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The city didn't sleep that night.
News spread like wildfire, leaping across social media, television screens, and late-night radio like an infection. Fat Gum has been defeated. A hero has fallen. The disbelief was palpable—Fat Gum was a symbol of endurance, a public favorite. And yet, the proof was undeniable: cratered pavement, scorched sidewalks, and half a dozen pro-heroes kneeling beside their unconscious comrade, struggling to contain the fallout.
No one saw where the assailant had gone. Only the scars remained, and the name whispered in hushed horror—Yuta.
High above the chaos, Yuta sat on a rooftop, knees drawn up to his chest, the night wind brushing through his sand-dusted hair. His heartbeat had finally slowed, but the tremble in his hands wouldn't stop. They were covered in blood—not just Fat Gum's, but metaphorically, the blood of everything he thought he stood for. He hadn't meant to go that far. He hadn't meant to win.
But he did.
The final blow—sharp sand condensed into a spear, slamming into Fat Gum's side—played in his mind like a cruel loop. Yuta hadn't expected it to break through. He thought the hero's quirk would absorb it like always. He thought someone else would intervene. But it had happened—clean, brutal, and final.
A victory he never asked for.
He looked down at the city, glowing with a thousand artificial lights, unaware of the new fracture it now bore. Somewhere down there, families watched the news with their children, teachers called emergency meetings, and pro-hero agencies scrambled to assess the situation. And him? He was labeled an enemy of the people. A threat. A villain.
Funny how things turned so quickly.
Back in the underground, the criminal networks buzzed with excitement. For the first time in months, Yuta's name wasn't just a whisper. It was a banner. Vigilantes, black market dealers, and hidden factions all took notice. The boy with the sand quirk had taken down a pro hero—one of the toughest at that. Respect came fast in those circles. So did danger.
Yuta didn't smile at the recognition. He didn't feel proud. He felt… empty.
Why did I even fight? he asked himself. Was it really for justice? Or revenge?
Memories clawed at the edge of his mind—his mother crying in a courtroom, his father's ashes scattered at the feet of heroes who stood still, unmoved. Justice had been a distant dream back then. The law hadn't protected his family. The heroes hadn't cared. And so Yuta carved his own path, away from light, through the cracks of society where no one watched.
But this… this wasn't what he wanted. Not really.
A sudden voice crackled through a nearby rooftop speaker—a public broadcast. Yuta turned his head as a news anchor's voice filled the air.
"Fat Gum remains in critical condition following an attack by a vigilante now identified as Mr. 0. Authorities have classified him as a high-level threat. Citizens are advised to stay indoors and report any sightings immediately."
Yuta's jaw tightened. Not even ten minutes had passed, and already the world had made up its mind.
He stood up slowly, his long coat fluttering like torn wings. The wind carried grains of sand from his fingertips—his quirk always active when his emotions swirled. He tried to calm it, but it responded to his heart, not his thoughts. He exhaled and disappeared into the shadows.
---
Elsewhere, a hospital wing overflowed with silence. Fat Gum lay hooked to machines, a dozen tubes threading into his body like a puppet. Tamaki Amajiki stood beside him, his hands clenched into trembling fists. He'd arrived too late. Too slow. Too weak to stop it.
He couldn't shake the look in Yuta's eyes from the surveillance footage—anger, yes, but something else. Something broken.
"Why…?" Tamaki whispered.
No answer came.
Behind the glass, Kirishima pressed a fist to the wall. "He wasn't trying to kill him. I could see it. That last hit… It looked like hesitation."
"Then why didn't he stop?" another voice said coldly—Mirko, arms crossed, jaw clenched tight. "You hesitate in battle, you lose. Or someone else pays the price."
"He's not a villain," Kirishima said softly. "Not yet. But if we don't reach him first, the villains will."
---
In a dark alley, just before dawn, Yuta met with a contact. A masked woman, quirk unknown, handed him a burner phone.
"You've made waves," she said. "There are people interested. Not all of them are friendly."
"I didn't do it for them," Yuta replied.
"No," she agreed. "But they don't care. You're a symbol now, whether you want to be or not."
Yuta took the phone, slipping it into his coat. "I just need time. A place to think."
"You won't get it. They'll hunt you. The heroes. The villains. Everyone."
He nodded. "Then let them come."
He turned and vanished into the early light.
---
But something shifted in the air.
The people began to ask questions. Not just who Mr.0 was, but why he fought. Forums erupted with debate. Was he just another villain? Or a rogue vigilante taking on a flawed system? Footage surfaced of past incidents—Yuta stopping a kidnapping, breaking a trafficking ring, saving a child from rubble after a villain attack. The line began to blur.
To some, he was a monster.
To others, a warning.
But to a few… he was hopeful.
Hope that someone still fought for the forgotten.
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Far away, Yuta crouched inside an abandoned train station, wrapping his ribs with gauze, his reflection flickering in a shattered mirror. His face looked older. Harder. But his eyes… they still held a flicker of guilt.
And purpose.
"I didn't want this," he murmured, tightening the cloth. "But maybe I needed it."
He stood, sand swirling faintly around his feet.
"I'll carry the blame if I have to. But I won't stop."
The battle had ended.
But Yuta's war was just beginning.
The room was quiet, except for the soft hum of an old ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead. Moonlight spilled through the cracked window, painting pale streaks across the wooden floor. Yuta stepped inside, his boots heavy with dust, his coat damp with sweat from the night's training.
He shut the door behind him with a soft thud and leaned against it for a moment, breathing slowly. His body ached. Muscles pulled tight. His ribs were still sore from the fight, but there was no time to rest properly—not with heroes patrolling the streets, not with the world watching his every move.
He walked over to the sink in the corner and splashed cold water on his face. The reflection in the mirror looked back at him—tired eyes, sharp cheekbones, bloodstained shirt. His fingers curled against the basin as memories of the fight flooded back: the heat of battle, the roar of the crowd, the look on Fat Gum's face when he fell.
You didn't mean to go that far, Yuta reminded himself. But that didn't matter now.
They'd branded him a criminal anyway.
He peeled off his coat and dropped it on the back of a chair. Then the shirt, torn and streaked with dirt, followed. The thin mattress in the corner of the room looked more like a punishment than a bed, but he collapsed onto it anyway, letting out a low breath.
His sand quirk still hummed beneath his skin—restless, like it was alive, waiting for more. Training hadn't been enough. Not yet. He could shape spears, walls, even sharp blades now. But there was more. He knew there was more. Sand could be defense, offense, camouflage, pressure… if he could just push past his limits, he could turn it into something greater. Something unstoppable.
Yuta lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
He remembered being a boy, playing with sand on the beach while his parents laughed in the distance.
He rolled onto his side, pulling the thin blanket over his shoulder.
Tomorrow, he will rise again.
Train harder. Move faster. Sharpen his control.
Because they were closing in.
And if the heroes found him before he was ready… he wouldn't survive.
But tonight, he allowed himself one thing he hadn't had in days—sleep.
Not peace. Not comfort.
Just silence, and the soft whisper of sand shifting faintly in the corners of the room.
Waiting…
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