Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Izuku Midoriya wasn’t normal.

Everyone said so.

There were five rules in his house. His parents made them. The first three came when he turned six. Two more followed on his eighth birthday. He never understood why they added rules like that. It felt arbitrary. But he couldn’t say that aloud.

He wasn’t allowed.

Some of the rules were fun. Cool, even. But the rest?

…Not so much.

Rule One: Don’t talk unless you’re told to.

He hated this rule. Every time he forgot, his mother got angry. She strapped a cage-like muzzle around his mouth—tight, metallic, unforgiving. It dug into the corners of his lips and bruised his jaw. It hurt. But she said it was normal. That all kids wore it. That it was part of growing up. Izuku wanted to be like other kids. He wanted to be normal.

Sometimes he imagined other kids wearing muzzles too. He saw them in his dreams. Or maybe they weren’t dreams. Sometimes he saw them when he was awake. Sitting in class. On the street. Silent. Watching.

Rule Two: Don’t come out of your room unless there are guests.

This one was tolerable. Guests meant he could see his parents. Sometimes even speak. His mother said silence kept families like Kacchan’s from getting curious. Curiosity was dangerous. His father hated curiosity. He threw things when Izuku asked questions. Plates. Bottles. Words.

Izuku stopped asking questions. But sometimes he still heard answers. Whispered ones. From the walls. From the shadows under his bed. They told him things he didn’t understand. Things he wasn’t sure were real.

Rule Three: Only eat three times a week.

This rule made him sick. Literally. When he did eat, he vomited. When he didn’t, his stomach twisted and gurgled until he dry-heaved into an empty bucket. His father made him clean the mess with his shirt. Sometimes Izuku wondered if the sickness was in his stomach or his head. Sometimes he felt both.

Sometimes he felt like someone else was inside him. Watching. Waiting.

Rule Four: Don’t talk to heroes about home.

This rule was fun. His mother called it a secret game—“Keeping Quiet.” If Izuku won, the heroes walked away. Sometimes he got an apple slice as a reward. That was special. He liked apples. He liked games. He liked pretending.

He was good at pretending. Pretending he didn’t hear voices. Pretending he didn’t see things that weren’t there. Pretending he didn’t feel like his thoughts weren’t his own.

Rule Five: Be normal.

Izuku hated that one most of all.

Not because of the rule itself.

But because he couldn’t follow it.

He wasn’t normal.

His mother said so. His father said so. Kacchan said so. Auntie. Uncle. Miss Eiko. Mr. Hotaka. They all said he was broken.

Izuku believed them.

He wasn’t normal.

He was—

“IZUKU.”

He flinched.

“Damn it, IZUKU.”

He curled in on himself.

“FUCKING HELL, IZUKU!”

His breath hitched.

“GET DOWN HERE YOU USELESS PIECE OF SHIT—YOU HAVE THE QUIRK SPECIALIST TODAY!”

Right.

Today was his birthday.

He was turning nine.

He didn’t know how many more rules they’d make for him. But he was getting his quirk today. That was supposed to be fun. He hoped it would be like Eraserhead’s. Eraserhead was his favorite. He didn’t fake-smile like All Might. All Might grinned like nothing was wrong, even when people were crying.

Izuku had seen All Might ignore a homeless man during a fight on TV. Just walked past him. Left him there. He was loud. Reckless. He broke buildings like they didn’t matter.

Eraserhead was different.

He was quiet. Careful. He planned. He saved people—even villains. Izuku saw a clip once where Eraserhead caught a villain falling off a roof. He still saved him.

Eraserhead didn’t let people disappear.

Izuku wanted to be like that.

SLAM.

“IZUKU! I’VE BEEN CALLING YOU FOR FIVE FUCKING MINUTES!”

His mother’s voice was sharp. Cutting.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Izuku muttered, scrambling off his bed-sheet and pillow pile. It was what he called a bed.

“DID I SAY YOU COULD FUCKING TALK?”

He shook his head quickly. Eyes down. No sound. No eye contact.

He walked out of his room. It had been… three days, maybe? Since he was allowed out. Except to cut up apples once. And take cold showers. And brush his teeth.

As soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs—SMACK.

A sharp pain bloomed across his left cheek. He stumbled. That was… new.

He looked up, hand pressed to his face. His father was staring at him. No anger. No joy. Just… nothing.

“Fucking brat,” he said flatly. “You should’ve listened the first time. Get in the car. Time to see if you’re useful or not.”

Izuku nodded fast and hurried out the door.

He thought he saw someone standing in the hallway mirror. A boy with green hair and wide eyes. But the boy didn’t move when Izuku did.

He blinked.

The mirror was empty.

[Hospital – Quirk Specialist Wing]

They sat. His father talked to the lady at the front desk. His mother and Izuku waited in silence.

He wanted to ask how long it would be. But he didn’t know if he was allowed.

Still… he risked it.

“Mummy…?”

Her eyes flicked to him.

“...Yes, Izuku?”

He tried not to flinch.

“How long until we’re ca—”

“Izuku Midoriya to Room 333.”

Oh. Never mind.

They all stood. Him, his mother, and his father.

Inside, there was a bald man with strange goggles and a thick mustache. He barely looked up.

“Izuku Midoriya?”

“Yes, sir,” his mother answered sweetly. “It’s his birthday today. He’s very excited. We haven’t seen any signs yet, so we thought we’d get him checked out. My sweet boy’s been so worried…”

She was good at this game.

“Alright, kid. Sit here. Gonna draw some blood and run it to the lab.”

Izuku sat. Held out his arm. There was a small sting.

And then it was done.

“You’re all set,” the man said, already walking out the door. “I’ll be back soon with the results.”

His mother thanked him. His father knelt beside him, took his hand.

“You did good,” he whispered. His grip tightened.

It hurt.

They were both playing today, it seemed.

When the doctor came back, he looked… pale.

“Alright. Izuku, Inko, Hisashi. Please, sit down.”

They did. His father still holding his hand, his mother’s nails digging into his skin.

The doctor cleared his throat.

“Well… this is something I haven’t seen before.”

He adjusted his papers. Kept talking.

“You have a quirk. It’s an emitter type. Your body sends out pulses of destructive resonance. These pulses erase matter… and memories. Anything hit by it—living or non-living—will begin to vanish from existence. People affected will lose all memory of whatever is destroyed. And…”

He looked directly at Izuku.

“…You inherit their memories. All of them. Emotions. Moments. Everything. If you use your quirk too much, your brain can collapse from the overload. You could lose yourself.”

Silence.

“Oh—and one more thing. You’re immortal.”

He said it like it was nothing.

Izuku’s mind froze. He could erase people. He could take their memories. He couldn’t die.

Eraserhead… erased quirks.

Izuku erased existence.

He swallowed hard.

“What do you want to name it, kid?”

He blinked. His voice was small.

“…Thanatopsis.”

Chapter Text

The car ride home was too quiet. Not the kind of quiet that meant peace—but the kind that made Izuku’s skin itch. He sat curled in the backseat, seatbelt cutting into his chest, leather sticking to his arms. Hisashi and Inko didn’t speak. But Izuku still heard them.

Not their voices. Their thoughts.

“Dangerous.” “Immortal.” “Useful.”

Hisashi’s eyes had lit up when the doctor said it. Inko’s lips had curled like she’d tasted something sour. They weren’t surprised. Not like Izuku was.

Hisashi looked thrilled. Inko looked disgusted.

Izuku looked… broken.

“Don’t speak unless told,” the voice in his head reminded him. Rule One.

“Izuku,” Hisashi said suddenly. Calm. Too calm.

Izuku didn’t respond. He stared at the floor, counting the scratches in the leather.

“You’re meeting my boss tonight,” Hisashi continued. “He’s been looking for a quirk like yours. You’re going to impress him.”

Still, Izuku didn’t move.

“But listen to me, boy,” Hisashi snapped. “Don’t embarrass us. Don’t run your fucking mouth. Don’t tell him any of that dumb shit you always say.”

Izuku nodded once, stomach twisting. Hisashi’s boss always meant trouble. The last time he came over, the house smelled like smoke for days. The men wore black, their skin marked with scars. They laughed at Izuku. Hit him. For fun.

Inko never stopped them.

But one man was different.

Dabi.

His skin looked stitched together by shadows and flame. His voice was low, tired. But he never looked at Izuku like he was broken. Never called him names. Never raised a hand.

Dabi ruffled Izuku’s hair. Called him “Squirt.” Sat with him sometimes. Like a big brother.

Izuku clung to that. He needed something to hold onto.

When they got home, Izuku bolted toward his room—instinct, safety, rules—but slammed into someone’s leg.

He braced for yelling. For pain.

Instead—

“Hey, Squirt.”

Izuku froze. Dabi.

A hand landed on his curls, ruffling them gently. Izuku clung to Dabi’s leg like a lifeline, pressing his face into the fabric of his pants.

“Hi, Dabi!!” he chirped, voice scratchy from disuse. His body buzzed, bouncing like a bottle about to burst. “I got my quirk today! It’s really cool and powerful and—and I called it Thanatopsis! Isn’t that so cool?!”

Dabi chuckled, still ruffling his hair. “That’s a big name for a little dude. What’s it do?”

Izuku beamed, forgetting the pain, forgetting the rules.

“Okay, so! I send out these pulses, right? Like when you throw a rock into a pond and the water ripples? But instead of making things wiggle, my ripples make them disappear. Like—vanish. Not explode, not crumble—just gone.”

Dabi blinked.

