Archive of Our Own ^beta

Midoriya's consciousness wavers, tethering between wakefulness and sleep.

His eyes struggle to open as if held shut by a heavy, rubbery weight. His limbs feel disconnected, a deep numbness spreading from his extremities to his head, leaving him with the unsettling sensation that he doesn’t belong in his own body. There is also a heaviness, a bone-melting sensation that sends waves of soothing warmth through his veins.

It was oddly relaxing, but this wasn’t normal. Something was wrong.

He forces his tired eyelids to open, curious yet terrified to see what happened or worse, where he is. Once light enters his strained eyes, he squints, forcing them to adjust to the dimly lit room. He turns his head, to the left and then to the right, each movement slow and sluggish. Everything moves. The colors in his vision fuzz over into a mismatched set of dull colors, looking like distorted smudges.

From what he can piece together through the haze clouding his vision is that he’s in a basement of sorts, dimly lit by the faint flicker of a single hanging light bulb. The walls, constructed from coarse, uneven bricks, seem to trap the stale air within, while the concrete ceiling above looms heavy and unyielding. To his side, just a few steps away, stands a door—its outline blurred and distorted in his weary eyes.

Then there’s the chair he’s seated on. He tries to move his hands, but a restrictive force holds them in place. Focusing on his body, he realizes he’s strapped to a padded, reclining chair, his wrists and ankles firmly bound. And his clothes. It feels—foreign. From what he can perceive, he is wearing a grey shirt and a pair of black sweatpants. But…wasn’t he wearing his uniform?

His eyes then move upward. Through his warped vision, something unusual catches his eye—a faint glimmer near his arm. Squinting, he notices an IV line inserted into the bend of his right elbow, the thin tube snaking to a bag that’s dripping a strange transparent liquid.

Midoriya’s breathing hitches. This isn’t right. Something is very wrong.

But—how did this happen?

The last thing he remembered was walking to his mom’s apartment after school, excited to be home for the weekend. Then this guy stopped him, requesting an autograph from him. He happily agreed and signed a picture of himself that the man had. They soon parted ways, but he didn’t remember much after that, his memories became fuzzy after that encounter. But he faintly remembers a man—the same one he signed an autograph for—and then falling to the ground—

Oh.

That man. Right. He’s been kidnapped.

Great…another one.

Well, that explains the “how”. Now, where is he? And why is he here?

He doesn’t have much to work with and with the heavy fog enveloping his mind, he can barely conceptualize an answer to his questions. There was nothing to work with; not even windows to hint him on the time of day.

But one thing is for sure, he can’t stay here. He has to find a way out. But before he can think through his options, the door to his entrapment clicks until a loud creak emanates and spreads through the room.

“Ah! You're awake! Good.” A voice says. Midoriya tries to crane his neck to look at the mysterious person, his body encased in a shadow produced by the bright lights from outside the cell, “Thought I gave you too much.”

The figure approaches and stops beside the trapped teenager. From what Midoriya can make out, the man looks young, appearing to be in his early twenties. His hair is a pristine white, with strands that seem to shimmer faintly with each subtle movement of his head. His skin is as pale as frost, nearly devoid of color, amplifying the striking contrast of his appearance. He wears a navy trench coat over a black shirt and matching black pants, the dark attire standing in sharp contrast to his almost ghostly complexion. Piercing navy eyes scan Midoriya intently as if marveling at his work.  

Midoriya is disgusted.

“Why…” He opens his mouth, his words coming out raspy. “Why am I—here?”

“Oh! Well, you kind of saved Japan from the big bad guy so, you're quite famous. And fame makes someone valuable.” The man explains, “You're just here to help bring in some income for me! Nothing much. And since we’ll be hanging out together for some time, might as well introduce myself. I’m Yuto, just Yuto.”

Midoriya is stunned by what he just heard. So, this guy simply wants him for money? Is he part of a quirk trafficking ring? Or is he simply kidnapped for ransom? Well, whatever the reason, Midoriya knows he can’t just lie around waiting to find out.

“I hope we can get ourselves acquainted before I send you off.” Yuto comments.

Midoriya snarls, “Yeah, sure.” He says, his voice coming back to him. His body feels unresponsive, but his mind is clearing, meaning that whatever he’s being given isn’t a sedative but likely a paralytic. The lingering fog clouding his mind must be from whatever drug he was given during his capture. “Like I’ll let that happen!” He spits out.

“Man… you're loud,” He takes a step back, closes his eyes, and rubs the temples of his forehead. “Can you just be quiet…sheeze you were better when you were asleep.”

Oh, he is sensitive to sound.

Could that be his quirk? Sound sensitivity?

Midoriya smiles. Well, what a turn of events. That’s good news for him—but also bad news for him. Matter of fact, he’s picked up a lesson or two from Bakugo about being a loud menace, so he might as well put it to good use.

“Ha! Like hell!! I can be as loud as I freaking want!! You thought I was just a shy, timid boy?! Oh god, you are so wrong!” Midoriya belts.

The villain squints in pain. “I’m warning you…shut up,” Yuto warns, his voice laced with both irritation and sinisterness.

Midoriya notices the shift in his tone. He knows he’s pushing it, but if sound could incapacitate him enough to limit his movement, then maybe he could find a way out of this predicament.

“Oh! Like I’m going to shut up!!” he bellows, his voice echoing through the space with unrestrained defiance. “You better make me because I will be yapping and yapping the night away! From sunset to sunrise! I will scream for the whole world to hear!!!” His throat burns from the strain, each word rasping out with a raw intensity that matched the fire in his glare.

“Dammit…you heroes.” The villain utters. He cups his hands over his forehead, fingers pressing into his skin before sliding them down over his face in a slow, exasperated motion, “I really thought we could move on without using my quirk but if you are going to be this much of nuisance then might as well.”

Midoriya jolts.

Wait, sound sensitivity isn’t his quirk!?

He strides over to the IV bag, retrieves a syringe, and plunges it into the small opening. “I told you to shut up, but you just don’t listen, do you?” he mutters, his voice cold. A stark sky-blue liquid swirls as it mixes into the clear solution. “Looks like I’ll have to force you to stop that irritating chatter. After all, you don’t need a voice to be useful.”

Midoriya's eyes widen in panic, seeing the now-blue liquid drip into the drip chamber before flowing into his IV line.

“Actually, you would be worth more like that. Someone who can’t speak, can’t talk back, can’t cry for help, can’t voice their thoughts. You’ll be easy to control.” Yuto marvels, his lips curling into a menacing smile.  

Midoriya wants to talk back, to say something but his body—it feels weird. He begins to feel like he is being frozen in place, turned into a statue. The disconnection of his limbs becomes amplified. A strange tingling spread across his arms, like pins and needles, but far more insistent and unrelenting than before. Everything feels trapped beneath an invisible weight, pressing him into stillness.

“What did you—do to me!” He says his voice trembling, his heart in his throat.

“I just added a stronger paralytic than the one you have.” He removes a satin glove from his hand. “For my quirk to work, you need to remain still.”

Midoriya’s thoughts swirl in panic, “What quirk?! What the hell are you doing?!” He demands.

The hand gets closer and closer to his—neck? He has no idea what this guy is doing or what his quirk is, but it’s obviously touch-activated. He couldn’t, at all cost, let him touch him.

“Get away!” He shouts.

He squirms, jostles, twists, and turns. He does everything in his power to evade the hand steadily closing in on him.

“Shhh! Just be quiet,” But it is no use—the hand clasps around his neck, and the pain that follows is unlike anything he ever imagined he could endure.

The pain spikes to extraordinary levels, searing through him like a raging fire. It feels like he is being squeezed, like his throat is being squished together without reprieve, cutting off not just air but relief. The agony is grating—unbearable. There is a stabbing and an almost corrosive sensation as if his throat is being pierced with thousands of acid-drenched needles at every conceivable angle. Every swallow, every breath, sends a fresh wave of fire rippling through the raw, shredded tissue.

He screams and screams, and screams, desperate to make it stop. His screeches echo through the gloomy basement-like room, keeping him enclosed with no way out from the agony. The more he howls, the more the searing pain intensifies, clawing at his senses. He tries to break free, desperation taking hold. He attempts to twist his neck, clenching his eyes shut, hoping to find even a shred of relief, but nothing…he can’t feel or move anything. He can only feel the vague outer sensation of the man’s hand wrapped around his neck like iron shackles. He wants to pull and yank on his restraints, his mind urging him, but he can’t. The numbness in his limbs was all-consuming, keeping him melted onto the padded chair.

All he can do is scream in agony as his throat feels like it's being torn apart from within, tears streaming down his face.

 “STOP!! STOP!!” He wails. “PLEASE!!!”

“A little more…” Yuto voices, occasionally flinching whenever Midoriya screams but keeping his focus streamlined.

Every breath Midoriya sucks in causes a wave of pain to roll through him. Even through the numbness, he could feel it all, the torment pummeling through his body like waterfalls cascading and crashing onto the water below. He wants it to stop. He wants it to end. He wants a way out of this suffering.

“AHHH!!!” He writhes in pain.

