And Shouta—he’d been too distracted, too caught up in his own anger to see it.

Damn it.

“He could be anywhere by now,” Hizashi said, voice tight. “Shouta, we need to find him.”

Shouta was already moving. “I know.”

They had to find him. And fast.

*

Izuku didn’t know where he was going.

He just walked.

One foot in front of the other. Past storefronts, past street signs, past people who barely spared him a glance. His legs carried him forward on autopilot, and he didn’t fight it. He turned down an alley, then another, slipping between buildings like a ghost, his presence unnoticed, unimportant.

His chest felt hollow.

Everything felt distant, like he was watching himself move from somewhere outside his own body. He should be panicking, should be worried about where he was or what he was doing, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

His old foster parents had been right.

And Aizawa and Yamada—

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, his pace quickening as if he could outrun the thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind.

What if they had been about to say the same thing? That he wasn’t worth the effort? That taking him in had been a mistake? They were pro heroes. They saved people for a living. But that didn’t mean they wanted him.

Izuku barely felt the cold bite of the wind against his skin. His hands were shaking, but he didn’t know if it was from the chill or something else entirely. He rubbed at his arms absently, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped.

He didn’t belong with them.

He never should have left the orphanage.

There had been no disappointment there. No expectations. No one pretending they wanted him just to realize later that they didn’t.

He should go back. His bags would probably already be packed and thrown on the doorstep.

Izuku turned another corner, his breath shallow, his steps uneven. He had no idea how long he’d been walking. Minutes? An hour? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. The alleys were quieter here, tucked away from the streets, the hum of the city muffled by layers of concrete and brick.

Then he heard it.

Voices.

Not the kind of casual chatter or passing conversation he had been subconsciously tuning out all this time. No—these voices were sharp, taunting.

“C’mon, freak. What, you too good to use your quirk on us?”

Izuku’s feet stopped moving.

A grunt of pain, followed by a dull thud.

Slowly, cautiously, he stepped closer, peering around the corner. A boy with messy purple hair was shoved up against the alley wall, his shoulders hunched, his arms raised defensively. Three others surrounded him, older kids, all smirking like they were in on some private joke.

Izuku saw one of them rear back and punch the boy hard in the stomach. He barely made a sound, just gritted his teeth, his glare sharp despite the way his body tensed from the hit.

“Guess it’s true,” one of them sneered. “Villains like you are all weaklings.”

Villain?

Izuku didn’t hesitate.

“Oi.” His voice cut through the alley, steady and unyielding.

The three kids snapped their heads toward him, startled. The purple-haired boy’s gaze flickered to Izuku as well, his expression unreadable.

“Who the hell are you?” one of the kids scoffed, stepping toward him.

Izuku didn’t flinch. He held his ground, staring them down. “You’re ganging up on someone three-on-one,” he said, voice flat. “And he’s the villain?”

The leader clicked his tongue. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. This guy’s got a freak quirk. He can control people. You think that’s normal?”

Izuku’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. That’s what this was about? They were attacking this kid because of his quirk? His mind flashed back to the way people used to look at him, the whispers behind his back. But instead of being called dangerous, he was called useless. Worthless.

Rage started to brew in his chest.

“I don’t care what his quirk is,” Izuku said coolly. “I do care that you’re acting like bullies.”

That struck a nerve.

One of them lunged forward, aiming a wild punch at his face. Izuku sidestepped easily, grabbing the guy’s wrist and twisting it behind his back in a fluid motion. The boy yelped, cursing as Izuku kicked his legs out from under him and sent him sprawling to the ground.

The other two hesitated for a split second before rushing him at once.

Izuku exhaled, steadying himself.

This was familiar.

He had spent years learning how to defend himself, not because he ever wanted to fight, but because he had to. Because when you were quirkless, people thought they could do whatever they wanted to you. But Izuku was fast. He was smart. And he was pissed.

The next one swung at him, but Izuku ducked low, driving his elbow into the guy’s ribs before using his momentum to throw him over his shoulder. He hit the pavement hard, groaning in pain.

The last one hesitated, suddenly looking less sure of himself.

Izuku took a step forward.

The kid took a step back. And then he turned on his heel and ran, the others scrambling to follow, limping and cursing as they disappeared around the corner.

Izuku let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders, his body still tense from the rush of adrenaline.

“…Huh,” he muttered. “Didn’t expect that.”

The boy stared at Izuku, his violet eyes guarded, unreadable. He was still pressed against the wall, shoulders tense, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Izuku could tell—he had seen that look before. The way the boy’s shoulders curled inward just slightly, the way his eyes were sharp, calculating, like he was waiting for an attack even though the fight was already over. It was a wariness Izuku recognized all too well.

This kid had been through something similar. Not the same, but close. Izuku had always been told he was nothing because he didn’t have a quirk. But this boy—he had probably been told he was too much. That his quirk was dangerous, unnatural. That people should be afraid of him.

Izuku knew what it was like to be judged before you even got the chance to prove yourself. To be looked at like you were a disappointment. A mistake. And from the way this boy stood, his fists clenched like he was ready to defend himself from something Izuku hadn’t even said, he knew that feeling too.

“They’re wrong, you know.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “About what?”

Izuku could see the defensiveness in him—could see himself in it. That instinct to brace for the worst, to expect cruelty from people before they had the chance to confirm it. “About you.” Izuku tilted his head toward where the bullies had run off. “Your quirk doesn’t make you a villain. It’s how you use it that matters.”

The boy didn’t respond right away. He just studied Izuku, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he let out a sharp exhale, almost a laugh but not quite. “That’s a pretty naive way of looking at things.”

Izuku just shrugged. “Maybe.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Then Izuku turned.

“Wait.”

He paused, glancing back. The boy looked like he wanted to say something else. Like maybe he wasn’t used to people talking to him like this. But whatever it was, he swallowed it down. “…Nothing,” he muttered, looking away.

Izuku gave a small nod before stepping out of the alley, his feet carrying him forward once again.

The sky had deepened into shades of orange and violet, the last remnants of daylight fading behind the skyline. Izuku barely registered it. His mind was too full, thoughts circling like vultures over everything that had happened.

He needed to get back. Get his stuff.

He didn’t know what he would do after that. Maybe he wouldn’t go back to the orphanage this time.

Because if he never went back, he wouldn’t have to sit through the disappointment. Wouldn’t have to see the knowing looks, the silent confirmation that, once again, he wasn’t wanted.

Yes. That was a solid plan.

It took him a while to find his way back—his feet had carried him aimlessly for so long that he barely recognized the streets around him. But eventually, he spotted familiar landmarks, the street signs he had hurried past on patrols multiple times. Within no time, he was standing in front of the apartment complex.

He slowed as he approached the building, his gaze flicking toward the parking lot.

Their car wasn’t there.

Izuku stared at the empty space where it had been that morning, something dull and heavy settling in his chest. Of course. They were pro heroes. They had better things to do than chase after some worthless kid. He swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth and forced himself to move forward. It was better this way. It made things easier.

When he reached the door, he hesitated. His fingers curled around the handle, giving it a small tug.

Locked.

His gaze flicked to the keypad beside it.

He knew the code. Not because he’d tried to memorize it—he just had, over time. He’d seen both Yamada and Aizawa enter it often enough when they came back from outings. They had offered to tell him the code directly, but he’d declined, saying there was no point. He wouldn’t be around long enough to need it.

Izuku exhaled, pressing the familiar sequence of numbers.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then—

Beep.

The lock clicked, and the door swung open.

Relief settled in his chest, quick and fleeting. The moment Izuku stepped inside, there was a blur of motion. Something soft brushed against his ankle, followed immediately by a quiet mrrp of greeting. He barely had time to react before another shape joined the first, weaving between his legs with a flick of a tail.

Fish and Eclipse.

Izuku blinked down at them as they stared up at him expectantly, their bright eyes gleaming in the dim light of the apartment. Fish, the fluffier of the two, rubbed his head against Izuku’s shin, while Eclipse sat back, watching him with a steady gaze.

For a moment, Izuku just stood there, taking them in. Then, slowly, he crouched, reaching out a careful hand.

Fish immediately shoved his head into his palm, purring so loudly that Izuku could feel the vibrations in his fingertips. Eclipse remained still, watching him with the same unreadable intensity he’d seen in Aizawa’s own eyes. But after a second, she, too, leaned into Izuku’s touch.

A small, barely-there smile tugged at Izuku’s lips.

At least someone was happy to see him.

He sat there for a while, scratching behind their ears, running his fingers through their fur. The warmth of them, the solid weight of their small bodies, grounded him in a way he hadn’t expected.

Would life be better if he were a cat?

Cats didn’t have to worry about whether or not they were wanted.

They just were.

They were loved, just for existing.

Izuku envied that.

Fish rolled onto his back, batting lazily at Izuku’s wrist with soft paws. Eclipse pressed closer, her tail flicking idly against Izuku’s knee. They didn’t expect anything from him. Didn’t need him to prove himself. They just accepted him.

Izuku sighed, running a hand down his face. He was wasting time.

He needed to hurry up before they got back. Before he had to see whatever was waiting for him in their expressions—disappointment, frustration. It would be easier if he was just gone before they had to say anything. His hands curled into fists against his pants, the weight of Eclipse pressing against his knee grounding him for just a second longer. He exhaled, steadying himself, and forced his legs to move.

But just as he started to rise, a soft meow caught his attention. It was different to how Eclipse and Fish sounded.

He turned.

A pair of golden eyes blinked at him from the back of the couch, watching him in that slow, assessing way that only cats could.

Cat..

Cat stretched out lazily, claws kneading into the couch, before hopping down with all the grace of a creature that knew exactly how much she was worshipped. She padded over, tail flicking idly, and stopped right in front of Izuku, staring up at him like she was waiting for something.

Izuku hesitated.

Unlike the other two, Cat didn’t demand affection. She tolerated it—when she felt like it. But now, with deliberate slowness, she stepped forward and pressed her head lightly against Izuku’s shin. Something in Izuku’s chest squeezed, his breath catching. It wasn’t much. Barely a touch at all. So why did it make him feel this way.

His throat tightened. He let out a shaky breath and reached down, running his fingers lightly through Cat’s fur.

Just for a second. Then he pulled away. He had to go.

But that was exactly when the front door beeped, signalling it was unlocking.

*

The car ride was too quiet. It shouldn’t have been. The streets in their neighborhood were always alive at this hour—horns blaring, people bustling on the sidewalks—but all of it felt muted beneath the weight pressing on Hizashi’s chest.

His hands were tight around the steering wheel, knuckles white. “Should we make a police report?” His voice cracked, hoarse from the worry he hadn’t let himself voice until now. “I mean, they could find him faster than we—”

“Zashi.” Shouta’s voice was even, but firm. “You know you can only report someone missing if it’s been 48 hours. It’s only been seven.”

Seven. Seven hours since they lost Midoriya in that damn parking lot. Seven hours since the kid ran, since he slipped away unnoticed, since every worst-case scenario had been clawing through Hizashi’s mind like a wildfire he couldn’t put out.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to steady himself. “Seven hours is long enough,” he muttered. Shouta didn’t argue, which almost made it worse.