“And it works on everything,” Izuku continued breathlessly. “Living, non-living, happy, sad, even poetry collections. And when it erases something, people forget it ever existed. But I don’t. I get their memories. Like, all of them. I absorb them. It’s like collecting pieces of people without trying. And if I do it too much, I get overwhelmed. My head becomes… not mine. And if that keeps happening, I’ll collapse. Mentally. Like, forget who I am entirely. Also, I’m immortal. But not sure if that means forever-forever or just until I die of old age, and—wait—I’m mumbling again, sorry Dabi—”

Dabi smiled. No scowl. No slap. Just warmth.

“It’s okay, Squirt. Your quirk’s amazing. But you gotta be careful, yeah? With power like that, you’ll be a great hero someday.”

Izuku froze.

Hero.

No one had ever said that to him before. Not even Kacchan.

He loved Dabi. Actually loved him.

Dabi crouched down and pulled Izuku into a hug. Tight. Warm. Real.

Izuku melted into it, arms wrapped around Dabi’s neck. He felt safe. Just for a moment.

“Can I tell you something weird?” Izuku whispered.

“Always,” Dabi said.

“I think there’s someone else in my head. Not just me. They talk to me. Sometimes they scream. Sometimes they whisper. Sometimes they tell me to do things.”

Dabi didn’t flinch. “What kind of things?”

“Bad things,” Izuku said. “They tell me really mean things and always bully me. But sometimes they’re nice. Sometimes they just want to play.”

Dabi nodded slowly. “You ever see them?”

Izuku nodded. “They look like shadows. Sometimes they wear my face. Or just a big white eyes with a really long smile and a fully black body. there kind of scary...”

Dabi kissed the top of his head. “You’re not crazy, Squirt. You’re just… different. And I’m gonna help you figure it out.”

Izuku smiled. “You’re the best.”

But the moment shattered.

“HA! Hero? Him?!” someone jeered.

Izuku turned. Inko was perched on a man’s lap—one of Hisashi’s “friends.” The man sneered.

Izuku’s heart shriveled.

Dabi’s grip on his shoulder tightened.

“Lay off it, Compress,” he growled.

Izuku didn’t like his tone.

“C’mon,” Compress shrugged. “You heard Hisashi on the phone. Said the boss is gonna use the brat. Just like he’s using that little freak Tomura. That kid nearly vaporized my damn arm the other day. All For One’s cooking up something big, and we’re all part of it. Even the runt.”

Izuku’s blood ran cold.

Cooking up something? Were they… villains?

Was Hisashi a villain?

He wanted to ask. But he already knew.

Smoke curled from Dabi’s fingers. He knelt in front of Izuku, and Izuku let go of his leg.

“Hey, Squirt,” he said softly. “Go upstairs, okay? I’ve got something to deal with down here, but I’ll be up in a minute. I’ve got my phone. We can play a game once I get upstairs. Sound good?”

Izuku nodded fast and ran toward the stairs.

He didn’t look back.

His room was cold. Empty. No decorations. No bed. Just a mat. Boarded windows. No lights.

He sat down. And waited.

The voices started again.

Not from downstairs. From inside.

“They’re watching you.” “You’re not real.” “You should just die” “You’re a monster.”

"villain"

"villain"

"villain"

Izuku pressed his hands over his ears. But the voices didn’t stop. They never did.

He rocked back and forth, whispering to himself.

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”

He saw shadows move across the walls. Faces in the corners. Felt his skin crawl. His thoughts split into pieces—some his, some not.

He started talking to them.

“Why are you here?” he whispered. “I didn’t call you. I didn’t erase you. I didn’t—”

A laugh echoed in his head. Not his own.

He curled tighter. he needs Dabi, he will make the noises stop. All Izuku has to do is wait for Dabi.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Dabi never came up.

Chapter Text

Izuku hates this.

He hates everything.

When he finally creeps downstairs to look for Dabi, he’s gone.

No one tells him where.

Instead, Izuku gets a fist to the face.

Just—bam. Out of nowhere. His head snaps sideways. His ears ring. Stars burst behind his eyes as he stumbles backwards.

that's the second time today.

Maybe it’s a new rule.

Hit Izuku when he talks too much. Hit Izuku when he breathes too loud. Hit Izuku when he forgets he’s not allowed to want things.

He collapses to the floor.

No tears. No movement. Just silence.

His gaze locks onto the tiles beneath him, even as something heavy presses into his stomach—his father’s boot, full weight. It hurts. But Izuku doesn’t cry out. That would make it worse.

He doesn’t scream anymore. Not since the voices started screaming louder than he ever could.

“Get up, you useless piece of shit,” his father says calmly. “My boss is here and you better fucking behave.”

Izuku’s eyes water. He nods slowly and pushes himself off the floor, legs trembling. He doesn’t ask about Dabi. He already knows he won’t get an answer.

His father grabs his shoulder and shoves him into the lounge.

The air feels wrong. Thick. Like the room itself is watching him.

And maybe it is.

Sometimes Izuku sees eyes in the walls. Sometimes they blink.

Men and women in dark clothes fill the space, lounging like they own it. Most look familiar. All look dangerous.

At the center sits something that barely resembles a man.

His face is made entirely of scar tissue—stretching from above his upper lip and covering his entire head and neck. No nose. No ears. No hair. No eyes. Just the faint outline of eye sockets, hollow and blind.

Izuku stares.

The man doesn’t move, but Izuku feels him watching. Like he sees through heat. Through sound. Through everything.

There’s a small hole in each of his palms.

“Don’t be afraid, young man,” the creature says. “You can look up.”

Izuku doesn’t want to.

But he does.

And that’s when he sees a boy.

Not the scar-man.

just a boy.

Eight or nine, definitely older than Izuku. Black hair with hints of blue at the roots. Cracked lips. A raw, scratched neck—red and angry, like he claws at his own skin.

Izuku stares at the marks.

They look like the ones on his own arms.

Did the boy do that with his nails too when he got scared?

Izuku’s fingers twitch. He remembers the bathroom. The scissors. The way he pressed the blade into his wrist—not deep, just enough to feel something. Just enough to quiet the static.

The boy clutches a severed hand in his own. Pale. Sickly. Eyes sharp and calculating.

He looks at Izuku like he’s something to be stepped on.

Izuku instinctively steps behind his father’s leg.

Mistake.

He’s yanked forward by the hair and thrown into view.

Stay visible. Stay obedient.

The boy scoffs. “Just another NPC.”

Izuku blinks.

Does he mean… him?

He glances up at his father, who gives a small nod—permission.

So he speaks.

“H-hi,” Izuku says carefully. “My name’s Izuku. What’s yours? How old are you? Who’s your favorite hero? What do you—ow!”

A smack to the back of his head.

He bites his tongue. He’s started muttering again. Stupid.

The words spill out sometimes. Fast. Loud. Like his brain is racing and his mouth can’t keep up.

Other times, he doesn’t speak for days.

The boy rolls his eyes. “My name is none of your business. Neither is my age. Heroes are a waste of time.”

He sounds like his father.

Izuku isn’t sure if the boy is cautious or cruel. Maybe both. Maybe he doesn’t have rules like Izuku does.

He tries again maybe he should ask something less personal.

“Where are your mummy and daddy?” he asks.

To be fair, Izuku hasn’t fully grasped the concept of personal boundaries. He barely speaks to anyone except Kacchan and Dabi. And the others.

The ones only he can see.

Sometimes they whisper to him. Sometimes they scream. Sometimes they tell him to run. Sometimes they tell him he’s already dead.

The boy’s expression cracks—just slightly.

“…None of your business,” he snaps. “You want me to disintegrate you, you stupid NP—”

“Tomura.”

The faceless man speaks.

Tomura.

So that’s his name.

Tomura freezes.

“Yes, Master.”

Master?

Izuku’s thoughts spiral. The word echoes strangely in his head, twisting into something dark and strange. He giggles softly—then clamps a hand over his mouth.

Not now.

Not in front of them.

“Why don’t you go downstairs,” the scarred man says smoothly, “and stop whatever Dabi and Compress are doing while I speak with the boy.”

Tomura nods. “Yes, Master.”

He walks toward the basement door where Izuku can faintly hear yelling coming from.

He's going to mummy and daddy's training room.

How does he know where that is?

Izuku’s never seen him before.

“Child.”

The man’s voice pulls him back.

“I am called All For One. You may refer to me as Master.”

Gross. But okay.

“Yes, Master.”

He smiles. Or smirks. Hard to tell with no face.

“Why don’t you tell me about your quirk, Izuku? Then we’ll see where things go from there.”

So Izuku does.

He tells him everything.

The pulses. The erasing. The memory transfer. The risks. The mental collapse. The immortality. The way he doesn’t die but maybe still could.

He tells him about the voices.

The ones that whisper when he’s alone.

The ones that scream when he’s not.

He tells him about the shadows that move when no one else sees them. About the people who aren’t real but feel more real than anyone else. About the days when he feels like a god. And the nights when he feels like nothing.

All For One listens. Nods.

When Izuku finishes, silence presses in from all sides.

Then the man speaks.

“Well, child. This is what will happen.”

Izuku holds his breath.

“I am going to train you. Teach you how to use your quirk. Control it. Expand it. Make it stronger. You may gain additional quirks along the way. And one day, when you're ready, you'll do work for me. Important work. In exchange, I will ensure you are trained enough to pass the entrance exam for U.A. High School.”

Izuku blinks.

U.A.?

Hero?

Wait—what kind of “work” does he mean?

It doesn’t sound legal.

