Chapter Text
It doesn’t start with the sludge. That would be too easy. People like easy explanations—one moment, one mistake, one turning point. A clean break.
But Midoriya knows better. Things don’t just snap. They wear down, quietly, until the structure is so thin that a breeze could finish the job. He’s been watching the cracks form for years.
————————————
The notebook is open. It’s a mess. Arrows, crossed-out lines, smudged ink where his palm dragged. He’s tapping his pen— tap, tap, tap —rhythmically against the desk.
"Oi."
Izuku doesn't look up. He’s focused on a sketch of a gauntlet. "Just a second..."
"Are you deaf or just stupid? I'm talking to you, Deku!"
The air smells like burnt sugar and ozone. Bakugo is standing there, palms sparking with those tiny, impatient pop-pop sounds. His uniform is charred in patches—uneven.
"You’re wasting output," Izuku says. It’s not a challenge. It’s just... an observation.
Bakugo’s eye twitches. A vein thobs in his temple. "The hell did you just say to me?"
Izuku finally turns, pen still hovering. "Your blasts. They’re spreading too wide, Kacchan. If you narrowed the release point—like, tightened the focus of the ignition—you’d get way more force. Less... uh, less recoil."
BOOM
The explosion isn't a direct hit. It’s a warning, a flash of heat that singes the air inches from Izuku’s nose. He doesn't flinch. You can't flinch at something you see coming every single day.
"You don't have a quirk," Bakugo says, his voice dangerously low. "So stop acting like you know anything about how mine works."
Izuku tilts his head. "That doesn't mean I'm wrong. Logic is—it's universal, right?"
"Logic?" Bakugo sneers, lunging forward. He grabs the front of Izuku’s uniform, yanking him upward. The notebook hits the floor with a dull thud . "You think you’re smarter than me? Is that it? You think you can look down on me because you read some books?"
"No," Izuku says. His voice is small, but steady. He’s looking at Bakugo’s wrists. The sweat is pooling. The tremors are there. "I just pay attention."
Bakugo shoves him back. Hard. Izuku stumbles, catching himself against a desk.
"Then pay attention to this: stay out of my way," Bakugo snaps, turning on his heel. He stomps off, but as he goes, he throws a blast at a nearby trash can. It’s sharper. More focused.
Izuku picks up his notebook and brushes off the dust. "You did it anyway," he whispers to the empty classroom.
————————————
At home, the silence is heavier.
Izuku sits at the kitchen table. The clock is ticking— click, click, click —and the fridge hums a low, vibrating note. His mom is in the other room, moving quietly, like she’s afraid of breaking the atmosphere.
He’s writing.
Reaction delay: 0.8 seconds. Could be forced higher under pressure.
The front door slams. The sound echoes, vibrating in Izuku’s teeth. Footsteps follow. Heavy. Uneven. The smell of cheap scotch and stale smoke drifts into the kitchen before the man does. Hisashi, sadly his father, stands in the doorway, tie dangling like a noose, eyes bloodshot and scanning for something to be annoyed by.
He spots the notebook.
"Still doing that?" Hisashi asks. It’s not a question; it’s a judgment.
Izuku’s grip on his pen tightens. "I... yes."
Hisashi walks over, leaning heavily on the table. The wood groans. "Writing like it matters. Like any of this 'analysis' changes what you are."
"It does matter," Izuku says. It comes out a bit too fast. A bit too desperate.
BAM — Hisashi’s hand slams onto the table, making the water glass jump. Izuku flinches—a sharp, involuntary jerk—but forces himself still a second later.
"You don't get it," Hisashi growls, leaning down until Izuku can smell the rot on his breath. "People like you? You don't get to choose a 'future.' You’re quirkless. You’re a stain. You think a pen makes you special?"
Izuku shakes his head. "No."
"Good. Because you’re wasting my time and your mother’s money." Hisashi scoffs, turning away. "Worthless. I should’ve left when the doctor gave us the news."
He disappears into the back of the house. Izuku stares at the page. There’s a tiny wrinkle where the table shook. He smooths it out with his thumb. Over and over. Until the paper is flat again.
————————————
Two months later, the world breaks. But not for Izuku.
He’s in a side alley, having followed a commotion, when he sees him.
All Might.
