Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rest, they say. After going through all that, how could you?

You gaze through the car window and stare blankly at the nightlife in Musutafu. Outside, the city’s still awake, buzzing like it never sleeps. Humongous billboards sprawled across colossal shiny buildings. Every shop glows, with the light battling against the dark. There are more faces out there in one block than you’d see in a month back home.

Home. Juko is unlike Musutafu. Skyscrapers instead of wooden homes and stalls. Blinding lights instead of twinkling lantern lamps. It was a busy city, where Juko was almost a ghost town.

If this were the you weeks ago? You would’ve loved this. If only…

You hug the urn tighter to your chest, holding it as if it would shatter in a heartbeat if you were not careful. Your reflection flickers in the glass with every streetlight you pass. The seatbelt digs into your shoulder, but you don’t adjust it. 

Nezu rides shotgun, chattering—something about the city, about how you’ll adjust quicker than you think. His voice is gentle, quick, clever in the way that’s meant to distract. But his words slide right off you like leaf water, never soaking in.

A towering screen above the skyline flashes a reporter covering last week’s war—the one that supposedly saved humanity from evil. 

A news anchor’s voice, serious and formal, cuts through the loud city.

“Last week’s decisive battle brought victory, but at a heavy cost. Many heroes are still in critical condition—some won’t return at all. Young heroes such as Dynamight, Deku, Shoto—”

The car turns the corner before you hear the rest as a memory from last week's battle slips through you.

The television shows the blonde hero slumped on the floor—A gaping hole where his heart used to be. Blood pooled beneath him like it was always meant to be there.

He’s heartless, just like that.

You saw them fight a week ago. Not personally—just the live broadcast. Brave young guys powering through against raging monsters. Yet, their bravery led to despair, especially the heartless blonde. You pitied him. Maybe. You couldn’t tell. Not right now. Not when everything feels… wrong.

Aizawa clears his throat up front. “We’re almost there.”

Your gaze shifts to the rearview. Two tired eyes. Both hands on the wheel. Whole.

Days ago, he wasn’t. Not until you did what you had to do. 

The car stops suddenly after a beat of silence. Beneath the tinted windows, a red-bricked building rose into view. Teacher’s Dorm Alliance, a large text plastered in the center of the brick wall.

Nezu and Aizawa stepped out of the car, leaving you inside. A minute passes. You can feel their stares through the tinted window. But you don't move an inch.

Aizawa knocks through the car window and opens the back seat door. 

“Kid.” You met his tired eyes. “You're safe now. Rest,” he said.

The car door hangs open, waiting for you to climb out. Aizawa waits, his stoic expression on display. Nezu tilts his head, smiling softly. 

You glance down at the seatbelt squeezing your torso, and then to the two of them.

“Umm… How do I remove this thing?” you finally mutter, fingers grazing over the strap.

The two men repeatedly blinked before glancing at each other for a moment. 

Aizawa ducks under the roof of the car. He then leans over and unfastens your seatbelt with a quick click. “There. That's how it's done, kid.” 

You mutter your thanks and climb out of the car, still tightly hugging the urn in your arms. 

Nezu brightly claps, “Don't worry, Yamizuki-kun. I know it all feels overwhelming, but we'll try our best to guide you with these simple things!” He moves past you, taking the lead as he goes on about dorm arrangements. Aizawa stayed behind.

You hear the sound of the backseat door getting closed. You didn't mind. The scene before you was a sight to see after all.

You absentmindedly stopped in your tracks, your eyes going busy. Seeing your new environment was something. 

Feeling it, though… was everything. 

Uncertainty. Confusion. Guilt. Serenity. Despair.

They hit you. Everything all at once.

A calloused hand gently placed on your shoulder from behind. “Yamizuki, “Aizawa utters.

“Welcome to your new home.”

•••

A few days have already passed since you moved to Musutafu. Aizawa and Nezu advised you to rest. They said to treat this as a vacation. This was supposed to be the time for your peace, away from your complicated past. Your routines, Juko, the people. 

Well… old habits do die hard. 

You sprint through the forest, the weighted bands on your arms and legs dragging you down, every breath sharp as you push yourself harder with each step, with leaves flying every time you pass by. Sweat pours down your face, but you don't stop. No. Not yet. Even when the sun’s starting to smile at you. Along the run, you vault over rocks and trees as naturally as breathing, swinging casually from branch to branch like some monkey—movements engraved into muscle memory by years of repetition.

You've covered the entire perimeter of the Ground Omega, and now, just ahead, you spot the entrance, your starting and finish line.

The gate nears, and you slow down just enough to snatch the timer you’d left clipped to the gatepost. 2:35:42.

You huff a laugh, half-disappointment, half-annoyance. Still not enough.

The path back to the dorms is long, but your legs like it this way. Clean grounds, blue skies, long walks—Juko raised you like this. The quiet air is your company, just birds and the distant hum of the city as you cross into U.A.’s grounds.

By the time you reach the teacher’s dormitory, they’re still thriving in their dreams. No footsteps in the hall, no voices. Just silence, broken by the sizzles of oil from the pan as you cook your meal. Rice, eggs, vegetables, three slabs of meat—a breakfast fit for three, devoured by you. Fork in one hand, glass of water in the other. A meal just enough to refuel your reserves and energy loss.

When the last bite is gone, you step outside again. The morning breeze clings cool to your sweat-dried skin as you lower yourself onto the ground of the front yard. Cross-legged, spine straight, and eyes closed.

Thus began your scanning.

Your fingertips trace along the line of your thigh, the curve of your ribs, the crease of your neck. To anyone else, it would look ridiculous, almost perverted—sitting cross-legged on the ground, poking and feeling yourself like some weirdo doing a meditation ritual. But to you? It’s an everyday attunement, a routine shaped over the years for the sake of improvement.

Cells answer when you call. Tiny currents spark through nerves as you tweak conduction speed, reflexes sharpening by the smallest fractions. Joints loosen, ligaments hum, your body bends easier than before. Muscles tighten, dense and coiled, like steel wound into every fiber. Your lungs open wider, pulling in air until your chest feels limitless. Even your balance steadies, the world holding still as your body aligns under your touch.

Speed. Strength. Flexibility. Agility. Endurance.

One by one, each fine-tune, each stat raised—not by magic, not by mystery, but by years of science, discipline, and repetition drilled into your bones since childhood.

By the time you’re done, your body feels stronger, lighter, sharper, and flowier than it did minutes ago.

“Yamizuki?” As if on cue, your eyes snapped open—only to witness a tired-looking man staring you down, brow raised.

“Aizawa-sensei? Good morning to you." 

He blinked at your cross-legged posture, your hands still resting on your ribs. “…I don’t even want to know what that is. Good morning.”

“I just did my daily enhancements, sensei. That’s all.”

“Very well… I advise doing that in your room, though.” His tone is flat, his hands stayed buried in the pocket of his suit, and his usually messy hair was tied in a man bun.  

You tilted your head, about to ask where he is headed, when a distant figure on the path caught your attention. A tall, lean man approached in a beige trench coat above a white button-down shirt and black slacks. His gaze, sharp, and a sparkle of warmth, locked onto you as though he already knew who you were.

Aizawa shifts subtly, stepping in front of you. “Tsukauchi. Why are you here? I was on my way to you.”

“This is an urgent matter.” His voice is calm, professional. “I just received intel about the case. We need to inform Nezu.” He spoke to Aizawa, but his eyes kept darting past him to you.

You brushed the dirt from your leggings as you stood, turning slightly toward the dorm’s front door, giving them privacy. 

“Hello! Tsukauchi’s voice stops you mid-step. “You are Yamizuki Y/N, right?”

He steps around Aizawa, just enough to extend his hand. “Detective Tsukauchi Naomasa of the Musutafu Police Department.” 

You glanced at his hand, then took it. “I'm the one handling the Juko Massacre case.”

Your brow twitches. Then your jaw ticks. He caught it. The silence afterward clings uncomfortably in the cool morning air. 

Aizawa clears his throat sharply. “Never mind him. We're going now,” His hand flicks dismissively, but Tsukauchi didn’t move. 

“Give me a second,” the detective said. His eyes softened. “I'm glad you're conscious and well now.”

You raise a brow and cross your arms. “Detective.” 

“Do you need anything from me?” you ask flatly. “Tell me straight.”

Tsukauchi hesitates for a beat, consumed by his own thoughts. “Well… I haven't had the chance before to ask.”

He straightened his stance. “Would you be comfortable giving a statement in regards to Hiro's death? A witness interview, perhaps?”

Your fingers dug into your hand. His sharp eyes caught the motion.

“You're the only reliable witness,” he added gently.

“Kid,” Aizawa cut in, his tone quieter, softer yet composed. “You don't have to right now. He'll need your statement eventually, but you don't need to rush yourself.”

The morning breeze mixes the weight of their gazes—one expectant, one protective. You exhale slowly, fixing your eyes on the rising sun above the school building.

“When's the interview?” 

To be continued…

Chapter Text

“Hero Times Global Update! Japan’s pro-heroes who fought in the recent war are reportedly declining in health as time passes. With half the nation’s protectors still incapacitated, Japan now faces an unprecedented crisis—the possibility of losing nearly fifty percent of its pro-hero workforce. Two weeks after the war, not a single hero has made a full recovery. Is this the end of Japan’s safety? Stay tuned for further global hero coverage—only on Hero Times Global.”

Your gaze drifts from the television to the book in your hands—Applied Anatomy and Physiology. The figures blur, replaced by flashes of bloody heroes. You snap the book shut.

No, Yamizuki. Don’t even think about it. Sensei’s enough. Pops would be happy with just him… That’s all that matters.

You nod firmly to yourself, trying to focus on the news instead.

