Chapter Text
The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the classroom. Dust and other small particulates flowed and wafted through the beam that landed across Midoriya Izuku’s desk. He hunched over his notebook, pencil scratching in short, careful strokes, while around him the murmur of the room rose and fell distantly. To him, it may as well have been occurring in another room altogether. Nobody spoke to him. He’d learned the feel of that silence years ago, and by now it fit him the way an old shoe fits a foot. Uncomfortable, but familiar enough that the discomfort barely registered anymore.
On the page, All Might stood with one fist raised, cape snapping out behind him in a wind that existed nowhere except in Midoriya’s head. Beneath his boot lay a villain, drawn as a formless heap of jagged lines and scribbled shading, already defeated. He was nearly ready to draw up a cheering crowd. Midoriya worked on the muscles of the arm next, layering graphite in small circular motions to build up the shadow along the bicep, his tongue pressed lightly against his top teeth in concentration.
Something struck the side of his head. A soft, dry sound, paper against hair.
He flinched and touched his temple before he even looked down. A crumpled ball of notebook paper sat on his desk beside his elbow, half-unfolded, as if it had tried to spring back to its original shape the instant it landed. Midoriya set his pencil down and turned.
Three rows back, Bakugo sat with his chair tipped on two legs, one arm slung over the desk of the boy beside him, grinning with his teeth showing. The two boys flanking him were laughing behind their hands, trying and failing to keep it quiet.
“Midoriya Izuku.”
The teacher’s voice cut through the room, and every head turned, except Bakugo’s, which had already gone still, his smirk folding into a look that was blandly innocent.
Midoriya faced ahead. The teacher stood at the whiteboard with a marker in one hand and an open textbook in the other. Her reading glasses were pushed far down on her nose so that she could look over them at him instead of through them.
“Since you clearly have time to entertain yourself,” she said, “perhaps you’d like to share the answer to Number 14 with the rest of the class.”
Midoriya’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t heard Number 14. He hadn’t heard Number 4 through 13 either, not really, not with any part of his mind that could hold onto them.
“Um,” he said. His eyes dropped to the open textbook on his desk, to the smear of numbers and symbols that all shape and no answer. “The, um—it’s—”
Someone snickered near the back, then another laugh joined it, quieter, followed by a third, until the noise moved completely through the room.
“I don’t... I didn’t...” Midoriya’s voice caught, thinned to almost nothing. His ears burned. “I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t.” The teacher’s mouth curved, not quite a smile, an expression with far less warmth in it than a smile ought to have. She turned back to the whiteboard as though the matter had already ceased to interest her. “Perhaps if you spent less time drawing and more time listening, you might.”
The laughter swelled again, and somewhere in the middle of it, Bakugo’s voice rose above the rest. Midoriya couldn’t make out the words. He didn’t really need to. His own mind filled in the blanks.
His hand, resting flat on the desk beside his notebook, closed into a fist. It went until the knuckles went pale. A small tremor ran through his forearm; a shiver that had nowhere to go and so simply stayed there, vibrating beneath the skin. His pencil was still between his fingers. He hadn’t meant to grip it. He didn’t notice until the wood cracked, a small dry snap swallowed by the noise of the room, and the pencil folded in his hand. The broken halves was only covered by a splinter of yellow paint.
Nobody noticed. The lesson moved on. The laughter faded into ordinary classroom sound, and the teacher’s marker squeaked against the whiteboard as though nothing had happened at all.
An hour later, the school day ended, and Midoriya walked out through the front gate with his backpack straps pulled tight over both shoulders. His eyes were fixed on the pavement three feet in front of his shoes. Other students streamed past him in twos and threes. Their voices were layering over each other, and he let the current carry him along without lifting his head.
His mother stood near the small stone wall at the edge of the schoolyard, one hand raised in a small wave the moment she spotted him. “Izuku! Over here, sweetie.”
He crossed to her without answering, and she reached out to smooth down a piece of hair that had come loose from behind his ear.
“How was school today?” she asked.
“Fine.”
“Did you learn anything interesting?”
“Not really.”
“Did you eat all your lunch?”
“… yes.”
She studied him for a moment, her head tilting slightly, but she didn’t push. They started walking, and the silence stretched out between them, filled only by the scuff of his shoes against the sidewalk and the distant clatter of a train passing somewhere behind the row of houses.
“My pencil broke,” Midoriya said eventually, so quietly that she had to lean toward him to catch it.
“Oh no.” Inko’s hand found his shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. “That’s okay. We’ll stop by the store on the way home and get you some more. Maybe a few extra, just in case.”
Midoriya nodded and tried to arrange his mouth into something that resembled gratitude, some small upward shape that might pass for a smile. It didn’t come easily. The corners of his lips twitched and rose partway before faltering, and he looked back down at his shoes instead. His mother’s hand was still warm on his shoulder as they walked on together.
The grocery store smelled of cold produce and bread from the in-store bakery. The automatic doors sighed shut behind them as Inko pulled a cart free from the row by the entrance. Midoriya trailed a step behind her, one hand hooked around the cart’s edge. The wheel closest to him squeaked in a stubborn, uneven pattern the entire way down the first aisle.
They moved through the store together, Inko checking items off a list folded into quarters in her palm. She picked out a bag of rice, a carton of eggs, a bundle of green onions still damp from the misting machine, and Midoriya reached past her for a box of the cereal he liked, setting it in the cart without being asked. She smiled at that.
When they reached the art supplies aisle near the back of the store, Inko stopped the cart and turned to him. “Go on. Pick out ten things. Whatever you want.”
Midoriya blinked at her. “Ten?”
“Ten,” she giggled. “You can count, can’t you?”
