Chapter Text
A gust of wind rattled the sheet metal, dragging with it the bitter chill of early morning. Izuku stirred beneath moth-eaten blankets, limbs stiff from sleeping on cardboard and concrete.
He cracked his eyes open to peer at his shabby alarm clock. The cracked display showed he still had twenty minutes before the alarm was set to go off. He sighed heavily, knowing he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep, and watched as his breath formed little clouds of steam. The white wisps were quickly swept away by another gust of wind, a fresh wave of shivers wracking his body as he tried to snuggle deeper beneath his tattered blankets for warmth.
It was only October, and already the cold seemed unbearable some nights. His eyelids felt crusted together as he watched the minutes tick by, the quiet of the morning suddenly broken by the growl of his stomach. The ever-present claw of hunger was a familiar ache, it also made Izuku wonder if he would die of starvation before he could freeze to death.
A warbled alarm startled him from his depressing thoughts. His numb fingers struggled to press the snooze button tucked beneath several layers of duct tape, but eventually, he turned it off. He rubbed his hands together and blew hot air into his palms, flexing his fingers to bring them back to life.
Today was going to be a bad day, he could already tell. Something in his chest writhed uncomfortably at the thought of going to school.
Would it really be so bad to skip a day? Surely All Might himself had missed a day or two of school, right?
As tempting as it was to stay curled up on his cardboard bed, the thought of a warm classroom sounded even better.
Shoving down his anxiety, he pushed aside one of the sheet metal barriers and rifled through his backpack for his uniform. He pulled on the dirty gakuran, making a mental note to head to the laundromat later that night.
After getting dressed, he stood and covered up his makeshift home before heading toward Aldera Junior High.
The aging building was a sorry sight, pavement cracked and uneven, ceiling tiles broken and stained. Izuku opened his locker and tipped out the tacks left in his shoes before heading toward the janitor's closet to grab a pack of cleaning wipes. After that, he went to homeroom, spending the next ten minutes scrubbing slurs and profanity off his desk. A pretty normal morning, honestly.
Eventually, he settled into his seat and pulled out his latest hero analysis notebook. He’d watched a fight between FatGum and some villains last night, and he wanted to write down the details before he forgot.
He barely had time to jot down a few notes before the classroom door slammed open, a familiar head of blonde spikes strutting into the room.
“Move it, extras!” Kacchan’s voice exploded into the room before he did, sparks popping from his palms.
Izuku hunched further over his notebook, hoping that if he made himself small enough, Kacchan might overlook him for once.
“Deku.”
Or not.
Izuku froze, watching as Kacchan sauntered over to stand next to him, smirking. “What are you scribbling now? More creepy hero crap? You really think you can be a hero by writing down little stalker notes?” He snatched the notebook before Izuku could react, flipping through the pages. “Pathetic. I’ve met fruit flies more heroic than you.”
Laughter rippled through the classroom, a few kids joining in.
“Seriously, Midoriya, just give up already,” one boy chimed in from the back. “No one wants a quirkless hero.”
Izuku’s cheeks burned as he stared at the floor, willing the tears to stay in place.
Kacchan tossed the notebook back, several pages now charred around the edges. “Stay out of my way, Deku. Got it?” He stalked off to his seat, the rest of the class quickly losing interest.
Izuku smoothed out the crumpled paper with shaky hands, watching ash fall to the floor before he decided to keep writing.
The classroom settled as their homeroom teacher walked in, fixing his tie with a sigh.
“All right, everyone take your seats. Today we’ll start with-Midoriya, stop doodling and pay attention.”
Izuku flinched, snapping his notebook shut as a few snickers broke out around him. “Y-Yes, sensei,” he mumbled, heat crawling up his neck.
Homeroom dragged on, whispers and muffled laughter rippling through the class every time he raised his head.
A paper ball hit the back of his neck. Then another. And another.
When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw three boys, grinning like hyenas. One of them ran his finger across his throat, making Izuku turn back around, his throat dry.
They’re just being dumb. Just ignore them. Just get through the day.
After what felt like forever, the bell finally rang. Students shot up from their seats, chattering excitedly. Everyone bolted for the door, anticipation buzzing as they rushed toward the gym.
The locker room reeked of sweat and rubber. Izuku slipped into one of the bathroom stalls to change, pulling out his crumpled gym uniform and slipping it on. It hung awkwardly off his bony shoulders, the waistband rolled several times to keep from falling. He shoved his gakuran back into his backpack and left the stall to shove the bag in his locker.
Out on the court, the PE teacher stood tall, arms crossed as he glared at the students. “Today we’re doing dodgeball! Strength and reflexes! Bakugo! Takumi! You’re team captains, pick your teams!”
Izuku’s breath hitched as names were called out rapid-fire, teams forming in seconds. He stayed glued to the spot, heart sinking lower and lower with each pick until only he was left. Kacchan turned and walked away without sparing him a second glance.
“Oh, come on! Why do I have to take the freak?” Takumi groaned.
Embarrassment flushed through Izuku’s cheeks. He stared at his shoes and shuffled to the back of the court, shame burning in every step.
The whistle blew, and students launched themselves toward the line of foam balls, the gym erupting in squeaks and shouts. Izuku stayed back, trying to make himself as small a target as possible.
A blur of blue streaked toward him, and he dove to the side just in time, scrambling back to his feet. His heart pumped erratically and black spots danced across his vision as he dodged another ball, then another.
“Move, Deku!” someone snapped. A sharp shove sent Izuku crashing forward, a jolt of pain shooting up his arm as his elbow smacked against the ground.
“Too slow!” another boy jeered, grinning as Izuku staggered back into position.
He managed to survive for a few minutes until a teammate deliberately cornered him, leaving him no room to escape. Izuku tried to sidestep, but a second player shoved him from the side.
He stumbled hard, knees scraping against the glossy floor just as a ball slammed into his face. The foam cracked against his nose with a sharp sting.
The whistle shrieked, followed by a burst of laughter.
“Midoriya, you’re out!” the teacher called, sounding more annoyed than concerned.
Izuku trudged to the sidelines, stomach cramping and tears burning behind his eyes. He sat stiffly on the bleachers, holding his aching elbow as he watched the game continue without him.
Izuku wasn’t called back in.
The sharp blast of the whistle signaled the end of class. Izuku lingered on the bleachers until most of the others had cleared out before slipping quietly into the locker room.
Steam drifted upward from the showers as the room became bathed in a mixture of sweat and cologne. Izuku headed straight for his locker and grabbed his bag, darting into the bathroom stalls again. Once inside, he locked the door and pressed his back against it, headbeat thudding in his ears.
He peeled off his gym shirt and winced at the angry red scrape across his elbow from where he’d hit the floor earlier. His knees weren’t any better, raw patches of skin bleeding sluggishly as he crouched to pull his uniform pants on. A dull ache pulsed in his nose from the foam ball, and he pressed his fingers gently against the bridge, relieved when nothing felt broken.
