Chapter Text
U.A. High School - Main Building Corridors
Friday, March 10, 2141
4:55 PM
“We’re here, Midoriya-kun. I’ll review your file properly this time—along with the others—and I apologise for not doing so earlier. I’ll be waiting for you in my homeroom next month.”
Eraserhead’s voice was as flat and tired as ever, like this conversation barely registered as something worth emotional investment. He didn’t even look at her when he said it, already half-turned away as if the matter were settled beyond dispute.
Izumi blinked, thrown off just enough that it showed. “But—Eraserhead-san,” she said, scrambling to catch up, “wasn’t I supposed to attend this meeting for a reason?”
He paused for a fraction of a second, then gave a short, dismissive shrug. “I’m certain Nezu won’t let an intelligent young woman like you be rejected. This is probably just one of his odd routines.” His mouth twitched faintly, something between a smirk and a sigh. “He’s eccentric as always.”
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he added, “Now off you go. Best not keep him waiting.”
And just like that, he turned sharply on his heel and strode down the corridor, capture scarf trailing behind him like a lazy, coiling snake. His footsteps faded quickly, swallowed by the hum of U.A.’s after-hours quiet.
Izumi stayed where she was.
The sudden silence pressed in around her, making her painfully aware of the rapid thud of her heart. It felt too loud, like it might echo down the hallway if she didn’t get it under control. She inhaled slowly, deliberately, counting the breath in and out the way she’d been taught, until the tight knot in her chest loosened just a little.
Okay, she told herself. It’s fine. It’s just a meeting.
Still, her thoughts refused to settle. Extra interviews weren’t normal. They weren’t meant for students like her—students who had passed through the regular entrance exam, students who hadn’t taken recommendations or pulled strings or stood out in the way that drew this kind of attention. She’d avoided recommendations on purpose, precisely to escape situations like this.
Public scrutiny still tied her tongue in knots, no matter how many mock debates she’d been forced through growing up. No matter how often Kacchan had yelled at her to “just speak already.”
She straightened, squared her shoulders, and stepped forward before she could talk herself out of it. When she reached the door at the end of the corridor, she hesitated—just for a heartbeat—then raised her hand and knocked gently.
“Ahh, Midoriya-kun. Welcome, welcome. I’m a rat, a mouse, or a bear… though that’s not important, because I—”
“Chimaera,” Izumi blurted out before she could stop herself.
The word escaped on instinct, reflex overriding common sense. The moment it left her mouth, her stomach dropped.
“Based mostly on Amazon weasel and stoat,” she rushed on, mortified, “with traits from the other species you mentioned— I–I’m sorry for interrupting you, sir!”
For half a heartbeat, the small white mammal froze.
Then his eyes lit up.
A delighted, almost wicked grin split his face, and a sharp, manic little cackle bubbled out of him—bright, pleased, and entirely too amused. It echoed just long enough to make Izumi’s ears burn.
But beneath it—somewhere deeper in the room—came the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat.
Nezu’s laughter cut off instantly.
For a fleeting moment, the sparkle vanished from his eyes, replaced by something sharper. Older. Assessing. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, he bounced back into cheer, tail flicking behind him.
“You definitely are a fine specimen, Midoriya-kun,” he said pleasantly, as though nothing odd had occurred at all. “And there’s no need to apologise. Your guess was spot on.”
He gestured inward with one small paw. “But more importantly, I am the Principal, so please—do come in. Would you like some tea? I’ve got a lovely oolong brewing.”
Izumi realised, with a rush of embarrassment, that she’d been standing frozen in the doorway the entire time. Heat crept up her cheeks as she shuffled inside, closing the door gently behind her.
Her thoughts tumbled over one another the moment she crossed the threshold.
Why is there an extra interview?
Isn’t this usually only for recommended students?
She’d gone out of her way to avoid taking a recommendation precisely to escape situations like this. To avoid being put on display. To avoid rooms full of adults with expectations and questions and eyes that saw too much.
