Where Light Dies

by Linxwo

Summary:

In his third year at UA, Izuku's life seems perfect, until one day, he's abducted and wakes up in a isolated white room. Tortured day after day, what begins as hours of pain stretches into weeks of relentless torment, mentally and physically.

As his friends and heroes search desperately to bring him back, they must face the terrifying question: even if they find him, will the Izuku they rescue still be the same?

Notes:

Important note:
In this fic, Izuku did note lose one for all after defeating Shigaraki and all for one.

He did however lose his quirk danger sense.

-

Aizawa did not lose his eye or leg, he can still use his erasure quirk but just limited.

-

Katsuki did not hurt his arm during the war, he did almost die though (saved by Edgeshot).

----

TW: This story contains torture and gore!

Chapter 1: Between Reality and Nightmare

The sharp, sterile scent of disinfectant assaulted Izuku’s senses before he even opened his eyes. It was suffocating, mixing with an odd metallic tang in the air. His head throbbed, each dull, pounding ache sending a wave of nausea through him. His limbs felt heavy, weak, as if his body were fighting to wake up but resisting all at once.

Groaning softly, Izuku blinked, his eyelids sluggishly peeling apart. The light above him was blinding, an unforgiving white glare that pierced straight into his skull, forcing his eyes shut again. He turned his head to the side, the movement sluggish and strained, and tried again. Slowly this time. His vision swam as his surroundings came into focus.

The room was stark white. Sterile. Lifeless. The walls were smooth, with no windows or markings to break up the blank monotony. The ceiling above him was featureless, save for the rows of fluorescent lights buzzing faintly, their cold glow bathing everything in an otherworldly brightness. The floor beneath him was equally unremarkable—pale, glossy, and impossibly cold against his skin. The chill seeped through the thin fabric of his clothes, biting at his exposed arms and legs and raising goosebumps across his body.

His chest tightened as confusion swirled like a storm inside him. Where am I? The thought hit like a thunderclap, pulling him further out of the fog of unconsciousness. He tried to move, to sit up, but his body felt stiff and uncooperative. His arms were pinned behind his back, and as he strained against the invisible force holding them, a sharp, biting sensation wrapped around his wrists.

What... what is that?

He twisted, testing his restraints, and the faint clink of metal echoed through the room. Cold cuffs encircled his wrists, the unforgiving metal digging into his skin. He pulled harder, gritting his teeth, but the chain connecting the cuffs didn’t give. His movements sent another sound rippling through the air—a heavier clink this time, from his legs.

Izuku froze, his breath hitching. Slowly, he shifted his legs, only to feel the same biting pressure around his ankles. Shackles. Thick, unyielding shackles. A length of chain connected them, rattling faintly with even the smallest movement. He pulled, his body twisting awkwardly, desperate to free himself, but the restraints held firm.

His breathing quickened, shallow gasps echoing in the empty room as the reality of his situation began to sink in. The cold metal, the lifeless walls, the emptiness—it all felt suffocating. His heart hammered against his ribs, his chest heaving as panic clawed its way to the surface.

The clothes on his body—if they could even be called that—only made him feel more exposed. A thin, short-sleeved t-shirt clung to his upper body, offering no protection from the chill in the room. His shorts were equally inadequate, leaving his legs bare to the biting cold of the floor beneath him. His feet, stripped of socks or shoes, pressed against the icy surface, sending sharp, stinging jolts up his legs.

Why am I here? The question burned in his mind as he twisted again, trying to free himself despite the futility. The restraints didn’t budge. Every tug sent sharp, aching pulses through his wrists and ankles, but he couldn’t stop. He had to move. He had to get out.

Instinct kicked in. Desperation laced through his veins as he tried to activate One For All. If I can just use my quirk, I can break these chains. I can get out of here. He closed his eyes, focusing as hard as he could, searching for the familiar spark of power that had become second nature.

But there was nothing.

He tried again, straining harder, his body trembling from the effort. Still, nothing. No warmth in his veins, no hum of energy coursing through him. It was as though One For All had been ripped away.

His eyes snapped open, panic morphing into sheer terror. No... no, no, no! Where is it? Why isn’t it working?

Izuku’s chest tightened, his breathing becoming more erratic as his thoughts spiraled. If One For All was gone, if he couldn’t use his quirk... what was he supposed to do? How could he get out of this?

“HELP!” The scream tore from his throat, raw and desperate. His voice cracked as it echoed off the empty walls, amplifying the sound until it felt like it was pressing back against him. “CAN SOMEONE HEAR ME?!”

Only silence answered him.

He tried again, his voice growing hoarse as he yelled into the void. Each shout made the room feel smaller, the walls closing in tighter. His arms ached, his legs throbbed, and the cold seeped deeper into his bones.

Izuku slumped forward, his head hanging as his body trembled. His breaths came in uneven gasps, his mind racing with questions he couldn’t answer. Why can’t I use my quirk? How did I get here?

The pounding in his head grew worse, the pain spreading down his neck and shoulders. He shut his eyes, trying to piece together anything, any memory that might explain what had happened.

And then, slowly, it came back to him.

Izuku had been walking back to his mother’s apartment, a warm feeling of anticipation bubbling in his chest. It was a routine he cherished—the weekends spent at home, just him and his mom, eating her cooking and catching up on life outside of UA. After the chaos of their first two years, things had finally settled down. The League of Villains was gone, scattered to the wind after their final defeat, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Class 1-A could actually breathe.

Izuku had been using that time to refine his quirk, pushing One For All to its absolute limit. He was proud of how far he’d come, especially since he just started his third year at UA, his last year.

Izuku had waved goodbye to his friends at the dormitories, a cheerful smile on his face as he called out, “See you Monday!” His voice carried a lightness that had been rare during their late first year, and beginning second year, but now it was almost second nature. The weekends were a welcome break from their rigorous classes and training, and like most Fridays, Izuku was eager to head home and spend some time with his mom.

The atmosphere at UA had shifted drastically since the defeat of the League of Villains. For the first time in what felt like years, the students weren’t living with the constant shadow of danger looming over them. The threat was gone, and with it, the endless nights of worry and battles to protect their lives. The campus felt safe again, like a true school instead of a warzone.

Still, Principal Nezu had insisted on keeping the dormitories, despite the diminished threat. He’d explained his decision with one of his signature knowing smiles, saying it was good for fostering unity and camaraderie among the students. Izuku couldn’t deny that. Living together had brought Class 1-A closer in ways that simple classroom interactions never could. They’d become a family, and even now, as they were in their third and final year, that bond was stronger than ever.

“Don’t eat all the snacks at once, Kaminari!” Izuku called over his shoulder with a laugh, watching as Kaminari gave him a sheepish grin while holding a bag of chips. Mina waved enthusiastically from the common room couch, where she was sprawled out next to Jirou and Yaoyorozu.

“Don’t forget to bring leftovers on Monday!” Mina teased, grinning as she caught Izuku’s eye.

“Only if my mom doesn’t eat them all first,” Izuku joked back, adjusting the strap of his bag as he made his way to the door.

Katsuki had decided to join Izuku on the trip back to their neighborhood that evening. It wasn’t anything planned; Bakugo rarely gave advance notice for anything. He’d simply grumbled something about spending the weekend home aswel and followed Izuku out of the dorms.

The two walked side by side in silence at first, the quiet hum of UA's peaceful campus filling the space between them. Despite their years of rivalry and countless arguments, they’d grown into something resembling a strange, mutual understanding. Katsuki wasn’t as explosive toward Izuku as he used to be, and Izuku had learned how to deal with Bakugo’s rough edges. Neither of them admitted it, but these quiet moments—where no words needed to be exchanged—were oddly comfortable.

They hopped on the bus together, taking seats near the back. Katsuki leaned his head against the window, arms crossed, while Izuku rummaged through his phone, trying to organize a playlist for the ride. The bus wasn’t crowded, just a few other passengers scattered around, and the gentle rumble of the engine filled the space.

Izuku occasionally glanced at Katsuki, wondering if he should start a conversation. “So… uh, how’s your mom doing?” he asked tentatively after a while.

“Same as always,” Katsuki grunted, not even looking away from the window. “Yells a lot, complains a lot. Nothing new.”

Izuku smiled faintly, imagining Mitsuki Bakugo’s fiery personality filling their house. “That sounds like her.”

Katsuki snorted but didn’t say anything else. The silence returned, but it wasn’t awkward. It was just... the way things were between them.

As the bus pulled into their neighborhood, the familiar sights of home came into view. It was late enough that the streets were quiet, the soft glow of streetlights reflecting off the pavement. The bus stopped near their usual stop, and they both stepped off, their bags slung over their shoulders.

“Guess this is it,” Katsuki muttered, glancing down the left side of the street. His house was just a couple of blocks that way, the same route he’d been taking for years.

Izuku turned to the right, his path leading toward his mom’s apartment. He shifted his bag on his shoulder and gave Katsuki a small wave. “See you Monday, Kacchan.”

Katsuki scoffed, but there was no heat in it. “Don’t do anything stupid, Izuku.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking without waiting for a response.

Izuku smiled at Katsuki’s retreating back, used to his blunt way of showing concern. “I won’t,” he said softly to himself before turning and heading down his own path.

As he walked, Izuku felt a familiar warmth building in his chest. Being home always gave him that feeling—a sense of safety and love. The breeze was cool, the neighborhood quiet, and everything about the evening felt calm.

Izuku felt lighter than he had in years. Without the constant threat of villains, he’d been able to focus entirely on mastering One For All. His progress had been exponential, and he was finally reaching the point where every aspect of the quirk felt like it belonged to him. This is it, he thought. I’m almost there. By the time I graduate, I’ll be ready to be the hero All Might believed I could be.

He paused at the corner of a quiet intersection, glancing at the crosswalk signal as it ticked down to green. The streets were mostly empty, save for a few pedestrians strolling in the distance. The soft hum of a passing car blended with the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Everything felt normal.

Almost too normal.

The thought was fleeting, barely registering in Izuku’s mind as he took his first step across the street. He was too busy planning out the weekend in his head. He thought about his mom’s cooking, the bento she always packed for him before he left, and the way her face lit up whenever she saw him. He couldn’t wait to see her again.

Halfway down the next block, he stopped to adjust his bag, which had begun to slip off his shoulder. He crouched slightly, pulling the strap tighter, and was about to stand when it happened.

A sharp, stinging sensation pierced the side of his neck.

“Ah!” Izuku flinched, his hand flying up to the spot. His fingers brushed against something small and sharp—like a dart—before it fell away. He froze, the sting spreading into a dull ache, and instinctively turned to look behind him.

That’s when he saw him.

A man stood at the edge of the alleyway just behind him, half-hidden in the shadows. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in dark clothing that seemed to blend into the dimly lit surroundings. His face was obscured by a hood. The man didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just stood there, watching.

Izuku’s heart skipped a beat. Who is that? The question barely had time to form in his mind before the world around him began to tilt.

His vision blurred, the edges of the street dissolving into hazy smudges of light and shadow. His knees buckled, and he reached out to steady himself against the nearest lantern, but his hand slipped, his grip weak and uncoordinated. A strange sensation spread through his body—numbness, followed by an unsettling emptiness.

He gasped, his breath hitching as he tried to summon One For All. The familiar surge of energy didn’t come. Panic flared in his chest, and he tried again, harder this time, focusing all his willpower on activating his quirk.

Nothing.

It was as if someone had flipped a switch, cutting off the connection entirely. His strength was gone, drained away as though it had never been there.

Izuku’s legs gave out, and he collapsed to the pavement, his body slumping awkwardly against the curb. He blinked rapidly, struggling to keep his eyes open as the world around him spun. The man stepped out of the shadows then, his heavy boots crunching against the asphalt.

“W-who…?” Izuku tried to speak, but his voice was barely a whisper, his throat dry and uncooperative.

The man crouched down in front of him, his face still obscured. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you, Midoriya?” His voice was low and even, with a mocking edge that made Izuku’s skin crawl.

Izuku tried to respond, but his tongue felt like lead, his words dissolving into incoherent murmurs. The man reached out, grabbing Izuku’s chin and tilting his head to the side. He inspected the injection site briefly, then let go, letting Izuku’s head fall limply forward.

“Don’t worry,” the man said, standing up again. “This won’t take long.”

The last thing Izuku saw before the darkness claimed him was the man’s shadow looming over him.

…

That was what happened, that was everything Izuku could remember before waking up here.

Izuku’s breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as the panic clawed its way back, threatening to overwhelm him. His chest rose and fell rapidly, each inhale sharp and painful as if the air itself was suffocating him. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, willing himself to calm down. Breathe, he thought desperately. You can’t panic now. You have to think, figure this out.

The cold bite of the metal cuffs around his wrists and ankles were cruel. Every time he shifted even slightly, the chains rattled softly, an ominous echo in the sterile, silent room. Izuku’s fingers flexed instinctively, his body screaming at him to move, to run, to fight back—but it was no use. The restraints were solid, unyielding.

He swallowed hard, forcing his breathing to slow. “Okay,” he muttered under his breath, his voice trembling but steadying with each word. “Think. How did you get here? Who was that man? And… how did they take my quirk?”

The thought sent a fresh wave of dread crashing over him. The emptiness he felt where One For All should have been was unnatural, like a missing limb he kept trying to use. His quirk wasn’t just a part of him—it was his identity, his responsibility. And now he couldn’t use it

Was it a quirk-suppressant bullet? he wondered, his mind racing through the possibilities. Or… did they actually remove my quirk? Is that even possible?

Before he could spiral any further, his thoughts were interrupted by a sound—soft, mechanical, almost imperceptible at first. A low hum filled the room, growing louder with each passing second. Izuku froze, his breath hitching as his eyes darted around the room, searching for the source.

At the far end of the space, where the smooth, white walls had appeared seamless, a door slid open with a soft hiss. The light spilling in from the hallway beyond was blinding, forcing Izuku to squint as his body instinctively tensed. He strained against the cuffs, his muscles screaming in protest, but it was useless. The sound of his chains clinking echoed in the stark silence, amplifying his helplessness.

Footsteps followed, slow and deliberate. The click of polished shoes against the hard floor sent chills down Izuku’s spine, each step measured and unhurried. A figure emerged from the blinding light, their silhouette tall and imposing. As they stepped fully into the room, the details came into focus.

The man was dressed impeccably in a black suit, the fabric so pristine it seemed almost out of place in this stark, sterile environment. He looked as if he was in his thirties. His hair was jet black, combed back neatly, and his sharp features gave him an air of authority that made Izuku’s stomach twist. But it was his eyes that stood out most—piercing, icy blue, like the coldest depths of the ocean. They seemed to cut straight through him, studying him with an unnerving intensity.

The man stopped a few feet away, tilting his head slightly as if he were examining a specimen under a microscope. His calm, measured gaze made Izuku feel exposed, as though every thought and fear he had was laid bare for this man to see.

“Ah, you’re awake,” the man said finally, his voice smooth and even, yet laced with an unsettling undertone of control. There was no warmth in his tone, no sympathy—just cold calculation. “Good. I was beginning to wonder if the dose was too much.”

Izuku’s jaw tightened, his instincts screaming at him to fight back even as his rational mind told him it was futile. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice breaking slightly despite his effort to sound strong. “What do you want with me?”

The man didn’t respond immediately. He took another step forward, his hands clasped casually behind his back, his movements deliberate and calculated. He stopped just outside Izuku’s reach—not that Izuku could do much in his current state.

Instead of answering, the man crouched slightly, bringing himself down to Izuku’s eye level. His piercing blue eyes locked onto Izuku’s, unblinking and unwavering. It felt like he was peeling back every layer of Izuku’s defenses, seeing everything hidden beneath.

“You ask a lot of questions, Midoriya,” the man said at last, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile—a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “But I’m afraid the answers will come in due time. For now, all you need to know is that you’re here for a reason. A very important reason.”

Izuku’s heart hammered in his chest, his mind racing as he tried to decipher the man’s words. “What reason? Why me?” he pressed, his voice growing stronger despite the lump of fear in his throat. “What did you do to my quirk?”

“Don’t worry,” the man said, his voice unnervingly calm, almost soothing, though the satisfied gleam in his piercing blue eyes betrayed his amusement. “I didn’t take your quirk. I’ve simply… suppressed it.”

He reached into the pocket of his black suit jacket, retrieving a syringe filled with a soft pink liquid that seemed to shimmer under the stark fluorescent lights. Holding it up for Izuku to see, the man tilted it slightly, letting the liquid swirl inside.

“Speaking of,” he continued, taking a step closer, “it’s been some time since your last dose. Which means… it’s time for your next one.”

“No…” Izuku whispered, his voice trembling. His eyes locked onto the syringe, dread pooling in his chest. “No, don’t! Stay away from me!”

The man ignored him entirely, stepping closer with deliberate, measured movements. Izuku thrashed against his restraints, the chains rattling wildly, but his efforts only served to exhaust him further.

“Get that away from me!” Izuku shouted, his voice cracking as he twisted and jerked in his bindings. “Stop! Don’t—NO!”

But his yells went unanswered. The man knelt beside him, calm and composed, and Izuku could feel the cold press of the needle against his neck. His heart hammered in his chest, his body recoiling instinctively as the man found the vein and slowly pushed the needle in.

The sharp sting of the puncture made Izuku wince, but it was nothing compared to the icy sensation that spread through his veins as the pink liquid was injected. It crept through his body like frostbite, chilling him from the inside out. He clenched his teeth, his breath hitching as the man slowly depressed the syringe’s plunger.

“There we go,” the man said, his tone casual, as though he were simply administering a routine vaccine. “This dose has no extra effects—no blackouts this time. It will simply suppress your quirk for another twenty-four hours.”

Izuku’s eyes widened in horror. Twenty-four hours?! His mind raced as he processed the implications. If this is my second dose… does that mean I’ve already been asleep for twenty-four hours?

The man smiled faintly, clearly enjoying the visible panic on Izuku’s face. “Though,” he added, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice, “you may find yourself becoming a bit… dizzy.”

Izuku’s vision began to blur almost immediately. The walls of the stark, white room seemed to ripple and tilt, and the man’s face became an indistinct smudge of dark hair and cold blue eyes.

“You… what do you…” Izuku tried to speak, but his words slurred together, and his head lolled forward as dizziness overtook him.

The man reached out and grabbed Izuku by the collar of his thin shirt, his grip firm but not overly harsh. With ease, he maneuvered Izuku into a sitting position, propping him against the wall. The cold surface pressed against Izuku’s back, and his restrained hands dug into his skin uncomfortably.

“There we go,” the man said, taking a step back to admire his work. “Much better.”

Izuku blinked up at him, his vision swimming but slowly stabilizing. His heart pounded as he fought to regain his focus. “Why… why are you doing this?” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

The man clasped his hands behind his back, tilting his head slightly as he regarded Izuku. “It’s quite simple,” he said, his tone conversational, as though they were discussing something mundane. “I’ve been interested in you for a long time, Midoriya Izuku. Ever since you were a quirkless boy.”

Izuku’s breath hitched, his mind flashing back to the painful years of ridicule and isolation he’d endured as a child. “What… what are you talking about?” he managed to say, though his voice was weak.

“You were fascinating,” the man continued, ignoring Izuku’s question. “A child born quirkless in a society built around quirks. Weak, powerless, yet still so determined to play hero.” He chuckled softly, as though the memory amused him. “I’ve always found that… intriguing.”

Izuku’s jaw clenched, anger bubbling beneath the surface of his fear. “If you’ve been watching me… then you know I’m not powerless anymore,” he said, his voice gaining strength.

The man’s smile faltered slightly, and his eyes narrowed. “Oh, I’m well aware,” he said, his tone darkening. “And that’s precisely why we’re here. You see, you were supposed to remain insignificant. A nobody. A quirkless boy.”

He began to pace slowly, his hands still clasped behind his back. “But then you had to ruin everything. You went from being a quirkless boy to somehow gaining a quirk, and becoming the boy who defeated All For One himself. My mentor. The ruler of the underworld. The man I revered above all others.”

Izuku’s stomach twisted as the man’s words sank in. “You… you worked with All For One?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The man stopped pacing, turning to face Izuku with a chilling smile. “Oh, I did more than work with him,” he said. “I was one of his most trusted associates, though I rarely interacted with him directly. My role was in the medical and experimental side of his operations.”

Izuku’s blood ran cold. The implications of those words were horrifying. “You… you’re like the doctor?” he asked, remembering the twisted man who had experimented on Kurogiri and countless others.

The man’s smile faded slightly, and for the first time, a flicker of irritation crossed his face. “Not like the doctor,” he said sharply. “I was never as… talented as him, I’ll admit. But I was loyal. Devoted. And I understood the brilliance of All For One’s vision.”

His expression darkened further as he continued. “And then you came along. A quirkless nobody who suddenly got a power. And you used it to destroy everything we’d built.”

Izuku’s fists clenched behind his back, his nails digging into his palms. “All For One hurt people,” he said firmly, his voice steady despite the fear coursing through him. “He ruined lives. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure people like you can’t do the same.”

The man’s voice was slow and deliberate as he began to speak, his words dripping with menace. “You have no idea how much you’re worth, Midoriya,” he said, his tone calm but laced with a chilling undertone. “To us villains, to the loyal followers of All For One… we would do anything to destroy you.”

Izuku’s heart sank. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes widened in fear. “W-what…?” he stammered, his voice barely audible.

The man’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with malice. “The bounty on your head is staggering,” he continued. “More than a million. A fortune. Every mercenary, every villain with a grudge, every lowlife with a shred of ambition is after you, boy.” He leaned in closer, his grin growing sinister. “But lucky for you… I’m not interested in money.”

Izuku’s blood ran cold as the man straightened, his tall frame casting an imposing shadow over him.

“No,” the man said, his voice soft but brimming with intensity. “I’m interested in you. In your quirk.”

The man knelt down slowly, his piercing blue eyes locking onto Izuku’s. His face was close enough that Izuku could feel his breath, cold and sharp like the room itself.

“I’ll ask you once,” the man said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “How did you get that strange quirk of yours? Or should I say… quirks? The quirks powerful enough to defeat All For One. That amazing speed, those tendrils of black energy, that flying ability of yours”

Izuku froze. His body trembled as the weight of the man’s question sank in. This wasn’t just some random villain—this man was meticulous, calculated. He knew too much. Far too much. Izuku’s mind raced. He couldn’t tell him the truth. He couldn’t. If the truth about One For All got out…

The man’s smile twisted further as he saw the fear flicker across Izuku’s face. “What’s the matter?” he taunted. “Cat got your tongue? Or are you just realizing how deep you’re in?”

Izuku swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Why… why do you even care?” he asked, his voice shaky but trying to hold firm.

The man chuckled, a low, menacing sound that sent chills down Izuku’s spine. “Because,” he said, leaning even closer, “I want it. That quirk of yours. The quirk that defeated All For One. The quirk that destroyed everything we built.”

His voice grew darker, more venomous with each word. “A new ruler of the underworld must rise, Midoriya. And with your quirk in my hands, I will surpass All For One. I will be greater than him.”

Izuku’s breathing hitched. His pulse thundered in his ears. This man… he was serious. Deadly serious.

The man’s smile softened—almost mockingly—before he continued. “You were quirkless.” he said, his tone suddenly casual. “So you must have acquired it somehow. Does it have anything to do with your… relationship with All Might?”

Izuku’s eyes widened, his body going stiff. How does he know that? His thoughts spun, panic clawing at the edges of his mind. This man… he’d been watching him. Stalking him. How long had he known? How much did he know?

The man’s smile turned predatory as he watched Izuku’s reaction. “Ah, hit a nerve, didn’t I?” he said, a twisted sense of satisfaction dripping from his voice.

Izuku’s hands clenched into fists behind his back, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep himself composed. He couldn’t let this man win. He couldn’t let him see how afraid he was.

“I was… a late bloomer,” Izuku said finally, forcing the words out. His voice was quiet, but he kept his gaze steady, refusing to look away.

The man’s smile faltered. His expression darkened, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “A late bloomer?” he repeated, his tone skeptical.

“That’s right,” Izuku said, his voice gaining a bit more strength. “It happens sometimes. People manifest their quirks late. That’s all.”

The man stared at him for a long moment, his piercing gaze studying every inch of Izuku’s face as if trying to peel back the layers and expose the truth.

Then, without warning, his smile vanished completely. His jaw tightened, his teeth gritting audibly as his patience snapped. “Don’t lie to me,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“I’m not lying,” Izuku said firmly, though his voice wavered slightly.

“Yes, you are,” the man snapped, his tone sharper now. “Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t know when someone is lying to me?”

Izuku held his ground, his body trembling but his resolve firm. “I told you the truth,” he said. “You just don’t want to believe it.”

The man’s expression twisted with anger. He reached forward suddenly, his hand tangling in Izuku’s hair and yanking his head back. Izuku winced as the sharp pain shot through his scalp.

“You want to do this the hard way?” the man snarled, his face mere inches from Izuku’s. “Fine. We’ll do it the hard way.”

Izuku’s head spun as the sharp sting of the man’s slaps echoed in his ears. The pain shot through his cheeks, and for a brief moment, he could feel a sharpness in his vision, a buzzing in his skull. Despite it all, he refused to break. His eyes remained defiant, unwavering. Even as the pain intensified, he gritted his teeth, holding his ground, not giving this man the satisfaction of seeing him falter.

The man, seemingly growing irritated with Izuku’s resistance, grabbed his hair roughly, pulling his head back. Izuku let out a pained gasp as his scalp burned, but he clenched his jaw tight, refusing to give in. The dizziness from the drug still clouded his thoughts, but the panic he felt—the urge to escape—fueled him. He could barely focus, but his survival instinct kicked in.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” Izuku screamed, his voice muffled by the pain that reverberated through his skull, cheeks, and wrists. His heart raced as the man’s grip on his hair tightened. He tried to twist his body, trying to find some way out of this nightmare. But the chains on his wrists and the shackles around his legs were unyielding.

The man didn’t flinch. Instead, he dragged Izuku down the hallway, his fingers pulling roughly at his hair, forcing Izuku to stumble behind him, unable to even support himself properly. The cold floor beneath them felt like ice on his bare feet, and every step was a jolt to his already aching body.

They entered a room that was strikingly different from the sterile white one he had first awoken in. The walls were a deep, cold black, and the harsh white light above them created an unsettling contrast, making everything seem sharper, more sinister. Izuku’s eyes squinted against the brightness, but it was no use. His vision was still blurry, the remnants of the drug swirling through his bloodstream. The room felt suffocating, like he had been placed in a surgical chamber, his body at the mercy of this man’s whims.

The man’s strength was undeniable. Izuku could feel it as the man effortlessly shoved him onto a cold metal table. The table was uncomfortably hard beneath his back, pressing down on the already aching muscles. His hands were still restrained behind him, digging deeper into his flesh as his bodyweight was forced against the unforgiving surface.

“Let me go!” Izuku shouted into the silence, but it was a futile plea. His words were swallowed by the tape that was soon plastered across his mouth. His whole body froze as the adhesive stuck to his skin, preventing him from speaking, from making a sound. Panic surged inside him, his chest tightening, his pulse thudding in his ears. This was it. He couldn’t fight back. He was completely at this man’s mercy.

The man made a low sound of amusement as Izuku struggled against his restraints. He seemed to enjoy the helplessness in Izuku’s eyes, the raw fear that was now fully exposed.

Izuku’s mind raced as he tried to push against the leather straps now binding him to the table. The restraints were unforgiving, digging into his arms, legs, and torso. The tightness of the straps only increased the discomfort, making it impossible for him to move even an inch. His wrists were pressed firmly against his back, the metal digging painfully into his skin.

With a smirk, the man moved away from him, rummaging through a nearby table cluttered with various tools. Izuku’s heart raced. What were those for? His gaze darted from the tools to the light above him, too bright and glaring. It felt like an interrogation room—like something out of a twisted medical facility, only it wasn’t the kind of place that saved lives. It was the kind of place where they broke people.

The man finally returned, holding a syringe in his hand. The needle was long, gleaming menacingly under the light. The liquid inside it was a soft, ominous shade of blue. Izuku’s body tensed, his heart pounding harder in his chest. He could feel a wave of nausea rising in him, and the dizziness from the previous dose only made everything worse. He knew what was coming, and the anticipation sent chills down his spine.

“This one will make you talk,” the man said, his voice smooth but laced with a cold finality. He stepped closer, his piercing blue eyes never leaving Izuku’s. “Though… you might experience some other effects as well. Let’s see how long you can hold out, Izuku Midoriya.”

Izuku’s eyes widened in fear. His entire body screamed in protest as the man neared him, the needle hovering dangerously close to his arm. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. All he could do was watch helplessly as the man pushed the syringe into his arm. The sharp, cold needle pierced his skin, and the liquid began to flow into his veins.

Izuku tried to struggle, to fight back, but his body felt heavier than ever. The restraints seemed to tighten with each passing second, and the discomfort only intensified. He could feel the rush of the drug coursing through him, like ice creeping through his bloodstream, a chilling cold that seemed to seize his very soul.

Within moments, the effects hit. The world around him seemed to shift and distort, everything spinning like a whirlwind. The room spun around him in a blur of black and white. His vision swam, each movement feeling detached from his body. His head felt as if it was being pulled in a hundred different directions, and his body seemed to lose all sense of control.

The man’s voice echoed through the disorienting haze, but it felt distant, muffled, as if he were underwater.

Izuku’s body trembled as his head fell to the side, the world fading in and out of focus. He was trapped in his own mind, unable to escape the relentless pull of the drug’s effects. His body felt heavy, like he was sinking deeper into a sea of dizziness and confusion. The man’s words were nothing more than distant whispers now, but the fear and desperation coursing through Izuku’s veins were all too real.

He had no idea how much time had passed or how much longer he could hold out. All he could do was cling to the remnants of his willpower, refusing to give this man what he wanted. His breath came in shallow gasps as the overwhelming pressure of the drug threatened to consume him whole.

Izuku fought to focus, but his thoughts were fragmented, slipping like sand through his fingers. His eyes darted around the room in a panic, trying to make sense of the growing sensation that something was terribly wrong. It was hard to breathe through the tape sealed over his mouth, his chest rising and falling erratically as the air rushed in through his nostrils. His heart pounded so hard that it felt like it might break through his ribs. His limbs burned with the strain of being restrained. The chains around his wrists felt as though they were slowly digging into his skin, the rough metal scraping against his back with each movement, adding a sharp, biting pain to his already aching body.

The room around him began to distort, the walls pulsing with an eerie, unnatural rhythm, as if the very structure of the place were breathing. And then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it—something dark, small, and moving. At first, it was just a fleeting shadow, but then it grew, expanding in the corner of his vision. He blinked, and then more things began to appear—tiny creatures, crawling across the floor. At first, they looked like ants—black and quick. But then they multiplied, their forms growing larger and more grotesque with each blink.

They weren’t just ants, no. These creatures were worse, so much worse. Their bodies twisted, distorting into shapes that didn’t make sense—claws scratching at the floor, eyes too big for their heads, limbs with too many joints, bodies rippling in ways that defied nature. The larger ones moved slowly, but the smaller ones were swift, darting from shadow to shadow, almost as if they were scuttling towards him. They skittered across the floor with a sickening sound, their claws clicking on the cold metal. They were not just crawling—they were drawn to him, to the table, to the flesh that he could feel throbbing beneath his restraints.

Izuku’s breath quickened, his chest tightening in panic. His heart hammered in his ribcage. He struggled against the leather straps, pulling at them with everything he had, but they were tight, unforgiving. The metal chains around his wrists scraped against his back with each movement, the pain only heightening his desperation. His wrists and ankles felt like they were being torn apart, each tug sending waves of agony through his limbs. The world was slipping further away from him, his body feeling more detached from his mind with each passing second.

And then the creatures reached him.

Izuku’s eyes widened in terror as the first one climbed up onto the table. It was small, its legs like spindly wires that seemed to stretch and bend unnaturally as it crawled over the surface toward him. Its body was translucent, a pale, sickly black, and as it moved closer, he could see it more clearly—its mouth was full of sharp, jagged teeth, constantly opening and closing in a grotesque imitation of hunger. Its eyes were far too large for its face, too many pupils in each one, staring into Izuku like they could see everything inside him.

The creature stopped at his arm, its legs creeping over his skin, each tiny movement sending waves of revulsion through him. He could feel the sharpness of its claws, the coldness of its body, as it dragged itself across his flesh. It wasn’t the sensation of it moving on him that made his skin crawl—it was the feeling that it was inside him, burrowing into him, making him feel like he was being invaded from within.

“MMHH” Izuku tried screamed through the tape, his voice muffled and raw, but the sounds were hardly his own anymore. His body shook violently, his muscles sore and trembling with each spasm of movement, but no matter how much he struggled, he couldn’t free himself. His body felt heavy, like it was sinking into the cold, unforgiving metal.

The creature crawled faster now, its legs digging deeper into his skin, and Izuku could feel its weight, the pressure, like something crawling under his very flesh. A dozen more followed, their legs scrabbling over him, each one skittering across his skin, like they were taking possession of his body. He could feel them crawling into the spaces between his ribs, under his arms, across his neck. They moved faster now, their bodies slick with something that made them slide against his skin, feeling like cold oil. Izuku felt his stomach churn, his body twisting with the sensation of their invasive presence.

Through the blurry and distorted vision, izuku saw the man. His blue eyes staring, just staring. Doing nothing.
A hand approached his face, and ripped off the tape.

Finally

Izuku screamed, his throat raw, voice cracking under the weight of his panic. His body arched against the table, his back scraping against the metal, his arms straining against the leather straps that held him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t focus, couldn’t think beyond the horrifying sensation of these creatures crawling over him, under him, through him.

“IT TICKLES,” he screamed

It wasn’t real.

The creatures seemed to multiply faster, their claws sharp against his skin. Their bodies moved under his shirt, his pants, anywhere they could reach.

It was a hallucination.

Izuku could feel them crawling beneath his skin, inside his body, making his pulse race faster. His heart thudded wildly in his chest, every beat amplified by the pressure inside him.

“STOP CRAWLING, STOP” Izuku begged, but there was no answer. The creatures kept coming, relentless, their legs scratching at his body like they were trying to carve their way into him. He could feel them, every last one of them, their eyes watching him from within.

And then, for a split second, the world around him went silent.

Izuku blinked, his mind struggling to catch up. The creatures—the crawling things—were gone. He could feel his body again, the weight of the chains around his wrists, the pressure of the leather straps. There was nothing on him anymore, no creatures crawling, no claws digging into his skin.

But the panic, the terror, didn’t stop. His mind couldn’t wrap itself around what had just happened.

“They’re gone,” he whispered in disbelief, his chest heaving with each shaky breath.

He was still shaking, still struggling, still trapped.

“They weren’t real. They weren’t real...”

But his body felt like it had been violated, the memory of the crawling sensation too real, too raw to shake. He gasped for air through his nose, his eyes wide with a terror that was still there, gnawing at the edges of his mind. And the man—he had just been watching, hadn’t he? Watching him lose himself in this twisted hallucination.

Izuku’s vision was still distorted and blurry, and then his body finally gave in, succumbing to the overwhelming pressure of the drugs coursing through his veins, the unbearable pain from his restraints, and the terror that clawed at his chest. The hallucinations, the crawling things, the suffocating feeling of being trapped—everything became too much. His mind shattered under the weight of it all. His consciousness wavered like a flickering light, too weak to stay on, too frail to hold onto.

His breath was shallow, a ragged gasp that echoed in his own ears. The cold metal of the table beneath him felt like it was sinking into his bones. His limbs ached, his wrists felt raw where the chains had dug into them, and his chest hurt from the frantic breaths that couldn’t fill his lungs properly.

Then, everything went quiet.

The world around him blurred and faded to nothing. His body, heavy and useless, fell into an exhausted, empty darkness. He was free, for a moment, from the pain, from the fear, from the suffocating panic that had gripped him. His mind slipped into the blackness, and there was nothing.

Notes:

Hey, so… this is kind of a secret project I’ve been working on. I guess you could say I’m not in the best headspace /hj — maybe even a little unhinged — which is probably why I started writing a fic where Izuku gets kidnapped and tortured. I’ve always been drawn to darker stories like this, the kind that mess you up a bit and gets your heart pounding, and lately I’ve been reading a lot of them. It sparked something in me, and I decided to explore that same kind of intense angst myself.

What started out as just a small experiment — a bit of gore, trauma, and psychological damage — has somehow turned into this monster of a story. I’ve already written 24 chapters, and to be honest, I didn’t expect it to go this deep. I just keep wanting to add more detail, more pain, more everything.

Meanwhile, I’m also juggling two other fics (Inherited Darkness and From Hope to Hatred), school, upcoming exams, and trying to pass for my driver’s license. I’m seriously doing the most and making my own life harder by writing another fic without finishing the others first— but hey, what’s life without chaos?

So yeah… enjoy the suffering. Trust me, it only gets worse from here.

 

Fair warning: this story gets pretty intense, gross, and messed up. Read at your own risk.

4/4/25

Chapter 2: Missing: Izuku Midoriya

[18 hours before Izuku awoke]

The clock on the wall of Aizawa's office ticked past 11:00 PM. Aizawa had been sitting at his desk for hours, meticulously reviewing papers and finalizing lesson plans for the upcoming semester. The night had been long, filled with a quiet sense of responsibility that had settled over him after the chaos of the school year. He had always known that being a teacher was a never-ending commitment, especially now that his students—no longer just Class 1A but the newly merged Class 3A—were entering their third year. It was a lot to manage, and even more so in the aftermath of the events at the school.

He took another sip of his coffee, staring at the papers spread across his desk. The sense of looming exhaustion hovered in the air, but he couldn’t afford to let it overtake him. This job was too important. His mind was focused on the students, and as much as he tried to shut it out, the weight of the past few years had become part of his daily routine.

But suddenly, a soft buzz broke through the silence of the office. His phone was ringing. It was an unknown number.

Aizawa raised an eyebrow, putting his pen down. He picked up the phone, already prepared for whatever conversation was about to unfold.

“Hello?“

“Hello, is this Aizawa Shota?” came the voice on the other end. The voice sounded familiar, but it was filled with an underlying panic.

“Yes, this is Aizawa. Who is this?” he responded, though he already had a sinking feeling.

The voice hesitated before answering. “This is Inko Midoriya. Izuku's mother.”

Aizawa’s brows furrowed. Inko Midoriya? That was a strange call at this hour. He didn’t recall any issues with Izuku recently. “Inko? What’s going on?”

Inko’s voice trembled slightly, and Aizawa could hear the concern flooding her tone. “Is Izuku still in the dorms? He was supposed to be home a while ago, and I haven’t heard from him. I’ve been trying to reach him, but his phone is going straight to voicemail.”

Aizawa’s stomach tightened. He had seen Izuku earlier in the day, he told aizawa that he will be going to his mother after school again. But something felt off. Izuku always kept to his routine. This wasn’t like him.

“I’ll check in with the students,” Aizawa said quickly. “Just give me a moment.”

He stood up from his desk, the unease growing in his chest. He could hear Inko’s breath on the other end of the line as she waited anxiously.

Aizawa walked out of his office and into the hallway of the dormitory. The dim light of the building cast shadows on the walls as he moved through the quiet halls. It was late, and most of the students were either asleep, hanging out in their rooms or spending the weekend home.

He reached the common area and found a few students still awake. Sero, Denki, Mina, and Hagakure were sprawled across the couches, their laughter and chatter filling the room as they watched a movie together. The scene was a stark contrast to the worry that now clouded Aizawa’s mind.

“Oh, hey, Mr. Aizawa!” Mina greeted him with a smile, pausing the movie as she noticed his serious expression. “What’s up?”

“Has anyone seen Midoriya?” Aizawa asked. He had no time for small talk. “Is he still here?”

The students exchanged confused glances. Kaminari scratched the back of his head and answered. “He left a while ago. Around five or so. He was with Bakugou.”

Aizawa’s heart skipped a beat. Izuku had been with Bakugou? That wasn’t entirely unusual, but it was strange for Izuku to be out so late without notifying anyone, especially his mother.

“Hm,” Aizawa muttered, nodding. “Okay, thanks. I’ll check with Bakugou.”

“Why? Is something wrong?” Sero asked, his expression shifting from casual to concerned.

Aizawa turned his gaze to Sero and gave him a quiet nod. “I just got a call from his mother. She’s worried. He hasn’t returned home yet.”

“Well, that’s not like him…” Mina said, looking worried as well.

“Yeah, he’s probably just hanging out with Bakugou,” Kaminari joked, trying to lighten the mood. “Those two have been all buddy-buddy lately.”

“Pfff have you seen Bakugou, he still yells at Midoriya” Sero commented.

Aizawa only gave a short nod. “I’ll check in with Bakugou. Thank you for the help.”

With that, Aizawa turned and headed back to his office. He closed the door behind him and immediately filled in Izuku’s Mother
“Midoriya isn’t here anymore,” he said, giving Inko a direct answer, though it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “He was last seen with Bakugou, so I’ll call him. Give me a minute.”

Inko’s voice came through clearly, laced with an edge of urgency, but she tried to keep her composure. “Oh, I can call him too. It might be faster if I reach out to him directly.”

“If that isn’t too much trouble,” Aizawa said, his tone low and even. It was always a challenge when it came to keeping calm in situations like this, especially when dealing with a student's safety.

“No worries at all,” Inko replied quickly. There was a slight tremble in her voice, but she masked it well. “I’ll get right on it.”

Aizawa gave a short nod, even though Inko couldn’t see it. “Call me back if you get an answer,” he said, his mind already working on the next step. He hung up the phone with a soft click and took a moment to refocus. This situation wasn’t adding up, and the sinking feeling in his stomach was growing stronger with every passing minute.

Meanwhile, Inko had already moved to her living room table, she tapped on the screen. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but the panic she felt over the situation was starting to boil over. Her eyes flicked toward the clock on the wall—she hadn’t heard from Izuku in hours. He was supposed to be home by six or so, yet the hours had slipped away without a word from him. Her gut churned with worry, and she reached out, dialing Mitsuki’s number in a hurry.

It rang a few times before Mitsuki’s voice came through “Inko?” Her tone was surprised, but it was a comforting voice to hear in the midst of Inko’s frantic thoughts. “What’s wrong?”

Inko’s voice quivered slightly. “Is Katsuki with you? I need to speak to him, it’s urgent.” Her words were clipped, her usual calmness replaced by something far more raw and worried.

“Oh, yeah, he’s sitting on the couch. Hang on,” Mitsuki said, and Inko could hear her moving around, passing the phone off to Katsuki. “It’s Aunt Inko,” Mitsuki added, her voice still casual as she handed the phone to her son.

Katsuki’s face contorted into a confused frown as he took the phone from his mother. “Auntie?” His voice had a tone of both surprise and curiosity, but there was an edge to it—a quiet sense of unease that he couldn’t quite place.

Inko’s voice rushed out the second she heard him pick up. “Hey, Katsuki, is Izuku with you?” she asked, her words filled with worry that she couldn’t conceal anymore.

Katsuki was silent for a moment, brows furrowed as he processed her question. “Huh? No, he’s not with me. Why?”

Inko’s voice cracked with a faint tremor, but she pressed on. “He hasn’t returned home yet. He was supposed to be here around six, and I haven’t heard a thing from him. I already called Aizawa, but he isn’t at the dorms either. No one’s seen him.”

There was a sharp, uncharacteristic pause on the other end of the phone. Inko could hear Katsuki’s breathing shift slightly, and she knew, without a doubt, that something wasn’t right.

“Wait, what the hell?” Katsuki muttered to himself, as if the words didn’t seem real. His voice came through loud and clear now, his frustration evident. “I walked back with him. We parted ways when we were almost home. He was fine. He was with me.”

Inko’s heart seemed to drop to the floor at his words. The realization that something had gone wrong after they’d parted ways hit her like a freight train. She could feel the weight of the unknown settling in.

“I don’t know…” she whispered, the panic now creeping into her voice. “I’ll call Aizawa back, I need to know what’s going on, but… I can’t shake this feeling, Katsuki. Something’s wrong.”

“I’ll call him back too,” Katsuki said, his voice quieter now, filled with that rare moment of concern that he usually reserved for things that truly rattled him. “I’ll try to find out where he is. This doesn’t make any sense.”

The line went silent for a moment. Katsuki’s mind was racing, his thoughts spinning as he pieced together the small fragments of the evening. They had parted ways just a short distance from their homes. Everything had seemed fine then. But now, hearing his aunt’s voice, so full of fear and uncertainty, it felt like something had slipped out of his grasp. Like he was too late, but he didn’t know what for.

Inko didn’t speak for a few seconds either. Her heart pounded in her chest as she stared at the phone. She wanted to scream, to ask where Izuku was, to demand answers. But she knew she couldn’t. She had to be patient, she had to trust that someone would find him.

“I’ll call Aizawa back now,” Inko finally said, her voice quieter, yet somehow more resigned. She didn’t want to show fear to Katsuki, but the truth was, her worry was suffocating. She didn’t want to say it out loud, but the thought of Izuku being out there, alone, with no way to reach him… it terrified her.

“Yeah. Yeah, do that,” Katsuki muttered, his voice tinged with frustration as he turned to face his parents, still standing near the kitchen, looking worried. “Izuku’s gone missing,” he said in a low voice, the words coming out heavy and uncertain. It was as though he hadn’t fully grasped the gravity of the situation until he said it out loud. “I don’t know what happened, but it’s not like him. This… doesn’t feel right.”

Mitsuki looked over at her son, concern etched on her face. She moved toward him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Katsuki, calm down. We’ll figure it out. We need to trust that Aizawa and the others will help. Just stay focused.”

But Katsuki wasn’t focused. He felt a sense of dread gnawing at his gut, an unease that he couldn’t shake. He wanted to believe that Izuku would turn up any second, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that this situation was different. Something wasn’t adding up. It was all too quiet, too strange.

As Inko ended the call with Katsuki and dialed Aizawa back, she couldn’t stop the flood of thoughts racing through her mind. Where was Izuku? Why hadn’t he come home? Was he in trouble? Had something happened to him on the way back?

Aizawa, too, sat back in his office, waiting for more information, but each passing moment only deepened the unease in his chest. Something had gone terribly wrong, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were running out of time to find out what had happened to Izuku.

—————————

Izuku’s eyes fluttered open slowly, his vision blurry at first, the sharp sting in his head blurring his thoughts. As his senses started to return, he realized just how much pain his body was in. Every inch of him screamed. His ribs throbbed with a dull ache, his back felt as though it had been shredded by a thousand knives, and his ankles ached as though they had been twisted and crushed. His wrists were sore, and the sharp sting around his skin made it hard to concentrate.
This time his cuffed arms weren’t behind his back, but in front of him, which was slightly more comfortable.

His mind was foggy, but the memory of what happened hit him like a tidal wave. The creatures. He could still feel the crawling sensation on his skin, the horrible feeling of something burrowing underneath his flesh, crawling through his veins and muscles, something unnatural, something that tore at his very being. He could remember the way they had covered him, how their tiny legs scraped against him as they burrowed into his body, sinking deeper. They felt like insects, like parasites, devouring him from the inside out.

Izuku’s stomach twisted as he remembered the horror, the panic, the suffocating fear of not being able to escape. But now—now, it felt like a bad dream, something his mind was trying to trick him into thinking wasn’t real. He could still feel the phantom sensation of them crawling under his skin, but when he looked down at his arm, he saw nothing. His skin was still pale, unmarred, the faintest blue veins visible under the surface, but no creatures, no holes or cuts from their teeth.

Was it all fake?!

He stared at his wrists, the cuffs digging into his flesh with every movement, the metal pressing so tightly against him that they looked like they had been fused into his skin. There was a dull redness spreading from the areas where they pressed hardest, a mix of deep purple and swollen blue bruises that stained his wrists like a sickness. His fingers twitched, trying to move despite the restraints, but it was useless. The pain flared up again, and he let out a pained gasp.

He was trapped. Again. There was no way out.

Izuku’s eyes darted around the white room, desperate for any sign of hope. The walls were stark and cold, painted in a bright shade of white, making it hard to distinguish whether it was day or night. The white lighting did nothing to provide comfort; it only cast shadows in strange corners of the room that only deepened his sense of isolation. His head spun as he tried to adjust, his chest tightening, heart hammering with panic.

He tried to sit up, struggling against the discomfort in his back and the aching burn in his wrists. Each movement felt like it ripped something new inside him. The sensation of his bruised skin stretching made him nauseous, but he forced himself to push through it, gasping as he sat upright. His hands were locked together in front of him, wrists tender and bruised, the skin already showing signs of damage. The harsh cuffs had dug into him so deep that the skin beneath them looked raw and damaged. The red and blue bruising spread like a map of misery along his forearms, and he felt a wave of nausea wash over him as he noticed the raw, broken skin where the metal had pressed too tightly.

He wanted to scream, wanted to break free, but every part of him felt weak and trapped. His chest tightened in a way that made it hard to breathe, his body trembling with fear and exhaustion. His stomach churned, as if the world itself was twisting with his panic, and his mind began to spiral.

“How long has it been?” he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper. The words seemed to echo in the emptiness of the room, but there was no answer. There was never an answer here. No one to save him, no one to hear him.

The silence was oppressive. It crushed him, suffocated him, as if time itself was slipping through his fingers. How long had he been here? Hours? Days? It felt like a lifetime. His mind reeled with confusion.

“Someone has to notice i’m missing… Mom... she would notice, right?” His words were shaky, his voice barely audible, but the question hung in the air like a desperate plea. Would anyone come looking for him? Would anyone even know he was missing? The thoughts twisted inside his mind, adding to the overwhelming sense of dread. His mother, his friends—did they even know where he was? Was anyone searching for him? Or was he abandoned here, trapped in this godforsaken place with no way out?

His eyes darted around the room again, but there was nothing. Just more sterile white walls, cold, harsh, and impersonal. The buzzing of the light overhead was the only sound, and it seemed to echo in the silence, mocking his desperation. It felt like he was buried deep underground, hidden from the world. No one could find him. No one could hear his cries.

Izuku’s breath came faster, his chest tightening with panic. His stomach twisted in on itself, and he felt like he might suffocate from the overwhelming sense of helplessness. He tugged at his cuffs again, but it was no use. The metal was unforgiving, and his raw, bruised skin screamed in protest with each desperate tug. The pain from his wrists spread up his arms, making him feel dizzy.

“Please, someone...” he whispered, his voice cracking as his thoughts blurred together. He felt so small, so alone. His body throbbed in ways he couldn’t even describe, each bruise, each mark a reminder of what had been done to him. He tried to breathe, but it felt as if his lungs couldn’t take in enough air. His head was spinning again, his vision fading in and out. The exhaustion from whatever they had done to him was taking its toll.

His stomach twisted in knots as he tried to make sense of it all. Why was he here? Who did this to him? What did they want from him? Right, that man… he wanted to know about Izuku’s quirk. He felt like something had broken inside him, something that could never be fixed. His skin was still crawling, and even though the creatures were gone, their presence still lingered in his mind, an echo of their invasion.

Izuku’s body stiffened as the familiar sound of the door’s hinges creaked open. His heart immediately began to race, a mix of dread and hatred coiling deep inside him. He couldn’t help the way his eyes darted to the door, instinctively bracing himself for whatever was about to happen.

Through the dim light that flickered above him, the man appeared again—his silhouette first, followed by his leering grin, his face still as unyielding and cold as ever. He carried a bowl in one hand and a small glass in the other, the clink of the glass on the floor sending a shockwave through Izuku’s already frayed nerves.

"Did you have a nice sleep?" The man’s voice was sickeningly sweet, as if Izuku had been lounging in the lap of luxury, in some plush, five-star hotel, instead of being chained and beaten. His tone was condescending, too casual, as if there was no reason to worry, as if this was all just part of a normal day. His smile widened unnervingly. “I hope you’re feeling better now.”

Izuku’s blood boiled at the words, an instant rush of anger flooding through his veins. He barely managed to keep himself from lashing out at the man right there. His breath hitched in his throat, his fists trembling as he looked at the man, trying to contain the storm of emotion building inside him.

"You... you bastard!" Izuku’s voice cracked, but the words were laced with venom. He hated this man with every fiber of his being. The audacity. The cruelty. Izuku’s entire body shook with rage.

The man’s expression remained unchanged, as though Izuku's anger was nothing more than a mild annoyance. He just shrugged, his smile still plastered on his face. “Hey, hey! If you want food, you better behave, alright?” His tone was patronizing, as if he was speaking to a disobedient child rather than a person.

Izuku’s gut twisted in both hunger and disgust. The man was mocking him, but the smell of food—something he hadn’t had in what felt like an eternity—made his stomach growl. It was a harsh reminder of just how starved he was. The hunger crept up on him with an intensity he hadn’t anticipated. How long had it been since he last ate? He couldn’t even remember. The only thing he knew now was the gnawing emptiness inside him.

The man crouched down in front of him and set the glass and bowl on the floor, the glass was half filled with water.
The man was still smiling like he was doing Izuku a favor. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Izuku’s hair. The contact made Izuku recoil instinctively, his body tensing as he felt the man's fingers run through his disheveled locks. It was an act of dominance, a sign that the man still thought of Izuku as nothing more than a plaything. Izuku wanted to scream at him to stop, but his voice was a faint rasp in his throat.

Izuku’s eyes locked onto the food—his vision suddenly narrowing in on the bowl. It was filled with something simple, it was some sort of gross porridge, but to him, it might as well have been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. His mouth watered despite himself, and his stomach clenched in desperation. It wasn’t just hunger; it was a bone-deep need.

Why had he only just realized how hungry he was? The thought struck him like a jolt. The pain from his throat and body, the dizziness, the exhaustion—everything had drowned out the hunger until now. He was famished, weak, his body begging for sustenance. He hadn’t even realized how much it had taken out of him. The crying, the screaming—his throat burned. His body ached from the lack of food and water, and now, all he could think about was getting that glass of water, getting something in his body.

His hand twitched, and before he even consciously realized it, his body had made the decision for him.

The man was getting too comfortable, lowering his attention just for a moment as he reached for the glass of water, his eyes shifting briefly away. That was Izuku’s chance. With all the strength he could muster, he swung his cuffed hands forward, the heavy iron links clanging together as they moved with a brutal force. His whole body hurt, but he pushed past it, focusing on the moment—on the man’s vulnerability.

The cuffs connected with the man’s nose with a sickening thud. Blood spurted out immediately, splattering across the floor.

"ARGH!" The man shouted, letting the glass of water fall on the ground, and stumbling backward, clutching at his face. His other hand reflexively grabbed the bloodied nose, wiping at it as he staggered back in shock. “YOU FUCKER!” he spat, his voice full of rage, as if he hadn’t expected any resistance from the prisoner.

Izuku’s heart pounded in his chest. It worked. He had actually hit him. His breath was coming faster now, but as the adrenaline buzzed in his veins, he realized it wasn’t enough. This injury wasn’t enough to knock someone out.

Before Izuku could even think, he felt a searing pain slam into his stomach.

The kick came so fast, he barely had time to brace for it. His body was sent reeling backward, a sharp pain spreading across his abdomen as his stomach contorted. He choked, the wind knocked out of him as his body crumpled forward. His vision blurred, and before he could gather himself, he felt the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat. Without warning, he vomited, a horrible retching sound escaping his mouth as he spilled the contents of his stomach onto the cold floor.

"You disgusting brat," the man spat, his tone venomous as he stood over Izuku, looking down at him like he was nothing more than a bug to be crushed. “I wanted to make things a bit more comfortable for you, but it seems like you’ve forgotten your place here.” The words were dripping with mockery, his grin widening into something cruel and twisted.

Izuku tried to push himself up, gasping for air, but before he could get any leverage, the man’s booted foot kicked him again, this time into his ribs. The blow was so hard that Izuku felt something crack, a sharp, agonizing pain coursing through his side. He cried out, but the sound barely left his throat—his voice too weak, too broken.

Blood seeped from his mouth, mixing with the bile that had already stained the floor beneath him. His limbs were trembling, his body unable to take much more of the abuse. Please… just let this end… The thought was a whisper, desperate and faint.

“You think you can resist me, huh?” the man taunted, his voice low and cold. He pulled his foot back, ready to kick again, but Izuku was beyond the point of being able to protect himself. His vision swam, dizziness overtaking him. The blood in his mouth felt thick, heavy, and his breath came in shallow gasps.

Izuku’s body was in pieces—each hit, each bruise, each new blow breaking him further. He couldn’t even scream anymore. He barely had the strength to stay conscious. The only thing that kept him tethered to this moment, this agony, was the pitiful glimmer of resistance in the back of his mind.

He was still alive.

He wasn’t completely broken—yet.

His breath came out in a soft, trembling whimper. “N-no… stop…” he managed, barely more than a whisper. His lips were cut, swollen from the blows, and the taste of copper was bitter in his mouth.

Izuku’s body felt like a ragdoll, utterly limp and defeated. His head lolled to one side as he leaned against the cold wall, trying to find some semblance of support. Every inch of his body throbbed in pain. His stomach was twisted with hunger, but his ribs felt like they had been crushed, and every breath sent a sharp sting through his chest. His face was swollen from the tears, his lips cracked and bleeding. He could feel the warm trickle of blood from his mouth, a constant reminder of the brutal beating he had just endured.

The man was standing over him now, his steps deliberate and cold as he undid the cuffs that held Izuku’s wrists together. Izuku’s body couldn’t even respond to the touch—he was too weak, too broken. The man moved with effortless strength, and despite Izuku’s desperate desire to resist, he couldn’t do anything to stop the inevitable.

The man pulled the cuffs behind Izuku’s back again, locking them in place, the cold metal biting into his skin. Izuku winced, unable to even try to wriggle free. His arms ached, his body ached, his soul ached.

“You ungrateful bitch,” the man spat, his voice dripping with contempt. He looked down at the mess in front of him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “What a mess you’ve created,” he sighed, as if Izuku’s suffering was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Izuku couldn’t bring himself to look at the mess—vomit, blood, water, and shards of glass now littered the floor. His body trembled, not just from the physical abuse, but from the utter helplessness he felt. He had failed. He had tried to resist, but now he was here, utterly powerless, as the man towered over him, disgust painted on his face. The only thing that kept Izuku tethered to any form of reality was the small, almost pitiful bowl of porridge still sitting on the floor.

The man’s gaze turned back to the bowl, and to Izuku’s surprise, he actually picked it up, his expression almost… considerate? “This won’t do. You must eat to heal,” the man said, his tone strangely genuine, as if he actually cared for Izuku’s wellbeing. But Izuku knew better. It was all part of the manipulation. The condescending smile returned as the man took the spoon, dipping it into the porridge, and then lifting it towards Izuku’s face.

"Open up," he commanded with a smile, as though he were feeding a child, expecting obedience.

Izuku’s throat tightened, his body rejecting the idea of being fed by this man. His pride, what little of it was left, fought against the weakness in his body. He didn’t want to open his mouth for him. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. It was a matter of dignity, even if it was the last shred of it he had. He pressed his lips together, as tight as he could manage, feeling the burn in his swollen muscles.

The man’s face darkened with frustration. "Tch, you're really asking for it, huh?" He snarled. Without warning, he threw the spoon against the wall with all his might, the porcelain shattering into pieces. The sound echoed through the room like a gunshot. His anger flared in an instant, but Izuku couldn’t bring himself to be afraid—not more than he already was.

“I’ll leave it,” the man said, his voice seething with fury, “See how you can eat it without using your hands.”

Izuku’s eyes flickered, and a wave of fresh terror washed over him. He had no way to resist. He couldn’t use his hands anymore, they were locked behind his back, again in that awkward position that didn’t just hurt his wrist, but also his arms.

Izuku’s throat was raw, his mind hazy, but that pang of hunger surged again. He wanted to eat. He needed to eat. His stomach churned with the emptiness, gnawing at him relentlessly.

As soon as the man was out of the room, Izuku’s body moved on instinct. He forced himself to sit up on his knees, though his vision spun and his legs wobbled beneath him. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and with all the strength he could muster, he moved towards the bowl.

He bowed forward, his knees threatening to give out beneath him. His stomach twisted with discomfort, and nausea gripped him again. But he couldn’t stop himself. He was starving, and if this was the only way he could get food, then he would do it.

Izuku lowered his face toward the cold, congealing porridge. His mouth trembled, but with one final effort, he took a bite. It was a struggle, his stomach threatening to reject the food as soon as it hit his tongue. The taste was almost unbearable—cold, clumpy, and unappetizing—but it was food. And that was all that mattered now.

His stomach rebelled, but he forced himself to swallow. His mouth was a mess—blood, vomit, and now the disgusting, lukewarm porridge—all mixing together in a grotesque cocktail. He kept eating, though, the hunger gnawing at him too intensely to stop. But every bite made him feel worse. His body felt too weak to handle the food. He could barely hold it down, but he made himself keep going. He didn’t have a choice.

Almost to the end of the bowl, his body couldn’t take it anymore. The weight of his exhaustion, the pain in his ribs, the crushing despair in his heart—it all became too much. He lost his balance, tipping forward, unable to stop himself. His face collided with the bowl, splattering the remaining porridge across the floor.

The bowl rolled away, clattering as it fell, leaving only a smear of food and blood behind. Izuku, too weak to recover, lay there, on the cold floor, staring up at the blinding light above him. His body ached, his limbs felt like they had turned to jelly, and his mind felt like it was slipping away.

The light above him was too bright, too harsh. It burned his eyes. He could feel his vision fading as he lay there, breath shallow and labored. The reality of it all sank in, the crushing weight of his situation suffocating him. He had failed. He was powerless.

Izuku’s vision blurred, the harsh light above him spinning in a dizzying whirl. As much as he tried to focus, his mind refused to stay tethered to reality. He was lost, adrift in the chaos of his thoughts, the pain, and the unbearable silence.

And in that silence, all he could hear was the slow, steady beating of his own broken heart.

Notes:

6/4/25

Chapter 3: Crimson Lines

The atmosphere in the U.A. office was suffocating. The air felt thick with tension, worry, and frustration. Aizawa sat at the head of the table, dark circles under his eyes deeper than usual. Across from him, All Might, now in his true form, had his arms crossed, his usually kind expression hardened with concern. Principal Nezu, ever composed, sat on his high chair, his small paws folded neatly in front of him. Detective Tsukauchi had a file open in front of him, though it looked painfully empty.

Mirko, Kamui Woods, Mount Lady, and Mirio sat in a loose semicircle, their expressions varying from determination to frustration. These were the top heroes of Japan now that Hawks and Endeavor were out of the field. And right now, they were grasping at straws.

Aizawa let out a deep sigh. "Thank you all for coming today," he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

All Might had managed to get these heroes together, knowing that if anyone had the resources and experience to find Izuku, it would be them. Tsukauchi was leading the official investigation, but so far, there was nothing—no leads, no sightings, no ransom notes, nothing.

The silence in the room was deafening.

“So,” Mirko leaned forward, arms resting on her knees. “What do we actually know?”

Tsukauchi shook his head. “Not much. Midoriya was last seen walking home from U.A. two nights ago. He parted ways with Bakugo near their neighborhood. After that, there’s no footage, no witnesses, no trace.” He exhaled sharply. “Half of my department is on this case. We’ve combed through the security cameras, questioned anyone who might’ve seen him… nothing.”

Aizawa clenched his fists. His frustration was palpable.

"Midoriya has been gone for three days now. Three!" he suddenly snapped, slamming his hands down on the table with enough force to make Nezu’s ears twitch. “Without a sign. He doesn’t just disappear like this. He must have been taken by some crazy psycho bastard.”

A heavy silence followed.

Mirio leaned back, frowning. "But why would anyone want him?"

All Might’s tired gaze shifted toward him. "I think you're forgetting something really serious, young Togata. Midoriya was the one who ended All For One."

Mirio’s eyes widened slightly, realization dawning on him.

Nezu nodded, his small voice calm but grave. "That's right. Even with All For One gone, the villain underworld is still active. There are many who hold grudges. It’s not unreasonable to think that some remnants of his empire would want revenge."

Aizawa exhaled sharply and rubbed his face. "This chatter isn’t getting us anywhere," he muttered, his frustration boiling over.

Mount Lady leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. “Okay, but let’s say it is some old All For One supporter. Why now? Why not right after the war? What’s changed?”

Kamui Woods nodded. "That’s a good question. Midoriya’s always been a target, but whoever took him now must’ve been waiting for the perfect moment."

Mirko scoffed, arms still resting on her knees. “Doesn’t matter why. We need to figure out where he is.”

“That’s the problem,” Tsukauchi admitted. He looked almost ashamed as he continued, “We have no leads. None. No security footage, no suspicious activity, no chatter in the underground networks. Whoever did this was careful. Too careful.”

All Might’s expression darkened. He didn’t want to say it out loud, but the longer Izuku remained missing, the worse the possibilities became. He had possibly been captured by someone skilled, someone who knew how to cover their tracks. And three days without a single sign… who knew what had already happened to him?

Aizawa clenched his jaw. He hated feeling powerless. "What about Bakugo? He was the last one to see Midoriya."

Tsukauchi shook his head. “We already questioned him. He’s losing his mind over this too. But he didn’t notice anything strange when they parted ways. He was sure Midoriya got home safely, or at least… close to home.”

Mount Lady tapped her fingers against the table. "So whoever took him had to be waiting near his house. That means it was planned."

Kamui Woods nodded. "Or he was being followed for a while."

Mirko huffed, cracking her knuckles. “So where the hell do we start?”

Nezu’s eyes gleamed with quiet intelligence. "The lack of evidence is evidence. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. That means they either have inside knowledge of how hero investigations work… or they’ve done this before.”

Aizawa sat up straighter at that. "A professional."

Tsukauchi’s face darkened. "Exactly. Someone with resources. Someone who knew how to get in and out without leaving a single trace. Which means Midoriya isn’t just being held by some random thug."

The weight of those words settled over the room like a suffocating blanket.

All Might let out a deep breath. “Then we don’t just have to find Midoriya… we have to find whoever took him. And fast.”

Silence stretched between them. They had no leads, no evidence, no idea where to begin. But one thing was clear—whoever had taken Izuku Midoriya had planned this well. And that meant they had no intention of letting him go anytime soon.

———

The common area of Class 1-A’s dormitory was unnervingly quiet. A silence unlike any they had ever experienced weighed over them like a thick, suffocating fog. It was Monday afternoon, and the class had just been informed today of what had happened to Midoriya. Over the weekend, only Bakugo had known. Mina, Sero, Denki, and Hagakure had overheard Aizawa mention that Midoriya’s mother hadn’t seen him come home on Saturday night, but they hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Now, they knew the truth.

Izuku was missing.

They followed their classes today, but no one could focus. No one could even pretend to care about the lessons today. It felt… wrong. The seat behind Bakugo was empty. Ectoplasm’s math lesson had been eerily quiet without Midoriya’s usual muttering. The absence of his presence was louder than anything.

Aizawa had told them in the morning to continue with their lessons, to carry on as usual. "It's necessary," he had said, but even he could see the worried gazes, the tense shoulders, the way none of them had the heart to truly listen.

Now, back in their dorm common area, the tension was unbearable.

“Damn it!” Katsuki suddenly yelled, slamming his fist against the table with enough force to shake it. His teeth were bared, his eyes burning with frustration. “Those fuckers should let me in on the damn investigation!”

“You mean us!” Iida snapped, his voice firm as he adjusted his glasses, though there was a rare tremble in his hands. “Midoriya is our friend, Bakugo. We should all be doing something to help.”

“He’s been gone for three days now,” Todoroki said quietly, his heterochromatic gaze dark with worry. “And we have no idea if the heroes and police have found a lead yet.”

"That’s what makes this so scary!" Mina exclaimed, hugging her arms.

“I don’t get it,” Denki muttered, running a hand through his messy blond hair. “If a villain took him, why haven’t they done anything yet? No ransom, no demands, no public announcement?”

"Because they don’t want anyone to find him," Jirou said grimly, arms crossed, her foot tapping anxiously against the floor. "Whoever took him planned this out. They’re being careful."

Silence.

It was a horrifying thought, but no one could argue.

Everyone had already come to the conclusion that Midoriya was kidnapped.

Ochako swallowed hard, gripping her sleeves. "He’s strong,” she whispered, voice shaking. "Deku… he wouldn’t go down easily. But if—" She stopped herself before she could finish the thought.

“If someone managed to take him, what does that mean about the kind of person they’re dealing with?”

“Midoriya has the strongest quirk in the world, there must be some way for him to escape right.” Sero said

“Yea not if the fucker has some sort of way to suppress or take away Izuku’s quirk.” Katsuki hissed.

Momo’s hands were clenched into fists in her lap. "Aizawa-sensei told us to leave this to the pros, but… I don’t know if I can just sit here while he’s out there somewhere."

“We can’t just sit here,” Kirishima agreed, voice uncharacteristically serious. "Midoriya’s always been there for us. When we were in trouble, when we needed help—he never hesitated. So how can we just do nothing?"

Bakugo gritted his teeth. "I don’t give a shit what Aizawa says. I’m not sitting around waiting for those idiots to figure it out."

"Bakugo…" Iida’s voice was hesitant, but deep down, he understood.

"We need a plan," Todoroki said, looking up. "Something. Anything. There has to be something we can do."

The class fell into deep thought.

Midoriya was missing. The pros had no leads.

So if no one else could find him…

They’d just have to find him themselves.

—————————

Izuku's eyes fluttered open, his vision hazy as he adjusted to the blinding white light above him. The cold, sterile glow burned into his retinas, making him squint. His breath came out in short, ragged gasps as his senses slowly returned to him, and he realized—

He was back in that room.

The same suffocating, silent, sterile hell where he had first seen them.

A shudder ran through his battered body at the memory of those creatures—tiny, squirming, slithering things that had crawled over his skin, burrowed into his flesh, filled his veins with a horrifying, unearthly chill. He had felt them—biting, clawing, writhing, until they had become a part of him. But when he looked, there was nothing there. As if it had all been a lie.

Except he knew it wasn’t. His mind wasn’t betraying him. It had happened.
Right? No it was a hallucination.

His breathing quickened, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow movements. A metallic taste filled his mouth—blood? He must’ve bitten his lip in his sleep.

Then, realization struck him like a cruel slap to the face.

His body was bound again.

Thick, heavy leather straps pinned him down to a cold metal table, holding him immobile. One across his chest. Another across his stomach. His legs secured firmly, his ankles locked down. His arms—his arms weren’t cuffed behind him this time. They were stretched out to his sides, bound tightly to the table. His fingers twitched. He could move his hands, but only slightly.
His shirt was removed, leaving his back exposed to the cold metal table.

He was completely at the man’s mercy.

"Rise and shine."

The voice sent an immediate jolt of terror down his spine.

Izuku's head snapped toward the sound, his breathing hitching as he spotted him.

The man.

His captor.

The one who had been testing him. Torturing him. Breaking him.

Izuku’s pulse pounded violently against his skull as he stared at the man’s all-too-calm expression. His captor’s lips curled into an almost amused smile, as if he were talking to an old friend rather than the boy he had been tormenting.

The man took a slow step forward, something glinting between his fingers.

A syringe.

Izuku’s blood turned to ice.

"No...” His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "Not again..."

The liquid inside the syringe shimmered with an unnatural pink hue as the man turned it ever so slightly in his grasp, letting the light catch it.

"I wanted you to experience this properly," the man mused, holding the syringe close to Izuku’s face. "I want you to feel it happen. After all, you should know your place here." He leaned in, his breath hot against Izuku’s ear. "I am in charge."

Izuku tried to turn his head away, tried to thrash against the restraints, but the leather straps dug painfully into his already bruised body. His struggles were useless.

"You bastard!” he spat, his voice raw with fury and fear.

The man merely chuckled. "Such language. You really haven’t learned, have you?"

Then, without another word, he plunged the needle into Izuku’s neck.

A sharp, piercing sting shot through him, but that wasn’t the worst part.

The liquid inside burned like ice.

A horrifying, unnatural cold spread through his veins, seeping into every nerve, every muscle. It felt wrong. His body rejected it immediately, but it was already too late. His vision blurred, his limbs trembled, his heart pounded erratically in his chest.

"ARGH! NO—!" Izuku screamed, his body arching off the table as best it could under the restraints.

The man watched with sick fascination as the drug took hold, his expression calm, calculated.

Izuku’s breathing became erratic, his head spinning, nausea bubbling up from his stomach. He knew this feeling—this wasn’t the drug that made him hallucinate.

It was the one that suppressed his Quirk.

The one that made him weak. Dizzy. Vulnerable.

"Now,” the man spoke again, his tone as smooth as ever, "I’ll ask you again. How did you get your Quirk?"

Izuku gritted his teeth, his breath shaky. He had expected the question.

He had prepared for it.

But he could feel it—his resistance wavering, his body betraying him. The drug made it hard to think. His mind was clouded, his thoughts sluggish, his instincts screaming at him to just say something, to make the pain stop.

But he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

"You fucker,” he hissed through clenched teeth, "you’ll never find out."

The man sighed, shaking his head as if Izuku had disappointed him. "Tsk tsk. Such a stubborn little thing." Then, he smiled. "Luckily for you, I actually enjoy tearing you apart. So you won’t have to worry about me throwing you away just yet."

Izuku’s breath hitched.

"I will get my answer," the man continued.

He reached at the table behind him. Grabbing something.

Izuku’s stomach dropped.

A knife.

A long, gleaming, razor-sharp kitchen knife.

The man held it up, letting the light glint off the blade. He turned it slowly, almost admiring it, before lowering it towards Izuku’s arm.

Izuku’s breathing became frantic. "No, no, no—!"

The man dragged the very tip of the blade along Izuku’s forearm, pressing just enough to break the skin—but not enough to cut deep. Not yet.

"Be sure to count every cut," he wispered into Izuku’s ear.

Izuku’s eyes widened in sheer terror as the knife pressed down—slow, deliberate.

The sensation was excruciating.

He felt everything.

Every millimeter of cold steel slicing through his skin. Every agonizingly slow drag of the blade as it carved into his flesh. The sting, the burn, the sickening warmth of blood pooling around the wound.

"STOP!" Izuku screamed. "PLEASE—!"

The man only chuckled. He leaned in, his lips brushing against Izuku’s ear.

"That’s one."

Izuku's entire body trembled as pain shot up his arm like wildfire, his breathing turning ragged. The slow, methodical way the knife sliced through his skin was far worse than any sudden stab. It forced him to feel every single second of it. Every nerve in his body screamed in protest, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t fight back.

The man pulled the knife away for a moment, admiring the fresh, thin line of blood welling up on Izuku’s forearm. His fingers brushed over the wound, pressing down just enough to send another sharp jolt of pain through Izuku’s system.

"Ah, look at that," he tilted his head, his voice almost fascinated. "Your body is so... reactive."

Izuku clenched his teeth, his chest rising and falling erratically. "Go to hell," he rasped.

The man only smiled.

And then, with the same slow, deliberate precision, he pressed the tip of the knife against Izuku’s skin again.

"Let’s try another," he murmured.

Izuku barely had time to suck in a breath before the blade dragged downward again, carving another careful line parallel to the first. The pain was sharper this time, fresh, the wound stinging in the cold air of the room. Blood seeped from the cut, trailing in thin crimson lines down his arm.

"That’s two," the man whispered, his voice almost mockingly gentle.

Izuku gasped, his body involuntarily flinching against the restraints. The drug was making everything feel ten times worse—his nerves felt raw, his body hypersensitive to every touch, every sensation. His vision blurred with tears, but he refused to let them fall.

He wouldn’t give this bastard the satisfaction.

"You’re doing great," the man continued, tracing his finger down the newest cut, smearing blood along Izuku’s pale skin. "But you’re still not answering my question."

Izuku didn’t respond. He could barely think past the pain.

The man clicked his tongue. "Still stubborn, huh? That’s alright. I’m patient."

Another cut.

Then another.

And another.

Each one was just as slow, just as calculated.

Izuku’s fingers twitched, his hands clenching into weak fists as he bit down on his lip, trying to suppress any sounds of pain. His body jerked slightly with each fresh wound, but the restraints held him firm. The scent of blood filled his nostrils, metallic and heavy. His arm felt wet, sticky, warm liquid dripping from his skin onto the cold metal table.

"That’s five," the man counted, his voice smooth, steady. "But you still haven’t answered me."

Izuku was panting now, his throat dry, his vision swimming. He could barely feel his arm anymore—only the burning pain and the cold that followed each fresh cut.

"Tell me, Midoriya," the man said, his tone shifting ever so slightly—more demanding, more hungry. "How. Did. You. Get. Your. Quirk?"

Izuku sucked in a shaky breath, his head lolling slightly to the side. His body was trembling violently, his pulse pounding in his ears. He felt so weak. His mind was clouded, his limbs heavy. The drug was making it impossible to focus, to stay sharp.

But he couldn’t give in.

He wouldn’t.

"Go... fuck... yourself," Izuku forced out between ragged breaths. His voice was barely above a whisper, but the defiance was there.

The man’s expression darkened for the first time.

Then—

Pain.

Sudden, sharp, deep.

Izuku screamed.

The man had pressed the knife deeper into his arm this time, slicing with far more force than before. It was no longer a shallow cut—it was a deep, brutal wound, and Izuku felt his body arch in agony despite the restraints.

"That’s six," the man whispered.

Izuku gasped, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his entire body shaking. He could feel the blood pouring from his arm now, pooling onto the table beneath him. His vision blurred even more, spots dancing in front of his eyes.

He was losing too much blood.

His head lolled to the side, his breathing weak. His throat ached from screaming, his voice barely working anymore.

"Tsk tsk," the man sighed. "You’re looking a little pale, Midoriya."

He reached down, gripping Izuku’s chin between his fingers, forcing him to look up. Izuku barely had the strength to resist.

"Maybe you’ll talk after ten cuts," the man mused. "Or maybe twenty."

Izuku couldn’t respond. He could barely keep his eyes open.

Pain felt distant now, blurred by the lightheadedness creeping over Izuku like a suffocating fog. His body trembled uncontrollably, every muscle straining under the weight of his own exhaustion. His breaths came in short, ragged gasps, barely enough to keep him conscious. The cold seeped into his bones, clawing its way through his limbs, numbing his fingers until they twitched uselessly against the restraints.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that wasn’t a good sign. The blood loss was getting to him.

A faint chuckle pulled him back to reality.

"Still with me, Midoriya?"

The voice was soft, almost kind, but Izuku knew better. That voice didn’t belong to someone who cared. It belonged to someone who enjoyed this.

He tried to respond, to glare or spit or do something to show he was still fighting, but his throat was dry, his lips cracked. He had no strength left to move, no energy to waste on words. Even breathing was becoming a struggle, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven motions. His vision swam, dark spots dancing at the edges.

His face began to crack, his composure slipping as he shook uncontrollably, hot tears slipping down his blood-streaked cheeks.

The man sighed.

"How disappointing," he murmured, tilting his head as if watching an experiment fail. "And here I thought you'd last longer."

Fingers brushed over the fresh wounds on Izuku’s arm—light, barely there, like a whisper of contact. Then, pressure.

A sharp, biting pain lanced through his body as the man pressed down, forcing blood to seep from the cuts, thick and slow. Even dulled as his senses were, the pain still burned, an ache that ran deeper than skin. Izuku flinched, his body jerking involuntarily against the straps.

"You’re bleeding quite a bit," the man mused, watching the sluggish crimson trail down Izuku’s forearm, dripping onto the cold floor below. "I suppose I should be careful. Wouldn’t want you passing out on me before we’ve had our fun, right?"

Fun.

A sick, twisted word for what this was.

Izuku’s stomach churned.

He forced his eyes to focus, blinking rapidly to push past the haze. The man’s face wavered in front of him like a mirage, shifting and distorting as his vision blurred. But his expression remained unchanged—calm, patient.

Too patient.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

The man reached out on the table behind him, grabbing something, something familiar. Izuku's breath hitched when he saw the syringe.

No.

Not again.

His fingers curled weakly into fists, but it didn’t matter. His limbs were too weak, his body too drained to fight back. The restraints held firm, leather biting into his wrists, locking him in place.

"I’ll give you a little break," the man said, tapping the side of the syringe with practiced ease. The clear liquid inside swirled with every movement. "Something to keep you awake. I’d hate for you to miss the next part."

“No…”

The word barely left his lips, a breathless, broken whisper. It was all he could manage.

He tried to move, to twist away, but the restraints held him steady. His body refused to obey him, muscles sluggish and uncooperative. His vision pulsed—dark, light, dark, light—blinking in and out like a flickering bulb.

The needle pierced his arm before he could react.

A sharp, cold sensation spread through his veins, unnatural and immediate. It burned at first, an icy sting that sent shivers racing up his spine. Then came the heat. His pulse spiked, his sluggish mind sharpening in an instant. The fog lifted just enough for his senses to return—too quickly, too suddenly.

His body was waking up.

And that was exactly what the man wanted.

Izuku gasped, his back arching as the drug worked its way through him. His exhaustion still weighed on him, but it was different now—his nerves were raw, on fire, every inch of him aware. Every cut, every bruise, every aching joint—he felt it all. The dull ache in his arms sharpened, his wrists screaming against the leather straps.

The man watched with keen interest, his lips curling into a satisfied smile.

"There we go," he murmured, his voice almost gentle in its amusement. "Can’t have you slipping away just yet."

Izuku sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, his hands trembling violently against the restraints. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, fast and unsteady. The panic was setting in, but he forced himself to push it down.

He couldn't break.

Not yet.

No matter how much it hurt.

The man hummed, pleased, and lifted the knife once more.

"Now," he said, dragging the flat of the blade along Izuku's thigh, just light enough to tease, "where were we?"

Notes:

Hi, hope yall liked this chapter. so uhm, i broke my elbow :’), typing is gonna be a pain.

8/4/25

Chapter 4: Scream That Haunts

The man hummed, pleased, and lifted the knife once more.

"Now," he said, dragging the flat of the blade along Izuku's thigh, just light enough to tease, "where were we?"

"That's right," the man murmured, tilting his head as he studied Izuku with quiet amusement. "Your quirk."

His fingers drummed against the hilt of his knife, a lazy rhythm that barely echoed in the cold, silent room. "Tell me more about it."

Izuku didn’t respond.

His breaths came in short, shaky gasps, his chest rising and falling too quickly. His body was still trembling violently, wracked with exhaustion, blood loss, and the lingering effects of the drug coursing through his veins. His back arched involuntarily, muscles tightening in protest against the pain that never seemed to fade.

Still, he kept his mouth shut.

Except for the broken, helpless whimpers escaping his lips.

The man sighed, running a hand through his neatly combed hair, as if Izuku’s silence was some minor inconvenience rather than an act of defiance. He let his gaze wander over the mess he had made—the deep, jagged wounds lining Izuku’s arms and legs, the sluggish trails of crimson dripping down onto the cold metal table beneath him. The blood pooled beneath Izuku’s wrists where the wounds of the restraints reopened, a stark contrast against the pale, clammy flesh of his hands.

Then, with a soft tsk, the man shook his head.

"This won’t do," he muttered, wiping his hands on a cloth as if the sight genuinely bothered him. "We have to patch you up before you actually die from blood loss."

Izuku barely reacted, his mind struggling to keep up.

The man turned away, moving toward another table pushed against the far wall. The sound of metal instruments clinking together sent a shudder down Izuku’s spine. His breathing hitched. He didn’t want to know what was coming next.

Another drug? Another blade?

Or maybe something worse?

Izuku swallowed thickly, his throat dry and raw. He tried to twist his wrists, but the restraints barely budged. He was trapped, helpless, forced to wait for whatever came next.

A soft hum filled the air as the man rummaged through his supplies, taking his time as he selected what he needed. When he turned back around, he wasn’t holding a knife.

Instead, he held a roll of bandages in one hand and a glass bottle in the other.

Izuku’s sluggish mind processed what it was a second too late.

The moment the sharp, chemical scent hit his nose, his eyes widened.

Alcohol. Pure alcohol.

His stomach dropped.

Normally, antiseptic would be used to clean wounds, to prevent infection. In a hospital, it would be dabbed gently onto a cut, a minor sting before relief.

But this—this was different.

These wounds weren’t small scratches. They were deep, raw, and fresh. Too many of them. Too open. His skin was practically shredded, his body littered with torn flesh and exposed nerves.

Izuku’s breathing quickened.

The man tilted the bottle slightly, letting the liquid swirl inside. He lifted it to his nose, inhaling deeply before letting out a quiet chuckle.

"Ah, how nostalgic," he mused, eyes distant for a moment. "It reminds me of when my mother used to treat my wounds."

He smiled.

Izuku stared in horror, his body locked in place.

"No," he croaked, but his voice was barely above a whisper, too weak to carry any real resistance.

The man paid him no mind.

Instead, he turned the bottle and let the first few drops spill onto Izuku’s torn flesh.

Pain exploded through his body.

A white-hot, searing sting that cut through every nerve like fire.

Izuku’s back arched violently against the table, a strangled scream ripping from his throat. His body trembled so hard that the restraints creaked under the pressure.

"N-NO—!"

His voice broke, hoarse and desperate, but the man wasn’t finished.

More liquid splashed onto his skin, drenching the deep, jagged cuts. The burning intensified, an unbearable mix of fire and ice, spreading through his limbs like poison.

Izuku thrashed, as much as his restraints allowed, his hands twitching, his fingers curling in agony. His vision blurred with unshed tears, his throat raw from screaming.

It was too much.

The scent was suffocating, thick and acrid, filling his nose, his lungs. The overwhelming sharpness of alcohol mixed with the iron tang of blood made his stomach churn.

And the worst part—

The man was enjoying it.

He watched with fascination, eyes glinting with something almost giddy as Izuku writhed beneath him. The sight of his suffering, the way his body convulsed against the restraints, the hoarse, broken cries—he was drinking it in like a work of art.

The bottle tilted again.

Izuku barely had time to suck in a breath before another wave of alcohol poured down his torso, seeping into every open wound along his stomach, his ribs, his sides. His entire body convulsed, his muscles seizing as agony consumed him.

Tears spilled freely down his cheeks, mixing with the sweat and grime clinging to his skin.

His mind was slipping, dipping in and out of consciousness as the pain overtook everything.

He wanted it to stop.

Just for a moment. Just long enough to breathe.

But the man wasn’t done yet.

He crouched down beside the table, watching Izuku’s quivering form with something resembling admiration. He reached out, fingers trailing over the fresh, alcohol-soaked wounds, pressing down just enough to make Izuku jerk.

"You’re doing so well," he murmured, almost soothing. "But we’re not finished yet."

Izuku barely heard him over the sound of his own ragged breathing. His entire body burned, his skin alight with unbearable torment.

The man reached for the bottle again.

Izuku's blood ran cold.

And then, the bottle tipped once more.

…

Izuku's screams had long since died out.

His throat was raw, his voice gone, reduced to nothing but broken, breathless gasps. His chest heaved, sweat and tears mingling with the blood still oozing from his wounds. His body trembled violently, the aftermath of pain still gripping his nerves like a vice.

But the man wasn’t done.

With an almost casual air, he took the roll of bandages in his hands and began to wrap Izuku’s wounds.

At first, it seemed merciful—bandages, something meant for healing. Something meant to help.

But then came the pull.

The fabric pressed against his still-bleeding wounds, soaking up the alcohol and blood in an instant. The sting flared anew as the material stuck to the open cuts, seeping into his broken skin like sandpaper against raw flesh.

Izuku’s muscles twitched involuntarily. He clenched his teeth, trying—desperately—not to react. His body was at its limit. The agony had blurred together into a single, suffocating haze, drowning him in an endless cycle of suffering.

Yet, even now, there was still more to endure.

The man wrapped the bandages tightly, without care, pulling them so harshly that Izuku could feel his skin pinching, the pressure sinking deep into the wounds. He wanted to cry out, to beg him to stop, but his voice refused to work. All that escaped was a strangled, breathy whimper.

The fabric clung to him, damp with fresh blood and alcohol, pressing against torn flesh like fire. Every movement, every breath, sent another wave of searing pain through his body.

His arms. His legs. His waist. All of them were bound in the suffocating embrace of those bloodied, alcohol-soaked wrappings.

Izuku’s body begged for sleep.

He tried.

He tried so hard to just let himself slip away, to sink into the numbness pulling at his edges. But the drug in his system refused to let him. It forced him to stay awake, to remain aware, to feel.

It was unbearable.

The man finally stepped back, admiring his work like a painter finishing a masterpiece. He exhaled slowly, then clapped his hands together.

"I think you’ve had enough," he said, his voice almost lighthearted. "For now, at least. I still have some business to attend to."

Izuku barely heard him. His head was heavy, his limbs weak. He could barely hold himself upright, his body sagging against the restraints. His mind swayed dangerously between consciousness and unconsciousness, unable to find solace in either.

Then, the man moved.

With practiced ease, he loosened the straps binding Izuku to the table. Immediately, his limbs fell limp, completely unresponsive. He should’ve been relieved—should’ve felt something—but there was nothing. Just numbness.

But the relief didn’t last.

The moment the restraints were undone, the sharp, biting sensation returned.

Cold metal snapped around his wrists.

Izuku winced, his fingers twitching uselessly. The chains were too tight, digging into the already raw skin around his wrists. The sharp edges pressed against tender flesh, threatening to reopen half-healed wounds.

His hands were chained in front of him, resting just above his aching stomach. Not behind his back.

That was different.

But he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Then—

A sudden, violent yank.

Pain flared in his scalp as the man fisted a hand into his hair and pulled.

Izuku’s body lurched forward, a broken, choked scream tearing from his lips as his already fragile nerves screamed in protest. His legs buckled, unable to support him, but the man didn’t let him collapse.

No.

He dragged him.

Izuku struggled weakly, his body convulsing as his knees scraped against the cold, unforgiving floor. But his resistance was pitiful. His body was too weak, too drained to fight back.

The metal chains rattled with every movement, a cruel reminder of his helplessness.

Each step sent new waves of agony through his battered frame. His skin burned, his muscles screamed, the alcohol still fresh in his wounds. His breath came in ragged pants, every inhale stinging his raw throat.

He didn’t know how long it took.

It happend in seconds, but for Izuku it felt like Minutes. Hours.

It all blurred together.

And then, suddenly—

The dragging stopped.

Izuku barely had a moment to register it before he was thrown.

His body hit the hard, cold floor with a sickening thud. A sharp gasp escaped him as pain flared in every limb, every muscle, every inch of his broken body. His head spun, his vision swimming.

He barely registered the man crouching beside him.

Soft. Deliberate. Calculated.

A glass of water was set on the ground.

Beside it, a small, stale piece of bread.

A meal.

A cruel mockery of kindness.

And then—

The heavy clang of a metal door slamming shut.

Silence.

Izuku lay there, unmoving. He could feel the cold floor beneath him, rough and unyielding against his fragile skin. The sharp scent of iron filled his nose, the taste of blood thick in his mouth.

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

His entire body throbbed, his skin fever-hot and aching. Every breath felt like dragging shards of glass through his lungs.

And yet—

His eyes flickered toward the glass of water.

The stench in the room was unbearable. The corner of his cell still reeked of vomit, blood, and the faint metallic tang of shattered glass. The filth clung to the air, suffocating and putrid.

But the water—

Izuku’s throat burned. His lips were cracked, his tongue dry like sandpaper. He hadn’t had a single drop of water in—three days? Maybe more.

He needed it.

Desperately.

With a weak, trembling motion, he pushed himself up.

Agony shot through his body immediately. His knees protested, the deep cuts along his legs screaming at the movement. His arms shook violently, barely able to hold his weight. The alcohol still burned, searing into his wounds like fire licking at his skin.

But he kept going.

Inch by inch, he dragged himself forward.

His fingers stretched out, shaking, reaching.

The moment his hand touched the glass, relief nearly overwhelmed him.

He lifted it with unsteady fingers, nearly dropping it in his weakened state. The water sloshed against the sides, mocking him with its clarity, its purity.

He brought it to his lips, tilting it just enough for the first drops to touch his tongue.

It was warm.

Stale.

But it was water.

Izuku swallowed greedily, every drop sending shivers down his spine. His throat protested at first, too raw, too parched. But he didn’t stop.

Not until the last drop was gone.

Only then did he let the empty glass slip from his fingers, his body sagging once more.

His gaze drifted to the piece of bread.

His stomach ached, hunger clawing at his insides.

The bread was dry.

Izuku could tell just by looking at it—how the edges were cracked, the surface rough and uneven. It wasn’t fresh. It wasn’t even remotely soft. It looked like it had been sitting out for days, weeks even, long past the point of staleness.

But none of that mattered.

His stomach ached, a deep, gnawing emptiness twisting inside him. He hadn’t eaten a good meal in—how long? His sense of time was fractured, broken by exhaustion, pain, and the constant cycle of suffering. But the hunger had been there, a persistent, clawing ache beneath everything else.

And this?

This was food.

It didn’t matter that it was old, that it was hard, that it looked barely edible. It didn’t matter that the mere thought of chewing made his jaw ache in protest. His body needed it.

Slowly, with trembling fingers, he reached out. His muscles protested, the dull throb of pain radiating from his arms, his shoulders. His hands were shaking so badly that, for a moment, he thought he might drop it. But he forced himself to hold on, clutching the small, brittle piece between his bloodstained fingers.

Bringing it to his mouth was an effort in itself. His wrists, still bound in chains, made the motion stiff and awkward. His fingers barely had the strength to grip, his knuckles whitening with the strain.

Then, finally, his lips parted.

The moment the bread touched his tongue, his body rebelled.

It was like chewing dust.

The texture was rough, every bite dry and grainy, sticking to the roof of his mouth like sand. His throat, still raw from screaming, felt as if it would tear at the effort of swallowing. He had no saliva left to soften it, no water to help it go down.

But he ate.

Because he had to.

Because it was the only thing keeping him from falling deeper into the abyss of weakness.

His jaw ached with every slow chew, the stale bread scraping against his sore gums. He forced himself to swallow, the lump dragging painfully down his parched throat. It settled heavily in his stomach, small and unsatisfying, but it was something.

And right now, something was better than nothing.

Izuku didn't stop until the last crumb was gone.

—————————

Aizawa exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the edge of his desk. His eyes burned from hours of staring at his computer screen, but exhaustion wasn’t enough to pull him away. It had been three days. Three days since Izuku had gone missing.

And they were slowly approaching day four.

He had spent every hour combing through reports, searching through traffic footage, listening to police frequencies for any whisper of a green-haired boy being found. But nothing. Every lead had run cold. Every piece of intel led to another dead end.

He hadn’t slept.

Not properly. Maybe a few short naps here and there, barely enough to be considered rest. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw that kid. He saw Midoriya—his student, the one who always pushed himself too hard, the one who smiled despite the odds—vanishing without a trace.

And Aizawa couldn’t let that stand.

A sudden knock at the door broke through his thoughts. It was sharp, impatient. Aizawa didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.

“Hey.”

Katsuki Bakugo walked in without waiting for permission.

Aizawa sighed, barely glancing at him. “I didn’t say you could come in.”

Bakugo ignored him, flipping on the room’s overhead light. A harsh white glow filled the space, making Aizawa blink at the sudden brightness.

“Put on a damn light,” Bakugo muttered. “It’s not healthy to stare at a screen in the dark.”

Aizawa raised a brow, mildly amused. Bakugo, worrying about him? That was new. But he supposed it wasn’t really about him. Bakugo had been restless ever since Midoriya disappeared. He had come to his office last night too—same time, eleven o’clock, demanding answers. And now, here he was again.

Aizawa leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “What do you want, Bakugo?”

Bakugo crossed his arms. “Gotten any leads?”

Aizawa’s expression darkened. “…None.”

Bakugo clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “God damn it,” he muttered, voice tight with frustration. “Then let me in on the investigation.”

“No.” Aizawa’s voice was firm, unwavering. “The last thing I need is another student going missing.”

Bakugo scowled, his frustration bubbling over. “We’re wasting time—”

“We are not wasting time.” Aizawa slammed his hand against the desk, standing up so abruptly that Bakugo flinched. “You think I’m not doing everything I can?” His eyes burned with unspoken exhaustion, his voice sharper than usual. “I will find him, Bakugo. But I am not putting you—or anyone else—at risk in the process.”

Bakugo clicked his tongue and looked away, arms still crossed. He took a breath, trying to shove down the emotions threatening to boil over. “…Then what the hell are you doing?”

Aizawa sighed. What was he doing? Right now, he was rereading old reports, searching for something—anything—that he might’ve missed.

But it wasn’t enough.

And then—

A small pling echoed through the room.

Aizawa turned his head toward the screen. A notification had popped up in the corner—a new email.

From… XXX?

His brow furrowed. “That’s not a name I recognize…” he muttered.

Bakugo stepped closer, also eyeing the screen. “What is it?”

Aizawa hesitated. The email had no subject line, no message—just a single file attached.

Something felt wrong.

He clicked it anyway.

The file downloaded quickly, appearing as a simple black screen.

“What the hell is this?” Aizawa muttered, clicking to open it.

“An audio file,” Bakugo said, his voice tense. He leaned forward, pressing the volume button on the keyboard to turn it up.

A few seconds of silence.

Then—

A metallic clinking noise, faint but unmistakable. Chains? Shackles?

A sharp inhale. Labored breathing.

Then—

“No… no, no—”

Aizawa and Bakugo froze.

Their blood ran cold.

That voice.

That was Midoriya.

“That’s Izuku” Bakugo said, his hands slamming against the table as he leaned in, as if getting closer to the screen would somehow make the audio clearer. His heart pounded in his chest.

Another voice followed, distorted, warped—someone was intentionally disguising it.

"Be sure to count every cut."

A heavy silence.

Then, suddenly—

"STOP! PLEASE—!"

Izuku’s scream tore through the speakers, raw, agonized.

Aizawa and Bakugo flinched, their stomachs twisting.

“What is this bastard doing…” Aizawa muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Another breath, followed by that same distorted voice, calm and deliberate.

"That’s one."

More screaming. Choked gasps. The clinking of metal.

“Your body is so reactive."

Bakugo’s breath caught in his throat. His hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms so hard they nearly broke skin.
The screaming continued, and the counting did too.

Then—

"Tell me, Midoriya, How. Did. You. Get. Your. Quirk?" The distorted voice sounded.

"Go... fuck... yourself," Izuku said.

After that, there was more screaming. Louder this time.

Bakugo clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt. Aizawa’s hands curled into his hair, gripping at his scalp.

And then the worst sound yet—

The screech of metal, rattling violently against a surface, like someone was strapped to a table and fighting against it.

More screams, sharp and broken.

“NO, ARGH, N—"

Aizawa slammed the pause button.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

The file still had ten more seconds left.

Neither of them could bring themselves to hit play again.

Aizawa buried his face in his hands. His mind was racing, every instinct screaming at him.

Bakugo covered his mouth with one hand, his stomach twisting with nausea. He felt like he was going to throw up, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. His entire body was rigid with barely contained rage and horror.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Silence hung thick in the room, suffocating, heavy. The dim light from the computer screen cast pale shadows across their faces.

Their eyes remained locked onto the paused audio file. The small, unmoving progress bar. The remaining ten seconds they couldn’t bring themselves to listen to.

The weight of what they had just heard pressed down on them like a crushing force.

Izuku’s screams.

His pleas.

The metallic rattling.

And that voice. That sick, distorted voice.

“Be sure to count every cut.”

Aizawa’s breathing was shallow. His heart pounded against his ribs, but his mind felt slow, sluggish, trying to process the horror that had just unfolded through the speakers.

Across from him, Bakugo looked equally shaken. His face was pale, his pupils blown wide in shock. His entire body was tense, rigid, as if any slight movement would make reality come crashing down even harder.

Finally, Bakugo swallowed thickly, forcing his dry throat to work. His voice, usually so sharp and confident, came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“W-what… the hell.”

