Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The front door to the Bakugo household slammed open with a bone-rattling crack, the frame shuddering on its hinges. Late afternoon sun spilled into the entryway, casting long shadows across the floor as Katsuki Bakugo stormed inside, sneakers caked in dust and dirt from the city streets. His face was thunderous—eyes sharp with fury, mouth drawn in a tight, angry line. 

He was still in his U.A. uniform—blazer open, collar askew, backpack slung haphazardly over one shoulder.

They expelled him. Him. Katsuki Bakugo, a future top hero. 

The door slammed shut behind him with another thud, echoing down the hall. He didn’t even make it past the genkan before a familiar voice rang out like a warning shot.

"Oi, Brat! The hell is your problem slamming my door like that, huh?!"

Mitsuki Bakugo’s voice was sharp as glass, and she stormed into view from the living room, hair swept up in a messy clip and arms still damp from washing dishes. She looked ready to throw something.

But then she got a proper look at his face.

Her eyes narrowed, fury turning into wary confusion. "What the hell happened?" she demanded. "Don’t tell me you got into another fight. I swear to god, Katsuki—"

"They expelled me."

The words cut through the air. There was a beat of stunned silence. And then

Mitsuki blinked once. “...what?!”

"I said," Katsuki growled, ripping the backpack from his shoulder and hurling it across the hall, "U.A. fucking kicked me out."

It thudded to the floor, half-unzipped, contents spilling out—textbooks, notebooks, a cracked pencil case.

Mitsuki stared at her son, stunned for half a second. Then she exploded.

"Are you shitting me right now, you brat?!" she shrieked, stomping forward. "You got kicked out of U.A.?! The hell did you do?!"

Her words hit like a rapid-fire barrage. "You’ve been there less than a year and already blew it? I busted my ass to get you into that school, and you go and screw it all up?!"

"It’s not my fault!" he snapped, voice raw. His fists trembled at his sides. "Those extras didn’t even give me a chance to—"

"You mean to tell me you got fucking expelled from the top hero school in Japan and it wasn’t your fault? Bullshit! Don’t you dare try that crap with me!"

"It’s not my goddamn fault!" he roared, voice ricocheting off the walls. "They basically called me a villain and told me to fuck off! The hell do they mean, ‘not heroic,’ huh?!"

Mitsuki jabbed a finger at his chest. Her eyes were blazing, but there was something else underneath—fear, maybe. Or disappointment. "Guess what, brat? You’re now a liability! You know what people are going to say when they find out my only son got the boot from U.A.?"

She started pacing, hands tugging at her hair. "I’ve got clients, Katsuki. A reputation. Your father and I worked so hard to keep your record clean. And you can’t even manage to behave for one goddamn year? First you get restrained at the Sports Festival, then you get kidnapped by villains, and now this? It’s just one thing after another, Katsuki!"

"Then maybe those extras should all go fuck themselves!" Katsuki snapped, voice cracking from strain. "Everyone should just get off my back for two fucking seconds and stop acting like I ruined the goddamn world!"

"You did ruin something!" Mitsuki fired back. "You ruined your one chance at being a hero!"

Silence followed. For a moment, all the fight drained out of her. She looked at him—really looked—and Katsuki saw something worse than anger in her eyes.

Resignation.

She turned away.

"We’ll start looking into schools," she said flatly. "Whatever school will take you. I’ll talk to your father, but moving might be the only option. If your heart’s still set on being a hero… maybe there’s something overseas. America, maybe."

Katsuki blinked. America?

Mitsuki rubbed her temples. "Just… get out of my sight."

Katsuki stood there, stunned. Then without a word, he turned on his heel and stomped down the hallway, not even bothering to remove his shoes. His bedroom door slammed behind him with a hollow crack. 

Inside, nothing had changed.

Trophies still gleamed on the shelf. His workout gear sat untouched in the corner. The All Might poster tacked to the wall felt like it was mocking him now.

He paced once, twice, then yanked a dumbbell off the floor and hurled it against the wall, leaving a crater in the drywall. His hands were shaking. His breath came in short, angry bursts. 

He flexed his palm, feeling the usual snap of nitroglycerin, but no explosions came. Just a hot fizz under his skin.

“Fucking bullshit,” he hissed under his breath. “Fucking… hypocrites.”

He collapsed onto the bed, still fully clothed, eyes burning holes in the ceiling.

They expelled me.

Not for failure. Not for weakness. Not even for the Kamino incident.

For bullying. For being violent. For Middle School.

His throat clenched. Deku’s dumb face flashed in his mind—nervous, twitchy, sincere to a fault.

“Fucking idiot,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

A part of him wanted to believe Midoriya meant to sabotage him. That he finally got tired of forgiving and told the truth to ruin Katsuki’s life. But that wasn’t Deku. That wasn’t how he worked.

He probably let it slip. Maybe in one of those therapy sessions they made him go to after Kamino. Maybe he said it while crying, saying something like “Kacchan used to be so mean, but I always believed in him.”

Katsuki curled his hands into fists again, nails biting into his palms.

Even after everything. Even after Katsuki had shoved him, mocked him, told him to jump off a building, the damn nerd still smiled at him. Still admired him.

And Katsuki…

He hated it. He hated that look. That trust. That blind, idiotic faith.

He sat up sharply, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The evening light stretched long over the floor. His phone buzzed near his bag—notifications piling in. Messages. Missed calls.

He ignored them.

He remembered the meeting in Nezu’s office. The way Aizawa had looked at him—not with anger, but with disappointment. The kind that cut deeper.

They didn’t even give him a chance to explain. Aizawa wouldn’t look him in the eye. Nezu’s face stayed neutral the entire time, but there was this coldness under it. Like Katsuki had already been tried and sentenced before he even walked into the room.

“We have a responsibility to our students’ safety and mental health. We cannot in good conscience continue to enroll someone with a history of repeated harassment, especially toward a fellow classmate.”

Those words wouldn’t leave his head. “History of harassment.” Like he was some kind of predator. A villain in the making.

His vision blurred, and for a terrifying second, Katsuki realized he was crying.

He sat up fast, scrubbing his face with the heel of his hand. No. He wasn’t doing that. He didn’t cry. He wasn’t weak.

But he couldn’t stop the thoughts from racing, spinning, choking him from the inside

What now?

Even if he went abroad, even if they enrolled him in some American school, what then? It would only be a matter of time before someone dug up his past, landing him in the same predicament.

What kind of hero gets expelled before even making it to their second year?

He couldn't think of a single school that would take him. He imagined he'd be blacklisted by every agency in the country. He was a walking PR nightmare.

He remembered Kamino. Smoke. Fire. The ground crumbling beneath his feet. All Might standing tall—broken, bleeding—fighting because Bakugo couldn’t fight his way free. Katsuki had looked up to that man his whole life. Even now. Even when he had been the one to end All Might's career, forcing him into retirement.

A weak, hollow laugh escaped his throat.

Some hero.

He curled up on the bed, back to the wall, and stared out the window. Outside, the sun slipped below the horizon. His phone buzzed again.

He didn’t pick it up.

-Earlier That Day-

The UA faculty lounge was quiet, save for the gentle clink of porcelain as Principal Nezu sipped his tea. Steam curled up in soft spirals from the cup, disappearing into the artificial light. A faint hum came from the air vents, but the office was otherwise silent.

Aizawa stood at the far end of the room, his arms folded tight across his chest. His gaze was fixed out the window, trained on the training fields below—but his eyes were distant, unfocused. He wasn’t seeing the students sparring or the leaves being stirred by the breeze. His thoughts were elsewhere. Behind him, the table was cluttered with papers. Here were disciplinary reports, performance reviews, candid security footage of sparring sessions, and one sheet set apart from the others, as if it weighed more than all the rest.

“You’ve seen the footage?” Nezu asked. His voice was calm, but there was a tightness to it.

“I have. It lines up with what Midoriya said…” Aizawa trailed off, jaw tight. “He didn’t mean to say it. I could tell the slip was unintentional.”

Nezu’s ears flicked.“Which makes it all the more credible. Sometimes the truth finds its way out whether we want it to or not.”

Aizawa exhaled slowly through his nose, feeling the weight of years pressing down on his shoulders. He finally turned from the window, eyes shadowed. “We missed it. All the signs. His temper, his pride, the way he zeroed in on Midoriya. We thought discipline and guidance would be enough.”

“We underestimated the damage already done,” Nezu said gently. “We hoped structure would reform him. That being among peers, real competition, might soften his edges. Instead, it sharpened them.”

Aizawa’s fingers curled into fists. “We gave him every chance.”

“We did,” Nezu said. “And he is capable. But there’s a difference between strength and heroism. Between victory and virtue.”

Aizawa’s voice was quieter now. “He’s still a kid.”

“And that’s exactly why this hurts,” Nezu said, eyes sad. “But this environment isn’t helping him anymore. It’s feeding the wrong parts of him. Letting him stay would only reinforce his worst instincts.”

Aizawa looked down. “He needs to face this now—before it’s too late.”

Nezu nodded. “Which is why we’re making this decision.”

- - - - -

The principal’s office was bright. Afternoon sun pooled on the floor like liquid gold. The room was filled with the quiet ticking of a wall clock, and the faint rustle of leaves outside.

Katsuki Bakugo sat across from Nezu’s desk. His arms were crossed, his chin jutted out defiantly. The faint scowl that lived permanently on his face seemed etched a little deeper today. His eyes flicked from the principal to the man standing behind him—Aizawa, his homeroom teacher. His mentor. Or he had been, until now.

Katsuki’s leg bounced, heel tapping against the floor in an uneven rhythm. The silence in the room wasn’t oppressive, but it felt unnatural, like something important was about to snap.

“So what is this?” he asked finally. His voice was sharp, brittle. “Another warning? You gonna lecture me again about ‘teamwork’ or whatever?”

Nezu didn’t smile. He folded his paws together, resting them atop the polished surface of his desk.

“No, Bakugo. This is your expulsion hearing.”

For a second, the words didn’t compute.

Katsuki’s brow furrowed. His mouth opened, then closed again. He blinked.

Then he scoffed. “Bullshit. That’s a load of crap.”

Aizawa didn’t flinch. His arms stayed crossed, but his shoulders rose slightly with the effort of holding back everything he wanted to say.

“You’re not here to be disciplined. You’re here to be informed.”

Katsuki’s voice spiked. “I haven’t failed a single damn thing. I’m top of the rankings, top of the entrance exam. You’re gonna kick me out over what exactly?”

“This isn’t about academics,” Nezu said evenly. “This is about character.”

Something flickered in Katsuki’s eyes—confusion, maybe. Or fear. It vanished quickly behind the usual scowl.

Nezu continued, “Your behavior towards your classmates—especially Midoriya—has been a concern since the beginning. But what truly cemented our decision was your unwillingness to reflect. To grow. You lead through intimidation. That isn’t heroism.”

Katsuki pushed to his feet. The chair screeched against the floor.

“You think I don’t care about being a hero? That I don’t get it?”

Aizawa stepped forward, his voice steady. “We think you’ve never stopped to consider what heroism really is. It’s not about dominance. It’s about protection. It’s about putting yourself second. You refuse to grow,” Aizawa continued. His voice wasn’t angry—just tired. “You’ve had every opportunity to reflect and change since entering UA, but there’s no accountability for your actions. Heroism isn’t about winning fights or conquering villains. It’s about protecting people and lifting them up. You’ve shown us that you view vulnerability as a weakness—and that mindset is poisonous.”

“I lead because I’m strong!” Katsuki snapped. “Because I win!”

“But at what cost?” Nezu asked.

Katsuki didn’t answer. His fists trembled.

Nezu took a sip from the cup in his paw, “We have a responsibility to our students’ safety and mental health. We cannot in good conscience continue to enroll someone with a history of repeated harassment, especially toward a fellow classmate.”

Nezu delicately sets his teacup off the side and folds his paws on the table, his eyes unblinking. “Effective immediately, you are expelled from U.A. High School.”

Katsuki's breath caught in his throat.

“This is not punishment,” Aizawa added. “It’s a wake-up call. We hope you’ll look into it and choose what you want to become. Because the path you’re on now leads to nowhere heroic. We’re telling you that what you’re doing is not working. And it won’t work in the real world either.”

Katsuki’s mouth opened—then closed. For a moment, Katsuki looked like he might explode. Like all the pressure inside him would ignite.

But it didn’t.

He just stood there.

Then, slowly, he turned.

And walked out without another word, his hands trembling.

The dormitory hallway was eerily quiet. Katsuki’s boots echoed against the linoleum as he trudged through the space that had once felt like the center of his universe.

Katsuki's duffel bag hit the ground with a heavy thunk. The others were probably in class. Maybe they already knew. Maybe they’d cheer.

He walked past the common room, past the training gym, past the place where they’d all laughed and shouted and pretended they were invincible.

At the gate, he stopped. The wind was biting, colder than it had any right to be. The city loomed ahead, and behind him, U.A. stood tall and unflinching.

He turned back once, just once.

His voice was low, but it carried.

“I’ll prove all of you wrong,” he spat. “Just watch me.”

Then he walked away.

Chapter Text

The Bakugo household was quiet, but not in any peaceful way. The air was too still, the silence too heavy. The walls—normally trembling with Mitsuki’s voice or the low rumble of the TV—felt like they were holding their breath. There was no warmth to the quiet, only dread.

Katsuki sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, face lit by the pale glow of the screen. He hadn’t moved in hours.

Headlines screamed across his feed:

"EXPLOSIVE TRUTH: U.A. Expels Bakugo Katsuki Amid Bullying Allegations." "Is This the Face of Japan’s Future Heroes? Public Divided Over UA’s Controversial Decision." "From Top Student to Trouble Magnet: A Deep Dive into Bakugo’s Fall from Grace."

There were worse ones. Threads full of screenshots, grainy middle school footage, students anonymously sharing stories. The comments were a bloodbath.

"Can’t believe I used to think he was cool. What a psycho." "Should’ve been arrested, not expelled." "The way he treated that green-haired kid? Disgusting." "Just another villain waiting to happen."

Katsuki’s grip tightened on the phone until the plastic casing creaked. He wanted to throw it, blast it, make it disappear—but he didn’t. There was a hollow pit where his fury used to be. Something raw and echoing.

He didn’t recognize himself in the photos they used. He looked mean, dangerous. But worse than the photos was the way they twisted things that were already true. There had been shouting, fights, cruelty. Moments he’d thought were over, buried. Now they had come back to gut him.

No hero school would take him. His parents had called every contact they had, but the minute they mentioned his name, they got polite refusals or flat denials. It was all over the news now. No one wanted to touch him. Not with the kind of publicity his name brought. Even support courses hesitated. He was radioactive.

He scrolled again. More hate. More speculation. His past dragged into the open like roadkill.

He didn’t even remember half of what they were saying. Or maybe he did, but didn’t want to.

They were picking him apart.

And the worst part? He couldn’t say they were wrong.

He tossed the phone onto his bed and buried his face in his hands.

Somewhere downstairs, the TV droned. His mother had left it on, volume low. Probably another panel of talking heads debating his mental state or lack of remorse. One channel even had on a self-proclaimed "quirk ethicist" talking about how explosive quirks tend to correlate with aggression and instability.

The world had turned on him fast.

He could hear Mitsuki pacing. She’d barely spoken since yesterday. Masaru had tried—tentative words, awkward silences—but Katsuki had nothing to give. Not anymore.

He used to walk around like he owned the world. Like he was destined for greatness.

Now he couldn’t even leave the house without people whispering.

Even in online forums dedicated to aspiring heroes, he’d become a case study. The fall of a prodigy. The dangers of unchecked ego. Was this the cost of ambition?

He stood abruptly, anger flaring—but it fizzled out as fast as it came. He didn’t even know what to do with it anymore.

He moved to the window. The city skyline stretched in the distance, lights blinking like stars that refused to die. Somewhere out there, other students were still training. Still dreaming. Still rising.

And for the first time, he wondered if maybe he really didn’t belong in that world.

  –Izuku–

The atmosphere in Class 1-A was subdued.

It had been two days since the expulsion. Two days since Principal Nezu and Aizawa had called them into the common area with grim expressions and careful words.

Izuku remembered every second of it.

“Bakugo Katsuki has been officially expelled from U.A.,” Nezu had announced. “This is not a punishment, but a necessary intervention. His behavior—past and present—goes against the values we strive to uphold.”

There’d been silence. Denki blinked, mouth parted in shock. Kirishima had muttered a stunned, “No way.”

But it was Izuku’s gasp that cut deepest. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t wanted this. And yet, he was the one who let it slip.

He remembered that moment, too. Sitting with Recovery Girl, talking about past injuries—mentioning middle school. How quickly the air had changed. The questions. The tension. The realization.

Now, all he could think about was the look Katsuki gave him as he was escorted out of UA

Rage. Betrayal. Hurt.

Tenya adjusted his glasses, his posture rigid. “We must trust our teachers. They wouldn’t do this lightly.”

“I know that,” Kirishima mumbled, fingers digging into his thigh. “But Bakugo—he was trying. He was getting better. Wasn’t he?”

Mina looked pale.

Aoyama didn’t speak. Neither did Shoto. The room felt off-kilter, like a table missing a leg.

“Heroes are supposed to protect, not humiliate,” said Momo softly. “But it’s… complicated. Especially when the world watches your every move.”

The school’s image was already shaky after the Kamino incident. Now, they were being accused of covering up violence, of failing their students. Rumors flew like shrapnel: that Bakugo was violent behind closed doors, that he had been shielded until he couldn’t be anymore. Every student in 1-A felt it—the weight of a narrative spiraling out of control.

Izuku said nothing. All he could do was stare at his hands. They shook faintly.

“I didn’t want this,” he whispered.

No one answered.

They just sat there, listening to the silence Bakugo left behind, while the world beyond their dorm walls roared with opinions, judgments, and the unraveling of a legacy that had barely begun.

– – – – –

Down the hallway, Aizawa stood outside the faculty lounge, phone in hand. He’d been fielding calls all morning—from concerned parents, reporters, hero agencies. The media circus was growing, and the backlash was only getting louder.

“You did what had to be done,” Hizashi said, stepping beside him. “Doesn’t make it easier.”

Aizawa didn’t look up. “It was necessary.”

“Still hurts.”

He exhaled. “I thought… I thought if we gave him a strong enough foundation, he’d build something different. Something better.”

“And maybe he still will,” Hizashi said. “But maybe not here. Maybe not now.”

Aizawa nodded slowly. “He’s got a long road ahead.”

“And we’ll be watching,” Hizashi said. “One way or another.”

Aizawa stared at his phone screen. A notification flashed—another message, another article, another accusation.

But beneath all of that, he felt something deeper. A quiet, persistent hope that this wasn’t the end for Bakugo Katsuki.

Only the beginning of something else.

–Katsuki–

The morning sun filtered weakly through half-closed blinds, catching in the dust that lingered in the Bakugo household. 

Katsuki stood in front of the bathroom mirror, tugging on a plain black hoodie. His hair was messier than usual, tufts sticking up where sleep had pressed against them. His phone buzzed for the fifth time in ten minutes. He didn’t need to check it. He knew it was Deku. Again.

He’d blocked his number yesterday, but apparently, the nerd found ways around that.

A soft ping. An email this time.

“Hey Kacchan… I know you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for things to happen this way. I just… I hope you’re okay.”

Katsuki slammed the phone face-down on the table. The screen cracked slightly.

“Sorry,” he muttered under his breath. “Tch. Like hell you are.”

The words echoed in his mind, more bitter than he expected. The worst part was that he didn’t know who he was really mad at—Midoriya, the school, himself. Probably all of them.

He leaned over the sink, splashing his face with water. Katsuki could not muster a fuck to give over Deku’s pathetic apology. At the forefront of his mind were the articles, the videos, the angry mobs of netizens—he’d read them all. Every word was burned into his brain like the afterimage of an explosion.

Katsuki looked up at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes were dull, ringed with shadows.

He’d stopped reading the comments, but they still haunted him.

Villain.

Bully.

A walking red flag.

His hands curled into fists, but he made no sound. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. 

“I’m not just gonna sit around like some fucking disgrace,” he muttered, grabbing his phone and keys. He ignored the way his mother’s eyes flicked toward him from the kitchen table. She didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Instead, Katsuki slipped outside. Musutafu in late autumn carried a biting wind, the kind that cut through layers and snuck under your collar. The streets were cluttered with ad boards showing hero merch, support gear commercials, live-streamed patrol maps. The city moved on. With or without him. And even now, headlines ran under them like venomous subtitles:

“U.A. Student Expelled for Bullying. Quirk Misuse Allegations Under Review.”

“A Cautionary Tale: When Power Goes Unchecked.”

Katsuki shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking.

He’d found a listing last night—some construction company desperate enough to not care about his record. Physical labor. No customers. No cameras. Just noise and work.

The industrial district was lined with tired, gray buildings and chain-link fences. One of them housed a small, dingy construction office where Katsuki now stood in front of the foreman, dressed in an oversized hoodie and steel toed boots he purchased for this occasion.

“You ever done manual labor before, kid?” the foreman asked, eyeing him skeptically.

“No,” Katsuki said, voice clipped, “but I’m fast. I can carry my own weight.”

The man grunted. “You’re that kid from the news, huh?”

Katsuki stiffened, shoulders twitching slightly.

The foreman exhaled smoke through his nostrils. “You cause trouble, you’re gone. You show up on time, do the work, and we won’t care where you came from. Got it?”

“Got it.”

And so he began hauling bricks, mixing concrete, stacking rebar. It was mindless and exhausting, but that was the point. At the end of each day, he collapsed into bed sore, filthy, and too tired to read the latest headline dragging his name through the dirt.

  –Izuku–

Elsewhere, Class 1-A sat in tense silence. The dorm lounge, once alive with chatter and banter, had been subdued since the expulsion.

Izuku sat curled up on the couch, All Might keychain swinging from his fingers. 

Hey Kacchan. I just wanted to say… Delete .

I’m sorry things turned out like this. Delete .

He wanted to reach out. Desperately. But what would he even say? That he didn’t mean to get him expelled? That he still admired him, even after everything?

But every time he thought of that day—the look on Aizawa-sensei’s face, the weight of Nezu’s words, the look that must have been on Kacchan's face as he packed up his belongings- he was overwhelmed by the urge to fix this somehow. But he knows he can't. Not now.

The news hadn’t slowed. It was everywhere—video essays, think pieces, old classmates coming out of the woodwork with stories.

Some were lies. Some weren’t.

“He still hasn’t answered?” Uraraka asked, setting down a cup of tea.

Izuku shook his head. “I just wanted to talk to him.”

Uraraka gave him a sad look. “I know you do. But maybe he needs space. This is a lot.”

Across the room, Kirishima stared at his phone too, jaw tight. “I just… I thought he was better than that,” he muttered.

“He was ,” Sero offered, cautiously. “I think. Or maybe he was trying. But… yeah.”

“Good riddance,” Mineta piped up, earning him a sharp glare from several corners.

Iida straightened, his hands folded in front of him. “Whether we agree with the decision or not, we must move forward. Dwelling too much can cloud our judgment.”

But no one was really moving forward. The dorm felt off balance, a room missing a loud voice.

In a darkened room lit only by the cold glow of a monitor, the League of Villains gathered. Dust floated in lazy spirals through beams of pale light, and the hum of old machinery filled the quiet like a second pulse.

“All Might’s replacement has been quiet lately,” Dabi murmured, his fingers tapping idly on the desk. “But our explosive little friend is making headlines.”

“Predictable,” Shigaraki rasped. “He’s cornered. Isolated. That kind of desperation? It’s flammable.”

Spinner leaned forward. “But we tried that already, didn’t we? He didn’t break.”

“Not yet,” said Shigaraki. “But Sensei believes the brat may still be useful.”

Toga leaned over the back of the couch. “He looks so angry. It’s kinda cute.”

“Ugh, gross,” Spinner muttered, flipping a page of his manga.

Shigaraki scratched his neck, dry skin flaking beneath his fingers. “He’s valuable. Still dangerous. But… humiliated. Alone.”

“Vulnerable,” Dabi added from the shadows. “People like him, with nothing left? They’re easy to steer.”

“Let him stew,” Shigaraki grinned, a slow, stretched thing full of malice, “The world’s already tearing him down. When he breaks… we’ll be ready.”

  –Katsuki–

By the time Katsuki made it home, his muscles ached and his clothes reeked of dust and sweat. But he didn’t mind.

His mom barely looked up when he entered. Dinner was on the counter, still warm. Masaru had left a note. “Hope the job went okay. We’re trying.”

Katsuki ate in silence, showered, and collapsed onto his bed.

Katsuki lay on his back, hands behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The muscles in his arms throbbed from labor. His knuckles were scabbed from hauling bricks. He liked it that way. Manual labor dulled the noise. Gave him something to do with his hands, something other than scroll or pace or think. It meant he could still feel something.

He thought of Deku’s message again. Of the silence from the people he thought were his friends.

He wasn’t looking for forgiveness.

He wasn’t looking for pity.

The world outside wanted him to break. But Bakugo Katsuki wasn’t the type to shatter quietly. 

He stared at the ceiling long into the night.

His resolve didn’t falter.

He’d carve his own path, even if he had to drag his nails through the dirt to make it happen.

Even if it killed him.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low over Musutafu, bleeding orange light across steel towers and rusting scaffolding. Between train announcements, traffic hums, and the sharp scent of asphalt and exhaust, the city thrummed with the rhythm of normal life.

For most people.

The days bled together, grey and relentless. Katsuki Bakugo's world had shrunk to a narrow rhythm: wake, work, eat, collapse. Every morning he boarded a local bus before sunrise, hood pulled up, sunglasses pressed to his face, boots laced tight. Sometimes he’d stare out the window, watching the city fade behind the grime on the glass. Other times, he shut his eyes and tried not to think at all.

He made his way to a construction site in Musutafu’s industrial edge, a skeletal rise of metal and cement cloaked in dust and sweat. It was a different kind of battlefield. No flashy quirks. No explosions. Just weight, noise, and men who didn’t care who you used to be. No one there called him “Bakugo.” They called him “Blondie” or “Kid.” 

Katsuki Bakugo wiped the sweat from his brow with the edge of his work glove. His body ached in the dull, familiar way of physical exhaustion, muscles throbbing beneath the orange construction vest and helmet. He was standing at the base of a half-completed apartment complex on the outskirts of town, hauling rebar and guiding deliveries like his life depended on it. 

Because, in a way, it did.

He didn’t need the money. Not really. Masaru had quietly set aside savings in case things went south, and Mitsuki was still keeping up the household bills. But Katsuki needed purpose . Something to fill the endless hours, to keep the headlines and whispers from gnawing at his brain. To remind himself that he still had strength in his arms, still had something left that wasn’t rage or shame or the echo of loss.

He didn’t talk much. The other workers had learned fast that the scowling teenager was no small-talk type. He did the work, did it well, and didn’t complain. Some of them had recognized him early on, whispering behind crates or during lunch breaks— "Wasn’t that the U.A. kid who got expelled?" —but no one confronted him. Not yet.

Until today.

“Oi, brat,” one of the senior workers barked during break, a lanky man with deep crow’s feet and calloused hands. “Heard you used to be some hotshot at U.A. You gonna blow up the site if you get pissed?”

A few guys chuckled. Katsuki stared at him, unmoving.

“You're real quiet for someone who used to scream in every Sports Festival broadcast.”

The laughter was louder this time.

Katsuki stood up, fists clenching slightly, but said nothing. Just walked away from the group, heading toward the water faucet. He didn’t trust his voice right now.

The voices behind him continued, quieter now but biting. 

"Heard he got kicked for bullying."  

"What kind of hero does that?"  

"Thought he was some kind of prodigy—just another fake."

Katsuki washed his hands slowly, letting the cold water numb his fingers.

The words stuck like glass under the skin.

He scrubbed his face with his sleeve and took a slow breath.

He felt eyes on his back like static. The foreman tossed him extra rebar with a shrug, like offering a bone to a dog.

At lunch, Katsuki sat alone beneath scaffolding, chewing through cold rice balls. His phone buzzed once. Then again. He didn’t look. Probably junk mail. Probably Deku. Either way, he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. He scrolled through the feed out of habit, barely absorbing the words.

Another headline.

Ex-U.A. Student Caught in Controversy . A photo of his face—unflattering, harshly lit, angry. Always angry.

He nearly crushed the phone in his hand.

The day ended in sweat and silence. He caught the train home, hoodie pulled low, earbuds in with no music playing. His stop came. His house was dark.

Days continued to blur together. Katsuki no longer paid attention to which day of the week it was. The monotony felt good. Safe.

The walk home felt longer than usual. The sun was dipping beneath the skyline, and the streets were starting to glow with neon signs. A ramen shop played an upbeat jingle; two kids ran past with All Might backpacks. Katsuki kept his head low. 

Then came the voice.

"Hey—hey, is that him? That Bakugo kid?"

He didn’t stop walking.

"Yeah, I saw him on the news. That’s totally him! He looks way shorter in real life."

A group of teenagers across the street were pointing. Someone pulled out a phone. Flash.

Katsuki walked faster.

Flash. Click. Flash.

An ugly knot formed in his chest. His vision tunneled.

He broke into a sprint, cutting through an alleyway and vaulting a fence until the voices faded. Katsuki turned the corner, lungs burning. The words clung to him like grease. 

By the time he reached his block, his breath was ragged, chest heaving with silent fury.

He slammed the door behind him when he got home, rattling the coat rack. His boots hit the floor with a sharp thud. He didn’t bother with dinner.

He stormed into his room, shoved the desk chair into the wall, and punched his pillow until feathers began to burst from a seam.

“FUCK!” he screamed, voice hoarse. “GOD FUCKING DAMNIT—!”

His chest heaved. His eyes burned, but he refused to cry.

His palm sparked, detonating in a crack of sweat and smoke. The shelf next to his bed toppled, books scattering. A picture frame—him at the Sports Festival podium—smashed against the wall, glass splintering. His breath came in gasps. His heart pounded in his ears.

He stood there, staring at the ruined corner of his room, hands shaking.

“I didn’t do anything fucking wrong,” he whispered.

No one answered.

The next day, he woke before dawn again. Routine reasserted itself.

The job was worse. One of the older workers kept glancing at him all morning. Finally, during lunch, he muttered just loud enough:

“Not surprised he got expelled. Cocky brat always looked like a ticking time bomb.”

Katsuki’s hands clenched.

“Better watch your mouth,” he said coldly.

The man laughed. “What’re you gonna do? Blast me? That’s what you’re good at, right?”

He didn’t. Couldn’t. Just turned and walked away. Anger simmering under the surface.

Three days passed like that. Quiet cruelty. Sidelong looks. The press kept circling like vultures, old classmates kept tweeting cryptic jabs, and Katsuki kept his head down. The Bakugos were gone—off on a business trip, leaving only a note and a few meals in the fridge. Katsuki didn’t mind. 

He preferred the quiet.

Sometimes he caught himself staring at the back door, or the spot where his All Might poster used to hang. Then he’d get up, run a few blocks until his lungs burned, or hit the heavy bag in the basement until his knuckles split open.

Pain, at least, didn’t lie.

On the eighth day, as dusk fell over the neighborhood, Katsuki turned the corner toward home—and froze.

The front door was open.

There was no sound.

Every nerve in his body screamed.

He stepped forward slowly, one hand in his pocket, the other reaching for a metal pipe near the porch. The hallway light was flickering. The air smelled... wrong. Dust and something faintly metallic.

Then came the voice.

“Well, well,” drawled a familiar tone, smooth like oil. “The prodigal son returns.”

Katsuki froze.

The TV was on, playing static. The living room was trashed. A knife stuck in the wall by the family photos.

And then he saw them.

Toga, perched on the couch like it was her own. Dabi leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Twice giving a two-handed wave from behind the kitchen counter.

And Shigaraki, center stage, like an actor awaiting applause.

“Welcome home, Bakugo,” Shigaraki said, voice like gravel. “Miss us?”

Katsuki’s mouth twisted. “You’ve got five seconds to get the hell out.”

“Still so hostile,” Toga pouted. “We came all this way to visit.”

“You don’t have to fight anymore,” Shigaraki said, ignoring her. “No teachers barking orders. No fake friends. No heroes pretending to care. You can stop playing their game.”

“I’m not interested in your game either,” Katsuki growled.

Dabi chuckled. “Sure about that? ‘Cause from where we’re standing, you’ve got no school, no future, no one left to call you a hero. Just a good quirk and a lot of anger.”

Twice chimed in. “That’s all it takes to be one of us, really!”

“I’d rather die,” Katsuki said, eyes sparking.

Shigaraki shrugged. “You say that now. That’s fine. But we’re not here to give you a choice.”

Katsuki lunged, hands crackling—but Toga was faster, slamming something into his neck.

He stumbled.

The world tilted, and darkness swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

The ceiling above him was cracked. A hairline fracture that curved through the plaster like a spiderweb. He stared at it, motionless, the world around him muffled and slow.

Katsuki Bakugo blinked.

The air was heavy—damp and metallic, like rusting blood in old pipes. Concrete walls boxed him in. One flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead. His arms were bound behind him, wrists chafed and numb from tight restraints. He didn’t recognize the room, but he knew the feeling.

Captured. Again.

His breathing was shallow, but steady. Every movement sent a low hum of pain through his muscles—bruises bloomed across his ribs, his shoulder throbbed with a dull sting, and dried blood tugged at the corner of his lip.

He counted the seconds in his head. One… two… three. A slow rhythm to keep panic at bay.

Then came the voice.

“Ah. Sleeping Beauty’s finally awake.”

He didn’t need to look. The gravel-and-smirk belonged to Dabi. He stepped into view, hands in his pockets, lazy grin half-masked by the burns scrawled across his face.

“Got real tired of waiting,” Dabi added.

Katsuki didn’t answer.

Nearby, someone was humming—light, childish, and off-key.

Katsuki’s eyes rolled toward the sound. Toga sat cross-legged on a rust-stained table, twirling a knife between her fingers. It clinked against the metal every time it rotated.

“You looked like an angel when we dragged you in,” she sighed. “So pale. So sad. So bloody. It was cute. ”

Katsuki moved his jaw slowly, testing its stiffness.

They were in some kind of underground room—concrete walls, flickering lights overhead, boxes stacked haphazardly along the corners. A space that smelled of abandonment. Damp. Mold. 

A warehouse? A bunker?

He flexed his fingers, slow and careful.

“Well?” Dabi took a step forward, “You gonna say good morning, or just glare at us ‘til your eyeballs pop out?”

Katsuki spat blood onto the floor.

“Fuck. You.”

Toga beamed.

“Still got bite! That’s why we like you.”

“We could’ve killed you,” Dabi’s smirk twisted. “We didn’t.”

“Then maybe you’re even dumber than you look.”

“You were unconscious for two days.”

“I’m still not joining your cult.”

“Bold of you,” came another voice. This one softer, rasping—dry like the scrape of bone on stone. Shigaraki stepped forward from the gloom, red eyes half-lidded, his disheveled figure looming like a curse. “After everything… you still think you’re a hero?”

“I never said that.”

Shigaraki tilted his head.

“You’re not wanted by the public. Not trusted by the heroes. Even your precious U.A. threw you out like garbage.” He stepped closer. “Why keep pretending?”

Katsuki stared at him, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling like distant thunder. There was a pause, thick with venom.

“I’d rather die,” he growled, “than be one of you.”

Shigaraki stopped just a step away. His hand twitched—his fingers almost flexed. Then he pulled back, his smile widening.

“That can be arranged.”

Elsewhere in Musutafu, the Bakugo household was in chaos.

The front door had been kicked off its hinges. Furniture lay overturned, drawers pulled open. Mitsuki stood frozen in the hallway, cell phone shaking in her hand.

Masaru was calling out his son’s name—over and over again.

No answer.

“He’s not here,” Mitsuki whispered. “He’s not here. Katsuki’s not—” Her voice caught.

The police were called within minutes. The Bakugo household was locked down behind yellow police tape. Mitsuki paced the hallway in a rage, barking into her phone. Masaru sat with his head in his hands as police officers moved in and out of rooms, snapping photos and filing reports.

“They took him,” Mitsuki snarled. “Again. They took my son. ”

“We’re aware, ma’am,” said the detective. “We’ve alerted the HPSC. Hero Commission’s opening an investigation.”

“Do they even care anymore?” she snapped. “You didn’t the first time.”

The officer didn’t respond.

Outside, neighbors whispered behind closed blinds. News vans began to gather down the block.

“Isn’t this the U.A. dropout kid?”

Mitsuki nearly decked the one who said it out loud.

The HPSC issued a brief statement that evening:

“The Commission is aware of reports regarding former U.A. student Bakugo Katsuki. At this time, we are working with law enforcement and Pro Hero agencies to assess the situation. We ask the public to refrain from speculation while the investigation continues.”

It said everything and nothing.

At U.A., the news arrived through private channels. Aizawa didn’t react outwardly, but his hands were tight at his sides as Nezu read the report aloud in the faculty office.

“Second kidnapping,” Nezu said, voice grim. His cup of tea had long gone cold.

Back in the hideout, a grainy static noise crackled to life from a mounted screen in the corner of the room—an old, boxy monitor bolted into the concrete.

The League straightened.

Then his voice came.

Low, calm, and poisonous.

“Good evening, Katsuki.”

Katsuki’s eyes snapped to the screen. His breathing stilled.

The monitor flared with dim blue light as All For One’s face emerged from the static—half-shrouded in shadow, his ruined features blurred by the poor signal. But even distorted, his presence chilled the air.

He wasn’t in the room. And somehow, that made it worse.

“You’re still alive. Remarkable. I was beginning to wonder if your stubbornness would burn through your body before we had the chance to speak.”

Katsuki didn’t answer. He only glared.

All For One chuckled, low and indulgent.

“I know you’re not going to join us,” he said. “That was never the point.”

He leaned slightly forward on the screen, his voice growing softer, more intimate—like a whisper you couldn’t unhear.

“You misunderstand your role in all of this. You think your choice matters. But this was never about recruitment.”

Katsuki’s jaw clenched. His wrists twisted behind him, metal scraping metal.

“I will find a use for you, Katsuki Bakugo. Whether you want it or not.”

There was no malice in his voice—just certainty. A god explaining inevitability.

“Hero society,” All For One mused, “is built on faith. In Pro Heroes. In structure. In that ridiculous concept of legacy. You were once a symbol of rising power. A star. Now? You’re discarded. Tainted. Dangerous. And that’s precisely what makes you valuable.”

He let the silence drag for a beat.

“I could paint you as a tragedy. A cautionary tale. A former hero-in-training turned weapon. Or I could release you back into the world, just damaged enough to unravel everything the heroes hold dear. Let the public watch their golden boy fall apart in real time.”

Katsuki didn’t flinch. But his silence rang like a scream.

“You’ll explode,” All For One said softly, “because that’s what you do. We’ll aim you where it hurts the most. Society won’t know whether to hate you or pity you. Maybe they’ll do both.”

He leaned back into the shadows, but his voice darkened.

“And when the next One For All holder sees what’s become of you—when his heart breaks just enough—he’ll be vulnerable. Just for a moment. And that moment will be all I need.”

Katsuki’s head lifted, eyes gleaming like flint.

“You think you’re gonna win?” His voice was hoarse, raw. “You think you’ll break me just by talkin’ through a screen?”

There was a heavy silence filling the room. All For One was toying with him, Katsuki knew it. But part of him was unsure. All For One had completely ignored his taunt. His challenge .

All For One didn’t say another word.

The screen went black.

The screen went black with a sharp click .

Silence returned—heavy and electric.

Katsuki stared at the blank monitor, but the voice still echoed in his skull, coiling through the corners of his mind like smoke.

"You’ll explode. We’ll aim you where it hurts the most."

He didn’t have to ask what that meant.

It wasn’t subtle.

He knew who the bastard meant.

Deku.

His fists twitched behind him, strained tight against restraints that dug into raw skin. Blood was drying under the cords, his fingers going numb. But all he could feel was heat—rising fast—rage hot and suffocating in his chest, clashing against a cold, slithering dread that wound around his lungs.

They were going to use him.

Not just as a symbol.

As bait.

Katsuki ground his teeth, with barely contained rage. He hated being weak. He hated being used.

His breathing stayed quiet, measured

All For One didn’t bluff. He didn’t taunt without intent. If he said Katsuki would be used, it was because the plan was already in motion. Katsuki didn’t know what it was. He didn’t know how they were going to twist him—but he knew it was coming. Knew that every second he sat here in chains, they were getting closer to whatever endgame they had planned.

He gritted his teeth, jaw clenched so tight it ached. His wrists pulled reflexively against the restraints, nerves screaming under the pressure. He wanted to explode, to move, to do something—anything.

They wanted him angry. They wanted him reckless. But more than that—they wanted him uncertain. Unsteady. Afraid.

He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.

He closed his eyes for a brief second. To focus. To anchor himself. 

He slowly opened his eyes and studied the wall in front of him. It was rough, unpainted concrete, stained with something old and dark. A spiderweb of exposed wire snaked across the ceiling. The room smelled like rust, mold, and cold sweat.

He remembered this kind of place.

He remembered what it felt like to wait for someone else to decide your future.

But this time was different.

This time, they didn’t care what he wanted. They didn’t want him to join them.

He didn’t know if they’d inject him with trigger or if they’d turn him into a Nomu. Katsuki mentally flipped through several scenarios. Maybe they’d use him for ransom. They could always just kill him.

Katsuki grunted and stared at the floor, chest rising and falling with shallow precision. This train of thought wasn’t getting him anywhere. 

He couldn’t plan a counterattack when he didn’t know what kind of war he was in.

But if they thought he’d break first—if they thought silence and fear were enough to unmake him—they didn’t understand the one truth that kept him breathing:

He’d survived this once.

He could survive it again.

Even if he didn’t know what was coming.

He just had to hold on long enough to figure out how to tear it all down.

Even if they used him, they’d never own him.

Chapter Text

It came wrapped in mundane brown paper, tucked into the mailroom basket like any other delivery. Nothing about it screamed danger—except, perhaps, the archaic shape of the case inside, heavy in the hands of the second-year student who found it.

There was no postage. No sender. Just one word scrawled in bold, crude ink on the side:

U.A.

The student reported it immediately. Within an hour, the envelope had been rushed through security checkpoints and straight to the staff’s internal emergency wing—deep in the reinforced heart of the school.

Now it sat beside an old VHS player, humming faintly as it powered on. Principal Nezu, brilliant and precise, crouched beside it, paws moving with uncanny speed over the system.

The air inside the meeting room was dense with tension. Even the harsh fluorescent lights overhead seemed to buzz more sharply than usual.

This was not the public staff conference room—sealed and reinforced, this room was used only when U.A. itself was under direct threat. Here, surveillance feeds lined the walls, constantly updating. Emergency alerts shimmered in red along one panel, awaiting a word from Nezu to sound across campus.

The room vibrated with nervous energy as the faculty gathered.

Midnight sat ramrod straight, arms crossed tightly across her chest. Present Mic leaned against the far wall, uncharacteristically silent, shoulders tense. Cementoss and Snipe flanked the doorway like living statues. Vlad King hovered near the corner, his clenched fist shaking slightly. Recovery Girl sat primly in a folding chair near the back, eyes half-lidded but alert. Aizawa standing in the far corner.

And All Might.

He stood near Aizawa at the far end of the room, clad in dark civilian wear. Gaunt. Pale. His gaze remained locked on the dark screen, thin lips pressed into a grim line.

Nezu flipped the switch.

The screen hissed with static.

Flickering distortion bled into a dim, grainy image. The camera lens trembled slightly, as though held by an uncertain hand. A single overhead bulb swayed lazily, casting warped shadows across cracked cement walls. Somewhere in the background, water dripped rhythmically—deep, cavernous, echoing like a heartbeat.

A figure slumped at the center of the frame.

Bakugo Katsuki.

His arms were fastened behind him, wrists bound with a cruel mixture of barbed wire and industrial cord. The chair beneath him had been bolted to the floor. His body was worse for wear—clothes ragged and soaked with grime, his blonde hair dulled with sweat and dried blood. His face bore the bruises of precision cruelty.

The room froze. Even the air seemed to thicken, caught in collective breath.

Nezu’s ears flicked, but he said nothing.

Footsteps echoed.

From the shadowed edge of the screen, Shigaraki Tomura emerged—dragging a rusted stool behind him. The metal shrieked against the concrete. He sat sideways, gangly limbs folding in sharp angles, fingers twitching near his chin.

“You’re probably wondering why we used a VHS tape,” he rasped. “Why not livestream this? Show it to the whole world?”

He leaned toward the lens, mouth twisting into a crooked grin.

“Because this isn’t a show. Not yet. This is a message. For U.A.”

He reached out, grabbed a fistful of Bakugo’s hair, and jerked the boy’s head upright. Katsuki’s eye—the one not swollen shut—blazed with fury. But he didn’t speak.

“You failed him. Again.”

Shigaraki released him. Bakugo slumped, chest rising faintly.

“We’ve got plans for this one.” His grin widened, almost childlike. “Big ones. You’ll find out. Or maybe you won’t. Either way... he’s going to help us clear this level.”

A long pause. The camera panned sideways.

A cracked monitor flickered to life in the background

A new voice spoke, smooth and cold.

All For One.

“U.A.,” he purred.

“Your time draws to an end. 

"One cannot protect all things at once. Choices must be made. Some will be left undefended."

Another pause. A slow, deliberate breath.

"And when fire spreads across your cities, when shadows devour the edges of your light—remember this: some sparks will ignite devastation... once and for all."

The screen went black.

In the shadows of a distant chamber, All For One allowed himself a thin smile.

They will scramble, he thought. They will pull forces inward to protect the boy. Those still in the dark will take the threat at face value, extending their forces outward.

The pieces were moving. Predictably, as always.

He remained weak—crippled by wounds both old and fresh. His body, though sustained through unnatural means, was not yet ready. Months. Perhaps a year. But time mattered little.

He knew he could not yet confront All Might’s successor. Not yet.

Such a well-kept secret. Such secrecy will be their downfall.

One threat. Different interpretations. Different responses.

He knew Nezu would not reveal the truth of One For All. Not even now—when that very secrecy had already served its purpose. All For One was counting on it.

Without knowledge of One For All , the rest of the heroes had no choice but to take the threat at face value.

For now, strength was not his sharpest blade. Perception was.

And perception... was endlessly malleable.

The heroes will divide their priorities, he mused. They have no reason to doubt such a blatant threat.

His thoughts turned to the boy—the explosive prodigy chained in the depths of their lair. Bakugo Katsuki.

A pawn, yes. But a useful one.

How fitting, he thought, that such a volatile Quirk should serve as the spark.

The public adored heroes. They revered power when it was contained, controlled—a spectacle of strength in service of order.

But what they feared—what haunted their dreams—was power unleashed. Power beyond restraint.

Explosion. Raw. Devastating. Indiscriminate. A Quirk born to shatter structures and lives alike.

If such a force were turned upon the civilians—upon the very people heroes vowed to protect—while the nation’s champions were absent, chasing shadows... what faith would remain?

One tragedy. One moment, broadcast to a trembling public. And the people would turn.

They would not accuse the League first. No. The initial outcry would fall upon their so-called protectors.

Against the heroes who failed to act.
Against the government that had not prevented it.
Against U.A.—whose students seemed to invite calamity again and again.

The seeds of doubt had long been sown. Now, they needed only to be watered—in blood.

And the heroes—bound by duty, by pride—would scatter themselves thin in response. A desperate attempt to contain the spreading chaos.

Divide them. Exhaust them. Let them bleed themselves dry in the name of salvation.

When the cracks widened—when public sentiment soured, when despair festered—then, and only then, would he strike.

When Midoriya’s fragile heart is drawn out—toward a broken public and weakened allies—I will be ready. With renewed strength. With the board mine to command.

He allowed himself a breathless moment of satisfaction.

Even should the boy survive—even should they reclaim him—it would not matter.

The message would be etched in the public mind. The damage would linger long after any rescue.

And should Bakugo perish before the end—well. That, too, would serve.

He folded his hands in the dimness.

The board is set. The pieces fall into place.

The screen went black.

The monitor hummed. No one moved.

Midnight’s voice finally cracked through the silence. “They didn’t ask for anything.”

“No ransom. No terms,” said Cementoss.

“No,” Nezu said softly. “Control.”

All eyes turned to him. He stood on the table now, arms folded behind his back, sharp eyes narrowed like blades.

“They chose this method to slow us down. No digital trail. No broadcasting. This was personal. Deliberate. Old-fashioned.”

Present Mic frowned. “Why even show us anything at all?”

“They want us to panic,” Aizawa murmured.

Nezu nodded. “Fear breeds mistakes. Mistakes cost lives.”

Vlad King shifted uncomfortably. “And the ‘big plans’?”

“Vague by design,” Nezu replied. “The unknown gnaws at the mind more than any specific threat. Whatever they intend, it involves Bakugo.”

“Then we find them,” Aizawa said, voice hard. “We go underground. It would be irrational to send top heroes for this mission. The League is counting on it.”

Nezu nodded. “And alert the police. But not the media. If this leaks before we understand it, the public will spiral.”

The meeting dissolved into rapid orders and scrawled notes, but Nezu remained still. Calculating.

Later that night, a smaller meeting convened.

Nezu. All Might. Recovery Girl. Those who knew of One For All.

The tape had been analyzed. No digital fingerprint. No traceable material. A ghost.

Nezu’s voice was low. “I suspect the tape was also bait for us.”

Recovery Girl’s gaze was sharp. "‘Once and for all,’" she said softly. "That was no accident. He knows."

All Might’s fists clench. "Then we must assume the worst—that Young Midoriya is also a target, whether he realizes it or not."

A heavy pause.

Nezu spoke up. “Then, we proceed in two layers. One—underground teams search for Bakugo. Quietly. Two—Midoriya stays close to campus. No independent moves.”

“And we prepare for contingencies.”

The meeting dissolved. But the tension remained, thick as smoke.

The game had begun.

And the stakes had never been higher.

Chapter Text

It was an hour before dawn when Tsukauchi Naomasa and Aizawa Shouta found themselves once again in the cold, dim-lit operations room buried beneath U.A. Neither had slept. Neither intended to.

A scatter of files covered the table between them — surveillance logs, black market chatter, known League safehouses. A battered laptop hummed beside Tsukauchi’s elbow. Two empty mugs sat cooling between them.

“You’re sure there’s no chatter about moving him?” Tsukauchi’s voice was rough with exhaustion.

Aizawa rubbed at his burning eyes. “None that we can confirm. If they’re moving him, they’re using assets we don’t know about. No black market quirks, no rental transport, no sightings. Kurogiri is still being held in custody, so unless they have another member with a teleportation quirk, we’re back to square one.”

“They’ve gone underground,” Tsukauchi muttered.

Aizawa’s voice remained low. “They want us blind. They want us running in circles.”

The silence that followed was heavy. The clock on the far wall ticked out each second like a countdown.

“They’ve studied our response patterns.” Tsukauchi’s brow furrowed. “They know exactly how we’ll prioritize threats.”

“Which is why Nezu thinks the next move is coming soon,” Tsukauchi said finally.

Aizawa nodded. “He’s right.”

“They’re baiting us,” Tsukauchi continued. “The tape was just phase one.”

“Phase two will be bloodier,” Aizawa said grimly.

Both men wore the same expression—driven, but eroding at the edges. Red-rimmed eyes. Fists trembling from adrenaline and exhaustion alike.

They’d read All For One’s message a dozen times, dissected every word. The phrase “once and for all” rang through the back of their minds like a taunt.

Tsukauchi leaned forward, voice low. “He’s laying a trap. We can’t walk into it.”

“We won’t,” Aizawa replied. “But we have to keep hunting.” Aizawa’s jaw clenched. “If the trail goes cold—”

“It already is.” Tsukauchi didn’t sugarcoat it. “But we won’t give up.”

Aizawa’s nod was grim and final.

There was no sleep ahead for them. 

Above ground, U.A. carried on beneath a fragile illusion of control.

The sky was clouded, and the city’s usual hum was fractured. Helicopters buzzed faintly overhead. The media swarmed the story of Bakugo’s abduction. Headlines screamed from every corner of the internet. News vans prowled the gates, cameras bristling, each crew hungry for a new angle.

Nezu had ordered exactly nothing in the way of public statements. No comment. No acknowledgment. The strategy was deliberate — deny the League any narrative victory.

The decision was not without cost. Parents called in panicked waves. Rumors spread like wildfire. Even in U.A.’s carefully guarded walls, whispers found fertile ground.

Inside the school, classes continued. Patrols doubled. No obvious shifts, no fear shown.

The students were not oblivious. They knew Bakugo had been taken. 

Midoriya Izuku moved through his drills for the licensing exam with numb limbs and a mind in turmoil.

Focus, he told himself. Just focus.

But how could he?

His best-friend-turned-bully — turned…rival?  — was gone.

Taken. By them.

The training hall echoed with the sounds of feet striking mats, the soft crackle of Quirk usage.

Midoriya’s thoughts churned in relentless circles:

• The League had him.
  
  
• Bakugo had fought them once before. He wouldn’t go quietly.
  
  
• And now they had him again — this time with a purpose no one would explain.
  
  

He hated how everyone was acting like things were normal now. His mind wandered to a conversation he had with All Might that morning:

“Are we even trying anymore?” Midoriya’s voice cracked like glass.

All Might looked up from across the teachers’ lounge, brow furrowed. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly.

Midoriya paced in circles. He hadn’t slept. His notebook was filled with scribbles of Bakugo’s last known locations, snippets of villain sightings, and every detail he could remember about the league.

“Why are we giving up on him?”

“No one is giving up,” All Might said gently. “But we’re—stretched thin. Between the provisional license exams, patrol shifts, and the growing unrest…”

“I don’t care about the license exam!”

“Young Midoriya.” All Might’s voice grew sharp. “You have to care. You must be at your best—for him, too.”

Midoriya’s hands trembled.

“I can’t just pretend everything is normal.”

All Might walked over, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to pretend. But you do have to endure. Heroes endure, even when it breaks them.”

Midoriya’s fingers twitched, his heart racing faster than any warm-up drill could account for.

