My son has changed.
Not in a way that's bad, really. He's nine. Kids change all the time. One minute they're obsessed with dinosaurs, and the next it's space or trains or... whatever their little hearts grab onto. They grow out of things. Out of habits. Out of laughs, even.
But this? This feels different.
I catch myself thinking it again as I watch him from the kitchen doorway. He's got his back to me, standing on that old step stool he doesn't even need anymore, stirring something at the stove. The smell of miso and grilled fish drifts through the room. Comforting. Familiar.
It was the first meal I ever taught him.
He hums a little as he works. Quietly. Focused. He's so serious when he cooks, like he's preparing for something big. Like this is more than just dinner.
Sometimes, watching him, I forget he's only nine.
And when he talks... it's not like a kid. He doesn't ramble or guess or ask the same question six times. No. He speaks like he knows exactly what he means. Like he's already thought about it from every angle.
It's not showy. It's not arrogance. He just... knows things.
He came to me one night with his notebook. It's green and worn yet always with him. Then said something I'll never forget.
"I foresee a lack of time spent as a family due to my hero training. To prevent that, I'll need strong reasons to prioritize time with you, even when I'm busy. This seemed like a good one."
He wanted to cook. With me. So that when he got busier... we'd still have that.
I remember just blinking at him, stunned. "Foresee"? "Prioritize"? What nine-year-old says things like that?
He smiled at me like he already knew I wouldn't get it. Not in a mean way. Just... patient.
Izuku has always been a sharp kid. Curious. Kind. He notices things other kids don't. Maybe that's from his father. Maybe it's just who he is.
But lately, the way he carries himself, the things he says... they don't feel like childhood anymore.
He used to be full of chatter. He'd nonstop talk about All Might and hero costumes and saving people with a smile. Now? Now his notebooks are full of sketches. Workout plans. Meal logs. Tactical diagrams. He doesn't dream out loud anymore. He prepares.
I found one page labeled: "Heroism Without Quirks: Foundational Theory."
I didn't know whether to cry or hug him.
He doesn't ask for toys anymore, either. Not since he came back from the dojo smiling to himself like a madman. He kept muttering something about being a man and 'Locking in'.
Now he asks for weights. Anatomy books. CPR manuals.
And every time I hand him one, he thanks me so sincerely it almost hurts. Like I'm giving him something sacred.
Sometimes I sneak a peek at him training.
He's not the fastest kid. Or the strongest. But he's relentless.
He runs laps until his chest heaves, then hits the ground for pushups, then squats, then shadowboxing, all in a rhythm that I can't really grasp. And when he's done, he always puts everything away, folds his towel, writes notes.
Then he'll glance up and say, "Dinner smells good, Mom." Like it's all normal.
But it's not.
He used to cry over scraped knees. Now he falls, mutters "data collected," and moves on. What does 'Data Collected' even mean? The only time I've heard something like that is scifi movies where there's a robot or cyborg or something.
He used to draw heroes with wild capes and goofy grins. Now he draws building layouts and emergency evac plans.
He used to fear thunder. Now he watches storms like they suddenly calm him.
Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night to sounds in the living room. His light footsteps and faint shuffles. At first I thought it was an intruder.
It wasn't.
It was Izuku, practicing footwork drills by the light of the TV.
When I asked him why, he just said, "Villains don't wait until morning."
I laughed. And then I cried.
He's still sweet. Still warm. Still hugs me every morning and asks about my day.
But there's something underneath now. Something heavy.
It's in the way he looks at himself in the mirror. Not vain. Not embarrassed. Just... thoughtful. Like he's trying to find something. Or hold onto it.
Once I asked what he was thinking. He said, "How much of me is mine."
What do you say to that? What does that mean???
He's still my boy. My Izuku. But when I look at him sometimes, focused and still and too quiet, I wonder...
When did my child start living like someone who's already fighting a war?
But the truth is…I know when.
It was the day the doctor told us. The words echo even now:
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Midoriya. Your son will never develop a quirk."