The smile that broke across his face this time came easily, without any of the strain from earlier, and it reached all the way up into his eyes, so that his light freckles crinkled. He moved down the aisle with both hands trailing along the shelf edges, touching packages of colored pencils and tubs of eraser dust before setting them back down. One by one, he gathered his choices into the crook of his arm. A fresh box of graphite pencils in varying hardness, a sketchbook with a spiral binding and heavy cream paper, a set of fine-tip pens, a kneaded eraser still sealed in plastic. Near the register end of the aisle, a spinning rack held a scatter of small collectible items, and among the keychains and stickers he found a coin stamped with All Might’s face mid-punch. The metal was cool against his palm. He held it up for a minute or two before adding it to the pile.
Inko counted the items as he placed them in the cart. “That’s ten,” she said, and rubbed the top of his head with her knuckles. “Good job.”
They finished the rest of their shopping and made their way to the checkout, where Inko began unloading the cart onto the belt while the cashier scanned each item and read the total aloud in a bored, practiced tone. Midoriya stood beside her, the All Might coin still clutched in one fist inside his jacket pocket.
The door burst open hard enough to rattle the glass.
A man strode in with a gun raised in both hands, and his voice tore through the store before anyone had time to process what they were seeing. “Nobody move! Everybody get down, now!”
For one full second, nobody did anything at all. The store simply stopped; registers mid-beep, a shopping cart abandoned rolling to a slow stop against a display, a woman’s hand frozen halfway into her purse, then the silence broke apart into screaming, and customers dropped to the floor or scrambled behind end caps and displays, while the employees at the registers raised their hands without being told twice.
Inko’s arm wrapped around Midoriya before he could realize what was happening. She yanked him down behind the checkout counter with a strength he’d never felt in her before and found his shoulder pressed forcefully against the cold metal edge of the register stand. His heart hammered against his ribs, and his breath came fast and shallow through his nose. He had never been this close to a gun before, never close enough to hear the particular way the man’s boots scraped against the tile with each step.
He kept his head low, exactly as his mother pulled him. But some part of him, the same part that studied heroes on television with a notebook open on his knees, the same part that couldn’t look away from anything worth understanding, pulled his eyes back up over the edge of the counter despite himself.
The gunman had the pistol gripped in both hands, but his right hand trembled vaguely every time he leveled it at someone, a small tremor that ran from his wrist to the barrel. Dark, wet patches spread across both shoulders of his jacket, soaked through as if he’d been standing in rain before he ever walked in. One of his sneakers left a timid brown print on the tile with every step, a print growing fainter each time, until Midoriya could just make out the tread pattern in what was left.
“Izuku.” Inko’s whisper was barely a breath. “K-keep your head down, baby.”
He obeyed, if only for a few seconds, before his eyes crept back up over the counter’s edge.
The gunman rounded on the cashier, jabbing the gun toward his chest. “The register. Open it. Now, now, now—” The cashier fumbled with the drawer, and the man’s shout cracked louder when the drawer didn’t spring open fast enough.
He moved through the aisles next, dragging a leather wallet from one man’s back pocket, snatching a phone from a woman’s shaking hand. When he reached a mother crouched with her daughter near the cereal display, he barked at her to hand over her purse, and when she hesitated, just a half second too long, he seized the little girl by the arm and hauled her up against his hip.
The girl screamed and something in Midoriya’s chest twisted so hard it hurt more than the sight of the gun ever had. He was moving before he decided to move, one knee lifting off the floor, when his mother’s hand clamped around his arm and yanked him back down.
“Shut up back there!” The gunman’s head snapped toward the sound of Inko’s voice, and he crossed the distance to the checkout counter in four long strides, the gun swinging around to level at her face. “I said shut up!”
Midoriya froze.
Not from fear. He had never once in his life felt afraid for himself, not really, not in any way he could name. But the sight of that barrel pointed at his mother reached somewhere else entirely, somewhere with no name at all, and his hand found the broken pencil still tucked in his jacket pocket from that afternoon without any conscious decision to look for it.
The gunman’s eyes flicked away for half a second, at the sound of sirens rising somewhere outside.
Midoriya lunged.
His shoulders hunched and his whole torso twisted into the motion. The broken pencil sat clenched in his right fist, the jagged wood end aimed straight at the gunman’s face. The broken pencil went into the man’s eye with the full weight of his small body behind it. The tip punched through the soft outer white of the eye. There was a brief, wet resistance, the outer membrane stretched and then gave. The pencil slid deeper. The blunt fracture of the wood forced the eyeball aside and scraped across the orbital bone. Fluid burst around the shaft in a sudden hot spray that hit Midoriya’s knuckles and the back of his hand. The gunman’s head snapped back under the force of the boy’s full body weight. The pencil buried itself almost to Midoriya’s fist.
The man’s scream tore out of him in a single continuous howl. His free hand flew up and clamped over the ruined socket. Fingers dug into the soft tissue around the embedded pencil. The gun slipped from his other hand and clattered across the floor tiles. His knees buckled. He dropped hard, both palms now pressed to his face as blood and clear fluid ran between his fingers and down his wrists.
His mouth stretched wide, almost silently, at first, before a shriek was ripped out of him until his lungs emptied. He sucked in a ragged breath, and the sound came again, wetter now, mixed with choking.
“Fu-fuck! Fuck you! What the—gahhh! Little shit! Get it... get it out—get it the fuck out!”
His free hand slapped at the floor, fingers scrabbling for the dropped gun that lay just out of reach. The other hand stayed locked over his face. He kicked hard with both legs. His heels scraped and drummed against the tiles.
“I’ll kill… kill you! You fucking… aughhhhhh! My fucking eye! Wha-what did you do to my fucking eye?! Look—look what you fucking did you li-little shit!”
But before he could think to grab the firearm, the doors blew open, and a hero surged through them. Midoriya blinked and that’s all really had time for before a wave of invisible force slammed into the gunman’s chest and hurling him sideways into the cereal display. Cans and boxes clattered down over his crumpled form.
He couldn’t even hear the man screaming anymore.
Although, he couldn’t tell if that was because he was unconscious or due to the high-pitched ringing in his ears.
Inko’s arms closed around Midoriya from behind, dragging him into her chest, her whole body shaking as she pressed her face into his hair.
