The rooftop is cracked and empty. A water tank rusts in the corner. Pigeons left feathers. Toga left blades.
Bait walks across the edge like he's sightseeing. Hands in his pockets. Gum in his mouth. Mochi squelches softly under his boots when he stops.
"You know," he says, "I've been stabbed on first meetings before, but never by someone with such good form."
Toga doesn't respond.
She stands across from him, breathing quiet and shallow. Her schoolgirl uniform is splattered. Her eyes flicker from his torso to his neck, to the bare skin near his collarbone. Measuring. Judging. Waiting for him to bleed.
He does not.
That is the problem.
She lunges again.
A knife swings for his stomach. It lands with a wet squish. Her blade sinks two inches into mochi before it gets stuck. Bait's body softens around it. No blood. No scream. Just a goofy grin.
"Still chewy," he says. "Might need to adjust the recipe."
She rips the knife free and jumps back. Her hands tremble. She is not tired. She is frustrated.
"You're not fun," she snaps.
Bait pops his gum. "I've been called worse."
"I want to see blood."
"I want to see trust."
Toga laughs, but it's sharp. "I don't do trust. I do interest."
"Then be interested," he says, stepping closer. "Because I am."
Her second knife is already out. She doesn't aim for center mass this time. She slices toward his neck.
His head detaches.
Mochi.
It reforms two feet behind her.
"That's cheating," she says, spinning.
"That's baking," he replies.
She throws the knife. He catches it in his palm and folds his fingers. The steel disappears in a puff of flour-scented dust.
She glares. "You don't feel pain."
"Doesn't mean I don't understand it."
That pauses her.
She stares at him for a second too long. Then charges again.
This time it's real.
She slashes low. He ducks. She twists and spins off the rail, landing behind him with two blades aimed for his spine. He flattens to the floor like melted sugar. She stabs through the air and hisses.
He reforms behind her and boops her on the nose.
"You fight with rhythm," he says. "You'd be a great dancer."
She punches him in the face.
His cheek explodes into mochi. He catches her wrist gently before it lands again.
"No bruises. No cuts. No reaction," she says. "You're not real."
"I'm real enough to care," Bait says.
She tugs her arm back. Doesn't pull away.
"You're trying to recruit me," she says. "Why?"
"Because we don't judge," he replies. "We don't flinch at what makes people messy."
She scoffs. "I kill people."
"So do we," Bait says. "But we choose who. And why. That matters."
Her eyes dart around. "You don't know what I've done."
"I know you kill people who make you feel wrong," he says. "Who look at you like you're broken. I know you think love is about blood and obsession because no one ever stayed when you didn't bleed for them."
She goes still.
He doesn't push the silence.
Then she whispers, "You sound like a therapist."
"I sound like someone who means it."
Her laugh is smaller this time. Less sharp.
"You're weird."
"You're brilliant," he replies. "And dangerous. And probably going to stab me again if I keep talking."
She shrugs. "Maybe."
"Do it after you meet the others," he says. "Let them see who you really are."
"Who says I want to be seen?"
"No one," he says. "But I think part of you does. The part that stays behind after the blood dries. The part that looks in the mirror and waits for the smile to mean something."
She steps forward. Not fast. Just enough to close the space between them.
Her knife touches his collarbone.
"You're not afraid."
"I'm not allowed to be."
She watches his face. Her lip trembles for half a second.
Then she sighs.
It's not loud. Not angry. Just tired.
She lowers the blade.
"Fine," she says. "I'll come. But if your friends look at me like I'm a freak—"
"They won't," he says.
"And if they do?"
"I'll stick them to the wall with mochi and write your name in frosting."
That gets a smile.
She slides the knife back into her sleeve.
Bait holds out his hand.
Toga stares at it. Then bumps her knuckles to his palm.
Not a handshake.
A truce.
A start.
"Let's go meet the gang," he says.
She doesn't answer.
But she follows him.
And for once, she doesn't look back.
<><><><><><><>
The rooftops are quiet tonight.
Izuku crouches low, cap pulled down, breath held shallow. His eyes track the man walking three stories below. Hero uniform crisp. Gloves clean. A patch across the shoulder reads: Impact Driver.
He's new. Not famous. Works low-profile zones. Mostly cleanup patrols and gang interventions. His quirk is simple: Impact Redirection. If someone hits him, the force redirects, rebounds around his body, sometimes slamming the attacker into a wall or their own fists.
That part isn't suspicious.
What is, is where he goes after his shifts. Which buildings he visits. And who limps out later.
Izuku had watched for three nights. Shadowing from above, map unrolled in his hand, hiding under the Cap of Minor Concealment. His new equipment hummed softly. Timothy had called it "Tinkertech." Izuku didn't understand how it worked. He just knew it did.
The collapsible map marked the route. The Health Flask was tied to his belt. Just in case.
Tonight, he sees it.
Behind a boarded pharmacy in the edge of the warehouse district. Impact Driver drags a man by the collar. The man is moaning, his face bloodied, ribs visibly swollen. His bag spills open — tablets, injectors, powders wrapped in plastic.
Izuku's hands clench.
Driver kicks the man twice more, hard. Not restraint. Rage.
Then, calm as anything, he kneels and starts pocketing the drugs.
Izuku lifts his phone. Click. Click. A few blurry photos. Not enough.
Then Driver looks up.
Eyes lock.
Izuku stumbles back, barely keeping his footing on the ledge. He runs. Rooftop to rooftop, gasping. He curses himself for freezing. For staying too long.
A shockwave slams into the wall next to him.
It wasn't thrown.
