Officer Sugimoto had stopped demanding to know where he was.
At first, he had threatened suspensions, investigations and prison sentences.
He had insisted that his colleagues would notice his disappearance.
He had promised that every police officer in Musutafu would come looking for him.
Now he sat beneath a single white light with his wrists bound behind a metal chair.
Blood had dried beneath his nose.
A bruise darkened one side of his face.
The rest of him remained largely untouched.
That was deliberate.
Rampart had learned that fear worked best when given enough empty space to grow.
He stood on the opposite side of the table, still wearing the reassuring face that appeared on rescue posters and public-safety announcements across Musutafu.
No costume.
No silver insignia.
No cameras.
Only the man beneath the title.
“Where is the boy?” Sugimoto swallowed.
“I don’t know.” Rampart removed one glove, finger by finger, and placed it carefully on the table.
Sugimoto watched the movement.
“You declared him dead.” “The report was accepted.” “You declared him dead,” Rampart repeated, “and three professional heroes found him wandering through a market.” “I stopped the search.” “You slowed it.” “I deleted the witness reports.
I altered the forensic summary.
I made the family believe he died in the apartment.” “And yet Izuku Midoriya is alive.” Sugimoto’s breathing quickened.
The room had no windows.
Its walls were unfinished concrete, interrupted only by a metal door and the faint shimmer of a barrier stretched across it.
No sound could leave.
No one could enter.
Rampart placed both hands on the table.
“Who found him?” “Midnight.
Eraser Head.
Present Mic.” The names settled between them.
Young professional heroes.
Not rookies fresh from school, but not yet veterans hardened by decades of work.
All three had graduated from U.A.
several years earlier.
They had already gained reputations for taking difficult patrols, noticing overlooked victims and asking questions more established heroes preferred to avoid.
Eraser Head was particularly inconvenient.
He distrusted convenient answers.
Worse, he remembered contradictions.
“Where did they take Izuku?” “I don’t know.” The barrier surrounding the room contracted by a fraction.
The chair groaned.
Sugimoto recoiled as far as the restraints allowed.
“I swear.” “You had access to the police network.” “Not anymore.
Someone restricted my credentials after the child was recovered.” “Who?” “Detective Mori, probably.
He never believed the second-body report.” Rampart’s face remained calm.
Behind that calm, fury pressed against the shape of his body.
Daichi was dead.
His younger brother had been sent to collect a debt from one frightened woman.
It should have been easy.
A conversation in an alley.
A warning if necessary.
A reminder that Hisashi Midoriya’s disappearance did not erase what he owed.
Instead, Daichi had died on wet pavement.
Then Inko Midoriya had shattered her own home, scarred Rampart’s body and allowed her son to escape.
A woman with a Quirk barely strong enough to draw household objects towards herself had broken his barriers.
She had looked him in the eye while her body failed and made him afraid.
Now her son had done something almost as dangerous.
He had survived.
Worse, he had spoken.
“He named you,” Sugimoto said.
Rampart’s gaze sharpened.
The officer realised too late that he had offered information without being asked.
“What did you say?” “I heard it from one of the men you sent.
The child told the heroes a professional hero entered the apartment.
He said Rampart.” Silence filled the room.
Sugimoto rushed to fill it.
“He is four years old.
Traumatised.
He spent days on the streets.
He was hallucinating.
His testimony can be challenged.” “It can be repeated.” “Yes.” “To doctors.” “Yes.” “To investigators.” Sugimoto nodded.
“To the press.” The officer looked down.
Rampart’s public identity had survived more dangerous accusations than those of a frightened child.
He had built it carefully.
He stood beside disaster victims while cameras recorded him carrying rubble from collapsed buildings.
He donated to Quirk rehabilitation centres.
He spoke publicly about second chances and community responsibility.
When journalists asked about Daichi, Rampart described a troubled younger brother who had rejected every offer of help.
Rampart was the grieving hero.
Daichi was the criminal embarrassment.
