Chapter Text
The last bell rang, echoing down the halls like a starter pistol. Chairs scraped back. Kids surged toward the door in a blur of laughter and noise, backpacks slung over shoulders, conversations overlapping and colliding.
Izuku flinched at the sound anyway, his shoulders hitching as he quickly gathered his notebook and pencils, hands clumsy with haste.
He waited.
That was always his mistake.
He knew better than to linger. He knew it. But his notebook had fallen open to a page he hadn’t finished— hero sketches crowded together in messy pencil lines, annotations scribbled in the margins. All Might’s smile stared up at him, bright and confident, and for just a second Izuku forgot where he was.
By the time he realized the room had emptied, it was too late.
“Oi.”
Izuku froze.
Slowly, he turned.
Bakugo Katsuki stood in the doorway, backpack slung loose over one shoulder, posture relaxed in the way only someone who knew they owned the stage could manage. Behind him were his usual shadows— two boys Izuku recognized immediately, grinning like they’d just been handed front-row seats to a show.
Bakugo’s red eyes flicked down to the notebook still open on Izuku’s desk.
“You can’t be serious,” Bakugo snorted. “You still writing in that thing?”
Izuku snapped the notebook shut so fast his fingers stung. “I—I was just—”
Bakugo was already walking toward him.
Each step felt measured, deliberate. The classroom seemed to shrink with every one. Izuku slid out of his chair, heart hammering, but Bakugo stopped directly in front of him, too close, invading his space until Izuku had to tilt his head back to meet his glare.
“Still pretending you’re gonna be a hero?” Bakugo asked, voice sharp with amusement. “That’s hilarious.”
One of the boys behind him laughed outright. “Dude, he’s still got that stupid notebook?”
Izuku swallowed. His throat felt tight, dry. “I—I just like writing things down.”
Bakugo’s lip curled. “Liar.”
He reached out without warning and yanked the notebook from Izuku’s hands. Izuku gasped, fingers clawing at empty air.
“Kacchan, please—”
Bakugo flipped it open, eyes scanning the pages. His grin grew wider, crueler.
“All Might stats?” he read aloud mockingly. “Quirk compatibility?” He barked a laugh. “You don’t even have a quirk, you useless Deku.”
Izuku’s face burned. “I—I know, I just—”
Bakugo shoved the notebook into Izuku’s chest, hard enough to knock the air out of him. Izuku stumbled back, hitting the edge of a desk.
“You don’t know,” Bakugo snapped. “If you did, you’d stop embarrassing yourself.”
One of the boys nudged Bakugo’s shoulder. “C’mon, man, let’s go already.”
Bakugo ignored him.
His gaze flicked to the side of the room, landing on the cleaning bucket left behind by the teacher. Half-full. Cloudy water, dust floating on the surface.
Izuku saw it too.
His stomach dropped.
Bakugo’s grin turned sharp. “Hey, Deku,” he said sweetly. “You thirsty?”
Izuku shook his head quickly. “N-no, I—”
Bakugo kicked the bucket.
Water sloshed violently, spilling across the floor and soaking Izuku’s shoes, his socks instantly squelching. Izuku yelped, instinctively stepping back— but Bakugo was already grabbing the bucket, lifting it with both hands.
“No—!” Izuku cried.
The water came down all at once.
Cold, dirty, heavy. It drenched his hair, soaked into his uniform, plastered fabric to skin. The force knocked him backward, and he slipped on the wet floor, landing hard on his side with a painful thud.
The world blurred.
Laughter exploded around him.
Bakugo tossed the empty bucket aside like trash. “Oops.”
Izuku lay there, stunned, water dripping from his curls onto the tile. His ears rang. His chest felt tight, like it was being crushed inward.
“Look at him,” one of the boys laughed. “That’s disgusting.”
Bakugo crossed his arms, looking down at Izuku with open contempt. “You’re seriously pathetic.”
Izuku tried to push himself up, but his hands slipped. His vision swam, eyes stinging not just from the water.
“I’m— I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice shaking.
Bakugo scoffed. “For what? Existing?”
Another laugh.
Bakugo turned away first, already bored. “C’mon. I don’t wanna be late because of him.”
They left together, footsteps echoing down the hall, laughter trailing behind them like an afterimage. The door swung shut with a hollow click.
Silence.
Izuku stayed where he was.
Water pooled beneath him, spreading slowly across the floor. His uniform clung to him, heavy and cold. His notebook lay a few feet away, pages warped and bleeding pencil lines into gray smears.
His chest hitched.
He pressed his forehead to the floor, curls dripping, hands curling into fists that shook no matter how hard he tried to stop them.
Don’t cry.
He bit his lip until it hurt, until he tasted blood, but it didn’t help. Tears slipped free anyway, mixing with the water on the floor so no one could tell which was which.
He stayed there until the bell for after-school activities rang.
No one came.
Eventually, Izuku pushed himself up, every movement slow, aching. He gathered his notebook with trembling hands, hugging it to his chest like it wasn’t soaked through.
