Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Not all men are created equal. 

This was the harsh reality that Izuku Midoriya had been living in since his birth. Born to parents Inko and Hisashi Midoriya, his family struggled to make ends meet as Inko worked shifts at the hospital and Hisashi lazed around on the sofa. Inko had been a good mother, at first. She had cared for him, loved him, came home from late-night doubles with a smile on her face and thrifted toys for her baby. She would change his nappies, feed him, bathe him, play with him, and raise him practically on her own as Hisashi looked at him in contempt.

Hisashi had hated him from the start. They were young when they had him, merely 25 and barely out of college. Neither of them had been ready. But while Inko stepped up, Hisashi stepped back, leaving his family and his wife to fracture under the stress of raising a child alone. It fractured further when Hisashi finally left them when he was just three, leaving not a trace of himself behind, just a note telling Inko not to look for him. That was when things really changed.

Inko started drinking. Heavily. Where once she would come home from shifts and greet Izuku, play with him, and bathe him, she would not slouch on the sofa with a bottle of whiskey clutched tightly in her grip as she lost her senses each and every night. She slowly started neglecting izuku more and more, until he would be crying out in hunger most days as she had once again forgotten to make dinner.

Things just got worse when he turned four. It was supposed to be a magical age, one where he would finally manifest his long-awaited quirk. What would it be? Perhaps fire-breathing? Or telekinesis? Or maybe something completely out of left field, like super strength? He would be happy with whatever, he decided, as long as he could analyse it. Except, four came and went, and he hadn’t manifested a quirk.

It was okay, his teacher had said, some kids manifest them at five, or six, or sometimes even seven! So he waited, hoping and praying for something, anything to show up. Maybe then his mom would finally look at him. Maybe then she would love him.

But when his seventh birthday came, and he still hadn’t developed his quirk, things got worse. People hated him. He was pushed, shoved, taunted, teased, and hurt every day. None of his teachers said anything. To him, he was basically invisible. They turned a blind eye as he was beaten down in every which way.

His mom was worse than before. Rather than just ignoring him, she would hurt him, yell at him, throw empty bottles at him until she was hoarse. In her mind, it all made sense. Hisashi had left, she was in such a bad state, all because of her quirkless, useless son. It was all his fault. If he had just been something, anything, then maybe he would have stayed. If he had never been born, maybe she would be happily living with the love of her life right now, instead of taking care of a useless brat. And she said as much to him, sneering at him in disgust as he cowered under her wrath.

His one rock through all of this was his best friend. Katsuki Bakugou. When they were younger, they both dreamed of being top heroes together. Dreamed of being the best. The Wonder Duo, they had called themselves. Bakugou’s quirk came in right on time. Explosions. Something fit for his fiery personality. He showed them off to everyone who would watch as small fireworks popped in his palms. He loved showing them off to Izuku, especially, who would watch in rapt fascination every time, effusively praising Kacchan and his amazing quirk.

They had been so excited. They waited patiently for Izuku’s quirk to come in, too. To be just as cool as Bakugou’s had. But it never came. And Katsuki could have pushed Izuku away then. Declared him as useless, turned the affectionate Deku into a malicious, twisted thing. He could have joined all of Izuku’s tormentors, just another face in the sea of hurt. Instead, he saw Izuku’s determination and decided right then and there that they would be heroes together, quirk status be damned. And so they started training.

Despite all the positives that Katsuki brought to his life, it seemed like the universe was determined to make him remember his place. He was suffocating at home, under the weight of Inko’s anger after enduring it every day at his school. He was tired.

So one night, while Inko was asleep, he quietly snuck out of his unlocked window and went for a stroll down the street. It was dark, and the streetlights were dim. They lived in the Red Light district, in the bad part of town, a dangerous place for a kid to roam around at night.

Still, he steeled his nerves and moved forward, walking silently along the beaten sidewalk, heading towards the 24-hour conbini 4 blocks away. It was completely quiet, aside from the occasional clatter of trash or hiss of an animal from somewhere in the shadows. It was peaceful, Izuku thought as he strolled down the street.

As he approached the shortcut through the alleyway that he normally took, the sounds of a struggle became clear. It almost sounded like… a lady, yelling for help? But it sounded muffled. Knowing something wasn’t right, he took off closer to the alley, taking a sharp turn into it. Just as he rounded the corner, he caught sight of a guy with a shark head (shaped like a hammerhead - mutation type or shapeshifting quirk gone wrong?), his hand clasped tightly around the mouth of a purple-skinned woman, trying to prise her purse from her grasp. It didn’t seem to be coming out, though, almost as if it was sticking to her skin.

In that split second, the shark-guy caught sight of Izuku, pausing in his struggling to swivel and face him. Izuku swallowed nervously as the attackers eyes narrowed at him, as if sizing him up as his next victim. Shark-guy (because that was what Izuku had decided he would be called) huffed a laugh and dismissed him, turning back to the woman and continuing to attempt to snatch her purse.