Almost two weeks since the war shook not only Japan but the entire world—and still, the broadcasts won’t let it rest in peace. Unlike your town’s massacre, buried and ignored, whilst the war dominates every headline.

Your chest tightens. Slowly, you exhale, forcing a steady breath—

Click.

The channel changes. Aizawa stands beside the television, remote in hand, gaze lingers on you for a beat before he turns toward the kitchen.

“Hero Times Japan Update. In contrast to earlier reports, public sentiment has taken a sharp turn. Photos circulating across social media this morning show underground hero Eraserhead—whole, walking, and seemingly unharmed, despite injuries previously confirmed during the war. Witnesses spotted him dining at a high-end bistro with Detective Tsukauchi—without a prosthetic leg, and without an eye patch—”

Your eyes snap to Aizawa, who exudes with utmost calm demeanor as he sets two cups on the coffee table.

“—As many will recall, Eraserhead was seen losing both an eye and a leg in the final battle. Yet the images circulating online show him intact—his leg and eye fully restored. Our team has reached out to Detective Tsukauchi for comment, and the inquiry remains ongoing. In the meantime, is this fabrication? False hope? Or the first sign that Japan’s heroes may yet rise again? Stay tuned for further updates.”

“Sensei?” Aizawa hums, then lowers himself onto the couch beside you, sliding a cup in front of you. He sips his coffee in silence.

“That’s matcha. Good for studying.” 

“Thank you,” you mutter, eyes flicking between the television and his blank face. Then, before you can stop yourself, your mouth runs.

“Why are you in the headlines for just… recovering… And why does it seem strange for them to see you well—Shouldn’t they be happy you’re healed up?”

Aizawa pauses mid-sip, eyes sharp and focused on the screen. “This isn’t Juko,” he says, lowly.  “Here, people don’t recover from injuries like mine, unlike your town. They’re not used to your… ability.”

You blink, heart thudding. Not used to it? Back home, recovery wasn't a privilege. It was natural. People get hurt, then get better. Always. Juko was like that—quiet, remote, the kind of place where people always seemed to bounce back. Almost immediate.

But here… here, scars were supposed to stay.

Your brows meet, “Then isn’t that more reason to use it?” you ask, hesitant but sincere. “To help more?”

Silence. He sets his cup down with a soft clink. The weight of his stare makes your chest tighten.

He exhales, then flatly, “Yes. But only for those you trust.”

“Not everyone wants your help for the right reasons.”

Aizawa’s words still hang in the air. You stare at him, throat dry, fingers tightening on the matcha cup—

BANG. The door bursts open.

“SURPR—” a yellow-haired man with a thin frame beams, holding the door open in one hand, a child in the other. A young child with blue locks clutches his hand, beaming. Her face embodies the sun herself. “—prise…!”

They both freeze.

“Eri. All Might. Welcome home,” Aizawa mutters under his breath, walking towards them with his infamous scowl plastered. Clearly thrilled.

Eri breaks free from All Might’s hand, bouncing on her toes. “Sensei! I-Island was amazing! They have flying cars, and big parks, and—” She stops mid-ramble. Her gaze meets yours. She stiffens, wide-eyed, shrinking back to Aizawa’s arms. 

The sun on her face, long gone.

Her little hands clutch at his shirt, and she mutters low enough that only those close by catch it, “Sensei…”

What did I do? You blink, confused. The awkward silence fills the room until Aizawa speaks up, hand resting lightly on Eri’s shoulder.

“She’s not used to new people,” he mumbles. “Let’s get you upstairs.” His voice softens. He guides her toward the staircase, leaving you alone in the room with All Might.

Silence follows, broken only by the faint chatters from the screen. All Might lowers himself onto the couch opposite you.

“You’re Yamizuki, right? …Sounds familiar.”

You keep your posture straight. “Hiro Yamizuki. My father. I heard a lot about you, All Might, sir.”

“Good things, I hope!” He chuckles, scratching his jaw. “Though Hiro—hmm… he never once had a relationship, at least not that I knew of. How’d he end up with a child?”

“I’m adopted.”

Your words drop sharply. Almost a bomb that didn't explode yet. He blinks, laughs a little too loudly. “Ah—of course! Forgive me, I can be clumsy with my words… But you know that father of yours? He’s one of the most intelligent heroes I’ve ever met—”

His voice fades into the background.

Because you’re not listening. Not really.

Your gaze lingers on the scars in his hands, the hollows carved under his eyes, the scars formed across his jaws. The wounds that never healed. A body still paying for every battle it fought. 

And an old, blurry memory fogs your thoughts—Hiro, alone at his desk, lit only by lamplight. You’d peek through a crack in the door, watching him look through an old photograph. Faces of people you weren't familiar with—only teen Aizawa, Nezu, and All Might, who was in his prime and filled with youth, stood beside Hiro in that picture, their shoulders close, and their smiles free. Hiro never spoke of it, but you saw the softness in his expression as he held it.

He’d be sad to see him like this, you think. The once epitome of strength, now worn bone and scar.

Your fingers twitch against the warm cup of matcha. The thought burns hotter than any coffee would. You could heal him. You could bring his health back, restore something that's supposedly long gone. 

But a thought binds you still. Would he be bothered by people, too, like Sensei?...

So you only sit straighter, nodding when All Might glances your way, while the mind forces you to remain still, and the heart screams the opposite.

•••

The police station was packed. Civilians slumped against chairs, officers guiding them with clipboards in hand and tired-looking eyes.

You sat quietly outside the interrogation room, waiting. Inside, Detective Tsukauchi spoke with Aizawa. When the two of you arrived minutes ago, he’d asked for a moment alone with your guardian—so here you were, watching the officers swirl around the station.

Near you is a water dispenser. Two officers began refilling their cups, their voices low but enough to reach you.

“Crazy week, huh? My wife’s at Central—she says none of the heroes from the war have been discharged. Not one. Except…” he pauses, taking a sip. “…except Eraserhead.”

The other officer shook his head. “Yeah, and it doesn’t add up. You saw those legs?—too real to be prosthetics. And his left eye? Too similar to the right. That's clearly not a glass eye.”

“Exactly. My wife says even Recovery Girl couldn’t fix that kind of damage. And yet, here he is. Whole again. Heck—he looks even better and healthier than he was before his injuries.”

The first officer let out a low sigh. “Meanwhile, those kids from the U.A.... poor kids. Some of them are barely eighteen, yet now carrying scars for life. My wife mentioned one blonde boy with the explosion quirk. Heart puncture. Brutal way to start young adulthood.”

The second officer lowered his voice. “…It’s almost suspicious. Like Eraserhead did something that no one knows about.”

Your head lowered, biting your lip, and scratching at your fingers nonstop. Trying to keep a straight face. I shouldn't have meddled… 

Just then, the interrogation room door clicked open. Aizawa’s head peeked out, “You can come in now.”

The room was quiet enough that you could hear the release of air from the ceiling vent. Aizawa stands, “I'll be outside, kid.” 

“No.”

“Please stay. You deserve to know what happened.” He was taken aback for a beat. Aizawa returns a nod, then sits beside you.

Tsukauchi sat across from you, pen in hand, his voice gentle. “Let’s take it from the top. Your own words. I need it as detailed as possible. Can you do that, Yamizuki?”

I kept my focus on the paper on the table. “Yes.” 

You swallow deep and start, “I woke up in a room I’ve never been in before. It was surprisingly a cozy room—a bed, a couple of books, and stacked up snacks were there. As if someone intended to keep me there... It took me almost an hour before I forced my way out. Outside, the room was hidden in one of the hills near our town—” 

“—It was already dark at that time, so my priority was to go home.” You tug a loose strand of hair behind your ear, trying to force your voice steady. “Even along the path, the forest was corrupted with smoke from our town, but I didn’t think of it. Home is all in my head—”

“—When I got closer to our home, there were ten masked figures in black coats surrounding Pops.” You bite your lip, swallowing a lump, and your hands tremble slightly as they hover over the edge of the table. “He signals me to stay back. But one masked man grabbed him—”

“—and… burned him.” Your chest tightens, and you force a shaky exhale. “That’s all I remember. It turned black… then the next thing I know, I woke up in the hospital.” You rub your palms together softly, trying to calm the tremor running through your hands.

Tsukauchi studies you for a beat, no judgment in his expression, just quiet calculation. “Seven of those masked men were found unconscious and bloody. The other three were gone by the time Eraserhead and his team arrived. Then you were found collapsed in the middle, without injuries…”

You frown, anxiety tightening your chest. “So? What does that mean?”

“So… if you supposedly collapsed after Hiro died, who stopped them?”

Your hands press flat to the table. The question corners through your mind, shielding you from the answers. “I… don’t know,” you murmur, and your voice is low but firm. 

“Your quirk,” Tsukauchi continues, “is Biokinesis. Aside from healing, how else do you use it?”

“I… use it to enhance physical stats—mine, occasionally Pops’… that’s it.” You hesitate, feeling your pulse spike. 

“Do you know how to fight?”

“Yes. Pops trained me. But I’ve never used my quirk offensively.”

There’s a pause, pen scratching against paper. A sudden ring brings a jolt to your skull, throbbing. “You alright?”

“It’s… just my head,” you murmur, pressing a palm to your temple. The ache is sharp, the cost of digging into your memories. 

Tsukauchi shuts the notebook without another question. “We’ll stop here.”

Aizawa had been silent the entire time, arms crossed, sending Tsukauchi a look you can’t read.

Tsukauchi speaks once more, polite but firm. “Can you leave us alone one final time, Yamizuki? Thank you for your cooperation.”

The door clicks shut behind you.

You don’t know what they talked about after, and Aizawa’s stoic expression offers nothing. 

Although one thing’s for sure—This won't be your last time here.

