Izuku held back his tears until the apartment door closed behind them.
Inko placed her handbag beside the shoe cabinet and turned.
“There we are,” she said, with brightness that sounded wrong.
“How about some lunch?” Izuku’s gaze moved past her.
An All Might figure stood on the shelf in the living room, one fist raised above his head.
Its plastic smile was fearless.
Something inside Izuku cracked.
He ran.
“Izuku?” He reached his bedroom, slammed the door and threw himself across the bed.
The first sob burst from him before he could bury his face in the pillow.
He cried for the Quirk that had never appeared.
He cried for the costumes beneath his desk and the hero names written across his notebooks.
He cried because Katsuki could already create explosions from his hands.
Children at preschool were beginning to manifest powers one after another.
Everyone had told Izuku to be patient.
He had been patient.
Now there was nothing left to wait for.
His All Might posters covered the walls.
Izuku rolled onto his side and stared at the largest one.
All Might stood with his hands on his hips, grinning above the words ANYONE CAN BE A HERO!
“You said anyone,” Izuku whispered.
The poster did not answer.
Of course, All Might had never spoken those words to Izuku personally.
They belonged to an advertising campaign for a children’s charity.
Izuku had taken them as a promise.
Now he wondered whether the promise contained rules printed too small for him to read.
Outside the room, footsteps approached.
They stopped beside the door.
Izuku held his breath.
His mother did not come inside.
After several moments, the floor creaked as she stepped away.
Izuku nearly called after her.
Then the doctor’s voice returned.
Children adapt more easily when their parents accept reality.
Izuku pulled the blanket over his head.
He did not want to adapt.
He wanted to be a hero.
Inko stood in the hallway and listened to her son cry.
Her hand rested against his bedroom door.
Every instinct urged her to enter.
She wanted to take him into her arms and promise that the doctor was wrong.
But promises did not become true simply because a mother needed them to be.
She stepped away.
In the living room, she dropped her handbag onto the sofa.
The hospital folder slid out and struck the floor, scattering papers across the tatami-style mat.
Inko crouched to collect them.
Izuku’s name appeared at the top of every form.
Midoriya Izuku.
Age: four.
Provisional Quirk status: absent.
The word blurred.
“No,” Inko whispered.
The toe-joint theory was widely accepted.
She knew that.
She had studied its development during her medical coursework years earlier.
It was an indicator.
It was not the entirety of modern Quirk medicine.
Blood markers could reveal mutation patterns.
Neurological activity could suggest emitter-type functions.
Certain Quirk factors remained dormant until triggered by hormones, stress or environmental exposure.
The additional joint made the doctor’s conclusion likely.
Likely was not certain.
Inko found her telephone.
Hisashi’s name sat near the top of her recent calls, although nearly every entry showed an arrow pointing away from her.
She typed a message.
The doctor says Izuku may be Quirkless.
He refused to perform the other tests.
She stared at it.
The words were too small for what had happened.
She deleted them and called.
The phone rang several times before Hisashi’s recorded voice answered.
Inko ended the call.
She tried again.
No answer.
By the third attempt, anger had begun to burn through the numbness.
She waited for the tone.
“Hisashi, it’s me.
The appointment went badly.
The doctor diagnosed Izuku as Quirkless, but he only used the toe-joint X-ray.
He wouldn’t discuss the blood results or perform any additional tests.” Her voice cracked.
She looked towards the hallway.
“Izuku needs you.
Please call me.” Inko ended the message.
The phone remained silent in her hand.
A minute passed.
Then another.
She threw it onto the sofa.
It bounced against a cushion, an unsatisfying landing for the anger behind it.
Inko wanted to smash something.
She wanted to return to the clinic and make the doctor repeat every cold word while looking directly at Izuku.
She wanted to find Hisashi and demand to know what could possibly be more important than their son.
Instead, she sank onto the floor opposite Izuku’s bedroom.
She drew her knees to her chest and listened.
His crying gradually weakened.
Eventually, it stopped.
The silence was worse.
Inko remained there until the afternoon sunlight faded from the hallway.
When she finally stood, her legs had gone numb.
She knocked gently.
“Izuku?” No answer.
“I’m coming in.” She opened the door.
The room was untouched.
All Might figures stood in careful rows.
Drawings remained taped to the walls.
Hero notebooks were stacked beside the desk.
Everything belonged to the child who had woken that morning believing his future was waiting inside him.
Izuku was curled into the corner of his bed.
His face was red and swollen.
One hand clutched the edge of his blanket.
Inko crossed the room and sat down.
She did not touch him immediately.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Izuku stared at the wall.
“What for?” “For taking you to that doctor.” “You didn’t know.” “No.” They fell silent.