“And done…” The villain removes his hands and as soon as he does, the pain recedes.

Midoriya gasps. He takes quick, uneven breaths, each an unyielding struggle. Sweat beads on his forehead, trickling down his flushed skin. His chest rises and falls in quick succession, yearning for air, but no matter how hard he tries the air feels thin—not enough. The phantom sensation of being burned from the inside out lingers, a relentless hold not wanting to let go.

“W—hy…” He tries to speak but his voice sounds rough and horsed. “Quirk—w-hat—is it?” His voice cracks with every syllable, breaking dangerously.

“You want to know what my quirk is?” He places the satin glove back on his hand, “Well in simple words I can manipulate and condition the body in whichever way I see fit. That includes cells, ligaments, organs like the brain, the mind, anything.” Yuto wraps his arms behind his back and gazes at the anguished boy. “You know, Midoriya. You didn’t have to go through this if you just shut your mouth. You could have made your stay nice and comfortable.”

Midoriya didn’t listen to his last statement, his mind too focused on the details of his quirk.

A quirk that can manipulate bodily functions—just the thought of it spells trouble. What did he do to his throat? The pain…it far surpassed any injury he’d ever endured while learning to wield One for All.

“I could have easily turned off your quirk this way. It's quite easy actually. Limits the use of quirk suppressants. But you don’t have one anymore, so that’s one problem dealt with. You just have those weak so-called embers.” The villain continues.

“My—throat…” Midoriya attempts to voice, interrupting the villain’s comment.

“Your throat?” Yuto repeats. “I told you I was going to stop your irritating chatter, didn’t I? Other methods take too long, so the answer to speeding up the process is by programming your immune system to attack your vocal cords.”

Midoriya's heart jolts in horror, dread twisting in his gut.  

“It’s a slow process, however. The immune system is a complex system. It’ll take me a few days…” Yuto explains.

“D-Days?” He whispers, horrified.

The young hero freezes, stunned by what he just heard. Though he can’t feel them, he knows his hands are cold and clammy from his surging anxiety. The numbness enveloping his body suppresses the shivers racing down his spine, yet it can’t dampen the wave of panic surging uncontrollably within him, affecting his internal organs that are unaffected by the drugs.

Days…

He has to experience that pain for days?!

He will have to be crazy if he thinks he's going to just lay there and be subjected to that gruesome pain for days, all just to take away his voice, his one mode of communication. He won't let him do that; he'll get out one way or another.

“N-No!” He shouts, coming out strained and raspy but loud, nonetheless. “I—won’t—l-let you do—that!!” Every shout scratches his throat as if he has gone days without water. His pitch screeches every so often, his voice attempting to do its work despite the damage it sustained.

Midoriya then screams and screams, constant and without end, each cry scraping at his throat like sandpaper granularly rubbing against each other. The pain begs him to stop, but he pushes through, refusing to give up.

He can’t move. He can’t fight. Right now, his voice is his only weapon against this vile person. As long as he can make sound—no matter how broken it is—he will wield it.

Yuto clamps his hands over his ears, his face contorted in obvious distress, teeth grinding as if to block out the unbearable noise. "Dammit! I put up with your screaming, but this—this is too much!" he snarls, his voice edged with frustration. Pulling off one of his gloves with a sharp tug, he leans forward. "I can’t have you doing that anymore, so..."

He presses his bare index finger firmly against Midoriya’s forehead. The teenager halts, his screams cutting off abruptly, his expression shifting to one of confusion and horror. Yuto smirks venomously, tilting his head slightly. "I know this process is going to hurt like hell, and yeah, you’ll scream and scream until there’s nothing left of your voice. That’s fine. I can endure that much. But I can’t have you yelling the night away," he says casually, his tone leaking with menace, "so I’ll just have to tweak your brain a little. Just enough to give you a little nudge to stop your annoying yelps."

A new rising panic flutters and spreads through Midoriya. His tear-filled eyes go wide, washed head to toe with an immense sense of dread.

“What—”

Midoriya’s words cut off. Something shifts in his reality as he lies, unmoving, while the finger presses firmly on his skin.

“You might dissociate…that’s normal.” Yuto’s voice comes through, but it sounds muffled as if he’s submerged underwater. “When I manipulate thought patterns, it can lead to a momentary sense of disconnection.”

The feeling starts out slow and at first, he tries to say something but suddenly the sensation hits him like a freight train.

Midoriya relaxes, allowing his body to sink further onto the chair, the dissociation drowning him in a disorienting cocoon. It’s strange. He feels flat and lifeless, oddly foreign, like wearing a suit he wasn’t quite sure how to wear. The numbness that continues to hug him seems to get amplified by the increasing disconnection. His clothes, the reclining chair, his restraints, and even the finger on his head feel muted and distant. And his vision. It keeps narrowing, everything beyond the immediate moment fading into a shapeless blur.

“Let’s put this here and that there.”

Midoriya can see a light emanating from his forehead, but he does not react...he can’t. He can’t even hear his own thoughts.

He doesn’t know how long he remains there, disconnected and seemingly out of it. Seconds stretch into minutes, and minutes dissolve into nothing. He might’ve been there for hours; he truly has no idea.

“There we go, done.”

The glowing stops and Yuto removes his finger from his forehead, his glove comes back to cover his bare hand.

Midoriya slightly twitches at the change but does nothing—well, he feels like nothing. His mind is completely empty, blank like an empty canvas. White noise replaces his thoughts, buzzing as if his mind were an old TV stuck on constant static, impossible to tune out.

“Well,” Yuto steps back, keeping his gaze on the delirious teenager. Midoriya’s eyes stare at the ceiling, unfocused and unseeing, completely fixated on the dull texture. “You’ll probably be that way for a few hours. Conditioning someone’s thoughts can take quite a toll on the mind. But my work should shut you up now.”

Midoriya should feel fear; he should be panicking, but there’s nothing, just fuzz. His emotions are locked away, unable to be breached. He can sense, somewhere deep in his thoughts, someone yelling at him, telling him that something is wrong. But it feels distant, like an echo in someone else’s head that isn’t his.

“I’ll be back. And don’t scream or—well you’ll find out what happens if you.” Yuto chuckles. The villain turns on his heels and walks away with an almost sense of prowess in him. He grabs the handle to the door and pulls, “I’ll be back tonight for our next session.”

Midoriya’s head slowly turns to look at him. He blinks, the simple movement taking ages to complete. He doesn't know what he means by his first statement, he can’t hold onto anything for longer than a few seconds. His thoughts feel like they are a bunch of scattered pieces, left over from a shattered mirror.

“Your quietness is such a relief. You know, I could have just made you into a delirious mess, but you’ll be reduced to a useless product.” Midoriya hears him but all he can do is blink. Yuto grins. “Alright, I’ll let you be.” He flicks a switch and plunges the place into darkness. The door closes with a loud clank, leaving Midoriya alone in the darkened abyss.

All Midoriya can do is lie there, his body a leaden shell, completely unresponsive. He closes his eyes, feeling frozen in a fog he can’t escape.

“Rise and shine!”

Midoriya jolts awake. His body instinctively tries to sit up, only to be yanked back by the restraints binding him. A small yelp escapes his lips before he abruptly cuts it off. A strange, tight sensation suddenly flares in his throat. Panic rises as he tries to reach for his neck, desperate to understand why it feels like his throat is closing up. But he can’t, his body remains pinned, the restraints keeping him down.

“Quiet, you’ll make it worse.”

Midoriya's head twists and his eyes land on the villain, soon realizing where he is. Midoriya shifts his gaze and looks at the IV bag—the blue substance is gone. He can feel more of his body, and he doesn’t feel that intense disconnection as before.

Wait—disconnection.

Suddenly, fear sinks to the pit of his stomach as he remembers.

The dissociation.

The finger.

The glow that came after.

Yuto did something…

What did he do?!

“What the hell did you—” Midoriya begins, his voice quiet and raspy, but he pauses. The sensation from before is back but worse…way worse. His throat begins to close up, clenching tighter and tighter as if invisible hands had wrapped around his windpipe, squeezing without remorse. “Ack!” He chokes. He gasps for air, each sharp inhale a desperate attempt to hold on to the oxygen rapidly escaping him.

After a few seconds, the sensation fades. Midoriya is stunned. His breaths come quick and shallow as his mind races—what just happened?

“You tested it out. I’m glad to see it works.” Yuto comments.

Tested it out…wait! Did his—did his quirk…do this?

Midoriya mentally remarks, panting, still recovering from that frightening experience.

Obviously, he did something to my throat. It feels so raspy, and I can already feel it getting—worse. But why—why did that happen? Why did I just feel like I was being choked after I said something?!  

“Oh, you seem pensive. Are you curious about what I did to you?” Yuto asks, wheeling a chair over and sitting beside the shocked teenager, “Well, you wouldn’t shut up so, while I continue my work on you, I added a little ‘reminder’ for when you decide to open your mouth.”

“How—” Midoriya attempts to speak, but the sensation surges back. He immediately snaps his mouth shut.