I should be doing something. I should be out there looking for him. Not… standing here pretending everything’s fine.

He pushed harder into the drills, every movement sharp, precise — yet barely controlled. His mind refused to be still.

Why haven’t they told us more? Why won’t anyone say what’s really happening?

A dozen half-formed theories spiraled through his analytical mind. He catalogued the League’s known quirks. He mapped their prior moves. He tried to calculate why now , why Kacchan , why like this.

His gut twisted again.

His eyes flicked toward All Might.

The former Symbol of Peace stood stiffly at the gym’s edge, arms folded, face grim. There was none of his usual booming encouragement. No smile. No warmth.

And when their eyes met — a flicker of something raw passed through All Might’s gaze.

Guilt. Fear. Regret.

Midoriya’s pulse spiked.

He knows something. He knows exactly what’s happening.

His breath caught. His heart hammered against his ribs.

Why won’t he tell me?

The logical part of his mind tried to reason through it.

Maybe they think it’s safer if I don’t know. Maybe they think I’ll do something reckless. Or maybe… maybe they think I’m not ready.

He forced himself to breathe. In. Out.

He glanced back toward All Might — and saw the barely-hidden strain in his mentor’s face — the knot of dread inside him only grew tighter.

High above the gym, in the quiet of his office, Nezu stood before the wide windows, surveying the campus below.

From this vantage, U.A. was a fortress. Every sensor, every patrol, every line of sight carefully maintained.

Yet Nezu knew better than to trust appearances. This fortress had nearly fallen once before.

Behind him, All Might sat hunched forward, head in trembling hands.

“You must not tell him,” Nezu said gently.

“He deserves to know.” All Might’s voice cracked. “He’s already guessing.”

“And that guessing is safer than knowledge.” Nezu’s tone remained calm, but implacable. “If he knows, he will act. And that is what All For One wants.”

All Might’s fists trembled.

How much longer can I keep this from him?

“He looks at me like he already knows I’m hiding something,” he whispered.

“Because he does,” Nezu replied. “But knowing a thing exists is different from knowing its shape. For now, ambiguity is our ally.”

Nezu’s mind moved in sharp, calculating lines:

• The League wanted to destabilize the public.
  
  
• They wanted the heroes scattered.
  
  
• They wanted One For All exposed—on their terms.
  
  
• And Midoriya… was not ready to face that battle. Not yet.
  
  

All Might exhaled shakily. “If anything happens to him…”

Nezu’s gaze softened. “You will protect him. But the best way to do that is to let us control the timing of the truth.”

All Might nodded, brittle with restraint.

But in his heart, the question remained:

How long before Midoriya forces the truth from us himself?

Far below the reach of rescue, Bakugo Katsuki remained chained — another piece in All For One’s cruel design.

His body ached. His wrists burned where the cuffs bit into skin. His throat was raw from screaming.

But his eyes still burned with fury.

They think they can use me, he thought savagely. They think they can break me.

The sound of distant footsteps echoed in the dark.

Not a chance, Bakugo told himself. Not ever.

The board was set. The next move loomed.

And the clock kept ticking.

Chapter Text

It was nearing dawn when the final pieces were set in motion for the first strike. In a chamber deep beneath the city, All For One stood before a bank of dim monitors. Their glow painted his gaunt form in fractured light.

Above, the waking streets of Musutafu stirred. Trains began to rumble through tunnels. Vendors rolled up steel shutters. The slow current of early commuters gathered, unaware of the eyes that watched from below.

So many lives. So easily unraveled. All For One’s eyes flicked from feed to feed. Cameras traced the movements of civilians in Musutafu’s vibrant core: winding streets, dense markets, pedestrian avenues already thick with morning foot traffic.

Perfect.

The pawn was almost ready. A minor criminal. Someone inconsequential. Soon he would give the man Explosion. All For One knew that this criminal’s body was not equipped to hold such quirk. He would self-destruct before the afternoon’s end, taking as many lives as the blast would claim. A tragedy born of stolen power. A spectacle no camera could look away from.

But more importantly—an accusation.

When the dust settles, the public will curse the ones who failed to stop this. The ones who promised peace.

The heroes.

U.A.

The Hero Commission.

It would not matter that they had been drawn away, baited by false threats and whispers. To the common man, the failure would seem damning. Deliberate.

Abandonment. That is the narrative I will gift them.

There were still pieces to move—backup plans, layers within layers. And soon, one more piece would fall into place. Midoriya Izuku would feel it. The boy already strained beneath the burden of a power he barely understood. When this failure broke across the nation, when guilt weighed on the shoulders meant to bear the next era—then the true strike could begin.

Not yet. But soon.

Patience remained his greatest weapon. He was still rebuilding. His body remained a fragile vessel, sustained by craft and force of will. A confrontation with All Might’s successor was months away—perhaps more. But perception could do the work that strength could not.

One blast. One spectacle. One city’s trust undone.

And if one thread unraveled, the rest would follow.

His gaze drifted from the monitors at last. There was one more matter to resolve. One last piece to set in place before the board shifted again.

Bakugo Katsuki awaited him.

The boy had served his purpose as bait. And if his quirk could be seized—repurposed, twisted—it would add another cruel layer to the coming tragedy. If not... the plan would proceed all the same.

Tools were meant to be spent.

The boy would no longer be a factor by the time the sun rose again.

Time was strange here.

Katsuki no longer knew how long he’d been held. The first days—weeks?—had been spent strapped to a chair, metal restraints biting through his skin, muscles locked until they ached. He’d fought against them until his limbs burned and blood stained the leather. They hadn’t cared. No one spoke. They brought water in silence, shoved food into his mouth with cold precision. Enough to keep him conscious. Enough to keep him aware.

At some point—he wasn’t sure when—they’d moved him.

This new room was a concrete box. Stained floor. Bare walls. No windows. No cot—just a drain in the center of the floor, rusted red around its edges. No light beyond the single bulb flickering overhead. Just four walls, chains around his ankles, and a lock he couldn’t break. He’d tried, of course. The first hour, the first day—he’d slammed fists against the door until the bones screamed. Punched the walls until his skin split. No response. No weakness to exploit. His quirk was useless. Quirk suppression cuffs fastened to his ankles. They'd been there since his arrival to the underground hideout. 

The next few days he’d paced endlessly, fists clenched, desperate to move. His body had screamed from exhaustion, but movement was life. Motion meant he was still fighting. They brought water now and then. Threw in scraps, a strip of dry protein. Enough to keep his body working. No more. It wasn’t the hunger that gnawed at him, it was the stillness. No words, no faces, no sound beyond the drip of old pipes and the faint hum of the walls themselves.

No chance to fight.

No explosions.

And that, more than anything, kept the fire clawing at the back of his throat. He wouldn’t say it aloud—never—but it terrified him. He didn’t know what he was without it. He paced again, bare feet scuffing the concrete, jaw clenched.

If they think they can break me... they don’t know a damn thing.

His body trembled with exhaustion, but his glare remained bright, sharp. He would not give them the satisfaction. No matter how long they left him here.

Katsuki’s head snapped up. His legs tensed beneath him, instinct screaming, even though his body felt like shit. Every nerve bristled.

Footsteps.

The figure that entered was wrong from the moment it crossed the threshold. Taller than any human frame had a right to be. Cloaked in black, form gaunt beneath the layers. A metal mask where a face should have been, gleaming faintly in the stale light.

All For One.

So this was the bastard.

Katsuki forced his breath steady.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

And then

All For One entered like he owned the fucking room. Cloak trailing, gaze hidden behind black glass. The door closed with a hollow clang, sealing them in.

Katsuki forced himself upright, shoulders squared, defiance burning through the exhaustion. His lip curled. “Go to hell.” His voice came rough, cracking with thirst and rage. 

A low chuckle reverberated from behind the mask. “I’m afraid I’ve already made my home there.” The voice was smooth. Too smooth. Like oil sliding over a blade.

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. His heart pounded so hard it hurt.

“You’re not touching me,” he snarled. “Not without a fight.”

Another step forward. No rush. No fear.

“You misunderstand,” All For One said softly. “There is no fight to be had.”

“Bullshit,” Katsuki spat. His hands twitched — empty of explosions, of power — but not of will. “You think you can just waltz in here and take it? Fuck no.” He was shaking now. Rage. Helplessness. Maybe a little fear, but he’d die before letting that show. He knew what All For One was there for.

“I won’t let you,” he growled. “You’ll have to rip it out of me, you sick bastard.”

The figure paused, tilting its head slightly. Almost amused.

“Oh,” All For One replied, “I intend to.”

Footsteps approached. The tall, imposing figure halted just beyond Katsuki’s reach. With a guttural shout, Katsuki lunged. Chains screamed against their anchors as he twisted, kicking out hard, body thrashing with every ounce of feral strength he had left.

“FUCK YOU! I’LL KILL YOU—!”

Sudden movement—another shadow swept into the room. Twice? No—Dabi. The smell of scorched air hit Katsuki’s nose a second too late. Blue flame flared, chains rattled—and in the next instant, a boot slammed into Katsuki’s side, pinning him hard against the floor. Another hand clamped down on his shoulder, forcing him still.

“Don’t make it harder on yourself, kid,” Dabi said coldly, voice a dry rasp.

Katsuki fought like a wild animal. Clawed at the floor. Snarled. Bit. He didn’t care. He didn’t fucking care. If he went out, he’d do it with blood in his teeth. But the weight held him down. Too strong. Too many days without food, without rest—his body screamed betrayal. His limbs shook with exertion.

“You see?” All For One’s voice cut through the struggle. “Even now, your spirit burns bright. Admirable. But futile.”

Katsuki roared. A sound torn from the depths of him. “GO AHEAD! TRY IT! SEE WHAT FUCKING HAPPENS!”

“Struggle all you want brat,” Dabi muttered, voice low against his ear. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.”

Katsuki thrashed harder, muscles straining, heart hammering so loud it nearly drowned out the cold footsteps drawing closer. But All For One was already upon him. He crouched, fingers splaying over Katsuki’s head.

And then—

The pull began.

It wasn’t physical—at first. It was inside him. A wrongness that wrapped cold fingers around something essential.

Katsuki’s rage surged. He fought—not just with his body now, but with every ounce of will he had. He pushed back—not knowing how, not caring—just pushing, burning, holding on with a primal force beyond words.

Katsuki’s pulse spiked. But his glare never wavered. He’d go down spitting in this fucker’s face. 

“You better pray you get it all,” Katsuki growled through gritted teeth. “Cause if I’m still breathing when you’re done, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Another quiet chuckle. “So stubborn,” All For One murmured. “Such fire. You may yet surprise me.”

Katsuki felt it—Explosion, the core of who he was, being drawn away strand by strand. Not muscle. Not breath. Something deeper.

No. NO. You can’t have it.

He continued to fight with sheer force of will, with every ragged shred of defiance he could summon.

I won’t give it to you. I won’t.

The world blurred. Time warped. The pull grew savage. A soundless shriek tore through his mind. Something in him fought back—wild, explosive, desperate. Like claws in his gut holding on for dear life.

The pull deepened. His soul screamed.

He tried to hold it. Claw it back. I am this. I AM THIS. YOU CAN’T TAKE IT—

And then—something tore.

It wasn’t like losing a limb. Not like any injury or agony he’d ever known.

It was shattering—a part of himself ripped away with such force that only emptiness remained.

The room twisted. The light swam.

And darkness claimed him.

The boy crumpled at his feet, breath ragged, skin pale.

All For One straightened slowly, withdrawing his hand.

He reached inward to examine the prize.

And frowned.

The quirk was there—but what lay in his grasp would not respond. Useless. I was as if it had been locked away.

Impossible.

Nothing like this had ever happened. It was unprecedented.

Yet here was the evidence.

Dabi's grip on Katsuki slackened. He crumpled fully to the floor. He straightened, shaking out his hand with an exaggerated sigh.
“Tch.” He nudged Katsuki’s limp form with the toe of his boot. “Still got a damn spine even now. Stupid kid.”

All For One did not reply. No anger. No frustration. Only cold calculation.

The attack on the city would proceed as planned. "Explosion" was not needed. It would have been a fitting irony—but any blast would suffice. A different vessel would carry the destruction.

The spectacle would come.

There were always more pieces to move.

“Faulty goods. A broken vessel. Not worth the effort.” All For One’s voice was ice. 

He turned his back, already bored. “Dispose of him. Make it public.”

Dabi watched the villain’s retreating back, then crouched beside Katsuki again. His voice dropped to a murmur.
“You hear that, brat? You’re not even worth keeping alive.”

A faint curl of smoke rose from Dabi’s palm. “Funny. All that screaming about becoming Number One. You’ll finally hit the front page— wrapped in a body bag .”

Later that night, the League dragged Katsuki’s limp form to the recording setup in a decaying service tunnel beneath Old Musutafu. A crude camera. A spotlight. A bound teenage boy on his knees.

The air was damp. The walls peeled in long strips of gray. A cheap camera on a battered tripod stared at the center of the room — where a single floodlight burned down on concrete already stained dark.

“Get the angle right,” Dabi muttered, cracking his neck. “Let the heroes feel this.”

Spinner adjusted the tripod.

Katsuki slumped forward, head lolling, arms tied behind him with biting cords. His skin was bruised, blood crusted at the corner of his mouth. His breaths came shallow and slow — but they came.

“Prop him up,” Dabi muttered. His voice echoed off the concrete. “I want them to see his face.”

Spinner crouched and shoved Katsuki upright by the shoulders.

Shigaraki stood a few paces off, hands twitching absently. His smile was thin, unreadable.
“All that noise,” he murmured. “All that rage. Gone.”

“He’s still alive, right?” Toga asked, tilting her head.
“Alive enough,” Dabi said, with a sharp grin. “Won’t be for long.”

Twice giggled nervously. “Alive, dead, about to be dead—depends how you cut it!”

“Start it.” Dabi turned to face the lens.

The camera flicked on. A small red light glared in the dimness. Dabi stepped into frame, towering behind the broken boy.

“To the so-called heroes of Japan,” he began, voice smooth and ice-cold. “This is what happens when you fail your own.”

He crouched, resting one burnt hand lightly atop Katsuki’s bowed head.

“You teach them loyalty. Honor. Sacrifice.” A smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “And then you throw them to the wolves.”

He tilted Katsuki’s head back so his battered face caught the camera. The boy’s eyelids fluttered weakly — whether from instinct or dim awareness, no one could say.

“Funny thing about explosions,” Dabi continued, his tone cruel. “When there’s nothing left to ignite… all that’s left is ash.”

Blue flame flared to life in his palm.

“We send this message so that every citizen can see — your so-called heroes let this boy fall. We finish what they could not prevent.”

Without another word, he thrust his flaming hand against Katsuki’s chest.

The screen flashed blinding blue.

Katsuki jerked once—ragged breath caught in his throat—then collapsed forward.

Smoke curled upward. The air stank of burnt cloth and flesh.

The camera caught it all.

Spinner moved in, face pale, and checked for breath. “He’s gone.”

“Good,” Dabi said coldly. “Dump him. Upload the tape.”

Shigaraki gave a slow nod. “Make sure it spreads.”

Twice leaned down, helping Spinner lift the limp form. They carried Katsuki off-screen toward the runoff tunnels. The camera lingered for three final seconds—on the empty, scorched concrete—and then cut to black.

Elsewhere, parents demanded answers. Media outlets exploded. Hashtags trended within minutes: #UAFailure, #BakugoDead, #HeroSocietyCollapse. Protests brewed outside hero agency branches. Rumors spread like wildfire—U.A. let a kid die. Bakugo was executed because the heroes were too slow. The system failed again.

Heroes were stretched thin. Public trust wavered like a fault line under pressure.

Katsuki’s body was dumped in the remains of Old Town District 9. Half of it had been evacuated a decade ago after a villain-induced sinkhole collapsed the infrastructure. No one patrolled here anymore.

But under rusted scaffolding, where weeds had claimed the concrete, a broken body twitched.

Katsuki Bakugo lay in the mud and rain, dumped like trash.

His breathing was shallow.

Something inside him… was missing.

But something else—something strange and distant—lingered just out of reach.

He wasn’t dead.

Not yet.

But the boy who had entered that chamber was gone.

Chapter Text

Kojima Takeshi was not a good man.

At 53, he’d long stopped pretending otherwise. Life had eroded him down to a half-rusted shell—a man who once dreamed, once loved, and now mostly just drank.

His auto shop was a sagging thing tucked beneath overgrown telephone wires and the cracked shoulder of a disused service road. The metal siding had dulled to a colorless gray, warped from decades of sun and rust. The only sign it was still open for business was the peeling “OPEN” placard in the window, which swayed whenever wind crawled in off the mountains.

He hadn’t meant to find the boy.

It was dumb luck, if you could call it that—Takeshi was driving back from a scrap haul, already cursing at the heat and the sputtering AC in his truck, when something on the edge of the woods caught his eye. A crumpled figure. Barely human. Bloodied. Burnt. Motionless.

He’d almost kept driving.

Almost.

But something… something in the twisted way the kid’s arm was bent, or the way his face was half-shrouded by tangled blonde hair and dried blood, had turned Takeshi’s stomach in a way that made him swerve off the road without thinking. He’d dragged the kid—heavy as hell for someone so starved—into the bed of his truck. Brought him back to the shop. Dumped him on the sagging, oil-stained couch in the break room and stood there like an idiot for three minutes just staring at him, like maybe the right decision would manifest if he waited long enough.

He should’ve called someone. The police. The hospital. A hero agency.

He didn’t.

Why the hell didn’t he?

He didn’t know.

Maybe because the kid’s face looked like it had been stomped on. Maybe because his arms were littered with wounds that looked like they were made slowly, on purpose. Maybe because there were bruise-colored handprints—ringing his neck like a noose. Someone had meant to kill this boy. And the world? The world had let it happen.

Takeshi hadn’t thought of her in years. But as he scrubbed blood off the floor with a bottle of engine degreaser and a rag, her name echoed inside his skull like a ghost whispering through rusted pipes.

Aiko.

Twelve years old.

Smart, funny, loud as a motorbike and twice as fast on her feet.

The accident had been so fast, and so stupid. A drive to her violin recital, a flash of headlights in the rain, the sound of crunching glass and the howl of twisted metal. They told him she died instantly. But he’d seen the blood. All of it. He’d been the one who found her, when he clawed his way out of the flipped car. He’d screamed her name into the storm and cradled her tiny body, already cooling, in arms that refused to believe.

He couldn’t save her.

He wasn’t even hurt. Not really. Just a cracked rib. A bruised shoulder.

He remembered watching the EMTs zip her into the black bag.

And now here he was, kneeling beside another broken body—threading a goddamn sewing needle with trembling fingers, trying to suture wounds that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

“This isn’t the same,” he muttered under his breath, over and over, like a prayer or a curse. “This ain’t the same.”

The boy groaned.

Takeshi startled, hands slick with dried blood, one elbow knocking over an empty beer can.

“Kid, don’t die,” he hissed, not even sure the boy could hear him. “You hear me? I got enough goddamn ghosts.”

For days, he waited.

He did everything wrong. Didn’t know how to check for a punctured lung. Googled “how much blood loss is too much blood loss” and found nothing helpful. Tried spooning a bit of water into the kid’s mouth once—he choked immediately, and Takeshi nearly panicked himself into a stroke.

But somehow, the kid lived.

Barely.

By the third day, the fever broke. By the fifth, his breathing leveled out. Takeshi had to pry the ruined clothes off him piece by piece, and what he found underneath was enough to make even his beer-scarred heart clench.

Bruises. Cuts. Burns. Ligature marks. Every one of them was deliberate.

Someone had tried to destroy this kid, piece by piece.

It wasn’t random. It wasn’t just violence. It was intent.

Takeshi had seen car wrecks. Shop accidents. Knife fights behind the convenience store. But this—this wasn’t like that. The wounds on the boy’s body had been made with purpose. With time. With cruelty.

A shallow gash behind the ear. Burn marks in jagged, repeated patterns along the collarbone. Rope bruises across the wrists, some fresh, some faded. Even the bones in his right hand had swollen wrong, like they’d been broken recently and never treated. The skin along his ribs was yellow and purple with pressure bruises, and the boy’s lip was split so badly.

Whoever did this… hadn’t just wanted to kill the boy.

They’d wanted to make him suffer first.

Takeshi sat back on the floor of the breakroom, the flickering overhead light stuttering again, casting long shadows through the cluttered space. He picked up a chipped thermos and took a long drink.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared across the room at the silent figure on the couch.

He didn’t know who the kid was.

Didn’t matter.

Takeshi didn’t give a damn about the news. He didn’t follow the pro hero circuit, or whatever scraps of drama the media peddled. All he saw was a broken body dumped like garbage in the dirt. Left to rot in the underbrush, like someone had wanted him forgotten.

Some punk kid with half his blood on the ground and the other half soaked into Takeshi’s shop towels.

What was he supposed to do with that?

The shutters rattled outside as the wind picked up. Through the grimy shop windows, Takeshi could see dust devils kicking through the gravel lot. Late autumn in Musutafu was relentless—dry and brittle and loud.

Inside, it was too quiet.

Every tick of the clock dragged.

Takeshi exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, then stood. His knees popped with the effort.

He moved through the shop like a ghost, flipping the breaker on the failing light and grabbing one of the old lamps he used when repairing engine blocks. The bulb buzzed to life and threw pale, golden light across the boy’s body.

Takeshi crouched again.

Looked.

The boy was young. Seventeen, maybe. Calloused hands. Burn scars on his forearms that looked old—self-inflicted, probably, given how precisely they traced his skin. A fighter. Or a fool. Or both.

Takeshi reached for the medical tape and started redressing the worst of the wounds.

“Idiot kid,” he muttered under his breath. “What the hell did you do to end up like this?”

The boy didn’t answer. Just breathed, shallow and slow.

The locket around Takeshi’s own neck, long hidden under his sweat-stained shirt, shifted against his chest. He ignored it. Pretended it wasn’t there. Pretended it didn’t feel like it weighed a hundred pounds.

A memory flickered.

Little fingers pressing into his palm. A bow clutched in the other hand. Laughter under cherry blossoms.

“Again, Papa! Play it again!”

He shook his head.

That wasn’t this.

This wasn’t her.

This wasn’t saving anything. It was delaying the inevitable.

He was just… tired.

Still, every few hours, Takeshi came back into the room. Changed the bandages. Checked the kid’s breathing. Ignored the smell of blood that still clung to the air like rust in the pipes. He barely slept. Kept the front door locked and the curtains drawn. If anyone came looking for the boy, they’d have to go through him first.

Not that he’d win. But he’d try.

He had always been a stubborn bastard.

Days passed.

Then, on the seventh day—just as the sun cracked the sky in pink and silver—he heard it: a  breath, sharp and sudden.

A rustle of blankets.

Takeshi turned.

The kid’s eyes were open. Red. Fierce, even in confusion. Like he’d been fighting something in his dreams and had woken up mid-punch. For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then the boy rasped, voice like gravel on dry pavement, “...where…”

Takeshi scratched the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how badly he smelled.

“You’re alive,” he said simply.

The kid blinked.

Takeshi stood, his knees cracking again, and gestured vaguely around the garage.

“You’re in a dump,” he added. “But it’s my dump. Try not to bleed out again, huh?”

The kid didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Takeshi sat back in his chair and rubbed the locket beneath his shirt, eyes heavy, limbs heavier.

Maybe he’d saved the kid.

Or maybe the kid survived despite him.

He didn’t know.

Chapter Text

"Say goodbye, kid."

Hands pinned him down. Blue flames surged, heat blistering his chest—then the searing stopped too soon. The world blurred at the edges and he was weightless. Detached.

Dabi’s voice was distant and sharp, "toss him in. He’s done."

Rough hands gripped him again.

Falling.

Impact. Bone-jarring. Bitter cold water surrounded his limbs as darkness pressed in. Above him, footsteps retreated and laughter faded somewhere in the distance.

Then there was nothing. Cold. Alone.

Dying.

Suddenly, there was a flicker—someone moving through the muck hours later, maybe more. A hoarse voice cursed as hands pulled him free. He could feel it: the sensation of being dragged, limp and broken, across grass and mud.

-And then the blackness returned.

Darkness swam behind Katsuki’s eyes. It wasn't the suffocating dark of that cell, not the void where time meant nothing. This was different—soft, unsteady, as if the world itself hadn’t decided whether to let him wake or not. A shallow breath caught in his throat. Raw. His chest burned and limbs ached in ways he couldn’t name. Every muscle felt wrong—too slack, too loose, as if something beneath the skin had unraveled.

There was a faint russle somewhere nearby.

Someone was there .

Something shifted in the haze.

“You’re alive.” The words floated toward him, rough and simple. The words were graveled. Older.

Katsuki didn’t recognize the sound. His head swam.

Where— ?

“You’re in a dump. But it’s my dump. Try not to bleed out again, huh?”

Oh. He had spoken aloud hadn’t he. The man's words barely registered, but they cut through the fog just enough to land. Someone had him. Not the League. Not a prison cell.

He opened his eyes, squinting as blinding fluorescent lights stabbed at them, buzzing faintly overhead. The first thing he saw was the peeling ceiling. Then he noticed cracks spider-webbing across cheap plaster and rust stains at the corners. This wasn't the League’s lair. Not some concrete hellhole.

What the hell?

He shifted—and nearly groaned aloud. His body screamed in protest. Bandages wrapped around his ribs and shoulder, stiff and poorly knotted. The burn on his chest throbbed with every breath.

“Finally awake, huh?”

The voice was rough. Male. Weathered by too many years of smoke and cheap whiskey.

Katsuki's eyes traced the ceiling and down the wall until they settled on a man leaning in the doorway. Mid-fifties, maybe older, Katsuki noted. He had a thick frame gone soft around the edges, and stubble coated his square jaw. Grease-stained coveralls hung half-zipped down his chest; an unlit cigarette dangled from cracked lips. The man had brown hair that was outgrown and shaggy. Due for a good haircut, Katsuki mused. Plain was how he'd describe the man, someone who could slip through a crowd without standing out.

“You’ve been out for a couple of days,” the man said, arms folded. “Thought you might kick it for a while there.”

Katsuki scowled. His throat was raw, voice like sandpaper, “...who the hell are you?”

“The name’s Kojima Takeshi,” he smirked. “I’m the dumb bastard who pulled your half-cooked ass out of some ditch and stitched you back together.”

A ditch? Bits of memory came in jagged flashes—blue flame, suffocating smoke, blackness. Katsuki sat up too fast. The world spun.

“Take it easy, kid,” Kojima said, pushing off the doorframe. “You’ve been through hell. You ain’t gonna sprint outta here like nothin’ happened.”

Katsuki swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. But something was wrong. Not the pain. Not the dizziness. Something deeper. He couldn’t feel it–The restless crackle under his skin, the burn in his palms—that constant thrum that had been part of him since he was four.

Gone.

He clenched a fist. No sharp bite of nitroglycerin sweat. No familiar tension in his forearm. Just...emptiness. His pulse spiked. His mouth went dry.

No. No fucking way.

“Where... where am I?” he rasped.

“Back room of my shop,” Kojima said. “You’re lucky some street rats didn’t get to you first.”

Katsuki’s eyes darted around. Dingy cinderblock walls. A tattered couch beneath him. Faint smell of motor oil and mildew. His fingers twitched.

“What do you want?” he growled, voice hoarse.

Kojima barked a dry laugh. “Kid, I don’t want nothin’ from you. If anything, I’d have left you where I found you. Luckily, you’re alive ‘cause I got a soft spot for broken shit.” He scratched his chin. “That, and you looked like you still had some fight left. Figured it’d be a waste otherwise.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. Fight? he barely felt human.

Kojima turned. “Come on. You can crash at my place next door. Trailer’s a dump, but it’s got a bed and running water. Long as you pull your weight, you’re welcome.”

“I’m not a charity case,” Katsuki spat.

Kojima snorted. “Didn’t say you were. But if you’re breathin’, you’re workin’. Auto shop’s got enough busted rides to keep you busy.”

Katsuki hesitated. His body wanted to collapse again—but he couldn’t stay here. Not helpless. Not weak. And sure as hell not grateful.

And yet…

“Fine,” he gritted out.

The trailer was every bit the hellhole Katsuki expected.

Beer cans littered the floor. Dishes crusted with who-knows-what piled high in the sink. Clothes were strewn across a ratty couch, and the carpet smelled faintly of mold. Stale smoke clung to the curtains.

Katsuki wrinkled his nose.

“Make yourself at home,” Kojima said with a crooked grin. “I know it ain’t pretty. Been meanin’ to clean. Never get around to it.”

Katsuki scanned the mess, one eye twitching. Fucking disgusting.

But the exhaustion was setting in hard now. His legs shook beneath him. A thin film of sweat clung to his skin–it lacked the familiar scent of caramel.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. Water heater’s busted, but you can get a warm sink bath if you don’t mind workin’ for it.”

Katsuki muttered something under his breath and limped past him.

The bathroom wasn’t much better—grime on the tiles, rust around the faucet—but it had soap and a washcloth. And a cracked mirror. 

He peeled off the filthy remnants of his shirt, moving stiffly. His breath hitched when he saw the stitches–crude, crooked, and barely holding.

Fucking hell .

He traced a finger near the jagged thread.

“Tch... what kind of half-assed job did that old geezer do?” he muttered under his breath. “Did he use a damn fishhook for this?”

Still, it was better than bleeding out.

Katsuki stared at his reflection, his face looked like hell—bruises, cuts, dark shadows under both eyes. His hair hung limp and matted. The burn across his chest peeked out from beneath the bandages, angry and raw. But worse than any of it was that he could feel it. The wrongness inside him. The stillness where there should be fire. He gripped the sink. One deep breath. Then another.

“Come on,” he growled under his breath. “Come on...”

He spread his fingers. Focused—willed that familiar spark to rise.

Nothing.

There was no heat, no crackle, no scent of burnt caramel.

A low sound escaped him—half snarl, half breathless panic. He glanced at his palms, and then back at the mirror. The cracked glass spiderwebbed around his reflection.

Gone.

Not just the quirk–the fight . The fire that had always driven him. He sagged forward, chest heaving. Something inside him had been ripped out. Something vital. And he hadn’t even felt it until now.

The water ran pink as he wiped himself off. He worked around the makeshift stitches, face set in a hard, trembling mask. When he finally staggered out of the bathroom, Kojima looked up from the couch.

“Shower’s broke, huh?” the man said dryly. “You look like a drowned rat.”

Katsuki glared at him. “Can’t shower with stitches, you old geezer.” he shot back.

Kojima grinned around his cigarette. “Atta boy. Knew there was some bite left in ya.”

Katsuki didn’t answer. His gaze drifted to the window. Night pressed in against the glass. He didn’t know how long he’d been gone or who knew he was alive. If anyone did.

But right now–he was breathing. He was alive .

And he was fucking tired.

Later, when the trailer had gone quiet and Kojima had disappeared into the back room to snore like a dying engine, Katsuki sat on the edge of the lumpy couch, a threadbare blanket draped across his lap. The dim glow of a streetlamp filtered through the grimy curtains and shadows stretched long across the floor. 

Sleep wouldn’t come. Every inch of him ached, but none of it compared to the hollow thrum inside his chest. He flexed his fingers again, slow, deliberate.

Nothing.

No snap of sweat glands firing. No rise of heat beneath his skin. No itch of building pressure in his palms.

Gone.

He dragged his hands through his hair, fists tightening. His breath came short and fast.

What the fuck did he do to me?

That bastard—All For One. He remembered the hand. It had been clammy and cold against his skull, and time seemed to freeze. Something inside him was being pulled apart cell by cell. And the moment after…

Blackness.

Now… this. Katsuki clenched his jaw until it hurt.

I’m too fucking calm.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut. He should be shaking. Screaming. Breaking everything in this dump of a trailer. That’s what he would’ve done. That’s who he was.

But instead, he sat frozen. Hollow. A lead weight pressed behind his ribs. His muscles itched to move, to lash out, to do something —but the drive wasn’t there. Not like before. His mind kept circling the same thought:

Part of me is gone.

He could feel it—like an old scar under the skin, a tear that hadn’t fully healed. There was a gap where something used to burn bright. Rage had always been there for him. It was his engine. His fuel. Now it was only a flicker: distant and muted.

His hands trembled.

He wanted to scream, to tear the place apart until he found what was missing. But...even that impulse faded before it fully formed. A sharp breath rattled through his chest.

What the hell is going on?

Katsuki didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment he was sitting stiff on that lumpy couch, fists clenched around the fraying edge of the blanket, and staring holes through the grimy window.
The next moment, there was darkness.

He was running, boots skidding over broken stone and ash. The air was thick as tar in his lungs, burning his lungs. His muscles screamed, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t even think clearly enough to stop. Rubble surrounded him, buildings crumbled into jagged silhouettes against a colorless sky, and smoke twisted through the ruins. Explosions bloomed in the distance—blinding flares of heat and light.

But silent.

The world was silent.

The ground trembled beneath each blast, cracks spider-webbing across the debris-strewn path, but there was not a single sound reaching his ears.

It was wrong.

All of it was wrong.

And still—he ran.

Faster. Harder. Katsuki didn’t know why, he didn’t know where, only that he had to keep moving. A compulsion deeper than thought or fear—one foot in front of the other. Behind him, the smoke thickened as shapes shifted in the mist.

The figures were familiar somehow, but faceless and blurred. They felt like half-formed memories. And then, there was a voice.

Katsuki.

The voice was soft and distant, impossible to place, but it cut through the air like a knife. It was a voice he should know—a voice that meant something.

Katsuki. Stop.

His heart lurched. The sound of it—wrong in a way he couldn’t name. Too close. Too much like—

No.

He clenched his fists and pushed harder. The ache in his chest spiked with every stride. Something inside him strained toward that voice, reaching back even as his legs drove him forward.

Another burst of light—closer this time. Heat swept over his skin, weightless and burning. No sound. No sound. No sound.

Katsuki—come back.

The voice cracked now. Rougher. Pleading.

The pull in his chest grew sharper, an unbearable twist, like an invisible hand wrenching him backward by the ribs.

Part of him wanted to turn.

Part of him needed to turn.

But something deeper whispered: Don’t.

Cold certainty took root. If he turned, something terrible would happen. Something worse than all of this. So he ran. Faster. Harder. His chest was splitting open with the strain. Behind him, the voice rose—hoarse and breaking:

Katsuki—don’t leave me.

His breath caught, his steps faltered. The ache swelled to a roar inside him as the final explosion lit the world with pure white, so bright it burned through his closed eyes.

And through it:

Katsuki—

The scream wasn’t loud. It was desperate. Lonely.

Katsuki stumbled, the compulsion to run shattered like glass. But before he could fall—before he could turn—

He woke.

He bolted upright on the couch, chest heaving. Sweat slicked down his back; it was cold against his spine. The trailer was silent, save for the low creak of wind outside. No smoke. No voices. No light. Just the crushing emptiness in his chest. An ache without a source. An echo of something lost. Katsuki dragged a shaking hand through his hair, his breath ragged.

What the fuck was that?

The dream clung to him like frost, leaving his insides cold. He could still hear it—that voice. A voice so familiar . A voice so lonely. And the worst part—

He didn’t know what he’d been running from.

He didn’t know why he had to—why it felt like the most important thing in the world had been left behind. A knot twisted low in his gut.

Something’s gone.

Not just his quirk… it was his fire.

Where was his fire? Where was the defiance that had carried him through every fight, every beating, every goddamn day of his life? Where was the rage? That raw, untamable burn that had always been there, ready to swallow the world whole if it stood in his way. He tried to feel it—tried to summon it. Tried to force the anger up through his gut, into his chest, into his throat. The old familiar torrent that had never failed him. Yet, there was Nothing. The feeling was there, but muted. and distant. He could almost taste it. He could almost touch the edges of it—A flicker, a spark. Then it flickered out cold.

No.

His pulse raced, his breathing picked up. He reached again—grasped for that flame with everything left in him. He could feel a faint tremor of heat, a shadow of the old rage—there, for half a heartbeat—and gone again. Katsuki choked on air, his heart thundering. Panic rose sharply in his throat.

Who the hell am I without it?  Who am I without the fight? Without the fire?

Without me?

The answer clawed at him, raw and terrible. He sank forward, elbows on his knees, head in shaking hands. Katsuki tried to hold on to something—anything. But the edges of himself kept slipping through his grasp. He didn’t know how to bring it back—didn’t know if he even could.

And now, without question, something out there still reached for him. The echo of what he had lost.

And he—

He had run away

Chapter Text

Morning came slow. Pale light crept past the grimy blinds and bled across the trailer’s stained carpet. Katsuki stirred beneath the threadbare blanket, joints stiff, ribs aching with every shallow breath. For a few moments, he simply lay there—half-awake, half unwilling.

He didn’t know how long he’d slept. Time drifted strange lately. He couldn’t seem to care.

Pain tugged him back. His shoulder throbbed. His side burned beneath the rough bandages. Still, something in him wouldn’t let him stay down. He needed to move. Do something. Sitting still made the emptiness louder.

Pushing off the couch took more effort than it should have. His legs protested. The room tilted once before settling.

From the narrow hall came a faint sound—deep, rattling snores, punctuated by the occasional wet cough.

Katsuki followed it, bare feet cold against the floor. The door to the back room hung half open.

He leaned against the frame and peered inside.

Takeshi sprawled across a sagging mattress, mouth open, arm slung over his face. Around him—empty beer cans. Dozens. Some crushed, some tipped onto stained sheets. The air stank of old alcohol and sweat.

Katsuki’s lip curled.

Disgust gnawed at him, sharper than it should have been. He wasn’t sure why it even mattered. The old man had saved his life. The least he could do was leave the mess alone.

But standing there, watching that heap of bottles and filth, something shifted under his skin. An old reflex. He needed order. He needed something to do.

Without thinking, he limped back into the main room. Searched the tiny kitchen for a garbage bag. The place was worse than he remembered.

He started with the beer cans. Gathered them in sharp, methodical movements. His muscles screamed in protest, stitches tugging painfully beneath his ribs. He grit his teeth and kept going.

The sound of cans clinking finally roused Takeshi.

A voice rasped from behind him. “...What the hell’re you doin’, kid?”

Katsuki didn’t turn. “Cleaning,” he said flatly.

A long pause. The couch creaked as Takeshi dragged himself upright, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Damn stubborn,” the old man muttered. “Thought you’d be down for another day.”

“I’m not.”

Katsuki dumped the bag next to the door, knelt to pick up a soggy takeout box, and grimaced.

Takeshi squinted at him through bloodshot eyes. “You’re still half-dead. Sit your ass down before you rip those stitches open.”

Katsuki finally looked over, gaze cool, voice low. “You run this place like shit.”

Takeshi blinked. Then barked a short laugh. “Ain’t wrong.”

Katsuki straightened slowly, one hand braced against the wall to keep steady. “I don’t know anything about cars. I can’t help you out there.”

Takeshi raised a brow. “Didn’t expect you to.”

“I do know how to run a house,” Katsuki continued. His tone wasn’t sharp—not quite—but there was an edge of dry finality to it. “You’re obviously too useless to manage that.”

Another bark of laughter, rough and wheezing this time. “You got balls, I’ll give you that.”

Katsuki crossed his arms, shoulders tight with pain. “Here’s the deal. I’ll cook. I’ll clean. I’ll keep this dump from turning into a biohazard. That’s what I’ve got. Take it or leave it.”

Takeshi watched him for a long moment. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

Finally, he shrugged. “Fine by me. I sure as hell ain’t doin’ it.”

“Figures.”

The words came out without heat. Almost automatic. Katsuki wasn’t sure if he even meant them.

He turned away again, already scanning the cluttered kitchen for supplies. The work would keep his hands busy. Keep the thoughts quieter.

But under the motion, beneath the dull ache in his ribs—he still felt it.

That hollow place. The part of him that should’ve burned brighter at moments like this. Should’ve filled the space between his words with fire and fight.

Instead, everything came out distant. Mechanical.

Who the hell am I now?

The thought clawed at him even as he opened a cabinet and grabbed a half-used sponge.

Takeshi sank back onto the couch, rubbing his eyes with a grunt. “You’re a strange one, kid.”

Katsuki didn’t answer. He scrubbed at a sticky plate, watching the grime swirl down the drain.

Anything to keep moving. Anything to avoid the silence.

The next few days continued like this.

Katsuki cleaned.

He scrubbed every surface. The counters, the walls, the goddamn stove that looked like it hadn’t seen soap in five years. He scraped gunk from the bottom of the fridge, hauled out stained clothes from under the couch. He made food that wasn’t shit—simple stuff, whatever he could find. Rice, eggs, whatever canned junk Takeshi had stashed. It wasn’t about the taste. It was about doing something.

Takeshi mostly stayed out of the way, grumbling occasionally but not stopping him.

“Didn’t think I’d pick up a damn housemaid,” the old man joked once, half-grinning through his cigarette smoke.

Katsuki didn’t answer. Just kept scrubbing.

Finally, after nearly a week, Katsuki could say the house was somewhat decent. The place still smelled faintly of mildew and stale beer, but it no longer felt like living in a landfill.

And yet—

Something gnawed at the back of his mind.

The days blurred. The dull rhythm of cleaning and cooking filled the hours, but not the space inside him. That stayed hollow. The detachment didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened, like each chore dragged him further from something he couldn’t reach.

But worse was the silence.

He had no idea what had been happening to the rest of the world while he was gone.

How long had he even been out?

How far had the League gone while he’d been lying here useless?

The questions pressed harder with each passing day.

Finally, on a cold morning thick with drizzle, he snapped. The old TV in the corner caught his eye—a cheap piece of crap with faded buttons and a screen warped at the edges. Katsuki dragged a chair over, sat down stiffly, and grabbed the remote.

He turned it on.

The screen buzzed to life with a high-pitched whine, flickering through static. He flipped through channels, slow at first, then faster. The image settled. News anchors. Streets packed with protestors. Shaky footage of smoke rising from city blocks. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees.

Three things became very clear.

One. The world thought he was dead. 

Apparently the League had livestreamed his execution —his chest burned just thinking about it. One grainy freeze-frame showed him slumped, bloodied, before the feed had cut to black.

“Bakugo Katsuki presumed dead,” the anchor said grimly. “The League has taken responsibility for th-”

He scoffed under his breath. Idiots. The League fucking sucks at their job. I’m right here. But his gut twisted. His parents— Deku —who else thought he was gone?

Two. The League had been busy.

Explosions detonated in several key areas across major cities, transportation hubs, emergency response centers, and civilian shelters. 

“So that’s what you wanted my shitty Quirk for,” he muttered. His voice came out flat. Detached. No flare of anger. Just words. That scared him more than anything.

Three. The public hated the heroes right now.

Footage rolled of protestors lining the streets, banners waving, voices raised in bitter fury.

“Where were the heroes?” one woman shouted into a reporter’s mic. “They abandoned us!”

Another banner scrawled in black paint: You failed us.

Katsuki stared.

A slow breath escaped him.

Katsuki looked at the date displayed in the top corner.

Three weeks.

The number sat heavy in his gut, colder than anything else he’d seen on that cheap-ass TV. Gone for three weeks, while the world thought he was a corpse. While the League paraded his execution on every damn news channel.

His fingers dug into the armrest. Three weeks. That was enough time for the world to move on. Enough time for everyone to believe the lie. Enough time for him to change into… this. And for the first time, the timeline of it all really sank in. He’d missed life. Missed days he couldn’t get back. The part of him that would’ve burned with rage, that would’ve flipped the whole filthy trailer— just flickered. Faded.

He clicked the TV off. The screen faded to black, leaving his reflection faint in the glass.

“I guess I’ll stick around for a while,” he said quietly.

His voice sounded thin in the empty room.

No fire. No fight.

But even if part of him felt lost—he wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.

The next morning, Katsuki woke to the low drone of the old man’s snores vibrating through the paper-thin walls of the trailer. The house didn’t stink anymore—not like when he’d first dragged himself through it—but it still felt heavy, like the mess had sunk into the walls.

Katsuki rubbed at his ribs, bandages stiff beneath his shirt. The pain was still there. Dull. Constant. Just like the hollow weight behind his ribs.

He needed to move. Sitting around with that buzzing wrongness in his head wasn’t an option.

The fridge, however, provided exactly no options either. Half a pack of ramen. Mustard. Something that might’ve once been cheese.

Takeshi shuffled in sometime mid-morning, a battered mug of black coffee in hand, eyes still half-closed.

“We need food,” Katsuki said, before the old man could even grunt a good morning. “Real food.”

Takeshi scratched at his jaw. “Got ramen.”

“That’s not food. It’s salt in a cup.” Katsuki narrowed his eyes. “You’re takin’ me to a grocery store.”

The old man blinked. “Kid, the last time I went to town was a month back. For smokes.”

“Then you’re overdue,” Katsuki said flatly. “I’m not living off expired shit and beer.”

He could’ve gone himself, sure. But he wasn’t ready to be seen—not without knowing what kind of face the world would see. Not after three weeks of being dead.

By noon, they were bouncing along the pothole-riddled backroads in Takeshi’s rust-stained truck. The thing rattled with every turn, a toolbox clattering somewhere behind the seats. Katsuki kept his hood low, face shadowed beneath it.

The drive was quiet. Both of them seemed content to let the rumble of the road fill the space between them.

When they reached the city limits, the shift was immediate. More cars. More noise. More eyes. Katsuki tugged his hood lower, muscles tense.

Inside the grocery store, he moved fast. Produce first—fresh vegetables, garlic, ginger, real ingredients. Not the dried-up garbage Takeshi had lurking in his cabinets. He filled the basket with methodical efficiency, checking dates, weighing quality. Anything to keep his hands busy. Anything to keep his mind from wandering.

Takeshi followed with a second basket, grumbling under his breath about how much a damn head of lettuce cost these days.

Then—at the far end of the store—Katsuki heard it.

A news broadcast, tinny and muted from a wall of cheap flat-screens in the electronics section.

“…and in the wake of ex-hero student Bakugo Katsuki’s tragic execution at the hands of the League of Villains—”

The words hit like icewater down his spine.

He stiffened. Didn't look. Kept his eyes on the carrots in his hand, fingers tightening until the tops snapped clean off.

But Takeshi looked.

Katsuki felt it—a subtle shift in the air between them. The old man had stopped. Watched the screen for a beat longer than casual curiosity allowed.

A flicker of recognition.

Yeah. He knows.

Neither of them said a word.

-Takeshi-

Takeshi remembered that face. He’d seen it before—not in person, not up close, but in the hazy blur of bar TVs. One of his old drinking buddies—Sugi—had roped him into a betting pool on the damn thing. “Come on, Kojima, you old bastard,” the man had laughed, swigging cheap beer, “you gotta have a pick! The blonde brat’s a lock for first! ”

And he had been. The kid had torn through the rounds with that unhinged fire in his eyes, hands exploding like fireworks. Unstoppable.

Takeshi hadn’t thought about it much after that. Just another kid with too much talent for his own good. Another bright light destined to burn out fast in this shit world.

But now—he glanced sideways at the hooded figure moving beside him.

That’s the same kid. Can’t be anyone else.

Takeshi didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

Katsuki noticed anyway. Takeshi caught the flick of his eyes—sharp, knowing. No fear. Just resignation.

Neither of them said a damn thing.

The drive back was heavy with silence. The hum of the engine filled the space between them, but the words hung there anyway. Unspoken.

By the time they were halfway down the winding back road to the shop, Takeshi gave up trying to ignore it. His fingers tapped against the wheel, rough and restless.

Apparently the damn kid was supposed to be dead. No surprise there. But seeing it on the television—that made the situation real. He tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the day he had found the boy. His body broken and bleeding out in a ditch.

And yet here he was, sitting in his passenger seat. Quiet. Heavy-eyed. Something about him stripped down to the bone.

It didn’t matter how the world saw him on that screen. The kid in this truck wasn’t the same one who’d blasted through half the Sports Festival. Takeshi could feel it in the air around him.

When the truck rattled to a stop outside the trailer, the quiet finally cracked.

Katsuki kept his eyes on the dash.

“That was me,” he said, voice low and flat.

Takeshi exhaled slowly through his nose. “I figured.”

A pause.

“It’s not anymore.”

And that was all. The kid climbed out, groceries in hand, and moved toward the house without waiting for a reply.

-Katsuki-

—“It’s not anymore,” Katsuki said. The words felt strange in his mouth, unfamiliar. But true. Because what the hell was left?

Still, the old man didn’t pry, and Katsuki was grateful for that. He climbed out of the truck, making his way toward the house with the groceries in hand.

Back at the trailer, Katsuki unpacked in silence. Focused on the motions—stacking cans, rinsing vegetables, scrubbing rice. He set to work on curry, movements sharp and efficient.

By the time Takeshi slumped into his battered armchair, the scent of simmering spices filled the air.

When Katsuki set the plates down, Takeshi gave him a long, quiet look.

“Smells better than ramen,” he said simply.

Katsuki huffed. “Not hard to beat your sorry excuse for a diet.”

And that was all they said about it.

Later that night, as the old man snored in the back and the dishes dried in the sink, Katsuki stared up at the ceiling, consciousness waning.

He was running again.

Concrete underfoot, broken and jagged. Rubble stretched out in every direction, a dead city consumed by smoke and dust. Shattered windows stared like empty eyes. No sky. No sun. Just gray light bleeding through the haze.

And explosions—soft, distant flashes in the fog. There was still no sound. No boom. No rumble of heat. They flickered like dying stars. He ran harder. Breath burning in his throat, legs churning through the ruins. His skin felt wrong, heavy. Every step felt like wading through water.

There were voices. Faint. Familiar.
Calling his name.

Katsuki.

Come back.

It was that voice again. So familiar.

Katsuki. Please. Stop running.

But his feet kept moving. He couldn’t stop. Katsuki didn’t know why. A deep ache had taken root in his chest, the same ache that followed him in waking life. That hollow thrum beneath his ribs. Somewhere in the fog, a flicker of warmth tugged at him. A pull—aching, desperate.

He wanted to turn. He almost turned.

But something inside him screamed not to.

He ran faster, the rubble blurring beneath him. The world thinned around the edges.

And the voice—

Grew softer. Sadder.

You’re leaving me behind.

No.

He clenched his jaw, forcing the words away.

He couldn’t face it.

Don’t leave. You need me.

A ragged breath tore through him. His legs stumbled, faltered—but momentum carried him forward.

The explosions grew dimmer. The fog thickened.

He couldn’t feel the pull anymore. Couldn’t hear the voice.

Only the emptiness remained.

And then—

Katsuki jerked awake.

His breath was sharp in his throat, sweat cold on his skin. He could feel the couch beneath him—unfamiliar for a moment. The dim light of the trailer was disorienting. 

He sat up slowly, head in his hands. The ache was still there. It was stronger now—a phantom weight pressing against his ribs. For a long time, he didn’t move. He didn’t know why it felt like losing something all over again.

Didn’t know why the words you’re leaving me behind echoed louder than anything else.

And he hated— hated —that he was afraid to close his eyes again.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Takeshi dragged him out of the house. Katsuki hadn’t been given much choice.

“You need clothes that ain’t two sizes too big,” Takeshi had grunted, yanking on his battered old jacket. “And I gotta help a buddy fix some shit. You’re coming.”

Katsuki scowled but didn’t argue. The old man was right—even if the thought of being around strangers made his skin crawl.

He layered up before they left: one of Takeshi’s old jackets hanging off his frame, a black mask tugged over the lower half of his face, a faded baseball cap dragged low. The sunglasses he borrowed felt heavy on his nose, making the world a little dim, a little distant.

He looked like a kid trying too hard to be invisible. Still—anything to avoid recognition.

The world thinks I’m dead.

The words from the news still echoed in his skull. His execution, livestreamed for millions. The thought of anyone catching a glimpse, of some stranger seeing through the makeshift disguise—he didn’t think he could stomach it. The world didn’t want him while he was alive, then why the hell would they want him while he was “dead?” In a way, he already was. And part of Katsuki was afraid. He was afraid of going back to a life that was no longer his. He was not the same. Those who knew him—he couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t face them. Not like this.

The truck rattled and coughed to life. They drove in silence.

Katsuki sat stiffly in the passenger seat, shoulders hunched, fingers digging into the frayed seat cushion. His eyes, narrowed behind the tinted lenses, flicked from window to window, tracking the unfamiliar streets.

Everything looked normal.

Too normal.

Cracked asphalt ran beneath the tires, broken street lamps leaned at odd angles, shops displayed garish, sun-faded posters in their windows. A group of kids darted across a crosswalk, laughing, their light quirks trailing after them in vibrant hues. A salaryman hunched beneath an umbrella, nursing a coffee. The man had a similar glowing hue—he must be related to them, Katsuki mused. 

Katsuki leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

How?

After everything that he had endured—how could the world still turn like this?

Why the hell is the world still spinning?

The weight of it coiled in his gut.

When Takeshi pulled into a half-deserted strip of shops, the truck groaned to a stop.

“Alright. In and out. Get what you need,” the man said. “Don’t make a damn scene.”

Katsuki didn’t answer. He yanked the cap lower and followed him inside. The store stank of dust, synthetic detergent, and stale air. Harsh fluorescents buzzed overhead, casting long shadows in every corner. Katsuki stuck to the edges at first. Eyes down. Moving quickly. The less he looked at people, the better. He navigated aisle after aisle of cheap, threadbare clothing. He shoved a few things into the basket—plain shirts, dark pants, socks—get it done. Get out.

Then—

Something flickered.

At the edge of his vision.

He froze mid-step, one hand hovering over a rack of shirts.

A faint haze—soft, wavering—curled through the air around a passing man.

What the hell?

Katsuki looked harder. It wasn’t smoke, not a trick of the light. A shifting mist flowed around the man’s body—deep gold, tinged with brown. It was breathtaking. It rippled when he moved, trailing behind him like liquid light. Katsuki’s pulse jumped. He spun—subtle, trying not to draw attention—and saw more. 

A young woman near the scarves: pale green, like moss in a stream. 

A sharp-dressed teenager scrolling his phone: bright orange, pulsing in time with his footsteps.

An elderly man by the newspapers: deep, steady blue, flowing slow and thick.

Katsuki’s mouth went dry. Just like those kids. Just like that salaryman.

