What If Deku Was Trained by Nezu to Be a Villain

 

 

 

 

All men are not created equal.

 

It was a truth that society collectively agreed to pretend didn't exist, yet it governed every waking moment of modern human life. It dictated who was celebrated and who was ignored, who walked the sunlit streets in spandex and who scrubbed the grime from the gutters in the dark. It was the invisible caste system, forged not of wealth or bloodline, but of genetics. Quirks. The evolutionary lottery that had rewritten the world.

 

Izuku Midoriya learned this truth at the tender age of four, sitting in a sterile doctor’s office under the hum of fluorescent lights, staring at an X-ray of a foot with two joints in the pinky toe.

 

“You should probably give it up.”

 

Those words had been the first crack in the foundation of his world. They were delivered not with malice, but with a bored, clinical indifference. The doctor had not seen a boy’s dreams shattering; he had merely seen a biological anomaly, an evolutionary dead-end in a world sprinting toward the superhuman.

 

Ten years had passed since that day, and the cracks had webbed outwards, splintering Izuku’s reality until it was held together by nothing but sheer, delusional willpower. He was fourteen now, and the world had not stopped reminding him of his place at the bottom of the food chain.

 

The afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of Aldera Junior High, casting long, slanted shadows across the scuffed linoleum floor of the classroom. The bell had rung, dismissing the students to their weekend, but Izuku remained seated, his head bowed over his desk. His heart hammered a frantic, irregular rhythm against his ribs.

 

The air smelled of chalk dust, cheap adolescent cologne, and the sharp, unmistakable scent of burnt sugar—nitroglycerin.

 

Katsuki Bakugo stood over his desk, his red eyes narrowed in a look of absolute, unadulterated contempt. The explosive blond had just snatched Izuku’s notebook—Hero Analysis for the Future No. 13—from his hands.

 

"We're not done here, Deku," Bakugo snarled, the nickname rolling off his tongue with a familiar, acidic bite. It meant ‘useless’. It meant ‘nothing’.

 

Izuku opened his mouth to speak, to beg for the notebook back. He had spent months on volume 13. It was filled with meticulous observations, sketches, quirk mechanics, and tactical breakdowns of local heroes and villains. It was his anchor. It was the only way he felt connected to the world of heroes he so desperately wanted to join.

 

Before a sound could escape Izuku's throat, Bakugo pressed his palms flat against the front and back covers of the notebook. A sharp, violent CRACK echoed through the emptying classroom. Smoke plumed into the air. The edges of the notebook blackened, the cover curling inward as the intense heat of Bakugo’s explosion singed the pages.

 

"Ah..." Izuku gasped, his hands trembling as he reached out instinctively, then aborted the motion, terrified of triggering another explosion.

 

Bakugo didn't stop there. With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed the smoldering notebook out the open third-story window. Izuku watched it fall, his chest tightening as if his own heart had been tossed out with it.

 

Bakugo leaned in close, bringing the scent of smoke and imminent violence with him. He placed a hand on Izuku’s shoulder, the fabric of his uniform heating up rapidly. Izuku froze, the fear paralyzing him completely.

 

"You're a Quirkless nobody, Deku," Bakugo said, his voice dropping to a low, conversational timber that was somehow infinitely more terrifying than his yelling. "You can't even stand in the same ring as me. Don't even think of applying to U.A. You'd just die in the exam, and frankly, you'd be doing everyone a favor."

 

The two lackeys flanking Bakugo snickered, their laughter sounding like grinding metal to Izuku’s ears.

 

Bakugo turned to leave, walking toward the sliding classroom door. But just before he stepped out into the hallway, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. The sunlight caught his crimson eyes, making them look like dying embers.

 

"If you wanna be a hero that badly, there's actually a really good way to do it," Bakugo said casually, as if giving advice on the weather. "Take a swan dive off the roof of the building, and pray you'll be born with a Quirk in your next life."

 

Silence fell over the room. The lackeys shifted uncomfortably, recognizing that a line had been crossed, but they said nothing. Bakugo merely smirked and walked away, the sound of his heavy footsteps echoing down the hall until it faded into nothing.

 

Izuku sat perfectly still.

 

The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Take a swan dive. It wasn't the first time he had been told to die. He had heard it in the whispers of classmates, seen it in the pitying, exhausted eyes of his mother when she apologized instead of encouraging him. But to have it spoken so plainly, so callously by the boy who used to be his best friend...

 

It felt like a physical blow. It felt like something fundamental inside of him had snapped.

 

He didn't cry. He was too tired to cry. Slowly, moving like a rusted automaton, he stood up, gathered his yellow backpack, and walked down the stairs to the courtyard.

 

He found the notebook in the small koi pond near the back of the school. The water had soaked through the pages, turning his careful, meticulous handwriting into bleeding veins of blue ink. A few hungry koi fish were nibbling at the charred edges, confusing the ruined paper for food.

 

"That's not fish food," Izuku whispered, his voice cracking. He reached into the murky water and pulled the dripping book out. "That's... that's my notebook. Stupid fish."

 

He pressed the book against his chest, ruining his uniform shirt with muddy water and soot, and began the long walk home.

 

 

 

The city of Musutafu was a monument to the superhuman era. Billboards towering hundreds of feet into the air displayed smiling men and women in colorful costumes, selling energy drinks and insurance. Holographic displays played highlights of the morning's villain fights. It was a society obsessed with power, obsessed with the spectacle of heroism.

 

Izuku usually walked these streets with his head on a swivel, eager to catch a glimpse of Kamui Woods swinging from a streetlamp, or Backdraft putting out a localized fire. Today, he kept his eyes on the pavement. The cracks in the concrete were infinitely more comforting than the blinding, hypocritical smiles of the heroes on the screens above.

 

He opted for the shortcut through an underpass. It was dark, damp, and smelled faintly of mildew and stagnant water. It was quiet. He needed quiet. He needed to think about what he was going to do. The U.A. entrance exam was only ten months away. How could a Quirkless kid pass? The exam was famously biased toward physical Quirks—everyone on the hero forums knew it. They used robots. What was he supposed to do against a robot? Hit it with a pipe?

 

Take a swan dive.

 

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head violently to dislodge the thought. "Stop it," he muttered to himself, his voice echoing off the concrete walls of the tunnel. "Don't think about that. You're going to be a hero. You have to be. You're going to smile like All Might, and you're going to save people, and..."

 

A strange, squelching sound interrupted his mantra.

 

Izuku stopped. The sound came from behind him. It sounded like thick mud bubbling over a hot stove, mixed with the sliding of something massive against the pavement.

 

He turned around.

 

Rising from the manhole cover in the center of the tunnel was a monstrosity. It wasn't a man, nor was it an animal. It was a massive, undulating mass of dark green sludge. The fluid shifted and boiled, rising higher and higher until it reached the ceiling of the underpass. Within the swirling vortex of muck, two massive, bloodshot eyes and a jagged mouth full of irregular teeth materialized.

 

"Well, well," the Sludge Villain gurgled, its voice wet and guttural. "A medium-sized invisibility cloak. You'll do perfectly. I just need a body to hide in for a while."

 

Izuku’s brain misfired. His encyclopedic knowledge of Quirks, villains, and combat tactics—the very things he dedicated his life to studying—evaporated in the face of raw, primal terror. His legs felt like lead. The flight response kicked in a second too late. As he turned to run, a tendril of thick, foul-smelling sludge whipped forward and wrapped around his ankle.

 

With a violent yank, Izuku was pulled off his feet. He hit the concrete hard, the air driven from his lungs. Before he could scramble away, the mass of sludge collapsed on top of him.

 

It was cold. That was the first thing he registered. Cold, and incredibly heavy.

 

Then, it forced its way into his mouth.

 

"Don't fight it, kid," the villain hissed, the sludge pouring down Izuku’s throat, filling his nostrils. "It'll only hurt for about forty-five seconds. Then, it'll all be over. Thanks for the help. You're a real hero."

 

Izuku clawed frantically at the slime, his fingernails scraping against a substance that felt like wet cement. There was nothing to grab. Nothing to fight. He was suffocating. The burning in his lungs was an agonizing, expanding balloon of fire. His vision began to darken at the edges, narrowing into a pinpoint.

 

I'm dying, he realized, the thought cutting through the panic with an eerie calmness. I'm going to die in a sewer tunnel. My mom is going to find out from a police officer. Bakugo is going to hear about it and think I took his advice.

 

He thrashed, his body convulsing as the lack of oxygen sent his brain into emergency shutdown. The world turned grey. The villain's wet laughter faded into a dull roar.

 

I never even got to try.

 

Then, the manhole cover at the end of the tunnel exploded.

 

A sound like a localized sonic boom echoed through the underpass. The shockwave rattled Izuku’s teeth, even through the sludge.

 

"HAVE NO FEAR, YOU ARE SAFE!"

 

The voice was thunderous, booming with an unnatural resonance that commanded the very air in the tunnel to vibrate. Izuku’s fading consciousness flared. He knew that voice. He had listened to it on a loop for ten years.

 

"NOW THAT I AM HERE!"

 

Through the haze of his darkening vision, Izuku saw a massive silhouette blocking the light from the tunnel entrance. A man built like a mountain, radiating an aura of absolute, unconquerable power.

 

All Might.

 

The villain shrieked, the sludge retracting slightly in panic. "TEXAS... SMASH!"

 

All Might threw a punch. He didn't make contact with the villain. He didn't need to. The sheer kinetic force of the punch compressed the air in the tunnel, creating a miniature hurricane. The wind pressure hit the villain like a freight train, tearing the sludge apart at a molecular level.