Izuku briefly considered just… leaving and going home. Shark-guy was obviously much taller and stronger than him, and he was quirkless anyway. What would he be able to do? He looked at the woman one last time, getting ready to just walk away, when his eyes met hers and he saw the desperate fear in them.

He imagined what it would be like if that was his auntie there, if Mitsuki was the one in his grasp. He hated that thought, and so he steeled himself, getting ready to fight. Heroes helped everyone they could, no matter what. And damn it, he would be a hero.

He swept his eyes over the guy's face once more. He had gone back to ignoring him, now attempting to remove his hands from the girl, where she had stuck them. What could he target? He had a shark head mutation, so the eyes would naturally be a good spot to go, and since he was hammerhead-shaped, it would probably be harder for him to see a head-on frontal attack. What else, what else? Izuku looked closely at his neck area, hoping to Kami that there would be something… there! On either side of his neck, by his collarbones were a set of three gills. Perfect.

Okay, Izuku took a breath and got ready. Launch at the guy, get your fingers in his gills, and don’t let go no matter what. Simple. You can do this. With a strangled yell, Izuku jumped as ard as he could onto the would-be predator, sinking his fingers into the fluttering slits on the sides of his neck as he locked on with his legs.

“Fuck, you brat—!” Hammerhead gurgled in a shout as he let go of the woman, grappling at Izuku’s legs and trying to pry him off. “Let go! I’m going to fucking kill you—”

Izuku held on tight as the man bucked back and forth, scratching his legs and pulling at his arms. He glanced over to make sure the woman had gotten awa— why was she just standing there?

“Lady, run!” Izuku shouted, digging his fingers even harder into the guy’s neck. His irritated yell seemed to snap the woman out of it, and she turned on her heel and ran out of the alleyway, banking a hard left and disappearing around the corner. 

Seeing that the lady was safely out of reach, Izuku subconsciously relaxed, accidentally loosening his grip and allowing the shark mutant to finally prise his hands off and toss him to the ground roughly.

Izuku’s back hit the cracked sidewalk, hard, and he felt all of the air exiting his lungs. The criminal stalked towards him, eyes slanted in rage and fists clenched by his side.

“You fuckin’— loser! That was supposed to be my dinner!”

He bent down, grabbing Izuku by the collar and picking him up, shaking him roughly. “Who gave you the fuckin’ right to interfere, huh? Didn’t yer mama ever teach you not to meddle in shit you have no business in?” His fist wound back, getting ready to punch Izuku right in the nose. He continued to ramble on as he shook him around, but Izuku had long since zoned out.

Of-fucking-course, he thought irritatedly, of course this is what happens when I try to be helpful. At least I got to be a hero once before I die, I guess.

“Hey, runt, are you even fuckin’ listening? I think someone ought to teach you—”

Blessedly, the man’s unhinged rant was interrupted by a loud cracking noise, and Izuku fell to the ground a second later, released from the man’s grasp.

“Ow.” He groaned, looking up to see red, glowing eyes. And floating black hair. And a capture scarf— a capture scarf?!

“Eraserhead?!” Izuku jolted upright, recognizing his favourite hero, as he was tying the criminal up in his scarf.

He froze, looking up through his shaggy bangs at Izuku. “...How do you know my name, kid?”

Oh, fuck.

“Oh, well, hahaha, you know, just, y’know, forums, and like, uh, lucky guess maybe? I just—”

Izuku cut himself off, nervously running a hand through his hair. He knew he looked really fucking suspicious right then, but he couldn’t stop himself from his anxious spiral, looking at the ground and just wishing it was swallow him up whole. You fucking idiot, he thought, could you be any more conspicuous?! Nobody knows who Eraserhead is!

“Well, yes. That’s why I’m asking. How do you know who I am?” Eraserhead interrupted his stream of thoughts again, raising an eyebrow in a perfectly deadpan expression.

“Err, well, that is,” Izuku hedged, wringing his hands.

“Spit it out, kid, I’m not going to be mad.” Eraserhead sighed, clearly already done with this interaction.

“WellImaybereallylikeheroesandIcameacrossavideoofyouonedayandyoufightbasicallyquirklessandsoyou’rebasicallymyfavouriteheroandIwanttobeundergroundlikeyouoneday—”

“What.” Eraserhead just blinked at the kid. “Were there any actual words in there?”

Izuku sighed irritatedly, finally looking up at his hero. “I said, I came across a video of yours one day, saw you fight basically quirkless, and you’ve been my favourite hero ever since. I want to be an underground hero one day, too. I just— I saw how you were fighting the purse-thief-guy and the style plus your eyes, hair, and scarf make it kind of obvious.”

The hero sighed back, and crouched down, looking Izuku in the eyes. “Look, kid, while I appreciate the enthusiasm, no matter what, you can’t be running around trying to fight crime at this age. You don’t have a license. Technically, this is illegal vigilantism. I could bring you into the police right now.”

