Chapter Text
Nine months changed people.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Most of the time, the changes happened slowly enough that nobody noticed until the old version of someone was already gone.
Izuku Midoriya noticed.
Mostly because he could still remember exactly how weak he used to be.
His fist slammed hard into the padded target hanging from the ceiling. Pain shot through his knuckles instantly.
“Again,” One said from somewhere behind him.
Izuku sucked in a sharp breath through his nose and reset his stance. Sweat clung to the back of his shirt, sticking uncomfortably against skin already covered in bruises that hadn’t fully healed from the week before.
Or maybe the week before that. Time blurred underground.
The punching bag swung slightly in front of him under the dim warehouse lights. The room smelled like dust, rusted metal, and sweat. Pipes lined the ceiling overhead while exposed wires ran unevenly across cracked walls.
Nothing about the place looked livable. It looked lived in, however. But after nine months, it felt more familiar than home ever had.
Izuku hit the target again, this time harder than before. The impact jolted painfully through his wrist.
“One more,” One said calmly.
Izuku wanted to collapse.
Instead, he punched again.
The bag snapped backward violently from the force before swinging back toward him. Izuku staggered half a step, chest heaving from exhaustion. Behind him, One finally moved from where he’d been leaning against the wall.
“You’re dropping your shoulder before impact,” he said. “It tells people where you’re aiming.”
Izuku wiped sweat from his face with the edge of his sleeve, breathing unevenly. “I’m trying not to break my hand.”
“You already did that twice this month.”
“That’s not encouraging.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
One stepped closer, grabbing Izuku’s wrist before repositioning his arm slightly.
“Again.”
Izuku glared weakly at the punching bag like it had personally offended him. Then he swung. The impact landed cleaner this time.
One let go of his wrist.
“Better.”
That single word hit harder than praise from anyone else ever had.
Because One never complimented things casually. If he said something was better, it meant Izuku had actually earned it. The thought sent something warm through his chest. Izuku immediately ignored it.
Nine months ago, he couldn’t throw a punch properly.
Now he could disarm someone in under ten seconds.
Nine months ago, he apologized every time somebody raised their voice.
Now he could hold eye contact without flinching.
Nine months ago, he still cried when he heard Katsuki Bakugo’s name.
Now he just went quiet.
One noticed all of it.
Of course he did.
“You hesitate less now,” One said suddenly. Izuku blinked, dragged from his thoughts. “Is that a good thing?”
“One depends on context.”
“That didn’t answer the question.”
“It answered accurately.”
Izuku rolled his eyes slightly.
One had become easier to understand over the months. Not softer. Definitely not nicer. But predictable in a strange way. Izuku had learned the rhythm of him—the quiet observations, the blunt honesty, the way he spoke like emotions were simply variables he didn’t personally experience.
Most people probably found him unsettling.
Izuku did too.
At first.
Now it just felt normal.
Which was probably concerning.
One moved toward the table nearby and grabbed a bottle of water before tossing it toward him without warning.
Izuku barely caught it in time.
“You stopped telegraphing your reactions,” One said casually. “That’s useful.”
Izuku unscrewed the bottle slowly, still catching his breath. “You make that sound sinister.”
“It is sinister.”
“…right.”
One leaned back against the table again, arms folding loosely across his chest while he watched Izuku recover.
The overhead lights flickered once.
Neither of them reacted.
“Again,” One said.
Izuku stared at him in disbelief. “I can’t feel my arms anymore.”
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Izuku opened his mouth.
Paused.
Then frowned because annoyingly enough, One was right.
One noticed that too.
A faint smirk tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth before disappearing almost immediately.
“Your footing,” he said, like the moment never happened. “Fix it.”
Izuku groaned loudly but stepped back into position anyway.
Because nine months ago, he jumped off a building wanting to die.
Nine months ago, fighting felt impossible. Wrong, even. Heroes fought. Villains fought. Strong people fought. Izuku survived conflict by making himself smaller than it, quieter than it, easier to ignore.
Now his body reacted before his thoughts could catch up.
One noticed immediately.
“You’re thinking again,” he said.
Izuku rolled his eyes faintly. “You say that like it’s a disease.”
“It slows you down.”
“That’s because you trained me like a criminal.”
“One trained you like someone who wants to stay alive.”
The correction came instantly. Blunt. Automatic.
Izuku hated how much sense it made.
The punching bag swung back toward him, and he stepped aside automatically instead of letting it slam into his shoulder. Across the room, One gave a small approving nod.
That was another thing.
The rules.
One called them rules even though none of them were written down anywhere. They weren’t heroic lessons or inspirational speeches. They were survival instructions disguised as fighting techniques.
Over the months, Izuku had memorized all of them whether he wanted to or not.
If somebody pulls a weapon, assume they know how to use it.
If someone’s bigger than you, attack balance before strength.
Never throw the first punch emotionally.
People telegraph fear before they telegraph attacks.
Mercy and hesitation are not the same thing.
That last one took the longest to understand.
Sometimes Izuku still wasn’t sure he fully did.
One pushed him harder every month. Hard enough that Izuku occasionally wondered if he was being trained or rebuilt.
Probably both.
The worst rule, though—the one that stayed buried in the back of his mind no matter what they were doing—was the first thing One told him after he recovered.
The world does not care if you’re kind while it’s killing you.
At the time, Izuku hated hearing it.
Now he hated how true it sounded.
“Again,” One said calmly.
Izuku groaned under his breath but moved anyway, fists raising automatically into position.
