The city was loud—cars honking, trains screeching across elevated rails, crowds moving like a river of noise—but to Hikaru Amano, everything sounded distant. As if he were submerged underwater. As if someone else were piloting his body. As if he were already gone.
He stumbled through the narrow alley behind the old Shinjuku station, one hand pressed against his ribs. The bruise from the Nomu's strike had spread across his chest in sickening shades of purple. His stomach clenched painfully, not from trauma, but from hunger—days without eating had reduced him to a trembling skeleton wrapped in oversized clothes. His breath came in short, uneven bursts, broken by the occasional cough that rattled through his frail chest.
The shadows that clung to him—once monstrous, overwhelming, alive—were now thin as smoke. Frayed. Faint. Almost shy. They curled around him like dying embers, retreating into his skin with each exhausted step.
He whispered to them, voice hoarse:
"Stop… I said stop. I don't want… I don't want to hurt anyone."
The shadows twitched at his command, not resisting, but shaking. They were starving too. Withering the same way he was. Hikaru felt them—felt how thin they'd become, how desperately they clung to him for warmth, for survival. As if they feared disappearing.
He sank to his knees beside a rusted metal fence. His hands trembled violently. His vision blurred at the edges.
"I can't…" His voice broke." I can't do this anymore."
The images cut through his mind like knives.
Uraraka, shaking in terror. Midoriya, pale and wide-eyed.Aizawa's broken body.The Nomu screaming. The shadows suffocating the air. All Might's voice—deep, horrified—"Hikaru… what has become of you?"
His heart twisted painfully.
He didn't want to hurt anyone. He didn't want to kill. He didn't want to exist as a threat.
He just wanted it to end.
He wanted the world to stop expecting things from him—stop fearing him—stop chasing him—stop calling him "demon" and "monster" and "danger."
He wanted silence.
He wanted sleep.
He stood on shaking legs.
His voice was barely a breath:
"…Then I'll give them what they want. I'll just… go."
He pulled his hood over his head.
And walked toward the brightest, most crowded street he could find.
Shinjuku Square was overflowing. Workers on lunch breaks. Students in uniforms. Tourists clustered around food stalls. Traffic crawling past flashing billboards.
A city alive.
And into that river of life, Hikaru stepped like a ghost.
He walked into the main road. Cars screeched to a halt. A taxi slammed its brakes so hard its tires smoked.
People gasped.
"What the—?" "Is he hurt?" "Get that kid out of the street!"
Technically, he was still a kid. But nothing about him looked like one.
His movements were slow, dragging. His clothes torn and stained. His breathing shallow. His shadows spiraled weakly around him, flickering like candlelight on the verge of going out.
A woman approached him cautiously. "Hey… are you okay? You look—"
The wind shifted. His hood slipped.
Dark hair, tangled and dirty. Sunken, hollow eyes. A face the nation had memorized years ago.
Silence fell like a hammer.
People froze. People stared.Then—
"OH MY GOD…" "IT'S HIM!" "THAT'S THE DEMON CHILD!" "SOMEBODY CALL A HERO—NOW!"
Phones rose instantly. Cameras flashing. Livestreams starting.
People screamed, pushing each other, running away from him as if he carried plague.
Hikaru didn't lift his head.
He whispered:
"…I'm sorry."
The shadows writhed for a moment, reacting to the fear—a primal instinct—but Hikaru gently pressed a hand against his chest.
"No more… not anymore…"
And they obeyed.
For the first time in his life, the shadows lay still.
The thunder of boots, the crackle of radios, and the flash of hero uniforms surrounded him.Five heroes. Two police officers. A drone camera.A news reporter.
All forming a tight circle.
Hero #1: "Hands where we can see them! "
Hero #2: "Do NOT activate your quirk!"
Police: "Put your hands up slowly—SLOWLY!"
Hikaru raised them. Shakily. A trembling surrender.
His voice rasped like dry leaves:
"…I'm tired. Just… take me."
One of the heroes swallowed visibly.
Hero #3 whispered, "He's not resisting…?"
Hero #4: "His… his shadows look weak."
Hero #2: "Kid… are you—are you about to collapse?"
Hikaru blinked slowly.
He answered truthfully:
"…Probably."
The shadows flickered around his feet, barely able to maintain form.
A hero stepped closer. His hands shook as he reached for restraints.
"Hikaru Amano… you're under—under arrest. Do not move."
Hikaru didn't.
He didn't fight. He didn't run.He didn't resist.
The metal cuffs snapped shut with a hollow clang.
And the moment they did, Hikaru's knees buckled.He fell forward.
Hero #2 caught him before he hit the pavement.
"H-Hey—! Kid! Stay awake!"
Hikaru's eyes fluttered.
He whispered something.
The hero leaned closer.
Hikaru's breath brushed his ear:
"…Thank you."
Then he went limp.
The crowd screamed. The cameras zoomed in. Reporters yelled questions. The heroes rushed him into an armored vehicle.
And just like that—
The boy who was feared like a demon disappeared behind steel doors.
Within minutes, every screen in Japan lit up.
Breaking News banners. Talk shows. Emergency alerts. Livestreams.
"DEMON CHILD SURRENDERS."
