The afternoon classes passed in a blur. Hero Studies with All Might—thankfully just classroom work, no combat training. History with Midnight. Then finally, dismissal.
Izuku packed his bag slowly, deliberately the last one to leave. He didn't want to deal with more concerned looks, more questions about how he was doing.
"Midoriya-kun?"
He looked up. Momo stood by his desk, her expression thoughtful and measured.
"Can I talk to you for a moment?" she asked. "As class representative." She paused, then added more softly, "And as a friend. I know we haven't talked as much recently, but trust me—there hasn't been a moment where I wasn't worried about you."
That's... unexpected, the voice said, caught off-guard. Genuine concern. Not just social politics.
"Sure," Izuku said, shouldering his bag, feeling something twist uncomfortably in his chest at her words.
Momo waited until the classroom was completely empty before speaking. "I'm not going to ask if you're okay. You've probably been asked that a dozen times today and the answer is clearly complicated."
"Then what are you asking?" Izuku asked, genuinely curious.
"I'm asking if you understand what you did yesterday," Momo said directly. "Not the combat aspects—those were impressive. But the social aspects. You've created a reputation now. As someone who will escalate to overwhelming force. That reputation will follow you."
Smart, the voice observed. She's not worried about your wellbeing. She's worried about your social standing. That's almost more useful.
"I understand," Izuku said.
"Do you?" Momo tilted her head slightly. "Because some reputations open doors. Others close them. And the reputation of 'that student who knocked out Bakugou' could go either way depending on how you handle it going forward."
"What do you suggest?" Izuku asked, realizing this might actually be valuable advice.
"Be consistent," Momo said. "If you're going to be aggressive, be aggressive always. If yesterday was an anomaly, make that clear through your actions going forward. Inconsistency makes people nervous. Nervousness makes them treat you as a threat." She paused. "And threats don't get chosen for team exercises. They don't get internship offers from heroes who want reliable partners. They get isolated and managed."
She's right, the voice admitted grudgingly. This is good advice. We need to decide—are we the aggressive fighter or the controlled strategist? Can't be both.
"Thank you," Izuku said sincerely. "That's... actually really helpful."
"You're welcome. And Midoriya-kun?" Momo's expression softened slightly. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're unstable. I think you're adapting to a traumatic experience in the way that makes sense to you. Just make sure that adaptation doesn't cost you more than it gains you."
She left, leaving Izuku alone in the empty classroom with those words echoing in his mind.
She's smarter than we gave her credit for, the voice said. We need to be more careful around her. She sees too much.
"Everyone sees too much," Izuku muttered, heading for the door.
The train ride home was long and quiet. Izuku watched the city pass by—buildings getting shorter and shabbier as he moved from the clean districts toward the slums. His reflection in the window looked tired, older than fifteen.
We're doing what we have to, the voice said, almost gently. Survival isn't pretty. It's never been pretty. But it works.
"At what cost?" Izuku asked quietly.
At whatever cost necessary, the voice replied. Because the alternative is failing. Going back to being nothing. And we're not nothing anymore.
We're strong. We're feared. We're respected.
That matters more than being liked.
Izuku wanted to argue. Wanted to say that friendship mattered, that connection mattered, that being liked and trusted was important for heroes.
But the voice had a point.
In the slums, fear and respect kept you safe. Liking got you exploited.
Maybe UA wasn't so different after all.
He got off at his stop and walked through the familiar streets toward home. The slums were quiet in the afternoon—most people at work or school, only the very young or very old visible.
He climbed the three flights to his apartment and opened the door.
"Izu!" Yumeko was home early, working on something at the table. "How was school?"
"Fine," Izuku said automatically. "Normal."
"That's not what I heard," she said, and there was something in her tone. "Shinji texted me. Said his friend's younger sister goes to UA, and she was talking about some fight that happened in hero training. Something about you knocking out another student?"
Of course word got back to the family, the voice said with resignation. Nothing stays secret.
"It was a sparring match," Izuku said carefully. "I won. That's all."
"By knocking him unconscious?" Yumeko's eyes were sharp. "Izu, that doesn't sound like you."
"Maybe you don't know what I sound like anymore," Izuku said, more harshly than intended.
Yumeko blinked, clearly taken aback. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Careful, the voice warned. Don't alienate family. They're the only ones who actually matter.
"Nothing," Izuku said, softening his tone. "Sorry. It's been a long day. The match was intense, and yeah, I knocked him out. But it was controlled. The teachers checked, Recovery Girl approved. It's fine."
"Is it though?" Yumeko studied him with the same perceptive look Tsuyu had given him earlier. "Because you seem different, Izu. Not just tired different. Cold different."
"I almost died two weeks ago," Izuku said flatly. "That changes people."
Yumeko's expression shifted to guilt. "I know. I'm sorry. I just... we worry about you. All of us. You're carrying so much, and sometimes I wonder if it's too much."
"It's not," Izuku said with certainty. "I can handle it."