But he says U.A.

He means “hero.”

He means “powerful.”

And Izuku, too young and too desperate, believes him.

Dabi returns later with Mr. Compress and Tomura. They look tired and both equally beat up. Tomura is smirking. Izuku doesn’t like that.

He runs to Dabi, arms up.

Dabi picks him up, hoisting him onto his hip.

“Sorry, Squirt,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to leave you waiting.”

Izuku buries his face into Dabi’s shoulder and yawns.

“Wanna go play a game upstairs now?”

He nods.

Dabi smiles, carries him up the stairs, and when they reach his room—he tosses Izuku onto the mat like a beanbag.

“Wha—!”

Then come the tickles.

“Dabi! Dabi! No! Stop!” Izuku squeals, laughing so hard it hurts.

Dabi laughs too. Real and warm.

And for just a second, Izuku forgets the rules. Forgets the darkness. Forgets the Master downstairs and the boy with the shredded neck.

He just exists.

He just laughs.

Yeah.

Maybe he can get used to this.

Chapter Text

okay, okay fuck this. I change my mind, I cant get use to this.

“Guess the rope’s too much commitment, huh? Easier to just unravel yourself slowly.”

“You hear that? They quit. Quitting’s their favorite trick. That and pretending they don’t think about it at night. Right? Right.”

“Mm, you’re like a razor with no edge. Yeah, like the one you use at night. All the drama, none of the purpose.”

shut up already, all of you

Izuku Midoriya was fifteen years old. And currently sprinting barefoot down a cracked pavement, lungs burning, heart pounding, cops shouting behind him. The spray paint still stained his fingers — a clear sign that he was the one who spray painted the slutmight and endehoe on the walls of aldera junior high.

He couldn’t get caught again. Not this time.

If they made him call someone, it would be one of three options: his parents, his master, or Dabi. And none of those were good.

His parents would beat him senseless and lock him in his room for days. His master would shove him into more experiments — the kind that left scars inside and out. And Dabi… well, Dabi was complicated. Sometimes he’d cuss Izuku out while hugging him, grounding him with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Other times, he’d smile and say Izuku was finally growing into the man he always knew he’d be. Not a man, though. Just a teenager.

Izuku stumbled, cursing under his breath. The world felt too loud. Sirens. Footsteps. Voices. All crashing into his skull like waves. He turned sharply into an alley, his bare feet slapping against the concrete, and bolted toward the highway.

That’s when he decided it was the perfect fucking time to look up and see the one and only hawks who was trailing overhead like a hawk — fitting, really. Izuku froze. If he ran into traffic, he’d die. If he parkoured over the cars, Hawks might recognize him. They’d crossed paths before, during one of Izuku’s “jobs” and Izuku would rather not be questioned about why he has the exact same parkour skills as Jisatsu.

Just as panic surged, a familiar minivan screeched to a halt in front of him. No plates. No nonsense. The door slid open.

shit.

That’s Dabi’s van.

“Get in, dumbass!” he shouted, hand outstretched.

Inside, Tomura Shigaraki — 18, smart, childish, loving when needed, unfortunately Izuku’s second brother — sat on the floor, munching chips and watching the chaos unfold with mild amusement.

Izuku hesitated for half a second, then grabbed Dabi’s hand and dove into the van. landing on his ass Izuku turns around just in time to see hawks walk through the door putting his finger up with a wide smirk on his mouth probably about to say something sarcastic, before being booted in the stomach and thrown out of the car by Dabi. he closes the door. Izuku stays on the floor of the mini van, a bit shocked about what just happened before hearing a muffled and definitely un-professional “EXcUse mE!!! THAts So rUdE!!!” followed along by a squawk.

Twice, who Izuku hadn’t even noticed was driving, floored the gas pedal. The van peeled away.

Dabi sighed, running a hand down his face. Izuku shuffled over to Tomura, curling up beside him. Tomura didn’t look away from his phone, just wrapped an arm around Izuku’s shoulders, letting him rest his head there.

there was silence.

before Izuku broke it obviously.

“Uh… afternoon,” Izuku mumbled.

Tomura snorted. Dabi crouched in front of him, knuckles brushing Izuku’s cheek before flicking his forehead.

“What were you thinking?”

“That unicorns poop rainbows—OW!”

Another flick. Tomura’s grip stayed soft but firm, grounding him. Dabi’s glare turned stern.

“Seriously, squirt. This is the fifth time this month. If your parents or All For One find out—”

“I know! I know… I’m sorry…”

Dabi pressed his forehead to Izuku’s gently. “You need to be more careful, Izu. Your UA entrance exam is coming up. Eleven months isn’t long. If you get caught — spray painting, working as Jisatsu, or anything else — it’ll go on your record. You won’t get in. y-you might get taken away from me and Tomura and, I don’t know what you would do without us, mentally and physically. same goes for me and Tomura……”

Izuku didn’t respond. His hand drifted to his wrist, squeezing hard. Pain. Relief. The same, yet different.

Tomura’s fingers laced through his, gently pulling his hand away.

Izuku sniffled. Tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks. “I want to go home. I have work tonight. I didn’t sleep.”

Dabi nodded. “Okay. We can do that.” He banged on the wall of the van. “Twice, we lose Hawks yet?”

“Yeah-no. went under a bridge. Lost him a while ago- he’s still following us bro!”

Dabi nodded knowing what twice meant.

“Good. Take us home.”

The house was a prison. But it was his prison.

Izuku walked straight to Dabi’s room and collapsed on the bed, curling under the covers. Dabi followed, sitting on the edge and stroking Izuku’s hair as he drifted off.

He hated himself. Hated his life. But at least Dabi was in it.

Then came the dream.

Not a dream. A memory. A hallucination. A flashback. A psychotic break.

Darkness. Suffocating. Alive. The room breathed around him. Izuku was strapped to a chair — wrists, ankles, chest. The chair itself is bolted to the floor, unmoving, unforgiving. Every part of it is designed to hold him still. To keep him vulnerable.

Izuku’s skin is slick with sweat. His heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears—thump-thump-thump— it’s like a war drum. His breath is shallow, ragged, like he’s trying to suck air through a straw.

Then he hears them.

Footsteps.

Soft. Slow. Familiar.

Mother and Father.

They step into the dim light cast by a single flickering bulb above Izuku. Their faces are pale, waxy, almost corpse-like. Their eyes are wide, glassy, unblinking. Their mouths are twisted into grotesque smiles—too wide, too sharp. There’s no warmth in their expressions. No love. Just a sick, gleeful anticipation.

“Time for your lesson,” Father says, his voice a low growl, thick with alcohol and contempt.

Mother giggles. It’s high-pitched, shrill, like nails on glass. Her head tilts unnaturally to the side, her neck cracking audibly.

Then the doctor steps forward.

He’s tall. Thin. His white coat is pristine, spotless, almost glowing in the dim light. His surgical mask hides his mouth, but his eyes—his eyes are wrong. Too bright. Too wide. They shimmer with something unnatural, something inhuman. something… something barbaric.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

He raises a scalpel.

The blade catches the light, gleaming like a predator’s tooth.

Izuku tries to scream, but his throat locks up. His body tenses. His fingers twitch against the restraints.

Then the blade touches his stomach.

Just the tip.

Cold. Sharp. Precise.

And then—

Slice.

He drags it across Izuku’s abdomen, slow and deliberate. He feels the skin split open, layer by layer. The pain is immediate, overwhelming, total. It’s not just sharp—it’s deep. Like he’s cutting into Izuku’s soul. Izuku’s muscles spasm. His back arches. The straps dig deeper into his flesh.

Blood pours from the wound. Hot. Thick. Sticky. It pools in Izuku’s lap, drips down the chair legs, splashes onto the floor. He feels it soaking into his clothes, into his skin. The smell is metallic, nauseating.

Izuku screams.

He knows he screamed.

But it’s drowned out by another scream.

High. Piercing. Animalistic.

Is that Izuku?

He didn’t know.

He can’t think.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

His body convulses. His eyes roll back. His jaw locks. He feels blood bubbling up in his throat. It bursts from his mouth in violent sprays, splattering the doctor’s coat, the floor, Izuku’s own chest.

Then the room shifted.

His childhood bedroom. Bleeding walls. Twitching toys. A bed of nails.

Father burst in. Rage incarnate. Slammed Izuku into the wall. Blood sprayed.

Mother smiled.

The kitchen. Age ten. Hand pressed to the stove. Skin blistering. Screams ignored.

The basement. Alone. Blade in hand. Cutting deep. Not enough. Never enough.

Then—

Snap.

He woke in the chair. But the straps were gone. The doctor froze.

Izuku’s Quirk.

It’s waking up.

It’s hungry.

Izuku stands. his body is trembling, soaked in blood. his hands twitch. his breath is ragged. his vision is blurred, but he can see him clearly.

The doctor takes a step back.

Too late.

Izuku raises his hand.

The air around him distorts.

The walls bend inward.

Izuku’s Quirk erupts—not as light, not as fire, but as death. A wave of entropy. A scream of reality unravelling.

It hits the doctor in an instant.

His skin begins to rot instantly. Not peel—rot. Black veins spread across his face. His flesh bubbles, then liquefies. His eyes melt in their sockets, dripping down his cheeks like candle wax. He tries to scream, but his jaw dislocates, then crumbles.

His bones snap.

His organs rupture.

His blood boils.

He falls to his knees, twitching, gurgling, begging. But Izuku doesn’t stop. He can’t stop.

