Izukus point of view:
Morning light streamed through the small apartment window, soft and golden, wrapping the room in a gentle warmth. It spilled across the floor, climbed the desk, and brushed against my eyelids until they fluttered open.
For a moment, I simply lay there, staring at the ceiling.
The silence wasn't as heavy as last night, but the memory of it lingered. I could still hear her—my new mother, Inko—sobbing softly through the walls. Apologizing. Blaming herself. Wishing she could've given me a quirk.
It wasn't her fault. It never had been.
No one chose their genetics. No one chose this system. And yet the guilt in her voice, the quiet desperation of a woman who thought she had failed her only child, clung to me like frost.
I couldn't fix society overnight.
But I could ease her pain.
I slid out of bed and tiptoed across the floor, careful not to wake her. The apartment was modest—clean but small, with years of wear on the edges. I moved through it with quiet familiarity, drawn by instincts older than this four-year-old body.
Cleaning. Cooking. Caring.
These were habits forged in another life. I used to do the same for my little brother when our parents were too busy or too tired. It was comforting in its simplicity.
I began with the dishes. The stool wobbled under my tiny weight, but I gripped the sink and washed each plate with slow, careful movements. Next came the floor—sweeping up stray dust and wiping down the small kitchen table.
By the time I reached the counter, the sun was higher, its warmth more direct.
Time to cook.
I scanned the cupboards. Bread. Eggs. Milk. A bit of cinnamon tucked in the back. I smiled.
French toast it was.
Pulling another stool over, I gathered everything. Cracking the eggs took patience; my hands weren't as steady as they used to be. But once the batter was ready and the pan was sizzling, the rhythm settled in. I hummed softly, barely aware of the melody escaping me. Just an old tune—something light, warm.
I wasn't just trying to make breakfast.
I was trying to make her smile.
The scent of butter and cinnamon soon filled the air. I carefully plated the toast, dusted it with sugar, and poured a small glass of milk on the side. I took a step back, examining everything.
Perfect.
A soft shuffle of feet caught my ear. I turned just as Inko entered the kitchen, her robe drawn tight around her, her eyes still puffy from last night's tears.
She froze.
Her gaze swept over the tidy room, the warm food, and finally settled on me—standing proudly beside the table with flour on my cheek and a spatula in hand.
"Izuku...?" she whispered, voice caught between awe and concern.
I smiled. "Morning, Mama."
Her eyes welled instantly.
"W-What are you doing? You're... you're four..." She looked around again, like the apartment might vanish if she blinked.
I stepped forward and took her hand in mine.
"I just wanted to make you smile," I said gently. "You were sad last night. I thought... maybe this would help."
That was all it took.
She dropped to her knees and wrapped me in her arms, her shoulders trembling. "You sweet, sweet boy... thank you. Thank you so much."
I hugged her back, resting my cheek against her shoulder.
I didn't say what I was thinking: that I had once died for a stranger and now lived for her. That her sorrow had awoken something fierce in me, something protective.
Instead, I said, "I'm glad you're smiling."
She sniffled and laughed through the tears. "Well, I haven't even tasted it yet!"
We sat together at the small table. She ate slowly, savoring every bite, and complimented every detail like it was gourmet cuisine. I knew it wasn't that good—but to her, it was perfect. Because it came from love.
After breakfast, she insisted on doing the dishes. I asked—politely, innocently—if I could use the computer.
She raised an eyebrow. "Already? You're not even in school yet."
"I just want to learn things," I said honestly. "About the world."
Something in my tone made her pause. Then she smiled and nodded.
The moment I sat at the desk, my demeanor shifted.
Time to work.
The operating system was basic, but serviceable. I opened the browser and began searching, my fingers slightly awkward on the keyboard due to my size.
Financial literacy. Child-friendly trading platforms. Basic investments. Market simulations.
I bookmarked everything of value.
Then came inventions. Product design. Business development. Low-cost patents. I was too young to act on most of it, but I could learn. Prepare. Strategize. In my old life, I'd dabbled in startups—I knew what to avoid, what to build toward.
The world valued quirks, but money still talked. If I was going to compete, I needed to be strong in every possible way—physically, mentally, and financially.
That afternoon, I set a new routine.
Training. Planning. Studying.
And I stuck to it.
Over the next few weeks, I wove structure into my days. Every morning started with stretches, push-ups, and squats. It was grueling at first—my tiny frame trembled with each rep—but I kept going. I logged progress in a second notebook, tracking growth with stubborn determination.
At school, things were quieter.
Katsuki Bakugo—the self-declared king of preschool—quickly became the center of attention. His flashy quirk, his loud mouth, his natural charisma... it pulled kids toward him like moths to flame. I watched from the edges, unimpressed.
He called me "Deku" once. The name didn't hurt this time.
It wasn't who I was.
If anything, it was a reminder of how far he still had to fall—and how far I still had to climb.
I didn't antagonize him. Didn't try to befriend him. I just observed.
When he started picking on other kids—especially the timid ones—I stepped in. Quietly. Firmly. Nothing dramatic. Just a hand on his wrist, a look in his eye, and a calm, "That's enough."
It surprised him.
He didn't understand why I wasn't afraid.
But I wasn't a child anymore.
At home, my side projects grew.
I started designing small gadgets using paper and pencils—nothing advanced yet, just early concepts. Household tools, learning toys, small inventions that might eventually earn money. Every cent of allowance was logged, budgeted, and saved.
The more I worked, the more my mother smiled.
She noticed the changes—how I asked thoughtful questions, how I cleaned without being told, how I was always scribbling in my notebook or running laps in the yard. At first, she thought it was a phase. Then she started watching with admiration.
Her guilt slowly gave way to pride.
Each time she smiled, it gave me something stronger than any quirk could offer.
Purpose.
A month passed.
And one night, as the moonlight poured through the window and the house lay quiet, I sat at my desk, legs swinging beneath the chair. Blueprints for a basic grip trainer lay beside me, half-finished. My fingers drummed lightly against the page.
I had made progress.
Small steps. But real ones.
I was stronger. Smarter. More focused.
I had brought light back into my mother's eyes.
And most importantly—I was no longer just surviving.
I was living.
I stared at the notebook, then up at the window, where stars blinked faintly above the city.
"This is just the beginning," I whispered. "I'll make this work. I'll become the hero this world needs."
And someday, when I stand tall without a quirk—when I've proven that strength isn't given, it's earned—I'll look back at this moment.
At this French toast. At these training logs. At my mother's smile.
And I'll remember where it all began.