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KRAKOOM !!
The air was filled with the scent of exhaust fumes, wet concrete, and the brine of the dirty harbor, and it exhaled a thick, cloying fog that clung to the gargoyles perched atop the Art Deco skyscrapers, watching and waiting like those of Notredam. The architecture here was different from Musutafu. It wasn't modern or optimistic. It was dark, gothic and made of iron and stone, a metropolis that looked like it had been built in the shadows.
It had been raining for three days straight. The water that ran down the gutters wasn't clean; it was iridescent with dirt, carrying the discarded cigarette butts and the trash of ten million people into the sewers.
Down in the Narrows, the streetlights flickered with a dying amber buzz, casting long, distorted shapes against the brickwork of the alleyways. It was the kind of darkness that felt heavy, a physical weight pressing against the back of the neck.
"Please," the man begged, his voice trembling as he held his hands up. "Take the wallet. Take the watch. Just... just let us go."
"We got the wallet, pops," a voice sneered from the dark.
Three men stood in the alley, blocking the exit. They wore leather jackets studded with cheap chrome, their faces obscured by grime and arrogance. They were the bottom feeders of this city, predators who thrived on the fear of the weak.
One of them, a lanky man with a mohawk, shoved the husband hard against the wet brick wall. The father gasped as the air left his lungs, sliding down to his knees.
"Daddy!" a small boy screamed, terrified. He couldn't have been more than six years old, clutching a stuffed bear that was missing an ear.
"Shut the brat up," the leader growled. He was a brute of a man, wide as a vending machine, with knuckles that looked like they had been broken and reset a dozen times. He had one hand wrapped around the arm of the woman, pulling her close. She was sobbing, her makeup running down her face in dark streaks.
"Let go of her!" the husband cried out, trying to stand, but the lanky thug kicked him in the ribs. The crack was sickeningly loud in the confined space.
"Stay down, hero," the lanky one laughed, spitting on the man's coat.
The leader dragged the woman closer, ignoring her whimper of pain as his grip tightened on her wrist. He leaned in, sniffing her hair, a cruel, predatory grin splitting his face. "You know, the toll for this shortcut went up tonight. Inflation's a bitch. Maybe you can pay the difference in... other ways."
The third thug, a squat man with a metal bat, chuckled. "Yeah. We accept trade."
The husband stared up from the mud, helpless. The boy screamed for his mommy. The woman squeezed her eyes shut, praying for a police siren, a hero, anything.
But in this city, heroes didn't patrol the Narrows. Not the shiny ones. Not the ones who smiled for cameras.
"Let them go."
The voice didn't come from the street. It came from the deepest shadow at the dead end of the alley, behind the thugs.
It wasn't a shout. It was barely a whisper. But it cut through the sound of the distant traffic and the weeping family.
The thugs stopped. The leader slowly turned his head, annoyance flashing in his eyes. "Who said that?"
"I did."
A figure stepped out from behind a dumpster. He was shrouded in a black hoodie that was two sizes too big, the fabric soaked through with rain. His jeans were shredded at the knees, the denim stained with mud and oil. His sneakers were worse—red high-tops that were caked in dirt and dried blood, the soles worn thin as if he had walked across a continent to get here.
The lanky thug snorted, spinning a butterfly knife in his hand. "Oh look, boys. We got ourselves a Samaritan. What are you supposed to be, huh? A wannabe Robin? You think you're Batman?"
The figure didn't answer. He didn't move. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, head bowed low so the hood obscured his face.
"I'm talking to you, trash!" the lanky thug shouted, emboldened by the silence. "You know who owns these streets? You walk away right now, and maybe we don't carve a smile into that face of yours."
The figure took one step forward. Just one.
The puddle beneath his foot didn't splash. It sizzled.
"I won't ask again," the voice came again, hollow and devoid of emotion. It sounded like the wind blowing through a graveyard. "Leave. Them. Alone."
"That's it," the squat thug with the bat growled. "Get him, Cutter."