"That's what scares me," Yumeko said quietly. "The fact that you think you have to handle it alone."
Before Izuku could respond, the apartment door opened. Shinji came in, saw Izuku, and immediately grinned.
"There's my little brother the badass!" He dropped his bag and pulled Izuku into a rough hug. "Heard you knocked out some explosive kid in front of the whole class. That's amazing!"
See? the voice said. Some people get it. Some people understand that strength matters.
"It wasn't that amazing," Izuku said, but he couldn't help a small smile. "Just a sparring match."
"A sparring match you dominated," Shinji corrected. "That's worth celebrating. Man, I wish I'd had your quirk in school. Would've made things a lot easier."
"Shinji," Yumeko said warningly. "Don't encourage him."
"Why not? He won! That's what you're supposed to do at hero school—win!" Shinji released Izuku and headed for the kitchen. "I say we should be proud. Our little brother is becoming a real hero."
I like him, the voice said. He understands.
The rest of the evening passed in relative normalcy. Dinner with the family—Daichi came home, then their parents, and they all crowded around the small table. No one mentioned the match except Shinji, who kept trying to get details until Himari shut him down.
But Izuku could feel their eyes on him. Assessing. Worried. Wondering what had changed in their youngest son.
Later, lying in bed beside Shinji, Izuku stared at the ceiling and thought about everything that had happened today.
The confrontation with Iida. Uraraka's concern. Bakugou's rage. The principal's office and his callout of their bias. Momo's strategic advice. The counseling sessions looming in his future.
Twenty-two days until the Sports Festival, the voice said quietly. Four days until training resumes. Tomorrow, first counseling session.
"I don't know if I can do this," Izuku admitted in the darkness.
Yes, you can, the voice said with absolute certainty. Because we have to. Because there's no other option. Because we've come too far to fail now.
"What if they figure it out? What if the counselor realizes something's wrong?"
Then we adapt. We lie better. We become whatever we need to be to survive this. A pause. You've been surviving your whole life, Izuku. In the slums, in poverty, with a family counting on you. This is just another kind of survival.
And we're very good at surviving.
Izuku closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges. New lies to tell. New masks to wear.
But tonight, at least, he was home.
Safe with his family in their cramped apartment in the slums.
Even if he was becoming someone they might not recognize.
Even if the voice in his head was the only thing that felt real anymore.
We'll make it through this, the voice promised. Together.
And despite everything—despite the fear and the lies and the isolation—Izuku believed it.
Because he had to.
The next morning arrived too quickly.
Izuku woke at 4:30 AM to the voice already talking.
Today's the counseling session, it said, and there was tension in its tone. We need to be careful. Very careful. One wrong answer and they'll dig deeper.
"I know," Izuku whispered, careful not to wake Shinji.
Let's go over the story again. You're coping well with the attack. Yes, you were scared, but you're handling it. The aggression in the match was about proving yourself after feeling vulnerable. You don't hear voices. You don't have intrusive thoughts. You're sleeping fine, eating fine, everything's fine.
"Everything's fine," Izuku repeated, the lie tasting familiar now.
Good. Remember—counselors are trained to spot lies, but they're also trained to respect patient autonomy. If you're consistent and calm, they'll assume you're telling the truth. People want to believe you're okay. Use that.
The morning routine was mechanical. Shower, uniform, breakfast. Himari watched him with concerned eyes but said nothing. She'd learned when to push and when to let him work through things alone.
The train ride to UA felt longer than usual. Izuku ran through potential questions and his prepared answers, feeling like he was studying for a test where failure meant losing everything.
You've got this, the voice assured him. We've faced worse. Drug dealers, gang members, Bakugou. A counselor is nothing compared to that.
"A counselor might be more dangerous," Izuku thought back. "They know how to see through lies."
Then we don't lie. We just... omit certain truths. There's a difference.
Class 1-A was already buzzing with activity when Izuku arrived. He noticed immediately that people were giving him more space than usual—sitting in seats farther away, conversations quieting when he passed.
Fear and respect, the voice noted. Just like we discussed.
"It feels lonely," Izuku admitted.
Lonely is safe. Get used to it.
The morning classes passed in their usual blur. Math with Ectoplasm, English with Present Mic, History with Midnight. Normal, routine, almost comforting in their predictability.
Until lunch.
Izuku was heading to the cafeteria when Aizawa intercepted him in the hallway.
"Midoriya. Counselor's office. You have an appointment in five minutes."
Here we go, the voice said, tension crackling through it. Remember the plan. Stay calm. Stay consistent.
"Yes, sir," Izuku said.
Aizawa studied him for a moment. "The counselor's name is Hound Dog. He's... direct. Don't let that throw you off. He's good at what he does."
Hound Dog? the voice said with alarm. The pro hero with the canine mutation quirk? He can literally smell emotions. This is bad. This is very bad.
Izuku's heart rate spiked, but he kept his expression neutral. "Understood."