He left the classroom alone, shoes squelching softly with every step.
-
Izuku walked home extra slowly.
His shoes squelched faintly against the pavement, still damp from the water Bakugo had dumped on him. The sun was low now, warm but cool against his skin because of the water, yet he angled himself toward it whenever he could, hoping that it would dry his uniform enough that his mom wouldn’t notice.
She already worried too much.
He didn’t need to make it worse.
His backpack felt heavier than usual, the fabric still wet against his back. Every now and then he brushed his sleeve, checking if it was still cold, still darkened with water. It was drying, slowly. Not fast enough. He imagined his mom opening the door, eyes immediately scanning him for injuries the way they always did, her smile faltering the second she noticed something wrong.
I’ll tell her I tripped, he thought. Or that—
A distant siren cut through his thoughts.
Izuku paused.
At first he dismissed it. Sirens weren’t rare in Musutafu, a city was bound to have villain incidents, accidents, emergencies of all kinds. He kept walking, head down, until the sound grew louder. Closer. Then another joined it. And another.
He looked up.
His apartment complex was bathed in flashing red and blue.
Izuku stopped dead.
Ambulances lined the curb, their lights spinning silently now. A police cruiser was parked at an angle near the entrance, and several uniformed officers stood near bright yellow tape stretched across the walkway. There were heroes too— faces Izuku vaguely recognized from local news segments. Not top-tier. C-list, maybe D. Still heroes.
What happened?
People from neighboring buildings clustered at a distance, murmuring to each other. Someone gasped. Someone else whispered a name Izuku didn’t quite catch.
He tightened his grip on his backpack straps and started forward.
“Hey, uh— sorry,” he said softly, ducking around a group of adults. “Excuse me, I live here.”
A police officer stepped into his path.
“Sorry, kid,” the officer said, not unkindly. “This area’s restricted right now.”
“I—I live in that building,” Izuku repeated, pointing toward the entrance. “My mom’s probably waiting for me. I just need to go upstairs.”
The officer hesitated, then glanced over his shoulder toward the taped-off area. “You’ll have to wait. We’re handling something.”
“What… what happened?” Izuku asked.
The officer didn’t answer directly. “Just wait here.”
Izuku nodded automatically, though confusion twisted tight in his chest. He stepped aside, standing awkwardly near the curb as people moved around him with purpose.
Time stretched.
He checked the building entrance again. Still blocked. Still surrounded by adults who wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Maybe there was a villain attack, he thought. Or a gas leak. Or—
A man broke away from a group near the police car and walked toward him.
He wasn’t in uniform. Plain clothes, tall, calm presence. Dark hair, kind eyes behind rectangular glasses. He stopped a respectful distance away, hands visible, posture non-threatening.
“Midoriya Izuku?” the man asked.
Izuku stiffened. “Y-yes, sir.”
The man gave a small nod. “I’m Detective Tsukauchi. Mind if I talk to you for a moment?”
Izuku’s heart began to race. “D-did I do something wrong?”
“No,” Tsukauchi said immediately, voice steady. “You’re not in trouble.”
Izuku let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Then, um— can I go home?” he asked, glancing toward the building again.
Tsukauchi’s expression softened, but something unreadable passed behind his eyes. “Not just yet.”
“Oh,” Izuku said quietly.
Tsukauchi studied him for a second, noticing his damp uniform, the way he stood slightly hunched, like he was trying to take up less space. “Can you tell me where you’re coming from?”
“School,” Izuku replied. “I stayed a little late.”
“I see.” Tsukauchi nodded. “And you live here with your mother?”
“Yes, sir. It’s just the two of us.”
Tsukauchi inhaled slowly, “I’d like to ask you a few questions down at the station,” he said. “Nothing scary. Just routine.”
Izuku blinked. “The station?”
“Yes.”
“Is… is my mom there?” Izuku asked. “She doesn’t really like police stations. They make her nervous.”
Tsukauchi didn’t answer right away.
“We’ll explain everything once we get there,” he said instead.
Izuku’s stomach twisted.
“I—I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said again, more quietly this time, like he needed to convince himself. “I was just going home.”
“I know,” Tsukauchi said gently. “That’s why we’re asking, not accusing.”
Izuku nodded, even though nothing made sense.
He glanced back one more time at his apartment building. The familiar windows, the balcony where his mom sometimes hung laundry, the place that was supposed to mean home.
Yellow tape fluttered slightly in the breeze.
Tsukauchi gestured toward a nearby car. “We can give you a ride.”
Izuku hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “O-okay.”
As he followed the detective, he wiped his damp hands against his pants, hoping again that by the time he saw his mom, he’d be dry enough that she wouldn’t worry.
He didn’t know yet that worrying was no longer an option.
And as the car door closed behind him, sealing him off from the flashing lights and the murmuring crowd, Izuku Midoriya had no idea that he was leaving home for the last time without knowing it.