He didn't cry.
He just froze. Eyes wide. Like the floor dropped out from under him.
That's the image I can't let go of. His little hands started shaking. He tugged at his hair, trying to make sense of something that just... shattered him.
I held him. I told him it was okay.
And he whispered, "I'm still me."
But it didn't sound hopeful. It sounded... scared. Like he was trying to make himself believe it.
That's when he grew up.
That moment.
And every year since, I've seen the way it settled in him. Like a stone. Quiet and solid.
His teachers notice it too. They call him polite. Respectful. Focused. But then they always add something like, "He doesn't play with the other children."
Because he doesn't.
While the others are laughing and showing off their quirks, he's off to the side. Watching. Helping. Stepping in when something's about to go wrong. Bandaging scraped knees. Cooling tempers before they flare.
Like he's not one of them. Like he's already a protector.
They call it leadership.
But sometimes I just see a boy who forgot how to play.
When I ask if he's lonely, he always says, "Of course not, Mom. I'm just making sure everyone's safe."
Safe.
That word again.
Everything he does now is about safety. About control. As if he can build a world strong enough to protect everyone from the hurt he's already felt.
He wants to be a hero so badly.
But sometimes I wish he'd just be a kid.
Just for a little while.
Just long enough to remember what it's like to laugh without purpose. To be held without reason. To chase dreams because they're fun, not because they're necessary.
Sometimes...
Sometimes I wish he'd forget about being a hero. And just be my son.
God, what kind of mother thinks that?
Maybe one who's scared he's losing pieces of himself too fast.
Maybe one who misses hearing him laugh just because something was silly.
Maybe one who just wants her little boy back for one more afternoon.
Maybe a bad one…
A terrible one…
One that wishes her own son would just…give up on his dream.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
DAMN IT.
He beat me again. On the test. Again.
I studied so hard! Like, for real this time. Memorized every formula, every stupid kanji, every date in the damn book. Even skipped training for a week just to cram. And still... he got first.
How? How does he keep doing this?
The guy barely pays attention! Walks into class like it's a punishment, drops into his seat, and pulls out his phone like he's clocking in. Half the time he's watching documentaries or news clips. "
The teachers used to stop him. You know, "no phones in class." And he'd nod, super polite, put it away... then sneak it back out thirty seconds later like they didn't just talk to him.
I thought he was faking it. Just pretending to be smart because he didn't have a quirk. Like, "oh I'll overcompensate with brains." But no. Every single time he's called on? Perfect answer. Doesn't even blink.
And that notebook. Don't get me started.
Always writing. Names. Quirk data. Battle diagrams. Freaking angles. I peeked once and saw a whole page on my fighting style. It was... weird. Like forensic scientist meets obsessive nerd.
One of the teachers tried to take his phone once. Dumbass.
Deku looked up, just looked, and the whole room went silent. No yelling. No threats. Just this cold stare. But there's something weird about Deku's eyes sometimes. They just ain't right.
Then he said, all calm:
"If I get a perfect score on every test, I can use my materials. If I fail once, I stop. Deal?"
And they agreed.
They agreed.
And he hasn't missed a single point since.
So now every day, I walk into class and there he is. Mr. Quirkless Genius. Typing away, muttering to himself, probably plotting how to turn a pencil sharpener into a smoke bomb.
And me? I'm second. Again.
I slammed my desk after class today. Loud. Startled the extras.
"B-Bakugo?" one of them squeaked.
"Shut up," I said. And they did. Good.
But I couldn't shake it. The pressure, the rage, the buzz under my skin. I stormed out the second the bell rang.
Found him by the lockers. Same as always. Leaning like he owns the wall, scrolling on his phone like nothing matters.
That smug bastard.
I stomp up, fists already sparking, and before I can even yell, he looks up. Calm. Like I'm a fucking commercial break or something.
"You gotta let it go," he says, pulling out one earbud. "You're not gonna be the best at everything."
I nearly explode right there.
