Chapter Text
Quirks were strange things. Rigid and structured in many ways. Loose and flexible in others.
They had real rules. Lines in the sand, sometimes, but real nonetheless. One could not just manifest powers outside of their original constraints unless something along the way had gone terribly wrong. Sure, it was possible to push the limits, to gain unfound strength under great pressure. But if a man breathed fire, he breathed fire. That was the deal. Said fire breathing man did not wake up one morning and sprout wings. Again, unless something along the way had gone terribly wrong.
Quirks were immutable. Yet, at the same time, they were not infallible. Like Endeavour. A big name. Bigger flames. But even his fire had its limits. While not fully extinguished, Endeavour’s flames could not sustain themselves in the rain. His perpetual fire not so perpetual under the assault of some weather.
No quirk was perfect.
Naomasa Tsukauchi knew as much. His quirk too was not flawless.
Lie Detector.
Clean. Simple. No tricks, no theatrics. It required no touch to activate. He didn’t even need to look you in the eye. Though, he usually did anyway. All you had to do was answer to his questioning. Speak the words. Truth or lie, his quirk would sort it out nice and neat.
In his line of work, that kind of certainty was gold.
Powerful. Maybe not flashy. Not the kind of quirk that made headlines. But it got results. It closed cases. It put bad people where they belonged.
Still, it was not flawless.
Because what if someone believed their own lie? Not just said it. Not just sold it. Believed it. Down to their bones. Could someone embody a lie so wholeheartedly that it could slip past even him?
Even when the lie was so plainly obvious.
He’d never needed to find out. The crooks that usually darkened his doors were not often so cunning. They cracked. They always cracked.
Until now.
The interrogation room was quiet. Tsukauchi leant forward slightly, elbows on the cold, metal table. “What is your quirk?”
The kid didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. No nervous tic, no twitch in the fingers, no shuffle in his seat. None of the usual tells. Just steady eyes, locked on Tsukauchi like he didn’t have a thing to hide.
“Don’t have one.”
Tsukauchi’s quirk felt like it was screaming at him even as he willed it not to.
True.
Tsukauchi tried to keep his jaw from dropping. He failed.
He inched his foot to the right.
—
Restlessness didn’t suit Aizawa Shota. It wasn’t his brand. Wasn’t his rhythm. He normally left impatience to his students. Adolescent energy trapped by prepubescent hormones. It was usually beneath him.
But not tonight.
His arms folded then unfolded. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His finger drummed against his forearm, his thigh, the worn fabric of his scarf. A nervous habit, if you believed in those. He didn’t. Not for him. Not usually.
Tonight was a different story.
The small monitor in front of him flickered low, casting the room in a tired, blue-grey glow. His eyes stayed glued to it. Watching Tsukauchi. Watching the kid. Back and forth. Question. Answer. Question again.
A rhythm. A pattern.
Aizawa specialised in spotting the breaks in those.
Underground hero work did that to you. He didn’t get the glory cases. The big shots took down the towering villains that toppled buildings. Eraserhead dealt with the creeping rot underfoot while everyone else was busy looking up.
And working that close to the dirt meant working close to the people who cleaned it up.
Cops. Detectives. Men like Tsukauchi.
He and Tsukauchi were close enough that words weren’t always necessary. Discretion did a man good in this industry.
They had a tell. Simple. Small. Invisible unless one knew where to look.
The toe of Tsukauchi’s polished boot.
Right meant truth.
Left meant lie.
The dead centre meant that murky middle ground. A simple, honest “I don’t know” from the perp, for example.
Aizawa watched for it now.
“What is your quirk?” Tsukauchi’s voice crackled from the screen.
Aizawa straightened. The question he had been waiting for. The one that had been sitting in his gut for hours.
Because none of this made sense.
Under normal circumstances, the kid should’ve been nowhere near here. Not cuffed. Not processed. Not sitting under fluorescent lights like some low-rent thug picked off the streets.
He’d saved Aizawa’s life.
That counted for something. It had to.
Yet the thanks he got for it was his head shoved into the back of a police car.
They’d haphazardly slapped a label on it. Unlawful quirk usage. Nice and neat.
Aizawa wanted to scoff.
