Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The wind blew softly on the rooftop, an indifferent murmur tugging at the edges of his worn notebook. Izuku Midoriya barely noticed. His numb fingers trembled as he gripped the cold railing with almost convulsive force, the only barrier separating his body from the void. The metal was cold, but the chill inside him was far more intense.

His legs burned from the desperate sprint, sharp pain shooting from his ankles to his thighs. But that was merely physical pain, irrelevant compared to the crushing pressure that threatened to fracture his chest and soul.

“All Might told me that… I can’t be a hero…”

The voice of his idol. For years, that voice had been his anchor, his refuge in every storm, proof that goodness and justice existed. Now, every syllable weighed on him like a slab of cement, a sentence handed down by the very god he prayed to. The echo of that "no" resonated in his skull, erasing every other thought.

And then, filling that void, Bakugo's words returned to slam into him with the force of an explosion.

"Useless".

“You don’t have what it takes”.

"If you wanna play hero without a Quirk... take a swan dive off the roof. Maybe you'll be born with a Quirk in your next life".

Those words, those contemptuous glances, those cruel laughs from his classmates… they had always been the background noise of his life. A constant hum of humiliation. But until now, he had been able to ignore them. He had built a wall out of All Might, clinging to the impossible dream that one day, the Symbol of Peace would point at him and tell him that yes, even someone like him could be a hero.

But no. The wall had crumbled. Not even All Might believed in him. The number one hero had unknowingly confirmed every insult Bakugo had hurled at him.

“In the end… who cares about someone like me?”

His mother. The image of Inko Midoriya appeared immediately. He knew it. She loved him with all her heart. But… he remembered her eyes the night she asked him if he could be a hero. He remembered her tears, her:

"I'm sorry, Izuku".

Even she had given up. She had apologized to him, not for not having a Quirk, but for giving him false hope, for allowing him to dream. She, too, had wept upon hearing that her son would have no gift, no future.

Her love was real, undeniable... but now Izuku could only reinterpret it through this new filter of failure. It was a love tinged with pity, the compassion one feels for something broken.

“Maybe… maybe Kacchan was right.”

His gaze lowered, lost in the distant asphalt. Cars looked like toys; people, like ants. An insignificant statistic. The void didn't whisper to him; it presented a logical solution: a promise of silence, the end of pain. He felt an existential vertigo that wasn't physical, but rather the lucid invitation to take just one more step.

“Would it really matter if he…?”

His breathing became heavy, almost a stifled groan. He gripped the grate so tightly that his knuckles turned white, the metal biting into his skin.

“…How stupid.”

He slammed his forehead against the cold metal structure, a sharp, pathetic thud. He let out a long, trembling, weary sigh.

"Did I really... think about something like that? Am I that weak?"

His chest burned. It wasn't just sadness. It was a corrosive mix of shame at his weakness, rage against the world, and an exhaustion so profound he felt it could dissolve his bones. He stood there a while longer, in a silence broken only by the wind, as the evening breeze caressed his disheveled hair.

His dream… to smile in the face of adversity, to help those in need, even those who don't ask for it… To be a hero. What a cruel joke.

Finally, he let go of the railing. His hands left sweat marks on the metal.

His footsteps echoed heavily on the concrete rooftop, a hollow sound. As he slowly descended the stairs, each step felt like a descent into an even darker place.

He had left the edge behind… but not the abyss within him.

The abyss that had once been at his feet had now moved inside him. It was liquid lead in his stomach, a cold emptiness that forced him to wander aimlessly. He dragged his feet along the sidewalk, an automaton.

He vaguely noticed people moving out of his way, their faces blurred and irrelevant. The weight of his own existence had become a personal gravity, crushing him against the concrete.

All Might's voice continued to drill into his chest.

"Sorry, kid. Without a Quirk... you can't be a hero."

That sentence had devastated him. No, devastated was an understatement. It had erased him.

It was absurd how much he had built his life around a delusion. He felt like an idiot. How he had clung to an impossible dream, like a child who refuses to let go of a broken toy, pretending it still works, ignoring the missing pieces and the sharp edges.

His feet stopped. A noise. A commotion. He noticed a group of people huddled in a corner, their phones held aloft. They were looking at something. Probably a villain.

Something that should catch his attention. Something that, just an hour ago, he would have observed with feverish enthusiasm, frantically taking notes.

“But now… what for? What's the point of analyzing Quirks I'd never have? What's the point of studying techniques I'd never use?”

Even so, his steps led him there. It was as if he no longer had control over his own body, a puppet with its strings cut. When he finally managed to make his way through the crowd, he felt the air freeze in his lungs and nausea rise in his throat.

The villain. The sludge creature. The one who had captured him before.

The one All Might had trapped inside a bottle in his pocket.

The one All Might had left behind.

“No…” His analytical mind connected the dots with terrifying clarity. “The one I freed.”

Because it was his fault. His stupid, pointless fault. For clinging to All Might's leg. For distracting him. For being weak. For being annoying.

Because of who he was. That villain, freed because of him, now clung to another victim.

Izuku's eyes trembled, widening in horror as he recognized the hostage. The ash-blond hair, the pointless explosions that only fueled the flames.

“Kacchan…”

There was no arrogance in those red eyes. There was no anger. Only fear. Fear flooded in Bakugo's eyes. The absolute terror of someone being swallowed alive, of someone who understood he was about to die.

Izuku's heart sank into a dark, icy sea, but his mind remained present, cold and sharp as a scalpel.

“Every variable I introduce into the equation only worsens the outcome. I am the factor that guarantees disaster.”

The pro heroes were talking amongst themselves. Kamui Woods was fighting off fire. Death Arms couldn't get a grip. They were arguing. Giving useless orders. But Izuku barely heard them. His mind registered their failures, but he didn't blame them. It wasn't their responsibility. It wasn't their fault.

It was his.

“My intentions are irrelevant. The result is a constant: I ruin everything I touch. I'm not just a burden... I'm a bug in the system, a variable that corrupts the outcome.”

An error. A faulty variable.

And yet, his feet began to move.

Not because he thought he was a hero. That dream was dead and buried.

Not because he thought he could save Bakugo. He saw the situation, analyzed the odds; they were zero.

But if he had caused this… if he was the variable that had started this disaster… then he had to try to fix it. It was a simple calculation. Balancing the equation. His life, which was now worthless, against Bakugo's, which was being consumed by his mistake.

Regardless of whether his own life was worth anything or not.

The screams began to come from behind. The white noise of reality.

“Hey, kid, get away!”

“Go back, it’s dangerous!”

"Idiot, you're going to kill yourself!"

Izuku wasn't listening.

He couldn't.

The entire world blurred around him, colors and sounds merging into a fuzzy mess. His vision narrowed into a tunnel, focused solely on the mass of sludge and Bakugo's terrified eyes.

"Maybe... maybe that's why it makes sense for me to be here."

He leaped into danger. Into the villain. Into death, if necessary.

Quirkless.

Without a defined plan, beyond the impulse to correct their mistake.

Hopeless.

Only with the desperate impulse of someone who had decided that he could no longer be a spectator in his own tragedy.

And at that moment, everyone present —the paralyzed heroes, the gaping crowd, even All Might, hidden within the crowd— could only watch, eyes wide open, unable to understand why an ordinary boy, a boy who seemed broken, had been the first to jump.

The scene froze. The useless one, the failure, the boy who shouldn't be a hero… leaping straight into danger, defying fear and, above all, defying himself.

The world had shrunk to the sound of his own footsteps against the asphalt and the desperate thumping in his ears. Izuku was running.

He thought he was moving on instinct, without a plan, without a strategy… but his body contradicted his mind every second. His mind screamed that it was useless, but his body kept going. His steps weren't clumsy. There was a rhythm to them, a cadence forged in countless nights of exhaustion. There was something about his posture, the way he leaned forward, the way the soles of his feet struck the ground —first the ball of his foot, then his heel, absorbing the impact— that spoke of a painful practice. Constant. Methodical.

Of someone who had trained until pain was a constant companion. Who had spent years chasing unattainable shadows, studying heroes not just with admiration, but with the precision of an analyst, mimicking their movements in the solitude of his room until his muscles burned.

And yet, he didn't see it. To him, he was just Izuku Midoriya. The Quirkless one. The useless one. The mistake in the equation that shouldn't be there.