Inko could hear the hum of traffic below the apartment and the distant chime of a pedestrian crossing.
After a long time, Izuku spoke again.
“Am I broken?” The question hollowed her out.
Inko moved closer.
“No.” “The doctor said my body is wrong.” “He said your foot is different.” “Because I don’t have a Quirk.” “He said you probably don’t have one.” “That means I’m broken.” “No.” The word came more sharply than she intended.
Izuku flinched.
Inko softened her voice and took his face gently between her hands.
“You listen to me, Izuku.
You are not broken.
A Quirk does not decide whether you are whole.” “But everyone has one.” “Not everyone.” “Nearly everyone.” “Yes.” His lower lip trembled.
“I want to be a hero.” “I know.” “Heroes have Quirks.” “Most heroes do.” “Then I can’t.” Inko’s heart twisted.
Images passed through her mind.
Collapsing buildings.
Villains with destructive powers.
Rescue workers moving through fire and rubble.
Her small son standing among them without a Quirk.
She could not tell him that danger did not matter.
She could not tell him that courage alone would make his body invulnerable.
But she would not let one doctor close every possible door.
“We will see someone else,” she said.
“A specialist.” “Will they give me a Quirk?” “No doctor can give you one.” “Then what will they do?” “They will check properly.
They will look at your blood results, your genes and your Quirk factor.
They will not decide everything because of one X-ray.” “What if they say I’m Quirkless too?” Inko swallowed.
“Then we will find out what choices you have.” “Can I still be a hero?” She wanted to say yes.
The word reached the tip of her tongue.
Instead, she brushed the damp hair away from his forehead.
“You are four years old.
You do not have to decide your whole life today.” “That’s not an answer.” Inko stared at him.
His voice had been quiet, but the words carried a painful certainty.
“No,” she admitted.
“It isn’t.” Izuku looked down.
Inko drew him into her arms.
For a moment, he remained stiff.
Then he collapsed against her and began to cry again.
She held him until the worst of it passed.
“I’m scared,” he whispered.
“So am I.” Izuku pulled back enough to look at her.
“Mums aren’t supposed to be scared.” “Who told you that?” “I thought it.” “Mums are scared all the time.
We’re simply very good at carrying handbags and pretending otherwise.” A wet laugh escaped him.
Inko kissed his temple.
“How about katsudon for dinner?” “With egg?” “It would be a very disappointing katsudon without it.” “And ice cream?” “That depends.” “On what?” “Whether the great hero Izuku can help me clean the kitchen.” His expression dimmed at the word hero.
Inko immediately regretted it.
Then Izuku wiped his face with his sleeve.
“I can clean without a Quirk.” “Yes,” she said quietly.
“You can.” He followed her to the kitchen.
They prepared dinner together.
Izuku washed the rice while Inko sliced onions and prepared the pork cutlets.
He spilled water across the counter, dropped a spoon and used too much soap while washing his hands.
Normally, he would have narrated the entire process as a hero mission.
That evening, he remained quiet.
Inko did not force conversation.
When the katsudon was ready, they sat across from each other at the table.
“Itadakimasu,” Izuku murmured.
They ate.
His appetite returned slowly.
By the time Inko placed a small bowl of vanilla ice cream in front of him, some colour had returned to his face.
After dinner, they watched one All Might video.
Izuku chose a rescue rather than a battle.
In the recording, All Might carried three civilians from a burning office building.
His costume was blackened with smoke, but he smiled as he placed them beside the waiting paramedics.
A reporter asked whether he had been frightened inside the fire.
All Might laughed.
“Of course!
Courage is not the absence of fear.
It is acting despite it.” Izuku leaned closer to the screen.
Inko watched him instead of the video.
Later, she helped him into his pyjamas.
At the bedroom door, Izuku hesitated.
“Mum?” “Yes?” “Can you stay until I fall asleep?” “Of course.” She lay beside him on top of the blanket.
Izuku held his All Might figure against his chest.
“Do you think the next doctor will be nicer?” “I’ll make sure of it.” “How?” “I’ll speak to them first.” “What if they’re the head doctor too?” Inko smiled.
“Then I’ll find someone with an even larger office.” Izuku laughed softly.
His eyes gradually closed.
Inko remained beside him long after his breathing became even.
Her phone vibrated once in the living room.
She slipped from the bed and hurried towards it.
The screen showed an unfamiliar number.
For one hopeful second, she thought Hisashi might be calling from another telephone.
She answered.
“Hello?” Silence.
“Hello?” A faint sound came through the speaker, perhaps breathing or distant traffic.
Then the call ended.
Inko stared at the screen.
When she tried to call back, the number was unavailable.
She told herself it had been a wrong number.
It happened all the time.
Still, she checked the lock before returning to Izuku’s room.