Chapter Text
The sun was high in the sky, and the roof smelled faintly of dust and hot asphalt, warmed by the sweltering July summer heat. Izuku and Ochaco made their way across the square, wrapped lunch in hand. Students passed by, shouting, laughing, or striding past in self-important lines as if the roof belonged to them, brushing past them, shoulders clipping Izuku’s without apology.
“Do you want to sit over there?” Ochaco asked, motioning to a corner by the rails under the sparse shade of the stairwells building. She plopped down first, her meat bun unwrapped and halfway to her mouth, eyes scanning the roof like a hawk.
“Sure!” Izuku replied with a smile, settling comfortably in front of her. He opened his sketchbook and rested it on his lap. Pencil in hand, he let his eyes scan the world around them, looking for something to sketch onto the page: the angle of the sun on the bricks, a fly looping lazily over a puddle, over the railings to the ground below where most of the students were milling about.
Ochaco wiggled a little to get comfortable on the floor, readjusting her skirt to cover more of her legs as she quickly swallowed a bite of her food so she could share gossip with her best friend.
“Did you hear what happened with Momo and Kyoka?” she asked, her voice vibrant with enthusiasm as she skewered her lunch with a fervour that matched her curiosity. “I mean, I know it’s probably nothing, but—ugh! And then Mina was going on about this girl again—”
Izuku found himself sketching on instinct, his pencil gliding effortlessly over the page, his ears tuned to her animated chatter, even as he barely registered the words. She chewed with a fierce energy, talking around mouthfuls of bread, spitting crumbs out as she spoke, much to Izuku’s mild disgust, but he’d never tell her.
“Look at them,” she exclaimed suddenly, pointing with exasperation toward the group of baseball players sprawled across the sunlit concrete of the roof. Their laughter echoed across the air, arms casually draped over one another's shoulders as if they were celebrating a legendary victory. “They drive me up the wall! Can’t they see how insufferably full of themselves they are? It’s like they think they’ve just won the Japan Series or something equally absurd. How am I supposed to enjoy my lunch with them over there, huh?”
“Mm-hm,” Izuku replied softly, his gaze drifting as he continued to admire the way the sunlight danced off the delicate petals of the nearby flowers in pots, their colours shimmering in harmony with the bright afternoon.
“‘Zuku, are you even listening?” Ochaco's voice rose in pitch, a hint of annoyance creeping into her tone as she playfully prodded his sketchbook. “Look at me! I’m Katsuki! I’m a silver-spoon bastard, and all the girls are swooning over me, and everyone simply adores my existence without me lifting a finger—”
Izuku couldn't help but let a small smile break through as he followed the delicate line of his pencil over the paper, quickly sketching to capture her playful exaggeration perfectly: a puffed-out chest, a jutted-out jaw, and a sense of arrogance that practically oozed from the sharp angles of her caricature.
“Mm-hm,” he murmured again, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Ochaco slouched back, curling in herself, arms defiantly crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowing at the baseballers as if she could pierce through their facade of overconfidence with her unwavering gaze. “Honestly. If they weren’t so ridiculously clueless, they might actually notice what’s happening outside their own oversized egos.”
For just an instant, Izuku’s pencil hesitated, as he struggled to stifle a laugh at her fiery determination. Ochaco huffed in exasperation, turning to him with an expectant look. “You are, in fact, listening, right?”
“I am,” he replied, “huge egos, the biggest I’ve ever seen, I assure you.” A faint smile lingered on his lips as he returned his attention to the sketchbook, feeling a comfortable warmth settle between them.
Her mouth curved into a grin.
“Fine, fine. But look at them, Izuku! I can’t be the only one who sees it! …Honestly, how does Mina put up with them all the time? I can’t stand it,” Ochaco said, tearing another bite from her bun like she was personally avenging the girls of the school. “They’re loud, they smell like cigarettes and pomade, and they walk around like they’re Kami’s gift to—oh, come on, look at them!”