•••

That night, the outside breeze clings cool against your skin. You're sitting on the front porch, knees hugged close, closed books stacked on your side. Most nights ended this way—books on biology, anatomy, genetics, stacked higher than your will to sleep. As if enough studying could quiet the chatters in your mind.

A figure lowers beside you, “Still awake?” Aizawa asks, voice flat, quiet.

You try to muster a faint smile. “Just finished studying, Sensei.”

“Hmm.” He doesn’t press, just stares into the dark yard. 

The silence settles too loud, too heavy. Until your guilt breaks you. “…I’m sorry, Sensei.”

His brow raises, “For what?”

“For healing you.” You reply faster than you intended. “I know you tried to stop me, but I tried to push anyway. And now—now the headlines are all over you, harassing you, invading your privacy. It’s because of me. I—” Your throat tightens. “I only made your life worse when this should've been your time to rest.”

Aizawa exhales, dragging a hand through his tied-up hair. “You think giving me my eye and leg back made my life worse?”

“No?”

“No.” His voice is blunt, almost dismissive. 

“I thought I’d never walk right again. Thought I’d spend the rest of my life compensating, fighting broken. You gave me back something I’d already buried. That’s not worse, Yamizuki. That’s a gift.”

The words hit harder than you expect. You stare down at your hands, still trembling slightly. 

Taking a deep breath, you finally mutter what’s been clawing at your chest since you moved to Musutafu. “Sensei… if that's the case, it’s not just you. I see them. I hear them. Anywhere. All those heroes. Their scars, injuries—half of them aren't even awake. I could help. I want to.” Your chest tightens as the words leave you, half a plea, half a confession.

Your voice drops quieter. “…And it’s what Pops would’ve wanted. He may not say it, but I know him. Like yours, I saw how his face fell when he watched all of you fight. Your injury. All Might. His past comrades. If I can do that, then maybe he can rest easier, even by a little…”

The silence stretches, thick. You almost regret saying it, you were supposed to take it back—until he hums low.

“You’re not wrong.” He leans back, eyes narrowing up at the stars. “They need help. Your choice if you want to give it.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Really?—”

“—Not publicly.” His tone sharpens, precise. “Not yet. The world would eat you alive if they knew. But there are ways around that.” He flicks a glance at you, then toward the school’s building windows, where faint light spills from Nezu’s office. “With Nezu’s help, we’ll make sure no one knows. Not the public. Not even the heroes themselves.”

Your breath steadies, a faint smile attempting to show on your lips. “Top secret?”

“Exactly.” His gaze locks on yours, steady. “You’ll heal them in controlled conditions. No names, no records, no spotlight. Only those we trust will ever know.”

You blink, stunned. “You’d really let me?...”

He exhales, a faint ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Under our supervision, you won’t repeat what you did in Juko. You’re not healing them all at once—I’m not watching over your unconscious body for days again. You faint again, and the old man will come back just to haunt me.”

You blink at his words, something tightening in your chest at the old man. For a moment, it almost feels like Hiro’s still here, listening.

Your lips press together, and you dip your chin in a small nod. Nothing more.

Beside you, Aizawa stays quiet, the skies filled with few and faint stars. For the first time in weeks, you feel the heavy lump bid its goodbye to you.

To be continued…

Chapter Text

Tsukauchi glides confidently along the busy hallways of Hosu General Hospital, his coat swaying lightly with each step. He offers polite nods and faint smiles to healthcare workers and civilians he passes by.

Reaching the left wing, he stops before the Special Observation Ward. Two uniformed officers stood straight on either side of the door. Their polite bows were low, quick. Tsukauchi returns the gesture with a curt nod, then pushes the door open.

The ward was spacious, lined with seven beds. Each one was occupied by a suspect still unconscious—except the last on the right side, near the window. The sunset painted the ward in orange hues, where the lone awakened suspect sat upright, staring outside as though the dying sun might give him answers.

Tsukauchi walks steadily toward him, footsteps light. The man—thin, pale, with bandaged arms—shifts slightly at the upcoming figure, confusion glows in his eyes. 

Stopping at the foot of the bed, Tsukauchi slightly lowers his head. “I’m Detective Tsukauchi of the Musutafu Police Department.”

The man blinks slowly, walls high.

“Are you now feeling well, Mister…?” Tsukauchi asks, activating his lie detector quirk.

“…Yuta.” His voice was rough, suspicious.

Ding. Truth.

“And yeah. I’m completely alright.”

Buzz. False.

Tsukauchi’s gaze flicks to the way his hands ball into fists against the blanket. He isn't alright—he is tense.

Yuta’s eyes narrow. “Why am I here? Those officers won’t let me through the door. Even the damn doctors.”

Ding. Truth.

“You don’t remember anything?” Tsukauchi tilts his head, his eyes sharp.

Yuta scoffs, leaning back slightly against the pillow. “Ya’ think I’d be asking if I did?”

Ding. Truth.

Tsukauchi’s eyes soften, but his voice stays professional. “Right. Then… can you tell me the last thing you remember?”

The man furrows his brows, dragging a hand through his messy locks. “…Well, yesterday I was hired as a bodyguard.”

Ding. Truth. 

Tsukauchi’s jaw tightens. “Mister Yuta… you’ve been unconscious for almost three weeks.”

A moment of silence follows, tension erupting all throughout the room. Yuta let out a sharp laugh, though it was forced. “Yeah, coat guy, nice joke.”

Tsukauchi didn’t smile. His steady eyes told Yuta otherwise.

“N-No… I was hired yesterday. I-I’m sure of it.” Yuta’s fingers dug deep into the sheets, his voice trembling.

Ding. Truth.

“…Right,” Tsukauchi whispers to himself. He slips his hands into his pockets, studying Yuta’s fidgety posture. “Do you remember who hired you? And then what happened after?”

Yuta’s eyes flicked to the floor, darting with hesitation. “He’s… Well, what happened was… Fuck! Why do I not know?!” He broke off, running his hands through his messy hair harshly, as if it would solve his problem.

Ding. Truth.

“Thought so,” Tsukauchi mutters. He straightens. Yuta’s answers are enough to realize there’s more to it than what he initially thought.

“I’ll be in contact with you from now on, Mister Yuta. For now, rest.”

Without waiting for his reply, Tsukauchi turns, his coat flying through the force as he strides outside the ward. He steps into the hallway, pulling out his phone.

As the line connects, his tone turns to an unspoken urgency. 

“Hello, Nezu? When are you and Aizawa available? I need to discuss something.”

•••

It was dawn when Aizawa woke up and found your room empty—for the nth time. Like every morning before the sun rises, you’d vanished for training. He didn't mind before, you asked for his permission after all—but he was hoping it was different for today. 

He rode his electric scooter and went straight to the forested perimeter of Ground Omega. 

It took him a few minutes to find you. “Stop that,” he calls out, catching sight of you mid-leap—springing off the trampoline, gripping on a tree branch, and using momentum to twist upside-down to flip and do it all over again, with weighted bands on arms and legs.

What a reckless workout, Aizawa clicks his tongue, unimpressed. 

“Sensei?” You halt your momentum, hanging upside-down from the branch like a bat. Sweat drips on the wood as you tilt your head to him. Then firmly, “I’m sorry, but no—never.” Without waiting for his response, you drop and jump off again.

Aizawa sighs, “Yamizuki, if you’re gonna start the healing later, give up your training for a while to save your energy.”

With one more flip, you land lightly on the grass and stride toward him, your arms on either side of your hips. “Sensei, no need. Just feed me and I'll be fine. Also, this has been my workout routine… I kindly refuse.”

“You call that a workout?” He deadpans. “That's suicide in disguise.”

“This isn't even half of my routine…” You mutter under your breath. 

Then, straightening proudly, “Besides… there’s a saying, ‘Fall seven times, and stand up eight.’” 

“So?”

“I have yet to fall. I haven’t worked hard enough,” you declare.

“Tch,” Aizawa pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes close tightly. “What’s falling is that branch on you if you don’t stop now.”

“Sensei—” you start, ready to reason.

His phone buzzes. Nezu’s name appears.

Your pupils dilate toward Aizawa's phone, like a cat seeing something foreign.

He lifts a hand, cutting you off. “Nope. Not a word.” Then he answers. You hear Nezu’s hushed voice on the phone. 

…How did the Principal fit in that small thing? You watch Aizawa, confusion leaking out from you.

“Yeah. Coming.” He ends the call, pocketing his phone in one swift motion.

Aizawa points at the trampoline beneath the tree. “Put that away and follow me to the infirmary after,” he orders, as he turns his back and begins walking away, leaving you behind.

Your brows knit together, a hand up. “Wait! Sensei!” 

“What’s that rectangle thingy called?!” you yell loud enough, hoping the middle-aged man heard you.

Aizawa shakes his head and whispers to himself, “What have you done, old man…”

______________________

You stroll the hallways, passing workers restoring damage to the main building along the way. Recovery Girl’s Nurse’s Office signboard came into sight. It wasn’t so hard to find—the pink board practically forces tugging at your eyes. You knock gently, waiting for someone to answer.

An unfamiliar short elderly woman in a lab coat opens the door, “You must be Yamizuki, come in.” You deeply bow to her and close the door.

“I’m Chiyo Shuzenji, the nurse here in U.A.,” she says with a squinting smile that makes her look half-asleep. “Youngsters call me Recovery Girl. You may do the same.” You return her smile, then follow her, though your gaze lingers nervously on the enormous syringe in her hand. 

Does she really use that thing…?

She slides the white curtain open, revealing the resting bed. 

Your mouth drops open.

“All Might-san…?”

The once Symbol of Peace offers a weak smile from the sheets. His white shirt is half-open, revealing a grotesque bruise below his left chest. A spider’s web of red and purple sprawls across him, but you can feel it—what lies beneath is worse. Even rocks bleed, it seems.

On his left, Aizawa and Nezu stand in quiet dread.