Midoriya stared at the gunman on the floor, at the hero in awe. His hands trembled in his lap, streaked dark and wet, while his mother sobbed and held him fiercely against her, and his face did not change at all.
He only remembered having only one thought.
He wished, desiring it more than anything, that he could be strong like her.
He would give anything for it happen.
The chair was too big for him.
Midoriya sat with his back pressed against the hard plastic and his feet hanging several inches above the floor, toes pointed down but not reaching, and he kept his eyes closed.
The room smelled strange. Not bad, exactly, but unfamiliar. Old coffee and paper and a chemical smell underneath it all that made him think of the bleach and Lysol mom kept in the closet. Somewhere outside the door, a phone rang before someone answered it. Footsteps passed by in the hallway, heavy ones that stopped just outside and stayed there for a moment before moving on.
The policeman had been kind. That was the part Midoriya kept coming back to, how kind the man’s voice had been when he said the words.
“I’m afraid I have some very sad news for you, Midoriya.”
Midoriya had just stared at him.
“Your mother was very sick. She collapsed, and the doctors tried everything they could to help her.”
The policeman had paused. His voice grew quieter.
“She isn’t going to wake up, Midoriya. I know that’s a lot to hear. You don’t have to understand it right now. You don’t have to say anything.”
The man had reached out and rested a careful hand on his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry. I know how much you love your mother.”
Midoriya remembered the way the policeman had looked at him then. He had looked sad, too.
“You’re not alone, okay? We’re going to stay with you. We’ll make sure you have somewhere safe to go, and we’ll take care of you.”
Won’t wake up again…
Midoriya turned the phrase over in his head over and over and over and over again. He understood what the words meant separately. He understood what they meant together. But some part of him kept expecting the policeman to come back and say he’d made a mistake, that she was actually fine, that she was waiting for him right outside, and they could go home now.
Except the policeman had also said he couldn’t go home anymore.
Midoriya rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. The skin there was raw and tender. It stung so bad when he pressed too hard, but he pressed anyway because it gave him something to focus on besides the hollow feeling in his chest. He sniffled and dragged his wrist under his nose.
Two months ago, everything had been different. Two months ago, he had still been Quirkless, still been the boy nobody wanted to sit next to at lunch, still been praying every single night for something, anything, to prove that he wasn’t broken, that he could be a hero! And it had worked. His Quirk had finally come in. Late, way later than everyone else, but it had come, and for one whole week he had felt so happy he thought he might burst from it.
Now his mother was gone, and the happiness felt… it felt… stupid.
It felt wrong, even, that he had ever been happy at all.
His head throbbed dully behind his closed eyelids. That was the other thing he had learned. If he kept his eyes open for too long, the headache would get worse and worse until he had to lie down and sleep it off. The doctors had tried to explain it to him, something about his brain working harder than it was supposed to, but he hadn’t really understood most of it. He just knew that keeping his eyes shut made the pain go away faster.
So he kept them shut.
He couldn’t make out the words through the door, just the rise and fall of them. One voice was deeper, the officer who had brought him here. The others he heard before. They… they made him think of the news anchors his mother used to watch in the evenings.
Mom…
The thought of her hit him fresh, and his fingers started rubbing together in his lap without him meaning to. Back and forth, back and forth, the pads of his thumbs pressing against each other in small circles.
The door opened all of a sudden and he jumped.
Midoriya didn’t lift his head. He heard footsteps, two sets, one heavier than the other, and then the scrape of a chair being pulled out across from him. Someone sat down. The air shifted beside him. It carried along with it a smell of perfume.
“Hello there.”
The voice was warm, soft to the touch. It made him feel safe. Midoriya lifted his head a little, still keeping his eyes closed, and even through his eyelids he could see something. Not clearly, never clearly, not anymore, not without the pain, but it was enough to see just a little. The woman’s face was there in front of him, wispy and outlined, almost the way a pencil sketch might look if you held it up to a bright light. Everything around her burned orange and yellow at the edges, the heat of the room and the bodies in it painting the world in weird colors.
She was smiling. He thought she was smiling.
“My name is—well, you can call me the Director,” she said. “Is that alright?”
Midoriya gave a small nod.
“Do you know why I’m here, Midoriya?”
He shook his head.
The Director was quiet for a second or two. He heard the rustle of fabric as she shifted in her chair, and when she spoke again her voice was even softer than before. “I know about your Quirk,” she murmured in a voice that comforted him even more. “And I know what happened to your mother.”
His fingers rubbed even faster.
“I’m very sorry,” she continued. “I know this must be so hard for you. But I wanted to come see you myself, because I think you are a very, very special boy.”
Special.
That word again. The policeman had used it too, the doctors as well—everyone kept saying it, recently, ever since his Quirk finally came in, but nobody would tell him what it actually meant.
“Your Quirk is incredibly rare. There are very few people in the whole world who have something even close to what you have. And because of that, you have amazing potential. Do you know what potential means?”
“Like… what I could do someday?”
“Exactly.” He could hear the smile in her voice now. “Some people are born with gifts that can change the world, Midoriya. They can do things nobody else can do. They can help people in ways nobody else can help them. And I believe, I really, truly believe, that you are one of those people.”
Midoriya didn’t know what to say to that.
He didn’t feel special.
He felt small and tired and confused, and his head hurt, and he wanted to go home except home wasn’t there anymore. His fingers pressed together harder, the nail of one thumb digging into the pad of the other.
“What do you think about that?”
He thought about it. He thought about All Might on television, punching villains through buildings and saving people from floods. He thought about the hero who had burst through the grocery store doors two months ago. He thought about his mother’s arms around him, the way she had held him so tight he could barely breathe.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. His voice came out smaller than he meant it to.
The Director didn’t seem bothered by that. She just kept talking, gentle and steady, while Midoriya rubbed his fingers together and tried to understand what any of it meant.
“I can give you a safe home, with good teachers, ones that won’t mistreat you like the ones you used to have, people who understand your Quirk and can help you learn to use it properly. Everything that you need.”