One tilted his head slightly while watching him.
“You stopped apologizing after getting hit,” he observed.
Izuku blinked. “What?”
“You used to say sorry every time you messed up,” One said. “Even during sparring.”
Heat crept immediately into Izuku’s face.
“I did not.”
One stared at him silently.
“…okay maybe a little.”
“One counted seventeen apologies in one session.”
“That’s not normal information to memorize.”
“One likes patterns.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
Something almost amused flickered briefly across One’s expression before disappearing again.
Izuku noticed those things now too.
Nine months ago, One barely felt human to him. Now Izuku could recognize tiny shifts in expression most people would completely miss.
A slight head tilt meant curiosity.
Long silences usually meant irritation.
And the almost-smirk—that one was rare enough to feel dangerous.
“One more round,” One said.
Izuku stared at him in disbelief. “I’m exhausted.”
“That’s the point.”
“You say that about literally everything.”
“And One is usually correct.”
Izuku groaned loudly enough to echo through the warehouse, but stepped back into position anyway.
Because another one of the rules was painfully simple:
Your body gives up long before your survival instinct does.
And Izuku was starting to realize something deeply concerning about himself.
He survived things now.
The next hit landed harder than the last. The punching bag snapped backward violently before swinging back toward him. Izuku sidestepped it automatically, breathing heavily as sweat dripped from his jaw onto the concrete floor below.
Across the room, One watched quietly.
Then, unexpectedly—
“You’ll need to improve your reaction time before the U.A. attack.”
Izuku froze mid-step.
The room suddenly felt much quieter.
“…the what?”
One didn’t react to his tone. He simply pushed himself away from the table and crossed the room calmly, stepping around scattered tools and loose wires without looking at them.
“The U.A. attack,” he repeated like it was obvious. “Approximately two months from now.”
Izuku stared at him, waiting for clarification that never came.
“You’re joking.”
“One doesn’t joke.”
“That’s not true, you literally—” Izuku stopped himself, frustration flashing across his face. “Wait, attack?”
One tilted his head slightly.
“Yes.”
“You said that way too casually.”
“That’s because One already processed it emotionally.”
“That is NOT how emotions work!”
One ignored that completely.
“The schedule still isn’t finalized,” he continued calmly. “But the timing is close enough that preparation matters now.”
Izuku’s stomach twisted faintly.
U.A.
Just hearing the name still hurt sometimes.
The massive gates. The hero course. The dreams he used to build entire futures around before everything collapsed.
And now One was talking about attacking it.
Like it was just another assignment.
“You’re serious,” Izuku said quietly.
“One is usually serious.”
“That’s not the important part!”
One looked mildly confused for exactly half a second before continuing anyway.
“The attack itself isn’t complicated. Security response time has predictable flaws, hero students are inexperienced under actual pressure, and the faculty relies too heavily on overwhelming force as intimidation.”
Izuku just stared at him.
The fact that One spoke about U.A. like a structure instead of a school made something cold settle uncomfortably in his chest.
“…why?” he asked finally.
One was quiet for a moment.
Then he shrugged slightly.
“Several reasons.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the correct amount of answer.”
Izuku rubbed a hand over his face tiredly.
Nine months.
Nine months with One and conversations still somehow felt like fighting.
“One,” he said carefully, “why are you attacking U.A.?”
One looked at him for a long moment before answering.
“Because symbols break people faster than violence does.”
The room fell silent.
Izuku frowned faintly.
“What does that even mean?”
“It means heroes rely on public faith more than actual stability,” One said. “U.A. represents safety. If people stop believing in it, everything connected to it weakens.”
The words landed heavily.
Too heavily.
Izuku looked away first.
Part of him wanted to argue. Wanted to defend the school he spent years dreaming about. Wanted to say U.A. was more than just a symbol.
But another part of him remembered rooftops.
Hallways.
Teachers who looked sorry for him instead of angry when they told him he couldn’t apply.
A world built entirely around people like him being unnecessary.
One noticed his silence immediately.
“You don’t have to agree with it,” he said calmly. “You just need to survive it.”
Izuku’s throat tightened faintly.
“…and you want me there?”
“Yes.”
The answer came instantly.
No hesitation.
No uncertainty.
Izuku stared at him.
“Why?”
One crossed his arms loosely.
“Because you learn quickly.”
“That’s not a real reason.”
“You adapt well under pressure.”
“That’s worse somehow.”
A faint almost-smirk appeared briefly at the corner of One’s mouth.
Then vanished.
“One month ago you couldn’t disarm One successfully,” he said. “Yesterday you managed it twice.”
Izuku frowned slightly. “You let me do that.”
“One allowed the first attempt. The second one was real.”
That caught him off guard enough to silence him for a second.
One tilted his head slightly.
“You’re improving,” he said simply. “So One is bringing you.”
The statement settled into the room with uncomfortable weight.
Not asking.
Telling.
Izuku looked down at his bruised knuckles quietly.
Two months.
U.A.
Heroes.
Katsuki.
The thought alone made something twist sharply in his chest.
One noticed that too.
Of course he did.
But instead of commenting, he simply nodded once toward the punching bag again.
“Your guard drops when you’re distracted,” he said calmly.
Izuku stared at him in disbelief.
“We’re not done with this conversation.”
“One knows.”
“Then why are you acting like we are?”
“One wants to see if you can stay focused after emotional destabilization.”
“…you are actually insane.”
“Probably.”
Then One pointed at the punching bag again.
“Again.”