He half-stuttered, the words stumbling out, raw and unsteady. His breathing was uneven, as if he had just sprinted a marathon.

Aizawa didn’t respond immediately. He was still staring at the screen, his mind replaying the audio over and over. Izuku’s screams echoed in his skull, burned into his brain.

Then—

“That bastard,” Bakugo suddenly spat, his voice gaining a dangerous edge. His hands curled into trembling fists at his sides. “He’s… he’s torturing Izuku, for his quirk.”

His voice cracked slightly at the end.

Aizawa finally forced himself to move, dragging a hand down his face. His fingers pressed against his closed eyelids, as if trying to block out the images his mind was conjuring up.

“…Is he cutting him?” Bakugo asked, his voice low, barely above a breath. He already knew the answer, but he needed confirmation. He needed to hear it.

Aizawa inhaled shakily.

“It… it sure sounds like it,” he admitted, his tone grim.

A sharp, furious exhale left Bakugo’s nose. His body shook with barely restrained rage, his nails digging into his palms so hard he felt them sting.

Neither of them could bring themselves to hit play again. Neither of them could listen to more of Izuku’s pain, his desperate, broken voice, his screams.

It was traumatizing.

Aizawa clenched his jaw. He had to do something. He couldn’t just sit here, paralyzed by what they had heard.

With hands that trembled ever so slightly, he reached for his phone. His fingers fumbled for a second, uncharacteristically clumsy, before gripping the device tightly.

“I…” His voice came out lower than usual, strained. He took a breath, forcing himself to sound steady. “…I’m going to contact Tsukauchi.”

Bakugo snapped his head toward him, eyes still burning with emotion.

Aizawa didn’t wait for a response. He unlocked his phone and scrolled through his contacts, quickly pressing the detective’s number. The dial tone rang once.

Twice.

Then—

Click.

“Tsukauchi speaking.”

Aizawa inhaled sharply, steadying himself. His grip on the phone tightened.

“We have something.”

A brief pause. Then, Tsukauchi’s tone shifted—immediately alert, professional. “What is it, a lead to Midoriya?”

Aizawa glanced at the frozen screen. He swallowed. “Audio evidence. Someone sent us a file. It’s…” He hesitated, his voice wavering just slightly. “It’s Midoriya.”

Another pause.

“…Explain.”

Aizawa exhaled. “It’s a recording. We heard him. Screaming. Someone is torturing him.”

A sharp inhale from the other end of the line. “I’m on my way. Send me the file.”

“I will.”

Aizawa hung up without another word.

Notes:

11-4-25

Chapter 5: Lost In The White

Aizawa sat stiffly, his hands pressed against his forehead, fingers digging into his temples as he stared blankly at the screen. Katsuki sat beside him, hunched over, his elbows on his knees, his hands gripping his face so tightly his nails nearly broke skin. The air between them was suffocating, thick with an unbearable weight neither of them knew how to lift.

The screen had gone dark, the cruel video finished, but its horrors still burned in their minds, playing over and over in a relentless loop. Aizawa’s breathing was steady, forced, but Katsuki’s was erratic—shaky inhales, sharp exhales, barely holding himself together. His leg bounced uncontrollably, the only outlet for his rage and helplessness.

Then, the phone rang.

Aizawa didn’t move at first. Katsuki flinched but didn’t lift his head. The sharp chime of the call felt like a blade against raw nerves, cutting through the silence, demanding to be answered.

Aizawa finally reached for it, his fingers tightening around the device before bringing it to his ear. He didn’t speak, just listened.

“Aizawa…” Tsukauchi’s voice came through, quiet but tense.

Aizawa remained silent.

“I’ve listened to the audio,” Tsukauchi continued, his voice heavier than usual. “I need to come to you immediately. If we act fast, I might be able to trace the source through your email.”

There was a pause. A faint tremble in Tsukauchi’s voice. He had heard something horrible.

Aizawa closed his eyes briefly, his grip tightening on the phone. “Right,” he said, voice hoarse. Then, without another word, he hung up.

He turned to Katsuki.

“Please get some rest,” Aizawa said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You have school tomorrow.”

Katsuki’s head shot up instantly, eyes burning with fury.

“Haaah?! What the hell did you just say?!” His voice was rough, raw, like it had been forced through a throat too tight with emotion. “I’m not going to fucking rest, and I’m sure as hell not going to school until I know Izuku is alright!”

Aizawa exhaled slowly, bracing his hands against the table. “Bakugo—”

“He’s being tortured! Right now!” Katsuki slammed his fist onto the wooden surface, the impact loud and sharp. “Probably as we fucking speak! How the hell do you expect me to sleep?!”

Aizawa straightened, his expression unreadable. He was exhausted, emotionally drained, but he understood Katsuki’s anger—because he felt it too.

“Bakugo, I know this is hard, but please go to your—”

“Hell I will,” Katsuki cut him off, voice trembling slightly despite its strength. “I’m not going to my fucking room. I’m in this now. Officially.”

Aizawa let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing his eyes before slowly sitting back on the couch. He leaned his head back against the cushion, eyes on the ceiling, his breath coming out in a whisper.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

The room fell into silence again.

The minutes dragged by, each second stretching endlessly. Neither of them spoke, the weight of the situation pressing them down like a boulder on their chests.

Both eventually went to the dorm common room, and wait for Tsukauchi to arrive. Katsuki went to the kitchen area. He grabbed two glasses and filled them with water, his hands shaking just enough to make the liquid ripple. He didn’t say anything as he walked back, simply placing one of the glasses in front of Aizawa before sitting down again, staring at the floor.

Then, finally, a knock on the door.

Aizawa stood immediately, moving to open it.

Standing outside was Tsukauchi, his usual composed expression cracked with stress. But he wasn’t alone. Beside him stood La Brava, her laptop case slung over her shoulder, her eyes sharp and focused. Behind them were two more officers—high-ranking, judging by their uniforms.

Aizawa’s gaze flickered to La Brava. “La Brava?”

She gave a small nod. “I came as soon as I heard. If there’s a digital trail, I’ll find it.”

Aizawa exhaled. With her on the case, there was a real chance of tracking down the source of the video.

Tsukauchi stepped forward, his expression dark. “Aizawa… I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

Aizawa didn’t respond.

Tsukauchi placed a firm hand on his shoulder, a rare show of support. Aizawa barely reacted, but Tsukauchi knew him well enough to understand.

He turned to Katsuki next, but before he could speak, Katsuki shifted back, glaring at the floor. He didn’t want pity.

Tsukauchi withdrew his hand.

“…Let’s get to work,” he said instead.

The walk to Aizawa’s dorm was eerily silent.

Tsukauchi led the way with heavy steps, his usual composed demeanor marred by a tight jaw and furrowed brow. La Brava followed, clutching her laptop bag to her chest, her fingers tense around the strap. Behind them, the two officers trailed closely, their faces unreadable.

Katsuki and Aizawa walked at the back of the group. Katsuki's hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his nails digging into his palms. His teeth were clenched so hard his jaw ached, but he didn’t care. Every step felt agonizingly slow, his mind still reeling from the video. From the fucking reality of it. Izuku—Deku—his rival, his childhood friend, the idiot who never knew when to stop, was out there somewhere, being tortured.

And all they had was a goddamn audio.

Katsuki’s chest burned, frustration and helplessness mixing into something he wasn’t sure he could contain much longer.

Aizawa glanced at him but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. They both understood.

They finally reached Aizawa’s room. It was small and simple, but right now, it was about to become the center of their investigation. Aizawa opened the door, pushing it open before stepping aside to let the others in.

La Brava wasted no time. She moved quickly to the small desk, setting up her laptop with practiced ease. The moment the screen flickered on, she pulled out a USB drive and inserted it.

Tsukauchi crossed his arms, standing beside her. “Can you track where it came from?”

La Brava’s fingers flew across the keyboard, her eyes scanning lines of code and encrypted data. A small frown appeared on her face as she continued typing.

Aizawa and Katsuki hovered nearby, both tense as they watched her work. The other two officers remained near the door, keeping their voices low as they exchanged quiet words.

Minutes passed. The only sound in the room was the rapid clicking of La Brava’s keyboard.

Then, she suddenly stopped. Her fingers hesitated above the keys.

“…Shit,” she muttered under her breath.

Katsuki stiffened. “What? What the hell does that mean?”

La Brava exhaled sharply, her small hands curling into fists. “This person… they covered their tracks too well. I can’t trace where it came from.”

The words felt like a punch to the gut.

Aizawa tensed beside Katsuki, his expression darkening. Tsukauchi’s frown deepened, and one of the officers near the door let out a frustrated sigh.

“Are you sure?” Tsukauchi asked, though he already knew the answer.

La Brava nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I’ve cracked through top security systems before, but this… this is different. It’s layered. Every trace leads to another dead end. Whoever did this knew exactly how to erase their digital footprint.”

Katsuki’s hands clenched into fists, his nails biting into his skin. His breathing was sharp, ragged. “So you’re saying we’re back to fucking nothing?!”

La Brava flinched slightly but didn’t snap back at him. Instead, she took a slow breath, her gaze hardening. “I didn’t say that.”

She turned back to her screen, her fingers moving again. “I might not be able to track where it came from… but I can restore the audio. The voice was distorted in the video, but I can clean it up.”

Aizawa nodded. “Do it.”

La Brava swallowed, her hands shaking slightly as she worked. She was doing her best to focus, but the image of Izuku—bound, bleeding, helpless—flashed through her mind. Her heart ached.

He had saved her. Given her a second chance. Given Gentle a second chance. And now…

She clenched her teeth and forced herself to concentrate.

As she worked, snippets of the video’s audio accidentally leaked through the speakers.

A sharp cry.

A hoarse, gasping breath.

A broken, choked-out plea.

Katsuki flinched, his whole body going rigid. Aizawa inhaled sharply but said nothing. Tsukauchi’s hands curled into fists, his expression unreadable. Even the officers at the door shifted uncomfortably.

La Brava’s fingers trembled. She squeezed her eyes shut, just for a moment, trying to block out the sound.

Izuku was her friend now. She owed him everything. Hearing him like this—hearing him in pain —was unbearable.

But she kept going.

Minutes passed, but eventually, the distorted voice began to shift. The warbled, inhuman tone softened, smoothing out into something clearer.

Then, finally, the real voice played through the speakers.

A calm, emotionless voice.

“Be sure to count every single cut.”

Silence.
La Brava removed Izuku’s screams. Only the man’s voice was now in a different audio.

No one moved. No one spoke.

The words echoed in the small dorm room, a quiet promise of suffering. A reminder of what was happening to Izuku at that very moment.

Katsuki’s breath came out in a shaky exhale. His entire body trembled with rage. He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached, his nails digging deep into his palms. His vision blurred with red-hot fury, with frustration, with helplessness.

Aizawa stared at the screen, his face unreadable, but his shoulders were stiff, his breathing controlled.

Tsukauchi exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “We need to find this bastard. Fast.”

La Brava swallowed the lump in her throat, her hands curling into fists on the desk. “We will.”

The air in Aizawa’s room remained thick and heavy even after the voices faded from the speakers. No one moved. La Brava stared at her laptop screen, hands still poised above the keyboard, her knuckles white from the force of her grip. Tsukauchi took a slow, steadying breath, his brow creased with tension and fatigue. Katsuki’s fists were clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms, leaving angry red marks. Aizawa’s jaw was set, a deep shadow cast over his eyes.

Tsukauchi finally broke the silence, his voice low and strained. “Thank you, La Brava.” His words were heavy with appreciation, but his tone betrayed the frustration of someone who needed more—more evidence, more clues, more time.

La Brava looked up, guilt flickering across her features. “I wish I could do more,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. She’d spent hours hacking, decrypting, pulling every trick she knew—and still, she couldn’t find the bastard who had done this.

Tsukauchi shook his head slowly. “You’ve given us more than we had before,” he said, offering a weary but genuine nod. “A voice isn’t much to go on, but it’s something. It’s better than the silence we had before.”

Katsuki’s eyes never left the laptop screen, as if willing it to show him something, anything more. His shoulders were taut, trembling with barely restrained anger. “That voice,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “I’m gonna fucking remember it.”

Tsukauchi turned his gaze to Aizawa, noting the deep lines etched into his tired face, the weight of responsibility hanging visibly from his frame. “We can’t do more here,” Tsukauchi admitted reluctantly. “We’ll take this audio back to the office, analyze it, and see if we can match it with any known suspects. But you…” he paused, softening his tone, “you need to get some rest, Aizawa. You look exhausted.”

Aizawa’s eyes flickered with unspoken turmoil, but he nodded slowly. “Fine,” he agreed, though they all knew rest would be fleeting and uneasy.

Tsukauchi’s gaze shifted to Katsuki, who looked ready to argue, defy, fight—anything but rest. “Bakugo,” Tsukauchi began, his voice gentle but firm. “You too. Get some sleep. We need you sharp if we’re going to find Midoriya.”

Katsuki’s eyes blazed with defiance. “I’m not going to fucking rest while that damn nerd is—” His voice cracked slightly, and he cut himself off, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Tsukauchi’s eyes softened. “I know you want to help. And you will. But you need to be strong—for him. For when we find him.”

Katsuki’s fists loosened ever so slightly. “I’ll sleep when he’s safe,” he muttered, voice low and strained.

Aizawa placed a heavy hand on Katsuki’s shoulder, squeezing gently—a rare gesture of comfort. “We’ll find him,” he promised quietly. “But we need you at your best.”

Katsuki’s glare dropped to the floor, his teeth grinding together in frustration. “Fine,” he mumbled, the fight momentarily drained from him.

Tsukauchi stepped back, signaling the officers to follow. “If any new audio or footage is sent, contact me immediately,” he instructed, his tone carrying the weight of urgency and determination.

La Brava offered one last, hesitant look toward Aizawa and Katsuki before gathering her equipment. “I’ll keep digging,” she vowed softly. “I won’t stop until we find him.”

Aizawa nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

And with that, the four figures turned and walked out into the common dorm room, their footsteps echoing softly against the tile floors.

The door closed, sealing the silence behind them.

Katsuki and Aizawa were left alone in the darkened dorm room, the only light spilling in from the hallway, casting long, heavy shadows across the floor.

The weight of what they’d heard still hung thick in the air, suffocating and relentless.

Aizawa leaned heavily against the wall, his eyes slipping shut as he tried to steel himself, his breaths slow and deep, fighting to maintain control.

Katsuki stood rigid, his hands still shaking, rage and helplessness mingling in his chest like a toxic brew. He wanted to scream, to punch something, to do something—but there was nothing. Nothing but the empty silence that followed Izuku’s screams.

“He’s out there,” Katsuki finally spoke, his voice raw and barely above a whisper. “And we’re just standing here, doing nothing.”

Aizawa opened his eyes, their dark depths filled with a mix of exhaustion and resolve. “This isn’t doing nothing,” he said quietly. “We’re waiting, but we’re ready. The second we have something—anything—we move.”

Katsuki’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. “I can’t just wait around. I need to—”

Aizawa interrupted gently, “I know.” He paused, searching for the right words. “But right now, the best way to help him is to be ready when the time comes.”

Katsuki’s shoulders sagged, the adrenaline fading, leaving behind a hollow ache in his chest. “I won’t stop until we find him,” he whispered, voice laced with a fierce determination.

Aizawa nodded, the hint of a sad smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Neither will I.”

They stood there, in the quiet aftermath of chaos, two shadows against the darkened walls. Both determined. Both unyielding. Both unwilling to give up on finding Izuku—no matter what it took.

As the hours ticked by and the rest of the dorm remained eerily silent, they kept their vigil.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Fighting against the oppressive darkness that threatened to swallow them whole.

And somewhere, in the silence of the night, they vowed—They would bring Izuku home.

—————————

Izuku’s eyes opened slowly, his vision swimming with unfocused shapes and blinding light. A deep, searing ache pulsed through his body, radiating from every wound, every bruise, every cut carved into his skin. His mind was sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion, pain, and the remnants of whatever drug they had forced into his veins.

The fluorescent white lighting overhead burned his retinas, making his head throb with each flicker. The room was quiet—too quiet. The only sound was his own ragged breathing, uneven and shallow, punctuated by the occasional shudder when pain flared up unexpectedly.

His wrists were bound in front of his stomach with thick, rusted chains, the metal biting into the tender, raw skin beneath the bandages. His legs were also shackled together, preventing even the smallest movement. Not that it mattered.

Even if he wasn’t restrained, Izuku doubted he could move. His body was too weak, too drained. Every muscle screamed in protest, every limb felt like dead weight, unresponsive and heavy. He had no strength left.

He didn’t even try to sit up.

He just existed in this space, feeling his own brokenness with every aching breath.

His eyes gradually adjusted to the harsh lighting, bringing the room into sharp, cruel clarity. The first thing he noticed was the bandages wrapped tightly around his arms and legs. They had once been pristine, white as snow—now they were saturated with deep red, blood dried into crusted patches that cracked when he so much as twitched.

So much red.

His body felt stiff, like it had been left immobile for too long. How much time had passed? Hours? Days? Maybe longer? He had no way of knowing.

The concept of time had become meaningless in this place.

His gaze flickered to the empty glass on the floor, the only thing in this room that wasn’t bolted down. The last time he’d been given water, he had barely been able to drink it, his throat raw and parched, his trembling hands unable to keep a steady grip. He had spilled half of it down his chin, but he had gulped the rest down like a starved animal, desperate for anything to soothe the burning dryness in his throat.

It wasn’t enough. It never was.

The thick scent of blood was heavy in the air, suffocating. His own blood, the stench of iron clinging to his skin, mixed with the faint, putrid smell of vomit from days ago. It still stained the corner of the room, dried and crusted, smeared with streaks of red. No one had bothered to clean it. Why would they?

Izuku let his head loll back against the wall, his unfocused gaze locking onto the ceiling.

White.

Everything was white.

The walls. The ceiling. The floor. The lights. The bandages—at least, the ones that weren’t stained red.

White.

White.

White.

It was too clean. Too empty. It made his skin crawl.

The color felt like it was closing in on him, swallowing him whole.

He exhaled shakily, his breathing growing uneven.

How much longer would he be here?

How much longer could he last?

Izuku continued to just stare at the whiteness of the room for a while, like a lifeless puppet.

Until eventually, Izuku’s vision blurred, his exhaustion mixing with the suffocating silence, and before he realized it, his mind started playing tricks on him.

A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye.

His breath hitched.

He turned his head slightly—nothing.

Just the white walls, cold and sterile.

Another flicker.

His fingers twitched.

He wasn’t alone.

He knew he wasn’t.

Something was there.

His heart pounded as he tried to focus, tried to keep his thoughts steady—but the longer he stared, the more things seemed to shift around him.

The walls were moving.

No—breathing.

The surface of the white walls pulsed, expanding and contracting as if they were alive, their rhythm uneven and unnatural.

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, willing the hallucination to stop. But when he reopened them, it was worse.

Shadows danced along the edges of the room, twisting and curling like wisps of smoke.

Voices whispered in the back of his mind.

Soft. Indistinct.

His mother’s voice.

“Izuku… come home…”

His breath came out in short, shaky gasps.
“Mom?” his voice cracked, barely a whisper.

But no one answered. He wasn’t sure if she had ever spoken at all.

His fingers curled weakly against the chains, the cold metal grounding him, reminding him that this was real—this was his reality.

Not the whispers. Not the shifting walls. Not the hallucinations.
The pain was real. The cold was real. The blood was real.

Izuku swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe, to think.
But the walls were still breathing.

And he didn’t know if it was real anymore. The whiteness was swallowing him whole.

Izuku’s breath came in frantic, shallow gasps, his chest heaving as he stared into the overwhelming, endless void of white. It stretched in every direction, a vast and infinite nothingness that pressed against his skin, inside his skin, seeping into his bones.

The walls. The floor. The ceiling. The cold light burning down at him.

White.

It consumed everything. It was all he could see, all he could feel, all he could be.

Izuku’s breath hitched violently. His fingers twitched against the cold metal shackles around his wrists, his body aching, screaming for relief. But there was none.

There never was.

"You did this to yourself, Izuku."

The voice made his stomach twist into knots.

It wasn’t his mother’s voice anymore. It wasn’t Kacchan’s. It wasn’t all for one’s.

It was his own.

Izuku’s breath shuddered. His skin crawled, his pulse pounding in his ears as his wide, bloodshot eyes darted toward the light.

And then he saw it.

The shadow was back.

It stood just beyond the blinding glow, waiting, watching. Its shape flickered and distorted, stretching and twisting like something not meant to exist.

It took a step forward.

Izuku's body locked up.

His breath came fast and shallow, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs like a war drum. His fingers curled into weak fists, his nails digging into his palms, but he couldn’t feel them. He could barely feel anything anymore.

The shadow stepped closer.

And the light flickered.

For a fraction of a second, the whiteness was replaced by something else.

Dark, hollow eyes.
A grin that stretched too far.
Lips cracked and split, bleeding as the skin peeled away.

Izuku choked on his breath. His body convulsed, jerking against the chains, panic surging through his veins like wildfire.

"You can’t run."

His own voice taunted him, curling around him like a noose.

Izuku screamed.

“NO! STOP! GET AWAY FROM ME!” His voice cracked, raw and desperate, but the thing didn’t stop.

The fingers came closer.

Long, spindly, unnatural. Writhing and twisting like something alive.

Izuku’s entire body trembled, his mind spiraling, thoughts crashing into one another, turning into static.

His throat burned. His wrists bled from how hard he was pulling at the chains, his muscles spasming, but it didn’t matter.

He couldn’t move.

The fingers brushed against his cheek.

Izuku’s scream was torn from his throat like an animal caught in a trap.

"NO!" He thrashed wildly, his vision swimming, his body betraying him. His breath hitched, his sobs choking him as his legs kicked uselessly against the restraints.

He wasn’t strong enough.
He wasn’t fast enough.
He was stuck.

The fingers trailed down his face, leaving a cold, burning sensation in their wake.

“Pathetic."

The grin widened.

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, his body convulsing, his screams dissolving into frantic, broken sobs.

“Please, please—”

The voice laughed.

The light flickered.

And then—

Darkness.

Notes:

13/4/25

Chapter 6: Boiling Pain

There was pure darkness.

It stretched in every direction, thick and endless, swallowing him whole. It clung to his skin like damp fabric, seeped into his lungs with every shallow inhale, pressing against his ribs like something alive. Heavy. Suffocating.

But comforting.

It was strange—how the absence of everything could feel gentle, how the weight of nothingness could cradle him like a lullaby.

The hallucinations were gone.

No more phantom fingers reaching for him. No more smiles curling too wide, splitting open like infected wounds. No more voices whispering in his ears, slithering through his skull like parasites, gnawing at his mind until he couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t.

Just silence.

Just darkness.

His breathing, once erratic and frantic, began to slow. The sharp, panicked gasps softened into trembling exhales, and his chest—tight with exhaustion, raw from too much screaming—finally found a rhythm. It wasn’t steady, not really, but it was enough. Enough to convince him, for a few fleeting seconds, that he was still alive.

That he was still himself.

His body sagged, the last remnants of tension bleeding out of his trembling frame. His muscles ached, stiff and sore from hours—days?—of strain.
Some wounds had reopened, izuku could feel that. After all, the cuts were still fresh.
The cold, hard floor beneath him pressed unforgivingly against his bones, but he didn’t care. He had no strength left to care.

His shackles clinked softly as he shifted, the metal biting into his bruised wrists, but the pain barely registered. He dragged his knees up to his chest, curling in on himself, his spine curling like a dying leaf in the winter chill.

His forehead rested against his torn, dirt-streaked pants, and he squeezed his eyes shut, as if closing them would somehow make the darkness less.

His shoulders trembled.

And then, slowly, the sobs began to spill out.

They came quietly—shaking, broken things, slipping past his lips in uneven gasps. They clawed up his throat, raw and desperate, but there was no strength behind them. No fight left in him.

Tears welled up in his already burning eyes, slipping down his cheeks, warm against his freezing skin. They dripped onto his pants, soaking into the thin, ragged fabric, as if trying to leave some kind of mark. Proof that he was still here. Proof that he could still feel.

His lips trembled as he whispered to himself, the words disjointed, barely more than a breath.

Incoherent apologies.

Desperate reassurances.

Pleas.

But to who, he didn’t know.

Maybe to his mother, whose warmth he could barely remember.

Maybe to Kacchan, whose name still ached like an old wound in his chest. But was strangely comforting.

Maybe to All Might, who had made him believe in something so bright.

But the words held no weight. No meaning.

They dissolved into the emptiness, swallowed whole by the darkness.

And still, the darkness held him.

It wrapped around him like something protective, something tender. It was the only thing that remained, the only thing that listened. It didn’t ask him to be strong. It didn’t demand anything from him at all.

And maybe that was why, for the first time in a long time, he let go.

His sobs grew quieter, fading into exhausted shudders. His hands, curled weakly against his chest, loosened. His breath, though still uneven, no longer clawed at his throat like something desperate to escape.

The darkness was still there.

Waiting.

Watching.

And then—

A loud, metallic clang.

The sound was sharp, splitting through the silence like a blade. It echoed off the cold, concrete walls, bouncing between them before it finally died out, leaving behind something worse.

Dread.

Izuku flinched so violently that pain exploded through his body, tearing through his muscles, burning up his spine. His bones ached from the sudden movement, stiff and weak from too many hours spent curled into himself, too many days of being bound, of being beaten. His breath caught in his throat, hitching into a ragged gasp as he forced his head up, muscles locking tight.

He was listening.

Straining.

Waiting.

But the darkness remained thick, suffocating. Unforgiving.

His heart slammed against his ribs, its erratic pounding the only thing he could hear now. His breath came in uneven shudders, and he squeezed his eyes shut, tried to focus, tried to ground himself—but there was nothing to hold onto.

Just the cold.

Just the dark.

Izuku’s lungs squeezed painfully as he forced his head to turn toward the sound, though he knew he wouldn’t see anything. The white light from before—the one that had burned into his vision, searing bright and merciless—was still sinking into his retinas, leaving ghostly spots in its wake. His pupils, blown wide in desperation, refused to adjust.

It didn’t matter how hard he tried.

He couldn’t see.

He was blind in the dark.

A shaky breath crawled up his throat, barely making it past his lips.

“W…Who’s there…”

His voice was wrecked. Hoarse. Fragile.

Like broken glass scattered across pavement.

His words barely scraped the surface, dissolving into the emptiness before they could reach anything. No echo. No response.

Just silence.

And then—

Something moved.

A shift in the air. A presence.

Izuku stiffened, his entire body going rigid, every nerve in his battered frame suddenly screaming danger.

His fingers twitched against the cold floor. His breath stalled.

Then—

A hand clamped around his arm.

Izuku barely had time to process it before he was yanked forward.

The force sent a shockwave of agony through his already broken body, his raw, bruised skin screaming in protest. The iron grip was merciless, digging into the tender flesh of his upper arm, tightening like a vice as he was dragged upright.

A broken, choked noise tore itself from his throat as his head snapped back, his limbs too weak to keep up.

His knees scraped against the rough, uneven ground, skin splitting open on impact. A white-hot sting shot through his legs, but the pain barely registered past the sheer panic clawing up his spine.

He gasped—tried to pull back, tried to fight, but his body was nothing more than dead weight, too frail, too starved to resist. His fingers scrambled against the floor, weakly scraping at the concrete in a useless attempt to anchor himself, but it was no use.

The hand dragged him forward.

“NO! STOP—”

Izuku screamed.

The sound was raw, high and broken, but it didn’t matter.

No one would hear him.

No one ever did.
Not during middle school, not now.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” he shrieked, his voice cracking. His body twisted in the iron grip, weakly thrashing, begging his limbs to move, but exhaustion held him down like chains.

The grip tightened.

Izuku let out a choked, breathless sob, his body curling in on itself as he was pulled across the cold floor.

His legs refused to work. His muscles refused to hold him.

He could feel every wound, every bruise, every cracked rib screaming in protest as he was hauled through the suffocating darkness, completely helpless in the hands of whatever had come for him.

After seconds, which felt like hours, the darkness shattered.

Izuku barely had time to process it before his world was thrown into light.

It wasn’t bright—not really. The glow was weak, dull and artificial, casting sickly yellow hues against the cold, unfeeling walls. But after so long trapped in absolute nothingness, even this dim illumination felt like a piercing blade.

His pupils contracted violently, his vision going white-hot with the sudden change. A sharp, pained gasp ripped from his throat as he squeezed his eyes shut, his head snapping to the side in a desperate attempt to shield himself. His body curled inward, instinct pulling him away from the glow, but there was nowhere to go.

A shadow loomed over him.

Then—impact.

He was thrown downward, shoved back with enough force to rattle his bones. His shoulders slammed against something hard—wood, not metal —and before he could even attempt to react, the sharp, unforgiving clank of restraints snapped against his wrists.

Cold iron clamped around his skin.

His ankles followed.

Izuku’s breath stuttered, the weight of the metal sinking into his bones, locking him in place.

This wasn’t the table.

This was different.

The position was unfamiliar—more rigid, more upright. His feet barely touched the floor, his back pressed flush against something wooden and unyielding, his arms forced downward by the restraints biting into his skin.

A chair.

He had put him in a chair.

Izuku swallowed hard, his throat dry and raw, his head swimming with exhaustion, with fear.

His entire body trembled, muscles burning as he forced his eyes open again, blinking against the haze, against the way his vision blurred at the edges. The yellow glow flickered against the walls, stretching into long, spindly shadows. The cracked concrete seemed to move, shifting like it was breathing, like it was watching him.

It’s the same room.
The same room he was tortured in. For hours? Days?

The realization settled over him like ice, crawling through his veins, spreading into his chest like something poisonous.

He had never left.

He had never escaped.

His body slumped forward slightly, head swaying under its own weight, vision swimming. His arms twitched weakly against the restraints, his fingers curling into trembling fists, but his strength was nonexistent.

Get up. Move. Fight.

But he couldn’t.

He was trapped.

And then—

A presence.

A shift in the air, subtle but undeniable.

Someone was standing in front of him.

Izuku forced himself to look up.

And there he was.

The man stood with an air of complete ease, hands buried in the pockets of his long, dark coat. He didn’t speak right away—he simply watched, expression unreadable, eyes glinting with something cold.

Izuku’s breath hitched.

Slicked-back black hair.

Sharp, defined features.

Icy blue eyes.

Him.

A face Izuku had seen before. Not often, not closely, but enough.

A face that had hovered in the background of so many nightmares.

A face that had never belonged to a friend.

The voice that followed was gentle, almost kind.

“I turned off the lights,” the man mused, tilting his head ever so slightly, as if he were indulging a particularly naive child. “I saw you panicking a bit in there.”

Izuku barely registered the words at first. His body was locked in place, trembling, every muscle in his body tensed so hard it hurt. His breathing was still uneven, ragged—his chest rising and falling with the lingering remnants of panic that refused to fade. The black void that had swallowed him just moments ago was still clinging to his skin, still wrapped around his mind like suffocating hands, still pressing against his lungs, making it impossible to get enough air.

Izuku forced his head up, his vision swimming, his eyelids unbearably heavy. His throat burned with the remnants of a scream he didn’t remember making, the echoes of his own ragged breathing bouncing against the concrete walls.

Sunken green eyes locked onto his captor.

The man was still watching him, still perfectly at ease. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something sharp, something amused, as if he was waiting to see what Izuku would do next.

Izuku was too weak to glare.

Too broken to fight back.

His lips parted, his voice nothing more than a breath.

“T…There was a… monster.”

The words came out raw, barely above a whisper, but they carried everything. The terror. The sheer, overwhelming horror of what he had seen. The way the thing’s twisted grin had stretched far too wide, the way its hands had reached for him, the way the voices had screeched in his ears, whispering, laughing, taunting.

The hallucination hadn’t just been a nightmare. It hadn’t just been fear.

It had been real.

Izuku knew it had been real.

The man chuckled. A soft sound. Barely even that. Almost like pity.

“Really?” he hummed, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t see anything on the camera.”

Izuku froze. His blood turned to ice. His breath stopped.

For a long, terrible moment, he could only stare.

No.

No, no, that didn’t—

It was there.

It had to be there.

He had seen it.

“I-It—” Izuku choked on his own breath, his voice cracking as he tried to force the words out. “No, it was there!” His pulse spiked, his entire body jerking forward as much as the restraints would allow, the chair scraping against the floor as he pulled against the straps. “It was real! I saw it, I—”

The man gave him a knowing look.

Not cruel. Not harsh.

Almost… amused.

Like he had been waiting for this. Like this was expected.

Izuku’s stomach dropped.

The man let out a small sigh, shaking his head as if Izuku were nothing more than a foolish child caught in a lie. A small smile pulled at his lips, subtle and unreadable, as he reached forward—

And tapped a single finger against Izuku’s temple.

“It seems you’ve found a new hobby,” he murmured, voice smooth, even, almost gentle.

Izuku’s heart stopped.

His entire body seized, muscles locking, his breath catching violently in his throat.

He couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

Then, the man spoke again, his words laced with something sickeningly soft, something final.

“Hallucinating.”

Izuku’s mouth fell open.

His mind shattered.

For a long, terrible second, there was nothing. No sound. No thought. No air.

Was that… true? No. No, it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

The words echoed over and over again, wrapping around his mind like vines, twisting, constricting, pulling tight.

Had there been a camera in that room?

Izuku had been so panicked, so lost in the void, so trapped inside his own mind—he hadn’t noticed.

And if there had been—
Then why had it only been him who saw it?

Why hadn’t it been real?

His mind swam, slipping further and further into the fog, unable to focus, unable to grasp onto anything solid.

His entire body trembled violently. His breath came in short, panicked gasps. His chest ached with the force of it, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down, because what if—

What if he really had imagined it?

What if it had never been real?

What if this—what if everything —was all in his head?

The man didn’t wait for an answer.

He didn’t need one.

Izuku barely even registered the moment he turned away, his presence shifting like a phantom moving through the dim light. His footsteps were slow, unhurried, echoing lightly against the concrete floor. His coat swayed with the movement, fabric rustling ever so softly in the suffocating silence.

Then, he stopped.

At first, Izuku didn’t know why. His heart was pounding too loudly in his ears, his body still trembling from the weight of doubt that had been forced into his mind. But then—

Click.

The sound of fingertips tapping against metal.

The scrape of something being picked up.

Izuku’s stomach twisted violently.

Slowly, the man turned back to face him. His fingers curled around a thin, delicate object—

A syringe.

Izuku’s breath hitched.

No.

The dim light flickered, catching the glass of the vial, illuminating the liquid inside—

A soft, almost innocent shade of pink.

NO.

His entire body seized, lungs locking, his limbs jerking violently in the restraints. The chair rattled beneath him as his muscles screamed, as adrenaline surged through his veins, as his instincts screeched at him to move, to run, to get away.

“No,” he gasped, his voice a broken, desperate breath.

The man took a step closer.

Izuku thrashed.

“NO, NO—NOT AGAIN!”

His pulse spiked, panic crashing through his system like a raging storm. He yanked at the cuffs around his wrists, the metal biting into his skin, the cold edges pressing hard enough to bruise, to cut, but he didn’t care, he didn’t care—

His mind was unraveling.

He could already feel it—what would come next. The sluggishness, the exhaustion, the powerlessness.

He jerked his head to the side, trying to twist away, trying to make himself small, trying to avoid the inevitable—

But a hand shot out, fingers tangling deep into his hair.

Izuku barely had time to react before his head was yanked back with a sharp, cruel tug.

A strangled sound tore from his throat, his neck forced into an exposed arch, his body straining against the chair. His breaths turned to gasps, sharp and shallow, his shoulders shaking as the man leaned down ever so slightly, tilting the needle at just the right angle—

And then—

A sharp pinch.

The needle pierced his neck.

A broken sob caught in Izuku’s throat.

The drug sank in.

A shudder wracked through him. His veins froze. The world tilted.

His limbs went numb.

His thoughts turned sluggish, heavy, wrong.

A thick fog rolled over his mind, suffocating and dense, dragging him down, down, down, drowning him in unbearable weakness.

His fingers twitched—once, twice—before going still.

His muscles loosened against the restraints.

His body slumped forward, his head lolling uselessly, his chin pressing weakly against his chest.

The man let go of his hair.

Izuku barely even felt it.

Then, the man turned away again. Footsteps sounded. Soft, deliberate.

The sound of something being lifted—ceramic scraping against metal.
A faint clatter.

Then, the slow, grating sound of a chair scraping against the floor, dragging slightly before settling beside him. The movement sent vibrations through the ground, subtle but there, barely noticeable in his drug-induced haze.

Izuku barely reacted.

His body was heavy, limp against the cold chair, his limbs hanging uselessly in the restraints. His head lolled slightly to the side, the last of his trembling fading into weak, shallow shudders. His breathing was slow, sluggish, like every inhale took more energy than he had to give.

Still, he felt it.

The presence beside him.

Even through the fog in his mind, even through the numbing weight pressing against his skull, he could feel him. The man.

Watching.

Waiting.

There was a soft click as something was set on a table besides them, and then—

“You need some food,” the man said simply, his voice light, almost casual. Like they were having a normal conversation. Like this was a normal situation. “We can’t have you dying.”

Izuku’s lashes fluttered.

Slowly, his bleary, unfocused eyes dragged over to the object in the man’s hands. His vision wavered, swimming in and out of clarity, the pink haze of the drug still dulling his senses, making everything seem so far away. But even through the fog, he could recognize the shape.

A bowl.

A deep, ceramic bowl, filled with steaming liquid.

Izuku barely had the strength to react, but his body did it for him.

His stomach clenched.

A raw, aching hunger gnawed at his insides, twisting deep, curling around his ribs like a vice. His gut screamed for nourishment, his entire body instinctively responding to the scent curling in the air—

Rich. Heavy.

A deep umami aroma, thick with oil and salt, the unmistakable scent of slow-cooked broth.

Soup.

His throat went dry.

It had been so long since he’d eaten anything real. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had a proper meal. Days? Weeks? His body was starving, his stomach hollow and weak, his muscles brittle and exhausted from nothing but dehydration and pain.

The man lifted the spoon.

Izuku’s blurry gaze followed the movement sluggishly, watching as the liquid hovered in front of his lips.

A single spoonful.

A small, unassuming bite, golden broth swirling between the edges of the metal, steam rising in delicate curls. A tiny sliver of carrot peeked through the surface, soft and mushy, soaked with flavor.

Izuku’s breath hitched.

His head was foggy. Disoriented.

His body wanted it.

His lips parted slightly, barely aware of his own actions.

That was all the man needed. The spoon was pressed against his mouth.

And Izuku—pathetic, weak, starving —barely even resisted.

The broth slid over his tongue.

And then—

Burning.

A sudden, scalding sting, searing against the sensitive skin of his mouth.

It was too hot.

Far, far too hot.

The pain was instant.

Izuku’s body convulsed violently, a choked, strangled gasp ripping from his throat as the boiling liquid scorched his tongue, burned his taste buds, left a trail of agony down his throat.

He jerked in the chair, instinctively trying to recoil, but the restraints held firm, digging into his wrists, trapping him in place.

The soup spilled past his lips.

Hot liquid dripped down his chin.

It slid along his jaw, trailing down his throat, staining his collarbones before dripping onto his lap.

Onto his legs.

His raw, wounded legs.

The moment the heat touched the open gashes, white-hot agony exploded across his skin.

A scream tore from Izuku’s throat, raw and broken, his body arching as far as it could in the restraints, his fingers twitching uselessly.

His vision blurred—whether from pain or the lingering effects of the drug, he wasn’t sure.

Somewhere above him, the man laughed.

A soft, amused chuckle, light and unbothered.

“Was that too hot?” he asked, voice laced with false concern.

Izuku clenched his teeth, shaking, panting, his chest heaving with ragged, uneven breaths. The lingering soup stung where it clung to his skin, soaking into his torn pants, pressing against open wounds.

And then—

A hand.

A napkin, dabbing lightly against his chin, his neck, his legs—wiping away the mess with slow, deliberate movements.

Even that hurt.

The rough fabric scraped against sensitive skin, and Izuku sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers curling, his shoulders trembling as he tried not to flinch.

The man hummed, seemingly satisfied with his work. Then, with practiced ease, he dipped the spoon back into the bowl, scooping up another bite.

Izuku swallowed thickly.

This time, the man held the spoon higher, letting the steam rise into the cold air.

Then—

He blew on it.

The action was almost absurd.

A slow, careful exhale, cooling the liquid with gentle patience.

Like a parent preparing a meal for their child.

Izuku’s gut twisted.

The humiliation crept up his spine like a sickness, settling deep in his chest, curling around his ribs like a vice.

This was humiliating.

The man was blowing on his food.

Feeding him.

Like he was some fragile, helpless thing that couldn’t even lift a spoon on his own.

And the worst part?

He was.

Izuku’s head hung low, shame bubbling up inside him, weighing heavy in his throat, choking him with the sheer embarrassment of it all.

But—

He was so hungry.

His body ached for food.

He had no energy. No strength.

So when the spoon was lifted to his lips again—

Slow. Careful. Patient.

Izuku opened his mouth.

Slowly.

Pathetically.

He hated himself for it.

The spoon slid past his lips, and this time—

The soup was less hot.

Still warm, but not painful.

The liquid glided down his throat, rich and savory, coating his tongue in its deep, salty taste.
His tongue may have been burned just seconds ago, but he could still taste it.

A small, soft chunk of carrot and potato hovered between his teeth, breaking apart easily as he swallowed.

His stomach clenched at the sudden intake of food, his body curling into itself slightly, almost relieved by the taste, the nourishment, the fulfillment of something it had been denied for so long.

The man smiled.

“There you go,” he murmured, lifting the spoon again.

Izuku’s fingers twitched weakly in his lap.

The shame burned deeper than the soup ever had.

Another spoonful of soup followed, the steam curling into the air as the man blew on it, his gaze locked onto the spoon as if the act of cooling the liquid required his full concentration. Izuku barely had the strength to focus, but he could still see the ease in the man’s expression, the almost normal way he sat there, patiently preparing the next bite. If not for the restraints biting into his wrists and ankles, the cold concrete beneath his bare feet, and the lingering pain coiled around every nerve in his body, Izuku might have thought this was just an ordinary meal. A quiet moment shared between two people.

But it wasn’t.

It was anything but that.

The spoon moved closer, hovering just before his lips, and despite the humiliation curling deep in his gut, Izuku parted his mouth and accepted the food. He barely even thought about it.

His body ached with exhaustion, his limbs heavy and trembling, but the warmth of the soup—thick, rich, full of flavor—spread through his chest, soothing something deep inside of him. It was different from the freezing air, different from the sharp, sterile scent of the room. For a moment, just a moment, the warmth drowned out the pain, the hunger, the sheer emptiness weighing down on him.

Tears burned at the edges of his vision, hot and relentless, and before he could stop himself, they slipped down his cheeks in slow, silent streams.

A chuckle rumbled from the man’s throat, low and amused. “You certainly are a crybaby,” he murmured, his voice almost gentle. He dipped the spoon into the soup again, blowing on it like before, before bringing it back to Izuku’s lips. And despite the humiliation clawing at him, despite the dull horror gnawing at his ribs, Izuku took another bite. Then another. Each swallow was slow, every piece of carrot and potato or a different vegetable sitting heavy in his stomach, but he barely cared. He was too hungry to care.

Then, on the next bite, he moved forward on his own.

It was barely anything—a slight parting of his lips, a weak tilt of his head—but it was enough. He tried to sip from the spoon, desperate for more, but just as his lips brushed the surface, the man pulled it away.

Izuku blinked, dazed and disoriented, his bleary eyes focusing on the spoon.

Still full. Still warm. Still right in front of him.

But just out of reach.

The man was smiling.

A slow, knowing smile, one that stretched just a little too wide. “If you want more,” he murmured, his tone soft, almost teasing, “you have to tell me what your quirk is. And how you got it.”

The words sliced through Izuku’s mind like a knife.

His stomach twisted painfully, hunger curling into nausea. The warmth that had soothed him only moments before turned heavy and sickening, twisting into something dangerous. His breath hitched, his fingers twitching against the restraints, but he didn’t respond. He couldn’t respond.

Because he knew what would happen if he did.

He kept his mouth shut.

The man sighed, shaking his head as if he were genuinely disappointed. “What a pity.”

Then the spoon tipped.

Izuku barely had time to react before the small portion of liquid splashed onto his thighs.

A sharp gasp tore from his throat as the heat sank into his bandages, searing against his raw, exposed wounds. His muscles locked, his entire body shuddering violently as he choked back a cry. It wasn’t boiling—the man had blown on it, after all—but it was still hot. Still painful. Still enough to send sharp spikes of agony through his legs.

A quiet hum escaped the man’s lips as he watched Izuku twitch beneath him. “You still won’t talk,” he mused, almost thoughtful.

Izuku barely heard him over the sound of his own pounding heart. His breath was shallow, his pulse erratic, his entire body trembling from the lingering burn.

Then—

Fingers brushed against his cheek, slow and deliberate, trailing lightly over damp skin.

Izuku flinched.

The touch wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t cruel. It was gentle. Soft, almost soothing, as the man wiped away his tears in a slow, careful motion.

It made his stomach churn.

“I already expected as much,” the man murmured, voice low, unreadable. Then, after a moment, “What is your relationship with All Might?”

Izuku sucked in a sharp breath. His lips parted slightly, his mind racing, his stomach twisting even further. He forced himself to look down, to focus on anything else—the floor, the broken tiles, the dark stains marring the concrete—but before he could find his words, fingers latched onto his chin.

His head was yanked up, his neck straining as he was forced to meet the man’s eyes.

Cold. Piercing. Blue like ice.

The breath caught in Izuku’s throat. His body locked up, muscles stiff with tension.

“I…” He swallowed, his voice hoarse. “H-He’s my teacher.”

The air in the room shifted.

For a moment, just a moment, silence stretched between them.

Then—

“NONSENSE.”

The voice that had been so calm, so quiet, exploded into the air, shattering the stillness, reverberating off the walls with sharp, violent force.

Izuku flinched so hard the chair scraped against the floor. His body curled inward on instinct, every muscle tensing, breath coming in rapid, shallow gasps.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the anger vanished.

A slow, eerie smile curled the man’s lips. “I know you met him during middle school,” he said smoothly, as if nothing had happened.

Izuku went completely still.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t say a word.

The man exhaled, long and slow, before shaking his head. “You can say goodbye to this soup.”

Izuku’s stomach dropped.

His eyes darted to the bowl, still half-full, still warm in the man’s hands.

Then—

The bowl tilted.

And this time, there was no hesitation.

The steaming liquid poured down, scalding and thick, splashing over his thighs, his knees, his shins—

And the pain that followed was unbearable.

A scream ripped from Izuku’s throat, raw and agonized, his body jerking violently in the restraints. He thrashed, his chair rattling, his muscles spasming as the heat burned through the bloodstained bandages, sinking deep into his skin. His vision blurred, black spots clouding his sight as the pain overwhelmed every other sensation, drowning him in white-hot agony.

This steaming hot liquid wasn’t just hurting izuku’s wounds, it was literally burning his legs

And still, the liquid kept falling.

Slowly, torturously, as if the man was savoring every second.

Until finally—

The last thing to fall was the bowl itself.

It struck his legs with a dull thud before shattering against the floor, ceramic shards scattering across the ground like broken glass.

Izuku gasped, chest heaving, tears slipping freely down his face as his body shook, wracked with pain, with exhaustion, with the unbearable burn still searing through his legs.

The man exhaled, slow and measured.

For the first time since the meal had begun. He looked irritated.

And due to the pain, Izuku had passed out.

Notes:

15/04/25

Chapter 7: One Week

The search team had been working for days without rest, pushing their limits, their eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. They ran on caffeine and sheer desperation, cycling through every possible lead, every potential clue, but every result led them to the same answer—

Nothing.

No more footage of the kidnapping.

No reports of suspicious activity around the area where Midoriya had vanished.

No traces of his quirk being used.

No sign of him.

The only thing they had was a voice recording, a brief, audio fragment of the man who had taken him. It had been analyzed over and over, run through multiple databases, compared to known villains and criminals, but there was no match. The voice was controlled, calm. Cold. Every word deliberate, calculated. A professional. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

And it was driving the investigation team insane.

Aizawa barely slept. He spent his nights poring over reports, cross-checking every possible connection, scouring old villain cases, reaching out to underground informants—but there was nothing.

Meanwhile, Class 1-A continued with their daily routine.

It felt wrong.

Every lesson, every lunch break, every training session felt like walking through a ghost town. They weren’t just missing a classmate—they were missing Midoriya. The heart of their class. The one who never stopped pushing forward, the one who encouraged everyone to be better, to fight harder, to never give up.

And now he was gone.

Vanished.

And they were still expected to carry on as if things were normal.

…

The television was on, but no one was watching it. The news played in the background, the anchor discussing a minor villain attack in Hosu, but it didn’t matter. Not to them.

Kirishima sat on the couch, bouncing his leg anxiously, his fingers digging into the fabric of his pants. Beside him, Mina sat with her arms crossed, staring at the screen with vacant eyes.

“I don’t get it,” Kaminari muttered, pacing near the window. “How the hell do you kidnap Midoriya and just disappear? How does that even happen?”

“They planned it,” Yaoyorozu said quietly. “Whoever took him… this wasn’t random.”

Jirou, who had been sitting on the floor with her knees tucked to her chest, shook her head. “If they planned it, that means they’re not done with him yet.”

Her voice was hollow. No one responded.

“Who says he’s kidnapped, for all we know he could be…” Denki rethought what he was about to say, and stopped mid sentence.

In the kitchen, Sero leaned against the counter, arms folded tightly across his chest, while Ojiro gripped his wrist, his knuckles white. Shoji, silent as always, stood near the doorway, watching them all carefully.

Todoroki sat in the corner, barely speaking. He hadn’t said much in days. Neither had Iida.

Iida, who had been so vocal, so determined to uphold the rules, had barely uttered a word since Midoriya disappeared. He sat stiffly at the dining table, gripping his phone like he was expecting a call at any second.

A call that would never come.

…

[Training Hall – After Class]

Katsuki and Todoroki were locked in an intense sparring session, their bodies moving with precision and ferocity. Neither of them spoke. Words weren’t needed.

Katsuki’s explosions crackled through the air, sweat dripping down his forehead as he lunged forward, aiming a powerful strike at Todoroki’s side. Todoroki countered with a burst of ice, creating a jagged wall between them, before melting it in an instant with a wave of fire. The heat clashed against Katsuki’s palm as he blasted himself backward, landing on his feet, his breathing heavy.

They had been going for an hour.

Training. Fighting.

Letting out the frustration that neither of them wanted to admit they had.

Midoriya should be here.

Midoriya should be training with them, overanalyzing their movements, mumbling strategies under his breath, pushing himself harder than anyone else in the room. But he wasn’t here.

And neither of them knew if he ever would be again.

The doors creaked open.

Both boys barely acknowledged it at first, too focused on the fight, until the presence of the person stepping in forced them to stop.

All Might.

Just his thin, frail self, dressed in a plain suit, his shoulders slightly hunched under the weight of the past week. He approached with slow, steady steps, carrying two bottles of water.

“You two did well,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re in peak condition.”

Neither of them responded immediately. Katsuki snatched the bottle from him, downing half of it in a few gulps, before slumping against the wall, arms crossed. Todoroki took his with a nod, sitting on the floor with his elbows resting on his knees.

All Might sat down beside them, exhaling.

For a moment, none of them spoke.

Then—

“Young Midoriya would be proud,” he murmured.

Katsuki’s grip on the bottle tightened, his eyes flickering to the side. He said nothing.

Todoroki remained still, but his fingers curled slightly against his knee.

All Might sighed. “I had dinner with Inko yesterday.”

That got a reaction.

Katsuki glanced up, his expression darkening.

“She must’ve liked the comfort,” he muttered.

“She was sad,” All Might admitted, his voice tinged with something unreadable. “But I could tell she needed a distraction.” He gave a weak chuckle. “She talked a lot about him. Showed me pictures. Memories. It was nice. I even got to see you in some pictures”

Katsuki scoffed. “Haa? Really? That’s gross.”

All Might let out a real, genuine laugh. It was small, brief, but real. The first in days. But it didn’t last. His smile faded quickly, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“It was nice,” he repeated. “Though it pains me that I couldn’t tell her anything good.”

His voice cracked slightly at the end.
You could sense that he held back tears from running dow.

Katsuki clenched his jaw.

All Might rubbed his fingers against his eyes, his exhaustion showing through for the first time. He wasn’t just physically drained. He was tired in a way that went far deeper than that.

“They’re going to find him,” Todoroki said suddenly. His voice was quiet but firm. Resolute.

All Might looked at him.

“We have to,” he continued. His hands curled into fists against his knees. “Because if we don’t…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

The thought was unbearable.

Katsuki exhaled sharply, leaning back against the wall, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. “Damn nerd,” he muttered under his breath. “If he doesn’t hurry up and get back here, I’m gonna kill him myself.”

The words were rough, but his tone was anything but.

All Might smiled faintly.

…

Most of the students had gone to bed, but a few still lingered in the common room, unable to sleep.

Uraraka sat curled up on the couch, knees drawn to her chest, her face buried in her arms. Small, quiet sobs shook her shoulders.

She had held it in for so long.

She had told herself she had to be strong, that she had to stay positive, but it was getting harder every day.

Iida sat beside her, his posture rigid, his hands resting tightly on his lap. He wasn’t crying, but his jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt.

Kirishima paced near the window, his hands balled into fists.

“This is bullshit,” he muttered. “We should be doing something.”

“What can we do?” Jirou asked softly. She sat cross-legged on the floor, her earphone jack limp against her shoulder.

Mina sat on the opposite end of the couch, her arms wrapped around a pillow. “We can’t just barge into the investigation,” she said. “Aizawa-sensei won’t allow it.”

Katsuki, who had just walked in from the training hall, scoffed. “Like I give a shit what he allows.”

They all looked at him.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. “We are doing something. We’re training. We’re getting stronger. So when that dumbass comes back, he won’t have to do everything himself.”

The room was silent for a moment.

Uraraka lifted her head slightly, her red, puffy eyes staring at him. “What if he doesn’t come back?”

Katsuki’s gaze snapped toward her.

For a moment, no one breathed.

Then—

He walked over, crouching down in front of her, his usual scowl softening ever so slightly.

“He’s coming back,” he said firmly. “That nerd is too damn stubborn to die.”

Uraraka sniffled, wiping her nose. “But what if—”

“No buts, he is alive, i know that.” Katsuki cut her off. “You really think he’d give up? You know him. That’s not how he works.”

Uraraka bit her lip, her eyes welling up again. “I just… I want to believe that, but—”

“You don’t want to believe it. You have to,” Katsuki said. “Because if you don’t, then what the hell are we even doing?”

Her lower lip trembled.

Kirishima placed a hand on her shoulder. “Bakugo’s right,” he said, softer than usual. “Midoriya’s strong. We just have to keep holding on until he gets back.”

Jirou nodded. “And when he does, we’ll all kick his ass for making us worry this much.”

A small, shaky laugh escaped Uraraka’s lips.

Katsuki sighed, standing up. “Get some damn sleep, Round Face. He wouldn’t want you bawling your eyes out like this.”

She sniffled again but nodded.

The room stayed quiet for a while, but the air felt lighter.

Just a little.

—————————

The first thing Izuku noticed when he woke up was the discomfort.

It was different from before. The hard chair was gone, replaced by the cold, flat surface of a metal table. His body ached from lying in an awkward position, his limbs strapped down by thick leather restraints. His wrists burned where the straps dug into his skin, and every shift sent a dull throb through his sore muscles.

Slowly, his mind started to clear, but with every second of awareness, the pounding in his skull grew worse. His head felt heavy, his thoughts sluggish—another side effect of that damn quirk suppressant drug. His stomach twisted at the realization. He was still here, in this torture room. Still trapped.

He wasn’t in that white room. The room where he’d wake up every time. Now he was just at that torture room.

The air in the room smelled different. The heavy aroma of the soup from before lingered faintly, but it was mixed with something sterile, something cold and metallic. The glass shards from the shattered bowl were gone. The floor was clean, wiped of any evidence of what had happened before he passed out.

Forcing himself to lift his head, he examined his legs. Fresh bandages wrapped tightly around them, stained pink in some areas where the wounds still seeped blood, but at least it was not red and soaked with water or soup. His arms were bandaged too, the gauze pressing against his torn skin.

The only thing he noticed was the pain. It felt as if his heartbeat was in his upperlegs. And with every beat, a raw shockwave of burned pain came.

He swallowed hard. Why? Why patch him up at all? It wasn’t mercy. It wasn’t kindness. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe that. The man wanted him alive, that much was clear. But for what purpose?

His throat burned with dryness. He tried to swallow, but it only made the ache worse. Shifting his fingers slightly, he tested the restraints, attempting to move with precision rather than force. The leather straps didn’t budge. His heart sank.

For what felt like hours, he lay still, staring at the ceiling. The small light above him buzzed softly, its glow searing into his eyes. He had no idea how much time had passed. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? The passage of time had lost all meaning in this place.

Then, the door creaked open.

His body tensed on instinct, breath catching in his throat. He wasn’t ready. He’d never be ready.

The man stepped inside with an easy, casual stride, holding something in his hand. Izuku watched him carefully, his pulse pounding in his ears. The man wasn’t carrying a syringe this time, nor a knife or any of the other tools he had lined up so neatly before. Instead, he held a bottle.

A bottle of whiskey.

Izuku’s stomach twisted even further. Alcohol? Why? What was he planning?

The man sat down beside him, meeting his gaze with a smirk. His fingers tapped against the glass bottle, nails clicking softly against the surface. "Look what I brought," he said, voice light and almost amused.

Izuku didn’t react. He simply watched, waiting for the inevitable twist, for whatever cruel game this was about to become.

The man tilted the bottle slightly, letting the liquid inside swirl. "Ah, you must be wondering why I brought this," he mused. "Well, it’s our one-week anniversary. I figured we should celebrate, don’t you think?"

Izuku’s breath hitched.

…One week?

His entire body locked up, muscles seizing as the words echoed in his mind.

That wasn’t possible.

One week? It felt like months. It felt like years.

His breathing quickened, chest rising and falling in short, uneven motions. His mind raced to make sense of it, but the numbers didn’t lie. Six times. That’s how many times he remembered getting injected with that drug. Six doses. If the suppressant lasted twenty-four hours each time, then—

A sharp, broken sound escaped his lips.

One week.

Just one week.

A week at UA would’ve passed in an instant. Classes, training, studying with his friends—his days were always full, always moving forward. There was always something to focus on, something to work toward.

Here?

Every second stretched endlessly. Every second felt like minutes, every minute dragged like an hour. Every hour felt like a day. Every day felt like an eternity.

His throat tightened as his vision blurred.

Tears welled up before he could stop them, slipping down his cheeks in hot, silent streams. “N-no” he whispered.

The man tilted his head, watching him with a twisted sort of amusement. "What’s this now? Getting emotional?" He chuckled. "Time passes fast doesn’t it?"

Izuku didn’t answer.

One week.

That’s all it had been.

Someone had to be looking for him. All Might would. Aizawa. Maybe Tsukauchi?
His classmates. They wouldn’t just give up. They wouldn’t stop. Right?
They had to be.

All Might wouldn’t abandon him.

Aizawa wouldn’t.

Todoroki… Ochako… Iida…

Kacchan.

Someone had to be looking.

But… only one week has passed, how much intel could they possibly have? Probably nothing.

The man let out a soft, satisfied hum, then poured whiskey into a small shot glass, the liquid sloshing lightly as he raised it. "I thought we should celebrate," he said, as if this was nothing more than a casual evening between friends.

Izuku turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut.

The man lifted the shot glass higher, giving him one last smirk “Cheers” and he tipped it back and downing the drink in one smooth motion. The glass hit the table with a soft clink, but Izuku barely heard it over the pounding in his ears.

One week.

He had only survived one week.

The man sighed, tilting his head as he swirled the whiskey in its glass bottle. His expression was one of mild disappointment, as if he truly expected Izuku to engage in whatever twisted idea of a "celebration" he had planned.

"It’s no fun drinking alone," he muttered, voice smooth and casual, as if they were nothing more than drinking buddies sharing a quiet evening together. His fingers tapped against the bottle, the rhythmic sound filling the tense silence.

Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he grabbed the bottle firmly.

"You should have some too."

Izuku’s eyes widened instantly. "N-N—" He tried to protest, but his voice failed him, coming out as little more than a strangled whisper.

Before he could form another word, the bottle tilted, and the sharp, burning liquid poured straight into his mouth.

He choked.

Lying flat on his back, he couldn’t swallow properly. The alcohol pooled at the back of his throat, bitter and overwhelming, searing down his esophagus before he even had the chance to react. His whole body shuddered at the taste—pure, harsh, and disgustingly strong.

He coughed violently, his throat convulsing, but before he could spit it out, a strong hand clamped over his mouth.

"Swallow," the man ordered, his grip firm against Izuku’s trembling lips.

Izuku’s teary, panic-filled eyes stared up at him, his entire body frozen in fear. His lungs burned as he fought against the urge to retch, but the man’s unwavering gaze left him with no choice. Shakily, he forced himself to swallow, his body convulsing at the sensation.

The whiskey hit his stomach like fire.

His breath hitched, nausea rolling over him in sickening waves. He tried to calm his breathing, tried to resist the overwhelming urge to vomit.

But the man wasn’t done.

"That wasn’t so bad, was it?" he mused, his tone disturbingly playful. Then, without warning, he poured another stream of whiskey into Izuku’s mouth.

Izuku thrashed weakly, trying to turn his head away, but the man’s grip was too strong. The liquid flooded his tongue, filling his mouth faster than he could swallow. The acrid burn of alcohol seeped into every crevice, overwhelming his senses.

His body panicked. His throat spasmed as he struggled to breathe, his chest tightening as if he were drowning.

He tried to gulp it down, but it was too much, too fast. Whiskey spilled from the corners of his lips, running down his chin and soaking into his already filthy shirt. His body trembled, his fingers twitching in their restraints as he desperately tried to control his breathing.

The man finally pulled the bottle away, watching as Izuku gasped for air, his chest heaving.

"Tch," he clicked his tongue, clearly unimpressed. "What a waste of good whiskey." His eyes flicked down to the floor, where drops of the spilled alcohol had splattered against the concrete. "Maybe I should just let you drink it yourself."

Izuku barely had time to process the words before the man moved.

Fingers gripped his arm, yanking him up with ease. His head spun, his body weak and uncoordinated from the alcohol and whatever drug was still dulling his system. Before he could resist, he was shoved down onto the chair—the same chair he had been tied to before.

The man worked quickly, securing the straps around Izuku’s chest, legs, and one of his arms. The only limb left unrestrained was his right hand.

Izuku’s fingers twitched.

He could barely hold himself upright, his vision swimming from the sudden movement and the alcohol burning through his system. His breaths were ragged, uneven, his body desperately trying to purge the poison it had just been forced to ingest.

The man shoved the bottle into his trembling hand.

"Drink it," he ordered, his voice calm yet firm.

Izuku stared at the bottle. His fingers barely wrapped around the neck of it, too shaky, too weak. His entire body was trembling, but not just from exhaustion or the alcohol—it was fear.

The weight of the bottle was heavy in his palm, not just physically but mentally.

He could smash it.

He could use whatever last ounce of strength he had and drive the glass against the man’s skull. Maybe it wouldn’t kill him, but it could give him an opening.

But the moment he even entertained the thought, his arm wobbled.

He had no strength left. His muscles were too weak, too sluggish. He could barely hold the bottle upright, let alone swing it with enough force to do any damage.

The man smirked, as if reading his thoughts.

"You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?" he mused. "Go ahead. Try."

Izuku’s grip tightened, his breath shallow.

He couldn’t.

He was helpless.

“Now drink it” The man’s smirk widened before he slowly reached into his pocket and pulled something out. The dim light glinted off the object in his hand, and Izuku’s stomach dropped.

A knife.

His breath hitched, his entire body locking up as his wide, terrified eyes fixated on the blade. The same kitchen knife that had already carved into his skin before.

The man turned the blade slightly, letting the light reflect off its sharp edge. "Or do you want to do this the hard way?"

The sight of it alone was enough to break Izuku’s resolve.

"NO! PLEASE!" His voice cracked, raw and desperate.

The man grinned. "Then drink."

Tears welled up in Izuku’s eyes as his fingers tightened around the bottle. He didn’t want to. He couldn’t. But he had no choice.

With a shuddering breath, he lifted the bottle to his lips, tilting it back as he forced the burning liquid down his throat.

It was unbearable. The whiskey seared his insides, setting his throat on fire as he gulped it down. His stomach twisted violently in protest, bile rising in his throat, but he kept going. He had to.

"Yes, that’s it," the man praised, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. "You’ll be great company at a bar."

Izuku’s hands trembled. His entire body was shutting down, his head spinning as the alcohol took hold. His vision blurred further, the room distorting, spinning.

And then—

His stomach twisted violently.

A choked gag escaped his lips before he lurched forward, his body convulsing. He barely had time to register what was happening before he vomited, a thin stream of liquid spilling over his lap and onto the floor.

The sound echoed in the small room, a mixture of retching and gasping as he heaved, his body rejecting the poison it had been forced to endure.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then—

The man exhaled sharply through his nose, irritation flickering across his face.

"I just cleaned that floor," he muttered.

Izuku’s body slumped in the chair, weak and exhausted, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His lips burned from the alcohol, his throat raw.

The alcohol was getting to him.

Izuku could feel it, a slow, creeping sensation dulling the edges of his pain. His body was still sore—he knew it had to be—but the sharp, burning agony in his wounds had softened, blurred like smudged ink on damp paper. His muscles no longer screamed in protest, his head no longer pounded with the same unbearable intensity. It was still there, lingering in the background, but the whiskey was wrapping around his senses like a thick fog, muffling everything.

He had never drunk alcohol before.

His mother wasn’t the type to drink, not even on special occasions. She wasn’t necessarily against it, but she never kept wine in the house, never had a half-empty bottle sitting on the kitchen counter like some parents did.

And he had no father to sneak a sip from.

He had grown up without the experience of a curious child taking a stolen taste of beer or whiskey from an adult’s glass, no tipsy family gatherings where someone would joke, "Come on, just a little sip, it won’t kill you."

No. This was his first time. And it was a bottle of pure whiskey, poured forcefully into his mouth, burning its way down his throat with no regard for whether or not he was ready for it.

He was still seventeen. He shouldn’t even be drinking.

But here he was, his head swimming, his body heavy and warm in a way that made it hard to focus.

The dizziness he had felt before—the lightheadedness from the drugs, the exhaustion, the lack of food—had worsened. But now it felt strange.

It felt funny.

Izuku blinked sluggishly, trying to clear his vision. The room swayed. His stomach churned, nausea pressing against his ribs like a living thing. His mind drifted, detached from reality, floating somewhere between conscious thought and hazy delirium.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or throw up again.

His body slumped slightly in the chair, his head rolling to the side as he groaned. The sounds around him felt distant, as if he were underwater. He barely registered the man crouching down, a cloth in his hands, wiping away the mess on the floor.

It took him a second to process that the man was cleaning.

Carefully. Methodically.

Izuku stared at him, dazed. His head lolled forward, and he groaned again, the sound barely more than a hoarse whisper. His mouth was dry, the taste of bile and whiskey coating his tongue.

The man didn’t look at him as he worked.

His movements were slow but precise, the damp cloth dragging across the floor, soaking up the remnants of vomit. He wiped in deliberate strokes, making sure there wasn’t a single stain left behind.

For a moment, Izuku simply watched.

There was something disturbingly normal about the scene, something unsettling about the way this man—his captor, his torturer—was cleaning so gently, as if he were just tidying up after a careless child who had spilled their drink at dinner.

A laugh bubbled up in Izuku’s throat.

It was small, barely audible, more of a breath than an actual laugh. But it was there, slipping out before he could stop it.

He wasn’t even sure what was funny.

Maybe it was the absurdity of it all.

Maybe it was the alcohol twisting his perception, making everything seem just a little too surreal.

The man paused.

Slowly, he turned his head, meeting Izuku’s glassy, unfocused eyes.

Izuku didn’t speak. He didn’t have the energy. His head felt heavy, his limbs like lead. But a dazed, lopsided smile tugged weakly at his lips, the alcohol dulling his ability to control his expressions.

The man tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing.

"...You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?"

Izuku blinked slowly.

Was he?

No. Of course not.

But his brain was sluggish, his body unresponsive. His mind struggled to latch onto reality, struggled to remind itself that this was bad, that this was dangerous, that the man before him was not someone he should ever let his guard down around.

But the whiskey whispered something else.

It told him to relax.

It told him everything was fine.

Izuku let out another breathy chuckle, barely aware of it himself.

The man’s expression shifted, his lips twitching slightly in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

"Well," he murmured, setting the cloth aside. "At least you’re a fun drunk."

Izuku’s stomach twisted again, a sharp reminder that no, this wasn’t fun at all.

His breath hitched. The nausea returned with a vengeance.

Izuku’s body felt impossibly heavy. His arms, his legs, even his fingers—everything was weighed down, sluggish and uncooperative. His head lolled forward, then to the side, bouncing back like a broken puppet, the alcohol in his system dragging him toward unconsciousness. His vision blurred, the dim lighting of the room casting strange shadows that seemed to shift on their own.

He barely registered the man speaking at first.

"You know…" The voice cut through the haze, slow and deliberate, like he was choosing his words carefully. "Maybe you finally feel like answering my question."

Izuku forced himself to look up, though his head swayed from the effort. The man had set aside the cloth and was now crouched in front of him, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes locked onto Izuku like a predator studying its prey.

"That Quirk of yours," the man continued, voice casual. "Where did you get it?"

Izuku blinked, barely processing the question. His head felt like it was filled with cotton, thoughts coming and going before he could hold onto them.

He laughed, a lazy, breathy chuckle slipping out before he even realized it. His lips pulled into a weak, lopsided smile.

"Dunno," he mumbled, barely managing to form the words. His head bobbed again, the weight of it too much to keep upright. "Just… got it.”

The man exhaled a quiet chuckle, the sound low and entertained.

"Just got it, huh?" he repeated, leaning in slightly. His dark eyes gleamed with interest.

Izuku wanted to stop smiling. He wanted to sit up straight, to be alert, to do something—but his body wouldn’t listen.

The man tilted his head, studying him.

"Come on now," he said, voice light, but there was something sharper underneath, something probing. "I don’t believe that."

Izuku swallowed, his throat dry and burning from the whiskey.

"It’s a hell of a Quirk for someone like you," the man continued, his gaze narrowing slightly. "Super strength? That’s nothing new. But I’ve seen the way you use it. It’s not normal, and not to mention those other quirks of yours.”

Izuku’s breath hitched slightly. His sluggish mind struggled to form a coherent thought, struggled to grasp onto a way out of this conversation.

The man smiled, slow and knowing.

"You don’t use it like someone who was born with it, especially when you first started high school.” he mused.

Izuku forced out another laugh, though it was weaker this time. His chest felt tight.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" he slurred, blinking hard, trying to keep his head up.

The man tapped a finger against his own temple. "It means I pay attention."

He leaned in even closer now, his voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial.

"You weren’t born with it, were you?"

Izuku’s stomach twisted, the nausea churning violently.

He tried to shake his head, to deny it, to say of course I was—but his body betrayed him. He swayed instead, vision spinning, and his head dropped forward again, barely caught by his own shoulder before rolling to the side.

The man hummed.

"Who gave it to you, it was All Might wasn’t it?"

Izuku’s breath came uneven now, his heart pounding despite the sluggishness in his limbs.

He needed to think.

He needed to say something, anything, before this man—this bastard—dug any deeper.

His mouth felt like sandpaper, and his voice barely came out when he mumbled, "You… talk too much."

The man chuckled again, but this time, there was something darker in it.

In an instant, a sharp sting exploded across Izuku’s cheek, snapping his foggy mind into momentary clarity. His head jerked to the side, a dull ringing echoing in his ears. It took him a second to process what had happened.

The man had slapped him.

Izuku let out a slow, shaky breath, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His skin burned where the man’s hand had connected, the sensation cutting through the numb haze the alcohol had brought.

The man sat back, watching him with a mild expression, as if he had merely swatted a misbehaving child.

"It seems I haven’t scolded you enough," he murmured, his voice low and almost thoughtful.

Izuku swallowed, his throat raw. He forced himself to meet the man’s gaze, though it took all the effort he had left. His head still swayed, his vision swimming, but his eyes burned with something defiant.

He wanted to say something, to snap back, to bite out a sarcastic remark, but his body wasn’t cooperating. His tongue felt heavy, his lips barely able to form words.

The man’s lips curved into a smirk.

"You really are something," he mused, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Most people break a lot faster than this. But you—" He gestured vaguely toward Izuku. "You’re stubborn."

Izuku let out a breathy laugh, weak but still there. "Yeah," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "People… tell me that a lot."

The room fell silent except for Izuku’s shallow breathing. His eyelids were heavy, struggling to stay open as exhaustion pressed down on him like a thick, suffocating blanket. His body swayed slightly, his head bobbing forward before jerking back up. The alcohol had dulled his pain, numbing his senses just enough to make everything feel distant, unreal—like he was floating in and out of consciousness.

His vision blurred, the edges of his world fading into darkness. His body felt like it was sinking into the chair, muscles lax, nerves dull. Maybe if he just… let go, if he just slept, the pain would stop for a little while.

A few seconds. That’s all he needed. Just a few seconds of—

Something cold touched his neck.

A sharp sting.

Izuku’s eyes snapped open, but before he could react, a burning sensation erupted under his skin, spreading like fire through his veins. His entire body locked up as his muscles seized, his nerves screaming in protest. A strangled gasp tore from his throat, followed immediately by a raw, gut-wrenching scream as the drug flooded his system.

The pain was unbearable. It was worse than the last times.
How is that possible? Wasn’t alcohol supposed to dull your senses.

His fingers twitched, his limbs spasming involuntarily against the restraints. His heart pounded erratically, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. It felt like his blood was turning to ice, like his very essence was being drained away.

A sick, sinking feeling spread through him as he realized—he knew exactly what this was.

The quirk suppressor.
The seventh now.

He barely registered the man standing over him, watching with a satisfied expression as the effects took hold.

Izuku's body trembled violently, his vision darkening at the edges. His quirk—his power, the strength that had carried him this far—was slipping away, vanishing from his grasp like sand through his fingers. It was always like this. Every time the drug was injected, the connection to his quirk was severed instantly, as if something inside him was being ripped out.

The worst part was the emptiness it left behind.

The sheer, terrifying absence.

Izuku hadn’t been in touch with the users for a week now, though it had felt like months.

His body felt weaker by the second. He could barely move, barely breathe. His thoughts were scattering, slipping through the haze of pain and exhaustion.

A choked whimper escaped him as his muscles gave out completely.

His head lolled to the side, his eyelids fluttering.

The man leaned down, his smirk widening as he watched Izuku's consciousness waver.

"That’s it," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "Just let it take you."

Izuku fought it.

He tried to hold on, but his body wasn’t listening anymore. His breaths turned shallow, his heartbeat sluggish. His fingers twitched once more before going still.

His eyelids drooped.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

Notes:

18/4/25

Chapter 8: Shattered Pride

Time had passed.

How much?

Izuku had been in this hellhole for one week, but how long was he unconscious just now?
He barely remembered what happened before he passed out.
He drunk a whole bottle of whiskey, and then?…

The concept of time had blurred into something meaningless. Hours, minutes, seconds—it all blended together into an endless cycle of pain, exhaustion, and fleeting consciousness. The only thing he could register was the dull, throbbing pain in his skull, each pulse sending waves of nausea through his already battered body.

A groan slipped past his lips as he slowly stirred. His limbs felt heavier than ever, weighed down by fatigue and whatever remnants of that cursed drug still lingered in his system. His entire body ached; his muscles, his bones, even his skin felt like it had been scraped raw.

His head pounded—no, throbbed—with an unbearable intensity. A hangover. He had never experienced one before, never had a single sip of alcohol in his life, and now he was suffering the consequences of being forced to drink something far stronger than he should have ever been able to handle.

As his senses gradually returned, he became aware of the dampness on his body. A faint, sticky feeling clung to his skin, particularly around his arms and legs. Slowly, he tilted his head, wincing as pain shot through his cheek. The side of his face felt thick, was he slapped? Izuku remembered it faintly.

The bandages on his arms and legs—newly wrapped not too long ago—were no longer clean. Faint patches of red seeped through the once-white fabric. The alcohol had thinned his blood, making his wounds bleed again, even if just a little. It wasn’t enough to be dangerous, but it was enough to remind him how fragile his body was becoming.

The room was the same. That endless, suffocating white. No windows. No indication of time. Just the same four walls caging him in like an animal.

Izuku swallowed, his throat dry and sore. His tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. He didn’t realize just how dehydrated he was until his eyes landed on the small tray placed near him on the floor.

A single glass of water.

A piece of bread.

That same, dry, stale bread.

Izuku’s stomach clenched painfully at the sight of food. He wasn’t sure if it was hunger or nausea—maybe both—but he knew he needed to eat. Even if it tasted like nothing. Even if his body rejected it.

Slowly, he forced his body to move. His chained arms trembled as he tried to crawl around the room, his muscles screaming in protest. His legs felt like lead, barely responding as he dragged himself closer to the tray. Each small motion sent sparks of pain through his body, but he clenched his teeth and pushed through it.

When he finally reached the tray, his fingers curled around the piece of bread. It was rough and brittle under his touch, a far cry from the soft, warm meals he used to have back at UA. The kind of food his mom would make for him after school.

The thought made his chest tighten, but he pushed it away. He couldn't afford to think about that.

Taking a slow, hesitant bite, he chewed carefully, forcing himself to swallow. It was dry. So unbearably dry. It scratched against his throat, but he kept going, tearing off small pieces and shoving them into his mouth with weak, shaky hands.

When the bread was finally gone, he reached for the glass of water, his fingers wrapping around it tightly. The coolness against his skin sent a wave of relief through him.

He brought the glass to his lips and drank.

The water was lukewarm, but it was the best thing he had tasted in days. It eased the burning in his throat, washed away the stale, dry feeling left by the bread.

He drank until the glass was empty, until he had savored every last drop.

And then, with nothing left to do, Izuku sat there, staring at the floor, his body still trembling from exhaustion.

The white light above him was relentless. It burned into his skull, intensifying the pounding in his head until every throb felt like a hammer striking against his brain. The longer he lay there, the more unbearable it became, seeping into his vision even when his eyes were shut. There was no escape from it—no darkness to take the pain away, no moment of peace to rest his mind.

Izuku sucked in a shaky breath and forced his body to move. Every muscle resisted, stiff from exhaustion and torment, but he clenched his jaw and dragged his knees up toward his chest. Even such a small movement cost him all the strength he had left, his limbs trembling violently as if they might give out at any moment.

Still, he curled in on himself, pressing his forehead against his knees. The simple act of closing himself off, of trying to feel small, was the closest thing to comfort he could give himself. His arms, heavy with fatigue and covered in bruises, slowly lifted to wrap around his head. The cold weight of the chains around his wrists dragged at him, the metal clinking softly as he shifted.

His breathing was unsteady, uneven. Each inhale stung, and each exhale came out as more of a shudder than a breath.

He didn’t know how much time had passed.

There was no way to tell in this place. No windows, no clocks, nothing to anchor him to reality.

Just the empty, sterile whiteness of the room.

Just the dull ache of his wounds, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

Just the cold chains locking him in place, a constant reminder that he wasn’t free.

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

When would the next torture session come?

Would it be another round of questions? Another cruel game? More slicing, more burning, more breaking?

His stomach twisted.

It didn’t matter.

It was coming, whether he wanted it or not.

But for now, all he could do was sit there, curled against the wall, his body trembling, his mind teetering on the edge of consciousness.

Waiting.

Because that was all he could do.

…

The moment the door creaked open, Izuku’s entire body locked up. His breathing hitched, his muscles stiffened, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. His captor stood in the doorway, his black hair slightly tousled, those ice-blue eyes glinting with amusement as he stepped inside.

“You’re quite the sleeper,” the man mused, his voice carrying that same infuriatingly calm tone. He took a few casual steps closer, looking down at Izuku, who was still sitting slumped against the wall. “I suppose the whiskey did a number on you.”

Izuku didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His mouth felt dry, his tongue like sandpaper in his throat. The pounding in his skull from the alcohol and whatever drugs had been forced into him made it hard to even think. His head felt like it was filled with cotton, every thought sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion and dehydration.

“I see you ate your meal,” the man continued as he crouched down, resting his forearms on his knees. “Was it delicious?”

Izuku clenched his jaw.

The food had been stale. The bread was so dry it had felt like chewing on paper, and the water was barely enough to coat his throat. But he’d eaten every crumb and drank every last drop because he had no other choice.

The man didn’t need an answer. He smirked, tilting his head slightly. “You’ve lost weight, you know. I can tell.”

Izuku flinched at the observation. He had noticed it too. His arms felt thinner, weaker. His once-muscular legs, the ones that had carried him through intense hero training, through grueling battles, were now frail, barely able to hold his own weight.

Then, Izuku saw it.

The man was holding something. A plastic water bottle—full, much larger than anything Izuku had been given this entire week. More than enough to actually satisfy the dry ache in his throat. In his other hand, a slightly bigger piece of bread. Still dry, still unappetizing, but food.

Izuku’s breath hitched.

His body betrayed him before his mind even caught up. His lips parted as if to speak, but his throat was too dry, too weak, and no words came out.

The man noticed.

“Want this?” he asked, holding up the bottle just a little higher, letting the light catch on the plastic.

Izuku swallowed thickly and gave a weak, hesitant nod.

The man’s smirk widened. “Then tell me how you got your quirk.”

Izuku felt his stomach drop.

Not this again…

His body tensed involuntarily. The questioning had been relentless. This man had asked him over and over, pressing, threatening, hurting him to get an answer. But Izuku couldn’t answer, no matter what.

If he told him the truth—if the man knew about One For All—it would only lead to something worse. He’d force Izuku to pass it on. He’d rip it from him like a prize.

Izuku gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t let that happen.

The man hummed, watching his silence carefully before sighing, shaking his head. “Or…” His lips curled into a cruel smile. “You could beg for it instead.”

Izuku flinched.

“Tell me how pathetic you are,” the man continued. “How much of a failure you are as a hero.”

His words sliced through Izuku like a blade.

He was breaking him.

Piece by piece.

Cracking his pride, shattering his dignity.

Izuku sucked in a shaky breath, his shoulders trembling.

“Get on your knees and beg.”

Izuku’s hands curled into weak fists.

This was humiliating.

Degrading.

But he had no choice.

His friends—his classmates—were out there. They were searching for him. They would find him. He just had to hold out. He just had to survive.

And in order to do that…

He had to obey.

Slowly, Izuku pressed his palms against the floor and forced himself to move. His muscles screamed in protest, his body so weak he nearly collapsed the moment he tried to lift himself. His knees scraped against the hard floor as he struggled, his head hanging low in exhaustion.

“…Please…” His voice was barely above a whisper. Weak, pitiful.

The man let out a short laugh.

“I’m afraid that won’t do.”

Izuku clenched his teeth, his breathing growing more erratic as he forced himself to do more.

“Please… I’m sorry… I… I need…” His words were choked, his breath hitching as he lifted his trembling hands in a plea. “I messed up…”

Tears burned in his eyes.

The man laughed.

What’s that?” he teased. “You’ll have to do better than that. Show me how much you really want this.”

Izuku sobbed quietly, his body trembling uncontrollably.

“How about…” The man’s voice dropped into a lower, almost amused tone. “You call me Master.”

Izuku’s eyes widened in horror.

No.

This was too much.

This was crossing the line.

But he had to.

His breathing was shaky, his body heavy, his dignity long shattered.

“…M-Master…” His voice cracked. “I… I really would like that food…”

The man’s smile stretched wider. He pulled something from his pocket, and before Izuku could register what was happening—

A click.
A photo.

The man laughed and immediately showed the photo.

Izuku’s blurry eyes caught a glimpse of it. A picture of himself, taken in this very moment. Kneeling, weak, broken. His hands raised in a pitiful plea, his eyes hollow and red-rimmed from exhaustion and tears. His face, thinner than before, bruised and sunken. His hair, disheveled, sticky with dried blood. His body, wrapped in stained bandages, barely keeping together.
The chains that were digging in his wrists.

Izuku’s stomach twisted.

The man laughed, holding up the phone.

Izuku’s phone.

Izuku’s entire body froze.

The man had his phone.

How?! How had he gotten access?!

The horror in Izuku’s expression only made the man grin wider.

“What a pathetic photo,” he mused, waving the screen in front of Izuku’s face. “And to think, you call yourself a hero., that you were the one who ended all for one.”

Izuku’s breath came out in frantic gasps, panic creeping into his chest.

The man chuckled, turning the phone back toward himself. “How about I send this to your classmates?”

Izuku’s heart stopped.

No.

No, no, no.

“They’d love to see you again, wouldn’t they?” The man tilted his head. “Or… maybe they don’t miss you at all, considering how they still haven’t found you.”

“No…” Izuku’s voice was barely a whisper, his breath short and desperate. His entire body trembled with fear, his mind racing.

The man smirked, his fingers hovering over the screen. “Class A, right? That’s the group chat?”

Izuku’s eyes widened.

“NO!” he yelled, his voice raw. He lunged forward, as if that would somehow stop it.

The man didn’t even look at him.

His finger pressed down.

“…And send.”

Izuku’s world shattered.

His classmates—his friends— would see him like this.

A broken mess, kneeling on the cold floor, hands raised in a desperate plea, his face hollow with exhaustion and defeat. His skin pale, his body thinner than it should be, wrapped in filthy, bloodstained bandages. His once-vibrant green eyes sunken, rimmed red from crying, devoid of the spark they once carried.

They would see it all.

No, no, no…

Izuku shook his head frantically, his breathing uneven, his chest tightening. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real.

Then—

A sudden pling.

Izuku flinched, his stomach twisting painfully.

Then another.

Pling. Pling. Pling.

More. More and more.

The phone vibrated in the man’s hand, each sound cutting into Izuku’s chest like a knife.

His classmates were seeing the photo.

They were reacting.

Izuku wanted to vomit.

His head spun, his heart pounded so fast it felt like it was going to burst. His fingers dug weakly into the floor as he struggled to process it.

What were they saying?

What were they thinking?

Disgust? Pity?

Would they laugh? Would they think he was pathetic?

Kacchan—would he see it? Would he sneer, call him weak? Would he say he deserved this?

Ochako? Iida? Shoto? Would they look at the photo and feel ashamed to have called him their friend?

Tears welled up in Izuku’s eyes, blurring his already weak vision. His entire body trembled, every breath coming out in broken sobs.

He didn’t want them to see this.

He never wanted them to see him like this.

The man chuckled darkly, watching the panic unfold on Izuku’s face. “Looks like they’re seeing the real you now,” he mused, glancing at the screen. “So many messages already. You must be popular.”

Izuku choked on his breath, unable to look up, unable to bear it.

The man finally crouched down, placing the bottle of water and the bread on the floor in front of Izuku.
His hand dipped into his pocket, pulling out a familiar syringe filled with a pink fluid.

Izuku's entire body went rigid. His breath hitched, his already weak limbs trembling as he instinctively tried to scoot back. But there was nowhere to go. The cold wall pressed against his back, trapping him in place.

His stomach twisted.

Not again.

Not again.

The man smirked, rolling the syringe between his fingers as he approached. "You know, you really are stubborn," he mused, crouching down to Izuku’s level. "But we can't have you getting your quirk back, now can we?"

Izuku’s breathing turned shallow, his fingers digging into the dirty floor. He barely had any strength left, but his body still fought.

"P-please..." The words barely left his lips, weak and broken. His vision blurred with fresh tears as he pressed himself tighter against the wall. "Not again..."

The man only chuckled, amused by the plea. "Oh, but you know how this works by now, don't you?" His grip tightened on Izuku’s chin, forcing his head to the side, exposing his neck.

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut. His whole body braced for what was coming, but it never got easier.

The sharp sting of the needle pierced his skin.

A burning sensation flooded his veins.

Izuku's muscles tensed, his entire body seizing up as the suppressant took hold. His quirk—already unreachable—felt like it was being crushed beneath an unbearable weight. Every cell in his body screamed in protest, his nerves alight with agony.

He let out a strangled cry. His fingers twitched, grasping at nothing, his vision flickering as his body gave out.

The man withdrew the syringe, patting Izuku’s cheek with a satisfied grin. "That makes eight," he said casually. "Aren’t you lucky?"

Izuku barely heard him.

His head swayed, his body slumping forward. The world around him blurred into a hazy mess of colors and pain.

The suppressant always left him like this—weak, dizzy, helpless.

A fresh wave of nausea rolled through him. His limbs felt like lead, his muscles unresponsive.

The man chuckled, standing up as he finally turned to leave. “Enjoy your meal,” he said, his voice thick with amusement.

Then—he turned, walking toward the door, taking his time, as if savoring Izuku’s agony.

The lock clicked. The door shut.

And Izuku was alone.

His body trembled violently, the aftershocks of the injection wreaking havoc on his system. His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. His head swam, his heartbeat slow and sluggish.

He curled in on himself, his cheek pressed against the cold floor, his vision darkening at the edges.

Eight times.

Eight times that damn drug had been forced into his body.

Eight times he had been stripped of any remaining power, any shred of control.

His tears slipped down his face, silent and unrelenting.

He was exposed.

Everything—the fight, the strength, the pride he had left—was shattered in an instant.

His classmates had seen. They had witnessed his weakest, most humiliating moment. And now, they knew just how powerless he truly was.

A strangled sob tore from his throat.

His whole being felt hollow.

His dignity was gone.

His hope was fading.

Izuku buried his face in his hands, curling into himself as he sobbed, his frail body shaking uncontrollably.

This was too much.

He couldn’t do this.

He couldn’t take this anymore.

Notes:

21/4/25

Chapter 9: Your Decision, Their Fate

The dorm was alive with the quiet hum of students going about their evening. Some were upstairs, packing their bags for the weekend, eager to see their families after a long week. Others lounged in the common room, sprawled across the couches or at the kitchen counter, enjoying a rare moment of peace.

It had been a week.

A week since Izuku disappeared.

A week since anyone had seen his face or heard his voice.

And Class 3-A was still left in the dark.

The police weren’t giving updates, the heroes investigating had nothing to share—except for Katsuki, who had accidentally been a part of a lead. The voice of the kidnapper. No face. No location. Just a voice.

The weight of Izuku’s absence hung heavy in the air, but they tried to distract themselves, tried to keep some sense of normalcy.

Then, all at once, their phones went off.

The sharp pling of multiple notifications filled the room. Some were on silent, but those who weren’t felt their stomachs drop at the unexpected alert.

Mina, already scrolling through her phone, was the first to react.

Her eyes widened, body going rigid.

“…Guys.” Her voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “Midoriya just sent something in the group chat.”

Silence.

The air in the room shifted, as if a cold wind had passed through.

Those who heard her words froze, their hands shaking as they scrambled for their phones.

Momo dropped the book she had been reading. Kirishima nearly knocked over his drink. Iida, who had been adjusting his glasses, forgot to breathe.

The sound of frantic fingers tapping on screens echoed through the common room.

Then—

A collective gasp.

A sharp intake of breath.

A choked sob.

The reaction was instant. Horror twisted their features, eyes going wide, hands tightening around their phones until their knuckles turned white.

Tears welled up in their eyes.

Some were speechless, unable to form words, their mouths opening and closing uselessly.

Others could only whisper in sheer disbelief.

“…That’s…” Uraraka’s voice broke.

She couldn’t even finish.

Her phone slipped from her hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud as she curled into herself, covering her mouth to muffle her sobs.

The common room door slammed open.

Katsuki stood in the doorway, panting heavily, his breath ragged as if he had sprinted across campus.

He had seen his aswell.

His crimson eyes scanned the room, taking in the sheer panic on everyone’s faces.
His blood ran cold.

“What the fuck…”

His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

No one had time to respond before footsteps pounded down the stairs. The remaining students who had been upstairs rushed down, drawn by the commotion and the message in the group chat.”

And then the messaging started.
Some students started typing things in the group chat, trying to make the kidnapper talk.

“Who the hell is this?!”

“You bastard!”

“Give Midoriya back, you psycho!”

“Motherfucker!”

Messages flooded the group chat, sent by trembling hands and fueled by raw emotion.

No one cared about holding back their rage.

Uraraka curled up on the couch, her shoulders shaking as silent sobs wracked her body.

Shoji’s fists clenched so tightly his hands creaked under the pressure.

Kirishima had gone pale, his hands gripping his knees as if he were trying to steady himself.

Koda had to look away, his lip trembling.

Todoroki was still staring at his phone, his mismatched eyes dull with shock.

“Midoriya…” he finally spoke, voice low and strained. “He… he looks absolutely beaten.”

“Of course, that fucker had been torturing him for a full week now,” Katsuki snarled, voice laced with unfiltered rage. His hands twitched at his sides, small sparks of explosions crackling in his palms. His whole body was trembling with barely contained fury.

Mina wiped at her eyes, her voice cracking. “I—I can’t even recognize him. He looks so… different.”

Sero swallowed thickly, his throat tight. “His face… he looks hollow.”

“He’s…” Momo hesitated, pressing a hand to her chest, trying to steady her breathing. “…He’s lost weight.”

The realization only made the horror sink deeper.

They had known he was in danger.

They had known he was suffering.

But seeing it—seeing his sunken eyes, the hollow look in his face, the bruises, the injuries, the bandages, the defeat in his posture—made it unbearable.

It was real.

It was so real.

Iida forced himself to breathe through the tightness in his chest, his voice slow but firm.

“We need to tell Mr. Aizawa.”

No one argued.

No one hesitated.

They needed to act.

Because if they didn’t, if they wasted even another second—

They might lose Izuku forever.

Aizawa was still in the school, probably in his office, so they needed to call him.
Iida’s hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped his phone. His breath was uneven, his vision blurry with unshed tears.

His fingers trembled as he tapped on Aizawa’s contact, his heart hammering in his chest.

The line rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then—

“Iida?”

Aizawa’s voice came through the speaker, low and slightly rough, as if he had been resting.

Normally, Iida would compose himself, straighten his posture, and deliver his words with his usual discipline. But right now—right now, none of that mattered.

His voice wavered as he forced the words out.

“Mr. Aizawa…” He swallowed thickly, gripping the phone tighter. “…The kidnapper sent us a photo.”

Silence.

A brief pause, filled only by the distant murmuring of his classmates and the sound of Iida’s own unsteady breathing.

“…What?” Aizawa’s tone sharpened, the confusion evident in his voice.

Iida clenched his jaw. “He has Midoriya’s phone. He… he used it to send a photo to the class group chat.” His voice cracked slightly, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stay composed.

Another pause.

It was brief—but it was heavy.

And then, Aizawa’s voice returned. Low. Steady.

“I’m on my way.”

The line went dead.

Iida let his phone drop to his lap, his whole body shaking.

The room was still filled with quiet sobs and heavy breathing.

No one spoke.

Because now, all they could do was wait.

The common room was drowned in a heavy, suffocating silence. The only sounds were quiet sobs, uneven breathing, and the occasional rustling as someone shifted in their seat, trying—and failing—to find comfort.

Mina clutched Momo’s hand so tightly her knuckles turned white, while Momo rubbed small circles into her palm in an attempt to soothe her. Uraraka sat curled into herself, tears running down her face in silent streams. Kirishima was gripping the couch so hard his fingers dug into the fabric, his teeth clenched. Sero had his face buried in his hands. Tokoyami’s head was bowed, his fists clenched on his knees. Todoroki sat stiffly, his expression unreadable, but the way his hands trembled betrayed his distress.

And Bakugo—he was pacing. Back and forth, like a caged animal, fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. His breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling rapidly. Every now and then, he would stop, grit his teeth, curse under his breath, and then continue pacing.

Then—footsteps.

The sharp, deliberate stride of their homeroom teacher.

Aizawa had arrived.

But he wasn’t alone.

All Might was with him.

The moment they entered, the room shifted. The suffocating weight of grief and horror was still there, but now there was something else—an undercurrent of urgency, of silent pleading.

Aizawa and All Might took one look at the class and immediately knew—this wasn’t something minor. This wasn’t a lead that would bring relief. This was bad.

Aizawa’s gaze swept across the room, his sharp eyes taking in the tear-streaked faces, the white-knuckled grips, the way not a single student could meet his gaze.

“What happened?” Aizawa asked, his voice low, controlled—but there was a dangerous edge to it.

No one spoke.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then Iida, hands still trembling, stood up. His voice was quieter than usual, all traces of his usual formal confidence gone.

“The kidnapper…” He swallowed, forcing himself to continue. “He sent a photo of Midoriya. In the group chat.”

Aizawa’s eyes darkened.

“…Show me,” he said.

Iida hesitated. His fingers curled into fists, his whole body tensing. Then, without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

His movements were stiff, reluctant. His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before he inhaled deeply and handed it over.

“Scroll up,” he said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t dare look at the screen himself.

Aizawa took the phone.

He scrolled.

And then—his eyes widened.

Even through years of training, years of dealing with villains, of witnessing horrifying things—this made his blood run cold.

Next to him, All Might caught a glimpse of the screen.

He barely managed to stifle his reaction. His breath hitched. His face paled. And then, slowly, he brought a trembling hand up to his mouth, as if he might be sick.

His eyes—usually filled with warmth and strength—were blown wide with sheer, unfiltered horror.

“Young Midoriya…” he murmured under his breath. His voice shook.

The class flinched.

Aizawa exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around the phone.

“What the… fuck."

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t yelled.

But it hit just as hard.

Aizawa never swore in front of them. Never lost control. But now—seeing this—

No one could blame him.

Izuku was there, on that photo, probably just taken. He was pleading, eyes tired, sunken cheeks and bloodied arms. Completely exposed in cold clothes on a white cold floor.

The room remained still, tense, suffocating in its grief.

Then, Bakugo broke the silence.

“…That fucking bastard,” he growled, his voice hoarse. His fists shook violently at his sides. “I swear to god—”

“Bakugo.” Aizawa’s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and filled with unspoken warning.

But even he knew—there was no calming this.

Bakugo wasn’t just angry.

He was furious.

Livid.

Rage boiled beneath his skin like a storm ready to explode. His crimson eyes, usually sharp and challenging, were burning with something raw and dangerous.

And he wasn’t the only one.

Todoroki’s fingers twitched, as if barely restraining the urge to summon his flames. Kirishima had his head bowed, lips pressed together tightly, eyes burning with barely contained fury. Mina’s face was streaked with tears, but her hands were curled into fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms.

They had never felt so helpless.

Never felt this powerless.

Aizawa turned to All Might. “We need to report this immediately.”

All Might nodded, though he still looked pale, shaken. His hands were clenched at his sides.

Aizawa’s gaze flickered back to the class. He saw their grief, their pain, their helplessness.

—————————

Izuku sat hunched over, his knees tucked tightly against his chest, his arms wrapped protectively around his head. His fingers curled into his tangled green hair, gripping it as if to ground himself, to hold onto some last piece of reality. The water bottle was empty beside him, the dry bread long gone, swallowed despite the way it had scratched against his throat. The water had helped—at least a little. The whiskey’s bitter taste was finally gone, replaced with nothing but water , air and the coppery tang of his own blood.

He had been sitting like this for what felt like hours. Maybe it had been. Sleep refused to come, and even when his body begged for rest, his mind wouldn’t allow it. The quirk suppressant still ran through his veins, making everything feel heavier, duller—like his body wasn’t even his anymore. And then there were the hallucinations. He tried not to open his eyes, because every time he did, he was afraid he’d see them again. Shadows creeping in the corners, the walls shifting like they were pressing in on him, faceless figures standing just out of reach.