Overall, it could have been worse.
The muffled echo of voices from the main locker room grew louder. Izuku paused, clutching his bag closer as the laughter bounced off the walls.
“-did you see his face when I fucking nailed him?”
“Little baby looked like he was gonna cry!”
Izuku bit down on his lip, throat tightening. He wished the ground would just swallow him whole.
Another voice chimed in, louder than the others. “Hey Bakugo! Did you see that? Thought you’d appreciate me teaching the nerd a lesson!”
There was silence for a moment before Kacchan’s voice cut through the quiet.
“Tch. You think I care what you do to that damn nerd?” A locker door slammed, making Izuku flinch.
“Deku is just a stupid bug that I’m gonna squash beneath my foot. I don’t give a fuck about him or any of you extras.” Footsteps stomped toward the exit and faded away.
Izuku stayed frozen in the stall, heart pounding painfully in his chest as the laughter picked up again, quieter this time.
“Whatever. That guy is just an asshole.”
“Guess we’ll just have to hit him harder next time.” Quiet snickers followed as the voices left the locker room.
Izuku waited until the coast was clear before unlocking the door.
By the time he made it back to class, the hallways were empty. He slipped through the door just as the bell rang and sank into his seat, praying no one noticed him.
“Midoriya.”
Shit.
“Care to explain why you’re late?”
Izuku’s mouth went dry as every pair of eyes in the room stared at him.
“I-I had to-” His voice cracked. “It won’t happen again.”
A few chuckles fluttered through the air. The teacher sighed and turned back to the board. “See that it doesn’t.”
Izuku stared at his desk as the colors around him dulled. He pulled his notebook out and began scribbling nonsense, pretending to take notes as the minutes crawled by like molasses.
Behind him, the whispers started up again.
“I bet he cuddles with his notebook at night.”
“He’s probably just writing fanfiction about All Might like some creep.”
Izuku gripped his pencil tighter, nails digging into his skin.
Keep it together. Don’t react. They’ll stop eventually.
They didn’t.
A paper airplane bounced off his shoulder. Izuku kept his eyes on his notes, forcing his breath to stay even.
When the final bell rang, he quickly stuffed his things into his backpack and raced toward the door.
As he stepped into the hallway, he saw Takumi and two other boys leaning against the lockers, smiling like they were sharing some hilarious secret.
Izuku ducked his head and quickened his pace. He just needed to get home. Just a few blocks.
“Hey Deku!” Takumi called out. “Where you running off to? Got a date with your notebook?”
A few lingering students snorted, making Izuku’s ears burn. He didn’t answer, his shoes squeaking against the linoleum as he rounded the corner to his locker.
Just get out. Get out. Get out. Get out.
The halls were thinning fast, most kids already gone the moment the bell rang. Izuku slipped into his battered high-tops, gripping his bag strap so tight his hand cramped. Cool air hit his face as he stepped outside, the afternoon sun already dipping below the rooftops.
Behind him, chilling laughter echoed.
Izuku didn’t turn around, his legs moving faster, sneakers crunching against pavement as he jogged toward his hidden shelter.
The streets were surprisingly empty as Izuku adjusted the bag on his shoulder, trying to suppress the nervous prickle at the back of his neck.
Almost there. Almost there. Almost there.
A hard shove from behind nearly sent Izuku straight to the ground. He yelped and spun around, Takumi standing just behind him, flanked by the two boys from earlier.
“Thought you could run off, Deku?” Takumi’s voice dripped with malice. “We didn’t even get to say goodbye!”
“P-please, I don’t want any trouble,” Izuku stammered, clutching his bag. Bile crawled up his throat, his empty stomach churning uncomfortably.
“Trouble?” One of the boys laughed. “We’re just catching up with an old friend!”
“Do you think Bakugo will thank us for getting rid of you?” Takumi jeered. “We are doing him a pretty big favor after all.”
Izuku froze. Did…Did Kacchan ask them to do this? The thought cut through his chest like glass, making it hurt to breathe.
“P-please, just let me go-”
The first punch came without warning. Knuckles smashed into his cheekbone with a sickening crack, snapping his head sideways. White exploded across his vision, pain ricocheting through his skull until his ears rang. He staggered, breath hitching as the second boy slammed him into the wall.
His head bounced off the bricks, a throbbing ache blooming at the base of his skull and spreading out like wildfire.
“S-stop!” He cried, voice thick with desperation.
“Shut the fuck up, Deku!” Takumi snarled, slamming his knee into Izuku’s stomach. Air was ripped from his lungs as something in his chest snapped. Pain beyond anything Izuku had felt burned throughout his body, blood welling in his mouth as he collapsed, hands clutching uselessly at his chest.
Takumi crouched, his shadow falling over Izuku’s crumpled form. “You’re nothing. Just a bug beneath all our feet. You’re not even human.” He pushed Izuku forward, small rocks digging into the skin of his hands.
Izuku tried to crawl away, fingernails scraping uselessly against the concrete. His schoolbag was yanked from his back and hurled down the alley. Fingers tangled in his air, jerking his head back so hard tears stung his eyes.
“You listening, Deku?” Takumi growled, inches from his face. “Just give up and fucking die already.”
Takumi slammed Izuku’s head into the street. The impact rattled his teeth, grit grinding between them as iron coated his tongue. His nose and forehead flared with renewed agony as wet warmth began to spill over his busted lips.
“Stah- plee-” Izuku coughed, the words mangled around the blood filling his throat. His mind felt sluggish, darkness creeping in around the edges.
A boot connected with his ribs, pain like lightning searing up his side as his whole body folded in on itself. He gagged, stomach acid and blood dripping down his chin.
“Think he’s had enough?” one of the boys asked, almost bored.
“Nah,” Takumi said with a sneer. “He’s still got some fight left in him.”
They hauled him up by the arms, his toes dragging over the ground. He was nothing but dead weight now, every muscle trembling with fatigue and pain. A fist hammered into his gut again and again, causing something inside him to shift. A fresh wave of blood bubbled up his throat, spilling from his mouth in choked gasps.
I…can’t breathe…
A hand clamped around his throat, pinning him back to the wall. Izuku clawed weakly at the arm, his lungs screaming for air.
“Maybe this will finally teach you to stop trying.”
A brutal strike to the side of his head sent Izuku sideways as his knees buckled. Pain seared through his skull, burning everything else away. The world around him turned cold and heavy as numbness crept in, swallowing him whole as the voices above him quieted into distant echoes.
“Fuck…did you…did you just kill him?”
“Whatever, he’ll be fine. Just take the picture.”
Izuku’s body lay crumpled on the pavement, limp and unmoving. He tried to open his eyes and take a deep breath, but only managed to sink further into the pavement as the world around him dissolved into darkness.
***
Katsuki shoved his hands deeper into his pockets as he walked down the street, his scowl deepening with every step. He needed to blow off some steam, maybe hit the gym and practice some new blast techniques?
