Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a hell of a way to die.

Midoriya Izuku was not afraid of death. He had stared it in the face so many times that it had become an old friend. So, when he stood at the edge of the building, heart pounding painfully and cheeks stained by tears, he knew he could not live any longer.

His whole life, from the moment he had been diagnosed as quirkless, he knew that there was something wrong with him. No one cared to correct him, either. Not his father, who once he heard the news abandoned both him and his mother without a second thought, his harsh words echoing through his mind like a bell that wouldn’t stop ringing.

“I won’t have a son who is fucking useless! You couldn’t do one thing right and give me a son who isn’t worthless and stupid, could you, Inko?” Izuku’s eyes burn as he sobs, his young and frail body clutching onto his fathers leg with weak hands as he begs him to stay. Izuku’s father doesn’t waste time before kicking him off and sending him sprawling to the floor in front of where his mother sits on the couch, silent tears streaming down her pale cheeks as she stares at the wall, unmoving.

“Mommy, tell Daddy to stay! Mommy?” His mother is unresponsive as his father picks up a cracked glass from where it sat on the old kitchen counter, throwing it at the wall as the shards flew across the room. He screams. His mother does not. The door slams shut, the sound of his father’s footsteps receding, until the only thing Izuku could hear was his own cries of pain.

His arms stings. Why does it sting? He glances down, wiping the tears from his eyes and looking down through a blurred gaze at the long gash that now runs up the inside of his arm, blood steadily flowing down his skin and onto his clothes, before staining the pretty blue rug his mother bought months ago.

The blood doesn't stop. Izuku could tell, even as a four year old, that it was deep. It hurt. His cries only seemed to grow louder as he crawled over to his mothers feet, who finally, finally, looked down. Izuku has to fight the urge to scramble back now that he is under her gaze.

Why is mommy looking at him like that? Like she hates him?

“Do-do you h-hate me, mo-mommy?” Her harsh, hateful gaze falters only slightly, before she hisses and stands up, roughly grabbing his uninjured arm and dragging him to the door. Izuku only catches a few snippets of the words she was muttering under her breath, her hands shaking as she opens the door and doesn't bother to lock it behind them as she drags them down the dark, grimy hallways that belonged to their apartment building.

“-left me with him-”
“-stupid, worthless-”
"-he’ll be the death of me-”
"- so expensive, useless-”
“-in the way, all the time-”
"-wish he was never born-”

Izuku stopped listening after that. Stopped listening to the insults his mother threw his way every time he was injured easily, every time they had no option but to go to the hospital. Izuku quickly learned that he hated hospitals.

He grew to hate school as well.

Everyone around him was so powerful, so cool! They could be amazing heroes, just like he wanted to be, just like Kacchan always said they would be!

“I’m gonna be the best hero ever! Better than All Might!” Izuku giggles at his friend. “Yeah! We’ll be heroes together!”

Kacchan was always the centre of attention. He was loud, confident, and bursting with talent. From the moment his Quirk appeared, people couldn’t stop talking about how amazing he was, how bright his future looked. Kids followed him, admired him, even feared him a little. He was the leader, the spark that lit up every room. And then there was Izuku, who was quiet, Quirkless, and always a step behind. He didn’t shine the same way, didn’t draw eyes or applause. Most people didn’t even notice he was there. But Izuku didn’t mind. Not one bit.

Because to him, it was enough just to walk beside Kacchan.

He didn’t need the spotlight, or the praise. As long as Kacchan let him be part of his world, Izuku was happy. He watched in awe, cheered him on, and believed with all his heart that one day, they’d grow up and become heroes together side by side, just like always. Being Kacchan’s friend, even from the shadows, was something Izuku loved more than anything. And for a while, that was enough.

Until it wasn’t. Until everybody found out he didn’t have a quirk.

The sun was high, casting golden light over the quiet neighbourhood street. Kids played nearby, their laughter echoing against the houses. Kacchan stood in the centre of the group grinning and cocky, sparks dancing at his palms. He’d just discovered his Quirk a few days ago. Everyone was still talking about it. Izuku stood at the edge of the group, notebook in hand, young eyes wide with admiration as he smiled widely. “Wow, Kacchan… your Quirk is amazing. You’re so lucky!”

Kacchan turned, chest puffed out, smirking like a king on his throne. “Of course it is. I'm gonna be the number one hero! Just like All Might!” The other kids cheered in agreement, before someone asked the question that changed everything. “What about Midoriya? Did he get his Quirk yet?”

The energy dropped, and little Izuku froze. He opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. Just shook his head as Kacchan scoffed, his smile only widening as his eyes narrowed. “Hah! Of course not. He’s Quirkless!”

The group fell silent, eyes shifting awkwardly. Then Kacchan stepped closer, towering over Izuku despite being the same age, his face lit up by a now mocking grin. “You? Become a hero? Don’t make me laugh.” Izuku tried to speak, voice barely a whisper. “I… I can still try. Even without a Quirk, I can-”

Kacchan cut him off with a sharp glare and a cruel smile. “From now on, I’m calling you Deku. You know why? 'Cause it fits. A useless nobody who can’t do anything right. That’s all you’ll ever be.” The kids laughed, unsure, but followed Kacchan’s lead. They always did. Izuku clutched his notebook tighter. The corners of his eyes stung, but he forced a smile anyway.

“…Deku.”

He didn’t know then that the name would stick, or that he’d carry it for years like a scar. That very day, Midoriya Izuku became Deku. A worthless, useless nobody.

Now, standing on the edge of the building, the sun setting and casting a golden glow across his front as a cold, gentle breeze soothes the burn that now rests on his back, given to him by Kacchan a mere few hours ago, he sighs deeply, the cold air making him shiver as his mind replayed the events that had happened that very same day and led to him being stuck on a roof in the middle of the city, cold, alone, and exhausted beyond belief.

It was supposed to be just another day.

Another day of keeping his head down, staying quiet, and pretending it didn’t hurt. Pretending the laughs didn’t sting, the whispers didn’t burn, and the way Kacchan looked at him wasn’t enough to crush what little hope he had left. But today… Izuku made the mistake of hoping out loud. “I-I want to apply to... Yuuei,” he had said, voice barely above a whisper as he reluctantly answers the question the teacher had asked about where he was to apply for school. The classroom went silent. Then it exploded with laughter. Izuku didn't fail to notice the teacher laughing as well.

Kacchan’s chair scraped against the floor. He stood up slowly, smirking like he already knew the outcome. “You? Yuuei?” he scoffed. “You can’t even fight back, Deku.”

Izuku tried to speak, tried to explain that he’d been studying, training, trying, but the words didn’t come out right. Kacchan stepped closer, his voice low but biting. “You’ll never be a hero, Deku. You’re just a useless loser with no Quirk. Why don’t you take a swan dive off the roof and hope for a Quirk in your next life?”

The class laughed again, and as always, no one stopped them or said a word. After school, it only got worse. They found him behind the gym, where the teachers couldn’t see and wouldn’t care even if they did. Shoves turned to punches. A spark between his shoulder blades. An explosion to the back. His notebook was thrown into the dirt, burned around the edges and soaked through with muddy water. Pages ripped and fluttered like feathers from a bird that would never fly. He didn’t cry this time. He just lay there, face against the ground and backpack beside him, wondering why this hurt more than the burns. They walked away laughing, and Izuku was left broken.

He wandered the streets aimlessly afterwards. No one looked at him twice. He was just another kid with a ripped uniform and a hollow stare. Eventually, his legs carried him to an alleyway. It was quiet, empty and safe from people, at least. He dropped his bag beside him and slumped against a wall before sliding down, arms wrapped around his knees. His back throbbed with pain, the scorched skin raw beneath the fabric.

He was so tired, but he was briefly brought out of his exhaustion when he heard it. A slosh. A squelch. He watched a sludge-like monster as it slithered from a nearby drain, eyes glowing with hunger and lips curled back as they smiled. “Well, well,” They hissed. “I need a body. I suppose you’ll do.”

Izuku didn’t run, and he didn’t scream or fight. When the sludge wrapped around him, cold and suffocating, he barely reacted. And oddly… the burns on his back stopped hurting. The villain’s cold mass numbed everything. Maybe this is fine, he thought. Maybe it’s okay to just let go.

“You’re not struggling,” the sludge muttered. “Weird little brat.” But it didn’t stop. It kept choking him, dragging him down, and Izuku let it. He thought that would be the end, until a voice boomed from above.

“I AM HERE!”

Wind roared through the alley as light burst like lightning. In an instant, the sludge was blown apart, and Izuku gasped for air. Lying there, barely conscious and feeling worse than he had before, he looked up, and saw All Might. The symbol of peace. The man who made him believe in heroes. But for a moment… he felt disappointed.

Why am I still alive?

But that feeling was drowned out when Izuku asked for a signature and opened his backpack when sure enough, All Might had already signed his notebook. The man smiled and said something encouraging before he turned to leap away, bottle of sludge villain in his pockets. But Izuku didn’t want to let go. He dropped everything, notebook included, and grabbed his leg. The next thing he knew, he was flying through the air, clinging to the world’s greatest hero as he warned the hero he would die if he let go. They soon landed on a rooftop nearby, and he collapsed on the rough gravel, winded, as All Might coughed violently. Izuku didn’t notice, though, because his heart was pounding with hope and desperation. “I need to ask you something!” he blurted out.

All Might tried to wave him off, but Izuku didn’t stop, even when his words came out in its usual stutter. “I-I don’t have a Q-Quirk. But I s-still want to s-save p-people. I want to be like you! C-can someone w-without a Quirk s-still become a h-hero?”

There was silence, before the long anticipated answer came. But it wasn’t the one he was looking for. Praying for.

“No.” The word shattered something inside him. “A Quirkless person can’t be a hero. It’s not realistic. It’s dangerous. You’d be a liability. Dreaming won’t make it real, my boy. People without power can’t save anyone.”

Izuku couldn’t breathe. The words kept going, but he couldn’t hear them anymore. His dream, crushed beneath the weight of his idol’s voice. And then All Might was gone, leaping off the rooftop, leaving Izuku behind.

Now, the cold wind brings Izuku back to the present. The sky is orange and fading fast. And Izuku stands on the edge of the rooftop, arms trembling, the pain in his back and throat a distant echo. Below, the city moves on without him. People live. Laugh. Chase dreams. And he’s just a boy with nothing. No Quirk. No hope. No future. Maybe Kacchan was right. Maybe All Might was too. Maybe the only real choice left…

He leans forward slightly. Eyes closed. Breathing shallow. Just one step.

Just one-

And he falls.

Chapter Text

The first thing that Izuku noticed was that everything fucking hurt. There was a dull sting on the centre of his back, but that was the least of his problems. His arms and legs were shaking horribly, his breathing was laboured and he was gasping for air, and his head pounded. It felt like someone had taken a sledge hammer to his skull and whacked him with it multiple times, and it was so painful that his eyesight became plagued by black dots when he sat up too fast.

To say everything hurt was truly the understatement of the century. He couldn’t hold back the groan that escaped his lips as he moved to lift a hand to his forehead, before something caught his eye. His hand was covered in blood. His eyes widen as his breathing fastens, and in less than a second he can feel his stomach rise to his throat as he turns to the side and heaves up the small lunch he had had at school.

By now, he had begun to panic. Why is my hand covered in blood? Why does my body hurt so badly? Why is there something cold and flaking stuck to the side of my face? 

His expression morphing into one of horror, he finally glances down. His clothes were ruined. Not like they had been after Kacchan had pressed a hand to his back and burnt through his already deteriorating school uniform until the only thing he could feel was a blinding, white hot pain in the centre of his back and the smell of burnt skin filling his nose. No, now his clothes were fully in ruins. It clung to his skin, covered in holes everywhere, the edges frayed and burnt and ripped in so many places that Izuku wasn’t quite sure how he had achieved such a thing.

The burnt and destroyed material wasn't the only thing he discovered, either. The reason why he was so cold? He was sitting smack dab in the middle of a dark, cold puddle of blood. That’s right, blood.

Izuku heaves once more, but with nothing left in his stomach, he's left making pathetic noises as he grips the front of his blackened shirt in one hand and holds it so harshly that he feels it tear under his grip.

What the hell was going on, and why was he sitting in a pile of blood? His other hand, thankfully clean save for a few specks of dirt, finds itself entangled in his messy curls, and tugging at his hair until the painful sting brings him back from the brink of hyperventilating as he finally remembers how he managed to end up in the middle of a dark alley, with the morning sun only just beginning to slip through the cracks of the buildings that surround him. 

He remembers harsh words, cold wind, the feeling of hopelessness, and then nothing beneath his feet as he fell. He had jumped off of a building. He had ended his life. So why was he alive? 

Hand still firmly gripping his hair and occasionally tugging to keep him focused, he surveys his surroundings. He was in an alley, he knew that much. He also knew that it was sunrise.

That means he has been lying here, in the dark and covered in blood, since yesterday's sunset. Another glance upward confirms that he should, in fact, be dead. Split into a million pieces and broken beyond repair, if he was being honest. The fall had been more than ten stories high, and yet, he was alive. 

God, had he really tried to end his own life? Deku was reaching a new level of pathetic. But he couldn't help it, he didn't want to be here anymore. Not in this alley, not in this city, not even breathing. 

He wanted nothing more than to be dead. So, again, why wasn’t he? 

Izuku rises on unsteady legs as he uses a nearby dumpster to haul himself to his feet, but even moving that much sends aches shooting through each and every limb. Well, it certainly feels like he got split into a million pieces.

Every question he attempts to answer only results in more unanswered ones.

Why am I alive? Why does it feel like I shouldn’t be? What the hell happened after I jumped?

The alley is deserted. No sirens, no footsteps, no curious bystanders. Just the faint drip of water from a cracked pipe and the buzz of a flickering streetlamp overhead. His clothes are torn, his hands are bloodied, and his body feels like it’s one wrong move away from breaking. But he’s standing. Alive.

He limps forward, each step reminding him of how unnatural it is to still have bones that move and lungs that breathe. His hands reach for his phone automatically, but the screen is shattered, dark and useless.

His heart races faster. This doesn’t make sense. Maybe he’s dreaming? Yeah, that's it. He's just dreaming, and soon he’ll wake up on his uncomfortably lumpy mattress. He scrunches his eyes shut, trying his best to ignore the pain that only seems to get worse behind his eyes, and he waits.

A minute later, nothing happens. He waits for longer. Nothing. He raises a shaky hand and using his one decently clean and blood free hand, slaps himself on the side of his face. Nothing.

Well, this is certainly a problem. His mind has been running in loops from the very second he woke up. The only thing he can remember before hitting the ground and being blissfully dragged into the dark, comfortable black void was the feeling of falling through the air, feeling like he was flying as the air tears past him, the building shrinking above, the distant shape of the ground rushing up. There was no taking it back, no convenient soft landing. He fell.

He couldn't do this. He was meant to be dead. Gone. Free. And yet, he was alive and breathing and thoroughly panicking and definitely wishing he wasn't alive. How heartbreaking is that? He thinks to himself bitterly, that even death refused to embrace me. 

Swallowing back the lump in his throat and trying to calm his breathing, he stares down at the blood. He’s been standing here for so long, panicking and worrying, that he hadn't even noticed how far the sun had risen by now. School must have started. He wonders if all of his classmates will notice he’s missing.

The ones who hurt him will, which is the majority. The ones who grab him with bloodthirsty eyes and greedy hands will undoubtedly notice he’s gone, because how else will they release their pent up anger against someone else? No, only someone quirkless deserves to be beaten, bruised and pushed to the point that they end their own lives.

He doesn't want to return to school. Doesn't want to see their faces and hear their voices as they belittle him and abuse him, both verbally, physically and mentally. His body moves on autopilot as his mind runs through different scenarios. He doesn't even register that he's moving until he notices people's gaze resting upon him, and his destroyed uniform. He was covered in blood, but no one stopped him. No one pulls him aside and asks if he's okay, or if he needs help.

This is because he is waiting for something that will never happen. People will never care enough to ask if he is okay, they will never think to spare the poor, useless, quirkless child a second glance. He isn't worth the effort. He is nothing but a useless, pathetic Deku.

He smiles bitterly as he stumbles down the poorer part of town, one where stores are boarded up and glass litters the floor, and the part of the city that most, if not all, heroes ignore. Why did he ever think he could be a hero? Hell, Kacchan-no, Bakugo- was right. He has no chance of becoming a hero, he never did. 

Maybe, in his own sick, twisted way, Bakugo was helping Izuku. Helping guide him towards the path that would be the best for everyone, a life where he was around no longer. Yeah, that sounds about right.

In the distance, Izuku finally spots the building he calls home. It rose like a ghost from the cracked concrete, leaning slightly to one side as if it were too tired to stand straight. Most people would walk past it without a second glance, think it was just another condemned structure in a forgotten part of the city, but to him, it was everything. His knees buckled with each step, and the sharp pain threading through his joints only grew worse as he neared it. Still, he gritted his teeth and pressed forward, knowing that once he was inside, he could rest. Permanently, if he had anything to do with it.

Climbing in through the broken side window had become second nature by now. The jagged glass along the edges had already been dulled by the passage of time and weather, and his hands found their usual purchase without effort. As he pulled himself up and over the sill, his body protested sharply, sending a jolt of nausea through him, but he kept going. He landed inside with a thud, dust blooming into the air. The silence was immediate, only broken by the slow creak of the floor beneath him and the whisper of wind threading through the cracks in the walls.

He limped his way through the darkened corridor, past rusted doors and peeling wallpaper, navigating by memory rather than sight. The stairs groaned under his weight, some steps missing entirely, others so unstable he had to skip over them. As he ascended, the pain in his limbs reached a fever pitch, each movement making it feel like his bones were grinding against each other. But none of that mattered. He just needed to make it to his room, to that room. The one that once meant safety, and somehow, still did.

Room 406. No door, just the old curtain he’d strung up to block out the cold and the occasional gust of wind, not that it did anything. He pushed it aside and stepped inside, immediately overwhelmed by the familiar scent of mildew, rust, and something vaguely like home. The space had once been warm and full of light long ago, when his mother and father still lived here with him. After his father left, though, there was no more light or warmth. His mother became emotionless, leaving Izuku to be by himself the majority of the time, barely cooking or cleaning and leaving everything but the bills to him. Looking back now, he should have been more grateful.

Small, home cooked meals became scarce, until they stopped entirely. Granted, she left him the bare minimum. If she left, she always made sure to leave enough money for him to at least buy something small like a snack bar. There were days where she wouldn’t come home at all, and when she did, she barely said a word, eyes distant and shoulders slumped with a weight she never spoke about. At first, Izuku assumed it was work, just stress, just exhaustion, and he tried to make her proud, always keeping things clean and neat, pretending not to notice when the fridge was empty or when the lights stopped working for a few days at a time. But when he turned eleven, she left one morning without a goodbye, and that time, she didn’t come back.

For a while, he lived in denial. He rationed what little food he could, drank tap water that tasted like rust, and sat by the door waiting for her. But she never returned. The rent went unpaid. The power was shut off. And eventually, the eviction notice came. He was too young to fight it, too alone to understand what he was supposed to do. So he left, taking what little belongings with him he could. He had nowhere to go.

The streets were cruel, and for a child who had once dreamed of becoming a hero, they were a brutal awakening. He learned quickly where to find scraps of food and which alleys were less dangerous. The soup kitchen he found a few blocks away became his salvation, offering warmth and bread on the days when luck smiled on him. Still, he was always drawn back to his old building. Even after it was condemned for structural failure and scheduled for demolition, which was later forgotten entirely. So one night, soaked by rain and driven by desperation, he returned. The front doors had been sealed shut, but the side window gave way with a bit of force, and soon he was climbing those broken stairs again, back to the only place that had ever felt like home.

Room 406 was empty then, just four mold-stained walls and silence. But it was his. He found an old mattress behind a store and dragged it up over the course of three hours, muscles screaming with every stair. Over time, he pieced together a semblance of comfort. Blankets he found in dumpsters, clothes abandoned in alleyways, a broken battery powered fan that barely worked when it was hot. He even started collecting hero merchandise again like faded posters, cracked figurines, anything that reminded him of what he used to believe in. If he ever found money on the street like a crumpled bill or a forgotten coin, he’d save it for food or, sometimes, a secondhand comic. And gradually, the room began to resemble the one from his childhood. Not perfect. Not safe. But familiar. It became a museum of everything he’d lost, and everything he was trying desperately to hold on to.

Now, as he collapsed onto the lumpy mattress, breath shallow and limbs twitching from pain, he tried to ignore the deep gnawing in his stomach. There was no food tonight. Just cold air leaking through the shattered windows and the brittle sound of the wind brushing against the building’s frame. He let his head fall back, staring at the cracked ceiling, wondering what had changed. He should be dead. He knew that. The fall was real. The impact, the blood, none of it had been a dream. And yet here he was. Breathing. Moving. His blurry reflection in the pool of his own blood, or at least he thinks it was his blood.

Whatever happened, whatever kept him alive… it hadn’t been a miracle.

It had been something else.

And he had a terrible feeling it wasn’t finished with him yet. A feeling he was determined to be rid of. So, pushing aside his pain, he grunts as he lifts his arm under his thin and lumpy pillow, before pulling out the small knife he always kept near in case of intruders. 

No one else would be as stupid to stay here as Izuku is, though, and with a shuddering breath, he presses the knife against his neck and painfully drags it across, blinking back tears as he prays that this time, he will stay dead.

Dying was nothing like Izuku had imagined. There was no fear. No panic. No flailing desperation to hold on. There was only… stillness.

The moment his body broke against the ground, the pain had bloomed for a second, sharp and all-consuming, and then vanished like it had never been there. It was as if someone had flipped a switch, and the world simply… muted. All sound dropped away. The cold, hard pavement beneath him melted into something weightless. And then there was nothing. No light. No tunnel. No final thoughts of regret or sorrow. Just the void.

Endless and quiet and soft, just as it was now as he lost consciousness, feeling the knife slip from his hands as blood trails down his neck and onto the mattress, before his vision goes dark entirely and he knows, he knows, Izuku is gone.

He doesn’t float. He doesn’t fall. He simply existed, or maybe he didn’t. The concept of a body, of limbs and breath and skin, it all dissolved. There was no hunger here, no pain, no need. Even time lost meaning. Seconds stretched into eternity. Minutes collapsed into a single point. His mind, once so frantic and full of noise, slowed until even thought itself grew quiet. His memories faded, untethered from his fading sense of self. Names lost their weight. Faces blurred. Words disappeared.

And then, even the question of who he was stopped mattering. It was blissful, in a way. Peaceful. He didn’t know he had been suffering until the suffering was gone.

And then, just as gently as it had begun, the void began to unravel. The stillness cracked, not like glass shattering, but like water rippling from a dropped stone. A vibration hummed through the nothingness, a pulse, steady, insistent, alive. Something far away was calling to him, reaching through the empty dark with invisible fingers, tugging at the last fragile thread of his existence.

Then a gasp tore from his throat as Izuku woke up.

His chest heaved like he’d been drowning for hours, and the air that rushed into his lungs burned like fire. His eyes flew open, pupils contracting sharply against the dim light of early dawn pouring through the broken window. His heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to escape. His fingers clawed at the mattress beneath him, as if needing to remind themselves that they were fingers, that they were real.

For a terrifying moment, he didn’t know where he was. Didn’t know who he was. Everything came rushing back like a flood, the fall, the blood, the pain, and yet here he was, alive again. The sound of his ragged breathing filled the room like a scream. Sweat drenched his skin. He stared up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly, half-expecting it to melt into that velvet nothingness again.

But it didn’t. The void was gone. He was back. Alive. And whatever had swallowed him… had let him go. Or worse, had given him back. He was alive again, and he didn't want to be.

Chapter Text

Izuku couldn’t die. As unbelievable and shocking as it sounds, for some reason, he just wouldn't die, no matter how hard he tried. 

After he had woken from his second attempt, mattress ruined with dried, flaking blood and his clothes sticking to him uncomfortably, it didn’t take a genius to know that slitting your throat as deep as he did meant sudden death. So did falling ten stories and hitting the ground.Yet Izuku, regretfully, was now awake, plagued by intense shivering and dull aches. As he sat up, though, he noticed the pain he had had before he supposedly died a second time was gone. The only aching now was from his neck, and the dull sting on the centre of his back that seems to have lessened significantly.

He sits up, wincing at the fact he was still in his uniform, the rising sun casting warm rays across the room. The sting on his back flared again, a low, throbbing heat that hadn’t faded since he’d woken. Izuku reached back, fingers brushing the raised, tender skin just between and below his shoulder blades. His fingertips recoiled at the sting that pulsed from it.

That’s when he remembered. Bakugo. That last fight behind the gym, before the jump. The explosion had caught him off-guard. Bakugo had been furious, more than usual. Screaming something about being pathetic, a waste of space, that if Izuku was so set on disappearing then just go already. That final blast had hit him hard, too hard. Izuku remembered collapsing against the ground, heat biting into his back before the ground welcomed him with open arms.

So the burn was real. He did this. But still, it should hurt more than this, he knew that for sure. He had felt his skin bubble and burn and smelt it as his clothes burned away and his skin came into contact with Bakugo’s worst burn yet. His breath hitched, panic stirring.

And then his eyes fell to the broken mirror that rested against one of the walls, his pitiful reflection almost mocking as he sucks in a deep breath. Gaze focused on his torso, he slowly gets up as if in a trance, and turns in the mirror to look at the burn, no, scar, on his back. Pink, fresh, but healed. Not a scab. Not a burn wound. A scar. 

He had no quirks. No regeneration. No explanation for the fact that his skin seemed to have healed itself from a serious injury in less than 48 hours. None of that mattered, though, because the scar was ugly, and it looked like he had been branded. 

He felt sick to his stomach looking at it, so instead he surveyed the rest of himself as he turned to fully face the mirror, but once he stared back into his own eyes he had to hold back the urge to sob.

At first, he didn’t register what he was seeing. His face looked like his, mostly. The same dark green curls, pale skin, sunken eyes. But then he noticed the second scar. A long, jagged line ran from his right cheek, slashing across his right eyelid, and tearing through his eyebrow before it faded near his temple. He leaned closer, hand flying to his face as he looked at the scar. Thick and ugly and real.

“I didn’t…” he whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t… have that.”

His hand shook as he peeled off his shirt with little effort, his blazer already sitting in a pile on the floor as he stared at his bare chest, his scrawny and pathetic frame shaking violently, but he kept looking. A thin layer of blood clung stubbornly to his chest, shoulder, and arms, and then, slowly, as if trying not to break the fragile moment, he looked up.

There, just above his collarbone, trailing across his neck in a horrifyingly precise, even line, was another scar. Pale pink. Clean. Deep. Right where the blade had gone. Right where he’d slit his throat.

The room spun.

His knees buckled and he grabbed onto the desk beside him to hold him up, dry heaving, barely holding himself upright as nausea surged up his throat and bile burned the back of his tongue. He choked back the sob rising in his chest. His vision blurred with tears.

No. No, no, no. He wanted to die. He tried to die. Why… couldn’t he?

His body shouldn’t be moving. His heart shouldn’t be beating. His eyes shouldn’t be open. But they were. And now they stared, wide and horrified, into the mirror as his broken reflection stared back. Torn. Marked. Branded. Scarred. Alive. When he shouldn’t be.

When he didn’t want to be. So why? Why was he still here?

Izuku’s breathing quickened, shallow and sharp, until he was gasping, panting, like he couldn’t get enough air. The walls were too close. The room was too bright. The silence was too loud. His chest hurt as the world tilted, soundless and distorted. His hands flew to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, gripping tight, too tight, until it hurt. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. His nails scraped his scalp. He needed to stop thinking. He needed to stop feeling.

“I d-don’t w-want this,” he croaked. “I-I don’t w-want this! I-I didn’t a-ask for t-this-” His knees gave out.

He collapsed to the floor with a dull thud, curling inward, shaking violently as panic clawed its way up his throat like acid. His body trembled as the tears spilled over, his breath hiccuping and cracking with every desperate inhale. He wanted the void again. The nothingness. The silence that had met him after the fall, after the blade, after it all. He just wanted it back.

His limbs moved without thought, shaking as he forced himself up, staggering like a broken puppet toward the bathroom. His red shoes scraped against the cold tiles, body on autopilot, eyes unfocused. He flicked the faucet on with a trembling hand. The water ran steady and icy. 

It wouldn’t be long until the water ran out entirely. It was just his luck that the building's water system still seemed to be intact, but he didn't have the pleasure of having hot water. No, he only had access to water so cold he could barely withstand it for a few minutes before he was forced to get out.

The tub groaned as it filled. The cold water splashed up against the sides, crystal clear and unfeeling. Somewhere in that part of him that was still thinking, still hoping for the worst, he had known he’d come back. And he didn't want to.

Izuku pulled off what was left of his clothes, the shirt half-stuck with dried blood, pants stiff with it too, and his pair of red shoes, and stepped in as he turned off the tap.

The chill bit into him instantly. He didn’t flinch. He sank into the water slowly, wincing as his legs touched the icy surface, then his waist, then his chest. Dried blood clung to his skin like a second layer, and as the water swirled around him, it bloomed inky red and black, ribbons of death that didn’t take. The tub was stained with what should have been the end.

His eyes were dull, green irises flat and lifeless. He leaned back, the porcelain cradling him like a coffin. And then, finally, he closed his eyes and let himself slip beneath the surface. The world went quiet. Cold wrapped around him like a lullaby. And for a moment, there was peace. No thoughts. No pain. Just the darkness, beckoning him under.

He didn’t struggle. He didn’t breathe. He just sank. He drowned.

Izuku woke up again.

Not all at once, this time. It was slow. Like his soul had to claw its way back into his body, inch by agonising inch. His vision returned in fragments, shapes, colours, light, until the dim ceiling above him came into focus.

He was still in the tub. Sitting up quickly, he began to panic as he tried to remember what happened. It seemed every time he died, his memory became fragmented and it took him a while to remember what happened.

This must be the case, since he was now scrambling to take hold of the side of the tub, and with one clumsy movement, he slips out and falls onto the cold tile floor with a painful thud.

His lungs spasmed suddenly, water erupting from his mouth in violent, wrenching coughs that left his chest burning. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, loud in the silence of the room. The air felt like needles, stabbing his soaked, icy skin with every breath. His body refused to move at first. He just lay there, cold, limp, too numb to panic. Then the pain returned.

Slow, creeping pain. Like his nerves were rebooting. His fingers twitched. His legs trembled. Everything ached, his throat especially, raw and tight, like the water still clung to the inside of his lungs. He tried to breathe through it. Inhale. Exhale. But the breaths were shallow, fast. Panicked.

A thin whine escaped his throat as he turned his head, cheek sticking to the tile. Why? Why was he still here? A sob escaped him. Then another. His shoulders shook violently as the pressure burst free. The sobs were ugly and loud, breaking from his chest like they had been building up for hours. He curled into himself, drawing his knees toward his chest, and let it all fall apart again.

He didn’t want this. He hadn’t wanted to come back. Again. And again. And again. He cried until his throat was raw and the tears dried on his cheeks. His eyes burned. His limbs refused to stop shivering. He felt like a ghost in his own body.

Eventually, the cold grew unbearable. It gnawed at his bones, seeping deep inside, and no amount of crying made it stop. His body screamed for warmth, for shelter, for something that didn’t exist in the cold, silent bathroom.

Shakily he dragged himself up, slipping once on the wet tile, his elbow cracking hard against the floor. He bit his tongue and tasted blood again. It was almost familiar by now. He forced himself forward toward the desk. His battered, chipped wooden desk that leaned slightly to one side, always threatening to fall apart. Sitting on it was a pile of folded clothes. They weren’t clean, not really. But they were dry, and that was enough.

With clumsy fingers, he grabbed a pair of sweats, a shirt with a zip up hoodie over the top, and socks, tugging them on with trembling hands, each layer shaking loose some of the chill. Then, finally, he wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. Thin. Scratchy. But warm. He stood in silence for a long moment. His eyes burned, but no more tears came. He wanted to cry. But it was like something inside him had snapped. There was nothing left to give.

Eventually, with lead in his limbs and fog in his head, he turned. He stepped into his sneakers, the frayed red ones that were practically falling apart at the seams. The soles barely held together, but they were his. They were the last thing he’d ever been gifted, even before he realised he had no future.

He moved to the door. Pulled up his hood. Opened it. The hallway was quiet, just as abandoned as the room behind him. This building was forgotten by the world, just like him, and he stepped down the cracked stairwell, each step echoing into the void.

Outside, the air was sharp with early morning cold. The sky was soft pink and pale blue. The sun wasn’t up fully yet, just peeking over the horizon. Dew coated the pavement. A few birds chirped like nothing was wrong. Izuku blinked at the light.

The sun’s only just rising… Does that make it four days since he jumped off that building? It felt like he’d lived and died a hundred times since then. His legs continued moving without thought. One foot in front of the other. Down the street. Past closed shops. Past alleys filled with trash. Past people who didn’t even look up.

And that’s when the thoughts returned. Is this… my quirk?

He’d never had one. Not until now. But how else could this be happening? No one survives a slit throat. No one walks away from a ten-story fall. No one drowns and wakes up like it was nothing but a nap twenty four hours later.

Maybe that was it. Maybe this was his power. Maybe I just… can’t die. But it wasn’t clean immortality. It wasn’t healing. No, he felt every death. Every after. It left marks.

When he fell, the ache in his bones had lasted until his next death. He remembered the way his body had twisted midair. The crack of hitting the ground. He had probably landed on the right side of his face. That must’ve been where the scar on his face came from, the one that ran from his cheek, across his eyelid, tearing through his eyebrow. He didn’t even remember feeling it happen. But it was there now. Permanent. Ugly. Like the rest of him.

When he cut his throat, the scar that remained was surgical. A clean, even line stretching across his neck. It burned when he spoke. Swallowed. Breathed. And now, after drowning, his whole body was cold and clammy. His throat felt tight. His muscles were weak and waterlogged. His skin still hadn’t fully regained colour. He looked like a corpse dressed in old clothes, hiding in plain sight.

His hands trembled in his hoodie pockets. He kept his head down. No one could see him like this. Not the scar on his face. Not the hollow look in his eyes, his legs carrying him down the sidewalk, past people who didn’t care.

And somewhere, deep inside, a thought echoed: If this is my quirk… what am I supposed to do with it? Because he didn’t want to be saved. He just wanted it to stop. 

Izuku blinked out of his thoughts only when the smell of food hit him. He looked up, dazed, and realised he’d walked straight to the old soup kitchen near the edge of town. The familiar building, tucked between a pharmacy and an empty lot, was already busy, early morning meant breakfast had started, and the usual quiet shuffle of voices and trays echoed from inside.

He stopped just shy of the front door. Part of him considered turning around. His scars were there, for everyone to see. Healed and pink across his face, his throat. His hands were raw, his hoodie still clinging slightly to his damp skin underneath. He looked like he’d crawled out of a gutter. Which… wasn’t far from the truth.

Just go home. No one wants to see that, he told himself. They’ll stare. You’ll make people uncomfortable. But then he looked down at his shoes, cracked, stained red at the soles, and remembered how empty his stomach felt. How the dull ache had turned into a hollow throb. He didn’t have the energy to care anymore.

So, with his head down, hood drawn low over his face, he stepped inside. He felt the eyes, even if no one said anything. The glances. The stiffening of shoulders. But no words. No questions. That was the unspoken rule here: you didn’t ask what happened. You didn’t dig into anyone’s story. Izuku was grateful for that.

He kept his eyes on the floor as he grabbed a tray and shuffled down the line. A quiet volunteer handed him a small but hot bowl of miso soup with a side of steamed rice, and he took it gratefully as he muttered a thank you that cracked in his throat and made his face burn as he hurried toward the farthest corner of the room. There was a table there, tucked into shadow, half-hidden by a tall filing cabinet that no one ever moved. It was his spot. Always had been.

He sat down, hunched back, knees knocking against each other, and started eating immediately. Not because it tasted good, his taste buds were too fried from dehydration and blood to even register flavour, but because his body was demanding it, and it was warm. He didn’t let himself pause between bites. He knew the moment he stopped, the nausea would catch up. The shakiness. The guilt. So he ate. Fast. Mechanically.

He hadn’t eaten nearly enough this week. Three deaths in that time and now his body was screaming to replenish itself. Still, when the food was gone, and his tray was clean, he stood up quietly, resisting the urge to ask for more. He never asked for seconds.

They barely had enough to begin with. Wasting more food on him felt… wrong. He wasn’t worth that. He dumped his tray, muttered a quiet, hoarse thank you to the staff, catching their concerned eyes, but didn’t linger. He couldn’t. They might try to talk to him. Ask questions.

And Izuku didn’t have the strength to lie today, so he left as quickly as possible. The sunlight outside was brighter now, climbing the buildings in golden streaks. His legs moved on their own again, sneakers scuffing the sidewalk as he kept his head low, hands buried in the front pocket of his hoodie.

His mind, however, was racing. Okay, he muttered under his breath, voice rasping. 

Three times. Three deaths. Three revivals. He rubbed at his scarred cheek as he walked. First time. The fall. Sunset to sunrise. Roughly 12 hours. Maybe a little less. His voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper. Second time. Slit throat. Woke up at sunrise again? Same time frame. Third time… He swallowed hard, throat burning. Drowning. That was slower. Took longer. Almost whole day. Maybe… maybe that’s it. It’s not just the time, it’s the method. If it takes longer to die, maybe it takes longer to come back? A slower shutdown equals a slower restart. He paused, nearly stumbling as his lips moved without him thinking. Like before. Like he used to do all the time.

Bakugo always told me to stop muttering… 

The thought faded quickly, swallowed by shame, right as he bumped into someone. “Hey, watch it, freak-!” Izuku flinched, stumbling back, looking up quickly. The man’s eyes caught on the jagged scar across Izuku’s cheek and eyelid. His mouth closed. The anger drained out of his face in an instant.

He muttered something that sounded like an apology and quickly turned away, avoiding eye contact as he walked off. Izuku stood there, blinking, heart hammering as he finally looked around.

Oh…

Frowning, he realises that he strayed far of course. He hadn’t even realised that he’d ended up in one of the nicer parts of town, with cleaner streets, well kept homes, fancy little stores, and fewer alleyways. Fewer crimes. He could smell fresh bread and car wax.

He passed a convenience store window, and his legs stopped. Inside was brightly lit, with pristine clean white floors. The shelves were stacked from floor to ceiling with packaged food that made his stomach grumble loudly. Instant ramen. Energy bars. Candy. Nothing fancy, but all of it made his stomach twist again. Hunger roared back to life with full force.

He hesitated at the door. Then, against all better judgement, he stepped inside. The clerk at the counter glanced up, immediately frowning. But the moment his eyes landed on Izuku’s face, on the scar, his expression changed. He froze in an instant, looking away quickly as he pretended to be busy shuffling things around on the shelf behind him, and Izuku’s gut twisted with guilt.

But… It was also a relief. Even before the horrid scar that adorned his face and neck, he had hated attention. The more he grew up without it, the happier he was in the dark. Because now, if people couldn’t look at him without seeing his scars and turning away, they couldn’t stop him either. It was probably the only upside to the scars, he guessed.

He moved slowly as he casually walked through each aisle, the man still not turning around as Izuku drifted closer toward the snack aisle. Once he was certain the man wouldn't be turning around, with trembling fingers, he slipped a few things into the inside pocket of his hoodie, just small, light packages. Nothing big that someone would easily see and would get caught with if he ran.

He kept walking, as quiet as possible. He was no one special, just another homeless teen looking around without taking anything valuable. That was until he passed the tool aisle, and something red caught his eye.

It was a small box, around the size of his palm, and inside was a red multi-tool pocket knife, the colour matching the ones of his shoes. It was compact and made from clean metal, and as he played with it he found it was easily foldable and could fit in his pocket. He hummed to himself as he pulled out the other attachments that came along with the fold out knife. It had a few screwdrivers, a file, scissors, and even a small lighter.

He knew it would come in handy on more than one occasion, so as he pushed down the guilt that was growing inside of his chest, he gently and quickly placed it in the pockets of his pants. Deciding he had taken enough, he made his way back past the counter to the doors, but as he neared, the clerk turned around once more as their eyes met.

He looked… Scared? Of Izuku? He almost laughed at the thought, but the clerk only paled a little and stood still as Izuku kept walking and finally exited, continuing down the path he had come earlier.

He was a thief. Now, not only was he pathetic and a failure, but he was a criminal, too.

The moment Izuku stepped back into the crumbling remains of what he called home, his entire body sagged with exhaustion. His feet dragged along the cracked tile floor as he shuffled into his room, the curtain pushed aside weakly as he sat down on the mattress, careful to avoid the dried blood that now undoubtedly wouldn't come out. Looks like tonight he would be sleeping on the floor.

He took another look around his room with a sigh, eyeing the broken window that rested above his frame-less mattress. The window was barely held together by duct tape and a piece of cardboard to block out the wind. The only furniture, aside from the mattress, was a chipped wooden desk and a single plastic chair with one missing leg. But it was his. And he was too tired to care about anything else.

With numb fingers, he unzipped his hoodie and let the contents spill onto the bed. They dropped like stolen treasure, candy bars, a pack of peanuts, a squashed sandwich, a bottle of water, and the pocketknife. The red metal tool glinted slightly in the dim morning light, clean and sharp, still folded up and compact.

Izuku collapsed to his knees in front of the bed and grabbed the nearest candy bar without thinking. The wrapper crinkled loudly in the silence as he tore it open and shoved it into his mouth, biting down on the caramel and chocolate like it might anchor him in the moment. His jaw ached as he chewed, but he didn’t care. His stomach welcomed the sugar like it was oxygen.

As the sweetness melted on his tongue and his back rested against the side of the mattress, he felt that strange flicker inside his chest again, a pulse of something that wasn’t exactly hope, but wasn’t despair either. It was… energy. That same electric twitch that hit him whenever his brain kicked into overdrive.

Ever since he was young and officially diagnosed quirkless, he found comfort in analysing others' quirks, especially heroes. It became one of the only things that made him happy, the notebooks he wrote it all in being a part of him that he loved more than anything. 

But now, as he sits on the cold floor and swallows the last bite of the candy bar, he realises that maybe, just maybe, he does have a quirk. One that has never been heard of, or analysed. To his surprise, he could feel his excitement bubbling as the gears in his kind increased its pace.

He has never heard of someone having a revival quirk before. Was he the first? If he is, that means that no one else has ever researched it! Izuku could be the first! 

Standing up quickly, he moves over to his desk, reaching for his drawer as his heart rate picks up its speed, already thinking about what categories to write about. He’d need a section just for time frames, noting how long it took him to wake up after death. Maybe something about cause and effect. Was it the trauma to the brain that reset him? The stopping of the heart? The shutdown of respiratory systems?

But the more he searched through broken belongings, he could see everything but his notebook. Confused, he blinked, then turned around. He started rummaging through the rest of the room, frantic now, beneath his mattress, behind the desk, under the loose floorboard in the corner where he sometimes kept spare coins.

Nothing. His fingers stopped moving as his breath hitched, and he came to the sudden realisation that his notebook was gone. His only notebook, the one that meant the world to him. The one that Bakugo had exploded and thrown into the mud the last day he was at school.

That ragged book filled with months of observations, ideas, combat breakdowns, sketches of hero suits he’d never wear, his entire mind spread out on thin pages, labelled with “Hero Analysis for the Future. 13,” It wasn’t just a school project. It was him. The proof that he’d once tried. That he used to believe he could be more than this. And he didn’t have it.

Because he’d left it in his backpack. And he’d left that backpack in the alley where the sludge villain had nearly suffocated him. Where he almost died for the first time. 

His stomach turned cold. His throat tightened as the image came rushing back, pale green slime, heavy and suffocating, claws of panic digging into his lungs, his vision tunnelling, Izuku stumbled backward until he hit the wall and sank down against it, sliding until he was sitting on the cold floor. His fingers dug into his tangled curls as he pressed his forehead against his knees.

You left it. You idiot. You left it there. It’s gone.

He should’ve known. Of course it would be gone. He had been too busy dying to go back and get it. And then… everything had spiralled. Images of flying through the air, gripping onto All Might with small, tightly gripping hands. Dropping onto a building, completely forgetting his backpack and notebook in that alley. Then he died. Then died again, and again. And then he would wake up over and over again, reborn in a body he didn’t want anymore.

And now, the only thing that mattered, the only part of his old self, was probably lying in a dumpster somewhere. Or thrown out. Or ruined by rain and sludge. Gone. Just like his chances of being anything. You’re not a hero. You’re not even meant to be alive anymore. But even as the weight of it all settled on his chest, even as his fingers twitched and his body begged him to just lie down and never get up again, his eyes flicked to the pocketknife on the bed.

And then, to the sun peeking through the slats in the boarded-up window. Izuku swallowed, chest tight. He didn’t want to move. Didn't want to feel. But he knew he would. Because he had to go back. Back to the alley where it all started. Back to the place where he died, just to see if a part of him might still be there.

With shaking hands and unsteady feet, he stood, picking up the knife and stuffing the packet of peanuts in his pocket again as he zipped up his hoodie, bracing himself against the wall until the spinning stopped and his legs began to move again.

He pulled the hoodie tighter around himself, shoved the hood over the mess of hair that was his, and took one last glance at the empty desk where his notebook should have been. Then he opened the door and stepped back into the morning. The city had moved on. And soon, so would he.

Chapter Text

Bakugo Katsuki knew he had fucked up.

He replayed the moment over and over again, the words echoing in his skull like the aftershock of one of his own explosions. “You’ll never be a hero, Deku. You’re just a useless loser with no Quirk. Why don’t you take a swan dive off the roof and hope for a Quirk in your next life?” It hadn’t even been the worst thing he’d said. It was just the one that mattered, the one that landed, the one he couldn’t take back.

He remembered how wide Deku- no, Izuku’s - eyes had been, and how his green eyes reminded Katsuki like broken glass, full of defeat, and fear, and hurt, and possibly even worse, betrayal. He hated that look. It reminded him of how badly he had failed to be a decent friend. He bullied Izuku because he knew it would hurt, and he knew it would make him finally feel like he has control over something in his life. He needed to rip that damned hopeful look off the shitty nerds face, and needed to feel stronger.

So he burned him. He hadn't meant to burn him as badly as he did, though that doesn't make it any better. He just wanted Izuku to stop looking at him like he was deserving of good things, like he wasn’t the rude, selfish person he knew himself to be. Before he was even processing what was happening, his hand had sparked and lit up, and he didn’t even hesitate before he slammed it onto the centre of Izuku’s back, just below his shoulder blades, shoving him to the muddy ground behind the gym with the acrid crack of fire against skin.

The stench hit him instantly. Burning flesh. It hit him like a gut punch, and for a second he froze. Izuku had whimpered, not loud, not even with much force, but it was full of every emotion that had nearly sent Katsuki spiralling right then and there, even in front of the extras that surrounded him and watched, not realising he could see the barely contained horror on their expressions.

Hell, Katsuki himself could barely hold back his own horror at what he had done. He had never burned more than Izuku’s clothing and left a small burn, but it would always heal just in time for him to leave another. This time, though, it was deep, and real, and he couldn’t take it back.

His skin bled. It bubbled. It steamed. And Katsuki… He was going to vomit. Everyone had gone silent, but he couldn’t stop the harsh words that left his mouth as his lips spilled the opposite of what he meant to say.

God, I’m so sorry Izuku. Fuck, I’m so sorry. “You’re nothing but a waste of air, space, and effort. Stay out of the way, Deku, or I’ll make you.”

He felt his eyes burn. He felt his heart throb. He felt everything. But he kept insulting him, because if he stopped, it would mean he was weak. It would mean he cared, and Katsuki wouldn’t allow himself to be weak. He was anything but. 

And yet, as he grabbed Izuku’s beloved notebook in his hand, the one he cared for more than anything in the world, and Katsuki knew that, he watched as it sparked and exploded in his hands, and he prayed for Izuku to get up. To shout. To hit him. To finally beat him, to get that spark back in his eyes like he did when they were kids.

But a small, hidden part of himself knew that spark was dying, if not dead already. Because he had killed it. He had doused Izuku's bright and warm flame with his own cold, unforgiving water.

Bits of charred paper fluttered in the air like blackened snow as he dropped the notebook onto the ground beside Izuku, and he watched as, despite the burn on his back, he scrambled after it, a frantic desperation in his movements as he sat up and did his best to push the mud and grime off of it.

The extras laughed, nervous, uncertain, not really knowing what they were laughing at, because while they followed Katsuki and had done horrible things themselves, they were probably as worried as he was at what he had done. 

Katsuki felt sick.

He turned on them, barking something rude, some bullshit about them all being pathetic. He wasn’t even listening to himself. He just needed to leave. He shoved past them, ignoring the way they trailed behind him until he snapped at them to fuck off, and this time, they listened. He barely made it to the bathroom before he dropped to his knees and vomited into a toilet.

What the hell did I do?

He knew he’d hurt Izuku. He’d always hurt him. But this was different. This was worse. He didn’t mean to burn him that bad. He didn’t mean to smell that scent, he didn’t mean to see Izuku crumple like that. But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Deep down, Katsuki knew Izuku was better than him. Even without a Quirk. He hated how smart he was, how kind he stayed, how he lasted so long before breaking, even when Katsuki tried to snap him in half. He hated how it scared him. Because if someone like Izuku could be better without powers, what did that make Katsuki? It made him nothing.

The next day, Izuku wasn’t in class. Good, Katsuki told himself. He’s just being dramatic, he’ll be back tomorrow. He always is. But he wasn’t, and people started whispering. At first it was quiet, but the chatter grew louder as they discussed the possibilities for his absence. 

“Maybe he finally took the dive.”

“He’s probably dead somewhere.”

“Wouldn’t be a loss.”

Katsuki snapped. “Hey, Extras! Shut the fuck up.”

They did. His hands were sparking, a dangerous light cracking at his fingertips, but he didn’t care. The teacher didn’t even acknowledge Izuku’s absence. That pissed him off more than anything. He’s just skipping. That’s all. Dumbass’ll be here tomorrow. He doesn’t miss school. Ever.

But the next day came, and Izuku still wasn’t there. The third day was even worse. People weren’t just whispering anymore, even after he told them to cut it out, and instead they were laughing and joking around again. Katsuki was sick of it, and barely made it halfway through the day before he exploded. Literally.

“Oi! All of you need to shut the hell up and stop talking about Deku! If I hear one more thing about him, I’ll kill you!” he snarled, detonations hissing in his palms. He stormed out before anyone could stop him. The teacher called after him, but he didn’t care. He let off another small blast at the door frame just to make a point, but the recoil in his wrist made him wince.

The smell came back again. Burning skin, even though his explosions hadn't touched anyone in days. It was in his nostrils, under his nails, clinging to his shirt. And Izuku’s face. That look, like he’d been gutted alive and Katsuki was the one holding the knife. He couldn’t take it anymore.

He left, and instead wandered the city aimlessly, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes hollow. It was lunchtime, and people passing by looked at him, concerned, but he bared his teeth at them like a feral animal.

It wasn’t until something bright caught his eye that he stopped cold, finally brought out of his daze. A worn, sun-bleached yellow backpack, one he knew without a doubt belonged to Izuku. It was sitting half-slumped next to a wall, and it was half covered in green sludge as his stomach dropped and he rushed over, heart pounding. He picked it up like it might break, carefully taking off whatever sludge was still left, until all that remained was little green stains against yellow.

He held it between his two shaking hands, and carefully and slowly unzipped it, peering inside at the few school supplies he had inside before he looked around and found his prized notebook lying on the ground a little way away. 

He picked up the muddy, bent and partially burned notebook as he overturned it in his hand. It was the same one he had exploded, the one that Izuku loved. The one Izuku never let go of.

His fingers trembled. Why would Izuku leave it behind? Leave his backpack behind, too? What would Auntie think about this, she would be upset at him for being so stupidly careless.

The thought of his Aunt makes him frown. Why hadn’t she told his hag of a mother where Izuku was, even if they hadn't talked in years? Was he at home this whole time? While Katsuki may no longer be friends with Izuku, his mother still believed they were close. So why did no one know where he had gone?

Katsuki cursed under his breath, slinging the backpack over his shoulder and gripping his own bag in his left hand and clutching Izuku’s notebook in his right like a lifeline. The streets blurred past him as he walked faster, taking shortcuts, cutting down alleys. He didn’t know where he was going, just looking. His head buzzed with static, images of Izuku’s face, the burns, the way he screamed, and guilt weighed in his stomach like lead. Every step hurt, but he couldn’t stop, not until Katsuki found him and strangled him for making him this worried exhausted.

He turned a corner into another alley tucked between two ageing buildings, one of them towering at least ten stories into the sky, casting the alley in shadow even as the sun hung high, and he went to pass through when he saw it. A dark, dried blood stain. It painted the cracked pavement like a cruel mural, fanning outward in thick patches that had long dried to rust red. Katsuki stopped in his tracks, backpack and notebook in hand. His grip tightened until his knuckles turned white. No. No. No.

He stepped forward, slow and stiff, like his body wasn’t his own. The closer he got, the more certain he became, it wasn’t just a trick of the light. It was blood. A lot of blood. He stood right in front of it now, eyes darting along the alley for anything, anything, that might make this make sense, when he saw something else.

Near a dumpster, a few steps away from the splatter of blood, was a single strand of hair, and Katsuki was going to throw up. Or cry. Or kill someone. Because the singular thread of hair was a dark shade of green, and perfectly matched the colour of Izuku's curly mess of hair. 

He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move, and his heart slammed against his ribs as he stumbled forward, kneeling slightly, careful not to touch it. But even without touching it, he knew. He recognised that exact shade of forest green anywhere. He’d seen it every day for years. Even on fire, even in the dark, that colour had never left his sight.

This was Izuku’s hair. Which meant… Either the blood was someone else’s, or it was his.

Katsuki staggered backward, horror clawing at his throat. The backpacks thumped against him as he turned and ran back down the alley, through the street. He didn’t care who he pushed past or what curses followed him. He was running faster than ever before, because Izuku could be dead.

His chest burned by the time he slammed open the doors to the nearest police station. They clattered against the walls with a bang loud enough to draw everyone’s attention, but he still didn’t stop. He stormed up to the front counter, dropping the backpacks at his feet with a thud as he leaned in, eyes wild, breath ragged, and scaring the lady behind the counter half to death as he started to ramble, just like Izuku would when he got excited over his stupid fan-boying.

“He’s missing-my friend-I can’t fucking find the nerd, it’s been days, his pathetic ass didn’t come to school and I just found his backpack near a pool of fucking blood, and there was hair, his hair, and-why didn’t Auntie report it, where the hell is he-”

The woman behind the desk widened her eyes, her hand already reaching for something, probably a call button as she tried to calm him down.“H-hey, slow down, what are you—?”

Just then, a firm hand landed on Katsuki’s shoulder, and he reacted instantly. His hands sparked as he turned, ready to blow the person off him-

“Whoa there, Kid.”

He stopped cold. The man in front of him wasn’t some idiot officer. He was tall, sharp-eyed, calm despite the panic in the room. Dressed in the usual detective’s uniform, but it was his face that made Katsuki’s stomach twist. He knew that face.

Detective Tsukauchi Naomasa.

He’d seen him on the news a dozen times. Solving murder cases, cracking villains, helping rescue kids. “You’re… you’re Detective Tsukauchi,” Katsuki mumbled, blinking in disbelief. “Yes,” the detective said calmly, the corner of his lips lifting into a small but warm smile. “And you’re going to need to calm down and come with me. Let’s talk somewhere private and get you settled in, kid, then we can help your friend.”

Katsuki nodded numbly, scooping up both backpacks again as Tsukauchi guided him past the desk, through the hall, and into a small, quiet office. It held a plain wooden desk, two chairs, and a half-drunk cup of coffee. Overall, it was boring, and Katsuki almost wished the man had at least one poster up or something. 

He bet that if Izuku were here he would love to help decorate. Izuku had helped Katsuki when he was younger to decorate his room. The thought made him sick. Tsukauchi only sighed as he sat down, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can’t even have a lunch break without something happening.” Katsuki pretended to not hear, the usual anger he felt on the daily had disappeared long ago.

The detective nodded at the empty chair across from him. “Sit. Start from the beginning. Tell me what’s going on. Slowly, please.” Katsuki sat, placed the backpacks carefully at his feet, and stared at his hands, placing the notebook in his lap. His fingers were twitching, nerves shot. He picked at the skin near his nails, barely noticing the sting.

He didn’t know how to explain it. Not in a way that made sense, but he had to try. 

“I… I think my friend is missing,” he said quietly. “He-he hasn’t been at school. For days. And today I found his backpack. And a bunch of blood. And his—his hair.” Tsukauchi’s expression didn’t change, but his posture shifted, more alert, more focused. “What’s your friend’s name?”

“Midoriya. Izuku Midoriya.”

“And when did you last see him?”

Katsuki swallowed. “Three days ago. At school. He… we had a fight. People were saying things. To him. About… about jumping. Off the roof. Ending it.” He left out the part where he was one of those people. He couldn’t even bring himself to think about it, but the more he talked, the more Tsukauchi’s brows drew together.

“He gets bullied. A lot. People, we, we said things. Awful things. And when I saw that blood today…” His voice cracked, just barely. “I just-I didn’t know what else to fucking do.” Tsukauchi nodded slowly. “You did the right thing coming here.”

Katsuki’s head dropped. He gritted his teeth, voice low and bitter. “Doesn’t feel like it.” He left out the part that this was all his fault to begin with. The detective reached for a notepad and pen. “We’ll open a case immediately. I’ll have someone collect the evidence from the scene you described. You said you found his backpack?”

Katsuki nodded and slid it forward as Tsukauchi gently opened it, before he asked to look at the notebook in his lap. He was reluctant to hand it over, but the detective promised to hand it back to him later, and so he handed it over. 

He watched the detective's eyes linger on the cover, before he quickly flicked through it and his eyebrows almost raised to his hairline. “These are… Analyses?” He says, but it wasn't so much as a question, more like he was surprised. Katsuki was surprised when he first saw them, too. 

He only nodded hopelessly. “Izuku, he- he loved doing stupid quirk analyses, on everyone. Fucking creepy. Heroes, classmates, people he looked up to- he did everything.” He didn’t mention how detailed and intricate it was, but the detective could clearly see for himself, and was clearly impressed. 

“He’s a very talented kid. This means a lot to him, right?” The detective murmurs, continuing to flip through as he answers. “It meant- means everything to him,” Katsuki said, almost too soft to hear. His own voice was unrecognisable without anger behind it.

The detective's eyes met his. “We’re going to find him. I promise.” Katsuki didn’t know if he believed him. But for the first time in days, a small part of him hoped it wasn’t too late to right his wrongs. God, if Izuku was really gone, what would he do? He needed to tell the idiot how sorry he was, more than anything. Maybe let him hit him a few times, too.

Luckily, the detective was fast, methodical, and extremely proper. He didn’t hesitate to launch an investigation, even after learning that Izuku was quirkless. Katsuki decided he likes the man more than he cares to admit, especially as he’s being walked through the next steps.

“We’re going to open a missing persons investigation immediately,” Tsukauchi had said as he scribbled notes. “I’m calling in a forensics team. But I need more from you. Details. Where exactly did you find the blood?”

Katsuki clenched his jaw. “I don’t know the name of the alley. It was near that tall shitty building by the old bookstore a few blocks from the school. I didn’t check the street sign or anything-I just ran here.” Tsukauchi nodded once, stood, and holstered his notebook. “Take me there.”

Katsuki didn’t hesitate. He slung Izuku’s backpack over his shoulder again, leaving his own behind, and stormed out the door, Tsukauchi quick on his heels. They walked fast, and Katsuki didn’t speak once, his heart feeling like a war drum in his chest, every footstep hitting the pavement sounding like a countdown.

And then they turned the corner, and there it was. The alley. The stain. The hair. It was almost as if it was stuck in time.

Katsuki stopped just short of it, his chest rising and falling like he’d sprinted the whole way. He turned toward the detective, whose eyes were now locked onto the dried blood. He stared, unmoving. Katsuki could see his brain working behind those sharp eyes. Then, low and almost to himself, the detective muttered,“Extreme blood loss… whosoever it is would be lucky to survive this.” That didn’t make him feel any better.

Tsukauchi crouched down, snapping gloves over his hands before carefully picking up the strand of green hair. He placed it into a clear evidence bag, his expression tight, professional, but grim, before he pulled out his phone and made a call.

“This is Detective Tsukauchi. I need a full forensic team dispatched to an alley near…” He rattled off location details quickly, as if they were already burned into his head. “Suspected crime scene. High-priority. Get a medic with trauma experience on standby in case we find the victim.” Katsuki stood there, fists clenched, watching. His breath was shallow, but steady.

Tsukauchi ended the call and turned to him. “Crime scene techs will be here soon. We’ll search every inch of this place.” He nodded but quickly added, “I also found his backpack somewhere else. Not here, though, but I can take you.” Tsukauchi doesn’t hesitate. “Lead the way.”

They moved again, and this time Katsuki’s pace was more frantic, as if moving faster could fix the damage already done. He turned down another alley, then into a quieter street that led to an old bench and trash bin near a corner store, before he entered another alleyway. Right before it was a storm grate, pushed slightly off its metal groove.

Katsuki stepped over it, not thinking much of it, and pointed ahead. “There. That’s where I found his bag. Just… dumped there.” But when he looked over his shoulder, he froze. Tsukauchi wasn’t looking at the spot Katsuki was pointing to, he was staring at the open sewer grate.

His expression was sharper now, concerned in a different way. Calculating. Suspicious. Like he knows something. He senses Katsuki looking at him and raises his head, eyes softening. “Was there anything… odd on the backpack when you found it?”

Katsuki blinked. “Uh… yeah. Green slime or something. I brushed it off.” Tsukauchi’s eyes widened. “Slime?” Katsuki frowned. “Yeah, it was gross-sticky. It looked like the green slime shit that villain was made of on the news the other day.” The detective didn’t respond right away. He stepped carefully toward the grate, peering down into the darkness below. “Well, shit,” he muttered, mentioning something about All Might and a clingy kid, but Katsuki couldn’t understand.

Tsukauchi turned back to Katsuki, expression serious. “This changes things. I’m calling in another search unit to search the area.” Katsuki opened his mouth to ask what the hell he was muttering on about before, but stopped when Tsukauchi’s phone was already back in his hand, voice low and urgent again.

Neither of them noticed the figure watching them from the opposite end of the alley, their backs towards the thin and pale child, his clothes hanging off his frame and his wild, green curls only getting messier and more tangled the more the wind blew.

Izuku stood in the shadows, half-hidden, eyes wide and body tense. His breathing was uneven. His mouth was dry. His heart felt like it was about to give out.

Bakugo…

He took a shaky step backward. He had heard a few snippets of Bakugo's conversation with the detective, and the words echoed around in his mind. They were actually looking for him, but he didn’t move forward. He didn’t speak, and he didn’t cry out. Instead, like always, he turned and ran away, unseen, unheard, and unnoticed.

He disappeared back into the city’s underbelly, too afraid to be found. Too broken to believe he was worth it. And Bakugo Katsuki, with his jaw clenched and heart screaming, stood at the edge of the sewer, still blind to how close he had come to finding Izuku.

Four days. It had been four long, aching days, and Izuku had truly believed that no one would notice he was gone. He had convinced himself, through the quiet, the hunger, and the pain, that his absence didn’t matter, that his presence never had. No one had come looking, no one had called out his name, and the silence was louder than anything he’d ever heard before.

But then he saw Bakugo, standing with a detective, his precious notebook gripped tightly in the man’s hands like the detective actually cared to find a useless, quirkless kid, and that he truly meant something, while his tattered yellow backpack was slung over Katsuki’s shoulder as if it belonged there, as if Bakugo had always cared, and Izuku had dreamed about what the future could have been like.

Him and Kacchan laugh together, walking towards their dream school with their identical uniforms on. Kacchan was holding his backpack for him as he scribbled down notes excitedly in his new and improved notebook, joking around as Izuku pushed Kacchan away after listening to his next joke about his mumbling, but there was no ill intent, only teasing and friendship and warmth. It made his heart ache.

Izuku’s breath got caught in his throat the second he registered what he was seeing, and before he could fully process the emotions slamming into his chest, the confusion, disbelief, bitterness, that aching little thing called hope, his legs were already moving, his instincts kicking in as he bolted from the alleyway like a shadow fleeing the sunrise.

His thoughts were a mess, tangled and sharp as he ran, every footstep echoing against the concrete as his mind raced faster than his feet ever could. Bakugo was looking for him. After everything. After what he said, after what he did, he’s looking for me? It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t.

But he had seen the way Bakugo looked. He wasn’t faking it. There was panic on his face, desperation in his voice. There was no mistaking it, and that terrified Izuku more than being forgotten ever had. The notebook. The backpack. The blood on the pavement. They had to have seen it, and Bakugo being here with a detective was just proof that someone might actually care. And that? That was far more dangerous than being invisible.

His chest burned as he slowed to a walk, exhaustion catching up to him like a tidal wave, crashing into his bones and weighing down his limbs until each step felt like it might be the last. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. That this didn’t change anything. Bakugo probably just didn’t want blood on his hands. That’s all it is. He doesn’t care. He can’t.

But that notebook, that stupid, precious, irreplaceable notebook, was in someone else’s hands now. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever get it back. Maybe he could sneak in, pretend to be found, then grab the notebook and vanish again. But even as he thought about it, he knew it was impossible. Not after seeing the look on their faces. Not after the blood. No, after that, they probably thought he was already dead. Maybe that was better. Maybe that was how it should be.

His stomach growled, low and painful, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten anything save for the peanuts he had eaten on his way to the alley. His fingers trembled slightly as he pushed his hood further over his face, pulling his hair down to cover the right side of his face, including his scar, and kept walking, winding deeper into the city with no real direction, just a need to keep moving, to stay unnoticed, to stay gone.

He just needed somewhere to sit. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one would look twice at him. That’s when he saw it.

A small building nestled between two towering shops, hidden away like a secret. Its wooden sign was faded and scratched, a couple paw prints painted beside the words Cat Cafe, barely visible under the shade of an overgrown awning. The windows were soft with steam, curtains drawn halfway, and something about the quiet warmth of it made his heart slow for just a moment.

He stepped inside without thinking, a tiny bell chiming above his head as the door closed behind him. It was quiet and empty, except for the cats that lounged around in whatever bit of sun they could.

The air inside was warm, scented faintly with roasted coffee and something sweet. He liked it. There were tall cat trees in every corner, worn cushions scattered on the floors and shelves, and soft cats blinking lazily at him from every perch as he found a booth tucked in the farthest corner of the room, half-hidden by a tall potted plant and a climbing tree shaped like a castle, and he slid into the seat, but within moments cats had him surrounded.

A sleepy black cat curled up in his lap. A pair of gray tabbies settled on the table in front of him. One orange fluff ball brushed against his leg, while another, cream-coloured and gentle, climbed onto his shoulder and licked his cheek, and for the first time in three days, maybe longer, Izuku smiled.

It was small, crooked, a flicker of something long buried. But it was real. A ghost of joy that stirred somewhere deep in his chest, fragile and fleeting, but there. He let out a breathy laugh, hand reaching out to pet the nearest one as he whispered a soft “hey, little guy” under his breath. His fingers shook a little as he stroked its back, but the cat didn’t mind. None of them did.

He was so focused on the tiny warmth of fur and breath and momentary peace that he didn’t even notice when someone slid into the seat beside him until a low, calm voice broke the silence.

“That one's Candy. She's a bit of a grump.”

Izuku startled hard, heart lurching as his body twisted around on instinct, breath caught in his throat, eyes wide. He stared at the man sitting beside him, someone older, with warm eyes and golden hair that reflected the sun like a beacon, his smile just as bright. “Sorry,” he said quickly, hands raised in surrender, his voice kind as he chuckled. “Didn’t mean to scare you, kiddo!”

Izuku nodded stiffly, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he studied him. The man’s eyes dropped briefly to the right side of Izuku's face, and he turned away quickly, making sure his scar was hidden by his long hair. His gaze dropped as he faced the table again and reached to pat the cute cat that had sat in front of him, only for his hand to meet nothing but air.

The cats had scattered, likely spooked by his reaction, vanishing under booths, behind shelves, and overall away from his reach. And just like that, the warmth was gone again. Now, on top of being tired, worried, and hungry… he was pissed that this guy had scared off his cats.

Izuku glanced sideways, narrowing his eyes and barely turning his head as he muttered under his breath, “C-can I help y-you, Goldilocks?” The words came out sharper than intended, low and defensive, but his body was already coiled like a spring, tense in case he needed to run.

The man beside him just laughed softly, the sound smooth and without mockery. “Goldilocks? Haven't heard that one in quite a while. But no,” he said with a kind smile, folding his hands on the table like he had all the time in the world. “Just thought I’d say hi. Bit quiet in here today.”

Izuku didn’t respond at first. He just nodded, barely a twitch of his head, and stared down at the table as silence stretched out between them like a wire pulled tight. He kept his eyes low, shoulders hunched, waiting for the man to leave or say something cruel. They always do.

But instead, after a few long seconds, the man said, “Would you like something to eat?” Izuku’s head snapped up before he could stop himself, his eyes narrowing more as he finally turned to look at the stranger more closely. He didn’t look threatening, at least.

He took in the long, golden-blonde hair pulled back into a loose bun at the nape of his neck, the small rectangular red glasses that perched delicately on the bridge of his nose, and the unfairly bright white teeth that flashed every time he smiled. His clothes weren’t flashy, just a plain white T-shirt covered in cat fur and a pair of worn blue jeans. Nothing loud. Nothing intimidating.

Izuku straightened up slightly, suspicion still prickling beneath his ribs as he asked quietly, “W-what do I-I have to actually d-do for the f-food?”

For a beat, the man just looked at him, eyes calm and unreadable. Then he laughed again, louder, this time but not mocking or condescendingly, just warm and easy like sunshine in the early morning. It took Izuku by surprise, and for a second, it was… nice, listening to someone be happy. That was dangerous. He crushed that feeling before it could grow.

“The food’s on me,” the man said simply. Izuku frowned. “I don’t want you wasting food on me.” The man tilted his head slightly, lips tugging up into a lopsided grin. “It wouldn’t be wasting if you enjoy it, kiddo, but if you would be more comfortable with something else,” he said lightly, “we’ve got a batch of muffins a few days old. About to get tossed out. If you’d prefer those instead…”

Izuku didn’t even get the chance to nod before the man stood up, already making his way toward the back room behind the counter. That’s when it clicked, he must work here. Of course he did. But Izuku didn’t dwell on that. Not when the moment the man disappeared, the cats returned!

One tiny kitten leapt softly onto his lap, curled up like it belonged there, and Izuku’s mouth softened into the gentlest smile. He reached out with one hand and carefully stroked its back, his touch feather-light. A few more cats wandered over, brushing against his knees, settling at his side, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he strangely didn’t feel entirely alone.

When the man returned, the feeling didn’t leave, either. Weird. He came louder this time, his footsteps easily heard so Izuku could hear them this time, and holding a brown paper bag that looked pretty full and appetising. He didn’t say anything, just smiled and sat opposite Izuku so as not to disturb the cats, gently sliding the muffins across the table like a peace offering.

Izuku stared at them for a second, eyes wide with disbelief, before muttering a quiet, “Thanks.” He opened the bag and picked one up, still slightly warm, took a bite, and the second it hit his tongue, he almost groaned aloud. It was so good, soft and sweet and warm in a way that made his stomach ache for more.

He devoured three more before he even realised how quickly he was eating, and when he glanced up, the man was smiling at him again, amused, but not in a bad way. Just… happy to see him eating.

Izuku swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and finally, finally, mustered the courage to ask, “W-what’s your na—” His voice died in his throat the second he looked beyond the man and saw the movement outside. Just outside the cafe window, past the other booths and cat towers, a blur of spiky ash-blond hair moved down the sidewalk. Bakugo. Izuku’s blood turned to ice.

He shrank down instantly, curling in on himself as his heart pounded in his ears. His hands trembled against the table, and every nerve screamed hide, vanish, run. He waited, barely breathing, until the shape passed the window completely and disappeared out of sight.

Then he stood up so fast the kitten in his lap tumbled off with a startled meow. “S-Sorry,” he stammered, bowing quickly to the cats, then to the man. “I—I have to go.” He turned to leave, but the man gently called out, “Wait—take the last muffins, at least.” Izuku stopped.

Then, slowly, he turned and reached out with careful hands, accepting the remaining two muffins in the bag with a grateful, almost reverent nod. “T-thank you,” he said softly, voice thick with something he didn’t want to name.

And then he was gone, darting out the door with the bell chiming once more behind him, muffins clutched to his chest, heart racing as he sprinted back into the streets, back home.

Chapter Text

Hizashi had been thinking about the boy every day since he’d left. It wasn’t anything dramatic at first, just a quiet, lingering thought in the back of his mind, like a song you didn’t know the words to but couldn’t quite shake. He remembered how the kid had barely spoken at first, how his shoulders hunched in like he was trying to make himself smaller, like he wanted to disappear entirely. The kind of posture that came from being stepped on one too many times.

The boy couldn’t have been more than fourteen at most based how small, slender, and young he was. His curly hair tumbled in messy waves, falling over half his face, and Hizashi had to fight the instinct to gently brush it aside, maybe even offer him a trim. But he held back, because apparently, it was frowned upon to be affectionate with someone you'd only just met. His husband was a good man, truly wonderful, but sometimes, he just didn’t quite understand the way Hizashi’s heart worked.

He tried not to dwell too much on the fact that the poor boy had looked so alone and tired, but it was hard not to worry. The kid had bolted so fast after catching sight of someone out the window, and though he’d left with a few muffins, it didn’t feel like nearly enough. Not for someone who probably didn’t know when his next real meal was coming.

Every day that passed, Hizashi found himself glancing at the door more and more. It became a habit, an unconscious flick of his eyes each time the bell above the entrance chimed. Sometimes he thought he saw him, just a flash of his dark green coloured hood passing by the window, but it was always someone else. He always felt upset and concerned every time he thought he saw the kid. The silence that followed was a little heavier each time.

He tried to remind himself that maybe the kid was okay. Maybe he’d found somewhere better to go, someone better to rely on. Maybe Hizashi was just being overly sentimental. But then again, maybe not.

One night, as he was cleaning up after close, sweeping the floors with a cat curled around his ankle and the quiet hum of a radio in the background, he remembered something he’d heard on the news on his radio, cutting off his music for less than a minute. Just a short segment, hardly a full story. A quirkless boy had gone out, and never come back. His name, Midoriya Izuku, was released to the public, and they’d found a few of his belongings, his backpack, some blood, a single strand of hair. But the boy was still gone, and the media hadn't touched it since because of his lack of a quirk. No major headlines, no urgent press conferences, just another kid that slipped through the cracks.

Hizashi remembered how his chest had ached and his anger had flared when he heard, and even now young Midoriya’s case still stuck with him. Even now, when he listened to the radio for any updates but as usual heard none, he grew frustrated and his knuckles turned white around the broom in his hands.

It made him angrier than he wanted to admit that in this society with quirks and heroes and laws and protection, children were still hurting, still alone, still scarred in ways that didn’t always show up on the surface. No child should have to grow up like that. No child should have been given up on so easily, but he trusted that the detective on the case, one he knew well thanks to his husband, would work hard to find Midoriya.

It had now been a week since the nameless boy first walked into his cafe, and Hizashi had already prepared a new batch of muffins. He didn’t let himself hope too hard, but he made them anyway. Just in case. He placed them on the counter like he always did and told himself it was for the customers. But he kept glancing at the door all the same.

Then, just as the sun was starting to dip behind the buildings and cast long golden lines across the wooden floor, the bell above the door jingled again, and Hizashi’s heart skipped. He poked his head around the counter, towel still slung over his shoulder, and there, right there, was that small, familiar figure standing in the doorway. Same hoodie. Same slouched posture. Same tired eyes, one still covered by hair.

He was back.

Hizashi didn’t even think. A grin broke out across his face as he all but rushed from behind the counter, closing the distance between them in seconds. “You came back!” he beamed, barely able to contain his relief. He opened his arms wide and pulled the boy into a hug, squeezing him like someone who’d just reunited with a long-lost friend.

Only halfway through the embrace did he remember what his husband always told him.“Not everyone likes hugs, Zashi. Especially not from strangers.”

But Hizashi had never really agreed with that. How could you not hug someone who looked like they needed it more than anything else? Still, he loosened his grip just enough to give the boy room to pull away. But he didn’t. He stayed still, quiet in his arms. And that silence said more than words ever could. When he finally stepped back, Hizashi smiled gently and said, “Come on. Let’s get you a seat.”

He only nodded, tentative, and followed him toward a booth tucked into the corner of the cafe. Hizashi noticed how his steps were lighter this time, not quite confident, but not as panicked either. As soon as a few cats came meandering over, the boy dropped down into the booth, and Hizashi watched his shaking hands still the moment they reached fur. One of the kittens climbed right into his lap like it had been waiting just for him, and a soft little sound escaped the boy’s lips, half a sigh, half a laugh. Hizashi sat across from him, warmth blooming in his chest.

He didn’t push. He didn’t ask where the boy had gone or why he’d left so fast last time. He just started a quiet conversation, talking about the cats and the weather and the cafe, giving him the space to respond at his own pace. And slowly, like petals opening to sunlight, the boy began to speak more. Still soft, still cautious and with a small stutter, but Hizashi listened to every word like it mattered.

After a little while, he asked gently, “Hey… do you mind if I ask your name? I never got it last time.”

The boy froze. His eyes flicked down to his lap where the kitten lay sleeping, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, in a voice so soft Hizashi had to lean forward to catch it, he whispered, “... It’s Meiko.”

Hizashi felt a pang. The boy spoke the name as though testing it for the first time, but Hizashi held back any remark, unwilling to risk driving him away.

“That’s a nice name,” he said simply, offering a smile. “Suits you.” Meiko gave a small shrug, his shoulders rising and falling as he hummed like he didn’t care either way. Then he asked, “W-what’s your n-name?”

“Yamada Hizashi,” he said. “But just Hizashi is fine.” Meiko nodded, the barest movement of his head, and the corners of his lips twitched ever so slightly, not quite a smile, but something close. Not long after, he stood up, murmuring, “I have to go now.”

Hizashi stood too, not wanting to make him feel trapped but also not quite ready to see him leave. “Wait,” he said as the boy reached the door, his voice light, hopeful. “Same time next week, Meiko?” The boy paused, hand on the door, and turned just enough for Hizashi to see his face in the soft light.

And there, there it was. A ghost of a smile. “Only if you’ve got some good muffins waiting for me, Hizashi.” Then he was gone. Hizashi stood there for a long moment, hand resting lightly on the counter, a dozen cats weaving around his feet as warmth filled his chest like sunlight through the windows.

Next week.

He’d be waiting.

Izuku mentally slapped himself. He knew he couldn’t give his real name out to strangers, but Meiko? Really? He might as well have just called himself Lost Kid #1. Izuku was sure he wasn’t lucky enough for the man to be stupid and not realise what it meant. Izuku mentally slapped himself again.

He hadn’t meant to go back to that cafe. He really hadn’t. That man, Hizashi, he’d called himself, was too warm. Too bright. Too soft around the edges. And Izuku hated that it made his chest ache. He wasn’t used to kindness like that, not anymore. It was like drinking hot cocoa too fast and scalding your tongue. It made everything else feel worse afterwards. So he’d left as fast as he could, especially when he saw a glimpse of Bakugo through the window. His instincts had screamed at him to run, and he obeyed like he always did.

The week after that? Hell. Not the worst week. But still hell. Izuku had tried to end his life sixteen times now, if he was counting. And he was. Always counting.

There was just something about being able to rest easily in the void, forgetting who he was and how pathetic his life truly was, before waking up from death that made the world feel a little more real afterwards. The first few times had been terrifying, painful in ways that didn’t fade quickly. Even now, looking back at his third attempt, which had been drowning, he shivers at just the thought.

Drowning was by far the worst. Slitting his wrists or his neck was by far the best.

He’d also jumped again, taken pills, stabbed himself, electrocuted himself, used poison, starved, exposed himself to toxic chemicals, and even walked into traffic once. 

That one had just plain and downright sucked. He didn’t even die, only broke a few bones and had to scramble home before someone took him to hospital and figured out his quirk. He’d killed himself right after, but at times he still heard the crunch his bones had made.

But with each death, something strange happened. When he came back, he was better. If he’d been limping from an ankle sprain, it’d be gone, similarly to his broken bones. If he had bruises from a bad fall, they’d vanish. Even a small cut on his arm, accidental or not, would disappear like it was never there, leaving barely visible scars. Healed. Reset.

Like a video game character re-spawning at full health. Except… not all scars faded as he'd hoped. The burn from Bakugo still lingered. Angry and ugly. The fire had kissed his flesh, and it stayed with him, even after sixteen deaths. Even after all that, the scar clung to him.

It didn’t sting like it used to, but sometimes, when his shirt brushed against it, he flinched anyway. Like his body remembered it better than his mind wanted to. Like pain that had roots in something deeper than nerves. No matter how many times he died, that scar never faded. Izuku hated how much that meant to him.

But something else had changed this week too, something smaller, but important. He started eating more. Not properly. He couldn’t afford that. But thanks to a few… desperate opportunities, like some stolen store bread, some barely-touched leftovers from a bin behind a ramen shop, and a few times, a free meal from the soup kitchen where no one looked him in the eyes, he’d actually been able to eat a full meal three times this week, and it would have been four if a cat hadn't tried to scratch him when he got too close to its dumpster, which had had a perfectly good sandwich that the cat was ignoring, but whatever.

The food made a difference. He had more energy, he didn’t shake as much, and somewhere along the way, he started running. The first time, he’d made it thirty minutes before he collapsed. He hit the sand of a beach he barely recognised (Takoba, he’d later learn) with his chest heaving, legs screaming. But when he sat up, what he saw didn’t match the peaceful image in his mind.

People must have been using this place as a dumping ground for years. There wasn't a single spot of sand visible save for the small patch he had managed to collapse onto without looking around. It made his skin crawl, and it made him angry. For some reason, It reminded him too much of himself.

A place that had once been something good, something pure and open and full of promise, just to be ruined. Left to rot. Forgotten by the people who used it and then tossed it aside. Maybe he was just projecting. No. He was projecting, but it didn’t stop him.

That first day, he only managed to clean for an hour. He barely made a dent in the trash as he lugged the pieces into nearby dumpsters. But it felt good. Like he could fix something. Like he could control something. So the next morning, he came back. At 7 a.m. sharp.

And the morning after that. Every day that week, without fail, he ran to the beach. And every day, he picked up trash.

One piece of rubbish and trash at a time, ranging from plastic bottles to appliances such as fridges and other metals. The larger objects like the fridges were the hardest, and it would take him all of the time he could spare just to roll it off to the side.

It was still disgusting and overwhelming, but it was his now. Since no one else was going to look after it, he would, but by the time Friday rolled around, a full week since he met the loud man with the golden hair and too-kind eyes, Izuku decided it was time.

He didn’t want to admit it, but… He missed the warmth. He felt bad for leaving. Like he’d stolen something, but not the muffins. (Though, those were amazing. He was still thinking about the cinnamon apple one.)