The doctors body collapses into a pile of sludge. A twitching, steaming mass of what used to be a man. The smell is unbearable—burnt hair, rotting meat, acid.

The doctor melted. Screamed. Collapsed into sludge.

Izuku whispered, “You deserve it.”

And then—

Silence.

His first kill.

but most definitely.

Not his last.

Izuku bolted upright in bed, screaming. Sweat soaked his skin. Tears streaked his face.

Dabi was there. Rubbing his back. Whispering soft words.

Izuku sobbed. Wetness under his thighs. Not again. Not again.

He hit his forehead with his fist he didn’t even get it to hurt until Dabi gently took his hands.

“Hey, Izu, you’re okay… let’s get cleaned up.”

Dabi carried him to the bathroom, cradling him like a child. Izuku buried his face in Dabi’s neck, legs wrapped around his waist.

By the time they finished, Izuku had stopped crying and finally looked up at Dabi. Instead of deciding to say thankyou or talk about it, Izuku decide to just skip the whole conversation completely.

“What time is it…” he muttered.

“Squirt, we need to talk about thi—”

“I said what time is it.”

Dabi sighed. “Ten p.m.”

“WHAT?!”

“Kid—”

“WHY DIDN’T YOU WAKE ME?! I HAVE WORK IN TEN MINUTES!”

“Izuku—”

“FUCK YOU!!”

“kiddo-”

Izuku ran. Ignored him. Bolted to the basement — his room — and dug through the pile of clothes. Green cloak. Tunic. Leggings. Boots. Gloves. Belt. Gas mask.

A razor fell out of his pocket. He’d use it later.

“Use it now.”

“it’ll take away the pain for a bit, and it will be better”

“do it”

“do it”

“DO IT”

shut the fuck up I don’t need you in, my head right now, I said I’ll do it later.

He grabbed the cigarettes and lighter from his bed. Slipped them into his belt.

Draped the hood over his head. Climbed to the window.

Pretended he was jumping to his death.

Time to be a villain.

Chapter Text

Izuku crouched on the rooftop, a cigarette trembling between his smooth lips, the lighter dangling between two of his fingers. His cloak clung to him, soaked from the relentless drizzle. The city below was quiet — not peaceful, just bracing for impact. His thoughts were loud. Too loud. Voices that weren’t his. Screams that hadn’t happened yet.

“Stop being so dramatic, it’s just us.”
“Everyone around you is a monster — even you.”
“Kill someone. Something. Torture them for what they are. Make them bleed out. Kill them with your already blood-stained hands.”
“Kill.”
“Kill.”
“Kill.”
“Kill.”
“Kill.”
“Kill.”
“Kill.”
“Kill.”
“Kill.”

He swiped open his phone.

Target File
• Name: Renji Nakahara
• Age: 39
• Crimes: Sexual assault. Coercion. Blackmail.
• 22 confirmed victims.
• Task: Kill.

They didn’t say how to kill this time. Lucky me.

He stared at the screen. “Twenty-two people. Twenty-two lives. Let’s see how much you scream for them,” he whispered.

Izuku slipped into Renji’s building through the fire escape. No alarms. No cameras. No guards. Renji probably thought he was untouchable. He was wrong. The apartment was on the 17th floor. Izuku reached it in under a minute. He didn’t knock — he kicked the door in.

Renji was sprawled across silk sheets, shirtless, legs wide, taking a picture of his clothed erection. He was probably going to send it to his next victim. Izuku’s vision blurred. His pulse twinged in his right hand. The room tilted.

“Who the hell—?” Renji asked.

Izuku didn’t answer. He raised his hand.

Pulse.

The air around him shifted — subtle at first. Then came the ripple, the invisible void. It wasn’t light. It wasn’t sound. It was something deeper. A vibration that rippled through the air. The space around his outstretched fingers shimmered, warped, turned black with green lightning particles swirling, and then collapsed inward with a soft, sickening thrum. The phone vanished mid-air. Renji’s fingers twitched. He stumbled back. Izuku stepped forward.

“You raped twenty-two people,” Izuku said. “You ruined them.”

Recognition flickered. Then fear.

“Y-your… Jisatsu…”

Then arrogance.

“You can’t prove anything—”

Izuku punched him. Hard. The man’s jaw cracked, and blood sprayed. Renji fell.

Izuku dragged him by the ankle into the bathroom. Tile floor. Perfect. Cold. Sterile. Safe.

Once they were in there, he stripped Renji down and tied his wrists with wire — tight. Then he pressed his boot onto Renji’s clothed crotch. Renji thrashed. Izuku slammed his head against the wall. Once. Twice. Three times. He counted. He always counted. Counting kept the voices quiet.

“We need more.”

Renji went limp. Izuku waited. He needed him awake. Needed him to feel it.

While Renji passed out, Izuku grabbed his backpack from the bedroom where he had met Renji earlier. He took a few gadgets from it, then walked back into the bathroom.

When Renji stirred, Izuku crouched beside him. He tried to speak, but Izuku shoved a rag into his mouth.

“You don’t get to talk yet. But I do have another surprise for you.”

He pulled out a blade. Ceramic. Clean. Personal. His fingers trembled — not from fear, but from mania. From the rush. From the need.

He pressed the blade to Renji’s thigh. Just the tip. Then sliced — slow, deliberate. The skin split open like wet paper. Layer by layer, blood poured out. Thick. Dark. Arterial.

Izuku moved his hand over the wound, fingers tracing the edge before digging inside, ripping the skin off until it dangled from Renji’s ankle.

Renji screamed into the rag, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

Izuku smiled. “That’s for the girl you left bleeding in an alley.”

He carved spirals. Smiley faces. Love hearts. Names. Dates. Every victim. Every file. Every hallucination. Every nightmare. He made Renji wear their pain.

He dug the blade into Renji’s calf, twisted it, then went deeper. Renji convulsed.

Izuku leaned in close. “You ever wonder what it feels like to be violated?”

He pulled out the pliers. Gripped a toenail. Tugged. Renji thrashed again. Izuku pressed his knee into Renji’s chest, then ripped it out. Blood spurted. Screams echoed.

Again. And again. Ten times. His feet were a mess. Izuku pressed his fingers into the wounds. Renji gagged.

Izuku laughed. “God, you’re weak,” he muttered under his breath.

Izuku slowly slid his hands up Renji’s body — up to his shoulder, then down his arms until he finally reached his right hand.

He broke Renji’s fingers. One by one.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

He counted aloud. “Three. Four. Five…”

Renji passed out. Izuku slapped him awake. Hard.

He pressed the blade to Renji’s stomach and sliced upward, exposing muscle, shame — everything. He reached inside. Touched intestines. Renji vomited blood onto Izuku.

“Disgusting bastard,” Izuku muttered.

He raised his hand.

Pulse.

It went quiet. Complete silence for a while. Izuku stared into Renji’s eyes, waiting for it to happen.

Then it did.

Renji’s eyes started to rot — layer by layer, slowly sizzling into liquid, then rolling down his cheeks. Little bubbles of blood bubbled up in the liquid. Renji tried to scream in agony, but no sound came out. Just complete and utter silence.

But then, the silence vanished. Renji shrieked.

Izuku let him. He wanted him loud. He wanted the city to hear what monsters sounded like when they died. He wondered what he would sound like as well.

Minutes — maybe even hours — of torture and screaming went by before Izuku pressed his forehead to Renji’s.

“You’re number sixty-five.”

Renji whimpered.

Izuku smiled, then raised both hands.

Final Pulse.

Renji’s body collapsed inward. His skin liquefied. His bones snapped. Organs ruptured. He didn’t explode — he rotted. From the inside out. His last breath was a wet gurgle as blood poured out of his mouth like a fountain, removing all the blood from his body. His jaw snapped from the sheer amount of pressure.

Then silence.

Izuku collapsed to the floor. Panting. Shaking. Covered in blood. He vomited bile. Then he laughed. Then cried. Then screamed.

He clawed at his face. Slammed his head against the wall — over and over and over again.

“He deserved it.”
“You deserved it.”
Shut up.

He stumbled to the sink. Turned it on. Scalding water. Shoved his hands under it. Let the heat burn away the feeling. But it didn’t. It never did.

He looked in the mirror. Gas mask off. Face pale. Eyes bloodshot. Lips trembling. He didn’t recognize himself. Didn’t want to.

He slammed his fist into the glass. It shattered. Shards rained down. One sliced his cheek.

He smiled. “Pretty.”

Mask back on, he walked into the bathroom — vomit and toenails everywhere. He collapsed again. Back against the wall. Knees to chest. Rocking. Breathing too fast. Too shallow. Vision blurred. Ears rang. Fingers twitched.

“Sixty-five. Sixty-five. Sixty-five.”
“Too many. Too many. Too many.”

He pressed his nails into his scalp. Dug. Scratched. Tore. Blood dripped down his forehead. He didn’t care. He deserved it. All of it.

Shit. He needed his razor.

Then — a sound. Soft. Footsteps. Outside the door.

He froze. Breath caught. Reached for his blade. Too slow.

The door creaked open. A shadow fell across the floor. Tall. Still. Familiar. Black hair. Tired eyes. Yellow goggles. Grey scarf.

Eraserhead.

Not tonight. Not now.

THE Underground pro hero Eraserhead. He could beat All Might if he had to. He’s UA High School teacher of Class 1-A.

The coolest man alive.

.

.

.

Shit.

Chapter Text

Eraserhead didn’t make a sound as he stepped into the bathroom. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move with urgency. He just watched. Analyzed. His capture weapon hung loosely in his hand — held like a weapon, or maybe a shield. Probably both.

