Chapter Text
Chapter 1 - The Ceiling Never Stood a Chance
It is just another day—well maybe not just another day, but rather the first day after the end of the disastrous Summer Break in UA High School. The school is bustling with gossip painted in both positive attitudes and dark expressions regarding the defeat of the supervillain: All for One and subsequently the retirement of the Symbol of Peace: All Might.
There are a lot of mixed reactions to the events that have unfolded in the last week: The LOV attack on the summer camp, the kidnapping of one Bakugou Katsuki, the reluctant winner from the annual sports festival of the infamous class 1-A, then the events of what was now dubbed as the Kamino Ward incident. It got so out of hand that the news made it to broadcast channels all over the world. Social media is on a digital rampage. The people are still processing and the heroes are still recovering.
All in all it is not just another day, but a day lighting up the baby blue skies in new beginnings and grim reminders. And so, classes have resumed. Students shuffle through the gates with tight shoulders and guarded eyes, some quieter than usual, others forcing smiles too wide. UA is standing—restructured, re-secured, reinforced—but something about the halls feels… heavier. Like the ghosts of recent failures have seeped into the concrete.
Teachers exchange stiff nods in the staff room, their coffee cups trembling slightly with nerves they won't speak aloud. There’s a silent agreement among the faculty: move forward, focus on the students, pretend the cracks in the system aren’t still fresh and bleeding. They will deal with it, they always do.
Moods and news aside, somewhere on one of the many floors of U.A., Class 1-A trudges on with a semblance of normalcy. The hum of casual chatter fills the room—conversations about the newly installed dorms, whispered debates over rankings, and the occasional burst of laughter slipping between the cracks of tension.
The trauma lingers—unspoken, but heavy. Most choose to ignore it, smothering the discomfort beneath their usual bravado: fiery energy, light banter, and classic brooding at corners. Just the way they all are. A return to form—or the illusion of it.
On one of said brooding corners sits Todoroki Shoto, blank-faced and quiet, seemingly tuned out from the classroom's noise. He's been staring at the wall clock above the blackboard for the better part of ten minutes now, unmoving, unreadable. The light catches on his dual-colored hair—crimson red and pure white split perfectly down the middle, matching the scar that mars the left side of his face. His classmates barely spare him a glance—this is just how Todoroki is. Nothing out of the ordinary, really.
And for now, the day carries on like normal.
*Todoroki Shoto P.O.V*
Shoto stares.
He isn’t really watching the clock. Not exactly.
He’s somewhere else entirely—mentally suspended in a space where time ticks too loudly and everything else feels too far away.
The hands of the clock shift forward with practiced precision. Steady. Sharp. A sound barely noticeable to most, but to Shoto, it cuts through the muffled ambiance of the classroom like a metronome counting down to something unseen.
Behind him, the room is a blur of motion and chatter. Laughter bubbles near the windows, voices criss cross over each other in a mixture of gossip and harmless teasing. Someone’s arguing over chores in the new dorms. Someone else is speculating about upcoming internships. They echo like noise underwater—filtered, irrelevant. He doesn’t join in. He doesn’t feel the need to.
Whatever this day is pretending to be, he already knows it won’t stay that way for long. It’s all very normal. Too normal.
Something’s coming.
He can feel it.
The thought wedges itself into the back of his mind like a sliver. And for the umpteenth time, he isn’t entirely sure he’s ready.
The feeling isn’t new. In fact, it’s getting disturbingly familiar. A false sense of peace, followed by chaos. A calm morning, then blood, sweat, and tears by sunset.
…Wait.
To be fair, that whole blood-sweat-tears thing kind of just happens in heroics and PE too. Throw in a villain attack into the mix and voilà—your day is well and truly ruined.
His gaze shifts, unblinking, to the blackboard. Nothing particularly interesting there, but it keeps him from making eye contact with anyone. Keeps him centered.
Honestly, if he’s being realistic, Endeavor could also be the source of this crawling tension in his gut. Endeavor fully qualifies as a day-ruiner. So maybe it’s that. Maybe it’s just the ghost of his father’s presence giving him this abominable gut feeling. The man had a way of turning perfectly tolerable days into something sour and suffocating.