The counseling office was in a separate wing of UA, away from the main classrooms. It was designed to be calming—soft lighting, comfortable furniture, plants in the corners. A place where students were supposed to feel safe opening up.
Hound Dog sat behind a desk that seemed too small for his large, canine-featured frame. His pro hero costume was replaced with a simple shirt and vest, but he was no less imposing for it.
"Midoriya Izuku," he said, his voice a low growl but not unkind. "Sit."
Izuku sat in the chair across from him, trying to keep his breathing steady.
He can smell fear, the voice warned. Stay calm. Think about something neutral. Don't let your emotions spike.
"I'm Hound Dog," the counselor said, stating the obvious. "I work with students who've experienced trauma, quirk-related incidents, or other psychological stressors. Your presence here is not punishment. It's support. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Now—" Hound Dog pulled out a file, presumably Izuku's. "You were attacked two weeks ago. Injected with a quirk enhancement drug called Trigger. Nearly died. Your quirk was permanently altered as a result. Then yesterday, you knocked out a classmate in what should have been a standard sparring match." He looked up, his canine eyes sharp. "That's a lot for anyone to process, let alone a fifteen-year-old."
"I'm handling it," Izuku said automatically.
Don't just say you're fine, the voice urged. Give him something. Something true but not too revealing.
"I mean—" Izuku corrected himself, "—it's been difficult. The attack was scary. Waking up in the hospital not knowing if I'd survive. But I'm working through it."
"How?" Hound Dog asked directly. "What does 'working through it' look like for you?"
Careful, the voice warned.
"Training harder," Izuku said. "Making sure I'm prepared so nothing like that can happen again. Proving to myself and others that I'm not weak or vulnerable."
"And that's why you knocked out Young Bakugou?"
"He said I was unstable. That I'd hold back the class because of what happened to me." Izuku met Hound Dog's eyes. "I needed to prove I'm not unstable. That I'm perfectly in control."
"By rendering him unconscious."
"By stopping exactly when I needed to," Izuku countered. "I could have hurt him worse. I chose not to. That's control."
Hound Dog was silent for a moment, just watching him. His nose twitched slightly—reading scent, reading emotions.
He knows you're stressed, the voice said. But stress is normal for this situation. Just stay consistent.
"Tell me about the voice," Hound Dog said suddenly.
Izuku's blood went cold.
What?! How does he—
"What voice?" Izuku asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral.
"The one the drug gave you." Hound Dog leaned forward slightly. "Trigger enhances quirks, but it also affects brain chemistry. Many survivors report auditory hallucinations—their own thoughts becoming externalized, feeling like someone else is speaking to them. It's a common side effect."
Oh, the voice said with relief. He's asking if you have auditory hallucinations in general. He doesn't know about me specifically. This is a standard question.
"No," Izuku said firmly. "No voices. No hallucinations."
Hound Dog's nose twitched again. He was smelling something—probably the spike in Izuku's heart rate when the question was asked.
"You're sure?" Hound Dog pressed. "Because your stress levels just jumped significantly. That suggests the question bothers you."
Think fast. Why would that question bother you besides the obvious?
"Because I'm worried people think I'm crazy," Izuku said, which was true. "Everyone's been watching me since the attack, looking for signs I'm unstable or damaged. Asking if I hear voices makes it sound like they expect me to be broken."
That was good. That was believable.
Hound Dog studied him for another long moment, then nodded slowly. "Fair point. Let me rephrase—have you noticed any changes in how you think? Thoughts that seem out of character for you? Urges or impulses that feel foreign?"
This is the same question, just reworded, the voice said. He's testing if you'll change your answer.
"The only change is that I'm more focused on getting stronger," Izuku said. "More determined not to be vulnerable again. Is that out of character? Maybe. But it makes sense given what happened to me."
"Does it?" Hound Dog tilted his head. "Because from what I've read in your file, you were always focused on getting stronger. Always training hard. The change isn't in the goal—it's in the methods. You've gone from defensive, calculated fighting to overwhelming aggression. That's not just increased focus. That's a fundamental shift in approach."
He's good, the voice admitted reluctantly. Very good. He's not buying the 'just more focused' explanation.
"I realized I was holding back," Izuku said carefully. "Before the attack, I fought defensively because I was worried about hurting people. But then I got attacked, almost died, and realized—what good is power if you're too scared to use it? So I stopped holding back. I started fighting like I mean it."
"And that shift happened overnight? The moment you returned to school?"
"It happened in a hospital bed," Izuku said, and this was closer to truth than he wanted to admit. "When I was lying there, wondering if I'd survive, if I'd ever be strong enough to prevent something like that from happening again. That's when I decided—no more holding back. No more being the victim."
Hound Dog was quiet, considering this. His nose continued its subtle twitching, reading the air, reading Izuku.
"How are you sleeping?" he asked, changing tactics.
"Better than before the hospital, actually," Izuku admitted. "Turns out when you're not training until midnight every night, you sleep better."
"Are you still training until midnight?"
"I'm not allowed to train at all for another three days," Izuku said. "Doctor's orders. So I'm sleeping, eating, going to class. Very responsible."