By the time they pulled into their parking spot, Hizashi’s whole body was coiled tight, a spring wound too far. He killed the engine and let his forehead drop against the steering wheel for a second. Just one second. Then he leaned back, hands rubbing over his face.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “We’ve only had him for a few weeks and we already lost him.” He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Jeez, I’m such a bad parent. Maybe we shouldn’t—”

“No.”

Shouta cut him off before he could finish, sharp and certain. Hizashi turned his head, meeting those tired, knowing eyes.

“You don’t get to do that,” Shouta said quietly. “You don’t get to decide you’re not good enough just because things are hard. Izuku isn’t lost.” He held Hizashi’s gaze, unwavering. “He’s just hurting. That’s not the same thing.” Something in Hizashi’s chest cracked open, and for the first time in seven hours, he let himself breathe.

A sharp ding cut through the heavy silence. Then another.

Both their heads snapped toward their phones. They didn’t have to check. They knew that sound. It was the front door app. Someone had opened their front door.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Hizashi bolted.

He was out of the car before his brain fully caught up, his legs already carrying him toward the building entrance at full speed. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, a rush of desperate hope surging through his chest—too wild, too fragile to hold still.

He reached the glass doors, shoved one open—and stopped short. Shouta’s hand had caught his wrist.

“Zashi. Wait.”

Hizashi turned, breathing hard, too wired to speak. Shouta stepped in close, gripping his hand tighter. “You need to calm down,” he said gently, but firmly. “If he is inside, and he sees you like this—panicked, wild-eyed—he’s going to think he did something wrong.”

“I—he did run off, Shouta.” Hizashi’s voice shook, cracking under the weight of everything he hadn’t said. “What if he only came back because he feels guilty? What if he thinks he has to? What if he’s scared we’re going to throw him away too, like those other bastards did—like he’s some broken thing to return when it gets too hard—!”

“Zashi.” The sharpness in Shouta’s voice cut through the spiral like a blade. “Stop.” Hizashi blinked, chest heaving. We’re not them,” Shouta said, quieter now, but no less firm. “And he’s not broken. He’s scared. And he needs to see that we’re not going anywhere.”

Shouta’s grip on his hand tightened just a little. “So breathe. Be what he needs. Be steady.”

Hizashi blinked hard. Inhaled, held it. Let it out. One more breath. Then he nodded, slower this time. “Okay. Okay. I’m good.”

Shouta squeezed his hand once, then let go. Hizashi was grateful—God, he was forever grateful. For Shouta’s calm, for his steadiness, for the way he always knew what to say when Hizashi’s mind was tearing itself apart. He couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone else. Wouldn’t want to. Together, they pushed through the building doors and headed for the stairs.

He took them two, three at a time, legs burning. Why the hell did they have to live on the fourth floor? The stairwell felt endless, each step dragging time out unbearably. His breath was sharp, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Shouta was right behind him, quieter but just as quick. They reached the landing. The door was closed.

Did the app malfunction?

Hizashi’s fingers shook as he punched in the code. The door beeped, then swung open. And there—sitting on the floor, surrounded by all three cats—was their kid.

He didn’t look scared. Not at first. His small hands moved slowly through Cat’s fur—Fish was lying on his back, and Eclipse was rubbing against his knee. His shoulders weren’t hunched, his expression wasn’t guarded. If anything… he looked calm. At ease.

He was still wearing the green turtleneck—the same one he’d worn earlier that day. It must’ve dried by now, stiff with salt and whatever grime clung to it after hours out in the city. But his hair was a tangled mess, sticking out in wild directions, matted in places like he’d been running his hands through it over and over. And he was shaking.

Not from fear—not yet—but from the cold.

The day had been hot when they’d taken him to the splash pad. Hizashi remembered being soaked and laughing under the spray with him, both of them dripping and sun-drenched. But that was seven hours ago. The sun had gone down, and even Hizashi had felt the chill creeping in as the heat bled from the streets.

He couldn’t imagine how cold the kid must be now—out there alone for hours, damp clothes clinging to him, wandering the streets with no one and nothing to keep him warm.

But then—

Midoriya’s head jerked up. Their eyes met—and everything shattered. The boy’s entire body tensed like he’d been doused in ice water. His hands snapped back from the cats like he’d been caught stealing. His face drained of color, green eyes wide and stricken.

A deer caught in headlights.

And then he looked away. He looked at anything but them.

Hizashi felt something twist, deep and sharp in his chest. Why won’t he look at us?

He cast a glance at Shouta—just for a second—and even though the man was never one to wear his feelings, Hizashi could see it plain as day: the worry in his eyes, tense and silent. He felt it too.

Midoriya scrambled to his feet, movements frantic and uncoordinated. “I—I was just—” His voice cracked. “I’ll just—I’ll get my stuff—”

Hizashi blinked, disoriented. “What?”

“I was gonna—” Midoriya fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. “I was gonna leave before you got home, but I— I lost track of time, and I didn’t mean to—” He sucked in a shaky breath. “I just—I didn’t wanna make it awkward, so I was just gonna go—”

Something inside Hizashi faltered. Froze. The Midoriya they’d come to know wasn’t like this. He was stubborn. Prickly. Fiercely independent, even when it was obviously just armour. There was no sarcasm now, no dry bitterness in his tone—just raw, frantic panic. It hit Hizashi like a punch to the ribs.

It was like the kid had already decided how this was going to go. Fuck, those bastards' words really got to him. Hizashi’s throat tightened as he dug his fingernails into his palms to supress any anger.

Oh, kid.

Of course he was guarded. Of course he kept everyone at arm’s length. This wasn’t just attitude—this was survival. He didn’t want to believe in hope. Didn’t dare. Because he’d learned the hard way that getting attached only made it worse when they sent him back.

Because they always sent him back.

“I know I’m a burden,” Midoriya rushed on, voice getting tighter. “I should’ve known better, I just— I thought maybe—but it was stupid, I was stupid—”

“Whoa, whoa—” Hizashi lifted both hands, soft and slow. “Bud. Breathe.”

But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. “It’s fine,” he insisted, voice wobbling as he took a step back. “I’ll just—I won’t make a fuss, I’ll grab my stuff and—”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Shouta’s voice cut through the air like a blade—low, steady, immovable.

Midoriya froze mid-step. The apartment was silent. Even the cats had gone still, ears twitching, tails curled protectively near him.

Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his head. He looked at Shouta first. Then Hizashi. And what he saw must have confused him by the way his face scrunched up—because neither of them were angry. There was no cold disappointment. No irritation. No disgust. Just… relief. And a bit of concern.

A choked breath left him. “But you heard what they said,” he muttered, his voice trembling on the edge of a breakdown. “Who would want a quirkless failure anyway? You’re gonna get sick of me. It’s just a matter of time. I know it. You’ll see how hard it is. How much of a burden I am. You’ll start getting tired. Start pulling away. It always starts slow. You’ll get a little quieter. You’ll stop looking me in the eye. Then you’ll start leaving the room when I come in. Then one day, you’ll sit me down and tell me it’s not working out. That I’d be better off somewhere else.”

He gripped his arms, breath stuttering.

“A-And I’ll say t-thank you. I’ll pack up. I’ll smile. And I’ll leave. B-Because that’s what I’m supposed to d-do. That’s what I deserve.” He shook his head, voice collapsing into a whisper. “I don’t know why I thought it would be different this time.”

God. The words weren’t just fear. They were lived. Memorized. Spoken from experience, not imagination. Hizashi felt the weight of them like a mirror held too close. He knew that spiral. That cold acceptance. That voice that told you to smile when everything inside was breaking.

He was so close to breaking himself. But he couldn’t. Not now.

You don’t get to fall apart, he told himself. Not when he needs you whole.

Hizashi didn’t remember moving, but suddenly he was in front of him, gripping the kid’s shoulders, gently but firmly.

“Midoriya,” he said, voice tight. “Look at me.”

The boy flinched, avoiding his gaze. Hizashi softened his tone.

“Please.”

Slowly—hesitantly—those wide, broken green eyes lifted to meet his And what he saw in Hizashi’s face made him flinch again—because Hizashi was mad now. But not at him. Not even close.

“That,” Hizashi said, voice taut with fury barely held in check, “what they said to you—about you —that was cruel. It was horrible. And it sure as hell wasn’t true.”

Midoriya swallowed hard, eyes glassy, and shook his head, pushing away from Hizashi. “You don’t get it. They were right. All of them. I’m nothing. I’m broken. Just a problem waiting to happen. You’ll see—I swear—you’ll get tired of it too. Just like everyone else.”

A heavy silence followed. The kind that pulls the air from the room. And then, quietly, Shouta spoke. “…Is that what they told you?”

Midoriya's eyes widened. His mouth opened, then shut again. He froze like he’d been caught revealing too much.

Hizashi’s heart cracked a little more.

Kiddo, please don’t close up again. Please.

Izuku turned away. His voice was barely a whisper now. “It’s what everyone told me, alright? Just… drop it.”

But they wouldn’t. They couldn’t. Because now they understood.

This wasn’t just about self-worth. It was about scars. Layer after layer of poisoned words etched so deep into his soul he’d started to believe them. Started to live by them. He was convinced they’d eventually see what he thought was obvious—that he was disposable. And Hizashi refused—refused—to let that belief continue to take root here.

Not in their home.

Not in their kid.

Midoriya took a step further away with his back half-turned to them, arms crossed tightly over his chest like a makeshift shield. His head was bowed, and his whole body trembled with the effort to keep it together. Hizashi opened his mouth, but— A hand landed on his shoulder. Shouta's.

“I’ve got this,” he murmured quietly.

Hizashi was slightly surprised but gave a single, small nod and stepped back.

Shouta walked forward with the same calm weight he used when approaching cornered animals. He lowered himself slowly, sitting cross-legged on the floor a short distance from Izuku—not close enough to crowd him, but close enough to be felt. “Izuku,” Shouta said, voice low, steady. “Look at me.”

The boy didn’t move.

“They don’t get to decide who you are.”

Izuku let out a bitter laugh. A horrible, hollow thing. “They already did.”

“No,” Shouta said. There was steel in his voice now. “They just tried to. And they tried hard, didn’t they? So hard that they convinced you that being quirkless means being worthless.” Midoriya's breath hitched. He didn’t turn around, but the shaking got worse. Shouta’s next words were quiet, almost gentle. “That’s not truth, Midoriya. That’s abuse.”

That made Midoriya spin around. “It’s not—” His voice cracked halfway through the protest. “It’s not abuse, it’s just—people got tired of me. I was always asking questions, I was annoying, I got in the way—”

Shouta didn’t flinch. “So they hurt you. Over and over.”

“I deserved it—!”

“No,” Shouta said again. This time, his voice didn’t rise, but the finality in it was absolute. “You didn’t. You were a kid. And they failed you.”

Midoriya's mouth opened, but no words came out.

“You weren’t the problem, kid,” Shouta continued, slowly, like he was placing each word with care. “You were a child. Wanting to be cared for doesn’t make you selfish. Wanting to be loved doesn’t make you a burden. You were supposed to be protected. They failed you. It’s not the other way round.” Midoriya blinked rapidly. His lip trembled. “You don’t understand—”

“I do,” Shouta said, quietly. “More than you think.”

Midoriya's head jerked up. And for a moment, he looked at Shouta like he’d never seen him before.