"HIKARU AMANO TAKEN INTO CUSTODY ALIVE."
"USJ ATTACK INVOLVING CHILD MURDERER—Government Responds."
Panelists argued on television.
"He must be executed immediately!"
"He's a minor—he needs psychological intervention!"
"He's a walking natural disaster!"
"He looked starving… was he even conscious?"
"He surrendered—shouldn't that count for something?"
Parents raged. Heroes panicked. Politicians screamed. Civilians flooded social media.
And somewhere far from that chaos—
In a luxurious penthouse apartment overlooking Tokyo—
A 15-year-old girl sat on the edge of her bed, trembling.
She almost dropped the TV remote.
Her eyes widened, lips parting in horror—and fascination.
"That's… him…"
Her heart pounded so loudly she could barely hear her parents calling dinner downstairs.
She moved closer to the screen.
The news played the footage again. And again. And again.
The boy limping into the street. The hood falling. The heroes surrounding him. The moment he whispered "take me." The moment he collapsed.
Her breath hitched. Her hands curled into fists.
"Why… why does he look like that…?"
Something inside her twisted painfully. Pity. Anger. Protectiveness. And something darker.
A spark.
A seed.
A beginning.
She whispered:
"…I don't believe they see it. They don't see how broken he is… how scared… he's not a monster…"
Her eyes narrowed.
"He needs someone… someone who isn't afraid of him."
Her voice was soft.
Too soft.
"But they won't help him. They never did."
A chilling calm settled over her features.
Fine. She would do it herself.
Interrogation RoomCold. Metal. Silence.
Hikaru sat on a metal stool, hands cuffed to a steel ring bolted into the table.
He was pale. His lips cracked. His eyes dull.
His shadows were almost invisible—thin wisps like smoke curling from his wrists, but too weak to take form.
Detective Tsukauchi stepped in first. Professional. Calm.But his eyes softened at the sight.
Behind him entered All Might (in small form), Nezu, and a psychiatrist.
They all expected a monster.
Instead, they found a dying boy.
Tsukauchi took a seat.
"Hikaru… can you hear me?"
A pause.
Hikaru nodded weakly.
"Do you understand why you're here?"
Another nod.
Tsukauchi exchanged a glance with All Might.
"…Why did you surrender?"
Hikaru's answer was quiet. Small. Shameful.
"I didn't want… to hurt anyone anymore."
His voice cracked.
"I never wanted to…"
His shoulders trembled. He looked like he might break in half just speaking.
The psychiatrist leaned forward gently.
"Hikaru… the students at USJ—did you intend to attack them?"
Hikaru shook his head immediately, panic flashing in his eyes.
"No… no, never… They were just— scared— loud— the shadows react when— when everyone is scared— I told them to stop— b-but they don't listen when I— when I'm too tired…"
His breath stuttered.
All Might stepped closer.
"Your quirk… it acts on emotion?"
Hikaru swallowed hard.
"…Yes. Fear. Pain. It... It feeds on them."
The detective studied him.
"So the incident… was not deliberate?"
A tear trailed down Hikaru's cheek before he could hide it.
"I'm sorry… I really… really am…"
His voice shrank until it was barely a whisper:
"I thought… if I gave myself up… maybe the world would finally be safe."
All Might inhaled sharply.
"Safe… from you?"
Hikaru nodded without hesitation.
Tsukauchi saw the truth. All Might felt it in his bones.
This wasn't a confession.
It was a surrender.
A child begging the world to take the burden from him.
Aizawa sat in the hospital, wrapped in bandages, watching the footage with a clenched jaw.
Class 1-A gathered around his room, silent.
Onscreen was Hikaru's surrender.
His collapse.
His arrest.
The class stared.
Uraraka's eyes filled with tears.
"He… he didn't fight at all…"
Kirishima's voice was raw.
"That takes serious bravery… turning yourself in like that…"
Jirō hugged her arms tightly.
"He looked like he was dying…"
Iida adjusted his glasses with shaking fingers.
"If he wishes to repent, then… we cannot ignore that."
Tokoyami spoke quietly.
"The darkness around him wasn't… attacking. It was… fading."
Momo bit her lip.
"He's not… what the news says he is."
Bakugou was silent. Completely. Utterly.
Midoriya whispered:
"…He looked so small."
Aizawa finally spoke.
"He's no hero. Not yet. Maybe never .But he's a kid who never got a chance."
No one argued.
Not this time.
Night fell.
Hikaru lay alone on a cot in a reinforced cell underground. Cold concrete. Dim lights. Silence.
He curled on his side, shivering.
His shadows wrapped around him like a thin, protective blanket. Barely there.Barely alive.
He whispered:
"I'm sorry…I'm tired…I'm really tired…"
The shadows trembled—weak, fearful.
For the first time, they seemed afraid of losing him.
And from the hallway behind a tinted one-way window—
A quiet breath escaped someone watching.
A girl stood before the glass.
Her eyes wide. Her breath soft. Her fingers touching the window gently.
She whispered to the sleeping boy:
"You won't be alone anymore."
Her voice was tender.
But her smile…
Her smile was far too warm.
Far too determined.
Far too possessive.
She had chosen him. And she did not plan to let him go.