“You told me you wanted to try and heal him first. There you go,” Aizawa says, arms tucked behind his back.

“Consider this a test run in preparation for later. We’ve seen you in action. Recovery Girl hasn’t, and she’ll be the one mainly supervising you,” he adds.

Recovery Girl simply smiles at you.

“You don’t need to go all out, Yamizuki-kun. Just what you can give,” Nezu assures.

You steady yourself, stepping forward. “I’ll… diagnose him first. All Might-san, are you comfortable with this?”

He chuckles faintly. “I don’t have anything to lose, do I?”

You lay a single finger atop the bruise. Your yellow irises glow green, activating your quirk. Beneath your vision, you see everything—half a ribcage destroyed, a lung collapsed, a kidney and stomach torn, intestines shredded, a liver and spleen half-missing.

Your breath hitches. I’m surprised he’s still alive.

“…This would take a while.” You whisper to yourself, though enough for them to hear.

“How long?” Aizawa asks.

You calculate quickly, “My estimate is thirty to fifty minutes.”

“How so? You restored my eye and leg in fifteen minutes.”

“This is a different case, Sensei. Several of his vital organs are destroyed—his lung, stomach, kidney, spleen, and ribcage took the worst damage. Restoring each one takes time, depending on its complexity and properties. This isn’t a single fix, it’s several.” You blabber naturally, fingers tracing the spiderweb-like scar, still further diagnosing the man. 

Aizawa doesn’t press further. 

You glance up, “Since this will take a while, I’ll understand if you’d rather not wait.” 

Instead, all four pairs of eyes—Aizawa, Nezu, Recovery Girl, even All Might—watch you with tiny sparks of expectation.

“The three of us will supervise you later anyway,” Nezu says softly. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll be as silent as possible. Tell us if you need anything.”

You nod. Rolling up your sleeves, you tie your hair back into a bun. “Recovery Girl-san, one favor?” 

Your eyes land on her, her gaze sharp as a hawk. “What favor, Yamizuki?” 

“I heard you keep sweets—if you could please feed me every five minutes. My quirk burns energy fast, and I need steady fuel to keep my concentration stable.” 

She chuckles. “I’ll fetch them.”

You drag a chair close, then sit on it. Your eyes glow green once more. Both palms press gently against the bruise. All Might grunts faintly.

And then, you begin.

At first, it’s the lung—blackened organ slowly inflating, alveoli bubbling back to life. All Might gasps, chest twitching, “Breathe slow and steady, sir. Let the lung adjust as it rebuilds.” Your voice stays steady.

Then to the stomach—stitched together cell by cell until its acid can no longer burn through him. 

Time blurs. The room lights up with the glow of your eyes, with sweat dripping from your chin. Recovery Girl slips sweets on your lips every few minutes, each one to fuel your energy—though just enough to keep your quirk to push through.

The kidney restructures under your will. The liver follows, agonizingly slow, like sculpting clay from nothing. His intestines knit into long strips again, then the vessels reconnect.

Your own body begins trembling, vision tunneling. Your hands shake. Before you notice, Aizawa and Nezu are already on your side. Aizawa presses the ice pack firmly against your forehead, while Nezu steadies your shoulder without saying a word.

And finally—the ribcage. Splintered bone mends, fuses, then reshapes. What was once broken becomes whole again.

Then—silence.

A breath. A full, steady inhale. For the first time in years.

Your glow fades, palms falling heavy into your lap. Your chest heaves as though you ran a marathon.

You slump back in the chair, dizzy but triumphant.

Recovery Girl lets out a slow clap. “Well… consider me impressed. I'll accept the supervision then.” You let out a small thanks to her.

Aizawa’s eye narrows faintly, not in doubt but in quiet respect. Nezu pats your back in recognition.

All Might blinks at you, voice raspy but alive. “Young Yamizuki… Thank you.”

You’re too exhausted to answer, so you just let a tired smile twitch across your lips. 

For the first time in years, he is not a weapon, not a shield—just a man allowed to be whole. 

The Symbol of Peace… is finally at peace.

•••

The world is already sleeping by the time the four of you enter the back door at the Central Hospital. Past eight at night, the hallways are quiet, the few lingering nurses and doctors moving hastily under the nightlight. Hospitals always thin out during night shifts, making this the perfect time to execute the plan.

You follow Recovery Girl and Nezu, adjusting your loose medical mask so it doesn’t slip as you move. Aizawa walks behind, silent and watchful, his posture relaxed but alert. The occasional nod from staff—especially to Recovery Girl—makes you realize just how much respect she commands here.

They stop in front of a room. “Shota-kun, wait here with Yamizuki. We’ll need a moment to set things up,” Nezu instructs, striding away with Recovery Girl in tow.

You dust off your scrubs and sit on a nearby bench, knees together, hands folded neatly in your lap. Aizawa joins you, landing with a quiet thud. “You know the drill. Five patients max every day. No more. No less.”

“Yes, Sensei,” you reply, keeping your tone sharp and your posture straight.

“And meals after each patient,” he continues.

“Yes, Sensei.”

“And keep the mask on.”

“Yes, Sensei.”

He leans back, crossing his arms, feeling his usual weight of observation. “You have read the five patients' medical records for this day beforehand, right?”

“Yesterday night, Sensei.”

Recovery Girl and Nezu return, and she cuts in with a scolding tone. “Shota, stop that—Yamizuki already knows what to do.”

She gives you a reassuring glance. “We’ve arranged things so the hospital won’t allow overnight stays for these five today. You won’t have to worry about interruptions and being caught.”

You bow lightly. “Thank you.”

“Wait for my signal before entering,” she instructs, giving a subtle wave.

Minutes pass. Your hands twitch slightly, adjusting your gloves, smoothing your scrubs, shifting weight from one foot to the other. The quiet hum of the hospital settles around you. Then the door opens, and she gestures for you all to enter.

The room smells faintly of antiseptic, the faint glow of the television, and the sounds of guns flickering loudly fill the room.

Aizawa’s brows knit as he observes the screen. “Is this brat trying to give himself a heart attack?”

Nezu smiles faintly. “Let him enjoy himself. Maybe he was just bored.”

Recovery Girl chimes in, her tone casual but firm. “He was watching that film when I came in. I informed him that his follow-up surgery will be conducted now. I’ve got his permission to administer general anesthesia. He won’t know a thing.”

Your eyes drift to the man lying on the bed as you step toward him, ash-blonde hair matted slightly against the pillow, his right arm swathed in fresh bandages. His face shows the raw marks of battle, scars that hadn’t yet healed fully.

Ahh… the heartless man.

You remember the war live broadcast—the intensity in his eyes, the restlessness in his movements. Even then, you already knew. A piece of his heart had gone missing somewhere along the battlefield, and yet he still tried to stand up. And now, he’s awake seconds before, watching a film that can cause problems to his already broken heart. 

He’s indeed one stubborn fellow.

Your hands twitch briefly, itching in anticipation. You can almost feel the weight of responsibility settling on your shoulders. The room fills with expectation. Aizawa leans back against the wall, arms crossed, while Nezu observes quietly from a corner. Recovery Girl’s calm smile does little to ease your tension.

Recovery Girl steps beside you. “Yamizuki, meet your patient one for tonight.”

“Bakugou Katsuki.” 

To be continued…

Chapter Text

Aizawa enters Nezu’s Office, finding Tsukauchi in his usual detective coat and Nezu perched comfortably in the principal’s chair. The two were immersed in their conversation.

Nezu notices him, then claps his paws together. “Alright! Well, now that we’re complete, let’s start.” He flicks his gaze to Tsukauchi. “Detective?”

Tsukauchi adjusts his tie, voice steady. “The acting president of the Hero Commission called me yesterday. He was asking about the update on the list of Juko survivors.” 

He hesitates, glancing between the now-seated Aizawa and Nezu. “Do I include… her?”

Nezu nods swiftly. “Yes. Please do.”

Aizawa was taken aback, his eyes narrow and sharp. “What?” His brow raises, tone deeper now. 

“You know those bastards. Once they find out her quirk, it's not an exaggeration that she ends up as a healing machine. We might as well abandon her.” He glares at the mouse.

“Please calm down.” Nezu folds his paws neatly, unbothered. “I knew you’d react like that.”

He pulls a brown folder out of a drawer, then slides it across the desk—papers spilling out, and a provisional license on top. “Nightshade delivered these the day she moved to Musutafu. I’ve been confirming her records since then, and it's all legally registered.”

Name: Yamizuki Y/N

Hero Name: Pending

Affiliation: Private Mentorship under Augur (Pro-hero, Retired)

Quirk: Self-Enhancement

License Type: Provisional

Aizawa and Tsukauchi skim the documents, brows knitting. “Self-Enhancement? …Isn’t her quirk Biokinesis?” the detective voices, her provisional license in hand.

Aizawa’s confused stare lands on Nezu. “Is this your doing?”

Nezu shakes his head, a light smile on his face. “It’s Hiro’s. Apparently, even in death, he still made sure to protect her.”

Tsukauchi lets out a short sigh, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I understand, old man, but… this is dangerous.” He shuts his eyes, resting his head on his palms. “If the commissions find this out… Yamizuki might be placed in a hot seat.” 

Nezu brightly reassures, “I'll make sure they won't! Besides, they didn’t even find out All Might-san's and Midoriya-kun's false quirk registry if not for those two outing themselves.” Then he lets out a short laugh.

“Right…” Tsukauchi clears his throat, shifting the topic. “I have other news. One of the seven unconscious masked men just woke up.”

Aizawa leans in slightly. “You went to Hosu?”

“Yes.” Tsukauchi folds his arms. “My men called me. I asked a few questions. He couldn’t remember a thing. Only being hired as a bodyguard—and then nothing after that.”