“People tried to convince me I wasn’t enough too,” Shouta admitted. “Told me my quirk wasn’t flashy. That I was too harsh, too cold, too weird. Said I’d never make it as a hero, never make it as a teacher. That no kid would ever trust me.”

Hizashi stepped forward again, voice soft. “They said similar things about me too, back when I was your age. Said I was too loud. Too much. Said no one would ever take me seriously.”

Midoriya stared at them, wide-eyed.

“But they were wrong,” Hizashi continued, crouching again so he was at eye level. “And the people who told you those things? The ones who made you feel like nothing? They were wrong too.”

Midoriya jaw trembled.

“But I am a problem,” he whispered. “I mess everything up. I always have.”

“No,” Hizashi said gently. “You’ve been trying to survive.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Shouta added. “You’ve been adapting to a world that never gave you a fair chance. And you’ve done it with no support, no safety net, and no one fighting for you.”

“Well,” Hizashi said, voice cracking just slightly, “that’s not the case anymore.”

Midoriya shook his head, eyes shining with unshed tears. “You’re just saying that.”

“We’re not,” Shouta said. “And you don’t have to believe us yet. Not all the way. That’s okay. But we’re going to keep showing up anyway. We’re not going to give up on you.”

Midoriya made a tiny sound, almost a whimper. It made Hizashi's heart melt. “And we’re not sending you back,” he added, his voice thick with emotion.

That did it.

Midoriya crumpled. His knees gave out and he collapsed forward into Hizashi’s waiting arms.

Hizashi caught him instantly, instinctively, wrapping him up and holding him tight. One hand curled protectively around the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his messy hair.

They’d never hugged before. Not once. Not in all the weeks he and Shouta had been fostering him. Either of them had probably even been this close to the kid. Midoriya had always kept a distance—walls built high, careful smiles, always stepping back before anyone could step too close.

Hizashi had honestly started to believe it might never happen. And now here they were. He wished it hadn’t been like this. God, he wished it hadn’t taken this much pain to crack the shell open. But still… Hizashi held him tighter.

He wasn’t going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.

Midoriya didn’t sob. He shook. Like he’d held everything in for years and now his body didn’t know how to handle the release. Hizashi held him close, whispering soothing nonsense into his hair while Shouta sat beside them both, his hand resting firmly on the boy’s back.

“You’re okay,” Hizashi whispered. “We’ve got you. You’re safe.”

*

He didn’t remember the exact moment his knees gave out.

One second, he was standing. The next, the ground wasn’t under his feet anymore, and he was folded into Yamada's arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he belonged there. Like it was okay to fall apart. He hadn’t cried—not really. His eyes burned, his throat ached, and his body shook so hard he could barely breathe, but there were no sobs. No tears, no screams.

Just shaking. Trembling like something inside him had finally cracked wide open.

And they held him anyway.

No yelling. No cold disgust. No tired sighs.

Just Yamada's arms around his shoulders, steady and warm. Aizawa's hand on his back, grounding. The soft purring of Eclipse weaving around them.

He didn’t understand. He kept waiting for the twist. For the moment when they’d realize it was too much. That he was too much. But it never came. Even after he’d gone quiet. Even after his arms dropped, limp and exhausted at his sides, and he just sat there, leaning against Yamada like his bones had turned to jelly—they didn’t move away. They didn’t stop touching him. They didn’t let him go. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that.

The apartment was dim. The sky outside had gone deep blue, stars just starting to poke through. Somewhere in the distance, someone was playing music too loud. It all felt far away. Unreal.

Eventually, Yamada pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Wanna sit on the couch?” he asked, voice soft and hoarse. “I bet it's more comfortable than the floor.”

Izuku blinked, startled by how gentle the words were—how they didn’t push or demand anything. Just an offering.

That voice…

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had spoken to him like that. Not since…

His mother.

The realization hit like a shiver through his ribs. No one had used a voice that soft with him since the nights his mom used to sit on the edge of his bed and ask if he’d had bad dreams. Before everything. Before the world got so sharp. Izuku nodded. Or maybe he just tilted his head. He wasn’t sure.

They helped him up gently—like he was made of glass—and guided him to the couch. Fish immediately leapt up and settled in his lap like it was his divine right. Izuku blinked down at the cat. His fingers moved slowly, petting his soft belly without really thinking.

Aizawa returned a minute later with a blanket, draped it over his shoulders without a word, then disappeared into the kitchen.

The quiet wasn’t heavy anymore. It was… warm. Safe.

Safe?

Izuku’s hands twitched. He wasn’t sure what to do with that. Safety wasn’t something he trusted. It always had strings. Conditions. Deadlines. He waited for the other shoe to drop.

But instead, Yamada flicked on the TV. Some old animated movie with bad dubbing and weird music started playing. The colors were bright. The plot was nonsense. Yamada chuckled under his breath and curled up on the other side of the couch like this was just… normal.

Aizawa came back with three mugs. Handed one to Yamada, one to Izuku. He blinked at it. It smelled like honey and lemon. He didn’t drink it. Just held it in both hands, letting the warmth seep in. Nobody asked him any more questions. Nobody asked why he believed those things. Nobody said he had to talk.

And for once, the silence didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like permission.

He stared down at his mug, letting the voices from the TV and the cats purring in the background fill the space where panic used to live. His eyes stung again, but he didn’t cry. Instead, he whispered—barely loud enough to be heard over the movie, “…You really don’t think I’m worthless because I don’t have a quirk?”

Aizawa didn’t look up from his mug. “No,” he said simply.

“Of course not, listener,” Yamada added, his voice warm and certain. He reached across the couch, giving the boy’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “And I’ll tell you that every single time you doubt it.”

Izuku stared at them. Waiting.

Still no hesitation.

Still no lies.

Still there.

A small, broken sound escaped him. He ducked his head and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, hoping they didn’t see it. But they did. And still—they didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn away. And for the first time in forever, Izuku let himself lean into the warmth curling around his chest.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Didn’t know how to undo years of damage. Didn’t know how to stop hearing those voices in the back of his head.

But right now… wrapped in a blanket, with Fish asleep in his lap, a warm mug in his hands, and two adults who hadn’t turned away…

He felt something fragile and aching bloom behind his ribs.

Hope.

Chapter Text

The next few days were calm. Well—daytime was. Nights? A whole different story.

Izuku wasn’t sure what it was about summer, but ever since it started, crime in the city had decided now was the time to thrive. Maybe the heat made people snap. Or maybe it was the summer break. Either way, his patrols were getting longer, and weirder.

Case in point: he was currently chasing a teenager down the street over a stolen wallet.

“Come on!” Izuku called out, breath even as he leapt over a tipped trash can. “You’re just a kid. Don’t let this ruin your life!”

The alley echoed with the sharp slap of sneakers on concrete, the flicker of a too-thin figure darting just out of reach. If Izuku had to guess, he would say the kid was only a year or two older than him. If it had been food, or something essential—something desperate—Izuku might’ve turned a blind eye. He understood that kind of hunger too well. But when he’d seen the kid’s fingers dip into an elderly man’s coat pocket, watched him slip away with the man’s wallet as if he’d done it a dozen times before—he couldn’t walk away from that.

The teen glanced back, scowling. “Then stop chasing me and it won’t!”

Fair. Rude—but fair.

Izuku followed the boy into a side alley, heart picking up as he recognized it immediately. Narrow. High walls. No exits. A classic dead end. He couldn’t help the grin tugging at his mouth. “Well, this was easy—”

Crack.

Something hard and fast collided with his face, and the world tilted sideways. His back hit the pavement before his brain caught up. “What the hell?!” Izuku wheezed, vision swimming with stars. He blinked rapidly, hand flying to his cheek as if that would somehow reset reality. “What was that for?!”

The kid loomed above him, chest heaving, a fierce gleam in his eye. “Should’ve stopped chasing me then.”

Izuku didn’t respond right away—mostly because he was still trying to locate his pride, which had apparently taken flight the second his body hit the ground. Did the kid just turn his hand into a bat? A bat?! And smack him across the face with it like this was some kind of cartoon brawl?

God, Izuku. Seriously. How did you not see that coming?

Before the teen could bolt, a second figure stepped in—quiet, efficient, and terrifyingly calm.

Click.

A cuff snapped onto the kid’s wrist and his hand turned back to normal. “You’re under arrest.”

The kid spun, eyes wide. “What?! Who—Crap!”

Still flat on the concrete, Izuku let out a wheezy chuckle. “Shouldn’t have stopped to gloat,” he mumbled.

The detective shot him a look—not quite the usual I’m-tired-of-your-shit glare, but close. “I wouldn’t be talking if I were you. That punch looked like it hurt.” Izuku groaned and flopped back dramatically. “Yeah. Because it did.”

The detective marched the kid to an unmarked car parked at the curb and shut the door with a solid clunk. Izuku didn’t expect him to come back. Which was why his heart jumped into his throat when he noticed the man walking straight toward him. He scrambled upright fast, instinct kicking in before sense did. His legs coiled, ready to spring toward the nearest fire escape when—

“Wait—”

The voice froze him.

Izuku narrowed his eyes, already halfway to disappearing. “Seriously?” he snapped. “That hasn't worked, like ever. Do you really think I'm going to let you arrest me now?” The man stopped just inside the alley entrance, hands nowhere near his cuffs. “No.”

Then something flew toward him.

Instinct took over. Izuku caught it one-handed without thinking, body still tense.

It was… cold?

He looked down, confused. An ice pack. One of those single-use ones you snap and shake. Still cooling down. He glanced up, but the detective was already walking away. “It’s for your face,” the man called over his shoulder. “Maybe sit down for a few minutes before you go running off again.”

Then he was gone.

Izuku stood there, dumbfounded, holding the ice pack like it might explode. No cuffs. No lecture. No veiled threats. The guy wasn’t even trying to ask him questions. He was just… letting him go? Well. That was new.

Izuku lowered himself gingerly to the ground, pressing the cold pack to his cheek with a hiss. “Okay,” he muttered, baffled. “What the hell just happened?”

He waited a few more minutes, just to be sure. Then, when his head was quiet again, Izuku pocketed the ice pack and scaled the fire escape, boots silent against the metal.

The rooftop wasn’t high—just enough to give him some space, a decent view of the city, and a little peace. He checked his phone for the time, it was nearing 3am. He dropped onto the gravel with a quiet exhale. The ice pack pressed cool against the growing bruise on his cheekbone, sharp against the pulsing heat there.

Below, the city moved like it always did. Broken lights flickering. Cars humming in the distance. People yelling. Life continuing without him.

He stared out at it, but didn’t see any of it. His thoughts pulled elsewhere—unfortunately.

A few nights ago.

They had said he wasn’t worthless. That the people who hurt him—who tossed him aside—were wrong. They said it so easily, like it wasn’t even a question. Like it wasn’t a fact carved into the back of his skull. But they had all said it to him. Foster parents. Teachers. Classmates. Other orphaned kids. Caseworkers. One by one, over years.

And if enough people say something, doesn’t that make it true?

The evidence certainly felt like it supported them.

He drew his knees to his chest and dropped his head forward, closing his eyes. “You don’t get to just rewrite the whole damn story,” he muttered, not sure if he meant them or himself. Life doesn’t work that way.

Except… maybe it did. Sometimes.

