Chapter Text
Shouta Aizawa was having a bad day.
No.
Scratch that.
Shouta Aizawa had a bad life.
There were levels to misery, he had learned. There was the simple kind, the petty kind, the kind that came from waking up with your neck bent at an angle no human spine should survive, or realizing too late that you had forgotten to buy coffee, or stepping in something wet on the sidewalk and knowing, deep in your soul, that it was better not to look down and confirm what it was.
Then there was the deeper kind.
The kind that lived in the marrow.
The kind that settled behind your ribs like old smoke and made breathing feel like something you had to remember on purpose.
Shouta had woken up with that one.
He woke up with it most mornings, if he was being honest.
Which he wasn’t.
Honesty was inconvenient. Honesty had teeth. Honesty sat at the foot of his bed with blue eyes and a stupid smile and goggles pushed up into cloud-colored hair, asking him why the hell he still pretended not to care.
So Shouta did what he always did.
He got out of bed.
He fed the cat he absolutely did not own, because ownership implied emotional vulnerability and he already had two spouses, three jobs, a caffeine dependency, chronic pain, and a vigilante problem. The cat, a scarred little bastard with one torn ear and the permanent expression of a retired crime boss, wound between his legs like it wanted him dead.
“Move,” Shouta muttered.
The cat did not move.
Of course it didn’t.
Nothing in Shouta Aizawa’s life ever did what it was supposed to.
He stepped over the animal, nearly tripped over a stack of ungraded papers, considered leaving them there forever as a monument to academic failure, then remembered he was unfortunately employed and therefore expected to behave like a functioning adult.
That was the first tragedy of the morning.
The second was his coffee machine.
It made a sound like it had been possessed by an ancient sewer demon, sputtered, coughed, leaked something dark and viscous into the cup below, then died with a tiny, pathetic click.
Shouta stared at it.
The coffee machine stared back.
Or it would have, if it had eyes.
“Et tu, Brute?” he asked.
The machine did not answer.
Coward.
He drank the sludge anyway because he had been an underground hero too long to fear God, bacteria, or whatever cursed substance his appliance had just produced. Then he got dressed with the grim resignation of a man suiting up for his own execution.
Black clothes.
Capture weapon.
Binding cloth checked twice.
Goggles.
Utility belt.
Boots.
Teacher face.
Hero face.
Corpse face.
Somewhere between all three, he found Shouta Aizawa.
Barely.
By the time he arrived at U.A., the sky was the color of wet concrete.
It suited him.
He walked through the gates with his scarf tucked around his shoulders and a paper bag from a convenience store clutched in one hand. Inside was the cheapest coffee he could find and a protein bar that tasted like compressed sawdust and regret.
He had eaten worse.
That wasn’t the point.
The point was that he was tired.
The point was that he had not slept more than three hours in two days.
The point was that tonight, after teaching, after paperwork, after whatever fresh hell Nezu decided to arrange in the name of “professional development,” he would be back on patrol hunting the same slippery little vigilante bastard who had been making his life impossible for six months.
Nobody.
That was what the public called him.
Not because he had chosen the name. Not officially, at least. Nobody had ever gotten a clear enough interview out of the kid to know what he called himself. The news had tried. Social media had tried harder. Grainy rooftop footage, blurry alleyway clips, shaky phone recordings of a green-hooded figure dropping out of the dark like a curse with too many elbows.
Someone online had asked who he was.
Someone else had answered, Nobody.
And, because the internet was a disease, it stuck.
Nobody saved a woman from a knife-wielding mugger.
Nobody dragged three children out of an apartment fire before the pros arrived.
Nobody broke up a trafficking ring in an abandoned clinic and left the men zip-tied to the radiators with “DO BETTER” written on the wall in spray paint.
Nobody was wanted for vigilantism, assault, illegal Quirk usage, obstruction of justice, trespassing, property damage, and being a massive pain in Shouta’s ass.
Shouta hated him already.
Which was unfortunate, because he was also almost completely sure that Nobody was a child.
A reckless child.
A talented child.
A mouthy, bleeding, impossible-to-catch child with what appeared to be a regeneration Quirk and the survival instincts of a feral house cat.
Shouta’s patience had been carved down to bone.
And then he remembered what day it was.
His grip tightened around the coffee.
Today was expulsion day.
His students were already in the classroom when he arrived.
Loud. Nervous. Buzzing with the kind of energy only teenagers could produce at eight in the morning. They were trying to hide it, but they were scared of him.
Most students were.
That was by design.
Fear made them listen.
Fear kept them sharp.
Fear, if used correctly, could keep them alive.
That was what he told himself.
He opened the door without warning.
The room went silent in an instant.
Good.
At least they were learning something.
Twenty faces turned toward him. Some pale. Some defiant. Some trying to look bored because teenagers would rather die than admit they cared about anything.