Inko Midoriya was the frightened debtor who had become involved in something beyond her understanding.
Izuku could damage that story.
Not because people would immediately believe him.
Because some people might investigate.
“You said the hospital records were sealed,” Rampart said.
Sugimoto nodded quickly.
“The heroes used a temporary identity.
Eraser Head ordered local police excluded from the ward.” “Which hospital?” “I don’t know.” Rampart lifted his bare hand.
A translucent plane formed beside Sugimoto’s face.
It was thin enough to be almost invisible.
“Please.” “You have accepted my money for four years.” “I know.” “You sold patrol routes.” “Yes.” “Investigation schedules.” “Yes.” “Witness information.” Sugimoto’s voice broke.
“Yes.” “But you cannot locate one injured four-year-old.” “They cut us out.
The heroes know someone falsified the death report.” “They know you did.” “I can fix it.” “You cannot even find the room.” “Give me one day.” “No.” “Half a day.” Rampart studied him.
Sugimoto had never been loyal.
Loyalty required affection, faith or respect.
He had been useful because greed and fear lived inside him in roughly equal amounts.
Now greed had abandoned him.
Only fear remained.
That made him less useful.
A telephone vibrated on the table.
Rampart looked at its screen.
One message.
Hospital located.
Private paediatric ward.
Three heroes present.
Child registered under temporary identity.
A second followed.
Bakugou family informed.
En route.
Rampart’s mouth curved slightly.
Sugimoto misunderstood the expression as hope.
“You found him.” Rampart picked up the telephone.
“We did.” “I helped.
The report gave you time.” “Yes.” “I can keep helping.” Rampart replaced his glove.
“No, you can’t.” He walked towards the door.
The barrier parted.
Sugimoto’s chair scraped against the floor.
“Wait.” Rampart stopped without turning.
“I never gave them your name.
I never told anyone about Daichi.
I kept everything clean.” “You allowed Izuku to reach people who listened.” “I can repair the investigation.” “It is already being repaired.” Sugimoto stared at his back.
“What does that mean?” “Three detectives will visit the hospital.” “You cannot arrest the boy.” “They are not arresting him.” Rampart looked over his shoulder.
“They are correcting his memory.” Sugimoto’s face lost what little colour remained.
“Rampart…” “Family is an interesting thing, Sugimoto.” The officer stopped speaking.
“My brother trusted me to protect what we built.
Inko Midoriya believed she could protect her son.
You probably believe someone considers you family too.” “Please.” Rampart stepped through the doorway.
The barrier closed behind him.
The final word became a dull, unfinished sound.
Rampart continued along the underground corridor.
A group of men and women waited at the far end.
None asked what would happen inside the interrogation room.
They already knew.
Rampart wiped a dark mark from one glove with a white handkerchief.
“The boy is in a private ward,” he said.
“Midnight, Eraser Head and Present Mic are protecting him.” A broad man with cropped hair frowned.
“Three heroes complicate things.” “It changes the method.” Another man stood near the wall wearing hospital maintenance clothing.
A forged identification badge hung from his chest.
“Do we kill them?” “No.” The answer came immediately.
Killing heroes created martyrs.
Martyrs created headlines.
Headlines created questions.
Rampart’s reputation remained his strongest barrier.
The public knew him as a protector.
A survivor.
A grieving brother whose troubled relative had died while committing a crime.
Rampart would remain nowhere near the hospital.
If his underlings were caught, they would be criminals acting independently.
Never men following the instructions of a beloved professional hero.
“The child has already named me,” Rampart said.
“Before we retrieve him, the official investigation must be given another explanation.” “The detectives?” “They will introduce the possibility that Izuku manifested a Quirk during the attack.” The maintenance worker smiled.
“A four-year-old blew up the apartment?” “A traumatised child with a previously undetected Quirk lost control.
His mother died.
He confused a familiar hero’s face with that of the real attacker.” “People will believe that?” “People believe what allows them to remain comfortable.” Rampart folded the handkerchief.