Izuku finally looked up.
Across the rooftop, the baseball team had gathered near the middle of the roof where there were benches and plants in pots, sunlight glinting off their sweat-damp hair and practice jackets, even though that wasn’t allowed, they always got away with it.
They embodied every cliché Ochaco claimed they did—laughing too loudly, sitting on the bench tables, sitting on their gym bags, and flicking bottle caps toward trash cans, often missing the target.
Some were even purposefully throwing them off of the roof, or trying to hit passing students. Rude, but the teachers patrolling the roof didn’t seem to care.
Right in the centre of the group, like always, was Katsuki Bakugou, sitting on the bench table itself. His sleeves were rolled up, his jersey collar stretched, and not wearing a tie, and his hair caught every bit of the late afternoon light. He said something that made Eijiro and Denki burst out laughing, a wide, easy grin spreading across his face as if he owned the world.
Izuku’s pencil stilled as he froze, lingering a moment too long. For a fleeting heartbeat, he was transported back to when he was just ten years old; mud splattered on his knees, the carefree sound of Katsuki’s laughter resonating through the air as they played by the creek, challenging each other to leap further and sprint faster.
But as quickly as the fond memory surfaced, it soured, replaced by the heavy burden of nostalgia and unspoken hurt that always accompanied seeing him now.
“Izuku,” Ochaco called out, her voice snapping him back to reality as she noticed the tension in his shoulders. “Hey—earth to Izuku. What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing,” he replied, his voice strained and tight. He quickly looked back down at his sketchbook, the pencil scraping across the paper with urgency as if he could bury himself in his drawings and escape the turmoil swirling in his chest. “Just… it might be better if you didn’t talk about them so loudly.”
Ochaco blinked, her expression a mix of disbelief and concern. “Oh, please! Do you really think they can hear me all the way over here? They’re probably not even aware I exist.”
He remained silent.
Because Katsuki had noticed them, had noticed him. The unsettling intensity of that realisation coursed through Izuku like a static charge, a prickling sensation deep in his chest that made him acutely aware of the piercing gaze aimed at him from across the roof.
Gathering his courage, he dared to steal another glance in Katsuki’s direction. Their eyes met, and Izuku was struck by the weight of Katsuki’s scrutiny. For once, it wasn't filled with misplaced malice or annoyance; it was simply observing, assessing. The depth of that gaze sent a rush of warmth cascading up Izuku’s neck.
The moment hung in the air for a heartbeat, maybe two, before Denki, as he typically does, mouth moving faster than his brain, blurted out something nonsensical that broke the heavy silence.
Katsuki’s attention shifted when he laughed, the sound spilling easily from his lips as though he hadn't just momentarily seen through Izuku as if he were an exhibit on display in a museum.
Izuku felt the weight of that stare linger, and he quickly diverted his gaze to his sketchbook, where his pencil scratched across the page, the lines wobbly and uneven with his trembling hand.
“Hey?” Ochaco’s voice dropped to a gentle whisper, concern threading through her tone. “Are you sure you’re okay? Is it your head?”
He nodded vigorously, forcing a smile that felt foreign. “Yeah, just… a little tired. It’s been a long morning.”
She tilted her head, unconvinced, but didn’t push the matter. Instead, she slapped her bread-crumb-coated hands on his sketchbook and pretended to pull it toward her. “Well, maybe if you listened to me instead of getting lost in your little art trance, you wouldn’t be so tired.”
“Hey—” Izuku jerked the crust off the page, flustered.
She tilted her head again. She eyed his lunch, still wrapped and placed on the floor next to him, and raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got, like, two seconds, ‘Zuku. Cause if you don’t eat that, I will.”
He blinked at the untouched meat bun sitting beside him. “What—oh. Right.”
“I’m serious,” she insisted, her voice firm yet playful, leaning in with a predatory glint in her eyes while her hand hovered just above the food. “Waste not, want not.”
