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Shouta sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his forehead before exhaling. He looked at Shinsou and wondered how this had happened.
In truth, he knew very well how it had happened. It was because of how difficult this man’s quirk was. They wanted Shouta on hand when dealing with it. The problem’s name was Nemoto Shin. Quirk — Confession.
Most of the Shie Hassaikai were easy enough to understand. Some had felt undervalued by society and wanted a place to belong, while others enjoyed the chance to to cause mayhem, or the money that the Yakuza’s illicit activities brought in.
Nemoto Shin, however, was a complete wildcard. He had refused to speak with investigators, meeting any attempts with stony silence. Because of this, investigators had dug deeper into the man’s history They’d found a rather surprising detail that had been missed.
A partial DNA match with Shinsou.
When investigators had mentioned his name during their subsequent meeting, they’d finally got a reaction. Nemoto had reportedly been visibly irritated, demanding to know how they’d found that name.
“Are they a relative of yours?” one of the investigators had asked, not answering Nemoto’s inquiry. It was several seconds before he replied.
“He was,” Nemoto replied tersely.
“Was?” the investigator asked confusedly.
“Yes. As in the past tense of is,” Nemoto said with a scowl. “Or did you not know he died.”
“What do you mean he—”
“—Hmph, you heroes are all the same. At least Chisaki looked when I asked him to find out where Hitoshi was.”
He leaned closer to the bulletproof-glass between him and the investigator, clenching his fists. “At least he was honest enough to tell me about Hitoshi’s death.”
Hitoshi tugged at his shirt nervously. He didn’t recognize the name ‘Nemoto Shin,’ but the man had apparently recognized his. Nemoto wanted to talk, and the investigators wanted information.
Hitoshi just wanted to know how a member of the Yakuza knew him. His old classmates had made jokes about villain relatives, but they had been just that — bad jokes.
Mr. Aizawa finally stopped, pressing a finger to a scanner in the wall before the door slid open silently. As Hitoshi followed him, he took in the room. It was rather simple, with a sleek desk coming out from the wall, a glass window revealing a man on the other side with thin-rimmed glasses and a sour expression. He was staring at the wall, hands folded in his lap.
His eyes widened. He looked familiar…
A tap from Mr. Aizawa on the window caught Nemoto’s attention. He stood up smoothly before pulling his chair up to his side of the desk and sitting down. Hitoshi could practically feel Nemoto’s gaze weighing down on him for several long minutes before he finally spoke.
“Are you Toga Himiko?”
Hitoshi suddenly felt a weight fall over his mind. The few people who had let him use Brainwashing had described it as feeling as if they were floating, barely aware of what was going on. If at all. Nemoto’s quirk was completely different. It felt like a hammer smashing up against his mental walls— No, it was more focused than that. It was careful but unyielding — like a knife. So very familiar—
Suddenly the weight fell as abruptly as it had risen. Hitoshi turned to Mr. Aizawa in alarm. His mentor’s hair was raised, eyes glowing red.
“Do that again and this conversation is over,” Mr. Aiazawa warned. Nemoto scowled, but he must have stopped because Mr. Aizawa’s hair fell back down around his head. “Good,” he said, pulling out a bottle of eyedrops and squeezing some from the dropper into each eye. “Continue.”
Nemoto didn’t answer immediately, taking several moments before responding. “Are you going to answer my question?” he finally said, pointing to Hitoshi.
“What was it—”
“Are you Toga Himiko?”
Hitoshi shook his head. “Not last time I checked. Can I ask you a question?”
Nemoto scowled. “The real Hitoshi would know I’d never fall for tha—”
“Gotcha.”
Hitoshi released his quirk as quickly as he’d activated it, though Mr. Aizawa still made a point of glaring at him in warning.
Nemoto chuckled, a small smirk on his face. “Well that’s new.” Suddenly a memory pushed its way to the forefront of Hitoshi’s mind — the pieces finally clicking into place.
Seven years ago.
“Can you take these to your friend?” Mum asked, holding out a pair of glasses.
Hitoshi nodded rapidly. “Uh-huh!” he said, before quickly dashing out the door. After a little bit he turned left down an old alley and started walking. It wasn’t long before he heard the sound of his friend. “Naoki?” he called out, looking to the right and left.
A teen around eighteen or nineteen stepped out from the shadows, his black hair cut short and his eyes narrowed before they settled on Hitoshi.
“Took you long enough,” Naoki said with a snort. “You really should—”
“—Pay more attention,” Hitoshi finished with a roll of his eyes. “I know. You say that every time.”
“And it’s always true,” Naoki said. Hitoshi went to answer Naoki’s statement, but was stopped. “Let’s not spend time on that,” Naoki said. “Anything interesting happen?”
Hitoshi revealed the glasses, handing them over to Naoki. Naoki looked them over with a critical eye before holding them out toward Hitoshi.. “You don’t have to—”
“Mum got them for you,” Hitoshi said, crossing his arms. “You can’t give them back.”
“Then I’ll just—”
“Please. Try them at least?”
Naoki sighed and rolled his eyes at Hitoshi's request. Teenagers. Still, he did put them on.
He blinked several times before looking around the alley. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly — just a ghost of a smile.”
“Tell your moms thanks for me.”
“You could come tell them yours—”
“—No,” Naoki interrupted harshly. “I’ll just bring trouble — that’s your family — not mine.”
“They—”
“Just drop it, Hitoshi.”
“Okay, Nao—”
“ —ki?”
“It is you…” Nemoto— no, Naoki said slowly.
“In the ever-sleep-deprived-flesh,” Hitoshi deadpanned. He sighed. “You just… left.”
“My… ‘guardian,’ did something—something big. I don’t know what but we had to leave. Immediately.”
“Well, at least we found each other.”
Nemoto smiled slightly. “I suppose I can't disagree with that.”
Shouta sat across from the man now known as Naoki. This time he was alone — this discussion didn’t concern his pseudo-student.
“Good morning,” he deadpanned before finishing the last of his now-cold coffee.
“Indeed,” Naoki snorted, smirking slightly before wiping the expression away and adjusting his glasses. “Though I understand that you’re here to talk with me about my offer, no?”
“Uh-huh,” Shouta grunted. “But what happened to ‘the secrecy of the Yakuza?’” he said dryly.
“There is one line I won’t cross, Eraserhead,” Naoki said in a low voice. “Lying. Straight to a person’s face.”
“That’s strange considering you joined the Yakuza,” Shouta said. Naoki scowled.
“I thought I found someone who would be honest with me,” Naoki said. “He didn’t lie. He asked me to join up-front. He told me what he was doing. He believed it. I checked.”
Naoki leaned closer, staring Shouta right in the eye. “And the one time I didn’t, he told me that the one other person who had, was dead. The boy you brought who sat right across from me.”
He leaned back, exhaling deeply. “I don’t pretend to be a good man. But Hitoshi always thought I could be a hero. He was like the brother I never had.” Naoki shook his head and frowned. “He was wrong. I’m no hero and we aren’t family. But maybe I can help right some of my wrongs — for his sake.”
Shouta had told neither Shinsou nor Naoki the truth of their relation — it seemed that “Naoki” was only distantly related — barely worth mentioning.
And really, they were brothers. The technicalities to the contrary were worth as much as Shouta’s dingy apartment.