"No, DUMBASS! You're not gonna be the best at everything! You're QUIRKLESS! You're a FREAK! And you're about to be a PILE OF ASH!"
My hands were glowing. Air crackling.
And he? He yawned.
Then glanced behind me, planned it, and sure enough, there's a teacher rounding the corner.
I don't even need to look. He set this up. Just like always.
Every time he sees me close to snapping, he gets near a camera, a crowd, a witness. He's memorized my patterns. Tracked my fuse.
He smirks.
Pats me on the shoulder like he's my coach, and goes, "You know where to meet me, Kaachan."
Kaachan.
Like it's funny.
Then he walks off. No fear. No care.
And that's it.
I'm done.
He dies today.
He doesn't need to tell me where. I already know.
Same spot every time. Back behind the dojo, that scrappy little lot with uneven dirt and busted fencing.
He calls them "sparring matches." I call them what they really are: chances to beat him into the ground.
But every time I show up... he's already there. Like he lives in that damn dirt. Always waiting. Always prepared.
There's chalk marks on the ground, weird little bottles lying around, crap strung between fence posts. Once, I swear, he made a whole pulley trap out of a broken jump rope and a mop handle.
He calls it "environmental prep."
I call it cheating. That he was rigging the fight.
And he said, calm as ever, "Then stop giving me time to prepare. Fight me somewhere else."
Like it's my fault he's always six steps ahead.
Like I care about his damn setups.
I don't.
I don't care how many booby traps he lays out or how many backup plans he scribbles into that notebook. Doesn't matter how calculated he is or how many times he's studied my every move.
The only thing that matters?
I will win.
I don't care how many times I've lost. How many smug looks he's given me. How many times he's dodged or redirected or "adapted."
I will knock that look off his face so hard it echoes through history.
I'm Katsuki Bakugo. I don't lose forever. I shouldn't be losing ever!
So let him enjoy his little wins while he can.
Because when that final bell rings today?
I'm turning him into a crater.
I'm halfway down the hall, still fuming, when a voice floats in from the side.
"You're wasting your time, you know."
Don't even need to look.
That lazy tone. The slow pop of gum. Yep. Hana.
Used to be one of my crew back in kindergarten. One of the extras who followed me around like I was already the next number one hero. Now?
She follows him.
The enemy.
The quirkless bastard.
I cut my eyes to the side. She's walking backwards next to me, hands stuffed into the pocket of her hoodie, pink hair pulled up in that messy side ponytail. Glitter stickers on her cheeks glowing faintly. Her quirk, Starlit Adhesion, lets her stick those things anywhere. It gives things properties. Extra grip, bounce, flashes of light... cheap tricks. But somehow, he found a way to make them dangerous.
She blows a bubble. Pops it.
"You're gonna fight him again, huh?"
I growl. "Obviously."
She tilts her head, like she's thinking real hard. "Why? You've never won."
I stop walking. She doesn't.
I glare. "You wanna join your boyfriend on the soon-to-be-buried list, princess?"
The pop this time is louder, from her gum and from the breath she sucks in.
"He's not-! He's not my boyfriend!"
"Sure," I say. "You just hang around him all day, hand him little sticker-bombs, and back him up in every fight. Totally normal friendship behavior."
"Shut up."
She's blushing. Hard.
I roll my eyes. "He's using you. You get that, right?"
She stops. Not moving. Not chewing.
The hallway buzzes with the overhead lights. For once, she's not fidgeting.
Then, real quiet, she says, "Yeah. I know."
I blink.
She stares down at her shoes. "He uses everyone. That's just how he is. Everything's data. Testing. Support. Strategy."
And then she smiles. Not sad. Not bitter. Just... soft.
"But he never throws people away. If you're useful, he keeps you close. If you're not, he helps you become useful. He's... awful at saying it, but he cares. In his own weird, broken little way."
I just stare. Like she's speaking another language.
"You're seriously okay with that?"
My voice is quieter than I mean it to be.