On any other day, he might’ve agreed. Laws were laws and they existed for a reason.
But this wasn’t so simple.
The kid hadn’t panicked. Hadn’t lashed out. Whatever he’d done, it’d been precise. Controlled.
Aizawa knew what reckless quirk usage looked like. That wasn’t it.
Quirk, he’d thought at first. Then, he corrected himself.
Quirks.
Plural.
And there lay the real problem. The real reason the boy was sitting in that chair instead of walking free with a simple slap on the wrist.
Because villains didn’t run into danger to save someone else. This kid had.
This kid couldn’t have worked under him.
Which meant one thing.
Something along the way had gone terribly wrong.
“Don’t have one,” the boy said, voice flat.
Tsukauchi’s foot shifted.
To the right.
Truth.
Aizawa felt something dry and hollow creep up the back of his throat.
Doubt.
—
The cold wind cut like a knife. It whipped through the alley and shot straight for Aizawa’s eyes, daring him to blink.
He didn’t. He couldn’t.
It was quiet in the alleyway. City noise bled from somewhere far away, buffeted by graffiti-scarred walls. It was a maze down here. Distant. Hidden far away from the glittering glass windows of overpriced office spaces. Those kinds of places sat prime of place on the very top floor.
The ground way down here was reserved for the bottom dwellers.
The labyrinth of back streets and dead ends, the shadowed cut-throughs and blind corners. This was his territory. Tight. Controlled. Full of places to disappear.
The ground was, as the name suggested, prime feeding for underground heroes. And he used the layout of the land to its full advantage.
It was just a shame when his opponents did the same.
Tonight, his prey knew the map just as well.
Aizawa let out a shallow breath, barely more than a ghost in the cold air. His body stayed coiled, every muscle drawn tight like a bow string as he stared down the man before him.
A low-level OGC thug, the intelligence had suggested. An underling. Disposable.
The intelligence was wrong.
The fact that Aizawa was still standing was more a testament to his strength of will than his mark’s weakness.
The man called himself Pain Point, on account of his quirk. Cute name. Ugly work.
One touch was all it took. No blood. No bruises. Nothing physical you could point to. But the pain was real. White-hot and crawling under the skin, shooting through your veins like boiling lava. It did no real damage, the agony was only phantom. But that didn’t matter.
The pain would knock you down. The litany of knives Pain Point kept in his back pocket would finish the job proper.
Aizawa felt it still. His muscles twitched, the dregs of Pain Point’s touch still lingering on the tips of his nerves.
He’d barely made it out the first time. Erasure had saved him. Cut the power just long enough to slip past a machete that wanted to take his head off.
Too close.
His tongue brushed his lips. Blood. A thin line traced down his cheek where steel had kissed stubbled skin.
Blood had welled at the cut. Not deep. It didn’t need to be.
It was warning enough.
Next time, he wouldn’t miss.
Across the way, Pain Point smiled, his lips pulled taught.
“How long you got left there, pal?” he drawled, his accent betraying the prim appearance his tailored suit tried to project. “Don’t think you can wait me out. I’ve got all day.”
Aizawa said nothing.
In reality, he had minutes. If the night felt generous. Seconds, more likely.
So, he made his move. No warning. No wasted motion.
He didn’t have the time to spare.
Eyes wide. Unblinking.
His capture weapon shot forward, a stream of steel and cloth that moved like it had a mind of its own. Smooth as silk, rigid as a spine, it cut through the air. Fast. Precise.
Pain Point dropped low. The weapon kissed empty space as the man slipped out from under it. Then, he was gone, shooting forward like a bullet from a gun.
Erasure held. Pain Point’s quirk was dead weight now.
But it didn’t matter.
Pain Point was far from disarmed.
The knife in Pain Point’s hand danced. He flipped it between his fingers, toying with it, the glint of metal catching what little light the alley had to offer.
Then, it was there, too close, its edge threatening the soft skin of Aizawa’s throat.
Aizawa dropped low.
His leg swept out, catching the man’s ankle just enough to matter.
But not enough to finish it.
Pain Point recovered quickly. A fist came screaming in.
Aizawa brought his arms up barely in time to catch it.
The force rattled through his bones. He slid back a step. Then, another. Each hit landed harder than the last.