The man said they weren’t real. But Izuku wasn’t sure.

Then, without warning, the door creaked open. Izuku's body immediately tensed, his breath catching in his throat. He forced himself to look up, expecting to see the familiar cruel smirk, those cold ice-blue eyes staring him down.

Instead, two small figures were shoved into the room.

They fell forward with muffled cries, their tiny bodies hitting the cold floor hard. Their wrists were chained together, so were their ankles. The rusted metal clinked as they scrambled to sit up, trembling, tears streaking their dirty faces. They couldn’t have been older than seven.

Izuku’s stomach dropped.

The man stepped in behind them, closing the door with a soft click. He was grinning.

"They broke into my house," he said casually, like he was commenting on the weather. "Thought it was fun exploring a abandoned building."

Izuku barely heard him. His eyes were locked onto the children. A little girl with tangled brown hair, too scared to even speak as she curled into herself, shaking violently. And a boy with messy blond curls, his face red and streaked with snot as he sobbed.

"W-We did it... on ac-accident…" the boy hiccuped, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear. "We’re... sorry…"

Izuku’s heart clenched. He had no idea how they’d ended up here, but none of it mattered. They were kids. Scared, helpless kids. And they were in his situation now. He had to get them out.

The boy suddenly turned his tear-filled eyes toward him, finally getting a good look at Izuku’s face. His breath hitched.

“D… Deku?”

Izuku flinched. The name felt foreign to him now, like something from a different life. It had been so long since he had heard it, since anyone had looked at him like a hero. But in that moment, he saw it—the faintest spark of hope in the boy’s eyes.

Izuku forced himself to smile, weak and exhausted as it was. "Hey, buddy…" he rasped, his voice hoarse from the screaming and crying.

The boy sniffled, his lip quivering. The girl finally looked up, her wide, teary eyes locking onto Izuku’s battered face.

Then the man spoke.

“I was thinking of punishing these kids," he said, tilting his head. "What do you think, Midoriya? Any ideas?"

Izuku’s blood turned ice cold.

His head snapped toward the man, his entire body going rigid. His heart pounded violently against his ribs, a sickening mix of rage and dread twisting in his gut.

His throat felt thic, but he still managed to choke out a single word.

“No.”

The man’s grin widened.

Izuku shook his head again, more violently this time. He pushed himself forward on trembling arms, his body screaming in protest. He didn’t care. He couldn’t let this happen.

"Leave them alone," he begged, his voice raw, desperate. "They’re just kids. They didn’t— they didn’t do anything wrong!"

The man just chuckled. He took slow, deliberate steps forward, stopping behind the children. The girl let out a tiny whimper, squeezing her eyes shut as the man reached down and gripped the boy’s hair, jerking his head back. The boy gasped, his small hands clawing at the man’s wrist.

"That’s not up to you, is it?" the man murmured. His icy gaze flickered toward Izuku.
He exhaled dramatically, as if considering his options, before shaking his head with a disappointed sigh. "At first, I thought punishing both would be more appropriate," he mused, his voice light, casual—like he was discussing dinner plans instead of deciding the fate of two terrified children. "But now... I think I should let one live, and one die."

Izuku’s entire body locked up.

"That'll teach them, won’t it?" The man chuckled. "Teach them not to trespass into unknown territory."

A sickening, icy dread twisted deep in Izuku’s gut. His fingers dug weakly into the floor, his body trembling as he tried to push himself forward. His muscles were screaming, exhausted, useless.

"N-NO!" His voice cracked, his throat raw from dehydration and overuse. "They… they’re just kids!"

But the man only grinned wider.

Izuku tried to move, tried to push himself up onto his feet, but the moment he shifted, a fresh wave of exhaustion slammed into him. His head spun violently. His body was still sluggish, the weight of the quirk suppressant, and all his wounds dragging him down like an anchor.

He was powerless.

And the bastard knew it.

Behind him, the boy was still crying, sniffing loudly, snot trailing from his nose. But then, in between shaky breaths, he forced himself to speak.

“D…Deku!” His voice wavered. “Use… your quirk! You can save us!”

Izuku’s stomach twisted violently.

The child was looking at him like he was still a hero. Like he was still capable of anything.
It’s like he completely ignored izuku’s weak appearance.

Izuku’s breathing stuttered. His body went rigid.

"I…" His voice barely came out, weak and broken. "I… I can’t…"

The boy's tear-filled eyes widened.

Izuku’s head lowered in shame. His arms trembled at his sides, fingers twitching uselessly.

The man threw his head back and laughed. A deep, amused, cruel sound.

"A hero, huh?" He sneered. "A hero who can’t even use his own quirk? Who can’t even save the people right in front of him?"

Izuku flinched.

It was true. He couldn’t save them. Just like he couldn’t save himself.

The children just stared at him, their expressions shifting—first from shock, then to something worse. Awe. Disbelief. They were realizing what Izuku already knew.

Their hero—Deku—was just as helpless as they were.

The man crouched down, slowly, dramatically, until he was right behind the children. Then, in one fluid motion, he grabbed them both by the neck.

The girl gasped in panic, her body freezing in terror as the thick fingers tightened around her throat. The boy let out a strangled yelp, his small hands flying up, desperately trying to pry the man’s grip off. But it was useless. The man was far too strong.

Izuku’s heart stopped.

"You can save one of them," the man murmured, tilting his head. His fingers flexed, tightening his hold, causing the children to jerk slightly. Their small bodies tensed, choked sobs spilling from their lips. "You just have to say which one should live…"

His smirk widened.

"And which one should die."

Izuku's entire body turned to ice.

His breath came in quick, uneven gasps. His head spun. His fingers dug into the ground so hard they ached.

No.

No.

This wasn’t happening.

This wasn’t real.

But the pressure around the children's necks was real. The sound of their panicked wheezing was real. The way their small hands weakly clawed at the man’s arms—real.

Izuku opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

What was he supposed to say?

How could he even choose?

The man’s fingers flexed again, squeezing tighter. The girl let out a weak cough, her tiny body twitching. The boy’s legs kicked out helplessly.

Izuku panicked. His body moved instinctively, his trembling arms dragging him forward across the cold floor. His fingers curled uselessly in the dirt, his breath coming in desperate, shallow gasps.

He had to stop this.

He had to do something.

But no matter how much he screamed at his body to move—no matter how much he begged his quirk to activate—nothing happened.

He was powerless.

And a child was going to die because of it.

Notes:

Hey guys! I hope you’ve been enjoying my fic—I’ve been writing like crazy these past few months. Fun fact: I already have 20 more chapters ready to go.
Trust me, it’s gonna be a rollercoaster.

I’m gonna switch up my upload schedule to probably twice a week. I’ve been spamming you with chapters lately, but I don’t want to overdo it, otherwise I’ll have to start writing more just to catch up (which is  literally happening with my other two fanfics)

I’m also starting to plan out the ending of the fic… but it doesn’t feel right to rush it. I just really love diving into the details.

Anyway, I hope you’re enjoying the story so far! I’ll keep you all updated on the posting schedule.
Next chapter drops on Monday, April 28!

 

24/4/25

Chapter 10: When Heroes Break

The man’s grip tightened on the children, and his smirk deepened as he stared down at Izuku with cruel amusement.

"If you don’t hurry up and choose one," he drawled, his voice dripping with pure, unfiltered malice, "I’ll just kill both."

The room seemed to close in on Izuku.

His heartbeat pounded violently in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. His breath came in short, desperate gasps, his lungs refusing to work properly.

No.

No, no, no.

He couldn’t choose. There was no way he could choose. That would make him a murderer.

The girl’s choked sobs cut through the air. She tried to lift her small hands, weakly grasping at the man’s wrist, her tiny fingers trembling with effort. Tears streamed down her dirt-streaked cheeks, and with what little breath she could muster, she tried to plead.

“P-please… save us…”

Izuku’s mouth fell open.

Nothing came out.

His hands twitched uselessly at his sides, his body trembling as every fiber of his being screamed at him to do something. But his limbs felt like lead, his muscles still weak, useless.

The boy let out a strangled gasp, his lips trembling as he tried to force words past the crushing pressure around his throat.

“P-please, D-Deku…”

Izuku’s stomach churned violently. The sheer panic, the weight of their pleas, the terror in their wide, tear-filled eyes—it was too much. His head felt like it was splitting open. His breathing turned rough, ragged, barely controlled.

He needed to save them.

He had to save them.

But he couldn’t.

He was too weak.

Too helpless.

And the man knew it.

The bastard was grinning, enjoying every second of Izuku’s misery. His fingers flexed again, his grip tightening even further around the children’s fragile necks.

The boy coughed, his small body jerking violently, his feet kicking weakly against the floor. The girl let out another strangled whimper.

Izuku’s hands curled into fists, his nails digging deep into his palms.

This couldn’t be happening.

This wasn’t happening.

“Three…”

The number rang in Izuku’s ears like a gunshot.

His breath hitched.

“No…” he croaked.

The man grinned wider.

“Two…”

Izuku’s vision blurred with tears. His whole body trembled violently, his head spinning as desperation clawed at his chest.

He had to do something.

He had to—

“One.”

“NO—!"

A sickening, stomach-churning CRACK echoed through the small room.

Izuku’s breath caught in his throat.

His whole world slowed.

It took him a second to process what had happened—his brain refusing to believe it, to accept it.

The boy’s body twitched violently for half a second before going completely still. His arms, which had been desperately clawing at the man’s wrist, fell limp at his sides.

His head—

Oh god.

His head was hanging at an unnatural angle, twisted grotesquely, completely detached from his body.

His neck had snapped clean off.

Izuku’s entire world shattered.

A sharp, gut-wrenching scream tore through his throat before he even realized he was screaming. His breath came in frantic, uneven gasps, his entire body recoiling in horror.

This—this wasn’t possible.

No normal human possessed that kind of strength.

Izuku knew the man was stronger than most, but this—this—wasn’t normal. He had to have some kind of enhancer. A quirk, or something.

But none of that mattered.

Because the boy was dead.

A child had just died.

Right in front of him.

And he had done nothing.

The girl let out a shrill, heart-piercing scream. A scream so full of terror, so full of pure agony, that it made Izuku's chest feel like it was caving in.

His whole body shook violently, his arms wrapping around himself as bile rose in his throat.

“NO.”

His voice came out broken. Raw. Useless.

The man simply sighed, looking down at the now lifeless body in his hands before tossing it carelessly to the side like garbage. The boy’s corpse hit the ground with a sickening thud, his head rolling slightly away from the rest of him.

Izuku gagged, his entire stomach churning.

He barely had time to process before the man turned his cruel gaze back to the girl.

"Since you didn’t choose," he murmured, his grip tightening around the last remaining child's throat, "the girl has to pay as well."

The girl gasped, her body jerking wildly as fresh, panicked sobs wracked her small frame.

Izuku's heart nearly stopped.

"D-Don’t!" His voice cracked, frantic and broken, as he scrambled forward on trembling limbs. "Please—don’t!"

But the man only grinned, his fingers flexing around the girl's delicate throat, relishing in her terror.

Izuku’s breath came in short, shallow gasps, his entire body feeling like it was about to give out.

"Three."

The man’s voice rang through the cold, suffocating room, casual and unwavering.

Izuku's body reacted before his mind could catch up.

Instinct screamed at him—MOVE. DO SOMETHING. SAVE HER.

He planted his trembling palms against the hard floor and tried to push himself up. His legs, weak and trembling from days of captivity and starvation, shook violently beneath him. His breath came out in frantic, uneven gasps, his heart hammering against his ribcage like it was trying to break free.

"Two."

Izuku's legs buckled before he could even straighten up. He collapsed back onto the floor with a painful thud, his entire body quaking.

His muscles burned. His limbs felt like they were made of lead. He could barely even lift himself onto his knees, let alone stand.

"NO, PLEASE DON’T!” he screamed, voice raw, desperate, his throat tightening with agony.

The girl let out a high-pitched shriek, but the sound was abruptly muffled as the man clamped his bloodied right hand over her small, trembling mouth.

"MMMPFF—"

Her muffled screams tore into Izuku like knives.

She thrashed violently, kicking weakly against the floor, her eyes blown wide with sheer, unfiltered terror. Tears streaked down her pale cheeks, mixing with the grime and blood that already stained her small face.

The man only chuckled, his grip unrelenting.

"One."

“NO!”

And then—

A sickening, stomach-turning CRACK.

The sound of bones snapping, flesh giving way, life being stolen.

Izuku’s entire body went still.

His breath hitched violently in his throat, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks.

The girl’s body twitched for barely a second. Her limbs spasmed as if trying to resist what had just happened. But then—

Stillness.

The tension in her tiny frame vanished. Her arms, once weakly fighting for her life, dropped limply at her sides.

Her neck twisted at a grotesque, impossible angle.

The blood—

The blood was everywhere.

Izuku barely had time to process it before the man's grip loosened, and the girl’s lifeless body slumped forward onto the floor with a dull, heavy thud.

Blood poured from her broken neck like a fountain.

It gushed out in thick, hot waves, pooling beneath her fragile body, seeping into the cracks of the cold, concrete floor. The boy’s blood had already begun to congeal, but the girl's was still fresh—too fresh. The rich, metallic scent filled the air, making Izuku’s stomach churn violently.

He couldn't breathe.

His vision blurred, his entire body trembling as horror consumed him.

His hands—his fingers twitched at his sides, his nails digging into the skin of his palms.

Blood.

It was on him.

It had splattered across his hands, warm and wet and unmistakably real.

His breath hitched, his stomach twisting painfully.

No.

No, no, no—

A guttural, choking sob ripped from his throat.

And then—

He vomited.

His entire body convulsed as everything inside him came rushing up—whiskey, water, the dry, tasteless bread he had forced himself to eat earlier. It spilled onto the floor in a mess of bile and stomach acid, mixing with the blood around him.

His throat burned, his body racked with painful tremors, his fingers clawing weakly at the floor.

He coughed violently, his entire frame shuddering with each ragged breath.

His head swam, his lungs felt too tight, his vision spun too much.

The blood. The smell. The bodies.

It was too much.

Izuku choked out a sob, his trembling hands still stained red, still dripping with someone else’s life.

He wanted to scream.

To wake up.

But this nightmare wasn't ending.

And Izuku wasn’t sure if it ever would.

…

The stench of blood filled the white-walled prison, thick and nauseating. It clung to the air, an iron-rich scent that settled deep in Izuku’s lungs, suffocating him. The vomit had only made it worse—a putrid mix of bile and whiskey that burned at the back of his throat.

He knelt on the cold, blood-soaked floor, his entire body trembling. His hands covered his mouth, trying to hold back the dry heaves wracking his body, but there was nothing left inside him. He had already emptied his stomach onto the crimson-stained tiles, and now, all that remained was the raw ache in his gut and the overwhelming guilt crushing his chest.

He couldn’t bring himself to lift his head.

He couldn't look.

He didn't want to see them—the two lifeless children who had been alive only moments ago.

Dead. Because of him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn't stop the images from flashing through his mind. The boy’s severed head, mouth still slightly open as if frozen mid-plea. The girl’s wide, unblinking eyes, her face twisted in terror.

They were just kids.

Just kids.

They reminded him of himself and Kacchan—two children running around without a care in the world, playing hero, exploring unknown territory, pretending to be strong.”

But these kids weren’t pretending.

They were gone. Forever.

Because he couldn’t save them.

Because he was useless.

Izuku’s sobs tore through his throat, each one raw and painful, his body shaking violently as he curled further into himself.

And then—

The door creaked open.

Heavy footsteps echoed against the tiled floor.

Izuku flinched at the sound, his muscles stiffening with instinctive fear, but he didn’t dare look up. He stayed exactly as he was—kneeling, trembling, his forehead almost pressed against the floor, his fingers tangled in his filthy, matted hair.

A sloshing noise followed—the sound of water shifting inside a bucket.

The man’s voice cut through the silence, cruel and commanding.

“Clean up, hero.”

Izuku’s breath hitched.

Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his head.

The man stood there, holding a mop in a bucket of soapy water. His face bore a twisted grin, eyes gleaming with sick amusement.

And then—

The man slipped on a pair of blue gloves.

Izuku’s stomach twisted.

Without another word, the man grabbed the boy’s limp, lifeless body by the ankles and dragged it across the floor. The movement was rough, careless, and the child’s headless torso left a fresh, smearing trail of blood in its wake. The girl’s body followed, her small limbs flopping unnaturally as he tossed them both into a rusted wheelbarrow like they were nothing more than discarded garbage.

Izuku felt bile rising in his throat again, but he swallowed it down with a choked sob, his whole body trembling in horror.

And then—

His gaze fell to the floor.

To the heads.
Still there.
Still staring.

The boy’s head, his mouth slightly open, his eyes locked in a frozen expression of terror.

The girl’s head, her dark hair sticky with blood, her lifeless eyes boring into Izuku like she was silently blaming him.

Izuku’s breath came in short, erratic gasps.

His body wouldn’t move.

The man’s voice snapped him out of his daze.

“If this place isn’t spotless when I get back, you’ll be punished.”

And with that, the door slammed shut.

Izuku flinched at the sound, his entire body going rigid.

And then—

Silence.

Horrible, suffocating silence.

It was just him now.

Him, the mop, the blood.

And the heads.

Izuku squeezed his hands over his mouth, his fingers digging into his skin, trying to suppress the fresh wave of nausea bubbling inside him. He needed to breathe—needed to focus.

But how?

How the hell was he supposed to clean this mess?

His legs were still shackled, barely allowing him to move. He was too weak to stand, his body trembling from hunger, dehydration, exhaustion.

His arms felt like lead.

But the worst part?

The worst part was that he could still hear them.

The children’s pleas.

The boy’s desperate cries—“Please, Deku!"

The girl’s sobs, her tiny voice shaking— “Save us!"

The memories clawed at his brain, replaying over and over until they were all he could hear.

Izuku let out a broken sob, his fingers trembling as he crawled toward the mop.

His hands were shaking so violently that he almost knocked the bucket over. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to grab the mop’s wooden handle, his body screaming in protest as he pulled it out of the bloodied water.

The mop was heavy.
He forced himself to press it to the floor.
Dragged it across the bloodstained tiles.

Again.

Again.

And again.

Each motion was slow, shaky. The blood smeared at first, spreading instead of cleaning, painting the floor an even darker shade of crimson. Izuku sobbed through it, his vision blurred by tears, his arms burning with the effort.

But he kept going.

Because if he didn’t—

He would be punished.

Because he had already failed.

Because the least he could do for them now—

Was make sure their blood wasn’t left here to rot.

By the time the soap water turned completely red, Izuku’s hands were numb, his fingers locked in a painful grip around the mop’s handle.

His body ached.

His throat was raw.

And still—

The heads remained.

Staring.

Izuku let out a shaky, broken breath.

And sobbed.

After a while, the mop slipped from Izuku’s grasp, hitting the floor with a dull thud as his body gave out. He collapsed onto the bloodstained tiles, his cheek pressing against the damp surface. The metallic scent of blood and the sharp sting of soap filled his nose, making him nauseous. His arms and legs were too weak to move, his breathing slow and shallow. His eyelids felt heavy, and no matter how hard he tried to stay awake, his body refused to listen. His vision blurred before fading completely.

Everything went dark.

—————————

When Izuku woke, the harsh glow of the overhead lights burned into his retinas, forcing him to blink several times. A pounding ache settled deep in his skull, and every muscle in his body screamed in protest as he tried to shift. He felt drained, empty, as though all his strength had been stripped away.

Then it hit him.

The memories surged back, flooding his mind all at once. The screams, the gurgling cries, the sickening crack of bones snapping under merciless hands. His breath caught in his throat as he jerked upright, his body trembling uncontrollably. He scanned the room, his heart hammering against his ribs.

The blood was mostly gone. Faint stains lingered on the floor, the only proof of what had happened. The children's bodies were missing, including their heads, but their absence did nothing to erase the truth. Izuku slowly lifted his hands, his breath hitching when he saw the dried blood still coating his fingers. The dark, crusted patches clung stubbornly to his skin, settled deep under his nails.

His stomach twisted.

A sharp sting at the base of his neck made him wince, but it hardly mattered. The weight pressing down on his chest was suffocating, his mind unable to process what had happened. His back hit the cold wall as he pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself. His fingers dug into his arms, desperate for something—anything—to ground him.

The door creaked open.

Izuku flinched, his breath catching as his entire body tensed. His mind screamed at him to move, to prepare for the worst. He braced himself, expecting the man to return, but the footsteps that followed weren’t his.

He hesitantly peeked up, and his breath hitched.

Katsuki, Todoroki, and Iida stood in the doorway.

His heart stopped.

His lips parted, his voice weak and hoarse. “Guys…” Tears welled in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks before he could stop them. His body still trembled, but for the first time in what felt like forever, hope sparked in his chest.

Todoroki took a cautious step forward, his eyes scanning Izuku’s battered form. “Midoriya?” His voice was calm but laced with uncertainty.

Iida adjusted his glasses with a firm nod. “We finally found you.”

Izuku tried to respond, tried to tell them how long he had been waiting for someone to come, how he had begged, prayed, for this moment. But before he could say a word, Katsuki’s voice cut through the air like a knife.

“You murderer.”

Izuku’s breath faltered. His stomach dropped, his mind struggling to process the words.

“What?” His voice came out weak, barely more than a whisper.

Iida’s expression remained unreadable as he took another step forward. “You murdered those children, Midoriya.”

Izuku’s mouth fell open, his heart pounding. “N-No… I—”

“Don’t try to lie.” Todoroki’s voice was sharp, his gaze colder than Izuku had ever seen before. “We know the truth.”

His hands clenched into fists, his breath coming in short gasps. “That’s not— I didn’t—”

Katsuki scoffed, stepping closer. “We found you so we could tell you that the class has forgotten about you, and we will leave you here to rot.”

Izuku’s chest tightened. Panic surged through him, his body moving before he could think. “No! Don’t!” His voice cracked as he scrambled forward, his shackles clanking against the floor. His hands reached out desperately despite the restraints. “Please! I—I didn’t mean to—” His words broke apart as his throat tightened with emotion.

But they didn’t move.

They only stared.

Cold. Unforgiving.

Katsuki’s lips curled into a sneer. “The whole class hates you.”

Todoroki nodded. “They curse your name.”

“No one wants anything to do with a murderer,” Iida added.

Izuku felt his entire world crumble. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps as he shook his head. “No… no, that’s not…” His voice faded, swallowed by the deafening silence that followed.

Then another voice joined them.

One that shattered him completely.

“I really should’ve chosen a different successor.”

Izuku froze.

His breath hitched as he slowly turned his head.

All Might stood beside him.

His mentor. His hero. The man who had once believed in him.

Izuku’s lips trembled, his voice weak. “A…All Might…”

But the older man only stared down at him, expression unreadable. “You are pathetic.”

Izuku flinched, his chest caving in under the weight of those words.

“You couldn’t even save two children who were right in front of you.”

Tears streamed down his face as he shook his head. “No… All Might… I tried—I…”

All Might’s eyes narrowed. “Keep my name out of your filthy mouth.”

Another voice followed.

Aizawa.

Izuku’s head snapped toward him, his heart racing.

His teacher sighed, his eyes void of emotion. “I should’ve expelled you from the start.”

Their words cut deeper than any wound ever could.

They stepped forward, their shadows stretching toward him, swallowing him whole. Their voices grew louder, overlapping in a chorus of condemnation.

“Useless.”

“Weak.”

“Murderer.”

Izuku pressed his hands against his ears, his breathing erratic.

“Stop… please…” His voice barely reached above a whisper, but the voices only grew harsher.

He buried his nails into his scalp, digging deeper and deeper, as if he could claw them out of his mind. “STOP!”

A loud bang echoed from the door, jolting him upright.

The room fell silent.

A new voice, soft yet familiar, broke through the suffocating darkness.

“Izuku?”

His breath hitched.

Slowly, he looked up.

And there she was.

His mother.

His shaking hands dropped from his head as he stared at her. “Mom…” His voice was barely audible, but his lips curled into a relieved, desperate smile. He could barely believe it. “Mom!”

She was here. She had come for him.

But something was wrong.

Her expression wasn’t one of relief.

It was filled with fear.

Izuku’s smile faltered.

“You…” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You are not my son.”

His stomach twisted painfully.

His hands trembled. “Mom?”

Her lips curled in disgust. “Don’t call me that.”

The air in Izuku’s lungs turned to ice.

“I am disgusted by you.”

He shook his head, his vision blurring with fresh tears. “No… no, not you too…”

Inko stepped back, her eyes cold. “Die here. Alone.”

Izuku’s entire body seized up. His mind spiraled, his nails digging into his scalp once more. His screams filled the empty room as the lights turned off and darkness closed in around him, swallowing him whole. 

Amazing artwork by r0kyu0 on tiktok

Notes:

Hey guys!
Here’s my upload schedule:
For the next three weeks, I'll be posting two chapters each week — one on Monday and one on Friday.
Hope you enjoyed the chapter... or cried like I did :’)

 

28/4/25

Chapter 11: No Way Out

Sunday evening had settled over Heights Alliance, casting long shadows across the dormitory’s common room. The weekend had come and was almost over, yet none of them felt rested. It was supposed to be a time to relax, a short break from everything that is going on, but how could they possibly relax when one of their own was still missing?

Izuku was out there somewhere. Kidnapped, tortured. Maybe even… Katsuki clenched his fists, forcing the thought out of his mind.

None of them could pretend things were normal.

The police had kept everything under wraps. Tsukauchi had decided it was best to keep the case a secret, sparing the civilians from unnecessary panic. If word got out that Midoriya Izuku, the strongest student—the boy who was supposed to be the next Symbol of Peace—had been taken, the public would lose their minds. It would mean that somewhere out there, someone stronger than Deku existed. A villain capable of taking him away without a trace.

Only a select few knew the truth.

The teachers, a handful of pro heroes, and a few trusted officers and people who were working on the case. But the rest of the school? They were completely unaware. The students of Class 3-A carried the weight of this secret alone, forced to act as if nothing was wrong. As if their classmate—their friend—wasn’t suffering.

The common room was unusually quiet.

A few students sat on the couch, their gazes fixed on the television. The dim light from the screen flickered across their solemn faces. The news played softly, the anchor’s voice crisp and emotionless as she read the latest headlines.

“This morning, two children were found dead…”

The words alone made some of them straighten, their attention sharpening.

“They were reported missing on Saturday morning. A seven-year-old girl and an eight-year-old boy, both from the same class. Their families last saw them leaving home to play in the neighborhood. When they never returned, a search began saturday evening, but they were nowhere to be found.

This morning, a forest warden discovered their bodies a short distance from the residential area. The children were half-buried beneath the dirt, hidden amongst the trees.”

The room was eerily silent. No one moved.

“They were murdered. The condition of their bodies suggests extreme violence. Their necks were completely snapped, also the cause of their death.”

Kirishima shifted uncomfortably on the couch. Yaoyorozu’s hand covered her mouth, her wide eyes staring at the screen in horror.

“The most disturbing part of this case, however…” The anchor hesitated briefly before continuing, her professional demeanor faltering. “Their heads were missing.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

“No fingerprints were found on the bodies. Authorities urge anyone with information to come forward.”

A pair of school photos appeared on the screen. A young boy with messy blonde hair, grinning widely with a missing front tooth. A little girl with braids, her eyes bright and full of life. Two innocent children who should have been at home with their families, not lying in a morgue.

It was horrifying.

No one spoke at first. The weight of the news sat heavy in the air, suffocating them.

Katsuki let out a slow, tense breath, his voice barely more than a mutter. “What a fucking psycho.”

Todoroki, who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, exhaled through his nose. “The world is still full of bastards,” he sighed, rubbing his temple.

Nobody disagreed.

The news anchor continued. “If anyone has seen suspicious activity or remembers seeing these children on Saturday morning, please contact authorities immediately.”

The broadcast moved on to another segment, but none of them were listening anymore. The damage had already been done.

Katsuki pushed himself off the couch abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”

His voice was flat, void of emotion.

“Goodnight,” some murmured, but it barely registered.

He left the common room without another word, his footsteps heavy as he climbed the stairs to his room. The moment he shut the door behind him, he exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of his desk.

Everything was wrong.

The world felt heavier than usual, and he hated it.

The investigation about Izuku was going nowhere.

Days had passed, yet they were no closer to finding Midoriya. It was as if he had vanished into thin air. No clues, no sightings, nothing. Only a photo and a audio, send by the fucking kidnapper.

Tsukauchi and the other investigators had all seen the photo—the one sent from Midoriya’s phone. The image that haunted them. But even with that single shred of evidence, they had nothing to go on. La Brava had tried everything, scanning for any trace of a digital footprint. But the sender had been thorough. The IP address was completely shut down before they could track it. Whoever had taken Midoriya was careful—too careful—leaving behind no way to trace the message back to its source.

No leads. Again.

And then there was the photo itself.

Katsuki had only looked at it once, but that was more than enough to burn the image into his mind.

Izuku…

His body was thinner than it used to be, alarmingly underfed, his usually toned physique reduced to something fragile and weak. Dark circles weighed heavily under his eyes—not just dark, but red, bruised, swollen from exhaustion and relentless tears. His skin, once full of life, looked dull and pale, marred with dried blood.

Blood. It was everywhere. Streaked across his cheeks, staining his hair, crusted over his skin in patches. Whether it was his own or someone else’s… Katsuki didn’t know.

He could still see the way Izuku looked at the camera. The way his dull green eyes—once so full of determination—were now filled with something else. Defeat. Terror. Hopelessness.

The sight made Katsuki’s blood run ice cold.

The worst part? He couldn't get it out of his head.

No matter how hard he tried, the image stayed. Haunting him. Clawing at the back of his mind. And it was probably haunting everyone.

With a sharp breath, Katsuki turned his head toward his bookshelf, his gaze landing on a small, framed photo sitting on the middle shelf.

It was a picture of him and Izuku.

A memory from kindergarten, back when things were so much simpler. When they both didn’t have a quirk. They were at Izuku’s house, sitting on the floor, surrounded by a mess of toys. Katsuki was grinning with all the confidence in the world, holding up a small All Might figurine like it was a trophy. Izuku, sitting beside him, had the biggest, dorkiest smile on his face, his chubby cheeks flushed with excitement.

Katsuki remembered that day.

Izuku had begged him to stay over longer so they could keep playing. His mom had made them katsudon for dinner. They had stayed up way past bedtime, talking about heroes and making dumb little plans about how they’d become the strongest together.

The memory should have made him feel warm.

But now?

Now it sickened him.

Because that same Izuku—the one who had always been so bright, so full of life—was now somewhere out there, suffering. Alone.

Katsuki clenched his jaw, gripping the edge of the bed as his hands curled into fists. His nails dug into his palms, his entire body tensed like a coiled wire. He couldn’t fucking stand this.

He sucked in a sharp breath and ran a hand through his face, dragging his fingers against his tearducts. The pressure in his chest only grew.

No.

He couldn’t let himself break down.

He had to be strong.

For Izuku.

Katsuki sat down on the bed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, forcing himself to keep his emotions in check. His throat felt tight, but he swallowed it down.

Crying wouldn’t help.

Feeling sorry wouldn’t help.

The only thing that would help was getting Izuku back.

With a heavy sigh, he let himself drop back onto the mattress, his head hitting the pillow as he stared blankly at the ceiling.

The quiet of his room pressed down on him.

The image of Izuku’s beaten face still refused to leave his mind.

And no matter how much he tried to ignore it, one thought kept repeating over and over again, hammering against his skull with relentless force.

If we don’t find him soon… it might be too late.

—————————

Time passed painfully slow after Izuku's closest friends and family had appeared before him. Or at least… he thought they had.

Was it even real? Had they truly come to see him?

Izuku couldn’t know for sure.

The line between reality and his own fractured mind had blurred beyond recognition. He couldn’t trust his memories anymore—not when his body was broken, his mind exhausted, and his senses overwhelmed by suffering.

All he knew for certain was that they were gone.

They had left him here.

Whether by choice or by some cruel trick of his captor, he was still alone in this hell.

Izuku’s thoughts weighed him down like a crushing weight, suffocating him beneath layers of guilt, fear, and despair. His mind kept replaying the image of those two children—their lifeless bodies, the way their blood had stained the floor, the horrifying crack of their necks snapping under the villain’s grip.

He could still hear their voices.

Their desperate pleas rang in his ears, cutting through the silence of his prison like sharp knives. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t silence them.

And worst of all—

He had done nothing.

Nothing but sit there, useless, helpless, powerless.

Izuku clenched his fists weakly, nails digging into his palm, but he lacked the strength to make it hurt.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook him.

His trembling body settled into stillness, his breathing slowed, and the overwhelming darkness of the room wrapped around him like a suffocating blanket.

The harsh white lights were turned off.

The overwhelming brightness—the thing that had burned into his vision, making him feel like he was trapped in an endless void of sterile white—was gone.

Izuku managed to fall asleep.

—————————

[The next day. Monday]

Izuku woke to the feeling of something cold piercing his veins.

His body jerked weakly at the sensation, but the chains around his wrists and ankles prevented him from moving much. His head lolled to the side, his vision unfocused, but he knew what was happening.

The daily dose of drugs.

Izuku struggled, shaking, but it had no use.

The liquid burned as it traveled through his bloodstream, numbing him from the inside out. It was the same every day.

A cocktail of suppressants designed to keep his quirk hidden away.

Izuku sucked in a slow, shaky breath.

He was getting used to the feeling.

That in itself was terrifying.

But as long as they kept drugging him, he was nothing.

Nothing but a weak, shackled prisoner—stripped of his strength, stripped of his hope.

When the injection was over, he was left alone again.

Izuku just sat there in the same uncomfortable position, his legs folded awkwardly beneath him, his arms resting limply at his sides. He didn’t move much—didn’t want to move much. Every movement was painful.

His ribs ached. His wrists stung where the chains had rubbed his skin raw. His muscles were sore from sitting still for so long, but it was better than aggravating his injuries.

Better than thinking too much.

Instead, he let his eyes slip shut, ignoring the gnawing hunger in his stomach, the dull throb of dehydration in his throat.

Hours passed.

Time blurred together.

Eventually, the man came back.

Four times. The man came four times since those children had died.

Twice to inject another dose of quirk suppressants. Izuku had started keeping track. If he was drugging him every 24 hours, then at least two days had passed since those children died.

The man also came twice to bring food and water.

If Izuku begged for it.

The first time, he had been too exhausted to try. The food had been placed just outside his reach, and when he couldn’t get to it, the man had simply taken it away.

The second time, Izuku forced himself to speak.

His voice had come out hoarse, broken from disuse, but he had managed to beg for food.

And the man had laughed.

Mocked him.

Told him he sounded pathetic.

But he had given him the food anyway—just enough to keep him from collapsing. Gross porridge. A small cup of water. A bit to prolong the suffering.

Izuku hated it.

Hated the way he had to lower himself to that level.

But if he didn’t, he would die.

And despite everything—despite the agony, the humiliation, the helplessness—some part of him still clung to life.

Luckily the man hadn’t given Izuku any torture sessions these last two days that hurt him psychically.

Some part of him still refused to give in.
He wasn’t sure how long that would last.

Because with every passing day, with every moment spent trapped in this nightmare, a single thought grew louder and louder in the back of his mind.

Would dying really be worse than this?

…

Izuku had just finished his small meal. The dry, stale bread barely filled his stomach, and the water was just enough to stop his throat from burning. It wasn’t much, but at least it was something.

Since he hadn’t been tortured in what he guessed was two days, his body had a little time to rest. The aches in his muscles were still there, his ribs still hurt with every breath, and the shackles around his wrists and ankles had rubbed his skin raw.

His eyes landed on the plate in front of him. It was made of glass. An idea formed in his mind. If he broke the plate, he could grab one of the sharp shards and hide it. When the man came in, he could stab him. His heart pounded at the thought. Could he really do that? Would he even have the strength to drive the glass into his body?

He swallowed hard, but he couldn’t let doubt get in the way. This was his only chance. If he let this opportunity slip, there might not be another one. His fingers trembled as he reached for the plate, but then his thoughts turned against him. Even if he escaped this room, what would happen next? Where would he go? He couldn’t return home. He couldn’t run to his friends or his teachers. He had seen them all, turning their backs on him, calling him a murderer.

Izuku clenched his jaw. It didn’t matter. He had to try.

Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the plate and lifted it just above the floor. His body screamed at him for moving too quickly, but he pushed through it. He let the plate slip from his fingers. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the room, making him flinch. Three large shards lay on the floor. He reached for the sharpest one, careful not to cut himself too badly, though the jagged edge still dug into his skin.

Izuku turned toward the door, gripping the glass tightly. He dragged himself across the cold floor, each movement sending sharp pains through his weak limbs. His breathing was heavy, his head was spinning, but he kept going. Once he reached the door, he reached for the handle, using it to pull himself up. His legs shook violently under his weight, but somehow, he managed to stay standing.

Now, all he had to do was wait.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he stared at the ground. His bare feet were still bound, but the chain gave him about fifty centimeters of movement. He wouldn’t be able to run, but if he could catch the man off guard, maybe he could get a head start.

He needed to figure out where to strike. Stabbing the man in the heart would be ideal, but could this fragile piece of glass even pierce deep enough? His best option was to aim for the eyes. If he could blind him, his chances of escaping would be much higher.

Izuku took slow, deep breaths, trying to steady his grip. His hands were shaking, but his mind was focused. This was his moment. If he failed, there wouldn’t be another chance. He had to make it count.

His breathing hitched as his eyes caught something in the corner of the room. A small, dark object nestled just beneath the ceiling—one he had overlooked completely in his desperation.

The camera.

His blood ran cold.

How could he have forgotten? The man was always watching. That meant he had already seen everything. He could know Izuku was waiting by the door. He could know about the glass shard. He could know Izuku was planning to attack.

Panic gripped his chest like a vice. His fingers twitched against the broken piece of glass, a new wave of fear crashing over him. What was he supposed to do now? Was it too late to pretend he hadn’t been planning anything? Should he throw the shard away and act natural? Should he—

Before his frantic mind could come up with an answer, the door handle turned.

Izuku’s breath caught in his throat.

The man was here.

His entire body went rigid. His grip tightened around the shard so hard that the jagged edge dug deep into his skin, slicing through his fingers and palm. Warm blood dripped between his knuckles, but he barely noticed. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out every other sound in the room.

The door creaked open.

And the moment the man stepped into view, Izuku let out a raw, desperate scream.

With every ounce of strength he had left, he lunged forward, both arms shooting out toward the man’s face. The heavy chains attached to his wrists clanked loudly as he thrust his hand toward his target.

His aim was true.

The shard buried deep into the man’s ice blue eye.

A bloodcurdling scream tore through the air.

"ARGHH!"

The man reeled back, hands flying up to his face as blood spurted from the wound. He staggered, his screams echoing through the corridor. Izuku’s breath was ragged, his chest heaving as he yanked his arm back, ready to strike again. If he could just get the other eye—if he could blind him completely.

But before he could move, something clamped around his wrist.

Izuku barely had time to register what was happening before a sickening crack split through the air.

White-hot pain exploded through his wirsts.

Izuku screamed.

His vision blurred as agony consumed him. He had broken his arms, wrists, fingers before—more times than he could count—but this was different. This wasn’t the numbing pain of overusing his quirk. This was sharp, raw, brutal. His entire wrist throbbed as if it had been set on fire, every nerve screaming in protest.

Tears burned in his eyes. His knees buckled.

The man crouched, his remaining left eye glaring down at him, filled with pure rage. Blood dripped from between his fingers as he clutched the ruined socket, his face contorted in fury.

"YOU FUCKER!" he roared.

Izuku barely heard him. He barely registered anything at all. His body was moving on instinct. The moment the man shifted, even slightly, Izuku acted.

He shoved his foot forward, planting it against the man’s shoulder. Then, using every ounce of strength he had left, he pushed off.

For a split second, he was airborne, his body twisting over the man’s head. Then, his feet hit solid ground.

Izuku stumbled forward, gasping for breath.

He was out of the room.

For the first time since his capture, he was out of the room without being dragged.

His heart thundered in his chest as he lifted his head, taking in his surroundings.

The hallway stretched endlessly before him.

Doors lined the corridor, each identical to the next. Some were slightly ajar, others locked tight. The only one he recognized was the one directly across from the room he had been trapped in—the torture room. He had been there before. He had suffered there before.

But the rest? He had no idea.

Where was the exit?

Where was he supposed to go?

His mind raced. His body screamed in protest, every muscle begging him to stop. But he couldn’t. He had to keep moving.

Sobs broke from his throat as he forced himself forward. It wasn’t running—not really. His body was too weak for that, and the chains were limiting his movement. His steps were staggered, unsteady, barely more than a fast-paced walk. But he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop.

A hand grabbed his ankle.

Izuku’s world tilted as he was yanked back.

His body slammed into the ground, his broken wrists colliding first.

A fresh wave of agony tore through him, blinding, unbearable. His forehead smacked against the cold floor, a sharp impact that sent stars bursting in his vision.

He couldn’t breathe.

His ears rang.

His body seized up, every nerve screaming at once.

"NO!" His voice was hoarse, barely more than a sob. "LET ME GO! STOP IT!"

He kicked out, his free foot swinging wildly, but the grip on his ankle was like iron.

The man was too strong.

Izuku clawed at the floor, fingers scraping against the cold, hard surface. But it was useless. He was being dragged back.

No.

No.

No.

His vision blurred with tears. His body trembled, blood dripping from his broken fingers. His chest heaved with ragged, panicked breaths.

This couldn’t be happening.

He had been so close.

The second the door slammed shut, Izuku knew it was over.

He pounded his fists against the cold, unyielding metal door, desperation clawing at his chest. "No, no, no—!" His voice was raw, shaking, but the door didn’t budge. He wasn’t strong enough to break through it. Maybe with one for all, but not in this state, there were no cracks to exploit, no weak spots. He was trapped. Again.

His plan had failed.

And now he was going to pay for it.

His legs gave out beneath him as the last remnants of adrenaline drained from his system. He crumpled to the floor, curling into himself as the reality of the situation sank in. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling violently. He had been close, but now, all he had done was make things worse.

He let out a choked sob. His wrists throbbed in blinding agony, twisted at unnatural angles. Blood dripped from fresh wounds where the glass shard had sliced through his fingers, mixing with the older scars left behind by the chains. The pain was unbearable, radiating through his entire body, but he barely had the strength to react.

Tears spilled freely down his face, his shoulders shaking as he curled in on himself. His body ached. His spirit felt crushed. And worst of all, the man would come back.

And Izuku knew, deep down, that this time—this time would be different.

——

Time passed.

How long, Izuku wasn’t sure. Hours? He had no way of telling. The white walls of the room remained the same, the silence thick and suffocating. His body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and pain. Every movement sent fresh waves of agony through his broken wrists, so he lay still, eyes unfocused, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Then, the door creaked open.

Izuku’s body tensed instantly.

The man stepped inside, and for the first time, he looked different.

Gone were the usual cold, calculating eyes—now, there was only one. The left eye remained. His right eye was covered in thick bandages, wrapped tightly around his head, obscuring half of his face. But the remaining eye, an icy blue filled with pure, unfiltered rage, bore into Izuku with such intensity that his breath hitched in his throat.

Izuku’s instincts screamed at him to run, to back away, to do anything—but his body wouldn’t move.

The moment their eyes met, panic exploded in his chest.

Tears welled up instantly, and before he could stop himself, he choked out, "No—I… I didn’t mean to!" His voice cracked, desperation leaking into every word.

The man didn’t respond.

He simply walked forward, each step slow, deliberate.

Izuku pressed himself against the floor, shaking his head, trying to scramble away. His back hit the wall. There was nowhere to go.

Then, without hesitation, the man grabbed him.

Agony tore through Izuku’s body as fingers wrapped around his already shattered wrists.

A scream tore from his throat, raw and unrestrained. His vision blurred with tears as the man yanked him up, dragging him forward like a ragdoll.

Izuku struggled, thrashing weakly in his grip, but the pain was too much—his body refused to cooperate. The ground slipped beneath him as he was pulled through the doorway, out of the white room, and into the dimly lit corridor.

No. No, no, no.

He knew where they were going.

The torture room.

His breathing grew frantic, sobs bubbling in his throat. "Please," he gasped, struggling against the man’s iron grip. "Please, don’t—!"

The man ignored him.

He didn’t stop, didn’t even acknowledge Izuku’s pleas.

Within moments, they reached the dreaded door. The man kicked it open, dragging Izuku inside before shoving him forward.

Izuku collapsed onto the cold metal chair, his body too weak to resist as thick restraints clamped around his limbs, pinning him down.

He struggled—of course he struggled—but it was useless.

Just like always.

The restraints tightened. The cold metal dug into his skin. His breath came in short, panicked gasps, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs like a drum.

Then, finally, the man spoke.

"Look at me."

The words were barely above a whisper, yet they cut through the room like a blade.

Izuku’s breath hitched. His entire body went still.

Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his gaze.

The man stood before him, his one visible eye burning with fury. The bandages covering the other half of his face were stained with dried blood, a stark contrast against his pale skin.

"You took something from me."

Izuku flinched at the venom in his voice.

"Have you forgotten who’s in charge here?"

Izuku’s mouth opened, but no words came out. His throat felt tight, his entire body locked in fear.

The man tilted his head slightly, eye narrowing. "Perhaps I’ve given you too much freedom to roam around in that room."

Izuku swallowed thickly, his voice barely a whisper. "N-No…"

The man scoffed. "No?" His voice was almost amused. "I think I have."

Izuku clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, fresh pain mixing with the old.

"Luckily for me," the man continued, his tone eerily calm, "I’m a doctor. I know how to handle myself. But you made things difficult." His fingers twitched, as if remembering the pain. "Do you have any idea how much effort it took to stitch myself up? I can’t exactly go to a hospital, can I?"

Izuku stared at him, his own breath uneven, tears clinging to his lashes.

The man took a step closer, looming over him.

"So," he whispered, his voice like ice, "I think it’s only fair if I take something from you."

Izuku’s blood turned to ice.

His body tensed, every nerve screaming at him to fight, to get away—but he couldn’t move. He was trapped.

The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out.

A scalpel.

Izuku’s breath caught.

His heart pounded against his ribs, panic surging through his veins.

No.

No, no, no—

A gloved hand grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look up. The scalpel glinted under the dim light, the sharp edge gleaming ominously.

Izuku tried to shake his head, tried to speak, but no sound came out.

He couldn’t breathe.

"You took my eye," the man murmured, tilting his head slightly. "So let’s make things even, shall we?"

And then—

The scalpel moved.

Notes:

I’M SORRY FOR THE CLIFFHANGERRR!

I was so excited to finally post this chapter—so much happens in it, I hope it wasn’t too much for you all! I can't wait to share the next chapter on Monday. Hope you enjoyed this one, and have an amazing weekend!

2/5/25

Chapter 12: Eye for an Eye

Notes:

TW: Graphic violence, body horror

The air in the room was suffocating. Izuku’s breath came in short, frantic gasps as he stared at the scalpel in the man’s gloved hand. The sharp edge glinted ominously in the dim, sterile light—far too clean, far too precise. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, fast and erratic, the panic overwhelming his senses like a tidal wave. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to fight, to do something—anything—

No.

No, no, no—

His body moved on its own, thrashing wildly against the restraints. The chair beneath him rattled with every desperate jerk, but the metal bindings held firm. His wrists, already broken and raw from the last attempt at escape, seared with white-hot agony as he pulled against them. He felt the slick warmth of blood trailing down his arms, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

He had to move.

He had to get away.

But then, fingers clamped around his jaw—harsh, unyielding.

The man forced Izuku’s head still, his grip ironclad, his thumb pressing painfully into his cheekbone. His skin burned under the pressure, his muscles aching from the force.

“Shh.” The whisper was almost gentle, almost soothing, but it dripped with cruelty. “It’s only fair.”

Izuku’s stomach twisted violently, nausea rising in his throat.

A strangled sob tore from him. “No—please—!” His voice cracked, trembling with sheer desperation. His body trembled so hard the chair beneath him creaked. “I-I won’t—please, don’t—”

The man didn’t even acknowledge his pleas.

His single blue eye remained cold, calculating, as he lifted the scalpel. The tip hovered just above Izuku’s right cheekbone, the sharp steel grazing his skin with chilling precision.

Izuku flinched violently, his breath catching in his throat. His chest heaved, the overwhelming sense of helplessness threatening to crush him entirely.

“I know what I’m doing,” the man murmured, almost as if to reassure him. His voice was steady, disturbingly casual. “But if you move this much, i might slip.”

Izuku barely had time to react before the blade pressed down.

A sharp, searing pain erupted just beneath his eye.

His entire body jerked, a choked scream ripping from his throat as the scalpel carved into his flesh.

It burned.

It burned so badly.

The pain shot through his skull, white-hot and unbearable, like fire licking beneath his skin. His vision blurred with fresh tears, his body convulsing against the chair, but there was no escaping it.

The blade moved with agonizing slowness, slicing deeper, methodically cutting through layers of skin and muscle.

Izuku shrieked. His throat was already raw from previous screams, but the sound that tore from him now was something far more broken.

The man didn’t stop.

The scalpel dragged downward, cutting with horrifying precision.

Izuku sobbed, his breath hitching in gasping, frantic cries. His fingers twitched helplessly, his nails digging into his palms, drawing blood as he tried to ground himself against the unbearable agony.

The pain wasn’t just sharp—it was deep, a sensation that spread and pulsed, radiating through his entire skull. His nerves felt like they were on fire, every push sending new waves of suffering through his body. His legs kicked weakly, his muscles spasming from the sheer, overwhelming torment.

His remaining eye darted around frantically, searching for something—anything—but all he could see was the man’s face, eerily focused, his expression one of cruel amusement.

And then—

The scalpel hooked beneath something.

Izuku’s entire body seized, his breath locking in his throat.

No.

No, no, no—

His screams turned into panicked, incoherent sobs.

His head shook wildly despite the crushing grip on his jaw. He gasped for air between cries, his body convulsing against the restraints as the scalpel dug deeper. His mind was spiraling into a haze of pain and terror, barely able to comprehend what was happening anymore.

The pulling started.

Izuku’s entire world shattered.

A pain unlike anything he had ever experienced tore through him as the scalpel began to lift.

It was as if every nerve in his face was being ripped apart, as if his very soul was being carved away. His body convulsed violently, his screams turning ragged, desperate. His vision flickered, his mind threatening to shut down completely under the sheer agony.

His hands twitched, fingers spasming as he fought against the inevitable.

The pulling continued—slow, excruciating.

Izuku’s body trembled, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. His head spun, his consciousness flickering on the edge of collapse. The pain was unbearable—so sharp, so deep, so all-consuming that he could barely think.

And then—

It came free.

A choked, broken sob tore from his lips as his body sagged against the chair. His chest heaved, his remaining vision swimming with tears and blood. The overwhelming pain didn’t stop—it radiated through him, throbbing, burning, consuming every inch of his being.

Something warm trailed down his face, dripping from his chin onto his torn, bloodied clothes.

And then he saw it.

The man held something between his fingers.

Small.

Round.

Red from the blood.

Izuku’s stomach lurched.

His eye.

His right eye.

The man turned it slowly, inspecting it with sick fascination. Then, without a hint of hesitation—

He lifted it higher, bringing it to Izuku’s tear-streaked, bloodied face.

“You won’t be needing this anymore.”

And with a slow, deliberate motion—

He crushed it.

A wet squelch echoed through the room.

Izuku’s breath hitched, his body convulsing as another sob escaped him. His vision blurred into nothing but pain and horror, his mind slipping further and further into shock.

He barely registered the blood dripping from the man’s fingers, his crushed eye nothing more than a ruined mess.

The man crouched down, his single blue eye gleaming in the dim light.

“Let this be a lesson, Midoriya.” His voice was soft, almost kind. “You don’t take from me.”

Izuku couldn’t respond.

He couldn’t think.

He couldn’t even cry anymore.

His body felt cold, distant. His mind was slipping, fading into a dark, endless void.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven gasps, every breath dragging fire through his throat. His limbs felt distant, disconnected from him, twitching in weak, useless spasms. The pain—oh god, the pain—was unbearable. It was all-consuming, radiating outward from the raw, gaping wound where his right eye had once been. Every nerve in his skull screamed, the agony reaching depths he hadn’t known were possible. His remaining vision was blurred, a hazy mix of tears, blood, and the dim, sterile light overhead.

His ears rang. The muffled echoes of his own sobs reverberated in his skull, but they barely felt like his anymore. His body was slipping away, falling into a void of pain and exhaustion.

But then—

Something cold pressed against his neck.

Izuku barely had time to react before a sharp sting pierced his skin, followed by a slow, unnatural burn that spread beneath the surface. He let out a weak, choked whimper, his body instinctively jerking at the sensation, but he was too far gone to fight. His limbs barely responded anymore.

His blurred vision flickered, the darkness closing in on the edges. But before it overtook him completely, he saw it—the syringe, half filled with that sickeningly familiar pink fluid. The same one the man always used. The drug that stole his strength, dulled his quirk, left him helpless.

The needle buried itself deeper as the plunger was pressed down, forcing the liquid into his bloodstream. The man held his head still, his grip firm against Izuku’s clammy skin, ensuring every last drop made its way inside.

Izuku barely felt it.

The pain from his eye—his missing eye—was so overwhelming that everything else became background noise. His thoughts were sluggish, slow, his body sinking into a numb, tingling state as the drug took hold.

His breaths shallowed, his fingers twitched, his lips parted in a final, broken sob.

He felt his body slacken, his muscles no longer able to hold him up. His head lolled forward, his chin brushing against his chest, his hair sticking to his sweat-drenched forehead. His remaining eye fluttered, fighting to stay open, but the darkness was pulling him under.

And then—

That smile.

The last thing Izuku saw was the man’s cruel, satisfied smile.

It was wide, pleased, stretching across his face like a predator admiring its prey. His single blue eye gleamed with twisted amusement, drinking in the sight of Izuku’s shattered, bloodied form.

Izuku’s breath hitched.

And then—

Everything went black.

 —————————

Izuku stirred, his consciousness sluggish as he was pulled back into reality, back into that white room. His body felt unbearably heavy, his limbs weak and unresponsive. A dull, throbbing pain pulsed through his skull, radiating outward like a constant, unrelenting reminder of what had been taken from him. His breathing was shallow, uneven, and every inhale sent sharp, stabbing pain through his ribs.

Something was different.

No—everything was different.

His senses slowly returned, though they came with waves of nausea and dizziness. He tried to blink, to clear his vision, but only one eye responded. The other—

It was gone.

Izuku sucked in a shaky breath, panic creeping in as he processed the emptiness where his right eye should have been. His head felt heavier on that side, as if the weight of the bandages wrapped tightly around his skull was pressing down on him. The rough fabric itched against his skin, but the real discomfort came from the absence beneath it. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat as flashes of the memory tore through his mind.

The scalpel. The excruciating pain. The feeling of something vital being ripped away.

Izuku’s body tensed involuntarily, and he gagged, his stomach twisting violently. He barely managed to suppress the urge to vomit, his throat burning as he forced down the sick feeling.

His breath came in quick, shallow gasps as he tried to ground himself. He squeezed his remaining eye shut, willing himself to focus on something—anything—other than the agonizing loss. But it was impossible.

And then he noticed something else.

His wrists—he could barely feel them.

Izuku shifted slightly, and a sharp jolt of pain shot up both arms, forcing a strangled cry from his lips. His wrists were completely encased in thick plaster, bound tightly in solid casts that extended halfway up his forearms. His fingers twitched, but even the smallest movement sent waves of pain through his broken bones. He gritted his teeth, his breathing ragged.

As if that wasn’t enough, thick metal chains wrapped around the casts, securing them tightly to a metal hook on the wall. He was completely immobilized.

Fresh panic surged through him.

No. No, no, no.

Izuku jerked against the restraints instinctively, but the movement only sent another unbearable shock of pain through his arms. He let out a shaky sob, his head falling back onto the thin, unforgiving mattress beneath him. His body trembled violently, overwhelmed by the sheer helplessness of his situation.

This was worse than before.

Before, he had at least been able to move, to struggle, to fight back in some way. Now? He was nothing more than a broken doll, wrapped in bandages and chains, now secured to the wall.

The realization made his chest tighten, his throat closing up.

He couldn’t stop the tears from welling up in his remaining eye, nor could he stop them from slipping down his face, trailing warm streaks over his bruised skin. He hated this. Hated himself for being so weak.

The sound of a door unlocking snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts.

His breath caught, his body going rigid.

Heavy footsteps echoed against the cold, concrete floor, slow and deliberate.

Izuku squeezed his eye shut, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want to face him.

But the footsteps stopped right beside him.

A shadow loomed over him, and then—

Fingers ghosted over his cheek, tracing the edge of the bandages covering his right eye.

Izuku flinched violently, a strangled whimper escaping him.

“Awake already?” the man mused, his voice far too casual, far too satisfied.

Izuku didn’t respond. He didn’t trust himself to.

The man chuckled, and the sound made Izuku’s blood run cold.

“You’ve been out for a while,” he continued, almost conversationally. “Had me worried for a second there.”

Izuku’s lip trembled.

The man ignored his fear and ran a hand over Izuku’s bound wrists, his fingers pressing down slightly on the thick casts.

Izuku gasped in pain, his body jerking against the wall.

The man tsked. “Still fragile, huh?” He leaned in, his breath warm against Izuku’s ear.

Izuku’s stomach twisted, his body going stiff.

The man pulled away, and Izuku dared to open his eye just slightly. Through the haze of tears, he saw the familiar, cold blue gaze staring down at him, filled with amusement.

Izuku barely had time to react before the man pulled a syringe from the inner pocket of his suit. The liquid inside shimmered an unnatural green, thick and almost luminescent under the dim light. Something about it made Izuku’s stomach turn.

His breath caught in his throat. His body went rigid, his muscles locking up as he stared at the syringe with wide, unblinking eyes. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out.

The man smirked at his reaction, twirling the syringe between his fingers as if it were nothing more than a toy.

“I managed to get my hands on something special,” he said, his voice light with amusement. “A beautiful little creation. A healing drug.”

Izuku felt his pulse thunder in his ears. Healing?

His gaze flickered between the syringe and the man’s face, searching for deception, for some cruel trick. But the man simply watched him, enjoying his silent panic.

Slowly, with a deliberate slowness meant to make Izuku squirm, the man slipped the syringe back into his pocket.

And then, without a word, he reached up and removed his eyepatch. That’s right, he wasn’t wearing bandages anymore, but an eyepatch.

Izuku’s breath hitched.

Where the man’s eye should have been, there was nothing—but the skin was smooth, completely healed over. A hollow socket, perfectly sealed.

The memory of what he had done—of how he had plunged the jagged glass into the man’s eye, of the screams that followed—rushed through Izuku’s mind, making his stomach lurch.

The man chuckled darkly, watching Izuku’s horrified expression with amusement.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” he mused, running his fingers over the empty socket as if inspecting his own wound. “Months of healing, reduced to just a few days. And it’s not even fully finished yet.”

Izuku felt sick.

The man crouched down beside him, close enough that Izuku could feel the warmth of his breath against his skin.

Then, with slow, calculated movements, he ran a hand along Izuku’s cheek.

Izuku flinched violently, a shaky breath escaping his lips.

The man ignored his reaction, his touch deceptively gentle as he brushed his thumb along the edge of Izuku’s bandaged face.

“I will never forgive you for taking my eye,” he whispered. His voice was low, a venomous promise laced within every syllable. “And I will never stop making you suffer for it.”

Izuku trembled, his breathing uneven.

The man leaned in closer, his lips barely inches from Izuku’s ear.

“But,” he continued, “I can’t have you dying.”

Izuku’s chest tightened.

“I still have so much planned for you.”

The man finally pulled back, reaching into his pocket once more.

Izuku watched in silent horror as he retrieved the syringe, holding it up between them.

“This dose is weaker than the one I used,” the man said casually. “It won’t heal you completely. Just enough to keep you alive.”

Izuku swallowed thickly, his throat dry. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want to be healed.

He wanted this to end.

The weight of his missing eye, the unbearable pain in his broken wrists, the constant torment—it was too much. He had already lost so much. What was the point of healing if he was only going to be broken again?

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

The man tilted his head, watching him closely. Then, after a moment, he smirked.

“Or,” he said, amusement flickering in his single blue eye, “would you rather die?”

Izuku’s remaining eye widened.

For a brief second, he thought—

Yes.

Yes, I want that.

But he said nothing.

He simply clenched his teeth, his body trembling.

The man chuckled at his silence.

“Well, too bad,” he murmured. “I can’t let you die just yet. After all, I still need that quirk of yours.”

Izuku barely had time to react before the man’s grip tightened around his chin, forcing his head back.

Izuku gasped, struggling weakly, but he was too exhausted, too broken to resist.

Without hesitation, the man plunged the needle into his neck.

A sharp, piercing pain shot through Izuku’s skin, joining the countless other marks from previous injections. The area was already raw, sore and bruised from repeated abuse, and the sting of the new needle sent fresh waves of agony through him.

Izuku’s breath hitched, his body going rigid as the green liquid was injected into his veins.

His vision blurred, a dizzying wave of nausea washing over him. His heart pounded erratically in his chest, and a cold sweat broke out along his skin.

The man adjusted his sleeve, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a casual conversation rather than continuing his twisted interrogation. He stood up, pacing slowly in front of Izuku, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the empty room.

Izuku’s breathing was uneven, his body still reeling from the effects of the drug. His muscles twitched, his skin felt hot and cold at the same time, and his pulse was a frantic, erratic beat in his ears. He could feel the liquid coursing through his veins, slow and deliberate, as if it were spreading to every nerve in his body.

"This should take a while before it starts working," the man mused, his tone light and conversational.

Izuku barely reacted, his single eye flickering up weakly to look at him.

"So..." The man sighed as if he were bored, as if this were just another routine in his day. Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, he asked, "How about you tell me how you got your quirk?"

Izuku inhaled sharply.

His entire body stiffened, every muscle locking in place.

He looked down. Then up. Then somewhere in the distance, anywhere but at the man’s expectant gaze.

Of course. Of course, this was his true goal. This had always been about the quirk.

Izuku had known this was coming—had dreaded it—but now that the moment was here, now that the words were spoken aloud, he felt a fresh wave of panic flood through him.

He clenched his fists, or at least, he tried to. His fingers barely twitched against the heavy cast and the metal restraints pinning his arms down.

The man was patient. Amused, even. He tilted his head, watching Izuku’s silence with something like satisfaction.

"Come on," he coaxed, voice smooth like silk. "I know you're thinking about it. You're wondering what will happen if you just give me what I want."

Izuku squeezed his eye shut.

He was.

If he told him the truth… If he gave up his quirk… Would this finally end?

Would the man kill him? Would he finally be free?

Or would he be set loose, abandoned and powerless, left to wander the world as nothing more than a shell of himself?

Would it really matter?

A dark voice in his mind whispered: Everyone abandoned you. You don’t matter anymore.

Izuku’s breath hitched.

No. No, he couldn’t think like that.

Giving up One For All—giving a villain such a strong power—it might end Izuku’s suffering, but it would only bring destruction to everyone else.

Even if they had left him, even if he was nothing to them now, he couldn’t let a villain get his hands on it.

The man chuckled, dragging Izuku’s attention back to him.

"I can see it in your face," he murmured. "You're debating it, aren't you? I wonder which part of you will win. The part that still wants to be a hero?"

He leaned in slightly, his grin widening.

"Or the part that just wants this all to end?"

Izuku’s breath shook.

The man took his silence as an answer.

His grin dropped, replaced by something colder, something crueler.

"I'll make you talk eventually," he said, the lightness in his tone fading. "You'll find out soon enough that telling me is the only way to end this misery."

He reached out, running a finger along Izuku’s jaw before gripping his chin tightly, forcing Izuku to look at him.

"You’ll break," he whispered. "They always do."

—————————

[three days later]

Two weeks.

Izuku had been gone for two fucking weeks.

Fourteen days of uncertainty. Of silence. Of staring at his empty seat in class, at the space he used to fill, pretending it didn’t gnaw at his insides like a parasite. Two weeks since the last time anyone saw him. Since the last time he walked through the doors of U.A., since the last time his stupid, muttering voice filled the dorm halls.

It was Saturday morning. The world moved on as if nothing had changed. The sun still rose, people still went about their lives, and Katsuki still woke up in his own bed in his parents’ house, just like every other weekend home from U.A.

Except nothing was normal.

Over one week, he was supposed to start his work studies at Best Jeanist’s agency again. He should’ve been focusing on that, preparing himself for the next steps in his hero training. But how the hell was he supposed to think about that when Izuku was out there—somewhere—probably suffering, or worse.

The pros were still searching. The teachers tried to act like everything was under control. But nothing was fucking under control.

Katsuki’s hands clenched into fists beneath the breakfast table.

His parents talked about something. He didn’t listen. He barely ate. The food tasted like nothing, sitting in his mouth like sandpaper.

He had to do something. He couldn’t just sit here.

He swallowed down whatever was left on his plate, pushed his chair back, and stood up abruptly.

“I’m heading out,” he muttered.

Mitsuki looked up from her newspaper. “Where are you going?”

“Izuku’s mother” Katsuki said without avoiding her gaze.

“Be careful! Your live location is on right?” Mitsuki said.

“Yea yea.”

Katsukis mom had been extra careful now, ever since Izuku got abducted, she was worried Katsuki was maybe also targeted.

Katsuki grabbed his jacket and left the house, shoving his hands into his pockets as the cool morning air hit his face.

His feet moved before he could think about it.

Block after block passed, the familiar streets of his childhood stretching out in front of him. He knew this route by heart, even after all these years. He hadn’t walked it in a long time, but muscle memory guided him.

Before he even realized it, he was standing in front of the apartment complex where the Midoriyas lived.

It looked the same. Too normal. Too intact. Like it wasn’t missing a whole person.

Katsuki took a deep breath, then climbed the stairs.

He stopped in front of the door. Hesitated.

Then, he rang the bell.

Inko opened the door slowly, her tired eyes blinking in surprise when she saw the person standing on the other side. Her cheeks were slightly sunken, the result of too many sleepless nights spent worrying, hoping, and waiting for her son’s return. The bags under her eyes were dark, a silent testament to the pain she’d been carrying for the last two weeks. Yet, despite the exhaustion that seemed to hang in the air around her, there was a flicker of recognition in her eyes as she saw who was standing there.

“Katsuki?” Her voice cracked slightly, and her expression softened, though it was tinged with an undeniable sadness. “What a surprise,” she added, trying to muster up a warm smile, though the sorrow behind her words was unmistakable.

Katsuki stood there for a moment, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his gaze momentarily averted. The weight of the situation settled in the pit of his stomach, making his throat tighten. He’d been standing there for longer than he had realized, his mind spinning with thoughts of Izuku—of the uncertainty, the fear, the need to do something, anything. But there he was now, in front of Inko, his childhood friend’s mother, who had been through hell herself over the past two weeks.

“I figured I should visit,” Katsuki finally said, his voice low and rough, attempting to make light of the situation, though his smile was strained, not quite reaching his eyes.

Inko’s face softened even further, the weariness still present in her features, but she stepped aside to let him in. “Yeah, come in! You’re welcome anytime, Katsuki,” she said with a small, sad smile, gesturing toward the inside of the apartment. Her voice held a tinge of warmth, but it was overshadowed by the overwhelming sense of loss that had permeated their home since Izuku’s disappearance.

Katsuki nodded, stepping inside, and instantly, memories of his childhood with Izuku rushed over him. The smell of fresh tea, the faint scent of comfort and safety, and the familiarity of a home that hadn’t changed much over the years.

It hadn’t changed at all, actually.

Katsuki glanced around, his eyes catching on the small details—the old couch in the living room, the stack of books on the coffee table, and the framed pictures scattered throughout the room. As his eyes moved to the walls, he spotted a picture of Inko and Izuku at an amusement park. Izuku was grinning widely, holding up a stuffed animal in one hand, while Inko stood beside him, both of them bathed in the golden light of a summer day. Katsuki’s heart gave a little tug at the sight. He remembered that amusement park, he’d been there with Izuku aswel.

"Wow, this place hasn’t changed much," Katsuki remarked, breaking the silence. He wasn’t sure what to say next, but the words came out as more of a half-hearted observation, trying to fill the gap in the conversation.

Inko let out a soft chuckle, but it was tinged with something bitter. "I like to keep it how it is," she replied, her voice quiet, as though she were trying to hold on to something, to keep the memories of her son intact. "You haven’t been here in years."

Katsuki shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I... I guess I’ve been a bit of a bastard in elementary and middle school,” he admitted. The words left his mouth almost instinctively, the weight of them sinking into the room like a stone. He couldn’t really look her in the eye after saying that, not when he knew how much hurt his actions had caused—especially to Izuku, the one person who had always tried to be his friend despite everything.

Inko’s expression faltered for a brief moment, and there was a slight flash of confusion in her eyes, as if she were trying to piece together something in her mind. Of course, Izuku never told her about the cruel things Katsuki had said and done during their childhood. He had always been too proud, too reluctant to show the depth of his pain. Izuku had always kept things hidden, buried deep inside, and Inko had never known the full extent of the tension between her son and Katsuki.

But now, here was Katsuki—older, more aware, maybe even regretful.

Inko gestured toward the small table in the corner of the room. “Sit down! Want some tea?” she asked, her voice filled with a tenderness that only a mother could express, though it was laced with an underlying ache.

“Water’s fine. I just had breakfast,” Katsuki replied quickly, not wanting to take too much of her time or attention. He didn’t want to linger too long in a conversation he wasn’t sure how to navigate.

Inko nodded and hummed softly as she moved to the kitchen to prepare tea for herself and water for Katsuki. The sound of boiling water filled the room, a quiet, domestic noise that seemed so out of place considering the heaviness that hung in the air. Katsuki watched her for a moment, noticing the way she moved slowly, carefully, as if each step was weighed down by an invisible burden.

Everything had changed, but Inko still carried herself with the same grace and warmth that Katsuki remembered from when they were children. And yet, the sadness that emanated from her felt suffocating.

Katsuki glanced around the room again, his eyes landing on the picture once more. Izuku’s face, so carefree and full of life, stared back at him, reminding him of everything he had taken for granted. The guilt gnawed at him, sharper now than it had been when he first arrived.

“...How are things going at school?” Inko asked softly as she sat down across from him, her hands wrapped around her teacup. She was doing her best to keep things normal, to engage him in a conversation that didn’t circle back to the aching hole that had formed in both of their lives.

Katsuki scratched the back of his head, a nervous habit he had developed over the years. “It’s not the same without... Izuku,” he mumbled, his voice softer than he intended. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, hadn’t meant to let the words slip out so carelessly, but they did, and now they hung in the air like an unspoken truth between them.

Inko’s eyes softened as she looked at him, her heart aching in a way she couldn’t describe. She felt the tears welling up in her eyes, threatening to spill over, but she forced herself to swallow them down. She didn’t want to cry in front of Katsuki—not when he was here, trying to offer whatever small bit of comfort he could give.

“Really?” Her voice broke on the word, and it took everything in her not to crumble right then and there.

Katsuki nodded, his eyes downcast, unwilling to meet her gaze. “We miss him... all of us. It’s just... empty without him.” His voice was rough, thick with the weight of everything he hadn’t said to Izuku over the years. The regrets. The things left unsaid.

Inko reached up to wipe a stray tear from her cheek, her fingers trembling. She stared at her teacup, the liquid inside swirling as her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. “I’m glad he has such good friends,” she whispered, the words barely audible. Her voice cracked, the dam breaking for just a moment before she quickly regained control. But it was there—her heart breaking into pieces.

Katsuki stayed silent, unsure of how to respond. The words felt inadequate, too small to fill the gap between them. The gap that Izuku’s absence had left.

Inko was kept in the dark about most of the investigation. The police only gave her the bare minimum—just enough to keep her informed, but not enough to break her completely. She knew Izuku was being tortured. They had told her that much. But that was it. No leads. No breakthroughs. No signs of hope. Just the cold, crushing weight of uncertainty.

They hadn’t shown her the audio. They hadn’t let her see the picture. They said it was to protect her, to spare her from the worst of it. But deep down, she knew the truth—if she saw it, if she heard it, she would break. There would be no piecing herself back together.

She didn’t need to see it to know how bad it was. The way the detectives hesitated before speaking, the way they avoided meeting her eyes, the way their words felt carefully rehearsed, as if they were tiptoeing around the truth. She knew.

And yet, despite everything, she still held onto the tiniest sliver of hope. Because she had to. Because the alternative was unbearable.

Katsuki sat across from her, his jaw clenched, his fingers curled tightly around the glass of water she had given him. He was staring at her, waiting, as if he could see the storm raging inside her.

“He’s strong,” Katsuki finally said, breaking the silence. His voice was quieter than usual, lacking its usual sharp edge. “Deku... he’s not gonna give up easy.”

Inko let out a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around the teacup in her hands. “I know,” she whispered. “I know he’s strong. But he’s just a boy.” Her voice broke on the last word, and she shut her eyes tightly, forcing back the tears threatening to spill over.

Katsuki looked down at the table, his fingers tapping anxiously against the glass. He didn’t know how to comfort her. He didn’t know what to say. He had never been good at this kind of thing.

“I hate this,” he muttered, his voice low, angry. “I hate not being able to do anything. I hate just sitting around while he—” He cut himself off, his grip on the glass tightening. He didn’t want to think about it. The thought of what Izuku might be going through, of what those bastards were doing to him, made his blood boil.

Inko opened her eyes, looking at Katsuki with a mixture of sorrow and gratitude. “You care about him,” she said softly.

Katsuki scoffed, looking away. “Of course I do. He’s... he’s Deku. He’s been there my whole damn life.” His voice was rough, unsteady. “And now he’s just—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I should’ve protected him, i should’ve walked him home that day.”

Inko shook her head, her expression gentle but firm. “This isn’t your fault, Katsuki.”

Katsuki let out a bitter laugh, his eyes filled with frustration. “Doesn’t feel that way.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was heavy, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was filled with unspoken grief, with guilt, with longing for a boy who wasn’t there.

Then, quietly, Inko said, “I just want my son back.”

Katsuki swallowed hard. “We’ll get him back,” he said, his voice filled with determination. “No matter what it takes.”

Notes:

It’s literally 1 AM as I post this, but hey — it’s officially Monday!

I’m heading to a festival today, so I wanted to post this chapter now (just in case I forget later).

Anyway, yes… this chapter was DARK. Especially the first part — sorry about that.

I hope you liked my crappy art! I seriously suck at drawing, but I love when chapters include art, so I had to add some. (I also snuck some into Chapter 1, their eyes at the beginning of everything.)

ANYWAYSSS, see y’all Friday for the next chapter!
Izuku’s rescue is getting closer and closer ;)

 

5/5/25

Chapter 13: Marked: 玩具

It was Sunday, and a local police department was fully immersed in the case of the two dead children. The discovery had shaken the community, and the pressure to uncover the truth weighed heavily on the investigators. The circumstances surrounding the deaths were still unclear, and without solid leads, the case felt like a puzzle missing too many pieces.

Then, on Thursday, a woman arrived at the station, her face pale and her hands trembling as she recounted what she had seen that past Saturday morning. Her voice was hushed, as if speaking too loudly would somehow make it worse.

She had been out for an early walk when she noticed the two children, both of them heading toward the forest at the edge of the neighborhood. They hadn’t crossed into the woods yet, but they were close—just on the outskirts, where the last of the houses stood before the land gave way to dense trees and undergrowth. The memory had lingered in her mind all week, but it wasn’t until she heard about the discovery of their bodies that she realized the importance of what she had witnessed.

This information became the first real breakthrough in the case.

If the children had last been seen heading toward the forest, then it was possible they had been taken from that area. Kidnapped. Lured away. Or perhaps they had unknowingly stumbled into something they were never meant to see—into someone’s hidden domain.

Following this lead, the police focused their attention on the homes near the forest, searching for anything that might provide answers. There were only three houses on that side of the neighborhood, each one separated by patches of trees and tall grass. Unlike the well-maintained homes deeper in the community, these buildings sat on the fringes, where the land felt wilder and more isolated.

The first house belonged to an elderly couple, who had lived there for decades. They welcomed the officers in without hesitation, their home warm and filled with the scent of fresh bread. Their lives were simple, their routine predictable, and after a brief investigation, it became clear they had nothing to do with the case.

The second house belonged to a family—a father, a mother, and their two children. The officers conducted a standard check, asking questions, looking through records, even taking a glance inside the home. But everything appeared normal. The children were accounted for, the parents were cooperative, and nothing seemed out of place.

That left only one location.

The third house wasn’t really a house at all—it was a forgotten relic, abandoned long ago. Nature had already begun reclaiming it, with vines creeping up its crumbling walls and tree branches reaching over the sagging roof. From the outside, it was clear that no one had lived there for years. The windows were shattered, the wooden porch was rotted through, and the door barely hung on its hinges. The structure looked barely habitable, more like a skeleton of a home than anything else.

The officers gave it only a cursory glance. At first impression, it seemed like just another decaying building, another casualty of time. They noted its existence in their reports but didn’t deem it worthy of further investigation. After all, who would live in a place like that?

They moved on.

They didn’t step inside.

They didn’t see the hidden signs.

—————————

[Monday.]

Izuku didn’t know how many days had passed since he had been taken. His mind struggled to hold onto reality, but the pain, the drugs, and the suffocating isolation made it impossible.

His body was healing.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

His broken wrists were encased in plaster, stiff and aching, but beneath the surface, he could feel the bone knitting itself back together. The constant ache was still there, due to the beat up sessions and the drugs. Even if his body healed, his mind remained fractured, splintering under the weight of everything he had endured.

His right eye was still bandaged. The skin underneath felt tight, raw, like something foreign had been stitched together where his eye used to be. He had long since stopped trying to process the fact that it was gone—completely gone. The pain of its loss had become a permanent fixture, a part of him now.

Eventually, the bandages on his legs had been removed at some point, exposing the aftermath of what had been done to him. Deep, jagged scars crisscrossed his limbs, each one a grotesque reminder of the days—weeks—of torment. His legs bore a different kind of damage. The burns had healed into thick, discolored patches of skin, some raw and pink, others darkened and rough. He had stopped looking at them. Stopped caring.

Pain had become his existence.

And yet, there were times when the man inflicted no physical pain at all.

No beatings. No knives. No pliers. No fire.

Instead, he played with Izuku’s mind.

Drowning him.

Izuku remembered the feeling of being held under, water pressing into his nose and mouth, lungs burning as they fought for oxygen. His body had thrashed, desperate, but the man’s grip was unyielding. He had waited until Izuku’s movements slowed, until his vision began to darken at the edges—only then did he pull him up, letting him take in one desperate, shuddering gasp before plunging him back down. Over and over.

Drugging him.

The hallucinations were worse than the drowning.

They invaded his mind, twisted his thoughts into horrors beyond comprehension. He had seen monsters lurking in the shadows, grotesque creatures with empty eyes and gaping maws. The walls had closed in around him, crushing him, suffocating him, pressing into his ribs until he was certain they would snap. But the worst were the illusions of his friends and family.

He had seen his mother standing before him, eyes wide with disappointment, lips curled into a cruel sneer.

“You’re weak, Izuku.”

He had seen All Might towering over him, shaking his head.

“You were never worthy.”

He had seen Ochako, Iida, Todoroki, Kirishima—all of them, standing in the dimly lit room, watching him with cold, empty expressions. And then—then they had spoken. Their words had cut deeper than any blade, had shattered him more than any physical wound.

“You’re nothing.”

“You should have died instead of those children.”

“You’re a burden.”

And then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, they had crushed him. Their hands had grabbed him, their weight had pressed down, bones snapping under the force of it—

And then he would wake up.

Drenched in sweat. Panting. Heart racing.

And the man would watch.

Watch with that amused glint in his eye, like he was enjoying the show, like Izuku was nothing more than a piece of entertainment to him.

The drugs left him feeling disoriented, trapped in a nightmare that never ended. Sleep provided no escape. There was no difference between dreams and reality anymore.

Food and water came every day.

But it didn’t matter.

His body rejected the food almost immediately. He vomited more than he kept down, the acidic taste lingering in his mouth, burning his throat. His stomach cramped from hunger, but the moment he ate, the cycle repeated.

And the water—

His body took it in, only to force it out hours later. The stench of urine and vomit clung to the room, filling his lungs with every breath. There was no dignity left. No pride. Only survival.

At least, for now.

Izuku had lost track of how many times he had been injected with the quirk suppressor drug. The sharp sting of the needle in his neck had become a daily ritual, a routine he no longer reacted to. There was no point in struggling. No point in hoping.

Because as time passed by slowly, he would never get out.

…

Izuku’s body ached.

The cold had seeped into his bones, dull and numbing, making it hard to even shiver. His feet were a deep shade of purple, his fingers matching in color. The icy air bit at his skin, but it barely registered anymore. He had been left like this for hours—maybe days—legs chained to the wall, arms cuffed before him, metal digging into the plaster that encased his barely healed wrists. He could move, but only slightly. About fifty centimeters of space between him and the wall—just enough to slump forward, just enough to remind him that there was no way to stretch, no way to rest.

Then the door clanged open.

Izuku’s breath hitched as the familiar sound of heavy boots echoed against the concrete floor. The man had returned.

The man stepped into the dimly lit room, his black hair neatly in place, the single icy eye locking onto Izuku with a predatory stare. His eyepatch was gone today, exposing the smooth, healed wound where his missing eye should have been. It had once been a gaping, bloody mess—one Izuku had inflicted.

And the man had never forgiven him for it.

The sight of him made Izuku’s blood run cold. His body tensed automatically, muscles locking up, his breath coming out shallow and shaky.

“I’ve been going too easy on you lately,” the man mused, his voice deceptively calm. “It’s time for a little fun.”

Izuku barely had a second to react before the man had already unchained him from the wall, and reached out, gripping a handful of his matted green hair.

Pain flared in his scalp as he was yanked forward.

“N-No,” Izuku rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. His throat was raw from days of disuse, the drugs making him hoarse. It didn’t matter. Even if he could scream, no one would hear him.

The chains rattled violently as the man dragged him across the freezing concrete. His knees scraped against the rough surface, tearing open old wounds. Blood oozed sluggishly from the reopened gashes, staining the floor as he was hauled forward, his body nothing more than a ragdoll in the man’s grasp.

He didn’t know why he bothered resisting.

The door to the torture room loomed ahead.

Izuku’s stomach twisted with dread.

The stench hit him first.

Blood.

Coppery, thick, suffocating.

The air was stale with the smell of dried blood—his own. It coated the walls, dark stains splattered across the floor. The table where the man kept his tools was still in the same spot, lined with instruments that had been used on him over and over again.

He was shoved onto the chair in the center of the room. His body was too weak to resist as leather straps bound his arms and legs in place, ensuring he couldn’t move—not that he had the strength to, anyway.

Izuku barely had the energy to lift his head, but when he did, the man was smirking at him.

“Don’t you think it’s time we let your friends and family know you’re still alive?”

Izuku’s stomach twisted violently.

His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

His family knew he was alive. They had seen him, and yet—

“Oh, that’s right.” The man’s smirk widened. “They abandoned you, didn’t they?”

Something inside Izuku cracked.

The man knew. He knew.

That meant it was real. It had happened.

They had really left him here.

His breathing grew shaky, his vision blurring slightly. The last sliver of hope—the thought that maybe, just maybe, they were still searching for him—shattered completely.

The man chuckled, reaching over to the table and picking up something familiar.

A kitchen knife.

The same one that had cut into him over and over again, leaving deep, jagged scars that would never fade.

Izuku swallowed hard.

“I’m thinking I should carve something into you.”

The blade gleamed under the dim light.

Izuku’s hands trembled against the restraints.

The man circled behind him, one gloved hand pressing down on his shoulder, forcing him to stay still. The other hand—holding the knife—trailed lightly down his back.

“I could carve something fun,” the man mused. “Maybe a message for your so-called friends to find? Oh, I know.”

He leaned in close, breath ghosting against Izuku’s ear.

“Toy.”

The cold air hit Izuku’s skin as the man unbuckled the leather restraints from the chair, his movements slow, deliberate—mocking. Izuku barely had time to react before a hand gripped the front of his tattered shirt, yanking him forward. His legs nearly gave out beneath him, but the man didn’t care.

A sharp tug, and Izuku stumbled, his weakened body colliding against the metal table with a dull thud. He was stripped of his thin t-shirt, and his chest pressed against the freezing surface, a shiver wracking his battered frame as the man forced him down. His arms flailed weakly, but it was useless—within seconds, his wrists were pulled forward and strapped tightly to the table’s edges. Then his ankles. The cold bite of leather and metal bit into his skin, locking him in place.

Helpless.

Izuku's breath came in short, frantic pants. His ribs ached, his body sore from countless wounds, but none of that compared to the overwhelming fear gripping his heart.

Then he felt it.

A gloved hand ran over the bare skin of his back—over old wounds, over fresh ones. He tensed at the touch, every muscle locking in place, but the man only chuckled darkly.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice carrying a sickening amusement. “I want this to be perfect.”

Izuku’s breath hitched.

There was a metallic sound—a blade being picked up.

The man leaned in, his breath ghosting over Izuku’s ear. “You are my favorite toy, after all.”

Izuku didn’t have time to process those words before the first cut tore through his skin.

A sharp, searing pain exploded down his back as the knife sank in, slow and precise. Izuku’s body jerked against the restraints, his mouth opening in a choked, ragged scream. It felt as though fire had been injected directly into his spine, burning through his nerves, tearing him apart.

"N-NO! STOP IT!" His voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable from all the screaming he had done in this hell.

But the man didn’t stop.

He pressed down harder, dragging the blade through Izuku’s flesh with cruel precision, each movement deliberate. Blood welled up instantly, warm and thick, dripping down his sides and pooling beneath him. Izuku’s fingers curled into fists, his nails digging into the plaster around his wrists as he thrashed, his body instinctively trying to escape.

It was useless.

The man was careful, methodical, carving each stroke with practiced ease.

玩具

Toy.

The characters were etched deep into his back, every slice sending another wave of unbearable agony through Izuku’s already broken body. The pain was suffocating. His vision blurred with tears, his throat raw from his screams, but the man only continued, humming softly to himself as if this were nothing more than an art project.

This took forever.

When the final stroke was made, the knife was lifted, and Izuku’s trembling body slumped forward against the table, his breath coming in broken, uneven gasps. Blood trickled down his sides, warm against his chilled skin.

Then—fwssh.

Izuku barely had time to register the sound before something was poured over his wounds.

Alcohol.

He arched violently, a strangled, agonized scream ripping from his throat as the antiseptic burned through the fresh wounds. His vision went white with pain, his body spasming against the restraints, but the man only placed a hand on his head, holding him down.

“There, there,” he murmured mockingly, stroking Izuku’s sweat-soaked hair. “I can’t have you getting an infection now, can I?”

Izuku barely heard him. The pain was too much. His body trembled violently, the fire in his back consuming every other thought, drowning him in pure agony.

Then, the man stepped back, admiring his work.

玩具.

The kanji stood out against Izuku’s torn, bleeding skin, deep and permanent.

Satisfied, the man smirked.

He grabbed a damp cloth and roughly wiped away the excess blood, causing Izuku to flinch, another weak whimper leaving his lips.

“Good boy,” the man cooed, patting Izuku’s head like a dog. “Now everyone will know exactly what you are.”

A toy.

Something to break.

Something to use.

Izuku closed his eyes, his breathing uneven, his body sagging against the table. The pain, the exhaustion—it was too much. His mind was slipping, drowning in the overwhelming agony consuming his body.

He didn’t fight it.

Blood still dripped down.

Izuku's head rested limply on the cold metal, his breath slow and uneven. His half-lidded eye, dull and lifeless, remained fixed on the other table—the one lined with tools, each one stained, rusted, and cruelly shaped for pain. Blades, clamps, pliers, even a blowtorch. The mere sight of them should have made him tremble, should have sent a fresh wave of terror through his battered body.

But Izuku barely felt anything anymore.

His back burned, the deep, freshly carved kanji searing into his flesh like a brand. The scent of blood, sweat, and antiseptic clung thick in the air, suffocating. His fingers twitched against the restraints, but he didn't have the strength to move, let alone struggle.

His breathing grew shallower. His eyelid drooped further. The world blurred at the edges, fading into darkness.

The last thing he saw was the smirk of the man.

Then everything went black.

…

Izuku's breath hitched, his entire body seizing up as he stared at the sight before him. His mother—his sweet, loving mother—was kneeling on the cold, bloodstained floor, her arms bound in heavy chains that rattled every time she so much as breathed. Her face was pale, her lips trembling, her green eyes dull with exhaustion and fear. She looked smaller than he remembered, fragile, as if one wrong move would shatter her completely.

And behind her, standing tall like a predator savoring its kill, was him.

The man.

His one visible eye gleamed with amusement as he tightened his grip around Inko’s throat, his fingers pressing firmly against her skin. Not enough to choke her—yet—but enough to let her know she was completely at his mercy.

“She trespassed here on her own,” he said casually, as if they were discussing the weather. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles on her neck, enjoying the way her breath hitched under his touch.

Izuku's blood turned to ice.

No.

His mind screamed at him, but his mouth wouldn’t move. His throat was dry, his lungs refused to take in air. He wanted to cry out, to beg, to do anything—but all he could do was tremble.

The man smirked, tilting his head as he gazed down at Izuku. "You know what happens when people trespass on my property, right, my pet?"

Izuku’s entire body locked up. His mouth fell open in horror. "Don’t—"

“Izuku…”

His heart nearly stopped at the sound of her voice. Weak. Strained. Pleading.

His mother was calling for him.

Even after everything—even after she had abandoned him, after she had left him to rot—she was still his mother. And now, she was looking at him, eyes wide with desperation, silently begging him to save her.

“Izuku, save me,” she whispered.

A lump formed in his throat. His hands clenched into fists, the rusted chains digging into his wrists as he struggled against them. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurring with hot tears.

He had to save her.

The man chuckled, his grip on Inko’s throat tightening just slightly. “Shall I count?”

“No!” Izuku thrashed wildly, his chains rattling as he tried to lunge forward. His wrists burned from the effort, but he didn’t care. He had to move. He had to get to her.

“Three.”

Inko choked as the man’s fingers pressed harder against her windpipe. Her hands weakly tugged at the chains holding her down, but she was too weak to fight back.

“Stop! Stop it, please!” Izuku’s voice cracked, raw and desperate.

“Two.”

His mother’s gasps grew fainter. Her face was turning red. Her eyes—those kind, loving eyes—begged for mercy.

Izuku was sobbing now. His body shook with violent tremors as he pulled at the restraints with all his strength, his fingernails digging into his own skin.

“NO!”

She looked at him one last time.

Her lips parted, her voice barely a whisper.

“I won’t… for… give you… Izu…”

“One.”

The sound of her neck snapping echoed through the room like a gunshot.

A sickening, wet crack.

Her body went limp. Her head lolled to the side in an unnatural angle, her eyes dull and lifeless.

Izuku’s screams tore through the air.

His fingers buried themselves into his hair, yanking at the strands as he wailed, his entire body collapsing into itself. The chains rattled with every sob that wracked his frame, but he couldn’t stop them, couldn’t stop the broken cries escaping his lips.

She was dead.

His mother—his only family, the woman who had raised him, the person who had once loved him more than anything—was dead.

And her last words…

Her last words were not of comfort. Not of love.

They were filled with resentment.

She had died hating him.

-

After a while, Izuku jolted awake with a sharp gasp, his chest heaving as if he had been drowning moments ago. His entire body trembled, his pulse hammering so violently that he could hear the blood rushing in his ears.

His left eye took a moment to adjust to the dim, sterile light of the room. Blinking rapidly, he frantically looked around, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

The white walls. The cracked ceiling. The cold, stone floor beneath him.

It was the same room. The same prison.

But…

There was no blood. No lifeless body sprawled across the floor. No twisted, broken form of his mother staring at him with vacant, accusing eyes.

Izuku’s entire body tensed, his mind reeling as the realization hit him.

Had he passed out?

Was it a hallucination? A nightmare?

He didn’t know. And that terrified him.

A strangled sob ripped from his throat as he curled into himself, his knees pressing against his chest. His hands shot up to clutch his head, fingers digging into his tangled green curls as he tried to block out the lingering echoes of her voice.

I won’t forgive you…

Tears streamed down his face, hot and relentless, as he squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming out in rapid, uneven shudders. His whole body shook violently, his ribs aching with the force of his sobs.

He could still feel it—the crushing weight of helplessness. The gut-wrenching horror of watching his mother die. The sound of her neck snapping, that sickening, final crack.

Izuku rocked back and forth, his fingers pressing harder against his ears, as if trying to physically drown out the phantom noises that still echoed in his mind.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real.

But it had felt so real.

And the worst part?

A part of him wasn’t sure if it truly had been a dream.

Notes:

Thank ya’ll for reading another chapter and all the sweet comments from my latest chapters!!

9/5/25

Chapter 14: Screams from Below

[June 2]

Three weeks.

Three weeks had passed since Izuku had been taken.

Three weeks of dead ends, sleepless nights, and agonizing silence.

Katsuki lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling with unfocused eyes. His arms were crossed behind his head, his entire body stiff, as if tension had permanently settled in his muscles. His mind was running in circles, stuck on the same, unbearable thought—

They still hadn’t found Izuku.

The kidnapper had gone completely silent. No cruel recordings, no grainy photos. Nothing. The last thing they had received was that cursed picture of Izuku—bruised, bloodied, terrified. And then the bastard had vanished.

The silence was suffocating.

Katsuki had thought, after that photo, they were getting closer. That maybe they would finally get a break, finally tear this bastard apart and bring Izuku home. But no. Two weeks had passed since that last ‘clue’, and the investigation had hit a solid, unmovable wall.

Aizawa, too stubborn to let exhaustion slow him down, had practically been running on caffeine alone. His already dark under-eyes had deepened to a sickly, hollow black. He juggled both the investigation and his duties at U.A., as if refusing to let go of either responsibility.

But it wasn’t just him.

Pro-heroes were involved—Mirio, Mount Lady, Kamui Woods, Mirko. All of them had been pulling whatever strings they could, using every resource available to track Izuku down. But they all had their own agencies to run, their own cities to protect.

And at the center of it all was Tsukauchi, leading the investigation.

But even he had nothing.

No leads. No clues. No hints as to where Izuku was.

They had tried everything. They had analyzed the kidnapper’s voice, comparing it to any known criminals, searching for even the slightest match. But nothing. Either the bastard was someone completely unknown, or he Japanese wasn’t even his first language.

They weren’t even sure Izuku was in Japan.

Katsuki gritted his teeth, his fingers curling into his sheets. The thought alone made his blood boil. They had no fucking clue where this bastard had taken him. Izuku could be anywhere. He could be halfway across the world by now, completely out of their reach.

The thought made Katsuki feel sick.

Tomorrow, his work studies with Best Jeanist would begin again. He knew he had to go. He knew that if he didn’t, someone would make him.

But the truth was, he didn’t give a shit about work studies.

Not when Izuku was still missing.

Not when that bastard was still out there.

And not when every second they wasted meant that Izuku was suffering alone.

—————————

Detective Hiroshi Takada sat in his cluttered office, sifting through yet another stack of dead-end reports. It had been two weeks since the murder of the two children, and despite relentless efforts, they had little to show for it. His team had chased every lead, questioned every possible witness, and combed through the crime scene with meticulous precision—but the trail had gone cold.

The media had latched onto the case, plastering the children’s faces across every news station. Parents were terrified. The neighborhood was restless. The entire city wanted answers, and yet, every attempt to find the culprit had led to nothing but frustration.

Takada rubbed his temples, sighing as he reached for his coffee. It was lukewarm at best, but he didn’t care. At this point, caffeine was the only thing keeping him upright.

Then, there was a knock at the door.

"Detective Takada?" A uniformed officer poked his head in, looking hesitant.

Takada immediately straightened. "What is it?"

"The same woman from before is at the front desk," the officer said. "She claims to have information regarding the two murdered children."

Takada’s exhaustion was replaced with sharp focus. It wasn’t unusual for people to come forward with supposed “tips,” but most of them led nowhere—either false alarms or attention-seekers looking to insert themselves into the investigation.

Still, he couldn’t afford to ignore it.

"Bring her in," he ordered.

A few minutes later, the door opened again, and the woman stepped inside. She was in her mid-forties, with shoulder-length blue hair that was starting to gray at the roots. She was dressed in a thick coat, her hands gripping the strap of her purse tightly. Her posture was stiff, and there was a nervous tension in her eyes.

"You’ve been here before. Please, have a seat," Takada said, gesturing to the chair across from him.

The woman hesitated for a second before sitting down, her fingers still clenching the strap of her purse. She took a shaky breath.

"My name is Aoki Hana," she introduced herself. "I… wasn’t sure if I should come forward, but i saw something yersterday night, and it… looked a bit suspicious."

Takada narrowed his eyes. "Go on."

Aoki swallowed hard before speaking.

"I was walking my dog near the edge of the forest, where i had seen those kids the morning they were gone. I go there often—it’s quiet, and there aren’t many people around at night. But last night…" She trailed off, shuddering slightly.

Takada remained silent, giving her the space to continue at her own pace.

"I saw a man," she finally said.

Takada signed, this sounded as if it was a waste of time. Still, he leaned back into his chair, “a man?” He said annoyed.

"Yes," Aoki nodded. "At first, I didn’t think much of it. I mean, it’s not that unusual to see people near the forest. But something about him was… off."

Takada’s grip on his pen tightened. "Can you describe him?"

Aoki nodded quickly. "He had black hair, slightly combed back. He was wearing a white coat, like a doctor’s coat, even though it was freezing outside. And—" she hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line, "—he had an eyepatch over one eye."

Takada didn’t feel much about the description.

"Did you see his face?" he asked.

"Not fully," Aoki admitted. "It was getting dark, and he had his head slightly lowered. But his presence… it felt wrong."

Takada tapped his fingers against the desk. "Now what does this man have to do with anything of the case?"

Aoki’s hands clenched in her lap. "At first, he was just standing there, near the trees. He kept looking around, like he was making sure no one was watching."

"And then?"

Aoki inhaled sharply. "Then he walked toward the abandoned house."

Takada leaned forward.

The abandoned house.

The one his team had already checked.

The one that was supposedly empty.

"He could just be some explorer. We have plenty of people around that like to explore abandoned buildings," His voice was firm.

"But, he didn’t come out if that building," Aoki said, her expression grave. "I have a zoom quirk—I can see long distances very clearly. I watched him go inside that house… and I never saw him come out. I really watched for about an hour or so…”

Takada’s mind raced.

They had dismissed that house as a possible crime scene after their initial investigation. It had been in a horrible state—broken windows, collapsed walls, overgrown with vines and weeds. There was no way someone could be living there.

And yet… this woman had seen someone enter.

And not leave.

Takada slowly exhaled, his mind now running on high alert. If this man was connected to the murders, then they had just been ignoring their biggest lead.

"Thank you for coming here," Takada finally said, his voice steady. He stood up, reaching for his coat. "I need you to write down every detail you remember. Anything, no matter how small."

Aoki nodded. "Of course."

Takada turned to the officer standing near the door.

"Assemble a team," he ordered, his voice sharp. "We’re searching that house again. Thoroughly this time."

…

The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the bare branches of the trees as Detective Takada and two officers approached the abandoned house. Their black police vehicle was parked further down the road, hidden from plain sight. The last thing they wanted was to alert anyone—if someone was inside.

The house itself was barely visible through the overgrown vegetation. Ivy and vines had swallowed parts of the walls, and the surrounding trees made it even harder to see from a distance. It looked like any other forgotten ruin, a place where only the wind and decay had taken residence.