It rebounded.
Izuku jumps, grabs the next ledge, and pulls himself up. He lands in an alley and hides behind a dumpster. His hands shake. His heart pounds.
Then he hears footsteps.
Calm. Even. Getting closer.
Impact Driver rounds the corner. His gloves glow red at the knuckles.
"You spying on me, kid?"
Izuku breathes slow. Steady. He pulls out the map and clicks it. The display flares faintly. There's a building exit behind him. A fire escape to the left.
Options. Movement. Think.
"You beat a man who couldn't fight back," Izuku says.
Driver smirks. "He's a dealer."
"You took the drugs."
"Evidence. Chain of custody. You wouldn't understand."
Izuku stands. Keeps the dumpster between them.
"I understand what I saw."
Driver cracks his neck. "Then let's make sure you don't see much more."
He rushes forward.
Izuku rolls sideways, clicks the map into his belt, and slides the cap lower. The hero's punch hits the dumpster and redirects, rebounding straight into the wall. A chunk of concrete explodes from the side.
That gives Izuku an idea.
He baits another swing. Ducks. The red-gloved fist hits the pipe behind him, and the pipe bends violently, sending a redirected burst of force back toward Driver's stomach.
He stumbles.
Izuku throws a small rock at him. It bounces off his shoulder. Reflex kicks in. The impact redirects, slams into the air beside Izuku.
He calculates the distance. The delay. The angle.
Izuku throws a metal rod, aiming just above Driver's head. Driver swats it. The rod rebounds, hits a trash bin. The bin slams into Driver's legs.
Izuku follows it up with a running jump. He plants both feet against Driver's chest and kicks off, sending him crashing into the pavement.
Driver growls, rising slower now.
"You're clever," he says.
"You're sloppy," Izuku replies.
Driver charges again. Izuku times it. Steps aside. Lets him punch the brick wall. The red energy redirects, back into Driver's own ribs.
He coughs. Knees buckle.
Izuku doesn't press. Just stares.
"You're a hero," he says. "You're supposed to protect people."
"I protect the ones who matter," Driver snarls.
"No," Izuku says. "You protect whoever needs it."
Driver throws a wild swing. Izuku dodges. He isn't faster. He isn't stronger. But he moves with purpose.
He clicks the Health Flask and lets it surge through him. Pain fades. Muscles steady. He steps in close and punches Driver's thigh, light, quick.
It redirects.
Back into the knee.
Driver collapses.
Izuku points the phone at him again. Click.
"Go ahead," Driver hisses. "No one will care."
Izuku's voice is quiet.
"They will. When they see who you are."
Sirens in the distance. Maybe someone else called them. Maybe not.
Izuku doesn't wait to find out.
He turns and runs, slipping into shadows, the map guiding him back.
Above, across the rooftop three buildings down, Timothy watches from a crouch. Not interfering. Just studying.
Izuku vanishes into the dark.
Timothy whispers to no one.
"Well done."
"Crow," A clone from Inkveil appears next to Timothy.
"Make sure others don't interfere with Izuku's justice." I command.
"It will be done." He says and melts into the shadows.
<><><><><><><>
The hallway smells like old tea and fresh floor polish. Someone's cooking rice three doors down. Izuku steps out of the elevator and stands still for a moment, listening to the low hum of the building. This place never changes. That's why he comes.
He knocks once.
The door opens before he can knock again.
Inko Midoriya stands in a pink sweater and fuzzy socks, eyes already scanning her son from head to toe. "You look thinner," she says, before he can speak.
"I'm not," Izuku replies, stepping in.
"You are. Sit down. I'll make something. You like sweet potatoes, right? I got the kind you like. From the place near Musutafu Station."
He sets his bag down gently by the couch. "Mom, I'm fine."
She turns on the kettle like she didn't hear that.
The apartment is warm. Lived in. The kind of clean that only comes from someone who wipes picture frames when no one's looking. A framed All Might poster still hangs above the dining table. Her slippers tap back and forth across the linoleum.
Izuku sits on the couch and watches her fuss with the stove.
She talks while she works. "I heard something on the news. Not a big story, not front page. But they said a hero got caught roughing up drug dealers. Not arresting. Just... hurting. And stealing what they had. Someone caught it on camera."
Izuku stays quiet.
She does not press. She stirs the miso broth and lowers the flame.
"I also heard," she says gently, "that you've been spending time with a group."
He looks up. Her back is to him.
"I don't know what kind of group. I don't need to know. I just... want you to be careful."
"I am."
She turns now. Her hands are folded in front of her. Her smile is thin, held up by worry.
"I know you want to help people. I know you're doing what you think is right. But even the right road has shadows."
"I know that," he says. His voice is soft. "You raised me to know that."
She walks over and sits beside him. The couch creaks just a little.
"I'm your mother," she says. "It doesn't matter how strong you get or what you learn. I'm always going to worry."
He leans into her side. Just enough to let her feel the weight.
"I'm not alone," he says. "I've got people around me. Smart people. Good ones."
She brushes his hair back. "Even so."
The kettle whistles softly in the background. She doesn't move to get it. Not yet.
"I'm proud of you," she says after a moment. "You're braver than I ever was. But please, Izuku. Don't carry the whole world. Not yet."
He nods. "I'm trying."
They sit like that, quiet, until the kettle boils dry.
Later, they eat together. Miso soup with too much tofu. Sweet potatoes cut just the way he likes. She talks about the neighbor's cat. He tells her a half-truth about working with "freelancers."
It's not perfect. It's not the full story.
But it's honest enough.
And for now, that's enough.