“It is easier to believe a frightened child is confused than to believe a respected hero murdered his mother.” A woman stepped from the shadows.
Her dark hair had been tucked beneath a nurse’s cap.
Pale scrubs concealed most of her figure, and a valid hospital badge displayed another woman’s face.
A compact medical case rested in one hand.
“What happens after the interview?” she asked.
“The heroes will become suspicious.” “They already are.” “Yes.
Suspicion makes people move.” Rampart turned towards the hospital maintenance worker.
“You will create a diversion on several levels.
Gunfire without bodies.
Conflicting reports.
Force the heroes to believe multiple wards are under attack.” “They may split up.” “They will.” “And Midnight?” “She will remain with the boy.” The false nurse glanced at the case she carried.
“Her Quirk could be inconvenient.” “She cannot release enough of it inside a paediatric ward without affecting civilians.” “She is still a trained fighter.” “Then earn your payment.” The woman’s expression remained flat.
“Do you want her dead?” “No.
Dead heroes create attention.
Sedate her.” “And the child?” “Alive.” “Why?” The broad man received a cold look.
He lowered his gaze.
Rampart continued.
“We learn everything he told them.
We discover whether Inko left evidence.
Then we decide what remains useful.” “And if he resists?” “He is malnourished, injured and four years old.” “Children can be difficult.” Rampart thought of Izuku standing behind his mother in the apartment.
Wide green eyes.
Small body.
A child who had already survived more than anyone expected.
“Do not underestimate him,” Rampart said.
“His mother made that mistake expensive.” The group became quiet.
Before leaving, Rampart looked back towards the sealed interrogation room.
Inko had died believing she had saved her son.
He would make certain her sacrifice achieved nothing.
“Bring me the boy.” Back at the Hospital The hospital clock read two minutes past two.
Izuku stared at the spoon in Midnight’s hand.
A small amount of rice porridge trembled at its tip.
Midnight held it halfway between them but did not move it any closer.
“No tricks,” she said.
“No surprise vegetables hiding underneath.” Izuku looked towards the bowl.
The porridge was pale and soft.
Thin slices of spring onion floated across the surface.
His stomach hurt.
That should have meant he was hungry.
Instead, the smell made something tighten inside him.
Food had become complicated during the three days he spent running.
Bread meant the furry man sleeping beneath the metal stairs.
Rice balls meant the girl who pretended not to give them to him.
A sweet bun meant the moth-winged mother outside the shelter.
Hospital porridge meant being trapped in a room where adults knew his name.
“I’m not hungry.” His stomach made a low sound.
Midnight glanced down.
“That was an impressive impersonation.” Izuku did not smile.
She lowered the spoon.
Midnight wore ordinary clothes instead of her costume.
A loose jumper covered her arms, and her dark hair had been tied into a simple ponytail.
Nothing about her looked like the hero he had collided with in the market.
Nothing except the way she watched the door whenever footsteps passed outside.
Present Mic occupied the chair near the window.
Without his costume, his hair rested against his shoulders.
His headphones lay on the bedside table beside a carton of apple juice.
He had adjusted the blinds until no passing headlights could move shadows across the walls.
Izuku had mistaken one shadow for Rampart.
Present Mic had closed every gap after that.
Eraser Head sat beside the door.
He had not spoken for nearly ten minutes.
Izuku checked repeatedly to make certain he remained there.
He always did.
Midnight stirred the porridge.
“What food do you normally like?” Izuku looked down at his bandaged feet.
“Mum made katsudon.” “Good choice.” “With egg.” “I should hope so.” “And onions.” “Even better.” “She cut them small because I don’t like them big.” Midnight nodded seriously.
“That is important information.” Izuku swallowed.
Talking about Inko made her feel close.
It also reminded him she was gone.
He knew she was dead.
He knew she had stayed in the apartment so he could escape.
Knowing did not stop him from listening for her footsteps in the corridor.
Sometimes the door opened and, for one breath, he expected to see her standing there.
