Chapter Text
Aizawa hated late-night alerts.
They never meant good news. No patrols ending early, no clean arrests, no uneventful debriefs. No—alerts this late always meant someone was bleeding. And tonight was no exception.
The call had come in fast—too fast, like it was chasing something it couldn’t quite catch. Villain activity reported just outside the eastern industrial edge of Musutafu. Four confirmed casualties, no fatalities. Witnesses were inconsistent, panicked, but one detail kept cropping up like a bad punchline:
One guy. Just one.
Aizawa had barely registered the mission file before he was moving, pulling his capture weapon into place as he stepped into the night. By the time the Pro Hero teams arrived, the scene had already turned surreal. Emergency lights strobed in jagged reds and blues, painting shattered windows and streaks of blood across graffiti-scarred brick. Smoke clung to the alley like it had roots, thick tendrils drifting low to the ground, curling through the shards of broken glass like it was alive. It crawled along the cracked pavement with eerie precision, the kind of movement Aizawa didn’t like—too deliberate, too unnatural.
The static hum of dying streetlamps buzzed overhead, casting a sickly yellow haze over the chaos. He could hear sirens in the distance, someone sobbing behind a paramedic’s jacket, and over it all, laughter—low, lazy, and completely unconcerned.
At the center of it all stood a single figure.
Tall, relaxed, a cigarette between two fingers like he was posing for a goddamn magazine cover. His other hand hung loose at his side, dark with blood that wasn’t his. He stood perfectly still in the aftermath, smirking like he’d just pulled off the world’s greatest magic trick and was waiting for applause.
The smoke didn’t seem to touch him. If anything, it obeyed him.
Aizawa’s boots crunched on broken glass as he approached, eyes narrowing. No quirk signature logged. No ID pinged the database. The man didn’t even flinch when the lights hit him, like he’d been waiting for this moment his entire life.
One of the locals—face pale, voice trembling—murmured a name like it was a curse they were afraid to speak too loud.
“Kariage.”
Aizawa didn’t recognize it. But Hizashi did.
He was already there, crouched beside the suspect, zip ties tight around the man’s wrists, expression grim. Kariage didn’t resist. Didn’t argue. He just looked up with hooded eyes through lashes sticky with soot and sweat, blood splattered across his jaw in small flecks like freckles.
There was something almost theatrical about him. Like Dabi, Aizawa thought grimly—but without the tragic charisma. This one wasn’t trying to be anyone’s monster. He enjoyed it.
“Erasure Head,” Kariage drawled, voice smooth and mocking, like velvet draped over broken glass. “Now there’s a face I haven’t seen in person. Bit disappointed. Thought you’d be taller.”
Aizawa didn’t reply. He didn’t blink either.
It wasn’t the first time a villain tried to bait him. It wouldn’t be the last.
What put him on edge wasn’t the bravado—it was how calm the bastard was. How cooperative. That was always worse.
The loud ones, the desperate ones—they screamed, begged, fought. You knew what to expect. But the calm ones? The ones who came quietly, who smiled through the cuffs and gave you nothing but charm and riddles? They had the messiest histories.
This one was no exception.
No official record. No known affiliations. No clear evidence of a quirk—though the way the smoke moved around him hinted at something powerful, something restrained. And the longer Aizawa stared at him, the more it felt like the man was letting himself be caught. Like he was waiting for something to happen.
That something came moments later.
They had him in a reinforced holding cell. Not even fully processed yet. An officer asked the standard intake questions, voice clipped and businesslike. Kariage sat casually in the interrogation chair like it was a barstool, ankle crossed over one knee, head tilted back just enough to watch the lights hum above.
He didn’t answer anything. Not his name. Not his age. Not even what the hell happened in that alley.
Until suddenly, he smiled.
“I’ll talk,” he said, slow and deliberate, licking a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth like it was honey. “But only to one person.”
The room froze.
The officer blinked, thrown off. “Who?”
Kariage leaned back farther in his chair, savoring the silence like the question was a vintage wine he wanted to let breathe.
Then, he said the name.
“Katsuki Bakugou.”
Aizawa’s stomach dropped like a trapdoor had opened beneath him.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
And Kariage… just smiled.
Aizawa stood on the other side of the one-way glass, arms crossed tight across his chest, his posture as rigid as the knot forming in his gut.
He wasn’t watching a suspect.
He was watching a problem.
