The blood oranges rolled from the overturned cart, bouncing across the cracked asphalt like misplaced hopes. A stray cat froze mid-step, yellow eyes tracking their descent toward the storm drain.
Izuku's fingers trembled against the rooftop's concrete edge. Below, distant horns blared as commuters flowed homeward, unaware of the green-haired boy trembling ten stories up. His notebook lay discarded nearby, All Might's signature smeared across waterlogged pages. The hollow ache in his chest pulsed harder than the rain stinging his cheeks. He'd memorized every word. *Quirkless can't be heroes.*
A shudder ran through him as wind whipped his gakuran jacket wide open. He hadn't even cried. Not when his childhood friend burned his shoulder with explosions, not when his mother apologized with tearful eyes. The numbness felt heavier than the downpour. His palms scraped rough concrete as he leaned further forward, sneakers slipping on wet gravel.
He didn't hear the startled yowl when oranges hit the alley puddle. Didn't see the cat dart away. Air rushed past Izuku's ears as gravity clenched him tight, drowning the city's roar into silence.
***
Izuku gasped awake on cracked asphalt, rainwater pooling around his cheekbone. *Alive?* His fingers scrambled against wet ground—no pain, no fractured bones. Only an eerie numbness spreading from his chest outward. He sat up slowly, droplets sliding off unfamiliar white fabric hugging his torso. Across the alleyway, a shattered convenience store window flickered neon signs reflecting on its fractured surface.
***
His reflection froze him. Ghost-pale skin replaced sun-kissed freckles. Between his collarbones gaped a fist-sized hole where his sternum should've been. High-collared white fabric clung to unfamiliar shoulders—not his gakuran. His trembling hand brushed jet-black hair that now brushed his jawline. A bone-white mask fragment protruded above his left temple, tapering into a single curved horn. When he touched it, cold seeped into his fingertips. The alley's neon-lit puddles shimmered across his pupils—now pale green slits cutting through darkness like a cat's. This wasn't resurrection. This was replacement.
Instinct coiled tight in his gut. His fingers closed around the katana's hilt at his hip—*Zanpakuto*, his mind whispered—the word surfacing like a buried memory. Black sash, white hakama pants. Rainwater slid off polished steel as he drew the blade halfway. It hummed against his palm, faint vibrations resonating through the hole in his chest. Where terror should've surged, only hollow silence echoed. He felt nothing. Not the chill, not grief over All Might's words. Just the sword's pulse and the raindrops hitting his eyelashes like tiny drumbeats.
Across the alley, the shattered store window reflected his distorted silhouette. He stepped closer, boots silent on wet concrete. A convenience store's fluorescent glare sliced through the broken glass, illuminating packaged snacks inside. His reflection overlapped them—pale skin against colorful wrappers, the horned mask fragment casting jagged shadows. He pressed a palm against the glass. No warmth. No heartbeat thudding against his ribs. Only the void where emotions once lived. He leaned forward until his breath fogged the surface. The eyes staring back weren't Izuku Midoriya's. They belonged to something hungry and hollow.
A trash can clattered nearby. Izuku—no, *this*—spun, sword fully drawn now in one fluid motion. A stray cat hissed, fur bristling as it backed away from scattered oranges. Its pupils dilated, reflecting the pale green slits of his own eyes. The blade trembled, not with fear, but with anticipation. Something deep within the hollow cavity yearned to chase, to devour. The cat yowled once, then vanished into shadows. He lowered his Zanpakuto slowly, rainwater streaking down the blade like tears it couldn't shed. The silence in his chest yawned wider.
He slid the katana back into its sheath with a soft click that echoed louder than the downpour. Fingers brushed the hole beneath his collarbones—still dry, still numb. Shoving both hands deep into the hakama's pockets, Izuku turned toward the alley mouth. Home? Did that place exist anymore? His footsteps made no sound on the slick pavement, passing discarded cigarette butts and a sodden All Might poster peeling off a brick wall. Neon signs washed his pale face in garish pinks and greens. Someone jostled his shoulder; the stranger recoiled with a gasp, muttering "freak" before scurrying away. Izuku didn't flinch. Didn't care.