His phone buzzed in his pocket, probably the hag wondering where the hell he was. He yanked it out to tell the woman to piss off but stopped when he read the name on the screen.
[Takumi]: Check this out
There was a picture attached, Katsuki frowning as he tapped it open.
The photo loaded slowly, though when it did, his stomach dropped.
Deku lying on the ground, face down, his bag tossed a few feet away. His uniform was rumpled, dirt and blood streaking across his face and neck. He looked…dead.
Katsuki’s thumb hovered over the screen, his brain stalling.
The phone buzzed again.
[Takumi]: Freak finally learned his lesson lol
Katsuki stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, a sour feeling twisting uncomfortably in his stomach.
He typed back before he could stop himself.
[Katsuki]: The hell did you do
The reply came fast.
[Takumi]: Doing you a favor haha
Katsuki clenched his jaw. He didn’t need any fucking favors, and he sure as hell didn’t need idiots like Takumi getting involved in his shit with Deku.
He didn’t care about the nerd, but seeing him like that made something in Katsuki’s chest tighten.
Damn it.
He curled his hand into a fist, sparks popping against his fingertips.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Deku was his to mess with. He was supposed to get up when Katsuki knocked him down. He was supposed to cry and whine and keep following him around like a lost puppy. Not…this.
He studied the photo, trying to gauge the location before breaking out into a jog.
The streets were slowly filling with shift workers as Katsuki’s eyes scanned every alley and corner leading back to Aldera. His shoes skidded across loose gravel as he turned corners, breathing heavy as his heart pounded in his ears.
Come on Deku. Where the hell are you?
Then he saw it.
The hideous, bright yellow monstrosity of a backpack, tucked against a dumpster. Clothes and notebooks were scattered across the ground, a crumpled figure lying a few feet away.
“Deku…” He called out.
Izuku lay unmoving, one arm bent awkwardly under him. Blood trickled from his nose, a large gash splitting his forehead.
Katsuki’s breath caught as he stood there, something ugly and tight churning in his chest.
“Oi, shitnerd,” he muttered, crouching beside him. Up close, Izuku looked even worse. Dirt smeared across his gaunt face, pale lips stained red with blood. His uniform was torn, one sleeve ripped at the elbow, faint bruises blooming across his neck.
Katsuki reached out and shook his shoulder, just enough to jostle him. “Deku, get the hell up. Quit lookin’ like a damn corpse.”
There was no response.
Katsuki’s frown deepened. “Deku, I’m not screwing around. Wake the fuck up!”
Izuku’s head lolled to the side, a wet, bubbly gurgle escaping his throat.
Katsuki’s heart jumped into his throat. He shook him again, harder this time. “The hell’s wrong with you?! Wake up, damn it!”
Nothing.
For the first time in his life, real fear crawled up his spine. He pressed two fingers to Izuku’s neck, searching desperately for a pulse. Weak and faint, but there.
“Damn it…” Katsuki muttered, throat tight. “Deku, don’t you dare-”
His voice cracked as he dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
Izuku’s breath hitched before his chest sank and stayed still.
“Shit! No, no, no!”
Katsuki fumbled with his phone, fingers slick with blood as he dialed 119. He slapped Izuku’s cheek, light but frantic. “Oi! Don’t you dare stop breathing, you hear me?! You’re not allowed to die!”
Izuku didn’t stir.
“Emergency services, what is your location?”
“Fuck! Um-we’re near…near Ebisucho, Musutafu Ward! He’s not waking up and he was breathing weird! Hurry the hell up!”
“Sir, is the patient still breathing?”
“Fuckin-kinda?! I dunno! It’s slow and sounds wrong! What the hell am I supposed to do?!” Katsuki snapped, his voice raw.
“Sir, I need you to stay calm. Can you check his airway for me? Are there any obstructions?”
Katsuki’s brain stuttered, but he forced himself to move. He pulled Izuku’s lip down, peering inside.
“His mouth just looks full of blood,” he rasped.
“Okay, I want you to turn him on his side if he’s unconscious. I’ve alerted the heroes in the area, and I have paramedics en route.”
Katsuki set his phone on the ground, turning it on speaker. He rolled Izuku gently onto his side, cursing when his hands came away smeared with fresh blood.
“Don’t you dare die, Deku,” Katsuki muttered. His voice sounded shaky, and he hated it. “You hear me? You don’t get to die like this. There’s still crap I want-” He bit his lip, jaw clenching.
Footsteps pounded nearby as a figure dropped beside them, tall and wrapped in black, a white scarf draped around his neck.
“Who the hell-”
“Move,” the man said simply, leaving no room for argument.
Something about the man’s tone made Katsuki obey without thinking. He scrambled back as the man crouched, messy black hair framing a pair of yellow goggles. His gaze swept over Izuku in seconds, scanning for injuries.
“What happened?” he asked without looking up.
“He-um,” Katsuki’s voice caught. “Some kids jumped him, I-”
“Phone.” The man said, hand out.
Katsuki shoved the phone at him.
“This is Eraserhead,” the man said into the receiver, his voice flat but sharp. “Unconscious male, mid-teens. Shallow breathing and possible head trauma. Severe bruising across face and neck. Location is Ebisucho, Musutafu, east alley. Paramedics ETA?”
“Eraserhead onsite confirmed. Paramedics ETA seven minutes.”
“Understood. Advise on stabilization until arrival.” Eraserhead handed Katsuki the phone without looking away from Izuku. “Don’t hang up.”
He eased Izuku onto his back, tilting his jaw down to check the airway. Without a flicker of emotion, he rubbed his knuckles painfully across Izuku’s sternum.
“What’s his name?” Eraserhead asked.
“De-Izuku. Izuku Midoriya.” Katsuki said, hands shaking as he watched the man try to get a response from Izuku.
“Midoriya, can you hear me? My name is Eraserhead, I’m a Pro Hero. I need you to squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
Izuku didn’t move, his breaths remaining slow and ragged.
“Why isn’t he waking up?” Katsuki’s voice cracked, panic rising like bile in his throat.
“I’m not sure, but panicking doesn’t help.”
Katsuki looked down at Izuku’s pale, dirt and blood-smeared face. He’d seen plenty of injuries before, hell, he’d caused plenty of them. But this? This was wrong.
Eraserhead’s fingers found Izuku’s pulse, brows furrowing after a moment. “Pulse is weak. Labored breathing. Any slower and I’m starting compressions.”
Katsuki’s stomach dropped. “W-what?” His chest felt like it was being crushed from the inside. “Where the hell are the damn paramedics?!” Katsuki barked, voice trembling. “Why aren’t they here?”
“They’ll get here,” Eraserhead replied, his voice maddeningly calm.
Sirens wailed in the distance, close, but not close enough. Eraserhead’s fingers pressed again on Izuku’s neck, his expression darkening.
Izuku exhaled, a thin, rattling breath…and then nothing.
“Shit,” Eraserhead hissed. He laced his fingers and planted his palms over Izuku’s sternum. “Starting compressions. Stay back.”