A laugh escaped him before he could contain it, warm and genuine. He opened the packaging and tore the bun in half, offering her the larger portion with a resigned smile. “Here. Truce.”
Her grin blossomed, radiant and infectious. “Deal.” She eagerly bit into the bun, her delight spilling over as she chewed. “You’re lucky I like you,” she said, her eyes twinkling with a mix of affection and mischief.
“I know,” he said quietly, and he meant it.
The bell rang, causing students to scatter across the roof. Ochaco snickered and hopped to her feet, brushing crumbs from her skirt. “Come on, little artist of mine. Let’s go before we melt out here.”
Izuku closed his sketchbook, tucking the stub of his pencil behind his ear. As he followed her back toward the doors, he glanced once more toward the baseball team. Katsuki was laughing again, playfully catching Eijiro in a headlock as they stumbled towards the doors, sunlight flashing across his grin, bright, unreachable, and far too familiar.
It causes a pang in his chest that Izuku is all too happy to ignore.
Eijiro Kirishima and Katsuki Bakugou were the kind of duo everyone in Yueii High knew by name. You didn’t even have to see them to know they’d entered a room; their voices carried first. They’d been best friends since the end of middle school, ever since Eijiro had moved to the area, and their bond together was clear.
They were like siblings—if siblings could embody complete opposites in every conceivable way. When Eijiro smiled, the whole thing reached his eyes. He was always sunny and warm, and for that, he stood out amongst the baseball team. Even Izuku considers him a friend. They often speak to each other when Izuku goes to the Kirishima family’s convenience store, but they don’t talk in school, different social circles and whatnot.
Katsuki’s grin held a sharpness to it, as if he were challenging the world to step closer. His demeanour was often harsh, but Katsuki could be kind… if you were worth the effort.
Together, they conjured the kind of mischief that made teachers groan and shake their heads in the staff lounge.
In the back row of Advanced Chemistry, they settled comfortably, sprawling across their chairs like royalty. Katsuki had propped his chair back on its hind legs, his school shoes casually hooked on the metal rung of the desk, as he animatedly recounted a story from a “get-together” over the weekend. He spoke of a girl who had tried, unsuccessfully, to capture his attention, embellishing his tale with exaggerated gestures.
Eijiro laughed at all the right moments, leaning forward slightly, the corners of his mouth quirking up. Sometimes he shook his head with the air of a bemused preacher witnessing a wayward soul. “Can’t believe you, man,” he would say in mock disapproval, though his sparkling grin betrayed the fact that he absolutely could believe it.
Up front, Izuku was scribbling diligently in his sketchbook, the sound of his pencil scratching against the paper a rhythmic backdrop to the chaos behind him. He understood why Ochaco couldn’t stand the duo, why many of the quieter students kept their distance.
They fit the stereotype perfectly: loud, confident, and brimming with an overblown sense of their own importance. But of course, as the star players of Yueii High’s baseball team, their images graced every bulletin board in the school, celebrated and envied in equal measure.
All that attention must go somewhere, and it goes straight to their heads. Ochaco was so right.
Izuku found himself wrestling with mixed feelings. Part of him felt he should be proud of their accomplishments, but the truth was he had lost interest in baseball ever since middle school, ever since Katsuki had grown so obsessively invested in it, ever since Izuku decided he wanted to run track instead, and Katsuki had stopped caring about him.
Okay, maybe Izuku was a tiny bit resentful, though he would never voice it aloud. He thinks that’s probably the real reason Ochaco hates the duo; she’s always been strangely protective of him.
It was far simpler to bury those thoughts beneath layers of distraction, memories of carefree days spent by the creek beds, the scrape of knees, and laughter shared with a boy who once chose to include him rather than overlook him.
So instead, he devoted himself to doodling, allowing his pencil to flow freely over the page. Spirals intertwined, the outline of a tall tree emerged, alongside the smooth curve of an elbow draped lazily over a desk.
