Chapter 4: The Ghost and the Mouse
Consciousness returned slowly, like a flame reluctant to rekindle.
Sound first. A low, persistent hum, fluorescent lights. Then the smell: air-conditioning recycled too many times, disinfectant far too strong. Finally, the uncomfortable sensation of something cold and rigid encircling his wrists.
Handcuffs.
Emiya opened his eyes unhurriedly. No urgency, no start. Just calculated acceptance. He was sitting at a metal table; the harsh white light cast unflattering shadows on his too-young face. Four pale walls, a reinforced door, and a mirror that screamed surveillance.
He let out a slow sigh.
It wasn't fear. It was irritation.
Defeated...
The word echoed in his mind with a bitter taste.
Defeated by an ordinary human.
Not by superior magic. Not by overwhelming power. Not by brilliant strategy.
Capture cloth.
His jaw tightened slightly as he analyzed the memory itself. The exact moment the fabric had wrapped around his body, restricting his movements, nullifying any chance for an effective reaction.
Still... his lips curved into a half-smile.
I admit it. It was well executed.
The door opened.
Aizawa entered without announcing his presence, as if the room were just another space in his exhausting routine. Fatigue seemed to be part of him, not as weakness, but as a permanent characteristic. Disheveled hair, deep eyebags, posture too relaxed for someone who held authority. Still, there was something alert beneath that sloppy appearance.
He dropped a folder onto the table with a dry thud and sat down across from Emiya. The discreet scrape of the chair broke the silence before it could fully settle.
Then, stillness.
Emiya's gaze swept over the hero from head to toe in a quick, almost automatic analysis. Luckily for him, Aizawa wasn't activating his Quirk-erasing ability at that moment. That made the environment... less restrictive.
His eyes inevitably fixed on the capture cloth wrapped around the man's shoulders.
And the information came.
Materials.
Internal structure.
Manufacturing process.
Usage history.
They weren't simple fabrics. They were composed of special metal alloys, treated and woven in an unusual way, flexible as cloth, resistant as steel. That explained the anomalous movements, the almost serpentine precision, and the absurd resistance they'd shown during the confrontation.
As I thought.
If he had analyzed those tools before the fight, traced their composition, understood their structural limits, the outcome would most likely have been different.
But conjectures didn't change facts.
And dwelling on it now would just be a waste of energy.
Aizawa watched him. Not with idle curiosity, but with clinical attention. Like someone dismantling something piece by piece with just a look.
Ah... so that's how he plays.
Emiya realized it too quickly. That relaxed posture was a disguise. Aizawa was analyzing micro-expressions, posture, breathing rhythm.
Interesting.
"So you're the famous Ghost of the Night," Aizawa finally said, his voice low, drawling, devoid of surprise.
Emiya raised an eyebrow, deliberately exaggerated.
"Famous?" he tilted his head slightly. "I'm flattered. But I prefer 'misunderstood.' Sounds more tragic."
No reaction. Aizawa opened the folder and went through the papers.
Photographs. Reports. Dates.
"Nearly twenty criminals incapacitated in the last few weeks," he said. "Some with fractures. One hospitalized in serious condition."
He closed the folder with a sharp snap.
"Does that also fall under 'misunderstood'?"
"I'd call it efficiency," Emiya replied with a lazy smile. He made a point of leaning back in his chair, making the handcuffs clink. "Or would you prefer I wait politely while crime happens?"
Aizawa's eyes narrowed a millimeter. Subtle. Almost imperceptible.
Got you.
"You think you get to decide what justice is," the hero said.
Emiya tilted his face, feigning thought.
"No," he replied. "I just find it curious that someone has to do the job you all sell so well."
The silence that followed hung heavy in the air.
"How old are you?" Aizawa asked, changing his approach.
"Old enough to know the system is flawed," came the prompt reply.
"And young enough to believe you can fix it alone."
Emiya laughed softly.
"You talk as if you don't do the exact same thing," he said, his eyes gleaming with provocation. "You chase criminals at night, use selective violence... the only difference is that you have a title and a PR team."
Aizawa didn't respond immediately.
He watched.
He calculated.
He's trying to measure me through my speech, Emiya realized. He wants to know if I'm an idealist, a rebel, or just reckless.
He decided not to make it easy.
"Trying to understand me?" he asked suddenly, his smile sharp. "Sorry, hero. I usually charge for analysis sessions."
Aizawa sighed.
"The difference," he finally said, leaning forward, "is that I learned the price of acting alone."
There was something in that tone. Something lived-in. A weariness that couldn't be faked.
For a brief moment, Emiya's sarcasm faltered.
...I see.
But he didn't yield.
"And I learned the price of not acting," he countered, more quietly.
Aizawa stared at him for long seconds.
"What do you hope to gain from this?" he asked. "Glory? Revenge? Redemption?"
Emiya shrugged.
"Nothing so grand," he said, a crooked smile appearing. "Just doing something that isn't useless."
The hero studied him with renewed attention, posture too controlled, gaze too sharp, irony used as armor. A boy who didn't seem like a boy.
The moment was interrupted by the sound of the door opening again. Both looked to the side.
A figure entered. An imposing presence even before one could see their face. The sound of firm footsteps echoed on the polished floor, and for an instant, the very air seemed to change density.
Aizawa stood without a word. The room's cold light reflected off the figure's discreet smile.
"I see our guest is awake," said the voice, calm and authoritative. "We have much to discuss."
Emiya looked up and, for the first time since waking, the expression on his face faltered, and the air left his lungs as he saw the figure approaching.
The figure that entered the room was peculiar even by hero standards. Small, shorter than the table, but with a presence that seemed to fill the entire space. An anthropomorphic being, resembling a rodent, a mix of mouse and bear, dressed in an immaculate suit, with bright eyes and a gentle smile that didn't exactly inspire comfort.
"A pleasure, my name is Nezu. I will be conducting the interrogation from now on."
"Nezu entered the room unhurriedly, closing the door with a soft click that seemed to echo longer than necessary. He walked to the desk with short, steady steps, climbed onto the chair with practiced naturalness and, once settled, opened the dark leather folder. From inside emerged a stack of papers too thick to be casual.
Emiya watched, still caught in a remnant of surprise. He had inhabited this world long enough not to be startled by animal-featured figures; still, the sight of a rat impeccably dressed in a suit, speaking with academic politeness, bordered on the absurd. It was comical, excessively comical.
He let out a low laugh, leaning back in his chair with calculated disdain. It wasn't a spontaneous reaction, it was a choice. A light mask, youthful, almost insolent.
Aizawa shot him a hard look, but Nezu didn't seem to notice. Or perhaps he noticed too much.
"Shirou Yaoyorozu, 14 years old, birthday October 20th..." Nezu began, his voice soft, almost musical. "75 kg, 1.77 m tall, blood type AB positive. Exemplary school record."
Each piece of information was pronounced with methodical precision, as if he were assembling a puzzle in front of the very subject of the image.
Emiya rested his chin on his hand, feigning boredom. Internally, however, he cataloged every detail: the rhythm of speech, the strategic pauses, the way Nezu didn't just look at the paper, but at him, always at him.
"Impressive," he commented, with a crooked smile. "Getting personal data and academic history like that... almost seems like an invasion of privacy."
Nezu didn't respond. He simply took out another sheet.
"Vocational choice form. First option: head chef." He paused briefly, letting out a low laugh. "In professions you wouldn't like to pursue... hero. Curious, isn't it?"
Emiya kept his lazy smile, but his eyes, for a second too brief to be childish, became analytical.
"Third-year paper: 'The Problems with the Superhero Profession and Why It's a Model Doomed to Fail.'" His eyes met the boy's for an instant. "I admit I read it more than once. A fascinating synthesis. A surprisingly mature structural analysis." He tilted his head. "Where did that come from?"