Inside the sterile gray of the interrogation room sat Kariage—legs stretched out beneath the table, spine slouched like he owned the building. He was cuffed, but it didn’t seem to matter. His demeanor hadn’t shifted since they brought him in. No twitchy nerves. No signs of fear. Just calm, almost amused, like this was all some kind of game he already knew he was going to win.
Aizawa had dealt with killers. Sadists. People who wore their trauma like armor and lashed out at the world because it hurt less than feeling it. But this boy—this thing —was something else.
They’d chased him across three prefectures. Three.
Everywhere he went, he left wreckage in his wake—scorched buildings, terrified civilians, victims with long-term nerve damage and no answers. Always just slippery enough to evade capture. Always vanishing into smoke, like he’d never been there at all.
The file described him as a low-level villain. Mid-tier quirk. Nothing exceptional on paper. But paper didn’t account for instinct—and Aizawa’s instincts were screaming.
He wasn’t looking at a small-time street punk.
He was looking at something sharp.
And now, after all the effort it had taken to finally drag him in, Kariage was just… sitting there. Smiling.
Aizawa’s voice was dry, razor-thin. “He still hasn’t said a word?”
“Only that he wants to talk to a student,” replied one of the agents beside him. The man didn’t look up from his tablet, voice deliberately neutral. “Bakugou Katsuki. Requested him by name. Repeatedly.”
Aizawa’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath his scar. “Did he say why?”
The agent gave a helpless shrug, like this was well above his pay grade. “Claims they knew each other. Called him an ‘old friend.’ Refuses to elaborate.”
Old friend.
Sure he did.
Without another word, Aizawa turned and entered the room alone.
The silence hit like static as the door clicked shut behind him. Kariage didn’t react at first—didn’t flinch, didn’t shift. He sat like a cat basking in the sun, utterly unbothered by the weight of the law pressing down on him. The cuffs caught the light, glinting like jewelry.
Only when the silence stretched long enough to feel deliberate did he finally glance up.
And then—he beamed.
“Oh,” he said, eyes lighting up like a child recognizing a teacher they once liked. “You’re the underground one. Eraserhead, right? Heard a lot about you.”
Aizawa didn’t sit. He didn’t soften.
“You’re wasting everyone’s time,” he said coolly, voice devoid of anything warm. “What do you want from Bakugou?”
Kariage tilted his head, slow and thoughtful. There was something reptilian in the movement—measured and cold, like he was studying a threat he didn’t fear.
“He’s a bit of a firecracker, isn’t he?” he mused aloud. “Still got that temper? Still all bark and bite?”
Aizawa didn’t answer, but his fingers twitched against the edge of his scarf.
Kariage’s smile spread, teeth gleaming.
“He’ll come,” he said softly, almost fondly. “He won’t have a choice.”
Aizawa narrowed his eyes. “And why’s that?”
There was a beat of silence. Then Kariage leaned forward slightly, metal scraping against metal as the cuffs clinked against the table.
“Because I know things about him,” he said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Things none of you do. I know the exact spot under his jaw where he tenses when he’s lying. I know how he chews his nails when he’s spiraling. I know the way his voice cracks when he’s overwhelmed but trying to hide it.”
He leaned in farther, eyes glinting.
“I know what he smells like when he’s scared.”
The air in the room chilled by degrees.
Aizawa didn’t blink. Didn’t show it. But something in him twisted.
This wasn’t theatrics. This wasn’t guesswork.
This was someone who knew.
Not in the way teachers or teammates knew. In the way you only learned by being too close, for too long, in ways that turned your memories into landmines.
Kariage’s tone was almost playful. Almost gentle. But the glee underneath it was unmistakable—sharp-edged and sadistic, like a boy pulling wings off a fly.
Aizawa’s voice came out low and steady, sharpened by disgust.
“I’m not letting you anywhere near my student.”
Kariage just grinned, wide and cruel.
“You won’t have to,” he said. “He’ll come to me. You’ll see.”
Later that night, Aizawa paced the hallway outside the HPSC’s upper-level offices, arms tight against his chest as bureaucrats listed conditions through a closed door.
Supervision. Armed escort. Psychological observation. “Essential for the investigation,” they insisted, like any of them cared about his students beyond their utility.
Aizawa didn’t trust them. He didn’t trust this.
But he’d seen Kariage’s face. Heard what he said. The boy in that cell wasn’t bluffing. And if Katsuki really was connected to him…
Aizawa exhaled through his nose, fingers pressing into the bridge of his nose.
He didn’t like this.
He hated this.
