Everyone knew Izuku Midoriya, the bright-eyed cinnamon roll whose heart was too big for his own good — at least, that was the Izuku of canon.
But this world was different.
This Izuku was not the trembling boy who cried over heroes. He was something else. Something sharper.
He was still fourteen, still in his final year of middle school. Yet, the boy who walked the cold streets of Musutafu looked nothing like the messy-haired, freckled child people remembered. His once soft frame had grown lean and defined, muscles shifting beneath his fitted black shirt. His face carried a sharper jawline, a quiet danger in the set of his mouth, and eyes like burnished emeralds, calm but alert — the kind of gaze that studied everything and trusted nothing.
Even his hair had changed; it was shorter now, more deliberate, the messy green locks trimmed and styled in a way that made his features stand out. Gone were the childish T-shirts and All Might hoodies. Now he wore black from head to toe — a modern street look: fitted pants, dark sneakers, a layered jacket. He moved through the alleys like a shadow.
And then there was the scar — a long, pale burn that cut across his left cheek. A reminder. A mark left by Katsuki Bakugo, the boy who once called him "Deku."
Of course, Bakugo was never punished. Why would he be? He was "gifted," blessed with a powerful Quirk. Society called kids like him "born winners."
Izuku had another word for them — deluded.
He hated the word fate.
To him, fate was nothing more than a fairy tale for fools.
People clung to it because it gave them comfort — the idea that a divine force had a plan, that their failures were not their fault. They whispered that if they suffered long enough, light would come.
But Izuku knew better. Life wasn't a tunnel; it was a circle, looping endlessly in suffering and disappointment. To escape it, one didn't need hope — one needed a plan.
And tonight, he had one.
---
The streets of the lower wards were silent except for the echo of dripping pipes and the distant hum of neon lights. He slipped through narrow alleyways, each one littered with rotting trash, flickering signs, and graffiti scrawled in languages half the world had forgotten. A faint mist clung to the ground, glowing faintly under the harsh light of the street lamps.
He stopped at an old iron door hidden behind a crumbling ramen shop.
Wearing a black suit and tie, and a lion-faced mask that concealed his hair and features, Izuku raised his hand and knocked —
Two times.
Pause.
Once.
Then three times in rhythm.
From behind the door, a gruff voice rasped, "Who are you?"
Izuku answered in the cold, altered voice he had practiced.
> "I am a sinner… looking to sin."
A moment later, metal locks clicked, and the door creaked open.
---
The room beyond was dim and thick with the scent of smoke and money.
Low music pulsed through the air — the kind that made your heartbeat feel heavier. The walls were covered in murals of the Seven Deadly Sins, each painted in dark gold and crimson.
Tables of criminals, mercenaries, and information brokers filled the space. They spoke in whispers, exchanging rumors and secrets for cash.
This was the underworld of Japan.
Long ago, the Yakuza had ruled these shadows. But when Quirks appeared, their influence crumbled. In their place rose something far more dangerous — a loose network of syndicates collectively called The Sins.
The Sins were divided into seven branches, each representing one deadly sin:
Lust: the prostitution and auction houses. Izuku had no interest in that filth.
Greed: gambling rings — perhaps useful someday.
Wrath: underground cage fights where people bled for entertainment.
Envy: assassins for hire; a job placed there would be done by lunch.
Gluttony: the public front — a chain of fast-food franchises that laundered their money.
Sloth: the slave market. Its leader's Quirk allowed him to brand and control people like puppets. Izuku despised the practice — not for morality's sake, but because slaves always craved freedom, and freedom bred betrayal. The best servants, he mused, were those who chose their shackles.
Pride: the information market — where identities were forbidden and knowledge was currency.
Tonight, he was here for Pride.
---
He walked deeper into the establishment, the sound of voices and shuffling cards echoing around him. The air was thick with smoke and tension, and every person wore a mask — literal or otherwise.
He found a table with one empty chair and sat. The table itself was a strange thing — carved obsidian inscribed with glowing runes. In Pride, truth and lies had color: green for truth, red for deceit.
He adjusted his gloves and listened.
"My piece of information," one masked man began, "is that the hero Endeavor is switching patrol routes. The west side of the city's about to become a danger zone."
The table pulsed green.
Izuku smiled beneath his mask.
Danger zones — places where hero patrol density was high, or where an S-class hero operated. Any city All Might entered turned into one overnight. Villains stayed away like rats fleeing a flood.
The next man spoke.
"There's a girl — young one, maybe fourteen. Makes insane contraptions from scrap metal. Think her name's Mei Hatsume. If you need gear, come by Sloth tomorrow. I'll get her for you."
The runes glowed green again.
Izuku's fingers tapped the table slowly. So they'd found her too.
He already knew of Mei — he'd been watching her from afar. The girl was brilliant, reckless, and naive. A perfect resource in the making.
Then, silence.
All eyes — or at least, all masks — turned to him.
It was his turn.
His first step into Pride's circle. The information he gave next would determine whether he'd be remembered… or erased.