Izuku remained curled in a tight ball in the middle of the room, knife clutched in one hand. His breathing was shallow. His thoughts were spiraling. The walls felt too close. The air buzzed with static. Voices whispered in his ears — some familiar, some cruel, all real to him.

He should’ve run. But this was… interesting.

What was Eraserhead doing here?

How did he—

Oh. Right. The screaming. That made sense. He’d gotten carried away again. Another spiral.

“dumbass”

“You should have shut yourself up while you still had the time to.”

“idiot”

“sh, I’m thinking” Izuku mumbles.

He probably needed to get a handle on that little problem of his.

Eraserhead’s eyes locked onto Izuku’s. He didn’t flinch. Not at the knife. Not at the smell. Not at the clear signs of torture. Not at Izuku.

He just stood there, scarf coiled loosely in his hand, waiting. For a twitch. A threat. A reason.

Izuku didn’t give him one.

Instead, he curled tighter, grabbing the knife quickly. Just in case.

He hated how he acted after a kill. The crash out. The confusion. The voices. The guilt. The need to hurt himself just to feel something real.

People called it an episode. He simply called it normal.

Eraserhead crouched down slowly, letting go of his scarf so he could sit across from Izuku. His voice was low. Controlled.

“I’m not going to hurt you, kid… you know that. But I need to know what happened here.”

“Your fucking lucky that You’ve met eraser before”

yeah, I know.

Ah yes, Izuku forgot to mention that.

it all started about 1 year ago, when a dumbass met another dumbass.

.

.

.

Izuku had a bad day. He woke up completely hung over and sore from cutting himself a bit too much then he should have. He barfed into the toilet about 6 times, and when Dabi found him and figured out that he had been drinking they got into a big fight. Izuku and Dabi ended up saying a lot of things that weren’t true…. but really hurt.

Izuku hadn’t meant to be seen.

He’d picked the rooftop for its height, its silence, and the broken security camera he’d spotted two nights ago. It was supposed to be safe. Invisible. But the moment he heard boots scrape against concrete behind him, he knew he’d miscalculated.

He didn’t turn. Just kept his eyes on the cars below, heart thudding.

“This area is restricted, and worse you look like a kid. what are you doing up here at this time of night.”

The stranger’s voice was firm, professional, there was no hesitation in anything he said.

it was most likely a pro hero

“If you’re planning to jump, at least don’t do it in front of a licensed Pro Hero. The paperwork’s a nightmare.”

Izuku blinks. Turning slightly, just enough to glimpse the man behind him. Grey scarf. Yellow goggles. Messy hair. most likely underground. He recognized him from news clips and underground forums.

Eraserhead.

“I’m not great at pep talks. But I’m excellent at stubborn silence. Want to sit with me for a bit?”

Izuku stays silent, just watching.

Eraserhead lowers himself to the rooftop, cross-legged, a few feet back. Not close enough to threaten. Not far enough to not be able to catch just in case.

“it’s cold tonight…”

Izuku doesn’t answer. His eyes stay locked on the street below-cars passing, lights blinking, a world that keeps moving without him.

Eraserhead pulls out a protein bar from his coat pocket. It’s half-crushed, probably expired.

“I’ve got this. It’s terrible. But it’s food.”

No response.

“I’ll leave it here. you can eat it now or later.”

He sets it down gently on the rooftop between them.

Minutes pass. The silence stretches, taut and fragile.

Izuku finally speaks—barely audible.

“Why are you still here?”

Eraserhead doesn’t look up.

“Because you are.”

 

Izuku’s shoulders twitch. Not quite a flinch. Not quite a sob.

 

“You don’t know me.”

 

“Nope,” Eraserhead agrees.

 

“But I know what it looks like when someone’s about to disappear.”

Another pause. Izuku shifts his weight, just slightly, heel slipping off the ledge before he catches himself.

Eraserhead doesn’t react. Doesn’t lunge. Just says:

 

“If you fall, I’ll catch you. But I’d rather you step back on your own.”

 

“don’t.”

 

“don’t what?”

 

“don’t catch me”

 

“Why?”

 

“I’m not worth catching”

 

The words hang in the air like frost.

 

Eraserhead exhales slowly, like he’s heard this before. Like it’s familiar.

 

“You’re a kid sitting on a rooftop in the dark. That’s all I see.”

 

Izuku shakes his head.

 

“I’ve done things.”

 

“So have I.”

 

“Bad things”

 

“Same.”

 

Izuku’s grip loosens slightly. Not enough to fall. Just enough to feel the shift.

 

“I don’t know how to stop.”

 

Eraserhead leans forward, elbows on his knees.

 

“Then don’t. Just pause.”

 

Izuku blinks.

 

“Pause?”

 

“Sit. Eat something terrible. Let someone else keep watch for a while.”

 

Izuku stares at the protein bar between them. It’s crushed. Ugly. Real.

slowly he steps away from the ledge, sitting across from Eraserhead grabbing the protein bar and fiddling with it

“Good job kid.”

They talked for three hours. Eventually, he pretended to give in. Said he’d go home.

Eraserhead insisted on walking him there.

And Izuku agreed.

That became a pattern. Random meetings. Quiet conversations. He told Eraserhead that he was a vigilante named Satsurikuya, House of Slaughter.

But Eraserhead never called him that.

He called him Rikuya.

it would have been better if he really was a vigilante…

.

.

.

Izuku sniffled, wiping his eyes with his free hand. The knife stayed in the other.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Rikuya… I need to know what happened. And why.”

Izuku didn’t answer right away. His mind was spiraling, thoughts crashing into each other. He laughed. A bit manically.

“he’s going to leave when you tell him”

“I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“That you’re just like them.”

“Who am I like?”

“Everyone. They always leave me. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I HATE IT.”

“I’m not going to leave you. I just need to know what happened.”

“YOU CAN FUCKING SEE WHAT HAPPENED.”

“I know. But I want to hear it from your side.”

Izuku choked on a sob. He just wanted to go home. Wanted to say sorry to Dabi for yelling earlier. Wanted to be held. Wanted to disappear.

“I’m sorry I lied…”

“’Bout what?”

…

“I’m not a vigilante like I said I was. I’m a villain. Probably one you’ve heard of. I’m called Jisatsu. Please don’t leave me. I promise I don’t want to be a villain. I don’t want to kill…”

Eraserhead stayed silent for a moment, eyes soft but calculating. He had just walked into a murder scene. The blood, the body, the knife — all undeniable. But the boy in front of him wasn’t just a killer. He was a child. A broken one. And Aizawa had seen enough broken kids to know when one was still salvageable. and if he had to admit which he never ever would, he might just have a soft spot for this particular one that wriggled his way into his heart.

“Thank you for telling me. How about you hop up and let’s move out of this room, okay? Then we can talk. Just you and me. And I’m not leaving. I would never leave you.”

.

.

.

Chapter Text

AIZAWA POV:

Shota Aizawa had known from the moment he met the kid that the brat would be sticking around — maybe for a while, maybe forever.

It was late. Around 1 a.m. He was on patrol after a long, miserable day of teaching and expelling half his new class. Snipe, Tsukauchi, Zashi, Inui, and Nem were all out drinking. He was stuck in the freezing cold, grumpy and off his game.

He hadn’t expected to find a child — eleven, maybe twelve — standing at the edge of a rooftop.

The kid didn’t flinch when Aizawa approached. Didn’t turn. But his body tensed. Aizawa saw it. Felt it. Somehow, the boy had heard him. He wouldn’t understand how until months later.

Aizawa didn’t know what kind of home life the kid had. But he had guesses.

The blood on the knives. The gun that always seemed to be missing ammo. The red knuckles. The needle bruises on his shoulders and neck — marks that never quite faded or faded and came back.

Sometimes he arrived with bruises. Sometimes with open wounds. Once, with a broken bone sticking out of his arm. Aizawa usually patched him up himself or took him to Recovery Girl. Whenever he asked, the boy just shrugged and said he’d gotten into a fight with a villain while protecting someone.

Aizawa didn’t press. He didn’t care if it was a lie.

But the worst part — the part that made Aizawa’s stomach twist — was the self-inflicted damage.

The cuts. The muttering. The way his pupils would blow wide from whatever he’d taken. The lingering smell of vodka and smoke. The rope marks around his neck.

And the scars.

God, the scars.

Aizawa had only seen his face and hands, but even those were littered with old wounds. He didn’t want to imagine what lay beneath the suit. He didn’t want to imagine what had caused them. But he did. Constantly.

That — that was something he couldn’t ignore.

Not ever.

Especially not when it was his own kid.

Aizawa had started slow. Trust was fragile. He built it inch by inch, week by week. He tested names, watched reactions. Learned what was too much and what wasn’t enough. He figured out how to comfort him — not with rules, but with presence.

The boy liked when Aizawa sat across from him. Patient. Calm. Gentle.

…Loving.

He didn’t say it aloud. Wouldn’t. But he knew what it was.

When the boy first said he was a vigilante, Aizawa believed it. Kind of. But when he gave his name — Satsurikuya — Aizawa felt something cold settle in his chest.

Who had made him feel like he deserved that name?

So Aizawa gave him a new one.

Rikuya.

And every time he said it, the boy’s eyes lit up just a little.

There was one night Aizawa couldn’t forget.

It had been raining. Not a storm, just a steady, relentless drizzle that soaked through his hero suit and made the city feel heavier than usual. He’d been on patrol, half-distracted, thinking about paperwork and lesson plans and whether he’d finally get a full night’s sleep.

