Mitsuki had been one corridor away from Izuku.
That distance became unbearable once she understood it.
One corridor.
One sealed fire door.
A few centimetres of reinforced glass.
While Izuku was being strapped to a stretcher, Mitsuki had been pounding her fists against that glass.
She remembered shouting his name.
She did not know whether he had heard.
The hospital gave the Bakugous a private waiting room after the lockdown began.
No one called it confinement, but a security officer remained outside.
Masaru sat beside Katsuki on a narrow sofa.
Mitsuki stood near the window.
She had not sat down.
Sitting felt like waiting.
Waiting felt like surrender.
On the table rested the bag they had brought.
Clean clothes.
Snacks.
Crayons.
Izuku’s notebook.
The bent cardboard shield.
The All Might figure was no longer inside.
Katsuki had placed it on the empty hospital bed.
Mitsuki hoped the kidnappers had seen it.
She hoped that stupid plastic smile followed them like an accusation.
Masaru broke the silence.
“You should drink.” “No.” “You haven’t eaten since yesterday.” “I’m not hungry.” Katsuki looked up.
“Deku wasn’t hungry either.” Mitsuki turned.
“How do you know?” “The loud hero said Midnight was trying to make him eat.” Present Mic had given them Izuku’s medical condition during the call.
Dehydrated.
Malnourished.
Injured feet.
Traumatised.
The words had entered Mitsuki without becoming pictures.
Now she imagined Izuku staring at a hospital tray, too frightened to swallow.
Inko would have known what to do.
She would have cut food into tiny pieces.
She would have waited without making him feel watched.
She would have turned eating into a game until Izuku forgot it had ever been difficult.
Midnight had apparently tried to do the same.
Then someone had drugged her.
Mitsuki rubbed both hands over her face.
“I should have been there.” Masaru’s expression tightened.
“You were trying to reach him.” “I should never have let Inko leave our house.” “We have discussed this.” “We discussed it before Izuku was kidnapped again.” “What changes?” “Everything.” “It does not change who attacked her.” Mitsuki turned towards him.
“It changes what I could have done.” Masaru rose.
“You are looking for a version of the past where one better decision makes Rampart harmless.” “I could have locked the door.” “Inko would have unlocked it.” “I could have followed her home.” “She might have told you to leave.” “I could have stayed outside.” “And Rampart might have killed you too.” Mitsuki’s eyes burned.
“At least she would not have been alone.” Masaru stopped.
The anger left his face.
That was the centre of it.
Not only that Inko had died.
That she had faced Rampart without Mitsuki beside her.
They had fought Daichi together in the alley.
They had raised their sons in each other’s homes.
Then, on the night that mattered most, Inko had stood alone.
Except she had not been alone.
Izuku had watched.
A four-year-old had watched his mother die.
Katsuki slid from the sofa.
“She wasn’t alone.” Mitsuki looked down.
“Deku was there.” “I know.” “She saved him.” “I know.” “Then why are you saying she was alone?” Mitsuki opened her mouth.
Nothing useful came out.
Katsuki frowned.
“Adults say things wrong.” “Constantly,” Masaru said.
Katsuki looked towards the bag.
“Are they going to get him?” Mitsuki did not answer immediately.
She had trusted the heroes once.
Not completely, but enough to enter the hospital believing Izuku would be protected.
Now Midnight lay under medical care, Eraser Head reconstructed access logs and Present Mic called former teachers.
They were doing things.
None of it looked like rescuing Izuku.
“They are trying,” Masaru said.
“That’s not what I asked.” “I don’t know,” Mitsuki admitted.
Katsuki’s face hardened.
“You’re supposed to say yes.” “I’m not lying to you.” “Heroes say they’ll win.” “Sometimes they don’t know.” “Then they should get stronger.” Masaru sat forward.
“Katsuki.” “They lost him.” His voice cracked.
“He was right there.” No one corrected him.
Katsuki seized the cardboard shield.
The green letter H had begun peeling away.
“I was going to give it back.” Mitsuki lowered herself to her knees.
“You still might.” “Might?” The word hurt him.