There was curiosity there. But also something finer. A needle trying to find cracks.
Emiya shrugged.
"The internet. Too much reading is bad for you, they say."
The answer was too simple. Too young.
Nezu didn't seem convinced.
Another sheet slid to the top of the pile.
"Report on the excursion to hero agencies. Curiously, Shirou Yaoyorozu was absent from all of them."
Document after document, Nezu unraveled a meticulous portrait of Emiya, his data, his choices, his declared antipathy towards the hero system. The intentions were as transparent as glass. Still, Emiya remained indifferent; he had no interest whatsoever in participating in the mental game the rodent conducted with such delight.
At the end of the reading, Nezu looked up.
"I believe things are quite clear, aren't they, young Yaoyorozu?"
Emiya sighed, bored.
"Aside from the fact that a creepy old guy with a rodent face has a pile of personal information about a minor, I really don't know what you're getting at."
Aizawa pressed his lips together, about to reprimand him, but Nezu's light laugh interrupted any intervention.
"I admit your point is valid." The smile remained. "However, what really matters is understanding why the heir to such a wealthy family, who clearly rejects the idea of being a hero, secretly acts as one in the shadows of the night."
Emiya crossed his arms, feigning reflection.
"Who knows."
Aizawa stepped forward, patience exhausted, but Nezu raised his hand with contained elegance.
"Shota, could you leave us alone?"
The teacher hesitated. Apprehension crossed his gaze, he knew both were dangerous in their own way. Still, he took a deep breath and left.
The door closed.
Nezu began gathering the old papers and took out a new stack from the folder.
"Are you sure you want to send the guy with the eyebags away?" Emiya taunted. "Technically, I'm a dangerous criminal. He was your security."
Nezu let out a little laugh.
"Shota is reliable, but temperamental." He adjusted the documents. "And you shouldn't underestimate me, young Yaoyorozu."
The confident smile contrasted with his diminutive stature and almost harmless appearance. Emiya laughed softly.
"If you say so."
Without looking away, Nezu continued:
"Let's get back to the point."
Nezu pulled out a specific sheet.
"Intervention in the southern district. Three armed criminals. You disarmed the first with a controlled radius fracture. Neutralized the second with a dislocated shoulder. The third suffered a mild concussion." The principal leaned forward. "Efficient movements. Economical. Without hesitation."
His eyes gleamed slightly.
"Where does a teenager learn that?"
The silence that followed was heavy.
Emiya held his gaze. Inside, he recalled trainings that didn't belong to this life. He recalled pain. Repetition. Failure. Correction. Survival.
But all he showed was a yawn.
"Videos on the internet are pretty educational these days."
Nezu didn't smile this time.
"Interesting. Because your movement patterns suggest real experience. Not just theoretical practice." A pause. "Experience under risk."
There it was.
The search for vulnerability. For a slip.
"The central question is: why would someone like you, raised in privilege and elite education, fight crime in the shadows?"
Emiya replied without changing his expression.
"That's a dramatic way of putting it. Let's just say I got tired of the uselessness of certain heroes... and decided to take some trash off the streets."
Nezu organized each word as he organized his papers.
"So the problem is your dissatisfaction with the current system?" he pondered. "For someone your age, it's a surprising stance."
Emiya held his gaze.
"I find it more surprising that everyone seems so satisfied. I don't know if it's indoctrination... or conformism."
Nezu was unfazed.
"A forceful opinion. Few demonstrate anything similar." He put away part of the documents. "Not that I disagree entirely. The system does have flaws, yes. Still, thanks to it, we live in an unprecedented period of peace and stability."
For a second, Emiya remained still. The next, he burst into laughter.
"Sorry... but do you really believe that?"
Nezu leaned forward, intrigued.
"What are you getting at?"
Emiya could have discoursed on the fragility of that peace, built on idolatry and spectacle, sustained by the glamorization of organizations and institutions, and not by deep structural reforms, legal, legislative, socioeconomic, capable of supporting both the exceptional and the vulnerable.
But technically, he was just a kid in front of an adult, or whatever Nezu was, so it was better to act like a kid who didn't fully understand the world.
"Well... heroes aren't everywhere." He made a calculated pause. "And some don't seem to care. Meanwhile, criminals keep showing up."
Nezu sighed, disappointed by the simplicity of the answer, yet still smiling.
"So your revolt stems from dissatisfaction with the system?"
"Nothing so complex." Emiya stretched. "Let's say I was bored."
Nezu blinked.
"You risk your life fighting dangerous criminals... for fun?"
Emiya didn't even turn his head.
"Maybe. Who knows?"
Resting his face on his hand, he watched Nezu from the corner of his eye. It was unsettling. No matter how cynical or provocative he was, the principal's smile remained unshakable, cordial, almost affectionate.
To anyone else, Nezu would seem just an eccentric, harmless creature.
But Emiya saw beyond the mask.
And what he glimpsed behind those small, bright eyes was anything but comical.
Nezu remained silent for a few seconds after Emiya's last response. It wasn't an empty silence, it was evaluative. His small, bright eyes scanned the boy with the attention of a scientist facing a rare specimen.
Then, as if he had just remembered something trivial, he rested his chin on his hands and smiled.
"You know, there's something curious about you, young Yaoyorozu."
His tone was light. Relaxed. Almost casual.
Emiya didn't respond. He merely raised an eyebrow slightly.
"You're... too mature." Nezu tilted his head. "Not just intelligent. Not just critical. Mature. Like someone who has already seen too much. Like someone much older than you appear to be."
The air seemed to thin for an instant.
Emiya maintained his relaxed posture, but his body reacted before he could stop it: a minimal contraction in his jaw muscles. A microsecond of stiffness in his shoulders.
Nezu saw it.
"Your mannerisms," the director continued, almost laughing, "the way you measure your words, how you avoid answering directly, how you observe people before reacting... These aren't common habits in adolescents. They're survival habits."
He placed his paws on the desk.
"And there's more. Your indifference. Your antipathy towards this society. It doesn't sound like teenage rebellion. It sounds like... displacement. Like you're watching everything from the outside."
A playful gleam crossed his eyes.
"Sometimes I get the impression that you don't belong to this world."
He said it as if it were a joke.
As if he were commenting on the weather.
But it wasn't.
Emiya felt his blood run cold.
How did he...?
His gaze remained bored, but inside, thoughts spun with alarming precision. Had he been careless? A gesture? A word? A look held too long?
Nezu kept smiling.
"Don't get me wrong," he added. "It's fascinating. A kid who looks at an entire social structure as if he were analyzing a failed experiment."
The silence stretched.
Then Nezu's smile softened, but his eyes became firmer.
"Please, take me seriously now."
The lightness disappeared just enough to reveal intention.
"Your mask of cynicism and sarcasm isn't fooling me." He leaned in a little more. "Who are you when you're not performing?"
The question hung in the air.
Emiya held his gaze.
Throughout the conversation, he had joked. Deflected. Provoked. Acted like a teenager too bored to care.
But now, for the first time, he didn't answer immediately.
Nezu noticed.
"Tell me," he insisted, more quietly, "what is your true motivation?"
Emiya closed his eyes for a brief moment.
He sighed.
When he opened them again, there was no irritation. No irony. No challenge.
There was emptiness.
"There is a motivation, yes," he said, his voice flat. "I saw a problem."
No emotion crossed his features.
"And I had the tools to deal with it."
Simple.
Direct.
No drama.
Nezu blinked, genuinely surprised by the sudden frankness.
"Just that?"
"Just that."
The director slowly leaned back in his chair.
"Do you realize that's... essentially heroism?"