They hadn’t tried to fix him like he was broken. They had never given him conditions or deadlines or asked him to perform just right so they could pretend to care. They just... stayed. Through the awkward silences, the quiet apologies, the panic. They showed up, day after day, even when he didn’t know what to do with that kind of consistency. With that kind of patience.

And they didn’t ask anything in return.

It didn’t erase everything else. The cold homes. The disappointed looks. The muttered comments about being too much or not enough. The way people stopped seeing him like a kid and started treating him like a burden. That stuff didn’t just vanish because someone new said it wasn’t true.

But it was getting harder to ignore the warmth in Aizawa’s tone when he told him goodnight before he left for patrol. Or the way Yamada grinned like Izuku was some kind of miracle every time he joined them for dinner without being asked.

It didn’t make sense. Not yet. But maybe it didn’t have to—not all at once.

Maybe he didn’t have to believe it fully to try. Maybe meeting them halfway didn’t mean he was weak. Maybe it meant he was brave.

He opened his eyes again, blinking at the skyline beyond his knees. The city hadn’t changed. But something in him had. Just a little.

Or maybe it was just the sudden pressure tugging at his waist.

There was a sharp, familiar snap of tension—rough fabric tightening in an instant.

“Wha—?!”

With a startled yelp, Izuku was yanked backward by the capture scarf. Not violently, but with enough force to knock him off balance and drop him flat onto his back with a soft thud and a groan.

He didn’t even need to look.

“Really?” he asked the sky. “Can I go five damn minutes without getting ambushed by rags from the ragged hobo?”

A shadow leaned over him, dry and unimpressed.

“You were overthinking,” Eraser said. “Figured it was safer to bring you back before your brain ran off without you.” Eraser stepped back a step, allowing his scarf to slither back to his shoulders. He raised an eyebrow, eyeing the still half-melted ice pack. “What’s with that?”

Izuku blinked up at him. First of all, how the hell could he tell I was overthinking? He’d had his back turned the whole time. What, did he have a sixth sense for emotional spirals now? He sat up slowly, groaning a little as his back protested the landing. “Teenagers are a pain.”

Eraser didn’t even blink. “Says the biggest pain of them all.”

Izuku shot him a flat look and started to scoot back towards the edge. “Wow. Cutting. Truly. I’ll be emotionally recovering from that one for weeks.”

Eraser didn’t respond—just crouched near the ledge, arms resting loosely on his knees as he looked out over the city.

Izuku huffed and settled back down beside him, keeping a slight distance.

“I saw you sitting here from four rooftops away,” Eraser said dryly. “I’m honestly shocked you didn’t do one of your dramatic backflips off the edge.”

Izuku blinked. Huh. That was weird. Why hadn’t he noticed? Normally, he could sense the hero coming from a mile away—he could pick out the sound of his boots in a crowd if he had to. But tonight? He hadn’t heard a thing. Hadn’t felt a shift in the air. Nothing.

Oh god.

Was he… getting used to his presence?

No. No, that couldn’t be it. That would mean he was comfortable. That he trusted him. And that was dangerous.

Even if he was maybe—*maybe*—ready to start opening up a little as Izuku, there was no way he was ready to do the same as Ghost. Not yet. He still didn’t know what Eraserhead’s angle was. Sure, he didn’t think the man would arrest him now, but that could change. All it would take was one bad day, one wrong move.

He shifted the ice pack from one side of his face to the other and muttered, “I was… thinking.”

Eraser didn’t move, but his voice was smooth and pointed. “About?”

So nosy. How annoying.

Izuku let out a breath and leaned his head back against the vent again. “About how to ruin your patrol,” he deadpanned.

Eraser lifted his goggles just enough to give him a full, unimpressed stare. “…Seriously.”

“What? You asked what I was thinking about.”

A beat of silence.

“…You’re annoying.”

Izuku smirked, just faintly. “You say that like it’s new information.”

They sat like that for a moment—Izuku with the ice pack, Eraser watching the city like it might bite.

Izuku finally broke the silence. “So… are they sending anyone else to help?” he asked, voice low and without much hope. “Y’know, since half the city’s basically trying to spontaneously combust this summer?”

Eraserhead didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, jaw tightening just slightly. After a long sigh, he said, “No, they aren’t.”

Izuku groaned and flopped back dramatically onto the rooftop gravel, one arm thrown over his face. “Of course they aren’t. God, they’re so useless. I don’t even like heroes—but even I'll accept their help. Crime’s tripled since last week and they’re still pretending it’s not their problem.””

Eraserhead didn’t disagree. He didn’t say anything. This was how most of their conversations went lately—Izuku venting, and Aizawa quietly listening.

But Izuku wasn’t done.

“They know things are getting worse. They know. But they won’t lift a finger unless someone’s bleeding out on live TV.” His voice sharpened, the frustration and exhaustion bleeding through. “I’m not even asking for much—just one extra hero, maybe someone fast, I don’t know. They have the budget. They just don’t care about this area or the people living in it.”

He sat up, more animated now, gesturing with the melting ice pack. “Then they act like vigilantes are the problem, like we’re making things worse by getting involved. But if I wasn’t out here, how many more people would get hurt? They just expect us to stand back and let some kid with a pocketknife rob a store.”

He huffed, muttering, “God. Bureaucracy is the worst thing in existence.”

Still, Eraserhead didn’t interrupt. No lectures, no warnings to stay in line. He simply listened, watching the skyline with that tired, unreadable expression that never felt condescending.

And in some small, reluctant way—it helped.

Eventually, he shifted, lowering himself beside Izuku, legs stretched out and arms resting loosely over his knees. Izuku could tell he was about to say something.

“You always sit like that when you’re about to say something annoying,” Izuku muttered.

Eraser hummed thoughtfully turning to look at him. “About what you said. About heroes—”

Izuku gave him a side-eye glare. “Please don’t—”

“I’m not,” Eraser interrupted calmly, cutting off the brewing storm. “Just… wondering.”

Here it comes. Izuku felt his jaw tighten.

“I was just thinking,” he said slowly, like he was testing the water, “I know you’ve said you don’t want to be a hero. I’m not trying to argue with you. I just—wanted to ask something.”

Izuku didn’t answer. His fingers flexed against the now-lukewarm ice pack still resting on his thigh. His gut reaction was to snarl something defensive, push the man away with words sharp enough to cut—but he didn’t.

Why wasn’t he?

Maybe it was the tone. Maybe it was the fact that Eraser hadn’t said it like an accusation. Or maybe Izuku was just too tired to be mad.

He sighed, finally. “You’re not gonna give that up, are you?”

“I will if you want me to.” That threw him off more than anything else. He looked at Eraser, suspicious. “I’m not trying to get you to change your mind,” he said. “I just want to understand why you don't want to be a hero. Better than I did before.”

Izuku stared out at the city again. The skyline blurred slightly in the humid air. “You already know why.”

“Humor me.”

Izuku exhaled hard through his nose. “I don’t like heroes,” he muttered, half under his breath. “I don’t like what they represent. I don’t like how they act, how they justify letting people fall through the cracks and still get praised for it.”

“And you think I’m one of them?”

That question didn’t come with a challenge. Just curiosity.

Izuku hesitated.

“Used to,” he admitted, “but... you’re not like most of them. You listen.”

There was a pause.

“Even when I’m being an asshole.”

Eraser didn’t laugh, didn’t smile—but his shoulders relaxed slightly.

“I don’t want to be someone who smiles for cameras while people get hurt behind them,” Izuku added. “I don’t want to be told to stand still while someone higher up decides if saving a life is worth the PR risk. That’s not heroism.”

His voice was calm, even: “I’m going to ask you again, do you think I’m like that?”

There was no edge to the question. Izuku hesitated. Then, finally, he looked up and met the hero's eyes. “No,” he said. “I don’t think you’re like that.” His voice was steadier now. Honest. “But I won’t lend myself to a system that is.”

He looked down, fingers curling at his sides.

“You fight for people,” he said. “You protect the ones no one else sees. You listen, even when it’s hard. Even when I’m being... difficult. You’re not like the others.”

Izuku’s throat tightened.

“But that doesn’t change what the system is. And I can’t be part of something that only pretends to save everyone. I don’t want to fix it from the inside. I want to tear it down and build something better.”

Eraser was silent for a long time. Then he gave the faintest nod—not of agreement, but of understanding.

And for the first time, Izuku didn’t feel dismissed. He felt heard.

Izuku glanced at him again.

Normally, he’d have already been halfway across the next rooftop by now. Usually, he’d have thrown some barbed insult and vanished into the dark before he could be asked anything real. But instead, he stayed. Seated next to the man. Tense, yes—but not running.

“I should keep moving,” he said finally, rising to his feet with a soft grunt. His cheek still ached from the earlier hit. “Night’s not over.”

Eraser didn’t argue. He didn’t even stand. Just tilted his head slightly to look up at him.

Izuku made the mistake of glancing back—and immediately regretted it.

He was closer than before. Not uncomfortably close. But noticeably. Closer than Eraser had ever sat to him before. Like he'd forgotten the usual distance they both carefully maintained.

Get your shit together, Izuku, he thought, tearing his gaze away. You’re only doing this so you don’t get arrested. Don’t give him the wrong message.

With a short, practiced movement, he leapt to the next rooftop and vanished into the dark, the phantom of warmth trailing behind him like a shadow he couldn’t quite shake.

*

Shouta watched the kid disappear into the night. He hadn’t expected to actually catch Ghost in his scarf. He had thrown it more out of instinct than anything—part habit, a little test of the kid’s reflexes. He still wasn’t sure how Ghost always knew when he was near, always managed to dodge it. Evasive, clever, fast. Shouta had come to expect the kid to avoid it by now. Anticipated it.

But this time, Ghost didn’t move. The scarf wrapped, pulled, held. And Ghost let it.

A spike of alarm shot through him. Shouta froze, his hand twitching, ready to retract the fabric immediately. The kid had flinched at far less before. He remembered how Ghost had once tensed from nothing more than a hand on his shoulder—how his breath had caught like simple contact was a threat. Panic attacks weren’t unfamiliar. Shouta had seen one before. Hell, he’d been the cause. He had no intention of being the reason for another.

But instead of panic, Ghost relaxed. Then he cracked a joke. Dry, like always. A touch mean, maybe, but not guarded. Not hiding behind it the same way.

And that—that—sent a wave of quiet relief through Shouta's chest. He’s okay. Not flinching. Not shutting down. Still sharp-tongued and standing.

Things were finally settling with Ghost. Not that it ever should’ve been this complicated in the first place. None of it should have. But they’d gotten here anyway, however rough the road.

He kept up his patrol afterward, sweeping the usual grid, rooftops and side streets blending into one another. Still, part of him kept waiting for Ghost to show up again. The kid had a habit of circling back. Watching from the dark just to prove he could. Or just to mess with him. But tonight... nothing.

No flicker of movement in his peripheral. No quiet footsteps shadowing his own. Just a familiar silence pressing down on the empty streets. Strange. But not necessarily concerning. Ghost knew how to take care of himself. Too well, probably.

It was nearing the end of his patrol when he saw it. A flicker of light down in an alley below. Weak. Brief.
He paused, eyes narrowing behind the goggles. Probably nothing. Some busted wiring, a faulty transformer. This part of the city was full of them—neglected corners of infrastructure barely hanging on. Half the buildings here had exposed fuse boxes or makeshift rewiring done by amateurs.