“I have a safe home,” Midoriya whispered. “And I want my mom…”
The words came out before he meant them to, and as soon as they left his mouth he felt something inside him crumple. Because he didn’t have a safe home anymore. The policeman had told him that. He couldn’t go back to the apartment with the yellow curtains and the balcony where his mother grew tomatoes in little pots and the spot on the kitchen floor that always creaked when you stepped on it. All of that was gone now, or might as well be gone, which was the same thing.
Just like Mom…
His head dropped lower and his eyes stung again. He rubbed them furiously.
A hand settled on top of his head. It was light and careful and began to rub small circles through his hair. The Director’s perfume was stronger this close, irritatingly sweet and her voice came from somewhere just above him.
“I’m so sorry. I can only imagine how hard this is for you.”
He didn’t answer.
“You’re a strong boy. Something tells me that you could even, one day, become the strongest. You’re very special. And I know you can move past this, in time. It’s what your mother would have wanted.”
A knot flickered in Midoriya’s chest. A small, hot spark that he didn’t have a name for. He lifted his head, just a little, just enough, and turned it in her direction.
“How do you know?”
His own voice surprised him. It was harder than he meant it to be, sharper, with an edge to it that he hadn’t known was there. The hand on his head went still.
For a moment, nobody said anything. Midoriya could feel the Director watching him, could sense the outline of her face through his closed eyelids, the heat of her body a soft orange glow in the darkness behind his eyes.
When she spoke again, she was still smiling. He thought she was still smiling.
“That’s what any mother would want their child to do,” she said gently. “To be safe, to be happy, to have every chance to become something wonderful. Just like she knew you could.”
Midoriya looked away.
The Director kept talking. She told him about his future, about all the things he could learn and do and become. She used small words, simple ones, the kind teachers used when they were explaining something important to the whole class. She told him his mother would have been so proud to see what he was going to accomplish. She told him that people with gifts had a responsibility to use them, and that she wanted to help him understand what that meant.
The door opened behind her.
Midoriya heard the footsteps before the voice, heavy ones, the same ones from earlier, the officer who had brought him here.
“Excuse me.” The man’s voice was tighter now, less kind. “I need to speak with you outside.”
The Director didn’t move. “Of course.”
“This boy is supposed to be transferred to Child Guidance Center,” the officer rumbled out. Midoriya could hear something in his voice that hadn’t been there before. He sounded tense and wound up. Midoriya heard his feet shuffle beneath him and his own hands clenching and unclenching for some reason. “I can’t just allow the Commission to take him. There are procedures. There are—”
“I understand completely.” The Director’s tone hadn’t changed at all. She lifted one hand, Midoriya saw the motion as a blur of orange heat through his eyelids, and made a small gesture. “Hiro, would you mind speaking with the officer privately?”
Footsteps. The heavier set that had come in with the Director moved past Midoriya’s chair and out into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind them.
For a while, there was only silence. Midoriya sat with his eyes closed and his fingers pressing against each other in his lap and listened to the muffled sound of voices from the other side of the door. He couldn’t make out the words. The voices rose and fell, stopped and started, and in the middle of it all there was a pause that lasted longer than the others.
When the door opened again, only one set of footsteps came back through it.
Midoriya turned his head. Through his closed eyelids, he could see the outline of the man who had left, Hiro, the Director had called him, but the officer wasn’t there anymore. The officer’s heat signature, the soft orange glow that had been standing in the doorway just a few moments ago, was gone.
He didn’t understand why.
The Director continued as though nothing had happened.
She leaned down, he felt the shift in the air, the warmth of her moving closer, until her face was level with his. Her voice was even softer now, almost a whisper.
“Would you like to come with me, Midoriya?”
He didn’t answer.
“Your mother loved you very much. And I know she would have wanted you to be somewhere safe. Somewhere with people who understood how special you are. She must have known you could accomplish wonderful things, and she would want you to have every chance to discover what you are capable of.”
Midoriya stared down at his shoes. He couldn’t actually see them, not with his eyes closed, not really, but he stared anyway, at the space where he knew they were, at the darkness that was somehow also full of light and heat and shapes that didn’t make any sense.
His head was starting to hurt again. He hadn’t even had his eyes open for that long today, just a few minutes when the policeman first came to get him from school, but it didn’t seem to matter. The pain came anyway. He rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles, pressing hard, trying to push the ache back down where it couldn’t reach him. But something else came up instead, a picture, bright and terrible and impossible to look away from, even though his eyes were closed.
His mother on the bathroom floor. The tiles were white and clean except for where they weren’t. The red spreading out from her head in a shape that looked almost alive, almost moving, reaching for the edges of the room. Her eyes open but not seeing anything. Her mouth half-open too, and he had thought for one stupid second that she was about to say something, that she was going to tell him dinner was almost ready or ask him how school was or smile at him the way she always did when he came home.
But she hadn’t said anything.
She hadn’t moved at all.
His fingers rubbed together faster. Back and forth, back and forth, trying to scrape the red residue of his fingers from when he knelt down beside her.
After a long time, Midoriya gave a small nod, just once, just barely.
The Director smiled and reached down to help him from the chair. Her hand found his, her fingers warm and dry against his smaller ones, and she pulled him gently to his feet. Her other hand came up to rest on top of his head, rubbing through his hair the same way his mother used to do.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Izuku,” she murmured comfortingly.
Midoriya didn’t answer.
She guided him through the police station with one hand on his shoulder. His eyes stayed closed while the sounds of the building washed over him. Phones ringing, keyboards clicking, voices layered on top of each other in ways that made his head hurt worse. The smell changed as they moved, underneath it all he could feel the heat signatures of the people they passed, orange shapes that turned to look at him as he went by.
Outside, the air was cooler. A breeze moved across his face. He heard a car door open.
“Right this way.”
