Chapter Text
Prologue: SUBJECT S-001
Drip.
The sound threaded through the air like a metronome for the damned—steady, patient, indifferent. Each drop struck the metal grate below with a hollow plink, swallowed instantly by the vastness of the facility’s underbelly.
Isolation.
It clung to the walls like mold, thick and suffocating. Even the fluorescent lights seemed reluctant to shine, flickering in long, exhausted breaths that cast the corridors into a perpetual half‑life. The twisting hallways stretched on without mercy, each turn identical to the last, as though the building itself wished to confuse its inhabitants.
Drip.
Darkness.
It pooled in the corners, gathering like something alive. The air carried a faint hum—ventilation, machinery, or perhaps something deeper within the structure, shifting in its sleep.
Footsteps scurried across the polished floor, too quick, too light, as if the walkers feared being caught lingering. Their whispers slithered behind them, fragments of conversations about protocols, anomalies, and results that never quite reached clarity. Professionals, yes. Trustworthy? Only in the way a locked door is trustworthy—secure until it isn’t.
The scribbling of pens scraped like insects against glass. Keyboards clacked in frantic bursts, monitors casting pale blue glows across tired faces. Every sound felt amplified, as though the facility itself listened with bated breath.
”Mrs. Yukimura”
The voice cut through the room—smooth, amused, tinged with a clinical curiosity that bordered on hunger. The woman at the central console paused. Her golden eyes, sharp as a scalpel’s edge, shifted toward the shorter man approaching her. Wisps of shadows curled around her like hair, held in place by a bun that seemed almost too still, too deliberate.
“Doctor,” she replied, her tone clipped, controlled. She turned back to her screens, fingers resuming their precise dance across the keys.
Silence followed—not true silence, but the kind that settles like dust. The assistants drifted around the room, their movements soft and synchronized, as if guided by an unseen current. Some acknowledged the Doctor with polite nods. Others avoided his gaze entirely, choosing instead to bury themselves in their tasks.
The air felt charged, as though something unseen pressed against the walls, waiting.
Watching.
The hum of the facility dimmed, as though the walls themselves held their breath.
Her assistants—those drifting, near‑silent figures—paused in their motions. Not fully. Just enough to betray that they, too, felt the shift. A subtle tightening of the air. A faint tremor in the lights overhead.
”You were given five years for this progress. Well—“ the Doctor chuckles in amusement as he eyes the research with a look of greed. “If you count the other five.”
Mrs. Yukimura’s fingers hovered above the keys, suspended mid‑command. The shadows coiled tighter around her bun, as if reacting to the sudden chill.
“Impatient,” she echoed, her voice steady but thinner than before. “He will have to wait. Perfection is not rushed.”
The Doctor’s smile widened, though it never reached his eyes. “Perfection,” he repeated, tasting the word like a fine wine he didn’t quite believe in. “A noble pursuit. But the Master is less concerned with noble and more concerned with… results.”
Another drop in temperature.
This time, frost whispered across the edge of her monitor, delicate and crystalline. She swallowed, the motion small but noticeable.
“I have given him results,” she insisted, though the pride from moments ago had dulled, replaced by something more brittle. “My creation surpasses all projections. He is—”
“—late,” the Doctor finished gently, almost kindly. “And lateness, Mrs. Yukimura, is a flaw the Master does not tolerate.”
The assistants shifted again, their movements no longer fluid but jittery, like moths disturbed from rest. One of them glanced toward the far corner of the room—an empty space, yet somehow darker than the rest.
Mrs. Yukimura’s golden eyes flicked there too, just for a heartbeat. Something unseen pressed against the edges of her awareness, cold and expectant.
She straightened her back, forcing her voice into a calm she did not feel. “Tell the Master,” she said, “that the final phase is underway. He will have what he desires.”
The Doctor inclined his head, satisfied—or pretending to be. “Good. I would hate to see your decade of work… compromised.”