Was that sarcasm? The voice questioned. Be careful. He might read that as avoidance behavior.
But Hound Dog actually smiled slightly—just a small upturn of his canine features. "And how's that sitting with you? Not being allowed to train?"
"Frustrating," Izuku admitted honestly. "I have the Sports Festival in three weeks. Everyone else is training and I'm sitting on the sidelines because of what happened to me. It feels like the attack is still affecting me even though I survived it."
"That's understandable frustration," Hound Dog said. "Though I'd argue three weeks is plenty of time to prepare, especially with your enhanced quirk capabilities."
He's validating your feelings, the voice noted. Classic counseling technique. Make you feel heard so you open up more. Don't fall for it.
"I suppose," Izuku said noncommittally.
"Tell me about your family," Hound Dog said, another topic shift. "How have they been handling your attack and recovery?"
This was safer ground. Izuku talked about his family—their concern, their support, the special meals his mother had made, his siblings visiting him in the hospital. All true, all easy to discuss without revealing anything problematic.
Hound Dog listened, occasionally asking clarifying questions, but mostly just letting Izuku talk.
He's building rapport, the voice observed. Getting you comfortable so you'll slip up and reveal something. Stay guarded.
After about twenty minutes, Hound Dog leaned back in his chair. "Alright, Midoriya. Here's my assessment after today's session: You're experiencing normal stress responses to trauma. You're coping by focusing on strength and control, which is common for victims of violent crime. Your aggressive behavior in training is concerning, but explainable given your psychological state."
"So... I'm okay?" Izuku asked.
"You're within normal parameters," Hound Dog said carefully. "But I'm keeping you on the twice-weekly schedule. Trauma doesn't always manifest immediately. Sometimes it takes weeks or months before the real psychological effects show up. These sessions are preventative as much as reactive."
"I understand."
"And Midoriya?" Hound Dog's expression became more serious. "If anything changes—if you start having intrusive thoughts, difficulty sleeping, flashbacks, or any other concerning symptoms—you tell me immediately. Don't wait for the next scheduled session. Understood?"
He's giving you an out, the voice noted. A way to ask for help if things get worse. He's not trying to trap you. He genuinely wants to help.
Which makes him more dangerous. People who care are harder to lie to.
"Understood," Izuku said.
"You're dismissed. See you Friday, same time."
Izuku stood, grabbed his bag, and headed for the door.
"Oh, and Midoriya?" Hound Dog called after him. "That control you demonstrated yesterday? The precision in stopping exactly when needed? That's a valuable skill. Just make sure you're using it for the right reasons."
"What are the right reasons?" Izuku asked before he could stop himself.
Hound Dog smiled again, showing canine teeth. "That's what you'll figure out in these sessions. Now go—lunch period's almost over and you need to eat."
That went better than expected, the voice said as Izuku walked back through the hallways. He bought most of it. The stuff he didn't buy, he attributed to normal trauma response.
"He knows something's off though," Izuku thought back. "That whole line about changes in thinking, foreign impulses—he was fishing for information about you."
But he didn't get it. And as long as we stay consistent, he won't. We passed the first test.
Izuku made it back to the classroom just as lunch period ended. Several students looked at him curiously—clearly wondering how the counseling session had gone.
Uraraka caught his eye and gave a small, encouraging smile. Iida nodded seriously. Even Momo looked relieved to see him return apparently unscathed.
Maintain the friendships, the voice reminded him. Just enough to seem normal.
The afternoon classes were a relief—normal schoolwork, no more interrogations or assessments. Just math problems and English vocabulary and hero ethics discussions.
When the final bell rang, Izuku gathered his things slowly, not eager to rush home and face another evening of lying to his family about how "fine" everything was.
"Midoriya!"
Kirishima jogged up to him, his usual bright smile in place. "Hey man, want to grab something at the convenience store on the way to the station? My treat."
Social overture, the voice observed. He's trying to include you. Maintain the friendship.
"Sure," Izuku said, surprising himself with how much he actually wanted some normal interaction.
They walked together through UA's gates and down the street toward the convenience store. Kirishima chatted easily about hero news, speculation about the Sports Festival format, complaints about homework.
Normal things.
"So," Kirishima said as they browsed the store's aisles, "that match with Bakugou was intense."
"Everyone keeps saying that," Izuku muttered.
"Because it was! I mean, you completely dominated him. I didn't know you could fight like that." Kirishima grabbed a meat bun from the warmer. "It was actually kind of scary. But also really manly, in a weird way."
"Scary and manly?"
"Yeah! Like, scary because we didn't know you had that in you. But manly because you didn't back down when he came at you aggressive. You matched his energy and then some." Kirishima paid for both their food and handed Izuku a drink. "Just... maybe warn us next time before you knock someone out? Some of the class is kinda freaked out."
See? the voice said. This is the reputation Momo warned about. People are scared of you now.