Still, something about it pulled at him. He watched for another second. The spark came again. Then, abruptly, it flared. Bright enough to light the mouth of the alley for an instant—then snapped with a sharp crack that echoed off the walls.

Shouta’s hand twitched toward his capture scarf. “What the—”

He leaned forward, scanning the dark. The light had gone, but not before he caught sight of a figure slumped against the alley wall. Still. Too still.
Shouta sighed. Great. Quirk use. Unregistered, probably. Illegal, definitely. A perfect way to end the night—with paperwork and a headache. He considered ignoring it. Just for a second.

This part of the city had enough broken lights, cracked pavement, and forgotten corners to fill a hundred reports no one would read. It had enough broken people too—just trying to survive, slipping under the radar because the system had already written them off. What was one more flicker in the dark?

But then—just as he shifted his weight to move on—he realized something.

The figure hadn’t moved. Not once since he spotted them. No reaction to the electricity sparking from the broken light above them. No signs of movement. Just stillness. Unnatural. He stared for a moment longer, jaw tightening. Then he let out another long, tired sigh—the kind that came from knowing you were about to get pulled into something you didn’t have the energy for but would take on anyway.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Because it’s never quiet when I want it to be.”

He moved to the edge of the rooftop and climbed down the fire escape, careful and steady. The metal creaked under his boots, but he made as little noise as possible. He wasn’t looking to scare the person. Startling someone already on edge rarely ended well. When his feet hit the ground, he turned toward the figure in the alley.

The light was gone, but even in the dark, he could make out the shape clearly now. Teenager. Head down, knees pulled in, back curled in that specific kind of way that spoke more of defeat than exhaustion. Shoulders tight. Breathing shallow. Shouta closed his eyes briefly. Perfect. His specialty.

He started forward, slow and quiet, boots whispering over the damp concrete. The kid didn’t move. Didn’t look up. As if the world had already forgotten he existed—and maybe he wanted it that way.
Then, Shouta stopped. A few feet away, he saw him clearly now. Recognition hit like a cold drop of water between the shoulder blades.

Of course it was him.

He hadn’t seen the kid since that night—the one where he vanished with Ghost, slipping away before Aizawa could catch them. He’d known it wouldn’t be long before their paths crossed again, the city was too small.

“Kaito,” he said, quiet but firm.

The kid didn’t flinch. Didn’t even acknowledge the name. Just kept his head buried in his knees like the word had rolled off the wall instead of a person. Shouta resisted the urge to rub the growing ache behind his eyes. This kid couldn’t make it more obvious that Kaito wasn’t his name.

Fine. Let him pretend.

As much as Shouta wished he walked away, he couldn’t now. Not when the kid looked like this—drawn in on himself, like he was trying to vanish from the inside out. Shouta exhaled again, softer this time. Less frustration, more quiet resignation.

He crouched down slowly, staying just outside the kid’s space. Not close enough to threaten. Close enough to be there. “Kid,” he said again, a little more firmly this time.

That worked.

The boy stirred, just barely—shoulders twitching. He lifted his head, and Shouta caught the way his eyes had been tightly screwed shut. From pain, maybe. Or something worse. He didn’t say anything at first. Just blinked slowly up at him, like it took effort to focus on the real world.

“Eraserhead?” the boy said, voice quiet and scratchy. Uncertain. Like he wasn’t sure if he was seeing right or if his brain was still catching up.

“Yeah,” Shouta said evenly. “It’s me.”

Shouta expected the kid to flinch. Or tense. Or scramble to put space between them. That was what Ghost had done for the first full month after they met—kept his guard up like a blade, even when they weren’t enemies. And Ghost had at least chosen to trust him, eventually. This kid? He didn’t have any reason to.

But what the kid did next caught him completely off guard. His eyes widened—not in fear, but something closer to wonder. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

No panic. No recoil. No sharp edge in his voice.

And when Shouta didn’t answer right away, the boy didn’t retreat. He just blinked up at him like he was still trying to make sure he was real. Like maybe he'd expected to be ignored tonight—by everyone and everything—and the surprise of not being alone was still sinking in.

“I was on my way home,” Shouta said after a beat, nodding up toward the rooftops. “Saw the light show.”

The boy glanced up, and for the first time, noticed the faint glitter of electricity still drifting through the air above them—soft and aimless, like sparks shaken from the sky.

“Oh,” the boy said, rubbing the back of his neck, sheepish. “That was my fault. My bad.” He gave a half-laugh. It didn’t sound like he found it funny—more like he didn’t know what else to say. There was an edge of embarrassment in it. Not shame, exactly. Just the resigned awkwardness of someone who hadn’t meant to be noticed.

Shouta glanced at his watch. 5:53 AM. The city was starting to exhale—lights flickering on in the windows above, traffic starting to hum awake, sky turning from black to bruised gray. “What are you doing out here this late?” he asked, keeping his tone even.

The boy gave a crooked half-smile. “Just enjoying the ambiance,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the crumbling alley walls and overflowing trash bins. “Real five-star vibe down here.” It was meant to be a joke. And maybe it would’ve landed, if his voice hadn’t wavered near the end. If the shadows under his eyes weren’t as deep as the cracks in the pavement.

Shouta didn’t say anything for a moment. He just looked—at the lingering flicker of sparks drifting down from above, and then back at the boy in front of him.

“You’ve overused your quirk,” he said quietly. Not a question. Just fact.

Kaito’s gasped, head snapped up, eyes wide. “How’d you know?!” It was so genuine, so immediate, that Shouta almost blinked. Like the idea that someone might notice—not judge, not accuse, just notice—was a complete surprise.

Shouta gave a low hum, barely there. “You’ve got static on your clothes, your fingers are twitching, and you’re slurring your thoughts. You don’t even realize you are, but your words are dragging half a step behind your brain.”

Kaito looked down at his hands, like he hadn’t even noticed the small tremors in them. “Huh,” he mumbled. “Yeah. That… checks out.”

And just like that, he kicked his legs out in front of him and slumped back against the wall with a sigh. No posturing. No attempt to deny or deflect. He just accepted it, like someone pointing out a bruise he forgot he had.

Shouta blinked slowly. It was disarming, honestly. Most vigilantes in his line of work—especially Ghost—didn’t let their guard down like this. Ghost, even on his best days, would give Shouta the most withering look possible and mumble something like, “Don’t analyze me, you cryptid.”

Or “Try it and I’ll cut your scarf.”

And yet this kid— Kaito, who still clearly wasn’t actually Kaito—just… let him in. No hesitation.

Except the name, of course.

Maybe it was easier because he wasn’t an actual vigilante. So what was he then? Shouta watched him in silence for a moment, then sank down to sit beside him—not close, but close enough. Shouta noted how the kid still hadn't tensed at his presence.

Shouta was just about to break the silence, to offer something—maybe a question, maybe just a comment to keep the kid talking—but Kaito beat him to it. “Every time I use my quirk for too long,” the boy said suddenly, voice low, “I get these raging headaches.”

He didn’t look at Shouta when he said it. Just stared ahead, knees drawn up again, fingertips absently tugging at a frayed thread in his sleeve. “It starts behind my eyes,” he went on, like he was reading symptoms off a label. “Like pressure building. Then it crawls down the back of my skull. Makes my vision go weird, sometimes. Like static. Like a TV not tuned right.”

He paused. Shouta didn’t interrupt.

“It used to scare me,” Kaito added, quieter now. “I thought it meant something was wrong. Like… wrong-wrong.”

Still no look in Shouta’s direction, but there was weight behind the words. The kind that didn’t come from one headache. The kind that came from long stretches of time spent dealing with something alone.

“But then I figured… it’s just how it is,” Kaito said, almost like he was trying to convince himself. “Just the cost of doing business, right?”

Shouta watched him closely. “That doesn’t sound like something you should be ignoring,” he said finally, voice level. Kaito gave a dry huff of laughter. “Yeah, well. Most things I shouldn’t be ignoring end up in that pile.”

Shouta glanced sideways at him. The kid’s face was pale in the growing light, his eyes ringed with exhaustion and something heavier—something you didn’t get from just being tired. “You said it happens every time?” Shouta asked, quiet but firm. “Even short bursts?”

Kaito finally looked at him again, eyes a little clearer now. “No. Just when I push it. When I go too long without stopping. It’s like I burn out. Takes a while to reset.”

Shouta nodded once. Mental note taken. Likely neurological strain. Frying his nerves, perhaps. Too common in quirks that involve electricity.

He hesitated. Just for a second. “If you tell me about your quirk,” he said evenly, “then maybe I can help you.”

Kaito narrowed his eyes, and Shouta felt the familiar tension curl low in his chest. Come on Shouta. You should know it wouldn’t be that easy. He knew exactly how this would go—evasiveness, sarcasm, maybe a half-joke about this being a trap. That’s how it usually went. That’s how Ghost handled it. And if this kid had anything in common with him—

“Yes.”

Shouta blinked. “Wait... what?”

“I said yes,” Kaito repeated, tone completely unbothered. “This drawback’s been such a pain. So if you’re actually offering to help me figure out how to stop it? I’ll take it.” Shouta stared. “You do realize you’ll have to tell me about your quirk for this to work.”

Kaito groaned dramatically, kicked his feet out, and dropped his head back against the wall with a thud. “Duh. What do you think I just said?”

Shouta narrowed his eyes slightly, but there was no sarcasm. No walls. No avoidance. Maybe a bit of sass but that was normal. The kid looked right at him—tired, sure, but open. Honest in a way that didn’t fit with anything he expected. It completely threw him. He’d expected a fight. He always did. Ghost certainly made sure of that. Every inch of trust had to be carved out, tested, earned twice over and still only held at arm’s length.

This? This was a kid who just said “yes.”

Shouta almost didn’t know what to do with it. “If only Ghost was this easy,” he muttered under his breath. Kaito snorted and leaned back on his elbows, smirking faintly. “Don’t take it personally.”

Shouta raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

He looked like he hesitated for a second before speaking—like weighing something invisible in his mind. “He’s always been distant and secretive,” Kaito said eventually, voice quieter now. His gaze drifted away from Shouta, eyes unfocused. “But... lately, he’s started to let go of that a little. He’s been more relaxed. He even smiles sometimes.”

A faint smile of his own tugged at Kaito’s lips, fond and a little sad. “It’s nice. I didn’t think I’d ever see that.” Shouta tilted his head slightly. “So, you don’t know much about him?”

Kaito let out a dry breath. “Almost nothing. His personal life, his past... not even his real name.” He sat up straighter, almost like he’d just remembered himself. “I probably shouldn’t be talking to you about this.”

“Why not?” Shouta asked, brow furrowing.

Kaito paused, then looked away again. “Because he’d get mad that I did. Especially if it was with you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shouta asked carefully.

Kaito gave a helpless half-shrug. “It’s not personal. He just... doesn’t like people knowing who he is. You’d think I’d be used to it, but even now, he still keeps me at a distance sometimes. He also told me to avoid you at all costs.”

Shouta rolled his eyes and glanced at his watch. 6:07 AM. “He’s probably off patrol by now,” he said, tone casual. “Won’t know unless you tell him.”

