Archive of Our Own

"We're now on air," the man signaled to the blond with his finger.

-There are three things in this life that can not be hidden, the sun, the moon and the truth.- the blond pauses- Welcome everyone on this beautiful night, here on your favorite late night show Tearing the Lies, with you as always your brightest star of all the constellations Banshee- The blond settled into his chair- we recently received anonymous information about the commission- another pause- how naughty huh?- he let out a dark laugh- as I have always said, do not take this information 100% true, sometimes they are just smoke balls to keep people focused on something else- he picked up some papers- your winged hero number #2 in the polls, was sold, just as you hear it dear listeners, the commission, the same agency where all of you care has blind faith, Hawks was bought at a tender age of six, he was trained to have the perfect soldier and…- he stopped when his partner began to give him the signal- well dear listeners, it seems that they are sending us the dogs - the blond's laughter could be heard verge of madness -as I have always told you the truth always comes out, take care my listeners, soon I will be bringing you the other part of this great feast with you the Villain of the Banshee Voice- with that he disconnected the microphone and left the station, he knew that his partner would take care of it.

After about ten minutes of walking he heard the sirens of the patrol cars in the distance, but no sign that they were looking for them. After wandering through the alleys, he began to recognize the one that arrived at the pier, he liked to come late at night to see the bay. A noise stopped his walk, he turned to see some containers, he unsheathed his wrist dagger, just in case, but what he saw was a ball of fur coming out of the container and appearing on the lid, Hizashi saw that it was a cat. With the dimly lit light from the poles he could recognize that it was an obsidian black Maine Coon, quite hairy, the blond began to approach but saw how the cat began to bristle and at the same time he could notice some ribbons perhaps white in color that, like the cat's hair, began to rise. Hizashi found it curious, he didn't know if the white ribbon around his neck rose because the cat bristled or perhaps the animal had a peculiarity, but he immediately raised both hands and took a step back.

-Calm down kitty, I won't hurt you- he heard the cat hiss, the Maine Coon had amber eyes that shone and looked at him directly, after a while he saw how the furry cat stopped bristling, it seemed that he had already studied him.

"Do you need help with that?" Hizashi pointed at the ribbon on his neck, perhaps it had gotten stuck, but he saw the cat take a step back, moving its head upwards as if it were offended.

-Okay, okay, I'm going this way- What madness, he was talking to the cat as if it were a conscious and rational being, but to his great surprise he saw how the cat looked back at him with its large eyes and then turned around to run off into the darkness where the dock warehouses were.

Hizashi fixed his gaze on the bay and deemed it time to go home for today. His interaction with the grumpy cat, as he nicknamed it in his mind, was interesting, to say the least. He had encountered many felines before, but none with any apparent peculiarity. With that in mind, he arrived home, took off his disguise as the voice villain, threw his clothes into the laundry basket, and then jumped in the shower to rinse the hairspray out of his hair. Relaxed in his bed, he looked out the window.

Amber eyes glittered in the darkness, motionless like old-fashioned lighthouses. Hizashi caught his breath. The same cat from the pier? He sat up slowly, but as he approached the window, he saw only shadows dancing in the night wind. Hallucinations from exhaustion? He rubbed his eyes, dismissing it. Tomorrow would be another long day at Kurogiri's bar.

---

-Kuromom!- Shouted the blond entering through the door of the bar where he works, upon entering he did not see the man he was looking for but his husband Giran, sitting at one of the tables with documents scattered around.

-You know Kurogiri doesn't like you calling him that- Giran left his cigarette in the ashtray near him, then looked over to where the blond was putting on his apron, to start cleaning the bar, although it was already clean, it was ten in the morning and no customers had arrived yet, but that would change soon.

"I know it's not really like that," Hizashi chuckled as he cleaned some wine bottles.

Suddenly in the background behind the employee door a commotion could be heard, suddenly a man with a thick purple fog came out towards the bar area and behind him, the little troublemaker

-Touya, I already told you no- Kurogiri's tired voice was heard.

-But Mommy- the little one with white hair and cerulean eyes pouted and pulled at the older one's dress pants.

Hizashi held back his laughter, looked at Giran who looked back at him with a raised eyebrow, then he turned his jade eyes to the little one with cobalt flames. Anyone who heard him would say he was crying, but he wasn't, he was just throwing a tantrum. Then he turned his gaze to his boss who was carrying his other son, little Tenko.

- Mamaaaa !- Touya came back

-I told you that your brother isn't feeling well and you're not going to carry him- Kurogiri looked at his husband who was ignoring him, this annoyed the man in purple mist.

-Kagero- the dark voice sent shivers down everyone's spine, even Touya stopped pulling at the legs.

-Yes, my emptiness? - The man with fuchsia eyes turned his gaze towards his husband. It was very rare for him to use that tone with him. He was more reserved when he was on his villainous adventures. His voice terrified the hearts of even the bravest of heroes.

Kurogiri made one of his dimensional doors appear next to the man and the little white-haired boy fell through it -take charge- and with that he left the room.

Hizashi didn't know he'd frozen until his boss left through one of his portals. He glanced at the other two, who still seemed in shock.

-Dad...- a sob was heard -Mom is mad at me- a few small tears ran down the round cheeks of the seven-year-old boy

-No my little cobalt, Mama is just worried about your little brother, you didn't do anything, I know you want to take care of him and give him lots of love, right? - Okuta picked up his son and hugged him

Touya wiped the long sleeve of his shirt over his eyes to wipe away the traces of tears. "Yes! I love my little brother very much," he spoke loudly with emotion.

"Sir, young master here," Hizashi handed a black coffee to the older man and a banana smoothie to the younger man.

-Thanks Banshee- the minor shouted happily while drinking his favorite shake.

-Thanks Yamada- Giran gave him a small smile from the side

-Of course sir, trouble in paradise- The blond hid his smile behind the tray he had used to bring the drinks

-Banshee, Banshee- Touya stretched out his hand trying to get the blonde to carry him.

-But young master-

-Touya, don't bother Yamada- The man with fuchsia eyes sat his son down and then looked at the blonde.

-It's just a cold that Tenko has, but Touya is very worried and wants to be on top of her, but Kuromom doesn't want her to get infected- They turn indalo from his cigarette, but it was snatched from his fingers

-Hey, not in front of the young master- Hizashi frowned, but he had a mocking laugh, he saw how the old man massaged his own brow

-You four are going to kill me faster than anyone else-

The next day, as he was polishing glasses at the Night Fog bar, the image of the black Maine Coon kept coming back to him. That white ribbon… those piercing eyes… Why did it follow me? “Banshee! Ice, idiot!” Giran’s scream brought him out of his thoughts. Kurogiri, behind the bar, watched with his golden pupils through the fog. “Distracted today, Yamada. Problems with your… transmission last night?” His tone was neutral, but Hizashi noticed the underlying concern. The heroes were on alert after the revelation about Hawks.

“ Nah , just an interesting cat at the dock,” Hizashi replied, forcefully snapping cubes together. “Inky black, with a white ribbon. Seemed… intelligent.” Kurogiri tilted his head. “Cats see what others don’t. Be careful.” The conversation died down when Touya burst in, crying because Tenko wouldn’t play.

That night, at the dock: Hizashi was carrying a bag of fresh tuna and sardines. Crazy to feed a stray cat, he thought, but something was driving him. He whistled softly. Nothing. Minutes later, a rustle among the containers. There it was, perched on a barrel, its black fur blending into the night, its white ribbon like a ghostly collar. Amber eyes appraised him.

“ Heyyy , grumpy,” Hizashi whispered, setting the food on the floor. He backed away. The cat sniffed the air, suspicious. Only when Hizashi sat down on a distant bin, feigning disinterest, did the animal descend. It ate quickly, watchfully. Hizashi smiled. “Nice necklace. A gift?” The cat looked up, emitting a low snort. Is it answering me? Thus began their ritual: each night, food and monologues from a villain to a feline.

One month later: Trust was fragile. The cat (which Hizashi called “ Erinyes ” in his mind, because of those judging eyes) was no longer hissing, but kept its distance. Until that night. Hizashi arrived and found it waiting for him, but something was different. Erinyes moved forward slowly, moving with difficulty. In the moonlight, Hizashi saw two bundles on its back. Kittens? He approached. They weren't kits.

On its black back, clinging with tiny claws, was another, smaller Maine Coon with grayish fur and disturbing violet (lilac?) eyes. And in Erinyes 's mouth , gently held by the scruff of its neck, dangled a tiny ball of pale lilac fur, almost translucent, with closed eyes and a barely audible purr. Two kittens! The scene struck him: a father/mother carrying their young. Erinyes stopped in front of him, exhausted, and with infinite care placed the lilac kitten at his feet. The other kitten (tired-eyed but alert) jumped off its back and curled up next to it, emitting a weak meow. Erinyes looked up at Hizashi. There was no snort. Just a deep stare, full of resigned desperation and a silent question: Help?

Hizashi's heart leaped. Villain or not, this was transcendent. He knelt slowly. “My… you have a family, Erinyes .” He reached out, not touching. “Are they… sick?” The black cat gently nuzzled the lilac kitten with its muzzle. An infinitely tender gesture. “ Okay … okay . I can't leave you here.” He took out his jacket (black, sturdy) and spread it on the floor. “Come in. All three of you. I'll take you somewhere safe. I swear.” They hesitated. Erinyes sniffed the jacket, then looked down at her shivering kits. Finally, she gently pushed the gray kitten back onto the fabric. The little one obeyed, curling up. Erinyes took the lilac kitten by the scruff of the neck again and placed her next to her brother. Then, with an elegance that belied his fatigue, he settled himself, wrapping his body around them. Her amber eyes never left Hizashi. I trust… for now.

At Hizashi's apartment: The trip was tense. Erinyes watched every move. Upon arrival, Hizashi improvised a nest with blankets in a quiet corner. He left them fresh water and soft food. Erinyes inspected every inch of the place before allowing the kittens to eat. The gray one (intelligent violet eyes) devoured. The lilac one barely licked the food, weak. Erinyes tenderly cleaned her.

Hizashi watched from afar. “They need names, don’t they?” he murmured. To the gray tom: “ Hmm … Morpheus. You have a dreamy look.” To the lilac kitten: “And you… Aurora. Like the dawn.” Erinyes looked up. “And you, grumpy… Erebus. Eternal darkness. Suits you.” For a second, Hizashi swore he saw a flash of… recognition? In those amber eyes. Madness? Probably.

Revelation: A few days later, Hizashi returned late from the bar. Aurora was sleeping. Morpheus was playing with a string. Erebus was sitting in front of the window, gazing at the moon. His feline silhouette stood out, majestic. Hizashi sighed, dropping his Banshee disguise. “What a day, Erebus. Touya almost set fire to Giran’s tablecloth again…” He approached the cat, without waiting for a reply. But then he saw it: reflected in the windowpane, above the figure of the black cat, was a blurred human silhouette. A thin man with dark, disheveled hair… and exhausted, deep eyes of a familiar amber. Hizashi froze. His breath caught in his throat. Mirage? Tiredness? Erebus slowly turned his head. His cat-like eyes, in reality, stared into Hizashi’s. There was no doubt. The image on the glass… and the face that emerged from her most distant memories, from the halls of the academy… merged into a name that escaped her lips in a stunned whisper:

“…Shouta?”

The black cat (Shouta) didn't run away. He didn't hiss. He just held the gaze, an infinite sadness in his feline eyes. The truth, as he himself said on his show, always comes out. And now, cornered in his feline form, with his children dependent on the charity of an old acquaintance turned villain, Shouta Aizawa could hide no longer. The twinge of recognition in Hizashi's eyes was his verdict. He knows.

The air in the small apartment thickened, charged with an electricity that had nothing to do with Banshee's radio equipment. Erebus's—Shouta's—amber eyes pierced him, confirming the impossible. It wasn't a hallucination in the window that night. It wasn't tiredness. It was him. The quiet boy from the UA hallways, the one who always seemed to carry the night on his shoulders, now literally wrapped in black fur and quiet desperation.

Hizashi felt the ground give way beneath his feet. A torrent of emotions hit him: disbelief, acute concern at the feline trio's obvious misery, and a deep, ancient pang that tightened his chest. That name... that face... unearthed something he'd buried years ago, beneath layers of villainy and sarcasm.

“-Shouta…?” he repeated, his voice a broken thread.

The black cat (Shouta) didn't flinch. He didn't shake his head, didn't meow his head in agreement. He simply held their gaze, the sadness in his cat-like eyes turning into an even deeper resignation, as if a final wall had fallen. He knew he was exposed. The tension was palpable, a barbed wire stretched between the villain and the cat that was his... what? Partner? Friend? Something else they never dared to name?

Aurora (Eri) let out a faint whimper in her nest of blankets, breaking the spell. Morpheus (Hitoshi) lifted his little gray head, looking anxiously between his mother and the tall man with his now loose, disheveled hair.

Hizashi swallowed hard. Alpha's instinct roared inside him, a primal urge to protect, to fix this, but the villain's mind was calculating risks. What the hell had happened? How had Shouta Aizawa, the intense-eyed omega, ended up living like a stray cat with his children equally trapped?

“Food,” he said sharply, breaking the oppressive silence. His voice sounded husky, alien. “You need… to eat. You. To continue… with the routine.” He couldn’t process it now. Not in front of those eyes staring at him through the cat mask. He turned sharply and headed to the small kitchen, his trembling hands reaching for the can of premium wet food he now bought religiously. He opened it with an overly loud click, the sound startling Aurora. He poured the smelly pasta into their dishes, added fresh water.

He placed them in front of the nest with mechanical movements. Shouta-Erebus slowly lowered himself from the windowsill, his bushy tail brushing the ground. He sniffed the food, an automatic gesture of survival, before looking back at Hizashi. There was a question in that look, an assessment: What are you going to do now that you know?

Hizashi couldn't hold her. "Eat. I'll... bathe." The phrase was an escape. He almost stumbled as he stepped back, away from the weight of that impossible reality in his living room, and took refuge in the bathroom, closing the door with a soft but definitive click. He leaned against the cool wood, his forehead against the frame, breathing heavily. The reflection in the mirror returned him: pale, wild-eyed, the blond of his hair, now free of hairspray, falling in messy waves around a face that displayed a vulnerability that Banshee would never allow.

She turned the shower on full blast, letting the steam quickly fill the small space, obscuring her reflection, drowning out the outside world. The sound of the plummeting water was a white roar, an attempt to erase the present. But instead of calming, the heat and mist opened the floodgates to a past that had been sealed away for years.

Flashback: UA Academy – Second Year – Playground

The spring sun bathed the UA gardens. Hizashi Yamada, with his uniform impeccably unbuttoned at the collar and his raucous laugh, was a miniature sun, surrounded by a group of classmates. He told some exaggerated story, gesticulating excitedly, his blond hair almost glowing in the light. His gift, Voice, was suppressed, but the vibrant energy that fueled it was palpable.

On a bench under a cherry blossom tree, a little out of the way, sat Shouta Aizawa. He had a book open on his lap, but he wasn't reading. His gaze, intense and dark, was fixed on the group, specifically on the blond whirlwind that was Hizashi. His posture was rigid, his ears slightly flushed beneath the shaggy black hair that fell over his eyes. He always wore a black cloth scarf around his neck, like a small shield.

Hizashi, in the middle of his performance, caught the movement. He turned his head, and his sunny smile met those deep, observant eyes. “ Oi , Aizawa!” he shouted, waving his hand excitedly. “Join! That idiot Sekijiro is telling how he almost burned down the dormitory kitchen trying to make ramen again!”

Shouta blushed bright red. The blush spread from the tips of his ears to his neck, barely hidden by the scarf. He looked down abruptly, feigning sudden interest in his book. “I’m fine,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the din. “Just finishing this up.”

But Hizashi had already broken away from the group. He approached with his brisk stride and plopped down on the bench next to Shouta, not touching him, but invading his bubble of silent space with his vibrant aura. “What are you reading? Something about stealth tactics for your grim hero future?” he asked, trying to sneak a peek at the book. His shoulder lightly brushed Shouta’s.

Shouta flinched almost imperceptibly, but didn't pull away. The blush wouldn't subside. “N-nothing important,” he mumbled, closing the book with a snap. His gaze fixed on the falling cherry blossoms, avoiding at all costs the bright green eyes that regarded him with genuine curiosity and a friendship that Shouta, a chronic introvert, never knew how to handle. He felt Hizashi's warmth at his side, an overwhelming physical and emotional presence that always left him off-balance, his heart racing in ways he didn't understand and was afraid to examine.

Hizashi laughed, the sound clear and warm. “Always so mysterious, Shou! Well, if you change your mind about Seki ’s culinary horror stories , you know where we are.” He stood, giving Shouta a light, friendly pat on the shoulder. Shouta barely suppressed a flinch. “Don’t just stand here racking your brains!” Hizashi added before walking back to the group, leaving a trail of energy and a scent of a fresh breeze and something electric.

Shouta stood still for a moment, taking a deep breath. Then, slowly, he raised his hand and touched his shoulder where Hizashi had touched him. The blush lingered, mixed now with a frustration with himself. Why? Why is it that every time he comes near, I turn into this? He watched Hizashi laugh again, lighting up the corner where he stood, and a small sigh escaped his lips. A sigh that contained both silent admiration and deep confusion.

End of Flashback – Returning to the Bathroom

The hot water hit Hizashi's back, but he didn't feel its warmth. He only felt the cold emptiness left by the memory. That blush . That blush that appeared only when he drew near. That shy shrinking back, that voice that became a whisper, those eyes that fled but, in stolen moments, stared at him with an intensity Hizashi could never fully decipher. In his youth, he had found it adorable, a charming contrast to his own exuberance. He wondered sometimes, very quietly, in his most private mind, if it meant something more. But Hizashi's path was always loud, forward, seeking attention; Shouta's, silent, into the shadows, watching. Graduation separated them, each choosing opposite sides of a line that then seemed clear: the light of the hero (though Shouta was never conventional) and the defiance of the villain that Hizashi embraced, seeing the rot behind the heroic glow.