An almost invisible corner of Emiya's mouth moved.
"No."
"No?" Nezu seemed genuinely curious now.
"I didn't save anyone for justice. Or for an ideal. Or for altruism." His voice remained cold. "I did it because it bothered me. I did it because I could. I did it for myself."
There was no anger in the statement. No pride.
Just acknowledgment.
Nezu crossed his paws.
"Still, your actions helped people."
"Side effect."
The silence that followed was so absurd that, for a moment, it seemed like a comedic pause.
Then Nezu laughed.
A genuine laugh, clear, almost joyful.
"And you believe that?" he asked, wiping away an imaginary tear. "Do you really believe all of this was just... personal convenience?"
Emiya shrugged.
"You're free to believe whatever you want." His eyes lost any trace of lightness. "I couldn't care less about the opinion of whatever you are."
The phrase was said without provocation. Without explicit disdain.
Which made it even sharper.
Nezu wasn't offended.
Quite the contrary.
His eyes gleamed with something between fascination and challenge.
"How interesting..." he murmured.
Because, there before him, was someone who vehemently denied what was evident in every action.
Someone who acted to protect, but refused the label.
Someone who saved lives and called it personal inconvenience.
And, above all, someone who carried a weariness that didn't match his age.
The silence that settled after Nezu's last words wasn't heavy; it was curious.
Emiya held his gaze for a few seconds, then looked away, bored.
"Alright," he said finally, resting his elbows on the table. "Can we stop wasting time now?"
Nezu tilted his head slightly.
"Oh?"
"Am I going to be arrested or not?"
The question was direct. Cold. Objective.
No sarcasm this time.
Nezu let out a short little laugh, almost too delicate for the situation.
"Arrested?" he repeated, as if the idea amused him. "My young man, I am not a law enforcement officer."
Emiya frowned.
"Then what exactly are you?"
Nezu spread his arms with almost theatrical animation.
"Me? Well... I am none other than the principal of the prestigious U.A."
The smile widened.
"The country's main hero training institution."
For a second, Emiya just blinked.
The surprise was real. And irritating.
"...Are you telling me," he began, his voice laced with contained sarcasm, "that I was brought here, interrogated for hours, analyzed like a laboratory specimen... by a simple school principal?"
He paused.
"And on top of that, the principal of U.A.?"
Nezu wasn't offended.
"Although what you were doing is illegal," he replied calmly, "you are still a child. And your actions, despite being reckless, seem driven by a... noble cause."
He joined his paws on the desk.
"The situation is atypical. Aizawa, as usual, could have taken you straight to the police. But he preferred to consult me. He asked for my opinion."
His eyes gleamed slightly.
"I was informed about the context. About your abilities. About your attitude. I decided to evaluate you personally before making a decision."
The irritation in Emiya grew like fire contained under ice.
He didn't let it show.
But inside, the conclusion was simple: all of that had been an evaluation. A mental game. An experiment.
Waste of time.
He leaned back in his chair.
"So what am I?" he asked, his voice sharper. "A pedagogical experiment? An interesting case study to entertain a humanoid rat with sociopathic tendencies?"
Nezu's smile didn't waver.
"And how much longer do you intend to keep me here?" Emiya continued. "Because, as far as I know, I haven't received any formal charges."
Nezu nodded slowly.
"Indeed, you haven't. Aizawa didn't file any complaint. You weren't charged, nor formally reported, despite having committed a serious misdemeanor."
He said this with disconcerting naturalness.
"And I have no intention of reporting you."
Emiya narrowed his eyes.
"How generous."
"However," Nezu continued, still in that friendly tone, "I can't simply let you leave as if nothing happened."
There it was.
The clause.
Emiya let out a controlled sigh.
"If I say I have no further intention of acting as a vigilante... will you release me?"
The question came with light irony.
Nezu leaned slightly forward.
"I believe you."
The answer was immediate.
"But things aren't that simple." His eyes became more attentive. "Actions have consequences. You've set a precedent. I can't simply..."
"Get to the point." Emiya interrupted him, impatient.
For a second, there was silence.
Then Nezu smiled.
It wasn't the calculated smile from before. Nor the scientific smile. Nor the provocative smile.
It was... sincere.
And that was what unsettled Emiya the most.
"Very well," the director said, lightly.
He interlaced his fingers.
"At the moment, young Yaoyorozu, there is only one viable alternative besides a formal report."
The pause was brief, but sufficient.
"You will enroll in U.A.'s hero course."
The air seemed to stop.
Emiya didn't move.
He didn't blink.
He didn't react.
But inside, the irritation peaked.
Hero course.
After hours of hearing his criticisms of the system. After explicitly declaring his rejection of that structure.
This couldn't be serious.
"You're joking," he said, finally, his voice dangerously calm.
"Not at all," Nezu replied. "You already act like one. You just do it without supervision, without institutional responsibility, and without proper limits."
His gaze became firmer.
"Under our guidance, your actions would have structure. Consequence. Direction."
Emiya laughed, short and dry.
"So this is the punishment? Forcing me to participate in the same system I criticized?"
"No." The smile returned. "This is the opportunity."
Nezu's eyes gleamed again, now with something close to expectation.
"You said you saw a problem and had the tools to deal with it."
He leaned slightly forward.
"U.A. can offer you better tools."
The silence that followed was different from the previous ones.
It wasn't tense.
It was decisive.
And, for the first time since he had entered that room, Emiya felt that maybe, just maybe, he was facing something he couldn't completely control.
The silence that followed the proposal seemed denser than any other in that room.
Emiya was the first to break it.
"No."
Simple. Direct. Without hesitation.
Nezu tilted his head slightly.
"No?"
"I refuse." Emiya's voice was firm now. "I've already made it clear that my actions weren't altruistic. I didn't fight for justice. I didn't fight for people. I did it because it bothered me. Because I wanted to. Pure selfishness."
He crossed his arms.
"There's no heroism in that."
Nezu observed him for a few seconds, evaluating not just the words, but the rhythm of his breathing, the invisible tension in his posture, the almost excessive control.
Then he smiled.
"I disagree."
Emiya rolled his eyes.
"Of course you disagree."
"You're not just altruistic," Nezu continued, ignoring the sarcasm. "Heroism is intrinsic to you. It's in your nature."
The word was spoken with conviction.
"It's rare. Extremely rare. Even among professional heroes."
Emiya let out a short laugh.
Intrinsic.
Nature.
If only it were that simple.
In thought, he recognized something uncomfortable: there was, yes, within him, a latent desire to help. An automatic impulse in the face of suffering. An almost compulsive inclination to intervene.
But that wasn't his.
Not truly.
It was an echo. A remnant. A scar from who he had been before.
A mechanism to fill the void.
Not heroism.
Never heroism.
"You're mistaken," he said, finally. "You're seeing something that seems bigger than it really is."
For a single moment, as he spoke, something escaped.
It wasn't an expression. Nor a gesture.
It was absence.
A vast, silent emptiness behind his eyes.
Nezu saw it.
And, for the first time since the conversation had begun, the smile disappeared.
Just for a second.
There was something there that didn't match youth. Or arrogance. Or rebellion.
Deep melancholy.
Disconnection.
Ancient loneliness.
Before Emiya could notice, the smile returned, light, controlled.
"I'm not mistaken," Nezu said softly. "And no matter how much you deny it, this is in you."
Emiya sighed, tired.
Arguing about it was useless.
"And what difference does that make?" he asked. "Are you only this insistent because of this fantasy of 'intrinsic heroism'?"
Nezu placed his paws on the desk.
"Partly, yes."
The tone was honest.
"But not just that. You have potential. Great potential." His eyes gleamed again. "Someone like you could make a real difference in the future."
