The Unseen Vault — Infiltration
Izuku stood outside his apartment. The air bent around him, vision narrowing to a sharp tunnel of light before snapping back. When it cleared, he was standing in the shadow of a weather-worn building at the base of the mountains.
From the outside, it was nothing special—just an old freight abandoned building. The walls were stained with rust and cracks, roof half-collapsed on one side. The faded sign above the main door was missing letters, and the surrounding gravel lot was overgrown with weeds. A chain-link fence with a broken gate sagged in the wind.
Locals passed this place all the time on the road to the mining towns farther up. Some joked it was haunted, others said it had been condemned decades ago. No one ever went inside.
No one wondered why there were never animals around it. And those that went they never came back, fanning the flames of the rumours of the place being haunted even more.
Izuku stepped through the warped doorway, boots crunching on a thin layer of dust and debris. The inside smelled faintly of oil and stale air. Shafts of weak sunlight cut through holes in the roof, illuminating rows of empty shelving and collapsed crates.
But under the decay, he felt it—the faint hum of active systems.
In the far corner, partially hidden behind a stack of rotted pallets, was a steel freight elevator, which had a board, 'Out Of Order.' However, the doors were clean. No rust. No dust, as if its being used and maintained everyday.
"This is it," he murmured.
He pressed his palm to the scanner, letting the stolen clearance pulse through his device. The elevator responded with a muted chime and slid open to reveal a pristine interior, lit by a cold white glow.
He stepped inside. The doors closed. The hum grew louder as the elevator began to descend—past where a basement should be, past the level where sunlight could reach.
When the elevator stopped, the doors opened to a world nothing like the abandoned shell above.
The Unseen Vault stretched before him—polished steel corridors, reinforced blast doors, cameras swiveling to track his movement. It was the kind of place that could be hidden in plain sight for decades simply because no one had a reason to look deeper.
And he was here to see exactly what they didn't want found.
The elevator doors had barely slid open when he saw the first pair of guards. Black tactical gear, visors down, rifles up.
Izuku moved before they could speak. A faint green crackle ran across his gloves as he blurred forward, knocking the first man's rifle aside and striking the second in the solar plexus hard enough to drop him. Both went down without a shot fired. He bound them with their own zip ties and left them breathing but unconscious.
A few steps down the main hall, two more rounded around the corner, alerted by the muffled scuffle. They shouted, rifles rising—Izuku ducked low, pivoted into the nearest wall, and vanished in a flash of light.
By the time they registered the empty space, he was behind them. One sharp blow to the neck, another to the ribs, and they joined the others on the floor.
The Vault's security wasn't lax—they were disciplined, trained—but they weren't expecting someone with his level of skills. And they were obviously not to blame, afterall he was trained by one of the best assassins in the world.
Who was expert in infiltration missions, using her teachings he made sure to keep the casualty to the minimum while at the same time ensuring they don't come in his way.
Every time an alarm panel chirped, he was already moving, using short-range teleports to bypass choke points and appear where they least expected.
At one checkpoint, three guards tried to hold the corridor, shields up. Izuku simply phased through the shields and punched each of them in their gut. The strength knocked them off balance long enough for him to disarm and drop them with precise, semi-lethal strikes.
Minutes later, the last active patrol lay secured in a storage alcove, weapons stacked out of reach. Silence settled over the lower levels.
Inside, the Vault was colder than outside, the air scrubbed to clinical sterility. The corridors were narrow, painted dull gray, lit only by dim strips of light along the ceiling. He moved through with the same quiet precision, occasionally pausing at locked doors to scan his device and slip through.
It wasn't until he entered one of the side wings that he found the first secret.
A large archive room—rows of sealed metal cabinets and black glass terminals, most requiring multiple clearance levels. He sat at one terminal, overriding the basic locks.
The files that opened weren't just criminal records—they were incident reports the public had never seen, assassination of John F Kennedy, Epstein Island, 9/11 all major terror attacks that were used as smokescreens to hide the main thing underneath.
These weren't just tragedies; they were smokescreens, colossal pyres of chaos and grief lit to hide the monstrous operations moving in the shadows beneath. He clicked on one, and his stomach twisted.
