The first time lightning answered Izuku Midoriya, he was four years old.
It did not fall from the sky.
It came from him.
At first, he thought it was a tummy ache.
The kind that made breathing feel weird and made his chest feel too tight. He sat on the floor of the apartment, small hands gripping his shirt as he rocked slightly.
"M-Mommy…" he whimpered. "It hurts…"
Inko turned from the sink instantly.
"Izuku?" she said, drying her hands as she rushed over. "Where does it hurt, sweetheart?"
He tried to point to his chest.
That was when the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then every bulb in the apartment exploded at the same time.
Glass burst outward with a sharp, terrifying crash. Inko screamed as she lunged forward, pulling Izuku into her arms. The television sparked violently. The refrigerator groaned and died.
The air began to hum.
Blue-white lines of light crawled beneath Izuku's skin, tracing his arms, his neck, his cheeks—like veins made of lightning.
"M-Mommy!" he cried, panic ripping through his voice.
And the storm was born.
Lightning erupted from his body in wild, uncontrolled arcs. It tore into the walls, scorched the ceiling, and cracked the floor beneath them. Wind howled through the small apartment as if the room itself had been swallowed by a thundercloud.
Izuku screamed.
Not because it felt good.
Because it hurt.
Every surge burned through his nerves. His heartbeat stuttered, skipped, then raced dangerously fast.
Inko wrapped herself around him, shielding his small body with her own as best she could.
"It's okay—Mommy's here—please, stop—!"
The lightning answered nothing.
Then Izuku's body went limp.
The storm vanished.
Silence crashed down harder than the thunder ever had.
When Izuku woke up, everything smelled strange.
Clean. Cold.
Machines beeped beside him. His arms felt heavy, wrapped in thick bandages. Small wires were stuck to his chest, and a soft blanket covered him up to his chin.
"M…Mommy?" he whispered.
Inko gasped and rushed to his side, tears spilling freely as she grabbed his hand.
"I'm here, Izuku. I'm right here."
"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "I didn't mean to…"
The doctor standing nearby froze.
That was the moment the adults realized something was wrong.
Not with his quirk—
but with how quickly he blamed himself.
The tests lasted hours.
Scans. Monitoring. Specialists whispering behind glass walls.
Finally, a doctor knelt in front of Inko, his expression careful.
"Your son has an emitter-type quirk," he said. "But it's… unusually intense."
"In–intense is good, right?" she asked weakly.
He hesitated.
"It generates electrical energy from within his body," the doctor explained. "At extremely high levels. And it reacts directly to emotional spikes."
He glanced toward Izuku.
"Fear. Stress. Panic."
Inko's hands trembled.
"Can he control it?"
"Not yet," the doctor said softly. "And until he can… his body may suffer internal damage."
Izuku stared at his hands.
Nothing sparked.
But he could feel something deep inside his chest.
Sleeping.
Waiting.
After that day, life changed.
Neighbors kept their distance.
Teachers watched him too closely.
Playground equipment malfunctioned when he cried.
Children whispered.
Some ran.
Others pointed.
Izuku learned to keep his emotions locked tight inside his chest.
Except around one boy.
When a metal slide sparked violently under Izuku's touch and kids screamed, Katsuki Bakugo didn't move back.
He stared instead—eyes wide, burning with excitement.
"So that's your quirk?" Katsuki said. "That's awesome."
Izuku blinked. "Y-You're not scared?"
"Tch. Why would I be?" Katsuki grinned. "If you've got power like that, then you'd better get strong enough to control it."
He jabbed a finger at Izuku's chest.
"I'm gonna beat you someday."
Izuku smiled—small, uncertain, but real.
He didn't know it yet…
…but the storm inside him had just found someone who refused to look away.