Then his phone buzzed.

A burner number. One he’d memorized.

Rikuya.

No words. Just a location pin.

A rooftop.

Aizawa moved fast.

When he arrived, he didn’t see Izuku right away. The rooftop was empty at first glance — just puddles and shadows.

Then he heard it.

A sound.

Low. Wet. Repetitive.

He followed it to the far corner, behind a rusted ventilation unit.

Rikuya was there.

Curled on the ground. Knees to chest. Shirt soaked through with rain and blood. His hands were shaking. One held a blade. The other was pressed to his mouth, muffling the sounds.

He was whispering.

Not to Aizawa.

To someone else.

“Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up—”

Aizawa crouched slowly, keeping his voice neutral.

“Rikuya.”

He didn’t look up.

“They won’t stop talking. They won’t shut up. They keep saying I’m dirty. That I ruined everything. That I should’ve died instead.”

His voice was hoarse. Frantic. He was rocking back and forth, the blade nicking his thigh with every movement.

Aizawa didn’t move closer. Not yet.

“Who’s talking?”

Rikuya blinked and looked up at aizawa. His pupils were blown wide. His eyes didn’t focus.

“The monsters.”

He gagged. Vomited bile onto the concrete.

Aizawa reached forward to rub his back, he hesitated only for a second.

Rikuya wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing bile and blood across his cheek.

“I can’t tell what’s real anymore...”

Aizawa looked at him gently, lovingly.

“I’m real”

Rikuya laughed. Sharp. Unhinged.

“That’s what they said last time. Right before they cut me open.”

Aizawa’s stomach turned.

Rikuya started scratching at his arms. Hard. Desperate.

Aizawa moved. Fast. He grabbed Izuku’s wrists, gently but firmly, pulling the blade away so could get a better grip and make sure he was safe.

Rikuya screamed.

Not words. Just sound. Raw and animal.

He thrashed. Tried to bite. Tried to claw.

Aizawa held him.

Not like a hero subduing a threat.

Like a father catching a falling child.

Eventually, Rikuya collapsed. His body went limp. His breathing slowed. He started sobbing.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. I just wanted them to stop.”

Aizawa didn’t speak. Just held him.

The rain kept falling.

That night changed something.

Aizawa had seen pain before. Had seen trauma. But this — this was something else.

This was a child whispering apologies to ghosts, convinced he’d failed people who were never real.

This wasn’t a breakdown.

It was Rikuya trying to die without dying — because even death felt too kind for what he thought he deserved.

This was a child trying to stitch himself back together with broken glass and cigarette burns.

And Aizawa had no manual for that.

He was a pro hero. He was supposed to report. To contain. To treat threats like threats.

But Rikuya wasn’t a threat.

He was a boy.

A boy who heard voices. Who saw things that weren’t there. Who hurt himself because it was the only way to drown out the noise.

A boy who had probably killed.

A boy who had begged not to be caught.

A boy who had asked — quietly, desperately — not to be left behind.

And Aizawa had stayed.

Because this boy was his.

---

Tonight was…odd, he’ll say that much.

Tonight, Aizawa had walked into a bathroom soaked in blood and whatever other substances that he could see. It reeked of piss and vomit, and there was that fowl stench of something rotting. And in the middle was a child curled up with a knife.

His, child.

Chapter Text

Izuku didn’t move.

Not at first.

He sat there, curled on the bathroom floor, blood drying on his hands, the knife still warm in his grip. Eraserhead’s voice echoed in his ears, low and steady.

“Thank you for telling me. How about you hop up and let’s move out of this room, okay? Then we can talk. Just you and me. And I’m not leaving; I would never leave you.”

Izuku didn’t answer.

He thought about running. About bolting past him, down the hallway, out the window if he had to. He could disappear. He was good at that.

But if he ran, Aizawa would be mad. Not loud mad. Quiet mad. The kind that felt like disappointment. And Izuku couldn’t handle that.

He thought about staying. About talking. About letting the words spill out like blood.

Or he could just end it here.

He could drive the knife into his throat and be done with it. No more voices. No more guilt. No more waking up in cold sweat with phantom hands around his neck.

That option sounded clean. Final.

But it would leave Eraserhead traumatized. And Dabi. And Tomura.

So he nodded.

Just once.

Aizawa stood slowly, careful not to startle him. Izuku watched every movement, waiting for a twitch, a shift, a trap.

Nothing came.

He stood too, knife still in hand. He wasn’t letting it go.

They walked out of the bathroom together, leaving behind the blood and the body and the echoes.

The living room was cleaner. Not clean. Just… less ruined.

Aizawa sat on the couch. Izuku dropped to the floor, curled into a ball, arms wrapped around his knees.

“Okay,” Aizawa said. “Let’s talk. Just you and me.”

Izuku stared up at him, blinking slowly. His throat tightened. He nodded once, then looked down again.

He didn’t want Aizawa to see his face. The scars. The tear tracks. The bruise from this morning — a gift from his monster parents. That was what had sent him out to spray paint. To scream into the concrete. To kill.

He didn’t want Aizawa to see any of it.

But Aizawa just sat there. One leg crossed over the other. Elbows on his knees. Hands folded. Watching. Not judging. Just… there.

Like he always was.

Izuku hated it.

He loved it.

He didn’t understand it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to make a mess. I didn’t mean for you to find me like this.”

Aizawa’s gaze softened.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is.”

“It’s not.”

“I killed someone.”

“I know.”

“I tortured him.”

“I know that too.”

“I hate myself.”

“I know.”

“I’m a serial killer.”

“That doesn’t matter. I’ll still be there for you.”

“Don’t underestimate me.”

“I’m not.”

“I’ll jump off a roof.”

“……I’ll catch you before you hit the ground.”

Izuku’s breath hitched.

“You don’t even know what I am,” he croaked. “I’m not a kid. I’m a weapon. I’m broken. I’m a fucking mon—”

“You’re a boy who’s been hurt too many times by people who were supposed to protect you.”

Izuku’s throat tightened.

“I’m not stupid, Rikuya. I know you’re not a vigilante. I figured that out a long time ago.”

His eyes widened.

Then narrowed.

“…Then why didn’t you report me?”

Aizawa exhaled through his nose.

“I wouldn’t do that to you. Ever. You don’t deserve it. It doesn’t matter, whatever you’ve done — I don’t care. As long as you’re safe and alive, then I’m okay.”

Izuku stared at him.

Not blinking.

Not breathing.

Because if he did, he’d fall apart.

“You’re not at fault for the things they made you do,” Aizawa said. “You’re not your quirk. You’re not your trauma. And you’re not alone.”

Izuku’s jaw trembled.

“Why are you being nice to me?”

“Because someone should have been.”

“Y-you don’t know anything about me.”

“Maybe not. But I’d like to.”

That was it.

That was the thing that broke him.

He let out a sob, sharp and raw, and the knife clattered to the floor. His hands shook as he clutched his hoodie, digging his fingers into the fabric like it might hold him together.

“I’m so fucking tired,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I can’t sleep. Not really. I close my eyes and I see them. Hear them. Feel them. I—I’m scared all the time. I pretend I’m not, but I am. I can’t stop seeing them, everywhere I go. They keep following me.”

Aizawa nodded. Listened.Let him talk.

Izuku could tell he wanted to say something. To hug him. To do something.

But he held back.

Izuku was grateful for that.

“I don’t want to be this anymore,” he whispered. “I just want to be at peace and die. I don’t want to die as Jisatsu. I want to die as someone else. Someone better. I want to die as Iz—”

A phone rang.

Izuku flinched.

It was his phone. Not the burner. The real one.

Only three people had that number.

Dabi. Tomura. Toshi.

The ringtone was Dabi’s.

“Nonononono,” Izuku muttered. “Turn off, you stupid piece of shit.”

He looked at Aizawa.

His face was calm. Steady.

It helped.

He answered.

Dabi’s voice came through, gentle and stern.

“Squirt, where are you? Your job should’ve finished three hours ago. I’m getting worried. Are you in trouble? Did you go too far again? I promise you’re not in trouble and I’m not mad about earlier. We do need to talk about it, but for now you need to get home. Your parents are about to get home, and you know what will happen if they find out you’re not there.”

Izuku stood up fast. Checked the time.

Dabi was right. It was late.

“Yeah, I’m on my way,” he said. “I’ll tell you when I get home.”

He looked at Aizawa.

Would he stop him?

He turned toward the door.

Ran.

No footsteps behind him.

He brought the phone back to his ear.

“I’m about five minutes away. A-and I’m sorry about earlier, I really am. But do we have to talk about it? I don’t want to…”

Dabi sighed.

“It’s good that you’re on your way, squirt. But yes, we are going to talk about it. You can’t keep putting it off and you know it. And we also have to talk about some other stuff too…”

Izuku winced.

He hung up.

He shouldn’t have.

But he did.

By the time Izuku got home, he saw the car.

It was parked crooked in the driveway, headlights still on, engine humming like a threat. His stomach dropped. His breath caught.

No.

No no no no no no no no no no no no no.

They weren’t supposed to be home yet. They said half an hour. He had half an hour. He was supposed to be safe.

But they were here.

And he wasn’t ready.

He froze on the sidewalk, hoodie pulled tight around his face, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs. His thoughts spiralled.

They’ll hurt me again. Last time I stayed out late, they beat me. They said I betrayed them. Said I betrayed the League. They told Master. He put me in for another experiment. Twice a week for a month instead of once. I can’t do that again. I can’t. I can’t.