But Aoki Hana had seen someone enter.

And they had never seen him leave.

Takada adjusted his holster as they reached the property. The officers, Kobayashi and Renji, walked ahead, pushing through the thick vines that clung to the house like skeletal fingers. One of the windows was shattered—Takada remembered it from the first investigation. Back then, they had only peered inside, assuming there was nothing worth checking further.

That had been a mistake.

This time, they weren’t just looking in. They were going inside.

Kobayashi tested the door handle. It turned smoothly, without resistance. Takada frowned.

"That’s odd," he thought. An abandoned house should have a stiff, rusted lock—or at the very least, a door that stuck in place. But this door… this door had been used recently.

The wooden planks creaked under their boots as they stepped inside. The air was stale and heavy with dust, carrying the scent of mold and decay. An old, faded rug stretched across the floor, its once-vibrant patterns now muted and worn. Dust motes danced in the beams of light from their flashlights, illuminating the room in eerie, flickering shadows.

The officers moved cautiously, their eyes scanning every surface.

“Check upstairs first,” Takada instructed. “We’ll clear the place before making assumptions.”

Kobayashi nodded, gripping his flashlight tighter as he ascended the rickety staircase. Each step groaned beneath his weight, the old wood threatening to give way at any moment.

Takada and Renji remained downstairs, searching through the dimly lit rooms. The walls were peeling, the furniture was overturned and broken—if there had ever been someone living here, they hadn’t cared about keeping it clean.

Minutes passed.

Kobayashi returned, shaking his head. “Nothing. It’s just an empty attic and some collapsed rooms. No signs of recent activity.”

Detective Takada exhaled, rubbing his chin. “I don’t think this—”

A scream.

Muffled. Distant.

It sent a jolt through all three men.

The officers tensed up, their hands instinctively moving to their holsters. The sound had been faint—barely a whisper through the thick walls and dust-filled air—but it was unmistakably human.

Then it came again. A desperate, strangled cry.

“What the hell?” Renji muttered.

“It sounds like it’s coming from below us,” Kobayashi said, eyes darting around the room.

Takada crouched, pressing his ear against the wooden floorboards. He held his breath, listening intently. At first, there was only silence, thick and suffocating.

Then—

A third scream. Dampened, but recognizable.

Takada shot back up. “There’s a basement.”

Renji cursed under his breath, scanning the floor with renewed urgency. “A basement? We didn’t see an entrance.”

“Search for anything—trapdoors, hidden panels, even something outside that might lead underground,” Takada ordered. His voice was sharp now, urgent.

The team split up, each officer taking a different part of the room. Renji ran outside, checking the perimeter of the house for external cellar doors. Kobayashi stayed inside, moving furniture, knocking against the walls. Takada himself swept the floor, searching for any sign of a hidden hatch.

Minutes passed in frantic silence.

Then—

“Detective!” Kobayashi’s voice rang out.

Takada spun around just as the officer pulled back the tattered rug in the center of the room.

Beneath it was a heavy wooden door, embedded into the floor. Dust coated its surface, but the edges were clean—someone had been using this entrance recently.

Takada’s heart pounded.

This was it.

The screams had stopped.

But the truth was waiting below.

Kobayashi exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the cold air of the abandoned house. His fingers tightened around the edge of the heavy, dust-ridden rug as he lifted it higher, revealing the hidden wooden hatch beneath. His pulse quickened.

“Shall we go inside?” he asked, voice low but tense.

Takada crouched beside him, staring at the hatch with narrowed eyes. His gut twisted—something about this felt wrong. The house had been left to rot for years, but this? A hidden entrance, tucked neatly under an old rug? It was deliberate.

“Carefully,” Takada ordered, nodding.

He reached for the iron handle embedded in the wood and slowly lifted it. The hinges groaned softly, the sound piercing the heavy silence of the house. Dust and dirt spilled from the edges as the hatch revealed a steep, narrow staircase leading into the dark.

Except—this wasn’t like the rest of the house.

The walls of the stairwell weren’t decayed or covered in cobwebs. The steps weren’t creaky or crumbling. The passage looked… maintained. Used.

Kobayashi exchanged a look with Renji. Both men were seasoned officers, but this sent a chill down their spines. The deeper they got into this case, the worse it seemed.

“I’m going to take a look,” Renji whispered. He pulled his firearm from its holster, holding it steady as he placed his boot on the first step. Slowly, carefully, he descended, each step controlled and measured.

Takada and Kobayashi waited at the top, flashlights pointed downward but dimmed to avoid giving away their presence too soon.

Renji reached the bottom of the stairs.

A door stood before him. Unlike the rotting wood upstairs, this one was metal—polished, solid, and secured with a simple handle. No locks. No chains. Just a plain, industrial door.

Slowly, Renji pressed a gloved hand against it and eased the handle down, just enough to push the door open a sliver.

A soft click.

He froze.

A white fluorescent glow spilled through the crack, illuminating his face in an artificial sheen. He inhaled sharply, barely able to process what he was seeing.

The door opened into a corridor.

A long, sterile, modern corridor.

Not the ruins of an old, abandoned house.

Not a musty, dirt-covered basement.

It was clean. It was organized. The floors were tiled and smooth, the walls lined with bright, white lights that flickered ever so slightly. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and something else—something chemical.

Renji’s eyes darted around, his grip on his pistol tightening.

Twelve doors.

He counted them quickly. Six on each side, evenly spaced, all identical in appearance.

It looked like a laboratory. Or… a prison.

His breath hitched. What the fuck is this place?

Every instinct in his body screamed that this was wrong, that they were standing on the edge of something bigger than they had anticipated. He had expected a simple underground storage room—maybe even a hidden bunker. But this?

This was something else entirely.

Renji swallowed hard and took a slow step back, careful not to make any noise.

He climbed the stairs as quickly as he could without making a sound, shutting the metal door behind him.

When he reached the top, his face was grim.

“We need backup,” he whispered harshly, looking Takada in the eyes. “We have no idea what’s down there, but it’s not just some old basement. It looks like a goddamn secret lab.”

Takada inhaled sharply, glancing down the hatch. His skin crawled.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

Kobayashi clenched his jaw. “Who the hell hides something like that beneath an abandoned house?”

Takada didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Because whoever was using this place… wasn’t just some runaway criminal.

This was planned. Organized. Maintained.

“We need heroes for this,” Takada finally said, his voice steady but urgent. “Let’s get out of here before anyone notices we were even here.”

With careful movements, they lowered the wooden hatch, ensuring it shut smoothly without a sound. Then, just as cautiously, Kobayashi pulled the rug back over it, making sure everything looked undisturbed.

Their hearts pounded as they stepped away.

It was time to call for reinforcements.

—————————

It was Monday morning.

The scent of warm toast and freshly brewed coffee filled the dormitory common room, but the usual lively chatter was absent. The students of Class 3-A sat together, mechanically going through the motions of breakfast, but a heavy silence clung to them like an unwelcome shadow. Conversations flickered in and out, short and forced, dying before they could fully take root.

It had been like this for three weeks now.

Three weeks since Izuku disappeared.

Everyone had packed for their work studies, their bags filled with gear, clothes, and notebooks. It should have been a morning of excitement, of friendly teasing and last-minute preparation before heading off to their agencies. Instead, it felt like they were walking through a fog—unspoken worries thick in the air.

Ochako stared at her untouched plate, stirring her yogurt absentmindedly. Iida adjusted his glasses more times than necessary, trying to maintain some sense of normalcy. Even Kaminari, who usually filled the room with his energy, was quieter than usual, only offering small nods and half-hearted smiles.

Katsuki barely touched his food. He sat at the edge of the table, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently against the floor. He hated this feeling—the waiting. The not knowing.

The ache in Katsuki’s chest hardened into something sharp. He clenched his jaw, pushing his plate away as he stood up abruptly.

“Tch. I’m leaving,” he muttered.

The others followed suit, gathering their things and heading for the door. No one said it, but they all felt it—this wasn’t right. It wasn’t normal.

Izuku should have been here, packing his bags, fumbling with his notebooks, smiling despite the stress. Instead, they were left with a hollow space where he should have been.

The walk to the bus station was quiet. No jokes. No lighthearted conversations about their upcoming work studies. Just the occasional shuffle of feet on the pavement and the distant hum of the city waking up around them.

When they reached the station, the class split off, heading toward different routes. Katsuki barely paid attention as the others mumbled their goodbyes, his mind already elsewhere. He boarded his bus, took a seat near the window, and let his bag rest at his feet.

As the vehicle rumbled to life and pulled away, he exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face.

The ride was long—first the bus, then the train—but Katsuki was used to it. He barely noticed the passing scenery, his mind lost in thought.

This wasn’t his first time at Best Jeanist’s agency.

The first had been during his internship, before the war. He had been cocky back then, too proud to admit that Jeanist’s lessons had actually stuck with him.

The second time had been after the war—when he’d changed, when he’d learned. He had respected Jeanist then, truly taking his words to heart.

And now, this was his third time.

But this time was different.

This time, his mind wasn’t on improving his technique or refining his image. It was on Izuku.

On where he was. On who had taken him.

On how much time he had left.

By the time Katsuki reached the agency, it was already 10 a.m. He stepped off the train, tightened his grip on his duffel bag, and exhaled sharply.

With his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he made his way through the familiar streets leading to Best Jeanist’s agency. The air was crisp, the scent of pavement and lingering exhaust fumes filling his nose as he walked. It wasn’t long before he arrived at the tall, sleek building that housed one of Japan’s top hero agencies.

The glass doors slid open as he stepped inside. The interior was as pristine as he remembered—polished floors, modern furniture, and employees moving efficiently through the space. The moment he entered, a few of Jeanist’s sidekicks turned their heads in recognition.

“Dynamight, welcome back,” one of them greeted, offering a nod.

Another, a woman with short brown hair, gave him a small smile. “Good to have you here again. Jeanist is expecting you.”

Katsuki barely acknowledged them with a grunt as he adjusted his grip on his bag. He wasn’t here for pleasantries. Without another word, he made his way toward Jeanist’s office, his boots clicking against the floor with each step.

As he reached the door, he raised his fist to knock, but paused when he heard a voice from inside.

Jeanist was on the phone.

Katsuki hesitated for only a second before pushing the door open anyway. The office was just as he remembered—clean, minimalist, with dark wood furniture and a massive window overlooking the city. Best Jeanist sat at his desk, dressed in his usual high-collared attire, his blond hair neatly combed back. He barely spared Katsuki a glance as he raised a hand in acknowledgment, signaling for him to wait.

Katsuki scowled but did as he was told, stepping further into the room and dropping his bag onto the floor with a thud.

Jeanist continued his conversation, his tone calm and measured. Katsuki caught only bits and pieces—mentions of patrol schedules, hero coordination, and something about investigation. The older hero always had a way of speaking that made everything seem under control, like no problem was ever too big to handle.

After another minute or so, Jeanist finally ended the call, setting his phone down with a soft click. He leaned back in his chair and turned his full attention to Katsuki, his sharp blue eyes studying him carefully.

“Dynamight,” he said, a small but approving nod accompanying his words. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Katsuki crossed his arms, his expression hard. “Yeah. Let’s just get started.”

“I’ve heard about Midoriya. I’m so sorry, Bakugou,” Jeanist said, his voice steady but laced with something Katsuki didn’t want to name. Pity? Concern? He didn’t need either.

Katsuki gave a stiff nod, his jaw tight. Of course Jeanist knew. He wasn’t directly involved in the case, but he had fought alongside Deku when he left UA, and now—now he was gone. So naturally, someone had filled him in.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Thick. Heavy.

Katsuki hated it.

But what was there to say? Nothing would bring Deku back. Nothing would change the fact that they still had no leads. That every second wasted was another second that bastard had with him.

Jeanist studied him carefully, probably waiting for a response. But Katsuki didn’t have one. So he just clenched his fists at his sides, staring at a fixed point on the floor, forcing himself to keep his breathing even.

No one knew what to say. Because there was nothing to say.

“I’m glad you could come,” Jeanist said, finally breaking the silence. His voice was calm, measured, but there was an underlying weight to his words. “I know this is hard for you, but I’m sure all the heroes and officers on the case are doing their best to find him.”

Katsuki let out a low, frustrated grunt. His hands clenched into fists. “Sure,” he muttered, his voice rough. “But it’s not enough.”

Jeanist studied him for a moment, but didn’t push. He probably knew there was no point. Then, after a brief pause, he spoke again.

“I got a phone call yesterday from a police department in Hino City.” His tone was more serious now, all business. “They found some kind of secret hideout beneath an abandoned building.”

Katsuki’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and questioning.

Jeanist continued. “The officers on the scene didn’t explore further than a quick look down a corridor. From what they saw, it looked… well-maintained. Like an underground facility. But they were only three men, armed with a single pistol, and had no backup. So they pulled back and contacted me.”

Katsuki was surprisingly interested in the case.

Jeanist gave him a knowing look. “You’re coming with me to check it out,” he said. “You’re more than capable, and honestly…” He exhaled slightly, a small, rare hint of amusement in his voice. “I think you’ve already surpassed me in terms of strength.”

Katsuki scoffed, clicking his tongue. “Well, yeah” he muttered. Then he straightened, his crimson eyes burning with determination. “Let’s go, then.”

"Right, let's go to Hino City," Best Jeanist said, adjusting his sleeves before turning on his heel.

Katsuki followed as they made their way through the agency, exiting the building into the parking lot. Jeanist led him to a sleek, black car—practical and unassuming, nothing flashy.

Katsuki slid into the passenger seat, crossing his arms as Jeanist started the engine. The low hum of the car filled the silence between them as they pulled out onto the road.

The city blurred past the windows as they drove. The streets of Musutafu soon gave way to highways, stretching out toward their destination. Neither of them spoke much at first—Jeanist was focused on the road, and Katsuki had his own thoughts racing through his mind.

His leg bounced slightly, a nervous energy he couldn’t shake.

Jeanist glanced at him from the corner of his eye but didn’t comment. Instead, he finally broke the silence.

“The police didn’t go inside,” he reminded Katsuki, keeping his voice calm. “We don’t know what we’re walking into. If it really is a hideout, it could belong to anyone—human traffickers, rogue villains, or something worse.”

Katsuki scoffed. “You think I give a shit?”

Jeanist gave a small, knowing sigh. “No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But I do expect you to keep your head on straight.”

The car ride stretched on in tense silence. About half an hour later, the cityscape shifted, buildings becoming older and more spaced apart. Hino City wasn’t as packed as Musutafu, but it had its fair share of abandoned areas, remnants of old developments left to rot.

Jeanist turned onto a quieter road, the kind where people didn’t walk around after dark. They were getting close.

Katsuki’s first day at his work studies, was already a big mission.

Notes:

THE RESCUE MISSION HAS OFFICIALLY BEGUN!
this took longer than i thought oops.
anyways ty for reading!!

BTW LOOK AT THIS ART SOMEONE MADE AAAHH!!! Credits to @Chickenkars on AO3

This is not the canon appearance of the man by the way! Heck you can use your own fantasy to create the man in your mind. But this art is an amazing example on how i described him ohmygod.

12/5/25

Chapter 15: Ten Truths Torn

Notes:

Note:
Aizawa can still use his quirk. He never lost his eye, but there’s a scar over his his right eyelid, making the duration to cancel out someone’s quirk not as long anymore.

[9:58]

Izuku awoke with a sharp inhale, his breath hitching as the familiar ache of his body settled in. This time, he wasn’t in the sterile white room where he had spent countless hours trapped in an endless cycle of pain and confusion. No, this room was different.

Cold. Damp. The torture room.

His limbs were stiff, his muscles sore from being in restraints for too long. He shifted slightly, but the leather straps around his wrists and ankles dug into his skin, keeping him firmly secured to the chair.

Panic settled deep in his gut.

The air was thick with the scent of metal and something acrid—blood. His blood. The room itself was dimly lit, casting long, eerie shadows along the walls, where tools of cruelty hung neatly, waiting to be used again.

And then—footsteps.

Izuku tensed as the door creaked open, his body instinctively flinching at the sound.

The man stepped inside.

His tormentor.

Dressed in his usual pristine white coat, the man moved with a calm, collected demeanor, as if this were nothing more than routine. He closed the door behind him with an unsettling click before approaching slowly, his presence alone sending a fresh wave of dread through Izuku’s already shattered mind.

The past few days—or had it been weeks?—blurred together in a haze of suffering.

Hallucinations that twisted his already fragile perception of reality.

Words, sharp as knives, cutting through his pride—though that had long since crumbled into dust.

Pain.

Endless, excruciating pain.

The cold kiss of a blade carving into his skin, metal branding him with wounds too deep to heal properly.

The iron contraptions that had been placed around his head, pressing in ways that made his skull feel like it would crack apart.

The suffocating sensation of rope biting into his wrists as he dangled for hours, his shoulders screaming in agony from the strain.

Sometimes even around his neck.

The icy embrace of water, flooding his lungs, drowning him over and over again, just for the man to pull him back at the last second—only to do it all over again.

Salt poured mercilessly into open wounds.

A small dose of a healing drug—not to heal him, but to make his scars form faster, permanent marks of his suffering.

Izuku swallowed hard, his throat dry and sore.

His left eye—nearly fully healed now. He hadn’t seen it himself, but he could feel it beneath the bandages still wrapped around his face.

He didn’t know what it looked like.

Didn’t want to know.

The man stepped closer, stopping just in front of him.

Izuku clenched his fists weakly, nails digging into his palms. He didn’t want to fight anymore, He had no strength left. Not anymore.

The man tilted his head slightly, observing him with a smirk.

“Well now,” he said, voice smooth and taunting. “Are we ready for another session, my little toy?”

Izuku’s breath hitched.

No.

The man reached out, fingers brushing against his bruised cheek.

Izuku flinched violently, but there was nowhere to go.

He was trapped after all.

The man hummed a quiet tune as he turned his back to Izuku, sifting through the array of tools neatly arranged on the metal table. The sound of metal scraping against metal sent shivers down Izuku’s spine. He didn’t need to see what was happening to know that whatever came next would be worse than anything before.

Then, the man turned.

A glint of silver caught Izuku’s eye, and his breath hitched.

A plier.

Izuku’s stomach twisted. He had been through knives, ropes, drugs, drowning, but this—this was something new. His fingers twitched instinctively, but his wrists were bound tightly to the armrests of the chair, leaving him completely at the mercy of the monster before him.

The man chuckled, noticing his reaction. He twirled the tool between his fingers, the metal catching the dim light of the room. Slowly, he walked forward, stopping just in front of Izuku.

A gloved hand reached out, brushing over Izuku’s trembling fingers.

“You know,” the man said, voice smooth, almost conversational, “I’m getting a little tired of asking.” His fingers traced over Izuku’s knuckles, pressing down just enough to make his joints ache. “But if you don’t want me to rip all your fingernails off, you’d better start talking.”

Izuku’s breath caught in his throat.

“Tell me about your quirk.”

He had been avoiding the question for so long, enduring whatever horrors the man threw at him.

His body trembled violently, but he bit his tongue, refusing to answer. He wouldn’t give in.

The man sighed, shaking his head in mock disappointment. He dangled the pliers just above Izuku’s hand, the cold metal grazing his skin.

“Not talkative?” he mused, his smirk widening. “We’ll see about that.”

Izuku barely had time to react before the pliers closed around his thumb.

He sucked in a sharp breath as the iron slipped beneath his nail, pressing against the tender skin. The pressure alone sent white-hot pain through his nerves. His body jerked, but the restraints held him in place.

“Gritting your teeth won’t help,” the man said, watching him with amusement. “You’ll be screaming soon enough.”

Izuku clenched his jaw, his breaths coming out in sharp, shaky bursts.

Then—

The pliers pulled.

A bolt of agony shot through his entire hand as his thumbnail was yanked upward, the sensitive flesh tearing away from the nail bed. A strangled cry ripped from his throat as he instinctively tried to jerk his arm away, but the leather straps dug into his wrists, keeping him in place.

His vision blurred, his body arching against the chair as his nerves ignited with unbearable pain. Blood welled up beneath the nail, dripping down his hand and staining the armrest.

The man clicked his tongue. “That was just a little tug.” He gripped the pliers tighter, adjusting his hold. “Let’s try again.”

Izuku barely had time to breathe before—

Another pull.

This time, the pain was unbearable.

A raw, broken scream tore from his throat as the nail peeled further from his skin. The sharp sting of air against the exposed flesh sent waves of nausea crashing over him. His breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, his entire body shaking violently.

Tears burned in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks.

“Now, now,” the man cooed, twisting the pliers slightly. “Just one more pull, and this one will be gone.”

Izuku’s chest heaved. His fingers twitched, his hand spasming against the pain. He could feel the nail barely hanging on now, the torn skin underneath pulsing with sheer agony.

“Ready for the final pull?”

Izuku sucked in a shaky breath. He knew what was coming. He knew it would be worse than anything before.

But he still refused to speak.

The man sighed dramatically.

“Suit yourself.”

And then—

He ripped the nail off completely.

Izuku’s world exploded into blinding agony.

A raw, guttural scream tore from his throat, his body convulsing violently against the restraints. Blood poured freely from the exposed nail bed, dripping down his fingers and pooling onto the floor. His vision blurred, black spots dancing in his peripheral.

His mind shattered beneath the pain.

He barely registered the man’s voice, distant and muffled.

“That’s one down,” the man said cheerfully, twirling the bloodied nail between his fingers. “Nine more to go.”

…

The room was suffocating with the scent of blood and sweat.

Izuku's breath came in ragged gasps, his body shaking uncontrollably. His left hand was ruined, each nail ripped away one by one, leaving behind raw, bleeding wounds. His fingers twitched, the exposed nail beds throbbing with every heartbeat.

But the man wasn’t done.

With an almost lazy hum, he wiped the pliers clean, flicking away the remnants of flesh and blood before reaching for Izuku’s right hand.

"You're holding on well," he muttered, gripping Izuku’s trembling wrist. "But let’s see if that resolve of yours can last a little longer."

Izuku’s breath hitched when the cold metal of the pliers brushed against his right thumb. His one good eye widened in terror.

No.

His fingers twitched involuntarily, trying to recoil, but the restraints held him firmly in place. The man adjusted his grip, forcing Izuku’s hand flat against the chair’s armrest.

"Don't look away," he said with amusement.

Then he pulled.

A sickening crack filled the room as the nail was pried upward.

Izuku arched against the chair, a raw scream tearing from his throat. The pain was overwhelming, burning through his nerves like fire. His body convulsed, his vision swimming.

But the nail wasn’t fully off yet.

The man was slow, methodical. He peeled the nail away bit by bit, watching Izuku’s reactions with cold amusement. Blood welled up from beneath it, spilling over his fingers.

Izuku whimpered, his body trembling uncontrollably. The pain was unbearable, but he had nothing left to fight with.

"You're breaking," the man murmured. "Just a little more."

The pliers twisted.

The last piece of flesh snapped, and the thumbnail was torn away completely.

Izuku screamed.

His voice was hoarse, raw from hours of agony, but the sound that escaped him was pure pain. His shoulders heaved, tears slipping down his cheeks.

But the man didn’t stop.

His index finger.

The pliers dug beneath the nail, pressing against the sensitive skin underneath.

Izuku sobbed, shaking his head weakly. His body instinctively tried to pull away, but it was useless.

Another brutal, agonizing pull—

Izuku’s body jolted, another broken scream ripping from his throat. Blood dripped steadily onto the floor.

His mind was slipping.

He couldn’t take this.

He couldn’t—

The pliers moved to his middle finger.

Izuku sobbed harder, his breath hitching as the cold iron pressed beneath the nail. The man worked slowly, peeling it away inch by inch, drawing out every second of agony.

The nerve endings burned like they were on fire.

Izuku’s body convulsed, his teeth clenching so hard he thought they might crack.

The man hummed in amusement.

Then, with a sharp, merciless yank, he tore the nail free.

Izuku gagged on a sob, his fingers twitching violently. Blood splattered onto his lap.

"Just a little more," the man said as he slowly moved to the next finger

Izuku's breath hitched. His throat tightened.

He couldn’t—

"ITS ALL MIGHT!" Izuku screamed. "I GOT IT FROM ALL MIGHT!"

His voice cracked, his body trembling violently. Tears blurred his vision, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

The room fell silent.

The man let go.

Izuku’s head lolled forward, his breath uneven and broken.

The man’s smile widened, his blue eye gleaming with amusement.

"From All Might?" he repeated, leaning in slightly. "And how, exactly, did that happen?"

Izuku’s chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven gasps. His body trembled, his vision blurred by tears, his only uncovered eye stinging as salty streaks ran down his face. He wanted to answer, to say something, anything that would make this stop—but the words wouldn’t come.

The man chuckled.

"If you got that quirk from All Might, I’m guessing it happened sometime in middle school?" he mused.

Izuku nodded quickly. Anything to keep the pliers away.

The man exhaled slowly, as if thinking, before tilting his head with a slight smirk.

"Then surely…" He brushed his fingers over Izuku’s trembling right hand. "You can give it to me too, right?"

Izuku stiffened.

His fingers curled inward as much as they could, though they had nowhere to go. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stared down at his own hands, at the deep red blood dripping from his fingertips onto the floor. The small splashes echoed faintly in the silence, blending with his labored breaths.

The man waited.

Then, with a sigh, he moved again.

His hand reached for Izuku’s right pinky.

Izuku jerked in the chair, panic taking over. "No, stop! I told you, didn’t I?" His voice cracked, desperate.

The man didn’t hesitate.

He clamped the pliers onto Izuku’s pinky nail and ripped.

Izuku screamed, his entire body seizing as searing pain shot through his finger. Blood oozed from the raw skin where his nail had been, dripping down his hand, but the man wasn’t done.

Without pausing, he gripped the next nail.

Izuku thrashed, his wrists straining against the restraints, his breaths coming in short, choked sobs.

Another sharp tug. Another wave of unbearable pain.

One by one, the remaining three nails were torn from his fingers, slow and precise.

His screams filled the room, mixing with the sickening sound of each nail being ripped away. He pleaded, sobbed, but it didn’t matter.

By the time the last one was gone, his head hung forward, his body trembling violently. His fingers were drenched in blood, throbbing with each beat of his heart.

The man finally stepped back, admiring his work.

Izuku could barely keep his eye open, his breath coming in weak gasps. He had no words left.

But the man wasn’t finished.

He crouched down to Izuku’s level, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied the broken boy in front of him.

"You can give it to me, right?" he repeated softly.

Izuku let out a shaky breath, but he didn’t answer.

The man smiled.

"We’ll see."

Izuku passed out…

His body slumped forward in the chair, his bloodied hands limp in the restraints. His breathing was weak, his consciousness fading into the dark abyss of exhaustion and pain. The room fell into silence except for the steady drip of blood hitting the floor.

The man sighed, wiping his stained gloves on a rag before tossing it aside. He took a step back, tilting his head as he studied Izuku’s unconscious form.

—————————

[11:24]

The police station was average-sized—nothing too big, but not small either. The concrete structure stood sturdy, with officers moving in and out, their expressions serious.

As Katsuki and Best Jeanist entered, a pair of officers greeted them.

“Please, follow us.”

Katsuki and Jeanist walked behind them through the hallways, past rows of desks and busy officers, until they reached a briefing room. Inside, five men were waiting. Four were officers, and one was a detective.

But it was the man in the corner that caught Katsuki’s attention.

“Mr. Aizawa?"

Aizawa raised a hand in acknowledgment. His tired eyes settled on Katsuki, unreadable as always.

"When I heard that Jeanist was on the mission as well, I expected you to be here too," Aizawa said.

Katsuki frowned. "Why the hell are you here? Don't you have a different case to be working on?"

Aizawa crossed his arms but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he gave Katsuki a long, knowing look before speaking.

"Detective Takada asked for my assistance on this mission," he said simply. "We’re going in blind. We have no idea what we’re walking into or who might be down there. If there's someone strong waiting for us, i can cancel out their quirk."

Katsuki clicked his tongue but didn’t argue. He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall, watching as Detective Takada stepped forward to greet Jeanist.

"It's good to work with you again," Takada said, extending his hand.

Jeanist shook it firmly. "Likewise."

Then Takada turned to Katsuki and held out his hand. "And Dynamight, it's an honor to have you on this mission as well."

Katsuki hesitated for half a second before shaking his hand. "Yeah."

Takada motioned for everyone to take a seat at the large table in the center of the room. The four officers, including the two named Kobayashi and Renji, settled into their chairs as the detective pulled out a folder and opened it, revealing a small stack of papers.

"Let’s go over what we know," Takada began. He placed a photo in the center of the table.

It was a crime scene picture.

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed as he took in the grisly image—two bodies, small, fragile. Blood soaked the ground around them. Their heads were missing.

"Two weeks ago, two children were murdered and found in the nearby forest. They were beheaded," Takada said grimly.

A heavy silence filled the room. Even Katsuki felt something dark settle in his gut.

"We launched an investigation into the surrounding area," Takada continued. "We checked three houses near the forest. One of them was a completely abandoned building—or so we thought at first glance.

"Yesterday, we received a report from a local woman. She claimed she saw a suspicious man enter that same building but never come out. So, we returned to investigate."

Takada leaned forward slightly, his voice lower. "The house looked abandoned and not in use, we were close to leaving again. That's when we heard it. A scream. Faint, but definitely coming from beneath us."

Katsuki stiffened. His jaw clenched, hands curling into fists on the table.

"We couldn’t ignore it," Takada went on. "So, we searched the building for any sort of basement entrance. Eventually, one of my officers found a hidden door beneath an old rug. We opened it and discovered a stairway leading down. Officer Renji was the first to take a look."

Renji cleared his throat and nodded. "It was... unexpected. The building was falling apart, but this basement looked like it had been maintained. Clean walls, working lights. When I peeked inside, I saw a long corridor. There were twelve doors, six on each side. But we didn’t go any further."

"Why not?" Katsuki demanded.

"We were outnumbered," Renji said simply. "Only three of us, and we only had basic weapons. We had no idea what was behind those doors. It was too risky."

Takada nodded. "That’s why we called for backup. And that’s why you’re here."

Jeanist exhaled slowly, tapping a finger against the table. "If there are people being kept down there, we need to move fast. Every second we waste could mean another victim lost."

Aizawa stood up. "Agreed. We can’t afford to wait any longer."

Katsuki pushed himself up from his chair, cracking his knuckles. "Yeah. Let’s go. We’ll drag out whoever’s behind this and take ‘em down."

Takada gave him a sharp look. "We don’t know who this man is yet. The woman who saw him described him as having black hair and an eyepatch. Whether or not he owns this underground hideout, whether he is the murderer of those children, we don’t know. But what we do know is that keeping such a place hidden, is illegal."

He closed the folder. "We’re arresting him. And if we find anything—anyone—down there, we’ll deal with it accordingly."

Aizawa adjusted his scarf. "Then let’s move."

Without another word, the group stood up, the tension thick in the air.

Katsuki rolled his shoulders, his crimson eyes burning with determination.

—————————

[11:24]

Izuku awoke with a sharp inhale, his body flinching violently as consciousness dragged him back into the nightmare. His breathing came in ragged gasps, and for a moment, he didn't know where he was.

Then the pain hit him.

A raw, searing agony pulsed through his body with every beat of his heart, his senses assaulted by waves of discomfort from head to toe. His neck ached—a dull, deep soreness that told him the man had drugged him again. His wrists and ankles throbbed in their restraints, the cold, unyielding metal cutting into his bruised skin. But worst of all were his fingers. His nailbeds.

A fresh, sharp pulse of pain shot through them with every heartbeat, as if his own blood was punishing him. The nerves were raw and exposed, screaming at the slightest movement. Even the air in the room, damp and stale, felt like sandpaper against his wounds.

Izuku’s single functioning eye welled up with fresh tears almost immediately. He couldn’t stop it. His body was too weak, too broken to hold anything back. The tears dripped down his grimy face, leaving streaks in the layers of dirt and dried blood. He was starving. His stomach was an empty pit, a gnawing hunger twisting inside him. His throat was raw with thirst, every breath scraping painfully against it. His back ached where wounds had reopened.

He was cold. So unbearably cold.

The white room stank—a horrible mixture of sweat, blood, vomit and urine. It made his already weak stomach churn, but there was nothing left in him to throw up. His arms were pulled taut above him, chains biting into his already raw wrists, while his legs hung limply, his ankles shackled to the wall.

Then, the panic set in.

The white light above him buzzed softly, its glow casting sharp, unnatural shadows across the sterile walls. But then—the walls moved.

Izuku’s breath hitched, his chest tightening with horror.

The walls—they were shifting. Expanding and shrinking, twisting and turning, folding in on themselves. The shadows weren’t still; they writhed, creeping toward him, stretching out long, black tendrils as if they were reaching for him.

He thrashed against his restraints, the chains rattling violently as his breathing turned erratic. His pulse skyrocketed, panic clawing up his throat.

“No, no, no, stop—stop, stop—” his voice broke into gasps as he tried to force himself to look away, to convince himself it wasn’t real.

But it was real. He could see it. The walls were moving. The shadows were alive.

His body convulsed in terror as he struggled harder, the pain in his hands and wrists vanishing beneath the sheer, suffocating panic. He had to escape before the walls crushed him, before the shadows swallowed him whole—

The chains held firm.

Izuku cried out.

Notes:

Hey guys. Wow, what an intense chapter this was. I must say, this was Izuku’s very last written torture session by the man.
Be ready for the next chapter, y’all — the rescue will finally happen :’)

Chapter 16: Is that you, Izuku?

[11:58]

The team stood before the abandoned building, its weathered walls looming over them, silent and unwelcoming. The surrounding forest was eerily quiet, as if holding its breath, waiting to see what they would do.

Jeanist, Aizawa, and Katsuki were at the front, their sharp gazes scanning the area. Behind them, detective Tadaka and the four officers kept their hands close to their weapons, tense and alert. Every crunch of a branch beneath their boots sounded too loud in the heavy silence.

The group reached the building's front door, a worn wooden frame barely hanging on its rusted hinges. Vines crept up the walls, twisting through the cracks like nature itself was trying to reclaim the space. The air smelled of damp wood and decay.

Tadaka motioned with his hand. Two of the officers peeled away from the group—one positioned himself outside, scanning the forest for movement, while the other stepped inside, staying near the front entrance to guard their exit.

The remaining six moved deeper into the house.

Renji crouched first, gripping the frayed edges of an old carpet that lay haphazardly on the floor. He lifted it with careful hands, revealing the hidden wooden door beneath. Kobayashi took over, reaching for the handle. The hinges let out a faint creak, making the entire team pause. They waited, listening.

Silence.

Jeanist exchanged a glance with Aizawa, then descended first, his footsteps controlled and steady. Aizawa followed next, his scarf loose and ready around his shoulders, eyes sharp as a blade. Katsuki was right behind him, palms flexing, itching to fight. The three officers and Tadaka followed in close formation, their breaths hushed.

At the bottom of the stairs, the space opened up into a long corridor. It was unnervingly clean compared to the decayed state of the building above. The walls were smooth, painted in an off-white color, and the floor was a stark contrast to the rotting wood upstairs—polished tiles that reflected the flickering overhead lights.

The hallway stretched deep, wide enough for two people to walk side by side. Twelve doors lined the walls—six on each side—each spaced about five meters apart. At the far end, a heavy metal door stood shut.

A weighted silence filled the space.

Katsuki inhaled sharply, his gut twisting. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but this? This looked too well-maintained. This wasn’t just an abandoned underground bunker—this was in use.

Tadaka’s voice was low but firm.
“We need to be careful. If someone’s here, they know this layout better than us.”

Aizawa nodded, eyes flicking between the doors. “We don’t know what’s behind each of these rooms. It could be empty. Or it could be filled with people, traps, or worse.”

Jeanist exhaled softly. “We should move strategically.”

The team moved cautiously through the building, their steps deliberate and quiet, each of them keenly aware of the potential danger that lay behind every door. They had agreed to proceed room by room, the plan to be as discreet and efficient as possible. Detective Tadaka gave the orders in a low voice, speaking to the team only when necessary.

"Let’s look room by room," Tadaka whispered. "Two on standby. Me and Jeanist will stay near the door."

Aizawa nodded, his eyes scanning the corridor. The weight of his Erasure quirk felt heavy, but it was essential for what lay ahead. Jeanist, his quirk ready, kept close to the door, prepared to act at a moment's notice.

Katsuki, Aizawa, Renji, and Kobayashi made their way toward the first room. The handle of the door creaked softly as they turned it, but the room beyond it was unexpectedly mundane.

Inside was a small storage room, lined with shelves stacked with food and drinks. The supplies seemed to have been placed in a haphazard fashion, like they were meant to be hidden. There was mostly bread, canned goods, water, and some scattered fruit, the kind that could last long-term without perishing. It was a relief to see that there were no signs of a struggle or any immediate threat here, but something about the sterile, almost clinical neatness of the room unsettled Katsuki. He knew that someone had been here recently.

They spent a few minutes quickly scanning every corner, making sure there were no hidden passages or anything unusual. But nothing. The room was what it appeared to be—an underground pantry.

"Nothing here," Renji muttered, and the others nodded in agreement. The team quickly filed back into the corridor, moving to the next door.

The next room, however, was not what they expected.

The door opened slowly and cautiously. Inside was some kind of laboratory —and not just any ordinary one. This was something far more sinister.

The walls were lined with shelves of colorful bottles, syringes, and vials of strange liquids. There were various instruments strewn across the counters—some of them unfamiliar to the team, their uses unclear but their designs unmistakably industrial. It looked like a place where experiments were conducted, not just some storage area. Katsuki’s eyes flicked over the space, his gaze sharp. Some of the equipment looked like it was used for chemical testing, others for something more ominous, maybe even genetic manipulation.

"What the fuck…” Katsuki muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening as he scanned the room with suspicion.

"HALT! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"

The shout echoed through the corridor, breaking the eerie silence. Tadaka’s voice was commanding, sharp and filled with urgency.

Everyone froze. The four inside the room immediately turned on their heels, moving quickly but carefully back to the corridor where the others were waiting. The door shut quietly behind them as they rejoined the group. There was no time to waste now—this was no longer just a routine search.

Jeanist’s quirk flickered into action as he stretched his fingers, manipulating the threads in his clothes with ease. He aimed his power at the man standing at the end of the corridor who had emerged without warning. His clothes tangled and sewed together, his movements restrained by the threads Jeanist had wrapped around him. However, to everyone’s surprise, the man was far stronger than expected. With an inhuman growl, he ripped the clothes free with brutal force, the fabric tearing apart in his hands as if it were paper.

Jeanist’s eyes widened, startled by the sheer strength of the man. He had been confident his quirk would be enough to incapacitate him, but this was different.

“What the.” Jeanist muttered under his breath, stepping back.

The man’s gaze was dark and focused, his muscles bulging and rippling with unnatural strength. His presence filled the corridor with an oppressive force as he began to move toward the team.

Aizawa was the first to act. His scarf whipped through the air as he reached out with his quirk, making the man’s body seize. The muscles in his arms and legs started to shrink, his speed slowing as his movements grew sluggish. The man gritted his teeth, struggling against the effect of Aizawa’s quirk, but it was too much. His strength waned, and he staggered, losing his footing slightly.

Katsuki’s eyes flickered with a deadly intent. The man had proven to be more of a threat than they’d thought, but now he had the perfect opportunity. He raised his hand, and the explosive power of his quirk shot toward the man. The blast hit him squarely in the chest, sending him hurtling back, slamming him against the wall with a loud crash.

“YOU FUCKERS!” the man screamed, rage dripping from every word as he tried to push himself to his feet. He was clearly dazed, but still dangerous. His body was healing fast, and he was not ready to give up so easily.

“You are under arrest for having an illegal place underground without a permit,” Tadaka called out, his voice firm. He rushed forward, his hands pulling out restraints. But the man wasn’t going down without a fight.

Aizawa blinked accidentally, the scar on his eyelid made his timelimit from less longer.

With one swift, violent motion, the man charged forward again. His body slammed into Officer Kobayashi, sending him crashing into the wall with a sickening thud.

“KOBAYASHI!” Renji shouted, his voice filled with panic. The officer slumped, unconscious from the impact, his body crumpling against the cold floor.

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed, his focus shifting to the man. He had to stop him before he could do any more damage. With a swift movement, Aizawa used his quirk again, forcing the man’s body to freeze in place, his strength slipping once more.

Katsuki didn’t hesitate. His hand shot forward again, and another explosive burst rang out. The blast collided with the man’s side, knocking him unconscious this time. The man’s body crumpled to the ground in a heap, unmoving.

“That should do the trick,” Katsuki muttered as the smoke from his explosion cleared. His hand smoked from the force of the blast, but his expression remained cold.

“That strength of him was really something else.. “ Jeanist said as he was already moving toward the fallen officer, checking for any sign of injury. “We need to get him to medical.”

Kobayashi was hit with his head on the wall, knocked unconscious.

Renji nodded and took out his walkie talkie, contacting the other officer upstairs, to come and get Kobayashi.

Tadaka looked down at the man who had caused so much chaos. “We need to search the rest of this place,” he said, his voice determined. “We still don’t know what else we’re dealing with here.”

“I’ll stay with Kobayashi and make sure he’s okay.” Renji said.

Jeanist restrained the unconscious man tightly, and started dragging him towards the beginning of the corridor. The police officers who had been monitoring Kobayashi rushed to pick up their fallen comrade, Renji moving to support them as they carefully made their way back to regroup.

Tadaka turned to the remaining team members. “Based on the description from the woman, this was the man she saw. We have no idea if there are any more like him here,” he said, his voice low but serious, the weight of the situation sinking in.

Jeanist nodded solemnly and continued pulling the man back to the entrance, ensuring he was secured and wouldn’t escape. The group was about to split up when Tadaka, ever the strategist, spoke up again, “Let’s split up from here. Everyone take a room and search thoroughly.”

The team nodded in agreement, each hero heading off to inspect their assigned areas. Tadaka made his way to the next room, Aizawa took the first door on the other side, and Katsuki headed to the final room on the left row.

The door creaked as Katsuki pushed it open slowly. The stench that immediately hit him was overwhelming—a strong smell of iron mixed with something rotten, like decay in the air. His stomach churned as he breathed in the foul odor, immediately aware of the grisly scene that awaited him inside.

Katsuki hesitated at the door, his eyes scanning the room in disbelief. The dim light above barely illuminated the space, casting long shadows across the floor. In the center of the room, under the stark light, stood a metal table—dark and coated in blood. It was positioned directly beneath the light, its surface marked by dark stains that had long since soaked into the metal. At the edges and corners of the table, there were restraints, chains attached to the metal surface as if designed to hold someone in place, immobile. The blood pooled around the base, like a sickening testament to what had happened in this room. Katsuki’s mouth went dry.

He quickly backed out, but his eyes caught something else on the left side of the room. Another metal table lay against the far wall, this one covered in an assortment of tools. Some of the tools were clean, pristine even, as though they had just been set down for use. But the majority of them were stained—dark crimson marks smeared on knives, pliers, scalpels, syringes, and other instruments Katsuki couldn’t quite name. His heart raced. The sight made him feel dizzy.

And then, if that wasn’t enough, his gaze moved to the far right corner of the room, where another metal chair sat. The chair had restraints on its arms and legs, and there were bloodstains around the seat, the metal darkened by a liquid that had long since dried into the material. The very sight of it made Katsuki’s blood run cold. He could feel the bile rising in his throat, threatening to spill out. This wasn’t just a lab. This was a torture chamber, a place where horrors were inflicted on people for reasons that defied reason.

Katsuki's legs shook, and he staggered back into the corridor. He gritted his teeth and forced his emotions back into control, trying to keep his anger from boiling over.

“Hey, guys!” he yelled, his voice hoarse and filled with frustration. He didn’t want to stay there a moment longer than he had to. It was too much.

Aizawa was the first to appear, his usual stoic expression momentarily changing as he caught sight of Katsuki’s pale face and shaky form. His eyes narrowed in concern, but he didn’t speak right away.

Aizawa’s eyes flickered to Katsuki’s face, the tension in his eyes sharp. “Dynamight, what’s wrong?” he asked again, his concern now mixed with urgency.

Katsuki didn’t respond immediately. His breath was shallow, and he was struggling to hold back the anger that threatened to spill over. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, the urge to explode overwhelming. “Look inside,” he managed to say, barely holding it together as he stepped aside. He didn’t want to go back into that room.

Tadaka and Aizawa moved forward, their eyes scanning the room quickly. As they stepped inside, their faces changed in an instant. Aizawa’s eyes widened in disbelief. Tadaka's hand immediately went to his mouth in disgust. The sight before them was far more than they had expected.

The blood-soaked tables, the tools of torture, the restraints—it was all too much. Neither of them spoke at first. It was as if the sheer horror of the scene before them had temporarily robbed them of words.

Tadaka shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he processed the situation. “This is... something else entirely.” His voice was low, his tone filled with the weight of the discovery.

They knew now that the man they were dealing with was no ordinary criminal. He wasn’t just a rogue villain—they were facing someone who had committed unspeakable atrocities, someone who had long since crossed any moral boundary.

Tadaka and Aizawa exchanged a look, and without another word, they turned to leave the room. The urgency in their movements was evident.

The weight of what they had just discovered lingered heavily in the air. It was difficult to shake the image of the torture chamber, the sheer brutality of it, and the implications of what had taken place there.

Aizawa exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. “The room I just went in was a kitchen,” he finally said, his voice quieter than usual. “It’s… fairly standard. Cabinets, a sink, a stove. There’s food stored there, some fresh, some canned. Whoever was using this place wasn’t just visiting. They were living here.” He crossed his arms, glancing toward Tadaka. “I guess the man does have normal rooms.”

Tadaka nodded, his brows furrowed in thought. “The room I checked was full of files. Stacks of papers, folders, notes.” He sighed. “Could be important, could be useless, but we should go through them later. Right now, we have to continue searching. Though, i think this man was working alone.” His voice was steady, but his face betrayed his unease.

A heavy silence settled over them again. The contrast between their discoveries was unsettling—one room was so mundane, while the other was something straight out of a nightmare. It made the whole place feel even more unnerving.

Katsuki, still tense, huffed sharply. “Who gives a shit about a kitchen? We have proof that bastard has been torturing people down here.” His hands curled into fists. He was furious, but more than that, he thought back at Izuku. He is getting tortured too, maybe right now as they speak.

Aizawa and Tadaka exchanged a glance. Katsuki was right. They could catalog what they found later. Right now, there could still be victims locked away somewhere.

“Let’s move,” Tadaka ordered, his voice firm. “Carefully. We don’t know what else is waiting for us.”

Aizawa and Tadaka each took a door on the right side of the corridor, disappearing into their respective rooms to investigate.

Katsuki, however, remained still. His gaze was locked onto the heavy metal door at the very end of the hall. It was different from the others—thicker, reinforced with steel, and secured shut by a large metal bar stretching across it.

A strange weight settled in his chest as he stepped forward. Katsuki’s grip on the metal bar was firm as he lifted it, the cold steel scraping against the lock with a dull, grating sound. His breath came out slow and controlled, but his heart pounded in his chest. Something about this door felt different. More important. He could feel it.

With a final push, he shoved the heavy door open, and immediately, the brightness burned his eyes.

The corridor’s lighting had been harsh, but this was worse. A stark, clinical white that made his vision blur for a moment. He squinted, trying to adjust, but then—

The stench hit.

It was overwhelming. Blood. Urine. Vomit. Sweat. Something rotten. It clung to the air, thick and suffocating. Katsuki gagged, lifting an arm to cover his nose, but it didn’t help. The smell settled in his lungs, making his stomach twist.

His eyes scanned the room. At first glance, it was empty.

The walls were bare, smooth, and white, giving the place an almost sterile look—like a hospital room that had been long abandoned. The floor was the same, cold and colorless, except for the dark stains smeared across it. Some were old, dried into the surface. Others looked fresher.

Katsuki’s breath came out slow, uneven. His gut twisted, a deep, gnawing sense of dread crawling up his spine.

Then his eyes shifted to the right while he pushed the door further open.

And he saw someone.

He saw him.

Katsuki’s body went rigid, the air in his lungs freezing as his brain caught up with what he was seeing.

A figure was curled up, almost in the corner, pressed against the wall as if trying to disappear into it. Chains rattled slightly as the person shifted just the tiniest bit, but otherwise, they remained eerily still. Their legs were pulled tightly against their chest, arms wrapped around their head, fingers pressing over their ears as if trying to block out the world.

It took only a second for Katsuki to recognize that mess of hair—dark, matted, tangled beyond repair. It should have been soft, full of wild green curls that stuck up in every direction. Now, it was caked with dried blood and dirt, stripped of its life.

But even with all that—

Katsuki knew exactly who it was.

His chest seized, something sharp and painful stabbing through him like a knife to the ribs. His hands trembled at his sides.

He tried to breathe. He couldn’t.

"Izuku?" His voice came out barely above a whisper, hoarse and unsteady.

No reaction.

No flinch, no stiffening of the shoulders, no shifting of his hands.

Nothing.

Izuku sat there, unmoving, like a statue carved out of suffering. His entire body was curled in on itself, head buried in his arms, hiding away.

Katsuki took another step forward, though his legs felt like they had turned to stone.

“Izuku,” he called again, this time louder, firmer, his voice carrying the weight of something raw and desperate.

Still, nothing.

His gut twisted even harder, a sick, heavy pressure building in his chest.

This wasn’t right.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to be.

Izuku was supposed to fight back. He was supposed to smile, to tremble in defiance, to do something, anything—not just sit there, hollow and silent.

Katsuki’s fingers curled into fists. His throat burned.

Then, he noticed it.

The blood.

A dark, sluggish puddle beneath Izuku, spreading across the cold, unforgiving floor. It seeped into the thin fabric of his clothes, staining them deep red. The sight made Katsuki’s stomach twist. His breathing quickened, panic clawing at his throat.

His body moved before his mind could catch up.

He ran.

“Izuku! Deku!” His voice cracked as he dropped to his knees beside him, barely feeling the impact.

Up close, it was even worse.

Izuku’s bare feet were raw and bruised, his wrists chafed and torn where the metal cuffs had rubbed his skin raw. His entire body was shaking.

Katsuki swallowed hard and reached out, his hand trembling as he placed it gently on Izuku’s arm.

The reaction was instant.

Izuku flinched violently, his whole body jolting. Chains rattled as he instinctively tried to pull away, pressing himself deeper against the wall like he was trying to disappear.

Katsuki’s breath caught.

“H-Hey, Izuku…” he stammered, forcing a weak smile through his panic. His throat felt like it was closing up. Why won’t he look at me?

“It’s okay now. You’re safe.” He tried to keep his voice steady, but he could feel it breaking. “I’m taking you home.”

Nothing.

No response.

No relief.

Izuku stayed curled up, his head buried in his knees, his fingers still pressing over his ears. Like he hadn’t even heard him. Like he didn’t believe him.

Katsuki’s chest tightened. He felt sick.

“Izuku…” he tried again, this time reaching out more carefully.

“Izuku, look at me.”

Still nothing.

For a moment, all he could hear was Izuku’s shallow, uneven breathing. The faint, choked gasps of someone on the verge of breaking.

Then, finally—

A sound.

A whisper. So weak he almost didn’t catch it.

“Go away…”

Katsuki froze.

His blood turned to ice.

Izuku’s voice was hoarse, strained—like it hurt just to speak. His entire body trembled as he shrank in on himself even more.

“Don’t…” His breath hitched. “Don’t give me false hope.”

The words hit Katsuki like a punch to the gut.

False hope?

“What…?” he breathed, his voice barely audible.

Izuku didn’t move.

Didn’t lift his head.

Didn’t acknowledge him at all.

Katsuki felt something crack deep inside his chest.

No.

No, no, no.

Izuku was right here. He was alive. So why… why did he sound like he had already given up?

Katsuki’s hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. His throat felt like sandpaper.

This wasn’t happening.

This couldn’t be happening.

Gritting his teeth, he turned toward the hallway, desperation overriding everything else.

“HEY! MR. AIZAWA!” He yelled, voice raw with urgency.

Izuku flinched again, his entire body recoiling at the sudden noise.

Katsuki saw it.

And it shattered him.

His breath came out shaky as he turned back to Izuku, his hands hovering uselessly in front of him.

What the hell had they done to him?

Katsuki opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

What the hell was he supposed to say?

Words had never been his strong suit, and comforting people? That was even worse. He was more likely to make someone cry than to make them feel better. And looking at Izuku now—small, shaking, completely unresponsive—he wasn’t even sure if comfort was what he needed.

But he had to do something.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak.

“Izuku… it’s me.” His voice wavered despite himself. “Please… look at me.”

No reaction.

Katsuki clenched his jaw. His grip on his own knees tightened.

Come on, nerd. Please.

Footsteps pounded against the floor behind him.

“Bakugou!”

Aizawa’s voice snapped through the tense silence. Katsuki turned his head just as his teacher skidded to a halt in the doorway, his breathing heavy from running.

And then, the moment his eyes landed on the trembling figure in the corner—

Aizawa froze.

His expression changed in an instant.

“…Midoriya…” he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Disbelief, horror, and something else flickered across his face. His eyes widened, scanning the room like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Slowly, he took a hesitant step forward.

Katsuki shot him a warning look, his face tight.

Izuku still hadn’t moved. His hands stayed firmly over his ears, his head tucked against his knees, his body curled inward like he could disappear if he just made himself small enough.

Aizawa barely seemed to hear him. His mouth was slightly open, his expression stuck between shock and something dangerously close to anger.

Then, more footsteps.

Detective Tadaka and Best Jeanist appeared at the door.

It seemed Jeanist had handled the bastard.

They both took one look inside the room—

And froze.

“Wait… is that—?” Jeanist started, his eyes going wide.

Tadaka took another step closer, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“Midoriya?” Jeanist asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze darted between Aizawa and Katsuki, looking for confirmation.

“Midoriya?” Tadaka repeated, glancing between them. “As in… Deku?”

It was like the air in the room snapped.

Katsuki’s head jerked up, and before he could stop himself, he snapped.

“Everyone shut up!” His voice came out sharp, a mix of anger and panic. “Can’t you see he’s fucking scared?!”

The room went dead silent.

Katsuki glared at all of them, his heart pounding against his ribs.

Izuku was curled into himself, so small, so fucking small, like he was trying to vanish into thin air.

His breathing was shallow, uneven.

And worst of all—

He wasn’t reacting.

Not like he should. Not like Deku.

Katsuki swallowed back the bile rising in his throat and turned back to Izuku.

Carefully, he shifted closer, lowering himself to the floor completely.

Then, slow enough not to startle him, Katsuki reached out.

His fingertips barely brushed against Izuku’s arm.

The reaction was instant.

Izuku flinched.

Not just a small jerk—his whole body tensed violently, like the touch hurt.

Katsuki snatched his hand back, his chest twisting painfully.

His hands curled into fists, hovering uselessly at his sides.

This wasn’t right.

This wasn’t fucking right.

His throat felt tight, his jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

Izuku was right here. But the way he flinched, the way he curled in on himself, the way he refused to look at any of them—

It felt like he was already gone.

Aizawa stepped forward, his movements slow, deliberate.

It hit him like a punch to the gut.

Midoriya—his top student, the one who always pushed forward no matter what, no matter how much pain he was in—was curled up on the cold floor, trembling. His body flinched at even the gentlest touch, like he expected it to hurt.

Aizawa’s stomach twisted as his eyes took in the full extent of what had been done to him.

Scars lined his arms. Some were old—ones Aizawa recognized, the battle wounds Izuku had earned through reckless heroism. But the others—these were different. Thin, deliberate. Cut scars. They ran along his skin in jagged, uneven lines, overlapping in places.

His wrists and ankles were raw, rubbed red and irritated from the chains that bound him. There was dried blood crusted around the metal, caking it to his skin.

And then, there was the blood beneath him.

The dark, sticky puddle stained the tattered remnants of his clothes, soaking into the fabric, spreading beneath his limp form.

Aizawa clenched his jaw, his throat tight.

Izuku was too thin.

He had always been small, but now—he was nothing but skin and bone. Muscle was almost gone, his body visibly weaker than before. His hands trembled slightly where they gripped his own arms. His breathing was shallow.

How long has it been since he had any food? How much had they taken from him?

Aizawa moved closer. Carefully, he lowered himself down, crouching beside him.

Behind him, Jeanist and Tadaka stood at the entrance, their eyes dark with quiet horror. Neither spoke.

Aizawa took a slow breath. He couldn’t let this shake him. He had to focus.

“Midoriya,” he said, voice low but steady.

The boy didn’t react.

Still shaking. Still hiding.

Aizawa exhaled softly.

“I’m sorry it took us so long,” he murmured.

He meant it.

He should’ve found him sooner.

Aizawa’s voice softened even more.

“But you’re safe now,” he promised. “You’re coming with us.”

For a moment, there was nothing. No movement, no sound.

Then—

Izuku shifted.

Slowly, his hands slid down from his ears.

They dropped to his sides, limp and motionless.

For the first time since Katsuki had found him, he moved.

Aizawa’s breath caught.

A small part of Izuku’s face was visible now, the edge of his cheek barely peeking out from where it had been buried against his knees.

But his eyes—

His eyes were still hidden.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t react further.

But he was listening.

Aizawa’s gaze flickered to Katsuki, who was still crouched on Izuku’s other side.

Their eyes met.

Katsuki’s face was tense, his hands clenched into fists on his knees. His red eyes burned with something raw, something that looked close to panic—but there was determination there, too.

Aizawa understood.

Neither of them would leave him here.

Slowly, carefully, Aizawa reached out.

“Izuku,” he tried again. “It’s over. You can come home now.”

Silence followed.

Then,
"I... have no home."

The words barely left Izuku's lips.

The sound of his voice—if it could even be called that—was nothing like before. It was hoarse, rough with disuse, strained as if every syllable took effort. Dry, cracked, lifeless.

It made something in Katsuki's chest tighten painfully.

Aizawa stiffened beside him. Even Jeanist and Tadaka, who had been silent, exchanged uneasy glances.

The words lingered in the air, heavy, suffocating.

Katsuki swallowed hard.

“Of course you do,” he said quietly, his voice lacking its usual bite. “We’re all waiting for you at UA.”

A pause.

A long, painful pause.

Then—

“Stop it,” Izuku muttered. His voice was even softer this time, but no less broken. “I know you’re not real.”

Katsuki’s breath hitched. His heart started pounding.

What?

He turned sharply toward Aizawa, but Aizawa looked just as taken aback.

Katsuki’s hands curled into fists. “The hell do you mean I’m not real?” His voice rose slightly, frustration bleeding into his words. “I’m fucking here, dumbass! Just open your goddamn eyes and look at me!”

Silence.

A thick, suffocating silence.

Then—Izuku moved.

Not much. Just a slow, almost hesitant shift.

His head lifted slightly.

At first, only his forehead was visible.

Bandages. Wrapped tightly around the right side of his face, disappearing into his messy, blood-caked hair. The fabric was old, stained with something dark.

Katsuki felt his breath catch.

Then, as Izuku’s head continued to rise, the rest of his face was revealed.

Katsuki had never felt horror like this before.

His lips were dry, cracked in several places. His skin, once full of life, was now sickly pale. Dark bruises covered his jaw, his cheekbones, even his neck—angry blotches of purple, blue, and fading yellow.

His left eye…

Katsuki swallowed, his stomach twisting.

Izuku’s left eye looked empty.

Dark circles rimmed it, the skin underneath almost black. His gaze was dull, unfocused. There was no spark. No life. Just a hollow, vacant look that made him seem like he wasn’t really there.

Like he was staring through them.

Izuku blinked slowly, adjusting to the bright artificial light of the room. His gaze drifted lazily, first landing on Aizawa in front of him.

No reaction.

Then, he shifted his head slightly—just enough to see Katsuki crouched beside him.

Katsuki could only stare back, his throat tightening.

Izuku’s gaze drifted past Katsuki, past Aizawa, and toward the figures standing behind them.

Jeanist.

And… someone else.

His breath hitched.

He didn’t recognize that man. He had never seen him before. But—Katsuki and Aizawa?

They weren’t supposed to be here.

No one was supposed to be here.

Because they had abandoned him.

Right?

Izuku’s eye flickered back to Katsuki, staring, searching. Waiting.

For the illusion to break.

For them to disappear, like they always did.

Katsuki moved carefully, his hand rising toward Izuku’s face. His fingers trembled slightly, but he didn’t stop. He brushed against Izuku’s cheek, his touch warm, gentle—so different from everything Izuku had come to know.

Izuku flinched, his body instinctively shrinking back. But he didn’t pull away completely.

Katsuki exhaled softly. “I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking right now,” he muttered. “But, Izuku, we’re real. We’re here to take you home. Back to UA.”

His thumb moved, stroking gently across Izuku’s cheek.

Izuku’s breath hitched again.

His eye widened.

Then—tears.

Slow, silent, slipping down his bruised face like he hadn’t even realized they were falling.

“No,” Izuku mumbled, voice barely audible. “You’re lying.”

Katsuki’s jaw clenched.

“I’m not, dumbass,” he said, firmer now. “Can’t you see? I’m real.”

Izuku’s lips parted slightly, a shaky breath leaving him. The tears kept coming, trailing down his hollow cheeks, but his expression remained frozen—like he was struggling to process what was happening.

“I… I…” His voice was fragile, hesitant.

Then, slowly, he turned his gaze to Aizawa.

And just stared.

His one teary eye locked onto him, as if he were trying—begging—for proof.

As if he were trying to convince himself that this was real.

A sound of footsteps broke through the heavy silence.

Detective Tadaka.

He ran back into the room, his face serious. “I found these keys in the room i was before,” he said quietly. “They might be for the chains.”

He handed them to Aizawa.

Aizawa took them, exhaling slowly. He turned back to Izuku, his voice softer now.

“Midoriya, show me your wrists.”

Izuku hesitated for a second, his arms trembling.

But then, with visible effort, he forced his weak hands up.

Katsuki barely held back a sharp inhale.

His fingers.

His wrists were already a mess—bruised, bloodied, rubbed raw where the metal had bitten into his skin. But his fingers—his fingernails.

They were gone.

Completely ripped off.

The nail beds underneath were swollen, bloody, dark with dried scabs.

Aizawa stilled.

Katsuki went rigid. His stomach twisted into knots, his throat going dry.

Aizawa took a slow, steady breath before lowering his gaze to the chains. The lock was small, a simple hole in the back.

He slid the key in, turned it.

A soft click.

Izuku’s left wrist came free.

Izuku’s breath hitched. He stared at his wrist like he didn’t recognize it—like he had forgotten what it felt like to be free.

For the first time in forever, air touched his skin.

And it stung.

His lips parted slightly. He didn’t react. Didn’t move.

Aizawa gently took his other hand, careful not to press against his wounds. Another click, and that one was free too.

The moment the chains loosened, Katsuki reached forward, holding them before they could clatter to the ground.

Izuku’s entire body trembled.

Tears welled up in his eye again—faster this time. His shoulders shook as the realization settled in.

He wasn’t chained anymore.

Katsuki’s voice was softer now, almost gentle. “Told you,” he muttered. “We’re getting you out of here.”

Izuku turned toward him, his lips pressed into a thin, trembling line.

Aizawa moved down to his ankles. The first shackle came undone in seconds. Then the second.

For the first time in weeks, Izuku was completely unchained.

His skin—his wrists, his ankles—were shattered.

Raw, red, broken.

Bruised where the metal had cut into him. Torn apart from how much he must’ve struggled.

Katsuki’s throat felt tight.

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palm.

His gaze flickered to Izuku’s face.

Izuku was staring at the floor, his whole body trembling violently.

His hands, his feet—they were free.

So why didn’t he feel free at all?

Notes:

Omg they reunite at last.
The moment you’ve all been waiting for — and this is just the beginning. My poor Izuku... he truly thinks every good thing is just an hallucination.

I’ll see you all next Friday! I’ve decided to stick with this posting schedule for now. It might change in the future if I catch up to my chapters, since I don’t want to leave you all hanging with long breaks. Right now, I’m not really writing new chapters, so I’m just glad I still have a lot in draft to share.

Anyways, bye for now!

Chapter 17: Back in Their Arms

Aizawa looked at Izuku’s state, and then turnend his gaze towards Tadaka.

“Tadaka, call an ambulance. He needs medical attention now.” His voice was firm, controlled—but beneath that calm exterior, there was urgency.

Tadaka nodded sharply. “On it.” He pulled out his phone and quickly stepped out of the room, already dialing.

A heavy silence settled over them.

Izuku’s breathing was shaky. His body trembled. He kept his head lowered, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, as if trying to make himself smaller.

Then, barely above a whisper—so quiet it was almost lost—

“W…where’s… he…?”

Katsuki stiffened.

He didn’t need to ask who Izuku meant.

The bastard who did this.

The one who locked him in chains. Who hurt him. Who left him in this goddamn state.

“He’s arrested,” Katsuki said, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. “We’ll make sure that bastard is locked up for the rest of his life.”

Izuku didn’t react.

Didn’t lift his head.

He simply stared at the ground.

Slowly, he uncurled his legs, letting them rest flat against the cold floor.

Katsuki felt something twist in his chest.

Scars.

Dark, raw burns covered Izuku’s upper legs. Slightly healed but still pink and angry. The burns stretched across his thighs, as if something scalding had been poured over them.

Katsuki sucked in a breath.

Aizawa tensed beside him, his sharp eyes immediately taking in the injuries.

Izuku noticed their stares.

He saw the pity in their eyes.

And instantly, his legs snapped back up, knees drawn tight against his chest, hiding the burns from view.

Shame flickered across his face.

Katsuki’s hands curled into fists.

He wanted to do something. To fix this.

But—how the hell was he supposed to comfort someone whose entire body was covered in scars?

His arms, his legs, his wrists, his fingers. Even his face—there was barely a place on Izuku that hadn’t been hurt.

How the hell was he supposed to touch someone like that?

His jaw clenched.

Then, carefully, he reached out.

His hand landed on Izuku’s head, fingers threading through tangled, matted curls. His hair was a mess—knotted, sticky with dried blood—but Katsuki still ruffled it gently, like he used to when they were kids.

Izuku didn’t flinch this time.

Didn’t react at all.

Tadaka returned, stepping back into the room. “The ambulance is on its way,” he announced. “But we should carry him up. They won’t be able to get a stretcher down here.”

Aizawa nodded, already turning back to Izuku.

“Midoriya,” he said, voice softer now, “can you walk?”

Izuku’s eye flickered up to him.

Then down to his own legs.

He hesitated.

His fingers twitched slightly against his arms, like he was thinking about it—like he was trying to make his body move.

But he didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t shake his head.

He hadn’t walked in weeks.

His body was exhausted. Starved. He barely had the energy to sit up, let alone stand.

Katsuki didn’t wait for an answer.

“Put your arms around my shoulder,” he said, crouching down beside him.

Aizawa knelt on the other side, offering his support.

Izuku hesitated again.

Then, slowly—painfully—he lifted his trembling arms and looped them around their shoulders.

The moment he moved, pain flared through him.

His wrists burned. His arms ached. Every part of his body screamed in protest.

But he bit down on his lip and pushed through it.

Katsuki and Aizawa rose to their feet, pulling Izuku up with them.

His legs buckled.

The sudden shift—the weight of standing up after weeks of lying on the cold, hard floor—sent a wave of dizziness crashing over him.

The room tilted.

Blurred.

Black spots flickered in his vision.

His head pounded.

“I… I can’t…” he whispered.

Then—

Everything faded.

His body went limp.

Katsuki and Aizawa caught him before he could collapse.

“Shit—” Katsuki hissed. His grip tightened, holding Izuku’s unconscious form against him.

Aizawa cursed under his breath. “Damn it. We need to get him to the hospital now.”

“Then let’s fucking go,” Katsuki snapped.

Without another word, they adjusted their hold—one taking his legs, the other supporting his back—and lifted him carefully.

Izuku’s head lolled against Katsuki’s shoulder, his breathing shallow. His weight felt too light in their arms.

Katsuki swallowed hard.

They needed to move. Now.

And they did.

“Eraser, we’re going through the last three rooms,” Jeanist’s voice came through the comms, steady but firm. “We’ll be in touch.”

Aizawa adjusted his grip on Izuku, nodding even though Jeanist couldn’t see him. “Alright. Be careful.”

Katsuki and Aizawa carried Izuku carefully through the corridor, his limp body a constant reminder of just how fragile he felt in their arms. Tadaka stepped ahead, pushing open the metal door leading to the stairwell. The hinges creaked loudly, the sound echoing through the abandoned building.

They stepped into the stairwell, the air colder here. Dust clung to the walls, and the scent of mildew mixed with the faint metallic tang of blood. The dim lighting barely illuminated the cracked concrete steps.

Izuku didn’t react.

His head lolled against Aizawa’s shoulder, his breath slow and shallow.

Katsuki glanced down at him, his brows furrowed, then turned to Aizawa. “Eraser, I’ll take it from here,” he said, voice tight with determination. “He’s so fucking light—I can carry him myself.”

Aizawa hesitated. His sharp gaze flickered to Katsuki, assessing him. Then, after a moment, he nodded.

“Alright,” he said, shifting Izuku’s weight carefully. “I’ll lead the way. Be careful with him.”

Katsuki crouched slightly, adjusting his hold as Aizawa gently transferred Izuku into his arms.

He was so goddamn light.

Katsuki gritted his teeth. It was like carrying a bundle of fragile bones wrapped in torn skin. He could feel the heat radiating from Izuku’s bruised and battered body, the unnatural warmth of a fever.

His arms instinctively tightened around him.

They pushed forward.

Aizawa led the way, they ascended the stairs, moving through the dark, abandoned building. Every step felt too slow, every moment dragged too long. The closer they got to the outside, the heavier the weight in Katsuki’s chest became.

Then—

The door leading outside burst open.

Sunlight flooded in.

The sudden sun brightness wasn’t necessary blinding, but it was warm. The cold, stagnant air of the building was replaced by fresh, open air, carrying the distant sound of sirens growing closer.

The ambulance.

Katsuki’s grip on Izuku tightened slightly as he stepped outside, his feet hitting solid ground.

Izuku stirred.

A faint, almost unnoticeable movement.

Then—his eye fluttered open.

A single green eye—dull, tired, unfocused—stared up at the sky.

The blue sky.

The sun.

For the first time in weeks, Izuku saw the open sky again. No white, damp walls surrounding him. No dim, flickering lights casting twisted shadows. Just… the vast, open expanse of blue above him.

His cracked lips parted slightly, his throat too dry to speak. He swallowed, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“K…Ka…chan…”

Katsuki’s breath hitched.

He looked down, his crimson eyes meeting Izuku’s weak, half-lidded gaze.

He heard him.

Katsuki forced himself to stay steady. “We’re almost there, Izuku,” he murmured, his voice softer than before. Gentler. “We’ll get you to feel better soon. Just hang in there, alright?”

Izuku blinked slowly.

Then—

He closed his eyes again.

His body relaxed slightly in Katsuki’s arms, his head pressing faintly against his chest.

Katsuki swallowed hard, his grip firm but careful as he carried Izuku towards the approaching ambulance.

They were almost there.

Almost.

As they reached the roadside, the blaring sirens of the ambulance grew deafening. The red and white vehicle screeched to a halt, and before Katsuki could even take another step, the back doors were thrown open.

Three paramedics rushed out, a stretcher rolling between them.

“He needs immediate medical attention!” one of them called out, eyes scanning over Izuku’s battered body in Katsuki’s arms.

A woman at the front of the group took a sharp breath as she got a closer look at the unconscious boy. She swallowed hard, her expression unreadable.

They positioned the stretcher beside Katsuki, one of the male doctors motioning to him. “Carefully, set him down.”

Katsuki hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. He bent down, easing Izuku’s frail body onto the stretcher with as much care as he could.

His weight barely shifted the fabric. Too light. Too fucking light.

“He keeps falling in and out of consciousness,” Katsuki said, voice tight. “Be careful.”

The lead paramedic, a woman with short black hair, nodded. “That’s alright. We’re going to sedate him to keep his body stable.”

Just as she said that, a fourth doctor rushed from the ambulance, a syringe held between his gloved fingers.

That’s when everything fell apart.

Izuku’s eye flickered open, sluggish but aware. His hazy, green gaze darted around, adjusting to the sudden brightness of the outside world. He seemed lost, like his brain couldn’t process what was happening—where he was, who was around him.

Then, his gaze landed on the needle.

His body locked up.

The exhaustion in his eye was replaced with pure, unfiltered fear.

The doctor approached, reaching for his arm.

“No…” Izuku’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Katsuki frowned, about to say something, but before he could react—

Izuku snapped.

His body jerked violently, arms flailing, teeth gritted.

“NO!” he screamed. His voice was hoarse, raw, broken from dehydration and exhaustion, but it was still desperate.

His wrist yanked away from the paramedic’s grip, his arm swinging wildly—hitting the doctor straight in the chest.

The sudden movement caught everyone off guard. The doctor stumbled back, startled, as Izuku thrashed against the stretcher, his breathing ragged, pupils blown wide.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” His voice cracked as he struggled. His fingers clawed at the stretcher’s fabric, his legs twitching weakly as if trying to push himself away. His body was too weak, but his mind—his instincts—were screaming at him to fight.

Katsuki’s eyes widened.

“Izuku—!”

“LIARS! LIARS! YOU’RE ALL LIARS!”

Tears spilled down Izuku’s dirt-streaked face. His panic was so intense, so real that for a moment, it was like he wasn’t even seeing them anymore.

Like he was still trapped there.

Still suffering.

Katsuki snapped out of his shock and immediately leaned over, grabbing Izuku’s arm and trying to still his movements. “Izuku, stop! You’re safe now!”

But he wasn’t hearing him.

Izuku kept thrashing, his bloodied fingers digging into the stretcher, his body twisting like a wounded animal. His hoarse screams sent a shiver down Aizawa’s spine.

Aizawa quickly moved in, placing firm hands on Izuku’s shoulders to stop him from injuring himself. The female paramedic grabbed his other arm, her expression pained.

“Izuku, calm down!” Katsuki yelled, but Izuku only fought harder.

His body trembled under their grips, his breaths coming out in short, sharp gasps. He sobbed between his choked cries, his struggles weakening—but he still fought.

The male doctor, now recovered from the sudden attack, clenched his jaw and quickly approached again, syringe in hand.

Then, without hesitation, he plunged the needle into Izuku’s arm.

The reaction was instant.

Izuku let out a sharp, broken scream.

Katsuki flinched. Aizawa tightened his grip.

Izuku’s eye squeezed shut, his sobs turning softer, weaker.

“You’re… all… liars…” his voice cracked.

Aizawa’s breath caught in his throat.

Katsuki felt his heart drop into his stomach.

What did he mean?

Izuku’s body twitched once, twice—then his eye fluttered. His struggles slowed. His sobs turned into weak gasps.

Then, finally—his body went still.

Katsuki’s grip remained firm even as Izuku’s weight settled into the stretcher. He stared down at him, his hands shaking slightly.

The paramedic checked his pulse, then gave a small nod. “He’s okay. Just sedated.”

Aizawa exhaled slowly. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath.

Katsuki let go of Izuku’s limp hand, but his fingers trembled.

He clenched them into a fist.

They had gotten him out.

But…

Those last words.

You’re all liars.

Katsuki’s jaw tightened.

They hurt.

And he couldn’t shake the feeling that Izuku wasn’t just saying them in fear.

He meant them.

Izuku’s body went completely limp as the sedative took hold. His chest rose and fell in shallow, steady breaths, his fingers twitching slightly before going still.

“We’ll get him to first aid immediately,” the female paramedic said, her voice calm but firm.

Two of the responders pushed the stretcher with practiced ease, carrying Izuku toward the open ambulance doors.

Katsuki took a half-step forward, his hands clenched at his sides as he watched them secure Izuku inside. One of them reached for an oxygen mask, pressing it gently over his mouth and nose.

Aizawa placed a firm hand on Katsuki’s shoulder.

“I know you want to go with him,” he said quietly. “But for now, we should be grateful on the fact that we found him.”

Katsuki gritted his teeth. “Tsk. Of course I’m grateful,” he muttered.

But that didn’t change the bitter frustration curling in his chest. Seeing Izuku like that—frail, battered, terrified—it made his stomach twist.

Footsteps sounded behind them.

Detective Tadaka and Best Jeanist emerged from the building, their expressions heavy. They approached in silence, the weight of the situation pressing down on all of them.

Tadaka was the first to speak.

“The last three rooms,” he began, his voice even but grim. “One was an office and a bedroom. The second was a bathroom. And the third…” He hesitated for just a moment before continuing. “It was a dark room with a rope hanging from the ceiling. A tub of water. Tools.” His jaw tightened. “A secondary torture room.”

A cold silence followed his words.

Katsuki exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening into fists.

“We’ll clear out the space completely,” Tadaka continued. “My officers will go through every detail of that basement. We’ll make sure there’s nothing left behind.” He paused, glancing back at the building. “I believe the man lived here alone. There’s no indication that anyone else was involved.”

“Are you certain?” Aizawa asked, his tone skeptical.

Tadaka nodded. “What his motives were for kidnapping Deku, we still don’t know. But considering how well-known Deku is in the underworld, it’s safe to assume he wanted to keep him for himself.”

Katsuki’s stomach churned.

Tadaka let out a slow breath. “You three are dismissed from my end. I will contact you about the man we’ve arrested, and whatever punishment is waiting for him. Thank you for your help.”

Aizawa and Katsuki exchanged glances before nodding.

“Not a problem,” Jeanist said simply.

Aizawa exhaled and rolled his shoulders back. “I’m going to call Tsukauchi,” he said, already reaching for his phone.

Katsuki’s gaze lingered on the ambulance. The doors had closed, but he could still hear the faint sound of the sirens as it prepared to leave.

Izuku was safe.

But Katsuki couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t over.

Jeanist turned to Katsuki, his gaze steady.

“I’ll be heading back to the agency,” he said. “There’s still a lot of work to do, but I understand if you want to stay with Eraserhead for now.”

Katsuki nodded, his expression tight. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I will.”

Jeanist gave him a small nod of approval. “Stay in touch,” he said before turning toward his car.

Katsuki watched as he got in and drove off, the taillights fading into the distance. The weight of everything still pressed down on his chest. The chaos of the last hour was still settling, and Izuku’s broken expression was burned into his mind.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and turned back just as Aizawa pressed his phone to his ear.

“Hey, Tsukauchi,” Aizawa said, his tone calm but firm.

There was a pause before the detective’s voice came through the speaker.

“Aizawa?”

“Midoriya has been found.”

Silence.

Then—

“Are you serious?!” Tsukauchi’s voice carried a mix of shock and disbelief.

“Yes,” Aizawa confirmed. “He’s being taken to the hospital in XXX City as we speak.”

A rustling sound came from the other end, like Tsukauchi was shuffling through papers or standing up abruptly.

“Where? How did you find him?”

Aizawa’s jaw tightened slightly. “I was called in to investigate a suspicious basement. Midoriya was being held there.”

Katsuki stood beside him, listening intently, his fists still clenched at his sides.

There was another pause before Tsukauchi asked, his voice lower now, more cautious—

“And… how is he?”

Aizawa exhaled, rubbing his forehead briefly before answering. “He’s in bad shape. Physically and—” his voice dropped slightly, “—I fear mentally as well.”

Katsuki swallowed hard.

Aizawa continued. “He’s severely starved. Covered in wounds. His entire demeanor…” He hesitated. “It’s like he barely believes he’s alive.”

Katsuki gritted his teeth, his mind flashing back to Izuku’s gaunt face, his hollowed-out eyes, the way he had flinched and shrunk back at every touch.

“I see,” Tsukauchi said after a moment. His voice had lost its initial shock—now it was steady, professional, but there was an undeniable undercurrent of relief. “I’m glad he’s been found. I’ll contact the others involved in the case immediately.”

“Please do,” Aizawa said. “I’ll inform my class.”

Tsukauchi exhaled. “Be safe. I’ll be on my way to the hospital, lets meet there.”

“Yes, see you.”

Aizawa ended the call and turned toward Katsuki, his sharp eyes scanning him briefly.

Katsuki was silent for a moment, his thoughts racing. Then, finally, he spoke.

“I’m going to the hospital.” His voice was steady, leaving no room for argument.

Aizawa didn’t look surprised. If anything, he had expected it.

“I figured,” he said.

Katsuki’s grip tightened. “I need to be there when he wakes up.”

Aizawa studied him for a second before giving a small nod. “We should go.”

Without wasting another second, the two of them headed for Aizawa’s car.

—————————

The ride to the hospital took about half an hour. Katsuki sat stiffly in the passenger seat, his hands clenched into fists on his lap, his mind racing.

He inhaled sharply through his nose as the hospital came into view. Aizawa parked the car, and without a word, the two of them stepped out and made their way toward the entrance.

The bright fluorescent lights of the lobby contrasted sharply with the heavy weight in Katsuki’s stomach. They walked straight to the reception desk, where a woman in a standard uniform glanced up at them.

“We’re here for Izuku Midoriya,” Aizawa said, his voice calm but firm. “He was just brought in.”

The woman nodded, her fingers tapping against the keyboard as she searched for his file. After a few seconds, she looked up again.

“Right. He’s currently in the first aid room receiving initial treatment. You can wait in the designated waiting area, and I’ll notify the doctors that you’re here.” She gestured toward a hallway leading further into the hospital.

Aizawa inclined his head slightly. “Thank you.”

They turned and headed down the hall, following the signs toward the waiting room. The air was thick with the sterile scent of antiseptic, and the soft murmur of voices and the occasional beeping of medical equipment filled the space.

The waiting room itself was small and quiet. A handful of people were scattered throughout—an elderly woman sitting alone, a mother gently rocking a fussy toddler in her lap, and a man flipping through an old magazine.

Katsuki dropped into one of the plastic chairs, resting his elbows on his knees. Aizawa sat next to him, his expression unreadable.

The silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Katsuki leaned his head back against the wall, exhaling through his nose. “We still look like we just walked out of a battlefield,” he muttered, glancing down at his scuffed and dirt-streaked hero costume.

Aizawa hummed in mild amusement. “You get used to it.”

A few more minutes passed. Then, Katsuki spoke again.

“Aren’t you gonna text the class?” His voice was quieter this time.

Aizawa shifted slightly, his gaze still fixed ahead. “I want to be sure Midoriya is actually stable before I do.”

Katsuki nodded slowly. He got it. He really did. But the waiting was making his skin itch.

Minutes stretched into twenty.

Then—

The sound of hurried footsteps made Katsuki snap his head up.

All Might and Tsukauchi entered the waiting room, their faces lined with concern.

“Aizawa. Young Bakugo,” All Might greeted, his voice softer than usual, though the worry in his tone was clear.

Katsuki stood, his shoulders tensing.

Tsukauchi exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “We came as soon as we heard,” he said. “How is he?”

Aizawa crossed his arms. “Still being treated.”

All Might’s hands clenched at his sides. “I—” He hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering toward the hallway. “I cannot express how relieved I am that he’s been found.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. “He’s not out of the woods yet.”

“I know,” All Might said, his expression darkening slightly.

Tsukauchi crossed his arms, nodding. “We need to speak with him when he’s stable. There are still a lot of questions.”

Katsuki frowned. “Yeah, well, you’re gonna have to wait. He’s barely hanging on as it is.”

A nurse entered the waiting room then, glancing between them before settling her gaze on Aizawa.

“You’re here for Midoriya, correct?”

Aizawa straightened. “Yes.”

She gave them a small, professional nod. “He’s been moved to a recovery room. He’s still unconscious, but he’s stable for now.”

Katsuki exhaled, his shoulders dropping slightly.

“Can we see him?” All Might asked.
The nurse nodded, “yes.”

Katsuki didn’t hesitate. He followed the nurse down the hall, his steps quick but controlled.

All Might, Aizawa and Tsukauchi followed him

And when they stepped into the hospital room—

Their breath caught in his throat.

Izuku lay in the hospital bed, pale and still. Bandages wrapped around his arms, an IV drip connected to his hand. A tube into his nose. A oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. The faint rise and fall of his chest was the only indication that he was still breathing.

Notes:

My poor Izuku… He’s finally back in their arms, but completely traumatised.

Anyway, how are y’all doing?
I got my left wisdom teeth pulled out yesterday and oh my god, that side is swollen. It doesn’t hurt that much, but eating is a pain and everything just feels off.
I really need to start studying for my upcoming exams, but I just can’t find the motivation. Why can’t study books be as entertaining as fanfics? :’)

Well, see y’all at the next chapter! I hope you enjoyed this one.

Chapter 18: Holding On

Izuku had been moved to a private hospital room, likely because of his status. The room was relatively spacious for a hospital, with soft lighting and a table against one of the walls, surrounded by a few chairs. A window overlooked the city, though the curtains were partially drawn, letting in only a sliver of the outside world. The faint beeping of medical monitors filled the air, a steady but haunting reminder of the condition Izuku was in.

The nurse stood by the door, stepping aside as the doctor entered. He was a middle-aged man, his white coat crisp, a clipboard tucked under his arm. His face was neutral, but the weight of what he had to say was already visible in his eyes.

“Please, take a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the chairs.

Aizawa, All Might, Tsukauchi, and Katsuki sat down, though Katsuki felt like he couldn’t stay still. His foot bounced slightly, his fingers twitching against his knee. The silence in the room was thick.

The doctor took his seat across from them, adjusting his glasses as he exhaled. “I take it you’re all close people to Midoriya?”

“His mother isn’t here,” All Might said, his voice softer than usual, the usual strength behind it dimmed. “But yes, we are.”

The doctor nodded solemnly. He hesitated for a moment, then began.

“I’ll start by saying that I’m relieved he was found,” he said, his voice calm but heavy. “Had he remained in that situation even a few days longer, I’m afraid he might not have survived.”

Katsuki’s hands clenched into fists on the table. He stared at the polished surface, his nails digging into his palms.

Aizawa exhaled slowly, rubbing small circles against the back of his hand, a rare sign of unease from him.

The doctor opened the file he had brought, skimming through the pages before speaking again. “Midoriya’s condition is critical, though stable for now. However, his body has suffered extensive damage.” He adjusted his glasses and continued.

“He is severely dehydrated and malnourished. His body is weak, and his muscles have started to break down due to prolonged starvation. He will require a controlled diet to regain his strength, as forcing food too quickly could be dangerous for him.”

Katsuki swallowed hard, trying to ignore the tightness in his throat.

The doctor flipped a page. “He has deep lacerations across his body, some of which appear to have caused nerve damage. These wounds have closed, but not naturally—many of them seem to have been treated in ways that suggest they were deliberately kept from healing properly, others were healed but probably with a healing drug. That sped up the process unnaturally.”

Aizawa’s fingers curled into a fist. Tsukauchi remained silent, his expression unreadable.

The doctor continued, his tone professional but grim. “The skin around his wrists and ankles is severely damaged. From what we can tell, he was restrained for long periods, and the lack of circulation, combined with repeated friction, has shattered the tissue there. It will heal with time, but the scarring will be significant.”

Katsuki’s breathing deepened as he absorbed the words. The image of Izuku, tied up and helpless, flashed through his mind, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from slamming his fist against the table.

“His upper legs have suffered burns, likely from exposure to boiling liquid,” the doctor went on, turning another page. “It also burned nerves, he will most likely barely feel anything in that area anymore.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened.

“I understand he was kidnapped,” the doctor said, glancing up briefly. “Do you know for how long?”

“Three weeks and three days,” Tsukauchi answered.

The doctor nodded gravely. “That aligns with what we’re seeing. Given the nature of his injuries, it’s clear he was subjected to prolonged abuse.” He sighed, running a hand over the top of his clipboard before flipping to another section of the report. “We also found traces of drugs in his system. It seems he was forcibly administered substances that probably suppressed pressed his quirk, altered his perception, or even kept him compliant. The problem now is that his body has likely become dependent on them. As we detoxify his system, he may experience withdrawal symptoms—sweating, tremors, nightmares, and severe insomnia.”

Katsuki’s teeth ground together. Izuku had been drugged. Controlled. He felt sick.

The doctor continued, his voice measured, but the sheer list of injuries felt endless. “Midoriya’s fingernails have been completely torn off—roughly, and with no medical care afterward. Some may grow back, but given the damage to his nail beds, others may never fully heal. It could take months or even years for any regrowth to occur, and he will likely experience long-term sensitivity and pain in his hands.”

Katsuki had to look away. His fingers twitched as he imagined the sheer agony Izuku must have gone through.

And then, the doctor hesitated.

“There is… another thing,” he said, voice quieter now.

The room, already heavy with tension, seemed to hold its breath.

“His right eye.” he doctor finally said, “has been completely removed.”

Silence.

Katsuki’s breath caught in his throat.

All Might stiffened beside him, his grip tightening around Katsuki’s shoulder.

Aizawa’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing.

Tsukauchi exhaled sharply through his nose, looking down at the table.

The doctor flipped another page, his tone remaining clinical, but the weight of his words crushed the room. “The eye socket itself is damaged, with deep lacerations surrounding it. The surrounding tissue—including the eyelid, eyebrow, and nearby skin—has been cut and scarred in a manner suggesting a blade was used. A scalpel, perhaps, or a knife. His right side is almost healed up, again unnaturally with the use of drugs.”

Katsuki’s hands trembled as he clenched them. He wanted to say something—wanted to curse, wanted to yell—but nothing came out.

He had seen the bandages around Izuku’s head. He had noticed them. But he hadn’t let himself think about what might be underneath.

All Might’s hand tightened on Katsuki’s shoulder, grounding him.

Katsuki forced himself to breathe, but it felt like his chest was too tight to take in enough air.

The doctor hesitated for a moment, glancing at the final page of the report before he spoke again. His voice was steady, but even he seemed disturbed by what he had to say next.

"Finally," he continued, "his back has also suffered severe scarring."

The words hung in the air like a heavy fog, suffocating the room.

The doctor exhaled before speaking again. "It appears that something was carved into his skin."

Aizawa's brows furrowed. Katsuki leaned forward, his breath shallow, dreading what would come next.

The doctor flipped to a photograph in the file and then looked up at them. "We believe the word 'toy' was etched into his back."

Silence.

For a moment, no one breathed.

Katsuki's body tensed, his nails digging into his scalp as he ran his hands through his hair. A burning sensation welled up in his chest, spreading like wildfire through his veins.

His head dropped, and he gritted his teeth, his voice barely above a whisper.

"That fucking bastard," he hissed. His hands clenched into fists, his nails pressing so hard against his skin they nearly broke through. "He deserves to rot in fucking hell."

His voice shook with barely restrained rage.

Aizawa remained still, but his fists were clenched at his sides. His breathing was slow, controlled—forced. His jaw was tight, his usual calm expression darkened with something dangerous. The only thing keeping him from cursing out loud was the presence of the doctor.

Toy.

That monster had reduced Izuku—someone who fought so hard, who gave everything to be a hero—to nothing more than an object for his twisted amusement.

All Might lowered his head, his face hidden beneath the shadow of his bangs. His shoulders trembled ever so slightly.

The doctor, sensing the weight of the moment, slowly closed the file and set it down on the table. He adjusted his glasses, sighing softly.

"I understand how difficult this is to hear," he said, his voice softer now, though still carrying that clinical professionalism. "Given his condition, we need to prepare ourselves for a long and difficult recovery process."

He leaned forward slightly. "His body will recover with time, but physically, he will never fully return to his former self. The scarring, the nerve damage—some of it will be permanent."

Katsuki inhaled sharply.

The doctor continued, "And as for his psychological trauma…" He paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose before looking back at them. "We already have evidence that his mind has suffered just as much as his body, if not more. I’ve heard that one of my colleagues was simply holding a syringe—but the moment Midoriya saw it, he panicked."

Katsuki stiffened, right, that moment when Izuku was in the stretcher.

"He flinched back violently despite being unconscious just moments before," the doctor explained. "His breathing spiked, his heart rate increased dangerously, and his body trembled as if he was reliving something. It took immediate sedation to calm him down again."

The room was deathly silent.

Katsuki swallowed, his throat dry. Izuku had never been afraid of needles before. He had taken vaccines and blood tests like they were nothing. Hell, he had willingly let himself get patched up more times than anyone could count.

But now? Now he panicked just from seeing a damn syringe?

How many times had that bastard drugged him?

The doctor leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over the file. "We'll need to monitor him closely. Once he wakes up, a trauma specialist will evaluate his condition and determine how to proceed with his psychological recovery."

Aizawa nodded stiffly. His hands remained clenched, but he forced himself to stay composed. "When will he wake up?"

The doctor sighed, rubbing his temple. "It’s difficult to say. His body is weak, and while he’s stable for now, his condition is still critical. He may drift in and out of consciousness over the next few days. But rest assured, we’ll be keeping a close eye on him. The most important thing right now is to ensure he gets the rest his body so desperately needs."

Katsuki stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his whole body tight with barely restrained anger. His expression was dark, his eyes burning with an emotion that Aizawa and All Might recognized immediately.

He wanted to destroy the bastard who did this.

Neither of them stopped him as he walked toward Izuku’s bedside. The only thing he could do now was be there for him.

As Katsuki sat down beside the bed, his breath hitched slightly.

Izuku looked… terrible.

His face was almost completely wrapped in bandages, only his left side, nose and mouth visible. His hair, usually messy but clean, was now tangled and matted with dried blood. Medical wires ran from his arms to beeping monitors, his body covered by thick hospital blankets.

Katsuki reached out before he even thought about it, his fingers hovering above Izuku’s hand. But where the hell could he touch him?

His wrists were wrapped in thick gauze, his fingers damaged and bandaged, his arms littered with IV lines. There was barely any space left untouched, no safe place where he wouldn’t risk hurting him.

Katsuki’s hand hovered for another second before he curled it into a fist and pulled it back.

Behind him, All Might and Aizawa stepped forward, stopping just behind Katsuki’s chair. All Might placed a hand on Katsuki’s shoulder, rubbing slow circles against the fabric of his hero costume. His grip was firm, steady—supportive.

A single tear slipped down All Might’s face. He quickly wiped it away with his free hand, pressing his fingers into his tear ducts as if that would somehow stop them.

Katsuki just stared.

Then, the door opened.

A nurse walked in first, but behind her—

Katsuki immediately recognized her.

Inko Midoriya stood in the doorway, her eyes already swollen and red from crying. Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks the moment she stepped inside.

Her gaze fell on the hospital bed, and for a moment, she froze.

Her lips trembled.

Her shoulders shook.

“Izuku…” she whispered.

The dam broke.

Tears spilled faster down her face, her whole body trembling as she took a shaky step forward. Even as she nodded in greeting to the others in the room, her eyes never left her son.

She barely noticed Katsuki standing to offer her his chair.

“Oh no! Please, stay seated. Don’t worry about me,” she said quickly, her voice breaking halfway through.

All Might and Aizawa took a step back, giving her more space.

Her hands twitched at her sides. She wanted to touch him—needed to—but just like Katsuki, she didn’t know where.

Katsuki watched as her trembling fingers finally landed on his cheek—the only part of his face not covered in bandages.

Her breath hitched.

“Oh, my baby…” she whispered, stroking his skin with a touch so gentle it barely registered. Her voice broke again, her tears falling freely onto the sheets. “What have they done to you…?”

The room was silent except for the steady beeping of the monitors and the sound of Inko’s quiet sobs.

Katsuki swallowed hard, his chest aching at the sight.

Aizawa, All Might, and even Tsukauchi all looked away, giving her a moment.

Then, her voice, quiet and fragile, cut through the silence.

“Will he… be okay?” she asked, her teary eyes shifting toward the doctor.

Aizawa took that as his cue.

“I think we should give them some alone time,” he said softly.

Tsukauchi nodded, clearing his throat. “Right. Thank you, doctor. We’ll be in touch.” His usual professional tone was shaky.

Katsuki glanced at Inko’s face again.

He knew that she needed someone with her at times like these.

“I’ll stay with her,” he said firmly.

Inko looked up, surprised, but relief flickered through her grief-stricken face. She nodded gratefully.

All Might hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering between Katsuki and Inko before sighing softly. “If you insist, then alright. We’ll be waiting outside.”

With that, Aizawa, All Might, and Tsukauchi left the room.

The doctor grabbed a spare chair and placed it beside Inko. “Here, please sit.”

She nodded in thanks and sank into the seat, reaching out to hold her son’s hand.

The doctor let out a slow breath before turning his attention back to her. “I’ve already explained the details to the others, but I’ll go through them again for you.”

Inko swallowed hard, bracing herself.

The doctor kept it brief, omitting the worst details.

“He has lost his right eye. His fingernails were torn off, and some may not grow back. He suffered severe burns to his legs, deep wounds on his wrists and ankles… and significant scarring on his back.”

The list went on.

Even without hearing the full extent of the injuries, and how he likely got those, Inko was already shaking.

Katsuki clenched his teeth, forcing himself to stay calm as the doctor finished.

“Your son is now safe and sound in our hospital,” the doctor said gently. “With time, he will recover physically. Some damage is permanent, but he will heal.” He hesitated before adding, “Mentally… I’m afraid he has a long road ahead of him.”

Inko’s lips parted, but no words came out.

She just broke down again.

Her hands trembled in her lap, her shoulders shaking as silent sobs wracked her body.

Katsuki reached out, hesitated for a brief second, then took her hands in his.

He gripped them tightly.

She squeezed back.

Neither of them said anything for a long time.

Then, through her tears, she whispered, “Katsuki… thank you for finding my son.”

Katsuki’s throat tightened.

He didn’t know what to say.

“…Mhm,” he muttered.

It was the only thing he could manage.

Time passed, though neither Katsuki nor Inko could tell exactly how long.

At some point, the exhaustion became too much, and their tears slowed. Inko finally let out a deep, shaky breath, wiping her swollen, red eyes with the back of her hand. She sniffled, gathering what little composure she had left.

Katsuki took one last look at Izuku, his stomach twisting uncomfortably before he sighed and stood up.

“We should go,” he muttered, his voice rough from all the emotions bottled up inside him.

Inko hesitated, squeezing her son’s unresponsive hand one last time before nodding. “Yes… yes, we should.”

Reluctantly, they stepped out of the hospital room.

The hallway was quiet, save for the faint hum of hospital machinery in the distance. The fluorescent lights cast a cold glow, making everything feel even heavier.

Aizawa and All Might were still there, standing near the waiting area. Tsukauchi had already left, likely returning to the police station to continue investigating Izuku’s kidnapping.

When All Might spotted them, he immediately straightened up. His expression softened with sympathy when he saw Inko’s face—her eyes puffy, her cheeks streaked with dried tears.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward and gently placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

Inko offered him a weak, grateful smile.

Aizawa, standing beside him, crossed his arms. His gaze shifted to Katsuki, serious and focused.

“Bakugo,” he said, his tone firm yet not unkind. “I’ve sent the class a message letting them know Midoriya has been found. Work studies are still ongoing, and since Midoriya is unconscious and in recovery, no one can visit him for now.”

Katsuki exhaled sharply. He had expected that much, but hearing it out loud made his chest tighten.

Aizawa continued, “You should return to your work studies with Best Jeanist. He’ll be expecting you.”

Katsuki gave a small nod, his jaw tightening. “Yeah.”

“I’ll drive you there,” Aizawa said, pushing himself off the wall.

All Might was going home with Inko. He’d be the one driving in her car.

Before parting, Inko turned to Katsuki, her lips parting as if she wanted to say something.

Instead, she simply gave his hand a small squeeze.

“Take care,” she whispered.

Katsuki wasn’t sure how to respond, so he just gave a sharp nod.

Then, they split ways.

…

The drive was quiet.