 

Izuku was ripped free of the slime, tumbling across the concrete as the villain was blown into thousands of splattering droplets against the walls.

 

Air rushed back into Izuku’s burning lungs. He gasped, coughing violently, bringing up vile-tasting green fluid. He tried to open his eyes, to look at the towering figure walking toward him, but his body had reached its limit.

 

The last thing he saw before the darkness took him completely was the gleam of All Might's iconic smile.

 

 

 

"Hey! Hey! Wake up! Thought we lost you there!"

 

Light slapped Izuku across the face. He groaned, his eyelids fluttering open to a blinding blue sky. A massive hand was gently, yet forcefully, slapping his cheek.

 

Izuku blinked, his vision coming into focus. Looming over him, hands resting on his hips in a classic heroic pose, was the Symbol of Peace himself.

 

"AHHH!" Izuku scrambled backward, his heart leaping into his throat. He was sitting on the pavement outside the underpass. All Might was here. In the flesh. Not on a screen, not in a magazine. Right in front of him.

 

"Excellent! You're awake!" All Might boomed, giving a hearty thumbs up. "Apologies for getting you caught up in my villain hunt! Usually, I pay more attention to keeping bystanders safe, but this city's sewer system is quite the labyrinth! Ha ha ha!"

 

Izuku was hyperventilating. It was him. The number one hero. The man who had shaped his entire ideology. "I... I need an autograph! Where's my notebook?!"

 

He frantically searched the ground and found his soaked, burnt notebook. He flipped it open, only to freeze. Spanning across a two-page spread, written in bold, sweeping marker, was All Might's signature.

 

"He already did it!" Izuku shrieked, bowing so deeply his forehead nearly hit the pavement. "Thank you! Thank you so much! It will be a family heirloom! I'll pass it down for generations!"

 

"Well, I must be going!" All Might announced, patting his pocket. Izuku noticed two large soda bottles filled with the captured sludge villain sealed tightly within. "I need to get this fellow to the authorities! Stay safe, young man!"

 

All Might crouched, the muscles in his tree-trunk legs bulging against his pinstriped suit pants. He was preparing to leap.

 

Wait, Izuku thought, panic seizing him. Wait, I have to ask him. He's the only one who can tell me. If anyone knows, it's him.

 

"Wait! I have a question!" Izuku yelled, reaching out.

 

But All Might had already launched himself into the air, the force of his jump kicking up a cloud of dust.

 

Instinct overrode logic. In a move of sheer, unadulterated desperation, Izuku lunged forward, grabbing onto All Might's leg just as the hero cleared the ground.

 

The world turned into a blur of wind and motion. The G-force pressed against Izuku’s face, tearing the breath from his lungs. The city shrank beneath them in seconds, the buildings turning into miniature blocks.

 

"Hey, hey, hey! What do you think you're doing?!" All Might shouted, looking down in shock as he soared through the sky. "Release me! Your fanaticism is too much!"

 

"If I let go now, I'll fall and die!" Izuku screamed over the roaring wind, his eyes squeezed shut, his fingers digging into the fabric of All Might's pants with a death grip.

 

"Oh, right! Good point! Hold on, I'll find a place to land!"

 

Seconds later, the sickening feeling of freefall ended with a heavy thud. Izuku tumbled onto a hard surface, gasping for breath, his entire body shaking with residual adrenaline. He opened his eyes. They were on the roof of a tall office building, surrounded by chain-link fences and humming air conditioning units.

 

"That was incredibly dangerous, young man!" All Might scolded, though his voice lacked its usual booming resonance. He suddenly sounded... strained. "I don't have time for this. I must go."

 

"Wait!" Izuku scrambled to his feet. This was his chance. The only chance he would ever get. "Please, All Might! Just one question!"

 

"I told you, I don't have time!"

 

"Can someone without a Quirk become a hero like you?!"

 

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, bowing forward, bracing himself for the answer. The words tumbled out of him like a flood, a decade of repressed anxiety and desperation spilling onto the rooftop.

 

"Because I don't have a Quirk! And all my life, people have told me I'm useless. That I can't do anything. But... but I want to help people. I want to save people with a fearless smile, just like you! I want to be the greatest hero, who—"

 

A horrifying sound cut him off. It sounded like a massive tire deflating, accompanied by the violent hiss of escaping steam. A thick cloud of white smoke erupted in front of Izuku, obscuring All Might from view.

 

Izuku opened his eyes, coughing as the smoke drifted over him. "All Might...?"

 

As the smoke cleared, Izuku froze.

 

The towering, muscle-bound god of justice was gone. In his place stood a skeletal, emaciated man in clothes that hung off his gaunt frame like a tent. He had sunken, shadowed eyes, a sharp jawline, and a mop of messy, deflated blonde hair. The man was coughing violently, blood spurting from his mouth and splattering onto the concrete.

 

"W-What?!" Izuku screamed, looking around frantically. "Where is he?! Are you an imposter?! A fake?!"

 

The skeletal man wiped the blood from his chin with the back of a bony hand. "I assure you, kid... I am All Might." His voice was weak, raspy, carrying none of the booming authority it had moments ago.

 

Izuku felt his reality fracturing. This couldn't be happening. It was a nightmare. The sludge villain had killed him, and this was his dying brain misfiring.

 

All Might sighed, stepping toward the railing and looking out over the city. He pulled up the oversized fabric of his white t-shirt, revealing the left side of his torso.

 

Izuku gasped.

 

Covering the entirety of the man's side was a grotesque, twisted mass of purple and red scar tissue. It looked as though a massive chunk of his flesh had been scooped out and the edges hastily burned together. It was a wound that no human should have survived.

 

"Five years ago," All Might said quietly, his voice carrying the heavy weight of exhaustion. "A villain did this to me. My respiratory system was nearly destroyed. I lost my stomach entirely. I've had countless surgeries, but I'm wasting away. I can only do hero work for about three hours a day now."

 

Izuku’s mind raced. Five years ago? Toxic Chainsaw? No, that timeline didn't match. Who could possibly do this to the Symbol of Peace?

 

"You can't tell anyone about this, kid," All Might said, dropping his shirt. "The world needs the Symbol of Peace. They need to believe I'm invincible. If they know I'm weak, the villains will tear this society apart."

 

All Might turned around, his sunken blue eyes locking onto Izuku. The hero's gaze was not unkind, but it was devoid of the manufactured warmth he showed the public. It was the gaze of a man who knew the brutal realities of the world.

 

"You asked if you could be a hero without a Quirk," All Might said.

 

Izuku stopped breathing. He waited for the reassurance. He waited for the man who defied the impossible to tell him that he could do the same.

 

"I have to say no."

 

The words dropped like an anvil.

 

Izuku’s mouth went dry. The wind on the rooftop suddenly felt freezing.

 

"Pro heroes are always risking their lives," All Might continued, his voice steady, entirely unaware of the psychological demolition he was enacting. "Some villains simply cannot be beaten without power. It's admirable to want to save people, but you have to be realistic, kid. If you want to help people, become a police officer. They get a lot of flak because heroes catch the villains, but it's a fine profession. It's not bad to have dreams, young man... just make sure they're attainable."

 

All Might turned his back on the paralyzed boy. He walked to the rooftop access door, opening it with a rusty screech of hinges.

 

"Make sure you get downstairs safely," All Might said without looking back. And then, he was gone. The heavy metal door clicked shut, the sound echoing with terrifying finality.

 

Izuku stood alone on the roof.

 

The silence was deafening. The adrenaline that had fueled his frantic questioning drained away instantly, leaving behind a hollow, echoing void in his chest.

 

Be realistic.

 

The words repeated in his head, matching the rhythm of his slowing heartbeat. The Symbol of Peace, the man who told the world that anyone could be saved, had just looked at him and said, Not you.

 

Slowly, as if walking underwater, Izuku moved toward the edge of the roof. He reached the tall chain-link fence that surrounded the perimeter. His small hands grasped the metal wire. He looked through the diamond-shaped gaps, staring down at the city below.

 

It was rush hour. Cars crawled along the streets like tiny, metallic beetles. People were ants, scurrying about their lives, utterly oblivious to the boy standing hundreds of feet above them, his universe having just collapsed.

 

“Take a swan dive off the roof of the building.”

 

Bakugo’s words, spoken just hours ago, slithered back into his mind. Except now, they didn't sound like a cruel taunt. They sounded like a logical conclusion.

 

Why was he fighting so hard? What was the point? His own mother didn't believe in him. His peers despised him. His teachers ignored him. And now, his god had forsaken him.

 

Society had deemed him a defective product the day that X-ray showed an extra joint in his toe. A biological error. A pawn on a chessboard where everyone else was a knight, a rook, a queen. What use is a pawn that can't even move forward?

 

Izuku placed a foot on the concrete lip at the base of the fence. He hoisted himself up. He wasn't crying. That was the strangest part. After a lifetime of shedding tears over every scraped knee, every cruel word, and every burnt notebook, his eyes were bone dry. There was no sadness left. Only a deep, profound exhaustion.

 

He climbed higher, his hands gripping the top of the fence. He swung one leg over the metal railing, then the other, balancing precariously on the narrow outer ledge of the roof. There was nothing between him and the asphalt hundreds of feet below but empty air.

 

The setting sun painted the Musutafu skyline in vibrant shades of bruised purple and bleeding orange. It was beautiful.

 

Izuku closed his eyes. He let go of the fence with one hand. The wind tugged at his ruined school uniform. It would be so easy. Just lean forward. Two seconds of terror, and then... nothing. No more pain. No more Bakugo. No more pretending everything was going to be okay.

 

"It is a fascinating psychological phenomenon," a voice said.

 

Izuku froze. His eyes snapped open. He nearly slipped, his hand tightening around the chain-link wire in a death grip.