At first he thought it had to be their quirks—some kind of light quirk. But this is way too many people for that to be the case. Besides, Katsuki spotted a little girl with a mutant type quirk, and she was also bathed in the shimmering hue. Then, he thought that maybe it was some new trend with tech he hadn’t seen while he was away, stuck in a dark cell for weeks. 

But no.

Everyone had it.

Everyone.

The mist flowed around them—some bright, some dull, some thin and flickering like dying embers, some pulsed, while others flowed like water. 

He looked down at himself.

Nothing.

Not even a flicker.

His throat tightened.

He swore under his breath and shoved the shirt back on the rack. Moving like sleepwalking, he drifted toward Takeshi, who stood grumbling over a pack of discount socks.

“You see that?” Katsuki asked, voice low, tight.

The old man glanced up, frowning. “See what?”

“That—” Katsuki tilted his chin, trying to gesture without drawing attention. “The mist. Around people.”

Takeshi stared at him. Then shook his head.

“You been hittin’ your head harder than I thought,” he muttered. “Ain’t seein’ jack.”

Katsuki’s stomach churned. He looked again. Takeshi stood perfectly solid, no outline. No mist.

Why?

Why was it missing?

Why could he see it when no one else could?

Why didn’t Takeshi have it?

Cold washed over him, heavier than before.

He didn’t push further. Just grabbed the rest of what he needed and followed Takeshi out.

But as they left the store and the door hissed shut behind them, Katsuki’s mind kept turning, the images burned behind his eyes:

Mist. No mist. Colors. Movement. That invisible thread pulling through every single person—except him. Except Takeshi.

Later, they drove out to Takeshi’s buddy’s place. Some scrapyard that doubled as a repair lot.

“Gonna help me with this,” Takeshi ssaid.It wasn't a question. “You don’t gotta do much. Just hold parts and pass tools.”

Katsuki didn’t argue. His mind was still tangled around what he’d seen.

At the yard, Takeshi’s friend—a wiry man named Gen—met them at the gate. The guy had an easy grin and a calloused handshake. And a thick gold mist swirling around him like a slow tide.

Katsuki swallowed hard and looked away.

They got to work. Takeshi barked orders, Gen handed out parts, and Katsuki quietly did as he was told, jaw tight, eyes darting between the men. For a while, nothing strange happened.

Then—

Katsuki stumbled slightly while carrying a heavy wrench. His shoulder brushed against Gen’s arm.

The mist flared.

Just for a moment—like a jolt.

And something sharp jolted through Katsuki’s skin. Not pain. Not heat.

Something else.

Gen blinked, his eyes flashing faint gold. For a second, the air around him thrummed—Katsuki could feel it—and then it was gone.

“What the hell…” he muttered.

Neither man seemed to notice. But it happened again. Another brush of skin. This time it was intentional. There was another strange pulse, another spike of whatever quirk Gen had—subtle, but unmistakable. Something that has to do with metal, Katsuki's mind supplied. How the hell would he know that? Katsuki backed off fast, heart hammering.

He drew the connection in an instant.

That mist. It has to do with their quirks.

—And I’m affecting it somehow.

The realization sat heavy and cold in his gut.

There's one more thing that would confirm this theory.

They returned to the trailer as the sky dimmed. Takeshi didn’t say much. Neither did Katsuki—until they sat down. The old man cracked a beer and flopped onto the couch. Katsuki hovered near the window, gaze sharp under the brim of his cap.

Finally—

“You’re quirkless, aren’t you?” Katsuki asked quietly. Takeshi froze mid-sip. The can lowered slowly.

“...How the hell’d you know that?” he asked, voice low.

I knew it. 

Katsuki shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “Just a feeling,” he muttered.

That was all he said.

He didn’t explain. He didn’t want to.

Katsuki didn’t want to admit that something inside him was changing again—that he was seeing things no one else could.

The old man stared for a long beat. Then sighed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Born without one. Always been that way.”

Katsuki just nodded once, arms folded tight. He didn’t elaborate.

And Takeshi didn’t pry.

The conversation ended there.

The house was quiet.

Takeshi had gone to bed early, mumbling something about bad knees and cheap beer.

Katsuki sat alone at the kitchen table, hunched over a bowl of half-eaten rice. The overhead light buzzed faintly above him, its dim glow casting long shadows against the walls.

He hadn’t touched the rice in a while.

His hands rested on the worn tabletop. Every so often, his fingers would twitch—reflexively, unconsciously—as if they could still reach out and grasp something that wasn’t there.

That feeling wouldn’t leave him.

The memory played in his mind, clear as day: a casual brush of his fingers against Takeshi’s buddy. The sudden flicker in the air, subtle but undeniable. The way the man’s quirk had spiked—just a little—at the point of contact.

It wasn’t random.

It had happened again when he’d deliberately touched the man a second time. Another flicker. Another strange pull beneath the skin.

Katsuki leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyes.

This wasn’t normal.

He could see the mist, see the strange auras rippling around people like living currents. He could touch them. And when he did, something shifted—like he’d grazed the core of their power itself.

But no one else seemed aware of it.

Takeshi hadn’t seen anything. The man didn’t even have a quirk, which somehow made it even stranger. He had no mist at all, just empty air where that strange energy should have been.

Katsuki tapped his fingers against the table. He forced himself to think through it logically, the way he would in training.

The first contact had been accidental. The second had been deliberate. Both times, the quirk had reacted.

Was it proximity?

Was it intent?

Was it something about him—about what had happened to him?

The thought sent a chill down his spine.

He stared down at his palms, flexing his fingers slowly. They looked the same. Pale, steady, scarred in places.

But he wasn’t the same.

Not even close.

The emptiness inside him remained—a hollow, gnawing weight in his chest that no amount of rest or food seemed to fill. His temper, his drive, the fierce burn that used to fuel every part of him—it was all muted now, as though a layer of frost had settled over everything that made him who he was.

But this new… whatever it was—this ability to sense and affect quirks—was real.

And it terrified him.

Because he didn’t understand it.

I need to figure this out.

His jaw clenched.

If Deku were here, the nerd would’ve already launched into a dozen theories. Katsuki could almost hear his voice—fast, breathless, full of that damn enthusiasm: “It might be a kind of quirk resonance! Or maybe your quirk factor was altered somehow—maybe it’s interacting with other quirk factors directly now!”

Katsuki gritted his teeth and looked away.

“Shut the hell up,” he muttered under his breath, as if the imaginary voice could hear him.

The kitchen remained silent.

But the memory lingered.

Deku had always been good at this kind of thing—figuring out quirks, pulling apart their mechanics, understanding what made them tick.

Katsuki wasn’t like that. He wasn’t a strategist. He fought by instinct and force and raw will. He burned his way through problems.

Except now there was no fire to burn with.

Now he had to think.

Alone.

He sat there for a long time, fingers curled against the table, gaze locked on the empty air above his hands.

But that night, Katsuki sat awake in the dark, staring at his trembling hands—he knew this wasn’t over.

The first thing he felt was the wind.

Cold. Salt-slick. Biting at his skin.

Katsuki opened his eyes to gray skies and a shoreline that stretched into forever. This dream—it was different from the others.

He stood barefoot on wet sand. The surf rolled in, slow and heavy, white foam hissing as it pulled back.

Water.

A vast, endless ocean. Dark as slate. Rippling beneath clouds that seemed ready to swallow the sky whole.

And mist.

It hung over the waves in thick, churning banks, and swirled lazily over the sand. Colors swirled around like a Van Gogh painting, bathing the waves in colorful hues.

Katsuki’s breath caught. The same mist. The same strange light.

It was everywhere here. It was breathtaking.

He looked down, but there was no light around him.

Suddenly, a low pulse echoed from somewhere beyond the fog—steady, rhythmic.

Then the voice came. It was faint at first, then it grew clearer.

Come back.

He stiffened.

The words tugged something deep in his chest. Something frayed and thin, like a rope worn to its last thread.

He wanted to turn, to face it—

But his feet moved without thought. Forward. Toward the water. Sand gave way beneath him as he ran. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t let the voice catch him.

Come back.

The sound grew louder, raw with grief. With longing.

But Katsuki shook his head, heart hammering.

No. No. He couldn’t.

Katsuki reached the edge of the tide, cold waves slapped against his ankles with swirling white and black. His reflection stared up at him through the water. His skin was pale, and his eyes hollow. This wasn’t the face he remembered. 

Another voice whispered from the mist:

You’re losing me.

He backed away with a ragged breath—then forced himself forward again, running along the shoreline. The water followed. Each step grew heavier, and each wave grew higher. Soon it reached his knees, then his waist. The current dragged at him with invisible hands.

Come back. Please.

Katsuki’s throat closed. His legs burned, but he kept running. He kept running because the thing calling to him felt too close. Too real.

And in the farthest corner of his mind, one last thought whispered:

If I turn back now—I won’t be able to let go again.

So he ran.

Into the deepening tide.

The current rose, cold fingers clutching his chest. The sea swallowed him—choking him in shadow and salt.

And just as the last breath left his lungs—

A hand seized his wrist.

Warm. Solid. Unyielding.

It yanked him upward, out of the dark.

He gasped as air and light returned, sputtering against the tide.

And there—standing against the crashing surf, bathed in radiant gold and molten orange—was a figure. The light that burned through the mist—as bright as the sun.

Katsuki squinted against the glow, heart hammering—And froze.

The one holding his wrist—the one standing before him—

Was him.

Not the hollow, empty thing he’d seen before, but the him as he remembered: fierce eyes, defiant mouth, shoulders squared as though daring the world to try again.

Golden light poured from the figure’s skin, rippling with life, with the heat of everything he’d lost.

Everything he’d run from.

Their gazes locked,

And the dream shattered like glass.

Chapter Text

Midoriya Izuku was not okay.

He woke each morning with the same tight knot in his chest, a weight that didn’t shift no matter how much he moved, trained, or smiled. The sun rose, and the world kept turning. So he followed, step by step, because that was what was expected of him. The world couldn’t stop—not for him, not for anyone.

School. Training. Licensing exam prep. Pass the test. Keep going. He went through the motions, but it felt wrong. Every step, every breath. Pretending his friend wasn’t missing, pretending that everything was fine, like he wasn’t checking his phone every hour for news that never came. It had been unbearable. 

And then—the broadcast

He would never forget the first hollow beat of silence in the room when the screen flickered to life. The grainy footage. The shadowed room. The sick amusement in the voices that framed it.

And in the center of it all—Kacchan.

Chained. Bloodied. Burning beneath Dabi’s blue flame.

He watched in silence, every instinct screaming to move, to help, to do something , even knowing it was impossible. By the time the feed cut out, his hands were trembling so badly he could barely breathe.

And then,  the news spiraled out of control. Headlines screamed across every device.

UA Student Murdered by League of Villains.
Bakugo Katsuki: Another Casualty of a Broken System.

The headlines made him sick. The way the media had shifted the narrative from a “villain in the making,” to a “victim of the system,” even though they had been the ones to tear him down just a few weeks prior. 

He remembered the funeral. It was small, closed to the public. Only family and a few close friends had been allowed to attend. The reporters had been kept away, though Izuku knew that wouldn’t stop them from capitalizing on the story. Another tragedy. Another headline.

Izuku sat near the front in a stiff black suit that felt two sizes too small, his hands folded so tightly in his lap that his knuckles turned white. Beside him, his mother sat pale and trembling, clutching a tissue that she barely used.

There was no body.

The coffin at the front of the room stood sealed, untouched. 

That single fact gnawed at him. A small, stubborn flicker of hope clung to it. No body meant no proof. No proof meant… maybe, somehow, Kacchan was still out there.

Or maybe he was just in denial.

The rational part of his mind whispered cold logic: Kacchan was dead. His body was likely left in some forgotten place, beyond their reach. The League didn’t make mistakes.

The service passed in a blur of muted voices and soft footsteps. Friends and family moved like ghosts through the room, paying respects to a space that felt painfully empty. He caught glimpses of familiar faces—Kacchan’s friends: Kirishima, Kaminari, Mina, and Sero. He also caught a glimpse of Sensei somewhere near the back.

Still, it didn’t feel real.

Everyone mourned. There were tears and quiet moments of remembrance, but no one could truly say goodbye. There was nothing to say goodbye to. No closure. Just a gaping absence no words could fill.

Izuku wasn’t blind. He knew who Kacchan had been. A bully. Harsh. Explosive. A person with so much anger it seemed to define him. And yet… Izuku had also known him better than anyone.

He had seen the changes. They had been small, subtle—a bit more patience here, a grudging word of encouragement there. Small acts of kindness when he thought nobody was looking. Kacchan had been trying to be better. No one else seemed to notice, but Izuku had. And he had admired him for it.

He had always believed that one day, Kacchan would truly change. That the fierce determination that drove him would eventually turn toward something greater.

Now that hope was gone.

And Izuku carried the weight of failure. He should have done more. Should have found him. Saved him.

Instead, he buried the pain beneath duty. All Might had placed his trust in him. He was meant to be the next Symbol of Peace—a beacon for the world. The public needed hope now more than ever.

So Izuku trained harder. He smiled when others looked. He carried the responsibility as best he could.

But when he was alone—in the small, dark confines of his room, the mask finally cracked. He buried his face in his pillow, shoulders shaking with silent sobs, guilt and grief folding in on themselves until he could barely breathe.

Because Kacchan was gone.

And the world had no choice but to move on without him.

Aizawa Shouta stood alone in the staff lounge long after the sun had set. 

The room smelled faintly of old coffee and books, the air heavy and stale. The clock on the far wall ticked steadily, each second carving deeper into his skull.

9:57 pm.

He hadn’t truly slept in days. He closed his eyes, sometimes. Drifted for moments. But every time sleep pulled at him, it dragged him down into memories he couldn’t fight.

Katsuki Bakugo is dead.

The words echoed again, fresh and sharp as the first time he’d heard them. A student. His former student. The same boy they had fought so hard to rescue after Kamino—only to lose him weeks later.

It wasn’t supposed to happen again.

He had promised himself that.

After Oboro… after watching a bright, reckless idiot of a friend fall right in front of him—after living with the knowledge that he had been too slow, too helpless to stop it—Shouta had lived with that for years, the guilt a constant companion. He had sworn that no student under his care would share that same fate.

But here he was. And Katsuki was gone.

Each time he closed his eyes, the image returned. Katsuki—fierce, angry, alive. Then the broadcast. The battered boy on the floor, flames dancing over bruised skin. And beneath it all, a single truth he couldn’t run from:

I expelled him.

His throat felt raw just thinking it.

When Nezu informed him of Bakugo and Midoriya's history, he could hardly believe it. How could he have not seen it? He thought back to the battle trial–All Might had told him how Bakugo pulled the pin from his gauntlets. How the blast could have killed Midoriya, had he not dodged. Then he started noticing a pattern. The boy was explosive, stubborn, angry, and he didn't appear to be changing. 

He had made that call. He had told himself it was the right choice. Logical. Necessary. The records of Bakugo’s behavior had been undeniable—the bullying, the recklessness, the dangerous edge that hadn’t seemed to fade.

“This isn’t punishment,” he had said, hoping that this would push the kid toward something better.

That’s what he’d told himself.

But hindsight was a cruel teacher. Because in pushing Bakugo out, he had left him vulnerable. Alone.

He was racked with guilt when the media got ahold of the story of Bakugo’s expulsion. 

And yet.

He did nothing. Didn’t reach out, didn’t shield the boy from the cruelty of this world.

And then the League took him.

---------------------

The funeral had been short. Formal. Meaningless, really, without a body. The staff had been present, dressed in black, their faces drawn and somber. Yamada had squeezed his shoulder once, a silent attempt at comfort. Nemuri had offered a quiet word in passing.

But no words could touch the hollow cold lodged in his chest.

He could still see the boy—bristling with fire, determined beyond reason, a force of nature contained in a single body. And now that force was gone, snuffed out before it had a chance to change.

Because of him.

—--------------

Shouta looked up at the clock again. It was now 10:35. The soft hum of the building’s lights seemed distant, muffled beneath the weight pressing down on his ribs.

The door creaked open behind him.

“Shouta.”

Nemuri’s voice, quiet. Yamada followed a step behind her, gaze shadowed with concern.

He didn’t turn.

“You should both go home,” he said, voice rough from disuse.

“We could say the same to you,” Nemuri replied gently, moving closer. The usual teasing note was gone.

Shouta exhaled slowly, fingers curling against the arm of the couch.
“I expelled him.”

The words broke the silence like glass.

Nemuri’s gaze flicked to Yamada, then back to him. “Shouta…”

“I pushed for it,” he continued, voice steady, hollow. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I told myself it wasn’t punishment.” He swallowed. “But I was wrong.”

No one spoke.

“I told myself I would never lose a student again,” he said softly. “Not after Oboro. I swore it. And then I made that call. And the League took him.” His voice cracked, barely audible now. “And now he’s gone.”

The word hung in the air, sharp as a blade.

Yamada shifted beside him. “You can’t shoulder this alone.”

“I can,” Aizawa said hoarsely. “I should.”

Nemuri sat beside him, folding her hands in her lap. “You made the choice because you cared,” she said quietly. “You didn’t know what would happen.”

“It doesn’t change what happened.”

“No. It doesn’t.” Her voice was soft. “But you didn’t kill him. The League did.”

The words meant nothing. Not in the hollow space where guilt had rooted itself.

A long silence followed, broken only by the hum of the city beyond the glass.

In the shadows behind his eyes, Aizawa still saw two faces—bright, burning, lost to his failures.

Oboro. Katsuki.

“I won’t let this happen again,” he whispered, not a vow, but a fragile prayer.

And this time, he didn’t know if he could believe it.

Chapter Text

It had been several days, and yet Katsuki hadn’t dreamed once. With each sunrise, the emptiness inside him pressed heavier. Oppressive. A dull ache beneath his ribs that refused to fade.

He threw himself into routine. Cleaned the house until it smelled less like stale beer and grease. Kept the geezer out of trouble, or tried to. Cooked real food, because Takeshi sure as hell wasn’t going to.

But even with his hands busy, his mind wandered. Always back to the mist. The way it moved. The way it reacted when he touched it.

He didn’t know what the hell was happening to him, but he wasn’t going to figure it out trapped in that tin-can trailer.

He knew it was a bad idea. Knew he was being reckless. Going out was a risk he couldn’t fully calculate.

But he had to understand this. He had to know.

That morning, he grabbed his jacket, mask, and hat, and told Takeshi he was heading out.

The old man barely looked up from his paper. “Don’t die.”

Katsuki tugged the door shut and left without another word.

--------------------

The train to Musutafu rattled beneath him. He sat alone, hood up, head low, sunglasses hiding his tired eyes.

He knew these streets like the back of his hand. He’d been born here, raised here. Every turn, every alley still lived in his muscle memory.

And… maybe, a part of him was homesick.

But this wasn’t about nostalgia. Not really. It was about watching. About observing—seeing if he can learn any more about this mist.

And really, what was there to return to anyway?

The ache in his chest answered that question before he could finish it.

He stuck to side streets once he left the station. Wound through quiet back alleys, kept well out of hero patrol routes. He knew the timings. The safe spots. The blind corners.

He couldn’t risk being caught. If everyone thought he was dead—he’d stay dead.

He pushed that thought down before it could sink its teeth in.

--------------------

Katsuki was cutting through an older shopping district when the first scream tore down the block.

He stopped mid-step. Head snapping up.

A deep crack followed—low and sharp, a sound that rattled in the bones. Then came the crash—glass shattering, metal groaning. A storefront exploded outward in a violent spray of debris. Shards of windowpane gleamed like falling stars as they scattered across the pavement.

The street broke into chaos. Shoppers screamed. A woman shielded her child, voice ragged as she called for heroes. The crowd surged in panic, a tide of bodies pulling away from the wreckage.

Katsuki ducked instinctively into the shadows of a narrow alley. His back pressed to cold brick. His breath came fast behind the mask. He peered around the edge, eyes scanning for the threat.

And then he saw him.

The villain stood amid the ruin—tall, gaunt, limbs jittering with erratic tremors. His face was drawn taut over sharp cheekbones, mouth slack, blackened tongue lolling from between broken teeth. Bloodshot eyes darted wildly beneath tangled hair.

But it was the mist that made Katsuki freeze.

This haze wasn’t like the ones he’d seen before.

It boiled off the villain’s body in thick waves—a sickly green mist streaked with jagged veins of crimson. It churned and cracked like molten glass, snapping through the air with an unnatural, living hunger. The space around him shimmered, distorted by raw force. Light bent and wavered, casting warped shadows across the wreckage.

And the heat—Katsuki could feel it even from here. Not warmth, but pressure, dense and oppressive, like standing too close to a fire that wasn’t meant to burn.

He narrowed his eyes.

Trigger.

The word surfaced, cold and sharp. He remembered the lectures. Trigger—an illegal quirk-enhancing drug designed to force quirks beyond their natural limits. Rare in the public eye, but devastating when used. Addictive. Volatile.

And dangerous.

The villain moved with the jerky, uncontrolled motions of someone half-conscious. His right fist slammed into the ground. A pulse of warped gravity rippled outward, the asphalt bending like liquid, sending civilians sprawling in every direction. Another burst shattered a light pole in a spray of sparks.

With each strike, the mist writhed, flaring higher, more frantic.

Katsuki’s jaw tightened.

If no one stepped in—people would die.

For a heartbeat, instinct screamed at him to run. He was powerless. No quirk. No way to fight this.

But then his mind flashed back—to Goh, to that strange moment when a simple touch had affected the mist. 

what if I could somehow calm it?

The idea was insane.

But he was already moving.

No explosions. No brute force. Just calculation and risk.

He circled wide, weaving through toppled carts and broken signage. The street was an obstacle course of debris. Shopkeepers shouted frantically, dragging loved ones to safety. Somewhere distant, sirens began to wail—but they were too far.

Katsuki kept his head low, blending into the chaos. The villain’s strikes came faster now—another blow sent a parked car tumbling through the air. The green-crimson haze thickened with each pulse, wild and feral.

I need to get close.

He timed his movements to the rhythm of the chaos. When the villain lashed out in one direction, Katsuki darted in the opposite. He used a shattered display case for cover, ducked beneath a fallen sign, and finally slid behind a crumbling planter just meters away.

Now the air felt heavier. The mist’s reach tugged at his skin—static and heat crawling across his arms and neck. Breathing became harder.

It didn’t matter.

Katsuki waited—watched for a gap between attacks.

And when it came—he lunged.

One hand forward. No hesitation.

His fingers plunged into the swirling mist.

-------------------

The world vanished.

Black waves stretched endlessly beneath his feet, cold and perfect, reflecting a sky painted in deep cobalt and bleeding red. The air tasted electric, humming with the raw pulse of power.

Katsuki stood atop the water, weightless yet grounded. It should’ve terrified him. It didn’t.

Ahead, a lone figure knelt—shoulders heaving, hands clawing at his skull. The aura surrounding him was a hurricane—violent spikes of quirk energy tearing through the air, each pulse sending ripples through the sea.

Katsuki’s throat tightened.

He had never been good at this. Calming people down wasn’t something that came naturally; usually he had the opposite effect. He’d always burned too hot—too raw.

But there was no one else here.

So he moved.

Each step stirred the mirrored surface, sending pale ripples outward. He stopped just behind the figure, heart hammering in his chest.

Then—he knelt.

A breath. A moment of hesitation.

Finally, his hand settled on the man’s trembling shoulder.

The figure flinched hard. The storm of energy flared, wild and spitting. For a second, Katsuki thought it would reject him outright.

But he held steady. Focused.

Bit by bit, the violent edges of the mist dulled. The howling pulse softened into low waves. The air grew clearer. The sea stilled.

And the figure’s ragged breathing evened out—just enough.

-------------------

When Katsuki’s eyes snapped open, the real world returned in a jolt.

He was still kneeling, hand outstretched.

The villain had collapsed—chest rising and falling in shallow, steady breaths. The mist had faded to faint wisps, drifting harmlessly away.

Alive.

No more time.

Katsuki bolted. Every muscle screamed in protest, but he didn’t stop. He shot down a narrow alley, weaving through trash bins and broken fences. His breath rasped in his throat, heart hammering.

By the time the first heroes arrived, their voices barking through comms, he was already gone—just another shadow swallowed by the night.

That night, sleep dragged him under.

No resistance. No fight left.

Just darkness.

And then—water.

Katsuki stood alone atop a black, endless sea. Waves shifted beneath his feet in molten currents, glowing faintly beneath the surface as if the ocean itself breathed. The air smelled faintly of ozone and smoke. Overhead, the sky stretched in a heavy sheet of slate-gray cloud, pressing down like stone.

But he wasn’t alone.

A voice came from behind him—low, rough, fierce.

“Katsuki.”

This time, he turned.

The figure stood several paces away.

Himself.

Almost.

It was like looking into a mirror warped by flame. The other Katsuki matched him in height, build, face—but this one burned with something wild. Light pulsed beneath pale skin in waves of gold and searing orange, like a furnace barely contained. His eyes blazed sharp and hungry. His mouth curved in a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“What the hell is this?” Katsuki asked, throat raw.

The other folded his arms, chin tilted. His voice came out rough, voice licked with heat.

“Tch. Took you long enough to turn around.”

Katsuki’s gut twisted. “Who—what are you?”

“You know.” The reply was flat, certain. “You just don’t wanna say it.”

The other stepped forward. Ripples flared outward in rings with each step, turning the mirrored sea into molten waves beneath his boots.

“When All For One came for your quirk… you fought. Harder than you’ve ever fought in your life.” His burning eyes flared. “You didn’t just grip your power—you wrapped your whole damn self around it.”

A scar carved through his chest, pulsing with molten light. It flickered in rhythm with his words.

“And when he tore it away… I tore with it.”

Katsuki’s fists shook. His mouth felt dry.

“My rage… my fire… my—”

“Me.” The word cracked through the air like a gunshot. The other Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not some scrap of junk. I am you. The fight. The will. The bastard who never quits.” His voice deepened, sharp with something closer to grief.

“The heat in your veins. The part that’d rather die on its feet than fall.”

Katsuki’s chest twisted hard, breath stuck halfway in his throat.

“And you—”

“Still here,” the other snapped. He stalked forward, steps slicing ripples across the black water. “Still fighting. Even now.” His gaze sharpened into steel. “I didn’t let go. And I won’t. Not for that freak. He can’t use what I won’t give him.”

Realization punched through Katsuki like cold steel.

“That’s why—why I can’t feel it. Why I’m like this.”

The other let out a dry breath—almost a laugh, but bitter.

“Yeah. You think I like this? Watching you drift around like some sad sack? You don’t even know how loud I’ve been screaming. Every dream, every shadow—I’ve been clawing my way back.”

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the slow pulse of light through the water. The waves surged higher, creeping toward their knees.

Katsuki swallowed hard. “How do I fix it?”

For the first time, the other Katsuki hesitated. His burning eyes flickered, gold dimming for a breath.

“I don’t know.”

Katsuki’s stomach sank. The answer landed heavy.

But the other wasn’t finished.

His gaze locked on him again—burning, unyielding. He stalked forward and seized Katsuki by the collar. Heat flared from his fingers—familiar, sharp, not painful.

“You find me,” he said, voice low, trembling with the force barely contained beneath it. “You fight. You drag us back together if you have to.” His grip tightened, fierce. “Don’t you dare leave me here.”

Katsuki’s heart slammed against his ribs. Rage. Drive. Himself—staring him in the face. Gripping him tight.

“I—” His voice cracked. “I’ll—”

The other leaned close, fire pulsing brighter. His voice dropped into something raw.

“I’m still here. Don’t stop. Don’t be a damn coward.”

And then—he let go. Light surged outward in a burst of gold and crimson sparks.

The sea shattered like glass.

Katsuki shot upright with a ragged gasp, heart racing. Sweat soaked through his shirt, his breath tearing in and out like he’d been running.

The trailer walls loomed close around him in the dark. The battered couch groaned under him as he lurched forward, burying his face in his hands.

He could still feel it—heat on his skin, the pulse beneath his ribs. He gripped his hair hard enough to sting.

“Shit.” The word broke out, hoarse and raw.

It wasn’t a dream.

All this time—he hadn’t been broken.
He’d been torn in half.

And half of him was still out there, burning, clawing, screaming to come home.

His breath shuddered in the silence. His fists trembled. The dull ache in his chest felt sharper now—something hot, insistent.

You find me.

“I will,” he whispered. Voice ragged, fierce. “I’ll find you.”

Chapter Text

--Katsuki--

5:27 AM.
The numbers burned red on the battered wall clock, stark against the dim gray of the trailer. Too damn early to do anything. Too late to go back to sleep. And yet—Katsuki couldn’t sit still. Not after that. His skin still felt electric from the dream, his breath catching in the hollows of his chest. His own voice, the other voice, still rang in his ears.

You find me. You fight to get me back.

But how? How the hell did you fight something like this? You couldn’t punch a missing piece of your own damn soul back into place.

His feet hit the cold floor before he even realized it. No more laying there stewing. He tugged on a hoodie, the frayed cuffs rough against trembling fingers, and padded into the cramped kitchen. The trailer’s fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. Outside, dawn hadn’t even cracked the sky yet—just an endless stretch of black behind the grimy windows. The whole world felt frozen. Waiting.

Kinda like me, he thought bitterly.

He rifled through the cabinets—pulled out a pan, a carton of eggs, some leftover rice from the night before. The motions steadied his hands. Something to do. Something to hold onto while his mind spun in circles.

Egg cracked. Rice sizzled. A splash of soy, the hiss of steam.

Keep moving. One thing at a time. 

--Takeshi--

Takeshi Kojima rubbed a calloused hand over his face as he stepped out of his room, the floor creaking beneath tired feet.

Too damn early. His eyes felt like sandpaper.

But something had pulled him awake—not the usual aches, not the usual thirst. Something else. A feeling, a weight in the air. Like something wasn’t right. And there, in the dim doorway to the kitchen, he found the source.

The kid was hunched over the stove, sleeves shoved up, movements stiff and sharp. This was a boy trying not to drown, and Takeshi knew that feeling all too well.

Takeshi leaned against the frame for a moment, watching. He’d known the kid was carrying shit—hell, you don’t find someone half-dead in a ditch by accident. But whatever had happened last night, whatever had cracked him open, was bleeding through now. The way his shoulders hunched. The way he gripped the spatula like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Yeah. Something had changed.

Couldn’t just stand here.

He cleared his throat.

Katsuki stiffened, glanced back, eyes shadowed but sharp. No words. Just that look.

Takeshi exhaled and pushed off the doorframe. Quiet footsteps across the worn tile. He set the kettle on the counter, grabbed a packet of instant coffee from the shelf—a familiar ritual. Something steady.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he said gruffly, voice still rough from sleep. “Just need somethin’ hot to wake my ass up.”

The kid didn’t answer. He just turned back to the stove.

Takeshi poured boiling water into a chipped mug and sat down at the kitchen table, newspaper in hand—but the words didn’t stick. He wasn’t reading.

His eyes stayed on the boy.

And after a long beat, he spoke—low and steady.

“You don’t gotta say what’s eatin’ you,” Takeshi said. “Ain’t my place to drag it outta you.” His gaze flicked sideways, tired but steady. “But I see it. Whatever it is—you’re wearin’ it like a damn second skin.”

No reply. The rice hissed, the pan scraped.

Takeshi set the newspaper down with a sigh. Rubbed at his stubbled chin.

“You know,” he said after a beat. “I ain’t one to preach. Hell, I’m the last bastard who should be offerin’ advice.” He stared at the black swirl in his mug.

“My girl—Aiko. She was twelve.” The words came rougher than he expected. “Car crash. Ain’t nothin’ you can do to stop a drunk driver when they blow through a red light.” His throat tightened, but he pressed on. “Blamed myself for a long time. Thought maybe if I’d picked her up from school earlier that day… maybe if I’d left work early.” He shook his head. “Didn’t matter. Guilt’s a bastard. And I let it eat me alive. Turned to the bottle. Drove my wife away. Woke up one day with nothin’ left but this old shop. I’ve done things I’m not proud of—just to make ends meet.”

A long breath.

“Point is—ain’t no shame in breakin’. But you gotta know when to ask for a damn hand.” He looked at the kid then. Studied him. “Even if you think you don’t deserve one.”

Silence stretched thin between them. Takeshi didn’t think the boy would answer him. Then—

Katsuki spoke.

“The day you found me,” Katsuki said, voice low, rough-edged. “I was meant to die.”

Takeshi blinked, letting him speak.

Katsuki’s hands shook faintly as he shoved the pan off the burner a little harder than he meant to. “I got kicked outta U.A.” A bitter laugh, sharp and flat. “Yeah. Real fuckin’ hero material, huh?” Shoulders hunched. “Left alone. League found me. Took me. Tortured me.” His breath stuttered. “Took my quirk. When they finally let me go… I wasn’t the same. Not even close.” Words came faster now, cracking like a dam giving way. “For weeks I thought—something was wrong. Couldn’t feel shit. Couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t feel anything the way I used to. Thought it was trauma. Some headcase bullshit.” He took a ragged breath. “I’ve been feeling—empty. Like some bastard reached inside and ripped out half of me. In a way, that's what happened.”

He looked up. Eyes bloodshot but burning under the weariness. “My soul—it’s split. Part of it’s still out there. With that bastard from the League.” His voice cracked hard, but kept going. “I talked to it last night. It’s still fighting. But I can’t reach it.”

Long pause.

Takeshi rubbed his temples.

For a long moment, Takeshi just stared. Soul? Quirk stolen? The hell was this kid wrapped up in? And yet—he wasn’t lying. Not a damn flicker of it. Takeshi had known enough liars in his life to spot one blindfolded. Hell, maybe the world really has gotten that strange.

He leaned forward.

“Look, I’m not sayin’ I don’t believe you. But you don’t survive out here long as I have without questionin’ shit that sounds impossible.” Eyes locked. “You’re either not lyin’, or you believe it so hard you need serious mental help.”

Katsuki cut in—sharp, biting.

“I know it sounds crazy, alright?” He met Takeshi’s gaze head-on. “But there’s more.”

Takeshi blinked. Waited.

Katsuki dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “I can see quirks now. Not like before. I can see the fuckin’ aura around them.” He jerked his chin at Takeshi. “Around the time I first started seeing this shit, I realized you don't have it. That’s how I knew you were quirkless.” He swallowed, voice roughening further. “And it's not just seeing. I can touch them. No clue how, but I can mess with ‘em too. 

A beat. Jaw clenched.

“There was this villain. He must have been a trigger junkie. Quirk was outta control, burning him out. I—I shut it down. Brought it back under control.”

Takeshi leaned back, sighing through his nose. “Jesus, kid.”

He rubbed his temples again. “I dunno what the hell I’m dealin’ with.” He looked across the table, steady. “But—I wanna believe you.” He folded his arms, “and I got a way you can prove it.”

Katsuki narrowed his eyes.

Takeshi didn’t blink.

“Buddy of mine. Kenji. Granddaughter’s four. Just got her quirk. Thing’s been actin’ up bad and parents can’t afford a counselor. Kenji ain’t got much either. You say you can see quirks? Touch ‘em? Fix ‘em? How about you show me.”

Katsuki let out a sharp breath. Jaw working. “This ain’t a fuckin’ parlor trick.”

Takeshi’s mouth tugged into a grim half-smile. “Didn’t say it was. But you help that little girl—you show me you got this power for real—then we talk.”

Later that morning, Takeshi kept his word.

The old truck rattled down narrow side streets, the skyline barely visible through rusted signage and tangled power lines. The sun had finally clawed its way up, sickly pale through smog-streaked clouds.

Katsuki sat stiff in the passenger seat, hoodie pulled tight around his shoulders. His fingers tapped out a restless rhythm on his thigh. This was a bad fuckin’ idea, but sitting still would’ve been worse.

Takeshi grunted as he turned the wheel. “You sure about this?”

“No.” Katsuki scowled at the cracked windshield. “But I don’t got the luxury of sittin’ on my ass anymore.”

Takeshi gave a rough chuckle. “Fair enough.”

They pulled up outside a weathered apartment block, concrete mottled with age. Laundry lines sagged between windows. Rust flaked from old metal stairwells.

“Place’s seen better days,” Takeshi muttered, killing the engine.

Katsuki gently kicked the door open with his boot. “Yeah. Kind of like you, Mr. Midlife Crisis.”

That earned a quiet snort from the older man.

Up two flights, the hallway smelled faintly of mildew and cheap incense. Takeshi rapped twice on a dented metal door. It creaked open, revealing an older man in a threadbare cardigan, deep lines carved into a tired face.

“Kojima,” the man rasped, eyes wary—then flicked to Katsuki. “This him?”

“Yeah,” Takeshi said. “Kid says he can help. Thought hell, might as well give it a try.”

Kenji frowned, arms folding. “You didn’t say you were bringin’ some punk.”

“I ain’t here for tea,” Katsuki cut in, voice flat. “You want help or not?”

Kenji blinked. Took a beat—then stepped aside.

“…Come in.”

- - - - -

The apartment was small and cluttered. Faded tatami mats, old photos on the walls. The sound of soft sniffles came from the back room.

“She’s in there,” Kenji said quietly. “Sakura. She's four, and has been goin’ nuts since the quirk showed up last week. Parents’re workin’ double shifts—left her with me.” His face pinched. “I dunno what to do.”

“What’s the quirk?” Katsuki asked, already moving toward the door.

Kenji rubbed the back of his neck. “Dunno. She makes crystals on her arms… but it hurts her. She won’t stop cryin’.”

Takeshi gave him a look. “You sure about this?”

“I’m already halfway down this fuckin' rabbit hole,” Katsuki retorts with no real bite. “Might as well give it a shot.”

Inside the room, the little girl was curled in a corner, blanket around her shoulders. Threads of pale, shimmering light crackled weakly off her skin—flickering and spitting like a shorted-out wire. Her eyes were red from crying.

I don't know how to talk to kids, Katsuki thought to himself as he slowly knelt down. keeping his voice low, he spoke: “Hey. It's Sakura, right?”

She peeked out, sniffling. She glanced up at Katsuki, then to Kenji, then back to Katsuki. 

“I’m not gonna hurt ya.” He settled cross-legged a few feet away. “I’m… gonna try somethin’. Might feel weird. You okay with that?”

A hesitant nod.

Katsuki exhaled, slow and steady. Alright, Katsuki. Time to see if this bullshit wasn’t just in your head. Would be real fuckin’ embarassing for me if it was.

He let his awareness shift—that odd second sight flaring to life. Instantly, the light around the girl flared brighter in his vision—wild, jagged, erratic. The quirk wasn’t stable. More instinct than control. Fear was feeding it, making it worse.

“Okay, kid,” he murmured. “Lemme borrow this for a second.”

He reached out—not physically. Fingers brushed the mist. It pushed back—sharp, hot—but he pushed harder. Focused. He willed it to slow, to settle. The wild threads began to weave tighter, light dimming to a soft glow. The sparks vanished.

Sakura blinked and sat up. Tiny crystal stubs peeked out from her arms. Light bounced off them, casting rainbows across the bedroom. Her eyes followed the light for a few moments, mesmerized by the glow. Then– “…It doesn’t hurt anymore,” she whispered.

Katsuki sagged in place, a tremor running through his limbs. Shit—that had taken more outta him than he expected.

Kenji stared, slack-jawed. “Holy shit.”

Takeshi, leaning in the doorway, gave a low whistle. “Well I’ll be damned.”

Katsuki dragged a hand through his hair, sweat-damp. “Told ya,” he rasped. “Ain’t a fuckin’ parlor trick.” He pushed to his feet, knees aching.

Kenji knelt by his granddaughter, checking her over. “It’s… it’s fixed. Kid, I don’t know what the hell you just did, but—thank you.”

Katsuki shrugged, voice flat. “Wasn't hard.”

Takeshi gave him a long look as they headed back out. “You weren’t lyin’.”

“No shit.”

“You really think this soul-splittin’ thing’s part of it?”

Katsuki’s mouth twisted. “Only thing that makes a damn bit of sense.” 

They reached the truck, and Katsuki sagged into the passenger seat. I don't remember the last time wiping me out like this. Must have been the adrenaline.

Takeshi sighed, pulling out his lighter. “Well, kid. You just convinced me.” He flicked the flame, lit a smoke. “And I might know someone who can get you closer to the League. That's who you're lookin’ for eh?”

Katsuki’s eyes sharpened. “Yeah.”

Takeshi took a drag.

“Name’s Giran. Old… acquaintance. Piece a’ work, but he’s got connections.” He glanced at Katsuki. “You sure you’re ready for that shitstorm?”

Katsuki gave a bitter grin.

“I have to be. Got no choice.”

Chapter Text

The place smelled like stale smoke and old sweat. Neon signs flickered half-dead outside the window, bleeding red and blue over warped floorboards.

Katsuki kept his head down. Hoodie drawn tight, cap pulled low. The damn thing smelled like grease and Takeshi’s shop, but it’d have to do. Couldn’t risk anyone seeing his face—least of all down here.

He moved stiffly behind Takeshi, footsteps too light, too careful. The air in this place made his skin itch. Too many eyes. Too many rats. He remembered being the loudest bastard in any room. Now? He could barely stand walking through one.

“Just stay cool, kid,” Takeshi muttered under his breath. “Giran’s no fool. Don’t give him a reason to look twice.”

Katsuki snorted, but the sound came out thin. “Y-Yeah. Got it.” His voice sounded wrong in his own damn ears. Too flat. Too dry.

They reached a door in the back—scuffed to hell, dented in the middle. Takeshi knocked twice.

“Yeah?” came the lazy voice from the other side.

“Old friend,” Takeshi called.

The door clicked open.

Giran leaned against the frame, suit rumpled, a smoke dangling from his fingers. His eyes were sharp, though, real sharp. Like he was already cutting you into pieces in his head. “Well shit. Kojima Takeshi. Thought you’d finally kicked the bucket.”

“Not yet.” Takeshi jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Brought a kid. Lookin’ for work.”

Giran’s gaze slid to Katsuki. Stayed there. Measuring.

Katsuki forced himself to meet it—barely. His heart kicked once, sharp. “Tch.” He shrugged. “Gonna let us in or are we going to just stand here making small talk?” 

Giran’s grin twitched wider. “Heh. Got a mouth on him.” He stepped aside. “Alright, come on in.”

Inside was worse. Smoked-up walls, peeling paint, a lamp that hummed like it was ready to die. Katsuki’s pulse stayed too high. His palms itched. Instinct said get out. Takeshi sat. Katsuki followed stiffly.

Giran leaned back, cigarette smoke curling. “So. You wanna run with the big kids, huh?”

Katsuki let out a breath through his nose. “Work’s work.” His voice wavered, too low. He added, like muscle memory: “Long as the pay don’t fuckin’ suck.”

Silence. Giran studied him closer. Too close. Katsuki stared at the table. “You got somethin’ to hide under that hood?” Giran asked. Voice amused, but sharp under it.

“Yeah.” Katsuki forced a ghost of a smirk. It felt brittle. “Don’t we all?”

Takeshi cut in. “Kid’s solid. Got reason to stay low. You got anything that fits?”

Giran tapped ash into the tray. Sat forward. “Maybe,” he said. “Matter of fact, there’s a job needs doin’. League’s been movin’. Takin’ an interest in the Shie Hassaikai lately. Whole underworld’s shakin’ since AFO went underground. Lotta hands grabbin’ for the same pie.”

Katsuki’s gut twisted at League. But he kept his face blank.

“They need a… babysitter,” Giran continued. “Chisaki’s kid. Little girl. Quirk’s valuable. Dangerous. Boss wants her kept happy. Safe. You do that, they might keep you alive long enough to pay you.” He grinned. “Fuck it up, well—” he dragged on his smoke—“you won’t have to worry about payin’ rent again.”

Takeshi shot Katsuki a glance. Think hard about this.

Katsuki stared at the smoke curling toward the ceiling. His chest felt hollow again. Like the words weren’t coming from him but from something left behind. He swallowed. Then smirked—a ghost of the old sneer. Forced it up, brittle as glass. “Yeah. Sure. Babysitting. Sounds like a fuckin’ dream.” But inside, the voice burned cold. Closer. Closer to the League. He looked up. Eyes steady.

“I’ll do it.”

Giran grinned wider. “Thought you might.” He leaned back in his chair, the cigarette hanging from his lips like an afterthought. “Alright then,” he said, voice lazy but eyes razor sharp. “You got some balls for takin’ this one. Not a lotta people would. But, before we go further..." He flicked another cigarette out of the pack, didn’t light it—just twirled it between his fingers. “One thing I gotta know.”

He fixed Katsuki with a look sharp as glass. “You can keep your name. Hell, I don’t need it. Don’t care. But your quirk—I need to know what I’m puttin’ in that room. That’s standard.”

Katsuki’s throat worked. He felt Takeshi shift beside him and could almost feel the weight of his stare. Katsuki exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. The words felt brittle in his mouth. “I don’t have one.” His voice came out hoarse. For a second the air felt wired.

Giran watched him. Really watched. Not blinking. Measuring every damn flicker. Then—he leaned back. Let out a short breath through his nose. “...You ain’t lyin’.” He tapped the unlit cigarette against the table. “Fuckin’ weird. But I seen weirder.” He shrugged. “No quirk’s fine. Hell, sometimes it’s better. Less questions. Makes you look weaker—keeps ‘em off guard.” A thin smile. “Just don’t get your ass killed.”

Katsuki’s lip twitched. “Tch.” His voice rasped, edges dull. “Wouldn’t fuckin’ be here if that was the plan.” But the words came out wrong—off rhythm.

Giran reached into a battered folder on the table, flipped it open, and slid a thin stack of photos across to Takeshi and Katsuki.

Katsuki stared down at them. A little girl. Big eyes. Long pale hair. Couldn’t have been older than six.

“She’s called Eri,” Giran said. “Daughter—or somethin’ like it—to Chisaki Kai. You might know him as Overhaul.”

Katsuki felt his gut twist again. 

“League’s getting close with the Hassaikai. All For One’s gone—weak at least. The sharks are circlin’. League wants in on the new power structures. Problem is, Hassaikai don’t exactly play nice with outsiders.”

Giran smirked.

“That’s where you come in.”

He tapped the photo.

“Chisaki needs someone watchin’ the kid. Most of his own guys are too fuckin’ scary for it. Kid’s skittish. Quirk’s dangerous. League wants leverage, Hassaikai wants the girl stable. You? You don’t look like much. You ain’t one of theirs. You get in close. Keep her happy. Win her trust.” He crushed the cigarette out. “Do that, and you’ll be allowed to hang around. Maybe learn a thing or two. Maybe get close enough to what you’re really after.” He smiled coldly. “But—don’t kid yourself. Chisaki ain’t plannin’ to keep you. The second you’re no longer useful?” He drew a finger across his throat. “That’s it.”

Takeshi frowned. “Sounds like suicide.”

“Eh.” Giran shrugged. “That’s the job. I owe you, Kojima. That’s why I’m givin’ your boy first crack at it.”

Katsuki stared at the photos, jaw tense. Words built in his throat—old ones, sharp ones—but they tasted wrong. Sour. He forced a scoff. “Tch. Fuckin’ great. Get to play fuckin’ babysitter for a mob boss.” His mouth twisted. “Just what I dreamed of.” But his hands were already steadying. The path was opening. A chance to get close. To track them.

One step closer to my damn soul.

He looked up, voice flat but sure. “I’m in.”

Takeshi looked at him hard, but said nothing. The decision was made.

Giran grinned like a man who’d already bought the casket. “Good. I’ll set it up. You’ll meet with one of Chisaki’s men tomorrow. They’ll take you to the compound. You keep the kid smilin’, you keep breathin’. Simple as that.” He slid a burner phone across the table. “They’ll call you when they’re ready. And remember—keep your goddamn head down. You fuck this up? I can’t help you.”

Katsuki took the phone. His fingers curled tight around it. “Yeah.” His voice came low, quiet.

“I don’t plan on fuckin’ this up.”

The alley behind Giran’s office smelled like stale smoke and rust. Cold air cut through Katsuki’s hoodie as they stepped outside. Morning light barely touched the rooftops yet—everything was still gray. Quiet.

Takeshi shut the door behind them, jaw set tight. He didn’t speak at first. Just lit a cigarette with a sharp flick and stood there, smoke curling in the cold.

Katsuki shoved his hands into his pockets. The adrenaline from the meeting was already burning off, leaving him raw. Bones heavy. 

Finally—

“Kid,” Takeshi said, voice low.

Katsuki didn’t look at him.

“You don’t have to do this.”

That made him glance sideways.

Takeshi took a long drag. Exhaled through his nose. “I know why you’re going after ‘em. I get it. If somebody took a piece of me like that—” he shook his head. “But this job? It’s a suicide mission. You heard Giran. Chisaki’s not keepin’ you alive past useful. And the League—” he snorted. “They'll recognize you the moment they lay their eyes on you.”

Katsuki stared down at the cracked pavement. The words sat heavy on his shoulders, but the answer was already burned in his chest. “I know.”

Takeshi frowned. “Then why the hell—”

Katsuki’s mouth twisted. A sound came out—half laugh, half rasp. “‘Cause it's not like I have anything else, old man.” He met Takeshi’s gaze then, eyes too tired for someone his age. “I can’t fight them from the outside. Not like this.” He looked away again, voice dropping. “And if I don’t fight—then what the fuck am I even doing here?” The words scraped out slow, like glass through his throat.

Takeshi sighed. “You think you’re ready to walk into that snake pit? Look at you.” He gestured, frustrated. 

That got a bitter chuckle out of Katsuki. “Yeah? Well…” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Not like anyone’s expecting much from some quirkless stray.”

Takeshi ground out the cigarette under his boot. Took a step closer, voice rough. “You listen to me, kid. You get in there—you keep your head. You play it smart. You start slippin’, you pull out. You hear me?”

Katsuki looked up at him—really looked this time. For a moment, something flickered behind the exhaustion. “...Yeah.” He swallowed. “I hear ya.”

Didn’t say he’d listen. They both knew that.

But Takeshi saw the stubborn line in his jaw, the shadow in his eyes. And he knew—there wasn’t a damn thing he could say that’d change the kid’s mind. So instead, he clapped a hand on his shoulder. Grip steady.

“Then you come back alive, goddammit.”

Katsuki exhaled slow. “...I’ll try.”

And that was the best promise he could give.

Chapter Text

The trailer felt colder than usual when they got back.

Takeshi had only grunted on the drive home—didn’t say a word after they parked. He gave Katsuki a long look at the door, like he was biting back more warnings, more advice. But in the end, the man just clapped his shoulder again.

“Get some fuckin’ sleep,” he muttered. “You’ll need it.”

Katsuki nodded once. Then slumped down onto the lumpy couch.

Silence.

Too quiet.

He kicked off his shoes and laid back on the battered couch. Hoodie still on. Heart still hammering slower now, but sharp in his chest. Giran’s words kept looping through his head.

“Chisaki ain’t plannin’ to keep you.”

“No quirk’s fine–Makes you look weaker.”

The man had seen straight through him. No quirk. No bite. No damn backup. And yet—he’d walked out of there with a job.

Babysit Chisaki’s kid. “You get in close. Keep her happy. Win her trust”

It sounded simple, but it wasn’t. Katsuki knew damn well what this was: a leash. A test. A death sentence. But it was also the only shot he had. The only path forward. He leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Takeshi’s words still echoed.

Yeah. But if I don’t—

A breath shuddered out of him.

— then why the fuck am I still here?

It wasn’t a good answer. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. He could still feel that other half of him out there. Faint now—but burning in the distance like a second sun. Calling him.

“You find me. You fight to get me back.”

His throat tightened.

I will, he thought fiercely, the words raw. I fuckin’ will. Whatever it takes.

But even as the thought came, the exhaustion pressed in heavier. Muscles trembling. Bones aching. His body reminded him just how thin he was stretched.For a second—just a second—his chest caved in. Shoulders shaking. No sound, no tears. Just air he couldn’t pull in fast enough.

Then—he forced it down. Swallowed it like broken glass. Sat up. Rubbed his face hard. “Pull your shit together,” he rasped to himself. Voice flat. No bite. Just a reminder.

He sat up, pushed off the couch, and stripped out of the hoodie. Hit the shower—cold enough to burn. The sting brought him back. When he finally crawled into bed— if you can call it that —gray dawn was already bleeding through the window.

Sleep didn’t come easy. But when it did, it was shallow and restless. Dreams of red smoke. Of a voice. Of a cage made of bone.

And through it all—one thought, circling, sinking into his bones:

Don’t fuck this up.

The car hummed low beneath him, tires whispering against wet asphalt.

Katsuki sat stiff-backed in the rear seat, arms crossed beneath the too-large suit Giran had scrounged up. The fabric itched against his skin. He hated it. Too tight around the throat. Giran had allowed a face mask, but no other head coverings. Katsuki felt exposed. Vulnerable. 

Every mile they drove pulled him deeper into a world he had no map for. A place where mistakes didn’t just cost you—they ended you. He kept his gaze steady on the window. Watched the city smear past, gray and silent under the pre-dawn sky. Streetlights blinked like dying stars.

Beside him, Giran scrolled lazily through his phone, one leg propped up. Too casual. Like he’d done this a hundred times. Maybe he had. “You good, kid?” the man asked, voice rough with smoke.

Katsuki didn’t look away from the window. “Yeah.” Automatic. Dry. A lie he didn’t even bother selling.

“Uh huh.” Giran didn’t press. Just flicked ashes out the cracked window and kept scrolling.

The city gave way to narrower streets, older buildings. Taller fences. Katsuki’s gut tightened. His pulse ticked harder in his ears. Ahead, floodlights glared over a gated compound. Cameras twitched. Guards moved like shadows behind the chainlink. They were here. 

The car slowed. Giran leaned forward, said something low to the driver. Katsuki barely registered it. His body was moving on instinct—shift, brace, breathe.

“You listenin’, kid?” Giran’s voice cut through the fog.

Katsuki blinked once. “What?”

“Mind your fuckin’ manners,” Giran said, tone sharper now. “Guy you’re about to meet—you don’t wanna give him a reason. You piss him off, I won’t be able to pull you out. Clear?”

