The man reached for Izuku every night.
Sometimes they were in the alley.
Sometimes they were inside the apartment.
Sometimes the man wore the doctor’s white coat and told Izuku that broken children could never become heroes.
The details changed.
The ending did not.
The man ran.
Izuku pulled the trigger.
The sound swallowed everything.
BANG.
Izuku woke screaming.
He sat upright in an unfamiliar bed, clawing at the blanket tangled around his legs.
The room was dark except for a strip of light beneath the door.
Machines clicked and hummed around him.
For one terrible second, he did not know where he was.
Then pain spread across his chest and shoulder.
Memory returned.
The park.
The alley.
Katsuki hitting the bins.
The gun.
“No,” he whispered.
The door opened.
Inko hurried inside.
She wore hospital clothes beneath a pale robe.
Bruising covered one side of her face, and small circular burns marked her wrist where the attacker had held her.
“Izuku.” He scrambled backwards until he hit the raised rail of the bed.
“Don’t let him come in.” “He isn’t coming.” “He knows where we are.” “No, sweetheart.” “He was running.” “I know.” “I told him to stop.” “I know.” Inko sat carefully on the edge of the bed.
The doctors had warned her that Izuku’s heart rhythm remained slightly irregular.
They wanted to monitor him for several days because of the electrical current that had passed through his chest.
Katsuki was being watched for the same reason.
Mitsuki’s left arm was still numb from the elbow down.
Inko had spent the first night connected to a monitor after her own heart began skipping beats.
Every time one of the machines changed tone, Izuku panicked.
“Did I save you?” he asked.
The question broke something inside her.
Inko reached for him.
Izuku flinched.
She stopped.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“You have nothing to apologise for.” “I used the gun.” “You were frightened.” “Heroes don’t kill people.” Inko closed her eyes.
A police officer had explained that Izuku was too young to be held responsible.
A counsellor had called it an instinctive act during an immediate threat.
None of those words mattered to a four-year-old whose entire understanding of goodness came from hero programmes.
“Izuku, look at me.” He shook his head.
“Please.” Slowly, he raised his eyes.
“You tried to make him stop.” “I shot him.” “You did not understand what would happen.” “Guns hurt people.” “Yes.” “I knew.” “You knew they were dangerous.
That is not the same as understanding death.” His face crumpled.
“I killed him.” Inko stopped breathing.
No one had used those words in front of him.
The police had been careful.
The doctors had been careful.
Mitsuki and Masaru had been careful.
Somehow, he knew.
“Who told you?” “I heard the nurse.” Inko wanted to find the nurse, the doctor, Hisashi and every person who had failed her son.
Instead, she sat beside him.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“The man died.” Izuku began to shake.
“I’m a villain.” “No.” “I killed somebody.” “You are not a villain.” “Heroes save people.” “You were trying to save us.” “They don’t kill.” “You did not choose for him to die.” “I pulled it.” “He was running towards you.
You were terrified.
You are four years old.” Izuku pressed both hands over his ears.
“I can still hear it.” Inko moved closer, slowly enough that he could pull away.
This time, when she wrapped her arms around him, he collapsed against her.
“It won’t stop,” he sobbed.
“I know.” “I keep hearing it.” “I know.” She held him until the shaking eased.
Beyond the wall, the hospital continued around them.
Footsteps passed in the corridor.
A trolley rattled.
Somewhere, a telephone rang.
Ordinary sounds.
None were loud enough to erase the gunshot.
Katsuki was two rooms away.
He had a concussion, bruised ribs and a fractured wrist.
The electrical shock had caused several brief disturbances in his heartbeat, so the doctors wanted to keep him under observation.
Mitsuki had needed stitches above one eyebrow.
Her shoulder was badly strained, and the current had left her hand weak and trembling.
Inko’s injuries appeared less serious, but the doctors refused to discharge her while her heart rhythm remained unstable.
They expected all four of them to recover physically.
The word physically did a great deal of work.
A gentle knock came at the door.
Masaru entered carrying two vending-machine drinks.
He stopped when he saw Izuku awake.
“Hello,” he said softly.
Izuku buried his face against Inko.
Masaru placed the drinks on the table.
“Katsuki woke up again.” “How is he?” Inko asked.
“Angry.” A broken laugh escaped her.
“That sounds promising.” “He demanded to know who put his arm in a cast without permission.” Izuku lifted his head.
“Kacchan’s awake?” “He is.” “Is he hurt?” “He has bruises and a broken wrist.
The doctors say he will recover.” Izuku looked down.
“He got hurt because of me.” “No,” Masaru said.
The firmness in his voice surprised them.
“The man hurt Katsuki.
Not you.” “I didn’t stop him fast enough.” “You are a child,” Masaru replied.
“You were never supposed to stop him.” Izuku stared towards the door.
“Can I see him?” “When the nurse says it’s safe.” “What if he hates me?” Masaru’s expression softened.