 

The voice had not come from his head. It was real. It was refined, sophisticated, high-pitched, yet carrying an undertone of absolute, undeniable authority.

 

"When an individual's core belief system is dismantled abruptly, the brain goes into a state of severe crisis," the voice continued, smooth and conversational. "Without a foundational purpose, the mind perceives existence itself as an agonizing burden. Suicide ceases to be an act of despair, and instead becomes an act of logical problem-solving. A fascinating, if tragic, flaw in mammalian software."

 

Izuku slowly, carefully turned his head, terrified of losing his balance.

 

Sitting on the housing unit of a large HVAC system, ten feet away, was an animal.

 

It was a creature that defied classification. It had the white fur and snout of a mouse, the ears and tail of a dog, and the paws of a bear. It was dressed impeccably in a tailored black vest, a white dress shirt, and a crimson tie. In its paws, it held a small, charred, water-logged notebook.

 

Izuku’s notebook.

 

"Who... what are you?" Izuku whispered, his voice hoarse.

 

"Am I a mouse? A dog? A bear?" The creature offered a pleasant, open-mouthed smile, though its dark, beady eyes were sharp and intensely calculating. "I am the Principal of U.A. High School! You may call me Nezu."

 

Izuku’s breath hitched. Principal Nezu. The only known animal in the world to manifest a Quirk. High Spec—an intelligence-enhancing Quirk that made him smarter than any human on earth.

 

"What are you doing here?" Izuku asked, his knuckles turning white as he clung to the fence.

 

"I was tracking All Might, actually," Nezu replied smoothly, pouring himself a cup of tea from a thermos he had seemingly pulled from nowhere. He took a sip, sighing contentedly. "The Hero Public Safety Commission believes they can manage his declining health without my knowledge. A foolish assumption. I monitor his patrol routes. I saw the incident in the tunnel. I saw you attach yourself to his leg—a maneuver that was both remarkably brave and statistically suicidal, by the way."

 

Izuku felt a flush of shame. "You... you saw what happened here?"

 

"I heard every word," Nezu confirmed, setting his teacup down. The pleasantness vanished from his voice, replaced by a cold, analytical edge. "He told you to be realistic. He told you that power is a prerequisite for worth. And then, he left a traumatized, suicidal fourteen-year-old boy alone on a rooftop after shattering his psyche."

 

Nezu hopped down from the HVAC unit, his leather shoes clicking against the concrete. He walked toward the fence, stopping just on the other side of the wire from Izuku. He held up the ruined notebook.

 

"I retrieved this from the street where you dropped it prior to your impromptu flight," Nezu said. He flipped it open. "Volume 13. I took the liberty of reading it while I waited for you to finish your conversation with our esteemed Symbol of Peace."

 

Izuku looked away, staring down at the dizzying drop. "It doesn't matter. It's just the stupid scribbles of a Quirkless nobody. Bakugo was right. It's garbage."

 

"Is it?" Nezu asked, his tone suddenly sharp, demanding attention.

 

Izuku looked back at the creature.

 

"Page 14. Kamui Woods," Nezu recited from memory, not even looking at the book. "You noted that his binding lacquered chain prison has a 0.5-second delay when expanding in high-humidity environments because the moisture affects the tensile strength of the wood. You deduced this purely from watching television broadcasts."

 

Izuku blinked, taken aback. "I... it was just a pattern I noticed during the monsoon season..."

 

"Page 32. Mt. Lady," Nezu continued, taking a step closer to the fence. "You mapped out the kinetic blind spots in her peripheral vision when she enlarges to full height, noting that a strike to the inner popliteal artery behind her left knee would instantaneously buckle her leg, causing catastrophic structural collapse and rendering her immobile."

 

Izuku swallowed hard. He had written that. He hadn't thought of it as a weapon; he just liked finding the mechanics of how Quirks functioned.

 

"And most impressively, Page 45. All Might himself." Nezu looked up, his dark eyes locking onto Izuku’s green ones. "Before you even saw his true form today, you noted that his left-side defense was consistently 15% slower than his right in his past five dozen fights. You hypothesized a hidden injury impeding his lung capacity on that side."

 

Nezu pressed the notebook against the chain-link fence.

 

"This is not a fanboy's diary, Izuku Midoriya," Nezu said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, mesmerizing whisper. "This is an assassin's manifesto. It is a tactical blueprint for the systematic dismantling of Japan's top Pro Heroes. And you wrote it in your spare time, out of boredom."

 

Izuku stared at the principal, his heart pounding in his chest. He wasn't looking at an animal anymore. He was looking at a predator that had found a kindred spirit.

 

"Society told you that you are worthless because you cannot shoot fire from your hands or lift a car," Nezu said, his voice dripping with venom. Not toward Izuku, but toward the world. "Humanity is so blinded by the spectacle of Quirks that they have forgotten the most dangerous weapon on the planet is, and always will be, the mind."

 

Nezu turned away from the fence, pacing slowly. "Do you know my origins, Midoriya? I was not born in a loving home. I was born in a laboratory. Humans saw my intelligence not as a gift, but as a threat. They experimented on me. They tortured me. They tried to break me to see how my brain worked. They failed, of course. I broke out. I integrated into their society. I became the Principal of their most prestigious academy."

 

Nezu stopped, looking back over his shoulder. The fading sunlight cast half his face in shadow.

 

"But I have never forgotten what they are," Nezu said softly. "They are hypocrites. The Hero Public Safety Commission, the Pro Heroes, the citizens who cheer for them—they operate on a system of genetic supremacy. If you have a flashy Quirk, you are given a license to inflict violence and called a hero. If you are Quirkless, or if your Quirk is deemed 'villainous,' you are discarded into the gutter. They did it to me. And they are doing it to you."

 

Izuku’s grip on the fence loosened slightly. The exhaustion was still there, but a new emotion was beginning to simmer beneath the surface. It was dark, hot, and unfamiliar.

 

Anger.

 

For the first time in his life, Izuku wasn't angry at himself for being Quirkless. He was angry at All Might for his hypocrisy. He was angry at Bakugo for his cruelty. He was angry at a system that had doomed him before he was even old enough to understand what it meant.

 

"Step down from the ledge, Midoriya," Nezu commanded, the authority in his voice absolute.

 

Izuku hesitated. "Why? So I can go back? So I can become a police officer and clean up the messes of the heroes who look down on me? So I can let Bakugo win?"

 

"No," Nezu said, smiling a genuine, terrifying smile. "So we can win."

 

Izuku stared at him.

 

"All Might told you that you cannot be a hero," Nezu said, walking back to the fence and looking up at the boy. "And he is right. Under the current rules of this decaying society, a Quirkless boy cannot be a hero. So, my proposition is simple: Let us change the rules."

 

"Change the rules?" Izuku breathed. "How?"

 

"By tearing the board apart," Nezu replied instantly. "I have spent years building my resources, waiting for the right moment, the right catalyst to dismantle the Hero Public Safety Commission and expose this society for the fragile, corrupt farce that it is. But I am an administrator. I cannot act directly in the shadows without drawing suspicion. I need a proxy. I need an architect."

 

Nezu reached through a gap in the chain-link fence, offering his small, white paw.

 

"I can teach you everything, Izuku. Psychology, hacking, economics, martial arts, manipulation. I will give you the resources of the most advanced facility on earth. I will sharpen your mind until it can cut through steel. You will not need a Quirk to bring this society to its knees. You will only need your brain, and my backing."

 

Izuku looked down at the paw. The wind whipped his messy green hair around his face.

 

"You..." Izuku's voice trembled, but not from fear. "You want to train me... to be a villain?"

 

"Villain. Hero. These are terms invented by the Commission to sell merchandise," Nezu scoffed. "If a hero is someone who perpetuates a system of inequality and prejudice to maintain the status quo, then yes, I suppose I am asking you to be a villain."

 

Nezu tilted his head, his black eyes gleaming with unholy brilliance.

 

"I am asking you a simple question, Izuku Midoriya. Do you want to be a hero who saves a few people in a broken world... or do you want to be the villain who forces the world to change, so that everyone is saved?"

 

The words hit Izuku like a physical shockwave.

 

Force the world to change.

 

He looked down at the city. The billboards glowing with All Might's face. The streets where Bakugo walked with impunity, praised for his violence. The shadows where people like him were left to rot.

 

If the system was built on power, then the system was flawed. And flawed systems could be dismantled. They could be hacked. They could be destroyed.

 

The image of All Might’s deflated form flashed in his mind. The Symbol of Peace was dying. The pillar holding up society was cracking. It wouldn't take a god to push it over. It would just take someone who knew exactly where to strike.

 

Page 32. Strike the popliteal artery, and watch the giant fall.

 

Izuku closed his eyes. He took a deep breath of the cold rooftop air. When he opened them, the tears were gone. The frightened, desperate boy who had begged for validation from a dying god was dead, left behind in the sludge of the sewer tunnel.

 

In his place stood a boy with a mind like a supercomputer, finally plugged into a power source.

 

Izuku swung his leg back over the fence. He stepped down onto the safe side of the roof, his sneakers hitting the concrete with a soft thud.

 

He looked at Nezu. He looked at the paw extended through the fence.

 

He didn't see an animal. He saw a mentor. He saw a father figure. He saw the first person in fourteen years who had looked at him and seen worth.

 

Izuku reached out and grasped Nezu’s paw.

 

"Checkmate," Nezu whispered, his smile widening into a grin full of sharp teeth.

 

"When do we start?" Izuku asked, his voice steady, cold, and echoing with the promise of absolute ruin for Hero Society.