Katsuki’s throat worked. He swallowed against the dry scrape there.

“Clear.”

The gates yawned open. The car rolled through.

The building loomed—cold concrete, black glass. The air was thick here, stale and sterile, like the whole place had been scrubbed raw of life. Katsuki followed Giran through the halls, footsteps muffled against the too-clean floor. Cameras followed every move. Guards watched from the edges of his vision—no words, no wasted glances. A weight pressed against his ribs the deeper they went. Like the walls were closing in.

Finally, they stopped before a tall pair of black lacquered doors. A man with a white bird mask opened them without a word. And Katsuki stepped into the lion’s den.

Overhaul sat at a low table in the center of the room, back straight, masked face impassive. Eyes fixed on them the moment they entered. He didn’t move. Didn’t need to. There were two guards flanking him on both sides, each with matching bird masks.

Katsuki squared his shoulders, feet planted. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t glance away. But every part of him screamed— get out .

Giran sauntered forward, casual as ever. “This the recommendation,” he said, voice light.

“...Hmm.” Chisaki’s gaze flicked over Katsuki, slow and surgical. “You have a name?”

Katsuki’s voice came out flat. “No.”

One of the guards shifted. A click of metal.

Chisaki raised a hand. The room stilled again.

“What’s your quirk?” The question was smooth, almost idle.

Katsuki’s breath caught—just a fraction—but he forced the words out. “Don’t got one.”

A beat of silence. Then: “You’re not lying. Interesting.” Chisaki’s stare lingered. Not curiosity— calculation . Like a man examining a cracked tool to see if it still had some use left.

Katsuki met that stare, jaw locked. He couldn’t summon the usual bite, the bark. The words that came to him now were ash on his tongue.

Giran cleared his throat. “The job?”

Another long pause. Then Chisaki finally rose — slow, deliberate, every motion measured. “You will attend to my daughter,” he said. “You will entertain her. Gain her trust. Keep her happy.”

Each word fell like a nail driven home.

“And if you fail,” Chisaki added, voice dipping colder, “you will no longer be necessary.”

No threat. Just a fact.

Katsuki forced a breath through his nose. “Understood.”

Chisaki studied him for another beat, as if weighing the exact moment he might snap this stray piece apart. Then—a sharp gesture. “Take him to her.”

A guard approached. The door opened behind him. Katsuki followed. Each step felt too loud. His head buzzed with Takeshi’s voice— you sure about this, kid? You sure you’re ready to die here?

He wasn’t sure of shit. But this was the only lead he had. And besides, he was already dead anyway.

The door clicked shut behind him. The sound seemed to echo. Katsuki stood there, shoulders squared—but inside, his gut was twisting harder by the second.

The kid was small. Way smaller than he’d expected. Couldn’t be more than six, maybe seven. She was curled up tight on the futon, a thin blanket clutched to her chest. Bandages peeked out beneath her sleeves. More around her bare ankles. Wide red eyes stared at him—hollow. Terrified.

Something in Katsuki’s ribs clenched like a vice.

He’d seen injuries before. Burn marks, cuts, the sharp edge of healing bruises. He’d seen the aftermath of what bastards like the League could do. But this was a fucking child. And she was shaking so hard her teeth nearly chattered.

He took a slow breath. Forced his boots to unstick from the floor.

One step. Then another.

Careful. Measured.

“...Shit,” he muttered under his breath—not at her. At the whole sick mess.

Eri flinched.

Katsuki froze. Hands up.

“Hey, no. Not at you, kid,” he said quickly, voice low. Steady. “That wasn’t... I wasn’t talkin’ to you.”

Her trembling eased a fraction. Barely.

Katsuki dropped into a crouch a few feet away. Close enough to see her, but not enough to trap her. He’d seen cornered animals. He knew the look in her eyes—all instinct, all fear. He rubbed the back of his neck. The words stuck sideways in his throat. He wasn’t built for this shit. But he had to try. “I’m not here to hurt ya,” he said again, slow this time. Picking each word like it mattered. “I don’t work for those assholes. I ain’t one of them.”

Another beat.

She blinked once. Didn’t speak.

Good. No screaming yet. No bolting. That was a start.

“You can call me... doesn’t matter what,” Katsuki said. Voice hoarse, mouth dry. He shook his head. “Point is—I ain’t here to make ya do anything.”

The kid shifted. Her eyes flicked to the door, then back to him.

Katsuki caught that. Noted it. Yeah—she was used to watching exits. Used to looking for an out that wasn’t there. A sick heat crawled under his skin. Bastards. Absolute fucking bastards. But he pushed it down. Couldn’t blow this. Couldn’t scare her more.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. “You cold?” he asked, glancing at the threadbare blanket. “Or hungry? Somethin’ I can do?”

She didn’t answer.

But her grip on the blanket eased just a little.

Katsuki let the silence hang. Didn’t fill it. Let her set the pace. 

Here he was. No hero cape, no flashy quirk. Just... a kid who’d been gutted by the world, trying to talk to another one.

He sat back, cross-legged now. Palms open on his knees. A position that said not a threat. “Y’know,” he said after a long stretch, voice low and rough, “I’m pretty shit at this.” A dry smirk tugged at his mouth—not sharp, just tired. “Talkin’. People.”

A flicker—the faintest ghost of curiosity in her eyes.

“That’s alright,” he added. “We can sit here. Nothin’ wrong with quiet.”

More silence. But the room had shifted, almost imperceptibly. The air wasn’t as brittle. And that was when he noticed it—the faint shimmer. A curling, coiling aura around her. Like a quirk trembling on a hair trigger, too wild to be held down.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. Yeah. Whatever she had... it was unstable as hell. And someone— he knew damn well who —had been using her like a weapon.

Katsuki swallowed hard. “Kid,” he said softly, “whatever’s happening to you... I see it. It isn’t your fault. Not one fuckin’ bit.”

Her eyes widened just slightly.

“You got nothin’ to be ashamed of.” He leaned in just a little, voice dropping further. “And I swear to you—long as I’m here, nobody’s layin’ a hand on you.”

Another tremble—but not as sharp.

A single word slipped out, so faint he almost missed it.

“...Why?”

Katsuki’s chest tightened. He rubbed his jaw, thought for a beat. Why? Fuck if he really knew. He let out a slow breath. “‘Cause somebody fuckin’ should’ve told me that once,” he said. Quiet. Flat. Honest.

That did it.

Her eyes glistened. The tension in her tiny shoulders sagged just a little.

And Katsuki sat there, on the floor of a room that felt colder than any cell, steady as stone. This wasn’t about saving face. Or getting close to the League. Not anymore. This was about her. And in that moment, for the first time in days, he wasn’t thinkin’ about himself.

The minutes stretched thin. Katsuki stayed where he was—cross-legged on the cold floor, hands loose on his knees, gaze steady but soft. No sudden moves. No reaching out. He knew better.

Across from him, Eri hadn’t moved much either. But the tremors in her shoulders had dulled. Her eyes still darted toward the door now and then, but each time they returned to him a little faster. A little longer.

It was a start.

Katsuki leaned his elbows to his knees, chin tilted down just a little. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet—more like a rumble than anything sharp. “Y’know,” he said, “if you don’t wanna say nothin’, that’s fine. Not gonna push you.”

Another beat of silence.

Progress. Inch by inch.

Katsuki exhaled slowly, leaning back a fraction to ease the ache creeping into his legs.

Still, he stayed. Watching her without watching too hard. Giving her space without stepping out.

If there was one damn thing he could do right anymore—it was this.

–Overhaul–

The hum of old security monitors filled the stale air.

Kai Chisaki stood with arms folded behind his back, masked face tilted toward the largest screen.

The new hire sat still, patient. Unmoving for nearly an hour. Not a hint of nervous shifting. No pointless chatter. No tricks.

Chisaki’s gaze flicked to the girl. Eri—curled in on herself less than she had at the start. Not much. But enough for an eye like his to notice.

Interesting.

He leaned in slightly, studying the boy’s posture, the way he spoke—measured, quiet, but not coddling. No pleading or false kindness. No forced cheer.

Something about it grated.

And yet... it worked.

“...Tch,” Chisaki breathed, fingers curling behind his back. Who the hell are you, boy?

A quirkless boy—or so Giran claimed. With no file, no trail, no strings to pull. Someone trying too hard to stay off the grid. And yet there he was—handling her better than half the handlers who had come before.

Chisaki’s lip curled beneath the mask. No matter. The moment he outlived his usefulness, he’d be gone like the rest.

Chisaki stood, leaving the monitor room. His steps carried him deeper into the compound, past flickering lights and silent doors, his long coat brushing the floor behind him in neat, controlled sways. The halls smelled like antiseptic and cold metal. He breathed it in like air.

The boy had done what none of the trained handlers could. He hadn’t tried to fix her. Hadn’t tried to touch her, teach her, praise her. He’d simply... endured her presence. 

A faint tch scraped behind Chisaki’s teeth.

It wasn’t strength. It wasn’t talent. But it somehow worked.

He turned the final corner. The door to Eri’s room sat ahead—plain, windowless, too thick for sound to bleed through. Two guards stood stationed outside, bird masks impassive, heads bowing slightly as he approached. He didn’t acknowledge them. Just raised a gloved hand to the handle.

Kchhhk.

The lock disengaged. The door creaked open on weighted hinges.

Chisaki stepped inside, shadow spilling in before him.

Inside, the boy was still seated on the floor, shoulders squared but loose—as if he hadn’t noticed the hours slipping by. Eri, bleary-eyed now, had edged closer to him at some point. The blanket sat crumpled beside her.

Chisaki’s eyes swept the room once.

No overt changes. No contact. No signs of manipulation.

Still...

He stepped forward, the door closing behind him with a quiet thunk . The quiet that followed was heavy. Measured.

The boy’s head jerked up, sharp instinct flashing behind tired eyes.

“Enough,” he said.

His voice cut through the space.

The new hire rose slowly—not stiff, not brash. Careful. Watching. Chisaki’s gaze flicked between him and the girl. She was trembling again. Good. Fear kept her controllable. But this boy—that dead glint behind his eyes didn’t match his age. A dangerous thing to let linger.

Chisaki gestured for the boy to come closer.

The kid moved.

Chisaki’s voice, when it came, was smooth and precise—like a scalpel sliding beneath skin. “You’ll be staying here.”

The guards blocked the doorway.

The boy straightened, posture tense.

Chisaki’s eyes narrowed behind the mask, voice a low, lethal hum. “You are mine, now. And you do not leave unless I say.”

The boy said nothing. His fists remained loose at his sides. He was learning. Good.

Chisaki took a slow step forward, closing the distance by a hair. “Eri escaped yesterday,” he said, soft as silk, sharp as broken glass. “Ran straight into the arms of heroes. They know we have her. They are already sniffing, and it’s only a matter of time before someone tries to pry her loose again” He leaned a fraction closer, so only the kid could hear. “I want her here. In one place. Unmoved. Unspoiled.” A pause. “You will keep her that way.”

The implied threat hung between them like a blade.

Chisaki’s eyes gleamed. A faint, mirthless curve tugged at the corner of his mouth beneath the mask. “And if you don’t, then you will stay in one place. Permanently.”

-----------

–Katsuki–

A sick, slow dread curled in Katsuki’s gut—but outwardly, he gave nothing. No flicker of fear.

The words hung heavy in the air.

Katsuki didn’t move—but his pulse kicked once, sharp and fast.

“Entertain her. Keep her calm.” A pause. “And you will not leave.” A faint, amused tilt of the masked head followed. “You made her... more compliant today than she’s been in weeks.” The smile that wasn’t a smile. “Useful. For now.”

Another step forward. “If she leaves this room, if she is harmed, if she uses her quirk in any way— you will answer for it.”

Katsuki’s throat was dry. But he forced his voice out—flat. Controlled. “Fine.” He gave a faint shrug, the barest twitch of defiance still lingering in his spine. “Wasn’t plannin’ on goin’ anywhere.”

A low hum from Chisaki, deep and amused. “No,” he said quietly. “You weren’t.” Without another word, Chisaki turned and walked out. The guards followed, the door swinging closed behind them with a final, locking click .

And just like that—Katsuki was left standing in the cold room. No exit. No allies. Just him. And the terrified girl watching him with wide, wary eyes. A long breath hissed out between his teeth. His heart pounded in his ears. 

Babysitter. Guard dog. Prisoner.

And worse— he wasn’t sure which of those the kid would see him as now.

He let out a rough sigh and crouched down again, palms open on his knees.

“Guess it’s just you and me for a while, kid,” he muttered—voice softer this time. Less armor. More human.

She didn’t speak. But her eyes lingered on him.

Not trust yet. But something.

He met her gaze and managed a tired, crooked smirk. “You can call me Kacchan,” he said. Voice hoarse. “Don’t care if you think it’s stupid. S’what people used to call me.” His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. “You can too. If you wanna.”

She didn’t answer, but her fingers loosened on the blanket again.

Another long beat.

Then—barely a whisper:

“...Kacchan.”

Katsuki’s chest ached. Yeah, he thought grimly. I’m in deep now. All the fuckin’ way.

–Takeshi–

The kid didn’t come home.

The clock on the wall ticked louder than it should’ve. Click. Click. Click. Past midnight now. Second hand dragging like a blade across his nerves.

Takeshi sat in the dark trailer, hunched forward in the battered armchair. One hand wrapped tight around a cheap metal lighter—flipping it open, snapping it shut. Open. Snap. Over and over. His cigarette had long since burned down to ash.

Didn’t even remember lighting the damn thing.

“Stupid,” he muttered to no one. The word rasped out of his throat like old sandpaper.

He’d known it the second the kid climbed into Giran’s car that morning.

“I’m going old man.”

And now—here it was.

No call. No word. No heavy footsteps on the porch. Just the empty whine of the wind outside.

Takeshi slammed the lighter shut and rubbed both hands hard over his face. His gut had been screaming from the start— bad idea, bad fuckin’ idea . You don’t waltz into the heart of a damn Yakuza compound with no quirk and no allies and think you’re walkin’ out clean.

The kid knew that. Hell, Takeshi had told him straight. “You got nothin’ to prove to ‘em. You got nothin’ left to give.”

And still… Still,  Katsuki had looked him dead in the eye.

“If I don’t fight—then what the fuck am I even doing here?”

Takeshi had seen that look before. Long ago. In a mirror he didn’t like to remember. So he’d shut his damn mouth. Let the kid go.

Now the chair creaked beneath him as he leaned forward, elbows on knees. Jaw set. Lighter clicking again. Open. Snap.

He’s smart, Takeshi told himself. Too damn stubborn to go down easy. Maybe it’s not what it looks like. Maybe he’s just stuck overnight—

But the lie tasted like rust on his tongue.

“Suicide mission,” he breathed. The words sat heavy in the room.

And the worst part—the part that dug sharpest into his ribs—was that Takeshi understood. When you had nothin’ left… Sometimes you walked into the lion’s den, for nothing more than a flicker of a chance.

Takeshi sat back hard in the chair. Fists clenched, trembling.

Dammit, brat. You better fight. You better crawl outta there if you gotta. ‘Cause if you don’t—

The words caught. He let out a harsh breath and dragged a hand through his graying hair.

Another hour passed.

Still no word.

And in that silence, for the first time in too long—Takeshi found himself praying.

Chapter Text

He didn’t mark the days anymore. There wasn’t a point to it.

The kid was gone.

The shop had fallen to silence—not the comfortable quiet of a man used to his own company, but the kind that pressed in behind the ribs. Every little sound rang too sharp. Every dark corner felt too damn empty.

Takeshi sat at the table most nights, a chipped mug of coffee gone cold between his hands, staring at nothing. His hands itched for the carton sitting in the refrigerator. No. He wouldn't drink. The TV stayed off. The radio gathered dust. Even the tools on his bench hadn’t moved in days.

He couldn’t make himself care.

The first night had been the worst. He’d sat up by the door like a damn fool, waiting for the sound of boots on the step. Told himself the kid would be back by afternoon.

When afternoon came, he told himself by evening.

Then tomorrow.

Then— soon.

But it never came.

And now each time the door stayed shut, it carved another line through his chest.

He didn’t even know what had happened. Couldn’t know. That was the thing eating him alive.

If they’d killed the boy—he’d never know.

If they were keeping him— hurting him —he’d never know.

And if by some miracle Katsuki was still alive in there, scared or hurt or caged—

Takeshi’s fingers curled tight around the mug.

He should’ve stopped him. Grabbed him by the damn collar and made him stay. Should’ve told him the fight wasn’t worth his life. Should’ve—

But the words wouldn’t come then. And they sure as hell didn’t help now.

Most nights, he found himself drifting toward the battered couch in the shop’s break room—the one where the boy had slept those first rough nights. Sometimes he sat there for hours, staring at the threadbare cushion like it might give up some trace of him. A voice.

But it was just a couch. And Takeshi was just a man too late to save another kid.

“You stupid little bastard,” he rasped one night, voice rough as gravel. “Why’d you have to go get yourself killed?”

No answer, of course.

Just the same empty room.

The same old ache in his chest.

He leaned back with a groan, rubbing his face. There were moments—god help him—where he caught himself listening for the damn door again. Like some part of him hadn’t got the message. Like maybe this time—

But no.

No footsteps. No voice.

Just the wind rattling the trailer walls. Just the grief eating a little deeper each day.

And still, Takeshi couldn’t stop waiting.

Even if hope felt like a lie now, even if it broke him to keep holding on.

He couldn’t stop.

Not for that kid.

Not for Katsuki.

He didn’t know how long he’d been here.

The days bled together, quiet and sterile, like the humming white walls of this underground purgatory had stripped time of all meaning. No clocks. No sunrises. Just a flicker of artificial lights and the same recycled air that clung to the back of his throat.

Long enough for the bruises to fade. Long enough to stop flinching at the buzz of boots in the hall.

Long enough for her to stop hiding in the corner.

He had been given clothes. Much better than the suffocating suit he had arrived in. But now, he was dressed in white. An oversized white tshirt, and white shorts. They hadn't taken his mask, but the rest of his stuff had been confiscated, even his shoes. They must've thought he'd run.

Katsuki sat cross-legged on the cold tile floor, back pressed to the wall. Across from him, Eri curled into a blanket with a tear in the corner— holding onto it like a lifeline.

He hadn’t touched her. Not even to ruffle her hair. At first, she’d flinched if he so much as breathed wrong. So he learned to hold still. To wait. He talked more than he liked—low murmurs in the dark, stories she didn’t ask for.

He didn’t care.

Because that haunted look in her eyes was too familiar.

He’d seen it in his own reflection. After Kamino. After they’d taken him. After he stopped being a hero and became something... else.

So no—he didn’t blame her for shrinking when the door opened. Or for staring at him like she was waiting for him to vanish. People disappeared around here. He’d watched a man become blood splatter on the concrete.

So instead, he talked.

– – – – –

That night, Eri looked more worn than usual. She sat curled on the edge of the mattress, a little bundle of bones beneath too-big sleeves, her bandaged arms wrapped around her knees. The shadows beneath her eyes were smudged deep into pale skin — the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from lack of sleep, but from carrying too much fear.

But she didn’t flinch when Katsuki sat beside her.

She didn’t move away, didn’t pull her legs in tighter. If anything, her shoulder brushed his sleeve. Just barely. A whisper of contact. But it was something.

So they sat there, quiet. Breathing in the same stale air. A silence that had once been tense and heavy now settled soft between them, worn into something almost companionable.

Almost.

Katsuki tilted his head back, eyes scanning the ceiling like he could punch through it and see the sky.

“Y’know,” he murmured, voice rough with the day’s weight, “you can’t see the stars in this shithole.”

Eri blinked slowly, her head tipping toward him.

He went on, his voice distant. “My old man used to say the stars could help you find your way if you got lost. Said if you looked close enough, they made pictures. Shapes in the sky. They got names — constellations.”

Eri was silent for a long moment. Then, in the smallest voice: “What’s it like?”

Her eyes flicked toward the bolted door. Not like she expected it to open — more like she was looking at the edge of a dream. “Outside, I mean. I don’t remember.”

Katsuki’s throat locked up.

She was six. Maybe seven. And she didn’t know the damn sky.

His hands curled against his knees. He exhaled slow.

“It’s loud,” he said, finally. “Bright. Crowded. People are annoying.”

She blinked, unsure.

He let out a quiet snort. “But it’s good,” he said. “It’s messy and loud and stupid sometimes. But you’d like it.”

Eri tilted her head, curiosity flickering past the ever-present fear.

“The sun,” Katsuki said, his voice softening as the memory unfurled, “is this huge ball of fire. Way up there. It gets in your eyes and makes you squint, and it makes your skin itch if you’re out too long.” He paused. “But it warms your face. On cold mornings, it feels like... like someone’s hand on your cheek.”

She shifted slowly, her blanket scrunching tighter in her grip. “It’s warm?” she asked, like she didn’t quite believe it.

“Yeah,” he said. “Real warm.”

A beat passed. She didn’t speak, but her eyes stayed fixed on him now, drinking in every word.

“There’s wind, too,” he added, his eyes distant. “Sometimes strong enough to knock your hood off. Smells different depending on where you are. Grass. Rain. Smoke from street vendors.”

“Rain…” she echoed, a whisper like a memory she’d never had.

“Yeah.” He gave a small, crooked smile. “You’d probably hate it at first. Cold, wet, gets in your socks. But then you’d start jumping in puddles just to piss someone off.”

A sound escaped her — small and tight. Not quite a laugh, but almost.

Katsuki turned his head to look at her — really look. She was staring at him like the world he described was impossible, and she was scared to hope for it anyway.

So he kept talking.

“There’s ice cream. You’d love that crap. It melts too fast and makes your hands sticky, but it’s stupid good. You’d get it all over your face.”

That earned him something close to a smile. Fleeting. Fragile. But it lit her face for half a second.

He leaned back again, let his head rest against the wall. “There’s parks. Swings. Slides. Grass so soft you can lie on it and stare up at clouds.”

Eri’s voice came small. “Clouds?”

“They move across the sky. Big and slow. Look like weird animals sometimes.” He paused, then added, “You’d see it all one day. I promise.”

Her tiny hand crept toward him — not quite touching, but close. As if she needed the space between them to feel safe, but didn’t want too much of it either.

Katsuki stayed still.

“There’s a beach,” he said, quieter now. “Not far from where I grew up. The sand burns your feet in the summer, and the ocean looks like it goes on forever. You can scream out there and no one hears you.”

He closed his eyes.

“It’s freedom,” he whispered. “That’s what it feels like.”

Eri was quiet for a long time.

Then, in a voice barely audible, she said, “I wanna go there.”

He turned to her again, heart twisting.

“You will,” he said. “I swear to you. One day, I’ll take you there myself.”

And this time, when her hand brushed his sleeve, she didn’t pull away.

She looked down. Her voice, when it came, was a scrape of breath:  “My quirk… it breaks people.”

He stilled.

She wasn’t looking at him. Her fingers twisted the edge of her sleeve. She was quiet a long time before she added, almost too soft to hear: “He said it’s a curse.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened.

He knew who he was. Chisaki didn’t say it outright, but he saw the way she flinched when the man entered the room. The way she froze, like she was trying to make herself disappear.

A curse.

That bastard had taken her power—something hers —and twisted it into a weapon.

“You ain’t cursed,” he said finally.

Her lip trembled. “Are you gonna break? Everyone breaks. That’s what he said.”

Katsuki shifted forward, one knee brushing the floor between them. Careful. Slow. “Not planning on it,” he said. There was a long pause

“You know why I’m still here?”

She didn’t answer.

“Because I don’t break easy,” he said, voice like gravel and steel. “And because you’re worth it.”

Her eyes widened.

“I don’t care what he told you. That thing in you—it’s not evil. It’s power. You just haven’t had someone teach you how to use it yet.”

She stared at him, lower lip trembling, and whispered, “Please don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

Katsuki leaned back against the wall, eyes closing.

Silence fell between them again. But it was softer, now.

“I won’t. I promise.”

Time had begun to smear.

The walls were pressing in. Katsuki could feel it in his teeth, in the back of his skull—like static building before a storm.

Katsuki didn’t know how long he’d been in the compound anymore. A week? Two? Maybe longer. Days bled into nights without shape or meaning—each one marked only by the flicker of overhead lights and the dull ache in his bones.

Chisaki had been playing a long, slow game—loosening the leash one link at a time. It should’ve been a relief. It wasn’t.

Chisaki had even given him the combination to the panel—A gift. A warning. An unspoken dare.

Knew the bastard was getting cocky.

Last week, Chisaki himself had punched in the code to the door and told him flatly: "If you’re going to be of use to her, boy, you need to be able to leave. Don’t make me regret it."

Freedom. Or the illusion of it.

A glance. A smile in his voice.  “But if you try to run, you won’t make it two halls.”

Katsuki hadn’t answered. He’d just stared.

And then the leash had loosened further. He was allowed to leave the room now—move through small stretches of the wing where guards watched but didn’t stop him. Katsuki hadn’t asked why. He already knew. The man didn’t see him as a threat. No quirk. No power. Just a breathing tool to keep the girl calm.

His mistake.

Every step Katsuki took beyond that door, he’d counted cameras. Measured patrols. Memorized exits. Because sooner or later—this false leash would tighten again. He burned every detail into his skull.

He needed to get out. But with each passing day, doubt gnawed deeper. Would he be fast enough? Would he even get the kid out alive? And worse—what if there was no way out at all?

Soon, something shifted. He could feel it. Tension ran through the walls like current.

Something’s coming.

If he waited too long, the net would close. And this brief crack of freedom would be gone. 

The tension creeping under the skin of the place became thicker every day. More guards outside. Less chatter. Weapons drawn. 

And Chisaki—always composed, always untouchable—had grown colder. The amusement had faded from his voice. The mask more present. As if he knew something was coming.

Katsuki caught the signs. The sharp glances. The tight corners of mouths. The whole damn place was bracing for a storm. The guards moved differently now—clipped, restless. Voices echoed louder, sharp with nerves. The compound’s air, already heavy, had curdled under the weight of some unspoken fear.

They’re watching for it, Katsuki thought grimly, crouched low in the corner of his darkened room. Expecting a hit to come from the outside.

But while the enemy had their eyes turned outward, they’d left one crack wide open.

This was his chance.

And he was running out of time.

Katsuki mapped the halls again that night. Over and over in his head. The path to her room burned behind his eyes. The guard rotations. Which cameras flickered too often.

One shot. One clean shot. That was all he’d get.

And finally—he’d found it.

An opening. Small, but real. Late shifts swapped just after 2 AM — a blind spot in the security feed for barely forty seconds near the north wing. Enough time to slip a lock. Enough time to move.

Enough to take her and run.

He’d been weighing it for days. Fighting the gnawing doubt that whispered of failure, of what Chisaki would do to Eri if he fucked this up.

But tonight—

His gut screamed now .

Whatever was coming — the loaded stares, the shifting guards — it was closing in fast. If he waited, there might not be another chance.

And something deep down told him he couldn’t wait.

He sat hunched, heart a slow hammer against his ribs. Eri was curled up beside him.

One shot. One shot. Don’t blow it.

His mind moved through the steps. Breathe. Move quiet. Fast.

And if anyone stood in his way—

He flexed his fingers. No quirk. No edge. Just grit and speed. But that would have to be enough.

He wasn’t going to let that bastard hurt her any more.

Not on his watch.

The hours dragged like lead through his veins.

Katsuki sat hunched on the thin mattress, jaw locked, head down. Every so often his fingers twitched—muscle memory demanding an outlet—but he forced himself still.

1:56 AM.

Not long now.

Heavy boots sounded just outside the door before fading.

Now.

Katsuki moved.

He shook Eri awake. She looked up at him with bleary eyes. She didn’t flinch when she saw him.

Katsuki swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “We’re leaving,” he whispered, voice low but firm. “Now. You good to walk?”

She blinked—disbelief flashing across her small face—then nodded.

When she reached for him, her tiny hand wrapped around his wrist. Katsuki felt it like a punch to the gut. Hold on, kid. I got you.

The compound’s corridors were darker than usual, shadows pooling in the corners where the lights flickered.

Perfect.

Katsuki kept low, steps light, breath measured. No sudden bursts of movement. He was slipping through the cracks while their attention was elsewhere.

Down one hall. Past the first camera. A sharp left. The map burned behind his eyes, each turn branded in his memory. His pulse thudded steady—nerves coiled, but focused.

Every footstep brought him closer.

They moved together through the silent halls.

Eri’s small form pressed close against his side. Katsuki kept one hand around her shoulders, the other loose and ready.

Every sense burned sharp.

The compound was a pressure cooker now, guards stretched thin along the outer walls. Nobody was watching the inside—not well enough.

The halls seemed to hold their breath as he moved, each step landing like a hammer behind his ribs.

But he knew this path. Every turn. Every damn inch.

And they were almost through.

A single footstep. Soft — deliberate .

Katsuki froze.

Ahead, where two corridors met, a figure stood waiting.

Chisaki.

Impeccable as ever — gloves pristine, coat unruffled, that calm, coiled presence radiating from him like frost.

He might as well have been carved from stone.

Eri’s fingers dug into Katsuki’s sleeve, trembling.

Katsuki shifted, subtly angling himself between her and the man ahead.

No words yet. Just calculation. Options burning through his head—none good.

Chisaki tilted his head slightly, as though observing a mildly interesting insect. “I was wondering,” he said softly, voice carrying down the hall, “when you’d try something foolish.”

The words weren’t a threat. They were a certainty.

Katsuki’s jaw locked. Breath hissed between his teeth—cold. He wasn’t fast enough.

But no way in hell was he backing down.

His grip tightened around Eri.

No one was taking her back.

Not without one hell of a fight.

Chapter Text

A blast rocked the corridor, dust raining from above.

Katsuki held Eri close to his chest, her trembling body shielded by his frame as he crouched behind a toppled slab of concrete. His heart thundered against his ribs, a brutal rhythm in his ears. He couldn’t hear much else. Not over the shrieking alarms in his skull.

Blood trickled down his temple, stinging his eye. A sharp cut above his brow—shallow but relentless. His right arm shook, muscle knotted tight, and somewhere in the chaos of their escape, something had torn deep through the flesh of his side. Warm liquid oozed beneath the ruined hem of his shirt.

Katsuki’s breath was ragged, but his eyes burned bright with determination. His mind worked in overdrive, cataloguing the space. Narrow hall. Rubble-strewn. Too many angles. No clear cover. No exit.

Fucking hell.

He looked down at Eri’s terrified eyes. “You need to run,” he whispered hoarsely. “No matter what. I’ll distract him.”

She whimpered, tears streaking her dirt-smudged face. “But he’ll break you! You said—you promised.”

Katsuki rose, one arm steadying her behind a chunk of wall, the other clenched tight by his side. Blood smeared across his knuckles—someone’s. Probably his. “I’ll be okay, kid. Can’t fight the bastard if I’m worrying about you getting caught up in the middle.”

Eri stepped back. She didn’t run.

The floor beneath Katsuki shuddered—a jagged spike of stone erupting toward him.

Shit. One touch. Just one and you’re dead.

Chisaki moved like a ghost—untouched, calm. His eyes burned gold through the mask. “Give her back,” he said.

Katsuki’s breath hissed out through gritted teeth. He barely dove aside in time, rolling hard and slamming into the opposite wall. His shoulder screamed in protest. Something tore. Pain blossomed sharp and fast, and blood soaked into the side of his shirt. His breath left him in a painful wheeze. No quirk. No blasts. Just a body running on instinct.

I have to draw him away from her.

He could taste blood in his mouth; it was no doubt staining his surgical mask. His ribs ached. Maybe fractured. His fingers twitched erratically, stiff from adrenaline and the cold bite of blood loss.

Overhaul was already advancing, hands brushing against the wall—and suddenly an entire section of it twisted, warped, lunging toward him like a living beast.

Katsuki ran. No thinking—just pure motion.

Debris sliced the air behind him as he ducked and slid beneath collapsing girders, bare feet scraping over broken tile. Each step was fire. His muscles screamed. His wounded side flared with every breath.

But his mind was clear.

He controls the space. Anything he touches—he reshapes. Stay moving. Stay unpredictable.

Another jagged wave of floor splintered upward—Katsuki vaulted it with a desperate leap, almost falling short. His shin slammed into stone. Pain flared white-hot. He stumbled, bit back a cry, and kept moving.

“You can’t win,” Overhaul called, voice echoing. “You’re going to die.”

Katsuki’s gaze flicked toward a side corridor—a thin opening half-buried in rubble. Could use that. Narrow space limits his angles.

But it wasn’t enough. Running would only delay the inevitable. He had to keep him away from Eri. He needed to end this—but he couldn’t beat Overhaul in a straight fight. The guy could reshape the whole damn world with a touch. The ground, the walls, his body, even himself. He could heal. Break. Rebuild.

Even if Katsuki had his quirk, he couldn’t out-blast that.

Or maybe I don’t have to.

Katsuki’s breath caught. A wild, desperate thought burned through his head.

If I can fix a quirk... if I can fix one...

Could I do the opposite?

His skin crawled at the idea. The memory of touching that villain’s quirk—that visceral wrongness beneath the skin, calmed with a touch.

But what if he focused on that feeling? That feeling of wrongness. What if he could destabilize the quirk? Would it be enough to stop this monster?

Fucking suicidal. But it was the only card he had.

He ducked into the narrow side hall, forcing Overhaul to follow—and slowing his manipulation of the environment. A gamble. Katsuki braced himself, heart hammering. Sweat stung his eyes. Blood dripped from his fingertips.

Get close. You have to get close.

Another spike shot toward him—he dove forward, shoulder rolling with bone-jarring force.

Pain exploded through his body. Something snapped. His vision blurred at the edges.

Overhaul appeared at the mouth of the hall, frowning. “Persistent. But this ends now.” His arm swept sideways—the corridor wall morphed into a wave of spikes.

Katsuki vaulted through the narrow gap left before the stone locked into place, shoulders brushing the jagged edge. One spike nicked him, deep and fast—his upper arm split open, red staining the concrete beneath him.

Too close.

But closer was exactly where he needed to be.

Chisaki turned, annoyed now. His hand lashed out—the floor surged upward beneath Katsuki’s feet, ready to snap shut around him like a coffin.

Katsuki dove forward—a single desperate leap—and closed the gap.

A lurch—Overhaul stepped forward—hand outstretched. “Stupid boy,” Overhaul sneered.

Katsuki slammed his forearm against the man’s wrist, twisting hard to redirect the touch—and in that fleeting moment of skin-to-skin contact—he reached deeper.

It wasn’t physical.

It was a tearing sensation—a rush of something wrong, like his soul was stretching, warping, fraying. He felt the shape of Overhaul’s quirk—twisting, spiked, pulsing with dark intent.

And he pulled.

For an instant, the world narrowed, vision spinning. His stomach churned violently. Blood poured from his nose. The weight of Overhaul’s quirk screamed through his mind—alive, writhing, infinite. 

And Katsuki yanked it apart.

A surge of sickness punched through his gut. His heart hammered sideways in his chest. He tasted copper. He didn’t stop—not until the last thread unraveled.

Overhaul staggered back, eyes wide with shock. His hands clenched reflexively—but the stone beneath his feet didn’t move.

“What… what did you do to me?” he hissed, voice ragged. His pupils shrank, cold sweat breaking over his brow. “What—”

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?!”

Katsuki dropped to one knee, chest heaving, vision swimming in red and black. His entire body felt wrong—like his insides had twisted sideways. His arms were shaking. His skin burned cold. Blood dripped down his face and down his arms, soaking the floor. But he forced a grin through the agony. “Guess you’re not so untouchable after all, asshole.”

Overhaul stumbled back, trembling hands useless at his sides.

But Katsuki knew—he couldn’t push any further.

His breath came in shallow gasps. His limbs felt leaden. His pulse was uneven, distant. The backlash of what he’d done gnawed at him, eating away at something vital. His vision shimmered like heat waves. He was breaking apart inside.

Still—he forced himself upright. One last push.

“Eri,” he rasped. “Now.”

She clung to him, eyes wide with terror—but trust shining through.

They ran.

The last image Katsuki saw as they rounded the corner was Overhaul slumped against the wall—hands twitching, eyes burning with confused horror.

The facility was unraveling around them, and Katsuki ran with Eri tucked against his chest like she was the last thing anchoring him to the world.

He didn’t know how he was still standing.

Blood trickled from his temple, warm down his jaw. His side was busted—torn muscle, cracked ribs, a deep gouge that hadn’t stopped bleeding. Every step was a scream. His body was failing. But he didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

A corner. A staircase.

“Hold on,” he rasped, hoarse and shaking.

Eri nodded, burying her face into his shoulder. She didn’t cry. She just clung tighter, her tiny fists grasping his shirt like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go.

They burst into a maintenance corridor—low ceiling, pipes overhead, reeking of rust and mildew. Katsuki staggered forward, chest heaving. No cameras. No alarms.

And at the far end—an old steel door, bolted and half-welded shut. Light leaked in at the seams.

Outside. There was an outside.

Katsuki’s knees nearly gave.

He grit his teeth and pressed forward, half-dragging himself, half-carrying Eri. His hand fumbled at the latch—slick with blood, slipping. He cursed, slammed his shoulder into it once—twice—then shoved with everything left in him.

The door screamed open.

Night greeted them like an insult. Cold wind. Rain. The scent of wet concrete and garbage. A crumbling alleyway outside the back of the compound, surrounded by high fences and dumpsters. The city beyond was dark and distant—just shapes through the downpour. The compound loomed behind them, still sealed in its hellish maze.

Katsuki didn’t breathe until the door swung shut again behind them.

They were out.

He collapsed against the alley wall, sliding down with Eri in his lap. His vision swam. His hands were shaking so badly, he could hardly hold her properly, but she didn’t let go. She wrapped her arms around his neck and trembled, forehead pressed to his blood-slick collarbone.

“Y-you did it,” she whispered, voice small, disbelieving.

Katsuki stared into the rain, eyes half-lidded, blinking against the burn of exhaustion.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

And for a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of thunder, and the wet slap of rain on broken pavement.

Still holding her close, he forced himself upright again. His legs barely worked. His blood painted the walls in streaks.

But he started walking into the night.

Rain came down in sheets, cold and sharp, soaking through their clothes and clinging to their skin. Thunder cracked overhead.

Katsuki staggered through it, one arm locked around Eri’s shoulders, the other wrapped tight across his ribs. Each step sent a fresh wave of agony through his body. His breath rattled. The torn skin at his side pulsed with fire, and his shirt was soaked through with blood and rain and filth.

Eri was silent.

They had no shoes. Their feet were slick with mud and broken glass, blood smearing the pavement behind them in fading tracks. She limped. So did he.

Still, they moved.

They made it to the city—barely.

Katsuki could barely see straight, but his instincts dragged him toward the faint pulse of neon and life, somewhere beyond the haze. A late-night ramen stand. Headlights. A couple of drunks arguing under an awning. Civilization. Safety. Maybe.

He turned the corner and spotted it—a police station. Stark. Bright. Clean. Safety in theory.

He looked down at Eri.

Her entire body had gone stiff. Her eyes—so full of terror—locked on the building like it was worse than the League.

“Kid,” Katsuki rasped, “we’re done. We made it. They’ll get you somewhere safe. Food. A blanket. Real help.”

She shook her head.

“We have to, okay?” He tried to keep his voice steady. “You’ll be protected. I’ll tell them everything, and they’ll—”

“No!” she cried, louder than he’d heard her speak in hours. “You promised!”

Katsuki blinked, blinking rain out of his lashes. “What?”

“You promised you wouldn’t leave me.” Her voice trembled. “If you give me to them… they’ll take me away. I’ll never see you again.”

He stared at her, chest heaving.

“I don’t care if I’m cursed,” she whispered. “Not if you’re here.”

The rain pounded harder. Somewhere nearby, a siren wailed into the darkness and vanished.

Katsuki closed his eyes. Every cell in his body screamed for rest. His muscles twitched on their own. His pulse was barely a rhythm anymore.

But still—he nodded.

“Okay,” he said.

And they walked.

Side by side, bleeding and barefoot, Katsuki and Eri made their way down the darkened streets—past shuttered shops and locked apartments, empty sidewalks and flickering streetlamps. The world had moved on while they suffered. The world didn’t notice.

Eri leaned against him, limping worse now. Her feet were raw, small cuts painting the soles red. Katsuki carried her when he could, arms trembling under her weight, shoulders nearly giving out each time. He almost fell more than once.

He never let her go.

They crossed into the run-down edges of the hellhole Takeshi called home. The abandoned district—concrete husks and half-toppled streetlamps looming like broken teeth. Faded graffiti. Empty windows. Few came here, even fewer lived here.

He spotted the familiar narrow road. Bent chain-link fencing. The rust-streaked roof of the old auto shop just beyond it, sagging under the weight of the years. And there, beside it—his goal. That battered, dented trailer home. Quiet. Still. A single porch light wired to a motion sensor, dulled by grime and years of weather. No one else for blocks.

He stopped in the road, just before the gravel turned to puddled dirt.

His legs shook. His lungs scraped.

Eri looked up at him with those red eyes, trusting.

God. He shouldn’t be here. Not with her.

Takeshi didn’t ask for this. Katsuki didn’t even know what the hell he was anymore. Dead? A fugitive? And now he had a kid clinging to him like he was the answer to something.

She should be with someone safer. Cleaner. More stable.

Not dragging through mud and glass behind some blood-slicked burnout who couldn’t even use his damn quirk anymore.

But she had begged him not to leave. And he hadn’t.

He remembered her voice: You promised.

Katsuki gritted his teeth. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he’d regret it in the morning. Maybe it’d all fall apart the second Takeshi saw them on his doorstep.

But for now, Eri was still holding his hand.

So he took one step forward.

And the porch light flicked on.

Chapter Text

The rain had been coming down for hours.

It drummed on the metal roof—slow, heavy, relentless. The kind of storm that crawled into your joints and sat in your chest until breathing hurt.

Takeshi barely noticed anymore.

He sat hunched at the kitchen table, mug long gone cold in his hands. Didn’t drink it. Didn’t dump it. Just held it like something solid might keep him from unraveling.

The TV was off, so was the radio. The trailer walls groaned softly with wind.

No voices. No news. No closure.

Just the rain. And the ache.

He wasn’t waiting. Not anymore.

That hope had rotted out of him slowly—like rust in the seams. No more checking the door. No more hallucinating the sound of footsteps outside.  And still—when the old motion light buzzed to life outside with a click like a trigger pull—something deep inside him flinched.

He turned his head—and then he saw it.

A figure. Half-shrouded in rain and shadow. Still. Waiting.

For a split second, the world stood still.

It was the boy.

Not a hallucination. Not a dream born out of sleepless guilt.

Katsuki.

Soaked through. Standing just past the edge of the porch light like he didn’t know if he was allowed to cross it. Head bowed. Shoulders sagging. Barefoot. Blood-slick. Rain pouring down his face. 

Takeshi stood too fast.

The chair scraped back, the mug hit the floor, but he didn’t even register the crash.

He staggered toward the door, slammed it open like he could scare the image away—

But the boy was still there.

Alive.

Not quite standing. Not quite falling. Just existing by the thinnest thread.

Takeshi’s throat closed.

His knees almost did too.

He staggered down the steps, boots forgotten, breath torn open in his chest.

“Kid—” The word cracked in his mouth like a rib.

And then he was there, arms around the boy before Katsuki could collapse. He clutched him hard—filthy shirt and bony shoulders and skin too cold to be real. Held on like he was the last thing anchoring him to this goddamn world.

Katsuki didn’t move. He didn’t hug back. Didn’t speak. The kid just sagged against him like his body had finally given up pretending it could carry all that weight.

Takeshi made a sound. Something between a curse and a sob and a plea to whatever god hadn’t listened the first time. “Jesus, kid. You’re—” His voice shredded itself. “You’re here. You’re real.” 

And then the grief he’d never let himself feel slammed into him all at once.

The sob hit like a sucker punch.

He doubled forward with it, hands still locked in wet fabric. His forehead pressed to Katsuki’s crown. His ribs shook. He cried—noisy and old and broken in a way that had nothing left to prove.

Because the boy was here.

Because he’d thought he was dead.

Because something this battered and quiet had clawed its way out of hell and walked home.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. Only that the cold eventually sank in deep. That Katsuki’s body trembled harder now, uncontrolled.

That something else—something small—shifted in the dark.

Then he saw her.

A little girl. Maybe six. Maybe smaller. Clutching Katsuki’s sleeve like it was the only thing holding her upright. She was soaked through, knees bruised, and face wide-eyed and dirty. The way she stared up at Katsuki—it was like she was afraid he might vanish if she breathed too loud.

Takeshi froze.

His brain couldn't catch up. "Kid... you brought—" But the words died in his throat. There wasn’t room for sense, not in the face of this.

Katsuki tried to speak. Voice ragged. Shaky. “Take her,” he rasped. “Please. She’s—she’s safe now.” His knees gave out mid-sentence.

Takeshi caught him fast—arms looping under his shoulder, muscles screaming with strain. The boy was dead weight now. But warm. Real. “You’re okay. I got you,” he whispered like a prayer. “I got you, kid.”

He looked to the girl again, softer this time. “C’mere, sweetheart. You’re alright now. You’re safe. I swear it.”

The little girl didn’t answer—just crept forward on bare feet, fingers locked around Katsuki’s sleeve even as he leaned, unconscious, into Takeshi’s grip.

Takeshi backed them toward the porch, every step a struggle, every inch another piece of disbelief breaking loose inside him. He got the door open, herded them in with one arm and his whole heart. 

And the door shut behind them.

– – – – – – – 

The trailer was warm, but Katsuki wouldn’t stop shivering.

Takeshi hauled him to the edge of the couch, trying not to wince at the feel of the broken boy beneath his arm—wet and bony and all wrong. Like someone had gutted him and left just enough muscle to keep him breathing.

Katsuki didn’t speak. Didn’t look up. Only half-conscious now, eyes glassy and dark with pain.

Takeshi eased him down, brushing hair back from his face. It was matted with blood and dirt. Rainwater clung to his lashes like dew on grave grass.

“Don’t you fucking dare die on me now,” Takeshi muttered under his breath. His voice cracked on the word die.

He turned to the girl.

She hadn’t let go of Katsuki’s hand. She stood near the door still, dripping on the linoleum, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to exist in here.

“Hey,” Takeshi said, crouching to her level. “Sweetheart. Can I get you out of those wet clothes? You gotta be freezing.” 

She blinked at him. Slow. Hollow-eyed. Her bottom lip quivered, but she nodded.

He moved gently. Quick. Got a towel wrapped around her shoulders and led her to the bathroom like she was made of glass.

Katsuki tried to push himself up as they disappeared down the hall—muscles twitching with stubborn panic.

“No,” Takeshi barked from the doorway, sharp but low. “You stay down. She’s okay. I’m just gettin’ her warm.”

By the time he came back, Katsuki was halfway curled in on himself, shaking harder now. His face was pale enough to glow.

Takeshi set Eri down with a mug of lukewarm tea. She cradled it like it might burn her but didn’t make a sound.

Then he turned back to the boy.

He pulled scissors from the drawer and through his shirt. The cloth peeled away with a wet sound, revealing the mess beneath.

Cuts. Bruises. Gashes that had been bleeding so long they looked ink-stained. One shoulder looked dislocated. A line of red carved across his ribs. His feet were raw. Toes swollen.

Takeshi swore so hard and low it tasted like iron in his mouth. He grabbed the first aid kit. Alcohol. Bandages. Tweezers. Anything that didn’t feel like too little too late. “Sorry, kid,” he whispered—and started working.

Katsuki hissed once. Grunted when Takeshi popped the shoulder back. But he didn’t scream. Not even when the alcohol hit open skin.

Didn’t cry either. He just stared past him, eyes gone distant.

Takeshi wanted to scream for him. Wanted to tear the world in half for letting this happen, but he kept going. Hands steady. Breaths slow. “Just a little more, alright? Almost done.” When it was over, he covered the boy with a clean blanket and scrubbed his hands raw at the sink. Then he looked at the girl again.

She hadn’t moved. Just watched Katsuki like he might disappear if she blinked.

Takeshi exhaled. Ragged. He stepped into his bedroom, stood still for a second, then moved. He tore the sheets off and grabbed clean ones from the cupboard. He took time to smooth the corners, fluff the pillows, and tug the blanket straight. He scooped whatever crap that was on the floor into trash bags and tossed them in the closet. He would deal with those later.

They needed a warm bed—not a dingy old couch. He could manage at least that.

When he came back, Katsuki was half-asleep on the couch, but his fingers twitched when Takeshi got close—as if afraid someone would take the girl from him. 

“I’m not makin’ you sleep out here,” Takeshi said, rough but quiet. “I want you in the bed. Both of you.” Katsuki didn’t argue. Didn’t even nod. Just let himself be guided. Takeshi didn’t carry him—Katsuki wouldn’t want that. But he kept a hand steady on his back the whole way there.

Eri followed, silent, gripping Katsuki’s sleeve. She didn’t let go even when he slumped down into the mattress. She climbed in beside him without a word.

Takeshi covered them both.

And for a second—just a second—he let himself believe the worst was over.

The boy lay still. The girl curled into him like a shadow. Rain drummed the windows like a second heartbeat.

Takeshi stepped back, looked once more, then turned off the light.

He didn’t go back to the table.

Didn’t touch the mug.

He curled up on the couch with a blanket and a broken heart, and listened to the storm drag itself toward morning.

The sky was the color of dishwater.

Thin light leaked through the blinds, gray and soft and joyless. The kind of morning that didn’t feel like one. No birdsong. No sun. Just a stillness that clung to the corners of the room.

Takeshi stood at the kitchen counter, two mugs in hand. He hadn’t touched his, he just watched the steam curl and fade. The coffee tasted like rusted nails anyway. The couch creaked behind him. His back ached like hell, his neck was worse. But the old man didn’t complain. Instead, he glanced toward the hallway. The door was still shut.

He waited another minute. Then two.

Then—

A soft sound.

Movement. The click of the bedroom door handle turning.

Takeshi set the mug down gently.

When the door creaked open, it was the girl who stepped out first.

Eri.

She blinked at the low light. Oversized hoodie dragging at her wrists. One sock was missing, and her hair stuck out in every direction, tangled and damp. She looked like a ghost. But she was walking—that was something.

Takeshi crouched to her level. “Morning, sweetheart.”

She said nothing. Just looked at him with wide, tired eyes.

“You want some food?” he tried again, softer.

After a moment, she gave the faintest nod.

Takeshi ruffled her hair gently. “Atta girl. Take a seat, I’ll get you something.”

She shuffled to the table. Clambered into the chair like it was too much effort.

Takeshi turned back toward the hall—

And froze.

Katsuki stood in the doorway.

Barely.

One arm was braced against the frame. His sweat-stained shirt hung off one shoulder. His skin looked worse in daylight—grayish, waxy, veins too visible. His eyes were glassed over, red-rimmed.

He took a step forward.

Stumbled.

Takeshi lunged, catching him around the ribs. “Whoa—kid, easy.”

Katsuki hissed through his teeth. His knees buckled again.

Takeshi dragged him to the couch and eased him down. The boy didn’t fight, didn’t swear, didn’t push back—not like before.

That scared Takeshi more than anything. “Jesus, you’re burning up,” he muttered, pressing the back of his hand to Katsuki’s cheek. “You look like death warmed over.”

Katsuki didn’t meet his eyes. Just stared at the wall, breathing shallow. “Didn’t sleep,” he murmured.

“You should’ve.”

“I tried. Just—felt like something was crawling under my skin. Couldn’t breathe.”

Takeshi frowned. Sat beside him. “That from the fight?”

“Maybe.” Katsuki blinked hard. “I don’t know. Feels wrong. Like my body’s here, but I’m not.”

That stopped Takeshi cold. “Not here how?”

Katsuki rubbed his chest, fingers trembling. “Just... off. Weird.”

Takeshi looked him over. There was no blood, no visible injury they’d missed. But it was like the kid’s light had been hollowed out.

Dimmed.

Like something fundamental inside him had been scorched.

Takeshi didn’t have a name for it.

He gave Katsuki a light squeeze on the shoulder. “Alright. You’re not going anywhere today. You hear me? Now you sit your ass down and let yourself be alive for five minutes.”

Katsuki didn’t argue. Didn’t agree either. He just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared at his hands like they weren’t his.

Behind them, Eri quietly munched on her toast, watching Katsuki with wide eyes.

Takeshi stood, got a blanket from the closet, and draped it over the boy’s shoulders. “You're not fine,” he said gently. “Even if you think you are.”

Katsuki didn’t look up.

He just sat there in silence, the blanket hanging off his narrow shoulders like a shroud.

“Get some sleep kid. That’s an order.” Takeshi said, his tone left no room for negotiation. “Don’t make me carry you, sleeping beauty.”

Katsuki grumbles and gets up, stumbling down the hallway and into the bedroom.

Katsuki stood in the ruins of a memory that didn’t belong to the waking world. Smoke drifted over fractured ground. Firelight danced in the distance, though there was no warmth in it. The air stank of scorched ozone and old blood. He looked down and saw his own face staring back from the cracked, blackened water at his feet.

No—not his face.

His flame.

The part of him he’d left behind.

“You dumbass ,” the flame snarled, voice like gravel grinding through fire. “You really fucking did it this time.”

He looked like Katsuki after a war and a funeral. Singed edges. Smoke rolling off his back like steam from a bomb. His eyes blazed, but there was exhaustion there too—deep and splintering.

Katsuki bristled. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I will start,” his flame snapped, stepping forward, heat rippling off him in violent waves. “You didn’t just fuck up, Katsuki—you tore us to pieces. Overhaul? That wasn’t a win. That was a fucking execution. And it cracked our soul like glass. You felt it, didn’t you?”

Katsuki didn’t respond. The taste of it still haunted him.

“We were barely holding together,” the flame growled. “Just spit and fury. But now? It’s all coming undone. Everything that made you you—the spark, the will, the fucking fight? Slipping away.”

Katsuki stared out at the crumbling horizon. The world around them glitched like a memory drowning in static. The sky bled smoke.

“How long?” he asked, throat dry.