Izuku eyed the hero warily. “Listen, Eraserhead— I didn’t mean to get involved. I wasn’t like, seeking out crime or whatever. I was just out for a walk. Came across the dude. And he noticed me first, and he got me involved. There was another lady—”

“Relax,” Eraserhead cut him off. “I’m not going to turn you in today, kid. Just don’t make a habit of it. Now—”

He stood, tightening his hold on the capture weapon, still with an unconscious criminal inside it. He offered a hand to Izuku. “—are you good to get back home, kid? I have to keep patrolling but if you need me to I can walk you home. How far do you live from here, anyway?”

Izuku grabbed the proffered hand, hoisting himself up as he shook his head rapidly. “No, no thank you sir. I’m good to get home. Live like 5 minutes away.”

If Eraserhead knew he was bluffing, he didn’t call him out on it. At least, not then. “Alright then kid, I’ll be on my way. Gotta get this idiot to the station. Don’t let me catch you out at night fighting criminals again, yeah?”

Izuku blushed and nodded his head, turning to head back towards his house. “Yeah. And, thanks for the save, Eraserhead.”

The hero just waved him off, already turning to drag the criminal along the ground with him as he walked off in the opposite direction.

God, could that night have gone any worse? I’m never doing this nonsense again.

He did, in fact, end up doing this nonsense again. And again. And again. It was accidental at first, he swears! His usual nighttime walks ended up with him accidentally stopping a mugging, once, and then he came across a woman being groped, and what, was he supposed to just ignore it?

Soon enough, grateful would-be-victims were offering him supplies in exchange for his help. He saved a woman who happened to have a fabric-making quirk from a mugger with a gun, and she made him a bulletproof hoodie on the spot. He ended up saving an older man from some losers trying to swindle him, and he gained a couple of brass knuckles in return.

By the time he was in his first year of middle school, he had a whole setup, costume, weapons, and some training from a man whose wife ran a self-defense dojo. And, well, if he had the means, he may as well, right? After all, did it really count as vigilantism if he didn’t have a quirk?

No, no it did not. He checked. Thrice. By his second year of middle school, he established somewhat of a patrol route, working alongside Eraser most nights. Eraser, who still didn’t realise that the vigilante he was begrudgingly fond of was the kid he had met all those years ago.

He knew and worked alongside most of the nighttime police force of Musutafu, especially Detective Tsukauchi, a close friend and colleague of Eraserhead. Eventually, and he still doesn’t know how to this day, he was dubbed “Viper,” and that became his vigilante name.

By night, he was well-known, well-respected, and untouchable in the eyes of the law, since all of his now-colleagues knew he was quirkless. By day, however, was a different story.

Middle schoolers could be especially cruel, he learned. The bullying evolved from simple shoving and schoolyard taunts to quirk practice, suicide baiting, and targeted insults every day. Most teachers had given up on him at this point, opting to either let the other kids continue while turning a blind eye, or sometimes even joining in. His grades were often changed, to reflect the “actual level of intellect” of someone like him. He was in detention more than not, constantly dinged for getting into fights, despite never raising a fist against another student.

The worst of the tormentors by far, were Tsubasa and Kariage. Tsubasa had large, red wings, about half the size of his entire body, and he never missed an opportunity to use them. He would swoop in from above Izuku, landing hits and throwing things on him, or snatch up his lunch, homework, backpack, or whatever was his and throw it into the koi pond. Meanwhile, Kariage had long, extendable fingers that hardened like long rock shards when he used them. His favourite game to play was, “how many times can we skewer Deku?” The answer seemed to be infinity. Both of them had recently taken to telling him to jump off the roof, pray for a quirk in his next life, hang himself off the rafters, things like that.

While Izuku was no stranger to suicide baiting, this was the first time anyone was so upfront about it. Before this, it would mostly be small, muttered comments, or coming to class to find spider lilies on his desk. But, emboldened by those two, other students started to follow suit, and soon the whole school had forgone subtle pushes and taunts to straight-up tell him to die.

Middle school was shit. But it was made bearable, at least, by Kacchan. He had never once wavered in his defense of Izuku, had always made it clear exactly where he stood. He had even stopped calling him “Deku,” once he learned how the other kids were using it.

Izuku had told him it was fine, that he knew how he meant it, and he didn’t have to change because of them. Kacchan had just shook his head, looking at Izuku with barely hidden anger.

“No way I’m calling you that anymore, Zuku. They don’t get to think, for even a second, that I agree with anything they’re saying. You’re so far from useless it’s laughable. They’re the real Dekus.”

Yeah, Izuku had cried. A lot. But Kacchan hadn’t said anything beyond his customary affectionate, “Tch. Such a crybaby.” Before pulling him into a hug.

Especially lately, Kacchan had been getting more and more affectionate. Slapping his shoulder had turned into gently squeezing it. Headlocks had turned into hair ruffling. Playful punches had turned into gentle hip checks and shoulder bumps. 