Mitsuki had almost said will.
Promises had become dangerous.
Izuku had been promised safety, protection and company.
Each promise broke as soon as he placed weight upon it.
“We are going to do everything we can to give it back,” she said.
It was not comforting.
It was honest.
Katsuki nodded reluctantly.
A knock came at the door.
Midnight entered in a wheelchair.
A nurse pushed her, but Midnight’s hands gripped the wheels as though she intended to move herself if the nurse slowed.
Her face was pale.
A patch covered the puncture on her arm.
Her eyes were swollen and red.
The All Might figure rested in her lap.
Present Mic followed.
Mitsuki stood.
“You should be in bed.” “So should Izuku.” Midnight’s voice was hoarse.
The nurse positioned her near the sofa.
“Five minutes.” Midnight ignored her.
Katsuki stared at the woman who had been with Izuku.
“You promised him.” Mitsuki inhaled.
Midnight nodded.
“I did.” “You didn’t keep it.” “No.” Midnight’s fingers closed around the figure.
“Why?” “I lost.” The answer came too quickly.
Present Mic stepped forward.
“You were sedated.” “I lost.” Katsuki studied her.
“Did you fight?” “Yes.” “Did you hit them?” “Yes.” “Hard?” “Not hard enough.” “Did they cheat?” Midnight’s lips parted.
The question was childish.
It was also accurate.
“Yes.” “Then it doesn’t count.” Midnight looked at him.
“What?” “Kacchan,” Masaru warned.
“They used medicine.
That’s cheating.” “They were criminals,” Midnight said.
“They were not required to be fair.” “Then you’re allowed to cheat back.” Under other circumstances, Midnight might have smiled.
Instead, the child’s certainty made her eyes fill.
“I should have been faster.” Katsuki frowned.
“Are you going to cry?” “I already have.” “Heroes cry?” “All the time.” “No, they don’t.” “Good heroes do.
Bad heroes usually make someone else do it.” Katsuki looked towards the All Might figure.
Midnight’s hand tightened around it.
Mitsuki watched her.
The hero had not come seeking forgiveness.
She looked as though she had come because remaining alone with her memory was worse.
“What happened?” Mitsuki asked.
Midnight’s breathing changed.
Present Mic placed one hand on the wheelchair.
“We can explain.” “No.” Midnight’s voice sharpened.
“She asked me.” Present Mic withdrew his hand.
Midnight stared at the figure in her lap.
“When the gunfire started, Izuku panicked.
He thought Rampart had found him.” She spoke carefully at first.
Then the details began coming faster.
The false nurse.
The correct badge.
The evacuation order.
The fake monitor.
The second injector.
The ventilation system pulling away Midnight’s gas.
“She expected my Quirk,” Midnight said.
“She knew exactly how the room would respond.” Her fingers shook.
“I caught her wrist.
I thought I had stopped her.” The waiting room faded around her.
For Midnight, the hospital room returned.
The needle entering her arm.
Her knee refusing to hold her weight.
Izuku pulling at his intravenous line.
The transport worker lifting him.
Midnight’s hand closing around a trouser leg and slipping away.
“I tried to reach him.” Her voice broke.
“I could see the line filling.
I told him to pull it out, but he was scared and his hands were shaking.” Mitsuki covered her mouth.
“Was he conscious?” “Yes.” “Did they hurt him?” “Not severely while I could see.” “While you could see?” “The sedative…” Midnight stopped.
Her throat worked without producing sound.
Present Mic crouched beside her.
“You can stop.” “No.” She looked at Mitsuki.
“You deserve to know.” “I deserve to know where he is.” “So do I.” Midnight’s composure collapsed.
“I should know where he is.” She pressed both hands against her face.
“I was holding him.
He trusted me.
He asked me not to leave, and I told him I would stay.
Then he watched me crawl across the floor while strangers strapped him down.” Mitsuki’s anger surged.
Not because the words were wrong.
Because she could see them.
Izuku reaching.
Midnight falling.
The stretcher leaving.
“What did he say?” Masaru asked.
Midnight lowered her hands.