Two blocks from Dagobah Municipal Beach, a roar shook storefront windows. Concrete vibrated underfoot, followed by the panicked shrieks of pedestrians. Around the corner, flames licked the sky above a gas line rupture. Heroes clustered at the periphery—Death Arms, Backdraft, Kamui Woods—their movements hesitant, constrained by the inferno and buckling pavement. And there, trapped within a vortex of sludge that smelled like rotting sewage and burnt sugar, Katsuki Bakugo thrashed. Explosions sparked uselessly against the viscous mass as it tightened around his throat. His frantic crimson eyes met Izuku's across the chaos.
Izuku leaned against a lamppost, rainwater dripping from his horn fragment onto his shoulder. Bakugo's choked cursing reached his ears, sharp and desperate. Memories surfaced—burned notebooks, bruised ribs, "Deku." The heroes shouted directions, uselessly. Kamui's branches shriveled near the flames. A flicker stirred in the void where Izuku's heart had been. Not anger. Not vengeance. Just... curiosity. Like watching ants swarm a dropped candy. He tilted his head, pale slits narrowing as Bakugo's struggles weakened. One explosive hand twitched, then fell limp against the sludge. Izuku exhaled slowly. His breath didn't fog the air.
The alley shadows swallowed him. Not vanished—*shifted*. One moment he stood beneath the lamppost, the next he materialized knee-deep in bubbling sludge, stench of sulfur and rot thick enough to coat his tongue. The villain's eyes bulged in surprise. Izuku's hand plunged into the viscous mass, cold fingers closing around Bakugo's collar. With a casual flick of his wrist, he hurled the sputtering boy backward. Bakugo sailed through smoke like discarded trash, skidding to a stop at Death Arms' boots. Heroes stared, mouths agape. Izuku didn't glance back. His empty gaze fixed on the sludge creature trembling before him.
The air crackled. Izuku raised his index finger, a pale beacon against the inferno. Neon signs along the street flickered wildly as static lifted strands of raindrops into shimmering arcs around him. A low hum vibrated from the hole in his chest, deeper than thunder, resonating in the heroes' bones. The sludge villain whimpered, attempting to retreat. Too late. Izuku's voice cut through the chaos, flat and final: "Cero." Green light erupted from his fingertip—pure, searing energy that tore sound from the world. It ripped through sludge and asphalt alike, carving a molten trench toward the ocean before detonating. The flames died instantly. Where the villain stood, only steam rose from glass-smooth pavement.
Silence followed, heavy and stunned. Izuku lowered his hand, wisps of green energy dissipating from his fingertip. Bakugo coughed on the sidewalk, ash staining his palms as he stared at the scorched scar across the city. Kamui Woods retracted his branches slowly, gaze locked on Izuku's horn. Behind the heroes, hidden in a shattered store doorway, a woman vomited into a trash can—the acrid bile smell mingling strangely with ozone and burnt sugar still hanging thick in the damp air. Izuku tilted his head, observing the perfect cylindrical void he'd carved through parked cars and concrete. A single melted traffic light lay bent at the trench's edge like a wilted flower. He blinked, pale slits narrowing slightly. "Hmm," he murmured, voice flat as worn stone. "Perhaps that was too strong."
He slid both hands into his hakama pockets, fingertips brushing the cold steel of his Zanpakuto's hilt. The void in his chest remained silent—no guilt, no pride. Only the fading resonance of the Cero's echo vibrating against his ribs. He stepped forward, boots making no sound on the glass-smooth pavement where the sludge villain had evaporated. Raindrops sizzled faintly where they struck still-glowing asphalt edges. Death Arms lunged instinctively toward him, fist clenched. "Wait!" The hero froze mid-step as Izuku's emotionless gaze swept over him—a predator acknowledging prey too insignificant to hunt. Backdraft's extinguisher hose sputtered uselessly. Izuku walked past them, white fabric untouched by soot or water.