"With pleasure." A thug who had been lurking in the back stepped forward. He was a meta-human. His skin rippled, and his right arm shifted, the flesh turning grey and hard, elongating into a jagged, three-foot steel blade. "I'm gonna gut you like a fish, little man."
Cutter charged. He was fast, fueled by adrenaline and the thrill of violence. He swung the blade arm in a vicious horizontal arc meant to decapitate the intruder.
The husband screamed, "Look out!"
The hooded figure didn't flinch. He didn't dodge.
At the last possible microsecond, he simply twisted his torso. The blade whistled past his chest, missing by a millimeter.
Before Cutter could recover, the boy's hand shot out of his pocket.
He caught the steel blade.
Cutter's eyes bulged. He tried to pull back, but his arm wouldn't move. It was like his limb was caught in a hydraulic press.
"What the—?"
The boy squeezed.
There was a sound like a car crash in slow motion. The sound of industrial steel crumpling.
CRUNCH.
"AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" Cutter screamed, a high-pitched wail of absolute agony as his mutated steel arm was crushed into a twisted knot of metal and bone.
The boy didn't let him finish the scream. In a blur of motion, he slammed his palm onto Cutter's face. The force was precise and terrifying. He drove the thug's head into the asphalt with a sickening thud.
The pavement cratered. A spiderweb of cracks spread out from the impact point, and a dark stain of blood immediately began to pool in the rain.
Cutter went limp instantly.
The alley went silent, save for the terrified gasps of the family.
The boy stood over the fallen thug. Slowly, he lifted his head.
A sudden clap of thunder shook the buildings, and a jagged fork of lightning tore across the sky. For a split second, the alley was bathed in harsh, white light.
The thugs froze. Their blood ran cold.
Under the hood, the boy's face was pale, gaunt, with dark circles hanging heavy under his eyes. But it was the eyes themselves that stole the breath from their lungs. They were blood red, glowing with a bioluminescent malice, and the pupils were gone—replaced by vertical slits of absolute black.
And on his forehead, etched into the skin in pitch black ink, was a symbol. A swirling, demonic mark that seemed to move on its own, pulsating in time with a heartbeat that wasn't human.
The leader of the thugs dropped the woman's arm. He took a step back, his tough-guy facade crumbling into primal fear. "What... what the hell are you?"
The boy looked at him. The red eyes narrowed.
"Go."
The leader fumbled for a gun in his waistband. "Kill him! Kill the freak!"
The remaining two thugs raised their weapons.
Another clap of thunder—louder this time, deafening.
The light flashed again.
When the darkness returned a second later, the screams began. They were short, sharp, and wet. The sounds of bones snapping and bodies hitting walls echoed off the brick.
By the time the thunder rolled away, silence had reclaimed the alley.
The family huddled together against the wall, the father shielding his wife and son. They were shaking, expecting the monster to turn on them next.
But when they looked up, the alley was empty. The thugs lay in a heap near the dumpsters, groaning, broken, but alive.
The boy was gone.
Meanwhile ten miles away, beneath the bedrock of the Palisades, the air was cool and smelled of filtered ozone and bat guano.
The cave was a cathedral of shadows and technology. A massive stalactite hung from the ceiling, dripping water into the subterranean river below. In the center of the cavern, bathed in the blue glow of a dozen monitors, sat the world's greatest detective.
Batman typed.
His fingers moved across the keyboard at a speed that blurred, pulling up satellite feeds, traffic cameras, atmospheric sensors, and police band frequencies.
On the main screen, a collage of chaos played out. Footage from a destroyed city block in Japan. Thermal scans of a high-speed object crossing the Pacific. Grainy CCTV footage from a Metropolis gas station showing a hooded figure stealing a protein bar.
Bruce Wayne hadn't slept in thirty-six hours. His cowl was pulled back, revealing eyes that were bloodshot and intense.
"Master Bruce."
The voice was calm, British, and carried the weight of a disappointed parent.
Alfred Pennyworth descended the steel staircase, a silver tray balanced perfectly in one hand. On it sat a steaming mug of Earl Grey and a small plate of sandwiches with the crusts cut off.