“He said his mother told him to run.” Katsuki looked up.
“He always does what Auntie Inko said.” “Yes.” “But he couldn’t run.” “No.” Midnight bent forward.
Her shoulders shook.
“He told me he couldn’t.” Present Mic moved closer.
This time, Midnight let him place a hand on her back.
“He didn’t call for his mum,” she said.
“He called for me.” Mitsuki gripped the windowsill.
“I should have been in that room.” Midnight looked at her.
“No.” “Yes.” “No.” The force in Midnight’s voice surprised them both.
“You would have been drugged too.
Or hurt.
Or taken.
They prepared for every person who might interfere.” “You don’t know that.” “I know they prepared for me.” Midnight wiped her face with the heel of her hand.
“They knew my Quirk.
They changed the ventilation.
They knew where I would stand and how I would move.
They wanted me awake long enough to understand I could not stop them.” Mitsuki saw the depth of it then.
Midnight did not merely believe she had failed.
She believed the kidnapping had been built as a message to her.
Her competence, her promise, her growing attachment to Izuku, all turned into parts of the trap.
Mitsuki’s anger shifted.
Not gone.
Rearranged.
“I’m sorry,” Midnight said.
“Do not ask me to forgive you.” “I won’t.” “Do not tell me you did your best.” “I didn’t come here to.” “What did you come for?” Midnight looked down at the plastic hero.
“To return this.” Katsuki’s head snapped up.
“No.” Midnight stared at him.
“It belongs to Izuku.” “So keep it until you find him.” The waiting room became silent.
Midnight’s fingers trembled around the figure.
“You think I should keep it?” “You lost him.” Each word landed hard.
Katsuki continued.
“So you need to remember.” Mitsuki closed her eyes.
“Katsuki.” “What?
She does.” Midnight pressed the figure to her chest.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I do.” The nurse shifted near the door.
“Time.” Midnight ignored her.
Mitsuki looked towards Present Mic.
“What are you doing to find him?” “We locked down the building.
We copied the access logs before anyone could alter them.
We identified the stolen nurse’s credentials and the false vehicle route.
We called someone who can examine the operation outside the compromised systems.” “And is Izuku closer?” Present Mic stopped.
“No.” The answer entered like cold air.
Masaru rubbed one hand across his face.
“At least you said it.” Midnight looked towards Mitsuki.
“I keep replaying it.” “What?” “Every second.” She stared at her shaking hand.
“I keep thinking there must be a version where I move faster.
Where I notice the badge.
Where I break her wrist before she injects me.
Where I tell Shouta and Hizashi not to leave.” “Stop.” Midnight flinched.
Mitsuki continued.
“Not because I forgive you.” “I understand.” “Stop because I cannot listen to another person list all the ways they might have saved someone I love.” The words cut through the room.
“I have spent three days doing it to myself.
I should have made Inko stay.
I should have followed her.
I should have reached Izuku before the doors locked.
You should have noticed the needle.
Eraser Head should have recognised the trap.
Present Mic should have stayed.” Present Mic looked down.
“All of that might be true,” Mitsuki said.
“None of it tells us where Izuku is.” Midnight’s breathing was unsteady.
“What do you want me to do?” “Remember something useful.” The command was cruel.
Mitsuki knew it.
Midnight accepted it.
She closed her eyes.
“The nurse knew about the interrogation.” Present Mic straightened.
“What?” “When I told her Izuku had just been accused of killing Inko, she reacted.
Barely, but she knew.” “Did you tell Shouta?” “I tried.
The sedative…” Midnight’s face tightened with renewed disgust towards herself.
“I could not speak clearly.” Present Mic squeezed her shoulder.
“You are telling us now.” “The detectives may have communicated with her.” “That is useful.” Midnight opened her eyes.
“Is it enough?” “No.” Mitsuki answered before Present Mic could.
Midnight looked at her.
“But it is something,” Mitsuki said.
The words were not forgiveness.
They were permission to keep working.
A security officer opened the door.
“Your visitors have arrived.” A small figure stepped inside wearing a tailored suit.