“What’s more suspicious is,” Tsukauchi continues, frustration edges his voice. “He insisted he was hired yesterday—but he was unconscious for three weeks.”

Aizawa frowns. “A mind control quirk…”

“Possible.” Tsukauchi exhales deeply. “I’m still investigating it.”

Nezu rests his head on his paws. “If that’s true… then maybe they weren’t acting of their own will.”

“…Unwilling criminals who are victims of their own actions,” Aizawa mutters, staring at the tiled ground.

“Whatever it is,” Tsukauchi says sternly, “we should prepare for another threat. We don’t know their quirks, their names, their intentions… and that’s dangerous… especially now.”

A beat of silence floods the room. The three adults were all drowning in their own thoughts. Collectively feeling nervousness coursing through their system and slowly taking over, Tsukauchi breaks the deafening silence. 

He stands and bows lightly, frustration still etched on his face. “I’ll take my leave. I have errands. I’ll update you as soon as I can. Thank you for your time.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

“If what Tsukauchi said is true, Yamizuki-kun is truly doing us a favor,” Nezu says, eyes boring off the window.

Aizawa buries his hands over his face, hushing his voice. “The kid’s practically pulling a suicide stunt, and you call it a favor.”

“Then tell me, Shota-kun,” Nezu’s tone sharpens. “The heroes Yamizuki healed yesterday are just about to be discharged. All Might can’t participate in this anymore.” 

“If they strike again, can you handle it alone?”

Silence echoes into the room once again.

“Think of her choice as her distraction,” Nezu continues, his round eyes glinting. “I’d be more worried if she locked herself away, without us knowing what she’s doing or thinking. If that happened, Hiro would’ve taken us with him,” he says, laughing off his last words.

Aizawa’s shoulders slump. “I just pity the child. She never rests.”

“Pity is the last thing she wants to feel from us.” 

“It’s Support,” Nezu replies lightly. “I just know she has her reasons.”

Aizawa glares at the principal mouse, “You’re spoiling her,” then grumbles. Earning a chuckle from Nezu.

Aizawa rose from his seat, “If we’re done, I’ll take my leave.”

“Wait. I can’t come later.” Nezu’s paw lifts. “I won’t be here for a week or so.”

Aizawa raises a brow, crossing his arms.

“I have a flight to Hokkaido. There’s someone in Juko I need to speak with.”

“And who’s that?” Aizawa asks flatly.

Nezu’s smile widens. “You’ll see.” 

“Just a small gift for our dear Yamizuki-kun.”

•••

To say Bakugou is shocked is an understatement.

He’s been stunned for days.

One night, while watching an action film in his hospital room, Recovery Girl walks in with a syringe. She tells him it’s for the follow-up surgery she briefed days before. He agrees, and before he knows it, he’s knocked off.

When he wakes up… It’s weird.

His whole body feels reborn. Stronger than ever.

“That follow-up surgery was freaky as hell…” he mutters, flexing his once-severed right arm, now whole and unscarred.

He sits on a bench near the reception area, arms crossed as his parents fill out his discharge forms. His crimson eyes track the passing doctors, nurses, and families—until a familiar spike of red hair barges into view.

“YO BAKUBRO!” The red-headed’s bright voice booms across the lobby as he sprints vigorously toward him.

Bakugou’s brow twitches under the weight of a couple of stares.

“The fuck, shitty hair? Don't yell!” He yells. Louder. 

Kirishima chuckles and plops onto the bench beside him. “Man! How are you? It's been forever!” 

“Tch. It's been three weeks less, dumbass.” 

“Still counts!” Kirishima grins. “Are you getting discharged too? Me as well!” He says wide-eyed, pointing at himself.

“Oh—and Kaminari and Sero got out this morning. Heard about it?” He continues.

Bakugou raises a brow. Yesterday, Mina, Uraraka, and some pros were released. The day before that, Midoriya and Todoroki. Everyone is being healed, one by one, like magic.

He scoffs, “What sorcery is this?” 

“Huh?” Kirishima blinks.

“Don’t you think it’s hella weird? We’re suddenly all patched up. Recovery Girl can’t pull that shit off. It’s freakin’ impossible.”

Yet here they are, fully recovered.

“Well… yeah, maybe they got a new insane doctor. Who knows? I’m just grateful we’re okay!” Kirishima says brightly. “Also, mine wasn’t sudden. Recovery Girl told me days before about a follow-up procedure. Then one night—bam, injection. Next morning? Good as new!”

Bakugou stiffens. Him too?

“Same for Kaminari and Sero,” Kirishima adds, clapping his hands. “What a fate!”

Bakugou hums low, eyes narrowing.

Just then, a nurse calls Kirishima’s name. “Oh! That’s me. Later, Bakubro!” He stands, waves goodbye at him, but then he stops and points dramatically. “Hey—don’t forget. We’re enrolling together!”

“Yeah, yeah, get lost,” Bakugou grumbles, shooing him away.

A moment later, Masaru and Mitsuki arrive. Masaru offers a quiet smile, brushing a hand over his son’s spiky head. “Ready to go home, Katsuki?”

“Fuckin’ finally,” he mutters.

He trails them through the hallway toward the parking lot and to their SUV, scowl deepening as his gaze snags on a group stepping out of a black sedan.

Aizawa. Recovery Girl. And someone else. 

Someone in a medical mask, surgical cap, and hospital scrubs. 

If his restless eyes weren’t so sharp, he might have missed them. 

“Oi, Katsuki! Get your ass in the car!” Mitsuki barks from the shotgun seat, her glare firing blazing holes into him.

“Tch. Freakin’ old hag,” he hisses under his breath, climbing in.

As the SUV pulls away, his eyes linger on the back door they disappear to.

One thing’s certain. He’s curious.

And if there’s one thing about Katsuki Bakugou, it’s this—he can be nosy as hell.

Especially when it comes to someone who gave his second life.

•••

You let your back fall against the bed, arms spread. “I missed you…” You groan, sinking into the mattress as if it were your long-lost infant.

This has been your routine over the past few days. Training in the morning, studying in the afternoon, healing at night. Sacrifices stacked on sacrifices. 

The clock strikes one in the morning. Tonight’s healing session stretched five hours—you had to convince Aizawa to let you treat a few regular patients beyond the five planned heroes, hence it took long. You weren’t tired, so why not?

After all, this was for him.

Something he would be proud of.

Something to soothe his soul, wherever it wandered.

Your blurred gaze drifts to the urn resting on the floating shelf.

“You’re unfair, Pops,” you whisper, as though the night breeze might carry your words to him.

“How dare you leave me…”

The thought threatens to unravel you, drown you in ugly thoughts, and invite you to the dark state of mind, so you force it down. 

Stupid. You won’t go there tonight. Not tonight. Never.

You sit up, grab the stack of medical files from your bedside table, and flip through tomorrow’s patients—

Best Jeanist.

Mirko.

Earphone Jack.

Creati.

Hawks.

The first four injuries are nothing new to you—limbs, arms, organs, and other minor wounds. Manageable. But when you reach the last page, your eyes are stuck.

Hero Name: Hawks

Name: Takami Keigo

Age: 23 years old

Quirk: Quirkless (formerly Fierce Wings)

Injuries: Quirk stolen by All For One. Knife slashes across face and chest. Partially healed burns along the back.

You freeze. No one deserves this…

Aizawa once explained All For One’s ability to steal quirks in detail. Reading Hawks’ condition now, your fingers twitch toward a field you’ve neglected—the study of quirks themselves.

You never needed it in Juko. Townsfolk barely used their quirks, barely had problems with them. But here… you’re haunted with them every single chance it gets. You couldn’t restore Midoriya’s fading quirk, only his flesh. Now Hawks. And to you… 

Every unhealed person is a reflection of your ignorance.

You shut the file and shove it into a drawer, frustration rising. Then you head for your bookshelf and begin yanking quirk-related books, stacking them high on your study desk.

Foundations of Quirk Genetics: From Singularity to Society.

Repair and Regrowth: Stem Cells in Quirked Biology.

The Quirk Factor and Inheritance: A Medical Overview.

The books thud against each other as you stack, when suddenly—

A low caw fills the night. The swish of feathers brushes the air outside your balcony.

You halt on your tracks. Heart pounding, you sprint for the doors.

The balcony is empty, only painted in moonlight hues. No figure, no shadow—only a neat stack of brown journals resting on the tiles, a folded paper perched on top.

You drop to your knees and unfold it.

These are Hiro’s Journals, the detective is looking for. Read it or surrender it. Your choice. This can help in the Juko case. Take care, brat.

No signature. But you knew the messy handwriting all too well. The tone. The word choice.

All of it screams one name.

Someone who chose his peace and freedom. 

Nightshade.

To be continued…

Chapter Text

Your eyes land on the school entrance, crowded with students in civilian clothes. Enrollment season. The reason the halls are loud again—staff back on duty, professors returning one by one.

The only one still missing is the principal. Nezu flew out to Juko almost two weeks ago, claiming it was for restoration work. Hence, workload piles after workload.

You stride toward the teacher’s faculty room and knock softly. The morning sun hits your back, brighter than ever.

The door swings open to reveal a tall, broad man in a deep red suit, his silver hair gleaming under the light. Vlad King. You knew of him instantly—one of the teachers who stays at the dorms, one of the heroes you healed. The one with the torn-up insides.

“Aizawa?” His voice is rough. You nod in return. He steps aside and points at Aizawa’s desk.

You bow slightly, whisper a quick thanks, and make your way in.

“Sensei, I’m sorry to bother you,” you start carefully. “…Could I borrow quirk-related books from the library? I promise to return them before school starts.”

He doesn’t look up, writing across one of the stacked documents on his desk. “Is this about Hawks’ and Midoriya’s cases?” 

No answer.