Which might actually be a better alternative. He thinks it over. Then reluctantly decides: after the whole Kamino Ward disaster, he’d rather it be his old man up to no good.
If it’s just Endeavor, maybe no one else will be in danger. Maybe Midoriya won’t be sad—
He cuts the thought off.…He will definitely be sad if Shoto zones out even more as he retreats further back into his mind after crossing paths with Endeavor again. Just like he had done before.
Midoriya shouldn’t be sad.
The irony isn’t lost on him when the thought itself makes him sad. (Irony is an interesting concept. He has been learning about it after hearing it one too many times.)
Great. Neither option is great, but it’s not like he gets to choose. That’s just life. Midoriya will cry either way because he has a chronic case of eye waterfalls. Either it’s Endeavor, or it’s something worse.
Midoriya will cry regardless, honestly. He always does. (Didn't he already say this? Meh.)
It was so bad that Shoto had genuinely assumed...his quirk was water when they first met.
What prompted that? Well. It was obvious.
Being the observant sort, he’d kept an eye on Midoriya and Uraraka since the first day—watched him and every time she so much as complimented him he responded by unleashing Niagara Falls from his tear ducts. Shoto had genuinely braced for impact. Alas. He was wrong. No flood came, thankfully. But still. Caution never hurts anyone, as a part of him remains concerned.
Midoriya is still crying today, though.
The memory slips into his thoughts uninvited, as vivid as ever. The way Midoriya had looked at that time —barely holding himself together.
Worrying times. Truly concerning.
Maybe he should carry a floaty around. Strap it on his suit (there is a lot of empty space on his back, should utilize that efficiently.) For emergencies. Just in case this Midoriya special non-quirked (secret quirk???) water situation got out of hand and drowned all of them.
I should ask Power Loader later, he muses vaguely.
Or maybe see if Aizawa will take me to the mall… though will he even allow us to leave the premises?
He frowns slightly. Right. Sidetracked. Again.
The point still stands—his instincts are rarely wrong. Humans are animals. Sorta. Baseline. Or something.
And today? Today feels off. Like the calm before a storm. Like the moment right before a building collapses. Before the cold Soba is microwaved by an imbecile—before Bakugou turns into a Chihuahua.
He doesn’t know what’s coming, but he knows it’s coming.
There’s something in the air. Heavy. Brewing. Dramatically.
A wrongness crawling beneath the surface of normalcy.
Something sharp.
Something inevitable.
He knows better than to ignore it. He should say something. Maybe warn his classmates. Or his friends or maybe the authority. Someone who will listen. Someone who will believe him.
I should warn Midoriya. Or Iida. Or Uraraka. Or— The classroom door slides open with a soft shhhk.
Ah. Aizawa finally decided to show up. Looks like doom will befall all of them but only Shoto is burdened by that heavy knowledge.
Shoto doesn’t need to look to know it’s Aizawa. The room shifts ever so slightly—like the pressure changes with him walking in. A low current of quiet respect mixed with vague dread. No one ever really knows if he’s going to announce a pop quiz or suspend someone on the spot.
Shoto lifts his eyes anyway, just for a moment.
Yep. It’s Aizawa. Hair marginally less chaotic. Capture weapon slung around him like an afterthought. Or a tame snake. Shoto doesn’t like snakes much. Dark circles under his eyes are as permanent as always. It's like makeup. He walks like someone who hasn't had a single good night’s sleep since the dawn of time.
Well, he did shave for the press so that explains the less than usual wild look, and the whole thing with All for One and All Might explains for the tracks of fatigue all over him.
He sets a stack of papers on the podium and doesn’t say a word. Just stands there.
Isn’t he getting paid for this job? Something tells him nobody would appreciate that comment. Not like he is ever going to say something like that out loud. Even the normalest things that pass through his head earns him strange looks from his classmates. Natsu one time told him that’s because nobody gets his sense of humor but Shoto doesn’t understand. He doesn’t make jokes so where is the humor in the first place?
Side tracked. Focus back.
Shoto hears the way the class hushes—not fully, but enough. Like prey sensing a predator that’s not hunting yet. Even Bakugou stops tapping his pen against the desk. It's interesting how someone as brash as Bakugou has nervous tics. Midoriya’s whispering something to Iida with a notebook halfway covering his mouth. He does that a lot. Ashido’s laughter dies mid-burst. She is talented in killing her voice.