Bruce didn't turn around. "Not now, Alfred. I'm close. The thermal signature in the alleys matches the residual heat decay from the event in Musutafu. He's here."
"I am sure the signature will remain for another ten minutes while you hydrate, sir," Alfred said, placing the tray on the console next to the keyboard, right over a button Bruce needed to press.
Bruce stopped typing. He sighed, rubbing his temples. "He's here, Alfred. The boy. He's in the city."
"The 'boy' you took under your wing, who leveled a city block and defeated Superman?" Alfred asked dryly. "A delightful addition to our local tourism. I suppose the Joker will be jealous of the competition."
"He's alone, Alfred, alone and afrai,d" Bruce said, his voice low. He pulled up a frozen frame on the screen—the boy's face from the Japanese incident, twisted in agony. "I promised to train him, to teach him. Not just for myself but for Hisashi as well, I can't abandon him..."
"Then you shall deal with it, as you always do," Alfred interrupted gently. "But you cannot track a ghost if you faint from hypoglycemia."
Alfred picked up the mug and held it out. "Dinner is in two hours. Master Tim has requested your presence. He is concerned, Bruce. We both are."
Bruce looked at the tea, then up at Alfred. For a second, the Batman mask slipped, and he looked just like a tired man. "I can't promise dinner, Alfred."
"I would expect nothing less, sir."
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
A proximity alarm blared from the console. A red light began to flash on the dashboard.
"The Signal," Bruce said, standing up and pulling the cowl over his face in one fluid motion. The tiredness vanished. The Batman was back.
"Keep scanning the lower frequencies," Batman ordered, striding toward the sleek, black beast of a car parked on the rotating platform. "If he uses his power, the energy spike will register on the seismographs."
"Drive carefully, sir," Alfred said to the roar of the turbine engine. "It is still wet out there."
The roof of the Major Crimes Unit was one of the few places in the city that felt neutral. It was a DMZ between the law and the vigilante.
Commissioner James Gordon stood by the spotlight, his trench coat collar turned up against the wind. The rain had stopped, but the humidity remained, thick and soupy. The Bat-Signal cut a bright oval into the clouds above, a beacon calling out to a man who didn't exist.
Gordon took a drag from his cigar, the ember glowing bright orange. He checked his watch.
"You're late," Gordon muttered.
"Traffic was murder," a gravelly voice said from the shadows behind the air conditioning unit.
Gordon didn't jump. He was used to it. He turned around, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Thought you had a tunnel for that."
Batman stepped into the light. The white lenses of his cowl narrowed as he looked at the Commissioner. "What do you have, Jim?"
"Busy night," Gordon said, walking over to the ledge. He looked out over the sprawling, light-polluted nightmare of Gotham. "Robberies, two assaults, and a standoff in Burnley. But that's not why I turned on the light."
Gordon reached into his coat and pulled out a manila folder. It was damp at the edges.
"Patrol picked up three scumbags in an alley off 4th and Sprang about twenty minutes ago," Gordon said, handing the file to Batman. "Nasty business. One guy had his arm... well, it looked like it had been put through a trash compactor. But they're alive."
Batman opened the file. Photos of the crime scene. The crater in the asphalt. The blood.
"It wasn't you," Gordon stated. It wasn't a question. "I know your handiwork. You break bones, but you don't crush steel like it's tinfoil. And you don't leave burn marks on the pavement that smell like sulfur."
"Did they talk?" Batman asked, his eyes scanning the report.
"They couldn't stop talking," Gordon replied, shaking his head. "Usually, perps are quiet, lawyering up. These guys? They were begging to be put in a cell. Said they wanted to be away from the 'demon.'"
Batman looked up.
"They said it was a kid," Gordon continued. "Hoodie. Tattered jeans. Said he moved like a ghost." Gordon paused, tapping ash from his cigar. "And they kept mentioning two things. Red eyes. And green hair."
Batman closed the file. His gloved hand tightened around the paper.
"Green hair," Batman repeated.