 

"First," Nezu said, turning toward the roof exit, "we get you a proper suit. A mastermind cannot conquer the world wearing a middle school uniform."

 

Izuku followed the principal into the shadows of the stairwell, leaving the setting sun and the dying era of heroes behind him. The game had begun. And for the first time in his life, Izuku Midoriya held all the pieces.

 

 

 

The first thing to die was the shrine.

 

Izuku Midoriya stood in the center of his bedroom, a heavy-duty black trash bag gripped in his hands. The walls, once a vibrant, chaotic mosaic of primary colors, were slowly being stripped bare.

 

For a decade, this room had been a temple dedicated to the Symbol of Peace. Bronze Age All Might posters, Silver Age action figures, limited edition bedsheets, replica belt buckles. It was an accumulation of a boy’s desperate, burning hope. Now, looking at the blinding, plastered smile of the number one hero, Izuku felt nothing but a hollow, creeping nausea.

 

“Be realistic.”

 

The memory of All Might’s voice no longer brought tears; it brought a cold, clinical clarity. He reached up and grasped the edge of a rare, holographic poster he had saved three months of allowance to buy. He ripped it down. The tape tore a strip of paint from the drywall. Izuku didn't care. He crumpled the poster and tossed it into the trash bag.

 

Next went the figures. The plushies. The replica crimson cape.

 

By the time he was finished, the room was unrecognizable. It was sterile, quiet, and profoundly empty. Just a bed, a desk, a computer, and blank, peeling walls.

 

The door creaked open. Inko Midoriya stood in the frame, carrying a basket of folded laundry. When she saw the barren walls and the three bulging black trash bags sitting in the center of the floor, she dropped the basket.

 

"Izuku?" she whispered, her hands flying to her mouth. Her eyes were wide with a terror only a mother could possess. When a teenager abruptly throws away everything they love, it usually means only one thing. "Baby... what are you doing? Where is your All Might collection? Are you... are you okay?"

 

Izuku turned to face her. His expression was placid, his green eyes devoid of the frantic, nervous energy that usually defined him.

 

"I'm fine, Mom," Izuku said, his voice terrifyingly steady. "I'm just growing up. It was time to put away childish things."

 

Before Inko could process the sheer gravity of that statement, the intercom buzzer in the hallway chimed a polite, melodic tune.

 

Inko jumped. She looked at the clock. It was 8:00 PM on a Sunday. "Who could that be?"

 

"I'll get it," Izuku said, stepping past her.

 

He walked to the front door and pulled it open. Standing on the welcome mat, dressed in a bespoke, three-piece charcoal suit and holding a leather briefcase, was Principal Nezu.

 

"Good evening, Midoriya!" the chimera chirped cheerfully, his black eyes gleaming. "I hope I am not interrupting dinner!"

 

Inko rushed into the hallway, freezing when she saw the bipedal animal in their doorway. "Oh! Um, hello! You're... you're..."

 

"Principal Nezu of U.A. High School, at your service, madam," Nezu said, offering a deep, theatrical bow. "May I come in? I have a business proposition regarding your son’s future."

 

Inko’s mind short-circuited. The principal of the most prestigious hero academy in the country was in her cramped apartment, asking for her Quirkless, perpetually bullied son. She nodded mutely, stepping aside.

 

Ten minutes later, they were seated in the living room. Inko had hurriedly poured green tea, her hands shaking so badly the cups rattled against their saucers. Izuku sat beside her, his posture straight, his eyes locked onto Nezu with an intensity Inko had never seen in him.

 

"Mrs. Midoriya, I will not mince words," Nezu began, folding his paws on his lap. "I have been observing your son. And I have discovered that he possesses an intellect that borders on the miraculous."

 

Inko blinked. "My... my Izuku?"

 

"Indeed. I recently came across his analytical notebooks," Nezu lied smoothly. "His aptitude for tactical analysis, psychological profiling, and quirk mechanics is, frankly, wasted in a standard middle school environment. U.A. High is currently developing a new, highly classified program: The Advanced Intelligence and Strategy Track."

 

Nezu opened his briefcase and pulled out a thick stack of official-looking documents, embossed with the U.A. seal.

 

"I want Izuku," Nezu said, tapping the papers. "I want to personally mentor him over the next ten months leading up to the U.A. Entrance Exam. He will be brought in as a 'Ward of U.A.'—a legal status that grants him full access to our university-level databases, specialized training facilities, and an independent study curriculum managed directly by myself."

 

Inko stared at the papers. "A... Ward of U.A.? But he's Quirkless. The school allows..."

 

"Quirks are muscles, Mrs. Midoriya," Nezu interrupted gently, though his eyes remained sharp. "They are tools. Izuku's tool is his mind. And it is sharper than anyone I have met in a decade. I am offering him a full scholarship, legal protection from civilian scrutiny, and a future where he is not a sidekick, but a mastermind."

 

Inko burst into tears. She threw her arms around Izuku, sobbing into his shoulder. "Izuku! Do you hear that? They see it! Someone finally sees how special you are!"

 

Izuku patted his mother’s back. He looked over her shoulder, meeting Nezu’s gaze. The chimera offered a slow, deliberate wink.

 

"I'll make you proud, Mom," Izuku whispered.

 

He wasn't lying. But the game they were playing was not the one she thought she was watching.

 

 

 

Month One: The Deconstruction

 

Izuku did not spend his ten months cleaning a beach to inherit a Quirk. Instead, he descended into the earth.

 

Deep beneath the sprawling, sunlit campus of U.A. High School lay Sub-Level 4. It was Nezu’s personal sanctuary. The room was a massive, temperature-controlled bunker lined with humming server racks, wall-to-wall holographic monitors, a state-of-the-art combat mat, and a firing range.

 

"Welcome to your new curriculum, Izuku," Nezu said on the first day, pouring two cups of heavily caffeinated black tea. "For the next ten months, you will not be a child. You will be a sponge. I will break down everything you thought you knew about the world, and I will rebuild it."

 

The first lesson was not combat. It was Economics and Public Relations.

 

Nezu pulled up a series of financial charts on the main monitor. "Tell me, Izuku. What is a Pro Hero?"

 

"A licensed law enforcement officer permitted to use their Quirk to combat villainy," Izuku answered automatically.

 

"Wrong," Nezu snapped. "That is the legal definition. I want the real definition."

 

Izuku frowned, looking at the charts. They were stock prices. Endeavor Agency. Ingenium Inc. Mt. Lady Aesthetics.

 

"A Pro Hero," Nezu corrected, "is a Brand Ambassador. They are walking, talking commodities managed by the Hero Public Safety Commission (HPSC) to generate capital and maintain societal complacency."

 

For the next four weeks, Nezu ruthlessly slaughtered Izuku’s remaining hero-worship. He showed Izuku the raw, unedited footage of hero fights, focusing not on the punches, but on the collateral damage. He forced Izuku to read classified actuarial tables detailing how the HPSC calculated acceptable civilian casualties based on the marketability of the hero involved.

 

Izuku learned that Endeavor’s property damage was subsidized by a shadow tax on Musutafu’s lower-income districts. He learned that heroes with "villainous" or mutant Quirks were actively suppressed by the HPSC's algorithm, denied lucrative patrol routes to keep the 'pretty' heroes in the spotlight.

 

"Justice is an illusion, Izuku. It is a marketing campaign," Nezu lectured, pacing the floor as Izuku took frantic, meticulously organized notes. "Control the money, control the media, and you control the heroes. If you can bankrupt an agency, you defeat the hero without ever throwing a punch."

 

Izuku stopped analyzing heroes by their Quirk output. He began analyzing them by their PR firms, their offshore bank accounts, and their psychological dependencies.

 

He was beginning to see the strings holding up the world.

 

 

 

Month Three: The Digital Ghost

 

"To tear down a digital society, one must first learn to speak its language," Nezu said, dropping a massive tome on coding languages onto Izuku’s desk. "You have a natural aptitude for pattern recognition, Izuku. Hacking is simply Quirk analysis applied to machines."

 

The shift from theory to application was brutal. Izuku spent eighteen hours a day staring at strings of code until his eyes bled. He learned Python, C++, and advanced machine-level assembly. He learned how to navigate the Dark Web, how to build self-replicating malware, and how to exploit zero-day vulnerabilities in security networks.

 

He found that he loved it.

 

When you analyzed a hero, they could still surprise you with a burst of willpower. But machines? Code? Code didn't have willpower. Code had logic. If you found the flaw, you owned the system.

 

By the end of Month Four, Nezu decided it was time for a practical exam.

 

"The hero Kamui Woods is currently pursuing a low-level purse snatcher down 5th Avenue," Nezu announced, pointing to a live satellite feed. "The villain is exceptionally fast. Kamui is struggling to navigate the civilian traffic. Assist him. But you may only use this keyboard."

 

Izuku cracked his knuckles. His fingers flew across the mechanical keyboard, a blur of motion.

 

"Accessing Musutafu Department of Transportation mainframe," Izuku muttered, his eyes darting across three screens. "Bypassing the firewall... I'm in the grid. Calculating the villain's trajectory."

 

Izuku didn't just turn the lights red. That would be too obvious. Instead, he subtly manipulated the traffic light timing algorithm over a ten-block radius. He created a cascading traffic jam that perfectly funneled the villain down a specific, narrow alleyway, while simultaneously clearing a path for Kamui Woods on the adjacent street.

 

On the monitor, the villain turned into the alley, only to find a garbage truck—which Izuku had stalled by overriding its electronic transmission—blocking the exit. A second later, Kamui Woods swung in from above, securing the arrest.

 

"He thinks he got lucky," Izuku noted, a cold, dry smirk touching his lips as he watched Kamui Woods pose for a nearby news camera. "He has no idea I orchestrated the entire arrest from an underground bunker."

