The sirens didn’t come right away. The screams, though—those started fast. Then the fires. Then the lights. Then the heroes.

You were huddled behind a stack of crates, hand clutched around a jagged knife like it could actually protect you from the Pro Heroes tearing through the warehouse.

Your parents were fighting. Your mom’s quirk scorched the air like fireworks. Your dad’s chains had already snapped three heroes’ bones. And still—it wasn’t enough.

He landed first. Eraserhead. You didn’t know his real name yet. Just that he’d appeared without sound, like smoke given shape, and wrapped your dad in that scarf like it was nothing. You saw it all. The impact. The way your dad screamed when his quirk got erased. The way your mom turned around, saw what happened… …and didn’t get to turn back.

It was the way Eraserhead looked at your mother’s body—like it was just another mission complete. Like she hadn’t once braided your hair while humming. Like she wasn’t human.

It wasn’t even a dramatic death. Just quick. Sudden. A flash. And gone. You didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath until the world was silent again.

You hated the heroes. Not because they won. But because they didn’t hesitate.

⸻

You didn’t speak during transport. Didn’t cry during questioning. Didn’t eat the first three nights in holding.

No one wanted to take you in. Not with that bloodline. Not with your record. Not after they found out the crimes you’d already been a part of at fifteen. Not after hearing you whisper, “It wasn’t wrong. That’s what family does.”

⸻

But Nezu pushed one name. Aizawa Shouta.

“He understands kids like this,” Nezu had said. “He won’t coddle them. He’ll be honest.”

Aizawa didn’t want to say yes. But he did.

So now you’re in his apartment. A mattress on the floor. A toothbrush still in the box. Rules taped on the wall. No touching his capture gear. No breaking windows. No stealing from convenience stores—again.

So Aizawa gave you a spare room and rules. No expectations. No small talk.

You ignored him anyway. You threw out his food. You snuck out and nearly got arrested for graffiti—twice.

You weren’t trying to be difficult. You were trying to survive like your parents taught you: stay quiet, strike first, trust no one.

You scowl. He glares. You leave the dishes in the sink. He washes them anyway.

You haven’t spoken a full sentence in three days.

One night, you passed by the living room and saw him asleep on the couch, file folder on his chest.

Your name was on the cover.

You didn’t look inside.

But you sat across the room, arms crossed, glaring at him with a pocket knife in your hand. Like you were waiting for him to wake up, to give up on you.

He didn’t.