But it’s not the All Might from the posters. This man is a skeleton draped in oversized clothes, coughing up blood, shivering. The "Symbol of Peace" looks like he’s held together by duct tape and sheer stubbornness.
"What is... a civilian... doing here?" All Might wheezes.
Izuku doesn't scream. He doesn't fanboy. He’s too busy looking at the wound. The way the man favors his left side. The way his breathing is shallow—timed to minimize the pain in his diaphragm.
"You're injured," Izuku says.
All Might tries to puff out his chest, but he just coughs again. "It's nothing, young man."
"It's a respiratory obstruction or a deep internal trauma," Izuku counters. He grips his notebook.
This is it. The only person who might actually know.
"Can someone... can someone without a quirk be a hero?"
Alll Might looks at him. Really looks at him. He sees the shaking hands, the bruised ego, the desperate hope. And he sighs. It’s the heaviest sound Izuku has ever heard.
"No," All Might says.
The word is a physical weight.
"Being a hero... it requires power. Real power. Without a quirk, you’d just be a liability. You’d get yourself killed."
Izuku blinks. His eyes burn, but he refuses to let the tears fall. "So there’s no way?"
"There are other ways to help," All Might says, reaching out a hand, then pulling it back. "You could be a policeman. Or a doctor. Stay safe, kid."
He transformed back into his muscular form and leaped away.
Izuku stands in the shadows of the alley. "Power," he murmurs. The word feels wrong. Incomplete. Like a math equation with a missing variable. He opens his notebook. Ignoring the last page that was apparently signed by All Might.
Strategy. Prediction. Control. Are those not power? He starts to tear up.
"What's the point?" he asks the brick wall. "Why am I even— BOOM
The sound rips through the air. Izuku’s head snaps up. He knows that sound. He knows the rhythm.
"Kacchan."
————————————
The air was thick with the scent of ozone and burning garbage, a cloying humidity that stuck to the back of Izuku’s throat. Around him, the world had narrowed to a terrifying, high-definition loop: the wet, rhythmic shluck-shluck of the villain’s body, the frantic flash of sirens, and the hundreds of glowing rectangles held aloft by a crowd that was more interested in the footage than the boy dying in the center of the frame.
Izuku looked at the heroes. Truly looked at them.
Death Arms stood with his massive muscular arms crossed, his boots planted firmly behind the fire line. He was watching the sludge move, his jaw set in a hard line of frustration.
"Dammit," he muttered, loud enough for Izuku to hear. "I can’t get a grip on that stuff. My strength is useless if there’s nothing solid to punch."
Beside him, Backdraft was busy spraying the surrounding buildings. "I have to keep the fires from spreading!" he shouted over his shoulder. "If I turn the hose on the villain, I might drown the kid inside!"
Mt. Lady hovered at the edge of the street, her colossal form looming over the power lines. She shifted her weight, looking helplessly at the narrow alleyway. "I’m too big!" she cried out, her voice trembling with a mix of ego and genuine fear. "I can't get in there without crushing the buildings—or the hostage!"
Kamui Woods was already retracted, his wooden limbs charred from the explosions Bakugo was letting off. "It’s a bad match-up," he signaled to the others. "We have to wait. Someone with the right quirk will show up. We just have to hold the perimeter."
Izuku felt a cold, sharp stone form in his stomach. Hold the perimeter? Bakugo was right there. His eyes were wide, the pupils blown out with a primal, animalistic terror. He wasn't the "King of the Classroom" anymore. He was a fifteen-year-old boy being buried alive in liquid filth. He was clawing at the sludge, but every time his fingers found purchase, the villain simply flowed through them like mercury.
"Look at him," Izuku whispered. The heroes weren't looking at Bakugo's face; they were looking at the threat level. They were performing a cost-benefit analysis while a heart was stopping.
"Why aren't they moving?" a woman in the crowd sobbed.
"They're professionals," a man answered, his voice shaky. "They know what they're doing. They’re waiting for a specialist."
How long does a specialist take? Izuku thought. Two minutes? Five? Bakugo’s explosions were getting weaker. The thumps were no longer deafening cracks; they were wet, muffled pops. A cloud of black smoke puffed out of the sludge, followed by a series of frantic, bubbly gasps.
The pros didn't move. They stayed behind the yellow tape. They talked into their radios. They adjusted their gloves. They waited for a savior, even though they were wearing the capes.