The lights flickered.
The lights sputtered to life inside the containment chamber—harsh, sterile beams that sliced through the darkness like blades. Dust motes drifted in the sudden illumination, swirling lazily as though disturbed from a long, undisturbed sleep.
Mrs. Yukimura’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling with a cocktail of pride and dread. Her voice had steadied, but her shoulders betrayed her—too stiff, too tense, as if bracing for judgment.
“I can assure you,” she murmured, “that this is my most successful attempt.”
The Doctor’s hum was soft, almost sympathetic, but the undertone was unmistakable: amusement at her desperation. “Yes… but that is what you said before, have you not?”
He approached the reinforced glass with slow, deliberate steps. The containment unit was overbuilt—layers of metal, tempered panes, and security seals that pulsed faintly with internal power. It was more fortified than any other chamber in the facility. More watched. More feared.
“He needs the boy.”
The words landed like a weight dropped into still water. No room for argument. No room for delay.
Mrs. Yukimura’s nod was immediate, almost mechanical. “Of course. Tomorrow will be the last of his testing. They are much more malleable at this age.”
Her tone was clinical, but something in her eyes flickered—guilt, perhaps, or something dangerously close to it. She typed a final command, and the chamber responded with a low hum as the lights intensified.
The Doctor leaned forward until his forehead nearly touched the glass. His breath fogged the surface in small, excited bursts. His eyes widened, pupils dilating with a kind of reverence that felt profoundly misplaced.
“He’s perfect,” he whispered.
The boy sat curled in the far corner, as though trying to fold himself into the wall. His black hair fell in tangled strands over his face, hiding his expression. The jumpsuit he wore was pristine, almost ceremonial in its neatness—an unsettling contrast to the heavy bandaging wrapped around his small arms.
He didn’t move.
Not even when the lights flared brighter.
Not even when the Doctor’s shadow stretched across the floor toward him.
Mrs. Yukimura watched him with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Her golden eyes softened—not with compassion, but with a possessive pride that made the air feel colder.
“Meet (M/n) Yukimura,” she said softly.
The boy’s head lifted by a fraction. Just enough for one eye—dark, unfocused, and far too quiet—to catch the light.
Something in that gaze made even the Doctor’s smile falter for a heartbeat.
Not fear.
Not confusion.
Just… emptiness.
A hollow, waiting stillness that suggested he wasn’t simply sitting there.
He was listening.
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. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
He blinked awake to the hum.
It was always the hum—low, constant, vibrating through the floor and into his bones. It told him he was still here. Still inside. Still watched.
His eyelids felt heavy, as if someone had pressed weights onto them while he slept. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, flickering in a rhythm he had long since memorized. He didn’t flinch at the brightness anymore. He didn’t flinch at much.
Scientists drifted past the glass like ghosts in white coats. They never spoke to him. They spoke around him, their voices muffled by the barrier, their eyes sharp and assessing. Sometimes curious. Sometimes afraid. Always distant.
He stared back with golden eyes that glowed faintly in the artificial light—eyes they had tested, measured, documented. Eyes they said were “promising.”
He didn’t know what that meant.
He only knew the routine.
The green fluid. The needle. The cold that spread through his veins afterward, like frost creeping across a windowpane. The way his fingers twitched without his permission. The way his shadows stirred even when he didn’t want them to.
They called it “awakening.”
He called it “hurting.”
The muzzle had been new once. He remembered the day they strapped it on—how the straps dug into his cheeks, how the metal tasted bitter when he tried to speak. They said it was because he bit. He remembered biting. He remembered the panic that had driven him to it. The way the scientist’s eyes had widened.
He wasn’t stupid.
He knew what they wanted from him. What they were forcing out of him. The serum made his skin feel too tight, like something inside him was pushing outward, stretching him thin. His quirk—his shadows—responded before he could think.