Kaito huffed. “That’s what worries me. He’s very good at finding out things I don’t tell him.” Shouta gave a short hum. “You trust him a lot.”

“I do.”

Another beat.

“...I just wish he’d trust me back.”

Shouta didn’t say anything right away. Just watched the kid — the way Kaito’s hands had gone still in his lap, fingers loosely clenched like they were holding something back. Something he hadn’t quite decided if he wanted to share. Then, calmly, Shouta shifted gears. “Your quirk,” he said. “Tell me about it.”

Kaito blinked, caught off guard for half a second — then grinned faintly, like he’d been waiting for this part the whole time. “It’s energy-based,” he said, voice a little raspy but still light. “I can manipulate energy, but only if I’m near the source. So I can mess with lights — flicker it, black it out entirely. Like earlier.” He thumbed toward the busted alley light with a crooked grin and a wince. “Again, Sorry about that. It was already flickering—I just gave it a little nudge.”

Shouta raised a brow. The kid was surprisingly chatty — especially considering he looked about two minutes away from passing out. Definitely a yapper, he noted. The kind that talked too much when he was nervous. Or bored. Or breathing.

Still, Shouta leaned in slightly, curiosity piqued. “So not illusions?”

Kaito shook his head. “Nope. People always assume that. Especially when I jump — it looks like a flicker, like a fake-out.” Shouta nodded once. That’s exactly what he and Tsukauchi had assumed, too. “So instead of using illusions to disappear… you actually traveled through the electrical currents?”

“Bingo.” Kaito gave a finger-gun with a dramatic wink. “Wait how’d you figure that out so quickly?”

Shouta stared at him.

Kaito raised a brow, grinning. “Right. Pro hero. Forgot. Anyway,” he went on, waving it off like it didn’t matter, “it’s great for escape or distraction — I can slip through any nearby energy source, like a streetlamp or neon sign, and reappear somewhere else, as long as there’s another one to land in. Makes ditching a tail pretty easy — like, say, a certain underground Pro Hero I may or may not have slipped past a few weeks ago.”

Shouta didn’t dignify that with a reaction, instead he narrowed his eyes at the kid.

The kid’s grin didn’t budge.

“But the side effects suck,” Kaito added more seriously, rubbing at his temple. “Headaches, dizziness, static vision... sometimes it feels like my whole nervous system’s buffering.”

Shouta exhaled slowly. “Neurological feedback. Probably from the current bleeding into your neural pathways. That’s common in quirks that interact directly with energy systems or power grids.”

Kaito paused, blinking. “...Okay, weirdly comforting that someone knows what that means. I just tell people it feels like I stuck a fork in a socket and lived.”

Shouta hummed, already mentally filing the details away.

“It sounds cooler than it feels,” Kaito said, flopping back against the wall. “Every jump’s like getting slingshotted through a hairdryer. I usually land feeling like I’ve been spun in a microwave.”

Shouta blinked slowly. “I’m… not sure half of that is anatomically accurate.”

Kaito shrugged again. “Doesn’t have to be. It hurts either way.”

There was a pause as Shouta processed. Then, casually — too casually — he asked, “You ever seen Ghost use his quirk?” Kaito’s head snapped around. “Hate to disappoint you, but nope. No clue what his quirk is. And even if I did, I probably wouldn’t tell you.”

Shouta blinked. “Even you don’t know?”

“Not even a little,” Kaito said, crossing his arm against his chest. “Never seen it. Not once.”

That made Shouta pause. For someone Ghost clearly trusted — someone who was obviously close — that silence around his quirk was… strange. But, If anyone had a clue what it was, it’d be this kid

“You think it’s similar to yours?”

Kaito considered, then shook his head. “Nah. If it was, I’d know. He’d use it when things get dicey. But he doesn’t. Not even when he’s cornered. Whatever it is… it’s not flashy. Which makes sense, I guess. He’s not really a spotlight kinda guy.”

There was something quieter in Kaito’s voice now. A subtle shift. Disappointment, maybe. Or just... longing.

Ghost was clearly important to him—important enough that the secrecy hurt. That much was obvious. And the fact that Ghost still kept that part hidden — even from Kaito — said more than words ever could. It told Shouta just how deep Ghost’s walls ran.

Shouta sat back, eyes still on the kid.

He was fried. Clearly running on fumes. But still cracking jokes, still throwing out finger-guns and one-liners like he didn’t carry the weight of everything behind his eyes. A defense mechanism, no doubt. But effective.

He exhaled through his nose and changed course.

“You said the headaches are worst after you jump, right?” he asked.

Kaito blinked, then nodded. “Yeah. Like someone’s frying my brain from the inside out.”

“You’re probably overloading your neural pathways every time you move through the current. Try keeping your jumps shorter and stick to smaller energy sources. I’m guessing the energy’s running through your body as you move through it or use it, so you need to give yourself time to adjust.”

Kaito cocked his head, flashing a mischievous grin. “Wait, so you’re saying my brain can train not to melt? That’s wild. Where’s the manual for that?”

“With the right approach, yeah,” Shouta said. “Pacing. Control. Get to know the limits before you push past them. Otherwise, you’ll burn out before you even figure out what you’re really capable of.”

Kaito gave a dry chuckle. “What makes you the expert?”

Shouta smirked faintly. “My hero teaching license. Been rocking it for years.”

Kaito’s eyes widened. “You’re a hero teacher?”

“Yeah,” Shouta said simply, like it was the most unremarkable thing in the world. “Provisional instructor at U.A. High.”

Kaito stared at him for a long second, like he was trying to square the man in front of him with that title. “That... actually makes a lot of sense,” he laughed.

Shouta huffed. “Glad one of us thinks so.”

The quiet between them stretched for a few more moments, softened by the distant hum of the city and the faint glow on the horizon. Morning was creeping in—slow, pale, and inevitable. Shouta glanced upward, eyes narrowing slightly. The sky had begun to lighten, soft streaks of orange brushing against the deep navy. The city hadn’t quite woken up yet, but it would soon.

“We should go,” he said, his voice low but steady.

Kaito pushed off the wall, stretching his arms behind his head. “Yeah. Probably.”

They walked side by side out of the alleyway, the street ahead quiet and bathed in the dim orange hue of flickering streetlamps. For once, Kaito didn’t speak, and Shouta didn’t push. But as they reached the sidewalk, Shouta found himself glancing sideways at the boy.

He looked relaxed, almost content. Lighter than he had when they’d first crossed paths that night. He even had a small lazy smile.

Did this kid have a home to go to?
Would he be okay out there, alone?
If Shouta offered help—really offered—would Kaito let him? Or would it end up just like Ghost?

Before he could say anything, Kaito turned to him with a crooked grin. “Catch ya later!”

Then, without waiting for a response, one of the nearby lampposts flickered sharply—and Kaito vanished, gone in a shimmer of fractured light. Shouta sighed, rubbing at his temple. He wasn’t sure if the kid’s jump gave him more of a headache than it gave Kaito. But he knew one thing for sure:

“He definitely shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered to no one, and kept walking as the sun slowly began to rise behind him.

*

He shouldn’t be here.

He knew it. He’d gone behind Shouta’s back before he could be talked down, before reason could chain him to inaction. Hizashi wasn’t in the mood for patience, not when the fire in his chest burned hotter with every heartbeat. He was going to kill someone.

No Hizashi, you're a hero. You're better than this.

Maybe not kill. But if any of those bastards who dared to made his kid doubt his worth so much as looked at him again? Hizashi didn’t trust himself not to snap. It was all he could think about as he stood under the cold white light of the lobby he was standing in, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.

That day had been a long, brutal one. For all of them. But of course, mainly for Midoriya.

Izuku had broken down so quietly it hurt more than if he’d screamed. The kind of crying where a kid tried not to cry — where every breath trembled and every tear was an apology. He’d fallen asleep that way, curled in on himself like he was trying to disappear.

Shouta had called off patrol, which Hizashi was grateful for. He didn’t want to be alone with this.

They had sat together on the couch in silence for a long time, watching the soft rise and fall of Izuku’s chest. Hizashi had tried to focus on the good — that the kid was safe now, that he was finally somewhere he could fall apart without fear.

But it wasn’t enough. Not when every time he closed his eyes, he saw that shattered look on Izuku’s face. The moment he truly believed they were going to give up on him—like he didn’t matter, like he wasn’t worth staying for. That kind of fear didn’t just vanish. And Hizashi wasn’t sure his heart would ever forget the way it felt to see it.

Shouta had to calm him down twice before the night ended. Told him they’d wait. That they couldn’t act on emotion. That they needed proof. That they shouldn’t ask Izuku to relive it unless absolutely necessary.
Hizashi had agreed. At least outwardly. They lay down eventually after putting Izuku in bed, curled around each other, sleep coming only in fits.

Just as Hizashi felt himself slipping into it, Shouta’s voice broke the silence. “Hizashi… He said all of them.”

Hizashi blinked, eyelids heavy. “What was that..?”

“All of them. He said all the foster homes treated him that way. That’s six years. Six years of being punished for something he couldn’t control. And I don’t even want to think about anything that happened before that.”

Hizashi turned to face him fully, hand lifting to cup Shouta’s cheek. “Then let’s not. It won’t help us. And it won’t help him if we drown in it.” Shouta didn’t answer. He just pulled Hizashi close. It wasn’t enough to silence the storm brewing in his chest — not really — but it was enough to let him finally sleep.

Sleep hadn’t done much the past couple of days. He still felt drained, worn thin. Hizashi had gone on patrol like usual, but every second out there felt off. His body moved, spoke, even smiled — but his mind was somewhere else.

Back home.

With their kid.

With the pain still raw in Izuku’s voice, echoing in his ears. With the weight of six years of silence. Six years of neglect. Of being unwanted.

So when three days had passed, Hizashi couldn’t take it anymore.

The second his patrol ended, he didn’t go home. He didn’t call Shouta for advice — mostly because he already knew what he’d say.
He walked straight to the agency that had handled Midoriya Izuku’s foster placements.

Each step was deliberate.

Each breath fanned the embers of rage he’d kept smothered under three days of forced calm.

He pushed open the glass doors to the Musutafu Foster Care Office, the fluorescent lighting already making his head ache. The receptionist looked up from her computer with the kind of flat, disinterested glance that made his skin itch. “Hey there!” Hizashi said, voice a little too bright, a little too sharp around the edges. “I need access to the records of a kid in the system — Midoriya Izuku.”

The woman blinked. “Are you his caseworker?”

“Nope.” He smiled, bright and wide, and slid his provisional ID across the desk. “I’m his current foster parent. And a licensed Pro Hero.” He tapped the card gently. “Just need a look at the records from his previous placements. Names, files, anything that explains what the hell happened to him.”

Her smile went professional and cold. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t give out that information. Those records are sealed unless you’re officially assigned to the case or part of system administration.”

Hizashi exhaled through his nose. Slowly. Deliberately. “I am part of the case. The kid lives with me. He eats breakfast at my table. He falls asleep in the room next to mine.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “I’m not asking for much. Just the basics. Just something to tell me who looked at that kid and decided he didn’t matter.”