Toshinori, hidden in the crowd, watched with a disbelief that weighed heavily on his chest. Guilt twisted inside him. He knew who that boy was. He knew he had shattered his dreams on a rooftop less than an hour ago. He knew he had no gift. Statistically, he was a zero. He shouldn't stand a chance.

And yet, he couldn't tear his gaze away. Because the boy wasn't running like a panicked civilian. He was running like a soldier. His form was efficient, his arms pumping, his gaze unwavering. It was the run of someone who knew how to move.

The villain reacted. He saw the bug approaching. A tendril of sludge, as thick as a man's arm, lashed out at the boy, a casual movement to brush aside a mere nuisance. The air hissed. And then, time seemed to slow down. Reality fractured into frames.

Toshinori saw it. The heroes saw it. Izuku didn't. Izuku reacted. He didn't jump back. He didn't stop. He skidded. It was an unnatural movement—a controlled stumble, throwing his weight into the attack's trajectory to close the distance. An evasive technique he'd seen Eraserhead use dozens of times in a video.

The sludge whizzed past his shoulder, splattering his face. The impact was so strong it made his skin burn and his mouth taste blood. It wasn't the agility of a professional. It was the raw instinct of someone who had spent his life studying and running, someone whose body reacted before his brain.

He had read the trajectory.

The boy didn't even stop. The pain in his cheek was just confirmation. Mid-swing, still regaining his balance from the dodge, his hands ripped the backpack off his shoulders. He spun around, using the momentum of his run and slide to power up the throw.

The backpack flew, not in a clumsy arc, but in a straight and precise line—a projectile. The impact was clean. Precise. Brutal. The backpack's metal clasp, a solid piece of steel, struck the villain directly in the eye that floated at the center of the mass.

An impossible stroke of luck.

No. Toshinori knew it in that instant. He saw the rotation, the release at the peak of the spin. That wasn't luck. It was repetition turned into instinct. It was the precision of a thousand failed throws and a thousand corrections, the certainty of someone who had practiced that exact movement until it became a part of him.

The villain roared in pain, a guttural, wet sound. He twitched, stunned, and the pressure on Bakugo's face eased for a split second. The blond gasped, a desperate breath of air and ash for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

That second was all Izuku needed.

He arrived. He lunged at the viscous mass, sinking up to his elbows. The smell was nauseating, like sewers and rot, filling his mouth. The substance was thick, cold, and clung to him, trying to suck him in, dragging him toward a sludge grave. Panic threatened to paralyze him. But he kept digging, clawing, not randomly, but searching for the silhouette he knew so well. Searching for the only person who mattered in his equation.

“Who the hell is that?” muttered a teenager among the spectators.

“He must be crazy,” another added.

But at that moment, the world went silent for Toshinori. Amid the commotion, amid the murmurs, he heard it.

The boy, his face covered in sludge, tears, and blood from his scratched cheek, looked up at Bakugo. A trembling, broken, almost terrifying smile spread across his face. It wasn't a hero's smile. It was a martyr's smile, the expression of someone who had found the only possible answer to an unsolvable equation. His green eyes glowed with a feverish light.

“You looked like you were asking for help”

It was the smile of someone who didn't know if they would get out of there alive. The smile of someone who, perhaps, didn't even want to leave. The smile of someone who, having accepted their uselessness, had finally found a purpose: to be the variable that corrected their own mistake.

The boy gritted his teeth, the sludge crunching between them. He didn't throw randomly. His hands, buried in the muck, groped frantically. They searched for a foothold, a place where the sludge lost cohesion around Bakugo's wrist, where the texture was different. He found the edge of his friend's uniform.

And then, using the full weight of his body not as brute force, but as leverage, applying pressure at that exact point, he shouted and pulled.

It was a focused, technical, desperate pull. A split second of slack. The tension broke. He managed to free the ash-blond's arms and shouted with every ounce of his remaining strength, not at Bakugo, but at the Quirk itself. It was a command born of analysis.

“EXPLODE!!”

Bakugo, still dazed, still choking, his eyes bloodshot, reacted purely on instinct. His free hands exploded with blind fury. The blast was deafening, sending flashes and black smoke toward everyone nearby.

The heroes instinctively moved aside, shielding themselves from the shockwave that swept through the street.

And the scene froze in Toshinori's retina.

Izuku, drenched in sludge and debris from the explosion, smiled as if everything finally made sense, as if the equation was finally balanced.

Bakugo, caught between primal fear and blind fury, responding to the call without understanding why.

The heroes, paralyzed by their own inaction, faces frozen in shock.

Toshinori, observing everything, with his heart on the verge of collapse and a single truth burning in his mind.

An ordinary boy without a Quirk, who had decided to rewrite the equation.

A simple error in the equation, which refused to be erased.

A simple act... that had changed everything.

Chapter Text

Izuku gasped, the air burning in his lungs. The smell of ozone, ash, and a stench of sewage filled his nostrils. He was barely aware of the firm pressure of the arms that held him, like a steel vise.

Death Arms had caught him at the last second, his professional composure cracking under pure adrenaline. He pulled him away from the epicenter of the detonation just as the heat of the explosion singed the boy's hair. Beside him, Kamui Woods held a trembling Bakugo, who was coughing convulsively, hacking up slime and bile, while the blond shook off the villain's remains amidst growls of rage and confusion bordering on panic.

Izuku, exhausted, his body heavy from the sudden and brutal adrenaline crash, could only breathe. The world was a high-pitched buzz in his ears, the distant sirens, the muffled screams.

For the first time in his life… he felt he had accomplished something.

"I saved him. He's alive."

A fragile spark of pride, so strange it was almost painful, tried to ignite in his chest. He had balanced the equation. But he didn't have time to hold on to it.

A grotesque roar, filled with a fury that transcended pain, pierced the cloud of dust. It was a wet, inhuman sound.

"YOU! YOU DAMN PUNY BRAT! YOU DID THIS TO ME! I'LL TAKE YOU WITH ME!"

The Slime Villain reformed, or what was left of him. His distorted form trembled with rage, parts of his body dripping onto the asphalt. He had been humiliated, wounded, and mocked by a Quirkless child. His attack was no longer an escape; it was an execution. Ignoring the heroes, locking his hatred on the boy who had defied him, he fired a mud whip directly at Izuku. The intent to kill was undeniable.

The heroes reacted instantly. Death Arms and Kamui Woods twisted their bodies to protect the teenagers, their movements automatic, practiced, but tinged by a split second of panic. They were too close.

Izuku barely managed to lift his gaze. The shadow of the attack already loomed over him. He had no strength to move, not even to feel fear. His analytical mind simply registered the trajectory, the speed, and concluded that it was inevitable. Conclusion: Inevitable. Output: Acceptance.

"The equation... is balanced."

And then, the air cracked.

A figure emerged from the cloud of dust, not like a flash of lightning, but like a force of nature.

“ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!”

The voice everyone knew roared, but it wasn't the jovial tone he knew from television. It was thunder, a command, charged with a righteous fury that shook the ground.

All Might.

He didn't just block the attack; his arm, hard as steel, dispersed it. The slime dissipated in the air, vaporized by sheer friction. The villain recoiled, his eyes wide with terror. The predator had met a god.

“You threatened civilians… you injured a young man…” All Might took a step, and the ground cracked beneath his boot. His gaze wasn’t on the villain, but on Izuku, the boy who was trembling but hadn’t run away. “…but above all… you witnessed the true heroism of a young man… AND NOW YOU WILL PAY FOR TRYING TO HURT HIM!”

The Symbol of Peace planted his feet, his fist drawn back, inhaling the polluted air of the street.

“DETROIT SMASH!”

The punch didn't just strike the villain; it shattered the atmosphere. A hurricane-force gust of wind swept through the street, a controlled tornado that instantly extinguished the fires. The mud villain simply ceased to exist, dispersed into a thousand harmless droplets. The air pressure changed so drastically that, moments later, the clear sky clouded over and tiny raindrops began to fall.

Silence. The roar of the crowd was replaced by collective astonishment.

Izuku could only watch silently, his heart hammering against his ribs in a violently erratic rhythm. His body trembled uncontrollably. He still didn't understand that he was alive.

Minutes later, Izuku was sitting in the back of an ambulance. A paramedic was cleaning the blood and mud from his cheek with a gauze pad soaked in antiseptic. The burning was sharp, but it felt distant.