Before he realised what was happening, he was sketching a familiar figure: messy blond hair, a sharp jawline, and that faintly challenging smirk that could easily ignite old feelings.
Panic seized him as he abruptly turned back in his seat, unsure of how long he had been glancing at Katsuki and Eijiro. He slammed his sketchbook shut, his heart racing. Maybe Ochaco was right; his head is feeling a little fuzzy today, like he can’t concentrate. But the exam period had just ended, and his brain was likely just overtired from long days of studying.
The teacher entered the classroom with purpose, his sleeves rolled up and chalk already in hand, quickly transforming the blackboard into a canvas of chemical formulas and diagrams. Izuku fought to concentrate on his notes, determined to block out the low murmur of Katsuki’s voice drifting from behind him, punctuated by bursts of laughter that seemed to pull at his heartstrings.
It wasn't that he despised Katsuki’s voice; rather, he hated that it still stirred something deep within him.
Suddenly, there was a loud crash as Katsuki’s chair came crashing down onto all four legs, jolting Izuku from his thoughts. He heard a burst of laughter from Eijiro, quickly followed by Kyoka’s playful, yet slightly mean reprimand, “Shut it, idiots!” and the teacher’s weary sigh, “Bakugou, please.”
Izuku didn’t turn around this time; he didn’t need to. He could vividly picture it in his mind: the lopsided grin that spoke of mischief, the lazy apology Katsuki would offer, and how he stretched back with an air of someone who owned the very space they breathed.
Instead, he threw himself into his notes, pen moving with urgency as if he could bury the echoes of a past life beneath a desperate flurry of ink.
“Bakugou Katsuki, please report to the Guidance Counsellor’s room.”
The voice crackled through the intercom, harsh and metallic, cutting through the droning hum of the teacher’s lecture. Everyone froze for a heartbeat, then the whispers started.
“Oh shit.”
“What’d he do now?”
“He’s always getting called in.”
“Bet it’s about that fight.”
Katsuki remained still, his posture rigid as he sank deeper into the chair that creaked under his weight. The faintest twitch of his jaw hinted at a brewing storm. The air thickened around him, as if the entire room held its breath, anticipating an outburst that never came. Finally, with a jarring scrape of metal against the tile floor, he stood up, breaking the tension.
Eijiro attempted to gauge the situation, his lips curling into a half-hearted smile that barely masked his concern. “You want me to—?” he started, but Katsuki cut him off, the depth of his voice low and cold.
“Don’t. Ain’t your problem.” Without another word, Katsuki slung his worn bag over his shoulder and stalked out of the room, the sound of his shoes striking the floor echoing down the corridor until they were swallowed by the murmurs of students.
The teacher cleared his throat in the awkward silence that followed. “Right. Let’s continue with the lesson, class, this will come up in entrance exams.” The words hung in the air, heavy and dampening, while Izuku struggled to refocus. He gripped his pencil tighter, but it trembled helplessly against the paper, mirroring the uneasiness coiling in his stomach.
Katsuki getting into and being in trouble was hardly new, yet a tangible weight lingered in the silence left in the wake of his departure, feeling more oppressive than usual.
He fought against the uncomfortable sensation and resolved to concentrate on the complex formulas scrawled on the board, anchoring himself to the rhythm of the teacher's steady voice as it flowed through the classroom.
By the time the final bell rang, the charged atmosphere had mostly dissipated, mellowing into a hum of chatter as students flooded from their classrooms. Laughter and excitement filled the hallways once more, the vibrant energy of the end of the day washing over them.
Izuku found himself standing by the windows in the hall, the afternoon sun streaming through in radiant gold strips that warmed his skin.
He stood there, half-listening as Ochaco launched into a spirited rant about a surprise geometry test with questions most of her class got wrong in the exam and the teacher who she swears hates her, her hands animatedly gesturing as she spoke.