“How? Easy. I conditioned your thoughts to associate talking with the sensation of choking. So, anytime you say something, you’ll feel like someone is squeezing your throat. The more you talk or produce any noise, the worse it gets.” Yuto explains, crossing his legs and leering at his captive. “It’s best you don’t talk unless you want to experience that. Anyway! You were out for the entire day! I guess my quirk really wore you out.”

Yuto stands up and walks around Midoriya to stand beside the IV stand, “You’re past due for your next session!”

Midoriya flinches, fear gripping him as he stops himself just short of releasing even a faint gasp.

That pain. His throat. He almost forgot that this villain wants to subject him through that agony multiple times. Midoriya panics, he can’t—no, he didn’t want to experience that again.

And after what Yuto did to his mind, any type of noise will trigger that choking sensation to flare up.

Can he prevent himself from screaming? From uttering any words? Was that even possible when experiencing pain more excruciating than breaking multiple bones at once?

At this point, he knows escape is impossible. His voice is still there, but he can’t use it unless he wants to risk experiencing that agony. Worse, he is immobilized with no way to break free. All he can do is hope for a miracle—that someone will come to rescue him and pull him out of this hell.

But that possibility seems bleak. He doesn’t know if they will find him or…if they are even searching for him.

“Well, you know how this goes.” He retrieves a syringe containing the same striking sky-blue liquid from before, glinting ominously. With a practiced hand, he inserts the needle into the IV bag and depresses the plunger, sending the vivid substance swirling into the clear solution. A smirk tugs at his lips. “But unlike last time, screaming will actually hurt you. It’ll be fun to see how long you can resist before you have to let out a yelp.”

Midoriya wants to kick, move, flail, and even scream—do anything to stop the inevitable. But once the drug drips into the drip bar and steams down the line and into his veins, he feels the numbness in his limbs spread once again. He is left vulnerable. His arms lie useless at his sides, heavy and distant.

Stay strong, Izuku. Stay strong.

“Look at that, what a change. You are so much more cooperative than before.” The villain complements.

Midoriya scowls.

Like I have a choice.

“Let’s begin then.” Yuto removes his glove and steps forward.

Midoriya’s eyes glint with fear. He tries to move his head—the only part of his body that is unaffected by the drugs. But the struggle is futile. Yuto wraps his hand around his neck, feeling the chill that comes from his cold, clammy hand. His head presses firmly on the headrest, keeping him from moving.

“Well…this is going to hurt.”

Stay strong.

The pain begins. Midoriya scrunches his eyes shut, hoping such action would limit the incoming torment.

Stay strong. Don’t scream.

But the pain suddenly skyrockets. A tiny whimper escapes Izuku’s mouth and the sensation blips.

No. No. No. Don’t scream.

The agony gets worse. Sweat drips down Midoriya’s forehead and tears form under his shut eyelids.

He wants to—his body begs to wail, to release his suffering into the universe, yet his lips stay firmly shut.

Don’t scream!!

But it hurts…it hurts so bad!

Please!

A whine escapes from his lips, and he feels his breathing hitching as the compressing sensation manifests.

Don’t!

He can’t do it. He has to, this is too much!

NOO!!

Midoriya opens his mouth and a gruntle cry vibrates through the basement, causing Yuto to jump slightly.

“Oh, that was quick. I guess you couldn’t hold it, huh?”

As soon as his mouth goes agape, he can’t stop. He screams and wails and howls—each belt paired with the insufferable feeling of strangulation. His throat burns as if his insides have been poured with melted lava, and his chest heaves with desperate attempts to draw in a breath. A cold, primal terror shoots through him. His mind screams, 'Breathe, breathe!'. But with every breath he takes and every exhale he forces out, sustained shouts follow closely, gradually becoming more and more airy and silent as his throat continues to close up.  

Yet, each wail gets abruptly stopped by ragged, guttural gasps, each a desperate plea for a breath. His lungs beg for air—the little he can draw in is ripped away by his repeated anguished screams, leaving him in a torturous cycle of suffocation and unimaginable agony.

He would squirm and wiggle, try anything to get out of this suffering. But his limbs feel like a shell of nothing, devoid of life. He simply lies there, gasping and wheezing.  

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

He lets out another cry, sounding more like a squeak, sharp and high-pitched, the invisible vice gripping his throat getting stronger. The agony continues and Midoriya lets out another squeal and the cycle repeats. Every second stretches for eternity with no end in sight. Soon, the edge of his vision begins to darken, pricking with stars, and a wave of dizziness wraps his senses.

He can feel his life draining away.

He is going to die.

This is the end.

He is going to—

But before he can succumb to the darkness, a hand is lifted from his throat, and the pain subsides.

“Alright, that’s enough.”

Midoriya lets out a sharp, ragged gasp, his chest rising and falling in frantic, uneven motions. Each breath he draws in seems desperate, as though the very air around him is slipping through his grasp, leaving him struggling to fill his lungs.

He is careful not to say a single word, not even a noise. He breathes—in and out, letting the world clear and light filter through his strained vision, yet a lingering lightheadedness from the exertion leaves him dizzier than before.

“I managed to do what I needed to do before you passed out on me,” Yuto informs. “Your immune system is working how I want it to. I think a few more sessions and we’ll be able to say goodbye to those pipes of yours.”

Midoriya can barely hear him through his heavy panting, each shallow breath feeling like he is breathing through a straw. His throat—it hurts so much. A raw, stinging ache burns his throat. Every inhale he strenuously does feels like razor blades scrapping against his tender flesh.

“Time for you to get some rest. But I’m guessing that chair isn’t very comfortable,” Yuto approaches him at every corner and begins to undo his restraints.

Midoriya might have jumped and bolted if not for the drugs keeping him pinned in place. Yet even without them, he doubts he can do much of anything. Through the fog of paralysis, he feels the weakness radiating from his drained body. He knows he wouldn’t get far in this state.

“I’m going to move you somewhere where you can be a bit more comfortable. I’m sure you would enjoy that.” Yuto smiles. Then he picks up what appears to be a phone and begins speaking into it. “Can someone come down to cell #2 to help me move the prisoner?”

Yuto waits before the device springs to life.

“I’m on my way.” A rough voice announces.

In only a few minutes the man arrives and what happens next goes by in a blur.

The man lifts Midoriya, carrying him out of the hollow basement, with Yuto following close behind, wheeling the IV bag. Midoriya's head lolls weakly, the strain sending sharp pangs of pain through his neck. He wants to move it, but even that small action feels impossible to achieve.

They eventually arrive at a new room. Midoriya knows he should have paid attention to the route they took, but the searing pain in his throat consumes him entirely. Every step the man takes blurs together, his focus fixated on the agony radiating through his neck, leaving him oblivious to how he ended up in this new unfamiliar space.

“You can put him on that bed.” Yuto orders.

The two walk in and the man plops Midoriya on the bed, his numbed body flopping aimlessly.

“I’m just going to put this on him and then we can go.”

Midoriya tries to see what Yuto is doing but he can’t, his neck essentially locked in place by the all-consuming ache. But he can hear what sounds like chains, their loud clanking echoing through the air.

Yuto is at his side. He grabs his wrist and locks something metal, one by one. He then moves to his ankles and does the same, “These will keep you from doing anything reckless once the drug wears off. It’s just a…preventive measure. With those embers…well rather be safe than sorry.”

Yuto pulls out a syringe and injects it into the open port next to the one connected to the IV line, “I’m going give you this as well. It’s just a mild sedative, nothing too strong. It’ll just keep you from doing anything harsh.”

The young hero opens his mouth and Yuto notices, but his lips quiver and he closes them. Yuto grins, “Finally learning to shut up, huh?”  

Both Yuto and the man turn around and walk toward the exit, “I’ll extend the time before our next meet up so…I’ll see you again later tomorrow. Rest well little hero.”

They exit, leaving Midoriya alone, the silence settling around him like a heavy blanket.

At least this time…the lights stay on.

Midoriya has lost count of how many times he has screamed, begging for the agony to end.

It was the same. He’d get injected with the paralyzing drugs, Yuto would wrap his hands around his neck, and the pain would come. He would scream and scream…and scream as well as gasp and wheeze from the unseeing sensation crushing his only mode of breathing.

The cycle would repeat itself, never-ending.

He doesn't know what time it is or even how long he has been trapped in this prison. He’ll sleep because whatever Yuto gave him made him so lethargic and out of it. He kept upping the dose of the drugs whenever he fought, making him increasingly distant and impassive. Plus, the sessions (which have become more frequent) would leave him exhausted, wrung out of all his strength.

The room he is in is quiet, the soft trickle from the drip chamber being the only sound bouncing off the walls. He slowly lifts his head to look at the IV bag towering above him before letting it flop onto the uncomfortable pillow. He wants to rip that IV off his hand. Stop the thing that is making him feel like this. But he can’t even muster the energy to lift his arm and yank the port from his skin. All he can do is lie there, on his side, staring idly at the concrete wall while he waits for Yuto to come in.

