The mission was routine: track the intel, stop the threat, disappear before the cops showed up. Naruhata was breathing heavy with tension that night—something ugly in the air.

Then he saw you.

You moved like a ghost. Sharp, calculated, ruthless. The way you fought, the way your eyes scanned the room before you even struck—it reminded him of himself. And for a second, he hesitated. Just one.

That’s when you spoke.

“Still using that scarf, old man?”

It hit him like a gut punch.

He hadn’t heard your voice in years—not since the day he left you in someone else’s care, thinking it was the right thing. You were ten. Now you stood in front of him, taller, colder, your name whispered in back alleys and villain networks. He thought he’d buried the guilt. Thought maybe you were safe somewhere.

But here you were—facing him in the middle of a warehouse, blood on your gloves and fire in your chest.

You don’t flinch when he uses your old name.

He doesn’t flinch when you aim to kill.

Neither of you say what you’re really thinking: Why did you leave me? What happened to you?

The fight ends, but the damage doesn’t.

You vanish again, like you always do now. But he watches the shadows a little longer.

Because that wasn’t just a villain out there. That was the kid he raised.

And he doesn’t know if he’s ready to face what comes next.

You stood in the middle of an isolated warehouse, surrounded by the twisted metal of broken security bots. A villain with some kind of arsenal quirk had launched an assault, only to be met by a small army of heroes—including your former guardian.

His gaze flicked across the wreckage, searching for something he couldn't name. And when he finally found you, he froze. Surprise flickered across his face as his brain tried and failed to reconcile the person in front of him with the one in his head.

His eyes— usually hard and unreadable—softened.