"I didn't mean to freak anyone out," Izuku said, which was partially true. "I was just trying to prove I could handle myself."
"You definitely proved that." Kirishima grinned. "Now you just gotta figure out how to prove you're not gonna knock all of us out if we spar with you."
"I wouldn't—"
"I know, man. I know." Kirishima's expression became more serious. "But some people don't. They saw what you did to Bakugou and they're thinking 'what if he does that to me?' You know?"
He's right, the voice admitted. You've made yourself intimidating. That has consequences.
"What should I do?" Izuku asked, genuinely uncertain.
"Just... be yourself? The Midoriya who went to the arcade and sucked at racing games. The one who gets super excited about hero analysis. That guy is easy to be around." Kirishima bumped his shoulder lightly. "The cold, scary guy from yesterday? Not so much."
They walked toward the station together, eating their convenience store food and talking about lighter topics. By the time they parted ways—Kirishima heading west, Izuku heading south toward the slums—Izuku felt almost normal again.
That was good, the voice admitted. He gave you useful information about how the class sees you. And he did it without making you feel attacked.
"He's a good friend," Izuku thought back.
Then don't lose him by being too scary. Balance the aggression with the analysis. Show them you're still you, just stronger.
The train ride home gave Izuku time to think. About the counseling session and how close he'd come to being discovered. About Kirishima's advice on managing his reputation. About Momo's warning about inconsistency.
Everyone was giving him advice on how to navigate this new version of himself. But no one knew the full truth—that the new version came with a voice in his head that he was hiding from everyone.
We're managing, the voice insisted. Today proved that. We fooled a professional counselor. We're maintaining friendships. We're handling this.
"Are we though?" Izuku thought back. "Or are we just getting better at lying?"
Is there a difference?
Izuku didn't have an answer for that.
He got off at his stop and walked through the familiar streets of the slums. Home was three blocks away. His family would want to know about his day, about school, about everything.
And he'd smile and say it was fine.
Because that's what he did now.
He lied to everyone who cared about him and pretended everything was under control.
Twenty-one days until the Sports Festival, the voice said as he climbed the stairs to his apartment. Three days until training resumes. One counseling session down, many more to go.
We're doing fine. Everything's fine.
Thursday & Friday
The next two days blurred together in a routine that felt simultaneously normal and completely wrong.
Thursday morning started like Wednesday—the Voice waking with him, already analyzing the day ahead. Classes proceeded normally: Math, English, Hero Studies (lecture-based, no combat). Teachers watched him carefully, but no more than they'd been doing since Monday.
Lunch with Uraraka, Iida, and Tsuyu. Lighter conversation this time—they seemed to have collectively decided to stop pressing him about how he was doing. Either they believed his reassurances, or they'd realized pushing wouldn't work.
They're giving you space, the Voice observed. Smart. They know you'll shut down if they push too hard.
"Or they're just being good friends," Izuku thought back.
Same thing. Good friends know when to back off.
After school, Izuku went to Recovery Girl's office for his daily quirk check. She had him transform various body parts, measured his quirk factor readings, checked his vitals. Everything came back stable—perfectly, boringly stable.
"No changes from yesterday," she noted, making marks in his file. "No involuntary transformations? No difficulty controlling the speed?"
"None," Izuku confirmed.
"Hmm." Recovery Girl studied him over her medical equipment. "You know, stability can be just as concerning as instability when it appears too quickly. Most quirk alterations take weeks to fully settle. Yours settled in days."
Careful, the Voice warned. She's fishing.
"The doctors at the hospital said my quirk integrated the drug completely," Izuku said. "Maybe that's why it stabilized so fast? Because there's nothing left to integrate?"
"Perhaps." But Recovery Girl didn't sound convinced. "Just remember—if anything feels off, even slightly, you tell me immediately. Pride isn't worth your health or safety."
"Yes, ma'am."
She dismissed him with a stern look that said she knew he was hiding something but couldn't prove it.
She's suspicious, the Voice noted as Izuku left. But suspicion isn't evidence. As long as we stay consistent, we're fine.
Friday brought more of the same. Classes, lunch with friends, cautious interactions with classmates who still weren't sure how to treat him. The distance was starting to feel normal—people giving him space, conversations pausing when he approached, wary glances when they thought he wasn't looking.
This is good, the Voice insisted. They respect you now. Fear you. That's better than pity.
"Is it though?" Izuku thought back as he sat alone in the classroom during a break, watching groups of students cluster together in easy friendship. "Because it looks a lot like being alone."
Alone is safe. We've been over this.
Friday afternoon brought his second counseling session with Hound Dog. This one was shorter, more focused on checking in than deep exploration.
"How was your week?" Hound Dog asked, his canine features neutral but his nose constantly working, reading the air.
"Fine. Classes, homework, daily check-ins with Recovery Girl. Normal stuff."
"Any changes in sleep patterns? Appetite? Mood?"
"No, sir. Everything's stable."
"And the incident on Monday? Any reflection on why you escalated to that level of force?"