He would fight but he can’t, his body too weak to do so. His voice…he can’t argue, refute Yuto’s actions, shout, or even cry. The one weapon he had—the one thing he had against the villain is gone. He hasn’t attempted to speak in what feels like days—or at least, that’s how long he thinks it’s been. Whenever he does, he feels like he is going to die. Even just thinking about it causes his chest to tighten, his breathing hitching as if he were being choked or strangled by the invisible hand. 

When he does say something is when Yuto is here, forcing them out. Even then, the sounds he manages during their sessions are dwindling. His voice has diminished to faint, breathy squeaks, growing quieter with each passing moment. If he were to open his mouth right now, he isn’t sure if any sound will come out. He can try, but he doesn’t.

He stays silent—not even thinking about the act of talking. It’s better that way.

Safer that way.

Not too long after, Midoriya dozes off. At least this is one way he can escape this hell, even if only temporarily. But his sleep is cut short by a loud knock. Midoriya jolts upright as adrenaline floods his veins. The cold, metal shackles around his wrists and ankles rattle loudly as his body quivers. The door opens, and almost instinctively, he brings his hands to cover his neck, hoping the action will protect him from whatever is to come.

“Good morning!”

It’s Yuto.

The villain walks in and peeks at the small table placed in the corner of the room. He eyes the uneaten food, “Looks like you haven’t eaten…or are you not able to eat?”

Midoriya’s stomach growls. He hasn’t been able to eat, gulping and swallowing hurts so much. Reluctantly, he nods, a defeated, mouthed “no” escaping him.

“So, you can’t eat. Sorry about that. Well, good news…” He takes off his black backpack and pulls something out, a bag filled with a white-milky substance, “I brought this. This should help with your hunger. But before that…our session.” Yuto walks over to the small table where the neglected food sits, he places the IV bag on the table and the backpack on the chair. He then makes his way back to Midoriya, a syringe in hand.

“You know the drill,” Yuto states.

Midoriya avoids his gaze and hesitantly nods. His hands shake, still grasping his neck—a final, fragile act of defiance. But he knows better. If he fights, it’ll be worse. He’s seen that…he’s learned that. So, might as well let him do what he needs to do. At least…he’ll get to “eat” afterward. Resigned, he lowers himself back onto the bed and with a shaky breath, lets go of his neck. His hands fall limply to his side, surrendering to the anguish that is to come.

Yuto takes his glove off and grasps Midoriya’s neck. The teenager flinches, careful not to utter a sound.

“This might be the last one…who knows, it’ll depend on your response.”

And not even a second later, the pain returns.

But when he screams…nothing comes out. Not even a squeal, a whispered yell, or a breathy howl. There’s—nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

“Oh, would you look at that? Looks like your immune system finally did it.” Yuto comments.

Midoriya’s eyes go wide with undisputable horror. He tries to say something, anything. His lips form into silent, fragmented shapes, hoping that the words will come out, but they never did. There’s only silence, an unsettling void of stillness.

But there was one thing he could do…whimper, though it was barely more than a whisper. But even that lone action hurt so much to do.

“I guess we are done here. Poor little hero, well, at least our sessions end here. And look at that! This last one ended in a flash!” Yuto adds as he puts his glove back on and walks to his backpack, grabbing his belongings and the IV bag. “You can eat now. Once the paralyzing drug wares off, I’ll come back to add the sedative.”

Midoriya’s body might be petrified by the drugs, but his senses were alive with shock, unable to process the nightmare that transpired.

His voice is gone.

His one method of communication is gone!

His lips quiver. He mouths a silent “no”, horrified by the events that just unfolded.

He barely registers Yuto as he hangs the IV bag on the stand, threading the line into the empty port. The milky substance flows steadily into his veins, merging with the cocktail of drugs keeping him imprisoned within his own body.

“Done. Well, I’ll let you be—oh! One more thing, you already have a few interested buyers lined up! How exciting!! We’ll begin the negotiations tomorrow and you should be ready to go on your merry way by tomorrow night!” Yuto excitedly exclaims, pulling his backpack over his shoulder. A bolt of panic invades Midoriya, dread flaring in his eyes. “Well, I’ll be on my way! Sad that our time here is ending. You were good company—well once you decided to shut up. See ya soon!”

Yuto leaves, leaving Midoriya alone once more.

Tears form and very soon stream down his face in rivulets. Hot torrents of grief course down, each tear holding the heavy toll of his unbearable trauma. A moan escapes his lips, but no sound comes out. A whimper follows, but he clamps his mouth shut—because it hurts. Sound hurts.

He’s hopeless—this is hopeless. No one is coming to save him; this is how it ends for him. Tears spill faster, and as they do, his thoughts spiral, whirling in a relentless storm inside his mind.

He took his voice—ripped it out of him with his merciless cruelty—leaving behind nothing but an oppressive silence where his screams once echoed. Now, the silence feels like a prison, a place where even the faintest whispers are condemned to fade.

Midoriya closes his eyes and sobs in silence, the soundlessness of the room merging with his grief-stricken cries.

It’s so quiet.

It’s so so quiet.

He can’t say anything. He can’t even fill this room with the echoes of his own heart-wrenching wails.

Midoriya doesn't know when he dozed off again, but he is quickly jolted awake by a series of loud footsteps and roaring booms that shake the very room he’s in.

The young hero trembles, terrified. Yuto was here only moments ago to remove the IV bag that was functioning as his meal and to administer a new dose of sedatives. He guesses that he dozed off after Yuto left. But he wouldn’t—why would he be here again?!

Shouts and bangs echo from every direction, the noise reverberating through the room. Midoriya slowly yet urgently edges toward the corner of the bed where the walls converge, curling into himself, making his body as small as possible. His knees press tightly against his chest as his trembling hands wrap protectively around his neck—a feeble attempt to shield himself from the unknown chaos unfolding outside the doors.

Could they—were they here to take him away?

Was it already tomorrow?!

Time was irrelevant here. He has no idea if it was day or night. Maybe he slept more than he thought and his time to go was already here.

The sounds get closer and louder causing the whole place to tremble as if an earthquake was rattling the place. Midoriya presses his forehead onto the fabric of his sweatpants, his panicked sweat soaking into the textile.

He waits, doing everything in his power to filter out the roaring sounds.

He waits as his fate approaches.

Boom!

Crack!

Constant and never-ending.

Midoriya just wants it to end. All that noise. It hurts so much. After being in near-constant silence for days on end, the noise feels like a pair of timpani drums pounding against his sensitive ears. He huddles closer to the corner, feeling the coldness of the wall against his sweaty and frigid skin.

He just wants it to end.

Why is there such a ruckus simply to take him away?

But soon, his thoughts get abruptly interrupted. The door to his room suddenly bursts open with a deafening crash, blowing clean off its hinges.

“Crap! Found him!”

A voice cuts through the chaos as a gust of air and a cloud of dust rush into the room, scattering debris across the floor. Midoriya’s eyes squeeze shut against the stinging particles dancing in the air.

A choked whimper escapes his lips. He freaks out. His trembling hands instinctively grip his skin tighter and tighter around his neck in a desperate, protective grasp.

He keeps his eyes closed, not daring to look at the villain or villains coming to take him away.

They are here to take me.

“Midoriya!”

They are here to take me.

“Oh my god!”

They are here to take me!

“PROBLEM CHILD!”

Wait…problem child?

Someone grabs him by his shoulders and Midoriya can’t help but yelp, but the noise sounds more like a breathy gasp.

That voice. What he said. Could it really be him and not…him? Was he not—being taken away?

Hesitantly, Midoriya forces his eyes open, blinking against the sting of debris still gliding effortlessly in the air. His vision blurs momentarily, but soon he makes out a figure seated before him, hands gripping his shoulders with a firm yet reassuring touch. As the haze clears, his breath catches, knowing who that person is.

Fearful eyes lock onto the familiar face. It’s his teacher, his homeroom teacher—Mr. Aizawa.

“It’s me, Midoriya. It’s just me.” Aizawa informs.

Midoriya is in complete disbelief.

This is…rescue.

Rescue is here.

Relief washes over him.

Feeling utterly drained, Midoriya slouches and falls into Aizawa’s arms. The sharp clank of the metal shackles echoes through the room, ricocheting off the stark walls.

“Wow!” Aizawa catches his slack body before his face plants onto the uncomfortable bedding.

Sorry. Midoriya mouths, knowing full well that Aizawa can’t hear him.

“I got you.” Aizawa gently guides him back to the wall, allowing Midoriya to rest his head against one of the corners. Once seated, his teacher moves closer to inspect him, while the teenager stares back with sunken eyes, a sight that deeply concerns the pro hero.

“All right, problem child. Let’s—take a look at you.”

The first thing that is plainly obvious is how out of it Midoriya looks. His eyes follow his movement, but they are slow and sluggish, trailing without a purpose. Also, there’s a lifeless sheen about him, like he is lost in a haze. Aizawa’s gaze moves to the IV line connected to a clear bag, and that’s when he understands why. With steady hands, he carefully detaches the port from Midoriya’s arm and tosses it aside.

“Let’s get that far away from you.”