"Yeah. Weird, right? Even for this town, I can't imagine many Joker fans" Gordon said, looking back at the skyline. "I don't know if we got a new player in the gang wars or just some meta-human passing through, but the brutality... it has the guys on edge. It feels like a powder keg, Batman. The city feels... feverish."
Gordon turned back to face the vigilante. "I need to know if this is something out of my league. Should I be calling Metropolis? Is this a job for the Boy Scout?"
He stopped.
The rooftop was empty. The file folder sat neatly on top of the spotlight housing, weighted down by a small bat-shaped shuriken.
Gordon sighed, looking around the empty roof. He took another drag of his cigar and shook his head.
"Every damn time," he grumbled. "I gotta put a bell on that guy."
He picked up the file Batman had left—the one containing the forensic data he had brought—and looked up at the clouds where the Bat-Signal still shone.
Somewhere out there, in the maze of gargoyles and grime, a hunter was closing in on his prey.
Meanwhile, in Japan, UA:
Rain pattered against the reinforced glass of the windows, blurring the view of the campus grounds. Inside, the air was stale. Nineteen students sat in their seats, but the room felt cavernous.
Their eyes kept drifting to the empty desk in the back. The chair was pushed in neatly. The surface was clean. But the absence of the boy who usually occupied it—the boy with the messy green hair, the muttering lips, and the scarred hands—screamed louder than any shout.
Momo Yaoyarozu stared at her hands, her fingers tracing the grain of her desk. Her heart ached with a dull, persistent throb. She remembered the Sports Festival, how she had crumbled under the pressure, feeling like a fraud compared to Todoroki or Bakugo. It was Izuku who had looked at her with those wide, earnest eyes, devoid of judgment. Who sat beside her as she cried. He hadn't just said words; he had shared a little of his pain so she could know she wasn't alone. She loved him for that—for seeing the strength in her that she was too blind to see herself. Now, she felt like a leader with no direction, a creator who couldn't fix the one thing that mattered.
Across the room, Ochako Uraraka rested her chin on her arms, staring blankly at the blackboard. She felt gravity more intensely than anyone else, but today, her heart felt heavier than any zero-gravity sickness. She liked him. She hadn't admitted it to herself until he was gone, until he had vanished. She loved the way he threw himself into danger for people he didn't know. She loved the way he panicked around girls, yet stood like All Might against monsters. Come back, Dekiru-kun, she pleaded silently.
Mina sat at her desk while looking out the window. Her eyes stared aimlessly into the rain, hoping, wishing he would be there. Flying back, maybe waving, anything as long as he was there. But he wasn't...She missed him; it was weird, she who matched people together missed him, but what right did she have? She hung out with the guy who mocked everyone like they were nothing, and attacked Midoriya without a care in the world. She followed him and did nothing as he called Izuku Deku, or fired explosions at him. But she still missed him.
Ruby Rose sat with her hood pulled up, her silver eyes dull and rimmed with red. She wasn't thinking about weapons or cookies. She was thinking about the USJ. She was thinking about the Nomu towering over her, the fear that had frozen her blood. And then... the green lightning. Izuku had jumped in front of her. He had broken his bones to shield her. Ruby loved him for that courage, yes, but she also loved the boy beneath it—the dork who geeked out over Crescent Rose's mechanics. She loved the way he tried to be brave even when he was terrified. He was her hero, in a way no Huntsman had ever been.
Next to her, Yang Xiao Long was unusually still. Her golden hair lacked its usual luster. She was gripping a pencil so hard it snapped, but she didn't seem to notice. Yang was the protector; she was the big sister. But Izuku... he had protected her. He had taken hits meant for her. For a girl who had abandonment issues, who was used to people leaving, Izuku's refusal to stay down, his refusal to let anyone hurt her, had bypassed her defenses entirely. She loved his fire. She loved that he burned so bright he scorched the darkness away. You better not be dead, you idiot, she thought, blinking back tears. I still owe you a sparring match.