Katsuki couldn’t move. He just watched, frozen, as Eraserhead’s arms locked and he drove his weight into Izuku’s chest in measured pulses.
The sound was sickening, bones popping, sternum bowing under each press. Katsuki flinched as he heard something crunch.
“Come on, kid,” Eraserhead muttered, voice low and urgent. “Don’t quit on me.”
“Medics ETA two minutes,” the operator's voice crackled distantly from the phone.
Katsuki curled up beside him, stomach churning violently. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood.
Eraserhead tilted Izuku’s head back and gave two quick breaths before diving back into compressions.
Sparks jumped from Katuski’s palms. “Why the hell isn’t he breathing?!”
Eraserhead ignored him, continuing to press at Izuku’s chest. Katsuki couldn’t remember a time he’d felt this powerless, this…scared.
Sirens roared closer, bouncing off the walls of the narrow alley until they rattled in his skull. Eraserhead started another cycle, thirty pushes, two breaths, when pounding footsteps filled the space.
Two paramedics dropped to their knees beside them, a stretcher clattering to the ground.
“Status?” one barked.
“Third set of compressions,” Eraserhead replied without missing a beat.
An oxygen mask slid over Izuku’s bloodied face while another medic checked his neck. “Faint pulse, but present. I’ll take over.”
Eraserhead finished his set and shifted back. The paramedic’s hands replaced his instantly, pressing hard and fast.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Izuku coughed, blood spattering against the oxygen mask. His chest hitched, dragging in a shallow, rattling breath.
“Deku!” Katsuki lurched forward, his own breath stuttering.
“Son, step back. We need to get him loaded.”
“I’m going with! I need to be there!” Katsuki argued, his voice cracking.
One of the paramedics glanced briefly at him. “Are you family?”
Katsuki’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He wasn’t family. Hell, he wasn’t even a friend…not anymore.
“He’s the one who found him,” Eraserheads voice cut through. “Let him ride along, he might have more information.”
The paramedic hesitated, then jerked his chin. “Fine. Come on.”
Katsuki snatched his phone and chased after the stretcher, climbing in after them. His heart hammered so hard it hurt, each beat pounding against his ribs. He dropped onto the narrow bench beside Izuku as straps snapped over his limp body.
“Pulse dropping again,” one medic muttered, adjusting the monitor clipped to Izuku’s finger. “Come on, kid.”
Katsuki’s gaze roamed over Izuku’s face, pale and hollow cheeked. He looked thinner than he remembered.
“You don’t get to die, you damn nerd,” he rasped. “You hear me? You don’t get to leave me like this.”
The paramedic shot him a quick look but said nothing.
The ambulance jolted as it pulled away, siren blaring again. Katsuki gripped the cot until his knuckles turned white, flinching at every bump that made Izuku’s body shift.
“BP’s low. Oxygen’s holding. Tell them to prep a surgery bay,” the other medic called.
Katsuki's chest felt tight, air refusing to fill his lungs. “Is…is he-”
The paramedic shot him a sympathetic look. “I won’t lie. He’s hurt bad. We’ll know more once we get him stable.”
The words landed like a gut punch. Katsuki dropped his gaze, fear curdling into something sharp and bitter.
This is my fault. I let those idiots think I wanted this.
“Does he have any allergies or medical conditions?”
Katsuki shook his head. “No…he’s fine. He’s-”
He’s not fine.
The medic typed into a tablet as the ambulance screeched around a corner, the hospital finally coming into view.
A violent jolt threw Katsuki sideways as they stopped. The back doors burst open, stretcher rolling out fast as paramedics shouted vitals to the ER team.
“Wait here,” a nurse ordered, stepping in front of him.
“No, I-I need to-”
“He’s going into surgery. You can’t follow him,” she said, unyielding. “He’s in good hands. But you have to wait here while they work. Understand?”
Katsuki opened his mouth to argue, but the nurse shot him a stern look. He clenched his fists hard, sweat building in his palms as the scent of caramel wafted into the air. He was forced to stand there and watch as Izuku was wheeled through swinging doors and out of sight.
Katsuki dropped into one of the hard plastic chairs, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His chest felt carved open.
This is my fault.
The words looped endlessly. Myfaultmyfaultmyfault. He hadn’t told those idiots to attack Deku, but after everything he’d done, he might as well have.
Doctors and nurses sent him pitying looks as they walked down the halls, the intercom beeping intermittently with voices that blended with the world around him.
Doingyouafavordoingyouafavordoingyouafavor
“You look like hell.”
Katsuki’s head snapped up. Eraserhead was lowering himself into the chair beside him, scarf draped loosely around his shoulder, dark eyes unreadable.
Katsuki didn’t answer, he couldn’t. His gaze slid back to the scuffed linoleum, the patterns blurring.
“What’s your connection to Midoriya?”
Katuski’s throat tightened. “We…we go to the same school.”
“Are you friends?”
The question sat like a rock in his stomach. “Not exactly.”
Eraserhead tilted his head, studying him. “You care about him, though.”
Katsuki clenched his jaw. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”
“Not giving you one. Just making an observation.” A beat of silence. “You look like you’re blaming yourself.”
Katsuki winced. “I didn’t…” He stopped, teeth grinding.
He hadn’t told them to do it, but he hadn’t stopped them either.
Eraserheads gaze sharpened. “Do you know who attacked him?”
Katsuki’s fists tightened until his nails dug crescents into his palms. He gave a short, jerky nod. “They told me.”
“How?”
Katsuki dug his phone out of his pocket, fingers trembling. He opened the message thread and handed it over. Eraserhead’s eyes skimmed the screen, his expression unreadable.
“Doing you a favor,” the man read aloud.
Katsuki’s shoulders hunched, voice dropping. “I…I didn’t ask them to.” The words sounded weak, even to him.
“Why else would they attack him?”
Katsuki stared at the floor, heat crawling up his neck. “Deku’s quirkless.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
Eraserhead lowered the phone and leaned in slightly. “Why do you call him that?”
Katsuki shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s another way to read his name. Deku is…it’s an insult.”
The hero didn’t reply, just handed the phone back. “Can you get ahold of Midoriya’s guardians?”
Katsuki nodded, his hands shaking. He could call Inko, but what would he even say?
Hey, some kids wanted to get on my good side, so they beat your son half to death, and now he might not make it.
“I’ll also need you to give a formal statement about tonight,” Eraserhead added, rising to his feet. “Call your parents so we can arrange it.”
“Whatever,” Katsuki muttered, watching him walk off. He scrolled through his contacts until he found Inko’s number. His finger hovered, stomach twisting. Then he scrolled past it and pressed another name without hesitation.
The line barely rang once before an ear-splitting voice exploded in his ear. “Where the hell are you, you damn brat?!”
Katsuki clenched his teeth, biting back the snarky response sitting on his tongue. “Fuck…” he muttered.
“Katsuki Bakugo. What the hell is going on? You were supposed to be home two hours ago!”