His eyes then lock onto his wrist. They look red and unnaturally raw from what seemed like days of struggle. Angry red welts trace the edge of where his shackles sit, skin scraped raw with painful scaring beginning to take hold. It isn’t just his wrist; his ankles have the same jagged abrasions that glistened faintly with the dried blood mixed with his sweat. It’s clear to Aizawa that his student fought. He fought for as long as he could before he could no more and that—infuriated Aizawa.

The villain who did this will pay for the horrors he imposed on his student.

“We’ll need Kirishima to get those out, but first,” Aizawa looks at Midoriya and the young hero does his best to keep his gaze. “Does anything hurt?”

A question.

Don’t respond. Don’t say a word. Talking hurts.

Midoriya lowers his gaze.

Everything hurts. His throat hurts and his—hands hurt. He doesn’t know when but at some point, Yuto did something to them. He kept pulling at his shackles, even while drugged, and that annoyed Yuto. So, he used his quirk and did something to his hands. So now they hurt. They hurt so much. It feels like scorching needles are threading through every nerve, searing and unrelenting, making even the simple act of clenching his fingers excruciatingly painful.

The drugs help the pain, but they still hurt.

He wants to tell him about the pain, but he can’t.

“I know you’re in pain, Midoriya. Can’t you—tell me?” Aizawa asks, his tone gentle.

He wants to tell him, he really does. But he can’t—but maybe he could…

Midoriya lifts his hand, a sharp wince contorting his face as the searing pain radiates through his fingers and palms. Trembling uncontrollably, he forces his fingers to move, struggling to shape them into a point. He hesitates, then weakly directs his finger to his throat, the motion slow and strained.

“Your throat? Is there something wrong with it?” Aizawa wonders.

Midoriya nods, holding back a whimper. He lets his hand fall back to his side, limply, and his head rests against the wall, his eyes reverting back to their glassy selves.  

Aizawa analyzes the skin around his throat, looking for any abrasions or bruising, any signs of possible strangulation. But he finds none, his skin is bare of any type of injury or physical affliction. If he wasn’t strangled, then what’s wrong? He can see how his lips tremble as if he wants to say something but can’t. There must be something preventing him, something Aizawa can’t see.

“What—did this to you?” Aizawa asks, releasing his grip on his shoulder, giving the boy some space.

He knows he should stop asking him so many questions. If there is some kind of physical damage, then he does not want to worsen it by forcing him to speak (that is if he even can). Yet, he needs to know what happened to him if he wants to help his student.

So, after a few seconds of silence of Midoriya simply looking at Aizawa with a haunting, sightless gaze, Aizawa sighs and speaks again, “Midoriya…”

The teenager blinks and his attention snaps. He sits up like a doll being winded back to life, “Can you tell—no, can you show me what happe—”

Aizawa is interrupted by the loud rattling of the shackles. The rhythmic jingle and clatter create a jarring chime that echoes in the still air. Aizawa absolutely hates the grating noise, a reminder of how much he failed his student, reminding him how his inattentiveness caused this.

The pro hero watches with laser focus on what Midoriya is doing. With visible effort, Midoriya raises his arms, resting his wrists on his propped-up knees. He presses the sides of his arm against his leg mostly as an anchor to help keep his arm lifted. Despite the support, his limbs tremble uncontrollably, the strain evident in every quiver. But Midoriya fights, even as a pained scowl forms across his features.

Then, Midoriya moves his fingers, forming them into a shape. Aizawa sees this and decides to act.

“Midoriya, you don’t have to—”

The young hero shakes his head, defiant, and motions to look at what his hands are doing. Aizawa sighs and agrees but keeps a close eye on Midoriya’s condition. He doesn’t seem stable; if he isn’t careful, even the smallest breeze could cause him to topple over.

With great difficulty, the fingers of Midoriya’s hand weakly attempt to form something.

Aizawa’s eyes immediately widen.

Those shapes…

He is nowhere near fluent in sign language, but he does know a great deal considering Hizashi’s hearing loss. So, when he sees what Midoriya is doing, he instantly knows that he is signing. His student is trying to tell him something.

He signs the first letter.

“Q”

The Japanese sign language for the letter “Q”. It’s shaky and barely recognizable but Aizawa catches the word.

Strenuously, Midoriya shapes a few more words, slow and laboriously.

“U”

“I”

But Midoriya suddenly stops before he can sign the next word. A shooting pain flares up, traversing from his fingers and down the entirety of his hands. A pained wince escapes him and afterward, a yelp with no sound accompanying it, just a strained, high-pitched squeak.

But that’s—

A sound.

Midoriya’s entire body freezes in place, his heart pounding ferociously.

I spoke.

I made noise.

No.

His breathing picks up as the choking sensation comes creeping up from the depths. He breathes and breathes and breathes, each coming out in violent bursts, almost as a way to conserve his fleeting oxygen, knowing well that the life-sustaining substance will soon be depleted thanks to his negligence. He clutches his chest while the other wraps around his throat. It’s horrible; he can feel it, his throat closing up more and more as the seconds pass.

“Midoriya?” Aizawa notices the shift from his nearly unresponsive shell to a panicked and horror-stricken self, his face turning ashen, white, and pallid.

It’s clogging up.

I can’t breathe!

He removes the arm clutching his chest and places it above the hand gripping tightly onto his throat. It hurts, the crushing sensation keeps squeezing his windpipe and it hurts so much. A wince escapes him and he forces it back down, but it keeps coming and coming. He can’t stop the noise from traveling out and harming him, hurting him.

In a blinded fury of panic, he weakly pushes Aizawa away and scrambles off the bed. His body collapses onto the cold floor with a hard thump, the impact sending jarring vibrations through the shackles.

Aizawa jolts from the teenager’s sudden onslaught. Rapidly, he crouches down and tries to calm the frightened boy, “Midoriya! What’s going on!?”

Midoriya’s eyes are blown wide, wild with terror, a visceral, bone-deep fear ravaging his insides. His breaths come in through uneven gasps, attempting yet failing to suck in the air he was quickly losing. Midoriya wants to tell him. He wants to tell him how much his throat hurts, how much it hurts to say anything—something, how he can’t speak! But he can’t, he tried but he was reckless. He caused this and now he is being punished for his actions.

Midoriya senses Aizawa reaching over to him, but he reacts and pushes, with weak legs, over to the wall, his panic increasing with every gulp he could not force down. He grips his throat, tighter and tighter, and then he claws. His nails dig deep into his flesh and run them down the line of his neck. He claws with no end, attempting to remove the invisible force blocking his means of breathing. But the pain remains, constant and relenting.

“Stop! Midoriya!” Aizawa yells. He tries to reach for him but flails and shoves him away.

Midoriya claws and claws. Soon, he breaks the surface, leaving streaks of red welting beneath his fingers. Even then, he doesn’t stop—his nails continue carving jagged paths along his neck, blood trickling down and coating his hands and shirt in crimson. Aizawa is terrified; he needs to act fast, or Midoriya is going to seriously hurt himself.

But he is too far in his panicked frenzy to listen to him; he needs someone who can stop him.

“Shinso!” Aizawa shouts.

He hears hurried steps and then a head peaks in, “Mr. Aizawa? Did you—”

“No questions! Come over here and stop Midoriya!”

Shinso steps into view and locks eyes with his classmates. His blood freezes in his veins.

“What the hell—happened?” Shinso mutters, his voice numbed with shock.

“Just use your quirk! Now!” Aizawa urges.

Shinso shakes his head and runs over to them. Actions first, emotions later.

He crouches beside Aizawa and stares at Midoriya, who continues dragging his nails down his neck even with the blood dripping like a broken faucet down his fingers.

“Midoriya, tell me what is wrong?” Shinso asks.

Midoriya shakes his head. He keeps his mouth shut but his chest heaves rapidly from the sharp gasps.

“That’s not going to work. You need to grab him when he replies with a whimper or just any sound.” Aizawa states.

Shinso slightly stutters at that comment. He wants to ask why he can’t respond to him but right now was not the best time to ponder on such a need. Midoriya is in distress. It’s best that he deals with the situation before trying to understand what the hell is going on.

“Alright.” Shinso places a gentle hand on Midoriya’s knee and locks eyes with him. Midoriya reacts. “Midoriya, I need you to stop. You are hurting yourself.”

Shinso watches and listens intently for even the smallest utterance of a sound. He has gotten better at activating his quirk thanks to his training. Instead of full verbal responses, he can bring someone under with even a gasp. However, ensnaring someone through a less traditional format takes an immense amount of concentration.

But Shinso tries, nonetheless.

At first, Midoriya says nothing, but then, Shinso catches it. A wince. Quickly, he locks in.

There we go.

“Sorry, Midoriya.”

Midoriya’s eyes instantly glaze over, turning completely blank and vacant. A fog of numbing haze shrouds his mind, submerging him in an overwhelming calm. His arms fall limp, releasing their grip on his neck and settling lifelessly at his sides.

“Okay, I got him,” Shinso informs, glancing over at his teacher.

“Thanks, Shinso,” Aizawa says with a sigh of relief.

“What—what happened?” Shinso asks, his voice laced with horror at the sight of Midoriya’s condition.