Principal Nezu carried a slim case in one paw and a folded umbrella in the other.
His dark eyes moved across every person before resting on the All Might figure in Midnight’s hands.
Beside him stood a tall man in a brown coat.
Detective Naomasa Tsukauchi removed his hat.
“I’m sorry we are meeting like this.” Mitsuki looked towards the corridor.
“No All Might?” Tsukauchi’s expression changed slightly.
“No.” “Why not?” “We have not called him.” Katsuki stared at the detective.
“You know All Might?” “Yes.” “Call him.” No one answered.
Nezu closed the door.
“That,” he said gently, “is one of the decisions we must discuss.” A few moments later Nezu began by requesting tea.
Mitsuki stared at him.
“My nephew has been kidnapped.” “Yes.” “And you want tea.” “I do my best thinking with tea.” “Then think faster.” Present Mic closed his eyes.
Eraser Head entered behind Nezu and Tsukauchi.
He looked as though sleep had become an insult.
Nezu accepted Mitsuki’s anger without offence.
“You believe I am not treating this seriously.” “You walked into the room asking for a drink.” “I walked into the room observing four exhausted adults, one injured hero, two grieving parents and a frightened child who have consumed almost no water.” Midnight’s fingers tightened around the All Might figure.
“Rampart already used exhaustion against you,” Nezu continued.
“We will not assist him by allowing your bodies to fail.” The words were directed at the group.
Midnight heard them as an accusation.
She had already allowed her body to fail.
A nurse brought water, tea and packaged snacks.
Nezu waited until everyone had taken at least a drink.
Midnight lifted her cup.
Her hand shook badly enough to spill tea across the saucer.
She set it down untouched.
Nezu noticed.
He said nothing.
Then he opened his case.
Inside were paper notebooks, blank identification cards, sealed evidence bags and an independent recorder.
“No hospital network,” he said.
“No police network.
No agency devices.
Every note remains on paper until Detective Tsukauchi and I determine which systems are safe.” Tsukauchi removed his coat.
“We will speak to each of you separately.” Mitsuki’s eyes narrowed.
“You think one of us leaked the room.” “I think someone leaked it.” “You’re interrogating us.” “I’m reconstructing events.” “Same thing with better manners.” “Sometimes.” Nezu poured his tea.
“Detective Tsukauchi will ask repetitive questions.
Answer each exactly, even when you believe he already knows.” Present Mic looked at Tsukauchi.
“You think the leak could be accidental.” “Most leaks are.” Tsukauchi opened a notebook.
“A name spoken near the wrong person.
A location displayed on a screen.
A call routed through a monitored exchange.
Conspiracies rarely require everyone to be corrupt.” His expression hardened.
“They require one corrupt person and several careless ones.” Midnight looked down.
Careless.
The word burrowed in immediately.
Nezu watched her.
“Carelessness and defeat are not the same.” She raised her eyes.
“I did not say anything.” “You did not need to.” Midnight’s jaw tightened.
“I let a stranger into the room.” “A stranger wearing the identity of a trusted professional.” “I noticed too late.” “You noticed before anyone else.” “Not before the needle.” Nezu folded his paws.
“Your guilt is attempting to simplify the event.” Midnight gave him a cold look.
“There was nothing simple about it.” “Precisely.
Yet you continue reducing it to one sentence.
‘I failed.'” “I did.” “That is a conclusion, not an analysis.” Mitsuki shifted impatiently.
“Is this necessary?” “Yes,” Nezu said.
Midnight stared at him.
“You want to turn this into a lesson.” “I want to prevent your shame from editing your memory.” That stopped her.
Nezu leaned forward.
“You are our only direct witness to the kidnapping.
If you decide every detail proves your personal failure, you may overlook what those details reveal about the perpetrators.” Midnight looked towards the All Might figure.
“What do you want from me?” “The truth without punishment attached.” Her eyes filled again.
“I don’t know how to do that.” “Then we will help.” Eraser Head volunteered for the first interview.
Tsukauchi took him into an empty consultation room.
The questions began simply.
When had Eraser Head learned Izuku’s identity?
Who was present?