Public speaking still tied her tongue in knots, no matter how many mock debates she’d endured growing up. No matter how often Kacchan had shouted at her to “just say it already.”
She dipped her head slightly, forcing her hands to stay still instead of worrying at the hem of her skirt. “Yes, Nezu-san,” she said carefully. “I’d appreciate a cup of tea, sir.”
The office smelled faintly of tea leaves and old paper—warm, comforting scents that clashed oddly with the tension crackling beneath the surface. It felt cosy in the way a library did, quiet and enclosed… but not safe.
And then she really looked around.
Besides herself and Nezu, there were—
Oh kami.
All Might stood near the far side of the office in his scrawny, true form, shoulders hunched and posture stiff, like he would much rather be anywhere else. He looked fragile in a way Izumi still wasn’t used to seeing, his usual overwhelming presence stripped down to something thin and almost breakable.
Nearby was an elderly man in a yellow-and-white hero suit that felt painfully familiar. The costume screamed Gran Torino, straight out of old footage and history books—but that couldn’t be right. Gran Torino was supposed to be retired. Supposed to be nearly two metres tall.
This man barely reached her chest.
No way, her mind supplied automatically.
And then there was Sir Nighteye.
He stood with his arms folded, sharp eyes already locked on her, expression so cold it felt like she’d personally offended him just by existing. The look he gave her was the kind usually reserved for criminals caught red-handed, not nervous students clutching teacups.
And then—
Detective Tsukauchi Naomasa.
Her breath hitched.
Her dad had tried to meet him once. Before everything went wrong. Before the hospital rooms and hushed conversations and words that never quite said what they meant. Tsukauchi leaned against the wall now, trench coat draped loosely over his shoulders, notebook in hand, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who was never present unless things were about to go very, very badly.
Why is the human lie detector here? she thought, a slow chill crawling up her spine.
Her spiralling thoughts ground to a halt when All Might cleared his throat.
“Midoriya-shōnen,” he said carefully, bony hands clasped tight in front of him, “it’s… good you’re here. There are important matters we need to discuss.”
Izumi glanced up at him and offered a small, gentle smile—one she’d practised over the years. He wasn’t doing it on purpose. The misgendering was probably just habit, especially with her wearing a skirt today. He’d asked her, more than once, to correct him when it happened.
So she did. Softly. “Yagi-sensei—today it’s Midoriya-shōjo. Skirt day.”
“What an impolite bra—”
“One word more, Sasaki,” Tsukauchi cut in flatly, not even looking up from his notebook, “and you’re out.”
Izumi’s inner fangirl shrieked.
I know Sir Nighteye’s surname!
The thought was bright and absurd, flaring up in her mind even as the sting of the transphobic jab twisted unpleasantly in her chest. She swallowed it down, forcing herself to stay composed. Nighteye merely clicked his tongue in irritation.
“Tch.”
Izumi slid into the chair opposite Nezu’s desk, knees knocking together beneath the table as Nezu hopped over and set a steaming cup of tea in front of her. The porcelain was warm beneath her fingers, the heat seeping into her hands and grounding her more than she expected.
“So, Midoriya-kun,” Nezu chirped, settling onto his own chair like an over-energised plush toy, “we’d like to discuss your sudden quirk development during the Entrance Exam. The second one, that is—besides One For All, of course.”
Her heart stuttered.
“Everyone here is already informed,” Nezu continued cheerfully, gesturing around the room. “Sir Nighteye, the old-timer here is Gran Torino, and the gentleman in the trench coat is Detective Tsukauchi Naomasa.”
Oh.
So it really was Gran Torino.
Her brain stalled for a split second before her mouth caught up.
“Oh—you mean that thing where I accidentally nicked Uraraka-chan’s quirk when I was falling?” Izumi blurted out. “I gave it back straight away, I swear! I just—somehow kept a copy of it.”
Her free hand waved vaguely as she spoke, defensive without meaning to be.