And now… Now Shouta was here. Not as the taciturn hero, not as the shy, blushing sidekick. He was here as a wounded cat, a desperate father, a cornered omega, relying on the charity of the villain who had become the sun that had once made him blush. “That blush…” Hizashi thought, letting the water run down his face, mixing with something saltier that was oozing unbidden from his eyes. “It was my own private sun.” And now that sun was eclipsed, hidden behind a feline form and a disgrace that screamed for help. The ache in his chest grew sharper, a mix of nostalgia for what was lost and a fierce, protective rage at what had been done to Shouta and his sons.

How had he sunk so low? Who had let him fall? And what the hell was he, Hizashi Yamada, aka Banshee, going to do about it now that he knew?

She stayed underwater until her skin wrinkled and the steam began to dissipate. The roar of the water couldn't drown out the truth: her old love, her shy sunshine, was in her living room. And she needed much more than cans of cat food.

Roughly drying himself off, Hizashi stared at his fogged-up reflection in the mirror. The green eyes, usually filled with a villainous spark or cynical weariness, now held a new, deeper determination. Banshee could air dirty laundry, but this… this was personal. He would leave the bathroom. He would look into those amber eyes, those other violet and lilac ones filled with fear and hope. And he would find a way. For Shouta. For the children. For that blush that had once been his sunshine.

He took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door. The scent of cat food and the expectant silence of the living room greeted him. The game, the most important game of his life as a villain and as a man, had just begun.

Hizashi emerged from the bathroom, enveloped in steam and a newly forged determination. The scene in the living room was almost the same, but now seen through completely new eyes, burdened by the weight of the past and understanding. The air still smelled of tuna and undissipated tension.

He stopped at the threshold, not coming closer. He sat on the floor, at a safe distance that he hoped would be interpreted as non-threatening. He crossed his legs and leaned against the wall, watching.

Eri (Aurora) continued to weakly lick her food. She was a tiny ball of pale lilac fur, so small, so fragile. Two years old? Hizashi thought, his throat tightening. She looked no older than a kitten a few months old. Her weakness was palpable, a thread of life too tenuous. Every movement required visible effort, her tiny ribs visible under her fine fur as she breathed.

Hitoshi (Morpheus), the gray Maine Coon, clung to his little sister like a protective shadow. He ate more vigorously, but his intelligent, tired violet eyes never left Eri's side for a second. He gently licked her purple head from time to time, an instinctive gesture of comfort and care. He was a ten-year-old boy trapped in a feline body, carrying too heavy a burden.

And Shouta (Erebus). The black cat, majestic even in his exhaustion, stood right in front of his sons, forming a living barrier between them and Hizashi. His body was tense, the muscles beneath the obsidian fur ready to pounce. His amber eyes—those eyes Hizashi now recognized with a pang of pain—stared back at him. There was no hiss, no growl. Only an intense vigilance, fraught with deep-seated fear. Fear that this villain, this former acquaintance who had seen his truth, would use that information against them. Fear that they would take the only thing he had left. Exhaustion was etched into every line of his feline stance—in the slight droop of his ears, in the way his tail, though erect, seemed to weigh too much—but there was also an unwavering steadiness. It was the exhaustion of someone who had fought for years in the shadows, but who wouldn't hesitate to tear at his offspring tooth and nail if they were threatened. He was an omega father, cornered, but far from defeated.

Hizashi said nothing. Words seemed insufficient, even dangerous at that moment. Any loud sound could frighten the fragile Eri or be interpreted by Shouta as aggression. So he just watched. He watched Eri's titanic struggle for every bite, Hitoshi's constant care, Shouta's heartbreaking vigilance. The silence was filled with the faint sound of licking, the brush of gray fur against lilac, and the bated breaths of three beings trapped in a nightmare.

The blond felt a surge of something overwhelming: rage. Rage at whatever had driven Shouta and his children to this. Rage at a world that allowed one child to live as an eternally weak kitten and another to become a parent before their time. Rage mixed with a fierce protectiveness that quashed any doubt about his role in this. They're not leaving here, he thought with brutal clarity. Not while I can do anything.

Just as he opened his mouth, ready to break the silence with a whisper, perhaps an “It’s okay” or a “No one will hurt you here,” the shrill ringing of his cell phone ripped through the air like a gunshot.

Eri jumped slightly in fright, letting out a faint squeal. Hitoshi instantly bristled, positioning himself more on top of his sister. Shouta whipped his head around to the source of the noise in a swift, aggressive, feline motion, his eyes blazing with high alert, his muscles tense like springs.

Hizashi mentally cursed. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. The screen displayed the code name he used for Kurogiri: “Mist.” He swiped to answer, keeping his voice as low and neutral as possible, even though his pulse was racing.

“Talk,” he murmured, slightly moving the phone away from his mouth.

Kurogiri’s voice, distorted by a security filter but unmistakably tense, came from the earpiece: “Banshee. We need your voice. Now. Warehouse 7, Port District. Problem with the Quirk Booster shipment . Commission dogs are sniffing, but the buyer is insistent. Required… auditory persuasion.” A heist. His trademark: disorienting and overpowering with his Quirk before Giran or Kurogiri could act.

Hizashi closed his eyes for a moment. The villain world was demanding his attention with brutal urgency. “Understood,” he replied, his voice regaining a tinge of Banshee’s coldness. “In ten. Keep the line open.” He hung up.

He stood up in a fluid motion. Shouta's gaze followed him, now filled with a mixture of fear and... question? Relief that he was gone? Concern about what that call meant?

Wasting no time, Hizashi moved toward his room. Within minutes, he was transformed. His comfortable clothes were replaced with the tight, black Banshee outfit. He applied hairspray with quick, expert strokes, smoothing his blond hair into the iconic mohawk. The villain mask, the emotional armor, was back in place. Only his eyes, green and now filled with a new conflict, remained visible.

He walked toward the front door, his boots lightly clicking on the floor. He paused for a moment, his hand on the handle. He turned his head to the corner where three pairs of eyes were watching him: watchful amber, anxious violet, weak but alert lilac. The image of Shouta blushing under the cherry blossom tree clashed harshly with that of the exhausted, desperate cat protecting his children.

A forced smile, more like a Banshee than a Hizashi, played on his lips beneath the mask. His voice, when he spoke, was a husky whisper, tinged with irony that attempted to hide the genuine concern bubbling beneath the surface:

“My darlings… Daddy’s going to work. Be good. Don’t make a fuss.” The term “Daddy” came out almost unintentionally, a reflection of the new, overwhelming possessiveness I felt, disguised as villainous mockery. But the underlying message was clear: I’ll be back. This is your refuge now.

Without waiting for a reaction, he opened the door and slipped into the night, gently closing it behind him. The click of the latch echoed through the quiet apartment, leaving the small feline family alone with the echo of his words and the unmistakable scent of hairspray and danger that Banshee left in his wake.

In warehouse 7 – Minutes later:

The air smelled of saltpeter, stale oil, and tension. Two Commission guards lay unconscious on the ground, victims of a quick Kurogiri portal and a well-aimed blow. The buyer, a minor villain with the appearance of a nervous rat, was sweating profusely as he stared at the sealed box of Quirk Boosters . Giran watched from the shadows, an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

Banshee stood in front of the buyer, his slender figure menacing in the dim light. He turned on his handheld microphone; the low-frequency hum filled the space, making the man flinch.

“Friend,” Banshee began, his voice amplified and distorted, a whisper that echoed like thunder inside the shopper’s skull. “It seems you had… doubts about the quality of our merchandise. Or was it the price that made you hesitate?” The tone was playful, but the edge was steel. He focused his gift, not to attack, but to pressure, to instill paralyzing fear.

As he spoke, as the buyer stammered excuses and promised to pay instantly, a part of Hizashi's mind wasn't there. It was in his apartment. Was Eri drinking water? Had Shouta accepted the extra food he left? Had Hitoshi curled up with his sister for warmth? The image of Shouta, exhausted but steadfast, keeping watch, overlapped with that of the trembling villain in front of him.

“Next time you hesitate,” Banshee concluded, cutting through the drone, his voice now as cold as marble, “there will be no warning. Only silence.” The message was clear. The buyer nodded frantically, shoving a wad of bills into Giran’s hands before fleeing like a bat out of hell.

Kurogiri closed his portal. Giran counted the money. Banshee turned off his microphone.

“Distracted today, Yamada,” Kurogiri murmured, his golden eyes gleaming in the mist, watching him with that unsettling awareness. “Your persuasion… was less powerful than usual. Something on your mind?”

Banshee (Hizashi) adjusted the collar of his suit, staring out into the darkness of the harbor, in the general direction of his apartment. A very different smile, small and private, touched his lips beneath the mask. A smile that didn't belong to the Voice Villain.

“Just thinking about… new projects, Kuromom,” he replied, his voice regaining a hint of its usual tone, but with a new underlying calm. “Things that require special care.” His green eyes, visible for a moment between the mask and the hairsprayed bangs, held a gleam Kurogiri hadn’t seen before: a renewed purpose, focused not on the chaos, but on a quiet corner where three pairs of eyes waited for him. His family. For now, secret. For now, feline. But his nonetheless.

The heist was over. Their real mission was just beginning.

---

Flashback: The Night the Sun Turned Out – Two Years After Graduation

The rain fell on Musutafu like a blanket of cold, heavy tears. It wasn't a spring downpour; it was a torrential deluge that lashed the streets, washing away the filth, but not the rot Hizashi Yamada had just discovered. He ran. His lungs burned, his legs weighed like lead, but terror and revulsion drove him on. The heroic uniform he had so longed to wear—bright, yellow, a symbol of hope—was torn, muddied, and stained with something other than mud.

It had been his first major mission for the Heroic Security Commission. “Observation and logistical support,” they told him. “A top-secret facility where we develop countermeasures for dangerous Quirks.” Hizashi, his radiant smile still intact, though somewhat worn by the initial bureaucracy of being a hero, had entered with pride.

What he found inside wasn't countermeasures. It was a nightmare materialized.

Cold, white hallways lit by fluorescent lights that flickered like exposed nerves. These weren't research labs; they were observation chambers. And behind the thick one-way glass… people. Men, women, even teenagers, their expressions blank or muted with pain. Some bore the marks of physical experimentation: strangely discolored skin, atrophied or unnaturally augmented limbs, bloodshot eyes. Others were hooked up to machines that invasively monitored their Quirks, forcing them to activate them again and again until they collapsed. Files lay open on an overgrown workstation: “Subject 743: Quirk 'Forced Regeneration'. Test #42: Limit of simultaneous amputations before systemic failure.” “Subject 211: Quirk 'Pain Transference'. Test #15: Controlled group pain induction (n=5). Results: 3 cardiac collapses, 2 induced psychoses.”

Hizashi had frozen. The scent of antiseptic couldn't hide the stench of suffering and fear. He listened to two scientists in white coats speaking with clinical detachment as they observed a trembling child in a cell: "The emotional instability factor of the 'Bone Manipulation' Quirk is too high for controlled use. I suggest termination and extraction of the Quirk's glandular tissue for study."

That phrase. “Termination.” As if they were talking about a laboratory animal, not a child. It was the slap in the face.

Something in Hizashi broke. The blind faith, the idealism, the belief that being a hero was only about saving lives. It was a lie. The heroic sheen was a facade for this: institutionalized torture, forced disappearances, experimentation on human beings like guinea pigs. The very ones he swore to protect.

He didn't remember how he'd run. Only the shrill alarm, the shouts of "Stop!", the flashing security Quirks trying to stop him. He used his own Voice, not to persuade, but as a piercing scream of rage and horror that rattled the glass and knocked back his pursuers. He ran aimlessly, soaked by the rain that now mingled with the hot tears of betrayal and disgust streaming down his face. His heroic uniform, that symbol, felt like a festering garment. He tore it to shreds as he ran, dropping scraps of muddy yellow fabric in the dark alleys. He wore only the black thermal underwear underneath, shivering, but shame and anger were an internal fire the rain couldn't put out.

Hours. He ran for hours, guided only by the instinct to flee and the need to be far, far away from that white hell. The city became a labyrinth of shadows and distorted reflections in the puddles. The solar energy that had always characterized him was extinguished, drowned in the mud and darkness. He was just a 20-year-old young man, lost, betrayed, with the world he thought he knew shattered.

That's when he saw it. A faint neon glow in a particularly dark alley: "Night Fog." A bar. A shelter. With the last of his strength, he pushed open the heavy door.

The contrast was stark. From the cold and rain to the dense heat, the smell of stale tobacco, cheap alcohol, and old wood. It was almost empty, just a couple of gloomy customers in the corners and a tall, imposing figure behind the bar, wiping a glass with a cloth. Kurogiri. His body was composed of a thick, constant, billowing violet mist, with two points of golden light where his eyes should have been. A disturbing presence, but at that moment, for Hizashi, he was just a fixed point in a world spinning too fast.

Hizashi slumped against the doorframe, panting, water dripping from his bruised and nearly naked body, forming a puddle at his feet. He was shaking uncontrollably, not only from the cold, but from shock. He looked up at Kurogiri, his green eyes, always so expressive, now hollow and desperate, like those of a cornered animal.

Kurogiri put down the glass and the cloth. His golden eyes scrutinized him, taking in the bruised body, the remnants of the torn heroic uniform still hanging from his waist, the expression of utter trauma. There were no immediate questions. There was a long, tense silence, broken only by Hizashi's labored breathing and the distant crackling of the neon light.

Then Kurogiri moved. With preternatural calm, he took a clean, thick towel from under the counter. He walked over soundlessly and extended it to Hizashi. He didn't put it around his shoulders; he offered it to him. A simple gesture, but one laden with silent recognition of the human disaster before him.

“The Heroic Commission,” Hizashi murmured, his voice a broken shard, unable to contain the truth now that he was safe (was he safe?) for a moment. “They… what they do… they’re not heroes… they’re monsters.” The words came out between stifled sobs, the weight of the revelation crushing him again. “Monsters!”

Kurogiri didn't seem surprised. His golden eyes blinked slowly. "The world is full of monsters, young man," he replied, his voice deep, echoing as if from deep within his fog. "Some wear cloaks. Others, lab coats." He watched Hizashi, who was frantically wrapping the towel around himself, searching for warmth that wasn't coming. "And what are you now? A fugitive hero? A wandering corpse?"

Hizashi looked at him, confused, pain clouding his mind. “No… I don’t know… I can’t go back… I can’t be part of that…”

Kurogiri nodded, almost to himself. He took a step back toward the bar. He poured a generous shot of strong, dark whiskey into a fresh glass. He slid it across the bar to where Hizashi had dragged himself onto a stool, collapsing onto it.

“Drink,” Kurogiri ordered, not harshly, but with the authority of someone who knows what it takes. “It warms the body. The soul… that will take longer.”

Hizashi obeyed, swallowing the burning liquid that scorched his throat, but it began to ward off the deadly cold penetrating him. He coughed, his eyes watering.

Kurogiri watched him drink. Those golden eyes, which had seen the worst and lowest human vileness (and committed it), recognized something in the broken young man before him: he wasn't a hero fallen from grace due to ambition or cruelty. He was an idealist whose heart had been ripped out by reality. A child lost in the rain, literally and metaphorically. The same doom he'd seen in others, like Tenko or Touya, albeit under different circumstances.

“Do you have a name, ghost?” Kurogiri finally asked, as Hizashi finished the whiskey with one last shaky swallow.

“Y-Yamada… Hizashi Yamada,” he mumbled, the name sounding hollow, as if it belonged to someone else. The hero who had died that night.

“Yamada…” Kurogiri tried the name. “A name too luminous for someone who has just seen the darkness of the world.” He paused, his hazy hands clasping together on the bar. “The Commission will seek out the hero who defected. The one who knows too much. You can’t be Yamada. Not here. Not now.”

Hizashi stared at his distorted reflection in the whiskey bottle: pale, with dark blond hair flattened by the rain, and desolate eyes. He no longer recognized himself. He nodded slowly. He had to disappear.

“Do you have anything to offer, besides… this?” Kurogiri gestured vaguely at his sorry state.

Hizashi swallowed. “My… my Quirk. Voice. I can amplify it, distort it… cause pain, disorient… control.” He said it bitterly. The power he wanted to use to inspire, now reduced to a weapon.

A flicker of interest crossed his golden eyes. “A useful Quirk… for certain types of persuasion.” Kurogiri looked around the nearly empty bar. “This place… attracts peculiar clientele. Sometimes, they need… motivation to pay their debts. Or silence to discuss delicate matters.” His gaze returned to Hizashi. “I need a helper. Someone to clean, serve… and use their Voice when necessary. Someone who doesn’t exist. Can you be that person? Can you be… no one?”

Hizashi looked at the dirty towel at his feet, then at his still-shaking hands. He had nothing. Nowhere to go. No identity he wanted to reclaim. Only rage, disillusionment, and a power that was now a curse. But also an opportunity. A way to hide. And perhaps… a way to fight the monsters who wore cloaks and lab coats, from the shadows.

He looked up at Kurogiri. The fear and pain were still there, but now tinged with a cold determination, born from the ashes of his ideals.

“Yes,” Hizashi said, his voice regaining a bit of strength, but now hollow, different. It was no longer the voice of the sun. It was something new. Something dangerous. “I can be no one.”

Kurogiri nodded, a slow shake of his hazy head. “Good. Welcome to the shadows, Nobody.” He turned and took another glass. “Tomorrow you start. For now… there’s a couch in the back room. Sleep. The Night Mist is your refuge now. But remember,” he added, his voice taking on a darker tone, “here, true loyalty is the only currency that matters. Betrayal… is paid for with permanent silence.”

Hizashi, now Nobody, nodded. The whiskey and exhaustion were finally getting the better of him. He slid off the stool and staggered toward the back room Kurogiri pointed out. Before he stepped through the door, he glanced back. Kurogiri was polishing glasses again, his violet mist figure motionless, a wicked beacon in the night that had consumed Hizashi Yamada.