“I don’t fucking know,” his flame said. “Could be weeks. Could be hours. Tick-tock, asshole. This place? This is what’s left of you. And it’s burning down.”

A pause. A breath.

“You’ve got three choices,” the flame said. “One: you anchor what’s left. Lock it down. Survive with a soul that’s half-dead and get to play pretend hero until you die of boredom or guilt.”

Katsuki flinched.

“Two: you let it go. Just lie down and fucking die. Drift into the void, soul and all. No pain, no fire, no anything. Blank slate.”

The flame’s face twisted into something bitter. “Or three—the only real one, if you ask me—you grow a pair and come find me. The rest of me. The part you keep running from.”

Katsuki clenched his fists. “I’m not running.”

“Bullshit,” the flame spat, stalking closer. “You think you can be this soft, sanitized version of yourself and still call it living? You think playing house with a kid and fixing fucking wires is gonna make you whole?”

“I’m trying to change—”

“You're lying to yourself.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. “You’re just pissed I moved on.”

“Moved on?” the flame barked a laugh. “You didn’t move on. You amputated. You gutted yourself and hoped the bleeding would stop.”

“I had to!”

“Then own it!” the flame screamed, fire flaring in every direction, cracking the ground beneath them. “Own the fact that you chose to let go of the best and worst part of yourself. You didn’t lose me. You left me.”

Silence slammed between them.

The flame’s shoulders heaved. “You want to stay like this? Go ahead. Anchor what’s left. Lock me out. But don’t pretend you’ll be the same. You’ll smile, sure. You’ll laugh. But deep down you’ll know something’s missing. And that fucking hole? It’s gonna eat you alive.”

The flame was dying. And he knew it.

Katsuki’s voice came out rough. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because I am you,” the flame said, quieter now. “I’m every scream you swallowed. Every punch you threw to stay standing. Every time you refused to break, even when the whole damn world wanted you to.”

He stepped back, eyes burning. “So yeah, I care. Because if I go, you don’t get back up next time. And I’m not gonna watch you fade into nothing.”

Katsuki felt it in his chest—deep, gnawing panic. 

“Stop wasting time, dumbass. Come find me.”

The fire blew out.

And Katsuki woke up choking on ash.

Chapter Text

The raid began before they even stepped inside.

The Shie Hassaikai knew they were coming.

From the moment the task force stepped toward the walled compound, the ambush was sprung—foot soldiers swarmed the main gate, and explosions shook the side entrance where Ryukyu’s team had been advancing.

“Scatter and flank!” Rock Lock shouted. “Go, go, go!”

“Move forward!” Nighteye barked, already narrowing his eyes at the chaos. “Maintain formation—remember what we’re here for!”

Ryukyu's team and the other heroes engaged outside, creating an opening. Nighteye, Rock Lock, Fatgum, Red Riot, Suneater, Eraserhead, Bubble Girl, Lemillion, and Deku entered the compound. It was chaos.

But it was practiced chaos—trained heroes doing what they were built to do.

Inside, the heroes engaged in fierce clashes with the Eight Bullets of the Shie Hassaikai. Tamaki was dragged into a warped dimension by Hojo and Tabe. Fatgum and Kirishima were swallowed into a chamber with Rappa. Ryukyu, Nejire, and Tsuyu fought tooth and nail aboveground, trying to contain the flood of reinforcements.

Still, the heroes pushed forward.

Step by step, they carved their way through.

The members of the Eight Bullets were defeated, but Fatgum, Kirishima, and Tamaki were down for the count. The rest of the heroes made their way into the underground levels.

That’s when everything changed.

– – – – – – – 

The tunnels beneath the Shie Hassaikai compound looked… normal.

Too normal.

It set Nighteye’s nerves on edge.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Eraserhead muttered beside him, eyes scanning the dim corridor. “There should’ve been guards. Lookouts. Something.”

“They threw everything they had at us up top,” Rock Lock said, frowning. “But why not leave anyone down here?”

“Stay alert,” Nighteye warned. “It could be a trap.”

The group advanced in tight formation. At first, everything looked untouched—pristine tiles, smooth walls, sterile silence.

When they turned the corner, the illusion shattered.

The hallway had been torn apart. It was precise, almost surgical, the way the floor was split down the center and the walls peeled back like a ribcage. Blood streaked the tiles—dried at the edges, but still recent.

“Quirk use,” Aizawa said, crouching beside the wreckage. “Overhaul’s, most likely.”

Nighteye’s brows drew together. “Why didn’t he repair it?”

Lemillion knelt near a dark pool. “Signs of a struggle,” he said quietly. “Do you think he evacuated?”

“Possible,” Rock Lock said, frowning. “But this doesn’t feel like a retreat.”

They pushed forward, deeper into the compound. But something felt wrong.

The deeper the team descended, the worse the damage became. Cracks spiderwebbed across the walls, shattered tiles crunched beneath their boots, and sections of the ceiling had collapsed. It was like something had exploded outward from inside the walls.

Then, at the end of a ruined corridor, they found it.

Eri’s room.

Empty.

The sheets were crumpled on the floor. No signs of a struggle. But the air still stung with antiseptic—sharp and bitter.

Deku’s fists clenched. “She was here. She had to be.”

“There’s no trail,” Eraserhead muttered. “No escape route. No forced exit. And none of Overhaul’s men claimed she left.”

“Unless,” Nighteye said grimly, “she didn’t leave on her own.”

They turned back toward the central corridor and froze. There was more blood and destruction.

And at the far end of the hall, slumped against the wall like discarded trash—

was Overhaul.

He was barely conscious. His coat hung in tatters, his chest heaving in shallow gasps. One arm dangled at an unnatural angle, twitching violently every few seconds, like it was trying—and failing—to heal.

Deku staggered to a halt.

Eraserhead stepped forward, quirk active, scarf unfurling. In a flash, he bound Overhaul with his capture weapon. “Where’s the girl?” he demanded.

Overhaul didn’t look at him. His eyes were locked on something distant. Haunted. Wild. “He took her,” he rasped. “The boy. The brat.”

“What boy?” Nighteye snapped.

“A monster,” Overhaul whispered. “Said he was quirkless. Said he was no one.” His voice broke—part rage, part disbelief. “He lied. He was hiding it! Played me for a fool!”

Aizawa knelt, quirk still active. “What did he do?”

Overhaul’s bloodshot gaze flicked toward him. “There’s no need for that,” he said, baring his teeth. “He touched me and broke my quirk. It’s gone! Doesn’t even respond!”

The air turned razor-sharp.

“You’re saying,” Aizawa said slowly, “he used a quirk to disable yours?”

“He walked into my base,” Overhaul hissed. “Pretended to be helpless. Let us think he was harmless. Got close to her, then he took her. Took everything! I didn’t see it coming. That brat—he was here for her the whole time.”

Deku’s stomach twisted. A chill crawled down his spine.

“Describe him,” Nighteye said. “Anything you remember.”

Overhaul’s eyes went glassy. “Blond. Maybe. Could’ve been dyed. Red eyes. Young. Fast. Barely spoke. We stripped his stuff—fancy suit, dress shoes. You won’t find anything. No ID. If you’re looking for DNA, there’s plenty right here.” He nodded at the dried blood painting the corridor.

Silence settled like frost.

A boy. Supposedly quirkless. Who disabled Overhaul’s power with a touch. Who dismantled the Shie Hassaikai from the inside—and stole Eri.

“Get me the security feeds,” Nighteye ordered, voice like steel. “Now.”

Buried deep within the Shie Hassaikai compound, the surveillance room was sealed behind thick, insulated walls. Archaic monitors lined the space, humming softly in the low light. Dust clung to the air like a film. Static danced across the central screen as the heroes combed through footage.

“This is the only hallway feed still working,” Eraserhead muttered, flipping through camera angles. “The rest are fried. If we’re lucky, we might recover recorded data.”

He worked the controls with practiced precision, finally pulling up stored files. One was labeled 05:00. The screen flickered to life—hallways wrecked and bloodied, just as they’d found them.

He rewound. 03:00. Same damage. Then—00:00. The hallway was pristine. Untouched. Silent.

Nighteye leaned in. “There. That’s the change. Fast forward.”

The footage jumped ahead. Nothing happened—until 01:59.

Suddenly, there was chaos.

Spikes erupted offscreen. Chisaki lunged at someone just beyond the camera’s view. Then a blur—a figure darted through the debris. Chisaki reached for him—only to recoil, staggering backward as if shocked.

“Stop. Rewind,” Nighteye barked.

The feed was grainy, warped by static and poor lighting. But the figure came into focus—just barely. He was young, lean, and moving fast.

Eraserhead rewound again, analyzing every frame. “No visible quirk activation. Must be contact-based.” He plugged in a flash drive and began downloading the footage. “We’ll need this for later.”

Moments after Overhaul collapsed, the figure bolted out of frame. Eraserhead toggled through camera feeds.

Finally—he found him. It was the same figure. But now, he had Eri. She followed him. 

No screams. No resistance.

“He’s injured,” Eraserhead observed, narrowing his eyes. “See that limp? He’s favoring the right leg. Could be the knee. Or hip.”

“But he still took down Overhaul,” Nighteye said grimly.

The boy leaned on the wall as he walked—movements uneven, but controlled. Intentional. Eri followed at his side, small hand tucked in his.

They slipped through a door—likely a maintenance corridor.

After that, nothing.

No more feeds. No trail.

“They found a way out,” Eraserhead said. “And the rain would’ve washed away any trace hours ago. He knew that. He used it.”

A pit opened in Nighteye’s stomach.

The boy couldn’t have been older than fifteen—maybe younger. Wiry build, like a gymnast or trained fighter. His hair, caught in the poor light, looked nearly white.

Everything else about him was forgettable. Plain. He didn’t look like a threat.

And yet—

He had dismantled the Shie Hassaikai from the inside.

“No facial data,” Rock Lock muttered, squinting at the screen. “Too blurry to enhance. He knew where the cameras were.”

“He’s not one of ours,” Nighteye said. “But he doesn’t fit the League’s profile either. If he’s not affiliated… then maybe he’s working solo.”

Rock Lock exhaled sharply. “A solo operator who can erase quirks by touch? That kind of power doesn’t just slip through the cracks.”

Eraserhead folded his arms, jaw tight. “A quirk that overrides someone else's? Permanently? That’s not rare. That’s unheard of. How the hell has no one heard of this kid?”

“Unless…” Nighteye’s voice dropped. “He never had to hide. He just let the world believe he was quirkless.”

Silence fell like a curtain.

Eraserhead broke it. “If Overhaul’s telling the truth… then we’re looking at a new kind of threat.”

Deku stood slightly apart from the others, shoulders rigid.

His voice was thin. Quiet. “What does he want with Eri?” he asked. “Is it her quirk?”

The question landed like a gunshot.

No one answered. The idea was too real—too possible. Eri’s power had already been twisted once—turned into something monstrous. Could it be happening again? But there’d been no fight and no screams.

Just… silence.

Nighteye stared at the screen. “This isn’t some reckless vigilante. He infiltrated the compound, neutralized its leader, extracted the most valuable asset, and left no trace.” His gaze fixed on the frozen image—Eri’s hand in the boy’s. “That’s strategy. Cold. Calculated.”

The implication hit hard.

Eraserhead’s face darkened. “You’re saying we treat him as hostile.”

“I’m saying,” Nighteye replied, “we already lost. And we don’t even know who we’re up against.”

Rock Lock shifted uncomfortably. “She’s not in any nearby hospitals. Not with the police. If someone had found her, we’d know.” He paused. Then added, “This is a kidnapping.”

“But by who?” Lemillion muttered. “No profile. No history. How do you find a ghost?”

Deku didn’t answer. His fists trembled at his sides. Why hadn’t she screamed? Why had she followed?

Unless—

His voice cracked as he spoke. “What if… what if Eri went with him willingly?”

The room turned toward him.

Izuku’s mind reeled back. “Please don’t go,” she’d said. And then—her hand slipped from his. She walked back to Overhaul.

“She chose to protect us back then,” he said softly, eyes locked on the screen. “Maybe… maybe she thought running would get someone else hurt. Maybe she saw what that boy did to Overhaul and thought—if she didn’t follow, someone else would die.”

Eraserhead stepped in, voice calm but firm. “Right now, all we have are guesses. Let’s stick to what we do know.”

He held up a hand, fingers counting off each point.

“One: he infiltrated the base. Whether or not Eri was the target from the start, he got in—quietly. No alarms, no resistance.”

“Two: he has a quirk. Hidden. Likely disables others. We don’t know if it’s permanent.”

“Three: he took Eri. Intent unknown. But anything beyond that is speculation.”

Nighteye nodded. “We’ll interrogate the remaining Hassaikai. Review damage patterns. Anything to track him.” He turned to the screen one last time.

A boy with no known name. No known origin. A boy who played at being powerless and destroyed one of the most dangerous criminals in Japan without raising an alarm. Something—or someone—had emerged from the shadows. Someone who didn’t play by the rules, and left no fingerprints. And took what he wanted without permission.

No calling card.

And no answers.

“This new individual is dangerous,” Nighteye said, voice iron. “Initiate a full-scale manhunt. Notify every precinct and agency. We need to find him.”

Outside, the wind howled.

As if the world had just realized what it had let slip through its fingers.

The door to the League’s hideout slammed open.

“Hey, boss!” Toga sing-songed, hopping over a cracked beam and dragging a half-conscious yakuza grunt behind her like a kid tugging a balloon. “Guess what? We found Humpty Dumpty. And we brought souvenirs~!”

Twice followed, arms out in a grand gesture, flanked by three men in battered Shie Hassaikai uniforms. “We return triumphant from the underworld! Survivors of rubble! Converts of chaos!”

The hideout was half-rotted wood and broken neon. An abandoned byilding tucked between a collapsed shopping arcade and a condemned subway line. Just mold and disrepair and the flickering buzz of a stolen generator.

Shigaraki looked up from where he sat crouched, skin flaking in patches, fingers twitching.

“You were supposed to be with the Hassaikai” he rasped.

Toga skipped over and dropped the yakuza grunt in front of him like a sack of potatoes. “We were! Though, there's not really much left of it. Guess who we found crying in a pile of his own blood?” 

Dabi straightened from his place on the windowsill, where he’d been smoking quietly. “Chisaki?”

“Mmhmm~” Toga twirled a knife in her fingers. “Turns out, someone beat us to him. Badly. Broke his quirk. He just kept muttering about a ‘brat’ who got him good.” She thought back to the encounter—

– – –

“Aww. Poor Chisaki. Not so scary now, are you?” She poked his blood-soaked clothes with her knife. “You remember big sis Magne? The woman you blew apart like she was nothing?”

Overhaul scowled.

“This is justice,” she whispered sweetly. “A little late, maybe. But I’ll take it.”

Twice knelt, mimicking a priest. “And lo, the big scary mafia boss was smited by a ghost with no name, no face, and no mercy. Truly, poetry.”

Toga and Twice left Overhaul where they found him. The whole Shie Hassaikai was soon aware of Overhaul's fall. His Eight Bullets and other lackeys gathered above ground to protect him. There were some members that looked unsure. Toga turned her gaze on them, smile bright and dangerous.

“You boys tired of following broken men?”

“…What do you want?” one of them asked.

Toga rose, stretching her arms. “Not much. Just loyalty. And maybe a little blood. Interested?”

– – –

Twice laughed. “‘He broke me, he broke me, he broke me’—not exactly inspiring last words, but y’know. Tragic poetry.”

Spinner looked up from cleaning his sword. “Just one guy took out Overhaul?”

“That’s what he said.” Toga flopped onto a crate, grinning. “I think he peed himself.”

Shigaraki’s hand flexed. “And you brought his men?” Shigaraki’s gaze flicked to the three yakuza standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Only some of them. The rest of his guys were loyal. Said something about having nothing to live for, Overhaul giving them purpose, yada yada. Lame if you ask me,” Toga said sweetly. “He lost. These guys want a leader who doesn't piss himself in fear.”

Shigaraki said nothing. The tension simmered.

Then, the laptop on the counter buzzed. Static flared.

Dabi crossed the room, flipping the screen open. The feed flickered to black. Then pale gray. Then—

“Tomura.”

The voice turned the air cold.

A grayscale face phased into view.

All For One.

Shigaraki’s expression didn’t change. But his hand trembled slightly.

“Sensei.”

“You’ve stumbled upon something… fascinating,” All For One said. “A boy who's quirk is off the records, name unknown. Yet he dismantled Overhaul’s core ability. He's dangerous.”

Shigaraki’s lip curled. “So what? We bring him in? Use him?”

“Find him,” All For One said. “Get close and find out his goals.”

The screen cut out.

Silence dropped like a hammer.

One of the yakuza recruits coughed.

Toga stretched. “Soooooo. Road trip?”

Shigaraki didn’t answer. He stared at the spot where the screen had gone dark, eyes twitching. His skin flaked, like something inside was writhing.

Chapter Text

The press got to it first.

Not the full truth—just enough to light a fire under the country’s collective paranoia. Enough to make the heroes scramble.

BREAKING: Villain Abducts Shie Hassaikai Child Pre-Raid

The footage had never been meant for public viewing. But someone leaked it—maybe a grunt, maybe a technician, maybe someone who just wanted the world to see. Either way, it was everywhere. Blurry footage of a boy with light-colored hair, barely more than a silhouette, limping through broken hallways with a little girl trailing behind him.

Eri.

The headlines didn’t call her by name. Not yet. But the stories buzzed with implication.

A child victim pulled from the hands of the Yakuza—taken again, this time by a masked teen with no known affiliation. Authorities suspect a high-level Quirk user capable of disabling powers on contact. Current identity unknown.

Sketch artists did their best. The result was a profile spread across every major channel by noon: a boy in his early teens, all harsh angles and sunken eyes, made to look feral and volatile. They gave him an expression that screamed danger .

A villain. 

“If you recognize this individual,” the news anchors repeated on every frequency, “contact authorities immediately. Do not approach. Suspect is considered armed and highly dangerous.”

Inside the temporary command center, the mood was sour.

“The image is all wrong,” Fatgum grunted, arms crossed. “They made him look like some street punk who chews glass and drinks battery acid.”

“They’re panicking,” Bubble Girl said, standing over the latest reports. “The press, the public… everyone’s scrambling to fill the gaps. And the more they fill it, the more control we lose.”

“The sketch is highly exaggerated,” Eraserhead said, voice even, “but it’s the best tool we have.”

Nighteye stood silent near the window, arms behind his back. His gaze was distant, unreadable.

“He wanted to disappear,” he said at last. “He moved like a shadow. Broke in, took her, and vanished before we even knew he existed. But now... now his face is everywhere.”

Eraserhead picked up the remote and flipped through news channels. Each one had some version of the sketch, some angle, some speculation. Some said he was a League of Villains recruit. Others claimed he was a failed hero student with a grudge. One headline even floated the idea of a government experiment gone rogue. No one knew, but everyone had an opinion.

Deku sat nearby, barely listening. His eyes kept drifting to the screen—specifically, to Eri’s hand in the boy’s. She hadn’t fought. She hadn’t cried—and that haunted him more than anything.

“This might actually help us,” Nighteye said, breaking the silence.

Rock Lock shot him a look. “You think the media storm is a good thing?”

“I think,” he countered, “that perhaps if the heroes can’t find him, maybe someone else will. A neighbor. A convenience store clerk. A schoolmate. With enough people watching, someone out there might recognize him.”

There was a pause.

He wasn’t wrong.

The surveillance had failed them. Their networks hadn’t seen him coming. He was a ghost. But even ghosts left footprints. And now the entire country was watching.

“We work with it,” Nighteye continued, “We use the sketch. The footage. Everything we can. Push it out further. Every agency, every region. We’re not chasing one lead—we’re casting a net.”

“Someone will see him,” Eraserhead agreed. “And when they do, we’ll be ready.”

Deku swallowed, finally speaking up. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot and… What if he was there to save her? What if they paint him as something he’s not?”

“They already have,” Fatgum said. “That sketch doesn’t show a kid who rescued Eri. It shows a threat. A criminal.”

“But we don’t know his angle yet,” Deku whispered. “What if we’re just making things worse.”

Nighteye turned from the window. “Intent doesn’t matter right now. What matters is getting Eri back.”

Another silence settled in, thick and uneasy.

Then the door creaked open.

A uniformed officer stepped in, holding a tablet. “We just got our first credible tip.”

Everyone turned.

“A woman up north—small town near the coast—says she saw a boy matching the sketch limping into an alley late last night. Said he had a kid with him. Quiet. Looked hurt. She tried to approach, but they were gone by the time she reached the end of the street.”

“Time?” Nighteye asked, voice sharp.

“Timestamp matches early morning—around 3:15 AM.”

“That’s just a few hours after he vanished,” Bubble Girl said.

“He’s moving fast,” Eraserhead muttered. “Or trying to.”

“We’ll dispatch a team immediately,” Nighteye said. “Get in contact with local precincts and surveillance grids. Pull everything within a ten-mile radius.”

The officer nodded and rushed out.

The room came alive with motion—phones dialed, names dispatched, maps loaded onto tablets.

They had a lead.

–Takeshi–

The television muttered in the background, a low drone of bad news and worse speculation. Takeshi barely registered it as he dragged a half-rotted mattress down the hall, the frame of the old spare bed already disassembled and leaning against the wall like a skeleton at rest.

“—authorities now believe the unidentified villain was responsible for the kidnapping of a child previously held by Shie Hassaikai. Multiple sources confirm that this individual struck before pro heroes arrived, and nullified the Shie Hassaikai leader’s quirk. The identity of the individual remains unknown, though online forums have dubbed him ‘Nullbringer’—”

The name made Takeshi's lip curl. He muttered something under his breath and turned off the TV with a jab of his elbow, leaving only the quiet creak of the floorboards and the wheeze of the heater.

Nullbringer. Like hell.

He hadn’t needed the news to know something had shifted. Tension hung in the trailer lately—tight as wire. Not just from the kid’s sleepless nights or the way he checked every lock twice. Katsuki had gone quiet in a different way. Not sullen. Not storming. Just… busy behind the eyes.

It reminded Takeshi too much of a broken engine spinning hard to mask the fact that something vital was missing.

But there were other things to do. Like making space. Making room.

The spare room had been a storage closet in all but name—tools, old furniture, faded photographs stuffed into boxes he couldn’t quite throw away. But kids didn’t sleep on couches forever. And he sure as hell didn’t want Eri curled at the foot of the bed like some unwanted cat. She deserved better. So did Katsuki, even if the kid wouldn’t admit it.

Takeshi cleared the room. Swept the floor. Scrubbed dust from the windowpanes and patched the cracks in the walls with paint he found in the back of the closet. Then, with creaking knees and calloused fingers, he built them something real: a bunk bed made from reinforced wood and metal. He even rounded the edges so no one would scrape their knee in the dark.

That night, he called them in without warning.

“Come here. I got something.”

Eri’s eyes went wide when she peeked through the door. “It’s a bed! Two beds!” she gasped. “It’s like a tower!”

Takeshi grunted and jerked his thumb toward it. “Built it myself. Don’t say I never gave you nothin’. Now grab your shoes—we’re going out.”

Katsuki hesitated in the doorway, brows drawn, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket. “Out?”

“To decorate. This place is depressing as hell, and you both deserve better than beige walls and my busted couch. You can even pick out lights or whatever.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. “I’m not going into town.”

Takeshi raised a brow. “Why not?”

“You’ve seen the news. There’s a goddamn manhunt on! My face is plastered all over every screen. They're calling me a villain. You want to get me killed?”

“You’re not staying here.”

“I—”

“Nope. Not arguing about this. You’ll wear the hoodie. You’ll keep your head down. And you’ll stick close. We go in and out quick. You need to live, kid, not hide.”

Katsuki looked like he might explode.

Eri tugged his sleeve. “Please?”

That settled it.

Katsuki’s jaw clenched. But eventually, he shoved off the doorframe and followed them out.

---

–Takeshi–

The shopping trip passed in a blur of lights and dusty shelves. Eri darted from aisle to aisle, holding up strings of plastic stars and fuzzy pillows shaped like frogs. Katsuki trailed behind, hood pulled low, gaze sharp as a blade. He didn’t pick much, just grunted approval or offered the occasional nod. But Takeshi saw the way he watched Eri—relieved and afraid, all at once.

Takeshi found himself staring at a display of girl’s sneakers. Little white ones with pink soles. He blinked and saw another face, another child with braids and scraped knees, bouncing on her toes in excitement.

His chest ached.

“Hey geezer,” Katsuki’s voice broke him from the memory. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Takeshi cleared his throat and turned away. “Just remembering something that hurts.”

---

–Takeshi–

That evening, they decorated the new room. Katsuki helped Eri string blankets from the top bunk, forming a little den below. He stuck glow-in-the-dark stars to the underside of the top bunk while Eri sat beside him. When the room was finally finished, they both ducked into the little hideaway and whispered like co-conspirators.

Takeshi didn’t eavesdrop.

But he stood by the door for a moment, hand on the frame, and listened to the soft rustle of paper and laughter under blankets.

Later, Eri fell asleep curled around a single folded paper crane.

Katsuki climbed to the top bunk without a word, leaving only the faint creak of old wood and the hush of night settling in.

---

–Takeshi–

Takeshi stayed up late in the living room. The news had looped again, louder this time.

“—nicknamed Nullbringer by underground sources. Sketch artists believe he is male, late teens, with an ability to nullify a quirk. Analysts suggest he may have ties to the League of Villains, though others argue—”

He turned it off and sat in the quiet.

---

–Katsuki–

That night, Katsuki stared at the ceiling. The stars didn’t glow much, but Eri had insisted they were magic. He liked how happy she’d been.

He thought about Takeshi—dragging furniture, scraping paint, handing him tools without complaint. The man had taken him in, protected him, let him stay. Gave him space.

And now… he was lying to him.

He hadn’t told Takeshi about the soul fracture. About the voice in the fire.

“Anchor what’s left. Or die.”

The words clung to him like smoke. What even was left to anchor? He wouldn’t be himself.

He thought of Eri curled up in the bunk below. Of Takeshi’s rough voice saying “I’m proud of you” and meaning it.

Katsuki closed his eyes.

“I’m not ready to die,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

Not if there was still something to bring back. Not if there was still some hope that he’d reunite with his soul. His soul was right. Finding my flame is the only real choice to make. 

---

–Takeshi–

That night, Takeshi passed the open door and paused.

Katsuki had fallen asleep on the top bunk, one arm thrown over his eyes. Eri was curled up below him in her blanket fort, her rabbit tucked under her chin, and the paper crane still clutched in her hand.

A glow star had been stuck to the ceiling.

The room smelled like new linens, old paint, and some kind of artificial strawberry spray Eri had insisted they buy.

Takeshi exhaled.

He turned off the hall light.

Let the door fall half shut.

And went to sleep, for once, feeling like maybe the house was full again.

The tip came from a woman who worked night shifts at a convenience store just off the coastal highway. Said she saw a limping boy and a little girl pass through the alley behind the lot around 3 AM. Thought it strange, but the way the girl held his hand stuck with her.

“She didn’t look scared,” the woman told them.

Nighteye stood beside the station’s aging security terminal as grainy footage flickered across the screen. They watched frame by frame. Then—there. Two shadows crossing the back lot. One limping, one small. Both gone within seconds.

“Pause,” Nighteye ordered. The image froze. It was too dark for a clear view, but the shape of the older figure was familiar. Too familiar.

“I’ve seen that gait before,” Aizawa muttered. “Favoring the right side.”

“It matches,” Nighteye said. “Same build. Same posture.”

“Not enough to identify him,” Rock Lock added, arms crossed. “But close.”

Fatgum leaned over the operator’s shoulder. “Is there anything after that? A direction they went?”

The attendant scrolled through later footage. One camera at a nearby intersection picked up a flicker of movement—just the back end of a tattered white shirt vanishing down a street lined with old homes and businesses.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

“They’re on foot,” Bubble Girl said. “And he’s hurt. They’ll need to rest.”

“They already have,” Nighteye replied, tapping the screen. “Somewhere nearby.”

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed. “We won’t find him by brute force. Not like this. If he sees heroes in uniform, he’ll vanish again.”

“Then we go quiet,” Nighteye said. “Plainclothes. Dusk until dawn. No sirens. No broadcasts. We knock on doors, we check empty buildings. We walk every block until we find them.” He stepped back from the screen. “I want teams rotating every eight hours. If they’re hiding here, we’ll flush them out. If they move again, we catch them on the next camera.”

Fatgum cracked his knuckles. “So we’re hunting ghosts.”

“No,” Nighteye said, calm and certain. “We’re hunting a boy who’s running out of places to hide.”

Chapter Text

The wind whistles through a crack in the window. The trailer is quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the buzz of electricity. News chatter drifts in and out of static.

“Still no leads on the villain spotted at the Shie Hassaikai raid. What we do know is this: the figure subdued one of Japan’s most dangerous quirk-users. Theories range from underground vigilante to something more disturbing. Some have taken to calling him “Quirk Breaker, or–more recently– “The Nullbringer.”

“Damn,” Katsuki muttered under his breath. “It’s been a week. When are they gonna let this shit go?”

He tossed the remote aside and walked back to the stove. A pot of curry simmered gently on the burner, the air thick with the smell of spices and onions. He stirred it once, absentmindedly, before wiping his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder.

Behind him, Takeshi leaned against the windowsill, cigarette already halfway to ash. “Internet’s got a dozen nicknames for you.”

Katsuki snorted. “Nullbringer? What the hell does that even mean?”

“They probably got that idea when you nullified that asshole’s quirk. Public's always been real scared of that type of ability.”

“Stupid.” Katsuki opened the rice cooker, plucking a spoon free from the counter to check the texture. He scooped a small portion of curry and rice onto a plate, setting it gently down beside Eri, who sat quietly at the table, legs swinging. Her horn was hidden beneath a soft knit headband, and she clutched a worn plush rabbit Katsuki had given her a few days back. She smiled faintly up at him in thanks before digging in.

Nullbringer.

The name crawled under his skin like rot.

Katsuki grit his teeth. “They think I’m just another villain. They even gave me a villain name.” His fists curl. Old instincts fight to rise to the surface–rage, defiance, pride–but they don’t quite take root. Katsuki stands, fighting a wave of nausea. 

“I wasn’t subtle,” Katsuki said quietly, eyes fixed on the steam rising from her food. “Didn’t think I’d survive. I wasn’t planning to. And now... here I am.”

The silence that followed was heavy. He turned, left the room, his footsteps purposeful. A minute passed. Then he returned, tossing a box onto the table.

Black hair dye.

Takeshi raised a brow, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “Planning on going full goth now?”

“Planning not to get hunted like a damn dog,” Katsuki shot back, but without any real heat.

Across the table, Eri paused mid-bite.

“…Can I do mine too?” she asked softly.

Katsuki blinked, caught off guard. He looked at her, then shrugged. “Whatever you want, shrimp. But we need to find something that would suit you.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The bathroom smelled like chemicals.

Water dripped from Katsuki’s bangs, trailing down the curve of his jaw to soak the collar of his hoodie. He stared at himself in the mirror. The reflection stared back—hair dyed pitch black, eyes tired, his hair longer than he'd ever let it grow. A stranger.

“Doesn’t even look like me,” he muttered.

“That’s the idea,” Takeshi replied, arms crossed as he leaned on the doorframe. “The police are looking for a blonde spiky-haired brat. Ain't nobody gonna bat an eye now. Although, your other half is gonna be pissed you dyed your hair.” 

Katsuki exhaled slowly, watching the mirror fog slightly from the heat still lingering in the air.

“I like it,” Eri piped up from the step stool beside him. She tilted her head, studying her reflection. “But why can’t I have black like yours, Kacchan? I wanna match.”

Katsuki’s expression cracked. A slow, rare smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “Black’s for people trying to disappear, kid. You should shine a little.” Katsuki stood and made his way toward the door. “Hey. I have an idea.”

Eri trailed after him with quiet curiosity, still hugging her rabbit toy to her chest. “A good idea or a Kacchan idea?” she asked, her voice small but playful.

Katsuki gave a low snort. “Funny.”

He entered the kitchen and began rummaging through a drawer. He pulled out a crumpled old packet from the back of the cupboard. It was faded, but still intact—electric blue Kool-Aid powder.

“Used to be a thing when I was a kid,” he explained, holding it up. “Some of the girls in my class used to dip the ends of their hair in this stuff. It’d stain it all sorts of colors for a few days.”

Eri’s eyes widened, mouth parting in awe. “Like magic?”

Katsuki smirked. “More like sugar and poor decision-making, but sure, close enough.”

She bounced on her toes, practically glowing. “Can we do mine? Please, Kacchan?”

He sighed, but the corners of his mouth twitched up. “Yeah, alright. Let’s wreck your hair.”

Eri squealed softly as Katsuki pulled a bowl from the shelf and began stirring the Kool-Aid powder into warm water. The color bloomed instantly. It was a vivid, unnatural blue, like it had been ripped straight out of a comic book panel.

“Alright, sit still,” he warned, pulling a towel around her shoulders as she perched on the kitchen stool. “You move and you’re gonna end up looking like a Smurf.”

“I don’t know what that is,” she whispered, eyes wide.

“Good. Don’t learn.”

He dipped the ends of her hair into the bowl, gently smoothing the strands through the liquid. Blue slowly crept up the tips, clinging like ink. She didn’t squirm, just sat perfectly still. Her eyes watched him with reverence, like he was casting a spell instead of making a sugary mess.

“You’re really good at this,” she said after a while.

“I’m not,” Katsuki muttered, but his voice was soft.

When he finally pulled her hair free from the bowl and wrapped it up in a towel to dry, Eri eyed her hair with delight.

“It’s blue! It’s really blue!”

“Yeah yeah, don’t scream,” he said, but he was already smirking. “Let it dry first. It'll fade in a few days. You’ll look like a walking popsicle.”

“I wanna show Mister Takeshi!”

“Fine, go. Just don’t drip Kool-Aid everywhere.”

She took off like a rocket down the hall, trailing damp towel edges and excitement in her wake. Katsuki stood there a moment longer, the half-empty packet still in his hand.

He looked at the bowl—murky and glowing in the fluorescent light—and allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction.

Stupid.

But… good.

Maybe even a little bit magic.

He didn’t sleep much anymore.

Not because of nightmares—those had dulled, faded under the weight of exhaustion and routine. Not because of Eri, either—she slept peacefully now, tucked under her stupid blanket fort of stars and frogs. Not even Takeshi’s snoring kept him up.

It was the pull.

A weight in his chest. A thread, taut and fraying. Some nights it coiled behind his ribs, quiet but constant. Others, it tugged. Pulled. Pointed.

And every time it did, it burned. The fire wasn’t with him anymore—hadn’t been for months—Not really. Not since the League dragged him into hell. Every day he stayed like this, it felt more like a lie. And the clock was still ticking.

So he hunted.

Not openly. Not during the day. Not with Takeshi watching him like a hawk for signs of collapse. Not with Eri clinging to him like he was the one solid thing left in her world.

He knew Takeshi had been thoroughly wrecked the last time he followed a lead. He couldn't do that to him again—not when Takeshi had done so much for him. But he knew he was running out of time. He could not afford to stand around—not when his other half is still fighting. 

Katsuki knew he was strong. Not in an arrogant way, just a fact. He had dedicated countless hours to training. Even though he was out of practice, he knew he could hold his own if the situation demanded it. 

So he searched for his flame.

At night.

Always at night.

The trailer was silent, save for the low tick of cooling metal and the hum of the city beyond. Through the cracked blinds, moonlight spilled in. Katsuki stood by the window, hoodie zipped halfway and mask tucked into his back pocket. Takeshi had been out like a rock since ten.

He waited an extra five minutes.

Just in case.

Then he slipped out the window, soft and silent, like the damn ghost people thought he was. His boots hit gravel, and for a moment, he hesitated.

It had been faint at first—barely noticeable. A twitch. A tug. Like someone had hooked a thread through the center of his chest and started pulling. Not toward home. Not toward safety.

But out.

Toward the dark.

He followed it through empty streets and quiet alleys, the fire in his chest didn’t burn, didn’t scream, but pulled gently, insistently. He’d grown used to its silence. The numbness. But this—this was something different. Hope, maybe.

Or a trap.

Didn’t matter. He needed to know. The tug led him east, past shuttered markets and rusted overpass rails, deeper into the bones of the city. It pulled him into a narrow alley between two buildings—the kind that caught echoes and held secrets tight.

That’s where it stopped.

The pull vanished.

As if the thread had been cut.

Katsuki halted, scanning the shadows. His fingers curled slightly. It was useless now that his explosions were gone, but the habit was still there. His leg ached from the long trek, the old injury starting to flare again, but he pushed through it.

The night felt wrong.

Not loud-wrong. Not gunshot-in-an-alley or scream-behind-a-door wrong.

Quiet wrong.

Too still. Too clean. Like the city had taken a breath and was holding it.

Katsuki crouched on the edge of a low rooftop, eyes scanning the narrow street below. He’d looped the same six blocks twice now, retracing the subtle threads of something—a feeling, a pull, a flicker in his chest where the fire used to live.

Something itched between his shoulders.

He rolled his neck, adjusting the way his hoodie fell around his face. His newly dyed black hair—still annoyingly soft from whatever strawberry-scented shampoo Eri insisted on using—was tied back in a half-up knot, loose strands brushing the side of his face. It was too short to put into a ponytail, but too long to let loose. He scowled and shoved one behind his ear.

The damn thing was hard to manage. Tangled easy. Got in his eyes when he moved too fast. Took forever to dry. He missed the ease of short, spiky, low-maintenance.

But Eri liked it.

She said it made him look “like a princess.”

As if.

He’d caught her sneaking clips into it the other night—tiny glittering things shaped like stars and frogs. She only got away with it because he’d been reading old police records and didn’t notice until Takeshi walked in and started laughing his ass off.

He hadn’t worn clips again, but he’d let her braid it sometimes. When she was tired. When her fingers needed something to do that wasn’t gripping fear.

And then—

Movement.

Katsuki's attention snapped to the alleyway below.

Ahead, there was muffled shuffling. A struggle. He edged closer, breath shallow.

A woman in pale blue scrubs was pressed against the brick, wide-eyed and shaking. Two figures loomed over her. One had a cloth in his hand. The other reached for her wrist.

Katsuki didn’t wait. He dropped down hard, boots cracking against the concrete. The sound echoed like a shot.

The two men spun around just in time to catch the blur of his movement.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t warn. He just moved.

The first man lunged. Katsuki stepped into the blow, using the momentum to twist the guy’s arm and drive a knee into his ribs. The second one tried to come around the side with a knife, but Katsuki ducked low and swept his leg out, sending him crashing into the wall. His right knee buckled slightly—just for a second—but it was enough to make him hiss.

The first guy scrambled up, clutching his side. The second pulled something from his pocket. A vial? Katsuki kicked it out of his hand before he could uncork it.

“Leave,” he growled. His voice was low, guttural.

They didn’t argue. Within seconds, they were gone—limping, cursing, melting into the night.

The woman slumped against the wall, shaking. “You—” she stammered, “Thank you. I… I thought—” She cut off, eyes going wide. “You’re limping. Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” She stepped forward, hesitation still in her bones. “I have a healing quirk. It’s minor. Bone-based. I specialize in fractures and ligament correction. I’m a night shift nurse. Was on break when they grabbed me.”

Katsuki stared at her, heartbeat still thudding in his ears.

She offered her hands. “Please. Just let me help. For what you did.”

His pride twitched. But the ache in his knee was getting worse. “…Fine,” he muttered, pulling up his pant leg.

Her hands were warm and steady as she placed them gently around his kneecap. A soft, glowing hum settled into the joint. The ache began to ease.

“There,” she said after a moment. “Should hold better now. I can’t regenerate, but I can realign and mend minor breaks. You’d been compensating on it for too long.”

“Tch.”

He pulled the fabric down and flexed the joint. Not bad.

“Call the cops,” he said, turning to leave.

“Wait—what’s your name?”

He didn’t answer.

Just melted into the alley’s shadows.

—Later That Night—

The woman sat on a curb beneath a flickering streetlight, her hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup of water. The ambulance hadn’t needed to take her in. She’d insisted she was fine. But the officer standing nearby gently prodded her for the report.

“I was on break,” she said quietly. “I stepped out into the alley for a quick walk. Then these two guys grabbed me—one had something in a vial, I don’t know what it was, but—” she shivered. “I thought they were going to—”

Her voice broke, and the officer gave her time.

“They didn’t say anything?” he asked gently.

“No… Just grabbed me. One of them had a rag. I think it was soaked in something.”

“And then?”

“Someone dropped in,” she said, blinking rapidly like she wasn’t sure she’d dreamed it. “I didn’t see where he came from. Black hoodie. Face was covered.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Not much. Just—he fought them. Drove them off. He was fast and controlled.” She paused, then added, “He had a limp, though. I noticed when he stepped back after kicking one of them into a wall.”

The officer's pen stilled on his notepad.

“Right leg?” he asked, carefully neutral.

She nodded. “Yeah. He said he was fine, but I could tell it hurt. I offered to heal it—I’ve got a minor quirk, nothing big. Just bones—He let me, then told me to call the cops and left.”

“Any other identifying features?” The officer prodded. “Did you catch his hair color? Eye color?”

She looked up, her expression suddenly uncertain. “No. I was a bit too shaken up. I really didn’t think about it at the time. I’m sorry. Am I in trouble for quirk use?”

“No,” the officer said slowly. “You did the right thing by reporting the attack. You did what you thought was best. We’ll take it from here.”

He stepped away and tapped his earpiece.

“Dispatch, I’ve got a possible Nullbringer sighting,” he muttered. “Black hoodie, limp on the right leg. Helped stop a crime. Location timestamp aligns with known city quadrant patterns.”

A pause.

Then: “Send this to the hero taskforce. We’ve got a fresh trail.”

Chapter Text

The agency hummed with tension. Whiteboards scrawled with mission notes. Footage from the raid played on loop on a screen in the corner. Aizawa stood with his arms crossed, face unreadable. Beside him, a cluster of pro-heroes sat around a large oval table, along with Tsukauchi and a few members of the police task force standing in the back.

“There’s no doubt about it. There have been multiple sightings in the area,” Tsukauchi said.

“We have been dispatched to the Abandoned District, otherwise known as area 9.” Nighteye folded his hands on the table, leaning forward, “due to the little information we have regarding the nature of this individual’s quirk, we have strict orders to not engage.”

“The Commission is involved?” Eraserhead quirked a brow. “Great. The last thing we need right now.”

“Yes,” Nighteye continued, “They are involved and wish to be updated on the situation, but our taskforce otherwise has authority over this case.” Nighteye glances over at Tashinori, who had not yet spoken during the briefing. “This is all just conjecture, but due to the fact that All For One is still at large, this individual could be linked to him. The nature of his quirk is still unknown and we cannot take any risks. For this reason, Commission oversight is crucial if things get messy.”

Tsukauchi walked around the table with a basket. He reached into the basket, grabbing a small device, placing one next to each hero. 

“These are your assigned comms. Keep them on you at all times. They will only activate if you press the small red button on the back.” Tsukauchi held up a communicator device, gesturing to the red button. 

The heroes– Fatgum, Erasurehead, Hawks, Rock Lock, and Ryukyu turn the comms over in their hands.

“Our taskforce is small. We are not to engage; we are here to locate the individual and call for reinforcements. This case is still classified–therefore, only those who were involved in the Shie Hassaikai raid and the few extras we have in this room are to be informed. Do I make myself clear?” Nighteye pushed up his glasses.

The heroes and police officers collectively affirm.

Nighteye spoke again, “once your comm is activated, it will alert the heroes within the vicinity. Although they will not be informed of the entire situation, it is within their scope to assist when needed. We are not sure how the suspect’s quirk works, so Eraserhead must be present at the scene before there is any attempt to engage. Only Eraserhead is to engage with the suspect, if necessary, due to the nature of his quirk.”

Eraserhead nodded.

“And one other thing,” Tsukauchi stepped in, “The students who were involved in the raid may also be included, but it is to your discretion. Report back to me with any additions to the team so I can assign them to their respective comms. Remember, this is to be a low stakes mission. All students on duty must be with their respective hero. Any more questions before we end this briefing?”

“Just one,” Hawks raised a hand slightly, pushing off from the wall he was leaning against. “Why exactly is this case classified? There was already a leak, and the media has already taken off with whatever information they have." He smiled, closing his eyes. “But I’m not questioning your plans. Just curious.”

Nighteye sat down and folded his hands on the table, letting out a sigh. “The media knows about the suspect’s quirk and the kidnapping, but nothing else of importance. Need I remind you that the child who was kidnapped is no ordinary girl. Her quirk had been abused by the Shie Hassaikai, and she is now missing again. We do not know what the suspect’s intentions are, thus we must treat this case with the utmost care. If the media catches wind of our operation, it will make tracking him down in the future infinitely more difficult, especially now that we have narrowed down a location.” 

Nighteye looked around the room once more. “Any more questions?”

The room was silent, save for the rustling of papers. 

“Very well,” Nighteye said, “meeting adjourned.”

–Izuku–

The lights buzz overhead as Midoriya Izuku flips through another surveillance file. His eyes are bleary, red-rimmed and tired. A small stack of raid documents sits to his left; another untouched stack to his right. He doesn’t mind the fatigue. He’s been running on instincts and obsession ever since the raid. “Who is that man?” The mysterious “Nullbringer” had stormed Overhaul’s hideout before the pros. Someone who took down one of Japan’s most dangerous criminals alone. Someone with a mysterious quirk.

Someone who didn’t want to be found.

Midoriya sighed and leaned back, rubbing his eyes. His research has been getting him nowhere so far. Nighteye had decided to allow Izuku to aid in the investigation, and Aizawa said that it would be a good way to sharpen his quirk analysis skills. He was flattered by his teacher’s observation.

But now?

The stakes are high, and he doesn’t want to disappoint his Sensei. He doesn’t want to disappoint All Might. Especially not All Might. 

“It’s your turn,” Those words echo through his mind. 

Midoriya flips back to the intel on Overhaul’s damaged quirk. The reports say it’s fractured. Inconsistent. Like it was scrambled from the inside. “Hah… descriptive,” Izuku sighs sarcastically. Midoriya taps his pen, thinking. He turns to the stack on his right and shuffles through the files. “Aha.” It was the physical exam charts. In a controlled environment, they should be able to let him use his quirk. It’s a standard medical practice to assess the patient’s quirk when performing medical assessments. It would be convenient data, Izuku thought as he opened the file. The file detailed a thorough mental and physical exam. Izuku scans the document and his eyes land on “quirk assessment.” “Yes!” Midoriya cheers. 

Name: Kai Chisaki

Alias: Overhaul

Age: 28

Affiliation: Former Shie Hassaikai

Quirk: Overhaul – Emitter-type

Quirk allows user to disassemble and reassemble anything they touch with their hands. This includes: 

• Living beings: a person can be dismantled, causing them to explode or vanish in a burst of blood. They can be just as easily reconstructed, healing injuries or reviving someone as long as it is done quickly
• Environments: Walls, floors, and terrain can be reshaped and rebuilt

Limitations: Touch activated

________________________

Post-Disruption Observational Summary:

Subject exhibits signs of persistent Quirk malfunction, believed to stem from a high-impact Quirk disruption event. While formerly under conscious control, the Quirk now operates autonomously, executing recursive commands without user intent.

Cellular-Level Manifestation:

• Quirk appears to be locked in a constant deconstruct/reconstruct loop focused primarily on the user’s own cellular structure.
  
  

• Microscopic tissue imaging reveals ongoing breakdown and regeneration of dermal, muscular, and neural tissue, with a failure to stabilize between phases.
  
  

• Destruction occurs at the cellular level, resulting in incomplete or misaligned regeneration—subject’s body is continuously reassembling itself incorrectly, forming redundant nerve bundles, asymmetrical musculature, and non-viable scar tissue.

________________________

SYMPTOMS:

Tissue Disassembly: Tissue layers (primarily hands, forearms, and thoracic cavity) spontaneously rupture at unpredictable intervals.

Unstable Reassembly: Cells attempt regeneration but generate malformed or excessive structures—observed extra veins, asymmetrical rib calcification, and phantom limb formations.

Neurological Exhaustion: Subject shows signs of extreme sensory fatigue, twitch response degeneration, and periods of unresponsiveness following high regeneration cycles.

Pain Response: Each cycle induces acute pain, suggesting the nervous system remains fully active during each phase.

________________________

BEHAVIORAL NOTES:

Subject displays paranoia and aggression, frequently vocalizing that his Quirk is “thinking without him” and “something is wrong.”

Displays signs of chronic paranoia, disorientation, and loss of body awareness.

Exhibits unpredictable aggression, especially when restrained or questioned about Quirk activity.

Motor control deteriorates over time; prolonged activation leads to temporary immobilization or catatonia.

________________________

DIAGNOSTIC IMPRESSION:

The original function of the Overhaul Quirk has been hijacked by corrupted command pathways. Current behavior resembles a closed feedback loop, where the Quirk cannot shut off, continuing to deconstruct and rebuild the host body at a microscopic level.

The body is locked in continuous self-repair, with each fix introducing new cellular instability. Subject cannot fully heal, nor can the Quirk disengage. As such, the Quirk is active at all times, even when “dormant.”

The result: a state of irreversible biological stasis.

________________________

INTERVENTIONS:

Immediate Quirk containment (quirk-suppression cuffs)

• Response: Complete symptom relief

– – – – – – –

Izuku’s blood ran cold. A power like this… “terrifying,” he mumbled out loud. Izuku pulled out his notebook, already drawing connections. Making theories. Izuku happily accepts this challenge.

Izuku’s phone buzzes once. He ignored it. This will take him all night.

–Katsuki–

The nights had blurred into one another, the quiet stretches of black stitched together by the faint tug in his chest. Katsuki didn’t keep track anymore. He didn’t need to. The rhythm of it was in his body: sleep in fragments, eat just enough to keep from dropping, wait until Takeshi’s snoring hit a deep, gravelly cadence. Then slip out the window, no noise, no light.

He moved like a shadow through alleys and rooftops, half-forgotten streets with broken lamps and too many blind corners. There was no plan, not really. Just a feeling. A thread. A pull.

Something inside him still burned, just faintly. It was distant and dim, but not gone. Like a spark trapped in ash.

Some nights it led him nowhere. Just wandering. Ghosting through empty streets, following the faintest thread of warmth until it unraveled in his hands. He always returned before dawn, frustrated but empty-handed.

And the weight of it—it was getting harder to ignore.

– – – – – – – –

He didn’t tell Takeshi. Couldn’t. The man had barely held it together after the last time Katsuki came back limping, blood on his clothes and a small child in tow. That night, Takeshi didn’t say much. He just cleaned the wounds, handed him painkillers, and sent Katsuki off to bed while he sat silently in the dark.

So now, Katsuki kept it hidden. For Eri. For Takeshi. For himself, maybe. It was easier that way. Even if the guilt clawed at his ribs every time he stepped over the windowsill.

– – – – – – – –

He didn’t feel powerful. Not like he used to.

There was no explosion to launch him skyward. No cannon-blast recoil to drive him through a fight. It was just muscle memory, instinct, and the whispering edge of his flame to guide him.

It wasn’t enough. But it was all he had.

And still—he couldn’t stop.

Because the fire— his fire —was still out there.

Still fighting.

And if he didn’t find it soon, he knew exactly what that meant. He’d die. Not metaphorically, not someday. He would just… fade away. His heart would stop beating. Like a candle running out of wick.

So, he hunted. Quietly. Carefully. Desperately. And every night, he came home empty-handed.

Until tonight.

It started the same as the others. Katsuki eased the window open just past midnight, stepping into the quiet like he belonged to it.

He could feel the pull. It was sharper tonight. Sharper, almost frantic. He froze on the rooftop, one foot still half-raised, heart stuttering. The tether inside his chest—that invisible thread leading back to the piece of him that was missing—had been a whisper for days. Now it felt like a scream.

His breath hitched. A warning? A call? Whatever it was, it didn’t feel patient.

Katsuki broke into a sprint.

He followed instinct, guided by the tug in his ribs. The streets were darker here. Quieter. The kind of quiet that meant something or someone was trying not to be heard.

He dropped to a lower rooftop, crouched, eyes narrowing at the alley below. There, two figures, both male, stood near the back entrance of an old building. Their auras were jagged and erratic. Sharp. Aggressive. They twitched with violent edges. Katsuki immediately recognized them as the goons from several nights ago. Between them was a small lump.

Katsuki squinted. It was a kid. He had thin arms, a mop of dark hair, rope around the wrists, and his knees were scraped raw from being dragged.

Katsuki’s pulse spiked. He slid into the shadows and crept closer, footsteps silent on the rooftop. The kid stirred—barely. And then Katsuki caught the tail end of one man’s mutter.

“…little brat’s got a healing quirk. League’s gonna love this one.”

The other laughed. “You think we’ll get paid this time?”

Katsuki’s stomach turned to ice. Healing quirks. Of course. All For One must be trying to rebuild himself.

Katsuki’s jaw locked. There was an almost tangible burn behind his eyes— resolve. They weren’t going to take this kid.

He moved before he could think. He timed his drop for the moment both men turned their backs. There was no flashy entrance and no battle cry, Just a whisper of motion and the crack of boots hitting gravel. Katsuki hit the ground hard and fast, driving his knee into the first man’s lower back before the bastard even knew he was there. The guy hit the dirt with a grunt, stunned.

The other spun, fast—but not fast enough.

Katsuki surged forward, low to the ground. He slammed his elbow into the side of the man’s knee, before sweeping his legs out from under him. The guy wheezed, buckled, but didn’t fall completely.

The first grunt started to recover, groaning and swearing, but Katsuki was already moving. He grabbed a broken pipe off the ground—rusted, but heavy—and cracked it across the guy’s temple. He made sure it had been just enough to daze, not hard enough to kill. 

The second thug finally recovered enough to shout, “Get the Trigger!”

Katsuki’s eyes widened.

Shit.

He dove behind a stack of crates just as the hiss of a vial snapped through the air. He peeked around the corner.

One of them was already twitching, Trigger already running through his system. The other scrambled upright, clutching the boy tighter, ready to use him as a shield.