Pain Point laughed, relishing in the moment.
Aizawa still didn’t blink.
The scarf lashed out again. Quicker this time. Smarter. He coiled it around Pain Point’s angle, tightened like a snake around its prey.
Sharp and sudden, Aizawa pulled.
The ground came up fast for Pain Point. His head hit the ground with a sickening crack. Loud enough to echo down the empty streets.
Still, he didn’t stop laughing. Even on the ground, entombed in Aizawa’s scarf, the man was grinning like he knew something Aizawa didn’t.
Unease slid down Aizawa’s spine like ice.
He wrapped his capture weapon tighter, binding his arms, his legs, locking the man down like a coffin with no lid.
Pain Point just stared up at him, still smiling.
“You think you’ve won, huh?” he sneered. “Caught me, right?”
Aizawa said nothing. He just watched. Waited in apprehension.
“But that’s just little ‘ol me,” Pain Point continued, voice dropping,his grin sharpening into something uglier. “Who said I came alone?”
Right on time, footsteps spilled out of the yawning dark behind him.
Multiple pairs.
An approaching army.
“Run little hero!” Pain Point jeered.
Aizawa whipped around fully.
His eyes locked with a dozen men.
He blinked. Just once.
That was all it took.
Cold metal pressed against his forehead. The unmistakable, sickeningly familiar, weight of it settling in.
The barrel of a gun. Right between his eyes.
Aizawa stumbled back, boots scraping against pavement slick with grime.
He blinked.
Behind him, Pain Point was still there. Bound never meant harmless. If he got too close-
The gunman’s finger tightened over the trigger. A soft, mechanical click. Ready to fire.
He blinked.
He braced. For the crack of gunfire. For the sudden nothing that came after.
Instead, distant and out of place, a sudden, loud clap echoed through the alley.
Then, heat.
Something tore past his face, fast enough to punch the air from his lungs. His hair whipped back by the force of it.
The sound of a body hitting the ground.
Aizawa’s eyes snapped open just as the gun clattered to the floor.
Something red and wet, pointed like a spear but fluid like water, arced through the air.
Another man dropped. Then, another. A hit through the shoulder. A shot to the thigh. In seconds, they were all down.
The alley was quiet again, filled only with pained groans and the thick, metallic scent of blood.
For a moment, it looked like it would all be for naught. As a new wave of men appeared behind the first.
Truly, Pain Point had called forth an army.
Aizawa didn’t have time to think. He didn’t have time to curse his luck or count the odds stacked against him.
Because someone else moved first. Like an angel descending from the heavens, a figure landed between him and the oncoming flood.
Aizawa caught the barest of glances of the man before he was moving. A white hoodie pulled up over his head, obscuring any sight of his face. A tall stature. A solid build. That was all he could glean before the man became a blur of movement.
Another clap split the air. More of the substance - blood, he could only assume - shot forth from his hands. It tore through the front line without slowing. Threads and spikes and lances of solid, sharpened blood, cutting men down mid-charge.
A blood manipulation quirk. A rarity. Frowned-upon, most often. For the way it ate its users alive if they pushed it too far.
As the first line of defence fell, another took its place. A crowd of burly, angry men, all defending their captured leader. They seemed to have no care for their fallen comrades as they charged at their new opponent.
Aizawa waited for the man to clap again, to call forth his quirk once more.
Instead, the man clasped his hands into fists and launched himself into the fray.
Aizawa couldn’t help his jaw from falling open.
Blue, black, then red. Energy like fire burst around his fists. Even from this distance, Aizawa could feel the raw power rippling through the air.
The man’s fist tore through the crowd like a hot knife through butter.
Effortless.
It took seconds.
One man got lucky. Or desperate, more likely.
He landed a shallow cut along the hooded man’s cheek.
Even hidden as it was beneath his hood, Aizawa watched the wound open.
Then, with horror, he watched the wound close.
Like it had never been there.
Something cold settled in Aizawa’s stomach. A cold, terrified realisation.
This man did not possess just one quirk.
Not even two.
No, this man had three.
Blood manipulation. Some kind of strength enhancement. Self-healing.
The full deck. Range when he needed it. Raw power when he didn’t have the luxury. And a body that stitched itself back together thereafter.