As he closed the back room door, he leaned his forehead against the cold wood. The hero was dead. The sun had gone out. In his place, in the bowels of a villain's bar, a voice was born. A voice that would one day tear through the lies. Banshee's voice. The first note of her wail was a stifled sob, lost in the crackling of the rain against the Night Mist's dirty windows.

( End flashback)

Return Home – After the Heist

The rain had stopped, leaving the streets of Musutafu gleaming under the streetlights, like a broken mirror reflecting the city lights and the darkness of its alleys. The scent of salt and violence from the port clung to Banshee's clothes, a second skin trying to penetrate beneath the black suit and mask. But Hizashi barely noticed. Every step toward his apartment was a quickened heartbeat, a countdown to the small island of uncertainty and fur he had left behind.

The robbery had been routine, at its core. Persuasion, intimidation, money changing hands. The ashen taste it left in her mouth, however, was more bitter than usual. The image of Shouta, exhausted but defiant, protecting his children with the last breath of his omega pride, overlapped with that of the trembling villain she'd subdued with her Voice. Was he so different from the Commission she denounced? He used fear as a tool, just like them. The question, sharp and piercing, echoed in her mind with every echo of her footsteps on the wet pavement.

He arrived at his building, an anonymous and slightly run-down apartment block, perfect for disappearing into. He climbed the stairs silently, avoiding the creaking elevator. When he reached his door, he stopped. The silence on the other side was absolute. Too absolute. A wave of irrational panic assailed him. Had they left? Had they been found? Had he failed to protect them as soon as he found them?

He inserted the key with hands that barely trembled (thanks to villain training, not inner calm) and opened the door with extreme gentleness.

The dimness of the apartment greeted him, broken only by the faint moonlight coming in through the living room window. The smell of cat food and a faint aroma of clean litter (he'd bought a deluxe tray, just in case) floated in the air. His gaze instantly darted to the corner of the blankets.

There they were.

A sigh of relief so deep it made her stagger escaped her lips, muffled by the mask. Eri (Aurora) was a small, almost invisible lilac bundle, buried under a mound of the softest blanket, only the slight movement of her side as she breathed betraying her presence. She seemed to be sleeping soundly, exhausted. Hitoshi (Morpheus) was curled up beside her, his gray body forming a protective semicircle around his sister. His violet eyes were half-lidded—not quite asleep, watchful—but they visibly relaxed when he recognized Hizashi's silhouette in the doorway. He emitted a soft, barely audible purr directed at the figure in the entryway.

And Shouta (Erebus). He wasn't in the nest. He sat, majestic and motionless like an obsidian statue, in the exact center of the living room, between the door and the corner where his children slept. His posture was one of high alert: ears pricked, whiskers taut, tail motionless but ready. His amber eyes, glowing with feline intensity in the gloom, were fixed on Hizashi. There was no fear in them now. There was assessment. A deep, exhausted but lucid gaze that scrutinized every line of Banshee's figure, searching for wounds, tension, hidden intentions. He seemed to have been waiting, on guard, the entire time Hizashi was gone. Exhaustion wrapped around him like another cloak, but determination was cold steel beneath the black fur. I'm here. I'm watching. Try something.

Hizashi closed the door behind him with a soft click. The sound seemed to echo in the expectant silence. He took off his boots, moving with an unusual caution, aware of every creak in the floorboards. Then, in a gesture that felt monumental, he raised his hands to his head.

Shouta's amber eyes followed every movement. Hizashi unhooked the Banshee mask. The sensation of fresh air on his face was a relief, but also an exposure. It revealed the fatigue under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the pallor of someone who has experienced too much in one night. He placed the mask on a nearby table, a symbol discarded for now.

Without the visual armor, he felt more vulnerable, but also more real. More Hizashi. He walked slowly to the center of the room, stopping a respectful distance from Shouta. He didn't approach the nest. He looked directly into those amber eyes that had seen him blush under the cherry trees and now watched him return from the villainous night.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from the recent use of his Quirk and suppressed emotion. “Everything’s fine. The robbery… it was routine. Nothing serious.” He didn’t know if Shouta would understand the words, but the tone, he hoped, conveyed calm. “The dogs… the heroes weren’t around. Just a coward with more money than courage.” He shrugged, his face tired.

Shouta didn't move. He only blinked slowly, once, twice. His gaze dropped for a moment to Hizashi's empty hands, then returned to his face. The tension in his feline shoulders lessened by an almost imperceptible degree. It wasn't relaxation. It was a temporary acknowledgment of no immediate threat.

Hizashi glanced at the nest. Eri was still asleep, a small sigh escaping her tiny snout. Hitoshi was now watching him with wider eyes, curiosity mixed with tiredness in his violet gaze.

“Did she… Aurora… eat a little more before going to sleep?” Hizashi asked, his voice still low, directing the question into the air, but knowing that Shouta was the one who could answer, somehow.

Shouta followed her gaze to Eri. Then, with deliberate slowness, he nodded. A small, precise movement, unmistakably human in its intent. A flash of something that might be gratitude, or simply relief, crossed his amber eyes before they returned to neutral vigilance.

The simple gesture gave Hizashi a wave of warmth that dispelled the lingering chill of the port. He communicates. He understands. It was a tiny bridge, but it existed.

“Good,” he murmured, a genuine, small, tired smile touching his lips for the first time in hours. “That’s good.” He looked at Shouta again. “You must be exhausted. You could… rest. I’ll keep watch.” He offered the words like a truce, a perpetual shift.

Shouta stared at him. Evaluating the offer, the sincerity. Then, still staring, he stood up with the silent elegance of a big cat. He didn't head for the nest. He approached Hizashi slowly. He stopped less than a step away. Hizashi held his breath. The amber eyes scrutinized him one last time, up and down, perhaps searching for traces of lies or danger.

Then Shouta did something unexpected. He gently rubbed his head, his powerful Maine Coon forehead, against Hizashi's leg. It was a brief contact, barely a brush of warm fur against the damp fabric of Banshee's pants. A feline gesture of… recognition? Minimal trust? Unspoken gratitude?

Before Hizashi could react, Shouta stepped away just as gracefully. He turned and walked back to the nest. He settled carefully around Eri and Hitoshi, wrapping his large, warm body around them, his bushy tail covering them like a living blanket. His eyes closed, but his ears remained slightly erect, alert. He wasn't sleeping soundly. He was just resting, trusting enough to let his guard down a little, knowing that the blond-haired man, the villain with the tired, bare face, was there. Watching.

Hizashi remained motionless for a moment, the leg where Shouta had brushed against him still warm. The gesture, small but monumental in its meaning, ran through his body like a warm current. It was acceptance. Fragile, provisional, but real.

She quietly sank down onto the couch, still wearing the rest of her Banshee costume. She watched the black silhouette cuddling the two smaller furballs. Hitoshi's purring had become more constant, a low, calming hum. Eri was sleeping, peacefully for now.

Outside, the city teemed with the Commission's dirty secrets, the battles of heroes and villains, and the constant danger. But here, in this anonymous apartment, beneath the silver moonlight streaming through the window, a new universe existed. A universe of three mysterious cats, a villain whose heart was on fire with an old love and a new responsibility, and a truth that had begun to tear through the lies from the moment a talkative blond saw amber eyes gleam in the darkness of the pier.

Hizashi Yamada, alias Banshee, closed his eyes for a moment, not to sleep, but to savor the fragile silence. The journey was long, the danger imminent, but for the first time in years, he wasn't alone in the night. He had a family to protect. A family of half-moons, mustaches, and a purple mystery he needed to solve. And for Shouta, for the children, for that touch of trust, he would fight with everything he had.

The Voice Villain settled into the couch, his fallen hero and redeemed villain ears alert to every sound, ready to be the guardian his once-shy sun and star cubs needed. The long road toward dawn, toward lost humanity, had just taken its first true step, here, in the shared gloom.

Dawn at the Secret Refuge

Hizashi's first awareness wasn't visual, but sensorial. A small, warm, vibrating weight on his chest. A constant, deep, and joyful purr that resonated directly in his bones, like a tiny purification engine. Then came the smell: clean fur, warm milk (he'd left a saucer of special kitten milk on the couch before falling asleep), and that inexplicable scent of home that cats seem to carry with them.

She opened her eyes with slow blinks, brushing away the cobwebs of sleep. The soft, golden light of dawn filtered through the window, illuminating the dancing dust in the air. And then she saw him.

Hitoshi (Morpheus), the gray Maine Coon, was asleep on his chest. Not just close, not curled up beside him. He was stretched out with the absolute trust of someone who feels completely safe, his little gray head resting right on Hizashi's heart. His little front paws, with their delicate, lighter gray mittens, were extended forward, as if embracing the air or dreaming of chasing leaves. His flank rose and fell in time with the deep breathing of sleep, and from inside him came that powerful, happy purr, a sound of absolute peace. A tuft of his darker gray fur, near his forehead, moved gently with each of Hizashi's exhalations.

Hizashi held his breath. Any movement could break the spell, wake the little boy. A ten-year-old boy, a miniature baby trapped in a feline body, sleeping trustingly on a villain's chest. The irony was so great it almost made him chuckle, but he held back, afraid of disturbing that perfect moment. The weight was comforting, the purring a melody that sank deep into his weary soul. When was the last time someone trusted him like that, without reservation? Not even Kurogiri or Giran had that blind trust; it was loyalty based on years and mutual usefulness. This… this was different. It was pure. It was a gift.

Moving only his eyes, he searched for the other inhabitants of the makeshift nest. Eri (Aurora) was still sleeping, a small purple bundle under the blankets, barely visible. But Shouta (Erebus)… Shouta was awake.

The black cat was sitting on the edge of the sofa, very close to where Hizashi lay with Hitoshi on top of him. He wasn't tense, wasn't alert like the night before. He was watching. His amber eyes, bathed in the dawn light, held a complex, indecipherable expression. He was looking at his son sleeping on the blond's chest. There was no fear, no hostility. There was… wonder. A deep, quiet surprise. And maybe, just maybe, a hint of relief. Seeing Hitoshi so relaxed, so confident, after so long living on the edge, must have been a balm to his paternal soul. His ears were relaxed, his tail resting still at his side. It was the most peaceful posture Hizashi had seen him in since bringing them home.

Their gazes met. Hizashi, motionless beneath Hitoshi's purring weight, and Shouta, sitting like a silent guardian bathed in the dawn. Hizashi didn't smile, didn't speak. He just held Shouta's gaze, allowing the omega to see what was in his own eyes: protection, tenderness, and a silent promise. Look. Look how safe he is here. Trust. You can trust.

Shouta held his gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, with an elegance that made the gesture seem natural, he bowed his head. It was a small movement, barely a dip of the chin, but for Hizashi, it was an acknowledgment. An acceptance deeper than the touch of the night before. I see. I see that my son is safe with you.

The moment was fragile, beautiful, suspended in the golden air of dawn. It was broken by the soft chime of Hizashi's clock, marking 8:00 AM. He had to get ready for his morning shift at the Night Mist.

The sound made Hitoshi stir slightly. The purring diminished, a small, sleepy mew escaping his cat lips. He opened his violet eyes, blurred by sleep. He blinked, confused for a moment, until his gaze focused on Hizashi's face beneath him.

Hizashi expected tension, shock, a leap back. But Hitoshi only yawned, displaying a tiny pink tongue and sharp little teeth. Then, to Hizashi's astonishment, he rubbed his little gray head against the blond's chin, a feline gesture of affection and belonging. A renewed, louder purr vibrated in his small chest.

“Good morning, little dreamer,” Hizashi whispered, unable to contain a smile now. He raised a hand extremely slowly, afraid of scaring him. He allowed Hitoshi to sniff his fingers. The gray kitten nudged its head against them, seeking caresses.

Hizashi gently stroked the soft gray head behind the ears. Hitoshi closed his eyes, pushing against his hand, the purring becoming a source of happiness. It was a simple touch, but loaded with meaning.

Shouta watched, motionless. When Hitoshi turned to him, softly mewing, “Good morning, Mom,” Shouta approached. He sniffed at his son, then at Hizashi’s hand, which was still petting Hitoshi. There was no snort, just a careful inspection. Then, with one last glance at Hizashi that seemed to say, “Take care of him,” he went to the nest to check on Eri, who was beginning to stir.

Hizashi sighed, savoring the last moment with Hitoshi's warm weight on his chest before the little boy decided to follow his mother. "Come on, Morpheus," he murmured, gently helping him down onto the couch. "Dad has to go earn a living to support this growing family of Maine Coons ."

He got up carefully, stretching his stiff muscles. As he prepared for a quick shower and breakfast, he observed the small feline family. Shouta was tenderly licking Eri's sleepy face, which emitted a faint, welcoming chirp. Hitoshi was stretching nearby, yawning again.

The apartment was no longer just a hiding place. It smelled of warm milk, fur, clean sand, and something else: home. An unlikely, secret home, built on exposed lies, feline lives, and a rediscovered old love. And Hizashi Yamada, the Voice's villain, the faded sun who found refuge in the shadows, discovered he didn't want to be anywhere else.

The path to Night Mist would be lighter that morning, carrying in his heart the memory of a gray weight on his chest and the echo of a purr that promised that, perhaps, dawn was not so far away for either of them.

Before Leaving – Promises and Purrs

The aroma of strong coffee and burnt toast (Hizashi had never been a chef) filled the small apartment, mingling with the smell of clean sand and the warm scent of cat fur that was already becoming the essence of this new home. Hizashi buttoned the last button of his clean shirt (black, plain, part of his non-villainous bar uniform), adjusting the folded apron under his arm. On the couch, the scene was so peaceful it took his breath away:

Eri (Aurora) was awake, sitting like a tiny lilac sphinx on the blankets. Her enormous reddish eyes (more visible in daylight) followed with fascination the movement of a speck of dust dancing in a ray of sunlight. She made soft chirping sounds, as if conversing with it.

Hitoshi (Morpheus) was lying on his side, fiddling with the lace of one of Hizashi's slippers, which he had "stolen" and dragged back to the nest. His little paws kicked at it with feline clumsiness, but his violet eyes shone with concentration and innocent amusement. A low, steady purr issued from his chest.

Shouta (Erebus) sat beside them, watching. Not tensely watching, but witnessing. His amber gaze flicked from Eri, fascinated by the dust, to Hitoshi, enthralled with the cord. There was a softness in his eyes, a heaviness in his eyelids that spoke of relative rest, a moment of respite from the perpetual war. His tail moved slowly, sweeping the ground with a tranquil rhythm.

Hizashi squatted in front of the nest, maintaining a respectful but close distance. He smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached his green eyes.

“Well, my little hairquakes,” he began, his voice soft but clear, directed especially at Hitoshi and Eri. “Dad has to go serve bitter pills to grumpy villains. But…” He paused dramatically, catching Hitoshi’s attention, whose ears turned toward him. Eri stopped staring at the dust and fixed her red eyes on the blond. Even Shouta raised his head slightly, his ears pricking up at the voice. “…I promise to come back with surprises!”

Hitoshi dropped the cord. He sat upright, his ears fully alert now, his violet eyes wide with anticipation. “Meow?” (Surprises?)

“Yes, surprises,” Hizashi confirmed, enjoying the attention. “New food. Tasty! Maybe… that special tuna you sniffed yesterday.” Hitoshi let out a high-pitched, happy meow, hopping a little on his paws. “Meow-meow!” (Yes, tuna! Yes!)

“And…” Hizashi drew out the moment, looking at Eri, who was watching him intensely. “…toys.”

The magic word fell like a bell in the living room. Hitoshi exploded with excitement. He jumped out of the nest, running circles around Hizashi, brushing against his legs, meowing with a cascade of high-pitched, joyful sounds that were unmistakably “Toys! Toys! Yes! Thank you! Toys!” His bushy tail fanned out like a gray fan, beating the floor with excitement. The purring turned into an overdriven engine.

Eri, although calmer, reacted. She emitted a series of small, high-pitched " Prrrp ! Prrrp !" chirps, like the chirps of a happy bird, and stood up unsteadily on her purple legs. She took a few clumsy steps to the edge of the sofa, looking at Hizashi with her huge, red eyes, full of sparkling curiosity. It was the most energetic reaction Hizashi had ever seen from her.

Hizashi laughed, a clear, warm sound that echoed throughout the small apartment. He reached out slowly and stroked Hitoshi's head, who paused for a moment to push hard against his palm, meowing in appreciation. "Yes, yes, shiny toys, toys with feathers, toys that make noise... whatever you want!" He winked at Eri. "So our little Aurora has something pretty to look at, huh?"

Eri blinked and let out another “ Prrrp !”, as if in confirmation.

As the kittens expressed their joy with meows, chirps, and ear-piercing purrs (in Hitoshi's case), Hizashi looked up at Shouta.

The black cat sat still, watching his children's display of enthusiasm. But his gaze wasn't on them. It was fixed on Hizashi. Those amber eyes, always so expressive even in silence, held the blond's gaze. There was no reproach, no warning. There was something much deeper: Acceptance. Gratitude. A silent understanding of the meaning of that gesture. Promising food was survival. Promising toys... that was acknowledging their hidden humanity, their need for stimulation, for joy, for childhood. It was a gift that went beyond nutrition; it was a gift for his children's souls. And in Shouta's gaze, Hizashi read clearly: "Thank you. For seeing them. For seeing more than cats."

Shouta didn't meow, didn't come closer. He simply held that meaningful gaze for a few long seconds. Then, with serene grace, he lowered his head in a slow, deliberate nod. It was a gesture of deep respect, of recognition between equals in this strange shared upbringing. "Yes. Bring toys. For them."

The message was received. Hizashi nodded back, a softer, more intimate smile touching his lips. “Take care of them, grump,” he murmured, directed only at Shouta, knowing he would understand the affectionate nickname beneath the layer of teasing. “And take care of yourselves, too. I’ll be back soon.”