“Katsuki has spent the last ten minutes asking why nobody will let him come here.” The nurse permitted a visit the following morning.
Masaru pushed Katsuki into the room in a wheelchair, although Katsuki insisted he could walk.
His left wrist was covered by a bright cast.
A bruise darkened one cheek.
He looked smaller than Izuku remembered.
Neither boy spoke at first.
Katsuki stared at the floor.
Izuku gripped the blanket.
Finally, Katsuki said, “You dropped the gun.” Izuku’s stomach twisted.
“I’m sorry.” “Why?” “I…” Katsuki looked up.
“You stopped him.” Izuku recoiled.
“No.” “Yes.” “He died.” “I know.” “Heroes don’t do that.” Katsuki picked at the edge of his cast.
“He was hurting our mums.” “That doesn’t make it good.” “I didn’t say it was good.” The room fell quiet.
Katsuki’s face tightened with the effort of understanding something much larger than either of them.
“You told him to stop,” he said.
Izuku looked at him.
“I heard you.” “He laughed.” “I know.” “He ran at me.” “I know.” Izuku’s mouth trembled.
“I was scared.” “I was knocked out,” Katsuki said.
“That was worse.” Masaru covered his mouth.
Mitsuki, standing behind the wheelchair, closed her eyes.
“Katsuki.” “What?” A tiny sound escaped Izuku.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
It lasted only a moment before becoming a sob, but Katsuki appeared satisfied.
“You’re still coming to my house,” he announced.
Mitsuki rested a hand on his head.
“Perhaps not today.” “When?” “When everyone leaves the hospital.” “Tomorrow?” “No.” “The next day?” “We’ll discuss it.” Katsuki looked at Izuku.
“Bring your notebooks.” Izuku nodded.
After they left, he slept for less than an hour before the nightmare returned.
The hospital kept all four of them for seven days.
Every morning began with blood tests, heart monitoring and examinations of the small electrical burns across their skin.
Doctors tested their reflexes, muscle strength and sensation.
They asked whether their fingers felt numb, whether their hearts raced and whether they experienced dizziness.
Katsuki complained about everything.
He hated the food.
He hated the bed.
He hated the cast.
He especially hated being told not to use his Quirk while his heart remained under observation.
Mitsuki responded by threatening to tape him to the mattress.
Masaru spent most of his time moving between rooms, bringing clean clothes, speaking to doctors and making sure no one had forgotten to eat.
Izuku met a child trauma specialist named Dr Arai.
She did not wear a white coat.
She brought crayons, toy heroes and several soft animal figures.
On their first meeting, Izuku refused to speak.
On the second, he drew the alley entirely in black.
On the third, he drew a small green figure holding something dark.
Dr Arai did not ask what it was.
She asked how the figure felt.
“Bad,” Izuku whispered.
“Because he was frightened?” “Because he did something bad.” “Can frightened people make things happen that they never wanted?” Izuku pressed the black crayon so hard that it snapped.
He stared at the broken pieces.
“Heroes don’t.” Dr Arai placed another black crayon beside him.
“Heroes are people too.” “All Might wouldn’t have pulled it.” “Were you as strong as All Might?” “No.” “Were you trained like All Might?” “No.” “Were you responsible for protecting everyone in that alley?” Izuku looked towards the window.
“I had to.” “Why?” “Because nobody else could.” The answer sounded older than him.
Dr Arai did not argue.
She only said, “That must have been very frightening.” On the fourth day, the police interviewed Inko.
Detective Mori sat across from her in a small hospital office with a notebook resting on his knee.
Mitsuki sat beside her with one arm in a sling.
The attacker had been identified as Daichi Senda.
His Quirk, Live Current, allowed him to channel electricity through direct physical contact.
Police records linked him to several assaults and illegal debt collection operations.
The gun belonged to him.
Witness statements and security footage supported Inko’s account.
He had followed them.
He had attacked first.
Izuku had fired while facing an immediate threat.
No prosecutor intended to treat a four-year-old as a criminal.
Inko heard only one detail.
“Daichi said my husband owed money.” Detective Mori looked down at his notes.
“We recovered messages from his telephone referring to a debt under Hisashi Midoriya’s name.” “How much?” “We don’t know.” “Who lent him the money?” “That is under investigation.” “Where is my husband?” “We hoped you could tell us.” Inko stared at him.
“He works overseas.” “For which company?” She gave him the name.
The detective wrote it down.
“When did you last speak to him?” “Three weeks ago.” “Has he contacted you since the attack?” “No.” The word tasted like humiliation.
Her husband’s debt had brought an armed criminal into an alley with her son.
Hisashi still had not answered his telephone.
Mitsuki leaned forward.
“She needs protection.” Detective Mori looked uncomfortable.