The snap inside Izuku wasn't loud. It was the quiet sound of a tether cutting. If the world was going to let his childhood friend die because the match-up wasn't perfect, then the world was broken.
He didn't think. He didn't breathe. He just ran.
The wind rushed past his ears, drowning out the screams of the heroes behind him.
"Kid! Stop!" Death Arms bellowed, reaching out a hand a second too late.
Izuku’s mind was a frantic library, pages of his hero notebooks flipping at light speed.
Viscosity: High. Composition: Semi-liquid. Weak point: Sensory organs.
He ripped his yellow backpack off his shoulders. He didn't just throw it; he swung it with every ounce of frustration he had ever felt. The bag soared, unzipping mid-air. A pencil case and a heavy physics textbook tumbled out.
The corner of the book slammed directly into the villain’s bulging, gelatinous left eye.
"GAAAAH!" the villain shrieked, the pressure of its grip momentarily loosening as it recoiled.
Izuku didn't stop. He dove into the heat. The smell was unbearable—like a chemical spill in a slaughterhouse. He reached into the green mass, his fingers sinking into the freezing, slimy grit.
"Kacchan!"
Bakugo’s face emerged for a split second. He looked at Izuku, and for the first time in ten years, there was no "Deku" in his eyes. There was only the recognition of another human being.
"What... are you..."
"Don't talk! Stop the explosions!" Izuku yelled, his hands tearing at the sludge near Bakugo’s throat. "You’re compressing the air! You’re making it harder for yourself to break out!"
"Get out of here!" the villain roared, a tentacle of filth rising to smash Izuku.
"Now!" Izuku screamed. He didn't pull Bakugo back; he threw his entire body weight to the left, dragging a literal gallon of the villain’s mass with him. It created a momentary void—a pocket of low density. "Blast LEFT! NOW!"
Bakugo didn't hesitate. He didn't argue. He felt the shift in pressure Izuku had forced.
BOOM
The explosion was massive. Without the sludge tightly coiled around his palms to dampen the shockwave, the heat and force expanded outward, tearing through the villain’s side like a cannonball through silk.
————————————
The rain began to fall—All Might’s doing, a literal act of God to clean up the mess Izuku had started.
But as the adrenaline faded, the reality of the "Pro" world set in. While Bakugo was being checked by medics and praised for his amazing quirk and bravery, Izuku was cornered by Death Arms and Kamui Woods.
"What is wrong with you?" Death Arms barked, looming over the trembling boy. "You could have gotten in the way! You could have made the villain even more unstable!"
"I... I saw his face," Izuku stammered, his knees hitting the wet asphalt. "He was dying."
"That’s not your call to make!" Kamui Woods added, his voice cold. "We were waiting for a safe opening. By jumping in, you forced our hand. You’re lucky All Might showed up, or we’d be pulling two bodies out of that gutter."
Izuku looked past them. He saw the heroes now posing for the cameras, explaining to reporters how they contained the situation until the finishing blow could be dealt.
They hadn't moved when the boy was suffocating.
They hadn't moved when the eyes went wide with the fear of death.
They had waited for the right quirk.
Izuku wiped a smear of green slime from his cheek. He realized then that the heroes weren't waiting for a chance to save Bakugo. They were waiting for a chance to win safely.
"I'm sorry," Izuku said, his voice hollow. "I’ll stay behind the tape next time."
He turned and walked away, the sound of the cheering crowd feeling like a dull roar in a dream. He knew the truth now.
————————————
He finds Bakugo sitting on the back of an ambulance, pushing a medic away.
"Oi," Bakugo barks.
Izuku stops. "Kacchan."
"Get over here."
Izuku walks over, feeling the eyes of the crowd on him.
"That... back there," Bakugo says. He looks like he wants to explode, but also like he wants to vomit. "How did you know?"
"I didn't," Izuku says. "I just... I noticed the pressure change. When you blast, it constricts. If you don't blast, it loosens. You were making it harder for yourself."
Bakugo stares at him. A long, silent look. "You're not useless," he mutters. It’s so quiet Izuku almost misses it.
"I know," Izuku says. His voice is different now. Harder.
"Don't get cocky, nerd."
"I'm not." Izuku looks at the heroes one last time. Then he looks at Bakugo. "But Kacchan?"