Bakugo shoved himself upright, teeth bared. "DEKU!" The word cracked like gunfire. Izuku paused. Not at the name, but at the raw, choking desperation beneath the fury. Like a dying animal's snarl. Slowly, he turned. Bakugo's uniform was shredded, His crimson eyes burned with terror disguised as rage—terror Izuku recognized. The kind Midoriya Izuku once felt. The hollow cavity behind his ribs stayed cold. A stray breeze lifted strands of Katsuki's ash-blond hair, carrying the sharp scent of nitroglycerin sweat mixed with sewage residue clinging to his skin. Izuku tilted his head the other way, horn fragment catching the neon glow from a bent street sign. "Too strong," he repeated softly, almost to himself, then resumed walking.
Shadows pooled around his ankles as he turned the corner onto a quieter street. Behind him, heroes rushed to restrain Bakugo's thrashing. Izuku didn't look back. His reflection flickered in rain-slicked shop windows: a ghost in white, horned silhouette warped by droplets streaking the glass. His footsteps made no sound. The numbness felt absolute—until his fingertip brushed the mask fragment above his temple. It pulsed faintly, like a second heartbeat. Cold seeped deeper into his bone marrow. Ahead, the beach glistened under storm clouds, mountains of trash framing the dark, rolling sea. Something moved atop a rusted refrigerator pile. A silhouette, unnaturally still, watching him with eyes that glowed yellow in the gloom. Izuku's hand tightened around his Zanpakuto's hilt. The void in his chest yawned wider. *Hunger*.
Fifteen minutes later, he stood before his apartment door. The wood grain swam before his eyes—too familiar, too warm. Rainwater dripped from his hakama onto the welcome mat, forming dark stains. He raised a pale hand. Hesitated. The key felt alien in his pocket. He knocked instead. Three sharp raps that echoed hollowly down the hallway. Inside, hurried footsteps approached. The knob turned. Inko Midoriya stood framed in the doorway, eyes swollen from crying, hair escaping its bun. Her gaze swept over his horn fragment, the bone-white mask edge, the high-collared shihakushō. Confusion crumpled into disbelief. "I-Izuku?" Her voice cracked. "They said... they said you..." Her trembling hand reached toward his cheek. He didn't flinch. Her fingertips brushed icy skin—and recoiled as if burned.
Inside, the scent of miso soup hung thick in the air. Katsudon leftovers congealed on the kotatsu. Inko hovered by the doorway, knuckles white against the frame. Izuku stepped past her without removing his boots. Rainwater pooled beneath him on the tatami. His reflection stared back from the family photo on the wall—freckled, smiling, green-haired. Gone. He traced the hole in his chest through damp fabric. Inko whispered behind him, "Your eyes... they're not yours." He turned. Pale green slits met her tear-filled ones. She flinched. Silence stretched, broken only by the drip of water from his sleeve. The All Might clock on the wall ticked too loud. The dream—saving people with a smile—floated through the void where his heart used to be. Flat. Distant. Like overhearing someone else's ambition. Power thrummed in his veins, colder than the rain. What use was a hero's symbol to hollow things?
He walked to his room. Posters of All Might peeled at the corners. Action figures lay scattered across his desk. He paused before the framed UA acceptance letter beside his bed—unsigned, unsent. Ink smudged where tears had once fallen. His Zanpakuto hummed against his hip, a low vibration that traveled through the floorboards. Inko's choked sob echoed from the hallway. Outside, rain streaked the windowpane. The yellow-eyed silhouette from the beach appeared briefly atop a telephone pole across the street before dissolving into shadow. Izuku touched the mask fragment again. It felt like a shackle. Like truth. Heroes wept. Hollows consumed. His fingers curled, knuckles whitening. The void swallowed everything—even Katsuki's terrified scream still echoing faintly in his skull. He closed his eyes. No warmth. No pulse. Only the endless, silent dark.