Her smile didn’t move. “Regardless of your status, I can’t authorize the release of confidential records without a formal request—”

“I’m not some rando off the street,” Hizashi interrupted, the cheer slipping from his voice like a mask. “I’m not a nosy neighbor. I’m not a reporter. I’m the guy who sat there while he cried himself hoarse because he thought existing was something he needed to apologize for. I’m the one who had to hear him say he probably deserved it.”

Her expression flickered — just for a second — before flattening again. “I do understand. Really, I do. But without legal clearance, my hands are tied.”

Hizashi’s fists curled at his sides. He could feel it rising — the heat, the fury, the helpless ache sitting in his chest like a weight he couldn’t lift.

But this wasn’t her fault. Not exactly. So instead of yelling, instead of flipping the desk like his heart wanted, he just nodded. Stiff. Controlled. “Okay. Then how do I get clearance?” His voice cracked, and he didn’t bother to hide it. “Because I’m not leaving without it.”

The woman gave a small sigh, quiet and almost kind. “Mr. Yamada… I get that you’re worried. I do. But if what you’re saying is true — that he was discriminated against in foster care — then that’s a matter for the police. Not us.”

He narrowed his eyes. Didn’t speak. Just let her keep talking.

“If it becomes an active case, and we get a formal request from the proper channels, then we can release the files. But until then… I’m sorry. There’s nothing more I can do.”

Hizashi took in another breath. Held it. Let it go slow.

It wasn’t her. She was just a cog in the machine. But the machine? The system that let a kid like Izuku fall through crack after crack — that let him rot while calling it care — that, he hated.

He didn’t want this to blow up. Not yet. Izuku wasn’t ready for interrogations, for courtroom drama, for scars getting picked open. But maybe… maybe he didn’t need all that. Not yet.

Maybe there was another way to find the truth. Maybe he just needed a certain detective. Someone who already had history with Izuku.

Someone who cared.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled down through his contacts, thumb moving fast until he found the name: Naomasa Tsukauchi. Hizashi hit call and pressed the phone to his ear. It rang once. Twice.

Then— “Mic?”

Hizashi didn't waste a second. “Can you come down to the Musutafu Foster Care Agency? It’s a block from the station.”

Tsukauchi’s voice didn’t miss a beat. “You sound serious.”

“I need a favor.”

A pause. Then: “Alright. I’ll be there soon.”

Hizashi ended the call, shoulders still tense but just a little lighter. Tsukauchi wasn’t just any cop — he was one of the good ones. Smart, kind, and with a Quirk that meant he didn’t waste time playing games. If anyone could help him crack this open without making it worse for Izuku, it was him.

Hizashi sat down, fixing the receptionist with a polite — but firm — smile.

“Mind if I wait here?”

She gave a small shrug. “Go ahead.”

He crossed his arms, tapping his fingers restlessly against his jacket sleeve. Just a little longer. Just a bit more patience.

Then he’d start getting answers. One way or another.

Chapter Text

Shouta didn’t want to be here. He hadn’t even made it past his front door. Patrol had ended an hour ago, but instead of peeling off his boots or collapsing into bed like any sane person who hadn’t slept in 26 hours, he’d turned right back around.

So here he was, sitting across from Tsukauchi in his office, everything felt off. For the past few days he couldn't stop hearing Midoriya's voice. That small, broken voice from three nights ago.

He hadn’t even cried out loud. Just sat there. Shaking, until he fell asleep.

And that was when everything inside Shouta shifted.

“I think there was quirk discrimination in every home he was placed in,” Shouta said evenly, hands clasped in front of him. “We’ve only had him for a month, but the signs are there. It’s in the way he talks. The way he apologizes for making a mistake. He saw someone from his past, and he ran without a word.”

Tsukauchi’s face fell. “You’re sure?”

“No. Not yet. I’m not making an official report. Not unless we have something to work with. But you’ve know Midoriya longer than Mic and I have. Did you notice anything back then?”

“No,” Tsukauchi said quietly, folding his hands. “He was a good kid — curious, polite, withdrawn. Too quiet.”

Shouta gave a sharp nod. “He still is.”

There was a long silence, filled only by the faint hum of the old light overhead.

“I’ll see what I can find,” Tsukauchi said at last. “If something’s there, we’ll figure out the next step.” Shouta gave a slow nod. The tightness in his chest didn’t ease — not exactly — but it shifted. From helplessness into something sharper. Focused. Ready.

Tsukauchi’s phone buzzed. He glanced down, brows pulling together, “Why is your husband calling me?”

Shouta groaned, dragging a hand down his face and letting his head drop into his arms. “Because he couldn’t wait.”

Tsukauchi answered. “Mic?”

Shouta didn’t bother listening to the conversation. He didn’t need to. He could already imagine the sound of Hizashi pacing, furious and trying to sound reasonable while his voice climbed an octave every ten seconds. Not that he could blame him. Shouta was doing the same, even after they’d promised not to interfere.

When Tsukauchi hung up, Shouta lifted his head and met his gaze.

“Where is he? No—wait, let me guess.” He leaned back in the chair, eyes narrowing in thought. “If he didn’t call you from a holding cell, that means he hasn’t made it to the Takahashis’ yet. Which means…” He exhaled. “He’s at the agency, isn’t he.”

Tsukauchi huffed, almost smiling. “You sure you’re not the detective here?”

Shouta muttered under his breath, “Unfortunately, I’m just the man who married a relentless menace.” He didn’t say it with malice—just weary fondness and a growing headache. Whatever Hizashi was chasing down, there was no way they were going to hand over the information willingly. Not to someone loud, stubborn, and emotionally charged. But Hizashi didn’t know how to let go—not when it mattered. And especially not when a kid was involved.

Tsukauchi stood, grabbing his coat off the back of the chair. “Come on. Let’s go keep your husband from committing a misdemeanor.”

Shouta followed without a word, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The walk from the station to the agency wasn’t long, but every step buzzed with the quiet frustration of someone who knew this was coming and still couldn’t stop it. Tsukauchi led the way through the front doors of the child welfare agency. The lobby was quiet, bare in that intentionally friendly way — faded pastel walls, fake plants that hadn’t been dusted in weeks, chairs too stiff to actually comfort anyone.

The moment the doors opened, Hizashi shot up from his seat like a spring-loaded trap had gone off.

“Detective!” he blurted, a little too loudly, but his voice cracked halfway through the word when he saw Shouta.

And promptly deflated.

He looked down like a kid caught red-handed, hand halfway to the cookie jar. “Ah, Eraserhead. Didn’t expect—”

“Save it, Mic.”

Hizashi winced.

Tsukauchi walked past them both, heading toward the front desk where a clearly overwhelmed woman sat with a tight-lipped smile and a stack of paperwork between her and Hizashi’s righteous fury.
“You causing problems?” Shouta asked, arms crossed as he came to a stop in front of him. “Define ‘causing,’” Hizashi muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was asking questions. Calmly. At first.” Shouta fixed him with his classic deadpan look.

“She said I couldn’t see the file,” he added, nodding toward the desk. “Said I wasn’t on the list of authorized personnel.”

“Because you’re not,” Shouta said flatly.

“We’re his foster parent!”

“And not a government investigator or case worker.”

“Semantics,” Hizashi muttered.

Tsukauchi shot Shouta a look as he returned. “If it makes you feel any better, he didn’t get anywhere. She held the line.”

“Bless her,” Shouta muttered, then turned back to his husband. “Go wait in the car.”

“What? I walked here.”

“Then walk back. Slowly. So I can breathe for five minutes.”

Hizashi raised his hands in surrender, stepping back—but paused mid-step. “Wait. If you’re here… who’s with Midoriya?”

Shouta’s expression softened, just a little. “I asked Nemuri to come pick him up. Said I needed to take care of something. It didn’t take much asking — she was over in ten minutes flat.” Hizashi’s brows lifted. “And he was okay with that?”

“He didn’t seem alarmed when she showed up,” Shouta said, voice lowering. “Didn’t even ask why. Just grabbed his hoodie and followed her out.”

Then, his tone shifted—flatter, sharper. “What I can’t believe is that you went to the agency without even talking to me first.”

Hizashi opened his mouth, but before he could get a word in, the detective cut in.

“Mic, just so you know, you’re not the only one in the wrong. Eraser here was also asking for my help on this.” Hizashi shot him a glare, full of wounded betrayal. Shouta avoided it expertly—by turning and glaring at the detective instead. “Traitor,” he muttered.

“Aha,” he said, stepping forward again with a smug little bounce in his voice. “You were doing exactly what I was doing!”
Shouta rolled his eyes, but didn’t deny it.

“You couldn’t wait either,” Hizashi added, grinning now.

Shouta sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah. Well. At least I didn’t threaten anyone.”

“Yet, You came pretty close.” Tsukauchi muttered under his breath.

Hizashi let out a short, tired laugh, and even Shouta allowed a small smirk. The tension didn’t vanish — not completely — but in that moment, it eased, just enough for them to remember why they were here in the first place.

Their kid.

“So, Detective,” Hizashi said, folding his arms with a casualness that didn’t reach his eyes, “any way you can just get the names and addresses of everyone Izuku’s been fostered by? I promise I only want to talk.” Tsukauchi raised a brow. “Mic, talking is your weapon. You’re not fooling anybody.”

Hizashi gave a crooked grin. Shouta sighed loudly beside him.

Tsukauchi turned more serious, looking to Shouta now. “Doesn’t matter either way. Like the woman said, her hands are tied. That information’s protected unless this becomes a formal investigation.” Hizashi frowned, and Shouta’s shoulders tensed.

“And I’m guessing,” Tsukauchi continued gently, “you’re not ready to make that call. Not yet.”

Shouta didn’t respond at first. His thoughts drifting to what that would mean for Izuku. Then, quietly, “No. We’re not and knowing Midoriya… he won’t want it either.”

Hizashi exhaled through his nose, lips tight, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “So what? We just sit here? Wait for it to get worse?”

Tsukauchi shook his head. “No. I'll start digging, slowly. Unofficially. But you two should keep doing what you’re doing. You keep giving him a home. A safe place. So when he is ready to talk, he knows who to come to.”

Shouta’s voice was quiet but firm. “That’s not as easy as it sounds.” Tsukauchi looked between them. “From what I’ve seen between you and Ghost, I think anything is possible.”

Silence fell again, heavier this time. But steadier, too.

Shouta felt helpless, he was sure Hizashi felt the same. But Tsukauchi was right. They had to wait for the right moment.

*

"You know when Aizawa told you to make sure I eat breakfast, I don't think he meant ice cream at 9 a.m."

Nem turned toward him from the bench they were sharing, one leg tucked under the other as she tilted her face toward the sun. “He wasn’t specific. Not my problem.” She reached toward his cone with an exaggerated grab. “Would you rather not have ice cream?”

“No, no—” Izuku twisted away protectively, shielding his cone. “Touch the swirl and we’re throwing hands.”

She smirked. “There he is. Knew you had some fight in you this morning.” Izuku grumbled around a mouthful of strawberry swirl, but the corner of his mouth tugged up—just barely. The sugar was helping. Izuku kept his grip firmly on his cone, warily eyeing Nemuri’s fingers as she made another half-hearted attempt to steal a bit. “This is a trap,” he muttered.

Nemuri gave him an unbothered look over the rim of her sunglasses. “Then it’s a delicious one.”