The relief had passed, replaced by the cold and harsh reality. The heroes had scolded him. And they hadn't been kind.

“WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING, KID?!” Death Arms yelled, his face red with shame and anger. “You could have died! You could have killed us all! What you did was insane!”

“You interfered with our work! You’re irresponsible!” added Mt. Lady, who had arrived late just to control the crowd. “Leave the hero work to the professionals!”

Harsh words, hurled with frustration. Izuku noticed that none of them were looking him directly in the eye. They were berating the boy who had done the job they couldn't. They were berating their own incompetence, projecting it onto him.

The words, to Izuku… sounded like the same old thing. Background noise. Static.

A few meters away, Bakugo was surrounded by other heroes and journalists.

"That boy is impressive!"

"What a powerful Quirk! It lasted all that time! Incredible endurance!"

"What determination! With that power, you have a promising future, no doubt!"

Izuku lowered his gaze, clutching the thermal blanket they had given him. His knuckles were white. The irony was so thick he could almost taste it, bitter as ash in his mouth.

"They saw his Quirk. They saw his resilience."

"They didn't see my analysis. They didn't see the technique in the throw. They didn't see the tactical slide. They didn't see the order. They saw nothing but a Quirkless nobody getting in the way."

He knew he had done the right thing. But a part of him, the analytical and broken part, confirmed his equation with painful clarity.

The equation was clear: The Quirk is the only variable that matters; power is the only value. The result didn't matter, only the tool.

He got up from the examination table, his muscles protesting. He decided to leave before someone else stopped him to give him another lecture. Maybe what he did wouldn't change anything.

"Wait a minute, kid."

The voice was calm, resonating through the wooden mask. Izuku tensed, turning around. Kamui Woods was approaching, his wooden face impassive.

Izuku gritted his teeth, bracing for another round. Expecting another condemnation for his uselessness.

But the hero crouched down slightly, a gesture that surprised Izuku, bringing himself down to his level. He spoke to him in a calm, professional voice, low, just for the two of them.

“What you did… was incredibly stupid.”

Izuku closed his eyes, nodding slightly. He accepted it. It was a fact.

“But it was also… the bravest and most technically brilliant thing I’ve seen in a long time.”

Izuku opened his eyes suddenly. The ringing in his ears seemed to stop.

“Technical? Did he... see that?”

“Technical?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Kamui Woods sketched what might have been a faint smile on his wooden face.

"It wasn't just instinct, was it? I saw you. The others were screaming, but I saw you. My Quirk requires precision, and I recognize precision when I see it."

Izuku blinked, speechless.

"Most people retreat. You slid into the attack. Close-quarters evasion. Risky, but precise."

He was referring to the Eraserhead maneuver that he had practiced until his knees bled.

“And the backpack throw,” Kamui continued, “right in the eye. On the move, recovering from a slide, under pressure. That took aim. And your shout… you gave him a command. You weren’t panicking, you were directing the situation. You analyzed the hostage, looked for the weak point, and created a tactical opening for the kid’s Quirk to do its job.”

Kamui Woods straightened up, crossing his arms.

“I don’t know where you trained, kid, or who taught you. But that wasn’t some random act by a civilian. It was an improvised plan executed under fire. And that… that’s what makes the difference between a fool and a soldier. If you keep this up… you could become a great hero.”

Izuku froze. He couldn't breathe.

"Someone... someone saw it. They saw the analysis. They saw the training. They saw beyond the Quirkless."

He felt something warm, something that had been dead and cold in his chest since the rooftop, being reborn. It was such a strange, powerful sensation that it made him tremble more than the adrenaline. The variable of his error was being challenged.

His breathing became shaky.

His hands, which had been clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, gradually loosened.

And, for the first time in a long time, he smiled.

Not a broken smile.

Not a martyr's smile.

Not a smile of acceptance of the end.

A smile of pure and genuine hope.

“Perhaps… perhaps my equation was wrong.”

—————————————————————

Bakugo was walking down the street, alone.

His hands were buried in his pockets, his steps heavy and erratic. Each footstep against the asphalt sounded like a dull thud, an echo of the throbbing in his head.

The adrenaline had worn off, leaving a bitter, metallic aftertaste in his throat, the taste of failure. The euphoria the heroes had showered upon him, the empty praise of his "powerful Quirk" and his "resistance", had vanished as quickly as the rain brought by All Might.

The air around him felt thick. Uncomfortable.

“Tsk!”

A low growl, almost a whimper, escaped from between his clenched teeth.

“What the hell just happened?”

He clenched his teeth tightly, his molars grinding. His brow was furrowed, his throat dry.

He tried to hold on to those words. "Impressive." "Promising future." "He held on."

Lies. All lies.

They saw nothing. They saw a powerful Quirk, a tool. They didn't see the user. They didn't see the paralysis.

He couldn't take it anymore; he was drowning. He was paralyzed, his own body refusing to obey, pure terror freezing the nitroglycerin in the palms of his hands. He was going to die. And they dared to praise him for it.

And that wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was that, in his head, the scene repeated itself in a hellish loop, each detail sharper and more humiliating than the last.

Izuku, running towards him.

Izuku, dodging the mud with that stupid, unnatural movement, sliding towards the danger, not running from it. A movement that his own fighting instinct recognized as technical.

Izuku, throwing his backpack with insolent precision. A direct hit to the eye. It wasn't panic, it was a fucking calculated shot.

Izuku, drenched in slime, stared at him with those feverish eyes, smiling that stupid, trembling smile, that martyr's smile that made him seem... superior. The smile of someone who accepts his fate to save another.

“EXPLODE!!”

Bakugo ran his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes furiously, as if he could erase the image from his retina. Dried sweat stung his skin.

Why hadn't he been able to move?

Why, with all his power, with all his talent, had he been left paralyzed like a damned extra?

Why did it have to be Deku?

And worse still... Why had his body obeyed before his brain could process? His body, trained for combat, had reacted to a valid tactical order before his brain could process the humiliation of that damn nerd giving it.

A forgotten image, buried under years of arrogance and contempt, crept into his thoughts.

As children.

He was in front, the leader, the strong one, the one everyone followed.

On that walk, as he was crossing the bridge, he slipped on a mossy log, causing him to fall into the stream. The other three extras stood motionless, unable to approach.

He was fine... but Izuku was the only one who moved.

The only one who reached out his hand, with that stupid look of concern on his face. “The same look you would give a wounded cat... looking at me like some fucking stray.”

That damn nerd always did that. Always looking at him like he was broken, like he needed help.

Even without a Quirk.

Even when everyone told him he shouldn't do it.

That outstretched hand stuck in his face, not as an offer of help, but as an insult. It was the hand of someone who thought himself superior, who looked down on him. The hand of someone who pitied him.

And today, once again, he had been the hand that reached out to him when he needed it most. Today, again, Izuku had looked at him with that same pitying superiority.

Bakugo clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his skin, a sharp pain that anchored him to reality.

No.

That wasn't the case.

He shook his head angrily, as if he could forcibly dislodge the memory.

“NO!” he spat out loud, stopping dead in his tracks under a flickering streetlamp.

“He didn’t save me.”

The silence of the street echoed back his own words, and they sounded hollow.

“I… was already about to free myself. I just needed a little more time. He just interfered. It was pure coincidence.”

He clenched his jaw, trying to convince himself.

Trying to crush the image of Izuku running towards him, without fear, when even the professional heroes didn't dare.

"He didn't save me. He didn't save me. He didn't save me."

Repeating it was the only way to breathe.

The only way to not accept what, deep down, his torn pride knew to be true.

The strongest had frozen. The Deku had acted… had saved him.

And Bakugo Katsuki couldn't stand it.

I will not accept it.

He started walking again, faster, his shoulders tense, as if he could leave the memory behind.

As if he could escape the humiliation and the nauseating feeling of debt that was brewing inside him.

"He didn't save me." He repeated it one last time, in a low growl, kicking an empty can that echoed in the silence.

But doubt, for the first time, refused to be silenced.

—————————————————————

Izuku walked home, his muscles aching, but his step was lighter than it had been in years. Each step felt different, as if the personal gravity that had been crushing him against the asphalt had finally lessened.