Katsuki sat in the passenger seat of Aizawa’s car, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes stared blankly out the window, but his mind was far from calm.

Aizawa didn’t push him to talk. He just drove, his hands steady on the wheel, occasionally glancing at Katsuki but saying nothing.

The hospital disappeared into the distance, the city lights flashing by as they neared Best Jeanist’s agency.

Eventually, Aizawa broke the silence.

“You did good today, Bakugo,” he said simply.

Katsuki’s brows furrowed slightly, but he didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure what to say.

Aizawa sighed, turning into a quieter street near the agency. “I’ll keep you updated on Midoriya’s condition. If anything changes, you’ll be the first to know.”

Katsuki inhaled sharply. “You’d better keep that promise.”

“I will,” Aizawa promised. He pulled up in front of the agency and put the car in park. “See you Friday.”

Katsuki nodded and opened the door.

As he stepped out into the cool night air, he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

He wasn’t ready to move on like nothing had happened.

But he didn’t have a choice.

Without another word, he shut the car door and walked toward the entrance of Best Jeanist’s agency, his mind still stuck in that hospital room.

As soon as Katsuki stepped into the agency, Best Jeanist was already waiting for him in his office.

His mentor stood tall, arms crossed, his sharp blue eyes scanning Katsuki’s face. Even with his usual calm demeanor, there was something knowing in his gaze—like he already understood what was weighing on Katsuki’s mind.

“Welcome back,” Jeanist greeted, voice smooth as ever.

Katsuki gave a stiff nod, shutting the door behind him. He was still in his hero costume, the grime and exhaustion from the day clinging to him like a second skin.

Jeanist studied him for a moment before speaking again.

“I assume your visit to the hospital was... difficult.”

Katsuki tensed, his fists clenching at his sides. He wanted to brush it off, to just say something like, ‘I’m fine. It’s none of your business.’ But the words didn’t come.

Instead, his jaw tightened, and he muttered, “Deku still ain’t woken up.”

Jeanist exhaled softly, stepping forward. “It’s only been some hours, Bakugo. His body has endured severe trauma—he needs time.”

Katsuki knew that. Logically, he knew that. But it didn’t make it any easier to accept.

Jeanist placed a firm hand on Katsuki’s shoulder. “Right now, there’s nothing you can do except continue moving forward. You’re not the type to sit still and sulk, are you?”

Katsuki scoffed, shaking his mentor’s hand off. “Tch. Like hell I am.”

Jeanist nodded approvingly. “Good. Then let’s get to work.”

And so, he did.

For the next week, Katsuki buried himself in his work studies. He trained harder, pushed himself further, and refused to let any of his emotions show. He wouldn’t let himself get distracted. Not while Deku was still lying in that hospital bed, unmoving.

Still, no matter how hard he tried to throw himself into his work, he couldn’t get the image of Midoriya’s battered body out of his head. The way he was covered in bandages, the way his hair was still matted with dried blood, the way his breathing was so shallow it barely looked like he was alive.

And that damn word carved into his back.

Toy.

Katsuki gritted his teeth.

That bastard deserved to be erased from existence.

—————————

[Friday]

A week passed.

Friday morning, Katsuki was on his way back to U.A., hands shoved deep in his pockets as he walked toward the main gates.

Aizawa had texted him last night, giving him an update.

Midoriya still hasn’t woken up, but he’s stable.

Katsuki’s grip on his phone had nearly cracked the screen when he read it.

He tried to ignore the way his stomach twisted at the thought.

He had to focus.

As he walked through the halls of U.A., he could already feel the stares. His classmates had probably been waiting for him, eager to hear more about Midoriya’s condition.

The moment Katsuki stepped into the classroom, he barely had a second to breathe before a voice called out to him.

"Bakugou!"

Ochako was the first to rush up to him, her eyes filled with concern. She hesitated for a moment, unsure whether she should even ask, but then she spoke anyway.

"You’ve seen Midoriya, right? …How is he?"

The room went silent.

Kirishima stopped mid-sentence in his conversation with Sero. Iida, stood frozen. Shoto leaned slightly forward in his chair, his expression unreadable. Even Mina, who always tried to lighten the mood, looked tense.

They were all waiting for an answer.

Katsuki exhaled sharply, his face hard to read.

"He’s alive," he said.

That was all.

Ochako’s shoulders dropped slightly. Iida frowned. Kirishima swallowed, then asked, "You… were the one who found him, right?" His voice was quieter than usual.

Katsuki nodded. "Yeah."

Another silence followed.

Iida straightened, adjusting his glasses again. "I’m glad he’s found," he said.

But no one looked relieved. Katsuki’s reaction alone told them everything. If Midoriya was okay, Katsuki wouldn’t be acting like this. He wouldn’t be this quiet. This tense. This exhausted.

And that worried them more than anything.

No one asked any more questions.

Before anyone else could speak, the door slid open. Aizawa stepped inside, his tired eyes sweeping over the class. "Alright, enough chatting. Take your seats."

Slowly, everyone moved back to their desks, though the atmosphere remained heavy.

Katsuki sat down, staring ahead.

No matter how much he wanted to be at the hospital, sitting at Midoriya’s bedside, he had to keep moving.

At least for now.

Aizawa stood by his desk, his expression as tired and serious as ever. The entire class sat in tense silence, their attention locked on him as he exhaled through his nose.

"As I mentioned on Monday, Midoriya has been found," he began, his voice firm but quieter than usual. "I was assigned to assist in clearing a location by the police. Jeanist and Bakugou were also brought in. What we found there… was an underground basement. A hideout of sorts, belonging to a villain."

His eyes flickered toward Katsuki for a brief moment before continuing.

"Midoriya was being kept there."

A collective chill ran through the class.

Mina’s pink complexion was slightly paler than normal. Tokoyami’s brows furrowed deeply, his arms crossed. Yaoyorozu gripped the hem of her uniform, knuckles going white.

Aizawa sighed. It was clear he didn’t want to be the one delivering this information, but it had to be said.

"He’s in the hospital now," he went on. "Unconscious. He hasn’t woken up since we found him, and the doctors say it could take some time."

No one spoke.

Katsuki sat stiffly at his desk, his hands clenched into fists. He had already heard this before, but somehow, hearing it spoken out loud to the entire class made his chest feel even tighter.

"For the next few days—possibly longer—you won’t be allowed to visit him," Aizawa continued. "His condition is critical, and right now, his recovery takes priority."

Sero leaned forward slightly. "Sensei… how bad is it?" he asked hesitantly.

Aizawa closed his eyes briefly before meeting Sero’s gaze. “Bad."

Silence.

He straightened, as if preparing himself for the words he was about to say.

"Midoriya is severely injured. From head to toe," he stated plainly. "And not just physically. Mentally as well."

Ochako swallowed hard.

"His body was in terrible condition when we found him. He had been starved, dehydrated, and subjected to injuries that—" Aizawa stopped himself, exhaling sharply. "I won’t go into detail, but… prepare for the worst when you see him again."

A heaviness settled over the room.

Jirou looked down at her hands, her jaw tightening. Shoto sat perfectly still, his fingers curling slightly against his desk. Kirishima turned his head away, clenching his teeth.

No one had expected good news, but hearing it like this—knowing that Izuku had been hurt so badly, knowing that he was still unconscious and might not wake up soon—made it all feel real. Too real.

Aizawa let them sit in silence for a moment before he spoke again.

"I’m telling you this now because you need to understand the situation," he said, his voice softer but just as firm. "I know you all want to see him. You want to make sure he’s okay. But right now, the best thing you can do is give him time to heal."

Another long silence.

Then, a quiet but determined voice broke it.

"When he wakes up," Iida said, gripping the edges of his desk, "we’ll be there for him."

Aizawa studied him for a moment before nodding. "Good."

"And… what about the villain who did all of this to Midoriya?" Tsuyu asked, her voice quieter than usual.

Aizawa’s gaze flickered toward her, his expression darkening slightly. He crossed his arms and let out a slow sigh through his nose.

"He’s being held in prison," he stated, voice controlled but heavy with something deeper—something restrained. "A suitable judgment is still being decided."

Katsuki stiffened.

His hands clenched into tight fists on his desk as his mind started racing. That bastard was still alive. The monster who had put Deku through all of that was sitting in a cell somewhere, breathing, existing, when he should have been—

Katsuki gritted his teeth so hard he thought they might crack. His anger boiled just under his skin, threatening to explode, but he swallowed it down. Now wasn’t the time.

Aizawa continued, his expression unreadable. "Turns out, the man was a doctor. A highly respected one, with an impeccable reputation at a hospital in XXX."

A few students gasped.

"A doctor?" Jirou repeated, horrified. "You mean—someone who was supposed to save people…?"

Aizawa gave a slow nod. "That’s right."

The disgust in his tone was barely concealed.

Katsuki didn’t move, barely breathed.

A doctor. Someone who had spent years gaining people’s trust, treating the sick, pretending to care—while all along, he was capable of this? Of carving up Deku’s body like he was nothing more than a toy?

He swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

Aizawa seemed to catch himself before he could reveal too much. He shook his head slightly, pushing his thoughts aside. "That’s all I can say for now. But I’ll keep you all updated on Midoriya’s condition."

The class nodded, though no one looked reassured. Uneasy glances passed between them, unspoken thoughts hanging in the air. Some looked down at their desks, others at their hands, fidgeting with nervous energy.

Katsuki hated it.

So when Aizawa finally moved on, Katsuki welcomed the distraction.

"Now," Aizawa said, shifting the conversation with an air of finality, "we need to discuss your work studies. I expect all of you to have improved during your time with the pro heroes. You’ll be reviewing your experiences and training methods today."

Katsuki exhaled sharply through his nose and forced himself to focus.

He couldn’t do anything for Deku right now.

But he could keep moving. He had to.

Notes:

IZUKU WAKE UPP!!!

Guys… I'm so sorry in advance, but we are far from done with all the angst.
The next chapter is going to hit hard—it'll be longer, packed with pain, emotions, and probably a few emotional breakdowns (yours and mine).
But I decided to spoil y’all a bit since Izuku’s been kidnapped for so long.

See you Friday ;)

(P.S. Bring tissues.)

Chapter 19: Recorded Torment

School had ended, but the air remained heavy. Students talked in small groups, exchanging thoughts about their work studies, but the usual excitement wasn’t there. No one could ignore the unspoken weight lingering over them—Midoriya was still unconscious, and the scars of what had happened to him had settled over the class like an oppressive fog, they didn’t even know the details or what exactly had happened to him.

Despite this, life moved forward.

Everyone returned to the dorms, unpacking their belongings from the work studies, filling the halls with muted conversations. Some tried to distract themselves by discussing their experiences, but it was clear that their minds were elsewhere. The usual warmth of their dorms felt distant.

In his room, Katsuki lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

He should’ve been exhausted after the long week, but his body refused to relax. His fingers twitched at his sides, his mind buzzing. It felt wrong to be here, in his own space, while Deku was lying in a hospital bed, still not waking up. He turned onto his side with a frustrated exhale, eyes drifting to his phone on the nightstand.

Nothing. No updates.

His fingers curled into the blanket as he tried to push the frustration down. Then, a knock sounded at the door.

He blinked, pushing himself up.

“Come in,” he muttered, barely loud enough.

The door opened, and to his surprise, Aizawa and All Might stepped inside.

Katsuki furrowed his brows. “What?” he asked, his voice rough with confusion. He glanced at the clock—8 PM. “It’s late.”

All Might crossed his arms, his expression serious yet calm. “Would you like to come to the hospital tomorrow?” he asked.

Katsuki sat up straight. His eyes widened slightly.

He had been expecting a scolding, or maybe some update on class responsibilities—but this?

“…Yeah,” he said almost instantly. There was no hesitation.

Aizawa nodded, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “Tsukauchi will be there, along with Detective Tadaka. Before you see Midoriya, we’ll be going through the full details of what happened.” His tone was steady but firm. “That man’s trial is also tomorrow. His sentence will be decided.”

Katsuki's hands clenched over his blanket. The thought of that bastard getting what he deserved made his blood burn. He wanted to be there—to hear every detail, to know everything.

He gave a sharp nod. “Good.”

Aizawa glanced at All Might, then back at Katsuki. “Be awake by 7,” he instructed. “We leave early.”

Katsuki nodded again.

Aizawa and All Might turned to leave, the heavy mood lingering even after they stepped into the hallway.

“Goodnight,” Aizawa said simply.

Katsuki sat there for a moment. Then, just before the door shut, he muttered, “Bye.”

The room was silent again.

—————————

Katsuki stood in front of his mirror, putting on his UA uniform. He didn’t need to wear it today—he wasn’t going to class—but he still put it on, out of habit more than anything. His movements were mechanical, almost detached, as he rolled his sleeves up and grabbed his things.

Today was the day.

He would see Izuku again.

His stomach churned with something he couldn’t quite name.

He wen’t downstairs and immediately got approached.

“You’re going to Midoriya?!” Kirishima’s voice rang out, more surprised than accusing.

Before Katsuki could even turn, a voice chimed in.

“What? No fair!” Hagakure huffed, appearing next to him.

The noise from the room quickly drew the attention of others.

Katsuki scowled, shoving his hands into his pockets. He didn’t want to deal with this right now.

“Guys, enough,” Iida’s voice cut through the commotion. He adjusted his glasses, his expression strict. “Bakugou was part of the rescue mission. He knows more than any of us. It’s only natural that he goes.”

“That’s right,” Aizawa’s voice added from the hallway. His presence immediately quieted the group. “And we’ll be going through the full investigation today.” He walked forward, his usual tired eyes scanning the students before landing on Katsuki. “Bakugou, we’re leaving now.”

All Might stood beside him, his face serious. It was a rare sight—this wasn’t the usual warm, hopeful expression he wore in front of students. This was Toshinori, the man who had seen more than any of them would ever understand.

Katsuki gave a short nod and stepped out, brushing past his classmates.

Aizawa’s gaze swept over the rest of them. “Do your best in classes today. Don’t disappoint me.” His words carried a finality to them, making it clear that this was the end of the conversation.

And with that, the three of them left.

The dorms remained silent for a long moment.

Kaminari sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Man, I hope we get some good updates when they’re back…”

Uraraka’s brows furrowed with concern. She hesitated, then looked at the others. “I’m just really worried about Bakugou. And Deku.”

The room went still again.

Katsuki had barely spoken to them at all the last three weeks. Sure, he wasn’t always the most social, but this was different. He wasn’t yelling, wasn’t snapping at them like usual. It had been understandable when Midoriya was missing, but now that he was found? It was unsettling.

“…Let him be,” Todoroki said quietly. His voice was calm, but there was a weight to his words. “Midoriya has probably gone through intense torture. Bakugou was the one who found him. The one who rescued him. Of course, he’s frustrated. And worried.”

That word—torture—hung in the air like a curse.

No one really knew what had happened to Midoriya. They could only guess. And that guessing made it worse.

What had been done to him?

How bad were the scars—both the ones on his body and the ones in his mind?

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. No one had an answer.

—————————

Katsuki stepped into the police station, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He didn’t want to be here—he wanted to be at the hospital, making sure that nerd woke up—but he knew this was important.

Aizawa walked ahead, his tired eyes scanning the station with practiced ease, while All Might followed beside him, his usual friendly demeanor replaced with a grim seriousness.

As they entered a room, a round table was already occupied by several people. Seated around it were Best Jeanist, Detective Tsukauchi, and four uniformed officers. Standing at the head of the table was Detective Tadaka.

The moment they stepped in, Jeanist was the first to acknowledge them. “Good morning,” he greeted, his voice as composed as ever.

Aizawa gave a small nod in return, while All Might responded with a quiet, “Morning.” Katsuki, however, simply muttered something under his breath and took a seat.

“Thank you all for coming,” Tadaka said, his hands resting firmly on the table. His gaze swept over the group before he continued, “We have a lot to go over today.”

All Might and Tsukauchi weren’t officially assigned to this case, but due to their involvement with Midoriya’s situation—and the fact that Tsukauchi was leading the investigation—they had every reason to be here.

Tadaka took a breath before beginning. “My team and I have finished combing through the basement where Midoriya was held. We uncovered a significant amount of evidence.” He reached into a folder and pulled out several photos, spreading them across the table.

The first photo was of the torture room itself—cold, dimly lit, and horrifyingly empty aside from a two tables and one chair in the center, surrounded by discarded tools and dried bloodstains.

Katsuki clenched his fists under the table.

“The man responsible,” Tadaka continued, “is a well-respected doctor in this region. His name is Dr. Kazuo Mori, but he was involved with the league of villains. There’s also another thing” Tadaka added, his tone darkening. “Midoriya was the one who stabbed his eye out.”

At that, Katsuki stared before him. “An eye for an eye,” he muttered.

Aizawa shot him a warning look, but Katsuki didn’t care. If anyone deserved it, it was that bastard.

Tadaka continued. “Unfortunately, Mori refused to explain why he abducted Midoriya. Throughout the entire interrogation, he remained mostly silent, refusing to answer direct questions. However, what we found in his basement speaks volumes.”

He gestured to another set of photos.

The first showed an assortment of tools—knives, scalpels, chains, and surgical equipment laid out in an organized yet disturbing manner.

The second showed small vials of liquid, neatly labeled.

“The lab has analyzed several substances recovered from the scene,” Tadaka went on. “One of them was a quirk-suppressing drug. Based on its properties, it lasts for approximately twenty-four hours and causes dizziness as a side effect.”

Katsuki ground his teeth together.

“There were other substances as well,” Tadaka said grimly. “Some designed to induce hallucinations, others to enhance healing, and one in particular meant to force wakefulness while keeping the victim fully aware of their surroundings.”

The weight of those words settled heavily over the room.

All Might closed his eyes, his hands clenched into fists on his lap.

Jeanist’s usual composed expression tightened slightly.

Aizawa exhaled quietly, but his grip on the edge of the table had turned white-knuckled.

Katsuki? He felt rage boiling inside him. That bastard drugged Deku and he made him suffer while he was wide awake and aware.

But the next words out of Tadaka’s mouth made it even worse.

“As they doctors have already told you, Midoriya has developed signs of addiction to at least one of these substances.”

Silence.

Dead, suffocating silence.

Katsuki’s nails dug into his palms, his breath coming out in sharp exhales.

“Yes.” His voice was quiet, but the anger behind it was palpable.

Tadaka gave a slow nod. “We don’t know the full extent of it yet, but traces of withdrawal symptoms have been observed. It’s likely that prolonged exposure to the drugs played a role in this.”

Katsuki’s stomach twisted.

“How the hell do we fix it?” His voice was tight.

“The hospital staff is monitoring his condition closely,” Tadaka reassured him. “I’m sure they already filled you in.”

“There’s another thing,” the detective said, his voice tight with restrained emotion. He pulled out a thick folder and set it on the table. “This was found in the suspect’s office.”

Katsuki’s eyes locked onto the file the moment Tadaka flipped it open. His stomach turned when he saw the words written at the top of a detailed map:

‘DEKU’

It wasn’t just a map—it was a detailed record.

“There were way more files in that place, mostly monitored tortured people, killing people, and the doctors life of the man, including making medicine or working for the league.”

Tadaka carefully flipped to the first page and began reading aloud.

“Izuku Midoriya, a quirkless middle school student attending Aldera Junior High. Born on July 15th. Resides at XXX, in Musutafu. Lives with his mother, Inko Midoriya. Known to be bullied frequently by his classmates due to his lack of a quirk. Desperately wants to be a hero despite this.”

Katsuki’s breathing slowed. His fists curled at his sides.

A fucking stalker.

But Tadaka wasn’t finished. He continued reading, his voice growing heavier.

“The notes go on. He documents Midoriya’s miraculous acquisition of a quirk. The sudden shift from quirkless to one of UA’s most promising students. He wrote down details about Midoriya’s movements, interactions with the League of Villains, and every single fight he’s had—including the final battle with All For One.”

Everyone at the table stiffened.

Jeanist’s jaw tightened. All Might sat motionless, his face dark with something unreadable. Aizawa crossed his arms, his gaze locked on the file, unreadable but dangerous.

Tadaka flipped another page.

“And then, there’s this—an entry detailing the day Midoriya was kidnapped.”

Silence.

Katsuki felt his breath catch in his throat.

Tadaka read:

“Today, I finally took him. The drug worked—his quirk was suppressed, and he lost consciousness before he even knew what happened. I brought him to the basement without any trouble.”

“He refuses to answer my questions. He won’t tell me how he got his quirk. He’s holding out longer than I expected.”

“He fought back today. Stabbed me in the eye with a shard of glass.”

“As punishment, I took his eye as well. Chained him to the wall so he can’t surprise me anymore.”

Katsuki’s entire body tensed.

His nails dug into his palms, but he barely felt it. His vision blurred at the edges, his ears ringing as rage flooded his veins.

A fucking stalker had been watching Deku for years. Studying him. Following him. And then he took him, tortured him, and wrote about it like it was some kind of twisted research project.

That bastard deserved worse than losing an eye.

Tadaka continued flipping through the pages, scanning through the various methods of torture listed in cold, calculated writing.

“Electroshock, drowning, burning” he murmured, his tone void of emotion. “Sleep deprivation. Drug-induced hallucinations. Forced healing to prolong pain. Psychological manipulation through isolation.”

Katsuki could barely hear anything else. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, his breath shaky with the effort to keep himself from exploding right then and there.

The room was suffocating.

Everyone was disturbed.

All Might sat rigid in his chair, his fists clenched so tightly they trembled. His face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Jeanist exhaled slowly, the only sign that he was affected.

Aizawa… looked like he wanted to kill someone. His jaw was locked, his grip on his capture weapon firm.

Katsuki, however, was shaking with fury.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could sit there without doing something.

Tadaka took a deep breath before continuing, his expression grave. “Based on all of this information, it's clear that Mori abducted and tortured Midoriya. He was already interested in him since middle school, possibly even before that. And, more importantly, he wanted his quirk.”

His words hung heavy in the air.

“He must have realized at some point that Midoriya gained a quirk despite being quirkless as a child. Mori likely believed he could take it for himself, or at least uncover its origins. And considering what we know about him…” Tadaka hesitated for a moment, glancing down at the notes in front of him before looking back up. “We’ve seen the evidence of his admiration for both All For One and Dr. Garaki. It’s possible—no, likely—that he saw their deaths as something that needed to be avenged.”

Silence settled over the room. No one spoke. No one even moved.

The implications of what Tadaka was saying were chilling, but undeniable.

After a few moments, Tadaka cleared his throat and continued. “We also have recorded footage.” He placed a hand on a sleek, black laptop sitting beside him. “It’s all from the surveillance camera inside the room Midoriya was held in.”

All Might visibly tensed at that, his jaw tightening. Aizawa’s eyes narrowed slightly, though he said nothing. Katsuki, seated closest to the table, clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“The footage was likely meant for Mori’s own observation,” Tadaka explained, his voice softer now. “Perhaps to track Midoriya’s condition… or simply to gloat.”

He took another deep breath, steadying himself before placing both hands on the laptop. “We have it all right here,” he said. “But I understand if you’d rather not watch it.”

The offer hung in the air, but it was a hollow one. They all knew what their answer would be.

Katsuki barely hesitated before muttering, “Show it.”

Tadaka nodded, unfazed by the immediate response. “Alright,” he murmured, opening the laptop. The screen flickered to life, casting a dull glow over the table. “I’ve gone through all of it and pulled the most important parts.”

His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before he clicked on a video file.

“This,” he said, turning the laptop so the others could see, “is probably their first conversation.”

The video began to play.

The room was silent except for the soft hum of the laptop, the screen displaying grainy, black-and-white footage. A cold, sterile-looking space filled the frame—a stark white room, empty aside from a single figure chained to the floor.

Izuku.

His head was slumped forward, his body motionless, as though he were unconscious. But after a moment, there was a small, sluggish movement—his fingers twitching, his breathing becoming more pronounced.

And then, a shadow loomed over him.

A man stepped into view, standing just outside of Izuku’s reach. He was tall, his posture eerily composed, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. His expression was unreadable, but his piercing blue eyes gleamed with something cold, something dangerous.

And then—

"Ah, you’re awake."

The man's voice cut through the stillness, smooth and controlled, yet carrying an unmistakable edge of menace.

No warmth. No sympathy.

Only control.

Izuku tensed. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The man crouched, tilting his head. “I’ve been watching you for a long time, Midoriya. Ever since you were quirkless.” His lips curled slightly. “You weren’t supposed to become someone. But then you ruined everything.”

The footage continued.

Izuku’s stomach twisted. “You worked for All For One.”

“I did more than that.” The man retrieved a syringe filled with shimmering pink liquid. “This will keep your quirk suppressed for another twenty-four hours.”

“No—get away from me!” Izuku thrashed, but the chains held firm. The needle pierced his skin. Cold flooded his veins. His vision swam.

The man smiled, watching him struggle. “Your quirk… the one that destroyed everything we built. I want it.”

Izuku’s breath hitched. The man knew too much.

“How did you get it?” the man pressed.

Izuku swallowed hard. “I was… a late bloomer.”

A dark scowl replaced the man’s smirk. “Don’t lie to me.”

Izuku flinched as the first slap landed. Then another. His head snapped to the side, but he refused to break.

“Fine,” the man growled, grabbing a fistful of Izuku’s hair. “We’ll do this the hard way.”

Tadaka paused the footage.

The screen flickered, and a new video began playing.

“This is a few days later,” Tadaka informed them, his voice quiet.

The footage showed the same white room, the same harsh fluorescent lights, the same chains binding Izuku. But this time, he wasn’t slumped in exhaustion.

He was curled up.

Izuku sat in the corner, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, his breathing shallow. He wasn’t looking at anything in particular—just staring at the walls, at the ceiling, at the flickering lights above.

And then his head turned sharply toward the door.

The angle of the camera prevented them from seeing his face, but his posture said enough.

Tension. Rigid shoulders. The faintest tremor running through his body.

Izuku was afraid.

For several seconds, nothing happened. The door didn’t open. No one came in. But Izuku kept staring, his body completely still. And then—

“Mom?..."

The word was barely audible, a soft, broken mutter that sent an eerie chill through the room.

Katsuki leaned in closer, his brows knitting together in confusion.

Izuku’s breathing quickened. His shoulders began to rise and fall unevenly. His fingers twitched against the cold floor. And then, suddenly, his whole body tensed, and he began shaking violently.

The chains rattled against the ground as his trembling grew worse.

Then—

"NO! STOP! GET AWAY FROM ME!"

Izuku’s scream tore through the speakers, raw and frantic, filled with a kind of terror none of them had ever heard from him before.

Aizawa exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression grim. “Hallucination.”

“Precisely,” Tadaka murmured.

The video continued. Izuku thrashed against his restraints, his screams only growing more desperate.

“NO!"

His breathing was ragged, almost choking on itself. His head jerked back, eyes squeezed shut, his entire body straining as though trying to escape something only he could see. His voice cracked, hoarse and frantic.

And then—

Darkness.

The lights in the room abruptly cut out, plunging the screen into black.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of Izuku’s ragged, broken sobs.

Aizawa turned away from the screen, his jaw clenched. Then he looked at Katsuki, his expression unreadable.

“Bakugou,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “For your own good, you shouldn’t watch this.”

Katsuki didn’t look away from the screen. His hands were clenched into fists, his jaw tight. He felt sick—like something inside of him was caving in.

But he refused to stop.

“If I know what happened to Izuku,” he muttered, voice rough, “then I know how to help him.”

Aizawa watched him for a long moment before exhaling slowly.

The recording continued, the grainy footage shifting slightly as the camera captured the moment the heavy door creaked open.

A figure stepped inside, casting a long shadow over the small, sterile white room. Izuku flinched violently at the sound, his body instinctively recoiling, but he didn’t move from where he knelt on the floor.

The man strode forward, carrying food in one hand. Steam rose faintly from the food placed neatly on top of it. He stopped a few steps away, tilting his head as he regarded Izuku’s hunched form.

“You sure are quite the sleeper,” the man remarked casually, as if they were simply having a conversation and Izuku wasn’t chained to the ground like a prisoner. His voice was light, almost amused.

Izuku didn’t respond. He stayed silent, refusing to lift his head.

The man clicked his tongue. “Still not in the mood to talk?” He set the tray down just out of Izuku’s reach before crouching down beside him. His presence loomed over Izuku, but the boy still didn’t react, his posture rigid.

The man said that if Izuku wanted that food, hemd have to tell him about his quirk.

Silence.

Izuku barely moved. His head remained bowed, his fingers curled into weak fists against the floor.

A slow, deliberate sigh left the man’s lips.

Then the man gave izuku another option, beg for the food.

Katsuki felt his entire body stiffen.

The room around him was deathly silent, the only sound coming from the laptop speakers. He could feel the tension rolling off the others—Aizawa’s jaw was clenched, Best Jeanist had gone still, and All Might’s hands were gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turned white.

But the worst part was that Izuku still didn’t respond.

He sat there, silent, unmoving.

The man’s expression darkened slightly.

“Tell me how pathetic you are,” the man whispered. “How much of a failure you are as a hero.”

Katsuki’s blood boiled.

He could hear the sharp breath Aizawa took beside him. All Might’s shoulders shook slightly, but he didn’t move.

On the screen, Izuku’s body shuddered.

For a moment, it seemed like he wouldn’t say anything at all.

But then—

A small, broken sob escaped him.

Izuku shifted, weakly pushing himself up onto trembling arms.

And then, slowly, shakily, he obeyed.

He got onto his knees.

His head remained bowed, his shoulders trembling as quiet sobs wracked his body.

“Please…” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I—I’m sorry… I messed… up…”

Utter humiliation.

Aizawa inhaled sharply, his fingers twitching slightly. Best Jeanist looked away for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line.

On-screen, the man smiled.
“How about… you call me Master?”

Katsuki’s eyes widened.

Aizawa clenched his teeth so hard it was audible.

All Might exhaled through his nose, his hands curling into tight fists against the table.

And then, to their horror, they watched as Izuku obeyed.

Katsuki could barely breathe.

This wasn’t the Izuku he knew.

The Izuku on the screen had been broken, shattered into pieces that barely resembled the stubborn, determined, infuriatingly selfless idiot he’d grown up with.

And then—

A sharp click.

They saw the man pull out his phone.

A camera flash.

Katsuki’s breath caught in his throat.

The others froze as the faint sound of a notification ping echoed through the laptop speakers. Then another. And another.

A group chat.

Katsuki remembered that photo.

The image of a broken, sobbing Izuku on his knees, begging for food.

His humiliation had been put on full display.

Izuku looked as if he couldn’t breathe. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his entire body trembling as tears streamed down his face. His hands were curled into fists on his lap, his nails digging into his own skin.

The man pocketed Izuku’s phone and reached for something else.

A syringe.

Izuku’s eyes widened in terror.

“N-no—please—”

His plea was cut off by a sharp gasp as the needle was driven into his neck.

Izuku’s entire body jerked. His breath hitched, his fingers twitching as whatever drug was injected into his system. His pupils dilated, his limbs trembled, and then—

The man stood up.

He placed the tray of food down, just within reach.

And then he left.

The door shut behind him, the lock clicking into place.

And on the screen, Izuku didn’t move toward the food.

He curled into himself, shaking violently. His sobs filled the room, choked and desperate, his breath coming in uneven gasps.

And that was the last thing they saw before the footage cut to black.

The room was deathly silent.

No one spoke. No one moved.

Katsuki swallowed, his throat dry, his stomach twisted in knots. His hands were shaking slightly, but he clenched them into fists to stop it.

Aizawa exhaled shakily through his nose. He turned away from the screen, his eyes dark with something unreadable.

All Might had his head bowed, his entire body trembling faintly.

Best Jeanist’s jaw was tight, his fingers interlaced in front of him as if deep in thought.

Tsukauchi sat back, rubbing a hand over his face, exhaustion clear in his posture.

Tadaka spoke up, his voice was steady, but there was an underlying tension in it.

“Midoriya was taunted in this room,” he said, gesturing to the screen. “Mostly isolated. And if he wasn’t in this room… he was most likely being tortured physically in the other room.”

The words settled over the group like a suffocating weight.

No one spoke. No one moved.

Then Tadaka inhaled slowly and continued, “Now… regarding the case of the two dead children.”

He clicked on a new video file.

The screen shifted, the white room coming back into view.

Izuku was lying on the floor, his body curled inward, his chains slack around him. His breathing was unsteady, barely audible over the faint hum of the fluorescent lights. His wrists, still bound, rested limply by his sides.

But this time, he wasn’t alone.

Two children stood before him.

A boy and a girl.

They were young. Maybe seven, maybe eight. Small, fragile, their eyes wide with fear as they trembled in place.

And behind them, gripping their necks with casual ease, was him.

The man.

He loomed over the children, fingers wrapped firmly around their small throats, his expression eerily calm.

Katsuki’s breath hitched.

He could see the moment the children recognized the hero before them.

The moment hope flickered in their terrified eyes.

“Deku…?” the boy whispered.

Izuku flinched.

“P-please,” the girl sobbed, tears spilling down her cheeks. “You—you're a hero… y-you can save us, right?”

Izuku’s entire body shook.

His fingers twitched against the cold floor.

He tried.

Katsuki saw him try.

Izuku’s arms pushed against the ground, his body trembling violently as he attempted to move. His leg muscles tensed, straining. He tried to stand.

But his knees buckled instantly.

He collapsed.

A choked noise escaped him. His chains rattled weakly against the floor.

His body was too weak.

Too drained.

The man laughed softly.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he hummed. “Some hero you are.”

Izuku gasped for air, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His whole body shook.

The children whimpered, their gazes flickering between the man and Izuku.

The man’s grip on their necks tightened slightly. Not enough to choke. Just enough to remind them.

The man made izuku choose which child should live and which should die.

Izuku’s breath hitched.

Katsuki could see it—the exact moment his world shattered.

The way Izuku’s eyes widened, how his entire body stiffened.

The children froze as well, realizing what had just been said.

The boy whimpered. The girl sobbed.

Katsuki clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his skin.

No one in the room was breathing.

Izuku shook his head.

“I—I can’t—”

The man sighed dramatically.

“You really are difficult,” he murmured. Then he straightened. “Well. If you won’t choose, then both will die…”

His grip on the boy’s neck shifted.

Izuku’s entire body jolted.

“No, no, NO—”

The man began to count.

“Three.”

Izuku thrashed weakly against his chains. His limbs wouldn’t move.

“Two.”

The boy sobbed. The girl screamed.

“ONE—”

A sickening snap.

Izuku’s scream tore through the speakers.

The boy’s body went limp.

The girl shrieked, struggling wildly in the man’s grasp, but she was too small, too weak.

Izuku's breathing came in gasps, choked and erratic, his whole body convulsing as sobs wracked through him.

Katsuki turned his head, teeth clenched.

Aizawa shut his eyes briefly.

Best Jeanist looked away.

All Might’s shoulders trembled.

The screen kept playing.

The girl was still sobbing, her voice high-pitched and broken.

The man simply adjusted his grip.

“Now the next one.”

Izuku jerked violently against his chains.

“NO—PLEASE—”

The girl screamed.

The sound was cut off by a hand clamping over her mouth.

She struggled, kicking wildly, her tears soaking the man’s fingers.

Izuku screamed.

The man counted again.

“Three.”

The girl sobbed helplessly.

“Two.”

Izuku fought, clawing at the ground, but his body wouldn’t listen.

“ONE.”

Snap.

The girl’s body went limp.

Izuku’s scream was raw. Shattered.

Tadaka exhaled sharply and pressed a key on the laptop.

The screen went black.

The room was silent.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

It took several moments before anyone dared to look up again.

Tadaka’s voice was tight when he finally muttered, “I’m sorry.”

Slowly, hesitantly, the others shifted their gazes back to the screen, though the video had long since stopped.

Katsuki’s jaw was clenched so tightly it ached. His entire body trembled with barely contained fury.

Aizawa exhaled shakily, his gaze dark. His hands were curled into fists against his knees.

All Might was silent.

A single tear slid down his face.

“Young Midoriya…” he muttered under his breath. His voice cracked.

Katsuki’s breath came in shallow, shaking exhales.

He felt sick.

He clenched his fists even tighter.

“What the fuck,” he muttered, his voice low.

Tadaka’s expression was grim.

“Midoriya was forced to choose between these children,” he murmured. “But since he refused… they both died in front of him.”

He paused.

“And in the state he was in… he couldn’t do a thing.”

A small footage showed where Izuku was forced to clean up their blood. It made everyone feel sick in the stomach.

Tadaka paused, his fingers hovering over the laptop’s keyboard as he prepared to show the next piece of footage. He felt the heaviness in the air—like the room itself was thickening with the weight of what they were about to witness. The silence stretched on for a moment before he spoke again, his voice soft but strained.

“I have two more things to show.”

Aizawa, his expression unreadable but his gaze sharp, nodded slightly. “Go on.”

With a deep breath, Tadaka clicked on the next video.

The screen flickered to life again, revealing Izuku sitting on the floor in the same white, sterile room. His back was pressed against the cold, unyielding wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. His head was buried between them, a protective posture that seemed too fragile for someone who had once been the symbol of hope and heroism.

But in that moment, he was just a broken boy.

The camera angle shifted slightly, showing the side of his face. His eyes were wide, glistening with panic, his skin pale and clammy as his breathing grew more erratic.

Then, without warning, his head snapped upward, eyes locked on the door as if seeing something—or someone—that wasn’t there. His expression shifted from confusion to shock, like he was witnessing something incomprehensible.

“Guys…” he murmured, his voice trembling, barely more than a whisper.

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed, his voice a harsh whisper. “Who the hell is he talking to?”

Tadaka’s voice was flat, the sorrow evident even in his clinical tone. “Hallucinations.”

A chill ran through the room at his words. Katsuki felt his fists tighten in frustration, his teeth grinding together. He hated it. He hated every second of this.

Izuku’s breath hitched in his chest, ragged and sharp as his body began to shake more violently. His eyes were wide with terror, darting back and forth as if he could see something approaching him that none of them could. He reached out instinctively, as though grasping for something invisible, his fingers trembling as they curled into tight fists.

“What?” Izuku gasped, his voice breaking. “No… i—I didn’t…”

His face twisted in horror, as if trying to reason with something—or someone—that wasn’t in the room. His body jerked as if someone had struck him.

“That’s not… I didn’t mean to…” His words broke apart, lost in the confusion of his own mind.

“NO, DON’T!” Izuku suddenly screamed, his voice raw with panic. His hands shot up to his head, clutching at his hair as if trying to pull himself away from the horror only he could see. “Please, I didn’t mean to!”

His voice cracked with every desperate plea, each syllable laced with fear and self-loathing. It was a plea for mercy that no one could give him. His mind was spiraling further into chaos.

“What the hell is he seeing?” Aizawa muttered, unable to hide the concern in his voice. His brows furrowed, the uncertainty in his voice betraying how helpless he felt in the face of this revelation.

Izuku’s head snapped to the other side, his eyes wide and frantic. "A... All... M-Might..." he muttered, his voice shaking, barely audible.

Hearing his name, All Might stiffened. His body went rigid, a cold shiver running down his spine. The voice that had once been full of so much hope now sounded like a desperate, fractured cry—a broken plea from someone he had failed to protect.

“No... A... All Might... I tried... I…” Izuku’s voice trembled, each word a struggle, the pain seeping through every syllable.

All Might's fists clenched tightly, his nails biting into his palms. This isn’t real. He had to remind himself. Izuku was trapped in his own hallucinations.

The silence that followed was suffocating, only broken by Izuku’s strained breathing. Then, with a jolt, Izuku’s head snapped to the left again, his eyes wide with terror.

“Stop… please...” he whispered, the words barely escaping his lips before he screamed, “STOP!” His voice shattered the silence, his body convulsing as though he were being torn apart from the inside.

Then, just as suddenly as it had started, he fell completely silent. His entire form crumpled inward, his head pressing against his knees. His whole body seemed to collapse into itself, as though trying to hide from the world he could no longer understand.

The room was heavy with the sound of his sobs, the tremors wracking his frame. Then, slowly, after what seemed like an eternity, he looked up again, his eyes empty and distant.

“Mom?…” The word escaped his lips as though it was the only thing left tethering him to the world outside the horror of his mind. The way his voice cracked, the sheer vulnerability in his tone—it was as if he was searching for something that wasn’t there, someone who would never come.

“Mom!” Izuku’s voice was louder now, filled with panic, as if he had just realized that the one person he had been crying out for was gone.

His entire body seized up, trembling uncontrollably as he looked around, his eyes darting through the dark void of the room. His expression was one of sheer terror, as though he were caught in a nightmare with no escape.

“No... no, no! Not you too…” His words were strained, broken—almost incoherent. He gripped at his scalp, his nails digging in deep, desperately trying to hold onto something solid, anything to ground him in reality.

But there was nothing. There was only the overwhelming fear and confusion.

His screams—raw, agonizing cries—echoed through the empty room, a chilling soundtrack to his unraveling. The lights flickered and then went out completely, plunging the room into darkness. The cold, oppressive silence that followed felt suffocating, as though the shadows themselves were closing in around him, swallowing him whole.

Aizawa's eyes were narrowed in frustration, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. The information they had been shown—every moment of Izuku’s suffering—felt like a weight pressing down on him. He could feel the helplessness, the suffocating sense of despair that Izuku must have been drowning in. His mind raced back to what he had said to Izuku in the past, and the way the boy had responded. It all made sense now. “Before he lost consciousness,” Aizawa said, his voice low and pained, “he called me and Bakugou liars.”

Bakugou's jaw tightened, his fists gripping the edge of the table. “He didn’t believe me when I said he was safe.” The words came out raw, like a punch to his chest. He could still hear Izuku’s voice echoing in his head, the disbelief, the confusion, the pain. That wasn’t him, Bakugou thought, his throat tightening. That was someone else—someone lost.

Tadaka clicked on a new file, the screen flickering to life again. "Now, the last fragment." He sounded drained, his voice hollow, as if the weight of the footage was breaking him as well.

The footage was shaky at first. Izuku was on the floor of the white room, his eyes glazed over, staring at nothing in particular. A broken glass plate was in his hand, and slowly, almost deliberately, he let it fall to the ground, the sharp shards splintering with a sickening crack.

"What is he doing?" All Might's voice was filled with confusion and concern.

Izuku's eyes, wide and distant, were locked on the broken pieces of glass. He took one of them in his hand, carefully gripping the jagged edge, his bloodied fingers trembling. He crawled toward the door, dragging himself with what little strength he had left. A quiet, strained breath escaped his lips as he managed to pull himself up, using every ounce of his energy to rise to his feet.

“Is he…?” Bakugou muttered, his eyes wide with disbelief, unable to take his gaze off the screen.

Then Izuku’s eyes turned to the camera, lifeless and hollow, as though he was staring right through it. The emptiness in those eyes sent a chill down everyone’s spine. It was like looking at a shell, a person who was no longer truly there. And just as they thought the worst was over, the door opened.

Izuku acted quickly, his movements fueled by desperation. In one swift motion, he lunged toward the man with the piece of glass, driving it into his eye with a savage cry.

Katsuki's blood ran cold at the sight. He felt like he had been punched in the gut. All Might’s eyes widened in horror, his hand instinctively reaching for his chest as though he could somehow stop the inevitable pain. Aizawa couldn’t look away, though he wanted to. The scene was unbearable, and yet they were powerless to stop it.

The man screamed in agony. "YOU FUCKER!" he yelled, recoiling from the blow, clutching his bloodied eye. Izuku, as if in a trance, prepared to stab again, his hand raised, the glass shard poised to strike.

But the man reacted with terrifying speed. He grabbed Izuku’s wrists with brutal force, a sickening crack echoing through the room. Izuku screamed, his body jerking with the pain.

Katsuki covered his mouth, his stomach churning at the sight. The sound of Izuku’s scream echoed in his ears, his mind racing to understand what he was seeing.

The man, holding his bloodied eye, crouched down in front of Izuku, his face twisted in rage. Despite Izuku’s attempts to fight him off, he was easily overpowered. The man grabbed Izuku’s ankle, yanking him down to the ground. The sound of Izuku’s sobs filled the air, followed by screams of pure terror. The man dragged Izuku back into the room with a cruel, relentless force.

Izuku’s body hit the floor with a sickening thud, and the sobs that followed were heartbreaking. They could hear every breath, every painful cry. Izuku was broken—physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Tadaka paused the video for a moment, rubbing his eyes as if trying to wipe away the haunting images. The room fell into a heavy silence, none of them sure how to process what they had just seen.

"Oh.. There’s one last fragment," Tadaka said quietly, his voice a mixture of exhaustion and sorrow.

The next clip played.

Izuku was again chained, his wrists covered in plaster and bandages. His left side of his face was bloodied, the remnants of past tortures visible in the way he slumped against the wall. His gaze was distant, unfocused, and he was muttering to himself, his voice barely a whisper.

“Mom?” he said, his voice breaking with the weight of his hallucinations.

But no one was there. The room was empty, the silence pressing in on him from all sides.

Izuku’s voice cracked. "NO! STOP IT, PLEASE NO!" He screamed, his voice filled with desperation, but no one came.

The image of Izuku, broken and alone, his mind shattered by the pain and confusion, was almost too much to bear. Aizawa clenched his teeth, his eyes darkened with frustration. “What the fuck is going on?” Bakugou’s voice was sharp, full of anger, but it was tinged with disbelief.

“We still have no idea what he possibly hallucinated here,” Tadaka said quietly, the weight of his words settling over them like a thick fog.

The last image of Izuku, his mind unraveling, seemed to stretch out before them, a reminder of just how much Izuku had endured. He had been so alone in his suffering, so lost in his pain. It was impossible to truly understand the depth of it, and yet, in that moment, they were all forced to face the broken shell of the person Izuku had become.

No one knew how to respond. All they could do was sit in the silence, knowing that this was just one chapter of a much larger tragedy. A tragedy that had yet to unfold fully, and a person—Izuku Midoriya—who was lost somewhere in the chaos of it all.

Notes:

Damn, I just had to make Aizawa, Katsuki, and All Might know some part of what Izuku went through.

Anyways, it’s officially Friday, but I just got back from going out, so I’m completely beat—and I’m gonna sleep now. Let's hope i won't have a hangover.

See y’all Monday! <3

Chapter 20: The Empty Shell That Remains

The video fragments had finally come to an end, and a heavy silence settled over the room. The weight of what they had just witnessed hung in the air like a thick fog, stifling their thoughts. Each of them processed the information in their own way, but one thing was clear: the cruelty, the torment, the suffering Izuku had endured—it was too much to comprehend. And this, this wasn’t even everything. This was only parts of what happened in the isolated white room. The other parts in the different rooms were still left unsaid.

“I’m sorry for showing you all of this,” Tadaka said, his voice quiet but steady, though his eyes betrayed the exhaustion that had taken hold of him. His shoulders were slumped, the toll of the case evident in the way he carried himself. “But I hope it will help you understand Midoriya’s situation better. His condition, his mind… it's not as simple as it seems on the surface. This is the reality of what he’s been through.”

He paused, as though giving everyone a moment to let the reality of what they had seen sink in. It was almost too much to bear, but there was no denying the importance of the truth. The next words he spoke carried a weight of responsibility that was not lost on anyone in the room.

“Of course,” Tadaka continued, “we will keep this information secure. It will stay with us. We can’t risk the world knowing the full extent of what happened to Midoriya. He deserves privacy, and we owe it to him to protect that. We can’t allow this to become another tool for the media to twist into something unrecognizable. It’s for his safety, his peace.”

All Might nodded slowly, his face weary, but resolute. The entire weight of the situation hung on his shoulders, but he refused to let it crush him. His heart ached for Izuku, for the boy he had mentored, but now was not the time to show it. There was still more to be done.

“Now, regarding the punishment for Mori,” Tadaka’s voice grew colder, his demeanor hardening as he spoke the name.

Katsuki’s fists clenched at the mention of Mori. His entire body tensed, and an intense fire flared in his chest. He could feel his blood boiling in his veins as the man’s name was spoken. The sheer injustice of it all, the fact that Mori had done all this to Izuku—his Izuku—it burned him to his core. He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to lash out.

“Mori will spend the remainder of his life in prison,” Tadaka said firmly, his gaze never wavering. “He is responsible for the murder of multiple innocent people, for torturing them, and for his association with the League of Villains. His crimes are numerous and unforgivable. He had a secret hideout, dealt drugs, and caused irreparable harm to countless individuals.”

There was a brief pause before Tadaka’s voice dropped lower, and he finished with a harsh edge. “As much as this man deserves the death penalty, at least we can ensure that he will never roam free again.”

A heavy silence filled the room. Everyone felt the weight of those words, the sense of finality in them. There was no justice that could undo the damage Mori had done, but at least he would be imprisoned forever. That was all they could do.

Katsuki’s eyes were fixed on the ground, his fists still clenched at his sides. He couldn’t shake the fury that surged through him. He wanted to do more, to make Mori suffer the same way Izuku had, but the world had other rules. He hated that Mori would live out his days in prison while Izuku—Izuku had been left to fall apart. The bitterness churned in his gut.

Tsukauchi stood up from his seat, his hand reaching out toward Tadaka in gratitude. “Thank you for everything,” he said quietly, the weight of the case heavy on his voice. “We wouldn’t have been able to piece this together without your help. This case…it means a lot. To all of us.”

All Might nodded in agreement, though his face remained somber. His mind was already racing ahead, thinking of what needed to be done next. There was no time to waste. They still had to see Izuku. He needed to be there for him, as he always had been.

“We’ll continue to investigate the remaining files,” Tadaka assured them. “But the decision is made. Mori will never walk free again. We’ll keep you in the loop about Midoriya as well, of course. We can’t afford to lose track of him now.”

Everyone in the room nodded, though it was clear the case was far from over. The justice they had served was important, but it wasn’t the end. Not when Izuku was still out there, struggling with the aftermath of everything that had happened.

Tadaka closed the laptop with a soft click, a finality to the gesture that mirrored the end of their meeting.

All Might, Aizawa, and Jeanist stepped forward, offering their hands in gratitude. It was a simple gesture, but one that carried a lot of meaning. They would have to rely on one another to carry out the rest of this investigation, to ensure Izuku’s recovery, and to make sure that Mori would never again be able to hurt anyone.

Katsuki stood still, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. He couldn’t bring himself to look at anyone, his mind swirling with anger and frustration. He hated how powerless he felt. He wanted to yell, to throw something, to smash everything around him until he couldn’t feel the rage coursing through him anymore. But he stayed silent, his hands trembling at his sides.

“We’ll go to him now,” All Might said, his hand gently resting on Katsuki’s shoulder. It was a quiet, reassuring gesture, though Katsuki could tell that All Might was just as weighed down by everything as he was. “It’s time to see Midoriya.”

Aizawa joined them, his eyes narrowed with determination, though the exhaustion in his expression mirrored the weight that had taken hold of the entire group. The path forward was unclear, but one thing was certain—they had to see Izuku. They had to be there for him.

Katsuki didn’t move right away. He remained rooted to the spot, his fists still clenched. But after a moment, he lifted his head, his eyes darkened with resolve. He couldn’t fix everything, but he could stand by Izuku. He could help him now. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Finally, he nodded.

They walked out of the room together, the silence following them like a heavy shadow. The road ahead was long, and the burden of everything that had happened would never truly go away. But for now, they had each other, and that was enough.

—————————

Aizawa, All Might, and Katsuki arrived at the hospital, the weight of everything they had just seen still heavy on their shoulders. The drive had been silent, none of them knowing quite what to say. Now, standing in front of Izuku’s hospital room, Katsuki felt his stomach twist. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he stepped inside, but his heart pounded relentlessly against his ribs as he reached out to knock on the door.

A soft shuffling was heard inside before a nurse opened the door, greeting them with a warm but professional smile. “Ah, welcome. We’ve been expecting you,” she said as she stepped aside, allowing them entry.

The room was quiet, the scent of fresh flowers lingering in the air, likely from a bouquet someone had brought. Sunlight filtered through the pale curtains, casting a soft golden glow over the sterile white walls. And at the center against the wall, lying still in the hospital bed, was Izuku.

Katsuki immediately moved toward him, his legs carrying him forward before he could even think. Aizawa and All Might followed close behind, their eyes fixed on the boy who had once been so full of life, now looking impossibly small against the stark white sheets.

The nurse spoke again, her voice gentle. “His mother has been visiting frequently this past week,” she informed them. “She’s been keeping him company whenever she can.”

Katsuki barely registered her words. His attention was solely on Izuku—on his pale face, his hollow expression even in sleep, the faint rise and fall of his chest as the machines kept him stable. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sign of life in the room.

Then, the door opened once more, and the doctor from earlier in the week stepped in. He greeted them with a calm nod. “Good afternoon,” he said, his voice measured and professional.

All Might and Aizawa rose from their seats to shake his hand. Katsuki hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly did the same, though his gaze never left Izuku.

The doctor glanced down at the clipboard in his hands before speaking. “Midoriya’s condition has improved significantly. His vitals are stabilizing, and at this rate, we expect him to regain consciousness anytime now.”

Katsuki’s breath hitched. His eyes widened as he processed the words. He’s going to wake up?

All Might exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a relieved smile breaking across his face. “That’s wonderful news,” he said, his voice lighter than it had been in days.

The doctor nodded but kept his expression neutral. “We’ve been monitoring his recovery closely. We can’t use healing quirks on him, as that would drain his stamina even further, and he still needs all his energy to heal naturally. But given the circumstances, he’s doing better than expected.” He paused, then added, “His body is fighting. That’s a good sign.”

Katsuki swallowed thickly, his eyes trailing over Izuku’s still form. Despite the doctor’s reassurances, the sight before him wasn’t exactly comforting. The oxygen mask remained firmly in place, a thin tube running beneath his nose. An IV needle was inserted into his arm, steadily delivering fluids into his system. Bandages wrapped tightly around the left eye, evidence of the injuries hidden beneath. His face, though peaceful in sleep, was still marred with bruises, his cheeks hollowed slightly from days of forced rest.

But his hair…

It was different.

Katsuki reached out without thinking, his fingers brushing through the soft, dark green strands. They were clean, freshly washed, a stark contrast to how they had looked before—matted, filthy, clumped together with dried blood and sweat. Someone had taken the time to wash his hair, to take care of him even while he slept. The nurses, most likely.

Katsuki let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and gently ruffled Izuku’s hair before pulling his hand back. A small, almost unnoticeable smile ghosted across his lips.

The boy lying before him was still Izuku. Still the same stubborn nerd, even if everything else had changed.

But even as Katsuki tried to hold onto that thought, his gaze drifted back down to Izuku’s face. His peaceful expression did little to hide the exhaustion written into his features—the dark circles beneath his eyes, the subtle tension in his brows even in unconsciousness.

The bruises, the bandages, the scars—they were all reminders of what he had been through. And those were just the ones they could see.

The nurse’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “We’ll give you all some time alone with him,” she said kindly. “If anything happens, just press the button on the wall, and someone will come right away.”

Aizawa nodded in acknowledgment. The nurse and doctor left the room, quietly closing the door behind them.

The silence that followed was heavy. None of them spoke for a long while.

Katsuki finally broke the quiet, his voice unusually low. “Do you… think Izuku has false memories of us?”

His fingers curled into fists as he stared at Izuku’s sleeping face. The question had been bothering him ever since they had watched those video fragments. The way Izuku had called them liars. The way he had screamed in terror, as if everything around him was trying to hurt him. As if even the people he once trusted had betrayed him.

All Might let out a tired sigh, rubbing his temples. “I… can’t say for sure,” he admitted. “His mind has been through so much. We won’t know until he wakes up.”

Aizawa gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable. “Memories don’t always return the way they should after trauma. He could remember everything clearly… or he could have gaps. His brain might have filled in missing pieces with something else.”

Something wrong.

Katsuki’s throat felt tight.

They had heard him muttering his mother’s name. They had heard him call for All Might. But not him. Not Aizawa either.

Did Izuku still trust them?
Had he seen them in his hallucinations or not?

Katsuki’s grip tightened on the fabric of his pants, his frustration mixing with something else—something he didn’t want to name.

All Might reached out and placed a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder. “We’ll see soon,” he said softly. “For now, all we can do is be here when he wakes up.”

Katsuki didn’t move. He just stared at Izuku, the steady beep of the heart monitor filling the room.

—————————

The minutes stretched into an eternity. The room was silent except for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the occasional clink of a cup against the table as one of them sipped their drinks. None of them spoke much—what was there to say after everything that had happened that morning? After watching those videos, after seeing what Izuku had gone through, none of them had been able to shake the horror from their minds.

The clock on the wall read 3 PM. The sun outside cast a warm, golden glow through the hospital window, a stark contrast to the tension that filled the room.

Katsuki, still seated closest to the bed, had his eyes locked onto Izuku’s face—specifically, his closed right eye. He had been staring at it for so long that he swore he could see the tiniest movement beneath the lid. His breath hitched.

Then, all at once, it happened.

Izuku’s lips tensed. His eyebrows twitched, furrowing slightly. His right eye squeezed shut just a little tighter before slowly, slowly beginning to open.

Katsuki shot up from his chair, the sudden movement making Aizawa turn sharply in his direction.

All Might, realizing what was happening, moved to the wall and slammed his palm against the emergency button, signaling for medical staff.

Izuku’s right pupil adjusted sluggishly to the light, his eyelid still heavy and only partially open. He stared blankly at the ceiling, unmoving, his breath shallow. His expression was empty—almost like he didn’t fully comprehend where he was.

Katsuki’s breath was caught in his throat. “Izuku…” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

At the sound, Izuku flinched. His eye twitched wider as his head turned slightly toward the voice.

Then, he saw them.

Aizawa. Katsuki. All Might.

His gaze moved slowly between them, sluggish and unfocused, as though he wasn’t sure if they were real. His breathing was still shallow, but there was a flicker of something in his eye. Recognition? Fear? Confusion? None of them could tell.

Izuku’s head turned a little further, his gaze drifting away from them and toward the rest of the room. His expression remained blank, but his eye darted around, scanning his surroundings.

White walls—no. Not like before. These walls were warmer, softer. There were paintings on them, not stains. The bed beneath him was soft, comfortable, safe. There was a window, and through it, he could see the outside world. The sun. Trees. The blue sky.

It was different.

He wasn’t there.

A shaky exhale left his lips.

His gaze dropped lower, moving down to his own body. He could feel warmth covering his legs—blankets, thick and secure. That was fine. But then his eye caught something else.

His right arm.

His pupils shrank.

There, beneath the sleeve of his hospital gown, an IV needle was inserted into his skin, a thin tube leading up to the bag of fluids hanging beside his bed.

His breathing hitched. His entire body stiffened. His chest began rising and falling erratically, his breaths coming faster, shallower.

No.

His left arm twitched. Almost instinctively, his muscles moved before his mind could catch up. His bandaged left hand jerked forward, reaching for the IV line, his oxygen mask fell off in the process.

“No…” he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.

His fingers fumbled at the tube, shaking as they curled around the needle embedded in his skin.

He couldn’t have this. He couldn’t.

Not again.

Not again.

He ripped it out.

A sharp pop sounded as the needle tore from his vein. A thin stream of blood immediately welled from the puncture site, dripping down his arm and staining the stark white sheets beneath him. The empty IV tube dangled uselessly at his side.

Katsuki was moving before he could think. He lunged forward, grabbing Izuku’s right arm before he could reach for anything else.

“IZUKU!” he shouted, his voice raw and desperate.

Izuku’s body jolted at the sudden touch, his breath ragged. His eye darted wildly to Katsuki’s face, but there was nothing there—no recognition, no understanding.

Only fear.

His lips parted, his voice hoarse and unsteady. “STOP!” he choked out. His left arm jerked violently as if trying to shove Katsuki away, but he was too weak. His breath came in quick, erratic gasps. His ears were ringing.

He could see Katsuki’s lips moving. Aizawa’s too. And All Might. They were saying something, shouting, calling his name—

But he couldn’t hear them.

Nothing but the deafening sound of his own heartbeat, pounding wildly in his skull.

His head spun.

His chest burned.

It was happening again.

He was trapped.

“GET AWAY!” he rasped, his voice cracking.

His body trembled violently, his muscles locking up. His nailbeds dug into his scalp, his breathing uneven. He barely noticed the fresh blood dripping from his arm, staining his fingers.

The door suddenly swung open, and a doctor rushed inside, immediately assessing the situation. The moment he saw the distress, the panic, and the blood, he stepped forward without hesitation.

“I’ve got him,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

Without warning, the doctor reached out and grasped Izuku’s wrists, pinning them together with practiced ease. His grip was strong but careful, meant to restrain without causing harm.

Izuku struggled weakly, his body trembling. His breaths came in short, panicked bursts, his wide eye darting around frantically. He looked like a cornered animal, barely comprehending what was happening.

“Midoriya,” the doctor called to him gently. “You’re safe. You’re in the hospital. Breathe.”

Izuku’s chest heaved, but his eye flickered toward the voice.

The doctor nodded, his voice unwavering. “I need you to take a deep breath for me, alright? In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”

Izuku’s fingers twitched. His shoulders tensed.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

The doctor glanced up at Aizawa, All Might, and Katsuki. “He’s still in distress,” he murmured. “I’ll need to administer a sedative if this continues.”

Katsuki’s jaw clenched. “Dammit…”

Aizawa gave a small nod, his gaze flicking back to Izuku’s trembling form. “Do what you have to.”

The doctor hesitated for a moment, watching Izuku’s face carefully. His pupil, once wild and unfocused, were slowly returning to normal. His body, which had been trembling with fear, was beginning to slacken. The panic was fading, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

With a quiet sigh, the doctor nudged the discarded IV needle under the hospital bed with the toe of his shoe, making a mental note to dispose of it properly later. For now, his focus remained entirely on Izuku. His grip on the boy’s arms loosened, but he didn’t let go completely. He wanted to be sure Izuku wouldn’t suddenly lash out again.

Izuku’s breathing was still erratic—deep, heavy, but uneven. His chest rose and fell with the effort, his ribs no doubt aching from the strain. He stared at his own arm, where a small trail of blood still dripped from the puncture wound where the IV had once been. His expression was unreadable, but there was something deeply unsettled about the way his fingers twitched, like he wasn’t sure if he was still in danger.

A nurse stepped forward and handed the doctor a soft, sterile tissue. Without a word, the doctor pressed it gently against the wound, wiping away the excess blood before applying light pressure to stop the bleeding.

Izuku flinched at the touch, his entire body tensing.

But—this time—it was gentle.

It wasn’t cold metal restraints.

It wasn’t rough hands gripping him too tightly.

It wasn’t bandages wrapped too tightly.

It wasn’t him.

“…Izuku,” Katsuki mumbled, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Izuku’s head turned at the sound of his name, as if he had forgotten Katsuki was there. His single eye locked onto him, unfocused at first. His lips parted slightly, as though he wanted to say something.

But no words came out.

The doctor carefully unwrapped a fresh roll of bandages and began dressing Izuku’s arm again. His movements were slow and deliberate, making sure not to agitate any of the bruises or irritated skin. Izuku remained silent, his gaze flickering between the doctor’s hands and the others in the room.

When the bandages were secure, the doctor finally stepped back.

And then, without warning, All Might moved.

Gently—so, so carefully—he leaned forward and wrapped Izuku in a loose, protective embrace.

Izuku’s entire body locked up at the contact. His breath hitched. His muscles stiffened.

But then—

A large, warm hand ran through his messy curls, combing through them gently, smoothing them down.

Warmth.

Not pain.

Not cruelty.

Just warmth.

“Young Midoriya…” All Might’s voice was thick with emotion, shaking just slightly as he held him close. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

Izuku didn’t move. He barely breathed. His eye flickered open and shut, and then—

The tears started to fall.

Slowly at first, barely noticeable against his bruised and hollow cheeks. But then more followed, hot and unstoppable, dripping silently onto All Might’s sleeve. His shoulders quivered, but he was too weak to properly sob.

All Might’s grip on him tightened just slightly, as if trying to shield him from all the pain he had endured. “You’re safe now,” he whispered. “We’ll stay with you. We won’t leave. I promise.”

Izuku’s broken breathing hitched again, and then a quiet, fractured sound escaped his lips. Something between a sob and a whimper.

All Might pulled back just enough to look at him properly, brushing a strand of hair from his damp forehead. “I’m so proud of you,” he murmured.

Izuku’s lips trembled, his gaze darting between All Might’s face and his hands.

Memories crashed into him like waves, images of blood and metal and pain flashing behind his eye. And yet—he remembered something else too.

Warm hands.

A voice calling his name.

A desperate, furious voice, shaking with something raw.

His throat was tight, dry, barely able to form the words. But still, he tried.

“B-but… you…” His voice was so broken, so quiet, it barely registered.

All Might frowned in concern, immediately giving his hand a gentle squeeze—careful to avoid the nail beds that had been nearly destroyed. “I’m here, Izuku,” he assured him softly.

Izuku’s fingers twitched weakly against his. His single eye, glassy with unshed tears, locked onto him.

“I… thought you’d… abandon… me,” he rasped. The words barely came out, but they carried the weight of everything he had been through.

All Might sucked in a sharp breath, his grip on Izuku tightening just slightly.

A silence followed.

Aizawa lowered his head, his eyes shadowed. Katsuki clenched his fists in his lap, his jaw locked.

All Might exhaled shakily before finally speaking again, his voice thick with emotion.

“Whatever you saw, whatever they told you…” He reached out and gently cupped Izuku’s bandaged hand in both of his own. “I would never abandon you.” His voice cracked, just a little, but he kept going. “You are my proud successor. No matter what.”

His thumb traced slow, soothing circles against the back of Izuku’s hand.

Izuku’s breath hitched, his eye flickering to Aizawa and Katsuki.

It was still blurry, fragmented, but—

He remembered.

He remembered Katsuki carrying him, pulling him out of the darkness. He remembered the feeling of strong arms holding him close, of warmth against his frozen skin. He remembered hearing Katsuki’s voice calling his name, over and over again.

He remembered Aizawa too. Steady, firm, unwavering. A presence that had never once left him.

His lips trembled.

Katsuki hesitated for a second before giving him a small, hesitant smile—a rare, uncertain expression. It wasn’t big, wasn’t forced. Just… there. A small attempt at reassurance, even if he felt painfully awkward doing it.

Izuku just stared at him, his vision blurred with exhaustion and tears.

A single thought passed through his mind.

They’re here.

He was still in pain. His body still ached. His mind was still fractured.

But they were here.

And for now—

That was enough.

Chapter 21: Feeling Broken

Izuku sat in silence, his eye downcast, staring at the blankets draped over his legs. His body remained tense, as if he was still bracing for something—though what, exactly, wasn’t clear.

The feeding tube remained in his nose, though the oxygen mask and IV needle were gone.

The doctor, who had remained by his bedside, studied him carefully before speaking in a calm, measured tone.

“We’re going to remove the nasal feeding tube now,” he said gently. “Are you calm enough for that?”

Izuku didn’t respond.

For a moment, it almost seemed like he wasn’t going to acknowledge the doctor at all. But then, with a barely perceptible motion, he gave a small nod.

The doctor took that as confirmation and moved a little closer. “Alright, take a deep breath in,” he instructed. “Hold it—and I’ll remove it quickly.”

Izuku obeyed without hesitation.

He inhaled deeply, his weak chest rising slightly, and then held his breath as instructed.

The doctor reached for the tube and, with a steady hand, pulled it out in one swift, fluid motion.

Izuku flinched slightly at the sensation. It was deeply uncomfortable—the feeling of something being dragged up through his nasal passage and throat—but it was over in mere seconds. He let out a small, shaky breath once it was gone, but otherwise, he remained completely silent.

The doctor disposed of the tube and turned back to him, offering a small nod of reassurance. “Now that you’re awake again, we can start you on real food,” he said, his tone remaining calm and soothing. “It’s an important step in your recovery.”

Izuku said nothing.

He only stared blankly ahead, his gaze unfocused, as if he wasn’t even really listening.

All Might, Aizawa, and Katsuki sat quietly beside the bed, watching him with growing unease.

The silence was suffocating.

Izuku—their Izuku—was never this quiet. He was never this empty.

The energetic, determined boy they had known was nowhere to be seen. In his place was someone unrecognizable—someone who barely reacted, who flinched at every movement, who hadn’t spoken a single word since he had woken up.

It made Katsuki’s stomach turn.

A short while later, the nurse returned. She carried a small tray with a bottle of water and a plate of mashed potatoes, the softest food they could offer him for now.

Izuku’s gaze slowly moved toward the tray. His single open eye flickered over the plate, but there was no reaction. No recognition. No interest.

It was as if he was simply observing, rather than processing.

“If you don’t mind,” the nurse said, glancing at the three men sitting around the bed, “could I sit here for a moment?”

Katsuki, Aizawa, and All Might exchanged a brief look before silently moving aside, giving the nurse space to sit beside Izuku.

She settled on the edge of the bed, carefully balancing the tray in her lap. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, she picked up the spoon and scooped up a small portion of mashed potatoes.

She blew on it gently, making sure it wasn’t too hot.

Then, without hesitation, she brought the spoon to Izuku’s lips.

Izuku didn’t open his mouth.

Instead, his expression shifted slightly—his eye narrowing, his lips pressing into a thin line. There was something in his gaze, something sour. Not anger, exactly, but something close.

Defiance.

Suspicion.

Wariness.

The nurse didn’t move the spoon away just yet. She waited patiently, watching him closely.

The three men standing nearby held their breath.

Izuku’s lips remained firmly shut. His gaze flickered from the spoon to the nurse, then to the food itself. His eye darkened slightly, as if something was stirring deep in his thoughts.

The nurse carefully pulled the spoon away, observing Izuku’s reaction. He didn’t flinch this time, but his expression remained distant—his single eye staring at the plate on the nurses lap as if it were something foreign, something untrustworthy.

“Eating is necessary,” she said softly, keeping her voice gentle. “Would you rather try to eat by yourself?”

Izuku hesitated.

His right hand hovered slightly, trembling as it inched toward the spoon.

The nurse noticed the movement and, without a word, placed the spoon lightly in his palm, giving him control. His fingers curled around it—slowly, unsteadily—his grip weak from both exhaustion and malnourishment.

Izuku raised the spoon shakily, trying to bring it to his lips. His hand trembled so violently that the food nearly spilled before it could reach his mouth.

And then—

The spoon slipped from his fingers.

It tumbled down, landing with a soft plop onto the blanket covering his lap.

Izuku froze.

His fingers twitched slightly, his gaze locked onto the fallen spoon.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then—

“For god’s sake,” Katsuki muttered under his breath, pushing himself forward. He shot a quick glance at the nurse, his jaw tight with frustration. “Let me feed him.”

The nurse blinked, then studied him carefully.

There was something in Katsuki’s eyes that made her pause—an understanding, a familiarity, something deeper than just frustration.

She seemed to consider it for a moment, then gave a small nod, handing the tray to him.

Katsuki grabbed it without hesitation, setting it on his lap as he settled into the chair beside Izuku’s bed. He picked up the fallen spoon, wiping it clean against the edge of the tray before scooping up another small portion of mashed potatoes.

He glanced at Izuku, his expression firm but not unkind.

“You have to eat if you wanna get stronger, nerd,” he muttered, his voice quieter than usual. “But you gotta let other people help you.”

The words felt strange coming from him—unnatural, even.

Aizawa and All Might exchanged subtle glances, both taking silent note of the moment.

Katsuki Bakugo, a boy who had spent most of his life refusing help, telling someone else to rely on others—it was almost surreal.

Izuku, however, didn’t seem to react.

He only blinked, his empty gaze shifting slowly from Katsuki’s face to the spoon being held in front of him.

There was another long pause.

Then, finally—

Izuku parted his lips slightly.

Katsuki, careful not to spill anything, brought the spoon to his mouth.

Izuku closed his lips around it, accepting the food without a word.

He chewed slowly—almost too slowly. The mashed potatoes didn’t even require chewing, but he moved his jaw in sluggish, automatic motions, as if his body was simply going through the motions rather than actively processing what was happening.

His eye remained dull, staring lifelessly ahead as he swallowed.

Katsuki’s grip on the spoon tightened slightly.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Izuku was supposed to be complaining or admiring about the taste. He was supposed to be talking too much, overanalyzing the nutritional value of the food, maybe even excitedly rambling about how a meal like this could affect a hero’s recovery.

Instead, he was just… there.

An empty shell.

Katsuki clenched his teeth but forced himself to stay calm.

Izuku glanced at him again—this time, his gaze lingered on Katsuki’s face for a fraction longer.

Then, slowly, he opened his mouth.

And just like that, another bite.

The room remained eerily silent as Katsuki continued feeding him, bite after bite, his movements steady and deliberate.

Aizawa and All Might didn’t say a word.

They only watched.

…

After Katsuki had carefully fed Izuku the last spoonful of mashed potatoes, he set the spoon down on the tray with a quiet clink. He didn’t say anything—just studied Izuku’s expression, watching for any kind of reaction, any small flicker of something familiar.

But Izuku only remained still, staring ahead with that same distant, unreadable gaze.

Then, after a few slow seconds, his eye shifted.

His gaze dropped down toward the small bottle of water sitting beside his bed. He stared at it, unmoving, before his eye flickered to Katsuki.

There was something hesitant in his expression, something fragile.

Izuku’s lips barely parted, and then—before he could say anything—he quickly averted his gaze, lowering his head toward his lap. His knees, still covered by the blanket, became his new focus.

Katsuki exhaled sharply through his nose.

He wasn’t stupid. He could tell what was happening.

You’re waiting for permission, aren’t you?

It made his stomach turn.

Katsuki reached for the bottle of water without a word, twisting off the cap before pouring some into the small plastic cup beside it. The water filled the cup smoothly, the soft sound of liquid pouring breaking the silence in the room.

“Here,” Katsuki muttered, shifting slightly in his chair as he held the cup closer to Izuku. “I’ll help you.”

Izuku blinked, startled.

His gaze snapped back up to Katsuki’s face, his expression subtly shifting—widening slightly, as if he hadn’t expected those words at all.

The look made something deep in Katsuki’s chest clench.

You won’t have to beg for your food anymore, nerd.

Izuku hesitated. He raised his right hand slightly, fingers trembling as he reached toward the cup—but his strength wasn’t enough. His fingers barely brushed against the side before they weakly fell away, unable to hold on.

Katsuki didn’t comment on it.

He just adjusted his hold, bringing the cup closer to Izuku’s lips.

Izuku’s throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed, his lips parting just enough to allow the water to slip in.

The first sip was small—tentative, unsure.

Then, after a moment, he took another.

The water felt smooth against his dry throat, washing away the discomfort that had lingered there for what felt like forever.

It was different.

Different from there.

This water was clean, refreshing. It didn’t taste stale, didn’t feel like something meant to keep him barely alive.

It wasn’t forced.

It wasn’t a punishment.

Katsuki pulled the cup back after a few seconds, letting Izuku take a breath.

He watched as Izuku’s lips pressed together, his throat moving in a slow swallow. He still wasn’t speaking—still wasn’t reacting much at all—but there was something about the way he was blinking, the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly against the blanket.

Then, after another breath, Katsuki brought the cup back to his lips.

Izuku accepted it again.

And for a brief moment, as the water passed his lips, the tension in his shoulders eased just a little.

…

Time passed, and Izuku finished the glass of water. The nurse observed him with quiet satisfaction, her eyes soft with approval as she noted the empty plate and cup.

All Might and Aizawa, who had been sitting silently on the chairs beside his bed, also looked slightly more at ease.

It wasn’t much, but it was progress.

Izuku, however, had barely reacted. His body, still worn and exhausted, slumped backward against the wall. His head tilted slightly to the side, his gaze unfocused as if the simple act of eating had drained the little energy he had left.

Katsuki’s eyes stayed locked on him.

“I can’t be feeding you all the time,” he muttered, arms crossed. “You have to accept help from others too.”

Izuku didn’t respond right away. His fingers twitched slightly against the blanket before he gave a slow, barely perceptible nod.

But he still wouldn’t look Katsuki in the eye.

Katsuki frowned.

A heavy silence settled between them before he sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“Everyone in class is really worried about you.” His voice was quieter this time, lacking its usual sharpness.

Izuku remained still, but Katsuki continued.

“Pink Cheeks has been crying nonstop for three weeks.”

Izuku’s eye twitched slightly.

Katsuki saw it, so he kept going.

“Glasses has been stricter than ever. It’s making everyone anxious.”

Izuku’s gaze finally lifted, shifting toward Katsuki.

“Icy Hot’s been quieter than ever. I mean, he’s always been quiet, but now it’s even worse” Katsuki added.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then, after what felt like forever, Izuku’s lips parted slightly. At first, no words came out—just a soft breath, uncertain, hesitant.

Then—

“R…Really?”

His voice was weak, hoarse from disuse. But hearing it made something in Katsuki’s chest tighten.

He forced down the relief bubbling up in his throat and gave a small smirk.

“Yeah.”

Izuku’s eye flickered slightly, searching Katsuki’s face for something.

Then, his expression changed.

It was subtle—the smallest shift in his features, a tension settling into his shoulders, his fingers gripping at the blanket.

“B..but.. I thought…” His voice cracked slightly. “You didn’t want to do… anything with a… murderer.”

It was the longest sentence he had spoken since waking up.

But the words felt like a knife to the gut.

Katsuki’s smirk disappeared instantly.

Izuku’s breathing hitched. His pupils shrank, his face paling significantly, his chest rising and falling unevenly as if he were suddenly drowning in something unseen.

He was reliving something.

Something terrible.

All Might clenched his fists, his jaw tight with barely restrained emotion.

Katsuki gritted his teeth, his hands curling into fists against his knees.

Aizawa, meanwhile, moved without hesitation.

He stood up and took Izuku’s trembling hand in his own.

Izuku didn’t flinch at the contact.

But he didn’t react, either.

Aizawa’s eyes darkened slightly as he studied the boy in front of him.

A murderer? Was izuku talking about those two children. And is he blaming himself for their death?

Aizawa tightened his hold on Izuku’s hand slightly, grounding him. His voice was quiet but firm.

“You are no murderer, Midoriya,” he said. “You’re a hero. You saved the world.”

Izuku’s fingers twitched slightly under Aizawa’s grip.

He heard the words.

But he didn’t believe them.

His gaze dropped back to the covers.

“No…” he whispered. His voice was barely there, just a breath of sound. “I… I couldn’t save them…”

There was no doubt about it now.

Izuku was talking about the children.

He was blaming himself.

Aizawa exhaled through his nose, his grip remaining steady as he gently rubbed slow, calming circles over the back of Izuku’s hand.

“That wasn’t your fault,” he said, his voice softer now. “You couldn’t have done anything.”

Izuku didn’t reply.

He just kept staring down at the blanket—his expression hollow, empty, as if he had already used up every tear in his body.

 

“Mom,” Izuku mumbled, his eyes widening as the word left his lips.

“She’s already visited you a few times. She’s very worried.” All might responded

“No…” Izuku mumbled, his voice trembling. “Don’t lie…”

His gaze shifted suddenly, locking onto All Might. His right eye widened, raw with panic and disbelief.

“Hm?” All Might murmured gently, concern etched across his face.

“She’s dead,” Izuku whispered. “I watched her die…”

All Might took a small step forward, his expression softening. “Young Izuku…”

“She’s not dead.” Katsuki’s voice cut through the quiet like a thread of steel.

Izuku blinked, turning slowly toward him.

“Inko’s still alive,” Katsuki said firmly, standing at the foot of the bed. “She’s alive. And she’s waiting to see you.”

“Whatever you saw in that hellhole,” he added, his voice quieter now, “was fake. At least about us.”

Izuku’s breath hitched, and suddenly tears streamed from his right eye again, hot and unrelenting.

“She’s… alive…” he choked out, his voice breaking under the weight of it.

“That’s right,” Katsuki said, a little softer now. “And you’ll see her very soon.”

Izuku didn’t respond—he couldn’t. He just wept, the truth beginning to crack through the nightmare.

 

For a while, no one spoke.

Then, finally—

“I’m sorry…” Izuku whispered. His eye remained locked on his knees, his fingers curling slightly into the fabric of the blanket. “For worrying all of you…”

Katsuki’s lips pressed into a thin line.

His hands clenched against his legs.

There was so much he wanted to say—so much he wanted to yell at this stupid nerd who was blaming himself for something that wasn’t his fault.

But Izuku was already punishing himself enough.

So instead, Katsuki stayed quiet.

For now.

A heavy silence followed Izuku’s words.

His fingers curled tighter into the fabric of the blanket, his breathing shallow. His body still trembled, whether from exhaustion or emotion, no one could tell. Maybe both.

Aizawa’s grip on his hand remained firm, grounding. All Might’s shoulders were tense, his usual warm expression shadowed with quiet grief.

And Katsuki…

Katsuki had his head down, hands clenched into fists against his knees.

The weight of Izuku’s words sat heavy in the room.

A murderer.

Izuku really believed that.

Katsuki gritted his teeth, his jaw locked so tight it hurt. His mind flashed back to the day they found him—to the blood, the scars, the horror that lingered behind his lifeless eye. He knew Izuku had been through hell. He knew Izuku had suffered more than anyone could ever understand.

Katsuki inhaled sharply, forcing himself to speak.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?”

Izuku’s eye twitched slightly, but he didn’t respond.

Katsuki exhaled through his nose, his voice quiet but sharp.

“There’s not a single person who blames you.”

Izuku flinched, just barely.

Katsuki saw it.

And he didn’t stop.

“Not me. Not Four Eyes. Not icyhot. Not even fucking Pink Cheeks.” His fists tightened. “The only person blaming you—”

Katsuki’s voice wavered for half a second before he pushed through.

“—is you.”

Izuku’s fingers curled tighter around the blanket.

His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out.

Katsuki leaned forward slightly, his voice softer now.

“If you really think that, then you’re more of a damn nerd than I thought.”

Izuku finally looked up at him.

His eye was wide, conflicted.

Katsuki met his gaze head-on, refusing to look away.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Then—

Izuku swallowed, his throat bobbing slightly.

His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“… I’m sorry.”

The words were so quiet, so fragile, that for a moment, Katsuki almost thought he imagined them.

But then he saw the way Izuku’s hands trembled—the way his expression crumpled just slightly, barely holding itself together.

Katsuki let out a slow breath, forcing his hands to relax.

He wasn’t good at this.

He wasn’t like All Might or Aizawa—he didn’t know the right things to say.

But he wasn’t going to let Izuku go through this alone.

“Don’t apologise,” he muttered. “Not for that.”

Izuku blinked.

Katsuki’s gaze softened just slightly.

“We are here for you.”

Izuku stared at him for a long time, his expression unreadable.

Then, without a word, he lowered his gaze again.

But this time, his grip on the blanket loosened just a little.

And Katsuki knew—

Even if it was just a little bit, even if Izuku didn’t believe him yet—

His words had reached him.

Then the door opened.

The quiet click of the door opening made Izuku’s entire body tense. His breath hitched, his single eye darting toward the entrance before he even realized what he was doing.

The movement was instinctive. Automatic.

He barely even noticed how tightly his fingers curled into the blanket again, his muscles rigid as if bracing for something—something he couldn’t name.

The doctor stepped inside, the sound of his polished shoes tapping lightly against the floor.

Izuku hadn’t even realized the doctor had left earlier.

“Hello, Izuku Midoriya.”

The voice was warm, steady—not too loud, not too forceful. Measured.

The doctor approached his bedside, keeping his movements slow, deliberate.

Izuku watched him carefully, his body still stiff.

“I see you’ve calmed down a bit,” the doctor continued, glancing at the empty plate and cup. “And you ate and drank? That’s wonderful to see.” He smiled, his eyes kind but observant.

Izuku didn’t respond.

He only blinked slowly, staring at the doctor as if trying to decipher the meaning behind his words.

The doctor didn’t seem bothered by the silence. Instead, he let out a quiet chuckle and gently clasped his hands together.

“I haven’t properly introduced myself yet, have I?” he said. “My name is Dr. Hiroshi Kyu, but you can call me Dr. Kyu. I’ll be in charge of your care throughout your recovery.”

The man had grey hair, looked like he was in his mid fifties. And had gentle green eyes.

He extended his hand toward Izuku, offering it in greeting.

Izuku hesitated.

His gaze flickered between the doctor’s outstretched hand and his own trembling fingers, still resting against the blanket.

It was just a handshake.

A simple gesture.

And yet, something inside him recoiled.

He forced himself to breathe, slowly lifting his right hand.

His fingers barely brushed against the doctor’s palm before a sharp pain shot through him. His nailbeds—still raw, still damaged—ached at the contact, a phantom sensation crawling up his arm like a whisper of past torment.

Izuku’s teeth clenched.

His breath caught in his throat.

And he pulled away almost immediately.

The movement was sudden, jerky.

Dr. Kyu’s expression didn’t change, but Izuku could tell he noticed.

The doctor’s gaze briefly flickered to his hands—examining, assessing. But instead of reaching for them, instead of trying to grab him or force him to comply, he simply placed his own hand gently over his other wrist, showing his intention to stay neutral.

Izuku swallowed, his pulse still racing.

He didn’t know how to react to that.

The doctor didn’t push further. Instead, he simply turned his attention to the other side of the room.

“This is Nurse Akari Saito,” he said, gesturing toward the woman standing near a tray of medical supplies.

The nurse, a woman with neatly tied-back hair and warm brown eyes, turned toward them with a small wave.

“I’ll be assisting Dr. Kyu during your recovery,” she said kindly. “I’ll be checking in on you regularly, so if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Izuku barely registered her words.

His eye lingered on her for half a second—just long enough to acknowledge her presence—before flicking downward again.

His nails.
No, not his nails anymore, his nailbeds.

His fingers twitched, his vision blurring slightly as he focused on them.
Izuku looked pale, really pale. And his pupil shrank again.

His hands had always been important to him. The hands of a hero. The hands that were supposed to save people.

And yet—

This awful sight, this awful feeling. That awful moment when every nail was ripped off.

Dr. Kyu quickly moved his hand over Izuku’s nailbeds—not touching them, just hovering above. A barrier. A shield.

Izuku flinched anyway.

His breath hitched, his body tensing as if expecting pain, as if just the presence of a hand near his own was enough to send him spiraling back.

Dr. Kyu didn’t move closer. He didn’t press, didn’t ask Izuku to talk, didn’t force him to acknowledge anything. He simply stayed where he was, steady and unmoving, like a wall between Izuku and the weight of his own thoughts.

Not now.

It wasn’t the right time.

Izuku needed to face what happened. Needed to acknowledge it, to process it, to heal.

But not now.
Having him stare at painful wounds, fresh, still burried into his memory, it was too soon.

The doctor wanted to avoid another panic attack.
Right now, he needed stability. He needed to feel safe.

Dr. Kyu kept his voice calm, careful.

“Breathe,” he said simply. “Very slowly”

Izuku didn’t respond.

But after a moment, his shoulders slumped just slightly. His eye locked on the doctor.

Dr. Kyu slowly lowered his hand, letting Izuku take in his own time before he spoke again.

“Izuku,” he said gently, “now that you’re awake and stable, I’d like to run a few tests. Nothing invasive, just a basic check-up to see how your body is recovering.”

Izuku’s gaze flickered up to him, cautious and uncertain.

Tests.

The word alone made his stomach twist.

His mind flickered back—white walls, harsh lights, the feeling of metal restraints around his wrists. Needles. Wires. The scent of antiseptic.

A sharp breath left him before he could stop it.

Dr. Kyu noticed immediately. “Nothing like that,” he assured him quickly. “I won’t do anything without your permission. No needles, no wires, nothing painful.”

Izuku didn’t move, didn’t nod, but his shoulders didn’t tense further.

Dr. Kyu took that as permission to continue.

“I just want to check a few things,” he explained, keeping his tone light. “Your reflexes, your heart rate, your strength. Simple things. We can stop at any time if it’s too much.”

Izuku hesitated.

Tests.

He hated the idea.

But… Dr. Kyu’s voice was calm. Steady. Different from the voices he remembered in that white room.

He didn’t sound like them.

Izuku swallowed, his throat still raw from disuse. His fingers twitched against the blanket before he gave a small, hesitant nod.

“…Okay,” he rasped.

Dr. Kyu smiled. “Good. We’ll go slow.”

He turned slightly, gesturing toward the nurse, who nodded in understanding before stepping forward with a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff.

“We’ll start easy,” Dr. Kyu said. “Just your heart rate first, alright?”

Izuku didn’t answer, but he didn’t flinch either when the nurse gently placed the stethoscope against his chest.

A small victory.

Katsuki, Aizawa, and All Might remained seated nearby, watching closely—ready to intervene if needed.

Izuku just stared down at the blanket, breathing slow and steady as the tests began.

The metal of the stethoscope pressed against Izuku’s chest through the thin hospital gown. He barely reacted, his eye locked onto the blanket covering his legs.

The nurse listened carefully, her expression neutral but focused. The rhythmic thump of Izuku’s heart filled the silence, slightly faster than normal but not unexpected given everything he’d been through.

“Deep breath in,” she instructed softly.

Izuku obeyed, inhaling shakily.

“And out.”

He exhaled, slow and controlled. The nurse nodded in approval before removing the stethoscope and noting something on the clipboard she held.

Dr. Kyu observed Izuku closely, monitoring his reactions. “So far, so good,” he said with an encouraging nod. “Let’s check your blood pressure next. I’ll need to wrap the cuff around your arm—do you think you can handle that?”

Izuku hesitated.

His eyes flickered to his arms—scarred, bandaged, thin. The thought of anything tightening around them made something in his chest squeeze uncomfortably.

Dr. Kyu waited patiently. He didn’t rush him, didn’t push. He just waited.

Izuku swallowed. He forced himself to nod.

The nurse moved carefully, keeping her movements slow and deliberate as she wrapped the cuff around his right arm. The fabric felt foreign against his skin.

“This will tighten, but it won’t hurt,” she reassured him.

Izuku clenched his jaw as the cuff inflated, squeezing his arm. It wasn’t painful, but his breathing grew shallow.

Katsuki shifted in his chair. “You’re fine, nerd,” he muttered, watching closely. “Just a stupid machine.”

Izuku’s fingers twitched against the blanket. His gaze flickered to Katsuki—just for a second.

The cuff deflated with a quiet hiss.

The nurse quickly removed it, jotting down the numbers. “A little low, but nothing surprising given what you’ve been through,” she murmured to Dr. Kyu.

Izuku barely heard. He was still trying to ground himself, forcing away the phantom sensation of cold steel cuffs that had once been locked around his wrists.

Dr. Kyu spoke again, keeping his voice light. “We’re almost done. I’d like to check your reflexes now. Just a simple test.”

Izuku blinked.

Reflexes.

That… didn’t sound bad.

He gave another small nod, so Dr. Kyu pulled up a chair beside the bed and tapped a small rubber mallet against Izuku’s knee.

His leg jerked slightly on instinct.

Aizawa and All Might watched closely, their expressions unreadable. Katsuki, arms crossed, kept his eyes trained on every movement.

Dr. Kyu tested both knees, then lightly tapped Izuku’s elbows. Each time, Izuku’s body responded, but his movements were slow—delayed. Weak.

Dr. Kyu hummed thoughtfully, jotting something down on his chart. “Your responses are a little sluggish, but that’s to be expected after extended physical trauma and malnourishment. With time and therapy, they should improve.”

Izuku barely reacted. He just kept staring down at his hands.

The tests were almost over.

Dr. Kyu hesitated, then asked carefully, “Izuku, would you be comfortable trying to stand?”

Izuku stiffened. His breathing hitched.

Stand?

His grip tightened around the blanket.

Could he even stand?

Memories slammed into him—collapsing on cold floors, struggling to move, the overwhelming weakness in his limbs.

He wasn’t sure if he could.

But… he had to, right?

Izuku sucked in a shaky breath. Then, slowly, he nodded.

Katsuki instantly stood up. “If he’s gonna try, I’m helping,” he said firmly.

Aizawa stood too. “We’ll assist if needed.”

Dr. Kyu gave a small nod of approval before turning back to Izuku. “Alright. We’ll take it slow. No pressure, no rush.”

Izuku’s hands clenched into weak fists.

Slowly, he braced himself.

Then, with Katsuki and Aizawa on either side of him, the doctor removed izuku’s blanket.

Izuku tried to push himself up, his thin fingers gripping the mattress as he shifted his weight forward. His muscles trembled with the effort. Katsuki and Aizawa were right there, steady, waiting to catch him if needed.

His legs felt like they weren’t his own—too light and too heavy at the same time. His vision blurred slightly, his breath coming faster. The moment he lifted himself off the bed, his knees buckled.

The world tilted.

Izuku collapsed before he could fully stand.

Katsuki reacted instantly, lunging forward to catch him. Aizawa grabbed Izuku’s other arm, steadying him.

“Shit—dammit, nerd, you’re shaking like hell,” Katsuki muttered, his grip tight but careful.

Izuku’s chest heaved. His head spun. His body felt like dead weight.

Dr. Kyu was already kneeling beside him. “Easy, Izuku. It’s alright. You’ve been through extreme malnourishment and trauma—you can’t expect your body to just bounce back. This will take time.”

Izuku’s vision swam. His ears rang. His arms trembled under his own weight as Katsuki and Aizawa slowly guided him back onto the bed.

He felt useless.

He was useless.

He clenched his jaw, fingers twitching as he tried to push himself back up, but his arms gave out instantly.

“Tch. Don’t be an idiot,” Katsuki snapped, pressing him back down. “You can’t even stand, dumbass. Stop pushing it.”

Izuku’s throat tightened. He turned his head away, his breathing shallow. His right eye stared blankly at the sheets.

“I can’t…” he whispered. His voice barely came out, hoarse and empty. “I can’t even stand…”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

All Might stepped forward then, his large hand resting gently on Izuku’s shoulder. His grip was warm, steady. “You will, Young Midoriya,” he said, voice low but filled with conviction. “Just not today.”

Izuku’s fingers curled into the blanket. His arms felt like lead, his legs unresponsive. He felt so weak.

Dr. Kyu adjusted his glasses. “We’ll focus on physical therapy, but for now, your body needs rest. Pushing too hard too soon will only make things worse.”

Izuku swallowed. His gaze remained locked on the blanket.

Katsuki exhaled sharply. “Listen, nerd. You got outta that hellhole. You’re still breathing. You’ll get there.” He leaned forward slightly, eyes dark with something unreadable. “So don’t pull any of that ‘I can’t’ bullshit.”

Izuku’s lip trembled.

He wanted to believe them. He really did.

But right now, all he felt was broken.

Notes:

HEY GUYSS!!I hope you liked the drawing! I really wanted to capture Izuku after everything he’s been through—the tired left eye, the bruises, the scars… just his whole sad and empty expression. Dang, it really breaks my heart.

Honestly, I have no idea if the drawing turned out alright. I feel kind of blind to my own skills sometimes. I don’t really have much drawing experience, but I’m still proud of it.

Originally, I had this picture of him in a totally different style, but I wanted to remake it in something closer to Horikoshi’s style.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

See you Monday!

Chapter 22: Shattered Minds

Izuku remained silent, his fingers twitching slightly against the blanket. His breaths were uneven, shallow, as if even that small effort was too much. The weight of failure pressed against his chest like a boulder, crushing him from the inside out.

He had barely tried, and yet his body had given up instantly. He couldn’t even stand.

What kind of hero was he?

Katsuki’s words lingered in his mind—You got outta that hellhole. You’re still breathing. You’ll get there.

But Izuku wasn’t sure if he believed that.

Dr. Kyu observed him carefully before straightening up. “Izuku, you’ve pushed your body past its limits for too long. This isn’t failure—it’s reality. Your body needs time to relearn its strength.”

Izuku flinched slightly at that word. Relearn. As if he had forgotten. As if he had lost something vital.

Maybe he had.

Aizawa crossed his arms, his sharp eyes softening just slightly. “You’re going to be given a recovery plan. Physical therapy, monitored nutrition, regular rest. You won’t be doing this alone.”

Izuku swallowed hard. His throat still felt dry despite the water he’d had earlier. He nodded, but it was slow, hesitant, barely noticeable.

The nurse—Saito—stepped closer, her voice calm but firm. “For now, we’ll need to run some tests. Check your reflexes, muscle responses, and vitals again.”

Izuku barely reacted. He simply sat there, legs on the mattress again, his one open eye staring at the edge of the blanket.

Katsuki clenched his fists. “He’s already wiped out.”

Dr. Kyu nodded. “We’ll take it slow.”

The nurse pulled out a small flashlight and knelt in front of Izuku. “I’m going to check your eye response, okay?”

Izuku barely moved but gave the faintest nod.

She gently lifted his chin and shined the light into his left eye. Izuku winced but didn’t pull away. His pupil contracted normally, but the reaction was sluggish.

Then, suddenly Izuku’s body locked up. His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in shallow, frantic gasps.

White. All white.

The blinding, sterile light. The sharp sting of electricity. His muscles locking up as volts tore through his nerves. That endless void of pain.

His breathing turned ragged. A choked, panicked noise escaped his throat. His vision swam, the present and past colliding in a horrifying mess.

The memories crashed over him like a tidal wave.

No. No, no, no—

He couldn’t breathe.

His shaking hands shot up, knocking the flashlight out of the nurse’s grip. It clattered to the floor with a sharp clang.

Everyone flinched.

Izuku barely registered it. His only thought was escape.

His entire body trembled violently as he tried to push himself out of bed. His legs, weak and unsteady, nearly collapsed beneath him. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps. His wide, terrified eye darted around the room, searching for an exit.

He had to get out. He had to get out now—

But hands grabbed him.

Firm, unyielding hands pinned him down before he could move any further.

“NO—GET ME OUT!” Izuku screamed.

His hoarse voice cracked with desperation, his entire body twisting and fighting against the hold.

Dr. Kyu was quick. He gripped Izuku’s upper body, keeping his flailing arms restrained.

Katsuki lunged forward, wrapping both arms around Izuku’s legs to stop him from kicking. His grip was strong, but not rough—desperate, but not forceful.

Aizawa moved in next, helping to pin Izuku’s torso down before he could hurt himself.

Izuku thrashed, pure terror twisting his face. His breaths came in choked sobs, his entire body trembling violently beneath their grip.

“Deku, stop—” Katsuki’s voice was tight, pained. His grip shook.

Izuku didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He was somewhere else entirely—trapped in a memory too real to escape from.

“Give me midazolam,” Dr. Kyu ordered, his voice sharp and urgent.

The nurse hesitated only a second before she rushed into the small adjoining room, hands moving quickly as she searched for the sedative.

Izuku let out another raw, strangled scream. His voice cracked, his fingers clawing uselessly at the air.

All Might remained frozen, his face stricken with horror. His hands gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles white. He could do nothing but watch.

What had caused this? Was it just the flashlight? What had Izuku seen in that moment?

The nurse rushed back, a filled syringe in her hands.

“Keep holding him steady,” Dr. Kyu commanded.

Aizawa quickly shifted, his other hand moving in front of Izuku’s eye to block out the sight of the sryinge.

Izuku thrashed again, body convulsing with terror as he felt the doctor grip his arm.

The moment the needle pierced his skin, he let out a broken, desperate scream.

“STOP IT—!”

But it was almost over.

The sedative worked fast.

His breath hitched. His body twitched, resisting for just a second longer.

Then—his limbs grew heavy. His muscles slackened. His heaving breaths slowed.

His eye, still filled with terror, fluttered weakly.

And then—he was still.

Silence fell over the room, thick and suffocating.

Dr. Kyu let out a slow breath, adjusting his glasses. “He’s unconscious. The sedative should keep him calm for now.”

Katsuki’s grip loosened, but he didn’t pull away. His hands remained on Izuku’s legs, fingers twitching slightly. His heart was still hammering.

Aizawa withdrew his hands from Izuku’s body, but his face was drawn and tired.