They all had potential.
That was the worst part.
Shouta could see it in them, scattered and uneven, flickering like match flames in the dark.
A girl in the back had a Quirk suited for rescue work if she learned control.
A boy near the windows had reflexes sharp enough to make him dangerous one day.
Another had a support-oriented Quirk he clearly hated because society had drilled into his skull that flashy meant heroic and subtle meant useless.
They were children.
Talented children.
Soft children.
Unprepared children.
Children with their whole lives sitting in front of them, bright and stupid and fragile.
Shouta looked at them and saw graves.
He hated himself for it.
“Homeroom,” he said, voice flat.
Everyone straightened.
He dropped his sleeping bag beside the podium and pulled out his tablet.
There were no greetings. No easing into it. No gentle teacher smile.
He had never been gentle.
Not where it counted.
“I’ve reviewed your performance from the first week.”
The room grew colder.
They knew.
Of course they knew.
U.A. rumors spread faster than disease. Everyone knew about Eraserhead. Everyone knew about the expulsions. Everyone knew class after class had been cut down before they could even get comfortable.
They called him harsh.
Cruel.
Unfair.
Maybe they were right.
Maybe they were all right.
Shouta scrolled through the file and did not look up.
“Your teamwork is poor. Your situational awareness is worse. Half of you rely too heavily on your Quirks. The other half freeze the second an exercise stops going according to plan.”
A chair creaked.
Someone swallowed.
Shouta kept reading, because if he stopped, he might have to look at them.
If he looked at them, he might hesitate.
If he hesitated, Oboro would smile.
And Shouta could not survive that.
“You treat heroics like a dream,” he continued. “Like wanting it badly enough matters. It doesn’t. Wanting to save people means nothing if you die before you reach them.”
A boy near the front opened his mouth.
Shouta’s eyes flicked to him.
The boy shut it.
Smart.
Not smart enough.
“You were given an opportunity very few people receive. You were given training grounds, instructors, resources, and a path into one of the most dangerous professions in the country.”
He set the tablet down.
The sound was too loud.
“And you wasted it.”
There it was.
The first crack.
The girl in the back stared at him like he had slapped her. The boy by the window lowered his gaze. Another student clenched both fists under the desk, knuckles trembling.
They were children.
They were not Oboro.
The thought came sudden and vicious, like a hand around his throat.
They are not Oboro.
Shouta’s jaw tightened.
He could still smell dust sometimes.
Concrete.
Blood.
Rain hitting broken stone.
He could still hear Hizashi screaming his name.
Could still feel Nemuri’s hand digging into his shoulder afterward, nails sharp enough to bruise because she had been holding him upright when his legs finally remembered they were allowed to fail.
Could still remember being young and stupid and arrogant enough to believe that wanting to be heroes would be enough.
Oboro had wanted it more than anyone.
Oboro had laughed like the world was something he planned to outrun.
Oboro had been warm.
Oboro had been alive.
Then he wasn’t.
And no amount of talent had saved him.
No amount of bravery.
No amount of potential.
Shouta stared at the students in front of him and hated every single adult who had ever told children that courage was enough.
Courage got you killed if no one taught you how to survive.
Courage made you run into falling buildings with a smile.
Courage made you leave your friends standing in the rain with your name lodged in their throats.
His fingers curled against the podium.
No.
No, that wasn’t fair.
Oboro was not these kids.
These kids were not Oboro.
They had not dragged his ghost into the room.
Shouta had done that himself.
That was on him.
It was always on him.
One student finally stood.
A girl with trembling shoulders and furious eyes.
“You’re wrong,” she said.
Her voice shook.
Good.
At least she could still speak through fear.
Shouta looked at her properly for the first time that morning.
Her face was pale, but her chin was lifted. Brave. Angry. Hurt.
A child trying not to cry in front of the man ruining her life.
“I know we messed up,” she continued. “But we can improve. Isn’t that the whole point? You’re supposed to teach us.”
The room went silent enough to hear the lights hum.
There it was.
The knife.
Not thrown.
Placed carefully between his ribs.
You’re supposed to teach us.
Shouta breathed in.
For half a second, he almost answered honestly.
Almost told her that he knew.
Almost told all of them that he knew it was not logical.
That pretending to measure their future based on a week of training was absurd. That he knew failure was part of learning. That he knew teenagers were supposed to be stupid before they became wise. That he knew expelling them did not make him a savior.
It made him a coward with paperwork.
But there were graves behind his eyes, and he had built his whole life around not adding more.
So instead, he said, “You’re right.”
The girl blinked.
Several students looked up.
Shouta’s expression did not change.
“I am supposed to teach you. And this is the lesson.”
Hope died beautifully.
He watched it happen in their faces, one by one, and felt something in himself twist.