No, he felt bad for taking the man’s kindness and running away from it. So… he went back. The bells chimed when he walked in. And suddenly, arms were around him. Warm. Solid. Tight. The man was hugging him.

Izuku didn’t know how to respond. His brain screamed to run, to back away, to bite if he had to, but his body… stilled. It was nice. Kami, it was so nice. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been hugged. Maybe when he was four. Maybe earlier. He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to pull away, so he stayed, and when Hizashi let go, when they sat down, when the cats jumped into his lap again, Izuku felt… calm.

They talked a little. Nothing deep. Just names, well, fake names, and casual stuff. Hizashi told him about the cats. Izuku listened. Nodded. Let the purring animals ground him. And when he stood to leave, Hizashi said: “Same time next week, Meiko?” Izuku had turned, half-smiling without realising it. The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“Only if you’ve got good muffins waiting for me, Hizashi.” 

And now here he was, chewing on something sweet and warm and real, as he walked away from the cat cafe and down the street with a full stomach, an painless scar, and the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Izuku walked slowly down the cracked sidewalk, the bag of muffins swinging gently in one hand. The warmth of the sun clung to his shoulders, and for once, it didn’t feel like a burden. His legs didn’t ache like they used to. His breath didn’t come in short, painful bursts. If anything, he felt… stronger. It was subtle, but noticeable.

He could walk further now without needing to collapse on some park bench. He could run, not for long, but long enough to matter. He’d even managed to lift a microwave among other things back in his apartment the day before, something that he definitely would’ve struggled with more a week ago. Eating had definitely helped, and so did moving regularly, too. By the time he reached the broken apartment complex, the muffins had cooled, but the scent still lingered, comforting and sweet. He took the narrow stairs up to the third floor, stepping over splintered wood and rusted nails and missing steps as always, until he reached the door he had managed to screw to the wall that looked like it would fall down at any second.

There was now a little fridge in the corner of the kitchen, humming quietly, plugged into a boxy yellow power battery that buzzed when the lights were on. He still couldn’t believe he’d found both at Takoba Beach. Still working. Just… tossed out. Like they were nothing. Like everything else in this world.

He slipped the muffins into the fridge carefully, sealing the bag and placing them on the middle shelf, protecting them from the dust that he couldn't seem to get rid of that still floated around in the air. He had power now, enough for the fridge, his battered microwave, and some string lights he’d strung around the walls to make the place feel a little less like a tomb. It wasn’t much, but it worked. And more importantly, he had made it work.

Izuku sat down on the cold floor, arms loosely wrapped around his knees. For a while, he just sat there, his thoughts gnawing at the edges of his peace. Then, like he had every day this week, he moved. It started with push-ups. Then sit-ups. Squats. His muscles protested, but that was fine, he welcomed the pain. It meant he was still in control. When the basics weren’t enough, he left his room and made his way down to the second floor, where the hallway had a low, metal pipe jutting from the wall near the stairwell.

It looked like it had been part of a railing once, bent and forgotten, but when he grabbed it, it didn’t budge. So he used it, but the pull-ups were hard. His arms trembled, his fingers burned, but he got through a handful. And then another. And then another, until he dropped down, gasping and shaking, sweat slick on his skin. He couldn’t explain why he kept doing this.

Maybe it was because the burn in his muscles distracted him from the other one, the one deep inside that never seemed to go away. When his body gave out, he slumped to the ground, half-sprawled across the dusty hallway. The place was quiet, the dim light from the cracked window barely reaching him. He reached into his pocket with shaky fingers and pulled out the small folding knife he always kept with him. The blade clicked open with a soft snap.

He stared at it for a long time. Not thinking. Just… watching it catch the light. There weren’t many new scars on his skin now. After a week of dying and slowly feeling better than before, his scars went from raised skin to thin whites lines, just barely visible in the light. Some wouldn’t leave visible scars at all depending on the death, like taking pills or poison, but he would feel it more when he woke up since it was internal.

The scar forced upon him by Bakugo still confused him, though, because it would go from completely painless to stinging and burning. It still throbbed occasionally, and he hisses every time his shirt grazes it, but on some days when he was feeling better than the days before, it wouldn’t hurt at all. It was a mystery to him. 

He had given up on killing himself and hoping to die. No, he lost that hope after the fifth or sixth attempt. Now it was because, even if only temporarily, he could forget everything. He could finally control something in his life, and could finally end the unstoppable noise in his mind, if only for a few hours now instead of half a day.

He dragged the blade along the faint scars already on his wrist, no new lines, no reckless slashes, just careful, measured repetition. It stung, but not in a way that hurt. It was familiar. So familiar. And then came the warmth. The blur. The silence. Izuku smiled faintly as the darkness closed in, and with the softest sigh, he let it take him again.

Chapter Text

Izuku didn’t mean to get murdered.

Really, it wasn’t on his to-do list for at least another week. But now, as he sits with his back against the wall of yet another alleyway (what is with his obsession with alleyways lately?) holding a bloody hand to the side of his stomach as his vision sways and distorts, he realises that he’s in a shit ton of trouble.

He had been minding his own business, walking home with his hair tied in a ponytail that he had made sure to put up after he had left the cafe, and as he walked down the dark streets he cursed himself for staying for too long at the cat cafe with Hizashi. He was about to reach into his bag of muffins to grab another delicious apple flavoured one, when he heard the sound of a glass bottle being thrown against a brick wall. The hairs on the back of his neck raised immediately, and before he knew what he was doing, he ran after the noise, listening to the people that were now shouting at each other in hushed whispers.

He heard a total of three men, but when he rounded the corner, it seemed he guessed wrong. There were five, and now they were all looking towards him, and he quickly realised they were extremely drunk and exchanging extremely illegal substances. The only thing that had been going through his mind at that moment was, Well, shit.

He froze for only a second, but it was long enough for the one closest to him, a tall and broad shouldered man with a shaved head and a twitch in his left eye, to take a staggering step forward, squinting like he was trying to figure out if he was looking at a cop or just some idiot with bad timing.

"Hey," Twitchy-Eye said, voice slurred, "You lost or somethin’, man?" The others chuckled darkly, one lighting a cigarette with the tip of his finger,  something metallic gleaming briefly in the hand of another. A knife? A pipe? It didn’t matter. His heart pounded like it was trying to punch its way out of his chest, but his feet were rooted to the concrete. For a second, he thought he might try to talk his way out of it. Lie. Laugh. Play it cool.

But one of them, the smallest of the bunch, wiry with a sharp chin and wild eyes, suddenly muttered, “He saw the drop.” That’s when the energy shifted. No more half-drunk amusement or idle posturing. Just silent, ugly tension, before one of them dropped the baggie he’d been holding and took a step forward, cracking his knuckles like a threat. Izuku made the only decision that felt right.

He threw his bag of muffins at them, watching with sadness as his beloved muffins fly through the air, but the feeling is quickly replaced with satisfaction as they hit the man closest to him in the centre of his face, giving him enough time to turn on his heel and bolt.

In the past two weeks since he started cleaning Takoba beach and hauling around heavy appliances while exercising daily, he may have increased his strength and stamina, but he wasn’t idiotic enough to believe he could go against all five of these thugs, especially since they were all armed and ready to likely murder him.

He ran back the way he came, lungs burning, footsteps pounding behind him as they began to shout, louder than before and angrier. All right, Izuku, use your annoyingly fast paced brain to come up with a way out of this.

He tore down another alley, his shoes skidding slightly as he pivoted around a corner, heart pounding but mind working faster. The adrenaline was brutal, but it was clearing a path through his panic. He muttered under his breath as he ran, voice low and quick, half a whisper, half a blueprint in progress.

“Okay, five of them, definitely five, no, no, four now, wait, no, all five, one doubled back. Gotta confirm that later. Bigger than me, heavier builds, bad in a straight fight, but worse for them in tight spaces. Narrow alleys work in my favour, limit their mobility, force single-file pursuit.”

He vaulted over a pile of broken wood and kept moving, glancing up at fire escapes and rusted drainpipes as he went.

“No ranged quirks confirmed yet, but fire from the cigarette guy, ignition-based, maybe palm or fingertip-based combustion. Short range, likely. He hasn’t used it for harm yet, could mean he needs contact or focus. Weapon-wise, glass bottle, knife, something metal, maybe chain? Close-combat gear. Not great. Not fatal at range. They’re faster than I expected for how drunk they are, but their coordination’s sloppy. Stumbling over each other. That’s the alcohol, impaired reaction time, poor balance. Advantage me. But if they corner me, that’s it. One mistake and it’s over. I revive, sure, but not fast enough to escape mid-fight. Recovery’s not evasion.”

He glanced behind him again, and saw shadows flicker against graffiti-stained walls.

“They’re communicating, barely. Lots of yelling, not a lot of tactics. Alpha behaviour from Twitchy-Eye. Probably leading on instinct alone. If I can split them, yeah, if I break line of sight, get them to fan out, I might isolate one. Or two. Narrow the odds.”

He turned sharply and started scanning his environment more intently, voice still quick and quiet.

“Construction site only two blocks west. Open terrain, some scaffolding, debris, harder to control, but good for misdirection. If I can get there, I can double back, maybe even drop one through the floor unstable concrete, right, it’s still roped off for repairs. Trap zone. No hand-to-hand experience, but I’ve got terrain knowledge. Urban advantage. Think like a support hero and fight with the environment, not against it. Force them into choke points. Trip hazards, ledges, unstable walls, anything to slow them down. Buy time.”

He dipped under a metal pipe sticking out of a wall and whispered sharply, “No quirks for combat. That’s fine. That’s fine. I don’t need to win, just escape. Evasion, obstruction, redirection. Break the pursuit line, isolate threats. Don’t get caught. Survive first, think later.”

He spotted a narrow side passage and ducked into it, voice even lower now, more focused.

“Okay. Plan A, construction site. Plan B, lose them through more alleyways and run like hell. Too narrow for a group that size. Plan C, decoy tactics, lead them into the local patrol zone. Heroes don’t patrol this late usually, but maybe I get lucky. All plans end with me not dying. Hopefully.”

Another quick breath. Then a grim smile as his eyes locked onto a flickering construction sign in the distance. “Let’s see if any of you can climb scaffolding drunk.”

He races forward, and as the shouting grows quieter with each step he puts between them, he starts to get excited. Okay, his plan was working! He was so close to the construction site, now, only a few more steps-

He made the mistake of looking back. It seems that one of them had a speed quirk after all, and was extremely skilled in staying silent, because Izuku wouldn’t have been able to hear him if not for his friends making a ruckus behind them both, throwing glass bottles and yelling slurred insults.

Izuku’s hope was dwindling, but the second he turned to enter the construction site, something caught his foot. He didn't see what, maybe a raised bit of concrete, maybe a discarded beer can, but one moment he was sprinting for his life, the thug barely arms length away, and the next moment Izuku was airborne, arms flailing, body twisting. The impact knocked the air clean out of his lungs as he hit the ground, and luckily or unluckily for him (he couldn’t decide yet) while the thug was exceptionally fast, he was still drunk, and as his foot collided with Izuku’s stomach, he was unable to stop and was instead sent flying straight over the rope barricade of the construction site and landed in a cloud of dust. 

Pain exploded through his ribs and stomach, and his palms were scraped raw as they met the ground and he pushed himself up. While one of the thugs was out for the count there were still four more to deal with, and they were quickly gaining on him. He hisses out a curse as he watches Twitchy-Eye take the lead again after losing it for a second, before he began weaving a bit but driven by a sudden, terrifying focus as he barrelled straight towards Izuku. The sharp-chinned one was close behind, practically foaming at the mouth. The other two followed more slowly, but they had momentum and numbers.

He had to bite back a grunt as he turned and lurched forward, his legs groaning in protest but speeding up. His mind was a whirlwind of panic and pain and regret. How did this happen? 

One second he was munching on double chocolate muffins next to Hizashi, playing with the cute little kitten with the missing tail, and the next-

A hand grabbed the back of his hoodie, and pure instinct took over as he turned and made eye contact with the speed quirk guy. Yeah, he was really pissing Izuku off now.

Izuku twisted, yanking forward just as the man lost his grip, sending him stumbling sideways into a trash bin. The crash distracted the others for only a moment. Just enough.

Plan A was left behind him, so it looks like it's onto Plan B. He scouts the area quickly before he ducks into a narrow alley between two buildings, which is barely wide enough to squeeze through, and smelled like rotting food and piss, but he didn’t care. He shoved himself into the space, using the wall to steady himself. Somewhere behind him, he heard someone curse.

"He's cutting through!"

“Try and block the other side!”

No, no, no.

He shoved harder, scraping his arm against brick and rusted pipe, the sounds of pursuit bouncing off the walls. The alley bent left, then opened up into another alley, but this time it was large enough so if he spread his arms out straight to the side, the tips of his fingers would only just be able to graze the wall. Trash bins lined the far side, and he scanned the area for an exit, but went pale and still as he came up empty. He was trapped.

He spun around just in time to see all five squeezing through, one of them touching the walls with a concentrated expression as sweat dripped down his brow but the walls moved so they had more space to shove themselves through the gap. Looks like with his quirk he can move walls, just perfect.

As Izuku tried to steady his breathing and come up with a plan, he wasn’t able to. His mind had chosen to stop working, now of all times. He can do nothing but sigh. Looks like he will be dying tonight , he thinks to himself, before he watches as the thug’s shadows stretch long in the narrow alley, their footsteps slow and sure.

“You’re not going anywhere,” one of them called out, cracking his neck as another chuckled darkly. “Should’ve kept walking, dumbass.”

Izuku bit his tongue before he could say, No Shit. Well, if he’s dying tonight, he guesses making his death as unsatisfying as possible is the best option for him. Then at least I get something out of it.

He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest as he raises an eyebrow at them, plastering on an unimpressed stare and trying to master his stupid stutter. “If you’re gonna kill me, please just get it over with. You’re all very scary, yes, I’m terrified, but let’s move things along, shall we?” The thugs all tensed, some in anger, some in disbelief, but before any of them could make a move, something, or rather someone, drops into the alley between them like a silent missile.

A swirling mass of grey scarf and dark cloth hit the ground, crouched low, then rises up in one smooth motion, and even from behind a thick head of dark floating black hair he could see a faint, red glow. A glow he knew anywhere, thanks to his analysis.

Eraserhead.

The pro hero stood between him and the thugs, scarf flickering with subtle motion, eyes glowing red. Calm, quiet, but radiating absolute authority. The men hesitated, just long enough as Eraser’s scarf snapped out. In a blur, three of them were down and out, wrapped up and unconscious before they even knew what hit them. The remaining two, the one with the long chin and another he hadn't bothered to pay any attention to, struggled in the binding scarf, clearly caught but still conscious.

The fight was over in a matter of seconds, and before long Eraser’s floating black hair went limp as his eyes dulled, and soon Izuku was being fixed with a stare that no longer said you are powerless like it was when he faced the thugs, but more isn’t it past your bedtime.

It pissed him off, but he was surprised at Eraser’s next words, “Go home.” Izuku didn’t do anything remotely sensible like following his orders. Instead he just blinks at him blankly, confused and a little upset. This was the pro erasure hero? He just looks like a scruffy, homeless guy now that I’m really looking at him. Kind of underwhelming. “Really? No lecture?”

“Not yet, but there will be one if you don’t get your ass home.” Izuku gave an exaggerated sigh and bowed dramatically, arms out to the side. “As you wish, my m-mighty saviour.” With a theatrical spin, he started to walk past the hero, and that’s when it all went to shit.

Eraser didn’t notice the two conscious men tangled in the scarf exchanging a look. One of them twisted his wrist, his finger reshaping grotesquely into the barrel of a gun. The man with the white chin took a deep breath, his chest inflating unnaturally wide as his face goes… lime green?

Before Izuku could react, the first man shot. Not at him, but straight at Eraser at the same time that the lime green man exhaled, a cloud of glowing green mist floating towards them in a straight line, with arrow-like precision as both the mist and the bullet aims straight for Eraser.

Without thinking, Izuku lunges. He shoves Eraser aside just in time to take the bullet to the left side of his stomach. If he wasn’t so pumped full of adrenaline, he’d probably be sobbing in a ball on the floor by now. Luckily, he wasn’t just yet, but the second the smoke hit his face, he gasps instinctively. Wrong move.

The world tilts as he stumbles, his hand moving to clutch his injured side as he tries to stop the bleeding by applying heavy pressure to it, but the colours of his vision blur at the edges, until things start moving and swirling and he can’t think properly.

A weightlessness hits his chest, his limbs, and his thoughts as his knees buckle and he hits the ground, the sound of his knees against concrete making a horrible thud, but he doesn’t focus on that, because for some reason, he can’t stop laughing.

The sound is strange, and it’s almost enough to snap him back to reality. When was the last time he laughed like this, and it was real? Sharp, loud and hysterical, making his stomach hurt as he cackled. Maybe the stomach pain was the bullet. He couldn’t tell. 

Eraser moves quickly to take out the two thugs, his scarf whipping like lightning as the gun-finger guy hits the wall with a crack, and the smoke-breather collapses before he can finish his next breath. But none of that mattered to him at that moment, because he was pretty sure he was high as a kite on extremely toxic laughing gas.

Izuku was still on the ground, cackling, eyes wide and glassy as he tried to breathe in properly, “Oh man! Oh man! This shit feels amazing! I am vibrating! Is that a good thing? Probably not. Feels like my blood’s doing back flips! Maybe you should try some, it might help with that stick up your ass? I can’t believe I took a bullet for you. I am the shit ! Did you see, Eraser? Did you see how cool I am? Huh? Maybe a little dumb, but this shit feels great!”

He turned sharply, eyes wide and mixed with concern, annoyance, and surprise. “What the hell—?”

Izuku doubled over, snorting. “Nuh-uh-uh! You can’t get mad at me if I took a bullet for you! Actually, why am I not dead? It feels like I'm dying again. Maybe this time I will. Oh, yeah, I think the bullet got in my intestines, I think I can feel ‘em moving around!” He waved a hand lazily, giggling. “Unless this is hell and you’re the devil. In which case, the red eyes are quite fitting-”

Izuku was still cackling uncontrollably on the cracked pavement, his eyes glassy and rimmed red, his lungs wheezing between fits of laughter that wouldn’t stop. His whole body was shaking, partly from the aftershock, partly from what he thinks is laughing gas that was pumped into the air by that gas-breathing thug. The world felt like it was floating sideways and upside down at the same time, colours too bright, sounds too sharp, Eraser’s voice a distant grumble behind a wall of static.

“Hey, hey, Eraser, do you think my spleen’s still in the same place? ‘Cause it feels like it’s migrating. Ha! Spleen migration! Is that a thing?” He clutched at his stomach, half-laughing, half-moaning now, his grin starting to falter at the edges. Something was… off. Like his body was trying to peel away from the high, dragging him back into something sharp and hot and wrong.

Then came a pulse of pain. A real one. It cut through the haze like a knife, sudden and unforgiving like someone had jammed a hot spoon into his gut and started stirring. His eyes widened as he sat up straight, his back pressed against a wall. His next laugh came out choked, more of a gasp than a giggle.

“…Ah-ah. No. Nope. Ow. That’s-wait, that’s real. That’s real pain, right? That’s not funny. That’s-oh, God , that’s my intestines. That’s-oh. Okay. Okay. ”

His breath hitched, his face twitching with the effort to stop laughing. The gas was still clinging to the edges of his brain, curling around his thoughts like sticky smoke, telling him it’s fine, it’s hilarious, just keep laughing, it doesn’t hurt if you laugh, but it did hurt. It hurt like hell.

“I don’t wanna laugh,” he muttered, voice shaking, barely audible. “I don’t wanna laugh, I wanna-focus. Focus. Come on, get your shit together-”

He pressed both palms against the ground, trying to keep himself up, but he trembled, muscles useless. His body didn’t know what to do, half of it was telling him to run, the other half was trying to giggle itself unconscious.

“Okay. Bullet, bullet, where did it go...lower left, I think. Stomach? No, lower. Intestine? Small or large? Does it matter? No, wait, shut up. Shut up and focus! Oh no, oh no, it hurts now. Now it’s all pain and no punchline.”

His laugh came out strangled, raw, like his throat was turning inside out. He grabbed at his side, and his fingers came away warm and red. The high was cracking, like glass spider webbing from the inside. Panic started to replace it.

“Distraction, distraction, need a distraction, need anything else. Eraser, say something boring, say something mean, just say something, ‘cause if I keep thinking about this I’m gonna pass out or puke or both and I really don’t know which one’s worse-”

He grit his teeth and tried to breathe, slow and deep, but even that hurt. Too sharp. Too fast. His body was no longer laughing, it was glitching, twitching, trying to fight the toxic joy and the bleeding chaos underneath it, and he could see Eraser's mouth moving but he couldn't hear what he was saying.

He looked up at him with bloodshot eyes, voice low and desperate and barely holding it together as Eraser rushed forward, catching him before he could droop forward. If he could only die, he would be fine the next morning. He could be well rested, albeit a little hungry, but he couldn’t, because Eraser was here, and if he died, he would be taken in and everything would only get worse.

First, he needed to focus and get his mind to stop spinning, and then he needed a way to escape and die somewhere. Yeah, that's a good idea. The only downside was the horrid pain shooting through his body as blood flows down his side, and he realises he doesn’t have long left. He needs to fucking focus.

“Eraser,” He grits, with a newfound determination as he looks the pro hero in the eye, hoping he could see Izuku’s desperation, "I need you to slap me. Hard.” The hero was not expecting to hear that, and his eyes widened as Izuku’s mind continued to scramble.

Maybe… maybe it would be okay if he died. If he died, he would be free. Who cares if Eraser was here? He would be dead, so it’s fine. Hold on, with Eraser’s power, maybe he could erase his quirk…

Eraser's eyes widen with horror, and it’s only then that Izuku realises he had said all of that aloud. “Kid… do you always want to die?” At that, Izuku has to think for a total of about three seconds before he gives up on lying, and he says, “Yeah. Pretty much."

He watches as Eraser’s jaw clenches, and for a quick second, Izuku was able to focus again. “Eraser. Please, slap me. Hard. Or I'll do it myself.”

Eraser was too slow.

Izuku's palm makes contact with the side of his face, and suddenly, things begin to clear. He was right.

The gas quirk must be incredibly potent, especially when inhaled in large quantities. Given how much I took in, I should have been laughing uncontrollably for a long time. But instead, my body seemed to reject the effects. My focus abruptly shifted when something else fully captured my attention, and only then did the quirk’s influence begin to fade.

Eraser frowns, and Izuku really needs to stop talking out loud. “Kid, you’re in shock. Stop talking and stay still, let me bandage your bullet wound for you until the ambulances get here.” Only then could Izuku fully process the sounds of sirens in the distance, and they were quickly getting closer. His eyes snapped open and he hadn't even realised they were closing as his breath hitched, and only then did he start to panic. “Oh shit,” he whispered, the words sticking to his tongue like ash. Then again, only louder, “Oh s-shit, oh f-fuck!”

The pro hero raises an unimpressed brow as he mutters something like, language, under his breath, but Izuku ignores him as Eraser pulls out a small, compact first aid kid from god knows where, and goes to start lifting Izuku's shirt to inspect the damage when Izuku pushes him away and shuffles to the side, eyes wide. No, if he saw Izuku’s bare skin, he’d see just how weak he was. The only thing that stops Eraser from seeing all of Izuku’s scars was his long sleeved shirt, and he was going to keep it on no matter what.

Eraser sends him a concerned and defeated look as he tries to get closer, but every step he takes Izuku moves twice as far, until he was breathing unevenly and standing on two unstable legs, the pain from his bullet wound in the back of his mind as panic fuels him.

The threat wasn’t Eraser, Izuku knew that he was only trying to help. The real threat was the police. Identification. Blood samples. Facial recognition. DNA. If they found out who he was, if they dragged him back to the world he’d vanished from, they’d never let him leave again.

No freedom. No disappearing. No choice. He had to go. He had to run. Now.

He tries, using his best efforts, to act as if he was calming down. He smoothed his features and smiles shakily as he apologises to the hero, who can’t seem to choose between looking concerned, confused, or worried as Izuku moves closer and holds out an unsteady hand. 

“S-sorry to do this to you r-right now, but do y-you have a p-phone? My M-mom, she must be w-worried about me by now, I-I was meant to be at home a-ages ago. Please, I’ll o-only be a second.”

Eraser didn’t look like he fully believed him, but that was fine. That small window was all he needed as the hero moved to hold out his phone, looking down for a millisecond as he unlocked it with a flick of his thumb, his attention elsewhere. That was all Izuku needed.

“Sorry in advance,” he muttered, and then punched him square in the throat.

It wasn’t a clean punch. It was wild and awkward and his shoulder screamed like a banshee, not to mention his side as it twisted with the force, but his fist connected and clearly affected him, because Eraser reeled back, coughing hard and grabbing at his neck as his eyes went wide.

Izuku didn’t wait. He grabbed the phone, shoved it in his pocket, spun on his heel, and ran. “SORRY!” he shouted over his shoulder. “I’M REALLY SORRY, YOU SEEM COOL, DON’T FOLLOW ME, PLEASE DON’T FOLLOW ME!” But the second he heard the hiss of fabric unfurling behind him, those damned scarves, he panicked. He wasn’t trained. He wasn’t fast. But he was desperate.

His feet slapped the concrete, body aching, vision blurry, but instinct and adrenaline took over. He hit the alley wall and shoved off with his left foot, bouncing himself toward the opposite side. His right leg pushed back against the other wall, a fast, awkward parkour move he’d only ever seen in movies and old videos, and somehow he got air. It was just enough.

His fingers barely caught the edge of a fire escape. It rattled dangerously as he scrambled up, elbows and knees screaming as he climbed. He used the rail to boost himself onto a small ledge, then grabbed a clothesline strung between buildings and swung. He didn’t know how to swing. He just let go.

His feet hit the next roof like a car crash. He tumbled, shoulder-first, crying out in pain, but somehow didn’t stop moving. Another building. Another jump. He caught the edge with one hand, slipped, grabbed with the other. His fingernails cracked. His stomach burned. He bit down on his tongue. But he climbed.

Over fences. Across rooftop pipes. Dodging chimneys and loose debris like he’d done this his whole life, when really, he was just following the momentum, pure animal instinct screaming go, go, go. Somehow, impossibly, it worked. The sirens were still close, but fainter now. Behind him. He reached a final rooftop, just a bit too wide for his current jump distance, but he tried anyway.

He flung himself forward, wind cutting at his face. He didn’t make it. His stomach slammed against the ledge, and Izuku bit his lip so hard he felt blood dribble down his chin. His fingers scrambled for a grip. One foot kicked wildly against the wall below, and through sheer stubbornness, he pulled himself up. He collapsed, panting, on the roof. The building was shorter than the last, and one story down. Not far, but no more roofs ahead. No more ledges to catch. Just open air. And below? A dumpster. Of course.

Izuku peeked over the edge, eyes flicking between the drop and his bleeding stomach. “Okay,” he whispered. “This is either gonna be r-really dumb or… really, really d-dumb.” He jumped, managing to somehow land inside as pain exploded through his ribs. The metal groaned beneath him, but he didn’t stop. He sat up, and with bloody fingers, yanked the lid of the dumpster close above him. The smell hit him like a truck.

Rotting food. Mold. Something wet and old and Izuku didn’t want to know what it was. But all that mastered, was for now he had escaped. He was safe… sort of. He curled in on himself, trying to slow his breathing, blood leaking down his stomach and chin like a faucet left on.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Too fast. Too warm. Something important’s bleeding, his brain whispered dimly. No shit.

His eyelids sagged, panic surging through him as the wail of sirens drew louder now, inescapable. He knew they were coming, knew it with a new sense of cold certainty, because as his mind starts to fog, he realises he hadn’t been smart enough to remember that most phones carried a tiny tracking chip, nestled in the back of the phone like a traitor. Half-delirious and wracked with pain that blurred the edges of reality, Izuku groaned and reached for the phone. His hand brushed against something furry, but he didn’t stop to look. With trembling fingers, he pried off the back casing. His vision swam, but he forced his eyes to scan the insides until he spotted the faint, nearly invisible outline of the traitorous chip.

Bloodied nails scraped at it until it came loose. He didn’t hesitate. He crushed it as best he could, then shoved open the dumpster lid just enough to toss the remains out. The lid clanged shut above him as he slumped back, the world spinning. He barely managed to wriggle deeper beneath the reeking trash bags, and then, mercifully and finally, darkness claimed him.

Chapter Text

Izuku woke up choking.

The stench hit him before consciousness did, the scent of something putrid and wet invading his nostrils in all the worst ways as his stomach lurched violently, and he curled into himself, gagging, as his body fought the urge to retch.

Once he opened his eyes, he realised it was dark. Not shadowed, but completely without a sliver of light. It was pitch black, and it was cramped and claustrophobic and cold, and Izuku couldn’t stop shivering as the cold seeped into his skin and made his ribs feel too close together. His breath hitched as his fingers scrambled against the damp, sticky metal beneath and beside him. His palm slipped in something viscous, and panic started rising fast and hot in his throat.

“Shit, shit, w-where a-am I?” He reached blindly, flailing against the walls of whatever prison he’d landed in. His nails scraped metal, plastic bags, and some squishy thing he didn’t want to think about as he kicked out with his legs until he found leverage, and something creaked above him. A lid.

He shoved hard. Mustering all of his strength into his legs, the lid popped open on rusted hinges, spilling light from a nearby alley lamp that cut across his face like a slap. He squinted, hissed, and crawled out of the dumpster like something feral and half-dead, which wasn’t far off.

He hit the ground hard, knees buckling, landing with a gross splat as his front lands on the rough concrete, and he realises he was soaked in blood, something sickeningly disgusting, and trash bag juice. He smelled like death, and he could only assume he looked like it too.

But none of that mattered to him in that moment as his memories from before his death came back to him, and he staggered on his feet, wobbling like a drunk. The alley. The gun. Pro hero Eraserhead. The phone. Where was the phone? “Phone. Phone. Where-”

He patted down his hoodie, which was drenched but still intact, but even when he took his cold and wet hoodie off, the phone was nowhere to be found. He dropped the wet material on the ground as he spins around in a circle, surveying his surroundings, before his eyes fall onto the dumpster he had woken up in, and he grimaces. Of course. Now he had to go dumpster diving. Again.

With a sigh he stumbles over and leans inside as his hand fumbles around trash bags until he finds both the phone and the casing on the back, before putting it back together. It slipped in his grip, slimy from whatever hell stew he’d marinated in, but he clung to it as he looked around in the dark, with only the alleyway’s flickering light above his only hope for finding the tracking chip he had crushed. After a few minutes, he eventually finds it and stomps on it once more for good measure. His hair, which had been previously bound, comes loose and he pulls the hairtie out and wraps it around his wrist as he hears the plastic crack underfoot, the tracking chip snapping even more. He stood there for a second, panting, before another wave of distant sirens snapped him back to the present.

“Shit, again?” he hissed, turned and ran, his legs screaming and his lungs burning as fear cut through the dull pain in his side like a hot knife. He ducked into alleys, zig-zagged between buildings, hurdled a broken fence and apologised mid-air when he nearly crashed into someone’s patio furniture. He tore down a crowded street, muttering “ sorry, sorry, sorry ” as he bumped shoulders and dodged stares. A vendor shouted something after him, a car honked, a dog barked, but all he cared to notice was the sounds of sirens getting fainter.

After a while he sprints past Takoba Beach, salt and sea rot mingling in his nose along with the dumpster smells as he keeps running. His mind barely registers the familiar curve of the rusted metal railing or the shadow of a broken vending machine. He doesn't stop, not until the barely hanging-on door to his apartment finally, after what felt like years, came into view. He opened and shut it behind him, panting hard, heartbeat thunderous in his ears.

The second he stopped moving, the smell hit him again. The rot on his skin, in his hair, the faint copper tang of blood dried stiff on his shirt. He gagged, yanked his shirt off with a wet squelch, and threw the thing out the window without ceremony.

His sweatpants were next, followed by his socks, until he was standing there in nothing but his boxers as he moved his shoes into the furthest part of the room away from him. His shoes may stink, but there was no way they were joining his clothes out the window. “Never again,” he muttered, shivering as he moved to the bathroom. “Never. Again.”

The shower was fast, freezing and sharp enough to make him gasp, but using the body wash he had taken from another convenience store, he scrubbed at his skin until the stink came off, the stickiness of garbage and sweat and survival leaving him. He watched the red blood swirl down the drain and leaned his forehead against the tile for a moment too long before finally turning the tap off.

He dried off with a worn towel, stepped into the nearest pair of black sweatpants (ripped at the thigh, drawstring missing), and tugged on a black long-sleeve that had seen better years. He went to reach for his favourite zip up when he realised it was gone, because he had left it back in the alleyway.

Even after being shot with it on, soaked in blood and trash and now lying somewhere out in the alley where he’d died again, he still wished he had it so he could at least give it a proper funeral, as he now stared at the space it used to hang. “…dammit,” he whispered. “Rest in peace, buddy.”

With a sigh, he pulled on a white hoodie instead. It felt wrong, and too clean. Too visible, but it was all he had, and he needed as many layers as he could afford in this cold weather. While he was pulling it on, though, his arms over his head, he suddenly feels a stabbing pain on his lower left side, and as he stares down at where he had been shot, he curses loudly.

While his skin had repaired itself, the actual bullet was still inside of him. That meant he had no choice but to cut himself open and pull it out, otherwise it would only weaken him the longer he lets it remain. He curses again, reaching for his knife as he finds a cloth clean enough to bite down on before he begins the painful and painstakingly long process. After finally finishing, he stands and gasps heavily as he stares down at the bullet in his hand, before he looks at the now open and gaping wound, blood once again pouring steadily down his skin.

After making the first cut and watching the blood pour, he had realised he would be bloodying yet another set of pants, and so he had stripped back down to his boxers, and now stood in the shower.

He hadn’t turned it on, though, and he watched as blood dripped onto the cracked white tile beneath his feet and gushed down the drain. Izuku sighs with relief as he slumps against the floor, and in order to heal himself properly now, he drags the blade across his throat to quicken his death. 

After he had woken up once more, feeling much more refreshed and better than before, he washed the blood off for the second time that night. He pulled his black clothes on again, and moved until he was standing in front of his broken, body length mirror and lifted the hem of his shirt.

There it was. The scar wasn’t as faint as others, probably because Izuku had had to sloppily slice himself back open and dig through his own stomach to remove the bullet, but the wound had indeed healed and closed up. Luckily it was small, and the round, pink scar couldn’t be any bigger than an almond. “Fantastic,” he muttered. “Another one for the collection.”

He ran his fingers over it, wincing. He never, ever wanted to have to dig a bullet out of himself ever again. He could still feel his own skin move around his fingers as he bit back a scream, feeling his own insides. 

And now a pro hero knew what he looked and sounded like, which was possibly even worse. Not to mention, Izuku had stolen from the underground hero with no hesitation, and he may have taken the chip out, but Eraser would come looking for him again, eventually, but that was a problem for future Izuku.

He turned to his wall, to the tally marks scrawled with thick black marker, uneven and crowded, stretching across the concrete like prison etchings, as he uncapped a nearby black marker and dragged two more lines down beside the rest. He had officially died 27 times in the past two weeks since his first death.

While it was an easy way to keep track of all his deaths, with details and dates scribbled on the wall around every tally, it really made his room look like it belonged to someone utterly insane. He only sighs as he flops onto his mattress, a sheet covering it this time, as sleep hits him fast, heavy, and thankfully dreamless as he mutters, “I need a new notebook.” 

Aizawa Shouta’s head throbbed with a migraine that felt like it had nested behind his eyes, sharp and hot. He grimaced, tugging his capture weapon tighter around his shoulders as the chill of the evening crept in. Patrol nights were never usually this quiet in this sector of Musutafu, and he knew this because ever since he had begun patrolling this sector just a few nights ago, he found he had no difficulty finding trouble. Every night was tiring, and by the time he would return home to his husband, he would find himself exhausted both mentally and physically. So to say he was practically living off coffee was an understatement.

Tonight, though, he hadn’t heard a single shout or sound that concerned him. It was peaceful for the first time this week, and Shouta knew the silence would soon be disrupted. 

He was quickly proven correct, when a few blocks over he heard the sounds of yelling and insults being thrown around loudly. Sighing as he follows the noise, his boots echoing lightly as he jumps across the rooftops, eyes half-lidded but alert, he watches as a cloud of dust rises into the air, and he frowns.

What the hell was happening?

The sounds of drunken, slurred yelling only pauses for a moment, before it resumes just as fast and if not louder than before. Shouta made it just on time as he perched on the edge of a tall building, looking down as a small, frail figure turned around, trapped and cornered like a feral animal whilst five men easily twice their size cut off his only exit. He prepares to jump down and intervene, when the cornered person says, “If you’re gonna kill me, please just get it over with. You’re all very scary, yes, I’m terrified, but let’s move things along, shall we?” 

Shouta’s lips quirk up as he hears the command in what must be a child's tone, who must be barely thirteen or fourteen at best, and watches as his  posture straightens. Even from up as high as he was, Shouta can see the absolute looks of confusion and rage on the men’s faces as the child crosses his arms and huffs impatiently, and he knew this child was going to be a problem.

Because this child, scrawny and outnumbered and weaponless, doesn’t sound afraid. He doesn’t sound worried in the slightest, and whether it was all an act or not, the child was either extremely brave, or he wasn’t afraid to die. That worried him.

But as the man, the leader of the group of thugs, he assumed, moved an inch closer to the child, Shouta decided he had had enough of watching and dropped between them all, silent and careful. Within seconds he had taken three out of the five out, knocking them unconscious, before he restrained and captured the remaining two with the weapon that floated around him like a tornado, eyes glowing red as he turned off their quirks. His headache only got worse.

He turned to face the problem child, eyes dimming as he frowned, noticing that he still didn’t look worried, or scared. Shouta only sighed and said, “Go home.” In return, the child only blinked, surprised. “Really? No lecture?” He fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose as he would usually do when one of his students would annoy him.

“Not yet, but there will be one if you don’t get your ass home.” He hides his growing smirk as the kid only replies with a deep sigh, before bowing dramatically, arms outstretched beside him. “As you wish, my m-mighty saviour,” he says, before his eyes snagged on something behind him.

He sensed it a second before Shouta did. The hair on the back of his neck raised as his mind screamed at him to turn around, but he was too late. He should have kept his eyes on the two conscious thugs, and he realised that too late as the child suddenly moved in a blur and pushed him to the side just as a gunshot echoed around the alleyway, and Shouta’s eyes quickly widened.

Because the child had been faster than Shouta, and had sensed the danger before him. Not only that, but he had taken a bullet for him.

He quickly knocked the two out, but the damage had been done, and he watched as the child inhaled all of the large green cloud the second thug had expelled, and horror coursed through him before his mind registered the sounds the child was making. He was... laughing?

The child's knees hit the concrete with a thud that makes him wince, and he hears the child behind him laugh louder as Shouta moves to tie the now unconscious thugs together tighter, but just he moves to run to the child, he hears the words the boy was babbling. “-Feels like my blood’s doing backflips! Maybe you should try some, it might help with that stick up your ass? I can’t believe I took a bullet for you. I am the shit ! Did you see, Eraser? Did you see how cool I am? Huh? Maybe a little dumb, but this shit feels great!”

He spins around, eyes wide and full of concern as he says, “What the hell—?” and continues to stare at the child, who was now doubled over and clutching his stomach, still not noticing the blood that was coating it. Does he not feel the bullet in his stomach? Was the green cloud some sort of laughing gas? Maybe a pain repressant as well? He finally moves, and as he runs to the child’s side, he tries asking if he’s okay, but the child only laughs louder as he snorts. 

“Nuh-uh-uh! You can’t get mad at me if I took a bullet for you! Actually, why am I not dead? It feels like I'm dying again. Maybe this time I will. Oh, yeah, I think the bullet got in my intestines, I think I can feel ‘em moving around!” The problem child waves a hand lazily, giggling. “Unless this is hell and you’re the devil. In which case, the red eyes are quite fitting—”

Shouta couldn’t get the child to focus. Even as he shouted for him to listen and tries to apply pressure to the bullet wound, the kid would only hunch over as he continued to laugh, not listening and not letting him help. The problem child makes a joke about his spleen, before a look of pain washes over his features, and now Shouta was trying his best not to push the kid down and forcefully apply first aid. The child’s expression continues to change from giddy and hysterical to pained, and the sudden changes almost give him whiplash before he sees the child try and get it together himself. But Shouta knew that wasn’t possible, because now he remembers the green faced man’s quirk.

He had been arrested multiple times for drug dealing, and Shouta himself had taken him in a few times. He cursed himself for not being able to remember sooner. The man’s quirk was a toxic laughing gas. If inhaled, it forces the victim into uncontrollable fits of laughter, and slowly turns their body numb and immobile unless the victim’s attention is wholly directed elsewhere. It was a nasty quirk, and Shouta certainly did not envy the problem child.

HE also knew that the laughing fits lasted for around half an hour each time, before the victim would pass out. Alright, all he needed to do was direct the child’s attention wholly on him to pull it off, but the child wasn’t registering the words he was saying, muttering to himself as he started to snap out of the daze, trying to find ways to stop the laughing fits, gripping his side tightly as he looks down at the blood on his hands, before he speaks again, “—Eraser, say something boring, say something mean, just say something , ‘cause if I keep thinking about this I’m gonna pass out or puke or both and I really don’t know which one’s worse—”

He tried to calm him down, saying that he was going to be okay, but the problem child wasn’t listening, and when he looked up, eyes pleading and desperate, his heart cracked a little at how much pain could be held behind one look. Then without warning the child begins to sag forward, and he holds him up by his shoulder with a tight grip, before the child says something he wasn’t expecting.

“Eraser,” He grits, eyes full of determination, ‘I need you to slap me. Hard.” Shouta couldn’t help but widen his eyes at the command. No longer was he laughing or joking. No, he was looking at him with such an authoritative and strong willed look that he didn’t think he would have believed he could have seen that look on a child’s face. He was already extremely concerned and worried, but things only got worse when he heard what he began muttering, barely loud enough for him to hear. “ Maybe… maybe it would be okay if I died. If I died, I would be free…” 

He was horrified. He knew the problem child was strong and brave, definitely with a few problems, but he didn't think he was suicidal. His heart ached as he swallowed the lump in his throat, before asking, “Kid… do you always want to die?” Please say no, please say no- “Yeah. Pretty much.” 

Well, shit. His jaw tightened, words caught in his throat. What could he possibly say to a child like this? Shouta could see it, etched in the boy’s expression, flickering in his eyes like a distant storm, the shadow of something dark and furious, just barely contained. He’d been through hell. That much was obvious. Then there was the scar.

It ran along the right side of the boy’s face, jagged and cruel. Shouta hadn’t noticed it before, not in detail, but now, standing mere inches away, it was impossible to ignore. His stomach twisted at the sight. That kind of wound didn’t come from carelessness or an accident. And it must have hurt. God, it must have hurt. No child should ever have to endure that kind of pain.

He forced himself to stay focused. Compassion could come later. Right now, the priority was making sure the kid was safe. Only then could he afford to let himself feel the weight of it all. Yet, he was so caught up in his thoughts that he barely registered the boy’s voice until it cut through again, this time with a startling precision. He was describing the green faced man’s quirk. And not just in passing… It was scarily accurate.

There's no way he could have possibly figured it out that fast… right? But he did. Because now, the problem child was disturbingly lucid for someone who had been shot and drugged, and he had been able to realise the thugs' quirk in less than five minutes. Shouta couldn’t help but wonder what this child’s quirk was. Maybe he had an intelligence quirk? Or perhaps he had one that suppressed other quirks forced upon him?

Well, consider me impressed either way, he thought, before realising that he still needed to calm the kid down and get him some medic attention immediately. “Kid, you’re in shock. Stop talking and stay still, let me bandage your bullet wound for you until the ambulances and the police get here.”

Apparently that was not the right thing to say. While it pulled him out of the rambling daze he was in, he was now panicking almost as much as Shouta was internally, cursing as his eyes opened fully and his breathing became inconsistent. Why was he panicking so much?

Shouta raised a brow at the kid’s language, muttering a flat, “Language,” under his breath, but it was half-hearted. Predictably, the boy didn’t acknowledge him, his attention elsewhere, staring at nothing in particular as his mind undoubtedly raced. Shouta had seen it before, too many times to count. This child… has been through a lot. Shouta has witnessed and interacted with what must be hundreds, maybe thousands, of trauma victims. This was now one of those times.

Quietly, Shouta reached for the compact first aid kit clipped to his belt. Maybe, if he could get close, the child would let him patch him up, even if it’s temporary. He kneels beside the kid, hand reaching to lift his shirt to try and apply pressure to the wound, but the second his fingers touch even the hem, the boy recoils violently, stumbling back like Shouta had struck him.

He tries to apologise, shuffling closer, but every time he moves the child only doubles the distance between them, his eyes blown wide, body tensed, and hands half-raised in a defensive gesture. He looked like a cornered animal, more afraid of being seen than of being hurt. Shouta could see the terror written in the way the boy moved, in the way his gaze flicked anywhere but at him.

He goes to apologise, standing up in one swift movement and putting the first aid pack away, but the child only stood up as well, his legs shaking like a baby fawn. His breathing was erratic and shallow. His legs looked like they could give out any second, but still he wouldn’t let Shouta near. So he held his ground, watching the panic spiral further, before there was a sudden shift in his expression.

His face smoothed out, dropping the expression of pure and utter panic as he smiles weakly, before he begins to apologise. Shouta felt like an asshole. He tries to tell the kid he doesn’t need to apologise at all, but the kid instead asks for his phone. 

He wasn't in any position to say no, and so he pulled his phone out of his back pocket as his attention diverts from the boy to the screen for a split second, and the next he heard a muttered apology before a fist came into contact with his throat and sent him sputtering, eyes blown impossibly wide as he gasped for air. 

It wasn’t strong enough to leave any extreme damage, maybe only a bruise, but despite Shouta being exposed to harder hits in the past, it was still a decent one. He staggered back, coughing harshly as his windpipe seized. His hand flew to his neck, vision blurring slightly from the blow, but as he reached forward to grab onto the kid he was already out of arms reach and sprinting away from him, yelling even more apologies, with his phone in hand.

Shouta blinked once, processing, before his capture weapon moved, scarves unfurling as he launched them toward the child. The boy's instincts, only further proven, were solid as he managed to dodge each tendril he sent his way. This kid is something else, and whatever calm he had tried to fake was gone. He was sprinting now, not with skill, but with desperation. He needed to get the kid to stop and calm down. He was running on adrenaline alone, and the second he crashed, it would be fatal.

The child reached the more compact and tighter alleyway, and jumped before kicking off the left wall, then the right, parkouring pretty decently for someone on such shaky limbs. Somehow, the kid managed to grab the edge of a fire escape and haul himself up. Shouta moved to follow but stopped short, watching as boy reached for a clothesline between buildings and swung himself across before he crashed onto a rooftop, and Shouta knew that must of hurt, but the kid kept going until he had disappeared from his sight, and Shouta was moving again. 

His breath finally returned to him, still a little painfully, but with much more grace and precision than the child. He used his capture weapon to land on the roof the child had just seconds ago, but when he looked around, the problem child was gone. It had taken him ten seconds, maybe less, to disappear, and with Shouta’s phone. He grimaces, and drops back down to the mouth of the alleyway as he waits for the sirens to get closer.

Fifteen minutes later, he was pacing beneath the alley’s mouth, fists clenched, muttering curses under his breath when another car pulled up. He was already surrounded by officers who were pushing the thugs into vehicles, but he needed one person specifically, and it looked like he had just arrived.

The door to the black car opened, and out stepped his friend, detective Tsukauchi Naomasa, who wasn’t as happy to see Shouta as he was to see him.

The door to the black car groaned open, and Naomasa stepped out, pulling his coat tighter around himself as the wind whistled down the alley. It was late. Far too late to be anywhere but in bed with a cup of coffee and the distant hum of quiet music. But the minute Aizawa Shouta had called, his voice low and grumbling in a way that made him straighten up, he’d known sleep wasn’t on the table tonight.

The alley stank of gunpowder, damp concrete, and something metallic. Blood, likely. He knew the scent far too well. His shoes crunched softly against gravel as he approached, and in the low light, he spotted Aizawa standing like a sentinel near the mouth of the alley, scarf loose, eyes dark. There was a bruise blooming on the middle of his throat, a clean purple mark that hadn’t been there the last time they spoke. Naomasa slowed, voice questioning as he stood in front of him. “It’s too late for this crap, Shouta. Why did you call me?”

Aizawa only frowned, his face plagued by fatigue and annoyance. “Because,” he said, tone dry, “a teenager just managed to get shot, jacked my phone, punched me in the throat, and disappeared into thin air.” Naomasa blinked once, pausing mid-step and unable to tell if the man was serious or not. His jokes had always been terrible. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.” He stepped closer, and Aizawa began talking, but it was short, clipped, and extremely detailed. He explained the situation thoroughly as expected, and the more Naomasa listened he didn't know whether to be concerned or impressed that a scrawny teenager with no weapons had faced five grown men, and made jokes while doing so. He was even more surprised to hear that the boy hadn't even flinched when threatened with death, and his usually calm expression morphed into one of shock as he listens to how the boy had been drugged and shot, taking the bullet for Shouta. Where the hell had this kid come from?

The moment that the man explained how the boy had managed to diagnose the villain's quirk mid-breakdown with a bullet wound to his side and a toxic gas fogging his brain, something clicked, and he was already reaching for the mental files tucked away in the back of his mind. By the time the hero had explained how the boy had escaped with his phone using some impressive parkour and speed fast enough to out run a pro-hero, Naomasa already had a theory on who this kid was, because he'd spent countless sleepless nights trying to find him.

“Around two weeks ago," He began, "We got a report from a fourteen year old boy concerning a missing student who was diagnosed quirkless. It was reported that the same day he went missing he had been assaulted by fellow students, and afterwards no one had seen or heard from him, until the boys friend led me to a large pool or blood with a strand of hair that matched the hair colour of the missing boy. "

Aizawa frowned but nodded, indicating for him to continue. “We matched the pool of blood, which was several days old, with the strand of hair, and both were confirmed to belong to the missing boy, Midoriya Izuku. Later, I was led to another alley where we discovered his schoolbag, along with a notebook. It was filled with detailed analyses so thorough that, had I not known better, I would've assumed they were written by a professional. Based on how you’re describing this kid’s observations, he sounds a lot like Midoriya.”

Aizawa stilled, his skin paling. "We swept the area and found no more signs of him. We checked any nearby security cameras for a glimpse of his green hair, but found none. He had completely disappeared, and now this happens. Same age, same strategic analytical thinking, and same features."

“You think it’s the same boy?” The hero asked, frowning slightly as Naomasa replies, his heard thudding a little harder with the hope of a new lead after weeks of dead ends. “I want to say yes, since some of the signs line up. But…” He trailed off as Aizawa added, “He had a scar on the right side of his face. It went from his cheek, through his eye, then ended on his temple, and his hair was also tied back, but it looked more black than green. That could have been the light, though. Also, I could be wrong, but from the way the boy moved it seemed to me like he might have a speed or intelligence quirk, or something of the sort.”

Naomasa exhaled slowly, the hopeful tension in his chest unspooling. “As mentioned earlier, Midoriya was quirkless. He also didn't have a scar, either." He glanced away, disappointed but cautious. It didn’t mean it wasn’t Midoriya. Scars could happen quickly and if they were healed by someone with a decent healing quirk, it would be able to heal-

“He told me he always wants to die.” Naomasa turned sharply, eyes widening. Midoriya wasn't mentioned to have been suicidal. “He said that?”

“Word for word,” Shouta murmured, “And he meant it.” Naomasa let the weight of that sit. It wasn’t a throwaway comment, not from Aizawa. If the boy had said it like that, with that kind of conviction… then they weren’t just looking at a missing child anymore.  He rubbed his jaw, stepping a few paces toward the edge of the alley, replaying every detail in his mind. The blood, the scar, the escape, the laughing gas, the fear, the fury.

Then, something clicked. “You remember when I told you about the blood in the alleyway we identified to be his?" He asked, glancing at Shouta. “Yes, you mentioned a few moments ago,” he said, “What about it?” Naomasa’s voice dropped. “It was right beneath a rooftop that a witness remembered last seeing him on. There were traces of hand prints on the ledge and footprints on the gravel. The blood was directly underneath the building, so If he fell, or jumped...”

He went still. “You think he tried to kill himself?” Aizawa asked, and he  nodded grimly. “It would explain the amount of blood, and it connects to his concerning words earlier. It could explain why no ones seen him since, it could be possible that if he somehow miraculously survived that fall... it wouldn’t have been clean. A scar like the one you described? Could’ve come from that, possibly from broken glass, or debris. He might’ve thought he was going to die, and when he didn’t, he ran and hid.”

“He didn't want to be found,” Shouta muttered, the silence stretching between them, both of their minds loud with thoughts and possibilities. Naomasa opened his phone, looking at the school photo of the boy that was attached to his file. Round cheeks, green eyes and hair. Full of hope. He flipped through the notes, his frown only deepening. The boy had no emergency contacts, no active guardian listed. His father had been absent, left when the boy was a child, and his mother had been unreachable. The patrol they’d sent to the recorded address had come up empty, just a condemned apartment complex with broken windows and dust-thick air.

“No one’s come looking for him,” he said after a moment. “No one with any real authority, anyway. The only person who gave enough of a damn to file a report was a classmate.” Aizawa’s eyes narrowed. “So what, you think he was abandoned?”

“I think he was living alone. Maybe squatting. Maybe couch surfing. But if he had anyone looking out for him, they’re not in our system. The building listed in his file hasn’t been lived in for years.” The hero only rubbed his eyes. “Kami. And now he’s bleeding somewhere out there on the brink of death. It's all so wrong. If this is Midoriya, how the hell did he survive that fall?” Naomasa’s throat felt dry. “I... don't know.”

He looked at the blood-stained alleyway, and he grimaced as he pulled out a cotton swab and dipped it in the blood, watching as the white cotton turned crimson. He quickly placed it inside of another transparent bag and placed it gently in his coat pocket. One thing was for sure, and it was that he needed to get that blood tested.

Because if it really is Midoriya's, it means that he's alive and out there, somewhere in Musutafu, hiding with a fatal bullet wound that could kill him at any moment. 

They needed to find this boy, and he knew that both he and Aizawa would search high and low for him, even if he didn't want to be found. 

Chapter Text

Izuku was bored out of his mind, and that was not a good thing.

Boredom didn’t sit well with him. It never had. But now, after everything that had happened, ranging from running from bloodthirsty drunken thugs to punching Eraserhead and stealing his phone, his boredom just kept getting worse. It wasn’t just boredom, either. It was the feeling of being trapped in stillness while the world moved on without him, and Izuku couldn’t stand it.

The apartment was suffocating, the air too stale and too dusty for his liking, the smell of leftover instant noodles making him grimace. After the whole thug ordeal, he had opted to lay low for a few days, choosing to stay in his apartment just in case Eraserhead was still looking for him. He really did not want to be found. 

He had spent the days mostly exercising, from push ups to pull ups, and eventually moved on to researching fighting techniques and practising against walls or columns. He wasn’t sure if he had needed to lay low, though, since there were no reports or signs Eraser was looking for him again. Maybe he hadn’t reported it. Maybe he didn’t see his face clearly enough. Izuku knew he did, though. He knew Eraser had seen his scar, and it terrified him.

Exercise and researching only helped for a while, though. He did sets until his arms trembled, until his legs burned, until sweat soaked through his shirt and stung his eyes. He pushed himself until his muscles screamed and his breathing was ragged. But even that didn’t bring relief. Not anymore. It just made the hours pass faster.

Now he sat on his lumpy mattress, arms wrapped loosely around his knees, chin resting just above them. His eyes were fixed on the outside world, watching through the window he had un-boarded that morning to feel the breeze against his skin. The sky outside was now dark from the night, but not asleep. The street below blinked with flickering signs, the occasional car rolled past, tires hissing against wet pavement. A man staggered down the sidewalk across the street, humming loudly to himself. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and then faded.

Izuku watched it all, his heart sinking. It wasn’t just boredom, or stagnation. Now, it was hunger. Not for food, since he had eaten half a protein bar this morning and didn’t feel like more, but for something else. For motion. For danger. For purpose.

His thoughts drifted, uninvited, back to that night. The thugs heavy boots pounding behind him. The shouts. The glint of metal in one of their hands. The way his blood had surged through his body, hot and electric. Every nerve on fire, every instinct sharpened to a blade’s edge.

It should have been terrifying, and it was. But a part of him had loved it. Loved the adrenaline that coursed through his body as his mind moved a million miles per hour, feet slapping against the pavement as he ran from the thugs and Eraser, and not to mention the feeling of jumping from building to building, finally feeling free. 

That rush when he ducked around a corner just in time, that breathless feeling of being alive in the purest, most dangerous sense of the word. Nothing else had compared. Not before. Not after. It was like the world had finally made sense in that moment, when everything else had been stripped away except instinct.

He knew he couldn’t be a hero. Not yet, maybe not ever. Not when a blurry shot of his pre-scarred face had been briefly shown on the news. Even if the shot was bad, and even if he now had a scar, the resemblance could be easily noticed. Since the day he had first died, two and a half weeks had passed. He doubted the detective that he had seen helping Bakugo bothered to care about his case anymore, since no one had found him. 

Perhaps no one had really looked. He didn't mind, though, because if he couldn’t be a hero, maybe, just maybe, he could be something else. The word had been slipping in and out of his thoughts the past few days, and every moment it surfaced he was filled with unimaginable excitement.

Vigilante.

The word sent shivers across his skin. Technically, that meant someone who used their Quirk illegally. Someone who acted outside the law, and someone the heroes were supposed to hunt down.

But Izuku couldn’t use his quirk unless he died. Besides, he wasn’t trying to hurt anyone or cause chaos. He didn’t even want revenge on the people who had wronged him and hurt him. 

No, all he wanted to do was help people. He just wanted to move, to feel free again and like he wasn’t chained down. He just wanted to be seen again, but not as Deku or Izuku, not as a file in policemen's hands, not as a missing child, but as someone who did good. Someone who mattered.

And maybe, if he was smart, if he was careful, he could carve out a space between the cracks. Just for a little while.

He stood without thinking, moving off his bed and across the room in an instant. He grabbed a pair of scuffed black pants off the back of the chair before pulling on a black hoodie, the fabric soft from wear, slightly oversized so it hid his frame. Underneath, he added a loose long-sleeved shirt. If he was going to get banged and scraped up, he'd need all the protection he could get. 

Then he looked at his shoes. His red ones sat by the door, but he knew they were too familiar and identifiable. He stared at them for a moment, torn by the strange ache of memory, and then turned away, instead reaching under the bed and pulling out the only other pair he owned. Old green sneakers, the kind that used to be forest-coloured but now were faded, dull, and almost grey. The soles were worn flat, but they were quiet. They’d do.

He sat on the edge of the bed and tugged them on, tying the laces in double knots. Once he was done he moved over to the cracked mirror that rested against the wall, the reflection warped near the top, but he didn’t need a clean reflection, and he could just lean down. He pulled a balaclava over his mouth and nose, one that he had admittedly stolen from a chain store in the wealthier part of the city. He adjusted it until it rested just below his eyes, covering part of the scar that rested on his cheek. Then he pulled his hood up and studied the result, and for a second, he almost smiled.

Not because he was happy, but because now, finally, he had a purpose.

He reached for his desk drawer and grabbed a small knife. He had debated bringing his red foldable one, but he opted against it since that was one of the only decent objects he owned, and he’d rather not lose it. The small knife he now held wasn’t fancy, and it was barely sharp enough for serious damage, but it was protection, insurance, if you will, in case things go sideways. It was more of a last resort. He tucked it into his hoodie pocket, then added a roll of tape and Eraser's phone, just in case he needed it. You never know.

Then he slipped out the door, and as always the hallway was silent. He didn’t pause. Didn’t look back. He took the stairs three at a time, the knife heavy in his pocket, his heart pounding in his ears as he stepped onto the street and was swallowed by the night.

As he walked down the street, keeping his head low, the knife in his pocket began to annoy him. It dragged his hoodie down, and he had to admit, if he made one wrong move, despite its dull blade, he could still injure himself. So, he pulled both the tape and knife out of his pocket as he ducked into an alleyway covered by shadows, and using his teeth he yanked a strip of tape free with a quick, rough rip. 

It was cold and sticky in his hands, and it stuck to his fingers more than it did the blade, but he didn’t care as he crouched against a brick wall, breath fogging faintly in the night air, and carefully wrapped the strip around the blade as he secured it to the outside of his pant leg. He taped it down hard, and desperately hoped it wouldn’t come loose and end up going through his leg.

“Perfect,” he muttered. “Terrible idea. But perfect.” The handle jutted out at mid thigh, and in a sticky situation it would be easy to yank free. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and stood. In front of him, the side of a worn-down building stretched high. A drainpipe ran along the wall, rusted but firm enough. Izuku tested it with a light tug before he began the climb.

The city opened up around him as he hauled himself over the rooftop edge as lights flickered in far-off windows. The sky overhead was smeared with low clouds and a bruised moon, and beneath his feet, gravel crunched as he stood and looked across the endless stretch of rooftops, before he began to run.

His first jump was sloppy. He misjudged the gap between the two buildings and stumbled on the landing, arms pinwheeling, gravel skidding beneath his boots. His second was tighter. His third was even better, and his fourth more clean. The city blurred beneath him as he leapt over alleyways and ducked under antennas, adrenaline humming through his bloodstream.

He wasn’t graceful, not at all, but he was moving, a blur of black and green. He stopped occasionally, perching on the edge of rooftops as he scoped out the city for any signs of disturbances, but once he couldn’t see or hear any he moved on. After an hour of jumping from building to building, he began to lose hope, until he leaped across one building and heard a loud crash below him.

He landed as quietly as possible on the other side, knees crouching as he turned and peered down between the buildings, eyes narrowing. Below, in the orange-yellow glow of a half-broken streetlamp, a man was holding a woman at arm’s length, backing her against a dumpster. She was clutching her purse tightly, terrified. The man was tall, his build bulky and his shoulders like bricks. He wore a black ski mask over his face, and in one hand he waved a gun lazily while his other reached for her bag. 

Izuku’s heart thudded once, before he moved. He swung himself down, holding himself up by one hand before he dropped and landed behind the man with a loud thud. He winced as the man turned, cursing himself. Shit, I definitely have to practice landing quietly, but even though the criminal couldn’t see, Izuku plastered on a fake grin and turned on the persona he had carefully created. He was no longer Izuku. He was no longer Deku. He was no one, and that was the way he wanted to be.

He stood up straight, adjusting his hood as he waved a casual hand between the man and the lady he was robbing. “Gotta say, man, this really isn’t the way to a lady’s heart.” Even though his eyes were only visible, he could see the robber's eyebrows raise before he frowned and let out a deep grunt. “Who the hell—”

He cut the man off as he walked further into the light, “I mean, I'm all for creative first impressions, but threatening someone at gunpoint? A bit old-school, don’t ya’ think? Maybe try flowers next time. Or… I don’t know. Not being a felon?”

The woman froze, startled, her eyes wide as Izuku turned to her and gave her a wink. “Now’s your chance. Run.” Luckily, she didn’t need to be told twice. With the robber’s attention now on him, the lady bolted down the alley and around the corner. The mugger spun to chase after her, but in a blink of an eye Izuku stepped in front of him. 

“Aw, come on,” he said cheerfully. “She just wasn’t that into you.” The mugger wasted no time before he lunged. Izuku watched his gun hand move, and he quickly ducked down and kicked the gun from his hand, sending it spinning away from them. He barely had time to celebrate that he had successfully disarmed his first opponent with no experience but online videos, when the man threw another punch. He ducked underneath it, heart pounding so loud he barely heard the man yell. His opponent was strong, twice as tall, and his first was the size of Izuku's head. He, on the other hand, was a little clumsy, fulled by instinct and barely three weeks of training, but he had one thing the other man didn't. He had speed. He darted to the side and threw a punch of his own, knuckles clipping the man’s cheek, but it was like punching a concrete wall. On second thought, maybe speed wasn't so helpful.

“Yup,” Izuku muttered, shaking his hand. “That hurt me more than it hurt you.” The mugger came at him again. Izuku ducked, weaved, danced around him like a mosquito buzzing just out of reach. “I mean, what’s your plan here?” he called over his shoulder, breath ragged, and praying that he wasn't about to get pulverised. “Scare her, grab her purse, go home and brag about it to your pathetic friends?” The mugger’s eyes flared with rage, and swung again. Izuku ducked. Almost. 

A fist slammed into his stomach, and his vision exploded as the alley spun and he flew back, crashed into the wall, and crumpled to the ground as his hood fell down and pain flared in his side, his ribs screaming. “Okay,” he groaned, coughing into his mask. “Point taken.”

He tried to stand, but then he heard the click. His heart stopped as he looked up, and the mugger now had his gun back in his hand, and his grip was steady. Man, when had he gotten that back? “I ain’t killing a kid,” the man said gruffly. “But next time you play hero-”

BANG.

Izuku grit his teeth as the bullet tore through his left thigh. His breath was now strangled in his throat, pain like fire rushing through his veins as he clutched his thigh, blood already soaking through the fabric. That hurt like a bitch.

The mugger turned away as he began to walk down the way the lady had run, muttering, “Stupid punk…” But Izuku wasn’t done, and his mind went sharp and cold with anger.

Play hero? He wasn’t playing anything. He wasn’t a hero, he knew that. 

He stood slowly and shakily as he shifted most of his weight to his good leg, teeth gritted. Pain radiated from the wound, but he didn’t care, because now all he could feel was anger, and it kept him upright. “Hey.”

The mugger turned with surprise, just at the same time that Izuku lept. He lunged forward, grabbed the man’s back, and swung himself up with every scrap of strength he had left. His legs wrapped around the guy’s head, locked at the ankles, and he squeezed hard, biting down on his tongue to ignore the blinding pain in his injured leg. 

The mugger staggered, cursing as he flailed, panic radiating off of him as he tried to claw him off, scratching his legs in the meantime, but he held, choking him with his thighs, arms gripping tight until after a few minutes of agonising pain, the man finally fell to the floor, and so did he. 

He rolled off the mugger and panted on the ground for a second, vision swimming. His leg was bleeding more now, and he needed to stop it. The last thing he needed was his blood everywhere in this alleyway where he could be identified. And so, he took the man's balaclava off, not caring to stare at his previously masked face as he pulled out his knife and cut the fabric into strips, before tying them around his wound until he could feel the blood flow slow. Next, he pulled out his roll of tape, and wrapped it around the man’s wrists and ankles. He made sure it was tight and double looped, before he put a piece over the man's mouth as well. 

He sat back, swaying slightly. “Who needs combat training when you have tape and a dream,” he mumbled, before he wrapped some tape around his leg over the top of the cloth strips just in case he bled through. After that he made quick work of cutting the zip up hoodie off the man and using it to wipe any of his blood off the floor from where he had been shot in the leg, but it looked like he was lucky enough to only get a few drops on the concrete. He quickly wiped that off.

Then he pulled out the phone he had put in the pants of his pocket and scrolled through the list of contacts until he found the one he was looking for, and dialled the number. 

He held it to his ear as it rang for a few seconds, before the man picked up, his voice deep and tired from sleep. Whoops, he must have woken poor detective Tsukauchi up. 

“Shouta?” Izuku raised an eyebrow at what must be Eraser’s real name. Even after scouring the internet for information on Eraser, he had found practically nothing. “Wrong guy,” he said, deepening his voice so he wouldn’t sound so young. “Don’t know a Shouta.”

“…Wait, how did you-how did you get this phone? Hold on, is this Midoriya-” Izuku winced. “I have no clue who this Midoriya person is, but I found the phone in a trash can with these handy dandy contacts and grabbed it before someone else could. Finders keepers!”

He heard the detective grunt with frustration as he spoke up. “Stealing is a crime, even if you weren't the one who took it in the first place, and I could have you arrested for it-” He rolled his eyes at the detective's attempt. “Nice try, Tsuki, but I think I’m good. Besides, I’ve got a present for you, and it’s a really nice one. Tied up on an alley off 8th and Market. Bring gloves, because he smells like cheap beer and bad decisions.”

“You little-don’t call me that-”

“Bye bye, Tsuki, talk to you later,” he chimed, and hung up before he could hear the rest of the yelling as he slumped against the alley wall, just as he heard a low groan. His eyes snapped up to the man still tied up a few feet away, and he watched with glee as the man started to realise what happened. His eyes were wide and full of surprise, anger, and he started to move, trying to get out of his restraints.

He slipped his phone back into his pants and moved over to the wriggling man, before he dropped down and crouched in front of him, his eyes meeting the muggers. “Hey there, bud. I have some friends on the way coming to pick you up, so behave, alright?” He grinned once more as he pulled his hood on, before he realised the guy partially knew what he looked like.

Looks like he’ll have to take care of that. His grin slipped off his face as his expression went slack, his eyes dull and threatening as he stared straight at the man as he began to speak again, “I know you saw what I look like, and I want you to know, if you even utter a word of my appearance to someone else, I’ll know. If I do hear you talk, you better believe I’ll be finding you again, in jail or not, and I’ll make sure you don’t walk away this time. Got it?"

The last of his words came out more as a snarl, and he was happy to see a sliver of fear in the man’s eyes, especially as he pulled his knife out for extra effect. “Perfect! Now that we're on the same page, I'd like to apologise in advance. Remember our deal, and have a good nap!” He grabbed the man by the face and slammed his head against the wall behind him, effectively knocking him unconscious just as sirens screamed into the night. 

His leg throbbed with every heartbeat, and his shirt stuck to his back with sweat as blood still seeped from the bullet wound, but he had never felt better. Mentally, anyway. His leg still burned and made him hiss as he stood up, picking up the bloody hoodie and holding it in his left hand as he turned, slipping his knife into its makeshift holster, and slowly limped to the nearest fire escape. Every step was painful, every pull agony as he climbed, but the sounds of sirens getting louder and the red and blue lights in the distance growing brighter only fuelled him more until he reached the rooftop. He crouched low, hoodie held tightly in his hand as he watched the alley below, the mugger still tied up and unconscious. Okay, so maybe he did hurt someone, but he vowed from then on to only hurt criminals and people who truly deserved it. He would never hurt innocents, and he had no problem taking down those who did. 

Izuku smiled as the police cars appeared around the corner, and he turned and vanished across the rooftops. One jump, then another. He didn’t stop, even when he would collapse every now and then to take a breath, and soon he found himself limping into his apartment, digging yet another bullet out of himself before dying.

For the next month, he didn’t stop. Every night, as the sun dipped behind the jagged skyline and the world blurred into orange smog and shadow, he was already out there. Moving, watching, and waiting. He didn’t always find big crimes, but he found enough.

Petty theft. Street harassment. Drunk guys roughing up corner shops. Once, a man tried to drag a woman behind a shuttered store. That one had made Izuku snap, and the man had ended up passed out with two broken hands and a very concerning head injury behind a dumpster as Izuku then instructed the woman on where the nearest police station was. If she decided to not tell the police and effectively let the man die, he didn't care. 

Izuku had also been shot in his left shoulder, gotten skin above his ribs on his right clawed by a woman with, you guessed it, knife length claws, and he had also gotten stabbed in his right thigh, dislocated and broken a few limbs, and would always bleed out in an alleyway before he regenerated, but he had only been murdered seven times that month, which was progress. In total, he had committed suicide 39 times, and technically, if you counted his death from the thugs, been murdered 8 times. He found he was also a very quick learner, that much was obvious. In just the few nights he had been jumping across buildings and fighting criminals, he'd found running had become easier, and thanks to his analysis, found it easier every time he fought to find his opponents weaknesses.

He had stopped wearing his hoodie along the way, finding it restricted him too much and made it easier for people to grab onto him, and so instead he had found an old black hoodie with holes and cut off the hood from the neckline up so it clung tightly to his neck but still covered his messy green curls, which he now chose to tie back into a small bun since his hair had grown to nearly shoulder length.

Now, as he stood in the mirror, he tilted his head slightly, inspecting the new makeshift mask clinging to his face. It was nothing more than a long black sleeve, the stretchy kind you’d find on a compression shirt. He’d sliced one off a rack in a gym store and cut it into a thin strip that was tied at the back of his head, and it fit snugly over his brows and the bridge of his nose. On the sides, just above his ears, he had sewn a button on each side of the mask which held his hood firmly to his head so this time it wouldn’t fall off. 

The mask left only his eyes visible and covered the jagged scar. It was tight and clean, and made sure it was harder for him to get identified, but was easy to pocket or ditch if needed. He looked… eerie. Like a shadow with eyes. He kind of liked it, and as he leaned closer, breath fogging slightly on the cracked mirror, he adjusted the material. His mouth was left uncovered, but he figured if he ever ran into Eraser, he would have a harder time recognising him, thanks to the scar on the left side of his mouth that began just above his top lip and ended just below his bottom. He’d gotten that one after someone with a quirk that turned his hair into copper arm length spears had gotten too close and nearly turned him into a very unhappy statue. 

Izuku learned to stay farther away from people with strange liquid-like hair after that encounter. Next, his eyesight moved onto his new outfit. His new top was one of his better finds, and was a dark green colour. It was a seamless, long sleeved skin-tight workout top from a sleek mall display. He’d ducked past cameras, kept his head down, walked in with a limp and a hoodie, and walked out with it under his shirt.

In the past weeks of his exercising and eating more, he had noticed his figure had grown stronger and more toned, which was now easily seen thanks to his top, which hugged his arms and chest like a second skin, the sleeves extending just far enough to hide the scars over his wrists, leaving only his hands exposed. The neckline came halfway up his throat, covering the long, silver-pink gash that ran horizontally across his neck like a reminder of everything he’d been through.

The only downside to the tight material was how it rubbed against the scar on his back. It didn't irritate the four long claw scars that covered his ribs on his right side, or the bullet scar on his left shoulder and the one of the left side of his stomach, or even the stab wound that rested above his heart, but he’d learned early on that wearing it fully against his back was a mistake, and left the scar tissue where Bakugo had scarred him screaming when the material rubbed it raw by sweat. The first time he’d gotten home after patrol with it on, the pain had nearly made him black out.

So he’d taken scissors and carved out a wide circle across the upper back of the shirt, exposing the scar entirely. It looked brutal in the mirror, like a gaping mouth of warped skin, but the relief was worth it. He’d also slit two openings at the elbows, freeing his arms to bend and move more naturally when climbing or dodging. Less fabric, and more freedom.

Beneath the shirt, he wore plain black cargo pants that had a dark red line running up each side, which he thought was a nice touch. The pants were lightweight, durable, and full of pockets, which made it easier to carry his knife, tape, and phone. He reminds himself he still has to go ‘shopping’ for more weapons soon, though.

He had also had to make adjustments to his pants so he had easier access to his knife. The pocket on his right side had been altered, where he had cut a vertical slit in the inner lining. From the outside, it looked untouched. But from the inside, it gave him perfect access to the knife that hung by the hilt against the slit, the cold blade pressing against the skin of his thigh.

If he needed it, all he had to do was reach in and pull. Lastly, his black sneakers were mostly the same, and the only thing he had altered was the laces, which he had replaced with black elastic bands from an old duffel bag so he could slip them on and off quickly in case of a rooftop chase or a water escape.

He studied himself in the mirror one last time. Dark green top. Black cargo pants. Knife hidden in pant leg. Mask covering his eyes and scar. Hood covering his tied up hair. The scar on his back was exposed like a sign of who he was, not a weakness. He looked like someone you didn’t want to see in a dark alley, like someone he wouldn’t have connected to the frail boy he had been nearly two months ago.

Izuku Midoriya was dead, and the person in the mirror? He was someone else entirely, and the people he saved agreed. People had started whispering about him, about the figure cloaked in darkness who appeared from above and saved them. They called him Revenant, meaning the one that returns after death.

He hadn’t meant for it to stick, but it had. The name passed through alleys and message boards like a myth. A spirit who died and came back. A soul returned from the dead. It fits too well. Because if a criminal was lucky enough to kill him, they would think they got away, until he rose like a ghost from the grave who had come back to exact his revenge. He always came back, and when he did, they never forgot.

He rolled his shoulder, checked his gear, then exhaled. His back ached, and his knee popped when he crouched too low, but he didn’t care. Didn’t care about the new scars that adorned his skin like markings of his victories and losses, because as long as he was scarred, no one else would be. As long as he was the one dying, and someone else wasn’t, who cared? Because if it meant someone would be safe because of him, he didn’t care. 

He’d do it again. And again. And again, with no hesitation.

Chapter Text

Over time, Friday nights had slowly become Izuku’s favourite part of the week outside of being Revenant. No matter how badly his legs ached, or how fresh the bruises along his body, or how late the moon hung in the sky, he never missed his Fridays.

For the first time in weeks, he kept his hood down and his hair tied up into a low ponytail as he walked the streets, his red boots scuffed over cracked pavement as he passed shuttered stores, flickering streetlamps, and a small alley where someone was quietly throwing up behind a dumpster.

He didn’t stop, and he didn’t look, he just kept walking. The scars beneath his clothes tugged with every movement like a reminder, a whisper of who he was while he was Izuku. He had grown a headache at all the names and personas that he had. Deku, Izuku, Meiko, Revenant, they all gave him a headache if he tried to connect them. To him, they were all separate people who led different lives, and he was happy to keep it that way.

Izuku and Deku were useless and pathetic. Izuku was a quirkless nobody whom even his parents couldn’t love, and Deku was stupid and pathetic, letting people push and abuse him without a single ounce of backbone. No, he hated those two, but after his patrols, he always found himself fading from his brave and enthusiastic counterpart Revenant to the useless two. Then there was Meiko. 

He didn’t know how to describe Meiko. Was he who Izuku and Deku wished they were? He rambled a lot and spoke to Hizashi about things Izuku and Deku could only dream of telling people, like his old hobbies of drawing and analysing. He was someone who, even if it confused him, was wanted. It was strange.

Now, as he slips from Izuku to Meiko, he puts on a warm smile that he only ever shares with Hizashi as he walks around the corner, the Cat Cafe coming into view. The soft glow of warm lights inside reached for him like open arms as the yellow bulb above the door buzzed faintly, painting the sidewalk in gold. 

It was nearly 6PM by now, which was an hour past closing, but it was never closed to him. Not for Meiko. He slowed, breathing out a long sigh through his nose, and caught his reflection in the dark window beside the door. Even now, in the warm reflection of glass, he could see the ghost of the scar that ran through his bottom lip. It made his mouth look off-centre and crooked. Vulnerable. His thumb moved automatically, brushing the mark.

He reached into the inside pocket of his hoodie, pulling out the cheap concealer he’d picked up from a secondhand shop using money he’d found lying on the floor. That was a good day. It was the same stick he’d used to cover the scar on his lip for weeks now, and the label had peeled off and the cap barely stayed on anymore, but it worked.

Quick, practised movements followed. A few dabs to the lip, pat, pat, blend. His fingertips moved with quiet precision, muscle memory burned in from too many anxious moments in bathroom stalls and behind trash bins and broken windows. Then his fingers brushed the longer scar, the one that curved under his right eye and disappeared above his eyebrow. It was the one he hated most.

The one that made people stare longer than they meant to, and was the one that never faded, like the one on his back. It was a permanent reminder of the vulnerability he had had that day, and his face being ruined was the consequence for his weakness. He couldn’t show weakness, and it was the one emotion he tried his hardest to hide. 

His hand trembled as he pressed concealer over it, but he did it anyway. He always did, because he had to. Revenant was the one with scars, the one who could walk the city with scars blazing like war paint. But Meiko and Izuku and Deku? They had to blend in and disappear. Be soft-edged and safe-faced and normal.

A few minutes later, satisfied with the job, he capped the stick and shoved it back into his hoodie. Then he stepped forward with a deep breath and pushed the cafe door open, and was greeted by the soft chime of the bell above. He was slightly nervous, especially since this was the first time he was meeting with Hizashi with his hair up. He knew the man wanted to cut it for him, he wasn't exactly the epitome of subtle, but Izuku did want to be able to look through two eyes clearly for once.

This was why he had covered the scars that rested on his face and neck. The last thing he needed was Hizashi getting suspicious of why he always kept one eye covered, and he felt like he knew the man well enough after weeks of meeting him and being gifted muffins, so it was the least he could do.

He was hit with familiar warm air the second he stepped inside, and as always, the room smelt of freshly baked muffins and cat fur. The kind of scent that made your shoulders drop without realising it, and he smiled before he could stop himself.

The main room was dim. The lights were turned low, chairs stacked on tables, but cats still sprawled around like they owned the place. One was curled in a fake sunbeam that was coming from the light above the door outside. Another sat perched atop the counter like a little gargoyle, staring at him intensely, and he stared straight back.

He moved towards the counter, and immediately spotted the tray of muffins that were covered by a tea towel, steam still curling lazily from them and waiting for him. He grabbed one without hesitation and took a bite as he headed toward the back, the sugar and soft dough relaxing him as he noted the tones of raspberry tonight.

Music pulsed through the door that Hizashi worked behind. It was loud, chaotic, borderline ear splitting, and matched Hizashi perfectly as he snorted through a mouthful of muffin and stepped inside. Hizashi was mid-sweep, hips swaying to the beat like he was trying to summon a spirit. His long blond hair was tied back in a messy knot, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, one sock halfway sliding off his foot. It was like watching a man win a dance battle against an invisible enemy.

He reached out, still chewing, and turned off the stereo, the sudden silence a violent contrast to the ear splitting music. Hizashi flinched so hard he nearly hit himself in the face with the broom as he spun around, hand pressed to his chest, wide-eyed and surprised, before his eyes snagged on his face.

"... Meiko?" He asked, surprised, and he couldn't help but smile as he nodded at the man, his nerves slowly fading as Hizashi grins. "I didn't think I'd see the day when your hair was up, kiddo, it looks great!" He can't help but flush at the compliment, and the man notices and only laughs as he puts the broom down. "You know, every time you come in I swear you get quieter!” He gave Hizashi a small smile, swallowed the bite of muffin in his mouth, and said, “You might be able to h-hear me if you turn the m-music down. One day you'll go d-deaf."

The man's smile quirked into a smirk as he blinked at him slowly. Then, with a raised brow, he reached behind his ear and flicked something free.

His own smile disappeared as he realised what Hizashi was holding. Hearing aids. His heart immediately dropped into his stomach. “Shit-” He started, taking a step back. “I didn’t-I wasn’t trying to be-shit, I’m s-sorry. That was r-really insensitive, I d-didn’t mean-” But Hizashi waved him off with a grin, putting the broom down and walking past him as he flops into a seat near a window. “Don’t worry about it, kiddo. I was only teasing ya! I hide ‘em behind my hair for a reason.”

He followed slowly, the heat of guilt still clawing at the back of his throat. He sat down across from him, pulling the tray of muffins with him, and for a while they just sat there in quiet company. The cat with the bent tail jumped onto his lap like she had a reservation. “So,” he asked eventually, voice softer now, “what kind of m-music do you listen t-to?”

Hizashi grinned. “All of it. Seriously, I’m a total genre slut.” He nearly choked on his muffin as he gasped. “Hizashi!”

“I mean it!” Hizashi laughed. “If it’s got rhythm, or soul, or even a good breakdown? I’ll probably vibe with it. Something about music… it just gets into the bones, ya dig?” He blinked.