Also their teacher just has that effect.
Aizawa scans the room. His gaze lands on Shoto for the briefest second. Strange . Why him?
A nod. Slight. Barely there.
Shoto nods back, because that’s how they communicate. Words optional.
But to be honest, he has no idea what they are nodding about. Maybe it's a secret mission thing or maybe he is secretly Shoto ‘s uncle with a mind reading quirk. ( Where did that come from? Whatever, if I think about it, it will probably make sense. ) Or maybe he is also getting this forbidding feeling.
The noise starts up again, quieter this time. Someone shuffles papers. Someone else coughs. Someone’s trying not to fall asleep—probably Kaminari. Shoto wonders how he could sleep here in class of all places. He could tell Kaminari to sleep on a rock at the beach and he probably will. Admirable really.
The hands on the clock tick forward.
Aizawa says nothing. It is literally his job to speak —he must be tired.
Just another day. Or so.
Shoto rests his chin on his palm and watches the second hand creep along the small lines bordering the device. He gets the sense that time is dragging on purpose. Like even the clock is in on the joke, stretching the morning out for maximum discomfort.
Still, nothing happens.
No villains. No explosions. No new declarations of war.
His gut continues to twist.
Aizawa starts talking.
Two more periods to go till lunch. If he ignores the fact that this period just started, there are actually three more to go but for the non-existent dramatic purposes it will be two. Don’t ask.
Time slides by in indistinct pieces.
First period bleeds into second, second into third, stitched together by the scrape of chairs, the scratch of pens, the occasional half-sigh. Lunch follows, quieter than usual, more hushed conversations and stolen glances that don't quite meet.
It’s like the air itself is holding its breath. And none of them really know why.
By the time the afternoon rolls around, Class 1-A has settled into a simmering, restless quiet.
Shoto narrows his eyes at Aizawa as the man wiggles into his yellow cocoon and promptly disappears behind the lectern. Lunch passed without any hitches, and now fourth period has been reassigned for self-study because there’s a rescheduled quirk theory test tomorrow. Great.
This test…is not a priority right now. Shoto knows.
Why? Because he can practically feel the disaster brewing on the horizon. And, just to be clear, it's not his disaster, okay? He's simply an innocent bystander. A concerned citizen. Or like it's just not his problem!
But then again, failing isn’t an option. Not that he cares about Endeavor’s opinion (he doesn’t, really), but still. He’s not about to give the old man even the ghost of a reason to sneer at him. And besides, he doesn’t even have to go home now. Isn’t that just...great? It is. He decides with a nod.
A small, victorious smile tugs at his lips—before promptly dropping off his face the moment he looks at the worksheet sitting innocently on his desk.
The worksheet. Oh boy.
He squints at it. Tilts his head. Stares some more.
Was this even in the syllabus?
Maybe Aizawa is pulling their legs. Maybe it’s an elaborate prank. Maybe...maybe Shoto should just set it on fire and walk away.
April Fools has already passed. Unless there was a July Fools that he didn’t know about.
There must be some ultimatum to gain from this ridiculous stunt. Will the test contain the same nonsense? Probably not…right..?
Oh man. He’s screwed, isn’t he? Nope. Not at all. He is Todoroki Shoto and he will ace this.
End of discussion . Or is it?
Fifteen minutes later and he isn’t getting anywhere. He had decided to mark the first question for later but the second one was just as bad. This…this isn’t even japanese. This is disrespect…but in words.
He scowls harder. The letters don’t rearrange themselves into anything sensible. Betrayal.
Still, for the sake of his academic dignity, he leans in and tries again.
Focus. You’re smart. You can do this. You fought a literal flesh monster two months ago and rescued Bakugou from the den of villains with a shoddy plan. This is a harmless question. You can handle this.
But… What in All Might’s shiny eyebrows is this even supposed to be? What are these quirks?? Do quirks actually work like this? That’s kind of gross. Ew. Wait—no, that’s not very heroic of him. That’s not the right word. It’s called being quickest— Focus, Shoto.
He clenches his jaw and drags his gaze back to the sheet. It mocks him with every cursed line of gibberish printed across it.
Who gave this person a pen? No. Who let them live?