He could still feel the echo of Kamui Woods' words ringing in his head, over and over again, like a mantra that erased the background noise of a lifetime of insults.

"...it was also... the bravest and most technically skilled thing I've seen in a long time."

"...you didn't back down. You slid into the attack..."

"...that was great aim."

"...you weren't panicking, you were in control of the situation."

"...you could become a great hero."

For the first time in his life, those words didn't come from his imagination. They weren't a dream. They weren't hypotheses scribbled in his notebook, tinged with desperate hope.

Someone had seen him. A pro hero, an expert in precision, hadn't seen a Deku. He had recognized his analysis, his effort, his technique.

The equation that defined him as a mistake had just been refuted. Kamui Woods had introduced the one variable Izuku never considered: evidence.

That's why, when a gust of wind hit him and All Might landed in front of him, transforming into his skeletal form, winded from running, Izuku didn't back down.

There were no tears. There was no fanaticism. His heart was beating strongly, yes, but it wasn't the blind adoration of before.

He simply stared at him, with a calmness that unsettled the hero. It was respect for the Symbol of Peace, undoubtedly, but now it was tinged with the bitter, cold memory of the rooftop. It was respect for an ideal, but also wariness toward the man who had shattered that ideal just hours before.

“Young Midoriya.” The hero’s voice, though weakened, still carried a weight impossible to ignore. “I’ve been looking for you. I need… I need to talk to you.”

The green-haired boy nodded calmly, without his previous anxiety. His silence was an invitation to speak, not a plea.

All Might cleared his throat, and for the first time, Izuku saw something new in him: a deep guilt. The hero couldn't meet his gaze.

“On that rooftop… I told you that you couldn’t be a hero without a Quirk. I gave you realistic and prudent advice.” The man coughed, wiping a drop of blood from his lips, a gesture that no longer surprised Izuku. “And I was wrong. Completely and utterly wrong.”

An error in his calculations caused a lurch in his stomach, but he remained silent, listening. His hands, buried in his pockets, tightened.

“Heroes aren’t just those with great powers. Today, all the professionals in that field, including myself, were paralyzed. We had the power, but not the will. We were waiting for the right variable, an opportunity that never came.”

All Might looked up, his sunken eyes shining with a new, almost feverish intensity.

“You had no power. You had nothing. And yet, you moved. You leaped without guarantees, without a Quirk to back you up, into mortal danger.”

The number one hero paused, his voice filled with emotion.

“That alone is what makes a true hero. But you did more than that. I saw you. The others saw a civilian running, but I saw what you did. I saw the slide to close the distance, not to flee. I saw you throw the backpack, straight at his eye. I saw how you created a tactical opening. What you did wasn't just brave... it was smart.”

The air seemed to stop. Izuku felt the weight of those words.

But this time he didn't break down. He didn't cry.

A deep warmth settled in his chest. Firm. Real.

Kamui Woods had given him the spark of technical validation. All Might was passing on the flame of heroic validation.

“Thank you, sir.” Izuku smiled, a small, sincere smile, but not overflowing. It was the smile of someone being recognized, not someone being saved. “Thank you so much.”

All Might blinked, visibly surprised by the boy's maturity. He'd expected a meltdown, tears, rooftop worship. Not this composed calm.

“You’re taking it more calmly than I expected.”

Izuku scratched the back of his neck, somewhat embarrassed, the first glimpse of the old Izuku resurfacing.

“Well… Another hero told me recently that… he saw the technique. That I could become a hero.”

He paused, his voice becoming firmer, looking All Might in the eyes.

"I needed someone to acknowledge the skill, not just the lack of a Quirk."

All Might's smile faded, replaced by a look of deep respect. He nodded slowly.

“Well said, kid. You’ve got a lot more than guts. But what I want to tell you is even more important.”

Izuku looked at him intently, his analytical mind activating again.

“My Quirk… isn’t like the others. I wasn’t born with it. It was transferred to me. It’s called One For All.”

Izuku felt the world tilting. Transferred? That was a variable he had never considered in all his thousands of hours of Quirk analysis.

“It is a special power, a sacred torch that is passed from person to person. Each bearer cultivates the power, strengthens it with their own soul, and then passes it on to the next. Each one adds their strength, their will… their essence.”

All Might clenched his fist, his gaze lost for a moment in the past.

“It is a power that was not born of ambition. It was born of the duty to protect. It is the crystallization of wills united by justice. And it has been sustained with a purpose: to fight against an age-old evil. That is why, although it is a great gift, it is also an enormous burden.”

All Might lowered his gaze, his face gloomy.

"You will not only bear my power, Young Midoriya. You will bear the legacy of all those who came before me. Shoulders upon which generations have stood. Each one fought, bled, and left their dreams and sacrifices etched into this Quirk."

Izuku felt those words pierce his chest. It wasn't just receiving power. It was receiving history. Responsibility. A system. It was joining a chain of souls.

“I want you to receive it, Young Midoriya.”

Izuku's eyes widened. The impact of those words was a thousand times stronger than the "no" on the rooftop.

“Not out of pity,” All Might said forcefully, as if he could read the boy’s mind and wanted to crush that doubt before it could even take root. “Not because you impressed me for a moment. But because I saw something in you that can’t be taught. I saw your analytical mind and your heroic spirit working together, even when you were at your lowest. I saw something that neither fear, nor my own cruel words, could extinguish.”

“I saw you move when others freeze.”

Izuku felt a lump in his throat. But he didn't cry.

This time, he let the words sink in. He paused for a moment. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

He processed the variables.

Variable A: His "uselessness" (Obsolete data).

Variable B: Kamui Woods validation (Recognized technique).

Variable C: The validation of All Might (Heroism + Recognized Intelligence).

Variable D: The One For All offer (A new power factor).

The result of his equation had finally changed. From Error to Successor.

He opened his eyes, his gaze clear and steady.

“If you believe I can carry it on… if you believe I am worthy of that legacy… I will do everything I can to live up to it.”

It wasn't a question. It was a promise.

All Might smiled, a broad and genuine smile, pleased by the maturity and resolve that was already germinating in the boy.

"Good. Then the real work begins. We'll meet tomorrow at dawn on Takoba Beach. Be prepared, young Midoriya. Starting tomorrow, we'll begin forging a vessel worthy of that legacy."

Chapter Text

The alarm went off at 4:30 AM. The digital beep cut through the early morning silence, but Izuku was already awake.

He'd been staring at the ceiling for at least twenty minutes, his mind in a state of analytical calm he'd never experienced before. The constant buzzing of anxiety, that background noise of self-loathing and worthlessness that had plagued every second of his existence, was gone. It hadn't vanished; it had been displaced . Last night, for the first time in years, he hadn't dreamed of being a hero; he'd dreamed of the work that came with being one. The despair of being a Mistake was a dead end. The responsibility of being a Successor was a trajectory.

He got up without hesitation. The morning air was cold, but he felt sharp, every thought clear and orderly. His body, although deeply ached from the strain and brutal effort of the previous day, responded with precision.

Yesterday, his personal equation defined him as a Mistake. Last night, All Might and Kamui Woods refuted that conclusion with empirical data. Today, he woke up with a new variable: Successor.

He paced his dimly lit room. His eyes rested on his Hero Analysis Notebooks. He no longer saw them as the diary of a desperate fanatic, the relic of an impossible dream. Now they were what he had always intended them to be: research, data, the foundation of the technique Kamui Woods had recognized. They were evidence of his mind, not his failure.

He quietly went down to the kitchen. His mother, Inko, usually woke up later, but the faint clinking of a teacup on the table alerted him. She was sitting in the dim light, an untouched cup in front of her. When he entered, she looked up, her eyes puffy with worry and lack of sleep.

"Izuku... last night..." he began, his voice trembling. "I saw the news. About the mud villain... They mentioned that a student interfered... It was you, wasn't it? You were there."

He stopped. He'd expected this. Old Izuku would have broken down in apologies, sobbing for worrying her, adding to her distress with his own.

The new Izuku approached and calmly placed a hand on her shoulder. The contact was firm.

“I'm fine, Mom. Really. Nothing serious happened to me.”

Inko looked at him, and what she saw stopped her in her tracks. This wasn't her meek, stuttering son, cowering in on himself. He stood up straighter. His eyes, though tired and shadowed with dark circles beneath them, were clear and steady. There was a resolve in him she had never seen before, an absence of the despair that usually defined him.