Both of them knew that they were moving towards an uncharted area. Neither of them really wanted to stop it. Izuku knew he loved Kacchan, and he was fairly certain Kacchan liked him at least a little in return. And vice versa, Katsuki knew that he loved Zuku, and was hoping the nerd would feel the same.

So, yeah, his life by day wasn’t all that bad, either. And he would’ve been content continuing like this until high school. He knew his tentative peace would never last, though, and that’s why he was barely even shocked when he came home from school one day to find the house empty, a single yellow post it note on the counter.

And by empty, he meant truly empty. No sofa, no TV, no decorations. All the kitchen utensils were gone. Fridge, empty. Pantry, empty. No dining table, no books or magazines. He picked up the little square of paper and sighed, already knowing what would be on that note. He read it anyway.

“I can’t do this anymore. Bills are paid till the end of this week. After that you’re on your own. Figure it out, or don’t. I don’t care anymore. Don’t look for me.

Inko”

As he set the note down, he didn’t feel anything. He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. Sadness? Surprise? Anger?

It didn’t really matter, because he had seen this coming from a mile away. He just crumpled the note, tossed it into the garbage, and trudged up the stairs to his room. As he opened the door, he was surprised to see that his room was kept entirely intact. In fact, it hadn’t even been touched since he had left for school this morning. All of the meagre things he owned were still there. His computer, his few clothes. The remnants of his hero merch from when he was younger. All, still there. Huh. Okay, he could work with that.

Izuku sighed, sat in his chair, opened his computer, and started planning.

That week, he disappeared. He stayed in the old apartment for a week, selling all of his old hero merch on E-Bay. Well, all except two. He couldn’t bear to part with his Eraserhead figure, nor his Present Mic one. He knew he needed the money, but, well… He just couldn’t do it.

But it was fine. He had made around 65,000 yen, which would be just about enough for a month of food, and some extra supplies. He’d obviously have to start looking into other housing, and as for school…

Well, he didn’t have to continue in person now, right? He could just… switch to online school. Inko had never let him, saying she wanted him out of the house as much as possible, but now that she was gone…?

But he would have to go completely off the grid. He couldn’t afford to be placed into a group home, or some shitty orphanage. He was going to continue being Viper, after all, and he couldn’t do that in a situation like that. So, disappearance it was.

He didn’t think he’d have to do much, given his quirklessness, and in the end he was right. He just stopped showing up to school one day. He disabled all the tracking on his phone and computer, took all of his meagre remaining possessions and cash into his bag, and left. He found a small abandoned building nearby, and set up shop in one of the little corners there.

He’d have to be careful, he knew that many other homeless people lived in the building, and he didn’t want his supplies stolen, so he’d have to move after a night or two. He kept an ear out for any whisperings of his name, but all he heard was “Good riddance,” and “Finally.” He was probably in the clear.

After a few days, he found a spot in the forest near the river he and Kacchan used to play in, and hunkered down there, putting a small hole in the ground for his supplies. He didn’t hear much about people looking for him, not that he had expected to, but it still hurt that even Kacchan didn’t seem to care.

Maybe, this had been the right decision, then.

One night, patrolling with Eraser, they stopped on the roof of an apartment building, eating some sandwiches. Originally, when Eraser realised that he was a kid, and probably didn’t have the best home life, he’d tried to convince Izuku to come home with him.

But Izuku point-blank refused. He didn’t need help, and he didn’t want to deal with Eraser’s reaction once he found out just who he was. He couldn’t deal with rejection like that again. So, Eraser just settled for bringing him food on patrol nights, for now. He disguised it as his husband packing extra every night, but Izuku knew. And Eraser knew he knew. But neither brought it up, and so the arrangement continued.

To be entirely honest, he loved his relationship with Eraser. He was such a dad. He knew a lot more about him now, too. His name was Aizawa Shouta. He was married to Present Mic, a.k.a. Yamada Hizashi. He taught heroics at UA (which was so freaking cool!!). Eraser still knew next to nothing about him, but somehow he never let that put him off.

It felt nice to have an adult care about him. To actually want to be near him. To not care about his quirk status. To have an adult like that, one who seemed to genuinely want the best for him, was almost too much for him. He had been around Eraser for years, constantly refusing his offers to take him in, and yet the man was still here. Still stuck by him. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe, he should—

“Oi, you hobo, that was my sandwich, you have your own right there!”

“Yeah. But yours is better.”

“They’re the same damn sandwich.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“What the fuck do you mean, nuh-uh—”

On second thought, maybe not.

Chapter Text

The first day Izuku disappeared, Katsuki didn’t panic.

Not outwardly, anyway.

He told himself it wasn’t that weird for someone to skip a day of school. Kids got sick. Kids ran off. Maybe Zuku had something to deal with, or maybe he’d gone home early, or gotten called out by Auntie. 