They pulsed along the walls now, restless. They always did when he woke up. They moved like living ink, trembling with the emotions he refused to show on his face.
Anxiety. Confusion. Something close to fear.
But his expression stayed blank. It was easier that way.
They had taught him things. Lessons whispered through speakers, shown on screens, demonstrated with cold precision. Lessons no child should have to learn. Lessons about obedience. About reaction. About what shadows could do if he pushed them hard enough.
He didn’t like remembering those lessons.
The enclosure still bore faint stains from past tests—dark marks that the cleaning drones never fully erased. He didn’t look at them anymore. He didn’t need to.
His shadows remembered for him.
A tendril rose from the floor beside him, sluggish and tired, as if waking from its own sleep. It reached upward, wavering, waiting for the next command.
He didn’t want to give it one.
But the pull came anyway—an invisible tug at the back of his mind, cold and insistent. The kind of pull that made his stomach twist. The kind that told him they were watching. Waiting.
His quirk shifted, thickening, gaining weight it hadn’t had before the serum. It felt wrong—too solid, too real. Like something that should have stayed a thought had been forced into flesh.
He felt the shadows coil around his ankles, not to restrain him, but to steady him. To remind him of what came next. To remind him of what they expected.
Follow.
Always follow.
He lowered his gaze to the floor, letting his hair fall forward to hide his eyes. The shadows whispered at the edges of his vision, curling like smoke, urging him toward the next task.
He didn’t know what they would make him do today.
He only knew it would be the same as always.
And that he would obey.
--
There’s another boy around here, he’s seen him when he was younger. Older than him. He had nice eyes like him. Brown hair, messy. He looked… scared. He was there longer than him.
And there was another at one point in his time here. Another boy who’d get close to the window. Followed by a taller man and a wispy cloud. They would stare at each other through the glass panel that meekly separated them.
Red eyes full of love. Want. Excitedly pointing at the younger shadow, the man nodding. Then again, the two would stare at each other in awe.
The younger shadow merely never seen someone closer to his age. Maybe a good four years in difference, but other than the brown haired boy, this one… felt oddly connecting.
As if they were meant to be.
But that was then.
Today was routine.
Cold hands. Cold metal. Cold voices.
They strapped him to the bed with practiced efficiency, their movements smooth and detached. The restraints were padded, but that didn’t make them feel any less confining. He lay still, staring up at the ceiling as the lights buzzed overhead.
The voices around him were soft, falsely gentle. They spoke in tones meant to soothe, but he had learned long ago that softness here meant nothing. Softness was a mask. Softness was a lie.
He could hear the woman—the one who shared his eyes, his shadows—laughing quietly. Preening under the tall man’s praise. Her voice lifted in a way he had never heard directed at him. The tall man’s tone was syrupy, dripping with condescension even when he complimented her.
He didn’t need to see them to know she was smiling.
He didn’t need to see them to know the tall man was leaning in too close, whispering something meant only for her.
He didn’t need to see them—
Because suddenly, he couldn’t.
A strip of fabric slid over his eyes, blotting out the world in an instant. The blindfold tied tight enough that he felt the pressure against his temples.
Darkness.
Not the comforting kind that came from his shadows. Not the familiar kind that lived in the corners of his room.
This darkness was forced. Heavy. Suffocating.
His breath hitched—not enough to be noticed, but enough that his shadows stirred beneath the bed, curling like frightened animals.
He heard footsteps. A tray being moved. The soft click of instruments. The hum of machinery warming up.
He couldn’t see any of it.
He could only listen.
Only feel the cold air shift as someone leaned over him.
Only sense the way the room seemed to hold its breath.
His shadows pressed against the restraints, trembling, unsure whether to protect him or obey the pull that always came during these tests.
He swallowed, throat dry.
The false voices murmured around him, too calm, too practiced.
And in the darkness behind the blindfold, he felt something else.
A presence.
Watching.
Waiting.