“This profession does not care about your intentions. Villains won’t wait for you to improve. Collapsing buildings won’t slow down because you have potential. A hostage won’t stop bleeding because you promise you’ll do better next time.”
His voice was colder than he felt.
It usually was.
“If you cannot meet the standard here, under controlled circumstances, then you are not ready.”
The girl’s eyes shone.
Shouta looked away before the tears fell.
“The recommendation has already been submitted. You’re all expelled from the hero course, effective immediately.”
Someone made a sound like they had been punched.
Someone else whispered, “All of us?”
“Yes.”
“But—”
“Your files will be transferred,” Shouta cut in. “Principal Nezu has already arranged meetings with other departments and schools. General Education. Support. Other hero programs with different requirements. None of you are being thrown away.”
Not completely.
Not if Nezu had anything to say about it.
The rat bastard had smiled too sweetly last night when Shouta handed him the list.
“All of them again, Eraserhead?”
“They’re not ready.”
“Mm.”
That little hum had been worse than an argument.
Nezu had not stopped him.
Nezu rarely stopped him.
He just looked at Shouta like he was a puzzle box with blood in the hinges and waited for him to notice where all the sharp edges were.
“They’ll wash out somewhere else if they have to,” Shouta said now, though he wasn’t sure whether he was speaking to the class or himself. “Better there than in a morgue.”
The girl sat down.
Slowly.
Like her bones had gone hollow.
Shouta hated himself.
It was becoming a theme.
He dismissed them five minutes later.
No speeches. No drawn-out farewell. No softening of the blow.
One by one, they gathered their bags and left the room.
Some glared at him.
Some refused to look at him.
One boy bowed, because apparently the universe had decided Shouta had not suffered enough and needed to be stabbed with basic decency on the way out.
When the last student left, the classroom door clicked shut.
Shouta stood alone in the silence.
For a while, he did nothing.
Then he lowered himself into his chair and pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes.
“Idiot,” he muttered.
He was not sure who he meant.
Probably himself.
Definitely himself.
Maybe Oboro too, for dying.
Maybe the whole damn world, for asking children to become shields and then acting surprised when they broke.
His phone buzzed.
Shouta ignored it.
It buzzed again.
He sighed and looked.
Yamada Hizashi:
You alive?
A second message came immediately after.
Yamada Hizashi:
Nem says if you expelled another class she’s going to hit you with something expensive.
Then:
Yamada Hizashi:
I said she should use something cheap bc you don’t deserve quality violence.
Shouta stared at the screen.
Against his will, the corner of his mouth twitched.
Barely.
A mistake, really.
A malfunction.
Their marriage was not exactly a secret.
Not from the people who mattered.
U.A. staff knew. Most of the older heroes knew. Nezu had known before any of them had officially said anything, because Nezu was a menace in fur and a waistcoat. Recovery Girl had found out after Shouta came in with a dislocated shoulder and all three of them started arguing over who had forgotten to buy groceries.
But the public didn’t know.
The public knew Eraserhead as a shadow with red eyes and a capture weapon.
They knew Present Mic as a voice loud enough to shake stadiums.
They knew Midnight as charm and danger wrapped in black leather and bright lipstick.
They did not know the three of them shared a bed when schedules allowed it. They did not know Hizashi slept in the middle because Nemuri claimed he snored less when trapped, which was a lie. They did not know Shouta sometimes woke from nightmares with two hands holding him down and two voices telling him, again and again, that he was home.
They did not know because hero society liked things clean.
Marketable.
Simple.
And there was nothing simple about the way the three of them had stitched themselves together out of grief, stubbornness, and the refusal to let one another disappear.
Shouta typed back with one thumb.
Aizawa:
Busy.
Hizashi responded instantly.
Yamada Hizashi:
That means yes.
Aizawa:
It means busy.
Yamada Hizashi:
It means emotionally constipated and avoiding lunch.
Aizawa:
I ate.
Yamada Hizashi:
Coffee isn’t food.
Shouta looked at the half-empty cup beside him.
Traitor.
Before he could respond, the classroom door opened.
Shouta did not lift his head.
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m here for,” Nemuri Kayama said.
“I know enough.”
“Oh, do you?”
She walked in anyway, because neither of his spouses respected closed doors, personal boundaries, or his deep desire to be left alone until society collapsed.
Nemuri was dressed for class, hair perfect, smile sharp enough to draw blood. She leaned against the front desk and looked around the empty room.
Her expression softened.
Just slightly.
That was worse.
“You did it again.”
Shouta leaned back in his chair.
“They weren’t ready.”
“They’re sixteen.”
“That’s old enough to die.”
Nemuri’s mouth tightened.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
The silence between them had Oboro in it.
It always did, eventually.
Nemuri crossed her arms. “You know that isn’t a good enough answer.”
“It’s the only answer that matters.”
“No.” Her voice lost some of its playfulness. “It’s the answer that lets you sleep at night.”