“We do not currently have evidence of an ongoing threat.” “A criminal followed her through the city.” “That criminal is dead.” “People like him do not work alone.” “We are investigating his contacts.” “And while you investigate?” “We recommend that Mrs Midoriya and her son stay with friends or relatives.” “They’re staying with us,” Mitsuki said.
Inko turned.
“We haven’t discussed that.” “We have now.” “I cannot move into your house.” “You can.
We have a spare room.” “My things are at the apartment.” “Masaru can collect them.” “I can go home.” “No.” Detective Mori cleared his throat.
“Staying elsewhere would be wise, at least temporarily.” Through the office window, Izuku sat with Dr Arai.
Every crayon near him remained untouched except the black one.
“All right,” Inko whispered.
That same afternoon, a professional hero named Rampart walked into another police station.
He wore his public costume: polished dark armour, a heavy cape and silver insignia across his chest.
Children knew him as the Human Fortress.
His defensive Quirk allowed him to create dense barriers from his own body mass, making him one of Musutafu’s most respected rescue heroes.
He stopped in the lobby to sign an autograph for a little girl.
“Train hard,” he told her, smiling for her mother’s camera.
“And always protect those weaker than yourself.” The girl beamed.
Rampart entered a private interview room.
Two police officers joined him.
The older officer locked the door.
Rampart’s smile vanished.
“My brother is dead.” Officer Sugimoto shifted in his chair.
“We heard.” “You heard?” “I’m sorry.” Rampart leaned across the table.
“I did not pay you for sympathy.” The younger officer placed a file between them.
“The shooting is being treated as self-defence.” “Who fired?” “We don’t know.” “You have witness statements.” “The full report is restricted.” Rampart looked at the file.
“How restricted?” “This is more serious than patrol schedules.” Rampart reached into his coat.
The envelope he placed on the table was thick.
Neither officer moved at first.
Then Sugimoto removed his hand from the file.
“The victim was collecting from Inko Midoriya,” he said.
“Hisashi Midoriya’s wife.” Rampart opened the folder.
A hospital identification photograph was clipped to the first page.
Inko stared back at him.
“She killed Daichi?” “The report doesn’t state who fired.” “Who else was present?” “Another woman and two children.” “Names?” “Redacted.
They’re minors.” Rampart continued reading.
One shot.
Immediate fatality.
The weapon belonged to Daichi.
No evidence that either adult had brought a gun.
His gaze returned to Inko’s photograph.
“A frightened woman can surprise you,” he said.
Officer Sugimoto looked away.
“We included the address listed on her records.” Rampart found it near the back of the file.
He memorised it.
“You were never here,” the older officer said.
Rampart closed the folder.
“You never saw me.” By the time he left the station, his public smile had returned.
He stopped outside to answer questions from waiting reporters.
When asked about public trust in local law enforcement, he praised the police for their tireless work.
That evening, while Inko and Izuku slept beneath hospital lights, Rampart stood outside the Midoriya apartment.
He did not wear his costume.
A dark coat concealed his build.
A cap shadowed his face.
Two members of his organisation waited beside the stairwell.
One produced a narrow tool.
The lock opened in less than a minute.
They entered without switching on the lights.
Rampart moved slowly through the apartment.
The living room was small and tidy.
A mug remained beside the sink.
Several medical documents lay on the table.
One of his men searched the main bedroom.
“Looks like she left quickly.” “She was attacked,” Rampart replied.
“People rarely pack neatly afterwards.” He found a framed photograph on the shelf.
Inko stood beside a man Rampart recognised from the loan records.
Hisashi Midoriya.
Between them was a green-haired baby.
Rampart lifted the frame.
“She has a child.” “The report said two kids were there,” one of the men said.
Rampart set the photograph down.
He crossed the hallway and opened the smaller bedroom.
All Might watched him from every wall.
Figures covered the shelves.
Hero notebooks were stacked beside the desk.
A pair of small pyjamas lay folded beneath the pillow.
On the desk sat a drawing of two children in hero costumes.
One had ash-blond hair and explosions bursting from his hands.
The other had green hair, three capes and a smile almost as wide as All Might’s.
Beneath them, written in uneven letters, were the words: KACCHAN AND IZUKU.
NUMBER ONE HEROES.
“Izuku,” Rampart said.
The name settled into the room.
His brother had entered an alley expecting one frightened woman.
Instead, he had found a family.
One of the men looked around.
“What do you want us to take?” “Nothing.” “Nothing?” “She cannot know we were here.” Rampart examined the window latch, the bedroom doors and the narrow hallway leading to the entrance.
He learned the apartment’s shape.
He noticed which floorboards creaked.
He learned where Inko slept.
He learned where her son slept.
Before leaving, he placed the drawing exactly where he had found it.
“Watch the hospital,” he said.
“Then watch the Bakugou house.” “For how long?” Rampart looked once more at Izuku’s All Might poster.
“As long as it takes for them to feel safe.”