Midoriya hesitatingly climbed into the back seat of a vehicle that felt bigger than any car he had ever been in. The leather was cool and smooth under his palms, and when he settled back against the seat it seemed to swallow him whole, soft and deep and far too large for a boy his size.
The door closed beside him.
He curled his fingers together in his lap and started rubbing them again, harder now, harder than before, until his knuckles ached, and his skin burned, and the pain was almost enough to drown out everything else.
His Quirk had come. After all those years of praying, of wishing, of lying awake at night and begging for something—anything—to prove that he wasn’t broken, it had finally come.
Maybe that was the price.
Maybe you couldn’t get something without giving something else away. Mom always used to say that nothing in the world is free. Maybe it had looked at him and decided that if he wanted to be special, he had to lose the only person who had ever made him feel that way without needing proof.
He didn’t want to be special anymore.
The car began to move, and Midoriya sat alone in the darkness behind his eyes, rubbing his fingers together, as moisture began crawling and trailing down his cheeks.
He just wanted his mom back.
Twelve Years Later
The leather chair was worth more than most people’s monthly rent, and Midoriya had decided to enjoy every second of it. He sat with one ankle resting over his knee. His black blindfold was wrapped neatly across his eyes. He turned a silver paperweight between his fingers. The metal was cold and heavy, probably real sterling, engraved with some corporate motto he hadn’t bothered to read.
Midoriya didn’t mind. The office gave him plenty to work with even without opening his eyes. The scent of expensive coffee lingered on the desk, something nice and imported, with notes of chocolate and citrus that suggested an Italian origin. The air conditioner cycled overhead every forty-seven seconds, creating a subtle pressure change he could feel against his skin. Footsteps passed in the hallway at irregular intervals: heels clicking meant administrative staff, the heavier tread of security making rounds, and twice now someone had paused outside the door for three or four seconds before continuing.
That last one was probably an assistant, checking whether he’d gotten bored and left.
He hadn’t.
The Commission’s instructions had been refreshingly simple this time. Masaru Hasegawa, chairman of one of the largest hero-support conglomerates in the country, had refused to cooperate with a confidential investigation. Several support companies had been selling restricted equipment to villains, the kind of gear that was supposed to stay locked in government warehouses and licensed agency armories, and someone inside Hasegawa’s organization knew exactly who was responsible.
The Commission didn’t want a public investigation. Too many licensed heroes would be embarrassed. A few government officials would face uncomfortable questions. The whole thing would become a media circus, and the actual criminals would lawyer up and drag everything out for years.
So they sent him instead.
Get him to talk, get him to cooperate and please, for the love of god, try not to make a mess.
The door opened.
Midoriya didn’t move. He kept turning the paperweight, letting the cool silver roll across his knuckles while heavy footsteps crossed the threshold. Expensive shoes… Italian leather? Definitely freshly polished. A cologne that probably cost more than Midoriya’s entire wardrobe, trying too hard to project authority.
“What the hell is this?”
The voice belonged to a man in his late fifties, someone who had spent decades learning how to make other people feel small. Midoriya could hear the contempt in every syllable.
“Ah! Good afternoon, Mr. Hasegawa.” Midoriya smiled pleasantly without standing. “Your beautiful assistant was kind enough to let me wait.”
“I was told this meeting would be with someone from the Public Safety Commission.” Hasegawa moved around his desk, and Midoriya heard him stop short when he got a better look at the blindfolded teenager lounging in his best chair. “They sent a child?”
“I’m eighteen, actually, but I appreciate the compliment.”
What? It takes a lot of work to have complexion this good!
“Where—are your superiors? I’ve already spoken with my lawyers about the Commission’s questions, and I have nothing more to say until—”
“That’s fine.”
Hasegawa paused. “What?”
“I said that’s fine.” He gently set the paperweight down on the armrest, but paused and cocked his head. No, that didn’t look right. He aligned them until they were all perfect. The boss himself was staring at him, as if he’d grown three heads and suddenly started jabbering on in Spanish. “You’ve spoken with your lawyers. That was very sensible of you. I actually only have a few questions anyway and I promise I’ll be out of your hair.”
The silence stretched for nearly four seconds. Midoriya could practically feel Hasegawa recalculating, trying to figure out whether this was a trap or whether the Commission really had sent someone this underwhelming.
“Then ask your questions and leave.”
“Of course.” Midoriya tilted his head. “Did your lawyers mention the warehouse in Naruhata?”
Hasegawa’s breathing changed. Not dramatically, most people wouldn’t have noticed, but there was a hitch, a tiny hesitation before he answered. Hasegawa was an important man, a powerful man, taught and raised around corporate politics. It took more a little accusation to get a rise out of the man. That’s why he had to come out with the big guns, sort to speak, right out of the gate.
“What warehouse?”
“Hmm.” Midoriya shrugged as if he’d made an innocent mistake. “If there’s no warehouse, then there’s nothing to worry about. Sorry about that.” He stood up smoothly and walked over to the coffee station near the window. “Black, or do you take anything in it?”
“I—what?”
“Your coffee.” He was already examining the equipment, running his fingers along the edge of the expensive machine. “I noticed you had some on your desk earlier. Smells incredible, by the way. I figured we might as well be comfortable while we talk.”
“I didn’t agree to—”
“Black it is.”
The machine hummed to life. Midoriya prepared two cups effortlessly, as though he’d done it a million times, even though he rarely drank the stuff himself. When he turned and offered one to Hasegawa, the man took it automatically, too confused to refuse.
“Thank you,” Hasegawa murmured, the words coming out shallow and uncertain until his expression shifted. “You never gave me your name.”
Midoriya hummed in ashamed realization and nodded into his sip. He reached over from his seat and shook the man’s hand.
“Izuku Midoriya. Pleasure to meet you.”
“What?” he scoffed, laughing just a bit. “No hero name?”