He sighs and whispers low enough for only you to hear, “You failed to restore their quirks. However, you were able to tend their injuries—and that's more than enough. Think of the other lives you saved.” 

You stay silent for a while, eyes locked to the tiled floor. “...I believe there's a way somehow, Sensei.” You whisper. 

“I bothered you into agreeing to heal them. I refuse to do it subpar.” You voice, sternly.

A beat of silence flows between. Your words weigh on the black-haired's circling mind.

After much thought, “Stubborn kid.” He exhales deeply, “Fine. Give me a moment.”

“Thank you.” A small smile appears on your lips, bowing slightly. 

Your head slowly shifts from left to right, exploring the room as you wait quietly beside his desk. The room is full now—professors back at their desks, busy in their own little world. When you first moved here, most were still recovering in Central Hospital. Back then, it was just Nezu, Aizawa, you, and a handful of staff.

Your gaze drifts until it catches something new.

A History Board.

One massive chart plastered on the wall, lined with names and photographs of every faculty staff and professor, from the past and present.

Eraserhead - Homeroom, Heroics.

All Might - Heroics.

Gran Torino (formerly) - Homeroom, Heroics.

Midnight (formerly) - Modern Hero Art History.

And then—

Augur (formerly) - Heroics, Physical Education.

Your breath halts.

Pops? 

You knew Hiro Yamizuki was a pro-hero. Knew he once worked with All Might, then crossed paths with Aizawa and Nezu. But a teacher? One who stood in these very halls and was surrounded by students? That was new. 

No. That was impossible. Hiro was never the coddler type. Far from it. You were lucky enough to be his daughter. If not, you'd think the old man may have pushed you off the mountain hills from all your past training whines. 

He, as a school teacher, would've been trauma overload.

On the brighter side, looking back, you should have expected it. He managed to juggle both—your schooling and your training—without ever having a problem. At least, for you. If you were to say, he juggled both with flying rainbow colors.

You study the photo. A younger Hiro sharply stares back—still grey-haired, still stone-faced. Less wrinkled, yet held the same infamous poker face.

How much more don’t I know about you? Your gaze lingers, as if the answers might be scribbled into his younger face.

“Yamizuki.” Aizawa cuts through, watching you. 

Your attention shifts to him. “Yeah?” 

“Follow me.” 

You trail after him. He leads into the elevator, presses the button for the top floor. Silence hums between you until he breaks it.

“He didn't tell you that either, huh?” 

You land a look at him from the side. “Pardon?” 

“You looked surprised. Seeing old man on that board. Like he never told you he taught here.” He leans against the elevator walls, arms crossed. “That’s just how he was and still is. Secretive.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “I guess it makes sense now—why he knew you, and the principal.”

A pause. “Sensei… can you tell me more about Pops? If you don’t mind?” You ask before you can stop yourself.

Silence follows, only a quiet hum from the elevator's motor gears as it rises higher up.

After much thought, Aizawa exhales. “First off—he's one crazy old man. Brutal. Strict. Made his students train until they collapsed. Hated arrogance. Couldn’t stand kids who bragged about quirks they couldn’t actually back up in combat. He was feared, and rightly so. I know that because…” He looks at you, eyes held faraway glint. “I was one of his students.”

You nod slowly. That lines up. Some things just never change, no matter how old a man gets.

“But he’s the same man who drilled into me and my former classmates that quirks aren’t everything. To never rely on it. That conditioning your body matters more. He said quirks can be stolen, but discipline can’t.”

The elevator dings. You both step out into the top-floor hallway. You quicken your pace to keep up with him.

“Hiro was my mentor,” Aizawa continues. “I was the only disciple he ever took before you. Never told me why. But I’ll always be grateful.”

His tone shifts, softer. “Before teaching, he was a sidekick. Before Sir Nighteye, there was Augur. All Might’s first sidekick. Before all the fame, the glory—Hiro was there. With Gran Torino, he also played the part of building the young All Might.”

Your lips part, stunned. “And then?”

“After a decade, he quit. He referred Sir Nighteye to All Might, then walked away.”

“Why?”

“All Might got too famous. You know him. He despised the spotlight. Couldn’t breathe in it. So he left and taught here instead. Until the day…” Aizawa’s voice lowers. His steps are slow.

“…until the day he disappeared.”

He stops in his tracks, and a long-buried memory comes to haunt his mind once again. 

“I'll be gone. For a long time. Don't find me. Don't contact me. If anyone asks, tell them I retired.” Hiro declared, facing the people closest to him, the only ones whom he fully trusts.

The three sat stiff in their seats, frowns etched deep as they stared up at the tall, bulky, silver-haired man before them. Hiro’s expression was ice—hard, cold, and impenetrable.

All Might coughed and forced a laugh. His last desperate attempt to bring warmth to the freezing room. “You mean you’re going on a trip? Finally! About time you rest, my friend! You’re not getting any younger!” He flashed his trademark grin, but the corners of his lips trembled.

Hiro’s gaze shifted over them. Sharp and cold, always. However, this time… maybe they were wrong. Maybe it was their imagination.

Yet beneath that harshness, they caught. A flicker of agony, eyes that looked ready to spill, as if the frost in his eyes had finally melted.

Nezu clapped his paws together, bright and careful. “If it’s just a trip, Hiro-san, then no need to worry. You can take as long as you want. There are plenty of teachers who can fill in!” He tries to remain composed.

“When will you be back, old man?” Young Aizawa’s tone revealed his heavy worry.

Hiro answered without hesitation. “Bring All For One to his grave. Then I'll be back.” 

He left the room with a soft thud of the door.

None of them knew that sixteen years later, his promise would be kept—not in his hands, but in yours. An eighteen-year-old clutching his ashes. He did come back, in the cruelest way possible.

Aizawa blinks, shaking the memory off like dust. “That story’s for another time. For now—wait here. I’ll fetch the keys.”

He slips into Nezu’s empty office, leaving you alone in the hall, the ghost of his words still haunting you.

______________________

The hallway no longer felt like a zoo—it was the whole Amazon rainforest when you came back. Frenzied animals sprawled on every corner, waiting for prey to step out of the faculty room.

You lean against the railing outside the faculty room, watching the raucous hall, arms crossed. Around you, the hall buzzes with students chatting with each other. Some, with professors.

A voice then came, talking as if a megaphone were carved down his throat. “I’m just saying, man! I didn’t even get to thank whoever that is! I woke up, my ribs went fine, and my scars were gone. That’s not normal!” His voice echoes through the halls.

Denki Kaminari.

Four others trail behind him. Then the five of them stop near the faculty room, just beneath your reach. 

You recognize those faces. The ones you once healed. All, once with different life-wrecking injuries. Now, standing vigorous.

A short glance is all you spared their group. But Kaminari’s eyes were already locked on you, smirking flirtatiously. 

You frown at him before diverting your gaze, shivers climbing up your spine. Why is his face weird?

Kirishima pats him on his back, breaking his gaze from you.“Yeah, whoever they were, they saved my leg. Straight up unbreakable now!” He grins widely.

Bakugou scoffs beside the redhead, “When I find that guy, he’s dead.” Your frown grows deeper.

A collective silence fills the ruckus halls. Four confused faces slowly turn toward him. 

How ungrateful. You shake your head lightly, looking at the tiled ground.

“…For saving you?” Mina blinks.

“Tch. For making me indebted.” His scowl deepens. “I don’t owe anyone.”

Sero deadpans, “Who says it’s a guy, man?”

“Whatever.” Bakugou’s eyes narrow. “Girl, guy—I find ’em, I pay ’em back, and we’re even.”

The faculty door finally swings open. 

You stand straight. Aizawa steps out, passing by his students, and walks straight to you. He hands you a key and a couple of slips of paper. You feel the weight of five pairs of eyes pressing on you from your peripheral vision.

“Fill this form, and hand it to me later. The library's straight ahead.” Aizawa points down the end of the hall.

It'll be a long walk then. You lightly bow at him and mutter thanks.

Posture straight, you strut calmly, still feeling pairs of stares trail you as you go.

Aizawa stays behind, his gaze finally shifting to his five students.

“Brats. What are you doing here?”

Mina gasps, hand to chest. “Wow, Sensei. No hello? No, how have you been, my darling students?”

“You didn’t even visit us in the hospital!” Kaminari whines. “How do you even sleep at night?”

Aizawa’s eyes sharpen. “One more word. I’ll make sure you don’t sleep at night.”

Mina and Kaminari duck behind Bakugou, who stood arms crossed, his infamous default scowl plastered. Sero snickers, muttering, Morons.

Kirishima chuckles and steps forward. “We’re here to enroll, Sensei. We need your signature.” He hands over five forms.

Aizawa plucks a pen from his pocket and signs without pause.

“By the way, Sensei,” Kaminari pipes up from behind Bakugou, “We saw you talking to that lavender-haired girl. Who’s she?” He points a finger toward you, now halfway down the hall.

Aizawa’s eyes linger on them before returning to the forms. “My late mentor’s daughter. Why?”

“That’s sad… so… is she staying here for good?” Kaminari presses, eyes twinkling.

“She’s under my care and Nezu’s from now on.” Aizawa hands the signed papers back. “Here. Now leave.”

Kaminari nods slowly, smirking. “Guess I should visit your dorms more often, Sensei.”

A beat of silence. Then Aizawa realized.

His glare sharpens, and he smacks Kaminari without hesitation.

“To take care of you, Sensei!” Kaminari yelps, arms flailing. “And maybe comfort her a bit?” he adds, laughing nervously.

Aizawa’s eyes turn red, his hair flying as his capturing cloth floats. “Kaminari Denki!”

Sero grabs him and slaps his tape on the blonde's mouth while Kirishima steps in as a shield, scratching his head. “Forgive him, Sensei. Must be the medicine he took.” He flashes a nervous grin as Kaminari groans muffle behind him.