Suddenly, the peaceful ambience was shattered with a loud thud as a door slammed open down the hall, followed by an ominous sound of heavy footsteps—Katsuki. He barrelled down the corridor like a brewing storm, his spiky blond hair a wild mess and his jacket haphazardly tossed over one shoulder. His expression was fierce, as if he carried the weight of a thousand eyes on his shoulders.
Izuku barely had time to react, his instincts kicking in as he stepped to the side, but it was too late. The force of Katsuki’s shoulder collided with his own, propelling him off balance. He stumbled, and hit the ground hard. His stack of books tumbled from his grasp, scattering across the floor. Loose papers fluttered after them, drifting in the warm air.
“Hey!” Ochaco exclaimed sharply, her voice rising with indignation, but Katsuki didn’t even spare a backward glance as he continued storming away, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, each step radiating tension.
“Jerk,” she muttered, her brows furrowing in frustration as she quickly knelt down beside Izuku, her fingers deftly reaching for the fallen items.
Izuku remained silent, his palms tingling with the sting of the rough floor beneath him. The impact of the encounter resonated deeply within him, a familiar feeling that transported him back to when he was ten, standing helpless in the rain, watching as his closest friend walked away, leaving him behind.
He brushed off the dust from his sleeves, a shaky laugh escaping his lips, almost a nervous reflex. “It’s fine,” he reassured her, attempting to sound more composed than he felt.
Ochaco looked at him, her expression tinged with concern. “No, it’s not. He didn’t even—”
“Really,” he interjected softly, his voice barely above a whisper this time. “It’s fine. Let’s just go home, yeah?”
Yet as he resumed gathering his scattered books, the tremors in his hands refused to cease.
As Izuku and Ochaco stepped through the front doors of Yueii High, the mood shifted. The laughter of the students fading away, like it had been sucked away entirely. The earlier buzzing of cicadas seemed to disappear; it was eerie… how quiet such a large crowd of students seemed to be.
Two adults stood by the brick entrance at the bottom of the stairs. A man and a woman, holding a stack of photocopied papers. The woman’s hands trembled with each one she tried to pass out to passing students. The man’s eyes looked hollow—dark crescents under them like bruises.
Izuku froze as He and Ochaco were handed a poster.
MISSING
Shindo Yo, Age 17
Last seen: Saturday evening, last seen by the diner on Aoyagi Street. Reward offered.
The flyer had a photograph of Shindo smiling, half-shadowed by sun glare, in his teams uniform. Izuku’s breath caught. Saturday? He remembered that day, the way Shindo had laughed too loudly, had kissed him in the alleyway behind the cinema, where no one could see. The way it hadn’t meant what Izuku thought it did.
Beside him, Ochaco whispered, “Oh my god… that’s Shindo, isn’t it? The guy on the baseball team?”
Izuku nodded faintly, staring at the grainy picture. His throat felt tight.
“I heard Katsuki had a fight with him, did you?” she added, voice hushed.
He hesitated. “…Yeah.”
She exhaled, a low whistle through her teeth. “You think that’s why he got called in?”
“I don’t know.”
They stepped aside as another cluster of students passed, murmuring to each other. Izuku’s eyes followed Shindo’s mother, forcing a brittle smile as she handed another flyer to a teacher, Shindo’s father adjusting his glasses over and over, swiping away tears.
Most people stopped to take just a glance, and very few accepted a poster. They looked, nodded, and then walked away, as if it were easier to pretend that missing people cases simply didn’t exist in their town. Shindo wasn’t the first person to disappear. It was easy to dismiss these cases as students running away due to exam stress to avoid bringing shame to their families, but the number of disappearances was unnaturally high, even for their town. Ochaco was still talking, but her voice was somewhere far away. Izuku could feel the edges of a migraine crawling in, white heat behind his eyes, like the world was tilting.
He tore his gaze away and forced a breath out. “I—I should go.”