Gran Torino snorted, leaning heavier on his cane. “Listen here, ya little zygote. We ain’t here to chew you out. But that ability of yours…” His eyes narrowed. “It’s got a familiar ring to it. Reminds me of a certain bastard.”
Sir Nighteye adjusted his glasses, mouth drawn into a thin line. “An individual who isn’t exactly recorded in public history.”
“Classified,” Tsukauchi muttered, flipping a page. “Technically.”
All Might’s expression darkened, skeletal fingers digging into his knees. He opened his mouth, hesitated—and then closed it again as Nighteye pressed on.
“We’re not jumping to conclusions,” Sir Nighteye said coolly. “We simply want to know—how did you know you could give it back?”
Izumi frowned, fingers tightening instinctively around her teacup until the heat verged on uncomfortable.
“It just… felt like I could,” she said slowly, searching for the right words. “Like an instinct. I didn’t think about it. I just knew.” Her shoulders drew in slightly. “So I tried, and it worked. Not exactly how I expected—but it worked.”
She hesitated, then looked up. “May I ask who this ‘individual’ is?”
The question landed heavier than she intended.
Gran Torino and Sir Nighteye exchanged a look steeped in old memories and unspoken warnings, the kind that suggested even saying the name aloud might invite it back into the room.
Nezu cleared his throat, polite but deliberate. “Midoriya-kun, this person’s existence has been deliberately scrubbed from official records. Only the highest levels of hero society and government are aware of him.”
Izumi blinked.
Her stomach dropped.
That narrowed it down far too much. She wasn’t stupid. The pieces were already lining up in her head, sliding into place whether she wanted them to or not.
Please let me be wrong, she thought, even as a cold knot twisted in her gut.
All Might finally spoke.
“Midoriya-shōjo,” Yagi-sensei said quietly, his voice rough, like the words scraped on the way out. “We mean the villain known as All For One… whom I fought six years ago.”
The room went dead silent.
Every pair of eyes fixed on her, waiting. Expecting shock. Horror. Denial.
Her thoughts fractured instead.
That name echoed, hollow and wrong. No. That didn’t make sense. It couldn’t. Her dad wouldn’t—
Not again.
Not like that.
And then it clicked.
Suddenly, horribly, everything made sense.
She stopped skirting around it.
Izumi stared down into her tea, watching the surface tremble faintly as her hands shook. When she spoke, her voice came out flat—almost empty—even as tears welled despite her best effort to stop them.
“Yagi-sensei,” she said, “did he give you that injury before… or after you started crushing my dad’s skull into a pulp?”
Tsukauchi’s pen froze mid-stroke.
Gran Torino’s frown deepened, face hardening into something ugly. Sir Nighteye looked like he might actually kill her where she sat. Nezu’s ears drooped just a little.
And Yagi—
Yagi went deathly pale.
“You’re—what?!” someone snapped.
“My dad,” Izumi continued, her voice cracking now no matter how hard she fought it. “The previous boogeyman of the underground. The man who hadn’t committed a crime in nine years until you shattered his skull while he was out buying groceries.”
The air in the office thickened, pressing down on her chest until it was hard to breathe.
The tears didn’t come like they usually did. No hiccupping sobs. No messy flood. These fell slowly, one by one, heavy with real weight. Grief came in sharp waves, laced with betrayal—and beneath it all, a simmering spark of anger she barely kept contained.
Better safe than sorry, she thought dimly, fingers slipping into the hidden pocket sewn into her sleeve.
Across the room, Toshinori didn’t move.
Her words dragged him back to that day, the memory replaying with cruel clarity. The fight. The ambush. The moment he’d struck first—and struck to end it.
And now guilt twisted violently in his gut, because he could finally see it.
Even monsters had families. Even villains could try to run home.
How could he call himself the Symbol of Peace when he’d broken one of the most basic rules of heroism? A hero intervenes when there’s a need. But there hadn’t been fresh evidence in nearly a decade. The case had been cold. Stone dead.
If he hadn’t been the Number One Hero, that decision alone could have cost him his license—if Midoriya chose to press charges.