Shouta laughed once.
Dry.
Ugly.
“I don’t sleep.”
“Exactly.”
He looked at her then.
Really looked.
Nemuri’s eyes were softer than her voice. That had always been her curse. She played wicked. She played vain. She played teasing and careless and bright.
But she saw too much.
Worse, she cared.
Shouta could work around most things.
Villains.
Bureaucracy.
Exhaustion.
Broken bones.
Concern was harder.
Concern had his house keys.
Concern stole his hoodies.
Concern married him and then kept looking at him like he was worth saving.
“Don’t start,” he said.
“I’m not starting anything.”
“You are.”
“I’m standing here.”
“Menacingly.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“I try.”
“No, you don’t. That’s the problem.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
Shouta looked down at the tablet again, at the list of names no longer assigned to him, and felt old.
He was not old.
He felt ancient anyway.
“They had talent,” he said, quieter.
Nemuri did not interrupt.
Shouta hated her a little for that too.
“Some of them might have been good.”
“Then why?”
His thumb brushed over one of the names.
A girl with a rescue Quirk. Poor combat marks. Good instincts. Froze under pressure when the exercise turned chaotic.
She could learn.
Deep down, Shouta knew she could learn.
That was the worst part.
“They hesitated,” he said.
Nemuri’s face changed.
Not much.
Enough.
“Shouta.”
“If that had been real—”
“It wasn’t.”
“It could have been.”
“But it wasn’t.”
His gaze snapped up. “And when it is?”
Her expression did not flinch.
“When it is, we train them. We teach them. We prepare them. That is the job.”
His chest went tight.
A terrible, bitter thing crawled up his throat.
“And when preparation isn’t enough?”
Nemuri went still.
There.
There it was.
The ghost standing between them.
Blue eyes. White clouds. That stupid, stupid grin.
For once, Nemuri did not have a quick answer.
Shouta looked away first.
Coward.
Again.
Always.
When she spoke, her voice was gentle enough to hurt.
“They aren’t him.”
Shouta closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“No, baby,” she said quietly. “You don’t.”
The word hit differently when she used it like that.
Not teasing.
Not flirtatious.
Soft.
Too soft for the classroom. Too soft for the wound he kept pretending was scar tissue.
His fingers twitched.
Nemuri stepped closer, but not too close. She had learned that years ago. Shouta was like a wounded animal when cornered. All teeth. No sense.
“Oboro was Oboro,” she said. “He was our friend. He was an idiot. He was brave. He was loud. He was ours. And what happened to him was not fair.”
Shouta swallowed.
The classroom blurred for half a second.
He blinked once and forced it back into focus.
“But these kids?” Nemuri continued. “They are not him. Saving them from every possible future where they might get hurt isn’t the same thing as protecting them.”
He said nothing.
Because she was right.
Because he hated that she was right.
Because the logical part of him—the actual logical part, not the trauma wearing a name tag that said rational decision-making—knew that his system was flawed.
Expulsion as a wake-up call.
As a scare tactic.
As a test.
As mercy.
That was what he told himself.
That was what he had built around the ugly little truth beneath it.
He was afraid.
Not for himself.
That would have been easier.
He was afraid of standing in the rain again with someone else’s blood on his hands and another child’s name carved into the hollow place where hope used to be.
Nemuri sighed.
“Nezu won’t let them fall through the cracks.”
“I know.”
“You made sure of that?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She watched him for a moment longer.
Then, because she was Nemuri, because mercy in her hands usually came disguised as cruelty, she reached over and flicked his forehead.
Hard.
Shouta recoiled. “What the hell?”
“That was from me.”
“For what?”
“For being stupid.”
He glared.
She smiled sweetly.
“Zashi wanted me to hug you, but I know you hate that.”
“I hate this too.”
“I know. That’s why I did it.”
Before he could tell her exactly where she could shove her emotional support forehead assault, his phone buzzed again.
Then his work pager.
Then his personal alert system.
Shouta froze.
Nemuri noticed immediately.
“What?”
He pulled the device from his belt and checked the notification.
A police scanner ping.
Unofficial.
Technically not something he was supposed to have patched into his gear.
Technically, he did not care.
DISTURBANCE REPORTED — TAKOBA DISTRICT
POSSIBLE VIGILANTE ACTIVITY
MULTIPLE ASSAILANTS DOWN
WITNESSES REPORT GREEN HOOD / BLACK MASK
POSSIBLE “NOBODY” SIGHTING
RESPONDING UNITS REQUEST HERO SUPPORT
Shouta stared at the alert.
For one long second, the misery in his bones sharpened into something cleaner.
Anger.
Not at the police.
Not at the criminals.
At the kid.
The little bastard.
Nemuri leaned over his shoulder and read the message.
“Oh,” she said.
Shouta was already standing.