All Might swallowed hard, his throat dry. He clenched his fists, shaking his head in disbelief.

Dr. Kyu gently checked Izuku’s pulse, his expression unreadable. “That reaction was severe. We need to be extremely careful moving forward.”

Katsuki exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

Izuku had been restrained again.

And the worst part?

He had possibly screamed the exact same way he had back then.

Katsuki was the first to let go, his hands trembling as he pulled back. His nails dug into his palms as he clenched his fists, staring down at Izuku’s unconscious form. His face was still pale, lips slightly parted, a few stray tears drying against his cheeks.

“Dammit…” Katsuki muttered under his breath. His voice was rough, frustration and helplessness dripping from every syllable.

Aizawa let go next, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked exhausted, his usual sharp gaze duller than before. “What the hell triggered that?” he asked, voice low but firm.

Dr. Kyu adjusted his glasses, his expression unreadable. “It was the flashlight,” he said, his voice calm but thoughtful. He turned his attention to the nurse, who had stepped back, still gripping the now-empty syringe.

“The light?” All Might’s voice was unsteady. He still hadn’t moved from his chair. His hands were clenched into tight fists on his lap.

Dr. Kyu nodded. “Bright, artificial lighting, it was probably a trigger for him. Someone who’ve experienced prolonged captivity—especially in sterile environments. The way his reaction escalated suggests an immediate association with past trauma.”

Katsuki stiffened. His jaw clenched as memories of their rescue flooded his mind—the harsh, clinical lights of that room, the way Izuku had barely reacted to them at the time. Had that been the same kind of light that had haunted him during his imprisonment?

Aizawa exhaled sharply. “We’ll need to avoid sudden bright lights around him for now.”

Dr. Kyu nodded in agreement. “For the time being, we’ll keep his room dimly lit. When he’s awake, we’ll have to ease him into brighter environments slowly. Right now, his body and mind are still in a fragile state.”

Katsuki swallowed hard, the weight of everything pressing down on his chest like a boulder. He glanced at Izuku again, his face still twisted in discomfort even in unconsciousness.

That damn nerd… he’d been through so much. Too much.

And now, even something as simple as a flashlight was enough to send him spiraling back into that hell.

All Might finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s suffering so much…”

Katsuki gritted his teeth. “Yeah,” he muttered. “But he’s still here.”

A heavy silence filled the room.

Dr. Kyu turned to the nurse. “We’ll monitor his vitals closely for the next few hours. We don’t want another episode like this too soon.”

She nodded and quickly went to work, checking the machines connected to Izuku.

Katsuki exhaled through his nose and ran a hand through his hair. His fingers trembled slightly, but he forced himself to steady them. He couldn’t fall apart. Not now.

He looked at Izuku again, his face still too damn pale.

…

The weight of the day pressed down on them as Aizawa, All Might, and Katsuki left the hospital. None of them spoke. The echoes of Izuku’s screams, his ragged breathing, the sheer terror in his eyes—it all clung to them like a shadow. The moment he had thrashed against their grip, pleading to be released, was burned into their minds. It had been unbearable to watch, even worse to hold him down, to see him so utterly lost in his fear.

All Might raised a hand in farewell to Dr. Kyu and the nurse as they left, his movements slow and tired. The two medical professionals gave him a small nod in return before disappearing down the hallway.

The warm evening air met them as they stepped outside, but none of them reacted to it. Their exhaustion ran deeper than physical fatigue—it was the kind that settled in their bones, the kind that wouldn’t fade after just a night’s sleep.

Aizawa led the way to the car, and the three piled in, Katsuki in the backseat, his arms crossed tightly. The ride back to UA was silent except for the low hum of the radio. The muffled music filled the space, but it did little to ease the heavy atmosphere.

Katsuki stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past. His mind wasn’t on the streets of Musutafu. It was still in that hospital room, stuck on the way Izuku had flinched at every touch, how his voice had broken when he whispered, "No… I couldn't save them."

Katsuki clenched his fists in his lap.

He should have been there. He should have done something.

—————————

By the time they arrived at UA, the sun was already beginning to set, casting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The three of them walked toward the 3-A dormitory, each lost in their own thoughts.

As soon as Katsuki opened the door, a rush of voices exploded around him.

“Bakugo! You’re back!” Kirishima was the first to greet him, his face lighting up with relief.

“How is he?!” Mina demanded, practically bouncing in place.

“Did he wake up?” Uraraka asked, her voice filled with worry.

Others stayed a bit further back, hesitant, their eyes searching Katsuki’s face for any sign of good news.

Before Katsuki could even open his mouth, Aizawa’s voice cut through the noise.

“Everyone. Give him some space.” His sharp gaze and the slight glow of his Quirk were enough to make half the group back off immediately.

A tense silence settled over the room as Aizawa, All Might, and Katsuki stepped further in.

“We’ll tell you everything. Sit down,” All Might said, his usual booming voice subdued.

The class quickly walked back in the common area, sinking into the couches and chairs, or standing around it. It almost felt like a presentation was about to take place, except there was no bright PowerPoint, no neat bullet points—just the grim faces of their teachers and the sheer exhaustion in Katsuki’s stance.

Katsuki stood apart from them, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders stiff. He wasn’t looking at anyone, his scowl deeper than usual.

Aizawa exhaled slowly before speaking. “We saw Midoriya today. In fact… it was the first time he woke up.”

The room immediately lit up with excitement.

“Really?! That’s amazing!” Momo said, smiling.

“That means he’ll be back soon, right?” Kaminari asked eagerly.

“No.” All Might’s single-word answer crushed the hope in the room instantly.

The silence returned, heavier this time.

Aizawa’s expression darkened. “He’s… really, really weak. Physically and mentally.” His voice, usually so steady, wavered just slightly.

That alone sent a jolt of unease through the class.

“Of course, Young Midoriya has been tortured, and unconscious for a week, so his body is extremely weak,” All Might explained, his brows furrowing. “He hasn’t walked, eaten, or moved in all that time. His body is frail, and his strength is gone.” He sighed. “But that’s not the worst part.”

“What do you mean?” Uraraka asked, voice barely above a whisper.

All Might hesitated. Then:

“He’s not himself. Not the Midoriya you all know.”

Aizawa glanced at him before picking up where he left off. “For the time being, he won’t be allowed visitors. Not from any of you.” His tone was firm, but there was a hint of something else there—something that sounded almost like regret. “Only us three and his mother will be allowed to see him. Anything else would be too much for him right now.”

The words hit like a blow.

The students had been waiting for weeks to see Izuku again. To welcome him back, to tell him how much they missed him, to remind him that he wasn’t alone. And now they were being told they had to wait even longer?

“For how long?” Iida asked, voice tight.

“We don’t know,” Aizawa admitted. “He’ll need therapy. A lot of it.”

Silence.

A heavy, suffocating silence.

They had all been so sure that once Izuku woke up, things would start going back to normal. That the worst had already passed.

But looking at the faces of Aizawa, All Might, and Bakugo—seeing the exhaustion, the weight of what they weren’t saying—it was clear.

The worst was far from over.

…

As the late evening settled in, the dorm remained eerily quiet. Usually, dinner was a loud, chaotic affair—Denki and Mineta messing around, Kirishima enthusiastically grilling something, Iida enforcing order with Momo. But tonight, even as they cooked together, the usual chatter was subdued.

The reality of the situation lingered heavily in the air. Izuku had woken up. But at what cost?

Katsuki lay stretched out on the couch, one arm resting over his forehead, eyes closed but clearly not asleep. He had refused to help with cooking, and no one had pushed him. Not this time.

They understood.

Todoroki, having finished setting the table, walked over and sat down beside him. He didn't say anything at first. Just sat there, staring forward.

Katsuki shifted slightly, his gaze flicking toward him.

“What… was he like?” Todoroki finally asked, his voice quieter than usual.

Katsuki exhaled sharply, shifting his arm away from his face. “Traumatized.”

Todoroki tensed. He had expected that answer, but hearing it aloud made it feel heavier.

“As in?” He pressed, even though deep down, he already knew.

Katsuki scoffed, shaking his head. “As in, he flinches at everything. Every sound, every movement. And if there’s one thing that reminds him of that place, he spirals. Completely loses it.”

Todoroki stared down at the wooden surface of the coffee table in front of them, his fingers curling slightly against his knee.

“We had to inject him.” Katsuki’s voice was flat, but there was an edge to it. His jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists. “Fucking inject him just to get him to calm down and lose conciousness.”

Todoroki’s head snapped toward him.

Katsuki wasn’t looking at him anymore. His red eyes were fixed on the floor, his entire body tense, like a bomb ready to explode.

“I saw recordings,” Katsuki muttered.

Todoroki blinked. “What recordings?”

“This morning.” Katsuki inhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head like he was trying to rid himself of the images. “Before we left to see him, I saw recordings of Izuku. When he was there.”

Todoroki straightened slightly. “…And?”

Katsuki let out a humorless laugh, bitter and sharp. “And they weren’t even from the fucking torture room.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, hands gripping his own face. “This was just the room they kept him in.”

Todoroki’s fingers twitched.

“They starved him, drugged him, humiliated him.” Katsuki continued, voice hoarse. “He was hallucinating, out of his mind. He has twisted images of us because he imagined them.”

The tension in the room thickened.

“How the fuck is he supposed to come back from that?” Katsuki’s voice cracked, frustration and something deeper—something raw—bleeding into his words.

A tear fell onto his knee.

Todoroki saw it, but he didn’t comment.

Katsuki stayed hunched over, shoulders rising and falling with controlled breaths, his hands gripping his face like he was trying to hold himself together.

Some of their classmates had noticed.

Kirishima had stopped mid-step, his expression dropping. Mina and Uraraka exchanged worried glances. Even Iida, normally the one to try and steer things back to order, stayed quiet.

No one knew what to say.

Because how could they?

How could anyone possibly put into words what Izuku had gone through? What he was going through?

How could anyone promise that things would be okay when, they didn’t even know the situation.

It must be so fucked up if Katsuki is sobbing. Right before his classmates eyes.

Katsuki exhaled sharply through his nose. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

His voice was quiet, almost emotionless, but the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes. Without another word, he stood up, hands shoved deep into his pockets, and walked toward the dorm hallway. His gaze never lifted, avoiding the eyes of everyone around him.

The others watched in silence.

Todoroki’s eyes remained fixed on the coffee table, his fingers tracing the edge absently.

Iida walked towards Todoroki, his usual commanding presence subdued. “What… exactly happened?” His voice was hesitant, cautious.

Todoroki exhaled slowly. “He’s had a tough day,” he said simply, his voice barely above a whisper.

No one pressed further.

The atmosphere remained thick with unspoken words as the class quietly resumed their tasks. Soft murmurs replaced the usual energetic conversations. Even Kaminari, who always found a way to crack a joke, had nothing to say.

Dinner was a quiet affair. The clinking of utensils on plates filled the silence more than voices did. When the meal was done, Todoroki lingered in the kitchen, gathering a portion of leftover curry onto a plate. He moved methodically, scraping the last of the sauce onto the rice before covering it with plastic wrap.

Then, without saying a word, he made his way toward the dorm rooms.

The hallway was dimly lit, a contrast to the warm glow of the common area. As he reached Katsuki’s door, he raised his hand and knocked.

Silence.

Todoroki hesitated for a moment, then opened the door.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint light spilling in from the hallway. Katsuki was lying on his bed, his arm thrown over his face, but at the sound of Todoroki stepping inside, he stirred.

“I didn’t say you could come in,” Katsuki muttered, voice thick with exhaustion.

Todoroki didn’t acknowledge the comment. Instead, he stepped forward and held out the plate. “I imagine you’re hungry,” he said, his tone even. “Please eat.”

Katsuki hesitated for only a second before pushing himself upright. He eyed the plate in Todoroki’s hands before sighing and taking it. “Thanks.” His voice was quieter this time, less rough.

Todoroki gave a small nod. A ghost of a smile flickered at the edges of his lips, almost imperceptible, before he turned back toward the door.

Just as he reached for the handle, he paused.

Without looking back, he spoke.

“Midoriya wouldn’t want to see you like this.” His words were calm, but they carried weight.

Katsuki froze.

The words lingered in the air, heavy and undeniable.

Todoroki didn’t wait for a response. He simply left, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Katsuki sat still, staring at the plate in his hands. Todoroki’s words echoed in his mind, refusing to leave.

He swallowed hard, his grip tightening around the dish.

“Damn nerd,” he muttered under his breath.

Notes:

WE’VE REACHED 100K WORDS!!

I’m so proud of everyone who follows this story and has already read so many words. Thank you all so much for your support, your sweet comments, and just for being here. Literally, I love you all <3

See you Friday!

Chapter 23: Progress

It had been seven days since Izuku first woke up in that hospital bed.

Seven days of slow, painful progress. Seven days of careful observation, of whispered conversations between doctors and visitors, of quiet moments filled with too much weight. Seven days of Katsuki not visiting.

Not once.

Izuku, meanwhile, had been focused entirely on recovery—physically, first and foremost. The doctors didn’t push him too hard mentally, though the process of healing itself came with its own burdens. He had visitors, but only a few. Aizawa came when he could, brief but steady in his presence. Inko and All Might visited together more often than not, their presence a source of comfort, but never too much. The doctor had warned them—overwhelm him, and it could set him back.

So, they treaded carefully.
And that’s precisely why Katsuki didn’t visit him.

Aizawa kept the class updated, though his summaries were short and to the point. Everyone wanted to hear it in full scale, but Aizawa made sure not to tell them since they didn’t even know the details of what Izuku went through. After dinner, he would take the stairs up to Katsuki’s room, knock once, step inside, and deliver the full details.

Katsuki never asked him to stop coming. Because he wanted to know exactly how Izuku was doing, even if it was bad news.

According to the doctor, Izuku had been eating and drinking well. It had taken time—at first, he could barely manage sips of water without feeling sick. But yesterday, for the first time, he had fed himself. It was a small thing, but in a situation like this, it meant everything. And today, he’d taken an even bigger step. For the first time, he ate something more solid than porridge or yogurt or mashed potatoes. It was progress.

Of course, it was nowhere near enough to compensate for the sheer malnutrition he had suffered. His body had wasted away in captivity, muscle deteriorating from lack of movement, his ribs still far too prominent beneath the hospital gown. It would take time—weeks, maybe months—before he was close to full strength.

Then there were the drugs. The ones that had kept him weak, compliant. His body was slowly purging them from his system, but the process was painful.

Izuku sweated through his sheets at night, his body trembling even in sleep. He would wake up dizzy, sometimes unable to sit up on his own. The headaches were constant, though it was hard to tell whether they were from withdrawal or simply because he was still so weak. The doctors assured them that this stage wouldn’t last forever, but for now, it was one more thing Izuku had to endure.

Physically, he was healing. His injuries had been treated, and in just a few more days, Recovery Girl would be able to speed up the process even more. Soon, the bruises would fade, the remaining wounds would close, but most likely leave scars. His body will heal, but he’ll never look the same as before anymore.

Mentally, though…

That was another story.

The doctor had warned them that Izuku’s silence wasn’t just from exhaustion. He had spent weeks in captivity, subjected to things none of them could fully understand. He had been isolated, unable to move, unable to speak without consequences. Somewhere along the way, he had grown used to not talking at all.

Even now, even though no one was stopping him, he barely spoke.

He reacted to things, but distantly. He would nod when spoken to, flinch at unexpected noises, stare blankly at nothing when his mind wandered too far back into the past. But he never mumbled anymore.

He hadn’t tried using his Quirk, either.

And the panic attacks…

They still came, at least twice a day. They weren’t as intense as the first one, when they had to sedate him, but they were constant. The triggers were unpredictable. The bandages around his arms. The brief flash of metal from a medical tool. Even something as simple as eating porridge for the first time had caused him to freeze up, hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped the spoon.

Aizawa didn’t sugarcoat any of it.

It was exhausting to hear.

But at the same time, compared to where he had been a week ago—unconscious, unresponsive, teetering between life and death—

He was getting better.

Little by little.

—————————

The weekend had arrived.

For most of Class 3-A, it meant heading home—escaping the stress of the dorms, of classes, of the ever-present weight hanging over them all. A brief moment to breathe before the cycle started all over again on Monday.

Katsuki was going home too.

Not because he wanted to. Not because he needed to see his parents or because he had anything specific planned.

But because he had to get out of here.

He was exhausted. Every day, he had to act like everything was fine, like he wasn’t constantly thinking about him. About how bad things had really gotten. About how the Izuku he knew—the one who never stopped moving, never stopped mumbling, never stopped fighting—was just… gone.

At least, that’s how it felt.

Katsuki made his way to the front door of the dorms, his bag slung over his shoulder. A few classmates were lingering around, some waiting for their own rides, others just watching the people leaving.

“See ya, Bakugou,” Kirishima called, giving a casual wave.

Katsuki just lifted his own hand in a halfhearted wave, not even bothering to turn around as he stepped outside.

His classmates watched him go.

“Man, Bakugou’s really out of it,” Sero muttered, crossing his arms.

“I know, right?” Kaminari added, frowning. “Like, yeah, everything’s been depressing, but he’s been extra off every since he last visited Midoriya.”

Hagakure hesitated before speaking, her voice quieter than usual. “I overheard something that night he had visited him. When Todoroki and Bakugou were talking.”

The others turned to her instantly. “Overheard what?” Kaminari asked, leaning in.

Hagakure shifted uncomfortably. “Bakugou mentioned… seeing recordings of Midoriya. Of what happened to him.”

The group of four fell silent.

Mina swallowed hard. “Recordings? You mean, like… there’s actual footage of what happened to him?”

“I guess so,” Hagakure said softly. “Probably from security cameras.”

The thought sent a shiver through them all. The idea that someone—Bakugou, of all people—had actually seen what Izuku went through… no wonder he was so messed up.

Denki ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Man, I just wanna see him already.”

Sero nodded. “Right? It’s like he barely even exists anymore. We haven’t seen him in, what, two months?”

Mina hugged herself, her usual energy dimmed. “I just hope he’s okay…”

There was another pause. No one really knew what else to say.

Then Hagakure spoke up again, her voice lighter, hopeful. “Hey… when we do finally get to see him, we should do something nice for him.”

Denki raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like, maybe we could ask Satou to bake a cake?” she suggested, her invisible hands clasped together excitedly. “Something sweet! That’ll cheer him up, right?”

Mina perked up slightly at that. “That’s a great idea! Midoriya loves sweet stuff.”

Denki grinned. “Yeah! And it’s not like we can just show up empty-handed after not seeing him for so long.”

Sero smirked. “Alright, alright, I’m in. But only if Satou lets me help.”

The mood lightened just a little at the idea—something to look forward to, something they could do, even if they still had to wait.

—————————

Katsuki didn’t go home.

He had no real reason to. What was he going to do there? Sit in his room, stew in his thoughts, and pretend things weren’t as bad as they actually were? No. That wasn’t happening.

Instead, he found himself standing outside the familiar Midoriya apartment complex.

His hands were stuffed deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the crisp evening air. His heart beat a little too fast, and for a moment, he almost turned around.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he knocked.

A moment later, the door creaked open, revealing Inko Midoriya.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “K-Katsuki?”

She looked tired—exhausted. Dark circles hung under her eyes, and her hair was pulled up in a messy bun, as if she hadn’t had the time or energy to take care of it properly. She had lost weight, too.

Katsuki had expected this. Of course, she wasn’t going to be okay. How could she be? But seeing her like this… it made something tighten uncomfortably in his chest.

“Hey,” he muttered, shifting on his feet.

“Oh—oh, come in, come in,” she said quickly, stepping aside. “It’s still cold out.”

Katsuki stepped inside, slipping his shoes off at the door. He followed her to the living room, where another familiar figure was sitting on the couch.

“Ah, young Bakugou.”

All Might.

It wasn’t surprising to find him here. He and Inko had grown much closer over the past two months. Probably because they were the two people in the world who were there to always support Izuku

And, knowing All Might, he probably felt responsible for everything that had happened.

Katsuki gave him a nod, then turned to Inko. “You’ve been doing okay?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Inko smiled, but it was small, strained. “As okay as I can be,” she said softly, sitting down. “Please, have a seat, Katsuki.”

He hesitated for a moment before sitting across from them.

All Might studied him carefully. “You didn’t go home?”

“No,” Katsuki muttered.

All Might didn’t seem surprised. He nodded, as if he understood completely. “Izuku’s recovery has been at the front of all our minds.”

Katsuki exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “How’s he doing?”

At that, Inko’s expression softened—filled with that familiar, endless motherly worry. “He’s… improving. A little.”

All Might nodded in agreement. “He ate solid food for the first time today.”

“That’s good,” Katsuki said, though his voice was hollow. It was such a small, simple thing, but for Izuku, it was progress.

Inko fiddled with the hem of her sleeve. “I see him whenever I can. I don’t want to overwhelm him, but… I need to be there.”

Katsuki clenched his jaw. He got that.

All Might spoke up again. “His physical condition is improving. But mentally… he’s still distant. Quiet.”

Katsuki looked away. He already knew that. It was the same thing Aizawa had been telling him all week. But hearing it from All Might, from Inko—it felt heavier.

“…Has he said anything?” Katsuki asked.

Inko hesitated, then shook her head. “Not much. Just… small things. ‘Yes.’ ‘No.’ He doesn’t mumble anymore. He barely reacts.”

Katsuki’s hands curled into fists.

That wasn’t right.

That wasn’t Izuku.

All Might sighed, rubbing his chin. “He’s going to need time.”

The room was silent for a long moment.

Then Inko stood up. “Katsuki, have you eaten breakfast?”

Katsuki blinked. “What?”

“You look exhausted,” she said gently. “I made extra food. You should eat.”

He wanted to argue. He wasn’t here for himself.

But his stomach betrayed him with a low grumble.

Inko smiled. “Come on, dear. I’ll get you a plate.”

Katsuki sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Fine.”

Inko walked to the kitchen, prepared shortly a toast, and offered it to Katsuki.
Katsuki took the toast from Inko, the warmth of it spreading through his hands. He sat down next to All Might on the couch while Inko settled into her chair across from them.

He had barely lifted the toast to his mouth when Inko spoke.

“He… called for you.”

His hand froze midair.

“…What?” Katsuki asked, his voice quieter than usual.

Inko nodded. “He asked for you.”

A strange, tight feeling settled in Katsuki’s chest.

“He did?” His voice came out rough, like he didn’t quite believe it.

Inko smiled softly, though her eyes carried a weight of sadness. “You haven’t visited him all week, right?”

Katsuki slowly nodded, setting the toast back onto the plate. “Didn’t wanna get in the way,” he muttered. “And… I had school.”

Both excuses sounded weak now.

“He’s been quiet,” Inko continued gently. “But when I visited yesterday, he looked at me and asked: ‘Where’s Kacchan?’”

Katsuki’s breath hitched.

“He was half-asleep when he said it,” she admitted, “but I know he meant it.”

All Might placed a hand on Katsuki’s shoulder. “Then perhaps we should go today.”

Katsuki turned his head toward him.

“We’ll go this noon, you can come too.” All Might gave him a small smile.

The tightness in Katsuki’s chest loosened just a little.

He wanted to see Izuku. He had spent the past week drowning in frustration, too caught up in his own thoughts to do anything. But hearing that Izuku had actually asked for him—

That changed everything.

He nodded quickly, a spark of determination returning to his eyes. “Yeah.”

He picked up his toast again, finally taking a bite. The crunch filled the quiet room.

Inko smiled, watching him. “Good. He’ll be happy to see you.”

Katsuki swallowed, his throat dry. “He better be,” he muttered, but there was no bite in his voice.

All Might chuckled lightly. “It’ll do you both some good.”

Katsuki didn’t answer. He just finished his toast, feeling lighter than he had in days.

—————————

[that noon]

Katsuki had informed his parents that he was going to visit Izuku.

The hospital air was sterile, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic and something artificial Katsuki couldn’t name. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as they neared Izuku’s room, each step dragging like he was wading through wet cement.

Inko walked ahead, her hands clasped together tightly, as if bracing herself for something. All Might followed beside Katsuki, his usual presence dimmed by something heavier—guilt, maybe, or worry. Probably both.

When they reached the door, Inko hesitated just for a moment before knocking lightly.

“Izuku? Sweetheart, we’re coming in.”

Her voice was soft, careful, like she was afraid even her words might hurt him. She pushed the door open, stepping inside first, and Katsuki followed close behind.

The sight that greeted him made his breath catch.

Izuku was awake.

He sat propped up in the hospital bed, a thin blanket draped over his legs. His left eye—the one that was still there—lifted to them as they entered, duller they used to be, but at the same time more alive than one week ago. A few strands of green hair, matted and unkempt, fell over his forehead. His pale fingers held a spoon, trembling slightly as he lifted it from a bowl of curry.

The tremor in his hand didn’t stop, even as he guided the spoon to his mouth and took a slow, measured bite.

The nurse sat beside him, watching as izuku took his bite, ready to step in whenever he let the spoon fall. She gave Allmight, Inko and Katsuki a smile and a nod.

The room felt thin. Stifling.

Katsuki’s jaw clenched. Izuku was still wrapped in bandages, still as thin as ever, though his cheeks looked less sunken. The hospital gown hung loose over his shoulders, and his arms—once lean with muscle from years of relentless training—were frighteningly thin. His eye, the one that remained, flickered to each of them, scanning them like he was making sure they were real.

“Hey, kid.” All Might’s voice was soft, hesitant.

Izuku swallowed, blinking once before his eye finally settled on Katsuki.

A pause.

Then, hoarse and barely audible—

“…Kacchan.”

It hit harder than Katsuki expected. The sound of his name, weak and worn, sent something sharp through his ribs.

He forced himself to move, stepping further into the room. “Yo.”

He had so much he wanted to say. You look like shit. Are you eating enough? Do you even recognize yourself in the mirror anymore?

Normally he would’ve said those words without thinking, but now..
He couldn’t get the words out.

Izuku just kept staring at him, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he set the spoon down. His hand curled into the blanket on his lap, gripping it weakly.

“…You didn’t come.”

The words weren’t bitter. There was no accusation in his voice—just a quiet, tired observation.

Katsuki felt something sink in his gut.

“I had shit to do,” he muttered, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Didn’t wanna bug you.”

Izuku hummed softly, but he didn’t seem upset. He just studied Katsuki, blinking sluggishly, like he was trying to process the fact that he was really there.

Then, after a few seconds, he lifted the spoon again and took another bite.

The room stayed silent, except for the soft clink of metal against the bowl.

Inko hesitated for a moment before sitting down on on a different chair, on the side where the nurse wasn’t sitting. She rested her hands gently over Izuku’s legs, which were covered by a hospital blanket.

"Did you sleep well, sweetheart?" she asked softly, her voice filled with warmth and concern.

Izuku gave a small nod, but there was hesitation in the movement, like he wasn’t entirely sure of his answer.

Inko turned to the nurse for confirmation, and the nurse hesitated before responding.

"He woke up in the middle of the night," she admitted carefully. "Had a nightmare. Right, Izuku?"

Izuku didn’t nod this time, but he also didn’t contradict her. His gaze stayed locked on his meal, stirring the remaining bits of curry absentmindedly with his spoon.

Katsuki frowned. "Is it because of the drugs?"

The nurse let out a small sigh. "That, and the trauma." She kept her voice gentle, as if trying to downplay it for Izuku’s sake, clearly not wanting to discuss the topic in detail while he was still awake and aware.

Izuku took another small bite, chewing slowly.

The nurse, sensing the heaviness in the room, smiled encouragingly. "If he finishes his meal, I’ll leave you four to have some time alone."

That was the nurse’s way of reassuring them—of showing that despite everything, Izuku was trying. That he wanted to get better.

Katsuki and All Might stood behind Inko, watching as Izuku methodically worked through the rest of his food. His movements were slow but deliberate, almost as if he was making sure he was doing it correctly.

Occasionally, he would glance at the nurse, seeking some kind of unspoken approval. Every time, the nurse offered a small, reassuring smile, and Izuku would return to eating, his shoulders relaxing just the slightest bit.

Probably a force of habit, because he had to fucking beg for his food in that hellhole. Katsuki thought.

It took nearly ten minutes, but eventually, he finished the last bites and lifted the cup of water, drinking it down carefully.

The nurse gathered the empty dishes with a satisfied nod. "I’ll give you some privacy now," she said before stepping out of the room, leaving them alone.

A quiet tension settled over them.

Izuku slowly pulled the blanket off his legs and shifted to sit at the edge of the bed. He lowered his feet onto the floor, his socks pressing against the cool tile.

"Izuku, you shouldn’t—" Inko started, concern filling her voice.

"I want to," he interrupted.

Katsuki watched as Izuku forced himself to sit up straighter, turning fully to face them. Even though his posture was tense and his limbs trembled slightly from exhaustion, the determination in his expression was clear.

Katsuki let out a quiet chuckle. "Still stubborn as ever," he muttered. "That’s good. The faster you get better, the faster you can come back to class. You’re falling behind."

"Bakugou…" All Might muttered, as if to warn him, but Katsuki ignored it.

Izuku’s eye remained lowered, staring at the hospital pants he was wearing. They were thicker and longer than the thin shorts he had worn when he was captured. It felt strange, almost unfamiliar.

"I want to go back," Izuku said, his voice quiet.

Inko’s eyes widened slightly.

"You’re still recovering, Izuku. But I’m glad you’re motivated," All Might said with a small smile.

Izuku clenched his hands into weak fists, which made him flinch due to the pain from his nailbeds. He quickly loosened the grip. his gaze still fixed downward.

"I want to see everyone again," he mumbled.

"Hm? Honey, I couldn’t hear you," Inko said, leaning in slightly.

"I want to see my friends again," Izuku said, a little louder this time.

Inko blinked in surprise. Izuku had been so quiet, so distant, and yet now he was voicing what he wanted.

Katsuki, standing behind Inko, took in how Izuku’s voice had changed. It was still exhausted, still weak, but not as hoarse as before. His throat had finally healed enough from all the damage he had endured.

But there was still something different about it.

It was emptier.

Katsuki’s gaze lingered on the white medical eyepatch covering Izuku’s right eye—or at least, where his eye used to be. The thick bandages had finally been replaced, making it look less like a fresh wound and more like something permanent. The eyepatch covered most of the damage, concealing whatever lay beneath.

Katsuki had no idea what it looked like under there. No one had shown him, and he hadn’t asked. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to know. But the faint scar peeking out from under the eyepatch, stretching just below his upper cheek.

It probably ran from his cheek all the way up through his eye socket and eyebrow.

The thought made something in Katsuki’s chest twist uncomfortably.

"Maybe soon, your friends can all visit you," All Might said, breaking the silence. "If you want them to, of course."

Izuku hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly on the blanket. "They would?" he asked softly.

All Might’s expression softened, but before he could answer, Katsuki scoffed. "Of course they would, dumbass."

Izuku was quiet for a moment. His grip on the fabric tightened slightly. "Wouldn’t they… call me weak?"

Katsuki’s jaw clenched. "No. If anything, they’re practically shaking in their boots waiting to see you again."

Izuku pressed his lips together. He didn’t look convinced.

Then, a knock sounded at the door.

Izuku flinched at the sudden noise, his left eye flickering to the entrance. The door opened slowly, and a small figure stepped inside.

It was Recovery Girl.

"Hello, Midoriya," she greeted, her voice gentle yet firm.

Izuku looked slightly startled at her presence, blinking up at her as if unsure whether she was really there.

All Might straightened. "Ah, Shuzenji!" he greeted, bowing slightly out of habit.

Behind her, Dr Kyu followed in. "I asked her to come," he explained. "I believe it’s time for Izuku’s first healing session."

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed slightly. "He has enough stamina for that?"

"I won’t heal him completely," Recovery Girl reassured him. "And most of his wounds have already begun healing on their own. I’ll only do what his body can handle."

She stepped onto the chair the nurse had been sitting in earlier, placing herself at Izuku’s bedside.

Inko, who had been silently watching, shifted slightly. "You know what state he’s in?" she asked.

Recovery Girl nodded. "I visited him when he was first brought in, while he was still unconscious. I’ve also been kept updated on his condition." Her eyes softened as she looked at Izuku. "Though, I must say… I’m glad to see you doing better than you were before."

Izuku didn’t respond at first, but after a moment, he nodded slightly, shifting his legs back onto the bed and tucking them under the blanket again. His posture was stiff, as if he were bracing himself.

Recovery Girl sighed, her expression becoming troubled.

She didn’t say anything for a moment, but her gaze flickered over him, taking in his fragile frame, his hollow cheeks, the dark shadows under his one remaining eye.

Then, barely above a whisper, she muttered to herself, "My… what has that monster done to him…"

The words were so quiet that no one else in the room seemed to catch them.

But Izuku did.

His gaze immediately dropped to his lap, his shoulders subtly curling inward.

Recovery Girl quickly composed herself. "Dear, I’ll heal you a little bit. But you’ll feel tired afterward," she warned. "Are you ready?"

Izuku hesitated for only a second before nodding.

Leaning forward, Recovery Girl placed a soft kiss against his forehead.

Inko watched in quiet awe as Recovery Girl’s quirk took effect. Though the wounds on Izuku’s body were mostly hidden beneath bandages and hospital clothing, the evidence of healing was still visible. The small scar that peeked from beneath his eyepatch lost some of its raw redness, fading into a lighter, less inflamed shade of pink and white. It was clear that while the wound was healing, it would never fully disappear.

"That’s all for today," Recovery Girl announced as she pulled back. "With so many wounds, trying to heal you all at once would only drain you too much."

Izuku swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing.

"Thank you, Recovery Girl," the doctor said, bowing slightly in appreciation.

She nodded and hopped off the chair. "We’ll see each other again soon, dear. For now, I’ll be visiting a few more patients while I’m here."

Izuku didn’t lift his gaze, but after a moment, he whispered, "Thank you."

Recovery Girl gave him a small, kind smile before exiting the room.

A heavy silence settled over the remaining three.

Izuku was already looking exhausted from the small amount of healing he’d received. His body swayed slightly, as if struggling to stay upright.

Inko reached forward instinctively, brushing his hair back with gentle fingers. "Do you want to lie down, honey?"

Izuku hesitated for a moment before nodding weakly.

As he sank back into the pillows, Katsuki watched him carefully. Even now, even after everything, that stubbornness was still there, burning in the depths of his tired eye.

He wanted to get better.

Katsuki watched in silence as Izuku’s breathing evened out, his body sinking into the hospital bed. His single green eye fluttered shut, and within seconds, he had fallen into an exhausted sleep.

The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the machines monitoring Izuku’s vitals.

The doctor waited a few moments, as if making sure Izuku was fully asleep, before he stepped forward. Moving with careful precision, he reached for the white eyepatch.

Inko stiffened, her fingers curling against her lap. All Might also tensed, his brows drawing together in quiet concern.

The doctor gently lifted the eyepatch, just enough for himself to get a peek. His expression remained neutral for a moment as he observed the wound. Then, a small, satisfied smile tugged at his lips.

"It worked," he murmured. "It’s not fully healed yet… but it’s better."

Inko swallowed, her heart pounding against her ribs.

She hadn’t seen it.

Neither had All Might.

Neither had Katsuki.

They had no idea what lay beneath that patch. No idea what kind of damage had been left behind.

Katsuki’s hands clenched at his sides. He didn’t know why, but the thought of not knowing—of imagining the worst but never seeing the truth—made his skin crawl.

"Can I… see it?" Katsuki asked, his voice quieter than usual.

Inko turned toward him sharply, her eyes full of unease.

The doctor hesitated for only a second before giving a small nod.

Katsuki stepped forward, his heart hammering in his chest as he moved to the other side of the bed. His hands felt cold. His feet felt heavy.

He peered down hesitantly, leaning in just enough to catch a glimpse.

His breath hitched.

He was right. A scar ran from Izuku’s eyebrow down to the upper part of his cheek. It was thick, jagged, and still healing despite Recovery Girl’s quirk. But that wasn’t the worst part.

The area where Izuku’s eyeball had once been was completely cut up. His eyelids—if they could even be called that anymore—were stitched together in a way that made it painfully clear that there was nothing beneath them. The skin was uneven, rough with fresh and healing stitches, some of them still holding the torn flesh together.

It was empty.

Completely empty.

Katsuki’s stomach twisted violently. His hand shot up, covering his mouth before he could react any further.

He quickly turned away, stepping back from the bed and facing the wall.

He needed to breathe.

The doctor, seeing Katsuki’s reaction, carefully placed the eyepatch back in its position, securing it gently.

Inko had been watching Katsuki the whole time. The moment his body tensed, the moment his expression shifted into something unreadable, she knew.

She didn’t want to see it.

She couldn’t.

If Katsuki reacted like that…

Her hands trembled slightly, and she forced them into her lap, gripping the fabric of her skirt.

All Might had also remained silent, his expression unreadable. But his fingers twitched at his sides, his lips pressing into a firm, thin line.

None of them spoke for a long moment.

Katsuki let out a shaky breath through his nose before forcing himself to turn back around. His hands dropped to his sides, but he didn’t look at Izuku. Not yet.

"That bastard…" Katsuki muttered under his breath.

No one needed to ask who he was talking about.

The doctor sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It’s healing better than expected. The stitches will eventually come out, and the scarring will fade somewhat, but… the damage is permanent. And because his nerves are ruined, he can never open his eyelids again, meaning a fake eyeball won’t be an option.”

They already knew that it was bad. They had known it the moment they heard Izuku had lost his eye.

But hearing it again, Katsuki seeing it with his own eyes—it felt different.

The weight of it all settled over the room, heavy and suffocating.

Inko inhaled deeply, forcing a soft, shaky smile. "I just… I just want him to be okay."

All Might finally looked away from Izuku, his gaze settling on Inko. He put his hands on Inko’s lap.

"We should get going now," All Might said softly, glancing toward the sleeping boy.

Inko nodded, though her eyes lingered on Izuku’s peaceful face for a few moments longer. Katsuki, too, hesitated before finally turning away. His gaze flickered to the heart monitor beside the bed, its steady beeps filling the room with an artificial sense of calm.

With a quiet sigh, they made their way toward the door.

Dr. Kyu extended a hand, and both All Might and Inko shook it in gratitude. "Thank you for everything, Doctor," Inko murmured.

Dr. Kyu gave her a kind smile and nodded. "He’s making progress. Little by little."

Katsuki didn’t shake the doctor’s hand. Instead, he gave one last glance over his shoulder. Izuku was still motionless under the thin hospital blanket, his face half-hidden by the pillow.

With that, he stepped out of the room and let the door close behind him.

Notes:

Hey everyone!

I hope y’all enjoyed the chapter. There’s progress, but Izuku still has a long way to go :’)

Unfortunately, I’ve got some bad news.
From now on, I’ll only be uploading once a week, on Fridays.

The truth is, I’ve been incredibly busy with work, school, and internships. I haven’t had the chance to write any new chapters in the past two months. I still have a few chapters in draft, but if I keep posting twice a week, I’ll run out—and then I’d probably have to take a long break before i can upload a new chapter.

So to keep the fic going steadily, I’ll be switching to one update a week for now. Once school is done (just four more weeks!), I’m hoping I’ll have time to start writing again and maybe return to the old schedule.

Thanks so much for understanding!
See you all next Friday <3

Chapter 24: They’re Still With Me

The weekend passed in a blur.

Katsuki spent it at home, buried in unfinished assignments and half-hearted attempts at relaxation. His mother didn’t press him about his mood, but she wasn’t quiet about it either. Every now and then, she’d throw a casual, "You look like crap," his way, or shove food in front of him without asking if he was hungry.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t hungry. It was that eating felt different now.

Even the simple act of lifting a fork made him think about Izuku struggling to feed himself.

So he ate, but he didn’t enjoy it.

He slept, but he didn’t rest.

He scrolled mindlessly through his phone, ignoring the class group chat, ignoring any messages from Kirishima or the others.

It wasn’t like he had anything to say.

Nothing had changed.

Izuku was still in the hospital. His seat was still empty.

And no matter how much Katsuki tried to pretend otherwise, it still felt wrong.

—————————

[Monday]

By Sunday evening, Katsuki was back at the dorms.

He didn’t say much to anyone. Kirishima gave him a casual greeting, but didn’t push for conversation when he only got a grunt in response.

And then, just like that, Monday arrived.

The morning passed in a blur. Katsuki got dressed, grabbed a quick breakfast, and made his way to class.

Everything felt painfully normal.

The halls were the same, the students chattering and moving around like always. The classroom looked just as it did before the weekend.

But when he stepped inside, his eyes instinctively drifted to the empty seat in front of him.

Izuku’s desk.

Two months.

Two months since he had seen messy green curls in front of him, fidgeting, moving slightly whenever Izuku took notes.

Two months since he had heard Izuku mumbling under his breath as he scribbled in his notebook.

Two months since he had heard his annoying, stupid voice rambling about quirks and strategies.

Now, there was just… silence.

And no matter how hard he tried, Katsuki couldn’t get used to it.

—————————

White.
White walls.
White floors.
White lights.

Bright
Too bright.
Too white.

Izuku squinted, but it did nothing—everything was light. The glare stung his eye, made his head pound. His body felt weak, weightless yet heavy at the same time. His breath was uneven. The brightness pressed in on him.

Then—

Darkness.

Rough hands grabbed him. No—dragged him. His body scraped against the ground, pain shooting up from torn skin on his knees and arms. His breath hitched. He tried to fight back, but his limbs felt numb. No, no, not again—

A sharp shove sent him to the floor. He caught himself on his hands, but pain flared through his wrists. He lifted his head, gasping, and his gaze landed on him.

The man.
Mori.

A grin stretched across the man’s face, blue eye gleaming with cruel amusement. Behind him, in the center of the dimly lit room, hung a thick rope from the ceiling. Below it sat a metal tub filled to the brim with still water.

Izuku’s stomach dropped.

Before he could move, Mori’s grip tightened in his hair, yanking his head back.

Then—cold and wet.

Water rushed over him, swallowing his face, flooding his nose and mouth before he even had the chance to take a breath. The icy shock hit first, then the suffocating panic. His hands flailed, trying to push himself up, but the grip on his head held firm.

I can’t breathe.

His lungs burned. His body fought instinctively, jerking and twisting, but it was useless. His vision blurred, black spots creeping at the edges. The last bit of air forced its way from his mouth in a desperate scream that never made a sound.

Just as the darkness threatened to take him—yank.

He was pulled back up, coughing, choking, sucking in air as his body convulsed. His chest heaved, barely able to take two shaky breaths before—

Cold again.

Back into the water.

Over and over.

Izuku screamed into the water, his cries swallowed by the depths. His body burned with exhaustion, but his mind—his mind was screaming louder.

No.

No, no, no—

STOP IT!

NO!

———

Izuku jolted awake with a scream.

His body thrashed violently, drenched in sweat. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out every other sound. His breathing was ragged, frantic, gasping for air as if he were still underwater.

Hands held him down. He struggled, fought against them. No—no, let go! He needed to move, he needed to get away—

“Midoriya! Calm down!”

The voice was distant, but familiar. Dr. Kyu.

Izuku’s chest heaved, his single eye darting wildly across the room. No bright lights. No water. No chains. The weight on his arms and legs wasn’t cruel or punishing—it was steady, firm but not painful. His vision cleared enough to make out the two nurses—Saito and another he didn’t recognize—both slowly loosening their grip on his arms. At the foot of the bed, the doctor released his hold on Izuku’s legs.

The panic in his body fought to stay, his muscles still tense, but—this wasn’t that room.

This was the hospital.

He was in the hospital.

“Are you with us?” Nurse Saito asked gently.

Izuku’s mouth was dry. Sweat dripped from his forehead, his body trembling from the adrenaline still rushing through his veins. His chest rose and fell rapidly, but he managed the smallest nod. His lips parted as he sucked in air, almost as if he needed to confirm to himself that he could still breathe.

Dr. Kyu stepped closer. The other nurse moved away, giving him space.

“Do you remember what it was about?”

Izuku swallowed, his throat aching, his thoughts still tangled between reality and memory. His shoulders tensed.

Did he remember?

Yes. Yes, he did.

Too clearly.

The room was too quiet now. His fingers twitched against the damp sheets, his breath shuddering as the image burned in his mind. The rope. The tub. The man’s blue eye, gleaming with amusement. The icy grip of water, suffocating, crushing.

Izuku’s jaw clenched.

“Water,” he said hoarsely. His fingers curled into fists. “I… I couldn’t breathe.”

Dr. Kyu’s expression was careful, but as he saw Izuku really panicked, he decided not to ask further.

“You’re safe,” the doctor assured. “You’ve been in the hospital the whole time.”

Izuku didn’t answer. His mind still screamed otherwise.

…

Time passed. Eventually, after Izuku had calmed down, Dr Kyu had left, and the nurses came to take him somewhere else.

It was the first time in weeks—months—that he was being moved to a different room.

Nurse Saito helped him into a wheelchair.. “We’re taking you to the physiotherapy room,” she said gently. “Dr. Kyu will be there too.”

Izuku nodded silently. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but he didn’t resist when she wheeled him out of the hospital room and down the hallway. The lights were bright but not as blinding as before, Izuku still tensed up though. This corridor… it, no! Izuku quickly closed his eyes and held his head down. He could hear the faint beeping of monitors in nearby rooms, hushed voices from other nurses and doctors as they walked past.
Nurse Saito noticed him tensing up and she placed a hand on Izuku’s shoulder, gently rubbing it.

Eventually, they arrived at a different room. Inside, there were padded floors, exercise equipment, and in the center, two parallel metal bars stretching across a short walking path.

Izuku swallowed.

Nurse Saito wheeled him to the edge of the bars. Dr. Kyu was already waiting, standing beside them with a clipboard. He offered Izuku a small smile. “How are you feeling?”

Izuku hesitated. “….tired.” he said silently, his voice still somewhat hoarse from the screaming.

Dr. Kyu nodded, as if he expected that answer. “That’s alright. We’ll take things slow today.”

Izuku stared at the bars. His fingers twitched slightly, gripping the edge of the wheelchair.

Dr. Kyu seemed to notice. “You don’t have to force yourself. Just standing up is progress.”

Izuku took a slow breath. He wanted to try.

Nurse Saito crouched beside him. “I’ll be right here,” she reassured.

Izuku nodded.

With some effort, he placed his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair and shifted forward. His legs felt weak. He hadn’t walked in so long.

“Slowly,” Dr. Kyu said, watching closely.

Izuku reached out, gripping the metal bars on either side of him. His arms tensed as he carefully pushed himself up. His legs trembled beneath him. His breath hitched as his muscles protested, but he stood.

Even if it was shaky, even if he barely held himself up—he stood.

Nurse Saito smiled. “Good job, Midoriya.”

Izuku’s fingers tightened around the bars as he looked down at his feet.
They were supporting him.

Dr. Kyu stepped closer. “Alright. When you’re ready, take a small step forward.”

Izuku hesitated, then slowly—carefully—lifted his right foot. It took all his strength to move it just a little. When it touched the ground again, his knee buckled slightly.

Nurse Saito was immediately by his side, steadying him. “You’re doing great.”

Izuku took a shaky breath.

Another step.

His left foot followed, dragging slightly, but he moved forward.

Then another step.

The bars were cool beneath his hands, his arms doing most of the work to keep himself upright. His legs ached, his breath was uneven, but he was walking.

Dr. Kyu smiled. “That’s it. Just a little more.”

Izuku’s eye stayed locked on the floor. His steps were slow, unsteady, but he reached the end of the bars.

He stopped, gripping them tightly, his body trembling from the effort.

Dr. Kyu placed a hand on his back. “That was impressive for a first try.”

Izuku swallowed hard. “I…” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I want to keep going.”

Nurse Saito blinked, then smiled. “You’re determined, aren’t you?”

Izuku didn’t respond, just stared at his hands on the bars.

Dr. Kyu crouched slightly to meet his eye. “You’re pushing yourself really hard. That’s not bad, but your body still needs time. You’ve already made great progress today.”

Izuku’s fingers twitched. He didn’t want to stop. He wanted to walk.

But his legs were already shaking, and his breathing was uneven.

Dr. Kyu gave him a knowing look. “Let’s rest for now. Tomorrow, we’ll try again.”

Izuku hesitated, then slowly nodded.

Nurse Saito and Dr. Kyu helped him back into the wheelchair. As soon as he sat, exhaustion hit him all at once. His muscles ached everywhere. Wounds throbbed even though they were healing, and he felt really dizzy and sweaty.

But still—

He looked back at the bars.

He had walked.

As Nurse Saito wheeled him through the hallway, he stared ahead, rigid with tension.

They walked through the same corridors. Izuku still tensed up, but he didn’t look away. He was in a hospital. He repeated that in his mind over and over. You got out. You’re not there anymore.

Even so, his fingers twitched slightly where they rested on the wheelchair’s armrests. His breath came out slow and controlled, but he could feel his chest tightening the longer they moved.

This corridor gave him a nauseous feeling.

The echoes of footsteps, the faint hum of machines behind closed doors, the way the walls stretched out on either side—he clenched his jaw. He wouldn't look away. He wouldn’t let himself flinch.

He was here. He was safe.

By the time they reached his hospital room, his grip had loosened on the armrests. The familiar space greeted him with soft, natural light filtering through the window. Unlike the white glow of the hallway, the sunlight made the room feel warmer. It was warmer.

Dr. Kyu stepped forward, locking the wheelchair’s wheels. “Try to get in bed yourself,” he said with an encouraging smile.

Izuku nodded, swallowing. His fingers tightened on the armrests as he prepared himself. His body protested the movement, but he forced himself to push up, shifting his weight. He immediately reached for the mattress, gripping the sheets. Carefully, he turned and let himself fall onto the bed with a quiet thump.

“Good job!” Nurse Saito praised.

Izuku exhaled sharply, staring up at the ceiling. His limbs were heavy, his breath uneven from the effort.

Something as simple as getting into bed.

Something as simple as walking.

His teeth clenched.

Why was he so weak?

He felt pathetic. His body was sluggish, unfamiliar. He hated it. He hated that something so basic, something he once did without thinking, now left him winded. His hand curled into a fist against the blanket.

But he said nothing.

His next meal arrived soon after, and he ate in silence. He forced himself to eat everything. Every bite was slow, methodical, but he finished the entire portion and drank all of his water without help.

Dr. Kyu and Nurse Saito left him alone to rest afterward.

The room was quiet.

Izuku stared ahead, his mind swirling. He was tired—his body ached, his eyelid felt heavy, but inside, something burned.

Restless. Uneasy.

Then—

A figure appeared before him.

A ghostly, translucent shape. White hair, kind eyes, a familiar presence that sent a shiver down Izuku’s spine.

Yoichi.

Izuku’s eye widened.

He immediately pushed himself up in bed, sitting straight.

The first successor of One For All smiled softly. “Midoriya…”

Izuku’s breath hitched. He was seeing him again.

“Y…You…” Izuku’s voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Yoichi’s expression remained gentle. “The drugs you’ve been receiving weakened our connection. But now, we’ve finally managed to reach you again.”

Izuku swallowed, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

They were back.

Izuku stared, his breath shallow.

Yoichi’s presence was as faint as ever, his form flickering like a flame struggling against the wind. Yet, despite the translucent quality of his figure, his eyes remained sharp, filled with something between relief and sorrow.

Izuku swallowed. His throat felt dry.

“…I thought I lost you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Yoichi’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “It were the drugs. The surpressors. They suppressed our link, but we were still here, Midoriya.”

Izuku exhaled sharply. That made sense. Ever since he’d woken up in the hospital, the vestiges had been silent. He’d assumed it was because of everything he’d gone through. Maybe because he was… broken.

But they hadn’t left him.

That knowledge should have reassured him, but instead, it made his stomach churn.

His eye dropped to the bedsheets, his fingers twitching against them. “Then you… you saw everything?”

The silence that followed was heavy. Yoichi’s figure flickered, and when Izuku forced himself to look up again, he saw that the First’s expression had grown pained.

“We saw some parts. But not all.” Yoichi admitted softly.

Izuku sucked in a shaky breath. He wasn’t sure why he asked—of course they had seen. They were inside of him.

They had been there.

Watching.

Experiencing moments as he did.

The beatings.

The starvation.

The drowning.

The searing, mind-numbing agony that had burned into his muscles, his bones, the very fabric of his being.

Izuku squeezed his hands into fists, gripping the blanket so hard his knuckles turned white. “I…” His voice trembled. “I’m sorry.”

Yoichi’s eyes widened slightly.

“Sorry?” His voice was thick with disbelief.

Izuku nodded, his eye burning.

“You had to go through that. You were there… seeing it, and I—I couldn’t stop it.” His breathing hitched, words stumbling over themselves. “You had to see it, and I couldn’t—”

“Midoriya.”

Yoichi’s voice was firm but kind, cutting through Izuku’s spiral.

The First took a step closer, and though his form was incorporeal, the warmth in his gaze felt real.

“This isn’t your fault.”

Izuku shook his head. “But—”

“It’s not,” Yoichi said again, gentler this time. “None of it.”

Izuku bit his lip. His chest felt tight.

Yoichi crouched slightly, leveling their gazes. “I won’t ask you to believe that right now,” he admitted. “But I need you to hear it. Because I know what you’re thinking.”

Izuku tensed.

He didn’t want to hear this.

He didn’t want to—

“You think you should’ve fought harder. That you should’ve escaped. That you should’ve done something differently.” Yoichi’s voice remained calm, but the emotions beneath it ran deep. “But Midoriya, you survived. You’re here. And that’s enough.”

Izuku clenched his jaw. His shoulders trembled.

His mind screamed at him to push back—to argue, to list every way in which he had failed.

But…

He was so tired.

The weight in his chest refused to lift, but something in Yoichi’s words settled into him, quiet and warm, like the first flicker of a candle in the dark.

A moment passed. Then another.

Finally, Izuku exhaled. A breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“…You’re back,” he murmured after a pause, voice quieter now.

Yoichi smiled. “We are.”

Izuku let himself lean back against the pillows.

The First wasn’t lying. He could feel it now—the presence of the vestiges lingering at the edges of his consciousness. It wasn’t strong, not yet, but it was there.

And after so long feeling like a hollow shell, that was enough.

For now.

Notes:

GUYS OMG I’M COOKING MY EXAM WEEK.

I’ve had four tests already this week and I passed ALL of them already!!
I’ve just got one more left in a few hours— it’s English theory, so please send help 😭.
If I pass that one too, that would be actually insane.

I honestly went into this exam week thinking, “Whatever, I’ll probably fail everything — I will pass the year anyway,” but now I’m like, wait… I might actually pass all of them?? Which is kinda wild. I eventually need to pass all the tests, also in my next year too, so I’m really glad I already got these 4 down.

Anywayyy, hope you liked the chapter! It was a bit shorter than usual, sorry.

Cya next week!

Chapter 25: Together as Class

Another three days had passed, marked by quiet progress and cautious optimism.

Izuku’s legs were getting stronger. He could walk longer distances now, especially with the help of the metal bars in the physiotherapy room. His movements were still stiff and uncertain, but steadier than they had been that first time. Every step still left him breathless, but it was a breath he could catch again. Recovery Girl had visited two more times, carefully healing bits of damage little by little. The deeper wounds were starting to fade, the angry reds and purples turning into pale, silvery scars.

Some were still raw. Most would never would disappear.
Izuku’s fingernails were still nowhere to be seen, and the sensitive nailbeds were still painful.

The eyepatch remained. The skin beneath it had improved, but it could never return to the same again. Izuku probably has to wear a patch first the rest of his life, unless he want to show the scarring

Still, Dr. Kyu had told them his condition was improving. Slowly, but noticeably. The physical damage, at least.

The mental part… was another story.

Katsuki sat beside Izuku again, quietly watching the heart monitor beep with calm consistency. Aizawa stood near the window, arms folded and expression unreadable, while All Might also sat on a chair.

According to Dr. Kyu, Izuku still experienced at least two panic attacks per day—one at night, one triggered by specific sights or sensations. Some were loud, violent, and chaotic. Others… were silent. The kind where Izuku would suddenly go still, his eye glazing over, curling in on himself like he was trying to become invisible.

Both hurt to watch.

Izuku had told the doctor that he felt his quirk again, though he hadn’t used his quirk since waking up. Not once. Dr. Kyu had said that during his panic attacks, the trauma hijacked his mind, taking him back to those days in captivity—days where he couldn’t use his quirk even if he tried. His body, in some ways, remembered the helplessness.

Katsuki was almost glad for it. One wrong move while Midoriya was in that state, and the explosion of power could be dangerous. Not just to others—but to himself.

Dr. Kyu’s voice had been calm and steady when he delivered the news.
“If his progress continues like this, I believe Izuku can be moved to the nurse’s office at U.A. soon. He’ll be somewhere more familiar, somewhere more comfortable. And it’ll be easier for his friends to visit. More support might help him regain some confidence.”

The idea of leaving the hospital room that had been both a prison and a refuge felt surreal. The humming machines, the distant voices of nurses down the hall—Izuku had grown used to them. They were predictable, quiet. Safe. The thought of going back to U.A.—even just the medical wing—was both hopeful and terrifying.

And tomorrow… tomorrow would be the first step.

The day Class 1-A would visit.

Katsuki already knew. Aizawa had told him on the way to the hospital, his tone careful. It wasn’t a casual visit. It was being planned with precision, with the support of the counselors and teachers. No surprises. No pressure. Just time to reconnect.

But none of that mattered if Izuku wasn’t ready.

Katsuki leaned forward in the chair beside Izuku’s bed, elbows resting on his knees. He looked at the boy lying there—pale, quiet, draped in a soft hospital blanket that didn’t seem to warm him enough. The eyepatch still sat over the right side of his face. Shadows lingered under his eye, dark and restless.

“Izuku,” Katsuki said, voice low but firm.

Izuku turned his head slowly. His eye met Katsuki’s, though it looked distant. Like he had to pull his thoughts back from somewhere far away.

“There’s something you should know,” Katsuki continued. “Tomorrow, the whole class… they’re coming to visit you. If you want them to.”

For a moment, Izuku just stared. His gaze didn’t change, but the silence that followed felt heavier—tense, unsure. Then, gradually, his brows lifted just slightly. His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out. He looked stunned. Almost afraid.

He blinked, then looked down at his blanket. His fingers gripped it tightly, knuckles white. Slowly, his lips pressed together into a thin line.

He gave a small nod.

Katsuki exhaled softly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Then we’ll be there.”

Aizawa and All Might looked at Izuku. Then they they exchanged a glance—both of them had seen it. The subtle way Izuku’s shoulders had tensed, the slight curl in his spine. He hadn’t said no… but his body was screaming with hesitation.

Then Izuku’s voice broke the silence.

“I…” he started, barely above a whisper. “I’m scared.”

The three adults turned their attention to him instantly.

Izuku kept his gaze down, voice shaking. “I… haven’t seen everyone in what feels like forever...”

He clenched the blanket harder.

“What if they look at me and…” he swallowed, trying to force the words out. “What if they… think i’m weak…”

Katsuki’s chest ached, but he didn’t look away.

“They’ve been waiting,” he said quietly. “Every single one of them. Since the day you disappeared, they’ve been hoping for this. They’re excited, Izuku. They’re not coming because they pity you. They’re coming because they care.”

Izuku didn’t answer right away. His throat moved as he swallowed hard, and his eye looked a little shinier than before.

He gave another small nod, but his posture remained tense, his fingers trembling slightly against the fabric.

Aizawa stepped forward, his voice calm. “If it’s too much, we’ll stop. You’ll set the pace. You can talk, or just listen. You don’t have to do anything more than what feels okay.”

Izuku gave a breathy nod, but didn’t speak again.

All Might’s voice was softer now, filled with something almost fatherly. “You’ve already come so far, Young Midoriya. You don’t have to do it all at once. Just one step at a time.”

Izuku didn’t reply, but he looked toward the window, where the light from the setting sun filtered into the room.

Tomorrow was coming. And with it, the people he once called home.

—————————

The tuesday morning sun had barely crept over the horizon when the dorms of Class 1-A came to life. Students stirred earlier than usual, nerves buzzing in the air like static. For once, no one complained about waking up early. Today was different. Today, they were going to see Izuku.

In the common kitchen, Mina, Sato, and Denki had claimed the space before anyone else. Flour dusted the counters, the scent of vanilla and cocoa already spreading throughout the building.

“Careful with the batter, Denki!” Mina laughed, grabbing the bowl before he could tip it over with his overly enthusiastic stirring.

“I got it, I got it!” Denki grinned sheepishly, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration. “I just want it to be perfect.”

Sato calmly placed the cake tin on the counter. “It’ll be good. He’ll like it.”

Mina smiled warmly. “Yeah. This will definitely cheer him up.”

The rest of the class slowly filtered into the kitchen, drawn by the smell or the chatter. There were whispered conversations, thoughtful glances, the occasional nervous laugh. No one quite knew what to say. They were all feeling the same blend of emotions—excitement, uncertainty, fear.

Technically, they were supposed to attend their usual lessons that day, but Principal Nezu had personally approved their absence for the visit. “Emotional support is just as important as academic development,” he had said.

At exactly 9:00 a.m., the dorm room doors swung open and All Might stepped inside with Aizawa trailing behind him.

“All right, everyone. Get your things. The bus is here,” Aizawa said, his tone flat as usual, but there was a faint warmth in his expression that didn’t go unnoticed.

“Let’s go!” Kirishima cheered, pumping a fist in the air as he grabbed his coat.

The students gathered by the exit, a few still adjusting buttons on their jackets. The air outside was crisp, and the large white bus waiting by the gates made it all feel oddly like a school trip.

“It’s been a while since we’ve all been on a bus together like this,” Jirou murmured as she climbed on board.

“Feels like our first year all over again,” Sero said, stretching as he took a seat beside Denki.

Iida took the seat closest to the front with Yaoyorozu, upright and serious, hands folded on his lap. His brows were furrowed in concern.

In the back, Kirishima had taken a spot beside Mina, and Todoroki sat alone, staring out the window with a contemplative look in his eyes.

Katsuki sat near the middle, leaning against the window, arms crossed. He hadn’t spoken much since the announcement yesterday. No explosions. No snide remarks. Just quiet. He stared out the window, trying not to let his thoughts wander too far.

The ride wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t silent either. Conversations were muted, and occasionally someone would glance around to check if others felt the same tight knot of emotion in their chest.

When the hospital came into view, the bus grew quieter.

They all filed out, adjusting scarves or fixing collars as they stood in front of the modern-looking building. The glass doors gleamed in the morning sun.

“I’ve never been here before,” Ojiro murmured, taking in the size of the place.

“Me neither,” Jirou added, eyes scanning the rows of windows.

“Looks really clean,” Kaminari said, mostly just to say something.

“Try not to destroy anything,” Jirou teased quietly.

“Shut up,” Denki replied, but he smiled.

Aizawa turned to them before entering. “Stay behind me. We’ll wait by the reception.”

Inside, the hospital was bright, but not harsh. Soft lighting, clean tiles, and the low murmur of distant voices. They gathered in a somewhat awkward group by the front desk, eyes flicking around, some fidgeting with sleeves or shifting on their feet.

Aizawa stepped forward and spoke quietly to the receptionist. After a few minutes, a man in a white coat approached them with an easy smile. His silver-framed glasses caught the light, and his expression was gentle but tired.

“Good morning,” he greeted, voice smooth. “I’m Dr. Kyu, I’ve been overseeing Midoriya’s recovery.”

All Might stepped forward and shook his hand firmly.

Aizawa nodded and did the same. “They’ve been waiting for this.”

Dr. Kyu turned to face the class. “Young heroes,” he said warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you. I know this is a lot, but it means a great deal to Midoriya that you’re here.”

Several students nodded immediately. Iida stepped forward slightly.

“Thank you for taking care of our classmate. We’re all deeply grateful for the chance to see him.”

The doctor smiled at him, then continued, “We’ve spoken with Midoriya about this, and he gave us his permission to let you all come in together. His room is larger than most, and we’ll make sure there’s space. But—” his smile faded slightly, “—I must ask for your full cooperation.”

The class fell silent, listening carefully.

“Midoriya is doing better. But he’s still very fragile, especially mentally. He tires quickly and is prone to emotional triggers. It’s important that you be gentle, speak softly, and don’t crowd him. Some days he can handle more than others, but today will already be a lot for him.”

Nervous glances passed through the group. Mina held the cake box a little tighter in her arms.

“We’ll be careful,” Momo said quietly.

“I understand,” Todoroki added.

“He’s our friend,” Uraraka spoke up, her voice shaky. “We just want to be there.”

Dr. Kyu gave a slow nod. “Then let’s go.”

“Man, I just wanna see him already,” Denki whispered to Sero as they started to walk.

Sero nodded, hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket. “Same. Kinda scared, though.”

“Yeah… me too.”

They followed the doctor down the hallway, each step echoing softly against the tiles. It was finally happening. After everything, after two whole months of waiting and wondering and worrying—they were going to see Izuku.

The hallways were quiet except for the muffled sound of shoes tapping gently against the tiled floor.

Class 1-A followed behind Dr. Kyu, the air thick with nervous energy. No one spoke. No one dared. The hospital felt like foreign territory to them, a place of stillness and recovery—but today it was where they would see their friend for the first time in two long months.

Mina clutched the small cake box in her hands, glancing down to make sure it was still intact. Kirishima walked beside her, unusually quiet. Even Denki wasn’t talking.

Katsuki stayed toward the front, walking with Aizawa and All Might. His jaw was tense, fists stuffed into his pockets. They were close now. He could feel it in his chest.

They stopped in front of a room, and Dr. Kyu turned to face the group.

“This is it,” he said softly. “He’s awake and waiting, but… please remember what we talked about. Go in slowly. Speak gently. Let him take his time. If anything overwhelms him, I’ll intervene.”

Everyone nodded, though their expressions were tense.

“I’ll go in first,” All Might said as he quietly opened the door and stepped inside. They heard only muffled voices. A minute later, he peeked out again.

“He’s ready.”

One by one, the students stepped into the room.

The sunlight poured through the window, casting warm light across the pale blue blankets. Izuku sat on the bed, his back propped against pillows. His hair was messier than usual, also longer, darker shadows beneath his eyes. He looked tired, thin and fragile.

His eye flicked up as the door opened further.

He flinched.

His hands instinctively gripped the blanket over his lap, his shoulders stiffened. His breathing grew shallow. So many people. So many faces. His body shrank slightly into the mattress.

“Deku…” Uraraka whispered, but didn’t move closer.

“Midoriya,” Iida said carefully, taking a single step forward. “We—”

Izuku’s hand twitched. His eye darted to the side, avoiding their gazes.

Katsuki took one step forward, slowly. “They're here. Just like I said they’d be.”

Izuku’s eye flicked to him—briefly—then looked back down again. His fingers curled tighter into the fabric.

After a long moment, Izuku’s lips parted.

“…Hi,” he whispered.

It was barely audible, almost like the word got stuck halfway through. Still, the sound made several students tear up instantly.

Mina swallowed hard. “We brought… something,” she said, stepping forward and gently placing the small cake box on the table beside his bed.

“It’s nothing fancy,” Sato added quietly. “We just thought… you’d like it.”

The silence was deafening. The class stood frozen, unsure if they were helping or hurting. No one dared to approach any closer.

“…Thank you,” Izuku said softly, with a hint of a shake

“We missed you,” Iida said, voice soft.

“We really did,” Momo added, holding onto her sleeve.

Izuku didn’t look at them. He nodded once, barely.

Todoroki stood beside Iida, his arms loosely crossed. “You’ve been through a lot.”

That got a small flinch out of Izuku. His grip on the blanket tightened again.

“We’re just… really glad you’re still here,” Momo said.

Izuku’s mouth trembled for a moment, then he pressed his lips together and looked away. He hadn’t said anything else. His shoulders were tense, like one wrong move would send him spiraling.

Aizawa stepped into the room, arms crossed, watching closely.

The hospital room was spacious but quiet. Curtains fluttered gently beside the tall windows where sunlight streamed in, giving the sterile space a fragile warmth. Machines softly beeped in the background. The scent of antiseptic still clung faintly in the air, but there were hints of something sweeter—probably the cake Mina held in her trembling hands.

Then Izuku moved.

His single visible eye flicked upward—toward them.

Several students instantly froze in place as his gaze swept across the group. There was no brightness in his expression. No smile, no spark. Just a dull, hollow green eye, sunken slightly into a face that looked far too thin.

As his head turned a little more, the other detail became clear.

An eyepatch.

It stretched over the right side of his face, soft fabric strapped around his head. It was white, with medical padding beneath. But beneath that padding, a scar was visible. Everyone could tell that Izuku had lost or damaged his right eye.

Uraraka gasped softly. Her hand flew to her mouth. She had to look away.

Mina’s lips parted in a breath she didn’t release.

Kirishima’s eyes widened. His usually bright demeanor had dimmed the second he saw him, but this… this wasn’t the Izuku they remembered.

They had all changed, grown through their own battles—but Izuku looked like he’d lived an entire lifetime of pain in two months, one being tortured, and one trying to recover.

One by one, the rest of the class noticed the other changes.

His face was thinner—almost gaunt. His cheeks hollow. The skin around his jaw and neck was paler than any of them remembered, tinged with a sickly yellow hue in the daylight. His lips were dry and slightly cracked.

Then their eyes were drawn to his arms.

His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and though bandages wrapped around most of his forearms, they could see enough—his wrists were a pale, stark white. Not the healthy kind of pale, but the shade of skin that had been torn and slowly healed. Faint ridges ran across them, uneven and textured. Scars.

Sero looked down, his face suddenly serious.

Todoroki blinked and lowered his gaze, the corners of his mouth drawn tight.

Tsuyu, who had been standing quietly near the middle, whispered, “Midoriya…”

Izuku’s grip on the blanket tightened further, and his eye flicked down again, away from them.

“Midoriya…” Yaoyorozu finally said softly, stepping forward just once. “It’s… really good to see you again.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words. But his eye moved, slowly. He looked at her. Then at Kaminari, who gave the most fragile smile he could manage. At Jirou. Sato. Ojiro. One by one, he looked at them. Each time his gaze landed on someone, they straightened or twitched—like being under a spotlight.

He didn’t smile. But he was seeing them. That was something.

“Dude,” Denki said, voice unusually quiet. “The classroom is really empty without you, you should come back quickly.”

Still no words. But his mouth opened slightly, then closed again. His throat worked like he wanted to say something. But the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, he gave the smallest of nods.

It was enough to send Hagakure sniffling. She grabbed tissues from her pocket and dabbed at her face even though she was barely visible.

All Might, standing near the window, watched closely but didn’t interrupt.

Iida cleared his throat and stepped forward, placing one hand over his chest. “We’re not here to overload you, Midoriya. Only to see you. As long as you’ll have us.”

“…I—” Izuku finally whispered, but the sound cracked halfway through.

He turned his face toward the window slightly, embarrassed.

“Izuku,” Katsuki said from beside the bed, his voice low. “You don’t have to say anything. Just breathe.”

Izuku’s chest rose and fell in a shaky breath.

He nodded.

Kirishima took a few steps closer and crouched near the end of the bed, keeping his movements slow and gentle. “We’re just happy you’re alive, man. That’s it. That’s all we care about.”

“I thought about visiting every day,” Uraraka said, her voice soft and trembling. “But I didn’t want to—if it would hurt you.”

Izuku’s eye flicked to her. Her eyes were glistening. She gave him a small smile through it, and his expression twitched—just barely.

“…Thank you,” he murmured. It came out barely louder than a whisper, but it was the clearest thing he’d said.

And it hit like a wave.

The class didn’t crowd him, didn’t rush him. They each found a place—on the chairs, the windowsill, the edge of the table. Aizawa stayed by the door. All Might stood guard at the side. Dr. Kyu watched from a corner, silently impressed.

The group stayed with him for a while—soft conversations, small jokes, someone playing quiet music from a phone. They didn’t ask him to talk. They just existed with him.

Izuku didn’t say much. He mostly watched. Sometimes, his hand would twitch. Sometimes he’d flinch when someone laughed too loud or moved too fast. But the more time passed, the less tense he seemed.

Eventually, he even reached for the cake box, fingers trembling.

Katsuki helped him open it.

In the middle of it all sat the cake—round, cheerful, carefully decorated with soft green frosting and little sugar figurines of hero costume.

But it hadn't been cut yet.

Izuku stared at it for a long moment. The sight of it felt surreal, almost like it belonged to someone else’s life. Then he quietly muttered, “Let’s… share.”

Everyone turned toward him in surprise. His voice was hoarse, but the words had been clear enough.

“You mean the cake?” Mina asked, blinking.

“We need to cut it into pieces first though,” Denki said with a nervous little laugh. “Didn’t really have time for that at the dorm anymore.”

Izuku’s shoulders tensed sharply.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t cry out. But his breath hitched, and he flinched just enough for Dr. Kyu to notice.

The doctor moved forward immediately, tone smooth and light. “The nurse will take care of that,” he said, stepping between Izuku and the box. “She’ll portion it in the staff room.”

Nurse Saito, already watching from near the door, stepped forward on cue with a soft smile. “I’ll handle it. Thank you for baking it,” she said, her voice gentle.

Izuku, still visibly tense, looked at the nurse, then slowly handed the box over. His fingers were tight on the edges, but he let go.

Everyone looked confused.

But Katsuki stayed quiet.

Aizawa, standing near the window, watched with arms crossed.

All Might’s expression had turned unreadable. Still. Heavy.

And slowly, realization began to ripple across the room.

Knives.

Todoroki, who had been watching Izuku closely since the earlier moment, froze. His gaze fell toward the table where the cake had sat. Then back to Izuku—tense, pale, still catching his breath.

His blue eye flicked briefly toward Aizawa, then All Might, then finally landed on Dr. Kyu.

It clicked.

And his chest sank.

Momo, standing nearby, frowned slightly, eyes scanning the others. She was quick to notice the sudden shift in expression from Todoroki, from Bakugou, from All Might.

She understood, too.

Kirishima scratched the back of his neck, picking up the change in mood but not quite sure what he was missing. “Uh… is everything okay?”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Dr. Kyu said gently, turning back to the group. “The cake will be back soon.”

“Don’t worry, i’ll make sure everyone gets a piece!” Nurse Saito added cheerfully as she exited the room with the box.

Izuku kept his gaze down. He felt everyone watching him, but no one asked. No one pushed.

He hated that this was even a thing. That something as simple as a knife—even a dull one—could twist something so innocent into something dangerous. That his mind couldn’t trust what his eyes saw.

He clenched his jaw, trying to breathe slowly.

But then—Katsuki leaned closer, elbows on his knees.

“You did good,” he said quietly.

Izuku didn’t respond, but he blinked once. Slowly. Like his body acknowledged the words even if his mouth couldn’t.

The others didn’t ask about the knife again.

They didn’t need to.

Chapter 26: What I Saw in Him

After a short wait, the door opened with a soft knock. Nurse Saito stepped inside with a cart, a kind smile on her face.

“All done,” she said, pushing the cart forward. On top of it was the cake, now cut into neat—but noticeably small—slices. “Turns out twenty-two slices was a bit of a challenge, but i made it work.”

There were a few quiet laughs from the class as the realization settled in. The cake had looked so big when it was whole. Now… not so much.

Sero leaned in, squinting. “Yo, these pieces are tiny.”

“I blinked and mine disappeared,” Kaminari said with mock betrayal as he picked up his plate.

“You try dividing one cake into twenty-two!” Mina said defensively, hands on her hips.

“It’s not about size,” All Might said warmly, already halfway through his piece. “It’s about the heart behind it. This cake is really nice. Who baked it again?”

Mina’s face lit up. “Denki, Sato, Hagakure and me!” she said proudly. “Though… honestly, Sato did most of the baking. We mostly looked.”

Hagakure chimed in cheerfully, her invisible hand probably waving. “I added sprinkles!”

Denki grinned. “I taste-tested the batter! For science!”

Mina laughed, rubbing the back of her head. “Teamwork!”

Sato gave a small, modest nod. “Glad it turned out well.”

Izuku carefully lifted the a piece of cake to his mouth, the room had quieted again—watching him as if every motion might shatter like glass. He took a bite of the tiny slice of cake, chewing slowly, almost methodically.

But that’s when something shifted.

Kirishima’s gaze dropped for a second.

And froze.

The fork. His hand.

His fingers.

The nails were gone.

Not bandaged.

Gone.

His fingertips, some pink and raw, others white and scarred, twitched slightly as he held the plastic fork between them. The rest of the class hadn’t noticed until now—until that exact movement made them all look.

The light caught the surface of his skin just right, highlighting the unnatural smoothness where the nail should’ve been.

Mina’s breath caught in her throat.

Jirou’s expression fell, her lips parting in silent horror.

“Holy…” Denki whispered, eyes wide.

Iida’s arms twitched like he wanted to do something—anything—but he stayed still.

Todoroki didn’t speak. His hands curled into fists on his lap.

Even the ever-optimistic Sero seemed to have no words, the grin on his face slowly disappearing.

A chill swept through the room like someone had opened a window, even though the sunlight still shone into the space.

No one said it aloud, but they all felt it: a deep, cold discomfort spreading through their chests. The kind that made your stomach twist. Like something was wrong and no one could fix it.

Like reality was uglier than they’d let themselves believe.

Izuku didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did—but chose not to react.

He chewed slowly. Then, softly—so softly some nearly missed it—he mumbled, “Thank you… It’s delicious.”

The room froze for a moment.

And then a wave of relief swept over the class. Some smiled. Uraraka’s eyes shimmered again. Iida stood straighter. Even Jirou let out a quiet sigh she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Mina’s heart soared. Her eyes shimmered just a little.

“I’m so glad,” she said quietly, brushing her fingers across her sleeve.

Katsuki, sitting nearby, stabbed his fork into his cake and growled, “How much sugar did you put in this? My damn teeth are throbbing.”

“Thaaaat’s cake for ya,” Kaminari replied, sticking out his tongue.

A few people laughed.

And in that soft, passing moment, Katsuki looked back at Izuku—and froze.

Izuku was smiling.

Just barely. A faint, small tug at the corners of his lips. It didn’t last more than a few seconds. But it was real.

And it was the first time Katsuki had seen anything close to a smile since the day he found him.

His breath caught, and he quickly looked away, biting the inside of his cheek to hide the way something had just cracked open in his chest.

Meanwhile, the room filled with chatter. Small conversations sparked between students. Uraraka was whispering something to Asui, who nodded back. Jirou had pulled Yaoyorozu aside to quietly talk about making something for Izuku later—maybe a blanket, or a photo album. Something comforting.

Todoroki stepped forward.

He moved slowly, respectful of the space. The sound of conversation dulled slightly as he came closer to Izuku’s bedside. His footsteps were light, but they still made Izuku tense.

Todoroki noticed but didn’t stop. He just lowered himself beside Izuku on the edge of the bed, making sure to stay to the side.

“I’ll take that,” he said quietly, gesturing to the empty plate in Izuku’s lap.

Izuku hesitated, fingers still holding the edge of the plastic dish like it was something grounding him. But after a few seconds, he nodded, letting Todoroki take it.

Their hands briefly touched.

Todoroki turned to place the plate gently on the small table by the bed.

Izuku’s eye followed him.

Then it caught.

Blue.

Not just blue—icy, pale, and piercing. Todoroki’s left eye.

Izuku froze.

His eye widened, staring at Todoroki’s brilliant, glacial blue of his left eye. Time seemed to slip out from under him. The voices around the room became echoes—distant, warped. The light in the hospital flickered against his skin in a way that made his body remember somewhere darker.

Somewhere colder.

His chest tightened.
It was as if Izuku was sinking into the blue, not noticing anything else.

Todoroki noticed the stare. He turned back slowly. “Midoriya?”

But Izuku didn’t respond.

His lips were slightly parted. His breathing changed—short, almost too quiet, like he didn’t want to be heard.

Dr. Kyu noticed instantly. He crossed the room with a calm but certain stride and crouched next to the bed.

“Izuku,” he said gently, reaching to place his hand lightly over Izuku’s own.

Izuku flinched like he’d been burned.

His breath hitched audibly now, and he blinked rapidly as if trying to process where he was.

But when his gaze met Dr. Kyu’s, something softened. He recognized him. Not the cold. Not the memories.

“Midoriya,” the doctor said again, quieter this time.

Izuku inhaled, then exhaled. Shaky. His shoulders slowly dropped from their tensed state.

Todoroki stood up and walked a bit away from the bed, swallowing hard.

He looked toward Aizawa, who gave him a slow nod, silently assuring him it wasn’t his fault.

The class had quieted again, watching, not daring to speak.

Katsuki didn’t move, but he leaned forward slightly, watching Todoroki.

And then it hit him.

The tension in Izuku’s shoulders. The shallow breathing. The stiffness. This was one of his silent panic attacks the doctor told him about.

Izuku’s breath was shallow. His eye wide. His shoulders tensed until they were nearly up to his ears. And all of it happened the moment he looked at Todoroki.

Katsuki narrowed his eyes. What could have triggered that reaction? Was it Todoroki’s scar? Did it remind Izuku of the torture—the pain that had taken his right eye?

Or was it the burn itself? Did it bring him back to the moment his legs had been scorched? The screaming, the smell of burned flesh, the helplessness?

No.

That wasn’t it.

Katsuki shifted his gaze to Todoroki, eyes scanning him quickly. Then he saw it—clear and unmistakable.

Todoroki’s left eye.

That icy blue color.

It wasn’t cold or harsh. Todoroki wasn’t like that. But the color—it was the same. The exact shade Katsuki remembered from the man named Mori. The one who had taken Izuku.

The bastard who kidnapped him had a pale face, average looks, nothing that stood out. Except for those eyes.

Eyes so sharp, so blue, they stood out even in the shadows.

And now that same color was staring back at Izuku.

Katsuki clenched his fists.

He remembered it all now. That man. The way he looked up at them when they burst into his basement. Calm. Almost bored. But those eyes—they were bright. Unnatural. Like ice.

And Katsuki could see the panic in Izuku now. The way his breath came short and fast. The way his eye didn’t blink. Like he wasn’t even in the room anymore.

Like he’d fallen back into that nightmare.

Katsuki felt a chill go down his spine.

"Blue eyes," he muttered, low but audible. The classmates closest to him turned their heads.

"What’s wrong with his eyes?" Mineta asked, confused.

"Shut up," Katsuki snapped, not taking his eyes off Izuku. He didn’t need questions. He needed to figure out how to bring his friend back to the present.

But Izuku was already gone, his mind spiraling into memories they couldn’t reach. And Katsuki could only watch as the doctor moved in to steady him.

The doctor, Dr. Kyu, had been sitting gently beside the bed, monitoring Izuku the entire time. He hadn’t missed the shift in Izuku’s breathing or the way his hand had instinctively moved to clutch at his chest. He also hadn’t missed Katsuki’s quiet observation.

Dr. Kyu placed a gentle hand over Izuku’s wrist and spoke softly, “Midoriya… breathe with me. In. And out. That’s it. I’m right here.”

Izuku’s fingers trembled beneath his palm. His throat moved, dry and tense. But slowly—hesitantly—his breathing started to even out again. His gaze, though still wide and frightened, moved toward the doctor. He blinked once. Then again.

The spell started to break.

Nurse Saito, who had been watching from the side with quiet concern, stepped forward.

“I think… it’s best if most of you head out for now,” she said kindly, her voice gentle but firm.

There was a quiet wave of hesitation, but then Iida nodded immediately.

“We understand.” He bowed respectfully toward the medical staff. Then, turning to Izuku with a soft smile, he added, “We’ll see you again soon, Midoriya.”

Izuku didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His wide, shaken eye was still staring off, unfocused, haunted. His lips remained slightly parted, breath shallow.

“I’ll stay,” Katsuki said quickly, without looking at anyone but Izuku.

Uraraka stepped forward, her eyes glancing toward the nurses. “C-Can I stay too? Maybe me, Iida, and… Todoroki?”

Todoroki, who had remained still as stone, shook his head.

“No,” he said, his voice flat but heavy. “It’s probably better if I leave. If my presence causes this…”

His words trailed off, guilt flooding his voice.

“It’s not your fault,” All Might said gently, stepping closer. “But if it helps Izuku feel safe, we should listen.”

The nurse nodded. “You three can stay,” she said to Katsuki, Uraraka, and Iida. “But only a little longer.”

“I’ll bring them back to U.A. myself,” All Might added. “Make sure they’re alright.”

Aizawa gave a final nod, ushering the rest of the class toward the door. Slowly, hesitantly, the others filed out. There were murmurs, glances over shoulders, quiet goodbyes. Jirou gave Izuku one last look. Mina hesitated in the doorway. Denki waved slightly, unsure.

Izuku didn’t respond.

His hand was still pressed to his chest.

Todoroki was the last to turn.

And that’s when it happened.

Izuku blinked. His breathing steadied—just a little.

And then his voice, hoarse and barely audible, slipped out:

“...Todoroki.”

The name landed like a pin drop in silence.

Todoroki paused mid-step. Turned around slowly. His eyes wide.

Izuku didn’t look away this time. His body was still trembling, but his mouth moved again.

“...Stay,” he asked.

It was barely more than a whisper.

But Todoroki heard it.

His eyes widened slightly. The tension in his jaw slackened. He stepped forward, cautious, unsure if he’d heard right.

“Izuku…?”

Izuku nodded once.

Todoroki looked toward the nurse, silently asking for permission. She nodded back.

“You can stay too,” she said.

Todoroki quietly walked back inside.

And Izuku exhaled—deeply, shakily—like his lungs were finally remembering how to work again.

The hospital room had grown quieter now.

The sounds of shuffling feet, soft goodbyes, and hushed voices faded as the rest of the class was guided away by the nurse. The door gently clicked shut, and silence settled in like dust in sunlight.

Only five people remained with Izuku now—All Might, Katsuki, Todoroki, Iida, and Uraraka. Dr. Kyu was still in the room as well, observing Izuku closely but respectfully from a small distance.

Izuku sat hunched in the hospital bed, a trembling hand around a paper cup of water. His fingers were pale, and the tips where his fingernails had once been were hidden from view, curled tightly around the cup’s edges.

He brought it slowly to his lips, taking a single sip, his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort. Then, as he lowered it to his lap again, his voice barely broke through the stillness.

“…I’m sorry…”

It was soft. A whisper soaked in guilt. It wasn’t clear at first who it was for, but his eyes—hollow and tired—flickered briefly in Todoroki’s direction, only to dart away just as quickly.

Todoroki tilted his head slightly, surprised, and before he could even respond, Izuku added no more. His mouth pressed into a tight, pale line.

“No, it’s not your fault,” Todoroki replied softly, his tone calm and honest.

Izuku took a shaky breath, his hands trembling slightly. The cup wobbled in his grip, water sloshing near the rim.

“…The blue eyes…”

His voice cracked. The tension in the room deepened. He didn’t need to say more. His throat worked like he was trying to force the rest out, and after a long pause, he did.

“It reminded me of… him.”

Izuku’s hands visibly shook now. He gripped the cup tighter to keep it steady. His voice was still quiet, but the pain behind it was deafening.

Uraraka’s brows furrowed in confusion. Iida blinked slowly. Even Todoroki looked uncertain.

Then they understood.

He meant the man. The one who’d taken him.

The icy blue eyes that haunted him.

There was a long silence before Todoroki dared to speak, trying to ease the tension.

“It seems my left side still brings misery,” he said, attempting a small chuckle, half-joking. “I’m sorry…”

His tone wasn’t bitter, but gentle, almost like he expected his very presence to worsen things.

“No!”

Izuku’s voice shot through the room like a pin to a balloon.

Everyone jumped slightly—Katsuki most of all. He stared wide-eyed at Izuku. It was the loudest he’d spoken since they'd found him. The only other times he'd raised his voice were in moments of pure fear—when he screamed at the sight of a syringe near the ambulance, or when the flashlight triggered a memory and sent him into a panic.

But this time—it wasn’t fear. It was urgency. Desperation.

Izuku looked up, eyes wide and still fogged with trauma, but there was something sharp in them. Worry. Regret. He looked directly at Todoroki for a brief moment before his gaze dropped again.

“No, that’s not it,” he repeated, a little quieter now. “It’s not your fault. It’s just… the color… it just reminded me. That’s all.”

Todoroki's expression softened. There was a small, reassuring smile tugging at his lips.

“Well then,” he said, “I’m glad it wasn’t because of me.”

Izuku gave a tiny nod.

Dr. Kyu slowly stood from his seat, giving the boys a gentle glance. Then he reached out and patted Izuku softly on the head.

“You did great,” the doctor said kindly, and Izuku gave him a little nod in return. The gesture was small, but it was progress.

“I’ll leave you alone for a moment,” Dr. Kyu added, then looked to the others. “Just be gentle, okay?”

He received nods from everyone before quietly stepping out, leaving the room in their hands.

Uraraka moved quietly, stepping forward to the chair that had been vacated. She sat down beside Izuku on the edge of the hospital bed, so carefully it barely dipped under her weight.

She reached for Izuku’s hand—slow, deliberate, never sudden—and gently laced her fingers with his.

Izuku didn’t flinch.

Instead, his fingers curled back, barely holding on, but enough.

Uraraka's other hand moved to his knuckles, tracing slow circles. Her touch was feather-light, grounding, comforting.

And then her voice cracked.

Tears slipped down her cheeks without warning as she smiled at him, gently rubbing his hand in silence.

“You’re really here,” she whispered. “You’re really here, Deku.”

Izuku stared at her for a moment. His lips parted, but he said nothing. Still, the corner of his mouth twitched upward—faint, almost invisible.

But it was there.

A flicker of light in the dark.

Uraraka tried to blink away the tears, but they kept coming. She kept rubbing soft circles into the back of Izuku’s hand, grounding both of them. She didn’t want to scare him by crying too much, but the moment was too raw, too real.

“I missed you,” she whispered eventually, voice trembling. “So, so much.”

Izuku’s eyes flickered to her again. His lips trembled, and for a moment, it looked like he might cry too. But the tears never came—only the weight in his gaze remained.

“I… missed you too,” he said, hoarse and quiet.

From beside the bed, Iida stood like a statue, but his hands were clenched tightly at his sides. He stepped forward, clearing his throat gently.

“Midoriya,” he said, standing straight as ever, though his voice betrayed how choked up he felt. “I… it’s hard to find the right words. I was so worried. We all were.”

Izuku looked up at him and gave a very slight nod.

Iida took a breath. “It’s good to see you. Truly. You don’t have to say anything, but… just know we’re all behind you. No matter what.”

A pause.

Then Iida glanced at Uraraka, who still held Izuku’s hand like she was afraid to let go.

“I apologize if I’m crowding,” he added, stepping back respectfully.

Izuku’s hand twitched slightly, as if he was trying to tell him no—it’s okay. But he didn’t speak again. His gaze fell back to their hands.

Katsuki leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching everything in silence. He didn’t want to say much, not now. He’d already spent hours sitting beside Izuku in silence back when they first found him. Words hadn’t done much then, and he knew pushing too hard wouldn’t help now either.

Still, when Izuku glanced his way, their eyes met—and Katsuki gave a small nod. It was quiet, firm, and more than anything else: understanding.

Todoroki sat at the edge of the windowsill now, his back slightly turned toward them all, but he glanced over his shoulder, making sure Izuku wasn’t uncomfortable.

“I’m glad you asked me to stay,” Todoroki said.

Izuku, still staring at their hands, nodded slowly.

Uraraka sniffled, wiping her cheek. “I hope we didn’t overwhelm you…”

Izuku finally glanced up, voice barely audible. “No… I’m glad… you came.”

That made Uraraka let out a shaky laugh, smiling through more tears. Iida gave a respectful bow from where he stood, letting that moment settle.

There was a silence again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was peace.

The door creaked open after a while. Dr. Kyu peeked in, his expression calm but observant. “How are we doing in here?”

No one spoke immediately.

But then Izuku glanced toward him, eyes clearer than they had been all day.

“…Okay,” he said.

Dr. Kyu gave a gentle smile. “Good. That’s more than enough for now.”

He stepped inside and checked the monitor quietly, not wanting to interrupt. After a moment, he looked to the others. “We’ll have to let Izuku rest soon. You’re welcome to stay a bit longer, but not too long. Small steps.”

Iida nodded. “Of course. Thank you, Doctor.”

Uraraka hesitated but slowly stood up from the bed’s edge. Her hand slid from Izuku’s, but only after one final squeeze. “We’ll come again soon. I promise.”

As the others slowly moved toward the door, Katsuki lingered.

He stepped up to the bedside and looked down at Izuku, face unreadable.

“…Get some sleep, nerd,” he muttered. “We’ll be back.”

Izuku nodded.

And Katsuki… smirked.

For the first time since everything had gone to hell—he smirked.

Chapter 27: Another Step Forward

After the others had left and the door gently clicked shut behind All Might, the room settled into a still silence. Izuku remained seated upright in his bed.

Dr. Kyu’s expression was soft but alert as always. He carried a clipboard loosely at his side, but for now, he didn’t glance at it. His eyes were only on Izuku.

He came to a slow stop near the edge of the bed.

"How did it go?" he asked gently, voice low, not wanting to startle. “Was it alright?”

Izuku didn’t answer immediately. His hand gently lowered onto the blankets, and he looked down at it for a moment, as if organizing his thoughts. Then, softly—so quietly that it could’ve been mistaken for a breath—he spoke.

“…Nice,” Izuku murmured. “It was… nice.”

Dr. Kyu’s lips pulled into a smile. A real, relaxed one. The kind someone gives when they’re both relieved and proud.

“I’m glad,” he said with a nod. “They probably will want to visit you again soon. If that’s alright with you.”

Izuku’s expression didn’t change much, but something in his posture eased. His shoulders, which had been just slightly hunched since the visit began, relaxed a little against the pillows. He nodded slowly.

“…Yeah… I’d like that.”

Dr. Kyu took a step closer, setting the clipboard down and checking the IV tube out of habit.

“They were careful,” he continued, mostly to himself but loud enough for Izuku to hear. “I can tell they all care a lot about you.”

Izuku swallowed, his voice hoarse but steady.

“I… I didn’t think I’d still have them.”

Dr. Kyu paused for a moment, then gave a quiet chuckle as he looked down at him.

“You never lost them,” he said.

Izuku stared at the blanket again.

“Do you think I can get better?” he asked. It wasn’t quite desperate, but it was vulnerable. Fragile.

Dr. Kyu didn’t hesitate.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Not overnight. Not next week. But yes—you can. And you will. One visit at a time, one breath at a time.”

Izuku didn’t say anything in response. But he nodded.

Just once.

And that was enough.

—————————

The dorm common room was filled with low chatter and the hum of tension that still lingered after the visit. Most of Class 1-A had gathered on the couches or floor, sitting close together in a way that showed they needed each other’s company tonight. The air wasn’t exactly heavy—but it wasn’t light either.

“Dude…” Kaminari suddenly broke the silence, his voice unusually subdued. “Did you see Midoriya’s wrists?”

There was a pause. Kirishima gave a soft sigh and nodded. “Yeah… I did.”

Mina, who was sitting cross-legged beside them, tugged her blanket closer to her chest. “Not to mention his eye…” she said quietly. “I didn’t expect that.”

“It looked like it still hurt,” Denki added. “Like it wasn’t just gone—like it haunted him.”

There was a pause as the words settled into the room. No one looked at each other for a moment.

“At least we got to see him again,” Yaoyorozu finally said, trying to offer some light in the darkness. “We should focus on that, even if it was difficult.”

Kirishima leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor. “Yeah, but… it’s just crazy. I can’t get that look out of my head. That empty stare. Like he was there, but not really.”

A few of the others nodded. Sero, Jirou, even Hagakure, who hadn’t spoken much since they returned.

“We don’t even know everything that happened,” Jirou murmured. “We can guess, yeah… but we don’t really know. And I’m not sure I want to.”

“But whatever it was…” Shinsou spoke up from the back of the room, his voice firm, “he’s still here. Midoriya’s not the type to give up. Even if he’s quiet now—even if he looks like a ghost—I know there’s a spark still in there. Somewhere.”

“Definitely,” Ojiro agreed, nodding. “He wouldn’t have asked us to visit if he didn’t want to reconnect. It’s gonna take time… but he hasn’t let go.”

“Then it’s up to us,” Tokoyami said solemnly, eyes closed as if deep in thought. “If he is lost in the dark, we must bring him back to the light. No matter how long it takes.”

Just then, the dorm’s front doors creaked open.

All eyes turned.

Katsuki was the first to step inside, hands in his pockets, his jaw tight. Behind him came Todoroki, calm but tired. Uraraka followed, her shoulders tense, and Iida brought up the rear, glasses fogged from the temperature outside.

The group inside the lounge stood up slowly. Questions buzzed in the air, but no one dared speak right away.

“Well?” Denki asked, trying not to sound too eager. “How’d it go after we left?”

Uraraka offered a small smile, rubbing her arm. “He… didn’t want Todoroki to leave.”

Mina blinked. “Really?”

Todoroki nodded once. “He asked me to stay. He said my eye reminded him of someone. His captor, I think.”

“He said it out loud?” Sero asked, eyes widening.

“He did,” Iida confirmed. “He said, ‘the blue eyes.’”

The room went quiet again.

“Wait…” Kirishima muttered, realization hitting. “That’s what made him freeze up when you sat next to him, right?”

Todoroki looked down. “Yeah. I didn’t realize it at first.”

“But it wasn’t your fault,” Jirou said gently.

“No,” Todoroki agreed. “He made that clear. Said it wasn’t me.”

“He actually raised his voice,” Katsuki said quietly, surprising everyone. “For the first time since he got back.”

Mina winced. “Well, i guess that’s a good thing…”

“Not to mention, today was the first time i saw him smile. Even if it was just a faint one,” Katsuki added. “It must’ve been from the cake, nice job you nut heads.” Katsuki stared at the once who made the cake.

Everyone blinked, was Katsuki really praising others right now?

“Then that’s our starting point,” Mina said softly. “If he smiled once… we can help him smile again.”

One by one, the students nodded.

“We’ll visit again,” Kirishima said. “We’ll keep showing up.”

“He’s not alone,” Tokoyami echoed.

—————————

A week had passed since the class first visit.

Izuku had now been in recovery for a full month. Slowly but surely, things were shifting. The rehabilitation was far from over, but progress—real, tangible progress—was being made.

In that past week, Class 1-A had visited him once more during the weekend. Their presence had been quieter this time, less overwhelming, more thoughtful. They spoke softly, asked fewer questions, and brought books, snacks, and little drawings from Eri. Katsuki, Aizawa, and All Might had come by several more times on their own—sometimes together, sometimes separately. Iida, Todoroki, and Uraraka had also visited once more, just to sit with him, and chat like they used to do.

Izuku’s rehab from the drug remnants in his system was going well. The doctors said the toxins from the drugs used to sedate and weaken him were almost completely gone. His appetite had improved—he no longer had to be coaxed into finishing a meal. His body was still fragile, but stronger. Strong enough that, with immense effort, he could now walk again without the support of the metal bars.

Each step drained him. His legs trembled after even the shortest walk from his bed to the window. But he still tried. Every day.

Recovery Girl’s treatment had worked wonders on the surface of his wounds. Cuts and burns had closed. Bruises faded. The medical team said he had healed—physically. But every scar told another story. Not one wound had disappeared completely. Not a single one.

The lacerations on his arms, legs and torso had faded into pale, rigid lines. His skin there was no longer soft, but hard and taut. The carvings etched into his back remained, though Izuku had never seen them for himself. He didn’t want to. He refused to even look in a mirror. Even when a nurse offered, gently, he turned his face away.

His wrists and ankles still bore the ringed, white traces of where metal restraints had dug into him—days, maybe weeks, of skin pressed against cold steel.

The burns on his upper legs were the worst. Even with Recovery Girl’s quirk, the deep red scarring had not faded. When touched—even gently—they stung. Not physically, perhaps, but emotionally. They reminded him of something he couldn’t put into words.