But deep down, Katsuki knew. He knew the way the empty space under the tree felt when he looked for him at lunch. Katsuki noticed these things. Always had. Something about his best friend’s presence had been like a tether, and the second it snapped, something inside Katsuki tightened uncomfortably.

By the second day, he was pacing the hallways like a predator in a cage. Every corner, every window, every classroom. Nothing. No sight of Zuku. No note. No one who’d seen him. Teachers shrugged. Classmates didn’t bother answering. His parents had checked and rechecked, their anxious eyes begging for answers he didn’t have.

He spent that first week chasing shadows. Rumors were everywhere. Some kids said Zuku had been grounded for life; some said his mom had kicked him out. None of it made sense. None of it added up. Katsuki refused to believe it. Every night, he’d replay the last time he’d seen him — the way Izuku had laughed at something stupid he’d said, the way his hands had trembled just a little when Katsuki had gone overboard on a sparring drill. He wasn’t someone who ran away. Not like this. Not from him.

But by the eighth day, the whispers started to shift. A note had been found somewhere — the details fuzzy, the story half-formed, but the words the adults used were clear enough to punch him in the chest: “tragic suicide,” “quirkless middle schooler,” “unhappy home life.”

Katsuki’s stomach twisted. His vision narrowed. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to move, to go, to find him. But the streets, the houses, the city — everything was just a blur. Every lead was a dead end. There were no witnesses at all. And the news? The news screamed it louder than any hallway rumor ever could: “Suicide of Quirkless Middle School Student Shocks Musutafu Community.”

Katsuki slammed his fist against the locker. Metal screeched. Pain bloomed through his knuckles. He didn’t even care.

“This isn’t… it can’t be him,” he hissed, teeth gritted. “No way… no way it’s him.”

He kept repeating it to himself, over and over, like chanting it could will him back into existence. But the words on the screen, the jeering and laughing of his classmates around him, the disdainful, indifferent voices of teachers — all of it screamed the opposite.

It didn’t matter that he’d seen Izuku after school the day before, laughing, full of that ridiculous determination he always carried. It didn’t matter that he had felt his hands brush against his arm, the tiny, accidental warmth of them in the crowded hallway. It didn’t matter, because suddenly, the world was telling him that he was gone. And Katsuki… he didn’t know what to do with that.

His parents broke the news to him eventually — or rather, attempted to comfort him, since it seemed the whole town knew about what had happened.

“You okay, Katsuki?” Masaru’s voice was soft, worried, pulling him out of the blur of his own spiraling thoughts. Mitsuki stood beside him, arms crossed, frowning.

“Fine,” Katsuki grunted out, the lie tasting bitter even on his tongue. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to sit with anyone. He wanted to tear through the city until he found him, until he forced the truth out of the universe.

But there was nothing.

Everywhere he went, he kept seeing Zuku’s face — pale, quiet, but too stubborn not to be taken seriously. Every smile, every sarcastic remark, every time he’d elbowed Katsuki with that dumb, determined grin, all of it flashed in his mind like a movie running on a loop.

His anger didn’t burst out all at once. It simmered. Slow. Insidious. A quiet, gnawing fire that settled into his chest, into his stomach, and into the back of his throat. He wanted to scream. Wanted to punch something. Wanted to tell someone — anyone — that they were wrong, that this wasn’t the end. That Izuku Midoriya didn’t just… die.

But no one listened.

By the end of the second week, when the news had solidified, when teachers whispered in corners and even Mitsuki and Masaru’s hopeful eyes started to waver, Katsuki had to face it. He had to accept, for everyone else, that the world had moved on, that Izuku was gone.

He didn’t believe it. Not really.

He walked home that afternoon, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders tense, the wind biting at his neck. He passed the corner store where he and Zuku used to grab sodas after school. He passed the alley behind the park where they’d fought off a stray dog together, where he had carried Zuku home after he’d tripped over a root. Every familiar place was now a reminder that the kid who had brought color into his life, who had laughed at his worst jokes, who had dared to stand beside him when the world was against them — was gone.

But Katsuki refused to crumble. He refused to give himself over to the empty, awful hole that the world was insisting on. He punched the walls, kicked at his bedframe, rattled the windows. Not hard enough to hurt anything permanently, but hard enough to burn. Hard enough to remind himself he was alive, he could still feel, he could still fight.

He’d take that rage, that pain, and bury it. Deep. So deep even the universe couldn’t touch it.

Because if he let himself fall, if he let himself feel the full weight of it, he’d admit something he wasn’t ready to — that he missed him. That he loved him. That part of him was gone and there was no taking it back.

So Katsuki continued to walk home. Alone. Silent. Angry.

That night, he lay awake staring at the ceiling, fingers curled tight around his blanket. The lights of the city flickered through the cracked window like stars he couldn’t reach. He thought about all the nights he and Zuku had spent planning their ridiculous “Wonder Duo” hero fantasies, about all the times he’d laughed despite himself at the little nerd’s earnestness, about all the promises they’d made.