Reaching beneath his pillow, he pulled out a faded notebook labeled "Hero Analysis #13." Pages fluttered open to All Might's signature—now water-bleared into meaningless ink. He tore out a blank sheet instead. The pen felt alien. He wrote three words with clinical precision: *HERO. VILLAIN. NOTHING.* Rainwater dripped onto the paper, blurring the ink like blood. Outside, two drunk salarymen argued beneath a flickering streetlamp. One fell. The other laughed. Izuku watched without blinking. His Zanpakuto pulsed. The fallen man's fear smelled sour. Delicious. He swallowed hard. The hole in his chest ached—not pain, but emptiness expanding. He added a fourth word: *CONVENIENCE STORE.* The pen snapped in his grip. Black ink stained his pale fingers like veins.
His reflection stared back from the darkened computer screen—pale slits for eyes, horned mask fragment jutting from his temple. Behind him, an All Might clock ticked relentlessly. *Heroes save.* He'd vaporized a street. *Villains hurt.* Bakugo's terror had tasted… interesting. *Convenience store clerks scan rice balls.* He pictured himself in an apron, ringing up cigarettes for the drunk salarymen. Would customers flinch at his eyes? Would the horn crack the store's fluorescent lights? His Zanpakuto vibrated impatiently. He traced the air where his sternum should be. Cold seeped deeper. The notebook page crumpled in his fist. Outside, sirens wailed toward Dagobah Beach. Fire still glowed orange on the horizon. Someone needed saving. Someone always did. He exhaled slowly. His breath didn't fog the screen.
*CRACK.* The All Might clock shattered against the wall. Plastic shards rained onto his desk. Izuku lowered his hand, knuckles unmarked. The silence stretched—thick, suffocating. Inko's footsteps hurried toward his door. "Izuku?! What was—" He turned. His pale green slits met hers through the crack in the doorway. She froze mid-sentence, knuckles white on the frame. He tilted his head slowly, horn fragment scraping the doorjamb. Plaster dust drifted downward. "Mother," he stated, voice devoid of inflection. "Convenience stores. Do they hire…" His gaze dropped to the ink-stained words on his desk. *HERO. VILLAIN. NOTHING.* The void in his chest hummed. "...things like me?" Behind Inko's tears, he saw it—the flinch. The recoil. His Zanpakuto sighed in its sheath. Hungry.
His fingers brushed the unsent UA acceptance letter. Ten months. An eternity for a corpse. The ink seemed to pulse faintly—a phantom heartbeat from the ghost trapped within this hollow shell. *Appease.* The concept drifted like ash. Outside, sirens wailed toward Dagobah Beach again. Flames flickered orange against the rain-lashed windowpane. Bakugo's choked scream replayed in his mind's silence. Not heroic symbols. Just noise. Yet… he lifted his hand. Pale skin. Cold. Unfeeling. He imagined pressing it against a crying child's shoulder. Would the void swallow their tears? Would the horn cast comforting shadows? The Zanpakuto vibrated, a low growl against his hipbone.
He crossed the room. The family photo trembled on the wall as he passed—green-haired boy grinning beside his sobbing mother. Now, his reflection overlapped it: bone-white mask fragment, hollow chest, eyes like slit emeralds in a tomb. He plucked the UA letter from its frame. The paper felt brittle. Thin. Meaningless. Yet he folded it precisely, edges sharp as his blade, and slid it into his hakama. Rainwater pooled beneath his boots, soaking into the tatami mats. Inko's choked sob followed him down the hallway. He paused at the genkan, staring at his mud-smeared footprints. Dimly, beneath the numbness, something fluttered—a moth trapped behind glass. *Appease.*
The apartment door clicked shut behind him. Night swallowed Musutafu whole. Neon signs bled color onto wet sidewalks. Far above, perched on a power line slick with rain, two yellow eyes gleamed—unmoving, watching. Izuku's hand rested on his Zanpakuto's hilt. The void pulsed. Ten months. He stepped off the curb. A truck horn blared, headlights blinding. Shadows coiled around his ankles. He vanished mid-stride, reappearing atop a billboard overlooking Dagobah Beach. Below, heroes still combed the scar of his Cero. He tilted his face toward the storm. Rain slid off his horn like tears. Convenience stores could wait. The hunger demanded testing.