He stood up, gathering his jacket and apron. At the door, he turned around one last time. The sight stopped him: Eri watching him curiously from the sofa, Hitoshi now sitting next to Shouta, still mewing softly with excitement (“Toys, Mom! Toys!”), and Shouta, the black guardian, his amber eyes following Hizashi, that look of complicity and gratitude still present.

“See you soon, my half-moons!” Hizashi said, his voice warm. And he left, closing the door behind him.

The sound of the lock clicking was followed not by silence, but by Eri's soft " Prrrp ?" and Hitoshi's final, euphoric "Meow!" from inside, mixed with Shouta's deep, steady purr, which sounded like a joyful engine in the dimness of the apartment. It was the soundtrack to their new home. A soundtrack of meows, chirps, and purrs. The most beautiful soundtrack Hizashi Yamada had ever heard.

As she walked toward the Night Mist, apron tucked under her arm and a mental checklist of “Premium tuna, feather toy, ball with a bell, soft stuffed mouse…” running like a mantra, her heart—the heart of the Voice Villain—felt a warmth nothing in the shadow world had ever been able to give her. He had promised toys. And in the eyes of a black cat named Shouta, she had found the most powerful reason in the world to keep that promise.

Scene: The “Night Fog” Bar – Break Time

The Night Fog smelled of its usual mix of aged wood, strong alcohol, residual tobacco, and the faint scent of ozone that always emanated from Kurogiri. It was mid-afternoon, the dangerous bustle of the night had yet to begin, and only a couple of regulars, more shadows than people, occupied the back tables, absorbed in their drinks and whispers. The dim light from the antique-style lamps created islands of golden gloom amidst the prevailing darkness.

Hizashi, behind the bar, was meticulously polishing a row of heavy crystal glasses. The movement was automatic, almost meditative. The low hum of the refrigerator, the occasional clink of bottles, and distant murmurs formed a familiar soundtrack. But today, her attention wasn't on the glasses or the customers. She was riveted to the center of the room, where the usual landscape of intrigue and alcohol was interrupted by an unexpectedly domestic scene.

Touya Todoroki, the boy with snow-white hair and cobalt-blue eyes that seemed to contain pent-up flames, was chasing a stuffed blue toy mouse across the wooden floor. He wasn't using his impressive blue fire Quirk (Kurogiri would have intervened with icy sternness), but his energy was incandescent. He was jumping over empty tables (“Touya, get down!” boomed Kurogiri from behind the bar, making the boy land with a soft thud), slinking between chair legs like a small white ghost (“Gotcha, you evil rodent!”), and laughing with a raucous glee that filled the space.

His younger brother, Tenko Shimura, six years old, with jet-black hair and ruby-red eyes, watched from a nearby table. He sat in a chair far too large for him, his feet dangling, completely absorbed in drawing with colored pencils on a napkin. His tongue peeked out slightly from between his lips in concentration. His Quirk, Decay, was contained by special gloves Giran had gotten him, allowing him to touch things without destroying them. He was drawing what looked like a very large black cat with amber eyes, surrounded by two smaller balls of fur, one gray and one lilac. A small, peaceful smile played on his lips.

Giran, the man with fuchsia eyes and an always impeccable suit (though today his jacket was hanging off the back of his chair), was sitting at the same table as Tenko. He wasn't looking at his papers or his phone as he usually did. He was watching Touya run, an expression of deep love and mild exasperation on his face. One arm rested on the back of Tenko's chair, protecting him without suffocating him. Every time Touya passed by, Giran reached out to briefly stroke his white head ("Dad, you're distracting me!" Touya protested, but still smiling) or to keep him from tripping over a chair ("Careful, you little volcano!").

Behind the bar, Kurogiri wiped the same spot on the wood with his eternal cloth. But his golden eyes, usually fixed on nothing or scrutinizing the customers with distrust, followed the white whirlwind that was his eldest son. Each reckless leap from Touya toward a table caused the fog in his body to stir slightly, a barely perceptible tension. When Touya landed safely, the fog would subside. When the boy got too close to the bar, Kurogiri would reach out a hazy hand without looking directly, gently placing an empty bottle or ashtray as a subtle barrier (“Not here, Touya. Workspace.”). It was a constant vigilance, loving but firm, that of a father who knows the dangers of the world and the limits of his home-cum-bar.

Hizashi stopped polishing the glass he was holding. He leaned against the bar, the cloth forgotten in his hand, and watched. Really watched, perhaps for the first time without the rush of work or the distraction of his own problems. He watched the familiar choreography unfold before him:

1. Touya's wild play: Pure childlike energy, challenging the boundaries of the bar's "adult" space, seeking approval and attention with every flip and laugh. His Quirk, a dangerous force, contained yet palpable, like a dragon pup at play.
2. Tenko's calm concentration: Creativity flourishing amidst potential chaos, her safe world on a piece of paper, protected by the close presence of her father, Giran. His gloves, a reminder of his own dangerous power, but also a symbol of his parents' care in allowing him a "normal" childhood.

3. Kurogiri's Loving Vigilance: The protective father, the anchor. His mist was an extension of his concern, shifting with his children's every move. His voice, capable of chilling a hero's blood, was used for gentle warnings and clear boundaries. "Get down," "Not here," "Watch out." The words of a father, not a fearsome villain.

4. Giran's constant presence: The other pillar. Not the active watchman like Kurogiri, but the solid support. The hand on Tenko's backrest, the fleeting caress on Touya's head, the gaze filled with deep pride and unconditional love that accepted the turmoil and the stillness equally. The one who provided the pencils, the toys, the special gloves. The one who picked up the pieces when the volcano exploded in frustration (like now, when Touya couldn't reach the mouse under a table and was starting to get frustrated).

“Take charge,” Hizashi remembered the phrase Kurogiri had thrown at Giran that other time. And there they were. Taking charge. Together. In this dark place filled with dubious characters, they had created a refuge for their children. A space where Touya could be a wild child and Tenko a little artist, where love and protection were the only laws that mattered within these walls.

A warm, complex feeling expanded in Hizashi's chest. Recognition. He saw reflected in them, in a distorted but undeniable way, what he was beginning to build in his apartment. Kurogiri's fierce protection of Touya was the same instinct that drove Shouta to stand as a living barrier in front of his children. Giran's silent attention to Tenko, allowing him to be himself in a safe environment, resonated with his promise to bring toys for Hitoshi and Eri, acknowledging their need for joy beyond mere survival.

They had made a villain bar a home. He was trying to make his villain apartment a refuge for an injured cat and her star cubs. The means were different, the dangers varied, but the essential impulse was the same: to create a space of safety and love amidst the darkness they had chosen (or into which they had been cast).

“Mom! Look what Tenko drew!” Touya’s shout broke Hizashi’s reverie. The white boy had finally gotten the stuffed mouse and was now running toward the bar, waving the napkin drawing. Tenko followed more timidly, hiding behind Giran, who stood up with a smile.

Kurogiri put down his cloth and took the napkin Touya eagerly handed him. His golden eyes examined the drawing: the large black cat with amber eyes, the two balls of fur. A glint of something soft crossed his hazy gaze.

“That’s… interesting, Tenko,” Kurogiri said, his voice softer than usual. “Who are they?”

Tenko peeked out from behind Giran. “Cats,” he murmured, pointing. “The big one takes care of the little ones. Like you and Dad with us.” His red eyes shone with shyness and pride.

Giran placed a hand on Tenko's head. "We have a great artist, Niebla," he said, giving her husband a warm smile.

Kurogiri nodded, carefully returning the napkin to Tenko. “Yes. A great artist.” He looked at Giran, and in that exchange of glances, Hizashi saw a whole silent conversation of love, pride, and shared complicity.

At that moment, Kurogiri turned his head slightly. His golden eyes met Hizashi's, still watching from behind the bar. There were no words, but Hizashi felt that Kurogiri knew. Knew he'd been watching. Knew he 'd understood. And in the depth of that hazy gaze, Hizashi thought he saw a slight nod, a silent acknowledgment from one parent to another, from one shadow protector to another. "Yes. That's how it's done."

Hizashi looked away, pretending to focus back on the glasses. But the image of Tenko's drawing—the black guardian cat—and the warmth of the familiar scene remained etched in his mind. He smiled inwardly, a small, private gesture. He picked up the cloth and resumed his task, the clinking of glasses now accompanied by Touya's laughter, Tenko's whispers to Giran, and the almost audible purr of satisfaction that seemed to emanate from Kurogiri's mist.

The Night Fog was still a villain's bar. But in that corner, under the dim lights, it was also, unmistakably, a home. And Hizashi Yamada, the Villain of the Voice, the faded sun who had found refuge in the shadows and now protected his own pack of crescents and mustaches, knew that, deep down, there was no greater heroism or villainy than building a haven for those you love, no matter which side of the law you were on. His hand closed determinedly around the glass he was polishing. He had a home to protect, toys to buy, and three pairs of eyes—amber, violet, and lilac red—waiting for his return.

Scene: “Happy Paws” – Premium Pet Store

The bell on the door of Happy Paws jingled cheerfully, a sound at odds with the figure who had just entered. Hizashi Yamada, even in his simple black clothes and with the lingering scent of bar and tobacco, felt like an alien in this world of colorful pastels, fish-shaped food, and squeaky toys. The shelves were overflowing with options: scratching posts that looked like miniature skyscrapers, soft shell-shaped beds, toys with feathers, toys with lights, toys with sounds… It was overwhelming.

He headed first to the food aisle. He grabbed several cans of the familiar premium wet food (with extra tuna, of course), then stopped in front of the bags of dry kitten food. Which one was best for Eri, so small and weak? And for Hitoshi, who had plenty of energy? Does Shouta need anything special? He frowned, running a finger along the bags, reading labels full of terms like “joint health,” “cognitive development,” and “shiny coat.” His expression was that of a general planning an infiltration mission, not a man shopping for cat food.

“Do you need help, sir?”

The friendly, young voice made him turn around. A store employee, wearing a pink apron covered in paw prints and a genuine smile, was looking at him with interest. Her hair was tied back in a high ponytail and her brown eyes were full of sympathy.

“Uh… yeah,” Hizashi admitted, feeling a little ridiculous. “It’s… it’s for my cats. Three of them. But they’re… special.”

The young woman, named Mika according to her name tag, nodded enthusiastically. “All cats are special! Can you tell me their ages? And if they're calm or more playful? That helps me recommend the best ones for you.”

Hizashi gulped. Ages? Should we say one was 10 (in cat form), another 2 (trapped in a kitten body), and another 25 (a world-weary omega)? He opted for a half-truth, based on appearances.

“Well, one is a large, very serious adult, a black Maine Coon. Another is a young, gray, energetic kitten. And the little one… she's a very delicate, lilac-colored baby kitten. Yes, lilac,” she added, seeing Mika's slightly raised eyebrow.

Mika didn't question the lilac color. She smiled broadly. "Quite a feline family! I understand. For the serious adult, perhaps something for joint care; Maine Coons are great." She pointed to a sack with a majestic black cat in it. "And for the lilac baby, something super digestible and packed with nutrients to help him grow strong." She picked up a small can with a white kitten in it. "For the energetic young gray one... quality protein to fuel his antics!"

Hizashi nodded, relieved. “Yes, that sounds good. Thanks.” He picked up the recommended products and added them to his basket, which was starting to get heavy.

“Now, toys!” Mika excitedly led him toward a paradise of feathers, stuffed animals, and balls. “For the delicate baby, something soft and quiet. Perhaps this soft stuffed mouse with gentle catnip inside.” She picked up a tiny purple plush mouse, almost the size of Eri. “It stimulates the senses without overwhelming.”

“Perfect,” Hizashi murmured, imagining Eri staring at the little mouse with her big red eyes.

“For the serious adult…” Mika looked around thoughtfully. “Sometimes calm cats prefer things they can observe or interact with at their own pace. A ball with a soft bell, or a treat-dispensing puzzle to stimulate their mind.” She pointed to a clear plastic ball with holes and a bell inside, and a small bucket where food could be hidden.

Hizashi smiled. Shouta solving a puzzle . It was an almost comical image, but perhaps… “Yes, both. Just in case.”

“And for our little gray earthquake!” Mika laughed. “Here we need to expend some energy. Feathers! Feathered wands you can move! Balls that bounce unpredictably! Tunnels for hiding and lurking!” She grabbed a wand with long, brightly colored feathers, a rubber ball with a bouncing bell inside, and a small, collapsible fabric tunnel with holes in it.

Hizashi took them, imagining Hitoshi chasing the feather with excited meows or disappearing down the tunnel. “Yes, this is… exactly what he needs.”

Mika guided him to the cash register. “You seem to care a lot, sir. You obviously care about giving them the best.”

Hizashi was speechless for a second. Did it show? “Yes,” he finally said, his voice a little hoarse. “They’re… important.”

As Mika browsed the products, Hizashi scanned the store. His eyes fell on a large structure near the window: a sturdy cat exercise wheel with a padded treadmill and a sturdy metal frame. It had a sign on it: “For the most active cats! Safely releases energy.”

The image of Hitoshi running like a madman around the apartment, jumping on furniture with his boundless energy, collided with that of the wheel. It was perfect! It would give him an outlet for his feline vitality without the risk of hurting himself or breaking anything (or attracting attention with strange noises). And maybe, just maybe, it would help strengthen little Eri if she ever felt up to trying.

“That too?” Mika asked, following her gaze. “It’s great for young, energetic cats. It helps a lot with boredom and excess energy, especially if they live indoors.”

“Yes,” Hizashi said decisively, pointing at the wheel. “That too. For the gray one.”

Mika smiled, impressed. “Wow! He’s going to be the happiest cat in the neighborhood. Does he need help carrying him? He’s a little big.”

Hizashi shook his head, a flash of his old confidence emerging. “No problem, I’ll take it.” He paid the considerable sum without flinching (the money from Banshee’s heists was good for something) and, after securing the bags of food and toys, he hoisted the exercise wheel over his shoulder like a war trophy.

“Thanks for your help, Mika,” he said, adjusting the wheel.

“You’re welcome! I hope your cats enjoy everything! And congratulations on the feline family!” Mika sent him off with one last bright smile.

Hizashi emerged from Happy Paws transformed. He was no longer the intimidating villain or the bewildered new dad. He was a man with a plan and a bounty destined for the happiness of his peculiar pack. Bags filled with food and toys clinked at his side, and the exercise wheel on his shoulder was a ridiculously wonderful symbol of his new life.

As she waited for the elevator in her building, the wheel resting on the floor and her bags at her feet, she looked toward her apartment window. She saw nothing, but in her mind's eye, she clearly saw Hitoshi jumping with excitement at the sight of the wheel, Eri watching the purple mouse with fascination, and Shouta, perhaps with a hint of relief in his amber eyes, seeing his children safe and entertained.

The elevator arrived with a ding . Hizashi loaded his feline treasure and stepped inside. The door closed, and he ascended to the floor where his family of half-moons, whiskers, and a lilac mystery awaited him. The Voice Villain was going home, loaded not with weapons or secrets, but with toys, premium food, and the promise of purrs. The best mission of his life.

The elevator stopped with a soft ding . Hizashi, carrying the exercise wheel over one shoulder, several Happy Paws bags in the other, and another hanging from his elbow, struggled to extract the key. Before he could find it, the sound began on the other side of the door.

First, there was a high-pitched, frantic, unmistakably Hitoshi “Meow! Meow! Then, a chorus of soft, enthusiastic “ Prrrp ! Prrrp !”s from Eri. It was a symphony of feline anticipation that rattled the door.

Hizashi burst out laughing, momentarily forgetting his struggle with the keys. “I’m coming, my hairstorms! Give me a sec!” He finally found the key, turned it, and pushed the door open with his foot.

The scene that greeted him stopped him in his tracks, instant warmth filling his chest. Hitoshi was standing right in front of the door, bouncing on his hind legs like a gray spring, his bushy tail fanning out like a mad fan. “Meow! Meow! Meow! Meow!” (Dad! Food! Toys! You promised!) Eri, more restrained but equally excited, had toddled over to stand beside her brother, her large red eyes shining with intense curiosity, emitting insistent “ Prrrp ! Prrrp !” (Hello! Stuff!)

And in the background, like an elegant shadow bathed in the afternoon light, Shouta. Watching. His amber eyes instantly took in the giant wheel on Hizashi's shoulder, then the bulging bags. There was a flash of genuine curiosity and perhaps a shred of relief that Hizashi had kept his word.

“Hello, my plush sunshines! Hello, my little purple cloud! Hello, grumpy guardian!” Hizashi greeted, stepping inside and closing the door with his hip. His voice, normally that of the Voice Villain or the tired bartender, had transformed. It was high-pitched, sing-song, brimming with a ridiculous, loving coo. “Yay , Daddy brought cute little things for his precious babies! Did you behave, huh? My beautiful kitties?” He crouched down, carefully dropping the bags in, but keeping the wheel against the wall. Hitoshi immediately launched himself into inspecting the bags, sticking his head inside one with an inquisitive meow. Eri moved closer slowly, sniffing the air with her tiny pink snout.

Hizashi couldn't resist. He reached out and stroked Hitoshi's head, then gently tapped Eri on the nose. "Yes, babies! Food first! Toys later! Rules are rules!" His tone was mock-stern, followed by a giggle. He pulled out the cans of premium food and the new kibble. The sound of the can opening was like a magnet. Hitoshi abandoned the bags and immediately sat down in front of his bowl, meowing impatiently. Eri leaned closer to her small plate, licking the air in anticipation.

While the kittens were focused on their food (Hitoshi devouring enthusiastically, Eri licking delicately, but visibly enjoying herself), Hizashi took the opportunity to take out the toys. He saw the soft bell inside the clear plastic ball meant for Shouta. He looked at it, then looked at Shouta, who was still watching from a safe distance, his gaze now fixed on the toys Hizashi was taking out. Not now, Hizashi thought. With the little ones so excited... he deserves the quiet time to explore. With a quick, discreet movement, he slipped the bell inside the ball into his jacket pocket, which he had hung nearby. For later, when the babies were asleep.