Ochaco blinked, startled. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just… I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Before she could argue, he slipped past the gates and down the sidewalk, his bag heavy on his shoulder. The world was too bright, too loud. Every sound felt doubled: the crunch of gravel, the buzz of a streetlight that shouldn’t be on this early, not while the afternoons are still bright.
He took the long route home, heading down Aoyagi Street, the row of shuttered shops along the street all seemingly quiet and empty despite the hour. He turned the corner by the cinema where he and Shindo had last talked, where Shindo had said something cruel that Izuku pretended didn’t hurt, and for a split second, he thought he saw movement in the alleyway behind it.
He blinked, and it was gone.
The sun was beginning to set by the time Izuku reached his street, its light turning syrupy and golden. The houses all looked similar at that hour, with neat concrete walls, clipped hedges, and the faint glow of televisions flickering through lace curtains. From the outside, everything appeared perfect—clean and safe. However, he walked past them and headed toward a rundown apartment building.
He stepped through the front gate and climbed the metal, rusted stairs up to his floor's walkway, where he found a chipped, blue apartment door with a broken nameplate hanging crookedly above it.
Inside, the smell of dinner hit him first. Something simple: stew, maybe, or chicken and rice. His mother’s voice called from the kitchen, warm and familiar, “Izuku? That you, sweetheart?”
“Yeah, it’s me!”
“Good, good! Wash up, dinner’s almost ready.”
Izuku kicked off his worn sneakers by the door, the familiar scuff of soles against the cold floor echoing in the small apartment. He made his way into the kitchen and to the sink, lathering his hands under the stream of water that ran a pinkish hue, disrupted by an old rust stain that marred the pristine white porcelain. Inko, his mother, adorned in a floral apron tied snugly around her waist, hummed a gentle melody as she gracefully set the table. The radio, perched on the counter, played a syrupy love ballad, its lyrics dripping with nostalgia about holding hands and whispered promises beneath the weathered boardwalk.
At the table flushed against the wall, his father, Hisashi, was already seated with a cigarette smouldering in the chipped ceramic ashtray beside his plate. He still wore his grease-stained workwear, the fabric stiff and worn from countless hours of labour from within the mines. In the centre of the table against the wall sat a hastily glued household kamidana, its cracked in a few places and looked slightly crooked, broken from the countless times it had been knocked off the table, and the odd few times it had been thrown, the candles on it worn out and never replaced. Izuku felt the weight of the room settle heavily upon him.
“Evening, son.” Hisashi’s voice was gruff as he took notice of Izuku’s weary appearance, squinting as he added, “You look half-dead. What are they doing to you in that fancy school, huh?”
“Just… a lot of homework,” Izuku replied, his voice barely above a whisper, feeling the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach.
Inko placed a steaming bowl of plain, white rice in front of him, her smile warm and genuine, brimming with motherly pride. “He works very hard, Hisashi. You should be proud of his good grades.”
“I’m proud,” Hisashi grumbled, though his tone conveyed a challenge rather than affirmation, as he stabbed his spoon into the food with palpable frustration.
“We’re always proud of you, baby,” Inko cooed, placing her own bowl on the table before she sat down, her eyes twinkling with gentle encouragement. “Did you see your little friend today? Ochaco, was it?”
Izuku’s stomach twisted at the mention of her name before even bringing the spoon to his lips.
“Yeah,” he managed to say, striving for a nonchalant tone. “We had lunch together.”
Inko’s expression brightened, her enthusiasm filling the air. “She’s such a nice girl. You should bring her around sometime; it’s good to have company. Especially since you’ll all be going to separate schools soon.”
The word “company” settled uncomfortably within him, stirring an unexpected mix of emotions that sent a chill down his spine, and he didn’t appreciate the reminder that after this year, he may never see her again. “I might,” he muttered, regretting his response as soon as it left his lips.
Inko smiled at him, her hands folded neatly, radiating maternal wisdom. “You’re getting older, Izuku. It’s natural to start noticing girls. She’s sweet.”