Aizawa? No—surely not. Aizawa was reasonable. He was sensible.
Usually. Probably. Well, he has been reasonable so far…when it comes to school work…
But then again, Aizawa is the man who sleeps in a giant caterpillar in the classroom, so honestly, Shoto doesn’t know anymore.
Is this what growing up feels like? Betrayal by authority figures? Does this example even make sense with someone like him? Yeah…no.
He chances a swift look at Yaoyorozu. Her brows are furrowed deeply, but her pen is moving.
What the hell is she writing?! Secret answers? Sorcery? Advanced calculus? Wait, calculus? Are we doing calculus? Nah. He would’ve known.
He skips Iida (he is not in his line of vision), and flicks his eyes over to Midoriya and Bakugou instead.
Bad choice. Instant regret.
Just by looking at them these two make him go insane.
Midoriya looks like he’s descending into some sort of...academic madness. His hand is scribbling at the speed of light, mumbling rapid-fire notes so fast that even Shoto’s finely-tuned combat instincts can’t keep up. That’s like 500 words per second.
His brain isn't a braining so frankly his math isn’t mathing either. So that description of Midoriya is probably untrue but anyways. Another thing is…his hand won’t stop moving! What is he writing?!
Midoriya’s gone feral.
There’s no saving him now.
Meanwhile, Bakugou looks five seconds away from shredding the worksheet and eating it out of spite. Honestly? Relatable. They can eat the papers together because that’s what friends do…right?
He really has to stop doing that “...right?” thingy in his head.
Shoto sighs and drags a hand down his face, resisting the urge to just slide under the desk and accept his fate. This is fine. Everything is fine. Seriously. Seriously? No.
Whatever happened to his so-called gut feeling?
Was this it? Was this the doom he sensed earlier?
An absolute academic massacre, right here, under the fluorescent lights?
Maybe. Probably.
Shoto glares at the worksheet harder, willing the answers to magically appear.
They don't.
Of course they don't.
Because life is the core definition of pain and so is quirk theory apparently.
But he will be damned if he lets this paper defeat him.
Todoroki Shoto doesn’t fold.
Todoroki Shoto doesn’t surrender.
Todoroki Shoto will go down swinging if he has to.
Even if it means battling against the dumbest worksheet mankind has ever known.
Even if it means dying of brain cell depletion in the middle of a (not) peaceful self-study session. Even if Midoriya floods the room with tears or Bakugou detonates the classroom out of sheer frustration.
No.
He will stand tall.
He will endure.
He will—
...Circle back to Question One because he still has no idea what the hell it’s asking.
Focus, Shoto. Focus.
He writes. Something. Anything. Whatever mumbo jumbo he can cook in his thinking quarters right now. All of it overflowing and spilling into the worksheet. And he writes and writes and— what…
Shoto’s pen is still on the paper.
…Was that the ceiling?
He blinks, staring upward, eyebrows slowly furrowing.
Shoto freezes as a metallic creak echoes through the room. There’s a dent.
A literal dent. Like the metal support beam above the classroom just got sucker punched by something entirely not human. No, but like a really fresh, ugly dent, bulging downward maybe not like a punch as he thought but like something heavy just body-slammed the structural integrity of U.A. right into next week.
He will not be convinced otherwise, mark his words. It's either an alien or the sky itself bending the roof above them, he will not accept arguments (he will eat those words later).
He blinks again, harder. Maybe he’s hallucinating. Maybe this is it. Maybe the worksheet really has broken his mind and now he’s seeing things.
Maybe he’s losing it. Maybe this is the moment his sanity just, or maybe—
KRKSSHH!
The ceiling caves.
Shoto jerks back instinctively, one hand already sparkling with frost, mind racing through exactly zero rational explanations for why the classroom ceiling is now splitting open like a busted soda can.
Before he can react, the air rips sideways in a violent, jagged swirl with a sound like a zipper being torn off the sky itself, and for a split-second, Shoto’s brain simply blue-screens.
A flash of something wrong flickering across his senses — and then—
WHAM!
Someone crashes through the portal.
Correction: Someone falls through, face-first, straight onto the classroom floor with a solid, absolutely catastrophic thud.
