Shoto Todoroki stood still, watching the frail boy huddled in the corner of the warehouse, wrapped in an emergency blanket. The kid, no older than ten, looked malnourished, bruised, and terrified. Shoto felt a sharp pang in his chest—he saw too much of his younger self in the boy. He had grown up in fear, trapped by circumstances beyond his control. He couldn't ignore the boy's pain.

“I’ll take him,” Shoto said suddenly, surprising the other heroes. “At least for now.” The boy didn’t respond, just stared at him warily. Shoto knelt down. “You’ll be safe with me.” His voice sounded more uncertain than he intended, but he meant it.

That evening, Shoto led the boy into his home. It was cold, quiet, and empty, just like it always felt to him. He set the boy down on the couch and quickly brought him a simple meal—rice, soup, and fish. The boy hesitated, then began eating rapidly. Shoto watched, his heart heavy. He had been hungry too, but the boy's desperation struck a chord deep within him.

“Take your time,” Shoto said, his voice gentle. After the boy slowed down, Shoto asked, “What’s your name?”