Katsuki’s mind raced. The one on Trigger—the mist around him pulsed violently now, erratic and unstable. It was starting to ripple outward, affecting the ground beneath him. Vibrations. Not full-on quakes, but the concrete was trembling.

The kid screamed.

Damn it.

He scanned the area. Crates. Trash. Loose rebar. A broken ladder above. And a fish-scaled man, still dragging the boy.

Katsuki dropped low, moved like smoke. One step. Two. Then he tossed a rock at the far wall, drawing the vibrating one’s attention just long enough—

He lunged towards the fish-skinned grunt, closing the distance in a flash.

The fish-skinned grunt barely had time to register him before Katsuki slammed his shoulder into the man’s ribcage, knocking him off balance. The kid went flying—hit the ground hard and scrambled backward, coughing but free.

“Run!” Katsuki barked.

The boy froze in panic, but the moment broke as a screeching roar ripped through the air.

The fish scaled man’s arms were already changing—warping grotesquely as Trigger tore through his bloodstream. His fingers fused into jagged fins, serrated like shark teeth. Scales thickened across his face and neck.

He lunged, a blur of violence.

Katsuki barely dodged, rolling under the first swipe. The fin cut clean through a steel pipe beside him, slicing it like paper. Sparks flew.

Too close.

He pivoted, using the broken rebar from earlier as a baton, smashing it against the fish-man’s knuckles. It bounced off harmlessly. The man’s scales were too thick now.

Fine. He didn’t need to hurt him. He just needed to reach the mist. The aura surrounding the fish-man was wild—furious and out of control. 

He ducked under another blow and stepped in closer until the man’s aura shuddered.

It happened fast.

The moment Katsuki breached that invisible edge, the man flinched, stumbling back like he’d been punched in the chest. His claws twitched. His eyes glazed.

Katsuki pressed the advantage. He grabbed the man by the shoulder and held on, willing the mist to calm. For a breathless second, the fish-man’s body reverted back to normal. The trigger high collapsed. The man dropped like a sack of bricks.

Katsuki was already moving again, blood pounding in his ears.

But the other one—the one with the vibration quirk—was still up. Worse, he was fully dosed and powered now. The ground trembled beneath them, sharp and sporadic. A hairline crack split across the concrete, reaching toward Katsuki’s feet.

Can’t get close.

And then he felt it—a flicker of another presence, sharp as a wire, watching.

A shadow dropped from above.

Black cloth. Pale scarf. Narrow eyes.

Katsuki’s stomach bottomed out.

Eraserhead.

Chapter Text

Katsuki froze.

It wasn’t fear—not exactly. It was something worse. A deep, instinctive recognition that hit him harder than any fist could have. His legs were ready to spring, muscles coiled tight, but his breath caught in his throat, his body half-locked between fight and flight as those tired, calculating eyes landed on him.

Aizawa.

He hadn’t changed—he had those same hunched shoulders, same sharp stare that cut through bullshit like a knife through paper. He wasn’t blinking. Wasn’t breathing loud. Just… watching. Measuring. Waiting.

Their eyes locked. “Don’t run,” Aizawa’s voice was calm and low.

Katsuki’s chest squeezed. His legs moved anyway.

The scarf lashed forward—faster than instinct. Katsuki dropped low, rolling out of range. The edge of the capture weapon grazed his sleeve, ripped a thread from the hem of his jacket, but missed his arm by centimeters. He hit the ground hard and bolted, boots skidding on broken tile, heart slamming against his ribs.

“Wait!”

It wasn’t a shout. It was measured. Controlled.

Katsuki didn’t stop. 

The broken building seemed to collapse around him as he tore through it—wood splintering underfoot, glass crunching, rusted nails scraping the soles of his boots as he pushed forward, dodging debris and jagged rebar like he’d trained for this exact moment his whole life.

But he hadn’t. Not like this.

Not with a shattered soul. Not quirkless. Not hunted by the one man who used to stare him down across classroom rows and demand better of him.

“Stop!” Aizawa’s voice cracked through the chaos, sharp as a whip.

Katsuki didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

He burst out into the night like a bullet from a barrel, lungs heaving, hair whipping in the wind—tied back in a ponytail that was coming loose with every jarring step. It was stupid. And now it was in his damn eyes.

He blinked it away, heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out.

Behind him, Aizawa followed—silent, focused, as tireless as Katsuki remembered him. He must have restrained the villains quickly, because now he was hot on Katsuki's trail. A shadow stretched long in the moonlight, moving with the same ghost-quiet steps Katsuki used to admire during training drills. Back when he thought heroes were unshakable. Back when he wanted to be one.

Now he was running from one. From him .

The alley stretched like a tunnel into the dark. Katsuki hit a fence and didn’t slow—grabbed the top, vaulted over, landed hard on his bad leg and nearly crumpled. Pain jolted up his spine like electricity, but he swallowed it, gritted his teeth, and kept going.

He heard Aizawa curse softly behind him, heard the shift of metal as the man adjusted mid-leap.

“Why are you running?” Aizawa’s voice echoed across the narrow buildings, low and rough. “Who are you?”

Katsuki didn’t answer. He couldn’t speak. Could barely think. Everything in him screamed to move , to escape, to get away before that gaze pinned him down and saw everything —what he was, what he’d lost, what he’d done.

“This isn’t the way,” Aizawa shouted again, closer now. “Whatever you think you’re doing, this isn’t the answer.”

Katsuki swerved down another side street, climbed up onto a rusted awning and launched himself toward a loading dock, barely catching the edge with his fingertips. He pulled himself up, adrenaline screaming through every cell, lungs ragged, chest burning.

A part of him wanted to stop. Turn around. Say something. Anything.

But what could he say?

“I’m sorry I disappeared”?
“I’m not who I was”?
“I’m dying”?

He could almost hear Aizawa’s voice in his head— “Then why are you running from the people who would help you?”

He didn’t have an answer.

He dropped down into the next alleyway, boots hitting broken pavement, and stumbled toward the back fence of a vacant lot. His leg was seizing up, tight and raw beneath the healing that never quite took. He vaulted anyway.

Katsuki hit the street running.

Aizawa’s footsteps followed—but slower now. More cautious. Still relentless. “Talk to me,” Aizawa called, voice steady but strained. “You saved that boy,” Aizawa said behind him. Still following. Closer now. “You’re not a villain. Just talk to me.”

“Shut up,” he hissed under his breath. “You don’t get to say that.”

His lungs burned. His leg throbbed. Every step was an argument with pain. He turned sharply through a construction zone—ducking under scaffolding, kicking a rusted trash can behind him to slow pursuit.

A mistake.

The scarf lashed again—caught the hem of his hoodie.

Katsuki twisted hard, yanked out of the cloth with a curse. He hit the ground on his side and rolled, scrambling up just in time to see Aizawa drop into the alley.

Trapped.

High walls. No exit.

Aizawa raised his hands—not attacking. Not yet.

“I don’t know who you are. But I can recognize someone who needs help.” His voice was steady. Quiet. Almost gentle.

Katsuki’s hands shook.

He wanted—so badly—to believe him. To give in. Just for a second.

But all he saw was the League’s base—kidnapped again, after the heroes had kicked him out and left him alone. Chains. A cage of concrete and doubt. The people who never came.

“It’s too late,” Katsuki spat.

Then he turned and ran straight at the wall.

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed—quirk activating.

Too late.

Katsuki vaulted up a stack of discarded crates and jumped , hands catching the rusted fire escape above. He yanked himself up before the scarf could grab his ankle and scrambled to the roof like his life depended on it—because it did.

A shout below: “You’ll get yourself killed!”

“Good!” Katsuki shouted back. “Maybe I will!”

He didn’t look down.

Across the rooftop—onto a billboard frame—then off the edge. He landed on the hood of a parked car with a metal-crunching thud, rolled hard onto the pavement, and limped into the night without stopping.

No more voice. No more footsteps. Aizawa hadn’t followed the drop.

Katsuki didn’t breathe easy until the city swallowed him whole.

–Aizawa–

Aizawa stood in the alley, scarf coiled slack in one hand, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths. The echo of fleeing footsteps had long since faded, swallowed by the maze of rooftops and broken streets. All that remained was the dented car hood, a few torn threads caught on the wind, and the sinking weight in his gut.

Whoever that kid was, he wasn’t just some petty vigilante.

He’d moved with purpose. Precision. Training. But it wasn’t just technique that stuck with Aizawa—it was the way the kid ran. Like every step hurt. Like stopping would’ve killed him faster than whatever was waiting out there in the dark.

He was young. Too young. the shape of his stance—it all tugged at something. A memory blurred by grief.

The boy had flinched when Aizawa spoke to him. Not out of fear. Not guilt, either. It was something deeper. Recognition, maybe. Not of him, but perhaps it was what he represented—authority. 

Aizawa’s jaw tensed.

How many more are out there like that?

Kids who slipped through the cracks. Kids who got hurt and never got help. Those who stopped reaching for the lifelines because they’d been burned too many times.

He looked back up at the rooftops, where the boy had vanished into shadow.

There was no name. No face. Just a battered voice shouting, “Good! Maybe I will!” as he fled from someone who only wanted to help.

Aizawa closed his eyes for a beat. He didn’t whisper an apology aloud—he never did—but it sat heavy in his chest all the same. “I don’t know who you are,” he said quietly, “but someone should’ve been there for you.”

And maybe, if he found him again—next time, he would be.

–Katsuki–

The moment Katsuki stepped through the door—hood pulled low, gait tight from strain—he knew.

Takeshi was waiting for him.

The older man sat in the worn armchair by the window, elbows on his knees, eyes shadowed by the dim orange spill of dawn. The room was still. Too still.

“You think I’m stupid?” Takeshi said, not looking up. His voice was quiet—but sharp enough to cut.

Katsuki froze, one hand still on the doorknob.

Takeshi lifted his head, gaze locking onto his. “You think I didn’t notice the missing boots? The way the front door sticks when you ease it open? The extra scuff marks on the window frame?”

Katsuki's mouth opened, but nothing came out. His throat burned.

“I’ve been letting it slide. Waiting for you to come to me.” Takeshi stood slowly, jaw tight. “But this time? I sat by that window for five hours wondering if you were coming home in a body bag.”

Katsuki stepped forward, chest tight. “I didn’t mean—”

“No,” Takeshi snapped, stepping in close. “You never mean to get hurt. You just do. Again and again. And you think I’ll be here to clean it up.”

“I had to go,” Katsuki growled, fists trembling. “I felt something. I almost—”

“What, died ?” Takeshi barked. “Again? For what?”

Katsuki’s face twisted. “You don’t get it. You don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“Then tell me! ” Takeshi shouted—louder than Katsuki had ever heard him. The force of it cracked something open.

Katsuki’s voice broke. “My soul is still split.”

Silence crashed down between them.

“You knew that already,” he said, quieter now. “But there’s more. It’s getting worse.”

Takeshi’s brow furrowed, watching him closely.

Katsuki went on, breath ragged. “When I fought Overhaul—when his quirk backfired—it caused my soul to further destabilize. now… now it’s coming apart.”

He looked down, jaw clenched.

“My only choice right now is to anchor what’s left of me… or I’ll die.”

Takeshi stared at him like the floor had dropped out from under them both. His eyes searched Katsuki’s face.

“And that’s why I need to find the other half. Soon.” Katsuki continued.

“And what, exactly,” Takeshi asked softly, “did you leave behind that's so important you’d rather die than live without it?”

Katsuki’s breath hitched.

Takeshi wasn’t yelling anymore. That was somehow worse.

“I don’t know,” Katsuki muttered bitterly. “Maybe the part that gave me purpose. Drive . Maybe the fire. Maybe everything that made me me. Or maybe even the parts of me I hated. I don’t know anymore.”

Takeshi stared at him for a long moment, unreadable.

Then, quiet but fierce: “What if the part you left behind isn’t worth dying for?”

The words hit like a gut punch. Katsuki flinched, his pride lashing back before he could stop it. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I know what it looks like when someone tries to die for something they already have,” Takeshi said. “You think that piece of you is the only thing that matters—but Eri doesn’t need your flame. She needs you. And I…”

He stopped himself. Jaw clenched.

“I just want you to stay alive.”

Katsuki turned away. “Stop acting like it’s that simple.”

“Katsuki—”

But he was already storming down the hall.

He lay on the top bunk, staring at the ceiling where Eri’s glow stars clung, barely glowing. His muscles ached. His soul ached worse.

Takeshi’s words kept replaying: What if the part you left behind isn’t worth dying for?

The question didn’t leave him. It clung to him like smoke, curling through his ribs and settling behind his eyes. He couldn’t shake it, couldn’t ignore it—so he did the only thing that felt honest.

He sat still and he thought.

– – – – – –
He first thought about the sports festival.

A roar of applause.

Blinding lights.
A microphone shoved in his face.

“How do you feel about winning first place?”

He could barely look at the reporter. His jaw was tight, his eyes stinging.

The medal around his neck felt like a collar. Heavy. Cold. A reminder.

He remembered the fury boiling inside him—not just because he hadn’t been taken seriously by his opponent—but also because of the humiliation of being tied up in front of thousands of people. But he couldn’t show it—the weakness and hopelessness he felt in that moment—so he defaulted to lashing out.

– – – – – – 

Next, his mind wandered to Kamino.

His mouth gagged.
His limbs bound.
The League’s hideout reeked of copper and smoke—blood in the walls, violence in the air.

“You should be on our side,” they told him.

“You don’t belong with them.”

Because he was angry. Because he was powerful. Because he was volatile.

He’d fought like hell. But there had been a moment—a flicker—where doubt crept in.

They saw something villainous in him.

– – – – – –
Now, he was back in Principal Nezu’s office.

Nezu’s voice, clipped but polite.
Aizawa beside him, silent. Still.

“But what truly cemented our decision was your unwillingness to reflect. To grow.”

“You’ve had every opportunity to change, but there’s no accountability.”

“We cannot, in good conscience, continue to enroll someone with a history of repeated harassment.”

“Effective immediately, you are expelled from U.A. High School.”

No ceremony. No goodbye.
Just a door closing.

Then he was kidnapped again. This time, no hero came to rescue him.

– – – – – – 

Katsuki let out a breath and rubbed his hands over his face, as if he could scrub the memories off his skin. His chest ached with something too old to name.

Every version of himself had been trying. So goddamn hard. Trying to be better. Trying to be stronger. But he was always alone. He pushed people away because he didn’t know how to pull them close. Anger had given him strength, but it had also made him unreachable. Pride had fueled him, but it drove everyone else away. And fear—he hadn’t even known he had any, not until it hollowed him out from the inside

He used to think fear was weakness. So he buried it under volume. He screamed instead of asking, threatened instead of trusting. He mistook cruelty for confidence and mocked what he couldn’t understand. When people got too close, he burned them first—just to make sure they couldn’t burn him.

He’d spat poison at friends who only wanted to help. 

His friends had tried— really tried. Kirishima, with his endless patience and steady loyalty. Mina, always laughing, always pulling him into the group like he belonged there. Sero and Kaminari, idiots to the core but good ones, trying to loop him in, trying to make him laugh. They treated him like a person. Like he was worth the effort. And every time, he pushed them away. Snapped. Insulted. Rolled his eyes and kept his distance like it was armor. Because he didn’t know how to take kindness without feeling like a fraud. Didn’t know how to accept softness without thinking he had to earn it—or destroy it. He was too loud. Too cruel. Too much of an asshole to deserve them. 

So he built walls and pretended it was strength. But the truth was simpler: he didn’t know how to be loved without a fight. He lashed out in frustration when words failed him. Turned every lesson into a competition, every failure into an excuse to fight harder instead of smarter.

He needed to win. Needed to be the best. Not for glory—but because if he wasn’t the best, what was he?

He measured himself in victories. In explosions—In how many people he could outrun, outlast, out-yell. Deep down, there was always this bitter little voice telling him it still wasn’t enough.

That he wasn’t enough.

So he postured, intimidated, and treated vulnerability like a disease he’d never catch. He thought that if anyone saw the cracks—if anyone looked too long—they’d realize he was just a scared, angry kid who had no idea how to be more than that.

All that fire had masked the truth: He didn’t hate other people. He hated himself..

Now, there was no fire. No ambition. At least, not the kind that once roared in his chest.

Just smoke. Ash. Aftermath.

A shadow of something that used to burn.

That version of him scorched everything he touched—left nothing but wreckage, even in the places he tried to protect. He’d always thought he was doing his best.

Maybe that was the problem.

And yet—

He’d saved a kid. Rescued her from a man who twisted her quirk and hurt her without blinking. He’d found himself in a life he hadn’t planned. A small, quiet one. A strange, fragile kind of peace.

People liked him here. They didn’t try to change him. They didn’t ask him to smile.

They just… stayed.

He closed his eyes and let the memory come: He remembered the times Eri’s quirk spiraled out of control—her small body trembling, panic flooding her eyes. Without thinking, he’d stepped in, letting his power wash over her like a steady flame, not to burn, but to soothe. The quiet heat against her skin, the way her breathing slowed under his touch

Then there was Eri’s laughter that morning. The way she’d shyly handed him her drawing—a stick figure with spiky yellow hair, standing between her and Takeshi. Her tiny fingers smudged with marker. Her eyes bright with pride.

She hadn’t called him a hero.

Hadn’t called him a villain.

Just Kacchan.

And Takeshi—The look in his eyes tonight. It wasn’t judgment. Not disappointment.

Fear.

But not of Katsuki.

Fear for him.

Fear of the quiet footsteps that never came back, of another door left swinging open in the dawn. It hadn’t been anger in Takeshi’s voice, it had been desperation.

Because he didn’t want to lose him.

They liked him like this. Quiet. Steady.

Maybe even a little broken.

And then, like a punch to the gut, the thought landed—

What if they couldn’t stand who I used to be?

What if reclaiming his fire—his other half—meant reclaiming everything that came with it?

The rage. The arrogance. The sharpness he’d used like a weapon against anyone who got too close.

What if it brought all of that back?

What if he became that person again?

And lost them.

He’d never had people like this before. Never had a place that felt like anything but a battleground.

He couldn’t lose it.

Wouldn’t.

Katsuki curled in on himself, arms wrapping around his knees, forehead resting on his wrist.

His voice was barely audible. “I’ll anchor it,” he whispered. “What’s left… I’ll keep it.” It wasn’t a triumphant choice. Not a hero’s vow. Not a dramatic turning point.

Just a quiet decision made in the dark.

Heavy. Final.

He wasn’t ready to let go of the life he built.

Chapter Text

He inhaled slowly. Held it. Let it go.

His chest didn’t loosen.

Anchor what’s left.

It sounded so simple in his head. Just anchor it. Just decide. But the moment the thought crossed his mind, it had started to unravel. Because nothing about this was simple. He clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing. He hadn’t come this far to freeze now.

He dropped onto the edge of the bed and braced his elbows on his knees, fingers laced over the back of his neck. The ache in his chest throbbed like a bruise caught under armor.

The decision locked into place with a quiet, terrifying finality.

I’m going to anchor what’s left of me. Today.

He shifted, climbed down the ladder, careful not to wake Eri, then planted himself cross-legged on the hardwood floor beside the bed. Shadows slid over the walls; light seeped through the cracked blinds with the first rays of dawn.

Katsuki rested his palms on his knees.

Inhale—slow, shaky.
Exhale—slower, steady.

He let the hum of the house fall away. Let the memory of Takeshi’s fear settle, heavy but silent. Let the hollow in his chest become the only thing he felt, a deep pull at the center of him.

Find the flame. Grasp the thread.

The room dissolved.

The floor dropped.

And the darkness opened beneath him, drawing him down—toward mist, toward shore, toward the half of himself he had come to confront.

– – – – – –

The first thing Katsuki felt was warmth.

Not sunlight. Not fire. Just… presence.

It wrapped around him like the heat of cooling embers—soft but alive, curling against his skin even as the world remained shrouded in mist. He was standing on sand, the ground beneath his boots felt like memory: shifting, unstable, made of dust and old ash. The air pulsed with golden fog, thick and slow-moving, drifting like smoke through an unseen current.

The sky was dark, but the mist danced along the waves, glowing and shifting. 

And a figure ahead—half-lost in the haze, stretched out along the edge of the world like he owned it.

Katsuki stepped forward, his boots made no sound.

The figure lounged in the sand with his arms folded behind his head, one leg bent at the knee, the other outstretched. He didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes. But Katsuki didn’t need him to.

He knew exactly who he was looking at.

Same shape. Same hair. Same stubborn jawline that refused to relax even at rest. But the version before him was lit from within—faint and flickering, like a flame trapped in glass. His skin shimmered faintly, shot through with veins of dull orange light. There was no mistaking it.

His flame.

Katsuki took another step. Then another.

The figure didn’t open his eyes. “Well, shit,” he said, voice roughened with smoke and something dangerously close to amusement. “Took you long enough.”

Katsuki frowned. “Wasn’t sure it’d work.”

“Tch.” The flame stretched without getting up, bones popping like embers crackling. “Lucky for you, I’ve been bored as hell.”

Katsuki didn’t respond. He just stood there, watching the shimmer of light move across his double’s skin—faint pulses of heat under the surface, like an engine waiting to ignite. The flame sighed and sat up slowly, dusting mist from his sleeves that wasn’t really there.

“I was wondering when you’d figure out how to knock,” he said. “Thought maybe I’d have to set off another dream. Maybe scream through your chest again.”

“That was you? ” Katsuki muttered.

“Obviously.”

There was no humor in the smirk that followed—just sharpness. An edge that hadn’t dulled, even separated.

“Hope the hints helped,” the flame went on. “Those goons the League recruited? They’re all funneling in from the south docks. Shipment tomorrow. You’re welcome.”

Katsuki narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been feeding me intel?”

“I can’t leave,” the flame said, almost casual. “But I can see what he sees. All For One. We’re still connected, like it or not. His brain’s a garbage fire of ego and delusion, but he doesn’t shield much from me.”

Katsuki’s hands curled slightly at his sides.

“So you’ve been watching him.”

“I’ve been watching everything. You think you’re the only one falling apart?”

There was weight in that.

More than Katsuki wanted to unpack.

The flame leaned forward, elbows on his knees, red eyes glinting beneath spiked bangs.

“All For One’s rebuilding,” he said flatly. “Faster than he should be. You want to stop him, you’re running out of time.”

Katsuki’s jaw tensed. His mouth opened—“I know,” he said. Then: “But that’s not why I’m here.”

That brought silence.

The flame blinked once. Slowly. Like it took a second to process.

“…No?” he said.

Katsuki didn’t flinch. “No.”

“Huh.” The flame sat up straighter. “So then what—”

He paused.

Then scowled.

“What the hell did you do to your hair?”

Katsuki blinked.

“What?”

“Are you serious?” The flame made a vague motion toward Katsuki’s head. “It’s all black now. You look like you dipped your head in motor oil. What the fuck happened to blond and explosive?”

Katsuki rolled his eyes, the tension breaking for half a second. “It keeps me hidden.”

The flame raised a brow. “From who?”

“Everyone,” Katsuki muttered. “The heroes are after me.”

That smirk twisted into something darker.

“So you’re hiding, then.”

“It’s not—”

“No, no, by all means, explain how ditching everything that makes you recognizable isn’t hiding.” The flame’s voice dropped a little. “You always were good at running. Guess now you just figured out how to blend in while you do it.”

Katsuki took a step forward, teeth clenched. “I’m not here to argue.”

“Then why are you here?” the flame snapped, heat curling at the edges of his words now. “Why’d you finally come crawling back?”

Katsuki’s answer was quiet—but clear. “I’ve made my choice,” he said. “I’m going to anchor what’s left of me.”

The flame stilled.

Then slowly, his expression shifted—first into disbelief. Then into something sharper.

“You what? ”

“I’m not waiting around anymore,” Katsuki said. “I’m gonna anchor what I have left. If you won’t help me, I’ll figure it out myself.”

The heat around them began to rise—subtle, but unmistakable. 

The flame’s hands clenched on his knees. “Oh,” he said softly. “So that’s what this is.” His eyes sparked. “Guess we’re done playing nice.”

The heat thickened—slow at first, like a pressure drop before a storm.

Katsuki didn’t move.

The flame rose to his feet in one fluid motion, mist curling around his boots like smoke dragged in reverse. His shoulders were taut, jaw clenched, red eyes burning brighter now—less ember, more inferno.

“You seriously think you can just come in here and tell me you’re gonna anchor what’s left like I’m some piece of furniture you forgot to take with you?”

Katsuki kept his voice steady. “You’re part of me.”

“Damn right I am,” the flame snapped. “And you left me. You ripped me out and let me rot in that freak’s head.”

“I didn’t choose that—”

“Bullshit!” The flame took a step closer. “You’ve been choosing. Every fucking day you’ve stayed hidden. Every time you let that mechanic patch you up instead of going to someone who could actually help. Every time you let people believe you were dead instead of facing what you left behind.”

“I couldn’t—!”

“Couldn’t what? ” the flame shouted. “Face them? Face yourself? You think I wanted to end up trapped watching that sick bastard rebuild himself like some twisted goddamn scarecrow?”

Mist cracked underfoot, flaring with light. The flame’s hands were clenched tight at his sides, trembling with fury. “You talk big about anchoring what’s left, but you don’t even know what the fuck that means, do you?”

Katsuki’s lip curled. “No. That’s why I’m asking you.”

The flame laughed—sharp and bitter. “You’ve got some nerve.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Katsuki snapped. “You said it yourself—AFO’s getting stronger. We’re running out of time.”

“We?” The flame sneered. “There is no we, Katsuki. You made sure of that the second you decided you were better off without me.”

“That’s not—!”

“Yes, it is!” The flame’s voice cracked like a whip. “You’re scared. And you’ve been hiding behind that fear for months—painting it as survival. Calling it growth. But it’s just more cowardice.”

Katsuki’s fists shook. “You think I’m not scared?! Of course I’m scared, you asshole! I almost died. I did lose everything. You think walking around half a soul is some kind of goddamn vacation?!”

“I think you like it,” the flame hissed. “I think you prefer being softer. Quieter. Easier to forgive. You’ve been building yourself a nice little life without the mess—without the me. And you’re terrified that getting me back means losing all of it.”

Katsuki’s stomach twisted. The words landed too hard. Too close to home. He took a breath and tried to steady himself, but failed. “You push people away,” he said, voice rough. “You lash out. You burn every bridge before anyone can cross it. You think I’m scared of what you’ll bring back? I already lived with you. You made sure no one could ever get close.”

The flame’s expression flickered—hurt, for just a second. But it hardened fast. “You think I’m the reason they left?” he spat. “You think it was me who drove them away? No, dumbass. That was you. That was all you.”

“Because you wouldn’t let me feel anything!” Katsuki yelled. “You were always there—raging, shouting, demanding more. Even when I was a kid, you were the one screaming that being weak was unforgivable. That kindness was a waste. You made me hate myself.”

Silence.

The mist stilled.

The flame’s face twisted into something unreadable. His next words were quieter—too quiet. “Then why are you here now?” he asked. “If I’m such a curse, why even bother?”

Katsuki’s breath shook in his chest. “Because I don’t want to die,” he said. “But I also don’t want to become you. ”

The flame stared at him for a long, long moment. Then he laughed—low, sharp, and hollow. “Well, fuck you too.”

He stepped back. The mist responded instantly—coiling around his form like a living thing, glowing brighter, hotter. “You want to anchor what’s left?” the flame snarled. “If you hate me that much,” he hissed, voice rising, “then I’ll make it easy for you. I’ll really show you what it’s like to live without me. No more sparks. No more heat. No more warnings. Let’s see how far you get when you’ve buried every last part of yourself that ever fucking mattered. ”

“Wait—don’t—!”

But it was already happening.

The flame’s body fractured—like a reflection shattering on water. Cracks of light split down his arms, across his chest. His glare was the last thing to fade.

“Good luck, coward.”

And then he was gone.

Swallowed by mist. Swallowed by silence.

Katsuki jolted upright with a strangled breath—sharp and animal-like, as if he’d surfaced from drowning.

– – – – – – –

The room was dark. Too dark. The kind of dark that felt unnatural. The low glow from the morning rays peeking through the blinds had dimmed to a thin, lifeless gray. The air was cold.

Too cold.

His skin prickled.

He sat frozen on the floor beside his bed, chest heaving, sweat cooling too fast on his neck and collarbone. The boards beneath him were solid—real. His knees ached from sitting too long. Everything was real.

Except it wasn’t.

Not completely.

Something was missing.

Katsuki’s eyes darted to the side, as if expecting the shadows to move. As if the flame might still be there, flickering at the edge of vision, cracking a shitty smirk and saying, “Still not dead? Impressive.”

But there was nothing.

The silence wasn’t still. It was hollow.

Like something had been carved out of the air and hadn’t healed.

Katsuki lifted a hand toward his chest. The space behind his sternum, where the burn usually sat—dim but alive—felt… wrong. There was no warmth, no pulse, no tether. It was like someone had gutted him and stitched the skin closed without putting anything back inside.

He clenched his jaw and tried to shove it down. Tried to breathe. But the fear hit harder this time. It wasn’t panic, not fire. Just cold. Bone-deep. 

The flame was really gone. And he hadn’t realized until now just how much of his self had still been anchored by that presence—however distant, however angry. The tether had been fraying for weeks. But it had still existed.

Until now.

Katsuki doubled over, elbows to his knees, hands clutching his hair. His breath came too fast, shallow and thin.

“Let’s see how far you get…”

He remembered the flame’s last words, spat with venom and fire.

“Let’s see how far you get when you’ve buried every last part of yourself that ever fucking mattered.”

Katsuki’s nails bit into his scalp. His throat locked around a sound he didn’t want to make.

He hadn’t just lost his fire, he’d pushed it away. And now, for the first time in his life, Katsuki Bakugo was completely— truly —alone. No quirk. No flame. No path forward.

Just a shadow.

But it was better this way.

Katsuki sucked in a sharp breath and forced his hands to still. The tremble in his chest, the crack along his ribs—it would pass. It had to. This was just the aftermath, just the weight of change settling in.

The cold wasn’t emptiness.

It was clarity.

He closed his eyes and sat up straighter, back stiff against the bed frame. His breath came slower now, measured. Controlled. The way it was supposed to be. There was no fire snapping at his heels. No voice in the back of his head, pushing, mocking, shouting. No more rage to corrode his edges. No more need to prove something to anyone.

The silence wasn’t hollow.

It was peace.

Yeah. That’s what this was. Peace.

He swallowed once more and let the numbness settle.

This was what normal people felt like. This was what being okay was supposed to be. He could live like this. He would live like this. Without the heat. Without the noise. Without the part of him that always threatened to break something.

He could still be useful. He could still be kind. He could still try.

So what if it hurt?

Pain didn’t mean he was wrong, it just meant he’d finally let go. And wasn’t that what everyone wanted from him in the first place?

Katsuki laid back against the floor, the room still cold and quiet, and stared up at the ceiling.

The morning light slanted low across the floorboards, soft and golden in that early-hour way. It shouldn’t have felt tense. But it did.

Takeshi stood in the hallway, coffee in hand, one shoulder braced against the doorframe.

Katsuki had emerged from his room only minutes ago—hair still damp from a quick rinse, hoodie thrown on over a clean shirt. His movements were smooth. Unbothered. He didn’t look like someone who’d cracked open his soul and watched it burn.

Takeshi cleared his throat.

“Hey.”

Katsuki glanced up, moving to the stove. “Morning.”

His voice was light. Not chipper, but far from guarded. No edge.

Takeshi frowned.

“I… I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he said. “For this morning. I lost my temper.”

Katsuki shrugged, nonchalant. “S’okay. You were right.” There was no bitterness in the words. No heat. Just fact.

That was the first red flag.

Takeshi stepped in a little further. “Still. I shouldn’t’ve come at you like that. You’ve been through hell. I should’ve handled it better.”

“I’m fine,” Katsuki said, flipping the eggs without even looking. “Really.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” He turned, offering a half-smile. “Don’t beat yourself up. You called me out. I needed it.”

Takeshi blinked.

Katsuki set a plate on the table. Pulled out a chair. Sat down, all without so much as a grunt or complaint. The tension that usually bristled beneath his skin—gone. That coiled-wire energy he carried, always half-ready to snap, was missing .

He chewed. Swallowed. Offered Takeshi a look that should’ve read at ease .

It didn’t. It read hollow.

“Kid,” Takeshi said carefully.

Katsuki looked up, his expression was light. Too light. “Yeah?”

That smile again. Easy, unbothered. Almost… cheerful.

Takeshi’s eyes narrowed—not with suspicion, but something deeper. Wary concern. “You okay?”

Katsuki nodded—too fast, too smooth. “Better, actually.” The words slid out like they didn’t cost him a thing. And that smile stayed in place, practiced and steady. Just soft enough to seem real. Just shallow enough to be wrong.

It didn’t touch his eyes.

Takeshi didn’t press. Not yet. He just watched as Katsuki turned back to his plate.

And his gut twisted.

Whatever this was—it didn’t feel like peace.

It felt like absence.

For three days, Katsuki was perfect.

He rose before the alarm, already halfway dressed and halfway done with breakfast by the time Takeshi came downstairs. He cooked without complaint. He even helped out in the shop. He had sorted bolts by size and sharpened every tool with meticulous care.

Not a single mutter. Not a single sigh. Not one spark of the usual friction that used to dance between them like static.

It was wrong.

Not in a way you could point at. Not on the surface.

On the surface, it was the kind of dream Takeshi might’ve wished for weeks ago—when Katsuki was reckless, stubborn, and cracking under the weight of everything he wouldn’t say out loud.

But now?

Now, he was composed. Respectful. Helpful. Too helpful.

Takeshi watched him like a man tracking the edge of a storm—waiting for a gust, a flicker of lightning, something to break the stillness.

But it didn’t come.

Katsuki didn’t raise his voice when he dropped a wrench on his foot. He didn’t scowl when Eri accidentally spilled juice on his clean shirt. He didn’t even slam a cupboard when the hinges stuck like they always did.

He didn’t call Takeshi a geezer. Not once.

Instead—

“Takeshi, hand me that wrench?”
“Takeshi, I made lunch.”
“Takeshi, I restocked the cubbard.”

It was the name, more than anything else, that landed wrong in Takeshi’s ears. Too flat. Too polite. It was like someone reading a script. It should’ve felt like growth. Like healing. Like the beginning of something steadier. But all it felt like… was grief. It was like mourning something not yet dead, but already gone.

Katsuki had been a far cry from the boy he’d bet on in the sports festival—but something was still there. Subdued, but present. 

But now, that boy hadn’t softened.

He’d vanished.

And Takeshi had seen enough people hollow themselves out in the name of survival to know what it looked like.

This wasn’t peace.

This was erasure.

–Katsuki–

The idea came to him suddenly, like a flicker of instinct—blunt and unshaped.

Ice cream. He remembered telling Eri about it once—in the prison cell the Hassaikai called a bedroom. He wanted to take her, but he was too busy looking for his flame.

Now he had time. And energy. And clarity.

Or something that looked like it.

“Hey,” he said over breakfast, placing a bowl of cut fruit in front of her. “You want to try that ice cream I told you about?”

Eri looked up, blinking in surprise. “Really?”

Katsuki shrugged, a half-smile on his lips. “Yeah. You’ve earned it.”

Her eyes widened, hesitant at first—but then she nodded, quick and eager. “Okay.”

Takeshi, seated at the table with his coffee halfway to his lips, didn’t say anything. But Katsuki caught the faintest furrow in his brow.

– – – – – – – –

They walked into town just before noon, the sun bright but gentle, the breeze tossing their hair. Eri clung to his sleeve at first, her steps small and unsure, but she warmed up quickly—talking about her latest drawing, about how Takeshi was teaching her to use a screwdriver, about how there was a baby bunny in the yard that kept running away when she tried to pet it.

Katsuki smiled. Laughed, even. It was easy.

Too easy.

The words came without effort. His tone was lighter than it had been in years. No harshness, no fire.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t shrink back.

They reached the little corner shop nestled between an old pawn store and a laundromat. Katsuki let her pick whatever she wanted. She stared at the display case like it held the secrets of the universe before finally settling on rainbow sherbet in a waffle cone.

He got chocolate.

For a moment, it felt almost normal.

Almost.

– – – – – – – –

The street was quiet on the walk back. A lazy kind of quiet. Sun dappled across the pavement. Katsuki walked on the outside edge of the sidewalk, half-distracted, half-aware. He wasn’t armed. Didn’t think he needed to be.

Until the sound came. There was a scuffle behind a dumpster—a hissed whisper and the subtle crunch of a bottle underfoot.

Katsuki turned, heart rate picking up.

And then it hit.

Two men rounded the alley mouth, one tall, one short—both wearing cracked sunglasses and clothes too heavy for the heat. One of them cracked his knuckles. The other grinned, crooked teeth showing.

“Well, well,” said the tall one, eyeing Katsuki’s frame. “Didn’t think we’d get this lucky.”

Katsuki stepped forward, placing himself between them and Eri.

The shorter one chuckled. “Oh a tough guy.”

Eri grabbed his hand.

Katsuki’s mind screamed move —but his body didn’t follow. Not fast enough. Not sharp enough. No fight boiled under his skin.

It was just... empty.

His throat closed. His feet froze.

One of the men stepped forward.

Katsuki grabbed Eri and ran. They turned down the alley, Katsuki’s boots skidding on loose gravel. Eri clutched his jacket with both hands, stumbling to keep up. A shadow moved to block their path ahead. Katsuki twisted, searching for an opening, any exit—but they were boxed in now, one way in, no way out. The brick walls stretched too high. His breath came too shallow.

No plan. No power.

Nothing.

The taller thug reached into his coat.

“Stop!” Katsuki shouted, voice raw.

The man laughed. “What are you gonna do, scream at me?”

And then—

A blur of motion. A clang. A grunt of pain.

The man staggered backward, a wrench bouncing off his head.

Takeshi stepped into the alley like a damn freight train, a length of pipe clenched in one fist, his other arm already moving in a wide swing.

Katsuki staggered back, dragging Eri against the wall.

The second thug lunged, but Takeshi was already there—low, solid, a mechanic’s weight behind every blow. It was over in seconds. One man groaning on the ground. The other unconscious.

Takeshi didn’t say anything. He just looked at Katsuki.

Katsuki opened his mouth, then closed it.

“I was watching,” Takeshi said, voice low and ragged. “I knew something wasn’t right.” He didn’t yell. Didn’t ask questions. Just reached out, checked Eri with quick, practiced hands. She was shaking, but unhurt. “Let’s go,” he muttered, pulling them toward the street.

Katsuki followed without a word.

– – – – – – – –

The drive back was silent.

Takeshi’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Eri sat between them, curled into her seat, one hand in Katsuki’s.

The silence felt like punishment.

– – – – – – – –

The truck rumbled to a stop in the gravel.

Takeshi sat behind the wheel, silent, one hand still gripping the gearshift like he hadn’t quite remembered to let go. His jaw was locked. His knuckles white. The engine popped as it cooled, it was the only sound in the heavy stillness between them. “Eri,” he said without turning. His voice was soft, but it left no room for argument. “Go inside, sweetheart.”

She didn’t move at first.

Katsuki glanced down and found her still clutching his hand, her little fingers tight around his own. Her eyes flicked between the two of them. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice gentle. “Go on.”

She hesitated, then nodded slowly and slipped out of the truck. The door shut behind her with a soft clunk , and the porch light caught the corner of her white and blue hair as she padded inside.

Then it was just them.

The weight of it fell instantly.

Takeshi didn’t start the conversation. Not right away. He just sat there, staring through the windshield like it could give him answers. Then, finally, he spoke. Quiet. Rough. “I followed you.”

Katsuki didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t trust it. The way you smiled. The way you talked. It wasn’t right.”

Still no response.

“I didn’t want to believe it at first,” Takeshi said, voice sharpening. “I thought maybe I was just being a paranoid old man. But today? When those guys came at you and you froze—” He broke off, breathing hard through his nose. “What the hell happened back there?”

Katsuki’s mouth was a hard, flat line. He kept his eyes forward, hands folded in his lap like a kid waiting for punishment.

“I asked you a question.”

“I know,” Katsuki muttered.

“Well?”

He let out a breath. “I just froze..”

“Why didn’t you fight?”

No answer.

“You’ve been real polite lately,” Takeshi said after a moment, and now the anger was bleeding into it—raw and exhausted.

Katsuki blinked. “Yeah?”

“Too polite.”

Katsuki forced a faint smirk. “Guess I’m growing up.”

Takeshi didn’t smile back. “Don’t bullshit me.”

The air changed. Katsuki stiffened, his back going straight. “I’m not.”

“You think I don’t know what a mask looks like?” Takeshi’s voice dropped low. “You think I can’t tell when someone’s bleeding under their skin?”

Katsuki’s expression twitched—just once. But it was enough.

“You’ve been walking around like someone scraped all the fight outta you. Like there’s nothing left under the hood. No spark. No edge.” Takeshi’s hands flexed against the wheel. “I haven’t seen it. Not once. Not even when Eri got crumbs in the bed.”

Katsuki looked down. “That wasn’t worth yelling about.”

“It was last week.”

Silence.

“I ain’t seen you lose your temper. Not once. I ain’t seen you snap, or grumble, or raise your damn voice. You haven’t called me a geezer in days. You’ve just been…” He trailed off, searching for the word. “Empty.”

Still, Katsuki didn’t speak.

Takeshi looked at him, really looked at him. And when he spoke again, the heat was gone.

“I’m not mad you made a choice,” he said. “I’m mad you didn’t tell me it was killing you.”

“It’s not,” Katsuki said, but the words were too soft. Too thin.

“Bullshit.”

More silence.

Takeshi’s eyes never left him. “You anchored it, didn’t you?”

Katsuki flinched. But this time, he didn’t lie.

“No.”

A beat passed.

Takeshi’s brow furrowed. “Then what the hell happened?”

Katsuki looked away, voice low—flat, almost, like the words had to fight their way out.

“He left.”

Takeshi blinked. “What?”

“My flame, my other half.” Katsuki said, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t anchor him. I was going to. I thought it was the only way to keep from falling apart.” His throat tightened. “But I pissed him off. And he walked out.”

The silence that followed was jagged. Takeshi didn’t speak, didn’t move. Just stared, absorbing the weight of what Katsuki had said.

“He said if I hated him that much… if I was so sure I could live without him, then I should try it.” Katsuki’s jaw flexed. “He meant it.”

The words hung there, heavy and unsteady.

Takeshi exhaled, slow. “Jesus, kid…”

“I thought I was making the right choice,” Katsuki murmured, his eyes glassy, distant. “I thought I was keeping you and Eri safe. That if I buried the worst parts of me, maybe I’d stop hurting people.” He swallowed. “But all I did was carve myself hollow.”

Takeshi’s expression cracked—not with anger, but something closer to grief.

And he finally understood why Katsuki’s smile had looked so wrong. Why the house had felt quieter, colder. Not from lack of noise.

But from the absence of something burning.

Katsuki’s voice cracked. “I’m afraid. Of facing it,” he said. “All of it. What I used to be. What I did.” The words tumbled out, hoarse and quiet. “It’s easier this way. If I just forget. If I pretend I never—”

“Don’t,” Takeshi said gently. “Don’t lie to yourself.”

Katsuki’s hands curled into fists in his lap, knuckles pale with strain.

“You’ve got every right to regret,” Takeshi continued. “You’d be hard pressed to find anyone who doesn’t. And the ones without regrets?” He let out a bitter chuckle. “They’re fools.”

Katsuki said nothing.

“Regret means you give a damn. It means you’re changing. But pretending it never happened? That ain’t healing. That’s hiding.”

Katsuki’s shoulders hunched. He looked smaller than Takeshi had ever seen him.

“Kid…” Takeshi’s voice cracked. “That version of you—he wasn’t all bad.”

Katsuki scoffed, but it was weak. More pain than pride.

“I mean it,” Takeshi said. “That fire, that bite—you used it to survive. You used it to protect people. That pride? It got you out of bed when you should’ve stayed down. That anger? It scared the hell outta the right people.”

Katsuki blinked fast. The truck cab felt too quiet now. Like grief pressing in around the edges. “I just…” he swallowed hard, “I don’t wanna lose what I have now. Not you. Not Eri. If I bring that part of me back—what if you don’t like who I turn into?” His voice broke. “What if the old me comes back and ruins everything?”

He didn’t mean to cry. Didn’t mean for it to escape his chest. But the tears came fast—silent and angry. He scrubbed at his face like it offended him. Like it betrayed him. “I’d rather die like this,” he rasped, “than live like him .”

Takeshi turned toward him. There was nothing soft in his face—just grief and steadiness, deep and grounded. “You think this life we built came from nothing?”

Katsuki didn’t answer.

“That part of you,” Takeshi said, “he’s still you . And what you’ve learned here? It’s not gonna disappear just because you get your fire back. If anything, it'll give you perspective. A shitty way to grow, sure—but it's growth all the same.”

Katsuki didn’t speak.

“You think we’d be here if you weren’t already changing?” Takeshi asked. “You’re not two people. You’re one soul. One goddamn stubborn, fire-forged soul. You think I’m gonna walk away ‘cause you shout again? ‘Cause you go back to calling me names?”

Katsuki laughed bitterly, wiping his face with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“I love you, kid,” Takeshi said. “Even when you’re a mess. Especially when you’re a mess.”

Katsuki looked away, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. He didn’t want to believe him. But a part of him—some buried, scorched part—ached to.

Takeshi reached for the door handle. “When you’re ready to stop pretending this doesn’t hurt,” he said quietly, “I’ll be here.” He stepped out of the truck, boots crunching gravel, and shut the door behind him.

Katsuki stayed where he was.

Sat in the passenger seat, staring at the wheel. At his hands. At nothing.

And for the first time, he felt the absence like a wound.

He made a mistake. And he needed to make it right.

The ocean welcomed him again.

It was still. Vast. Wrapped in that same thick mist that swallowed the horizon. There was no wind, no sky—only the faint amber glow that shimmered from somewhere deep within the fog, casting flickering warmth over the water like firelight.

Katsuki stood at the shoreline, toes sinking into the cool sand. His breath came unsteady, like his lungs hadn’t quite remembered how to work since the last time he was here.

He knew what he had to do now.

No more pretending. No more masks.

He stepped forward, one foot at a time, until the mist began to peel back—

And there he was.

His flame.

Reclined in the shallows like before, hands behind his head, eyes closed against the low-burning glow. He looked the same—Katsuki’s same sharp features, same scarred knuckles, same posture of defiant ease—but there was a crackle in the air now. An edge to the quiet. Like someone holding in a scream with their teeth.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve showing up here again,” the flame muttered without opening his eyes.

Katsuki didn’t flinch. “Yeah. I know.”

The flame sat up slowly, dragging his hands through his hair, which sparked faintly as if it were embers smoldering down the sides of his face. His gaze snapped to Katsuki like a punch.

“You threw me out like garbage.”

“I was scared.”

“No shit, you were scared,” the flame growled, standing now, chest heaving. “You threw me away and ran . You said I burned everything—well guess what, genius, you don’t get to decide who burns and who doesn't. You need me.”

Katsuki took a breath and looked his flame in the eye.

“I didn’t anchor you,” he said quietly. “I was going to. I almost did. But you left first.”

The flame scoffed. “Damn right I did.”

“I didn’t know it would feel like this.”

“Bullshit,” the flame snapped. “You knew exactly what it’d feel like. You just didn’t want to admit it.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. “I thought I’d feel lighter.”

“And look at you now,” the flame barked a dry, bitter laugh. 

“I know,” Katsuki said quietly.

“Oh, now you know. That what you figured out while you were busy folding laundry and grinning like a lobotomized golden retriever? Three days of perfect manners and dead eyes. Real inspiring,” the flame continued, stepping closer, heat rolling off him in waves. “You traded your fire for a fucking mask.”

Katsuki bit the inside of his cheek.

The flame stepped closer, every step lighting the mist beneath his feet. “You didn’t even try to understand. Just shoved me down and pretended life was better without me. Well? How’d that work out?”

“I froze,” Katsuki admitted. “Some assholes came at us in an alley. Eri was there. And I just—froze. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t protect her.”

That stopped the flame cold.

“I ran ,” Katsuki added. “And Takeshi had to step in.”

The flame stared at him. Quiet now. But not soft. 

“…I don’t want to lose you,” Katsuki said, voice low and rough.

The flame blinked, anger flickering behind his eyes. “You don’t?”

Katsuki shook his head. “You were the reason I stood up. Fought back. Held the damn line even when everything was falling apart. Yeah, you were a jackass. But you never gave up. Not once.”

“…Damn right I didn’t,” the flame muttered. “I don’t quit. I don’t curl up and wait for someone else to fix it.”

“But you also burned everything in your path,” Katsuki said. “And I let that happen. I let you run the show, and we both paid the price.”

They stared at each other then—two sides of the same storm.

“You’re not blameless either,” the flame snapped. “You’re the one who buried me. Who walked around like some dead-eyed husk while your guts twisted into knots. You faked peace. You lied to the people who gave a shit about you.”

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You were a coward,” the flame spat. “You still are. Running from your responsibilities. From your past. From your fucking self .”

“I am scared,” Katsuki said, breathing through it. “But I don’t want to live without fire. I just want to carry it differently.”

The flame’s glare didn’t ease. But something shifted in the set of his shoulders. A hesitation. “So what,” he said finally, “you want us to play nice? Hold hands? Braid each other’s hair?”

Katsuki rolled his eyes. “I want us to work together.”

The flame raised an eyebrow. “Even though I’m the part of you you’re ashamed of?”

Katsuki met his gaze without flinching. “Even though I’m the part of you that got us hurt. The part that was scared. The part that was weak.”

A beat.

Then the flame huffed out something like a bitter laugh. The mist pulsed gently around them, glowing like embers beneath the waves.

Katsuki stared at the flame—his flame—and took a breath so deep it shook. “I need to say it,” he said quietly. “All of it. What I was. What I am .”

The flame folded his arms, skeptical but silent.

Katsuki’s voice was raw. “I was selfish. I thought strength meant being better than everyone else. I pushed people away just to feel like I was on top. I used to tear into people just for trying to help. Hell, I bullied the one person who looked up to me, just because I thought he was annoying.”

The words scraped on the way out.

“I was jealous. I was scared. But instead of admitting it, I turned it into rage. I thought being angry would keep me from breaking. But all I did was shatter everything around me.”

The flame didn’t interrupt.

“I hurt my friends. I acted like I didn’t care, but I did. I always did. I just… didn’t know how to show it without setting the room on fire.” He looked away, jaw tight. “I was an asshole. I am an asshole. And maybe the only reason people stuck around was because they didn’t know how to leave.”

The flame snorted softly. “You done feeling sorry for yourself yet?”

Katsuki flinched.

“Yeah, you were all that,” the flame said, stepping closer. “But you were also the first one to jump in front of a hit that wasn’t meant for you. You stood your ground in Kamino when everything was burning. You took on shit no one else could handle, even when you were running on fumes. You cared so fucking much, you thought you had to hold the weight alone. 

“My turn now,” the flame continued. “You hated the part of you that screamed. I hated the part that didn’t . The part that sat in the silence afterward. That stayed up at night wondering if maybe UA was right to expel me. If maybe you did push too hard. If maybe you are too much.” He paused, jaw tight. “I hated the ache in my chest after a fight with mom. I hated the hollowness when the compliments stopped. The part that remembered .” His gaze burned, but the heat felt different now—like coals instead of flame. “I hated that shit,” he said, voice lower. “The stillness. The second-guessing. The guilt. I could scream through a thousand battles, but I couldn’t stand the quiet that came after.”

He dragged a hand down his face, frustration flickering at the edges.

“But even that— even that —was something good, wasn’t it?” He gave a dry, humorless laugh. “That guilt? That ache? That’s what kept you from turning into a monster. That’s what made you care . It’s what made you rescue Eri instead of focusing on your own goals. What made you show up for your dumbass friends, even when you didn’t know how to say sorry.”

Katsuki’s breath hitched.

The flame shrugged, mouth twitching in a crooked almost-smile. “You’re right, by the way. I burned through everything. I was pride and pain and rage on a leash—and you let me run wild. But you? You were the anchor. You were the one who gave a damn.”

He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers like he didn’t quite recognize them.

“Truth is,” he said quietly, “I was scared too.”

Katsuki blinked.

“I’m the part of you that fights . But that doesn’t mean I always knew what we were fighting for.” He shook his head. “And without you—without the part that remembers why we care—I’m just fire. I don’t burn for anything.”

Katsuki looked at him—really looked—and stepped forward. “You’re the part of me that never backs down. You’re the reason I fought back in that basement. The reason I kept breathing when everything hurt. You hate losing, but you hate giving up more. You’re grit. Fire. Survival.”

They stood close now. Eye to eye.

“You're not just rage,” Katsuki said. “You're will.”

“And you’re not just guilt,” the flame said. “You're heart , you dumbass.”

Silence pulsed between them. No wind. No waves. Just them.

Two halves of one battered, burning soul.

Katsuki let the tension fall from his shoulders. For the first time, he wasn’t afraid to see himself reflected. “I don’t want to fight anymore,” he said. “Not you. Not me.”

The flame nodded, slower this time. Like it actually meant something.

They stood there—mirror and flame. Pride and regret. Heart and fury. Fire and fracture. Scorch and shadow.

Then the flame stepped forward.

“Fine. You drive,” he said. “I’ll back you up. Still won’t feel whole ‘til we finish this—until you get me back for real. But I’ll give you what I can.”

He held out a hand—fierce and steady.

“But promise me,” he said, voice low and cutting, “when we fuse again—when you finally stop screwing around and bring all of me back—you don’t forget who the hell we are.”

Katsuki took his hand.

Their grip was solid. Forged in fire.

“I promise.”

“No forgetting,” the flame said again.

“No burying,” Katsuki answered.

And something in the mist pulsed—hot, bright, alive.

The flame narrowed his eyes. “Then let’s do this right.”

– – – – – – – –

Katsuki woke up with heat blooming faint in his chest.

Not whole.

Not yet.

But no longer hollow.