Double correction: A person—no, a missile shaped vaguely like a person —gets launched through the rip and slams into the floor with the kind of impact that would make All Might nod in respect.
Papers explode off desks in a frenzy. Chairs screech. Someone shrieks.
The portal seals shut with a crack like thunder.
And all that's left is the destroyed ceiling, the scattered homework, and the figure lying face-down at the center of it all, groaning like he's reconsidering every life choice that led him here. Shoto is very much doing the same. Reconsidering life choices. He wants his birth cancelled right now.
The next groan sounds like someone personally offended the mystery man.
Stunned silence reigns over 1-A. They stare because what else should they be doing? All emergency protocols that they were taught are simply rotting somewhere in the back of their heads.
Shoto, hand half-raised to ice the new intruder, thinks blankly:
Yeah. Okay.
I'm definitely hallucinating.
Shoto blinks, slowly.
The ceiling — nevermind that, it's just a gaping hole now, with broken rebars jutting out like jagged teeth. He doesn’t pay much mind to the upperclassmen’s heads peeking down from the opening. Instead, his gaze drifts back to the person sprawled across the floor like some battle-worn scarecrow.
A heavy silence drops over the room, thick and bewildered. The kind where even breathing feels too loud. Yet everyone stands ready, tense, prepared to spring into action. Principle Nezu must be watching. Reinforcements would come if needed. If it gets ugly.
Just because it's one person doesn't mean more aren't coming.
Aizawa moves, scarf slithering free in a swift, practiced motion. (Shoto no longer wonders how the man always escapes his yellow self-sabotaging coffin of doom and death so easily.)
The intruder reacts just as fast. Faster, Faster than Aizawa.
Before anyone can blink, a glint of metal flashes in the stranger’s hand — a gun, steady and unflinching, aimed straight at Aizawa. Interesting . Shoto — despite his out of pocket amusement — stiffens.
Nobody really uses those anymore unless their quirks involve them… but that's what makes it worse. Unpredictable and dangerous.
Firearms might be relics, but a headshot is still a headshot.
Aim, pull a trigger and bam you’re gone.
"Move, and I will fill ya skull with lead," the stranger rasps. His voice sounds like gravel scraped across asphalt — hoarse, wrecked, half-feral . Even distorted through the helmet's mechanical edge, it sounds like he’s been screaming for hours on end.
Wait… He registers the delayed comprehension a second later.
English. A foreigner?
Then, in a flash, another gun appears — but it's pointed at the stranger's own throat. Pressed against it, much to everyone's surprise and might as well horror.
Shoto does not want to witness the death of his teacher nor the suicide of said to be teacher murderer. Thank you very much but he has enough trauma for two people. Or three.
"Move, talk, do anything funny and I might just kill everyone here. Including myself… wait, you guys are just brats. Shit. Okay, change of plans. Try anything, and both me and Shaggy Baggy hit the ground." …Shaggy baggy. Did he just call Eraserhead shaggy baggy?
The class freezes. At the absurd — but not yet absurdist — threat leveled against them.
Even Bakugou, two seconds from detonating, stays locked in place, teeth grinding.
Half-processing the chaos, Shoto finally notices something else: blood . A dark smear trailing behind the stranger, painting the polished floor in thick, wrong colored streaks.
He's injured. Badly.
The man's hands shake, but not from fear. Shoto guesses adrenaline. Blood loss. Rage.
He isn't thinking straight. Whatever chased him here—whatever pushed him to crash through the ceiling—it's kept him on edge.
Is he even running from something —
Or is he bringing it toward them?
Maybe both. But that doesn’t make sense.
But who's the real threat? The thing after him, or him himself?
( Well, he's definitely a threat to himself , Shoto thinks, still half-staggered by the ridiculousness of the self-hostage situation.)
The stranger jerks his head toward the massive, bulletproof windows.
For a second, Shoto thinks he's calculating an escape.
And then —
SMACK!
Then the man hurls himself at the window.
The impact is… horrific, to say the least.
Shoto feels his mouth twitch in an almost-grimace.
The stranger bounces off the glass and crumples to the ground like a dropped shopping bag.
Bakugou snorts out loud — an incredulous, disbelieving noise that cuts through the stunned air.
Shoto can’t even blame him.
At that split second of chaos, the classroom erupts.