Aizawa shakes his head. “I’ll see you next month.” With that, he shut the faculty door.

Mina sighs at the struggling Kaminari. “Wow. The epitome of dumb blonde.”

Sero removes the tape on the blonde and lets him go. “Really, Denks? In front of the new dad?”

“Not very manly of you, man.” Kirishima shakes his head.

“Huh?! What about it? What's wrong with shooting my shot?!” 

One certain ash-blonde didn’t hear his peers bickering. Their ruckus, long gone, faded in his hearing.

His eyes follow your retreating silhouette, shrinking further down the hall. 

For some reason, his piercing crimson gaze never left you.

“Lavender's pretty famous these days, huh…” Bakugou mutters, brushing his thoughts aside—though his eyes never leave the back of your hair.

•••

It was past midnight. The Hero Public Safety Commission’s headquarters reeks of murky darkness. The workers were long gone, floors silent, rooms unlit—all but one.

The President’s office.

“What should we do about this, Hawks?” Mera’s voice was hoarse, covered in fatigue. He stands behind him, leaning against the glass wall, and his sunken eyes are on Hawks’ computer.

_________

Hero Times Japan | 3 weeks ago

Reports of Eraserhead’s sudden recovery sparked national interest. More recently, the former Symbol of Peace was spotted in a local grocery store—healthier, walking with ease, and appearing to have regained weight. Speculation grows regarding the existence of a miracle healer. Click to expand…

HeroBuzz Daily | 2 weeks ago 

This morning, several pro heroes, including Mirko, Mt. Lady, Edgeshot, and Hawks, finally walked out the doors of Central Hospital. But let’s talk about Hawks—sure, the scars and burns? Gone. But our golden boy doesn’t look so golden anymore. Kind of disappointing, isn’t it? You’d think the so-called miracle healer would’ve done more than clear up some scars—like, oh, I don’t know, restore his quirk? Well, maybe this ‘miracle healer’ isn’t so miraculous after all. Click to expand…

Hero Times Global | 1 week ago 

A month has passed since the end of the final war. As a result, countless heroes suffered devastating injuries, with many losing their lives. Yet recent reports suggest Japan may be concealing an extraordinary new asset. Mirko, Dynamight, Eraserhead, and others appear to have undergone complete physical and internal restoration, despite injuries that were once considered irreparable. Medical experts suggest that either it was the intervention of a mystery healer whose capabilities extend beyond Recovery Girl’s quirk, or a possible newly developed technology. Click to expand…

HeroBuzz Daily | 3 days ago

Mirko spills the tea! The Rabbit Hero says she was told to expect another follow-up surgery. Next thing she knew, Recovery Girl put her under anesthesia. When Mirko woke up? Bam—arm back, leg back, scars gone, even her minor injuries erased. And note this, she swore the whole room smelled like fresh grass when she woke up. Grass! And apparently, she’s stronger than ever. Sounds like a fantasy dream to us, but hey, would you dare argue with Mirko? Click to expand…

__________

Hawks scrolls through the latest reports, his golden eyes narrowing, cursor hovering on the last headline.

“Hmm. A grassy scent, huh? ...same as mine.” Hawks says, recalling his room’s scent when he woke up weeks ago.

Mera crosses his arms, tone blank but stern. “If this healer is real, we need an investigation. If not, we risk losing this healer to villains. So we speak, they’re itching to get their hands on someone like this.”

“Should I initiate an investigation?”

“No.” Hawks leans back in his chair, lips curling into a half-smile. 

“Don’t do anything. I’ll handle it.” 

 A beat. His gaze sharpens, voice dropping low.

“Alone.”

To be continued…

Chapter Text

Thud. 

You set each thick, worn leather journal on the bed, spreading them out like tarot cards as the bright sunlight shines over the cover pages. You take a quick sip of the matcha tea, then stare at them back.

This is… a lot. You let out a breath, drowning in part admiration, the other, in disbelief. 

An old image sneaks through, you can almost see him again—Hiro hunched over his desk at ungodly hours, his pen twitching as if his words might overtake the ache in his head.

His quirk, Prophecy, dragged visions from the future in scattered shards—flickering image sequences triggered by whatever crossed his path. A sound, a touch, an object, and sometimes, a person. They arrived whenever they pleased, like unwanted guests who never knocked. He couldn’t control when or how they came, only how he pieced them together afterward.

So he wrote. Page after page. Journaling became his anchor—his way of calming the whirlwind inside his mind. He’s always been that way—maybe even before you came along. Hiro wasn't so young after all. He's one bright old man, yes, but the kind whose genius costs him peace.

Still… this many journals? You stand before the bedside, scanning through each journal’s black inked front text, patently handwritten by Hiro. 

Visions VI.

Visions VII.

Visions VIII.

Visions IX.

Visions X.

Exercises. 

Exercises II.

Exercises III.

A scoff escapes your lips, a glance toward the urn. “You sure had a way with words,” you murmur, mocking him for the lazy choice of titles.

And then the one catches your eye—different from the rest—it was the only mint colored after all. It was thinner, yet evidently newer leather. 

My Yamizuki. 

Your fingers hover, then curl around the leather. The urge to open it clouds you. Maybe not yet. Not right now. You nod to yourself, forcing the curiosity down.

You gather the Exercise journals—and that one dedicated to you—and slide them neatly onto the bookshelf. The Visions volumes go inside a mint tote bag, the strap heavy against your shoulder.

As you move toward the balcony doors, just then—

A soft knock, “Yamizuki, dear? Are you awake? We're having breakfast.” A deep yet feminine tone. It's Thirteen. 

You freeze, keeping your lips shut, and breathe low.

“Huh… weird. She's usually up by now.” Her footsteps fade, each one softens than the last. 

The silence settles again. You exhale, whispering, “Let's hope Sensei won't be mad…”

You slide the balcony doors open. The cool morning air hits your face. Three floors up, and a forest before you. 

You step onto the concrete railing. The tote bag hangs heavy at your side. You measure the distance—forty meters to the nearest tree.

Then you leap. Wind rushes past your face. 

C-Caw. C-Caw.

You catch the branch with both your hands, gripping it tight. Birds' caws fill the forests before the flock flies away, when you land. One swing, then another, vaulting from branch to branch through the forest until the school walls shrink behind you.

Before you know it, U.A.’s far behind, and the glimpse of the main streets comes to greet you.

You beam. Finding the police station won't be hard, I guess… Springing to another branch.

______________________

News flash. It is.

The main street of Musutafu is one titanic ocean. 

Sea creatures crowd, swimming all over—fish, sharks, even whales. You name it. 

There's one peculiar creature lost floating on top of it, though.

A cat who swam too far through the ocean, curiosity too vast for her own good.

You wander the streets aimlessly, searching for anyone free enough to ask. But everyone’s wrapped up in their own world. Some walk nonstop, frantic. Others, glued to their phones, are working, chatting, smoking. How could you disturb them?

You bite your lip, almost bruising it. This is larger than I expected… 

Your eyes scan the street. You don’t even know where your feet have taken you—but you’d rather be lost than not move at all.

Then, just meters ahead, you catch a group crossing the pedestrian lane. On the other side—Wait. That shop. You’ve seen it before, a glimpse, when you took the car to the police station with Aizawa… maybe.

Only one way to find out.

You step onto the crosswalk. The crowd around you doesn’t move. Why aren’t they crossing? The roads’ free though—

You glance left, then right. No cars. Whatever. You take a step forward—

A rough hand yanks you back.

“WHAT THE FU—Are you trying to get yourself killed?!”

Before you can answer, a line of cars whips past. If it weren’t for that hand, you’d be roadkill. Well, maybe not quite to the extreme. Your quirk could always save you afterwards. 

“Well… the road looked free. I thought it was fine to cross.”

You glance back—and your lips part, brows lifting in surprise.

Bakugou—his ash-blonde hair damp with sweat, a white AirPod in one ear, a black bomber jacket with orange stripes hugging his large frame, black sweatpants, and that familiar faint caramel scent clinging to him.

You’re shocked to see him. He isn’t, more so seems mad than surprised. His brows dig deep, crimson eyes burning. “Ha?! You blind, dumbass?!” He jabs a finger toward the traffic light.

“No. It’s red. So?”

Back in Juko, there were no cars. Just people walking. The town wasn’t big enough to need traffic lights or cars. You could walk to the main town in a few minutes and cross wherever you wanted. Guess today’s lesson came the hard way.

“‘So’?!” He roars louder, heads turning your way. People start to stare. Great. We’re famous.

You grab his wrist, tugging him away from the lane. “What the hell, woman?!” he barks, resisting, but you tighten your grip until he follows.

You stop in front of a less-crowded shop and release him. “I don’t understand why you’re so agitated. I was just trying to cross the road,” you say, stern, arms crossed.

“Cross the road on red lights? Hah! Fuckin’ genius.” 

It was empty, though, you think.

“Tch. Go get yourself injured for all I care. Send my condolences to Eraser.” He turns to leave.

“Rude… wait—!” you call after him. “Can you direct me to the Musutafu Police Station?”

“I ain’t your damn tour guide. Ask Eraser,” he says without looking back, already walking away. “Tch. Didn’t even thank me,” he murmurs. Then jogs off, muttering something about not being able to jog in peace.

“Bummer…” you whisper, watching him cross to the other side.

“Pst.” 

“Pst.” 

“Pst. You in the white tracksuit.” 

You turn toward the voice—an old man standing by an alleyway.

“Yes, sir?” 

He puffs on a cigarette before speaking, “I can take you to the police station.” 

“Really? You'd do that?” 

“Yeah, no worries. Follow me.” He smiles—a little too wide. He flicks the cigarette to the ground, crushes it under his shoe, then gestures toward the alley. 

You follow the old man. His shoulders hunch slightly as he walks, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. He smells faintly of tobacco and something pungent, earthy even.