Once the dishes were finished (and after meticulously wiping Eri's snout with a handkerchief, under Shouta's watchful eye), Hizashi rubbed his hands together. "And now... toys!"

Kneeling on the floor, surrounded by feline anticipation (Hitoshi literally jumping with excitement, Eri sitting with her ears pricked, Shouta motionless, but with his pupils dilated with interest), Hizashi began the distribution with the solemnity of a king distributing treasures.

“For our Princess Aurora,” he announced, taking out the small, purple plush mouse. He gently held it out to Eri. The purple kitten froze for a moment, her huge red eyes fixed on the toy. Then, with cautious slowness, she reached out a forepaw and touched the soft plush. “ Prrrp ?” A sound of utter amazement. She nudged the mouse with her snout, then watched it roll a few inches. Another “ Prrrp !” this time of pure fascination. She leaned closer and began sniffing at it intently, completely captivated.

“And to our intrepid explorer Morpheus…” Hizashi pulled out the wand with its long, glossy feathers. He waved it gently. The feathers rippled in the air. Hitoshi transformed. He let out a high-pitched “ Meow !” that almost sounded off-key to Hizashi’s ears and launched himself like a gray rocket. He jumped, twirled in the air, caught the feathers in his little forelegs, landed, and jumped again, chasing the toy with boundless energy and joy. His meows were pure feline ecstasy. “Meow! Meow!” (Feathers! More! Faster!)

Shouta watched the chaos with a mixture of resignation and... amusement? His gaze shifted from Eri, absorbed in her purple mouse, to Hitoshi, tumbling after the feathers. It was the sight of his children being happy, something he probably hadn't seen in a long time.

“And this, little volcano,” Hizashi said, leaving the wand hanging on a chair for Hitoshi to continue his private pursuit, “is your grand prize.” He stood and pointed at the exercise wheel still leaning against the wall. Hitoshi stopped in his tracks, quills forgotten. His violet eyes widened, fixed on the giant structure. He approached slowly, sniffing at the metal frame. He gave a little jump, trying to see the top.

“It’s for running, little one,” Hizashi explained, his voice lowering a pitch but still gentle. “So you can use up all that endless energy you have.” He gently pushed the padded treadmill with his hand. It turned smoothly. Hitoshi looked fascinated, then looked at Hizashi, as if asking, “May I?”

“Go ahead!” Hizashi encouraged.

Hitoshi needed only a second of hesitation. With a nimble leap, he climbed onto the treadmill. He took a few clumsy steps at first, feeling the movement beneath his paws. The treadmill spun a little. He let out a surprised meow. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, he began to run. His little gray paws moved quickly, the treadmill spun beneath him, and a powerful purr, vibrant with pure joy, filled the apartment. “Meow! Meow!” (This is amazing! Look, Mom, look!)

Hizashi laughed, clapping softly. “Way to go, champ!” Then his gaze fell on Eri, who was still watching her brother race from the safety of her purple mouse. Her expression was fascinated, but also distant. Hizashi approached her and crouched down. “And you, my little Aurora,” he whispered, stroking her soft purple head, “when you’re stronger, older, you too can use the wheel. To race like your brother, would you like that?”

Eri raised her red eyes to Hizashi. She didn't understand all the words, but the tone was gentle, promising. She looked at the wheel, then at Hitoshi running like a madman, and uttered a soft " Prrr ..." that sounded like a sigh of acceptance and perhaps, one day, hope.

Shouta had quietly approached. Now he stood beside Eri, watching Hitoshi race on the wheel. His amber gaze, for the first time since Hizashi had known him in this form, displayed a profound peace. The tension in his shoulders was gone, replaced by a relaxed softness. Seeing his son so free, so happy, so confident in expending his energy instead of hiding it, was a balm.

Hizashi stood up and approached Shouta. He lowered his voice, speaking only to himself, as Hitoshi ran and Eri pushed her mouse. “And for you, tired guardian…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the clear ball with the soft bell inside. He showed it to him. “Something peaceful. For when these two Earthquakes are asleep and you can… think. Or just do nothing.” He rolled the ball gently across the floor toward Shouta. The bell jingled with a low, musical sound, not at all shrill.

Shouta watched the ball roll to a stop at his paws. He sniffed it cautiously. Then, with one paw, he gently touched it. It rolled a few inches, the bell jingling again. Shouta followed it with his eyes. There was no leap, no chase. Just quiet curiosity. He reached out and stopped it. He stared at it, as if deciphering its mystery. Then he looked up at Hizashi. In those amber eyes, Hizashi saw not just acceptance or gratitude. He saw complicity. He saw a deep understanding of the gesture: “Yes. I need this. Thanks for watching.”

The apartment was a chaos of sounds: the whir of the wheel under Hitoshi’s swift paws, his happy meows, the soft “ Prrrp ” of Eri playing with her mouse, the occasional jingle of the bell as Shouta moved the ball with his paw. And, most of all, the deep, steady purr now emanating from the black cat’s chest, a sound of peace finally found.

Hizashi slumped onto the couch, observing his little universe. The Voice Villain, the extinguished sun, the Commission defector, had found his true mission: to be the provider of premium food, the translator of meows, the assembler of exercise wheels, and the bearer of bells for his pack of half-moons and whiskers. And there was no title or treasure in the world he would trade for this. Shouta's purr, soft but firm, was the definitive confirmation that, in this strange, furry, and wonderful reality, he had come home.

One Month Later: The Peace of the Crescents

Time, in the secret refuge of Hizashi's apartment, had taken on a different quality. A month had passed since the exercise wheel began whirring beneath Hitoshi's tireless paws, since the purple mouse became Eri's treasure, and since Shouta's soft bell jingled in the night silences. A month of improbable routine, tinged with fur and purrs.

Hizashi maintained his double life with meticulous precision, but his center of gravity had irrevocably shifted:

Banshee Nights: He was still on the air on his clandestine station, his voice a sharp whip that tore through the Commission's lies. The revelations were bolder, the danger more tangible. The "dogs" (heroes) hovered near the mobile studio more frequently. But now, when he disconnected the microphone, he didn't just think about escaping. He thought about returning home. To the warmth, to the weight of Hitoshi who sometimes dozed on his feet while he reviewed notes, to the amber eyes that watched him from the shadows with a vigilance that was no longer just distrust.

Shifts in the Night Fog: Serving drinks with his bartender's smile, listening to the villains' dangerous murmurs, exchanging knowing glances with Kurogiri (who still watched him with that unsettling awareness, but now with a hint of... approval?). Even Touya's games and Tenko's drawings took on new meaning. They were a mirror, a reminder of the fragile normality that could be built even in the shadows. Sometimes, he carried a small, discreet toy (a sturdy rubber ball, a new mouse) hidden in his apron, a silent loot for his pack.

Mornings and afternoons at the shelter: They were sacred. The routine was simple, comforting:

1. The Awakening: Often with Hitoshi curled up somewhere nearby (chest, feet, head), or Eri watching the world from her corner with her big red eyes. Shouta always wakes up first, keeping watch.
2. The Food Ritual: Opened cans (Shouta had developed a distinct fondness for the “joint health” kind), fresh water. Hitoshi’s grateful meows, Eri’s soft “ Prrrp .”
3. Playtime: Hitoshi was a whirlwind on the wheel or chasing new feathers. Eri interacted more with her mouse and other soft toys, pushing them with her paws or following them with her eyes in intense fascination. Shouta watched, sometimes interacting with his rattle ball, nudging it with a paw or simply staring intently inside as it gently rattled. Hizashi participated, his voice taking on that goofy, loving tone he only used with them: “Come on, Morpheus, faster! You gray lightning!” or “What’s wrong with the mouse, Aurora? Did he tell you a secret?”
4. Naps: Eri slept soundly, exhausted from the stimulation. Hitoshi sometimes ran on, other times collapsing near his sister or Shouta. Shouta took advantage of these quiet moments to curl up close to his children or sit by the window, observing the city with his old-fashioned eyes, the ball of bells by his side.
5. Silent Guards: When Hizashi had to go out (for a quick reconnaissance, to buy supplies), Shouta would take his place in the center of the room, a black statue of serene alertness. Hitoshi, imitating his mother, would become more vigilant around Eri.

Patience as an Offering:

Hizashi never asked. He never pressed. He never dropped a “So when…?” or a “Could you try…?”

I saw the signs:

The way Hitoshi, in moments of deep concentration while playing or staring out the window, would sometimes tense his entire small body, as if fighting something internal. A brief frustration that would dissipate with a jerk or an irritated meow, followed by an almost guilty glance at Shouta.

The silent sadness in Shouta's eyes as he looked at Eri, still so small and fragile in her feline form, with no signs of changing. The way he cleaned her with infinite tenderness, as if each lick were a silent prayer.

Eri's own fragility. Although she was more alert, more curious, her energy was still limited. Transforming, if she could, would require strength she perhaps didn't yet have.

Hizashi understood. The transformation wasn't just physical; it was emotional. It was fear. It was protecting Eri. It was not knowing how to get back, or what awaited them if they did. He had offered a safe haven, and he respected the time they needed to feel truly safe—not just safe, but ready to face whatever came next. His patience wasn't passive; it was active. It was building that safety day by day with warm food, new toys, gentle words, and a constant presence. It was showing them, without words, that here they could be whoever they were, however they were, for as long as they needed.

A Moment of Quiet:

It was a peaceful night. Hitoshi, exhausted from an epic session on the wheel, was sleeping curled up like a gray donut near the radiator. Eri, with her purple mouse at her side, was fast asleep in her nest of blankets, her little rib gently bobbing up and down. Hizashi was on the sofa, reviewing some plans for a Commission installation he planned to feature on his next program, the light from a low lamp illuminating the papers.

Shouta sat on the windowsill, like so many nights, watching the city lights. But something was different. He wasn't stiff, or alert. He was… exhausted. Not physically, but in a deep, soulful way. His normally alert ears drooped slightly. His shoulders seemed to carry an invisible weight. The ball of bells lay motionless at his feet.

Hizashi looked up from the plans. He studied them. He didn't say anything. He just put the papers aside.

Shouta didn't turn his head. But after a long minute, he gently stepped down from the windowsill. He walked with his silent, feline gait across the living room. He passed by the sleeping Hitoshi, by Eri. He stopped in front of the sofa, looking at Hizashi.

Then, without a sound, he jumped onto the couch. He didn't curl up on the other end. He didn't sit a safe distance away. He walked over to Hizashi. He stood beside him, so close that the blond could feel the heat of his body and smell the clean scent of his fur. His amber eyes, filled with a fatigue and vulnerability he'd never shown so openly before, found Hizashi's.

There was a moment of suspense. Then Shouta did something that stopped Hizashi's heart. He rested his head, his powerful Maine Coon forehead, against Hizashi's side, just below his shoulder. It was a gesture of seeking comfort, support, a trust that transcended species and forms. A deep, almost human sigh escaped him, a sound laden with the full weight of the month, of the years, of uncertainty.

Hizashi held his breath. Then, with infinite slowness, he moved his arm. Not to caress. Just to rest his hand gently on Shouta's back, between his shoulder blades. A firm, warm, silent point of contact. I'm here. I hold your weight. Rest.

Shouta didn't move away. He didn't tense. He remained that way, his head resting on Hizashi's, the blond's hand on his back, an anchor in the silent storm of his exhaustion. His purr began, low at first, shaky, then deeper, more constant. It wasn't Hitoshi's purr of joy, nor the one of quiet curiosity he'd heard before. It was a healing purr, a deep hum that seemed to rise from the depths of his being, a vibration that spoke of exhaustion, of momentary surrender, and of immense gratitude for this refuge, for this constant presence.

They didn't transform. There were no human words. But on that sofa, under the dim light, with two kitten children sleeping nearby, Shouta Aizawa gave Hizashi Yamada the most precious thing he had left: his fragility. And Hizashi, the Villain of the Voice, the Faded Sun, held it without hesitation, with a patience that was his greatest promise.

The path to humanity remained uncertain. But in the shared silence, in the deep purr that filled the room, in the warm weight of a black cat he trusted enough to collapse beside him, Hizashi knew that no matter how long it took, he was home. And he would protect this refuge of crescents and whiskers, this fragile peace built on patience and fur, with every breath, every heartbeat, every note of his voice that ripped through the lies of the outside world. Because within these walls, with an exhausted cat propped up against his side and two stellar cubs sleeping, he had found the purest truth he would ever broadcast over the radio: unconditional love takes many forms, and sometimes, it comes coated in soft fur and amber eyes.

Four Months Later: The Shelter and the Storm

The apartment smelled of premium tuna, clean sand, and that indefinable warmth of home that only three Maine Coon cats could generate. Four months. Four months of routine woven with infinite patience, of purrs that were conversations, of glances that were silent pacts. Hizashi Yamada lived in a perfect duality:

The Refuge: It was the land of half-moons and whiskers. Mornings with Hitoshi (“Morpheus”) running like crazy on his wheel, his meows of joy filling the space. Afternoons with Eri (“Aurora”) observing the world with her huge red eyes, interacting more with her toys, pushing her purple mouse with increasingly steady paws. Nights with Shouta (“Erebus”) sitting by the window or curled up nearby, his bell-shaped ball jingling softly when he moved it with a thoughtful paw. Hizashi talked to them, cared for them, loved them. He never asked. The transformation was a shadow on the horizon, a distant possibility that didn't mar the peace of the present. Shouta was still exhausted, but the perpetual tension had eased. He trusted. He let himself be petted sometimes, leaned his head against Hizashi in moments of quiet, his purring a constant hum of relative contentment. Hitoshi was a happy whirlwind. Eri… Eri was stronger. Her “ Prrrp ”s were stronger, her movements less wobbly. It was slow, but it was progress. Hizashi celebrated silently, buying her a new soft toy, a warmer blanket.

The Storm: Outside, Banshee roared. His clandestine program was more incisive, more dangerous. He had uncovered experiments with Quirks in marginalized communities, the misappropriation of monumental funds, and blacklists of heroes inconvenient for the Commission. The pressure was mounting. The "dogs" patrolled near his mobile studio with menacing insistence. And now, the operation. This wasn't just any heist. It was an assault on a minor headquarters of the Heroic Security Commission, a peripheral data storage center but one that, according to his anonymous sources (and the data cross-referencing Giran had obtained through obscure channels), contained physical copies of "inconvenient" files on failed experiments and disappearances prior to mass digitization. Tangible evidence. The Holy Grail for Banshee.

Scene: Planning in the Night Fog – Night Before the Assault

The bar was closed to the public. The main lights were off, and only the dim lighting from the bar and a lamp on a table in the back illuminated the space. The air smelled of cleaner, old tobacco, and tension.

Hizashi (Banshee) was hunched over a table, his reading glasses (a ridiculous disguise he used for blueprints) pulled down on his nose. In front of him were detailed plans of the target building, obtained by a Giran contact within a maintenance company. He had studied them until he knew every fire escape, every ventilation duct, every camera blind spot. His index finger, its black-polished nail chipped, traced a route marked in red.

Kurogiri, a towering silhouette of violet mist, stood at her right side. His golden eyes scanned the plans with the coldness of a seasoned strategist. “The entry point is here,” he said, his voice deep as he pointed to a ventilation shaft in the basement that opened near the dead archive. “My portal can open a time rift, but it will be narrow and noisy. You will have less than 30 seconds to enter before the dimensional disturbance alarms sound.”

Giran, sitting across the table, was taking a long drag on his cigarette. His immaculate suit seemed out of place in the tension. “The guards on the periphery are standard,” he commented, slowly exhaling. “But here,” he pointed to an interior control room, “there are two low-profile ex-heroes, hired as ‘security supervisors.’ Quirks: one has enhanced thermal perception, the other can create small but very dense force fields. Annoying.”

“I silence you,” Hizashi said, his voice taking on the cold, metallic tone of a Banshee. He looked up from the plans, his green eyes, visible beneath his glasses, lacking their usual villainous glint or domestic tenderness. They were eyes of pure calculation. “My Voice can disorient them enough for Kurogiri to neutralize them with a quick portal. No casualties.” He emphasized the last part. This mission was for information, not blood. Blood attracted more attention than he desired.

Giran nodded. “The data is here.” He tapped a spot on the map: an armored filing cabinet in the basement. “Physical boxes, labeled with old codes. You need to find the CX-7 through CX-12 series. They’re the juicy ones.” He smiled humorlessly. “I’ll be outside, monitoring security channels and hero frequencies. If the high-level dogs get close… I’ll warn you. And I’ll prepare the dirty escape route.”

Kurogiri made a motion that might have been a nod with his hazy head. “Timing is crucial. Yamada, you enter the portal first, silence the guards in the control room. I’ll follow and dispatch them. Then, to the archive. Ten minutes maximum inside. Any longer and the risk of reinforcements or data self-destruct protocols increases exponentially.”

Hizashi studied the route again. Every second counted. Every move had to be choreographed. He thought of the apartment. Of Shouta's purr. Of the weight of Hitoshi sleeping on his feet. Of Eri's large red eyes following a ray of sunlight. It was an enormous risk. If they caught him, if he fell… What would become of them? Shouta, still weak, with two children depending on him in feline form… The knot in his stomach tightened. But it was necessary. Physical evidence could be the hammer that shattered the Commission's facade forever. It could protect others from falling into the same dark traps he and Shouta had suffered.

“Understood,” Hizashi said, his voice firm, drowning out the worry beneath the Banshee mask. He took off his glasses. “Entry at 2:30. The darkness and the changing of the guard will give us a minimal window. No mistakes.”

Kurogiri and Giran nodded, the seriousness of the moment etched in their expressions (or in the suppressed agitation of Kurogiri's mist). The operation was underway. The storm Banshee had been stoking for months was about to erupt.