Emiya tilted his head, bored.
"Even if, by some miracle, I accepted becoming a hero... I'd just be another one. The market is saturated. Hundreds of professionals. Rankings. Agencies. Sponsorships." His gaze turned cold. "In the long run, there would be no real change. No matter how strong I was or how striking at the start."
Nezu surprisingly nodded.
"I agree... in part."
Emiya raised an eyebrow.
"Much of what you say is biased, of course," the director continued. "But there is, yes, a way to make a true, lasting impact."
A different gleam appeared in his eyes.
"And I could help you with that."
Curiosity.
It was only that which made Emiya ask:
"How?"
Nezu smiled.
"Become All Might's successor."
The sentence fell into the room like a stone into still water.
"A new Symbol of Peace."
Emiya was silent.
One second.
Two.
And then he began to laugh.
It wasn't a light laugh. It was a frank, disbelieving guffaw.
"Did you actually read my files?" he asked between laughs. "Because if you did, you know exactly what I think of symbols."
"I know," Nezu replied calmly. "Not every symbol represents artificial stability. Some represent change."
Emiya kept laughing.
"And why, exactly, would All Might need a successor?" he asked, still finding it absurd. "Isn't he perfect? Invincible? Unshakable?"
Nezu didn't laugh.
"He is strong." The answer came simply. "But he won't be here forever."
The tone lost its lightness.
"And when he's gone, he'll leave a void."
A pause.
"A dangerous void."
Emiya's laughter ceased.
"That void has weight," he replied, serious now. "Too much weight for anyone to bear." His eyes fixed on Nezu. "Isn't it a bit too manipulative for an educator to try to place that kind of burden on a child?"
Nezu nodded.
"It is."
The honest answer momentarily disarmed the tension.
"And that's precisely why I insist on you." His eyes became firm. "You are strong."
The irony hit Emiya like a distant echo.
In his past life, he had carried countless weights. Alone. Without anyone asking.
Now, in this new life, there was someone looking directly at him and asking him to carry another.
This time, consciously.
He looked away.
"I'm not that strong."
Nezu smiled again, wider this time.
"That's not a problem."
Emiya looked back at him.
"Because succeeding All Might doesn't just mean inheriting his responsibilities."
Curiosity returned.
"What does that mean?"
Nezu maintained his smile.
"It means you could inherit... his strength too."
The silence that followed was absolute.
It was too much information.
Successor.
Symbol.
Inheriting strength.
The way Nezu spoke didn't seem metaphorical. It didn't seem symbolic.
It was too literal.
And that wasn't a conversation one had lightly.
Who was that damn rat to negotiate something like that? To talk about All Might's future with such naturalness?
Too many questions.
Insufficient answers.
But deep down, none of that mattered.
After a few seconds, Emiya spoke.
"No."
Nezu opened his mouth to argue.
Emiya raised his hand, interrupting him.
"I'm not interested. Not in the position. Not in the symbol. Not in the strength."
His tone was calm.
Decided.
"I never considered your offer. I only kept listening out of curiosity."
Nezu still tried:
"Young Yaoyorozu, you—"
"No."
The word was definitive.
There was no room for negotiation.
No hesitation.
If Nezu expected ambition to seduce him, or the promise of power to tempt him, he had miscalculated.
Emiya didn't refuse out of fear.
He refused because, from the beginning, that had never been a real possibility in his mind.
And, despite the smile still present on Nezu's face, for the first time in that conversation, the game seemed to have hit an impasse.
Nezu remained silent for a few seconds after the definitive refusal.
Then he nodded.
"I understand your position."
The pause was brief.
"Still... regardless of any personal ambition, you will have to enroll in U.A."
Emiya slowly raised his eyes.
"I already said I'm not interested." His tone was dry. "I don't see why that would be necessary."
The principal's smile didn't waver.
"Because your situation is still delicate."
"Stop beating around the bush," Emiya interrupted. "Get to the point."
Nezu crossed his paws on the desk.
"You committed a crime. You were caught red-handed by a professional hero in the line of duty." His voice was calm, almost didactic. "Although I don't intend to forward your file to the police... it exists."
The silence thickened.
"What I propose," he continued, "is to assume legal responsibility for your actions and apply a punishment within the pedagogical sphere, where I have control and discretion. Instead of turning this into a legal case."
He tilted his head slightly.
"At the moment, young Yaoyorozu, you have two choices. Enroll in U.A... or deal with the legal consequences."
Emiya remained motionless for a few seconds, absorbing the words.
Then he let out a slight laugh.
"Do you really believe I would be arrested?"
Nezu didn't respond immediately.
He knew the answer.
The boy before him was still the heir of the Yaoyorozu family, one of the most influential families in the country. Lawyers, political connections, economic influence. Shirou would hardly spend a single night behind bars.
"I know your family has enough influence to free you," Nezu admitted calmly.
Emiya leaned back.
"So is continuing this conversation really necessary?"
He felt no pride in using the weight of the surname he carried.
But he also wouldn't hesitate.
Tools exist to be used.
Nezu smiled again.
"Are you satisfied with that?"
Emiya raised an eyebrow.
"How would your parents react?" the director continued. "Upon learning that their son was detained for acting as a vigilante? Brutalizing criminals in the shadows?"
Emiya sighed.
"They'd be sad. Maybe disappointed." He shrugged. "It doesn't matter."
He just wanted it to end.
Nezu observed him with heightened attention.
"You're taking this too lightly." The smile persisted, but his eyes were sharp. "You're not considering the real consequences."
Emiya just stared at him, lazily.
Nezu then placed his paws on the desk and said, almost casually:
"The press would love this story."
A pause.
"'Heir of the prominent Yaoyorozu family arrested for acting as a vigilante and brutalizing suspects at night.'" His tone was almost narrative. "Headlines. Morning shows. Public debates. Maybe weeks. Perhaps months."
He tilted his head slightly.
"News like that never completely disappears."
Emiya looked at him.
"Where are you going with this?"
"Just commenting," Nezu replied with a foolish smile, "that if such information leaked, it could become a permanent stain. On your life. And on your family's reputation."
Emiya narrowed his eyes.
"And how exactly would the press have access to that?"
Nezu's smile widened slightly.
"Even with influence... legal processes are complicated. A lot of information circulates. Many employees. Many intermediaries." His eyes gleamed discreetly. "And sometimes... data falls into the wrong hands."
Understanding.
The damn rat was manipulative.
He didn't threaten directly.
He just pointed out probabilities.
Emiya almost felt like joining the game. Testing how far Nezu would go. Seeing who would back down first.
But he was tired.
"Honestly?" he replied, finally. "I don't care about something so trivial."
Nezu laughed.
"Even if you don't care about your own reputation... this would still affect your family."
Emiya didn't like the idea of causing problems for others because of his actions.
But he also wouldn't easily give in to manipulation.
"It would be unfortunate," he said coldly. "But manageable."
Nezu didn't lose his smile.
And then he played his final card.
"Besides your parents..." he began softly, "this would also affect Momo."
The name hit like an invisible impact.
Emiya didn't move.
But his eyes changed.
Almost imperceptibly.
Nezu continued:
"A complicated family history can compromise future opportunities. Recommendations. Indications." He tilted his head. "Which would be a shame. After all, your sister has been nominated for U.A. for the next school year."
Silence.
Causing problems for his parents was one thing.
Compromising Momo's future... was something else entirely.
The damn rat had found it.
His only vulnerability.
For a single instant, something dark crossed Emiya's gaze.
A simple solution presented itself in his mind.
Eliminate the problem.
Killing Nezu right there would be easy.
As easy as breathing.
Aizawa would be an obstacle, but not a real problem. Now that he understood the functioning of the capture weapon, the teacher's initial advantage had disappeared.