“No.”
She blinked. “No?”
“No, I am not doing this today.”
His scarf snapped into place around his shoulders like it had a personal grudge against the air.
Nemuri’s brows rose. “Looks like you are.”
“I expelled an entire class this morning.”
“Yes.”
“My coffee machine betrayed me.”
“Tragic.”
“I have not slept.”
“Deeply shocking.”
“And now this kid decides to start a street fight before noon?”
Nemuri’s lips twitched.
“Maybe he missed you.”
Shouta gave her a look that would have killed a weaker woman.
Nemuri, unfortunately, had built up immunity by marrying him.
She smiled wider.
“There he is.”
“Do not.”
“There’s my favorite sleep-deprived stray collector.”
“I don’t collect strays.”
“Shouta.”
“I don’t.”
“You fed three alley cats last week.”
“That was tactical.”
“You named one Tax Evasion.”
“He looked like a criminal.”
“And Nobody?”
Shouta’s jaw tightened.
“That’s different.”
Nemuri hummed.
It sounded disgustingly like Nezu.
Shouta pointed at her. “Don’t make that noise.”
“What noise?”
“That knowing noise.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“You know too much.”
Her smile softened again, but this time there was no joke hiding under it.
“Be careful.”
He headed for the door.
“I’m always careful.”
“You are absolutely not.”
He ignored that because it was rude and also true.
As he stepped into the hallway, Nemuri called after him.
“Try not to scare him too badly.”
Shouta stopped.
Only for half a second.
“He needs to be scared.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But maybe not of you.”
That followed him down the hall.
He hated that too.
By the time Shouta reached the roof access, the gray sky had darkened, clouds thick and swollen over the city. Wind dragged at his hair as he stepped outside. U.A. stretched beneath him, all clean lines and polished glass, a fortress built for children who wanted to become symbols.
Beyond it, Musutafu sprawled restless and alive.
Somewhere out there, a fifteen-year-old menace in a green hood was bleeding on Shouta’s morning.
Again.
The first time Eraserhead had seen Nobody, he had mistaken him for a small villain.
That mistake had lasted exactly four seconds.
Long enough to watch the kid drop from a fire escape onto the back of a man twice his size, wrap both arms around the bastard’s neck, and yell, “Go to sleep, you discount sewer cryptid!” before slamming him face-first into the pavement.
Not professional.
Not trained.
Not remotely legal.
But effective.
Then the kid had looked up, seen Eraserhead, and said, “Oh, fuck me,” with the exhausted resignation of someone who had just realized his night was about to get worse.
Shouta had liked him more before he opened his mouth.
That had changed quickly.
The kid was fast.
Not speedster fast, but slippery.
Sharp.
He used alleys like they were built for him. Climbed like gravity was only a polite suggestion. Took hits he should not have been able to get back up from and kept moving anyway.
And when Shouta erased his Quirk—
Well.
That had been the first interesting part.
The kid had not dropped.
Not fully.
Whatever regeneration Quirk he had, it did not simply turn off cleanly. Injuries reopened slower under Erasure. Bruises darkened. Blood came back where there had been fresh skin seconds earlier.
But the kid stayed conscious.
Kept grinning through red teeth.
“Rude,” he had said, hand pressed to his ribs. “Do I come to your job and turn your organs off?”
Shouta had almost laughed.
Almost.
Then the kid threw a smoke bomb made from what appeared to be a modified convenience store air freshener and vanished into a storm drain.
Shouta had hated him ever since.
Obviously.
That was the only logical explanation for why he kept tracking him.
Hate.
Professional concern at most.
Certainly not worry.
Certainly not the cold, ugly feeling that crawled up his spine every time the scanner mentioned a green hood.
Certainly not the mental image of a child in a morgue with bruised knuckles and a mouth that would never insult him again.
No.
Absolutely not.
Shouta launched himself across the rooftops toward Takoba.
The wind hit his face.
Good.
He needed something sharp.
By the time he reached the district, police sirens were already screaming below. The old shopping area had been half-abandoned for years, all shuttered storefronts and rusted signs, the kind of place villains liked because civilians avoided it and the city kept forgetting it existed.
He landed on a rooftop opposite the scene and crouched near the ledge.
Below, six men were down.
Not dead.
Good.
One was tied to a streetlamp with what looked like electrical wire. Another was face-down in a pile of trash bags, groaning. A third had somehow been wedged halfway through the broken window of a pawn shop, legs kicking weakly.
Shouta narrowed his eyes.
Creative.
Annoying.
But creative.
A police officer shouted something into a radio.
Another crouched beside one of the injured suspects.
No green hood.
Of course.
Shouta scanned the rooftops.
Nothing.
The alley mouths.
Nothing.
Fire escapes.
There.
A flicker of movement.
Small. Fast. Limping.
Shouta’s eyes sharpened.