Blake Belladonna sat with a book open, but she hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes. Her amber eyes were distant. She saw herself in Izuku—the desire to do right, the burden of a heavy past. But where she ran, he stood. She loved him for his character. She loved the way his smile looked like it surprised him every time, how his laugh was a nervous, bubbling sound that made her own heart flutter in her chest like a trapped bird. He didn't care about her past, or her ears, or her brooding. He just brought her tea and asked if she was okay. It was so simple, and yet, it was everything.
And then there was Shouko.
Shouko Todoroki sat perfectly still, her heterochromatic eyes fixed on the back of Izuku's empty chair. The pain in her chest was sharp, a cold fire. She remembered the hallway during the Sports Festival. She remembered how she had lashed out at him, trapped in her hatred for her father, trapped in a gender role she despised, hiding her true self under layers of ice. Izuku had shattered that ice.
"IT'S YOURS, YOUR QUIRK NOT HIS!!"
He was the first person to see her. Not Endeavor's masterpiece. Not a tool. Just Shouko. He had given her the courage to stand before the class and reveal who she really was—a girl, a daughter, a hero. He had protected her when the world felt too big and too cruel. She loved him with a quiet, burning intensity that frightened her. He was her pillar. And now that the pillar was gone, she felt the roof of the world collapsing on her shoulders.
Tsuyu looked down at her lap, her thumbs twitched over each other as memories of the USJ, of the weeks they spent together, flashed through her mind. How she watched him face villains without fear and jump like he believed he could fly, she watched him take on the world, the entire school, and win. He made the impossible seem possible, and at some point, she began watching him. She watched him more than she could admit, and now that he's gone. Something inside her felt empty, like it was missing something important. But what?
Kyoka Jirou spun one of her jacks around her finger, listening to the rain. She didn't speak with him much, but there remained a lump in her throat. Her entire life, she was overlooked by guys; she overlooked herself when compared to other girls. But he saw her, her stood in front of the guys of his class, defended her infront of Mineta and even thought she was beautiful. Was it shallow to start liking someone because of something so small? Maybe. But it doesn't mean she loves him, she just started seeing him more, she wanted to get closer to him, to talk with him, maybe even sit with him but now, now she can't
Tooru Hagakure, invisible to the eye, was wiping tears from her face. She admired him too. He was the only one who never looked through her. He always knew where she was. He acknowledged her presence, her effort. He made the invisible girl feel seen.
"It's too quiet," Eijiro Kirishima muttered, breaking the silence. His voice was rough. "It feels wrong. Midoribro... he was always mumbling or scribbling in that notebook. The room feels empty without that sound."
" Yeah, it just doesn't feel right without him you know" Denki Kaminari whispered, leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "He always.. always looked like he was carrying the whole world on his shoulders, wasn't he?"
"We couldn't do anything," Tsuyu Asui croaked, her usual bluntness softened by sorrow. "Even at the end... we tried to stop him, but we weren't strong enough to save his heart kero."
"Don't say that!" Iida jumped out his seat, his hand moving up and down at high speed, startling everyone. He stood up, his eyes wet but fierce. "Don't talk like we've given up! Midoriya wouldn't want us sitting here moping! He'd want us to get stronger! He'd want us to be ready for when he comes back!"
"If he comes back," Mineta whimpered, for once not being perverse, just scared.
"He will," Shouko said. Her voice was cold, absolute. "He is stubborn. He doesn't know how to quit."
Sero let out a weak, watery chuckle. "Yeah. That's true. Remember when he tried to explain his quirk analysis to us during lunch? He talked for twenty minutes without breathing. I thought he was going to pass out."
"Or when he tried to talk to girls?" Mina Ashido sniffled, wiping her eyes. "He turned into a tomato. It was so cute. He's such a dork. A powerful, terrifying, wonderful dork."
Shoji:" He made people like me, who were born looking different, feel normal. Even when he stuttered out compliments."
A small ripple of laughter went through the room. It was fragile, but it was there. The memory of Izuku—the human boy, not the monster they fought—warmed the room by a fraction.
Then, the door slid open.
SWISH.
Nineteen heads snapped up instantly. Hope and desperation flared in every set of eyes. Midoriya, Midori, Izu, Dekiru, Midoribro!?