Dawn stained the sky the color of faded bruises. Izuku sat at the kotatsu, chopsticks untouched beside his steaming miso soup. Inko hovered near the kitchen doorway, clutching a dishtowel. Her knuckles were white. She hadn't slept. The silence between them felt thicker than the morning fog clinging to the windowpane. He lifted the bowl. Steam curled toward his pale chin. He didn't blow on it. The heat meant nothing. He drank—swallowing broth and silence together. Inko flinched when he set the empty bowl down. "Izuku… your school uniform—" He stood. The movement cut her off. He walked past her, hakama brushing her trembling leg. She didn't recoil this time. She froze. Her fear smelled like sour milk and ozone. Interesting.
Dagobah Beach sprawled before him—a graveyard of refrigerators and shattered dreams. Salt stung the air, sharp and alive. Waves crashed against rusted car frames. Izuku stood atop a mountain of microwaves. Below, the Cero trench glistened, its edges already crusted with ash-black foam. He drew his Zanpakuto. The blade hissed against the sheath. Murasame. The name whispered through his hollow chest. He raised it, edge catching the weak morning sun. Static lifted his hair. The air tasted metallic. Distant gulls screamed. He focused—not on Katsuki's snarl, not on All Might's dismissal—but on the trash pile twenty meters away. A broken washing machine. Its drum gaped like a metal mouth. *Cero.* He raised his free hand. Green light gathered at his fingertip—cold, humming, hungry. Pebbles danced on the sand. The washing machine glowed, then melted silently into a puddle of slag and steam.
He sheathed Murasame. The recoil vibrated through his bones, silencing the void's ache for a moment. Below, seawater hissed as it met the molten metal. He leaped—not down, but *forward*. Gravity bent. One instant he stood atop microwaves, the next he reappeared mid-air above a derelict fishing boat. Sonído. The word tasted like static and speed. He landed silently on the boat's rotting deck. Splinters didn't pierce his boots. Ahead, tangled in fishing nets and seaweed, a refrigerator lay half-buried in sand. His fingers curled. He *pulled*. Reiatsu flowed—invisible, crushing. The refrigerator groaned. Steel buckled. Sand exploded as it ripped free, soaring toward him like a missile. He caught it one-handed. The impact didn't jar his arm. He lowered it gently. His reflection warped in its dented door: pale skin, horn fragment, hollow eyes. Convenience stores hired warmth. Heroes needed hearts. He had neither. Only power. Cold. Efficient. The Zanpakuto sighed against his hip. Ready.
He drew Murasame again. The blade shone dull silver. Not toward the refrigerator—toward a trash heap twenty yards ahead. Plastic bags flapped like surrender flags. He remembered All Might's booming laugh in a merch store clip. *You too can be a hero!* Bakugo's sneer. *Quirkless freak.* Void or not, the blade felt right. Heavy. Honest. He raised it slowly, edge catching a shaft of weak sunlight slicing through storm clouds. Searing yellow-green light coiled around the steel. It pulsed—a heartbeat Murasame didn't have. The air crackled. Izuku breathed in ozone and rot. His knuckles whitened. Then—*down*. The slash ripped the horizon. "Getsuga Tenshō!" The words tore free—raw, grating, louder than the ocean's roar. A crescent blade of condensed light exploded from the steel. It screamed. Not sound—pure energy devouring silence.