Here we go again, the Voice sighed.
"I've thought about it," Izuku said carefully. "I think I was trying too hard to prove something. To show everyone I wasn't weak or unstable. I could have won without knocking him out."
"Could have, but didn't," Hound Dog observed. "Why not?"
"Because in the moment, I wanted him to know he was wrong about me." Izuku met Hound Dog's eyes. "He said I was unstable. That I'd hold back the class. I wanted to prove beyond any doubt that I'm not only stable, I'm stronger than before."
"And you proved that by rendering him unconscious."
"I proved it by stopping exactly when needed," Izuku corrected. "By catching him instead of letting him fall. By choosing not to cause real injury even though I could have."
Hound Dog was quiet for a moment, his nose twitching. "You keep framing it as control. And maybe you're right—maybe that was perfect control. But I'm concerned about the choice to exercise that control through violence rather than restraint."
"Isn't that what hero work is?" Izuku asked. "Controlled violence?"
"Hero work is about protection," Hound Dog countered. "Sometimes that requires force, yes. But the goal is always to minimize harm, not to prove dominance."
He's pushing back harder this time, the Voice noted. He thinks we're not learning the right lessons.
"I understand," Izuku said, though he wasn't sure he agreed. "I'll try to be more mindful about using minimal necessary force."
"Good." Hound Dog made a note. "One more thing—have you given any thought to what you want to achieve at the Sports Festival? Beyond winning, I mean."
The question caught Izuku off-guard. "What do you mean?"
"The Sports Festival is a showcase. A chance to demonstrate not just power, but character. How you fight matters as much as whether you win." Hound Dog leaned forward slightly. "So I'm asking—what do you want people to see when they watch you compete?"
That's a loaded question, the Voice said. Whatever you answer tells him what you value.
"I want them to see someone from the slums who made it," Izuku said after a moment. "Someone who survived an attack that should have killed him and came back stronger. Someone who belongs at UA despite where he's from."
"That's a worthy goal," Hound Dog said. "Just make sure the method matches the message. Because right now, what people are seeing is anger and violence. If that's not what you want to represent, you'll need to adjust your approach."
The session ended shortly after, leaving Izuku to walk back to class with those words echoing in his mind.
He's trying to make you second-guess yourself, the Voice said. To make you think your methods are wrong. Don't listen. We're doing fine.
"Are we?" Izuku thought back. "Because he has a point. If I want people to see me as a hero, maybe knocking classmates unconscious isn't the best strategy."
You can't be weak. Not now. Not with the Sports Festival coming up. Show any hesitation and they'll pounce.
"There's a difference between strength and cruelty."
Is there? In the slums, cruelty was survival. Why should UA be different?
Izuku didn't have an answer for that.
Saturday
Saturday morning arrived with clear skies and the most important development of the week: his training restriction officially ended at midnight Friday.
He woke at 4:30 AM, earlier than necessary, eager to finally be allowed to use his quirk properly again.
Finally, the Voice said with satisfaction. Six days of forced rest. Now we can actually prepare for the Sports Festival.
Izuku headed to the roof, his old training ground. The pre-dawn air was cool, the slums still mostly asleep around him. This place had been his sanctuary for years—where he'd built himself into someone strong enough for UA.
Now he was back, but different. Enhanced. Changed.
He started with basics. Sand poured from his pouches, responding instantly to his will. Faster than before the drug. More responsive. Like the grains were eager to move.
He formed floating blades—twenty of them orbiting around him in perfect formation. Held them for five minutes without strain. Before the drug, maintaining this many would have given him a headache after two minutes.
Good, the Voice approved. Now let's see what else changed.
Izuku moved through his repertoire. Golems formed in seconds instead of the minute it used to take. Sand clones materialized with barely a thought. His sensing radius had expanded—he could feel vibrations through sand particles nearly seventy meters away now, up from fifty.
But the real test was the body transformation.
His right hand became sand, held it, reformed. Instant. Effortless. He transformed his entire arm, then both legs, then his torso. Each transformation happened faster than thought, each reformation perfect and painless.
This is incredible, the Voice said with something like awe. We're so much stronger than before. The drug didn't just enhance us—it completed us.
"At what cost?" Izuku murmured, thinking of the counseling sessions, the lies, the isolation.
Every power has a cost. This one is worth it.
He spent two hours pushing his limits, testing combinations he'd never been able to maintain before. Transforming while controlling multiple constructs. Sensing through sand while his body was partially in sand form. Creating complex structures with precision he'd only dreamed of before.
By the time the sun rose, Izuku was drenched in sweat but exhilarated. This was what he'd been missing—the pure satisfaction of training, of pushing his quirk to new heights, of feeling his power respond exactly as he intended.
This is who we are, the Voice said with certainty. Not the kid sitting in counseling sessions pretending to be okay. Not the student walking on eggshells around classmates. This—pushing our limits, getting stronger, preparing to dominate—this is real.
Izuku wanted to argue. Wanted to say that the friendships, the family dinners, the normal moments mattered too.
