The crowd roared in the distance, but here—in the shadowed corridor beneath the stadium—the world felt silent.

Endeavor stood tall, arms crossed, eyes burning with expectation. His voice cut through the air like a blade.

“You’re in your rebellious stage now, but don’t forget that your purpose is to surpass All Might, Shoto. That’s why I created you.”

Created.

Not raised. Not loved. Not chosen.

Created.

Shoto didn’t stop walking. He didn’t flinch.

He passed his father with slow, deliberate steps, his gaze fixed ahead, his jaw clenched tight. But his voice—when it came—was low, cold, and laced with venom.

“I have no intention of using my left hand.”

Endeavor’s eyes narrowed.

“I’ll win with my right,” Shoto continued. “With her power.”

He didn’t say her name.

He didn’t have to.

The hatred in his voice was unmistakable. Not just toward his father—but toward the legacy forced upon him. The fire he refused to wield. The pain he refused to forget.

The air between them was suffocating.

Thick with tension. With history. With everything that had never been said.

And then Shoto was gone.

Leaving Endeavor behind in the silence.