The Midoriya apartment always smelled of baby fabric softener and freshly made katsudon, an oddly comforting combination that permeated every corner. It was a homey scent, heavy with carbs and affection, the kind that instinctively makes you lower your guard and relax your tense shoulders. Today, however, that familiar comfort had vanished. The air felt stale, heavy, carrying an emotional density that made it hard to breathe, as if someone had died in the next room.
And in a way, it was true. The greatest hope of Izuku Midoriya's childhood had died last Tuesday, clinically assassinated in Dr. Tsubasa's office under the cold fluorescent lights.
I was sitting on the living room rug, pretending to be absorbed in cartoons I wasn't really watching, while my mother, Mitsuki, and Aunt Inko spoke in low, conspiratorial voices in the kitchen. The whispering was constant, a low murmur trying to be discreet, but I didn't need super hearing or an enhanced-listening Quirk to catch the gist of their conversation. Sharp, pain-laden words like "poor thing," "unfair," "tragedy," and the fateful "pinky toe" floated in the air like toxic smoke, delivering the sentence.
Quirkless. Mukosei. An outcast.
In the life I remembered, in that previous existence where I was just a reader watching the plot unfold, those words were nothing more than a character trait for the protagonist, a simple narrative device to drive the classic underdog story. But here, in this vibrant and brutally real world, a society obsessively delirious about superpowers—Quirks—they were an absolute social and aspirational death sentence.
I looked at my hands, small and strong, my own explosive Quirk not yet fully developed, but knowing the potential was there. Hero society was bright, colorful, and dazzling on the surface, like a polished jewel, but its foundations were rotten to the core. Segregation was subtle and based on biological utility: if you had a cool, flashy, and powerful Quirk, you were royalty, a guaranteed future pro-hero destined for glory. If you had a mediocre or merely useful Quirk, you were a second-class citizen, just another cog in the machine. If you didn't have one at all, like Izuku... you were less than a citizen. You were an evolutionary mistake. An invalid. A burden on the system.
Racism in this world wasn't based on stupid, outdated skin pigmentation, but on genetic efficiency. And my "best friend"—or the one I was pretending to be—had just been labeled the epitome of uselessness.
"Katsuki-chan," Inko's trembling voice, heavy with impending tears, abruptly pulled me from my dark thoughts. "Izuku is in his room. Could you... could you go check on him? He hasn't come out all day and he's not answering."
I nodded, standing up with an almost supernatural calm I didn't feel at all. The procession to Izuku's room felt more like a walk to the gallows than a simple stroll down the hallway. I walked, fully aware of the gravity of the situation and the abyss that had just opened up between him and the rest of the world.
His bedroom door was ajar, as if the boy behind it hadn't even had the strength to close it all the way. Inside, absolute darkness reigned, a welcoming blackness that felt like a refuge. The only source of light and noise came from the computer monitor glowing intensely in the gloom.
I knew it. I knew exactly what video he was watching. It was the legendary video, the one I had watched hundreds of times in my past life, the one that had doomed this kid to chase an impossible goal.
I walked in without knocking. Social etiquette was the least of my problems. Izuku was sitting in his swivel chair, his back to me, rocking slightly in a slow, desolate rhythm. On the screen, the iconic image played on an endless loop: All Might, at the peak of his power, rescuing hundreds of people from the rubble of a massive disaster, laughing despite the destruction, wearing his characteristic, reassuring ear-to-ear smile.
He is already here. Fear not! Do you know why? Because I am here!
The video ended and started again. Over and over. The repetitive sound was a hammer striking my patience.
"Kacchan..." Izuku's voice finally sounded, a broken thread, hoarse from muffled crying and the effort of holding himself together.
He didn't turn to look at me. His eyes remained glued to the glowing screen, searching for answers or comfort in the myth.
Did you see that? He's always smiling... no matter what kind of trouble he's in...
I took a step forward, my hands clenched into silent fists inside my pockets. I was there as Katsuki Bakugo, the abusive "friend," but also as the conscience of the future, the one who knew what those words meant in the long run.