His legs trembled.

His fingers curled around his phone — the same one Dabi had called him on earlier. It was still warm in his hand, screen cracked, battery low. He thought about calling again. Thought about texting. Thought about running.

But he didn’t move.

Because he heard it.

A crash.

Glass shattering.

Yelling.

It was getting closer.

“YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT. WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU LATE!”

Izuku didn’t speak.

Didn’t run.

Just stood there.

His monster  mother was coming toward him, footsteps heavy, voice shrill and venomous. Her face was twisted with rage. Her eyes didn’t look human.

He didn’t flinch.

Until her fist met his face.

His head snapped back. His vision blurred. Blood filled his mouth.

He didn’t cry.

Just looked down at the pavement.

Rule number one: don’t talk unless told.

He nodded and walked past her, head low, shoulders hunched.

Inside, his demon father was waiting.

He was chugging vodka straight from the bottle, eyes glazed, pupils blown wide. He looked like a monster. Like something that used to be a man and forgot how.

Izuku’s eyes met his.

Bad idea.

The bottle flew.

He didn’t dodge in time.

Glass shattered against his forehead. Blood dripped down his temple. His ears rang.

He touched the wound gently, fingers trembling.

His father staggered toward him.

“Stay there. You deserve to be beaten. If not, then kill him.”

Izuku’s breath caught.

The voices started.

“Kill him.”

“Kill him.”

 “Kill him.”

No.

He stood up fast.

Ran.

His father screamed behind him.

“GET BACK HERE YOU CUNT!”

Izuku didn’t stop.

He sprinted up the stairs, heart pounding, legs burning. He needed to get to Dabi’s room. It was the only one with a lock. The only one that couldn’t be kicked down.

He reached the door.

Slammed it shut.

Locked it.

Then collapsed against it.

He made it.

He was safe.

For now.

The banging started.

Hard. Rhythmic. Unrelenting.

“OPEN UP, IZUKU! I PROMISE I’M NOT GOING TO HURT YOU. I JUST WANT TO PLAY A GAME. REMEMBER? IZU AND DADDY LOVE PLAYING GAMES!!”

Izuku winced.

He’s so fucking drunk

He slid down the door.

Izuku’s head throbbed. His ribs ached. His thoughts spiraled.

This was going to be a long fucking night.

He didn’t cry though.

Izuku, refuses to cry when things get rough.

And this isn’t even as bad as it normally is.

Kinda.

He just sat there, pressed against the door, hoodie pulled tight, breath shallow. The banging stopped. But the silence was worse.

It meant they were waiting.

It meant they were thinking.

It meant they were planning.

Izuku stared at the floor, eyes unfocused. The carpet blurred. The shadows moved. He blinked once, twice, and saw something crawl across the wall. It was pitch black, had long arms, legs and claws. Its eyes where so white and its smile. God its smile…

“hello~”

No.

Not real.

He pressed his hands to his ears.

“Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up—”

The voices didn’t stop.

They never did.

“You’re a monster.”

 “You should’ve let him kill you.”

“You’re not real. You’re just a punishment.”

He bit his knuckles until they bled.

He rocked back and forth, whispering to the dark.

“Please stop. Please stop. Please stop.”

They didn’t.

Time passed.

He didn’t know how much.

The room felt smaller. The air felt thick. His skin itched. His thoughts spiralled.

He saw flashes.

Hands. Needles. Screaming.

He saw Master’s face.

He saw Dabi crying.

He saw himself — younger, smaller, strapped to a table, begging to be let go.

“I’ll be good,” he’d said. “I promise. I’ll be good.”

They hadn’t listened.

They never did.

He tried to distract himself.

He counted the cracks in the ceiling.

He recited the League’s code backwards.

He whispered the names of people he’d killed.

It didn’t help.

His thoughts kept looping.

“You’re not Izuku.”

“Izuku died years ago.”

“You’re Jisatsu now. You’re the weapon. You’re the curse.”

Stop….

He pressed his forehead to the floor.

He wanted to scream.

But he didn’t.

Because screaming meant they won.

He had his phone in his hand.

The one Dabi had called him on earlier.

He pulled it out.

Stared at the screen.

No new messages.

No missed calls.

Just the wallpaper — a blurry photo of him, Dabi and Tomura, taken on a rooftop months ago. Dabi and Crusty had insisted. Said it was proof that Izuku existed.

Izuku didn’t believe it.

Not really.

He was already dead on the inside.

But he kept it anyway.

He opened the message thread.

Typed.

 (I’m locked in your room. Dad’s drunk. Moms worse. I think they’re waiting for me to come out.)

He stared at the words.

Then added:

(I’m scared)

Then deleted it.

Then typed it again.

Then deleted it again.

He didn’t know what he wanted.

He didn’t know what he deserved.

He didn’t know who he was.

He sent the message.

---
Izuku didn’t move for a long time.

He just sat there.

Broken.

The voices kept on getting louder.

“Your disgusting”

“You’re a stain”

“You should’ve chosen to jump the first time, then you wouldn’t have had to deal with this.”

More shadows crawled across the ceiling, heads twisting and turning while their long limbs bent in ways that shouldn’t even be possible.

He screamed.

Just once though.

Then bit down hard on his hand to muffle the rest.

Izuku doesn’t remember how long he stayed on the ground for.

He didn’t feel himself being picked up.

He didn’t hear the voices around him.

He didn’t even feel the strong stabbing pain on his arm like it was being pressed down on by something.

“useless”

shut up

“dumbass”

shut up.

“kill yourself”

Ṡ̊̒̆̀ ̈́ ̊ ͆͋́ ̒̈ ̓͌͗̏̾̍̔ ̆̌ ͌͐ ̂ ̿̀̎̃͡ ̎ ̊ ̑̓́͞͞ ̆ ̐͂ ̇ ͛̾ ̊̀ ̓͋̎͞ ̛ ̓̉ ͌̀̀ ͊ ̌̌ ̐̚ ̆ ̍̚͡ ̈ ͂ ̛̃ ̐ ̌ ̔̀ ͂̾͐ ̆ ͆͑̾͑́ ͐̓̅́̕̚ ̄̃ ̇ ́̐ ̇ ̎ ͅ ̪̖̘̤̜̝͎̻͔̠̰͍̞͢ ̧̣ ̥͖̻̺̣ ̧ ͢ ̦ ̪ ͅ ̡͓͔̘͎̺͔̭̖̤̖̠͙̳̪͍͖͔͙̬͢͢ ̦ ̡̮̜̮̼̱̱͢ ̧ ͈̣ ̹̤̙͔͕͉̰̹̜̣͜ ̢͚̬̤̜̙̗̜͉̙̠̠ ̦ ͇̟̼̯̭̭͚͎H ͘ ̄ ̍̓͆́ ̌ ́́ ̔́͝ ̅ ̊ ̀̈́͊ ̇ ̏͗̿͒̏͘͝ ̄ ͐͋͠ ̋ ͆̐ ̇́ ̆́ ̾̅̕̚ ̈ ͛ ̂ ͗͌̚ ̄ ͊ ̈́ ̎̐̃ ̾̿̀̾͘ ̄ ͆ ̂ ̮̅̿ ̧̧ ̢͓͚̪͓̗͓̪̹͍̳͈̜̖̳̝̟̩͜ ̦ ̩͙̲̰̞ ̧ ̡̱̤͈͖͈̬̟̺̺̯̳͓̳̪͚̜̪̻̝̹̩̱̹͔̜̼̥͉̳̖͈͜͟U ̇ ̅͗ ̊ ̀̅͘ ̛ ̃̚ ͑̈́̐ ̈ ͑̓̔͐̕ ̌ ͒́͘͞͡͞ ͛̓͡ ̈ ͐ ̄ ́͂̓ ̇ ̿͆͋̾̀͛ ̆ ͌̾̾͆͛͆̑͂̑͌ ̌ ͂͛͆̏͆̃͡ ̑̔̍͐͋ ̊ ͆̑̉̀͞ ͛̀͐ ̇̉ ̆̄ ͠ ̌ ̢̥̹̚ ͅ ̺̞ ̧ͅ ̙͙̼̳͕͍̠͕͢ ̧ͅ ͟ ̧ ̡̬̳̟̘̲̳͔̞͔̪͎̗̺ ͅ ̘͙̣ ̢̢̫̥̲̖͉̖͜͜ ̧ ͇͔͇͕̪͚͍̳̗̤̯̣ ̡̞̤̰̯͎͕̰͈͜͜͟͜ ̧ ̲̼̤̻͚̱T ̄ ͊͂͝͞ ̊ ͝ ̆ ̍͋̿͂͝ ̆̇ ͒ ̈ ͗ ̋̃ ́̿̏͘ ̂ ̓̔̿́͘ ̛ ̓̔̐͌͊̃̃̕ ̅̍̃͞͝ ̋ ͛ ̋ ̚ ̋̈̒ ͛́ ̂ ̔͌͛͐̓ ̛ ̀̾̏ ̌ ́ ̒̒ ͘ ̇ ̐̅͆͠ ̒̇ ̾̃ ͌͞ ̇ ̔̓͋ ̋̆̇ ͐͑͐ ̂ ̝̲̬̖͕̗̫͓͕̟̙̞͕̖͇̺͍̻̭̍ ̦ ͔̟ ̨ ̢̢̩͙̫̻̗͚̤̰̮̙͙̪̖̘͚̘̭͙͖̻͈̥͟͢ ͅͅ ̡̢̞̳̫ ͅ ͖̩̬̪̱̼̫ ̧ ̡̱̺͍͔̘͕̰̰̼̰͙̰͈͎̳͜ ̦ͅ ͎̮̲͍͙̘͉ ̓͐͂͑̓̑͞ ̂̈̀ ̎̔̾̐̅͛͗͞͝͞͠ ̄̈ ͞ ̊̈̈ ͒̎́̏̏̈́͆̀̀͘ ͋͌̍ ̇́ ́ ̂ ͛͆͠ ̒ ̀̃̀ ͠ ̄ ͙̳̑̏͆̎͛̿̾͊̔͘̚̕͞͡͞͡ ̨ ͈̫̲̭̯̹̮̺̰̮͖̺͔̹͢ ̦ ̡̜͍̭͙͔̠̺̮͔̖̖̱̝̘͎͚ ̨ ̢̯̫ ͅ ̡̮͈̗ ̦ ̩̥̖̟͇͢ ̨̧ ̢̞̳͚̜͚͓͙̲ ̦ ̻ ͅ ͉͕͈U ͗́̾́ ̊ ̈́͛ ̛ ̐ ̆̆ ̿̍ ̊ ̍̎͘ ̋̀ ̇ ͊̿ ̛̂ ̀̏̚ ̋ ̿ ̊̀ ͆̑͒̏͛͒̀ ̄̄ ͆͘ ̋ ̑̕ ̄ ̓͛́ ̾̔͋ ̒ ̅͆ ̌ ̚ ̌ ͊̉ ͊͒͊͑ ̈̇ ̰͉̤̳̈́̽͛̀͟͢ ̦ ͔̯̬͜ ͅ ̱̥͚̮̯̗͓͓̟̝̜ ̨̦ ̢̟͙̭̳̤͈̗̝̺͇ ͅ ̫̭̭ ̨̣ ̙̺͇͍̪̙ ̦ ̢̟̟ ̨̦ ̢̼͎̺͙͉̯̫̻͎̬̲̱̟͢͢P ̎̏̅͆̕̚ ̛ ͌̑̉ ̎̽́̚͝ ̛ ͋̔̅̅̀ ̇ ̏ ̌ ͆ ̌̄ ͆̾͗̾͋́ ̾̓̎̎̽͒͆͗̓͆̓͒͛̍́̓͗̚̚̚ ̋ ͗̓̓̉ ̅ ̒ ̐ ̂ ̎ ̊ ͑̈́͌̽̉́͞ ̢̟̟̠̟͔̟̹̎͐͑͂͑̑͊͐̔͜͠ ̨ ̤͎̺̹̩͇̻ ̦ ̢̠̫͚͓ ̧ ̞̟̰̠͇̻̤͖̖͙̙̯̳̩̪̲̯͖͕̥͢ ̨ ͍͖̘̳͎̯̘̜ ̧ ͈̘͚̳̱͎̭ ̦ ̢̜̳̤͈͚̤̺̬͕̜͍̤̤͙͟ ͅ ̳