“I’m not entirely sure. He couldn’t tell me what was wrong. I think they did something to his voice,” sorrowful eyes land on Midoriya. “He did try to tell me something but his hands…they look like they hurt. It was sign language, though—looks like the lessons paid off,” he chuckles but his expression quickly falls back to its worried state. “It was very wobbly and hard to understand but he signed ‘Q’, ‘U’, and ‘I’. But he stopped and began to panic as soon as he let out a high-pitched squeak.”

Shinso ponders on what his teacher said and then his eyes widen in realization, “Wait! QUI...Mr. Aizawa, I think he wanted to say ‘quirk’.”

“Quirk.” Aizawa groans and runs a hand down his face. “Dammit. How the hell did I not get that sooner? He wanted to tell me that a quirk did this. A quirk did something to his voice and I am guessing that quirk had to be responsible for his panic attack and the state of his hands. And the shackles, the injuries on his wrist and ankles, and the drugs—he must’ve fought because it was all he could do. Well, at least until he couldn’t anymore.

“Alright, we need to get out of here. Where’s Kirishima? We need to get those dam shackles off.”

“He’s in this building surveying the area,” Shinso replies.

“Okay,” Aizawa pulls out his phone, his fingers moving swiftly as he dials a number. The line rings only briefly before a soft click signals the call connecting, followed by a voice answering on the other end. “Kirishima, I need you at our location, now! We found Midoriya and we need your help getting him out!”

“Midoriya?! A-Alright! I’ll be there in a sec!”

He hears footsteps and the line disconnects.

As promised, Kirishima arrives before the two had a chance to blink. He staggers at the sight before him, his breath catching as his eyes land on the scene before him. The scene is harrowing. His friend is there but he does not look good. He is a bloody mess, a stark and chilling contrast to the vacant, emotionless expression etched across his face.

“How—what—who did this to h-him?” He asks, his words caught in his throat.

“We are not entirely sure, but a quirk is most likely responsible. I’m sure our villain will tell us everything that he did to him. Right now, he’s under Shinso’s brainwashing because he began to panic and hurt himself.” Aizawa glances at Kirishima, “I need you to destroy those shackles so we can get him out of here.”

“Oh! Of course!”

As gently as Kirishima can make it, he uses his hardening quirk and detaches each shackle from the chains, releasing Midoriya from his bindings.

“Thank you.” Aizawa grabs Midoriya and adjusts him into a bridal carry. “I’ll take him. Shinso, make sure to not let go of your quirk until it’s safe to do so.”

“Understood,” Shinso replies.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Without a moment to waste, the three leave the revolting and sickening room behind.

With each step Aizawa takes, he can’t help but feel the guilt grip at his heart.

They worked tirelessly to find him, but there weren’t any leads. It was grueling. Hours turned into days and days soon turned into weeks. Efforts were dwindling until a hit came where miraculously a social media video captured a man walking out from a known abandoned building. The investigation progressed, and the villain was identified as the one who had taken Midoriya.

But they didn’t get to him sooner. If they did, none of this would have happened.  

“I’m sorry, Midoriya,” Aizawa whispers. “We’ll fix this if it’s the last thing I do.”

And it is. He won’t rest until his student is saved until the villain responsible faces the punishment he deserves—until he endures agony for every instance of harm he inflicted on his student.

“So, it was a quirk that did this?” Aizawa voices.

“Yes,” replies a doctor with glasses that frame the entirety of her face, the round lenses reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. “It’s a powerful one. The villain was able to manipulate Midoriya’s fighter cells to attack his vocal cords. The damage was significant, his body nearly destroyed not only his vocal cords but the surrounding tissues as well. We also know that the villain messed with Midoriya’s pain sensors. He worsened the chronic pain in his hands and conditioned his brain to perceive talking as choking—almost like a panic response.”

Aizawa listens, astonished. Beside him, Yagi struggles to swallow the lump forming in his throat. Not far from them, Inko sits on a chair placed beside the bed where her son lies motionless, his eyes closed and unaware of the conversation unfolding around him. She had her hand wrapped around Midoriya’s hand; her eyes red from weeping.

“Is—there a cure? A fix?” Yagi asks, hesitantly.

“There is but it’s not a quick one.” The doctor starts. “His immune system has since stopped attacking his cords, which tells us that the active manipulation and conditioning has a time limit. His vocal cords were nearly torn apart, but not all of it. We were able to repair the majority of it. Now it’s more of his body doing the rest of the recovery which will take time due to his warped immune system.

“The mind is more complicated though. Unfortunately, we were not able to remove the association between pain and choking. What was done to him functioned like gradual conditioning, kind of how we as kids associate fire with danger. That’s what happened here but with the aid of a quirk. Midoriya will have to unlearn that association, train his brain that talking won’t close up his throat.”

A wave of sorrow washes over the adults in the room. For one they are happy that Midoriya won’t lose his voice permanently, but they are saddened that the mental effects will last longer than they anticipated.

“And his hands…” Inko adds, her voice breaking, “Will they get better?”

“They will, fortunately. The quirk targeted the nerves in his hands, not the mind directly. If he used an association or implanted some thought, then that would be a different story.” The doctor explains. “But we were only able to fix the current damage, what he sustained previously will still be there and might get slightly aggravated due to what happened.”  

“That’s—g-good to hear,” Inko says as she tightens her grip on her son’s hand, feeling how cold it is against the moisture of her tacky palms. The bruises and redness around his wrist are visible and apparent, further exasperating Inko’s despair.

“We will do everything in our power to ensure he has a full recovery. We already got in contact with a psychologist with a useful mental quirk who agreed to work with Midoriya. But in the meantime, he’ll need support. Even after his vocal cords recover, he may not be able to speak for weeks or even months while the psychologist helps him break the association.” The doctor concludes, pressing her clipboard to her chest. She then looks at Inko and smiles, “Your son is tough, a true hero. With adequate support and assistance, I know he will recover from this.”

Inko sniffles and brings a hand to her eyes to wipe away the tears running down her cheeks, “Thank you so much. I appreciate everything you are doing for him. He is strong, but he needs to stop giving me heart attacks every waking hour.” She chuckles.

The doctor curves her lips into a gentle grin, “Of course. Well, I got to go. Let the nurse know if Midoriya starts acting up. He shouldn’t give you trouble for the rest of the day but warn them if he does.”

“Will do, thanks, doctor.” Aizawa thanks.

She waves goodbye and exits the hospital room, leaving the three alone in the unnatural stillness of the room, letting the soft chemicals fill their senses once more.  

“My poor boy…first the war and now this.” Inko comments, her voice wavering. “You-you need to stop worrying your mother so much, Izuku.” She looks at Midoriya’s face, slightly hoping for a response, but he doesn’t even flinch at her comment. Not that she expected him to—he’s hooked up to sedatives and painkillers, at least for the rest of the day.

Yagi walks over to one of the sofas placed beside the window. He sits down with a huff and slouches over, placing his elbows on his knee. He rests his chin on his fingers, contemplative.

“At least—he’ll recover, that’s good news, but it is going to be a long journey for him.” Yagi comments. 

Aizawa does not move from where he stands. He rubs his eyes before crossing his arms. He glances at Inko and then looks at Midoriya. The soft beeping from the machine placed beside Midoriya echoes throughout the room, steady and melodic. A muted hissing can be heard from the oxygen tank, sending air through the nasal cannula placed over Midoriya’s nose. His chest rises slowly and continuously, a relieving sign that he is still there, that after everything his problem child is still alive.

But guilt squeezes his heart.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Midoriya.” Aizawa begins.

Inko jumps and turns to look at Aizawa while Yagi sits up, stunned by his coworker’s words.

“Wh-why are you sorry?” Inko asks.

“I am his teacher, and I did not protect your son as I should have. I didn’t prevent this and worse, I didn’t find him before he experienced that hell he went through. So, I’m sorry.” Aizawa lets his hands fall to his side and bows, “I am greatly sorry for what happened.”  

Inko feels a flicker of panic at the teacher’s action, “N-No, Mr. Aizawa. Please don’t do that. I’m not blaming you for what happened. This couldn’t be prevented. You have been there for him through and through. I still can’t thank you enough for what you did for him during the war. He—well he just gained quite the fame after what he did. Unfortunately, he caught the wrong eyes. But please don’t blame yourself for this, this is no one’s fault but the villain’s.”

Inko turns to face Yagi, almost as if she can read his thoughts and anticipate what he’s about to say. “Same with you, All Might. Don’t blame yourself for this. I don’t blame either of you for what happened, all of this was out of your control.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Midoriya. But we still share some of the blame. We are his teachers after all.” Aizawa replies.

“I know that. I just don’t want you to be like Izuku, blaming yourself for things that are out of your control. I just don’t want you to go down that route.” Inko explains, a soft grin manifesting across her lips.

Aizawa smiles and nods, “You make a good point. I will try.” He then looks at Yagi with a smirk, “But I don’t know about a certain someone.”

Yagi jumps, “Hey! I don’t do that!”

“Your texts say otherwise,” Aizawa replies with a subdued grin.

Yagi pouts and crosses his arms.

