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The large room smelled like rust, like old concrete that hadn’t seen the daylight in years, dust coating every surface. Boot scraped against the floor as the villains shoved their captives forward.
One by one, half a dozen students were forced to their knees. Yaoyorozu, Hagakure, Jiro, Ashido, Kaminari, and Aoyama. Metal cuffs bit into wrists pulled behind backs, faintly glowing with inhibitor tech. The glow made the room feel colder. Breathing was ragged–some from pain, some from fear–but no one dared to speak.
Midoriya stumbled in last. His legs nearly buckled, but the villain gripping his shoulder yanked him upright and slammed him down in the front. The straightjacket they’d locked him in pressed tight across his ribs, restricting every breath. Every time he tried to shift, the built-in rig hissed and snapped a line of pain up his arm, warning him not to resist. He bit down on the cry that wanted to escape. His quirk was being inhibited through the cuffs, along with his other classmates, but since he was the only one with the physical strength, they took an extra precaution of putting him in this contraption.
“Pathetic,” one of the guards sneered, shoving the boy’s head forward until his forehead nearly touched the floor.
Midoriya clenched his jaw, forcing himself upright again, even if his body shook with the effort. He scanned the line of classmates who were bruised, bloodied, and had heads bowed. Then his eyes found him.
Aizawa sat apart, bound to a heavy iron chair, arms and ankles shackled in place. A cruel frame forced his eyelids wide open, his usually tired stare now bloodshot and raw. Aizawa didn’t move, didn’t speak, but his gaze swept over the students with steady precision. He was counting breaths. Checking injuries. Tracking.
They didn’t have enough quirk inhibitors for all of them, so they must have manufactured that to keep him from using his quirk; if he used his quirk now, the pain from not being able to close his eyes at all after using it before being brought here would be unbearable.
The villain leader stepped forward, his coat dragging against the floor. “Look at them,” he announced to the gathered henchmen, his voice carrying in the echoing chamber. “Children, dressed as soldiers. This is what your so-called heroes send to fight us. Fragile. Breakable.”
He crouched in front of Midoriya, tilting his head to the side like a cat playing with a mouse. “They whisper about this one. They say he has potential. To be the next big symbol.”
Midoriya’s shoulders tensed. He willed himself not to look away.
The villain smirked, then rose and turned to Aizawa. “So. Eraserhead. Let’s see how much you value your little brats. Which one dies first?”
The words rang out like a slap. The students froze. Midoriya’s stomach dropped.
Aizawa stared. His voice was gravel when it finally came, but steady as stone. “Leave them alone. Start with me.”
The villain chuckled, pacing between the kneeling figures. “Then the decision is mine. And I’ll start with… you.”
He snapped his fingers. Midoriya was yanked forward, forced to kneel at the center of the room, straightjacket straps cutting deep as the villains pressed him down.
Aizawa’s chains groaned as he jerked forward in the chair. For the first time, something flickered behind his eyes–not fear, exactly, but the kind of fury that burned low and silent, the kind that promised violence when the moment came.
“Want to change your mind? Let me know who you want us to start with?” the villain asked, drawing a long sword.
Midoriya’s vision swam as the straitjacket forced another zap of pain through him, but through the blur, he found Aizawa.
“Don't…” his voice broke, more rasp than sound. He swallowed and forced his words out again, quieter but steadier. “Don’t give them what they want. You told us… heroes don’t play their game.”
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Aizawa’s gaze locked on his, expression unreadable in the dim light. His chains groaned as his shoulders shifted, subtle tension in every line of his body.
The villain leader chuckled. “Adorable.” He prowled past the kneeling students, blade scraping along the floor, sparks spitting up with every drag. “If you still won’t choose, I’ll choose for you. Slowly. Piece by piece.”
One of the henchmen grabbed a fistful of Midoriya’s hair, wrenching his head back. Pain shot down his neck and through his body as the device set off another shock. He hissed, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, but didn’t cry out.
The henchman’s other hand hovered over Midoriya’s chest, fingers twitching. A faint crackle of energy shimmered between his knuckles, a type of corrosive decay that made the air itself curl away from it.
Midoriya froze, heart hammering. He couldn’t move, couldn’t fight. The straightjacket bit into his bruises. All he could do was stare at the hand drifting closer, trembling despite himself.
And then… the glow sputtered out. The villain held up his hand to his face, expression snapping from glee to confusion.
Midoriya forced his head around just enough to see.
Aizawa-sensei.
He was still chained to the chair, still trapped in that cruel frame that forced his eyes open. Tears cut raw tracks down his face, but his gaze was locked, unwavering, on the would-be executioner. His whole body shook from the effort, muscles in his neck straining as though the act of not blinking was tearing him apart.
The villain leader’s lip curled. “So. The dog still bites.” He strode forward and backhanded Aizawa hard across the face. The crack echoed in the chamber. Aizawa’s head whipped to the side, blood dripping from his mouth, but his eyes didn’t leave the man whose quirk he was suppressing.
“Sensei-” Midoriya croaked, horrified.
“Quiet.” Aizawa’s voice rasped like gravel. “Stay conscious.”
The corrosive-handed villain snarled, straining, trying again to summon the quirk. Nothing came. He staggered back, shaking his useless hand.
The leader barked an order while he undid the device that kept Aizawa’s eyes open, tempting him to close them. Another henchman strode in, drawing a wicked, curved blade. “If quirks won’t work,” the leader hissed, “then we’ll do it the old way. And now you can feel free to close your eyes whenever you’d like.”