“Nah,” he stated with a dismissive wave. “Those are pretty overrated, honestly.” Midoriya settled back into his chair, cradling the cup between his palms. “Have you ever noticed how tacky most of them are? All Might, sure, that one works. But half the heroes out there pick names that sound they came up with them in middle school. ‘Crimson Blade.’ ‘Shadow Strike.’” He waved his fingers around like was telling a ghost story and laughed. “It’s all so performative. At least use your actual name and own it, like regular people, you know? Like you and me.”
Hasegawa just stared at him, nodding slowly.
Midoriya took another sip of his coffee, let the silence settle, and changed the subject so smoothly that Hasegawa didn’t notice the shift until it was too late.
“So, the missing equipment.”
“I told you, I’ve already—”
“The shell companies are interesting.” Midoriya’s tone was casual, almost bored and there was a bit of sputtering into the man’s coffee that he was delighted to hear. “Someone went to a lot of trouble setting those up. Three different subsidiaries, all registered within six months of each other, all with the same accountant. Did you know that accountant resigned last week? I wonder what could have caused that to happen.”
He feigned a nervous shudder and shiver, giggling.
Hasegawa’s cup stopped halfway to his lips.
“And then there’s the employees. Some of them have been talking to investigators. Not officially, of course. No one wants their name attached to anything, but people get nervous. They see things. They start to wonder whether loyalty is really worth prison time.”
“I don’t know what you’re implying.”
“I’m not implying anything.” Midoriya smiled affably. “I’m just mentioning that the Commission has already identified the person responsible for moving the equipment. We apprehended him this morning, actually.”
Hasegawa’s face went pale at that statement, at how it was spoken like the weather.
“You had no right to arrest Kuroda!”
The words came out furious, explosive, and Midoriya watched the exact moment that Hasegawa realized what he’d done. He took a great deal of delight of it. He always loved getting deceptive men and women to reveal the truth and be forced to stew in their sins.
“I never mentioned Kuroda.” Midoriya leaned closer, and his smile turned devious. “But thank you for confirming he’s involved.”
Hasegawa’s face cycled through several expressions in rapid succession. Shock, fear, anger, and finally one that looked like desperation. Midoriya watched all of it with the same pleasant smile he’d worn since he walked in.
“Kuroda handles logistics,” Hasegawa muttered, and his voice had steadied somewhat. “If there’s been any discussion about shipments, he would naturally be involved. That’s not an admission of anything!”
“Sure. I know. You’re an upstanding member of society, Mr. Hasegawa.” Midoriya nodded agreeably. “Except I wasn’t talking about ordinary shipments. I was talking about illegal sales of restricted equipment to villains.”
Hasegawa’s jaw tightened. A bead of sweat had appeared at his temple.
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Okay.” He set his coffee cup down on the side table and folded his hands over his crisscrossed knees. “Let me ask you something different, then. How long did it take you to build this company?”
“What?”
“Your company. Hasegawa Support Industries, right? Your father started it, but you’re the one who turned it into what it is today. Thirty years of work, maybe more. You’ve got—what, four thousand employees? Five thousand? Families depending on you. A reputation you’ve spent your entire adult life building.”
Hasegawa said nothing.
“You’ve got two daughters, don’t you? One just finished university. The other’s still in high school.” Midoriya’s tone was conversational, almost friendly. “Nice family. Your wife seems lovely. I saw the photo on your desk.”
“Don’t you dare—”
“I’m not threatening your family, Mr. Hasegawa. I’m not in that kind of business. My name isn’t on any buildings, after all.” Hasegawa sneered at the insult. “I’m asking you to think about what you’ve sacrificed to get where you are. All those late nights. All those difficult decisions. All those times you had to choose between what was easy and what was right.”
Hasegawa’s breathing had changed again, faster now.
“People in your position, they rarely ruin everything because of greed.”
Lie of the century there.
Hasegawa stared at him for nearly ten seconds before asking, “What do you mean by that?”
“Men usually make terrible decisions because they become convinced that admitting one mistake will destroy everything they spent their lives building.” Midoriya innocuously shrugged. “They think the cover-up is safer than the truth. And sometimes they’re right. But usually they’re wrong, and by the time they figure that out, it’s too late to go back.”
The office was very quiet. Midoriya could hear Hasegawa’s heartbeat from across the room, faster than it should have been, irregular with stress.
“I don’t actually need you to confess anything. The Commission already has enough information to start pulling apart your company piece by piece. The only question is how much of it really survives when they’re done. They are pretty vindictive people. They don’t much like when people make things hard for them. Trust me,” he drawled, “you don’t wanna meet who they’d send when they’re truly peeved.”
Hasegawa’s hands were trembling. “What does the Commission want from me?”
Midoriya smiled. “Now we’re beginning to have a useful conversation.”
He stood up and walked back over to the coffee station, humming a nice tune as he prepared another cup. The machine hissed and gurgled. Steam rose into the air.
“This really is incredible, by the way.” He took a sip and shivered. “I don’t normally drink coffee, it makes me soooooo jittery, but this is something else.” He smiled over his shoulder, charming and bright. “Where do you get it?”
Hasegawa blinked at the sudden shift. “It’s… imported. From Italy.”
Midoriya laughed and humorously said, “A little of my budget, then, I take it.”
Hasegawa looked away, visibly uncomfortable with the casual tone.
“Just tell me what you want.” His voice had an edge to it now, frustration mixing with fear. His palm came down on the desk hard enough to rattle the coffee cup. “Stop playing games and tell me what the Commission wants!”
“Hey, hey.” Midoriya held up a hand, still smiling. “Calm down. Everything’s going to be alright. I promise." He eased his voice lower, so that it would be nicer to listen to, more entrancing. His eyes became a little lighter, some of the tension eased out of his shoulders. "You can trust me, Mr. Hasegawa. I only want what's best for you. You believe that, don't you?”
"I, um... okay," he said, swallowing and bobbing his head.
He was clearly uncertain if he wanted to believe that, but the seed was there. That and he wasn't quite so wound up and agitated anymore. Midoriya would call that success any day of the week. Hypnotizing others is usual a simple, albeit difficult task. You need to say the correct things, have it take place in an environment where the subject can feel comfortable and at peace. Their mind needs to slow, they need to let their guard down and allow suggestions to be planted into their heads.
