Chapter Text
Izuku woke up back in his bed, his door was locked from the outside.
The room was dim, the only light coming from the moon filtering through the high, reinforced window. Izuku stared at the ceiling, the ceiling fan's rhythmic clicking the only sound in the suffocating silence. His body felt heavy, a lingering fog from the anesthesia making his limbs feel like lead, but his mind was a jagged mess of glass.
“T̨͈͗̌ͥḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕y҉̃̀̋̑’r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕ ư̡͕̭̇s̠҉͍͊ͅỉ͔͖̜͌ṇ̤͛̒̍ĝ̽̓̀͑ y҉̃̀̋̑o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇... r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ḿ̬̏ͤͅb̬͖̏́͢ẹ̿͋̒̕r̴̨̦͕̝, M͉̅ͮ͒ͤy҉̃̀̋̑ I̍̅̀̎̊z̼͙̓́ͭư̡͕̭̇ḳ̯͍̑ͦư̡͕̭̇... t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕y҉̃̀̋̑'l̙͖̑̾ͣl̙͖̑̾ͣ o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍l̙͖̑̾ͣy҉̃̀̋̑ ḑ̴̞͛̒ỉ͔͖̜͌s̠҉͍͊ͅā̤̓̍͘p̞̈͑̚͞p̞̈͑̚͞o̯̱̊͊͢ỉ͔͖̜͌ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑ y҉̃̀̋̑o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇”
Izuku's wrists felt sore everywhere, he saw toga twice dabi kurogiri spinner, shigaraki, his family, his family that Aizawa accused of being horrible monsters.
The rhythmic click-click-click of the ceiling fan cut through the dark room like a countdown.
Izuku didn’t try to sit up. The leaden weight of the anesthesia was a physical anchor, but his mind raced, fueled by the phantom voices scratching at the inside of his skull.
T̨͈͗̌ͥḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕y҉̃̀̋̑'r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕ ư̡͕̭̇s̠҉͍͊ͅỉ͔͖̜͌ṇ̤͛̒̍ĝ̽̓̀͑ y҉̃̀̋̑o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇. T̨͈͗̌ͥḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕y҉̃̀̋̑'l̙͖̑̾ͣl̙͖̑̾ͣ ḑ̴̞͛̒ỉ͔͖̜͌s̠҉͍͊ͅā̤̓̍͘p̞̈͑̚͞p̞̈͑̚͞o̯̱̊͊͢ỉ͔͖̜͌ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑ y҉̃̀̋̑o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇.
He stared at his bandaged wrists. They throbbed. He could still feel the phantom pressure of Aizawa’s capture scarf, not crushing his throat, but holding him in place with an infuriating, steady firmness. It wasn't the violent strike Izuku had screamed for. It was worse. It was a refusal to fight back.
A sharp, heavy metallic thunk echoed through the door.
The heavy lock was turning from the outside. Izuku’s muscles instinctively coiled, his heart hammering against his ribs as the fog in his brain instantly burned away. He scrambled backward until his spine hit the cold, painted brick wall, pulling his knees tightly to his chest. The thermal blanket twisted around his legs like a trap.
The door swung inward, casting a long, sharp wedge of yellow hallway light across the linoleum floor.
Aizawa stood in the doorway. He looked exhausted. His yellow sleeping bag was absent, replaced by his dark jumpsuit, and his hair hung loosely around his face, shielding his eyes. In his hands, he carried a heavy ceramic mug, steam rising slowly into the cool air of the containment room.
He didn't step in immediately. He knocked twice on the open doorframe, a deliberate, predictable sound meant to announce his presence without surprise.
"You're awake," Aizawa said, his voice dropping into that low, flat register. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, but he didn't lock it. He left it cracked an inch. "Don't try to jump. Your blood pressure is still bottomed out from the sedatives. You'll pass out before your feet hit the floor."
Izuku glared at him through the curtain of his messy green curls, his chest heaving. "Why didn't you lock it?" he rasped, his voice raw and cracked from the screaming match hours earlier. "You think I won't run? You think I won't kill you?"
"I think you're too smart to try running when you can barely hold your head up," Aizawa replied calmly. He walked over to the single wooden chair in the corner, dragging it closer to the bed, but keeping a strict six feet of distance. He sat down,
"They aren't ghosts," Izuku spat, his voice trembling with a volatile mix of fury and grief. "They were my family. You took them away. You destroyed everything, and now you're keeping me in a cage like an animal!"
"We're keeping you alive," Aizawa corrected. His dark eyes locked onto Izuku's, refusing to let the boy look away. "There's a difference. Though I know to someone who's been taught that dying for a cause is the only way to be useful, self-preservation feels like a punishment."