And now, watching his successor cry in front of him, Toshinori thought—
Maybe that was something I deserved.
Sasaki Mirai’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding softly as he stared at the girl across the desk.
If I’d chosen Mirio like I was supposed to, he thought bitterly, the words spiralling tighter and sharper with every breath, we wouldn’t be here.
Mirio was steady. Predictable. Clean.
Mirio wouldn’t come with blood-soaked legacies and buried names that refused to stay buried. Mirio wouldn’t make All Might hesitate, wouldn’t drag ghosts into rooms where they didn’t belong.
This is exactly why sentiment has no place in heroics, Mirai seethed. And I let him do it again.
His gaze flicked to Yagi — pale, frozen, already folding in on himself — and something close to contempt twisted in Mirai’s chest.
You chose wrong, he thought. Again.
Across the room, Sorahiko Torino’s anger burned hotter — and uglier.
That damned parasite had reproduced.
The realisation curdled in his gut, thick and nauseating. He’d known All For One was capable of spreading rot far beyond himself, but seeing it sit there, wrapped in politeness and wide eyes and false fragility—
Fooled him, Torino thought savagely. Fooled that blond idiot just like the first one did.
He watched Izumi closely, dissecting every tremor, every breath, every tear.
Playing innocent, he decided. Just like her father. Slips in soft, acts harmless, then digs in deep.
His gaze snapped to Yagi, and the fury sharpened.
And you fell for it. Of course you did.
That was always Toshinori’s weakness — his need to believe. His insistence on seeing the best even when the worst was screaming right in front of him. Torino had tried to beat that out of him. Gods knew he’d tried.
Pain. Discipline. Harsh truth, delivered without cushioning.
Because that’s what heroes survive on, Torino had told himself. Not comfort. Not mercy.
And now here Toshinori sat, trembling, silent, already blaming himself.
Pathetic, Torino thought, even as something bitter and familiar twisted in his chest. I taught you better than this.
Izumi wiped at her face with the back of her sleeve and forced herself to breathe. In. Out. Slowly, carefully. When she lifted her head again, her voice was steadier than she felt.
“I won’t give it back.”
For a split second, Toshinori’s heart clenched painfully—and then relief surged through him, hot and overwhelming. He opened his mouth, ready to tell her that he had never even considered asking for One For All back. Not after everything. Not from her. Not because of her father, her blood, or anything else.
He never got the chance.
Gran Torino snapped.
The old hero had been coiled tight ever since her confession, patience worn down to a fraying thread. That thread finally broke. With a sharp hiss of compressed air, his small frame launched forward, jet propulsion screaming as he tore across the room.
“What’re you sayin’, ya snot-nosed punk?!” he roared, fury grinding into every syllable as he twisted midair, boot arcing toward her shoulder with lethal intent.
Izumi didn’t think.
She moved.
Her body reacted before fear could catch up. She twisted aside just in time, Torino’s kick tearing past her ear with a violent whoosh. Hot tea splashed across her skirt, already damp from the jolt, porcelain clattering as the cup tipped and rolled.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She locked eyes with Torino mid-flight—and activated Erasure.
The copied quirk snapped into place like a switch being thrown. Her vision sharpened. Her hair lifted faintly, strands floating as if caught in a breathless current. Her green eyes flashed, washed through with a muted grey sheen.
Torino’s jets cut out instantly.
He dropped like a stone.
The impact shook the floor. He hit hard, skidding across the polished surface with a string of vicious curses, cane clattering away as he rolled to a stop. He shoved himself upright, trembling with rage, temporarily quirkless and seething.
“Thievin’ little brat!”
That was the spark.
Sir Nighteye shot to his feet, chair scraping violently across the floor. His scowl deepened behind his glasses, eyes sharp and dangerous as he stepped forward, angling to box her in.
“You stole Eraserhead’s quirk?!” he snapped.
Izumi’s thoughts raced.
