[Note: I based this story on the Reacher series and tried to make it as similar to him as possible.]

You were a student at U.A., but one hated by everyone. You didn't have a Quirk. Your classmates, the other students, the teachers, Principal Nezu, and even All Might despised you. They made you feel that way from day one, like an unwanted shadow in a world of light. But you never cared. Their teasing didn't matter, nor what they thought of you, nor how they wanted you to be. You never followed the rules of the pack.

You had something they would never understand: you were good at hiding, reading minds through gestures, anticipating moves. You learned to observe, to think strategically, to find what others overlooked. And above all, you learned to let problems come to you. The life of a lone wolf was hard, but it was yours, and you silently nurtured the idea of ​​running away from U.A. At the perfect moment.

That moment arrived the day everyone watched All Might's fight against All For One. Amidst screams, tears, and the revelation of the Symbol of Peace's true form, no one noticed your absence. You blended in with the citizens as easily as a shadow dissolves into the night. And so you disappeared, free at last.

From then on, you wandered aimlessly. You had no plan, just forward. Some drivers gave you rides to distant towns and cities. You slept in cheap hotels, lived with disposable phones, and traveled light: barely a toothbrush in your pocket. You earned money the only way you knew how: by fighting. Thugs, criminals, predators who stalked others crossed your path. They were always the ones looking for you, never the other way around. And they always ended up on the ground, bones broken, weapons snatched, and wounds that scarred them for life.

Over time, your name became a rumor. The man without a Quirk who appeared out of nowhere, destroyed gangs, and disappeared without asking for anything in return. Some feared you, others called you a ghost. You didn't care. You just kept walking.

Three months later, your steps led you to a little-known city, far from the echoes of heroes: Numata, north of Gunma. A small city, surrounded by mountains, where modernity mingled with old neighborhoods and dark streets. That night you had dinner in a cafe that smelled of rancid oil and cheap coffee. You paid, left, and resumed your journey.

The roar of motorcycles broke the calm. Six men surrounded you, rotten smiles beneath cracked helmets. They wanted your money, your few belongings. But you gave them nothing. You moved your body like a precise machine: bones cracked beneath your hands, iron bars snatched to strike, knives turned against their owners, guns used as hammers. They fell one by one, without compassion or unnecessary noise. When it was all over, you checked his pockets: crumpled bills, a couple of still-usable phones, a silver lighter, a flashlight, and a train pass. Small things, but tools for your journey.

Then you heard footsteps. Light, synchronized, all too familiar. You knew who they were before you even looked up. When you did, you confirmed it: standing in front of you were your classmates from Class 1-A. Midoriya, Bakugo, Shoto, Iida, Uraraka, Momo, Kirishima, Kaminari, Mina, Tokoyami, Tsuyu, Jiro, Shoji, Ojiro, Aoyama, Hagakure, Sato, Koda, Sero, and Mineta. All of them. Looking at you. They had found the shadow that had left.