His fingernails had yet to grow back. The
doctor told him they might—but there was no guarantee. Especially the ones on his right hand. The nail beds of his index and pinky fingers had scarred. Permanently. They looked raw and unnatural, as though the skin had been warped. Twisted. Izuku had stopped asking questions about them.

And his eye…
The wound had closed. The skin beneath the eyepatch had begun to scar, though no one spoke of it. Izuku never removed the eyepatch—not even in private. Not even when the doctor offered to clean beneath it. He did it himself, and quickly. Whatever was under there, he didn’t want anyone else to see. And perhaps more than that—he didn’t want to see it himself.

He still flinched at unexpected touches. He still struggled to fall asleep. He still had moments where his breathing picked up too fast, where his body froze without reason.

But he also smiled.
Not often. Not wide. But sometimes, when someone said something absurd, or when All Might brought an old candy brand he used to like as a kid, or when Aizawa sat in the chair beside him and fell asleep mid-sentence. There were moments when that spark—however faint—peeked through the exhaustion.

He was far from whole.

But he was alive.

And the panic attacks?
They had lessened. Slowly.

In the early days of recovery, he’d get at least two a day—sometimes three or four. They were unpredictable. Some came during the day, sparked by a sudden sound or shift in light. Others struck at night, ripping him out of restless sleep, drenched in sweat, gasping for air. Sometimes he’d scream—other times he would just freeze completely, his body locked in place, trembling like a cornered animal.

Dr. Kyu had explained it clearly—it was a combination of trauma, withdrawal, and the body’s natural response to overstimulation. His mind was healing, but it was fragile, raw. The nightmares were vicious. The panic, worse. There were nights where the nurses would find him curled against the side of the bed, still tangled in his blankets, as if trying to make himself as small as possible.

But in the last few days, there had been progress.

Some nights, he slept straight through. Some days passed without an attack. Not because he was “better”—not yet—but because he was adjusting. His system was stabilizing. His body and mind were slowly learning to trust the quiet.

And for that reason, after a long discussion between Dr. Kyu, Aizawa, and Recovery Girl, a decision had been made.

Izuku was being discharged from the hospital.

Not entirely—he would still need checkups, regular evaluations, and a strict care schedule. But he no longer had to stay in this hospital room. Instead, he’d be moved to a special nurse’s ward within U.A.—a quiet area built for students who required long-term care and observation.

It wasn’t the dorms.
But it was home. Closer to it than he had been in a long time.

Recovery Girl would oversee his treatment from now on. She had agreed without hesitation. A room had been prepared in advance: soft lighting, no sharp edges, no triggering items. The windows had special blinds that let in filtered sunlight. It was quiet, private—and most importantly, safe.

Safe enough for Izuku to begin a new phase of healing.

Dr. Kyu had smiled gently when he told him.
“You’re strong, Midoriya. And you’re not alone in this, remember that.”

Izuku had only nodded in response, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Okay…”

And for now… that was enough.

…

The common room of the dorms buzzed with life as Aizawa gathered Class 1-A for a quick evening meeting. The students were scattered around the couches and tables, some still in uniform, others already in their casual wear. The atmosphere had been tense ever since Midoriya’s disappearance, but Aizawa’s expression carried something different tonight—something lighter.

He cleared his throat. “I have an announcement.”

Everyone turned to face him, eyes wide with anticipation.

“MIDORIYA’S GOING BACK TO U.A.?!” Mina practically shouted, eyes sparkling with hope.

Aizawa nodded once, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Yes.”

A collective cheer erupted through the room.

“THAT’S AMAZING!” Denki grinned, nearly knocking over his chair as he stood up in excitement.

“Finally!” Kirishima beamed. “We get to have him back again!”

“We should plan something,” Uraraka said quickly, her hands clasped together. “A welcome-back surprise or something gentle—not overwhelming, just something warm.”

Aizawa held up his hand, calming the group. “He’ll be staying in the long-term nurse section, not the dorms yet. He still needs a lot of rest and supervision.”

The room calmed slightly, the students nodding in understanding.

“When is he coming?” Iida asked, pushing his glasses up. “Don’t tell me he’s already here and we missed it?!”

“No,” Aizawa said. “He’ll arrive tomorrow morning. Before classes start, and with minimal attention. I’ll be accompanying him.”

Todoroki, who had been sitting quietly near the back, added softly, “Right. No one outside of our class and a few pro heroes knows about Midoriya’s condition.”

“Correct,” Aizawa confirmed. “And we’ll keep it that way for now. The more eyes on him, the more pressure he’ll feel—and that’s not what he needs.”

Some of the students nodded solemnly. The silence that followed was heavy but filled with understanding.

“People will eventually notice his appearance if he’s back in classes or roaming the dorms,” Aizawa continued. “We can’t avoid that forever. But while everything is still fresh—while he’s still healing—our priority is protecting his peace.”

Jirou crossed her arms. “So, we don’t talk about what happened?”

“Exactly,” Aizawa said. “We don’t share details with other classes, and certainly not with the media. Not until Midoriya decides he’s ready.”

“We don’t even know the full story,” Ojiro added quietly. “And maybe we’re not meant to.”

“He came back alive. That alone is enough reason to be grateful.” Momo said, her voice gentle.

“We should still do something,” Mina insisted. “Something small but comforting. Maybe decorate the nurse room door with little drawings or origami.”

“I can make a banner,” Momo offered. “Nothing flashy. Just something soft.”

“We can write notes,” Tokoyami said thoughtfully. “Encouragement. Things we’d say to him if he were here.”

“Yeah,” Kaminari nodded. “Midoriya would totally keep those taped to the wall or something.”

Aizawa looked over the group. For once, no one was bickering. No one was shouting over each other. They were united—quiet, focused, and full of care.

“I’ll talk to Recovery Girl,” he said. “But remember, being there for him is plenty enough.”

Katsuki hadn’t spoken much, seated near the window with his arms crossed. He looked up now, his expression unreadable. “No loud crap. He hates that.”

“We know,” Uraraka said with a faint smile. “We just want him to feel safe.”

“Yeah,” Kirishima agreed. “We’ve got his back. Always.”

Aizawa gave a small nod, his eyes softer than usual. “Then tomorrow… let’s welcome him back to UA.”

—————————

That next morning, at 4 am, the sky was still cloaked in darkness, the quiet hum of the hospital wing blending with the soft ticking of a clock mounted on the far wall. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and fresh linens, but it was warm, still, and peaceful.

Izuku sat on the edge of his hospital bed, shoulders hunched slightly, dressed in a loose t-shirt and soft sweatpants. The scars in his arms and wrists showing. His fingers gently twisted the hem of his shirt, a nervous habit he hadn’t quite lost. Despite everything, his hair was a bit neater than usual. Someone—probably Nurse Saito—had helped him clean up the day before. He looked fragile, pale, but not broken.

Next to him stood Dr. Kyu, clipboard tucked under one arm, his other hand resting loosely at his side. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, now held something softer—something akin to pride. Behind them, at the door, stood Katsuki, Aizawa, and All Might. They didn’t say much—just waited patiently, allowing Izuku to take this moment.

“Well,” Dr. Kyu began with a light exhale, “looks like I won’t be seeing you every day now,.”

Izuku looked down, his single eye hidden behind his messy bangs. He nodded slowly, his hands tightening just slightly in his lap.

The doctor smiled gently, and Nurse Saito, who stood by the cabinets near the exit, stepped forward and added with a soft chuckle, “You’ve kept us on our toes, Midoriya.”

Izuku swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “T…Thank you… for everything.”

Dr. Kyu’s expression shifted. He stepped forward slowly, making sure not to startle the boy. He reached out and placed a warm, gentle hand on Izuku’s head.

Izuku flinched—his shoulders rose, breath hitched—but then, like a reflex long ingrained, he allowed it. His breathing slowed, and his one visible eye slowly moved up to meet the doctor’s. There was a quiet kind of trust in that gaze.

Katsuki watched the interaction, jaw clenched but softening. He got it. Dr. Kyu and Nurse Saito had been there during Izuku’s worst days, through panic attacks, flashbacks, detox, nightmares. They hadn’t just treated him. They’d seen him. Supported him. And somehow, earned a piece of his trust.

“We’ll miss you, Midoriya,” Nurse Saito said, her voice cracking just slightly with emotion.

“Of course,” Dr. Kyu added with a warm grin, “you’ll still need to come by every now and then. Checkups, progress reports, the usual.”

Izuku nodded once more, slower this time. “Right.”

There was a silence that settled between them—not awkward, just… heavy with unspoken things. Gratitude. Sadness. Hope.

“All right,” Aizawa finally said from the doorway, voice steady, “Time to go. The car’s waiting.”

Izuku stood slowly, grabbing the railing from the bed. He specifically didn’t want to be moved in a wheelchair, but walking without support still left him shaky after too long. Katsuki moved closer, ready to help if needed, but Izuku stood on his own—wobbly, but upright.

Nurse Saito walked ahead and opened the door for them. Dr. Kyu offered one last pat on the shoulder. “You’ve come a long way, and now its time to finally out another step forward.”

Izuku looked at him and gave the tiniest nod—then turned toward the hallway.

All Might stepped up beside him as they exited the room, his thin form casting a long shadow under the dim hospital lights. “We’re proud of you, young Midoriya.”

Izuku didn’t answer with words—just a slight smile, barely there, but real.

As they walked down the quiet hallway, footsteps echoing softly against the tile, Izuku glanced back only once—to see Dr. Kyu and Nurse Saito watching him go, standing together in the doorway of the room that had been his world for a month.

Izuku walked slowly through the familiar halls of the hospital, the sound of his slippers brushing against the floor echoing softly around him. The fluorescent lights flickered quietly above, a pale contrast to the warmth that slowly crept into the horizon outside. His legs trembled with each step—not out of fear, but weakness, exhaustion. Every step felt heavier than the last.

Katsuki noticed. He didn’t say anything at first, but when Izuku stumbled just a little, Katsuki gently moved closer, lowering his voice.
“Lean on me a bit, nerd,” he muttered, not unkindly.

Izuku hesitated for a second, then nodded. He shifted some of his weight against Katsuki, who silently adjusted to carry it. When they reached the elevator, Izuku let out a quiet breath, steadying himself. The doors closed with a soft ding, and the elevator hummed down toward the first floor.

When they stepped out, the shift in pressure and balance made Izuku wobble again. Before he could even reach for support, Katsuki moved, taking Izuku’s arm and carefully placing it around his own shoulders. He tightened his grip without waiting for thanks.

Izuku’s lips pressed into a thin line—part frustration, part shame—but he didn’t pull away.

“Don’t worry,” Katsuki whispered, low and firm, “you’ll get there.”

Just a few steps behind, All Might and Aizawa exchanged a glance. Neither said anything, but both allowed themselves a small smile at the sight—at how naturally Katsuki had stepped in, and how Izuku had accepted it.

When they finally reached the hospital’s main exit, the automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh, and Izuku blinked as the breeze touched his skin. It wasn’t harsh, but it was cool—spring giving way to early summer. He hadn’t felt wind like this in weeks. The sky was starting to change—no longer the deep black of night, but a soft gradient between navy and pale blue.

Izuku paused on the threshold. His gaze wandered—taking in the empty parking lot, the silhouettes of trees swaying faintly in the wind. He’d been outside before, on walks with Nurse Saito pushing his wheelchair, sometimes sitting quietly in the garden. But this… this was different.

This wasn’t the hospital grounds. This wasn’t supervised fresh air. This was leaving.

He looked back once, just once. The entrance of the hospital glowing behind him. A small weight settled in his chest—not fear, but something quieter. Something like gratitude.

Then Katsuki gently nudged him forward, and they headed to the car.

Izuku settled into the backseat, still moving carefully. He sat beside Katsuki, while Aizawa took the wheel and All Might rode up front. The doors shut with a soft thud, sealing them in. The engine started. The radio played faintly—some soft instrumental, nearly drowned out by the hum of the road.

Izuku leaned his head slightly against the window, his single green eye open and distant. He looked hollow. Quiet. But somewhere, deep inside, something was stirring.

Aizawa’s voice came from the front, calm and steady.
“Let’s go home.”

Izuku didn’t answer, but his eye flicked up slightly, as if reacting to the word. *Home*.

The car eased into the road, heading toward U.A. The buildings slowly faded behind them, replaced by trees and still-sleeping city streets. About ten minutes passed in silence, the kind that wasn’t heavy or awkward—just quiet. Restful.

And then, the sun began to rise.

Izuku turned his head more fully toward the window. His hand rested in his lap, motionless, as he stared out through the glass. The sky outside bloomed with color—soft pinks, rich oranges, and glowing yellows bleeding into each other across a canvas of thin clouds. Light painted the edges of everything. The trees, the road, even the glass itself.

Katsuki shifted slightly in his seat and glanced over.

Izuku was completely turned to the window now, his body still but his eye wide, reflecting the horizon. His pale face was calm. In the window, Katsuki could see his reflection—a boy scarred, bruised, and tired… but alive.

The ride remained quiet, the stillness almost comforting. All Might and Aizawa occasionally exchanged soft words up front—short comments about scheduling, Recovery Girl’s prep, or checkups. Nothing heavy. Nothing about what had happened.

In the backseat, Izuku didn’t speak once. His gaze stayed fixed on the window, watching as the world slowly awakened. He didn’t move much. Just breathed. Observed. Existing in the silence.

Katsuki, sitting beside him, stole a glance every few minutes. Just to check if he was okay. If his hands were shaking, if his breathing changed. Sometimes he caught the subtle twitch of Izuku’s fingers or the way his jaw clenched when they passed by a civilian. But mostly, Izuku was just… still.

All Might occasionally glanced into the rearview mirror. His eyes softened, but he never said a word.

Eventually, the tall front gates of U.A. came into view, looming against the early morning sky.

All Might turned the car slowly through the gates, parking near a quieter entrance that was seldom used by students. It was just before the rush of the morning began—before any crowds or footsteps filled the campus.

The car engine stopped with a low hum.

“We’re here,” All Might said, his voice gentle.

Katsuki was already opening his door before the words had fully settled. He stepped out, then turned to open Izuku’s. The cool air hit them again, and Izuku blinked as he was greeted by the morning light.

He didn’t step out immediately. Instead, he tilted his head upward.

The sky was still pink and orange, and the sun now sat just on the horizon. It framed the U.A. building like a painting—soft golden rays touching the stone, the windows glinting gently.

Then Izuku looked ahead.

U.A. stood before him, towering, familiar… but distant. Like he was seeing it through fog. He hadn’t been here since the incident.
Two months of absence, yet it felt like years. Another life. Another version of himself.

His body tensed.

His breath caught for just a moment. His fingers tightened at his sides.

Katsuki noticed. He moved just a little closer, not touching Izuku, but close enough to remind him: I’m here.

All Might offered a quiet, encouraging smile. “Let’s go, shall we?”

Izuku finally stepped out. His feet hit the pavement slowly. Deliberately. He wobbled a bit, but Katsuki was there immediately—hands ready, steadying him without hesitation. Izuku didn’t protest. He just nodded faintly.

They approached the entrance together. The sliding doors opened with a soft hiss, revealing the clean, quiet interior of the school.

It was empty. Silent, except for the soft hum of lights overhead and the distant ticking of a wall clock.

They didn’t go toward the classrooms.

Instead, Aizawa led them to the elevator and pressed the button to a restricted floor—one not accessible to just any student.

“This way,” he said as the doors slid open.

Izuku hesitated, just for a moment. Then he stepped inside.

The elevator climbed slowly, a gentle upward pull that made his legs tremble again. Katsuki stayed beside him the whole time, arms close, catching him when his balance faltered. The ride didn’t last long.

Ding.

They arrived at the nurse section—a quiet hallway with only a few rooms. This was the long-term care area, meant for students recovering from serious injuries or trauma. Entry required permission from a teacher. Most of the student body had never even seen this floor.

The doors opened, and Izuku took his first step into his new temporary home at U.A.

Recovery Girl was already waiting, arms crossed, a calm smile on her face.
“Hello Dear, I’ve set everything up,” she said. “You’ll have privacy, your medications are scheduled, and I’ll be checking in regularly.”

Izuku gave her a small nod, not speaking yet. His hand briefly gripped the sleeve of his sweatpants.

“Let’s get you settled, okay?” she said softly, stepping aside to lead him to his room.

And so, quietly and without fanfare, Izuku Midoriya returned to U.A.

Notes:

I FORGOT TO POST YESYERDAY I’M SO SORRY!!

I pretty much slept the whole day after getting my wisdom teeth removed—I was completely exhausted. It totally slipped my mind that it was already friday. Time really flies!

Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

Chapter 28: Stop Treating Him Like That

Izuku stepped slowly into his new room. The lights were warm, not harsh like the usual fluorescent kind he’d grown used to. Instead, soft yellow hues made the room feel calm. Inviting. Through the wide window, early morning sunlight poured in, casting golden rays across the floor. The sky outside was turning a mix of pink and orange, the last traces of night fading away.

The bed looked comfortable—clean sheets, fluffed pillows. There was a small table with two chairs, and a cabinet likely filled with supplies. Honestly, it wasn’t much different from his hospital room. Just quieter. More familiar. A place between home and healing.

Izuku walked to one of the chairs and sat down slowly, careful with his legs. Recovery Girl took the seat beside him with a soft grunt, and All Might, Aizawa, and Katsuki followed, standing or leaning nearby.

“It’s not half bad here,” Katsuki muttered, crossing his arms, glancing around. His voice was casual, but his eyes were still on Izuku, watching every slight twitch of his fingers or change in expression.

Then a knock echoed from the doorway.

Izuku tensed instantly, his muscles locking, his back straightening. His breath caught as he turned toward the sound.

A woman stepped in.

She was in her mid-thirties, with a professional air around her, but something warm in her expression. Her light blonde hair was neatly tied into a bun, and her eyes were a deep, comforting brown. She wore a U.A. nurse’s badge clipped to her shirt.

“Hello, Izuku Midoriya,” she said gently, offering a kind smile. Her voice was soft but clear. Respectful. Calm. “My name is Yamada Keiko, and I’ll be taking care of you here as well.”

Izuku blinked. He looked cautious—suspicious, even. He had never seen another nurse at U.A. aside from Recovery Girl. It was strange. Unexpected. And sudden changes made his body react before his mind could.

“Hi,” Izuku mumbled, barely above a whisper.

Keiko didn’t take offense. She just smiled again and gave a polite nod.

Aizawa greeted her with a curt nod. “Thanks for coming in early.”

All Might gave her a warm smile. “We’re glad to have you on board.”

“I’ll only come when Recovery Girl needs extra help,” Keiko explained gently. “Otherwise, you’ll still mostly see her. But I wanted to introduce myself personally. I’ll respect your space, Midoriya.”

Izuku looked at her for a moment longer, then gave a small nod. His shoulders eased just slightly, his hand resting in his lap again.

She glanced at Recovery Girl, who smiled knowingly. “He’ll warm up.”

“I know,” Keiko said. “I’ll let you all settle in, in the meantime i’ll prepare some breakfast.”

With another bow, she stepped back out of the room.

Izuku exhaled slowly, rubbing his wrist with the thumb of his other hand.

“You did great,” Recovery Girl said gently.

Izuku didn’t answer, but his hand stilled, and he nodded.

…

The room was quiet except for the soft murmurs between Recovery Girl, All Might, and Aizawa as they waited. They spoke in hushed voices, the way people do when they’re afraid a louder sound might break something fragile.

But Katsuki wasn’t listening to them. His eyes were on Izuku.

Izuku sat motionless in the chair, hunched slightly forward, staring at his slippers. His hands rested in his lap, unmoving. Every part of him seemed too still—like he was trying to make himself disappear.

Was it the new environment? Maybe. It was his first time outside the hospital, his first time surrounded by unfamiliar walls again. Even though he was at U.A., even though he was safe… it didn’t look like Izuku felt safe.

Katsuki shifted in his seat, slowly reached out and gently touched the back of Izuku’s hand, trying not to startle him.

But the moment their skin connected, Izuku flinched violently. His whole body jolted, and he yanked his hand away like he’d been burned. His eye snapped wide open, breath catching.

“Deku…” Katsuki whispered, heart sinking.

Izuku looked down again, avoiding his gaze. He clasped his trembling hands together, only to wince—the pressure on his scarred nailbeds sent pain shooting through his fingers. He released his hands immediately and stared at them like they weren’t his own.

Recovery Girl silently watched from her chair. Her expression was calm, but her eyes were filled with a quiet worry. Aizawa noticed too and glanced over.

The sound of the door opening broke the silence.

Click.

Izuku froze.

Footsteps. Steady. Controlled.

And then—

Clatter.

The soft rattle of metal—just a tray, just a plate. Harmless. But to Izuku, it was like a gunshot.

He flinched again, arms tightening slightly against his sides, breathing quickening. His eye locked on the tray like it might turn into something else—something sharper. Something cruel.

Keiko entered with a gentle smile. She was careful, slow in her movements, but unaware of how sensitive Izuku was. The tray still made noise. Even muffled by cloth, the sound of metal was unavoidable.

Just the shifting of metal on a tray. Maybe a spoon. Maybe a medical tool being set down.

But in Izuku’s mind, it exploded like thunder.

Clink. Clack. Drag.

Chains. Buckles. Restraints tightening. Metal tables being wheeled across cold floors. The sound of cuffs locking around his wrists.

Izuku’s fingers twitched. His breath caught in his throat. His eye darted toward the sound instinctively.

Another faint sound. A door creaking open.

In reality, it was just Recovery Girl moving a chair. But Izuku’s brain didn’t see the soft wrinkles of her eyes, the warmth of the nurse’s room, the gentle voices of friends.

He saw white lights overhead. He felt the hard straps pulling at his arms. He smelled the chemicals in the air. Cold metal touched his bare skin—

"No—no—no, no, please not again—"he gasped sharply, jerking upright in the chair.

Everyone froze.

“Midoriya?” Recovery Girl asked gently, stepping forward.

He didn’t hear her.

His hands clamped over his ears. The memory was too loud. The metal scraping. The footsteps. The sterile silence. The sickening smell of burnt skin.

“DON’T—DON’T COME CLOSER!” he screamed, stumbling out of the chair, falling iand backing into the corner, his legs shaky. “GET AWAY FROM ME!”

All Might took a step forward instinctively, eyes wide. “Young Midoriya—”

“STAY BACK!” Izuku shrieked. “I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING—I’LL BE GOOD I’LL—JUST STOP—STOP—”

He collapsed to the floor, back to the wall, arms wrapped tightly around his legs. His breathing was ragged, broken — hyperventilating. His fingers dug into his own arms.

Aizawa quickly stepped between Recovery Girl and Izuku. “No one touch him.”

Katsuki’s heart dropped. He knelt slowly a few feet away.

“Izuku… it’s me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s Katsuki. You’re not there. You’re here. You’re at U.A.”

Izuku was sobbing now, his eye wide in fear, the other covered by the patch, sweat beading on his forehead. His fingers clawed at the sleeves of his shirt.

The light of the sun was golden now, pouring into the room. But Izuku didn’t see it.

He saw a blinding lamp. Blue eyes. The needle. The sound of metal clinging.

He screamed again. “PLEASE! I CAN’T—DON’T TOUCH ME—DON’T—PLEASE—”

Katsuki’s voice broke. “Izuku,” he whispered, crawling closer. “Look at me. Just… look at me.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled it out — that little All Might keychain. The one Izuku had given him years ago, when they were still too young to understand how broken the world really was.

He held it up, arm trembling. “You remember this?”

Izuku’s eye locked onto it. His gasping stuttered.

“You gave it to me, back then. Said it’d bring luck,” Katsuki said, voice tight. “You were always giving people hope, even when you didn’t have any left for yourself.”

Izuku’s breathing slowed, just a little.

Katsuki didn’t move further. Just held out the keychain, palm open.

Izuku reached for it slowly, like his arm weighed a thousand pounds.

The moment his fingers brushed it, his body gave out. He collapsed forward with a broken sob, and Katsuki caught him.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—” Izuku choked out, voice hoarse. “I thought—I thought I was back—I thought—”

“You’re not,” Katsuki said, clutching him tightly. “You’re in UA, with us. You’re safe.”

Izuku buried his face in Katsuki’s shoulder, his whole body shaking. He gripped the keychain like a lifeline.

All Might wiped a trembling hand over his face. Recovery Girl exhaled softly and began preparing a light sedative, just in case.

Aizawa stepped forward and crouched beside them.

“You’re safe here, Izuku,” he said quietly. “We’ll help you through this. Every step.”

Izuku didn’t respond. He just cried.

He was buried against Katsuki’s shoulder, his breathing shallow and uneven, knees pressed to the floor as they sat together. His hands trembled as they clutched the fabric of Katsuki’s hoodie, knuckles pale and tense. Soft sniffles echoed in the room, his chest hitching with every shaky breath.

Katsuki rested a hand gently on Izuku’s back, rubbing slow, calming circles. But as Izuku kept trembling, flinching at even the smallest shift in sound or movement, Katsuki hesitated. His hand stilled. He didn’t want to make it worse.

Behind them, All Might and Aizawa stood nearby, their expressions solemn. They kept their voices soft, saying what they could—comforting words, calm reassurances—but it was clear that nothing they said could truly reach Izuku in this state. It had to pass on its own.

Eventually, slowly, Izuku lifted his head. His visible eye was red and puffy, tear tracks shining on his cheek. The other side of his face remained dry and empty, the skin beneath the eyepatch slightly pink from older irritation. That side of his face didn’t cry anymore.

“Let’s sit down,” Katsuki said gently, standing and offering his hands.

Izuku nodded and allowed Katsuki to guide him toward the bed. His legs were shaky but held. He sat down slowly, like the weight of the world was still pressing into his shoulders. His hands reached out automatically, fumbling for something familiar—Katsuki’s keychain.

The small All Might charm dangled from Katsuki’s pocket, worn at the edges from years of being handled. Izuku rolled it between his fingers, his touch soft but nervous.

After a few moments of silence, he spoke, barely above a whisper.

“…I didn’t think you’d still have it.”

Katsuki sat next to him, his voice low but firm. “Of course I have it. I also still have that card, remember?”

Izuku blinked slowly, the tiniest twitch of a smile pulling at the edge of his lips—but it faded as quickly as it came.

The tension in the room softened slightly.

The metal tray from earlier was gone, and Keiko had quietly left to give them space. Now, she returned, footsteps careful and slow. She was holding a glass plate this time—no clattering, no metal, no sharp noise.

On it sat two slices of toast with softly scrambled eggs on the side.

“You haven’t had any breakfast yet, right?” she said kindly, voice just above a whisper. “Here.”

Izuku looked at her, hesitant at first—but then he reached out. His hands were trembling as he took the plate onto his lap. The glass felt cold against his skin, unfamiliar but safe enough. He reached for the fork with fingers still stiff from tension.

The fork trembled slightly in his hand as he lifted it. A piece of egg made it to his mouth. Then toast.

Small bites. Measured movements.

But he ate.

Keiko smiled softly and nodded, then excused herself again to give him privacy.

Aizawa and All Might remained nearby, but quiet. They watched as Izuku carefully chewed, each bite an effort but a victory.

Katsuki stayed beside him, not speaking, just keeping him grounded. Just being there.

When Izuku finished half the plate, he lowered the fork. “I’m full,” he said, his voice quiet and tired.

The others watched how izuku’s eye was fighting to stay open.

Izuku leaned back. He looked out the window where the morning sun now fully rose, golden light spilling across the room.

His voice was quiet—so quiet it almost got lost in the hum of silence.

“Sensei…” he said, not looking at anyone. “What happened… to the man?”

The question hung in the air, unexpected and heavy. Aizawa froze for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. He knew exactly who Izuku meant—no names were needed.

Before he could respond, Katsuki answered for him, voice low and firm. “In prison. He’s there to rot for the rest of his life.”

Izuku blinked slowly. His gaze dropped to his knees, his fingers curling slightly over the blanket on his lap. He gave a small nod. But it was hollow, like the answer didn’t give him what he needed.

“He won’t get out,” Aizawa added, voice measured but certain. “Never.”

There was a long pause. Then, Izuku’s voice came again—flat, almost lifeless.

“I should have stabbed him in his heart. Instead.”

The room went still. Even the distant sound of birds seemed to vanish.

Recovery Girl’s hands froze mid-motion as she organized the cabinet. All Might turned, alarm flashing through his eyes. Aizawa and Katsuki stared, their stomachs twisting with unease.

“Young Midoriya…” All Might started gently, taking a step forward.

“I’m sorry,” Izuku interrupted, almost immediately. “Forget what I said.”

But none of them could.

Katsuki looked down, fists clenched at his sides. He understood the rage—felt it in every cell of his body—but hearing it from Izuku, from someone who once cried over villains and always sought to save—shook him. That wasn’t the Midoriya he knew. Not completely.

Aizawa felt it too. The boy had changed. He’d been forced to.

Izuku’s eye slowly fluttered closed, his breathing growing softer, steadier. Sleep was finally claiming him.

All Might let out a small breath, shoulders easing.

Recovery Girl gently closed the cabinet, the faint click echoing in the room. “Poor child. He’s gone through so much… in so little time,” she said quietly, her tone full of grief. “It changed everything. His personality… even his appearance.”

They all looked at him then—at the boy curled slightly on the bed, his hands still trembling faintly in sleep. The dark circles under his eye, the healing scars on his wrists, the eyepatch, the thinner frame.

This was Midoriya.

But not the same one they had known before.

And deep down, they all feared that he might never fully come back.

—————————

It was 3 PM and the final bell had just rung. The halls of U.A. buzzed with the usual post-class chatter, but Class 3-A moved with quiet purpose. They walked together, a little tightly packed, not speaking much—just exchanging glances, all thinking about the same thing.

They had permission from both Aizawa and Recovery Girl to visit Izuku.

Katsuki led the way, his steps firm but anxious. They reached the off-limits nurse section, where Nurse Keiko was already waiting by the door. Her expression softened as she saw the students approach.

“Midoriya’s still sleeping,” she said in a hushed voice, gesturing toward the room. “But you’re welcome to come in quietly. He’ll probably wake soon.”

They all nodded, respectful and solemn. The door creaked open softly, and one by one, they entered. The lights inside were dimmed, the afternoon sun casting long golden rays through the window. The room smelled faintly of lavender and disinfectant.

Izuku lay on the bed, blanket pulled up to his waist, his head tilted slightly to the side. The white band of his eyepatch was visible, and a few strands of his unruly green hair shifted with each breath. He still looked pale, and thinner than they remembered.

They all found spots around the room. Mina sat cross-legged in a chair near the foot of the bed, while Iida stood near the cabinet, arms respectfully by his sides. Uraraka sat in the window seat, staring at him with a tight expression, her fingers clenched together. Tokoyami and Jirou leaned against the wall. Kaminari hovered awkwardly by the doorframe, unsure what to do with himself.

Suddenly, Izuku stirred.

He twitched—then his body started to tremble. His breaths became sharp, fast, uneven.

Nurse Keiko’s brows furrowed and she stepped closer. “Mm…”

Izuku’s hands clenched into fists as his body tensed in his sleep, a choked whimper escaping his throat.

“A nightmare,” Katsuki muttered under his breath. He didn’t hesitate. He moved to the side of the bed and reached for Izuku’s hand, gently squeezing it.

But Izuku flinched violently. “NO!” he screamed, voice hoarse and panicked. His body lurched upright, his breathing ragged. The scream was loud—raw, guttural. It pierced through the room, making everyone jump.

His wide eye darted around in confusion, terror still clouding his gaze.

The room had fallen completely silent.

Katsuki stayed close but kept his hands off now. His voice came low and calm. “It’s just us.”

Izuku blinked. His gaze jumped from face to face. Uraraka. Todoroki. Mina. Iida. Jirou. Kaminari. Everyone. It was all real. He was awake.

He slowly exhaled. His shoulders trembled as he lowered his head. A tear welled in the corner of his good eye, but it didn’t fall.

“…Hi,” he mumbled, barely louder than a whisper.

There was a beat of silence—then a soft chorus of greetings followed.

“Hey.”

“Hi, Deku.”

“It’s good to see you.”

“Welcome back.”

Some voices wavered. A few smiles were there, tight with sadness and relief. They were all here. He didn’t know what to say. But he didn’t need to. For now, just seeing them was enough.

…

They talked for a while—small things at first. How school had been, funny moments during class, random stories from dorm life. No one wanted to dive into anything too heavy. Just enough to fill the silence, to remind Izuku he was still one of them. That he was still home.

Then Uraraka stood up suddenly, her smile bright. “Oh! Wait—guys, bring it over.”

Mina and Tsuyu moved to help her, each grabbing one side of something large and colorful.

“Ready?” Mina grinned. “One, two… Tadaaa!”

They held up a handmade banner. It was bursting with color, painted and decorated with love. Across the center, bold letters read: WELCOME BACK, IZUKU! Around it were everyone’s names—each student from Class 3-A, plus a few others. Some had drawn little doodles beside their names: a mini All Might, a smiley face with sharp teeth, a tiny frog with a cape. Confetti shapes, stars, lightning bolts, and hearts covered the banner from edge to edge.

“We made this to hang on the wall here,” Uraraka explained, beaming. “Just something to lighten up the place.”

Izuku felt his chest tighten. His lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at the banner. A small tear welled in the corner of his left eye—the only one that still let him cry. His gaze stayed locked on the spandoek, blinking slowly.

“Whaaat—wait, we didn’t mean to make you cry!” Iida waved his hands, looking panicked.

“No…” Izuku whispered, voice quiet and raw. “It’s perfect… Thank you.”

A faint, real smile tugged at his lips.

The class smiled in return—soft, teary, full of warmth. Uraraka wiped her eyes quickly while Mina grinned through her tears. Even Todoroki gave the tiniest of nods.

“Alright! Let’s hang this up,” Mina said quickly, and she and a few others got to work tying the string ends to the hooks on the wall.

Kaminari and Kirishima stepped closer, standing near Izuku’s bed.

“We, uh… got you something too,” Kaminari said, rubbing the back of his head. “Thought it might look kinda cool.”

He handed Izuku a small black item. Izuku turned it in his fingers—it was an eyepatch. A smooth, matte black one with soft straps instead of the standard medical white.

“It’s just… you know,” Kirishima shrugged, smiling. “We thought you might want something else to wear sometimes.”

“We’re not saying you should hide whatever’s behind it or anything!” Kaminari said quickly. “It’s just… it looks cool. And it’s not medical like the one yours wearing right now.”

Izuku stared down at it. It wasn’t much. But it was also… everything. A gift that reminded him he was more than a patient. His fingers trembled a bit as they traced the edge of the fabric.

“Thank you,” he said again, his voice a little more steady this time.

Everyone was watching him quietly now. Not pressuring—but waiting, hopeful. Would he try it on?

Izuku didn’t move to remove his white patch. He won’t ever show anyone what’s beneath it. His fingers fidgeted with the new one, but his eye darted anxiously between the faces around him.

And then—

“Stop staring like idiots,” Katsuki snapped, stepping forward. His tone wasn’t loud, but sharp. Protective. “He’s getting uncomfortable.”

A few of the students looked away, murmuring apologies.

Izuku looked over at Katsuki. A quiet thank-you was in his eyes, even if he didn’t say it out loud.

After Katsuki’s comment, the room settled. Conversations began to pick up again, this time in gentler tones—like they all silently agreed to keep the atmosphere soft, calm, easy.

Yaoyorozu leaned against the wall near the window with Jirou, both of them whispering to one another as they glanced over at Izuku now and then. Not out of pity—just concern. Real, honest concern.

Ojiro stood near the corner with Satou and Sero, quietly munching on one of the protein snacks Satou had brought, though none of them had much of an appetite.

Tokoyami sat cross-legged on the floor, calmly listening as Shoji spoke to him in a quiet murmur. Mina, meanwhile, was carefully placing a few more decorations near the wall—colorful paper flowers and strings of origami cranes she’d made the night before.

“I can bring more tomorrow,” she told Uraraka. “I still have a ton.”

“Yeah… it’s already starting to look nice in here,” Uraraka replied softly, folding her hands in front of her as she glanced at Izuku again.

He sat still on the bed, cradling the eyepatch loosely in his fingers. His eye wasn’t as wide anymore. Just tired. Tired and overwhelmed. But not alone.

Kaminari and Kirishima had sat down in two chairs next to him, chatting about a new movie coming out and how dumb the trailer looked. They didn’t push Izuku to join in—just included him like always, like nothing had changed.

“…And then the guy literally jumps into a volcano and survives,” Kaminari said with a shake of his head.

“I’m telling you, bro,” Kirishima said, grinning, “the physics in those movies make zero sense.”

Izuku gave a quiet huff through his nose. Not quite a laugh—but it was something.

Ashido noticed and lit up. “Oh my god, he almost smiled. We got a half-smile, I repeat—half a smile, people!”

Izuku blinked at her, then looked down again, the smallest curve twitching at the corner of his mouth. Even a hint of embarrassment. But it faded quickly, and turned into that sad empty gaze again.

Katsuki noticed how Izuku got slightly uncomfortable at the comment.
Todoroki was seated in a chair on the far end, arms folded, eyes thoughtful.

Meanwhile, Iida stood near the foot of the bed, arms awkwardly stiff at his sides, glancing between his friends.

“I brought… a planner,” he finally said, reaching into his bag. “If you want to keep track of anything while you're resting—appointments or thoughts or… well, anything. It’s color-coded.”

Izuku looked up slowly, surprised. He reached out and took the planner carefully with both hands. “Thank you, Iida.”

“I can help fill it out, too,” Iida added quickly. “If you want.”

Izuku nodded softly.

The conversations kept flowing. Gentle laughter here and there. Whispers. No loud bursts, no pressure to talk or engage. Just the feeling of being surrounded by people who truly cared.

Eventually, Keiko peeked her head in again.

“You can stay a little longer,” she said kindly. “But let him rest soon, alright?”

They all nodded.

Izuku leaned back into the pillows, still holding the eyepatch in one hand, Iida’s planner on the bed beside him. Katsuki stayed closest, seated in the chair next to him, arms crossed, protective as always.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—Izuku closed his eye and let himself breathe.

Izuku had drifted off slowly, his breathing steadying in a quiet rhythm, shoulders slightly slumped as he curled into the warmth of the blanket. His hand, still holding onto the corner of the bedsheet, loosened its grip as sleep took him. The room stilled, eyes quietly drifting to him.

“He’s asleep?” Denki whispered, eyes widening slightly. “Didn’t he just wake up, like, twenty minutes ago?”

Katsuki didn’t answer right away. He was sitting near the edge of the bed, arms crossed, eyes focused not on Izuku, but on the floor. Eventually, he exhaled through his nose.

“I doubt any of the sleep he gets really lets him rest.”

Kirishima glanced over. “What do you mean?”

Katsuki's voice was low, but steady. “Nightmares. Every night. The kind that don’t let go of you even when you wake up.”

Silence blanketed the group.

“Poor Deku…” Uraraka mumbled, her voice full of heartache. “I wish there was something we could do to help.”

“If you really want to help,” Katsuki muttered, “then stop being so damn on edge around him.” His eyes flicked up, sharp, landing on Mina. “Don’t comment on how ‘he’s almost smiling’ or how his ‘eyepatch makes him look cool.’ Just let him be. He’s already trying hard enough to get through the day without feeling like a spectacle or a burden.”

Mina’s expression fell. Her usual bubbly demeanor dimmed as her shoulders curled inward. “Right,” she said softly. “Got it.“

“Hey, man,” Kirishima spoke up, stepping a little closer toward Mina with a defensive tone. “We’re all doing our best here, alright? No one knows exactly how to act around Midoriya right now, but we’re trying. You’ve spent more time with him, yeah, but that doesn’t mean we’re not allowed to make mistakes while we figure it out.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t retaliate immediately. He shifted his weight and sat cross-legged on the floor, avoiding eye contact. “Maybe,” he muttered. “But better to hear the hard truth from me than let him get hurt by people who don’t know any better.”

“Guys,” Uraraka interjected, holding up her hands. “Let’s not do this here. Not with Deku right there.”

She looked over to the bed where Izuku’s sleeping form remained mostly still—except for a twitch in his fingers as the voices gently rose.

“Yeah,” Jirou agreed, arms crossed. “Look, Bakugou, we’re just as concerned for Midoriya as you are. You don’t have to act like you’re the only one who cares. So maybe take a step back before throwing daggers at us.”

Katsuki didn’t respond right away. His gaze shifted to the bed. He stared at Izuku quietly, long enough that the others started glancing between each other. Then he let out a quiet “tsk” and stood up, brushing off his pants.

“Fine. Whatever,” he muttered. “I’m outta here.”

He took a step toward the door but paused.

Everyone watched as he turned back to Izuku. He stood there for a second, then walked back over and leaned down to the sleeping boy. The blanket had slipped partially off Izuku’s shoulder, leaving his arm exposed to the cool air. Katsuki carefully, almost awkwardly, adjusted it, tucking it around him. His movements were gentle. Thoughtful.

They all noticed.

When he straightened up, he glanced once more at Izuku’s peaceful—yet still uneasy—expression. His eyes lingered. Then he turned and walked toward the door again. Without another word, he opened it and stepped out.

The door closed shut.

Izuku flinched.

Even asleep, the sound stirred something in him. His brow furrowed. His fingers clenched slightly at the blanket. A faint, muffled sound escaped his throat—almost like a breath caught on something heavy.

The class froze.

“…He’s still so sensitive,” Tsuyu whispered. “Even to sounds.”

No one replied.

They sat there, in quiet guilt, in worried reflection, and in silence.

The clock on the wall ticked softly in the background. The soft beeping of a monitor hummed low. And Izuku’s breathing continued, soft and even—but not quite at peace.

Denki sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Man, this is hard. I didn’t mean anything bad with what I said, I was just… I dunno, trying to lighten things up.”

“We know,” Mina said softly. She looked down at the floor, guilt still tugging at her chest. “Bakugou’s not wrong, though. I guess I was just too excited to see him show something. Anything.”

“We’re all figuring it out,” Todoroki said calmly from his place near the window. His eyes were on Izuku, his expression unreadable, but thoughtful. “The important thing is we’re here. If i know Midoriya, then he’s happy if we just have fun with eachother, and not wait until he has something to say..”

Kirishima crossed his arms, leaning back in the chair beside Kaminari. “I get thaf Bakugou’s under a lot of pressure too. He’s been with Deku from the moment they found him.. He’s probably exhausted.”

“We all are,” Jirou muttered, “but that doesn’t give anyone the right to start snapping at everyone.”

The room quieted again. Keiko peeked in once more, her expression soft and understanding. “He’s resting well now,” she whispered. “You’re welcome to stay a little longer, but one at a time if you want to speak to him after.”

Uraraka stepped toward the bed, her eyes gentle. “I’d like to stay a bit longer.”

Keiko nodded and closed the door again with a careful hand.

A few of the others began to quietly gather their things, deciding to give Izuku more space.

One by one, they slipped out. Only Uraraka, Iida and Todoroki stayed, sitting silently beside the bed. Uraraka’s hands folded in her lap as she watched Izuku sleep, his face more peaceful than it had been in days.

And in that small, calm moment, surrounded by quiet and warmth, Izuku shifted again. His fingers twitched near the edge of the blanket.

Chapter 29: Shadows on the Glass

The others had filtered out one by one, leaving the room quieter, lighter. Iida, Todoroki, and Uraraka had chosen to remain, each taking a quiet spot near Izuku’s bedside. Iida sat upright on the guest chair, hands folded neatly in his lap. Todoroki leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze flicking every so often toward Izuku. Uraraka sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb him, her eyes drifting between her friends.

None of them spoke much. Their voices were low, barely above whispers, as if raising them too loud might shatter something fragile in the air.

This continued for 20 minutes. They had quiet conversations, and just sat beside Izuku.

Then,

Izuku stirred slightly, fingers twitching under the blanket. At first, they assumed it was just a shift in sleep, maybe the kind that came with brief dreaming—but then his face tensed. His breath hitched.

Then he whimpered.

The three of them sat up straighter.

Izuku's body twitched under the blanket. His movements grew more erratic, his legs tensing, his fingers curling into fists. Then his back arched slightly as his arms crossed over his chest, locking into himself like he was trying to shield his very soul.

A whimper escaped his throat, barely audible, broken and weak.

“…S…stop…”

His breathing hitched, and suddenly it turned rapid—short, shallow bursts that sounded more like choking than breathing. Iida immediately stood, alarm in his eyes. Todoroki leaned forward.

“Midoriya?” he asked cautiously.

“Is he having… a nightmare?” Uraraka asked concerned, though he already knew the answer.

Izuku’s face was contorted, his lips quivering, teeth clenched. Then his hand shot up—he grabbed at his own throat, scratching violently as though trying to tear something off his skin. Red marks appeared on the neck. No blood, since izuku couldn’t scratch his neck having no nails.

Todoroki’s blood ran cold. “Not good.”

He stood beside the bed and seized Izuku’s wrists, pulling his hands away from his neck with more force than he’d usually dare use on a friend. But Izuku thrashed, muscles tight, lost in the nightmare that clawed at his mind.

Uraraka, wide-eyed with panic, didn’t wait for instructions. She bolted from the room. “I’ll get Recovery Girl!” she yelled into the hall.

“I… can’t…” Izuku wheezed, his voice strained and barely understandable, breath catching in his throat as he continued trying to scratch. “Get it off… get it off!”

Todoroki held tighter. “Midoriya—stop. It’s not real.”

“STOP IT!” Izuku screamed while he shot upright. His eye flew open, the pupil dilated and wild, his body trembling from head to toe. His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a marathon. His hands shot to his mouth, covering it as if to silence himself.

Sweat clung to his skin. His fringe stuck to his forehead, damp with fear. He looked around—first to Todoroki, then Iida, then the door.

He was shaking. Hard.

He was still halfway in that dream.

The nightmare had been vivid. Too vivid.

He was hanging—his neck compressed by a thick, abrasive rope. It bit into his skin like fire. His feet dangled, kicking helplessly above the floor. There was no air—none left. His lungs screamed. He saw one ice blue eyes watching from below. Cold, hollow, entertained.

The man smiled.

He just smiled.

Izuku couldn’t scream. Couldn't breathe. Couldn’t even cry.

That smile—mocking, victorious—was the last thing he saw before everything had gone dark.

Now, awake and trembling, the memory of that moment still clung to him like smoke.

“Izuku…” Todoroki said gently, slowly releasing his grip now that Izuku was no longer clawing at himself. “You’re awake. You're okay.”

Izuku didn’t respond at first. He leaned forward, curling slightly inward, his hands stroke his neck, confirming that no thick rope was around it. Then, his hand shot back to his mouth. He looked like he might vomit.

Iida moved beside him cautiously. “You’re safe. You’re here at U.A. No one can hurt you now.”

Izuku’s breath caught again, but this time it wasn’t from panic—it was the beginnings of a sob. Not loud, not even shaky. Just a small, defeated exhale of emotion.

Recovery Girl entered a moment later, trailed closely by Uraraka and Nurse Keiko. Her eyes immediately scanned the room, assessing Izuku’s posture, his skin, his breathing.

Their eyes met. Recovery Girl approached him gently. “Did you have another nightmare, dear?”

He nodded once.

“I was… I was hanging.” His voice dropped even quieter, barely a whisper. “He was there. He watched. He… smiled.”

Uraraka’s hand went to her mouth.

“Oh, Izuku…” she whispered.

“Lie down, dear,” Recovery Girl said softly. “Let me check your neck.”

He obeyed slowly, his movements robotic. His fingers were still trembling as he let her tilt his chin to the side, inspecting the reddened marks he’d left behind.

“Try to focus on your breathing,” she murmured. “You’re safe now. That man can’t reach you here.”

Izuku’s gaze drifted toward the wall. His teary eye was unfocused, as if he were somewhere far away.

“…But he already did,” he said quietly. “He got in. And now I can’t get him out.”

No one had a response to that. The room was filled with silence again.

Except for Izuku’s tired breathing. Slow. Hollow. And the haunting echo of the nightmare that lingered in his voice.

Recovery Girl’s eyes were carefully scanning the motionless boy tucked beneath the blanket. His gaze was vacant—his remaining eye fixed on the rumpled fabric over his chest as though trying to read something hidden in the folds.

Her gaze shifted slowly to the three students standing at the side of the room—Todoroki, Iida, and Uraraka. They lingered there with quiet concern, unsure whether to speak, stay, or go. But Recovery Girl could see it clearly: Izuku wasn’t with them anymore—not mentally. He was somewhere else entirely.

She let out a gentle breath and spoke, her voice soft but firm.
“You three should go now. He needs time to rest, and right now… I don’t think he even realizes you’re still here.”

Uraraka hesitated, her eyes flicking toward Izuku, filled with silent worry. Iida gave a respectful nod, and Todoroki murmured a quiet “Right,” though his eyes lingered on their friend a moment longer.

Together, the three of them stood up, the scraping of the chair legs muffled against the linoleum floor. They took one last look at Izuku.

His face remained unchanged—distant, hollow. He was staring straight through the blanket like he could see something far beyond the room. There was no sign that he had heard Recovery Girl. No flinch, no blink. Just stillness.

“See you later, Deku…” Uraraka whispered, almost as if speaking louder would be wrong. But Izuku didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink.

Recovery Girl gave a small nod and walked with them to the door. Keiko, who had been quietly observing from the corner, moved to sit beside Izuku in the now-empty chair, her expression calm but alert.

The door clicked softly shut behind them, cutting off the dim room with its buzzing machines and filtered light.

Now in the hallway, Recovery Girl’s shoulders sagged just slightly. She rubbed at the back of her neck and sighed, her gaze briefly falling to the floor before she turned to the students.

“…Did he try to choke himself?” she asked quietly, her voice tight.

Todoroki shook his head, but his expression was grave. “Not exactly. It was like he was trying to rip something off. He was clawing at his throat—really violently.”

“If it weren’t for the fact that he doesn’t have nails, he would’ve torn through his own neck,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “That kind of force… it wasn’t unconscious. He was fighting something in that dream.”

All three students fell silent, the heaviness of her words weighing down on them.

“I… I’ve never seen him like that before,” Uraraka whispered, eyes still red. “It felt like… like he wasn’t even here.”

Recovery Girl gave a solemn nod. “Midoriya’s been through something no child should ever have to endure. Being back at U.A., even in this part of it—it’s going to take time. He has to re-learn that he’s safe. That this place isn’t what his mind thinks it is anymore.”

“He has us,” Iida said gently but firmly. “We’ll be there for him, however long it takes.”

“I know you will.” Recovery Girl’s voice softened. “You’ve all done well today—better than most could.”

Uraraka gave a shaky nod and sniffled. Her eyes shimmered, and she raised a hand to her face, trying to wipe away the tears before they could fall again. But they spilled anyway—soft, quiet tears that dripped down her cheeks despite her efforts.

Iida placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and rubbed it gently.

Recovery Girl gave a small wave as she turned to re-enter the room.
“Goodbye. Be safe on your way back.”

The three of them stood outside the door for a moment longer. Todoroki turned slightly and peered through opening door.

Inside, Izuku hadn’t moved.

He was still sitting there, Keiko quietly beside him. The boy’s eye was open, staring at the same spot on his blanket. Distant. Unseeing.

Todoroki's brows furrowed slightly, but he said nothing.

As they turned and made their way down the corridor toward the elevator, the silence between them felt heavy. Each footstep echoed quietly in the halls, and Uraraka’s sniffling grew louder until she gave up trying to hold back her emotions altogether.

“I just… I miss him,” she said softly. “I miss Deku. And I don’t know if he’s ever coming back…”

Iida hesitated, his own eyes were clouded. He didn’t know what to say, he couldn’t promise Uraraka that things were gonna be okay.

Todoroki walked slightly behind them, hands in his pockets, jaw clenched.

The elevator dinged softly, and the doors slid open. They stepped in together, and as the doors closed behind them, Uraraka wiped her eyes one last time—trying to compose herself for whatever came next.

…

Izuku sat frozen, his gaze locked onto the folds of his bedsheet as though it held the key to some distant answer. His lone eye was wide, unfocused, and his breathing shallow — automatic rather than conscious. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move.

Keiko sat close beside him, quiet as a whisper, her expression soft with worry. She gently held his hand, her thumb moving in slow, repetitive circles over the back of it.

But Izuku didn’t respond. Not to her touch. Not to her presence. His hand remained limp in hers, cold and slightly trembling.

Recovery Girl stood on the footstool beside the bed, peering down at him closely. Her eyes swept over his face, his neck, and then his posture — as stiff and tight as a bowstring. She sighed quietly and glanced at Keiko.

“That nightmare pulled him somewhere deep again.” Her voice was tired. Saddened. She climbed down carefully and landed with a small tap.

“He’s not here,” Keiko said softly. “His body is, but he’s… somewhere else.”

There was a pause as Recovery Girl looked at the boy she’d treated more times than she could count. But nothing ever hurt like this. Not a broken limb. Not a bruised rib.

“This isn’t something I can heal,” she murmured.

Keiko looked down at Izuku again. “Should we give him something? To help him sleep?”

“No,” Recovery Girl answered. “Not this time. He needs to come back on his own. For now, we stay. We remind him that it’s safe to return.”

Keiko gave a faint nod and adjusted her position, brushing a few strands of hair away from Izuku’s face. “You’re here, Midoriya,” she whispered, her voice low and warm. “You’re not there anymore. Just keep holding on. We’re right here.”

Minutes passed like hours.

And then, finally, Izuku moved.

Only once, but it was enough for Keiko to notice.

She squeezed his hand gently, and for the first time since the nightmare, his fingers twitched — the tiniest of movements, like a shadow of life returning.

Recovery Girl’s lips parted in a small sigh of relief.

“We’ll stay with him,” Keiko said.

“And I’ll inform Aizawa tomorrow,” Recovery Girl replied. “It’s time we talk about how to help him…mentally.”

As Recovery Girl stepped out of the room, Keiko remained at Izuku’s side, rubbing circles on his hand. His head slowly tilted, and though he said nothing, a single tear rolled down his cheek.

He was still here.

And they weren’t leaving.

—————————

The remains of dinner still lingered in the Class 3-A dorm common room—quiet chatter, the clinking of dishes, and the soft hum of a vacuum down the hall. Most of the class had moved on to cleaning duty, working together like any normal evening. But Katsuki hadn’t said a word to any of them.

Not since he snapped.

And he hadn’t apologized. Not because he didn’t care, but because he knew he wasn’t wrong.

Katsuki stepped out of the common area, making his way toward the exit. He needed to move, to burn through the anger tightening his chest. Maybe throw a few punches. Maybe scream into the walls of the training hall, if no one else was there.

Behind him, soft footsteps caught up.

“Want to spar?” Todoroki asked, already in his PE uniform.

Katsuki stopped at the door and looked back, something between a glare and a shrug tugging at his face. “Whatever,” he muttered.

The two walked in silence, steps against the concrete outside leading to the gym hall.
A place Katsuki had permission to every Thursday night.

When they finally reached the metal doors of the private gym hall, Katsuki pushed them open. The lights flickered on overhead, revealing scuffed floors, training dummies, and punching mats that had seen better days. A space that had become familiar to him. Safe, even.

He stepped inside, but Todoroki paused, his voice low as he spoke behind him.

“When the class left his room… he had another nightmare.”

Katsuki froze in place.

Todoroki’s voice remained calm, but there was something brittle about it. “After that, he seemed completely out of it. It was like… like he didn’t even know we were still there. Iida, Uraraka, me—we said goodbye, but he just stared at the blanket. Like he couldn’t even hear us.”

Katsuki’s fists clenched, his jaw tightening. The sound of skin grinding against his teeth was subtle, but there.

“You think I don’t know that?” he snapped suddenly, spinning halfway toward Todoroki. “You think I haven’t seen it every goddamn time I visit him?!”

Todoroki looked down, the red-and-white strands of his hair shifting slightly as he exhaled. “I just… I’m worried that he might not recover. Trauma sometimes just can’t leave from a person.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

With a loud BANG, Katsuki’s palm lit up with an explosion that scorched the wall beside him. Soot-black residue smeared across the gym’s side, leaving behind a bitter, acrid smell.

“He will,” Katsuki growled, his voice low and venomous. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’m gonna make sure that damn nerd stops panicking every time he hears a fucking door creak.”

His shoulders shook—whether from rage or something else, it was hard to tell. His breathing was shallow, eyes sharp.

Todoroki’s body responded instinctively—cold mist curling from his right arm, while subtle embers flared to life on his left. A balance of heat and frost, just waiting.

Katsuki met his gaze, scoffing. “Well? Let’s fucking go.”

And just like that, the two launched at each other.

Katsuki exploded forward, palms sparking, feet off the ground as he barreled toward Todoroki with raw momentum. Todoroki countered with a quick blast of ice along the floor, forcing Katsuki to change trajectory mid-air and dodge with a mid-spin blast. Flames roared up around them, lighting the gym in flickering orange. Ice cracked and steamed beneath their feet.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

Because sometimes, the only way to hold onto something broken… was to fight like hell not to let go.

—————————

Nurse Keiko and Recovery Girl had left after making sure he had eaten his dinner—some plain rice, a bit of grilled fish, and miso soup. It wasn’t much, but he ate it all, aware of the way their eyes lingered on him after every bite.

But now, the room belonged to him. The silence was heavier when he was alone. And the air felt thicker somehow. Still. A kind of stillness that pressed in on the skin.

With slow, careful movements, Izuku pulled the blanket off himself and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His body still ached—stiff and uncooperative—but he ignored it. He leaned against the wall for support, his fingers pressing against the smooth surface to help push himself up.

His legs trembled slightly as he stood. He wasn’t used to being on his feet for long yet, not without someone watching. But the ache in his muscles didn’t matter. He needed this.

Step by step, he made his way to the window.

The private nurse room was on one of the highest floors of the UA medical wing. As he reached the glass, he steadied himself with both hands against the windowsill and looked out.

Below, the UA campus stretched into the soft oranges and pinks of the setting sun. Training fields sprawled like a massive patchwork quilt, dotted with obstacle courses, running tracks, and simulation domes. The dorms stood proudly in the distance, tall and steady, glowing faintly under the warm light of dusk. He saw the silhouettes of students here and there—walking. From this height, they were just shapes. Tiny, unknowable.

He couldn’t tell who any of them were. Couldn’t make out if they were his classmates. His friends.

Izuku’s eyes drifted to the reflection in the glass.

The glow of the sunset painted his features with gold, but in the reflection of the window, he couldn’t hide the way he looked now.

His face was thinner. Paler. His hair longer, curling awkwardly around his ears and falling into his face. His shoulders were hunched, as if still bracing for impact. But it was his eye that caught his attention most.

Or rather, the patch that covered it.

His fingers tightened on the windowsill.

He tore his gaze away and limped back toward the bed. The movement was sharper now, more determined. Sitting back down on the edge, he reached for the black eyepatch on the nightstand. Beside it sat a small vase of fresh flowers—lilies and baby's breath in soft colors. His mother had brought them earlier that day, her voice wavering with every kind word she spoke. He hadn’t said much to her in return.

Next to the flowers was the glass of water he hadn’t touched. It was lukewarm now.

Ignoring it, Izuku picked up the black eyepatch he got from Kaminari and Kirishima and turned it over in his hands. The fabric was smooth, matte black, with a single strap. It wasn’t medical. It wasn’t temporary. This one was meant to last.

He exhaled slowly, then reached up and removed the white medical eyepatch.

The air kissed the skin beneath, cool and foreign. He ran his fingers gently across the area—over the healed scars, the ridged edges of what once was. The sensation made his breath catch. Not because it hurt, but because it reminded him. Of what was taken. Of what was done.

His teeth clenched, jaw tightening.

His hands were shaking again.

Quickly, as if trying to outrun the feeling, he placed the black eyepatch over the space and secured the strap behind his head. The fabric disappeared into the tangle of his curls, snug and snugly in place.

This felt different.

He stood up again, slower this time, and made his way back to the window.

The sun was lower now, almost touching the horizon. The sky was bleeding into twilight, colors blurring into purples and deep blues. Izuku’s reflection returned, and now the eyepatch was barely visible, just a shadow against the fading light.

He reached out and placed a hand gently on the glass, fingertips brushing against the cool surface.

His reflection stared back at him, lopsided and quiet.

It didn’t look like a hero.

It didn’t even look like a student anymore.

Notes:

Omg, the end is coming near, guys!! I’m actually writing the ending of the story right now, can you believe it? There are still a few things I’m thinking of adding, so it’s all still a bit of a work in progress.

But here some news: there will be at least 7 more chapters to go!
And no worries — you won’t have to wait 7 weeks for them.

I’ll be uploading chapters on monday again.
Hope this makes you all as excited as I am💚

See you Monday in the next chapter!

Chapter 30: The Quiet Rebuild

The morning air in U.A.'s medical wing was calm. It was 9 AM on a Tuesday. Classes had started, but the medical wing was so distant that no voices could be heard. The sun had barely climbed past the tops of the dorms, casting long shadows over the polished floors.

Aizawa and All Might walked in silence side by side, the sound of their footsteps the only rhythm between them. They were called in by Recovery Girl for a talk.

When they reached the familiar white door to Recovery Girls office, All Might raised his hand and gave a soft knock, opening the door just a little. “Hello?” he called gently.

Recovery Girl looked up from her desk and offered a nod. “Welcome. Please, come in and take a seat.”

They entered the room quietly. Aizawa gave a slow nod in greeting, hands tucked into his pockets, while All Might offered a faint smile—one far smaller than the ones he used to wear so easily.

The office smelled faintly of antiseptic and tea leaves. Papers were neatly stacked on her desk, and a large folder labeled “MIDORIYA, I.” sat open near her elbow, a few sheets pulled out with notes scribbled in Recovery Girl’s precise handwriting.

“Tea?” she asked, her voice calm but carrying a certain tired weight behind it.

“Please,” Aizawa replied simply.

“Yes, thank you,” All Might added.

She poured from a small ceramic pot into three cups, the gentle clink of porcelain the only sound in the moment. Steam curled up from the tea, filling the room with a calming, herbal scent. Recovery Girl handed them their cups before sitting down herself with a small sigh.

Aizawa sipped without comment. All Might held his in both hands but hadn’t taken a sip yet.

“So,” Aizawa began, his voice low but direct, “what did you want to discuss?”

Recovery Girl took a breath, her eyes flickering toward the open file. “It’s regarding Midoriya.”

Both men nodded. Neither looked surprised.

“How has he been doing since returning here?” All Might asked, setting his cup down on the saucer.

Recovery Girl leaned back slightly in her chair, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “It’s only been a day, but... not without complications. This morning, he’s eating breakfast with Nurse Keiko, and he seems physically stable. But yesterday was difficult. He had several panic attacks.”

She paused for a moment, letting that land.

Aizawa’s gaze sharpened.

“One of those episodes,” she continued, “left him completely unresponsive. He wasn’t unconscious. He just... shut down. Stared at the bed for nearly fifteen minutes without barely blinking. No sound, no movement. Keiko was with him, holding his hand. But he didn’t react.”

All Might’s shoulders slumped, his expression troubled. He ran a hand over his face and nodded slowly. “I see...”

Recovery Girl folded her hands in her lap. “We believe it’s related to his new environment. He spent weeks in a hospital with consistent faces—Nurse Saito, Dr. Kyu. People he learned to trust. Now he’s back here, surrounded by unfamiliar walls, new routines, and staff he doesn’t know yet. It’s triggering his anxiety.”

Aizawa nodded. “Makes sense.”

“Last night,” she added, glancing at her notes, “I spoke to Dr. Kyu on the phone. We both agreed: if Midoriya doesn’t show some clear signs of psychological improvement this week—if he can’t begin settling in—we’ll have to move forward with more structured therapy. He’ll need a regular therapist assigned. One that works closely with trauma patients.”

The words were spoken softly, but they weighed heavy in the air.

Aizawa didn’t respond right away. He stared into his tea, his jaw tight. Then he slowly nodded. “Understood.”

All Might exhaled through his nose. “It’s not surprising... but still hard to hear.”

Recovery Girl gave a small, tired smile. “I’m a nurse. I’m meant to heal the body. I can help a wound close, monitor vitals, even manage pain. But I can’t repair the heart—not on my own. And Midoriya… his spirit took damage that can’t be stitched up.”

She took a long sip of her tea.

“Physically, he’s better than he was when he was first brought back,” she continued. “His injuries have mostly healed. The worst of his pain is now residual—phantom aches in his fingers, deep throbbing in his leg, and some tension across his back. But that’s manageable. It’s what’s inside that needs help.”

Aizawa finally looked up from his tea. “So he can move freely?”

“He can walk, yes, but not too long. He can eat on his own. Use the bathroom without assistance. Keiko is monitoring him constantly, and we’ve kept all medications on a strict schedule. He’s medically stable.”

“That’s a relief,” All Might murmured. “In a way.”

Recovery Girl nodded. “It is. But he doesn’t talk much. Not even to Keiko. She says sometimes he’ll nod or make a small sound, but he hasn’t strung more than a few words together since arriving. We’re observing his behavior closely to understand how best to support him. But right now, he’s a ghost of himself.”

There was a long pause after that.

No one rushed to speak.

Finally, All Might asked quietly, “Is there anything we can do?”

Recovery Girl gave him a thoughtful look. “He trusts you both—at least more than most. Continue to show up for him. Sit with him, talk even if he doesn’t respond. Make it clear he’s not alone. That’s the best foundation we can give him before the therapists step in.”

Aizawa nodded. “We’ll keep a close eye on him.”

“And if anything changes,” Recovery Girl said, rising to collect her notes, “I’ll let you know immediately.”

The two heroes stood up as well, finishing the last sips of their tea.

“Thank you for your time,” All Might said, offering a respectful bow.

“Take care of yourselves too,” she replied gently. “Midoriya’s not the only one carrying weight these days.”

Aizawa nodded silently, “can we see Midoriya now?”

“Of course.” Recovery girl replied.

And with that, the two made their way to Izuku’s room.
Just a few doors past Recovery Girl’s office, they stopped in front of the familiar room.

Aizawa raised his hand and gave a soft knock.

From inside, a gentle voice responded, “Come in.”

Aizawa opened the door slowly, stepping in first. The room was quiet, bathed in warm morning light streaming through the large window. The curtains were partly drawn, the golden sunlight casting long beams across the floor.

Nurse Keiko stood near a small dresser, neatly folding a pile of clean clothes. Her smile was kind but tired. “Good morning,” she greeted them cheerfully, glancing up from her task.

All Might followed Aizawa in, ducking slightly through the doorway out of habit. “Hey there,” he said warmly towards Izuku, his tone gentle, not wanting to startle him.

Across the room, Izuku sat in a chair by the window, a thick textbook resting on his lap. His back had been to the door, but at the sound of voices, he turned to look over his shoulder.

His expression was neutral at first, his eye faintly wide from surprise. But when he recognized who had entered, his shoulders relaxed just a little. He closed the book and gently set it on the small table beside him before slowly rising to his feet.

“Oh, no—don’t get up!” All Might held up his hands as he walked closer. “Really, don’t worry about us.”

But Izuku turned his chair carefully to face them and sat back down, movements a little stiff, but far more fluid than just a few days ago. It was progress.

Aizawa approached first, quiet as always. He sat on the edge of Izuku’s bed without a word, his eyes watching the boy carefully. All Might smiled and ruffled Izuku’s curls with a big, warm hand. “That’s a nice eyepatch you’ve got there. It suits you!”

Izuku ducked his head a little, his hand brushing over the black fabric that covered his eye. His voice came out quiet, hesitant. “…I got it from Kaminari and Kirishima.”

All Might’s face lit up even more. “How sweet of them.” He said as he took a chair from the corner and sat down beside Izuku, forming a loose circle between the three of them.

There was a moment of silence—not awkward, just gentle—before Aizawa finally broke it. “How are you doing today?”

Izuku didn’t respond immediately. His fingers fidgeted slightly with the hem of his sleeve. Then, after a long pause, he said softly, “Fine.”

From the other side of the room, Nurse Keiko chimed in as she placed folded shirts into a drawer. “Izuku had a good sleep last night, right?”

Izuku nodded slightly in confirmation.

All Might’s gaze drifted to the book lying next to Izuku on the table. “What were you reading?”

Without a word, Izuku reached out and handed it to him.

All Might glanced at the cover. “‘Beyond the Dunes,’ huh?” He flipped it over, skimming the summary on the back. “What’s it about?”

Izuku rubbed at his sleeve again. “So far… a family going on vacation. In the desert.”

All Might nodded as he scanned the genre listed near the barcode: Adventure. His brows relaxed a bit. That kind of story seemed safe—something simple, but with a spark of imagination. It might even help.

“This looks like a fun read,” he said sincerely.

Izuku gave a small nod. “Mom brought it for me.”

“That was kind of her.” All Might smiled again, handing the book back with gentle care.

Aizawa and All Might both noticed the faint redness on Izuku’s neck. Not knowing where it came from. But they decided not to talk about it.

A short silence followed. The air felt calm, but something unspoken lingered beneath it.

Then Izuku glanced toward the door. His voice was quieter this time. “Where’s Kacchan?”

Aizawa and All Might exchanged a quick look. It wasn’t an unusual question. Katsuki was always with them when they visited.
Now, they were with two.

“He’s in class,” Aizawa said, his tone even. “But I’m sure he’ll come by later.”

Izuku looked down at his hands. “…What if he doesn’t?” he asked.

Aizawa hesitated, not expecting the follow-up. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Then I’ll scold him.”

He tried to keep his tone light, almost joking. But Izuku seemed to take it seriously.

“I’m kidding,” Aizawa added quickly, trying to fix it. “He’ll come, Midoriya. Don’t worry. You know how stubborn he is—he just acts like it’s no big deal, but he’s probably already planning what to say to you.”

Izuku nodded, but it was slow, hesitant.

All Might leaned forward slightly. “Even if he gets caught up with school, he won’t forget you. No one here has. We’re all still with you.”

There was another quiet moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The room held a kind of peaceful stillness—the kind that came when no one expected anyone to be “okay,” but simply there.

Izuku’s eyes drifted to the window again, where the sunlight filtered through. His hand lightly touched the edge of his eyepatch once more, as if grounding himself with the texture.

…

After a few more minutes of soft conversation—mostly between Aizawa, All Might, and Nurse Keiko about medication, recovery schedules, and upcoming check-ins—the atmosphere in the room began to shift. The visit had run its course, and the unspoken agreement passed between the adults that it was time to give Izuku some space again.

“Well,” All Might said as he stood up, brushing imaginary dust from his pants, “we’ll leave now, young Midoriya.”

Aizawa rose more slowly, giving Izuku one last, thoughtful look before nodding. “If you need anything, Keiko can reach us.”

Nurse Keiko smiled warmly as she folded the last towel in her arms. “You did great this morning.”

Izuku gave a small nod, eyes down. “Thank you for visiting,” he said softly.

All Might gave him one more pat on the shoulder and moved toward the door, Aizawa right behind him. “We’ll see you soon.”

As the door swung closed behind them with a gentle click, the quiet returned—familiar and heavy. Izuku remained in his chair for a few seconds, listening to the fading footsteps in the hallway. Then, slowly, he shifted forward and pushed himself to his feet.

His legs trembled slightly, not from pain, but from the lingering weakness he still hadn’t fully recovered from. He walked, steadying himself with one hand along the wall as he crossed the small room.

The door to the private bathroom was just a few steps away. His fingers wrapped around the handle, gripping it tighter than necessary, and he pulled it open.

The light inside flickered on automatically as he stepped in. He stood still for a moment, catching his breath.

Then he closed the door gently behind him.

…

Time passed. After classes, the students of Class 3-A visited Izuku in small groups. It had started out enthusiastic, with everyone wanting to see him, check in, talk to him. But as the time went by, they began to notice how easily Izuku grew tired—how his shoulders would slump more after each visit, how his eye would drift toward the window or the floor, how sometimes he just stopped responding. The class understood. The trauma was still fresh. So they adjusted, shortening their visits, spacing them out. Just showing they were there, without overwhelming him.

But Katsuki wanted to visit alone.

He waited until evening, when the halls had quieted and the light outside turned golden. Around 6 PM, he stepped into the nurse wing with his hands shoved in his pockets. He had something to give.

As he pushed the door open, he saw Izuku sitting upright in bed with a wooden tray resting across his lap. He was eating slowly, quietly, but the moment the door creaked open, Izuku’s head turned—his eye sharp, flickering with recognition. Like he’d been waiting.

Katsuki blinked. “Oh. Excuse me,” he muttered, voice low.

Nurse Keiko turned from the cabinet with a soft smile. “Welcome, Katsuki. Come in.”

Izuku swallowed and smiled faintly. “Hi, Kacchan.”

Katsuki glanced at him. There was color in his face. Not much, but it was something. “Hey,” he replied, closing the door behind him.

“Have you eaten?” Keiko asked as she motioned to a second plate of still-warm food.

“I wasn’t hungry,” Katsuki replied without much thought.

“Well, eat some anyway. Lunch Rush made too much.” She held out the tray.

He hesitated only a second before taking it. “If you insist.”

He pulled a chair over and sat beside Izuku, close enough to be companionable, but not crowding. Izuku took another bite of rice while Katsuki dug into his own food. For a few minutes, the room was filled with quiet chewing and the distant sounds of UA’s evening routines.

“I thought you weren’t gonna come,” Izuku mumbled, still looking down at his tray.

Katsuki scoffed. “Of course I would, you idiot.”

There was no bite to his voice. Just tired honesty.

They ate in silence a little longer, until Katsuki put his water glass down and leaned back in his chair slightly. “Actually,” he began, “there’s something I wanted to give you. Well… the class and I.”

Izuku blinked, his eye turning toward him in curiosity.

Katsuki reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a small white box. He placed it carefully on the edge of the tray in front of Izuku.

Izuku looked at it. His hand trembled a little as he reached out to touch it.

“A phone…?” he asked softly.

“Yeah. Since we couldn’t find yours… this one’s new. It’s nothing fancy, just enough to message, call… the basics.”

Izuku held the box like it was made of glass. “Thank you…” he murmured, overwhelmed and unsure what else to say.

“The whole class pitched in,” Katsuki added. “They wanted you to be able to reach out, too. Not just wait for us to show up.”

Izuku opened the box carefully, almost reverently. Inside was a sleek new phone, already charged.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said, voice trembling just a little.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Katsuki said. “Want me to set it up?”

Izuku nodded and handed it to him. Katsuki took it and began working on the setup—creating a PIN, adding a fingerprint, setting a lockscreen background. He helped Izuku get into the class group chat.

“You lost all your old photos though,” Katsuki muttered.

“They weren’t that important,” Izuku said quickly.

Katsuki glanced up at him. “Not?”

Izuku shook his head. “No.”

He stared down at the screen. “Thank you, Kacchan.”

“You’re welcome,” Katsuki said, trying not to sound too awkward.

Izuku turned to look directly at him. There was a quiet intensity in his gaze that Katsuki hadn’t seen in a while—faint, but present.

Then Izuku asked, “Kacchan… can we go outside?”

Katsuki blinked. “Outside? Now?”

Izuku nodded. “Just… a walk. I want to feel the air.”

Katsuki hesitated, glancing toward Nurse Keiko, who was gathering the empty dishes and stacking them neatly on a tray to be sent off for cleaning.

“Can we?” he asked, his voice low but clear, a slight tilt of his head indicating Izuku.

Keiko paused and looked up. “I’ll ask Shuzenji,” she said with a nod, already making her way toward Recovery Girl’s office just a few doors away.

Izuku watched quietly, his fingers resting on the edge of his blanket, eye flicking between the door and Katsuki. He looked tense—but hopeful.

A few minutes later, the door opened again. Keiko returned, with Recovery Girl following close behind.

“Hey,” Katsuki greeted with a polite nod.

Recovery Girl gave a small smile, but her tone was serious. “It’s alright. You can take him out for a short while—but please, contact us right away if anything seems wrong.”

She stepped closer, holding out a small slip of paper with her personal number on it.

“I’m not sure how busy it is outside,” she added, directing her gaze specifically at Katsuki, “but do your best to avoid large groups or students. For Midoriya’s sake.”

Katsuki took the paper and nodded. “Right. Got it.” He slipped it into his jacket pocket carefully.

Izuku looked up at them both with quiet gratitude. He didn't say anything, but the slight shift in his shoulders said enough—like the weight of the walls around him had just eased, even if only a little.

Chapter 31: Somewhere Quiet

Katsuki and Izuku stepped into the hallway, the soft hum of the nurse wing door closing behind them. Katsuki had tried—twice—to convince Izuku to take a wheelchair, even just until they reached outside. But Izuku had stubbornly shaken his head, muttering that he wanted to walk on his own, to build strength. More importantly, he didn’t want to be seen in a wheelchair. Not by other students. Not when he already felt exposed enough.

Katsuki didn’t push the matter again. He understood. The weight of eyes could be suffocating.

They made their way slowly toward the elevator. Izuku’s steps were steady, though cautious—still a little stiff, his muscles clearly not yet used to the strain. Katsuki stayed close by, one hand hovering subtly near Izuku’s elbow, ready to catch him if he so much as stumbled. But he didn’t.

Izuku walked with purpose. Not much strength yet, but the determination was there. Just like always.

As they stepped into the elevator, the metallic doors slid closed behind them with a soft hiss. Katsuki glanced to his side. Izuku was watching the floor numbers climb down, his arms crossed loosely. Even now, with his expression unreadable and his face half shadowed by the black eyepatch that disappeared into his unruly curls, Katsuki could still catch the glimmer of the old Midoriya in his posture—the tightness in his jaw when he was trying not to show pain, the way his eye flicked around, constantly alert.

Keiko had mentioned earlier that Izuku had been walking more inside his room. Around the bed, to the window, to the little desk by the wall. And now here he was. Out in the hallway. Out of the nurse’s ward. It was progress, and Katsuki knew better than to downplay it.

Izuku wore a pair of simple black sweatpants and a loose-fitting T-shirt—light, breathable fabric that was easy to move around in. It was a far cry from the usual uniform or the gear he used to wear during training, but it suited him now. Comfortable, unrestrictive. He didn’t need anything fancy. Just clothes that didn’t press against healing skin or tight muscles.

It was already mid-July, and the warmth of summer had fully settled over the campus. The days had grown longer, the sun staying high until late evening, painting everything in soft gold.

Summer vacation was right around the corner—just two more weeks and the third years, like everyone else, would get three weeks off. A much-needed break after the chaos of the last few months. Katsuki glanced sideways at Izuku. He hopes—really hopes—that Izuku would be well enough to leave U.A. by then. Not just physically, but mentally too. Even if it was just for a few days. Just to breathe somewhere else for a while. Somewhere without beeping monitors and watchful eyes.

Of course, U.A. would stay open during the summer break. There were always extra training classes, remedial courses, or students who simply didn’t have a home to return to. Katsuki had already decided he’d stick around regardless—he wasn’t going to leave while Izuku was still recovering. Not after everything.

Still, he knew U.A. could get quiet during break. Eerily quiet. Without the usual noise of daily classes, group sparring, and the occasional explosive racket from support course projects, the halls felt almost hollow. Lonely, even.

He didn’t want Izuku to go through that kind of silence alone.

So yeah—he hoped. Hoped that in two weeks’ time, Izuku would be strong enough to step outside these walls, even if just for a while. To feel like a person again, not a patient. Not a survivor being watched over.

Just Izuku.

When the elevator doors opened with a soft chime, they stepped into the quiet first floor. The building felt oddly empty. Most students were in the cafeteria by now, eating dinner or chatting with their friends. That worked in their favor—less attention, less pressure.

They didn’t use the main entrance. Katsuki led them toward one of the side exits—one of the back doors that opened out near the training grounds. A path the class often used when they didn’t want to bump into everyone.

As they stepped out, the warmth of early evening washed over them. The sun hung lower in the sky, casting long shadows on the ground and drenching everything in a soft, golden glow. A breeze picked up, warm and lazy, tugging at Izuku’s shirt and rustling Katsuki’s hair.

Izuku closed his eye and turned his face toward the sky for a moment, letting the wind brush across his skin. The sunlight glinted off the eyepatch’s edge. His hand briefly rested on the windowsill just outside the building, as if grounding himself, before they stepped further out onto the wide grass field.

“You’re walking better now,” Katsuki said after a minute, watching Izuku’s gait. It was still slow and careful, but there was less of that painful stiffness from before.

“Mhm,” Izuku answered quietly. “I’ve been practicing.”

“I can see that,” Katsuki said with a small nod. He meant it too. Izuku’s endurance, even if still low, had improved.

They walked a bit farther onto the sports field. Towards a grass field. The campus was peaceful at this hour. Only the distant sounds of birds and the occasional murmur of the wind in the trees filled the air.

“Let’s sit,” Izuku said suddenly, his voice soft but clear.

Katsuki blinked. “What, here? On the grass?”

Izuku looked at him like he was the one being weird. “Yeah.”

Katsuki huffed a small breath through his nose but didn’t argue. It wasn’t a bad spot—the grass was thick and green beneath them, still warm from the day’s heat. Izuku lowered himself carefully onto the grass, leaning slightly forward as he went. Katsuki knelt beside him and sat cross-legged, just close enough to catch him if he needed help, but not so close as to crowd him.

For a while, they said nothing. Just sat there, surrounded by the quiet hum of summer and the low rustle of leaves. Izuku kept his eye on the horizon, watching the sun inch closer to the edge of the sky. Katsuki followed his gaze, letting the stillness settle over them both.

There was something grounding about it. No walls. No beeping machines. Just open sky and fading sunlight.

Katsuki glanced at Izuku again. He wasn’t smiling, but the tense line in his shoulders had eased slightly. Maybe this was the first time in a long time he’d felt even a little bit normal.

The breeze that brushed past them was soft, rustling the grass around where they sat, carrying the warm scent of summer with it. The long silence between the two wasn’t uncomfortable—if anything, it was peaceful. The kind of silence only possible between people who knew each other too well to need constant words.

After a while, Katsuki finally broke it.

“…Have you… used One for All yet?”

He immediately felt stupid the moment the words left his mouth. Izuku could barely walk. What the hell was he thinking? Of course he hadn’t used it. Still, the question hung in the air.

Izuku didn’t answer right away. He stared ahead, his eye half-lidded in thought. Then, softly, his voice broke through. “No… but…” His tone was quiet, like he wasn’t sure if he should even be saying it. “I talked to the first user when I was in the hospital.”

Katsuki blinked. “Really?”

Izuku gave a small nod, the movement almost imperceptible. “He… made contact with me.”

Katsuki kept his eyes on him, waiting for more, but Izuku went quiet again.
Katsuki didn’t want to push further

“I don't think it's smart for me to use it yet." Izuku said.

“You shouldn’t,” Katsuki said quickly, firmly. “Not yet. Don’t push yourself.”

Izuku’s shoulders slumped slightly. He didn’t argue. Deep down, he knew Katsuki was right. His body still had a long way to go. He needed to rebuild the strength he’d lost, regain the muscle that had atrophied during these months. One for All would only tear him apart right now.

There was a pause.

Katsuki shifted slightly, his eyes drifting to Izuku’s left side. From where he sat, he could clearly see the dull, hollow look in Izuku’s left eye. Still clouded over. Still unfocused. Like it was looking through the world rather than at it. There was no light there, not the spark of curiosity or determination that used to shine so clearly.

Without really thinking, Katsuki reached out and placed a hand on Izuku’s back. He started to rub small, slow circles between his shoulder blades—something quiet, grounding. It wasn’t even a conscious decision. He just… did it.

Izuku startled a little. His eyes widened and his back stiffened—but he didn’t pull away. He turned his face, looking at Katsuki with an expression of surprise.

Katsuki didn’t meet his gaze. His own eyes were focused ahead, as if he wanted to avoid eye contact with Izuku because he was embarrassed. After all, he wasn’t the type to show affection, much less physically.

Izuku looked down quickly, his fingers tightening around the hem of his sweatpants. His lips pressed together into a thin line.

Katsuki noticed, and he quickly pulled his hand back towards himself. “Sorry.” He mumbled.

Izuku looked up to meet Katsuki’s eyes
“…No.”

Katsuki glanced sideways. “Huh?”

“I wasn’t uncomfortable,” Izuku said, louder this time. His voice still soft, still hoarse, but more sure of itself. “It’s… It’s okay.”

Katsuki’s face flushed almost instantly. His cheeks turned a light red, and he felt the heat rising to his ears.

“Tch. Whatever,” he muttered, leaning his chin into his palm and turning his face away, trying to hide the reaction. He stared off at the empty field like the grass had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world.

But before either of them could settle back into that calm, an obnoxiously familiar voice cut through the still air behind them.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the shining stars of Class A,” The annoying voice called out, unmistakably smug.

Katsuki’s expression immediately twisted with irritation. He turned his head, his brow already furrowed, ready to bark back.

Behind them stood Monoma and Tetsutetsu, both in their PE uniforms, clearly done eating but ready to train on the field. Tetsutetsu looked a little exasperated with his classmate already.

“Monoma, behave,” Tetsutetsu said under his breath, trying to rein him in before anything could escalate.

But Monoma didn’t stop. “How interesting. I didn’t expect to see the ‘strongest of Class A’ lounging in the grass like civilians instead of training. Shouldn’t the great Bakugou and Midoriya be sparring? Saving the world?”

Katsuki clenched his jaw. His hands curled into fists. He didn’t even care what Monoma was saying—he never did. But now? Now wasn’t the time. Not with Izuku still fragile, still recovering, still learning how to just exist again without the weight of trauma pushing down on every breath.

Izuku had turned, slowly, when Monoma first spoke. The movement was sluggish, but deliberate. His eye, the remaining one, found Monoma’s face.

Monoma faltered mid-step. The smirk on his face slowly faded. His voice died in his throat.

Because the emptiness behind Izuku’s eye wasn’t just blank. It wasn’t hollow in a forgettable way. It was heavy. Haunted. It was like staring into something that had seen things you weren’t meant to see.

Monoma’s breath caught.

Tetsutetsu shifted awkwardly beside him, his gaze flickering from the eyepatch over Izuku’s right eye to the deep, eerie void in the left.

“H-Hey…” Tetsutetsu greeted awkwardly, voice softer, gentler now.

Katsuki was already rising to his feet, moving in front of Izuku like a protective wall. “Let’s go,” he said firmly, turning to Izuku and offering his hand.

Izuku didn’t hesitate. He looked up at Katsuki, then slowly took his hand. Katsuki helped him up, keeping a firm grip on his arm as Izuku stumbled a little. But he caught himself, steadied, and stood.

Neither of them said anything to Monoma or Tetsutetsu as they turned and started walking away.

“Wait a second!” Monoma called out, his voice sharp with sudden realization. “You were sick for a while, right, Midoriya? We haven’t seen you in the cafeteria or the halls for over a month.”

Izuku didn’t stop walking, but he didn’t answer either. Instead, his gaze shifted sideways to Katsuki, silently asking what to do.

Katsuki narrowed his eyes. He could hear the subtle suspicion beneath Monoma’s words—curious, maybe even accusatory. “Yeah,” Katsuki muttered lowly, barely glancing over his shoulder. “He got a fever. He’s still recovering.”

His tone was clipped, defensive. His body angled protectively as if shielding Izuku from further questioning. Monoma wasn’t worth explaining anything to.

Then, Katsuki leaned in close, his breath brushing against Izuku’s ear as he whispered, “Let’s go somewhere else.”

Izuku dipped his head in a small nod, and the two continued walking, leaving the grassy field behind and stepping toward the shaded trail that led into the woods behind U.A.

As the sunlight shifted across Izuku’s figure, Monoma and Tetsutetsu caught sight of something that hadn’t been visible at first glance—long, thin scars etched into Izuku’s arms. Around his wrists, the marks were heavier. Jagged rings of scar tissue in angry red and pale white tones. They contrasted against the more faded battle scars from the war—these were recent, raw, and unmistakably deliberate.

Tetsutetsu’s brow furrowed. These weren’t the kinds of injuries one got from fighting a villain—not unless the villain had some sort of slicing quirk, or used knives. And even then, these scars told a different story. One of pain that had lasted longer than a fight.

Neither of them said anything right away as they watched the two disappear into the trees, the shadows swallowing them until they were gone.

Tetsutetsu was the first to blink, like shaking off a trance, and then slowly turned to Monoma, confusion etched across his face.

That was when Kendo came jogging up, her pace a little uneven from running to catch up. “Hey, sorry it took so long! I’m ready now.” She huffed, brushing a hand through her hair as she tried to catch her breath.

Tetsutetsu looked at Monoma, but his expression didn’t change. “Was that… really Midoriya?” he asked, voice low, uncertain.

“Huh? What are you talking about?” Kendo asked, pausing mid-sentence. “What do you mean?”

Monoma didn’t look at them. His eyes were still fixed on the woods, locked onto the spot where Izuku and Katsuki had disappeared.

“Kendo,” Monoma said, voice unusually serious, “Midoriya was absent for a while, right? Didn’t Mr. Vlad say something about a fever?”

Kendo nodded slowly, confused by the sudden change in tone. “Yeah. He mentioned something like that to me and the other girls. We noticed Midoriya hadn’t been in the cafeteria or seen anywhere, so we asked. Vlad-sensei said he got a bad fever and had to take medical leave.”

She rubbed the back of her head, frowning slightly. “He said Midoriya needed time to recover, but didn’t really go into details. Why?”

Monoma glanced at Tetsutetsu. “A bad fever… or something else?” he asked, voice quiet but loaded with implication.

Kendo crossed her arms. “Okay, what’s going on with you two? You’re being weird.”

“We just saw him,” Monoma said. “Midoriya. With Bakugou. And he was wearing an eyepatch.”

Kendo raised an eyebrow. “Alright…? So maybe the fever messed up his eye or something. That happens sometimes with bad infections.”

Monoma’s head snapped to her, eyes sharp. “No, Kendo. I’m certain there was scarring beneath the eyepatch.” He turned to Tesutetsu. “Did you see the scars around his wrists?” Monoma asked.

Tetsutetsu nodded. “Yeah. I don’t think those scars were there before. I mean his arm got pretty bad scarred after the war. But these were fresh.”

Kendo’s expression faltered slightly, but she stayed skeptical. “What are you implying?”

“Midoriya looked… different,” Tetsutetsu said. “His left eye—it was blank. Hollow. Like it wasn’t really seeing anything. And when Bakugou helped him up, he stumbled. Like he had no strength.”

Kendo scoffed. “Come on. It’s Midoriya. You really expect me to believe that? He’s tough. He probably got beat up by a fever and hasn’t fully bounced back. That’s all.”

“We’re serious,” Monoma said, his voice dropping to a low tone. “It didn’t feel like he was recovering from some flu. It felt like something else happened. Something they’re not telling anyone.”

Kendo looked between them, frustration tightening her expression. “Look, maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s recovering from something worse. But it’s none of our business. If Bakugou is with him, then he’s being looked after. That guy wouldn’t let anything happen to him again, not after everything.”

Tetsutetsu and Monoma exchanged another glance, a silent agreement passing between them. Neither of them was convinced. Not completely.

Kendo let out a sigh, clearly growing irritated. “This doesn’t concern us. If something’s wrong, the teachers or the pro heroes will handle it. We’re not investigators. We’re students. Come on, let’s go train.”

Monoma finally looked away from the woods.

Tetsutetsu nodded reluctantly. “Right.”

But even as the three walked off toward the training building, the image of Midoriya’s scars, that hollow eye, and the way he clung to Bakugou’s side lingered in their minds.

Something had happened.

And whatever it was, it was worse than anyone was saying.

…

Katsuki and Izuku had walked in silence through the small stretch of forest behind U.A., the shade of the trees giving them a brief break from the midsummer heat. The trail was quiet, save for the crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the soft rustling of leaves stirred by a passing breeze. Eventually, they emerged into a clearing where another sports field lay beyond a low hill. It was one of U.A.’s few fields—but because of the smaller size, it was quiet, distant, perfect for privacy. There was an old wooden bench nearby, half shaded, and they sat down side by side.

From here, the vastness of the U.A. campus was clear—stretched far beyond what most students ever saw. It was built like a fortress, yet within its borders were hidden corners like this, almost peaceful.

Katsuki leaned back and let out a slow exhale. For a while, neither of them spoke. The wind carried the sounds of insects chirping and the occasional distant call of a bird.

Then, Katsuki spoke

“Toward the students who were wondering where you were,” he said, his voice low but steady, “the teachers told them you caught a fever.”

Izuku’s gaze dropped to the ground at his feet. “Right.”

Katsuki turned his head slightly, trying to read him. Normally, he’d know exactly what Izuku was feeling—he’d grown up reading every twitch of the guy’s face. But now, since Izuku had changed. Not just physically. Emotionally. There were pieces of him missing, and others that didn’t fit the way they used to.

Katsuki had a hard time reading those unknown moments.

Izuku brought a hand up and idly ran his fingers through his messy green curls, brushing some of the strands more toward the right side of his face. Katsuki’s eyes tracked the motion.

He recognized it. Izuku was trying to hide his eye. Or rather, the eyepatch that covered his right side. A reflex. Defensive. Maybe embarrassed.

Katsuki shifted a little closer and, without overthinking, reached out slowly and ran his hand through Izuku’s hair, fingers pushing gently through the thick curls.

“You should really cut your hair,” he murmured.

Izuku tensed under his touch, his body going stiff for just a second. Katsuki froze, picking up on it instantly.

The word cut.

Katsuki immediately realized the mistake. But Izuku didn’t recoil—he just swallowed hard and said, “It’s getting long.”

“Yeah,” Katsuki replied softly, letting his hand drop. “Haven’t seen it this long on you before.”

“It’s warm,” Izuku added, voice quiet. His tone wasn’t quite complaining, more like stating a fact, something to say to keep the air between them from growing heavy again.

“I can imagine,” Katsuki said, glancing at the way the strands curled along Izuku’s nape. “It’s probably crawling on your neck.”

Izuku gave a tiny nod, brushing a bit more of his hair behind his ear. “I… don’t know who should…” He hesitated, swallowing again. “C-cut it.”

The stumble in the word wasn’t subtle. Katsuki winced a little internally but didn’t let it show.

“Maybe a hairdresser can come to U.A.,” he offered quickly, gently. “I’m sure someone could set that up.”

Izuku nodded, his eyes still on the ground.

“Or maybe U.A. already has a personal hairstylist,” Katsuki added with a light chuckle, trying to break the tension.

That drew a small breath from Izuku—almost a laugh. “U.A. really has everything, so it wouldn’t be surprising…” he mumbled. His voice was half-joking, half-serious. The kind of line that might’ve been completely playful before—before all this.

Katsuki smiled faintly. “Yeah,” he said, turning his gaze to the sky, where clouds were streaked with the soft amber of early sunset.

They sat there for a while longer, letting the silence settle between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt almost… normal. Like how things used to be, in moments when the world wasn’t crashing down around them.

The air grew cooler as the sun began to dip lower, staining the horizon with hues of orange, pink, and violet. The breeze picked up slightly, rustling the tall grass and making Izuku’s hair shift gently in the wind.

…

Eventually, Katsuki glanced at the time on his phone.

“It’s past eight,” he muttered. “We should head back.”

Izuku looked up, surprised by how quickly time had passed. He nodded and slowly stood up, his movements careful but less stiff than earlier. Katsuki stood beside him and automatically offered an arm—not because Izuku needed it, but because it was just instinct at this point.

Izuku hesitated, then leaned into it slightly as they started walking back the way they came. The woods were a bit darker now, but the fading light filtered in through the trees, casting everything in soft, golden shadows.

Katsuki didn’t speak as they walked. Neither did Izuku. But the silence between them felt different now—less like a barrier and more like a quiet understanding. There were still things neither of them could say out loud, not yet. But for now, being there, side by side, was enough.

…

They returned to Izuku’s room, where Keiko and Recovery Girl were already waiting. Both smiled as they walked in.

"Did you have a good time?" Recovery Girl asked warmly.

Izuku gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth lifting just a bit.

For a while, they all chatted quietly, the atmosphere gentle and calm. Eventually, Katsuki stood up, stretching slightly.

"I'll head out now," he said, his voice rough but softer than usual.

He gave Izuku a short wave. “See ya.”

Izuku lifted his hand in return, a faint, genuine spark in his eyes.

As the door clicked shut behind Katsuki, Recovery Girl and Keiko exchanged a glance. Izuku looked a little more lit up than before—less heavy, more present. They didn’t say anything, but the change didn’t go unnoticed.

Chapter 32: Somewhere Safe

[one more week before the summer vacation]

It was Friday. The week slipped by in a quiet blur—at least, for the rest of the students. They went to their classes as usual, trained hard, studied, and kept their routines going. But every day, without fail, they made time to visit Midoriya.

For Izuku, the days felt different. His mornings and afternoons were long and mostly spent alone. Recovery Girl checked in often, and along with Keiko. She made sure he ate, drank, and rested properly. Still, those hours dragged. The silence in the nurse’s wing wasn’t comforting—it was heavy. Every small sound felt louder, and even the ticking of the clock seemed to echo too much in his head.

But when his classmates came to visit… the air shifted. It wasn’t loud or overwhelming—just lighter. Their voices, their stories about class or training, even their silly arguments about food or video games, gave Izuku something to focus on. Something to anchor him. Time moved a little faster then. Not normal yet, but closer to it.

On Thursday, he had a checkup scheduled. He was taken back to the same hospital, back to Dr. Kyu and Nurse Saito. It was both nerve-wracking and comforting. Seeing familiar faces made Izuku’s chest loosen a little, even if he didn’t fully understand why. All Might and Aizawa came with him, their presence solid and reassuring.

Dr. Kyu greeted him with a calm smile and observed him carefully as he walked into the room. Izuku was moving better—steadier on his feet, his hands not shaking as much. Physically, he was recovering. His face had lost some of its sickly pallor, and the hollow look in his cheeks had softened. But his eye… his eye still held a deep emptiness. A distant, haunted kind of silence that no amount of sleep seemed to erase.

During the checkup, Izuku quietly mentioned the late-afternoon walks he'd been taking yesterday and the day before—just around the grounds, with Katsuki at his side. He didn’t say much about them, just that they helped. His legs felt stronger. His breathing came easier.

Dr. Kyu nodded thoughtfully, writing notes while Nurse Saito checked Izuku’s vitals. "That’s good," Dr. Kyu said. “Movement helps. Familiar faces too.”

Izuku’s mother, Inko, had also been visiting every single day. She brought warm meals from home and clean clothes, made sure his sheets were changed, and often just sat with him, quietly stroking his hair when the weight of the world got too much. She was always gentle, always careful—but Izuku could still see the fear behind her tired eyes. The fear of losing her son in a different way.

Despite all the support and care, there was still one thing no one could ignore: the panic attacks.

Every night, Izuku was tormented by nightmares. Vivid, sharp, suffocating dreams that dragged him back into places he didn’t want to remember. And it wasn’t just at night. Sometimes, during the day, he’d space out. Freeze. Breathe too fast. There were moments when something as small as a dropped pen or a sudden cough would trigger him. His hands would go to his throat, clutching at it like he was choking. Other times, he’d retreat into a corner of the room, crouched down, fingers digging into his skin, lost in a memory only he could see.

Yesterday had been particularly bad. Several small triggers sent him into panic responses, all while he was alone. Hallucinations, they suspected—flashes of trauma replaying in his mind.

By the time Thursday’s checkup ended, Dr. Kyu and Recovery Girl had made a decision: Izuku needed therapy.

It wasn’t just about healing his body anymore. His mind had suffered a wound that couldn’t be ignored. Beginning next week, he would start trauma-focused therapy— three times a week at first, with the frequency reducing over time based on his progress.

They needed Inko’s permission for that, of course.