But the figure in the doorway wasn't the green-haired boy. It was a man in black, with a capture scarf around his neck and eyes that looked like they hadn't closed in a week.
The energy in the room died instantly, replaced by a crushing disappointment.
Shota Aizawa walked to the podium. He looked worse than usual. His stubble was thicker, his skin paler, and there was a heaviness to his walk that suggested broken ribs under his baggy clothes. He looked at the class—at the empty desk—and his expression softened, just for a microscopic second.
"Good morning," Aizawa said, his voice raspy.
"Sensei..." Momo started, but stopped.
Aizawa sighed. "I apologize for my absence the last few days. The situation has been... fluid. The faculty has been in emergency meetings with the Safety Commission."
He shuffled some papers on the podium, not making eye contact.
"Effective immediately, all students in Class 1-A are required to attend mandatory counseling sessions with Hound Dog. We are implementing a rotational schedule. Do not try to skip. You have all been through a traumatic event. You cannot process this alone."
He paused, looking up. His red eyes scanned the room, landing on another empty desk—the one in front of Izuku's.
"Regarding Katsuki Bakugo," Aizawa said, his tone turning to steel.
The class stiffened.
"Bakugo has been suspended indefinitely," Aizawa stated flatly.
A gasp went through the room.
"Suspended?" Iida asked, chopping his hand nervously. "Sir, is that—"
"It is final," Aizawa cut him off. "His actions in Ground Beta were the catalyst for a catastrophic event. But it wasn't just that. We have reviewed the footage of the entire year. The Battle Trials. The Sports Festival. The daily interactions. Bakugo has demonstrated a pattern of excessive violence and endangerment toward his classmates, specifically Midoriya. U.A. failed to check this behavior earlier. We are correcting that mistake now."
Most of the class remained silent. There was shock, yes, but deep down... there was agreement. They had all seen it. The explosions. The screaming. They had normalized it because Bakugo was strong, because "that's just how he is." But after seeing Izuku break... they realized that "how he is" was a poison.
"Is he... is he gone for good?" Tsuyu asked.
"That depends on the outcome of his own evaluations," Aizawa said. "But he will not be stepping foot on this campus for a long time. If we have anything to say about it"
Silence reigned for a moment.
"Sensei," Kaminari spoke up, his voice trembling. "Did... did you find him? Did you find Midoriya?"
Aizawa looked at Kaminari. The teacher's face, usually so guarded, showed a crack of genuine pain.
"No," Aizawa said softly. "We are coordinating with the police and heroes globally. We have leads, but... he is moving fast. And he is hiding well."
He gripped the podium.
"But we will not stop," Aizawa promised, his eyes burning with resolve. "I don't care if I have to drag him back by his collar myself. We will bring him home. Now... open your textbooks to page 394. We have a lot of ground to cover."
At the Midoriya house:
The rain was heavier in the city.
In the modest apartment of the Midoriya family, the air smelled of lavender and antiseptic. It was clean, warm, and utterly heartbroken.
Inko Midoriya sat at the kotatsu, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had gone cold an hour ago. Her eyes were swollen, the skin beneath them bruised with exhaustion. She looked smaller, as if her son's absence had physically carved a piece out of her.
Around the apartment, three other women moved with quiet, graceful sorrow.
Rimuri Tempest—in her human female form, with flowing blue hair and golden eyes—was dusting a shelf that didn't need dusting. She paused, picking up a framed photo of Izuku holding his All Might action figure as a toddler. Rimuri felt a physical ache in her chest, a sensation foreign to a slime but all too real for her now. She loved him. She loved him not because he was a hero, but because he was the first human to look at her and see a person, not a monster or a god. He was kind in a way that made her want to be better. Izuku... where are you? she thought, clutching the frame. I have all this power, and I couldn't save you from your own mind. I can't even help you/
In the kitchen, Shion was washing dishes. The purple-haired kijin was usually boisterous, but today she was silent. She scrubbed a plate until her knuckles turned white. She loved him with a fierce, protective devotion. He was her master, yes, but he was also the boy who praised her cooking even when it was poison. He was the boy who smiled at her clumsiness. She wanted to tear the world apart to find him. She wanted to hold him and promise that nothing would ever hurt him again.