 

"Precisely," Nezu purred, sipping his tea. "True power is invisible. The man who swings the sword is merely a tool. The man who decides where the sword is swung is a god."

 

 

 

Month Six: The Weaponization of Flesh

 

"A mastermind who cannot defend himself is not a mastermind," Nezu declared, leading Izuku to the combat mat. "He is a hostage."

 

Izuku’s physical conditioning was vastly different from the beach-cleaning regimen All Might would have prescribed. Nezu didn't want Izuku to be a muscle-bound brawler. Muscles required excessive oxygen, slowed reaction times, and made a person a massive target.

 

Nezu brought in a rotation of highly skilled, underground mercenaries bound by ironclad non-disclosure agreements and exorbitant payouts. They didn't teach Izuku how to box. They taught him how to survive, evade, and cripple.

 

Izuku learned Krav Maga, Aikido, and dirty street fighting. He learned how to redirect the kinetic energy of an opponent twice his size. He learned the exact pounds per square inch of pressure required to snap a human collarbone, dislocate a knee, and crush a trachea.

 

Pain is data, Izuku told himself as he was thrown onto the mat for the hundredth time by a scarred mercenary. Analyze the data. Adapt to the data.

 

Izuku’s body changed. He didn't bulk up; he condensed. He became lean, wiry, and tightly coiled, like a predatory snake. His reflexes, honed by months of dodging high-speed training drones, became terrifyingly sharp.

 

But martial arts weren't enough. In a world of Quirks, flesh and bone had limits.

 

One afternoon, Nezu laid a black case on the table. He popped the latches. Inside rested a sleek, matte-black Glock 19, alongside a set of collapsible, electrified escrima sticks, and a grappling hook gauntlet.

 

"Heroes view weapons as a crutch," Nezu said, handing Izuku the firearm. "Villains view them as instruments of terror. You will view them as equalizers."

 

Izuku took the gun. It was cold, heavy, and smelled of machine oil. He had spent his whole life watching heroes punch their problems. Holding a firearm felt taboo, almost blasphemous.

 

"Will I have to kill?" Izuku asked, his voice quiet.

 

"I hope not," Nezu replied honestly. "Killing is sloppy. It creates martyrs and invites the wrath of the HPSC's wet-work divisions. Our goal is to dismantle, not massacre. However, if a piece on the board threatens the king, the piece must be removed. Hesitation is the death of a strategist. Can you pull the trigger, Izuku?"

 

Izuku raised the gun, aiming it at the paper target at the end of the firing range. He pictured Bakugo’s explosive palms. He pictured the Sludge Villain. He pictured the HPSC executives calculating the acceptable loss of human life for profit.

 

He didn't flinch.

 

BANG. BANG. BANG.

 

Three shots. Dead center in the target's chest.

 

Izuku lowered the gun, his expression unreadable. "Yes."

 

Nezu smiled. "Excellent. Now, let us discuss hollow-point ballistics and advanced support gear integration."

 

Over the next two months, Izuku became a master of his arsenal. He learned to incorporate the electrified escrima sticks into his martial arts, using them to paralyze limbs and disrupt the nervous systems of his training drones. He wore reinforced, noise-canceling boots to move in total silence, and a customized combat suit designed to disperse kinetic impacts and mask his thermal signature.

 

He wasn't a hero. He wasn't a villain. He was a phantom.

 

 

 

Month Nine: The Birth of the Apex

 

As the tenth month approached, the boy who used to stutter and cower at the sound of an explosion was gone.

 

Izuku Midoriya moved with a silent, calculated grace. His eyes were cold, assessing every room he entered for exits, structural weaknesses, and potential threats. He spoke less, but when he did, his words were precise, cutting, and layered with intent.

 

Even his mother noticed the change, though she misinterpreted it. She saw a boy who had finally gained confidence, a boy focused entirely on his U.A. studies. She didn't see the predator lurking behind his emerald eyes.

 

Down in Sub-Level 4, Nezu poured two glasses of sparkling cider.

 

"We are nearing the end of our curriculum, Izuku," Nezu said, handing him a glass. "You have absorbed everything I have thrown at you. But a king cannot conquer a kingdom under his birth name. You need a moniker. A shadow to cast over society."

 

Izuku stared into the golden liquid in his glass. He had thought about this. The heroes had names like Symbol of Peace and Endeavor. The villains had names like Toxic Chainsaw and Destro.

 

They were dramatic. They were childish.

 

"I don't want a villain name," Izuku said, setting his glass down. "I'm not here to rob banks or spread chaos for the sake of it. I want a name that implies an undeniable, natural order. A name that reminds them where they truly stand in the food chain."

 

Izuku looked up at the monitors, currently displaying the global stock market, HPSC troop movements, and the live feeds of fifty different hero agencies.

 

"Apex," Izuku said softly.

 

Nezu’s ears twitched. "Apex. The peak. The pinnacle of the hierarchy."

 

"Heroes rely on Quirks, relying on a genetic lottery," Izuku elaborated, his voice hardening into a chilling resolve. "They think they are the apex predators of this world. I am going to show them that a Quirkless mind is the true Apex. I am the predator of predators."

 

"Apex it is," Nezu agreed, raising his glass. "To the Apex."

 

"To the endgame," Izuku replied, clinking his glass against the principal’s.

 

"Now," Nezu said, his tone shifting back to business. "For your final exam. Everything you have learned—hacking, stealth, psychology, and tactical execution—must be proven."

 

Nezu typed a command into the master console. The monitors shifted, displaying a rotating, three-dimensional wireframe of a massive, heavily fortified skyscraper located in Tokyo.

 

"The Hero Public Safety Commission Headquarters," Nezu announced. "The beating heart of our corrupt society. Your objective is simple, Izuku. I want you to infiltrate their central server network from this terminal. I want you to locate a heavily redacted file designated 'Project: Icarus.' You will download it, decrypt it, and erase any trace that you were ever there."

 

Izuku stared at the wireframe. The HPSC servers were infamous. They were guarded by military-grade Intrusion Countermeasure Electronics (ICE), biometric locks, and an active team of cyber-security Quirks working around the clock.

 

"If I trigger an alarm, they'll trace the hack back to U.A.," Izuku noted. "They could shut you down."

 

"If you trigger an alarm, you fail," Nezu corrected. "And I will be very disappointed. You have six hours. Begin."

 

 

 

The Final Exam

 

The bunker went dark, illuminated only by the sterile, blue glow of Izuku's six monitors.

 

Izuku cracked his neck. He slipped on a pair of blue-light filtering glasses. He didn't dive straight for the front door of the HPSC network. That was suicide. You don't break into a fortress by ramming the gate; you go through the plumbing.

 

His fingers began to fly. The mechanical clatter of his keyboard filled the silence.

 

Phase 1: The Trojan.

Izuku didn't target the HPSC directly. Instead, he targeted a small, C-list hero agency in Osaka that had a standing contract with the Commission for minor patrol routes. Their security was laughable. Within twelve minutes, Izuku had bypassed their firewall and embedded a dormant, self-replicating worm into their weekly payroll report. When the agency transmitted the report to the HPSC accounting department, the worm bypassed the outer perimeter defenses, disguised as legitimate bureaucratic data.

 

Phase 2: The Ghost Protocol.

Izuku waited. He watched the digital traffic on his monitors. The moment the HPSC server opened the file, Izuku’s worm activated. It didn't attack. It simply opened a microscopic backdoor—a digital pinhole—and sent a ping back to U.A.

 

Izuku slipped through the backdoor.

 

He was in.

 

Now came the dangerous part. The internal network was a minefield. Active tracing algorithms prowled the servers like digital bloodhounds. If they detected a foreign IP address, the system would lock down in milliseconds.

 

Izuku didn't try to hide. He spoofed his digital signature to perfectly mimic the credentials of a high-ranking HPSC archivist currently on vacation in Okinawa. He had hacked the man’s travel itinerary three weeks ago just for this purpose.

 

"Navigating to the classified archives," Izuku murmured to himself, his eyes flicking back and forth as lines of code reflected in his lenses.

 

He encountered a biometric lock. A retina scan required.

 

Izuku didn't have a retina. But he understood how the scanner processed data. He quickly wrote a script that flooded the scanner's input buffer with thousands of corrupted, overlapping images of human eyes, forcing the machine into an error state. By exploiting a zero-day vulnerability in the error-reporting protocol, he tricked the system into defaulting to a 'Safe/Open' state to prevent data corruption.

 

The lock clicked open.

 

Phase 3: The Prize.

He was in the deep archives. Millions of terabytes of classified data. Assassination records, bribery ledgers, Quirk manipulation studies. It was a goldmine of systemic corruption. He wanted to take it all, but that would take hours and trigger a bandwidth alarm. He had to stick to the mission.

 

He ran a query for "Project: Icarus."

 

A single, heavily encrypted file appeared.

 

Izuku initiated the download. A progress bar appeared on his screen.

10%... 20%...

 

Suddenly, a red warning flashed on his secondary monitor.

ANOMALY DETECTED. ACTIVE TRACE INITIATED.

 

One of the cyber-security Quirk users had noticed a spike in bandwidth usage in the deep archives. A hunter-killer algorithm was rocketing through the network, tracing Izuku’s connection back to the spoofed archivist, and soon, through the backdoor, straight to U.A.

 

"Ah," Nezu said softly from behind him. "A complication."

 

Izuku didn't panic. Panic was an emotion, and emotions were useless.

 

40%... 50%...

 

The trace was closing in. It was burning through his proxies. He had sixty seconds before they identified his physical location.