It was tempting.
Quick.
And effective.
But in the long run...
It would only create more chaos.
More complications.
More attention.
He took a deep breath.
Long.
Slow.
He analyzed the variables.
Pros.
Cons.
Consequences.
Enrolling in U.A. was irritating.
But inevitable.
High school was just a temporary formality.
And, at the moment, accepting was the option with the lowest strategic cost.
Emiya raised his eyes to Nezu.
"Fine."
The word came out calm.
Controlled.
"I'll enroll."
Nezu's smile didn't widen.
He just nodded, as if he already knew.
But behind the friendly expression, there was satisfaction.
Emiya held the rodent's gaze.
If he wanted a student.
If he wanted to mold him.
If he wanted a symbol.
Then he would have one.
But silently, Emiya made a promise to himself:
The rat would deeply regret having pulled him into this game.
"So we understand each other?" the principal asked, crossing his small paws on the desk.
Emiya stared at him for a few seconds. The silence was long enough to seem like a refusal.
"...I accept."
For an instant, Nezu's eyes gleamed.
"Excellent! I'm genuinely pleased you made the right choice."
"It's too early to celebrate," Emiya replied, his voice low, tired. "You might still regret it."
The rodent's smile didn't waver.
"I highly doubt that."
Emiya closed his eyes for a second, as if measuring his own patience.
"How much longer do I have to stay here?"
"Your father has already been informed. He should arrive soon."
No visible reaction. Just a slight movement of fingers on the armrest of the chair, a contained habit, almost imperceptible. Not anxiety. Irritation.
"Is there anything else I need to know?"
Nezu tilted his head slightly.
"Nothing that requires your immediate effort. In a few months, the U.A. entrance exam will take place. You'll need to take it. Enrolling you directly would be... too suspicious. But don't worry, it's a mere formality."
"I might end up forgetting to register," Emiya commented dryly.
The director's smile widened.
"There won't be a problem. Your registration has already been completed."
A sigh escaped the boy's lips.
Of course it had been.
Every detail of that conversation had been just theater. The real decision had been made long before he entered that room. It was irritating to realize that, in the end, all that time had been nothing but a calculated path to an inevitable outcome.
Nezu closed the folder in front of him delicately and jumped off the chair. He adjusted his tiny jacket with exaggerated elegance and took a few steps toward the door.
"Ah, before I forget," he commented casually, "the files related to your vigilante activities will remain in my custody. As promised, I'll keep the accusations away from the authorities. Including... your attempted murder that was thwarted by Shota."
The phrase hung in the air.
Any outside observer would expect tension. Fear. At least discomfort.
Emiya just smiled.
It wasn't a youthful smile.
Not nervous.
Not defiant.
It was a cold smile, calm, almost polite, as if that information were trivial. As if guilt were a concept too distant to touch him.
For a fraction of a second, minimal, almost imperceptible, Nezu felt a shiver run down his spine.
The security that sustained his posture wavered.
The lack of reaction was more disturbing than any outburst.
That boy didn't deny it.
Didn't justify it.
Didn't defend himself.
He simply... didn't care.
Nezu strengthened his own smile. He couldn't waver now. Not after deciding to bet on him.
He continued walking to the door and, before turning the doorknob, cast one last glance over his shoulder.
"Is there anything else you'd like to say?"
Emiya turned his face toward him. The same indifferent smile still present.
"You have a friendly appearance..." he said, his voice low and flat. "But you're creepy as hell."
A brief little laugh escaped the principal.
"So are you, Shirou Yaoyorozu..." he replied, lightly, as if commenting on the weather. "Or whoever you are."
He didn't wait for a response.
The door closed softly.
And, for the first time since the conversation had begun, Emiya was completely alone.
The smile disappeared.
There was no guilt.
No regret.
Just calculation.
And tiredness."
...
The car slid along the road under the constant sound of fine rain hitting the windshield. The interior was silent, interrupted only by the subtle hum of the engine and the distant noise of the city around them. The lights from the streetlights streaked the glass at regular intervals, casting alternating shadows on the face of Shirou Yaoyorozu, who kept his gaze fixed on the window, avoiding looking at the man driving.
His father.
Mr. Yaoyorozu drove with a rigid expression, unhurried, but also without hesitation. He was a man with a calm demeanor and a deep voice, with a gaze that, though serene, conveyed a natural authority—the kind of presence that didn't need words to be felt.
"I'll admit I expected them to explain what happened over the phone," he began, breaking the silence with a controlled, almost neutral tone. "But when they mentioned your name, I thought I should come personally."
Emiya looked away from the window and stared at his father with mild surprise. "I thought you'd send someone to pick me up..." he murmured, not hiding his astonishment.
The man took a deep breath, keeping his eyes on the road. "I thought it was the least I could do."
Silence returned for a few seconds. The sound of the windshield wiper cut through the air between them.
"Shirou..." his father said finally. "I really want to understand what was going through your head. You were always so critical of heroes. You despised the exposure, the theater, the need for recognition. And now I find out you've been getting into alleys, facing criminals, and almost getting arrested." His voice was firm, but without aggression. It was a calm disappointment, the kind that weighed more than any shout.
"I don't understand, Shirou. If you hate the system so much, why act as part of it?"
Emiya took a deep breath. His eyes remained fixed on the rain outside, following the sliding droplets. "I don't hate the system," he replied after a few seconds. "I just don't believe in it."
His father shot him a quick glance before returning to the road. "That sounds like an excuse. You act like a hero, but you talk like someone who scorns the concept. It's a hypocrisy that's hard to swallow."
Emiya stayed quiet. There was nothing to say. Part of him knew his father was right. The man continued, his voice lower: "I'll admit I haven't been the most present father. The company took up much of my time. But I tried to be there when it mattered. I listened to your opinions, even when I disagreed. I had expectations for you, yes, but I never forced you into anything."
He paused, taking a deep breath. "And, you know... I was actually considering allowing you to pursue a career in culinary arts. It wasn't what I wanted for you, but at least it was something you seemed to believe in." A heavy sigh. "Now, I truly don't know what you want."
Emiya looked away, letting the shadow of his own lashes hide part of his expression. He had understood every word, the restrained tone, the carefully controlled disappointment, the implicit weight behind something that wasn't merely a reprimand.
The man beside him was someone he deeply respected. He didn't see him as a father in the most intimate and warm sense of the word, but he recognized his integrity. He was an upright man. Fair. And precisely because of that, his disappointment weighed more than any punishment.
Deep down, Emiya wished he could be sincere. Explain. Justify. Say that his choices weren't the result of youthful rebellion or empty recklessness.
But that simply wasn't possible.
So what remained was the simplest role, the most convenient one.
That of a confused young man.
"I... don't know," he said, with hesitation measured just enough to seem real. "I'm not sure what I want right now."
His father nodded slowly. "If you don't want to enter the hero course, I can fix this. I have contacts. I can clean up this mess, remove your name from any records. But if it's what you want..."
"I will enter," Emiya interrupted firmly.
The man cast him a brief, measured look before returning to the road. "I see." His voice sounded restrained, but there was a hint of resignation. "If that's what you've decided, fine. But I want you to keep an open mind. The world you think you understand is more complicated than you imagine."
Emiya was starting to lose patience with so many scoldings and reprimands. Being treated like a child was deeply irritating—especially knowing that, in many ways, he had already lived more than anyone there could imagine.
Still, he couldn't simply dismiss those words. Some of the criticism was, unfortunately, deserved.
So he did the only thing left to him: he remained silent, listening, absorbing every word spoken by the one who, whether he liked it or not, held the role of his "father."
