Soon he got up, the pain in his back still throbbing from earlier, and slowly returned to class. His steps were sluggish, tired—not from the fight, but from the humiliation. When he reached the classroom door, he paused for a second, almost hoping things would be normal again.
They weren't. His desk was empty. No bag.
For a moment his brain just… blanked. He frowned and scanned the room again, even checked under tables—just in case they were being subtle for once.
But then he saw it. Outside the window. His school bag lay on top of the fountain down below, soaked and dripping like someone had dunked it for fun.
"Are you fucking kidding me…" he muttered under his breath.
'Fuck! I feel like Shoko from Silent Voice rn,' he thought with a helpless laugh that came out more bitter than amused.
He jogged downstairs and rushed toward the courtyard, ignoring the few lingering students who whispered or looked away guiltily. The water was freezing when he grabbed his bag. His fingers felt numb as he squeezed out the water, the zipper cold against his skin.
'Great. Just fucking great. My homework, my notes… everything.'
He rolled his eyes and slung the wet bag over his shoulder.
'How am I gonna explain this to Inko?'
The sky was turning orange—the last stretch of daylight melting away into that warm, depressing evening glow. He shook off some of the water as he headed back into the building.
The halls were quieter now, almost empty. Only the sound of distant chatter and squeaking shoes echoed faintly.
He walked to the lockers and opened his, taking a towel and a spare uniform shirt. He dried off as best he could and changed. The mirror on the locker door showed his battered face—dark circles under his eyes, faint red marks where he'd been grabbed.
He took out a mask from one of the drawers and pulled it over his face. It felt weird and stiff, like it didn't belong to him.
He gave himself one more look.
His reflection stared back with the most pathetic vibe known to mankind.
'I look like a fucken pedo,' he thought, and almost laughed at the absurdity. Almost cried, too.
But he wiped the corner of his eye instead, straightened his bag, and closed the locker with a soft click.
Time to go home.
The streets were already emptying out as he walked. The cicadas were getting louder. The air was cooler now, the wind brushing against his mask and moving his hair slightly.
He crossed the classic anime bridge you see in every single anime ever—the one where all the emotional monologues happen. He leaned over the railing and stared down at the river below.
The water flowed gently, reflecting the gold and pink of the setting sun. The world felt peaceful for a second, like it was trying to apologize.
'As soon as I get home I'm gonna start working out,' he thought, gripping the railing a little tighter.
Life wasn't an anime. But maybe he could change the story anyway.
Izuku got to his house, following his memory rather than the path in front of him. His shoes dragged against the concrete as he reached the front door, and when he stepped inside, the warmth of home wrapped around him. The smell of dinner—soy, onions, and something simmering—hit him instantly.
He kicked off his shoes and called out on instinct, almost on muscle memory alone.
"I'm home!"
There was a clatter of utensils and the faint sizzling of oil from the kitchen. Inko was cooking, her familiar silhouette framed by the stove light.
"Oh Izuku! Go wash up. Dinner is about to be ready!" she said, her back turned as she stirred.
For a moment, just hearing her voice made something in him relax. But then reality swept back in like cold water.
"I'm not hungry, I need to study for an assignment! So umm, please put my food in the microwave," he said a little too quickly, brushing past the hallway and bolting up the stairs.
"Okay!" she called back.
It wasn't the first time. She'd seen him stress about school before—seen him obsess over grades and future dreams. So she didn't push it. She just let it go, assuming it was the same thing.
Izuku reached his room and closed the door gently before leaning his forehead against it, eyes closed. Then, after a breath, he locked it.
He peeled off the mask. His face felt raw and suffocated under it. The room was dim and slightly humid, so he walked over and opened the window. The evening breeze flowed in and carried the last smell of dusk with it.
'I am so tired,' he thought.
He stripped off his damp clothes and tossed them onto the floor before flopping onto his bed, letting his body sink into the mattress. The ceiling felt too far away, the day too heavy.
It had been long and humiliating and exhausting, but he had made it home.
That was enough for now.
He reached into his bag and pulled out his notebook. Water dripped from its edges and splattered onto the floor. The ink had bled and the pages stuck together.
"Seriously…?" he whispered.
He almost cursed out loud—jaw clenched, brows furrowed—but stopped himself. Instead, he grabbed a new notebook from his desk and flipped it open.
'Okay. Fine. Whatever. New start.'
He began writing everything down. His handwriting was shaky at first. He made bullet points and small plans—even though his hands were trembling slightly.
'I'm not a gym expert, so I'll just follow the cliché workout. 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups… that one,' he thought. It sounded stupid, but it was something.
Once he was done, he stretched, groaning a little. The tension in his neck and shoulders was still there. He glanced at the mirror on his closet door.
His reflection stared back, and his face was worse than he expected—red, bruised, the corner of his lip slightly swollen. He touched it and winced.
Tomorrow would look even worse.
'I gotta get a sick day. Or a week. Anything would do at this point,' he thought.
Good thing he had a mask. It would hide some of the damage. The real question was how he'd hide it from Inko.
Well… he'd deal with that later. Right now, he had to start. Izuku got down on the cold floor.
"One."
His arms trembled immediately.
"Two."
His breath came out short.
"Three—"
The burn shot through his muscles like fire. He clenched his teeth and kept going despite the pain.
'God, this is gonna take a while,' he thought, lowering himself again.
But for the first time today, the struggle felt like his choice, not someone else's.
.....
The next morning, Izuku woke up before the sun. Way earlier than he ever expected himself to. His eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the faint blue light creeping through his curtains. For a moment he just stared at the ceiling, confused at the foreign feeling in his body.
Rested.
It had been a long time since he slept like that.
He turned his head toward his alarm clock. The bright red numbers glowed in the darkness.
4:00 AM.
'Okay. An hour to figure something out,' he thought, swallowing the nerves that were already building in his chest.
He pulled himself out of bed and stood up. His legs almost gave out immediately. His entire body screamed in protest—arms stiff, shoulders aching, stomach tight.
The soreness hit him like a truck.
'When will I ever get used to this?' he groaned in his head as he stretched his arms overhead. His muscles felt like they were tearing just from the stretch. Every movement reminded him of yesterday's workout.
But if he wanted his plan to work—if he wanted to pretend he was sick—he needed to go harder today.
So he gritted his teeth and started moving.
First: jumping jacks. Something simple to get his blood going. He didn't bother turning on the lights; the darkness made the room feel calm, secret, like it was him against the world. The only sounds were the light thumps of his feet on the floor, and his own breathing.
One. Two. Three. Four.
He moved fast at first, pushing himself, ignoring how the soreness burned deeper and deeper into his muscles. His heart started pounding in his chest, and his breath warmed the cold morning air.
'I hope this works,' he thought, pausing for a second to wipe the sweat already forming on his forehead.
Inko would be up in an hour. School after that. He was running on fear, determination, and just the slightest spark of stubborn hope. But that was enough to keep him moving.
TO BE CONTINUEd