"What?"
"Next time... don't wait for them."
Bakugo frowns, his jaw set. "I don't wait for anyone."
"Good," Izuku says.
He turns and walks away, his notebook tucked under his arm. It’s burnt. It’s soaked in sludge. But the notes are still there. And for the first time, the handwriting is perfectly clear.
————————————
The walk back to the Midoriya apartment is a slow, suffocating crawl. The streetlights overhead hum with a low-frequency buzz that vibrates in the back of Izuku’s skull, a jagged contrast to the ringing in his ears that hasn’t quite faded since the explosion. Beside him, Katsuki is a ghost of himself. His usual explosive gait is gone, replaced by a rigid, mechanical stride. His hands are buried so deep in his pockets that his shoulders are hunched up toward his ears, and every few seconds, a faint, acrid wisp of smoke curls out from the fabric of his pants.
Izuku watches the smoke. He’s always watching.
“You’re burning your liners,” Izuku says quietly.
Katsuki doesn’t snarl. He doesn’t tell him to shut up. He just lets out a breath that sounds like a radiator hissing. “Doesn't matter. They’re ruined anyway. Everything’s ruined.”
Izuku looks ahead, his eyes tracking the way the shadows of the power lines cut across the road like bars. “The heroes said you were brave. They said you had a ‘gutsy’ quirk.”
“They’re liars,” Katsuki spits, and finally, there’s a flicker of the old heat, though it’s dampened by something heavy and wet. “They stood there, Deku. I saw them. Death Arms, Kamui… they were just checking their watches. Waiting for someone with the ‘right’ specs to show up while I was literally being used as a skin-suit. If you hadn’t… if a quirkless nobody hadn’t run in there…” He trails off, his jaw tightening so hard Izuku hears the bone creak.
“I didn't have a choice,” Izuku murmurs. “My legs moved on their own.”
“That’s the problem,” Katsuki says, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. “You didn't have a choice, and you saved me. They had every choice, every tool, every bit of 'heroic' training, and they chose to watch me die because the math didn't add up for them. Is that what it is? Is that what I’ve been chasing? A career in accounting with a cape?”
Izuku doesn’t answer. He can’t. His own world is a fractured mess of All Might’s hollow apology and the crushing weight of a notebook that suddenly feels like a lead brick in his yellow backpack.
They reach the apartment complex. It’s an ugly, beige building that seems to slouch under the weight of the evening gloom. As they climb the stairs, the smell hits them—not the sludge, but something older. Stale beer. Cold grease. The scent of a house that hasn’t been a home in a long time.
The door to 2-C is cracked open. Not wide, just enough to show a sliver of flickering blue light from the television inside. Izuku hesitates, his hand hovering over the knob. He knows that flicker. It means Hisashi is home, and it means he’s been drinking since the news broke.
“Go home, Kacchan,” Izuku whispers. “You don't need to be here for this.”
Katsuki looks at the door, then at the faint purple bruise blooming along Izuku’s jaw. He doesn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“…”
They step inside. The apartment is small, crowded with the debris of a life gone stagnant. Hisashi is slumped in the recliner, a glass of something amber and cheap resting on his protruding gut. He doesn't look up when they enter. He just gestures vaguely at the TV, where a grainy helicopter shot of the sludge incident is playing on a loop.
“Look at that,” Hisashi slurs, his voice thick and ugly. “The local embarrassment. My kid, the quirkless wonder, making a fool of himself on national television. Do you have any idea what they’re saying at work? They’re asking me why my son is a suicidal freak.”
Izuku stands by the door, his bag still on his shoulders. “I was saving him.”
Hisashi finally turns his head. His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed with a mean sort of exhaustion. “Saving him? You were getting in the way. You’re lucky the heroes didn't arrest you for obstructing justice. You’re a liability, Izuku. You’ve always been a liability. From the day that doctor told us your bones were ‘obsolete,’ you’ve been nothing but a drain on this family.”
Katsuki’s palms let out a sharp pop. The sound is small, but in the quiet apartment, it sounds like a gunshot.
“Hey,” Katsuki says, his voice dangerously steady. “Shut the hell up.”