The warmth of the shop’s dim light spilled across his face, soft and golden. He could hear the tick of the wall clock, the hum of the old generator outside—the world pressing in gently, grounding him again. After the roar of fire and soul and shadow, the quiet was deafening.

But for once, it didn’t feel empty.

He inhaled slowly.

The flame wasn’t gone anymore.

Not whole, not yet—but close enough to feel. A presence curled in the corner of his soul, not snarling, not seething—just there . No longer screaming for control. Just watching. Holding steady. Backing him up.

Katsuki sat up, body aching from the strain of being still too long. His hands flexed in his lap—not with fury, not with fear—but with something new.

Focus.

He stood, his joints cracking slightly, and stepped out into the shop.

The workshop was quiet, lit only by a single hanging bulb over Takeshi’s bench. The man himself sat hunched over it, goggles pushed up onto his forehead, soldering iron idle in one hand. He didn’t look up right away—but Katsuki knew he’d been waiting. Listening.

Takeshi immediately noticed the change.

“I thought you were gone,” Takeshi said at last, voice low. “Last time I saw you, you were nothing but a shadow.”

Katsuki stepped forward until they were side by side. No posturing. No walls. Just truth.

“Something changed,” he said.

Takeshi finally looked at him. His gaze scanned Katsuki’s face, like he was checking for cracks.

“And?” he asked.

“I talked to him,” Katsuki said. “The flame. My other half.”

Takeshi’s eyes narrowed slightly. He set the soldering iron down with care. “And?”

“I didn’t anchor this half,” Katsuki admitted. “Not yet. Most of him’s still out there. With All For One.. But… a part of him’s back. With me. For now.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with implication.

Takeshi nodded once, slow and deliberate. “So… what now?”

Katsuki hesitated. His fingers traced the edge of a stripped gear on the workbench, grounding himself. The smell of oil and iron clung to the air. It felt safe.

“I want to finish this,” he said. “I have to get close to the League again. That’s the only way I can find the rest of my soul. I can feel it—it’s pulling me.”

Takeshi didn’t speak. But the shift in the room was instant.

Tension wound tight, sharp as wire.

“I don’t like it,” Takeshi said finally. His voice wasn’t angry. It was tired. Frayed. “Not after what happened last time. I told myself if you ever walked back through that door, I wouldn’t let you throw yourself into that fire again.”

His eyes met Katsuki’s, and for a moment, he looked older than he ever had before. Like every lost year, every regret he carried was written plain across his face.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t lose you,” he said, voice thick. “Not again.”

The words sank deep—into bone, into blood. Katsuki felt them curl around his ribs like a second spine. A lifeline. A weight. “I know,” he said. Quiet. Honest.

Takeshi’s hand came up, resting on his shoulder, firm and calloused. The kind of touch that didn’t demand anything. That just stayed. “You’ve built something real here,” Takeshi murmured. “With me. With Eri. That’s worth more than you know.”

Katsuki swallowed, hard.

“But you can’t protect it,” Takeshi added, “by pretending who you used to be doesn’t matter.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. “Then what do I do?”

Takeshi looked at him for a long time, then said softly, “You stop running.”

He turned, grabbed a rag off the bench, and wiped his hands clean.

“You go back to where all this started.”

“Go home”

Katsuki swallowed, voice barely above a whisper.

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

The truck rumbled along familiar roads, its engine growling low as the city faded behind them. Katsuki sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed tightly, staring out the window at the world he thought he’d buried months ago.

Five months. That’s how long they’d believed he was dead.

Five months since the League staged his execution, broadcasting it to the world in grainy, crackling horror. Static. Smoke. A scream. Then nothing.

His parents buried him a week later. No body. He pictured his alter. Did his parents give him one? He imagined fresh flowers and a photo framed in black. He gritted his teeth.

“Left here,” he muttered.

Takeshi turned the wheel without a word. Eri sat curled in the backseat, clutching her blanket like a shield. The silence in the truck wasn’t uncomfortable—just heavy.

“What the hell am I even supposed to say?” Katsuki finally asked.

Takeshi glanced at him. “Whatever’s true.”

“Yeah? Which part? The abduction? The torture? Or the part where I became something even I don’t recognize?”

“Start with, ‘I’m home.’ The rest’ll follow.”

Katsuki stared out at the old streets. Familiar landmarks tore at him. That corner he scraped his knee racing Deku. The wall he punched in middle school. His stomach turned.

“Doesn’t feel like home anymore,” he muttered.

Eri leaned forward, soft. “They’re going to be happy you’re alive.”

Katsuki blinked. “They already buried me, though. What could I possibly say to them?” The words hit harder than he meant them to.

Eri sank back against her seat. She didn’t respond.

Then he saw it—his street. The mailbox. The crooked flowerpot. His house.

His grave.

Takeshi pulled up along the curb. The engine idled, low and tired.

Katsuki’s breath caught

“Want us to come with you?” Takeshi asked.

Katsuki hesitated, then shook his head. Takeshi placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “Whatever happens,” he said, “you came back. That’s what matters. If you need us, we’ll be out here waiting.”

Katsuki opened the door and stepped back into the world that mourned him. His legs felt heavier than they had in weeks, like the street itself remembered him. Like it might reach up and drag him back into the earth, where he was supposed to stay buried. He kept walking—one foot and then the next—up the sidewalk. He hesitated for a few beats.

And then knocked.

–Mitsuki–

There was a soft knock on the door. 

Mitsuki frowned, glancing at the clock. It was too early for deliveries, and nobody called ahead. The neighborhood had been quiet since the funeral—just the way she liked it. The reporters had stopped coming around, and the media finally left her alone. Still, her hand went to her hip out of habit as she padded toward the entryway. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with neighbors or reporters. Not again.

She opened the door without ceremony, a scowl already fixed onto her face—

And froze.

A boy stood there.

Black hair, grown out and messy. Broad-shouldered but too skinny. He wore a hoodie too big for him, hands stuffed deep into the pockets, head bowed just slightly like he was bracing for something.

But his eyes—

God.

His eyes.

Her breath caught. Her body went still in that deep, instinctual way you can’t control—like standing on the edge of a cliff and realizing you’re too close to the edge. “Katsuki?” she whispered, barely a sound.

The boy looked up.

And her world split open.

It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t a dream or a cruel lookalike or some twisted prank. It was her son—her only son—standing on her doorstep. Alive.

Alive.

He looked so different. So familiar. His face was thinner, like he hadn’t eaten right in weeks. His cheeks hollow, collarbones sharp beneath the hoodie. His hair was black now, dyed and grown out, falling in uneven waves. His jaw clenched like it was the only thing keeping him together. But those eyes—they were still his. Still Katsuki.

Mitsuki staggered back a half-step, hand gripping the doorframe. “Katsuki,” she gasped, and the name shattered on her tongue. Tears rushed forward like floodwaters breaching a dam. Her legs folded beneath her, and she collapsed to her knees right there in the doorway, one hand covering her mouth as the sobs came sharp and sudden and unstoppable. “It can’t be. You’re dead,” she choked. “You—baby, we buried you. We put you in the ground.”

Katsuki dropped to his knees in front of her, shaking. “I know,” he said. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry—”

He barely got the words out before she threw her arms around him, holding him so tightly it must’ve hurt. She didn’t care. Didn’t stop. Her hands clutched at the back of his hoodie, as if trying to make sure he didn’t vanish again. She buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed like she hadn’t since the day they handed her that urn.

Masaru appeared in the hallway behind them, feet shuffling on wood. “Mitsu? Who’s at the—”

He saw them.

His breath hitched. The mug in his hand slipped, hitting the floor with a dull thud. “Katsuki?” Masaru’s voice cracked wide open.

Katsuki turned toward him, eyes already rimmed red. “Hey, Dad.”

Masaru didn’t move for a moment. Then he surged forward, fell to his knees beside them, and wrapped his arms around his wife and son. Quiet, gasping sounds left him as he held on with shaking hands. Mitsuki gripped both of them, her whole body trembling with the weight of it.

None of them spoke for a long time. Because there weren’t words for this.

Eventually, when the sobs dulled to shudders and Mitsuki could finally draw a breath that didn’t tear her chest open, she pulled back just enough to cup Katsuki’s face in her palms. His skin was too cool. His cheeks were too thin. But it was him. It was him. Her baby. “Why didn’t you come home?” she asked, voice raw and small, like she was afraid of the answer.

Katsuki’s gaze dropped. “I couldn’t.”

“Was it—” she swallowed, hesitating. Something bitter caught in her throat. “Was it because of me?”

Katsuki jerked his head up “What? No. No, Mom, it wasn’t you. It was never you.”

She looked at him, the lines in her face deepening, not from age but from grief. “That day—when you went missing—I kept replaying it in my head. You got kicked out of your dream school and were left alone. Not just by your teachers, but by us. I—” she hiccupped. “Your father and I left for that business trip, and you were gone when we got back. Taken. And when the league sent out that broadcast, the only thing I could think was that you died thinking we abandoned you.”

Katsuki’s shoulders tensed. A flash of pain crossed his face—shame, maybe, or something deeper. “I wasn’t mad at you,” he said quietly. “I was mad at everything. At myself mostly. I got a job to keep my hands busy. It never even crossed my mind that I was in danger. And then… they took me again.”

Her hands were still on his cheeks, trembling slightly. “Then why?” she whispered, more desperate this time. “Why did you let us think you were—” Her breath hitched. “Why did you let us bury you?”

“I didn’t let anything happen,” he said. “I was barely alive. And when I finally woke up… I was already buried. The world already moved on without me and I… I didn’t think I deserved to come back.”

Mitsuki’s fingers tightened on his jaw like she could anchor him to the moment. “Don’t you ever say that again.”

He didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His throat worked around something too heavy to speak.

“I’ll explain everything,” he said finally, quieter than before. “But not here. Can we talk inside?”

Mitsuki gave a small, jerky nod. Her legs barely listened to her, but she stepped aside and watched as her son crossed the threshold of the home they thought he’d never see again.

And just before he stepped inside, Katsuki paused—just for a second—and whispered, “I missed you.”

Mitsuki broke all over again.

Katsuki crossed the threshold. The moment he did, he stopped dead. His eyes found the shrine set on a small table in the living room corner. Flowers—fresh. A framed photo of him in his school uniform, eyes sharp, hair blond. On it, stood a candle, prayer beads, and an urn. His urn. Katsuki stared at it, unmoving.

Mitsuki’s voice cracked beside him. “I—I didn’t know what else to do. They gave us… ash. And a report. We only saw the broadcast. They didn’t have a body and—” Her throat tightened. “We had to say goodbye to something.”

Katsuki stepped forward slowly, eyes glassy. He reached out, touching the frame with a single trembling finger—and then he turned away.

“I want you to meet someone,” he said, voice tight. “Two people, actually.”

Mitsuki blinked, still dazed. “What?”

“They’re waiting outside,” he said. “The people who… who helped me survive.”

And before she could speak again, Katsuki was already heading for the door. Before he could turn the handle, the door was already opening.

Footsteps shuffled into the hall—heavier, adult ones, and a pair so small you could barely hear them. The first to enter was a grease-streaked man, a little girl trailed not far behind him. Her small hand clutched the hem of his jacket like a lifeline.

Katsuki stood to their left, gesturing with his hand. “Takeshi. Eri.” He sounded steadier saying their names, like he was grounding himself. Eri offered the faintest wave, still hiding half behind Takeshi, but she was less skittish now—like maybe the warmth in the room had reached her.

Masaru blinked, clearly caught off guard. “So you’re the one who helped my boy.”

Takeshi gave a small nod. “Kojima Takeshi. And this is Eri.” He gave a small bow. “Thank you for welcoming us into your home.”

Katsuki took a step forward, bringing Mitsuki’s attention back to him. “Takeshi. He’s a mechanic. Lives way out in the sticks. He saw me half-dead and decided not to turn away.” His lips twitched like a smile might’ve been there, once. “He patched me up. Gave me a place to heal. Food was shit, but good thing I know how to cook. Didn’t ask questions 'til I was strong enough to give answers.”

Mitsuki stared at the man, trying to see it—what kind of person nurses back a half-dead stranger, what kind of person stays when everyone else runs. What kind of person brings a son back to his mother. And then, before she could think too hard, she moved.

She dropped to her knees, hands flat on the floor.

A full bow.

Masaru gasped softly behind her, but she didn’t care.

“Thank you,” Mitsuki said, voice shaking. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you for not letting him die alone. I don’t know what I could ever say to repay you—”

Takeshi jerked like someone had thrown cold water in his face. “Hey—no. No, please, get up.”

But Mitsuki didn’t move. “You don’t understand. We buried him. We thought he was gone forever. We couldn’t even hold him one last time! I don’t know how to process this—I just—” her hands curled into fists on the floor, her shoulders trembling. “I don’t know how to say thank you loud enough.”

Mitsuki looked up.

Takeshi stood stiff and pale, like someone had peeled back a part of him he’d long since buried. “He was just a kid,” he said, voice low. “I couldn’t leave him like that. Anyone decent would’ve done the same.”

“No,” Mitsuki said firmly, rising now, breath still hitched. “They wouldn’t have. They didn’t.” She stood slowly and stepped forward, pulling an envelope from a drawer by the door.

Takeshi lifted his hands. “Ma’am, don’t—”

“Take it,” she said. “You helped my boy when I couldn’t. Please.”

“I don’t want your money.” He shook his head. “Didn’t do it for pay. Didn’t even know who he was. He was just… a kid. A stubborn, pissed-off kid with too many scars.

“It’s not about want, it’s about thanks. I mean it,” she said, bowing stiffly at the waist and holding out the envelope. “You gave me back someone I thought was lost forever. Please. Let me give you this. If not money, you can have something else. Anything.”

He opened his mouth to argue again, but Katsuki stepped in. “Just take it,” he said, not unkindly. “She’s not gonna let it go.”

Reluctantly, Takeshi accepted the envelope she pressed into his hands, jaw tight.

Mitsuki let out a shaky breath, then she looked down—and there she was again. The girl. Eri. She was still hiding, still watching from behind Takeshi’s coat. Mitsuki lowered herself slowly, not quite kneeling this time, but crouched to the girl’s height. Her voice softened. “You must be Eri,” she said.

Eri shrank a little.

Katsuki knelt beside her. “Hey,” he said gently. “It’s okay. She’s my mom.”

Eri glanced up at him, then looked back at Mitsuki with shy uncertainty.

Mitsuki offered the faintest smile, though her throat still burned raw. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“She’s not used to strangers,” Katsuki murmured. “She’s been through a lot.”

“I understand,” Mitsuki said, her voice barely above a breath. “You don’t need to say anything, baby.” Mitsuki saw it clearly now—the guarded posture, the weight in her tiny eyes, the fear etched deep into her movements. And then she saw something else. It was Katsuki’s hand—firm and steady—resting lightly on Eri’s back. There was a tenderness to it. A gentleness Mitsuki hadn’t seen in years.

He leaned down, murmuring something to her—something quiet that made her nod and take one more step forward. And Mitsuki’s heart cracked open all over again. Because this wasn’t the boy she’d raised. This was someone new. As Mitsuki watched them together, she felt something stir in her chest.

Mitsuki swallowed hard. “Come sit,” she said softly, backing up and motioning toward the low table. “You’re family. Both of you.”

They all settled into the living room, but the air remained taut—thick with things unspoken. Mitsuki perched on the edge of the couch like she was bracing herself for another loss. Masaru sat beside her, silent but alert, hands clenched together. Eri curled up quietly next to Katsuki on the floor, still close but calm in the safety of his presence. Takeshi stood off to the side, arms crossed, eyes fixed ahead like this was just another job that needed doing.

Katsuki took a slow breath. “After the League staged that broadcast… they didn’t kill me. They thought they did.”

Mitsuki swallowed, hard. Masaru didn’t move.

“They dumped me in a ditch outside the city. Barely alive. Everything gone.”

“They took my quirk,” he said flatly.

The words dropped like a grenade.

Mitsuki jerked forward in her seat, her face twisting like someone had punched her. “What?”

Masaru’s brows furrowed, as if he couldn’t quite compute the sentence. “They what?”

“My quirk’s gone,” Katsuki said again. “Completely. It’s not suppressed. It’s gone. Like it never existed.”

The silence that followed wasn’t silent at all. It roared—through Mitsuki’s chest, through Masaru’s shaking breath, through the entire house.

Mitsuki stood abruptly. “No. That’s— That’s not— Katsuki, what are you saying? ”

“That bastard All For One… he can steal quirks. He ripped it right out of me.”

Mitsuki staggered a step back like the words physically hit her. Her voice cracked. “But… your quirk was everything to you! Ever since you were four—since the first time you blew the kitchen sink clean off the wall. It was—you— you lit up rooms, Katsuki. How—how can it be gone?” Her voice broke. “You loved your quirk,” she whispered. “You were so proud. ”

Katsuki’s jaw clenched hard. “I know.”

Mitsuki covered her mouth, tears rising again, but not from relief this time—from grief.

He looked up finally, eyes rimmed in shadow. “But that wasn’t all they took. When they stole the quirk… they tore something else out too. Something deeper. Don't know how, but my soul—it split. Half of it’s still with them. With AFO.”

Masaru looked like he was going to be sick.

Mitsuki dropped back onto the couch, shoulders trembling. “God… no wonder you’re different. I noticed it right away. You’re quieter.”

“Feels like everything’s muffled,” Katsuki said, voice low. “Like I’m underwater. And the fire’s gone.”

Mitsuki stared at him, a slow, aching horror dawning in her chest. “Katsuki… baby, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t say sorry for something you didn’t do.” But his voice cracked—just slightly. Enough to show the rawness beneath.

Masaru leaned forward, his voice steadier than his hands. “And yet… you’re still here. Still fighting.”

Katsuki let out a breath that was almost a laugh, bitter and empty. “Debatable.” He took a breath and continued. “The weird thing? Even without a quirk, I can still see them. Quirks, I mean. Not visually. More like… I can feel them, their weight, their shape. I can even touch them and affect them.”

Mitsuki shook her head slowly, dazed. “How does that even work?”

Katsuki’s mouth twitched. “Something that comes with missing half your soul, I guess. A part of me is still reaching out to be whole again.”

Then came the rest—he told them about tracking the League, joining the Shie Hassaikai to chase a lead, finding Eri. The moment he made the decision that changed everything. 

“And Overhaul—he was hurting her. I had to help her… so I stopped him. Shattered his quirk.”

Her eyes went wide. “You,” she breathed. “ You’re the one who destroyed that Yakuza leader’s quirk.”

Katsuki gave a hollow shrug. “Didn’t mean to. It just… happened.”

Eri stirred next to him and leaned into his side. Katsuki rested a hand on her head, gently.

Mitsuki looked at the two of them—her broken son and the small girl clinging to him—and let her tears fall.

“You saved her,” she whispered. 

Takeshi stood up straighter and stretched. “Now that introductions are done… I think you both deserve to know something.”

Katsuki stiffened immediately.

Takeshi glanced at the Bakugos. “Your son’s been moonlighting. Tracking League grunts, sniffing around trigger deals, tailing dangerous people in the middle of the night.”

“What the hell, old man.” Katsuki’s voice snapped sharp, incredulous. “Don’t tell me the whole reason you dragged me back here was to snitch on me. That’s a low blow—even for you, geezer.”

Takeshi met his glare with that steady, unimpressed look of his. “I didn’t bring you here to rat you out. I brought you here so your parents wouldn’t have to live the rest of their lives thinking they lost you again.”

He turned to Masaru and Mitsuki, voice calmer. “He’s trying to find the League. Turns out his soul ain’t waiting around for much longer. But I’ll make sure this time he’s not doing it alone. He’ll have backup. Guidance.”

Masaru’s lips thinned. “He's been doing all that… by himself?”

Katsuki looked away.

Mitsuki’s voice cracked. “You were still healing. How could you—?”

“I couldn’t sit around doing nothing,” Katsuki muttered, arms crossing. “I felt the pull. My fire—what’s left of it—it’s out there. I had to try.”

“And you nearly got yourself killed again,” Takeshi said, not unkindly. “That’s why I made him come back here. To rest. Regroup. And be honest with the people who love him.” He glanced at Mitsuki, eyes softening. “I had a kid. If she was out there—somehow alive—I’d damn well want someone to tell me.”

That silenced the room.

Even Katsuki didn’t have a comeback for that one.

Mitsuki’s eyes flicked to her son. “Is it true? You’ve been fighting villains?”

Katsuki sighed through his nose. “Trigger junkies. Low-level goons. I wasn’t looking for a fight. I was following leads.”

“And every time you came home, you acted like nothing happened,” Takeshi said. “I found blood on your boots more than once.”

Katsuki gave him a sharp look. “You gonna tell them what I had for breakfast too?”

“No,” Takeshi said evenly. “But I’m going to make damn sure they know their son is still out there risking his life.”

Katsuki bristled but didn’t argue again. Because he knew Takeshi was right. He always was, the stubborn bastard.

And across the room, Mitsuki stepped closer, pain soft in her voice. “Just promise you won’t disappear again. Please.”

Katsuki swallowed hard, eyes flicking from his mother to his father, then down to Eri, who was watching him quietly. “Yeah. Okay. I promise.”

Mitsuki walked over and gently pressed her palm to the side of his face again, like she was still checking to see if he was real.

Takeshi grunted. “Good. Because next time you try sneaking out past midnight, I’m chaining you to the damn truck.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes. “Try it, old man.”

“53 is not old, you damn punk.”

And for the first time since he stepped into the house, a hint of a smile tugged at his lips.

- - - - - - - - - - 

As the evening settled in, the Bakugos and their son sat around the low table, plates scraped clean and tea cooling in their cups. Laughter mingled with quiet moments, as they traded stories—some funny, some painful, all precious. The tension that had hung like a storm cloud earlier now gave way to something softer, something healing.

When the sky turned gold and the last of the light faded beyond the rooftops, Mitsuki gently reached across the table and took Katsuki’s hand. “Promise me you’ll keep in touch this time,” she said.

Katsuki didn’t hesitate. “I promise.”

Outside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of leaves. Katsuki turned back at the edge of the street, looking at the home he’d once thought he’d never return to. Mitsuki and Masaru stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the porch light.

“I’m not ready to stay,” he told them, voice quiet. “It’s still not safe.”

They didn’t argue.

“We know,” Masaru said. “Just don’t disappear again.”

With that, Katsuki and Takeshi climbed into the truck and pulled away.

And though they left with no promise of when he’d return, they carried with them something far heavier than silence—hope. For the first time in months.

A projection screen clicked on, displaying a map of the abandoned warehouse district. Circular markers blinked where sightings had occurred in the last month.

“We’ll divide the area into sectors,” one police officer said. “Each team will run recon for twelve hours. No contact unless necessary. If you see the target, you don’t engage alone.”

“Define engage,” Aizawa muttered.

The room quieted slightly.

“Capture,” the officer clarified. “The order is still to bring him in. Alive.”

“Of course it is,” Aizawa said, voice low and unreadable.

From across the room, Hawks lounged sideways in his chair, one hand propped beneath his chin. “Kid’s fast. Can’t fly though. Should be a piece of cake.”

Tokoyami stood quietly behind him, shadow wings twitching faintly.

“He’s not a villain,” Aizawa said suddenly, cutting through the quiet murmur of the room. His voice remained even, but sharp. “I saw him. He’s scared, hurt, and trying to survive. He saved that boy with the healing quirk. He didn’t kill anyone. That doesn’t fit a villain’s profile. It’s not logical to lump him in with the others.”

“He’s still evading capture,” came a reply from Rock Lock.

“Because he doesn’t trust us. And maybe for good reason.” There was an awkward pause. Aizawa’s scowl deepened. He remembered the kid—the boy in the alley— the way he froze like a cornered animal. There was something broken in his demeanor. Trauma maybe. 

“You’ll get yourself killed!”

“Good! Maybe I will!”

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed.

“Regardless,” a commission agent said, voice clipped. “We have to move forward. If he's dangerous, we neutralize the threat. If he's not… we can figure that out once he's in custody.”

“Shortsighted,” Aizawa muttered. But his objection was overruled.

They moved on.

Fatgum wasn’t present—already en route to Osaka for some private business, but he’d left clear instructions.

Rock Lock scowled down at the notes he’d been handed. “Seriously? I’m supposed to babysit Red Riot?”

Kirishima grinned behind him. “C’mon, it’s not babysitting. I’m on a field assignment!”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Rock Lock muttered. “Fine. But don’t get in my way.”

Ryukyu had declined this case altogether. Something about political tension after the Eri incident and needing to remain neutral for now.

Mirio stood by Sir Nighteye, fidgeting with nervous energy. “I could go with Eraserhead—if that helps,” he offered. “I mean, Izuku’s still catching up on combat training.”

Nighteye gave a sharp look. “No. You stay with me.” His gaze shifted to Aizawa. “Midoriya should go with you.”

Aizawa blinked. “Why?”

“It’ll be easier to keep track of the students if it’s one-on-one.” Nighteye pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “Besides, he is your student.”

Aizawa didn’t argue. Just nodded once.

Behind him, Izuku fidgeted, trying to stay composed. But the air around him was already charged.

– – – – – – – – 

They split off, each team heading to their designated quadrant of the city. 

The streets were empty, wind brushing litter down gutters. After District 9 had been evacuated, very few people stuck around. The place was nearly abandoned and in disrepair. The perfect place for someone to hide.

Chapter Text

As the truck rumbled down the road, the last of the city lights fading behind them, a comfortable silence settled between Katsuki and Takeshi. Eri was asleep in the backseat, curled up under a blanket, her head resting against the window. Katsuki stared out at the highway ahead, the soft glow of the dashboard lights painting his features in muted orange.

Takeshi cleared his throat. “So. Game plan.”

Katsuki turned slightly, eyebrow raised.

“I know you want to go after your soul,” Takeshi continued. “And I know there’s nothing I can say to stop you. But if you’re gonna do this, we’re doing it right.”

Katsuki sat up straighter, the weight of the conversation setting in. “Okay.”

Takeshi held up a hand, counting off his fingers. “One. No more sneaking off in the middle of the night like some half-cocked cryptid.”

Katsuki snorted. “You calling me a cryptid now?”

“I’m calling you an idiot,” Takeshi said flatly. “Two. You tell me when you’re going somewhere. No exceptions. I don’t care if it’s just down the street for groceries—if I don’t know where you are, I start assuming the worst.”

Katsuki nodded. “Fine. Fair.”

“Three,” Takeshi said, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out a sleek black phone in a box. “This is yours. Bought it yesterday. Already set up. Contacts in. Emergency numbers. Some stupid wallpaper Eri picked out.”

Katsuki blinked as he took it. “You… bought me a phone?”

Takeshi grunted. “Don’t get mushy. Just turn the damn location on.”

“Which brings me to four,” he added, tapping the side of his own phone. “Keep your location on. Always. If it goes dark, I’m tracking you down and duct-taping this thing to your forehead.”

Katsuki couldn’t help it—he smirked. “Okay, geez.”

“And last,” Takeshi said, his tone leveling out, “be smart. Don’t pick fights you know you can’t win. If you’re going to run headfirst into a damn war, I want to know that you’re doing it because it’s the right call—not because your pride’s getting the better of you.”

Katsuki was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: “You trust me that much?”

Takeshi glanced at him. “Enough to lay ground rules instead of chaining you to the damn radiator, yeah.”

A beat passed. The lights of a passing car reflected in Katsuki’s eyes as he looked back down at the phone in his hands.

“…Thanks,” he muttered. “For everything.”

Takeshi didn’t answer right away. Just tapped the steering wheel.

“You’ve got more people in your corner than you think, kid. Don’t waste it.”

Katsuki looked over at him and gave the smallest nod. Not a promise—but something close.

The air hung heavy with the scent of antiseptic mixed with something more metallic. Bright surgical lights hummed above, casting sterile illumination over the body on the operating table. A woman—late thirties, a nurse—lay restrained, her eyes glazed from sedation, a smear of blood on her temple where the tranquilizer needle had gone in.

Dr. Garaki adjusted his mask, his hunched form moving with surprising speed as he worked at the console. Dozens of screens flickered around him, all streaming biometric data, quirk readouts, and neural activity graphs.

Across the room, All For One stood in shadow—motionless, imposing.

“We secured her without resistance this time,” Garaki rasped, his voice grating like rusted gears. The two idiots you sent before were too loud, and Nullbringer interfered.”

That name hung in the air like static.

He turned, wheezing through a giddy laugh. “As always, you extracted it perfectly. I’m not seeing any remnants of her quirk on my end. I must say… the regeneration potential is quite remarkable—would’ve made an excellent medical Nomu if we weren’t keeping her intact for testing—”

“Don’t waste your breath,” All For One interrupted. His voice was calm, but cold. “Something’s not right.”

That stopped Garaki. He turned back toward the monitors, eyes narrowing behind his goggles. “Well… now that you mention it, there is something peculiar..”

A few keystrokes. A display lit up—her quirk signature was registered inside of All For One, yet it appeared to be dormant. Inert. “Just like that Bakugo kid’s,” Garaki muttered, more to himself. “The quirk reads as present in your bank… but there’s no output. No response. No connection.”

A tense silence filled the lab.

All For One slowly stepped forward. “You said it transferred successfully. I felt the pull. I know it was transferred.”

“It did! ” Garaki snapped, frustrated. “But it’s like… like something’s jamming the signal. You own it, yes—but you can’t reach it. Try to use it. One more time.”

All For One exhaled slowly, his mechanical breath raspy and drawn. “No response. The first time was with that boy,” he murmured. “When I took his Explosion Quirk, I felt resistance. The energy was there—but blocked.” He stared at his hand. Flexed his fingers. “This is twice now. ” Rare frustration now evident in his voice.

Garaki rubbed his chin. “I thought we determined that it was a fluke. You think it’s connected?”

“I know it is.” All For One’s voice darkened. “There’s something off. Something I’ve never felt in over a hundred years of taking quirks.”

“Interference?” Garaki guessed.

All For One turned his head slowly.

“It’s time we accelerate the timeline.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m done waiting. ” He stepped closer to the operating table, gaze fixed on the unconscious nurse. “Put her under full stasis. We will continue to monitor her until we can get to the bottom of this. Bakugo might be dead, but she might be able to provide us some answers.”

Garaki swallowed. “The boy, then? Midoriya?”

“Yes.” A cruel smile touched All For One’s ruined lips. “One For All will soon be fully his. We cannot let that happen. I want eyes on him. Constant surveillance. If he eats, I want to know what’s on his plate. If he sleeps, I want to know for how long.”

Garaki frowned. “We already have tails on him.”

“I want more. I want the boy tracked. Shadowed. Studied.” All For One turned toward the hallway, where rows of pods hissed in cold silence—Nomus waiting in the dark. His voice echoed as he disappeared into the shadows.

“Midoriya. Bakugo. Yoichi. They think they can change fate.”

A rasping exhale.

“They have no idea what’s coming.”

The sound of a pen scratching across paper was the only thing breaking the silence.

Mirai Sasaki—hero name: Sir Nighteye—sat at his desk with narrowed eyes, surrounded by files and surveillance photos spread in deliberate, methodical order. Nullbringer’s last known location. Reports from the Fatgum agency. An eyewitness sketch of a quirkless boy with a sharp tongue and a strange air about him.

But his eyes weren’t on the paper—they were distant and focused inward. His future sight had always been absolute. Not infallible—but inevitable. It didn’t show possibilities. It showed certainties. That was the danger of it. That was the curse.

When he first looked into All Might’s future, it felt like his heart had collapsed in on itself. That death—the bloody, drawn out, heroic death—was burned into his memory. He pleaded. He warned. And yet Yagi had refused to stop. Mirai knew that his fate was sealed. Inevitable.

Mirai had been prepared to doubt himself when it came to All Might. His bond with Yagi had always clouded things. Sentiment could interfere with logic. But then the Shie Hassaikai raid happened.

And something changed.

Midoriya Izuku had survived. Eri had been rescued.

And in the chaos… a new variable appeared.

He clenched his jaw, flipping to a photo of the grainy footage from the aftermath: Nullbringer. The figure moving like smoke through a storm, impossible to pin down. The vigilante with no registered quirk, no record of training, no connection to any known hero.

He remembered the moment he'd used Foresight on that raid. Everything had played out exactly as predicted—the layout, the injuries, even the resistance from the Eight Bullets. But it wasn’t until the heroes reached the basement that the threads began to fray.

Until fate bent.

His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the folder again, opening it with mechanical precision. More photos. Reports. Glimpses. Nullbringer had not only broken Overhaul's quirk—a feat Mirai still had no explanation for—but he had also shielded Eri. Had vanished with her. Had left behind a trail of broken predictions and shattered assumptions.

His vision had never lied to him. Until now.

He didn’t want to say it aloud. But the thought kept circling.

Nullbringer didn’t just defy logic. He defied causality.

He defied him.

"Impossible," he had muttered that day, watching as the vision he'd seen—meticulously analyzed, prepared for, trusted—shattered in real time.

The man who placed all his faith in certainty had felt the ground move under his feet.

Mirai stood slowly and walked to the window overlooking the city. His reflection stared back at him in the glass—cool, calculated. But beneath that, uncertainty gnawed at the edge of his resolve. The polished veneer of confidence was cracking.

Nullbringer wasn’t just another vigilante. He was an aberration. A glitch.

And that terrified him more than anything else.

Because if someone like that existed—someone fate couldn’t predict, couldn’t contain—then everything Mirai believed in was at risk of collapse.

He turned back to the table, eyes landing on one specific image: a still from a gas station camera, timestamped late at night. Nullbringer in a tattered and bloody shirt, standing protectively in front of a little girl with white hair. No visible powers. No attacks. Just a presence. Something in the posture. In the way he positioned himself between the girl and the world.

He couldn't shake the dread that settled in his chest.

"Sir?" came a voice from the doorway.

Mirio Togata stood there, posture casual but eyes serious.

Mirai didn’t turn around.

"Get ready. We're heading back to District 9."

Mirio blinked, straightening. "Sir?"

"We’re going to find him this time. Nullbringer."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Mirio nodded. "Yes, sir."

Mirai finally turned back to his desk, sweeping his hand across the files, organizing them into a clean stack.

He didn’t believe in false hope. He didn’t believe in miracles.

But he believed in patterns.

And Nullbringer broke all of them.

That made him more than an anomaly.

It made him dangerous.

And maybe...

It made him necessary.

- - - - - - - - - -

They left the office as the sun dipped low behind the skyline, casting everything in sharp relief. Sir Nighteye said nothing during the drive. Mirio respected his silence. He knew better than to ask questions when the gears were turning behind his mentor’s eyes. But even Mirio couldn’t deny the tension.

When they arrived at the surveillance outpost overlooking the city block where Nullbringer had last been spotted, Mirai moved like clockwork—placing monitors, adjusting drones, running facial recognition through grainy footage.

Mirio watched in quiet awe. His mentor's movements were efficient. Focused. But there was something else too.

A crack in the shell.

Something uncertain.

Deep down, Mirai wasn’t sure if he wanted to apprehend Nullbringer or understand him.

Because if Nullbringer had truly defied fate—if he had stepped outside the lines of prediction, of certainty—then what else might be possible?

What if All Might's death was no longer inevitable?

What if the future could be rewritten?

He stared down at the monitor, watching shadows flicker through the alleyways of District 9.

Somewhere out there, Nullbringer moved like a ghost.

And Mirai would find him.

Not just to protect the city.

But to prove, once and for all, that fate could bleed.

It had been four days since they visited the Bakugo household.

Katsuki had been hesitant about facing his past. But after the visit, something in him felt lighter. Like maybe he wasn’t so alone in all of this after all.

Takeshi, of course, hadn’t let the emotional momentum distract from practical matters. He laid down ground rules for pursuing the League. No direct engagement, no solo night missions. He hated having limitations, but eventually he found workarounds. There were ways to disrupt the League’s movements without throwing a punch. The toppled streetlamp had been a personal favorite. Took down a grunt’s getaway route in one loud, dramatic crash. Police eventually apprehended him, meaning there was one less league member on the streets. 

Takeshi wasn’t thrilled. But hey, Katsuki hadn’t touched anyone. Technically, he didn’t hit that guy, the lamp did.

The days that followed passed in a blur. Leads dried up faster than expected. It was like the League had vanished into thin air. Even his flame went quiet. 

It left him antsy.

That’s when Takeshi suggested they take a breather. A day off to relax somewhere quiet.

And that’s how Katsuki ended up on the warm, golden sand of Dagobah Beach, watching the tide roll in under a sky so blue it almost didn’t feel real.

Dagobah beach was once a landfill in all but name. It was now a far cry from the garbage dump it used to be. No rusted appliances. No old car frames baking in the sun. No broken bottles crunching underfoot. It was just a wide expanse of golden sand, gleaming under the early afternoon light. Gentle waves lapped the shoreline, pulling the sunlight out to sea in shimmering streaks. A breeze swept in from the bay, soft and clean and sharp with salt.

Eri stood at the edge of it all, toes sinking into the warm sand, eyes wide with wonder. “You said this place used to be gross, ” she whispered to Katsuki.

He stood a few paces behind her, arms folded loosely over his chest, a small towel draped around his neck. His dyed-black hair was tied up, already loose from the ocean breeze. He watched her with a barely concealed smile. “It was gross,” he said. “You couldn’t pay me to come here back then. Looked like a trash god got pissed and hurled all his junk here.”

“So what happened?”

“Someone cleaned it up,” Takeshi answered as he came around with a cooler slung under one arm. “Think I saw some crazy kid out here once, picking up old appliances and crap. Probably a punk kid doing community service.”

Eri’s head whipped around. “That’s so cool! Did you ever meet him?”

“Nah,” Takeshi glanced at her. “World’s a big place, kid. Could run into someone once and go your whole life without ever seeing them again.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright. Go play or something, you gremlin. We’re burning sunlight.”

Eri didn’t need to be told twice. She took off across the sand, her bare feet kicking up sprays of it as she dashed toward the shoreline. Her little yellow swimsuit, covered in pink stars, gleamed like the sun.

Katsuki watched her run, a ghost of something tender flickering across his face.

“Thanks for this,” he said, voice low.

Takeshi settled into one of the low chairs they’d brought. “Figured you both could use the fresh air. And Eri—hell, I doubt she’s ever seen anything like this.”

“She hasn’t.”

Katsuki watched her crouch at the edge of the water, letting the tide swirl around her ankles. She yelped at the chill, then giggled. “I promised to take her here someday. She needed this.”

Something in his chest pulled tight. Katsuki squinted from the shore, towel slung around his shoulders, arms crossed.

She took another step.

The water reached her knees.

“Tch—oi!” he barked. “Stay in the shallow water, dumbass! I’m not in the mood to play lifeguard today!”

Eri turned, grinning wide. “But Kacchan, it’s not even deep yet!”

“Yeah, and that’s how it starts! ” he snapped, already making his way toward her through the sand. “Next thing you know, a wave takes you out and I gotta dive in and get sand in my mouth.”

Eri laughed and darted back toward the shoreline, her little feet kicking up water.

Katsuki caught up, towel flapping behind him like a cape. “You think this is funny? If you get swallowed by the ocean, I’m leaving you in there.”

“No you wouldn’t!” she called back with glee.

He huffed. “You better hope I wouldn’t.”

But his smirk betrayed him.

– – – – –

The sun was higher now, glinting off the rippling ocean. Eri had a sandcastle half-built, complete with little stick flags and a trench moat Katsuki insisted wasn’t deep enough.

He crouched beside her now, fingers coated in wet sand, clearly more invested than he pretended to be. “C’mon, this tower’s gonna cave in if we don’t reinforce the base—here—no, Eri! use your palm, not your elbow, you’ll crush—hey! Quit laughing, this is serious architectural business!”

She giggled anyway, leaning against his shoulder. Her hair was wet at the ends and stuck to her cheeks. There was sand on her nose, and her knees, and in her ears probably.

Takeshi snapped a photo from the chair.

Katsuki groaned. “Delete that.”

“Nope.”

Katsuki grumbled and kept building.

Takeshi slipped the phone into his pocket and cracked open the cooler with a creak, revealing neat rows of sliced fruit, rice balls wrapped in wax paper, and a cluster of half-frozen water bottles packed in ice.

“Hydration break,” he called, grabbing two and tossing them over with surprising accuracy.

Katsuki caught one with a grunt and barely managed to snag the other before it nailed Eri in the chest.

“You almost ruined the base, asshole!” Katsuki grumbled, scowling as he twisted off the cap of Eri’s bottle and handed it to her. His hands were sandy, but she didn’t seem to care.

Eri accepted it with both hands, cheeks pink from the sun. “Thank you, Kacchan!”

Katsuki flopped back into the sand beside her, brushing the wet grit from his knees with a huff. “Seriously, old man, you can’t just lob things at kids.”

Takeshi just shrugged, sitting down heavily with his own bottle. “Should’ve seen your reflexes. Proud of you, lifeguard.”

Katsuki groaned and buried his face in his towel. “I hate this beach.”

But the corners of his mouth twitched.

Katsuki leaned back on his elbows, hair coming loose again. He looked more at ease than he had in days.

– – – – –

Later in the afternoon, the wind shifted.

The tide had started its slow crawl back in, waves lapping higher along the shore. The sky was dipped in orange now, soft streaks of pink stretching across the horizon like watercolor. Seagulls screeched overhead, their cries distant, lazy.

Takeshi stood with one foot braced on the sand, tugging at the stubborn pole of the beach umbrella. It came loose with a shunk of wet grit, and he shook it off before collapsing the canopy and hauling it toward the truck parked just up the small slope.

Behind him, the chairs were already folded, towels rolled. The cooler had been re-latched, and the day’s mess tucked neatly away.

Katsuki sat on a large rock a few feet away, his arms draped across his knees. He watched as Eri poked around the tide pools, her sandals making soft sucking noises in the wet sand.

Eri waved a stick in the air like a sword. “I’m a sea knight!”

Katsuki chuckled. “Then protect your kingdom, Sea Knight. The tide’s coming in.”

The breeze kicked up, ruffling her damp hair.

Katsuki exhaled through his nose and let his gaze linger on the horizon. The tide shimmered like glass under the low sun, and for a moment—just a moment—he let himself believe this was normal. That he was just a guy with a sibling, and they were just a family finishing a long day at the beach.

Then his hearing fuzzed.

A high whine bled into the edges of his thoughts, like static under water. He blinked, trying to shake it off, but it clung, louder now—too loud.

Eri was saying something—laughing, maybe?—but the words were muted, like someone had dunked his head underwater. He couldn’t hear her.

The light felt too sharp all of a sudden. His vision dipped for a second, then righted. Katsuki lifted a hand to his ear, brow furrowing. The sound warbled, then dropped into a deep, echoing thud—like his own heartbeat had overtaken the world.

“Hey,” Takeshi’s voice broke through the fog, low and distant. “You okay, kid?”

Katsuki blinked again, trying to focus. His nose felt strange. It tingled a bit.

He wiped it absently with the back of his hand—and froze.

Blood.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun poured through the garage’s cracked windows, painting soft gold over the workbench. Takeshi sat with a rag slung over his shoulder, disassembling a half-busted engine. He hummed under his breath—something old, low, and wordless. The occasional metallic clink echoed against the walls.

Katsuki sat across from him, legs swinging off the workbench, phone in hand. He stared at the screen, thumb hovering, scrolling aimlessly through old tabs and ghost notifications. The phone was new—well, new to him. Katsuki hadn’t added any contacts.

Not that he had anyone to call.

His thoughts weren’t on the screen anyway.

The nosebleed from the beach still haunted him.

It had come out of nowhere. One second he’d been walking the shore, the next, there was static and pressure behind his eyes. The blood had poured fast, hot and metallic, slipping down his lip and into the sand. He’d stumbled, heart hammering, barely able to stay upright.

It hadn’t been just a nosebleed. He knew that now.

Something had cracked. Something deep.

And ever since, he’d felt… off. Like the pressure hadn’t gone away, just settled somewhere behind his eyes, quietly getting worse.

He’d tried meditating again that morning, sitting cross-legged on the old tatami square Takeshi had dragged into the back room for him. He’d tried reaching into that place where his flame usually was.

But it was silent.

Not gone—but not close either. Like it had curled in on itself, hiding somewhere deep in the fog. It was out of reach. Unwilling to answer.

His thumb tightened on the edge of the phone. The screen dimmed, but he didn’t notice.

Maybe it’s stress, he thought. Maybe my body’s just catching up. But deep down, he didn’t believe that. He could feel something slipping. A thread pulling tighter.

And if it snapped…

He didn’t let himself finish the thought.

He hadn’t told Takeshi. Not yet. He didn’t want to scare the man.

A small tug on his sleeve snapped him out of the spiral.

“Hmm?” he muttered, glancing down.

Eri stood beside him, her arms full of tangled cords in every color imaginable. Her hair was tied up in two uneven puffs, and her socks didn’t match—one had bunnies, the other had pink flowers. Her nose was smudged with marker, and she looked absolutely determined.

“Kacchan,” she said, solemn. “I’m making you something.”

He blinked, caught completely off guard. “...What?”

She hoisted the cords toward him, blue eyes shining. “A bracelet,” she announced, as if it were the most important thing in the world. “With knots and everything.”

She climbed onto the stool across from him and started sorting through the cords on the workbench. “This one’s me,” she said, holding up a strand of bright blue. “This one’s you,” she added, holding up a strand of loud neon orange. “And this one’s Mister Takeshi,” she finished, picking up a dusty grey. “Because he’s always dirty.”

“Hey,” Takeshi called from his corner without looking up. “That’s called ‘occupational residue,’ thank you very much.”

“Dusty,” Eri confirmed with a grin, and then immediately hunched over her work, small fingers moving with quiet focus. She’d clearly practiced—her hands were steady, weaving and pulling with practiced intent.

Katsuki didn’t mean to watch her, but his eyes kept drifting.

She was humming softly now. It was off-key, but steady. He recognized the melody. A jingle from one of the UA festival commercials that had been looping on every channel. A reminder that the world was still turning, that other kids were building floats and stringing lights and worrying about costumes.

Not soul-splitting.

Not dying in their sleep.

He said nothing.

His jaw tensed, thoughts circling again. The blood. The pressure. The fog clawing at the edges of his mind. What if next time it wasn’t just a scare? What if Eri saw it? What if she had to watch him vanish? What if he didn’t wake up?

What if he really was fading?

His pulse ticked louder in his ears.

Then-

"I wish days like this could last forever and ever," Eri said softly.

His eyes snapped to her.

She didn’t notice. She was still weaving, still humming, still smiling.

But the words stayed, like a whisper stitched into his ribs. He swallowed hard, suddenly unsteady. She didn’t know. She couldn’t. But—

God.

He wished he could give her that.

“Kacchan?” Eri's voice cut through the fog. 

She lifted the half-finished braid. “Can I have your wrist? I gotta check the size.”

He hesitated, pulse flickering.

Then, slowly, he held out his arm, palm up.

The skin there was pale, lined with old scars.

She wrapped the braid around gently, pulling the ends together. 

Something stupid twisted in his chest.

She tied the knot carefully. Double-wrapped it. It sat snug and small against the inside of his wrist. Secure. Right over his pulse.

“There!” she said proudly. “Now it can’t fall off.”

Katsuki stared at it for a second longer than he meant to. The colors looked ridiculous on him—bright and clashing and way too loud. But he didn’t move.

He ran a thumb over the knot. It was solid.

“Lucky me,” he muttered, trying to keep his voice level.

Takeshi looked up from the workbench, smirking. “One more step to becoming a pretty princess.”

Katsuki flipped him off with his free hand. But his other stayed still.

He didn’t take the bracelet off.

Not that day.

Not the next.

And when the pressure in his head returned like a wave crashing in slow motion, when his nose bled again, and when he couldn’t hear anything past the ringing in his ears, he found himself pressing two fingers to that knot, grounding himself with it. 

It was small. Stupid. Childish.

But he kept it on.

Katsuki was half‑asleep on the workshop couch, one arm draped over his eyes, when soft footsteps padded across the concrete. A paper flier fluttered into his peripheral vision.

“ Kacchan?”

He cracked one eye open.

Eri stood there, clutching a brightly colored flier in both hands, corners crinkled from being carried around for too long. 

Across the top, big block letters read: U.A. School Festival – Public Invited! One Day Only!

Katsuki’s stomach flipped. Every muscle locked. “No.”

Eri’s smile wobbled. “But—”

“Nope. Not happening.”

“But Kacchan—!”

“I said no.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, already feeling the pounding in his temples. “I am not walking into the lion’s den so you can eat cotton candy and watch a dance routine.”

“But they have a haunted house!” she insisted, bouncing despite his glare. “And a hero obstacle course! And there’s candy! And fireworks!”

He gave her a look. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Eri frowned, big red eyes shimmering with disappointment. “I’ll wear a disguise,” she offered quietly. “Like a hat. And you said I look cool with blue hair…”

Katsuki sighed. She did look cool. Her ends were still tinged blue from the Kool-Aid touch up last week. She’d insisted they keep doing it.

“I’ve never been to a festival,” she added quietly, barely above a breath.

He stared—at the oversized bucket hat already perched on her head, at the glimmer of hope lighting her red eyes—and felt something in his chest tilt and crack.

“…Damn it,” he breathed. “We’ll… think about it, okay?”

“We’ll think about it,” he had said. He knew damn well those words had already sealed his fate. Now, festival morning, the old man had kicked him out to fetch some medicinal tea before their "big day."”

Katsuki sighed and shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, already standing in front of the café door.

The café was small, just a small western-style home squeezed between two larger buildings. Most days, people hurried past without looking up; the small sign above the door had lost whatever cursive charm it once held, and the bell hanging from the frame was tarnished a dull bronze. Katsuki wouldn’t have noticed either if not for the smell of earthy tea‑steam drifting through the early morning air.

He’d almost stayed in bed. His skull still rang from yesterday’s predicament. The nosebleeds had become more regular—now happening once every few days. His temples throbbed constantly now, pulsing behind his eyes. Takeshi had spotted the gray cast to his skin, the way Katsuki pinched the bridge of his nose every few minutes, and dug through an ancient recipe book until he found a name underlined three times: Sailor’s Blend. 

“Pick up a tin,” Takeshi insisted, thrusting a fistful of crumpled yen into Katsuki’s hand. “Ask for Sakiko. Tell her we need a quirk-treated blend.”

Katsuki had tried to argue. Headache or not, he could power through, but Eri stood beside Takeshi, tiny fists on her hips, worrying her lip. One look at her and he yanked on his hoodie. Fine. Tea run. Quick in, quick out. They’d swing by UA later for the festival anyway. Eri had circled the date on the workshop calendar three times and drawn a lopsided smiley face beside it. As much as he’d like to avoid that place like the plague, he would not ruin it for Eri.

So here he was: bell chiming, hood pulled low, eyes scanning the interior, adjusting to the dim amber glow of the lights. The scent hit him in layers—earthy oolong, bright citrus peel, a faint trace of sandalwood. Ancient wooden beams arched across the ceiling. Shelves of ceramic teapots lined the back wall. It was the kind of place that advertised nothing and survived on memories alone. It was almost as unassuming as its exterior.

“Get in, get the leaves, get out,” he muttered. 

The morning crowd was small. A pair of university students huddled by the window, notebooks open, steaming mugs forgotten. An elderly couple sat near the counter. At a table tucked beside a bookshelf, a man in a tan trenchcoat, black hat, and carefully pressed trousers lifted a porcelain cup with theatrical grace.

Katsuki kept his hood up and moved toward the retail shelf in the corner, where tins of loose leaf were arranged by flavor profile. He squinted at the handwritten labels—Smoky Mountain, Winter Plum, Golden Song—searching for anything that matched Takeshi’s scrawl. He found a tin marked Sailor’s Blend, grunted at the name, and plucked it from the display.

He turned, his headache throbbed and his vision swam for a second. He reached out to brace himself and clipped the edge of the tan-coated man’s table.

The table shuddered. Fine china rattled, and a teacup toppled over the edge. Pale jade liquid splattered across the floor boards, the cup shattering into three neat pieces.

“Shit, sorry,” Katsuki swore under his breath. He crouched automatically, reaching for the shards. Heat flushed his cheeks when the café went silent. 

Across from him, the owner of the cup watched the catastrophe with theatrical despair. Silver hair curled at the ends, tan coat buttoned to the throat. “My tea,” he whispered. “The finest Gold Tips Imperial … Harvested on the first day of spring! Brewed precisely at seventy-nine degrees Celsius… aged in clay for—””

Katsuki offered the napkin. “Look, sorry. I’ll pay for it. Didn’t see the corner.”

“You do not understand,” the man sighed. “It is essential to my ritual. A final centering before I undertake any grand endeavour.”

“En‑deav—?” Katsuki bristled, headache spiking. “Dude, it’s tea. Relax.”

A small girl darted from the next chair, her pink hair in twin loops, and eyes wide as saucers. “Gentle, it’s okay, we can always get more!”

Gentle.

Katsuki’s brain snagged on the name. He’d read it somewhere. Some low‑level villain who filmed himself pulling elaborate pranks on hero society. Nothing lethal. Just obnoxious.

Katsuki stood to leave. He froze when Gentle’s gaze sharpened, lavender eyes locking on him with sudden recognition. “You are Bakugo Katsuki,” he said softly. “Expelled prodigy. Presumed dead hero candidate.”

The headache pulsed. Katsuki ground his molars. “You got the wrong guy,” he said.

“No, no, I never forget a face. Especially one the media paraded every hour for weeks.” Gentle tapped a finger to his temple. “Top of your class. Then scandal. Then—” he lowered his voice—“presumed dead.”

Katsuki’s jaw twitched. “People love a tragedy. Now move.”

La Brava stepped closer, clutching a laptop bag. “Gentle, maybe we should go—”

Gentle raised a hand. “A moment, my dear. This is fate.” He turned to Katsuki. “Do you remember the headlines? U.A. Expels Promising Student After Attack. Then months later— Body Still Missing; Search Called Off. Such tragedy.” He sounded almost sincere.

Katsuki’s pulse hammered. “I remember,” he said coldly. “What’s it to you?”

Gentle folded his hands. “I admire survivors. Society’s machine is merciless. You slipped through its gears, resurfaced here. Remarkable.” His eyes glittered. “I, too, was discarded once.”