The moment of chaos gives the class its cue. Aizawa’s capture scarf flies over their heads ( seriously, how does he do that?? ) and barely misses. It lashes out — flying fast and precisely — ( seriously again, does he have a Quirk for this?? ) — but it misses by a fraction and since when does Aizawa miss??
The intruder — recovering through pure stubbornness — grabs Mineta — the nearest unfortunate soul — by the ankle and yanks him off the floor to use him like a human shield. Mineta is a bit too small for that though… He doesn’t say that of course.
Mineta screeches like a dying kettle ( omg not the kettle! I hate my life ), flailing helplessly as the bloody stranger holds him up between himself and the rest of the class.
Still moving on battered instincts alone, the man stumbles upright, swaying visibly.
He spots another open window farther behind. For a moment, pure disgust flickers across his blood-streaked face — at himself, Shoto realizes probably cuz he choose to slam into a reiforced window when the was one open just ahead— before he flings Mineta bodily at Midoriya (who shrieks) and sprints or rather lunges for it.
He grabs Kaminari (dude didn’t even move) by the back of his jacket, shucks him like a sandbag at a charging Sero and they collapse on their scrambling classmates, and then dives headfirst through the open window, hands forward and body held taut in position.
Heart dropping to his feet, Shoto rushes to the window, fully expecting to find… a sidewalk pancake. A very grotesque bloody mess of a human pancake.
We are ten stories up.
Visions of human pancakes continue flashing through his mind. Shoto doesn’t want to see any sidewalk pancakes.
Don’t be a sidewalk pancakes Don’t be a sidewalk pancakes Don’t be a sidewalk pancakes Don’t be a sidewalk pancakes Don’t be a sidewalk pancakes —
But no — a grappling hook device launches onto the outer wall. The stranger swings away, blood leaving smears on the sleek surface.
Shoto exhales, dizzy with relief. Bakugou next to him roars something obscene and actually tries to jump after him. Aizawa barely grabs him back before Bakugou actually jumps. The boy’s sheer idiocy sometimes surprises Shoto. He turns to look out of the window again.
In one brutal, fluid motion, the man yanks the blood-smeared red on his head free and hurls it into the sky — high, almost contemptuous, like he’s flinging away something poisonous.
Or for a horrifying half-second, Shoto thinks he just ripped off his own head.
He freezes, genuine horror locking up his left side, his breath catching painfully in his throat.
He knows the human body doesn’t just—come off like that— still — the raw, violent way the man tears the helmet off makes it look wrong.
But no.
It's just the helmet.
For the briefest heartbeat, the motion exposes his face — or at least a glimpse of it.
A flash of messy hair — the barest strands of white, the rest black, matted down with blood, sweat and grime.
A half-torn domino mask clings stubbornly to his face, black and red, split jaggedly across the bridge of his nose. One eye — a sharp, vicious turquoise with a hint of an eerie emerald glow— glares out from under it, glazed with exhaustion and fury yet blazing with electric ferocity.
Then—
BOOM!
The helmet detonates midair with a deafening blast, and the impact is immediate — a concussive, teeth-rattling blast that shatters what’s left of the windows as the Glass erupts inward in a deadly hail, slicing the air like knives, raining thick, choking smoke and shards of metal down onto them.
The force slams into the room like a living thing, knocking desks flying, ripping banners from the walls. Shoto throws both arms up instinctively to cover his face, the other clamping over his mouth and nose but the shockwave still kicks his feet out from under him and sends him crashing painfully to the floor.
Someone shouts, a loud, panicked bark — “GET DOWN!” — Aizawa.
Shoto catches a blurred glimpse of Bakugou surging forward, aiming to leap out after the intruder— because of course he, is doing the opposite of what he's told is his talent.
Aizawa snags Bakugou midair with his capture scarf, yanking him back inside by sheer brute force and then, without hesitating, Aizawa launches himself toward the window, giving chase.
But he doesn't make it.
A second explosion rocks the air — smaller ( possibly a grenade ), but brutal all the same — flinging sharp shrapnel and a fresh wave of smoke through the broken frame.
Aizawa barely has time to bring up his arms before the blast slams him backward, forcing him to land back hard inside the classroom, still half-shielding the students behind him. Uraraka and Yaoyorozu are quick to hold Aizawa from staggering and crashing into the floor.