But if Katsuki was in danger— real danger, from his past or something buried in it—then Aizawa had no choice but to move forward carefully. Deliberately.
Even if it meant dragging up ghosts the boy wasn’t ready to face.
—
Sunlight poured through the windows of Class 1-A, warm and deceptively peaceful. A few students chatted in low voices, while others scrawled last-minute homework. Everything looked normal.
But Aizawa’s expression was unreadable as he stood at the front of the room, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning the room until they landed on one student in particular.
“Bakugou,” he said, voice curt but even. “You’re needed.”
Katsuki looked up slowly, frown twitching faintly across his face. He didn’t ask why. Didn’t move right away.
But in his eyes, for just a flicker of a second, something passed.
A shadow of recognition.
A splinter of dread.
Like somewhere, deep in his bones, he already knew.
The past he’d buried wasn’t dead.
It was clawing its way back up.
—
There was a weight in his chest he couldn’t shake.
It started the moment he woke up. Not the usual heaviness of exhaustion or a lingering bad dream—but something else. Something wrong. A pressure blooming just beneath his ribs, like something hollowed him out while he slept and forgot to put the pieces back.
He burned his eggs.
Snapped at Kirishima over absolutely nothing.
Couldn’t focus in first period. Couldn’t sit still.
Even the air felt off—too still, like a held breath. Too sharp, like the edges of everything had been filed into blades overnight. His uniform clung tighter than usual. His skin itched like it didn’t fit right. Everything was too much.
By the time he made it to Aizawa’s class, he was barely holding himself together. Jittery. On edge. Chalked it up to shit sleep or maybe something he ate. Maybe just another garbage day in a garbage week.
But then came the knock.
Three raps on the classroom door. Not loud, but final.
Everything in him went still.
Three officers stepped inside.
They didn’t say anything at first. Just swept their eyes over the room like they were casing a crime scene. The tallest one scanned the desks with practiced precision—until his gaze locked onto him.
“Katsuki Bakugou?”
No one answered.
Katsuki didn’t move.
His breath caught halfway up his throat, stuck like it didn’t know where to go. Something cold licked the back of his neck.
Then Aizawa stood.
“He’s here.”
The words cracked across the room like a gunshot.
Katsuki whipped around to face him, eyes wide. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
His voice rang too loud in the silence.
The officers stepped forward, slow and steady. Not aggressive. Not calm. Just certain.
“You’re coming with us,” one said.
“The hell I am.”
“Bakugou,” Aizawa interjected—his voice lower now, tight around the edges. Measured, the way it always was when he was trying to prevent something from getting worse. “It’s not an arrest. But we need your cooperation.”
Katsuki stared at him, eyes narrowing. “Then why the cuffs?”
“Protocol.”
“Bullshit.”
He was on his feet before he registered moving, his chair screeching against the floor behind him. The noise cut through the tension like a blade. Kirishima shot up beside him, eyes wide.
“Whoa—hold on!” Kirishima barked. “You can’t just drag him off like this!”
“What the hell is going on?” Mina demanded. “You can’t just take someone without telling us why!”
“We’re not authorized to discuss—”
“Then I’m not fucking going anywhere!” Katsuki snapped, fists clenched, legs braced like a coiled spring. His breath was fast now, shallow. His gaze darted between the uniforms, calculating escape routes. “I didn’t do anything!”
Chaos erupted around him. Iida stood up, trying to restore order in that grating, flailing way he did when things spun out. Ochaco looked confused. Jirou had her phone out— recording , smart girl. Sero instinctively moved between Katsuki and the nearest officer, muscles tense.
And Aizawa?
Aizawa just stood there.
Didn’t move. Didn’t say a word.
Same cold stare.
Katsuki’s heart pounded harder, sharp and uneven. His throat burned.
“Why aren’t you stopping this?” he demanded, voice cracking in a way he hated. “What the hell is happening?!”
“You’re being asked to speak to someone in custody,” Aizawa said flatly. “We believe it’s relevant to your past. That’s all I can say.”
His blood turned to ice.
No.
No no no no no.
Katsuki’s voice dropped, hoarse with disbelief. “Who.”
Silence.
“Who?!”
Still nothing.
His fingers curled tighter, nails digging into his palms. Panic crawled up his spine, hot and dizzying.
“No. No way. You don’t get to pull this shit and expect me to play along. ”
He turned for the door.
An officer reached for him.
He exploded.
Not with his quirk. Didn’t need it.
