Chapter Text
Izuku stood by the school gates, his pen dancing across the pages of his Hero Analysis for the Future notebook. It was a familiar ritual, a way to anchor himself—until he saw him.
Katsuki. His Katsuki.
But Katsuki wasn't alone. Itsumi was clinging to his side, her intentions as clear as the nauseating crush Izuku knew she harbored. He had already been meticulously planning her removal for weeks, but seeing them together made his stomach churn. He stared a second too long, and Katsuki’s sharp gaze snapped toward him.
Panic jolted through Izuku’s body. He snapped his notebook up to hide his face, but a violent, uncontrollable cough tore through his throat. He hit his knees, the notebook clattering to the pavement as he cupped his hands over his mouth.
Then, the petals fell.
They were light red, soft against his palms— Carnations. He coughed again, harder this time, and the metallic tang of blood stained the delicate flora. Confusion raced through his mind.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Izuku flinched.
"K-Kacchan?!" Izuku gasped, biting his lip to stifle the frantic muttering that usually followed his anxiety spikes.
"Oi, nerd, stop fucking muttering. I could hear you from a mile away," Katsuki barked, his tone sharp.
"Ah... sorry, Kacchan. I didn't mean to—well, interrupt you and Itsumi, and I'm sorry for—"
Katsuki’s hand clamped over Izuku’s mouth, silencing him instantly. Izuku’s eyes widened, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Oi, you gotta stop this shit, and what's with Itsumi? Ya jealous?" Katsuki asked, his crimson eyes boring into the green-haired boy.
Izuku shoved the blonde's hand away, his chest tightening. "No, I'm not," he lied, but a terrifying bubble of hope and dread rose in his throat.
Unable to face the scrutiny, Izuku scrambled to grab his notebook and bolted toward his house, praying Katsuki wouldn't follow him and see the trail of blood-soaked roses he left behind.
Katsuki watched as Izuku slipped out of his sight, the green of his hair disappearing into the crowd before he turned his attention back to Itsumi.
"You better fucking back off, weirdo," he snarled, his livid gaze never leaving hers. His palms began to crackle with small, warning sparks, his stance rigid with barely contained fury.
"But—Katsuki! We're meant to be! Can't you see?!" Itsumi’s voice was sickeningly sweet, her expression wide-eyed and pleading as she stepped into his space. "I’m your perfect piece!"
"I told you to piss off!" his hands exploded on her face, itsumi step back and fell.
His palms ignited, the sharp crack of an explosion blooming right against her face. Itsumi staggered back, the force of the blast sending her stumbling until she finally collapsed onto the pavement.
"Shit."
Katsuki stared at her body, the panic hitting him harder than the blast. He didn't think— he just ran. He ducked into the shadows and bolted, his heart hammering against his ribs as he prayed no one had seen the flash.
Izuku lurked in the shadows near his home, the weight of the knife still heavy in his mind. He needed to finish this—to get rid of Itsumi once and for all.
But when he reached the spot where he'd last seen her, the breath hitched in his throat. She wasn't standing. She was sprawled on the ground, motionless and broken.
Did something happen?
The realization chilled him. Someone had beaten him to it.
He hurried over to her side, his movements frantic yet calculated. He pressed his fingers against the line of her lower left jaw, feeling for the steady, rhythmic thrum against his skin.
She still had a pulse. She was only unconscious.
It looked like someone had already done the heavy lifting for him.
Izuku stared down at her, a dark sense of relief washing over him. This was going to be easy, he thought. With her already out cold, there would be no struggle, no screaming—just the finality he had been seeking.
He didn't know who had crossed his path, but they had handed him the perfect opportunity on a silver platter.
He hoisted her limp body, hands gripping her waist as he moved through the shadows. The walk was a gauntlet of nerves, every rustle of wind making him stiffen, but luck was on his side. The streets remained empty, a ghost town that kept his secret safe.
When he slipped through the front door, the house was silent—his mother was already fast asleep, her steady breathing a stark contrast to the thrum of adrenaline in his veins. He didn't waste a second.
He hurried to the basement, the air growing cooler as he descended. He grabbed the nearest wooden chair and a coil of heavy rope, working with frantic, practiced efficiency to tie her down. By the time he stepped back to catch his breath, she was secured, a silent prisoner in the dark.
While waiting for her to wake from her slumber, he took his time selecting the perfect instrument. His eyes scanned his collection until they settled on a sharp, unassuming blade.
He decided on the knife— if he angled the cuts just right, he could make the whole thing look like a desperate suicide attempt. It was a cleaner narrative, one that would leave no trail back to him or the explosion that had put her in this chair.
He sat across from her, turning the blade over in his hand, watching the dim light dance off the steel as he waited for her eyes to flutter open.
Minutes ticked by, the rhythmic sound of the clock near the basement door echoing like a heartbeat. Finally, she stirred.
Itsumi’s eyes fluttered open, but her vision was a fractured, blurry mess. The dim overhead light stung, and as the world slowly bled back into focus, she realized she wasn't in the street anymore.