A beat passes by then smoke hits like a wall — hot, acrid, choking. It's like a living thing — dense, clawing into lungs, stealing sight.
Shoto coughs into his sleeve, chest burning, as he blinks hard against the stinging fog. The force had shoves him back, boots sliding on the slick, blood-smeared floor slamming him down. He scrambles onto his elbows, scanning wildly through the swirling haze for any sign of the man.
Shapes blur. Figures shift and stagger. Voices shout, muffled and frantic. So much swearing.
Through it all, Shoto strains to find the man — the stranger — anything.
When the smoke finally begins to thin — the window is blown wide open, glass shards glittering dangerously in the broken frame — the stranger is gone.
Only a mess of footprints remain — ruined, smeared in red — leading out through the shattered window and into the open, big and empty sky.
For a long, dragging moment, Shoto just stares at the prints. At the blood drying black on the jagged glass.
And for reasons he can't explain — deep inside, a strange, hollow ache settles deep in his chest — lingers with something sharp and cold — like something unfinished had just slipped through their fingers.
The man was hurt.
Bleeding badly.
Cornered.
Yet he still moved like a wolf ready to bite through the trap.
Something tells Shoto — this isn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
Guess his gut feeling isn’t wrong after all.
Should’ve warned Midoriya.
For a moment, there's only coughing in the background. The dry, hacking sound of it, raw and painful, echoing off the broken walls.
Shoto walks back to an empty space and sits dazed on the floor, dust clinging to his uniform, blood trickling sluggishly from a shallow cut on his cheek. He doesn't move. The back of his mind is still trapped in that frozen second — the glimpse of that face, those eyes, the awful way the helmet burst apart —
"Everyone! Head count!" Aizawa's voice, rough but commanding, cuts through the haze. There's a scrambling chorus of responses —
"Here!"
"I'm good!"
"I'm alive, I think??"
"Someone stepped on my hand —"
“Hah! Someone stepped on my HEAD! I have a concussion now.”
“Here, and why were you on the ground?”
"WHY? YOU'RE ASKING WHY?! THIS WAS A STAMPEDE!"
Shoto blinks rapidly, forcing himself upright as he adds his own "Here," voice hoarse.
Across the room, Bakugou struggles against Aizawa's restraining capture scarf, teeth bared like a cornered animal. "Let me go, dammit!" he snarls, sparking wildly. "I'll kill that son of a b—!"
"You'll stay put," Aizawa growls, tightening the scarf's hold just enough to make the point clear before releasing him.
Bad move. Aizawa is really a softie.
"WHY THE HELL—" Bakugou rages, already lunging for the window again, explosions crackling to life in his palms. Aizawa reacts with reflexive speed, snatching Bakugou by the collar and slamming him bodily to the floor before he can leap out.
"I said stay put," Aizawa clips back, sharp and frayed around the edges.
"What even was that?!" Kaminari wheezes somewhere to the left. "D-Did he just throw his own head?!" In all honesty Shoto thought the same for a moment. He is embarrassed to say the least.
"No you moron, that was his helmet!" Jirou snaps, still coughing. It's okay Kaminari…I’m also a moron. But he and Kaminari aren't that close so his comfort will be out of place...
"I think he's dead…" Mineta whimpers, clutching the floor as if it might save him.
"He's not dead," Midoriya rasps, already yanking out a notebook despite the chaos. His hands are shaking. Was it the chronic pain, excitement jitters, or nervous shivers...? All of the above..?
"He better be dead after that stunt!" Bakugou roars from under Aizawa's boot, still struggling.
Aizawa whispers something deep in Bakugou's ear before the blonde clicks his tongue and sags his shoulders. He is let go after that. Shoto desperately wants to learn his teacher's amazing silencing tricks and methods. He knows (school) life would be easier if he knew them.
Glass crunches under boots as Aizawa steps forward, his gaze sharp, scanning the room like a man still expecting another bomb to drop. He's bleeding — a thin line across his forehead, darkening the strands of his already wild hair — but he barely gives it a thought. Will recovery give me a band -aid if I asked nicely?
"Everyone stay away from the windows," he snaps, eyes flicking between them. "Todoroki, Midoriya, Yaoyorozu — help stabilize anyone injured. No one moves without my order."