The air thickens as you turn the corner. The light and chatter of the main street fade behind you, replaced by the hum of a vending machine and the soft drip of water from a broken pipe.

He glances over his shoulder. “Not too far now,” he says, voice raspy and hoarse, that same small smile still fixated on his chapped lips.

You nod, clutching your tote bag. “Thank you for helping me, sir. I’m not used to the city.” 

“It’s no big deal,” he answers too quickly, almost gleeful. “The station’s right down there.” He gestures deeper into the narrow lane. 

You look. It’s a dead end.

This man… he’s only trying to help. Isn’t he?

Your instinct stirs. Something’s off—no people, no traffic, no police uniforms. Just trash bins and vandalized walls, smudged with old spray paint. You open your mouth to ask, but someone beats you to it—

“Oi.”

A rough voice cuts through the thick air, footsteps echoing across the damp pathway.

You turn. Bakugou strides, his bomber jacket half unzipped, crimson eyes glowing in fury.

“What the hell are you doin’, old man?”

The old man freezes. “D-Dynamight?”

“Get lost before I break your jaw.” For a second, the only sound is the steady drip of water.

Then the old man clicks his tongue and backs away, muttering curses under his breath. You reach for him, but he’s already disappeared around the corner.

You blink. “Why would you say that to an old man?” 

“Have you got no manners?” You tilt your head.

Bakugou stares, visibly offended. “Ha?! The hell you talkin’ about?! He—”

“He’s the only one who offered to take me there when you refused,” you say simply. “I don’t understand why you interfered if you weren’t going to help.”

His glare flares hotter, jaw tightening, “ARE YOU KIDDIN’ ME?! HE WAS TAKING YOU INTO A DAMN ALLEY!”

“Perhaps that’s a shortcut?”

He stops—utterly speechless. Blinks once. Twice. The sheer audacity empties his brain.

“If you’ve got nothing to say, I’ll take my leave. Thanks to you, I’ll have to find another person to take me there. You’re one big help,” emphasizing your last words.

You adjust your tote bag, calm yet brows furrowed, and start walking out of the alley.

“Also,” you glance back, “yelling is bad for the heart,”

You mean it sincerely. He just came back from healing. Even if your work was spotless, it still needs to be cared for.

Who are we kidding? Of course, Bakugou took it the wrong way.

That does it. He chokes on a sound halfway between a growl and a laugh. “You—! Unbelievable!”

He runs a hand through his damp hair, tapping his foot as he glares at you walking away. 

“Tch. Eraser’s gonna kill me if he finds out I let her vanish again,” he mutters, then sighs.

“Forget it.”

He jogs after you, catching up with ease. “I’m takin’ you there. Try not to get lost on the way.”

You blink. “That’s unnecessary—”

“Shut up. You’ve got the survival instincts of a freakin’ toddler.” You side-eye him.

“Walk.”

So you do.

The bright hues and breezy morning air start to return, the city noise rising like a tide. You quietly follow the broad back of Bakugou, the darkness behind you dissolving under sunlight.

•••

Your gaze lingers on the city scenery beyond the tinted windows, face heavy as though carrying the weight of the world. A faint light brushes against your cheek as you watch the spiky-haired jog away, growing smaller every second.

The sedan begins to move. So is your mind.

“Detective Tsukauchi’s at a crime scene right now, miss,” the police officer says.

You nod quickly with a polite smile, “I'll wait. Thank you.” 

Inside the station, you settle on one of the benches near the reception. You look down, fingers fiddling with the cotton fabric of your white tracksuit, the mint tote bag resting neatly beside you.

A pair of black running shoes steps into view. 

“Oi. Does Eraser know you're here?” 

“No. He will later.” You don’t look up.

“Why haven't you left? I already thanked you, didn't I?” 

Bakugou scoffs. “What a brat. I’ll give you ten minutes.”

“Huh?” You blink up at him, confused. He stares for a beat, eyes blank yet with his default frown, then turns and leaves.

You watch the entrance where he disappeared. “He’s one weird guy…”

Ten minutes later, Aizawa walks through the same doors.

Aizawa exhales, snapping you out of wandering. His hands tightly hold on to the steering wheel. “You can’t just sneak out like that,” he says. “I could’ve come with you.”

“We got home late last night from the hospital,” you reply, leaning back with your arms crossed. “I didn’t want to disturb you—or anyone. Besides, I can handle it.”

A low hum. “Bakugou told me about your handling.”

Of course, he did. You keep your eyes on the busy streets beyond the window.

“That’s how you handle things, huh? If Bakugou hadn’t called me, who knows what would’ve happened?”

You stay quiet.

He sighs, softer this time. “Look… you don’t need to worry about me, Nezu, or anyone. What’s the point of being your guardians if you’re the one worrying about us?”

You turn your head slightly.

“I know you don’t need protection. The old man trained you well. But how about you let us fulfill our duty?” His tone lowers, steady. “Don’t be stubborn next time. Ask.”

A pause.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone anymore.”

The words hang in the car, quiet but heavy.

You breathe out. “Sorry, Sensei. I’ll try not to do it again.”

“That’s enough,” he says, a thorn pulled free from his chest. “What were you planning to do at the station, anyway?”

You reach for the tote bag and pull out a set of worn leather journals. “This.”

Aizawa glances at them briefly.

“Nightshade delivered them a few days ago,” you explain. “They’re Pops’ journals. I thought they might help with the case. I was going to hand them to Detective Tsukauchi if he was there. It’s the least I can do.”

“Did you read them?”

You shake your head. “No. I don’t want to.”

He nods once, thoughtful. “Alright. Hand them to me later—I’ll meet Tsukauchi tomorrow.”

A beat of silence.

You hesitate, then ask quietly, “Sensei, about nightshade... do you know where he is?”

“No. The last time we saw him was before you woke up. He comes, and he goes.”

You turn your gaze toward the blue sky outside the tinted window, the clouds drifting slowly across it.

The blurry memory of him floods in.

Where could you have gone this time?

•••

It’s finally done…. 

Almost a month has passed since you started the secret healing operation. Fully healed heroes from the final war emerge day by day—and every single one tells the same narrative. 

They went under for their follow-up procedure.

They woke up healed. Overnight.

No healer in sight.

No machine.

No explanation.

The media can roar all they want. So can the government, the public, and the heroes. But they can’t prove a thing—not without evidence. Not when the Central Hospital’s playing accomplice. Not when Nezu’s covering your tracks. Not when not a single one of them has seen your face.

The real trouble? The heroes themselves. They’re loud. Persistent. Grateful. Mirko and Endeavor, in particular, have sworn to track you down and “repay” you during their interviews.

Both of them—two of the most resourceful pros alive. Exactly the kind you avoid right now.

If even one of them finds out…

Rumors spread like plague. One carries it, and the whole world catches it.

The thought alone makes your head ache.

Right now, you stand on the edge of a crumbling cliff, with Recovery Girl’s small hand gripping your wrist while Nezu and Aizawa pull you back from the drop.

The breeze cools your face as the four of you walk the long path toward the dormitory. Recovery Girl keeps her arm looped through yours. Nezu and Aizawa trail behind. It’s late. Quiet. Every few steps, someone yawns.

You came from the Central Hospital, finished the last five heroes tonight. The secret healing operation is finally complete.

And yet, there’s still that sharp little prick in your chest. Like a thorn that can't be pulled.

That faint whisper in your gut that says—any moment now, you’ll get caught.

“Ah! Yamizuki-kun,” Nezu pipes up suddenly. “I nearly forgot—I brought a gift for you! You’ll see it tomorrow!”

You glance back, startled, then bow a little. “Principal, you didn’t have to. But… thank you. Really.”

“You could’ve rested earlier, you know. You just landed,” you add.

“I wanted to be there for the end,” Nezu says, tone soft but proud.

For a moment, no one speaks. Only your footsteps and the night breeze.

Then Recovery Girl’s small hand finds your back, drawing light circles. “You did well, Yamizuki. I’m proud of you.”

“I wouldn’t have done it without everyone’s help,” you reply softly.

Besides… I’m not done yet. Hawks and Midoriya flash through your mind—their faded quirks, the one thing you still can’t restore.

“We only stood by,” Aizawa’s low voice comes from behind. “It was all you.”

“What you did was something revolutionary,” Nezu adds, eyes bright under the lamplight. “Someday, people will find out. When that time comes, you’ll have to learn to accept their gratitude.”

“Maybe…” you murmur, drowning in your thoughts.

“Now that it’s all done,” Nezu tilts his head, “what do you want to do, Yamizuki-kun?”

Right. What do you want?

Since before you were granted a mind that could think on its own, you always followed Hiro’s lead—training, studying, healing your townsmen in secret occasionally. The secret operation was a choice that was truly yours. 

And even that was still for him.

“...Something Pops would be proud of,” you whisper. “Something that brings him—and our town—the justice they deserve.”

A beat of silence stretches.

“Like a hero?” Aizawa asks quietly.

You briefly glance back at him.

Nezu claps his paws together, beaming. “Exactly! If you ever considered it, you’re more than qualified, you know?”

Recovery Girl coughs. “Well… if hero work isn’t your style, I could use an extra pair of hands in the infirmary.”

You bite your lip. Healing has always been your calling. It’s the thing that made you feel alive. But it’s not what your heart’s reaching for anymore. It’s your father.

“Think about it, kid,” Aizawa says, his tone soft as the dorm lights come into view. “Whatever you choose, the old man would be proud.”

You nod slowly. The four of you fall into silence again, and the path faintly glows yellow under the street lamps.

Then, up ahead, a shadow catches your eye.

A figure stands alone in the front yard—blonde hair catching the moonlight, his long black coat swaying gently along with the night air.

The hero who once ruled the skies.

Hawks.

To be continued…