She shrugs. "Maybe not. But I want to see how far he goes. I want to see how high he gets. A quirkless kid aiming to be a hero? That's insane. But he means it."
Her voice drops to almost a whisper. "He doesn't want to be number one just to win. He wants to prove something. To himself. To everyone who said he couldn't."
Then she laughs. Light and real this time. "Even if it's dumb... it makes me happy to help."
She spins around, walking ahead of me now, hands swinging.
Looks over her shoulder. Grins wide.
"So yeah, Bakugo. I'm gonna keep helping Izuku kick your ass."
I scoff. "Good luck with that."
"Oh, I don't need luck."
She peels a glowing sticker from her cheek and flicks it at me. It sticks to my shirt, right over my heart.
Blue glow.
"You'll need it more than I will."
I rip it off and toss it to the floor.
She just laughs, pops her gum, and skips away down the hall.
I stare after her, teeth grinding.
I want to yell. To call her dumb. To say she's being manipulated.
But I don't.
Because I recognize that look in her eyes.
The one you get when you believe in someone so hard, it rewrites the rules of the world.
I hate it.
I hate him.
But deep down, what I hate even more is that some part of me... still wants to see if he's right.
Fine.
Let him have his stickers. His plans. His backup dancers.
Because when we fight after school, I'm not holding back. Not an ounce.
He wants to prove the world wrong?
Then I'll show him just how strong the world hits back.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=--=-
It's almost sunset by the time I finish locking up the main hall. The wooden floors still carry the day's energy, quiet but there. Scratches, scuffs by the sliding doors, little dents in the corners, every mark feels like it means something. Like echoes. Kids trying. Failing. Trying again.
Usually I'd be heading home by now. Lately, though, I've been staying later. Because of them.
Sure enough, I hear it before I see it. The dry crackle of a burst, the thunk of impact, shoes brushing over packed dirt. Out past the training yard, the narrow stretch of land they've sort of claimed as theirs is alive again.
I step outside, gravel crunching underfoot. There they are. Bakugo and Midoriya. Two nine-year-olds with fire in their veins and something to prove to the sky itself.
Bakugo is all force. Fury. Sparks pop in his palms, his stance wide, voice sharp as it bounces across the lot. The blasts are small, just flashes and bangs for now, but he makes up for it with raw, wild intent. Every motion is like he's trying to bend the world his way.
Midoriya's different. Doesn't move like the others. Not faster, just... sharper. Like he's always solving something. He watches Bakugo's steps like they're clues, every shift and sidestep chosen, not guessed. He doesn't waste a thing.
But his body's still small. You can see it frustrates him sometimes, like he wants to move in a way his bones don't quite allow. It's like he's already thinking ahead of what he can physically do. Like he's too aware of the limits.
He uses everything around him. Gravel. Fence posts. The pattern of Bakugo's blasts. I catch a faint glow under one of the posts and can't help but smile a little. Hana's doing. Her little glowing star stickers, they can mark things. Izuku often uses them as measurements to judge the distance between him and Bakugo on the fly. You wouldn't think it would be that useful, but apparently the kid knows just how strong his rival is. And just as fast as well. It lets him know just how much time he has to dodge, move, or counter attack.
Smart stuff. Kind of ruthless. Definitely effective.
But the marking stickers aren't something to worry about. No. It's their other uses.
Bakugo shouts and lunges at him with a boost and Midoriya slips aside just as the ground lights up behind him. Dust clouds bloom in the low light. Bakugo goes through the smoke like a comet, low and fast…and then bam, hits the fence.
Hard.
If he could fly with his blasts already, maybe he could've caught himself. He's been close. Not tonight, though.
Midoriya doesn't even flinch. No grin. No celebration. Just watching. Waiting. Calm. Too calm for a kid.
He doesn't go in for a finishing hit. Just lets the moment pass.
Bakugo snarls from the dirt. "Stop running, Deku!"
Midoriya's answer is quiet. "Then stop missing."