He let out a breath—half huff, half laugh—and leaned back on the bench beside her. The city was just starting to wake up. Morning light spilled over the tops of buildings, golden and soft, and the quiet hum of traffic in the distance made the whole thing feel… weirdly peaceful.

Which was probably why it stood out that much more.

Izuku took another lick of his ice cream, but his mind was already elsewhere. It had been bothering him since she showed up at the door. Yamada would be off patrol by now. Aizawa, by all logic, should be in a cocoon of blankets or loitering next to the coffee maker, judging it with mild disappointment. And yet, Nemuri appeared to drag him out for “breakfast,” because neither of them were around.

That… wasn’t normal. They always made sure one of them was around in the mornings. Even on busy days, they found a way to make it work.

He glanced sideways at her. “So… where are they?” he asked, like it was a casual question. “I thought they had the morning off.” Nemuri shrugged without looking at him, absently brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Beats me, sweetheart. They didn’t give me the full itinerary.”

Izuku frowned a little, chewing over that answer. Not because he thought she was lying—more because it was exactly the kind of half-true that made him more curious. “Neither of them said anything?”

“Nope.” She popped the ‘p’ and finally managed to swipe a small piece of the cone when he let his guard down. “I was just told to make sure you eat something for breakfast.”

He rolled his eyes. “I could’ve made myself breakfast, you know.” Nemuri raised a brow. “Mhm. And I’m guessing it would’ve been half a granola bar and a suspicious amount of caffeine?”
He made a face, which was all the answer she needed. His thoughts had already circled back to the weirdness of the morning. Something didn’t quite fit.

He narrowed his eyes at the melting ice cream. “They’re definitely up to something.”

Nemuri laughed. “When are they not?” He didn’t reply right away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly and looked at her, really looked—like he was weighing something. “…Can I ask you something?” he said finally.

His voice was quieter than before. Careful. Izuku’s thumb brushed against the edge of his spoon, his knee bounced once before he stilled it. He used to ask a lot of questions—too many. Back when he was a child, his mouth would run ahead of his thoughts, always filled with theories, what-ifs, and a thousand whys. He’d watch people’s faces go from polite to confused to tired, until they stopped listening altogether. Teachers. Neighbors. Especially foster parents.

So he learned to hold things in. To think twice before speaking. To choose silence over curiosity, even when it made his chest ache with unasked questions. This was one of those moments—where the question was already curled up behind his teeth, but his throat tightened around it anyway. He didn’t want to sound like he was prying. Or being too much. Or worse—weird. But Nemuri wasn’t like most people. She didn’t look at him like he was strange for being quiet or intense or anxious. She was sharp, loud, and a little chaotic—but she’d never made him feel like he had to earn the right to ask questions.

Still, the worry lingered in his chest like a stubborn ember.

He flicked his gaze down at the melting ice cream in his hand, then back at her. “…It’s probably dumb,” he muttered, just in case she needed the out. “But I’ve been thinking about it for a while.” She arched a brow at the sudden shift in tone, lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Oh, you’re definitely going to ask anyway. Don’t pretend you’re not dying to.”

He gave a faint smile, then took a breath. “Your quirk. It’s sleep-inducing, right? But how does it work, exactly? Like—chemically? Do you control it consciously, or is it more instinctive? And what about resistance—can people build that over time or is it tied to biology or something else?” As soon as the words were out, he regretted how fast they tumbled. His pulse ticked up. Too much. Too blunt. He should’ve softened it, or waited, or—

Nemuri blinked, caught off guard just for a moment. Then she let out a short, amused laugh. “…You always grill people about their bodily functions over dessert?” He cringed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be weird, I just… I’ve always been curious about how things work.” His voice dipped lower. “You don’t have to answer.”

Nemuri smiled slowly, like she could see straight through the nerves knotting behind his eyes. “Izuku, relax. If I didn’t want questions, I wouldn’t hang out with the cutest gremlin in Musutafu.” He ducked his head, hiding a small, startled laugh behind a lick of his ice cream. Moments like this felt… rare. Easy. Nemuri didn’t hover or talk to him like he might break. She didn’t give him that soft-lens pity or performative patience. She just talked. Teased. Let him be a kid without making it feel like he had to earn it. It was… nice.

She tapped her cone against the side of his in mock cheers. “Alright, nerd,” she said, feigning a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll answer your question.” Izuku perked up—just a little—but she held up a finger before he could say anything. “But. If I tell you about my quirk, you have to answer one of mine.”

He froze, cone halfway to his mouth. “That’s... vague.” She smirked. “Don’t worry, I’m not asking for your deepest trauma. Just something I’ve been wondering.”

Izuku hesitated. His brain immediately raced through a mental list of possible questions—what did she know? What had she noticed? What had Aizawa or Yamada told her? But… this was Nemuri. As dramatic as she could be, she didn’t dig just to dig. If she was asking, she probably had a reason. He gave a small, slow nod. “Okay. Deal.”

Her smile widened, and she leaned back on the bench, stretching her legs out in front of her like they had all the time in the world. “So. My quirk’s called Somnambulist. It works by releasing a sleep-inducing aroma through my skin. It’s kind of like a pheromone, but way stronger. The second you breathe it in, you start feeling drowsy—unless you’ve got some kind of resistance, like a rebreather or adrenaline rush.”

Izuku’s brows furrowed in interest. “Is it automatic?”

She shook her head. “Not exactly. I can control when I release it, but not how far it spreads. That’s why I’m careful in tight spaces. And it doesn’t work as well outdoors unless it’s really concentrated.” She glanced at him sideways. “Honestly, it was a pain in the ass to learn how to use it safely. At the start in school, I sometimes would accidently activate it without thinking, knocking everyone out.”

Izuku hummed, clearly filing that away. Even heroes like Midnight struggled with their quirk at the beginning.

“Most people assume it’s just a party trick,” she added with a scoff. “But put someone to sleep mid-attack and you’ll see real fast how effective it is.”

“I think it’s cool,” Izuku said honestly. “You use it really well. That fight with the bomb villain last week—your timing was perfect.” She blinked, surprised. “You watched that?”

“I... saw clips of it.” He shrugged. Nemuri paused, like she might say something more serious—but then she shook it off and gave him a lazy grin. “Alright, nerd. Your turn.”
Izuku tensed. “Right. What’s the question?”

She tilted her head. “What’s the real reason you don’t want to go to high school?”

His mind instantly began flipping through pre-approved answers, the ones he always kept on standby—It’s not for me, I don’t need it, I’m already doing what I want—but they suddenly felt brittle and see-through under her gaze. His palms felt clammy. His heart gave a traitorous little kick. “What do you mean? I already told you—” he said quickly, words a bit too rushed, too sharp.

“No, you didn’t,” Nemuri said, calmly but without letting him dodge. “You just said you didn’t want to go to U.A. That’s not the same. Is it just U.A., or all school?” Izuku bit into his cone to buy himself time, chewing slowly even though it had mostly melted by now. The sweetness stuck to his teeth, but his mind was already slipping elsewhere. He stared down at the ground, then up at the slowly brightening sky, as if the answer might be written somewhere in the clouds. “I’m just… worried,” he said eventually, the words thick in his throat.

Nemuri gave him a look that said she wasn’t letting him off that easily. “Worried about the work? Come on, kid, your parents are teachers, and your aunt’s the cool history one with all the weird facts. You’d crush it.” He shook his head, still not meeting her eyes. “It’s not that. I mean… yeah, maybe a little. But that’s not why.” His voice dropped. “It’s been a long time since I’ve actually been around other kids.”

He didn’t mean for it to sound so raw, but it slipped out before he could tuck it away again. His chest tightened with old, familiar anxiety—the kind that curled in like smoke, suffocating before you even realized it had seeped in. His mind drifted back to the orphanage. Not to a single memory—just an atmosphere, a feeling. He remembered sitting in corners with his knees pulled up, watching the others play like he was behind a pane of glass. Like he wasn’t there. No teasing. No open cruelty. Just indifference. He might as well have been invisible.

He might as well have been… a ghost. Nemuri’s expression shifted, the teasing gone from her tone. “Were the other kids mean to you because you didn’t have a quirk?”

Izuku blinked, caught off guard by how gently she asked. It was rare for people to get this close to the truth. Even rarer for them to care when they did. He nodded before he could stop himself. Just once. Small. Almost imperceptible. But it was real.

She let out a small, sympathetic sound. “Kids can be cruel, yeah. But, you know…” She leaned in slightly, her voice softer but no less confident. “If you show them who you really are—your personality, your heart, your humor—that stuff starts to matter more than any quirk.”

He wanted to believe her. Really, he did. But there was a quiet knot of doubt still lodged deep inside him, one that had never fully gone away. “You’re not invisible, Iz,” she continued. “You just haven’t found the right people yet.” He looked up at her, eyes flickering with cautious hope. “Do you really think so?”

Nem smiled, warm and unwavering. “I know so. It takes courage to let people see past the surface—especially when you’ve been hurt before. But once you do? You’ll find someone who sees you. The real you. Someone worth knowing.”

His chest ached, but not in a bad way. More like the ache you feel when a wound finally starts to close. Her words felt like something steady to hold onto in the dark—an anchor, maybe. A light. He swallowed hard. “…Maybe I’m ready to try.” Nem nudged his shoulder with her own, a grin tugging at her lips. “That’s the spirit. And hey—if it gets tough, you’ve got me on your side. I’m an excellent cheat sheet and terrible influence. Perfect balance.”

Izuku smiled, small and sincere, a warmth rising in him that he hadn’t felt in a long time. “Thanks, Nem. I think I needed to hear that.”

Nemuri gave him a once-over, like she was inspecting him for damage. “Alright, enough heavy feelings for one morning,” she declared, brushing off her jeans as she stood. “Come on. We’re going back to my place.” Izuku blinked, caught off guard. “Huh? Why?”

She grinned, biting the last bit of her ice cream like it was a dramatic punctuation mark. “Because I’m about to destroy you at Mario Kart, that’s why.”

“...What’s Mario Kart?”

She froze.

Deadpan. Turned to look at him like he’d just said he’d never seen the sun. “You—what do you mean what’s Mario Kart?”

“I mean I’ve never heard of it?” Izuku said slowly, confused by her horror. Nemuri let out a loud, dramatic gasp, clutching her chest like he’d physically wounded her. “You sweet, neglected child. Who hurt you?”

“I—what—?”

“No. No. This is a crime against humanity. This is child neglect.” She was already pulling out her keys. “We are fixing this immediately. I refuse to live in a world where you don’t know the chaos and glory that is a blue shell to the face.” Izuku snorted, trying—and failing—to hold back a laugh. “Is that... a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Bad for you. Good for me,” Nemuri said with a wicked grin, already turning toward her car with all the smug confidence of someone about to win something utterly stupid and totally important. Izuku sighed, mock-dramatic, but his lips twitched upward as he fell into step behind her.

For once, his thoughts weren’t racing ahead of him. He wasn’t playing out disaster scenarios or waiting for the catch. He was just… here. In this moment. Walking through the sun-warmed street beside someone who didn’t treat him like glass or a ticking time bomb. Someone who saw him and didn’t flinch.

He was about to get absolutely destroyed in a game he’d never played before—but weirdly, that didn’t bother him.

In fact, he kind of couldn’t wait.

*

Before he knew it, hours had passed like minutes. They had both completely lost track of time.