Izuku flinched, the words striking exactly where his psychological defenses were thinnest. He dug his fingernails into the bandages on his arms, desperately craving the sharp sting of reality to drown out the suffocating weight of Aizawa's logic.
"Stop it," Izuku whispered, his vision blurring with angry, hot tears. "Stop acting like you care. It’s a tactic. It’s what heroes do to make villains drop their guard before they hand them over to the Commission. Just... just hit me. Put the cuffs on. Do your job."
“My job is to stop you from becoming the monster you want to be,” Aizawa said. Aizawa’s words hung in the suffocating silence of the room, heavy and unyielding.
Izuku bared his teeth, a low, animalistic hiss catching in his throat. "I am a monster," he snarled, shoving himself forward against the wall, ignoring the violent spin of the room as his low blood pressure protested the sudden movement. "I helped them bleed this city! I watched things burn and I laughed, Aizawa! I’m everything your precious society hates. I am a villain. I am apart of the League. Don't you dare try to fix me!"
"You're an angry thirteen-year-old child who was handed a match by a pyromaniac and told it made him powerful," Aizawa countered instantly, his voice slicing through Izuku's manic defense. He didn't flinch as Izuku lunged slightly forward. He didn't even shift his weight in the chair. "A monster doesn't sit in the dark screaming at the walls because his conscience is tearing him apart. A monster doesn't beg to be beaten just to validate his own self-hatred."
"Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" Izuku grabbed his own hair, his bandaged fingers tugging violently at the green curls. "You don't know what I did. You don't know what they gave me."
Izuku let out a broken, choked sound, half-sob and half-laugh. His strength gave out, his forehead dropping onto his raised knees as the fight drained out of him, leaving only the raw, bleeding core of his grief. The thermal blanket slid off his shoulders, pooling around his waist.
"They loved me," Izuku whispered into his knees, his shoulders shaking violently. The anger was gone, replaced by a hollow, terrifying despair. "They were all I had. If they were monsters... then I'm one too. You can't change that. You can't teach a villain to be a hero."
“good thing I’m not then” Aizawa responded, The silence that followed was different. It wasn't the suffocating, tense quiet of a standoff, but a sudden, stark vacuum that left Izuku’s mind spinning out of control.
Izuku didn't look up immediately. His forehead remained pressed against his knees. He waited for the catch. He waited for the lecture about the light of society, or the rules of the law, or the standard hero speech about redemption and moving forward.
Instead, the only sound was the faint, rhythmic scratch of Aizawa’s calloused thumb against the ceramic of his coffee mug.
Slowly, agonizingly, Izuku raised his head. His eyes were bloodshot, his green curls a wild, tangled mess around his face. "What?" he rasped, his voice sounding incredibly small in the concrete room.
Aizawa didn't look like a hero. In the dim, flickering light of the containment room, he looked like an exhausted man who had spent too many years staring into the dark. He took a slow sip of his coffee, the steam briefly obscuring his tired, sunken eyes.
"I’m an underground hero, Midoriya," Aizawa said, his tone dropping into that flat, unbothered register. "I don't do press conferences. I don't smile for cameras. I don't give speeches about the power of friendship, and I certainly don't have the patience to teach a brainwashed kid how to put on a cape and wave to a crowd."
He set the mug down on the floor beside his chair with a dull, heavy thud.
"The League of Villains used you as a weapon because you're smart, you're observant, and you were desperate enough to mistake an exploit for affection," Aizawa continued, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Society wants to put you in a box labeled 'villain' so they can lock it and pretend the problem is solved. I don't care about any of that."
"Then why are you here?" Izuku demanded, a spark of the old, defensive heat flaring up, though it lacked its previous fire. "If you're not trying to rehabilitate me for your precious system, why aren't I in Tartarus?"
"Because Tartarus is for people who have made their choice," Aizawa said bluntly. "You haven't made a choice yet. You've just survived a cult."
Izuku flinched at the word, but Aizawa didn't let him retreat.
"I'm not going to teach you how to be a hero, Izuku. I'm going to teach you how to think for yourself. I'm going to teach you how to look at a quirk, a person, or a situation and see the reality of it, not the version All for one fed you, and not the version the media sells." Aizawa stood up.
"I'm going to teach you how to survive your own head. If you want to use those skills to save people later, that's your business. If you just want to live a quiet life where nobody is using you to bomb a building, that's fine too."
He walked toward the door, his boots clicking quietly against the linoleum. He reached out, his hand resting on the heavy brass handle. He didn't pull it shut. He pushed it open a few more inches, letting the warm, mundane light of the hallway spill further into the cold room.
"Get some rest," Aizawa said, not looking back. "Tomorrow, the sedatives will be out of your system. You can region the class like normal, If you want to try and kill me then, you're welcome to try. But you'll fail."
With that, he stepped out, leaving the door unlatched.