Another blast. Another dodge. This time a brick, must've been rigged, goes off near Bakugo's face. He stumbles. Dazed.
Still, Midoriya doesn't strike right away. He watches. Counts the seconds between one attack and another. Bakugo tries to gather his bearings but shouts in anger before taking a swipe at Izuku. Without sight he would need to rely on his other senses to accurately pin down Izuku but the attacks seem more frantic than planned.
Finally Izuku moves. Slips in close. Tags Bakugo's wrist.
One light touch. Perfect placement.
"Point," he says.
Bakugo stares at his arm like it turned traitor. He swings. Midoriya blocks it clean.
"Point," he says again, not louder.
Bakugo's pride is cracking. I can almost feel it from where I stand.
Three more rounds. Each one, Bakugo crashes in. Each time, Midoriya adjusts, redirects. Bakugo gets sloppier, angrier. And then he just loses it. Blasts everywhere. Less control, more rage.
I step forward, ready to stop it before it gets ugly, but then I see it. A faint shimmer on Bakugo's shirt. He jerks backward like something zapped him and groans.
The glow fades fast, but the effect is enough.
"How?!" Bakugo shouts, wide-eyed. "There weren't any stickers! I checked everything!"
"Anna's been trying out permanence," Izuku says voice flat. "It was a success. Clearly. She doesn't have to keep the sticker on something anymore. Once there she can remove it yet still activate the effect, though with less output. "
Bakugo snaps. "That bitch! You told her to do this, didn't you?! You set me up!"
"You've been reckless since you figured out how to launch yourself using your explosions," he tell him. "You wanted a rematch so bad you forgot to check your assumptions. Worse. Your increase in fire power has incorrectly given you the assumption that with a big enough explosion all of your problems will be solved. Who cares if you can't see, you'll just blast me blind huh? You let your passion blind you. In the past you would reassess before blasting through my preparations. Tonight you did not. Don't let your power make you an idiot."
"Be better next time," he adds. It's not a suggestion.
I lean against the doorframe.
When Midoriya first came here, he had this desperate energy. Like training was his way of not falling apart. Every bruise was penance for something he couldn't name.
Now? It's different. Cold, in a way. Controlled. He pushes like he's fine-tuning a machine. Tracks his losses. Adjusts. Learns. He hasn't just made himself stronger. But smarter. Sharper. He pulls others in, makes them sharper too. Not out of kindness. Out of necessity.
Bakugo sits up. Dirt-streaked. "You cheated," he says, voice thin.
Midoriya doesn't blink. "I adapted."
"Same damn thing," Bakugo mutters.
"Then adapt too," Midoriya says, grabbing his bag. "That's what heroes do."
Bakugo watches him, fists tight. Not just angry now. Something else in there. Respect? Resentment? Hard to tell. Probably both.
I let the silence stretch.
"That's enough," I say eventually.
Both boys look up. Bakugo jumps, like he'd forgotten I was there. Midoriya just nods.
"Yes, Sensei," they say in unison. They bow. Bakugo's is more like a challenge, but it counts.
They leave. The lot goes quiet. Footprints, scattered gravel, the occasional faint glow of forgotten stickers, and the hum of the city creeping back in.
I stay awhile. Arms crossed. Cold settling in.
Two boys. One chasing fire. One chasing clarity. Both chasing something bigger than themselves.
I should feel proud. And I do. I should encourage them. And I will.
But I'm uneasy.
I've seen what this kind of hunger becomes. Not just ambition but obsession. Midoriya is going to climb. I don't doubt that. He'll claw his way up, one sacrifice at a time. But when he gets there? I'm not sure he'll be able to stop climbing.
That's the cost. The goal swallows everything. Leaves nothing behind but the climb.
I lock the gate. The click echoes in the quiet. Their voices already feel like memories. The glow from the stickers dims to nothing.
They'll be back tomorrow. And I'll be here. Watching. Teaching. And hoping, really hoping, that they don't forget how to live along the way.