Mr. Yaoyorozu relaxed his grip on the wheel slightly and, after a few seconds, added in a milder tone: "And, Shirou... if at any point you want to change your mind, or if you feel lost, come to me. I may not understand everything, but I'm still your father."
There was a brief exchange of glances. For the first time that night, Emiya seemed to hesitate. "...I know. And... I'm sorry."
The man nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Let's not say anything to your mother or Momo," he said with a light sigh. "That's enough for today."
The rest of the journey passed in silence. Only the sound of the rain filled the car, soft and constant.
Emiya looked out the window again, watching the city lights blur into murky reflections. He knew his father had tried to understand, but he also knew he could never explain what truly drove him.
Because, deep down, he didn't know himself.
...
The clock showed almost midnight. The room was plunged into gloom, illuminated only by the bluish light of a holographic monitor reflecting Aizawa's exhausted face. On the other side, sitting on a pile of documents, Nezu drank his tea calmly, his small, attentive eyes scanning every line of the report.
"No confirmed deaths," Aizawa began, his voice hoarse and contained. "But the injuries were serious. Broken bones, contusions, deep lacerations... He knew what he was doing."
"He did indeed," Nezu replied without looking up. "Every blow was calculated to neutralize, not to kill. And yet, the violence is... too refined for an amateur."
"I can certainly attest to that. If he'd been any heavier, he probably would've broken my ribs." Aizawa massaged his still aching torso as he leaned back in the chair. "So you also think he has training."
Nezu nodded slightly. "Or a good intuition. In either case, it's concerning."
The hero took a deep breath. "The gang he tangled with wasn't small. Three synchronized robberies in different commercial districts. That takes planning."
"Planning, funding, and silence," Nezu completed, placing his front paws on the tabletop. "None of that fits common delinquents."
Aizawa looked at him. "You think there's someone behind it."
"I do," the principal replied without hesitation. "And I believe our vigilante may have interfered in something... bigger than he realizes."
A brief silence hung in the air.
Aizawa looked at the photos of the robberies: hooded men, improvised weapons, precise escape routes. No casual flaws.
"They knew what they were doing," Aizawa murmured. "Coordinated movements, encrypted communications... This isn't small-time thief stuff."
"I agree," Nezu replied, smiling slightly. "Perhaps he did us a favor without realizing it."
"Or drew attention to the wrong place," Aizawa retorted, crossing his arms. "We still don't know who's funding this. What if it's the same group that's been appearing in the southern district reports?"
Nezu rested his gaze on the hero, the smile slowly fading. "That's exactly what I fear, Shouta."
The air in the room seemed to grow heavier.
The principal closed the report, setting it down carefully on the table.
...
The air in the underground room was dense, saturated with the metallic smell of rust and dust. Light bulbs hung from the ceiling by worn wires, casting trembling circles of light on a table covered in papers, money, and coffee-stained maps.
Three figures occupied the space.
The first, with a relaxed posture and a drawling voice, played with a cigarette between his fingers, lazily blowing smoke toward the ceiling.
The second sat restlessly, drumming gloved fingers on the tabletop, his face hidden by shadows.
The third, silent and still, seemed almost a wraith—a presence more felt than seen.
"The contacts confirmed the deliveries," murmured the smoking figure. "The money has already started circulating. If all goes well, we'll have double the resources by the end of the month."
The voice in the center replied in an impatient tone, laden with contained frustration: "Resources are useless without people. I want results. Willing people, strong, ready to get their hands dirty."
"That's exactly what I'm arranging," replied the first, with a smile that could be sensed in the dark. "I have a good nose for that kind of person. The lost, the rejected, those who think the world owes them something. They're easy to convince."
The wraith in the background, with a calm, resonant voice, intervened: "As long as they don't draw too much attention. Discretion is essential now."
"Relax," retorted the cigarette man. "No one pays attention to back-alley thieves or street delinquents. They're disposable."
The central figure leaned forward, the pale glow of a screen reflecting in his eyes. "Speaking of delinquents... I heard something about a kid meddling where he shouldn't."
"A vigilante," replied the first, shrugging. "No big deal. Scared a handful of lowlifes and sent a few to the hospital."
"And that seems like nothing to you?" the other retorted, his voice trembling with irritation.
"He's a kid with a hero complex," said the cigarette man, impassive. "Someone will take care of him soon enough. If not a hero, then the system itself."
The silent wraith intervened again: "He doesn't pose an immediate risk. What matters is keeping the flow stable. The donations, the contacts, and the field personnel. The rest is a distraction."
For a moment, the distant sound of machinery mixed with the crackle of the cigarette being put out.
"Then we proceed with the plan," concluded the central figure, leaning back. "Funds, recruitment, and preparation. When we're ready, no one will be able to ignore what's coming."
A faint noise filled the air, like the murmur of energy distorting space.
The shadow in the background began to slowly dissipate, the deep voice fading along with it: "And until then... the city will keep sleeping, unaware of what grows beneath its feet."
The man with the drawling voice laughed low. "Let them sleep well. They'll need the rest for what comes after."
The sound of his laughter echoed down the concrete corridor until it was lost in the darkness, mingling with the constant buzz of the flickering light bulbs, as if the air itself knew that something was about to awaken.
Chapter 5: The Echo of Contradictions
Momo had always been a sweet girl. Since childhood, she had that delicate presence, the soft voice, and the curious gaze that sought the best in people even when there was little to be seen. She was also a bit naive, the kind of child who easily believed in words of praise or a promise made casually. But there was something in her that always compensated for this naivety: an almost stubborn determination.
Since birth, expectations had been piled onto her shoulders. Being a Yaoyorozu meant excellence, impeccable grades, exemplary posture, a promising future. And although many succumbed to this weight, Momo never saw it as a burden. For her, expectations were fuel. Each challenge was an opportunity to prove she could measure up.
Still, when she was younger, something held her back: the fear of people. Shyness made words get lost in her throat and her hands sweat before any attempt at conversation. Because of this, she spent most of her time following Shirou.
Shirou, her younger brother, but who somehow always seemed older. There was a calmness about him, a composure that Momo didn't understand as a child. He didn't get excited, didn't get confused, didn't cry. When the adults were absent, he was the center of her small world, the brother, the protector, the silent friend.
She remembered well the afternoons she would follow him through the house's corridors, tripping over her own feet while he read or helped some employee with household chores. Even when she interrupted him with silly questions or untimely comments, he never showed irritation. On the contrary, he smiled. A serene, discreet, but genuine smile.
Momo, in her memory, thought she must have been annoying. Always in his shadow, always calling his name, always wanting to participate. But Shirou never pushed her away. Sometimes he explained what he was doing; other times, he just let her accompany him in silence.
It was that smile, that gentle smile that appeared every time he helped someone, that was etched into her. It didn't matter who it was: a tired employee, a lost child, or even a stranger with a trivial problem. Shirou always moved without a second thought. He helped, solved the issue, and, in the end, smiled, not out of pride, but out of satisfaction.
And it was precisely for that reason that when Momo heard her parents say they wanted Shirou to become a hero, she immediately believed he would be the perfect hero. He already was, in her heart.
It was also at that moment that Momo decided she wanted to follow the same path. She wanted to be a heroine, someone who could help others like he did. Someone who could smile like he smiled.
That memory, the image of her brother in the golden afternoon light, with that calm smile and his hands slightly dirty with ink from helping the gardener, was what motivated her, even today.
As the years passed, that pure feeling of admiration began to change, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. Momo grew up, and with her grew her awareness of the world around her. And the more she understood, the more she noticed how Shirou always seemed to be ahead.
He remained the same, serene, rational, impeccable in everything he did. He never got agitated, never truly made a mistake. Even when something went wrong, he found a solution with the same naturalness with which he breathed. And for Momo, this became a shadow.