For a second, his mind foze. Where have I heard that before? He tried to remember, but he came up short and eventually just shook it off. “Do you wanna p-play something?” he asked Hizashi, as the man just shrugged. “If you’d like, no dissing my taste though.”

He only rolled his eyes and got up, walked over to the stereo, and brought it back, turning the volume way down this time. They talked some more as they both swapped dumb stories. Hizashi told one about a cat that tried to steal an entire muffin tray. Meiko started to lie and told him about how he was enjoying school, just as the music changed, then came to an abrupt stop.

Suddenly, a voice came through the static. “YO, YO, YOOOOO! WELCOME BACK TO PUT YOUR HANDS UP RADIO WITH PRESENT MIIIIIC!”

He froze, and his blood ran cold as his eyes locked on the radio like it had just said his full legal name. “Tonight’s special guest is the ever-glamorous Midnight-” He turned to Hizashi. Stared. Squinted. Then his eyes widened.

“Wait. Wait. WAIT-” He lunged forward and turned the volume up as he listened. Present Mic’s voice carried through the room like a lightning bolt wrapped in confetti. Loud, bright, unmistakable, and Izuku’s mouth dropped as he turned back to Hizashi. “ARE YOU PRESENT MIC?!”

Hizashi winced, gave a sheepish smile, and reached over to turn the radio off. “That’s my hero's name. Yup.” Izuku sat there for a moment, stunned, before he grinned so wide it hurt. “Oh my god. I used to listen to your show all the time when I was a kid! How the fuck did I not notice sooner?”

“If you keep swearing,” Hizashi muttered, deadpan, “I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.” He just laughed. “Okay, freaking Present Mic.” He squinted again, his old Present Mic notes returning to him. “Wait… is that why you have hearing aids? Because your Quirk damages your ears?”

Hizashi nodded casually and for a long beat he went quiet. Then, almost shyly, Izuku said, “…Can you sign something for me?” Hizashi’s grin lit up his whole damn face. “Sorry, didn’t hear that.”

“Will you sign something for me!” He glared at the man, but it held no hatred. “‘Course I will, little listener!” He looked around. “What do you want signed?” He tried to not be a fan boy over the fact THE Present Mic had called him a little listener. “My…uh. My forehead?” Hizashi immediately reached for a marker.

Izuku yelped and leaned back. “I was joking! I was joking!” The man cackled, shoulders shaking as Izuku scowled, flushed, then glanced around, grabbed a napkin, and handed it over. Hizashi raised a brow. “A napkin?”

“I used to get pros to sign notebooks,” Izuku muttered. “But I don’t… I don’t have one. So… napkin.” There was a long silence before Hizashi frowned. “If you want a notebook, I’ve got a few spares in the back. Want one?” Izuku immediately shook his head. “No. Don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t want you to waste one on me.” Hizashi stood. “Nonsense.” Izuku blinked. “Wait-”

“Stay here.” And just like that, he disappeared into the back. Izuku stayed where he was, blinking after him, the napkin still in his hand. After a few minutes had passed with just the quiet hum of the heater and the soft thump of a tail flicking against Izuku’s knee to keep him company, he keeps patting the cat curled in his lap and tries not to think about the fact he had just fan-boyed over a hero, in front of said hero, but then the back door creaked open again and Hizashi returned.

In his hand was a small notebook. Thin with clean white paper, with a blue spine. The edges were slightly bent from where it had clearly been stacked or moved around a lot, and as Izuku stared at it, he blinked. No way. His breath caught in his throat as Hizashi sat back down and slid the notebook across the table. He knew it instantly, from the rough texture of the cover to the smooth paper. The moment his fingertips brushed the cover, something deep inside him just clicked, like a door opening in a part of himself he hadn’t touched in years.

He smiled before he could stop himself. And not just a tiny smile that Izuku forced Meiko to make, no, this time it was a real one, full and wide and stretching across his face like he couldn’t help it. He nearly started bouncing in his seat like a little kid, biting down on the inside of his cheek to stop the excitement from spilling out too hard as he looked at the same model of notebook his old one had been.

Hizashi grinned as he took the notebook and flipped it open, grabbing the nearest pen. “Let’s make this thing official!” In one swoop, he scribbled a messy but unmistakable “To Meiko. Stay loud, stay proud! - Present Mic” on the first page, complete with a mini doodle of his sunglasses.

He slid it over with a flourish, and he stared at it like it was a piece of the moon. “Th-thank you,” he breathed, clutching it gently. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” Hizashi chuckled, “Good to see you smile, kiddo. Looks good on you.” Izuku’s fingers tightened around the cover as he looked down again, overwhelmed but ecstatic.

“I used to have a notebook like this,” he admitted quietly, running a thumb along the edge. “Same brand. It was my favourite. I… I used to draw and write in it every day. C-carried it everywhere with me.” He looked up, heart soft. “I analysed heroes in it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah! Like, really analysed them. I broke down their fighting styles, their weaknesses, the way they used their Quirks, even if they weren’t always obvious. I had this whole page for you, too! Well, for Present Mic, I mean.” He didn’t notice the way Hizashi’s eyebrows lifted, or how he leaned in, completely focused.

“I figured your ears were probably hyper-sensitive, I mean you’d need to be able to hear yourself clearly over crowd noise, right? So I thought maybe if you wore sound-dampening tech that filtered ambient noise but let your own voice through, it’d help. Or like, maybe shockproof padding for your boots to muffle your steps between bursts! And maybe a backup vocal amp built into your collar in case your primary one got hit, and oh! I didn’t know you had hearing aids, but I did think about some ear protection-”

He didn’t realise he was rambling until Hizashi suddenly blinked at him with wide eyes, his mouth slightly parted in surprise. Izuku’s face went hot, and his breath caught, and his fingers clutched the notebook tighter as he ducked his head. “S-sorry,” he mumbled. “I forget p-people don’t like it when I ramble…”

There was a beat, and then Hizashi nearly jumped across the table before he tried to stop himself from launching at Izuku. “No, no, no, kid-that’s not it at all!” He blinked, startled. Hizashi’s voice softened, expression warm. “You just looked so happy when you were talking about it. Like… you lit up. That was amazing.” Izuku swallowed. “And besides,” Hizashi added, “you’re really smart. Like, scary smart. All of that? From observation alone?” Izuku shrugged, shrinking in on himself a little, unsure how to take the compliment. “I… I just like figuring things out, I guess.” Hizashi tilted his head. “Do you have an intelligence-type Quirk?”

That made Izuku freeze, and his smile slipped, his fingers stopped moving, and he tried to answer, but his mouth dried out. His chest tightened. He couldn’t say yes. Couldn’t say what he really had. Not without questions. Not without danger. And worst of all, he had built a connection with Hizashi, and he didn’t want to lie to him about things that had an easy answer. For Izuku, this question had an easy answer, because at that moment he wasn’t Meiko. He wasn’t Deku. He was a quirkless nobody, and so he looked down at the table and whispered, “…I don’t have a Quirk.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Izuku braced himself for it, the flash of disgust, the cold edge of judgement. Maybe even a shove or an insult. He’d had both, especially since people hated weakness, and in their eyes, that’s all he was. But instead, Hizashi just blinked, before he smiled. “There’s nothing wrong with being Quirkless, kiddo.”

Izuku looked up, shocked. Hizashi nodded. “Seriously. I know a few really good people who don’t have Quirks. One of ‘em ran an entire rescue shelter by herself.” Izuku’s lips parted slightly. “You… really don’t mind?” Hizashi raised an eyebrow. “Of course I don’t mind. It’s not like it was your fault, right?”

Something in Izuku’s chest cracked. No one had ever said that before. Not like that. Not with kindness. He stared, stunned, trying to process it, and trying to hold back the sudden wave of emotion threatening to rise behind his ribs. No, he couldn't be weak. Meiko needed to come back, now.

“Thank you,” he said, straightening up with a smile. “For… everything.” Hizashi’s voice was gentle, almost teasing. “I’m always here if you need me, Meiko. And hey, you don’t have to wait for Fridays to come back, y’know.” His breath caught again at the open invitation.

He gave a shaky nod, blinking fast. “O-okay.” There was a small pause, before he said, almost awkwardly, “How’s the cafe going?” Hizashi beamed. “Better than ever, honestly. Except one of my staff just left! Got a new job across town. Good for her, but sadly bad for my weekend schedule. I’ve been picking up more shifts than I probably should.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then looked over at him thoughtfully. “Say, Meiko…”

He blinked. “Mhm?” Hizashi leaned forward, eyes warm, a small grin spreading across his face. “Do you want a job?” His eyes went huge. “What-?!”

He sat frozen for a moment, unsure if he’d heard right. “A… a job?” he echoed, voice cracking slightly. Hizashi grinned, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Yeah! You’d be great here, kiddo. Friendly, hardworking, smart, it’s kind of a no-brainer.” He stared at him, trying not to let his jaw physically drop. “I mean, don’t worry,” Hizashi added quickly, “we’d keep it part-time. Just weekends. I figured you’ve got school during the week, right?”

He only nodded, before moving to a different topic. He was okay speaking about school briefly if he was the one who brought it up so he would know what questions would come up, but if someone else brought it up? No, thank you. He curled his fingers slightly under the table to stop them from shaking. He hadn’t been to school in nearly two months, and he had no intent on going back, especially since he was still technically missing.

But he pushed the thought down, far and hard, and focused on what Hizashi was saying. “Saturday and Sunday shifts,” the man continued cheerfully, “we open at nine, close at five, but you’d have an hour break. I can teach you the ropes tomorrow morning if you’re up for it. Basic stuff like the register, tables, coffee machine. And you’re already good with the cats, which is obviously the most important!”

Izuku found himself nodding, words tangled in his throat. It all sounded… possible. It wasn’t going to be easy, or safe, since someone could come in and notice him, which means he needs to change up his appearance a bit more, but having this opportunity made him feel wanted, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to turn it down.

“And hey,” Hizashi added with a grin, “maybe you’ll finally get to meet my husband, Sho!” That made Izuku’s lips twitch into a smile almost on instinct, because even if he hadn’t met him yet, he felt like he knew the man. Every time Izuku came in, Hizashi always brought him up in some small way. Always with a fond smile, or a shake of the head, or a soft chuckle under his breath. He now knew the man’s favorite color was yellow, “the soft one, not the neon,” Hizashi had once clarified.

His favourite muffin flavour was cinnamon. He secretly had a massive sweet tooth and always pretended he didn’t. He wrote Hizashi little notes in the morning, usually puns or messy hearts or small reminders like “don’t burn your tongue again,” and Hizashi always tucked them into his apron pocket like they were treasure.

He had started to look forward to Hizashi speaking about it happily more than he liked to admit. And now, the idea of actually meeting him made his stomach twist up in nervous knots. What if he messed it up? What if he didn’t like him? What if-

“—Meiko?” He blinked, snapping back to the present. Hizashi’s expression had shifted, just slightly. His smile had dipped at the corners. His eyes had gentled, like he was trying not to make Izuku feel bad. “I completely understand if you don’t want to work here,” he said softly. “I’m not trying to push anything on you.” His heart dropped.

“No-no, I-!” he blurted out, waving his hands frantically in front of him. “I’d love to! Really! I mean it!” There was a beat of silence before Hizashi’s smile lit up again like the sun breaking through clouds. “Perfect!” he said, grinning ear to ear. “Meet me here tomorrow at 9 a.m. sharp!”

Izuku’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. He couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face, wide and stunned and a little shaky. “O-okay!” he said, voice cracking again. “I will! I’ll be here!”

Chapter Text

Even before he had begun patrolling at nights as Revenant, Izuku rarely managed to get even a few hours of sleep. Now that he was patrolling starting from sundown to a few hours after midnight, his sleep schedule had deteriorated. Not to mention that the nerves of beginning his first day at work had prevented him from sleeping at all the night before, and they kept him tossing and turning, mind racing with every possibility of what could go wrong on his first shift. He’d gone over every conversation he might have, every muffin tray he might burn, every coffee machine he might accidentally break, and eventually at 6AM he had given up and jogged to Takoba beach as he began his morning routine. Everyday he still came here, and he was happy to admit you could now see a difference. From the street you were now able to see part of the sea and the sand, and that only motivated him to work even harder.

He stayed and worked in the cool conditions of the morning until it was 8AM and he was sweating, before he ran home, showered and dressed in his best clothes (which was his only shirt and pants without holes) before he briskly walked to the cafe, standing and waiting outside until it hit 9AM on the dot and he walked inside. The moment he walked into the cafe Hizashi greeted him with a bright, “Good morning, kiddo!” all the tension in his shoulders bled away like steam off hot cocoa.

The morning had been quiet. Soft sunlight filtered through the wide windows, warming the purring cats that lounged lazily on perches and cushions. Hizashi showed him around, giving him a crash course on everything from how to operate the espresso machine to which cat liked chin scratches and which one would smack you for trying.

For not the first time, he thanked himself for being a quick learner. Whether it was muscle memory or sheer determination, he picked up the rhythm fast, from cleaning tables, restocking the display case, or learning how to pour lattes with shaky but improving hands. Every time he got something right, Hizashi would throw him a wide grin and a thumbs-up, and he would beam back, pride swelling in his chest.

It was just about time for his break, thirty minutes, he had decided, in the back room with whatever muffin hadn’t sold that morning and maybe a moment to breathe, when the bell above the door rang, soft and chiming. He glanced over instinctively and paused.

A tall, lanky teen stepped in, his movements stiff and guarded. His lavender-purple hair was messy and stood up tall like he hadn’t bothered brushing it, and the deep shadows under his eyes suggested a long-standing war with sleep. He kept his hood halfway up and made a beeline for the corner booth, AKA the farthest table in the cafe, as if trying to disappear into it.

He knew the feeling well, and so he leaned into the back room where Hizashi was humming to himself while washing out a blender. “Hey,” Izuku said softly, “I’m taking my break now. I’ll be back in half an hour.” Hizashi looked up and grinned. “You know you’ve got a full hour, right?” He just shrugged with a faint smile. “I’ll be back soon.”

Instead of heading to the back, though, he walked slowly toward the boy in the corner. He could feel the other’s eyes flick up, sharp and cautious, tracking him like a stray might watch an unfamiliar hand. “Mind if I sit?” He asked, keeping his voice light and friendly. The boy shrugged, not looking directly at him. “It’s a free country.”

So he sat, resting his arms on the table as casually as he could. He tried to make conversation, something simple about the weather or the cats, but every time he spoke, the boy gave a short, clipped response, or none at all. The silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable. He knew that silence. He’d worn it once, back when speaking here felt dangerous. When kindness made his throat tight and compliments rolled off him like rain off a slick jacket. This boy reminded him too much of that version of himself. So, he stood. The boy’s eyes followed him, not with suspicion, but something closer to resignation. Like he expected to be left alone. Again.

He didn’t speak as he walked back behind the counter. He reached for the muffin tray, the fresh batch Hizashi had baked this morning, still warm and steaming as he picked out two cinnamon ones, knowing they were Sho’s favourite, and returned to the corner. Without a word, he slid one across the table and sat back down.

The boy stared at it, lips pressed together in uncertainty. After a long moment, he mumbled, “…Thanks,” and took it. He smiled. “No problem.” They sat like that for a moment, quiet. The boy took a bite, and he let the silence breathe. Then, unexpectedly, the boy spoke first.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” he said, voice low but clear. “Are you new?” He perked up, nodding. “Yeah—today’s actually my first day. I’m trying really hard not to, uh, screw it all up,” he added with a half-laugh. “Kinda hoping getting f-fired on the first shift isn’t in the cards.” The boy’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Meiko.”

The boy paused, then took it. His grip was tired but solid. “Shinsou. Shinsou Hitoshi.” His grin widened. “Well, nice to meet you, Shinsou,” and before he knew it, he had spent his entire break with him. He hadn’t meant to spend the whole break talking, because when he sat down across from Shinsou with two muffins and a hopeful smile, he’d only planned to spend half an hour, like he told Hizashi. But Shinsou had looked up at him like he wasn’t used to people sticking around, like he was expecting Meiko to get bored and leave, and he wasn’t about to do that.

So he stayed, and, slowly, Shinsou started to talk. Not a lot at first, only in quiet, clipped replies, his voice rough like it didn’t get used much, but it was enough. Enough to tell Meiko that this boy wasn’t cold, just cautious. Guarded. Like someone who had learned not to trust kindness too easily. He also knew that feeling too well.

He talked enough for both of them at first, rambling about the cats, about how weird it felt to be behind the counter instead of the one sneaking in and hiding in the corner, about how he was still trying to remember which buttons on the register didn’t get stuck. And when he made Shinsou crack the smallest smile, it felt like he had won a marathon, and by the time nearly the full hour had passed, they were talking like they’d done this a dozen times, because the boy was scarily easy to get along with.

He had learned a lot about the quiet and reserved purple haired boy. He learned that Shinsou liked black coffee yet disliked how bitter it was. That he listened to podcasts while doing homework. That he didn’t talk much in school because people always made assumptions based on his quirk. He didn’t say what the quirk was, but Izuku didn’t press, just nodded and listened, offering little hums of understanding where needed, and then, maybe most importantly, he learned that Shinsou wanted to be a hero. To go to U.A.

That had caught him off guard for a moment, his heart stuttering strangely in his chest. He stared at the boy in front of him, who slouched in his seat and didn’t make eye contact and probably didn’t realise how much hope he still had, just by daring to want that.

“I used to want to go to U.A. too,” He had said softly, almost without thinking. Shinsou looked up. “Used to?” Izuku hesitated. Then he shrugged, a practised motion that made his shoulders feel heavier. “I can’t be a hero anymore.”

The words tasted like dust. Final, like he’d signed some invisible agreement with the universe that said he was done dreaming. That there was no place for someone like him in the light anymore. Shinsou’s brow furrowed, like he was about to ask why, about to challenge it, even, but then his eyes darted to the clock on the wall. “Oh-uh,” he said awkwardly. “Your break.”

He blinked, then followed his gaze and jolted. “Crap, yeah, you’re right.” He stood quickly, brushing muffin crumbs from his lap. “I’ve gotta get back. But-” He paused, already a few steps away, then turned back and jogged behind the counter. He grabbed a few leftover muffins from the tray and returned, placing them gently in front of Shinsou. “I’m working tomorrow, too,” he said, trying not to sound too hopeful. “If you wanna come by. Say hi.”

Shinsou looked at the muffins, then up at him. “Yeah. Maybe I will.” He couldn’t help the grin that split his face. “Cool. See you then.” The rest of his shift passed in a blur of dishes and customer orders and cats weaving between his legs. He was exhausted by the end of it, and his feet ached, his back twinged, and he couldn’t wait to collapse onto his mattress when he got home, but under all the fatigue, a thread of excitement still buzzed in his veins.

He’d made a friend. Or something like one, and maybe it wasn’t much, but it was more than he’d had in a long time. Now, as his shift finishes and he heads for the door, he called out a cheerful, “Bye, Hizashi!”

“Wait!” Hizashi called from the counter. “Do you have any questions about your pay?” He stopped, halfway out the door. He turned slowly, blinking. “Pay?” Hizashi tilted his head, confused. “Uh, yeah? I’m not gonna make you work fourteen hours every weekend for free, kiddo.” Izuku’s face went pale, and then he quickly shook his head. “No-I mean-please don’t. I don’t need to be paid. I just-I just wanted to help. And… you’ve already done so much. The muffins, the notebook, the kindness-I’m just paying you back.”

Hizashi’s smile faded slightly, his brows pulling together in something more serious. “Kiddo… the muffins were free. You don’t owe me anything. I like spending time with you.” Izuku’s throat closed up. He almost said it- Why? No one else ever did -But he caught himself just in time, teeth sinking into his cheek as he forced it back down. The words didn’t belong out loud. Not yet.

So instead, he gave Hizashi a tight smile and nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stepped out the door, into the fading evening light, his heart full of something warm and aching.

Izuku was halfway across a rooftop when the thought returned. Pay.

He landed lightly, momentum carrying him forward as he took a few running steps before jumping again. The dark city blurred past beneath him, glittering with quiet life, but his mind was still on how Hizashi had told him he would be getting paid.

He didn’t want it. Not because he didn’t need it, he really did. But because it felt wrong. Hizashi had already wasted too much on him. Muffins that were “free,” a notebook he insisted was just lying around, a smile he didn’t have to give. Letting Izuku work at the cafe felt like paying it all back. Like maybe he could balance the scales, just a little. If he took money for that, it would tip everything again. I don’t want to be a burden, Izuku thought, springing over a narrow alley. Not to him. Not to anyone.

He landed a little harder than usual, boots skidding against the gravel, and exhaled. Just don’t think about it. But his thoughts wouldn’t stop spiralling, looping around the same truth, he didn’t deserve generosity. Not from Hizashi. Not from anyone.

He was so caught up in it that he almost missed the sound. Almost. A sharp breath. A stifled sob. The shuffle of shoes on dirty pavement. Izuku skidded to a stop, senses flaring. A little girl. Crying. He turned his head sharply and narrowed his eyes toward the alley two buildings down. There, movement. A small figure backed into a corner, trembling. A larger figure stood over her.

His blood turned to ice, then fire. He didn’t hesitate as he dropped, the impact silent and landing light as a whisper. He didn’t try to grin or tease as he usually would. Instead, he lunged. He slammed the guy’s head into the wall before the bastard even knew he was there, the body crumpling with a thud. Izuku followed it with a harsh kick to the side, sending the unconscious man sliding across the alley floor and away from the girl.

Then, slowly, softly, he knelt. “Hi, kiddo,” he said, his voice gentle now, the heat drained from his fury. “What’s your name?” She sniffled, rubbing her face with the sleeves of her oversized jacket. “Aiko,” she whispered, but when she tried to look at the man, Izuku used his hand to block her view.

“Aiko,” he repeated, nodding. “That’s a very pretty name! How’d you get so far from your parents?”

“I-I got separated,” she said, hiccuping. “We were shopping and then there were a lot of people, and I couldn’t find them, and-and then the man said he’d help me. Said he had food-” Izuku felt rage boil in his gut again, but he took a breath and nodded slowly. “You did amazing, Aiko, you’re a very brave little girl. I’m just gonna tie up the bad guy, alright? Just breathe for a second. You’re safe now.” He turned his attention to the man, pulling out tape from one of his pockets. As he wrapped the unconscious creep’s wrists, he heard Aiko’s voice again, quiet, awed.

“Are-are you Revenant?” He froze for a heartbeat, then he glanced back at her with a warm smile. “That’s what they call me, kiddo.” Her eyes went wide. “Is the scar on your back really where your angel wings were? My mommy told me you're an angel 'cuz you help people like us!” Izuku blinked. He stared at her, stunned into silence, but she just giggled and clapped her hands together, bouncing on her feet. “Thank you for saving me, Mr. Revenant! I can’t wait to tell my mommy I met an angel!”

He didn’t know what to say. His chest ached, confused and warm and heavy all at once. But he smiled back. A real one. “Hey, Aiko,” he said gently. “Can you do me a favour?” She nodded eagerly. “Turn around for a second, okay? I just gotta… finish up. Cover your ears, too.” She obeyed without question.

As soon as her back was turned, Izuku let his smile fall. He grabbed the guy by the collar, slammed him once into the wall again with enough force to rattle the bricks, and hissed a threat low and close to his unconscious ear before he hit him a few more times, grinning at the sound of his nose breaking. Then he pulled a slip of paper and a pen from his pocket, scrawled something in his messy handwriting, and dropped it beside the man.

He returned to Aiko, crouching again and shielding her view as he whispered, “How about we go get you some food?” She hesitated, shrinking back slightly. “Will you trust me more,” Izuku offered, “if I take off my mask? Then you’ll be the only one who knows my secret.” Her eyes lit up. She nodded. He slowly removed his mask, pulling it up until it rested on his hairline. Then he reached up and pulled back his hood, fingers loosening the tie holding his messy curls in place. His hair fell over his shoulders as he knelt in front of her, expectant, but Aiko didn’t look afraid.

Instead, she reached out and gently touched his face, her fingers brushing the scar on his cheek. “You’re a very pretty angel,” she whispered, “even without wings.” Izuku’s breath hitched and he swallowed thickly and smiled, lifting her up into his arms. “Let’s go get some ice cream, yeah?”

She squealed, wrapping her arms around his neck as he carried her out of the alley. He turned her head away so she wouldn’t see the man, now tied up like garbage for pickup, and quickly sent a message to Tsukauchi with the alley’s coordinates. Then he looked back down at her, and smiled as he asked her what her favourite flavour is.

The night air was cool against Shouta’s face as he moved from rooftop to rooftop, eyes narrowed beneath his goggles. Patrol had been relatively quiet again. He’d stopped two attempted muggings and a would-be purse snatcher, but that was nothing unusual. Nothing that made his instincts twist in that particular way they had when something truly ugly was brewing. Until his phone buzzed. He glanced down, saw Tsukauchi’s name, and accepted the call with a low grunt.

“We found another one,” the detective said without the preamble. “He’s alive, but barely.” Shouta’s brows drew together. “Revenant?”

“Yeah. There’s a note. You need to see it.” He hung up without another word and immediately changed direction, shooting his capture scarf toward a lamppost and swinging down to street level, boots pounding against pavement as he sprinted through the darkened streets.

By the time he got there, the scene had already been cordoned off with police tape. One officer stood by the alley, pale-faced and grim. Shouta slipped past her without a word and crouched near the prone body. Blood was smeared across the pavement, the man barely conscious, if at all. His nose was crushed, one eye swollen shut. His breathing was shallow, rattling. Definitely brain damage. Possibly a fractured skull. But it wasn’t the man that stopped him cold.

It was a piece of paper, water-stained and partially stuck in the growing puddle of blood. He peeled it away carefully, brow furrowed as he read, “Tried to take a child with the promise of food. Likely not the first time. Not the last if I hadn’t stepped in. He deserved more than this.” It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t need to be.

This was Revenant’s handwriting. Shouta had seen enough of it from previous messages left at scenes. But this one… this one felt angrier. More personal. The bruises, the damage, it was far beyond the vigilante’s usual efficiency. Revenant usually didn’t let his emotions get the better of him when dealing with criminals, no matter how bad their crimes were. He incapacitated. Disabled. But not like this.

“What happened here?” he murmured, eyes sweeping the alley. “Where’s the kid?”

He scanned the surrounding area and stood up sharply, pulling his scarf higher around his neck. If the girl had wandered off, or worse, if someone else had found her-

He took off down the street, scanning alleyways, checking between buildings. But it wasn’t until he turned onto the main road, his boots barely making a sound against the pavement, that he paused. Across the street, lights glowed from inside a small ice cream shop, one of the few still open at this hour. A little girl sat at the window, her legs swinging beneath her seat as she laughed and spoke animatedly between bites of ice cream.

And sitting opposite her, leaned forward slightly, hood drawn low over his dark curls, was a boy. No. Shouta narrowed his eyes. Not just a boy. Revenant. The new vigilante’s posture was relaxed, more than Shouta had ever seen him be in blurred photos as he perched on buildings or walked out of alleyways. His shoulders were loose, his body language casual. A mask still shadowed his upper face, but his mouth was visible. He smiled softly at the girl, spooning more ice cream into his mouth as she chatted away. She looked utterly at ease with him, even happy.

He just stood there, hidden partially in shadow as he watched. He’d never seen Revenant be described like this. The stories the criminals told always made him sound like a monster. A ghost with a bleeding mouth and dark eyes. A demon with no fear of death. They said he came out of the shadows and laughed as he got up from broken bones or knife wounds, that he couldn’t die. That he wouldn’t die. But this? This was just a kid.

Just a tired-looking teenager sharing ice cream with a child he’d saved. His hand ruffled her hair at one point, and she beamed. Shouta’s chest tightened with something he didn’t fully understand, and then, suddenly, Revenant looked up. Directly at him. Their eyes locked across the street. For a heartbeat, Shouta couldn’t move. Those eyes were almost black, but there was no malice in them now. Only something old. Tired. And calm. His lips curved upward slightly into a crooked smirk, soft and amused as if he were taunting Shouta to dare take him in, and a scar on the left corner of his mouth twitched with the motion.

He sees me, he realised, and he’s not running. Not fighting, not even flinching. He just… sat there, like he knew Shouta wouldn’t come for him. And for a long moment… he didn’t. He looked between the little girl and the vigilante. She was smiling, licking her spoon, not even aware that her would-be kidnapper was currently bleeding out in an alley down the road. That the person in front of her was the reason she was alive and safe and smiling.

Shouta exhaled slowly. And just this once… he nodded, turned, and walked away.

The soft scratch of pen against paper was the only sound in the dim apartment, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the old chair beneath Shouta’s weight. He sat hunched at the dining table, hair a mess, scarf slung over the back of the chair, surrounded by towering stacks of paperwork that seemed to multiply the longer he stared at them.

A cold mug of coffee sat beside his elbow, his fourth, and it had long since gone bitter and undrinkable. He took a sip anyway and grimaced. Another report. Another Revenant take down. Another stack of forms because apparently, the Hero Commission had decided that every criminal Revenant left behind counted as Shouta’s collar. Lucky him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly. His temples throbbed.

For over a month now, Revenant had become something of a ghost story in the city. A pale, hooded figure with a mouth full of taunts and fists like concrete blocks that came out of nowhere. He left notes at every scene. Criminals tied up and bloody, but never dead, never killed. That was the one consistent line Revenant never crossed. And yet, no one had ever gotten a clear shot of his face. No prints. No DNA. The brat was careful.

But Shouta was getting tired. Not of the kid’s actions, if anything, the vigilante was doing decent work, but of the paperwork. The endless, punishing volume of it. And the Commission still had no answers. The words blurred together. He heard the bedroom door creak open and glanced up just as Hizashi stumbled out, hair sticking up at odd angles, eyes squinting in the low light. He yawned as he walked into the kitchen and began popping in his hearing aids, blinking blearily at the stack of papers.

“Still at it?” he mumbled as he leaned down and pressed a sleepy kiss to Shouta’s temple. “Revenant,” Shouta muttered darkly, “is a menace. I’ve had to fill out three full incident reports just for tonight.”

“Yikes,” Hizashi winced as he rubbed his eyes. “That bad?”

“Left a guy barely breathing in an alley downtown. Head was bleeding into the pavement. Kid stuck a note to his jacket like it was a sticky tab and walked away.” 

“That’s awful.”

Shouta looked up, eyes narrowing. “Then twenty minutes later, I see him eating ice cream with the kid he just saved. Laughing. Just, sitting there in a booth like nothing happened. And then he looked straight at me. Smirked like he knew I wasn’t going to take him at that time.” Hizashi blinked, then grinned. “Okay, I’m not saying you’re wrong, but that’s also… so adorable! He took the little girl to get ice cream?” Shouta’s deadpan stare could have split concrete. “Adorable,” he repeated flatly. “He’s making my life a bureaucratic hell. I have hand cramps.”

Hizashi chuckled and reached across the table to grab a chunk of the paperwork. “Well, I’m awake now, so… I might as well help. We knock this out faster, maybe we can sleep before the sun comes up.” Shouta blinked as Hizashi started reading over the first sheet. “Thanks,” he said, quieter now. “You sure?” Hizashi winked. “I’m already doomed to be tired tomorrow. Might as well be tired together, right?”

They worked in silence for a bit, trading soft glances, the kind born of years together. It was companionable, warm, even if the stack of reports loomed like a villain of its own. After a while, Hizashi perked up, tapping his pen against the table. “Hey, did I tell you about the little listener today? It was his first shift at the cafe!” Shouta gave him a sceptical glance. “Little listener?”

“The kid that comes in every Friday? Quiet, little bit scrappy-looking? I gave him muffins once ‘cause he looked like he hadn’t eaten in days? Come on, Sho, I talk about him every week!”

Now that jogged a faint memory, something Hizashi had rambled about between dinner and laundry one night. Every Friday as soon as he got home after his tiring work as a teacher he would pass out cold until his patrol began late at night. Shouta had likely been half-asleep on the couch.

“He started his first shift today,” Hizashi repeated. “Turns out he’s a really solid worker! Quick on his feet, polite. Barely says anything unless spoken to, but he listens like a hawk. I even saw him talking to another teen today, looked like they were getting along.” Shouta raised an eyebrow. “Good for him.” Hizashi’s smile dimmed a little. “The only thing is… he thought he wasn’t getting paid.” Shouta blinked. “Hm?”

“Dead serious. Said something like, ‘I should be paying you.’ I think he’s got some guilt issues. Might not have had a great childhood, y’know?” Shouta set his pen down. He’d seen that kind of kid before, kids who never took more than they gave, who felt like a burden for simply existing. “He looks a little underfed, too,” Hizashi added, more thoughtful now. “He's skinny for someone that young, it worries me... You seriously don't remember? I was just telling you a few weeks ago about how he stopped covering his right eye with his curls. You chewed me out because I wanted to give him a haircut-” 

Shouta paused mid-sip of his coffee, narrowing his eyes. “…Covered his right eye?” 

“Yep,” he said, popping the P, “I thought maybe he was hiding somethin' underneath it, but all he was hiding was his bright, emerald green eyes! It suits his dark hair, actually... Oh! he's also quiet, but he has his moments, like when I tease him and he jokes back without his usual stutter, the cheeky little thing. You should meet him!"

Shouta blinked, taken aback. Curly hair, vivid emerald eyes... the resemblance to Midoriya was uncanny. He could still recall that night weeks ago, the boy’s voice trembling with a nervous stutter once the adrenaline began to wear off, weighed down by an almost painful lack of confidence. “Huh,” Shouta muttered. “You know what, Zashi, maybe I’ll come in tomorrow after all.” His husband lights up, and Shouta suddenly feels bad for saying no earlier, but he desperately wanted to sleep for at least a solid hour. Not happening now, I suppose.

“Perfect!” Hizashi beamed. “And since Meiko’s working tomorrow, maybe you’ll get to meet his friend, too, if you come in at lunch!” Shouta leaned back and sighed through his nose, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite himself. “Maybe.”

Chapter Text

The wind coming off the water was sharp that morning, biting at the exposed skin on Izuku’s fingers and stinging his cheeks. He tugged his sleeves tighter and bent to pick up another microwave buried halfway in the sand. It was just after six in the morning, and the beach was silent except for the familiar sound of waves and the occasional screech of gulls. His breath fogged in the air as he worked, dragging another garbage bag behind him as he cleared the shoreline of trash people had dumped along Takoba beach.

This was routine. He’d been doing this for nearly two months now, and cleaned for two hours every morning on weekdays and now on weekends before his cafe shift. It kept his body moving, his mind focused, and his emotions at bay.

By the time the sun had started its slow climb past the horizon, Izuku was heading back to the little apartment he called home. He peeled off his clothes at the door, kicked off his shoes, and stripped down for a quick icy cold shower. The cold water helped to cool his body down  after he'd been sweating profusely, but the second he stepped out, despite the warm weather, he was now cold. He decided to wear a thin scarf around his neck today, one that he had found abandoned outside of an old shop, and as he twined it around his neck he was more than grateful it covered his scar. 

At 8:50 he stood outside the cafe, his fingers curled around the straps of a worn backpack he found in a dumpster. Hizashi had told him yesterday that he didn’t have to wait out in the cold if he arrived early, and he, after initially arguing, had caved. So he slipped inside ten minutes before opening, the familiar chime above the door ringing out into the scent of coffee and cat fur.

As usual, Hizashi was dancing around the cafe, blasting music through the speakers while singing loudly and off-key. Izuku just smiled to himself. He liked the chaos, and the noise. It was… normal and almost comforting.

He got to work immediately, flicking on the coffee machines, checking the pastries, refilling water bowls for the cats, and letting them weave around his ankles as he moved. Hizashi emerged from the back at nine on the dot, ruffling his blond hair and calling, “Mornin’, Meiko!”

“Morning,” he replied with a soft smile, grateful that neither of them brought up the awkward conversation about his pay from yesterday. They stuck to easy topics like cat names, the latest oddball customer, and how loud Hizashi’s playlist was.

But Izuku couldn’t ignore the mild tension humming under his skin. Because today was the day. The day Hizashi’s famously mentioned husband was supposedly stopping by, and he knew it was important, especially since every conversation he had with Hizashi, the man manages to bring up his husband. He doesn’t mind, though, and in fact he’s glad Hizashi has someone to be there for him. So Izuku had made sure every visible scar was covered, his hair styled in a low bun with a few strands hanging out, and his scarf was covering everything it needed to. His shirts sleeves stretched to his knuckles, hiding the faint scars on his arms.

He was restocking the muffin display at lunch when the bell over the door chimed, and a familiar voice called out, “Hey.” His head snapped up, eyes lighting up as he waved Shinsou over. “Good mornin’, Shin!” The boy frowned immediately. “Don’t call me Shin. I’m not part of a leg.” Izuku just smirked. “Okay, Sou.”

“You’re not calling me that either. Just call me Hitoshi, idiot.”

“Alright, Toshi,” he said with exaggerated sweetness, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Toshi rolled his eyes, arms crossed. “What muffins you got today?” Izuku turned to show him the tray, reaching for the display case door when the bell chimed again. A chill raced up his spine, one he didn’t understand at first, until he glanced over his shoulder and saw a familiar, tired-looking man walk through the door. 

Hizashi described his husband in many ways, both personality and appearance wise. Thoughtful, loving, kind, dark raven hair, warm eyes, and messy clothing. 

Izuku realised that Hizashi clearly saw his husband differently than most, because as he stares at the man walking through the door, he eyes his dark wavy hair, messy black clothing, and eyes so cold that they could pin you in place with a look. Izuku knew this because he had been a victim to this look after punching the man in the throat.

Eraserhead. 

Just his luck that Hizashi’s loving husband ‘Sho’ was Eraserhead, a pro hero who he had managed to piss off in every way possible. Panic seized him like a fist around his throat. Izuku whirled, crouching slightly and using Toshi as a makeshift shield. “Toshi, I’m going to be dead serious with you right now, I’m sneaking out a window and I need a distraction.”

Hitoshi blinked. “What? Why-?”

“No time. He’s getting closer, Toshi, please.” To his credit, Hitoshi didn’t ask more questions. He turned sharply and took a deliberately clumsy step, letting himself fall to the floor with a dramatic thud that startled the nearby cats and made a customer yelp. Eraserhead, predictably, moved toward him at once. “You okay?” he asked, crouching beside him.

Izuku didn’t wait, even as Toshi’s voice rose considerably higher and his breathing became laboured. Huh, I wonder what caused that, he thought, but he didn’t care to wait around and ask, instead rushing through the staff hallway, muttering a fast, “Going on break,” to Hizashi in passing. Hizashi looked up, confused, but didn’t stop him.

He ducked into a small office, opened the narrow window with ease, and slipped out into the alley between the cafe and the building next door. The cold hit him immediately, but he didn’t stop, just crouched low, darted behind the dumpster, and looped around until he was across the street and behind the cover of a tree.

He held his breath until he saw Hitoshi step out the front door of the cafe, brushing off his clothes and looking a mix of excited and extremely unimpressed, which was confusing. Izuku ran over to him, grabbed his wrist, and tugged him down the street until they reached a quiet little park a few blocks away. Only then did he stop, crouching and groaning into his hands.

“I can’t believe it,” Hitoshi grumbled, crossing his arms. “That you made me embarrass myself in front of the Eraserhead!” At that, Izuku looked up, surprised. “You recognised him?” Toshi raised an eyebrow, now looking more unimpressed than before.

“Of course I did, idiot, Eraserhead is my favourite hero, and you made me look like a complete fool in front of him.” Izuku looked up sheepishly. “Okay, technically, I didn’t tell you to throw yourself on to the floor, just to cause a distraction…”

“Meiko.” 

“Right, right, sorry. Okay, so… I may have… accidentally… punched Eraserhead once…” He trailed off, hoping Toshi didn’t hear. “You… what?” Izuku whispered the next part quietly, “And stole his phone.”

“WHAT?!” Toshi was now staring at him with his eyes wide open, and his jaw hanging low. It was the most emotion Izuku had seen on the boy's face.  “It was an accident!” Izuku said quickly, hands raised. “I was trying to escape from these guys after I accidentally witnessed a drug deal and I panicked and yeah, Eraser helped me, but then he said the police were on their way and I panicked!”

Hitoshi was staring at him like he’d grown a second head. “Show me the phone. You still have it?” Izuku reluctantly pulled it from his pocket and held it up. “Meiko,” Hitoshi said slowly, “I can’t believe you punched and stole from Eraserhead. Were you dropped as a kid?”

“Probably,” Izuku muttered. Hitoshi just snorted and shook his head. “It's a good thing I can tolerate you,” Izuku sighed, letting the tension finally drain from his shoulders. “Yeah… lucky me.”

They sat down on a nearby park bench, the cold air nipping at their faces, and Izuku leaned back against the cold metal of the seat as Toshi still sits beside him with his arms crossed. “You owe me,” he said finally, and Izuku turned to him with a grin. “For?" Toshi just rolls his eyes. “For making me throw myself on the floor in front of my favourite pro hero, remember?”

“As I said before, I technically didn’t tell you to do that…” Izuku trails off at the glare Toshi now aimed towards him and sighed, giving in. “Fine, I’ll give you a whole batch of chocolate muffins. Deal?” 

“That’s not gonna cut it.” Izuku shifted slightly, glancing sideways. His voice dropped. “Alright, how about this. I tell you something no civilian knows, but you swear, swear, that you won’t tell anyone I told you.” Toshi raised a brow, curiosity overtaking irritation. “What kind of something?”

“I’ll tell you Eraserhead’s real name.” Toshi immediately turned to him, eyes wide. “Dead serious?” Izuku nods, holding back the laugh at how Toshi now looked like a little kid about to get candy. “Completely serious.” He still looked a bit sceptical though, and asked, “You’re not messing with me?”

“Nope.” There was a pause. Then Toshi leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Deal. I swear I won’t say a word.” Izuku gave a small nod. “His name’s Aizawa Shouta.” Toshi blinked. “Shouta Aizawa?” Izuku grinned. “Yeah. I know ’cause he’s married to my boss. That loud blond guy? That’s Hizashi Yamada. AKA Present Mic.” Toshi gave a low whistle. “You’re in a shit ton of trouble, Meiko.”

He groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “No shit, man. I’m so screwed.” Toshi snorted a laugh, the sound short but genuine. Then he went quiet, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “So let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “Second time I meet you, and you tell me you’ve punched and stolen from a pro hero, whose husband is your boss, and another pro hero.” Izuku gave a crooked smile and shrugged. “What can I say? I live life to the fullest.”

Toshi shook his head, still staring at him like he couldn’t quite believe it. Then, his voice dropped slightly. “Can I ask… why? Why did you panic when the police were coming?” Izuku glanced at him. “You said it yourself. You barely know me. So I can’t just go around telling you all my secrets.” Toshi raised a brow. “Fair.” Izuku nudged him with his shoulder. “Tell me something about you first, then I’ll think about it.”

The boy hesitated, then sighed and sat back a little. “Okay. Uh… well, I haven't actually told anyone this and I still don't know why i'm telling you, maybe it's because you're not as bad as everyone else," He sends Toshi a look that says hurry up, "...but the reason Eraserhead is my favourite pro hero? When I was younger, around five, our... house caught on fire. My parents were both, uh, gravely injured by the time help arrived, but they had managed to keep me safe. Eraserhead went in and pulled me out, despite being told to wait. He ran into that fire, with complete disregard for his own life, and saved me. Th-That’s why he’s my favourite hero.”

Izuku blinked. “…Seriously?” Toshi nodded. “I wouldn’t be alive without him. After that, I bounced between like… six different foster homes. Most people don’t like having a kid with a ‘villainous’ quirk.” Izuku frowned. “Villainous? What’s your quirk?” Toshi took a deep breath before speaking quickly, almost as if he just wanted to get it out of the way. “My quirk is... Brainwashing. If someone answers me when I talk to them, I can control them. Make them do what I say.” He winced, but Izuku's eyes only lit up.

“Seriously? That’s so cool! Are you serious? You could totally go pro with that! Who the hell said it was villainous? That’s some hero-grade stuff right there.” Toshi blinked, barely holding back his suprise. “You really think so?”

“Hell yeah!” Izuku said, grinning wide. “Like, no one would ever see it coming. You’re scary in the best way, and think about all the people you could save! If there was a hostage situation, you could command the villain to stand down, or command people to put down weapons in messy situations. With the right training, I wholeheartedly believe you could make it to the top ten pro list!” Toshi looked down, a slow, uncertain smile spreading across his face. “Huh.”

They sat in silence for a second, the moment settling warm between them despite the cold air, then Toshi nudged him. “Alright. I told you my backstory. Now your turn.” Izuku laughed. “Fair enough. I could tell you now…” Toshi squinted at him. “But?”

“Or,” Izuku said with a grin, “we could hang out again tomorrow and I’ll tell you then. Something to look forward to.” Hitoshi groaned, but before he could argue, Izuku’s phone was in his hands. “Hey-!”

“I’m putting my number in, idiot,” Toshi said, tapping quickly. “So we can actually organise that hangout.” Izuku’s smile turned soft. “Thanks, Toshi.”

“I swear, if you keep calling me that-” Izuku threw his hands up, “It’s cool!” Toshi rolled his eyes and handed the phone back. “You’re hopeless.”

They ended up hanging around the park for almost an hour, tossing back stories, skipping rocks across a frozen pond, and laughing more than Izuku had in months. For some reason, he got along better with the boy than he did others, and it seemed like Hitoshi felt the same way. Izuku told him things he hasn't told anyone before, and he only just met him.

By the time they were walking back toward the cafe, their steps had slowed like they didn’t want the afternoon to end, which strangely, he didn't. “Wait,” Izuku said suddenly, mid-ramble about how Eraserhead had probably already left. “Why don’t I just… dye my hair? Or use hairspray or something. Make myself less recognisable.”

Toshi gave him a pointed look. “You just thought of that?” Izuku paused. “…Yeah.” He shook his head with a small, amused huff. “And you call me the tired one.” Izuku grinned at him, bright and unbothered. “You’re a genius.”

“I know.” As they neared the cafe, Toshi stepped toward the street. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Try not to get yourself in too much trouble, yeah? I still have some secrets I need to know.” Izuku replies cheerfully, “We'll see, I might need you to bail me out of jail.” Toshi barked out a laugh, “You better be able to afford muffins for life, then.”

And with that, he turned and walked off, hands shoved in his pockets, head ducked down against the wind and completely forgetting the batch of muffins that Izuku owed him. He watched him go with a quiet smile tugging at his lips before he crouched low and crept back across the narrow alleyway. His breath puffed white in the cold, and the hoodie tugged a little snug around his shoulders as he shimmied back through the open window. With a quiet grunt, he landed on the carpeted floor just inside the hallway of the cafe, tugging his apron back over his head in one fluid motion like he hadn’t just spent the last hour escaping out of windows and revealing information he hadn't told anyone, but he did refrain from telling Toshi about Revenant and Izuku. It would be quite a while before he admitted to anyone who he truly was.

He dusted off his hands, straightened the name tag pinned to his chest, Meiko still scrawled in Hizashi’s messy, upbeat handwriting, and started walking back toward the main room, but just as he passed Hizashi’s office door, he heard it. “Wait, Meiko.” He paused, taking a step back and poking his head around the door frame. “Yes?” Hizashi wasn’t sitting behind his desk like usual, but standing near the coat rack, holding one of the cafe’s spare jackets in his hands like he’d just been fidgeting with it. His yellow-tinted glasses were pushed up into his hair, and his usual booming presence was turned down to something softer. Mellow.

He didn’t ask where Izuku had gone. Didn’t mention the break he took with barely enough notice. Instead, he gave a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sho came in,” Hizashi said quietly. “But you weren’t around. He was looking forward to meeting you, kiddo.”

Izuku froze for half a second, and realised that Hizashi was upset with him. Crap. One of the only people who tolerate him, and he already made him upset. God, he just keeps messing things up, doesn’t he? He felt his stomach twist as he gave a tight smile, inwardly cursing every deity he’d ever read about. He bets Eraserhead sure was upset, too. Probably that he couldn’t drag Izuku away in handcuffs. “I’m really sorry, Hizashi. Maybe I’ll see him next weekend?”

Hizashi’s smile warmed a little, but still carried that trace of disappointment. “Hopefully. Yeah, maybe.” There was a pause, just a beat too long, and Izuku gave a small nod before turning to head back out to the counter. The rest of the shift passed quietly. No more familiar faces. No more close calls. Just the steady hum of the espresso machine, the lazy purring of cats weaving between customers, and the quiet routine of wiping tables, brewing drinks, and offering soft smiles to strangers.

He slipped into the rhythm easily, grateful for the mundane calm after the chaos. Every so often, Hizashi would crack a loud joke from the back, seemingly forgetting that he was meant to be upset, and Izuku would roll his eyes but let himself smile. Even if the weight of almost being caught still sat somewhere beneath his ribs, today had ended better than he expected.

As the sun dipped behind the buildings and the shadows of the city stretched long across the windows, Izuku hung up his apron carefully in the back. He brushed a bit of fur off his sleeves, gave one last chin scratch to a sleepy calico near the register, and waved toward the back kitchen. “Thanks for today,” he called. “I’m heading out!”

“Later, Meiko!” Hizashi’s voice came back bright. Izuku stepped out into the cold evening, hair tied up and scarf pulled tight. He shoved his hands into his pockets, eyes flicking up toward the darkening sky, and allowed himself to think, just for a moment, that maybe tomorrow would be just as manageable. Maybe even better.

The ache in Izuku’s side was a dull, persistent throb that followed him like a shadow, and he was getting sick of it.

It wasn’t just the leftover pain from the night before, though that alone would have been enough. His ribs ached dully from where the knife had slipped beneath his guard and straight between them. He’d bled out in an alley behind a warehouse, gasping and furious, clutching his hoodie like a lifeline until everything went black. Three hours. That’s how long it had taken him to track the bastard down again, even after he’d revived. Three hours of seething as he marched through the dark and dragged his aching body through half the city before finally tying the guy to a light post with electrical wire and scrawling 'Courtesy of Revenant' across his chest in sharpie. He gave the guy a black eye and a broken rib as well.

By the time he stumbled through his door at dawn, he collapsed straight into unconsciousness, still in his bloody shirt. So now, with an aching side and makeup covering his scars, he walked across the mall’s front plaza toward the fountain where Toshi was waiting, a cup of coffee in one hand and his other tucked into his coat pocket. “You look like you got hit by a car,” Toshi called as Izuku approached, squinting. “Lovely to see you too,” He muttered, shooting an unimpressed look Toshi's way.

“What got you so down this morning?” Izuku just grumbled in response, offering a half-hearted excuse as the purple haired boy snorted beside him, taking a sip of his coffee that had Izuku itching to snatch and swallow in one gulp. That chase last night had not only left him frustrated with aching ribs, but the burn on his back was stinging slightly, making him wince at any contact between the delicate skin and the rough material of his shirt.

They set off, making light conversation as they strolled through the mall’s busy corridors, dodging families and teenagers and the occasional vendor trying to peddle free samples of skincare products. Izuku did his best to school his winces whenever Toshi looked his way, but the boy was beginning to catch on. He decided he needed something to take the boys attention off of him, and so he pointed towards a small beauty store tucked between a cafe and a cheap jewellery stand as they both walked inside. Toshi led the way, and Izuku was glad to follow the boy as he turned right and led them both straight into the hair dye section, before Toshi picked up a small box and turned to face him. “If you're so adamant on not being caught by anyone, I'd recommend changing your appearance more,” he said, turning the box over so he could read the label on the permanent black dye.

Izuku wrinkled his nose. “I don’t want to look like an edgelord for the rest of my life. Something temporary.” Toshi just threw him an unimpressed look as he put the box back down. “Fine, drama queen,” Hitoshi muttered, digging through the shelves until he found a matte black hairspray. Izuku nodded in approval and glanced around the store, eyes sharp and quick. No one was watching. The security guard was flirting with the cashier.

Quietly, he slipped the can into his sleeve and tucked it under his arm. Toshi turned around just in time to see the tail end of it, and his eyes went wide. “What the hell, did you just pocket that?!”

Izuku gave him a look like seriously? “You think I’m walking around in designer shoes?” he said, gesturing to his ratty sneakers. “I’m lucky I can afford instant noodles once in a while.” Toshi glances around, suddenly ten times more nervous.“I-okay, okay, just-next time, give me a warning, alright? I’m fine making a distraction, but I’m not going to jail for someone I met two days ago.”

Izuku gave a dry chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Too late, you’re basically an accomplice.”

“I’m starting to regret that, you’re a walking felony.” Toshi grumbled. “You love it.” The boy rolled his eyes, but a hint of a smile rose across his face as they wandered back into the main corridor and Izuku listened to Toshi complain about still not knowing all of Izuku's serious secrets, when something in Izuku’s chest clenched without warning.

His steps faltered, and his eyes had flicked up on instinct, a habit from years of watching his back, and that’s when he saw him. Bakugo. The blond was only thirty feet away, facing partially away from them as he leaned against a pillar near the central food court, scrolling through his phone with a scowl on his face. Izuku’s breath caught in his throat.

He hadn’t changed much. Still sharp angles and bristling intensity, jaw tight, brows furrowed like he was seconds away from exploding. His shoulders were tenser than usual, his expression stormy in a way that made Izuku’s gut twist. He hadn’t seen him. Not yet. But he was close. “Hey,” Hitoshi said, nudging him. “What’s up? You freeze like a deer in headlights.”

Izuku didn’t answer. His mind raced. Every instinct screamed to move. He grabbed Hitoshi’s sleeve. “Come on. Over here.”

“Uh-what?” He didn’t give him a chance to argue. Izuku pulled him sharply toward the nearest alcove, slipping behind a display of hanging scarves and bags at a little fashion boutique. They crouched low behind a rotating stand of sunhats. “Okay,” Hitoshi hissed. “Wanna explain why we’re hiding like criminals?” Izuku peered through the stand just in time to see Bakugo move his head, his eyes scanning the crowd with an edge of panic in his expression.

Looking for someone. Looking for him? “I-” Izuku’s voice cracked, but he caught himself. “Not n-now. Just… trust m-me.” Hitoshi blinked at him, and for once didn’t push. They stayed like that for a long moment. Bakugo looked around again, his mouth moving like he was talking to someone, but his phone was hanging low in his hand and there was no one around him. Izuku’s chest tightened painfully.

After a moment, Bakugo frowned, stuffing his phone in his pocket and stalking toward the exit on the far side of the court. Only when his spiky blond hair disappeared down the escalator did Izuku sag against the wall, his legs weak beneath him. “Okay,” Hitoshi said slowly. “You’re gonna have to give me something. Who was that guy? Ex? Psycho ex? Debt collector?” Izuku barked a bitter laugh. “Worse.”

“You’re being cryptic as hell.” Izuku just closed his eyes, praying for his mind to stop moving so fast. “I’ll explain,” he said quietly, standing up. “Just… not now.” Toshi watched him for a beat, something unreadable in his eyes, then nodded. “Alright. But you’re telling me soon.” Izuku let out a breath and nodded. “Deal.”

But even as they walked away and melted back into the mall’s shifting crowd, Izuku’s heart stayed locked in his throat. Katsuki had been there, and it had looked like he was looking for someone, someone missing. Someone like Deku.

Chapter Text

Midoriya Izuku had been missing for nearly two months, and it killed Katsuki.

Not in the poetic, metaphorical way people meant when they said that. Not in the 'oh, I miss him so much it hurts' kind of way. No, this was different. This was cellular. This was constant. This was a bone-deep ache that never let up like he was living with something broken in his chest that couldn’t be set, couldn’t be healed, because the piece it needed had just vanished.

And he blamed himself. He deserved to. He’d known something was off. He’d seen the signs, felt the shifts. How quiet Izuku had gotten days before his disappearance. The way the spark in his eyes had slowly faded, until even up close Katsuki couldn’t see it. He had chalked it up to stress or school or the harassment from Katsuki and the other students. He had hurt him on the day before he went missing, again. Of course he had. That was the one thing he was consistent at. 

But that last look, haunted, tired, like he was standing on the edge of something, he should’ve known. Should’ve stopped and really looked closer, and he only made it worse when Katsuki burned the boy, his flesh bubbling and bleeding as Katsuki tried not to throw up.

And now the damn nerd is gone. No phone calls. No texts. Katsuki’s mother didn’t know where he was, and neither did his father. Not even that damn detective, Tsukauchi, had a clue. And Katsuki couldn’t sleep without thinking of the worst-case scenarios playing on repeat in his brain. After a month of spiralling, barely eating, barely training, barely functioning, his parents had stepped in. Or more accurately, his mother had. Bakugo Mitsuki didn’t do subtle.

“You’re going to therapy,” she’d said, slamming down a mug of tea on the table like it was a gavel. “Or I swear to god I’ll drag you there myself by the ears.” He hadn’t believed her, until she’d done it, and he found the therapist was annoying. She was too calm, and talked to him like he was a toddler who’d skinned his knee instead of a kid who’d watched his oldest friend disappear into thin air.

But over time, over weeks, he cracked. A little. Enough to say: Yeah, I’m mad. Enough to admit: Yeah, I think it’s my fault. Enough to agree, reluctantly, to the suggestion that maybe, maybe, he should go somewhere public, just to try. Just to see if it helped him feel connected to the world again. So here he was, at the mall, and trying not to explode at every slow-walking idiot in his way.

He stood near the edge of the food court, leaning against a cold pillar, scrolling absently through his phone. Not really reading, and not even pretending anymore. Just existing, just taking up space like his therapist said to. He hadn’t eaten. Nothing sounded good. His stomach was too tight anyway. His eyes burned from lack of sleep. His shoulders ached. His head was pounding.

He was about to leave, screw this, he’d tried, but then he saw it. A flash of green. A head of curls. Pale skin. Freckles. He jerked upright so fast he startled the guy walking past him. Katsuki’s entire body went rigid, heart slamming against his ribs. His phone nearly slipped from his hand.

That was him. He saw him. Messy green curls slipping through the crowd, half-turned away. Not a hallucination. Not a trick of the light. “Deku,” he breathed, the word escaping his lips like a prayer. His eyes locked onto the spot, but the green was gone. Swallowed by the crowd, a blur of colour and motion and people moving in every damn direction except the one he needed.

He took a step forward, scanning frantically. His hands were trembling. No. No, no, no, he’d seen him. He’d seen him. Another step. Another desperate sweep of his gaze. Behind kiosks. Between clothing racks. Past couples and crying kids and teens loitering near the boba shop. Nothing, like a ghost. His breathing turned sharp and fast. His vision narrowed. His whole body was screaming. Find him. Move. Run.

But his feet didn’t listen. Because in the pit of his stomach, he could already feel it curling tight like it always did when hope drained out of him, because maybe he wasn’t here after all. God, maybe Katsuki was losing his fucking mind. His mouth was dry, and his chest ached like he’d just been sucker-punched as he frowned. What was wrong with him? Was I really so far gone that I am seeing things now? That I’d conjured him out of thin air, desperate just to feel close to him again?

“Fuck,” he began to mutter under his breath, and almost laughed at how it reminded him of Izuku’s nervous ramblings. He frowned at the thought and dragged a hand down his face. His palm was slick with sweat and he could feel his phone slipping out of his other hand’s grasp. He nearly dropped it entirely when it buzzed, and he slid it into his pocket. Not now. But the longer he stood there, the more he felt himself slipping. That tight grip on his sanity unspooling. That certainty was replaced with shame. He rubbed his temples and took one last long look at the crowd, every nerve on fire.

No green hair. No freckles. No Midoriya Izuku. No Deku. His throat tightened as he turned and made his way down the escalator slowly as he reached into his pocket, checked the phone, and saw the text from his mother again. “Where are you?” “Did you eat today?” “Don’t ignore me, Katsuki.”

He pocketed it again without replying, his mind going faster than ever before. Because if Izuku had really been there, that means he would have been alive and told no one after nearly two months. Izuku would tell Katsuki, though…wouldn’t he?

The notebook on his desk mocked him. It never moved, never made a sound, but somehow, it was louder than anything else in the room. Day after day, it stayed exactly where he had dropped it after coming home late that night weeks ago, tired from a day of searching with the detective. He had left it, right there on the edge of the desk, and didn’t dare move it. Izuku hadn’t said goodbye. Not to anyone. Not even to him. 

Katsuki’s hand twitched on the edge of the bed, his jaw clenched so hard it hurt. The low hum of the heater faded in and out behind his ragged thoughts. His chest felt like it was collapsing inward, and after the mall, every time he closed his eyes he saw green, even after he had opened them again. Green notebooks. Green sneakers. Green eyes wide in pain and betrayal.

He remembered the sound Izuku made when he burned him. The horrible, wet gasp of air being punched out of lungs. And worse, the smell, acrid and burning, the way flesh curled and blackened when it was touched by fire. His explosions. Katsuki hadn’t used his quirk in weeks. Couldn’t.

Even the thought of letting off a small blast made his throat close up. He stood abruptly, the bed creaking under him, fists curled so tight the skin split again along the healing knuckles. He could barely breathe in this room anymore. Everything felt too still, too haunted. The bag, the book, the bed where they had both slept in when they were younger, he couldn’t take it.

He had to move. The gym was only a few blocks away, and it was private and luckily empty this time of night. He didn’t care that it was past midnight, didn’t care that it was below freezing out. He threw on a hoodie, and didn't bother with gloves as he stormed down the sidewalk like he was chasing a fight. Inside the gym, the lights buzzed too loud, but he ignored them. The front desk girl barely glanced up. He pushed past the rows of cardio machines, through the empty weight room, and into the private sparring chamber. The one with padded walls and reinforced punching bags bolted deep into the ceiling.

He slammed the door behind him, and then let go. He didn’t scream, because screaming would’ve made it too real. Instead, he attacked the bag like it had personally insulted him, hook after hook, elbow after elbow. The canvas squeaked and groaned beneath each blow, but it held. Unlike the faces in his memory. His hands bled fast. Split knuckles smearing red across the black surface. Skin tearing open, nerves lighting up in pain that felt like penance.

He wanted it to hurt. He refused to use his quirk. Not because he couldn’t, but because the moment his palm so much as sparked, he would be right back behind the gym, standing over Izuku’s broken body, the coppery scent of blood mixing with smoke. I did that.

He struck harder. The chain above him creaked with every blow. His breath came in jagged gasps, the air thick and metallic in his mouth. He didn’t notice how dizzy he’d gotten until the click of the door pulled him out of it, but he didn’t look. “Private room,” he snapped, panting. “Get the hell out.”

The voice that replied was easy, casual, and not at all scared of him. “Whoa, dude! Speaking to someone like that ain’t very manly.” Katsuki froze. Something about the voice, deep but friendly, made his muscles twitch. He turned slowly, sweat dripping from his jawline, blood still slick on his fingers.

There was a guy in the doorway. He looked to be around Katsuki’s age, but he was built smaller than him, his dark black hair angled downwards near his neck, and wearing a sharp teethed lopsided grin that looked completely out of place against his other features. “Excuse me?” Katsuki growled, stepping forward. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

The guy raised both hands casually, completely unfazed. “Hey, relax. I’m not looking for a fight, man.”

But Katsuki was already moving. Everyone was scared of him, so why wasn’t he? It was better if people were scared of him, then they wouldn’t bother trying to get close to him. So, he lunged, hand cocked back to throw a punch straight at that smug grin. Except when he was close enough, he didn’t throw it. Because in that split second, just as his fist came up, his brain betrayed him again.

Green eyes. Freckles. A sound that haunted his dreams. Katsuki staggered. His breath caught in his throat and he recoiled like he’d touched a live wire. He hit the floor with a harsh thud, and he dragged in a choking breath. His hands were trembling, his skin clammy and hot. He didn’t even realise he was shaking until the stranger stepped forward and offered him a firm hand. “Hey, whoa! You okay?”

Katsuki didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His stomach twisted violently. The guy scratched the back of his neck with his other hand. “Sorry. Should’ve said something first. Look, even if you had hit me, I’d’ve been fine.” He extended his hand that he had offered to him more, and before Katsuki’s eyes, the guy’s skin rippled and turned to rock. “Hardens up like stone. I can take hits better than most buildings.”

Katsuki blinked, and his breath slowed only slightly as he stared at the guy’s arm. Solid. Unmoving. Invulnerable. Not soft. Not breakable. Katsuki couldn’t hurt him. That realisation hit him like a fist to the chest. He wouldn’t fold or cry or scream if Katsuki lost control. There was no fear in his eyes. Just… understanding. Calm. Like he got it without having to say anything.

“I’m Kirishima Eijiro,” the guy said, stepping closer and letting the hardened skin fade back to normal. “I saw you come in. It looked like you were about to break the place in half.”

Katsuki didn’t respond, and disregarded the hand as he pushed himself to his feet, trying to smooth over his panicked expression. “I mean that in a good way,” Kirishima added. “Kinda manly, honestly! Intense, but awesome.”

“…Tch.” Katsuki looked away, anger prickling behind his ribs. He hated how raw he felt. How much like a cornered animal. “Shut the hell up.” Kirishima just laughed. “Yeah, that tracks.” Katsuki grit his teeth again. A voice in his head, the damn therapist’s voice, echoed at the worst possible moment. You need to stop pushing people away. Try being honest. Just once. “…Sorry,” he muttered, nearly choking on the word.

Kirishima blinked. Then grinned like Katsuki had handed him a birthday cake. “Hey, no big deal!” He clapped him on the back so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of him. “We all have our shit, right? You let it out. That’s what matters.” Katsuki stared at him, something unreadable brewing behind his eyes. Kirishima didn’t flinch. Didn’t mock him. Didn’t back away.

And slowly, so slowly, Katsuki felt something inside him loosen. Just a little. Maybe this guy… maybe he was the kind of person who could handle someone like him. The kind who didn’t look like him when Katsuki got too close. Maybe… he wasn’t going to break.

Izuku didn't like convenience stores. Not because of the fluorescent lighting or the faint smell of spoiled fruit, or because the guilt from stealing from them still weighed heavy on his chest, but because every time he came in here, he felt a walking beacon, especially with his scar uncovered. 

Tonight, the flickering buzz of the overhead lights grated on his nerves as he shuffled through the aisles, hood pulled tight, face angled down like he was dodging invisible bullets. The cold night air outside had turned his muscles stiff, and every breath felt like scraping sandpaper down a wound.

He grabbed a protein bar that looked vaguely expired, and a small bottle of water. He moved to walk to the exit, before he stopped in front of the beauty aisle. It couldn’t hurt to take a quick look, he thought, and soon enough a brightly coloured display caught his eyes. 

The display was a variety of different coloured eye contacts, and it was like a light bulb went off in his head as he scanned the different colours. He already had dark hair spray, which he now chose to wear whilst he was in public, and as his eyes landed on a certain pair of coloured contacts, without thinking he snatched the pack and shoved it deep inside his hoodie pocket.

As he walked out of the store, for the millionth time, he told himself one day when he had the money, he would find a way to repay these stores back, even if he did only steal from large chain stores.

When he walked far enough that he was out of sight of the store he pulled the protein bar out of his pocket and opened it, chewing it slowly as he pulled out the contacts and overturned him in his hand. They were black, and he thought the colour would suit his nearly all black outfit whilst on patrol. Not only would it also help to keep his identity concealed, but it was an added bonus that they looked pretty cool and mildly terrifying. 

He finished the bar and put the packet in the bin as he took a right turn into an alleyway littered with empty cans and shredded flyers, and Izuku crouched in front of a cracked shop window and used the reflection to pop in the contacts. They stung, but the difference was shocking. If anyone looked at him in the eyes now, they would think he looked almost crazed with how the dark bags under his eyes and the now black curls on his head did nothing but accentuate the colour. 

For tonight, since it was colder than usual, he decided to keep his hoodie on as he tied his mask at the back of his head, leaving all but his eyes uncovered from above his eyebrows to the tip of his nose. He bent over until his hair was pointed towards the ground, and he pulled out the bottle of water as he washed the black spray out of his hair. He had just enough for the green tint to return to his hair, and as he shook his head dry, he pulled his hood up until it covered his green hair, wiping the black spray paint off of his wet finger tips as he climbed the side of the building with ease, until he crouched low and watched the city move below. Revenant was awake.

Everything started to go wrong after the robbery.

He had been scouring the dark streets below him when he watched a figure emerge from the shadows of a building, holding a crowbar in his hand like a bat, and Izuku watched in annoyance as he decided it was a good night to smash in the window of a corner electronics shop. Izuku sighed only once before he jumped to the ground, his legs creaking from the impact but otherwise fine as he quietly approached the figure, who was trying to climb through the broken glass. 

The guy turned just in time to catch a full-on hit from his boot to the ribs. His crowbar clattered to the pavement as Izuku delivered three strikes that he remembered watching a martial arts expert use in a video he studied a week ago, and he was pleasantly surprised to see that after a strike to the gut, to the neck, and one to the back of the head, the man was now sleeping soundly on the floor with minimal injuries. The man went down like a sack of discount rice.

Izuku stood over the unconscious lump, panting slightly. His shoulder still ached from the last encounter with someone who hit harder than a wet noodle, but he was getting good at ignoring that as he rolled it with a sigh and cracked his knuckles as he went to bind the man, when a tired voice spoke out behind him.

“Nice form, but your kicks could use a little bit of work.”

Izuku groaned loudly as he turned, and there the pro hero was, standing in all his tired and annoying glory. Even looking at the guy made him want to punch the man again, because only Izuku was terrified or Eraser. Revenant, while he was less than pleased, was more annoyed at Eraser's presence than worried. The light from the street lamp reflected off the man’s dark hair, and half of his face was hidden behind his famous capture scarf. Izuku hated that fucking scarf.

Eraser wore a permanent expression of 'I’m too old for this shit,' and he stood on the opposite side of the road with his arms crossed like he was prepared to scold him for being out late. Izuku cocked his head, and deepened his voice as he plastered on a feral grin, his scar straining at the movement. “Took you long enough, Eraser, I knew you’d catch up eventually old man. You want me to save you a bad guy next time, or are you here for moral support?” Eraser’s stone and emotionless expression didn’t so much as falter, even as the man spoke. “You’ve been active for weeks. Unlicensed. Masked. Dangerous.”

“You forgot charming,” Izuku shrugged, popping his neck as he moved it side to side. “I’ve been tracking you.” Eraser admits, and Izuku raises an eyebrow at that, because he hadn’t felt the man's eyes on him. Still, if the man thought Izuku hadn’t been keeping an eye on him, he was going to be sorry for underestimating him.

“Well, that makes two of us,” Izuku said. “Except I wasn’t stalking you, because that’d be weird. Not as weird as you tracking a minor, though, because that’s a bit concerning.” Izuku put a hand on his hip for effect as he gestured with his other, watching as Eraser’s mouth twitched slightly. Interesting, that time his taunt seemed to work. 

There was a short pause from Eraser, before his voice cut through the air like ice. “I’m warning you now, Revenant, you need to stop. You might think you’re helping, but you’re only getting in the way of the fully licensed heroes.”

At that, Izuku scoffs and narrows his eyes as he takes a step forward, unafraid. “I’m getting in the way? If the heroes are so eager to do something good, then how come up until recently no hero had patrolled this area? If it weren’t for me, people would be dead, hurt, assaulted, robbed, and more. So, fuck your system, because its full of shit. You’re no better with your high and mighty act, too.” He kept talking. Huh, maybe someone telling him he was in the way was a trigger for him.

“I’m warning you now, Revenant, you need to stop,” Izuku mocks, using his hand to make a talking gesture, “If you want me to stop, it’ll take more than your hobo looking ass to scare me. If you think that because you let me go once before I owe you, you’re surely mistaken. If you want me to stop, you’ll just have to try to stop me yourself.”

Izuku fucked up. His mind screamed at him, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? But he was already too deep, especially as Eraser takes a step forward and cocks his head to the side. “If you’re not going to stop, I have no choice but to take you in,” Eraser said, stepping forward. He blinked, then frowned to cover his smirk as an idea formed in his head. “Okay, look, did you not just hear what I said? I’m really not looking to be adopted at the moment, thanks.” Eraser now squinted at him, caught off-guard. “What-? No. I meant to take you in to jail.”

“Ohhh,” Izuku said, nodding like it all made sense now. “My bad.” And then he launched the unconscious robber straight at him with a maniacal laugh. “Here-hold my crimes.” The limp man flopped through the air like a tossed mannequin. Eraser’s eyes widened just enough to show surprise as he stepped back, catching the guy with a grunt.

By the time he looked up, Revenant was running at full speed down the road, his laugh following behind in his wake. He barely heard Eraser curse, muttering a, “Son of a-,” before Eraser dropped the unconscious robber to the ground a little less gently than necessary and bolted after him.

Izuku thought he could lose the man in alleyways and through backstreets, but every turn and corner he took, the man appeared shortly after and every time looked more displeased than the last. Soon, Eraser had chased Revenant through half the city, and it was a miracle he hadn’t been caught yet. He hadn’t mean to blow up at the hero, but it had ticked him off when Eraser had told him to step down.

If he stood down, who would help the people in his territory? Who would help the old lady that lived on the highest level a few buildings away and would often get locked out on the roof? Who would help the local bar when people got into petty fights and Izuku needed to break them up? What would happen to the kids who he helped get home if they were lost or stranded?

No, the heroes wouldn’t do anything like that. They were after flashy scenes, and his territory was the opposite. He couldn’t let himself get caught. People depended on him, and he would be damned if he let them down. They called him their angel for a reason, after all.

He took another sharp corner, and once he spotted the dumpster up ahead he jumped as high as he could, landing on top of it as the metal creaked beneath him, and he jumped off with all the strength he could muster in his legs as he leaped towards the top of a building, grabbing the ledge with practised ease and hoisting himself up just as Eraser appeared below, and finally looked at least somewhat out of breath.

Even if Izuku was slowing down, Eraser was, too. All he needed was to outrun him and his pesky scarves, and he would be in the clear. He was so close that he couldn't help the taunt he yelled down at Eraser as he leapt from one building to another, the man following in the alleyway below. “Didn’t know cardio was part of your job description!”

“Stop running!” Eraser barked back, boots pounding the pavement as he lept towards another building, just barely making it as he rolled before jumping back up and leaning down to catch sight of Eraser vaulting a dumpster as he used a rickety fire escape like a ladder, his scarves pulling him up until he stood on the building behind him. Izuku’s legs burned, his lungs stung, and he cursed.

“I’d stop running if you stop fucking chasing me!” He called over his shoulder, and with much satisfaction watched as the distance between the two grew with every step. “Spoiler alert: I’ll escape anyway, so piss off and stop following me!”

Eraser only used his words as motivation, and his scarves began pulling him along faster just as Izuku had a terrible thought. Oh god, don’t tell me Eraser was holding himself back.

With one look behind him, it was confirmed as the distance quickly shortened again, and Izuku cursed for what must have been the millionth time as he darted across the roof and leapt over a skylight, sprinting for the next building as he jumped, and he had nearly made it to the edge just as something wrapped itself around his ankle in mid air.

He let out a very embarrassing screech, and swung down into the alleyway below before he hit the side of the building like a bug on a windshield, hitting his left side in the process as his whole body begins to ache, his ribs most of all. Well, that’s not good.

The scarf wrapped tight around his ankle had managed to yank him off-course mid-jump, and instead of a clean rooftop landing, he’d gone sideways and straight into a brick wall. The impact knocked the air out of him in one jagged breath as his body swung back like a ragdoll, and then forward again, just enough for his shoulder to crash into a steel drainpipe and he felt it dislocate.

“Shit-!” He dangled above the alley, twisting slowly like some half-dead marionette as his shoulder burns and his side aches and his mood overall deteriorates. Above, Eraserhead peered over the edge, one hand bracing on the rooftop as the other pulled on the scarf. The man’s expression wasn’t smug or angry, just tired. Like this whole thing was interrupting a very long nap. It made Izuku angrier. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Eraser called down, voice dry as the air as Izuku groaned, kicking a little. “Swinging! Clearly! What does it look like? Now let me go, I’m not a damn piñata!”

“I did say stop running,” Eraser replied evenly, starting to haul him up. “You’re only making this worse for yourself.” Izuku scowled, twisting as the scarf reeled him up like a hooked fish. “Yeah, well, you’ve got a real talent for making people feel like contraband.”

“I’m serious,” Eraser muttered, squinting down at him. “That fall could kill you.”

Izuku rolled his eyes and graciously flipped him off with his uninjured arm before he fished into his hoodie pocket, fingers brushing cold steel, and he grinned without humour. “Consider me offended. You think so little of me.” Eraser’s eyes narrowed, right as Izuku sat upwards and slashed the scarf. There was a surprisingly clean snap of fabric under tension, and suddenly, gravity reclaimed its prize. Izuku dropped like a stone.

But he wasn’t falling blind. His eyes scanned the narrow space as it rose around him, walls, pipes, windowsills, ledges. The alley was tight, full of obstacles. He twisted mid-air, legs kicking out. His right foot hit a drainpipe and he pushed off as his left hand grabbed a jutting window frame and he used it to swing sideways, his right arm hanging painfully limp at his side the whole time.

He scraped his shoulder hard on a brick outcropping and cursed, but didn’t stop. The second wall met him fast. He kicked it, hard, redirecting himself into a controlled slide. A ledge caught his ribs and sharp pain bloomed, but it slowed him just enough for him to hit the ground mostly uninjured as he rolled, boots skidding across concrete. Trash bags broke his momentum. Not softly.

He came up wheezing, but continued running as a rooftop voice echoed behind him, furious now. “Revenant!” But he was already gone, booking it down the alley, ducking low. His legs screamed at him with every step. His lungs were raw. His ribs were bruised and probably cracked. His ankle throbbed from the scarf-snatch. His arm was definitely dislocated and hurt more than anything. His hoodie stuck to him with cold sweat. He smiled anyway.

“I’ll see you again soon, Eraser,” he muttered, voice low and dry, just loud enough for it to carry upward. “Bring stronger thread next time.” No time to enjoy the moment. He bolted left, then right, navigating the alley maze like he’d mapped it himself. His feet pounded loudly through puddles and over broken glass. Sirens in the distance. The city is alive and ignorant. He now heard movement on the rooftops behind him, which meant Eraser was still tracking, but when he looked up, he didn’t seem to be peering over the edge. He was following Izuku by sound alone.

“Persistent bastard,” he panted, and as he ran down a street, Izuku’s breath burning in his throat sharp and ragged, he slowed for just a second, long enough to yank an overturned bin toward him. The metal screamed against the concrete, echoing hard and loud, just what he needed. With a grunt, he heaved it toward a dark side alley, letting the crash fill the air like a flare.

He didn’t wait to see if it worked, and while the clatter still echoed, he pivoted hard and as quietly as possible he sprinted back the way he came. Two alleys down, he hooked right and ducked into a narrow service tunnel behind a boarded-up bakery. He emerged on the other side, vaulted a low fence, and dropped into another alley that spilled out onto a cracked side street. There were no headlights, no people, and no sign of Eraser. Nonetheless, he kept going through different alleyways and tunnels, running past stores and staying hidden in the shadows as he listened for footsteps, but he never heard any.

He dashed across a darkly lit street, slipping through the broken window of an abandoned laundromat and collapsed behind a rusting row of machines as his body folded like paper. The cold tile seeped through his pants as his breath came in short, shallow bursts, and he waited. Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. No sound of pursuit. Izuku tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “Well,” he whispered, smirking faintly, “that could’ve gone worse.”

His entire body hurt. He was aching everywhere, and he really did not feel like setting his shoulder back into place. Luckily enough for him, as he stared at the ceiling, the edges of his vision began to blur, and he vaguely remembered thinking he’d have to change patrol routes for a little while and potentially invest in smoke bombs before he passed out.

Izuku came back to consciousness with a twitch of his fingers. It was slow at first, like surfacing from the bottom of a deep, freezing lake. His body ached in ways that didn’t feel normal, like his bones had forgotten how to fit together right. His eyes cracked open to soft sunlight pouring in through broken glass and grime-streaked windows, the golden hour glow casting the long-abandoned laundromat in a false warmth that didn’t touch the chill in his limbs.

For a second, everything was quiet. Then the weight of memory slammed into him like a truck, and so did the pain. The robbery, Eraserhead, the chase across rooftops, the scarf around his leg, the hard slam into the alley wall, and, most importantly, the knife he’d used to free himself.

His knife. Gone. Abandoned in the alleyway. Izuku bolted upright, breath catching in his throat as he patted at his hoodie, then shoved his hands into his pockets, frantic and already cursing under his breath. Nothing. His fingers brushed only lint and a cracked piece of tile. No blade. No steel. No safety. No, it was definitely gone. “Shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Shit, shit-no.”

He stood unsteadily, head swimming, his chest too tight. It was already happening. The thoughts were turning sideways, crawling into his brain like water through cracked glass. The pain, although it hurt, wasn’t his main focus. The fatigue didn’t matter. What mattered was the pressure behind his eyes, the distorted sense of time, the way every second he stayed alive stretched his mind thinner and thinner. He knew the signs. He had to die. Now.

His eyes darted across the room, searching for anything, anything sharp enough to do the job. No knife, no glass, nothing he’d trust. But then, tucked between a busted dryer and the wall, he saw it, a jagged floor tile, half-buried in dust and time, with one edge broken into a clean, sharp angle.

He didn’t hesitate.

His fingers wrapped around it, weight light but solid in his hand. The familiar thrum of tension in his body steadied as he crouched in the centre of the room. He tipped his head back just slightly and dragged the tile across the thick scar at his throat, a place carved over and over again, where his blood always rose quickest aside from his wrists.

The pain was instant, and bright, and he welcomed it. Then everything went dark.

He revived to the taste of blood in his mouth and the buzz of warmth on his skin. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused for a moment before locking on the beam of morning light spilling through the broken window. The sun had crept up while he was gone.

Izuku blinked twice, then sat up with a breath that rattled through his chest but didn’t shake him. The revival hit him clean, his head clearer than it had been in hours. His ribs ached less, like even his body had been patched up a little in the process, and his shoulder had reset itself, a wonderful discovery that came from dying with an injury like a dislocation or a broken bone, and instead now it was only a dull ache, which wasn't unusual. The scent of blood still lingered in the air, metallic and old, but the pressure in his skull was gone. His mind moved smoothly now, clicking memories into place with each second that passed.

He remembered. Eraser’s face, slightly alarmed as he’d said, "That fall could kill you.” The way he’d smiled back, and said, “Wow. You think so little of me.” The fall, the landing, the sprint into shadows. The tile. The blood. Revival. All there. All clear.

Izuku sighed and rubbed a hand down his neck, wincing at the fresh sting of the reopened scar. He could feel the sticky heat of blood trailing down into the collar of his shirt, could feel it tacky between his fingers, but it didn’t bother him. Not really. It was just another part of the routine. He stood slowly, letting his weight settle into his heels, testing his balance. He felt… fine. A little sore, a little weak, but functional. Alive.

His eyes swept the room again, pausing on the clothes that clung to him. His hoodie was torn, sleeves frayed, and his work-out shirt beneath soaked in half-dried red. He wasn’t going to throw them away, though, even if he had done so with bloodied clothes in the past. No, these clothes mattered to him more, because they were Revenant’s clothes. Besides, he had learned a sufficient way to fully wash out the blood on his clothes, even in the freezing cold water from his shower. 