Scene: The Apartment – Hours before the Assault

Hizashi entered the apartment softly. It was late. Moonlight streamed in through the window, bathing the living room in silver. Hitoshi was fast asleep on his favorite scratching post (a tall post Hizashi had installed a month ago), one paw dangling. Eri was curled up in her nest, her lilac mouse tucked under one foreleg, breathing softly. Shouta wasn't sleeping. He was sitting in his favorite spot on the windowsill, but he wasn't looking out. He was looking at Hizashi. His amber eyes, gleaming in the dimness, scrutinized him with an intensity Hizashi hadn't seen in weeks. They scanned him, taking in the barely concealed tension in his shoulders, the dark shadow beneath his eyes, the way his breathing came a little faster than usual.

Hizashi tried to force a relaxed smile. “Hey, Grump. Everything okay here?” His voice sounded hoarse, worn by hours of tactical whispers and suppressed tension.

Shouta didn't meow. He didn't move. He just held his gaze. It was a gaze that pierced Banshee's facade, the weary bartender's, and cut straight to the core of concern and determination pulsing inside Hizashi. I know something's up. Something dangerous.

Hizashi approached, leaving his black jacket (minus the mask, he'd left it at the bar) on a chair. He knelt beside Eri's nest, gently stroking her soft, lilac head. The kitten stirred in her sleep, making a sleepy " Prrr ..." sound. Then he approached Hitoshi, arranging the blanket he'd half-pushed off in his sleep. The gray kitten growled softly, but didn't wake.

Finally, he approached the window. He sat on the floor, his back against the wall, eye level with Shouta on the sill. He didn't touch him. They just shared the space, the silence, the moonlight.

“Tomorrow… I have to leave early,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “A… complicated job.” He couldn’t say any more. He didn’t want to lie to them.

Shouta looked down at him. His expression was inscrutable, but in his amber eyes, Hizashi saw concern. A deep, silent concern. It wasn't fear for himself, but for him. For the man who had given them shelter. Shouta turned his head, looking back at the sleeping city, but his attention remained riveted on Hizashi.

After a long moment, Shouta stepped down from the windowsill. He approached Hizashi. He didn't seek contact. He sat down next to him, very close, his black fur blending with the shadows on the wall. He faced the same window, his shoulder almost touching Hizashi's. He was a guard. A silent guard, sharing the vigil, sharing the weight of what was to come.

Hizashi closed his eyes for a moment. The tension in his shoulders eased a little. He wasn't alone. Not even in this. He had his black-furred, ancient-eyed guardian by his side. He reached out slowly, without looking, and let it rest on the ground, palm up, near Shouta's paw.

Shouta didn't touch her. But he didn't move away. He sat, motionless, watchful, his warmth a bulwark against the coming night. His purr began, low and deep, a sound not of joy or relaxation, but of unwavering vigilance. A hum that said, "I'm here. Take care. Come back."

Hizashi leaned his head against the cold wall. He watched the city, the lights flickering like distant stars. The plan was ready. The danger was imminent. But here on the ground, with the weight of an amber gaze heavy with silent concern and the steady purr of a feline guardian at his side, he found the calming center he needed. He would win. For them. For the truth. For returning to this ground, to this shared silence, to this refuge of half-moons and whiskers. He took a deep breath, the sound of Shouta's purr vibrating in his bones, a promise of return. The Voice Villain and his guardian cat waited together for the storm to dawn.

The Departure: Silence and Broken Meows

The tension in the apartment was palpable, a heavy blanket drowning out the familiar smell of tuna and clean sand. Hizashi dressed with the meticulousness of a soldier preparing for combat. Each piece of Banshee's suit—black, tight-fitting, designed for moving in the shadows—fitted his skin like a layer of cold armor. The mask, the ultimate symbol of his afterlife, rested on the table, waiting.

Three pairs of eyes followed him.

Hitoshi (Morpheus) sat very straight next to the exercise wheel, motionless for the first time in days. His gray ears were flattened against his skull, his bushy tail motionless around his paws. His violet eyes, normally filled with mischievous energy or curiosity, reflected fear. A fear that smelled of danger, of the tension emanating from the blond man.

Eri (Aurora) had curled up against her mother's side, hiding her lilac face in the thick black fur. Only her large red eyes peeked out, fixed on Hizashi with anxious confusion. She felt the storm, even if she didn't understand it.

Shouta (Erebus) stood before his sons, a living barrier. But he wasn't as upright and vigilant as usual. He was tense as a bow. His black fur seemed bristling, his whiskers stiff. His amber eyes, always so expressive, burned with a fierce intensity, scrutinizing Hizashi's every movement, every gesture, every sigh. It wasn't just vigilance. It was suppressed panic. He knew. He knew this was different. He knew the danger that smelled of metal, of static electricity, of the promise of violence that enveloped Banshee.

Hizashi felt the weight of those stares like physical blows. Every button he fastened, every adjustment of his suit was made under the pressure of that terror-filled silence. He avoided looking directly at them. He knew that if he saw the fear in Hitoshi's eyes or the confusion in Eri's, if he saw the naked panic in Shouta's gaze, his resolve might crack. I have to do this. For them. To end the machine that tore us all apart.

Finally, he reached for the mask. The gesture caused Shouta to take an involuntary step forward, a low, almost inaudible growl vibrating in his throat. Hitoshi let out a stifled moan. Eri pressed herself closer to Shouta.

Hizashi put on the mask. The Voice Villain, cold, calculating, dangerous, replaced the blond-haired man who spoke to them in a baby voice. Only his green eyes, visible through the slits, retained a glimmer of inner conflict, quickly drowned out by Banshee's cloak of determination.

He turned to them. The three cats remained motionless, petrified by the final transformation. Hizashi forced a smile under his mask, an awkward gesture he hoped was reassuring, but which probably only proved more unsettling.

“My loves…” he began, his voice distorted by the mask’s internal microphone, sounding strange, alien, even to him. He tried to soften it. “Dad’s going to work. I’ll be back in a few hours. Be good. Take care.” The words, his usual words of farewell, sounded hollow, a fragile lie in the electrified air.

He didn't wait for a reply. He couldn't bear it. He turned and opened the door. The light from the hallway spilled into the apartment, briefly illuminating the figures frozen in fear: the trembling gray kitten, the hiding purple ball, the black guard tense like a rope about to snap.

As he closed the door behind him, the latch clicked like a gunshot. And then, through the wood, he heard it:

A howl. Long, piercing, filled with absolute pain and terror. It was Shouta's. Not a mew, not a snort. It was the sound of a soul torn apart by despair, the cry of a parent watching their protector walk off into the darkness, instinctively knowing the danger that entailed. It was followed by Hitoshi's high-pitched, plaintive mews of panic and Eri's anguished " Prrrp ! Prrrp !" cries, forming a chorus of desolation that ripped through the door and stabbed Hizashi's heart.

He leaned against the hallway wall, the Banshee mask obscuring his face twisted with emotion. The sound tore at him. I have to do this. I have to go back. He took a deep breath, smothering Shouta's scream in the darkest corner of his mind, and launched himself into the night and the storm that awaited him.

The Assault: Success and Price

The operation was a brutal and efficient lightning strike.

The entry through Kurogiri's portal was perfect. The control room fell under the combined attack of Banshee's Disorienting Voice and Kurogiri's fulminating portals. The former heroes were rendered unconscious before they could react. No casualties.

The basement, cold and dusty with forgotten files. Armored boxes CX-7 through CX-12 were quickly located thanks to Hizashi's plans and photographic memory. From outside, they spun around, confirming over the secure channel: "Periphery clear. Time: five minutes. Continue."

It was on his way out, carrying the heavy boxes of data, that his luck ran out.

A reinforcement hero, "Fulgor," a Quirk that manipulates blinding light and pure energy projectiles, arrived earlier than expected. He wasn't in the reports. He'd been on patrol nearby.

The fight was short, violent, desperate. Banshee used his Voice to counter the blinding flashes, to distort the hero's senses. Kurogiri opened portals to deflect the energy bolts. But in the narrow basement corridor, Fulgor was a whirlwind of light and force. An energy bolt, deflected by a portal too slowly, grazed Hizashi's side. It wasn't a direct hit, but the blast of heat and blunt force threw him against a metal wall. He felt a sharp pain in his ribs, the air was knocked from his lungs, and the world darkened at the edges.

With a final effort, using his Voice at full power in a concentrated scream that shook the foundations and left Fulgor reeling, deafened and disoriented, Kurogiri opened an escape portal right above them. Giran, from the escape van, dragged them both out along with the crates.

Success. They had the proof. But Hizashi lost consciousness before the portal closed, pain and shock overcoming his will. The last image was the distorted light of the portal and Kurogiri's worried face approaching.

The Awakening: Fog and Panic

The pain came first. A dull, stabbing burn in his left side. Then, consciousness: a dim light, a familiar wooden-beamed ceiling, the smell of ozone and strong whiskey. He was in the back room of the Night Fog. On the couch where Kurogiri had offered him shelter one rainy night.

Kurogiri stood there, his golden eyes fixed on him. Giran, beside him, smoking with a grave expression.

“…How long?” Hizashi’s voice was a harsh whisper, riven with pain and disorientation.

Kurogiri approached. “More than a day, Yamada. Twenty-eight hours.” His voice was deep, lacking its usual filter, revealing the underlying concern. “The blow was blunt. Rib fractures, severe concussion. We brought you here. It’s safer.”

“Twenty-eight hours!” The panic, cold and sharp, cut through the pain like a knife. Shouta! Hitoshi! Eri! Them alone. Them waiting for him. Them listening to Shouta’s heart-rending howl as he left. More than a day!

Without thinking, heedless of the pain that tore through his side as he moved, Hizashi launched himself off the sofa. Giran tried to stop him. “Idiot, you’re hurt!”

“Let me go!” Hizashi’s voice was a roar, coming out with unexpected force, tinged with absolute panic. He pushed Giran away with desperate force and lunged toward the door leading to the main bar and then the exit. Kurogiri didn’t stop him. His golden eyes saw something in Hizashi’s desperation that told him stopping him would be worse.

She ran. Every step was a stab in the side, every breath a knife. She ignored the pain, ignored the surprised looks of the few morning customers at the bar, ignored everything except the desperate need to get home. Please let them be okay. Please let them be alive. The image of Shouta's howl echoed in her skull, mixed with the terror of what could have happened in his enforced absence.

The Return: Collapse and Revelation

He arrived at his building. He staggered up the stairs, using the banister to steady himself, his breath coming in agonizing gasps. With trembling hands, he found the key. He inserted it in the lock. He turned it. He pushed the door.

“Shouta! Hitoshi! Eri! I’m…!” The scream died on his lips.

The strength that had sustained him, fueled by adrenaline and panic, evaporated. His legs gave way. Pain, blood loss, extreme exhaustion—it all rushed over him like a wave. He fell to his knees in the doorway, then slumped forward, hitting the wooden floor with a dull thud. Darkness threatened to take him again.

“HIZASHI!”

The voice that called her name was raspy, hoarse, as if it hadn't been used in years. But it was unmistakably human. And filled with absolute terror.

Hizashi, his face pressed against the cold floor, forced his eyes open. His vision was blurry, clouded by pain and the nearness of fainting. But he saw boots. Worn black boots with thick soles. Black trousers made of sturdy fabric. Then, hands. Long, pale hands, callused and scarred, but strong. Those hands touched him urgently, searching for wounds, gently but desperately turning him onto his back.

The vision slowly cleared. Up above, blocking the light from the window, was a face.

Pale skin, almost ghostly from the lack of sun. Sunken eyes, surrounded by deep purple circles, but burning with an intensity Hizashi had only ever seen in his feline form. Deep-set amber eyes, filled with a panic and worry that tore through him. Long, shaggy black hair falling in greasy clumps over his forehead and shoulders, as if it hadn't been cut or washed in months. A stubble of dark beard framing a tight jaw. He was gaunt, bone-weary, but his presence was overwhelming.

Shouta Aizawa. In human form. For the first time in four months.

“Hizashi! Hizashi, speak up! Where are you hurt? Damn it, look what they did to you!” Shouta’s voice trembled, hoarse from disuse and emotion. His hands felt Hizashi’s left side, where the pain burned, clumsily but tenderly touching the makeshift bandages Kurogiri must have applied. His eyes scanned the blond’s pale, sweaty face, searching for signs of consciousness, of life. “Idiot! You promised to come back in hours! Twenty-eight hours, Hizashi! Twenty-eight hours thinking that… that…!” He couldn’t finish. A dry sob, laden with rage and relief, shook his body.

Hizashi could only stare. The pain, the fear, the fatigue… everything paled before the miracle before him. Shouta. Human. Alive. Here. Touching him, calling his name, with a vulnerability and concern he'd never shown in his feline form. Tears, uncontrollable, filled Hizashi's eyes, mixing with the sweat and dust on the floor.

“ Sh … Shou… ta …” he managed to stammer, his voice barely a broken whisper.

Shouta closed his eyes for a moment, squeezing them shut as if holding back a surge of emotion. When he opened them, the panic had subsided a little, replaced by a fierce, protective determination. “Shut up. Don’t talk.” His hands, firmer now, sought to support Hizashi’s head. “Where does it hurt the most? Can you move your legs?” His tone was that of a professional, the hero Eraserhead assessing injuries, but his amber eyes still glowed with the residual terror of almost losing him.

Behind Shouta, cautiously peeking out from the living room, two small figures appeared:

A boy with messy purple hair and huge violet eyes, filled with tears and wonder: Hitoshi. In human form. Thin, pale, but there.

A tiny little girl with snow-white hair falling to her waist and enormous red eyes, identical to her cat form's. She clung to Hitoshi's pants, staring at Hizashi with a mixture of fear and curiosity: Eri. Also human. Fragile like a flower, but alive, transformed.

Hizashi saw them. He saw human Hitoshi, human Eri, small and scared, but there. And then he looked back at Shouta, at those human amber eyes filled with burning concern for him, touching him, saying his name.

The effort, the pain, the fear… it was all worth it. A sob of absolute relief, mixed with a stifled cry of pain, escaped his lips. He was back home. And his home, his family of crescents and whiskers, had broken its silence and its form to welcome him. Shouta had transformed, not to escape, but to save him. The long feline winter was over. The human spring, fragile, trembling, and tearful, had just begun on the floor of that apartment, with his guardian's hands searching for his wounds and his name on his lips.

The scene continued with the same tension broken only by the sound of Shouta's strangled sobs and Hizashi's labored breathing. Shouta, his hands shaking as much from emotion as from the weakness of months in cat form, worked clumsily but determinedly. He had dragged along a first aid kit (which Hizashi kept for his villain injuries) and was now cutting bandages with scissors, his long, pale fingers struggling for precision.

“Moron… reckless… absolute idiot,” Shouta muttered, his voice still hoarse but now laced with rage that seeped through the tears that kept falling down his haggard cheeks. He applied a cold antiseptic to the dirty bandages covering Hizashi’s left side, making Hizashi stifle a gasp of pain. “What do you think? The invincible hero? Look at this!” His hand, stained with blood and antiseptic, pointed at the bruised wound, the bruised skin and swelling evident even under the bandage. “Could be internal bleeding! You could be…” He couldn’t finish the word. Another sob shook his body, doubling his back for a moment.

Hizashi, weak, pale, the world still spinning slightly, didn't fight back. He let Shouta handle him, bandage him, scold him. Every word, every accusation, was a lash, but also a relief. It was Shouta. Human. Caring for him. Alive. That was all that mattered. He watched that angular face, marked by suffering, but now also by a fierce anguish directed at him. The amber eyes, so familiar and yet new in his human form, shone like broken glass beneath tears.

“Twenty-eight hours, Hizashi,” Shouta’s voice cracked, rage giving way to heartbreaking despair. He wiped his cheeks with the back of his stained hand, leaving a dark trail. “Twenty-eight hours listening to every sound in the hallway, hoping… praying… that it was you. Every minute felt like an eternity. Hitoshi kept asking. ‘Mom? When’s Dad coming back?’” Shouta mimicked the boy’s trembling voice, and the sound stabbed Hizashi deeper than any wound. “Eri… Eri just cried silently, searching for your scent at the door.” He leaned over Hizashi, his hot breath fanning across the blond’s face. “What would have happened if you didn’t come back, ah? Tell me! How would I tell them? How would I explain to our children that… that…” His voice choked on another violent sob.

He continued bandaging, his movements more abrupt, more desperate, as if the physical act could stem the emotional torrent. "How was I going to tell Hitoshi?" His voice was a hoarse, broken whisper, laden with unfathomable pain. "How was I going to tell Eri... that Dad was never coming back?"

"Dad".

The word, spoken by Shouta in that context, with that burden of desperate love and almost accepted loss, was like a giant fist closing around Hizashi's heart. It squeezed, knocking the wind out of him, more than any rib fracture could have. A stifled moan, a mixture of physical pain and unbearable emotional agony, escaped his lips. The tears he'd been holding back—those of relief, those of guilt, those of immense and overwhelming love—flowed uncontrollably, streaking his grimy cheeks.

“Shouta…” he managed to gasp, his weak hand reaching for Shouta’s bandaging hand. His fingers found the other man’s wrist, holding on with surprising strength for someone so injured. “I’m… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

Shouta stopped. His hands, holding a clean bandage, shook violently on Hizashi's torso. He looked down at the hand grabbing him, then at Hizashi's broken face, bathed in tears and sweat. The rage in his eyes cracked, revealing the ocean of fear, relief, and unconditional love he'd been holding back.

“Fool,” Shouta whispered, this time without accusation, only with endless fatigue and pain. A fat tear fell from his chin directly onto Hizashi’s clutching hand. “Reckless idiot… Don’t ever do this to me again. Not again.” His voice was a broken thread, but the command was clear. It was a plea. A pact.

Behind them, from the dimness of the living room, two pairs of eyes watched them, frightened but fascinated. Hitoshi, with his purple hair in disarray, had moved a little closer, his enormous violet eyes filled with silent tears. Eri, small and fragile, with her snow-white hair, clutched the hem of her brother's pants, her large red eyes darting between Hizashi's fallen figure and Shouta's, leaning over him, weeping.