And for the first time, Katsuki let a single thought slip out, spoken softly through the cracks of his clenched jaw. “Maybe they’re wrong. Maybe… he’s still out there.”

The thought scared him more than anything else. Hope was dangerous. Hope hurt. But without it, he’d be nothing but ash.

And Katsuki fucking Bakugou wasn’t ready to burn completely.

Katsuki didn’t go to school the next morning. Not really. He went through the motions, sure — dragging himself out of bed, putting on his uniform, stuffing his bag over his shoulder — but once he stepped outside, everything felt hollow. The hallways were the same as always, the chatter of classmates a dull, muted hum, but the absence of one person made it all unbearable.

At lunch, the school was lively. Too lively. Rumors had spread fast. The phrase “quirkless kid’s suicide” was thrown about like it had been carved into stone. Nobody cared to mention Zuku’s actual name aloud, not really. Not after the way most of these students had treated him while he was still there. Not after even the teachers had not cared when anything happened.

Katsuki sat at the edge of the cafeteria, elbows on the table, staring at the tray in front of him. The food had no taste. Nothing had any taste. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t sad. Not yet. There was only this boiling heat inside him — fury, frustration, and disbelief all wrapped together in a tight, suffocating knot.

This isn’t him, he told himself. This isn’t real.

But the world wasn’t listening.

That night, Katsuki sat on the roof of his apartment building, staring out at the city. The lights stretched on endlessly, like stars pinned to concrete. Somewhere down there, Izuku could still be walking, still be breathing. Could still be laughing. Could still be alive.

Katsuki’s chest ached at the thought. He wasn’t used to feeling powerless. He wasn’t used to being unable to protect someone. And yet here he was, weeks into this nightmare, and the city, the school, the teachers — everyone had decided he was gone.

It made his blood boil.

I’ll find him.

The words were a whisper at first, then a roar inside his head. 

I’ll find him. I’ll make them all pay if I have to. I won’t let anyone tell me he’s gone. Not now. Not ever.

He didn’t sleep that night. He didn’t eat his breakfast the next day, either. He just trained himself in silence, running through the empty streets near his apartment, punching the air, kicking the walls, imagining every scenario where he could find his best friend again.

Aldera moved on quickly, but Katsuki couldn’t. Classes were a blur, teachers’ words bouncing off him without meaning. He barely spoke to anyone except his parents, and even then, it was minimal. His anger and frustration were shields, protecting him from the despair he refused to acknowledge.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Zuku’s face — pale, frightened, stubborn— and it made his blood burn. Every time someone muttered a word about “that quirkless loser,” he wanted to scream, to punch through walls, to tear the world apart.

And slowly, over time, that anger solidified. It became a part of him, a core. The calmer, cooler Katsuki of middle school began to fracture, replaced by someone sharper, faster, angrier. The rage wasn’t just about the world — it was about himself, about his failure to protect his friend, about every time he’d let someone hurt him and done nothing.

But through his anger, even when the news settled, even when his parents had stopped asking questions, even when the city moved on from the quirkless kid that was gone forever, Katsuki held onto a single sliver of hope.

A dangerous, fragile, burning hope that Izuku was still out there somewhere.

And he’d find him. Somehow. No matter what.

Izuku didn’t remember when it became routine, exactly. The walks started small. At first, it was just to get out of the apartment when Inko had left him alone for hours—or, lately, days. He told himself it was just a stroll to clear his head, maybe grab a convenience-store snack, maybe figure out why the world refused to make sense. 

Sometimes these walks would end in a fight. Sometimes he’d pass by a mugger, or a rapist, or a murderer, and well— if he could stop them, he would. So he threw himself into every situation he found, heedless of the danger to himself. He got hurt, sure— but slowly, he started noticing things.

People. Movement. Shadows too quick, figures too desperate. Shouts he could barely catch over the wind.

Then one night, he purposely went looking for trouble. And he found it.

It was just a street corner, two blocks from the river alley they used to play near when he and Kacchan were kids. It was another mugging, not dissimilar from the very first incident he had. A man had grabbed a woman’s purse, and she was struggling, her foot caught on the curb, a heel snapping under pressure. Izuku took in what he could for a split second, and then bolted forward. By the time the man had turned to see him, Izuku was already on him, twisting the criminal’s wrist in a way that should have hurt like hell. The man cursed and shoved, but Izuku had already calculated the best leverage, and somehow, by instinct or sheer desperation, the purse fell to the ground. The woman snatched it, looking at him like he was some kind of apparition, and ran off without a backward glance.

That was… enough. It was enough to make him think, I could do this. I could actually help people.

By the next night, he was following the same route, more careful, looking for trouble. And he found it.