“Fucking…Can you come to the hospital?”
There was a pause. “The hospital? What the hell did you-”
“It’s not me!” Katsuki snapped. “It’s…It’s Deku.”
Another pause. “Izuku?”
“Can you call auntie? Something…something happened. He’s really hurt and I don’t…I don’t know what to do.” The admission felt sour on his tongue. Katsuki Bakugo never failed, always knew what to do. But right now…he felt lost. Drowning among the waves, desperate for someone to tell him how to fix it.
There was silence on the other end. Then, “Which hospital?”
He rattled off the name and hung up before she could say anything else. His hand shook as he shoved the phone in his pocket.
Across the waiting room, Eraserhead and a man in a tan overcoat were speaking with a nurse, their voices too low to make out. The quiet gnawed at him. Every time the ER doors swung open, his heart jumped into his throat.
Twenty minutes later, the sliding doors at reception hissed open and Mitsuki Bakugo stormed in, frantic eyes locking on him.
“What the hell happened, Katsuki? Where’s Izuku?”
“He’s in surgery. They haven’t told me anything. Did you get a hold of Inko?”
Mitsuki shook her head, her expression dark. “Number’s disconnected. I haven’t been able to get a hold of her.”
She dropped into the chair beside him, her gaze sharp. “Did you hurt him?”
“Fuck, no! It wasn’t me!” Katsuki shot back.
Her hand shot out, gripping his chin and turning his face toward hers. She studied him, searching for any trace of a lie. When she found none, her grip eased, and something softer slipped into her eyes. “What the hell happened, Kat?”
Katsuki handed over his phone, the message thread already open.
Her brow furrowed deeper with each line she read. “The hell do they mean, ‘doing you a favor’?”
Katsuki snatched the phone back, teeth grinding. “Fuck if I know! I didn’t tell them to do shit!”
“Well it certainly looks like you did!” She screeched back, voice rising.
She stood up from her chair, marching toward the nurse’s station, fists clenched at her sides.
“Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?”
Eraserhead and the man in the overcoat both raised their hands, trying to calm Mitsuki down. Katsuki stood from his chair, anxiety burning in his stomach as he walked toward them.
“Why don’t we find someplace quiet where we can talk more?” the man in the overcoat said, his voice serious.
“About damn time,” Mitsuki grumbled, folding her arms as she followed the man.
The group gathered in an unoccupied office, Katuski and his mom sitting in padded chairs while the man in the overcoat leaned against the desk and Eraserhead stood in the corner.
“My name is Detective Tsukauchi. I’m with the Musutafu Police Department.” Tsukauchi said.
“Before we get into anything, I need to let you know that I will be recording this conversation and that my quirk, Lie Detector, will remain active for the entirety of the interview. That being said, do I have your consent to continue?”
Katsuki and Mistuki both nodded, watching as the detective pulled out a small recording device from his coat and pressed a button.
“This is Detective Naomasa Tsukauchi, ID: 20-18-21-5. The date is Tuesday, October 14, 2XXX and the time is 18:45.” He looked up at Katsuki and Mitsuki, his expression neutral but attentive.
“Can you state your names for the record?”
“Katsuki Bakugo.”
“Mistuki Bakugo.”
“Thank you. This interview is being witnessed by pro hero, Eraserhead, who was also the responding hero on scene.”
Tsukauchi pulled out a small notebook and flipped a few pages, looking between the two Bakugo’s. “Earlier tonight, a call was made to emergency services alerting them to the scene of an assault. While the initial reasoning behind the attack is still under investigation, Katsuki Bakugo provided messages that suggest someone attacked Izuku Midoriya as a ‘favor’ to him. Bakugo, can you tell me who sent those messages?”
Katsuki’s lip twitched, his gaze flicking to the table. “...Takumi Ono.”
Tsukauchi jotted the name down before looking back at him. “Thank you for that. Now then, can you explain your relationship with Izuku Midoriya?”
Katsuki swallowed, his hands growing clammy in his lap. “We go to the same school. We used to be friends when we were younger but we…grew apart.”
The words felt hollow in his mouth. He could feel his mother’s confused stare from his periphery, but he adamantly refused to meet her gaze.
The detective’s neutral expression didn’t change, yet something in the air shifted. Tsukauchi looked down at his notebook, making a small note, before looking back up at Katsuki.
“Can you expand on that further, Bakugo? My quirk tells me that statement isn’t entirely true.”
Katsuki said nothing, a knot of dread forming in his stomach. The silence in the room felt thick, broken only by muted noises of the hospital just outside the door. He could feel the weight of his mother’s gaze, the quiet disapproval of Eraserhead in the corner. He had no excuse, no snaky comeback to get him out of this.
“I-We just-” Katsuki’s jaw tightened, the words dying in his throat.
Images of Izuku’s broken body lying in a heap on the cold pavement flashed through his mind. He could feel the blood crusted beneath his fingernails, his uniform tacky and stained as it clung uncomfortably to his skin. He could hear the sickening crack of Izuku’s ribs breaking, his chest bowing unnaturally beneath Eraserhead’s hands.
He swallowed hard, but it didn’t clear the dryness in his throat.
Izuku’s head lolled to the side, blood slowly pooling beneath him. The wet, rattling sound of his breathing before his chest stopped moving.
Katsuki’s stomach twisted violently.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Deku always got up. Every time he was beat down, he always got the fuck back up.
But what was he supposed to expect? Katsuki had been laying the foundation for years. Every insult, every burn, every shove had carved the path that led here. He’d made Deku the perfect target and then left him to fend for himself.
Doing you a favor.
Doingyouafavordoingyouafavor
His chest felt tight, his palms slick. The words pressed against him like a physical force, suffocating.
Tsukauchi’s voice cut through the haze. “The boys who attacked Izuku, they told you they were doing you a favor. That suggests they believed there was some sort of animosity between you two. Is that true, Bakugo?”
Katsuki’s gaze stayed locked on the floor, his throat closing up around the answer. Animosity didn’t even begin to cover it, but admitting that out loud felt like a confession for everything he’d ever done to Deku.
“I…” His voice cracked. He swallowed again, but it didn’t help.
The silence stretched, Mistuki shifting in her chair beside him. The scrape of fabric against the cushion sounded deafening in the silence.
Tsukauchi continued, his tone even, “These boys thought they were doing something you wanted, something you might have encouraged.”
Katuski didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to see his mom’s face when she heard what he’d been doing to Deku for years. Because the truth was, he hadn't needed to tell those idiots to hurt Deku. He’d just made it clear, day after day, year after year, that hurting him was easy. Acceptable even. That no one would stop them.
Tsukauchi studied him for a long moment, then set his notebook aside. “Bakugo…I want you to understand the full extent of what happened tonight.”
Katsuki’s stomach dropped.
“Izuku suffered catastrophic injuries,” Tsukauchi’s tone was flat, each word carefully uttered. “A punctured lung. A fractured skull with a severe brain hemorrhage. Multiple ribs shattered and driven inward, causing internal bleeding to several organs.”