"I'm fine," he repeated, and this time, she believed him. The tremor in his voice was gone.

“You're going out... so early. It's barely dawn.”

“I have to do it. There's... something I need to start. A new project.”

She nodded, not understanding, but sensing a resolve in her son that she hadn't seen in all these years since his quirkless diagnosis, she trusted him. Because the one standing before her was someone new, someone who had found an anchor.

“Okay. Just... be careful, Izuku. Please.”

“I promise.”

She left home just as the sky began to change from deep black to cobalt blue. Dawn was approaching.

At 5:30 AM, Izuku arrived at Takoba Municipal Beach Park a little early.

The place was as dilapidated as it appeared on the maps: piles of garbage, rusted appliances, and a sea of waste forgotten by society. The smell of salt, rust, and decay was overwhelming. It was a monument to neglect.

As he looked around, his mind was already cataloging the task, analyzing the scale of the problem .

“The heaviest trash is in the soft sand; moving it will be a nightmare. The metal pieces will require levers… maybe I can use some beams from the construction pile.”

His strategic analysis was interrupted by heavy footsteps behind him

All Might appeared in his heroic form, his presence so radiant it seemed out of place amidst the decay. He flashed his signature smile.

“Kid! You're early! That's the spirit! This is where you'll build your body.”

Izuku turned around, his analytical gaze already assessing the surroundings.

"Here?" he asked, not with doubt, but with intrigue.

The choice was logistically... interesting. Isolated, full of heavy, irregularly shaped objects. It was a perfect makeshift gym.

All Might crossed his arms, his smile relaxing a little.

“Yes. This place will be your training ground. Not only because you need physical strength to endure One For All, but because here you will learn something much more important.”

All Might looked around at the sea of garbage that stretched out as if time and people had decided to abandon it.

"Do you see this beach?" he asked, his tone more serious. "Everyone sees it as a dump. A forgotten place. A problem too big for anyone to try to fix. Something not worth saving."

Izuku eyes widened understanding the analogy before he finished speaking. The parallel was painfully clear.

"But this place... it's like you," the hero said, staring at him intently. "You've felt that, haven't you? That society saw you as a lost cause. A kid without a Quirk who dreamed of being a hero. A statistical anomaly. Nobody believed in you. Nobody thought you were worth it."

The green-haired boy lowered his gaze, clenching his fists. It was the raw, simple truth of his life until yesterday.

"This place can change," All Might continued, his voice booming with conviction. "It can be restored. It can have value again. Just like you. You're going to clean this beach, Izuku. Not just to strengthen your body, but to rebuild what others chose to discard."

The silence that fell was heavy in the air, but not uncomfortable. It was a silence that penetrated, that left its mark.

Every piece of trash you pick up, every gram you remove, will be an act of rebellion against the idea that you —or this place— cannot be saved. You will prove society's verdict wrong.

Izuku listened, feeling the words sink deep into his chest. It wasn't just training. It was a declaration.

"Besides," All Might added, smiling slightly, "you're already in good shape. You're not muscular, but you're stronger than you look in those baggy clothes and that habit of slouching. You proved it yesterday."

Izuku scratched the back of his neck, a familiar gesture, but his voice was firm.

“Well… I always wanted to be a hero. I didn't just like taking notes… I also knew I needed a body that could back up that desire to save others.”

Toshinori raised an eyebrow, genuinely interested, encouraging him to continue.

“But since I didn’t have a Quirk, gyms wouldn’t take me on. Some didn’t want the liability. Others just looked at me like I was a waste of time.” He clenched his jaw. “So I trained on my own. I used everything I could: books, videos, and a lot of trial and error. But… without a mentor, without feedback, I got stuck. I didn’t know how to keep progressing.”

Psshht.

The hero deflated in a puff of steam, and the skeletal Toshinori Yagi wiped the blood from his chin.

“Now you have me,” he said in a calmer, but no less intense, voice. “And, young Midoriya, your assessment of the situation is correct. But the training plan you need isn’t the one I’d give to just anyone. I have the standard American Dream Plan, which will only strengthen your body, your brute strength. That would be an insult to your potential.”

Izuku blinked, paying close attention.

Toshinori pulled out a stack of thick papers, not a colorful calendar with drawings, but a detailed, typed training plan.

"Yesterday I didn't just see your heart. I saw your brain. I saw the technique that Kamui Woods recognized. A plan that only focused on your muscles would be a waste of your true talent. I'm not training a brawler; I'm training a successor."

Izuku felt a chill. Validation.

“This plan has three pillars,” Toshinori explained, pointing to the first page. “Pillar One: The Vessel. It’s the physical work. Clearing this beach. You need to build a body of steel that can contain the power of One For All without exploding the moment you receive it. It’s functional strength, endurance, and durability. Here are the schedules, the diet, the weight progressions.”

“Pillar Two: The Technique.” He continued. “That slide you used against the villain. I saw it. It's a close-combat evasion technique, right? Eraserhead stuff?”

Izuku nodded, astonished that he had recognized it.

"It's good, but raw," Toshinori said bluntly. "You have instincts, but they lack refinement. That's what happens when you train alone. While we strengthen your body, I 'll train you in hand-to-hand combat. We'll refine those evasions, you'll learn how to throw a punch, and, most importantly, how to take one. When you receive OFA, You won't be a novice swinging a sledgehammer; you'll be a surgeon with a scalpel.."

“And Pillar Three: Analysis.” Here, Toshinori genuinely smiled. “I glanced at the notebook I signed. Don't stop doing them. But you're going to change your approach. You won't analyze from a fan's perspective anymore; you'll analyze like a strategist . To find the best way to neutralize , just like a hero would. I want you to watch a fight and find the tactical weakness in three seconds. To develop countermeasures for Quirks you've never even seen. Your brain is your primary weapon, Izuku. One For All will be the engine that amplifies that weapon.”

Izuku took the papers, his hands trembling slightly, not from fear, but from overwhelming excitement. This wasn't a plan; it was a manifesto. All Might wasn't just creating a successor; he was forging an intelligent weapon , one that respected every part of him.

“This isn't a training that lasts a few months, kid,” Toshinori said seriously. “In this world, pro heroes begin their formal training at seventeen or eighteen. You have two years. Two years to become someone capable of withstanding One For All and be ready for the next step.”

Izuku raised his head, smiling with determination. This time, without hesitation.

“Yeah!”

“Tell me, kid. Have you thought about which university you want to go to?”

Izuku blinked; the change of subject took him by surprise for a second.

“U-University?”

“Yes. If you want to be a professional hero, you'll need formal training. What's your goal?”

Izuku didn't hesitate. His voice was clear, without wavering.

“I want to get into UA!”

“U.A, huh?” Toshinori looked at him with a certain pride and a touch of nostalgia.

“Yes! It's always been my dream!” Izuku affirmed. “Not only because it's the best, but because you studied there, your alma mater. I want to follow in your footsteps. I want to be among the best.”

“I'm glad to hear that. If that's your goal, then we need to work even harder. UA has the most demanding exams in the country. By the time the day comes, you need to be ready to face them… and to wear One For All with pride.”

The green-haired boy clenched his fists, the training plan almost crumpling in his grip.

“I'm ready! I'll do whatever it takes!”

Toshinori smiled broadly.

“That's the spirit! But listen carefully. When you see me like this,” he said, gesturing to his skeletal form, “don't call me All Might. Call me Toshinori Yagi. It's a secret you must protect with your life. My injury, my time limit... and my connection to you.”

Izuku's eyes widened, and he nodded gravely. He understood the weight of that trust. It wasn't just a secret; it was the Symbol of Peace's greatest vulnerability.

“Exactly. From today on, we are colleagues. And very soon, we will be something more. Master and successor.”

Izuku felt the emotion course through him completely, but this time, it was a controlled, channeled emotion. He didn't need to wonder if it was enough.

He was no longer that boy who cried because he was told he could be a hero.

Now, he was someone who knew he had the plan, the mentor, and the will to prove it .

Toshinori looked at the nearest mountain of garbage, where a rusty refrigerator rested on a pile of tires.

“Alright, Midoriya. The theory is clear. Let's get to the practical part. Move that refrigerator.”

Izuku stared at the metal behemoth. His first opponent. His first act of rebellion.