Midnight noticed his expression.
“We don’t have to talk about food.” Izuku stared at the spoon.
“I know Mum died.” Midnight placed it back in the bowl.
“I know you do.” “But sometimes I think she hasn’t found this hospital yet.” Present Mic lowered his gaze.
Eraser Head became very still.
Izuku continued before the words could disappear.
“She didn’t know where I went because I got lost.
Maybe she went to Auntie’s house first.” Midnight set the bowl aside.
“She knew where you were trying to go.” “But I didn’t get there.” “You kept following her instruction.” “I went the wrong way.” “You were frightened.” “I should have known.” “You were four years old, barefoot and being chased.” Izuku pulled at a loose thread in the blanket.
“Mum said run to Auntie.” “Yes.” “I ran away from her.” Midnight moved one hand onto the mattress.
Not touching him.
Available.
“She made an opening because she wanted you to use it.” “What if she thought I would come back?” “She told you to run.” “What if she needed help after?” Midnight’s throat tightened.
There was no answer gentle enough to make the truth harmless.
“She knew what she was choosing.” Izuku looked at her.
“She knew?” “I believe so.” “Did she know she would die?” Midnight glanced towards Present Mic.
He did not rescue her from the question.
Neither did Eraser Head.
“I don’t know exactly what she understood,” Midnight said.
“But she knew using her Quirk that way would hurt her badly.” Izuku’s eyes filled.
“She did it because of me.” “She did it for you.” “That’s the same.” “No.” Midnight moved closer.
“Because of you makes it sound as though you caused what happened.
You didn’t.
Rampart entered your home.
He threatened you.
Your mother chose to protect you from him.” “I made her do it.” “He made her choose.” Izuku shook his head.
“Mum should have run too.” “She probably wanted to.” “Then why didn’t she?” “Because Rampart would have followed.” Midnight’s voice softened.
“She stood between you and someone dangerous.
She gave you the only thing she could still give.” “What?” “Time.” Izuku looked towards the door.
He remembered his mother standing amid the ruined apartment.
Blood running from her eyes.
Her legs shaking.
Her voice tearing through the noise.
Run to Auntie.
“She looked scary,” he whispered.
Present Mic shifted in his chair.
Midnight waited.
“The men looked scared of her.” “They should have been.” “But she was Mum.” “Yes.” “She looked like a monster.” Midnight’s expression did not change.
“What did she look like to you?” Izuku closed his eyes.
Inko had worn no costume.
No cape.
No symbol.
Only torn pyjamas and blood.
She had stood after her body should have fallen.
“My hero.” The answer was barely audible.
Midnight picked up the bowl again.
“She sounds like one.” Izuku’s lips trembled.
“She wasn’t a professional.” “That is not what you called her.” Heroes had licences.
Costumes.
Agencies.
Rampart possessed all three.
Inko had possessed none.
Still, when the door opened, she had moved first.
When Rampart threatened Izuku, she had fought.
When she could no longer win, she had made sure he could escape.
Izuku stared at the porridge.
“Do heroes have to die?” “No.” “But Mum did.” “Sometimes people die protecting someone.
That does not mean death is what made her heroic.” “What did?” “The choice to stand between you and danger.” Izuku thought for a long time.
Then he leaned forward and ate the small amount from the spoon.
Midnight did not clap.
She did not call him brave.
She waited until he swallowed.
“One,” she said.
“One.” “Another now, or later?” “Later.” “Deal.” She rested the spoon in the bowl.
Izuku watched her.
“Are you a mum?” The question surprised her.
“No.” “Do you have a little boy?” “No.” “Then how do you know what mums say?” Present Mic hid a smile behind one hand.
Midnight gave him a warning look.
“I had a mother,” she said.
“And I have helped children during rescues.” “Did their mums die?” “Sometimes.” “Did you make them stop crying?” “No.” “Why?” “Because crying is what the body does when it cannot hold everything inside.” Izuku looked at his hands.