 

"Come on," Izuku whispered, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

 

Instead of trying to fight the trace, Izuku pivoted. He opened a new terminal and hacked into the Musutafu central power grid. He isolated the power sub-station that fed the HPSC's secondary server farm—a decoy server used for civilian PR data.

 

70%... 80%...

 

Thirty seconds. The trace was in the Osaka agency's network. It was almost at the backdoor.

 

Izuku executed a command that sent a massive, localized power surge directly into the HPSC's secondary server farm.

 

Alarms blared on his monitors. The HPSC network went into sheer chaos. The power surge fried their secondary systems, causing the primary network to automatically divert all processing power to contain the hardware fire and prevent a total network collapse.

 

In the chaos, the hunter-killer algorithm paused, starved of processing power.

 

90%... 100%. Download Complete.

 

"Got it," Izuku said.

 

He didn't just log out. He detonated the worm. The malware rewrote its own code, turning into digital acid. It scrubbed Izuku’s footprints, erased the backdoor, and then cannibalized itself, leaving absolutely zero trace of unauthorized entry. As far as the HPSC was concerned, a random power surge had temporarily glitched their systems.

 

Izuku slammed the Enter key one last time, severing the connection.

 

The screens went black, save for one folder sitting on his desktop.

 

Project: Icarus.

 

Izuku slumped back in his chair, exhaling a long, shaky breath. His shirt was clinging to his back with sweat. The adrenaline crash hit him, making his hands tremble slightly.

 

The lights in the bunker flickered on.

 

Nezu began to clap. The sound was slow, deliberate, and echoing.

 

"Four hours and twenty-two minutes," Nezu announced, walking up behind Izuku’s chair. "You bypassed a billion-dollar security system, stole their most guarded secrets, and engineered a physical hardware failure to cover your tracks. All without leaving your chair."

 

Izuku took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. "What is Project Icarus?"

 

"Open it," Nezu said.

 

Izuku clicked the file. It decrypted automatically, thanks to his prior bypass.

 

Documents, photos, and psychological profiles flooded the screen. Izuku’s eyes scanned the information, his blood running cold as he processed the data.

 

It was a dossier on a child. A boy with bright red wings.

 

"Keigo Takami," Izuku read aloud, his voice devoid of emotion as he scanned the horrifying details. "Purchased from an abusive home by the HPSC. Placed in an isolated training facility. Conditioned through psychological manipulation and isolation to be completely subservient to the Commission. Designated hero name: Hawks. Intended use: Infiltration, espionage, and state-sanctioned assassination."

 

Izuku stopped reading. He stared at the picture of the young, smiling boy who was completely unaware that he had been bought and sold like a weapon.

 

"They breed them," Izuku whispered, the disgust palpable in his voice. "They find desperate children with powerful Quirks, buy them, and turn them into attack dogs. And then they put them on billboards and call them heroes."

 

"This is the reality of the society that told you to jump off a roof, Izuku," Nezu said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "This is what lies beneath the Symbol of Peace. A foundation of blood, child soldiers, and black operations."

 

Izuku closed the file. The anger inside him didn't burn hot like Bakugo’s explosions. It burned cold, like liquid nitrogen.

 

"We are going to destroy them," Izuku stated. It wasn't a threat. It was a logistical certainty.

 

"We are," Nezu agreed, resting a paw on Izuku’s shoulder. "You have passed your final exam, Apex. The curriculum is complete. You are no longer a student of the world; you are its editor."

 

Nezu walked toward the elevator that led up to the main campus. "Tomorrow is the U.A. Entrance Exam. You are officially registered."

 

Izuku stood up, stretching his lean, wired muscles. "I thought I was a Ward of U.A.? Why do I need to take the exam?"

 

"You don't need to take it to get in. But you need to take it for appearances," Nezu smiled, a sly, wicked expression. "We cannot have you in the Hero Course, Izuku. You would be under the constant scrutiny of Eraserhead, All Might, and the media. You need a cover. A place where you can move freely, ignored by the egos of the future heroes."

 

"General Education," Izuku realized, the strategy clicking into place instantly. "Class 1-C. I'm just a Quirkless extra who failed the practical but aced the written exam. No one pays attention to Gen Ed."

 

"Exactly," Nezu said as the elevator doors opened. "The perfect Trojan Horse. You will walk the same halls as the future pillars of society. You will study them, map their weaknesses, and slowly, from the shadows, you will weave the web that chokes the HPSC to death."

 

Izuku looked around the bunker one last time. He thought of the crying, desperate boy who had begged All Might for a scrap of validation on that rooftop ten months ago.

 

That boy was dead. He had been burned away, leaving behind something much sharper.

 

"I'll see you tomorrow, Principal Nezu," Izuku said, a cold, empty smile spreading across his face.

 

"Rest well, Midoriya," Nezu replied. "Tomorrow, you meet the pawns."

 

The elevator doors closed, leaving Izuku alone in the glow of the servers, a Quirkless boy with the power to end the world.

 

 

The mirror reflected a stranger.

 

Izuku Midoriya stood in the center of his bedroom, his fingers deftly working the knot of his dark green tie. He wore the standard U.A. High School uniform—a crisp white button-down, a grey blazer with dark green stripes, and red-stitched buttons. But the way he wore it was entirely different from the boy who had existed ten months ago.

 

The old Izuku would have slouched, his shoulders hunched inward to make himself as small a target as possible. His uniform would have been slightly rumpled, his tie crooked, his eyes darting with perpetual, nervous energy.

 

The boy in the mirror stood with perfect, predatory posture. The grueling months of subterranean martial arts conditioning had carved away the baby fat, leaving behind a lean, coiled musculature that moved with silent economy. His emerald eyes, once wide and practically vibrating with naive wonder, were now half-lidded, still, and frighteningly cold.

 

He reached up, dragging a hand through his unruly green curls, taming them just enough to look presentable without losing the shadow they cast over his brow.

 

"Izuku?"

 

His mother’s voice trembled slightly through the wooden door. Izuku’s face instantly shifted. The cold, calculating predator vanished, replaced flawlessly by a soft, nervous, socially awkward teenager. It was a mask he had spent months perfecting under Nezu’s tutelage. “To manipulate the board, the king must occasionally play the fool,” the chimera had told him.

 

Izuku opened the door. Inko Midoriya stood in the hallway, her hands clasped tightly to her chest. Her eyes swept over him in his U.A. uniform, and fresh tears welled in her eyes.

 

"Oh, Izuku," she sniffled, reaching out to straighten his already perfect collar. "You look so handsome. I can't believe it. The Entrance Exam is today. Are you nervous? Did you study enough for the written portion? I know Principal Nezu said you don't need to take the physical test, but..."

 

"I'm okay, Mom," Izuku said, injecting just the right amount of a stammer into his voice. He offered a gentle, reassuring smile. "I've been studying really hard with the Principal. I just... I really want to do well on the written exam to prove I deserve the scholarship."

 

"You do deserve it," Inko said fiercely, pulling him into a tight hug. "You're so smart, Izuku. Just do your best."

 

"I will," Izuku murmured, his eyes deadening as he stared over her shoulder at the blank wall of the hallway. "I'm going to get exactly what I came for."

 

Ten minutes later, he was walking the sun-drenched streets of Musutafu. The cherry blossoms were beginning to bloom, signaling the start of a new academic year. The sidewalks were bustling with teenagers from all over the prefecture, migrating toward the towering glass-and-steel monolith that was U.A. High School.

 

Izuku blended in perfectly. He kept his head down, clutching his yellow backpack strap, allowing the flow of the crowd to carry him toward the massive gates.

 

"Outta my way, extras!"

 

A familiar, explosive voice tore through the morning chatter.

 

Izuku didn't flinch. He merely shifted his weight, sidestepping smoothly to the left as Katsuki Bakugo stomped past him. The ash-blonde teenager walked like he owned the pavement, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his red eyes glaring daggers at anyone who dared look in his direction.

 

Izuku watched his childhood tormentor from the corner of his eye. Ten months ago, the sight of Bakugo would have sent his heart rate skyrocketing into panic territory. Now, Izuku only felt a mild, clinical disdain.

 

He analyzed Bakugo’s gait. He leads with his right shoulder. Overcompensating for a latent fear of ambush. His center of gravity is slightly forward—he's always preparing to launch himself. A hyper-aggressive combat style masking a deeply fragile ego. Predictable. Easily exploitable.

 

As Bakugo stormed ahead, entirely unaware of the phantom standing just a few feet away, a brunette girl with a permanent blush on her cheeks hurried past Izuku. She tripped over her own feet, letting out a small yelp as she pitched forward toward the pavement.

 

In another life, Izuku might have reached out to catch her. He might have panicked, stuttered, and engaged in a profoundly awkward social interaction.

 

Today, Izuku didn't move a muscle.

 

He calculated the trajectory of her fall and determined she would only suffer minor bruising to her knees. Irrelevant.

 

Before she hit the ground, the girl tapped her fingertips together. A faint pink glow enveloped her, and she stopped dead in mid-air, floating weightlessly.

 

Zero Gravity, Izuku noted internally, his mind automatically cataloging the Quirk. Five-point contact activation. Nausea as a likely drawback due to equilibrium disruption. Highly effective for search and rescue, but devastating in close-quarters combat if she bypasses a target's mass. Fascinating.

 

The girl righted herself, sighing in relief. She looked around, making eye contact with Izuku. She offered a bright, sunny smile. "Oops! That was clumsy of me. Good luck on the exam!"

 

Izuku gave her a practiced, sheepish nod and kept walking. He didn't have time for the golden children of the Hero Course. He had a test to ace.

