By the second day, Izuku no longer knew whether he was travelling towards Auntie Mitsuki or away from her.
He tried to use tall buildings as landmarks.
They changed whenever he turned a corner.
He tried following buses because buses went to familiar places.
Each one disappeared before he could read its sign.
He tried asking his mother.
She walked beside him sometimes.
Not the mother from the apartment, with blood running from her eyes and her hair twisting around her head.
This Inko wore her green cardigan.
She carried her handbag and smiled patiently while Izuku struggled to keep up.
“This way,” she would say.
Izuku followed.
Then he blinked, and she was gone.
Once, she led him into the middle of a road.
A lorry horn roared.
Someone seized the back of his shirt and pulled him onto the pavement.
The vehicle rushed past close enough for the wind to throw his hair across his face.
A woman stood over him.
She had four eyes and a wide mouth extending almost to her ears.
“What were you doing?” Izuku screamed.
He kicked free and ran.
“Wait!
You nearly died!” He did not stop.
The woman’s face followed him for several streets, appearing in windows and beneath parked cars.
Sometimes it became Rampart’s.
Sometimes it became Daichi’s.
Sometimes it had his mother’s blood-red eyes.
Izuku began looking only at the ground.
Feet were easier than faces.
Work shoes.
Trainers.
Heavy boots.
Wheels belonging to people whose Quirks had replaced their legs.
Clawed feet.
Hooves.
If he watched the ground, he could see when someone changed direction towards him.
He could run before they reached him.
His stomach hurt constantly.
At first, the pain had been sharp.
By afternoon, it became a hollow pulling sensation, as though something inside him was trying to eat its way out.
He found a convenience store and stood outside watching people buy food.
Rice balls.
Bread.
Hot noodles.
The smell made him dizzy.
A basket of discounted food stood near the entrance.
Izuku waited until the cashier looked away.
He stepped inside.
The automatic doors opened with a cheerful chime.
Every person in the shop looked towards him.
At least, it felt that way.
Izuku approached the basket.
He reached for a packet of bread.
A hand closed around his wrist.
“What do you think you’re doing?” The cashier was young, with blue skin and dark ridges above his eyes.
Izuku dropped the bread.
“I’m sorry.” “You paying for that?” He shook his head.
“Then put it back.” “I’m hungry.” “Not my problem.” The cashier looked towards the dirty pyjamas, bare feet and bruises.
For a moment, his expression softened.
Then a customer spoke from the counter.
“Careful.
Street kids work in groups.” Another customer nodded.
“One distracts you while the others steal.” “I’m not stealing,” Izuku whispered.
“You had the food in your hand.” The cashier released him.
“Get out.” Izuku looked at the bread.
His mother bought that kind sometimes.
It had red bean paste inside.
“Please.” “I said out.” Izuku ran through the automatic doors.
The cheerful chime followed him onto the street.
He made it behind the building before his legs gave way.
He sat beside the outdoor machines, drew his knees to his chest and tried not to cry.
Heroes did not steal.
Villains stole.
Izuku had almost stolen food.
He had already killed someone.
Perhaps Rampart had been right.
Perhaps heroes had to make difficult choices, and Izuku had simply made the wrong ones.
A paper bag dropped beside him.
Izuku flinched.
A teenage girl stood several steps away.
Two small horns curved from her forehead, and patterned scales covered one side of her face.
She wore the convenience-store uniform.
“I have to throw those away,” she said.
Izuku stared at the bag.
“Why?” “Expired.” “Are they bad?” “Not yet.” Inside were two rice balls, a carton of juice and a sweet bun.
The girl glanced towards the shop door.
“My manager says we’re not allowed to give them out.” “Why?” “Because then people might wait for food instead of buying it.” Izuku did not understand.
Hungry people waiting for unwanted food seemed sensible.
The girl pushed the bag closer with her shoe.
“I didn’t give you anything.” “Thank you.” “You didn’t see me.” Izuku nodded.
The girl turned to leave.
“Wait.” She looked back.
“Why do you have scales?” Her shoulders stiffened.
“It’s my Quirk.” “They’re pretty.” The girl stared at him.
Then she smiled, very slightly.
“Eat before someone takes it.” Izuku devoured the first rice ball in four bites.
The second took longer because his stomach began cramping.
He saved half the sweet bun.
His mother would need something when she found him.
He wrapped it carefully and placed it inside his pyjama pocket.
The carton of juice reminded him of breakfast at home.
For one second, he saw Inko sitting across the table, warning him not to use imaginary lasers in the kitchen.