"Y-yes, sir!" Yaoyorozu stammers, already conjuring gauze from her arm as she scrambles toward Aoyama, who's half-fainted against a desk, blinking stupidly.
Midoriya looks torn between wanting to chase after the intruder and following Aizawa's orders. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, trembling with pent-up adrenaline.
Todoroki just nods, mechanically moving through the steps of checking Iida's bleeding knuckles, his mind miles away.
Who was that man?
Not a villain they'd seen before. Not one of the League. Not anyone Shoto recognized.
Yet... There was something familiar about the way he moved — the brutal swiftness of his movements, the sharp, soldier-like precision in how he dismantled their defenses. The stupidity of his failed dramatic exist. And that hair. That cracked mask. That eye.
Shoto shivers, shrugging his arm where tiny glass shards had embedded themselves in his sleeve. They were so tiny...and shiny. He almost got distracted just looking at them.
In the corner, Sero is trying to patch up Kirishima, who's stubbornly pretending he's fine despite a gash leaking blood down his side. Mina, shaking hard enough that her acid is starting to sizzle the floor, keeps wiping at her face like she's trying to scrub the panic off.
Shoto blinks at that. She’s always been strong and upbeat so her current demeanor comes as a surprise to him. Or maybe she's just super exited and overflowing with adrenaline rush? He could totally be wrong because if he thinks about it this is kind of her type of gossip of the hour. She's probably just high or something. No need to worry...for now?
Behind them, Mineta is openly sobbing — ugly, wet noises — but nobody spares him a glance. It wasn’t that deep, it wasn’t an attack either…technically? Shoto still isn’t sure what to make out of this situation.
Jirou tears her jacks free from a broken desk and grimaces. "I can't hear right," she mutters, voice half-deafened. "Ears are ringing—" Well, that must suck. He hopes she feels better soon.
He finishes with Iida and turns back .The window gapes open behind them like a jagged wound, the bloodied footprints a brutal, undeniable mark against the floor.
He's gone. And they let him get away. No one says it. But Shoto can feel it — raw and scraping at the back of his teeth.
For the 100th time in a while, the invincibility Class 1-A had built around themselves — the unspoken confidence that they could handle anything — felt shattered just a little more.
"Stay together," Aizawa orders roughly, cutting through the suffocating quiet. "We don't know if this was a distraction or a failed assault. Assume there could be more coming."
"Sensei," Midoriya bursts out, half-begging, "we have to go after him — if he's hurt — if we—!"
"No." Aizawa's voice drops like a hammer.
Midoriya flinches.
"The best move right now is containment," Aizawa says, scanning the windows again with bloodshot eyes. "We protect our injured. We call for backup. Then we hunt."
Shoto swallows hard, still staring out at the footprints.
The man had been injured. He had left blood behind. Yet he'd still moved — fast, ruthless, unhesitating — as if nothing mattered but getting away.
Not a professional villain. Not a random madman. Something else. Something colder. Something desperate. Am I looking too deeply into something that isn't there again...? No...I'm not.
And Shoto — against all logic — found himself wondering: Who the hell were you? But then again, it is logical, Because like of course they will need to know who he is. One doesn't just grandiosely inflitrate UA and leave unfashionably.
Shoto, feeling oddly detached, steps closer to the window again. He ignores Aizawa's side eye from the other corner of the classroom. He gets a warning but he only glances blankly before continuing ahead. The glass is spiderwebbed with cracks. Outside — just faintly — he can see smudged red streaks dragging along the outer building wall. Footprints. Smears of blood. Getting fainter the further they go.
He didn't die. He escaped. But not for long. Not in his condition.
Shoto exhales slowly, feeling that strange, heavy sensation deepen in his chest cavity once again. He wasn't sure if it was dread or misplaced curiosity. Above them, the intercom crackles sharply to life — Principal Nezu's voice cutting through the static with unsettling cheer. Outside, sirens are already wailing in the distance.
"All classes, prepare for immediate lockdown. Heroes-in-training, remain calm and await instructions."
Somewhere, far below, hidden in the winding guts of the campus, the bloody man was still running. Or fighting to stay standing.
And somehow, Shoto knew — This was only the beginning.