 

 

 

The auditorium was massive, packed with hundreds of hopeful applicants. Izuku sat near the back, the written exam booklet resting on his desk. The proctor, the Voice Hero: Present Mic, had just yelled to begin.

 

Izuku flipped the booklet open. He had exactly two hours to complete a test designed to break the minds of average middle schoolers.

 

He finished it in twenty-four minutes.

 

He didn't just answer the questions; he mentally dissected the flawed pedagogy behind them.

 

Question 14: If a villain with a gigantification quirk is attacking a suspension bridge, what is the optimal vector for a rescue hero to evacuate a trapped civilian bus?

 

Izuku filled in the bubble for Option C: Establish a perimeter and utilize aerial support to airlift the vehicle. It was the textbook answer. It was also, in Izuku's opinion, completely idiotic. Relying on aerial support in a high-wind environment near a suspension bridge while a giant thrashed about was a mathematical nightmare. The correct answer, not listed, was to systematically cripple the giant's achilles tendons, dropping them onto the structural supports to create a makeshift ramp for the civilians to escape on foot.

 

But Izuku wasn't here to rewrite their textbooks. Not yet. He was here to play the game.

 

He filled in every bubble flawlessly. He calculated the exact mathematical formulas for Quirk physics, cited historical precedents in hero law, and translated the English portion with the fluency of a native speaker.

 

When the timer finally buzzed, Izuku handed his packet to the proctor with an unassuming smile.

 

While the rest of the applicants were herded toward the locker rooms to change for the physical exam, Izuku slipped away from the crowd. He navigated the labyrinthine hallways of U.A. with the ease of someone who had spent the last ten months studying its blueprints down to the inch.

 

He arrived at a reinforced steel door marked Authorized Personnel Only. He pressed his palm against the biometric scanner. The light flashed green, and the heavy door hissed open.

 

Inside, Principal Nezu was seated in a high-backed leather chair, a pot of Darjeeling tea steaming on the desk beside him. The wall of the observation room was covered in dozens of high-definition monitors, displaying the various mock-city testing centers.

 

"Ah, Izuku!" Nezu greeted cheerfully. "How was the written exam? Did you find it appropriately stimulating?"

 

"It was an insult to human intelligence," Izuku replied flatly, taking a seat beside the chimera. "The legal section was entirely based on the HPSC's revised 2114 statutes, which actively contradict constitutional civilian defense rights. They aren't testing for intelligence. They're testing for compliance."

 

Nezu chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "Excellent observation. You see now why I need you to tear it down. The physical exams are about to begin. Let us watch the future 'pillars' of society at work."

 

Izuku leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands as the monitors flared to life. He watched the massive gates of the mock cities open, and the horde of teenagers flooded the streets, screaming battle cries as they engaged the robotic targets.

 

It was a bloodbath of metal. Izuku watched with cold, analytical detachment.

 

"Look at them," Izuku murmured, his eyes tracking multiple screens at once. "No situational awareness. No tactical coordination. They are treating it like a video game. They are destroying robots that are actively falling onto the simulated civilian pathways."

 

He watched Bakugo blast a three-pointer to slag. The resulting explosion shattered the glass of a nearby mock-office building, raining deadly shrapnel down onto the street below.

 

"Katsuki Bakugo. High raw power, zero collateral damage control," Izuku noted aloud. "If there had been civilians in that building, he would have decapitated them with glass shrapnel. Yet, the scoring system only rewards the destruction of the target. It reinforces the behavior of a warlord, not a protector."

 

"The HPSC prefers warlords," Nezu sipped his tea. "Warlords are easy to point at an enemy. Thinkers are dangerous."

 

Suddenly, the monitors shook. A massive, metallic grinding sound echoed through the speakers in the observation room. The Zero-Pointer had been deployed in Center B.

 

Izuku watched as the gargantuan machine tore through the city streets. The applicants, who moments ago had been strutting around like invincible heroes, immediately broke and ran in sheer terror.

 

"Panic," Izuku analyzed. "The moment the odds are no longer heavily in their favor, the heroic facade crumbles."

 

On screen, Izuku saw the brunette girl from earlier—the gravity user. Her leg was pinned beneath a massive piece of rubble. She was helplessly watching the treads of the Zero-Pointer bear down on her.

 

Izuku watched the other applicants. They were sprinting past her. Not a single one stopped to help. The scoring system didn't reward saving civilians; it rewarded points. And the girl was worth zero points.

 

"The system incentivizes selfishness," Izuku whispered, his disgust palpable.

 

Before the robot could crush her, a blur of green and red shot into the sky. It was a boy with messy hair, similar to Izuku’s, but his power was explosive. The boy reeled back a fist, and with a scream of pure, self-destructive agony, he unleashed a shockwave that obliterated the Zero-Pointer's head.

 

The boy began to fall, his limbs flopping uselessly, completely shattered by his own power.

 

Izuku’s eyes narrowed. "Who is that?"

 

"That," Nezu said, his tone unreadable, "is Mirio Togata's intended successor, though it seems All Might made a last-minute decision. That is the boy who inherited One For All."

 

Izuku stared at the screen. So, All Might had found a successor. Someone who met his 'realistic' standards. The boy had power, certainly, but he had just destroyed his own body to use it.

 

"A self-destructive hammer for a society of nails," Izuku concluded coldly. "He has power, but no control. A martyr complex. If he survives the next three years without crippling himself permanently, he will just be another All Might—a band-aid on a gaping wound."

 

The exam ended. The screens faded to black.

 

Izuku stood up, adjusting his cuffs. He had seen enough. He knew exactly what he was up against. A generation of arrogant, overpowered, and ethically compromised children.

 

They wouldn't know what hit them.

 

 

 

One Week Later

 

The letter arrived in a standard U.A. envelope. When Izuku projected the holographic disk onto his bedroom desk, it wasn't All Might who appeared, but Principal Nezu.

 

"Congratulations, Midoriya Izuku," the holographic chimera smiled. "You achieved a score of 100% on the written examination, breaking a school record that has stood for twelve years. As per your requested academic track, you have been assigned to Class 1-C, General Education. Welcome to your Trojan Horse."

 

Izuku crushed the projector disk in his hand, severing the feed.

 

The first day of school arrived with a suffocating sense of normalcy. Izuku walked through the towering arches of U.A., his expression perfectly neutral. He bypassed the massive, obnoxiously large door of Class 1-A, ignoring the loud, boisterous arguments bleeding through the wood.

 

He found the door for 1-C at the end of the hall. He slid it open and stepped inside.

 

The atmosphere in the room was entirely different from the rest of the school. If the Hero Course was a roaring fire of ambition, General Education was a graveyard of broken dreams. The students sat at their desks with slumped shoulders, scrolling through their phones, their eyes devoid of the spark that defined U.A. High. These were the rejects. The ones whose Quirks weren't flashy enough to destroy robots. The ones society had politely asked to step aside.

 

Izuku walked to his assigned desk near the back window.

 

He surveyed his new classmates. Most were inconsequential. Future salarymen and office workers hiding behind the prestige of the U.A. crest.

 

But one student caught his eye.

 

Sitting in the back corner, entirely isolated from the rest of the room, was a boy with unruly, gravity-defying indigo hair and deep, purple bags under his eyes. He sat with his arms crossed, glaring at the chalkboard as if he were trying to set it on fire with his mind.

 

Izuku’s encyclopedic memory pulled up the file he had hacked from the admissions database last night.

 

Hitoshi Shinso. Quirk: Brainwashing. Failed the practical exam with zero villain points and zero rescue points.

 

Izuku’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smirk. Perfect.

 

The homeroom teacher, a bored-looking hero who didn't even bother to introduce himself properly, handed out the syllabus and immediately went to sleep at his desk. The class was given a free period.

 

Izuku stood up. He walked slowly across the back of the classroom, stopping directly beside Shinso's desk.

 

Shinso didn't look up. "If you're going to ask me if I can mind-control you into doing your homework, save it. I'm not in the mood."

 

Izuku pulled up the chair from the empty desk in front of Shinso and sat down backward, resting his arms on the backrest.

 

"I wouldn't ask you that," Izuku said, his voice low, smooth, and perfectly modulated to convey intellectual equality. "Using a cognitive hijacking Quirk on mundane tasks is a gross misuse of potential. It would be like using a scalpel to chop firewood."

 

Shinso paused. He finally dragged his gaze away from the chalkboard, looking at the green-haired boy in front of him. His purple eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Who are you?"

 

"Izuku Midoriya. I sit by the window," Izuku said, offering a polite, disarming smile. "I noticed you staring a hole through the wall shared with Class 1-A. You're angry."

 

Shinso scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "So what if I am? We all are. We're the rejects. We didn't have the right DNA to smash some stupid robots, so we're stuck in the loser bracket."

 

"It's worse than that, actually," Izuku corrected softly.

 

Shinso raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

 

Izuku leaned in closer, dropping his voice so only the two of them could hear. "The robots weren't just a physical barrier. They were a psychological filter. The Hero Public Safety Commission doesn't want heroes with mental or covert Quirks in the spotlight. Quirks like yours—Brainwashing, I presume?"

 

Shinso stiffened. His eyes widened slightly. "How do you know my Quirk?"

 

"I'm observant," Izuku lied smoothly. "Your Quirk is terrifyingly powerful, Shinso. If you were a Pro Hero, you could end a hostage situation with a single sentence. You could stop a villain dead in their tracks without throwing a single punch or destroying a single building."

 

Shinso stared at him, genuinely shocked. For his entire life, people had called his Quirk 'villainous'. They told him he belonged on the wrong side of the law. No one had ever described his power as efficient, let alone heroic.