It was terrifying.
All For One was dead. And the nightmare he built should’ve been buried with him. The experiments. The stolen power. The Nomu.
All of it was supposed to be over.
Yet this man stood here like it meant nothing. Like flaunting multiple quirks was just another normal day.
The last thug hit the ground. Silence reigned over the alleyway once more.
The man didn’t so much as breathe heavy. Just rolled his shoulders like he’d just finished a warm-up instead of tearing through an army.
He wiped his hands together as if brushing off some passing dirt. Casual.
Then, he turned and faced Aizawa.
“You alright?”
His voice caught him off guard. It was… younger than he anticipated.
“Yes,” Aizawa answered hesitantly.
Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, growing closer. Either the conflict had drawn attention or the backup Aizawa had called for had finally decided to show up.
They would have been too late.
If it weren’t for him.
The man nodded. Then, shifted, already turning to leave.
Aizawa’s hand shot out to stop him. “Wait!”
The man paused. Turned back. Head tilted slightly.
“Who are you?”
There were a hundred better ways to ask it.
He couldn’t think of any of them at that moment.
“Oh,” the man blinked, like the question hadn’t even crossed his mind.
For a moment, it felt like that was all Aizawa was going to get.
A long beat of silence. Then-
“Itadori. My name is Itadori Yuuji.”
—
Tsukauchi eyed Aizawa carefully. “We have no record of an Itadori Yuuji in Japan.”
The words landed flat.
Aizawa’s jaw tightened. “At all?”
“None that fit the description,” Tsukauchi replied. “Anyone by that name is either too young or already dead. So, unless we’re dealing with an immortal here, I’d wager he gave you a fake name.”
Immortal. The words slid under Aizawa’s skin like a blade.
The similarities to All for One were mounting and the sheer thought of it made him feel sick to his stomach.
The war was too fresh in everyone’s mind. The wounds were not yet healed, the blood not yet dried.
Aizawa wasn’t sure it ever would. At least, there would always be an indelible scar.
“He said it too casually. Didn’t feel fake.”
Tsukauchi’s eyebrow ticked upward, just a fraction. “I’ll be the judge of that, won’t I?”
Aizawa’s lip curled. “This doesn’t need to be an interrogation. He saved my life.”
“You’re growing soft, Eraserhead.”
His hero name came out dry. Almost amused.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” Tsukauchi whistled.
Aizawa grunted noncommittally.
Soft wasn’t his word. Tired, maybe.
Tsukauchi’s tone shifted, the humour draining out of his voice. “If there’s even a chance he’s connected to All For One, no matter in what way, we don’t get to take risks. You know that.”
He exhaled through his nose. He knew Tsukauchi was right. Curiosity gnawed at him almost as much as the guilt did. Slapping cuffs on someone who’d just pulled you out of the fire. It didn’t quite sit right with him.
“He saved you,” Tsukauchi went on. “We can thank him for that. But it doesn’t absolve him of suspicion.”
Tsukauchi reached for a folder, already moving on. “I’ve got the questions ready. I’ll give you the signals. Same as always.”
Aizawa’s eyes flicked to the monitor.
“Just watch,” Tsukauchi said.
Aizawa nodded.
“As always.”
—
The interrogation room lived up to its name. Cold. Unfeeling. Just small enough to make you feel claustrophobic, but large enough for you to hear your own confession echo back at you.
White walls with peeling paint. Old, beige carpets. Cameras in every conceivable corner, ever-watching eyes so you never felt truly alone. A simple table and two chairs. One, of course, decked out with quirk-cancelling cuffs.
Across from him, sat Itadori Yuuji. His fingers idly traced the edges of the cuffs, like they were an inconvenience at worst.
No fear. No anger. Not like everyone who’d worn them before him. Just… nothing. Tsukauchi noted it. Filed it away in the back of his mind.
“Do you mind if this conversation is recorded?”
Itadori nodded. Compliant
“And, if you would, remove your hood. For identification purposes, I’m afraid.”
That did it. A hesitation. Small, but there. Itadori’s hands hovered before finally moving. Slow and reluctant, he peeled back his hood.
Tsukauchi was met with a shock of white hair. Stark and pale, cut close at the sides and longer on top, dragged back in rough lines. But not all colour had given in. Faint streaks of pink clung stubbornly to the very tips.