She, on the other hand, began to stumble.
She stumbled over words, over expectations, over her own limits. She tried to be like him, but perfect grades and exemplary behavior were no longer enough. With every success she achieved, there was always a silent echo in her mind: "Shirou would do it better."
At first, she tried to ignore it. She convinced herself it was just a temporary obstacle, that she just needed to try a little harder to reach him. But the harder she tried, the further away he seemed to get.
Momo saw in her brother a kind of natural perfection, something unattainable, cold, and unshakable. While she struggled to be worthy of the family's expectations, Shirou seemed to float above them, as if nothing could touch him. He didn't seek approval, nor recognition. And perhaps that was precisely what made him so admired: the fact that he didn't care.
Gradually, the pride Momo felt for him began to mix with another feeling. First, it was just a twinge of envy. Then came frustration. And finally, a silent bitterness, a feeling she hated to acknowledge, but that grew inside her every time she saw him being praised or simply carrying on with that irritating tranquility.
She wondered: why does he never seem to fight?
Why does everything come so naturally to him, while I have to try so hard?
In recent years, this constant comparison shaped her decisions. Every course she chose, every goal she set, every forced smile in front of her parents, everything revolved around proving, somehow, that she was also capable. That she too deserved to be looked upon with the same respect and admiration.
But deep down, Momo knew she wasn't doing it for herself. She was doing it for him.
Or rather, against him.
It was a silent, cruel, and unfair struggle, fought within her, and which neither of them ever acknowledged aloud. Momo felt guilty for thinking this way, for harboring that resentment. After all, Shirou never treated her badly. Never belittled her. He remained kind, calm, understanding.
And perhaps that was precisely what hurt her the most.
His kindness, constant, serene, unshakable, was the living reminder of what she could never become.
Deep down, Momo still loved him. But alongside that love, hidden among the folds of guilt and admiration, was something dark. A small, almost imperceptible feeling that she tried to deny
every day.
A silent hatred.
Not for what Shirou did, but for what he represented. The perfection that reminded her, at every moment, of her own mediocrity.
At first, Momo believed that, at least in one aspect, she had finally surpassed her brother. Her Quirk, Creation, allowed her to materialize any inanimate object she knew in detail, as long as she had enough energy. It was a complex, refined ability, one that required study and precision, things at which Momo had always excelled.
Shirou, on the other hand, possessed a similar Quirk, but one that appeared cruder, almost rudimentary. He also created weapons and tools, but his constructs seemed fragile, unstable, and, unlike hers, faded into the air after use. For a time, Momo clung to this difference as a small victory, finally, something she was better at.
However, as the years passed, this illusion began to crumble.
She realized, with growing discomfort, that Shirou didn't need time or concentration. While she struggled to calculate every molecule, every structural detail, he simply created. A gesture, a thought, and the weapon appeared in his hand, perfect, efficient, molded by intuition. And, to make it worse, his Quirk seemed to go beyond the mere creation of objects.
He could understand the workings of anything he saw, not just reproduce it, but improve it, adapt it, transform it. It was as if the material world opened up to him on a level Momo could never reach.
On the rare occasions they trained together, this difference became unbearable.
Momo entered fights with complex plans, ingenious schemes, meticulous strategies. And yet, Shirou defeated her with an almost insulting ease. He didn't mock her, didn't boast, which, paradoxically, made it all even worse. He simply won, effortlessly, and then extended a hand to help her up, with that same calm and gentle smile as always.
For Momo, it was suffocating.
His victory always came accompanied by the same serenity, as if he hadn't even needed to try. And she knew it was true.
When she found out he didn't intend to pursue a hero career, she felt a confused mix of emotions. Part of her was sad, disappointed even; after all, since childhood she had believed Shirou would be the perfect hero, the living symbol of kindness and courage. But another part, the one she didn't dare admit, was relieved.
If he didn't enter that path, she could shine on her own.
There would be no comparisons, no shadow.
For the first time, Momo would have a space just for herself.
With this certainty, she dedicated herself with more determination than ever. She entered a preparatory course, studied combat tactics, honed her Quirk to the limit. She was determined to enter U.A. and stand out on her own merit, to be recognized not as "Shirou's sister," but as Momo Yaoyorozu, the future heroine.
And, for a brief and precious time, she believed that nothing could shake that determination.
Nothing.
...until the day Shirou, with his usual calm, told her that he would also be taking the U.A. exam.
For a moment, Momo thought she had misheard.
Then, she wished she had.
The information fell upon her like a cruel irony of fate, an elegant and silent blow, exactly the kind Shirou always delivered. All her confidence, her optimism, her promise to no longer live under her brother's shadow... evaporated like dust in the wind.
She smiled, by reflex, that polite, restrained smile she had learned to use to hide anything.
But inside, something in her crumbled.
And suddenly, the dream of becoming a brilliant and independent heroine seemed ridiculously small, faced with the certainty that, once again, Shirou would be there. Tranquil, impeccable, untouchable.
Shining, without even trying.
...
A few days had passed since the incident, since Aizawa captured him and, through Principal Nezu's cunning, he was practically forced to enroll at U.A. Emiya still felt slightly frustrated about it. It wasn't that he hated the idea of studying there, but he hated the reason that had led him there. Everything seemed like a poorly planned irony of fate, an elaborate punishment, perhaps, by some deity of questionable humor.
Still, he had already accepted the facts. There wasn't much he could do but follow the course.
As he lay in his bed, the white ceiling of the room reflecting the pale morning light, he recalled the moment he told his mother and sister about his decision to take the exam for the hero course.
His mother's reaction was immediate, pure enthusiasm. She almost dropped her tea in her excitement. She praised her son's "change of attitude," talked about how he was finally following the family's "natural" path, and already began imagining the headlines and press invitations that would come with a "Yaoyorozu hero."
Momo, on the other hand, reacted completely differently.
She just stared at him, eyes slightly wide, as if the sentence took time to make sense. She murmured a few words he couldn't comprehend and, without adding anything else, withdrew in silence.
He watched her leave the room, not knowing exactly what he had done wrong. He thought it was strange, but didn't want to think too much about it. After all, Momo had always been somewhat sensitive, perhaps she was just surprised.
The following days passed without major events, although he felt the weight of the new routine.
Now, he could no longer go out alone. His father had assigned two bodyguards to accompany him wherever he went, not for protection, but for surveillance. It was obvious. The old man didn't want his "impulsive" son getting into trouble again.
At first, Emiya was irritated by this. The loss of freedom bothered him more than he wanted to admit. But, over time, he understood the gesture. His father wasn't a cruel man, just overly cautious. He wanted to control what he didn't understand, and Shirou, in a way, was one of those things.
What really bothered him was the feeling of being constantly watched.
During the nights, he began to notice a strange figure lurking around the house's surroundings. A hero, no doubt. He wore a cowboy costume, hat, long coat, and even spurs, as if he had stepped right out of a western. Emiya found the sight almost comical.
The guy didn't even try to be discreet. He always remained visible, standing in places where he knew he would be noticed. The reason was clear: he wanted Emiya to know he was there.
"Must have been Aizawa's idea," he thought with irony.
It was an exaggeration, an unnecessary show. Emiya had no plans to leave the house again, at least, not at night. He had only become a vigilante because someone needed to do something, and no one seemed willing. Now that the heroes had turned their attention to the problem, there was no reason to continue.
Even so, something in him was restless. A silent, uncomfortable part that made him wonder if he would really be able to stop.
In recent days, however, what bothered him the most wasn't the patrols, the bodyguards, or even the weight of the future U.A., but Momo.
She seemed increasingly distant. They spoke little, and when they did, her tone was always restrained, almost cold. He could sense the effort she made to maintain her composure, but there was something behind it, something he couldn't name.