A small group cornering a boy with a crutch, a woman being shoved down the steps of a dingy apartment building, a man with a knife attempting to rob a convenience store clerk. In every case, Izuku froze, assessed, and acted. No quirk. Nothing but his hands, legs, and whatever momentum he could muster. Every time, it worked. Every time, the situation was resolved. And every time, he came away with that strange, suffocating adrenaline that made his chest tighten and his thoughts snap into focus.

By the third week, he’d procured a black mask and a hood. It wasn’t about hiding his identity from his mother or neighbors—he was long gone from that life—but from the world. From everyone else. He needed a persona that separated him from the helpless quirkless kid everyone assumed he was. Something sharp. Silent. Deadly. The hood covered his shaggy green hair; the black cloth over his mouth kept his breathing quiet.

Sometimes, that same hero from the very first night, Eraserhead, crossed paths with him. Just glimpses at first: a shadow on the roof, a figure disappearing into an alley, a fleeting flicker of movement that made the pro-hero pause mid-patrol. Every time, Izuku froze for just a second, letting the hero pass, never revealing himself. He didn’t know why the hero kept showing up. He just… did.

One night, he heard a peculiar mutter from Eraserhead (or, as he had learned from a quick internet search, Aizawa Shouta) as he ran across the rooftops above him, a safe distance away from the hero. “The kid’s like a damn viper,” he had muttered to no one in particular. “Strikes out of nowhere, fast, precise, disappears before anyone knows he’s there.” And just like that, the name stuck. Viper.

It became more than a name. It became a persona, a shell, a method to exist in a world that refused to make room for him.

Eventually, he got more supplies. It came slowly at first. A woman with a quirk that allowed her to manipulate fabric—she’d almost been mugged, but he stopped it just in time. As thanks, she stitched him a reinforced hoodie, light but resistant to knives and bullets alike. She didn’t know who he was. She didn’t need to. It was just a hoodie. But it made him feel… untouchable. Safer.

He saved an older man next. Two guys had tried to swindle him outside a convenience store, fake charity, fake receipt, fake complaints. Viper intervened. Fists met brass and bone in careful but precise strikes; the men scattered. The old man pressed something into his hand as he stumbled away, muttering thanks. Brass knuckles. He didn’t question it. He liked the weight, the potential.

By the end of middle school’s second year, he had everything he needed. Brass knuckles across his fingers, lightweight armor tucked beneath the hoodie, a collapsible baton he learned to swing from a man whose wife ran a self-defense dojo nearby. Training sessions were short, brutal, and solitary. He practiced striking, blocking, ducking, and running with precision. And every night, he added another piece of gear, another trick, another instinct to his repertoire.

Every patrol became methodical. The city had rhythms: the alley behind the laundromat always had movement after midnight; the streets near the river saw a spike in petty thefts on Thursdays; the corner near the convenience store drew con artists like moths to a flame. Izuku learned them all.

Aizawa, despite never seeing his face, began to recognize the patterns. The strikes, the timing, the uncanny ability to disappear. Each time he saw the kid—sometimes perched on a roof, sometimes leaving behind a subdued criminal—Aizawa frowned, frustration and curiosity twisting together in an obvious scowl for Izuku to see.

“Stay home,” Aizawa growled once, standing in a shadowed alley as Izuku moved past a would-be thief. His scarf coiled tightly, eyes scanning the kid from beneath the hood. “You’re too young. You don’t have what it takes—physically, mentally—to survive on your own. Stay home.”

Izuku froze, hands at the ready, chest tight, but didn’t respond. He only glanced at the hero, a flicker of recognition somewhere in the back of his mind. Not enough to betray his identity, not enough to speak. Just… recognition.

“You’re not listening,” Aizawa continued, exasperation bleeding into his tone. “One more screw-up and you’re dead. Or worse.”

Izuku nodded minutely, almost imperceptibly. Then he vanished into the night.

The encounters became a pattern. Viper appears. Streets safer. Eraser sighs at the station, mutters about the kid, then checks the city feed for trouble that never arrives. Repeat.

By his third year, the system was complete. He had patrol routes, safe hiding spots, carefully selected gear, and a training routine that kept him ready for anything. Every alley, every street, every rooftop became a map in his mind. And every night, he moved with precision, silence, and a sense of purpose that no middle-schooler should possess.

All the while, the city remained blissfully unaware that Viper’s quirkless, green-haired vigilante was someone who could never exist in their world the way heroes normally did. He didn’t need recognition, didn’t need fame. He only needed to protect.

It became his ritual, his purpose, his escape. And every night, somewhere behind the mask and the hood, Izuku Midoriya smiled a little, because for once, maybe, he was finally good at something that mattered.

Their first proper encounter wasn’t like the ones before.

Izuku had been patrolling the river alley near the old warehouse district, hoodie pulled tight, mask over his face. The night air was crisp, carrying with it the distant hum of cars, the occasional clatter of trash cans, the faint echo of people walking home late. He had his eyes on a figure trying to snatch a wallet from a man who was just leaving a tiny ramen shop. 

Izuku moved. Fast. Silent. Calculated.