“My body does bad things.” “What things?” “It shakes.” “That is not bad.” “I hear Mum.” “What does she say?” “Run.” “You ran for a long time.” “I still feel like I have to.” “No one is asking you to run now,” Eraser Head said.
Izuku looked towards him.
“They might come.” “They might.” Midnight glanced at the hero, but he did not soften the statement.
Izuku seemed to appreciate the honesty.
“If they do,” Eraser Head continued, “you won’t run alone.” “What if you lose?” “Then Present Mic cheats.” Present Mic sat upright.
“I prefer ‘tactical creativity’.” “What does that mean?” “It means Eraser Head thinks rules become flexible when someone is trying to hurt a child.” “They do,” Eraser Head said.
The corner of Izuku’s mouth moved.
Midnight held up the spoon.
“One more?” He considered it.
“One little one.” “The smallest in recorded history.” She gathered barely half a mouthful.
Izuku leaned towards it rather than allowing her to bring it to him.
The porridge was warm.
Nothing terrible followed.
Present Mic poured a small amount of apple juice into a paper cup.
Izuku glanced at the carton.
“Mum bought that kind.” Present Mic placed it within reach.
“You can have it whenever you decide.” Izuku looked at the three heroes.
“Do you believe me?” Midnight answered first.
“Yes.” “About Rampart?” “Yes.” Eraser Head unfolded his arms.
“I believe you saw him.” Present Mic nodded.
“So do I.” “Then why don’t you arrest him?” The simplicity of the question made the answer uglier.
Eraser Head left his chair and crouched several metres from the bed.
“Because believing you and proving what happened are different things.” “He did it.” “I know.” “You said you believe me.” “I do.” “Then tell the police.” “We have.” Izuku’s brow tightened.
“Why don’t they get him?” Present Mic looked towards the closed blinds.
“Rampart is powerful.” “His Quirk?” “That too.” Eraser Head continued.
“He is famous.
He has friends in the police, hero agencies and city government.
The apartment was badly damaged.
Most of the physical evidence was destroyed.” “Mum broke it.” “She did.” Izuku looked down.
“Then it’s her fault there’s no proof.” “No,” Eraser Head said immediately.
“She created the reason you are alive.
Evidence came second.” Midnight placed one hand over Izuku’s.
“Your statement matters.
But people may claim you were frightened, confused or mistaken because you are young.” “I wasn’t mistaken.” “We know.” “They’ll say I’m lying.” “Some will.” Izuku’s breathing changed.
Midnight squeezed his fingers gently.
“That does not change what happened.” Eraser Head stood.
“Our job is to find evidence that does not depend only on asking you to relive the worst night of your life.” “How?” “We investigate Rampart’s connection to the man who attacked you in the alley.
We trace who accessed your police file.
We identify who falsely declared you dead.” Present Mic’s voice lost its usual brightness.
“And we find out how his men knew where to search.” Izuku looked towards the door.
“Are the police bad?” “Some officers are,” Eraser Head said.
“Which ones?” “That is what I am trying to learn.” “Can Rampart make them bad?” “No,” Midnight said.
“They choose.” The same answer she had given about Rampart.
Not a mistake.
A choice.
Izuku ate another small bite.
In the corridor, two unfamiliar officers stepped from the lift.
Eraser Head noticed them through the observation window.
Dark suits.
Official identification.
A sealed folder.
One looked towards Izuku’s door before checking the room numbers.
Eraser Head rose.
Present Mic followed his gaze.
“What?” “Police.” “Approved?” “I’ll find out.” Izuku grabbed Midnight’s sleeve.
“Don’t let them take me.” She shifted onto the edge of the bed.
“They won’t.” Eraser Head reached the doorway, then stopped.
“All three of us stay until Mitsuki arrives,” Izuku said.
The promise from the previous night.
Present Mic looked towards the approaching detectives.
Eraser Head looked back at the child.
“We stay,” he said.
For a few minutes, the hospital room had felt almost like a place where a family might wait together.
Then someone knocked.