He did prefer not to be in bloodied clothes, though, so he stripped out of just his shirt and his hoodie, wincing as the material scraped against the fresh scar on his neck and the old one on his back. He found an old plastic bag covered in dust, and quickly brushed it off before gently placing his clothes inside and taking a proper look around the building, just as something caught his eye. Tucked into the far corner of the laundromat beneath a rusted-out bench was a heap of forgotten clothes, half-covered in dust, like someone had abandoned them and the world just… left them there.

Izuku walked over cautiously. The clothes were old but not ruined. No mold. No weird smells. Just age and dust. He tugged out a few pieces, an oversized hoodie, a pair of too-long sweatpants, a faded flannel, and held them up to inspect. Most of it would fit him if he rolled the sleeves and tightened the drawstrings. Best of all, there were no holes. He smiled. “Score!” 

He brushed the clothes off before he pulled the flannel and hoodie on, and was pleasantly surprised to find it was soft, surprisingly warm, and after a quick pat down to clear the worst of the grime, it didn’t even smell half bad. He shoved the rest of the pile of clothes into his bag, leaving a few items in case someone else in need stumbled across them, before he flipped the new hood up over his hair, and turned toward the window.

He climbed out slowly, hands steady against the rusted frame, boots landing quiet on the pavement below. The alley was still. No sirens. No heroes. Just the scent of city smog and morning dew. He began his walk home.

Chapter Text

It had officially been four months since Midoriya Izuku was declared missing. Four months since anyone had really looked for him, and four months since he stopped waiting for someone to care. The world had moved on fast, especially when the missing boy was considered to be quirkless.

The initial broadcast had barely lasted one day when he had first been reported missing. One low-resolution photo from middle school and a brief report that the “quirkless” son of Inko and Hisashi Midoriya had disappeared from Musutafu after a large pool of his blood was found in an abandoned alleyway, but with no body. But without a quirk, a reputation, or a family willing to fight for him, the story faded. Izuku’s mother had unknowingly been missing for years now, and so has his father, but he no longer wished to look for them. It was likely they both changed their names and went off the radar, since no one could get a hold of them, and it was clear the whole Midoriya family had disappeared. Posters went up of him, but half were torn down or graffitied with things like “probably just ran away” or “quirkless freak.”

People had always talked like he didn’t belong. Now they just acted like he’d never existed, and he knew it wasn’t hard. He wondered who the kids at school were bullying now. Izuku hoped they cared enough to fight back, unlike him.

He swung his legs off the edge of the building, a sandwich in one hand, grease-stained paper wrapper rustling in the wind. The city stretched out beneath him, shimmering in the cold moonlight. It was a view he’d grown used to during his night patrols, and one he wasn’t sure he could give up, even if someone begged him to. He took a bite and laughed softly to himself.

Four months missing, and yet he was still breathing, still free, and he had no one to hold him back. It was even better that no one had recognised him whilst he was out in public or working, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of his sprayed black hair he wore in public or if it was because the photo that had been broadcast was so blurry that even Izuku barely recognised himself, especially now that he had gained some muscle, despite his low food intake. 

One person, though, was always close and keeping an eye on him, watching for any signs of who he truly is. His smile twitched downward as his mind wandered back to his second week working at the cat cafe. His hair had been freshly sprayed black and stiff, the strands carefully flattened to change the shape of his curls. A scarf was wrapped high across his mouth up to the bottom of his nose, held in place with subtle safety pins, and makeup covered the healed scars on his face and neck. Even his eye bags had been masked with tinted concealer, his freckles covered completely. He’d studied his posture in the mirror, changed the way he stood, talked, blinked. Made his voice lighter, more hesitant, and his expression a little blanker.

He became Meiko again. A made-up name, a temporary identity, someone who worked part-time and reluctantly accepted the small weekly pay checks he and Hizashi had agreed on. When his hair was sprayed and his scars covered, he was no one but Meiko.

His fourth official shift, Toshi hadn’t come in, and messaged him that he regretfully was busy. Izuku was upset, but he tried his best to hide it as he mostly remained silent, and he had been wiping a table near the front when the bell above the door chimed, and the air shifted. He looked up and froze, staring at Aizawa Shouta, who had stood in the doorway.

Hair unkempt, scarf tucked loosely into a black coat, eyes sharp but exhausted. The same man he’d punched and stolen from, and he gripped the cloth tighter in his hand, forcing a polite smile. “Hi, welcome to the Cat Cafe,” he said, voice quiet and slightly breathy. “I’m Meiko. Can I help you with anything?” The man's dark eyes narrowed, and Izuku realised then that Eraser clearly had his suspicions, especially after Meiko had run away from him the last time he was here. Eraser looked at him for a long time, and studied him carefully. He could feel the weight of every inch being dissected under his stare.

“You look familiar,” was all he had said, and Izuku could feel the sweat beginning to gather at the nape of his neck. “I get that a lot.” he chuckled, wiping his hands on his apron. “I guess I have one of those faces, you know?” Eraser didn’t seem to care, and instead pulled out what must be his new phone, and he watched as the man thumbed through something, then looked at him again. “Do you mind if I ask your name again?”

“Meiko,” he repeated, heart pounding,“Sir.” A few seconds later, the man pressed something on his phone, and Izuku nearly choked when he saw the number dialled. He had dialled his old phone number, the one that Izuku had stolen, and now sat on his desk back in his apartment half way across the city. "Can I help you with anything?” he asked again, keeping his voice calm. Eraser studied him, studying the fake look of confusion on his face as he sighed and pocketed his phone. “Coffee would be great.” 

That whole hour felt like a lifetime. Eraser had sat at a corner table, sipped on his very strong coffee, and asked Hizashi, who’d arrived halfway through, a lot of questions, particularly about Meiko. He knew, because he was pretending to wipe down the tables around them as he eavesdropped. The man asked his husband questions about him like his name, where he was from, and how long Hizashi had known him, but Hizashi only knew what Izuku had told him.

His name was Meiko, and he was adamant about not revealing his last name, even if it wasn’t his real one. He was born and raised in Musutafu by two loving parents, one of which was a nurse and the other a therapist (It was all he could come up with at that moment.) Hizashi had known him for a few weeks by then, and had met with the boy every Friday night in the cafe until he had accepted the job offer two weeks ago. 

Izuku had practised his answers and replies a lot, but he made sure Meiko didn't speak in the same taunting, cocky tone Revenant did, or mumbled and stuttered the way Deku or Izuku had been known to. Meiko spoke with a calm, quiet confidence, his voice soft but steady, never faltering, never rushed, but quiet enough to seem introverted and shy, and by the time the pro hero left, he still wore a deep frown and glanced at him sceptically, but left without asking him anything. Izuku had struggled to hold his laughter when the door finally closed behind him, and he grinned into his scarf once he realised he had held the man off, for now.

Over the next two months, Eraser returned. Not regularly, more like every three or four weeks, but always on different days, always at different times. He adapted, though, and over time made Meiko more expressive, more chatty, seemingly growing more confident and comfortable in Eraser's presence, even when it did nothing but make Izuku's stomach churn. He covered his scars and freckles with makeup as always, wore long sleeves everyday, trimmed his nails, and even changed the way he sneezed. He made sure the cat cafe version of him was nothing like his other identities.

And it worked. It kept working. Just like avoiding Bakugo Katsuki did. They hadn’t crossed paths once, and Izuku considered it to be luck, maybe timing as well, but even with his patrol routes skimming close to the areas Katsuki used to regularly be, he’d never come face-to-face with the boy who’d told him to end his life all those days ago. Not once, and he was glad.

Instead, he’d spent those weeks learning how to live a seemingly normal life. Or at least, pretending to in public. He also spent a lot of time with Hitoshi, their meetings ranging from quiet evenings eating dumplings on cheap plastic tables, to slow conversations that lasted until the streetlights came on. A month after meeting and warming up to each other, he’d even told Toshi his real name and the shortened version of why he was missing. 

He had explained that he had no parents waiting for him to come home, and people at school made his life hell, which wasn’t a lie. The only lie he did say was when he had told Toshi that he had access to all the resources he needed, and was staying with an old friend who was treating him nicely. Not Bakugo, though, because he had also informed the boy of what Bakugo had done to him. Izuku didn’t mention his quirk, though Toshi tried to get him to, and he definitely made sure not to tell him about Revenant or anything about his repeated deaths. 

Toshi knew him as Midoriya Izuku, but once Izuku had insisted he disliked his surname, Toshi had made the habit of calling him Zuku. He didn’t mind it at all, and now every time they met, Toshi addressed him as Zuku.

“You’re lucky I like you, Zuku,” he’d say.

“You’re weird as hell, Zuku.”

“You ever sleep, Zuku?”

No one else called him that, and he liked it that way.

Now, as he finished his sandwich, crumbs blowing off the side of the roof as the wind bit into his scarf and tugged gently at his gear, he sat back, arms propped behind him, and stared up at the stars as he laughed softly to himself again.

Four months. No family. No news. No face on the screen. Just a missing file in a dusty police station drawer. He hadn’t been caught, and he was finally free.

His good mood didn’t last long, though, when the thud of soft boots behind him made the laughter in his throat die out, and so did his mood. He didn’t move right away, just exhaled slowly, brushing his fingers together as he sat up fully and put the wrapper in his pocket. He checked his mask and hood were on, and turned around slowly with a grin curling across his lips while he stood.

“It’s been a while, old man. Took you long enough, since it’s been two months since we last spoke.” Eraser didn’t hesitate, and his capture scarf snapped through the air like a viper, whipping toward Izuku as he muttered with a deadpan expression, “I’m not old. I’m thirty.”

Izuku ducked low, the scarf hissing past his head, then twisted sideways with a dancer’s grace, evading the second coil. He straightened and crossed his arms casually, letting the scarf retract with a metallic whisper back to its owner. “Now that wasn’t very nice,” he said, his grin widening. “You always greet old friends like that? Not very hero-like.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” he growled, stalking closer, eyes beginning to glow red as his scarf floats around him like a tornado, his hair floating upwards. “This is dangerous, and you know it.”

Revenant had had many close calls with Eraser over the past months. While they had had no face to face interactions like this one, he had watched from a distance as Eraser bounded across buildings and took down villains. He studied the man’s techniques, his capture weapon, and even followed him a few times. Izuku knew that Eraser had done the same to him, but never came close enough to touch him as he did now.

“I mean, crossing the street is technically also considered dangerous,” Izuku stepped backward, boot heels teetering at the edge of the rooftop. “But hey-” He flashed a mocking wink. “Catch me if you can.” And then he fell backwards, watching as the man lunged for him with panicked eyes.

Wind roared past his ears as he dropped, only to twist in midair and hook a gloved hand around a lamppost, swinging his body with practised precision to land on the edge of a fire escape. He took off running before his boots even fully hit the metal, vaulting to the alley floor, hitting the ground at a roll, and pushing himself up again without pause.

Two months of near-constant escape had sharpened him, polished the edges and honed the instincts. He sprinted down a narrow street and ducked into a shadowy alley, pulse racing as he began to get ready for the chase, Eraser’s boots coming from up above, and it seemed this time he had learned, and was now running along the edge and keeping an eye on him.

Izuku gave him a cocky wave, before he went to duck down another alleyway, when a glowing blue rectangle shimmered into existence on the brick wall beside him, sudden and out of place like a glitch in reality. It buzzed and followed him along the wall as he ran, low and eerie as light traced its frame. “The hell…?”

Before he could run into the upcoming alleyway and away from the strange glowing door, a hand reached out and grabbed the front of his hoodie, yanking him inside. His boots skidded against stone as he stumbled forward, catching himself just in time to avoid falling flat. The door snapped shut behind him with a quiet whoosh, the blue light blinking out of existence like it had never been there. “What the-?!”

He whipped around, breathing fast as he noticed the massive man standing in front of him, twice his size and all muscle, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His skin was tan, his shirt stretched tight across his shoulders, and a long scar ran from the corner of his eye to his jaw, one eyebrow raised as the man looked him over. “You Revenant?”

Izuku raised his own brow, eyes narrowing. “I’m sorry, do you usually just snatch kids from random alleyways? Should I be concerned that you’re going to sell me on the black market?” The man only offers him a small grunt, clearly unimpressed as he turns and begins walking down a dark corridor. “Definitely Revenant. Follow me.”

“Yeah, that sounds super safe,” Izuku muttered. “Asking a minor to follow you into a dark corridor? Almost as bad as Eraserhead stalking me from the rooftops every other week.” That earned a short, barked laugh. “You ain’t gotta worry about that, kid. The place I’m taking you to? You’ll get used to it. Maybe even like it.” Izuku hesitated, then rolled his eyes and fell into step behind him. He had to admit, he was curious, and that glowing blue door had saved him from potentially getting caught.

They moved through a dark stone tunnel lit by flickering industrial lights. At the far end was a heavy reinforced door covered in scratch marks and graffiti tags. The man knocked four times, then once more, a distinct rhythm. Izuku memorised it and pushed it to the back of his mind for safe keeping. A slit in the door slid open as yellow eyes peered at the man in front of him, before sliding to look Izuku up and down, who looked down at the ground, his face covered by shadows and his hood. “Who’s with you?” came a low voice.

“Guest,” the man said simply. Another pause, before he heard the sound of a dozen locks being undone, clunk, click, shhhk, metal sliding against metal, until the door creaked open. Izuku stepped through, and immediately froze. It was like stepping into another world.

They stood at the edge of a vast underground cavern lit with glowing lanterns and hanging chains. Makeshift stalls lined the curved walls, vendors hawking all kinds of illegal goods like quirk enhancers, stolen gear, blades that hummed with forbidden energy, and crates of unregistered tech. The scent of smoke, blood, oil, and electricity filled the air, and at the centre of it all, surrounded by cheering people perched on crates, chairs, or leaning against exposed pipes, stood a boxing ring.

The ropes were stained. The floor was scuffed and dented. And in the ring, two brawlers were already trading blows with brutal speed, fists cracking against ribs and jaws. No referee, no gloves, and no holding back. Izuku was itching to have a go, and he watched as a giant screen above them flashed with names, scores, and a countdown timer, while people below yelled out bets with desperate intensity.

“Welcome to The Underground,” the scarred man said as he turned and offered him a smirk. “Only way in is through a Rift door, like the one you just came through. No cams, no rules.” Izuku exhaled slowly, wide-eyed. People moved like sharks through the market, smirking dealers, masked mercs, mercenaries with glowing cybernetic limbs, and even a few shady-looking teens counting credits with greasy hands.

Izuku couldn’t resist smirking back at the man, his heart hammering in his chest. “Oh yeah,” he said, gaze sweeping over the chaos, the noise, the thrill. “I think I’m gonna like it here.”

He continued to follow the man, whom he’d learned was nicknamed Grim. Izuku thought it was fitting, but didn’t ask how the nickname had come to be. The scarred man led him down a winding path through the maze of market stalls and rusted scaffolding, motioning occasionally for him to keep up or step aside as clusters of people bustled past.

The deeper they went, the more eyes turned in his direction. It began with just a few glances, but it quickly grew into heads craning over shoulders as conversations faltered mid-sentence. Then it moved to quiet nudges as curious murmurs rippled outward like a dropped stone in water. Izuku noticed, and he didn't like it.

He glanced to his left, catching the way a pair of vendors stared at him over a table of serrated daggers. Then someone elbowed their friend and nodded his way. A group of teens hanging off a stair railing were whispering and watching him like they’d just seen a ghost walk in. Izuku was pretty sure he had caught one of the kids dealing drugs, but had let him off with a firm warning.

He never took a kid in for crimes like that unless they continued doing it even after he told them not to.

“Okay,” Izuku finally muttered, pushing his hood back slightly and raising his brows as he looked at the man leading him. “Why is everyone staring at me? I mean, sure, I know I’m good-looking, but this is a bit much, don’t you think?” The man let out a loud, barked laugh that turned more than a few heads. “Kid,” he said, grinning over his shoulder, “you really don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?” He stopped walking, letting Izuku catch up beside him. The crowd around them thinned slightly as people gave them space. Not out of kindness, but caution. “Your name, ‘Revenant’, it’s a myth down here. A warning. A headline. A damn campfire story,” the man said, eyes glittering. “You’ve taken down dozens of our members over the past few months. Snatched ‘em out of fights. Shut down stings. Ruined entire shipments. Half of ‘em didn’t even see you coming, and the other half swore they were hallucinating.”

Izuku blinked. “Wait. These are your people?”

“Not mine,” the man corrected, clearly amused. “The Underground is big, kid. We have a few people who look after it all and make sure it stays out of the wrong hands, but different people all over the country run different clubs like this one. Most people are just down here to sell to whoever pays. Doesn’t matter if it’s a villain, a merc, a dropout, or a desperate teen with a grudge.” He started walking again, and Izuku followed, trying not to feel too self-conscious as more eyes followed them.

“But here’s the kicker,” the man continued. “The ones you spared, the ones you warned and then let crawl away? They made sure to spread the word down here that you weren’t a wannabe hero.” Izuku frowned. “Why?” The man shrugged. “Guess you made an impression. Fear, maybe. Respect, definately.”

They passed a table selling illegal support gear like jagged braces, retractable spike gauntlets, and vials of glowing quirk-boosters. The vendor, a wiry woman with mirrored eyes, leaned forward slightly when she saw Izuku, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to sell to him or bolt. “This is so weird,” he muttered. “I figured people might hate me, but not respect me.”

“Oh, they respect you,” the man said, smirking. “The dark hoodie, the soulless black eyes. The cold look in them when someone pisses you off too much. Some may call you an angel, kid, but down here? You’re a nightmare, and they don’t know whether to be scared of you or love you.” Izuku exhaled, arms crossed as he walked. “Great. Just what I needed. A fan club of criminals.”

The man let out a sharp chuckle. “Relax. Most of ‘em are too scared to even say your name out loud.” Izuku tilted his head, sceptical. “You don’t seem scared.”

“I’ve met much worse people than you, Revenant.” Izuku knew that much was obvious, eyes unconsciously drifting to the mans jagged scar.

As Grim continued to guide him through dark, cold corridors, Izuku wasn’t sure what to think, even as they turned a corner and walked into yet another open section of the cavern, this one darker, smaller, but more crowded, with makeshift rooms and metal doors embedded into the rock wall like apartments or bunkers. “Where are we going now?” he finally asked.

Grim’s grin returned, sharp and knowing. “Giving you a proper tour of this place, kid. Believe me when I say there’s a lot to see, especially during your first visit.” His brow furrowed, but he followed anyway. His boots echoed against cracked cement as they passed, and it was obvious to him that this area was more private. Grim sent sharp grins to more people, having quick conversations with them as Izuku followed, his wariness slowly evaporating as he became more intrigued.

They both passed another stall, lit by lanterns with green flame, and his feet yearned to move closer and have a proper look at the weapons that hung on the walls, his eyes catching on a dark, almost black metal Bo staff that seemed to call his name. The man who owned the stall gave him a knowing, unsettling grin, and his eyes seemed to glow the same green as the flames before a strong hand gripped his bicep and dragged him away.

It took him a few moments for the fog that had unknowingly filled his mind to disappear, and his head snapped up at the dark expression Grim now wore, even as he let go of Izuku’s arm and moved to walk beside him as they passed more stalls and people placing bets. “I’d like to think you’ll come back to this place again, so I’ll remind you that while this place is great and all, it's still dangerous, with dangerous people. Most people down here are nice enough if you treat them with respect, but some are pure evil and desperate for power. Do not be fooled by anyone, and keep your wits about you, especially if your mind is telling you one thing and your gut another. Got it?”

He only nodded, unsure his voice would work without stumbling over his words at the sudden warning. Uneasiness settled into his stomach again as he remembered feeling drawn to the stand, and he fought the urge to look back, realising it must have been the man's quirk at work. He shivered, and it wasn't from the cold.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of walking and listening to Grim as he pointed to different places and stalls, different rooms filled with screens or people fighting, the man beside him began to slow down, and Izuku realised the tour was over. He watched as the cavern only increased in size again, and he watched the familiar ring in the centre come into view as Grim cocked his head to the side, moving to a few seats in the front row as he sat down and crossed his arms, Izuku moving to sit down beside him with a few curious glances.

His eyes continued to map out the room, and he realised that without Grim, he would have been lost within a few minutes. He shifts his gaze from the man and the ring, and studies the loud voices and cheering people that surround them, throwing money or arguing with each other over who might win the fight. Some were dressed in suits and clean clothes, while others looked rough, hardened, and tired, like they were dead on their feet. 

His eyes only continued to glance around, moving at an impossibly fast pace. There was a medic station tucked between two vendor tables, a woman stitching a man’s arm while he chewed on a strip of leather. He noticed wires and tubes with different liquids connected to IV drips, people lying down in makeshift beds as nurses and doctors moved around. He wondered what happened to them, but he knew it mustn't have been good.

One thing he knew for certain, was that lots of these people had likely turned to a life of crime because it had been their last option. Izuku would have continued to overthink it, had a voice not drawn him out of the daze.

“You wondering why I brought you here yet?” Izuku’s gaze flicked back to Grim, before once more landing on the men in the ring as one went down with a sickening crunch, people around him screaming insults while others cheered. “Was that not obvious?” In the corner of his vision, he watched Grim lean forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “The truth is, people need someone to believe in. Especially now, when the world’s gone dark and the heroes we grew up trusting… don’t shine so bright anymore.”

Izuku didn’t respond, and his face remained unreadable. Grim continued, voice low but steady. “Most of the people down here? Yeah, they’ve done bad things. But they weren’t born that way. They started out like anyone else, just wanting a fair shot. A world that gave them a chance. But the system failed them. Cast them aside. So they built something else. Down here.”

He gestured to the market stalls below, the fighters in the ring, the community scraping by beneath the streets. “It’s not perfect. Hell, it’s barely holding together some days. But it’s real. And the thing is… people down here talk, they see things, they know things, and I'm sure you know enough by now to know that everyone down here has come to respect Revenant.” Izuku turned to face him, slowly.

“You’re a storm that doesn’t play by anyone’s rules. Not the Hero Commission’s. Not the villains’. Not even the heroes’. You’ve taken down crooks, crushed gangs, outmanoeuvred pros, and you do it alone, rising even after your supposed death.” Grim gave a small, admiring shake of his head. “No wonder they call you Revenant.” He stayed quiet, but his shoulders were tense.

Grim’s voice dropped, like he was letting him in on a secret. “Hope’s in short supply, kid. But when someone walks into the fire and keeps moving? The people notice. They remember. They hold on to it.” He leaned back, arms stretched along the bench behind him. “You might think you’re just surviving, but down here? You’re a symbol. You give them something to believe in. Something raw and honest. And if you ask me,” He gestured again to the ring, the lights, the markets, the people around them, “What better way to spit in the face of the heroes up top who desire nothing but the spotlight and fame, than to have a vigilante become the real deal? Someone who helps people when the heroes don't?”

Izuku fought hard to keep his expression calm, displaying none of the gratification and wariness that consumed him. “I’m not here to convince you to change,” Grim added, “No contracts. No loyalty oaths. Just wanted you to see the place. See the people. Perhaps get yourself some nice new weapons, too. But most importantly, for you to maybe understand just how much hope you give others.” Grim stood, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Don’t forget who you are, or who’s watching, because soon enough, people will come after you, and it ain’t going to be pretty.” He started walking off, boots clicking against the concrete, but he paused after a few steps and looked over his shoulder, slipping a hand out of his pocket as he tossed something small to Izuku.

He caught it with ease, despite its surprising weight, and studied the small, coin sized obsidian token in his palm, an unknown symbol glowing with blue light. “You ever need a place to land, kid? The door opens for you. Every time. Press it if you ever need something, from weapons to fights, to even just someone to lean on.”

Then he disappeared back into the shadows, leaving Izuku alone in the stands, watching the ring, watching the fighters, and flipping the dark token between his fingers as his mind raced.

Chapter Text

Shouta Aizawa hit the rooftop without a sound, his eyes sweeping over the city. He couldn’t count how many times he had followed this patrol route in the past two months, and it wasn’t just because the area was high-risk and no heroes bothered to patrol the area anymore. No, it had something to do with a certain vigilante that keeps slipping through his fingers. Revenant.

The kid who must be around the same age as some of his students, his sharp tongue and his even sharper eyes shadowed by his past and highlighted by the dark purple skin that was just barely visible beneath his black mask. Revenant was something like a ghost, and every time Shouta thought he had a possible chance to catch the problem child, he would slip through his grasp like smoke, like he had never been there. 

What concerned him most, though, was that lately the kid had been looking for trouble more than usual. He would watch from a distance as the child bound across building to building with practised ease, giving Shouta a run for his money with how stealthy he had become in such little time, even as he dropped behind unsuspecting villains and criminals, taking them down with a swift and quick hit with either his fists, feet, or tools he found in the alleyway like metal pipes or trash can lids.

He felt the hint of a grin sneak onto his face as he remembered one of many of the vigilante’s take downs last week, where a man had stolen an elderly woman's purse. Shouta had jumped down, ready to follow after him as he pushed people over without a care in the world as he laughed, until a large, metallic clang echoed through the street. Revenant had appeared out of the shadows of an alleyway, and grinned down at the unconscious man who he had hit with a metal trash can lid, the criminal’s face leaving a dent in the metal.

Shouta’s grin was quickly wiped away and replaced with frustration as he then remembered the hour-long chase that occurred afterwards, before once again, the kid disappeared into air. He wouldn’t say he had a problem with vigilantes, in fact, he found they were helpful most times, even with the amount of paperwork he had to do. He would have felt the same way towards Revenant, if Shouta wasn’t positive that the kid was most definitely younger than most, and was out every night from sunset to nearly sunrise on some nights.

Surely his parents would notice if the kid was gone every night, right? 

He wasn’t so sure, and thinking about it only made him feel worse, especially with how skilled the young vigilante was in combat and taking down criminals and villains. Shouta was definitely concerned, and he knew he needed to help the boy, but how could he?

The kid was smart, had fast enough reflexes to dodge even his capture weapon, and he had a knack for disappearing. There had been many cases of people trying to guess his quirk, and even he had no clue what it was. He and Tsukauchi had gone through police records of kids around Revenant’s age with disappearing, enhancement or intelligence quirks, but every time they came up empty. Not to mention, Revenant was as much a pain in Shouta's ass as he was Tsukauchi's. If he returned to his apartment and had to listen to Hizashi gush over his ‘Little Listener’ one more time whilst Shouta’s problem child forced a headache upon him, he would lose his mind.

Now, as he continued his patrol through the quiet streets, scanning alleyways, rooftops, the occasional flicker of movement in shadowed corners, Shouta’s mind drifted again to Midoriya.

It had been months now since that alleyway encounter, months since Shouta first saw Midoriya Izuku. He hadn’t known the boy’s name then, only the fear in his eyes, the sheer panic that had radiated off him like a scream without sound. It had hit Shouta like a punch to the chest, a visceral jolt that had never quite left him. That boy had been terrified, not just of Shouta, but of being seen, of existing. And yet even with a bullet wound, he had vanished into the night with Shouta’s phone in hand, too fast and too determined to be caught. Midoriya had looked like he hadn’t eaten in days, barely standing under the weight of his own limbs. He’d been small, buried in oversized, filthy clothes. His dark hair had been loosely tied up and slicked back with grime and sweat. He had pale skin, freckled and drawn with exhaustion, those sunken, haunted eyes that Shouta had replayed that face in his mind too many times to count.

Since that night, he and Tsukauchi had been trying to track him down. No such luck. Midoriya had vanished like smoke, leaving behind nothing but unanswered questions and a deepening pit in Shouta’s stomach. And then came Meiko.

Upon first hearing of his husband's Little Listener appearence, the similarities between the two boys had immediately set off alarms in his mind. Meiko had covered the eye that Midoriya's scar had been, and apparently acted the same way Midoriya had after he had been injured, when his confident act had slipped and instead left behind a boy whose eyes conveyed nothing but fear and anxiety.

However, after his first official meeting with Meiko, he couldn't help but also notice the differences. Meiko had black hair, wavy and somewhat neat, falling over his forehead in messy strands. His eyes were green, the same shade as Midoriya's, but they were bright and held a spark of hope that Midoriya's had sorely lacked. Meiko had no freckles, no dark circles or scars, no haunted expression, and no tremble in his voice when he spoke. Meiko carried himself with a calm composure, relaxed and gentle in the way he addressed people. He even smiled at Shouta sometimes now, like he didn’t see him as a threat, like he wasn’t hiding anything at all, and that only made Shouta feel even more guilty.

Because for all that made them different, the suspicion hadn’t fully left him. He had tested it and called the stolen phone while standing directly in front of Meiko, hoping to catch a flicker of guilt, a vibration or loud sound from his pocket, anything. But Meiko hadn’t even flinched, and the phone hadn’t been on him. There was no hint of that stutter or nervousness that he had seen in the greenette, no challenge in his tone. And yet…

There were moments, tiny flickers, like when Meiko’s eyes tracked movement just a little too precisely, or the way he would jump back if someone’s hand got too close. Subtle things. Habits from someone who’d been hunted, or worse. But the guilt Shouta felt was enough to pull him back from the edge each time. Because Meiko had grown comfortable around him. Trusted him. And Shouta found that trust…nice.

Still, as he now continued jumping from rooftop to rooftop, searching for any sign of the elusive vigilante, he couldn’t stop his mind from circling back. He couldn't help it, because if Midoriya truly wasn't Meiko, that meant the boy was still out there somewhere, barely surviving, and every day that passed only made Shouta's concern for him grow. He'd even found himself searching in alleyways for a flash of dark green hair on patrols, but any time he thought he saw it, it was never who he was looking for. Maybe that was why he feels so strongly towards talking Revenant down from vigilantism, but it never works. Still, as he now spots the vigilante's figure on the roof a few buildings over, he wonders just how convincing he would have to be for Revenant to step away and live a normal life that a teen should have.

His pace quickens, and he couldn't help but notice how peaceful the kid looked, his posture relaxed as he quietly chuckled to himself. Shouta almost felt bad for disturbing him, his feet landing softly but loud enough to be heard as the boy turned without a flinch, his dark eyes finding his. The vigilante's smile was already in place, wide and sharp. “You’re getting slow, old man. Took you long enough, since it’s been two months since we last spoke.”

Shouta didn’t waste breath answering, his weapon flying out on instinct and desperation to finally capture him. He didn't want to hurt him or take him in, he just needed to stop him. “I’m not old,” he muttered, dry as ever despite his true feelings. “I’m thirty.” Revenant ducked, smooth and fluid as he twisted under the coils, barely breaking a sweat, and when he straightened, he folded his arms like he wasn’t in any danger at all. Like this was a joke. “Now that wasn’t very nice,” the boy teased. “You always greet old friends like that? Not very hero-like.”

His scarf retracted slowly with a metallic hiss as he watched the kid, really watched him. The tiredness under his eyes, his strained smile. The torn seam in his hoodie that hadn’t been there a week ago. “You’re going to get yourself killed,” he growled, voice low but charged. “This is dangerous, and you know it.”

The mask faltered for half a second, just a flicker of annoyance between that taunting smile he always wore, before it was back with full force, but as always never met his eyes. “I mean, so is crossing the street, technically,” Revenant replied with a shrug, stepping backwards. The wind tugged at the edges of his hoodie, and the heel of his boot hovered inches from a deadly drop. “But hey-” He winked. “Catch me if you can.” He fell.

Shouta surged forward, panic gripping his chest as he reached out, “Wait!” But the kid was already plummeting, and as he ran forward and leaned over, he watched as the child’s body twisted midair, grabbed a lamppost like it was a jungle gym, and swung down with a grace that shouldn’t have been possible from someone who looked that tired. But as always, he exceeded Shouta’s expectations and landed with ease before running. 

Shouta was often described as a patient man with plenty of experience and control, but he couldn't help the curse that left his lips as he chased after Revenant like a man possessed.

What are you doing, kid? What the hell are you trying to prove?

He wasn’t even angry, maybe a little annoyed, but more afraid than anything, because every time he got closer, the cracks in Revenant’s armour got wider. The quips and smiles were forced, his expression more tired and drained day after day, and Shouta had started asking questions again.

Where are his parents? Why hasn’t anyone noticed he’s gone every night, likely returning with new bruises and injuries? What has he been through to know this much defence and combat at this age to be able to take down hardened villains and criminals that his own properly trained hero students fight?

The kid was a minor, that much Shouta was sure of by now, and yet if the kid had no one looking after him or caring for him, it would help explain why there were no reports of a missing child that suited his description, with his black eyes and dark hair that Shouta had only seen glimpses of beneath the hood. The thought makes his eye twitch, but he throws it aside for now as he follows from rooftop to rooftop. No one is trying to protect Revenant except him, the civilians happy to let a damn adolescent protect them.

He shook his head and landed on another roof just a building away, running along the edge as he kept his eyes trained on the dark figure, learning from his mistake the last time he had lost him. Just as the vigilante begins to slow down the slightest, Shouta gets ready to raise his capture weapon and swing himself down, when something shimmers into existence and snatches his attention away, his heart dropping into his stomach. No.

A glowing blue rectangle crackled into existence on the brick wall to Revenant’s left, pulsing and flickering like a glitch in reality. It was a doorway, and it glowed unnaturally as Shouta shouted out a warning, but he was too late and his eyes went wide.

He wasn’t an idiot, he had heard the whispers of a glowing blue door that transports people off the streets and to an underground cavern filled with criminals and illegal supplies, but Shouta had never seen it himself. The police fought hard to find ways to get in, and the hope they gain from the captures of the criminals who emerged from that glowing door is quickly squashed, and they refuse to tell anyone where it is, no matter what they’re offered. 

And now, as he leaps down from the building in a panic, he all but yells for the vigilante to take a step back when a hand emerges from the glow and pulls him through and out of sight. Shouta lunged forward and his boots slammed down just a few feet away as he reached for the door, but the glow was already fading, the static already dying as with the last of his energy he leaped forward, but he grabbed nothing but air, blue particles floating away as they disappeared.

The doorway dissolved with a whisper and the street was quiet, as if nothing had been here in the first place, even as he paced backwards and forwards, panic clawing up his throat as his hands gripped his hair. He’d lost another kid, and now he couldn’t do anything but hope he would see Revenant again soon, because the vigilante had been swallowed by The Underground.

Izuku should’ve known today would go wrong.

After his first unexpected visit to The Underground, his head had been somewhere else the whole week. He still spent every morning cleaning Takoba Beach until his hands were covered in grime, every day running drills until his arms and legs ached. Every night, he had moved his patrols where he knew Eraser wouldn’t be, some nights even sticking to the ground and running through alleyways instead of across rooftops. No matter how hard he trained, no matter how many videos he studied, the desire to press that token and walk through that glowing door never left. 

And now here he was, at the end of his first shift of the weekend, dazed and unfocused for the millionth time that week as he wonders if he should return, just to maybe look around, when he reaches for the mug that was filled with coffee, but he reaches for it too quickly. As he picks it up, a small drop of scolding hot coffee lands on his wrist, and on instinct he lets it go, which only makes things worse.

Instead of falling to the floor immediately as he hoped, the mug tipped just enough to send the scalding hot liquid spilling down his forearm. The burning liquid soaked through his long sleeves, a fiery trail that seared his skin with a sharp, stabbing pain. His breath hitched as a curse tore from his throat, raw and desperate. The world blurred around the edges as his vision swam with tears that he fought hard to hold back. The harsh crack of porcelain shattering against the floor echoed through the small, empty room, a jarring reminder of how fragile everything felt.

He stood frozen, the hot pain coursing through his arm as a sudden flood of memories crashed over him unbidden and relentless, dragging him under and he could do nothing to stop it as he began to remember large, rough hands grabbing him, their palms increasing in heat, as he was pushed forwards. He heard the explosion as it thundered behind him, a loud pop ripping through the air. His back erupted in agony, like someone had set him on fire as he crumpled, the world tilting violently, swallowing him whole as he fell hard onto the unforgiving ground.

Pain, that was all there was. Pure, unbearable pain. The sickening smell of burning flesh mixed with smoke and dust. The cruel, mocking laughter ringing in his ears. And then his mind swirled until he heard the pounding of fists and boots raining down, each blow a hammer crushing any flicker of hope left inside him. Each breath felt like shards of glass cutting his throat. Every heartbeat was a painful reminder that he was still alive, still trapped in that nightmare. 

Back in the present, the agony in his arm spread, mixing with the old scars buried beneath his skin. He barely noticed the shards of broken porcelain slicing into his legs, the sting of tiny cuts blossoming across his knees and shins as he fell to the floor, his knees buckling. The searing hot pain was easier to ignore compared to the memories clawing their way to the surface, dragging him deeper into a dark place he never wanted to visit.

The weight of everything, the fear, shame, and helplessness that crushed down on him like a boulder, forcing his breath to come in ragged gasps as his chest tightened, constricting, suffocating, the room spinning. Why did it still hurt so much? Why couldn’t he escape it?

He wanted to scream, to run, to disappear. But he was trapped, trapped inside his own skin, where every scar told a story of pain and survival as his eyes burned and he clenched his fists, biting back the sobs. He could not break here. Not now. Not in front of anyone, even if the room was empty.

But the memories were relentless and merciless, and his breathing quickened as his hands trembled. The edges of the room darkened as the panic closed in, tightening its grip like a noose. He just wanted to hide. To disappear. To become nothing, but a loud and panicked shout pulled him out of his spiral, voice sharp as an alarm clock and shooting through his mind like a gunshot in the heavy haze as he registered and recognised it.

“Meiko!” That wasn’t his name, was it? 

Hizashi’s voice rang out from the back room, and the only thing that he could think was how utterly screwed he was. He blinked rapidly, blinking through the white noise screaming in his skull. He moved on instinct, trying to gather the shards of broken ceramic with one hand while tucking his burned arm in close, out of sight. His fingers were clumsy, uncoordinated, shaking from pain and panic. Just clean it up. Just make it normal. Pretend it didn’t happen. Hide the damage. Hide the pain. Like always.

But Hizashi was faster. “What happened?” the man asked, already sliding down beside him, boots skidding slightly on the tile. His voice was panicked and tight, laced with something Izuku recognised too well. Fear. He wasn't often used to people having a fear of him, but it was even stranger to see fear for him. “I’m fine,” he blurted too quickly, his voice cracking under the strain, “It’s nothing-”

“Did it burn you? Let me see.”

“No, I’m-" He shifted away, trying to put space between them, but Hizashi was already reaching out. Already too close. “Let me check, kiddo.”

“I said I’m fine!” The words ripped out of him, sharp and panicked, louder than he meant. His burned arm curled instinctively to his chest, like a wounded animal shielding its side as he inched backwards. Hizashi flinched at the outburst and stopped cold, hands raised in surrender. “Okay. Okay,” he said softly, shuffling backwards. “I just want to make sure you’re okay, that’s all. You’re hurt, Meiko. That doesn’t have to mean something bad. You’re allowed to be hurt.”

Izuku was trembling now. He shook his head, over and over, like he could shake off the panic, the memories, the shame threatening to swallow him whole. “Don’t touch me,” he muttered, barely louder than a breath. “Please-just don’t-”

“You’re shaking,” Hizashi whispered, standing up so they both stood, Hizashi easily towering over Izuku. When did I stand up? “You’re bleeding.” At that moment a few droplets hit the tile, and only then did he realise the cuts on his knees from the porcelain were dripping, raw and stinging. His focus was pulled to the burn that radiated heat through his sleeve again, though, relentless and alive. “I won’t hurt you,” Hizashi said again, gentler now. “I promise.”

Izuku didn’t answer. Couldn’t. So Hizashi tried a different tactic. A softer one. “Just a peek,” he joked lightly, trying to coax the tension out of the air, even if his voice wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to judge your arms or anything-aha!”

And before Izuku could pull away, Hizashi gently tugged up the scorched sleeve. The moment the fabric slid back, time stopped. He watched Hizashi’s breath as it caught in his throat, and his eyes followed Hizashi’s as he stared at his arm. The burn was ugly, red, raw, and angry, but it wasn’t what made him freeze. No, it was worse. It was the scars.

Dozens of them. White and pale pink, some so faint they were almost invisible whereas others were ragged and deep. They covered Izuku’s forearm like a confession carved into skin. Some old. Some new. All of them undeniable.

Hizashi said nothing, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to figure out what to say. Izuku hated it, and saw the immediate change in his face as he panicked. “Don’t look at me!” The shout was raw and cracking as he yanked his arm back with so much force he nearly fell again, back hitting the counter. “Kiddo, Meiko, I didn’t-”

“Don’t look at me! Please-” He was shaking violently now, voice unraveling into something broken. His breath caught in his throat and didn’t come back. He couldn’t breathe. He was gasping now, too fast and too shallow, his chest burning worse than the coffee ever could. A sick, tight feeling wrapped around his lungs like iron wire, squeezing, closing. His knees gave out and he hit the floor again, clutching his chest as his vision tilted sideways. His brain was screaming. Not just pain, but fear. Shame. Memory.

Laughter echoing in an alleyway. Explosions bursting behind him. The feeling of being small and helpless and in the way. Always in the way. You ruined it. You ruined everything. He saw. He knows. He’ll hate you. He knows how disgusting you are now-

“Hey. Hey, Meiko.” Hizashi’s voice again, calm this time. Firm, but not loud, instead grounding. “Look at me. Come on, kiddo. Right here.” He tried. He really tried. His eyes were blurry, full of tears, but they found Hizashi’s face through the haze. The man was waiting, and he wasn’t pushing, even as something inside of him cracked as he studied Hizashi’s face, because he didn’t look disgusted or angry. He looked heartbroken and devastated, and Izuku had caused it.

“I didn’t mean to see,” he whispered. “But I’m here if you want to talk, Meiko. I can help you, if you want. You’re going to be okay, kiddo.” Izuku couldn’t stop the sob that broke out of his chest. “I don’t hate you, despite what you think,” Hizashi said gently. He must of spoken aloud, then. “You aren’t disgusting, and you didn’t ruin anything. You’re strong, kiddo. Stronger than you think.”

“You don’t know me,” Izuku rasped, barely audible.

“Then help me know,” Hizashi pleaded. “I’m not going to walk away. Not now. Not ever.” For a second, Izuku almost believed him, but then a thought slashed through him like glass. He pities you now. It’s different. You ruined it. He saw. “No, no, no-!” Izuku stumbled to his feet, heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted out. “I have to go-” His voice broke. “I can’t be here-!”

“Wait, please-!” But Izuku was already gone. He burst out the front door of the cafe, the cold night air hitting him like a slap. His breath hitched, burned. He ran, faster and faster, his arm throbbing, his lungs howling. He didn’t stop until he got home, and didn’t take off his shoes or turn on the light. He collapsed on the floor in a heap, knees to his chest, trembling as the tears came again, hot and fast and endless. “I’m so stupid,” he whispered to the dark. “Stupid. Weak. Broken.”

His hand fumbled for the knife that sat on his desk, shining like a beacon as his fingers wrapped around the handle and another choked sob left his throat. Because at that moment, as he felt the knife slice through the tender skin on his neck, it felt like the only thing in the world that made sense.

When Izuku fully woke again, it wasn’t with a gasp or a jolt, just a quiet, empty breath, barely enough to stir the air around him. The room was still and dim. A soft orange glow filtered through the slats of the blinds, and he realised he’d woken just as the sun had started to rise. The world was tilting into day again. He didn’t move for a while. Couldn’t. It felt like even his bones were tired. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He didn’t feel anything at all except for the bitter, hollow ache of disappointment. He was still here. Again.

Nine times. That made nine times he’d died since last night. He’d started just after the sun set the first time, cutting deep into his neck with the old knife. The scarred tissue, the one that had healed from the last time he’d cut into it, had opened easily. The pain had been sharp, fast, numbing in a way that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, this time it would work. But then he woke up again an hour later. Like his body had an alarm clock set to bring him back, no matter what.

That first time had been followed by another. And another. And another. Over and over, each attempt more frantic than the last. He’d grown sloppy around death four, his hands shaking so badly he could barely grip the blade. Around death six, he’d tried taking all the painkillers in his bathroom. He had no idea if they did anything, but he woke up with a clean body and an empty stomach. He could still feel the phantom pressure of drowning in the bathtub from number three. He could still feel the choke of the bed sheet noose from number eight.

But he was still here. Alive. Again.

That made eighty two in total. Sixty eight were by his own hand, fourteen from others, where he had been stabbed, shot, strangled, crushed, drowned, burned. He knew each one like a litany, a record carved into memory even if not into flesh. His body wouldn’t remember, and would barely scar, refusing to mark the places he had begged to be let go.

He sat up slowly, every muscle heavy, his head swimming with static as he glanced down at his arms. The cuts he had inflicted last night were gone, only the old white lines from his previous deaths visible. The new ones he’d made only hours ago, carved into his legs, his arms, even the softer parts of his stomach, had disappeared without a trace, like they’d never existed at all. At first, he thought the reason he scarred the first few deaths was because it had been emotionally impactful, something that truly hurt in more than a physical way, but that theory had crumbled weeks ago. His healing didn’t follow rules, and instead it just got faster and deeper, like his body was learning how to undo pain more efficiently with every death, like it was evolving past the point of recognising suffering at all.

Except…

His eyes flicked over to his left arm, already knowing what he’d see and still dreading it, even though it was confirmed that the burn was there. A faint pink sheen stretched from wrist to elbow like a glossy reminder, and while it wasn't disfiguring, it was hard to ignore. Even after he woke up after the first death of nine, it was still there, throbbing like it was mocking him and never fading.

He tried to put together a theory in his mind for why the burns lingered and stayed while nothing else seemed to, but the only reason he could come up with was that perhaps his quirk rebuilt, not replaced. With cuts, the skin could repair and sew itself back together, and the more he died the faster it seemed to work. With burns, though, they didn't leave anything behind, only charred skin and blisters. Only damage, too deep and too complete, leaving nothing for his body to work with, leaving him scarred. Damn it, he really hated burns.

He touched the scar with his fingers, the pads brushing over it gently, and a shudder ran through him. This was the only proof that he could still hurt, still scar, and that he was still human. That he could be hurt in ways that lasted, and that something real had happened to him, not a ghost of pain or a dream. It had marked him when nothing else could. It had stuck. And that scared him more than anything else. He had a weakness.

He stood up shakily, the room spinning around him, and grabbed the corner of the desk to stay upright. His legs felt like rubber, his arms sore from bracing himself during death two where he’d fallen to the floor hard after bleeding out on the chair, and the bruise still lingered in his memory even if it was gone from his body. The clock blinked quietly from the corner of his desk, telling him it was 6:04 AM. He was supposed to be out cleaning the beach. His shift at the cafe would be starting in a few hours. But the thought of facing anyone, of walking into that building and seeing Hizashi’s warm, gentle smile again, made his skin crawl like worms under his flesh. He couldn’t handle that today. Couldn’t pretend to be fine. Couldn’t wear the skin of Meiko, not when he felt so utterly gone.

He sat back down heavily, collapsing onto his bed like he might shatter if he moved wrong. His eyes burned and his throat felt tight. He hadn’t cried when he died the ninth time, but now the tears came with a violence that shocked him. Sobs tore from his chest, sharp and wet and shuddering, and he curled in on himself, burying his face in his knees as he wept, praying through gasped, broken whispers for death to take him for good. “Please,” he whispered over and over, shaking so hard it hurt, “please, just let me go, I’m so tired, I don’t want to come back anymore.”

But no one was listening. No god. No quirk. No universe. And after what felt like hours, after the tears dried on his face and left behind only the hollow shame of survival, he opened his swollen eyes to the pale light spilling through his blinds and thought of Toshi. Of the first of only two people who saw good in him when no one else did, who didn’t judge him or call him useless. Who still believed that he could do something good.

Izuku let out a soft, broken breath and stared at the far wall, where the morning sunlight painted long shadows across the floor. He’d missed beach cleaning, missed his shift. He was supposed to be someone people could rely on, but he was curled in a corner like a shattered thing, too afraid of being seen. Too fragile to be touched, and too useless to even die right.

He thought he might sit there all day, might let the rot of his own thoughts devour him from the inside out, but when he looked up once more, a small, barely noticeable blue light grabbed his attention. The obsidian token. It was resting on his notebook that Hizashi had given him that sat on the corner of his desk. The soft, ethereal glow pulsed faintly with a blue hue like it was calling out to him from somewhere else. Somewhere older, colder, and deeper.

He stared at it, and it stared back, even as for the first time since he’d woken up again, since the ninth death, since the weight of eighty two lifetimes settled in his chest, Izuku moved, and with trembling fingers, he reached for it.

His fingers closed around the token, and he barely noticed it was cold against his palm, even as something deep in his chest warmed and tightened. He didn’t hesitate this time, no need to weigh the consequences or wonder if this was the right call. It wasn’t bravery and it wasn’t resolve, but it was clarity, and with a sharp breath, he pressed the symbol.

The air shifted instantly. It didn’t ripple or shimmer, and instead it yielded. A vertical seam split open in the middle of the room, a door dragging itself into existence. There was no dramatic pulse of light, no hum. Just a door standing where there hadn’t been one a second ago, silent and blue and familiar.

He didn’t bother changing. He didn’t strip off the bloodied hoodie that clung to his arms and chest, soaked through at the sleeves even as he pulled them back down. He tugged his hood up high, and with fingers that felt like someone else’s, grabbed the black mask from the corner of his desk and tied it around his eyes tightly. With shaking hands, he picked up the case that held his black contacts and slipped them in.

He shook his head and stepped through the door, the corridor on the other side swallowing him in instant shadow. Cold air lunged at his skin, sharp and biting, burrowing beneath the edges of his sleeves. His left forearm flared, the burn angry under the fabric, and he gritted his teeth as the cloth brushed too rough against it. He didn’t stop walking and instead just let himself walk forward, the dark pressing in tighter with every uneven step. The stone walls felt closer tonight, the floor less solid as he eventually reached the door and knocked weakly.

There was the faint scrape of metal on metal as the panel slid open, a pair of eyes narrowing through the slit, and then, widening in sudden alarm, because he saw Revenant, saw the blood dried dark and cracked on his sleeves and neckline, flaking off in small pieces with every slow, deliberate movement. His skin was too pale, like all the colour had been wrung from it. His shoulders were tight and drawn up. It mustn't have been only that that the man saw, though, as his eyes drifted to meet his, noticing the barely contained exhaustion behind them. It was the look in his eyes, something volatile, wild, hollow around the edges like a man mid free fall.

He swore, bolting the door open so fast it slammed the wall. “Shit, get in,” he said, reaching out instinctively to steady him, but Izuku didn’t falter, and didn’t even acknowledge the arm offered to him. He pushed past the threshold without a word, eyes unfocused as his boots scraped against the floor, dragging slightly, not from weakness, but because everything inside him felt like it was starting to shut down except the parts that could still move. That could still fight.

He didn’t need help. He needed something else. 

The lights inside the cavern buzzed loud and electric. White-blue fluorescence cut across his vision, too sharp, too real. The air smelled like stale adrenaline, sweat, smoke, and the sharp tang of copper. It hit the back of his throat and stayed there. The underground ring was alive tonight, but the second he walked through the doors, the atmosphere changed. Everything pulled taut like a string being drawn to the breaking point.

Movement stilled and conversations died mid-sentence. A woman wrapping her knuckles stopped with the tape still dangling from her wrist. A group of men hovering over a game of cards looked up, and whatever they’d been saying drained from their faces. Some of them blinked. Others leaned forward, slowly, as if trying to see if it was really him beneath the mask and bloodstained hoodie.

Their eyes tracked his path, not full of suspicion or hostility, but something more complicated. Surprise. Hesitation. Something that looked too much like worry for him to acknowledge. Not here. Not now. He tried his best not to notice, even as his feet carried him forward, one after the other, past the stares, past the murmur of low voices that rippled behind him like wind. He didn’t process them and didn’t care what they were thinking, what they saw.

They weren’t the point. Nothing was, anymore. His body ached in places he’d stopped counting. The crusted blood pulled at the skin every time he breathed. But the pain wasn’t sharp, instead it was distant and echoed like it belonged to someone else. The only thing he really felt was the pressure inside his chest, building with every breath. Something deep, tight, screaming without sound.

He didn’t want to collapse. He wanted to burn it out, and the answer was right in front of him as he stood before the ring. The two fighters already inside were mid-match, fists raised, sweat dripping from their brows, but they froze at the sight of him. One of them narrowed his eyes, recognition flickering across his scarred face, but Izuku didn’t notice.

Didn’t hear the sharp breath the older man took, or the quiet murmur of someone warning others to give him space. Izuku stepped into the ring without asking or speaking. He just grabbed the ropes, hauled himself over, and swung inside. The metal creaked beneath his weight. He rolled his neck until it cracked loud in the silence and stood in the centre of the mat, turning slowly to face the stunned crowd.

His eyes scanned the room, and he realised the two inside the ring had left. He took a deep breath, before his lips curled back into a smile, or something like it, because it wasn’t friendly. “Someone have a go at me,” he said, loud and clear, but only silence answered. “I’ll go easy,” he added, teeth flashing under the edge of the mask. “I’m injured.”

A few people flinched, and someone scoffed nervously. Izuku continued to ignore the mildly horrified look Grim was sending him as a man near the back, a stranger, bigger than him, and undoubtedly older, stepped forward, his jaw set, like he didn’t know if this was a joke or a trap, but he was too proud to walk away.

Izuku watched him approach, and he let the emotion drain from his face as he raised his fists, his mind quieting to focus on the one thing he was good at. Fighting. 

It was over in a few minutes, the man landing on the floor with a harsh thud as sound began to erupt around the room. His opponent had been strong, but lacked smarts and speed. A few dodges under his arms gave Iuzku the chance to kick the back of his knees and land a powerful hit to his cheek.

As he continued to fight opponents, the noise around the ring only grew louder as people placed bets, and his newest opponent barely had time to think before his knees buckled and he hit the mat, groaning. A shallow cut opened beneath Izuku’s mask. The man had managed to land a scrape to his cheek, but that was all. Izuku didn’t bother to wipe away the blood. 

He turned to the crowd, chest rising and falling like he’d just started breathing for the first time all night. “Next.”

The next came. Then the one after that. He didn’t keep count. He didn’t want to. He was chasing something nameless, faceless, hidden somewhere between the noise of fists on flesh and the roar of blood in his ears. Somewhere beneath the bone-deep exhaustion, under the pulsing bruise on his jaw and the sting in his ribs and the dizzying clarity that came with every impact.

His world narrowed to the next punch. The next dodge. The rhythm of motion and the blessed silence it brought, because the noise in his mind, the screaming, spiralling, unrelenting storm, was fading. Finally, he could breathe. He could move.

Nothing else mattered. Not the people staring. Not the half-formed memories trying to crawl up from the back of his mind. Not the ache in his arm, or the fact that he wasn’t sure how much of the blood on his hands was his anymore.

The fifth opponent was fast and sharp, smarter than the last. He clipped Izuku hard across the shoulder, knocking him off balance, but it didn’t matter. Izuku came back swinging, and took the man down hard. He stood there, heaving for air, bruises blooming across his body, blood dripping from a split across his brow now too, and still, he didn’t feel done.

For now, for these brief, burning minutes, the thoughts were quiet. And that was all he wanted.

Chapter Text

Izuku was exhausted, and it certainly showed. His shoulders sagged, breath rattling in his chest as he planted his feet on the grimy mat of the underground ring. Each inhale tasted of sweat, copper, and stale beer that was wafting from the rowdy crowd and was now pressed up against him as they shouted and screamed in joy. His seventh opponent of the night loomed across from him, eyes hungry for blood, teeth bared in a sadistic grin. The overhead lights buzzed and flickered, throwing long shadows across Izuku’s battered frame.

His legs felt like lead, his arms trembling from countless blows already endured. When the man charged, Izuku tried to pivot, but fatigue stole the last of his speed. The opponent’s boot slammed into his chest with bone-crunching force, and a sharp pain exploded through his ribs. He could swear something cracked, maybe two somethings, and then just as quickly the world blurred as he flew backward into the ropes. They caught him for a second, then flung him down. His head smacked the mat, and a chorus of cheers and groans erupted around them, echoing off the concrete walls like a storm.

The man swaggered over with a sick gleam in his eye, reaching down to grab Izuku by the collar of his bloodstained hoodie. He hauled Izuku up for the crowd to see, like a hunter displaying his kill. Faces pressed close beyond the ring, some wearing faces of unease, and he had to hold back a grin. They didn't think he would go down so easily, did they? He knew they all wanted carnage, some watching just for entertainment, but he knew some wanted to see Revenant fall, and he wasn't going to make it easy. 

Izuku’s head lolled for a moment, but then he looked at the man holding him and pulled his lips into a ragged grin, blood glistening between his teeth. Before his opponent could comprehend, Izuku planted his boots on the mans body behind him and swung himself upward in a desperate, explosive motion. His legs shot upward, and using the ropes in front of him, he propelled himself upward as he spun in the air, his body snapped around the man’s outstretched arm as his weight and momentum twist it until a sharp crack rang out. The man screamed, eyes bulging in horror. The arm bent grotesquely backward, and he instinctively hurled Izuku aside, but he hit the mat and rolled, each turn igniting a fresh wave of agony through his ribs.

He clenched his teeth so har d he thought they might break, his vision spotting red. Always the ribs. Always. He staggered to his feet, pushing past the pulsing ache as the man cradled his ruined limb. The brute roared and lunged, swinging a punch with his good arm. Izuku ducked low, close enough to smell sweat and blood, before slipping behind him with ghost-like precision. One shot to the pressure point at the base of the skull, fast, brutal, and now over. The man went stiff, eyes glazing, before collapsing in a boneless heap.

The entire arena fell dead silent for a single, fragile heartbeat, before they all roared. 

They screamed his name, chanting “Revenant! Revenant!” until it rattled the floor beneath his unsteady feet. He lifted a shaky hand, bowing low, chest heaving with ragged gasps as he laughed despite the pain, and pushed the ropes aside as he decided that was enough fighting for one night. He begun to make his way to the entrance, just as the first hands of the people closest reached out, slapping him on the back, brushing his shoulders. He forced a small smile, his ears ringing from the crowd’s roar, his heart pounding with the addictive rush of victory. People pressed in close, faces wild with excitement.

He was debating snapping at them, maybe even scaring them a little to stop them from touching him, when he felt another hand on his shoulder. The grip was firm, steady, and too strong for Izuku's liking as he spun around, ready to kick the person halfway to space, when he saw Grim standing there with a raised eyebrow, his lips drawn in a tight line. Oh, he was not happy. Izuku tried to weakly pull away, but quickly stopped. The glare Grim gave him could curdle milk.

“Grim, mind letting go for me old friend?” he rasped, trying for a cocky smirk that barely held together. He didn’t respond, but luckily he did release his grasp. Izuku sighed a breath of relief, and watched as Grim titled his head and motioned for him to follow. Not particularly keen to get on his bad side, he obliged. The press of the crowd parted reluctantly as he moved to Grim's side, short legs struggling to keep up in his dishevelled state, but soon they were both making their way towards the pop-up infirmary set up in a shadowy corner of the underground. The makeshift curtains did little to block the noise or hide the stench of blood and sweat, and he had to hold back a gag.

A nurse bustled over as they entered, eyes sharp as daggers. Izuku tried to wave her off, a lazy grin on his lips. “I’m good. Really. I’ll just… y’know… heal up when I get home.” The nurse stopped dead, her stare freezing him in place. It was the coldest, most terrifying look he’d ever seen, and he’d seen plenty. He felt Grim stiffen beside him, and he would have laughed had the man not looked mildly terrified. Oh, Izuku did not want to mess with someone who scared Grim of all people. So, he lifted his shirt halfway so she could check his ribs, wincing when the air hit his bruised skin. When she ordered him to take it off completely, he swallowed and stiffened.

“No thank you,” he ground out, forcing a stubborn smile as he shook his head, despite the dark look she was giving him. “I’d rather keep it on.” Her eyes narrowed, hard as flint. He pushed aside his strange fear and met her glare with his own, her lip curled into a snarl. “Glare all you want,” he whispered, “I ain’t takin’ it off. Sorry.”

She huffed, sending Grim a disappointed look that made him straighten up, but began healing him. She gently pressed her fingertips against his ribs, and she glowed a soft green colour as the pain slowly began to fade, before he was in half the amount of pain, and she began expertly wrapping his ribs. Every touch made him flinch, and his mind drifted, thoughts fracturing and reforming in aimless patterns until the world felt far away. He didn’t even notice when the nurse disappeared, the wrapping finished, and Grim had taken her place, standing over him like a very unhappy parent.

Blinking back into focus, he found Grim watching him with his eyebrow raised again, his arms crossed over his chest as the roar of the crowd outside still rumbled like distant thunder. He could tell the older man had some very unhappy words to say to him, but Izuku only huffed a laugh, though it came out more like a wheeze. “If you’re gonna scold me, Grim, bite your tongue. I’ll be fine by tonight, don't you worry.”

Grim just sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head with the air of a parent exasperated beyond words. Izuku shifted uncomfortably, every breath a reminder of how close he’d come to losing. But even through the pain, his grin was genuine. Because for a few glorious minutes out there, he’d felt alive, and the roar of the crowd had made him feel like nobody could stop him. Grim, on the other hand, gave him a long, withering look, his brow pinched in exasperation. “You look halfway dead.”

Izuku let out a laugh that cracked halfway through, making him clutch his ribs. “You hear what everyone says, I’ll just pop back up like always. Like a roach, but, you know… cooler.” Grim’s eyes narrowed like he was debating throwing him back into the ring. He instead chose to ignore the comment entirely and jerked his chin, motioning for Izuku to follow once more. He did, and soon they slipped from the infirmary, Izuku shouting a thank you to the nurse who was busy with someone else, and walked into the clamorous maze of underground stalls. The noise rolled over them like thunder. The roar of gamblers, the clink of coins, the barked calls of vendors hawking everything from knockoff hero masks to suspiciously glowing drinks.

As they wove through the crowd, they arrived at a stand nearly buried by a sea of shouting bettors. The counters were cluttered with betting slips and crumpled bills. The woman behind it looked like she’d been wrestling the mob herself, bright blue hair wild and expression fierce. She paused when her eyes found Grim, then zeroed in on Izuku. He was surprised when her face lit up like a slot machine jackpot. “Hey! Revenant, right?” she called, voice carrying easily over the chaos. She bent down into a battered steel box at her feet and rifled through something. Then she popped back up and practically threw a wad of bills into Izuku’s arms, and his eyes widened. “Good job for your first go, kid! That’s all the money you won tonight.”

Izuku stared at the money like she’d handed him a live grenade. “Uh… sorry, what? I don’t… I can’t take this, it's too much!” He started shoving it back at her, but she just leaned back with a smirk and glanced pointedly at Grim. “You told him about the pay, didn’t you?”  Izuku’s head snapped around so fast his neck cracked. “Told me about what ?” Grim shrugged with infuriating calm. “You earned it.”

Izuku’s jaw dropped open and closed like a gasping fish as Grim turned and started walking again. He scrambled to catch up, once again thanking the blue haired lady as he clutched the cash in his hands like it might vanish. His grip tightened when he noticed a few hungry looks pointed his way. The world around him felt both electric and surreal, the crowd’s roar a muffled hum compared to the rush in his ears. I actually earned this, he thought, heart hammering with something warm and fierce. I fought for this. Not a handout, not a pity job. I fought, and I won, and this money is mine.

His mind flashed to the cozy cafe, the way Hizashi sighed at him every time he tried to refuse pay. The hours he spent washing dishes, scrubbing counters, and arguing passionately about why he shouldn’t get paid as much. He remembered how long it had taken of back-and-forth before Hizashi reluctantly agreed to lower his wage just a little. He was still extremely grateful, but he couldn't bring himself to spend it. The man had already been so kind to him, and he would only felt worse if he kept taking the money out of his pocket. But this? This felt right. This felt earned.

Grim must’ve noticed his wide eyes and the giddy grin starting to crack his face, because a grin of his own tugged at the corners of his mouth. But he quickly sobered, giving Izuku a look sharp enough to cut. “You did a good job out there, Revenant, but you need to take care of yourself out here. Even if you’re strong, you’re still a kid.” Izuku’s happy grin dropped into an indignant scowl so fast it was like whiplash. “Why does everyone keep calling me a kid?” he snapped, voice squeaking just a little, which only made it worse.

Grim arched an eyebrow, expression flat as a pancake. “Because you are a kid. You sound twelve.” Izuku’s eyes bulged. “I’m not fucking twelve!” he sputtered. Grim nearly lost his deadpan, lips twitching as Izuku glared at him. “Sorry, Revenant,” Grim said, voice heavy with mock apology. “But you sound like it.” Izuku threw his free hand in the air like a referee had just called the world’s worst penalty. “Why does everyone keep saying that!” he practically shrieked, pitch rising with every word. “Eraser’s the fucking same. Once he told me I sounded like I should be at home studying for a test or running around the park playing tag instead of-” he gestured wildly “-committing crimes and beating the shit out of people. Like what else am I supposed to do?”

Grim barked out a short laugh as they passed a vendor selling knives labelled with names like Hero Slayer and Silent Mercy. “Maybe you should listen to 'im. Your sleep schedule must be fucked.” Grim prodded, amusement clear as they squeezed past a knot of punks arguing over a bet. Izuku glared holes into his back. “Just the other night,” he started, ignoring his previous comment, his voice dripping with exasperation, “there was a guy getting robbed at gunpoint. I took the mugger out so fast he didn’t even finish his villain monologue, and you know what the victim said? He looked at me, eyes all wide, and said, ‘You’re too young for this! It’s dangerous!’” Izuku’s voice came out more like a hiss now, but he kept going. “I wasn’t the one with a gun in my face!”

Grim howled with laughter so loud a few people turned to stare. He clapped Izuku on the shoulder. “That's rough, kid. But hey, people sell a shit-ton of things down here,” he said, eyes still sparkling with mirth. “I’m sure we can find you a voice changer somewhere.” Izuku scowled like a kicked cat, his nose scrunching. “What’s the point of that? People like Eraserhead have already heard my voice. And if I did change it, he’d probably show up and say, ‘Oh, cute, you got your big brother to fight for you.’”

Grim stifled another laugh and straightened, eyes flicking around the crowded stalls. “You just tell them you hit puberty overnight,” he said, smirking. “Besides, it’ll make you sound scarier, too. Or at least as scary as someone your height wandering around at night can be." Izuku paused, blinking. Then a slow, mischievous grin spread across his face. “Scarier, huh? You think I could get one that makes me sound like All Might? It would be wonderful, since he thinks the whole world’s a stage for his damn catchphrases. ‘I AM HERE… to beat the shit out of you!”

Grim nearly choked on his own laugh. “God, that’d terrify everyone in this hellhole.” Izuku puffed up his chest, or tried to, before his ribs reminded him they were very much broken, and let out a pained wheeze instead. “Perfect. Let’s find me the scariest voice changer down here.” Grim slung an arm over Izuku’s shoulders, carefully avoiding his ribs, and steered him deeper into the tangle of narrow aisles. The noise around them shifted from raucous shouting to a steady hum of bartering, the air thick with the mingled scents of fried food, motor oil, and as always, blood.

They passed stalls piled with crates of cheap gadgets, shifty-looking quirk boosters, and bootleg hero merch. A vendor called out, “Earplugs! Best in the city, you won’t hear a single cop siren!” Another was selling what looked like stuffed animals wearing tiny villain masks.  After a minute, Grim nudged Izuku toward a cramped booth with a faded sign: “Gadget Genji's Goods & Gizmos”. A small man with thick goggles perched on his head sat behind the counter, tinkering with a cracked voice modulator.

Grim rapped his knuckles on the metal counter. “Genji. We need something to make the kid here sound less… twelve.” Genji looked up slowly. His eyes flicked from Grim to Izuku, then back, then back to Izuku. His lips twitched. “Twelve’s generous,” he said dryly, and Izuku immediately flipped him off with a scowl.  He let out a gravelly cackle. “All right, all right, relax, kid. You want something subtle or something that’ll make you sound like a monster crawled outta Tartarus?”

"I would prefer not to sound like I crawled out of Tartarus, thank you. I was thinking something to just age me up a bit." Genji sighed, but put his current project aside. "Lucky for you, you’re not the first fighter down here who needed to scare the shit outta people. I’ve got just the thing.” He turned around and began digging through a stack of old cardboard boxes, each crammed with half-finished tech and prototype gadgets. After a few moments, he pulled out a sleek, metallic mask with sharp black accents that caught the light. The surface gleamed with a brushed silver finish, sturdy and solid in his hands, clearly built for more than just looks.

Genji held it up. “Took a while, but I got the voice changer working through this version,” he said, handing it over. The mask was shaped to fit snugly over the lower half of the face, contoured to match the jawline. Its design was reminiscent of a reinforced respirator, smooth and rounded across the front with subtle angular lines that gave it a tactical, armoured look. Eight small, circular black vents were embedded in the front in a clean, symmetrical pattern, and on the left side were three buttons. He ran his fingers over them as he turned the mask in his hand, and when he looked up, Genji was smiling broadly at him as he pointed towards the front, where the eight black circles were.

"Four on the bottom are intake vents," he explained, tapping one with his finger. "They’re built with micro filters that only let oxygen through. No smoke, no toxic gas, nothing else gets in. You could walk through a chemical fire with this on and should still breathe fine for a while. Still don't recommend it though, I don't want you doin' that and dying on me." Izuku couldn't think of a situation where he would choose to, so he just eyed the mask more as Genji continued to explain, gesturing to the four circles positioned along the top half. "These four are micro-speakers, hooked up to a voice modulator inside the mask. That’s what lets you sound like someone else, or like a scarier and older version of yourself."

He flipped the mask to show the small black rectangle that covered the four top speakers on the inside, and he guessed that was where the modulator was. Next, Genji flipped the mask on its side and showed him the small control panel embedded on the left, where three matte black buttons sat in a clean row. "This first button deepens your voice and gives it more weight, more presence. Useful if you don’t want to be recognised or need to sound intimidating," he said, pressing it briefly to demonstrate a faint, shifted echo from the speaker vents.

"The middle one here?" He tapped the second button. "That records voices. Just hold it while someone’s talking, and it saves the sample right to the chip inside. This last one lets you play back, or speak in, the voice of whoever you recorded most recently." He gave a little grin. "Perfect for slipping past voice-ID or messing with someone’s head." Genji handed the mask back. “So yeah! Breathe clean, sound like whoever you want, and look good doing it. Oh! When you aren't wearing it, it can hang around your neck as well. It's pretty easy to put on and take off, so you should be good."

Izuku was stunned. He tried to find the right words to say, but he was so overjoyed that he only squeaked. His face went red, but he immediately dove into conversation with Genji about his fucking genius inventions, and he didn't even realise he was rambling and shooting him questions every second until the man put his hands up in the air. "Woah, kid, slow down! Don't get too excited, it's pretty old. I made it around a year ago, I reckon? It should last you a while, but don't go diving into explosions or anything, alright? I'd hate to see it broken so soon."

Izuku nodded, his eyes still wide. “So… If I just press this button, I can sound like me, but … me if I was older?” Genji raised a pleased eyebrow. “Yep, this baby will make you sound like you hit puberty twice.” Izuku carefully turned the mask over, fingers tingling with anticipation. He lifted it up to his mouth, looking at Genji for confirmation, and when the man nodded with a grin he quickly strapped it over his jaw, pleased to find that it fit snugly but wasn't too tight so it didn't dig into his skin. He sucked in a breath and pressed the first button. “Testing… testing…”

His voice rolled out low and resonant, deep and rough. It was like his own, but older, stronger, edged with a commanding rasp that carried even over the din of the crowd. People in the alley actually turned. A group of guys by a nearby stall looked up sharply, startled. A woman two booths down dropped a can she’d been examining. Even Grim blinked in surprise. Izuku’s eyes went impossibly wider. He practically vibrated with glee. Holy shit, he thought, chest swelling despite the stabbing pain. I sound like me, but a cooler version. Like someone who people wouldn’t look at and think, 'aw, what a cute kid!' when they hear his voice.

He looked at Genji, voice still in its new, deeper register. “This. Is. Awesome.” The man cackled, slapping the counter. “Perfect fit, kid.” Izuku smirked, turning to Grim. “Well?” he rumbled, tone rolling smoothly. “Do I sound like someone who needs a bedtime story?” Grim burst out laughing so hard he nearly doubled over. “I… Revenant… you actually sound like you could be my older brother. It's mildly terrifying.” Izuku pressed the button, letting his voice squeak back to normal. “Oh thank god, I thought it’d make me sound like a robot or something.”

Genji waved him off, leaning back in his squeaky chair. “As I said, it’s an old model, but solid. That mode’s a custom job takes your vocal signature and shifts it deeper without scrambling it. Makes you sound like you. Just… meaner.” Izuku grinned so wide it hurt. “That’s exactly what I need. How much for it, Genji?”

The man thinks for a second, before he shrugs. "Whatever cash you don't want. Honestly, I got plenty of masks I won't even notice if that ones gone." Izuku tries to tell him he would pay whatever price, but the man was adamant. "Keep arguing with me kid and I'll make it free." He pulled the mask down and huffed, before he flipped through his money and gave the man 20,000 yen. He'd made around 50,000, but he was keen on buying some new weapons as well.

Genji took the money gratefully, and shot him a smile. "If the mask breaks, come back to me and I'll fix it for ya' free of charge." Izuku thanked the man, and before long they were waving goodbye and Grim was leading Izuku away, his new mask resting comfortably around his neck. He slides it back on before he pressed the first button again, rumbling, “Let’s go get food before I pass out.” His grin widened when the nearest vendor startled so hard he nearly dropped a tray of fried dumplings. Grim let out a long, suffering groan. “I’ve created a monster.” Izuku's grin widens.

The two of them slip through the crowded alleys, Izuku’s new, deeper voice still rumbling every time he spoke, and every time he accidentally scared the life out of someone passing by. The smells of sizzling meat and sweet sauces wrapped around them, and Izuku’s eyes darted hungrily from one food stand to the next. The exhaustion clawing at his limbs slowly faded with every step, replaced by a giddy energy he could barely contain. The underground was alive, humming with danger and excitement, and he wanted to soak in every second.

They finally stopped at a greasy little burger stall tucked between two vendors selling suspicious pills and support gear. The flickering neon sign above read 'American Burgers' in mismatched letters. Grim ordered two specials without hesitation, but Izuku eyed the stand warily. “Burgers? Really? This doesn’t exactly scream ‘five-star dining.’” Grim just gave him a flat look. “Trust me.”

A few minutes later, they sat on rickety stools by a cracked plastic table, each holding a burger wrapped in greasy wax paper. Izuku took a sceptical bite, then his eyes went wide. The toasted bun, smoky beef, melted cheese, and tangy sauce burst across his tongue, and he let out an involuntary groan. “Okay… I’ll admit it… the Americans know how to make decent food.” Grim smirked, mouth full. “Told ya.”

Izuku dug into his burger with a hunger that surprised even himself, paying for both his and Grim’s meal with the cash he’d earned. Who knew one would be so hungry after fighting seven people?

He and Grim sat side by side, watching the nearby fighting pit as a match just started and the two brawlers began tearing into each other, the crowd screaming with every punch and kick. Between bites, they traded stories about their own fights, and Izuku recounted the instant he’d twisted that guy’s arm until it snapped, earning a low whistle from Grim and a praise for his quick thinking. Grim countered with tales of when he’d fought a quirked-up bruiser who could sprout spikes from his skin, explaining how he dodged and baited the man into tearing his own limbs apart. That terrified Izuku the slightest bit.

By the time they were finishing their burgers, the fighting pit had cycled through three more bouts, each wilder than the last. Izuku laughed, eyes bright. His exhaustion felt like a distant memory. Grim leaned back, picking a stray piece of lettuce from his shirt, and gave him a sidelong look. “So… what took you so long to press the token?” Izuku blinked, then barked a laugh. “I dunno, maybe because I didn’t know if it was a trap?” He threw his hands up dramatically. “You show up all big and scary, give me a mystery coin, then vanish. It was like a setup for a horror movie.” Grim actually chuckled, the sound deep and gravelly. “Yeah… I ain’t the best at first impressions.”

Izuku smirked. “You think? Maybe next time don’t start by snatching unsuspecting kids out of alleys, it won't win you any favours.” Grim sent an unimpressed stare his way, but just as quickly snorted. “Noted.” Suddenly, Izuku had a thought. “Hey, how did you find me in that alleyway? It was empty, aside from Eraser trying to catch me as usual.”

Grim’s eyes glinted under the dim lights as he smirked, his voice low. "It's all thanks to my quirk. I like to call it Hunter's Domain." Izuku raised an eyebrow, extremely interested. He loved hearing about new quirks, and Grim's sounded wonderful. "So, how does it work?"

“I cast an invisible field over a piece of the city. It's mostly just a few blocks, but I can sometimes do more if I really dig in,” Grim continued, his voice dark and deliberate. “Inside that Domain, I don’t just sense footsteps or heartbeats. I feel intent. The hunger for survival, the spike of fear, the rage before a fight, all of it calls to me like blood in the water.”

He leaned forward, eyes boring into Izuku’s. “When I heard stories about a vigilante folding criminals like cheap chairs, I tuned my Domain to find someone small, fast, and vicious. And the moment you started running from Eraserhead, your panic and that fierce will to keep moving blazed like a signal fire. That’s how I found you.” A thin, wolfish smile tugged at Grim’s lips, humourless and sharp. “No matter how deep you hide, if you’re in my Domain, I’ll know exactly where you are.”

Izuku blinked, momentarily stunned by the gravity in Grim’s words, then burst into a wheezing laugh that echoed deep. “You know,” he said between snorts, “you really need to work on your people skills. Because that explanation? That was straight-up nightmare fuel.” Grim’s frown twitched, like he wasn’t sure if he should be annoyed or offended. “Nightmare fuel?” He wiped a tear of laughter from his eye, still grinning. “Yeah! That was terrifying. I mean, you’re worse than Eraser. At least he just stares you down until you want to cry. You sound like you’re planning a murder documentary.”

The man’s eyes narrowed into slits, a hateful glare settling on his face, like he was reconsidering every life choice that led him to this conversation. But Izuku only laughed harder, his grin wide and unrepentant. “There it is! That Eraser-level scowl. You’d fit right in with him.” Grim’s frown deepened, his nostrils flaring like a bull. “I’m nothing like that stick-in-the-mud underground hero.” Izuku snorted so hard he nearly choked on his laughter. “Keep telling yourself that, old man.”

His laughter slowly faded, leaving behind a wide grin and a spark of excitement in his eyes. He leaned forward, elbows on the rickety table, voice dropping to something more earnest. “But… seriously,” he said, tone softer but still laced with awe, “I think it’s really fucking cool. Like, yeah, it’s terrifying. But it’s also amazing.” Grim’s eyebrow lifted a fraction, his frown easing into something more neutral. “You… think so?” he asked, like the idea of someone liking his quirk had never occurred to him.

Izuku nodded, eyes bright beneath his hood. “Obviously. If I ever need to find someone, or hell, if someone needs to be hunted down, I know exactly who I’m calling. You’d find them in a heartbeat. It's wicked.” For a moment, Grim was silent, the noise of the fighting pit and the shouts of the crowd fading into the background. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his scarred face, sharp and proud. “You’re not half bad yourself, kid.”

He smirked, a thrill running through him before he said, “Remind me never to get on your bad side.” Grim chuckled, a low, amused rumble. “I’ll try to keep you on my good side, kid.” They sat quietly for a moment, the comfortable silence punctuated by distant cheers from the ring. But soon enough, Grim stood and brushed crumbs from his jacket. “Got something else to take care of tonight,” he said, voice low but not unfriendly. “You gonna be all right?”

Izuku pulled his mask on and pressed his voice changer, the deep rumble making him sound more confident than he felt. “I’ll be fine, I’m not ready to leave yet.” Grim just shook his head, half a smile tugging at his lips, before disappearing into the crowd like a ghost. Izuku watched him go, then turned back toward the fighting pits, the flickering lights casting him in a shifting halo of red and yellow. His heart pounded with anticipation.

He stepped away from the burger stall, the crowd immediately swallowing him in a swirl of voices, the air thick with smoke and the sharp tang of ozone from flickering neon lights. The underground market stretched before him like a labyrinth, narrow alleys bursting with stalls piled high with weapons, armour, and gear that looked both experimental and illegal. Every neon sign cast fractured shadows, painting the cracked walls with flashes of red and purple.

He passed a vendor hunched over a table of folding blades and butterfly knives, each gleaming with a hunger of its own. Izuku watched the vendor flip one blade in a fluid arc, but he kept moving, eyes searching for something quicker, deadlier, something perfect for a silent approach. At the next stall, he found it. A set of sleek throwing knives resting in a velvet-lined case, their crimson red handles catching the light like droplets of fresh blood. They were slim, beautifully balanced, and the vendor demonstrated how they could clip neatly into small loops sewn onto a sturdy black leather belt.

Izuku picked up one knife, running his thumb along the flat of the blade. Perfect weight. Razor sharp. He bought the full set of four on the spot, strapping the belt around his waist and feeling an unexpected rush of confidence. These are mine now, he thought, almost giddy. He drifted deeper into the maze of stalls, neon lights reflecting in his eyes as he passed crates of questionable pills and gadgets that sparked and fizzled ominously. Then a thin man with goggles perched crookedly on his nose called out to him, gesturing to a display of small bombs arranged by colour. Izuku’s eyes widened at the sight of the compact spheres. Smoke bombs.

He tested one, twisting the quick-trigger ring on top. The vendor explained each type with a gleam in his eye. There were two ordinary black smoke bombs, two filled with dense green mist, and to Izuku’s amazement, two that burst into glittering clouds of shimmering silver flecks. His heart practically soared. “I’ll take them all,” he said breathlessly.

The vendor threw in a black leather belt that crisscrossed neatly across his waist, each strap fitted with snug loops to hold the six bombs securely. Izuku clipped them in with trembling hands, the bomb belt snug on his left side whereas the belt with his knives hung neatly on his right, both criss-crossing across his front and back. He twisted side to side, testing the weight, and was happy to find they were perfectly balanced. His grin stretched until his cheeks hurt.

He moved past a stand selling heavy body armour, but it was too bulky. Another with boots lined with spikes, but they were too noisy. But a display of reinforced combat pants caught his eye. They were lightweight, flexible, and had padding at the knees and thighs. He made a mental note to come back for them, imagining how they’d protect him in a tumble or a desperate brawl.

A stall near the corner sold gloves of all shapes and sizes, and he picked up a pair that had covered his fingers and palm, the material stretching up to rest just below his elbow and would be great in warmer weather. The palm and fingers also had a thin layer of grippy material, meaning it would be easier to climb onto things and hold himself up. He quickly bought them for a shockingly low price and slipped them into one of the pockets on his pants .

He wove between the crowds, keeping a sharp eye on every stall and every shadow, careful to avoid the shadiest corners where flickering green flames rose from cramped braziers. The sight made his skin crawl, and he shuddered at the thought, pulling his hood lower and moving quickly past. He spent what felt like hours weaving through the market, the crowd shifting around him like a living sea. Every item he eyed made his heart beat faster, every step further cementing the identity he was building. By the time he counted the remaining bills in his pocket, he had just 5,000 yen left. I spent almost everything… But as he looked at the knives strapped to his belt, the crisscrossed smoke bombs hugging his his waist as well, and his pockets filled with new gear, a fierce, blazing pride warmed his chest. Worth every damn yen.