"Kacchan..." Izuku slowly turned the chair, finally facing me, and the visual impact hit me with the force of an explosion. His eyes were puffy, bloodshot, and completely red, brimming with fresh tears that kept falling, soaking his cheeks and neck. He pointed at the screen with a trembling hand, the very embodiment of pain. "Even if I don't have a Quirk... can I be a hero like him?"
The silence that followed stretched on, a cold, painful echo filling the emptiness of the room. In the original story, his mother would have come running in right at that moment, hugged him, and apologized endlessly. Those words, "I'm sorry," were what hurt Izuku the most, as they were the ultimate confirmation of his worst fears: that he deserved pity and compassion.
I couldn't let that happen. Pity was a slow poison that killed ambition.
I stepped up to him, resolute, and with a quick, sharp motion, I turned off the monitor. The room plunged back into total darkness. The silence of the video was replaced by Izuku's ragged breathing.
"Kacchan!" he protested weakly, lacking the strength to truly argue.
"Stop watching that crap. You're going to go blind," I told him, using the roughest, firmest voice I could muster. I grabbed his shoulder tightly and spun his chair back around so he was facing me directly, so the darkness couldn't hide him. "Listen to me closely, Izuku, because I'm not going to repeat myself."
Izuku hiccupped, sniffing back snot with a pathetic sound.
"The world is a piece of shit, Izuku. I'm not going to sugarcoat it for you. The people out there don't care about you, they don't care about your dream. If you don't have power, they'll eat you alive without hesitation." I didn't do it out of malice, but out of necessity. I needed the gravity of the situation to burn into his mind. "The doctor said you don't have the biological motor for a Quirk. Fine. That's a fact. It's a reality you can't escape."
I watched his shoulders slump even further, waiting for the rejection, the final insult, the order to give up. He was ready to be crushed.
"But," I continued, squeezing his shoulder a little tighter, letting my hand warm up slightly—a hint of my Quirk surfacing, a latent promise of power he would never have. "All Might doesn't save people just because he has super strength. He saves people because his body, his damn ethics, act before his brain tells him it's too dangerous. And you... you are the most reckless, obsessively dedicated idiot I know."
Izuku blinked, completely bewildered by the insult that, strangely, sounded like the greatest compliment he had been given in his short life.
"You are not going to be like All Might," I stated flatly, cutting off any fantasy. "You don't have his strength. You never will by birth. So get that idea out of your head and bury it forever."
"B-but..." he tried to interrupt.
"Shut up and listen. If you want to be a hero, if you really want to take on this shitty society, you'll have to use the one thing you have that the other idiots don't: that giant head of yours." I tapped him lightly on the forehead with my finger. "While brainless brutes like me rely on explosions and brute force, you will have to analyze, plan every move, set mental and strategic traps. You'll have to be smarter, faster on your feet, and more cunning than any villain, or even any hero."
I leaned in toward him, invading his personal space, my chin almost touching his. I was mimicking that fierce, intimidating intensity that would characterize the Bakugo of the future, but I was using it to build something up instead of tearing it down.
"It's going to hurt. You're going to bleed three times as much as I will just to stay afloat. They will laugh at you and spit in your face. Do you still want to do it? Do you still want this path of pain and rejection?"
Izuku stared at me. The crying had stopped. In its place was a spark of awe and understanding, a new light. No one had given him a real choice until now. Everyone had just offered condolences and empty comfort. I was presenting him with a do-or-die challenge, a mission with clear terms.
He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his All Might shirt, smearing his face with snot and tears, but nodded with a newfound firmness. Once. Twice.
"Y-yes. I want to be a hero."
I snorted, a mix of relief and exasperation. I slapped him on the back so hard I almost knocked him out of the swivel chair. It was a gesture of my "character," brutality wrapped in affection.
"Good. Then stop crying, Deku. Stop being pathetic. We start training tomorrow. If you're going to be a hero without superpowers, you can't have those weak noodle arms. You'll break against the first villain."
As I walked out of the room, leaving him in the gloom to process the bombardment and the promise of pain, I heard a whisper behind me, almost imperceptible but heavy with overwhelming gratitude. It was the sound of a soul saved from the void.