Which telephone had he used after the rescue?
Who entered the ambulance?
Who selected the hospital?
Who created the temporary patient name?
Who knew Midnight, Present Mic and Eraser Head would remain?
Tsukauchi did not accuse.
He asked the same details in different ways.
“Why this hospital?” “It was the nearest facility with secure paediatric care.” “Who suggested it?” “The ambulance dispatcher.” “Did you hear the dispatcher’s name?” “No.” “Who contacted them?” “The paramedic.” “Which paramedic?” Eraser Head stopped.
“I don’t know.” Tsukauchi wrote something down.
When Eraser Head returned, Midnight searched his expression.
“What did you miss?” He understood the question.
“The dispatcher.” “And?” “The paramedic who contacted them.” Midnight looked away.
Present Mic went next.
His answers differed in small ways.
He had tried to call Mitsuki from his personal telephone before using the hospital line.
The first connection lasted less than a second.
Mitsuki’s number came from a police family-contact file sent through what was supposed to be a secure hero channel.
“Secure according to whom?” Tsukauchi asked.
Present Mic’s expression darkened.
Midnight’s interview took place in the waiting room because the doctors refused to move her again.
Tsukauchi sat opposite her.
Nezu remained nearby, but silent.
Midnight held the All Might figure throughout.
“Begin when the detectives left,” Tsukauchi said.
She did.
The alarm.
Izuku’s reaction.
The first gunshot.
The promise that she was staying.
The false nurse entering.
Tsukauchi interrupted only for precise details.
“Which hand carried the tray?” “Left.” “Where was the injector?” “Right sleeve.” “Which wrist did you catch?” “Right.” “Did she resist immediately?” “No.” “What did she look at first?” Midnight closed her eyes.
“The bed.” “Not you?” “No.” “Not the monitor?” “The bed.
Then the IV.” Tsukauchi wrote.
“When did you first realise she was false?” “She said emergency evacuation.” “Why was that suspicious?” “Izuku’s room had been selected because the interior corridor offered better protection.
Evacuation would expose him.” “What happened next?” Midnight’s voice became strained.
“I told her to leave.” “And?” “She activated the portable monitor.” “Why?” “To make me look away.” “Did it work?” “For less than a second.” “Enough?” Midnight’s eyes opened.
“Enough.” Tsukauchi’s pen stopped.
Nezu spoke gently.
“Continue.” Midnight did.
The struggle.
The injector.
The gas being pulled away.
The men entering.
Izuku attempting to pull his intravenous line.
“Did the kidnappers speak?” “Yes.” “Exact words where possible.” Midnight swallowed.
“One man said their boss wanted him undamaged.” “Anything else?” “The nurse said he was making noise.” “Then?” “The man reminded her the boss wanted him alive.” Tsukauchi wrote.
Midnight’s grip tightened around the plastic figure.
“Izuku said his mother told him to run.” Tsukauchi’s voice softened.
“And you answered?” “I told him he had run.” “What happened next?” “They moved the stretcher.” “Did you hear a destination?” “No.” “A name?” “No.” “An accent?” “No.” “Any unusual smell?” Midnight froze.
Tsukauchi noticed.
“What?” “The nurse.” “What about her?” “She smelled like antiseptic.” “That would be normal.” “No.” Midnight looked towards Nezu.
“Not hospital antiseptic.
Something sweeter.” “Can you describe it?” “Almost floral.
Sharp underneath.” Nezu’s ears lifted.
“A solvent?” “Maybe.” Midnight frowned, searching the memory.
“Her medical case smelled the same.” Tsukauchi circled the note.
“What else?” “The transport worker’s sleeve had blue paint on it.” “Where?” “Near the cuff.” “Fresh?” “I don’t know.” Midnight’s breathing quickened.
“I should have remembered earlier.” Nezu intervened.
“No punishment.” “I saw it.” “You were sedated.” “I saw it and forgot.” “You remembered now.” Midnight pressed her lips together.
Tsukauchi waited until she looked at him again.
“The detectives.” She nodded.
“The nurse reacted when I mentioned their accusation.” “How?” “Her mouth moved.