Hisashi grunts, pushing himself out of the chair with a wet heave. He’s a big man, built of soft edges and hard bitterness. He towers over the boys, his shadow stretching across the stained carpet. “And here’s the other one. The ‘genius’ who got caught by a pile of trash. You think you’re something special, Bakugo? You’re just another brat who thinks a flashy quirk makes him a man. But you’re weak. I saw you crying on that screen.”
“I said,” Katsuki’s voice drops an octave, “shut up.”
“Or what?” Hisashi laughs, a jagged, wet sound. He reaches out, his hand moving toward Izuku’s hair—not to ruffle it, but to grab. It’s a practiced movement, one born of years of unchecked frustration. “You’re gonna blast me? Go ahead. Become a criminal before you even take the entrance exam. See how far that gets you.”
Hisashi’s hand closes around Izuku’s collar, yanking him forward. Izuku stumbles, his breath hitching, his eyes instinctively searching for a way out, a movement pattern, a weakness—
He doesn’t have to.
Katsuki moves faster than the eye can follow. It isn't a hero’s move. There is no grace in it, no practiced form from a martial arts class. It is pure, unadulterated instinct. He grabs Hisashi’s wrist, his fingers digging into the flesh with bruising force.
“Let. Him. Go,” Katsuki growls.
“Get your hands off me, you little—”
BOOM
It’s a concentrated blast, small enough not to take off the hand, but large enough to sear. The smell of burnt skin and polyester fills the room instantly. Hisashi screams, a high-pitched, pathetic sound, and recoils, his arm snapping back as he collapses against the TV stand. The television falls, the screen shattering with a muffled foomph, plunging the room into darkness save for the orange glow of Katsuki’s smoking palms.
Silence follows. It’s heavy, vibrating with the sudden violence of the moment. Hisashi is on the floor, whimpering, clutching a wrist that is now a mess of angry, red blisters.
Katsuki stands over him, his chest heaving. His eyes are wide, fixed on his own hands. The orange light reflects in his pupils, making him look like something elemental, something that doesn't belong in a beige apartment.
“Kacchan,” Izuku whispers.
Katsuki doesn’t move. He’s staring at Hisashi—not with triumph, but with a horrifying, soul-deep realization. He just attacked a civilian. He just used his quirk to cause intentional harm to an unarmed man. In the eyes of the law, in the eyes of UA, in the eyes of every hero poster he’s ever worshipped… he just crossed the line.
“I… I didn’t…” Katsuki starts, his voice trembling. He takes a step back, his boots crunching on the glass of the broken TV. “He was gonna hit you. I just—I didn’t think.”
Izuku looks at his father, who is now sobbing, a broken man in the wreckage of his own living room. Then he looks at Katsuki. He sees the terror in his friend’s eyes—the fear not of the man on the floor, but of the future that just vanished.
“He’ll tell,” Katsuki whispers, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps. “He’ll call the cops. They’ll say I’m unstable. They’ll say I have a ‘villainous’ temperament. I saw the way those heroes looked at me after the sludge… like I was a bomb waiting to go off. This is it. I’m done. My life is over.”
He sinks onto the edge of the sofa, his head in his hands. The smoke is still rising from his skin.
Izuku walks over to him. He doesn't go to his father. He doesn't offer a bandage or a word of comfort to the man who spent a decade telling him he was worthless. He stands in front of Katsuki, blocking the view of the ruin they’ve made.
“Is it over?” Izuku asks.
Katsuki looks up, his face pale. “What?”
“The life you wanted,” Izuku says, his voice eerily calm. “The one where you smile for the cameras and get paid to save people who wait for permission to be saved. Is that life worth the price of sitting here and letting him hurt us?”
Katsuki shakes his head, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for a way to rewind time. “No, but… but I wanted to be a hero, Deku! I wanted to be the best! You can’t be the best if you’re a criminal!”
“The best at what?” Izuku challenges. He reaches into his bag and pulls out his scorched notebook. He flips to the back, to the page where All Might’s signature is scrawled—a reminder of a dream that died in a cloud of steam. “The best at following the rules? All Might followed the rules, and he told me to give up. The heroes at the sludge scene followed the rules, and they almost let you die. My father… he’s a ‘law-abiding citizen,’ and he’s been breaking me for years.”
Izuku leans down, his face inches from Katsuki’s. “The rules are just a fence, Kacchan. They keep the sheep in and the wolves out. But they don't protect anyone. They just maintain the scenery.”