“D-Dad…?” Hitoshi’s voice was a shaky whisper, directed at both Shouta and Hizashi, confused by their tears, but instinctively recognizing the connection, the shared pain, the relief.

Shouta closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly. Hitoshi's words, spoken at that moment, with that innocence that asked for both of them, were the final blow. He dropped to his knees beside Hizashi, no longer just healing him, but collapsing beside him. He rested his forehead, still sweaty and pale, against Hizashi's good shoulder. His body was shaken by silent, deep sobs that seemed to come from the depths of his being, accumulated over months of fear, isolation, and the terrifying uncertainty of the last few hours.

Hizashi, despite the pain, raised his free arm with superhuman effort. He wrapped it around Shouta's trembling shoulders, pulling him close, holding him. His other hand still gripped Shouta's wrist. It was an awkward hug, riddled with wounds and bandages, bathed in mingled tears, but it was necessary. It was the anchor they both needed amidst the emotional tidal wave.

“ Shhh … Shouta…” Hizashi whispered against the other man’s shaggy, dirty hair, feeling the warmth of his tears soaking into his shirt. “I’m here… I’m back… I promise… I’ll never… never leave you again.” His own tears fell onto Shouta’s head. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry for scaring you… For being such an idiot…”

Shouta didn't respond with words. He just clung tighter, his body wracked with sobs slowly beginning to calm against Hizashi's embrace. The sound of his labored breathing and Hitoshi's soft cries were the only soundtrack in the apartment. Eri, seeing her brother crying, let out a small, distressed " Uuuh !" and stumbled over, hugging Hitoshi's leg.

On the ground, amidst bandages, tears, and the ghost of newly averted danger, the unlikely family found their first moment of human unity. The Voiced Villain and the Exhausted Guardian held each other, broken but alive, while their two star cubs, now fragile and scared children, took their first hesitant steps toward them, drawn by the magnet of shared pain and the love that could finally be shouted, even if it was through tears and the most powerful word: “Daddy.” The long winter was over. Spring, painful, tearful, and real, had finally arrived.

The scene froze in that fragile instant: Shouta collapsed against Hizashi, his sobs turning into residual tremors, his forehead still resting on the blond's shoulder. The room smelled of antiseptic, salty tears, and that indefinable scent of home that now mingled with the sweat of fear and relief. Hizashi's eyes, closed for a moment to contain the wave of physical and emotional pain, opened when he felt a slight movement in Shouta.

The black-haired, amber-eyed man straightened slightly, not quite pulling away, his breathing still ragged. One hand remained firmly, protectively placed on the fresh bandage on Hizashi's side. The other… the other slowly pulled away from the embrace. Shouta didn't look back; his amber gaze, reddened but now clearer, more present, remained fixed on Hizashi's pale face, as if reassuring himself that he was still there, breathing. But his left arm extended to the side, opening in a clear gesture, powerful in its simplicity: an invitation.

It was a sign that Hitoshi, watching from a few feet away with Eri clinging to his leg, picked up instantly. The purple-haired, violet-eyed boy, his cheeks still glistening with silent tears, swallowed. His own shoulders, hunched with fear and confusion, straightened with an air of responsibility beyond his ten years. He looked at Eri, who raised her large red eyes to him, filled with a silent question and a lingering fear.

“Come on, Eri,” Hitoshi whispered, his voice shaky but gentle. He leaned down, carefully wrapping his baby sister in his arms. Eri, fragile as a bird, instinctively clung to her brother’s neck, burying her face in his shoulder, her snowy white hair mingling with Hitoshi’s purple. The boy held her with surprising strength, carrying not only his physical weight, but also the weight of his trust.

With small, cautious steps, Hitoshi approached the circle of light and pain formed by his parents on the floor. He paused for a moment, his violet eyes jumping between Shouta, who held his arm open like a bridge, and Hizashi, who looked at them with a mixture of wonder, guilt, and a love so vast it hurt his chest more than his broken ribs.

Shouta said nothing. He just tilted his head slightly toward the space her open arm created between him and Hizashi. A silent, urgent invitation. Come. Here. With us.

Hitoshi obeyed. He knelt gently, shielding Eri in his arms, and slid under Shouta's outstretched arm. He snuggled against Hizashi's good side, his small body trembling against the injured man's. Eri, sensing the proximity, lifted her head from Hitoshi's shoulder. Her red eyes, huge and frightened, met Hizashi's.

“D-Dad…?” Eri’s whisper was as faint as a butterfly’s fluttering wings, but it resonated like thunder in the heavy silence of the apartment. It was the first clear human word Hizashi had heard her say, directed directly at him, with an astonishing understanding of what it meant.

It was the spark.

Shouta closed the circle. His outstretched arm became a refuge, tightly and tenderly enveloping Hitoshi and, therefore, Eri, who was still in her brother's arms, and bringing him and Hizashi closer. They were no longer two figures embracing on the ground. They were four. A trembling unit, fractured but united.

The contact was overwhelming. Hizashi felt Hitoshi's warm, trembling weight against his good side, Eri's small form squeezed between them, and Shouta's solidity against his other side, the latter's arm like a steel beam holding them all together. The physical pain paled before the emotional storm that erupted:

Hitoshi buried his purple face in Hizashi's chest, just below the bandage, and burst into uncontrollable tears. They weren't quiet sobs now. They were muffled screams of released, pent-up fear, of overwhelming relief. "Dad! Dad! Don't go! Don't ever go again!" His small fists clutched at Hizashi's shirt.

Eri, caught up in her brother's crying and the heavy emotion in the air, burst into a high-pitched, heartbroken cry. "Dad! Dad!" she repeated between sobs, her small voice cracking with fear and incomprehension, but using the word with heartbreaking certainty. Her little hands reached out, not toward Shouta, but toward Hizashi, searching for his neck, his face.

Shouta didn't cry now. He gritted his teeth, his jaw tense beneath the stubble. But his amber eyes, fixed on Hizashi over the heads of the crying children, shone with renewed moisture. His arm around them tightened, pressing them closer to Hizashi, as if he could fuse them into a single, safe entity. His breath was a deep, shaky sigh. The word "Dad," shouted by his children to Hizashi, resonated with him with a force that took his breath away. It was real. This was real. They were a family.

Hizashi was flooded. The tears he'd shed earlier were a brook compared to the torrent that gushed forth now. He let out a ragged gasp, a sound of pain and joy so profound it bordered on agony. His free arm, the one not holding Shouta, moved awkwardly. He wrapped it around Hitoshi and Eri, cradling the boy's shivering backs and the girl's tiny form. His hand found Eri's little white head, stroking her soft hair as she continued to cry against his neck, repeating "Daddy!" like a mantra of need. With his other hand, he gripped Shouta's arm that was around them all, squeezing with what little strength he had left.

He couldn't speak. Emotion clogged his throat, more effectively than any blow. He could only hold them. His son crying against his chest. His daughter sobbing into his neck. His mate, his guardian, his Shouta, holding them all with desperate strength, his amber eyes saying everything words couldn't.

The hard floor, the stabbing pain, the smell of medication… everything blurred. There was only the hug. The weight of his children. Shouta's warmth. The sound of sobs that were both wails of avoided loss and songs of belonging. The words "Dad! Dad!" repeated like a spell against the darkness, directed at him.

In that tight circle, on the floor of an apartment that had been a cat shelter and was now the sanctuary of a broken and remade family, Hizashi Yamada understood the full meaning of “home.” It wasn’t a place. It was this. The weight of trust, the warmth of shared tears, the sound of his name shouted with love and terror by small voices, and the gaze of amber eyes that, after so long in shadow, finally reflected the same light he’d been searching for since a talkative blond made a quiet boy blush in a UA courtyard under a cherry blossom tree. He was back. He was hurt, yes. But he was home. And his family, complete at last in human form, tearful and trembling, held him like the anchor they’d always needed. The long journey through the night, from extinguished sun to villain, from wounded cat to found father, was over. Dawn broke, bathed in tears and the sweetest name: Papa.

The Days of Convalescence: The Guardian in Human Form

The next four days transformed the apartment into a sanctuary of slow care, hesitant discoveries, and a new normal forged in fragility. Hizashi, confined to the couch or the bed by strict orders (issued with an amber stare that sparked panic if he tried to get up), was the passive center of a universe revolving around his recovery. And at the active center of that universe was Shouta Aizawa.

The gaunt man, with sunken eyes but filled with iron determination, moved with the clumsiness of someone who had just recovered his human body after so much time, but with the instinctive efficiency of a born caregiver and a father who had protected his children against all odds, even in feline form.

The Strict Nurse: Shouta was meticulous, almost obsessive, with Hizashi's wound. Every few hours, with hands that still trembled slightly but gained steadiness with practice, he removed the old bandages. His expression turned critical, professional, as he examined the swollen, bruised skin, looking for signs of infection. “Don't move,” he ordered, his voice husky, but gaining some of its old dryness, as he applied cold antiseptic that made Hizashi catch his breath. He changed the bandages with surprising precision, his long fingers handling the gauze gently. If Hizashi had a fever (and he did, waves of heat that left him sweaty and delirious), Shouta was there with cold cloths for his forehead, cool water, and a constant vigilance that only relented when sleep overcame him, collapsing into a chair by the couch, his head falling forward in abysmal exhaustion.

The Provider: Hizashi's kitchen, always well-stocked (the income from Banshee and the bar counted for something), became Shouta's domain. At first, it was a mess. He burned toast, boiled packet soup to a paste, and stared in utter bewilderment at a box of cereal. But his resolve was unwavering. His children and his… Hizashi… needed to eat. He looked up simple recipes on Hizashi's old phone (clumsily, quietly cursing the technology), and little by little, edible dishes emerged: warm soups, simple sandwiches, scrambled eggs. For Eri, always small and with a delicate stomach, he made bland porridge or oatmeal with honey, feeding her with endless patience, a teaspoon at a time. Hitoshi, more adventurous, devoured whatever was set before him, as long as it wasn't charred.

The Rediscovered Father: Seeing Hitoshi in human form was a constant learning experience for Shouta. The purple-haired, violet-eyed boy, though thin and pale, brimmed with a suppressed energy that he could now express in words and sweeping gestures. Most fascinating was his control over his secondary gift. With a visible effort of concentration (furrowing his brow, clenching his fists), Hitoshi could transform into his gray Maine Coon form, usually to play chase with a toy or to curl up in a small space when he felt overwhelmed. Returning to human required more effort, sometimes ending with a small audible pop and a gasp, but he managed it. Shouta watched him each time, a mixture of pride and deep sadness in his amber eyes—pride in his control, sadness in the lost years in that form.

Eri’s Discovery: But Eri… Eri was a constant miracle. She remained in her fragile and adorable human form, her large red eyes absorbing everything like sponges. She didn’t seem to remember (or need) her feline form. Shouta’s greatest discovery was cartoons. He put some on the apartment’s old television, more out of desperation to keep her calm while he looked after Hizashi than anything else. The effect was magical. Eri was mesmerized. She would sit on the floor, very close to the screen, her white hair like a halo, her red eyes wide open, following the colorful figures with utter fascination. She would make little squeals of surprise (“Oh!”), point with her tiny finger (“Look!”), and laugh a clear, bubbly laugh that filled the apartment with light, especially when animals or shiny things appeared. Shouta, passing by with a tray of food, would stop to watch her, a small, almost incredulous smile touching his lips. Watching his daughter laugh, simply laugh for pleasure, was a balm to his weary soul.

The Changing Dynamics: Hizashi, from his sofa bed, watched his new family's ballet. He saw Shouta stumble over a chair while carrying a cup of tea, cursing under his breath, but with less asperity each time. He saw Hitoshi transform into a cat to catch a fly that flew in through the window, then revert to a boy, laughing at his feat. He saw Eri dance clumsily in front of the television, imitating the characters, her " Prrrp !"s turning into "Dance! Dance!"s. And he saw Shouta, in their moments of pause, approach Hizashi. He didn't always speak. Sometimes he just sat on the edge of the sofa, his large, calloused hand searching for Hizashi's forehead to check his fever, or resting briefly on the bandage, as if reconfirming that it was there, that it was healing. His amber eyes, though still heavy with shadows, held glimpses of a peace they hadn't known in years.

The Fourth Day: The Threshold

The fourth day dawned clearer. Hizashi's fever had completely subsided. The pain in his side was a dull, manageable reminder, not a paralyzing grip. Shouta, after changing his bandages with a thoroughness bordering on the obsessive (but to which Hizashi didn't protest), helped him sit on the sofa, propped up with pillows.

“The swelling is going down,” Shouta declared, his voice less hoarse, more like the one Hizashi remembered from UA, though tinged with an eternal fatigue. “You can try walking a little. Just a little. And with help.” His gaze left no room for argument.

It was a slow, ridiculous process. Hizashi, taller, leaning on Shouta, thinner, but surprisingly strong beneath his emaciation. He took a few staggering steps across the room, feeling every muscle protest, every rib remind him of his recklessness. Shouta held him with one arm firmly around his waist, his other hand gripping Hizashi's upper arm. His concentration was absolute, his eyes scrutinizing Hizashi's every movement, ready to support his weight if he failed.

Hitoshi and Eri watched from the couch, motionless. Hitoshi, his violet eyes wide, biting his lip. Eri, sitting on her brother's lap, clutched her favorite toy (a small white stuffed cat Hizashi had bought her), her large red eyes following her injured father's every faltering step.

As he reached the other side of the room, Hizashi panted, sweating. “That’s enough… for today,” he muttered.

Shouta nodded, still holding him, helping him turn around and return to the sofa. It was at that moment, as he passed the window where Shouta used to observe the world as a cat, that Hizashi saw the reflection: The four of them. Him, pale and leaning on Shouta. Shouta, gaunt but firm, holding him with protective determination. Hitoshi and Eri on the sofa, two pairs of eyes (violet and red) filled with concern and love.

They weren't a hero, a villain, and two children with strange gifts. They were a family. Worn, broken, and remade, scarred both visible and invisible, but united. United by tears shed on the ground, by bandages changed with trembling hands, by a girl's laughter at drawings, by a boy's struggle to control his form, and by the silent embrace of a guardian who had finally found a place to belong: holding her wounded sun, protecting her star cubs.

Shouta helped him lie back down on the sofa. Hitoshi handed him a glass of water. Eri slid off her brother's lap and walked over, placing her white stuffed animal on top of Hizashi's bandage. "For Dad," she whispered, her voice clear.

Shouta slumped into the chair next to the couch, exhausted but content. His amber eyes met Hizashi's. There were no words. They didn't need them. In the shared silence, filled with the sound of Hizashi's breathing, the distant hum of the television, and the children's whispers, everything was said. The physical convalescence was almost over. The convalescence of the soul, the building of this new home from the ashes of the past, was only just beginning. But they would do it together. With Shouta as their tired but unwavering rock, Hitoshi as their bridge between worlds, Eri as their small light discovering life, and Hizashi as the heart that bound them all together, healing slowly, but beating with renewed strength. The sun, eclipsed for so long, was beginning to peek, weak but persistent, through the cracks of their rebuilt world.

The Room of the Past: A Door That Opens to the Future

The fourth day of convalescence had given way to a week. Hizashi could now walk around the apartment unaided, albeit cautiously, feeling the pull of the healing muscles and bones beneath the bandages that Shouta still meticulously checked (though now less frequently, and with an expression more of routine than latent panic). Normalcy, a new and fragile normalcy, was settling in between the walls that had witnessed so much pain and so much rediscovered love.

It was a peaceful afternoon. Hitoshi was in his gray cat form, sleeping a deep, restful sleep in a ray of sunlight near the exercise wheel (which remained his favorite territory, even in human form). Eri, sitting on the floor in front of the television, was still engrossed in her cartoons, her small fingers clumsily drawing on a piece of paper with crayons Shouta had found. Shouta, sitting at the dining table, was trying to decipher the complicated interface of a modern cell phone (an “anonymous” gift from Giran, to replace Hizashi’s old one), frowning with an intensity he usually reserved for heroic confrontations.

Hizashi approached, leaning lightly on the back of Shouta's chair. He took in the scene: the domestic peace, the safe children, the man he loved struggling with technology. He took a deep breath, the air filled with the scent of the cookies Shouta had tried baking that morning (with… acceptable results). It was time.

“Shouta,” he said, his voice soft but clear, breaking the concentrated silence.

Shouta looked up, his amber eyes meeting Hizashi's. There were fewer shadows beneath them, though deep fatigue was still etched on his features. “ Hmm ? Pain?” His hand instinctively moved to Hizashi's side, stopping in midair when he shook his head.

“No. I’m fine.” Hizashi paused, his gaze shifting toward the hallway leading to his bedroom. “There’s… there’s something we need to talk about. Something about the apartment.”

Shouta put his phone aside, his full attention now on Hizashi. His expression became alert, inquisitive. “Tell me.”

Hizashi swallowed. He hesitated. Talking about it was like opening a door to a past he'd rather leave behind, but it was necessary. For the future. For his future. He pointed toward the end of the hallway. "At the end, on the right, just before my room... there's a door. Locked."

Shouta nodded slowly. He'd seen the door. Always locked. He assumed it was a closet or a storage room. But Hizashi's expression, the slight tension in his shoulders, told him it was more than that.

“It’s… my old operating room,” Hizashi continued, avoiding the word “Banshee” in the children’s presence, even though Eri was absorbed and Hitoshi was asleep. “In there is… everything. The radio transmission equipment, the spare disguises, the backup mask, documents… stuff I used for… my other work.” His green eyes searched Shouta’s, looking for understanding, not judgment. “Things from my life as a villain.”

Shouta wasn't visibly fazed. His amber eyes remained calm, only a slight flicker revealing that he was processing the information. He knew who Hizashi was, what he'd done. He'd heard him for years on underground radio, even before he knew it was him. The "other job" was an intrinsic part of the man who now held his world together.