Shuna sat on the floor near Inko, folding laundry. The pink-haired princess moved with gentle precision, folding one of Izuku's oversized t-shirts. She brought the fabric to her face for a brief second, inhaling the fading scent of him. She loved him for his gentleness. In a world of violence, Izuku was soft. He was domestic and sweet and shy. He made their chaotic household feel like a home.
But Inko... Inko felt none of the warmth, and all of the agony.
She stared at the tea, but she saw the hospital bed. She saw the bandages. She saw her little boy, four years old, asking if he could be a hero.
"Inko-san?" Shuna whispered, placing a hand on the woman's shoulder. "Can I heat that up for you?"
Inko blinked, a fresh tear sliding down her cheek. "I... I told him."
"Told who, Inko-san?" Rimuru asked, drifting over.
"Shota," Inko whispered, her voice trembling with a latent, quiet fury. "He came here. Yesterday. He stood at the door and tried to apologize. He tried to tell me they were doing everything they could."
Inko's hand shook so hard the tea rippled.
"I told him to get out," she choked out. "I threw the vase at him. I screamed at him. I told him... I told him I trusted them! I gave them my only son! I entrusted them with his life! And they let that boy... they let Bakugo torment him for years? They let them break him until he ran away?"
She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving with sobs.
"I told him I never wanted to see his face again," Inko wept. "I was so angry. I'm still so angry. But mostly... I just want him back. I don't care about the school. I don't care about heroes. I just want my baby. I want to hear the door unlock and hear him say 'I'm home.'"
Rimuri, Shion, and Shuna gathered around her. There were no words to fix this. Rimuri wrapped her arms around Inko, absorbing the trembling of the mother's body. Shion knelt and rested her head on Inko's knee. Shuna held her hand.
"We're here, Inko-san," Rimuri whispered, her own golden eyes filling with tears. "We aren't going anywhere. And we will find him. Even if we have to search every inch of this planet, we will bring Izuku home."
Inko leaned into them, the four women bound together by the void left by one green-haired boy. Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing the city in grey, mirroring the hearts of those who waited for a sun that refused to rise.
The wind atop the Wayne Enterprises tower was merciless. It whipped around the stone gargoyles, carrying the biting chill of the upper atmosphere, but the figure perched on the edge didn't shiver. He didn't feel the cold. He didn't feel much of anything anymore.
Izuku Midoriya sat on the hunched shoulders of a stone demon, his legs dangling over a drop that would turn a human into a memory. Beneath him, the arteries of Gotham pulsed with amber light and frantic traffic, a river of noise that felt a million miles away.
He pulled his knees to his chest, the oversized, waterlogged hoodie hanging off his frame like a shroud.
He was starving.
His stomach had stopped growling three days ago. Now, a week without food had turned into a dull, acidic cramping that gnawed at his insides. His cheeks were sunken, casting deep shadows under his cheekbones. His skin was the color of old parchment, stretched too tight over a skeleton that was slowly becoming visible.
He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Not from the hunger, but from the effort of holding it back.
Quiet.
That was the worst part. For months, his mind had been a chaotic war room. Meliodas's perverted comments, Natsu's fire, Rokuro's brotherly advice—they had been loud, distinct voices. They were mentors. They were headaches. They were there.
But since the explosion at Ground Beta... since he had looked into the abyss and tried to kill All Might... there was only static.
He couldn't hear them. The connection had been severed, or perhaps, drowned. The dam inside him had burst. The intricate control he had spent months building was gone, replaced by a raw, pressurized torrent of power that threatened to skin him alive if he lost focus for even a microsecond.
He flexed his right hand. He tried to summon the Impurity arm, just to see if he could control the shape.
Nothing happened.
Or rather, too much happened. Black miasma leaked from his pores, unbidden, hissing like acid. It didn't form a claw. It didn't form a weapon. It just spilled out, shapeless and hot, driven only by a vague, biological need to destroy.