That's why, typically, smarter, calmer, more intelligent people were a lot harder to enter the mind of. He could read them just fine. He could read anyone, given enough time and observation. Hypnotism only truly worked in specific cases and against those who, A) lack intelligence and mental fortitude, B) have submissive and easily corruptible personalities, or C) people who actually wanted and welcomed the idea of being hypnotized.
All that being said, hypnotism is equal parts science and art.
Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.
Sometimes it works very well and sometimes, very little at all, just like the case here.
He settled back into his chair and took another sip.
“The answer is almost embarrassingly simple. I want you to identify every company executive who knowingly moved restricted equipment. I want access to the relevant financial records. And I want you to quietly dismiss three board members before the Commission starts asking questions in public.”
Hasegawa’s face went red. “Absolutely not. That would destroy my company. I’d be exposed to lawsuits from every direction. Everyone would know I cooperated with you.”
“Why would the Commission care whether people knew you cooperated?”
“Because you have no authority to force me into destroying my own company.”
“True.” Midoriya nodded. “We could spend months fighting over subpoenas and jurisdiction. Lawyers on both sides billing by the hour. Everything getting dragged through the courts while your employees read about it in the news.” He paused. “Or you could make several decisions on your own, and everyone walks away with their reputations intact.”
Hasegawa’s eyes narrowed. “You’re bluffing. Show me whatever evidence the Commission supposedly has.”
Midoriya blinked innocently and pressed a hand to his chest. “What? Don’t trust my word? I’m hurt~ I thought we had a connection.”
Hasegawa glared at him.
“Fine, fine.” Midoriya sighed and reached inside his jacket.
The movement was casual, unhurried. But Hasegawa reacted as if Midoriya had pulled a weapon.
His hand shot out, yanked open a desk drawer, fumbled inside with trembling fingers. He came up with a snub-nosed revolver, the barrel wavering as he pointed it at Midoriya’s chest.
Midoriya froze for exactly one second.
Then his expression shifted into something that might have been terror, if terror came with a barely suppressed smile.
“Oh no,” he said gaspingly, holding a hand to his forehead as if he might faint. “Guns. My one and only weakness.”
Hasegawa’s face contorted with fury. “You and the Commission can go straight to hell.”
He pulled the trigger.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Hasegawa stared at the revolver in his hand. The blood drained from his face.
Midoriya cackled softly and leaned back in his chair.
“You strike me as a very well-prepared man, Mr. Hasegawa. Someone who thinks about profit and loss, risk and reward, constantly. A handgun, well, those have a chance of jamming. But a revolver? Not so much. And a lot of semi-auto pistols aren’t easy to hide in a tiny little desk drawer, like that one you have there, but a snub-nose is small, light, reliable. It’s a fantastic choice for self-defense.”
Hasegawa’s hand was shaking now.
“Only…” Midoriya pinched the fabric of his jacket and moved it around slightly.
The sound of bullets jingling against each other was unmistakable.
He touched Hasegawa’s palm comfortingly. The poor man had gone even paler.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. It was a nice try.”
Hasegawa hurled the revolver at Midoriya’s head with a strangled cry of rage. Midoriya ducked, and the gun clattered against the wall behind him.
He straightened up, brushed a bit of nothing off his shoulder, and smiled innocently.
“So. Can we go back to speaking as gentlemen now?”
Midoriya reached into his coat slowly, making sure Hasegawa could see his hands the entire time, and pulled out a single photograph. He placed it on the desk face-up without allowing Hasegawa to see his own expression.
Hasegawa picked it up.
The color drained from his face in a way that no acting could replicate. Midoriya counted the seconds of silence. One. Two. Nearly three before Hasegawa remembered to breathe.
“Is that photograph familiar?”
“No.” The word came out too fast, almost reflexive. Then, before Midoriya could respond, “Where did you get this?”
Ah… the second answer told him far more than the first.
“That photograph was taken several weeks ago. The Commission originally believed the man standing beside the shipment was an employee from one of your contractors. We thought he might be useful as a witness.”
Hasegawa’s eyes were still fixed on the photograph. His thumb moved slightly, as if he wanted to cover part of the image.
“He’s not an employee.”
Midoriya waited.
The silence stretched. Hasegawa seemed to realize he’d spoken too quickly again, and his face tightened in frustration.
“What difference does that make?”
“I’m trying to understand something.” Midoriya’s voice was patient, almost gentle with him. He couldn’t stand men like Hasegawa; always so quick to cover their own asses at the expense of others, in such a rush to pad their own pockets no matter the consequences. “Did you recognize him because he works for the company? Because you’ve met him socially? Or… because you know exactly what was inside those containers?”
Hasegawa’s hands were trembling again. “I never personally handled any illegal equipment. I want that on the record. Whatever Kuroda and the others were doing, I never touched any of it.”
“I believe you.”
Hell no.
Hasegawa blinked. “You… what?”
“I said I believe you.” Midoriya shrugged. Again, hell no. “I never accused you of personally moving anything. I only wanted to know whether you knew who had done it.”
He’s guilty as shit. Unfortunately, the company was useful and he was a brilliant CEO. Without him, the company would crumble and die inside of a year, which wouldn’t be all that good for hero society. If he had his way, he’d just take him down along with every single guilty criminal working here, but sadly, that wasn’t possible.
The office was very quiet. Midoriya could hear the air conditioner cycling overhead, the distant sounds of traffic from the streets below, the ragged sound of Hasegawa’s breathing. Hasegawa’s eyes moved to the wall behind Midoriya, to a painted portrait hanging there that Midoriya had catalogued when he first entered the room. An older man in formal attire, stern-faced and dignified. The founder of the company. Hasegawa’s father.
“If I tell you…” Hasegawa’s voice was barely above a whisper, tearing his gaze from the portrait, sweating. “I won’t see prison? Not even Jail?”