Tsukauchi should have been shocked by his age. If he had to fathom a guess, he’d go for early to mid twenties, but those years all blended together for most men.
No, what caught Tsukauchi’s attention was the scars.
Such terrible scars.
A cicatrix at his lips, carving up his cheek in a Chelsea Smile. A jagged line split his forehead, tearing through his eyebrow and grazing the eyelid like it had tried to take the eye with it.
They looked old and long healed.
And, somehow, that was the hardest part. Old enough that whoever did this had done it when the boy was younger.
Too young.
In his line of work, Tsukauchi had seen many young heroes. Had seen what the job did to them, how it chewed them up and called it duty.
It had never sat right with him.
And this, no matter the circumstances, felt just the same.
The scars didn’t stop there. They trailed down his neck and snaked beneath the collar of his t shirt. Now, looking closer at his hands, Tsukauchi saw they told the same story. From small, silver lines to thick, raised keloids. Layers of damage. Years of it.
Tsukauchi didn’t let his unease show.
He reached forward and pressed the recorder.
Three sharp beeps cut through the air. It was always loud. Unnervingly so. Purposefully so.
“Interview begins at 20:05 PM with Detective Tsukauchi. Please state your name for the record.”
“Itadori Yuuji.”
Tsukauchi swallowed thickly.
His foot shifted to the right.
“Please state your age.”
Itadori hesitated. A suspicious beat. “Twenty five.”
He shifted his foot left.
Lie.
Tsukauchi kept his face neutral.
“Thank you, Itadori.”
He leant forward and grabbed his file. He shuffled his papers slowly, contemplating his line of questioning.
“Do you understand why we have detained you here today?”
Itadori shrugged.
“I’m afraid I need verbal confirmation for the recording.”
“Yes.”
His foot shifted to the middle. Uncertainty. Not the answer he was expecting.
Unfortunately, it only raised his suspicions.
“You’re here on the grounds of unlawful quirk usage.”
There was no reaction worth noting. Just a nod, like they were talking about the weather.
Tsukauchi slid a photograph across the table. It was a grainy shot from an old CCTV camera. Poor quality. But clear enough.
“Can you identify yourself in this image?”
It was shaky grounds to stand on. Aizawa was clear in the picture, his face near-perfectly turned towards the camera. Itadori Yuuji, with his hood over his head, was entirely obscured. The only identification came from his clothes. He needed verbal confirmation.
“Yes. That’s me.”
Right.
“Today, you intervened in a fight between a pro hero and multiple assailants. Do you admit to this?”
“Yes.”
Right again.
“Why?”
Itadori shrugged. “He looked like he needed help.”
“And you believed you could be that help?”
A nod.
“Why?”
“I’m strong.”
Right.
Tsukauchi almost exhaled at that. Based on Aizawa’s account, that may be an incredible underestimate.
“But you’re not a hero.”
He almost regretted the words the second they left his mouth.
The boy changed immediately. It wasn’t outwardly dramatic. No sudden movement. But his head dipped. His gaze dropped to his lap. He closed off.
“No,” Itadori said quietly. “I am not a hero.”
Right.
Truth again.
Tsukauchi paused. Let the silence sit for a second longer than necessary as he reached for another photo.
It was an action shot, if you could make it out through the low-quality grain of the camera. Pain Point lay on the ground, bound in Aizawa’s capture weapon. Aizawa stood, pose defensive.
And Itadori Yuuji was caught mid-strike. The swirl of energy around his fist reduced down to just a few pixels, but it was unmistakable all the same.
“You understand that those without a hero licence are prohibited from such quirk usage? That it is an illegal act.”
“Yes.”
His foot shifted to the middle.
Interesting.
“You understand this and yet you still jumped into a fight and made unlawful use of your quirk.”
“Yes.”
Left.
Lie.
Tsukauchi paused at that one. He couldn’t figure out what in that statement could possibly be a lie. Especially based on the truths he’d said so far.
He couldn’t help the frown that crossed his brow.
“What is your quirk?” he asked.
He bit back the desire to say quirks.
Itadori’s gaze levelled with his.
“Don’t have one.”