“Sweet’s one word,” Hisashi interjected with a cocky smirk playing on his lips, the smoke from his cigarette curling lazily into the air. “Isn’t she that poor one? You know, the ones with dirt floors and all that, carpenters?”
Izuku felt heat creep up his neck, shame and indignation swirling within him.
Hisashi continued unabated. “Nothing wrong with slumming it once in a while, kid. As long as you don’t get stupid about it. Those kinds of girls could be fun, but you don’t bring them home.”
“She’s not like that,” Izuku said quietly, trying to steady his voice against the tide of tension.
“What’s that?” Hisashi leaned in, intrigued yet dismissive.
“I said she’s not like that. She’s my friend,” Izuku clarified, frustration creeping into his tone.
“Of course, of course.” Inko’s voice was light, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of disbelief. “You don’t have to tell us everything, sweetheart.”
“I’m not—” He halted, realisation dawning on him. What was the point in arguing? His tone must have carried more heat than intended, and he bit back the harsher words he wanted to say.
Hisashi chuckled, a low, mocking sound that cut through the air like a knife. “Relax, kid. Tch, you sound just like your mother. I’m just sayin’ be smart. You’ll thank me later.”
Inko frowned slightly, her displeasure masked by silence as she turned her gaze back to her plate, refusing to confront the growing tension.
The room fell into an uneasy quiet until Hisashi decided to change the subject, his voice a stark contrast against the ambient noise. “You hear about Aoyama’s boy? Over at the factory?”
Inko looked up, curiosity piercing through the tension. “Yuga? No, what about him?”
“Kid’s gone, just vanished, the whole damn factory’s buzzing about it. But turns out the kid’s unnatural. Prancing around downtown, you know. If that were my son, I’d beat it out of him,” Hisashi scoffed, the disdain lacing his words.
Izuku’s spoon slipped from his hand, the clatter stark against the wooden table, his heart racing in response to his father’s harsh words. His pulse thudded in his ears, each beat amplified as the heat rushed to his cheeks. Panic, shame, and a bubbling rage swirled together, threatening to consume him. He suddenly felt seen in all the wrong ways, cold sweat beginning to drip down his neck.
Inko’s voice, soft and trembling with concern, cut through the mounting tension. “Hisashi…”
“What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.” He exhaled a lazy cloud of smoke, a smirk still plastered on his face. “A man’s gotta raise a man. If the kid wants to run off, let him. People like that don’t belong down here anyway; normal people don’t deserve the trouble.”
Later that night, Izuku couldn’t settle.
The apartment pressed in on him, heavy and airless. The stench of stale tobacco clung to the walls and to his clothes, no matter how deeply he breathed. Each inhale felt thick, resistant, like the air itself didn’t want to move. His chest tightened, his heart skittering uneasily, and he knew—if he stayed, the walls would close in. He needed air, he had to get out, even if only for a few minutes.
He slipped out onto the street and broke into a run.
Streetlights flickered overhead, casting uncertain pools of amber that stretched and warped as he passed beneath them. His shadow leapt and twisted along the pavement, splitting and rejoining with each step. Windows loomed like unblinking eyes. Darkened porches felt crowded with things he couldn’t see but could feel—hands just out of reach, waiting to pull him back. The neighbours always looked at him funny, a bastard born out of wedlock to poor parents.
He hugged his sketchbook to his chest, fingers tight around the strap of his bag. The flashlight in his grip trembled, its beam jittering as he began his long walk to what the local kids call the Narrows.
The abandoned train yard by the creek had always been his refuge. A place forgotten enough that no one expected anything of him. A place where he could breathe, a place where his childhood memories felt alive and free. But tonight, the air changed as he got closer—dense, pressing in on his skin, like the world was holding its breath.