Perhaps it was just nerves about the exam, he thought. Or perhaps she was hurt by the fallout from everything that had happened.
But deep down, he knew it was more than that.
He wanted to talk to her, clarify things, understand the reason for that wall that seemed to be growing between them. But he didn't know how to start.
He didn't know what to say.
And, perhaps, what frustrated him the most was the silent certainty that, no matter how hard he tried, some distances couldn't be shortened with words.
The sum of all those factors began to weigh on Emiya like an invisible chain, tightening his chest a little more each day.
He wasn't the type to get easily angry. He used to be patient, analytical, always one step ahead of his own impulses. But lately, there was something different, a constant tension in his shoulders, a silent exhaustion that didn't come from the body, but from the mind.
Since the incident with Aizawa, his life seemed like an unwanted stage. The news that Shirou Yaoyorozu was going to U.A. had spread like wildfire.
At school, all it took was for him to enter the classroom for the murmuring to start.
Some treated him with reverence, others with envy. And there were those who surrounded him with questions and praises, as if he were already a full-fledged hero.
What irritated him the most was the absurd certainty with which everyone spoke—as if his entry into U.A. were a foregone conclusion, a formality without challenge.
"Early congratulations," they said.
"You're going to be amazing at U.A., Shirou!"
He limited himself to a polite smile, while inside he felt the urge to laugh. If it were up to him, he would make a point of giving his worst possible performance on the exam, just to disprove all those assumptions.
He didn't know if Nezu would admit him anyway—he didn't doubt it—but he wouldn't make it easy.
After two months of surveillance and controlled routine, his father finally decided to dismiss the bodyguards. He seemed convinced that Shirou had left his vigilante nights behind. It was, in a way, a belated vote of confidence, and perhaps the only real relief Emiya had had in weeks.
That morning, he walked to school with slow steps, the sun filtering lazily between the buildings. The wind carried the smell of the city, a mixture of dust, coffee, and wet concrete. For a brief moment, he thought maybe the day would be quiet.
But the calm didn't last long.
Further ahead, a commotion was drawing attention.
Emiya heard the agitated voices, the mixed shouts, the sound of something heavy colliding with the ground. As he approached, he realized it was a scene that, for many, would be common, but for him was pure exasperation.
A criminal, with a grotesque appearance and a massive body, was cornered between police officers and local heroes. He seemed more desperate than dangerous. Still, the public crowded the sidewalks, cell phones in hand, eager to record the spectacle.
A hero, manipulating wooden structures with his hands, trapped the giant in a web of roots. The criminal struggled, but was clearly at his limit.
Then, a colossal heroine jumped from some higher point and came down with absurd force, knocking the man out with a single blow.
The impact cracked the asphalt, scattered debris and shrapnel, and drew cheers of excitement from the crowd.
She stood up, immense, smiling and posing for the cameras as if she were in a parade, not amidst urban chaos.
The spectators applauded, shouted her name, celebrated the "heroic spectacle."
Emiya watched it all in silence, his gaze cold and distant.
He saw no heroism there. Only vanity, and a superficial satisfaction with the chaos the heroes themselves pretended to contain.
The sound of the applause echoed like a mockery. He took a deep breath, his jaw tense, and let out an almost inaudible murmur:
"Ridiculous."
He turned and began to walk away, his expression closed in pure disgust.
A few meters away, a boy with messy green hair, wearing a school uniform, was also watching the scene.
He had a confused, almost hesitant look, seemed torn between admiration and discomfort. When he heard Shirou's murmur, he briefly turned in his direction, as if he wanted to say something, but ended up backing down.
In silence, he went on his own way, thoughtful.
And, for a brief instant, two very different trajectories crossed, without either of them realizing the weight of that moment.
After a long and tedious day, Emiya walked back home, his body tired and his mind heavy.
The sun was already setting behind the buildings, tinging the horizon with a faded red that seemed to echo his own irritation.
All day long, the episode of the "great heroic rescue," that pathetic spectacle he had seen in the morning, hadn't left anyone's lips.
At school, everyone talked excitedly about the giant heroine and her "exemplary courage."
He heard every word, every exaggeration, with his fists clenched in his pockets and his gaze lost on the floor.
"Courage..." he thought with disdain.
For him, that wasn't courage; it was self-promotion disguised as heroism.
And the fact that people couldn't see that made everything even more tiresome.
As he walked along a quieter side street, Emiya stopped suddenly. Something, a presence, an instinct, made him freeze in place.
He slowly turned his head, his gaze cold and sharp, and released all of his murderous intent.
The air seemed to grow heavy for a moment.
Even the wind ceased.
His eyes fixed on the darkness of the alley behind him, and for a second the world seemed to plunge into a tense silence.
Then, he sighed, scowled, and simply turned around, resuming his path without a word.
In the alley, a slimy figure, made of greenish, pulsating goo, trembled as if it had just stared death in the face.
Cold sweat dripped, or perhaps it was just its liquid body dissolving from nervousness.
That thing was fleeing after robbing a small market, and upon spotting Emiya, it had thought of using him as a hostage.
But a single look from the boy was enough to make the plan evaporate.
That aura, dense, lethal, paralyzed it completely.
"W-what... what was that boy...?", the creature stammered, retreating a few steps, its body trembling.
Then, its amorphous eyes moved.
Further ahead, another young man, with messy green hair, was approaching distractedly.
The creature seemed to regain hope, a misshapen smile forming on its sticky face.
And it disappeared into the shadows.
...
Sometime later, Emiya arrived home.
The automatic gate closed behind him with a muffled click, and silence enveloped him.
He felt the weight of the day, the frustration pulsing under his skin.
He dropped his backpack on the sofa and let out a long sigh.
In his mind, the insistent thought returned like an echo:
"That... slimy being... must have been following me."
For a brief instant, he wondered if he shouldn't have gotten rid of it for good, just as a precaution.
But the idea dissipated as quickly as it came.
He didn't want to draw more attention, nor cause another incident. Besides, there were too many heroes in the city, all eager to show their work. Surely someone would take care of the problem.
He went upstairs, took a quick shower, and, as he came out, passed Momo in the hallway. She was in her uniform, returning from her preparatory course.
For a moment, he thought about starting a conversation.
But when he tried, she just greeted him with a brief nod—without even looking at him—and walked straight past.
The silence left between them was worse than an argument. He stood still, gaze lowered, frustrated. It seemed that every attempt at getting closer only pushed him further away from his sister.
Later, already lying on the sofa, he turned on the television, looking for something to empty his head.
The news occupied all channels.
"And now, updating the information on the attack that occurred a few hours ago! The villain known only as 'Slime' was contained after taking a child hostage. The situation was only brought under control thanks to the intervention of All Might himself!"
The images showed the scene of the confrontation, destroyed streets, sirens, and debris.
Emiya froze.
There was no doubt: it was the same villain that had followed him earlier. For a moment, he wanted to convince himself that it wasn't his fault.
But an uncomfortable pang shot through his chest. He knew he could have prevented it; it would have taken just one action, one decision.
Frustration. Guilt. Anger, not at others, but at himself.
"We also have reports that a local student attempted to intervene during the attack, putting himself at risk to protect the hostage..." the reporter continued.
The image changed to show a boy covered in dust and slime. Green hair. A determined, yet naive face.
For a second, the vision distorted in his mind.
The boy's face blurred with that of another young man, one with red hair, an innocent smile, and a gaze full of conviction.
A distant memory. A past he preferred to bury.
The discomfort grew within him, turning into a silent rage. He looked away from the screen, but the name echoed involuntarily in his mind, a simple name, but one he wouldn't forget so easily:
Midoriya Izuku.