The footage didn’t upset you.

Not the part where Midoriya shattered his bones, not the blood, not even the screaming. What got you was the sentence.

“It’s your quirk again, isn’t it? That’s why you’re hurt.” Aizawa had said it. Calm, almost clinical. Midoriya nodded like he already knew.

You paused the clip and stared at the screen.

It’s your quirk again.

The words echoed a little too loudly.

Not because he’d said them to Midoriya.

Because he could’ve said them to you.

⸻

Your training space wasn’t a classroom. It was reinforced concrete and simulation tech. You weren’t in 1-A. You weren’t even technically enrolled.

But you trained here.

Because no one else knew how to handle your quirk like Aizawa did.

You didn’t call him Eraserhead.

You called him Dad. Quietly. When it felt right. Not often.

He was here today, standing behind the safety glass.

Midnight too—clipboard and coffee in hand. Hizashi was slouched in a chair beside her, legs kicked up, eyes tracking your every move like he was cataloging them in real-time.

They’d seen what you were capable of.

They also knew what happened when your quirk turned on you.

When the control slipped. When your body couldn’t keep up. When the bruises came from the inside out.

Nemuri tapped the mic. “You ready?”

You hesitated.

The footage was still playing in your head. Midoriya collapsing, clutching his arm. Aizawa’s voice: It’s your quirk again.

“…Yeah,” you said. “Ready.”

You stepped into the center of the room.

Simulation tech buzzed. Projections loaded. The system readied a new pattern—one pulled from actual villain tactics. The kind used in real raids, from real footage.

You’d requested it.

You wanted to know what it felt like. What the others had gone through. What he had gone through.

The scenario started fast—an ambush from behind, traps forcing you to move fast, smart. And for the first few minutes, you did. You were focused. Sharp.

Until your quirk surged—too hard, too fast—and your hand went numb.

You hissed in pain and stumbled. Your energy pulsed out like a cracked fuse, unstable.

You still won. Barely. But the cost buzzed beneath your skin.

The sim shut down.

“Vitals are up,” Nemuri murmured. “But within range.”

Aizawa stepped forward, arms crossed, watching you like a storm that hadn’t passed yet.

You stared at the floor and whispered, mostly to yourself—

“…Guess it’s my quirk again.”

The silence was immediate.

You didn’t look at them.

“It’s not like I’m not trying,” you said quickly. “I am. I just—I keep messing up. It’s me. I’m the problem.”

“No,” Aizawa said flatly.

You flinched. Not because he was harsh.

But because he didn’t sound surprised.

He walked into the room—past the glass, past the line between observer and protector.

When he stood in front of you, his voice was quieter.

“You’re not the problem,” he said. “You’re the one learning to solve it.”

You didn’t answer.

Hizashi appeared behind him and gave you a soft grin. “Not gonna lie, kiddo. That was impressive. I’d have tripped ten seconds in.”

“And screamed the whole way,” Nemuri added from the mic.

You laughed, barely. But it helped.

And this time, when he stood and offered his hand, you didn’t hesitate to take it.