“Anyway—” Aizawa looks out the window and sees the setting sun. He can’t believe it’s only been a day. He got Midoriya out that morning but after rushing to the hospital, completing paperwork, and being forced into a press conference, it feels like a week has gone by. When the doctor had updates about Midoriya’s condition, he came rushing, but now he could feel the stress of the day catching up to him. “I should head out. It’s been a long day.”

Yagi stands up and heads over to the door, “Same here. Nedzu wants to meet with me briefly to discuss some things.” He then looks at Inko. “Are you sure you are okay here?”

Inko nods, “Yeah, I want to spend the night with him. He might wake up in the morning, and it would be best if he sees someone familiar in case he panics, you know?”

Yagi gives her a warm grin, “Yeah, you’ve got a point. It’s best he has someone he knows to help calm him down. Well, you have my number if you need anything.” He comments.

Inko agrees, “Yup. Thanks, All Might, for everything.” She glances at Midoriya and sighs. “It’s going to be a long journey but I’m glad he has a great support system to help him out.”

“Yes, it’s going to be difficult, but we will all be there for him. The important thing is that he is here, safe.” Yagi voices to which Inko agrees.

“Talk to you later, Mrs. Midoriya,” Aizawa says, dismissing himself.

Soon, the two leave, leaving the mother alone with her son.

Inko sighs. She looks up and glances at the lights, “Seems a bit bright here, no?” She stands up and heads over to where the light switches rest. She flicks a few off, shrouding the place in a warm glow. “There we go.”

The limited light allows the strokes of gold and amber from the setting sun to cast over the somber room, softening the harsh whites from the walls and bed linens. The fading light of the concluding day brings worry about what the next day may bring but also a sense of relief.

His son is here. He is here, alive and breathing.

She walks back to his side. She stands at the edge of the bed and runs a gentle hand along his hair, seeing how the orange glow from the sun bounces off his forest green waves. She does this a few times, not caring about the greasy sensation.

“This always helped you calm you down when you were a kid.” Inko comments.

Midoriya doesn’t react, but Inko’s eyes shift to the heart monitor, noting the subtle change in its rhythm as the beeping slows ever so slightly. A gentle smile crosses her face. “I’m glad it’s helping you, sweetheart,” she whispers.

“I-I’m here for you. No matter where you are, what you are doing, or how old you get, I will always be there for you.” Inko voices. “And you’ll get through this, my sweet Izuku.”

Her lips quiver, tears well up from her unrelenting aches before spilling down her cheeks. She hurriedly wipes them away with trembling hands, her soft sniffling echoing faintly against the stark, barren walls.

“Sorry…I know I should be strong for you, but it does hurt. I—I almost lost you…again. And it—hurts seeing you like this.” Inko sits down but grabs a hold of Midoriya’s hand with both hands, clasping them tightly. “But I’ll be strong…I’ll-I’ll smile because I know you don’t want to see me sad—cause you’ll worry too. So, I’ll fight with you—cause you’re not just my son, you’re—you’re my…hero.” She slouches over and rests her head on his bed, keeping his hand tight in her grip.

The two hold onto each other for the rest of the evening. Eventually, Inko situates herself on one of the sofas and settles in for the night. After the nurse comes in to do one more check, she dozes off, saying goodbye to this horrid day and welcoming a new one.

One of hope and recovery.

The next day Midoriya wakes up and when he does, he panics, thinking that he was back with Yuto in that room, ready to put him through that agony again. But upon seeing his mom on his side, his anxieties subside but shock stretches along his features. In disbelief, he can’t help but mouth…

“Mom.”

Inko nods and says, “Yes, sweetheart, it’s me.”

Tears pool uncontrollably along the rim of Midoriya’s eyes. He lets them flow, unable to hold them in.

“Mom.” He mouths again. Midoriya dives into her open embrace and hugs her tightly.

He remembers.

They got him out.

He is out.

He is safe.

But when he lets out an audible whimper, he feels his throat close up. Immediately, his eyes blow wide with panic. He gently yet urgently pushes her away and looks at his mom, terrified. Midoriya then wraps his shaky hands around his throat, gobsmacked with terror.

“Izuku, it’s okay. You can breathe, nothing’s wrong. Come on, breathe with me.”

And they do.

With difficulty, he manages to take a few breaths and calm himself, allowing the sensation to subside.

“There you go. Good job, Izuku.”

Inko congratulates him, squeezing his hand which helps ground Midoriya.

Not long after waking up, his doctor comes in and explains his situation. She tells him what happened to his vocal cords and his hands, going into detail about the conditioning that was implanted in his mind. Midoriya is shocked to learn that the choking sensation is purely mental, not physical—just conditioning that Yuto implanted. However, he is reassured that he’ll make a full recovery. His vocal cords will heal, and the damage to his hands caused by Yuto will also heal. The conditioning will take longer to break, but he has been assigned a psychologist to help him work through the intricacies of the association.

However, when he finds out that the psychologist will be using a mental quirk to help with his recovery, he panics. His hand squeezes tightly around his mom’s as he hears the news.

Midoriya remembers what it felt like experiencing Yuto’s quirk—what it felt like getting his thoughts jumbled. He didn’t—want to experience that sensation ever again.

His mom sees his concerned expression and looks at him, smiling warmly, “It’s okay, she is not him. She is just there to help you recover, nothing else.”

Midoriya looks at her and then back at the doctor. He stares for a few seconds before taking a breath and hesitantly nodding, indicating his agreement.

Afterward, the doctor tells him that he should be released in a few days; they just want to ensure he is recovering well from the surgery. After explaining everything she needs to say, she leaves.

For the rest of the morning, it’s just him and his mom. Inko hands him his phone back, which, remarkably, wasn’t broken during the kidnapping. She explains to him that it was in police custody while he was missing, as they were trying to find clues about his location. Midoriya spends some time scrolling through his missed messages, sorrow settling in his heart. There’s an array of texts from his classmates, first asking where he was on the day he disappeared, then shifting to messages filled with worry and hope that he was okay.

Hey Deku, I hope to see you soon!

Midoriya, stay strong wherever you are! We’ll get you out!

Nerd…don’t die, okay?

They knew he wouldn’t see their messages, yet they still sent them, hoping their words might somehow reach him. His eyes grow wet with tears.

“They didn’t give up on you,” Inko explains. Midoriya looks at her, his teary eyes glistening. “They—can’t wait to see you.”

Midoriya smiles. He can’t wait to see them as well.  

He and his mom talk, catching up on what he has missed. Midoriya uses the note app to communicate with her (although difficult considering the pain in his hands and fingers). Later, Yagi visits once his mom leaves for work. Soon after, when Yagi has to dismiss himself, Shoto comes to visit followed by Uraraka, Iida, and even Bakugo.

It’s like that for the next couple of days, visit after visit. Well—including the various tests mixed in between.

There are test after test, each assessing his vocal range, but they end rather quickly due to the arrival of the familiar sensation of an invisible hand squeezing tightly around his airway.

They are difficult and he dreads them every time.

But amidst the difficulties came the visits, which he looks forward to. His mom visits him frequently, as did his friends. Although he loves their company, he hates being unable to talk, respond, or even laugh at their jokes. Yes, he uses his phone to reply, and they are patient with him, but still…he wishes he could interact with them like he used to. Before the kidnapping.

But instead, he sits there, watching and listening, nodding and typing. Not able to do even a simple action like talking.

He feels so useless, weak—like he is a burden.

“Why the hell do you think you’re a burden, nerd.” Bakugo once told him when he visited, after he texted him how he had been feeling. “You almost got your vocal cords shredded to pieces, and you can’t talk 'cause that villain messed with your head. It’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to need help, especially right now. And you’ll recover dammit, so you better stop your dam sulking!”

Midoriya let a tender smile bloom and typed something on his phone. Once done he showed it to him.

Yeah, you are right. I guess even now, I still go back to my 1^st year ways, huh? Thanks, Kacchan. I know I’ll get better, and it’s okay to not be okay right now. I’ll make sure to be more positive about this.  

Bakugo chuckled. “Yeah, your annoying self still shows up, nerd. Well, you better promise or I won’t hesitate to use my explosions on you sorry ass if you don’t”

Midoriya nodded. He would have laughed at the comment, but nodding was the most he could manage at that moment.

And that’s okay.

After a week, he is released and returns to UA, where he can recover in the dorms. There, Recovery Girl visits him daily to help speed up his healing and monitor his progress.

Yet, despite being back within the familiar walls of UA, the first few days at the dorms are anything but easy for Midoriya.

He had constant nightmares during the first week, vivid and jarring enough to leave him screaming, which triggered the choking sensation. It got so bad that his classmates often had to call Shinso to use his quirk to calm him down. But one night, he refused Shinso’s help, mostly because he didn’t want to rely on a quirk to do something that should come naturally to him.

On the day he refuses, he leaves his room and sleeps in the common rooms, hoping that the change in scenery will help him.

Yet, the change did nothing; the nightmare is back.

It’s the same one from every night—persistent and repetitive.