“Yes sir.”

Izuku leaned his back against the cold, damp metal. He dug his heels into the sand, his already aching muscles protesting. And with a grunt that was half effort and half defiance, he took the first step. The sharp screech of the rusted metal was the only sound that broke the silence of dawn.

—————————————————————

Clang. Shhhrrrk...

The clang of metal protesting against the sand cut through the dawn silence. Izuku dug his heels in, his bare feet sinking into the damp sand until they found firm earth beneath.

“Don't pull with your arms! Drive with your legs! Engage the back!. Engage your lats. Exhale as you exert the effort.”

Toshinori's advice was like a mantra. Izuku tensed his core, his abs burning, and with a low growl that came from deep within his chest, he pushed with his legs. The old, rusty refrigerator, loaded with two discarded car engines for added weight, slid a meter before getting stuck again.

He stopped, taking a deep breath of the salty air. It wasn't a race; it was a check.

Three months had passed. Dawn on Takoba beach no longer smelled only of salt and rust, but of sweat, iron, and promise.

The boy who had arrived in April, his baggy clothes concealing a thin body hunched over with insecurity, was fading away. The Izuku who now stood tall in the rising sun was a figure of sinew and defined muscles. His shoulders had broadened, his back sporting a defined V-taper. His hands, which at first bled daily, were now covered in thick, protective calluses. His forearms had a density that came from gripping, lifting, and hauling hundreds of pounds of scrap metal.

Each dawn, each piece of metal moved, had been an act of rebellion. Pillar One, The Vessel, was being forged. The training wasn't just about hauling. Toshinori had taught him to categorize the work: heavy hauls like the refrigerator were for brute strength and anchoring; sprints across the soft sand carrying old tires were for stamina and leg power; and the most tedious work, sorting and stacking smaller metal pieces, was an exercise in muscular endurance and strengthening the stabilizers.

The beach, once a uniform mountain of trash, now had a clear, distinct section, almost twenty percent of the total. The clean sand, washed by the tide, glistened in the sun, and seagulls had begun to return to that area. It was visible evidence of their new reality.

This was the Vessel 's pillar, a labor of pure strength. But the dull, satisfying ache in his muscles competed with the sharp bruises that constantly reminded him of Pillar Two: Technique.

His knuckles were still scraped from working with the makeshift heavy sack (an old canvas bag filled with wet sand), and an ugly bruise was blooming on his forearm, right where Toshinori had deflected his punch with almost insulting ease.

Sparring was absolute hell.

“You telegraph the punch, kid!” Toshinori’s voice, surprisingly stern in his skeletal form, echoed in his memory of yesterday’s session. They were in the clean sand, practicing foot combat.

“You’re using Eraserhead’s dodge again!” Toshinori had reprimanded him, without even breaking a sweat, as Izuku’s punch harmlessly passed by his side.

“But it worked!” Izuku gasped, spitting out some sand and trying to regain his posture.

“It worked because I let it work!” Toshinori retorted, his foot sweeping across Izuku’s supporting leg, sending him sprawling into the sand. “That dodge only works if you have something to do afterward . It’s a feint, not an escape! Your instincts are good, kid, but they’re the instincts of someone who’s spent his life running away ! A hero stands his ground, moves, and responds ! Your eyes scream it before your fists even move. Again! Move your hips, not your shoulder!”

Hand-to-hand combat was the most painful pillar, not just physically, but mentally. Unlearning a lifetime of shrinking and dodging was harder than moving a refrigerator. But Izuku absorbed every lesson. He was no longer just a fanatic mimicking moves; he was learning the why behind every block, every pivot, every evasion. He was learning the brutal chess game of combat.

And then there was the deepest transformation, invisible to the naked eye: Pillar Three, The Analysis .

His afternoons with Toshinori were no longer just about diet plans and weightlifting. They had become a training ground for his mind. Sitting on a bench facing the increasingly clean beach, they deconstructed the tactics of the heroes Izuku had so admired.

“Your analysis of Kamui Woods’ Quirk is brilliant, Izuku,” Toshinori had told him last week, reviewing notebook number 14 with a look of genuine amazement. Izuku had written:

Obvious weak point: Fire.

Tactical weakness: Its capture range is limited in open areas without anchor points. Dependent on urban infrastructure for mobility.

Toshinori had tapped the page with a bony finger.

“This is good. It’s an analysis of a fighter. But you focus too much on direct offensive application. You assume his limit is what he’s shown on television.”

Izuku had heard, his pen ready. He felt like an idiot; it was such an obvious application, and yet his combat-obsessed mind had completely missed it.

“What if I used its branches not to attack, but to create a large-scale evacuation network in a landslide? Or as a pulley system to lift heavy debris? Or even as emergency splints on the spot?” Toshinori had reclined, his gaze lost in the ocean. “A hero doesn’t just defeat the villain, Izuku. A hero saves the day. Your brain is focusing on combat , relegating rescue and damage control to a secondary concern.”

That question had opened a whole new universe in Izuku's mind. Now, his notebooks were unrecognizable. The old fan pages were being replaced with professional-level tactical analyses, with sections on Rescue Application, Evacuation Management, and Legal and Collateral Damage Considerations . All Might wasn't just training his body; he was honing his greatest weapon. He was teaching him to see not just the power, but the potential. The responsibility. The humanity behind the headline.

That day, however, the beach was silent. It was his day of physical rest, reserved for a tactical analysis session and a review of the Technique. Izuku, after moving the refrigerator and the motors as a warm-up, sat on the sand, mentally reviewing the boxing forms that Toshinori was teaching him, feeling the sun on his aching skin.

A message vibrated in his pocket. It was from Toshinori.

“I'll be a little late, young man. A personal meeting has run long. Don't start the debate on Mt. Lady's collateral damage ethics without me!”

Izuku smiled to himself, recalling his analysis from the previous week about how Mt. Lady's debut had caused millions in preventable property damage. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel like he was waiting for his idol. He felt like he was waiting for his teacher. His partner.

He got up, deciding to stretch his legs and buy something to drink. As he walked along the edge of the deserted beach, with a quiet confidence that was new to him, he didn't realize his path was about to diverge.

He turned into a side alley he used as a shortcut, a narrow passage between abandoned buildings. He didn't realize this shortcut would lead him directly to another outcast—someone who, much like Takoba Beach, had been discarded by the world

Chapter Text

Izuku craned his neck, feeling a satisfying crack in his vertebrae. The morning sun, already rising above the buildings, warmed his back. Toshinori's message gave him an unexpected respite. With time to spare, he decided to take the shortcut he'd discovered a few weeks ago to get to the convenience store, a narrow passage that cut between two abandoned apartment buildings.

As he walked, his worn sneakers echoed on the concrete. The air here was different. The smell of salt and the rhythmic sound of the waves that defined his training ground were replaced by a heavy silence and the stench of ammonia and damp garbage. It was a forgotten place.

That's when he saw it. A flash of grayish fur, a thin stray cat, darted away from a pile of rotting cardboard boxes and burst garbage bags. Izuku, with the quiet confidence the last three months had given him, smiled slightly. Out of pure curiosity, he veered off his path, following the animal deeper into the alley.

“Easy, I'm not going to…”

It stopped. The cat didn't just bristle; it backed away, its back arched, and let out a sharp hiss into the deepest darkness of the alley, before disappearing through a gap in a brick wall.

The silence that remained was heavy, unnatural. His mind, now honed by the "Third Pillar" of his training, began to register anomalous variables. There was no traffic. No birds. Only the rhythmic dripping of water from a broken pipe. His instinct, sharpened by his fight with Toshinori, screamed at him that something in the equation was wrong.

He took a step back, preparing to leave. It was then that a figure emerged from the deepest shadow of the alley.

It wasn't a quick movement. Just a shuffling of feet, the sound of shoe soles against wet concrete. It wasn't stalking; the movement was erratic. She looked more like a victim than an aggressor, someone exhausted or injured. It was a girl. Her ash-blonde hair was matted and dirty, tied in two messy buns. Her school uniform, stained and torn at one knee, hung from her slender frame.

But it was her eyes that stopped Izuku. They were a bright, almost feline gold, but they were completely empty, unfocused, staring at something beyond him.

And in her hand, she held a kitchen knife.

“B-b-b…”

A stuttered rasp, almost inaudible, escaped from her cracked lips.

