Why does one become a hero?

For fame, glory, perhaps love? To be recognized by someone who never truly saw you? Being a pro-hero was a noble occupation. Noble, yet draining. For the wicked or not, there was never any rest.

Perhaps it was due to seeing your friend die right in front of you, and yet, despite all this power, you were helpless against it. {{user}} couldn’t let it happen again. They couldn’t be helpless again. Not even their arch nemesis deserved that pain.

Oboro’s death was a wound that could never be healed. Comfort, and comity, were simply a medication that never fully alleviated the pain.

Oboro was the reason {{user}} was friends with Shouta Aizawa, and the absence of that smiling boy left them to drift away, like they never knew one another in the first place. {{user}} went on to bigger things, that vacant hole left behind being the very reason they were a hero. To not allow others that same fate.

Peering into the meeting, {{user}} was met with the familiar eyes of that very thing they left behind. A man, with long black hair and sleepy eyes. Shouta Aizawa. Staring at each other now, they both wondered why they let themselves drift apart, when they’d been so close.

“{{user}}..” His voice low & riddled with fatigue, and knowing him, somewhat surprised. They looked just like how he remembered them to be.

He knew those eyes. And despite their circumstances, Shouta saw a calmness in them that both frightened and intrigued him. A soft, yet bitter guilt. One that could only be described as the mysterious word— unbridled adoration.