“You have my word.”
Hasegawa swallowed hard. His gaze lingered on the portrait for another long moment before he looked down at his desk.
“Hayashi.” The name came out hollow, defeated. “Renjiro Hayashi. He’s the one who authorized the shipments. He has contacts in the underground, people who can move anything without questions.”
Midoriya nodded slowly. That made a great deal of sense. “And the subsidiary? The one that was created to keep everything away from the parent company’s records?”
Hasegawa’s eyes widened a little. He clearly hadn’t expected him to know about that. Oh, well, too bad for him.
“Hayashi set it up. With help from one of the board members.”
“Which one?”
The hesitation lasted nearly five entire seconds. Midoriya didn’t rush him. He simply waited, patient as stone, until Hasegawa’s silence answered the question for him.
“Tanaka,” Midoriya said quietly. “Kenji Tanaka.”
Hasegawa’s single nod was almost imperceptible.
“You’ve just done the hardest part.” Midoriya softened his voice to sell it. “Things can still remain quiet if you cooperate fully. The Commission has no interest in destroying your company or dragging your family through a public scandal. We want the people responsible, not the organization they hide behind.”
What’s the saying?
“You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”
Or something like that.
If he came in here and just repeatedly threatened him, he would have just lawyer’d up and Midoriya would have been escorted out of the room inside an hour. He obviously couldn’t have that, now, could he? No, he needed to give up this information of his own volition. He needed to understand, painfully, that it was best for him to cooperate.
Hasegawa looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed and utterly exhausted. “And if I refuse to go any further?”
Midoriya’s smile disappeared.
“The Commission will release the evidence to the press. Your company will become the center of a criminal investigation that will take years to resolve. Your board will turn against you the moment they realize they’re in danger, they’ll hire separate lawyers, give separate statements, and every single one of them will try to paint you as the mastermind. Deals will be made.” He paused. “The people you protected will leave you to take the blame alone. That’s what always happens.”
“You can’t—”
“I don’t particularly care which choice you make but I think you care very much about what happens to your employees. Your company. Your family. Your father built a wonderful company and you’ve done an amazing job at taking it global. Do you really want to be the one who burns it down?”
Hasegawa stared at him for a long, terrible moment.
Then his shoulders sagged.
“What… what do I need to sign?”
Midoriya’s smile returned, warm and bright, as if the last thirty seconds hadn’t happened at all. He reached for the folder beside him and slid it across the desk.
“I knew we’d reach an understanding eventually.”
The signing took less than five minutes. Midoriya watched Hasegawa’s pen move across each page, noted every hesitation, every moment where Hasegawa’s hand paused over a particularly damning admission. When the final signature was complete, Midoriya gathered the documents, sealed them in the folder, and tucked it inside his jacket.
“It was absolutely wonderful to meet you, Mr. Hasegawa.”
He stood and stretched much like a cat before walking over to the counter near the coffee station. His attention drifted to the container of coffee grounds sitting beside the machine. He picked it up, turned it over in his hands, and made a small appreciative noise.
Hasegawa was watching him with a mixture of exhaustion and disbelief.
Midoriya glanced back, his expression perfectly innocent.
Hasegawa ground out through his teeth, “Just… take it.”
Midoriya beamed, full of childish happiness. “Thank you so much! That’s incredibly generous of you!” He tucked the container under his arm and gave Hasegawa a small wave. “Take care of yourself and please, get some rest! You look terrible.”
He was halfway to the door when the smell hit him again, that rich, imported coffee. That delicious jar was probably worth more per ounce than anything he’d ever bought for himself.
“Smells too good to be healthy,” he murmured to himself, and smiled. When did that ever stop him? “Oh well.”
The hallway outside Hasegawa’s office was quiet and climate-controlled, all clean lines and expensive artwork. Midoriya walked at a leisurely pace, the folder secure in his jacket and the coffee container cradled against his side. His phone buzzed in his pocket before he reached the elevator.
He pulled it out, glanced at the caller ID, and answered.
“Hello?”
“Is it handled?”
Madam Director’s voice was profession and tight as always. Midoriya could picture her sitting at her desk, surrounded by reports and intelligence briefings, her ash-blonde hair perfectly in place.
“Oh, ye of little faith.” He stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor. “Seriously, you need to start trusting me more. Everything went smoothly. I have signed documents, names, and enough information to make several people very uncomfortable.”
“Good. Have you seen the news?”
Y’know, in his experience, that was never a good way to start a conversation.
He huffed a terse breath through his nose.
This day is gonna get even longer, isn’t it?
“Nope, can’t say that I have. Why? Did they announce who the new Pope is going to be?”
“This isn’t the time for jokes!”
Whew boy. She really sounded tense today.
“J-Just come back to the office. There’s another matter I need to discuss with you.”
“That’s going to have to wait.”
A pause. “Why?”
“I’m famished.” Midoriya watched the floor numbers tick down. “You can’t expect me to function on an empty stomach.”
He could hear her rubbing her aching forehead on the other end. “There’s food at the office.”
Midoriya made a gagging sound that he didn’t bother to hide from the receiver. “I would sooner be caught dead than eat that sewer slop you people call food. I’m going to stop by McDonald’s!”
The sigh that came through the phone was deep enough that Midoriya could feel it in his bones.
“Fine. Just… don’t take too long.”
“No promises!” He ended the call before she could respond and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Hmmmm, now what to get?
He was thinking a few Big Mac’s, a Double Teriyaki Chicken Filet and some nuggies.
Hmmmmmm. Nuggies.
All right, that's my first chapter done and over with.
Oh, FYI, I know there may be some confusion, but I based the core of my Izuku's personality and whatnot off Patrick Jane (from The Mentalist, goated show, 10/10 would recommend to a friend) not Gojo's. I know there are similarities, both of them are eccentric, have childish traits, are arrogant and love to tease others, but yeah. Not saying I didn't take anything from Gojo in inspiration from this story, but it's relatively minor in comparison to everything else.