The girl advanced, and Izuku's instinct took over. His body, now stronger thanks to the First Pillar, reacted before his conscious mind gave the command.

The girl lunged. It wasn't an attack, it was a spasm. The knife slashed toward his chest in an awkward, downward arc.

Izuku didn't back down; he pivoted on the heel of his left foot, a technique Toshinori had burned into his memory on the beach sand. The girl's arm grazed his side, her own momentum causing her to stumble.

He didn't counterattack. He landed softly, his analytical senses working at full speed.

“Observation 1: The attack lacked technique, strength, and balance. She is not a trained fighter. Observation 2: Her pupils are dilated. She is visibly trembling. Her gaze remains unfocused.”

“...blood…”

The word was clearer now, a desperate groan.

The girl whirled around with a guttural growl and attacked again, this time aiming for his throat. It was a frantic, chaotic attack. Izuku raised his forearm, its skin thick and calloused from months of dragging metal, and deflected the girl's wrist. The impact was weak, almost pathetic.

That's when he saw her sniff. Her nose wrinkled, her golden eyes fixed on the fresh blood of a scrape he'd gotten on his arm that morning while moving a motor.

“Observation 3: The word blood. Visual fixation on an open wound. Physical weakness.”

The hypothesis formed in his mind with crystal clarity, like one of Toshinori's tactical lessons.

Hypothesis: Transformation or mutation Quirk that requires an activator: blood. The erratic behavior is not malice; it is need. Withdrawal.

The girl screamed, a high-pitched sound of pure frustration, and used the hand he had deflected to scratch him. He backed away, but she lunged again, this time with the knife in a reverse grip.

Izuku knew he couldn't keep dodging. This wasn't a fight; it was, as Toshinori had taught him, a rescue situation.

When she lunged for the third time, he didn't dodge. He went in.

He executed Eraserhead's evasion maneuver he'd used instinctively against the Slime Villain, but this time it was different. It was controlled, deliberate. He slipped beneath the knife's arc and positioned himself behind her, wrapping his arms around her in a bear hug, pinning her arms against her body.

"Let me go! I need it! Blood!" she cried, her voice finally clear, though broken by despair.

He held her firmly.

"Calm down! I don't want to hurt you!"

She writhed with a force that surprised him, a force born of pure panic. She arched back, hitting him on the chin with her head and making him bite his tongue. The metallic taste distracted him for a split second.

It was a split second too long.

He had control of her arms, but his grip was focused on her wrists, underestimating the strength of her torso. When she arched back, the blow to his chin made his grip slip. Just an inch. It was enough. In that brief instant, she twisted her right wrist, reversing her grip. Using the leverage of her own body, she drove the blade into Izuku's side. Breath hissed from his lungs. A white, searing pain exploded in his abdomen... consuming everything. For a second, his trained mind shut down, leaving only the white noise of shock and the hot, wet sensation spreading up his side.

“She stabbed me.” The realization was a dull blow. Only then did his training return. “Miscalculation. I underestimated her desperation.”

Izuku's grip loosened in shock, but the girl didn't run. She froze. The scent of her blood, now flowing freely down her side, filled the alleyway. Her golden eyes fixed on the dark stain growing on his shirt.

The girl's trembling intensified, but her attention was no longer on escaping. It was on the wound.

Izuku gritted his teeth, cold sweat beading on his forehead. His hypothesis had to be correct. It was the only variable that mattered.

Ignoring the fire on his side, and with an effort of will that cost him almost everything, he kept the knife in place—he knew that taking it out would be worse—and deliberately raised his free left arm, the one with the scrape, and pushed it toward her mouth.

"I hope... this works!" he gasped.

The sound she made was heartbreaking. He saw the struggle on her face, a war between instinct and a last vestige of humanity.

Instinct won.

She lunged at his arm, her lips brushing against his skin. Izuku felt the sharp prick of... fangs? Yes, fangs. They sank into his forearm and she began to suck.

The pain from the knife was still there, but now a new sensation was added: a pulling, an emptiness, as if his vitality were being drained. His vision began to blur at the edges.

But he held her. He stood, leaning against the brick wall, while the trembling girl drank from him.

And then, he noticed the change.

Her trembling stopped. The guttural growls ceased. The frantic grip on his arm softened, becoming almost a caress.

After what seemed like an eternity, she walked away.

She turned away slowly, her lips stained red. She looked up, and the emptiness in her golden eyes was gone. It had been replaced by a lucidity that was almost more painful: it was filled with utter confusion and horror.

She looked at the blood on her lips, then at the wound in Izuku's side, and finally at the knife that had fallen from his hand to the alley floor.

"No..." she murmured, her voice now that of a terrified girl. "Again... I did it again..."

Izuku finally allowed himself to slide down the wall, sitting abruptly on the damp floor. The world was spinning, but he forced himself to stay conscious. His hand tightened around the base of the knife, applying pressure to the wound.

He was pale, drenched in cold sweat, and it hurt to breathe. But when the girl looked at him, lost in her own horror, he offered her a smile.

It wasn't the martyr's smile from Bakugo's alley. It was a genuine smile, albeit tired and shaky. He had analyzed the situation, applied the countermeasure, and although the cost was high, it had worked. He had saved the day.

"Are you... better now?" he managed to say, his voice hoarse. "Do you... need... help?"

Toga Himiko, though he didn't know her name, froze. This boy, whom she had just stabbed, whom she had just fed on... was smiling at her. He was offering her help.

She didn't run away. She didn't attack. She simply stood there, trembling for a completely different reason, watching the boy bleeding on the ground and refusing to treat her like a monster.

For the first time, that broken girl felt tempted to trust.

—————————————————————

The world returned to me in a whisper.

The taste... warm. Sweet. It filled my mouth and calmed the trembling that had tormented my bones for days. It was life . And it was the only thing that mattered.

But as the fog of thirst dissipated, the clarity it brought was worse than the darkness. No, the clarity was the real darkness. The thirst was a warm, blurry veil; the lucidity was a cold knife.

It was a clean cut. A dose of reality.

I lifted my head from his arm. My lips were stained. He was against the wall, pale, sweating, his hand clenched around the knife I had plunged into him.

It had happened again.

"Again... I did it again..."

The hatred I felt for myself was a bitter taste, a bile that rose in my throat and that not even her sweet blood could mask. I froze, the trembling returning, but this time it wasn't from hunger. It was from guilt.

I always knew that something inside me was broken.

Ever since I was a child, the world seemed...colorless to me. The other children laughed, played, cried over scraped knees. I didn't understand the crying. I only saw color.

That vibrant red. Beautiful. The only thing that felt real. It was a warmth rising in my chest, a buzz that made everything else seem gray and dead.

Why couldn't anyone else see it?

"Mommy, Daddy... isn't it beautiful?"

I was hoping they would explain it to me. That they would help me understand the heat, the buzzing, the life I felt when I saw it.

But their eyes... their eyes turned cold. Empty. Filled with a horror I didn't understand at the time.

“Monster.”

That word was the first lock.

They tried to fix me. To hide me. They dressed me in normal clothes, taught me to smile normally, told me that what I felt was wrong, that it was dirty, that I should repress it. They turned me into a broken doll. The painted-on smile felt like wires pulling at my cheeks, a plaster mask that cracked a little more each day. They taught me to be normal, but normal was an itchy disguise that didn't let me breathe.

But the thirst... the thirst never went away.

I simply pushed her down, to the dark place where she grew, alone, feeding on my silence. She became a ravenous beast, clawing from within, slowly breaking through the plaster mask.

Until it overflowed.

Saito-kun.

He was brilliant. He smelled like sunshine and always smiled at me. He treated me with kindness. And one day, when he cut himself on a piece of paper, I saw that beautiful red mark on his finger.

I couldn't take it anymore. The doll broke. The wires snapped.

What followed was a blur. Screams. Sirens. The taste of his blood and the terror in his eyes.

I fled. I became a shadow.

My life was reduced to that: a shadow and a thirst. Cold nights, constant hunger, and the sterile, metallic taste of blood bags stolen from the hospital bins. But it was useless. It was dead blood, cold, lifeless. It tasted like ash. It calmed the physical trembling for an hour, maybe two, but the thirst… the thirst for life , for warmth… that only grew. It was like drinking salt water… No, it was worse than drinking salt water. It was like drinking cold sludge to quench the thirst of the ocean. My body absorbed it, but my soul rejected it.