But standing on that rooftop, sand swirling around him in patterns of pure power, he couldn't deny the Voice had a point.
This felt more real than anything else had in days.
By the time Izuku made it back down to the apartment, Shinji was already up, getting ready for his weekend shift at a construction site.
"You're up early," his brother noted, grabbing his work bag. "Couldn't sleep?"
"Training restriction lifted at midnight," Izuku said, heading for the shower. "Wanted to test things out."
"And?" Shinji grinned. "How's it feel to have your quirk back?"
"Amazing," Izuku admitted. "Everything's faster, stronger, more responsive. It's like..."
"Like you're finally at full power?" Shinji finished. "Yeah, I bet. Man, I wish I could've seen you training. Bet it was impressive as hell."
He gets it, the Voice noted. He understands that strength matters.
After Shinji left, Izuku had the apartment to himself for a few hours. His parents were both working Saturday shifts. Yumeko and Daichi wouldn't be up for another hour at least.
He made breakfast—rice and eggs, simple but filling—and sat at the table with his hero analysis notebooks. The Sports Festival was now twenty days away. He needed a strategy, a plan for each potential matchup, contingencies for every scenario.
His phone buzzed. A text from Uraraka in the class group chat:
Uraraka: Anyone want to do something today? Maybe hit the arcade again?
Several responses came quickly:
Mina: YES! I need a rematch on the dance game!
Kirishima: I'm down! Same place as last time?
Iida: I have family obligations until 3 PM, but could join afterward!
Social opportunity, the Voice observed. Could be good for maintaining the friendships. Show them you're still the "normal" Midoriya, not just the scary fighter.
Izuku hesitated, fingers hovering over his phone. Part of him wanted to go—wanted that normalcy, that easy friendship they'd had at the arcade before everything got complicated.
But another part—the part that sounded a lot like the Voice—knew he should be training. Every hour mattered now. The Sports Festival would make or break his hero career before it even started.
Izuku: Can't today. Need to catch up on training after the restriction. Have fun though!
He sent it before he could second-guess himself.
The responses came quickly:
Uraraka: Aw, okay! Don't push yourself too hard!
Kirishima: Train hard, man! Show us what you've got at the festival!
Mina: Booooo! All work and no play!
Good choice, the Voice approved. They understand. Training comes first.
"They offered friendship and I chose isolation," Izuku thought back.
You chose preparation. There's a difference.
Izuku set down his phone and returned to his notebooks. Strategy. Planning. Getting stronger.
This was who he needed to be now.
Even if it meant sitting alone in his apartment while his friends went to the arcade without him.
Even if it meant choosing power over connection.
Twenty days until the Sports Festival, the Voice said. We need to be ready. Everything else is secondary.
And despite the hollow feeling in his chest, Izuku agreed.
Because the alternative—showing up weak, unprepared, failing in front of the entire country—was unacceptable.
He'd been given power through trauma and pain. The least he could do was use it properly.
Even if using it meant becoming someone colder, harder, more alone.
This is the cost, the Voice said quietly. And we pay it willingly.
Izuku opened his notebook to a fresh page and began planning.
Twenty days to become unstoppable.
Starting now.
An hour later, Izuku was back on the roof with fresh determination. The sun had fully risen, bathing the slums in harsh morning light. He'd eaten, stretched, and was ready to push himself properly for the first time since the attack.
He started with combat drills. Sand golems materialized—three of them this time, arranged in a triangle around him. He gave them basic combat routines and began sparring.
But his movements were mechanical. Safe. Going through the motions without real intensity.
You're holding back, the Voice observed after ten minutes. This isn't training. This is playing.
"I'm warming up," Izuku defended, dodging a golem's punch.
You're afraid. Afraid of what you might do if you actually cut loose. Afraid of proving Hound Dog right about the violence. The Voice's tone was frustrated. This won't prepare you for anything.
"I'm being careful—"
Careful won't win the Sports Festival. Careful won't prove you belong at UA. Careful is just another word for weak.
"I'm not weak," Izuku said through gritted teeth, dissolving the golems.
Then prove it. Stop holding back. Actually train like you mean it. A pause. Maybe you need some... inspiration.
"What are you—"
The memory hit him like a physical blow.
The USJ. Two months ago.
Izuku stood frozen in the central plaza, watching in absolute horror as the massive creature—the Nomu—grabbed Aizawa-sensei's arm and twisted. The sickening crack of bone echoed across the facility.
"Sensei!" someone screamed. Maybe him. Maybe someone else.
The Nomu's empty eyes turned toward the students. Toward Izuku.
He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. His quirk responded sluggishly, sand barely forming as the creature began walking toward them with mechanical inevitability.
Run, his mind screamed. Do something. Anything.
But his body wouldn't obey. He was fifteen years old, barely trained, watching a pro hero get broken like a toy, and that thing was coming for them next.
Helpless.
Weak.
Useless.