He took one last look at the underground, neon lights flickering above him, then turned for the metal reinforced door that was the entrance. He said goodbye to the man beside it, and as he walked down the hallway, he fished the token out of his pocket. He pressed the glowing blue centre, and as the door appeared, he reached a hand forward, smiling to himself.

Chapter Text

Izuku’s sleep, as always, was haunted by nightmares, the shadows of his past wrapping tight around his chest and squeezing until he couldn’t breathe. He woke with a strangled gasp, drenched in cold sweat, with tears cutting paths down his cheeks. His heart pounded violently, as if it were trying to break free from his ribs. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the dream clung to him, vivid and merciless.

He’d been small again, barely ten, the kitchen clock ticking painfully loud as he stood barefoot. It was a Friday, and Fridays meant Mama always came home at six o’clock after her shift. He’d worked so hard, chopping vegetables with careful, clumsy hands, stirring the broth with practised motions, tasting the sauce again and again until it was just right. He’d set the table neatly with their mismatched dishes, placing her favourite chipped cup by her seat.

6PM came, and he perched on the couch, staring at the front door with a hopeful smile. 6:10, and he told himself maybe the train was running late. 6:30, and he reheated the katsudon, steam fogging the little kitchen window. 7PM, and his smile started to ache, but he whispered, She’s just busy. She’ll come.

By 7:30, hunger twisted in his belly, but he ignored it, eyes locked on the door. He kept replaying how happy she’d be when she saw he’d made the dish they would eat together every Friday when he was younger, imagining her tired face lighting up, the warm hug she’d pull him into. 8PM ticked by, then 8:30. His eyes burned from holding back tears as he reset the table twice, adjusting the chopsticks, straightening the bowls.

At 9PM, the silence of the apartment felt like it was crushing him, each second stretching unbearably long. The katsudon had grown cold and congealed. His hands shook as he packed it into a container and placed it in the fridge, trying not to look at the empty chair across from him. His chest felt hollow, like something inside him had caved in. He shuffled to his room, crawling under his thin blanket, curling up small as loneliness gnawed at him.

Hours later, darkness pressed in from every corner of his room. He woke to the sound of the door crashing open, the loud bang reverberating through the walls. His mother’s muttered curses slithered through the apartment, harsh and unfamiliar. He sat up, fear coiling tight in his chest as he heard her stumbling footsteps. The sharp, bitter scent of alcohol drifted down the hall, thick enough to choke him.

He slipped out of bed and cracked his door open. His mother was leaning against the wall, hair a tangled mess, eyes glassy and unfocused. She nearly fell, bracing herself against a table with a sharp, ugly laugh. “Mama?” he asked quietly, voice trembling, hope sparking even as dread curled cold in his gut. “Are… are you okay?”

Her head snapped up, eyes zeroing in on him with a hateful clarity. She staggered toward him, each step heavy with rage and drink. Her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist so hard pain lanced up his arm. “Okay?” she hissed, voice slurring but sharp enough to cut. “How could I ever be okay with a son as worthless and pathetic as you?”

He whimpered as her nails dug into his skin, tears spilling as she ranted, words blistering and cruel: worthless, useless, mistake . She shook him until his teeth clacked together. His wrist throbbed painfully under her grip, skin already darkening where she held him. She shoved him, and he fell to the floor, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs as he scrambled backward in blind panic. Her voice cracked like a whip as she spat, “Stay out of my way, Izuku, if you know what’s good for you.” Then she turned, staggering into her room and slamming the door so hard the walls rattled. The silence afterwards was deafening.

Now, awake in his dark apartment, Izuku sat hunched on his bed, head cradled in trembling hands. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, fingers twitching for his knife, desperate for something, anything , to bleed the pain away. But her voice echoed in his head again: useless, worthless, stay out of my way.

He squeezed his eyes shut, sucking in a shuddering breath. Get it together, Izuku. Don’t be ungrateful , he snarled at himself, wiping at the tears. She fed you, clothed you. That’s more than most quirkless kids ever get. But the memories poured in. The harsh grips, the drunken screams, the slurred insults, the endless nights of fear.

He staggered to the bathroom, ripping his shirt over his head. The cold shower hit him like a slap, water needling his skin as his mind cleared, thoughts finally slowing from a fevered spiral to a dull, throbbing ache. Get it together, he told himself again, gritting his teeth as the freezing water dripped from his chin. You can’t fall apart now.

After only a few minutes under the icy water, his teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. His skin burned with cold as he stumbled out of the shower, droplets streaming down his shivering frame. He pulled on a long-sleeved shirt and old sweatpants, layering a thick hoodie over top. Even then, a chill lingered beneath his skin, burrowed deep as if the cold had settled into his bones.

He wandered into the main room of his small apartment, eyes catching the muted light pouring through the cracked blinds. A glance at the clock made him frown. Midday already? He must’ve slept far longer than planned, his exhaustion devouring the hours. He sighed, raking a hand through damp hair. The apartment felt stiflingly silent. With nothing else to do, he decided to head to Takoba Beach.

The sun hung low in the sky, warm on his face but failing to thaw the cold inside him. Waves lapped rhythmically against the shore, the scent of salt mixing with the sharp stink of rust and rotting trash. He rolled up his sleeves and got to work, trudging through sand littered with debris. He began sorting bottles and cardboard into recyclables, stacking them neatly into makeshift piles. Rusted metal scraps went into another heap, which he carried armful by armful to the nearby scrap station that took materials for reuse.

Every fridge or washing machine he came across mocked him, since they were mostly too heavy for his arms, forcing him to roll them awkwardly across the sand. His muscles burned by the fourth roll, arms aching with each shove. He paused often, leaning on battered appliances to catch his breath before pushing himself to continue. The sun climbed higher, baking him in its heat, yet his core remained stubbornly cold.

The afternoon wore on, punctuated only by the screech of gulls and the clink of glass bottles. He sorted tirelessly, sweat slicking his forehead, sleeves darkening with grime. He worked twice as long as usual, determined to leave the beach a little cleaner than it had been that morning. By the time he wiped his hands on his hoodie and slung his bag of tools over his shoulder, the sky had begun to darken, the first hints of evening painting it with streaks of gold and violet.

His clothes smelled of salt water, sweat, and the faint sourness of old trash. The breeze blowing in from the sea grew sharper, and he was glad he’d kept his hoodie on. His muscles ached with satisfying exhaustion, but his mind felt restless as he trudged away from the beach, shoes scuffing against the cracked sidewalks.

He walked aimlessly, drifting through alleys and quiet streets, unsure of what he was searching for or what to do with himself next. The city was alive around him, with distant cars, muffled voices, and neon signs flickering awake, but he felt strangely apart from it all, floating through the evening like a ghost with nowhere to be.

He let his feet carry him, mind blank, eyes half-lidded as he drifted through the streets. The world blurred around him, just the rhythm of his steps and the distant thud of his heart to anchor him. Voices slowly grew louder, chatter rising and falling like waves. He blinked, realising he must’ve been walking for ages since the sun was now slipping below the horizon, staining the city in deep oranges and purples, the smell of sizzling oil, grilled meat, and warm bread wafting on the evening breeze. His stomach clenched painfully, reminding him he still hadn’t eaten. He sighed, patting his hoodie pocket to check his cash. 5000 yen left , he thought, grimacing. It wasn’t much, but he was grateful for it nonetheless.

He ducked into a convenience store he’d never noticed before, which was a narrow place with flickering lights and half-empty shelves. The air inside was cold, the floor sticky in spots. He wandered the aisles, eyes scanning for something cheap but filling. He grabbed a plastic-wrapped egg sandwich, then picked up a few instant meals and some cans of food that wouldn’t spoil soon. His hand hesitated over a chocolate bar, but he pulled it back with a tight breath. No. Priorities.

He placed his haul on the counter, the cashier not bothering to look up at him as he scanned Izuku’s items before counting and taking the last of his cash. Outside, he ripped open the sandwich as he walked, scarfing it down in quick, hungry bites. The bread was stale, but the taste of egg and mayonnaise felt like a feast. Lights blinked to life around him, and streetlamps buzzed overhead as he trudged back through alleys and side streets. His limbs were leaden by the time his apartment complex loomed ahead, dark and quiet except for the hum of insects.

He climbed through the familiar broken window, careful not to rip the thin plastic bag as he swung himself inside. Soon, he put his new food away in his battered kitchen cabinets, the doors hanging crookedly on rusted hinges, creaking like they might fall off at any moment. He stood there for a long moment, hand resting on the edge of the sink, the silence pressing down on him like a weight. Then he squared his shoulders. No time to mope.

He stripped down and stepped into a quick shower, and when he stepped out, he dressed in his Revenant gear, with the new additions of his two belts with the four throwing knives and six bombs, before he slid the gloves on and flexed his fingers. He pulled his hood up, making sure both the black mask covering his scar and the mask covering his mouth were on tightly before his gaze fell to the crimson-handled throwing knives glinting on his belt. He reached for one, weighing it carefully in his palm. I have no damn clue how to throw this, he realised with a scowl. His eyes flicked around until they landed on an old black marker rolling around on the floor. He picked it up and dragged it across the largest empty wall he had, drawing a crude target with three uneven rings.

He took a few steps back, exhaled, and raised the knife, trying to remember all the random tips he’d ever seen in movies. He let it fly. It spun awkwardly, hitting the wall below the target with a dull thud before clattering to the ground. He stared at it for a moment, shoulders slumping. Great start, Izuku. He sighed, padding over to pick it up, determination already lighting in his chest despite the failure. 

He spent the next half hour in his cramped living room, practising throw after throw. Each knife spun wildly, clanging off the wall or clattering uselessly to the floor. Sweat dripped from his brow as frustration simmered beneath his skin. But he kept going, picking up the knives, adjusting his grip, exhaling slowly before each attempt.

Finally, one of the blades sailed straight, embedding itself with a satisfying thunk just inside the outermost ring. It held for a few seconds before slipping free and bouncing off the floor, but he grinned like he’d just won the lottery. “I’ll take it,” he muttered, voice low and fierce. He sheathed the knives at his waist and straightened. “I’m going out. And when I get back, I’ll keep practising.”

With his hood drawn up and masks secured, he slipped into the night, moving from rooftop to rooftop with silent precision. The city sprawled beneath him, alive with flickering lights, hushed conversations, and the occasional shout. He stopped a few petty thefts, left would-be muggers zip-tied to streetlights, and even called in an attempted bank robbery, watching from above as the heroes arrived.

Hours passed in a rush of adrenaline until a sharp shout from below caught his ear. He crouched on the edge of a building, peering down into a narrow street outside a dingy bar. Two men stood nose to nose, voices hoarse from screaming. One stepped back, and Izuku let himself hope he’d seen sense, until the man yanked a gun from his coat. “Damn it,” Izuku hissed, leaping from the rooftop. He landed hard, boots cracking against the pavement, and in one smooth motion he wrenched the gun from the man’s hand. He clicked the safety on with a snick , eyes glinting from beneath his hood as he looked them both over.

He tsked, voice deep and distorted by the changer. “Do you usually end arguments by shooting people? If so, I’d hate to think how many people have disagreed with you. You seem like an all-around annoying guy.” Both men flinched violently at his voice, eyes wide. The unarmed one croaked, “R-Revenant?”

Izuku grinned beneath his mask, shifting his weight so one hip popped out dramatically as he held the gun limply but firmly in one gloved hand, barrel pointed toward the sky. “Ding ding! You’re one smart cookie,” he drawled. “Now, wanna tell me why you were fighting in the middle of the street, and why this genius thought a very illegal gun was a good idea to end the argument?”

They hesitated, eyes darting to each other, then back to the dark figure before them. Silence stretched, thick and heavy. Revenant sighed, raising his voice with a hint of a growl. “Not tonight-” He didn’t get to finish. Both men lunged at him at once, rage and fear pushing them past sense. “Guess we’re doing this the hard way.”

Izuku quickly tucked the gun into the back of his pants, ducking low as a wild punch whistled past his ear. He twisted and slammed a sharp kick into the second man’s chest, sending him skidding several feet across the cracked pavement. 

A spark of inspiration flashed through his mind as he scanned the street, eyes darting wildly as he muttered under his breath. Okay, two opponents, both bigger than me, straight street fighters by the looks of it. One’s relying on brute force, the other on intimidation. I can use the alley-limited space means they can’t flank, can’t use reach advantage. He danced around the first punch, mind racing. Need to stagger them. Quick strikes, off-balance. If I keep moving, they’ll trip over each other. Isolate one, take him out, then focus on the other. Or-

His eyes snapped to the nearby alleyway. Yes! Tight corridor forces them into single file, they’ll bottleneck. I can bounce between walls, control the engagement. But need something to disrupt them first- His eyes locked on the unopened can of beans on a trash heap. Projectile! Unexpected. Element of surprise, psychological shock, temporary blindness if I hit the face… He grinned behind his mask. Perfect. His mouth split wide behind his mask as he snatched it up.

“Dinnertime!” he crowed in a sing-song voice, turning around and flinging the can with a perfect overhand throw. It spun end over end, smacking the first guy dead-on in the nose with a wet crunch. The man let out a strangled grunt and slumped to the ground, out cold. “Damn,” Izuku snickered. “Didn’t expect it to be that effective.”

The second man roared and charged, but with one less opponent, Izuku danced around him with ease. He parried a wild swing, twisted behind the man, and landed a swift strike to the back of the neck. The thug crumpled like a puppet with cut strings. Izuku worked quickly, tying the unconscious men back to back with zip ties. He wiped sweat from his brow, heart still pounding with adrenaline, when a small gasp caught his ear. He turned sharply to the mouth of the alleyway, and there stood a teenager, wide-eyed, phone clutched in both hands as he filmed.

Shit , Izuku thought, fighting a grimace. He straightened up, forcing cocky ease into his stance as he raised one hand in a casual wave. “Hey there! Might want to head home before it gets any later,” he drawled, voice deep and distorted. “Wouldn’t want someone pulling a gun on ya, so make sure to get home safe!” The kid just gawked, frozen. He sighed, pulling a green smoke bomb from his belt as he muttered loud enough for only him to hear, “Guess now’s as good a time as any for a test run.”

He tossed the bomb at his feet. It burst open with a puff and a hiss, emerald smoke billowing thickly around him. He heard the kid gasp in surprise but saw no signs of coughing, luckily the boy was far enough to avoid the worst of it, just as Izuku planned. His mask filtered the smoke, so his breathing wasn’t affected, and he crouched before grabbing the zip ties connecting the two unconscious men, and hauled them up with a grunt. His arms screamed with protest as he dragged them through the smoke, sprinting down the alley and weaving around corners until he was sure they were well away from the teen.

Once hidden on a quiet street, he propped the men against a lamppost, gun placed on the pavement a few feet away, and whipped out his phone, dialling the police. “Two criminals zip-tied together near 4th, one was armed with a gun,” he said, voice pitched low. He ended the call, leapt up a fire escape, and settled on a nearby rooftop to watch. Minutes later, red and blue lights flooded the street below. Officers secured the men and loaded them into a cruiser. Izuku exhaled raggedly, chest heaving, arms throbbing from the drag. Worth it, he thought, relieved that the kid wouldn’t be caught in any fallout.

He was so focused on the scene below that he didn’t hear the soft whoosh of a familiar weapon until something cold and tight wrapped around his chest. His breath rushed out in a startled oof as he was yanked backward, landing flat on his back with a painful smack against the rooftop. Groaning, he looked up, his head spinning, only to see a dark figure looming above him, capture weapon coiling back into a familiar scarf. Eraser’s expression was a perfect storm of irritation and exhaustion. Izuku flashed him a weak grin from the ground, though he couldn’t see it beneath the mask. “Nice to see you, ‘Raser,” he wheezed.

The hero’s capture scarf uncoiled with a flick, yanking Izuku sharply to his feet. The hero kept the fabric taut around Izuku’s chest, ensuring he couldn’t bolt. Moonlight gleamed off the man's tired, dark-ringed eyes as he swept an appraising look over the younger vigilante. “New voice…?” he asked, tone deceptively mild but carrying an undercurrent that made Izuku’s hair prickle. “Trying to sound more intimidating, Revenant?”

Sometimes Izuku wished his mouth wasn't covered, only so Eraser could see the shit-eating grin he was sending his way. “Well, it’s working, isn’t it?” he crowed, spreading his arms as wide as possible with the capture weapon still bound around his upper arms. “Don’t I look just terrifying?”

His only response was a slow blink, unimpressed as always. “You look ridiculous,” he deadpanned, voice flat as asphalt. His eyes swept over the new crossed belts, crimson-handled knives, and sleek gloves. “Shopping spree, I presume?” He struck a mock-heroic pose, chin tilted up. “Got it all for a decent price, too. Can’t beat the underground’s selection.”

Eraser’s eyes narrowed to slits, all humour gone. “The underground,” he echoed, voice as cold and sharp as broken glass. “Want to tell me what that's like?” Izuku clicked his tongue, leaning into the scarf’s restraint with casual arrogance. “Tsk tsk. You know a gentleman never reveals his shopping secrets.” He flashed a grin. “Besides, what’s a little adventure without a stroll through the seediest parts of the city?” Eraser’s jaw flexed, patience visibly thinning. “You think the underground is a game? That place is extremely dangerous, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.” Izuku’s smirk only widened. “Aw, worried about me? I’m touched, really.” 

“Enough,” he snapped, his eyes boring into Izuku’s with disconcerting intensity. “What did you see down there, and who did you meet?” Izuku hummed, tilting his head. “Oof, so many questions. How about you write them down, and I’ll get back to you… eventually.”

“This isn’t a joke. The underground is dangerous, and the people down there are even worse.” Izuku’s grin faltered just a hair, the corners of his mouth twitching downward for a second before he forced them back up. “People down there are nicer to me than anyone else has ever been,” he muttered, but the hero heard every word. His eyebrows shot up, surprise cracking through his stony mask. “What do you-” Izuku quickly shoved the crack closed, voice rising in a taunting singsong. “So, what’s next, me, you, and the detective have a tea party?” Eraser’s eyelids twitched. “Can you be serious for one moment?”

“Unfortunately, I'm legally obligated to disappoint you,” Izuku purred, eyes gleaming with mischief. But the hero didn’t back off; he stepped closer, the scarf tightening fractionally, breath ghosting across Izuku’s mask. “Who took you down there?” He pressed, voice low and dangerous.

Izuku, for once, didn't reply, and the tension crackled between them as his heart pounded, brain already sprinting through possibilities. He would never do anything to rat out Grim, or anyone in the underground for that matter, which meant he couldn’t get caught here, and he couldn’t let Eraser pin him down. “Welp!” he chirped suddenly, voice dripping with false cheer. He twisted just enough to move his hand and grabbed a glitter smoke bomb. “Time to sparkle!”

He smashed it to the ground between them with a loud pop, a swirling cloud of shimmering silver smoke exploding around them. The hero let out a sharp curse, the scarf slackening instinctively as his eyes squinted against the sudden, dazzling light. Izuku wriggled free, slipping from his grasp like water.

He bolted, sprinting for the edge of the rooftop and vaulting clean over it. He landed in a roll on the next roof, legs screaming but momentum carrying him forward. He ducked behind a vent, peeking back to see Eraser standing at the roof’s edge, the last glittering flecks of smoke floating around him like dying stars.

For the briefest moment, Izuku swore he saw a flicker of relief, a softening of his rigid posture, before the man’s face shuttered back to stone. At least he was glad I’m still alive , Izuku thought, chest tight as he slipped into the night.

Chapter Text

Aizawa Shouta stalked through the glass doors of the Musutafu police station, boots echoing sharply on the linoleum floor. Heads turned as he entered, and a few officers made poor attempts at hiding their smirks. He glared at them, daring anyone to comment. The damn glitter from Revenant’s smoke bomb still clung stubbornly to his black jumpsuit and scarf, catching the fluorescent lights with every step. He knew exactly how he looked: like an extremely pissed-off disco ball.

He stomped past a rookie who ducked his head too late, biting back a laugh, and made his way to Tsukauchi’s office. The detective was hunched over his desk, papers spread everywhere, pen tapping in a steady, agitated rhythm. He looked up at the sound of the door, eyes landing on him, and the faintest ghost of a grin tugged at his lips. “Revenant?” The man asked, voice deceptively mild. Shouta exhaled through his nose before moving towards the cheap coffee machine in the corner of the room, pouring himself a cup and taking a long sip before answering. “Revenant,” he confirmed flatly, voice already scratchy from the night’s work.

The detective’s eyebrows ticked upward as he took in the state of his glitter-flecked costume once more. “At least you look…” Naomasa paused, eyes sparkling with amusement he didn’t bother to hide this time, “radiant.” His scowl darkened, but he ignored the jab and began recounting the night’s events. He described the rooftop confrontation, the new mask that altered Revenant’s voice to something deeper and more intimidating, the crossed belts, one packed with small bombs, the other bristling with throwing knives. He listed every detail he’d been able to glean, down to the number of knives: four, with crimson handles.

Naomasa's eyebrows shot up to his hairline at the mention of bombs. “Bombs?” he echoed, voice strained. Shouta sighed deeply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Smoke and glitter bombs, Naomasa. I doubt Revenant has graduated to tossing live grenades around Musutafu.”  The detective let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Honestly, at this point I’m not sure we could stop him even if he did,” he said, voice a mix of exasperation and reluctant admiration. He shuffled a few papers aside and leaned back in his chair, eyes thoughtful. “He’s been at this for what, nearly four months now?”

“Over four by now,” He corrected automatically. He took another slow sip of his coffee. It was terrible, but the warmth grounded him. “Most vigilantes don’t last a month,” Naomasa mused quietly. “They get scared off or caught. But this kid…” He looked up, dark eyes meeting Shouta’s. “We’re not dealing with an amateur anymore.” Shouta’s mouth twitched slightly, the closest he came to agreement. “He’s slippery. Smart. And stubborn as hell,” he muttered, voice edged with reluctant respect and a hint of worry he wouldn’t dare admit out loud.

Naomasa sighed, glancing back at the piles of reports littering his desk. “This case is only getting more serious over time. With Revenant now digging into the underground, we might need to pull in more people than the small close-knit team we’ve been using. You know how unhappy the HPSC is, Eraser.” The air between them grew heavy, the weight of the case settling around them before it was interrupted by both their phones pinging at once, shrill notifications cutting the silence. They shared a quick, wary glance before Shouta fished his phone from his belt, thumb swiping the screen open as Naomasa did the same.

Without another word, they tapped their screens, only to see the same news channel alert playing on each phone. A shaky video filled their displays, accompanied by a breathless voice over: “Breaking news tonight, footage has emerged of the vigilante known as Revenant!” Shouta's eyes narrowed sharply as he watched the grainy but clear video of Revenant dropping into the street, bantering fearlessly. The feed zoomed in right as the kid cocked his arm back and hurled the can of beans straight into an attacker’s nose with perfect precision. The clang of impact echoed even in the recording.

“Dinnertime!” Revenant’s distorted voice cackled through the phone speakers, the sound both comical and unsettling. Beside him, Naomasa choked on a surprised snort that quickly turned into a wheeze. Shouta shot him a withering glare that only made the detective laugh harder as they watched Revenant slip around one man’s punch, kick the other into the pavement, and tie them back-to-back. The footage panned wildly, the camera shaking as the person recording tried to keep Revenant in frame. They caught the vigilante standing over the unconscious men, looking up at the camera. 

“Hey there! Might want to head home before it gets any later,” he drawled, voice deep and distorted thanks to his mask and the poor quality of the video. “Wouldn’t want someone pulling a gun on ya, so make sure to get home safe!” A second later, a green smoke bomb exploded around him, filling the screen with billowing emerald clouds. By the time the smoke cleared, the camera caught only an empty street. The vigilante was gone.

Naomasa chuckled to himself as he looked up, their eyes meeting once more. “God, Shouta,” he rasped, voice still shaky with amusement. “He threw a can of beans at a man’s face on video. On national TV. I thought you were exaggerating about him.” Shouta scowled, though there was a complicated mix of embarrassment and secondhand pride. “I don’t exaggerate,” he ground out. His eyes lingered on the paused video of Revenant disappearing into the smoke before the detective spoke up again. “The kids gotten faster, he vanished like a ghost.”

“No,” He corrected quietly, his eyes thoughtful. “He’s just quick. And strong. He dragged both those men through three alleys before calling them in. I watched him do it from a rooftop.” The detective’s amusement faded at the grave note in Shouta’s voice. He lowered his phone, meeting the hero’s serious gaze. “That level of strength… and he’s only what, sixteen?” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Fifteen or sixteen. And I don’t think he knows how dangerous he’s becoming.”

He rubbed a hand over his tired face, eyes dark with concern. “Shouta… with this going public, it’s only a matter of time before other heroes start paying attention. He’s not just some rumour anymore, he’s front-page news.” His jaw tightened, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “They’ll want to bring him in. Or worse, someone hot-headed will try to make an example of him, like a certain Flame Hero.” Naomasa only nodded gravely. “Or the wrong kind of people might see that video and realise what a useful tool a kid like him could be.”

A heavy silence fell. Shouta let out a slow, resigned breath, and his eyes, usually unreadable, darkened with worry. “I need to catch him before this all blows up in his face.” Naomasa arched an eyebrow, his expression somber but knowing. “Catch him, huh? You don't seem as interested in doing that lately,” he echoed softly, voice carrying an undercurrent of hope. “Maybe it would be better if you, helped him, in a way.” Shouta didn’t answer immediately. He just swirled the bitter dregs of his coffee and stared into it like it might hold an answer, shoulders set with quiet determination. Finally, he looked up, eyes steeled. “We’ll see.”

He was on the fucking news.

Izuku’s eyes were wide as saucers as he stared at his phone, the bright morning light spilling into his small apartment. The notification had jolted him awake, and now he sat hunched on the edge of his bed, the video playing in his shaky hands. His own distorted voice crackled through the tiny speaker, “Dinnertime!” right before the can of beans smashed into the man’s face. He watched himself dart through the smoke and disappear, the camera swinging wildly.

He let out a low groan, dragging a hand down his face. “I look cool,” he admitted begrudgingly, shoulders slumping, “but I really didn’t need this kind of attention.” Up until now, he’d only been a blip. Rumours and fuzzy pictures of a hooded figure in the dark, a vigilante who never stayed still long enough for anyone to pin him down. Sure, there were a few brief mentions on small broadcasts, but never anything like this: a clear, close-up video of him in action. His figure, his movements, the details of his gear, all caught perfectly. At least my hood stayed up, he thought, trying to reassure himself as he clicked the video off. And the masks covered my scars and my mouth. And there was also the voice changer.

He clenched his jaw. Still… this was going to bring heat. Heroes, villains, everyone would be curious now.

He stood abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair, and headed to the shower to rinse off the lingering grime from his morning at Takoba Beach. By the time he stepped out, he was shaking slightly from the cold, and he felt the familiar edge of determination settle over him like a second skin. He dried off, pulled on his fresh Revenant gear, checked that his knives and smoke bombs were strapped to his belts, then grabbed the blue-black token.

“Alright…” he muttered to himself, exhaling as he pressed it. The door swung open with a quiet shoom, the soft blue glow lighting up his scarred walls. He stepped through, and found himself standing in the underground again, right where he always entered. A few people glanced up from their conversations and stalls as he entered through the heavily bolted door. One man nearby gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder, nearly sending him stumbling. “Damn, Revenant,” the guy laughed, voice hoarse with amusement, “saw you on the news, you’re healing like a pro!”

Izuku blinked, then winced at the brief twinge in his chest. Right… his ribs. He’d almost forgotten he’d cracked them at all; there was only the faintest ache now, easy to ignore after he'd died that night (morning?) once he was home. He pushed the thought aside, eyes scanning the crowd until he found Grim’s towering figure leaning against a support pillar. As if feeling Izuku’s gaze, Grim turned just as he approached. His face broke into a wide grin, eyes glinting with mischief. “Well, well…” he drawled, voice low with amusement, “nice job getting yourself on TV, Revenant.”

Izuku groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “You say one word and you’ll be catching a can of beans with your face.” Grim burst out laughing, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. “Fair enough, kid. Fair enough.” Around them, the underground thrummed with life. People haggling, sparring, or leaning against crates full of dubious goods.  Grim’s laughter faded into a soft chuckle as he looked Izuku up and down. “Gotta say,” he mused, arms folding across his broad chest, “you don’t look worse for wear at all. Your ribs must be alright if you've gotten yourself on the news taking down two people like it's nothin'. People haven't stopped talking about it, both above ground and down here. You're officially famous, kid.”

Izuku scowled. “Yeah, well, fame isn’t what I’m looking for. I just want to help people… and avoid idiots filming me.” Grim barked another laugh. “Well, if it makes you feel better, kid, you looked badass.” Izuku groaned again. “Please stop complimenting that video.” Grim’s grin only widened as he lowered his voice. “So… you gonna tell me what you were thinking, jumping into a street brawl like that when someone has a loaded gun?”

Izuku rolled his eyes dramatically. “I wasn't going to just let the guy go around swinging his gun and shooting people. Besides, I was improvising.” Grim snorted. “Improvising? You threw a can of beans at a man’s nose.” His lips curled into a mischievous grin. “And it worked, didn’t it?” Their words hung in the air for a beat before Grim’s smile faded slightly, his eyes sharpening. “Seriously, kid… you’ve made waves. You can’t expect to keep flying under the radar after this. Heroes are going to start actively hunting you down more and villains might take an interest, too.”

His own grin faltered, his brows knitting together. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly, “I know. I’ll be more careful.” Grim studied him for a long moment, the lines of amusement in his face softening into something almost paternal. “Just don’t get dead, kid,” he said, voice low but firm. “I’d hate to have to tell everyone the bean bandit bought it.” Izuku rolled his eyes so hard he almost saw stars. “What's with you and those damn beans? I'm never living this down, am I?”

“Not a chance.” Grim reached out and patted the top of his hood, ignoring Izuku’s half-hearted attempts to bat his hand away. “Now come on. Let’s see if we can get you something else to keep you alive out there. I heard someone’s selling reinforced chest plates.” He perked up despite himself, straightening his shoulders. “That… might not be the worst idea.” The man threw an arm around his shoulders before steering him through the underground’s bustling pathways. “Then let’s get you fitted, Bean Boy.”

“I will throat punch you—”

Their bickering faded into the noise of the crowd, a strange but warm familiarity growing between the two as they disappeared into the shifting lights of the underground. They drifted through the underground’s twisting lanes, and Izuku’s sharp eyes caught every detail. The scuffed boots of tough-looking fighters, the glint of concealed blades, the hurried faces of those who didn’t want to be noticed. As they passed a stall with reinforced chest plates, Grim gestured for him to stop, but Izuku shook his head. “In a bit,” he murmured, weaving around a pair of broad-shouldered men blocking the path.

Just ahead, Izuku spotted Genji, the masked vendor who’d sold him his voice changer. The older man was leaning against his stall stacked high with gadgets, arms crossed, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “Looks like the mask is working like a charm, Revenant,” Genji called, voice raspy but amused. Izuku couldn’t help the small grin tugging at his lips. “It’s perfect. Thanks again,” he replied, giving a quick nod of gratitude. Grim glanced down at him, eyebrow raised. “Where you off to now?”

Izuku rolled his shoulders, smirking up at him. “Gonna earn some money. Fights are the fastest way.” Grim’s mouth curled into a knowing smirk. “Spent it all already?” Izuku gestured pointedly to his belt with its neatly clipped throwing knives and bombs, the new gloves hugging his hands, and his gleaming black mask. “What does it look like?” he deadpanned.

The man just snorted, shaking his head. “Good luck, Bean Boy.”

Izuku only shot him a glare, knowing the man wasn't backing down as they split up, Grim vanishing back into the crowd. Izuku ducked under a dangling curtain of wires marking the fight booking station. This time, instead of hijacking the ring, he officially signed up, scribbling Revenant in jagged letters on the roster. The woman manning the list gave him a bored look before telling him he was up in ten minutes.

With time to kill, he drifted aimlessly, the underground strangely calm in the late morning lull. The crowd had thinned, people either sleeping off the night’s excesses or heading topside for their day jobs. Izuku could finally pick out faces he recognised: the hunched man with a thick coat who always shouted drunken greetings at Revenant when he lurked near the bars; the thin woman with the purple streak in her hair who he’d stopped from being mugged weeks ago, now strutting confidently past with a smirk and a playful wink; and the older lady who sold meat skewers at the edge of the underground, waving at him with a toothy grin.

He watched them all silently, letting the murmur of low conversations and the occasional clink of weapons soothe his buzzing mind. People-watching was almost meditative; he felt the tension drain from his shoulders, his breathing evening out as he scanned the familiar shapes moving through the hazy tunnels. Then a crackling voice barked through the loudspeaker above: “Next fighter, Revenant! Make your way to the ring.” His pulse kicked up immediately, anticipation sizzling under his skin. He straightened his gear, adjusted his belts, and rolled his shoulders once. A small, confident grin spread across his face beneath his mask.

Time to work.

He hopped the ropes with ease, landing lightly on the splintered floorboards. His eyes flicked up to the announcer’s bored expression as he called the first match-up. Tonight were armed fights, with the rules of no killing, but he was confident he wouldn't need any. He faced t hree opponents, one after the other, since that was the rotation for fighters who signed up late. Perfect. The first was a hulking man with brass knuckles and a sneer; Izuku ducked his wild swings, pivoting around him like a wraith before slamming the man’s head into the ropes with a satisfying thud. He went down hard.

The second was faster, a wiry woman who lashed out with sharp kicks and a serrated blade. Izuku caught her ankle mid-strike, twisted, and sent her sprawling with a sweep of his leg. She didn’t get back up. The last opponent was a man with a gaunt face and a wickedly curved dagger, eyes gleaming with malice. He was more skilled, forcing Izuku to weave and parry with everything he had, until he caught an opening and drove his elbow into the man’s gut, sending him gasping to the mat.

The buzzer rang. The crowd roared. Revenant stood tall.

He hopped back under the ropes, heart pounding with adrenaline, but his breathing was steady and controlled. As he made his way to the booking table, the familiar woman there pushed a thick wad of cash into his gloved hands with a broad and pleased grin. “Twenty thousand yen. Good fights,” she said with a wink. He tucked the bills into his belt pouch, his smirk hidden beneath his mask. “Pleasure doing business.”

He said quick goodbyes as he made his way out, a nod to Genji, a brief wave to the older lady selling skewers, and even a quick salute to a man he recognised from previous nights who always called him “Little Revenant” with a laugh. Soon enough, he was slipping into the shadows of the tunnel before pressing the token and once again entering his apartment, the door in the exact place he had entered through that morning as the door shut softly behind him and dissipated.

He stripped out of all his gear, everything except for a single hidden knife he tucked into the waistband of his sweatpants, a small comfort in his constant unease, before he climbed the creaky stairs of the building next door, emerging onto the crumbling rooftop. He stepped out into the chill evening air, the sun just beginning to sink behind the city’s skyline in a haze of pink and gold. Izuku padded quietly across the cracked concrete, settling himself at the edge. His feet dangled over the side, catching the warm updrafts of city air that smelled faintly of oil and distant cooking fires.

Below, the city moved in its endless, chaotic dance. Cars honking, lights blinking on one by one, people laughing or arguing as they went about lives he’d once been convinced he’d never get to live himself. He let out a long, quiet sigh. Why had he ever been so worried of surviving in this place?

Right now, he almost felt like he belonged. That might have been why, that night, Izuku decided to do something different. Instead of sticking to the rooftops, he walked the streets openly, his hood up but nodding to people he passed, who in turn gave him nods or smiles back. He greeted shopkeepers closing up for the night, nodded to regulars he recognised from the underground, and offered quiet “good evenings” to strangers who smiled his way. A few pedestrians stopped to thank him for the things they’d seen him do either in person or on the news, and though he fumbled through the praise with awkward “thank yous,” he couldn’t help the warmth that spread through his chest at being acknowledged, even if he wasn't doing it for that reason.

Around midway through his patrol, he spotted a group of three women walking close together under the orange glow of streetlights, their steps quick and uneven. Every few seconds, they glanced nervously over their shoulders, eyes darting like startled birds. Izuku’s gaze followed theirs, and his blood went cold when he saw two men drifting behind them, half-hidden in the shadows. Each time the women sped up, the men matched their pace, hungry eyes gleaming.

Izuku adjusted his hood, shadows swallowing his face as he slipped into step behind the two creeps, footsteps silent. The men were so focused on their targets they didn’t even sense him. Just as t he taller man reached out, fingers brushing the strap of the woman’s purse,  Revenant struck. He spun until he was between the ladies and the two creeps, before his foot slammed into one of the man's chest with a sharp crack of impact. He flew backward, arms flailing, before landing in a reeking pile of garbage bags with a strangled yelp. The second man's eyes widened, and he let out a guttural roar as he swung a wild punch. Izuku twisted aside, the blow grazing his hoodie, then buried a fist into the man’s stomach so hard he folded over and hit the ground on his knees, gasping.

Both men scrambled to their feet. Their eyes flicked from Izuku to each other, panic flooding their faces, and then they bolted down the alley, stumbling and shoving each other like rats fleeing a sinking ship as he called out a warning to never come back. “Cowards,” he scoffed, voice low and distorted from his mask’s voice changer. He flicked his hood back a bit and out of his eyes as he turned and faced the three women.

They were frozen a few paces away, faces pale with shock, one woman’s hand pressed over her heart. They were all different heights and ages, but he could tell they were startled, and so he tried his best to sound comforting. “Are you okay?” he asked, tone softer despite the gravelly edge his mask added.

The tallest of the three let out a shaky breath and nodded vigorously, her straight dark hair shining in the lamplight. “Thank you,” she gasped, hugging her purse to her chest like a lifeline. Another woman, yellow eyes still wide, looked him up and down. “Can we…walk with you for a bit?” she asked, voice small but hopeful. Izuku hesitated. He didn’t usually stick around, but the fear still clinging to them was palpable. He nodded.

They fell into step beside him, moving down the quiet street together. The women walked close to his sides, glancing around warily at first. But as they passed lit storefronts and Izuku made a few dry jokes, the tension began to ease. Soon, their conversation flowed freely, voices bright and relieved. “Did you see their faces when you showed up?” one woman asked, laughter bubbling in her tone as her purple eyes crinkled in the corners.

“I thought the tall one was going to wet himself!” another added. Izuku snorted softly. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” They all laughed, shoulders brushing the top of his as they walked. The three women were all taller than him, even without their heels, but he had to admit that it felt almost…normal walking with them as the conversation shifted.

“So, are you really the guy who threw a can of beans at someone?” The dark haired woman asked, green eyes sparkling with mischief. He groaned, rubbing his forehead through his hood. “Unfortunately, yes,” he muttered, voice deep and gravelly. They erupted into laughter, their cackles bouncing off the buildings. “We heard people are calling you Bean Boy now!” one teased, voice full of glee. His groan grew louder, echoing down the empty street. “Don’t call me that-” But it was far too late. “Bean Boy! Bean Boy!” two of them chanted between peals of maniacal laughter, the other smiling at them all.

Despite his embarrassment, Izuku found himself smiling a real, bright grin that felt foreign on his face. By the time they reached their neighbourhood, he insisted on dropping each one safely at their doors. They all paused at their doorsteps, eyes soft, before chirping in unison: “Goodnight, Bean Boy!” He let out a strangled sound of despair, but it faded into a soft chuckle as he watched them disappear inside, doors closing one by one. The street fell quiet again, but a warm glow lingered in his chest.

Then, movement from above caught his eye, and he quickly recognised the hunched-over silhouette of Eraserhead as he perched on a distant rooftop, watching. That isn't creepy at all, he thought, but he couldn't help himself he lifted his hand and gave a cheeky wave, wiggling his fingers dramatically. He saw the man stiffen in surprise before leaning forward in irritation. Perfect. Izuku’s boots slapped against the cracked pavement as he darted into the first alley, his breath hitching with laughter. Behind him, the whoosh of Eraser’s capture scarf sliced the air, but Revenant dropped to his knees, sliding under a metal pipe with a hiss of fabric against concrete.

“Too slow, old man!” he called over his shoulder, tone sing-song, as he popped back to his feet. Eraser landed behind him with a muted thud. Izuku swore he could feel the man’s glare drilling into his back, and it only made him grin wider. He took a sharp left, springing off a wall to redirect himself down a narrow corridor cluttered with bags of trash. Without missing a beat, he scooped one up and flung it over his shoulder. He heard it explode with a wet splat behind him and cackled when a muffled curse followed. 

He vaulted onto a low ledge, scrambled up a rusty fire escape, and paused at the top of the building. He dared a glance back, but Eraser was already scaling the side with terrifying speed, hair floating in his Quirk’s telltale activation. Izuku’s pulse stuttered, but his excitement only grew. “Catch me if you can!” he crowed, jumping off the roof with reckless abandon. He rolled as he landed, popping up into a sprint that took him across a quiet street. He zigzagged through a maze of hanging laundry, knocking shirts and towels off their lines in his wake. He snatched one from the air, flinging it behind him like a matador with a cape.

A frustrated growl echoed off the alley walls as Eraser narrowly dodged the fluttering fabric. Izuku kept moving, vaulting a chain-link fence in a single, fluid motion. He ducked through a hole in another fence, jumped over a stack of crates, and rebounded off a concrete pillar. His laughter rang out like a bell, echoing down the shadowed corridors of the city. Finally, after want felt like hours of running, he burst into an empty lot several blocks away, chest heaving. He climbed a rusted scaffold to the rooftop, dropping flat on his stomach to peek back over the cityscape.

Nothing. No sign of Eraserhead.

He sprawled out, chest still shaking with giggles. “That…was awesome."

Chapter Text

A few nights later, Izuku found himself patrolling near the same stretch of sidewalk where he’d first met the three kind women. He couldn't help it; after the clearly frightening situation he found them in, he just wanted to make sure they didn't get into any more trouble that could potentially harm them, especially with how nice they were (except for the nickname, that he could do without).

As he leaped from rooftop to rooftop, staying as silent and quiet as possible, he felt the cold, crisp air brush against his uncovered skin as he glanced around, from the city to the stars that were barely visible through the city’s light-polluted sky, and he couldn't help but notice that the streets were quieter than usual, and that was never a good sign. He continued across the rooftops as fast as possible without making any sounds, his eyes always looking around and scanning for trouble, but the only sound was the soft murmur of conversation that slowly became more audible with every step closer.

He paused, and soon peered over the edge of a low building, before his mouth split into a small smile as he recognised the three huddled figures of three women, clustered under a flickering streetlamp. The tallest of the group leaned casually against a post, puffing on a cigarette, while the other two animatedly discussed clothes, waving their hands with excitement.

Izuku couldn’t help but grin under his mask. Without thinking, he leapt from the rooftop, landing on the sidewalk with a soft thud that still startled the trio. They all turned sharply, but their faces lit up instantly. “Bean Boy!” they chorused in delighted unison, voices carrying through the quiet night, and he couldn't help but groan, rolling his eyes dramatically at their cackles. “How are you all doing tonight? No more close calls, I hope?”

One of the women, her long dark hair reflecting the light from above, stepped forward with a smug grin. “Nope! Well, unless you consider the other night, when those two guys started tailing us again… but it wasn't a problem, since the second we turned around and shouted that a certain vigilante would be coming back, they bolted like scared puppies!”

Izuku’s eyes widened slightly, then he let out a low, genuine laugh. “That… sounds like a close call to me.” Another woman, one with bright yellow eyes and an infectious smile, shook her head. “Nah, we’ve got you looking after us now, don’t we?” she teased, nudging him lightly in the side. He didn’t hesitate. “Definately,” he agreed, nodding with a confident grin that made all three women break into warm smiles.

They fell into an easy pace, strolling along the quiet street together. Izuku noticed the cigarette still burning between one woman’s fingers and his brow furrowed. “You know that’s terrible for you, right?” he said, voice a mix of concern and teasing disapproval. She smirked, exhaling a curl of smoke, and extended the cigarette toward him. “Wanna try it, Bean Boy?” He hesitated, eyeing the glowing tip with a hint of curiosity, but she must’ve seen it in his eyes. Her face darkened into a fierce, almost protective scowl. “Never smoke, Bean Boy,” she said firmly, flicking ash onto the pavement. “It’ll destroy your lungs.”

Izuku blinked, a little taken aback, then asked, “Then why do you do it?” She sighed, looking away with a bitter smile. “Because I’m hooked and can't stop,” she admitted quietly. He tilted his head, then his eyes gleamed mischievously behind his mask. “Maybe you just need some motivation. What if we make a deal? If you stop smoking, I’ll take you all out to dinner, anywhere you want, on me.” Her friends immediately gasped in delight. “You have to quit now!” one of them cried, grabbing her arm with wide, excited eyes. “We want a free meal, woman!”

The woman scowled at them half-heartedly, but after a long moment, she sighed, rolled her eyes dramatically, and tossed the cigarette into a nearby bin. “Fine,” she grumbled, though the corners of her mouth twitched up into a small smile. Izuku grinned, shaking his head in amusement as they continued walking, their voices echoing in the night like the soft, joyful notes of a song.

After dropping the three women safely at their apartments with promises of a future dinner once the cigarette bet was won, Izuku vaulted onto a nearby rooftop. He landed lightly, the night air cool against his face as he pulled his hood back up. The city lights shimmered below him, quiet and restless, and before long he heard the subtle, metallic whip of a familiar capture weapon slicing through the air. He twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the binding cloth as it snapped past his shoulder. He landed in a crouch, breath misting in the cold, and snapped his gaze up to see Eraser standing on the opposite side of the rooftop, jumpsuit billowing slightly in the breeze.

His eyes glowed faintly red under the moonlight, but his stance looked… almost relaxed. His shoulders weren’t tense, and his grip on the capture scarf was looser than Izuku had ever seen it. He wasn’t moving in to attack, just watching and waiting to see what he might do. Izuku cocked his head, raising an eyebrow as he straightened with deliberate slowness. “Eraser… what’s up?” he drawled, voice modulated to its deep, resonant timbre by his mask’s voice changer. His eyes glittered mischievously under his hood. “Not gonna lie, you don’t look like you’re trying very hard tonight.”

Eraser's expression didn’t shift much, but his tired eyes held something different, frustration, maybe? Or...was it concern? Strange. The silence between them stretched over the darkened rooftops, the distant sounds of the city drifting up: a siren’s wail, the low hum of traffic, a dog barking in an alley, before the man before him finally spoke. “Making friends, Bean Boy?” Eraser finally said, voice low but carrying easily across the space, and Izuku bristled at the nickname. “Be careful, you stick around in the same place for too long and people start to notice.”

Izuku sighed before he plastered on a smirk, more for himself than the hero, since he knew the man couldn't see, but he did notice as Izuku moved his hands to his hips and rocked on his heels, making it clear he didn't see the hero as a threat. He could almost sense the mans growing annoyance at his attitude. “Aw, worried about me, 'Raser?” he teased, and the man looked extremely unimpressed, his lips flattening into a thin line as he exhaled through his nose, but that was the only reaction he received. 

He didn’t take the bait, and instead stepped forward slightly, scarf rippling as he fixed Izuku with a flat stare. “This isn’t a game, Revenant. Be serious for one moment. That video put you on more than just the police’s radar. It's out there for everyone to see, both Heroes and Villains.” Izuku’s eyes flickered beneath his hood, grin faltering just a hair, but only for a second before he masked it with an exaggerated shrug. “Then I’ll just have to be careful, huh?”

But inside, a shiver of unease crawled up his spine. It wasn't like he planned to get caught on camera. It wasn't like he wanted to be popular. He just wanted to help, to do something good for people. He only wished Eraser would see this, but as always, he couldn't get a clear tell on the man because other than the unimpressed expression, he showed no emotions, even as he took another step forward.

"Listen to me. You're a good kid, even if you refuse to listen and act sensibly," Izuku gives him his own unimpressed look, "But things can go south quickly. If you keep doing this, you'll get injured. Badly. Especially if you keep going around and making friends with people who could easily stab you in the back without a moment's hesitation."

Izuku straightens slowly, breath evening out as he looks the hero up and down. "That's rich, coming from someone who's been trying to put me in handcuffs for months now. Tell me, if I let my guard down tonight, are you going to arrest me, Eraserhead?" he asked, his voice low and unamused.  Eraser's expression barely shifts, but his eyes flickered. “No, not tonight,” he finally sighed, voice flat but honest. “But you’re drawing attention to yourself, and to those women as well. If you can’t show up one day, or if someone comes after you through them… you’ll regret it. People get hurt that way.”

Izuku studied him, but stays silent, knowing he will definitely say something he regrets. Eraser's jaw twitched, but he only exhaled, heavy and tired. “Just… think before you play hero,” he muttered, and Izuku’s grin sharpened again. “You don't need to worry about that, 'Raser. I can't be a hero.” He gives a small salute and steps backward, disappearing into the shadows as Eraserhead's scarf snaps forward a second too late, and only hits empty air.

Izuku’s boots scuffed against the cracked sidewalk as he wandered through the dark streets, mind whirling. Why does he keep warning me? he wondered, recalling Eraser's words on the rooftop. He’d expected the pro hero to snatch him up or attack him, not… talk. And definitely not let him go without so much as a chase. Why is he so insistent on warning me?

He kicked a stray can, watching it clatter into an alley. The memory of the hero's tired eyes flashed in his head. Maybe ... he actually cares? No. No, he doesn't. Of course, he doesn't. He doesn't care about Revenant, only about bringing him in. He barked a humourless laugh into the empty street, trying to shake the thought. “Yeah,” he muttered to himself. But the questions lingered, gnawing at him even after he returned to his apartment, and they followed him into the next night.

Now, leaping from rooftop to rooftop with the moonlight on his shoulders, he still couldn’t get the hero’s words out of his head. He contemplates listening to the man, about not making himself seen too often in public or with specific people, but then he shakes his head and thinks why the hell am I listening to him? He's trying to get into my head, is all.

Which is why, with thoughts of disregarding his words and checking in on the three kind women, not wanting to let them down, he makes his way to their meeting area with a small smile tugging at his lips, and yet he still couldn't get himself to focus. It was like his brain was moving miles per second, each thought clashing against another as his minds drifts through past events and scenarios, until he jumps across another gap between two buildings, only to realise just how much larger the gap was than he originally thought. 

His breath caught before he exhaled quickly from surprise, and the city dropped away beneath him, feeling the rush of air tearing past his face as he plummeted. Great, he thought blandly. Didn’t plan on dying tonight. His leg twinged painfully where it still hadn’t fully healed, and he sighed and supposed another quick healing couldn't do him any harm as gravity continued to yank him down, the concrete gaining on him every second as he closes his eyes and waits for the impact, but it never comes.

Instead, a familiar snap cracked through the night, and something coiled around his good leg. He got a sick feeling of déjà vu just before he slammed sideways into the grimy wall of a building, hitting his shoulder with a wince and a curse that would make a sailor blush. He groaned, dangling awkwardly by one leg before he twisted to glare upward and, yep, there was Eraser, crouched at the roof’s edge, scarf taut in his grip, dark hair rippling in the wind. His eyes were wide, but his voice was sharp and slightly breathless. “Revenant. You nearly just fell to your death, you brat.”

Izuku rolled his eyes dramatically, muttering something sarcastic under his breath before speaking up. “Nice observation, 'Raser. Now let me go so I can climb up there and smack you silly for swinging me around by the leg again.” The pro's eye twitched like he was fighting a sigh, but he loosened the scarf anyway. Izuku dropped, flipping midair to land on a dented dumpster with a heavy thud. He winced as the metal groaned under him, then bent his knees and launched himself up, gloved fingers snagging the pockmarked wall. He climbed with practised ease, pulling himself from brick to crack until he hauled himself over the ledge, panting but upright.

Standing face-to-face with the pro hero, he crossed his arms and huffed. “I would’ve caught myself, you know.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Really? Because from where I was standing, it looked like you’d accepted it, and like you were ready to die.” Izuku scoffed, flicking a strand of green hair from his eyes. “Oh please. If I died, who would make you laugh like I do?”

Eraser's expression went perfectly, infuriatingly flat, the kind of deadpan that could kill a man on the spot. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant hum of traffic. Izuku grinned wider. "Well, since you're in such a lovely mood tonight, I think I'll leave you to brood by yourself. Thanks for the save, but I didn't need it!" He turns and without a glance back, already sensing the capture weapon before it moves, he jumps back down into the alleyway, rolling before shooting to his knees and ignoring the protest in his shoulder and leg as he starts running, and just a few seconds later he hears the familiar sounds of footsteps following on rooftops.

He takes every turn possible, hoping to lose the hero, but it seems like tonight he's more determined than ever, and is keeping up with Izuku for once. Soon, his breathing grows heavy, and each step sends a sharp twinge up his ankle. It was clear he was slower than usual, but he kept his pace steady, leaping over trash bins and vaulting low fences as he taunted the man chasing him. “C’mon, Eraser! Getting tired yet?” he called out over his shoulder, voice muffled by his mask but unmistakably cocky.

For ten minutes they played this game through the darkened alleys, with Izuku weaving through shortcuts and dodging the occasional flick of Eraserhead's capture weapon. But then, as he cleared another low wall and rolled to his feet, he heard a tremendous crash behind him. He snapped his head around just in time to see Eraser landing in a shower of cracked bricks, knees bent perfectly, scarf swirling.

The pro hero straightened with casual ease and gave Izuku a teasing smirk, and Izuku only narrowed his eyes, chest heaving, and was about to snap something sarcastic and extremely rude before pivoting into another sprint, when he registered the sounds of faint, hushed yet urgent whispers as they echoed through the alleyway, before it was followed by the sounds of someone struggling, and then a choked gasp. Not his, and definitely not Eraser's.

He froze mid-step. “Did you hear that?” He whispered, turning to face the hero entirely, only to see his eyes flick down a nearby alleyway where the voices seem to be echoing from, is gaze already sharpening with awareness as his scarf stills. Then, before either of them could make a move, there it was again, the quiet yet unmistakable sound of someone thrashing lightly, almost rhythmically. The squeak of bindings straining, followed by low, cautious whispers, but the words were too muffled to catch.

Then, the shuffling stopped abruptly, quickly swallowed by silence, and Izuku’s breath caught. Eraserhead shifted, weight rolling onto the balls of his feet, gaze narrowing in the direction of the sound. “Someone’s restrained,” he said quietly. “And by the sounds of it, there are a few people surrounding them. Something is going down.” They locked eyes, and something unspoken passed between them. The chase could wait. Whatever was happening ahead, whoever was there, that was the real threat.

Without another word, they moved together, no longer opponent and fugitive, but temporary allies drawn by the same urgency. They fell into stride, the rhythm of their near silent footsteps syncing without effort as they ran down the narrow passageway. The alley smelled like rain-damp asphalt and rusting metal, and every shadow seemed to press inward, thick with anticipation, yet Izuku couldn't help but notice the hero easily matching his pace now, much more easier than before.

“You been holding out on me, Eraser?” Izuku panted as they ran, eyebrows raised with a touch of breathless humour. He soon frowned when he caught the ghost of a smirk tug at the hero’s tired face before he ducked his head, scarf trailing like a phantom. “Gotta keep you on your toes, Bean Boy, don't I?” Izuku nearly stumbled. “Wow,” he scoffed dramatically, “I didn’t know someone as unfunny as you could make jokes. The world must be ending.”

“Zip it,” He snapped, but the words were laced with dry amusement, his eyes already scanning ahead with practised intensity. They soon rounded the corner together and nearly skidded to a stop. Ahead, tucked deep in the shadows of a recessed alcove, two men clustered tightly together, whispering with the intensity of those doing something definitely not legal. One held and bared an open briefcase to the other, inside of which several glass vials pulsed with an eerie, unnatural red light.

There was another man, who moved to stand up with a suspiciously person shaped figure resting unconsciously over their shoulder, and as Izuku narrowed his eyes and looked closer-

Yep, that's a person, if the arms tied behind their back by thick rope and a gag around their mouth is anything to go by, and a quick look to Eraser confirms it. The last of the group was another man, stood slightly apart from the other three as he cast nervous glances toward the alley entrance, and quickly his gaze locked onto them.

Izuku’s blood went cold, and Eraserhead's eyes glowed faint red as they both looked towards each other, and in that brief, quick silence, they communicated everything: the plan, the targets, the timing. But where Eraser went to crouch in the shadows, stealthy and deadly, Izuku had another idea. He stood up straighter, squared his shoulders, and sauntered right into the open.

“Evening, gentlemen!” he called cheerfully, waving a gloved hand. “Name’s Revenant, maybe you’ve heard of me?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Eraser, now hidden in the darkness. “Don’t mind the homeless guy, he just likes following me around.” Eraser's eyes glowed a deep red as he fully activated his quirk, and Izuku swore he felt his soul try to crawl out of his body. “Okay, okay, damn,” he muttered, fighting not to shiver. “That’s still creepy.”

That was all the provocation the men needed: the two of them with their arms free roared and charged forward. The other two, including the one clutching the briefcase and the one holding the unconscious person in a fireman's carry, spun on their heels and bolted down the alley. “Go!” Eraser barked, voice like gravel. “I’ve got these two!”

Izuku didn’t hesitate. He bounded over the first attacker as Eraserhead's scarf lashed out, and sprinted after the fleeing men. They weaved through alleys he knew like the back of his hand, but he was clearly faster, even injured, and his shortcuts let him cut them off. He leapt a low fence and rolled to his feet right in front of them. “Boo,” he said.

The man with the person over his shoulder growled and dropped the body unceremoniously as Izuku winced in sympathy, because that was definitely going to hurt tomorrow, but first Izuku had to focus because if he wasn't careful, there was no guarantee the person was going to make it to tomorrow if he didn't get his bearings together. So, with the victim now out of the direct line of danger, Izuku quickly lunged and let his knee collide with the man's face, sending him sprawling to the floor, unconscious. The last man’s eyes went wide with terror, and before long he was dropping the now-closed suitcase before he fumbled for something in his pocket, and faster than Izuku could reach forward, he jammed a glowing syringe into his own neck.

“Shit!” Izuku hissed, diving forward, but it was too late. The man’s eyes shrunk into black pinpricks as red veins crawled up his neck. He kicked the briefcase aside with a clang, glass vials rattling inside, and clenched his fists as a dark, smoky mist began to seep from his skin. The haze twisted and coiled unnaturally, growing thicker until it formed thin, shadowy blades that extended from his hands like monstrous claws.

Quirk: Shadow Carve. Izuku’s mind supplied him, reminding him of the various reports of quirk-enhancing drug dealers he had read about before. This man, Kurokiba Raito, had the ability to form sharp, claw-like shadows from the tips of his fingers. Normally, it was weak and resembled that of a cat's claw length, and he could barely scratch a wooden board with those smoky claws. But with an enhancer in his system, the blades looked solid, sharper than knives, and each swing left faint gouges in the concrete walls. “Fantastic,” Izuku muttered under his breath, heart pounding. “Shadow claws. Just my luck.”

Kurokiba lunged, slashing. Izuku barely dodged, feeling the claws slice the air inches from his face. He backpedalled, using the narrow alley to his advantage as he darted side to side, but every swipe of the claws sent stone chips flying. He flicked a smoke bomb at his feet, but the swirling shadows cut right through the cloud, dissipating it instantly. He tried to close the distance, feinting left before spinning right, but Kurokiba twisted with a snarl, claws slashing again. A thin cut opened across Izuku’s bicep, hot pain flaring. Damn, he’s fast now, too.

Izuku ducked under another swipe, boots skidding across the wet pavement of the narrow alley. Kurokiba’s claws whistled through the air just inches from his head, carving shallow gouges into the brick wall behind him. Without hesitation, Izuku twisted and planted his foot against the wall, launching himself forward like a coiled spring. He slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest with all the momentum he could gather. They both staggered, Izuku’s weight knocking Kurokiba a step back, but it wasn’t enough.

The villain recovered faster, far faster than he should’ve. He didn’t even seem winded. His pupils were barely visible, jaw slack with a manic grin, and the shadows writhing around his arms pulsed with unnatural intensity. Kurokiba roared, a guttural, animalistic sound, and swept his arm in a wide, vicious arc. Black claws shimmered like obsidian blades under the dim alley light. Izuku spun just a fraction too slow. Pain exploded along his abdomen, hot and sharp, as the claws tore through his shirt and sank into the flesh beneath. He let out a choked gasp, staggering back as warm blood gushed down his stomach. His vision blurred momentarily, white-hot and dizzying, and he clutched the slit skin with a trembling hand.

Still, he didn’t fall. “Still standing?” Kurokiba sneered through a growl, twitching erratically as if barely in control of his own limbs. “You’re a tenacious little pest.” Izuku didn’t respond. He didn’t need to waste breath. Instead, he forced his eyes to stay focused, analysing, calculating. The man was faster, stronger, and seemingly immune to pain. His shadows pulsed with each movement, growing more unstable, more aggressive. They struck out independently of his arms now, snapping and lashing like serpents.

Not sustainable, Izuku thought. His body’s overclocked. Overheating. That’s my window. I just need to survive until he starts to burn out. Kurokiba lunged forward again. He leapt back, narrowly avoiding a spike of shadow that punched into the wall beside his side. Bricks exploded outward. He dropped low, sweeping his leg around in a wide arc, but Kurokiba jumped, unnaturally high, avoiding the kick with ease. He came down like a meteor, claws aimed straight for Izuku’s chest. Too fast. Too strong.

Izuku rolled, using the narrow alley’s wall as leverage again, flipping himself up and over the villain’s back mid-dodge. He landed awkwardly, teeth gritted against the white-hot pain, but he was already moving again, drawing the villain deeper into the alley. “Come on, come on,” he muttered under his breath, scanning the environment with frantic precision. Trash bins, discarded crates, loose wiring, a flickering overhead light. Not much to work with. But it would have to be enough. Another swipe. Izuku ducked. A tendril of shadow nicked his arm, leaving another burning welt. His breathing was laboured now, both from the injury and the effort, but his mind was still sharp.

He’s reacting faster than I can move. But not thinking faster. I can use that.

Izuku darted behind a dumpster and grabbed the lid, yanking it free with one hand. He threw it at the Kurokiba, not to damage, but to distract. As expected, the man batted it away with a snarl, just in time for Izuku to hurl a handful of shattered glass from a broken crate into his face. The villain screamed, flailing wildly. Shadows burst from his arms in erratic spikes, tearing through the side of the building. Izuku charged in, grabbing a live wire from the broken alley lamp and wrapping it around the nearest metal pipe. Electricity snapped through the air.

Kurokiba turned just as Izuku kicked the now-charged pipe into the small pool of standing water beneath his feet. The surge of electricity jolted through the alley. The villain convulsed violently, eyes rolling back as the shadows around him spasmed and recoiled. He collapsed to one knee, steam rising from his skin. Now. Izuku sprinted forward and slammed a reinforced elbow into the man’s temple, hard enough to rattle his own bones. The villain slumped, finally dazed.

Izuku was already dialing emergency services on his phone as he fell to his knees against the wall, doubling over against the wound on his front. Blood still flowed freely between his fingers. Kurokiba twitched and groaned but didn’t get up. Izuku exhaled shakily, adrenaline beginning to fade, along with his vision, as he leaned his head back against the wall, staring up at the small sliver of sky between the buildings.

Won that one. Barely.

Izuku’s thoughts only blurred further. Get it together, Izuku. You can’t die here, someone else needs your help. He forced himself upright, eyes darting around before his gaze finally fell upon the bound and restricted body a few feet away, lying beside the abandoned brief case and other man, and with shaking limbs he pushed himself up and off the wall before making his way over. I have to keep going.

He finally reaches their side, and undoes their bindings with trembling fingers. He knew the adrenaline was wearing off, and every second the pain only seemed to double, but he had to keep going. At least until he knew the person in front of him was safe. When their arms and legs are finally free, their skin red from where the rope rubbed their skin raw, his eyes finally rise to the victim's face, and once more he winces in sympathy.

It was a man, maybe in his mid-twenties, and he did not look good. His left eye was swollen shut, mottled by purple and red bruising, with tracks of blood running down the right side of his face from his scalp to his chin. His lip was split, and he was clearly unconscious, but he was alive, at least. He gently pulls down the gag, just as a dark figure dropped from above with a muted thump. Eraserhead’s capture weapon lashes out, binding the two villains together as Kurokiba groans and the other stays unconscious, and with a quick glance to the alleyway he came from, Izuku sees the other two bound as well.

He stands up on shaking legs, his breath coming in wet, shallow gasps, black spots flickering across his vision. Eraser’s voice reached him like it was underwater, words lost in the rush of his pulse thundering in his ears. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. Panic surged through Izuku. I can’t be here when the police arrive. He staggered upright, legs threatening to give out as he stumbled from the alley, leaving smears of blood on the bricks.

“Revenant!” Eraser’s voice, sharp with alarm, called from behind him, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t look back. They both knew Eraser couldn't leave a victim. "Make sure he's okay!" he calls back weakly as one thought repeats itself in his mind. I have to disappear. Every step was agony, pain flaring with every jolt as he half-limped, half-ran through backstreets and alleys, his vision tunnelling until all he could see was darkness ahead. His strength drained rapidly, and the world seemed to tilt sickeningly with every movement. He made it several blocks before his knees finally buckled and he collapsed, falling between two overflowing dumpsters in a quiet alley. The world spun violently, then went dark as his eyes fluttered closed, the distant wail of sirens the last sound he heard before unconsciousness claimed him.

The first thing Izuku became aware of was pain a deep, pulsing ache radiating from his stomach with every ragged breath. His head was foggy, limbs heavy, but he forced his eyes open to a dim, unfamiliar ceiling. Faint light filtered through grimy windows, illuminating cracked concrete walls. He was lying on a thin cot in what looked like an abandoned apartment. He tried to sit up, but the motion sent white-hot agony lancing through his front. His breath hitched as he looked down to find layers of rough bandages wrapped around his torso, dark with dried blood. Someone had cleaned and dressed the wound, but who?

A low voice answered his unspoken question. “You’re awake,” They said, stepping out of the shadows, sharp eyes watching him closely. Izuku’s throat was dry, voice hoarse as he croaked, “How…?” Grim’s expression was unreadable as he crossed his arms. “You were bleeding out in an alley on the edge of my domain. I felt you drop like a stone. Didn’t take long to find you.” Izuku’s breath stuttered. His domain… He hadn’t even realised he’d stumbled into the Underground’s territory.

Grim moved closer, boots silent on the dusty floor. “You’re lucky,” he continued, voice low and edged with irritation. “If you’d fallen outside my range, the cops would’ve found you before I did. Wouldn't of been able to help ya' as quickly as I did, either.” A weak, shaky laugh bubbled up from Izuku’s throat despite the pain. “Guess… I owe you one.”

“Don’t talk.” Grim’s eyes flashed as he crouched beside the cot. “They really did a number on you, whoever it was. You lost a lot of blood, kid. Another hour and you wouldn’t be here.” Izuku stared at him, swallowing hard against the taste of iron on his tongue. The memory of the fight came back in fragments: claws, blood, pain, and Eraser’s desperate shout before everything went black.

Grim only sighed heavily, voice dropping as he placed a bottle of antibiotics and painkillers on the crate beside the bed. “Stay put. Heal. Don’t make me chase you or I'll strap ya' down.” Izuku managed a small nod, letting his head fall back against the pillow. He couldn’t help but ask, voice small, “Why’d you help me?” Grim’s lips twitched like he almost smiled, almost. “Because you’re one of The Underground's, Revenant,” he said gruffly. “And everyone in The Underground is family.”

As Grim stepped back into the shadows once more, Izuku’s eyes fluttered shut. Outside, the muffled sounds of the city drifted through the cracked walls. He should have felt relieved, but instead, all he could think about was Eraser’s worried eyes, and the promises he hadn’t yet kept.

Over the next three days, Izuku drifted in and out of consciousness. Every time he stirred, he was met with dim light slanting through cracked windows and the soft hush of the city beyond the apartment walls. His body ached in ways he was intimately familiar with, but every time he checked, the claw marks had closed a little more than they should have in such a short span. Even when he wasn’t dying to heal himself, his body seemed to recover unnaturally fast, something he couldn’t decide if he was grateful for or annoyed by.

On the third morning, Izuku managed to sit up fully without his head spinning. His bandages were changed, the pain a dull throb rather than the searing agony it had been. He scowled at the half-healed gashes across his stomach, already realising the scars they’d leave behind. Another addition to his growing collection. He ran a hand through his hair and muttered, “I think I hate claws as much as burns…”

“Then it’s a good thing you don’t get burned often,” Grim’s voice drawled from the doorway. He stepped in holding a tray of warm rice and meat, the steam curling up invitingly. Izuku’s stomach growled loudly enough to echo, and he snatched the bowl as soon as Grim set it on the crate beside the cot. He devoured it with a gusto only found in the nearly-starved, pausing only when Grim pulled up a rickety chair and leaned forward, eyes sharp. “What happened?” he asked quietly, his tone serious now that Izuku wasn’t half-conscious.

Izuku sighed between bites. “Some thugs were arguing over a briefcase, one of 'em had someone. I tried to stop them with 'Raser. One injected himself with a quirk-booster or something. His power went from annoying to borderline insane claws, making himself both faster and stronger.” He glanced down at his bandages bitterly. “That’s how I got this.” Grim’s mouth quirked at first. “Eraser was with you?” he prompted.

Izuku groaned. “Don't remind me, as soon as I get back out there he won't let me hear the end of it.” Grim huffed a laugh, but the humour faded as Izuku furrowed his brow, and decided to continue on with his observations of the fight and the injection, including the matching brief case. When he finished, Grim’s own brow furrowed. “We’ve had quirk enhancers show up in the Underground before, but nothing like what you’re describing. That kind of immediate, drastic boost? It’s unheard of.” He shook his head. “And if it’s new… that’s a bad sign.”

Izuku pushed his empty bowl aside with a sigh. “I’ve really got my work cut out for me.”

“Well,” Grim drawled, leaning back with a smirk, “looks like you’ve got a new friend to help you with that.” Izuku shot him an offended glare. “He is not my friend. Eraser’s just waiting for me to slip up so he can drag me in.” Grim only sighed, his eyes tired but kind. “If he wanted you caught, you’d be in cuffs already. Instead, he’s warning you, pushing you to turn yourself in. Because if you surrender, your charges will be less. But if a hero has to bring you in by force, things will end a lot worse for you."

Izuku opened his mouth, ready with a sharp retort, but Grim didn’t let him speak. “He’s trying to help you, kid,” he said firmly. “Maybe you should think about taking it.” Izuku’s jaw worked silently, frustration flashing across his eyes, but he couldn’t shake the small flicker of doubt worming into his chest. Still, he scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest as he slumped back against the pillow dramatically. “You trying to get me arrested now, Grim?” 

Grim’s brow twitched. “No, you damn brat, I wasn't talking about letting him put you in cuffs, though I'm sure if you played nice for once, he wouldn't. I meant taking the helping hand he's clearly offerin'. Listen, you're strong and independent, I get that, but you need support from people who aren't criminals. We aren't the best role models for a kid your age. You should be in school and making friends, for Kami's sake, not fighting criminals and getting busted up every damn night.”

Izuku quickly becomes frustrated. “What, you think he actually cares? He’s probably planning to turn me in the second I let my guard down. Or worse, maybe he’s just playing some twisted game-”

Whack.

Grim’s hand smacked the back of Izuku’s head with a sharp crack. It wasn’t hard enough to actually hurt, but the sting made his eyes widen comically as he snapped his head up, glaring. “What the hell was that for?” he barked, rubbing the sore spot. “Stop spouting bullshit and use that brain of yours,” Grim snapped, eyes narrowed in rare, open irritation. “You’re not stupid, kid. I know you see the signs, the way he’s been warnin' you. The fact that he’s still letting you run free, when he has the whole police force in one palm and multiple heroes in the other.”

Izuku opened his mouth to argue, but Grim cut him off again with a pointed finger. “You think pros have time to play games like that? Especially someone like Eraserhead? He’s not one to waste his nights chasing you around rooftops for sport. He wants to help." Izuku clenched his jaw, averting his eyes to the cracked floorboards. He wanted to yell, to deny it, but the memory of Eraser's exasperated concern, yet never fully trying to take him in, and the way he’d come to Revenant's side when he needed it all played over in his mind, impossible to ignore.

Grim’s tone softened a fraction, but his gaze stayed sharp. “Stop pretending no one would ever care if you lived or died. That might’ve been true once, but it isn’t anymore.” Izuku bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, stubborn silence settling in his chest as his thoughts churned chaotically, and he turned his head away before Grim could see the tears gathering in his eyes.

Chapter Text

The night air was crisp against Izuku’s face as he perched on the edge of a darkened rooftop, eyes scanning the empty street below. A few days had passed since Grim had finally let him leave, but not without a final smack to the head and a stern warning about pushing himself too soon. The dull ache in his side still reminded him of his injuries, but the pain was nothing compared to the heaviness in his chest.

He couldn’t help it: Grim’s rough words and steady presence lingered with him, warm and unfamiliar in a way that hurt. It was terrifying, how quickly he came to feel safe around those who treated him with even an ounce of kindness. It reminded him of someone else, someone he’d been trying so hard not to think about.

Hizashi.

The thought alone made his eyes sting, and he blinked hard, forcing himself to focus on the glint of a distant streetlight instead. He missed him. Missed his bright, unfiltered laugh that made even the darkest corners of Izuku’s world feel a little lighter. Missed the way Hizashi’s hugs had felt like a promise that someone wanted him around, no matter how broken he was.

But he’d made his choice. He couldn’t drag Hizashi down with him, couldn’t risk the fallout if anyone ever discovered where he came from, who he was. So he’d left. He’d run. And even though it had only been two weeks since he’d disappeared, each day stretched like a lifetime.

Izuku’s mind flickered back to the early hours after he’d fled, when guilt had clawed at him until he could barely breathe. He remembered slipping quietly through the night to the cafe, heart hammering in his chest. He’d written a note, every word shaky and desperate, and tucked it inside a small envelope stuffed with the money he hadn’t yet spent from his shifts, the only way he could think to repay the man who’d given him so much kindness.

I’m sorry, Hizashi...Thank you for everything...Please don’t look for me. I’ll be okay.

He’d slipped it under the door, then stood there for a long, agonising moment, wishing more than anything he could see Hizashi instead. That he could fall into his arms, hear his laugh, feel his warmth one more time. But he hadn’t. He’d run before he lost his nerve.

Now, as the wind whipped around him and the city’s lights blurred in the distance, he sighed heavily. He could only hope Hizashi didn’t hate him, or worse, blame himself for Izuku’s disappearance.

With a frustrated groan, he pushed himself up and began leaping across rooftops, determined to lose himself in the familiar rhythm of patrol. Because the moment he stopped moving, the ache of what he’d left behind threatened to swallow him whole.

Hizashi’s fingers traced the edges of the folded paper with a reverence usually reserved for something sacred. The note was creased and worn, the edges starting to fray after nearly two weeks of constant handling. He could practically recite every word, but he still read it each morning, as if hoping it would somehow change, as if the paper itself might whisper a clue about where the boy had gone.

The note read,

I’m sorry, Hizashi. I’m so sorry for running. I know I probably scared you. I didn’t want you to see. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want you to know how broken I am. I never wanted you to feel like you had to fix me.

You were the first person who made me feel like I could be…more than nothing. Like I wasn’t just a mistake. You made me laugh when I thought I’d forgotten how. You made me feel like maybe I was allowed to exist. That I could have a tomorrow.

But I can’t stay. It’s better for you if I’m gone. I can’t drag you into this. I don’t want you to get hurt because of me. I’m sorry. Thank you for everything, for the food, for the talks, for being kind to me when no one else was. I’ll never forget it.

Please don’t look for me. I’ll be okay. I promise.

-Meiko

His thumb hovered over the last line every time. Meiko. He’d known from the start the name was probably fake, the way the kid had hesitated when introducing himself, the flicker of caution in his eyes, but it didn’t matter. To Hizashi, he’d always be Meiko. He’d always be his kid, in a way.

The day Meiko had run, Hizashi had come home late, his hair mussed and eyes wide, and all but stumbled into his apartment. His husband, Shouta, had looked up from grading papers at the kitchen table, immediately alert. “Hizashi? What’s wrong?”

“He ran. Shou, he ran-Meiko, I tried to stop him, but he was so scared, and he just…he disappeared.”

Hizashi had started pacing, hands gesturing wildly as he recounted every second, the way Meiko’s eyes had gone glassy with panic, the way he’d shoved past him, the desperate sound of his sneakers hitting the pavement as he vanished into the evening rush.

“I tried chasing him, but I couldn’t find him. I looked everywhere, every alley, every street. He’s gone. And I don’t know his last name, I don’t know where he lives, I don’t even know if ‘Meiko’ is real-”

Shouta had stood, calm and steady, and pulled him close, wrapping Hizashi in a solid, grounding embrace. “Hizashi. Breathe.”

He had clutched at Shouta’s shirt like a lifeline as he tried to control his ragged breathing. His husband’s voice was low but firm as he continued: “We’ll keep looking. But without a real name or proof of guardianship, we can’t go to the police. They won’t open a case.”

“But what if he’s hurt? What if he thinks he can’t come back?” Hizashi’s voice had cracked, raw with frustration and helplessness.

Shouta’s hands had cupped his cheeks, eyes dark and unwavering. “Then we wait. He knows you care. When he’s ready, he’ll come back.”

Hizashi had nodded numbly that night, but the ache in his chest hadn’t gone away. Every morning since, he sat at their kitchen table with the note, his coffee forgotten as he read the same lines again and again. He memorised each curve and stroke of Meiko’s shaky handwriting, each smudge where he’d clearly hesitated or wiped away a tear.

He’d tried to stay busy to distract himself: teaching at Yuuei, recording voice over work for his radio show, even helping Shouta with his hero paperwork. But every time he walked to work or went shopping, his eyes flicked to every alley, every street corner, every rooftop. He found himself scanning shadows for a figure in an oversized hoodie, listening for a familiar, quiet voice.

The cafe had felt emptier, too. Every time he passed the little corner where Meiko used to sit while Hizashi cooked, he half-expected to see him hunched over his notebook, quietly muttering. He missed the way the kid’s eyes lit up when he offered him a new dish, or the hesitant, almost disbelieving smiles Meiko gave him when Hizashi praised him.

He missed him. More than he wanted to admit.

Sometimes he’d go out late at night, walking the streets with a thin hope he might spot him. He kept an ear tuned to the conversations of shopkeepers and neighbours, hoping someone might mention a particular green or black haired teen, a quiet boy wandering alone. But there was nothing.

On the hardest days, Shouta would come home from patrol and find Hizashi asleep on the couch, the note clutched in his hand. He’d carefully slip it free, smooth out the creases, and place it back on the table before pulling a blanket over Hizashi’s shoulders.

Hizashi couldn’t stop worrying. Couldn’t stop hoping. And every day, he promised himself that if Meiko came back, he’d make sure the boy never doubted his worth again.

Detective Tsukauchi Naomasa rubbed at the bridge of his nose, eyes scanning the stack of paperwork that seemed to grow by the hour. The late afternoon sun slanted through his office blinds, striping the file labelled VIGILANTE: REVENANT with shadows. His desk was littered with reports, photos, and witness statements; each page painted a more vivid picture of the stubborn, reckless kid who had single-handedly stolen every pro hero’s attention in the last few months.

Across from him, Aizawa Shouta, Eraserhead, was a mirror of weariness. His elbows rested on his knees, capture weapon neatly coiled by his side, dark eyes darting from one paper to another. Every now and then he would scribble curt notes in his near-illegible handwriting, jaw ticking with quiet frustration.

“Paperwork’s a pain,” Naomasa muttered, breaking the silence. He set down his pen with a quiet click. “But I’d rather be buried in reports than planning a funeral.”

Shouta didn’t respond at first. His eyes were locked on a blurry still taken from a security camera, Revenant’s dark silhouette against a flickering streetlamp, moments before he’d disappeared into the night. The hero’s grip on the paper tightened. “I’ve seen enough kids with nowhere to go,” he said finally, voice low, flat but carrying an undercurrent of emotion. “Enough who thought the only way to prove themselves was by putting their life on the line.”

Naomasa’s lips pressed together. “Just say you’ve gotten attached.”

Shouta’s eyes flicked up, sharp and cold for a brief second, but the detective didn’t flinch. They’d known each other too long. The hero’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly. “I’m not stupid enough to get sentimental. But he’s not like the others. He doesn’t want fame. He’s not seeking revenge. He’s just… lost.”

Naomasa’s sigh was heavy. He flipped through more statements: petty criminals found zip-tied with notes calling the police, a trail of small kindnesses and bruised knuckles.

“He’s trying to help,” Naomasa said, voice quiet. “He just doesn’t know how badly it will end.”

“Or it's the only way he believes he can help people,” Shouta added, frowning deeper. “And if we don’t reach him before someone else does… you know as well as I do that word’s going to spread. He’s on video now. Someone will take an interest.”

“Which is exactly what I’m afraid of,” Naomasa said. He raked a hand through his hair, the tiredness etched into every line of his face. “I don’t want him caught up in something bigger than himself. He’s still a kid, even if we don't know just how old he is.”

They fell silent, both men lost in thought as the room filled with the quiet hum of the precinct outside. Shouta’s eyes shifted to a grainy photo of Revenant, the kid’s dark eyes seen faintly under his hood in the camera flash. He stared for a long moment before his voice broke the stillness.

“I don’t want to arrest him.”

Naomasa’s eyes met his, tired but understanding. “Neither do I.”

Both men knew Revenant had been missing for days now, ever since Shouta had come storming into the station nearly a week ago, breathing heavily and jaw set in a way that told Naomasa before he even spoke that something was wrong. Shouta had wasted no time explaining, how he’d found the kid badly hurt, how he’d tried to stop him, how Revenant had slipped away into the night before he could be healed after what he knew was a life-threatening injury.

Since then, they’d quietly put feelers out to every contact they had, scanning patrol reports, security footage, even the unspoken gossip that travelled between street-level heroes. Nothing. Not a single sighting. It was as if he’d disappeared completely.

Shouta’s gaze dropped back to the paperwork on Naomasa’s desk, though he clearly wasn’t reading it. His lips twisted faintly, defeat sitting heavy on his features. “I wish I had stopped him. If he isn't already dead, eventually I'll find him somewhere bleeding out in an alley and he'll be dead before I can even call for back up this time. I won’t, can't, let that happen.”

Naomasa leaned back in his chair, bones creaking with the motion. The afternoon light was fading, shadows stretching long across the office floor. “Then we keep watching. Keep trying. Keep asking around. If he's out there somewhere alive, and I'm sure he is, and we can’t convince him to stop, we find another way.” Shouta didn’t answer right away, and Naomasa could see the tension in his shoulders, the restless guilt eating at him.

“He’s a strong kid,” Naomasa added quietly. “Even if this isn’t the path he should have chosen, he’s survived. My guess? He’s laying low, resting. He’ll be back before you know it.” Shouta’s expression didn’t ease, but his eyes flicked up at that. “All we can do,” Naomasa said, his voice softer now, “is hope.”

“If I can’t convince him to stop this…” Shouta said, taking in a deep breath because the kid was alive, he couldn't be gone- “then I’ll just have to tag along and make sure he doesn’t do anything more life-threatening than usual and be there for him when he needs it, no matter how much he might hate it, hate me.”

Naomasa’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smile as he picked his pen back up. “That’s probably the best plan we’ve had yet. Your gruff and tough facade hasn't seemed to be working in the slightest to dissuade him these past few months.”