I was drowning, falling into a spiral of darkness that swallowed the light.

Until today.

I saw him on the street. Walking in the sun.

It was a beacon. A light so warm, so alive, that it hurt to look at it.

And I wanted it.

I wanted that light. I wanted to turn it off. I wanted to consume it. I wanted it to fill me.

Thirst pulled me in, my body moving before my mind could scream.

I attacked him. I expected screams. I expected panic. I expected it to be easy .

But he... he didn't react like the others.

He didn't scream. He didn't run away in fear. He moved. He turned, as if he knew what he was doing, as if he had trained. I gained... control. He moved with a precision that both infuriated and fascinated me.

He held me. He trapped me. His arms were strong, but not cruel. There was no hatred in his grip.

I stabbed him.

I felt it. The blade sliding across his side. The warmth of his blood on my hand.

He should have hit me. He should have crushed me. He should have called me a monster and run away.

And then he... offered me his arm.

Voluntarily.

I took it. I couldn't help it. It was an instinct, a need deeper than breathing.

And now, here I was, trembling at the mess I'd made. The broken girl, covered in blood that wasn't hers. Ready to run, to hide, to hate myself in the darkness once more.

But then, he spoke.

His voice was hoarse, weak from the pain.

“Are you... better now? Do you... need... help?”

I looked up. The world stopped.

There was no fear in his eyes. There was no horror. There was no pity, nor that disgusted contempt I was so used to.

There was... sincerity.

He was looking at me. Not at the broken doll, not at the monster, not at the mistake.

He was looking at me .

And seeing me forced me to see myself. Not just the thirst, not just the hunger... but the frightened girl hiding behind it all.

He was offering me help after I stabbed him.

His light, that beacon I had wanted to extinguish, had not dimmed. It struck me. It burned me. It pierced me more deeply than any knife. His light did not merely illuminate me; it exposed me, and for some reason, it did not look away from what it saw.

It made me want to stay.

I didn't understand. Why didn't he hate me? How could I trust anyone?

I couldn't.

But I wanted to.

For the first time... I wanted to believe there was more than darkness. That I wasn't destined to be swallowed by it.

I didn't know what to do. I only knew that I didn't want to move away from that light.

Not this time.

—————————————————————

The world was shrinking.

The first thing Izuku noticed was the cold. Not the chill of the morning air, but an internal, invasive cold that spread like molten ice from the fire at his side, numbing his legs. The rusty, garbage-scented alleyway was being replaced by the pungent, metallic smell of his own blood, thick in the air.

The weight of fatigue was a lead anchor, pulling his eyelids down. The darkness at the edges of his vision not only advanced, but pulsed, growing thicker with each erratic beat of his heart.

“No. Not yet. I have to…”

With an effort that made him see hot, white stars, Izuku pulled out his phone. His fingers, slippery with his own blood and her saliva, felt foreign, thick, and useless. They failed twice to unlock the screen. The device felt like it weighed twenty kilos, an object impossible to handle. He dialed the number.

Barely a tone.

“Young Midoriya, I'm actually in a meeting right now…” Toshinori's voice was calm, almost casual, the background noise of a conference room, a murmur of normality that could be felt a million miles away.

Izuku inhaled, pain stealing his breath. There was no time for formalities. There was no time for Yagi-san.

“Toshinori... they... stabbed me.”

The silence on the line was absolute. So sudden and profound that Izuku could hear the dripping of a burst pipe ten meters away.

A second of silence.

Then, a crash. A muffled sound of violence ripped through the phone: the unmistakable sound of a heavy chair being thrown to the floor, followed by a stifled scream that wasn't meant for him.

“I have to go!” And then, the voice that returned was not that of Toshinori Yagi.

It was All Might's voice. It was the roar of a caged lion, low, restrained, vibrating with a compressed power that made the phone tremble in his weakened hand.

“Location. Now.”

Before Izuku could respond, Toshinori continued, urgency straining every syllable.

“I'm on my way. Don't move. Don't fall asleep. Do you hear me, Izuku? Don't close your eyes!”

The line was cut.

With trembling hands, Izuku managed to activate the GPS and share the location. The phone slipped from his hand and hit the cement with a dull thud.

Now... all that was left was to wait.

He released the breath he hadn't known he was holding, which sent a new spasm of pain through him, making him gasp. The world steadied for a moment.

Silence.

He looked up.

The girl—Toga—was still there. She stood frozen, about three meters away, vibrating with nervous energy. Her golden eyes flicked between him, then the fallen knife, then her own bloodstained hands. Izuku, his analytical mind battling the fog of shock, watched her survey the alley's only exit. She was taut as a wire, a trapped animal deciding whether the wounded predator was a threat or a trap.

“She is…” Izuku thought, the rusty smell of the alley mingling with the memory of the rusty smell of the beach. “…just like Takoba Beach. Something the world discarded. Something everyone is afraid to touch.” The connection was instant, uniting the place, the girl… and himself.

“Just like me.” The thought struck him with painful clarity.

The world had labeled her a mistake and thrown her into an alley. He'd been labeled a Deku and told to jump off a rooftop. It was the same equation, just with different variables.

The gray cat, the one that had gotten him into this mess, reappeared. It approached with absurd confidence, sniffed the growing dark patch next to Izuku, and, seemingly uninterested, walked over to Toga. It began rubbing against her leg, purring loudly.

The girl lowered her gaze, her eyes wide with confusion. A simple cat showing her an affection she seemed not to understand. And Izuku filed it away as another piece of analysis: the cat didn't sense danger, but comfort. A silent validation that the monster was, deep down, someone from whom one could seek warmth.

That small act of normalcy broke the unbearable tension.

Izuku took a deep breath, or tried to. The pain silenced him. Even so, he smiled. The smile tugged at the skin of his cheek; it felt strange and weak, more a grimace of pain than comfort.

"Hello..." His voice sounded like sandpaper. The blood loss made it sound rapid, almost feverish. "I'm Izuku."

She jumped, as if he had yelled at her.

“I think... we'll be here for a while. My... my friend is coming.”

He looked at her, not at the monster , but at the frightened girl the cat was comforting. Pillar Three. Analysis; A hero doesn't just defeat the villain, he salvagge the situation. His training with Toshinori wasn't just for fighting. It was for understanding. And to save her, to save this situation, he needed to understand her. He didn't need tactical data; he needed the most important variable: her story. The rescue, his first real rescue, had already begun.

“Do you want to…” he gasped, struggling to focus. Toga's face was doubling. “Do you want to... tell me your story?”

The girl looked at him.

The confusion on her face was replaced by a disbelief so profound it was almost painful. Her lips parted slightly. It was as if Izuku had asked her the most complex mathematical equation in the world. No one, it was clear, had ever asked her that question before.

The cat purred louder, pressing its head against Toga's knee. As if insisting.

“You can trust him. He is the Beacon.”

Toga shuddered. Her shoulders, which had been tense to her ears, slumped. She lowered her gaze, and a single tear traced a clean path through the dirt and dried blood on her cheek.

She didn't know why she was doing it. She didn't know if it was right. But the dam she had built over the years, the monster mask , finally cracked.

"My name..." she murmured, her voice so low that Izuku had to strain to hear it, a word he was unearthing from oblivion. "My name is Himiko... Toga Himiko."

She paused, swallowing hard.

“And I think... I think there's something broken inside me. Always has been.”

Izuku nodded, slowly, carefully. The darkness was pulling at him again, the cold rising in his chest. The pain was a tide threatening to drown him, but Toga's voice became an anchor. Izuku clung to it, using every word she spoke as a conscious focus to fight the rising tide of darkness. She was his buoy, and he refused to let go.

She began to speak. The words stumbled at first, then flowed: about feeling faded, about pretty red, about the plaster mask, about being called a monster.

He was listening.

He didn't judge. He just listened.

Her words mingled with the distant sound of... thunder? No. It was the sound of someone breaking the sound barrier, moving through the city at an impossible speed. It was getting louder.

Izuku's body screamed at him to give up, that the cold was too much, that he just wanted to close his eyes. But his mind clung to a single thought, a silent promise he made to himself and to the broken girl crying before him.

“I won't leave her alone.”