"Thank you, Kacchan."
I didn't answer. I opened and closed the door carefully, keeping my hand on the knob, and let out a shaky sigh, leaning my head back against the doorframe. Damn it, I thought, feeling the weight of responsibility. I had just condemned this kid to hellish training and a life of perpetual struggle. But it was better than condemning him to a life of self-pity and resentment.
When I turned around to leave, I almost had a literal heart attack.
I wasn't alone in the hallway.
A few feet away from Izuku's door, pressed against the wall and trying to take up as little space as possible, stood Mitsuki and Aunt Inko. They both looked like statues frozen in the middle of a crime scene, their eyes wide with surprise and tension. It was obvious they had come to check on Izuku and stopped dead when they heard my yelling and intense monologue. They had heard everything.
Inko covered her mouth with her hands, fresh tears welling up in her eyes, but these were different. They weren't tears of despair or sorrow, but of immense relief and almost religious gratitude. Mitsuki, on the other hand, looked at me with an unreadable expression. There was surprise, yes, but also a strange, complex mix of pride and confusion, as if she were looking at a stranger wearing her son's face.
"Katsuki-chan..." Inko sobbed, lowering her trembling hands. "You... what you told him..."
I tensed up completely. They had heard it all. Great. Goodbye to my facade of a normal, ignorant kid. There was no point in pretending anymore.
"You were going to go in and apologize, weren't you?" I asked, my voice far too mature, far too tired and heavy for my four-year-old body. There was no going back; the damage to my character was done.
Inko flinched as if I had physically struck her. She looked down in shame, wringing her hands. "I... I didn't know what else to say, sweetie. I was so heartbroken. I thought... I thought his dream was over. I just wanted to comfort him."
"Pity won't do him any good, Auntie," I interrupted, crossing my arms and leaning against the opposite wall with stolen authority. "Pity is for losers who give up. Izuku isn't dead, he's just playing on hard mode. He doesn't need comfort, he needs a plan."
I looked the plump, kind woman in the eye, and my tone became even more commanding. "If you really want to help him, don't apologize. Buy bandages, good painkillers, and lots and lots of protein-rich food. He's going to need it. And don't talk to him about Quirks."
There was absolute silence for two seconds. Inko blinked, processing my orders with the submission of a student. Then, I felt a heavy hand ruffle my hair so hard it nearly snapped my neck, shaking my head.
"Ha!" Mitsuki let out a loud laugh, shattering the unbearable tension in the hallway. "Listen to this brat giving us parenting lessons! Since when did you get so wise, you little pest?"
Although her tone was mocking and loud as usual, her red eyes, identical to mine, shone with a fierce intensity. She hugged me tightly against her side, practically putting me in a headlock.
"Well done, brat," she whispered in my ear, too quietly for Inko to catch the details, but with an unusual warmth that made me deeply uncomfortable. "You've got guts. Way better instincts than your stupid father."
I squirmed to break free from her grip, feeling my cheeks burn from a mix of embarrassment and the unexpected compliment. "Let me go, you old hag! You're crushing my brain!" I yelled, quickly slipping back into the character of the explosive kid.
As I struggled against my mother, I saw Inko wipe away her tears with the back of her hand. She looked at Izuku's closed door, then at me, and something in her had fundamentally changed. She no longer looked like a woman defeated by her son's diagnosis. There was a new firmness, the steely determination of a protective mother who had just been given a mission.
"You're right, Katsuki-chan," Inko said, nodding to herself with renewed energy. "Food and bandages. I can handle that. That's my part."
At least I saved two people today, I thought with an exhausted cynicism, letting Mitsuki drag me toward the exit of the Midoriya apartment while Inko headed to the kitchen with renewed purpose.
Now, all I had left was to survive the training I had just proposed. And pray that my four-year-old body could keep up with my ambition of building the world's greatest hero.
Author's note: Well, getting to this point, I have a question.
Do you prefer that Izu has a Quirk or not? If I make this change, it would practically be a new story. I have a rough outline to continue with both story routes, but I'd like to know your opinions before making a decision.