The trash heap vanished. Not melted. Not shattered. *Erased*. Where garbage mountains stood, only a trench remained—a perfect curve carved fifteen feet deep into wet sand. Steam rose in thick plumes. The blast wave hit him seconds later: hot wind snapping his hakama legs, stinging his eyes with grit and salt. He stood unmoved. The aftershock rattled distant scrap metal piles; a microwave tumbled like loose teeth. His grip tightened on Murasame's hilt. Too much. Always too much. Convenience stores didn't need horizon-splitting slashes. Heroes didn't erase things. Yet… the void hummed. Satisfaction? No. Confirmation. Power had a shape now—ragged, green-edged, hungry. He lifted the blade. Still glowing faintly. Residual heat warped the air above the steel. Behind him, a seagull landed on the scorched trench edge. Its beak dipped, tasting superheated sand. Then it burst into greasy green flames. Feathers crisped silently. Izuku watched it burn.
He slid Murasame back into its sheath. The click echoed louder than the burning gull's crisping feathers. Behind him, sand hissed where seawater met superheated glass. A soft voice cut through the silence like a knife through smoke: "Interesting."
Izuku turned slowly. Rain began to fall again, cold droplets tracing the curve of his horn fragment. A girl stood atop a rusted car frame, black ponytail whipping in the ocean wind. Her onyx eyes gleamed with untamed curiosity, fixed on the smoldering trench. She wore a UA tracksuit—crimson accents stark against the gray dawn—and her smile bloomed wide and effortless, like a sunflower chasing light. Izuku's hollow gaze swept over her: the faint calluses on her knuckles, the way her weight balanced perfectly on the rotting metal, the scent of ozone clinging to her skin beneath the salt air. He didn't return the smile. His expression remained as still as the void in his chest.
She leaped down, landing soundlessly beside him in the wet sand. "That technique," she said, gesturing toward the steaming scar with a grin that revealed sharp canines. "It's not a quirk, is it?" Her onyx eyes flickered to the hole beneath his collarbones, then to the mask fragment. "I've seen heroes melt steel. I've seen villains erase buildings." She tilted her head, ponytail swaying. "But that… tasted like hunger." Izuku's fingers brushed Murasame's hilt. Convenience stores didn't hire weapons. He turned, boots sinking into ash-blackened sand, and walked toward the ocean without a backward glance. Salt spray stung his nostrils; dead fish and burnt plastic. The void stayed silent.
Behind him, footsteps crunched through wet debris. "My name's Momo Yaoyorozu," she called, voice cutting through the crash of waves. Her UA tracksuit rustled as she matched his pace two meters to his left. "Heiress to the Yaoyorozu conglomerate? Top recommendation student?" She gestured vaguely toward the city skyline, as if expecting recognition to flicker in his hollow eyes. Izuku stared straight ahead. Rain darkened his white hakama to gray. The trench he'd carved glowed faintly where seawater met superheated sand, hissing like a dying beast. Her scent—ozone and expensive tea leaves—drifted closer. Unimportant. Like background noise.
He veered left, climbing a slope of shattered washing machines. Rust flaked onto his sleeves. Momo scrambled after him, breath misting the air. "You vaporized half a villain yesterday!" she pressed, fingers gripping a jagged metal edge. "The sludge incident near Dagobah Pier? Kamui Woods couldn't stop shaking." Below, a stray cat darted from beneath a microwave, eyes wide with feral terror as they reflected Izuku's slitted gaze. He didn't pause. Didn't slow. His thumb traced the cold edge of his horn fragment. Yaoyorozu meant factories. Convenience stores needed rice balls.
At the crest, he vanished. Not with speed—with silence. One moment there, boots planted on corroded steel. The next, gone. Momo froze mid-step, ponytail whipping in the sudden wind. Only his footprints remained, already filling with rain. She scanned the trash-strewn horizon, fists clenched at her sides. "Fine!" she shouted at the empty beach. "But UA's entrance exam is in nine months! You can't erase *that*!" Her voice echoed off dead refrigerators. Far offshore, perched on the mast of a sunken freighter, Izuku watched her tiny crimson figure retreat. The void hummed. Nine months. He could vaporize convenience stores by then. Or maybe just apply.