All Might arrived like a thunderbolt, massive fist connecting with the Nomu's face, driving it away from the students. But even All Might struggled. Even the Symbol of Peace looked like he might lose.
And Izuku could only watch, frozen with his inadequate sand, knowing that if All Might fell, they were all dead.
Knowing he wasn't strong enough to change anything.
Knowing he was nothing.
The memory released him.
Izuku found himself on his hands and knees on the rooftop, gasping for air. His chest was too tight. His vision swam. Hyperventilating—he was hyperventilating, his body remembering the terror even though the memory wasn't even his own present experience anymore.
You remember that feeling? the Voice asked, and its tone was cold, sharp, cutting through the panic. Hopeless. Weak. Watching others fight while you stood there like a frightened child?
"Stop—" Izuku choked out.
You should never feel that again, the Voice continued relentlessly. Never be that powerless. That frozen. That irrelevant while real heroes fight and die around you.
Izuku's hands dug into the concrete, sand beginning to pour from his pouches unbidden, responding to his emotional state.
You are no longer that scared student, the Voice said, and now there was steel in it. We are no longer weak. We are no longer prey. We are the ones who will stand on top. Because sand— the grains around Izuku began to swirl faster, darker, more aggressive, —sand doesn't break under pressure. It grinds everything down to nothing. It buries. It suffocates. It endures when everything else crumbles.
That's what we are now. Not the frightened boy who could only watch.
We are the storm that leaves nothing but dust in our wake.
The sand exploded outward from Izuku in a massive wave, covering the entire rooftop, rising ten feet high, forming and reforming into spikes and blades and constructs that appeared and vanished with violence that bordered on uncontrolled.
But it wasn't uncontrolled.
Every grain responded to his will. Every spike formed exactly where he intended. Every blade was precise and lethal.
This was control through rage instead of fear.
Power instead of helplessness.
Better, the Voice approved as Izuku slowly stood, sand still swirling around him like a golden tempest. This is what training should look like. Raw. Honest. No holding back.
Izuku's breathing steadied, but his heart still pounded. The memory of the USJ had been visceral—more real than any memory should be. Like he'd been there again, experiencing every moment of helpless terror.
"How did you do that?" he asked quietly. "That wasn't just remembering. That was... I felt it like it was happening now."
I'm your quirk, the Voice said simply. Connected to your nervous system, your brain, your memories. I can access anything stored in there. And sometimes—when you need motivation—I can make you remember things properly. Feel them like they're real.
"That's—" Izuku's hands were shaking. "That's terrifying."
That's useful, the Voice corrected. Because now you understand. That's what weakness feels like. That's what being powerless means. And we're never going back there.
Now train. Actually train. Like your life depends on it.
Because at the Sports Festival, your future does.
Izuku stared at the sand still swirling around him, at the evidence of power he'd been afraid to fully embrace.
The Voice was right. He'd been holding back. Afraid of what people would think. Afraid of proving everyone's concerns right. Afraid of becoming the violent, scary person they all feared he might be.
But at the USJ, fear hadn't helped anyone.
Weakness hadn't protected anyone.
All Might had saved them. All Might had the power to stand against that monster.
And Izuku had none of it.
Never again, he thought, echoing the Voice.
Never again, it agreed.
The sand reformed into combat constructs—not three golems, but six. Each one more aggressive, faster, stronger than before. He gave them attack patterns that would actually challenge him, make him work, force him to respond at full speed.
Then he began training.
Really training.
No more holding back. No more careful, measured movements. He fought like the Sports Festival was tomorrow. Like every moment mattered. Like weakness was death and strength was the only path to survival.
His body transformed and reformed in rapid succession—dodging, attacking, creating distance, closing gaps. Sand constructs formed and dissolved in heartbeats. He pushed his quirk harder than he had in days, maybe weeks.
Yes, the Voice hissed with satisfaction. This is what we should have been doing all week. This is preparation.
Sweat poured down Izuku's face. His muscles burned. His quirk felt wrung out but responsive, pushed to limits but not breaking.
This was what training was supposed to feel like.
Not safe. Not comfortable.
Necessary.
That Nomu would have killed you, the Voice said as Izuku destroyed another golem with a barrage of sand spikes. If All Might hadn't been there, you'd be dead. Remember that. Remember how weak you were.
And remember that we're not that anymore.
We're stronger. Faster. More dangerous.
And in twenty days, we're going to prove it to everyone.
Izuku didn't respond. He just kept training, the memory of the USJ burning in his mind like fuel.
Never again.
He would never be that helpless again.
Whatever it took.
Whatever he had to become.
Even if it means losing yourself? a small voice in the back of his mind asked—not the Voice, but something else. His own conscience, maybe. The part of him that still remembered wanting to be a hero who saved people with a smile.
But that voice was quiet. Drowned out by the sound of sand grinding against concrete, by the Voice's constant commentary, by the memory of terror and helplessness.
By the knowledge that nice boys who hold back don't survive encounters with monsters.
Only strong ones do.
And Izuku was going to be strong.
No matter the cost.