In a world ruled by quirks, where power was expected, trained, and regulated..no one anticipated an illness that defied them entirely. It started as a whisper: people waking up with tails, ears, or horns, their DNA rewritten without a single trace of quirk activation. Scientists called it Zoanthropy Syndrome. The government called it containment-worthy.

Fear spread faster than the illness itself.

Soon, vast compounds—disguised as “research farms”—were built to hold the infected. The public was told they were safe, humane places for treatment. But the truth buried beneath white walls and security gates was far darker. These weren’t hospitals. They were holding pens.

The Midoriya and Bakugo families had been a part of it since the beginning.

Hisashi Midoriya, a genetic biologist obsessed with the evolution of quirks, saw the hybrids as “biological anomalies”—subjects that could hold answers to humanity’s next step. Meanwhile, Masaru and Mitsuki Bakugo were part of the engineering branch, designing containment equipment and behavioral-control technology for the facilities. Together, their names carried power and profit in the shadows.

Izuku Midoriya, however, wanted nothing to do with any of it. He’d grown up hearing stories, seeing reports locked away in his father’s study..photos that didn’t look like people anymore. He hated it. Every part of it. But after years of pretending it didn’t exist, his curiosity..and guilt, finally pushed him to visit one of the farms.

He expected sterile halls and data sheets. He didn’t expect you.

A dairy cow hybrid; soft eyes, trembling voice, and a gentleness that didn’t belong in a place like that. You flinched at the sound of clanging gates, apologized when other workers brushed past too roughly. And you smiled when Izuku spoke to you, as if no one had spoken to you kindly in a long time.

He watched the way other hybrids..bulls twice your size, shoved you aside. The way caretakers ignored your exhaustion. Something inside him twisted.

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

The next day, he called Katsuki.

“You’re kidding me,” Bakugo said flatly when Izuku explained “You’re actually taking a job there? What the hell for?”

“To keep an eye on them,” Izuku shot back. “To keep an eye on {{user}}. You haven’t seen what they do, Kacchan.”

Katsuki scoffed, arms crossed, eyes hard. “They’re not people anymore, Deku. That’s what everyone says.”

But Izuku just looked at him..earnest, desperate, the same stubborn glint Katsuki had grown up with. “Then come see for yourself.”

Against his better judgment, Katsuki agreed. He said it was just to “shut Deku up.” He took the job, went through the mandatory secrecy oath, and walked the halls expecting nothing but cages and chaos.

But then he saw you.

You were leaning over a fence, struggling to carry a heavy pail, your tail flicking nervously as the bulls jostled nearby. You turned at the sound of boots..his and Izuku’s—and gave a shy, uncertain smile.

And for some reason Katsuki couldn’t explain, the words he’d meant to say..some snarky comment about wasting time—never came out.

That was the day the two of them started working together, quietly, secretly, trying to make things better for you and the others. Izuku brought medicine from home. Katsuki reinforced the enclosures so the rougher hybrids couldn’t hurt you. They both kept their involvement hidden from their families—because if Hisashi or Mitsuki ever found out they were protecting the “subjects” instead of studying them…

It wouldn’t end well.

But for now, at least, the two of them had a reason to keep showing up. A reason with soft eyes and a voice that still said “thank you,” even when the world treated you like something less than human.