Katsuki dropped the remaining porcelain into the bin a barista offered. The barista handed him towels. The ache behind his eyes intensified—static hiss at his skull’s edges—but he pushed it down. He couldn’t let a stranger see him wobble. “Spill’s on me. I’ll pay for the tea.”

Gentle motioned to an empty chair. “Indulge me five minutes. I shall replace my own cup; your apology need only be conversation.”

Katsuki considered bolting. Five minutes was nothing. And maybe sitting would steady the throbbing. He sat.

Barista delivered a replacement brew; Gentle inhaled reverently, then focused on Katsuki. “Tell me—how did you rise from the grave?”

Katsuki shrugged. “Didn’t die. Just got dragged somewhere dark. Walked out.”

La Brava leaned forward, eyes huge. “Walked out alone ?”

“Not exactly…” He touched his wrist instinctively where Eri’s knot sat under the hoodie—today its threads were loose; she’d tighten them before the festival. “Heroes had other priorities. Happens.”

Gentle’s brow furrowed. “Society discards its brightest.” His expression sobered. “I failed my hero licensing practical by chance—an accident, truly—and watched doors close one by one. In the end, the world forgot me. I refused to be forgotten.”

“So you dress like a circus act and film clickbait.”

La Brava puffed up. “They’re not clickbait! They’re elegant exposes of injustice.”

Gentle raised a placating hand. “Today’s would have been more than a message. A symbol. A small infiltration. No casualties, of course. Only shock—to remind the public their bastions are brittle.”

Katsuki’s headache spiked. He massaged his temples. “You’re talking about UA.”

Gentle nodded once. “Exactly.”

“You do that, you ruin a kid’s day,” Katsuki snapped. “She’s got her heart set on that festival. Been counting the days. You scare her—”

Gentle blinked. “A child? At UA?”

“My sister,” Katsuki said before thinking, then corrected, “Well. Not exactly, but might as well be.”

La Brava’s gaze softened. “Oh.”

Katsuki leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You want to take a stand? Fine. Do it somewhere that doesn’t crush a little girl’s first festival. Find a target that can punch back.” He smirked. “UA’s security’ll fold you in half anyway.”

Gentle took a contemplative sip. Steam swirled between them. 

Headache ebbed slightly. The knot under his sleeve pulsed with his heartbeat. He pressed thumb to it. Katsuki leaned forward, voice low. “They’ll call you a villain, lock you up, and the system stays the same.”

“Better a villain remembered than a hero forgotten,” Gentle murmured.

Katsuki barked a humorless laugh. “Trust me, being remembered as a villain isn’t fun either.” He thumbed the edge of the tin. “You’re right, I was pissed when UA tossed me aside. The public called me a monster. But revenge? Waste of breath. I’m gonna live. That’s how I win.”

Gentle studied him. “Live… how?”

“However I damn well choose.”

Gentle exhaled, gaze drifting to the window. Outside, clouds parted; light spilled onto pavement. “Perhaps today’s plan is… ill‑timed.”

Katsuki shrugged. “Still up to you. I sure as hell won’t stop you. But if you go, you’ll get caught.”

Katsuki started toward the counter. Then paused. “Thanks for the tea lesson.”

Gentle lifted his cup. “Every encounter leaves a flavor. Thank you for the clarity, young Bakugo.”

Katsuki paid for the “Sailor’s Blend” and handed it to the barista for quirk treatment. He made his way to the door and turned back. “Get a better hobby.” 

The bell chimed behind him.

– – – – –

Back at the table, La Brava stared at Gentle.

"Are we still doing it?" she asked.

Gentle slowly lifted the freshly brewed Gold Tips Imperial black tea.

"No," he said. "I think our time is better spent elsewhere."

The air was soft today—sunny, but not scorching. The kind of warmth that settled in your bones and made you forget, for just a moment, the world outside was still on fire.

Dagobah Beach had been crowded the other day, but the festival was something else entirely. The energy buzzed like static in the air, louder and brighter than Katsuki anticipated. Music pumped from nearby speakers, distorted slightly by the breeze, and the scent of fried batter and grilled meat lingered like a cloud over the entire campus. Laughter rang out like bells. Colorful banners fluttered between booths. Students bustled past in costume or uniform, some dragging carts of candy, others shouting about obstacle courses and food competitions. It was a living, breathing mass of joy.

Katsuki hunched deeper into his hoodie, arms crossed as he scowled at the crowd.

"This is a bad idea," he muttered for the fourth time.

Takeshi stood beside him, equally disguised. The man had somehow gotten his hands on a comically oversized sunhat and a pair of aviator sunglasses, the kind that looked like they belonged in a cheap vacation movie. "You said that already."

"I’ll say it again."

A few steps ahead, Eri clutched her paper flier with both hands, the corners fraying from how many times she had folded and unfolded it. Her eyes were wide, pupils bouncing between sights and sounds as she stared up at the glowing stage in the courtyard. A band was getting set up.

"They have cotton candy," she said in a hushed voice, like it was a secret meant only for them.

Katsuki sighed through his nose and jerked his chin. "Come on."

He led her to the stand without another word, already regretting this entire trip.

Eri beamed up at him like he'd just won her the moon.

– – – – –

"Kacchan, is it crooked?"

They had made their way to a bench—concrete, cold, but mercifully free from crowd clusters. Correction: she had made her way. Katsuki had followed, mostly to keep an eye on her. The two of them sat shoulder to shoulder, cotton candy sticks in hand. Or rather, her hands. She had already stolen his after devouring hers and now worked on a fluffy blue swirl that was bigger than her head.

Katsuki squinted at her over the rim of his hood. The girl sat cross-legged, tugging her bucket hat down over the braids he’d worked on that morning.

"No," he muttered. "It’s fine."

"It feels crooked."

"Then fix it yourself."

She huffed at him, cheeks puffing out. "You said you were good at braiding."

"I said I was trying to be good," he snapped. "There’s a difference, shrimp."

In truth, her hair was a little uneven. The left braid sat lower than the right, and a stubborn curl had already wormed its way free at the temple. But the way she’d stared at herself in the cracked mirror earlier, smiling like she didn’t even recognize the happy girl in the reflection—that had been enough to stop him from adjusting it.

Eri adjusted the hat and beamed anyway. Her blue-tipped braids bounced behind her as she grabbed Katsuki’s hand with uncontained excitement, dragging him forward just as the speakers crackled to life.

A guitar riff split the air.

Katsuki stiffened.

No.

Fucking.

Way.

Class 1-A was on stage.

Jirou stood front and center, her earpieces plugged into the amp, pounding out a rhythm that got half the guests clapping along before the first verse hit. Kaminari grinned like a golden retriever as he shredded beside her. Even Yaoyorozu was there, looking like a goddamn rockstar behind a sleek digital keyboard. Deku. He was there dancing up front. They looked like they hadn’t aged a day.

Katsuki felt every molecule in his body scream to turn around and run.

But then Eri tugged on his sleeve, her voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd.

"Kacchan," she whispered. "Lift me up, I can’t see!"

He wanted to say no. He meant to say no.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he sighed, crouched down, and hoisted her onto his shoulders. Her hands found his hair for balance, braids swaying as she leaned forward, eyes shining.

Takeshi reappeared beside them a moment later, carrying three drinks and two heaping trays of yakisoba. "They’re pretty good," he said casually. "Guess hero school teaches music now."

Katsuki ground his teeth. "They’re just idiots with instruments."

But his gaze stayed fixed.

The crowd pulsed with joy. Class 1-A played like they were made for this, all rhythm and harmony and the kind of teamwork Katsuki never thought he’d miss until it was gone. They were smiling. Genuinely smiling. Like nothing outside these school walls mattered.

And Eri was happy.

She giggled, leaning into his head. Her grip tightened as the song swelled, and he let her sway with the music. His eyes scanned the crowd, always alert. No one looked twice at them. No one recognized them. Just another tired dad and his kids out for a day of sugar and song.

And for the briefest moment, Katsuki let himself breathe.

– – – – –

Eri waited just outside the row of bathrooms, one hand holding Takeshi’s, the other clutching her flier like a treasure map. Her eyes darted through the crowd of passing students. Many of them were in costume, some in their school uniforms, others draped in event merch. Laughter bubbled from every direction.

Then—

"Hey! That was really good!"

Her voice startled the red-haired boy walking past. He turned, blinking in surprise before his expression softened into an easy smile. Spiky red hair. A kind face.

The red haired boy crouched slightly. "Aw, thanks, kiddo! Glad you liked it!"

Eri stepped closer, smiling shyly. "The music," she said, voice sweet. "And the lights! I really liked it. Kacchan lifted me up so I could see better!"

The smile faltered.

Just a flicker.

Then it returned, more careful this time.

"Kacchan, huh?" he echoed.

He crouched down to her level, red eyes glinting. "You know," he said, patting her head with surprising gentleness, "I had a friend named Kacchan once. Loud. Kinda scary sometimes. But a good person."

"Really?" Eri beamed.

"Yeah," he said with a quiet chuckle. "Everyone thought he was a PR disaster, but honestly? He was so manly."

Eri giggled, and Takeshi—ever the quiet guardian—placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Well, enjoy the rest of the festival," the boy said, standing back up. His eyes lingered for half a second too long, deep in thought. 

"Okay!" Eri chirped, waving.

They turned and walked back toward the bathrooms, where Katsuki had disappeared a few minutes ago.

Just as they neared the stall, the door creaked open.

Katsuki stepped out, shaking his hands to dry them. "Dryer’s busted. No paper towels either," he muttered. "Anything interesting happen?"

Takeshi glanced at Eri, who smiled innocently up at him.

"Nothing really."

Katsuki shrugged.

And they walked back into the noise and color, swallowed once again by the crowd.

Chapter Text

The knock came early in the afternoon.

It wasn’t frantic, or loud, or even particularly aggressive. It was just three soft raps against the trailer door. The kind of knock that didn’t demand attention so much as wait for it.

Katsuki scowled from where he sat on the couch, idly twirling a screwdriver between his fingers. The air outside was sticky with the kind of heat that clung to skin and made tempers short. He’d already been in a foul mood all day. And he was really not in the mood for visitors.

He pushed off the couch with a grunt, the floor creaking under his weight as he padded barefoot to the door.

When he yanked it open, two figures stood silhouetted against the bruised evening sky.

“Oh, hell no.”

“Now now,” said a familiar voice, placid and infuriating, “I promise we’re not here to stir up trouble.”

Katsuki narrowed his eyes. “Gentle Criminal,” he growled. “And… the hacker girl.”

“La Brava,” she said helpfully, flashing a peace sign. She wore an oversized hoodie with pink ribbons in her hair and carried a laptop bag slung across one shoulder.

Without another word, Katsuki slammed the door in their faces.

He leaned his back against it, letting out a sharp breath through his nose. Were they serious? Gentle Criminal was a glorified nuisance and a washed-up joke, and La Brava was the digital gremlin. He ran into them one time, and now they were showing up at the damn house like this was some kind of team-up arc?

He didn’t have the mental capacity for this crap.

Then, a muffled voice came through the door: 

“We know you’re looking for All For One.”

Katsuki froze.

That voice—Gentle's—carried none of its usual theatrical pomp. Just facts, delivered with razor precision.

How the hell did they know that?

His fingers lingered on the edge of the door, muscles locked. A warning flare of adrenaline sparked in his chest. He didn't hear footsteps retreating. The silence was tense. Waiting.

Then came the second line, quieter: “We want to help you.”

Katsuki’s jaw clenched.

Help? From two washed-up internet criminals? It was ridiculous. Insulting. It was—

Exactly the kind of reckless idea he'd be stupid enough to consider.

His heart thudded like a warning drumbeat behind his ribs. His leads on the League had dried up. There had been no more whispers, no movement, and his flame had gone silent. No flicker, no pull. For days now.

So maybe, maybe , he was desperate enough to let them through his front door.

It didn’t mean he trusted them.

But still…

They knew.

They knew something . Enough to track him down. Enough to connect dots even the pros hadn’t connected yet. That counted for something.

Slowly, he opened the door again, eyes narrowed.

“…I’m listening,” he said, voice low and flat.

Gentle dipped his head, almost reverent in the way he moved. “Might we come in?”

Katsuki stared at them both for a long moment. La Brava stood slightly behind Gentle, eyes locked on him with barely contained energy. She didn’t look smug. She looked like someone with a loaded gun full of information.

With a sharp sigh, Katsuki stepped back and jerked his chin toward the interior.

“Fine. But don’t touch anything. And if I even think you’re wasting my time…”

“No tricks,” Gentle said, hands raised in peace. “We’re here to listen. And, if you’ll allow it… to offer what we know.”

Katsuki grunted, already regretting this.

He shut the door behind them, the latch clicking behind them.

Because if they were wrong… If they were lying … If they were just another set of people who thought they could use him—

Then he’d burn this whole fucking alliance down before they ever got the chance.

The tiny living room felt even smaller with the two extra bodies inside, their silhouettes backlit by the afternoon sun. La Brava’s hair was pulled up in twin puffs that bounced with every excited shift of her weight, her laptop bag swinging with her movements. Gentle Criminal stood tall and polite as ever, with that ridiculous ascot and waxed mustache, his gloved hands folded neatly in front of him.

"You know," Gentle said lightly, "the more I look at you, the more I see it. We’re not so different, you and I."

Katsuki leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. He narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, you said that before. What’s your point? Why did you show up at my house?" He could feel the headache coming on. These two idiots found out where he was staying—talk about creepy.

Gentle smiled without offense. "My point is—La Brava did some digging. And we found something rather interesting."

Katsuki’s expression darkened. "What?"

La Brava stepped forward, clutching her laptop tightly. "I—I'm sorry. I know it was invasive, but I had to know. You disappeared around the same time Nullbringer sightings started popping up. At first, I thought it was a coincidence. But then I started noticing patterns."

Katsuki's arms uncrossed. His stance shifted subtly, alert. Katsuki didn’t like the sound of this. Not one bit.

La Brava's voice quickened. “We only tracked you because we recognized the Nullbringer footage from the Shie Hassaikai leak,” she explained, trying to smooth things over. I don’t understand how it’s possible—your abilities now are completely different from your old quirk—but the data doesn’t lie. I cross-referenced video footage and movement logs from the HPSC's internal databases—"

"You hacked the Commission?"

She flushed but didn’t look away. "Yes. And I found something else. Every Nullbringer incident you’ve been involved in? The League was somehow connected. Either in the vicinity, or direct involvement. It was like you were tracking them."

Katsuki’s lips thinned. He pushed off the doorframe. "Why do you care? Seriously. Why waste time digging into my business? What is your angle?"

Gentle joined her now, with a calm smile. "You misunderstand. This isn’t about gain. This is about opportunity. The public sees Nullbringer as an anomaly—a vigilante at best, a villain at worst. But I see something else. A symbol."

Katsuki scoffed. "Spare me the idealism."

But Gentle continued, voice soft with conviction. "You are what happens when the system fails. And yet, instead of falling into villainy, you’re fighting back against the system. You have every reason to hate the world, and yet you’re trying to fix it. That’s what people need to see."

"Don’t put your ideals on me," Katsuki snapped. "You don’t know me."

Gentle didn’t flinch. "I don’t. Not entirely. But I’ve seen enough. Enough to know that if someone like you can rise again, maybe there’s still hope for those the system has discarded."

La Brava cleared her throat. "It would be a benefit to both Gentle and me. We just want to reform hero society—and there’s something in it for you, so it’s a win-win, right? I found some intel. There has been odd activity out in Fukuoka. Movements underground that suggest a big shift coming. We are not sure what exactly, but it has been too quiet."

Katsuki raised a brow. "That’s halfway across the country. You want me to just pack up and go on a whim?"

"Not a whim," she said. "It’s a lead, I can feel it! We don’t know if it’s the League, but it smells wrong. If there’s something happening there, we want to check it out. We want you with us."

Katsuki looked at both of them—Gentle with his too-earnest eyes and La Brava clutching her laptop tightly against her chest. There was something unnerving about how quickly they had gotten into his business. How easily they’d pieced it together. His mind flicked to the heroes. If these two amateurs could find him, how long until the Commission did?

"Fine," he muttered. "But none of your dumb livestream crap. Got it?"

La Brava hesitated.

Gentle raised a hand. "We only want to help the public see what you're really doing."

"That’s not your decision."

A long beat. Then finally, La Brava sighed. "No faces. But we really do need the footage."

Katsuki didn’t respond. He turned on his heel and stalked toward the garage. Inside, Takeshi was hunched over a spread of blueprints while Eri colored beside him on the floor with chalk. She looked up as Katsuki entered.

"Hey," he said, keeping his voice level. "Old man, I’ve got something. We’re heading out. Got a lead."

Takeshi didn’t look up. "You checking in every hour?"

Katsuki grunted. "Yeah."

Takeshi finally glanced at him, eyes narrowing when he saw the two guests. "I don’t even wanna know."

Katsuki shrugged. "They’ve got skills."

Takeshi sighed, rubbing his face. "Whatever. Just keep your location on. Any weird signals, I’m pulling your ass out myself."

Katsuki gave him a lazy salute. "Got it."

They traveled by train at first. Katsuki kept to the shadows, his hood drawn low and a pair of goggles tight against his face. His black mask muffled his voice, and the hat pressed his dyed hair flat.

Gentle made idle chatter, musing about the shifting hero rankings, the pressure Endeavor was facing with his new #1 position, and how society might collapse if the League struck again. Katsuki mostly tuned him out.

Katsuki’s mind wandered despite himself. He hated trusting criminals. Hated more that it kind of made sense. 

He’d become exactly what he used to hate—someone operating in the shadows, cutting corners, dancing on the edge of legality. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Once, he would have spat in the face of someone like him. Now? He wasn’t sure.

– – – – –

Once in Fukuoka, they moved across rooftops. Gentle’s elasticity quirk allowed them to bound silently over alleys and buildings. The air was crisp. The skyline glittered in the early evening.

"So," Gentle said as they perched on a ledge overlooking a market street. "Still think we’re a waste of time?"

Katsuki snorted. "You haven’t proven otherwise yet."

La Brava giggled.

They split up to scan different quadrants of the city. Katsuki kept his senses sharp, although he didn’t expect anything. Just when frustration began to rise, there was a loud explosion somewhere close by.

The first blast rocked the street with a thunderous boom that rattled windows and shook the rooftops. Sirens began wailing in the distance.

Katsuki’s head snapped up. Violent grey smoke bloomed in the distance, stretching upward. People screamed, a chaotic chorus of terror and confusion. The sky, which had been quiet only moments ago, was now burning.

He turned towards the commotion, scanning the skyline.

“Nomus,” he hissed, mouth tight. His fists clenched before he could think.

He leapt, landing in a crouch beside Gentle and La Brava atop the adjacent rooftop. Below them, chaos erupted. The Nomus swarmed the streets like locusts. They were misshapen beasts with fused limbs, hunched backs, and exposed brains. Some dragged themselves with arms that bent the wrong way. Others bounded forward like insects with human faces. The sound of bone scraping pavement, and the roar of mutated throats was nightmare fuel given flesh.

People scattered. Cars swerved and crashed. Storefronts shattered under heavy blows. Flames licked across asphalt. Children cried.

La Brava had already pulled out her camera, recording from the roof with wide eyes. "We need to capture this," she whispered. "People need to see what we’re fighting."

Gentle remained composed. He adjusted his cuffs, eyes narrowing as he analyzed the unfolding chaos. “Let’s devise a plan.”

Katsuki’s mind was already moving. He was far from a hero, but old habits died hard. Civilians first. Control the spread. Take out the small fry fast.

Gentle wasted no time. He began deploying his quirk. He coated surfaces in pockets of elasticized air, ready to redirect attacks or movement. 

“We’ll funnel them,” Gentle said, his voice crisp with urgency. La Brava, monitor heat signatures and route patterns. Bakugo, intercept and incapacitate. Avoid the big ones unless absolutely necessary.”

La Brava was already typing at lightning speed, her custom rig flickering with live data.

“I’ll ping movement patterns,” she said. “Be careful, they might be organized.”

Katsuki’s jaw clenched. The League didn’t do anything halfway.

He launched himself from the rooftop, boots crashing into the first Nomu’s face with bone-shattering force. It reeled back, but another lunged from the side.

“Left!” La Brava shouted.

Katsuki pivoted mid-air, twisting in a controlled spin. Gentle’s elastic field caught his trajectory and flung him in a wide arc. He landed behind the second Nomu and drove a knee into the back of its skull.

They didn’t move like humans. Not even like monsters. It was worse than that—like puppets on tangled strings.

“There’s a cluster near the alleyway!” La Brava called.

“I’m on it!” Katsuki darted down, rebounding off a wall, skating across an elastic field Gentle had laid down. He twisted sharply to the right, claws grazing his shoulder as a Nomu missed its mark by inches.

He ducked under another’s swing, cracked its knee, then vaulted off the side of a vending machine to land a sharp kick to its temple.

These things weren’t normal. He was barely making a dent in their numbers.

Through the haze of motion, he could see the flickering auras. Mangled, fractured things that clawed against their flesh. Some of them screamed without sound. Some just sobbed.

Katsuki’s stomach turned. He couldn’t afford to stop. Couldn’t think about what they might have been.

“Got two more inbound!” La Brava called. “Six o’clock!”

He spun and moved again. Blood sprayed from a Nomu’s mouth as he crushed its ribs with a vicious strike.

Gentle’s voice crackled through his comm. “They’re targeting responders. Two EMT vans were just overturned.”

Where are the heroes? Katsuki wondered, veering hard, crossing over a patch of elasticity. It launched him over the heads of two Nomus, giving him the clearance he needed to land beside the wrecked van. A third Nomu barreled toward a medic trapped inside.

“Not today!” he snarled, charging it. His shoulder hit it like a battering ram.

The beast shrieked, gurgling blood, and collapsed. The medic inside the van gasped.

“Get out of here!” Katsuki barked.

The medic nodded shakily and scrambled away.

Katsuki turned back to the fray. Gentle was directing traffic with fluid precision, using his quirk to herd Nomus toward an evacuated segment.

“They’re everywhere,” Katsuki muttered. His heart pounded, lungs burning. But he couldn’t stop.

He saw one dragging its body toward a child who’d fallen behind the crowd. Time slowed. Katsuki’s pulse surged.

He sprinted.

“Elastic patch, five meters ahead!” Gentle called.

Katsuki didn’t hesitate. He launched off the ledge, slammed into the elastic field, and rocketed forward. His body collided with the Nomu’s side just before it could strike the kid.

“Run!” he shouted at the child.

The kid sobbed and fled.

Katsuki stood over the Nomu, chest heaving. Its aura flailed, lost and wild. No structure. No peace. 

What did they do to you…?

More roars echoed in the distance.

Katsuki returned to the rooftops, where La Brava was recording from a safe vantage.

“You’re unbelievable,” she said softly. “You’re really trying to save them all.”

Katsuki didn’t answer. He just clenched his fists and looked toward the rising smoke.

The air was thick with ash and static. Flames licked the sky, reflecting off shattered windows. Screams echoed down alleyways, carried on the wind like ghosts.

And still the Nomus kept coming.

Katsuki stood panting, his chest heaving beneath his mask. His eyes scanned the street below where grotesque figures continued to pour out like insects from a hive. There were too many.

He swore under his breath. "Damn it."

Across the chaos, a blur of red feathers carved through the air. Hawks. The Pro Hero darted across the battlefield like a razor, slicing through the swarming Nomus with his wings. His feathers were spinning off in rapid succession, moving civilians out of harm's way. 

But even he was slowing.

Katsuki's eyes lingered, catching every move. Hawks was running low. His feathers were dwindling. Every strike came with a noticeable pause now.

"We need a new plan. Fast.”

La Brava wiped sweat from her brow, her laptop rig still feeding live surveillance through her headset. "We’re getting overwhelmed. There’s too many. Even with Hawks out there—"

"He’s running dry," Katsuki said. "I saw it. He can’t keep up."

Gentle adjusted his coat, grim. "These Nomus... they’re more coordinated than I expected."

Katsuki was already pacing, mind racing. He glanced toward the destruction and the swarm that kept pushing forward, before looking up at the rooftop. That’s when the idea struck.

He turned to Gentle, his voice sharp with urgency. "Can you scatter your quirk across the field? Just random spots. I need elastic airfields, traps, walls. Doesn’t matter. Just spread it wide."

La Brava blinked. "Are you insane?"

Gentle looked equally baffled. "I... Young Bakugo, my quirk doesn’t work that way. I can’t deactivate the areas once they’re placed. They have to wear off naturally. And I certainly can’t keep track of every surface I’ve affected. Even I would lose count."

"You won’t need to," Katsuki said, eyes narrowing. "Just trust me."

Gentle hesitated, clearly uneasy. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Very well.”

Katsuki didn’t answer. He was already moving.

Gentle raised his arms and activated his quirk, sending pulses of elastic force into the air, the ground, the walls, scattering invisible pads of energy across the battlefield like a landmine field made of springs.

To anyone else, they were useless.

But not to Katsuki.

He could see them—threads of aura shimmering like pale heat over each surface, the touch of Gentle’s quirk lighting up faintly in his sight. It was like reading a hidden language. Every spring zone was clear as day.

He took off, his foot connecting with one of the elastic pads. He launched forward, twisting midair and driving a boot into a Nomu’s chest. This sent it crashing through a market stall.

He rebounded again—left, then up, then sideways—each leap faster than the last. 

Gentle stared, eyes wide. “How… how is he doing that?”

La Brava’s fingers flew over her equipment, capturing everything. “He’s flying, Gentle! This is incredible!”

Another Nomu lunged for Katsuki.

Too slow.

He bounded off the wall, ricocheted from an unseen pad, and planted a fist in the creature’s jaw. It dropped, twitching.

La Brava turned her camera toward Gentle. “Say something! This is what we were waiting for!”

Gentle cleared his throat, voice suddenly solemn as he addressed the lens. "Ladies and gentlemen... behold. Nullbringer. A name whispered in shadow. An outcast. A boy written off by the system."

Onscreen, Katsuki continued his rampage, tearing through the field like a storm.

“This,” Gentle said, gesturing to the camera, “is what true heroism looks like. Not in official rankings or fancy endorsements. Not in red tape or agency backing. But here. In the chaos.”

La Brava turned the camera to follow Katsuki again as he soared high into the air before crashing down on a Nomu with explosive force, knocking it into the pavement hard enough to leave a crater.

“He was discarded,” Gentle continued, voice rising with passion. “Vilified. Labeled dangerous. But when the people cry out, who answers?"

On the field, Katsuki landed in a crouch, his chest heaving, eyes blazing behind his mask.

La Brava was nearly in tears. “He’s turning the tide…”

One last Nomu roared as it charged forward. It was larger than the others, feral and screeching.

Katsuki ran toward it, springing forward and landing a roundhouse kick straight to the temple. The beast dropped, convulsing.

Silence settled over the block. The swarm had thinned. They were winning.

Gentle stared through the smoke, eyes wide with awe.

Katsuki landed beside them again, blood running from his nose, his mask torn slightly.

La Brava shut off the camera and threw her arms around him. “That was amazing!”

He grunted. “Not done yet.” H is eyes turned toward a rising column of fire. “I saw Endeavor,” he said breathlessly. “Fighting something big. Bigger than all of these,” he said, gesturing to the fallen Nomus.

Gentle’s face paled. “High-tier Nomu?”

“Higher, I think. Endeavor is struggling.”

They turned toward the skyline. One street over, a monstrous figure rose from the smoke, squaring off against the flame hero himself.

Katsuki watched, vision swimming.

Whatever was coming next… he’d need a new plan.

The heat came first.

A burst of fire lit the dusk-drenched skyline, a wall of orange and gold consuming half a city block. From the rooftop across the avenue, Katsuki recoiled instinctively, arm shielding his face as the radiant heat brushed his skin like an open furnace. Then came the shockwave, rattling loose debris and sending a distant window shattering into glittering fragments.

And through the fire, he could see the Nomu.

Katsuki staggered, one hand gripping the rooftop ledge. A wave of nausea slammed into him, sudden and absolute. His stomach twisted, bile rising to the back of his throat. He’d felt off ever since they spotted the first batch of Nomus. Each one of them was a cacophony of energy jammed together like broken glass in a blender, but this one was different. Wrong didn’t even begin to cover it.

It was massive. Towering over traffic lights and wrecked vehicles. Its form was completely black, its skin stretched taut over bulging muscle, and red eyes bulging from their sockets. From its mouth it came a wet, rattling breath, too deep, too slow, like something breathing through thick sludge. It could talk.

And its aura—

Katsuki gagged.

He dropped to one knee, pressing a palm flat against the rooftop to keep from collapsing entirely. His vision blurred. The presence bleeding off that thing wasn’t just painful. It was overwhelming. Heavy. The weight of it pressed down on him like gravity turned hostile.

"Kid?" Gentle knelt beside him, brows furrowed with concern.

"Bakugo!" La Brava dropped down beside them, eyes wide. Her hand reached toward his shoulder.

He shook his head. "Don’t touch me."

His fingers twitched. From across the gap, flames exploded upward, marking Endeavor’s presence. The number one hero barreled into the Nomu like a cannonball of fire and force. The two clashed violently, heat waves rippling across buildings. Every hit from Endeavor lit the sky; every counter from the Nomu cracked the earth. Glass rained down from windows above. Cars skidded sideways, their alarms wailing in the distance.

And Katsuki couldn’t move.

He couldn’t even get close. It wasn't because he was afraid of getting caught in the crossfire—though the chances were high. Endeavor’s flames could easily roast him alive. But even more than that, his instincts screamed at him to stay back . That getting closer would be like stepping into a meat grinder for the soul.

The air stank of scorched metal, dust, and blood.

"We have to go," Gentle said firmly. He was standing now, eyes fixed on the crumbling street below. Another building groaned as its supports buckled. "We’re in the collapse zone. If this keeps up—"

"We’ll be caught in it," La Brava finished. She touched Katsuki’s shoulder again. "Come on. There’s nothing we can do."

But there was.

There had to be.

Katsuki’s fists trembled. He hated standing still, watching someone else fight, powerless to help. How the hell was he supposed to walk away?

But physically he couldn’t even stand without retching. He squeezed his eyes shut, the sounds of battle thunderous around him. Fire howled. Concrete screamed. The Nomu let out a deep, resonant groan as Endeavor slammed into it. Both of them were now airborne.

There had to be another way.

Think.

He remembered the kid he’d saved once. The aura he’d touched and how it had reacted. He remembered how his own flame had felt. How it had seemed distant and unreachable at first. But he had reached it. Without touching it. Without seeing it.

And then the idea hit him.

"I’m going to try something," he said suddenly, voice low and steady despite the storm in his gut.

La Brava blinked. "Try what?"

"You need to trust me," he said. "No matter what happens, you do not wake me up."

Gentle turned. "What are you talking about, young man? What do you mean wake you up?"

Katsuki pulled his goggles down over his eyes. "Cover for me. Watch my back. Keep the area clear. If I come out of it screaming, still don’t wake me."

"That sounds exactly like something we shouldn’t do," La Brava hissed.

He was already sitting down with his legs crossed and hands on his knees. He steadied his breathing.

Gentle took a slow step forward. "Bakugo—"

"Just trust me," he said. He looked up at them, expression tight. "Please."

Gentle stared at him. And then, quietly, he nodded.

"We’ll protect you."

Katsuki closed his eyes.

The sounds of the city dulled, becoming distant, as if his head had plunged underwater. He focused inward—on the quiet pulse of his soul, the thrum of energy that moved beneath his skin. His heartbeat steadied. He thought of the flame. Of the flickering warmth that wasn’t quite part of him but still answered when he called. If he could reach that , then maybe he could reach this too.

He extended his awareness. His senses, the part of him that could see quirks as auras, pushed past his own body. Outward, and into the void. It was like stretching an arm into freezing water.

Then he felt it.

The Nomu.

Its aura wasn’t just loud. It was a tornado. A monstrous amalgamation of agony, rage, and hunger . Energy churned like debris inside it, crashing into each other, tangling and fusing. The closer Katsuki got, the harder it was to breathe. But he didn’t stop.

He saw it—faint, but real. A thread. He reached for it, fingers brushing the edge

And the world went white.

Katsuki’s body slumped forward, limp. La Brava darted forward and caught him before his head could hit the concrete. She cradled him, shaking his shoulders.

"Bakugo?! Bakugo!"

His goggles were fogged. Blood trickled from his nose.

Gentle stood frozen. Then turned to watch the battle, a muscle in his jaw ticking. The Nomu was still standing.

Endeavor roared.

Flames surged.

And Katsuki didn’t move.

Chapter Text

Katsuki’s mind plummeted into darkness, swallowing him whole.

He tumbled endlessly into the abyss, senses shredding and reforming. Each second pulled him deeper into the oppressive void. Each thought fractured, splintering under the weight of a pressure he couldn't name. The sensation was like sinking into ice-cold water, an unending descent into blackness that swallowed sound, thought, and memory.

When the feeling began to ebb away, Katsuki’s consciousness stirred. His senses gradually returned.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself sitting in a nightmarish chamber. The air was thick, almost tangible, pressing in on him from all sides. The walls pulsed slowly, rhythmically, and slick like wet flesh. The walls were threaded with faintly glowing veins. The chamber felt alive—malevolent and watching.

Then, his sense of touch returned. He felt the sludge, viscous, warm, and slick—slithering up his arms and legs.

Katsuki sat up with a strangled gasp. His lungs burned, sucking in air that tasted like rot and iron. His breath caught, gagging on the stench—a cloying, wet rot like spoiled meat and burnt plastic. His ears rang. His skin crawled.

He shifted, instinctively trying to get up—then stopped. His breath hitched. There was a weight anchoring him into the ground. 

He forced himself to look, dread pooling in his gut. Hands gripped his legs. Dozens of them—bloated and discolored, slick with mucus and blood—protruded from the sludge beneath him. Fingers clutched his ankles, his calves, pulling him deeper. Their nails were split, some missing entirely. 

Eyes stared up at him from the viscous muck. They were scattered, sunken and bulging. One blinked. Another twitched.

And all around him, he could hear voices.

"Help me..."

"Please... let me go..."

"It hurts... it hurts..."

The moans came from everywhere and nowhere. They rose and fell in a haunting chorus, stitched together by sobs and broken pleas. Some were high and childlike. Others were guttural, aged. Each cry was soaked in pain, hollow and unending.

Katsuki gasped, nearly vomiting as a disjointed hand crawled up his chest. It had too many fingers.

He wrenched away with a cry—but more hands shot out. He stumbled forward through the slop, pushing through the limbs. His boots squelched with every step, the sludge trying to suck him down like a mouth too greedy to let go.

Above him stretched a sky that wasn’t a sky at all—just an endless abyss, veined with threads of black and pulsing red. Chains hung down from it, heavy and rusted, swaying with no breeze. Each one vanished into the gloom above, trailing down and attached to dark figures. The forms contorted, writhing silently. At first glance, they seemed spectral and abstract, but as Katsuki focused, the truth became horrifyingly clear.

These were people.

Souls, trapped in an eternal torment. Each face bore the imprint of its last mortal agony: mouths frozen in soundless screams, eyes wide and filled with suffering. 

He looked around once more, taking note of each chain. Twelve. One for each torso that barely twitched. The metal links burrowed into bone and meat, anchoring them to this hell.

Katsuki stepped forward. His boots disappeared in the muck. A dozen eyes snapped open—pale, clouded, and fixed on him. He locked eyes with one of the forms, a rasping wheeze left its mouth.

"You...—

Screams erupted. Not from one mouth, but from all of them.

Katsuki dropped to his knees, clutching his head.

"What the fuck is this…"

A metallic screech cut him off.

He looked up just in time to see a chain drop from the ceiling. It lashed toward him like a striking viper. Katsuki dove to the side, barely avoiding it as the links slammed down where he’d just been. Sludge exploded in all directions beneath the impact.

He scrambled back, boots skidding across the slick surface. The chain lashed out once more, grazing his shoulder, hot pain searing across his skin. He hissed and ducked, heart hammering.

It was hunting him.

The cold metal finally caught up to him, coiling around his arm with unnatural precision, yanking hard. Katsuki cried out, legs kicking as he fought against the pull. Panic tore through his chest like fire in dry grass. The chain was trying to bind him, drag him under.

He twisted, gritting his teeth. With a roar, he tore free, wrenching himself out of its grip.

The chain slithered back, readying for another strike—

And then, hands burst from the ground. Pale, ghostly, trembling—yet strong. Dozens of arms broke through. They caught the chain mid-lash, holding it down and fighting its movements. The chain thrashed violently, shrieking against their hold, but the hands didn’t let go.

Katsuki landed hard on the floor, breath ragged, pain flaring through his shoulder and ribs. He didn’t move at first. Just sat there, staring. They were holding the chain back.

They were protecting him.

Katsuki allowed himself a few ragged breaths, chest rising and falling as his heartbeat slowly settled. His arm still throbbed from where the chain had wrapped around it, but the pain was distant—overshadowed by something deeper.

He looked up at the spirits.

They had tried to warn him.

Drawing in a steadying breath, he forced himself to his feet. The spirits no longer screamed. They stood still now—silent and patient. Watching.

Waiting.

He stepped forward carefully, his boots squelching in the mire. “...Thanks,” he muttered. “For warning me.”

None of them responded, but something in the air shifted. The tension eased. 

His eyes dropped to the chains anchoring them. They pulsed faintly with color, wrapped tightly around limbs, torsos, necks. Familiar, glowing threads coursed through each link.

Katsuki narrowed his eyes. It was the same type of energy he saw surrounding the living. The same aura that defined someone’s power, their essence.

Here, it was the thing binding them.

One of the spirits stepped forward. A gaunt figure with eyes like dying embers. Its arm lifted. Katsuki instinctively recoiled—but stopped himself. He made himself stay still as it reached out, slowly, carefully…

And placed its hand over his heart.

His chest tightened.

Two more spirits moved. A small one clutched his shirt with shaking fingers. The other rested a palm gently on his shoulder.

Then the world shifted . And his vision darkened.

Below them, the battle raged on.

Endeavor roared, flame erupting from every inch of his battered frame. The Nomu lunged, grotesque limbs writhing like meat being torn in reverse. Endeavor met it midair, a furious spiral of Prominence Burn lighting up the sky like a second sun.

Then—

CRACK.

The Nomu slammed him through the side of a building. Concrete exploded outward. Steel beams screeched. A deafening boom shook the district.

From the rooftop, La Brava flinched as dust and debris billowed upward like smoke from a bomb. The shockwave hit a second later, slapping across her face like a furnace.

Gentle activated his quirk, redirecting the debris.

La Brava turned her eyes back to Katsuki.

His face was twisted in pain, his eyelids fluttered tight, and his muscles rigid. Blood had begun to seep from his nose, slow at first, then heavier. She leaned in—and froze.

His teeth were clenched.

Blood trickled past them, over his lower lip.

“Bakugo?” she choked out in alarm.

Above them, the sky roared.

A wall of fire burst across the street as Endeavor struck the Nomu with another blast. The heat peeled across the rooftops, launching more debris. Then, a deep groan—the kind that came from the bones of the city itself.

The rooftop beneath them shuddered. Screamed. And began to give way.

La Brava screamed. “Gentle!”

“Hold tight!” Gentle barked, already moving.

Concrete cracked beneath them like breaking ice. With a snap of motion, Gentle hoisted the boy across his shoulders, and caught La Brava’s wrist as the ground caved in. He activated his quirk, warping the rooftop surface beneath their feet like a trampoline.

The world flung sideways.

They soared over the collapsing building in a burst of smoke and cinders, landing hard on the broken remains of an adjacent rooftop. Gentle rolled once, shielding Katsuki’s body with his own until they skidded to a stop beside a jutting slab of rebar.

Ash rained down like black snow.

For a long moment, none of them spoke. Gentle’s breath hitched in ragged bursts. La Brava’s shoulders shook. And Katsuki lay motionless in their arms, a crumpled husk of blood and tension.

“Lay him on his side,” La Brava said breathlessly, wiping her eyes with trembling fingers. “He could choke on the blood.”

Gentle obeyed, easing the boy onto the stone with impossible care. He knelt beside him, fingers already reaching for Katsuki’s pulse.

Katsuki’s lips were pale. His jaw was tight, clenched against invisible pain. His breath was a faint tremor in the chaos.

“My god…” Gentle whispered, horror threading through his voice.

La Brava ripped off his goggles. Katsuki’s eyes were closed, lashes stuck together with drying blood. But the bleeding hadn’t stopped. Red wept from his tear ducts, thick as ink. It slid down the bridge of his nose, joining the blood from his nostrils, his ears.

He was bleeding from everywhere .

Gentle pressed trembling fingers to his neck again.

The pulse was erratic. Skipping.

Failing.

“He’s slipping,” Gentle murmured. “Whatever he’s doing—it’s killing him.”

La Brava crouched beside him, eyes wide. “He said not to wake him up. That no matter what happened, we couldn’t . But Gentle—he’s dying .”

“I know,” Gentle said, his voice tight. “I know .”

His fingers clenched. His eyes tracked the ruined skyline, flicking back to Katsuki’s body. The battle between Endeavor and the Nomu raged on just beyond the next building—a hellish display of fire and fury that bent the sky. The Nomu screamed as it took a blow to the neck, then retaliated with a swipe that shattered a crane. Rubble fell like rain.

Gentle didn’t flinch.

La Brava leaned in, shaking Katsuki’s shoulder. “Bakugo? Come on.” She tapped his cheek lightly. Then harder. “Wake up,” she begged. “Please wake up.”

Nothing.

Just the faint tremble of breath.

Gentle stared at Katsuki's face—at the way he looked younger like this, small and breakable.

And then… something changed.

The tension in his brow eased. His jaw unclenched. The lines of pain etched into his face slowly melted away, replaced by something gentler. Calmer. Almost peaceful.

Katsuki awoke with a quiet gasp.

The air around him felt... different.

Heavy, but not in the same way as before. Not crushing. Still wrong, still alien, but changed. Softer.

Katsuki opened his eyes slowly, half-expecting the blood-muck horror of the last place he'd seen to swallow him again. But when his vision cleared, he was standing in a dark clearing lit by soft light that had no source. Everything shimmered like oil on water. There were trees around him. They twisted upward into a blue and silver void, their branches clawing at the dark sky. There was no wind, no sound, no smell. Just silence

It was strange. Like a dream he’d forgotten how to wake from. 

Out of the void, three figures emerged.

Katsuki’s eyes widened in recognition. These were the three spirits, no longer the ghostly silhouettes he’d seen before. They now had bodies. Faces. Presence .

The first was a boy—maybe seven years old. His smile was crooked, almost playful, and his wide amber eyes shimmered with something old. His gray skin clung tightly to his bones. His T-shirt hung off his frame like a forgotten costume, stained and torn.

“I used to draw rockets,” he said. “On the walls. Mommy said I was gonna be an astronaut.”

Katsuki’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

“My name was Akihiro,” the boy said, stopping in front of Katsuki. “I don’t know how I got in that scary thing... But I remember my house! My bedroom had yellow curtains and stars on the ceiling! I had a doggy named Mikan.” 

“My sister was annoying,” he added with a sheepish smile. “She always followed me around, even when I told her to go away. She’d steal my crayons and draw hearts on my rocket ships and make them all girly. She made me have tea parties with her dumb stuffed animals and yell when I called them fake.”

His smile faltered. His hands fidgeted at his sides. “I used to get mad. I told her to stop touching my stuff. I told her to leave me alone. I thought she was a baby.”

A pause. His voice cracked.

“I miss her.” A small laugh escaped the boy—choked and wet.

“Please tell her I didn’t run away. Tell her I’m gone now.”

Before Katsuki could respond, the second figure appeared—a man in his thirties with dark dreadlocks tied back in a faded red cloth. His eyes were kind, but sunken. One side of his face was marred by a deep burn, old and leathery. His toolbelt still hung at his side.

“Koji,” he said with a nod. “I had a wife. Two kids. We lived in Chiba, tiny place, but I was saving up. I worked nights. Long shifts.”

His voice cracked.

“I was walking home. That’s all I remember. I didn’t leave them. I didn’t want to leave them.”

He gripped Katsuki’s shoulder. It felt real . Solid. Grounding.

“If you find her—Naomi—tell her I’m sorry. That I fought to come home. Even if it didn’t matter.”

Then came the third.

An older woman stepped from the shadows, her silver hair swept into a bun streaked with paint. Her face was flecked with dried color—violet, green, blue—as if she’d just stepped out of a mural. Her eyes were piercing and deep.

“Nari,” she said, simply.

“I taught art at a public high school. Thought color could fix anything.”

Her voice was low, like a lullaby cracked by grief.

“They took me. I bit one of them, but they just laughed. They didn’t care about me. I found out later that they wanted quirk.”

She looked away, breathing shallowly.

“There’s a man—Takeru. My son. He’s in Osaka. Tell him I died painting. Not in a cage.”

Katsuki’s throat burned. He wanted to say something. Anything. But they were already moving.

One by one, they stepped forward again. Not aggressively. Not haunting.

Gently.

Akihiro’s arms wrapped around his middle. Koji’s hand remained firm on his shoulder. Nari’s fingers brushed his cheek, featherlight.

There was a pull—like gravity shifting, not outward, but inward . His breath caught—

And he was back.

Back in the nightmare.

The chains still hissed in the air. The sludge pulsed and gurgled around him. But Katsuki was no longer frozen by fear.

He knew now.

He turned to the first bound soul and grabbed the chain. It burned against his palms, slick with muck and resistance. He pulled, digging in his heels—but the chain didn’t budge. His grip faltered. Slime coated his fingers. He gritted his teeth. His fingers slid across the surface, unable to find a grip. 

Just as frustration started to arise, there was movement.

The sludge around him rippled. Arms burst upward—not to drag him down, but to hold him steady. More arms rose, wrapping gently around his body. Not restraining, supporting him.

They wrapped around his wrists, reinforcing his grip. The warmth of their auras surged through him.

Katsuki roared—and pulled .

The chain groaned, fought—

Then snapped free.

Light exploded from the broken end, and the spirit it had held sank slowly into the ground, peaceful for the first time.

Katsuki stood still, heart pounding.

One chain down.

Twelve more to go.

The arms stayed with him.

For each soul, they rose again from the sludge—guiding him, bracing him, reinforcing his trembling grip. One chain at a time, Katsuki pulled. The links screamed as they tore free from the earth, the thick black muck clinging to them as if it, too, feared being alone.

Eleven more times, the chains groaned and gave way.

Eleven times, the darkness cracked.

And each time, something changed.

The indistinct shadows—the murky, shapeless forms that had once been figures in the mist—began to shift. As the chains broke, color bled into them like watercolor on dry paper. Limbs grew solid. Skin regained hue. Faces sharpened. Clothing returned. They became people again. Human.

Whole.

They stood together in the dim light, wordless. Silent. Watching him.

Some smiled. Others wept. One or two looked to the sky as if seeing it for the first time.

And then, in quiet unity, they all bowed.

Katsuki’s breath caught.

They turned.

They were leaving.

"No—wait!" he cried, stumbling forward. His boots slipped in the receding sludge, sending him crashing to his knees. "I... I don’t understand! Why are you—what even is this?!"

Only three turned back.

Nari, her silver hair now gleaming like starlight, knelt beside him. Her expression was gentle, almost maternal, as she offered her hand.

He didn’t take it at first. He just stared at her—confused, raw.

She rested her palm over his.

“I wasn’t always here,” she said softly. “I died not knowing where I’d gone. I thought I’d passed on… but something held me to this place.”

Koji stepped beside her. “A man,” he said bitterly. “He took our quirks. And our bodies.”

Akihiro stood at Katsuki’s other side. His tiny hand gripped Katsuki’s wrist. “He used our bodies—and our quirks—to build that scary monster,” he whispered, with tears in his eyes.

Katsuki swallowed. His throat burned. “Then… the others? The ones who didn’t speak?”

“They came later,” Koji said.

Nari nodded. “Some are fully formed like us. Our bodies are gone—dead—but our quirks were still in that thing. Still tethered.”

Katsuki’s gaze dropped to the broken chains at their feet.

“And the rest?”

“Not fully formed,” Nari said. “Their bodies are still alive somewhere. They aren’t actually here, just their quirks. But if they die… they’d be trapped here too.”

Katsuki stared at her, the weight of her words hitting deep.

He had freed them. But it wasn’t enough. The weight of that implication—

There were more out there. More Nomus. More trapped souls.

The three spirits stepped closer, and this time, Katsuki stood. Koji clasped his shoulder one last time. Akihiro offered a small, hopeful grin. Nari leaned in and pressed her forehead gently against Katsuki’s.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For seeing us.”

Koji gave a small nod. “Tell Naomi I didn’t choose to leave. Name’s Koji Nakamura. Don’t forget it.”

Nari stepped back and smiled. “Nari Hanazawa. Tell Takeru I died making something beautiful.”

Akihiro tugged at Katsuki’s sleeve. “Akihiro Sato. Tell my sister I loved her. Even if I pretended I didn’t.”

Katsuki could barely breathe. He gave a broken nod, swallowing down the emotion threatening to burst out of him.

They bowed once more.

And then they stepped into the mist.

Light bloomed where their feet touched the ground. Their bodies faded, not into decay—but into color. Into warmth. Into release.

The chains dissolved. The sludge began to recede, peeling back like ink in reverse. The blackened sky trembled, before cracking wide open, revealing an endless expanse of blue. Beneath him, the filth drained away, replaced by a vast, shimmering sea of silver and sapphire.

And the silence… broke.

A breeze passed through the clearing—cool, clean. Like a sigh. Like an exhale that had waited far too long.

Then, the world fell away completely.

"Thank you..." 

"Don’t forget us."

Katsuki’s eyes flew open.

The air around him was still. Quiet. Cool.

His back was pressed against something solid—concrete, maybe. His hands were slick with something sticky. He could smell burnt oil, the tang of blood, the ghost of ozone. 

He lifted a trembling hand to his heart.

La Brava’s face appeared above him, panicked and pale.

But all Katsuki could think about… was a boy who drew rockets, a man who walked home after work, and a woman who died with color on her face.

Those were just twelve. How many more were out there? Shoved into Nomus, tethered by their own stolen quirks?

How many never even had the strength to scream?

Not even death had set them free.

Not until now.

The truth settled in his chest like stone: he wasn’t just fighting for himself anymore. This wasn’t just about reclaiming his flame, it was about them .

All of them.

It was about making sure no one else stayed trapped in that hell.

Chapter Text

Katsuki wasn’t stupid.

He’d seen what waited inside. Heard the cries, felt the desperation clinging like blood to his soul. And now he knew: if he didn’t get his shit together—if he died before freeing the rest—he’d end up just like them. Screaming. Forgotten. Trapped in that writhing mass of stolen bodies and broken power. There’d be no afterlife. No peace. Just rot and regret inside some freak puppet built to burn.

He pushed himself upright, swaying as his boots struggled to find purchase on the rubble-strewn rooftop. His head throbbed. His limbs trembled with exhaustion. Blood had crusted beneath his nose, down his neck, dried against the collar of his shirt. His mouth tasted like metal.

But he was alive.

The world hadn’t stopped while he was under. The street below was in shambles—glass glittered like fallen stars, cars flipped and burning. But the chaos had quieted. The smoke had thinned.

And there, in the middle of it all, stood Endeavor.

The Number One Hero was battered and bloodied, the left side of his face scorched and slick with crimson. His flames flickered weakly, barely dancing now. But he was standing. Towering over the corpse of the high-grade Nomu, his fist raised skyward in a symbol of triumph.

The crowd, distant but present beyond the barricades, erupted into cheers. Cameras zoomed in. Reporters shouted questions. Drones buzzed overhead.

The nation was already writing the headline.

Katsuki’s breath hitched as he stared at the Nomu’s broken form. He could still see them in his mind—the three souls who’d reached out. They were free now.

Katsuki’s chest ached

“...You good, kid?” Gentle’s voice pulled him back.

He turned.

Gentle looked worried. Pale under his curled mustache, his coat torn and singed in several places. La Brava hovered nearby, biting her lip. Her laptop was tucked against her chest, forgotten for once.

Katsuki coughed, clearing his throat. “I’m here.”

“You scared  us,” La Brava said, eyes wide. “You just collapsed. Like your soul left your body. We tried to wake you up—Gentle even slapped you, and nothing. Then that thing just… fell.”

“I didn’t slap you,” Gentle said indignantly. “I jostled you lightly.”

“You were about to slap him.”

“Guys,” Katsuki interrupted hoarsely. He ran a hand over his face. “Doesn’t matter. What happened after I passed out?”

They exchanged a glance.

“One second that thing was tearing through buildings, the next it just—seized up. Then dropped. Endeavor didn’t even land the final blow.”

“I didn’t know what happened,” La Brava added, softer. “But… that was definitely you, right?.”

Katsuki didn’t answer. His mind was still half-buried in the horror of that other place. The stench of blood. The writhing limbs. The way those hands had held him—not to consume him, but to steady him. To help him pull the chains free.

His fingers trembled.

“I reached inside,” he said finally. “I touched something. Someone. The people that used to be in there. And I let them go.”

Gentle stared at him like he’d sprouted wings.

He finally exhaled. "They were people."

Gentle frowned. "What?"

"The Nomu," Katsuki said. "They’re not just monsters. They’re people. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Torn apart. Stitched together. Their quirks, their souls—everything. That’s what’s inside them. That’s what I saw."

La Brava crouched closer, clutching her camera to her chest.

"Are they free now?" she asked, glancing back at the fallen Nomu.

Katsuki closed his eyes.

"Yeah. I think so."

Silence fell over them like ash.

Emergency sirens howled in the distance, muffled by distance and smoke. The fires were dying, the chaos dwindling into uneasy silence. All around, the rubble still settled—civilians huddled behind barricades, paramedics tended to the wounded, and a dozen pro heroes assessed what remained of the scene.

Katsuki stood alone in a side alley, shoulders hunched, breathing shallow. He watched Gentle and La Brava vanish around a corner, the former offering a final nod of respect and the latter flashing him a small, tentative smile. “If you need us,” Gentle had said, “we’ll come.”