It’s only a copy. Eraserhead let me. I asked—
But there was no room to explain.
She ducked on instinct as she moved, the motion sending her cup—already empty—skittering across the floor. It shattered against the wall in a spray of porcelain.
“Stand down!” Tsukauchi barked, leaping to his feet, trench coat whipping behind him. “All of you! This is a meeting, not a back-alley brawl!”
Nezu scrambled up onto his desk, tiny paws raised, voice calm but urgent. “Gentlemen, please. De-escalate. Violence will not get us anywhere right now.”
Toshinori didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
He sat frozen in his chair, colour drained from his face, eyes locked on Izumi as accusation after accusation echoed in his ears. Theft. Criminal. Monster’s child. He tried to force himself to stand, to shield her, to do something—but shock and guilt pinned him in place like invisible chains.
This is my fault.
Amid the chaos, Izumi’s fingers brushed the small device hidden in her sleeve.
She pressed the button.
What had felt paranoid only minutes ago now felt painfully justified. Her mentor had allowed her to be attacked. Whatever trust she’d been clinging to cracked sharply, splintering into something colder and far more fragile.
Erasure flickered.
She had to blink.
Her hair fell instantly, gravity reclaiming it as the quirk slipped away.
Torino saw his opening.
He grinned viciously and blasted forward again, faster this time, cane raised like a club. “Gotcha now, demonic sprout!”
Nighteye moved with him, refusing to lag behind. He snatched up his heavy paperweight weapons and hurled them with surgical precision, both aimed straight for her head.
Those are ten kilos each, Izumi realised with a flash of terror. If they hit me, I’m dead.
Her body screamed at her to dodge—but there was nowhere to go.
The impact never came.
A swirling portal of purple-black mist tore open in front of her, cold air rushing outward. Torino vanished into it mid-charge, his momentum violently redirected. He burst out of a second portal across the room and slammed into the wall with bone-rattling force, collapsing in a dazed heap.
One of the paperweights flew on—only to be caught.
A pale hand emerged from another portal, fingers closing effortlessly around the projectile. In an instant, it crumbled, disintegrating into fine grey dust that drifted down like ash.
Silence fell.
The tension didn’t vanish. It hummed—electric—layered with the faint metallic tang of ozone lingering in the air.
Two figures stepped fully into the room.
One was tall and imposing, a humanoid silhouette formed from roiling dark mist, dressed neatly in a bartender’s suit. The other was lean and sharp-featured, unruly blue hair spilling around a dark coat marked with bold Hero Suit kanji, a hand-shaped mask hanging loose at his side.
Kurogiri and Duster.
Top-ranked pro heroes. Fourth and sixth. Names synonymous with rapid-response rescues, surgical takedowns, and dismantling entire crime syndicates. Heroes known for acting fast—and decisively.
Nezu tilted his head, composed as ever, though his eyes sharpened. “Duster-san. Kurogiri-san. This is… unexpected. Might I ask why two esteemed heroes are interrupting a private discussion and trespassing on U.A. property?”
Kurogiri’s mist shifted, clouds rolling inward as his shape reformed. His voice emerged low and resonant—familiar to anyone who had ever worked with him.
“Well,” he began evenly, “we would like to know—”
The mist shifted again.
The silhouette softened, reforming into the outline of a woman. Her voice changed with it—lighter, sharper, edged with fury. Her face was far too similar to the long-dead Nana Shimura for Toshinori’s or Sorahiko’s comfort.
“—why our little sister was just attacked by pro heroes,” she finished, “and felt the need to press her panic button.”
Duster pulled off his mask and folded his arms, red eyes hard as he swept his hair back from his face. “What she said.” His gaze swept the room, unimpressed. “Forget hero titles for a second.”
It settled on Nezu.
“We’re not here as heroes,” he said flatly. “We’re here as Tenko and Hana Midoriya.”
Nezu’s eyes flickered.
“Oh,” he murmured, a slow smile curling across his face. “Oh my. It seems this situation has just become far more interesting.”