Not a smile, exactly.
Recognition.” “Could she have heard the interview through the door?” “Possibly.” “Could she have been briefed?” “Yes.” Tsukauchi underlined the answer.
When the interview ended, Midnight looked exhausted.
“Was any of that useful?” “Yes.” “How much?” “We do not know yet.” Her face crumpled for an instant.
She turned away before anyone could see.
Nezu saw anyway.
“Uncertainty is not a judgement upon your worth.” “Please stop teaching me.” “No.” Midnight almost laughed.
Instead, she began crying again.
Quietly this time.
Nezu allowed the silence.
When Tsukauchi interviewed Mitsuki and Masaru, he asked about every call since Inko’s death.
Police.
Hospitals.
Hero agencies.
Friends.
Mitsuki became angrier with each question.
“You think we told them where he was?” “I think Rampart’s organisation knew you were travelling before you arrived.” “How?” “That is what I am determining.” “We were collected by a car your people sent.” “Present Mic arranged it through a trusted investigator.” “Trusted by whom?” Tsukauchi gave her a tired look.
“An excellent question.” Katsuki insisted on being interviewed.
Tsukauchi crouched to his level.
“Did anyone ask where you were going today?” “No.” “Did you tell anyone?” “No.” “Did you use a telephone?” “No.” “Did you see anyone near your house?” Katsuki frowned.
“A car.” “What kind?” “Black.” “Where?” “Across the road.” “Was someone inside?” “Yes.” “What did they look like?” “I don’t know.” “Why did you notice it?” “It was there yesterday too.” The adults became quiet.
Tsukauchi did not change his tone.
“Are you sure?” “Yes.” “What made you remember?” “The light was broken.” “Which light?” “One at the front.” “Left or right?” Katsuki pointed.
“Right.” “Anything else?” “It smelled bad.” Mitsuki stared.
“You went near it?” “No.
It drove past when Dad took the bins out.” “What kind of smell?” Tsukauchi asked.
“Paint.” “Petrol?” Katsuki shook his head.
“Like Dad’s shed.” Masaru looked towards him.
“Solvent.” Tsukauchi circled the word.
Midnight looked up sharply.
“The nurse’s case.” Everyone turned towards her.
“The smell might have been paint solvent.” Tsukauchi added a line between the statements.
The black car might mean nothing.
Or it might mean the Bakugou house had been watched.
If Rampart’s men knew when the family departed, they could estimate when they would arrive and time the diversion before Mitsuki reached the ward.
The trap had accounted for the family as well as the heroes.
Nezu listened to every account.
When Tsukauchi finished, he spread six timelines across the table.
“They knew the hospital before Present Mic contacted the Bakugous.” Eraser Head looked at the pages.
“How?” “The false nurse entered forty minutes before that call.” “So the family was not the leak.” “No.” Mitsuki folded her arms.
“You could have started with that.” “I could have assumed it,” Tsukauchi replied.
“I preferred knowing.” He pointed towards another line.
“The kidnappers knew Izuku’s temporary identity, his attending physician, Midnight’s presence and details from the police interview.
At least four information sources were compromised.” “Hospital administration,” Present Mic said.
“Police,” Tsukauchi replied.
“Hero communications,” Eraser Head added.
“And direct surveillance.” Nezu lifted his cup.
“Which suggests Rampart has not placed one informant inside the system.” Mitsuki stared at him.
“How many?” Nezu’s eyes remained on the timelines.
“Enough that the system itself has become his informant.” Midnight looked at the evidence covering the table.
So many failures.
So many people.
So many doors opened by someone else.
For the first time since waking on the hospital floor, the kidnapping no longer appeared to have happened because she alone was not good enough.
That did not lessen the guilt.
It changed its shape.
Izuku had not been taken because Midnight was weak.
He had been taken because an entire network had been arranged around making her strength irrelevant.
She looked down at the smiling All Might figure.
“I still should have protected him,” she whispered.
Nezu heard.
“Yes,” he said.
Midnight’s eyes snapped towards him.
Nezu continued.
“And now you must help us do so.”