“You little—”
He moved.
The chase lasted forty-three seconds.
That was the humiliating part.
It should not have lasted that long. The kid was injured. Shouta could see it in the uneven rhythm of his steps, the way his left arm stayed tucked against his side, the way he pushed off too hard with his right leg to compensate.
Still, the brat nearly lost him twice.
He vaulted a fence, slid under a half-closed security shutter, scrambled up the side of a building using an exposed pipe, then threw himself across a gap with the reckless confidence of someone who had never once considered the value of remaining alive.
Shouta followed with murder in his heart and back pain in his future.
The kid hit the next roof rolling, came up too slow, staggered, and immediately tried to keep running.
Shouta’s capture weapon snapped out.
It wrapped around his ankle.
The kid yelped as he went down hard.
“Fuck!”
Shouta landed three feet away.
“Language.”
The boy twisted onto his back, green curls spilling from beneath his hood, black mask covering the lower half of his face. His eyes were wide, bright, and furious.
Too young.
Always too young.
“Oh, come on,” the kid groaned. “It’s not even lunchtime.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“I had that handled.”
“You were limping.”
“It’s called style.”
“It’s called a possible fracture.”
“Agree to disagree.”
Shouta pulled the binding cloth tighter.
The kid hissed through his teeth, then tried to sit up anyway.
Feral house cat, Shouta thought with deep, exhausted hatred.
A stupid, injured, green-haired feral house cat.
“Stay down.”
“No thanks.”
“Nobody.”
The kid froze.
There.
It was subtle.
A blink. A hitch in the breath. One hand curling against the rooftop gravel.
But Shouta saw it.
He always saw it.
The kid’s voice came lighter when he spoke again.
Too light.
“Wow. Using my government name. Bold move, Eraser.”
“That isn’t your name.”
“Rude. The public worked very hard on it.”
“The public is stupid.”
“Yeah, but they’re creative.”
“You’re an unlicensed minor engaging in vigilante activity.”
“Allegedly.”
“I watched you throw a man through a pawn shop window.”
“He tripped.”
“Into glass?”
“Bad balance.”
“While tied up?”
“Really bad balance.”
Shouta stared at him.
Nobody stared back.
His eyes were too green.
That was a stupid thought, but Shouta had it anyway.
Too green.
Too alive.
Too bright for a kid bleeding through the side of his hoodie like that was just another normal Monday.
Shouta’s gaze dropped.
The blood was spreading.
Not fast enough to be immediately fatal.
Too fast to ignore.
“Lift your shirt.”
Nobody’s eyes narrowed.
“Buy me dinner first.”
“Nobody.”
“No.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“People do that.”
“Not as a hobby.”
“I’m expanding my interests.”
Shouta crouched.
Nobody’s whole body tensed.
There it was.
Not fear exactly.
Preparation.
The kid was ready to bite, bolt, or break something. Maybe all three. His breathing changed. His fingers flexed. His eyes flicked once toward the edge of the roof, calculating the distance.
Shouta noticed.
And something in him, something tired and ugly and aching, softened despite his best efforts.
Because he knew that look.
He had seen it in alley cats.
He had seen it in abused kids.
He had seen it in young heroes who came back from missions with blood under their nails and adults telling them they were lucky.
It was the look of someone who had learned that hands reaching toward them usually meant pain.
Shouta slowed down.
Not much.
Enough.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
Nobody snorted.
“Sure. That’s why I’m tied up on a roof.”
“You ran.”
“You chased me.”
“You committed a crime.”
“You’re obsessed with me.”
“I’m concerned about you.”
The words escaped before Shouta could stop them.
Nobody froze again.
Shouta froze too.
Horrible.
Disgusting.
A full emotional misfire.
He could practically hear Hizashi screaming with joy somewhere in the distance.
Nobody blinked at him.
Then, because he was apparently determined to ruin every decent moment placed in front of him, he said, “Aw, Eraserhead. That almost sounded like feelings.”
Shouta tightened the binding cloth.
Nobody yelped.
“Worth it!”
“Stop talking.”
“Can’t. It’s a medical condition.”
“I can fix that.”
“With murder?”
“With duct tape.”
“Hero society has fallen so far.”
Shouta pinched the bridge of his nose.
He had fought serial killers with less desire to personally torment him.
“I’m checking the wound,” he said. “You can either cooperate, or I can drag you to Recovery Girl unconscious.”
Nobody’s eyes sharpened at the name.
There was recognition there.
Interest.
Longing, maybe.
Then it vanished.
“No hospitals.”
“U.A. isn’t a hospital.”
“No hero clinics.”
“Also not what I said.”
“No adults with clipboards.”
Shouta paused.
That one was too specific.
Nobody seemed to realize it too, because his eyes flicked away.
The rooftop went quiet except for sirens fading in the distance.