“I don’t need it anymore,” Hizashi said firmly, his voice gaining conviction. “I’m not throwing anything away. It’s… part of my history. Part of what brought me here. To you.” He looked at Eri drawing, at Hitoshi sleeping like a gray lump in the sun. “But that room… it doesn’t have to be a shrine to the past anymore. I want… I want to empty it. Box things up. Store them somewhere safe, perhaps in the back of the Fog, if Kurogiri allows it.”

He paused, his gaze returning to Shouta, filled with a gentle but unwavering determination. “I want to clear that room… to make it Hitoshi and Eri’s room.”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with the weight of the decision. Shouta held him. His eyes scanned Hizashi's face, searching for traces of doubt, of regret. He found only certainty and a glimmer of hope.

“Are you sure?” Shouta finally asked, his voice low. “It’s your story. Your armor.”

Hizashi smiled, a small but genuine gesture. “My armor is different now, Shouta. It’s this apartment. It’s you. It’s them.” He gestured to the children. “I no longer need to hide behind villain masks in a dark room. I need… our children to have their own space. A place to dream, to grow, to be children. Not hidden kittens, but children.”

Shouta watched Hitoshi sleep, transformed, but at peace. He looked at Eri, focused on her drawing, her red eyes glowing in the light from the screen. A space of their own. A room. Something so simple, so fundamental, that they'd never had it.

He reached out and placed his hand over Hizashi's, which was still resting on the back of the chair. His skin, calloused and cold at first, now felt warmer, more alive. "Then we will," he said, his voice firm. "I get boxes. The best ones. We label everything. We pack it carefully." A glimmer of his former efficiency shone in his eyes. "Kurogiri will pack things away. He has space."

Hizashi felt a lump of emotion form in his throat. Shouta's acceptance, the speed with which he got going, was a gift. "Thank you," he whispered.

Shouta squeezed her hand lightly. “Nothing to be thankful for.” He stood up. “I’m starting today. Do you have the key?”

Hizashi nodded, taking a small, antique key out of his pocket. He handed it to Shouta. Their fingers brushed, a brief but intimate contact.

Shouta took the key. He walked to the end of the hallway. The closed door seemed smaller now, less threatening. He inserted the key into the lock. He turned it. The click echoed in the silence of the apartment.

Hizashi held his breath. Seeing that door open was like opening a grave, but also like unearthing treasure to make way for something new. Shouta pushed the door open slowly. A familiar but forgotten smell escaped: hairspray, metal, dust from electronic equipment, black fabric, and… it's gone.

Shouta stood in the doorway, peering inside. The hallway light schematically illuminated the interior: shelves of radio equipment, a desk piled high with papers and maps, a mannequin wearing a suit identical to Banshee's, the white mask glowing faintly from a hanger. It was the Voice Villain's lair.

He turned to Hizashi, who had stumbled over. His amber eyes held no rejection, only respectful curiosity and practical determination.

“We’ll need a lot of boxes,” he said simply.

Hizashi nodded, a wave of relief and a strange sadness mingling in his chest. “Yes. A lot of boxes.”

As Shouta entered the room, beginning to inspect the contents with the critical gaze of a former hero and current practical father, Hizashi leaned against the doorframe . He observed the place where he had planned his attacks on the Commission, where he had nurtured his rage and his twisted sense of justice. Soon, those walls would echo with Hitoshi's laughter, Eri's babbling, the dreams of two children who had known too much darkness too soon. The villain's room would become the children's room. The most powerful symbol of their renunciation of a life in the shadows and their total embrace of the fragile, wonderful, and noisy light of parenthood. Shouta, by carefully picking up a handheld transmitter, was already building that future, one box at a time. And Hizashi, from the doorway, knew it was the greatest mission Banshee had ever undertaken.

Dinner of the Revenant: Recognition in the Mist

The wooden staircase that led up from the back room of the Night Mist to Kurogiri and Giran's apartment creaked beneath their feet, each sound echoing like a heartbeat in the tense silence of the group. Hizashi led the way, his stride already steady, though the memory of his healing ribs still made him move with a certain caution. Behind him, Shouta walked with the stiffness of a soldier entering unfamiliar territory. He wore clean but simple clothes (borrowed from Hizashi, still too loose on his emaciated body). His black hair, now washed and tied back in a low ponytail, did nothing to hide the extreme pallor of his face or the deep purple circles under his amber eyes, searching and filled with an ancient wariness. His left hand firmly held Eri's, as she clumsily climbed the steps, her large red eyes wide open, absorbing every new detail with a mixture of fear and fascination. Her white hair, clean and loose, seemed to shine in the dimness of the hallway. Hitoshi, at her right side, his purple hair still unruly and his violet eyes observing everything with sharp intelligence, maintained a protective stance near his sister, although his own curiosity was evident.

Hizashi stopped in front of a solid wooden door. He took a deep breath. This wasn't just about introducing his family to his bosses and friends. It was about introducing his hidden past (Shouta, the former hero /omega/cat) and his future (the children) to the only other family he'd ever known in the shadows. It was about uniting two worlds that were never meant to touch, but which he had woven into the tapestry of his broken and remade life. He knocked.

Giran opened it. He wasn't wearing his impeccable suit, but dark pants and an open shirt over a black T-shirt. His usual casual smile softened when he saw the group. His fuchsia eyes quickly scanned Shouta, recognizing the man behind the black cat he'd seen briefly in Hizashi's apartment, then the children, lingering for a moment on Eri's unmistakable red eyes.

“Come in, come in,” Giran said, his voice warm, breaking the initial ice. He gestured broadly inside. “Kuromom is putting the finishing touches on dinner. The little ones are… excited.” His tone was slightly ironic, but kind.

The apartment was cozy, brighter than the bar downstairs suggested. Solid furniture, shelves filled with books and odds and ends, a large dining table already set, and the unmistakable aroma of homemade food filling the air, mixed with the faint scent of ozone that always accompanied Kurogiri.

Touya Todoroki, the boy with snow-white hair and cobalt-blue eyes, was sitting on the couch, but he jumped like a spring when he saw them enter. His gaze fell first on Hitoshi, then on Eri. “It’s you! The cats!” he cried, without malice, just pure amazement. “The gray one and the lilac one!” He remembered.

Tenko Shimura, quieter, with his jet-black hair and ruby-red eyes, approached from behind an armchair. He was wearing his special gloves. He watched Eri with silent intensity, then took a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket: it was the drawing he'd made months ago, the one with the large black cat, the gray one, and the purple ball. He compared the drawing with Eri, then with Shouta. A small, almost imperceptible nod crossed his face. It was them.

It was then that Kurogiri emerged from what must have been the kitchen. His figure, a dense, ever-present violet mist, seemed to solidify for a moment upon seeing the group in his living room. His golden eyes, always so penetrating, rested first on Shouta. There was a pause, a heavy silence that made even Touya fall silent. Kurogiri scrutinized him: the gauntness, the deep dark circles under his eyes, the rigid posture but the firm hand holding Eri. He saw the man who had been a cat, the father who had protected his children from the shadows, the omega who had found refuge in his former student-turned-villain.

Then, her golden eyes lowered to Eri, who was hiding slightly behind Shouta's leg, but staring at the violet mist with fascination. And to Hitoshi, who held her gaze, both defiant and curious.

Kurogiri said nothing. He didn't make a grand gesture. He simply bowed his head slightly, a movement of his nebulous figure that was a deep, respectful acknowledgment. "I see who you are. I see what you've been through. You're welcome." His voice, when he spoke, resonated with his usual tone, but without the filter of security, warmer than normal: "Dinner is served. Please, settle in."

The tension dissipated like fog in the sun. Giran led the way to the table. Shouta helped Eri onto a high chair they'd prepared. Hitoshi sat next to him. Shouta sat next to Hizashi, across from Kurogiri, who sat at the other end of the table. Touya and Tenko sat on the opposite side, Touya flashing smiles at Hitoshi, while Tenko watched Eri with shy curiosity.

Dinner was… strangely normal, and deeply meaningful. Kurogiri had cooked (with Giran's help, probably to prevent disaster): a hearty stew, fresh bread, roasted vegetables. The food was good, comforting.

Giran acted as the perfect host, asking Hitoshi lighthearted questions about his drawings (the boy brought one he'd done from the bar), joking with Touya to ease the tension, and offering Shouta a cigarette with a wink (which Shouta declined with a slight shake of his head, the first almost friendly expression he'd ever shown).

Touya kept asking Hitoshi questions: “What’s it like being a cat? Can you go back whenever you want? Was the wheel fun?” Hitoshi, shy at first, gradually loosened up, proudly explaining his control over his transformation, describing the wheel as “the best thing in the world.”

Tenko, more quietly, watched Eri. The girl, at first frightened by the new surroundings and unfamiliar faces, began to relax when Tenko gently passed her a small piece of bread with his glove. Eri looked at him, then at Tenko, and offered a small, bright smile. “ Thank you ,” she said in her clear little voice. Tenko blushed slightly and focused on her plate, but a small smile touched her lips.

Kurogiri watched. His golden eyes flicked from Touya laughing with Hitoshi, to Tenko shyly interacting with Eri, to Giran serving more stew to Shouta (who accepted with a small nod), and finally, to Hizashi. Their gaze held a world of understanding: “You did it. You built this. You found your light.” Hizashi gave him a small, grateful smile.

But the most powerful moment came toward the end of dinner. Shouta, who had eaten in silence, watching, absorbing the scene of this dysfunctional but close-knit family that had welcomed his own, stood up. He said nothing. He walked to Kurogiri's end of the table. Silence fell over the group. Touya stopped laughing. Tenko stopped looking at Eri. Hitoshi sucked in a breath.

Shouta stopped in front of Kurogiri. His posture was upright, but not threatening. His amber eyes, heavy with years of struggle, loneliness, and desperate protection, met the points of golden light in the mist. There was a long moment where only the ticking of an antique clock could be heard.

Then Shouta Aizawa, the man who had lived as a shadow and a cat, who had distrusted the entire world, bowed. It wasn't a bow, but a deep inclination of his head and torso, a gesture of ancient respect, of immense gratitude. It lasted several seconds. When he straightened, his voice, hoarse but clear, broke the silence:

“Thank you,” he said, looking directly into Kurogiri’s golden eyes. “Thank you for… taking care of him. When I couldn’t.” He didn’t specify who “he” was, but everyone knew: Hizashi. Thank you for giving him refuge when Shouta wasn’t there, when the world had separated them. Thank you for being the bridge that allowed this moment to exist.

Kurogiri didn't move. His mist seemed to waver slightly. Then, slowly, he too dipped his nebulous figure. It was an echo of Shouta's gesture, a mutual recognition between two protectors, two fathers who had done the unthinkable for those they loved from the shadows.

“It was an honor, Shouta Aizawa,” Kurogiri replied, his deep voice resonating with rare sincerity. “Home is strengthened by new roots. Welcome to the Night Mist. Welcome all.” His golden eyes scanned Eri, Hitoshi, and Hizashi.

It was the ultimate acceptance. The circle was closing. The guardian cat and her star cubs, now human, fragile but full of hope, had been acknowledged, welcomed. Shouta nodded once, an ancient tension leaving his shoulders. A hand rested on his arm. It was Hizashi, at his side, his green eyes shining with unshed tears and immense love.

Returning to the table, Eri raised her arms toward Shouta. “Mom! Whoa!” Shouta, without hesitation, picked her up and sat her on his lap. Hitoshi moved closer to them. Touya grinned. Tenko offered another piece of bread to Eri, who took it this time with a bubbly laugh.

The Night Mist, beneath their floors, was still a villain bar. But up here, in the apartment bathed by the warmth of a shared meal and the weight of unspoken but deeply felt words, it was something more: an extended home. A refuge forged in adversity, strengthened by unlikely loyalty, and now, blessed by the presence of a new family, found among the shadows and reborn in the light of acceptance. The Voice Villain, the Exhausted Guardian, and his star pups had come home. Finally.

Epilogue: The First True Night

Hizashi's apartment held a new silence, heavy with promise. Hitoshi, after a night of excitement and endless questions from Touya, had succumbed to sleep in his new bunk bed (still empty underneath, waiting for Eri when she grew up), his deep, regular breathing filling the room that had once been a villain's lair. Eri, exhausted by the novelty and the attention, slept in her new crib, curled up with her stuffed white cat, a small sigh escaping her pink lips.

Hizashi gently closed the door to the nursery. He leaned against the cool, soft lilac-painted wood for a moment, letting the peace of the moment wash over him. Then he turned. Shouta was there, in the dimly lit hallway. Not watching, not alert. Simply… waiting. The dim light accentuated his pallor, the deep dark circles under his amber eyes, but it also softened the harsh edges of his gauntness. He looked incredibly tired, as if just maintaining his human form after so long was a Herculean effort, but also… present. Completely present.

Without a word, Hizashi reached out. Shouta looked at it for a moment, his eyes scanning the open palm as if it were an unfamiliar map. Then, slowly, with a clumsiness that spoke of years without intimate human contact, he slid his long, calloused hand into Hizashi's. His fingers were cold, trembling slightly, but the contact was an instant grounding for both of them.

Hizashi said nothing. He just gently squeezed that hand, an anchor in the stillness of the night, and led the way down the short hallway to his own room. The door closed with a soft click.

The room was simple: a wide bed, a wardrobe, a window that showed the distant lights of the city. The full moon cast a silvery shadow over the sheets. Hizashi led Shouta to the edge of the bed. The black-haired man allowed himself to be guided, his body seeming to move by inertia, the weight of emotion and physical and mental exhaustion finally breaking down his last defenses. He sat up with a deep sigh, almost a groan, his shoulders slumping forward as if the chains of years of vigilance had suddenly been loosened.

Hizashi sat beside him, close, but not yet touching, maintaining contact only through their hands clasped on the mattress. Hizashi's warmth seemed to radiate toward Shouta's coldness. The silence wasn't awkward; it was thick, expectant, filled with everything left unsaid over the years, over months of cat-like glances and fleeting contact.

He looked at Shouta. Really looked at him. The line of his profile against the moonlight, the shadow of his eyelashes against the purple circles under his eyes, the tension in his jaw even now, in repose. This was the man who had made him blush under the cherry trees. The hero who disappeared. The guard cat who trusted him when the world was hostile. The desperate father. His Shouta.

“Shouta,” Hizashi whispered, his voice breaking the silence like a stone thrown into a still pond, but gentle, so as not to startle. The man beside him flinched slightly, but didn’t look up. His fingers tightened a little around Hizashi’s.

Hizashi took a deep breath. The air smelled of fresh cleaning, of the herbs from Kurogiri's stew on his clothes, and of Shouta: a clean, simple soapy smell, and beneath it, the ghost of something wild, earthy, that would never quite go away. “All this… the children sleeping in their room… you here… it's more than I ever dreamed,” he began, searching for the words. “After so much time in the dark, so much time lost… to find you, to find them… it's a miracle.”

He paused. Shouta remained motionless, but his breathing had become more conscious, deeper. He was listening. With all his attention.

“But there’s something… something I need to ask you,” Hizashi continued, his pulse quickening where their hands clasped. “Something I need to know. Now that we’re here. Now that we are… this.” He moved his hand, entwined with Shouta’s, slightly. “Now that the children are safe, now that you… are you…”

Finally, Shouta looked up. His amber eyes, tired to the core but incredibly lucid in the gloom, met Hizashi's. There was a question there, an ancient fear, but also a spark of something Hizashi didn't dare name yet. Hope.

Hizashi held that gaze, drowning his own fear in the ocean of green eyes. “Shouta… Can we…? Can we be a couple? Really. Not just… like this. Not just for the kids. But you and me. Like… like we were always meant to be.” His voice trembled slightly at the end. It was the most important question of his life. More than any Banshee transmission, more than any mugging. “Can I be… your partner? Yours? Can you be… mine?”

The silence that followed was an abyss. Shouta didn't look away. His amber eyes filled with a storm of emotions: memories of the UA courtyard, the blush under the cherry trees, the pain of separation, the cold of the alleys, the fear for his children, the terror of the last hours without Hizashi, the relief of finding him injured but alive, the weight of Eri on his lap, Hitoshi's laughter... And above all, the constant, stubborn, loving presence of the man who never abandoned him, not as a companion, not as a villain, not as a refuge.

Tears began to fill those amber eyes, so expressive even in their exhaustion. They didn't spill immediately. They pooled, glittering like broken diamonds in the moonlight. Her hand in Hizashi's gripped with a force that almost hurt.

“Fool,” Shouta whispered, his voice a broken shard, laden with an emotion so deep it made Hizashi tremble. A tear escaped, streaking down his pale cheek. “Hizashi… We always were.”

It was as if a string stretched too taut snapped inside Shouta. A sob, dry and wrenching, escaped his lips. He leaned forward, his forehead searching Hizashi's shoulder, his body convulsing with a wave of silent but violent crying. Tears of relief, of pent-up pain, of a final surrender to the truth he'd held for years, even in the worst shadows. We always were. From the first blush, through all the separations and transformations, in cat form and in human, in fear and in protection. Always.

Hizashi didn't hesitate. He let go of Shouta's hand only to wrap him completely in his arms. He pulled him against his chest, cradling that shaggy black head that took refuge on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his tears soak into his shirt. “ Shhh … Shouta… I know… I know, my sunshine… Me too… Always,” he murmured against his hair, his own tears mingling with Shouta's. “Always yours.”

They stayed like that, cuddled at the edge of the bed, under the moonlight, while the city slept outside and their children slept in the next room. There was no passionate kiss that night. There were no grand words of eternal love. There was something deeper, more healing: the surrender to the fact that they had always been one. The circle was closing. The talkative blond and the quiet boy. The disillusioned hero and the broken-hearted villain. The guard cat and the provider of bells. Now, simply, Hizashi and Shouta. A couple. A family. Meeting, at last, in shared silence and released tears, on the threshold of a future they would build together, one scar, one child's laugh, one embrace at a time. The first true night of their shared life had begun, not with a bang, but with the whispered "always" and the comforting weight of their guardian, finally home, in their arms.