The detective’s eyes stayed locked on him, pinning him in place even as Katsuki’s vision wavered.
“He went into cardiac arrest twice on the operating table. They’ve put him in an induced coma to keep the swelling in his brain from killing him.”
Tsukauchi let the silence hang for a beat before continuing, his voice steady but low. “This is no longer being treated as a simple assault. Given the severity of his injuries, the charges we’re pursuing will be for attempted murder, that is, if he wakes up.”
Katsuki’s ears rang, drowning out the steady hum of the hospital just outside. The image of Izuku’s slack face burned behind his eyes.
IF he wakes up.
No one had ever said those words about Deku before. It was always, he’ll pull through, he’ll be fine. But now that certainty was gone.
“You should also understand that given the evidence we have so far, your involvement in this is still under review. We have statements and messages that connect your name to the assault. Whether you were directly involved or not, the investigation isn’t over.”
Katsuki’s head jerked up, panic flashing across his face. “I didn’t-”
“I’m not saying you threw the punches,” the detective interrupted, “But the law doesn’t only look at those who were involved in the fight. If we determine you incited, encouraged, or knowingly allowed this to happen… the consequences will be severe.”
…Fuck.
***
Shouta lingered near the far wall, arms crossed as he watched the interview finish. A scowl had settled on the older Bakugo’s face, her hand locked around her son’s wrist as she all but hauled him away, the boy’s expression blank and unseeing.
The moment they were gone, a nurse approached them, a clipboard clutched tight to her chest. “Detective Tsukauchi? Have you been able to get ahold of Izuku Midoriya’s guardian? We need consent before continuing with the next operation.”
Tsukauchi’s brow furrowed. “His mother hasn’t been contacted yet?”
The nurse shook her head. “Her listed number is disconnected, and there doesn’t appear to be any other emergency contacts.”
Tsukauchi pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a slow, heavy breath. “What procedure needs approval?”
“Decompressive craniectomy,” she said. “The swelling in his brain is worsening. If we don’t operate soon, the damage could be irreversible.”
“Alright,” Tsukauchi muttered, pulling a phone from his pocket. “I’ll make a few calls, see about getting an emergency guardian in place for you.”
“I’ll do it,” Shouta said, straightening slightly.
Tsukauchi looked at him, one brow raised.
“Responding heroes can take emergency custody until the whereabouts of a parent or guardian can be determined.” Shouta recited as if reading from the manual.
The nurse glanced between them, shuffling the clipboard in her arms. “I’ll grab some forms for you to fill out and we’ll go from there.” She turned and left, her hurried steps fading into the quiet bustle of the ward.
“Shouldn’t you talk to Mic before committing to something like this?” Tsukauchi asked, tone cautious.
Shouta shrugged, hands buried deep in his jumpsuit pockets. “It’s just until his mother can be contacted.”
Tsukauchi gave him a long, unreadable look before sighing. “I’m gonna go pick up Takumi. Once you track down the mother, can you meet me back at the precinct?”
A short, noncommittal grunt was Shouta’s answer. He watched Tsukauchi leave, the doors hissing shut behind him.
The nurse from earlier reappeared, a small stack of forms in her arms. “I’ll need your contact information first and then signature here and here. And this one is to authorize the decompressive craniectomy," she said, handing him the clipboard.
Shouta took the pen without a word, signing on every dotted line. The nurse thanked him and promised to keep him updated on the kid after the surgery. He gave a short nod in acknowledgement, already slipping the weight of responsibility on his shoulders like a familiar scarf.
With the last known address for Inko Midoriya folded in his pocket, he stepped out into the cold evening air.
He could have taken the subway or a bus, but the rooftops gave him the needed speed and perspective he craved. His scarf trailed behind him in the wind as he vaulted the first gap, the city sprawling beneath him.
The apartment was in a run-down part of Musutafu, the building overgrown with vines and weeds. The stairwell reeked of stale smoke and booze, giving the whole scene a more dilapidated energy.
Shouta took the steps two at a time until he reached the door marked 3B. The door itself was chipped and peeling, the brass numbers staining the white door with rust.
He knocked once and waited, craning his head to listen for any sounds.
Silence.
He knocked again, his knuckles stinging with the force.
Nothing.
Shouta’s brow furrowed as he turned away from the door and headed back down the stairs, hoping to get more answers from the landlord. The housing office was tucked into a small alcove by the entrance, its cracked glass window giving a view of a tired-looking man hunched over paperwork.
“Can I help you?” the man asked, not looking up.
“I’m looking for Inko Midoriya,” Shouta said, producing his hero license. “Her last address was listed here.”
The man gave his hero license a cursory glance and adjusted his glasses, typing on a keyboard and squinting at the screen. “Midoriya…Midoriya…yeah. Looks like she moved out-” his finger traced the monitor “-just over a year ago.”
Shouta’s expression didn’t change, but something ugly writhed in his chest. “Do you have a forwarding address?”
“Yeah, sure.” The landlord reached into a drawer and pulled out a slip of paper, scribbling the new address down and handing it over.
Shouta scanned the hastily scrawled words. “You sure this was the address she gave?”
The landlord looked up at Shouta over the frame of his glasses and shrugged. “That’s what’s in the file.”
Shouta stared at the American address, the words bleeding against the white of the paper.
He grumbled a quick thank you and turned to leave, the folded slip of paper burning a hole in his pocket. He kept to the rooftops on his way back, his thoughts racing as the city whizzed beneath him.
Why would Inko Midoriya leave? Where had Midoriya been living for the past year? If she’d been gone that long, surely someone else must have taken him in, right? But if that were the case, why wasn’t there another listed emergency contact on his file?
He leapt to the next building, irritation burning in his chest. Fourteen years old. Midoriya was just fourteen years old, and left to fend for himself in a world that already had it out for him.
The precinct was buzzing with noise when he arrived, officers shuffling past one another in the narrow space. He flashed his ID at the reception and made his way down the hall toward the interview rooms.
Through the observation window, Tsukauchi sat across from Takumi and a woman Shouta assumed to be his mother. Takumi slouched in his chair, arms crossed, his expression a mix of boredom and contempt.
The woman beside him was the opposite of what Shouta had expected. Her blouse was tailored, but ill-fitting, the skirt a size too tight. Gold necklaces clinked against one another at her throat, oversized rings glittering on her fingers, her thumb currently lodged between her teeth. She looked like someone trying to dress the part of wealth and power, but missing the mark just enough for it to show.
Tsukauchi flipped open the folder in front of him, his voice deceptively calm. “Before we begin, is there anyone else you would like present for this interview? His father, a partner, maybe?”
The woman stiffened, lowering her hand from her mouth. “No,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “It’s just me.”
Tsukauchi gave a slight nod. “Alright.” His gaze dropped to pages in front of him, dark eyes scanning the information quickly. “I’lll be direct: your son is facing extremely serious charges. Given the severity of the victim’s injuries, we are looking at charges of attempted murder.”