As he reached Yanagi Street, a shortcut to the trainyard, something made him look up. This street leads to a sandō of an old, forgotten shrine down the mountain. The area is almost entirely overgrown with vegetation. Paper lanterns still hung crooked from rotting poles along the street, their surfaces torn, mould-stained, and collapsed in on themselves and left to rot.
A weather-beaten torii gate leaned at the start of the sandō, its wood split and grey with age. Moonlight pooled behind it, throwing its shadow across the road, too long, stretching farther than it should have. Izuku looks past the gates to the long, descending steps leading into pitch-black darkness.
For a moment, he thought the shadow shifted.
Not much. Just enough to make his stomach drop.
Something knows who he is. Something knows why he is here.
His stomach churned with dread. Every instinct screamed for him to run back home, to hide under the soft embrace of his mother’s arms, where the warm kitchen light and the sweet scent of her perfume could shield him from whatever dark force was closing in. Yet, he kept walking, each footfall echoing against the gravel like a countdown to something unknown.
As he passed the shrine road, he swore he saw it —the faintest glow blooming inside the lanterns reflecting in the puddles on the road. A pale, stretched imitation of fire, bleeding through the paper. He does not turn around to check.
The gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he reached the old train yard, tracks closing in on him like a predator stalking its prey. Rusted rails curved away into the dark like ribs. Fireflies drifted lazily over the water, their soft glow flickering in and out like dying embers.
Izuku perched on a splintered wooden beam and opened his sketchbook. His pencil hovered uselessly over the page. He tried to draw the rails, the broken bricks, the puddles catching scraps of reflected light—but his hand wouldn’t steady. He didn’t come here to draw; it was too dark anyway, but he needed something, anything, to occupy his mind.
He swore he heard a whisper
“Izuku…”
The whisper slid through the air, soft as breath against his ear.
His pencil slipped from his fingers, clattering against the beam before dropping into the shallow puddle below. The sound echoed too loudly, shattering the stillness.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
The voice felt… older. Familiar in the way a childhood memory feels wrong when you look at it too closely, when you get so old, the memories start to blur and not make sense. Like something that had always known his name.
He stared at the puddle. The surface was still, but the reflection didn’t look right. The shadows there seemed thicker, stretching and folding over themselves, writhing along the warped image of the tracks.
This is nothing, he told himself. Just shadows. Just the dark.
Still, he couldn’t shake the sensation crawling up his spine—the feeling of being watched. Not by eyes, but by something quieter. Patient.
Something that had noticed him. Something that knew him. That knew why he was here.
The whisper came again, fainter this time, settling on the edge of his consciousness.
Izuku sucked in a sharp breath, snapped his sketchbook shut, and stood. He didn’t run, he didn’t want to be seen, but he walked fast, the flashlight beam jerking wildly as he retraced his steps. Every fence post stood too close. Every shadow stretched too long. The wind moaned through the rails, low and hollow, like something breathing. His flashlight flickers and goes out, and he slams it on his notebook to try and get it back on, the sound of the thuds echoing on the empty stretch of road.
As he turns the corner back onto Yagani street, he notices the lanterns are all lit and seemingly new, the paper charms swing in the wind inwards towards the stairs, bells chiming in his ears, inviting him in. The lanterns go out one by one as he goes past. He starts to run as the darkness creeps in on him.
When he finally reached his street, the lamplight fell on his shoulders and the world felt heavy and wrong. He fumbled with the key, trying not to think, trying to ignore the presence in the corner of his mind. It's getting closer, he can feel it. It's breathing down his neck, it's hungry for him. He prays as he fumbles with his key, his hands shaking.
He got the door open, slipped inside, and shut it hard behind him. He leaned against it, breath coming in short bursts, and checked the lock. Then checked it again.
The apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
Izuku slid down until he was sitting on the floor, sketchbook clutched tight against his chest. His heart still raced, but underneath it all was a colder fear—one that settled deep in his bones.
He hadn’t been alone out there.
And whatever had spoken his name…
had followed him home.