Shouta just sighs. "Don't I know it."

Izuku adjusted the hood over his head as he crouched on the edge of an old water tower, the wind tugging at his clothes. His eyes traced the maze of streets below, every alley and rooftop familiar after months of patrolling. Yet tonight, he couldn’t focus on the rhythm of the city the way he usually did. The conversation with Grim, the near-death fight, and Eraser’s warnings kept replaying in his head like a broken record.

Why does he keep trying? Izuku wondered, brow furrowing beneath his hood. Why not just take me in? I’ve given him enough reasons.

He shifted uncomfortably, a dull ache flaring in his side where the healed claw wounds still twinged if he moved too quickly. He hated that it reminded him of how close he’d come to dying, and how Eraser had looked when he found him falling. That split second had been burned into his mind: wide eyes, lips parted like he’d almost called out, the capture weapon whipping forward with desperate precision.

It hadn’t looked like the expression of a hero chasing a criminal.

Izuku clenched his fists. But it doesn’t matter, he told himself fiercely. He’s a hero. He’s just trying to do his job. He probably sees me as a problem to solve, not a person…

Yet even as he thought it, a treacherous warmth curled in his chest at the memory of the man’s frustrated voice and the grudging care he’d shown.

A shout caught his attention. He snapped his head toward a side street and spotted a teenage boy being cornered by two older delinquents. Izuku’s body moved on instinct, dropping from the water tower and rolling across the roof of a parked van before landing silently behind them.

“Evening, gentlemen,” he drawled, straightening with a cocky grin hidden behind his mask. The two men jumped, whirling around with wide eyes. “Picking on someone your own size a bit too difficult?”

They cursed and lunged at him. Izuku ducked the first swing, swept the guy’s legs out from under him, then elbowed the second in the gut hard enough to send him staggering. He zipped a pair of zip ties around their wrists as they groaned on the ground. “Stay down. Or don’t. Either way, you’ll still be here when the cops show up.”

He turned to the boy, who looked like he was one terrified blink away from bolting. Izuku softened his tone, nodding once. “You okay?”

The kid swallowed hard and nodded. “Th-thank you, Revenant…”

Izuku reached out and ruffled his hair gently, despite the boy being maybe a year or so younger than himself. “Get home safe.”

He watched the boy sprint down the sidewalk before slipping into the shadows himself, his chest twisting. He told himself it was enough, that helping people this way was all he could give. But as he climbed back to the rooftops, he couldn’t shake the nagging thought that maybe… just maybe… Grim had been right. Maybe there were people who genuinely wanted him to come back alive.

And as he paused to look out over the city, his heart ached at the thought of warm green eyes and messy blonde hair, of a man who cracked jokes just to make him smile. Hizashi… he thought, guilt and longing coiling painfully in his chest. I’m sorry.

He watched the blinking red and blue lights from a distant rooftop as the police arrived to collect the zip-tied thugs. Once they were cuffed and in a cruiser, he exhaled in relief, turning away and sprinting across rooftops until the flashing lights were a memory behind him. He didn’t stop until he was deep in an old neighbourhood, convinced no one was watching.

He took a few steadying breaths, reached down, and withdrew one of his crimson-handled throwing knives. He faced a crumbling brick wall, squared his shoulders, and threw, only to wince as the knife clattered harmlessly to the ground. His jaw tightened and he retrieved it and tried again, adjusting his angle, but the blade’s point still failed to stick. He threw it a third time, and it spun awkwardly, bouncing off the wall and skittering across the rooftop.

Learning parkour? Simple enough. Learning to fight against people double your size? Easy! Knife throwing? Forget it.

“Damn it,” he muttered, scowling as he bent to pick it up. He raised his arm for another throw, then froze when he noticed a presence behind him. He felt it like a chill on his neck as he spun around, knives raised defensively, only to come face-to-face with Eraserhead standing in the shadows of a stairwell, arms crossed, head tilted with an eyebrow cocked in unimpressed amusement.

“You have throwing knives,” Eraser said, voice flat and low, “and you don’t know how to use them?” Izuku’s cheeks burned under his mask as he sheathed his knives and crossed his arms defiantly. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Eraser's eyebrow lifted higher. “Maybe you could have noticed me if you weren’t making so much noise.” His eyes flicked to the chipped wall. “Your stance is all wrong.”

“Excuse me?” Izuku snapped, heat creeping up his neck.

“Your weight’s on your heels. That’s why your aim is flaming garbage.” Eraser stepped closer, gesturing to Izuku’s feet. “Shift your weight forward. Knife throwing isn’t about brute force, it’s about precision and momentum.” Izuku blinked. “Are you…giving me a lesson?”

“Would you rather I stand here and watch you embarrass yourself?” The hero drawled. He ignored Izuku’s glare. “Draw a knife.”

Slowly, Izuku pulled a blade free, feeling suspicious but curious. Eraser reached out and, with surprising patience, adjusted Izuku’s grip, guiding his fingers along the handle. “Grip it here, but not too tight. Let your wrist stay loose.”

Izuku’s breath caught at the callused hands correcting his own, but he forced himself to focus. Eraser stepped back. “Now, raise your arm. Elbow up, don’t drop it.” Izuku did as instructed, feeling slightly awkward. “Like this?”

“Better,” Eraser said, eyes flicking between Izuku and the target wall. “Aim with your whole body, not just your arm. Throw with a snap, not a swing.” Izuku exhaled, narrowed his eyes, and let the knife fly. It spun, thunk, then embedded itself in the outer edge of a brick. He stared, wide-eyed. Eraser nodded, his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. “Acceptable.”

Izuku scowled, but he couldn’t fight the small swell of pride. “Thanks… I guess.”

“Again,” Eraser ordered. “You’re not done until you can hit the centre.” Izuku retrieved his knife from the brick with a flourish, tossing it lightly in one hand before lining up another throw. “Wow,” he drawled, glancing sidelong at the man in black. “You must be a teacher or something, with such amazing, soul-stirring feedback.”

His sarcasm was thick enough to cut with a blade. He expected Eraser to roll his eyes or snap back, but instead, Eraser's lips twitched faintly. “For your information, I am a teacher, thank you.” Izuku nearly dropped his knife. He blinked. “You? A teacher?”

The hero crossed his arms, capture weapon shifting with the motion. “Yes.” Izuku squinted at him, a slow grin stretching across his face. “And they let you near kids?” Eraser gave him a look so flat and unamused it could have stopped a train. Izuku tried to keep his composure, but the disbelief, and the image of Eraserhead lecturing bright-eyed ten-year-olds, was too much. He let out an involuntary snort as his laughter bubbled out.

Eraser eyebrow twitched. “Glad I amuse you.”

“Oh, you do,” Izuku managed between giggles, wiping a tear from his eye. “God, do the kids know you scowl like that? You probably terrify them.”

“Only the ones who don’t listen,” He deadpanned, but Izuku could’ve sworn he saw the corner of the hero’s mouth twitching again. Izuku sighed dramatically, twirling his knife. “Wow. My life’s being lectured by a grumpy pro hero-slash-kindergarten teacher.”

“High school,” Eraser corrected dryly, unimpressed. Izuku’s eyes widened. “Oh, that’s even worse. Your poor kids.” Eraser stepped forward, arms still folded but eyes sharp. “Focus, Bean Boy.”

Izuku’s grin widened into something feral. “Aw, when did we move to pet names?”

“Throw. The. Knife.” Izuku cackled as he lined up another throw, adrenaline and humour mixing in his veins, his eyes flicking from the blade to Eraser as he asked, “So…you really teach?”

“Yes.” His tone was blunt, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Izuku hesitated, his knife lowering a fraction. Something unreadable flickered across his face, a brief vulnerability slipping past his cocky mask. “Bet they don’t know how lucky they are,” he muttered quietly, voice rougher than before. “To have a teacher who actually cares.”

Eraser's eyes softened almost imperceptibly before he caught himself, straightening his posture. “Focus, Bean Boy.” Izuku barked a humourless laugh and flicked his wrist. The knife flew, embedding itself dead centre in the outer ring of the crude target he’d drawn earlier. He blinked, surprised at how quickly his accuracy had improved.

Eraser clicked his tongue. “Better. Again.” They kept at it, Izuku throwing, Eraser correcting. The more Izuku practised, the faster he adjusted. Soon, the knife thunked into the target again, this time closer to the centre than ever before. Izuku whooped, spinning to face Eraser with a grin splitting his face. “See that, 'Raser? I’m a natural.”

He gave him a bland look. “You’re a quick study. That’s different.” Izuku rolled his eyes but his chest swelled with a strange warmth at the begrudging compliment. He lined up another throw. “So, what do you teach? Bet it’s something boring, like math. You seem like a math guy, I can see you with the glasses and ruler in hand as we speak.”

“Not math, Heroics,” He corrected without missing a beat. Izuku’s knife nearly slipped from his fingers. He stared. “You…teach heroics? You’re teaching future heroes? You teach at a hero school?”

Eraser crossed his arms, the faintest smirk on his lips as he watched the vigilante process that. “In my day job, when I’m not chasing a certain mouthy vigilante who refuses to stop getting into trouble, I train the next generation.”

“Oh, man, and I thought you would be scary enough for students before. For future heroes? You must scare them shitless. I think if I made it into a Heroics class and got your grumpy ass as a teacher, I would get someone to kick me into the sun.”

“They respect me, and if you keep doubting my teaching abilities I'll the the one to punt you into the sun, brat.” He warned, earning himself a laugh from Izuku as he wiped a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye, chest still shaking as Eraser continued. “Respect and fear aren’t the same. Remember that.”

He just cleared his throat and aimed for the target again. “So what, you gonna start grading me now, Sensei?” Eraser arched a brow. “I already am. You’re at a C-minus.”

“C-minus?!” Izuku squawked, indignation flaring. He threw another knife, this one sinking solidly into the inner ring. “That was at least a B-plus!” Eraser actually looked thoughtful, rubbing his chin. “Maybe a C-plus. If you stop whining.”

Izuku’s jaw dropped, then he burst into laughter that echoed off the empty rooftops. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so light, even if just for a moment. But as the laughter faded, he realised he also felt exposed, like he’d let something slip he couldn’t take back. He turned to line up another throw, hiding the complicated look in his eyes as he asked, quieter this time, “Why are you really doing this, Eraser? Why help me?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were sharp but unreadable in the moonlight. “Because I’d rather see you learn something than think you died trying to help someone without the necessary skills to keep yourself safe, problem child.”

Izuku’s fingers tightened on the knife. He swallowed hard, then gave a crooked grin, voice back to its teasing edge even if his eyes were softer. “Well, you’re stuck with me for a while longer, just until you teach me all your tricks.”

He kept throwing his knives at the target over and over, before an hour later he let his throwing knives clatter to the rooftop, his chest rising and falling a little too fast for his liking. His hands were still shaking, not from exhaustion but from the tension thrumming through him. Why the hell was Eraser looking at him like that? Like he was… worried or something.

Then the pro hero spoke, his voice low and steady. “Where did you go after the night you were hurt?”

Izuku froze. His breath hitched just slightly, and he forced a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He tried to sound cocky, like this was all a joke. “Careful, Eraser… almost sounds like you were worried about me.”

But the man didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, his stare sharpened, the concern there plain as day even if his face didn’t change much. “Any sane person would be worried after watching you practically crawl your way out of an alleyway covered in blood.”

Izuku’s smirk faltered. He hated this, hated how the words dug under his skin, how they made his chest feel tight. He turned his gaze out toward the city lights, jaw clenched, fingers drumming restlessly against his leg. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then, quietly, like dragging the words out cost him something, he muttered, “A friend helped me.”

That should’ve been the end of it. But no, Eraser had to keep digging. “A friend from the underground?” Izuku nearly answered without thinking, but he caught himself, snapped his mouth shut, and shook his head sharply. “Nuh-uh. No more questions,” he said, injecting as much defiance as he could into his voice. “I don’t owe you that.”

There was silence, heavy and stretching between them. The night air felt cooler suddenly. Izuku could hear the faint noise of the city below, but it all felt distant. Then Eraser let out this long withering sigh, like he was just as tired of all this as Izuku was. “Alright. Then let’s make a deal,” the hero said, tone soft but serious. “I’ll answer any question you ask me… if you answer one of mine.”

Izuku blinked, heart stuttering. He stared at the man like he’d grown a second head. “What? Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because,” Eraser said, calm and steady, “you want answers. And so do I.”

Izuku gritted his teeth, gripping a knife so tight his knuckles went white. He didn’t like this. Didn’t like how steady the man’s voice was, how patient he sounded. Like he actually gave a damn. Like he was trying. He shifted on his feet, scanning the rooftop for an out. But for some reason… he didn’t take it. Instead, the tension bled out in a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. His shoulders sagged a little. “And if I don’t like your question?” he asked, voice low, almost wary.

“You don’t have to answer,” Eraser said simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

His eyes flicked from Eraser’s face to the long, cloth-like weapon wrapped around the man’s shoulders. He’d seen it in action enough times, felt it in action more than he’d like to admit, but tonight, he couldn’t help himself. He squinted, curiosity gnawing at him. “Alright, I’ll bite,” he said, voice low as he gestured with a jerk of his chin. “How the hell does that thing work?”

Eraser’s eyes narrowed just a touch, suspicion flashing across his face. “Why?” he asked flatly. “Planning to steal my gear?”

Izuku rolled his eyes so hard he nearly tipped over. “No, it’s… interesting, okay?” he muttered, voice barely above a grumble. His cheeks warmed at how childish it sounded, so he added quickly, “I’ve never seen anyone else use something like that. It’s just- interesting.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, to his surprise, Eraser actually sighed, the suspicion easing from his eyes as he settled into a patient, almost lecturing tone. “It’s a carbon-fibre scarf reinforced with special steel wire and my DNA. It’s lightweight but strong, and flexible enough for me to manipulate it precisely. Took years of training to master.”

Izuku blinked, leaning forward without realising it. “Wait, it’s not capture tape? So it is a scarf?”

“Yes,” Eraser confirmed dryly. “An Erasure Hero original.”

“Huh.” Izuku’s eyes were wide, and despite himself, a spark of genuine excitement slipped into his voice. “That’s… actually cool.” Eraser raised an eyebrow. “You think so?” Izuku caught himself, straightening quickly and folding his arms over his chest. “I mean, it’s alright, I guess,” he sniffed, but his curiosity wasn’t quite masked. “So you control it just by… whipping it around? Can you lasso people?”

“It’s more about subtle wrist movements and momentum,” Eraser explained with a flick of his wrist that sent the scarf slithering through the air like a living thing. “Precision control is everything. One mistake, and it could backfire.”

Izuku watched, eyes tracing every smooth ripple of the cloth. His heart gave an unexpected squeeze. He was impressed, he’d always been impressed, he realised, but the thought caught in his throat, so he swallowed it down before it could show on his face. “Sounds… complicated.” Eraser’s gaze softened just a hair, like he’d caught the slip in Izuku’s mask. “It is,” he said quietly. “But it’s worth it.”

Izuku looked away quickly, scuffing his shoe against the rooftop. “Whatever,” he muttered, but he couldn’t stop the faint curl of awe in his chest, or the new, troubling thought that maybe Eraser wasn’t so bad after all.

Izuku swallowed hard as he finished his question about the capture weapon, watching Eraser’s scarf sway gently in the night breeze. A tense silence settled between them, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the city below. Then Eraser shifted, dark eyes focused intently on him. “My turn,” the hero said quietly. “Are you safe?”

Izuku blinked, feet coming to a halt on the rooftop. The question caught him so off-guard he almost missed his footing. His head snapped up, eyes searching Eraser’s for some hint of sarcasm or bait, but there was none. Just a steady, unsettling concern that rooted Izuku in place. “Define safe,” he asked, voice sharper than he intended. He hated how it cracked near the end.

Eraser’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I mean,” he said slowly, “do you have a place to stay? Somewhere you’re not freezing on the streets or putting yourself in danger every night? And…” His gaze softened even more, brow furrowing. “Are there people who actually care about you there?”

For a second, Izuku almost laughed. It sounded so absurd coming from a man who’d spent the last four months trying to arrest him. But something in Eraser’s tone made him hesitate. He glanced away, shifting uncomfortably as he forced himself to answer honestly. “Yeah,” he said quietly, voice rough. “I have a place.”

He hesitated again, throat tightening. “And… yes,” he added, a bit softer. “I have people who care about me.”

But as he said it, a wave of guilt curled in his stomach, because what he didn’t say was that it wasn’t family or any safe, normal place. It was Grim, whose idea of caring was knocking him upside the head when he was being stupid, and the three ladies who walked the streets at night, laughing and calling him “Bean Boy” like he was some neighbourhood mascot. And he couldn’t help but wonder if that really counted as what Eraser meant.

When he glanced back, Eraser’s expression had eased, but there was something wary in his eyes. Izuku bristled at it, trying to force his grin back into place. “Satisfied?” he snapped, but his voice was quieter than usual. Eraser didn’t answer right away, just watched him like he was trying to see past the cocky mask. “For now,” he said at last, voice low. “For now.”

Izuku wiped sweat from his brow, the night air cool against his skin as he practised flicking his knives once more. His movements were smoother than they’d been just hours ago, Eraser’s blunt instruction already paying off. Still, he could feel the ache in his arms and the lingering tightness from his healing ribs whenever he twisted too far. He paused, checking the time on his phone, and a sharp jolt of surprise went through him, it was almost time.

He began strapping his knives back into their holsters, fingers deft despite the rush. Behind him, Eraser’s voice cut through the quiet: “Where are you going?” Izuku shot the man a flat look. “We both know you’re going to follow me,” he said, voice tart. “So figure it out yourself.”

With that, he vaulted off the rooftop, boots thudding softly as he took off at a sprint across the cityscape. He leapt and landed with ease, weaving over the rooftops until he saw them, three familiar figures clustered together at their usual spot on a quieter street. He dropped down, landing lightly behind them. “Hi, Bean Boy!” chorused the three women, Kuroyami Akari with her dark hair and sharp purple eyes, Himata Nezomi with bright yellow eyes and tousled orange hair, and Aonami Sora with dark blue hair framing her green eyes.

A genuine smile tugged at his lips as he fell into step beside them, chatting about everything from their day to the latest gossip they’d picked up. It was Aonami-san who suddenly nudged him, her cigarette-free hand waving. “Hey, I haven’t smoked since you told me off.” He blinked, surprised. “Seriously?” He turned to the other two for confirmation.

“Mm-hm!” Kuroyami-san said, lips curling. Himata-san nodded vigorously, her hair bouncing. A slow, delighted grin spread across Izuku’s face. “Looks like I owe you all dinner, then.” They veered off their usual route and found a stand selling meat skewers, each of them grabbing one. The street was quiet as they ate, the occasional car passing by. Izuku slipped his mouth mask down to take a bite, savouring the grilled meat, only to freeze when he felt a stare on him. He looked up to see Akari’s wide purple eyes fixed on his face.

“Holy shit,” she blurted, eyes snapping even wider. “You’re just a kid.” The other two immediately crowded closer. “I can’t see anything! Curse your night vision!” Nezomi whined, squinting.

“Same!” Sora added, eyes narrowed. With a sigh, Himata activated her quirk, her bright yellow eyes beaming like flashlights. Izuku yelped as the light flashed directly into his face, momentarily blinded. “Stop that!” he hissed, covering his eyes, but they didn’t listen. Instead, the three began scolding him, voices overlapping.

“You should be in bed by now-”

“Running around at this hour-”

“Look at you, you’re a baby!”

Izuku scowled. “Do I look like a kid who should be in bed right now?”

But his natural voice, young and bright in the night air, betrayed him, and the ladies’ eyes widened in unison. “You do!” Nezomi cried, aghast. Izuku groaned inwardly. He could practically hear Eraser laughing his ass off from wherever he was lurking. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” he insisted, crossing his arms.

Akari shot him a sceptical look. “Do you even have someone looking out for you?”

He hesitated, then sighed, pointing up to the rooftop where he could feel Eraser’s gaze burning a hole through him. “He’s…always watching over me. It’s fine.” All three turned and squinted up into the darkness, then grinned and started waving enthusiastically. “Hi, Bean Boy’s dad!”

Izuku’s face went red hot. “He’s not my dad!” he yelped, flailing his arms. “At all!”

“Then why is some man following you around every night?” Sora demanded, her tone suspicious.

“I-he-it’s complicated!” Izuku stammered, face flushed as the three women exchanged knowing looks and giggled, the echoes of their laughter filling the street.

Izuku dropped the ladies off one by one, each at their own doors. They hugged him tightly, too tightly, considering his still-tender ribs, and thanked him with bright smiles and quiet words of gratitude and warnings to be careful. By the time the last door closed, the night had deepened into a comforting quiet. He climbed the familiar fire escape to the rooftop where Eraser waited, dark hair shifting slightly in the breeze.

The hero opened his mouth, and Izuku cut him off immediately. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Eraser’s only response was to tuck his chin into his capture weapon, a move Izuku recognised by now, not because the man was cold or annoyed, but because he was hiding a smile. A small huff slipped from Izuku’s lips as he knelt down beside the edge of the building, scanning the streets below. The city looked peaceful at this hour, too quiet for anyone to get into trouble. He shifted, readying himself to move on.

But just as he stood, Eraser’s voice cut through the night air. “Wait, kid.”

Izuku paused, turning with one eyebrow raised. “What?”

The hero regarded him with an unreadable expression. “Think about what you want to ask me next,” Eraser said, voice even but with something almost gentle under the words. “I figure I’ll be seeing you somewhere there’s trouble tomorrow night.”

Izuku blinked, caught off guard by the easy certainty in the hero’s tone. After a second, he nodded once, sharp and sure. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Goodbye, Eraser.”

The hero only inclined his head in response. Izuku let himself watch him for a beat longer, just a man in the dark, eyes tired but watchful, before he turned, stepped off the ledge, and dropped silently into the alley below, boots hitting the ground as he sprinted off into the shadows, feeling the weight of Eraser’s gaze on his back until he slipped out of sight.

Chapter Text

The night air carried the faint tang of rain that hadn’t quite committed to falling. The city stretched out below in a patchwork of neon and shadow, its restless heartbeat thrumming in Izuku’s ears as he hopped across another rooftop. He’d been patrolling for an hour, just enough for his muscles to feel warm and loose, and for the quiet to settle into that comfortable rhythm he liked. His mind was already drifting to the next building when he landed on one that pulled him up short.

The same rooftop as last night, with the same scuffed edge and wind battered antenna. And there, sitting on the edge with his feet dangling over the edge like gravity was just a rumour, was Eraserhead. His stomach did a weird little flip as he watched the man's eyes scan the streets below, no doubt looking for any signs of a commotion, but in his hand he was holding a silver packet and slurping on it with all the energy of someone eating breakfast in bed. He blinked, before mumbling, “…Is that-”

“Mm.” He didn’t look at him, and instead just squeezed the pouch, chewed, swallowed, and finally said, “Jelly pouch. Peach.” Izuku stepped closer, curiosity quickly giving way to incredulity. “You’re… eating dessert food? In the middle of patrol?”

“It’s not dessert. It’s calories, and convenient ones at that.” He crumpled the empty pouch halfway down and took another sip. “No cooking, no cleanup. Doesn’t get in the way if I need to move.”

“Uh-huh,” Izuku said, crossing his arms. “Sure. That’s why you’re sitting here like some retired grandpa on his front porch.” Eraser’s eyes slid sideways in that slow, unimpressed way. “…And?” Izuku smirked under his masks. “And I’m wondering if it’s almost your bedtime. Should I tuck you in now or after your prune juice?” That earned him a short huff of breath, not quite a laugh, but close enough to feel like a victory.

“Oh, wow,” Izuku continued, his tone dripping with mock concern. “Do you want me to fetch your slippers too, old man? Maybe knit you a blanket? The streets will still be here tomorrow-”

He didn’t finish. The scarf moved faster than his brain could process, a grey streak that wrapped around his ankles and yanked. “Wait-!”

Izuku’s world tilted, the stars above him replaced by rough gravel up close and personal. He hit the roof with a grunt, hands instinctively trying to catch him but only managing to scrape against the grit. His hood slid sideways as a pebble crunched between his teeth, and Eraser ’s voice drifted down, dry as ever. “You talk too much.” Izuku groaned, pushing himself up to his elbows. “Seriously? You just… trip people for fun?”

“Only people who think they’re funny.” The scarf snapped back into its coil around Eraser’s shoulders with an almost smug grace. Spitting the gravel from his mouth, Izuku shot him a glare. “That’s… assault.”

“That’s training,” he countered, leaning back and sipping the last of the jelly pouch like he had all the time in the world. Izuku stood, brushing grit off his knees. “Training for what? Face-planting?”

“For learning when to shut up before you earn it,” he said. His lips curled just slightly, the barest hint of a smirk, before it vanished again. Izuku huffed, half annoyed, half impressed. “You know, for a guy your age, you’re way too smug about your reflexes.”

“For a kid your age, you’re way too confident about yours.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, the city’s hum filling the silence between barbs. Then he pushed the empty pouch into his pocket, the silver foil crinkling as Izuku tilted his head “Done with your desert so soon?” Eraser stood slowly, stretching with a cat-like laziness. “Keep talking, Revenant. See where it gets you.”

“…Another mouthful of gravel?” Izuku guessed dryly. He didn’t answer, but then the scarf shifted slightly, and Izuku wisely took a step back. He kept his weight light on his heels now, eyes flicking to the coil of scarf like it was a snake ready to strike, and the man  noticed. Of course he noticed. “Learning already,” he said, voice low with amusement. “That’s good. You’ll live longer.” Izuku snorted. “Not if you keep throwing me face-first into gravel, grandpa.”

The scarf shifted again, low and deliberate like the hero wanted him to see it this time. “You could dodge it if you’re fast enough, I've seen you do it before. Maybe you're just losing your touch.” The words lit a stubborn spark in Izuku’s chest. “Try me, old man.” His brow lifted just a fraction. “Alright.” The scarf lashed out, not at his ankles this time, but at his shoulder. Izuku twisted to the side, feeling the fabric whip past his sleeve and his pulse jumped.

“Oh-ho, that all you’ve got?” he taunted, sliding a step to the left. The second strike came faster. Izuku ducked, barely clearing it, then darted a few meters back near the edge. His heart was hammering, not from fear, but from the familiar thrill of movement, the kind he lived for on nights like this. Eraser didn’t move from the ledge he was sat on. His arms shifted with minimal effort, each flick of his wrist making the scarf snake toward Izuku with precision that was almost unfair.

The scarf lashed out in a quick sweep, but he was ready for it, a sidestep, a small hop, and it whistled past his ankle without even grazing him. The next strike came from the other side. He twisted his hips, leaning just enough that the grey fabric sliced through empty air again. “You’re getting predictable,” he called, letting a smirk creep into his voice.

Eraser didn’t bite, eyes half-lidded in that maddeningly calm way. Izuku dodged two more sweeps in a row, each time with a little more flourish. Finally, he straightened and dusted his gloves off like the whole thing was too easy. “Huh. I’m starting to think you’re slowing down. Those weren't nearly as fast as the first.”

One brow twitched upward, but the scarf didn’t move. Izuku tilted his head, eyes narrowing with faux curiosity. “…Or… are you just going easy on me?” Silence. Izuku's grin faltered just slightly. “…Please tell me you weren’t going easy on me this whole time.” He finally spoke, voice dry as sandpaper. “Why would I do that? It’s my job to arrest you, isn’t it?”

Izuku narrowed his eyes in return. “Uh-huh. Because clearly this-” he gestured between them, “-is definitely the work of a man fully committed to taking me down.”

“Maybe you’re just not as hard to catch as you think.” Izuku’s smirk returned, sharper now. “Don’t go easy on me.” Eraser’s lips tugged faintly at one corner. “I’ll think about it.”

That was all the warning Izuku got.

Eraserhead's wrist flicked once, smooth and almost lazy, and the scarf snapped forward with way more speed than before, striking low as it wrapped both of his legs together tightly before his brain caught up. The ground tilted violently under him, and he cursed loudly. “-oh, come on-!”

He hit the gravel again, this time hard enough to rattle his teeth, palms skidding and scraping as grit dug into his skin. A sharp pebble jabbed his cheekbone, and above him, the man reeled the scarf back in with the kind of casual ease that made Izuku want to scream. His faint grin had upgraded to something closer to smug satisfaction. “Guess I thought about it,” he said.

Izuku groaned into the gravel, voice muffled. “…You’re a sadist.”

“You’re only complaining because you're still too slow.”

“You tripped me!”

“I used my capture weapon.”

“You ambushed me!”

“I warned you.”

Izuku pushed himself upright, brushing gravel off his hoodie. “You’re enjoying this way too much for someone who claims to hate their job.”

“That’s because I don’t hate all parts of it.” Izuku narrowed his eyes. “You mean humiliating me in particular?”

“Only when you make it easy.” That did it. Izuku’s frown sharpened into determination. “Alright, no more playing around.” He dropped into a low stance, muscles coiling. Eraser just raised a brow like he’d heard that before. “Sure. I’ll give you five seconds.” Izuku sprang forward again, but the scarf moved faster than his eyes could track, and he was once again eating a full course meal full of gravel. This time, Eraser didn’t even bother reeling in the scarf right away.

He just sat there, smirk visible under the shadow of his hair, and said, “Four seconds. You’re improving.” Izuku spat out a pebble. “…You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re still talking too much.”

Izuku sat up, his breathing unsteady but the familiar hum of adrenaline coursing through his body had him brushing himself off and without another warning, he launched himself at the hero, dancing around his capture weapon. The weapon flicked and whipped through the air, each strike met with a near miss, a careful dodge, or a quick sidestep. 

“Not bad,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “But you’re telegraphing your moves when you lean too far.” The scarf swept out, narrowly missing Izuku’s shoulder. Izuku blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the help. “You’re… giving me tips on how to evade your attacks?” he asked, eyes wide. Eraser shrugged, eyes hidden beneath the heavy-lidded gaze that seemed half amused, half tired. “I wouldn't call them attacks, but I don’t know, are you learning?”

Izuku scowled, jaw tightening. “I’m trying.” He twisted away from another snap of the scarf, heart pounding. The weapon was almost like an extension of Eraser's will, always just a hair’s breadth away, teasing, testing, pushing. Minutes stretched as Izuku worked to keep up, barely managing to stay one step ahead. Sweat prickled down his temple, and his limbs ached from the constant strain. Eraser’s voice broke the rhythm. “Thinking of a question for me?”

“Huh?” Izuku glanced toward him, confused. Eraser’s grin sharpened, and before Izuku could react, the scarf shot out and wrapped tightly around his ankles, pulling him off balance again. He crashed into the gravel once more. The pro retracted the weapon slowly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Do you have another question for me?”

Izuku sat up, brushing dirt from his cheek, breathing hard. “Yeah… why haven’t you actually brought me in yet? You’ve had plenty of chances, and here you are teaching me tricks.” The older man exhaled deeply, the smile fading into something more serious. “Despite what you think, I don’t want to put you in jail. I want you to train sensibly and legally, like having someone else train you safely.” He tapped his temple lightly. “I don't want another situation where something happens to you because your opponent was faster or smarter, and you weren't able to defend yourself properly."

Izuku opened his mouth to argue, but the hero didn't give him a chance. "You may think now that being a vigilante is the best option for you, but it isn't logical in the long run. Are you going to keep doing this when you're older, when you need to support yourself or the ones you love? I could help you, kid. If you applied to a hero school or something similar, you'd benefit from it greatly, and you'd still be able to help those around you, only legally."

Izuku scowled as he rolled his eyes, bitter. “Yeah, as if I’d get in.” Eraser’s gaze softened, and for the first time his voice carried a hint of something like hope. “If you'd just let me, I could lend you a hand.” Izuku froze, and suddenly realised that Eraser's offer was less about heroics and him doing good, and more about stopping his reckless vigilante behaviour. “I can’t be a hero, or a hero student, and I never will be, so give it up.” He hisses as he stands, muscles tight and eyes flashing.

“Now, ask your question before I leave.”

There was a pause, before the hero spoke, his voice quieter this time. “Who’s looking after you?”  Izuku’s heart skipped, and his eyes darkened as his lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not answering that.” Eraser sighed, the weight of unspoken things heavy in the air. “Kid-”

Izuku cut him off, frustration boiling over. “I’ve been looking after myself for a long time now, I don’t need someone to look after me, or lend me a hand.” Without another word he turned away, leaving Eraser alone on the rooftop, his sigh lingering like a soft echo into the night.

After stepping away, Izuku’s footsteps felt heavier than usual as he landed on the ground. The night air was crisp and sharp, but it did little to cool the swirl of thoughts and emotions churning inside him. He slipped down into the shadows of the streets, trying to find the familiar rhythm of his patrol, the soft tap of his boots on cracked pavement, the distant hum of streetlights flickering overhead, the occasional murmur of night birds or distant traffic.

But tonight, everything felt different.

His mind kept looping back to Eraser and the way he’d so effortlessly caught him, faster and sharper than Izuku had ever imagined possible. He had thought himself quick, nimble, even clever enough to evade the capture weapon. Yet, those movements, almost too fast to see, had sent him sprawling into gravel again. It unsettled Izuku more than he cared to admit. For a moment, he wondered if the pro hero had been going easy on him all this time, maybe holding back to let Izuku feel like he was in control.

But the cold, steady look in his eyes when Izuku asked told a different story. “Why would I do that? It’s my job to arrest you, isn’t it?” He had said, voice gruff and unyielding. And that line stuck with him. Izuku had nodded then, eyes narrowing. “Don’t go easy on me,” he’d said. But the grin that followed when Eraser flicked the capture weapon once more, faster and more precise, told him that the lesson was far from over.

Now, walking through the streets on his usual route, Izuku realised something deeper had shifted inside him. He wasn’t just scared of Eraser’s skill or strength. Izuku was scared because he had been pretending, pretending that he was better, faster, stronger than a professional hero, pretending he could just pick up what he needed on his own without guidance. That pretence had been shattered tonight.

The thought of it made his chest tighten. Maybe he did need more training. Real training, the kind with discipline, structure, someone watching his form and pushing him to improve. Not just the scraps he scavenged from the streets, the half-remembered techniques from online tutorials, or the reckless improvisation born from desperation. But then his mind flipped back to the other side of that coin, the side he was terrified to admit.

If he asked Eraserhead for help, the man wouldn’t just train him. He’d force him to stop being a vigilante, and he’d want to take away the one thing Izuku had left that made him feel alive, that gave his otherwise bleak existence meaning. Because, in truth, the nights out on patrol with the danger, the adrenaline, the feeling that he was actually making a difference, was the only thing that kept him going. It was the only piece of himself he hadn’t lost to the loneliness and the quiet pain.

He walked a little slower, the weight of those thoughts pressing down harder than the night cold. When he reached the corner where the ladies he usually walked home were waiting, he found himself thankful. They didn’t ask why he seemed withdrawn or less cheerful than usual. They just smiled softly, thanked him quietly, and wished him a good night. Their simple kindness pulled at the corners of his heart, reminding him of the normalcy he craved but didn’t know how to ask for.

He wanted to tell them everything, about Eraser’s gruff lesson and words, the capture weapon snapping out faster than his eyes could follow, the fear that maybe he wasn’t as ready as he’d told himself. But he couldn’t. He tucked those feelings away, swallowed the lump in his throat, and forced a small smile. “I’ll be fine,” he thought, though he wasn’t sure if it was meant for them or for himself.

As they disappeared inside, Izuku lingered in the quiet street for a moment longer. His gaze lifted toward the dark skyline, where the last faint glow of the city’s lights met the horizon. He had always been alone in this, in the night, in the fight, in the choices that dragged him further from anything resembling a normal life.

With a deep, steadying breath, he squared his shoulders and started walking again, deeper into the city’s shadowed streets, where the night still needed watching, and where he still needed to find his own way forward. For a while, his thoughts were kept at bay. He pushed them to the back of his mind as he fought villains and criminals, going through his familiar routine of take-down, help, call, before he would leave the scene after making sure the victim was alright.

Soon, though, it wasn't enough, and the weight of Eraser’s question settled heavily in his mind. “Who’s looking after you?” This question cut deeper, caught him off guard, and lingered longer than he wanted. He stopped beneath a flickering streetlight, the weak glow casting long shadows over the cracked sidewalk. For a moment, he just stared at the pool of pale light, trying to untangle the meaning behind those words.

Who was looking after him?

His thoughts spiralled back through years of quiet loneliness, the ache of nights spent waiting for a parent who was mostly absent, the days of getting by on his own because there simply wasn’t anyone else to rely on. He’d gotten used to fending for himself, to hiding the cracks in his life behind a mask of determination. To pretending that needing help was a weakness he couldn’t afford, b ut that question felt like a spotlight on the truth he tried to bury.

No one.

Not really.

Sure, there were acquaintances, casual friends, people who smiled at him in passing. But no one who watched his back when things got dark. No one who checked in when the loneliness was suffocating, or when the pain in his side from an injury refused to fade. No one waiting up if he didn’t come home, no one to patch him up beyond him helping himself by dying. 

He had been looking after himself for so long, pushing people who were trying to get close to him away, not wanting to burden them, since it was the only way he knew how to survive.

A bitter twist in his chest tightened as he remembered the softness in Eraser’s eyes when he asked. The unspoken concern behind the gruff voice, that rough exterior hid a question that wasn’t just about curiosity, it was about care. Izuku swallowed hard, swallowing the lump that rose in his throat. He wasn’t ready to admit that aloud, not even to himself. Not to the man who could catch him in a heartbeat but still chose to ask instead of punish.

Because admitting it meant vulnerability. Admitting it meant accepting he needed someone. And right now, that scared him more than any capture weapon or quick strike. He glanced up at the night sky, searching for answers in the stars, but found only his own reflection in the dark glass of a nearby window. A kid who wanted to be a hero but didn’t know how to be a child. A kid who dreamed of saving others, even if no one was there to save him.

Maybe, one day, that would change. But for now, he shook his head gently, pushing the question back into the shadows. “I’m looking after myself,” he whispered to the empty street, voice firm but barely hiding the ache beneath.

Hours later, as Izuku now lay on the uncomfortable mattress in his room as he counted the cracks in the ceiling, he made a mental note of all the people he knew would notice if he was gone and care.

The first person who came to mind was Grim. He was a shadowy figure from the underground world Izuku had become a part of, rough, fierce, and unwavering in his loyalty. He cared, no doubt about it, and he had even rescued Izuku, even if he didn't know Izuku couldn't die. Grim’s protection was like the steel walls of a prison, solid, unyielding, but comforting. Grim didn’t ask too many questions, but offered enough comfort for Izuku to be safe, even sharing some kind words with him. It was enough to keep Izuku alive, but it wasn’t the kind of care that healed or nurtured.

Then there were the ladies, the women who had taken on a sort of older sister role in his life. They were kind and patient with him, always ready with a warm smile or a comforting word. They had gently scolded him when he pushed himself too hard or refused to eat properly. They’d offered to take him in for a night or two, even when they knew he would refuse. But they had lives outside of him, families, jobs, their own worries. Izuku knew better than to ask them to carry his burdens. He didn’t want to be a weight on their shoulders, so he kept his struggles quiet, tucked away behind a mask of determination and forced smiles. It was easier that way.

Easier to pretend he was fine.

He tried not to think about Hizashi. The idea of reaching out to the man was tangled in too many complicated feelings, hope, fear, resentment, longing. Hizashi was a connection to a world Izuku barely dared to dream about, a world where maybe he could be more than a shadow. But opening that door felt like risking everything, and the fear of rejection or disappointment held him back. So he shoved the thoughts deep down and didn’t let himself dwell there.

And then there was Hitoshi.

Hitoshi was different. The only friend his own age, and only one who wasn’t tied to his chaotic life. Someone he could talk to, or just sit with in silence, without feeling like he had to explain or defend himself. Their friendship was simple and real, and Izuku cherished it more than he often admitted. The realisation hit him hard. He was truly, deeply lonely. His fingers hesitated over his phone before he finally typed out a message, the words simple but weighted.

“Hey, would you wanna hang out soon?”

It was nearly 2 AM, and he wasn’t sure if he’d even get a reply. But almost instantly, the screen lit up with a new message.

“Sure, why not.”

Izuku blinked, surprised by the quickness of the response. He typed back, curious despite himself.

“Why are you up right now?”

A moment later, the reply came.

“Insomnia is a bitch.”

Izuku chuckled softly, shaking his head. Agreeing with the boy and finding himself unable to sleep, he left his apartment without his masks and found a quiet rooftop nearby, climbed up, and settled on the edge, letting his legs dangle freely over the city below. The cool night air brushed against him, the hum of distant traffic filling the silence. He glanced at his phone again and typed.

“Same here. Too many thoughts.”

Izuku’s fingers hovered over the screen, feeling a little lighter than before. The conversation with Hitoshi was slow but steady, a welcome distraction from the swirl of his thoughts that had been dragging him down all night.

“So… what do you want to do when we hang out?” Izuku typed, already picturing a day that felt less heavy.

“I don’t know. Something chill. Maybe just hang out at the park? Grab some snacks, talk?” Hitoshi replied quickly.

Izuku smiled to himself. “Yeah, that sounds perfect. Saturday work for you? I’m free all day.”

“Perfect. Saturday it is.”

They started joking about what snacks to bring, Hitoshi insisted on some ridiculous amount of chips, while Izuku teased him for always going for the same boring stuff.

“You’re just scared I’ll eat them all before you get a chance,” Izuku read, grinning at the screen as he replied.

“Ha, yeah right. You’re the one always stealing my food,” He shot back.

The easy banter made Izuku chuckle quietly to himself. For a few moments, the weight of the rooftop, the patrol, and Eraser’s sharp questions all melted away.

“I’m actually really looking forward to Saturday,” Izuku admitted, tapping the screen with a little more hope than he expected.

“Yeah? Me too. It’s been a while since we had a day off to just hang out,” Hitoshi replied.

They finalised plans to meet by the big tree in the park around midday three days from now, maybe bring a frisbee or just some snacks to share. Izuku’s heart felt lighter just thinking about it, the simple idea of spending a day with someone who understood felt like a small lifeline. He glanced out over the city lights stretching beneath him, the cool night breeze brushing against his face, and for the first time in a while, he allowed himself a quiet, tentative hope that maybe things could get better. Not all at once, but little by little, step by step.

Over the next few days, Izuku tried his best to avoid running into Eraser during his patrols. After their rooftop encounter, he wasn’t quite ready to face the sharp-eyed pro again, not with that uneasy mix of respect and fear still twisting in his gut. He stuck to less obvious routes, kept his head low, and even altered his usual routine, hoping to keep a low profile.

The second night of Izuku attempting to avoid the man, he was walking steadily, the familiar rhythm of his patrol helping to ground him as he was lost in thought, the weight of that conversation still pressing heavily on his mind. The ladies he usually walked home with chatted softly beside him, their voices warm and light, a comforting contrast to the storm inside his head.

As they approached the corner where their apartments first began to appear, Izuku’s eyes caught a flicker of movement above, a shadow resting on the edge of the rooftop, barely more than a silhouette under the muted glow of the streetlights. Eraser was there, perched quietly with that ever-present air of calm control, a jelly pouch dangling from one hand.

Nezomi nudged him gently, a playful smile tugging at her lips as her yellow eyes seemed to bore into him through the dark, eyes bright like a flashlight even though she wasn't using her quirk. “Looks like your dad’s watching you again,” she said teasingly, her voice light but carrying a teasing affection. Izuku stiffened, turning a little away, eyebrows knitting together as he snapped, “How many times do I have to tell you? He’s not my dad.”

The three women exchanged amused glances, their laughter soft but sincere. Yet, despite the teasing, they noticed something else in Izuku’s expression, a shadow that wasn’t there before. His frown was tighter, eyes darker, shoulders heavier than usual. It wasn’t just irritation, it was something quieter, more vulnerable.

Sora, the softest of the three, stepped a little closer, her tone softening. “Hey, we were just joking, Bean Boy.” He gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. His voice dropped low, barely above a whisper. “Sorry, it’s not about that. It’s just… well… we may have had an argument. Or… something like that.” They fell silent, their smiles fading into concern as they looked at him more carefully.

“What kind of argument?” Akari asked gently, her hand hovering near his arm as if she wanted to offer comfort but wasn’t sure how. Izuku hesitated, eyes flickering up to meet theirs, searching for some understanding in their faces. “It’s hard to explain. It’s ... Eraser. He’s… not like anyone else I know. He’s strict, and sometimes it feels like he’s testing me, or maybe just pushing me to my limits, but he confuses me. Sometimes I think he cares, but then he keeps trying to get me to stop doing this," he gestures to himself, "but it's one of the only things I can actually do."

He took a deep breath and looked away, hands clenched lightly into fists at his sides. “I thought I was better than him. Faster, stronger… but he showed me I’m not. That he was hiding just how much of a pro he really was. And it scared me. Because if he really wanted to, he could have caught me easily. He could have had me in handcuffs and in the back of a police car before I even knew it.”

The ladies shared a look between themselves before Nezomi spoke up, her voice tender but firm. “Revenant, you don’t have to be so hard on yourself. Arguments happen, even with people who want the best for you.”

“Yeah,” Akari chimed in, “sometimes the hardest people to deal with are the ones who care the most, even if they don’t say it.” Izuku swallowed hard, the lump in his throat growing. “I don’t even know if he actually cares, he just wants me to stop. He just doesn't understand that I can't.” Sora gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Maybe he does want to protect you in his own way. But you’re not alone, okay? You have people who care, you have us.”

A brief silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant hum of the city and the soft shuffle of their footsteps. Izuku’s voice was quiet but steady when he finally said, “Thanks, I-sometimes I forget that.” Nezomi smiled warmly, but there was steel beneath her kindness. “Listen, if that man pushes you too far, he’s going to have to answer to me. Got it?”

Izuku blinked, surprised at the fierceness in her tone. Despite himself, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll keep that in mind.” They shared a few more words of encouragement before saying their goodnights, their presence a small but powerful comfort against the loneliness that always lurked at the edges of Izuku’s life. As they disappeared into their buildings, Izuku glanced up once more. Eraser was still there, watching from the rooftop with that same unreadable expression, eyes sharp and quiet.

After a moment, he turned and slipped back into the shadows of the rooftop, leaving Izuku alone with his thoughts, heavier now, but somehow less alone.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight filtered softly through the trees, dappling the quiet streets with warm patches of light. Izuku pulled his hoodie tighter around his shoulders, the fabric worn but comforting. He tugged the hood up, partly to hide the messy strands of hair that stubbornly refused to stay put since he’d run out of hairspray yesterday, and with all the running around, he hadn’t had a chance to replace it yet.

His scars were carefully covered beneath long sleeves and a high collar. The faded marks still throbbed sometimes, reminders of past battles, but today they were safely hidden. As he walked toward the park where he and Hitoshi had agreed to meet, his mind drifted between nervous anticipation and cautious hope. He was thankful for the quiet, just the sounds of the city midday, the distant calls of birds, and the steady rhythm of his own footsteps.

Suddenly, a firm hand landed on his shoulder as he approached his destination. Instinct flared and without hesitation, Izuku spun on his heel, flipped the person who had grabbed him over his shoulder in a practised move, and landed them flat on their back. His chest heaved, his breath sharp and rapid. His fist rose, poised above the stunned figure beneath him. His legs straddled theirs, balancing his weight expertly, and for a heartbeat, the world was still.

Then Izuku’s eyes met the familiar face staring up at him with wide, startled eyes. Hitoshi. He froze, his raised fist trembling mid-air before he scrambled back and raised both hands in apology.

“I’m so sorry! I-God, I didn’t mean to-I thought you were someone else!” he babbled, voice frantic. Hitoshi blinked at him, then let out a slow laugh, at first incredulous, then full and genuine. “Holy shit, 'Zuku! Who knew you had it in you? That was insane!”

The tension snapped, and Izuku gave a sheepish smile, offering a hand to help Hitoshi up. “Sorry again. I didn’t-didn't expect anyone to touch me like that.” Hitoshi stood, brushing himself off, still chuckling. “It’s fine, seriously. That was impressive, where’d you learn moves like that?” Izuku swallowed nervously, scratching the back of his neck.

“I… I used to do some self-defence classes when I was a kid.” A convenient little fib, but it felt easier than explaining the real reasons.

He still hadn’t told Hitoshi about Revenant, the secret identity he wore like armour, or the nights spent on cold rooftops and dark streets. Even though they’d been friends for months by now, had grown close enough to share names and stories, Izuku couldn’t bring himself to reveal the full truth, that he was technically homeless, drifting, hiding from a world that judged him for his lack of a quirk. Besides, Hitoshi had his own story.

Izuku knew that much. He’d learned it in the quiet moments between laughter and conversation. Hitoshi had been shuffled through foster homes before being adopted by a kind single mother. Izuku hadn’t met her, but Hitoshi spoke of her with warmth and affection.

It was a small solace, a reminder that maybe, just maybe, there was hope for people like them. Hitoshi smiled at him, the sunlight catching the sparkle in his eyes. The park stretched out before them, a quiet sanctuary in the middle of the city. Birds chirped in the trees, and a gentle breeze stirred the leaves. 

They settled onto the old wooden bench beneath the spreading branches of a tree, the late morning sun filtering through the leaves and casting shadows on the ground. Izuku hunched forward slightly, hands stuffed deep in his hoodie pockets, the familiar weight of the fabric grounding him. Hitoshi sat beside him, close enough to offer quiet company without pressing too hard.

For a while, neither spoke. Around them, the park was waking up with the distant laughter of children playing, a dog’s excited bark, the rhythmic footsteps of joggers circling the path. It was peaceful here, somehow safe. Finally, Izuku broke the silence, his voice low and hesitant. “How’s Hizashi doing? I mean, I know you still see him a few days a week, but...”

Hitoshi’s smile faltered, a shadow crossing his face. “He’s… upset, 'Zuku. He really does care about you, more than he lets on. I swear, he’s asked me a million times if I know where you are or if you’re okay. I feel awful lying to him every time.” Izuku’s throat tightened. He had known Hizashi cared, of course, but hearing it spoken out loud like that made the absence feel heavier, like a fresh weight pressing on his chest. He swallowed hard and kept his gaze fixed on the cracks in the bench’s wood.

After a long pause, Hitoshi tilted his head, his voice gentle but probing. “Can I ask why you left? Why you walked away from him?” Izuku’s fingers twitched, gripping the fabric of his hoodie tightly, but his eyes stayed on the bench’s worn surface. “He… saw something. Something I didn’t want anyone to see. And I didn’t want him to see me that way.”

There was a silence between them, but it felt full, charged with everything unsaid. Hitoshi’s eyes softened, and he gave a small, understanding nod. “Izuku,” he said quietly, “I’ve seen how happy you were when you were with Hizashi. I know you better than you think. Trust me, he wouldn’t judge you for anything.”

Izuku’s breath hitched, and his eyes flickered up to meet Hitoshi’s briefly before darting away again. His voice was barely above a whisper. “I know.” Hitoshi watched him carefully, sensing the invisible walls Izuku was putting up. “You don’t have to tell me everything right now,” Hitoshi said softly. “But I’m here. Whenever you’re ready.”

Izuku’s jaw tightened. He clenched his fists inside the sleeves of his hoodie, struggling with the urge to spill everything and the instinct to shut it all away. “It’s complicated,” he murmured, voice strained.

Hitoshi gave a quiet laugh, one full of warmth and patience. “Yeah, I’m guessing. But you don’t have to face it all alone, 'Zuku. It's what friends are for ... right?”

Izuku swallowed again, biting back the surge of emotion as he plastered on a smile and nodded. He wanted to believe, to let someone in, but part of him was terrified, terrified that opening up would only bring more pain, more rejection. Still, sitting here with Hitoshi, the weight on his chest felt a little lighter. And maybe that was enough for now.

They began talking once more, though this time about things that weren't nearly as deep. For hours, they spoke about what Hitoshi had for dinner the previous night, or what Izuku's plans for the next few days were, or what both boys were thinking of doing the following weekends and what they had both done whilst separated.

Eventually, Izuku fiddled nervously with the hem of his hoodie when the easy chatter slowly faded into a quiet that neither quite knew how to break, eyes darting away whenever Hitoshi glanced his way. Then suddenly, Hitoshi stood up with a purposeful stretch, brushing invisible dust off his jeans like he was about to make a grand announcement.

“Well,” he said, voice casual but with a teasing lilt, “why don’t you come over to my place for a bit?” Izuku blinked, looking up at him in surprise. “What? Why?” Hitoshi shrugged, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks as he avoided eye contact for just a moment. “My mom wants to meet you.”

Izuku’s grin spread wide, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Aw, Toshi, do you talk about me to your mom already? What do you tell her, huh? That I’m the cool one? The mysterious missing kid?” He gave Hitoshi a playful shove. Hitoshi rolled his eyes, his lips twitching in a half-smile before he shot back with mock offence, flipping Izuku off with a quick, exaggerated motion. “Fine, don’t meet her then. See if I care!”

Izuku laughed, the sound ringing clear and bright through the park. “Wait, wait, no! I’ll come! I wouldn’t miss meeting the woman who helped raised the guy who actually lets me be normal sometimes.” Hitoshi’s smirk grew wider as he plopped back down on the bench, clearly pleased with himself. “About time. She’s been asking about you for weeks, you know.” 

Izuku’s grin faltered for a moment before he nudged Hitoshi again. “So, what exactly has she been hearing? That you’ve got a super amazing and charming friend? Or just that you’re finally spending time with someone who doesn’t run away screaming?” Hitoshi chuckled, shaking his head. “Probably both. But she says you seem nice, so that’s a win.”

Izuku’s heart softened at that, and despite the teasing, the invitation felt like a a step closer to something real and less lonely. “Alright,” Izuku said, standing and dusting off his own pants, “lead the way, but don’t expect me to make a good first impression. I’m still awkward as hell.” Hitoshi laughed again, grabbing his arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle the embarrassing introductions.”

Together, they walked together along the quiet residential streets, their footsteps soft on the cracked pavement beneath the early evening sky. The air was cool, carrying a gentle breeze that rustled the leaves above, and Izuku felt a strange calm settle over him. After weeks of short conversations with the boy, this simple walk toward his home felt oddly comforting.

As they approached a small house nestled between two larger ones, with a neatly trimmed garden blooming with late-summer flowers, Izuku’s nerves fluttered. He had never been invited to a friend’s home before, not really, and the idea of meeting Hitoshi’s mother felt like stepping into unfamiliar territory. He tried to steady his breathing, but the anticipation made his heart thrum louder than usual.

Before they could even reach the front porch the door swung open wide, revealing a warm face framed by dark black hair and eyes that held nothing but kindness. “Hitoshi! You’re home early!” the woman greeted, her voice bright and welcoming. Hitoshi smiled effortlessly, his usual easygoing self shining through. “Mom, this is Izuku.”

He stepped forward shyly and gave a small nod. “Hi, I’m, uh, Izuku!” he said, careful not to overshare. No middle names, no complicated backstory. Just Izuku.

The woman’s smile deepened, her gaze warm and accepting. “It’s so nice to meet you, Izuku! 'Toshi won't stop talking about you, and you’re welcome here anytime.” She glanced toward the kitchen. “I’m just about to start dinner, so make yourselves at home while you wait.” The words caught Izuku off guard. Dinner? His eyes widened, and he shot Hitoshi a betrayed look, his brows furrowed in mild panic.

Hitoshi smirked, clearly amused by Izuku’s reaction. “Would he be able to stay for dinner?” he asked, looking from Izuku to his mother. The woman’s smile brightened even more. “Of course! It’s always a little livelier when there are more people around the table.”

Izuku opened his mouth to protest, but Hitoshi quickly shook his head with a teasing grin. “Trust me, you can’t skip a single meal around my mom.” Izuku scowled dramatically. “You tricked me into staying for dinner!” He folded his arms, clearly mock-annoyed. Hitoshi laughed and jabbed a finger at him. “Despite your scary strength, you look like the wind could blow you over.”

Izuku snorted, throwing his head back with laughter. “No, I don’t! I’ve literally got more muscle than you.”

“Em, yeah sure, twig,” Hitoshi said, rolling his eyes with exaggerated disbelief. To be a little petty, and maybe to prove his point, Izuku crouched down and scooped Hitoshi up effortlessly with one arm.

Hitoshi shrieked in surprise, waving his arms wildly, but the smile plastered on his face was all genuine amusement. Their laughter bounced off the walls, filling the house with a warm, carefree energy.

Hitoshi’s mother watched the playful scene with fond amusement, her eyes twinkling as she leaned against the door-frame. “Fine, fine, you win. Now put me down before I kick you somewhere you’ll really feel it.” Hitoshi said with a glare. Izuku only shrugged and moved into the living room before dropping him unceremoniously on the couch, earning himself a loud huff and two middle fingers from Hitoshi as he sat up, crossing his arms.

“I hate you,” he said, though his lips twitched upward in a reluctant smile. Izuku plopped down beside him, nudging his shoulder. “No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” He agreed reluctantly with a roll of his eyes before his mother cleared her throat gently, breaking the silence. “Dinner will be ready soon,” she said with a kind smile. “Feel free to get comfortable!”

Izuku glanced at Hitoshi, who gave him a reassuring nod. Izuku moved into the dining room as Hitoshi got up and led him over to two chairs, and before long they were sitting at the small kitchen table, throwing jokes back and forth like they'd known each other for years, and Izuku began to feel his nervousness melt away as the faint hum of the evening settling around him.

After a few minutes Hitoshi's mother appeared at the table with a few plates and cutlery in her hands, and Izuku jumped up in his seat to go help. "Here, let me help you with those," he offered, already reaching to take them from her hands when she moved to hold them out of his reach. "Sorry kiddo, but no guest of mine is helping set the table! If that's anybody's job, it's yours, 'Toshi. So get your butt up and help your dear mother, will you?" She grinned, watching as Izuku slowly slid back into his seat and 'Toshi sent him a disgruntled look before helping her.

She placed a plate in front of Izuku along with some salt and pepper shakers, and Izuku smiled back up at her and held back a laugh at how annoyed Hitoshi looked. "Thank you..." He trailed off, realising he'd never caught her name, but she seemed to realise. 

"Oh, dear me, I never introduced myself, did I? Oh, Kami, some host I am! I'm Shinsou Komori, but you can just call me Komori or Mori if you'd like, kiddo. 'Toshi here may act like he doesn't like me, but he took my last name by choice, didn't ya?" She smiled warmly at her son, whose ears were now tinged pink.

"Yeah, I guess you're okay," He muttered, smirking at her as she playfully pretended to be shot in the heart, before ruffling his already messy hair with her free hand. Hitoshi just rolled his eyes and sat back down beside Izuku, who was watching the two interact with a smile on his face but a painful tug in his heart. Is this what a normal family is meant to look like?

"Just letting you kiddos know, but dinner will be ready in five or so minutes if you wanted to give Izuku a quick tour of the house." She said before looking expectantly at Hitoshi, who just groaned. "Come on, then. Let me give you the grand tour." He muttered, as his mother called from the kitchen they had just left, "Preferably with less sass, kid!"

That got a chuckle out of Izuku, and Hitoshi just side-eyed him before he pointed to the living room. "Alright, you've already been in the living room, dining room and kitchen, so I suppose at least I can skip those."

Izuku raises an eyebrow, "What did your mother say? Less sass, 'Toshi." He snickered as the boys lips flattened into a thin and unimpressed line. "Anyway," he continued, leading him down the short hallway with framed photos covering the walls. Izuku took as much time as possible studying them with a smile, his heart swelling slightly at the thought that Hitoshi wanted him here, to see this part of his life.

His age differed in most photos, the youngest being a pre-teen Toshi which must have been when he first began living here, before the photos spanned out to more recent ones. There were awkward school photos, which he was itching to take pictures of, then some of him smiling beside his mother on various trips to different places together.

One specifically caught his eye, the biggest out of all of them with a gold frame, and his smile widened when he saw it. It was one of Hitoshi standing beside Komori-san, who was grinning widely as she draped an arm around his shoulder and he held up an adoption certificate with a toothy grin. Hitoshi watched him quietly after he realised which photo he was looking at, before a warm smile spread across his face. 

"That's my favourite one, too. Don't tell her that, though, I'll never hear the end of it." He warned, but Izuku could see how happy he was, and he was glad to see his friend having someone love him and take care of him. It clearly wasn’t just a house... it was a home. Every photo, every little keepsake told a story of care and memory, of moments preserved.

They continued on, and with each step his friend pointed something out to him, “Two small bedrooms over here,” he said, opening the first door to reveal a neat, minimally decorated room. “And this one’s mine,” he added, gesturing toward the second closed door. “Mom’s got her office and all her books, so I don’t clutter my room with too much stuff.”

The master bedroom was simple as well, with a low bed, a dresser, and a small shelf of neatly stacked books. “Bathroom’s here,” Hitoshi added, pointing to the door in the middle of the hallway. “Living room, dining area, and kitchen. Like I said, she likes efficiency.”

As they returned to the kitchen, Hitoshi gestured toward the small garden visible through the sliding door. “Out back is this little patch,” he said, nodding toward the tiny collection of potted plants and modest grass. “I’ve been trying to convince her to let me get a cat, but she keeps saying no,” He huffs, lips twitched in a half-smile.

Just as he said that, a high-pitched, dramatic voice rang out from the kitchen. “Hitoshi! You know I love you, but I’m allergic! I could die!” Hitoshi rolled his eyes, muttering, “No, you won’t! The worst that happens is a blocked nose.” His mother turned the corner, and her gaze shifted toward Izuku, a teasing smile curling on her lips as she pointed a finger in Hitoshi's direction. “You see what I have to deal with? I swear, he’s trying to kill me!”

Izuku chuckled softly and Hitoshi glanced at him as his mother returned to the stove, finishing with whatever she was cooking. “Just so you know,” Hitoshi added quietly, leaning closer as if sharing a secret, “Mom’s a therapist, so she might ask questions that are… a little too close for comfort. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it, and she means no harm.”

Izuku felt a quiet warmth in his chest. The thoughtfulness in Hitoshi’s voice, the subtle care in making him feel prepared, it made him feel… wanted. He gave a small nod, smiling softly. “I’ll be fine.”

Hitoshi’s lips curved slightly upward. “Good. Now… I want to say dinner should be ready any minute, but she said that ten minutes ago.” Izuku just laughed, and by the time they were setting the steaming plates of Tonkatsu, fluffy rice, and colourful vegetables at the table, Izuku felt his stomach twist in anticipation. He'd never seen something so good in his life.

“Alright, kiddos, hold on. First, wash your hands! Hygiene before hunger, even if I know some of you might skip that part,” she said with a small chuckle. Hitoshi muttered under his breath, rubbing his hands together. “Mom, it’s dinner, not a lecture.”

“I know, I know,” she replied, settling into her chair, “but I can’t help myself. Habit of a lifetime, you know?” She gave Izuku a gentle smile that made him feel welcome rather than wary. Izuku nodded, quietly impressed at the woman's culinary skills. He was practically foaming at the mouth at this stage.

As instructed, both boys washed their hands before settling down at the table, Hitoshi sitting beside him and Komori-san sitting opposite them both. As they ate, she kept the conversation going as Izuku answered as truthfully as possible. “So, Izuku, tell me about your mornings. Do you like a slow start or are you always on the go? I know Hitoshi here is not a morning person, that's for sure.”

Izuku snorted, taking a bite of Tonkatsu as Hitoshi groaned beside him. "Anyone who is a morning person is someone I'm scared of, seriously." At that, Izuku just raised an eyebrow. "Does that mean you're scared of me, 'Toshi? I usually start pretty early, since there’s a lot I want to get done, so I don’t like wasting time.”

“That’s admirable,” she said, nodding thoughtfully. “Do you ever get tired, or do you just push through?”

“I… sometimes get tired,” Izuku admitted, eyes flicking to Hitoshi, who didn’t comment but met his gaze with a small nod. I guess he wasn't wrong about the questions. “But I guess I push through. It’s… easier that way.” Komori-san tilted her head, listening intently as she ate, and then asked another question. “What about friends? Do you have people you can rely on? 'Toshi doesn't really get along with many people, which was why I was so glad when he told me about you. You're a lovely kid!”

Izuku’s fork paused halfway to his mouth as his face warmed, swallowing carefully so as not to choke as Hitoshi smirked at him from the corner of his eye, “T-thank you, Komori-san, that's very nice of you. B-but, 'Toshi's my only friend too. I... have a few people who care about me, and that’s enough.” He tried to keep his tone light, but there was a quiet sincerity behind it.

“That’s good,” Komori-san said softly, almost to herself. “It’s important to have people looking out for you… even if it’s just a few.” Her gaze lifted to meet his, warm and kind. “And how about things you enjoy? Hobbies, or… little comforts?”

“Well, I know it's strange, but I… like observing people. W-watching how they move, how they think… it makes me feel more connected to those around me, I guess.” He tried to keep his voice casual, but it was honest. “Ah,” she said, nodding, “that makes sense. You seem like someone who notices details, very thoughtful. Sometimes noticing too much can be… overwhelming, can’t it? I know everyone gets overwhelmed at times, myself especially.”

After that they moved on to other topics, like school (which he avoided), favourite subjects (which he steered clear of), and his food likes and dislikes, but even those questions carried that same gentle attentiveness. She’d ask about the vegetables on his plate, and when he said he liked them, she’d smile and ask why, and when he mentioned he liked home cooked meals, she wanted to know if he had them often. It felt almost like a conversation and a check-in at the same time, and Izuku found himself opening up more than he expected.

Of course, he kept his secrets hidden and locked away, but he supposed it was okay to talk openly to Komori-san about some things since she had treated him nicer than many, if not all, adults had in his life.

While they conversed with each other, Hitoshi leaned back in his chair, quietly observing, and Izuku caught the faintest smirk of amusement at how comfortable he was beginning to feel despite the probing questions. He knew this was what Hitoshi had warned about, but it didn’t feel intrusive. It felt like genuine interest, a quiet, careful way of saying, I hear you.

All throughout Izuku's life, he had longed to be heard.

Soon, his shoulders were lighter than they had been in weeks. He had laughed, he had answered honestly, and he had been listened to. Not judged, not corrected, just listened to. And for the first time in a long while, he felt like he was in a place where he could be himself without having to hold back.

After dinner, Komori-san cleared the table with Hitoshi as Izuku tried to help, but was quickly brushed off and told to sit down. He watched from where  he sat in the living room just how effortlessly Hitoshi and his mother worked together, their easy communication and small teasing glances painting a picture of genuine care and connection.

After a few minutes Hitoshi settled onto the couch beside him, and after a while they were scrolling through recommendations for movies. Izuku felt a little awkward at first, he hadn’t really watched many films, but Hitoshi’s enthusiasm was infectious. They picked a light-hearted comedy, something to keep the mood easy and fun.

As the movie played, Izuku relaxed into the couch cushions, stealing glances at Hitoshi and noticing how comfortable he seemed. The faint glow of the screen highlighted the soft curve of Hitoshi’s smile as he laughed quietly at the jokes, and Izuku realised how much he’d missed such mundane moments like these, when things were simple, un-pressured, and genuine.

Halfway through the movie Komori-san returned with cups of tea, setting them gently on the coffee table with a warm smile and this time a ruffle of both Hitoshi and Izuku's hair. “Here you go!” She said happily. “I hope you’re feeling at home.” Izuku nodded, a small, genuine smile breaking through. “Thank you. F-for everything.”

She smiled back brightly. “Of course, kiddo! As I said before, you’re welcome any time.”

Later, as the movie ended and the credits began to roll, Izuku blinked in mild shock. The dim, flickering light from the screen reflected in his eyes, casting long shadows across the walls.

He had been so absorbed in the story, in Hitoshi’s calm commentary and occasional teasing remarks, that time had slipped past him almost without notice. The soft hum of the credits music seemed to hang in the air, and for a moment, he let himself just exist in the quiet comfort of the room before a glance at the clock on the wall made his stomach twist; it was far later than he had realised.

He shifted uneasily on the couch, brushing at his pants as if dusting them off could erase the reality of the hour. “It’s, uh, pretty late,” he said quickly, voice tight with nerves. “I should… I should probably head home before it gets any later.”

Komori-san, who had been folding a blanket nearby, immediately looked up, her brow knitting as she looked at the clock with a sigh. “Oh dear, it really is late, I hadn't even realised!" She huffed, before she continued, voice calm and firm. "Well, since you're already here, you might as well stay the night. It’s far too dark for a young boy like you to be wandering the streets alone at this time of night.”

Izuku’s eyes widened, and he threw his hands up in a flustered gesture. “Oh-no, no, I couldn’t possibly. You’ve already done so much for me. I… I don’t want to take up your space, or… or cause you trouble.”

“You wouldn’t be troubling me in the slightest,” she said, rising to her feet with the quiet authority of someone used to being listened to. “We’ll set up the futon for you in Hitoshi’s room. It’s settled.”

He leaned forward instinctively, half-standing as if he could physically stop her. “Please-really, you don’t have to. I’ll be fine, I promise. I can catch the last train, and if not, I can manage somehow-!”

“Izuku.” Her voice softened, but it made him freeze. She approached and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “It’s too late and too dangerous to wander about. You should stay here where it’s warm and safe! That’s what any mother would want for her child, and anyone with even half a heart would want the same for you.” He swallowed, trying his best to keep the emotions building off his face.

The thought of being cared for, even for a night, felt strange and unsettling, yet comforting all at once. His chest heaved slightly as he opened his mouth to argue, then paused, noticing Hitoshi’s small, encouraging smile. The quiet confidence in that gesture gave him just enough courage to let the tension drain from his shoulders.

He exhaled slowly, hands falling to his lap, trying to steady his racing thoughts. The warmth of the room, the gentle insistence in her eyes, and the quiet solidity of Hitoshi’s presence made it impossible to refuse. Yet, even as relief settled over him, a small pang of worry crept in.

What about my patrol? I haven't willingly missed one unless I was injured. 

His mind buzzed with the conflict. He wanted to patrol, to help people as much as he could, and yet the thought of staying here, with people who cared for him, made his heart ache. He couldn’t let himself be caught off guard while pretending to be like any other kid enjoying a night in a normal home. He felt the familiar pull of responsibility, the ingrained need to protect, even when he wanted to surrender to the rare warmth of someone caring for him.

Yet, a tentative, almost reluctant exhale escaped his lips. He straightened in his seat, cheeks still flushed, and gave a small, awkward nod. “I… I guess I can stay for one night, if you'll have me,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, yet firm enough to show he wasn’t entirely acquiescing to comfort easily given.

Komori-san smiled widely, a quiet victory in her expression, and began making her way to one of the cupboards in the hallway. "Of course you can stay! Hitoshi, set up the futon in your room, will you?” She asks, pulling out a traditional Japanese futon mattress as Hitoshi groaned but otherwise didn't complain, grabbing it and heading into his room.

For a moment he sat on the couch, wondering what the ladies, or even Eraser, would think of him skipping patrol. Komori-san quickly came to his side with a smile, and her gentle presence was almost disarming, and now she was waiting patiently, eyes warm but insistent.

“Why don’t you call your guardians and let them know where you’ll be tonight?” she said softly, folding her hands on the table, her voice calm but firm, giving him no room to wiggle out.

Izuku’s throat tightened instantly. He froze, fingers twitching at the edge of the table as if the mere act of pulling out his phone was a battle. “I… I will,” he mumbled quickly, hoping to sidestep the moment, but her steady gaze didn’t waver. She remained still, waiting. The silence stretched out, thick with expectation, as if the next move was his, and only his.

So, with a resigned sigh, he unlocked his phone as his fingers hesitated over the screen. His eyes scanned his contacts desperately, looking for someone safe, when he found it. Nezomi. Without a second thought, he tapped it and hit call.

The phone rang once, twice, and then Nezomi’s voice came through, casual, slightly teasing, and surprisingly warm. “Why are you calling Bean Boy? I never thought you'd call after I gave my number to you just in case. Are you okay?” she said, slightly caught off guard.

Izuku exhaled, relieved she wasn’t on speaker. He cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. “Hey, I was just letting you know I’m staying at a friend’s house tonight. So I won’t see you or the others. Is that okay?” There was a teasing pause before Nezomi replied, “Why are you asking me, kid? I ain’t your mother.”

Izuku blinked, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks, Nez. I appreciate it,” he said, voice low enough to almost be a hiss.

On the other end, Nezomi gasped dramatically, and then with mock sincerity, said, “Oh! Am I a cover? I’m totally a cover! Aww, you trust me enough to be a cover, huh? Oh, Revenant, you cutie. I’ll tell the others we won’t see you tonight, but we'll miss you!”

Izuku rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the faint warmth in his chest. “Be careful,” he said quietly.

“Don’t worry, kiddo! My knife will keep me safe from the bad guys,” she teased. “You just have a good time at your friend’s house.” Then, her tone shifted playfully. “Is it mean of me to say I’m surprised you have friends, kid?” Izuku sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching up in a reluctant grin. “Yeah, it is.”

Nezomi laughed, a rich, carefree sound that made his smile widen. “Well, I’m glad you got one. And remember, I’m just a phone call away if you need anything, bean boy!”

“Yeah, yeah. Bye, Nez,” Izuku said softly, already missing the warmth of the conversation.

As the call ended, Izuku could hear faint giggling in the background, the unmistakable voices of Akari and Sora sharing the moment with her. He glanced up at Komori-san, who was watching him with a small smile.

After a few minutes of quiet conversation with the woman, Hitoshi returned and Komori-san smiled as she stood up from where she was sat in one of the armchairs. “Alright, you two,” she said gently, “I’m going to call it a night now. You both get some good rest, okay? And Izuku, thank you for coming over. It was a real pleasure to meet you.”

Izuku gave a small, grateful nod. “Thank you, Komori-san. I had a good time.” She returned the smile, then made her way down to her bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

Hitoshi turned toward Izuku with an easy grin and said, “Come on, I’ll show you to my room.”

They walked down the hall together, the soft creak of the wooden steps under their feet filling the silence. When they reached his door, Hitoshi pushed it open to reveal a typical teenage boy’s room: posters of bands and movies on the walls, a desk cluttered with notebooks and a few sketchpads, and a modest bookshelf overflowing with manga and novels, and... was that an Eraserhead poster?

Izuku went to bring it up, but after noticing Hitoshi's awkward posture, decided otherwise, instead continuing to look around, impressed despite himself. “This is really cool,” he said, genuine admiration in his voice. Hitoshi shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, it’s alright. Nothing fancy, but it’s home.”

Izuku hesitated, then forced a smile. “It's way cooler than mine, trust me.” Hitoshi smiled back eagerly. “Yeah? Well, I’ll have to see yours sometime too, then.”

At that, Izuku stiffened for a moment, his thoughts instantly pulling away from the casual invitation, but he pushed the unease down and returned the smile smoothly. “Yeah… maybe.”

After that Hitoshi offered him a simple hoodie and some sweatpants to change into, and he took them gratefully as he folded his own clothes up before he settled down on the futon, carefully laying out the blanket and making himself comfortable as Hitoshi did the same on his own bed.

As they talked softly into the night, their conversation flowed easily from silly jokes to shared interests, from hopes to fears, and Izuku truly relaxed.

When sleep finally claimed them both, the night passed without the usual torment of his nightmares.

Chapter Text

Izuku’s eyelids fluttered open, stirred by a gentle warmth filtering through the thin curtains. The light spilled across the room, painting everything in a calm, almost surreal glow. For a moment he lay still, confused. The usual sharp pangs of anxiety, the restless thoughts chasing each other like wild dogs in his mind, were surprisingly absent. Instead, there was a rare, quiet stillness.

He blinked slowly, his body heavy but well rested, sprawled awkwardly on the futon that smelled faintly of detergent and lavender. For just a second he forgot where he was, but then the memories from last night came rushing back.

Slowly, he stretched his arms and legs until they were straight and he felt a satisfying pop in his back, before he sighed and relaxed again. he hadn't slept on something so comfortable in a long time, and Izuku had the urge to roll up the futon and run out the house with it. He wouldn't, but he couldn't say it wasn't tempting.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling as he waited for the usual flurry of thoughts to disrupt his peace, but they never came. All he felt was a warm, calmness that felt extremely foreign, especially since there weren't a dozen different thoughts going through his head at once. All he could think about was how comfortable he was, and how he never wanted to leave.

Soon, though, his thoughts inevitably drifted until they landed on Eraserhead. That gruff, often exasperated man who’d been shadowing the edges of his life for weeks now. He confused Izuku. 

One moment he was trying to arrest him, chasing him down alleyways and across rooftops, and the next he was chatting with him and giving him tips. It was beginning to give him a headache, especially when the man had looked at Izuku like he actually cared about him.

Terrifying as he may be, beneath that rough, cold exterior was simply a man who tried his best, and it made a wave of guilt wash over him.

The hero wanted to help him, guide him somewhere safer and better, but Izuku wasn’t sure if he wanted to let go of his freedom. The nights spent patrolling and the vigilante life were the only things that felt truly his own. It was the thread holding his fractured world together, the one part of his life that made him feel alive, even if it was dangerous and exhausting.

The soft creak of the door breaking the morning silence pulled him from his thoughts. Hitoshi appeared in the doorway, yawning as his usual easy smile lit up the room. “Morning, 'Zuku,” He said casually, his voice warm and unhurried. “You sleep okay?”

Izuku gave a slow nod, pushing himself up on one elbow, before realising that he was so lost in his own thoughts he hadn't even realised Hitoshi hadn't been sleeping in his bed. "Yeah… better than I have in a long time, trust me. I didn't wake up to you snoring above me, so that definitely helped."

Hitoshi rolled his eyes and grinned playfully as he dropped down onto the floor beside the futon, already scrolling through his phone. “My mom made way too much breakfast again, so I hope you're in the mood for round two, because as you probably know by now she will feed you until you feel like you'll combust. ”

Izuku smiled, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease a little more than he expected. "Okay, but if she actually manages to feed me until I combust, that’s officially your fault when someone has to clean up the crater."

He sat up fully before pushing himself to his feet and offering a hand to help Hitoshi up, who took it gratefully. He felt the unfamiliar but welcome sensation of ease, with no need to be on guard, no instinctive urge to flinch or prepare for something bad to happen. Here, with Hitoshi and his mother, the world felt less like a hostile place.

For now, he hesitantly put those thoughts aside and focused on not falling back asleep on the futon, the comforting warmth of the kitchen scents down the hall making his stomach growl.

Hitoshi clapped him on the shoulder, breaking his reverie. “Come on, man. Let’s go eat before my mom changes her mind and hides all the good stuff.” Izuku laughed quietly, and followed his friend toward the stairs, still not quite used to this strange feeling of calmness settling over him. 

Hitoshi’s mom was bustling around the kitchen when they arrived, humming softly to herself as she plated the food. When she noticed Izuku and smiled warmly, he couldn't help but smile back, relieved at the lack of judgement and pity in her eyes. “Good morning, Izuku! I hope you’re hungry,” she said cheerfully, sliding a plate toward him. "I made katsudon since it’s nearly lunchtime. And because ‘Toshi said if I put a plate in front of you, you’d probably ascend to another plane of existence. Was that an exaggeration, or…?"

"‘Toshi! Now it sounds like I can be bribed with katsudon or something-" He cuts himself off, cheeks pink, before narrowing his eyes at Hitoshi. "…Actually, no, you definitely did that on purpose. Traitor." The boy just shrugs with a playful smirk before sitting down, Kumori-san smiling at him.

For revenge, Izuku dramatically picked the seat farthest from Hitoshi. The unimpressed eyebrow that earned him only made his grin widen, especially when Kumori-san slid in beside him instead, laughing as Hitoshi turned to watch with wide eyes and a perfect expression of mock betrayal.

"Great, perfect. First you steal my seat, and now my mom. What’s next, 'Zuku, you gonna start answering to ‘son’ too?" 

Izuku’s face went from pink to scarlet the moment Hitoshi’s mom leaned over to ruffle his hair, her teasing words ringing in his ears. “W-what! N-no, you can’t just-Toshi, I am not stealing your mom!” he stammered, hands flailing helplessly in front of him as though trying to physically block the accusation. His wide, guilty eyes snapped to Hitoshi in pure panic, only to shrink further when he caught his friend’s expression. “Y-you believe me, right?!”

Hitoshi couldn’t hold it in any longer, he doubled over with laughter, clutching his stomach as Izuku flailed. “Chill, dude,” he managed between snickers, “it was a joke.” He shot his still-panicking friend a lopsided grin. “Besides, let’s be real, she probably decided to adopt you the second you walked through the door.”

Izuku ducked his head down, pretending to be intensely focused on the katsudon in front of him as both mother and son laughed at his expense. Rather than defend himself further, he grabbed his chopsticks and started shovelling food into his mouth with almost comical determination. It wasn’t fooling anyone, though, the faint, stubborn smile tugging at his lips gave him away completely.

After that, the teasing eased off, the laughter faded into an easy warmth around the table as Hitoshi leaned back against his seat, his smirk gentler now while Kumori-san shifted the focus toward simple conversation instead, asking Izuku about little things that didn’t put him on the spot too much. Izuku, still red-cheeked, ate happily between answers, his chopsticks never still for long. Every so often, he’d glance up, startled by a question, then smile, small and genuine as he answered.

“Thank you for having me here, Kumori-san,” he said eventually, eyes fixed on his bowl. “It's really nice being here.”

She only smiled at him warmly as she replied, “Don’t worry about it, kiddo, it was my pleasure.” She gave a little wave of her hand, dismissing his timid politeness. “And please, drop the honorifics with me. Just call me Mori!”

Izuku swallowed his bite of food, eternally grateful for the warmth she had shown him in such little time. “I-okay, thanks, Mori.”

Mori’s grin widened at the sound of her name on Izuku’s lips, and she gave him an approving little nod, like he’d just passed some unspoken test. “There you go. Much better,” she said warmly before leaning her cheek into her hand, curiosity lighting up her features as she asked, “So, do you live nearby, Izuku?”

He paused, working through another bite of katsudon before shrugging lightly. “N-no, I actually live a bit further away,” he admitted, his tone casual but his eyes dipping down as he spoke, unable to look her in the eye as he lied as she only nodded before continuing. “Who do you live with then, Izuku?”

The question caught him mid-bite, his chopsticks hovering uncertainly as his eyes flicked toward Hitoshi. He’d mentioned to the boy before that he was staying with a friend, but he hadn’t been sure how much Hitoshi had shared with his mother. The uncertainty sat heavy in his throat, so instead of rushing out an answer, he looked to Hitoshi for help, green eyes wide and searching.

Thankfully, Hitoshi caught it instantly. Raising an eyebrow he leaned back casually in his chair, his voice steady as he picked up the thread for him. “He’s staying with a friend while his parents are away,” Hitoshi said evenly, sliding the words into the conversation without hesitation or fanfare, protecting Izuku’s quiet discomfort without making it obvious. He almost laughed at the irony, though, since both parents had been away for most of his life.

Yet, he was thankful there was no judgement in her voice, only understanding. "What kind of work do they do?"

Izuku hesitated for only a moment before answering, his chopsticks pausing over his bowl. “My mom’s a nurse,” he said, hoping to keep the bitterness out of his tone. “And… my dad’s been away on a business trip for a while.”

Mori hummed thoughtfully, her expression warm with understanding. “Being a nurse is busy work,” she agreed. “I used to be one myself. But with my quirk, I eventually decided being a therapist suited me better.” Her tone was light, matter-of-fact, yet gentle.