Across from her, silhouetted in the shadows, sat Izuku. He was perfectly still, the blade in his hand catching the faint light as he watched her wake.
"Ah, Itsumi. You’re awake," he said, his tone chillingly level.
Itsumi’s head throbbed, a nauseating dizziness washing over her in waves. She blinked hard, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of her memory, but her mind felt like a tangled mess. She couldn't tell where she was or why the room was so cold— all she knew was the dull ache behind her eyes and the terrifying stillness of the boy sitting in front of her.
He stood, the chair scraping a harsh, screeching line across the concrete floor as he closed the distance. He stopped just inches from her, his presence looming over her bound form.
"You know, Itsumi, you really shouldn't touch things that aren't yours," he said, his voice quiet and cutting. "It’s very... inelegant of you."
"Who... who the fuck are you? Where am I?!" Itsumi’s scream was thin and jagged, her voice quavering as she strained against the ropes. Her wide eyes darted around the dark basement, the dim light making every shadow look like a threat.
Izuku leaned in until he was almost touching her, a slow, dark smile pulling at his lips. He raised the knife, the cold steel gleaming as he pressed the tip firmly against the end of her nose.
"Oh, you don't recognize me?" He tilted his head, his green eyes devoid of their usual warmth. "It’s me, Itsumi! It's Izuku."
"What the fuck did you do?! Let me go, you freak!" Her voice cracked as she thrashed against the ropes, the panic now a palpable, frantic thing in the small room. "I'll do anything, I swear! You—you wouldn't kill me... would you?"
Izuku watched her, his expression unmoved by her pleading. He could hear the tremor in her words, the way her breath came in short, jagged gasps. The desperation was thick in the air, but it did nothing to soften the cold resolve in his eyes. To him, her promises were just noise—static in the way of the clean ending he had already planned.
"I saw you with Kacchan—my Kacchan—earlier."
His voice was dead serious, every syllable heavy with a possessive weight that made the air in the basement feel thin. He leaned in closer, his eyes boring into hers; his pupils were blown wide, dark and endless like a void that swallowed the dim light.
"If you'd really do anything, then you'd leave him alone," he whispered, the knife still steady against her skin. "But you see..."
"I’m the one who would do anything for Kacchan. I'll do anything for him. Anything." Izuku’s voice was a low, bitter rasp, the edge of the blade pressed firm against the girl's throat. His fingers hooked around her jaw, tilting her head back to expose the pale line of her neck—an easy, beckoning target. "Killing you might not be the best option, but you’ve left me no choice."
He didn't hesitate. As the steel dragged across her skin, the first bloom of red followed the path of the knife. Blood began to pour down her chest, rhythmic and heavy, like a broken faucet that could no longer be shut off.
Itsumi choked, a wet, rattling sound echoing in the small room as she began coughing out blood. It stained her lips and dripped onto her lap, a relentless flow she couldn't stop.
"Wh—hat... th—e fuck...—" The words broke apart, barely a whisper of air and copper as her strength began to fail.
She was dying, the life draining out of her in the quiet of the basement where no one could hear her, and no one could help. Izuku didn't move. He didn't flinch at the sight or the sound. He simply stood there, a cold, serene observer to her end. As her eyes began to glaze over, a slow, terrifying smile finally bloomed across his face.
Izuku stood perfectly still, watching the clock on the wall as the minutes ticked by in the heavy silence. He didn't blink, his gaze fixed on her chest until the shallow, desperate movement finally ceased. He watched her take one last, rattling breath—a final shiver of life—and then nothing.
He stepped forward, his movements calm and rhythmic. Reaching out, he pressed two fingers against the cooling skin of her neck, right where he had felt that frantic thrumming before. There was nothing but a hollow silence beneath his touch.
She was gone.
A sense of profound peace washed over him, the kind that follows a job well done. He pulled his hand back, his eyes scanning the scene with a cold, analytical gaze. Now that the distraction was removed, he could finally begin the work of cleaning up.
He reached for a heavy-duty garbage bag—carefully selected to be large enough to contain her, yet not so oversized that it would draw eyes during transport. With a chilling, mechanical efficiency, he began the task of folding Itsumi's lifeless form into the plastic.
The sound of the bag crinkling was loud in the quiet basement, but he didn't rush. He worked with a focused intensity, adjusting her limbs and pressing the air out to ensure she fit perfectly. He needed her compact, a tidy package of a problem solved. Once the bag was sealed, she was no longer a person—just a distraction that had been successfully neutralized for Kacchan's sake.
Izuku slipped out of the front door, the night air cool against his face. He noticed a few stray splatters of red staining his uniform, but he wasn't worried— he could easily fabricate a story about a clumsy fall or a scraped knee.
Moving with purpose, he hurried toward the back of the school grounds. He had been careful to keep his gloves on, ensuring not a single fingerprint would link him to the plastic. When he reached the secluded spot he’d chosen, he threw the garbage bag into the shadows, leaving Itsumi behind to rot in the stagnant air. In a few days, the decay would make the scene even harder to piece together, leaving him—and Kacchan—in the clear.