Aizawa, still bleeding, still chained, kept his gaze locked on the first villain, refusing to drop Erasure even as another weapon hung poised over his student’s neck. His eyes burned like acid, lids twitching from the effort of holding them open. Every muscle screamed for relief, but the moment he blinked, the villain’s hand would turn deadly again, and Midoriya-
He ground his teeth, refusing to follow that thought through.
The quirk-user sneered from where he knelt, restrained at the edge of the circle, glaring at Aizawa. “You can’t keep me down forever, Eraser. You’ll slip. And when you do-” his ruined fingertips twitched eagerly. “I’ll turn that boy into dust.”
Aizawa said nothing, only stared harder, every tendon in his neck straining. His vision blurred, dark spots stuttering at the edges, but he locked his focus onto the man’s face. His body was breaking down, but his will refused.
The leader of the group chuckled, pacing in front of the captives like a showman. “It’s admirable, really. Tearing your own eyes out just to keep one brat alive. But quirks aren’t the only way to kill, are they?”
He gestured, and one of his henchmen stepped forward, a thick man carrying that curved blade.
Midoriya’s breath hitched when the cold steel flashed under the torchlight. His knees were still on the hard floor, straightjacket biting into his shoulders as rough hands shoved him lower. The henchman grabbed his hair again, jerking his head back, and the angle made his throat stretch, vulnerable and exposed.
The blade hovered just beside his face, too close, close enough that every shaky inhale whistled against the metal.
Midoriya’s stomach dropped further. He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even brace himself. All he could do was squeeze his eyes shut and hear the ragged, furious sound of Aizawa straining against his chains, breath hissing like a feral animal’s.
The leader leaned in close to Aizawa, grin wide and sharp. “Blink, Eraser. Let your eyes rest. Save yourself. Either way, you’ll watch him die.”
The blade lifted, poised in a clean arc.
The far wall shuddered with a concussive blast. Concrete rained from the ceiling as shouts rang out. Familiar voices, rough and urgent. Light flared through the smoke. Reinforcements. Heroes.
The room erupted. Villains scrambled for cover, some shouting orders, others drawing weapons. The leader cursed and spun toward the chaos, barking for his men to hold their ground.
But the sword didn’t stop.
In the blur of confusion, the henchman grinned down at Midoriya and swung anyway.
“No!” Aizawa’s voice tore raw from his throat. He threw his whole weight forward, the chair screeching against the stone. Chains bit through cloth and skin as he wrenched himself free of their anchor just enough to topple, enough to fall, enough to throw himself into the path of the blade.
The steel struck his shoulder, slicing deep across muscle and collarbone. The impact jolted through him, hot and bright, but he forced his body forward, collapsing over Midoriya.
Blood splattered across the floor, across Midoriya’s cheek.
“Sensei–!” Midoriya’s strangled cry came muffled beneath him, his straightjacket useless as he tried to twist, tried to catch him. Panic and guilt slammed into his chest all at once.
Above them, the blade withdrew for another strike, but Aizawa didn’t flinch. He locked his trembling eyes on the corrosive-handed villain still straining too close to his student, refusing to blink, refusing to give him the chance.
Every second was agony, but he would not let go. If he faltered for even a second, Midoriya would still be gone.
All around, the clash of heroes and villains roared closer.
The next strike never landed.
A blur of movement and suddenly another figure was between them, catching the blade mid-swing with gauntleted hands. The weapons screeched against reinforced steel, sparks spitting across the floor.
“Hands off the kid!”
Heroes flooded the chamber all at once. Light and fire cut through the smoke. The clash of quirks filled the air.
The leader continued to shout orders, but the tide turned fast. They hadn’t expected this many pros, hadn’t expected the sheer ferocity of the counterattack. Villains scrambled, some cut down where they stood, others fleeing in panic.
The corrosive-handed villain–the one Aizawa’s gaze still pinned–tried to snarl something, but a concussive blast from another hero caught him square in the chest. He hit the wall hard and crumpled, unconscious.
Relief crashed through Aizawa so violently that he almost blacked out. His eyes slammed shut at last, lashes sticky with tears and grit. His body sagged forward, spent and bleeding, but he refused to shift off Midoriya until he was certain the immediate threat was gone.
Rough hands worked at Midoriya’s straightjacket buckles, freeing him from the crushing restraints and the last of Aizawa’s, as well. The moment Midoriya’s arms came loose, he twisted toward Aizawa, catching him by the shoulders to hold him steady.
“Sensei, you’re-you’re bleeding!” Midoriya’s words stumbled over themselves, panicked and thick.
Aizawa’s head tipped forward, sweat and blood matting his hair, but his eyes cracked open just enough to check him over. “You’re… in one piece.” His voice was hoarse.
Midoriya’s chest tightened. “Because you–you nearly–” his throat closed. Tears blurred his vision.
“Stop.” Aizawa’s tone was iron, even in exhaustion. He gripped Midoriya’s sleeve with blood-slick fingers, grounding him. “They didn’t get either of us.”
Midoriya swallowed hard, blinking fast, but he couldn’t miss the guilt buried deep in his teacher’s expression, the way his jaw clenched, the way his gaze slid away for a second too long. Always blaming himself. Always.
“You always do this,” Midoriya whispered, voice trembling. “But you saved me. Saved us. Again.”
Aizawa’s mouth opened, but shut again. Instead, he just leaned a little heavier into Midoriya’s hold, too worn down to hide how badly he was shaking.
The battle still raged in dwindling pockets around them, but for one fragile moment, it didn’t matter.