Grateful for the softened turn, Izuku seized the opening. “I-if you don’t mind me asking… what's your quirk?” His voice carried the same nervous curiosity that always sparked whenever quirks came into discussion, though he knew he hated whenever someone asked him that exact question, so he hoped he wasn't prying too much.

Mori’s smile widened, as calm and reassuring as her presence. “It’s called Lanternheart,” she explained. “It's an emitter type that lets me generate a faint, warm glow that helps to steady people’s nerves and keeps them from giving in to harmful emotions.” She lifted her hand slightly as if remembering the sensation of it, the soft light never needing to appear for her words themselves to radiate comfort. “Back when I worked in hospitals, it was often more useful than medicine.”

The moment she finished explaining, Izuku’s eyes lit up with the exact manic energy of a conspiracy theorist who finally found proof that pigeons are government drones. He nearly dropped his chopsticks in his haste to lean forward, voice tripping over itself with excitement.

“That’s incredible! I mean-it’s so practical, too! There are so many cases where mental strain and emotional fatigue can impact recovery just as much as physical injury, and to be able to directly stabilise someone’s mental state with a quirk-wow, that must’ve been so helpful in a hospital setting! Not to mention the applications in disaster relief scenarios, or even just on patrol support, actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if those type of quirks were categorised as high-level supplementary assets because they bridge such a critical gap between psychology and medicine-”

He kept going, words spilling faster the more he spoke, his hands animated as though he were presenting a lecture rather than sitting at a family breakfast table. It wasn’t until he caught sight of Mori’s fondly amused smile and Hitoshi pinching the bridge of his nose with mock suffering that Izuku realised he’d started monologuing again, and his face flushed red instantly. “S-sorry! I got carried away...”

“You think?” Hitoshi drawled, deadpan, but before Izuku could comment, Mori’s amused voice cut through the air. “Don’t tease the boy, 'Toshi. You act the same way when you get a new video game, though let’s be honest, you couldn’t win if your life depended on it.”

Izuku choked, a startled laugh bursting past his lips as he desperately tried not to snort on the rice he had lifted to his mouth. This time, however, it was Hitoshi’s turn to go pink, his cool composure cracking into open mortification.

“Mom!” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face as if that could hide his blush. Mori only laughed, clearly delighted to serve her son’s embarrassment on a plate while Izuku tried to smother his grin behind his chopsticks.

Mori turned to Izuku with that same gentle smile, her voice rich with quiet amusement. “Just ignore him, Izuku. He acts tough, but don’t let him fool you.” Her eyes glinted as she leaned in just a little closer, lowering her voice in mock-conspiracy. “When he was about twelve, he got grounded for an entire week because he tried to dramatically ‘run away from home’ after I wouldn’t buy him a limited-edition video game. He only made it as far as the end of the street before coming back crying because he missed me.”

Izuku clamped a hand over his mouth, his chest shaking with suppressed laughter before it finally escaped in a muffled snort. Across the table, Hitoshi stared in absolute horror, his face now pink from his ears down. “MOM!” he groaned, burying his face in both hands. “Why would you-!? That wasn’t-it wasn’t even like that!”

Mori just grinned wider, clearly enjoying in her son’s embarrassment, while Izuku all but collapsed against the table, tears of laughter starting to prick the corners of his eyes.

From then on, the conversation settled into an almost playful rhythm. Every time Hitoshi tossed out a jab, pointing out Izuku’s muttering habits or the way he practically inhaled food, Mori would swoop right back in with an embarrassing anecdote of her son’s own. It quickly devolved into a hilarious tug-of-war that had Izuku wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

“Seriously, stop!” Hitoshi groaned at one point, dramatically blotting his pink face with a napkin. “If you’re gonna expose me like this, at least let me prepare a will first.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Mori teased, clearly unrepentant. “Izuku’s enjoying himself too much. Besides, you’re the one who embarrassed him first. Fair’s fair.”

Izuku tried to protest, tried to tell her “It's okay I didn't mind-” but the next story of thirteen-year-old Hitoshi trying to impress people by reciting “cool” quotes from horror movies at dinner had him doubled over again, muffling his laugh into his sleeves while Hitoshi muttered threats about launching himself straight out the window.

And yet, beneath the laughter, there was a quiet thread of understanding. Neither Mori nor Hitoshi pried further when Izuku skirted around anything personal like his family or his home, and he was relieved. They simply let him exist in the warmth of their laughter, making it feel like there wasn’t a boundary to tiptoe around at all, but rather an unspoken promise that he was welcome, no explanations required.

By the time the plates were empty, Izuku had laughed so much his stomach hurt and his eyes were wet, the sounds of all three of them laughing filling the room as they stood up and cleared the table. 

After Mori finally allowed him to help wash up, he cleaned the plates as best as he could before he made his way back to Hitoshi's room as the boy spoke with his mother in the kitchen, and Izuku pulled on his clothes from yesterday and went to hand the borrowed ones back to his friend when Hitoshi held up a hand and waved him off. "Don't worry about it, I got plenty more."

Izuku shook his head, eyes widening. "N-no I can't, it's your clothes I can't just-" Hitoshi only shrugged, his mother watching them. "You can, and you will. Just take them, 'Zuku." 

Izuku looked to Mori for help, but it seems like she was agreeing with her son. "They're all yours, kiddo. Just maybe try not to get any holes in them anytime soon, yeah? You gotta stay warm you know!"

The night air was crisp and still as he approached the rooftop, the city lights shimmering below like distant stars.

Despite leaving Hitoshi's house only a few hours earlier, the familiar weight in his chest and loud barrage of thoughts in his mind were back. He wasn’t sure what he expected coming back to this rooftop after avoiding it for a few nights, but all he knew was that for some reason he felt guilty for leaving Eraser, and he didn’t want to walk away without at least trying to make things right.

Luckily, it seems even though Izuku had been avoiding this building, the erasure hero had not. “Hello, Eraser,” Izuku called softly, his voice carrying lightly over the quiet cityscape.

Eraserhead turned to look at him, his tired eyes flickering with something that might have been relief, or maybe just recognition. “Hey, kid,” he said gruffly.

Izuku hesitated for a moment, then moved cautiously closer and sat down beside him, careful not to get too close but not wanting to seem distant either. The silence stretched between them for a moment, filled only by the faint hum of the city below.

“I’m not going to bite,” Eraser said after a beat, earning a chuckle from Izuku as he relaxed slightly, neither saying anything and yet the silence between them meaning more than words ever could as he  looked out over the dark streets, gathering his thoughts. 

After a moment’s pause, he finally spoke, voice steady but quiet. “The answer to your question… the other night…” He let it trail off, unsure how much to say. Eraser glanced over, his usual tired eyes watching him carefully. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” he said simply.

Izuku shrugged, a small, half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “It’s okay. I’m not going to tell you everything, obviously, but I will say that I don’t have a lot of people looking out for me as I probably should.” He looked away briefly, then back toward the city lights. “But it’s fine. I’ve always been on my own, and I’ve learned to be okay with that. I've got some good friends helping me, though.”

He shifted slightly, more comfortable now that he’d said a little. “You know the three ladies I walk home, even if I probably shouldn't maintain a consistent routine as you mentioned before," he bit back a smile at Eraser's amused huff, "I also have a friend my age, too, which may come as a complete shock. I met his mom today, and she's nice. She gave me katsudon.” There was a quiet warmth behind his words, even if he kept the distance intact.

Eraser nodded slowly, expression unreadable. “That’s good. Having people who care, even a little, that’s important.” Izuku gave a soft laugh. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t expect much, I just do what I can on my own.”

Eraser leaned back slightly, eyes scanning the horizon. “Sometimes, though, it’s okay to let someone in.” Izuku glanced over at him, a spark of something thoughtful in his eyes. “Maybe. Maybe someday.” Then he smiled, light but genuine. “So,” Eraser's lips curled up into a slight smirk, "is katsudon your favourite food, then?"

Izuku grinned as he tilted his head to the side. “Oh yeah, absolutely. Hand me katsudon and I’ll gladly commit arson in broad daylight.” The older man’s lips twitched. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you did it just for fun.”

Izuku laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, only if there’s katsudon involved. I have standards.” Eraser gave him a flat look, his smirk threatening to turn into an eye-roll. “Right. Because moral boundaries are important.”

Izuku nodded rapidly, entirely missing the sarcasm. “Yep! Food-based crime is one thing, but I’d never stoop to, say… armed robbery just for ramen. Maybe. I would have to see how I'm feeling.”

The hero sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with a muttered, “This is what I get for asking a simple question.” He let the silence hang for a few seconds, his tired gaze drifting back toward Izuku.

Izuku only grinned wider at the reaction, before scooting closer and nudging Eraser in the ribs with his elbow. “C’mon, don’t look so grumpy. Besides, who would’ve thought you could go this long without trying to throw me on my face? It must be a record.”

Eraser’s eyebrow twitched, the smirk threatening to return despite his best efforts. “Don’t push your luck, kid. I can have you tasting gravel again before you even blink.”

“Oh yeah?” Izuku’s voice dipped with a mischievous edge. “Well then, old man, catch me if you can.”

Without waiting for a reply, Izuku launched himself off the rooftop’s ledge, swinging down with practised ease before breaking into a full sprint along the sidewalk, diving into alleyways as the night air rushed past him, sharp and cool against his face, the city’s glowing lights stretched out like a glittering maze around him.

Behind him, Eraser’s capture weapon sliced through the air with deadly precision, snapping close enough to catch the breeze on Izuku’s neck. But Izuku twisted and rolled just in time, dirt and gravel scraping harshly against his palms as he hit the ground. The familiar sting only made him grin wider. “Gotta be faster than that, old man!”

From somewhere above, Eraser let out a low chuckle. “You’re lucky I’m not really trying, kid.”

“Lucky, huh?” Izuku teased back, bouncing to his feet. “Or maybe you’re just afraid I’ll make you look bad.”

The chase unfolded like a well-rehearsed dance, with Izuku weaving between fire escapes, bouncing off walls, launching himself over railings, all while Eraser’s weapon whipped through the air, coming just shy of catching him each time. The world around him, normally a tangle of worries and shadows, fell away with each leap and roll. The city’s night became a playground, the adrenaline pulsing through his veins a welcome pulse of life.

As he dodged a low swipe of the capture weapon and flipped to land on his feet, Izuku laughed aloud, a genuine, carefree sound that surprised even him. It echoed in the cool night air, bouncing off the buildings and swallowing up everything else.

His chest rose and fell in rhythm with his movement, every muscle humming with the joy of the gam e. For now, the crushing weight of his doubts, his fears, and his loneliness didn’t follow him. The noise of the world, the past, the pain, the uncertainty, all faded into the background, replaced by the simple thrill of the chase.

And even though Eraser’s voice called out, steady and unrelenting, “Keep it up, kid, but remember, one mistake and you’re back on your face,” Izuku only grinned wider and shouted back, “Then I better make sure I don’t make any!”

His lungs burned as he pushed himself harder, adrenaline flooding through his veins as the city blurred past him, his feet barely seeming to touch the cracked pavement as he sprinted toward another building, and with a swift motion, Izuku grabbed the fire escape ladder and hauled himself up, the cool metal biting into his palms. He swung his leg over the rooftop ledge and dropped down, landing softly on the gravel-strewn surface.

For a brief second, he allowed himself a victorious grin. He had managed to shake off Eraser. Hadn’t he? His breath caught when he spotted movement behind him, a dark form climbing steadily, precise and unhurried despite the exertion. Guess not.

Eraserhead soon stepped onto the rooftop, face serious but eyes twinkling with reluctant respect. His dark hair was tousled, strands sticking to his damp forehead. His usual sleepy expression was replaced by something sharper, a glare that promised the chase wasn’t over yet.

Izuku slumped against the rooftop railing, chest heaving, cheeks flushed. “Was I fast enough for you?” he teased, the cocky smile lingering despite his exhaustion. The pro exhaled deeply, muscles tense as he fought to catch his breath. “Curse you, kid,” he muttered, voice low but edged with something close to amusement.

Izuku chuckled, the rush of the moment lifting his spirits. It wasn’t often he got to push Eraser like this, and even less often did Eraser admit defeat, even in jest.

Suddenly, a sharp, insistent beep sliced through the night air. Eraser’s communicator, clipped to his belt, was blinked rapidly. Without hesitation, the hero snatched it up and tapped the screen. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the incoming message, face hardening instantly. “Trouble,” he said quietly, the weight of responsibility settling back onto his shoulders. Izuku’s eyes narrowed. “Trouble?”

“Armed robbery in progress downtown. Hostiles are heavily armed, and Immediate response requested.” He turned to leave, only once he was on the edge he turned to Izuku, gaze steady. “You coming or not?”

The question hung in the air, simple yet heavy. It wasn’t just an invitation but a test, a challenge. It's a good thing Izuku always loved challenges, and with a wide grin he knew the hero couldn't see, he made his way over to the man until they stood side by side, a spark of determination igniting.

“I’m in."

Chapter Text

Together, Izuku and Eraser slipped from the rooftop, Eraser descending with effortless precision on his scarves and Izuku bounding from ledge to pole in a practised rhythm. Their movements become two dark silhouettes cut against the sprawling night, swallowed quickly by the shadows as they closed in on their destination.

Eraser’s eyes flicked briefly to Izuku, no words exchanged as they ran, both of them moving with unspoken synchronisation as they entered alleyways left and right, Izuku’s chest tightening as his pulse raced.

The teasing banter drifted away, replaced by the sharp certainty of purpose as his footsteps drummed against pavement, rhythm steady even beneath the flicker of unreliable streetlamps. Eraser was there beside him, steady as a shadow and unwavering as stone.

A few more sharp turns later and soon both he and Eraser were watching from outside the fractured glass of the large bank as masked men in tactical gear barked orders, shouldering duffels swollen with cash. Guns swept the room, corralling terrified civilians against the walls as fear filled the air.

Adrenaline burned hot, his grin sharp. “Okay, old man,” Izuku whispered, eyes gleaming, “time to show them what you’re made of… while I desperately wing it and hope I don’t trip.”

Eraser’s gaze hardened beneath his unruly hair as he murmured dryly, “ At least try not to get yourself killed, last thing I need is you bleeding out again.”

Izuku didn’t wait to reply, and soon he was just a flash of black and grit bursting through the broken entrance as a shot rang out, plaster raining from the ceiling, but he slipped past the bullet and drove a fist into the nearest thug. The man slammed into a counter with a crash, paper bills exploding into the air like confetti.

Another robber's shout broke through the chaos, immediately grabbing Izuku’s attention. “Hey! What the hell? Who’s this kid?” The voice dripped with surprise and irritation. From the far corner of the bank, a masked thug sneered, pointing directly at Eraser, who was calmly stepping inside behind Izuku. “Look who’s babysitting tonight,” the man taunted with a sharp edge.

Eraser’s lips twitched into a faint smirk as he exhaled slowly. “Sure feels like it.”

Izuku bounced on the balls of his feet, grin turning feral. “C’mon, ’Raser, you just going to let them talk 'bout you like that? I swear, smacking villains through furniture really does wonders for your mood!"

As if on cue a few lunged clumsily towards him, hands reaching out and weapons pointed, but he slipped between their grasp like water slipping through fingers. His movements were precise and lightning-fast, and one moment he sidestepped a greedy grab, the next he sent a quick jab to a thug’s ribs, forcing them backward with a grunt as he knocked multiple weapons away with a maniacal cackle.

He spun on his heel, catching a blur of movement behind him, and delivered a swift uppercut that snapped another attacker’s head back. The force sent the thug crashing into a supply table, and helpfully a stack of crates tumbled alongside him, creating an unexpected barricade. “Can’t catch this!” Izuku called, spinning into a dizzying flurry of punches that scattered stunned robbers like bowling pins.

Behind him, Eraser moved with icy efficiency. His capture weapon sliced through the air and snapped around a robber’s arm with a surgical precision. A sharp tug pulled the man off his feet and into a hard take-down, the thud echoing through the room like a drum. “Don’t get cocky, kid. Speed’s good, but control wins fights,” Eraser advised, voice calm but firm.

“I’ve got this, Sensei,” Izuku shot back, eyes gleaming as he lunged towards another attacker, his boots thundering across the polished floor. He ducked and dodged, dove and weaved through each fight, coming frighteningly close to loosing a few teeth before he narrowly avoided a wild swing and with a sudden burst he fired a solid kick right into the woman's lower abdomen, sending her crumpling to the ground with a groan.

Another attacker surged forward, but Izuku was ready. He planted his foot, twisted, and swept their legs out with swift precision as they hit the floor hard, winded before they even had a chance to react.

Eraser’s capture weapon lashed out again, snagging another robber’s gun mid-trigger pull. The man let out a surprised yelp as Eraser yanked him and the gun violently to the ground. “Show off much?” Eraser called dryly over the chaos.

Izuku grinned, eyes bright as he elbowed another in the ribs. “Come on, what’s the fun without a little flair? Besides, you’re just jealous I’m faster.” Eraser’s scowl deepened, but his eyes shone with determination. “You wish.” Izuku had barely anytime to roll his eyes before he was lunged at once more, some of his previous attackers rising again.

People need to learn when to stay down.

Luckily, after hitting the same people multiple times in the ribs, stomach, and nose, they seemed to get the idea.

Eraser seemed to be doing alright as well, with a few robbers tied up in one end of his scarf as he lunged towards another, his movements precise and sure as he took them down easily.

Izuku moved to help, when he suddenly spotted a small cluster of masked attackers attempting to regroup near the doors, and he took a deep breath and launched himself forwards, breaking their formation to shreds as Eraser’s capture weapon darted and snapped time and time again, incapacitating anyone reckless enough to step closer.

Finally, after a few tiring minutes the last attacker charged towards him, bruised and bloody and with a makeshift pipe as he snarled just as Izuku met them head-on, sidestepping at the last second and delivering a quick jab to their temple as he fell to the floor without any more movement.

Eraser flicked out his capture weapon, ensnaring them with the rest of the large group with a satisfied grunt. The room fell suddenly quiet, except for their heavy breathing and the murmurs of shaken and stunned bank employees. The workers cautiously emerged from behind their desks, relief washing over their faces.

A middle-aged woman stepped forward, eyes shining with gratitude as she smiled towards the hero. “Thank you… both of you. You and your son… for helping us.”

Izuku choked on his breath, blinking in surprise. “Wait, what?” Eraser’s lips twitched. “He’s not my kid.”

The woman frowned, confused, before the sharp wail of sirens blared outside and red and blue lights danced against the shattered glass. Izuku looked back at Eraser, eyebrows raised. Eraser gave a slight nod. “Get out of here, kid. I’ll see you tomorrow?” Izuku rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, yeah. See you.”

By the time Izuku had finished his patrol and nightly walk with the ladies, he had stumbled back to his apartment with the adrenaline long gone, leaving only bruising aches where he hadn't realised he'd been hit. Every step rattled it deeper, like someone had jammed a stone beneath his skin. He winced as he shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, willing the throb to fade as his breath hissed out between his teeth.

“Should’ve seen that coming,” he muttered. He peeled off his gloves, flexing stiff fingers, and pressed a palm against his side. Beneath his hand, the muscle was already hardening with a deep bruise, the edges tender. “Lucky shot. Figures.”

The weight of fatigue pulled him down, and he didn’t bother stripping off the rest of his gear before collapsing face-first onto the mattress. The room tilted, blurry at the edges. His eyes closed as he withdrew a blade, and thankfully d eath came quickly as it always did when his body couldn’t take any more.

When he opened his eyes again it was morning, or close enough to it. His room greeted him with the same chaos of notebooks stacked high on the desk, pens scattered on the floor, a jacket crumpled on the chair. The bruise in his ribs was gone, healed with that strange finality his quirk always gave. But his muscles still remembered, echoing the phantom blow. He pulled the stiff blanket tighter, hoping for sleep to come back. But the moment his eyes slid shut, the nightmares surged.

He jerked awake, throat raw, sweat dampening his shirt. The clock on his nightstand blinked at him, reading 2:47 AM. He groaned and flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Seriously?”

Eventually, exhaustion dragged him under again and soon the nightmares tore him out of sleep once more, louder and crueller. His hands shook as he sat up, dragging them through his hair. At Hitoshi’s place, the silence had been a miracle, with no shadows or screams and just a calm that had felt impossible anywhere else, leaving him to almost forget what it was like to sleep without clawing his way out of a nightmare.

Apparently that one night had spoiled him, because now the nightmares felt like they’d doubled down in revenge. By the time the clock glowed 5:02 AM, he stopped pretending. He sat on the edge of the uncomfortable mattress, shoulders slumped, and let out a long sigh. “Guess that’s it. You win, brain.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, dragging himself up to stand. His whole body felt heavy, still buzzing with restless energy and that jittery current that wouldn’t let him stay still no matter how much he needed sleep.

He flicked on the little desk lamp as the yellow light spilled across his room, the familiar sight steadying him as he dug out a pen and began writing, even if the letters wobbled from exhaustion.

Bank job. 9 suspects. Coordinated gear, mid-grade weapons. Eraser used scarf to immobilise group of 3 at once (need to study angles, weight distribution? Pivot points?). One attacker landed hit to ribs → broke stance. Must work on guarding midsection without sacrificing speed. Too open to blunt strikes when focused forward.

He muttered under his breath as he wrote, half rambling to himself and half documenting. The pages filled fast, notes scattering into side scribbles, small arrows, and sudden bursts of thought that trailed off into nonsense. It didn’t matter though, because at least writing it down kept his hands busy and the noise quiet.

After several pages his pen eventually slowed as his chin rested in his palm and he stared out the window. Dawn was bleeding into the horizon, painting faint streaks of grey-blue across the skyline as his reflection stared back at him, tired eyes ringed dark and hair sticking up in stubborn tufts.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching his sore arms above his head until his joints cracked. “Okay. First cleaning. Then… try not to die again before noon,” he muttered. He filled the silence in the apartment with the soft scrape of his pen again, jotting down any other detailed he could remember from last night’s patrol until the page blurred.

When he couldn't think of anything else, he got up and breathed in the bitter steam. The sky outside was significantly lightee, the city groaning awake. And Izuku, bone-tired, eyes burning and body buzzing with restless energy, let out a short laugh. “Alright… new day. Let’s see if I can make it better than the last.”

By the time the sun cracked fully over the rooftops, Izuku was already outside, the chill air sharp in his lungs. His body felt heavy, but his legs kept moving, carrying him down familiar streets towards Takoba.

He didn’t remember exactly when he had first started cleaning the beach, five months, maybe a little more, but now it had become ritual and something grounding that kept him connected to the chaos of the city, reminding him how villains could try to rip the world apart, nightmares could make him dread sleep, but Takoba was his constant nudge forward. He could see progress with his own eyes, and he could make change with his own hands.

The salt-heavy air hit him as he reached the edge of the shoreline, the horizon glowing gold with the early morning as waves lapped gently, the sound broken only by the cry of gulls wheeling above. Rusting appliances scattered across the sand with tires half-buried like forgotten fossils, piles of plastic bottles and broken crates littering the waterline, but the thing he noticed the most was the progress.

There was a strip of clean sand, stretching across nearly half the beach, sunlight bouncing off it like a promise as he dropped his bag, pulling on work gloves with practised ease, his smile small but fierce. “Halfway,” he muttered to himself. “Halfway, finally.”

The pride bloomed in his chest, pushing back against the fatigue, burning hotter than the ache in his bones. Every time he cleared another piece, every time he dragged some massive hunk of rusted junk away from the water, the beach looked less like a graveyard and more like it might actually belong to people again.

He started with bottles, filling bag after bag until the plastic crunched under his boots. Then it was crates, then chunks of broken metal. He found a shopping cart half-buried in the sand and heaved it free with a grunt, rolling it up the shore. Sweat slicked his forehead, his gloves tore at the fingertips, but the work was steady, physical, and honest.

By the time the sun was high, he should have stopped. Normally, a couple hours was his maximum limit before he’d head home, but today, with the beach halfway clean, the motivation sank deeper hooks into him.

So he stayed.

Hours blurred together, his arms straining as he wrestled a refrigerator loose from the sand, salt water soaking his pants as he dragged it higher onto the shore. He was panting, chest heaving, but the sight of the cleared patch behind him spurred him forward. He paused only once, leaning on his knees, grinning like an idiot at the wide stretch of smooth sand. He wiped his face with the back of his wrist and laughed breathlessly. “Almost looks… like a real beach again.”

He shook his head like he’d just walked into a room full of clowns. "Wow, Izuku, you’re talking to yourself now. What’s next, arguing with your reflection? Maybe you’ll start giving yourself pep talks... in public... with jazz hands."

He rolled his eyes as he listens as the gulls cried overhead, the waves hissed in, and Izuku stood taller, pride buzzing warm in his chest. He could imagine families coming here one day, kids running barefoot where rusted engines once sat. He could imagine laughter instead of silence. So he picked up another piece of junk, ignoring the stiffness in his shoulders, and kept going.

The sun had climbed high overhead by the time Izuku finally thought to check his phone and realised it was nearly mid afternoon.

He blinked at the screen, confused for a second. Looks like I was cleaning for longer than expected. Somehow he’d slipped right past lunch without even noticing, and his stomach gave a loud, traitorous growl that made him laugh under his breath. “Guess I got carried away,” he muttered, kicking at a rusted hubcap buried in the sand.

Still, when he looked back at the shoreline, at the wide swath of clean sand he’d carved through the mess, the tiredness in his body felt… worth it. Tangible with progress he could actually see, a nd it wasn’t just junk he found either.

Half-hidden beneath a pile of warped plastic and driftwood he uncovered a battered little lamp. The base was slightly rusted, the cord frayed, but the glass shade was intact and a sea-glass green colour that caught the sunlight like it had been waiting for someone to notice it. He turned it over in his hands, wiping away grit and grinning despite himself.

“This… might actually work,” he said, voice almost reverent. “Okay, maybe not now. But, after a few fixes? Some rewiring? As long as I don’t shock myself into the afterlife…”

The thought of his apartment with its bare walls and mismatched furniture suddenly felt less empty at the thought of re-purposing things people had thrown away. He could picture the lamp glowing softly on his desk, spilling light across his notebooks instead of the flickering bulb he always left burning.

Further down the beach he found a cracked picture frame buried under a tire. The glass was gone, but the wooden frame was sturdy and with a quick sanding and maybe some paint, it could actually hold something again. He brushed the sand off and tucked it under his arm like a prize.

By the time he stumbled across an old toaster half-buried in the sand, he couldn’t stop himself from dragging it free. It was a wreck of burnt metal, a bent lever and wires spilling like guts, but his grin widened anyway. “This one is probably a death trap,” he admitted, hauling it to the growing pile of 'maybe salvageable' treasures at the edge of the sand. “But if I can figure out how to fix it without burning my apartment down, that’s basically a win!"

Piece by piece, his little collection grew with additions like a metal stool missing one leg (he could fix it), a cracked ceramic mug (easy glue job), and a dented tin sign from some long-forgotten store (it’d look cool on a wall). None of it looked like much to anyone else, but to Izuku it was treasure. Things he could repair, and things he could claim.

By the time he looked up again, the sun was beginning its slow descent, shadows stretching long across the sand. His body ached, sweat plastered his shirt to his back, and his arms felt like they might just fall off, but it was worth it. He dropped onto the sand and tilted his head back to watch birds wheel overhead. “Totally worth it,” he mumbled, a smile tugging at his lips.

He eventually mustered up the courage to lug his haul back to the apartment, his arms feeling like noodles and his hands throbbing in protest. The old toaster rattled ominously with every step up the stairs, the lamp nearly slipped out of his grip twice, and the stool made a screeching noise on the stairwell that would probably wake up at least three neighbours if he had any and wasn't currently living in an abandoned building.

He kept telling himself it was worth it, and after entering his apartment and grabbing a quick drink of water, he crouched down and pulled his 'toolbox' out from under the sink in the kitchen. It wasn’t really a toolbox so much as a dented cookie tin he’d stuffed with anything useful he’d salvaged from Takoba, including a screwdriver with half the handle missing, a hammer that looked like it had been run over by a truck, three mismatched pliers, a roll of duct tape, a handful of screws that didn’t actually match anything, and more.

He grinned, rolling up his sleeves. “Alright. Let’s fix some stuff!”

His first project was the lamp. He figured it would be one of the easiest, with just a little touch ups and a little rewire, but he was quickly proven wrong. T he moment he stripped the frayed cord and tried splicing in a new piece from another junk cord he’d found, the wires sparked so brightly he yelped and dropped it, the lamp clattering across the floor.

Note to self, maybe don't test it while it's still plugged in.

He unplugged it, cheeks red, then started again with slower, more careful hands. After three attempts, he managed to get the cord attached without another fire hazard. When he plugged it back in, the bulb flickered once… then popped with a sad pffft. He stared at it for a second. “…Progress?”

His second project was the toaster that he held high hopes for, but deep down knew it was doomed from the start. Unfortunately he was extremely stubborn, so despite his probable chance of killing himself on accident he  pried it open with the half-broken screwdriver, metal guts spilling across the floor in a confusing mess of wires, burnt crumbs, and springs that launched themselves into orbit the second he touched them.

He spent twenty minutes trying to reattach the lever before realising it was completely snapped inside. Then he spent another twenty convinced he could fix the heating coils with aluminium foil. The moment he plugged it in, the coils glowed ominously red, smoke started curling out, and a smell like burnt seaweed mixed with despair filled the room.

“Abort, abort, ABORT-!” He yanked the cord out so fast he tripped over the stool and landed flat on his back, coughing. The toaster hissed at him like it was personally offended. “Okay… you win. I'll stick with my current busted up toaster for now.”

His third and last project for now was the stool.

This one, at least, seemed doable. One leg was missing entirely, but he had a stack of random pipes he’d collected. He jammed one into place, wrapped it in duct tape, and gingerly sat down. For five glorious seconds, it held. Then it lurched sideways and dumped him unceremoniously onto the floor.

He groaned, staring at the ceiling. “…I’m starting to think there’s a reason people throw this stuff away.”

By the time the sun had completely dipped, Izuku was covered in grease smudges, surrounded by a battlefield of wires, screws, and tools. The lamp was leaning sideways, the toaster was looking at him angrily, and the stool had become an awkward tripod with duct tape holding its dignity together.

Yet, he was grinning. He leaned back against the wall, flexing sore fingers, and let out a satisfied sigh. “Alright. That’s enough for today. One step closer to… uh, not electrocuting myself every time I use the lamp!"

He dragged himself up, shoved the cookie tin of tools back under the sink again, and flopped onto his mattress face-first, still smelling faintly of burnt wires. It wasn’t perfect, but it kept him busy which is all he could ask for as a teenager who doesn't go to school and has no job other than beating up criminals and throwing them through the nearest windows or walls.

Without realising it he had fallen asleep, and the next time he had woken up it was completely pitch black outside, just a few hours from midnight. “Shit.” He rubbed at his eyes, then scrambled to his feet. His body ached from the beach, his fingers still stained with grease, but patrol didn’t wait and he had no time for his usual rest routine of die and revive.

He yanked on his gear in a hurry and slipped out into the night with the same nervous excitement curling in his chest as he began running across rooftops and jumping over the gaps between buildings before he made it to the familiar building, the air sharp against his skin. And there, as always, was Eraser. Standing with hands buried in his pockets, scarf shifting faintly in the breeze, the older hero looked like he’d been carved straight out of shadow. His gaze flicked over as Izuku landed lightly beside him.

A pause stretched between them, quiet except for the hum of the city below. Then Eraser said, low and dry, “Nice to see you’re not ignoring me for now.” Izuku tilted his head, grin curling under the mask. “Aw, you missed me? That’s sweet, I do hear I have that effect on people.”

Eraser’s eyes narrowed, unimpressed. “You have the effect of making me consider early retirement.” Izuku clutched at his chest dramatically. “Wow. Cold. I pour my heart out, and you just stomp all over it. You’re breaking me, Sensei.”

“Good,” Eraser said flatly. “Then maybe you’ll stay home for once instead of nearly getting yourself killed.”

Izuku cackled, bouncing lightly on his heels, energy buzzing back to life despite the day’s exhaustion. “Come on, you’d be bored without me, admit it. Who else is gonna do all the dramatic leaps and stupid banter while you scowl at people?”

Eraser didn’t reply, but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. Izuku caught it instantly, pointing a finger like he’d won something. “Ha! That was almost a smile. You do miss me.” Eraser turned, scarf flicking behind him as he started towards the edge of the rooftop. “Shut up and keep up.”

Izuku followed, grin sharp as the night wind caught his hair. “Yes sir!”

And just like that they slipped into the dark, moving in rhythm once again.

He doesn't know what possessed him to end up patrolling with the hero, but he truthfully didn't mind it. It wasn’t too bad that night, mostly quiet alleys and restless drunks, but an hour to midnight a scuffle broke out near a row of vending machines. Two men were shouting, one swinging a broken bottle, the other already bleeding from his temple.

Eraser didn’t even hesitate as his scarf snapped out, binding the one with the bottle before he could blink and dragging him to the pavement. Izuku lunged for the other, shoving him back against the wall with a quick twist of his wrist until the guy sagged, winded and done. “Finished already?” Izuku teased, letting the man slide down the wall to sit groaning on the sidewalk. “Guess that’s what happens when you pick fights in front of free food. Bad strategy.”

They stayed by the tied up men until the familiar red and blue lights appeared around the corner, and they left them for the police and headed back through the dimly lit streets. The night was calm again, their footsteps steady on the pavement before Eraser’s nose wrinkled faintly. He turned his head toward Izuku, tone flat but edged with genuine confusion.  “…Why do you smell like burnt clothing and seaweed?”

Izuku froze mid-step, then cackled so loud it startled a passing stranger. He doubled over, clutching his ribs. “Pff-oh my god, you only just noticed?”

Eraser arched an eyebrow as he wiped at his eyes, still laughing. “Okay, okay-so, funny story. I may or may not have set a toaster on fire today. Don’t worry, I totally unplugged it before it exploded, so… that’s a win? And I have this whole find and revamp junk scheme goin' on, don’t ask, but now my apartment smells like Poseidon’s dirty laundry.”

Eraser just stared at him, the silence growing heavy as he  grinned wider, shrugging like it explained everything. “So yeah. Toaster barbecue meets sushi platter. I call it my signature scent.”

“…You’re an idiot,” Eraser muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah, but a creative idiot,” Izuku shot back, throwing him finger guns as they kept walking. “Trademark pending!” Eraser’s groan echoed down the street, but Izuku swore he caught the faintest twitch of a smile.

After that, they hadn’t gone more than three blocks before another fight broke out, but this time it was uglier. A big guy with a jagged quirk that sent arcs of electricity sparking from his skin was thrashing around in an alley, two shop shutters already half-melted from the surges. Civilians had scattered, but the guy wasn’t calming down and at the first sign of danger Izuku darted forward, but the moment his foot hit the ground near the man, a snap of static shot up his leg.

He hissed, jumping back with teeth gritted. “Fuck,” he muttered, shaking out his leg where sparks had kissed his foot. “Of course I get Mister Human Bug-Zapper.” He tried circling, but every time he closed the distance, another crackling whip of energy lashed out, forcing him back. Close combat was his comfort zone, but this guy was practically a live wire barricade.

Eraser’s scarf luckily lashed out clean and precise, binding the man’s arm before he could fire another surge. The man thrashed once, twice, but Eraser’s quirk flicked on and the electricity fizzled to nothing, and a hard kick swept the man down and pinned with calm efficiency. Izuku exhaled sharply, rubbing at a faint singe mark on his sleeve from one of his attempts of getting close.

Eraser glanced up at him, expression unreadable. “You haven’t been practising with your long range weapons, have you?” Izuku blinked, then scoffed. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I've been kind of busy. So, no, I haven’t been practising. Excuse me for valuing not dying from constant injuries." Eraser’s tone was flat as a board. “That’s not an excuse. It only makes sense to have a variety of attacks up your sleeve, anything less just screams laziness.”

Izuku snorted, sharp and incredulous, shoulders shaking with a laugh he didn’t bother to hold in. “Oh, that’s rich coming from the man who naps on rooftops like it’s an Olympic sport. Don’t talk to me about laziness when I’ve literally seen you horizontal in a capture scarf hammock at noon.” Eraser blinked slowly, unimpressed as always, but Izuku swore the corner of his mouth twitched before he turned away, hauling the subdued villain toward the street for pickup.

Izuku jogged after him, still grinning like a menace. “Face it, Eraserhead, you’re basically a professional napper. Your true quirk is being able to sleep anywhere anytime and making laziness look like an art form.”

“…You talk too much,” Eraser muttered. “And you love it,” Izuku shot back, finger-gunning at him again as sparks from the villain’s quirk fizzled harmlessly in the dirt.

After their encounter with the human taser during their patrol, which still shocked Izuku that they had even patrolled together in the first place, it was mostly quiet save for the sounds of bustling vehicles and people out late at night walking home or laughing with buddies. 

The adrenaline from earlier fights had faded into a jittery tension, his muscles tight and restless as they were moved along the rooftops in that strange rhythm he and Eraser had developed with Izuku darting ahead, weaving between poles and ledges with unlimited energy, Eraser gliding after him with that same steady, silent efficiency.

The hero finally broke the silence, scarf trailing like a banner in the wind. “Don’t you need to meet up with someone?” His tone was flat but carried that unmistakable edge that meant he wasn’t joking. Izuku blinked, glancing at him mid-leap over a narrow alleyway. “Uh… meet up with-”

Then he stopped and studied the neon glow of a clock atop a convenience store down below, its digits flickering in harsh red. He froze mid-step, stomach plummeting. 11:58 p.m.

“Oh shit!” he shrieked, scrambling to regain his balance. His boots skidded against the edge of the rooftop as he spun to glance at Eraser. “I’m late! I’m so late! They’re going to-oh no no no-”

Without giving Eraser a chance to respond Izuku bolted, arms pumping like pistons as he sprinted along the rooftops. He flung himself across a gap between buildings with a shriek, nearly face-planting on the other side. “Move it, old man! Faster! Faster!”

Eraser’s scarf snapped out, coiling around a loose pipe to vault effortlessly across the same gap, expression unreadable. “I'm going fast enough, it's thanks to your own tardiness that you're late,” he muttered, voice calm but with a hint of exasperation.

“I know! Thank you for that very helpful insight!” Izuku yelled, skidding to the next ledge. “And I know you’re thinking I’m crazy, but seriously, if I’m late, they’re going to kill me!” He twisted in midair to catch the edge of a fire escape, dangling by one hand, then swung himself up with a grunt.

Eraser followed easily as he replied, “And who exactly are you dragging me to meet in the middle of the night?” Izuku shot him a wild grin, hair whipping around in the wind. “You know who, you're always stalking me! And now you’re coming with me, so congrats, you’re about to be judged too!” Eraser’s lips twitched, probably a frown, but Izuku preferred to imagine it was amusement. “I already regret this,” he muttered.

“Sorry about that, but I have to show up after I missed the one before yesterday!” he muttered, panting. “If I don't they’ll roast me, I just know it!”

“You could have left earlier,” the hero remarked calmly, like this wasn’t a life-or-death sprint. “I tried!” Izuku shouted, gripping a loose pipe for a running jump. “The street was crowded, the trash cans were evil, and villainy never stops!" E raser’s eyes narrowed, unamused as he studied Izuku's frazzled appearance before he sighed deeply. “You’re a disaster.”

“Thank you!” He cackled, nearly losing his balance again. “We're almost there! Keep up, Sensei!” Eraser sighed again, scarf coiling tighter around his arm as he fell into stride behind the chaos that was Izuku. “This is what I get for patrolling with an arguably concerning and unstable teenager with a death wish.”

“Exactly!” He agreed, vaulting the last gap before the building. “It's called keeping things interesting!” And with that they closed in on the meetup, Izuku practically vibrating with excitement and dread, hair plastered with sweat, clothes smelling faintly of burnt wires and seaweed, but entirely too exhilarated to care.

He hit the street in a dramatic roll, popped up like he hadn’t just scuffed his elbow, and came skidding into the familiar block where the three women always waited for him. “SORRY I’M LATE!” he shouted before he was even within ten meters. “Time blindness is my mortal enemy, please don’t revoke my scary guard dog rights-!”

The ladies, who had long since gotten used to his energy, only laughed. Nezomi wagged a finger at him. “You’re very lucky we’re nice, Bean Boy. Fifteen minutes late, hm?”

“I-it’s technically twelve if you account for rooftop traffic!” Izuku puffed, doubling over with his hands on his knees, before another voice drifted down behind him, low and calm. “That’s not how traffic works.”

The three ladies blinked, because now, descending in measured, silent steps, was a tall figure cloaked in black, scarf faintly glinting under the streetlight. Eraserhead had decided to join the party.

They froze for a beat, before Sora pointed. “You.” Eraser tilted his head, clearly thrown. “…Me?”

“Yes!” Akari says brightly. “You’re the one who always lurks on the rooftops, aren’t you? We see your silhouette all the time when Revenant’s walking us home. It’s nice to finally talk to you.” Izuku straightened instantly, lips twitching into a wicked grin. “Ohhh my god, you’ve been recognised.”

Eraser’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again, but all that came out was a gravelly, “…Right.” Nez chimed in, smirking. “Why don’t you walk with us tonight? It’ll be nice to have both of you around on the ground.”

Izuku practically doubled over laughing. “Ohhh this is rich. Eraser, buddy, they just invited you to ladies’ night!” Eraser shot him a look sharp enough to cut through concrete, but to Izuku’s delight he gave a tiny, reluctant nod. “…Fine.”

And so, somehow, Eraserhead ended up walking alongside the three women and Izuku, his scarf swaying gently at his sides, listening as they chatted about their shifts, the weather, make-up, and the rising price of train tickets.

Chapter Text

After the women waved them off with grateful smiles, Izuku and Eraserhead slipped back into the shadows, their footsteps echoing softly against the empty street. Izuku vaulted up onto the side of a building, scaling the fire escape like he’d done it a thousand times, and landed on the rooftop with practised ease. He dusted off his hands, half-expecting a muttered “good work” from the hero.

Instead, something silver blurred through the dark. Izuku jerked his body to the left, heart lurching as Eraser’s capture scarf sliced through the space where his ankle had just been. He stumbled, windmilling his arms before catching his balance. “Seriously?” His voice cracked with outrage. “Can you not-like, just once, not try to ambush me?”

Eraser reeled the scarf back in calmly, wrapping it around his shoulders like he hadn’t just attempted to hog-tie him. “I have to keep you on your toes somehow, Revenant. Besides, while you may be good in close combat,” he said, tone maddeningly neutral. “At larger ranges and against quirks you have a disadvantage, especially since I haven't seen you use your quirk once.”

Izuku huffed, throwing his arms out as he swallowed down the emotions threatening to rise at the reminder. “Oh, thank you, Captain Obvious, I really appreciate the critique. I’ll just go craft myself a sniper rifle out of thin air while I’m at it, no problem, since I will never use my quirk.”

His words were practically a hiss towards the end as he prepared for Eraser to tell him some bullshit about how not using his quirk would be 'illogical' but instead his words sent a jolt of surprise through Izuku.

“Come at me.”

His tone was so casual that he almost didn’t register them before his head snapped up, eyes going wide. “You...what? No.”

Eraser’s eyebrow rose slowly, deliberate as a loaded gun. “No thank you,” Izuku repeated firmly, even taking a step back. “I’ll pass.”

“You'll pass?”

“Yes, pass,” Izuku said, gesturing wildly at him. “I may be reckless, but I’d have to be more suicidal than usual to believe I could fight you head-on and walk away with nothing broken. At minimum, I’m signing up for one broken bone. Probably a whole collection, since you seem so intent on making me me your personal piñata.”

For a long moment, the man just stared at him, blank as stone. Then he asked, completely straight-faced,“…Do I want to know how suicidal you're usually feeling?” Izuku blinked, then shrugged. “It depends on the day and my mood.”

Eraser dragged a hand down his face, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as if Izuku’s words physically caused him pain. His sigh was heavy, frayed at the edges. “How are you incapable of making it through one single conversation without dropping something mildly concerning?”

“Talent,” Izuku said with a grin that was equal parts cheeky and proud. The scarf slithered free in Eraser’s hands again, low and threatening. “Last chance. Come at me.”

Izuku groaned dramatically. “Oh, great. This is how I die. Mauled by a sleep-deprived homeless man with a penchant for making poor unsuspecting vigilantes like myself eat gravel.” He squared his stance reluctantly, muttering under his breath. “Knew I should’ve just gone straight home. Could be eating something mildly edible right now, but noooo…”

Eraser’s scarf whipped forward, fast and precise as Izuku darted aside, boots skidding against the rooftop tiles as he shouted, “You do realise my chances of beating a hero with years of experience and a weapon I’m half-convinced is actually sentient are slim to none, right?”

“Then think harder and use whatever you can to your advantage,” Eraser snapped, circling slowly, eyes sharp even in the gloom. “You don’t get to pick your battlefield. If you want to stay alive, you adapt.”

Izuku rolled his eyes heavenward. “Of course he lectures while trying to strangle me. Classic.” He ducked under another strike, grin widening despite himself. “Fine, fine! But if I break anything tonight, I’m haunting you.”

“Shut up and fight.” And despite the grumbling Izuku did, because for all his complaints, he wasn’t about to waste an opportunity to test himself against Eraserhead if he had to.

His scarf snapped forward again, faster this time and aiming for Izuku’s wrist. He barely twisted out of range, heart hammering as the fabric sliced past his sleeve. “Come on,” Eraser muttered. “You can do better than dodging.”

“Oh, trust me, dodging is my better,” Izuku shot back. Deciding to take the hero's words to heart, he quickly hit the ground and scooped up a handful of loose gravel from the rooftop, eyes flashing with mischief. “And don’t underestimate cheap tricks.”

Before Eraser could move, Izuku flung the handful of gravel straight at his face.

To add to his growing frustration, the man didn’t even blink. His capture scarf whipped in a sharp arc, covering his eyes for a second as the scarf batted the pebbles harmlessly away like he was swatting gnats. “Really?” Izuku simply grinned. “Worth a shot.”

He darted in close, feinting left before pivoting right, aiming a quick jab at Eraser’s ribs. The man shifted just enough for Izuku’s knuckles to graze cloth instead of flesh. In the same motion, Eraser’s knee came up and Izuku twisted, narrowly avoiding the impact. “Fast,” Eraser admitted. “But still sloppy. Are you even trying?”

“Sloppy’s my brand,” Izuku said, ducking under the next scarf strike. He tried to hook his foot behind Eraser’s ankle to trip him, but the man sidestepped smoothly, countering with a sharp tug of the scarf that yanked Izuku off balance. He stumbled but rolled with it, flipping clumsily to his feet. “Okay, okay, note to self, scarf physics are unfair.”

“You rely too much on unpredictability,” Eraser said flatly, circling him. “Eventually, someone’s going to stop being surprised.” Izuku smirked. “Then I’ll just annoy them into submission.”

As if to prove his point he darted forward, fingers suddenly jabbing toward Eraser’s eyes. The man caught his wrist mid-air, twisted, and sent Izuku spinning onto his back. “Cheap,” Eraser commented. Izuku wheezed, still grinning even as the stars swam in his vision. “Effective, though, right? Admit it, I almost got you.”

“Not even close.” Izuku kipped up, brushing dust from his jacket. “You’re intolerable.”

“And you’re reckless,” Eraser replied, already moving again. His scarf lashed out, coiling around Izuku’s ankle this time. With a sharp yank, he dragged the boy forward across the gravelly rooftop. Izuku yelped, grabbed another handful of stones mid-slide, and hurled them upward. They rained down toward Eraser’s face. The man tilted his head, unimpressed, though one pebble did ping off his forehead.

“…You’re being immature,” he muttered, rubbing the spot. Izuku threw his arms up in victory. “Shut it! I finally landed a hit!”

“On my forehead. With a pebble.”

“Still counts!”

Eraser’s sigh was long, suffering. “You’re going to get yourself killed with that attitude.”

“Maybe,” Izuku said with a shrug, breathless but still smirking. “But at least I’ll annoy the hell out of my killer first. That’s my legacy.”

The scarf came for him again, sharper and faster as Izuku dodged, feinted, darted low and tried to sweep Eraser’s legs. It almost worked, but then a boot came down on his foot, pinning him in place. Before he could wiggle free, the scarf wound tight around his torso, jerking him upright like a misbehaving puppy.

Eraser leaned in, voice flat and expression souring at Izuku's behaviour. “You fight like a child. Cheap tricks, jokes, distractions. That might work on street thugs, but in the field It will get you killed. You need to grow up.”

Izuku froze, and for the first time all night, his smile slipped. The rooftop went quiet except for their breathing.

Then Izuku let out a short, shaky laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “I need to... to grow up, huh?”

Eraser didn’t respond, and his grip on the scarf didn’t loosen, but something in Izuku’s expression changed like the spark behind his grin had gone out. His shoulders tensed, and he stopped fidgeting, stopped joking. When his gaze flicked up again, it wasn’t playful anymore. It was sharp, focused, and without warning, he moved.

Shouta knew the moment he’d crossed a line.

The kid had been nothing but mouth until then, cheap jokes, dumb taunts, even throwing gravel like some back-alley punk trying to even the odds. Annoying, yes, but predictable. Noise meant rhythm, rhythm meant control. Eraser could see every move coming before it happened, and it seemed like the vigilante wasn't taking him seriously, which frustrated him. Why bother trying to help if he wasn't going to focus?

But the second he’d told him to grow up, everything stopped. The vigilante froze in his hold and then, like a switch flipped, the mask of humour dropped. The creases around the corners of his eyes disappeared, indicating that his grin was gone. His posture shifted, and there was no more shuffling or chatter through that cheap voice modulator.

Just silence, and Shouta could practically see the ghosts of the boys past flash through his mind as he levelled the hero with an alarmingly emotionless stare. He loosened his grip on his scarf to allow the boy more room to move, and the vigilante made sure to use it to his advantage.

In less than a second he had dropped to the floor and slipped out of his grip, before lunging forward with enough cold determination and frustration that Revenant almost managed to land a hit on him before he spun out of the way and his scarf snapped forward, precise and practised. The kid twisted under it, reckless enough to nearly dislocate his shoulder but slippery enough to slip free. He closed distance fast, fists swinging in tight arcs meant to batter, not probe.

There was no holding back, and this time Shouta had to try harder than ever before, the boys knuckles coming startlingly close to hitting a pro hero with years of experience.

He caught one of the vigilantes strikes, redirecting it before he blocked the next with his forearm, the impact reverberating up his bone. The third he had to twist his torso, scarf snaring for a half-second before the kid rolled and broke loose.

He grunted under each rough impact, ducking under a kick that skimmed close enough to stir his hair. He pivoted low, sweeping his leg, but the kid leapt back, gravel crunching beneath his boots. The vigilante came at him again, fists sharp, jaw clenched, no sound but his own harsh breathing as he forced Shouta into defence with no time to switch back to offence.

And Kami, he was relentless.

Every strike was committed, every blow thrown with the kind of fury that didn’t care about consequences. Shouta had sparred with pros who fought smarter, faster, harder, but very few fought with this kind of desperate abandon. He blocked, parried, shifted his scarf like an extension of himself, yet for every counter the kid had another angle, another scrap of raw instinct to throw at him.

His style wasn’t refined but instead jagged, messy, and built on whatever worked in the moment, but it pressed and pressed until he realised he was giving ground. His teeth clenched as his jaw clicked. He shifted to end it, scarf snapping to bind, legs braced to sweep, body leaning in to drive the kid into the dirt, when the boy’s fist slipped past his guard.

A sharp crack split the air.

Shouta's head snapped sideways, jaw aching from the impact. He’d felt worse, far worse, but it wasn’t the pain that rattled him. It was the fact that the kid had landed it. Clean. The vigilante staggered back half a step, chest heaving, mask tilted just enough that Eraser caught a flash of wild, determined eyes.

“Was that satisfactory enough for you? Or do I still need to grow up and try harder?” He hissed, voice modulator sparking from the force of his breath. Even though Shouta couldn't see, he knew Revenant's lips had curled into something between a sneer and a grin.

He flexed his jaw where the punch had landed, wincing slightly. The kid had guts, more than most of his students ever showed, and managing to land a clean hit, reckless as it had been, only confirmed it. He adjusted his scarf and let out a long, controlled exhale. “Not… damn bad, Revenant,” he said finally, his voice calm, measured, but carrying weight that demanded attention. “I wish my students had half the skill and determination you do.”

For a moment, the boy froze. Then, almost imperceptibly, the feral edge in his stance softened. The wild, furiously relentless energy that had dominated every move dissipated, replaced by a quiet, almost shy stillness. His shoulders slumped slightly, his fists clenched, and he simply stood there, watching Eraser with wide, unblinking eyes.

Shouta caught himself blinking, a flicker of realisation cutting sharper than he expected. Revenant hadn't entirely been frustrated, he had been hurt. Now there was no snark, no sharp edges, not even the usual restless muttering under his breath. Just silence, heavy and raw, and he knew he was the cause of it.

He let out a slow breath and lowered himself onto the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling over empty air to show he wasn’t going to fight anymore, angling his body deliberately, casual in posture though every instinct stayed taut and wary. “…It was wrong of me to tell you to grow up, Revenant,” he admitted finally, his voice steady but softer than usual. “I wasn’t thinking. And I’m sorry for hurting you.”

The boy didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch, didn’t fold his arms, didn’t even glance his way as he stared at the place Shouta had stood moments before, gaze unfocused. The stillness made something coil uneasily in Shouta’s chest, and he wondered if his words had only pushed the vigilante further into himself, some place darker where reaching him might not be possible.

His mind ran through everything he’d witnessed tonight, and over the past few weeks. The reckless abandon, the biting humour, the constant disregard for his own safety and the unsettlingly candid comments. Taken all together, it painted a picture he hadn’t wanted to consider. And now, watching Revenant stand there utterly silent, he felt a faint, unfamiliar prick of unease.

Is this what he’s like when he’s not hiding behind a mask?

The thought lingered longer than he liked. As much as he hated the boy’s recklessness, the overconfidence, and the borderline insane antics that constantly pushed him to the edge, the silence forced him to consider another possibility. That maybe the humour, the bravado, the incessant chatter wasn’t just annoyance or defiance. Maybe it had always been a shield.

He inhaled slowly, eyes on the vigilante’s posture, the slight slump of his shoulders, the way he didn’t speak or move unnecessarily. Revenant’s mask and his bravado might have been protection, not just from the city, or from criminals, or even from him, but from himself. And that realisation, calm though it might seem on the surface, unsettled Eraser more than any punch, any scuffle, any gravel hurled in his eyes.

The vigilante’s chest rose and fell slowly, evenly, no taunts, no laughter, just stillness. And as much as he hated to admit it, he didn’t mind the kid’s voice when it was lively and loud, not even mildly annoying.

But this quiet? Shouta didn’t like it one bit.

The silence stretched, heavy between them, only broken by the distant hum of the city below. He shifted slightly on the edge of the rooftop, muscles tense, eyes still half on the vigilante before he heard the quiet, tentative voice, barely above a whisper. “It’s… okay.”

Eraser’s head snapped slightly, and he watched just as Revenant's eyes slid to him and he carefully sat beside him, albeit a few feet away. His usual feral energy was gone, replaced by a fragile stillness, and the sight of it hit Shouta harder than any punch could. “No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. His tone was low but firm, laced with concern. “No, it’s not. I only spoke that way because I believed you weren't trying, but it was clearly insensitive and insulting. I clearly hurt your feelings, and that’s the last thing I want to do.”

The boy stiffened beside him, turning just enough to reveal eyes that were wide and genuinely confused. “But… why?” Shouta frowned, exhaling slowly. “Because, kid… it’s a cruel thing to say something and not feel even a hint of regret when you can see it’s hurt someone.”

Revenant looked down at the rooftop tiles, hands clasped loosely in his lap. After a long beat, his voice was so soft it might have been swallowed by the night air. “That… never stopped anyone else.”

Eraser could feel the weight behind the words, the hollow, weary resignation. His chest tightened, a sharp crack forming deep in his chest as he realised just how lonely the boy must be. Every ounce of bravado, every reckless move, every flippant comment, they had been armour. And now, for the first time in a while, the guard was down.

“Kid…” Eraser began, his voice catching slightly, though he fought to keep it steady. He hated that he felt it so acutely, hated that the sight of this quiet, hurt boy made him want to reach across that distance and protect him from a world that had clearly done far too much damage.

Revenant’s shoulders rose slightly in a small, almost imperceptible shrug. The silence returned, heavier now, threaded with unsaid things. His mind raced, trying to find the right words, something to reach him without shattering the fragile truce he’d glimpsed, because for the first time, Revenant's mask wasn’t enough, and he saw the person beneath it.

The vigilante shifted slightly under his gaze, still seated beside him before he spoke once more, voice quiet but with a hint of something warmer in it now, a trace of that mischievous spark Eraser had thought had vanished. “Thanks, Eraserhead,” he began, hesitating for a moment, then forcing the words out. “I think… I think you’re a pretty decent person.”

Eraser raised an eyebrow at the rare compliment, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you were one of my students,” he said dryly.

Revenant tilted his head before the movement was followed by a short, sharp huff of laughter that caught him off guard, and for a moment, he just watched, amused despite himself. “You did really well tonight,” Eraser murmured, still keeping his tone even. “Not many teenagers, hell, even adults  can say they landed a hit on a seasoned pro hero and got away without at least a lecture. Lucky you.”

The boy’s eyes widened just a fraction, the tension of earlier fading like mist as Shouta relaxed at the realisation that the boy was smiling once more. “Lucky, huh?” he said, still chuckling under his breath.

He leaned back slightly, the night air brushing past them. “Now,” he said, voice low but carrying that unmistakable authority, “You got a question for me?” Revenant blinked, gaze shifting just enough to show a flash of curiosity behind the mask. “…Maybe,” he admitted, voice quiet but laced with genuine interest.

Shouta tilted his head, waiting. He didn’t push or prod, just let the boy choose whether he wanted to speak. And that small act of patience, of letting him lead the moment, seemed to earn a tiny, almost imperceptible nod from the vigilante.

The rooftop stretched silent around them for a beat, the city lights sparkling below, the night holding its breath as his eyes scanning the city that stretched endlessly below. The faint glow of streetlights and neon signs painted the concrete in fractured colours, and during the silence as the by worked up his courage to ask whatever it was, Shouta's eyes flicked to him repeatedly, noting the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his hands twisted anxiously at his hands, and the slight shiver that betrayed the effort it took to stay composed.

And then, quietly, almost hesitantly, the voice came. “…Eraser?” He turned his head just slightly, meeting the boy’s gaze. There was hesitation there, a vulnerability that caught him off guard. “…Yeah?” he replied, steadying his voice.

“Why… why did you let me patrol with you?” The words were soft, uncertain, almost shy, and Shouta felt the air thicken. This wasn’t a joke, a tease, or a challenge. It was genuine.

He blinked, taken aback, the question settling over him. He had expected any number of things, questions about strategy, complaints about his style, even a sarcastic quip, but not this. His throat felt oddly tight, and for a moment, he couldn’t respond. Then, carefully, he said, “…Someone’s gotta look after you, kid. I don't mind if it's me.”

The boy didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze wandered to the lights far below, scanning the streets as if seeing them for the first time. Shouta stayed still, letting him process, before he heard a soft, stifled sniffle. He turned slightly and saw Revenant rubbing at his eyes. Not the mask, not the modulator, not the persona he wielded like a second skin, but just a boy, quietly fragile in the night.

His chest tightened, and wasn’t sure what to do. Comforting kids wasn’t a strong suit. His instincts screamed at him, but the words that would normally come didn’t. He cursed quietly under his breath, wishing, just for a fleeting moment that Hizashi were here since he was better at this, better at reading the subtle cracks in a child’s composure.

He eventually drew a slow breath and tried something simpler. “Alright,” he said softly, voice calm but carefully warm, “what’s your favourite colour?” Revenant blinked, meeting him with glassy eyes, and whispered, “…Huh?”

“I said, what’s your favourite colour?” He repeated, tone steady, trying to bridge the gap between them without forcing it. The boy was quiet for a moment, thinking, hesitating, then let out a soft, humour-tinged laugh. “You’re wasting your question on that?” he said, still quiet, but there was a small warmth to it, a trace of the old humour threading through.

Shouta tilted his head slightly, a small, knowing nod. “Of course,” he murmured. “Didn't you once say that knowing someone’s favourite colour is like looking straight into their soul?”

Revenant’s lips creased slightly at he smiled softly, and while it may not be the teasing grin he usually wore under the mask, for the first time that night he felt the weight of connection, subtle but undeniable. Revenant’s voice was quiet but steady now as he answered. “My favourite colour is green,” he said, almost shyly.

Shouta raised an eyebrow, trying not to let a small smirk slip through. “Green, huh? Don’t you think that’s a little… on the nose?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to the boy’s outfit, the mask, the entire look that had become his signature. The boy huffed, crossing his arms in mock offence. “Fine, then! Be mean about it if you want!”

Shouta just shook his head, letting out a quiet sigh. “Why do I even try?” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a hint of amusement.

Revenant watched him carefully before he took in a deep breath and shifted slightly beside him, then, almost casually, pushed down the edge of his voice modulator mask, letting it hang around his neck.

His eyes widened for the briefest moment, and he quickly forced himself to look neutral, though the sharp spike of surprise still made his chest skip a beat. It may have been dark, but the lights from below faintly outlined his face, and he realised he had almost forgotten what the boy looks like without his mask. The voice that came next, soft and slightly emotional but unmistakably young, carried a warmth and lightness he hadn’t heard in a while. “You’re just jealous my outfit’s cooler than yours.”

Shouta blinked, then allowed himself a small chuckle. “Jealous, huh? Keep telling yourself that,” he said, shaking his head, though he felt a faint warmth at hearing the familiar teasing tone again.

The vigilante’s lips twitched into a wide smile that suddenly made Shouta much more thankful for the removal of the mask. He knew that if Hizashi took one look at that bright smile, he would instantly call dibs even if Shouta had done that ages ago.

For now, he was simply content to sit in the quiet with his the kid by his side, both of them watching as the city carried on without them.

And if Shouta had already grown a little more attached than he had hoped, well… that was something he’d keep to himself.

Chapter Text

Izuku trudged through the narrow streets leading back to his apartment as he cursed under his breath, the words bitter and sharp. Why did I have to cry in front of him? Why did I have so be so weak?

The memory of it stabbed at him with every step. That soft, careful look from Eraser, the way he had spoken so deliberately, so calmly, so kind. The way he had apologised without judgement, the quiet patience in his voice. It shouldn’t have affected him. He wasn’t supposed to need that. And yet…

Tears he hadn’t fully noticed began to sting at the corners of his eyes again, and he cursed himself harder, shoving his hands into his pockets. He saw me. He saw me break down. He saw me. And I couldn’t even stop it. God, I’m pathetic.

The thought gnawed at him relentlessly. He’d spent so long building these walls, the bravado, jokes, chaos, masks, modulations, all so no one could see the things that hurt. The loneliness. The fear. The exhaustion of always being on guard and now, Eraser had seen past it, just… seen.

He hugged his arms around himself instinctively, trying to force the heat and trembling from his body, but it was no use. That quiet, unwavering kindness had ripped through the armour he had spent months if not years constructing, and the sight of it, the sound of it, echoed like a hammer inside his chest.

I’m not used to this…

He stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk and cursed again, louder this time, anger and self-loathing threading through his words. People don’t… they don’t just care. They don’t just… show it. I can’t… I’m not supposed to…

The raw truth clawed at him. He had spent so long believing that kindness was a trap, that attention was dangerous, that being seen would only leave him exposed and vulnerable. And now, under the weight of Eraser’s quiet humanity, he realised how desperately he had wanted it all along.

He paused on a dimly lit corner, letting the silence of the night press around him. A sob threatened but he swallowed it down, shaking his head violently. He couldn’t, wouldn’t break down here. 

The streetlamp flickered above him, casting long shadows across the pavement, and Izuku’s chest felt impossibly heavy. Every step toward his apartment felt like a mile, every heartbeat a reminder of how unprepared he was for this, unprepared for kindness, unprepared for being seen, unprepared for what he had started to feel for the one person who had, in that brief rooftop moment, truly looked at him and seen past the mask he fought so hard to keep in place.

He finally reached his apartment, fumbling open the door as he stepped inside, but he didn’t feel relief. He felt the weight of everything he had tried to bury, pressing down harder than ever. He closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a quiet, broken sound that was somewhere between a sob and a curse.

He had let someone in. And now that someone had shown him something he hadn’t thought he’d ever deserve.

Kindness.

And it hurt. It hurts, it hurts ithurts-

Izuku slumped against the counter of his tiny kitchen, letting out a long, shaky breath. He forced himself to move, to do something, anything, so the feelings threatening to crush him wouldn’t completely take over. His hands went to the small toolbox he kept tucked under the counter, the one filled with salvaged objects he had collected from Takoba Beach over the past months.

He pulled out the small, battered toaster that seemed determined to kill Izuku at least once, and found himself thankful he had something else to do than stew in his own thoughts. “Okay… just focus on this. Nothing else matters.”

For a while, it actually worked. He stripped screws, twisted wires, and tried to map out how he could get the toaster to function again. He hummed softly, a nervous, shaky melody that didn’t reach the mask he’d hung up on the hook by the door. When a wire snapped he cursed loudly, banging the device down on the counter, but even that frustration was strangely cathartic.

Minutes stretched into hours. After no success he moved on to the lamp before eventually moving on to a small, dented radio. Each failure, each spark or jolt, was a distraction from the memories of the rooftop, from the feeling of Eraser looking at him with that calm, quiet care.

Over time screwdrivers clattered against the counter, wires sparked, and tiny components rolled across the floor, but Izuku didn’t stop. He twisted, pried, and adjusted until finally, finally , a small jolt of electricity ran through the battered radio. A faint click sounded, and the lights on the tiny appliance blinked to life.

He threw his hands up in triumph, letting out a victorious cheer. “Yes! Finally, it worked!” he shouted, his grin splitting his face. The months of scavenging, fixing, and trial-and-error had paid off.

Without hesitating, he reached for it and turned the dial to a channel and cranked up the volume, letting music fill the cramped apartment. The beats and melodies carried warmth and energy, and he felt a rare lightness in his chest as he moved toward the kitchen to grab a snack.

And then… he froze.

A voice crackled through the speaker. It was clear and familiar, and his eyes widened, his heart thudded painfully in his chest. It was… Hizashi. His voice, booming and bright, filled the room with that same energy he always had in person.

Izuku’s hands trembled slightly as he froze in place, snack halfway to his mouth. His mind spun, unable to process how he had ended up on the channel, how that voice, so full of warmth, so familiar, was echoing through his apartment. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just stared at the radio, caught somewhere between awe, shock, and the faintest flicker of comfort.

Hizashi’s laughter came next, and for a moment, the weight of the night felt just a little lighter. Izuku swallowed hard, clutching the counter for support. He had no idea what to do, but he did know one thing: hearing that voice again made the apartment feel less empty than it ever had before.

And for once, he let himself simply listen.

At first, it had caught his breath in surprise, but now… now he could hear something else. Hizashi’s voice was filled with loud and untouchable energy as always, but there was a subtle tremor, a quiet fatigue beneath the usual warmth and humour. Each word carried a tiny weight that made Izuku’s chest tighten. He sounds… tired. Strained.

A lump formed in Izuku’s throat. He knew, with a pang of guilt that felt like fire, that some of this was his fault. The chaos, the danger, the way he’d run instead of facing his own fears had pulled at the people who cared, and now even hearing Hizashi’s voice like this, worn but still kind, made him feel responsible.

Yet, the warmth of it wrapped around him. The voice was tired, yes, but it was still there, still reaching out in that unmistakable way, still offering guidance, humour, care, even if he wasn’t here in person.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he moved back into the living room, careful not to jostle the radio, and lowered himself onto the floor in front of it, legs tucked beneath him.

Izuku stayed slumped on the floor, his knees pulled tight against his chest, eyes fixed on the tiny radio as Hizashi’s voice continued to fill the room. Each word wrapped around Izuku, a strange mixture of warmth and heartache, and it pressed against the walls he had built since he’d last seen the man.

At first, he tried to control it, tried to hold the tears back with gritted teeth and trembling hands, but it was useless. Every syllable, every note of tired kindness, made the tightness in his chest thrum painfully. His breath hitched, and a single tear slipped from the corner of his eye. Then another.

“Stupid… I shouldn’t…” he whispered to himself, voice breaking, almost a hiss against the hum of the radio. He buried his face in his arms, hiding the trembling as sobs began to escape. They started small, quiet gasps at first, but quickly became louder, uncontrolled, wracking his body. The floor beneath him seemed to absorb the sound, giving him a place to let it out without anyone seeing, without anyone judging.

Suddenly, Hizashi’s voice deepened just slightly, and Izuku raised his head to stare at the radio. “Remember, this show’s hotline is always open if you need someone to call or talk to. Because no matter what all you listeners think, you’re all important, and you deserve as much love as you can get, no matter how broken you think you are.”

Izuku’s sobs choked out a little laugh, a bitter, tear-streaked sound. Even over a broken radio, his words still meant more to Izuku than the man would ever know. His hands pressed against his face, trying to hide the tears, the vulnerability, but the radio didn’t judge. 

Tears poured freely now, running down his cheeks and soaking into the sleeves of his hoodie. His chest heaved with sobs that had no rhythm, no restraint. The small apartment felt impossibly quiet except for the radio, and yet it also felt like the safest place he had been in months.

Hizashi’s voice continued to speak, unaware of the boy in the living room unravelling, yet somehow perfectly timed. Izuku pressed his face harder into his arms, letting himself shudder and break. He felt guilty for feeling relief, for feeling comforted while knowing it was his own actions, his own choices, that had made Hizashi’s voice sound tired. But he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to.

“I… I’m sorry… I don’t… I don’t deserve…” His words dissolved into more sobs. He had no mask, no bravado, no jokes, just the raw, aching reality of being a boy who had spent too long alone, who had finally allowed himself to be seen, and who now couldn’t contain the torrent of emotions that had been building for months.

Even as he spoke, exhaustion began to press against his limbs. The adrenaline of the night, the constant vigilance, and the release of all the bottled-up emotions weighed heavily. His shoulders sagged, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to simply be.

The tears continued but they softened, becoming gentle streaks rather than sharp, wracking sobs. His chin rested against his knees, and he let himself feel the warmth that coursed slowly through his chest. His heartbeat began to slow, though the ache remained.

Hours of solitude, of running, of hiding, and of trying to survive, all of it seemed to condense into this single fragile moment. The sobs gradually gave way to quiet whimpers. 

His body shivered slightly less with each breath. His hands loosened their grip on his face, letting them rest against the floor instead. The tears continued to fall, but they were no longer frantic. He slowly leaned back, letting his body relax against the wall. The radio’s warmth seemed to radiate into him, a soft pulse of life and reassurance. 

His eyelids grew heavier with every passing moment, the gentle, rhythmic cadence of the voice lulling him toward rest. His breathing evened out, becoming slow and steady. The tears continued to streak silently down his cheeks as exhaustion claimed him, pressing him into a half-curl on the floor.

And then, almost imperceptibly, he drifted into sleep. The tears had not stopped entirely, but they had softened into quiet, warm streams that marked the first night he had let himself fully feel everything he had been holding inside.

A faint shiver ran through him as he woke up a few hours later, both from embarrassment and from the lingering ache of vulnerability. He pressed a hand to his cheek, remembering the streaks of tears, the way his sobs had finally quieted, and the comforting, warm tone of Hizashi’s voice carrying him through the early morning. A small, almost guilty smile tugged at his lips.

He rubbed his eyes, listening to the morning music channel that played softly. It felt… safe.

Shaking off the lingering grogginess, Izuku began his morning routine. He showered, dressed, and gathered his backpack for the day before stepping out into the fresh morning air. The streets were quiet, and the sky was painted with the soft, golden hues of early sunlight. He breathed deeply, letting the crisp air fill his lungs as he made his way to Takoba Beach.

By the time he arrived the familiar smell of salt and sand greeted him, and the waves lapped gently against the shore. He knelt down, hands moving automatically as he began picking up debris, sorting the trash, and collecting items he could salvage. Hours passed as he worked, just as they always did, the rhythmic motion of cleaning grounding him.

By mid-morning he had found a few small trinkets that he could take home and tinker with. He smiled faintly to himself, imagining the repairs he would attempt, the minor sparks of frustration and triumph that always came with his makeshift projects.

The sun climbed higher as he continued his work, lost in the simple rhythm of cleaning and collecting. The beach was looking better than it had in months, and the sight of progress, tangible and satisfying, gave him a quiet boost.

Eventually, satisfied with his morning’s work, he gathered his finds and headed back to his apartment. The small collection of trinkets sat in his bag as he crossed the familiar streets, and his mind already wandered to the tinkering he would attempt. There would be sparks, there would be fumbling, there would likely be frustration, but there would also be the satisfaction of seeing something broken come back to life under his hands when he couldn't even fix himself.

He pushed open the door to his apartment, the radio still softly playing music, and began fixing whatever he could.

The night air was crisp as Izuku adjusted his mask and leapt across the first gap between rooftops. The familiar rhythm of moving silently over the city’s skyline settled into his muscles, and he was glad for the normalcy.

Eraser landed beside him with his usual quiet precision, scarf bound around his shoulders as he glanced at Izuku, expression unreadable, and Izuku only smirked under his mask, determined to keep his emotional mask on right this time. “Took you long enough,” he teased, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Eraser didn’t respond immediately, but the faint twitch of his lips suggested he was suppressing a dry retort. Together, they moved across the rooftops in a practised, silent rhythm, shadows blending with the darkened cityscape. Eraser landed on a rooftop a building over, and Izuku just narrowly avoided falling to his death for the second time in front of the hero as he landed haphazardly on the roof, Eraser watching with a dry, unimpressed gaze.

”Still as reckless as ever, I see." Izuku smirked. “Reckless? I prefer fearless, thank you very much. You just wish you had my flair for the dramatics.”

Eraser didn’t reply, his gaze sweeping the streets below before finally speaking again. “For my question tonight, I want to know what you think about me patrolling with you indefinitely.”

Izuku froze as his mind short circuited. “I'm sorry-what? You mean like… shadowing me so I don’t get into too much trouble?”

“That may be part of it,” Eraser admitted, voice calm but firm. “You insist on being out here and risking your life, then fine. But I figure if I can teach you ways to handle yourself better, not only can you improve but if things ever go wrong I can step in and help.”

Izuku raised an eyebrow, smirk widening. “Teach me huh? So basically you want to be my personal life coach, my fun police, and my babysitter?” Eraser’s eyes flicked to him, dry and even. “I’m serious, this is about survival. If you keep doing this, I’d rather you not end up in the hospital, or worse, and I want you to learn something useful, not just fall off a rooftop because you moved wrong.”

Izuku crossed his arms and took a step closer. “Oh sure, yeah, I get it. You’re the responsible adult, I’m the reckless kid, blah blah. But how do I know you’re not just doing this to… to make yourself feel important, huh?”

Eraser’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m not concerned with my ego, I’m concerned with keeping you alive. You think you’re invincible, but you’re not. One slip and it’s over. I don’t care if you like me, don’t like me, or think this is fun, I’m here because you’re not trained enough to handle everything out there, and it would only be logical for me to help.”

Izuku let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, I see, so it’s not about saving me, it’s about making me perfect for your standards. Great, just what I always wanted.”

Eraser’s left eye twitched faintly, almost imperceptibly. “I’m not trying to make you perfect. I’m trying to make sure you can survive. You’re not a student, you don’t have anyone else to watch your back. So yes, I’m going to step in when things get dangerous, and yes, I’m going to teach you how to handle yourself better, even if you don’t like it”

Izuku’s grin faltered slightly, replaced with a scowl. “And why should I just roll over and accept that? I’m not asking for lessons, I don’t need anyone holding my hand. You following me around is a violation of every shred of my freedom, got it?”

Eraser exhaled quietly, tone calm but firm. “I get it. You value your independence, that’s fine. But I’d rather you learn something now than regret it later when you end up in the hospital or the morgue for something preventable. If you insist on being out there, I’m going to make sure you’re prepared, got it?”

Izuku shook his head, pacing a small circle. “Fine, fine, I get your point, old man. But I’m making this clear, if I agree to this, it’s on my terms only. You get an hour of patrol with me, then an hour of teaching me, but after that you leave me alone. Once I walk the ladies home, you don’t follow me anymore. I don’t want you lurking in shadows like some dramatic guardian angel.”

Eraser’s eyes softened slightly, voice even. “Understood, I’ll give you space. But I’ll still be around if you actually need backup, and I’ll always step in to help if you need it.”

Izuku let out a long breath, finally relaxing his shoulders. “Fine, deal. Two hours, then you vanish. But don’t expect me to suddenly write thank-you notes or start baking cookies for you.”

Eraser’s lips twitched faintly. “I wouldn’t expect that, and honestly don’t want it. You would find a way to make it as inedible as possible even by accident.” Izuku smirked beneath his mask, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Whatever, old man, lets move."

And with that, they continued across the rooftops in tandem for the first our of their agreement, shadows moving together as Izuku padded silently along, Eraser’s dark silhouette a few paces behind him, and he couldn’t help but replay their conversation over in his head. One hour of actual, proper instruction from a pro hero. From Eraser. A real, living, breathing pro hero who could actually make sure he didn’t end up a crumpled heap in an alley.

It was… logical. Absolutely, completely logical. Declining that offer would have been outright idiocy. No amount of pride or theatrics could justify saying no. Especially when the alternative was continuing as he had been, constantly figuring things out on his own and hoping that luck would carry him through.

“Okay, Izuku,” he muttered under his breath, careful not to disturb the quiet night. “You get to pick up techniques from an actual pro, maybe even learn some new tricks, and he can’t arrest you. Well… at least not unless you really screw up.” The last thought made him chuckle quietly, shaking his head. Despite Eraser’s constant deadpan warnings, he had a feeling that after agreeing to the two hours, the hero wasn’t planning to haul him off to jail anytime soon. Probably. He hoped.

He glanced over his shoulder at Eraser, who was gliding silently, and noticed for once the man looked… calm. Sure, he was scanning the city like usual, but there was no hint of the kind of suspicion or impatience he sometimes carried around him. That had to count for something, right?

If I play this smart, I can learn a lot, avoid unnecessary injuries, and maybe, just maybe, get the hero to respect my methods without turning me in.

He smiled beneath his mask. He could do this. He would do this. It was… slightly thrilling, knowing that someone with real experience was willing to teach him, to guide him. It wasn’t a leash but was a tool and a chance to grow and get better. His mind wandered to all the possibilities or new techniques, better movements, ways to anticipate trouble before it happened… the idea of having a pro right there, critiquing and teaching him in real time, made him feel… energised.

After several minutes of jumping from rooftop to rooftop, Izuku realised the first hour of patrol, the hour they’d agreed would be purely instructional, was already finished. He glanced back at Eraser, who was now watching him carefully, and felt a mix of anticipation and nerves. “So,” Izuku said, landing on a wide, flat rooftop, “this is the part where I learn some cool, deadly moves, right? Like a real-life ninja, but cooler because there’s more green and less spandex?”

Eraser’s eyes flicked toward him. “Let’s focus on your throwing knives. You rely too much on hand-to-hand, which is fine for close quarters, but you’ve got to be able to keep distance. Most of your targets, especially ones with quirks, don’t wait for you to close the gap.” Izuku frowned, tilting his head. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. But I like being up close and personal. It’s where the fun is.”

Eraser didn’t respond immediately. He simply instructed Izuku to withdraw his crimson throwing knives, and he did as told. “The fun isn’t going to matter if you’re lying on the ground with broken ribs. Watch your stance, keep your wrists relaxed, and anticipate your target’s movement. Throwing knives aren’t about brute force, they’re about timing and precision.”

Izuku testing the weight of them in his hand, running his nails over each detail and sharp edge. “Timing and precision, huh? Easy. Just like… pie.”

Eraser’s lips twitched faintly. “Pie doesn’t fight back. Focus on your target, step into your throw, follow through, and don’t over-commit. Control matters more than strength.”

Izuku tossed a knife toward a nearby rooftop pillar, watching it embed into the concrete. “Hm, that's better than last time when they would barely stay at all.” He grinned. “Though maybe my aim is only slightly mediocre, but hey, we’ll call it charmingly imperfect.”

Eraser didn’t respond to the self-congratulatory humour, instead gesturing for him to try again. “Good. Now, do it from a slight angle, move your feet with your throw. Predict the target’s movement. If they’re moving left, you adjust, don’t just throw straight ahead.” Izuku crouched, shifting his stance, and tossed another knife, this time hitting the edge of a drainpipe perfectly. “See? Like butter.”

Eraser’s eyes flicked to him, faint approval in the tilt of his eyebrows. “Better. But you’re still overthinking it when you’re too confident. Relax, trust your instincts, and read the target. That’s what separates a lucky shot from a calculated strike.”

Izuku adjusted again, throwing another knife. “Instincts, got it. Also, don’t get cocky. But you know me, I live dangerously. So…” He chuckled, spinning on the balls of his feet. “…I guess we balance dangerously with calculated precision, yeah?”

Eraser didn’t smile, but there was a slight softness in his gaze. “Something like that. And remember, anticipate the worst-case scenario. If you overestimate your opponent’s awareness, you leave yourself exposed. Your knives aren’t just offensive, they’re defensive too.” Izuku nodded, tossing one more knife and watching it embed near the edge of the rooftop without missing a beat. “Defensive offence. Got it. That’s… actually really smart.” He grinned again. “See? I am learning things from you, 'Raser.”

Eraser shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Don’t let the small success get to your head, you still have a lot to learn. But this hour isn’t just about throwing knives. It’s about understanding your limits and working within them.” Izuku frowned, briefly serious, then tilted his head. “Limits, huh? That’s… honestly boring. But fine, fine, I’ll try to pay attention. Maybe.”

For the next several minutes, Eraser continued demonstrating techniques, showing Izuku how to angle throws from different positions, adjust mid-air, and use his environment like ledge edges, pipes, and even signage to his advantage. He practised each move, occasionally missing, occasionally making a perfect throw, and occasionally cracking jokes mid-practice. “Hey, 'Raser,” Izuku said at one point, spinning and tossing a knife toward a trash can. “You think if I throw one so hard it ricochets, it counts as… acrobatics and combat training at the same time?”

Eraser’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’ll break something and get yourself killed. Stick to calculated movements, Revenant. Acrobatics are optional. Survival is not.” Izuku huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m here to make sure you don’t die,” Eraser said flatly. Yeah, sure, ‘make sure I don’t die.’ Cute. Someone should probably tell him I’ve been trying to hand in my resignation letter to the Reaper since… oh, let’s see… always. Spoiler alert: he keeps stamping ‘return to sender.'

Finally, after what felt like only minutes to Izuku but was closer to the promised second hour, Eraser glanced at the city below. “Time.”

Izuku froze mid-throw, realising they’d been training on the rooftop closest to the spot where he was meant to meet the three ladies in just a few minutes. “Wait, already?”

Eraser simply nodded. “Yes. That was the agreement.”