Takumi’s mother crossed her arms, the movement shaky, her face twisting in discomfort. “You know how boys are,” she said, her voice unsteady. “It was just…just a little scuffle after school. Surely this is all being blown completely out of proportion-”
“The victim has a punctured lung, multiple skull fractures, and internal bleeding. This is not just a schoolyard fight, ma’am.” Tsukauchi didn’t pause before continuing. “We have text messages sent from Takumi that place him at the scene of the assault, as well as forensic evidence linking your son to the attack.”
Takumi’s mother shifted in her seat, her jewelry jangling as she looked down at her son. He avoided her gaze, the muscles in his jaw tensing.
“This interview is only as a courtesy to you, and an opportunity for Takumi to provide more details surrounding the assault. As of right now, Takumi Ono will be held in juvenile detention under the charges of attempted murder.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious! That boy was just a quirkless-”
“I can, and I will.” Tsukauchi cut in, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Takumi’s mother blinked, her painted lips pressing into a thin line. “You don’t understand-”
“What I understand is that a fourteen-year-old boy is currently in critical condition because of your son’s actions.” Tsukauchi said, leaning forward. “But make no mistake; if the victim does not survive, these charges will escalate, and we will pursue them to the fullest extent.”
Takumi’s face shifted into a scowl, his shoulders stiff.
Tsukauchi sat back slightly, letting the weight of his words settle. “I’ll give you a moment to process everything,” he said evenly, his gaze fixed on her. “Officers will be here in a few hours to escort your son to the nearest juvenile holding facility.”
Without another word, Tsukauchi stood, collecting the folder from the table. The heavy door clicked shut behind him as he turned down the hall, Shouta falling into step beside him.
Back in his office, Tsukauchi sat with a huff, tossing the file on his desk. “Please tell me you have good news.”
“I have good news for you,” Shouta replied flatly.
The detective’s eye twitched with his quirk. “God dammit, Aizawa.”
Shouta pulled out the folded slip of paper from his pocket and set it on the desk. “Inko Midoriya moved out of her apartment just over a year ago. The forwarding address is somewhere in America.”
Tsukauchi picked it up, eyes quickly scanning the messy handwriting. His brows furrowed. “Where the hell has the kid been living for the past year?”
Shouta shook his head, hands buried in his jumpsuit pockets. “No idea. But if a relative took him in, you’d think they’d be listed as an emergency contact.”
Tsukauchi set the note down with a sigh. “You realize what this means, right?”
Shouta’s brow lifted a fraction. “That his mother abandoned him?”
“That we’ve got a custody nightmare on top of an attempted murder investigation,” Tsukauchi corrected. He rubbed his temple, scanning the address again. “I’ll put in a formal request to the Immigration Bureau to get her extradited, but until that happens, you’re it.”
“Fine,” Shouta grumbled, turning toward the door. “I’m headed back to the hospital. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
The trip back to the hospital passed in a blur, the night life of the city bustling around him. The overwhelming scent of antiseptic hit him the moment he stepped through the sliding doors, a nurse at the front desk looking up as he approached.
“How can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Izuku Midoriya. I’m his emergency guardian.” Shouta said, pulling out his license and handing it over.
The nurse checked his information against the computer and handed it back. “He’s out of surgery,” she said quietly. “He’s been moved to a private room on the fourth floor. Room 481.”
Shouta gave a curt nod and took the elevator up, walking briskly to Izuku’s room.
The boy looked impossibly small in the hospital bed, swallowed by a tangle of tubes and wires. A breathing tube was taped to his face, disappearing down his throat, a thick brace wrapped around his neck. The wild curls Shouta remembered from the alley were gone, shaved away to reveal an angry line of puckered stitches tracing along the curve of his skull where bone had been removed. His narrow chest rose and fell in a shallow, mechanical rhythm with the ventilator, each hiss of the machine unnervingly steady.
Shouta slumped into the hard plastic chair next to the bed, his gaze fixed on the kid. As an Underground Hero he’d seen numerous injuries; crushed ribs, shattered spines, faces barely recognizable.
But it was different when it was a kid.
It was difficult to think that beneath all those bandages and wires was a child, someone he had pulled from the brink of death with his own hands.
He shouldn’t get attached, especially when the future of the kid’s life is unsure.
But…looking at the small child lying too-still in that bed caused an aching weight to settle in Shouta’s chest.
A quiet knock broke the silence, the nurse from earlier stepping inside. “Sorry to bother you, but I wanted to give you this.” She offered a tattered yellow backpack, smudged with dirt and streaked with dried blood.
“It was recovered from the scene and initially taken to the police department, but they don’t have any reason to hold on to it.”
Shouta took it, feeling the rough, faded canvas beneath his fingers, the straps frayed to threads. It was heavier than he expected. “Thank you,” he murmured, setting it on the floor in front of him.
The nurse nodded and left, leaving Shouta to dig through the bag's contents.
Inside were several burned notebooks and battered textbooks, a duct-taped alarm clock, several changes of clothes, and a travel-sized toothbrush and toothpaste.
No house keys. No phone. Nothing to suggest this kid had a normal home to return to.
He closed the bag, leaving it at his feet. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he let out a slow breath, eyes burning.
The kid wasn’t just quirkless. He was homeless.
Suddenly the puzzle pieces from earlier fell into place. The missing parent. The empty emergency contacts list. The non-existent residential address.
Shouta leaned back in the chair, gaze fixed on the slow, mechanical rise and fall of Izuku’s chest. His jaw tightened. He didn’t believe in gods, but if any were listening, he had a few choice words for them about what they’d allowed to happen to this child.
Eventually the steady beep of the heart monitor and the soft hiss of the ventilator became a lullaby, lulling Shouta into an uneasy sleep. He slouched deeper in the plastic chair, arms crossed, his head tilted to rest on his chest.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out when a voice cut through the quiet.
“‘Sho?”
Shouta blinked awake to see Hizashi standing in the doorway, his usual sunshine smile tinged with something softer. His blond hair was thrown up into a messy bun, glasses slightly askew.
“What are you doing here?” Shouta muttered, rubbing the grit from his eyes.
“I tried calling, but when you didn’t pick up, I called ‘Masa. He said you’d be here.” Hizashi stepped inside, his gaze inevitably drawn to the small figure in the bed.
Shouta straightened in the chair, massaging the crick already forming in his neck. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you worry.”
Hizashi dropped into the chair beside him, resting a warm hand on Shouta’s thigh. His eyes didn’t leave Midoriya. “Who’s the kid?”
Shouta hesitated before answering. “Izuku Midoriya. Kid was left beaten half to death in an alley, likely as a result of quirkless discrimination.”
Hizashi’s brows lifted, a spark in his eye, the same one Shouta had seen multiple times when Hizashi would half-joke about taking in one of the several strays they met on patrol. “Poor listener…So what’s the plan? We keeping him?”