He is back on that chair, Yuto looming over him with his hand on his neck. Then the pain starts. But tonight, it’s different—worse. The agony crescendos to the point where he screams, and this time, sound escapes. He wakes up as soon as he feels his throat tighten, a suffocating pressure that leaves him gasping for air, one that wouldn’t subside. His heart pounds violently against his chest, his breaths quick and shallow. Panic sets in, gripping him like a vice.

“Izuku?”

Midoriya turns to look at who’s here, locking eyes with his new visitor.

It’s Bakugo.

“Another nightmare?”

He turns back around, pulls his legs against his chest, and nods.

He hears Bakugo sigh, followed by the sound of footsteps drawing closer. “Want me to call Shinso?” Bakugo asks as he approaches and sits down beside him.

Midoriya gives me a quick nodded “no” and lays back down. Bakugo scoots over to allow him to spread his body.

“Man, you stubborn piece of—ugh, whatever, guess I’m staying here then.”

The young hero flinches at the comment. Instinctively, he reaches for the coffee table to grab his phone, eager to text Bakugo and tell him he doesn’t need to do that—that he should go back to his room and get some rest. But before he can, Bakugo stops him.

“Nope. I know what you are going to say. I’m not going anywhere until you close your shitty eyes and sleep and if you don’t, I’m calling insomnia freak to knock you out.” Bakugo states.

Midoriya sighed softly, knowing there was no point in arguing—especially now when words only existed in his head. Reluctantly, he gives in and lets his body sink into the sofa. He twists and turns for a while, trying to find a comfortable position, but eventually, his exhaustion wins. Sleep claims him at last, free of nightmares.

As days go by, things get better for Midoriya. Shinso has been teaching him sign language which has helped him with communication. Thanks to him, he’s been able to better communicate his needs. His sessions with his therapist have been going well, and he’s been making good progress. He has also been keeping up with his hero training. During the first few weeks, he mostly sat out and observed during heroics class. But as his vocal cords healed and his hands began to feel better, he began to ease himself back into the exercises.

Midoriya is glad—happy, no, relieved that he will one day put these horrors behind him.

Now, two months later, his vocal cords are fully healed. All that remains is overcoming the mental block caused by the conditioning so he can speak again. But he’s close—so very close.

Actually, he is so close that his psychologist gave him a task today. One simple action she wants to see him complete.

As Midoriya walks down the bricked walkway leading to the tall UA buildings after his therapy session, he thinks about the task. He grasps the straps of his yellow backpack situated over the blazer of his UA uniform. He takes a few deep breaths, feeling the cool breeze along his face and the warm rays of the morning sun against his exposed skin.

This task—it’s such a big ask of him. He is unsure if he can do it or if it’ll even be possible.

But he has to, he needs to. This is the only way he can progress in his recovery—the only way he can move forward.

So, with a determined huff, he walks ahead, telling himself that he can do this and that most importantly…

He will be okay.

Midoriya walks along the wide walkway that leads to the 2-A classroom. The halls are quiet which makes sense. Homeroom class hasn’t ended yet, there’s still about 10 minutes until the period concludes. Normally, he doesn’t miss homeroom due to how strict Aizawa is, but since this morning was the only time his psychologist could meet with him this week, his teacher excused him.

A few students pass him, most don't bat an eye but a few wave at him with a smile as bright as the stars. After the war, he gained quite a reputation at UA. First years, especially, have been yearning not only to talk to him but also to catch a glimpse of the hero who saved Japan. At first, the attention didn’t bother him, but now, after what happened, it puts him on edge.

He keeps his head low as he walks, hearing his steps as they click sharply against the polished tiled floor. The florescent lights buzz overhead, the subtle hum seemingly louder in his troubled mind. The task—his homework, roams chaotically through his head, repeating like an old record player stuck on repeat. The muffled conversations and teachings happening from inside the passing classrooms feel distant and indistinct, too focused on what he has to do.

I’ll be okay.

He tells himself.

Nothing will happen.

He reminds himself.

He’s practiced a range of sounds with his psychologist and nothing drastic has happened. Yes, the sensation creeps in, crawling up his throat. But going through the breathing exercises she has taught him, and the self-reassurances has helped him a lot. However, it’s the mantras that have made the biggest difference.

Talking does not lead to choking.

Or…

Talking does not hurt me.

It was difficult to take them to heart, especially during the first few weeks. Even when he repeated these affirmations to himself, as soon as the sensation crept in, his mind froze and went into panic mode, completely forgetting what his task was.

But now, two months into his recovery, he’s made it to the point where he can move on to the next stage. He hopes that he can do it without freaking out; without setting himself back to where he started.

Before he knows it, Midoriya stands in front of the door that leads inside the 2-A classroom. The muffled silence from within tells him that the class is either deep in study or focused on an assignment from Aizawa. He reaches for the door handle but hesitates, his hand freezing mid-air. It trembles slightly, the rapid thudding of his heartbeat echoing in his ears. He takes a deep breath, tightening his resolve.

It’s okay.

He wraps his fingers around the handle, and pulls gently, letting the door slide open with a soft whoosh.

As soon as the door opens and Midoriya steps in, his classmates' eyes lock on him as if a spotlight has been shone on him. Aizawa looks up from his reading and meets the gaze of the teenager standing at the door.

“Midoriya, welcome back, did your session go well?” Aizawa asks.

Midoriya nods.

“Good, well, it’s study time so you can just sit down and work on whatever you need for the next few minutes,” Aizawa says as he moves back to his reading.

However, Midoriya doesn’t move. He simply stands there, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, a layer of sweat forming on his palms. Aizawa and his classmates notice his lack of movement and his blatant nervousness.

“Are you okay, Midoriya?” Aizawa asks, closing his book as if ready to step in.

Midoriya gulps. He opens his mouth, ever so slightly, but stops.

No.

I can’t do this.

I don’t think—

He raises his hands.

I’ll just—I’ll try again later.

He proceeds to form a few signs but pauses. Instead, he closes his hands into tight fists and takes a deep exhale.

No. You have to do it.

You have to do it NOW.

He lowers his hands and gazes at his classmates, a determined scowl etched along his features.

You’re fine.

You’re fine.

You’re fine.

“Midoriya—”

Midoriya opens his mouth and utters a few words. A collective gasp fills the room before his class falls dead silent, eyes wide as they notice what he's doing.

“Mr. A-Aizawa—”

The words are barely audible, hoarse, and almost ghostlike.

I’m fine.

It’s okay. Talking does not hurt me.

“T-Thank you—for e-everything.” Midoriya whispers. His words are soft and barely perceptible, coming out as uneven, cracked whispers. His throat feels so dry, the syllables scrapping their way free with a raspy edge.

Midoriya waits for the horrible sensation but to his shock, it doesn’t come. The slight choking feeling does sneak its way through but quickly fades away. Midoriya is astonished.

Did I, do it?

“Midoriya! Oh my god!” Midoriya flinches. He turns to look at his classmates and notices that Mina is standing up, jumping with excitement, “You talked!!”

Shocked expressions spread among his classmates, ranging from dumbfounded to pure joyfulness.

“I—”

His classmates quiet down, noticing his parting lips. They listen in anticipation, eager to hear what else he has to say.

I can do this.

“I—t-thank you—Shinso—K-Kirishima—for—s-saving—me,” Midoriya adds. The nightmarish sensation unfortunately returns, growing stronger with each word, so Midoriya stops.

Yup, that's enough for now.

He takes a few breaths and makes sure to repeat to himself.

Talking does not hurt me.

Talking does not lead to choking.

After a few seconds, the sensation goes away.

“Midoriya! Oh my god! That’s incredible, man!” Kirishima stands up and rushes over to Midoriya. Once at arm’s length, he pulls him into a hug, stunning the teenager. “And you’re welcome. I’m glad you are okay. I’m so so proud of you!”

“Oh, Deku!” Uraraka stands up and walks over to where Midoriya stands. “I’m so happy to hear your voice! I-I—I’m just glad to—I’m happy you’re here.” She joins in on the hug, tears running down her eyes.

Midoriya feels a lump forming in his throat. He wants to stop the rising sobs because crying hurts, but he mentally shakes his head.

I’ll be fine.

I’ll be okay.

I can—I can cry.

And so, he lets it out. He releases weeks of repressed tears and sobs, not noticing his classmates approaching him and comforting him with a growing group hug. A few stay back, one of them being Shinso, who isn't too fond of hugs. Midoriya locks eyes with him and sees him smile, then watches as he signs something.

You’re welcome.

Midoriya grins through his tears as his cries continue.

Aizawa watches as his classmates offer their congratulations and words of warmth, each one happy for what Midoriya has accomplished after such a hellish road to recovery. He knows that Midoriya still has a long way to go, but he's relieved and happy to see that he's doing much better than how he was weeks ago.

He's also glad to see the strong support system Midoriya has, and how much they care for and support him.

The pro hero smiles and whispers back, “your welcome, problem child.”

The students of class 2-A stay like that, in a collective blob of a hug until the end of the class period.

For once, Midoriya is happy, no longer scared, and fearing for his life.

His voice is back.

And now he knows that everything will be okay, all thanks to the unwavering support of everyone in his life.