He squeezed the carton too hard.
Juice spilled over his fingers.
“Mum?” The wall remained empty.
Izuku cried without making noise.
He had learned that loud children attracted attention.
Late that afternoon, rain began to fall.
Izuku sheltered beneath the entrance of a closed office building.
Across the road, several people stood in front of a temporary shelter.
A large sign displayed rules in bright lettering.
NO ACTIVE QUIRK USE.
NO LARGE MUTATION TYPES.
IDENTIFICATION REQUIRED.
A woman with wide moth-like wings argued with the person at the entrance.
“I can fold them.” “You exceed the width restriction.” “My daughter is inside.” “You need to use the mutation facility in the eastern district.” “That’s an hour away.” “Those are the rules.” The woman looked through the glass doors.
A small winged child pressed both hands against the other side.
“Mama!” The guard closed the blinds.
Izuku waited for a hero to intervene.
A hero passed along the opposite pavement.
He wore silver armour and carried a long spear.
People moved aside to let him through.
The moth woman called to him.
“Sir!
Please!” The hero looked at the shelter sign.
“It’s private property.
I can’t interfere with their entry policy.” “My child is inside.” “Contact the appropriate service.” He continued walking.
Izuku watched until the hero disappeared.
Rules had always seemed important before.
Heroes followed rules.
Doctors followed rules.
Police followed rules.
The rules had said the doctor did not have to test him.
The rules allowed the shelter to keep a mother away from her child.
Perhaps bad things became good when someone wrote them on a sign.
The moth woman sank onto the pavement.
Her wings drooped into the rain.
Izuku crossed the road.
He did not know why.
He stopped beside her and offered the half bun from his pocket.
It had become slightly crushed.
The woman looked at him.
“You should eat that.” “I saved it for my mum.” “Where is she?” Izuku looked towards the road.
“She’s coming.” The woman studied his bruised face and dirty clothes.
Then she broke the bun in half.
“You keep some.” Izuku accepted the smaller piece.
They ate beneath the rain.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
He almost answered Deku.
Something stopped him.
“Izuku.” “I’m Hana.” “My auntie’s called Mitsuki.” “Do you know where she lives?” “Yes.” “Where?” Izuku opened his mouth.
He knew the street.
He had known it before.
There was a bakery, a shrine and a green awning.
The name of the road had vanished.
“I forgot.” Hana folded one wing around him, creating a thin shelter from the rain.
“Do you know her telephone number?” Izuku shook his head.
“Your family name?” “Midoriya.” Hana became very still.
She had seen the morning reports.
Everyone had.
The news had shown the damaged apartment and a photograph of Inko Midoriya.
The presenter had said a mother and child were presumed dead.
Hana looked at the boy beside her.
Green hair.
Green eyes.
A bruise across his cheek.
“Midoriya Izuku?” He flinched at his full name.
“How do you know?” Hana reached slowly for her telephone.
Izuku saw the movement.
Rampart had known his name.
The men had used telephones to find his mother.
He scrambled away.
“I’m trying to help,” Hana said.
“No!” She rose.
“I can call your auntie.” “You’ll call the hero.” “What hero?” “The one who hurt Mum.” Hana froze.
Izuku ran into the rain.
She called after him.
He slipped between two cars, crossed the road and disappeared into an underground pedestrian tunnel before she could follow.
Inside, the tunnel lights flickered.
Every footstep echoed.
Izuku slowed.
The walls were covered in graffiti.
Some showed hero symbols crossed out in red paint.
Others contained words he could not read.
A group of teenagers sat near the far exit.
One had a bird’s beak.
Another had green scales covering both arms.
The third looked almost ordinary except for six fingers on each hand.
They watched Izuku approach.
“That kid alone?” one asked.
Izuku turned around.
Another figure had entered behind him.
A man in a brown coat.
He was not one of Rampart’s underlings.
Izuku did not know that.
The man smiled.
“You lost, little guy?” Izuku backed towards the wall.
The teenagers stood.
“Leave him alone,” the beaked boy said.
The man raised his hands.
“Just helping.” “He doesn’t want your help.” The six-fingered girl stepped between Izuku and the stranger.
The man looked at the teenagers, muttered something about mutants and left through the opposite exit.
Izuku stared at them.
The green-scaled boy crouched.
“You got somewhere to go?” Izuku nodded.
It was easier than explaining.
“Then why are you in the tunnel?” “I’m going there.” “Right.” The girl removed her jacket.
“You’re shaking.” “I’m not cold.” He was freezing.