Shouta’s bad life, already miserable, twisted a little deeper.
“What adults with clipboards?” he asked.
Nobody smiled with his eyes.
It was not a happy expression.
“You know, for a guy named Eraserhead, you ask a lot of questions.”
“And you dodge them.”
“I’m very athletic.”
“You’re very injured.”
“Again, agree to disagree.”
Then the kid coughed.
Not much.
Just once.
But his face went tight after, and one gloved hand pressed harder against his side.
Shouta saw blood between his fingers.
His irritation evaporated.
“Enough.”
Nobody tried to roll away.
Shouta caught his shoulder.
The kid reacted instantly.
Not like a student.
Not like a civilian.
Like something cornered.
His elbow snapped up toward Shouta’s throat. Shouta shifted, caught the strike, pinned his wrist, and used his weight to keep him down without crushing him. Nobody snarled, actually snarled, and twisted with frightening strength for someone his size.
“Let go!”
“Stop fighting.”
“Let go!”
“Nobody—”
“I said let go!”
The words cracked.
Not loud.
Not powerful.
Cracked.
Shouta went still.
Nobody was breathing hard beneath him, eyes too wide now, pupils blown, body trembling with adrenaline and pain and something older than both.
For half a second, Shouta did not see the rooftop.
He saw a boy his students’ age with blood on his clothes and panic in his eyes.
He saw all the things adults missed when they were too busy being logical.
Slowly, carefully, Shouta released his wrist.
Then he sat back.
The capture weapon remained around Nobody’s ankle, but looser now.
Nobody did not move.
Neither did Shouta.
Rain began to fall.
Of course it did.
Because the universe had timing and all of it was terrible.
A few cold drops hit the rooftop between them.
Nobody blinked up at the sky, chest rising and falling too fast.
Shouta pulled his scarf tighter and sighed.
“Fantastic.”
Nobody laughed.
It came out strained and breathless.
“Bad day?”
Shouta looked at him.
The kid was bleeding, restrained, soaked in the first cold rain of the afternoon, and still had the audacity to sound amused.
“Yes,” Shouta said. “Actually.”
Nobody tilted his head against the gravel.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
“Good. Me neither.”
For reasons Shouta did not want to examine, that almost made him smile.
Almost.
He leaned forward, slower this time.
“I need to see the wound.”
Nobody’s eyes narrowed again, but the panic had dimmed.
Not gone.
Never gone.
But dimmed.
“Are you gonna arrest me?”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
“Eventually.”
“That’s not how arrests work.”
“I’m improvising.”
“Badly.”
“Lift your shirt.”
Nobody stared at him for another few seconds.
Then, with the dramatic suffering of a dying Victorian child, he muttered, “Fine. But if you make it weird, I’m jumping off the roof.”
“You’re tied up.”
“I’ll make it work.”
Shouta ignored that because acknowledging it would only encourage him.
Nobody lifted the hem of his hoodie with one shaking hand.
Shouta’s stomach dropped.
The wound along his side was ugly. Deep. Jagged at the edges like something had torn through fabric and flesh in one brutal motion. It was already trying to close, skin knitting slow and uneven, but not fast enough. Not cleanly enough.
Regeneration, yes.
But not perfect.
Not painless.
Not safe.
Nobody watched his face carefully.
Waiting for disgust, maybe.
Or fear.
Or greed.
Shouta kept his expression blank through sheer force of will.
“Knife?”
“Box cutter.”
“That’s worse.”
“Technically smaller.”
“Technically shut up.”
Nobody huffed.
Then winced.
Shouta reached into his belt for gauze.
Nobody watched every movement.
“I’m cleaning it.”
“On a roof?”
“Would you prefer the police station?”
“Roof is great. Love the roof. Big fan.”
“Thought so.”
The rain fell harder.
Shouta worked quickly, hands steady despite the anger building low in his chest.
Not at Nobody.
Not this time.
At whoever had cut him.
At whoever had taught him to laugh while bleeding.
At whatever adult with a clipboard had made “no hero clinics” come out of his mouth like a law.
Nobody hissed when the antiseptic touched the wound.
“Motherfucker—”
“Language.”
“I’m literally being tortured.”
“You’re being treated.”
“Feels political.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“You keep chasing me, so who’s really the problem?”
Shouta glanced at him.
Nobody’s eyes were half-lidded now, face pale beneath the mask.
The adrenaline was leaving.
That was bad.
Very bad.
“How long since you ate?”
Nobody blinked.
“What?”
“How long?”
“That’s personal.”
“Nobody.”
“Uh.” His gaze drifted toward the gray sky. “What day is it?”
Shouta stopped moving.
Nobody smiled weakly.
“Kidding.”
He was not kidding.
Shouta knew he was not kidding.
Something in his chest went cold.
“After I patch this, you’re coming with me.”