Later that evening, Recovery Girl and All Might sat down with her, explaining everything gently but clearly. When they mentioned the PTSD diagnosis, Inko’s expression cracked. Tears welled up in her eyes, and for a moment, she looked like she might fall apart right there.

But she didn’t.

She wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded.

“I understand,” she said softly. “Please… just help him. Do whatever you need to.”

Even in her heartbreak, she stood strong for her son.

And with that, the first steps were taken toward healing the wounds that couldn’t be seen.

…

Saturday morning arrived with soft sunlight spilling through the windows of U.A.'s nurse wing. The air was still, and campus felt quieter than usual. Most of the students had left Friday evening to return home for the weekend, eager for a short break from the intensity of school life. The dorms were almost silent, the usual buzz of voices replaced with peaceful emptiness.

But not everyone had left.

Katsuki had chosen to stay behind. He didn’t make a big deal out of it, didn’t explain his reasons to anyone—not even to Izuku—but everyone could guess. He claimed he wanted peace and quiet to train, but it was obvious to those who knew him that he was staying for Izuku’s sake. He didn’t hover or smother him, but he was around. Most of the day, he spent nearby—either in the hallway, sitting in a chair by the bed with his arms crossed, or pacing silently while scrolling through his phone.

He didn’t push Izuku to talk, didn’t force conversation. But his presence was grounding. Just having him there made the silence feel a little less heavy.

Uraraka, Tsuyu and Hagakure had also stayed at the dorms. They came by on both Saturday and Sunday afternoon, bringing with them snacks, board games, and even a small speaker to play some gentle background music. They tried to lighten the mood, and while their laughter wasn’t as bright as usual, it was sincere.

They played a few games together—easy ones, ones that didn’t need much thinking—but Izuku mostly sat and watched. He held the cards once or twice, tried to listen when they joked around, but his hands often trembled just slightly, and his eyes still had that distant, foggy look. Still, he was there. That mattered.

When Tsuyu made a joke and Uraraka laughed so hard she snorted, Izuku’s lips twitched upward. It was barely a smile, but it was something. Enough for the girls to exchange a quick look of relief.

On Sunday, a hairdresser came to U.A. It had been arranged quietly by Recovery Girl. Izuku’s hair had grown longer, uneven in places, matted and difficult to manage.
Izuku had freaked out when he first saw the scissors, the sharpness reminded him of something he didn’t want to remember.
But as Katsuki was at his side, he eventually calmed down and let the hairdresser cut his hair.

The hairdresser was gentle, patient, speaking only when spoken to. Izuku didn’t protest. He sat still while the strands were trimmed away, falling in soft clumps to the floor. It was the first time in a while that Izuku had looked a little more like himself again—cleaner, sharper, less lost in his appearance. Even if his eye was still dulled by exhaustion, his face looked less worn beneath the tidier haircut.

The weekend passed slowly but manageable. A few panic attacks and episodes. But mostly just quiet moments, the kind that felt fragile but precious. Like the calm before a storm or the space between deep breaths.

And then, Monday morning arrived.

Izuku was already awake by the time the sun rose. He hadn't slept much the night before—again—but it wasn’t due to nightmares this time. He was anxious. Today marked the start of something new.

His first therapy session.

He sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in fresh clothes Keiko had laid out earlier. His hands were resting in his lap, fingers twitching slightly as he stared at the floor. Recovery Girl came in with a gentle knock, followed by Keiko, both offering calm smiles.

“You ready, Izuku?” Recovery Girl asked softly.

He didn’t answer immediately. Then, he nodded once, slow but sure.

This wasn’t going to be easy. Talking about the things he’d been through… remembering them on purpose… it scared him. But somewhere deep inside, Izuku knew that healing wasn’t going to happen on its own.

Recovery Girl guided Izuku down a floor lower with the elevator. The lighting here was softer, less clinical. Dim, but not cold—like the hallway had been designed to offer calm rather than urgency.

Izuku followed silently, his footsteps light, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be here.

Ahead stretched a short corridor lined with several doors, each marked with small plaques in muted silver tones. There were no loud signs, no room numbers—just quiet titles like Wellness Office, Faculty Counseling, Support Services. He hadn’t been to this part of the building before. It didn’t feel like the nurse’s station, and it wasn’t exactly a classroom wing either. It was somewhere in between. Not restricted, but not public. A space tucked away for those who needed it, but only if someone gave you permission to enter.

They stopped at the second door on the left.

“This is it,” Recovery Girl said gently, giving him a soft look. “He’ll be waiting for you inside.”

Izuku’s eyes drifted to the door handle. It was plain, brushed steel, cool to the touch. He didn’t move to open it right away. Something about standing there made his chest tighten—like the moment right before a plunge.

Recovery Girl noticed and gave a small, patient smile. Then she reached forward and opened the door for him. “I’ll be right here when your session’s done,” she added, her voice warm. “And dear… remember, it’s okay to open up.”

Izuku didn’t say anything, but he gave the faintest nod. She stepped aside, and he entered.

The door clicked softly behind him.

The first thing Izuku noticed was the scent—delicate, unexpected. The room smelled faintly of cherry blossoms. Not overpowering, just a soft trace in the air, like the lingering memory of spring. It was comforting, in a strange way. Familiar, even if he wasn’t sure why.

A man stepped forward from behind a desk.

He looked to be in his late forties, tall and slightly lean, with a calm presence that felt neither stiff nor overly cheerful. He wore a neatly pressed blue-and-white checkered shirt tucked into black pants. His dark blue hair was curly, a little unruly in the back, and he wore a simple pair of round glasses over warm brown eyes.

“Hey,” the man said, voice smooth but casual. “You must be Izuku Midoriya.”

He raised a hand slowly, offering a handshake without pressure.

“My name is Shin Shibata. But just call me Shin. No need for anything formal in here.”

Izuku’s eyes scanned the man—his posture, his eyes, his hands. Then his gaze shifted around the room, cautious and observant, the way someone might survey unfamiliar terrain. Only after a few seconds did he reach forward and take Shin’s hand.

“…Nice to meet you,” he said quietly, almost under his breath.

Shin gave a warm nod, then gestured gently to the space behind him. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable.”

The room was cozy, lived-in but neat. A tall bookshelf lined one wall, filled not only with academic-looking texts but also fiction novels and a few old, framed photographs. Beneath the large window were two soft-looking couches in a muted sage green, with a small, low table between them. On the opposite side of the room was a tiny kitchenette, with a coffee machine and water boiler quietly humming in the background. There were two mugs on the counter, one of them steaming gently.

It wasn’t a big space, but it didn’t need to be. The sunlight filtered in through the blinds, casting pale gold stripes across the floor. It still felt like morning.

Izuku made his way to one of the couches, moving carefully, his shoulders tight with nerves. He sat down at the edge of the cushion, back straight and hands clasped in his lap, his eyes flicking downward.

“Would you like something to drink?” Shin asked kindly as he moved toward the counter.

Izuku glanced up at him, hesitated, then nodded once. “W… Water,” he said, voice soft and a little shaky.

Shin poured a glass and carried it over, setting it gently on the table in front of Izuku before taking a seat on the opposite couch with his own coffee. The silence wasn’t awkward. It just… lingered.

“I don’t think we’ve met before,” Shin began, folding his hands loosely in his lap. “I work as a therapist here at U.A. I’m on campus Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. The other days I’m at a different clinic in the city.”

Izuku gave a tiny nod in acknowledgment but didn’t respond. His gaze had dropped again, fingers now fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. When he saw his scarred nail beds, he retreated.

Shin didn’t push. He smiled gently, his posture open, relaxed.

“This is a safe space, Izuku,” he said after a few moments. “Anything you say here stays between us. You can talk, or not talk. Whatever you need. There’s no pressure to share before you're ready.”

Izuku didn’t answer right away. But his fingers stilled for just a moment.

“Do… students really go to therapy here?” Izuku asked, voice hushed and unsure.

Shin nodded without hesitation. “Yes, they do. More than you might think.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees in a casual, unthreatening posture. “Some students carry personal trauma from before they entered UA. Others need help processing things they experienced on missions—injuries, failure, the fear of it going wrong next time. Even just… stress. This profession, being a hero, it’s heavy. You carry a lot on your shoulders, and sometimes it leaks into places you don’t expect.”

Izuku's gaze dropped to the floor, and he nodded slowly, almost mechanically.

Shin didn’t press. He let the quiet linger for a bit, allowing Izuku to breathe.

“You don’t have to talk about anything specific today,” Shin said gently. “This first session is just about you getting used to the space. To me. There’s no deadline for healing.”

Izuku didn’t respond, but his posture eased ever so slightly—shoulders still tight, but not clenched anymore.

“I know it’s hard,” Shin continued. “Opening up… especially about things that hurt… it feels like peeling open a wound and showing someone the worst of it. But sometimes talking helps you see that the pain doesn’t define you. It’s just something you survived.”

Izuku fidgeted again, thumbs tracing over the lines on his palm. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but he closed them again.

After a moment, Shin stood and walked to the bookcase. He pulled a small black notebook from one of the shelves—unassuming, with no title or label—and returned to Izuku.

“I want to show you something,” Shin said, holding out the notebook. “This is yours if you want it. A diary. A journal. A place to vent, to write things down when the words won’t come out loud.”

Izuku looked at the notebook like it was something foreign.

“You don’t have to write poetry or full sentences,” Shin said softly. “You can scribble. Draw. Write just one word if that’s all you can manage. You don’t have to show it to anyone. Not even me. But it’s something. A safe place for your thoughts to go, so they don’t just stay inside and rot.”

Izuku slowly reached out and took the notebook. His fingers brushed over the cover. The paper inside was blank, untouched.

“…What if I don’t know what to write?” he asked in a whisper.

“Then start with that,” Shin said with a soft smile. “Write ‘I don’t know what to write.’ That’s a place to begin. Sometimes the page answers back.”

Izuku held the notebook closer to his chest, almost protectively.

“It’s something i give to most of my clients, it really helps.” Shin added.

Izuku nodded.

Shin leaned back slightly into the couch, his coffee now cooling on the table between them. Izuku still hadn’t touched his water, but he held the notebook in his lap like a fragile shield. His fingers rested on the cover, unmoving.

“I spoke with Recovery Girl before this session,” Shin said, voice low and calm, like he was treading carefully. “She mentioned some of the things you’ve been going through… Nightmares. Panic attacks. Dissociative episodes.”

Izuku didn’t respond at first, but after a few seconds, he gave a slow nod.

Shin watched him quietly. Not judging—just observing. “Can you sleep well?”

Izuku’s eyes stayed downcast. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“…On whether I wake up screaming or not,” he muttered after a moment. His voice was barely audible, but it was honest.

Shin nodded, accepting the answer without prying further. “Do you remember your dreams?”

Izuku didn’t speak, just gave the smallest nod. That was enough. Shin didn’t push further.

“Are there things you’re avoiding on purpose?” Shin asked gently. “Places, people, even thoughts? Anything that you catch yourself staying away from—intentionally or not.”

Izuku shifted uncomfortably. His hands tightened slightly around the notebook. He gave a small shrug, then shook his head.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I just… I don’t want to think about it.”

Shin nodded again, calm and steady. “That makes sense. The brain does that. When something overwhelms us, we push it down, try not to touch it. Sometimes our mind thinks it’s protecting us that way.”

There was a silence. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just a space left open for Izuku to breathe.

After a moment, Shin straightened a bit and spoke again.

“Izuku… what you’re experiencing—it has a name. It’s called PTSD. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

Izuku looked up at that, his brows drawing together just a little.

“It happens when someone goes through something extreme. Something frightening, violent, or deeply overwhelming. Something that makes your body and mind feel unsafe—even long after it’s over.”

Izuku didn’t speak, but he listened. Shin could tell. He continued.

“PTSD isn’t just about remembering. It’s about how the memory stays in your body. Your brain gets stuck in survival mode. Even when the danger’s gone, your nervous system doesn’t know how to shut it off. That’s why the nightmares happen. Why panic can hit you without warning. Why your thoughts spin and your body feels like it’s under attack… even if you’re alone in a safe room.”

Izuku’s grip on the notebook tightened.

“You might notice things that feel unrelated, but they still trigger a reaction. A sound, a word, a smell, a place, an object. Even silence. It all becomes connected in your body’s memory. That’s what we’re going to work on. Slowly. Gently. We’ll teach your brain how to feel safe again.”

Izuku’s eyes flicked up to Shin’s, uncertain. “Is that… gonna work?”

Shin gave a small, patient smile. “It’s not a straight line. But yes, it can work. Healing takes time. It’s not about forgetting. It’s about learning how to live with what happened without letting it control you.”

Izuku looked back down. “I feel… broken.”

“You’re not broken, Izuku. You’re wounded. That’s different.” Shin’s voice was steady. “Broken means you can’t be fixed. But a wound? A wound can heal.”

Izuku sat in silence. The words sat heavily with him, but not painfully. More like something he needed to hear—something he might believe, eventually.

After a long pause, Shin gestured gently toward the notebook again. “This can help too. Sometimes writing can be a way to release things when talking feels too hard. It’s just you and the page. No judgment. No pressure.”

Izuku nodded slowly, pressing his palm flat against the cover.

“We’ll keep going at your pace. Some days will be easier than others. And some days… you might not want to talk at all. That’s okay. You show up, and we’ll meet you wherever you are.”

The rest of the therapy session passed in a slow but steady rhythm. Neither of them pushed too hard. It was mostly Shin who did the talking, his voice soft and even, like a calm current in a shallow stream. He didn’t ask too many questions, just kept the conversation moving naturally, occasionally glancing at Izuku to make sure he was still with him. And he was—Izuku hadn’t flinched or shut down. If anything, he seemed to be settling, like a shaken bottle slowly starting to go still.

Shin talked about his own life, offering pieces of himself like an invitation. He told Izuku that he liked painting—“even though I’m objectively terrible at it,” he’d said with a crooked smile. “Like, really. It’s almost impressive.” He’d chuckled to himself, then added, “But it helps, y’know? Gets the thoughts out without having to make them into words.”

Izuku had nodded. He wasn’t smiling exactly, but the tightness in his shoulders had eased. He was listening. Really listening.

Shin went on to talk about his love of reading, how sometimes he’d disappear into books for hours. “Fiction, mostly. I like stories where the characters get to grow into something better. Not perfect, but better.”

After a pause, Izuku had finally offered something in return.

“I like… analyzing things,” he murmured. “People, quirks, battle styles. I used to write everything down in notebooks.”

Shin’s expression softened. “Then that notebook I gave you?” He gestured to the small, plain one on the table between them. “Sounds like it found the right person. Could be good to start writing in it. Not just about quirks—maybe about everything else too. Your thoughts. Dreams. Stuff that weighs heavy.”

Izuku had stared at the notebook for a long moment before nodding. “Mhm.”

The quiet returned for a while. But it wasn’t tense—more like the silence of two people sitting in the same room without needing to fill it. Eventually, Izuku shifted in his seat, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“There was a nightmare,” he said softly. Shin didn’t speak, just leaned forward slightly, letting Izuku take the lead.

Izuku swallowed. “From yesterday. I was in the nurse’s office. Alone. I thought it was safe there. I always feel a little safer there.”

Shin waited.

“But… he was there. The man who—” Izuku’s voice cracked slightly and didn’t finish that sentence. “He was just… standing in the doorway. Watching.”

His hands gripped his knees tightly, knuckles white.

“He didn’t say anything. Just smiled. That same grin. Like he knew I couldn’t move. Like he liked it. And his eyes… they were cold. So cold. Like ice that sees right through you.”

Shin didn’t interrupt. He just let the words fall, even if they came slowly, broken and uneven.

“He started walking toward me. Not fast. Just… closing the distance. Like he had all the time in the world. And I—I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe.”

Izuku’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I woke up just before he reached me. But I could still feel him there. Like his presence stayed even after I opened my eyes.”

Izuku’s eye went wide, his breath hitching in his throat as the image of the man’s face flashed through his mind—sharp and vivid like it had never left. That familiar smirk. Those eyes, cold as ice, piercing through him like they always had. His shoulders tensed, his entire body stiffening like a wire pulled taut. He couldn’t look up. Couldn’t speak. He just stared at the table in front of him, as if it might somehow ground him, hold him still.

Whatever it was his mind wanted him to remember, he wasn’t ready for it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Shin noticed immediately. He didn’t ask what Izuku saw. Didn’t demand that he explain. Instead, he reached out gently, placing a steady hand on Izuku’s knee—a grounding gesture. His voice was calm, solid, the kind of voice that could pull someone back from the edge without force.

“Don’t push yourself,” Shin said softly. “You’re safe. Just breathe with me, okay?”

He took a breath in himself, slow and even. “In… nice and slow.”

Izuku hesitated—but then, shakily, he inhaled too.

“Good,” Shin said. “Now breathe out.”

They did it together. Once. Twice. A third time. And little by little, the tension in Izuku’s frame began to ease. His chest stopped heaving. His hands loosened where they’d clenched against his legs. He came back to himself, bit by bit.

His eye shimmered with unshed tears. One of them slipped free, trailing down his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, barely audible.

Shin shook his head, his hand still steady on Izuku’s knee. “There’s no need to be sorry,” he said. “You’re not alone in this. I’m here for you. All the way.”

Izuku blinked quickly, trying to hide the emotion behind his lashes—but for the first time, he didn’t try to pull away.

He let himself breathe. Let himself be seen.

“I’m proud of you for telling me. That’s not easy.”

Izuku nodded slowly.

Shin leaned back, giving him space again. “Nightmares like that… they have a way of clinging to us. But they don’t get to define you. We’ll work through them. Together.”

The therapy session eventually came to a gentle close. Shin offered Izuku a small, encouraging smile as they stood, not pushing for anything more. Just letting the progress they made settle.

Outside the room, Recovery Girl was waiting, her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, her face lined with warmth and patience. She gave Izuku a kind look, motioning for him to come over.

Wordlessly, Izuku walked to her side, and Recovery Girl began guiding him back to the nurse’s room. Her pace was slow and careful, matching his, as if sensing how much the session had taken out of him.

After a few steps, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
"How did it go, dear?" she asked gently, her voice carrying that soothing tone she always used with her more fragile patients.

Izuku hesitated for a moment, thinking about it—about the way Shin had talked to him, listened to him, been patient with him. About how it hadn’t felt like an interrogation or a test, just… someone being there.

“He’s… nice,” Izuku said quietly, almost like he was surprised to be admitting it aloud.
Recovery Girl gave a small nod, a knowing smile playing at the edges of her mouth.
“He is,” she agreed warmly. “You’re in good hands.”

Izuku didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t need to. The slight loosening of his posture, the faint flicker of something softer in his expression, said enough.

Together, they made their way back to the safety of the nurse’s room, one careful step at a time.

Chapter 33: Ghosts in the Corner

After classes ended each day, Izuku’s classmates visited him—small groups, just a few at a time. They brought with them the easy chatter of normal life, filling the quiet space with stories about homework, vacation plans, and small bits of gossip from class. They didn’t ask him anything too personal. They didn’t force him to speak. Sometimes he just listened, and that was enough.

They talked about a new video game Sero was obsessed with. About how Mina had nearly set the kitchen on fire trying to bake a cake. Kaminari claimed it was edible—barely. They laughed, and Izuku found himself smiling, if only a little, at their antics. It felt distant but familiar. Like touching a memory he hadn’t realized he missed.

Katsuki came alone.

He always showed up when the others had gone or before they arrived. Never loud, never pushy. He stood at the foot of Izuku’s bed or leaned against the wall, arms crossed, scowl softening just enough to show he was trying.

He never asked what happened.

But he did ask, gruffly, “How was the session?” after each one. And Izuku, slowly growing more comfortable, would answer. A little more each time.

“It was okay.”
“He talked about grounding.”
“I told him about a nightmare.”
“…We did a breathing exercise.”

Katsuki never made a big deal out of it. He just nodded, sometimes grunted, sometimes said, “Good.”
And that was enough.

The week passed like that. Quietly. Steadily.

Izuku had two more therapy sessions after his first one, each one a small step forward. Shin never rushed him. Never reached too far. He simply showed up, listened, and helped Izuku find the words buried under fear and silence. But nothing too much to dig up the trauma.

By Friday afternoon, a soft buzz filled the halls of U.A. as students hurried through the corridors, excitement building in the air.

Summer vacation had finally arrived—two full weeks of freedom. The others had mentioned beach trips, family plans, even a class group outing someone was trying to organize. There was laughter echoing down the hallways and the shouts of students already halfway out the door.

Izuku sat on the bed by the window, the light casting a warm glow across his notebook. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet. But something inside him didn’t feel quite as heavy as it had a week ago.

He traced a line across the paper with his pen, writing something down just for himself.
He was still here.

Izuku had started writing in the notebook Shin gave him. Not a lot—just bits and pieces. Small thoughts. Fleeting emotions. He didn’t call it a diary, not even in his own head. But that’s what it was, in a way. A quiet place to let things out.

Sometimes it was a sentence.
“I felt okay today.”
Other times it was a fragment.
“I saw him staring at me again.”
Or just a word that lingered in his mind like a bruise.
“Alone.”

He didn’t always understand what he was feeling, but putting it down helped him make space for it. As if the page could carry part of the weight.

As he was writing right now, and the warm hum of the summer sun poured in through the nurse room window. Izuku’s world still felt small, confined to the quiet room and soft sheets and the creak of the floor when Recovery Girl walked by. But somehow, it didn’t feel quite as suffocating as it had a week ago.

He sat cross-legged on the bed, the notebook resting on his knees. He clicked his pen once, then again. Then finished writing.

‘Today I had no panic attack. Katsuki came by and asked about therapy. I told him it was fine. I didn’t lie.
Shin said I was grounding better. That I was recognizing the fear before it took over.
I think I believe him. I’m not sure yet. But I want to. That’s new, I think.’

He paused, staring at the words for a long moment. Then, in smaller writing underneath, he added:

‘Shin says I’m not broken. Just… healing. Slowly.’

There was a quiet knock on the door. Recovery Girl peeked in, smiling gently.
“You doing alright, dear?”

Izuku nodded, fingers still resting on the pen.

She didn’t press. “Dinner will be here soon. I’ll come get you when it arrives.”

As the door clicked softly shut, Izuku looked back at his notebook.

…

Izuku sat quietly in the nurse’s room, the soft hum of medical equipment serving as background noise as he picked at the last bits of his dinner. The overhead light cast a gentle glow across the small table where he sat alone, the atmosphere peaceful, almost dull—until the door creaked open.

The soft footsteps of three familiar figures echoed against the linoleum floor. Aizawa entered first, his hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes calm but watchful. All Might followed behind him, towering and broad-shouldered even in his weakened state, wearing a rare smile that actually reached his eyes. Katsuki came in last, arms crossed, expression unreadable, though something in his posture suggested restraint. He wasn’t here to fight—not tonight.

Izuku looked up mid-chew, blinking as he processed their sudden arrival. He hadn’t expected visitors this late, not when everything had been so quiet all day.

Aizawa cleared his throat softly. “Hey. Excuse us.”

Izuku swallowed his mouthful of food and nodded slightly. “Hi.”

All Might took a step closer, still smiling, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. “We’ve got some good news for you, young Midoriya.”

Izuku tilted his head, curiosity sparking. “Good news?”

“For summer vacation,” All Might began, his voice warm, “you’ll be allowed to go home.”

The words hung in the air for a moment. Izuku stared at him, blinking again—this time not in confusion, but in shock. His lips parted slightly, eye widened with something close to disbelied.

“Really?” he asked softly, voice shaky with emotion.

Katsuki gave a short nod, his gaze finally meeting Izuku’s. “Yeah. You won’t be stuck here like some prisoner while we’re all back home.”

Izuku’s eye dropped to his plate. There was still some rice left, growing cold. His fingers tightened around his chopsticks.

“I’m… ready?” he asked, though even he didn’t sound fully convinced.

Aizawa stepped forward, his expression firm but not unkind. “Don’t ask us that. You’ve got to believe in yourself, Midoriya.”

There was a pause, then a small but genuine nod from Izuku. “Okay.”

From the corner of the room, Recovery Girl glanced up from her paperwork and gave a soft chuckle. “You’ve come a long way, you know. Don’t forget that.”

Nurse Keiko, who had been tidying up near the supply shelf, smiled as well. “You’re stronger than you think, Izuku.”

The room warmed a little, the quiet support wrapping around him like a blanket. Izuku let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

All Might leaned down slightly, his voice gentler now. “Tomorrow morning, your mother and I will come pick you up. She can’t wait to see you.”

Izuku’s heart tightened at the thought of his mother’s face—her tears, her hugs, her endless worry. But also, her love. He felt the familiar sting in his chest, but this time, it wasn’t pain. It was hope.

“Alright,” he said, his voice soft, but certain.

Katsuki scoffed lightly, but it didn’t carry its usual edge. “Don’t make her cry too much, nerd.”

Izuku chuckled, a small but genuine laugh escaping his lips.

All Might rested a hand gently on the back of Izuku’s chair, his tone shifting into something a little more practical, though still kind.

“You’ll still be having therapy sessions,” he said, “Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. But they won’t be here anymore.”

Izuku looked up.

“They’ll be at Shin’s treatment center. It’s actually pretty close to your house,” All Might continued. “And I’ll be the one driving you there and back.”

Izuku blinked, a little surprised. “You will?”

All Might gave him a reassuring nod, his smile soft but unwavering. “Of course. I figured it might help to have a familiar face around.”

Izuku lowered his gaze, emotions swirling behind his eyes. “Thank you… I’m sorry for all the trouble.”

All Might gave a light laugh and waved a hand. “No worries at all, young Midoriya. You’re not trouble—you’re healing. That’s never something to apologize for.”

Izuku managed a small smile, the corner of his mouth tugging up as he looked down at his empty plate.

“All right,” he said quietly, his voice steady.

—————————

The next day, Izuku was ready to be picked up.

The sun shone gently over the empty U.A. campus. The students had already left for summer vacation, the dormitories quiet, the usual buzz of voices and footsteps long gone. The silence was oddly comforting—no noise, no questions, no pressure.

Nurse Keiko stood just outside the nurse’s wing, her arms crossed loosely in front of her. Katsuki stood beside her, holding a small bag with Izuku’s belongings. It wasn’t heavy. Most of Izuku’s things were still at his dorm, or at home. There wasn’t much he needed right now.

Izuku stepped out quietly. His steps were steadier than before, but each movement still carried a slowness, a stiffness that hadn’t been there before his hospitalization. He didn’t need help walking anymore, but Keiko and Katsuki flanked him just in case, walking at his pace without a word.

He hadn’t said much that morning. After waking from another nightmare, he hadn’t screamed. He hadn’t panicked. Instead, he’d silently reached for his notebook and jotted everything down. The scratching of his pen in the quiet room had been the only sign he was even awake.

As they approached the parking area, Izuku squinted into the light. The bright sky seemed almost too cheerful for how heavy he felt inside.

Waiting by the car were Inko and All Might.

Inko’s eyes immediately lit up the moment she saw her son. Her smile trembled at the edges as tears began to well up, blurring her vision. She stepped forward, her hands pressed against her chest as if to stop her heart from leaping out.

“Hey, my boy,” she said softly, her voice warm and thick with emotion.

Izuku offered a faint smile, the corners of his lips just barely turning up. “Hey.”

All Might gave a small nod and reached to open the car door. “Let’s get you home.”

Inko gently touched Izuku’s back as she guided him forward. Katsuki climbed in after them, claiming the seat beside Izuku without saying a word. He didn’t need to explain—he wanted to see Izuku safely home. Wanted to be there when he walked through that door again.

The ride was quiet.

Izuku leaned against the window, watching the scenery blur past. Familiar streets. Trees he recognized. A corner store he’d once run to for snacks. Everything looked the same, but felt different. Like he was seeing the world through fogged glass.

Finally, they reached the apartment complex. All Might helped Izuku out of the car, his strong hand steady beneath Izuku’s arm. They entered the building, the elevator doors opening with a soft chime. No one spoke as they rode up, the hum of the machinery filling the silence.

When the door to the Midoriya home opened, the smell hit Izuku instantly—warm, savory, a mix of herbs and comfort. His mother’s cooking.

He froze in the doorway, eyes wide, breathing in deeply. It felt like he hadn’t been here in years. Like he was stepping into a memory instead of a home.

“Come on in, sweetheart,” Inko said gently, stepping aside to let him pass.

Izuku slowly moved forward, each step almost hesitant. He looked around the room—the familiar couch, the framed photos, the slippers near the door. Everything untouched. Waiting.

“I’ll make some coffee or tea,” Inko said, already heading toward the kitchen. “Anyone want something?”

“Tea’s fine,” Katsuki replied, settling onto the couch.

“I’ll take coffee, thank you,” All Might added with a polite smile.

Silence hung for a moment.

“Izuku?” Inko turned, her voice careful.

He was standing by the hallway, staring around like a stranger in his own home.

He blinked and turned to her. “Oh… water. Thanks.”

Inko tilted her head slightly, puzzled. “No tea? I have your favorite kind. The one you always loved.”

Izuku’s gaze snapped to the water kettle on the counter. His eye widened. He took a step back.

“No,” he said, firmly. The word hung sharp in the air.

The warmth in the room shifted.

Katsuki immediately noticed the tension in Izuku’s voice. The way his shoulders had stiffened. The way his jaw clenched.

“Izuku, come sit down,” Katsuki said quietly, already seated on the couch. All Might, beside him, said nothing, but watched Izuku carefully.

“I’ll go look in my room… if that’s okay,” Izuku asked quietly, standing up from the couch.

Inko gave a gentle nod, but it was Katsuki who answered first, brows drawn together in confusion. “It’s your room, of course it’s okay.”

Izuku offered the smallest of nods and turned toward the hallway. The familiar carpet muffled his footsteps as he made his way to his bedroom door.

It stood slightly ajar, untouched.

He slowly pushed it open and stepped inside.

The room smelled faintly of dust and memories. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the walls—walls that were still covered with All Might posters, figures on shelves, and notebooks stacked neatly in corners. It wasn’t as packed as his dorm room had once been, but it was still full of admiration and devotion. His younger self’s room.

Nothing had changed.

His mother hadn’t taken anything down. She hadn’t cleaned it out. She hadn’t moved on.

She hadn’t died.

A tremble passed through Izuku’s chest as the realization settled in. She didn’t abandon me. She didn’t leave me. That was all fake. Just lies. Just noise in my head…

A tear slipped down from the corner of his left eye.

He pressed his lips together tightly, trying to breathe through the sudden swell of emotion. Slowly, he walked deeper into the room, his fingers reaching out. They drifted over the edge of a poster—one of his favorites. A younger All Might, grinning triumphantly, fist raised toward the sky.

His fingertips trembled.

And then the sharp sting returned.

Pain flared from his fingertips—the sensitive, healing nailbeds that hadn’t fully recovered. He recoiled instantly, pulling his hand back like he’d been burned.

He stared at his own fingers, red and throbbing, and clenched them into a fist.

Footsteps behind him.

Katsuki stood in the doorway, arms crossed. “You alright?” he asked, voice low and cautious.

Izuku flinched at the sound. His shoulders tensed, his breath catching in his throat as he turned around slowly.

Katsuki’s gaze dropped to the tear still glistening beneath Izuku’s eye. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything about it.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve been here,” he muttered instead. “At least three months, right?”

Izuku nodded silently, not trusting himself to speak.

Katsuki lingered for a second, then pushed away from the doorframe. “Well… we’ll be waiting in the living room.”

Izuku looked around his room once more. The posters. The notebooks. The childhood memories still frozen in time.

“I’ll come,” he said quietly.

He followed Katsuki out, his steps slow but steady, the sound of the hallway stretching out behind him like a memory finally closing its door.

Izuku slowly sat down on one of the living room chairs, his movements still a bit cautious, like he was navigating unfamiliar ground in a familiar place. The room was quiet except for the soft clink of cups being placed on the table.

Inko brought over a small tray with four drinks: one water, a steaming mug of coffee and two cups of tea. She set it down carefully, hands trembling just slightly. The aroma of the fresh brew rose into the air—faintly sweet, rich with warmth. Steam curled into delicate wisps, rising slowly before disappearing.

Izuku’s gaze fixed on the steam. It danced upward, fleeting and shapeless, vanishing as quickly as it came. He didn’t blink. He just stared. Silent.

Inko noticed.

She sat down across from him, folding her hands together before speaking, her voice chipper but thin around the edges. “We’re eating katsudon tonight,” she said with a shaky smile. “Your favorite!”

Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was trying. Trying to bring comfort. Normalcy. Hope.

Izuku looked up at her, blinking slowly like he was pulling himself back into the moment. “Thanks,” he said quietly, his voice low but genuine. A small spark of warmth flickered behind his words. It wasn’t much, but it was real.

The conversation at the table started softly. Mostly All Might and Inko talking.

Izuku sat quietly, replying here and there with nods or short answers. But his mind was elsewhere. His eyes—especially the right one—kept drifting off. Again and again, they returned to the steam rising from the tea Katsuki held. Then to the one in his mother’s hands. Then to the coffee mug in All Might’s.

Katsuki, sitting silently across from him, noticed immediately. He followed Izuku’s gaze, narrowing his eyes slightly as he caught the pattern.

The steam. The heat. The burns.

He glanced down at his own cup of tea, then at Izuku’s legs, hidden beneath black pants. He didn’t need to see the scars to know they were there.

Something happened. Something with hot liquid. That’s what he’s remembering.

He didn’t say anything. Just set his tea down gently and leaned back in his chair, observing with a tightened jaw.

Time passed slowly. They kept the conversation going as long as they could, but the air felt fragile. Like one wrong word might shatter it.

Eventually, Katsuki stood. “I should get going,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Glad you’re home.”

Izuku looked up at him, eyes lingering a second longer than usual. “Thanks for being here,” he murmured.

Katsuki gave him a small nod. He didn’t smile, but there was something softer in his expression as he walked to the door, slipping his shoes back on.

Inko walked him out, whispering a quiet thank-you. When she returned, All Might remained in the kitchen with Izuku, sipping his now lukewarm coffee. He didn’t speak much either—just offered his quiet company, which Izuku seemed to appreciate more than words.

After a while, Izuku rubbed his tired eyes. “I’m… going to lie down for a bit,” he said, his voice even quieter than before.

Inko stood quickly. “Of course, sweetheart. Do you want help with anything? A blanket or—?”

Izuku shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

He walked slowly down the hallway, back to his room. The door creaked slightly as he opened it, the light from the hallway casting a long shadow into the space. He stood for a moment in the doorway, looking at the posters, the bed, the soft green walls that once made him feel safe.

Then he stepped inside and closed the door gently behind him.

All Might finished the last sip of coffee. Inko sat down beside him, her eyes flicking toward the hallway.

They let Izuku be. Getting used to this different environment.

———

Screaming.

They heard screaming.

It tore through the quiet of the house like a siren, shrill and broken. A sound no parent should ever have to hear from their child. For a moment, the conversation between Inko and All Might faltered — laughter froze in their throats, tea cups paused halfway to their lips. Their eyes met, wide with dread.

Another scream. This one hoarser, desperate.

In an instant, both of them were on their feet.

Inko’s heart pounded as she rushed down the hallway, her slippers slapping the wooden floor. All Might followed, his longer strides catching up with her quickly despite his weakened form. The calm of the late morning was shattered, sunlight filtering through the windows now a cruel contrast to the chaos unraveling behind a bedroom door.

They burst into Izuku’s room.

And there he was.

Huddled on the bed, knees drawn up to his chest, his entire body trembling. The covers were tangled around him, clutched in white-knuckled fists. His hands pressed over his eyes as if trying to block out a vision that had already branded itself into his mind. He didn’t scream again — he just shook, breathing in ragged gasps, his green eye staring wide and unfocused from behind his trembling fingers.

Inko’s breath caught.

“Baby…” she whispered, her voice cracking as tears welled up in her eyes. She didn’t hesitate. She crossed the room in three steps and sank down beside him, wrapping her arms around his quaking form. Her fingers threaded into his curls as she held him tightly against her chest.

Izuku didn’t respond. He just stared, eyes wide and distant.

All Might approached more slowly, crouching carefully beside the bed. “It’s okay, young Izuku,” he said softly, his voice low and gentle — a far cry from the booming hero’s tone the world knew. “We’re here. You’re safe now.”

Izuku’s lips moved.

“He was there…” he mumbled, barely audible. “Right in front of my bed.”

Inko’s grip on her son tightened. Her tears slipped silently down her cheeks, soaking into his messy hair. She forced her voice to remain calm, though it trembled with grief. “No, sweetheart… that wasn’t real. That was just a nightmare. You’re safe. He’s not here.”

Izuku jerked away from her touch, just slightly. His eye was wild now, glassy with panic. “No!” he cried out, louder this time. “He was there! I saw him! He looked at me, he smiled—he was right there!”

His voice cracked and rose in pitch, trembling with fear. Tears spilled down his cheeks, his whole body shaking with the memory — whether real or imagined, neither of them could tell.

All Might placed a steady hand on Izuku’s head, fingers brushing the matted curls. “He’s in prison,” he said firmly but gently. “We can assure you of that. He can’t hurt you anymore. You’re not alone, Izuku.”

But they both knew the truth: sometimes, the worst wounds didn’t come from a physical blow. Sometimes, they lingered inside the mind, festering quietly until they became impossible to ignore.

Recovery Girl and Dr. Shin had warned them.

Being in a new environment, even one meant for healing, could trigger stress responses in Izuku’s fragile psyche. Nightmares, hallucinations, flashbacks — all of them were possibilities. And now, it seemed, they were no longer just possibilities. They were here.

Inko gently rocked her son back and forth, humming softly even as her tears fell. All Might stayed close, his presence calm and steady like a lighthouse in the storm.

Izuku’s sobs eventually quieted, though he never truly relaxed. His eyes remained wide and haunted, fixed on the empty corner where he swore he’d seen him — the man who had broken him.

The man who still lived in his memories.

And though the room was filled with light and warmth, Izuku still felt cold.

Chapter 34: This Feels Like Home

Four days had passed since Izuku had returned home for the summer vacation.

Well—returned to rest, at least. Relaxation was still a fragile, unfamiliar thing. The silence of his own bedroom felt alien, the absence of medical equipment unsettling in its own way. After so long being watched, monitored, checked on—being alone with his mother was almost too quiet. The nightmares had come often those first two nights. Flashes of the torture room. The pain. The helplessness. The sound of metal scraping against metal. His own breath caught in his throat.

But, despite the nightmares, the panic attacks hadn’t returned. That in itself felt like progress. A small one—but a victory nonetheless.

Still, there were moments. Triggers. One afternoon, his mother had dropped a glass plate in the kitchen. The sharp crack of it hitting the tile had frozen him where he stood. His blood had run cold as the memory rushed back—of breaking a plate on the concrete floor, of curling his shaking fingers around the jagged edge, of driving it into the man’s eye with all the strength he had left.

He’d flinched before he even realized what was happening.

But his mother had noticed. She’d rushed to clean up the pieces while murmuring apologies, and he’d gone back to his room, closed the door, and sat in silence for an hour, his heart thudding hard behind his ribs.

Despite that, things were improving. He’d had two more therapy sessions with Shin already. They talked more each time. Izuku didn’t always have the right words—but Shin listened. He really listened. And that made it easier. Less like reliving everything. More like letting it go piece by piece.

All Might had driven him to and from every session. Izuku had spent the evenings journaling, scribbling thoughts and stray ideas into his old notebook until his eyes burned from exhaustion.

Now it was Thursday.

Tonight, the Bakugous came over for dinner.

It felt strangely normal. Almost like being back in elementary school—only everyone had changed. His mom laughed more freely tonight, glad to have company in the house again. Mitsuki Bakugou cracked jokes while helping in the kitchen, and even Masaru looked a little emotional when he saw Izuku walk into the living room unaided.

After dinner, Katsuki turned to Izuku and asked quietly, “Wanna go for a walk?”

Izuku looked at his mom. She hesitated.

“Be careful, and don’t go too far,” Inko said, her voice gently stern.

“We won’t,” Izuku promised, already reaching for his shoes.

The summer air hit them the moment they stepped outside—warm, slightly humid, and smelling faintly of asphalt and flowers. The golden sun was still hanging above the rooftops, casting long shadows across the sidewalk.

Izuku walked without a limp now. His legs were steady beneath him. The physical therapy and healing quirks had done their work. His balance was solid. His body didn’t betray him anymore.

They headed toward the old playground near the apartment complex. It hadn’t changed in years. The same faded paint on the slide. The same rusted monkey bars. But it felt different now, standing there under the evening sky with Katsuki beside him.

Izuku wore a simple T-shirt and a pair of loose shorts—cool enough for the summer heat. The burns on his upper legs were visible, like red patches that would never fade. His arms, too, bore the fine traces of scars—white lines, some deeper than others. Evidence.

Katsuki didn’t say anything at first, but Izuku could see the way his eyes lingered on the marks. He was still getting used to them.

“Thanks for convincing my mom to let me go outside,” Izuku said as he lowered himself onto a bench near the sandbox.

Katsuki stuffed his hands in his pockets and gave a shrug. “I get why she’s protective. Honestly, I’m surprised she didn’t follow us with binoculars.”

Izuku chuckled softly, the sound dry but real. “Wouldn’t put it past her.”

Katsuki sat down beside him, stretching one leg out and resting the other foot against the ground. A breeze stirred the air, carrying the faint sound of a barking dog in the distance.

“How’s it been? Being home?” he asked.

Izuku leaned back on his hands, looking up at the deepening sky. “It’s… weird. Quiet. No constant nurses walking in and out, asking if I’ve eaten. No reminders every hour.”

He paused. “It’s nice. But strange.”

Katsuki nodded slowly. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

“It makes me feel like I’m not just…” Izuku trailed off, then glanced down at his own legs, eyes locking on the burns. “Not just some weak patient being kept alive.”

There was a silence.

Then, without saying a word, Katsuki reached out and placed his hand on Izuku’s upper leg—covering the worst of the burns with his palm.

Not roughly. Not delicately either. Just enough.

Izuku blinked and looked at him, startled.

“You’re not weak,” Katsuki said, not looking away. “You’ve come a hell of a long way in three months. I’ve seen it. Therapy’s helping. You’re stronger.”

Izuku looked down at Katsuki’s hand, then back at his face. There was no pity in his expression—only something raw, earnest, and familiar. A quiet kind of fire that matched the one Izuku remembered from when they were kids. Back before everything fell apart.

“Yeah…” Izuku said softly. “It is helping.”

Katsuki met his gaze. He didn’t look away.

And for the first time in a long while, Izuku didn’t look away either.

Katsuki stared into Izuku’s right eye—the one that used to be hollow. Empty. Lifeless. It still wasn’t the same as before, but it had changed. The darkness hadn’t fully left—but there was something there now. Something that sparkled faintly under the evening light.

“Izuku, I…” Katsuki finally broke the silence, his voice low, strained—like it had been trapped behind his teeth for too long. His eyes looked uncertain, almost desperate, but whatever thought had begun to form… it never made it to the surface.

Izuku turned to him, confused by the sudden shift in tone. He waited, brows slightly furrowed, lips parted—but Katsuki didn’t finish.

Instead, Katsuki looked away, jaw clenched. His hand, still resting on Izuku’s upper leg, didn’t move.

“I really want to…” he started again, this time quieter, like admitting something to the air rather than to Izuku himself. “I want to train with you again.”

His fingers flexed slightly against Izuku’s leg—subtle, but deliberate. “I miss your muttering in class… our sparring matches… the sound of you pacing through the dorms, scribbling in that damn notebook of yours.”

Izuku blinked, stunned. He hadn’t expected that.

He looked at Katsuki, whose cheeks now bore the faintest shade of red, like the beginning of a sunburn, spreading slowly across his skin.

“Uhm…” Izuku mumbled, his lips trembling just a little, his throat tight. “Right. I… I want to come back too.” He spoke slowly, as if the words were foreign on his tongue—words he hadn’t let himself say aloud yet.

Katsuki immediately pulled his hand away from Izuku’s leg, as if realizing too late how long it had stayed there.

“Shit—sorry. I didn’t mean to pressure you,” he snapped, more at himself than at Izuku. “Just… damn it.”

He shoved his hand over his face and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers running through his hair in a tight, agitated rhythm. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing. What was he even saying? Why couldn’t he just shut up?

Izuku’s cheeks turned red. He stared at Katsuki with wide eyes, one good and full of something soft and bright—something he hadn’t felt in a while. A spark.

He saw how Katsuki’s breath stuttered. How the line of his back rose and fell too quickly. He was nervous. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just… overwhelmed.

Then, slowly, Katsuki let his head fall sideways—right onto Izuku’s chest. Not a dramatic movement. Just a quiet collapse.

“…Damn it,” he muttered again, but this time, it sounded more like a confession.

Izuku’s heart skipped. He could feel the weight of Katsuki’s head against him—could feel his hair brushing the fabric of his shirt, feel the heat of his skin seeping through. The closeness stunned him. His body tensed, and his face flushed an even deeper shade of red.

“Uhm… Kacchan…?” he whispered, barely able to get the words out.

Katsuki didn’t answer right away. He just leaned there, quietly breathing, before slowly sitting back upright, rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding Izuku’s eyes. His gaze instead drifted toward the sky—now melting into deep orange, lavender, and soft rose pink as the sun began its descent.

Izuku followed his gaze, heart thumping in his chest. The colors overhead seemed to press down with a warm stillness, as if even the sky was holding its breath.

Their hands rested side by side on the worn wooden bench.

And then—almost imperceptibly—Katsuki’s fingers brushed against Izuku’s. Just the tips. Just a whisper of contact.

Neither of them moved at first.

The touch was featherlight. Four fingertips, barely touching. It could have been nothing. A coincidence. But neither of them pulled away.

Instead, Katsuki’s fingers gently curved inward. Not enough to grip. Just enough to say I’m here.

Izuku’s breath caught again. He looked down at their hands, then up at Katsuki’s face.

His own face was burning now. He could feel the heat flooding his cheeks, rising up his neck, down his arms. He couldn’t think straight. What is going on? His brain felt like static. Nothing existed except the warmth beside him, the soft weight of Katsuki’s fingers lacing slowly with his own.

Katsuki wasn’t looking at him. He was still watching the sky, but Izuku noticed the tension in his jaw—the way his thumb moved the tiniest bit, brushing against Izuku’s skin.

Then Katsuki moved his pointer finger. Just a little. It traced over the tip of Izuku’s finger.

A tiny jolt—sharp, stinging.

Izuku winced and instinctively pulled his hand back.

“I’m sorry!” he blurted, almost panicked.

Katsuki turned to him instantly, alarm in his eyes. “No—I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I forgot. Your nailbeds are still sensitive, right?”

Izuku nodded, clutching his hand gently in his lap. The skin still tingled. It wasn’t pain, really—just sharp enough to remind him that not everything had healed. Not completely.

His lips pressed into a thin line. He swallowed hard, trying to push down the strange mix of emotions that had risen up like a tide in his chest.

Katsuki looked away again, face unreadable. But Izuku could see the guilt in his shoulders, the way they slumped a little more than before.

“…Let’s go inside,” Katsuki said quietly, standing up.

Izuku nodded, his voice caught in his throat. “Mhm.”

—————————

Three weeks had passed in what felt like the blink of an eye—a strange, quiet blur of days where time moved gently, like waves rolling in and out without urgency. After everything that had happened, Izuku being home with his mother brought him a sense of calm he hadn’t realized he needed. The familiar smell of miso soup in the morning, the soft rustle of newspapers, the sound of her humming as she cleaned the kitchen—it all wrapped around him like a blanket, steady and warm.

Inko Midoriya never pushed him. She didn’t pry about his silence or press him to speak about the nightmares. She simply stayed close, always near enough that he didn’t feel alone but never so close that he felt crowded. It was a quiet, patient love. And slowly, that love began to make room for healing.

Therapy had helped too. The sessions were difficult at first—filled with long silences, trembling hands, and a knot in his chest he didn’t know how to untangle. But his therapist was patient. They talked about breathing exercises, grounding techniques, and ways to recognize when his thoughts were spiraling. And gradually, those strategies began to stick. The panic attacks came less often. He still startled at sudden sounds and sometimes had to excuse himself when the air felt too heavy, but he was learning how to manage it.

For the first time in a long while, Izuku had started excercising again—not with the weight of hero expectations on his back, but for himself. In his room, dusty dumbbells had found purpose again. He started small, lifting carefully, just enough to feel the strain in his muscles without tipping into exhaustion. On quiet evenings, Katsuki would show up without warning, grumbling something about “keeping him from turning into a twig.” They would jog side by side through the neighborhood, their breath misting in the cooling summer air.

Izuku always lagged behind.

His body felt unfamiliar, sluggish in a way that frustrated him more than he wanted to admit. He wasn’t anywhere near the condition he’d been in before the kidnapping. But Katsuki didn’t say anything about it. He never teased him, never rushed him. He simply matched Izuku’s pace, wordlessly falling into rhythm with him. And somehow, that helped more than any pep talk could have.

Then, two days before the end of summer break, Izuku received a message from Aizawa, followed by a short call with All Might and Recovery Girl. He was cleared to return to the dorms.

They told him they were proud of how far he had come. That his panic attacks had become manageable. That he seemed more stable. The nightmares, they knew, hadn’t gone completely—but they’d lessened. And most importantly, they trusted his classmates. They believed that the support around Izuku at U.A. would be strong enough to catch him if he ever started to fall again.

Katsuki had already helped him through more than one breakdown. And the rest of Izuku’s classmates will do their best to make him feel comfortable. It was enough—enough to convince his teachers he could come back.

So now, on a warm Sunday afternoon, Izuku found himself back in the car with All Might behind the wheel, watching the U.A. campus rise on the horizon.

All Might insisted on driving him himself.

“We can’t let you wander the streets alone just yet, young Midoriya,” he had said with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not until we’re sure you’re truly safe.”

Because even if Mori—the villain who had orchestrated Izuku’s kidnapping—was now locked away and facing the rest of his life behind bars, they all knew that didn’t mean Izuku was entirely safe. Not yet. Not while there were still people out there who might hold a grudge.

As the car rolled past the front gates, Izuku stared out the window, his heart beating a little faster. He wasn’t sure what to expect. He didn’t know how it would feel to sleep in the dorms again, to eat in the common room, to hear his classmates laughing and talking around him as if the world hadn’t broken just a few weeks ago.

But even with the uncertainty, even with the small tremble in his hands, he knew this was right.

He was ready to come back.

Or at least, he was ready to try.

…

All Might and Izuku walked side by side up the familiar path toward the dorm building of Class 3-A. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the ground, and a soft breeze ruffled the leaves in the nearby trees. U.A. stood tall and quiet around them, but Izuku’s heart was racing with anticipation. He hadn’t been here in months. And now that he was finally back, he felt the nerves kicking in—tight in his chest, heavy in his limbs.

His hand hesitated just for a second as it reached for the dorm entrance handle. The metal was cool under his fingers. He swallowed hard, bracing himself.

The moment the door creaked open, he was hit with a wall of sound.

“WELCOME BACK, DEKU!!” a chorus of voices shouted in unison.

Izuku blinked, caught completely off guard.

The entire class had gathered in the entrance hall, lined up like a wall of joy and color. Kaminari and Jirou stood front and center, holding up a huge hand-painted banner that read, “Welcome Back, Deku!” in bold green and yellow letters. The banner was covered in doodles and signatures—little lightning bolts, stars, smiley faces, and All Might symbols. Splatters of paint dotted the edges like fireworks.

For a second, Izuku just stood there, stunned.

His lips pressed together tightly as he scanned the familiar faces—Uraraka beaming from ear to ear, Kirishima throwing him a proud thumbs-up, Todoroki with a calm but soft smile, and even Tsuyu with her hands behind her back, nodding gently. They were all there.

He didn’t expect this.

His chest ached—not from pain, but from a sudden wave of warmth that rose too fast for him to contain. His left eye began to sting, and before he could stop it, a single tear rolled down his cheek.

Not from fear.
Not from sadness.
But from gratitude.

He quickly wiped it away, sniffling as he smiled through it. “Thanks… you guys,” he said quietly, his voice a little shaky.

Iida stepped forward, his usual upright posture full of pride and sincerity. He placed a firm hand on Izuku’s shoulder. “We’re truly glad to have you back with us, Midoriya. Things were too quiet without you here.”

All Might, standing just behind Izuku, gave a small, satisfied smile. He didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. Watching Izuku glow in the presence of his classmates was enough. It was a light he hadn’t seen in the boy’s eyes for far too long.

“We have to celebrate now!” Mina cried, throwing her arms into the air. “This is officially a welcome-back party!”

“That’s right!” Sato added, stepping in from the side. “We made a whole meal for everyone. It’s already in the common area, just waiting to be eaten.”

“You wouldn’t believe how picky this guy was,” Sero chimed in with a teasing grin. He jerked his thumb toward Bakugou. “He wouldn’t even let us cut the vegetables.”

“Shut up, tape-arms,” Bakugou huffed, arms crossed and eyes glaring, but his usual bite felt just a little softer. “You losers would’ve butchered the damn carrots. I just did what needed to be done.”

There were a few laughs at that—Kaminari’s loudest of all.

Izuku chuckled softly, his shoulders relaxing a little. The wave of noise and energy was overwhelming, yes—but it was also familiar. Comforting. These were his friends. His family, in a way. And they were still here. Still loud. Still ridiculous.

Still them.

Uraraka stepped beside him, smiling gently. “Come on, we’ve got everything set up inside. Oh—and don’t worry about your stuff. We already brought everything back from the nurse’s wing to your dorm room. It should feel just like it used to.”

Izuku turned to her and nodded, a small but genuine smile spreading across his face. “Thanks. Really.”

It had only been three weeks, but somehow it felt like forever since he’d last stood in this hallway, surrounded by these people. They had all gone through so much. They knew—at least, some of them—what had happened to him. But no one looked at him with pity now. No one treated him like he was fragile or broken.

Instead, they looked at him with pride. With relief. With joy.

As he stepped further into the dorm building, the voices resumed—chatting, laughing, teasing each other, just like old times. The smell of warm food drifted from the kitchen. The soft hum of life returned.

And though the class had only been apart for a few short weeks, each of them noticed the difference in Izuku.

He stood a little straighter. His eye was brighter. There was still a shadow behind it—no one missed that—but it no longer consumed him. He moved with more energy, more intention. He smiled more freely. It wasn’t the same as before, but it was real.

And that was enough to make something flicker inside each of them.

Hope.
Relief.
The sense that, maybe, things really could get better.

Izuku was home.
And Class 3-A would make sure he stayed safe this time.

Notes:

JUST TWO MORE CHAPTERS AND IT’S DONE!!! The end is coming near and omg, it’s making me emotional.

I almost forgot to post the chapter today—I’ve still got 30 more minutes until it’s officially August 12, aka Tuesday.
Oh, and today, August 11, is my birthday!!🥳🎉 It didn’t feel all that special though, since I already celebrated on Sunday.

Anywayyy, I spent the whole day preparing for vacation because I’m going to Greece! That means I’ll try to upload the next chapter this Friday… but there’s a good chance I’ll completely forget because I’ll be in full vacation mode. So, I’m sorry in advance if that happens!!

See you in the next chapter—hopefully Friday! :’)

Chapter 35: Even If It Hurt

The common area of the dorm was alive with warmth and laughter. A long table had been set up, just slightly chaotic with mismatched chairs and platters of food that barely fit—but no one seemed to mind. If anything, the slightly clumsy setup only added to the charm of it all.

Every student in Class 3-A had contributed in some way. Even Mineta had been assigned the job of washing fruit—under supervision. Jirou and Katsuki had prepped vegetables. Uraraka had carefully measured the ingredients, Sato had taken the lead on baking a cake, and even Todoroki—who quietly admitted he didn’t cook often—had helped cool or steam things with his quirk and set the table. The entire meal was a shared effort, filled with quiet meaning.

But more than the food, it was the thought behind how the class prepared that mattered.

They had gone out of their way to make sure Izuku would feel comfortable—safe.

No sharp knives were left in sight. All the cooking had been done beforehand and the blades were stored away, out of reach. The table was set with plastic plates and utensils—no metal clinking, no reflective surfaces. Drinks were served lukewarm or cold. No steaming soup, no sudden gusts of heat. Even the lighting had been softened; someone had dimmed the overheads slightly, and fairy lights twinkled near the windows instead. It gave the room a cozy, gentle glow.

No one made a show of it. No one pointed out the changes or made Izuku feel like he needed to thank them for it. It was just quietly done. Because Katsuki had warned them beforehand of a few triggers he knew Izuku suffered from.

“You guys really went all out,” he murmured under his breath as he looked down at his plate. He didn’t even know what to eat first. There was rice, grilled vegetables, karaage, cold soba salad, fruit skewers, and a piece of tamagoyaki that he knew was from Koda based on the animal toothpick in it.

“It was a team effort,” Iida said proudly, pouring Izuku a small glass of juice.

Hagakure agreed: “Everyone was quite serious about making this perfect. We coordinated everything over group chat. Even Bakugou was in it, though he kept responding with just ‘I’ll do it myself’.”

“Because the rest of you suck at chopping vegetables,” Bakugou barked from across the table.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kaminari grinned. “Just admit you care, bro.”

Bakugou scowled. “I care about clean cuts. That’s it.”

Kirishima laughed. “Still counts.”

Even amidst the teasing, no one crossed a line. No one made loud noises near Izuku. No one snuck up behind him. And whenever he flinched slightly at sudden movements or sounds, he always felt a calming presence nearby—Todoroki casually placing a hand on the table. Uraraka giving him a quick smile. Shoji passing him a napkin as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

They were watching over him. Gently. Quietly. Like a net beneath him, there if he fell.

…

After Class 3-A finished their meal—topped off with a generous slice of Sato’s soft, perfectly frosted cake—they all pitched in to clean up. Plates were stacked, counters wiped, and the gentle sound of running water mixed with the hum of quiet chatter and occasional bursts of laughter.

Before long, the class regathered in the common living space. Some sprawled across couches with full stomachs, others gathered around the low coffee table for a game of UNO that was already heating up.

“Join us, Midoriya!” Kirishima called out with a grin, waving a handful of cards in the air.

Izuku had just stepped out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel. He gave a small, polite smile and shook his head, motioning toward the entrance.

“Oh—no, thank you. I’m just gonna go check out my room. I still need to unpack my backpack,” he said, gesturing to the familiar yellow bag sitting quietly by the door.

“Alright! But if you change your mind, you’re always welcome!” Mina said brightly, tossing a green UNO card onto the pile.

Izuku nodded, his smile still faint, and walked over to grab his backpack. As he headed toward the staircase, a few pairs of eyes followed him.

“Things went smoothly, right?” Hagakure asked, her voice soft but hopeful.

“He looked happier,” Mina said, her cheeks lifted in a warm smile.

Asui gave a quiet nod. “He seemed more relaxed than I expected.”

Todoroki, who had been watching Izuku silently, spoke up. “I’m sure he’s tired. Everything tonight must’ve been overwhelming.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” Kaminari asked, peeking up from his cards.

“He hasn’t been around this much noise or energy in a long time,” Katsuki said calmly. “Five months is a long time to go without this kind of… closeness.” Katsuki continued “He probably got overstimulated. But—” he paused, then added more quietly, “he looked happy.”

The others turned at that, a few eyebrows raising. There was something rare in Katsuki’s tone—softness, maybe even fondness. And just like Izuku, he looked different too. More grounded. Less tense.

Uraraka leaned toward Mina and whispered, “He’s been smiling more lately, don’t you think?”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Mina whispered back, grinning.

Katsuki shifted. “Anyway. I’m gonna check on him,” he muttered as he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned toward the stairs.

He didn’t wait for anyone’s response.

…

Upstairs, the dorm hallway was quiet. Katsuki approached Izuku’s room and knocked twice before slowly pushing the door open.

“Hey,” he said simply.

“Hey,” Izuku replied from across the room. He was standing by the closet, folding a hoodie before neatly placing it onto the shelf.

There was a short pause—comfortable, but with an undertone of hesitation. Then Izuku broke the silence with a soft laugh.

“I haven’t been in here for so long… It almost feels unfamiliar.”

“Yeah. Makes sense,” Katsuki replied as he stepped further in. He walked to one of the shelves and ran a finger along the edge. No dust. “We made sure it stayed clean. I told the extras not to mess with anything.”

Izuku’s smile grew. “Thanks. It’s kind of silly, but it really means a lot.”

Katsuki shrugged, but his gaze softened. “It’s not silly.”

Izuku finished placing the last of his clothes away, then looked over. “Are you heading to bed too?”

Katsuki nodded. “Yeah. Not in the mood to play cards or lose at UNO.”

Izuku chuckled, closing the closet door. “How about we go for a jog?”

That caught Katsuki off guard. His eyes lit up, sparking with something between surprise and genuine excitement. “Yeah! I mean—yeah. I’d like that.”

Izuku laughed again, this time more freely. “Alright, let me just change into my P.E. clothes real quick.”

Katsuki gave a quick nod, already turning toward the hallway. “I’ll go change too. Meet you downstairs in five?”

“Deal.”

As Katsuki disappeared out the door, Izuku stood there for a moment. Alone in his room—but no longer feeling isolated. There was still tension in his chest, still a long road ahead. But tonight, in this small, ordinary moment, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Normal.

…

Izuku had finished changing and headed downstairs, where Katsuki was already waiting near the door. Without much of a word, they both moved toward the exit.

“What are you guys up to? It’s already getting kind of late,” Iida called out, his brow furrowed with concern.

“We’re just going for a light jog,” Izuku replied casually.

“Oh, well, I’m glad you’re training again—but don’t push yourselves too hard, and make sure you’re back before it gets too late,” Iida said, ever the responsible class rep.

“We won’t, thanks,” Izuku said with a small laugh.

Katsuki gave a short sigh, and the rest of the class waved them off as they stepped into the cool night.

After a brisk, refreshing jog beneath the quiet evening sky, the two returned, each heading straight for the showers. Not long after, they were both in bed.

That night, for the first time in what felt like forever, Izuku slept soundly.
No nightmares.
It was strange—especially since it was his first night sleeping in a new environment.
But maybe, just maybe, that was a good sign.

—————————

The next morning, Izuku was pulled from sleep by a soft knock on his door.
His body jolted upright in a panic, eye wide, breath shallow—heart racing before his mind even caught up.

But then he blinked.
The ceiling above him was familiar, still dim in the early light. The quiet hum of the dorm building was steady, grounding. Slowly, the fog of sleep cleared, and he realized:
He was in his dorm room. He was safe.

“…Who’s that,” he said, his voice quiet and hoarse from sleep.

The door creaked open slowly. Aizawa stepped inside, moving with his usual calm precision. His voice was low, careful.

“Sorry to wake you. I hope I didn’t startle you.”

Behind him, a taller figure entered the room, and even in the low light, Izuku recognized the silhouette immediately.

Izuku blinked, then turned to glance at the clock on his nightstand.
6:03 a.m.

His eyes widened slightly. “Mr. Aizawa? All Might? What’s going on?”

Aizawa gave a small nod toward his student and crossed his arms. “We spoke last night. We’ve both seen how far you’ve come… and we think you’re ready to return to classes.”

He added, with a slight raise of his brow, “If that’s something you want.”

Izuku sat up straighter in bed, blankets pooling around his waist.
“Yes!” he said, a little too quickly, voice more animated than it had been in weeks.

All Might smiled warmly. “We figured you’d say that.”

Aizawa’s posture eased slightly. “Breakfast is at 7:30. You’ve got a little more than an hour to rest or prepare. No pressure.”

Izuku nodded earnestly. “Thank you, both of you.”

All Might stepped further into the room and placed a neatly folded bundle on Izuku’s desk. “Your new uniform. I had it delivered yesterday.”

Izuku smiled, more genuinely this time. “Thank you.”

“Well, we’ll see you in class, Midoriya,” Aizawa said, giving a short wave before the two men quietly left the room, closing the door behind them.

As silence settled once again, Izuku sat still in his bed, staring at the uniform now resting on his desk. A spark of excitement fluttered in his chest—his first day back.
It had been so long.

But that flicker of hope quickly twisted into unease.

Could he keep up?
He was already like 5 months behind of schoolwork.
Would everyone look at him differently now?

He lay back down, trying to calm his racing thoughts. But rest wouldn’t come. His room was still dim, bathed in the faint gray of early dawn. Shadows clung to the corners. The ticking of the clock was far too loud.

And then—he saw him.

Out of the corner of his eye, near the foot of the bed, stood the man.

That man. His icy blue eyes.

Izuku’s left eye widened in terror as he sat up abruptly, his breath catching in his throat.
“No…” he whispered.

He could already feel the sting of tears forming, welling up without warning. His hands trembled as he pushed himself upright, scrambling to open the curtains beside his bed.

But when he looked again—he was gone.
No one stood there. The corner was empty.

Just a hallucination.

Again.

Izuku clenched his jaw and bit down on his lip so hard he tasted blood. The metallic tang spread across his tongue, grounding him in the now. His fingers ran through his messy curls, tugging gently at the roots as he tried to center himself.

Breathe in… hold… breathe out…

The breathing exercise Shin had taught him echoed in his mind like a lifeline. He closed his eyes and focused.

Breathe in… one, two, three. Hold. Breathe out…

He repeated it again. And again. Slowly, his heartbeat began to settle.

Once he felt steadier, Izuku pulled the curtains fully open, letting the morning light spill across the room. The brightness helped. It made the shadows seem less threatening.
More real. More present.

He got out of bed and stretched briefly, forcing his limbs to move even though his body still felt heavy with emotion.

There was no way he’d be able to fall asleep again now.

So instead, he quietly began getting ready. Folding back the covers. Laying out the new uniform. Washing his face.
Every motion a distraction. Every step a way to remind himself that he was here.

…

Izuku stood in front of the bathroom mirror, his reflection staring back at him like a stranger.

He adjusted the collar of his uniform shirt—the short-sleeved version since it was still summer—and ran his fingers down the fabric. The material was familiar, but something about it felt foreign now. Stiff. New. Distant.
Like it belonged to someone else.

Still, he was glad to be wearing it again. It was a symbol—of normalcy, of purpose, of routine. A piece of the life he’d been trying to return to. One piece at a time.

But as he took in the sight of himself, his gaze drifted lower.

His arms were exposed. The short sleeves revealed everything.

Scars.

Not just the older ones, the ones from fights and training—faint silver lines that came from years of pushing himself too hard.
But also the new ones.
The thin, white-pink ridges.
Dozens of them.

Some wrapped around his forearms like rings. Others crisscrossed his wrists. Faint but unmissable.

And then there were the ones that peeked from beneath his collar—trailing up his neck.
Mixed with the scar he got from the fight against Shigaraki on his jaw.
A pale pink line curved along the edge of his throat. Another disappeared under the edge of his eyepatch.

Izuku swallowed hard, a lump rising in his throat.
He couldn’t hide forever.

He wasn’t invisible. People at U.A. knew who he was. And they would notice.
Students would ask questions. Maybe whisper. Maybe stare.

But that was okay. He could overcome this. He had to overcome this.

He tried to steady his breath and looked again.
He reminded himself that most of the scars on his arms weren’t new.
They came from hero work. Training. Experience. Evidence of everything he’d endured to protect others.

But then…
His eyes locked onto the newer ones.
So many thin lines, clustered along his forearms and wrists, delicate but unmistakable—too uniform, too deliberate.

His heart skipped.

Suddenly, uninvited and uncontrollable, the memory hit him like a punch to the gut.

That place. That knife.
The cold metal blade pressed against his skin, carving like he was nothing more than a block of wood.
The dull pressure building behind his left eye before it gave way to agony.
The fingernails—his fingernails—gone, peeled, raw.
The chains digging into his wrists and ankles, too tight, always too tight.

He had never really looked at the scars until now. He’d avoided it—quickly getting ready, avoiding mirrors.

And now that he saw them fully—really saw them—his stomach twisted violently.

He lurched toward the toilet behind him, barely making it in time.
The first wave came fast, burning his throat.
He coughed, gagged, and vomited again.
And again.

When it was over, he slumped forward, arms shaking as he held himself up over the toilet. Tears streamed freely down his cheek, falling into the water below.

His hands curled into fists so tightly his fingers trembled, and the still-healing beds of his nails throbbed painfully.
A fresh sting bit through them.

“Damn it…” he whispered, voice cracked and shaky.

He sat there for a while, breathing heavily, sweat clinging to his forehead, trying to pull himself back to the present.

After a long minute, he flushed the toilet and stood. His knees wobbled slightly, but he kept himself upright.

He turned to the sink and carefully removed his eyepatch. His fingers hesitated for a second—but he didn’t look. He just kept his gaze low, avoiding the mirror entirely.

He splashed cold water over his face. Once. Twice. Again.
The water helped clear the fog, anchoring him in the now.

Still without glancing up, he put the patch back on quickly—desperately.

He did not want to see what was underneath.

…

The dorm hallway was silent when he stepped out.
Everyone was still asleep—it was barely 6:30. The world outside the windows still wore a faint blue hue, quiet and slow.

Just as he expected, the common room downstairs was empty.

He sank into the couch, his limbs feeling too heavy and his chest too tight. He picked up the remote and turned the TV on, more for background noise than anything else.

An old black-and-white movie flickered to life on the screen. Some classic comedy he’d never seen before—characters shouting and running through a city street with over-exaggerated expressions.

Izuku didn’t really register any of it.

His eyes were pointed at the screen, but his mind wasn’t there.

It was back in that cold room.
Back in the dark, echoing spaces of his memory.

But despite the noise in his head, he didn’t look away.
He sat there quietly, breathing slowly.

Still here.
Still moving.
Even if it hurt.

Notes:

Hey guys! Currently, I’m in Greece, and as I post this chapter, I’m enjoying myself at the beach. This is the last but not least chapter—only one more to go! I’m so excited to see your reactions. I hope you all have a great day. Bye!

Chapter 36: Where Light Lives

Notes:

PREPAREEE, the final chapter is here.

Izuku couldn’t sleep, he was sitting on the couch in the common space, eyes fixated on a movie, but his mind was drifting away.

About half an hour passed before the loneliness of the common space shifted.
The soft creak of the dorm door opening was followed by slow, deliberate footsteps.

“You’re up early,” came a low, familiar voice.

Izuku turned his head toward the sound and was met with a calm, tired expression and a mop of disheveled purple hair.

“Good morning, Shinsou,” he said, his voice quiet but warm.

Shinsou walked over and leaned his arms casually on the back of the couch, eyes scanning the flickering black-and-white images on the screen.
“What are you watching?”

Izuku gave a small shrug. “Nothing really… I just put something on. Couldn’t sleep.”

Shinsou gave a knowing nod. “Been awake long?”

“No, not really,” Izuku replied. “I actually slept really well for the first time in a while. But then… All Might and Aizawa woke me up at six.”
He gave a faint smile. “They wanted to ask if I’d like to go back to classes again.”

Shinsou blinked, a little surprised. “You’re going back?”

“Yeah,” Izuku said, a bit more confidently. “I’d like that.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Shinsou’s mouth. He nodded slowly.
“That’s great news. I’m sure everyone’s gonna be glad to hear it.”

Izuku nodded back, his eyes drifting toward the screen again. The movie kept playing, characters talking and laughing, but the sound felt like background noise now.

A comfortable silence settled between them.

Shinsou pushed off from the back of the couch and headed toward the kitchen. The sound of a kettle filling and the faint clink of a mug followed.

“Want one too?” he called out.

“No thank you,” Izuku replied, glancing back at him.

A few moments later, Shinsou returned with a steaming cup of coffee in hand and sat down beside Izuku. He held the mug with both hands, letting the warmth seep into his fingers as he settled into the cushions.

His eyes flicked briefly to Izuku’s face—and then paused.

There was a dark, dried smudge on Izuku’s lower lip.
A small trace of blood.

“Is your lip okay?” Shinsou asked, concern mild but sincere. “Looks like you bit down on it pretty hard.”

Izuku blinked and brought his finger up to gently touch the spot.
“Oh. Yeah… I did,” he murmured. “But it’s fine.”

Shinsou nodded and didn’t press further. He turned his gaze back to the television, letting the moment pass.

He took a careful sip of his coffee and exhaled slowly, the scent of bitter roast curling in the air.
Izuku stayed beside him, his body still but not tense.

…

Just like that, one by one, class 3-A began to trickle into the common area. The quiet hum of morning started to build—footsteps on the stairs, soft greetings, the sound of kettles heating and cupboard doors opening.

“Good morning,” Yaoyorozu said gently as she entered, already filling a teapot with practiced elegance. Her hair was tied neatly, and she looked refreshed, yet her eyes lingered on Izuku with something soft—relief, maybe.

He gave her a small nod. “Good morning, Yaoyorozu.”

…

“Wait—you’re going to class today?”
Uraraka beamed.
“That’s awesome, Deku!”

Before Izuku could answer, Iida’s voice followed suit, firm and warm. “Yes! We’re glad to have you officially back with us, Midoriya. Truly, it hasn’t been the same without you.”

“Thanks, guys,” Izuku said, managing a smile that actually reached his eyes, even if it was a little hesitant.

The moment was short but comforting. Like the first few notes of a familiar melody returning after too much silence.

Soon, the group began moving out of the dorm common space and into the halls, heading for the cafeteria.

Izuku followed alongside them, walking quietly between familiar voices and casual chatter.

It was his first time having breakfast with everyone in five months.

And as he walked, surrounded by the warmth of his classmates, that warmth was quickly pierced by something else—the stares.

They started subtly. From corners of his vision. Lingering glances. Quiet footsteps that slowed behind him.

“Woah… isn’t that Deku?” a first-year whispered, barely audible, but sharp enough to sting.

“Look at that eyepatch… Do you think he’s missing an eye?” another voice followed, hushed and curious.

“How’d that even happen…?”

“Come to think of it, we haven’t seen him around at all lately.”

Each comment felt like it stacked weight on his shoulders. His uniform, which had felt like armor earlier that morning, now felt like paper. His exposed arms—marked with old and new scars—itched under invisible scrutiny. His fingers curled slightly, and his head dipped down.

“Ignore them, Izuku,” came a low voice beside him.

He blinked.
Katsuki had appeared at his side, walking in step with him. He wasn’t looking directly at Izuku, but his eyes were sharp—his presence grounding.

“Yeah…” Izuku mumbled. His gaze dropped to the floor tiles beneath his feet, and he focused on walking.

Just keep walking.

…

Once in the cafeteria, the class naturally broke off into smaller groups, voices echoing off the high ceiling as trays were picked up and breakfast was chosen. The scent of miso soup and steamed rice filled the air. Izuku grabbed a tray, but his appetite was uncertain.

As he moved toward an empty table with Todoroki, Iida, Uraraka and Tsuyu nearby, four figures approached.

Kendo, Shoda, Tetsutetsu, and Honenuki from Class B.

“Hey, Midoriya,” Tetsutetsu greeted, his usual bright energy tempered by something gentler. “We heard you caught some nasty illness. It’s good to see you again, man.”

“Yeah,” Kendo added with a supportive smile. “Hope you’ve been doing okay.”

Izuku blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected anyone from outside 3-A to say something so soon. But their kindness softened something in him.

“Thanks,” he said with a nod. “I’ve been… feeling better. Slowly.”

“That’s good to hear,” Honenuki said, his voice calm and sincere. “Glad to have you back in the halls.”

Izuku nodded again, grateful. “Thanks… really.”

The four gave a few more encouraging nods before walking away, but not before glancing back at him—subtle, concerned glances.

They had noticed.
Everyone had.

Not just the eyepatch, or the weight loss, or the stiffness in his posture.
But something deeper. Something about the way he carried himself. How quiet he’d become.

As they walked away, Tetsutetsu leaned in closer to the others.

“Is it just me, or does he have… way more scars than before?”

“I noticed too,” Shoda said softly. “Especially that one over his eye… and his arms. Could it have been some kind of infection? Or… maybe something else?”

Kendo frowned, keeping her voice low. “Whatever happened… it definitely changed him. He gives off a different vibe, just like Monoma said.”

The others nodded in agreement.

They didn’t mean harm. Their concern was real. But even quiet curiosity could weigh heavily.

Back at the table, Izuku stared down at his untouched tray of food.

The room buzzed around him—voices, movement, laughter—but it all felt distant. Like a layer of glass separated him from the rest of the world.

Still, he sat there.

Present.

———

After breakfast, the class filtered through the bright halls of U.A., familiar chatter filling the space. Izuku walked among them, his steps quiet, his shoulders slightly tense. Though he tried to relax, each echo of footsteps, each sudden voice behind him, made his nerves spike.

He clutched his bag tighter as they reached the door to Class 3-A. It opened with the usual screech of old hinges, and the students filed in. Their desks were where they always had been. The air smelled faintly of paper, floor polish, and pencil shavings.

Aizawa stood near the board, holding a clipboard. He looked up briefly as they entered.

“Take your seats,” he said, voice flat as usual. His eyes landed on Izuku for just a second—long enough to acknowledge him—but he didn’t say anything else.

Izuku didn’t mind. He preferred it that way.
Quiet. Low attention.

He sat down at his desk, which had been left untouched all this time. A few students smiled at him. Kaminari gave a subtle thumbs up from across the room. Sato nodded quietly. Izuku returned the gesture with a small smile.

⸻

[1st Period – Mathematics]

Ectoplasm stood at the front already writing complex algebraic functions on the board. He didn’t look up when Izuku entered.

“Page 213. Review of formulas. Quietly begin.”

No reaction. No comment. Just math.

Izuku sat down, pulling out his notebook. It was mostly empty. He opened to a fresh page, tried to follow along.

Equations filled the board. Letters, variables, graphs.

He copied what he could, but his brain lagged behind. His pencil hovered above the page. Nothing made sense.

He bit down on his lip, only stopping when he remembered it was already sore. Slowly, he pushed himself to at least rewrite what was on the board.

No praise. No special treatment.
Maybe that was better.

⸻

All the periods dragged on like that.

Izuku found himself staring at clocks more than blackboards, watching the hands inch forward as his mind drifted and circled back again. He felt behind—more than behind. Concepts that once came easily now seemed distant. His notes were fragmented, his focus shattered in places he couldn’t quite reach.

But he knew that. He expected it.

The teachers didn’t treat him any differently because of it.

And in a strange way, that was a good thing.

They didn’t call him out for not raising his hand. They didn’t ignore him either. They simply… continued. They welcomed him back with a nod or a glance and then let him try to find his rhythm again without pressure.

No one hovered. No one offered to “go easy on him.”
They let him be a student—just another student.

It felt right.

Like the world hadn’t stopped for him, and now he had the chance to catch back up on his own terms.

⸻

[After School]

As the final bell rang, bags zipped and chairs scraped back. Students stretched, chatted, made plans. The atmosphere was lighter again.

Izuku slowly packed his things, the weight of the day finally settling in.

He’d survived.

But just barely.

His mind was foggy. His notes were scattered. His thoughts were heavy.

And yet… as he stepped out into the hallway, he heard Kirishima’s voice call out:

“Hey, Izuku! Wanna walk back with us?”

He blinked—and for a second, that weight lifted just a little.

“…Sure.”

…

Time just passed like this.

The day blurred together into a steady rhythm—classes, meals, training, sleep—and before Izuku even realized it, the first day of his return to classes had come to an end. He was lying in bed again, wrapped in his blanket, his eyes tracing the ceiling in the dim glow of his nightlight.

He was tired—his body ached, his mind sluggish—but at the same time, there was something bubbling just beneath the surface. A strange, warm energy.

He had made it through.

Not just through the day, but through the doubts, the anxieties, and the dread that had knotted in his chest at the idea of facing everything again.

His life was starting to find its pace again.
And Izuku was quietly, deeply happy about that.

 

⸻———————————————————————————————————————————

 

[Three months had passed.]

⸻

It was November now.

The once-vibrant trees that lined the campus were shedding their leaves. The air had turned crisp—cold enough that students wore scarves and gloves outside—and the sky above UA was more often gray than blue.

But despite the fading colors of the season, Izuku Midoriya was flourishing.

His progress, in the eyes of his teachers, friends, and even himself, had been nothing short of remarkable.

Every week, he still attended therapy. Those sessions, though difficult at first, had become an anchor—guiding him through the mess of memories, trauma, and fear. He didn’t push his pain away anymore. He acknowledged it. Sat with it. He had learned, slowly but surely, to accept what had happened as part of him—not something that defined him, but something that shaped him.

Panic attacks still came, though rarely now. Maybe once a month. But they never lasted long. Izuku had learned breathing techniques to ground himself, counting to four with every inhale and exhale, sometimes clutching the small grounding stone Shin had given him. And when he couldn’t do it alone, there was always someone—Todoroki, Uraraka, Iida, or Katsuki—who would sit with him, talk him through it, or simply offer their presence.

And physically?

He was stronger. Much stronger.

Almost every evening, after classes ended and the sky had dimmed to twilight, Izuku went jogging with Katsuki. The first few nights were rough—he couldn’t make it to the end of the path without wheezing, his legs too shaky and sore to keep up. But Katsuki never left him behind. He ran at Izuku’s pace, even if it killed him inside to go that slow, and never said a word about it.

Now? Izuku could run the whole loop without stopping. Sometimes he even beat Katsuki back to the dorms, which earned him a rare smirk and a shove on the shoulder.

He had returned to training too.

Combat lessons, physical education, even solo drills in the training halls. The teachers had cleared him weeks ago, though with strict limitations. At first, using One For All again had been terrifying—his body wasn’t the same, his stamina lower, his pain threshold dulled in some places and too sharp in others.

Izuku still remembered that day when it was the first time he’d be doing combat training with his class again.

Their teacher had instructed them to suit up and head to Ground Beta, and like a practiced routine, the class broke off toward the locker rooms with easy chatter and half-hearted complaints about the upcoming drills. Izuku followed quietly, his hero costume suitcase in his hand.

Inside the changing room, the usual buzz of conversation surrounded him, classmates laughing and exchanging jabs as they unbuttoned their uniforms and changed. Izuku, keeping to his corner, quickly peeled off his school jacket and began undoing the buttons of his shirt.

Just as he slid his shirt off his shoulders, a voice broke through the air.

“Dude, you’ve got something here.”

Kaminari’s voice came from behind him—light, casual, clueless. Izuku felt fingers swipe gently across the middle of his back.

The reaction was immediate. Izuku flinched. Hard. A full-body jolt that stopped Kaminari mid-motion.

“Huh?” Kaminari blinked, confused, until his eyes settled on the mark. His expression dropped almost instantly, his usual grin replaced with quiet horror. “Wait… Is that a scar?”

He leaned in, squinting, eyes tracing the rough, puckered ridges of skin just above Izuku’s lower back. And then, as if the silence wasn’t already thick enough—

“What does it say?” he mumbled, almost involuntarily.

Izuku spun around so fast he nearly knocked over the bench behind him. But it was too late.

Kaminari’s eyes widened even more as the carved word clicked in his brain, and he said it before he could stop himself.

“…‘Toy’…”

The room went dead silent.

“What?” Sero asked, frowning as he looked over.

Kaminari’s face drained of color. He slapped a hand over his mouth. “Shit. I—I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, locking eyes with Izuku’s unreadable expression.

Izuku let out a nervous laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “No, no, it’s… it’s okay. Really.” He was turned around, tugging his costume up over his shoulders as quickly as he could, keeping his back to the wall like it could hide everything he didn’t want them to see.

His hands fumbled with the zipper, and his jaw was clenched so tightly his teeth ached.

‘Right… that word…’ he thought, trying to steady his breathing. ‘I almost forgot it was even there. I never see it. I don’t think about it. I don’t want to think about it.’

But now they’d seen.

He yanked the zipper up with a trembling hand and didn’t look back as he took his boots and the rest of his gear and strode out of the locker room, his footsteps sharp and fast. He didn’t say a word.

Katsuki, who had just finished tightening his boots, paused. He’d heard everything, felt the mood shift the moment the word had been spoken. With a heavy sigh, he stood up and shot a glare toward Kaminari.

“Nice going, dumbass. Ever think before you talk?” He shoved past the others and made his way out the door after Izuku, slamming it shut behind him.

The silence lingered like a bad smell.

“Wait… so he has a scar that says ‘toy’?” Mineta asked, breaking the silence with his usual lack of tact. His voice was small, almost uncertain.

Shoji’s expression was hard to read, but his voice was quiet. “I didn’t think he had more scars than the ones we already saw…”

“Toy…That’s just…” Kirishima looked down, brow furrowed in a mix of sadness and anger. “That’s just cruel.”

Kaminari was still standing in the same place, his hand now resting at the back of his neck. He looked pale. “I really didn’t mean to call it out like that… I thought it was like, dirt, or paint or something I could just wipe away…”

“You should apologize to Midoriya later,” Todoroki said from the bench across the room, his voice sharper than usual. “I don’t think he would’ve wanted anyone to see that, especially not like this.”

Kaminari nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the door. “Yeah. Yeah, I will. I really messed up.”

No one responded right away. The weight of the moment sat on their shoulders like a storm cloud.

Later that day, Kaminari found a moment to quietly apologize to Izuku. His voice was sincere, filled with guilt, but Izuku quickly shook his head and apologized too, saying it wasn’t Kaminari’s fault. He insisted that it was normal what Kaminari did, and that he didn’t blame him at all.

Not long after, a few of the boys from the class came over to check on him. They told him gently that there was nothing to be ashamed of, that the scar didn’t change the way they saw him. What he’d been through didn’t make him weak — it only showed how strong he was for still standing. None of them would judge him for it.

Their words didn’t erase the discomfort completely, but they did leave a warmth in Izuku’s chest — a quiet reminder that he wasn’t alone.

…

Izuku worked through it all, even through his training.

Now he could safely push himself to 50% again, even if the strain was heavier than before. His bones still ached after long sessions, his muscles burned faster, and he had to monitor his heartbeat closely. But he was doing it.

As for the other Quirks—Blackwhip, Float, Smokescreen, Fa Jin, and Gearshift—they were no longer unfamiliar. He had mastered their control already. The only question now was whether his body could handle their use in battle.

Each day brought him closer to the answer.

And it wasn’t just strength or skill that had changed. People noticed something else.

The spark had returned to Izuku’s eye.

It wasn’t the same as before—not that wide-eyed, frantic energy he used to radiate. It was something steadier now. Grounded. Determined. He walked with more confidence, held his head higher, and spoke with a quiet, unshakable calm that hadn’t been there before the incident.

His scars were still there. Deep, jagged, unapologetic. They trailed down his neck, across his arms, peeked from under his shirt when the collar shifted. And of course, the most noticeable—his eyepatch—still sat where his right eye used to be.

And his fingernails?

Two had started to grow back—slowly, unevenly, but undeniably there. His right index nail had the faintest pale curve forming again, fragile but steady. His left thumb nail was a little further along, short but solid, the skin around it no longer raw or sensitive. The rest, though, were still missing. Just smooth, scarred skin where they used to be.

But it was okay.

It barely hurt anymore—not physically, at least. The nerves had settled, the sting had dulled, and even touching rough surfaces didn’t send shocks up his arm like it used to. Sometimes he still caught people glancing at his hands, but he didn’t flinch away or hide them in his sleeves anymore.

At first, it had been difficult. He’d felt everyone’s gaze on him when he entered a room. Even though no one said anything cruel, the curiosity was always there, unspoken and pressing. But over time, Izuku grew less insecure. He stopped tugging at his sleeves to hide the marks. Stopped adjusting his hair to slightly make his eyepatch less unnoticeable.

People stopped staring.

Even the first-years, who used to whisper in the hallways, began treating him like any other upperclassman. They didn’t ask what happened. They didn’t need to.

And that silence? That respect?

Izuku was deeply grateful for it.

He still had a long way to go. He knew that. But standing in the cold November breeze, scarf wrapped loosely around his neck and the fading light of the afternoon hitting the edge of the schoolyard—

He finally felt like himself again.

Graduation was drawing closer with each passing week. Only four months remained before Class 3-A would walk across the stage, diploma in hand, ready to step into the world as pro heroes. The atmosphere throughout U.A. had started to shift—students spoke more seriously about internships, hero agencies, and the futures they’d been working toward for three long years.

And for Izuku Midoriya, it felt surreal.

After everything he had been through—after the months he had spent isolated, broken, trying to rebuild himself piece by piece—it was hard to believe he was standing here again, not only keeping up, but thriving.

Behind closed doors, the teachers had already reached a decision: Izuku would graduate.

It wasn’t a decision made out of pity, nor out of sympathy for what he had endured. It was one made with full recognition of how far he had come. Even though he had missed nearly half a year of classes, he had caught up to the theory faster than anyone had expected. He spent hours studying late into the night, scribbling notes, revisiting old textbooks, and asking questions after class when something didn’t quite click.

And when it came to practical skills—he was already ahead of most of his peers.

His control over One for All had returned steadily, and though his body still couldn’t handle full power without consequence, he had adapted. He used strategy and technique in place of raw strength, and the way he fought had matured. Teachers noted the way he used the battlefield, how he thought two steps ahead, how he no longer fought like he had something to prove—but rather like someone with something to protect.

He wasn’t just physically strong—he was resilient. Composed. Steady.

Emotionally, too, he had grown in ways that couldn’t be graded on paper.

The weekly therapy sessions had continued, and he had learned not just to confront his trauma, but to live with it. His panic attacks had decreased, now only surfacing every few weeks, and when they did, he faced them with deep breaths and grounding techniques instead of fear. He had built a support network—Katsuki, Iida, Uraraka, Aizawa, and so many others—and he finally let them in.

He no longer carried the weight alone.

There were still scars, both seen and unseen. But there was progress. There was peace. And more importantly—there was purpose again in Izuku’s stride.

So when the faculty sat down to review their students’ performances, there was no hesitation.

Midoriya had earned his place among the graduates this school year.

He had fought harder than anyone just to return. He had clawed his way out of a darkness most wouldn’t have survived. He had grown not only into a capable hero—but into the kind of person that inspired others.

And that, more than anything, proved he was ready.

—————————————————————

[5 years later]

The sky outside was painted in deep purples and fading golds, the last glow of the sun casting a warm hue through the expansive windows of Izuku’s penthouse. The soft hum of city life echoed far below, muffled by the height and double-glazed glass. Inside, the atmosphere was cozy and quiet. Warm light spilled from ceiling lamps, reflecting off hardwood floors and tastefully minimalistic decor.

“Want something to drink?” Izuku asked, walking barefoot across the kitchen tiles.

“Tea’s fine,” Katsuki replied, already lowering himself into the plush couch with a grunt of approval. He looked around the open-concept living space, taking in the neatness, the subtle color palette—greens, grays, and soft creams—and the little touches that made the place unmistakably Izuku’s: framed photos of his classmates, a few All Might figurines still tucked between books on the shelf, and a potted plant thriving on the windowsill.

“You’ve got yourself a damn nice penthouse,” Katsuki muttered, half in admiration, half in teasing envy. He leaned back into the couch, arms stretched out over the backrest, legs slightly spread like he owned the place.

Izuku’s voice carried over from the kitchen with a small chuckle. “You were the last one visiting. I know you were off across Europe for a while, but still—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Katsuki waved him off lazily. “You know I hate flights.”

Izuku emerged moments later, holding two steaming mugs. “Well, no excuse anymore. You’re here now.”

He set one mug down on the coffee table in front of Katsuki before settling beside him with a quiet sigh. Katsuki took the mug with a grunt of appreciation and took a sip. “Couch isn’t half bad either,” he said, his voice casual but content.

“My mom picked it out,” Izuku said, flashing a soft grin as he curled his legs under himself.

“Of course she did.” Katsuki snorted, then smirked over the edge of his cup. “Still coddling you, huh?”

“Not at all. She just has better taste in furniture than I do.”

The two of them laughed, and the ease between them settled back in as if no time had passed. They chatted for nearly an hour—about Katsuki’s travels through Switzerland and Italy, about how the international hero exchange program had opened new doors, and about the current climate of pro hero work in Japan.

It had been three months since they last saw each other face to face, and though they texted often, nothing compared to the real thing. There was something grounding in their presence—years of growth and pain stitched carefully into quiet understanding.

The television murmured in the background, tuned to a 24-hour news channel. Neither had really been listening, but then the tone of the reporter shifted.

“An abandoned house, located in XXX City, is finally scheduled for demolition,” the anchor stated, her voice calm and formal. “The property has been untouched for over twenty years. Five years ago, a hidden underground lab was discovered beneath it — one tied to an figure known only as Doctor Mori. Authorities have confirmed it had once been used for illegal experiments, and evidence linked Mori to a series of gruesome crimes spanning decades. For years, the location was cordoned off and kept from public access, but due to rising costs, the security detail was removed. Now, after ongoing public complaints, the building will finally be torn down.”

Izuku’s hands froze and his is blood ran cold.

That name.

Mori.

His chest tightened.

Katsuki, who had been mid-sip, caught the change in Izuku instantly. His crimson eyes flicked to the TV, then slowly back to Izuku. The name Mori clicked in his head too, and a dreadful weight settled between them.

The screen changed. Footage rolled.

A wide shot of the house appeared — old, weather-worn, and lifeless. The windows were boarded up, and ivy crept along the fractured walls. Police tape still fluttered in the breeze from five years ago. The house looked unremarkable to the outside world. Just another ruin.

Izuku stared. He didn’t remember it. Not the outside. He had never seen it — not when they had first taken him, not when he had escaped. His time there had always been around ceilings and walls.

Then the footage shifted.

Now it was underground.

A long, narrow corridor appeared, lined with white tile. The walls were stained, some cracked. A chill crept down Izuku’s spine. His knuckles whitened around his cup.

Another shot.

Mori’s office.

Papers and machines left untouched. Shelves still cluttered. An operating table off to the side. A desk with files. A wall with charts.

Then—

The screen changed one more time.

A white room.

Stark.

Flawless.

Empty.

Except for the massive, rusted iron door at the back. The kind of door you only ever saw in facilities that wanted things to never come out.

Izuku’s entire body locked up.

He stopped breathing.

Katsuki didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the remote and switched off the TV.

The screen went black with a hollow click. The silence that followed was loud. Too loud.

Except for Izuku’s breathing.

It came in short bursts.

Shallow.

Uneven.

Pained.

Katsuki leaned forward, gently placing a hand on Izuku’s shoulder — firm, but not forceful. His voice dropped low, soft in a way few ever got to hear from him.

“Izuku…”

Izuku didn’t answer. His left eye was wide and locked on the now-dark screen. His hand clutched his chest, as though his heart might fall out if he didn’t hold it in.

Katsuki didn’t speak again. He just stayed with him.

He knew this.

He had helped him through it before.

“Breathe,” he said gently. “Like always. Come on. In through the nose.”

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the breath into his lungs. His shoulders rose and fell with effort.

“Good,” Katsuki encouraged. “Now hold… and let it go.”

The tension slowly began to ebb. His fingers loosened their grip from his shirt. The panic was still there, but it wasn’t winning.

Izuku exhaled a shuddering breath, blinking rapidly to stop the sting in his eye. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, heart still thudding against his ribs.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t,” Katsuki cut in, his tone quiet but firm. “Don’t apologize. Anyone… anyone would’ve reacted like that. After what you went through, after what that place did to you…”

He trailed off, letting the weight of it hang. They both knew. They both remembered.

Izuku nodded slowly.

“It’s good that they’re taking it down,” he said, voice barely above a murmur. “It shouldn’t exist. Not anymore.”

“Yeah,” Katsuki replied. “It should’ve been gone years ago.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. It was mutual. Heavy with meaning, but not uncomfortable. They just sat with it. Two survivors of different kinds of battles, finding peace in each other’s presence.

Just because it had been years, didn’t mean Izuku had forgotten.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments, it still came back.

A noise too sudden. A room too white. A moment too still.

There were nights when he’d wake up drenched in sweat, breath shallow, heart pounding like he was still that boy in the dark — trapped, alone, and broken. There were days where his hands would tremble before he realized he was safe. Days when he’d zone out in the middle of conversation, vision blurring just slightly with memories that weren’t welcome, but never quite gone.

But he always came back.

Because he wasn’t alone.

Katsuki stayed quiet beside him, letting the silence speak. He didn’t need to say it — he was proud of Izuku. Of everything he had overcome. Of everything he had become.

He glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Izuku was sipping his tea now, gaze calmer, steadier, though his shoulders were still just slightly tense.

Katsuki smiled softly to himself.

Of course he’d pull through.

He always did.

He was too damn stubborn to falter.

And Katsuki would be there. Always. Just like the rest of their friends. Uraraka, Iida, Todoroki, Kirishima, Tsuyu — the whole class, really. They had all grown and taken their own paths, but when one of them needed help, they always showed up.

“So,” Katsuki said at last, nudging him slightly with his elbow, “you ever gonna let me see the training room you’ve been bragging about?”

Izuku chuckled, the tension easing from his body like melting snow. “I haven’t been bragging—”

“You totally have.”

“Okay, maybe a little,” he admitted with a grin. “It’s down the hall. I’ll show you after we finish the tea.”

The two continued talking, laughter joining the low hum of the city outside the penthouse windows. They talked about work, about old classmates, about their mentors and students. They joked about the past, wondered about the future, and somewhere in the middle of it all, they simply existed — two childhood friends, once broken and bitter, now healing and whole.

…

Time passed unnoticed. The stars outside blinked faintly against the city lights.

Eventually, Katsuki stood to leave. Izuku walked him to the door, slippers soft against the wooden floor.

“Next time,” Izuku said, hand on the doorknob, “you don’t wait three months, got it?”

Katsuki rolled his eyes. “You sound like my mom.”

Izuku smiled. “Good. Someone’s gotta keep you in line.”

They stood for a second. Just one.

“Thanks for tonight,” Izuku added, softer now.

Katsuki nodded. “Anytime.”

And with that, he stepped out into the night, letting the door fall shut behind him.

Izuku leaned against it for a moment, taking in the stillness of the apartment.

He looked toward the window.

The sky was dark, but peaceful.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath in… and let it out.

He was okay.

Not perfect. Not unscarred.

But okay.

And that was more than enough.

Because this wasn’t the end of his story.

It was just another chapter.

One written in experiences, healing, in friendship, in hope.

And no matter what came next — he was ready.

⸻

[The End]

Notes:

GUYS, IT’S OFFICIALLY OVER — AHHH!!

First of all, I just want to say: thank you SO, so, so much for all your support!
Every single comment, kudo, and bit of encouragement truly kept me going. I don’t think I could’ve made it all the way to the end without you. It meant the world to me and gave me so much motivation. 💚

This was actually the first time I’ve ever written a full ending for a story, and I’ll admit — it was hard. Endings are scary! But I hope you still liked it. I poured a lot of emotion into those final chapters, and it means so much that you’ve come this far with me.

Also… I had to make one more drawing to include in the story.
Yes, it’s traced from official MHA art, and yes, I used an outline — because I’m terrible at drawing otherwise, LOL. But I still wanted to give you something visual to close the story out, especially a glimpse of the graduation. 💕
(Side fact: Katsuki is the one taking the photo in the drawing!)

We went through a LOT together with this story. I’m genuinely proud of everyone who read it through to the end — you deserve so much respect.
This story brought a ton of grief and emotion (at least to me, haha), but it was also really healing to write.

Now that this one is finished, I’m going to try and continue some of my other ongoing stories. But I’m just really, really happy — and proud — that I actually completed this one.
It’s honestly kind of funny… this story started as just an experiment. I wanted it to be short — especially Izuku’s recovery part.
And now here we are: his healing ended up longer than the actual torture arc. 😭

Thank you all again, from the bottom of my heart. I hope you’re happy with the way it ended.
And who knows? Maybe we’ll see each other again in a different story someday!

Until then — take care, stay safe, and have a wonderful day! <3
Lots of love!

— linxwo