She placed the jacket around his shoulders anyway.
Izuku tried to return it.
“Keep it until you’re dry.” “Why?” The teenagers exchanged glances.
The girl shrugged.
“Because someone should.” The answer stayed with him.
Someone should.
Heroes should have helped Hana.
Doctors should have listened to his mother.
Police should have stopped Rampart.
His father should have come home.
Everyone knew what they should do.
The people helping Izuku were those sleeping in alleys, breaking shelter rules and giving away food they were meant to throw out.
The teenagers shared a packet of crisps with him.
They did not ask his name again.
When the rain weakened, Izuku left the tunnel wearing the oversized jacket.
He walked until the sky became dark.
That night, he hid beneath a playground climbing frame.
The park had no families after midnight.
The swings moved in the wind.
Chains squeaked.
Izuku curled inside the plastic tunnel slide and tried to sleep.
His mother found him there.
She crawled inside, green hair falling around her face.
“You went the wrong way,” she said.
“I’m sorry.” “Auntie is waiting.” “I can’t find her.” “You have to run.” “My feet hurt.” “Run.” “I’m tired.” “Run.” “Come with me.” Blood began filling her eyes.
“I can’t keep running.” “Run.” Izuku woke screaming.
The playground was empty.
Someone stood beyond the fence.
A man smoking beneath an umbrella.
Izuku stopped breathing.
The man lowered his telephone.
Then he spoke into it.
“I found him.” Izuku ran.
Mitsuki sat at Inko’s kitchen table while police officers searched the surviving parts of the apartment.
The building had been declared structurally unsafe, but Mitsuki had refused to remain outside.
A rescue helmet sat crooked on her head.
Masaru stood beside her.
The framed photograph of Inko, Hisashi and baby Izuku lay cracked on the table.
Mitsuki held Izuku’s drawing in both hands.
KACCHAN AND IZUKU.
NUMBER ONE HEROES.
The letters blurred.
Detective Mori entered through what remained of the hallway.
“We need to leave.” “You haven’t finished.” “The forensic team has.” “Then where are the bodies?” “Mitsuki.” “I want to see them.” Masaru placed a hand on her shoulder.
She shook it off.
“If you’re telling me my best friend and her child are dead, I want to see them.” “The remains are not in a condition…” “Don’t.” Her voice broke.
“Don’t speak about them like they’re things.” Detective Mori crouched beside the table.
“The identifications are preliminary.” Mitsuki looked up.
“Preliminary?” “We have one confirmed adult victim.
The second recovery is incomplete.” “Then you don’t know it’s Izuku.” “Officer Sugimoto’s report…” “I don’t care about his report.” Mori’s face tightened.
Neither did he.
Sugimoto had filed the second-body confirmation before the forensic examiner completed an assessment.
When Mori challenged it, his superior had ordered him to stop wasting resources on a case with no surviving victim.
Something was wrong.
He could feel it.
But suspicion was not evidence.
“Mitsuki,” he said carefully, “did Izuku know how to reach your house?” “Yes.” “Could he have left the building?” Her breath caught.
“You said he was dead.” “I’m asking whether he knew the route.” “He’s four.” “That isn’t an answer.” “Yes.
He knew it.” “Has anyone searched the route?” Mitsuki stood so quickly that the chair fell.
“No.” Detective Mori looked towards the officers in the hallway.
“Why not?” Because the system listed Izuku Midoriya as deceased.
Because no missing-child alert had been issued.
Because one report had transformed a living boy into a body no one needed to find.
Mitsuki pushed past Mori.
“Where are you going?” Masaru asked.
“To look.” “The police…” “The police stopped looking before they started.” She reached the ruined doorway.
Then she turned back towards Detective Mori.
“If he is alive and you let someone convince this city he isn’t, I will tear your department apart with my hands.” Mori believed her.
Mitsuki and Masaru searched until dawn.
They checked the bakery.
The little shrine.
The playground.
Every road between their house and the apartment building.
They showed Izuku’s photograph to taxi drivers, shopkeepers and people waiting at bus stops.
They found no trace of him.
At sunrise, Katsuki joined them despite Masaru’s objections.
He carried one of Izuku’s hero notebooks beneath his arm.
“Deku will come if he sees this,” he insisted.
He shouted Izuku’s name until his voice became hoarse.
No one told him to stop.
That morning, a patrol officer received a report from a winged woman who claimed she had spoken to a child named Midoriya Izuku.
The report was marked as a probable mistake.
Officer Sugimoto deleted it before Detective Mori saw it.