The official narrative of a "lone gunman" was dissected on-screen, replaced with forensic anomalies and witness testimony logs that ended abruptly. It was a blueprint for a national lie.
He saw the cold, calculated logic: a hero's assassination, a nation's trauma, all used to justify black-ops budgets and the systematic erosion of liberties.
Scrolling further, he found the quieter horrors—the "collateral damage" spreadsheets from overseas strikes, where names and lives were reduced to decimal points in a cost-benefit analysis.
A mission report detailed how a known villain's attack on a mid-town district was allowed to proceed, the heroes deliberately redirected to a false-flag operation on the other side of the city.
The justification in the memo was chillingly clinical: "The resulting public outrage will secure Senate approval for the new Patriot Act amendments. Acceptable losses."
Acceptable losses. The words echoed in Izuku's skull. He saw the faces behind the numbers—families, children, entire communities sacrificed not for the greater good, but for political leverage. His blood turned cold as he read more.
This was more than corruption; it was a fundamental betrayal, an architecture of deceit so vast and deep that revealing even a fraction of it would be like striking a match in a room filled with gunpowder. The truth here wasn't just dangerous; it was incendiary, enough to ignite a fire that would burn the whole nation to the ground.
Heroes implicated in cover-ups. Civilian casualties erased from official counts. Villain attacks quietly redirected or allowed to happen to serve as political leverage. Entire city districts left undefended because a "bigger threat" was being monitored elsewhere.
He scrolled through dates and names, his jaw tightening.
"This… if people saw this…" he muttered.
'It wouldn't just spark outrage—it would burn the entire foundation of trust between the public and the hero system.' he thought as a devilish smile spread across his face, as if he found the perfect toy to create chaos.
His finger hovered over the download command. But he forced himself to pause. Too much, too fast, and the people would be left in chaos. Too little, and nothing would change.
He copied everything and decided to release info slowly, releasing only what could strike the balance, enough to make people question, not enough to collapse the fragile order overnight, but slowly and steadily over time.
Deeper into the facility, the corridors widened, reinforced with thick steel doors. Each one had a small plate with a number and a designation, Containment Wing: Tier-Red.
He bypassed the final lock.
The room inside was nothing like the sterile archives. It was raw concrete, lined with reinforced glass cells. And in those cells—villains.
Some looked broken—sitting against walls, eyes distant. Others glared through the glass with the kind of sharp, coiled hatred that had kept them alive in here. Names he recognized from reports and fights flashed through his mind.
One, a tall man with silver hair and a scar over his jaw, stepped forward when he saw Izuku.
"You're not staff," the man said, voice low but certain.
"I'm not here to keep you here," Izuku replied evenly. "But I'm not here to open every door either."
The man's eyes narrowed. "Then what?"
"There are people in here," Izuku said, scanning the cells, "who've been put away because they were dangerous. And there are people in here who were put away because they were inconvenient."
He stopped in front of one cell—a woman sitting cross-legged, hands cuffed in front of her. He knew her face from old footage: once a vigilante, accused of killing a hero in cold blood. The file in the archives told a different story.
"I'm getting out the ones who never got a trial," Izuku said. "The ones buried here because the truth would've been a problem for someone in power."
"And the rest of us?" the scarred man asked.
Izuku didn't flinch. "The rest of you stay. For now."
That answer earned a smirk from the man—half amused, half bitter. "You're playing a dangerous game, green boy."
"I've been playing it for a while, and when I'm done playing, I'll be the only one standing." Izuku replied.
He keyed in the selective release protocol, unlocking certain cells. The chosen prisoners stepped out slowly, wary but ready to move. The others remained behind glass, some shouting, some silent.
As he led the freed group back toward the service hatch, one of them—a younger man with burns across his arms—asked quietly, "Why risk it? You're a hero, aren't you?"
Izuku didn't slow his pace.
"I'm someone who doesn't want this system deciding who lives and who rots."
When they emerged into the cold mountain air, the dropship was waiting. He glanced back at the mountain—its silent walls hiding more than most of the world could imagine.
"We're not done," he said under his breath.
The hatch closed behind them, and the ship lifted off into the dark.
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