“IZUKU”

Izuku’s head shoots up at the sound of his name coming from a familiar voice. No two voices.

Tomura and dabs…

Izuku looks down at his hands, noticing the blood.

Theres so much.

Too much….

Dabi seems to be pressing down on one part of Izuku’s arm while Tomura seems to be on the phone with someone.

Izuku’s tired…

He’ll just close his eyes for a bit…

“Hello? Is this Eraserhead.”

.

.

.

Chapter Text

Izuku doesn’t like this place.

He’s been here before.

And it never ends well.

He was 11

Maybe twelve

At this point in time, he had lost count.

He was trapped in a room.

Chained to the wall.

Mother and father were watching him from the other side of what seemed to be a mirror.

His hoodie was gone; his shirt was gone.

He was exposed.

People could see his arms, his stomach.

Everything.

He doesn’t like people seeing him like this.

It makes him feel weak.

There was a doctor across the room. Sorting stuff out on a table. Izuku could hear the clattering of metal.

He pulls at the chains, trying to break free.

It doesn’t budge.

The doctor turns around, holding a syringe in his hand.

Izuku screams. He pulls harder at the chains beginning, pleading for no needles again. The doctor doesn’t listen. He gets closer, and closer. Then all of a sudden.

Black.

.

.

.

Izuku shoots up in bed. Screaming.

He cant hear anything, his ears are ringing. He can’t move his arms. The monsters are all standing around him. He feels gentle calloused hands rubbing his back. A monster touching him. No monster has ever touched him before.

With tears in his eyes Izuku turns around quickly, vision slowly coming back, grabbing the arm of the monster and twisting it. He can hear yelling. He can feel more hands on him. Pushing him down. He feels a sharp stinging pain in his neck.

Then everything goes black one again.

.

.

.

He was standing in a hallway.

Endless.

Concrete walls. Flickering lights. The floor was wet. Sticky.

He knew what this was.

They called it “The Walk.”

A test.

A punishment.

A lesson.

He was barefoot.

Naked.

Blindfolded.

Hands tied behind his back.

The hallway was long.

Metal.

Cold.

Lit by red emergency lights that flickered like dying stars.

The floor was wet.

Sticky.

He didn’t ask what it was.

He already knew.

The speakers crackled.

A voice.

Not Master.

Not the doctor.

Just a voice.

“Walk.”

He did.

Because not walking meant pain.

Because walking meant pain.

Because everything meant pain.

He stepped on something.

Soft.

Wet.

Squishy.

Like human skin.

He didn’t look.

Couldn’t.

The blindfold was tight.

He kept walking.

The floor sloped downward.

The air got colder.

The smell got worse.

Blood.

Rot.

Fear.

The voice came back.

“Stop.”

He did.

“Kneel.”

He did.

“Open your mouth.”

He hesitated.

A shock hit his spine.

He screamed.

Then obeyed.

They poured something in it.

Thick.

Bitter.

Burning.

Copper.

He gagged.

Coughed.

Choked.

All the monsters did was laugh.

The blindfold came off.

He blinked.

The room was white.

Blinding.

Empty.

Except for the walls.

Covered in photos.

Of him.

Of others.

Of bodies.

Of blood.

Of experiments.

Of his kills.

He saw his own face.

Carved.

Bruised.

Smiling.

He screamed.

They strapped him to a chair.

Not a table.

A chair.

Upright.

Exposed.

They brought out wires.

Thin.

Sharp.

It pierced his skin.

Not deep.

Just enough to conduct.

To burn.

To teach.

They turned on the machine.

His body convulsed.

His teeth cracked.

His eyes rolled back.

He saw stars.

He saw fire.

He saw himself.

Laughing.

They asked questions.

“What’s your name?”

“Izuku.”

Shock.

“Wrong.”

“J-Jisatsu.”

“What are you?”

“A weapon.”

“What do you deserve?”

“Pain.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m broken.”

They smiled.

Turned up the voltage.

He screamed.

Later, they left him in a cell.

Not alone.

There was another boy.

Younger.

Silent.

Bleeding.

Izuku tried to speak.

The boy didn’t answer.

Just stared.

Then whispered:

“I’m you.”

…

He looked down.

Blood.

His own.

He was barefoot.

His feet left prints.

He walked.

Because there was nowhere else to go.

The hallway whispered.

Not words.

Just sounds.

Breathing.

Scraping.

Laughter.

He kept walking.

The walls pulsed.

Like veins.

Like lungs.

Like something alive.

He saw doors.

Hundreds.

Each one marked.

FAILURE

MONSTER

LIAR

JISATSU

He opened one.

Inside was a mirror.

He looked.

Saw himself.

But not himself.

His face was carved.

His eyes were gone.

His mouth was sewn shut.

He touched the glass.

It cracked.

Then shattered.

He ran.

The hallway stretched.

The lights went out.

He heard footsteps.

Behind him.

Ahead of him.

Inside him.

He screamed.

No sound came.

He fell.

Not down.

Inward.

Into a room.

White.

Blinding.

Empty.

Except for a table.

And a chair.

And a man.

Not Master.

Not his father.

Not anyone.

Just a shape.

A shadow.

It spoke.

“You’re not Izuku.”

Izuku didn’t answer.

“Izuku died in the experiment.”

He shook his head.

“You’re Jisatsu now.”

He whispered:

“No.”

The shadow smiled.

“Then prove it.”

The table held a knife.

Clean.

Sharp.

Waiting.

Izuku picked it up.

Pressed it to his arm.

Slice.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The shadow watched.

“Still not enough.”

Izuku sobbed. Then sliced 10 more times

“I’m sorry.”

“Say it louder.”

“I’m sorry.” 10 again.

“Louder.”

“I’M SORRY.” And again

The room went dark.

He was back in the hallway.

The doors were gone.

The walls were bleeding.

He was bleeding.

He collapsed.

The floor opened.

Then swallowed him whole.

This time when Izuku opened his eyes, everything was white.

Just like before.

He can hear the faint beeping sounds of machines and the quiet muttering of people around him and he can feel someone’s hand on his. It’s warm, grounding even. And he can also feel a sharp stinging pain on both of his arms.

When Izuku’s eyes finally start to focus, he looks around. The first thing he sees is Dabi and Tomura both sitting beside him on a pale blue chair. Crusty’s head was resting on Dabi’s shoulder, both their eyes closed, both breathing soundly. The second thing Izuku sees as he looks around is another monster, its crawling on the wall, smiling at him.

Izuku ignores it.

He turns his head, looking around more there’s a locker next to him along with a monitor, IV stand, and Eraserhead.

.

.

.

Ah fu-