He clenched his fist, choking the power back down, biting his lip until it bled.
I can't control it, he thought, the despair settling in his chest like lead. I'm just a leaking reactor. If I sleep, I might blow up a city block. If I eat, I might vomit black fire. I'm not a hero. I'm a bomb.
The solitude was absolute. He was a ghost haunting a city of gargoyles, more stone than flesh.
Then, the air behind him shimmered.
It wasn't a physical presence—the wind didn't break around them—but the spiritual pressure was undeniable.
Two silhouettes flickered into existence against the stormy night sky.
One was a towering figure glowing with a rough, chaotic orange light. He wore a high-collared coat and goggles that hid his eyes. Daigoro Banjo. The Fifth User.
The other was softer. A pink light, gentle as a dawn, forming the shape of a woman with a cape fluttering in the ethereal wind. Nana Shimura. The Seventh User.
They stood silently for a moment, looking at the back of the boy who was slowly dying in the rain.
"Kid," Banjo's voice was rough, echoing not in the air, but directly into the base of Izuku's skull. "You gotta get down from here. You gotta find a shelter. You gotta eat."
Izuku didn't answer. He didn't even turn his head. He stared at a yellow taxi cab moving forty stories below.
"Look at you," Banjo said, his voice rising with frustration that masked deep fear. "You're skin and bone! You think starving yourself is gonna fix the quirk? You think punishing yourself is gonna make the black whips listen? It's doing the opposite! Your body is weak, so the power is running wild!"
Banjo took a step forward, his ghostly hand reaching out to grab Izuku's shoulder, but his hand passed through the hoodie like smoke.
"Dammit!" Banjo cursed, pulling his hand back. "Listen to me! You're the Ninth! You don't get to check out like this! Get up! Find a dumpster, steal a burger, I don't care! Just survive!"
Izuku remained a statue.
If I eat, Izuku thought, I'll have energy. If I have energy, the monster gets stronger. I have to keep it weak. I have to starve it.
"He can't hear you, Daigoro," Nana's voice came. It was soft, laced with a sadness that made the rain feel warmer. "He hears the words... but he can't listen. The fear is too loud."
Nana floated closer. She didn't try to shout. She didn't try to order him around. She looked at the boy—the boy who reminded her so much of Toshinori, yet carried a burden so much heavier.
"Izuku," she whispered.
She knelt down beside the gargoyle, hovering over the abyss, looking into his hooded face. She saw the deadness in his eyes. She saw the exhaustion etched into every line of his young face.
"You're so tired," she said gently. "You've been running for so long."
Izuku's lip quivered.
"It's okay to be afraid," Nana said, her phantom hand hovering over his cheek. "We are all afraid. Toshinori was afraid. I was afraid. But you are punishing yourself for a crime you didn't commit. You didn't hurt them, Izuku. You stopped."
I almost didn't, Izuku's mind screamed. I wanted to. That's enough.
"You're alone out here," Nana continued, her voice breaking. "No All Might. No friends. Just the cold and the dark."
She moved behind him.
Slowly, carefully, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
She couldn't physically touch him. She was a memory, a vestige stored in a quirk. But as she leaned her head against his, as she pulled him into a spectral embrace, something crossed the barrier.
A warmth.
It wasn't the heat of Natsu's fire or the burn of One For All. It was the warmth of a mother holding her child after a nightmare. It was a love so deep, so profound, that it bypassed his physical senses and wrapped directly around his shivering soul.
"You don't have to be strong right now," Nana whispered into his ear. "You can just be a boy. You can just... let go."
The dam didn't burst this time. It simply overflowed.
Izuku squeezed his eyes shut. His breath hitched in his throat, a jagged, broken sound.
The tears came hot and fast, cutting clean tracks through the grime on his face. He didn't sob. He didn't wail. He just sat there on the edge of the Gotham skyline, held by a ghost, crying silently into the night, mourning the boy he used to be and terrified of the monster he was becoming.
And for the first time in two weeks, in the arms of the Seventh, he didn't feel completely, utterly alone.
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