Katsuki looks at the notebook, then at Izuku. He sees the transformation. The stutter is gone. The hesitance is gone. In its place is a cold, sharp intelligence that feels more dangerous than any explosion.
“What are you saying?” Katsuki asks, his voice barely audible.
“I’m saying that they already decided who we are,” Izuku says. “They looked at me and saw ‘nothing.’ They looked at you and saw a ‘weapon.’ Why are we trying so hard to prove them wrong? Why not just… be what they’re afraid of?”
Katsuki flinches. The word villain is screaming in his head, a siren he’s been taught to fear since he could walk. He thinks of the posters. He thinks of the bright, shining world of UA. Then he looks at the burned man on the floor. He feels the phantom sensation of the sludge in his throat, the suffocating weight of being ‘saved’ by a system that didn't care if he lived or died as long as the optics were right.
He thinks about it. He thinks about it for a long, agonizing minute while the clock on the wall ticks away the seconds of his old life. He thinks about the injustice of- BZZZ
Then, the vibration starts.
It’s not the room. It’s Katsuki’s pocket. A phone ringing, buzzing against his thigh. He doesn't move to answer it. He can’t. He’s frozen in the weight of his decision, watching the smoke curl off his fingers.
“Kacchan, your phone,” Izuku says, his voice sounding like it’s coming from miles away.
Mechanically, Katsuki reaches into his pocket. He pulls out the device. The screen is cracked—maybe from the sludge, maybe from the fight—but the name 'Old Hag' flashes through the fractures.
shit
He answers it. He doesn't say anything. He just presses the cool glass to his ear.
Izuku watches him. He watches Katsuki’s face go from the flushed red of adrenaline to a sickly, translucent white. The boy’s knees buckle, and he hits the floor, not like he’s kneeling, but like his bones have turned to water.
“What?” Katsuki’s voice is a ghost. “No. They were just… they were just going to the station to fill out the paperwork. They were…”
He goes silent. A voice is talking on the other end—fast, clinical, apologetic. The kind of voice that delivers "unfortunate news" as a profession.
“Collateral?” Katsuki whispers. The word sounds like glass breaking in his mouth. “What do you mean, collateral? Mt. Lady was… she was stopping a getaway? She stepped on a…?”
He stops. His hand drops, the phone clattering against the carpet. The voice is still talking, a tinny buzz coming from the speaker. Something about a building collapse. Something about a hero’s 'unavoidable' impact during a high-speed pursuit. Something about a tragedy.
Katsuki looks up at Izuku. His eyes aren't just wide anymore; they are hollow. Everything that made Katsuki Bakugo—the pride, the ambition, the sheer, blinding arrogance—has been scooped out, leaving nothing but a raw, bleeding hole.
“They’re dead,” Katsuki says. He says it like he’s describing the weather. “A hero… she wasn't looking where she was stepping. She was posing for a camera after a take-down, and the building… my parents were inside. They’re gone, Deku. The heroes killed them.”
He looks at Hisashi, who is still groaning on the floor. He looks at his own scorched hands. He looks at the "Symbol of Peace" signature in Izuku’s discarded notebook.
“Is it over?” Izuku asks again. Katsuki looks at his father’s bruised wrist. He thinks of the "specialists" who stood by while he suffocated. He thinks of the giant hero who stepped on his heart while smiling for a headline. He thinks of the rules that protect the powerful and discard the "collateral."
He looks at Izuku, really looks at him, and sees a partner. Not a victim. Not a ‘deku.’ A partner.
“They won't let us go,” Katsuki says, the first spark of a new, darker fire lighting in his eyes. “If we do this, there’s no coming back. We’ll be hunted. We’ll be the ones they tell stories about to keep kids in line.”
Izuku reaches out a hand. His fingers are steady.
“Let them tell stories,” Izuku says. “At least they’ll finally be paying attention.”
Katsuki stares at the hand. He thinks about the podium he’ll never stand on. He thinks about the parents who were crushed for a photo op. And then, he thinks about the freedom of never having to wait for permission again.
"Let’s give them a reason to remember the names of the people they stepped on to stay at the top. Okay Kacchan?”
Katsuki reaches and grips Izuku’s hand
“Okay.”