Before the thief could react, he was there, twisting the man’s arm, sending him sprawling onto the cracked asphalt. The wallet skidded across the ground. The man stumbled to his feet, sputtering thanks, eyes wide with disbelief.

And then Izuku froze.

A shadow moved across the rooftops above. A single figure, leaning casually against the edge, eyes glowing red under the streetlights. Scarf coiled loosely, hair drifting in the night wind.

Eraserhead.

“You again,” Izuku whispered under his mask, the words muffled.

“You’re not supposed to be out here,” Eraser’s voice was flat, but sharp. Red eyes scanned the alley. “Do you understand what happens if someone finds you like this? You could get killed, you could—”

“I know,” Izuku said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m careful.”

The pro-hero tilted his head, studying him like he always did, as though trying to see through the hood and mask into something deeper. “Every night,” he muttered. “You show up. At least be honest—why? You don’t have a license, you’re not a hero. You’re… you.”

Izuku froze. The words stung—not because he disagreed, but because they were true. That’s what he was, after all. Quirkless. Nobody. But still… he moved. He acted. He saved.

“I… I just…” He hesitated, fingers tightening on the edge of the hoodie. “…I can’t just… sit there and do nothing.”

Eraser’s gaze softened slightly. Just enough for Izuku to catch it, fleeting but present. Then the hero exhaled through his nose. “I’ll say this once: stay home. You’re too young. You’re not ready. You don’t have the strength or the quirk to survive on your own.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Izuku muttered, voice barely audible. “…I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

The pause that followed was long, tense. The hero sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “You’re… stubborn. I see that. Fine.” He crouched slightly, eyes scanning the alley. “If you’re going to do this, at least be smart about it. Take something useful.”

From beneath the coat of his uniform, Eraser produced a collapsible bo staff, extending it with a metallic click. “Learn to use this. Be precise. Don’t get reckless.”

Izuku stared, wide-eyed, heart hammering. A bo staff. A real, actual weapon. The weight felt right in his hands, familiar yet strange. “Uh… thank you,” he said, voice trembling. “I’ll… I’ll be careful.”

“You will,” Eraser said flatly. “And take these too.” He pulled a small pouch from his belt, tossing several throwing knives into Izuku’s hand. “Don’t waste them. Check in with me during patrols. Let me know you’re alive. Understand?”

“Yes.” Izuku nodded rapidly, stomach tightening in both awe and gratitude. The gear, the attention, the care—it was overwhelming. He didn’t say it out loud, but he felt… seen. For the first time in years.

Eraser’s gaze lingered, sharp but quiet, calculating. “And listen. I don’t know where you live, and I don’t care about your past or your parents. But I can tell your home isn’t safe. If you let me…” He paused, voice lowering, almost uncharacteristically soft. “…I could take care of you. Keep you safe. Let you live somewhere stable. Don’t have to worry about this every night.”

Izuku’s chest tightened. The words were almost too much. Almost too good to be true. He wanted to say yes, wanted to leap into the offer, but something in him—years of being abandoned, of being told he was nothing—kept his voice lodged in his throat. Instead, he swallowed, nodded slightly. “I’ll… think about it,” he said carefully. “…But for now… I have to keep moving.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded once, as though accepting the answer without accepting it. “Fine. But don’t disappear completely. Check in. I’ll know if you don’t.”

The first proper encounter set the pattern. Night after night, he would patrol. Eraser would appear somewhere in the distance, sometimes silently observing, sometimes stopping him mid-intervention.

“You’re too young.”

“You’ll get hurt.”

“You’re not ready.”

And every time, Izuku would vanish into the shadows, grateful, careful, and increasingly skilled.

Eventually, he realized that the name Viper wasn’t just for the world outside. It was for him. A mask, a hood, a persona that let him exist in a world that had never wanted him. And now, thanks to the hero, he was stronger. Smarter. Prepared.

And maybe, just maybe… he could finally start to believe someone would look out for him. Not like his mother, not like his father, not like the teachers who ignored him. Someone who actually wanted him to survive. Someone who could teach him how to be more than just quirkless.

The pattern continued: nights of patrols, careful rescues, brief encounters with his hero, and the steady growth of skill and confidence. Supplies increased: reinforced gloves, lightweight armor under his hoodie, additional knives. The bo staff became an extension of his body, familiar as his own limbs. He practiced tirelessly, silent on rooftops, unseen in alleys, but always, always moving with precision.

And Eraser? He never saw the face under the mask, never suspected it was the same quirkless kid he’d walked home years ago. But he knew enough to worry. Enough to care. Enough to quietly, silently, become Viper’s shadow guardian.

Every night, Izuku disappeared into the darkness with that knowledge tucked in his chest, a heartbeat of hope and survival. And in the shadows, he smiled. Not because he was safe, not because he was recognized—but because for the first time, he belonged to something. To someone.

And maybe, just maybe, someday, he could belong outside the night.