Shouta’s eyes flicked toward Izuku, his expression dark. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up, ‘Zashi. They don’t know if he’ll even make it through the night.”
The words seemed to cut through his husband’s enthusiasm, his smile faltering. “Then I guess…we make sure he’s not alone, yeah?”
Shouta’s jaw tightened, but he gave the faintest nod. Hizashi stayed silent, leaning forward in his chair until his elbows rested on his knees, eyes never leaving the boy in the bed. Shouta glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, the knot in his chest loosening just a fraction.
By the time Shouta finally agreed to leave, it was pushing one in the morning. Hizashi had worn him down with the logic that the hospital had his number and would call if Midoriya’s condition changed. Reluctantly, Shouta let himself be herded out, one last glance over his shoulder at the too-small boy lying silent beneath the web of tubes and wires.
Home was quiet, their orange tabby, Pants winding around their legs in silent greeting while their other cat, Bastard watched from his perch on the back of the couch. Both men didn’t bother with conversation, exhaustion weighing heavy. As they crawled into bed, Shouta’s mind replayed the image of Midoriya’s pale, bandaged face until sleep finally claimed him.
The next morning, Hizashi left early for his morning classes, pressing a chaste kiss to Shouta’s temple and promising to stop by the hospital after classes. Shouta leaned against the kitchen counter, draining his second cup of black coffee before heading straight to the precinct.
Tsukauchi’s office door was open when Shouta arrived, a tense expression on the detective’s face. A man in his late forties sat across from the desk, suit pressed within an inch of its life, his hair combed with precision. He carried an aura of authority, looking at the detective with resignation.
“Eraserhead, thank you for joining us,” Tsukauchi said, gesturing Shouta in. “This is-”
The man stood abruptly, extending a hand that Shouta didn't take. “Daisuke Himawara, Head of Domestic Hero Relations with the HPSC.”
Shouta stared at the man’s hand for a moment before taking it hesitantly. “Eraserhead,” he responded simply.
“Ah, you’re the responding hero,” the man said, pulling his hand back and adjusting his suit jacket. “Could you explain why you submitted an incident report following last night’s interaction.”
“I’m sorry?” Shouta said, his face twisting with confusion.
The man sighed, sitting back in the chair like a king to a throne. “As a commissioner for the HPSC, I ensure that all submitted crime reports from domestic heroes follow a very particular set of guidelines,” he said, looking over Shouta with a faint curl of disgust before turning back to Tsukauchi.
Tsukauchi’s eyes narrowed a fraction, frustration edging into his tone. “All the guidelines surrounding crime reporting were followed. The incident involved a violent assault, multiple witnesses, and severe injuries to a minor. That requires a full report.”
Himawara gave a dismissive wave, his gold watch catching the light. “Yes, yes, but the assailant in question is a juvenile with no prior record. No permanent damage was done-”
“No permanent damage?” Shouta cut in, his voice sharp enough to draw blood. “The kid’s in an induced coma after major brain surgery.”
Himiwara didn’t flinch, mindlessly adjusting the HPSC pin on his lapel. “Emotions aside, this isn’t the kind of case the Commission needs clogging up the juvenile courts. Kids make mistakes and the right environment can reform them far more effectively than detention.”
Shouta leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “Is that your professional opinion, or your personal one?”
The commissioner’s eyes flicked up to meet his, something cold lurking beneath the polished exterior. “You’ve got a young suspect with no priors, a quirkless victim, and no real gain in pushing the case further. As a matter of public resource management, whether or not the boy who was attacked recovers, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s a waste of time.”
Shouta’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. "Did you miss the part where I said there’s a fourteen-year-old in a coma after undergoing major brain surgery?”
Tsukauchi’s pen tapped lightly against the desk, a quiet warning in the otherwise tense room. “Commissioner, unless you have new evidence, the report stands. The family court will handle it.”
Himawara’s lips pressed into a thin line, his patience thinning. “Detective, I’d hate for this to become a…professional conflict between our departments.”
The words hung in the air like a threat, Shouta and Tsukauchi exchanging a brief look.
Himiwara rose from his chair, smoothing the front of his jacket, and gave a tight nod. “I trust you’ll consider your next steps carefully.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and left, the office door clicking shut behind him.
Shouta ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Fucking quirkist bastards.”
Tsukauchi turned in his chair, glancing at something on his computer. “He’s got some interesting opinions, that’s for sure. But we’re not going to let that stop us from following procedure.”
He pulled a file from his desk and slid it toward Shouta. “Now, speaking of procedure, Takumi revealed there were two other boys involved in the attack against Midoriya: Ishido Inejiro and Kaiba Fujimaro. Both boys claim that Takumi was the ringleader and dealt most of the attacks, though their exact level of involvement is still being investigated.”
Shouta frowned, grabbing the file and quickly scanning its contents. “Did they give a reason for the attack?”
Tsukauchi leaned back, crossing his arms. “According to their statements, the attack was motivated by quirkist beliefs. Takumi and the other two boys saw Midoriya as weak, ‘less than human,’ in their words. They believed that by targeting him, they’d gain favor with Bakugo, thinking it would elevate their own standing at the school.”
A headache bloomed behind Shouta’s eyes as he listened, the investigation quickly becoming a tangled mess. “So this wasn’t just a random act of violence.”
Tsukauchi shook his head. “Nope. It was premeditated, giving us the evidence we need to pursue charges of attempted murder despite their age. Their fucked up belief system doesn’t excuse the brutality of the attack.”
Shouta flipped through the file, hospital intake photos of Izuku’s bruised and battered body spread across the pages. “Unbelievable.”
“Do you think Nedzu will want to be involved in the school investigation?” Tsukauchi asked.
Shouta shrugged. “Probably. You know how much that rat loves to destroy corrupt organizations.”
Tsukauchi smirked, likely remembering some of Nedzu’s prior ‘corruption purges.’ “That’d be nice, we could use all the help we can get.”
The room was quiet for a moment as Shouta continued to look through the file.
“How’d it go over with Mic yesterday?” the detective asked when Shouta finally set the file down.
Shouta ran a hand over his face, recalling the quiet conversation at the hospital. He’s…eager, as always. Mainly just wanted to make sure the kid wasn’t alone and pushing to get involved however he can.”
Tsukauchi nodded slowly, scrubbing a hand along his jaw. “Good. Kami knows that kid needs someone in his corner.”
Shouta nodded, glancing down at the hospital photos again. The kid’s bruised face stared up at him from the glossy paper, a reminder of just how close they’d come to losing him entirely.
He pressed the file closed, fighting the burn of exhaustion lingering behind his eyes. “I’m headed back to the hospital. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
“Give Mic my regards,” Tsukauchi said, already turning to look at something on his computer.
Shouta grunted in acknowledgement and left the office. Outside the precinct, the city moved on, indifferent to the battles waged in hospital rooms and holding cells. Shouta looked up at the sky and took a deep breath, a new resolve pushing him toward the hospital once again.