 

"So why didn't they let you in?" Izuku asked, his voice dripping with synthetic sympathy. "Because you aren't marketable. The HPSC can't sell action figures of a hero who just talks to people. They need explosions. They need flashy brawlers who cause millions of dollars in property damage so the construction lobbies stay happy."

 

Shinso’s fists clenched on his desk. The knuckles turned white.

 

Izuku watched the boy's reaction, reading him like open source code. Shinso was starved for validation. He was deeply resentful, drowning in a system that had punished him for the circumstances of his birth. He was exactly like Izuku had been, but with a weaponized mind.

 

"You're saying... the exam was rigged," Shinso whispered, his voice vibrating with suppressed rage.

 

"I'm saying the whole world is rigged, Shinso," Izuku corrected gently. "The golden children next door didn't earn their spots. They won a genetic lottery, and the system built a pedestal for them. And they expect people like us to sit in the shadows and applaud."

 

Shinso looked at Izuku, really looked at him. He saw a boy who didn't exude the aura of a loser, but the quiet, terrifying confidence of someone who knew a secret the rest of the world didn't.

 

"Why are you telling me this, Midoriya?" Shinso asked cautiously.

 

"Because you have a weapon that can bypass the physical durability of every single student in that Hero Course," Izuku smiled, his eyes glinting with a dark, shared complicity. "And when the Sports Festival arrives, they are going to parade Class 1-A around like untouchable gods. I think it would be incredibly poetic if someone from Gen Ed walked into that stadium and made the golden children look like helpless puppets."

 

Shinso’s breath hitched. The very thought of it—of humiliating the Hero Course on national television, of proving everyone who called him a villain wrong—was intoxicating.

 

"I can't fight them physically," Shinso admitted bitterly. "If they don't respond to me, my Quirk is useless."

 

"Which is why you need a strategist," Izuku countered instantly. "Someone who can provoke them, analyze their weaknesses, and feed them directly into your traps. I don't have a flashy Quirk either, Shinso. I have my mind. If you provide the power, I will provide the blueprints to tear them down."

 

Izuku extended a hand across the desk.

 

"What do you say, Hitoshi? Do you want to rot in General Education, or do you want to show the world that the mind is stronger than the muscle?"

 

Shinso stared at the hand. It was a lifeline. It was a pact with the devil. He didn't care.

 

He reached out and grasped Izuku’s hand firmly. "I'm in."

 

Izuku’s smile widened just a fraction. Pawn acquired. Proceeding to Phase Two.

 

 

 

Later That Afternoon - The Support Department

 

Izuku needed an armorer.

 

Nezu had provided him with basic weaponry, but if Izuku was going to wage a shadow war against Pro Heroes, he needed bespoke, highly illegal support gear that couldn't be traced back to conventional manufacturers. He needed someone brilliant, obsessive, and completely devoid of bureaucratic ethics.

 

He found her in Development Studio Hatsume.

 

Izuku didn't knock. He simply pushed the heavy, fire-proof door open and stepped inside.

 

The room looked like a mechanical graveyard that had been hit by a tornado. Gears, circuit boards, and half-finished exoskeletons were strewn across every available surface. The air smelled sharply of ozone, burning rubber, and strong coffee.

 

BOOM.

 

A small explosion rocked the far side of the room, sending a plume of black smoke rolling across the ceiling.

 

"Hahaha! Yes! The combustion chamber held for exactly 4.2 seconds longer than the previous iteration!" a manic voice cackled from within the smoke.

 

A girl with wild, dreadlocked pink hair and crosshair-patterned yellow eyes emerged from the haze, wiping soot from her goggles. She wore a grease-stained tank top and heavy canvas work pants. She was holding a shattered piece of metal that was still sparking.

 

Mei Hatsume.

 

Izuku walked through the smoke, stopping a few feet away from her. "The structural integrity failed because you used a standard titanium alloy for the exhaust port. The rapid thermal expansion outpaced the metal's elasticity. If you swap it for a tungsten-carbide matrix, it will hold the pressure indefinitely."

 

Mei froze. She slowly turned her head, her crosshair eyes locking onto Izuku. She didn't ask who he was. She didn't ask what he was doing in her lab.

 

She dropped the shattered metal. "Tungsten-carbide... but the weight ratio would throw off the gyroscopic balance!"

 

"Not if you hollow out the inner casing and line it with a pressurized argon gas cushion to maintain internal stability," Izuku replied instantly, his mind running the physics calculations on the fly.

 

Mei’s eyes dilated. She scrambled over a pile of scrap metal, getting right into Izuku’s personal space. She smelled like motor oil and genius.

 

"Who are you?!" she demanded, grabbing his shoulders. "Are you a third-year? A teacher? You speak the language of the babies!"

 

"I'm Izuku Midoriya. General Education," Izuku said, unbothered by her proximity. He reached into his blazer and pulled out a thick, leather-bound sketchbook, handing it to her. "I have a problem, Hatsume. I need a visionary. Not a mechanic, not a student. An artist."

 

Mei snatched the sketchbook. She flipped to the first page.

 

Her jaw dropped.

 

The pages were filled with Izuku’s meticulously detailed schematics. Gauntlets designed to emit localized EMP bursts. Boots equipped with sound-dampening micro-foam. Grappling hooks propelled by compressed, silenced nitrogen rather than gunpowder.

 

"This..." Mei breathed, tracing a finger over a schematic for a vocal-modulation collar. "This is beautiful. But... it's all stealth gear. And some of this is... legally ambiguous. The Support Course curriculum wouldn't let me build half of these babies. They say it's 'too dangerous' or 'violates HPSC support item regulations'." She used air quotes with deep disdain.

 

Izuku stepped closer, invading her space now. He looked down at her, his expression intense and hypnotic.

 

"The HPSC regulations are designed to stifle innovation," Izuku said, speaking directly to her ego. "They want mass-produced garbage that breaks down so they can keep charging for repairs. They don't appreciate true genius, Mei. They want to put leashes on your 'babies'."

 

Mei gripped the sketchbook tightly. "I hate leashes."

 

"I know," Izuku said smoothly. He pulled a sleek, black, untraceable credit card from his pocket—courtesy of Nezu's black budget—and placed it on the table next to her.

 

"I have unlimited funding, Mei," Izuku whispered. "I don't care about regulations. I don't care about the rules. If you build these designs for me, exclusively and off the books, you can use the rest of the budget to build whatever you want. No teachers. No limits. Just raw, unrestricted creation."

 

Mei stared at the black card. Then she looked at the schematics. Finally, she looked up at Izuku. Her crosshair eyes were practically spinning with manic excitement.

 

She didn't see a villain. She saw a patron.

 

"Midoriya," Mei grinned, a wide, slightly unhinged smile. "We are going to make beautiful babies together."

 

"I look forward to it, Hatsume," Izuku replied, turning toward the door. Armorer acquired.

 

 

 

The Window

 

The day was winding down. Izuku walked alone through the empty third-floor corridor of the Hero Course wing. The late afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows across the polished linoleum.

 

He stopped at a large window overlooking the massive dirt field of P.E. Ground Beta.

 

Down below, Class 1-A was gathered. Izuku watched as a man wrapped in what looked like a yellow sleeping bag—Shota Aizawa, Eraserhead—stood before the twenty students.

 

Izuku’s eyes tracked the class. He saw the boy who broke his arm. He saw the gravity girl. He saw a boy with engines in his legs, and a boy with half-white, half-red hair whose temperature output was already registering on Izuku’s mental thermal map.

 

And then, he saw him.

 

Katsuki Bakugo stepped into the pitcher's circle for the softball throw. He stretched his arms, a cocky, arrogant grin plastered across his face.

 

From his vantage point three stories up, Izuku placed his hand flat against the cold glass of the window. He didn't feel anger. He didn't feel fear. He felt the cold, thrilling anticipation of a chess grandmaster staring at an opponent who didn't even realize the game had started.

 

Down below, Bakugo wound up. He unleashed a massive explosion from his palm, screaming his signature, "DIE!" as the softball rocketed into the stratosphere.

 

The shockwave rippled across the field, kicking up a massive cloud of dust. The other students looked on in awe, whispering about his raw power.

 

As the dust settled, Bakugo turned back toward the class, a smug look of superiority radiating from every pore of his body.

 

But as he turned, a strange sensation washed over him. A prickling at the base of his neck. The instinct of a predator realizing it was being watched by something higher on the food chain.

 

Bakugo’s red eyes flicked upward, scanning the towering facade of the U.A. main building.

 

He froze.

 

Standing in the third-floor window, bathed in the shadows of the corridor, was a figure.

 

Bakugo squinted, the afternoon sun glaring off the glass. When his vision focused, the breath hitched in his throat.

 

It was Deku.

 

But it wasn't the trembling, crying loser he had told to take a swan dive off a roof ten months ago. The boy in the window stood with terrifying stillness. The posture was wrong. The aura was wrong.

 

Izuku looked down at Bakugo. He didn't wave. He didn't flinch.

 

Slowly, deliberately, Izuku tilted his head. The corners of his mouth curled upward, pulling into a sharp, knowing, and utterly chilling smile. It was a smile that promised absolute ruin.

 

Bakugo felt a cold sweat break out across his back. His hands sparked involuntarily. He took a step forward, his jaw dropping open. What the hell is he doing here? He’s Quirkless. He’s supposed to be gone.

 

Before Bakugo could yell, before he could point, Izuku simply stepped backward, vanishing seamlessly into the shadows of the hallway.

 

Bakugo was left staring at an empty window, a deep, primal sense of dread pooling in his stomach.

 

High above, walking down the hall toward the exit, Izuku adjusted his tie.

 

The Trojan Horse was inside the gates. The war had officially begun.