As if the shadows themselves were bracing for what came next.
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He didn’t mean to look.
The television was usually nothing more than background noise—static, muffled reports, the occasional flicker of color that washed over the glass of his enclosure. But today, something in the sound cut through the haze of routine.
A cheer.
A roar of a crowd.
A voice announcing a name he had never heard before.
His eyes—normally dull, dimmed by exhaustion and serum—lifted toward the screen. The glow in them was faint, involuntary, like a spark catching on dry tinder.
A man stood there, larger than life even through the grainy broadcast. Muscles like sculpted stone. A cape that billowed with impossible confidence. A smile so bright it seemed to push back the shadows in the room.
All Might.
His debut.
The scientists barely noticed the shift in the boy’s breathing. The slight widening of his eyes. The way his shadows stilled, as if listening.
He didn’t understand everything the reporters said, but he understood enough.
Hero.
A word he had heard before, but never like this. Never with meaning.
He wanted—just for a moment—to be like that. To stand tall. To protect. To make someone feel safe the way that smile made him feel safe.
A foolish thought.
A dangerous one.
He had asked—quietly, timidly—what it meant to be a hero. Whether someone like him could be one.
His creator’s reaction had been immediate. Cold. Sharp. A reminder of “reality.” A lecture on the “immorality of society,” on how heroes were hypocrites, on how the world outside was no better than the walls that confined him.
But the boy couldn’t unsee it.
Couldn’t unfeel it.
The idea burrowed into him like a seed dropped into cracked concrete.
Heroes protect. Heroes serve. Heroes see people—not as tools, not as experiments, but as lives worth saving.
He replayed the broadcast in his mind long after the screen went dark. The way All Might moved—decisive, fearless. The way he looked at civilians, not with pity or superiority, but with a kind of fierce reassurance.
A gaze that said: You’re safe now.
The boy had never known safety. Not truly. But for the first time, he understood what it might feel like.
His shadows pulsed faintly around him, responding to the warmth blooming in his chest. Confused. Curious. Drawn to the idea the way they were drawn to his fear.
He knew it was impossible.
He knew he was “made” for something else.
He knew the facility would never allow him to dream.
But the thought lingered anyway.
A quiet rebellion.
A whisper in the dark.
'Maybe… I could be like that.'
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
ᴄᴏɴꜰɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟ: ᴘʀᴏᴊᴇᴄᴛ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ
ᴅᴏᴄᴜᴍᴇɴᴛ ɪᴅ: (ᴍ)ʏx-06-ɢᴀᴍᴍᴀ
ᴅᴀᴛᴇ: 202x-xx-xx
ʟᴇᴀᴅ ʀᴇꜱᴇᴀʀᴄʜᴇʀ: ᴅʀ. —— ʏᴜᴋɪᴍᴜʀᴀ
ꜱᴜʙᴊᴇᴄᴛ ɪᴅ: ꜱᴜʙᴊᴇᴄᴛ 001 (ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ, ᴍᴀʟᴇ, 6)
Project SHADOW was initiated to create a quirk‑bearing entity capable of seamless attachment to a designated target—mirroring the natural behavior of a shadow, but with autonomous responsiveness and selective obedience. The objective is not simple mimicry, but persistent following, regardless of environmental interference or emotional resistance from the target.
Six prototypes were produced during Phase I.
Phase I: Initial Cohort
The first three prototypes demonstrated significant instability:
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Prototype A‑01 Displayed immediate quirk degradation when exposed to even low‑level illumination‑based meta abilities. Structural incompatibility deemed irreversible.
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Prototype A‑02 Exhibited quirk dissociation from the creator’s own shadow signature. Resulted in inconsistent tracking and failure to maintain silhouette attachment.
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Prototype A‑03 Unable to retain absorbed shadow matter. Physiological rejection led to internal strain, rendering the subject nonviable for continued study.
The above prototypes were removed from the program following standard protocol.
