Chapter Text
Tenya Iida always woke before his alarm.
Discipline wasn’t just a habit for him — it was a philosophy engraved into his bones. At 4:59 a.m., a moment before the device on his dorm desk would have chimed, he rose, straightened his glasses, and began his morning stretches. The engines embedded in his calves hummed faintly, like loyal dogs waiting for their leash to be clipped on.
Today, they felt cold.
He ignored it.
Discomfort was a distraction, and distractions were unacceptable.
The sun had barely begun to lighten the horizon when he jogged out onto the U.A. grounds, the rhythmic whrrr-kssh, whrrr-kssh of his engines breaking the stillness. Normally, this sound filled him with purpose. It reminded him of Tensei — his brother, his role model, his inspiration.
But today, as his feet pounded the track, his engines sputtered once, a tiny stutter in the otherwise mechanical rhythm.
Tenya stumbled.
Just for a fraction of a second — but enough to jar him.
He slowed his pace and rested one hand on his thigh. The engines felt tight, almost as if they were resisting him. Not painful. Not damaged. Just… unhappy.
Engines didn’t have feelings, he reminded himself.
I’m simply tired. Pushing myself too hard. I must reevaluate my schedule.
He was lying to himself and knew it.
Everything had felt wrong since Hosu. Since Stain. Since he’d felt the warmth of his brother’s blood under his fingers and listened to Tensei struggle to breathe words of comfort he couldn’t possibly have believed himself.
Tenya Iida had faced villains. He’d fought for his friends. He’d taken leadership roles with pride.
But that night in Hosu, he’d felt his heart twist into something dark and trembling.
Even now, months later, every time he closed his eyes he saw Stain’s cold glare.
Every time he opened them, he saw Tensei’s ruined body.
Maybe that was when the first crack formed — the hairline fracture in his unwavering sense of justice.
But cracks spread.
Later that morning, as Class 1-A shuffled into homeroom, Tenya sat straighter than usual, back stiff, jaw clenched. He answered every question with too much enthusiasm. He moved with rigid precision. He created the illusion of normalcy using nothing but force of will.
Midoriya noticed.
Of course he did.
He watched Tenya with a soft, worried stare — the kind Tenya hated most.
Pity.
Izuku Midoriya pitied him.
“Iida-kun,” Midoriya whispered when Aizawa stepped out briefly. “Are you feeling okay? Your engines—”
“I AM PERFECTLY FINE!” Tenya barked louder than he intended, causing half the class to flinch.
He flinched too.
Midoriya sank back in his seat, cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean—”
Tenya bowed his head stiffly. “No, I apologize. Raising my voice was inappropriate. Please disregard my outburst.”
But he could feel eyes on him — Uraraka’s concerned frown, Todoroki’s quiet analysis, even Bakugou’s judgmental scowl.
He needed to get himself under control.
He needed to—
be stronger.
That night, he stayed late in the library reviewing course material. He could have gone back to the dorms, relaxed with his classmates, played games, or joined the others for late-night snacks.
But that wasn’t who he was.
That wasn’t who he could afford to be.
Heroes didn’t get to relax.
Heroes didn’t get breaks.
Heroes didn’t fail.
He kept reading until the words blurred. His engines ached again. His chest tightened. His breathing grew shallow.
I must not falter. I must not—
A soft sound broke the silence.
A phone vibrating.
His phone.
Strange — he didn’t remember receiving a message.
He pulled it from his bag and found an unknown number blinking on the screen.
1 NEW TEXT
He opened it.
“We know what happened in Hosu. We know what you lost. We know what U.A. is hiding.”
Tenya froze.
The library felt suddenly colder.
“Heroes fail people like your brother all the time. But you don’t have to.”
His hand tightened around the phone so hard his knuckles whitened.
“If you want justice, real justice, we can help you.
We’ll contact you again.”
The message vanished — deleted remotely before he could react.
Tenya shot to his feet, breath sharp and uneven. He looked around the library, half-expecting someone standing between the shelves, watching him.
There was no one.
Just the message echoing in his mind.
They knew.
About Tensei.
About Hosu.
About him.
He should tell Aizawa. He should report it immediately. He should have thrown the phone across the room and walked away.
He didn’t.
He sat down.
His heart pounded like a deafening clock.
Heroes failed my brother.
U.A. failed to protect us.
I failed.
For the first time, the idea slithered into his mind:
What if the people sending this message… weren’t wrong?
Tenya tried to ignore the message. He tried to bury himself in schoolwork, training, and routine. But he couldn’t un-see it. Couldn’t un-hear the words.
And the second message came sooner than expected.
This time, a voice.
Distorted. Filtered. Impossible to identify.
“Iida Tenya,” it said calmly, almost pleasantly. “We want to talk.”
Tenya’s throat tightened. “Who is this? How did you get my number?”
“A friend,” the voice answered. “Someone who understands injustice. Someone who knows U.A. isn’t the shining beacon it pretends to be.”
“I am not interested in villainous manipulation,” Tenya snapped, trying to control the tremor in his voice. “If this is the League of Villains—”
“It isn’t,” the voice lied smoothly. “We aren’t asking you to betray anyone. We’re simply offering the truth.”
Tenya hesitated.
He shouldn’t listen.
He should hang up.
But…
“What truth?” he whispered.
“The truth that your brother’s attack could have been prevented.”
Tenya’s breath stopped.
“Stain slipped through cracks,” the voice continued. “Cracks in hero society — cracks U.A. refuses to address. Cracks that cost your brother everything.”
Tenya trembled.
The voice pressed on.
“You’ve noticed it, haven’t you? The hypocrisy. The favoritism. The failures swept under the rug.”
He had noticed.
Ever since Hosu.
“U.A. won’t fix itself,” the voice added. “People like you… the ones who see the rot… you’re the only ones who can force change.”
Tenya swallowed hard.
Force change.
He shouldn’t ask the next question.
“...What do you want from me?”
“Nothing yet,” the voice purred. “Just listen. We know you want to do the right thing. We know you want to prevent more… tragedies.”
Images of Tensei’s broken body flashed through Tenya’s mind.
“We’ll contact you again soon, Iida. Think carefully about who is truly failing society.”
The call ended.
Tenya stared at his phone, fingers trembling uncontrollably.
This was wrong.
Villains manipulated.
Villains lied.
Villains preyed on weakness.
He would never help them.
Never.
…Right?
He didn’t sleep that night.
And the next message came the following evening.
It was a picture.
His brother, struggling through physical therapy, expression contorted with effort.
Attached was a single sentence:
“Heroes let this happen.
You don’t have to.”
Tenya’s engines screamed with pain.
His heart cracked a little more.
And the path he would walk — the one that would eventually make him a traitor… and a killer — began here, in this moment of weakness and grief.
Where he looked at the screen…
…and didn’t delete the message.