Izuku tucked the knives back into his pouch, heart pounding with excitement and nerves. “Alright… one hour of lessons and one hour of patrol down, and my hands aren’t bleeding yet. That’s a win!” He grinned beneath his mask, though he couldn’t help but glance down at the streets below. The ladies would be here soon, and Eraser would likely stay nearby, silent, serious, and entirely watchful before his depart.

Chapter Text

“-AND THAT’S ALL FOR TONIGHT, MADHOUSE FANS! KEEP IT LOUD, KEEP IT PROUD, AND KEEP IT-MIC!”

His final shout still echoed faintly in the booth as the red light indicating he was live turned off, and he exhaled hard, the sound shaking in his chest before he caught it just as the  door creaked open and one of his techs poked their head in. “Great show, Mic. You good?”

Hizashi’s grin was instant. Too wide, too perfect. He lifted both hands into finger guns and clicked his tongue. “You KNOW it, baby! Strong as ever, never better, your man Mic is UNSTOPPABLE!” They smiled back, maybe believing him, maybe not. He didn’t wait to find out.

The building felt cavernous as he strode out, laughter echoing behind him that didn’t touch him at all. He kept his shoulders squared, steps heavy and energetic, the perfect image of Present Mic, until the second the car door shut around him.

Silence.

No soundboard, no lights, no staff eyes on him. Just the quiet hum of the engine and his own ragged breathing. Hizashi’s fingers locked around the wheel, trembling until the leather bit into his palms. He leaned forward until his forehead pressed against it, eyes squeezed shut.

The mask slipped, and the ache poured in.

Meiko.

The name rang louder than his own voice ever could. That crooked little smile, the shy way the kid’s voice cracked when he laughed. Hizashi could almost hear it now, bouncing around the empty air, teasing him, thanking him, making some dumb joke to hide the pain he never quite said out loud. And now there was nothing. No call. No message. No sign. Just a silence that was eating him alive.

“Where are you, kid?” His voice cracked, soft, fragile. Nothing like the booming hero who’d just signed off. “You left me… just like he did. How many times am I supposed to survive being left behind?”

His hand shook as he reached into his jacket pocket. The paper was there as always, creased and worn soft at the folds from how many times he’d pulled out the only psychical piece of Meiko he had left. He unfolded it carefully, like it was glass, and stared down at the writing he’d memorised a hundred times. It was just a handful of words, scribbled fast, and yet it made his heart ache painfully.

He let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. “Kiddo, I’d give anything to hear your voice one more damn time. Just once. Just to know you’re okay.” His vision blurred, letters swimming on the page. He blinked hard, but it was useless. A hot tear slipped free, dropping onto the paper, soaking into the ink until it smeared. Hizashi let out a strangled breath, clutching the note to his chest.

Memories surged, unbidden.

Meiko leaning against the counter in the cafe, eyes wide as he listened to Hizashi rant about music; the nervous laugh when Hizashi teased him about being too quiet; the way his face lit up, just for a second, when he was praised. “Kami…” Hizashi’s voice broke completely. “You don’t even know what you meant, do you? You just-walked out, left me with silence, and I don’t even-”

His words cut off as his throat closed. For a moment, he thought he might really fall apart right there, dissolve into sobs and screams until someone came looking. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Heroes didn’t break.

With a rough, angry swipe of his sleeve, he dragged the tears off his face, forcing the wetness away. His grin snapped back into place, too sharp, too painful. He caught his own reflection in the rear view mirror, of a man hollowed out, eyes rimmed red, mouth stretched into a smile that wasn’t real.

“Keep it loud, keep it proud,” he whispered to himself, voice cracking once before he forced it higher, steadier. “C’mon, Hizashi. Show must go on, as it always does.”

He folded the note with shaking hands, tucked it back into his pocket, close to his heart where it always stayed. His chest still hurt, his head pounded, and the silence felt suffocating, but he turned the key anyway.

The car rumbled to life, and the city lights blurred past the windshield as he drove, hazy through the sheen still clinging to Hizashi’s eyes. His hands stayed locked on the wheel, grip too tight, smile plastered on his face like it could keep the grief at bay. But the longer the road stretched ahead, the harder it was to hold back the memories clawing to the surface.

Every song on the radio sounded too bright, too loud, so he flicked it off. The silence swallowed him.

And in that silence, Meiko’s voice came back clearer than ever.

“I-I can make lattes. I mean… I’m not good yet, but...I’ll try!”

It had been the second week Hizashi had him helping at the cafe. The kid had been so stiff, so awkward, standing behind the counter with his hands fumbling at the machine. But then he’d looked up when Hizashi cracked some stupid joke about coffee beans being the true heroes of society. That shy, startled laugh, quiet but real, was the first sound that made Hizashi think he might be able to pull the kid out of his shell.

The road stretched on. Hizashi blinked hard, vision stinging, and tightened his grip on the wheel.

“Meiks, you ever heard of smiling? It’s, like, this amazing thing you do with your face!” he’d teased, poking the kid’s cheek.

Meiko had rolled his eyes, Kami, that tiny roll was burned into Hizashi’s mind, but then, just for a second, the boy’s mouth twitched. A real smile broke through, small and shaky but there. Hizashi remembered freezing, watching it like it was sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He’d grinned back so big it hurt, and for the first time, Meiko hadn’t looked away.

Hizashi’s throat tightened. His smile in the mirror faltered for just a moment and he dragged in a shaky breath, forcing it back up. The steering wheel blurred in his vision, his jaw clenched, a sound catching in his throat but he bit it back, forcing it down. “I miss you, kiddo,” he whispered hoarsely, the words spilling before he could stop them. His thumb brushed the pocket where the note rested.

A tear slid down, quick, hot, and carving its way across his cheek. He swiped it away almost violently as the headlights of oncoming cars lit up his reflection in the glass, hiding eyes rimmed red.

The city blurred on. The wheel stayed steady beneath his hands, even as his chest felt like it was caving in. Hizashi kept driving, note pressed against his heart, haunted by laughter and smiles that weren’t coming back in the silence of the cold car. 

And in that silence, his mind betrayed him, continuing to drag him back into moments that hurt worse than knives.

“Hot chocolate’s on me today, Meiks!” Hizashi had announced once, slamming the cup down in front of the kid with a flourish.

Meiko had stared at it like it was a trick. “You… didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t have to? Kid, you’ve gotta understand something about me, I live for chocolate! And if you’re workin’ with me, you’re drinkin’ with me, ya dig? End of story!”

He’d expected another awkward deflection, but instead Meiko had cupped the mug in both hands, blinking down at the steam. Then, slowly, just barely, his shoulders had dropped. “Thanks,” he’d whispered, and Hizashi swore the warmth from that one word outmatched any cup of cocoa.

Another memory, another ordinary day. Meiko fumbling with the tray of milkshakes, Hizashi laughing too loud from behind the counter.

“Careful, Meiks, those babies are precious cargo!”

Too late. A glass had tipped, milkshake splattering everywhere, dripping off the counter onto the floor. The boy’s eyes had gone wide, panic sharp in his face. But Hizashi had just grinned, grabbing a rag. “Guess that one was for the floor! Don’t sweat it, everyone’s gotta face their first villain, right? Yours just happens to be dairy!”

And then, Hizashi would never forget it, Meiko had laughed. Really laughed. It was quick, rough, almost startled out of him, but it was real. Hizashi remembered staring like he’d just been handed treasure at how natural it looked to see the boy laughed. That day, he made a silent vow to try and make the kiddo laugh and smile as much as possible.

Now he couldn't.

Then there was the day they closed later than usual. The cafe lights dim, chairs stacked, just the two of them wiping counters. Hizashi had been yammering about music, the way he always did, and he’d glanced over to find Meiko watching him. Not with suspicion, not with fear, just listening. And then, for the first time, the boy nervously smiled at him and wrapped his arms around the man in a hug c ompletely unprompted, and Hizashi’s heart had clenched so hard he’d nearly dropped the rag.

His eyes blurred almost completely at the memory.

Where are you, Meiko? Please...

Come back to me.

Katsuki lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him. His fists clenched and clenched against the sheets, nails digging into his palms. He could feel the heat simmering just under his skin, begging to explode out, to burn something.

But there was nothing left to fight.

Thoughts of Izuku slammed through him again, and his jaw tightened so hard it ached. Stupid nerd, always following him around, always muttering under his breath like a damn broken record. Always scribbling in those notebooks, smiling that dumb smile like he didn’t hear every insult Katsuki hurled at him.

Katsuki hated him. Hated how he never quit. Hated how he got back up no matter how many times Katsuki shoved him down. Hated how he-

The memory flashed unbidden. Deku grinning at him, notebook hugged to his chest, eyes shining like Katsuki was someone worth chasing.

Katsuki’s chest twisted painfully. He rolled onto his side, burying his face into the pillow like he could smother it all out.

He hated him.

…didn’t he?

Because under all that hate was something worse. Something uglier.

Jealousy.

Burning, suffocating jealousy. Because Deku, the kid who was supposed to be nothing, who had no quirk, who Katsuki had told over and over to stay down, never did. He helped people without a second thought, even if it meant endangering himself, and as much as the explosive blonde hated to say it, Midoriya Izuku was more of a hero that Bakugou Katsuki would ever be.

He gritted his teeth, fury clawing at his insides. He wanted to drag Izuku back just to scream at him, Why you? Why not me?

He wanted to explode the memory out of existence. Wanted to burn every trace of it until there was nothing left.

But even as his vision blurred red with rage, the edges softened. The jealousy caved in on itself, twisting into something heavier, something he couldn’t fight . His throat burned and his chest ached as he remembered too many things he didn’t want to. Deku standing at the edge of the playground, holding out a hand Katsuki had smacked away. Deku smiling after Katsuki blasted him back during training, saying “You’re amazing, Kacchan!” like he didn’t even care about the burns on his arms.

The idiot.

“Dumbass,” Katsuki muttered hoarsely, pressing the heel of his hand into his eyes. His chest heaved, the air sharp in his lungs. Because Izuku never hated him back. Not once.

And now? Now he was gone. Vanished. No more muttering, no more notebooks, no stupid smile that made his heart beat faster. Just silence. The kind of silence that roared louder than any explosion.

Katsuki’s mind flickered to all of the times both boys had been hurt, and yet the green haired boy would always ask him if he was okay first. Why the hell would he care? Why the hell would he waste that look, that voice, on someone who had done nothing but drag him down?

His stomach turned and his fists trembled. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to break something, break himself, anything to make the pressure inside his chest stop. But all he could do was sit here, tangled in contradictions.

He hated Deku. He needed Deku. He was jealous of him. He was proud of him. He wanted to crush him. He wanted to protect him. He wanted to scream at him, shove him, hit him until he answered back, he wanted to hug him so tight he’d never let go. It made no sense. None of it made sense. Bakugou Katsuki wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He wasn’t supposed to be confused. He wasn’t supposed to want the stupid nerd back this bad.

But he did. Kami help him, he did. Katsuki slammed an arm over his face, biting down hard on his lip until it bled. His reflection in the window looked back at him, eyes rimmed red, mouth twisted in something too broken to be called a smirk. “Damn it, Izuku,” he whispered, voice cracking even as he tried to bury it. “Damn it, nerd, why’d you make me feel like this?”

His fists clenched again, useless and empty as the silence pressed heavier. And for once, Bakugou Katsuki didn’t know if he wanted to explode, or if he just wanted to cry. Every heartbeat echoed in his ears, loud and accusing as his chest ached, tight and heavy, and for once he didn’t have an explosion, a punch, or a scowl to push it away.

Luckily, his phone buzzing drew him out of his thoughts. He flinched, gripping the edge of his blanket like it could shield him from whatever intrusion into his quiet world. The screen lit up as the name Kirishima Eijirou flashed across his screen.

Katsuki’s first instinct was to throw the phone across the room, b ut… something held him back. He swiped and answered. “Oi, shitty hair. What the hell do you want?” His voice came out rougher than he intended. “Good to hear your voice too, man!” Kirishima’s laugh was bright, warm, effortless. “Just checking in. How’re you doing?”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. His eyes went to the ceiling. “Fine. Stop worrying about me.”

“Yeah, sure,” Kirishima said, teasing like he always did. Katsuki could practically see the dumb grin on his face. “You sound so fine. Bet you’re lying there with that scary murder-face on.” He growled low in his chest. “I’ll kill you.” There was silence for a moment, and then… a laugh, soft and easy.

They ended up talking for a long while, as they always do. Not about anything important, training schedules, movies, stupid snacks, but that didn’t matter. Listening to Kirishima ramble made the silence in his room less crushing. His hands itched to fidget, his jaw itched to grit, but somehow… it felt lighter.

And for the first time in days, Katsuki thought maybe he could breathe, but he was soon proven wrong. The moment he hung up, the guilt returned. Slow, heavy, and crushing.

Because as much as he liked talking to Kirishima, as much as it made the nights easier, the quiet more bearable… w as he only holding onto him because Izuku wasn’t there anymore? Was he… using the red-haired idiot as a replacement? A stand-in for someone he had lost?

The thought made his chest tighten until he could barely draw a breath. Katsuki pressed his face into the pillow, his teeth biting into the fabric. Images of Izuku flashed in his mind, and Katsuki wished, not for the first time since his... childhood friend's disappearance, that he had a different quirk.

Kirishima wasn’t Izuku, he never could be. But every time Katsuki felt lighter talking to him, a little less broken, that thought lingered in the back of his mind, sharp and accusing. Am I just replacing him? Am I… cheating him?

A shiver ran down his spine. He twisted under the covers, fists balling, throat tight. The quiet room suddenly felt unbearable again. His chest ached so much it felt like it might break through his ribs. “Damn it,” he whispered hoarsely into the darkness. “I… I’m… I’m such an idiot.”

Tears burned behind his eyes, hot and unwanted, but he refused to let them fall. He didn’t deserve to cry. Not for Izuku, not for himself, and certainly not for Kirishima. He curled up, trembling, heart hammering, and felt the weight of his mistakes press down harder than any explosion ever could.

The silence swallowed him again, and Bakugou Katsuki realised, with a sinking gut, that being angry and broken and jealous all at once wasn’t something he could fight. Not tonight, and not ever when it came to a certain green haired boy.

Naomasa sat in his office, leaning back in his chair with a stiff, weary posture. The laptop screen glowed in the dim room, illuminating the sharp lines of his face and the dark circles under his eyes. The hum of the air conditioning was the only sound, rhythmic and almost oppressive in its monotony. He hadn’t slept properly in weeks, the nights passing in fragments of restless dozing, dreams full of shadows, and the image of one boy’s pale face burning behind his closed eyelids.

Midoriya Izuku.

He’d checked every lead, every tip, every crumb of information he could find. And yet… nothing. No sightings, no calls, no signs of the boy anywhere. Every day, he ran through the same routine of checking missing persons reports, scouring social media, scanning the underworld chatter. And every morning, the same ritual of checking the list of suicides daily and meticulously, perhaps even obsessively. And every morning, every single day, the boy’s name never appeared, not on the list or anywhere else.

Naomasa pressed his temple with a tired hand, jaw tight. This case was different. Not because it involved a quirk crime, or a violent underworld, or any of the typical dangers he handled, no, but because this case involved a child, a quirkless child that society deemed worthless, vulnerable, and defenceless. Someone who shouldn’t have been in danger, someone who should have had adults around him who actually noticed if he vanished.

And yet, even through all dead ends and no leads, Naomasa had regretfully put off meeting the principal of Aldera Middle School himself. He had sent a few officers over in the first week of Midoriya's disappearance, and they had come back with nothing but good words and trust in the school's faculty.

Now, after those very officers had been fired just this week for discrimination and taking bribes from the public, Naomasa was left with no option but to meet the man who ran the school himself.

A sigh escaped him. He was trained to navigate these situations carefully, to weigh every move, but the longer he waited, the heavier the knot of dread in his stomach grew. Part of it, too, was fear of what he might find.

He knew quirkless children were always at risk in schools, and almost always bullied, overlooked, and pressured into impossible situations by teachers and peers who didn’t understand them. He knew the kind of environment Midoriya might be navigating, and the thought that the boy could be missing and suffering in silence was unbearable. 

Every day the boys absence weighed on him. Every night, he dreamt of that small, earnest face staring up at him, pale and anxious, waiting for someone, anyone, to notice. Now, sitting in the quiet office, exhaustion pressing down like a physical weight, Naomasa could no longer ignore it. Every fibre of his being screamed that waiting any longer could be catastrophic.

He exhaled, long and heavy, and muttered to himself,  “Looks like… I have to make a visit to Aldera Middle School.”

Hours later, Naomasa sat rigidly in the stiff chair, fingers pressed together against the edge of his briefcase. The polished office smelled faintly of old wood and too-strong tea, a serene picture that felt almost insulting given the topic at hand. Across from him, the principal laced his fingers, brow furrowed in manufactured concern, speaking with the measured tone of a man who wanted to appear compassionate.

“Detective Tsukauchi,” he began, sighing heavily as if the burden aged him all at once. “This situation with young Midoriya breaks my heart. He was such a… sensitive boy. So eager to please, to prove himself. He may not have had the advantages others did, but he was diligent in his own way. We noticed his struggles, and I assure you, we tried to support him.”

Naomasa’s ears registered compassion, his eyes saw wrinkled skin pulled into pity, but inside his skull, his quirk whispered its harsh verdict, pulsing, sharp, insistent. Lying. The words were not truth, no matter how much faux tenderness wrapped around them.

The principal’s brows knitted together, his tone dipping lower as though in confidence. “I remember the morning he failed to show up to class. I gathered the staff immediately. We spoke at length about what to do, how to contact his family, how best to reach out while also respecting the boy’s… sensitivities. Sometimes children disappear for a short while when the pressures feel too heavy. We thought, perhaps, he simply needed the space.”

Naomasa’s jaw clenched. A slow, deliberate pounding bloomed at his temples, his quirk reacting like a siren pressed against his skull. Every rehearsed word, lie. Every note of sympathy carefully placed like an actor’s script, lie. The detective drew in a quiet breath, masking the iron tension winding itself through every nerve.

The principal leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful, as though revisiting memories with genuine ache. “You must understand, we oversee hundreds of children. We can’t hover, so we trusted his peers to look after him as well. Midoriya was… cautious, but never truly in distress. If only he had come to me personally, I would have done more, I swear it.”

Pulse.

Lying.

The migraine-like throb intensified, forcing Naomasa’s lips into a tight line. The words carried a polished truth to anyone else, to panicked parents, to the board, to the authorities, this man would have seemed devoted, even sorrowful. But Naomasa's quirk shredded every illusion, once more proving his intention to keep his quirk a temporary secret was proving to be the best idea.

The principal, mistaking Naomasa’s silence for sympathy, leaned forward now, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “You know… children like Midoriya, they often feel invisible. Overlooked by their peers, their society. In some ways, it might have been inevitable that he wandered off seeking… recognition.”

Lying. Lying. Lying. The word drilled into the detective’s skull in rhythmic pulses, unrelenting, unmerciful. He closed his eyes briefly, centring the roar into focus. He couldn’t allow the headache to overwhelm him, and truth masked as compassion was still poison, meaning he had to cut straight through.

Naomasa inhaled deeply, then exhaled. When his eyes opened, they were sharp, his focus a blade as he leaned forward, resting his palms on the polished desk. “Enough.” His tone was low, even, devoid of theatrical flourish. That alone made the word knife-sharp in the air. The principal blinked, his carefully wrought empathy faltering for the first time. “I beg your pardon?”

Naomasa met his eyes unflinchingly. “You’re lying to me. Every word you’ve spoken about Midoriya, the sympathy, the care, the claims of worry. Not one truth among them. My quirk does not waver. And it tells me you never once acted with the concern you pretend to carry.”

The principal’s throat bobbed. His carefully cultivated facade cracked at the edges, a hairline fracture of panic flickering in his eyes. “Detective, that’s… that’s a very serious accusation. I assure you, my only concern has ever been the well-being of my students.”

"You will not shake off my attention as you have others with half-hearted condolences or feigned sorrow. You will answer my questions, and you will show me the security footage from the day Midoriya Izuku disappeared, otherwise I will be left with no other option but to take you to court, a case you will certainly not win.”

A tremor rippled through the principal’s hands as he pressed them against the desk, searching for excuses that died in his throat. “Detective… surely you can’t expect-there are procedures, authorities who must be consulted-”

“Consulted? You’re looking at them.” Naomasa’s voice slashed through the weak protest. His eyes narrowed, every ounce of composure honed into surgical precision. “Protocols have their time, Midoriya does not. If you have nothing to hide, then comply. If you stall me again, I will assume you are complicit, and treat you as such.”

The silence that followed carried a suffocating tension. The principal’s mask cracked fully now, sweat beading at his temples as he fumbled frantically with his keys, unlocking the monitor. A flicker of static, then footage appeared at last, grainy but damning.

Naomasa leaned in, every ounce of detective’s instinct and quirk attuned to the unfolding truth. And there was Midoriya Izuku, small and pale, moving through halls with a kind of deliberate invisibility. His shoulders hunched, clutching something to his chest, ducking from notice as though the very walls pressed against him. The staff corridors yawned open around him, empty. No safe adult in sight.

Naomasa’s stomach knotted. Every detail seared itself into memory, staff unaccounted for, entrances suspiciously locked, a lounge conspicuously empty. A failing in supervision so damning it defied the principal’s sermon of “care.”

The detective straightened slowly, each vertebra crackling as if the very truth pressed too heavily. He steadied his hand on the desk, glaring across at the pale-faced principal. “This-” he tilted his chin toward the monitor “-is what your compassion looks like. A boy alone and ignored. Do not dare repeat to me that you cared, because this evidence speaks louder than your lies ever could.”

The principal flinched as though struck. Naomasa’s eyes were glacial now, voice precise with fury held on a taut leash. “Every file, every staff report, every log and call from that day. You will provide them immediately, or you will answer to the courts, the families whose trust you’ve violated, and me.”

The principal, sweat-streaked and shaking, nodded wordlessly. His mask of compassion had shattered entirely, leaving only empty cowardice cowering beneath Naomasa’s relentless truth.

Watching Midoriya’s last known movements unfold in grey scale was worse than any scenario they had braced for. Neglect didn’t just happen, it was cultivated, excused, buried under careful lies.

And Naomasa? He swallowed his nausea, inhaled through the pounding headache his quirk had carved into his skull, and already began cataloguing, analysing, dissecting the fragments into a coherent whole. The boy had been abandoned, not once or twice, but systematically, his cries for help muffled by neglect, abuse and institutional cowardice.

The truth was ugly.

And Naomasa, three steps ahead already, prepared himself for the battle it would take to drag it roaring into the light.

Chapter Text

Izuku slipped into his apartment just past 4AM, the familiar quiet of his small living space wrapping around him. The night outside had faded into a muted grey, distant city lights blinking faintly through his window. As usual, the soft hum of the city outside was the only accompaniment to the tired rhythm of his breathing.

He kicked off his boots at the door, rubbing at the slight ache in his side from the night’s patrol. Even with Eraser beside him now, his body was still sore from jumps, dodges, and the occasional trip courtesy of Eraser's scarf 'keeping him on his toes.' But despite the exhaustion, there was a quiet satisfaction knowing that tonight had gone smoothly as he got used to the hero's presence beside him in the past month since their deal began, slowly changing from annoying to comforting.

The radio was already on when he sat in the living room, humming softly in the corner as Hizashi's voice carried over the airwaves in a pre-recorded show that aired from 4AM to 6AM, one he listened to often after patrol.

Izuku sank onto the edge of his worn sofa, drawing his knees close to his chest. He listened as the familiar banter and energy of the show played, though the tone was quiet, each word carrying a hint of exhaustion that came from someone staying up late.

There was something comforting about it, though it hurt at the same time. Izuku felt the weight of the night pressing down, and yet hearing the familiar voice of someone who genuinely cared, even through the radio, made him feel a little less alone. He leaned back, letting the warmth of the small apartment envelope him as he focused on the pre-recorded show. 

Izuku sank further into his chair as Hizashi’s voice boomed through the small speakers, a familiar storm of exaggerated excitement and energy. Listening now, he could almost imagine it was how it used to be, with Hizashi's wild gestures, the booming laughter, the way every word seemed to bounce around the room. There was a comfort in it, a rhythm he could lose himself in, just like he used to as a kid when he stayed up late listening to the mans radio and now alone in his apartment, the world outside feeling impossibly vast and silent.

“YOOOOO! NIGHT OWLS, MORNING PEOPLE, WHO’S STILL AWAKE?!” Present Mic’s voice cracked and soared all at once. 

Izuku smiled faintly, a little wistfully, as he absentmindedly fiddled with a small metal piece in his hands. And yet, as comforting as it was, there was a hollow part of him that it couldn’t fill. He missed the softer version of the man, he missed Hizashi, not his Present Mic persona. The voice that had been patient, warm, and calm, present even in quiet encouragements, subtle kindnesses. Not the booming, exaggerated version that animated the airwaves, but the soft voice that could make someone feel noticed, safe, and understood without even trying.

Even hearing the pre-recorded version now, Izuku could feel the absence of that softness, the absence of someone who genuinely listened to him in a quiet, unassuming way.

It was… lonely, in a way that was almost painful, but it was also strangely motivating. Hearing Present Mic’s exaggerated energy reminded him that the world outside was still alive, still moving, still full of people who could connect in their own ways. And somewhere in that hum of sound, that barrage of boisterous words, Izuku could still hear the echo of the man he missed.

He tightened the last screws on a gadget he’d found on Takoba Beach earlier that day and leaned back, letting out a quiet breath. The rhythmic energy of the radio filled the apartment as between every song Hizashi would comment on simple things like his day or what he had planned, and a part of him felt giddy that he knew the man personally.

Or, had.

Izuku’s fingers tapped absently against the table as he let out a quiet sigh, listening intently to the show as he leaned back as he smiled faintly. For the first time in a long while, he felt a strange combination of nostalgia and hope. He could close his eyes and hear the exaggerated voice, the softer undertones, the warmth woven beneath every exaggerated flourish. It was comforting, grounding, and, though he missed the intimacy of the softer voice, he realised he could still draw strength from this, still feel a little less invisible, a little more seen.

And so he sat, listening, tinkering, and letting the words wrap around him like a shield, the world outside fading into quiet background hums, leaving just him and the radio, and the connection it carried, until his phone buzzed with a notification, and he smiled.

The smell of freshly cooked food hit him the moment he stepped into the Shinsou's kitchen. The table was laden with steaming dishes, and the warmth of the room wrapped around Izuku like a comforting blanket as Mori beamed at him. “Thanks for coming over, Izuku! I hope you’re hungry, because I've made it my mission to feed you as much as I possibly can.”

“I won't complain,” Izuku replied with a small laugh, though the teasing in her tone made him grin. He found a seat at the table, and soon the room was filled with the quiet clatter of cutlery, small conversation, and the occasional laugh as he and Hitoshi shared stories about the day.

Dinner was simple but hearty, and Mori made sure Izuku’s plate was always full. Soft rice, tender meat, vegetables seasoned in the easy confidence of someone who’d cooked for years, and each time she passed by with serving spoons, she scooped second and third helpings onto his plate with a matter-of-fact care that made it impossible to refuse.

“Eat, eat. You’re still a growing boy,” she teased with a wink when he tried to wave her off. Izuku flushed scarlet but obeyed, chopsticks hovering sheepish before he dug in. And Kami, it was good. “You know,” she said lightly, tone casual, “you should come over for dinner once a week. Only if you’d like, of course, but it would be nice to have another person at the table.”

The words settled into the room with deceptive softness, and to anyone else it might’ve sounded like a throwaway suggestion, something tossed out without weight, an afterthought. But Izuku heard the shape of it and felt it like a pebble thrown into still water, ripples knocking hard into his chest. His breath caught, and his mind did what it always did.

Dinner once a week? At their table? That’s-too much. That’s intruding. Too familiar. What if I just become an obligation? What if they feel stuck with me, like they have to feed the extra mouth? What if- The old panic rose fast, automatic. A thousand variations on the same thought: you don’t belong, you’re not supposed to take up space, don’t be a bother, don’t ask for too much.

Izuku hesitated a second too long.

It was barely longer than an inhale, but in that small slice of silence he saw it, caught it, on Hitoshi’s face. The shift was almost imperceptible, that shadow in his eyes, the twitch of dismissal as if to protect himself before the answer came. As though he’d already decided what they both knew, of course he would make an excuse, of course he’d say no, of course this was too much to hope for.

That sliver of dimming hope, it cut through Izuku sharper than any villain’s strike. His chest locked, heart clenching tight. No. He couldn’t stand to watch that, not when Hitoshi’s expression carried both resignation and something so faintly pleading underneath.

He forced his lips into motion before the thought could eat him alive. The faint, quick twitch of a smile came first, awkward and uncertain. But it stretched wider unbidden, breaking free from the tangle in his chest until it bloomed warmer, unsteady but real. “I’d…” His voice cracked faintly before evening out. He swallowed the sandpaper edge of hesitation. “Yeah. I’d really like that. Thank you, Mori.”

Across the table, Mori’s face lit up instantly with satisfaction, smile bright as dawn. She didn’t clap or insist or smother the moment, just beamed at him with the kind of assurance that left no room for doubt. Like his presence was already a fact, not a question. “Perfect!” she said simply.

He couldn’t help but notice how genuinely kind and attentive she was and he ate with surprising enthusiasm, giving polite thanks between bites. By the time the meal was finished, he felt pleasantly full, a warm satisfaction spreading through him.

“Now for dessert.” Hitoshi announced, looking happier than before and now holding up a tray of small cakes and pastries as Izuku’s eyes lit up, his stomach clearly not yet full. He chose a modest slice at first, but of course Mori insisted he try more, and soon he was indulging in another, laughing at himself for being easily persuaded.

After dessert, Hitoshi suggested they play some games in the living room. They pulled out a board game, and despite Izuku’s determination, Hitoshi was merciless with his small tricks and traps. Every time Izuku made a move, Hitoshi would shout with laughter and point out how he had been “totally tricked again.” Izuku groaned dramatically, but the sound was more playful than frustrated.

“You’re hopeless!” Hitoshi shot with a smirk. Izuku only laughed, swatting his friend’s arm lightly. “Hopeless, huh? I’ll tolerate you, ’Toshi, but don’t think I’m letting you get away with trash-talking me like that. Just you wait, this is all part of my master plan!” His friend only laughed again, and the hours slipped by in a haze of laughter, playful arguing, and teasing, until Izuku glanced at the clock.

He realised it was nearly time for his patrol, but even though he knew he should, part of him didn't want to leave. “I should probably head out soon,” he said reluctantly, and Hitoshi looked slightly upset but just nodded.

By the time he had given his thanks and said his goodbyes, the night had deepened and the city lights gleamed faintly below. He quickly found a public bathroom where he pulled off his backpack and changed into his outfit, and soon the weight of the patrol gear felt familiar and grounding as the warmth of the evening lingered, making him unusually light-hearted.

He ran through the streets toward the meeting point with Eraser, each step carrying a buoyant energy that was hard to hide. By the time he arrived on the rooftop where Eraser was waiting, he felt… genuinely happy, the kind of contentment that rarely found him after a long day of patrol and tinkering. Eraser raised an eyebrow as he noticed the change in his posture. “You’re… happier than usual,” he remarked, voice low and curious.

Izuku tilted his head, a grin spreading across his face. “Had dinner at a friend’s house!” Eraser’s lips twitched into a sarcastic half-smile. “Ah, I see… so that’s the strategy. Bribe the kid with food, and suddenly he’s a bundle of sunshine?” Izuku threw his head back and cackled, the sound ringing freely in the night air. “It works every time, old man!”

Eraser shook his head slightly, though the corners of his mouth betrayed a small, almost imperceptible smile. He watched as Izuku adjusted his gear, more animated than usual, and felt that familiar mix of exasperation and fondness he always did when dealing with the boy.

Soon the two were off, leaping across buildings as the wind tugged at their gear, the city streets stretched out in a grid of shadows and streetlights, and every corner, every alleyway, felt like home. After nearly half an hour of stopping criminals and helping civilians, they came to a stop as the hero turned to him.

“For the rest of today’s patrol,” Eraser said, voice clipped as always, “since we've been working on long range attacks all week, I want you to focus specifically on large-range takedowns. No hand-to-hand combat if you can manage it, so keep your distance but remain effective.”

Izuku grinned. “Oh, that’s perfect. Easy peasy,” he said, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. “You want long-range? I live for long-range!” He did a quick mental sweep of his gear, thankful everything was within reach.

They continued down the street, scanning for anything unusual as pedestrians passed, and soon a shout filled the air, followed by more. He froze and scanned the street up ahead before his eyes came to rest on an unnaturally large silhouette, moving down the middle of the street as they shouted insults at people and destroyed anything in their path, from streetlamps to cars to even the ground below them.

He assessed the scene and winced as he realised that even though people were giving the man a wide berth, there were still civilians everywhere meaning daggers were out since he still wasn't confident in his throwing skills, even if he was getting better by the night. All it took was one slip and someone’s getting skewered, and he would rather not face Eraser or Tsukauchi's wrath. Nope, not today.

Eraser’s eyes scanned the situation besides him with the usual calm precision, and just as he was about to suggest making a strong plan, his gaze snapped to a small child frozen near a lamppost as the villain’s hand shot toward them. Well… no time for subtlety.

He jumped across another rooftop, making sure he was close enough before he yanked something from one of his overlapping belts, pinched the pin, and launched it in a perfect arc. “Get glitter-bombed!” he shouted, grinning wildly as the explosion of sparkles coated the villain completely, sticking to his hair, clothes, and face and making him resemble a very unhappy pink disco ball.

The man flailed, blinded and sputtering, swiping at the glitter as a woman ran over and picked up the child before making their escape, leaving Izuku sighing in relief before he turned his attention fully on the villain, already dreading the lecture he was about to get from Eraser after this.

“Hope you like sparkles!” He called to the stumbling villain, jumping down into the street as Eraser followed with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Your timing was… adequate. But the commentary was completely unprofessional,” he said flatly.

Izuku looked over his shoulder at the older hero, winking. “Take one long look at me and tell me what screams professional? That's right, nothing! Besides, Professional is boring. Glitter bombs are way more fun, and you of all people should know by now that you'd have to sell your soul to the devil to get rid of the glitter afterwards.” He watched as the villain slipped on the now sparkly road, arms flailing, and he leaned in closer, lowering his voice in a mock whisper for extra sting. “Seriously, you can’t put a price on fabulous tactical warfare!”

Eraser blinked once, slowly. “…You need therapy.” Izuku just cackled, watching as the villain tried to grab a nearby trash can for balance only to knock it over, sending a loud clang echoing. "Don't we all?" 

He pulled another glitter bomb, aimed at the villain’s feet, and threw it with a flourish. “Catch this! Free disco floor, courtesy of yours truly!”

The villain slipped again, shrieking as glitter coated everything in sight and he began to shrink. Izuku ducked, grinning like a kid at a carnival as a bike sailed directly over his head. “Wow, you are so easy to humiliate. Honestly, are you even trying?”

Finally, the now normal human sized villain stumbled into Eraser’s path and was swiftly immobilised. Izuku flicked glitter from his gloves like a victorious showman as he approached, watching Eraser's perfectly grey white scarf quickly turn pink and shimmery. “And that, my friends, is how you get glitter-bombed and roasted at the same time.”

Eraser’s gaze stayed on the villain, but Izuku caught the faint twitch of his eye. Yes, he thought, even he knows it worked.

He turned to survey the street, wincing at all of the damage the man had managed to cause, but forcing himself not to laugh at the pink street and some sparkling bystanders who had stood too close. Making sure Eraser's grip on the man was tight and he wasn't about to let him go to 'keep Izuku on his toes' he pulled out a few zip ties and tied up the man before resting him against the side of a building.

Once they heard the sirens, Izuku darted off and climbed up a nearby fire escape to watch with his knees tucked under him on the edge, fingers still attempting to brush off the specks of glitter clinging stubbornly to his gloves. Below, the villain was now being marched off by the cops, sputtering and swearing, his whole body sparkling like a poorly planned arts-and-crafts project.

Civilians peered around corners, whispering and shaking their heads, utterly unsure whether they were impressed or just relieved to be alive.

Eraser soon appeared beside him once they left, landing silently with the grace of someone who didn’t even make a sound. The wind ruffled his hair and suit, and his expression, stoic, unreadable, and infinitely intimidating, made Izuku suppress a snicker. He couldn’t help it. He always looked like a brooding statue in a superhero movie, except way more terrifying.

“Alright,” Eraser said flatly, voice sharp as a scalpel. “The villain is secured. Now tell me, what’s something you could have improved on during that less than subtle takedown?”

Izuku gasped and clutched his chest as if wounded. “What? Improve? Me? Impossible!” he wheezed, exaggerating the horror for maximum effect. “I am the very image of subtlety, Sensei! Subtlety incarnate!” Eraser didn’t blink, not even slightly. “You have the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the face,” he said evenly.

Izuku froze, blinking, then burst out laughing, clutching his stomach. “Wow… harsh. Okay, that one stings a little,” he admitted, still grinning. He spun in a tiny circle on the rooftop, kicking up a few stray glitter flakes like a confetti cannon, and muttered to himself, “I mean, yes, technically I could have done things perhaps a little differently and with less sparkle… but harsh words, Sensei. Harsh words.”

Eraser’s arms remained crossed. He didn’t move, didn’t comment further, and that, more than anything, made Izuku grin wider. He loved that the man rarely lost composure, it made teasing him feel like a small, personal victory when the corner of his lip quirked up into a small and almost unnoticeable smile.

He straightened up, attempting once more to brush the last of the glitter from his sleeves, but it clung stubbornly as if mocking his attempts. “Okay, okay. Next time I'll be less sledgehammer and more like a scalpel. Got it!”

“You say that,” Eraser muttered, turning his gaze back toward the skyline. “But half your plans involve bombs going off in some shape or form.”

Izuku smirked. “Bombs? No, no. These are strategic, tactical dispersals of colour-based distraction devices. Completely different." Eraser gave him a long, level look from beneath the curtain of his scarf. “…It’s glitter, Revenant.”

"You know, one day, history is going to recognise me as the genius pioneer of shining combat strategies. I’ll have textbooks, really cool ones. Maybe even holographic covers!”

Eraser watched him silently, before asking, “…Would the textbook come prepackaged with confetti?”

Izuku froze as his head turned slowly, slowly, to stare at Eraser with wide, stunned eyes. “Did you just-was that a joke? Sensei?! Did you just make a joke?”

Eraser’s face didn’t move at all. If anything, the calm blink said absolutely not. But Izuku could feel the tiniest shift, that single micro-inflection like the brush of hidden warmth that meant his mentor was enjoying this on the deepest, most concealed level. Izuku broke into the loudest, most unrestrained laugh of the night.

He doubled over, clutching his stomach, tears pricking his eyes. “HOLY CRAAAAAAP HE DOES HAVE JOKES. OH MY GOD. I NEED TO WRITE THIS DOWN BEFORE I DIE OF SHOCK.”

“I often make jokes, I don't see what the big deal is,” Eraser said, deadpan as always.

Izuku stopped laughing and shot him a quick glare. “Yeah, but all your jokes are mostly about me. Those aren’t funny.” Eraser’s lips twitched, curling into a subtle, sadistic smirk. “I think they are.”

He only added more heat behind his glare before he moved until his legs were dangling over the edge, tilting his head back as he breathed deeply before tilting it the hero's way. “...Y’know,” he murmured, mischief curling in his tone, “if I threw this just right… I bet I could make it look like the moon is sparkling for real.”

Eraser side-eyed him, unimpressed. “…Don’t.” Izuku grinned wider, cheeky and bright. “What? Come on, artistry, Sensei. Artistry!” The faintest sigh slipped from his lips, but, just for a fraction of a second, Izuku could’ve sworn that hint of a smirk was still there.

After a few minutes of sitting down they returned to patrolling, which ended with nothing more dangerous than a stray cat darting under a dumpster as Izuku found himself rolling his shoulders, every muscle aching in that familiar, tired-but-satisfied way. The city was quiet as the second hour of their deal was coming to an end, the rooftop bathed in the faint glow of neon signs and the wash of an approaching dawn. 

He turned toward Eraser, already preparing his goodbye. “Well, same time tomorrow, Sensei? Or do you want me to show up fashionably late and covered in glitter? I swear, it’s becoming a signature look.”

“Don’t.” His tone was flat, but his eyes lingered for a fraction too long, scanning him in that careful way he always did as if taking mental inventory of every bruise, every scrape, every twitch of exhaustion. Izuku opened his mouth to tease him again, but Eraser did something unexpected. He took one slow step forward, rummaged briefly inside the folds of his capture weapon, then held something out between two fingers.

It was a folded scrap of paper.

Izuku blinked, tilting his head as he accepted it gingerly. “Whoa, 'Raser… what’s this? A grocery list? A secret mission? A hit list?” His grin widened mischievously. “Or! Or maybe it’s a signed permission slip letting me officially declare ‘Glitter Bombing’ as a legitimate combat technique!”

Eraser gave him the slowest, most unimpressed blink Izuku had ever seen. It was almost a talent, how much exasperation that one look could convey. “…Open it, Problem child,” was all he said. Curious, Izuku unfolded it carefully. His lips parted as soon as he saw the scrawled numbers, jagged and sharp in practical handwriting. For a stupid half-second, his brain blanked, and then it clicked. His number.

Izuku’s eyes snapped up in disbelief. “Wait, is this-? Is this your-”

“It’s my number, yes,” Eraser said, tone still firm, almost brisk, though the weight in his words made Izuku freeze. “Feel free to message or call me if you need anything, okay, Revenant?”

Izuku blinked, warmth flooding his chest so fast he didn’t know what to do with it. His first instinct was humour, it always was when something stirred too close to his heart. His mouth was already opening, some half-baked joke about prank-calling him at 3AM to talk about the philosophy of glitter bombs dancing on his tongue, but then Eraser's eyes narrowed, and his quirk brushed the air in a warning pulse.

“I gave it to you for if you need to talk about serious topics or emergencies,” he said, voice pointed and leaving no room for misinterpretation, “not for you to call me at ass o’clock in the morning with glitter-related updates.” Izuku snapped his mouth shut, deflating instantly. He frowned, giving the most dramatic pout imaginable. “You’re no fun, you know that?”

“Maybe not,” Eraser said, voice carrying the faintest ripple of amusement, “but I might be if I had caffeine strong enough to kill a horse.” And with that, just as Izuku’s jaw hit the rooftop like a metaphorical anvil, the man crouched low and leapt. His scarf snapped like a banner in the wind, his silhouette cutting across the backdrop of neon lights as he disappeared onto the next rooftop, melting effortlessly into the shadows.

Izuku stood there, frozen and processing, before a loud, full-bodied, genuine laugh that shook his ribs and left his eyes shining with amused tears. He clutched the slip of paper tight in his fist, chest aching in the best possible way. Finally, when the laughter faded into quiet chuckles, he shook his head, still smiling so wide it hurt.

“What a weirdo,” Izuku muttered fondly, a grin tugging relentlessly at his face. “An absolute, unshakeable weirdo.” But his heart was warm in his chest, like a little ember had been sparked and set alight by something so simple, so rare, and so personal.

For a long while he just stood there, staring after the rooftops where Eraser had vanished, the paper clutched carefully in his hand as if it were something fragile. The city hummed around him, neon and shadow stretching endlessly, and he felt… steady.

With a breath that came out lighter than the ones before, Izuku finally turned and broke into a jog, bounding between rooftops as the memory of Eraser’s grin refused to let go.

By the time he reached the meeting spot where the women were waiting his smile still hadn’t faded, and when they caught sight of him, their eyes immediately narrowed in suspicion. “Bean boy,” Akari drawled, pointing accusingly as he landed with an unusually graceful flip. “Why do you look like you just got away with committing the perfect crime?”

Izuku froze, mask around his neck again, hand darting instinctively to clutch the folded paper in his pocket like it was some kind of precious secret. “W-what? Me? No reason! Totally normal day!”

Nez smirked knowingly, arms folded. “He’s glowing! Like, literally glowing. Someone explain how a patrol with Eraserhead could make someone look this happy?” Sora tilted her head, blinking slowly as her voice came soft and direct. “You’re smiling like a dummy, Bean boy.”

Izuku groaned, heat rushing to his face as he spun away, waving his hands frantically. “I’m not! You’re imagining things! Forget it!”

“Suspicious!” Nez sing-songed, patting his shoulder. “Super suspicious. Spill it, Bean boyyyy~.”

Izuku groaned louder, burying his face in his gloved hands as his grin refused, absolutely refused, to die down.

Because tonight, not even the whole city could wipe it off his face.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight filtered into Izuku’s small apartment, spilling golden stripes across the clutter of wires, half-finished gadgets, and constructs scattered like breadcrumbs on his table. He was seated on the floor in front of it, cross-legged in Hitoshi's sweats, his mask and vigilante gear discarded haphazardly somewhere else as he tinkered.

His tongue poked slightly from the corner of his mouth as he squinted at the wires inside the beat-up toaster that had, on more than one occasion, threatened to kill him with a flicker of sparks. “This is it,” he muttered under his breath, tightening the last screw, a stubborn piece of copper twisted into place. “Your reign of terror ends today, toaster. You tried to electrocute me like, what, six times this morning? Not anymore!”

With a deep, ceremonious breath he plugged it in, fingers hovering near the power switch like he was disarming a bomb. Nothing sparked, the familiar hum of life filling the air instead. Then, experimentally, Izuku dropped two slices of bread inside. The whir, the glow, the faint tick-tick of heating coils engaged. He waited, bracing himself.

Ping!

Golden-brown toast launched into the air, perfectly crisped.

“YEEEESSSSSS!” Izuku cheered, pumping his fists like he’d just landed his ultimate finishing move in a video game. He scrambled up, toast clutched in one hand, fist pumping the air with the other. “Victory is MINE! Who’s the toaster’s boss now, huh?! Me! Izuku!” His laughter filled the apartment, a bright, unfiltered sound, heart pounding with the proud triumph of a tiny, silly victory that had taken him weeks to achieve.

The radio crackled in the background as he danced around, barely noticeable as Present Mic's pre-recorded songs hummed away as always, the comforting tether to his mornings before he listened to the live show, which should have started with the blonde's enthusiastic and loud energy booming through the speakers, but when it was time for the show to begin, the gentle static shifted and a different, unfamiliar voice bleeding through the speakers.

“This is an announcement from Put Your Hands Up! Radio…” The voice was careful and restrained, almost too calm, and Izuku’s shoulders stiffened as he turned his full attention to the machine. “We regret to inform our listeners that Present Mic will not be hosting his usual morning segment due to an accident. While we cannot disclose specifics at this time, we ask for your understanding.”

Silence hung in the air after the broadcast, and the toast slipped slowly from Izuku’s hand, forgotten. His stomach dropped into an icy pit, hollowing him out in an instant. “…No.” The word fell from his lips in a whisper. He shook his head once, twice. “No, no, no-” And then, without even thinking, his body moved.

He bolted for the door as the table rocked, sending tools clattering to the ground in his wake. His bare feet slapped against the concrete hallway, heart pounding so loud he could barely hear his own gasping breaths. He didn’t notice he’d left without shoes, and hen didn’t care. His hair was already sprayed black, his face still lightly dabbed with makeup covering scars, but the rest of him was shaking apart, unravelling faster with each step.

By the time he burst out onto the sunlit street barefoot he was already sprinting, lungs burning. He didn’t register the pedestrians staring at him, the startled voices calling out. His mind screamed with only one thought of find Hizashi. Find out where he is. Find out if he's okay.

The city blurred into fractured images as he ran, traffic lights, the gleam of glass storefronts, the distant wail of a siren, until the familiar painted windows of the cafe appeared into view, and he shoved his way inside, chest heaving, the bell above the door jangling violently. Every eye turned toward him, some with startled confusion and surprise, others with irritation. He didn’t care. He made it straight for the counter.

Behind it, a barista looked up from her register, a girl about his age with her hair tied in a neat braid. Recognition flashed across her face instantly, eyes widening. “Hey… wait, aren’t you Mei-”

“Is Hizashi okay?” Izuku demanded, cutting her off with frantic urgency as his voice shook. His hands trembled as they leaned hard against the counter, fisting the edge of it white-knuckled. “Where is he? Please, tell me where he is!”

She froze, startled by the desperation pouring off him like a flood. For one lingering moment, she only stared. Then, her throat bobbed as she said quietly, “I don’t know. He… he didn’t come into work this morning.” The words hit Izuku like stones dropping into the pit where his stomach should’ve been. His chest seized, breath clawing at his throat as his hands curled tighter against the counter.

“I-” But the thought died on his tongue. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t process.

He spun, feet already carrying him toward the door before he’d even decided to move. He didn’t want to collapse in front of her, didn’t want to break here. He barely heard her voice call after him, “W-wait! Hey, wait!”

But he couldn’t stop.

The door slammed behind him as Izuku stumbled back onto the street, breath staggering, vision blurring. The world felt like it had tilted sideways, sound muffled and sharp all at once, people’s voices and cars and footsteps mixing into a suffocating roar.

His fists shook at his sides, bare toes scraping against the unforgiving pavement as he forced his legs forward again, searching, eyes darting desperately down the street like Hizashi might just… appear, larger than life, waving his arms and yelling “YOOOO!” like always.

But he didn’t, a nd the pit in Izuku’s chest only grew heavier as p anic began to take root and he  couldn’t stop running.

His feet struck the pavement hard, each step a slap that echoed up into his bones. The pain lanced through his arches but he didn’t care, not about the stone that had cut into the sole of his foot, not about the grit biting into his skin. All he could hear was the wild pounding of his own heartbeat hammering against his ribs, beating so violently that he half-expected his chest to split open from the force of it.

His breath came ragged, shallow and unsteady, the kind that caught halfway and refused to fill him, like dragging air through broken lungs. His hands shook violently at his sides, fingers curling convulsively with every step until his nails bit crescent crescents into his palms. The city around him was a blur of colour and sound, but none of it registered. Lights smeared together like bleeding paint across canvas. Faces whipped past him, voices calling out. A horn blared somewhere close, but he didn’t even flinch. He didn’t hear them.

Everything was narrowed to panic. To the crushing, suffocating weight in his chest that screamed overwhelming and endless.

Everything's wrong. Hizashi’s hurt. And I can’t fix it. I can’t-what if I’m too late-what ifwhatif-

The thought loop spun endlessly, a spiral tightening around his airways until they closed completely, before he felt an impact. He slammed shoulder-first against someone, stumbling hard as strong hands shot out instinctively, steadying him before he could collapse to the pavement. “Woah! Wha-hey, are you okay bro?”

His blurred vision locked briefly on a shock of spiky scarlet hair, amber eyes widening in alarm, b ut Izuku’s mind was already too far gone. The panic was a tidal wave devouring the shore, and the teens voice didn’t reach. His touch was static in a storm that obliterated every lifeline. “Dude-”

Izuku shoved past him and bolted, running with his chest caving and legs nearly giving way under him. He didn’t see the frantic hand reaching after him, didn’t hear the hoarse voice calling out to him.

Gone.

Izuku’s lungs burned like someone had poured boiling water down his throat. Each gasp dragged like broken glass across his airway, his vision tunnelling so tightly the world became pinpricks of shifting light ahead of him. His ears rang as the sound of his pulse roared louder than the city itself, his mind turning into a haze as he opened the door to his apartment he didn't remember arriving at. One second he was stumbling down the street, the next the peeling wood was slamming behind him with a sound that rattled the frame.

The silence inside was deafening. He crumpled forward, stumbling a few halting steps before his knees hit the floor. His palms smacked against the boards, trembling violently, and he folded down onto his arms, gasping, coughing, choking .

“No, no, no-” His own voice split into a ragged cry, only to choke out on a breath that wouldn’t come. His fingers clawed at the front of his shirt, tearing at the fabric as though he could open himself wide enough to let air flood in, but nothing worked. His chest constricted tighter, a steel vice crushing his ribs.

Air, no air, breathe, you have to breathe-

But he couldn’t.

The room tilted violently, side to side like a carnival ride gone rogue. Black shapes wormed their way into the edges of his vision, blossoming larger with every passing second as his heart raced so wildly it hurt, every beat a painful thud. His whole body trembled uncontrollably, tears spilling unchecked across his cheeks.

“Please,” The sob ripped out of his throat, cracked and broken. He couldn’t even hear himself over the hurricane of his own body’s betrayal, his thoughts twisted in on themselves, catching on desperate shreds. Not Hizashi. Please don’t let something happen to him. Don’t take him too.

The claws of panic dug deeper, pulling him downward, and finally, Izuku's hand reached for the first sharp object he found, and lifted it to his skin as his body spasmed once, then collapsed completely against the floorboards. His chest heaved once, twice, then stopped as s ilence crashed over him.

The radio hissed faintly from across the room, still tuned to static where Present Mic’s voice should’ve been. The toast he had made earlier sat cold on the counter.

For a moment, his body mimicked death perfectly.

And then the pain surged back like a lightning strike throu gh his veins. His lungs roared alive, convulsing as his body arched violently off the ground. A massive, ragged gasp tore itself from his throat. His chest jerked with new breath flooding in too fast, like he’d been plunged from the bottom of the ocean to the surface in a single instant. He coughed hard, choking, body curling in on itself as life snapped brutally back into place.

His throat ached with every shuddering inhale. His fingers clawed at the boards beneath him, muscles spasming from the shock of being wrenched back into animation. His eyes squeezed shut as tears poured hot, dripping to the floor before h e pressed his forehead to the ground, shaking.

It was always like this, his immortality dragging him back, no ceremony, no gentleness. Just pain, sudden and raw. Alive again. Always alive. But the hollowness in his chest didn’t leave with air. “Why…” His voice cracked, almost a child’s whimper rather than a hero’s question. “Why does it still hurt?”

His whole frame convulsed with a sob that reverberated through the tiny room as he realised that though he could silence the pain in his body, the anguish in his mind and heart would remain untouchable. Immortality didn’t stop him from being terrified, it didn’t stop him from breaking. And immortality, above all else, couldn’t heal the yawning grief of losing people he loved.

Curled against the floor, fingers trembling against his damp cheeks, he gasped out one more, hopeless plea to the empty room. “…please… don’t leave me too.” Silence swelled around him, and no answer came. Izuku pulled his arms over his head and wept until exhaustion dragged him into blackness.

When Izuku woke again, the air in his apartment felt heavy and thick.

It was mid-afternoon, that much was obvious from the golden stripes cutting across the floorboards through the windows, brighter now, almost oppressive. Izuku blinked himself upright, body still aching from where he’d collapsed on the floor. His throat burned and his head throbbed with the dull aftershocks of panic and crying. His jaw was sore from clenching, and for a moment he sat there on the floor, staring at the war zone of his apartment, with the gadgets half-finished on the low table, wires scattered like veins.

The cold forgotten toast on the counter, the toaster sitting proudly, “fixed,” as if mocking him with the hollowness of his earlier victory, and then the memory clawed its way back.

The radio.

The announcement.

Hizashi. Accident.

Izuku’s whole body seized again. He dragged in a sharp inhale that rattled all the way to his gut, and instantly his throat seemed to shrink, chest twitching as if bracing for panic all over again. His pulse spiked brutally, threatening to send him spiralling. “No,” he whispered to the still air. His voice was faint, hoarse, shaking. “Not again. You can’t-you’ll break yourself. You can’t-”

He dragged his hands up into his hair, tugging sharply at the curls to ground himself, repeating the words like a mantra. He promised himself not to fall into another attack. He couldn’t, n ot if he wanted to figure out what happened. He couldn't be weak, couldn't be useless Deku again.

Think. Don’t feel. Focus.

As he attempted to steady his breathing and tame his raging thoughts, one name flourished despite the static. Eraser.

While Eraser might not know who Izuku was, Izuku knew who Eraser is. He was Aizawa, Hizashi's husband. Where Hizashi was sunlight and booming chaos, Eraser was quiet shadow, and somehow, they balanced each other perfectly. If anything had happened, if anyone would know, it would be Aizawa.

…And maybe Izuku could ask. Discreetly and carefully, of course, and he’d have to hide the sheer desperation in his voice, mask his terror behind something casual, but maybe he wouldn’t connect all the threads tying Izuku and Meiko to Hizashi in ways he’d never dared to admit out loud.

That tiny plan lit enough of a fire in Izuku to get him moving. He pulled on his suit, shoved his worn gloves onto trembling fingers, and fixed his onto his face. The apartment door slammed behind him as he bolted out into the afternoon light, and by the time Izuku reached the rooftop where they were supposed to meet, hours early, his nerves sat on a knife’s edge.

Every beat of his heart was too loud, too sharp, and it echoed in his head as he scanned the skyline and waited hour after hour until the sky finally darkened and the night came to life, and soon it was time for him to meet.

But the hero was no where in sight. No dark silhouette making their way across rooftops to meet him, no glare or unimpressed blank gaze, nothing. The wind tugged faintly at his hair, at the loose straps of his outfit as he muttered to himself,  pacing in tight circles. “Okay, maybe he’s just late. He’s definitely just late. This is fine.”

The words fell flat in the air, unconvincing even to his own ears. Five m inutes ticked by as he glanced at his watch. He paced harder.

Ten minutes. His foot tapped against the tile with jittery impatience as he wrung his hands together, muttering half-thoughts under his breath.

Fifteen minutes. His breathing grew sharper, rattling out unevenly as each passing second gnawed at him.

Twenty minutes. He chewed on his thumbnail through his glove, trembling faintly. Why isn’t he here?

Thirty minutes. Something snapped.

“DAMMIT!” he screamed hoarsely at the empty air, his fists clenching painfully tight. He didn’t wait, didn’t think, and his body moved before his brain did as he launched himself into the alley below, the landing cracking against his knees. He whirled toward the grime-slicked brick wall and swung.

The first punch was sharp, a thin sting needling his knuckles. He hissed through clenched teeth, then snarled. The second strike split skin. Blood welled fast, streaking down his fingers. His head buzzed from the flare of pain, b ut all it did was fuel him.

Again. Again. Again.

Bang! His knuckles burst wide, blood spattering the wall into smeared streaks, dark crimson soaking the crags of old mortar.

Bang! His hand trembled violently but he yelled anyway, too lost to care. His tears blinded him, mingling with the sweat streaking down his face, his messy hair sticking to his skin as he threw another punch.

Each impact sent shocks up his arm so strong his humerus rattled in its socket. Flesh tore further under his gloves, wet and tacky. Blood seeped through into his palm as the wall bloomed faint red where he hit, again, again, again.

His chest heaved. His gasps scraped through an inflamed throat, lungs clawing for air they couldn’t hold. His body was fire, hands aflame, chest caged, legs trembling where they braced against the concrete. Bits of brick dust clung to his bloodied knuckles, sticking together with streaks of crimson.

Finally, he collapsed against the wall, pressing his bloody hands to the abrasions he himself had carved. He panted raggedly, forehead slamming into the brick with a dull thunk as t ears stung his swollen eyes, spilling freely. His voice cracked raw, breaking apart like ash,  “Why… won’t anyone… tell me anything?”

He trembled violently, eyes unfocused. With adrenaline crashing, he slid halfway to the ground, leaving smears of blood where his fist and forehead had pressed against the wall. His chest throbbed painfully with every rough breath, a nd then, through the mire of panicked spirals, something flickered.

His pocket buzzed faintly with the press of his phone against his hip, and f or a moment, Izuku blinked down at himself, mind still lagging, before realisation pounded through him like lightning. Y ou have your phone.

Hands trembling, clumsy and blood-slick he fumbled it out, nearly dropping it twice before it lit his face with a cold, sterile glow. The cracked edge of the screen burned into his shaking eyes as his reflection stared back, hair matted, black contacts making his eyes bloodshot, face pale under smudges of tears and foundation. His mouth was trembling so hard he could see it in the reflection.

He swiped clumsily, breathing rough, until names blurred into view. His thumb hovered over one in particular.

Eraser.

The neat numbers he’d copied last night from the folded paper. The promise. Emerg encies only.

Izuku’s throat worked as he stared at the contact, knuckles dripping thick drops of red down onto the gloss of the phone screen. His thumb quivered above the display as his breathing rasped, harsher by the second, chest still seizing with aftershock panic as he stood up straight. “…If this isn’t an emergency,” he gasped, voice shredded raw as his bloodied hand clutched the phone like a lifeline, “then what the hell is?”

His thumb sank, shaking, onto the call button as t he dial tone rang in his ear, a nd every nerve in Izuku’s body sat trembling at the edge of the answer.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Every tone thrummed like a knife across Izuku’s nerves, rattling him down to the marrow. 

Four rings.

The panic crawled higher.

What if he doesn’t answer? What if he can’t? What if this is it-

And then, mercifully, c lick. A voice broke through, flat and rough, lined with exhaustion. “Who is this? You better have a good explanation for calling me at a time like this-”

Izuku’s lungs stuttered mid-gasp as his grip on the phone nearly slipped, wet with a smear of his own blood, but he forced it higher to his ear. His voice changer buzzed faint static around his reply, muffling the crack in his throat.

“It’s… Revenant,” he said, the name rigid, trying to sound sharp and controlled, but the edges frayed as soon as the words left him. His voice quivered, heart thrashing with need. “Where are you?” Silence answered.

The pause stretched forever. Long enough for Izuku’s stomach to turn acidic, long enough for his throat to burn with the raw scrape of anticipation. Every harsh beat in his chest screamed that he shouldn’t have called, that maybe he’d done something wrong, until finally, Eraser’s rough murmur hissed through the line.

“…Shit. Sorry, Revenant.”

Cold dread surged through Izuku, his breath catching in a violent snap. He pressed his bloody knuckles hard to his mouth, muffling the involuntary cry building there as tears welled fast, too fast. “What… what did you mean 'at a time like this'?” He tried to press the desperation back, force it down, but it cracked anyway, leaking into his tone despite the distortion. His voice shot high, then stumbled. “Did-did something h-happen?”

Eraser didn’t answer immediately, and Izuku could hear background noise through the static of distant shoes scuffing linoleum, the staticky beep of a machine, the hiss of voices hushed like church pew silence. A hospital. It could only be a hospital.

Eraser finally exhaled a deep, exhausted sigh that carried too many years, too much weight, and when he spoke again, his voice was jagged stone. “My… husband got into an accident,” he said. “I’m at the hospital.”

The words detonated inside Izuku. His brain stalled, snagged not only on accident, but on the other, quieter detail Eraser had dropped with it, husband. Eraser had just… given it to him. Trusted him with it, b ut Izuku barely registered it since he was drowning on dry land.

“H-he-” His words tripped, his voice cracked, and whatever shield of control he tried to put up collapsed. “Is he okay? Is he, will he be okay ? Are they-are you-”

The panic poured out uncontrollably, his words tumbling jagged through the distortion of his modulator, desperation splintering every syllable. His breaths were coming too fast again, not enough air to carry the questions. Every thought was Hizashi. Hizashi. Hizashi.

“Kid.”

The hero's voice was sharp and steady, and it froze him. On the other end, Eraser’s sigh dragged again, heavier this time, the sound of someone who hadn’t slept, who had been bracing the world alone for hours. “He’s going to be fine,” Eraser said at last. The tone grounded into him like steel, unflinching and quietly but brutally certain. “Just a nasty villain attack, nothing permanent. It sounds worse than it was, he's just sleeping at the moment.”

His lips trembled around a shaky breath, the tears streaming hot without restraint. His fists loosened, phone trembling between slippery fingers as h e almost dropped it again, chest heaving as he muttered into the line, “O-okay… okay…” The words bled out half-voiced, shaky, not meant for anyone but himself.

On the other end, Eraser’s voice cut back in, measured, calm, and like a steady knife of authority. “I'm sorry, but I can’t make it for a few days. So stay safe, and if you must patrol as usual, take no risks. Do you understand?” Izuku nodded before realising he couldn’t see it. His voice cracked but held, “Y-yeah. Yeah, I understand.”

“Message me when you get home,” He added, softer this time, like the weight underneath was concern, even if the edge never left his tone. Izuku’s chest tightened at the care embedded in those words. He bit down hard on his lip, fresh tears slipping free as he whispered: “Yeah… okay, Eraser. I will.”

He pressed his bloody forehead into the wall, shutting his eyes, and let the words leave him on the shallowest exhale. “Bye.”

There was the faintest pause. Then, quiet but firm, Eraser replied, “Goodnight, Revenant.”

Click.

The line went dead, leaving Izuku staring at his own cracked reflection in the blank screen. His chest rose and fell in uneven waves, but the jagged panic had dulled, just slightly. The alley was still, save for the soft patter of blood dripping from his torn knuckles onto the pavement.

He slumped sideways against the wall, phone still clutched in shaking hands. For the first time since the morning, the suffocating dread in his ribs began to ease, just enough to let him breathe again, ragged though it was.

His body shook apart in quiet sobs, torn between exhaustion and burning relief as his legs trembled beneath him.

He fell to his knees and wept.

Chapter Text

The days crawled.

Every morning, Izuku woke to sunlight piercing his apartment like knives, and every time he blinked blearily at the window, there was that split second where he hoped the radio would hum with Hizashi’s voice again, loud, careless, and full of warmth.

It never did.

And sure, Eraser had told him Hizashi was fine. He’s going to be fine, he'd said. Those words should have been enough; they should’ve been the rope to pull him out of the pit, but they weren’t. The assurance slipped through his hands like water, leaving only the weight behind.

Because Izuku’s brain didn’t know how to stop spiralling. He thought about Hizashi in a hospital bed, monitors beeping, voice hoarse from whatever fight had stolen his air. He thought about Eraser sitting stiff and sleepless beside him, scarf loose, eyes too tired to close even while his whole body begged for rest. He thought about how helpless it must feel, and Izuku’s chest clenched tighter every time because he knew exactly what that helplessness felt like.

Every single day since he’d heard the announcement, Izuku’s stomach rolled like he’d swallowed stones. Food had no taste, his tools clattered against each other gracelessly under his jittering fingers, and late nights turned into raw mornings where his fingers rubbed at tired eyes that never seemed to close.

And patrol? Patrol was worse.

Patrolling was supposed to be his. His escape, his purpose. The one thing that let him matter in a world that had once written him off. But now, each night felt heavier than the last.

The rooftops stretched endlessly long, and the shadows whispered with silence that rattled Izuku apart. Because for weeks now, Eraser had been there. His quiet, grounding presence the sharp contrast to everything Izuku was. The criticisms, the flat voice, the heatless sarcasm, they had carved a space beside Izuku that now gaped empty, a nd being alone again after that wasn’t freedom. It was loss.

His boots crunched against gravel, the city stretching endlessly below. He sucked in sharp breaths of cold air, but instead of clearing him it pressed down harder, hard enough to make his chest ache. He muttered under his breath as he paced a roof’s edge, words spilling out because silence felt unbearable. “This is pathetic,” he bit, palms pressed hard against his temples. “You’re pathetic. Hizashi’s in the hospital, Eraser’s… he’s-he’s worried, he’s there, and you’re standing here, selfishly whining because you miss-”

The word stuck in his throat like glass. Miss him.

His stomach flipped, and he clenched his fists uselessly, furious at himself. “You don’t miss him. You don’t get to miss him. You don’t deserve…” He trailed off with a growl, spinning sharply and lashing out at the vent on the rooftop. His boot hit with a hollow clang that echoed across the empty space, startling a scavenger bird into flight.

It did nothing, left no relief and no hollow victory. Izuku pressed his forehead to the cold metal, shaking, muttering through grit teeth. “He’s not your problem. Hizashi’s not your-he’s not your family, not yours to protect. And Eraser…” His throat closed, chest twisting so tight it was physically painful. He whispered the words small, breaking. “…Eraser isn’t yours to miss.”

The city below blurred. Tears stung, pooled, and dropped silently onto the rooftop’s cracked surface. He hated the heat of them against his cheeks, hated the tremor that wracked his shoulders. All he could think was how much calmer things felt with Eraser’s steady shadow cutting through the dark. How he’d gotten used to that rare, grounding presence after barely over a month. And now, without it, patrolling was just hollow. Lonely and not the same as it was.

He cursed himself for it. Again and again. His hands raked through his curls, tugging until his scalp burned, trying to punish the thought out of existence. The only sound was his own ragged breathing, the city’s hum below too indifferent to notice him breaking. “I hate this,” he muttered, voice thick and wet. “I hate being so…” His fists slammed into the rooftop railing, pain bursting up his knuckles like fire. “…weak.”

He lowered his head, green eyes shimmering behind the curls that fell into his face, his mask hung limp around his throat. He whispered into the dark, broken and small, the kind of sound stolen by wind. “…I just want him back.”

But Eraser wasn’t there. Hizashi wasn’t there. Only Izuku was, alone, a nd the rooftops had never felt so wide, nor the silence so crushing.

When he finally trudged back into the apartment, skin clammy and heart still hammering faintly from patrol, he barely managed to kick his boots off before collapsing onto the couch. He didn’t even have the energy to strip out of his jacket, the heavy fabric weighing him down like wet sand.

The clock glared 1:07 AM at him, but time had long since lost meaning anyway. He lay there on his back, eyes tracking cracks in the ceiling plaster that stretched like rivers through white paint. He tried to shift, tried to force his eyes closed, but whenever he blinked, all he saw was a sterile hospital bed. Machines beeping. A flash of blond hair, a voice gone hoarse. Eraser bent over the sheets, scarf slipping from exhaustion.

He rolled onto his side on the uncomfortable couch, but the images wouldn’t fade as h is apartment sat eerily silent around him.

Tools cluttered the table, glinting faintly under thin moonlight bleeding past the blinds and revealing scattered screws, a bent schematic he’d abandoned earlier, a tiny bundle of copper wires. Usually he would’ve picked something up, let his hands stay busy until sleep finally crept in. But tonight, his body sagged limp and heavy. The energy to move wasn’t there, and so he stared a t nothing.

The walls blurred together after a while, shapes and shadows bleeding into each other until they lost meaning entirely. His mind fogged, dulled, floated. The minutes thickened into molasses, indistinct. It felt like sinking into cotton, quiet, soft, endless, but suffocating instead of comforting. He wasn’t really there anymore. Just… drifting.

It was familiar. Too familiar.

Izuku hated that he recognised it for what it was. The same thing he used to slip into when he was still attending school, trapped in classrooms where no one noticed him or the wrong people did, staring blankly out of windows while his thoughts floated shallow and shapeless. He hadn’t felt it this heavy in months, but it slid back over him like an old, uninvited coat.

It’s getting bad again, he realised distantly as the hours passed in a haze. His body twitched, fingers curling faintly into the couch fabric, but even that small acknowledgement felt detached.

He was debating dying again to be given that free feeling of weightlessness, where emotions couldn't reach him even if it was only temporary, but was brought out of thought by the sound of a small click echoing through the room.

The radio on the cabinet hissed faintly, alive again as it played a tuning jingle for a few seconds. His ears registered the noise dimly, but it didn’t break through entirely, his gaze holding steady at the wall, glazed and blank, until the voice broke through.

“YOOOOOO! NIGHT OWLS AND MORNING PEOPLE, DID YOU MISS ME?!”

The shout cracked through him like a lightning strike. Izuku bolted upright so fast it nearly unbalanced him as his pulse skyrocketed, his heart slamming blood into his ears like a drum. His breath caught and tumbled out in a ragged half-sob before he even processed the words. That voice. That ridiculous, booming, too-big voice that filled every crevice of space.

“H… Hiz-” The name broke halfway from his lips before he bit down hard, choking on it. His shaking hands pressed against the couch cushions, helping him lurch onto unsteady legs as he stumbled across the room, ignoring the rays of sunshine that now peeked through gaps in his windows as his socks nearly skidded him sideways on the floorboards. His hands slammed down on the side of the radio, fumbling hard with the dial until the volume spiked full-blast.

“-and that’s right! Your favourite station master is back, loud and live after one nasty run-in with a villain! Don’t ever let ‘em sneak up on ya, folks, my bad, gotta admit. But I’m back in action, baby!”

Relief splintered him from the inside out. Izuku’s knees buckled and he curled forward, pressing his forehead hard to the top of the radio, both hands braced tight against its frame. His chest heaved once, twice, and his throat burned with a sob that refused to fall, caught half between laughter and tears.

He was okay. Hizashi was alive. Alive and laughing into the airwaves like nothing could crush him, like the world hadn’t hollowed itself out in Izuku’s chest for days. He couldn’t breathe from the weight of it, his body trembling out of control again, but this time from too much relief instead of panic, his brain trying to deal with oxygen flooding in after being starved for so long.

“Ohhh yeah, listeners, it’s been a weird couple of nights, huh? But I promise, no more quiet ‘cause I’m here for you ‘til the sun’s up all the way! And coming up now, you know what time it is, call-in hour! Tell me what’s on your mind, your joys, your heartbreaks, and I’ll give ya all my power and more back, yo!”

Izuku froze as t he words ringed sharp in his ears. C all-in hour.

He pulled back slowly, staring at the glowing dial like it had lit up the whole universe. His reflection stared back, wide, wild eyes shimmering, his lips trembling as he dragged in frantic breaths. It felt dangerous just to think it, but the thought still pierced through anyway. Hizashi...the radio lines are open, right now. I could call.

His heart thudded so hard his ears roared. He pressed a fist against his lips, shaking his head violently. Stupid. Reckless. He’d know, no, he wouldn’t-it wouldn’t even matter, you could put the modulator on, you could-

The thought burrowed deeper, insidious and desperate. For hours upon hours he’d drowned in silence, and now the voice that had once saved him from it was cutting through clear, alive. Izuku’s hands trembled harder against the radio, knuckles rattling against the wood. His breath escaped in shallow bursts as he whispered, hoarse, to the empty room,  “…I could talk to him. Just once. I could…”

The phone sat across the room on the low table, glinting faintly under the shadow of tangled wires and half-finished gadgets. Izuku stood frozen, staring at it like it might answer for him, and h is chest rose and fell like a storm. S lowly, an idea ignited inside him, reckless, fever-bright, impossible to ignore.

He’d call. He had to.

The phone felt impossibly heavy in his hands as he sat hunched at the low table, the glowing screen haloing his pale face. His knees were drawn in close, boots discarded by the door, jacket hanging half-off his shoulders. His fingers hovered over the keypad, trembling as if the numbers themselves were dangerous. “Don’t do it,” he muttered to himself. His voice rasped with exhaustion, already breaking. “It won’t work. He won’t pick you. He wouldn’t pick you.”

But still, he dialled. The ringing tone filled his ear. One... two... busy. The line cut.

Izuku sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, grinding his fist against his knee. He tried again.

Busy. Again. Busy.

Again. Again. Every time the sound snapped dead, another little piece of him twisted tighter. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the edge of the table, knuckles pale around the phone as his body heaved with shallow breaths.

So many voices must’ve been flooding in. Thousands, maybe millions. All of them wanting to speak, to be heard, to feel that warmth for themselves. What chance did he have? Why would he deserve to cut through all that noise?

On the seventh failure, his hands fell away. He let the phone clatter onto the wood, face-down, as though his own body had resigned. His breathing stuttered, rattling out of his chest in short, bitter gasps. “…Okay,” he whispered, too quiet for anyone but his walls to hear. His cracked lips twisted into something like a grimace. “That’s a sign. That’s… fine. It’s fine. Not for me.”

He turned away, scrubbing hard at his face with both hands when t hrough the hiss of static, through the hum of the radio’s speakers, Hizashi's voice spoke up. “ALRIGHT, LISTENERS!” Hizashi’s voice boomed alive, bright as ever. “Since your boy was out for a little while- missed ya like crazy! -how ‘bout one extra call for the night, huh? C’mon, everyone! Pick up those phones and ring me, yo! Let’s go out with a bang!”

Izuku froze as h is heart stopped, but s lowly and mechanically he turned back, staring at the glowing phone screen where it lay on the table. His throat swelled tighter than ever and his hands shook so violently it took him two tries to scoop the phone back up. His reflection in the glass barely looked human with his pale skin, hair in wild messy tufts, eyes wide and glassy-bright from tears unshed.

His thumb hovered, shaking over the dial button. “…If not now…” His whisper cracked and split. “Then never.”

He pressed down. The dial tone rang.

Once. Twice. Three times. His pulse skyrocketed with it, beating faster than the rings could pace. Every sound was thunderous in his head.

And then-

Click.

It went through.

Izuku’s whole body flinched. Shock poured through him, flooding every nerve. He sat rigid, phone pressed hard against his ear, unable to comprehend the reality that he had actually gotten through. His blood roared in his ears.

The silence on the other end stretched. Dead air, faint static.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. His throat locked as shallow, wet breaths caught and scraped against his modulator’s static filter.

Then, “Hello?” Hizashi’s voice came bright but curious, with the soft undercurrent that had always lived beneath his theatrics. “Listener, you there?”

Izuku’s heart convulsed as his breath seized violently in his chest before tumbling broken past his lips. He couldn’t stop the sob trying to rip through his throat, not completely. He swallowed hard, head bowing, tears blurring his vision until the glowing console in front of him warped like water. For a moment, he said nothing. He just breathed, heavy, harsh, and uneven. Each inhale sounded jagged, catching on the edge of panic. Each exhale cracked faintly, staining the silence.

Then finally, barely audible, his voice filtered through broken static and cracking badly against the weight in his chest, he whispered the only word his heart could shape. 

“…'Zashi?”

The syllables cracked halfway, trembling so violently it almost didn’t sound like a word at all. He didn't realise his voice modulator lay untouched on the kitchen counter a few feet away. Didn't feel the tears streaming down his cheeks as his breathing intensified. He did, however, realise the line was quiet for a beat too long. The sound of Izuku’s unsteady, ragged breathing carried through the call, and he clutched the phone harder, pressed it until it hurt into his ear.

His free hand flattened against his thigh, nails biting deep into the bare skin. His entire body trembled with the impossibility of it.

He was here. Hizashi was on the other side. Alive.

And the world narrowed to this moment.

Hizashi felt like he’d been hit by an army of buses.

Not just once, either. No, in his head, those metaphorical buses had each politely thrown themselves into reverse, rolled back over him , and maybe even tried a three-point turn for good measure. Every muscle in his body throbbed, and the splitting ache radiating through his skull made it feel like someone had cranked his own voice up to eleven inside his brain.

The truth? He’d gotten sloppy, and now he was paying for it.

He hadn’t slept properly in… what, four weeks? Five? Hauled down by worry over Meiko and everything swirling around, unable to turn his damn brain off, telling himself coffee could substitute for a human circadian rhythm. Patrol had blurred, fatigue blurred harder, and when the villain struck, fast, sharp, and perfectly timed, he hadn’t moved soon enough.

One lucky hit. That’s all it had taken.

Next thing he knew, hospitals and beeping machines had grown real familiar for a couple of days. And worse, the weight in Shouta’s eyes as he sat vigil beside him like a silent shadow, the fatigue there had hurt worse than the cracked ribs.

Now, technically, he was “cleared.” Back on his feet despite his husband's concerns, headache raging behind his sunglasses, ribs stiff and tugging with every breath, but functioning.  Yamada Hizashi didn’t get beaten down for long, at least not publicly .

And the show had to go on, didn’t it? It always did.

So here he was.

Back on air, alone in the dim booth, soundproof glass a mercy shielding him from curious stares. His sunglasses hid the deep shadows raked under his eyes, the haggard cut of his face. No one said anything, and he was thankful they didn’t ask. Cameras were mercifully absent here; he could sound like fire, even if he looked like ashes as t he callers rolled in.

He boomed through them one by one, the “Present Mic” persona like muscle memory. Enthusiastic, loud, warm. People who told him about breakups, bad bosses, good grades, and little victories. Each one he cheered on like confetti, the words spilling like he hadn’t been half-broken in an alley only days ago. His voice carried joy, and in the crackling space between call-ins, he told himself that maybe, just maybe, he was still giving people what they needed.

But each word vibrated against the hammering headache, the exhaustion smudging everything beneath the surface. Maybe that’s why he was so thrown off-balance when the voice came through. The line clicked, silence stretching. “Hello? Listener, you there?”

Static hummed faintly. Hizashi leaned closer to the mic, narrowing his eyes at the inaudible sounds on the other end, a nd then he heard it. “...'Zashi?”

The breath caught in his throat so violently he felt it echo in his ribs.

That voice.

He knew it. Not as “Present Mic,” not as the persona that fielded a thousand strangers’ stories every night. No, he knew this one . Even fractured under distortion, even trembling with static and panic, he knew it like a sound he’d been straining to hear for months. Meiko.

The last time he’d heard that voice had been a blur of panic, spilled coffee, and faded footsteps he was too late to follow. Afterwards, it had been only silence that had hollowed him out and left him frantic with worry, searching shadows for a ghost who hadn’t appeared again.

And now, out of nowhere, he was back as his voice cracked on his name. His name. Hizashi’s heart slammed against his ribs so violently it knocked the air out of him. His whole body jolted in the chair, knuckles locking white-tight around the armrest.

“K…kid?” His voice cracked, bare Hizashi bleeding straight through. “Is that- is that really you?”

The silence on the other end was thick, trembling. Then, fractured, a sob tucked between syllables,  “Yeah. ’Zashi, it’s me. I… I’m so sorry.”

Hizashi surged forward, his palms flat against the desk, headphones digging into his temples as he pressed closer like that might drag the boy back from whatever abyss he’d been in. His throat constricted as his staff stiffened behind the glass when they heard him drop the persona entirely . “No, no, don’t apologise, don’t you dare-” His voice wavered, desperate, raw. “I just-hell, kid, I’ve missed you. So damn much.”

Meiko’s breath hitched, then stammered, “…Really?” Hizashi laughed, a soft, broken thing that caught on a sob he strangled down quickly. His free hand covered his mouth, sunglasses slipping as his eyes burned. “Yeah, listener. Of course I have. Every damn day.”

There was a pause, a silence like someone’s heart splitting open, then softer than a whisper, words dragged raw through tears. “…I missed talking to you. I-I listen to your show every day, and when you didn’t, when you…” His words stumbled, broke, disintegrated into a hoarse sob.

Hizashi clamped his fist over his mouth, teeth cutting into his palm to stop the noise that wanted to tear out. “Hey, hey, shh-I’m okay. You hear me? I’m okay. Took a hell of a hit, sure, but it’ll take way more than that to knock me down.” He tried for a chuckle, but it wobbled thin and cracked under the weight of everything.

There was quiet sniffling. A little laugh, wet and broken. “Y-yeah… I guess so.” Hizashi’s chest ached like his body had been split open. His eyes glossed, and he pressed his hand flat against the desk, as though trying to ground himself to reality. His staff were wide-eyed statues beyond the glass, and he ignored them all.

“Listen, kiddo…” His voice softened, choking on too much. Every syllable sat on the edge of saying don’t leave me again. But the boy… panicked. “I-I’m sorry,” Meiko stammered, voice climbing high with fear. “I’ll go. I didn’t mean to take up your time, I know you’re busy-”

“Kid, don’t worry about that, you’re-” Hizashi tried to push in, but the frantic words just tumbled sharper. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” His voice shook, rising with every syllable. “I’m glad… I’m just glad you’re okay. Goodbye, Mic.”

“Wait, please!” Hizashi broke, the plea tumbling out unguarded, desperate, his ribs searing from the force of it. His hand slammed uselessly against the desk, as though he could physically reach through the line.

Click.

The silence after collapsed down on him, and f or a long, breathless moment he just sat frozen, the echo of the boy’s sobs still ringing in his headphones. His chest convulsed around the air he couldn’t drag in right, and his eyes were burning.