Phase II: Secondary Cohort
The remaining three prototypes demonstrated improved quirk cohesion and higher compatibility with the intended behavioral model. However, notable distinctions emerged:
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Prototype B‑01 & B‑02 Functional, but lacking in adaptability. Their quirk output plateaus early, suggesting limited long‑term potential.
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Prototype B‑03 (Subject 001) Despite being the youngest and physically the most fragile, Subject 001 exhibits the highest quirk density and strongest resonance with the creator’s shadow signature. His responsiveness surpasses projections for his age bracket.
Subject 001’s developmental trajectory suggests a capacity for advanced silhouette‑binding behaviors once fully conditioned. His age proximity to the designated “younger master” is considered advantageous for imprinting and long‑term obedience modeling.
Current Assessment
Subject 001 remains the most promising candidate produced to date. Continued observation is recommended, with emphasis on:
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Emotional suppression
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Reflexive obedience
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Controlled quirk amplification
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Compatibility with the younger master’s presence
Further testing is scheduled.
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The boy blinked again, slow and heavy, as if each movement cost him something he no longer had to spare.
“Trial run No. 285.”
The announcement crackled through the comms, flat and emotionless, as though the speaker had long since stopped hearing their own voice. The boy stood in the center of the chamber, swaying slightly. Warm liquid clung to his skin and clothes, dripping in slow trails down his arms. The smell was sharp, metallic, familiar enough that he no longer reacted to it.
Darkness pressed against the edges of the room, thick and waiting. His shadows curled weakly around his feet, sluggish from exhaustion.
A sudden jolt tore through him — sharp, electric, enough to wrench a gasp from his throat. His quirk recoiled instantly, shrinking back into the floor like frightened animals. Hands grabbed him, fitting restraints around his wrists and ankles with practiced efficiency. The muzzle snapped into place, cold against his jaw.
He didn’t fight. Fighting only made them tighten the straps.
A recorder clicked on.
“There deems no new aspect of this child’s quirk,” his creator said, her voice smooth and clinical. “Merely the same consistency. Immobilization and offense. Jagged tendrils manifesting from surrounding shadows.”
She gestured, and the assistants moved him to the table. The straps bit into his limbs as they secured him. He stared upward, chest rising and falling too fast, breath fogging the air above him.
“It seems that when lights are out, his quirk grows stronger,” she continued, as if discussing weather patterns. “The more shadows, the more dangerous it becomes. A useful observation.”
He heard the clatter of metal on a tray. His heart lurched. He couldn’t see what she picked up — only the way the other scientists shifted, their movements tightening with anticipation.
His breathing hitched.
“However,” she said lightly, “such potential becomes a liability if he ever chooses to disobey.”
Something whirred to life. A sound he knew. A sound he feared.
He tensed, every muscle locking.
His shadows writhed beneath the table, reacting to his panic, but the restraints held firm. The room seemed to shrink around him, the air thickening as the noise grew louder.
His cry tore out of him before he could stop it — raw, instinctive, muffled by the muzzle. The straps strained as he jerked, his legs seizing, his body arching against the table.
The sound stopped.
Silence fell like a heavy curtain.
His creator exhaled softly, almost pleased. “Thankfully, the Doctor has provided us with his latest behavioral blueprints. The Nomu model he had successfully created, has proven quite effective in ensuring obedience.”
She set the tool down with a soft clink.
The boy trembled uncontrollably, breaths shallow and uneven. His shadows flickered weakly, unable to form, unable to protect him.
Her smile was audible in her voice.
“In time,” she murmured, “he’ll be nothing but a little shadow.”
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He was thrown into the kennel like cargo, not a child. Metal clanged shut behind him, the lock clicking with a finality he no longer reacted to. His knees curled to his chest, arms wrapped around them, face buried in the space between. The cold bars pressed against his back.
Around him, other children whimpered, hiccuped, whispered to each other in trembling voices. Comforting words that meant nothing. Words that couldn’t change anything.