He twisted, shoulder checked the man hard in the ribs, sent a chair flying with a violent kick. A second officer lunged, but Katsuki ducked, wild and fast, survival instincts flaring like wildfire.
Arms wrapped around him. Hands grabbed his wrists, his shoulders, his jacket.
Aizawa finally moved.
“Bakugou,” he said sharply, voice low but firm. “ Stop. ”
“ Tell me who it is! ”
“You’ll see when you get there.”
“ I said fucking tell me! ”
But Aizawa didn’t. He just stared at him—exhausted, quiet. Like the fight had already drained out of him.
Like he was sorry.
But not sorry enough.
And something broke in Katsuki’s chest right then.
Just a little.
Just enough.
“You said you’d protect us,” he whispered, voice trembling, eyes stinging like someone had set them on fire. “You fucking liar.”
That did it. Aizawa’s gaze dropped for the first time.
Kirishima’s voice rang out behind them, choked and furious. “You can’t just—he didn’t even do anything!”
It was a disaster. A train crash of trust and fear and half-kept promises.
In the end, a compromise was struck.
Aizawa would accompany him. A few classmates—Kirishima, Jirou, Iida—would be allowed to observe from behind the two-way mirror. “To ensure transparency,” they said, like that made any of this better.
Didn’t matter.
Didn’t make it feel any less like a betrayal.
They still cuffed him.
Didn’t even let him walk out on his own.
Cold metal snapped around his wrists, biting into his skin. He didn’t look at anyone as they dragged him into the hallway, eyes locked straight ahead.
The lights above buzzed softly. The air felt stale.
Every step felt like walking deeper into a nightmare.
His gut twisted tighter with every hallway, every security checkpoint, every door he passed.
He didn’t know who was waiting behind that mirror. He didn’t know why Aizawa let this happen, or what anyone thought he could possibly say to a villain that made this worth it.
But he knew this wasn’t some assignment.
This wasn’t routine.
This wasn’t just another day.
Something was coming.
Something from the dark.
And it was coming for him.
He just didn’t know yet—
—that it had his name in its mouth.
—
The hallway feels longer than it should.
Each step echoes louder than the last, like the walls are intentionally stretching the sound just to mock him. The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, casting a sterile glow over the narrow corridor, but all Katsuki can feel is the throb in his arms from the too-tight grip the officers still haven’t loosened. The cuffs dig in with every shift, every jostle, a constant reminder of how little control he has right now.
He doesn’t speak.
Not anymore. Not after Aizawa looked him straight in the face and refused to answer the one question that mattered. Who?
So now he walks. Silent. Rage simmering under his skin, wrapped around his bones like wire.
Whatever this is, it’s not routine. It’s not a drill. It’s not about intel.
It’s personal.
They reach a steel door. Heavy. Reinforced. The kind they use for high-risk detainees. To the side, a one-way mirror stretches along the wall like an unblinking eye. Katsuki catches a flicker of movement—and then he sees them.
His classmates.
Kirishima, Denki, Mina, Jirou. Standing behind the glass, watching. Their expressions are all wrong. Kirishima looks sick. Denki's fidgeting like his skin doesn't fit right. Mina says something to Jirou, but Jirou just shakes her head, eyes locked on him like she already knows something he doesn’t.
He forces a smirk. His voice comes out low, brittle.
“Tch. Got the whole damn fan club, huh?”
No one laughs.
The lock disengages with a mechanical clunk.
And that’s when he feels it.
The shift.
A weight behind his sternum. The heat behind his eyes. That low, spiraling urge to run. To bolt. To get as far away from this door as he can—because whatever's inside, whatever they've dragged up from the dark…
It isn't done with him.
The officers nudge him forward.
He stumbles once, catches himself.
The lights inside are too bright. The room smells like metal and sanitizer and something colder underneath. The chair across the table is already occupied.
Katsuki doesn’t look up at first.
Then he hears it.
That voice.
Smooth. Confident. Too familiar. Too casual.
“Still flinchy,” it says. “Guess some things don’t change.”
His blood runs cold.
Katsuki freezes in place. His breath stops. The edges of the room warp, the sounds dull. His heart starts to pound somewhere near his ears.
No.
No way.
That fucking voice.
He lifts his eyes.
Kariage leans forward, elbows resting lazily on the metal table, wrists still cuffed. He tilts his head just slightly, like a wolf playing housecat, and flashes a smile that isn’t even pretending to be kind.
“Hi, Baby,” he says.
And Katsuki breaks.