“Nope.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
“Then I’m giving you feedback on your statement. Nope.”
“You need medical attention.”
“I have regeneration.”
“You have blood loss.”
“I have vibes.”
“You have a concussion.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You asked what day it was.”
“As a joke.”
“What day is it?”
Nobody opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Rainwater dripped from his curls onto the rooftop.
“…Thursday?”
“It’s Monday.”
“Monday is basically Thursday if you’re bad at calendars.”
Shouta stared at him.
Nobody stared back.
Then, very quietly, the kid said, “Ah.”
“Yes. Ah.”
“That’s probably not good.”
“No,” Shouta said. “It is not.”
Nobody swallowed.
For the first time since Shouta had known him, the boy looked genuinely small.
Not just young.
Small.
Rain soaked into his hoodie. Blood stained the green fabric dark. His mask hid the lower half of his face, but it could not hide the exhaustion around his eyes or the way his body had begun to tremble.
Shouta thought of his empty classroom.
Twenty students gone.
Twenty graves avoided, he had told himself.
Twenty failures, a quieter voice answered.
And here was another child, not his student, not his responsibility, not his anything, bleeding on a rooftop and pretending it was funny.
Oboro’s voice, bright and impossible, echoed somewhere in the back of his mind.
You gonna leave him there, Shouta?
His throat tightened.
“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath.
Nobody blinked. “Don’t what?”
“Not you.”
“That’s ominous.”
“Everything about my life is ominous.”
“Relatable.”
Shouta finished wrapping the wound. It would not hold for long if the kid kept moving like an idiot, which he would, because apparently stupidity was stored in green hair.
Then he unwrapped the capture weapon from Nobody’s ankle.
Nobody noticed immediately.
His eyes sharpened.
Shouta lifted one hand.
“Don’t.”
Nobody tensed.
“I mean it.”
“You’re letting me go?”
“No.”
“Mixed signals, Eraser.”
“I’m giving you a choice.”
Nobody went very still.
Shouta hated how carefully he listened to that word.
Choice.
Like it was rare.
Like it mattered too much.
“You can come with me standing,” Shouta said. “Or you can pass out in the next three minutes and I’ll carry you.”
Nobody stared.
Then his mouth moved beneath the mask.
“Those are bad choices.”
“They’re the only ones you have.”
“I could run.”
“You could try.”
The kid looked toward the edge of the roof.
Shouta let him.
Let him calculate.
Let him consider the distance, the angle, the wet gravel, the injured side, the concussion, the blood loss, the pro hero sitting three feet away who had caught him once and would catch him again.
Nobody looked back.
His eyes were furious.
And scared.
And tired.
So tired.
Shouta knew the feeling.
After a long moment, Nobody said, “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I strongly dislike you.”
“That’s more believable.”
“I hope your coffee is cold forever.”
Shouta winced.
“Too far.”
“Good.”
Then Nobody pushed himself upright.
He made it halfway before his strength gave out.
Shouta caught him before he hit the roof.
The kid went rigid in his arms.
“Easy,” Shouta said.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t know what day it is.”
“I’m fine for a Monday.”
“You thought it was Thursday.”
“Time is fake.”
“You’re bleeding through the bandage.”
“Blood is also fake.”
“Nobody.”
The kid’s head dipped forward, just slightly.
His voice came smaller.
“Don’t take me somewhere bad.”
The rain sounded louder after that.
Shouta stared down at him.
At the green curls plastered to his forehead. At the too-thin shoulders. At the hand still clutching his side like he could hold himself together through stubbornness alone.
The logical answer was simple.
Call the police.
Transfer him to juvenile processing.
File the report.
Let the system handle it.
That was the correct procedure.
That was the professional option.
That was what a sane underground hero would do.
Shouta thought of Nezu’s knowing eyes.
Nemuri’s quiet voice.
Hizashi’s texts.
Oboro’s smile.
His own empty classroom.
The rain kept falling.
“I won’t,” Shouta said.
Nobody did not look up.
“You promise?”
Shouta closed his eyes for one brief second.
Promises were dangerous.
Promises were stupid.
Promises were how people ruined themselves.
“Yeah,” he said anyway. “I promise.”
Nobody laughed once, barely there.
“Dumb hero.”
Then his body went slack.
Shouta caught him fully, one arm under his knees, the other around his back.
Too light.
The kid was too damn light.
Of course he was.
Because apparently Shouta Aizawa’s life of shame and misery had decided what it really needed was a bleeding vigilante child with trust issues, a regeneration Quirk, and the survival instincts of a feral house cat.
He looked down at Nobody’s unconscious face.
Then up at the miserable gray sky.
“Oboro,” he muttered, “if this is your fault, I’m haunting you back.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Shouta chose to take that as laughter.
“Yeah,” he said darkly, shifting the kid carefully against his chest. “That’s what I thought.”