He listened anyway.
He always listened.
The guards’ laughter drifted down the corridor—mocking, careless, the kind of cruelty that came easily to people who believed no one would ever hold them accountable.
He tucked his head deeper into his arms. He just needed a little rest before the cycle began again.
Then—
BOOM.
The kennel rattled violently.
No…
Another explosion shook the entire floor, dust falling from the ceiling. The boy’s head snapped up, eyes glowing faintly as he peered through the bars.
Security sprinted past, quirks flaring in frantic bursts. Scientists scrambled behind them, clutching files, slamming chips into consoles to wipe data. Some dragged experiments with them; others abandoned everything in their panic.
Smoke seeped into the room. Shouts echoed. The building trembled again.
And then—
They were alone.
The children in the kennels. Forgotten. Left behind.
A voice thundered through the chaos:
“I AM HERE!”
His breath caught.
That voice.
The wall burst inward, debris scattering as a towering figure stepped through the smoke. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A smile that once made him believe in something impossible.
All Might.
Behind him, a man with forest‑green hair and glasses rushed to the computers, typing rapidly as he inserted a USB drive.
“This… this is enormous,” the green‑haired man muttered, horrified. “A trafficking ring this size—right under our noses…”
All Might moved quickly, tearing open cages, lifting unconscious children into his arms with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the destruction around him. But his smile—normally bright, unwavering—was strained. Tight. Anger simmered beneath it.
“Filthy,” he muttered under his breath. “How could anyone do this to children…”
The other man coughed as smoke thickened. “Endeavor’s pushing the fire back, but we need to evacuate now!”
All Might nodded, adjusting the children in his arms.
They turned to leave—
A small hand slipped through the bars of the last kennel.
“…All Might…”
The hero froze.
He turned.
And the moment his eyes met the boy’s glowing gold ones, something cold slid down his spine. A memory. A warning. A voice he wished he could forget:
“I have a weapon that will force you to kneel.”
His grip tightened around the children he already held.
He hesitated.
Just a second.
But a second was enough.
Fear—irrational, instinctive—rooted him in place. He looked away.
And then he left.
No glance back. No hesitation in his stride as he disappeared into the smoke with the others.
The boy’s hand dropped limply to the floor.
Hero?
Was he… not a hero?
Heroes save people. Heroes save those who cannot save themselves.
So why—
Why not him?
The flames crept closer. Smoke thickened. His lungs burned as he lay down, gasping, vision blurring.
Then—
A metallic screech.
The kennel door shook violently, then tore open.
A young man stumbled through the smoke, scarf wrapped around his lower face, eyes narrowed against the heat.
“Kid— come on—” he rasped, coughing.
The boy scrambled toward him, collapsing into his arms. The man held him close, shielding him with his body as he sprinted through the collapsing hallway.
“Did no pro hero come through here?” he managed between coughs.
The boy shook his head.
A lie.
The man’s jaw tightened. The man knew this.
He leapt over a broken staircase, landing hard but steady. The exit was close—fresh air brushing against the smoke‑stained walls.
“I’m Eraserhead,” he said, voice strained but steady. “What’s your name?”
“…(M/n),” the boy whispered, burying his face in the man’s scarf. His heart pounded so fast Eraserhead felt it through his suit.
They burst out into the night.
Cold air hit him like a wave. The boy’s eyes widened—truly widened—as he saw the sky for the first time in years.
Stars.
Thousands of them. Sharp white against endless black.
He stared, glowing eyes reflecting the night like lanterns.
Eraserhead let out a soft, tired chuckle.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, adjusting his grip as medics rushed toward them. “You’re safe now.”
The boy looked up at him, cheeks flushed from cold and awe.
Eraserhead gave him a small, genuine smile, strands of black hair brushing against his cheek.
“Because I’m here.”
And for the first time, the boy believed it.